proofreading team. yale studies in english albert s. cook, editor xxi the elene of cynewulf translated into english prose by lucius hudson holt porter fellow in english in yale university new york henry holt and company 1904 [facsimile] preface this translation was made from the edition of the _elene_ issued by charles w. kent in 1889 (ginn & co., boston). his text is 'that of zupitza's second edition, carefully compared with wülker's edition and zupitza's third edition, in which the results of napier's collation are contained.' the aim of this translation is to give an accurate and readable modern english prose rendering of the old english poetry. the translation of richard francis weymouth, entitled _a literal translation of cynewulf's elene_, has been at hand, but i owe it practically nothing in this work. while i trust that my rendering has not departed so far from the text that it will be valueless to the student, yet at places it will be found that i have to some extent expanded or contracted the literal translation in the hope of benefiting the modern english version. my thanks are due to dr. robert k. root and dr. chauncey b. tinker of yale university, and to dr. charles h. whitman of lehigh university, for examining part of the work in manuscript, and to dr. albert s. cook of yale university for a careful reading of the proof. lucius hudson holt. new haven, january 1, 1904. elene 1. the emperor constantine. there had passed in the turn of years, as men mark the tale of time, two hundred and thirty and three winters over the world since the lord god, the glory of kings and light of the faithful, was born on earth in human guise; and it was the sixth 5 year of the reign of constantine since he was raised in the realm of the romans to lead their army, a prince of battles. he was a bulwark to his people, 10 valiant with the shield, and gracious to his heroes; and the prince's realm waxed great beneath the heavens. he was a just king, a war-lord of men. god strengthened him with majesty and might till 15 he became a joy to many men throughout the world, an avenger for his people when he raised aloft his spear against their foes. 2. the war with the barbarians. and battle was brought on him, the tumult of strife. the people of the huns and famous goths 20 gathered a host together; and the franks and hugas marched forth, men fierce in fight and ripe for war. the spears and woven mail-coats glittered, as with shouts and clash of shields they lifted up on high the standard of battle. openly 25 the fighters gathered all together, and the throng marched forth. the wolf in the wood howled his war-song, and hid not his secret hopes of carnage; and at the rear of the foe the dewy-feathered eagle 30 shrieked his note on high. a mighty host hastened to war through the cities, gleaned from all the men the hunnish king could summon from the near-lying towns. a vast army sallied forth--bands of picked horsemen strengthened 35 the force of the foot-soldiers--until within a foreign land upon the bank of the danube these stout-souled brandishers of the spear pitched their camp near the water's flow, amid the tumult of the army. they longed to overrun the realm of the 40 romans, and lay it waste with their hordes. then were the dwellers in the cities aware of the huns' coming. and the emperor straightway bade summon with the greatest speed by dispatch of the arrow his heroes to war against the foes; bade lead out to battle the warriors beneath the heavens. 45 their hearts inspired by victory, the roman heroes were soon girt with weapons for the fight, though they had a lesser host for battle than circled about the proud king of the huns. then the shields 50 rang, the wood of war clashed; the king with the host, his army, marched forth to strife, and over their heads the raven wailed, dark, and thirsting for the slaughter. the army was moving--trumpeters leaped, heralds shouted commands, and horses stamped the earth. hastily the multitude enranked 55 itself for strife. but the king was fear-smitten, awed with terror, as he looked upon the hostile host, the army of the huns and goths, that upon the river's bank at the boundary of the roman realm was massing its 60 strength, an uncounted multitude. the king of the romans suffered bitter grief of soul, and hoped not for his kingdom because of his small host; he had too few warriors, trusty thanes, to encounter the overmight of brave men in battle. 65 3. the dream. the army encamped near at hand beside the river, nobles about their prince, for the space of a single night after they first beheld the course of their foes. then unto the emperor himself in his sleep, as he 70 slumbered among his retinue, was disclosed the marvel of a dream, shown unto him with soul uplifted in the hope of victory. him thought there appeared before him in the form of a man a certain warrior, radiant, resplendent, brilliant, more glorious than he ever beheld 'neath the heavens, before or since. then, dight with his 75 boar-crested helmet, he started up from slumber, and straightway the messenger, a bright herald of glory, spake unto him and called him by his name, while the veil of night parted asunder: 'o constantine, the king of angels, wielder of fates and lord of hosts, hath commanded to offer thee a 80 covenant. fear thou not, though foreign peoples threaten thee with terror and bitter strife. look to heaven, unto the lord of glory. there shalt thou find aid and the token of victory.' 85 he was soon ready at the holy one's behest; he opened wide the secret places of his heart; he gazed on high, as the messenger, faithful weaver of peace, had bidden him. over the roof of clouds he saw the beauteous tree of glory, gleaming with treasure and decked with gold--and the gems shone 90 brightly. the shining tree was inscribed with letters of brilliance and light: 'by this sign thou shalt overcome the foe in the dread peril; by this thou shalt stay the hated host.' then the light vanished, ascended up on high, 95 and together with it the messenger, unto the throng of the pure ones. and the king, the leader of men, was the blither and the freer from grief in his heart by reason of that fair vision. 4. the battle. then constantine, bulwark of heroes and giver of gifts, battle-prince of armies and glorious king, 100 bade fashion with greatest haste a token like unto that sign he had seen, which had been disclosed before him in the heavens, the cross of christ. and at dawn, with the first gleam of day, he bade 105 rouse the warriors and make ready for the stress of fight, lift up the emblem of battle, take the holy tree before them, and bear the sign of god into the press of their foes. the trumpets rang loud at the army's front. 110 the raven rejoiced at the move; the dewy-feathered eagle scanned the march, the strife of battle-heated men; and the wolf, fellow of the forest, raised his song. rife was the dread terror of battle. then there was the clash of shields and the shock of men, the bitter hand-to-hand struggle and the 115 slaughter of hosts, when once they had passed within an arrow's flight. on the fated folk dire enemies hurled a shower of darts, and with might of arm sent their spears, biting battle-adders, over the yellow shields into the midst of their foes. but with 120 courage undaunted the other host advanced; from time to time they surged forward, broke the rampart of shields, thrust their swords between, and sternly kept their way. then was the standard, the token, raised before the armies, and they chanted the victors' song. over the field of battle gleamed spears and helmets 125 of gold. the pagan host was conquered; in merciless strife they fell. as the king of the romans, dauntless in battle, bade raise that holy tree, the peoples of the huns straight fled away, and their warriors were scattered far and wide. some 130 perished in the fight, some saved themselves hardly on the march, some, with life half-ebbed, fled to fastnesses and nursed their strength behind barren rocks, some seized the land near the danube, and 135 some were finally drowned in the river's current. then was the army of valiant heroes rejoiced, and from break of day until eve they followed hard upon the foreign foe, while the spears flew, biting 140 battle-adders. the horde of hated shield-bearers was lessened; but few of the army of huns returned thence home again. then was manifest from that day's deed that the king almighty gave unto constantine victory, 145 glorious honor, and a realm beneath the heavens, through his holy rood. and he, renowned in battle, a bulwark of armies, returned thence home again when the war was decided, exulting in his spoil. famed in the fight, a defense for heroes, the 150 king came with a throng of thanes to visit his cities and stud his shield with jewels. 5. the assembly. then the lord of men straight summoned the wisest to council, those who had pondered the craft of wisdom in writings of old and held nobly to 155 the rede of scholars. and the prince of the people, victory-inspired king, asked through the vast assembly if there were any man there could tell and declare unto him truly who the god was, giver of good 160 gifts, 'whose sign this was which appeared unto me so bright, the most gleaming of tokens, saved my people, and gave unto me glory and war-speed against my foes through the holy tree.' 165 but no one of them could give him any answer in return, nor knew they full well what to say about the victor-tree. then spake the wisest before the multitudes, and said that it was a sign from the king 170 of heaven, and of that there could be no doubt. 6. the conversion of constantine. but they who had learned the truth, who were taught through baptism, were joyful in soul, and their hearts were light that they might declare before 175 the emperor the grace of the gospel: how the saviour of souls, revered in threefold majesty, was born; how god's own son was hung upon the cross in bitter agony before the multitudes; how he freed 180 the children of men and souls of the careworn from the snares of devils, and gave unto them grace through the very thing that had been disclosed to his own sight as a sign of victory against the onrush of foes; and how on the third day the glory 185 of men and lord of all mankind rose from the tomb and from death, and ascended into heaven. men wise in the mystic things of the spirit thus said unto the victory-inspired monarch as they had 190 learned from silvester. and at their hands the prince of the people received baptism, and held to the faith according to the will of the lord from that time forth throughout the length of his days. then was the giver of gifts content, the king stern in battle; a new joy was come into his heart. 195 the lord of the kingdom of heaven was his greatest solace and his highest hope. through the grace of the spirit he began zealously to show forth the law of the lord both day and night, and this ruler of men devoted himself, far-famed and weariless, 200 unto the service of god. then the prince, bulwark of peoples, brave in battle and bold with the spear, found in the books of god with the aid of his teachers that country where, amid the shouts of multitudes, the ruler of the heavens was crucified upon 205 the cross through sinful hate; even as the ancient enemy with lying craft led astray the people, deceived the race of the jews, until they crucified god himself, the lord of hosts; wherefore they shall 210 suffer a direful curse in misery through a long-enduring life. 7. the journey of elene. then was the laud of christ in the heart of the emperor, and he was ever mindful of that glorious tree. and he bade his mother fare unto the jews upon a journey with a throng of people, and zealously 215 with her band of heroes to seek where the holy tree of glory, the rood of the king, was hid beneath the earth. nor would elene slight such a journey, nor be 220 heedless of the word of the prince her son; but the woman was soon ready for the welcome way, as the bulwark of heroes and mail-clad warriors had bidden her. and thereupon throngs of nobles 225 made ready for the voyage over the ocean. the ships stood ready by the shores of the sea, bound ocean-coursers resting on the deep. and the journey of the queen was plainly manifest when she sought the swell of the ocean with 230 her company; many a noble stood there, near to the water's edge, and from time to time crowds of men pressed across the way. then they loaded the ships with battle-dress, shields and spears; mail-clad warriors and men and 235 women embarked thereon. and they let the steep ocean-speeders course over the foamy deep; often the hull bore the shock of the billows on the ocean-way, and the sea raised her song. never heard 240 i before nor since of woman leading a fairer force upon the paths of the ocean, the streams of the deep. there one might see, if he beheld that voyage, ships cleave the watery way and haste beneath swelling 245 sails, sea-coursers leap, and wave-floaters speed ahead. the proud warriors were glad; the queen rejoiced in the journey. when the ring-prowed ships had reached their harbor in the land of the greeks over the fastness 250 of flood, they left their vessels, their olden water-homes, lashed by the sea, bound with anchors, to await upon the surging deep the fate of the men, when the warrior queen with her band of heroes 255 should again seek the eastern ways. many a woven corselet, trusty sword, and glittering battle-sark, many a helmet and glorious boar-crest, were there to be seen among the warriors. the spearmen, 260 heroes about their queen, were eager for the march. the brave fighters, heralds of the emperor, warriors clad in armor, went forth rejoicing into the land of the greeks. many a gold-set jewel, the gift of their prince, was to be seen there among the company. 265 but the blessed elene, zealous and earnest of purpose, was mindful of her lord's will that over fields of battle she should seek the land of the jews with her trusty band of shield-bearers, her company of 270 spearmen; and so it befell within a little space thereafter that the multitude of men, heroes famed in war and chieftains of spear-renown, entered into the city of jerusalem in a vast throng with the noble queen. 275 8. the councils of the jews. then she bade summon the wisest of the dwellers in the cities among the jews, far and wide, each man of them, to come unto a council for deliberation, those who knew how to expound justly and fully the hidden things of god. and there was 280 gathered together from far ways no small multitude of those who could expound the law of moses. they were in number three thousand men, chosen 285 for teaching. then the well-beloved woman spake unto the men of the hebrews in these words:--'this have i learned well by the mystic sayings of prophets in the books of god, that in days of yore ye were 290 dear unto the king of glory, loved of the lord and strong in his service. and lo! ye of this knowledge unwisely and perversely cast him forth when ye cursed him who thought to loose you from your curse, your torture of fire, your servile bondage, 295 through the might of his glory. foully ye spat upon the face of him who by his noble spittle wrought anew the light of your eyes, the cure of 300 your blindness, and saved you oft from the unclean spirits of devils. ye doomed him to death who among a multitude of men roused from death itself unto their former life a number of your own race. 305 ye blind of soul, thus have ye confounded false with sooth, light with darkness, hate with reverence, and have woven a crime from your evil thoughts. therefore doth this curse weigh you down in your sin--ye judged that pure power, and until this day 310 ye have lived with clouded thoughts in heresy. go ye now quickly, and think upon the men most sage in wisdom and skilled in speech, who, versed in the knowledge of your law, hold it foremost in their 315 hearts, and who may declare unto me truly and devise an answer for each token whereof i may ask them.' then, sorely grieved and saddened, and burdened 320 with fear, the men wise in law went apart, and earnestly sought the deepest mystic words wherewith they might answer the queen whatsoever she asked of them, whether of good or of bad. and they 325 found among their number a thousand of exceeding wisdom, who most fully knew the traditions of old among the jews. in a great crowd they hastened to where, upon a royal throne in majesty, the kinswoman 330 of the emperor waited, a stately queen of battle adorned with gold. and elene spake before the folk:--'hearken, ye wise of soul, unto a holy mystery, the word and the wisdom. lo! ye had the teaching of prophets how the prince of life and lord 335 of might should be born in the likeness of a child. of him sang moses, leader of the israelites, and spake this word:--"unto you is born a child of wondrous might in mystery, for his mother conceived 340 him not through the love of man." of him king david, father of solomon, ruler of men, a prophet with the wisdom of age, chanted a psalm and spake this word:--"in times afore i beheld the 345 god of creation, the lord of victories. he was before my sight upon my right hand, the king of might and prince of majesty. thence will i never turn my eyes more unto life." likewise again 350 isaiah the prophet, deeply moved by the spirit of god, spake concerning you before the multitudes in these words: "i raised up sons and i begat children, and unto them i gave possessions, and holy balm for their souls; but they scorned me, loathed me 355 with their hate, and they had no forethought, no skill of wisdom. even the wretched oxen, which man doth each day drive and beat, know their well-wisher, and in their revenge for wrong hate not their friend who giveth them fodder. but never 360 would the men of the israelites take knowledge of me, though i wrought many wonders for them throughout my life in the world." lo! this have we learned in holy books, that god the creator gave unto you spotless glory and wealth of power, 365 and said unto moses how ye should hearken unto the king of heaven, and follow his teaching. but ye soon became weary of this, and withstood that righteous one; ye scorned the pure maker of all, the lord of lords, and pursued error against the 370 law of god. now go ye quickly and find once more those who know best by wisdom's craft the ancient scriptures, your righteous law, that with 375 depth of soul they may give me answer.' then a throng of the proud leaders, saddened in heart, went forth as the queen had bidden them, and found five hundred wise men of their own race who held learning in their memory, most wisdom 380 in their mind. and again within a little space the lords of the city were summoned unto the hall. and the queen, looking upon them all, spake unto them 385 in these words:--'oft have ye wrought foolish deeds, ye wretched in misfortune, and scorned the scriptures, the lore of your fathers, but never worse than now when ye have refused the cure of your blindness, and withstood the truth and the right--that 390 the son of the mighty one, the only-begotten ruler and king of kings, was born in bethlehem. though ye knew the law, the words of the prophets, yet because of your sin ye have not been willing to confess the truth.' 395 and with one accord they answered:--'lo! we have learned the hebrew law that from the ark of god our fathers knew in days of yore; but we know not in sooth wherefore, o lady, thou hast become thus angry with us. we know not the sin 400 that we have wrought in this province, the wrong we have ever done to thee.' then elene spake before the people openly, before the multitudes this woman spake aloud:--'go ye 405 now quickly, and seek far and near those who have the power of wisdom and the most skill of thought among you, that they may show forth to me without reserve whatsoever i ask of them.' 410 and they went forth from the council as the mighty queen, strong in her cities, had bidden them, and earnestly pondered, sad of heart, and sought shrewdly what that sin might be that they had 415 wrought in the province against the emperor, wherewith the queen reproached them. 9. the speech of judas. and there spake before the people one learned in ancient writings and wise of speech (his name was judas):--'i know well that she wishes to ask concerning 420 that victor-tree whereon suffered the lord of hosts, god's own son, guiltless of all evil, him whom, unspotted with any sin, our fathers in days 425 of yore hung upon the high cross through hate--fearful was that thought! now is there great need that we steadfastly fortify our minds not to betray that murder, nor declare where the holy tree was hid after the stress of strife, lest thereby the wise 430 writings of old be cast aside, and the lore of our fathers forsaken. for if this shall be known, it will not be long that the race of the israelites and the faith of the jews shall hold sway over the world. 435 thus once my father's father, prophet with the wisdom of age and far-famed in victory--his name was zaccheus--gave like counsel unto my father and spake this word, which in after times he himself told to his son, as he turned him from the world:--"if in 440 the days of thy life it happen that thou hear sage men ask of the holy tree and stir up strife concerning the rood of victory whereon the true king was crucified, lord of heaven and child of all 445 peace, then do thou, my dear son, ere death snatch thee off, quickly declare that never shall the people of the hebrews, taking wise counsel together, hold sway and rule over men, but the glory and kingdom 450 shall endure of those who, filled with gladness from age to age, revere and love the crucified king."' 'then i boldly gave answer unto my father, the 455 aged counselor:--"how came it to pass in the kingdom of the world that with wrathful intent our fathers laid hands on the holy one to put him to death, if they had knowledge that he was christ, 460 the king upon the cross, true son of the creator, and saviour of souls?"' 'and my parent gave answer unto me, wisely my father spake:--"recognize, o youth, the surpassing power of god, the name of the saviour which may not be expressed by any man. no man on 465 earth can search it out. never would i visit the council which this people held, but i ever kept myself aloof from their sin, nor wrought shame 470 unto my soul in any way. many times i earnestly withstood the unrighteous act when the wise men sat in council, and sought in their heart how they might crucify the son of the creator, the bulwark 475 of men and lord of all, of angels and of mortals, the most noble of heroes." '"but these foolish and wretched men could not bring death upon him as they weened, nor beset him about with agony, though he, the victorious son of god, for a little while yielded up his ghost upon 480 the cross. then the king of the heavens, the glory of all glory, was raised from off the rood, and abode three nights in the tomb, within the place of darkness; and upon the third day he arose living, light 485 of all light and lord of angels, and revealed himself unto his followers, the true prince of victory, resplendent in glory. then after a little space, stephen, thy brother, received the bath of baptism, 490 the faith of joy, and for the love of the lord he was stoned. yet he gave not evil for evil, but in patient suffering made intercession for his ancient foes, and prayed the king of glory that he would not lay to their charge this evil deed, that they 495 deprived of life a man innocent and free from guile through hate and the teachings of saul. '"and this saul in enmity was dooming many a follower of christ to torture and death, yet the 500 lord showed mercy unto him so that he became a solace for many men. and in after times the god of creation, redeemer of men, changed his name, and he was called saint paul, and of the teachers of 505 the law no one of all those, or man or woman born into the world, was ever better than he beneath the span of the heavens, even though upon the hill he bade crush stephen, thy brother, with stones. 510 '"now thou canst understand, my dear son, how merciful is the lord of all, if we straightway purge ourselves of our evil deeds and cease again from the unrighteous act, though many times we transgress 515 against him, and wound him with our sins. wherefore i, in sooth, and in after times my dear father, believed that the god of all glory, giver of life, suffered' bitter agony for the surpassing need 520 of mankind. and now i counsel thee in secret, my dear son, that thou never offer scorn, nor blasphemy, nor wrathful opposition to the son of god. then 525 shalt thou deserve that unto thee be granted eternal life in heaven, the best reward of victory."' 'thus in days of yore, while i was still a youth, my father instructed me, and taught me with these true words, a man wise in sorrow--simon was his 530 name. and now that ye know my heart and mind, ye perceive clearly what ye had best declare if the queen ask us concerning that tree.' 535 and the wisest spake together before the assembly in these words:--'never heard we any other man save now thee declare thus among this people concerning 540 such a hidden thing. act as thou thinkest, o thou wise in the lore of old, if thou art questioned among the multitude, for there is need of wisdom, of artful words, and the learning of a seer, that shall give answer to this noble woman before such a 545 throng met together.' then words increased: men thought, reflected, and pondered on either side, some this way and some that. and there came a band of thanes to the assembly; and heralds, messengers of cæsar, 550 trumpeted:--'o ye counselors, the queen doth summon you unto the royal hall, that ye may show forth rightly the judgments of your synod. ye have need of prudence in the council, of wisdom in mind.' and they, the leaders of the people, grieved 555 in soul, were ready as they were summoned by the bitter edict, and went unto the palace to show forth the power of craft. then the queen spake unto the hebrews and asked them, their hearts sorely burdened, how once the 560 prophets, holy men, sang in the world concerning the son of god; and where the lord suffered, true son of the creator, for the love of souls. but they were obdurate and mute as stones, nor would they 565 show forth the true secret, nor in the hardness of their hearts would they give any answer to what she sought of them, but, set in purpose, they withstood each word that she asked, and said that never 570 in their lives had they heard, before nor since, one whit of any such thing. then elene spake and answered them in anger:--'i shall say unto you truly, and never in your life will this be false, that if ye who stand before me 575 persist long in this falsehood with lying craft, ye shall be burned upon the hill in the hottest fury of fire, and leaping flames shall consume your flesh, so that for you this lie shall be changed into utter destruction. 580 nor can ye prove those words which now in your guile ye cover up under the cloak of evil. ye cannot hide the deed, nor conceal its mystic power.' 10. elene and judas. then were they in the fear of death, of the funeral-pyre, and the end of life; and there they 585 thrust forth one of exceeding wisdom in the lore of old, whose name was judas, sprung from noble lineage; and they gave him up unto the queen, and called him a man of wondrous learning: 'he can show forth to thee the truth, unlock the secret of the fates, expound the just law from the beginning 590 even to the end, according as thou dost ask him. he is of noble race in the world, wise in speech, the son of a prophet, outspoken in council. and it is his nature to have sage answers and wisdom of soul. he shall show forth to thee before 595 the multitude with his great power the gift of wisdom, even as thy heart desireth.' then she let each man seek his own home in peace, and took judas alone as hostage. and she earnestly 600 bade him tell the truth concerning the cross, which had been long buried in a secret place. then elene, the glorious queen, drew him aside by himself, and thus spake to the lonely man:--'two ways 650 are ready for thee, either life or death, whichsoever thou shalt please to choose. declare quickly now which one thou wilt accept.' and judas made answer unto her--nor could he rid himself of sorrow and turn away the wrath of his ruler, but he was in the power of the queen--: 610 'how shall it be with him who treadeth the moor in a desert, weary, without food, and tortured with hunger, if before his eyes a loaf and a stone together seem hard and soft, and he knoweth them not apart, but taketh the stone to ward off his 615 hunger, and marketh not the loaf, turneth to want and forsaketh the food, refuseth the better when he hath the choice of both?' then openly before the people the blessed elene gave him answer:--'if thou wouldst have thy life 620 in the world and a home with the angels in the kingdom of heaven, the reward of victory in the sky, tell me straightway where the holy rood of the king of glory lieth under the earth, which ye 625 have hid now for a while from men because of the unrighteous murder.' judas answered, and his heart was heavy within him; there was grief in his soul, and woe either way, whether thus he forsook the joy of the 630 heavenly realm and this present kingdom beneath the skies, or disclosed the rood:--'how can i reveal that which came to pass so long ago in the course of years? two hundred or more in number are now vanished away--i know not the sum of 635 them, and i cannot declare the event. many of wisdom, of virtue, and of learning, who were before our time, are told among the dead. in days long after was i born, and in my childhood, and in my youth. i may not discover in my heart that which 640 i know not, and which came to pass so long ago.' then elene bespake him in answer:--'whence cometh it that ye bear in mind so many things, every wondrous deed, such as those which the trojans 645 wrought in battle? that far-famed war of old was further in the course of years than this holy event, and yet ye know that fully, how to declare at once the number of all that were slain 650 there, and of the spearmen who fell in death beneath their shields. ye set forth in writing the tombs beneath the rocky cliffs, and likewise the places and the tale of years.' then judas answered--he suffered bitter grief:--'we 655 are mindful of that war from very need, my dear lady, and we set forth in writing the fierce strife and the deeds of the nations, but never have we heard this declared unto men from the mouth 660 of any save here and now.' and the noble queen gave him answer:--'too mightily dost thou withstand the truth and the right concerning the tree of life, insomuch as thou spakest 665 verily of the rood of victory before thine own people but a little time ago, and now dost turn to falsehood.' judas again spake unto her, and said that he uttered those words in sorrow and exceeding doubt, that he had weened bitter hardship for himself. quickly the kinswoman of cæsar answered him:--'lo! we have heard it declared unto men from 670 the holy book that the noble child of the king, the son of god, was crucified on calvary. thou shalt reveal thy knowledge perfectly concerning the field where this place calvary is, according to the teaching 675 of the scriptures, ere death and utter destruction snatch thee away for thy sins, that i may thereafter cleanse the cross to be a solace for men, according to the will of christ. thus shall the holy god, the lord almighty, glory-giver of hosts and helper 680 of souls, fulfill for me my desire and my inmost longing.' but with stubborn heart judas answered her:--'i know not the place, nor aught of the field, nor know i the event.' then elene spake with wrath in her heart:--'i 685 swear by the son of the creator, by the crucified god, that thou shalt be starved to death before the people of thine own race, save thou forsake this falsehood and fully declare unto me the truth.' 690 then she bade men take him alive, and throw him, guilty as he was, into a dried-up well--nor did her subjects hesitate. and there, joyless and famished, weighed down with chains, was he to abide in his grief for the space of seven nights. and upon the seventh day, weakened by sorrow, weary, 695 and without food--his strength was broken--he began to call aloud:--'i beseech you by the god of the heavens that ye release me from this misery, 700 for i am brought low by the pangs of starvation. joyfully will i show forth the holy tree--no longer can i hide it now by reason of my hunger. this durance is too fearful, this need too great, and this torture too bitter day by day. no longer can i 705 endure to suffer, and conceal my knowledge concerning the tree of life, though before i was filled with folly, and confess the truth too late.' 11. the finding of the crosses. when she who there held sway over the heroes understood the changed bearing of the man, she 710 straightway bade release him from his prison, his dungeon, his narrow cell. then quickly they did so, and took him out of the pit with care, as the queen had bidden them. and they resolutely 715 took their way to that place upon the hill where the lord was crucified on the cross, the son of god and prince of the heavenly realm. weakened by hunger, he knew not yet clearly where through 720 the wiles of the devil the holy rood lay hid beneath the earth, nor where it rested in its tomb, safe in a secret place, long hidden from men. after a little while he lifted up his voice with unwonted power and spake in hebrew:--'o lord 725 jesus, thou who dost possess the power of judgment, thou who didst form the heaven and the earth and the sea, the broad expanse of waters, and all created things, by the might of thy glory; thou who didst measure out with thine own hands all the sphere of 730 this earth and of the firmament above; thou who dost sit in person, the king of victories, over the most glorious angel-kind; thou who in a mantle of light dost fare through space in surpassing majesty, the nature of man cannot rise in the flesh 735 from the earth-tainted ways unto the bright throng of the pure, the heralds of glory. thou didst form that host, holy and heavenly, and didst ordain it unto thy service. six of their number are called 740 by name in joy without end, and they are clothed about with six wings; they are adorned, and gleam brightly. and there are four of their number ever in flight that perform the service of glory 745 before the sight of the eternal judge, and they continually sing in holiness with clear voices the laud of the king of heaven, fairest of songs, and they chant these words in pure tones--their name is 750 cherubim:--"holy is the holy god of the archangels, the lord of hosts. heaven and earth are full of his majesty, and all his exceeding might is marked with his glory." and there are two among their number in the heavens, the victorious race, 755 whereon man bestoweth the name of seraphim. with flaming sword they are to keep sacred the field of paradise and the tree of life. and fast in their grasp the drawn sword, sharp of edge, quivers, trembles, and changes its hue. for thou dost rule, 760 o lord god, eternally, and thou didst hurl thy sin-stained foes, the workers of iniquity, from the heavens, and the unhappy host fell to the dark abodes, into the pains of hell. there now they suffer 765 the agony of death in a sea of fire, encompassed about with darkness, in the embrace of the dragon. he withstood thy kingly rule, and therefore in misery, abhorred, the vilest of the vile, shall he suffer and endure the servile yoke. he cannot there 770 neglect thy commandment; he is fettered in torture, bound in agony, the author of all sin. if it be thy will, o king of angels, that he who was on the cross, and was born of mary into the world in the 775 form of a child, the lord of the heavenly host, shall rule--and were he not thy son, free from guile, never could he have wrought such a multitude of true miracles day after day in the world; 780 nor wouldst thou, o lord of the peoples, so gloriously have raised him from the dead before the nations, were he not thy son in glory by that holy maid--then do thou, o father of angels, now show forth thy sign. even as thou didst hearken unto 785 the words of that holy seer, moses, in prayer, when thou, o god of power, didst reveal unto the noble man in due time the bones of joseph beneath the mountain-side, so would i, o god of hosts, if it be thy will, beseech thee in the name of that fair being 790 that thou, creator of souls, wilt disclose unto me this treasure-house that long has been hidden from men. do thou now, o prince of life, let rise up beneath the span of the heavens from this smiling 795 field a misty smoke. then shall i trust in thee better, and the more firmly establish my soul in undoubting joy upon the crucified christ, that he is truly the saviour of souls, eternal, omnipotent, and king of the israelites, and that he shall rule 800 for ever in glory without end the everlasting dwellings in the heavens.' then from that place a mist rose up beneath the skies, like unto smoke. thereupon was the soul of the man exalted, and he clapped his hands unto 805 the heavens, wise and blessed. and judas spake, sage in thought:--'now have i truly perceived in the hardness of my heart that thou art the saviour of the world. thanksgiving without end be thine, 810 o god of might, who sittest in majesty, that unto me in my misery and my sin thou dost uncover the secrets of the fates by thy glory. now i would pray thee, o son of god, giver of gifts to men, inasmuch as i know thou art revealed and born the 815 glory of all kings, that thou never more be mindful of my guilt, o my creator, which i have wrought not a few times against thee. let me, o god of power, dwell with holy joy among the number of 820 the kingdom in that fair city where my brother is exalted in glory, for he, stephen, held covenant with thee, even though he was stoned. he hath the reward of the fight, joy unceasing, and the wonders 825 that he wrought are set forth in books.' then, glad and zealous, he digged in the earth under the sod for the tree of glory until he uncovered and came upon three crosses together in a mournful home, hid twenty feet below, concealed 830 in their dark grave beneath the steep cliff, and covered over with sand, even as in days of yore the 835 host of the sinful, the race of the jews, had clothed them over with earth. they stirred up hatred against the son of god, as they would not have done had they not hearkened to the teachings of the prince of evil. and his soul was gladdened with great joy, and 840 his heart strengthened by that holy tree, and his spirit exalted within him as he beheld the holy sign in the earth. with his hands he seized upon the wondrous tree of glory, and in the midst of the people raised it aloft from its earthy grave. then 845 strangers and heroes entered into the town. 12. the miracle of the true cross. thereupon the glad and zealous man set forth the three trees of victory before elene in open view. 850 the queen rejoiced in her heart at the deed, and asked on which of those trees the son of the king, giver of joy to men, was crucified: 'lo! we heard it declared from the holy book that two suffered with him, and he himself was the third on the 855 cross. all the heavens grew dark in that woful hour. say, if thou knowest, on which of these trees the lord of angels and prince of glory suffered.' but judas could not declare unto her fully concerning 860 that tree of victory, on which the saviour, the conquering son of god, was hung, for he wist it not assuredly. then he bade set the crosses with tumult in the midst of the fair city, there to abide 865 until the king almighty should show forth a miracle before the people through that tree of glory. with souls uplifted in their victory, they sat themselves down about the rood, and with earnest thought raised their voices in song until the ninth hour, when they had new joy, gloriously gained. 870 for many came there, no small multitude, and among the press of men close by on a bier they brought one who was dead, a young man, lifeless; and it was the ninth hour. and there was the heart of judas gladdened with 875 great joy. he bade them set down upon the earth him whose soul had fled, the body forsaken of life, the dead man, and he himself, wise and earnest revealer of truth, raised up in his arms two of those 880 crosses over the lifeless frame. but the body, fast on its couch, was dead as before. the limbs were cold, enwrapped with their dire fate. then the third, the holy one, was raised aloft. the body 855 waited until the rood, the cross of the king of heaven, the true sign of victory, was laid upon the man; then he straightway rose up, restored in spirit, both body and soul together. and there was great 890 laud raised among the people; they revered the father, and honored the true son of the king in their speech. to him be glory and thanksgiving without end from all creatures. 13. judas and the devil. then, as ever should be, was the miracle which 895 the lord of hosts, giver of life, had wrought for the salvation of mankind, impressed upon the minds of the people. but there the fiend, the devil from hell, dire monster mindful of evil, sinning with his 900 lies, rose up into the air, flying, and spake thus:--'lo! what man is this who doth again in the ancient enmity destroy my following, swell the olden hatred, and waste my possessions? continual 905 strife is this. no longer may the souls of them that work evil dwell among my possessions, since now a stranger hath come, whom i counted fast in his sins, and hath robbed me of my every right 910 and of all my wealth. this is not a just deed. the saviour, who was raised up in nazareth, hath done me many an evil, acts of deep hatred. as he grew up from childhood, he ever turned to himself 915 my possessions, nor now can any justice succeed [against him]. his kingdom is broad over the world, while my teaching is weakened beneath the heavens. i dare not despise this cross with scoffing laugh. lo! the saviour hath again shut me into 920 my narrow home, smitten with woe. once i was filled with joy by a judas: but now, again by a judas, am i humbled, bereft of possessions, abhorred, and friendless. but i know how to discover 925 again by my sin a way of return hereafter from the home of the damned. i shall incite against thee another king who shall persecute thee, and shall forsake thy teaching and follow my ways of 930 evil; then will he cast thee into the darkest and worst of terrors, that thou, racked with pain, mayst vehemently renounce the crucified king, whom thou didst formerly obey.' then the wise judas, daring hero in strife, 935 answered him (the holy spirit was granted unto him with strength, a love hot as fire, a knowledge welling up through the learning of a warrior); and he spake this word, filled with wisdom:--'thou needst not so mightily, ever mindful of evil, renew 940 sorrow and enkindle strife, o sinful prince of murder, inasmuch as the mighty king, who hath awakened with his word many of the dead, doth thrust thee into the nether depths, thou worker of iniquity, 945 into the abyss of torture, bereft of joy. know thou full clearly that thou in folly didst forsake the brightest of lights and the love of the lord and that glorious faith, and that thou hast since dwelt in a 950 bath of fire, burdened with tortures and seared with flame, and that there, with hatred in thy soul, thou shalt ever suffer woe and misery without end.' elene heard how the foe and the friend struggled together, the glorious and the foul on opposite sides, 955 the sinful and the blessed. and she was the gladder in heart as she heard that the hellish enemy, the prince of evil, was vanquished; she marveled at the wisdom of the man, how in so little time he was so filled with faith, and how he who had 960 ever been so ignorant was imbued with knowledge. and she thanked god, the king of glory, that through the son of god the joy of both these things was come unto her--on the one hand at the sight 965 of the tree of victory, and on the other at this faith which she so clearly understood as a glorious gift in the breast of this man. 14. the embassy to constantine. then was the fair news of the morning manifest among the nation, spread far throughout the people, to the vexation of many who would keep secret the 970 law of the lord. it was heralded through the cities, as far as the sea embosoms the land, through every town, that the rood of christ, buried of yore in the earth, had been found, best emblem of victory of them that were raised aloft before or since, holy 975 beneath the heavens. unto the jews, men of misfortune, it was a most bitter grief and most hated of fates that they could change neither it nor the joy of the christians in the world. then the queen 980 bade messengers from her noble company make them ready with haste, for they were to seek the lord of the romans over the deep sea, and declare unto that warrior in person the best of glad tidings--how the tree of victory, that had been hidden a long 985 time before to grieve the holy ones, the christian people, had been discovered and found in the earth through the grace of the creator. then was the soul of the king rejoiced at that 990 fair news, and his heart filled with gladness. and in the city there was no want of richly-clad questioners concerning what was come from afar. the greatest comfort in the world, a joyful soul, was 995 come unto him at those glad tidings which the messengers, leaders of the army, brought to him over the eastern ways, how the warriors with the glorious queen had made a prosperous voyage over the sea into the land of the greeks. the emperor bade them prepare themselves again for the journey with 1000 the greatest haste. the warriors made no delay when once they heard the answer, the message of the prince. he bade them, heroes hardy of soul, give greeting to elene, renowned in war, if they should survive the sea and make a prosperous 1005 voyage unto the holy city. and constantine furthermore bade the messengers charge her to build a church there on the mountain-slope for the weal of them both, a temple of the lord on calvary for 1010 the joy of christ and the solace of men, there where the holy rood was found, fairest of all trees the dwellers on earth have ever known. 1015 15. the building of the temple. and thus she did when her friends brought many a kind greeting over the fastness of waters from the west. then the queen bade seek far and near those 1020 skilled in the arts, the best of those who could work most wondrously in the laying of stone upon stone, that they might raise a temple of god upon that place. as the lord of spirits counseled her from the heavens, she bade deck out the rood with gold and with gems, adorn it most artfully with precious 1025 stones; then to seal it with locks in a casket of silver. there hath the rood of life, best tree of victory, dwelt since then, indestructible in its nobleness. there shall it be ever ready, a solace for 1030 the ill of any disease, affliction, or sorrow. then straightway shall men find aid and divine grace through that holy form. 16. the conversion of judas. then after a little space judas received the bath of baptism, and, cleansed [of his sins], was true to 1035 christ, dear to the lord of life. his faith was steadfast in his heart when the spirit of comfort had taken up his dwelling in the breast of the man, and had urged him unto repentance. he chose the better course, the gladness of glory, and forsook the 1040 worse, the way of the idolater, and cast aside his heresy, the law of unrighteousness. god, the eternal king, creator, and wielder of power, was gracious unto him. then he was baptized who many times had scorned the light; ...[1] his heart was inspired 1045 unto the better life; he was turned unto glory. verily fate decreed that he should become thus filled with faith, thus dear unto god and beloved of christ in the kingdom of the world. this was made manifest 1050 when elene bade bring unto the holy city eusebius, the bishop of rome, exceeding wise amid the councils of men, to aid in her deliberation, and to ordain judas into the priesthood at jerusalem 1055 as bishop for the people in the cities, prudently chosen through the grace of the spirit for the temple of god. and in later times upon a new occasion she wisely named him cyriacus. henceforth 1060 the name of the man was changed for the better throughout the cities--'the law of the lord'. [footnote 1: a manuscript lacuna.] 17. the finding of the nails. then again was the mind of elene concerned about that fair mystery with regard to the nails 1065 which pierced the feet and hands of the saviour, wherewith the king of the heavens, the mighty prince, was bound upon the cross. the queen of the christians began to ask concerning them. she bade cyriacus that he, through the might of the 1070 holy spirit, fulfil her desire still further regarding the wondrous mystery, and that he unlock the secret by his holy grace. and she spake this word unto the bishop--boldly she addressed him:--'o bulwark of heroes, thou didst rightly show forth unto me 1075 that noble tree, the cross of the heavenly king, whereon by heathen hands was crucified god's own son, the helper of souls, the saviour of men. now further the longing for knowledge doth make me mindful of the nails. i would thou shouldst find 1080 those that are hidden, buried deep in the earth and shrouded in darkness. ever doth my heart mourn, sorrow in sadness, and rest not, until the father almighty, the lord of hosts and saviour of men, the holy one from on high, shall fulfill unto me my 1085 desire through the finding of these nails. now with all reverence do thou forthwith, o best of mediators, send up thy petition unto that glorious being, unto the king of majesty. do thou pray 1090 the glory of men that he, almighty king, show forth unto thee the treasure beneath the earth that still lieth hidden, secret and concealed from men.' then the holy man, inspired in heart, the bishop of the people, made steadfast his soul, and joyfully 1095 went forth with a throng of men singing praises unto god. zealously cyriacus bowed his head upon calvary, nor made he any secret of his thoughts, but through the might of the holy spirit he called upon 1100 god with all reverence, and prayed the lord of angels to reveal the unknown mystery in his new trouble, where in that field he might earnestly seek out the nails. then the father, the spirit of comfort, there as 1105 they were watching, caused a sign in the form of fire to rise up where the precious nails were cunningly hid in the earth by the devices of men. forthwith there came a leaping flame brighter than 1110 the sun. the people beheld a miracle shown forth unto their queen, where, like unto the stars of heaven or gems set in gold, out of the darkness glittered the nails brightly, gleaming from their burial-place 1115 beneath the surface of the earth. the people rejoiced, the throng were glad of heart; and they said with one accord that the miracle was of god, although hitherto they had been long in heresy and turned from christ, through the death-wielding power of the devil. thus they spake:--'now do 1120 we ourselves behold the sign of victory, the true miracle of god, whom we formerly withstood with falsehood. now is the course of the mystery come into light and revealed. wherefore may the god of the heavenly kingdom have glory in the highest.' 1125 then was the bishop of the people rejoiced anew, he who had turned with repentance through the son of god. awe-struck he took the nails, and bore them unto the revered queen. cyriacus had 1130 fulfilled all the woman's wish, even as his noble mistress bade him. then was there the sound of lamentation, and hot tears welling over their faces--yet not at all for sorrow; her tears fell over the nails. wondrously was the desire of the queen fulfilled. 1135 with joyous faith she laid them upon her knees, and, rejoicing in her happiness, revered the gift that was brought unto her as a solace for her sadness. she gave thanks unto god, the lord of victories, that now she knew the truth which had oft 1140 been foretold long before from the beginning of the world as a comfort for the nations. she was filled with the grace of wisdom, and the holy spirit of 1145 heaven held the dwelling of her body, and guarded her both heart and soul. thus the almighty, victorious son of god had care for her thereafter. 18. elene's disposal of the nails. then she began zealously through the mysteries of the holy spirit to search out the truth and the way to glory. verily the lord of hosts, king 1150 almighty, gave aid that the queen might win her wish in the world. from the beginning all the prophecy was chanted in times before by the seers of old, and thus it happened in every respect. 1155 through the grace of the holy spirit the queen zealously began to search out with great care wherefor she might best and most fitly for the solace of men use the nails, and what was the will of the 1160 lord. then bade she bring at once unto a secret council an exceeding wise man, who, learned in mind, by his wise power knew fully the rede of sages; and she began to inquire of him what he 1165 deemed best to be done about this. and obediently she chose his advice. earnestly he answered her:--'it is fitting that thou hold in thy heart the word of the lord, his holy mystery, o best of queens, and zealously 1170 fulfil the bidding of the king, now that god, redeemer of men, hath given unto thee good speed for thy soul, and the skill of wisdom. do thou bid that these nails be set upon the bridle, as a bit 1175 for the horse of the most noble among castle-ruling kings. it shall become famed to many throughout the world when he shall overcome each of his enemies thereby in the contest, as with brave hearts and brandished swords they seek the battle on either 1180 side, and strive for the mastery there, foe against foe. he shall have good speed in war, victory in battle, and peace everywhere, the calm following the strife, who holds the bridle before him upon a white 1185 steed when his trusty heroes, far-famed in the fight, bear shield and spear into the press of weapons. for any man shall this be a guard invincible against stress in war. concerning it sang the prophet, wise in thought, his mind saw deeply 1190 the understanding of wisdom. these words he spake:--"it shall be known that the horse of a king is to be in the midst of brave heroes, decked with bit and bridle-rings. it shall be called a holy sign 1195 of god, and he shall be hardy and honored in war who guides the horse."' 19. conclusion. then straightway in the presence of the nobles elene accomplished all. she bade deck the bridle of the prince, gift-giver of men, and unto her own son she sent the glorious present over the stream 1200 of the ocean as an offering. then she bade assemble together in the town, in that holy city, those whom she knew as the best among the jews, that race of heroes. and the queen began to teach the 1205 throng of her dear subjects that they should steadfastly hold to the love of the lord, and maintain peace one with another, and that they should hearken 1210 unto the lore of the teacher, and the customs of the christians, which cyriacus, wise in the knowledge of books, should declare unto them. the bishopric was well established. often there came to him from afar the lame, the halt, the weak, the 1215 maimed, the bleeding, the leprous, the blind, the poor, the sad in heart, and ever found they health and relief there at the hands of their bishop during all of their life. and again elene gave unto him gifts of great worth when she was ready for the journey back to her own land, and when she bade 1220 all those who glorified god in that kingdom, both men and women, to honor in their thought with heart and strength that great day on which the holy rood was found, most wondrous tree of them that 1225 have grown up from the earth, laden with leaves. and, save for six nights ere the coming of summer on the kalends of may, the spring was gone. may hell's portal be closed and heaven's opened, may the 1230 eternal kingdom of the angels be revealed with joy unceasing, and may their part be assigned with mary, to each man who keepeth in memory the most sacred festival of the cross beneath the heavens, 1235 which the almighty king over all protected with his arm! finit. 20. epilogue. old and ready for death by reason of this failing house, i thus have woven a web of words and wondrously have gathered it up; time and again have i pondered and sifted my thought in the prison of the night. i knew not fully the truth concerning 1240 the cross[1] until wisdom revealed a broader knowledge through its marvelous power o'er the thought of my heart. i was stained with deeds of evil, fettered in sins, torn by doubts, girt round with 1245 bitter needs, until the king of might wondrously granted learning unto me as a comfort for my old age; until he gave unto me his spotless grace, and imbued my heart with it, revealed it as glorious, in time broadened it, set free my body, unlocked my 1250 heart, and loosed the power of song, which joyfully and gladly i have used in the world. not one time alone, but often had i thought upon the tree of glory, before i had the miracle revealed regarding the glorious tree, as in the course of events i found 1255 related in books and in writings concerning the sign of victory. ever until that time was the man buffeted in the surge of sorrow, was he a weakly flaring torch (c)[2], although he had received treasures and appled gold in the mead-hall; wroth in heart 1260 (y), he mourned; a companion to need (n), he suffered crushing grief and anxious care, although before him his horse (e) measured the miles and proudly ran, decked with gold. hope (w) is waned, and joy through the course of years; youth 1265 is fled, and the pride of old. once (u) was the splendor of youth(?); now after that alloted time are the days departed, are the pleasures of life dwindled away, as water (l) glideth, or the rushing floods. wealth (f) is but a loan to each beneath 1270 the heavens; the beauties of the field vanish away beneath the clouds, most like unto the wind when it riseth loud before men, roameth amid the clouds, courseth along in wrath, and then on a sudden 1275 becometh still, close shut in its narrow prison, crushed by force. [footnote 1: supplying _r[=o]de_.] [footnote 2: these letters are the runes which spell out cynewulf's name.] thus shall all this world pass away, and in like manner devouring flame shall seize upon whoever was born into it, at that time when the lord himself 'with a host of angels shall come 1280 unto judgment. there shall each man hear the doom on all his deeds from the mouth of the judge, and likewise shall pay the penalty for all the foolish words ever spoken by him, and all his overbold 1285 thoughts. then shall the people divide into three parts for the embrace of the flame, every man who hath ever lived throughout the broad earth. those who have clung fast to the truth shall be highest in the flame, the throng of the blessed, the 1290 host of them that yearn for glory, the multitude of the righteous, and thus may they endure and suffer more lightly without distress. he tempers for them all the glare of the flame as shall be most easy for them and most mild. the sinful men, those 1295 stained with evil, heroes sad of heart, shall be in the middle place, shrouded with smoke amid the hot surge of fire. the third part, accursed sinful foes, false haters of men, the host of the wicked, shall be in the depth of the surge, bound fast in flame by 1300 reason of their former deeds, in the gripe of the glowing coals. nor shall they come thereafter from the place of punishment to the memory of god, king of glory, but they shall be cast forth, his wrath-stirring foes, from that fierce flame into the 1305 depths of hell. unlike this shall it be with the other two parts: they may look upon the prince of angels, the god of victories. they shall be refined and freed from their sins, like pure gold that is all 1310 cleansed from every alloy, refined and melted in the surge of the furnace's fire. thus shall each of those men be separated and purified from all their guilt, their deep transgressions, by the fire of the judgment. and thereafter they may enjoy peace and 1315 eternal well-being. the lord of angels shall be merciful and gracious unto them, inasmuch as they abhorred each sin, each work of guile, and called upon the son of the creator in their prayers. wherefore now their forms shall shine like unto the angels, and they shall enjoy the heritage of the king 1320 of glory for ever and ever. amen. the life of st. frances of rome, by lady georgiana fullerton; of blessed lucy of narni, of dominica of paradiso and of anne de montmorency: with an introductory essay on the miraculous life of the saints, by j. m. capes, esq. _n.b. the proprietorship of this series is secured in all countries where the copyright is protected._ the authorities on which the history of st. frances of rome rests are as follows: her life by mattiotti, her confessor for ten years. mattiotti enjoined her, as a matter of obedience, to relate to him from time to time her visions in the minutest detail. he was a timid and suspicious man, and for two or three years kept a daily record of all she told him; afterwards, as his confidence in her sanctity and sanity grew complete, he contented himself with a more general account of her ecstasies, and also put together a private history of her life. after her death, he wrote a regular biography, which is now to be found in the bollandist collection (venice, 1735, vol. ii.). early in the seventeenth century, ursinus, a jesuit, wrote a life, which was highly esteemed, but which was never printed, and, except in certain fragments, is now lost. in 1641, fuligato, a jesuit, wrote the second life, in the bollandist collection, which contains particulars of events that happened after mattiotti's time. other well-written lives have since appeared: especially a recent one by the vicomte de bussière, in which will be found various details too long to be included in the sketch here presented to the english reader. introductory essay. the miraculous life of the saints. in presenting to the general reader a newly-written life of so extraordinary a person as st. frances of rome, together with the biographical sketches contained in the present volume, it may be useful to introduce them with a few brief remarks on that peculiar feature in the histories of many saints, which is least in accordance with the popular ideas of modern times. a mere translation, or republication of a foreign or ancient book, does not necessarily imply any degree of assent to the principles involved in the original writer's statements. the new version or edition may be nothing more than a work of antiquarian or literary interest, by no means professing any thing more than a belief that persons will be found who will, from some motive or other, be glad to read it. not so, however, in the case of a biography which, though not pretending to present the results of fresh researches, does profess to give an account new in shape, and adapted to the wants of the day in which it asks its share of public attention. in this case no person can honourably write, and no editor can honourably sanction, any statements but such as are not only possible and probable, but, allowing for the degree of authenticity in each case claimed, on the whole historically true. no honest man, who absolutely disbelieves in all documents in which the original chronicler has mingled accounts of supernatural events with the record of his own personal knowledge, could possibly either write or edit such lives as those included in the following pages; still less could they be made public by one who disbelieves in the reality of modern miracles altogether. in presenting, then, the present and other similar volumes to the ordinary reader, i anticipate some such questions as these: "do you really put these stories into our hands as history? are these marvellous tales to be regarded as poetry, romance, superstitious dreaming, or as historical realities? if you profess to believe in their truth, how do you reconcile their character with the universal aspect of human life, as it appears _to us and to our friends?_ and finally, if you claim for them the assent to which proved facts have a right from every candid mind, to what extent of detail do you profess to believe in their authenticity?" to these and similar questions i reply by the following observations: the last of these questions may be answered briefly. the lives of saints and other remarkable personages, which are here and elsewhere laid in a popular form before the english public, are not all _equally_ to be relied on as undoubtedly true in their various minute particulars. they stand precisely on the same footing as the ordinary events of purely secular history; and precisely the same degree of assent is claimed for them that the common reason of humanity accords to the general chronicles of our race. no man, who writes or edits a history of distant events, professes to have precisely the same amount of certainty as to all the many details which he records. of some his certainty is all but absolute; of others he can say that he considers them highly probable; of a third class he only alleges that they are vouched for by respectable though not numerous authorities., still, he groups them together in one complete and continuous story, and gives them to the world as _history;_ nor does the world impute to him either dishonesty, ignorance, credulity, or shallowness, because in every single event he does not specify the exact amount of evidence on which his statement rests. just such is the measure of belief to be conceded to the life of st. frances, and other biographies or sketches of a similar kind. some portions, and those the most really important and prominent, are well ascertained, incontrovertible, and substantially true. others again, in all likelihood, took place very much, though not literally, in the way in which they are recorded. of others, they were possibly, or even probably, the mere colouring of the writer, or were originally adopted on uninvestigated rumour. they are all, however, consistent with known facts, and the laws on which humanity is governed by divine providence; and therefore, as they may be true, they take their place in that vast multitude of histories which all candid and well-informed persons agree in accepting as worthy of credit, though in various degrees. supposing, then, that miraculous events may and do occur in the present state of the world's history, it is obvious that these various degrees of assent are commanded alike by the supernatural and the natural events which are here so freely mingled together. some are undoubtedly true, others are probably either fictitious or incorrectly recorded. the substance rests on the genuine documents, originally written by eye-witnesses and perfectly competent judges; and as such, the whole stands simply as a result of the gathering together of historical testimony. here, however, the ordinary english reader meets us with the assertion, that the supernatural portions of such lives are simply _impossible_. he assumes--for i am not exaggerating when i say that he never tries _to prove_--that these marvellous interruptions of the laws of nature never take place. consequently, in his judgment, it is purely ridiculous to put forth such stories as history; and writers who issue them are guilty either of folly, ignorance, superstition, or an unprincipled tampering with the credulity of unenlightened minds. of those who thus meet the question of historical evidence by an assumption of a universal abstract impossibility, i earnestly beg an unprejudiced attention to the following considerations: if it be once admitted that there is a god, and that the soul is not a mere portion of the body, the existence of miracles becomes at once probable. apart from the records of experience, we should in fact have expected that events which are now termed miraculous would have been perhaps as common as those which are regulated by what we call the laws of nature. let it be only granted that the visible universe is not the _whole_ universe, and that in reality we are ever in a state of most intimate _real_ communion with him who is its creator; then, i say, we should have expected to have been as habitually conscious of our intercourse with that great being, as of our intercourse with one another. the true marvel is, that we are not thus habitually conscious of the divine presence, and that god is really out of our sight. if there is a god, who is ever around us and within us, _why_ does he not communicate with us through the medium of our senses, as he enables us to communicate with one another? our souls hold mutual communion through the intervention of this corporal frame, with such a distinct and undeniable reality, that we are as _conscious_ of our intercourse as of the contact of a material substance with our material bodies. why, then,--since it is so infinitely more important to us to hold ceaseless communication with our maker,--why is it that our intercourse with him is of a totally different nature? why is it that the material creation is not the ordinary instrument by which our souls converse with him? let any man seriously ponder upon this awful question, and he must hasten to the conclusion, that though experience has shown us that the world of matter is not the _ordinary_ channel of converse between god and man, there yet remains an overwhelming probability that some such intercourse takes place _occasionally_ between, the soul and that god through whose power alone she continues to exist. in other words, the existence of miracles is probable rather than otherwise. a miracle is an event in which the laws of nature are interrupted by the intervention of divine agency, usually for the purpose of bringing the soul of man into a conscious contact with the inhabitants of the invisible world. with more or less exactness of similitude, a miracle establishes between god and man, or between other spiritual beings and man, that same kind of intercourse which exists between different living individuals of the human race. such a conscious intercourse is indeed asserted by infidels as well as by atheists, to be, if not impossible, at least so utterly improbable, that it is scarcely within the power of proof to make it credible to the unbiased reason. yet surely the balance of probability inclines to the very opposite side. if there _is_ a god, and our souls _are_ in communication (of some kind) with him, surely, prior to experience, we should have expected to be habitually conscious of this communion. and now that we see that we are not at any rate habitually so, still the burden of proof rests with those who allege that such conscious intercourse _never_ takes place. apart from all proof of the reality of any one professed miracle, the infidel is bound to show _why_ all miracles are improbable or impossible; in other words, why man should never be conscious of the presence and will of his ever-present god. protestants, however, and even weak catholics, regard the record of one of those mysterious lives, in which the soul of a man or woman has been repeatedly brought into this species of communion with invisible beings, as a tale which, though it is just possible that it may be true, is yet, on the face of it, so flagrant a violation of the laws of nature, as to be undeserving of positive hearty belief. they confound the laws of physical nature with the laws of universal nature. they speak of the nature of this material earth, as if it was identical with the _nature of things_. and this confusion of thought it is to which i would especially call attention. miracles are contrary to the ordinary laws of physical nature, and therefore are so far improbable, but they are in the strictest conformity with the nature of things, and therefore _in themselves_ are probable. if the laws of nature rule god as they control man, a miracle is almost an impossibility; but if god rules the laws of nature, then it is wonderful that something miraculous does not befall us every day of our lives. again, it is in a high degree probable that miraculous events will generally, so to say, take their colour from the special character of that relation which may exist between god and man at the time when they come to pass. if, in the inscrutable counsels of the almighty, man is placed, during different eras in his history, in different circumstances towards his creator and preserver, it would seem only natural that the variations in those circumstances should be impressed upon the extraordinary intercourse between god and his people. or, to use the common christian term, each _dispensation_ will have its peculiar supernatural aspect, as well as its peculiar spiritual and invisible relationship. if man was originally in a higher and more perfect state of being than he is now, it is probable that his communion with god was singularly, if not totally, unlike what it has been since he fell from primeval blessedness. if after his fall, two temporary states have been appointed to him by his god, then the miracles of each epoch will bear their own special corresponding characteristics. and lastly, if by a new exercise of regenerating and restoring power it has pleased the invisible one to rescue his creatures from the consequences of their ancient ruin, then again we may expect to recognise the history of that redemption in the whole course of the miraculous intercourse between the redeemer and the redeemed until the end of time. the supernatural elements in the paradisiacal, the patriarchal, the mosaic, and the christian states, may be expected to be in many respects distinct, each embodying with awful and glorious power the invisible relations which the god of nature and of grace has thought fit to assume towards his creatures. and such, in fact, has been the case. not only is the ceaseless existence of a miraculous intercourse between god and man one of the most completely proved of all historical events, but the miracles of each dispensation are found in a wonderful degree to correspond with the relationship of god to man in each of the separate epochs. the same superhuman consistency is found to pervade all the works of god, both where nature and grace are separate from one another, and where the common laws of nature are burst through, and the material universe is made as it were the bondslave of the unseen. the impiously meant assertions of unbelief are fulfilled in a sense which unbelievers little look for; and they who cry out in their hatred of miracles, that all things are governed by unchanging _law_, may learn that in truth unchanging laws do rule over all, although those laws have a range and a unity in the essence and will of god, of which mortal intelligence never dreamed. the natural and the supernatural, the visible and the invisible, the ordinary and the miraculous, the rules of the physical creation and the interruptions of those rules,--all are controlled by one law, shaped according to one plan, directed by one aim, and bound to one another by indissoluble ties, even where to human eyes all seem lost in confusion and thwarted by mutual struggle. of what we should now call the miraculous, or supernatural, communion between god and man in paradise, we know historically but little. the records of revelation being for the most part confined to the state of man as he is, and his actual and future prospects, present but a glimpse of the conscious communion which was permitted to the first of our race in their original bliss. it is, however, believed by theologians, that in paradise what we should now term miracles did not exist; for this reason, that what is now extraordinary was then ordinary. god conversed with man, and man held communion with angels, directly and habitually; so that in a certain sense man saw god and the world now unseen. [footnote: see st. thomas, summa, pars prima, quæst. 94. art. 1,2.] for it is not the mere possession of a body which binds the soul with the chains of sense; it is the corruption and sinfulness of our present frames which has converted them into a barrier between the spirit within and the invisible universe. as adam came forth all pure and perfect from the hands of his creator, a soul dwelling in a body, his whole being ministered fitly to the purposes of his creation, and with body and soul together he conversed with his god. it was not till the physical sense became his instrument of rebellion, that it was dishonoured and made his prison-house, and laid under a curse which should never be fully removed until the last great day of the resurrection. upon the fall of adam, a new state was introduced, which lasted about two thousand five hundred years. during its continuance, the supernatural intercourse between almighty god and his degraded creatures took an entirely different character. what had originally been continual, and as it were natural, became comparatively rare and miraculous. henceforth there _seemed_ to be no god among men, save when at times the usual laws of the earth and the heavens were suspended and god spoke in accents which none might refuse to hear. of these supernatural manifestations the general aspect was essentially typical of the future redemption of the lost race by a saviour. that promise of deliverance from the consequences of sin, which almighty god had vouchsafed to the first sinners, was repeated in a vast variety of miraculous interventions. though there may have been many exceptions to the ordinary character of the patriarchal miracles, still, on the whole, they wear a typical aspect of the most striking prominence. the first miracle recorded after the fall is the token granted to abel that his _sacrifice_ was accepted. a deluge destroys all but one family, who are saved in an ark, the type of the church of god, and a rainbow is set in the sky as a type of the covenant between god and man. a child is miraculously born to abraham in his old age, who is afterwards offered to god as a type of the redeemer, and saved from death by a fresh supernatural manifestation of the divine will. the chosen race become captive in egypt, as a figure of man's bondage to sin; a series of awful miracles, wrought by the instrumentality of moses himself, a type of jesus christ, delivers them from their slavery, terminating with the institution of the passover, when the paschal lamb is eaten, and they are saved by its blood, as mankind is saved by the blood of the lamb of god. the ransomed people miraculously pass through the red sea, foreshadowing the christian's regeneration by baptism; as they wander afterwards in the desert, manna descends from heaven to feed them, and water gushes from the rock to quench their thirst, and to prefigure that sacred food and those streams of grace which are to be the salvation of all men. almost every interruption of the laws of nature bespeaks the advent of the redeemer, and does homage to him as the lord of earth and heaven. at length a code of laws is given to the chosen race, to separate them completely from the rest of men, and a promise of perpetual temporal prosperity is granted to them by god as the reward of their obedience, and as a figure of the eternal blessedness of the just. from that time with, as before, occasional exceptions, the supernatural events which befall them wear a new aspect. their peculiarly typical import is exchanged for one more precisely in conformity with the leading principle of the new dispensation. the rites and ceremonies of the new law prefigure the sacrifice and redemption of the messias; but the miracles of the next fifteen hundred years are for the most part directed to uphold that rule of present reward and punishment, which was the characteristic feature of the jewish theocracy. the earth opens to punish the disobedience of core and his companions. fiery serpents smite the murmuring crowd with instant death; while the promised saviour is prefigured, not by a miracle, but by the erection of a brazen serpent by the hands of moses. the walls of jericho fall prostrate before the trumpets of the victorious israelites; one man, achan, unlawfully conceals some of the spoil, and an immediate supernatural panic, struck into his countrymen, betrays the committal of the sin. miraculous water fills the fleece of gideon, to encourage him to fight for his country's deliverance. an angel foretells the birth of samson to set his people free, when they are again in bondage. samson himself is endowed with supernatural strength; exhausted with the slaughter of his foes, he prays for water to quench his thirst, and a stream bursts forth from the ass's jawbone with which he had just slain the philistines. bound in chains, blinded, and made a jest by the idolaters, his prayer for a return of his strength is heard by god, and he destroys a multitude in his last moments. and thus, through all the history of the kings and the prophets, the power of god is repeatedly put forth to alter the laws of nature for the purpose of enforcing the great rule of the mosaic law. the disobedience of the jews might, if god had so pleased, have been invariably punished by the instrumentality of the ordinary course of events, shaped by the secret hand of divine providence so as to execute his will, just as now we find that certain sins inevitably bring on their own temporal punishment by the operation of the laws of nature. and so, in the vast majority of instances in which the jews were rewarded and punished, we find that the divine promises and threats were fulfilled by the occurrence of events in the natural order of things. but yet frequently miracles confirmed and aided the work of chastisement and blessing; and of the numerous wonders which were wrought from the giving of the law to the coming of christ, we find that nearly all bore this peculiar character. for many centuries also a constant miraculous guidance was granted to the people in the "urim and thummim," by which they were enabled, when they chose to remain faithful, to escape all national calamities and enjoy the fullest blessings of the promised land. under the christian dispensation, again, a new character is imprinted upon the supernatural history of the church, which is, in fact, the impression of the cross of christ. while the characteristics of the patriarchal and jewish miracles are not wholly obliterated, an element, which if not entirely new, is new in the intensity of its operation, is introduced into the miraculous life of the children of christ, which life is really the prolongation of the supernatural life of jesus christ himself. it is accompanied also with a partial restoration of that peculiar power which was possessed by man before he fell, when his body became a veil to hide the world of spirits from his soul. while prophecies of future events have not wholly ceased in the christian church, and miracles are frequently wrought for the conferring of some temporal blessings, yet these other wonderful features distinguish the supernatural records of christianity from those of both patriarchal and jewish times. the undying power of the cross is manifested in the peculiar sufferings of the saints, in their mystic communion with the invisible world, and in that especial sanctity to which alone miraculous gifts are for the most part accorded under the gospel. not that all these three peculiarities are to be observed in the life of every saint under the gospel. far from it, indeed. the supernatural life of the saints varies with different individuals, according to the pleasure of that almighty spirit, who communicates himself to his elect in ten thousand mysterious ways, and manifests himself according to his own will alone. still, at times, they are found united, in conjunction with those miraculous powers which were possessed under the old dispensations in one individual. in such cases we behold the life and passion of the king of saints visibly renewed before our eyes; the law of _suffering_,--that mysterious power, as life-giving as it is unfathomable,--is set before us in an intensity of operation, which at once calls forth the scoffs of the unbeliever, and quickens the faith of the humble christian; the privileges of eternity are anticipated, and the blessings of a lost paradise are in part restored. jesus christ lives, and is in agony before us; the dread scene of calvary is renewed, united with those ineffable communications between the suffering soul and its god, which accompanied the life and last hours of the redeemer of mankind. our adorable lord is, as it were, still incarnate amongst us, displaying to our reverent faith the glories of his passion in the persons of those who are, in the highest sense that is possible, his members, a portion of his humanity, in whom he dwells, who dwell in him, and whose life, in a degree incomprehensible even to themselves, is hid with christ in god. such a saint was st. frances of rome, one of those glorious creations of divine grace by means of which, at the time when the holy city was filled with bloodshed and ravaged with pestilence, and when the heaviest disasters afflicted the church, almighty god set forth before men the undying life of the cross, and the reality of that religion which seemed to be powerless to check the outrages of its professed followers. in paradise, then, as has been said, the whole nature of man ministered to the fulfilment of the end for which he was created, namely, the knowledge and love of god. he came forth from his maker's hands endowed not only with a natural soul and body untainted with sin, but with such supernatural gifts, arising from the divine presence within him, that nothing was wanting but perseverance to his final perfection. the various elements in his nature were not, as now, at war with one another. his body did not blind the eye of his soul, and agitate it with the storms of concupiscence; nor did the soul employ the body as its instrument of rebellion against god. though not yet admitted to that glorious vision of the eternal which was to be the reward of his obedience, yet he lived in direct commerce with the world of spirits. he knew and conversed with god and his angels in a way which is now wholly incomprehensible to the vast majority of his descendants. when adam fell, he became, in one word, what we all are now by nature. not only was he placed under a curse, but his god was hidden from his eyes; and that corporeal habitation, which he had abused to his soul's destruction, became the prison of his soul's captivity. though created in the image of god, and retaining, even when fallen, certain traces of his celestial origin, he became a mere helpless denizen of earth, and a veil descended and hid his god and all spiritual beings from his mind. from that time forwards _suffering_ became not merely the law of his daily life, but the only means by which he could be first restored to the divine favour, and finally be taken to a happy eternity. and inasmuch as he was to be redeemed by the sufferings of one who was at once man and not man, he was in a certain sense to share those sufferings, in order to partake in the blessings they purchased for him. a mystic union was to take place between the saviour and the fallen race, of which a community in suffering, as the instrument of restoration, was to be for ever and in every case established. this anguish, further, was to be twofold, including all the faculties both of the body and the soul. man had sinned in his whole being; in his whole being, therefore, he was to suffer, both in the person of his redeemer, who was to suffer for him, and in himself, who was to suffer with his saviour. a "holocaust" was to be offered to the offended majesty of god; an offering, not only of his _entire_ nature, but a _burnt_ offering; a sacrifice which should torture him in the flames of divine vengeance, and kill him with its annihilating fierceness. as, however, it pleased the divine wisdom to postpone for forty centuries the advent and atonement of the redeemer, so, for the same period, the race redeemed participated, in a comparatively slight degree, in those restorative sufferings which derived all their virtue from the sacrifice upon the cross. pangs of body and bitterness of soul were, in truth, the lot of man from the moment that adam sinned; but they were the pangs and bitterness of a criminal under punishment, far more than the sacrificial pains of the members of christ crucified. asceticism formed but a small portion of the religious worship of the people of god, until the great atonement was completed upon calvary. not that any degree, even the lowest, of acceptable obedience could ever be attained without some measure of the crucifixion of the natural man. patriarchs and israelites alike felt the power of the cross as the instrument of their sanctification. but still earthly prosperity, including bodily pleasures, was, as a rule, the reward with which god recompensed his faithful servants. that which became the rule under the gospel, was the exception from adam till moses, and from moses until christ. here and there some great example of christian asceticism enforced upon a sensual people the nature of perfect sanctity. elias fasted on mount carmel, and beheld the skirts of the glory of the most high. the baptist fasted and tamed his natural flesh in the wilderness, and beheld not only the incarnate son of god, but the descent of the eternal spirit upon him. yet, for the most part, the favoured servants of god lived the lives of ordinary men; they possessed houses, riches, and honours; and married wives, even more than one. at length the cross was set up in all its awful power; suffering received its perfect consecration, and took its ruling place in the economy of man's redemption. jesus, in descending from the cross, bestowed that cross upon his children, to be their treasure until the end of the world. crucifixion with him, and through him, as their head, became their portion and their glory. every soul that was so buried in his wounds as to receive the full blessings of his sacrifice, was thereby nailed, in christ, to the cross, not to descend from its hallowed wood until, like christ, it was dead thereon. henceforth the sanctity of god's chosen servants assumes its new character. it is no longer written, "i will bring you into a land flowing with the milk and honey of this earth;" but, "blessed are the poor, and they that suffer persecution." the lot of abraham and of david is exchanged for that of st. peter and st. paul. in place of triumph in war with the idolaters, the christian is _promised_ persecution; in place of many herds and flocks, and treasures of gold, god _gives_ him poverty and sickness; the fast, the vigil, the scourge, take place of the palaces of cedar and the luxuriant couch; marriage gives way to celibacy; and long life is a privilege in order that in many years we may suffer much, and not that we may enjoy much. such is the ordinary course of the divine dealings with the soul since the cross received its full mysterious saving power. and to the full as mysterious is the new character imprinted upon the miraculous life of christian sanctity. the phenomena of that new existence, in which certain souls are brought into mystic communion with the unseen world, bear the print of the wounds of the eternal son in a manner which fills the ordinary christian mind with amazement and trembling. it is by a painful crucifixion of the natural man, both soul and body, carried to a far more than ordinary perfection, that the soul is introduced into this miraculous condition. imprisoned in her fleshly tabernacle, which, though regenerated, is through sin foul, earthly, and blinding as ever, the mind can only be admitted to share in the communion which jesus christ unceasingly held with his father and with the world invisible, by attaining some portion of that self-mastery which adam lost by his fall. the physical nature must be subdued by the vigorous repetition of those many painful processes by which the animal portion of our being is rendered the slave of the spiritual, and the will and the affections are rent away from all creatures, to be fixed on god alone. fasting and abstinence are the first elements in this ascetic course. the natural taste is neglected, thwarted, and tormented, till, wearied of soliciting its own gratification, it ceases to interfere with the independent action of the soul. the appetite is further denied its wonted satisfaction as to quantity of food. by fasts gradually increasing in severity, new modes of physical existence are introduced; that which was originally an impossibility becomes a second law of nature; and the emaciated frame, forgetting its former lusts, obeys almost spontaneously the dictates of the victorious spirit within. the hours of sleep are curtailed under judicious control, until that mysterious sentence which compels us to pass a third of our existence in unconscious helplessness is in part repealed. the soul, habituated to incessant and self-collected action, wakes and lives, while ordinary christians slumber, and as it were are dead. the infliction of other severe bodily pains co-operates in the purifying process, and enables the mind to disregard the dictates of nature to an extent which to many catholics seems almost incredible, and to the unbeliever an utter impossibility. physical life is supported under conditions which would crush a constitution not supported by the miraculous aid of almighty power; and feeble men and women accomplish works of charity and heroic self-sacrifice from which the most robust and energetic of the human race, in their highest state of _natural_ perfection, would shrink back in dismay as hopeless impossibilities. the senses are literally tyrannised over, scorned, derided, insultingly trampled on. the sight, the smell, the hearing, the touch, and the taste, are taught to exercise themselves upon objects revolting to their original inclinations. they learn to minister to the will without displaying one rebellious symptom. matter yields to spirit; the soul is the master of the body; while the perceptions of the intelligence attain an exquisite sensibility, and the mind is gifted with faculties absolutely new, the flesh submits, almost insensible to its condition of servitude, and scarcely murmurs at the daily death it is compelled to endure. the process is the same in all that regards the affections and passions of the mind itself. the heart is denied every thing that it desires, which is not god. however innocent, however praiseworthy, may be the indulgence in certain feelings, and the gratification of certain pursuits in ordinary christians, in the case of these favoured souls nature is crushed in _all_ her parts. her faculties remain, but they are directed to spiritual things alone. possessions of all kinds, lands, houses, books, pictures, gardens, husband, wife, children, friends, --all share the same tremendous sentence. god establishes himself in the soul, not only supreme, but as the _only inhabitant_. whatsoever remains to be done in this world is done as a duty, often as a most obnoxious duty. love for the souls that christ has redeemed is the only human feeling that is left unsubjugated; and wheresoever the emotions of natural affection and friendship mingle with this christian love, they are watched, and restrained with unsparing severity, that the heart may come at last to love nothing, except _in_ christ himself. all this, indeed, repeatedly takes place in the case of persons in whom the purely miraculous life of the christian saint is never even commenced. it is that which all monks and nuns are bound to struggle for, according to the different rules to which they have respectively received their vocation. and, by the mercy of god, this perfect detachment from earth, and this marvellous crucifixion of the flesh, is accomplished in many a devout religious, to whom the _extraordinary_ gifts of the holy ghost are as unknown as his extraordinary graces are familiar. still, in those exceptional instances where miraculous powers of any species are bestowed, this bitter death, this personal renewal (as far as man can renew it) of the agonies of calvary, is ordinarily the necessary preparation for admission to the revelations of the divine glory, and to the other mysteries of the miraculous life. the physical nature, then, being thus subdued, and taught to be the obedient servant of the sanctified will, the history of the catholic church records a long series of instances in which the soul has been brought into direct communion with god, with angels, and with devils, more or less through the _sensible_ instrumentality of the bodily senses, thus spiritualised and exalted to a new office. the ineffable glories of the _life_ of christ are renewed in those who have thus endured the _cross_ of christ. the death of the body is the life of the soul; and the son of god is, as it were, again visibly incarnate in the world which he has redeemed. the phenomena of this miraculous state are as various as they are wonderful. there is scarcely a natural law of our being which is not found to be frequently suspended. such is the _odour of sanctity_, a celestial perfume that exhales from the person of the saint, in conditions where any such delicious fragrance could not possibly spring from natural causes, and where even, as in the case of a dead body, nature would send forth scents of the most repulsive kind. in such instances, sometimes in life, sometimes in death, sometimes in health, sometimes in loathsome diseases, there issues from the physical frame an odour of unearthly sweetness, perhaps communicating itself to objects which touch the saintly form. or a strange supernatural warmth pervades the entire body, wholly independent of the condition of the atmosphere, and in circumstances when by the laws of nature the limbs would be cold; sometimes, while sickness has reduced the system to such a degree of exhaustion, and brought on so morbid an action of the functions, that the stomach rejects, with a sort of abhorrence, every species of food, the most holy eucharist is received without difficulty, and seems not only to be thus received, but to furnish sufficient sustenance for the attenuated frame. not unfrequently corruption has no power over a sacred corpse; and without the employment of any of the common processes for embalming, centuries pass away, and the body of the saint remains untouched by decay, bearing the impress of life in death, and not crumbling to dust, as in cases of natural preservation, when exposed to the action of the atmosphere. add to these, the supernatural flexibility and lightness with which at times the living body is endowed by divine power; the physical accompaniment of ecstasy; the elevation of the entire body from the ground, and its suspension in the air for a considerable space of time; and we have sufficient examples of the mysterious ways in which the bodies of saints bespeak the purity which dwells within them, and in a degree anticipate the corporeal perfections of those glorified habitations in which the souls of the just will dwell after the resurrection. by another class of miraculous powers possessed by christian saints, they are enabled to recognise the true nature or presence of purely spiritual objects by the instrumentality of their natural organs of sense. thus, a mere touch at times reveals to them the moral condition of the person on whom they lay their hands. a singular distaste for natural food is accompanied by a perception of a celestial sweetness in the holy eucharist. gross sinners appear to the sight in the form of hideous monsters, demoniacal in their aspect, or as wearing the look of the most repulsive of the brute creation. the sense of smell, in like manner, detects the state of the soul, while the ear is opened to heavenly sounds and voices, and almighty god speaks to the inner consciousness in a manner which, inexplicable as it is when defined in the language of human science, is shown by incontestable proofs to be a real communication from heaven to the enlightened intelligence. in certain cases the animal creation are taught to do homage to the presence of a saint. as god opened the eyes of balaam's ass, and it beheld the messenger of divine wrath standing with a sword in his hand, so birds, fishes, insects, sheep, and the wildest beasts of the forests, have at times saluted the saints with joy and sweetness, laying aside their natural timidity or their natural ferocity, and recalling the hour when adam dwelt in sinless peace in eden, surrounded by the creatures which the hand of god had made. all nature is bid thus to arise to welcome the elect of the lord of nature. flowers spring up beneath their feet; fruits suddenly ripen, and invite them to gather and eat; storms cease, and gentle winds refresh the sky. every where the presence of him who lulled the tempest with a word is recognised in the souls in whom he dwells, and in whom he thus, in a mystic sense, fulfils his own promise, that the meek shall possess the land. thus, again, time and space are in their degree comparatively annihilated for the sake of some of these favoured servants of the eternal and omnipresent. st. pius v., while bodily in rome, was a witness of the naval victory of the christians over the turks; st. joseph of cupertino read letters addressed to him while their authors were writing them far away; st. dominic foresaw the war of the albigenses, and the death of peter of arragon; and st. ignatius beheld his successor in the duke of gandia. a similar mysterious faculty enables its possessor to discern the presence of relics and other sacred objects, more especially of the adorable eucharistic species; or even to behold jesus christ himself in his glorified human form, in place of the usual appearance of bread and wine; while in some instances the host has darted, unborne by mortal hand, into the mouth of a saint about to communicate at the foot of the altar. on those species of miracles which are in no way peculiar to the christian dispensation i need not linger. such is the gift of healing, whether by the saint's will and touch while alive, or by his relics and intercession when dead. such is the gift of prophecy, which abounded, as we might have expected, far more in the saints before the advent of the redeemer than since his coming, and which, indeed, was not rigidly confined to men of religious character. such are those supernatural powers by which our present temporal blessings, in addition to the cure of diseases, are conferred upon individuals or communities by the instrumentality of holy men and women. i confine myself to those more peculiarly christian privileges, which, though they were not wholly unknown to the patriarchal and mosaic saints, are yet eminently characteristic of those times in which the glorification of the humanity of jesus appears to have shed a measure of glories upon the bodies of those who most intensely share the sufferings of his cross. some of these tokens of the perpetual death of the son of god in his saints were, indeed, for several centuries either unknown, or extraordinarily rare in the christian church herself. such is that most awful of the displays of the undying power of the cross, in which the actual wounds and tortures of the crucified jesus are visibly renewed, by a miraculous agency, in the persons of his chosen ones. this most terrible of the gifts of the great god is generally preceded by some supernatural occurrence foreshadowing the visible representation of the scene on calvary about to be set up before the eyes of men. at one time it is a species of bloody sweat, like that of jesus christ in the garden of gethsemani; at another, a visible print of the cross is impressed upon the shoulders; or angels present a mystic cup of suffering to the hands of the self-sacrificing saint. then follows what is termed _stigmatisation_, or the renewal of the actual wounds of the crucified, accompanied with the bloody marks of the crown of thorns upon the sufferer's head; for the most part one by one, until the whole awful commemoration is complete, the skin and flesh are rent on the forehead and round the head, in the hands, in the feet, and in the side; a stream of gore pours forth, at times trickling down in slow drops, at times (as on fridays) in a fuller tide, accompanied with agonising pangs of body, and except in the fiercest moments of spiritual conflict, with interior consolations of ravishing sweetness. the wounds pierce deep down into the flesh, running even through the hands and the feet. the state of _ecstasy_ is another of the most wonderful of the elements of the miraculous life of the saints. under the divine influence the physical frame undergoes a change in many respects similar to that which is supposed (whether truly or falsely) to result from the operation of magnetism or somnambulism. many features, at the same time, distinguish the christian ecstatic condition from that which is produced by purely physical or (it may be) diabolical causes, on which we cannot at present enter in detail. it is sufficient to say, that the results of the true ecstasy are in the strictest conformity with the doctrines of the christian revelation, and in perfect harmony with the perfections and rules of the _moral_ world. the soul in this state becomes, as it were, independent of the power of the body, or she uses her physical senses in an absolute subordination to her own illumined will. visions, such as are recorded in the old testament in the case of the prophets, are presented to her faculties. she is introduced into the courts of heaven, and beholds and converses with saints in glory, with the mother of god, with jesus christ himself. or the whole mystery of the passion is re-enacted before her spiritualised sight, the evangelical history being filled up with all those actual but minuter details which are omitted in the written records of the gospels. in certain cases, the body itself is lifted up from the ground, and so remains for a while in the presence of a crowd of bystanders. in others, the soul, while in ecstasy, is the medium of communication between almighty god and other persons then present, and the saint's voice repeats the revelations to those for whom they are designed. or, again, an unearthly flame shining around the head or whole person of the ecstatic, like the cloven tongues upon the apostles at pentecost, attests the presence of the invisible, and symbolises the message sent forth from his throne to men. a more purely intellectual vision or revelation is another of the works of the holy ghost in his saints. by such revelations, for the most part, the truths of holy scripture were communicated to its writers. god, who created the human soul with all its faculties, and who is able to make known his will in any way that he pleases to the intelligence, has his own mysterious but not less accurate tests, by which he enables the favoured spirit to discern a revelation from a mere product of the human imagination, and to distinguish between the voice of god and the suggestions of satan. nor was this mode of intercourse between the soul and her god confined exclusively to the elder dispensations or to apostolic ages. many a christian saint has been privileged to contemplate god himself, in a certain sense, in his essence; beholding the depths of such mysteries as those of the holy trinity, the incarnation, the eucharistic presence, or the true nature of sin, with a directness of vision, and comprehending them to an extent, which passes the powers of human language to define. lastly, all that we read in the bible respecting the visible and tangible intercourse between man and the angelic and diabolic host is continued in the times of christianity. the reality of the ministration of angels and of the assaults of demons, in the case of all christians, is believed by every catholic; but in very many cases the saints have become as conscious of the presence and actions of their unseen friends and foes as of the presence and actions of mortal men. to some saints, our blessed lord himself has appeared in human form, perhaps in that of the most despised and miserable of the poor and sick; to others, their guardian-angels or other pure spirits have presented themselves, sometimes in the guise of ordinary men, and sometimes in a manifestly supernatural shape. often, too, the enlightened soul has beheld satan and his accursed spirits, either working it some bodily injury, or assaulting it with some subtle temptation, or seeking to scare it by assuming some hideous loathsome shape, or assuming the garb of an angel of light for the purpose of accomplishing his hellish ends. of all these supernatural phenomena, however, illustrations will readily occur to those who are familiar with the lives of saints, or, indeed, to those who have studied the bible only, and who read the inspired writings as really _true_, remembering that the miraculous events there recorded did not cease the moment that the canon of scripture was closed, but that such as was the relation between god and man and angels and devils for more than four thousand years, such it has been until this very hour. such, then, are the doctrines and opinions which are implied in what may be termed the miraculous life of catholic saints, and of which the history of frances of rome presents one of the most remarkable examples. they are here but briefly sketched: but i trust that enough has been said to indicate the general character of the principles involved in these wonderful histories; and i now pass on to offer a few remarks on the self-contradictions into which those persons fall who refuse to investigate this species of subject on the ordinary rules of historical evidence. i need hardly remind the reader that an immense number of persons, both infidels and protestants, especially in sober-minded england and scotland, treat every professed catholic miracle as a portion of the vast gigantic system of deliberate fraud and villany which they conceive to be the very life of catholicism. from the pope to the humblest priest who says mass and hears confessions in an ugly little chapel in the shabbiest street of a country town, all are regarded as leagued in one wide-spreading imposture. pius ix., for instance, it is imagined, _knows_ the liquefaction of st. januarius's blood to be a trick of the neapolitan clergy; but he keeps up the falsehood for the sake of gain and power. in like manner, he has an extensive roman laboratory ever at work for the manufacture of all the instruments of delusion which his emissaries propagate throughout christendom. there he makes false relics, from portions of the true cross downwards; there he sells pardons and indulgences; and there he has a _corps_ of writers employed in the invention of fictitious miraculous tales, saints' lives, and the like. all over the world he has "agents" for the sale of these goods, the catholic bishops in england being his "english correspondents," who doubtless receive a handsome percentage on the profits realised. the staff of underlings is also complete, energetic, and well paid. thus, the oratorian fathers are busily employed in scattering "saints' lives" throughout this country, greatly to their own profit. thus, too, i am myself engaged in a similar work, either laughing in my sleeve at the credulity on which i practise, or submitting from sheer intellectual incompetence to be the tool of some wily jesuit who enjoins the unhallowed task. such, when drawn out into details, and stripped of the pompous declamation of the platform, is, in serious truth, the idea which innumerable persons imagine to be the catholic system of propagandism and deceit; and every catholic miracle is thus accounted for by the supposed wickedness of all catholics, except a few blinded ignorant devotees. any argument, therefore, addressed to prejudgments of this class must merge in the general argument, which shows that, whether the catholic religion be true or false, it is beyond the limits of credibility that its ruling principle can be one of intentional deception. i insist, then, that it would not merely be a miracle,--if is an _impossibility_ that such an imposture should remain undetected to this day, and that men and women of all ranks, ages, and countries, the ablest and the most simple, including uncounted fathers and mothers of families, should persist in submitting to and upholding the authority of a few thousand priests, who are really no better than incarnate devils. whether the catholic system be an error or not, it must have fallen to pieces a hundred times over, if its chief ruler and his subordinates were mere tricksters, playing upon the credulity of a fanatical and besotted world. by this same test, then, its miraculous histories must be judged, like the general characters of its supporters. they who propagate these stories believe them to be true. they do not, of course, assert that _every_ supernatural story is what it professes to be. they may even admit that many are the mere creations of well-meaning but ill-informed report. nor is every catholic priest, monk, or layman to be accounted a sincere and honest man. there are betrayers of their lord, from judas iscariot to the last wretched apostates, who remain for years in the church, deceiving others without deceiving themselves. but on the whole, and viewed as a body, the catholic church is as honest and truthful, when she asserts that many wonderful miracles are incessantly taking place within her, as the most scrupulous of moralists can desire. "but she is herself deceived," exclaims the more candid separatist or sceptic, taking up the argument declined by his scoffing brother. catholics, it is supposed, are under the dominion of so abject a superstition, that the moment the subject of their religion is introduced, they cease to exert their ordinary common sense and powers of criticism, and believe any thing and every thing that seems to be marvellous. granting them to be sincere, the charitable protestant is of opinion that they are intellectually incapable of testing the pretensions of these wonders to be real and true miracles. if, in plain words, catholics are not knaves, they _must be_ fools. now, let me ask any candid person who thus accounts for our belief in modern miracles, to furnish me with an intelligible answer on two points. first, let him explain how it comes to pass that an innumerable multitude of persons, many of them distinguished for the highest intellectual powers, and proving by their lives and their deaths that they are ready to make every sacrifice for the sake of religion, should suffer themselves to be imposed upon in so momentous a subject, should willingly accept as true a series of absurd fabrications, whose falsehood they might detect by the exercise of any ordinary acuteness, and should risk their reputation with the world by professing to believe these fictions. if we _are_ sincere in our faith, it is impossible to suppose us so willing to be imposed upon. the hollowness of these supernatural pretensions must have betrayed itself to _some_ amongst us. the bubble must have burst _somewhere_. if not at rome, where protestants imagine catholic intellect to be at its lowest ebb, at least in england, or france, or belgium, or germany, _some_ of our great catholic philosophers, historians, politicians, and men of science, must have unveiled the truth. [footnote: it is a remarkable fact, that the most celebrated work on the supernatural gifts accorded by god to christians, is the production of one of the greatest intellects, and by far the most influential political writer, that modern europe has seen. görres, the author of the _christliche mystik_, was the wellington of literature during the last european war. the influence which he exercised over the whole german mind by his _rhenish mercury_ is altogether without parallel in the history of journalism. it was, indeed, regarded as so formidable by napoleon himself, that he styled görres a _fourth continental power_. yet this first of publicists devoted his whole life to the investigation of the wonders of catholic mysticism, and believed with undoubting conviction in their reality.] and, secondly, i desire to be told _who_ are the deceivers. if our numerous miracles are all errors, there must be gross deception in a host of instances _somewhere_. _where_ is it, then? i ask; which are the dupes, and which the rogues? do the clergy cheat the laity? or do the laity (who have quite as much to do with these miracles) cheat the clergy? do the jesuits entrap the pope? or does the pope mystify the jesuits? when missionaries shed their blood in hundreds in heathen lands, are we to believe that _they_ are the fabricators of the wonderful tales which they have been in the habit of sending home to christendom? or did they leave europe with the intention of becoming martyrs, without troubling themselves to ascertain whether they were not the dupes of delusions already surrounding them in a christian land? again i say, if catholic miracles are all false, there must be boundless trickery _somewhere_, and i demand to know _where_ it is. in an english court of justice a charge of conspiracy cannot be entertained unless the accuser can point out certain parties on whom to fasten his charge. judge and jury would laugh at a plaintiff who came into court crying out that he was victimised by some invisible, indescribable, and unknown, but yet very numerous band of foes. so it is with this popular theory about catholic miracles. we are told that we are deceived. we are all cheated together. the bishops are victims; the priests are victims; monks and nuns are victims; the laity are victims; the old catholics in england are victims; the converts are victims; the best of us all are victims; the most learned, the most pious, the most able, the most self-denying,--all _these_ are dupes. if there are deceivers, they are the few, the ignorant, the cunning, and the vile. the roman church, as a church, is supposed to be under the dominion of a band of conspirators, who have blinded her eyes without her having found it out, and who are now using her for their own godless purposes. does not such a supposition confute itself? is it worth admitting, even as an hypothesis? would such a statement be endured for a moment by a judge and twelve men in a jury-box? i say, therefore, before moving a step to overthrow the protestant accusation, "make a distinct and intelligible charge of certain definite crimes against certain definite individuals. when that is done, the proof still remains with you. show us both who are the deceivers, and how they deceive us; or admit that there is no credulity so open-mouthed as that of protestants when they attack catholics; no superstition so base as that which worships this visible order of nature as an eternal rule which not even god himself can ever interrupt." the fact is, however, that no protestant ever attempts any thing like a profound investigation of the catholic miracles. a calm, critical, and judicial inquiry into the worth of the roman process of canonisation has never been risked. here is an enormous catalogue of incidents, whose supernatural character is vouched for by the decrees of a long series of popes, professedly based upon the most prolonged and anxious legal examination. for centuries a tribunal has been declaring that one series of miracles after another has come before it; that it has weighed them all with the utmost care; that it has heard every thing that could be urged against them; that it has rejected, as not proved, a very large number; and that, after the most searching inquiry, it _has_ found such and such supernatural incidents to be established by every law of human evidence. [footnote: for the steps followed in the processes of canonisation, see faber's _essay on beatification, canonisation, and the processes of the congregation of rites_.] no man can look at the processes of the canonisation of catholic saints without admitting that very few of those secular events which we unhesitatingly believe are supported by so overwhelming a weight of proof. men's fortunes and lives are incessantly taken away by law at our very doors on lower degrees of evidence, and no one exclaims. and yet the decisions of this catholic tribunal are set aside without hesitation. people think them not even worthy of listening to. the whole affair they count a childish trifling; and with a shrug or a sneer they pass it by. and it is the same with those miracles which have not been brought before any such high tribunal, but which rest on undeniable private evidence. those who are not catholics put them aside simply as incredible. they assume that they cannot be true, and therefore that they are not true. press them in argument, and they will shirk your most stringent proofs. you can make no impression upon their _wills_. they will believe any thing but that god has interrupted the course of nature in favour of any one but themselves. in short, if we wish to see human reason in its most irrational mood, we have but to enter into conversation with a protestant who asserts and thinks that he believes the bible miracles to be true, and urge upon him the proofs of such modern miracles as are recorded of st. frances of rome. you will perceive first, that though he has made up his mind on the subject with unhesitating dogmatism, he has never investigated its bearings or facts, even in outline. nevertheless, to your surprise, you will find him perfectly ready to start some random theory, at a moment's notice, unconscious of the momentous, the awful nature of the matter he is handling. you see, perhaps, that his mind is powerfully influenced by the singular character of many catholic miracles. he thinks them strange, unnecessary, unaccountable, absurd, disgusting, degrading. his nervous sensibilities are shocked by an account of the fearful pangs accompanying the _stigmata_. in the phenomena of ecstasy he can see nothing more than the ravings of delirium, or (if he believes in mesmerism) than the tales of a clairvoyante, and the rigidity of catalepsy. his physical frame, accustomed to its routine of breakfast, luncheon, and dinner, its sofas and easy-chairs, and its luxurious bed, shudders at the thought of the self-inflicted penances of the saints, and at the idea of god's bestowing a miraculous power of enduring such horrors. he would be as much surprised to be told that smithfield was literally the abode of incarnate demons, as to hear that demons have often assumed the shapes of beasts and monsters in their conflicts with the elect. the notion that an angel might visibly appear to a pious traveller on the great western or birmingham railroad, and protect him from death in a frightful collision of trains, makes him open his eyes and contemplate you as scarcely sane to hint at such a thing. that "the virgin," as he calls her, should come down from heaven and enter a church or a room, and hold a conversation with living men, women, or children in the nineteenth century, and give them a trumpery medal, or tell them to wear a piece of cloth round their neck, or cure them of some disease, he regards about as likely and rational as that the stories in the _arabian nights_ and the _fairy tales_ should turn out to be true histories. be as serious as you please, he simply laughs in his sleeve, thinking to himself, "well, who would have believed that the intellect of an educated englishman should submit itself to such drivelling as this?" perceiving that this is the state of his mind, you open the bible, which lies, handsomely bound, upon his table, and running rapidly through the four gospels and the acts of the apostles, point out to him a long series of supernatural events there recorded; and show him that in their nature they are precisely the same as those modern miracles which provoke his disgust or contempt. you remind him, first of all, that our lord jesus christ is the head of the church, and that all his people are made _like him_, in his life and his sufferings, as well as in his glory; and then proceed to your summary. he accounts the penances of saints needless and impossible; you remind him of our blessed lord's fast of forty days and forty nights. he is horror-struck at the details of the sufferings of those in whom the passion of christ has been visibly renewed; you beg him to attempt to realise the bloody sweat in the garden of olives. he speaks of mesmerism and clairvoyance, and derides the thought of a saint's being illuminated with radiant light, or exhaling a fragrant odour; you ask him how he explains away the transfiguration of jesus. he says that it is physically impossible that a man's body can be (as he expresses it) in two places at once; you desire him to say by what law of nature our lord entered the room where the disciples were when the doors were shut; how st. peter was delivered from chains and imprisonment by the angel; how st. paul was rapt into the third heaven, _whether in the body or out of the body, he could not tell_. he says that when a saint has thought himself attacked by devils in hideous shapes, his brain has been diseased; you entreat him to beware of throwing a doubt on the temptation of jesus christ by satan in the wilderness. he pities you for believing that the mother of god has appeared for such needless purposes to excited devotees; you ask him why the son of god appeared long after his death and ascension to st. paul, and told him what he might have learnt in a natural way from the other apostles. he calls your miraculous relics childish trumpery; you ask whether the handkerchiefs and aprons which cured the sick, after having touched st. paul's body, were trumpery also; and whether st. luke is countenancing superstition when he relates how the people crowded near st. peter to be healed by his very shadow passing over them. then, as he feels the overwhelming force of your rebukes, he insinuates that there is something divine, something evidently touching, pure, and strict in morality in the bible narratives, which is wanting in these lives of catholic saints; and you refer him to such biographies as that of st. frances of rome, and compelling him to read the narratives of her revelations, ask him if all that she says when in a state of ecstasy does not wear, even in his judgment, the impress of a divine origin, and seem to be dictated by the god of all purity, humility, and love. at length your opponent, after brief pondering, changes his ground, and asserts that you are yourself deceived; that the real defect in catholic miraculous stories is the want of evidence. he tells you that he would believe, if he could; but that you have not proved your point. you next call his attention to the distinct promise made by our blessed lord to the church, that miracles should always continue with her; and ask him how, on his theory, he accounts for the non-fulfilment of this promise. you desire him to lay his finger on the epoch when its fulfilment ceased; and not only to assert that it then ceased, but to prove his assertion. he says nothing, for he has nothing to say which he can even attempt to prove; and you proceed to furnish a few examples of miracles, from patristic, mediæval, or modern times, or perhaps of the present day, which are supported by at least as cogent an amount of evidence as the historical proof of the scripture miracles. you insist upon his _disproving_ these. he cannot. he resorts to some new hypothesis. he says that there is deception _somewhere_, though he cannot tell where; and probably by this time is showing symptoms of a wish to end the discussion. you urge him again, and press him to give an intelligible reason for supposing that there _must_ be deception any where. he thinks a while; and when at length you are looking for a rational conclusion, he starts backwards to his old assumption that the catholic miracles _cannot_ be true. he begs the whole question, and says that they are in favour of catholicism, and that catholicism is false. you too recur to your old reference to the bible, and so on. and thus you run again the same round; and you may run it a thousand times over, till you perceive that there is but one reason why your opponent is not convinced; which is, that he _will not_ be convinced. and thus it was in the days when those very miracles were wrought which protestants profess to believe. the jews _would not_ believe our lord's words and doctrines. he then bade them believe him because of his miracles; and they instantly imputed them to the power of the devil. he showed them that this theory was impossible; but, so far from being convinced and converted, they went their ways, and plotted his death. now, our controversialists cannot, or do not wish, to take away our lives; but when not a word is left them in the way of argument, they go their ways, and protest to their fellows, that we are obstinate, unfair, superstitious, and insolent; and too often encourage one another in the bitterest persecution of those who are convinced by our reasonings, and submit to the church. i now turn to the objections which are at times felt by catholics themselves to the publication of saints' lives, abounding in supernatural incidents. such persons are, indeed, not numerous; and their number is rapidly diminishing. still it can scarcely be doubted that conscientious catholics _are_ to be found who take the view i am speaking of, from ideas which, though erroneous (as i believe), are yet so truly founded in sincerity, as to demand respect and explanation from those who differ from them. the objections they raise are twofold. first, they allege that such books scandalise protestants and drive them from the church; and secondly, they do not see _how_ incidents, wholly unlike our ordinary daily experience, _can_ practically serve us in our private christian lives. to the idea that non-catholics are thus needlessly prejudiced against the faith, i reply, that this assertion is wholly unproved. that they do, as a matter of fact, laugh and attack such biographies, i fully admit; but they laugh at them on grounds which we cannot admit without giving up the christian revelation itself. they scoff at them, not because they think them not supported by credible testimony, but because they are not what they call dignified, refined, and just such as they should have supposed all things to be that come from god. that such a temper of mind is indicative of pure deism, it needs no words to prove. a man who derides a miraculous event merely as _trifling_, thereby asserts that he himself is the judge of what is great and what is little in the sight of god. he lays down laws for the guidance of the almighty. he is adopting the identical reasoning of professed infidels, who on this very ground reject christianity itself. and it is obvious that nothing can be more perilous than the encouragement of so fatal a principle of judgment. once let the acute and logical protestant perceive that you move one step backwards in deference to this objection, and he will press you with fresh consequences of the very same admission until he lands you in undisguised scepticism, if not in the blackest atheism. can any single instance, in fact, be named in which a mind that was apparently determined to seek salvation at all costs, has been actually deterred from entering the catholic church by meeting with these extraordinary histories? are they not a butt for determined and obstinate protestants, and for such protestants only? ask any convert whether, on looking back, he can say that the knowledge of these peculiarities in catholic hagiology ever practically held him back for four-and-twenty hours in his journey towards the church. that the world is angry, and that the world vents its spleen and its contempt in bitter jests, is true enough; but _pious souls are not made to sin, or kept away from their saviour_, by any thing of the kind. and that the rage and mocking of man afford not the slightest reason for inducing the church to turn out of her natural path, i shall not dishonour my readers by attempting to prove to them. that it _is_ her natural course to make these histories public, for the practical edification of her children, is clear from one fact alone,--they are precisely parallel to the life of our blessed lord, as narrated in the four gospels. the whole question resolves itself into this: if such lives as that of st. frances, and many others, recently published in england, are not edifying to the ordinary christian, then the life of jesus christ is not edifying. the gospels, as well as the acts of the apostles and the epistles, must be rigorously expurgated and cut down to the type of the common domestic life of the present day. nothing can be further removed from the circumstances of most men than the records of our lord's miracles and supernatural acts in general. what has the temptation, the transfiguration, the driving the devils into the swine, the turning the water into wine at what we should now call a "wedding-breakfast," and, in fact, almost every _act_ in our blessed lord's life, in common with our amusement, our business, our society, our whole experience? yet, to say that a devout soul can meditate on these transcendently mysterious events, and not derive from them practical instruction to enable her to fulfil her little trivial earthly duties with christian perfection, is nothing short of blasphemy. the son of god incarnate, all glorious, all awful, all unfathomable as he was even in the days of his sojourning on earth, was yet our example, our model, our embodied series of precepts. the eye of the simplest regenerate child cannot be turned for an instant upon his divine glories and ineffable sufferings without drawing light therefrom to guide it even in its play with its fellows, or in the most trivial of the duties towards its parents and teachers. and such, i am convinced, is the experience of catholics of all ranks, of every age and every degree of intellectual cultivation, who study religiously the miraculous lives of the saints, believing them to be, on the whole, correct histories. it is not needful that they should regard them to be literally true in all their details, as the bible is true. we have but to regard them as we regard other authentic human narratives, with the addition of that veneration and confidence which is due to such portions of them as have been formally sanctioned by the church, to derive from them unceasing spiritual comfort and instruction. doubtless, if we are so ignorant as to fancy that all saints' histories are to be alike in details, and that therefore we ought to wish that the circumstances of our lives were the same as theirs, we shall be doing ourselves great mischief. but let us study them with a true knowledge of the mere elements of the christian faith, and they will be to us what st. paul desires his disciples to seek for in _his_ life, namely, a continuation, as it were, of the life of jesus christ, carried on through all the successive ages of his church on earth. they will impress upon our minds with an intensity peculiarly their own, the reality of the invisible world and the ensnaring tendencies of every thing that we possess. weak and ignorant as is the imaginative and sensitive portion of our nature, it needs every possible help that it can find to counteract the paralysing effects of the worldliness of the world, of the lukewarmness of christians, and of the enthralling nature of the universe of sight and sense. our courage is wonderfully strengthened, and our love for things invisible is inflamed, by every thing that forces us, as it were, to _see_ that this visible creation _is not_ the only thing that is real, mighty, and present. the general precepts and the dogmatic statements of religion acquire a singular and living force when we perceive them carried out and realised in the actual affairs of life in a degree to which our personal experience is a stranger. influenced as human nature is by example, these unpretending narratives, whose whole strength lies in the facts which they record, and not in the art of the biographer, undeniably _strike_ the mind with an almost supernatural force. they enchain the attention; they compel us to say, are these things true? are these things possible? is religion, after all, so terribly near to us? are this life and this world so literally vain and worthless, so absolutely nothing worth? are suffering and awful bodily anguish blessings to be _really_ coveted? are the maxims which i daily hear around me so hopelessly bad and accursed? are angels and devils so near, so very near, to us all? is purgatory so terrible and so inevitable to all but the perfect, that these fearful visions of its pains are in substance what i myself shall endure? and if i fall from grace and die in sin before one of the innumerable temptations that hourly beset me, is it true that nothing less than an eternity of such torments, the very reading of which even thus represented makes me shudder with horror, will be my _inevitable_ lot? and is the bliss of the saints and the joy of loving god so inexpressibly sweet to any souls here on earth? is it possible that any one should escape from a state of coldness, deadness, worldliness, and unwilling performance of his religious duties, and positively come to lose all taste for bodily and mere intellectual pleasures through the absorbing of his whole being into the love of jesus and of mary, and through a burning thirst for the beatific vision of the eternal trinity? and who will venture to say that it is not good _for us all_ to have such thoughts frequently pressed upon our attention? if there is any meaning in the command that we are to aim at being perfect, whatever be the state of life _in which_ we are called to seek perfection, surely it is no ordinary advantage thus to have the essentially supernatural character of our religious life forced again and again upon our attention. for, be it never forgotten, this very _supernaturalness_ is one of its essential features. there are innumerable varieties in our vocations. the earthly circumstances in which we are to serve god are almost innumerable in their variety; but the supernatural element appertains to them all alike. our actual relationship to the awful and glorious realities of the unseen world is precisely the same in kind as that of the most miraculously endowed saints. the only difference is this, that in their case that relationship was perceived and visibly manifested in a peculiar mode, to which we are strangers. heaven, purgatory, and hell are as near to us as if we beheld the visions of st. frances. the cross is as literally our portion, in its essential nature, as if the five sacred wounds were renewed physically in our agonising frame. our angel-guardian is as incessantly by our side, as if our eyes were opened to behold his effulgent radiance. satan strikes the same blows at our souls, whether he shows himself to our sight or not. the relics of saints, which we carefully look at or criticise, _may be_ at any moment the vehicles of the same miraculous powers as the handkerchiefs from the body of st. paul. who would say to a blind man, "forget the tangible realities of this life, because you cannot see them"? who would not rather say, "bear constantly in mind what is the experience of those who _can_ see, that you may practically remember their ceaseless nearness to you"? and just such is the experience of the saints, in whose histories faith has partly merged into sight, and the veil which blinds our eyes has been partially and at certain seasons withdrawn. it tells us, as few things else can tell, of the _reality_ of the objects of our faith. i add a word or two on the question, how far the actual conduct of the extraordinary persons whose lives are here related is to serve as a model for practical imitation by ordinary christians. to the well-instructed catholic, it would be an impertinence in me to suggest that they are not in every detail thus to be followed. it is the duty of a christian to follow the rules for daily life which it has pleased almighty god to lay down in the gospel, and not to imagine that those exceptional cases of conduct to which he has supernaturally prompted certain individuals are to be imitated by those who have only the ordinary graces of the holy spirit. the general reader, however, may be reminded that catholics believe, that as the creator of the universe occasionally interrupts the order of the laws of nature, so he at times interrupts the relative order of the laws of duty; not, of course, the essential laws of morality, but those positive laws which are obligatory simply because they are enacted by competent authority. no person, indeed, can be justified in acting on such an idea in his own case, unless guided by supernatural light, beyond the usual spiritual illumination given to all christians. this supernatural light is rarely vouchsafed, and it is accordingly in the highest degree presumptuous in any person to overstep the ordinary routine of distinctly ordered duty, under the idea that he is called by god to break the rules given for the guidance of mankind in general. in all such supposed cases, the catholic church has the proper tests to apply, by which the soul can learn whether she is led by a divine afflatus, or betrayed by her own disordered imagination, or the deceits of an invisible tempter. j.m.c. [illustration] contents. i. st. frances of rome. chapter i. general character of the saint's life--her childhood and early piety chapter ii. francesca's early inclination for the cloister--by her father's desire she marries lorenzo ponziano--her married life--her illness and miraculous cure chapter iii. francesca proceeds in her mortifications and works of charity --her supernatural temptations and consolations chapter iv. the birth of franceseca's first child--her care in his education--she undertakes the management of her father-in-law's household--a famine and pestilence in rome--francesca's labours for the sick and poor--the miracles wrought in her behalf chapter v. the birth of francesca's second son--his supernatural gifts --the birth of her daughter--satanic attacks upon francesca --troubles of rome--francesca's husband is severely wounded--her eldest son, when given up as a hostage to the neapolitans, is miraculously restored to her chapter vi. sufferings of rome from the troops of ladislas--death of francesca's son evangelista--the famine and plague in rome--francesca's labours for the starving and sick--her miracles chapter vii. evangelista appears to his mother--an archangel is assigned to her as a visible guardian throughout her life chapter viii. francesca's illness and recovery--her vision of hell--restoration of tranquillity in rome--return of francesca's husband--her power in converting sinners chapter ix. fresh supernatural events in francesca's history--her obedience to her husband and to her confessor rewarded by two miracles--marriage of her son, and ill conduct of his wife--her conversion through francesca's prayers--fresh miracles worked by francesca chapter x. francesca lays the foundation of her future congregation-her pilgrimage to assisi chapter xi. death of francesca's friend and director, don antonio-troubles in rome and italy foretold by francesca--death of vannozza, francesca's sister-in-law--foundation of the congregation of oblates of tor di specchi chapter xii. progress and trials of the young community--it is confirmed by the pope--troubles in rome and the church terminated through francesca's intercession and the council of florence chapter xiii. death of francesca's husband--she goes to reside with the community of tor di specchi--her life as superioress chapter xiv. francesca's last illness and death chapter xv. francesca's funeral, and her subsequent canonization ii. blessed lucy of narni iii. dominica of paradiso iv. anne de montmorency, the solitary of the pyrenees (illustration) st. frances of rome chapter i. general character of the saint's life--her childhood and early piety. (illustration) there have been saints whose histories strike us as particularly beautiful, not only as possessing the beauty which always belongs to sanctity, whether exhibited in an aged servant of god, who for threescore years and more has borne the heat and burden of the day, or in the youth who has offered up the morning of his life to his maker, and yielded it into his hands before twenty summers have passed over his head; whether in a warrior king like st. louis, or a beggar like benedict labré, or a royal lady like st. elizabeth of hungary; but also as uniting--in the circumstances of their lives, in the places they inhabited, and the epochs when they appeared in the world, much that is in itself poetical and interesting, and calculated to attract the attention of the historian and the man of letters, as well as of the theologian and the devout. in this class of saints may well be included francesca romana, the foundress of the religious order of the oblates of tor di specchi. she was the model of young girls, the example of a devout matron, and finally a widow, according to the very pattern drawn by st. paul; she was beautiful, courageous, and full of wisdom, nobly born, and delicately brought up: rome was the place of her birth, and the scene of her labours; her home was in the centre of the great city, in the heart of the trastevere; her life was full of trials and hair-breadth escapes, and strange reverses; her hidden life was marvellous in the extreme: visions of terror and of beauty followed her all her days; favours such as were never granted to any other saint were vouchsafed to her; the world of spirits was continually thrown open to her sight; and yet, in her daily conduct, her character and her ways, minute details of which have reached us, there is a simplicity as well as a deep humility, awful in one so highly gifted, touching in one so highly favoured. troubled and wild were the times she lived in; perhaps if one had to point out a period in which a catholic christian would rather not have had his lot cast,--one in which there was most to try his faith and wound his feelings, he would name the end of the fourteenth century, and the beginning of the fifteenth. war was raging all over europe; italy was torn by inward dissensions, by the rival factions of the guelphs and the ghibellines. so savage was the spirit with which their conflicts were carried on, that barbarism seemed once more about to overspread that fair land, and the church itself was afflicted not only by the outward persecutions which strengthen its vitality, though for a while they may appear to cripple its action, but by trials of a far deeper and more painful nature. heresy had torn from her arms a great number of her children, and repeated schisms were dividing those who, in appearance and even in intention, remained faithful to the holy see. the successors of st. peter had removed the seat of their residence to avignon, and the eternal city presented the aspect of one vast battle-field, on which daily and hourly conflicts were occurring. the colonnas, the orsinis, the savellis, were every instant engaged in struggles which deluged the streets with blood, and cut off many of her citizens in the flower of their age; strangers were also continually invading the heritage of the church, and desecrated rome with massacres and outrages scarcely less deplorable than those of the huns and the vandals. in the capital of the christian world, ruins of recent date lay side by side with the relics of past ages; the churches were sacked, burned, and destroyed; the solitary and indestructible basilicas stood almost alone, mournfully erect amidst these scenes of carnage and gloom; and the eyes of the people of rome were wistfully directed towards that tutelary power, which has ever been to them a pledge of prosperity and peace, and whose removal the signal of war and of misery. it was at that time, during the pontificate of urban vi., in the year 1384, that francesca was born at rome; that "she rose as a star in a dark night," according to the expression of the most ancient of her biographers. her father's name was paul bussa; her mother's jacobella de' roffredeschi; they were both of noble and even illustrious descent, and closely allied to the orsinis, the savellis, and the mellinis. on the day of her birth she was carried to the church of santa agnese, in the piazza navona, and there baptised. little could the worshippers who may have been praying there that day for a blessing on their bereaved and distracted city, have guessed in what form that blessing was bestowed, and that that little babe, a few hours old, was to prove a most powerful instrument in the hands of god for the extinction of schism, the revival of piety, and the return of peace. from her infancy, francesca was not like other children. her mother, when she held her in her arms or hushed her to sleep on her knee, had always an involuntary feeling of reverence for her little daughter; it was as if an angel of god, not an earthly child, had been lent her; a heavenly expression shone in her eyes, and the calm serenity of her infant features struck all who approached her with admiration. francesca learned to read at the same time that she began to speak; the first words she was taught to utter were the sacred names of jesus and mary; at her mother's knee she lisped the little office of the blessed virgin, and during the whole course of her life she never omitted that practice. at two or three years old she had the sense and intelligence of a grown-up person; an extraordinary piety revealed itself in all her words and actions. she never played like other children; but when left to herself would often retire into silent corners of her father's palace, and kneeling down, join her little hands in prayer; and lifting up her infant heart to god, would read a devout book, or repeat hymns to the blessed virgin, her own dear mother as she used to call her. silence appeared to be the delight of this young child--the deepest reserve and modesty an instinct with her. at the age of six years the practices of the saints were already familiar to her. she had left off eating meat, eggs, or sweets of any description, and lived on plainly boiled vegetables and bread. the necessity of eating at all seemed irksome to her, and she never drank any thing but pure water. then also had begun her unwearied study of the lives of holy women, and especially of the virgin martyrs who have shed their blood for the love of jesus christ. the sacrament of confirmation, which she received at that time in the church of santa agnese, the same in which she had been baptised, filled her with ardour to show her love for her lord by every imaginable means, even those the most painful to the flesh. her mother was a very devout person, and in the habit of visiting every day some of the churches, especially those where indulgences were to be gained, and she also frequented the stations with affectionate assiduity. for in that troubled epoch, as in the earliest times of the church, as now, as always, on certain days, in certain places, the relics of apostles, of martyrs, and of confessors were exhibited to the faithful, often on the very spot where they had finished their course with joy, having kept their faith and won their crown. the devotion of "the stations," as it is performed in rome, is one of the most touching links with the past that it is possible to conceive. to pass along the street, so often trod by holy feet in former and in latter days, and seek the church appointed for that day's station; to approach some time-worn basilica, or ancient sanctuary, without the city walls may be, and pausing on the threshold, give one look at the glorious works of almighty god in the natural world,--at the wide campagna, that land-sea, so beautiful in its broad expanse and its desolate grandeur, at the purple hills with their golden lights and their deep-blue shadows, and the arched sky telling so vividly the glory of its maker; and then slowly lifting the heavy curtain that stands between that vision of earthly beauty, and the shrine where countless generations have come to worship,--to tread under feet the green boughs, the sweet-smelling leaves, the scattered flowers, that morning strewn upon the uneven, time-trod, time-honoured pavement; bowing in adoration before the lord in his tabernacle, to thank him for the wonders that he has worked in his saints,--for the beauty of the world of grace, of which that of the visible world is but the type and the shadow; and then move from one shrine to the other, wherever the lights upon the altars point the way, and invoke the assistance, the prayers of the saints whose relics are there displayed;--all this is one of those rare enjoyments which at once feed the soul and awake the imagination, and which the devout christian can find in no place but rome. it was these "stations" that francesca's mother frequented, and took her little daughter with her. sometimes she went to some church in the heart of the city; sometimes to some lonely shrine without the walls. then, as now, the beggars (so we find it mentioned later in the life of the saint) congregated at the doors, and clamoured for alms. then, as now, the lights burned upon the altars, and the sweet smell of fragrant and crushed leaves perfumed the air. during sermons the little girl's attention never wandered; and on her return home she was wont to repeat what she had heard with unction and delight. her mother's favourite church was that of santa maria nuova; in our day more frequently called that of san francesca romana. it stands in the toro romano, close to the ruins of the ancient temple of peace. it was served at that time by the benedictine monks of mount olivet; and to one of them, don antonio di monte savello, jacobella de' roffredeschi intrusted the spiritual direction of her daughter. he was a man of great learning and piety, and continued her director for five and thirty years. every wednesday the little maiden came to him for confession. she consulted him about her occupations, her religious exercises, and her studies, and exactly obeyed his most minute directions, even in indifferent things. often she tried for his permission to practise greater austerities; and such was her fervour, and the plain indications of god's designs upon her, that he occasionally allowed her to perform penances which might have been considered in ordinary cases too severe for her tender age. at other times he forbade them altogether; and she submitted cheerfully to his commands, without a word of remonstrance or complaint, and resumed them again at his desire, with the equanimity of one who well knew that the spirit of perfect obedience is more acceptable to god than any works of devotion. "a celestial brightness, a more eternal beauty, shone on her face, and encircled her form, when after confession homeward serenely she walked, with god's benediction upon her. when she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music." [footnote: longfellow: _evangeline_.] francesca's daily life was as perfect as a child's could be. no untrue words sullied her pure lips; no gross thought dwelt in her mind. she seldom laughed, though a sweet smile was often on her lips. up to the age of eleven, her life was one long continual prayer. every little action was performed with a view to the glory of god. her trifling failings she deplored with anguish; every stain on the pure mirror of her conscience was instantly washed away by tears. it was not long before it pleased god to vouchsafe to her extraordinary graces. her early and almost intuitive acquaintance with the mysteries of religion was wonderful. every day she meditated on the incarnation and the passion of jesus christ; and her devotion to the blessed virgin increased in proportion to her love for our lord. her face flushed with delight, and a seraphic expression beamed in her eyes, when she spoke of the sufferings of jesus, and the glories of mary. from the little oratory where she held secret communion with heaven, she went out into the world with the most ardent desire to serve the poor, to console the afflicted, to do good to all. the affection of her young heart found vent in numerous works of charity; and francesca's name, and francesca's sweet voice, and francesca's fair face, were even then to many of the sufferers of that dark epoch a sign of hope,--a pledge that god was still amongst them as of yore, and his spirit at work in the hearts of men. chapter ii. francesca's early inclination for the cloister--by her father's desire she marries lorenzo ponziano--her married life--her illness and miraculous cure. from the time that francesca had understood the meaning of the words, her greatest desire had been to enter a convent; but with that spirit of humility and reserve which so particularly belonged to her, she had kept her desire concealed in her heart, and had manifested it to none but god and her director. don antonio encouraged her to persevere in this silence, and to prove her own resolution by secretly adhering to the rules, and practising the austerities of one of the strictest religious orders. she gladly assented to this, and persevered in it for a considerable time. stronger and deeper every day grew her inclination to forsake the world, and to hold communion with god alone in the solitude of the cloister; with that god whose love had already driven from her heart all care for comfort, for pleasure, and for self. but not so smooth was to be her path through life; not much longer was she to sit in silence at the feet of her lord, with no other thought than to live on the words, which fell from his lips. though she concealed as much as possible the peculiarities of her mode of life, they could not altogether escape the notice of her parents; and they soon questioned her on the subject. when she informed them of her wish to embrace the religious life, her father chose to consider her vocation as a childish fancy, and informed her in return that he had already promised her in marriage to lorenzo ponziano, a young nobleman of illustrious birth, and not less eminent for his virtues and for his talents than from his fortune and position. he reckoned amongst his ancestors st. paulianus, pope and martyr; his mother was a mellini; and his eldest brother paluzzo had married vannuzza, a daughter of the noble house of santo croce. francesca's heart sank within her at this announcement, and falling on her knees she implored her father to alter his determination, and allow her to follow what she believed to be the will of god in her regard. she went even so far as to protest that nothing should induce her to consent to this marriage; torrents of tears fell from her eyes as she poured forth her supplications and urged her request. but it was all in vain that she wept and prayed. paul bussa turned a deaf ear to her pleadings; declared that his word was pledged, that nothing should ever persuade him to retract it; and he insisted that, as a dutiful daughter, she should submit herself to his will. seeing him thus immovable, francesca rose from her knees, withdrew in silence from his presence, and retiring into her little oratory, prostrated herself before the crucifix, and asked counsel of him at whose feet she wished to live and to die; and implored him, if such was his good pleasure, to exert his almighty power, and raise obstacles to the projected marriage. then, strengthened by prayer, she was inspired to seek direction from him who was the organ of the divine will to her, and hurrying to santa maria nuova, she requested to see don antonio savello. kindly and gently the good priest spoke to his afflicted penitent. he promised to consult the lord for her in prayer, and suggested some devotions to be used by herself for that purpose. then, seeing her countenance assume a calmer expression, he endeavoured to prepare her mind for what he doubtless already knew was the will of god, and the true, though in one so minded, the singular vocation of francesca. "if your parents persist in their resolution (he said), take it, my child, as a sign that god expects of you this sacrifice. offer up to him in that case your earnest desire for the religious life. he will accept the will for the deed; and you will obtain at once the reward of that wish, and the peculiar graces attached to the sacrament of marriage. god's ways are not as our ways, francesca. when st. mary magdalene had sent for the lord jesus christ to come and heal her brother, it was no doubt a severe trial to her that he came not; that the long hours of the day and of the night succeeded each other, and that he tarried on the way, and sent no message or token of his love. but when her brother rose from the dead, when the shroud fell from his limbs, and he stood before her full of life and strength, she understood the mystery, and adored the divine wisdom of that delay. god indeed asks of you your heart, francesca; but he also claims your whole self as an oblation, and therefore your will that he may mould it into entire conformity with his own. for works may be many and good, my daughter, and piety may be fervent, and virtues eminent, and yet the smallest leaven of self-love or self-will may ruin the whole. why do you weep, francesca? that god's will is not accomplished, or that your own is thwarted? nothing but sin can mar the first, and in this your trial there is not the least shade of sin. as to your own will, bend, break, annihilate it, my child, and take courage. have but one thought--the good pleasure, the sweet will of god; submit yourself to his providence. lay down your wishes as an oblation on his altar; give up that highest place which you had justly coveted; take the lower one which he now appoints you; and if you cannot be his spouse, be his loving and faithful servant." francesca went home, and awaited in silence her father's further commands. she was very pale, for the struggle was a painful one. she prayed night and day, watched and fasted. when paul bussa renewed his injunctions, she gently gave her assent, begged him to forgive her past resistance, and henceforward gave no outward signs of the suffering within, all the greater that it came in the form of rejoicing, and that others deemed that to be happiness which cost her so many secret tears. the family of ponziano were overjoyed at the marriage,--the bride was so rich, so beautiful, and so virtuous; there was not a young man in rome who did not look with envy on lorenzo, and wish himself in his stead. there was no end to the banquets, the festivities, the merry-makings, which took place on the occasion; and in the midst of these rejoicings francesca left her father's palace for that of the ponziani. it stood in the heart of the trastevere, close to the yellow river, though not quite upon it, in the vicinity of the ponte rotto, in a street that runs parallel with the tiber. it is a well-known spot; and on the 9th of march, the festival of st. francesca, the people of rome and of the neighbourhood flock to it in crowds. the modern building that has been raised on the foundation of the old palace is the casa dei esercizii pii, for the young men of the city. there the repentant sinner who longs to break the chain of sin, the youth beset by some strong temptation, one who has heard the inward voice summoning him to higher paths of virtue, another who is in doubt as to the particular line of life to which he is called, may come, and leave behind them for three, or five, or ten days, as it may be, the busy world, with all its distractions and its agitations, and, free for the time being from temporal cares, the wants of the body provided for, and the mind at rest, may commune with god and their own souls. here they listen daily, nay hourly, to the instructions of devout priests, who, in the manner prescribed by st. ignatius, place before them in turn the most awful truths and the most consoling mysteries of the kingdom of god. resolutions are thus taken, conversions often effected, good purposes strengthened in a way which often seems little short of miraculous. the means are marvellously adapted to the end; and though many a wave may sweep over the soul, when it again returns to the world, a mark has been stamped upon it not easily effaced. over the casa dei esercizii pii the sweet spirit of francesca seems still to preside. on the day of her festival its rooms are thrown open, every memorial of the gentle saint is exhibited, lights burn on numerous altars, flowers deck the passages, leaves are strewn in the chapel, on the stairs, in the entrance-court; gay carpets, figured tapestry and crimson silks hang over the door, and crowds of people go in and out, and kneel before the relics or the pictures of the dear saint of rome, and greet on each altar, and linger in these chambers, like kinsfolk met on a birthday to rejoice together. the well-dressed and the ragged, the rich and the poor, without distinction, pay their homage to her sweet memory whose living presence once adorned the spot which they visit. it is a joyous and touching festival, one which awakens tender thoughts, and brings the world of memory into close connection with that of hope. the mind is forcibly carried back to the day when the young bride of lorenzo ponziano entered these walls for the first time, in all the sacred beauty of holiness and youth- "pure as the virgin snow that dwells upon the mountain's crest, cold as the sheet of ice that lies upon the lake's deep breast." pure from the least taint of worldly vanity, cold to all that belongs to human passion; but with a heart burning with love to god, and overflowing with charity to every creature of his. she was received tenderly and joyfully by lorenzo himself, by his father andrew, his mother cecilia, and vannozza, the wife of his elder brother. francesca smiled sweetly as she returned their caresses; but the noise, and the gaiety, and the visiting, that attended a wedding in those days weighed heavily on her spirits; and though she never complained, vannozza perceived that her little heart was oppressed with some secret sorrow, and tenderly inquired into its cause. francesca could not resist the gentle appeal, and disclosed her grief to her kind sister. she told her that the world had never given her pleasure, that her affections were elsewhere set, that she longed to live for god alone, and felt sad, in spite of all her efforts, at the tumult and dissipation, which was now her portion. "if such are your feelings, my beloved little sister," exclaimed vannozza, "my sympathy may serve to console you; for neither do i find any delight in the vanities of the world, but only in prayer and meditation. let us be friends, francesca; i will help you to lead the life you desire, and together we shall arrive at the end we have in view." these kind words filled francesca's heart with joy; and from that day forward there sprung up a friendship between these two young women, which lasted for eight-and-thirty years, and was a source of the greatest consolation to them through all the trials they had to encounter, at the same time that it edified all those who beheld that tender affection. in her new home francesca followed the same mode of life which she had pursued in her father's house; but her zeal was tempered with so much wisdom and prudence, that she offended no one, and contrived to win the affection of all her relations. her good sense, her sweetness of temper, her earnest piety, charmed them all; and they were astonished that so young a girl could at once assume the part and fulfil the duties of a devoted wife and a noble matron. anxious in every way to conform herself to lorenzo's wishes, she received the visits of the high-born ladies her equals and companions, and returned them with punctuality. she submitted to appear in public with all the state which belonged to her position, and accepted and wore the costly dresses and the splendid jewels which her husband lavished upon her; but under those gorgeous silks and rich brocades a hair-shirt was concealed. always ready to comply with any observance which duty or propriety required, she at the same time steadily abstained even from the innocent amusements in which others indulged; and never danced or played at cards, or sat up late at night. her manner was so gentle and kind, that it inspired affection in all who approached her; but there was also a profound and awful purity in her aspect and in her demeanour, which effectually checked the utterance of a free or licentious word in her presence. faithful to her early habits of piety, she continued every wednesday her visits to santa maria nuova; and after confessing to don antonio, she went to communion with such fervent devotion, that those who saw her at the altar absorbed in adoration, foresaw that god would ere long bestow extraordinary graces on her soul. rising betimes in the morning, francesca devoutly said her prayers, made her meditation, and read attentively out of a spiritual book. in the course of the day, whenever she had a moment's leisure unclaimed by any of the duties of her state, she withdrew into a church or into her own room, and gave herself up to prayer. every saturday she had a conference with fra michele, a dominican monk, the prior of san clemente, and an intimate friend of her father-in-law. he was a learned theologian, as well as a man of great piety and virtue, and instructed her with care in all the doctrines of religion. at the same tune, so austere and devout a life in a young person of twelve years old could not fail to attract the attention and draw down the censures of the worldly. many such began to laugh at francesca, and to turn her piety into ridicule. they intruded their advice on lorenzo ponziano, and urged him to put a stop to what they termed his wife's eccentricities. but happily for francesca, he was not one of those men who are easily influenced by the opinion of others. he formed his own judgment, and pursued his own line of conduct undisturbed by the comments and animadversions of his would-be advisers. his young wife was much too precious to him, much too perfect in his sight, her whole life bore too visibly the stamp of god's dealings with her, for him to dream of interfering with the course she had taken. on the contrary, he looked upon her with that affectionate veneration which the presence of true sanctity always awakens in a noble and religious mind. his father and mother were of the same way of thinking, and all but idolised the holy child who had come amongst them as an angel of peace. they regarded her as the blessing of their house, and the comfort of their old age. paluzzo, lorenzo's brother, delighted in encouraging the intimacy that had arisen between his young sister-in-law and his own wife vannozza. there was not a single member, friend, or servant, of that noble family, that did not look with delight upon francesca. she was the joy of every heart, the sweet consoler of every sorrow, the link that bound them all by the sacred cord of love. day by day her influence--her tender, noiseless, gentle influence--was felt, subduing, winning, drawing them all to god. the happiness which the family of ponziano had enjoyed since lorenzo's marriage was interrupted by the sudden and dangerous illness of his wife, which baffled all medical skill, and soon brought her to the verge of the grave. the affliction of her husband and of his whole family was extreme. their pearl of great price seemed about to be taken from them. no remedies afforded the slightest relief to her sufferings; she was unable to rest, or to retain any nourishment; and every day her strength declined. the consternation of her friends knew no bounds; her father was inconsolable. he secretly reproached himself with the constraint he had placed on her inclinations, and considered her illness as a divine chastisement. francesca alone remained unmoved amidst the general affliction. she placed her life in the hands of god, and waited the event with perfect submission. unable to speak, or even to move, the sweet expression of her earnest eyes alone spoke her gratitude to those who nursed her and wept over her sufferings. at other times they were fixed on the crucifix with an unutterable look of trust and love. once only she was disturbed, and indignation gave her strength to protest against the guilty suggestions of some friends of the family, who, according to the notions of that time, persisted in believing that a spell had been cast upon her, and proposed to have recourse to some persons in rome who dealt, or pretended to deal, in magic arts. francesca declared herself ready to die, rather than countenance so impious a proceeding. after all medical resources had been exhausted, when despair had succeeded to hope, almighty god restored her health for a while; and the news of her recovery was hailed with rapture within and without the palace. her sufferings, however, returned with double violence; she endured the most excruciating pains; and was again considered to be at the point of death. during a whole year she remained as it were on the brink of eternity: her soul prepared to take its wing; continually sustained by the sacraments of the church, her only remaining thought was to soothe the anguish of her husband and parents. once again, those persons who had previously proposed to resort to magic arts for her cure, managed to thrust into her room, on some pretence or other, a woman celebrated in that line. francesca, enlightened by a divine inspiration, instantly detected the fraud; and raising herself in her bed, with a voice, the strength of which astonished the bystanders, exclaimed, "begone, thou servant of satan, nor ever venture to enter these walls again!" exhausted by the effort, she fell back faint and colourless; and for a moment they feared that her spirit had passed away. but that very day god was preparing a miracle in her behalf; and as she had refused to hold any communication with the evil one, he was about to send his young servant a heavenly messenger, with health and healing on his wings. it was the eve of the festival of st. alexis,--that noble roman penitent, who passed so many years at the threshold of his own palace, unpitied, unrecognised by his own relations, who went in and out at the gate, and stopped not to question the silent, lonely, patient beggar, who lay there with his face hid in a poor cloak, finding peace in the midst of bitterness. the ponziani had all withdrawn to rest for a few hours; the women who attended on the dying francesca had fallen asleep. she was lying motionless on her couch of pain. her sufferings had been sharp; they were sharper than ever that night. she endured them in the strength of the cross, from which neither her eyes nor her thoughts wandered. the whole house, and apparently the city also, was wrapt in slumber; for not a sound marred the stillness of the hour,--that stillness so trying to those who watch and suffer. suddenly on the darkness of the silent chamber a light broke, bright as the day. in the midst stood a radiant figure, majestic in form and gracious in countenance. he wore a pilgrim's robe; but it shone like burnished gold. drawing near to francesca's bed, he said: "i am alexis, and am sent from god to inquire of thee if thou choosest to be healed?" twice he repeated the words, and then the dying one faintly murmured, "i have no choice but the good pleasure of god. be it done unto me according to his will. for my own part, i would prefer to die, and for my soul to fly to him at once; but i accept all at his hands, be it life or be it death." "life, then, it is to be," replied st. alexis; "for he chooses that thou shouldest remain in the world to glorify his name." with these words he spread his mantle over francesca and disappeared, leaving her perfectly recovered. confounded at this extraordinary favour, more alive to the sense of god's wonderful mercy than to her own sudden freedom from pain, francesca rose in haste, and prostrate on the floor, made a silent and fervent thanksgiving; then slipping out of her room without awaking her nurses, she hurried to the bedside of her friend and sister. putting her arm round her neck and her cheek next to her's, she exclaimed, "vannozza cara! vannozza mia!" (my dear vannozza, my own vannozza.) and the bewildered vannozza suddenly awoke out of her sleep, and distrusting the evidence of her senses, kept repeating, "who calls me? who are you? am i dreaming? it sounds like the voice of my cecolella." [footnote: the italian diminutive for francesca.] "yes, it is your cecolella; it is your little sister who is speaking to you." "my francesca, whom i left an hour ago at the point of death?" "yes, the very same francesca who now holds you to her breast; you, you, my beloved companion, who day and night have comforted and consoled me during my long illness, and who must now help me to thank god for his wonderful mercy." then sitting upon her bed, with her hands clasped in her's, she related to her her vision, and the instantaneous recovery that had followed it; and then, as the light was beginning to break into the chamber, she added with eagerness, "now, now the day is come. let us not delay a moment longer, but hasten with me to santa maria nuova, and then to the church of st. alexis. i must venerate his relics, and return him my thanks, before others learn what god has done for me." this pious purpose fulfilled, they returned home, where francesca was looked upon as one risen from the dead. the affection she inspired was mingled with awe; every one considered her as the special object of the divine mercy, and venerated her accordingly. not so joyfully had lorenzo received her on their bridal-day, as when she came to him now, restored to his arms by the miraculous interposition of a merciful god. chapter iii. francesca proceeds in her mortifications and works of charity--her supernatural temptations and consolations. not in vain had francesca been brought so near to death, and so wonderfully restored to perfect health. a favour such as she had received could not fail of producing signal results in one who so well corresponded with every degree of grace vouchsafed to her. this last manifestation of god's mercy disposed her to meditate deeply and earnestly on the designs of providence in her regard. she seemed now to discern, in a clear and overpowering manner, the nature of the particular judgment which she had been about to undergo, the amount of responsibility incurred by every grace conferred on her soul, the severe account which would be demanded of every talent committed to her charge; and at the sight she shuddered, as a man draws back affrighted at the distinct appearance of a precipice which he has skirted in the night, or at the waves dashing wildly on a beach on which he has been landed in safety. her meditations at that time assumed a very solemn character; every moment that she could spare was spent in the neighbouring church of st. cecilia or in her own oratory, and employed in a minute review of her past life, and in forming heroic resolutions for the future. the government of the tongue is one of the most difficult and important points in the spiritual life. from this time forward francesca avoided all unnecessary conversations, and became habitually silent. there was no moroseness in her silence; it never interfered with the kindnesses or the courtesies of life; but as in childhood she had been remarkable for it, so in womanhood it distinguished her, and especially since her illness and miraculous recovery. vannozza inquired of her one day what it was that made her so habitually silent, and she answered, "god expects more of us than heretofore;" and then she proposed to her a still stricter mode of life than they had yet adopted. vannozza willingly assented, and they agreed to give up all useless amusements, fashionable drives, and diversions, and to devote to prayer and to good works the hours thus withdrawn from the service of the world. they resolved to observe with the most exact punctuality every law of god, and every precept of the church; to obey their husbands with the most attentive and christian-like submission; to be invariably docile to their ghostly father, and submit to him their actions, their words, and even their thoughts; and thus to secure themselves against the deceits of the evil one. they then proceeded to arrange for themselves a place of retreat, where they could withdraw to pray at any hour of the day or of the night. it was not easy to accomplish this in a palace inhabited by a numerous family and a large number of servants; but in a sort of cave at one end of the garden, and in a little room that happened to be unoccupied under the roof of the house, they established two oratories, which they furnished with crucifixes, images of our blessed lady, and pictures of saints, as well as with various other objects of devotion and with instruments of penance. these two little cells became their comfort and delight; whenever their domestic duties or their religious observances out of doors left them at liberty, they were in the habit of retiring into the garden oratory, and at night they frequently spent whole hours in prayer in the upper chamber. the first dawn of day often found them at their orisons. the hours that were not devoted to prayer or to the duties of their state, they employed in works of charity. almost every day they went to the hospital of san spirito, and nursed the sick with the kindest attention; consoling them by their gentle words and tender care, bestowing alms upon the most needy, and above all, tending affectionately the most disgusting cases of disease and infirmity. throughout their whole lives they never omitted this practice. to serve christ in his afflicted brethren was a privilege they never consented to forego. francesca was at this time very anxious to lay aside the insignia of wealth and rank, and to dress as simply as the poor she so much loved; but, always obedient, she would not attempt to do so without the permission of her spiritual guide. don antonio savello would not give her leave to relinquish the splendid robes then worn by persons of her rank; he feared it might annoy her husband, and that there might be danger of ostentation in any thing that attracted public attention; but he allowed both the sisters to wear a coarse woollen garment under their magnificent dresses, and to practise in secret several other austerities. their fasts and abstinences became more rigid than ever; but were carried on with so much simplicity, and such a total absence of display, that the very persons who habitually took their meals in company with them, scarcely remarked their mortifications, or else attributed them to a peculiarity of taste or the observance of a regimen. disciplines and other bodily penances of a very severe nature were by this time habitual to francesca, and she persevered in them to the end of her life. with whatever care they concealed all these things, it was not possible that the city of rome should remain ignorant of their piety and their generosity to the poor. the common people looked upon francesca and vannozza as two saints; and their example began to tell beneficially upon the women of their own class. several noble ladies were inspired with the desire to walk in their steps, and to imitate their virtues. but it was not likely that satan should behold unmoved the work of grace thus advancing in the hearts of these two young servants of god, and through them on many others. he chafed at the sight; and now began that long series of attacks, of struggles, and of artifices, by which he endeavoured to mar the glorious progress of these heroic souls. almighty god seems to have granted to the prince of darkness, in san francesca's case, a permission in some respects similar to that which he gave him with regard to his servant job. he was allowed to throw temptations in her way, to cause her strange sufferings, to persecute her by fearful manifestations of his visible presence, to haunt her under various shapes, some seductive in their appearance, others repulsive and terrific in their nature; but he was not permitted (as, thanks be to god, he never is permitted,) to deceive or to injure his faithful servant, who for every trial of the sort obtained some divine favour in compensation; who for every vision of diabolical horror, was allowed a glimpse into the world of glory; and to whom at a later period was appointed a heavenly guardian to defend her against the violence of her infernal foe. the first time that satan presented himself in a visible form to francesca's sight, god gave her an earnest of his protection in the strife about to be waged between her and the old serpent by miraculously revealing to her the character of her visitor. it was under the aspect of a venerable hermit, emaciated with fasts and watchings, that he entered the ponziano palace: his intention was, by some artful words, to inspire francesca with aversion and disgust for the solitary life, and at the same time for that hidden life which she so zealously practised in the midst of the world. he was shown into a large room, where the assembled family were sitting and conversing together. no sooner had francesca set her eyes upon him, than she was supernaturally enlightened as to his true character; she knew at once the dreadful enemy, thus for the first time made manifest to her sight; and, suddenly changing colour, she rose and left the room. vannozza followed (alarmed at her hasty departure), and found her in the oratory kneeling before the crucifix, and as pale as death. she inquired into the cause of her emotion; but frances simply desired her to return to the sitting-room, and request lorenzo to dismiss the hermit. as soon as he was departed, she re-appeared amongst them as serene and calm as usual; and to no one but to her confessor did she mention the circumstance. yet it was a most awful moment, that first initiation into the supernatural world, that first contact with the powers of darkness, that opening of the visible war between her and the great enemy. no wonder that she was habitually silent; her soul must have lived in very close communion with the invisible world, and the presence of god must have been realised in an extraordinary decree by one whose spiritual discernment was so miraculously keen. a more ordinary snare was the tempter's next resource, and he chose as his instrument a person of piety and virtue, but whose human fears and affections were too strong for her faith. he suggested to cecilia, the mother-in-law of the two saints, who was most fondly attached to them, and maternally solicitous about their healths, that the ascetic life which they led must necessarily impair it; that amusements were essential to young persons; and that the singularity of their conduct reflected discredit on the family. under this impression, she strove by every means in her power to counteract their designs, to thwart them in their devotional and charitable practices, and to induce them to give up more of their time and of their attention to the world. she thus gave them occasion to practise a very peculiar kind of patience, and to gain the more merit in the eyes of god, in that they had daily to encounter a sort of opposition particularly trying to young and ardent spirits. it is related, that one day, when they had gently but steadily refused to pay some visits which, far from being absolute duties, were only pretexts for gossip and the most frivolous conversations, francesca and vannozza had retired into the garden oratory; and after spending some time in prayer, began conversing together on the life which the early fathers were wont to lead in the deserts, and of the happiness it must be to live entirely devoted to the service of god, and to commune with him above, far from the distracting thoughts and cares of the world. they went on picturing to themselves the manner in which they would have divided their time and arranged their occupations under similar circumstances, and together they made out a complete rule of life. absorbed in the subject, vannozza exclaimed, with childlike simplicity, "but what should we have to eat, sister?" and francesca replied, "we should search for fruits in the desert, dearest; and god would surely not let us seek in vain." as she said these words they rose to return home, and from a tree which grew out of a ruined wall on one side of the garden there fell at her feet a quince of the largest size and most shining colour, and another similar to it was lying in vannozza's path. the sisters looked at each other in silent astonishment; for the time of the year was april, and nothing but a miracle could have brought these apples to maturity at this unwonted season. the taste of the fruit was as excellent as its colour was beautiful. they were divided amongst the members of the family, who wondered at the marvels which seemed continually to attend the steps of francesca. she was profoundly grateful for such favours, but probably marvelled less than others at their occurrence. her youth; the simplicity of her faith; her total abstraction from worldly thoughts; her continual study and meditation of the holy scriptures and of the lives of the saints,--must have necessarily familiarised her mind with such ideas. it could not seem incredible to her, that the god who in less favoured times, and under a severer dispensation, had so often suspended the laws of nature, in order to support, to guide, and to instruct his people; that the saviour who had turned water into wine by a single word, and withered the unprofitable fig-tree by a look,--should at all times display the same power in favour of his children, in ways not a whit more marvellous or mysterious. cecilia made one more effort to check what she considered exaggeration in the mode of life of her daughters-in-law. she urged their husbands to interfere, and by their authority to oblige them to mix more with the world. but paluzzo and lorenzo had too deep an esteem for their wives, and too great a sense of the advantages they derived from their singular virtues, to be persuaded into putting a restraint on their actions. since they had come into the family, and united their pious efforts for their own and others' spiritual improvement, disputes and quarrels had given way to the most edifying concord. the servants, moved by their example, performed their duties with exemplary zeal, frequented the churches and the sacraments, and abstained from profane or idle words. they accordingly entreated their mother to give up her fruitless attempts, and allow the two young women liberty to follow the rule of life they had adopted; and thus put an end to the kindly meant but trying persecution they had gone through. about this time the devil, thwarted in his designs, but always on the watch, was permitted to vent his anger against francesca and her sister-in-law in a way to which he often had recourse, and which, while it seemed to display a momentary power over their bodies, only proved in the end that a stronger one than he was always at hand to defeat his malice, and snatch from him his prize. francesca and vannozza had gone to st. peter's on an intensely hot day in july, in the year 1399. absorbed in prayer, they had hardly noticed the lapse of time, and twelve o'clock had struck when they set out on their way home. in order to avoid observation, and the marks of veneration which the people lavished upon them as soon as they set eyes on the two saints (as they always called them), they chose the most unfrequented streets they could find. the heat grew intolerable. the sultry air seemed on fire, and not a breath stirred it. exhausted with fatigue, their mouths parched with thirst, they reached the church of st. leonardo; and holding each other's hands, approached the brink of the river, in order to cool their burning lips and throbbing heads with a little water. as they bent over the stream for that purpose, a violent blow from an invisible arm was aimed at francesca, and hurled her into the tiber. vannozza fell with her; and, clasped in each other's arms, they were rapidly carried away by the current, and saw no means of escape. "they were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided," might well have been said of them, had the watery grave, which seemed inevitable, swallowed up on that day the two brides of the ponziani. but it was not the will of god that they should perish. human aid was not at hand; the stream was rapid, the current deep, and the eddies curled around them; but they called upon god with one voice, and in an instant the waters, as if instinct with life, and obedient to a heavenly command, bore them gently to the shore, and deposited them unhurt on the green margin of the river. about this time also a supernatural favour of the most extraordinary nature was vouchsafed to francesca. her guardian angel, who was one day to accompany her, not by an invisible presence only, as in the case of all christians, but, by a rare privilege of grace, in a visible form, ever manifest to her spiritual sight, now began to reveal himself to her by the most watchful observance of her conduct. at all times and in all places, by day and by night, her slightest faults were noticed and punished by this still invisible, but now evidently present monitor. at the least imperfection in her conduct, before she had time to accuse and to condemn herself, she felt the blow of a mysterious hand, the warning of an ever-attentive guardian; and the sound of that mystical chastisement was audible to others also. great was the astonishment of those who could thus discern something of god's dealings with this chosen soul. once, when she had abstained through human respect from interrupting the course of a very frivolous and useless conversation, the warning was inflicted with such severity that she bore the mark of the blow for several succeeding days. such a rapid advance in holiness, such new and ever-increasing virtues, were the results of this supernatural tuition, that satan now attempted to seduce her by the wiliest of his artifices, the master-piece of his art, his favourite sin,--"the pride that apes humility." so many miracles wrought in her favour, such strange revelations of god's peculiar love for her soul, awakened in francesca's mind, or rather the devil suggested to her the thought, that it might be better to conceal them from her director, or at least to acquaint him with only a portion of the wonders that were wrought in her behalf; and accordingly, the next time she went to confession she refrained from mentioning the signal grace which had been vouchsafed to her. at the very instant she was thrown prostrate on the ground, and recognised the hand of her heavenly monitor in the blow which thus warned her of the grievous error into which she was falling. in that short moment she had time to perceive and acknowledge it; and with intense contrition she confessed to her director the false humility which had beguiled her into a dangerous reserve, with perfect openness revealed to him the whole of god's past and present dealings with her soul, and explained to him the meaning of what had just taken place. don antonio listened with astonishment and gratitude, and thus addressed her: "you have just escaped from a great danger, my daughter; for those who aim at perfection cannot conceal any thing from their spiritual guide without running the risk of delusion. by your mistaken silence you were complying with the suggestions of satan, who, under the semblance of humility, was seeking to awaken in you a secret and baneful pride. you would have been led by degrees to over-estimate these supernatural favours, to deem them not merely means of grace, but rewards due to your merits; to despise those to whom god does not grant them; and to give yourself up to extravagant and unauthorised austerities in order to secure their continuance, and to distinguish yourself in your own and others' sight. i should have forbidden you to practise them; you would have been tempted to renounce my guidance, to take one confessor after another, until you had found one weak or blind enough to approve your self-will; and then the arch-enemy of mankind, under the garb of an angel of light, would have made you the prey of his delusions, till at last you might have fallen from one error into another, and made shipwreck of your faith. such has been the downward course of many a soul, that has begun by yielding to a false humility--the offspring of pride--and has ended in sin and perdition." from that time forward, francesca was on her guard against every species of pride and self-reliance, however disguised and refined. she related her faults and temptations, the graces she received and the favours she obtained, with the same childlike openness and simplicity. it was at the age of sixteen that she was thus advanced in the science of the saints; and every day her virtues and her piety increased. chapter iv. the birth of francesca's first child--her care in his education--she undertakes the management of her father-in-law's household--a famine and pestilence in rome--francesca's labours fob the sick and poor--the miracles wrought in her behalf. the year 1400 was opening under melancholy auspices. boniface ix. was at that moment in possession of the pontifical throne, and celebrating the jubilee, the periodical recurrence of which at the end of every fifty years had been decreed by clement vi. in 1350; but rome was even then in a lamentable state, and presages were not wanting of still more disastrous times. the wars for the succession of the kingdom of naples, between louis of anjou and ladislas durazzo, were agitating the whole of italy; and the capital of the christian world was exposed to all the fury of the contending parties. the powerful faction of the colonnas, in arms against the pope, invaded the capitol at the head of a numerous body of insurgents on horseback and on foot; and the air resounded with the cries of "long live the people! death to the tyrant boniface ix.!" on that day the signal was given for a division of parties, which led shortly afterwards to the appalling tragedy which decimated the nobility of the eternal city and deluged her streets with blood. lorenzo ponziano, from his rank and his great possessions, as well as from his fidelity to the church and the sovereign pontiff, was especially marked out as an enemy by the adverse faction. but while on every side the storm was brewing, and the aspect of public affairs each day more gloomy, a blessing was granted to him which for the last five years he had ardently desired. the expectation of an heir to the family of ponziano filled him and his parents with inexpressible delight. francesca, in the meantime, was incessantly occupied in recommending to god the child she was about to bear; and offered up her every little act of devotion in its behalf, with the hope of drawing down the divine blessing on its future existence. in the same year she was happily delivered of a son, who was immediately baptised in the church of santa cecilia in trastevere, and received the name of giovanni baptista. it was not at that time the custom for ladies of rank to nurse their children; but francesca set aside all such considerations, and never consented to forego a mother's sacred privilege. she did not intrust her child for a moment to the care of others, afraid that, in her absence, the utterance of unworthy sentiments, bad manners and habits, which even in infancy may cause impressions not easily eradicated, should taint with the least evil the heart and mind of her son. it is remarkable how careful the holy mothers which we read of in the lives of the saints appear to have been of the circumstances attending the infancy of their children,--that period during which we are apt to suppose that no impressions can be given or received. are we not perhaps in error on that point?--as much that we read and apparently forget leaves notwithstanding a certain deposit in our minds, which comes into play when called forth by association, so, may not certain sights, sounds, and words, not understood at the time, impart a certain colour, stamp certain images on the mind of an infant, which, however dim and confused, deepen and grow with it as it expands? there have been curious psychological instances of names, of languages, of dormant recollections, reawakening as it were under a peculiar condition of the nervous system, and which could only be traced to impressions received in the earliest stages of existence. francesca, in obedience to her director, as well as guided by her own sense of duty, modified for the time being her usual mode of life, and occupied herself with the care of her child in preference to all other observances of charity or of devotion. she did not complain or regret that she had to give up her habitual religious exercises, in order to tend and to nurse the little creature whom she looked upon as the gift of god, and whose careful training the best offering she could make in return. the joy which she had felt in her infant's birth was marred by the death of her father, who, when his grandson was placed in his arms, exclaimed in the words of st. simeon, "lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace;" and the words seem to have been prophetic, for he died almost immediately afterwards, and was buried in the vaults of santa agnese, in the piazza nuova. at a later period, when that church was reconstructed, his remains were transported to the cloisters of tor di specchi, where the simple inscription, "here lies paul bussa," remains to this day. francesca, in pursuance of her desire, not only to exclude evil, but to infuse good dispositions at the earliest possible period into her baby's soul, lost no opportunity of imparting to him the first notions of religion. before he could speak, she used to repeat to him every day the lord's prayer and the hail mary, clasp his little hands together, and direct his eyes to heaven, and to the images of jesus and mary, whose names were of course the first words he learned to utter. she checked in him by grave looks, and slight punishments fitted to his age, every ebullition of self-will, obstinacy, and anger; and later, of deceit, envy, and immodesty. though she had the most tender mother's heart, she seldom indulged in passionate caresses, and never left unchastised any of his faults, or gave way in any instance to his tears and impatience. when others objected that it was absurd to expect self-command from a creature whose reason was not developed, she maintained that habits of self-control are to be acquired at the earliest age, and that the benefit thus obtained extends to the whole of life. the child thus trained lived to prove the wisdom of her views, and became in difficult times the support of his family and an honour to their name. about a year after the birth of giovanni baptista, cecilia, lorenzo's mother, died. andreazzo ponziano, and both his sons, fully conscious of the prudence and virtue of francesca, resolved to place her at the head of the house, and to commit to her alone the superintendence of their domestic affairs and the whole management of the household. distressed at the proposal, she pleaded her youth and inexperience, and urged that vannozza, as the wife of the eldest brother, was as a matter of course entitled to that position. vannozza, however, pleaded with such eagerness that it was her most anxious desire not to occupy it, and that all she wished was to be francesca's disciple and companion, that, overcome by the general importunity, she found herself obliged to comply. now it was that her merit shone conspicuously. placed at the head of the most opulent house in rome, no symptom of pride, of haughtiness, or of self-complacency, ever revealed itself in her looks or in her actions. she was never heard to speak a harsh or impatient word. firm in requiring from every person in her house the proper fulfilment of their duties, she did it in the gentlest manner. always courteous to her servants, she urged them to serve god with diligence, and watched over their souls redeemed by his precious blood. her address was so winning and persuasive, that it seldom failed of its effect. she contrived to arrange the hours of their labour with so much order and skill, that each had sufficient leisure to hear mass, to attend the parochial instructions on sundays and holidays, to frequent the sacraments, and join every day in family prayer,--fulfilling the whole of a christian's duty. if by any chance (and it was a rare one in a house thus governed) a quarrel arose between any of the servants, she was always ready to come forward, appease angry passions, and reconcile differences. if, in so doing, she had occasion to speak with what she considered undue severity to one of the parties, she would immediately apologise with tears, and in the humblest manner entreat forgiveness. this extreme sweetness of disposition, however, did not degenerate into weakness; and she could testify the utmost displeasure, and reproved with energy when offences were committed against god. it was intolerable to her that his divine majesty should be insulted in her abode; and she, the gentlest and most unassuming of women, could display on such occasions the greatest firmness. one day, it is recorded, several gentlemen had been dining with lorenzo; and one of them after dinner drew from his pocket a book which contained a treatise on magic. lorenzo took it up, and was examining it with some curiosity, when his wife stole noiselessly behind him, took it out of his hands, and threw it into the fire. nettled by this proceeding, her husband reproached her in rather bitter terms for her incivility to their guest; but she, who was habitually submissive to his least word, only replied that she could not regret the destruction of what might have proved to many an occasion of sin. she inexorably consigned to the flames in the same manner every bad book that came in her way. her tender charity was evinced when any of the inmates of the palace were ill. she was then the affectionate nurse of the sufferers, and spent whole nights by their bedside. nothing ever discouraged or wearied her; the lowest servant in the house was attended to, as if she had been her own mother or sister. more anxious still for their soul's health than their body's, she was known to go out herself alone at night in search of a priest when a sudden case of danger had occurred beneath her roof. her charity was in one instance miraculously rewarded by a direct interposition of providence, in a matter apparently trifling, but on which, humanly speaking, her dear sister vannozza's existence seemed to turn. she was dangerously ill, and had been for days unable to swallow any food; the very sight of it caused her intolerable nausea; and from sheer exhaustion her life was reduced to so low an ebb, that the worst was apprehended. on francesca's inquiring if she could think of any thing which she could imagine it possible to eat, she named a certain fish, which was not in season at that time. the markets were scoured by the servants, but naturally in vain, and they returned empty-handed to the dejected francesca, who, kneeling by the bedside of her friend, betook herself, with arduous faith and childlike simplicity, to prayer. when she raised her head, the much-wished-for article of food was lying before her; and the first morsel of it that vannozza eat restored her to health. she had been about a year at the head of her father-in-law's house, when rome fell under the double scourge of famine and pestilence. the ponziani were immensely rich, and their palace furnished with every kind of provisions. francesca forbade her servants to send away a single poor person without relieving their wants; and not content with this, she sought them out herself, invited them to come to her, and made them continual presents of corn, wine, oil, and clothing. she exhorted them to bear their sufferings with patience, to return to god and to their religious duties, and to strive by fervent prayer to appease the divine wrath, provoked by the crimes of mankind. vannozza and herself were indefatigable in their visits to the hospitals and the out-of-the-way corners of the city. andreazzo ponziano, a good man, but not a saint, was alarmed at the excessive liberality of his daughter-in-law, and feared that it would end in producing a famine in his own house. he began by prudently withdrawing from their hands the key of the granary; and then, for greater security, afraid perhaps of yielding to their entreaties, which he was not accustomed to resist, he took to selling whatever corn he possessed beyond what was required for the daily consumption of the family. nothing, therefore, remained in the corn-loft but a huge heap of straw. the provident old man followed the same plan with his cellar, and sold all the wine it contained, with the exception of one cask, which was reserved for his own and his children's use. meanwhile the scarcity went on increasing every day, and the number of starving wretches in proportion. franceses, unable to meet their demands, and still more incapable of leaving them to perish, braved at last all false shame and repugnance, and resolved with vannozza to go into the streets and beg for the poor. then were seen those two noble and lovely women standing at the doors of the churches, knocking at the gates of the palace, following the rich in the public places, pleading with tears the cause of the sufferers, gladly receiving the abundant alms that were sometimes bestowed upon them, and not less gladly the sneers, the repulses, the insulting words that often fell to their share in these pilgrimages of mercy. at last the famine reached its height. at every side,--on the pavement, in the corners of the streets,--were lying crowds of persons, barely clothed with a few tattered rags, haggard with hunger, wasted with fever, and calling upon death to end their sufferings. it was a grievous, a horrible sight,--one that well-nigh broke the heart of our saint. the moanings of the dying were in her ears; the expression of their ghastly faces haunted her day and night. she would have gladly shed her blood for them, and fed them with her life. a sudden inspiration came over her one day: "come to the corn-loft," she exclaimed, turning to vannozza, and to clara, a favourite and pious servant of theirs; "come with me to the corn-loft; let us see if amongst the straw we may not succeed in finding a few grains of corn for the poor." and on their knees for several hours those patient, loving women sifted the straw, and by dint of labour collected about a measure of corn, which they were bearing away in triumph, when the god who caused the widow's oil not to fail, and made her barrel of meal last through a scarcely more grievous famine, was preparing their reward. lorenzo had entered the granary just as they were carrying off their hard-earned treasure, and, looking about him, beheld in place of the straw which was lying there a moment before, 40 measures of bright yellow corn, so shining and so full, says francesca's earliest biographer, that it seemed as though it had been raised in paradise, and reaped there by angels. in silent astonishment he pointed out to them the miraculous supply, and must have felt in that hour what such virtue as his wife's and his sister's could even in this world win of mercy at god's hands. but corn was not enough; the sick wanted wine. they came, poor pallid ghosts, just risen from their beds of suffering, to beg it of francesca; aged men and delicate children, mothers with infants at their breasts, poor worn-out priests sinking with exhaustion, and yet willing to assist others, they had recourse to her for a little wine to strengthen them in their works of mercy, and she had no wine to give, save out of the single cask in the cellar. she gave it, nevertheless; and day after day drew from it, till not a drop was left. andreazzo, provoked, waxed very wroth; he had never before been angry with francesca, but now he stormed and raved at her; he had been to the cellar to see the wine drawn for that day's use, and not a drop was in the cask. "charity indeed!" he exclaimed, "charity begins at home; a pretty sort of virtue this, which, under the pretext of assisting strangers, introduces penury and privation into the midst of a person's own family." he vented his anger in bitter reproaches; lorenzo and paluzzo were also inclined to take his part, and joined in severely blaming francesca. she the while, with a gentle voice and quiet manner, breathing most probably a secret prayer to her who at the marriage-feast of cana turned to her son and said, "they have no wine," doubtless with an inward assurance that god would befriend her in an extraordinary, but not to her an unprecedented manner, thus addressed them: "do not be angry; let us go to the cellar; may be, through god's mercy, that the cask may be full by this time." they followed her with an involuntary submission; and on reaching the spot, saw her turn the cock of the barrel, out of which there instantly flowed the most exquisite wine, which andreazzo acknowledged to be superior to any he had ever tasted. the venerable old man turned to his daughter-in-law, and, with tears in his eyes, exclaimed, "oh, my dear child, dispose henceforward of every thing i possess, and multiply without end those alms that have gained you such favour in god's sight." the report of this miracle spread far and wide; and, in spite of her humility, francesca did not object to its being divulged, as it testified to the divine virtue of almsgiving, and encouraged the rich to increase their liberality, and minister more abundantly to the suffering members of christ. a kind of religious awe seems to have taken possession of lorenzo's mind, at the sight of so many wonders wrought in his house. the great esteem in which he had always held his wife, now took the form of a profound veneration. he recommended her to follow in every respect the divine inspirations she received, and left her entirely free to order her life and dispose of her time in any way she thought fit. francesca, after consulting with her director, took advantage of this permission to execute what had been her long-cherished desire. selling all her rich dresses, her jewels, and her ornaments, she distributed the money amongst a number of poor families, and from that time forward never wore herself any other gown than one of coarse dark-green cloth. her mortifications became so continual and severe, her fasts so rigid, that it is difficult to conceive how her health could have sustained them without miraculous support, or how she can have found time for all her duties, and the incredible number of good works which she daily performed. when we consider that she was unremitting in her attention to her children, that she was never known to neglect the diligent superintendence of household affairs, that she repeatedly visited the hospitals and the poor sick in their houses, that morning and evening she went to the churches where indulgences were to be gained, recited numerous vocal prayers, often spent hours in contemplation, and in the garden oratory, where with vannozza, clara, and rita celli, a devout young person who was admitted into their intimacy, she read spiritual books or conversed on religious subjects,--our admiration is quickened; for that zeal and strong will could work wonders all but incomprehensible to those who have not put their shoulder to the wheel in good earnest, or learnt to appreciate the priceless value of every minute of this short life. chapter v. the birth of francesca's second son--his supernatural gifts--the birth of her daughter--satanic attacks upon francesca---troubles of rome--francesca's husband is severely wounded--her eldest son, when given up as a hostage to the neapolltans, is miraculously restored to her. francesca had just attained the age of twenty when her second son was born. he was baptised on the day of his birth, and received the name of giovanni evan--gelista. the contemporary biographer, some of whose sayings have been already quoted, mentions of this child that he was endowed with wonderful gifts of grace, and that the love of god was manifested in him even before he could speak. in his quaint language he thus describes him: "evangelista was old in sense, small in body, great in soul, resplendent in beauty, angel-like in all his ways." he might well have been termed, in familiar language, his mother's own child; for in his veriest infancy his only pleasure was to be carried into churches, or to give alms to the needy, especially to the poor religious, for whom he had a special predilection. francesca's delight in this lovely little infant was indescribable. he was to her as one of god's own angels, and tears of joy filled her eyes as she mused on the extraordinary signs of grace which he daily evinced. supernatural had been the mother's virtues, supernatural were the qualities of the child; at the age of three years old he was endowed with the gift of prophecy, and the faculty of reading the un-uttered thoughts of men's hearts. singular instances of this power are on record. he was in his mother's arms one day, when two mendicant friars approached the ponziano palace. instantly stretching out his little hands, evangelista took from francesca the alms she was wont to bestow on such visitors, and held it out to them; but at the same time looking steadfastly at one of the monks, he said to him, "why will you put off this holy habit? you will wear a finer one; but woe to you who forget your vow of poverty." the friar coloured and turned away; but it was soon evident that the words were prophetic, for within a short time, and after obtaining a bishopric through a simoniacal act, the unhappy man died a violent death. that same year, evangelista was in his parent's room one day; and his father taking him up on his knees, was playing with him, and devouring him with kisses. in the midst of his sport, the child turned suddenly pale, and laying hold of a dagger which had been left on the table, he placed the point of it against lorenzo's side, and said to him as he looked up into his face with a strange melancholy smile, "thus will they do to you, my father." and it so happened that at the time of the invasion of rome by the troops of ladislas durazzo, the lord of ponziano was dangerously wounded in the exact place and manner which his little son had pointed out. evangelista was not quite three years old when his little sister agnese was born, who in beauty, heavenly sweetness of temper, and precocious piety, proved the exact counterpart of her brother. soon after her confinement, francesca had a vision which impressed her with the belief that god would one day claim this child as his own. she saw a dove of dazzling whiteness, bearing in its beak a tiny lighted taper, enter the room; and after making two or three circles in the air, it stooped over agnese's cradle, touched her brow and limbs with the taper, gently fluttered its wings, and flew away. looking upon this as a sign that the little maiden would be called to the monastic life, she brought her up as a precious deposit only lent her for a time, and to be delivered up at no distant period. with even stricter care than she had used with her brother, if that were possible, she watched over the little girl; never leaving her for a single moment, and performing towards her the offices of a servant as well as of a mother. she kept her in complete retirement, never taking her out of doors except to church; teaching her to love jesus supremely--better even than her parents--and entertaining her with descriptions of that dear saviour's adorable perfections. she encouraged her to observe silence, to work with her hands at stated times, and taught her to read in the lives of the saints of holy virgins and martyrs. agnese's character and turn of mind answered precisely to her mother's wishes; and the perfection of her conduct was such, that she was generally designated by all who knew her as the little saint or the little angel. the years of evangelista's and agnese's infancy had been most disastrous ones to the unhappy inhabitants of rome. the factions which had arisen in consequence of the schism, and of the intrigues of ladislas of naples, had banished all security, and converted the town into a field of battle, where bloody conflicts were daily taking place. the principles of union seemed banished from the world. the nations and sovereigns of europe, given up to the most selfish policy, ceased to acknowledge the chief pastor of the church; and the eternal city, beyond any other place, had become an arena for ferocious struggles and sanguinary conspiracies. the year 1406 brought with it a momentary semblance of peace, and francesca and vannozza availed themselves of that breathing-time to revisit some of the distant churches, and attend the italians as before. they used to walk to them on foot at the earliest break of day, accompanied by rita celli, the young person already mentioned, and lucia degli aspalli, a devout married woman nearly related to the ponziano family. they repeated psalms and litanies on their way, or spent the time in pious meditation, and remained some hours in prayer before the altars which they visited in turn,--taking care to be at home again by the time that their presence was required. in that troubled epoch the voice of the preacher was seldom heard; sermons, however, were occasionally delivered by the franciscans and the dominicans in the churches of ara coeli and santa maria sopra minerva; and at these our saints never failed to assist. their spiritual guide had given them leave to go to communion several times a week. this was a privilege seldom granted and seldom sought for in those distracted times. the blessed practice of daily communion, which universally prevailed amongst the early christians,--that practice which turns earth into heaven, and converts the land of exile into a paradise of peace and joy,--was all but entirely neglected, or only kept up in some few cloisters. the two sisters habitually communicated in the church of santa cecilia, the nearest to their house. one of the priests of that parish was scandalised at the frequency of their communions, and persuaded himself that it was incredible that young women of their age, and in such a position of life, could possibly be in possession of the requisite dispositions. this unhappy man ventured one day to give franeesca an unconsecrated wafer; god instantly revealed to the saint the sin of the priest, and she informed her director of the fact. don antonio disclosed to the astonished offender the secret which had been confined to his own breast. he confessed his fault with the deepest contrition, implored god's pardon, asked forgiveness of the saint, and received the humiliation as a warning against rash judgments. the warfare which satan was permitted to carry on against francesca became more and more violent at this period of her life. in actual outrages, in terrific visions, in mystical but real sufferings, which afflicted every sense and tortured every nerve, the animosity of the evil spirit evinced itself; and almighty god permitted it, for she was of those chosen through much tribulation to ascend the steep path which is paved with thorns and compassed with darkness, but on which the ray of an unearthly sunshine breaks at times. she was to partake of the miraculous gifts of the saints; to win men's souls through prayer, to read the secrets of their hearts, to see angels walking by her side, to heal diseases by the touch of her hands, and hold the devils at bay, when they thought to injure the bodies of others or wage war with her own spirit. but such heights of glory are not gained without proportionate suffering; the cup of which jesus drank to the dregs in his agony she was to drink of, the baptism of horror with which he was baptised was to be her's also in a measure; and that mysterious weakness, that divine helplessness of his, which allowed satan to carry him, the lord of all, to the pinnacle of the temple or the brow of the mountain, was not unshared by his servant. strange and bewildering were the assaults she endured, but still more wonderful the defeats of the evil one. of her triumph, as of those of her lord, it may be said, "that when the devil left her, then angels came and ministered unto her." strange, that those who believe the history of jesus should turn incredulously away from that of his saints; for did he not expressly say, that what he suffered, they should suffer; that where he had overcome, they would triumph; and that the works that he performed, aye and greater works still, they should accomplish? on one occasion, when on the point of setting out for the basilica of st. peter's, vannozza was violently precipitated down the stairs of the palace by the power of the evil spirit, and fell at her sister's feet, who at that instant heard a voice whispering in her ear, "i would kill thy sister, and drive thee to despair;" but at the same moment an inward revelation bade francesca raise up the prostrate form of her friend, and apply to her bruised limbs an ointment which instantly relieved the pains of her fall. another time our saint was lifted up by the hair of her head, and suspended over a precipice for the space of some minutes; with perfect calmness she called upon jesus, and in a moment found herself in safety within her room. her first act was to cut off her beautiful hair, and, offer it up as a thank-offering to him who had saved her from the hands of the infernal enemy. these are only specimens of the trials of this nature to which francesca was more or less subjected all her life, but to which it will not be necessary again to make more than casual allusion. in the year 1409, when she was about twenty-seven years old, her temporal calamities began. after ladislas of naples, befriended by the enemies of the pope, and in 1408 gained possession of rome by fraudulent means he left behind him as governor of the city the count pietro traja, a rough and brutal soldier, well fitted to serve the fierce passions of his master. he was continually looking out for occasions to persecute those roman nobles who remained faithful to the cause of the church. he was abetted in this by the faction of the colonnas, and some other powerful families, who supported the pretensions of the anti-popes gregory xii. and benedict xiii. against the legitimate pontiff alexander v., recently elected by the council of pisa. the troops of lewis of anjou, the rival of ladislas in the kingdom of naples, had in the mean time entered that portion of rome which went by the name of the leonine city, and gained possession of the vatican and the castle of st. angelo. several skirmishes took place between the forces of the usurper and the troops of the pope and of lewis of anjou. lorenzo ponziano, who from his birth and his talents was the most eminent man of his party, and an ardent supporter of the legitimate cause, commanded the pontifical army on one of these occasions, and was personally engaged in a conflict with the count of traja's soldiers. in the midst of the fray he was recognised by the opposite party, and became the special mark of their attacks. fighting with heroic courage, he had nearly succeeded in dispersing his assailants, when, as evangelista had foretold the year before, a dagger was treacherously thrust into his side, and inflicted so deep a wound that he fell to the ground, and was taken up for dead. the terrible news was carried to the ponziano palace, and announced to francesca. the anguish that her countenance revealed filled the bystanders with compassion; but it was only for an instant that she stood as if transfixed and overwhelmed with grief. repressing by a strong effort her bursting sobs and the cries that were breaking from her heart, she soon raised her eyes to heaven with a steadfast gaze, forgave the assassin, offered up lorenzo's life and her own, and murmured the words of job, "the lord had given him, the lord has taken him away; blessed be the name of the lord." then, calm, composed, braced for endurance, she courageously advanced to meet the slow approach of those who were bringing back to his home the body of her murdered husband. as they laid him in the hall of the palace, she knelt by his side, and putting her face close to his, she discerned in the apparently lifeless form the faint symptoms of lingering vitality. the sudden revulsion of hope did not overcome her presence of mind. she instantly desired those about her to send for a priest and for a doctor; and then, bending over lorenzo, she suggested to him, in words which found their way to the understanding of the dying man, whatever the most affectionate tenderness and the most ardent piety could devise at such a moment,--to prepare the soul for its last flight, pardon for his foes, and especially for his assassin, a firm trust in god, and the union of his sufferings with those of his lord. the palace presented a scene of wild confusion. armed men were moving to and fro; the clash of arms was mingled with the groans of the servants: the weeping and waitings of the women and of the children, vows of vengeance, curses deep and loud, frantic regrets, were heard on every side. francesca alone was as an angel of peace, in the midst of the uproar of passion and the outpouring of grief. her's was the keenest sorrow of all; but it was kept under by the strength of a long-practised faith, and thus it interfered with no duty and staggered at no trial. day and night she watched by lorenzo's couch. her experience in nursing the sick, and in dressing wounds, enabled her to render him the most minute and efficacious assistance. her watchful love, her tender assiduity, received its reward; god gave her that life, far dearer to her than her own. contrary to all expectation, lorenzo slowly recovered; but for a long time remained in a precarious condition. meanwhile the count of traja, pressed on every side, began to foresee the necessity of leaving rome; but, in his exasperation, resolved previously to wreak his vengeance on the families most devoted to the pope, and especially on that of the ponziani, which was especially obnoxious to him. he accordingly arrested paluzzo, vannozza's husband, and kept him in close confinement; and understanding that lorenzo had a son of eight or nine years old, he commanded that he should be given up into his hands as a hostage, and swore that in case of a refusal he would put paluzzo to death. now, indeed, is francesca tried almost beyond the power of endurance: now is her cup of anguish filled to the brim. she can ask counsel of none: lorenzo she dares not consult: it might kill him to hear the fearful truth. others would say, "give up the child;" and she looks at his fair face, at his innocent eyes, at the purity of his spotless brow; and she cannot, she will not, she must not give him up. oh, that she had the wings of a dove to fly away and carry him hence! she takes him by the hand, and, like a second hagar, goes forth, whither she knows not. it is an instinct, an impulse, an inspiration. it is the mother's heart within her that bids her fly from the horrible dilemma, and save her child from the tyrant who seeks more than his life,--who would ruin his soul. through out-of-the-way streets, into the deserted corners of the city she goes, clasping the boy's hand with an agonising grasp, with but one thought--to hide him from every eye. suddenly she stops short; before her stands don antonio, her long-trusted director, who has led her through the green pastures in which her spirit has found rest. he questions her, and hears the incoherent account of her fears, her anguish, and her flight. by a supernatural light he sees the drift of this trial, and puts her faith to the test. "francesca," he said, "you fly to save the child; god bids me tell you that it is to the capitol you must carry him--there lies his safety; and do you go to the church of ara cceli." a fierce struggle rose in francesca's heart--the greatest storm that had ever convulsed it. "to the capitol!" she is about to cry. "it is at the capitol that the tyrant awaits him!" but ere the words are uttered, they die away on her lips. grace has gained the mastery; the faith of the saint has asserted its power. the wild expression passes away from her eyes; she bows her head in silence, and with a firm step retraces her steps, in obedience to him who has spoken in god's name. in the mean time the report of the event had spread through rome, and in the more crowded streets which she had to pass through a cry of pity and of terror arose. crowds press about her, and bid her turn back; they tell her she is mad to surrender the child, they try to take him from her, and to carry him back by force to his father's palace; but in vain. she waves them off, and pursues her way till she has reached the capitol. she walked straight up to the place where the neapolitan tyrant was standing, and surrendered up the boy to him; and then, without once looking back, she hurried into the church of ara coeli, fell prostrate at the feet of the mother of mercy, and before that sacred image, dear to this day to every catholic parent, she made the sacrifice of her child, of her life, of her soul, of all that in that hour she had felt to give up. then, for the first time, a torrent of tears relieved her tight-bound heart; and gazing on the picture, she saw the dove-like eyes of the blessed virgin assume the tenderest and most encouraging expression, and in her ears were whispered words welcome as the dew to the thirsty ground; sweet as the notes of the bird when the storm has subsided: "be not afraid; i am here to befriend you." she was at peace; she felt sure that her son was safe; and on her knees, in speechless prayer, she waited the event. nor did she wait long. when she had left the count of traja's presence, he had ordered one of his officers to take the little baptista on his horse, and carry him away to a place he appointed; but, from the instant that the child was placed on the saddle, no efforts could induce the animal to stir from the spot. in vain his rider urged him with spurs and whip: neither the severest blows, nor the accustomed voice of his master, succeeded in moving him an inch from the place, where he stood as motionless as a statue. four of the knights of naples renewed the attempt. four successive steeds were tried for the purpose, and always with the same result. there is a strength greater than man's will; there is a power that defeats human malice. struck with a secret terror and dismay by the evident prodigy, the count of traja gave up the unequal contest, and ordered the child to be restored to his mother. before the altar of the ara coeli, at the foot of that image, where in her anguish she had fallen and found hope when hope seemed at end, francesca received back into her arms the son of her love, and blessed the god who had given her strength to go through this the severest of her trials. chapter vi. sufferings of rome from the troops of ladislas--death of francesca's son evangelista--the famine and plague in rome--francesca's labours for the starvlng and sick--her miracles. pope alexander v. died at bologna in 1410. sixteen cardinals assembled in that city, and chose for his successor balthazar cossa, who took the name of john xxiii. while they were proceeding with the election, ladislas seized the opportunity of the interregnum once more to advance upon rome; and from veletri he threatened it with a second invasion. the new pope renewing the alliance with lewis of anjou, they combined their forces against ladislas, and endeavoured to drive him back from the position he had taken. their arms proved successful in a first battle; but lewis having withdrawn his troops immediately after the victory, ladislas deceived the holy father by a pretended peace, gained possession of rome, and gave it up to pillage. the horrors of this invasion, and of the sack that followed it, surpassed in atrocity almost all those which had previously afflicted the capital of the christian world. a number of palaces and houses were destroyed, the basilicas were despoiled of their treasures and desecrated by the most abominable orgies, the churches turned into stables, and many of the faithful adherents of the church subjected to the torture or barbarously put to death. the ponziani were amongst the principal of the pope's supporters; and lorenzo, scarcely recovered from his long illness, was persuaded by his friends to withdraw himself by flight from the fury of the conqueror, and conceal himself in a distant province. it had been impossible to remove his wife and children; and francesca remained exposed to a succession of the most trying disasters. the wealth of the family chiefly consisted in their country possessions, and the immense number of cattle which were bred on those broad lands; and day after day intelligence was brought to her that one farm-house or another was burnt or pillaged, the flocks dispersed or destroyed, and the shepherds murdered by a ruthless soldiery. terrified peasants made their escape into the city, and scared the inhabitants of the palace with dreadful accounts of the death of their companions, and of the destruction of property which was continually going on. a cry of despair rang from mount soracte to the alban hill, extended to the shores of the mediterranean, and resounded in the palaces of rome, carrying dismay to the hearts of its ruined and broken-spirited nobles. francesca received the tidings with an aching heart indeed; for her compassion for the sufferings of others did not permit her to remain unmoved amidst such dire misfortunes. still she never lost her habitual composure; her only occupation was to console the mourners: her first impulse on these occasions to bless god, and accept at his hands all that his providence ordained. it was well that she was resigned, and had learned the lesson of courage at the foot of the cross; for, like a flood at spring-tide, her afflictions were increasing every day, threatening to overwhelm all landmarks but those of an indomitable faith. one fatal morning, a troop of savage ruffians, drunk with rage, and vociferating blasphemies, broke into the palace, clamouring after lorenzo, and threatening to torture the servants if they did not instantly reveal his place of concealment; and ended by carrying away baptista, who clung in vain to his mother's neck, and was only parted from her by force. when they had succeeded in tearing him away from her arms, they proceeded to pillage, and all but to destroy, the time-honoured residence of the ponziani. in the space of a few hours that gorgeous abode was turned into a heap of ruins. bereft of her husband, of her son, and of all the conveniences of life, francesca, with her two younger children, remained alone and unprotected; for her brother-in-law, paluzzo, who might have been a support to her in that dreadful moment, was still a prisoner in the tyrant's hands, and her innocent boy shared the same fate. it is not exactly known how long his captivity lasted; but it may be supposed that means were found of effecting his release, and sending him to lorenzo; for it is mentioned that, at the period when the troubles were at an end, and peace restored to the city of rome, the father and the son returned together. in the mean time, francesca took shelter in a corner of her ruined habitation; and there, with evangelista and agnese, she managed to live in the most complete seclusion. these two children were now their mother's only comfort, as their education was her principal occupation. evangelista, as he advanced in age, in no way belied the promise of his infancy. he lived in spirit with the angels and saints, and seemed more fitted for their society than for any earthly companionship. "to be with god" was his only dream of bliss. though scarcely nine years old, he already helped his mother in all the pains she took with agnese's education the hour for another sacrifice was, however, at hand. it was not long delayed. the second invasion of rome had been succeeded by a dreadful famine, which was followed in its turn by a severe pestilence. already one or two cases of the prevailing epidemic had appeared in the ponziano palace, and then evangelista sickened with it; and one morning francesca was told that the son of her love was dying. no sooner had he felt the first symptoms of the plague, than he asked for a confessor. he never doubted that his last hour was come; and she believed it too. don antonio hurried to the bed-side of the boy, who, after he had made his confession, sent for his mother, and taking her hand in his, addressed her in some such words as follow: "mother mine, i have often told you that god would not leave me with you long; that he will have me dwell with his angels. jesus is my treasure, my hope, and my joy. i have ever lived with him in thought, in desire, in unutterable longings. every day i have said 'thy kingdom come;' and now he calls me to it. there is a crown prepared for me, my beloved mother. the lord is about to give it me, and we must part for awhile. but bless his name, oh my mother. praise him with me; for he delivers me from all that your love dreaded for me upon earth. there is no sin, no sorrow, no sickness where i am going. nothing but peace and joy and the sight of god in that better land where the blessed are expecting me. i must not see you weep. i will not have you grieve. rejoice with your child; for i see them even now, my holy advocates, st. anthony and st. vauplerius. they are coming to fetch me away. dearest mother, i will pray for you. evangelista will love you in heaven as he has loved you on earth, and you will come to him there." the dying boy then remained silent for a few moments. then a sudden light illumined his face; his features seemed transformed. raising his eyes with a look of rapture, he exclaimed, "here are the angels come to take me away. give me your blessing, my mother. do not be afraid. i shall never forget you. god bless you and my dear father, and all who belong to this house. blessed be the name of the lord." then crossing his little arms on his chest, he bowed down his head, a last smile passed over his face--"she had her meed, that smile in death," and his young spirit passed to the regions of endless bliss. a touching prodigy, well adapted to cheer the heart of our saint, took place that very day in a house adjoining her own. a little girl, who had been dangerously ill for a long time, and had completely lost the power of speech, at the very moment that francesca's son had expired suddenly raised herself in her bed, and exclaimed several times in a loud voice, and in a state of evident rapture, "see, see! how beautiful! evangelista ponziano is going up into heaven, and two angels with him!" the mortal remains of the young boy were deposited in the family vault in the church of santa cecilia, in trastevere. a monument was erected there with the simple inscription, "here lies evangelista ponziano;" and a figure in stone, clothed in a long robe, was carved upon it. francesca wept over the loss of her dearly-beloved child, but did not grieve for him. how could she have done so? he was in bliss; and had only preceded her to that heaven for which she was day by day preparing. nor was it a time for the idle indulgence of sorrow. want and sickness were turning rome into a charnel-house. wild voices were screaming for bread on every side. the streets were encumbered by the victims of contagious disease; their frantic cries and piteous moanings re-echoed in each piazza and under every portico. old men were dying surrounded by the corpses of their children; mothers pressed to their milkless bosoms their starving infants. others crept about bereft of all their family, and haunting like pale ghosts the scenes of their past happiness. no carriages shook the public ways. the grass grew in the deserted streets; one mournful equipage alone slowly pursued its course through the doomed city, gathering as it passed the dead at every door; and when the dreadful cargo was completed, bearing it away to the crowded cemetery. the ruin of private property, the general penury occasioned by the cruelties of ladislas, and the sacking of rome by his soldiers, had cut off almost all the resources of private charity. anxiety for self, and the fear of contagion, had worked so deeply on the mind of the multitude, that many persons abandoned even their near relatives and friends when they were attacked by the plague. nothing but the charity which is of divine not of natural origin could meet such an emergency, or cope in any degree with the awful misery of those days. francesca, bereaved of every thing but her one little girl, and lodged with vannozza and rita in a corner of their dismantled house, had no longer at her command the resources she had formerly possessed for the relief of the poor. a little food from their ruined estates was now and then supplied to these lonely women; and they scarcely partook of it themselves, in order to bestow the greatest part on the sick and poor. there was a large hall in the lower part of the palace which had been less injured than any other portion of the building. it was at least a place of shelter against the inclemencies of the weather. the sisters converted it into a temporary hospital; but of the shattered furniture that lay scattered about the house, they contrived to make up beds and covering, and to prepare some clothing for the wretched creatures they were about to receive. when all was ready, they went in search of the sufferers. if they found any too weak to walk, they carried them into the new asylum; there they washed and dressed their putrefying sores, and by means which saints have often employed, and which we could hardly bear even to think of, they conquered in themselves all repugnance to sights and employments against which the senses and the flesh rise in rebellion. they prepared both medicine and food; watched the sick by day and by night; laboured incessantly for their bodies, and still more for their souls. many were those who recovered health through francesca's care, and many more who were healed of the worst disease of the soul,--a hardened impenitence under the just judgment of god. she had the art of awakening their fears, without driving them to despair; to make them look upon their sufferings as a means of expiation (that great secret of catholic consolation), and bring them by degrees to repentance, to confession, to the practice of long-forgotten duties, and of those christian virtues which her own example recommended to their hearts. the example which the ruined and bereaved wives of the ponziani had given kindled a similar spirit among the hitherto apathetic inhabitants of rome. the magistrates of the city, struck at the sight of such unparalleled exertions where the means were so slender, were roused from their inaction, and in several parts of the city, especially in the parishes of st. cecilia and of santa maria in trastevere, hospitals and asylums were opened for the perishing multitudes. often and often francesca and vannozza saw the morning dawn, and not a bit of food of any description did they possess for themselves or for their inmates. they then went out to beg, as they had done before; but not merely as an act of humility, nor dressed as heretofore as became their rank, or in those places only where their names secured respect, and generally a favourable answer; but in the garb of poverty, in the spots where beggars were wont to congregate and the rich to bestow alms, they took their stand, and gratefully received the broken bits that fell from the tables of the wealthy. each remnant of food, each rag of clothing, they brought home with joy; and the mouldiest piece of bread out of their bag was set aside for their own nourishment, while the best was bestowed on their guests. in our own time, in our own rich and luxurious city, there is a counterpart to these deeds of heroic charity. there are young and well-educated women, who in their homes never lacked the necessaries or the comforts, nay perhaps the luxuries of life, who do the same; who receive into their abode the aged, the maimed, the crippled, and the deformed; lodging them in their best rooms, and themselves in cellars or garrets; tending them as their servants, and feeding them as their mothers; begging for them from door to door the crumbs from the tables of the rich, and carrying along their basket, rejoicing when it is heavy, even though their arms ache and their cheeks grow pale with the labour; like francesca, feeding upon the remnants of the poor feast where the poor have sat before them. francesca was insulted in her career of mercy through the streets of rome, when civil war and anarchy were raging there in the wildest epoch of lawless strife and fiercest passion; and the gentle sisters of the poor, the servants of the helpless, who have abandoned home and friends and comforts, and, above all, _respectability_, that idol of the english mind, that wretched counterfeit of virtue, for the love which they bear to christ in his suffering members, have been insulted and beaten in the streets of london in the face of day, and only because of the habit they wore,--the badge of no common vocation,--the nun's black dress, the livery of the poor. the parallel is consoling to them, perhaps also to us; for is not francesca now the cherished saint of rome, the pride and the love of every roman heart? and may not the day come when our patient, heroic nuns will be looked upon as one of god's best blessings, in a city where luxury runs riot on the one hand, and starvation and misery reign on the other? will not the eye follow them with love, and many rise up to call them blessed? their course is like hers; may their end be the same! the historians of our saint relate that on one of the occasions above alluded to, when her only resource was to beg for her sick charges, she went to the basilica of san lorenzo without the walls, where was the station of the day, and seated herself amongst the crowd of beggars who, according to custom, were there assembled. from the rising of the sun to the ringing of the vesper-bell, she sat there side by side with the lame, the deformed, and the blind. she held out her hand as they did, gladly enduring, not the semblance, but the reality of that deep humiliation. when she had received enough wherewith to feed the poor at home, she rose, and making a sign to her companions, entered the old basilica, adored the blessed sacrament, and then walked back the long and weary way, blessing god all the while, and rejoicing that she was counted worthy to suffer for his dear sake. those who are well acquainted with rome, who have frequented the stations and love the basilicas, and especially that venerable old pile of san lorenzo, with its upper and lower chapel, its magnificent columns, its beautiful pulpit, its wide portico with half-effaced frescoes, and its rare mosaics--those paintings in stone which time itself cannot destroy; those whose eyes have gazed with delight on the glorious view as they approached it, and whose ears are familiar with the sound of the mendicant's voice, to whom the remembrance of francesca's story may have won, perchance, an additional dole,--can form to themselves with ease a picture of the scene; and when they visit it again in reality, may be tempted to look out for some saintly face, for some sweet, angel-like countenance, amongst the sordid and suffering groups before them, and wonder if ever again such charity as francesca's will animate a woman's heart. not long ago, for a few short years, in francesca's city, there was one who bade fair to emulate the virtues of the dear saint of rome; but as she was rapidly treading in her footsteps, and her name was becoming every day more dear to the people amongst whom she dwelt, death snatched her away. her memory remains, and the poor bless it even now. may god grant us such in our own land! saints are sorely needed in these busy, restless, money-loving times of ours; as much as, or more than, in the wild middle ages, or the troubled centuries that followed. francesca possessed a small vineyard near the church of st. paul without the walls; and in that time of scarcity, when every little resource had to be turned to account for the purposes of charity, she used to go there and gather up into parcels and faggots the long grass and the dry branches of the vines. when she had collected a certain number of these packets, she laid them on an ass, and went through the town, stopping at various poor dwellings to distribute the fruits of her labours. on one of these occasions her donkey stumbled and fell, and the wood which he was carrying rolled to a considerable distance. francesca was looking about her in considerable embarrassment, not able to lift it up again, when a roman nobleman, paolo lelli petrucci, a friend of her husband's, chanced to pass by. astonished at seeing her in such a predicament, he hastened to her assistance; and she received it with as much serenity and composure as if her occupation had been the most natural thing in the world. by this time her virtues were destined to receive a wonderful reward, and god bestowed upon her the gift of healing to a miraculous degree. many a sick person given over by the physicians was restored to health by the single touch of her hands, or the prayers which she offered up in their behalf. more than sixty of these cases were well attested at the time of her canonisation. francesca was profoundly sensible of the blessedness of this gift, and grateful for the power it afforded her of relieving the sufferings of others; but at the same time her humility prompted her to conceal it as much as possible. she endeavoured to do so by making up an ointment composed of oil and wax, which she applied to the sick, whatever their disease might be, in the hope that their recovery would always be ascribed to its efficacy. but this holy subterfuge did not always succeed. the physicians analysed the ointment, and declared that it possessed in itself no healing qualities whatsoever. one day, upon entering the hospital of the trastevere, francesca found a poor mule-driver, who had just been carried in, his foot having been crushed by the fall of a scythe; it was in such a horrible and hopeless condition, that the surgeons were about to amputate the limb. francesca, hearing the cries of the poor wretch, bent over him, exhorting him to patience; and promising him a speedy relief, applied some of her ointment to his mangled foot. the wounds instantly closed, the pain vanished, and a short time after the mule-driver returned to his customary occupation. some days afterwards, the two sisters were returning home from the basilica of st. john lateran; and passing by the bridge of santa maria, now the ponte rotto, (the very ancient little church opposite to the temple of vesta), they saw extended on the pavement a man whose arm had been severed by a sword-cut; and unable to procure medical assistance, the poor wretch had lain there ever since in excruciating tortures, which had reduced him to the last extremity. francesca, full of compassion for his miserable condition, carried him with vannozza's aid into her house, put him in a warm bath, cleansed his wound with the greatest care, and dressed it with her ointment. in a short time, and without any medical assistance, the severed limb was restored to its usual position, and a complete recovery ensued. the bowl in which san francesca compounded this miraculous remedy is preserved in the convent of tor di specchi. during the novena of the saint, when the doors are thrown open to crowds of devout persons, it stands on a table in the entrance-chamber, and is daily filled by the nuns with fresh sweet-smelling flowers--violets, primroses, anemones, and the like. the visitor may bear away with him some of these fragrant remembrances, and cherish them for her sake, the odour of whose virtues will last as long as the seasons return, and the spring brings back to our gladdened sight those "sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, bathed with soft airs and fed with dew." a still more wonderful miracle than these occurred about this time. francesca and her faithful companion vannozza had been visiting several churches in that part of rome which goes by the name of the rioue de monti. passing before a mean-looking dwelling, they heard the most heart-rending sobs and cries. stopping to inquire into the cause of this despair, they found a mother frantically weeping over the body of a child, who had died a few hours after its birth without having received baptism. francesca gently reproved the woman for the delay which had endangered her son's salvation; then, taking the little corpse into her arms, she uttered a fervent prayer, and in a moment gave back the baby to its mother, fully restored to life and health. she desired her to have it instantly baptised, and then made her escape, trusting that she should remain undiscovered; and indeed the woman whose child she had been the means of saving had never seen her, and wondered awhile if an angel had visited her in disguise; but the description of her dress, and the miracle she had worked, convinced all who heard of it that the visitor was no other than the wife of lorenzo ponziano. compassionate to others, francesca was mercilessly severe to herself; her austerities kept pace with her increasing sanctity. she was enabled to carry on a mode of life which must have ruined her health had it not been miraculously sustained. she slept only for two hours, and that on a narrow plank covered with nothing but a bit of rough carpet. the continual warfare which she waged against her body brought it more and more into subjection to the spirit; and her senses were under such perfect control, that natural repugnances vanished, and the superior part of the soul reigned supremely over the meaner instincts and inclinations of the flesh. such was her spiritual proficiency at the early age of twenty-nine. chapter vii. evangelista appears to his mother-an archangel is assigned to her as a visible guardian throughout her life, evangelista had been dead about a year. his image was ever present to his mother's heart; she saw him in spirit at the feet of his lord. never, even in her inmost soul, was she conscious of a wish to recall him from the heaven he had reached to the earthly home which he had left desolate; but not for one moment could she forget the child of her love, or cease to invoke him as a celestial guardian akin to those who had so long hovered about her path. her faith and resignation were richly rewarded. god gave her a sight of her child in heaven, and he was sent to announce to her one of the most extraordinary favours that was ever vouchsafed to a daughter of adam. francesca was praying one morning in her oratory, when she became conscious that the little room was suddenly illuminated in a supernatural manner; a mysterious light shone on every side, and its radiance seemed to pervade not only her outward senses, but the inmost depths of her being, and to awaken in her soul a strange sensation of joy. she raised her eyes, and evangelista stood before her; his familiar aspect unchanged, but his features transfigured and beaming with ineffable splendour. by his side was another of the same size and height as himself, but more beautiful still. francesca's lips move, but in vain she seeks to articulate; the joy and the terror of that moment are too intense. her son draws near to her, and with an angelic expression of love and respect he bows down his head and salutes her. then the mother's feelings predominate; she forgets every thing but his presence, and opens her arms to him; but it is no earthly form that she encloses within them, and the glorified body escapes her grasp. and now she gains courage and addresses him,--in broken accents indeed, but with trembling eagerness. "is it you, indeed? (she cries) o son of my heart! whence do you come? who are your companions? what your abode? angel of god, hast thou thought of thy mother, of thy poor father? amidst the joys of paradise hast thou remembered earth and its sufferings?" evangelista looked up to heaven with an unutterable expression of peace and of joy; and then, fixing his eyes on his mother, he said, "my abode is with god; my companions are the angels; our sole occupation the contemplation of the divine perfections,--the endless source of all happiness. eternally united with god, we have no will but his; and our peace is as complete as his being is infinite. he is himself our joy, and that joy knows no limits. there are nine choirs of angels in heaven, and the higher orders of angelic spirits instruct in the divine mysteries the less exalted intelligences. if you wish to know my place amongst them, my mother, learn that god, of his great goodness, has appointed it in the second choir of angels, and the first hierarchy of archangels. this my companion is higher than i am in rank, as he is more bright and fair in aspect. the divine majesty has assigned him to you as a guardian during the remainder of your earthly pilgrimage. night and day by your side, he will assist you in every way. never amidst the joys of paradise have i for an instant forgotten you, or any of my loved ones on earth. i knew you were resigned; but i also knew that your heart would rejoice at beholding me once more, and god has permitted that i should thus gladden your eyes. but i have a message for you, my mother. god asks for agnese: she may not tarry long with you; her place is ready in the new jerusalem. be of good comfort, nay, rather rejoice that your children are safely housed in heaven." evangelista communed a short while longer with his mother, and then, bidding her tenderly farewell, disappeared; but the archangel remained, and to the day of her death was ever present to her sight. she now understood the sense of the vision that had been sent her at the time of agnese's birth. it was not for the cloister, but for heaven itself, that god claimed her young daughter; and during the few remaining days of her earthly life she waited upon her with a tenderness mingled with veneration; looking upon her as one who scarcely belonged to the rough world she was so soon to leave. and the chosen child of god, the little maiden on whom the mystic dove had rested in its flight, soon drooped like a flower in an ungenial air,--soon gave her fond mother a last kiss and a last smile; and then her gentle spirit went to seek her brother's kindred soul. they were buried together; and the day was now come for francesca, when earthly happiness altogether vanishes, when life has its duties but has lost all its joys,--and then, what a lesson is in the story! god's angel henceforward stands visibly by her side, and never leaves her! when evangelista had parted from his mother, she had fallen prostrate on the ground, and blessed god for his great mercy to her, the most worthless of sinners, for such she deemed herself; and then, turning to the angel, who stood near her, she implored him to be her guide and director; to point out the way she was to tread; to combat with her against satan and his ministers; and to teach her every day to become more like in spirit to his and her lord. when she left the oratory, the archangel followed her, and, enveloped in a halo of light, remained always visible to her, though imperceptible to others. the radiance that surrounded him was so dazzling, that she could seldom look upon him with a fixed gaze. at night, and in the most profound darkness, she could always write and read by the light of that supernatural brightness. sometimes, however, when in prayer, or in conference with her director, or engaged in struggles with the evil one, she was enabled to see his form with perfect distinctness, and by don antonio's orders thus described him:--"his stature," she said, "is that of a child of about nine years old; his aspect full of sweetness and majesty; his eyes generally turned towards heaven: words cannot describe the divine purity of that gaze. his brow is always serene; his glances kindle in the soul the flame of ardent devotion. when i look upon him, i understand the glory of the angelic nature, and the degraded condition of our own. he wears a long shining robe, and over it a tunic, either as white as the lilies of the field, or of the colour of a red rose, or of the hue of the sky when it is most deeply blue. when he walks by my side, his feet are never soiled by the mud of the streets or the dust of the road." francesca's conduct was now directed in the most infallible manner. by a special privilege, a companion had been assigned to her from the heavenly hierarchy; and if she committed any faults, error could not now be pleaded in excuse. her actions, her words, and her thoughts, were to be ever on a par with those of the sinless being who was to be her guide throughout her earthly pilgrimage. it was an awful responsibility, a startling favour; but trusting in god's grace, though fully aware of her own weakness, she did not shrink from the task. her greatest wish had always been to attain a perfect conformity with the divine will, and now this mysterious guidance furnished her with the means of knowing that will in its minutest details. in her struggles with the evil one, the archangel became her shield of defence; the rays of light which darted from his brow sent the demons howling on their way. thus protected, she feared neither the wiles nor the violence of satan. the presence of her heavenly guide was also to francesca a mirror, in which she could see reflected every imperfection of her fallen, though to a great extent renewed, nature. much as she had discerned, even from her earliest childhood, of the innate corruption of her heart, yet she often told her director, that it was only since she had been continually in the presence of an angelic companion that she had realised its amount. so that this divine favour, far from exalting her in her own eyes, served to maintain her in the deepest humility. when she committed the slightest fault, the angel seemed to disappear; and it was only after she had carefully examined her conscience, discovered her failing, lamented and humbly confessed it, that he returned. on the other hand, when she was only disturbed by a doubt or a scruple, he was wont to bestow on her a kind look, which dissipated at once her uneasiness. when he spoke, she used to see his lips move; and a voice of indescribable sweetness, but which seemed to come from a distance, reached her ears. his guidance enlightened her chiefly with regard to the difficulty she felt in submitting to certain cares and obligations which belonged to her position as mistress and head of a family. she was apt to imagine that the hours thus employed were lost in god's sight; but her celestial guardian corrected her judgment on this point, and taught her to discern the divine will in every little irksome worldly duty, in every trifling contradiction, as well as in great trials and on important occasions. the light of the angelic presence gave her also a marvellous insight into the thoughts of others. their sins, their errors, their evil inclinations, were supernaturally revealed to her, and often caused her the keenest sorrow. she was enabled through this gift to bring back to god many a wandering soul, to frustrate bad designs, and reconcile the most inveterate enemies. francesca used sometimes, to say to don antonio, when she requested his permission for some additional austerities which he hesitated in granting, "be not afraid, father; the archangel will not allow me to proceed too far in that course. he always checks me when i am tempted to transgress the bounds of prudence." and don antonio believed it, for his penitent always spoke the exact truth; and in the miraculous manner in which she over and over again read his most secret thoughts, and manifested them to him, he had a pledge of her veracity, as well as of her extraordinary sanctity. chapter viii. francesca's illness and recovery--her vision of hell--restoration of tranquillity iii rome--return of francesca's husband--her power in converting sinners. four long years had elapsed, during which rome had been given up to dissensions and civil discord, while epidemics of various kinds were continually succeeding each other, and carrying off many of its inhabitants. at the opening of the year 1414, sigismund, king of the romans, and john xxiii., had agreed to convene a council at constance; and the faithful were beginning to cherish a hope that the schism which had so long desolated the church might be drawing to a close. but this distant prospect of relief was not sufficient to counterbalance the actual sufferings of the moment; and francesca beheld with ever-increasing pain the amount of sin and of misery which filled the city of her birth. her exertions, her labours, her bodily and mental trials, told at last upon her enfeebled frame, and about this time she fell dangerously ill. almost all her acquaintances, and even her own family, fled from her, terrified, it would seem, by the idea of contagion. vannozza alone remained, and never left her bed-side. some there were who came to visit, but not for the purpose of consoling her; on the contrary, it was to reproach the dying saint with what they called her absurd infatuation, which had introduced the plague into her abode, and endangered her own life, for the sake of a set of worthless wretches. she listened with her accustomed gentleness, without attempting to defend herself from the charge. her soul was perfectly at peace; she could joyfully accept the death that now appeared inevitable; she could thank god earnestly that the struggle was past, and evangelista and agnese safely lodged in his arms. she looked forward to a speedy reunion with these beloved ones; and marked the progress of her disease as the prisoner watches the process by which his chains are riven. a few words or love and faith she now and then whispered to vannozza; at other times she remained absorbed in divine contemplation. overshadowed by an angel's wing, calm in the midst of severe suffering, she performed her habitual devotions in as far as her strength permitted, and only gave up painful penances by the express order of her director. she who had healed so many sick persons cared not to be healed herself. it was not, however, god's will that she should die so soon. after passing several months in prolonged sufferings, her health was suddenly restored. it was at this period of her life that she had the awful and detailed visions of hell which have remained on record, and in which many salutary and fearful lessons are conveyed. she was rapt in spirit, and carried through the realms of endless woe. what was once chosen by the genius of man as a theme for its highest poetic effort--a journey through "the mournful city, amongst that lost people" [footnote: per me si va nella cittá dolente, per me si va tra la perduta gente."--dante.] --was given to the saint in mystic trance to accomplish. an angel led her through these terrific scenes; and an intuitive perception was given to her of the various sufferings of the condemned souls. so deep was the impression which this tremendous vision left on francesca's soul, that never afterwards, as long as she lived, could she speak of it without tears and trembling; and she would often emphatically warn those persons who, trusting too implicitly to god's mercy, forgot in their reckless security the terrors of his justice. some of the fresco paintings in the convent of tor di specchi represent this vision, and are visible to this day. the pope john xxiii., and sigismund, king of the romans, had at last succeeded in forming a league, with the object of delivering italy from the intolerable yoke of ladislas, king of naples. this tyrant had assembled a numerous army, and was marching upon bologna; but the measure of his iniquities was now full, and the hand of death arrested him on his way. an illness, occasioned by his incredible excesses, seized him between nurni and perugia, and he died on the 5th of august, 1414. the sovereign pontiff, free from the terrors which this fierce usurper had inspired, and yielding to the importunities of the cardinal, set out for constance, where he was to meet the emperor sigismund. this same council of constance was eventually to be the means of making void his election, and of ending the great schism of the west, by placing in the chair of st. peter the illustrious pontiff martin v. the death of ladislas restored peace to the states of the church, and in particular to the city of rome. with the cessation of civil broils the famine disappeared; and with it the grievous pestilence that had so long accompanied it. the fields were cultivated once more; the peasants gradually returned to their farms; the flocks grazed unmolested in the green pastures of the campagna; and the whilom deserted provinces smiled again under the influence of returning prosperity. the sufferings of the ponziani were also at an end. they were recalled from banishment, and their property was restored. lorenzo and his son--now his only son--baptista. returned to their home, and to the wife and mother they had so longed to behold again. but mixed with sorrow was the cup of joy which that hour seemed to offer. lorenzo, who a few years back was in the prime of life--strong, healthy, and energetic,--he who had met every foe and every trial without shrinking, was now broken by long sufferings; aged more through exile and grief than through years. we are told that when he entered his palace and looked upon his wife, deep sobs shook his breast, and he burst into an agony of tears. the two beautiful children which he had left by her side, where were they? gone! never to gladden his eyes again, or make music in his home by the sound of their sweet voices. and francesca herself, pale with recent illness, spent with ceaseless labours, she stood before him the perfect picture of a woman and a saint, with the divine expression of her beloved face unchanged; but how changed in form, in bloom, in brightness, in every thing but that beauty which holiness gives and time cannot efface! long and bitterly he wept, and francesca gently consoled him. she told him how evangelista had appeared to her; how their children were only gone before them, companions now of those angels they had so resembled upon earth. she whispered to him that one of these was ever at her side; and when he looked upon her, and remembered all she had been to him, doubtless he found it easy to believe. taught by adversity, more than ever influenced by his admirable wife, lorenzo henceforward adopted a more thoroughly christian mode of life than he had hitherto followed. not content with praising her virtues, he sought to imitate them, and practised all the duties of religion with the utmost strictness. on one point alone his conduct was inconsistent with the principles he professed, and this was, while it lasted, a source of keen anxiety to francesca. there was a roman nobleman who, several years before, had grievously offended the lord of ponziano, and with whom he absolutely refused to be reconciled. this had formerly been, and was again after his return, an occasion of scandal to many. the more eminent were his virtues, the higher his religious profession, the more glaring appeared such an evident inconsistency. francesca herself was blamed for it; and people used to wonder that she who was so often successful in reconciling strangers and promoting peace in families, had not the power of allaying an enmity discreditable to her husband and at variance with the dictates of religion. at last, however, by dint of patience and gentleness, she accomplished what had seemed for a long time a hopeless endeavour. the hearts of both parties were touched with remorse. lorenzo, who was the aggrieved party, granted his enemy a full and free pardon, and a perfect reconciliation ensued. this triumph over himself on the one point where the stubborn natural will had so long held out, resulted, as is almost always the case, in a rapid advance towards perfection. lorenzo, from this time forth, withdrew more and more from public life, refused those posts of honour and of responsibility which a friendly government pressed upon him, and surrendered himself almost entirely to the duties and exercises of a strictly religious life. in his conversations with his wife, he daily gained a deeper insight into the secrets of the spiritual life. far from complaining of the amount of money which she spent in charity, of the existence of an hospital within the walls of his palace, of her various and laborious works of mercy, or of the length of time which she spent in prayer, he renewed his request that she would, in every respect, follow what seemed to her the will of god, and the most perfect manner of life. francesca gratefully complied with this his desire. she watched more strictly than ever over the conduct of those committed to her charge, and recommended to them by her example even more than by her precepts an exact observance of the commandments of god and of the church. what money was exclusively her own, she regularly divided into two parts: with one-half she bought food for the poor, with the other clothing and medicine for the sick. her own dress cost her next to nothing; she continued to wear her old green gown patched-up with any odd bits of cloth that fell in her way. almost every day she went to her vineyard and gathered wood for the faggots which she gave away on her return. her relations, her friends, and even her servants, were annoyed at her employing herself in such labour, and bitterly complained of the humiliation it occasioned them to meet her so meanly dressed and so meanly occupied. lorenzo did not share those feelings; on the contrary, he used to look upon her on these occasions with an increase of affection and veneration; and supported by his approval, by the approbation of her director, and the dictates of her own conscience, she cared little for the comments of others. the kind of apostolate which by this time she exercised in rome was very remarkable; and her power over men's minds and hearts scarcely short of miraculous. there was a subduing charm, an irresistible influence in her words and in her manner, which told on every variety of persons. the expression of her countenance, the tones of her voice, her mere presence, worked wonders in effecting conversions, and in animating to virtue those whom she approached. her gift of reading the thoughts of others, which had increased ever since the archangel had become her companion, enabled her in several instances to bring about conversions, several of which are related at length by her biographers. amongst them was that of a young woman who was lying dangerously ill in one of the hospitals of the city. francesca had been distributing food to the sick, and was then attending the death-bed of a young man, who was about to receive the last sacraments, when a piercing cry from one of the adjoining wards reached her ears. she hastened to the spot, and found a young woman stretched on one of the narrow beds, and dying in all the agonies of despair. no sooner had she looked upon the poor creature than her dreadful history was supernaturally revealed to her. she had some time before had an illegitimate child, and, under the pressure of shame and terror, had destroyed it. the consciousness of this crime was driving her to despair, and she had not courage to confess it. but now words were whispered in her ear, which went straight to the point on which the awful straggle turned; which spoke of the horrible misery of dying impenitent and unabsolved, and of the boundless mercy which has provided a remedy for the deepest stains of sin, the blood of jesus applied to the soul by the grace of the sacrament. for a long time the poor creature resisted, turned her head away, and refused to be comforted. but when francesca, in still more pressing terms, alluded to the intolerable burden of an unacknowledged crime, of the life-giving humiliation of a sincere confession, of the dire confusion of an unforgiven soul on the day of judgment; of the love of jesus, of the tenderness of mary, of the indulgence of the church, the sweetness of pardon, the peace of reconciliation; then the stubborn heart yielded, the seared spirit was softened. bursting into tears, the dying sufferer exclaimed, "a priest! a priest!" and one was at hand at the first call of contrition, and answered that expiring cry, as matthew did the royal prophet's confession: "the lord forgives; thou shalt not perish." and shortly after in francesca's arms the pardoned sinner breathed her last. about the same time, francesca was the means of converting one who would doubtless have turned with contempt from the poor criminal on the hospital-bed with horror, from the guilty destroyer of her own child, and deemed that to breathe the same air as such a wretch was in itself contamination. and yet, in god's right, gentilezza may have been as, or perhaps more guilty than the sorely-tempted, unprotected, miserable being, who in weakness first, and then in terror, almost in madness, had rushed into crime; for she was rich, noble, and beautiful; had been nursed in pomp and pleasure; hunger had never tempted, and scorn never pursued her. her life had been one continued scene of amusement and of splendour. she cared for nothing but the homage of men, the incense of admiration, the intoxication of pleasure. there was not a duty that she did not neglect, nor one sacred obligation that she felt herself bound to observe. we are not told that she committed what men call crimes; but her husband she treated with open contempt, and ridiculed him on account of his attachment to religious duties; her children she altogether neglected, and abandoned them to the care of servants, while her days and nights were devoted to amusements and frivolities of every description. several of the roman ladies, who used to be her companions, had been induced, by francesca's example and exhortation, to give up a life of dissipation, and adopt one better befitting the christian profession; but gentilezza laughed at her and at them, and used to say, with insolent derision, that she had no vocation for wearing rags and carrying faggots. perfectly indifferent to the ridicule with which she sought to cover her, francesca prayed incessantly for the vain and haughty woman, who seemed beyond the reach of reproach or of persuasion. one day, however, moved by a prophetic impulse, she thus addressed her: "you scorn my warnings, gentilezza; you laugh at the advice of your confessor. but remember that god is powerful, and not to be mocked with impunity. the day is at hand when you will rue the stubbornness of your heart." a few days afterwards, as gentilezza, who was with child at the time, was descending the stairs of her palace, her foot slipped, and she fell headlong to the bottom. her servants raised her in their arms, and found her all but dead. the physicians, who were summoned in haste, judged unfavourably of her case, and pronounced that her child must infallibly have been killed by the fall. the wretched woman burst into tears, but it was not so much her own danger, or the death of her infant which she deplored, as the ruin of her beauty, which had been her pride and her snare. her features had been so injured by this accident, that her face was completely disfigured, and with rebellious anger she wept over her lost loveliness. francesca, upon hearing of this event, hurried to the spot, and nursed the suffering woman with the tenderest care. with the utmost kindness she reminded her of the duties she had neglected, and of the means of grace she had despised, and exhorted her to recognise the hand of a merciful god in the chastisement she had received. she spoke to her of her husband, of her children, of the true and sweet vocations of a wife and a mother, of the transitory nature of all earthly enjoyments; and into the heart subdued by pain and disappointment her words made their way. it was as if scales had fallen from the eyes of the sufferer. "god is just," she exclaimed at last; "i deserved even a greater punishment than i have met with. pray for me, francesca ponziano; pray for me; and oh, hear me promise, that if my life is spared, i will give up all my evil ways, and henceforward become a christian wife and a christian mother; so help me god, whom i have so grievously offended!" francesca bent over her and embraced her; she saw that her repentance was sincere, and bade her be of good comfort, and that her penitence would be accepted. and so it turned out; for gentilezza was safely delivered of a healthy little girl, and in time recovered not only her health but the beauty which she had once turned to such bad account; and, while faithful to her promise, she ceased to abuse the gifts of god, and devoted herself to the diligent performance of her duties, became a chosen friend of francesca's, and one of the most pious and exemplary matrons in rome. among the relatives of the saint, there was a young man whose name was giovanni antonio lorenzi, whose temper was fierce and violent in the extreme. having been, as he considered, insulted by another roman nobleman, he vowed that he would take his life, and resolved to have him assassinated. francesca's angel revealed to her his criminal design, which was as yet confined to his own breast. she instantly sent for the object of his enmity, and charged him, as he valued his existence, not to leave his own house for a certain number of days; and without informing him of the reason, obtained his promise to that effect. in the mean time she disclosed to lorenzi her knowledge of his guilty project, and induced him to abandon all idea of revenge. her influence over angelo savelli, on a similar occasion, was still more remarkable. he had quarrelled with a young man of his acquaintance, and a duel had ensued, in which he had been severely wounded. his anger was excessive; he did nothing but threaten and curse his adversary. neither his own family nor that of his foe could succeed in appeasing him, and he was dying with vengeance in his heart, and accents of rage on his lips. francesca was informed of his condition, and went, straightway to his bed-side. she had no sooner uttered a few words, than he bade her bring his enemy to him, that he might forgive and embrace him. he was himself astonished at the change thus wrought by her presence, and declared that the holy spirit had moved him by her means. he received the last sacrament with the best dispositions, and died soon after, full of peace and hope, and repeatedly assured his family that god, in mercy to his soul, had sent the wife of ponziano to save him from the ruin which was so nearly overtaking him. one more instance amongst many of francesca's powers of persuasion may be adduced, in addition to the preceding. she was, as we have seen, a constant attendant at the church of santa maria nuova, where her confessor, don antonio savello officiated. it so happened that one of the monks of his order, don ippolito, who subsequently played a part in the history of the saint, and who had been now residing ten years in the convent, was about this time appointed to the office of sacristan, although he had previously filled with distinction divers important functions in the monastery. he had accepted this appointment out of obedience and humility of spirit; but after a while the devil sorely tempted him to regret having done so; to repine at what he began to consider as an act of tyranny and injustice; and these reflections, gradually indulged in, made sad havoc of his peace of mind. an oppressive melancholy beset him; and at last he came to the resolution of abandoning his habit and the monastery, if the obnoxious appointment were not cancelled. but one day that he had been invoking mary, our lady of good counsel, he felt a sudden inspiration to go and communicate to francesca his discontent, his restlessness, and the resolution he had formed. she listened attentively to his statement, and then quietly addressed to him some questions which placed the subject in its true light. she asked him with what purpose he had entered the religious state; whom he had intended to serve in doing so; which he preferred, the god who descends and dwells on the altar, or the servants who wait upon him elsewhere? which was the highest post, that of watching over the sanctuary, in company with the angels, or of ministering to men, however holy and eminent they might be, as would be his lot in another office? the wisdom and simplicity of this answer went straight to don ippolito's heart. he instantly acquiesced in its justice, and went directly to confession. with earnest benevolence he betook himself to the duties of his at once humble and exalted office, edified all his brethren by his unfeigned humility, and became in time the model of his order. he was afterwards successively named sub-prior, and then prior of the monastery of santa maria nuova; and was later the associate and support of francesca in the foundation of her congregation of the noble oblates of tor di specchi. chapter ix. fresh supernatural events in francesca's history--her obedience to her husband and to her confessor rewarded by two miracles--marriage of her son, and ill conduct of his wife--her conversion through francesca's prayers--fresh miracles worked by francesca. francesca's obedience to her director in spiritual matters, and to her husband in other respects, continued to be exemplary. in both instances she received a miraculous proof that god regarded with especial favour that humble submission of spirit in one whom he endowed with such marvellous gifts. the story of these miracles mighht well furnish a subject to a painter or a poet. one day that she and vannozza had asked permission to visit the shrine of santa croce in gierusalemme, don antonio had given them leave to do so; on condition that, as an exercise of self-control, and a test of their obedience, they should walk there and back without once raising their eyes to look about them. he wished them to employ all the time of that long walk in mental prayer and meditation. they proceeded on their way without interruption, till, on approaching the hospital adjoining the church of st. john of lateran, a sudden rush of people overtook them, and sounds of terror were heard on every side. a bull had escaped from its leaders, and driven frantic by the cries of the multitude, it was dashing savagely along. francesca and vannozza stood directly in his path. loud shouts warned them to get out of the way; but, faithful to the obedience they had received, and probably inwardly assured that they would be protected against the danger, whatever it was, they advanced calm and unmoved with their eyes fixed on the ground. the bystanders, who were cowering at a distance, shuddered; for it seemed that the next moment must see them under the feet of the bellowing animal. but no; the same influence that tamed the lions in daniel's den was at work with the savage beast. at sight of the two women, it suddenly stopped in its course, became perfectly tranquil, stood still while they passed, and then resumed its flight; while they proceeded to the church without having experienced the slightest emotion of fear. there is an ancient saying, that a wild beast is appeased by the sight of a maiden in her purity; and there can be no doubt that those saints who have regained in some measure, by mortification, penance, and heroic virtue, the purity of man's original nature, have at the same time recovered, in a certain degree, the power which adam possessed over the animal creation. it is a fact of frequent occurrence in their lives, that mysterious homage paid to them by the wild inhabitants of the desert, or the gentle denizens of the grave. st. francis of assisi, and st. rose of lima, amongst others, were singularly endowed with this gift. there are few more touching thoughts, or any better calculated to make us understand the true character of sanctity, and the gradual restoration of a fallen nature to one akin to that of the angels. the other miracle was one attested by vannozza, who witnessed its occurrence. francesca devoted all her leisure moments to prayer, but never allowed her delight in spiritual exercises to interfere with her duty as a wife. her attention to lorenzo's slightest wants and wishes was unceasing. she never complained of any amount of interruption or of trouble which his claims upon her time might occasion. one day that she was reciting in her room the office of the blessed virgin, he sent for her. instantly rising from her knees, she obeyed his summons. when she had performed the trifling service he required, she returned to her prayers. four successive times, for the most insignificant of purposes, she was sent for: each time, with unwearied good humour, she complied, and resumed her devotions without a shadow of discontent or annoyance. on resuming her book the last time that this occurred, great was her astonishment in finding the antiphon, which she had four times begun and four times left unfinished, written in letters of gold. vannozza, who was present, witnessed the miracle; and the archangel whispered to francesca, "thus the lord rewards the virtue of obedience." the gilded letters remained in the book to the day of her death. her prayers were frequent; her fervour in proportion. beginning with the "our father" and the "hail mary," it was her practice to recite them slowly, and to ponder on each word as she pronounced it. the office of the blessed virgin she repeated daily at the appointed hours, and almost always on her knees; the rosary also, and a great number of psalms besides, as well as various devotions for the holy souls in purgatory. as to mental prayer, her whole life was one continued orison; ever in communion with god, she never lost the sense of his presence. from this time forward (she was now thirty-two years old), her life grew more and more supernatural. the mystical wonders that have manifested themselves in so many saints were displayed in her to an eminent degree. when she approached the tribunal of penance, but, above all, in going to communion, her body sometimes emitted a fragrant odour, and a halo of light surrounded her head. often and often, after receiving the bread of life, she fell into a long ecstasy, and for hours remained motionless, and wrapt up in silent contemplation, unable to move from the spot but at the command of her director; the virtue of obedience overcoming even the mystical insensibility to all outward objects. her intimate intercourse with heaven during those moments; the prophecies which she uttered; the manner in which distant and future occurrences were made manifest to her spiritual perceptions, testified to the supernatural nature of these ecstasies. an intimate union established itself between her and the objects of her incessant contemplation. when she meditated on the glorious mysteries, on the triumphs of mary, or the bliss of the angelic spirits, an intense joy beamed in her face, and pervaded her whole person. when, on the other hand, she mused on the passion of our lord, or on the sorrows of his mother, the whole expression of her face was changed, and bore the impress of an unutterable woe; and even by physical pains she partook in a measure of the sufferings of her god. the anxious torments of the passion were rehearsed as it were in her body; and ere long a wound in her side manifested one of the most astonishing but indubitably established instances of the real though mystical share which some of the saints have had in the life-giving agonies of the lord. none but vannozza, who used to dress that touching and awful wound, and don antonio, to whom she revealed it in confession, were acquainted with this extraordinary token of union between the crucified redeemer and his favoured servant. she suffered intense pain while it lasted, but it was a joyful suffering. love made it precious to her. she had desired to drink of his cup, and be baptised with his baptism; and he destined her one day to sit at his side and share his glory. she had drunk to the dregs the cup of earthly sorrow; the anguish of bereavement, the desolation of loneliness, the torments of fear, the pangs of sickness and poverty. and now the most mysterious sufferings fell to her lot, of a nature too sacred for common mention, for man's investigation, but not the less real and true than the others. the relief was as miraculous as the infliction. in a vision she saw herself transported into the cave of bethlehem, and into the presence of the infant jesus and of his mother. with a sweet smile, the blessed virgin bade francesca discover the wound which love had made, and then with water that flowed from the rock, she washed her side, and dismissed her. when her ecstasy was over, she found that the miraculous wound was perfectly healed. it was at this time that she predicted in the most positive manner, and when appearances were all against such a result, that the papal schism was about to end. the council of constance was sitting, and new difficulties and conflicts continually arose. war was on the point of bursting out again, and every body trembling at the thought of fresh disasters. contrary, however, to all expectations, the last weeks of the year 1415 saw the conclusion of the schism. the assembled fathers, with a courage that none had foreseen, and indifferent to the threats of frederick of austria on the one side, and of the king of france on the other, who were each advocating the cause of an anti-pope,--the former supporting john xxiii., the latter benedict xiii.,--they deposed these two usurpers, obliged gregory xii. to renounce his pretensions also, and on the 11th of november unanimously elected otto colonna, cardinal deacon of st. george in velabro, who took the name of martin v.; and by his virtues and his talents succeeded in restoring: peace to rome itself, and to the whole catholic world. it was generally supposed, even during her lifetime, and much more after her death, that francesca's prayers, her tears and her sufferings, had accelerated that blessed event, and drawn down the mercy of god on his afflicted church. the son of lorenzo and francesca. baptista ponziano, had now arrived at the age of eighteen, and was considered the most promising of the young roman noblemen. the excellent education he had received was bearing its fruits. in appearance and in manners, in talents and in character, he was equally distinguished. lorenzo, anxious to perpetuate his family, and secure heirs to his large possessions, pressed his son to marry. it was with the greatest satisfaction that francesca seconded his wishes. she longed to give up to a daughter-in-law the management of domestic affairs, and to be more free to devote her time to religious and charitable employments. the young person on whom the choice of baptista and of his parents fell was mobilia, a maiden of whom it is recorded that she was of noble birth and of singular beauty, but her family name is not mentioned. immediately upon her marriage, according to the continental custom of the time, the bride came to reside under the same roof as her father and mother-in-law. she was received as a beloved daughter by francesca and vannozza; but she neither returned their affection nor appeared sensible of their kindness. brought up by an excellent mother in a very strict manner and entire seclusion, her head was completely turned at suddenly finding herself her own mistress: adored by her husband, furnished with the most ample means of gratifying all her fancies, she was bent on making up for the somewhat austere life she had led as a young girl, and gave no thought to any thing but her beauty, her dress, and all the amusements within her reach. wholly inexperienced, she declined to ask or to receive advice, and chose in every respect to be guided by her inclinations alone. imperious with her equals, haughty with her superiors, she gave herself all the airs imaginable, and treated her mother-in-law with the most supreme contempt, hardly paying her more attention than if she had been the lowest menial in the house. in the gay societies which she frequented, it was her favourite amusement to turn francesca into ridicule, to mimic her manners and her style of conversation; and she often declared herself perfectly ashamed of being related to a person so totally ignorant of the ways of the world. "how can one feel any respect," she used to ask, "for a person who thinks of nothing but the poor, dresses as one of them, and goes about the streets carrying bread, wood, and old clothes?" it was not that mobilia's disposition was absolutely bad; on the contrary, she was naturally sweet-tempered; but never having been left before to her own management, and tasting for the first time the exciting pleasures of the world, the contrast which her mother-in-law's appearance, manners, and whole mode of life presented to that which seemed to her so attractive, irritated her beyond measure, till at last her dislike amounted to aversion; she could hardly endure francesca in her sight. vain were the remonstrances of her husband and of her father-in-law, vain their entreaties and their reproofs; unavailing also proved the interference of some mutual friends, who sought to convince her of the culpability of her conduct, and to persuade her that she was bound to show baptista's mother at least the attentions of ordinary civility. the headstrong young woman persisted in exhibiting the utmost contempt for her. the saint endured all her frowardness with unvarying gentleness and patience, never uttering a sharp or unkind word in return, and spending long hours in prayer that the heart so closed against her, and so given up to the world, might through god's mercy be softened and changed. one day, when she was renewing these petitions with more than common fervour, she heard the following words distinctly pronounced in her hearing: "why do you grieve, francesca? and why is your soul disquieted? nothing takes place without my permission, and all things work together for the good of those who love me." and her trial was even then about to end. it happened a few days afterwards, when all the inhabitants of the palace were assembled round the fire in the hall (for it was in the winter season), that mobilia began as usual to attack her mother-in-law, and to turn her mode of life into ridicule, with even greater bitterness than usual; and turning to her husband and to his father, she exclaimed impatiently that she could not understand how they allowed her to follow her mean and degrading pursuits, to mix with the refuse of the rabble, and draw down upon the whole family not only merited disgrace, but intolerable inconveniences. she was going on in this way, and speaking with great violence, when all of a sudden she turned as pale as death, a fit of trembling came over her, and in a moment she fell back senseless. francesca and vannozza carried her to her bed, where, recovering her consciousness, she was seized with most acute pains. the intensity of her sufferings drew from her the most piteous cries. then her conscience was roused; then, as if suddenly awakened to a sense of the enormity of her conduct, with a faltering voice she murmured: "my pride! my dreadful pride!" francesca bent over her gently, entreated her to bear her sufferings patiently, assured her they would soon subside. then mobilia burst into an agony of tears, and exclaimed before all the bystanders, "they will subside, my dear mother, if you ask it of god; but i have deserved more, much more, by my horrible behaviour to you. forgive me, dear mother; pray for me. i acknowledge my fault. henceforward, if god spares my life, your daughter will be to you the most loving, the most obedient of handmaids. take me in your arms, mother, and bless your child." francesca pressed to her bosom the beautiful young creature in whom such a change had been suddenly wrought, and while she fervently blessed her, mobilia felt that all her pains had left her. from that day forward the whole tone of her mind was altered; her conversion was complete. francesca became to her an object of the most affectionate veneration; she consulted her about all her actions, and communicated to her her most secret thoughts. utterly despising the vanities of the world which had led her astray, she adopted her views and opinions, and set entirely at naught the seductions of worldly grandeur. the sanctity of francesca was now so evident to her that she began to watch her actions, her words, every detail of her life, with a mixture of awe and of interest; and kept a record in writing of all that she observed, and of the miraculous occurrences which were so often taking place through her instrumentality, as well as in her own person. the forementioned particulars she attested upon oath after the saint's death, when the depositions were taken which served at a later period for the process of her canonisation. the most intimate friendship established itself between baptista's wife and his mother; nothing could exceed the devoted and affectionate reverence of the one, or the tenderness with which it was repaid by the other. francesca, with the most watchful love, attended to mobilia's slightest wants or wishes: nursed her assiduously in her confinements, and bestowed upon her grandchildren the same cares that she had lavished on her own children. it was a great relief to her that mobilia, who was now only occupied with her duties, assumed at her request the management of the house, and the regulation of all domestic affairs. she was thus enabled to devote herself more unreservedly to the service of the poor and of the hospitals. the hospital which she visited most constantly was that which her father-in-law had founded near the chiesa del salvatore, called at a later period santa maria in cappella. the miracles wrought by the laying on of her hands became more numerous than ever, and her fame increased in proportion. the degree in which her assistance was sought, her prayers implored, and the reputation of her sanctity extended, was painful to her humility; but her supernatural gifts were too evident to be concealed from others or from herself, and there only remained to her to humble herself more deeply at the feet of the god who thus showed forth his power in one whom she deemed the most worthless of his creatures. a great work was preparing for her hand to do; the first stone of a spiritual building was to be laid; she was growing ripe for the work; and god was drawing men's eyes upon her with wonder and with awe, that when that day came they might listen to her voice. the warnings which she gave to persons threatened by secret dangers were innumerable; her insight into the condition of their souls marvellous. one day she sends word to her confessor that he will be "sent for on the following night to attend a sick person, but that he must on no account leave his house;" and it turns out that assassins were lying in wait for him in the street, and that the pretended sick man was a lure to draw him out. another time a youth of sixteen, jacopo vincenzo, is lying dangerously ill in the piazza campitelli. his mother hastens to the saint, who smiles when she enters the room, and bids her go in peace, for her son has recovered; and on her return she finds him in perfect health. she sees a priest at the altar, and he appears to her sight as if covered with a frightful leprosy. by her confessor's order she relates her vision to the object of it; and, confounded and amazed, the unhappy man acknowledges that he was celebrating in a state of mortal sin. he repents, confesses, and amends his life. two men pay a visit together to the ponziano palace; one is the nephew of vannozza, a pious and exemplary priest; the other a young man of twenty, whom he has adopted. anger is working in the bosom of the youth; he has suffered from his benefactor some imaginary wrong, and he is planning his revenge, and is about to utter a calumny which will affect his character. francesca takes him aside: what can she know of what is passing in his soul: how read what has not been revealed to any human creature? she tells him what he designs, and awakens him to a sense of his ingratitude, he no sooner has left the house than, falling at the feet of his companion, he confesses to him his crime, and implores his forgiveness. cecca clarelli, a relation of the ponziani, is delivered of a little girl in such apparent good health that no one thinks of baptising her; a grand ceremony for the purpose is preparing in a neighbouring church, to take place the following day; but in the middle of the night francesca arrives, and entreats that the child may be instantly baptised. the parents and the priest object, but the saint is urgent; she will take no denial; with reluctance her request is complied with, and no sooner has the sacrament been conferred than the infant expires. a child of the same parents, a lovely little girl, is dumb; she is four years old, and not a single word has she ever pronounced. andreozzo, her father, entreats his wife to carry her to the saint, and implore her assistance. francesca's humility cannot endure this direct appeal, and she tries to put them off; but, deeply affected by their tears, she at last touches with her finger the tongue of the little camilla, and says, "hope every thing from the mercy of god; it is as boundless as his power." the parents depart full of faith and comfort; and ere they reach their house, the child has uttered with perfect distinctness the blessed names of jesus and mary; and from that day forward acquires and retains the power of speech. no wonder that the name of francesca grows every day more famous, and that she is every day more dear to the people amongst whom she dwells; that hearts are subdued, sinners reclaimed, mourners consoled by the sight of her blessed face, by the sweet sound of her voice. many rise about her and call her blessed; but children, and more especially her own spiritual children, are soon to call her mother. a new epoch is now at hand in her career. god had placed in her heart many years ago a hope which she had nursed in secret, and watered with her tears, and fostered by her prayers. never impatient, never beforehand with god's providence, she waited: his time was she knew to be her time; his will was the passion of her heart, her end, her rule, and god had made her will his, and brought about by slow degrees its accomplishment. permission to labour first,--the result far distant, but clear, the vision of that result, when once he had said to her, "begin and work." to tarry patiently for that signal, to obey it unhesitatingly when once given, is the rule of the saints. how marvellous is their instinct! how accordant their practice! first, the hidden life, the common life; the silence of the house of nazareth; the carpenter's shop; the marriage-feast, it may be, for some; and at last, "the hour is come," and the true work for which they are sent into the world has to be done, in the desert or in the cloister, in the temple or in the market-place, on mount thabor or on mount calvary; and the martyr or the confessor, the founder or the reformer of a religious order, comes forth, and in an instant, or in a few years, performs a work at which earth wonders and angels rejoice. chapter x. francesca lays the foundation of her future congregation--her pilgrimage to assisi. lorenzo ponziano's admiration and affection for his wife had gone on increasing with advancing years; the perfection of her life, and the miracles he had so often seen her perform, inspired him with an unbounded reverence. his continual prayer, the ardent desire of his heart, was to have her by his side as his guide and his guardian angel during the remainder of his life and at the hour of his death. perhaps it was to win, as it were, from providence the favour he so earnestly implored, that he resolved in no way to be a clog on her actions, or an obstacle in the way of god's designs upon her. taking her aside one day, he spoke to her with the greatest affection, and offered to release her from all the obligations imposed by the state of marriage, to allow her the fullest liberty of action and the most absolute control over her own person, her own time, and her own conduct, on one only condition,--that she would promise never to cease to inhabit his house, and to guide him in the way in which her example had hitherto led him. francesca, profoundly touched by his kindness, did not hesitate to give this promise. she accepted his proposal joyfully and gratefully, in so much as it conduced to the accomplishment of god's will and of his ulterior designs upon her; but she continued to devote herself to her excellent husband, and with the most attentive solicitude to render him every service in her power. he was now in very declining health, and she rendered him by day and by night all the cares of the tenderest nurse. the religious life, the natural complement of such a course as hers had been, often formed the subject of her meditations; and god, who destined her to be the foundress of a new congregation of pious women, suggested to her at this time the first steps towards its accomplishment. it will be remembered that from her childhood upward she had been used to frequent the church of santa maria nuova, on the foro romano; her mother had done so before her, and had intrusted her to the spiritual direction of one of the most eminent members of the order by whom that church was served. santa maria nuova is one of the oldest churches in rome. it had been destroyed and rebuilt in the eighth century; and in 1352 had been given up to the olivetan monks of st. benedict. as the congregation which francesca instituted was originally formed on the model, and aggregated to that of the religions of mount olivet, it will not be irrelevant to give some account of their origin and the life of their illustrious founder. bernard ptolomei or tolomei, who was supposed to be descended from the ptolemies of egypt, was born in 1272. distinguished by his precocious abilities, he became, at the early age of twenty-two, chief-magistrate (_gonfaloniere_) of his native town, sienna; and at twenty-five attained to the dignity of doge. soon after he was suddenly struck with blindness, and the material darkness in which he found himself involved opened his mental sight to the light of religious truth. he turned with his whole heart to god, and irrevocably devoted himself to his service and to a life of austerity and meditation. the blessed virgin miraculously restored his sight, and his purpose stood firm. dividing his fortune into two equal parts, he bestowed one half on the poor, and the other to the foundation of pious institutions. with a few companions he retired into the mountainous deserts of accona, about fifteen miles from sienna, where they gave themselves up to a life of asceticism and prayer, which attracted to their solitude many devout souls from various parts of the world. satan, as usual, set his batteries in array against the new anchorites, and trials of various sorts assailed them in turn. they were even denounced to pope john xxii. as persons tainted with heresy; but tolomei, with piccolomini, one of his companions, made their way to avignon, and there, in the presence of the sovereign pontiff, completely cleared themselves from the calumnious imputation. their order was approved, and they returned to accona, where they took the name of "congregation of mary of mount olivet of the benedictine order." this was by the express desire of the blessed virgin, who had appeared to the saint, and enjoined him to adopt the rule of st. benedict, promising at the same time her protection to the new order. on the 26th of march, 1319, the new religious received their habits; and mount accona took the name of mount olivet, in honour of the agony of our lord. terrible were the conflicts of the holy founder with the evil one; but out of them all he came victorious. his expositions of scripture were wonderful, and derived, it was said, from his mystical colloquies with the archangel st. michael. the austerity of his life was extreme; his penances severe and continual. in 1348 st. benedict appeared to him and announced the approach of the pestilence which was soon to visit italy, and warned him of his own death, which speedily followed. many of his disciples had visions of the glorious translation of his soul to heaven; and numerous miracles wrought at his tomb bore witness to his sanctity. his monks inhabited the church and the cloisters of santa maria in dominica, or, as it is more commonly called, in navicella, from the rudely-sculptured marble monument that stands on the grass before its portal, a remnant of bygone days, to which neither history nor tradition has given a name, but which has itself given one to the picturesque old church that stands on the brow of the coelian hill. as their numbers afterwards increased, they were put to great inconvenience by the narrow limits of their abode; and cardinal beltorte, titular of santa maria nuova, obtained for them from pope clement vi. possession of the church of that name. they accepted the gift with joy; for not only did it owe its origin to the first ages of christianity, but it contained many valuable relics; and amongst other treasures one of those pictures of the blessed virgin which tradition has ascribed to st. luke the evangelist; to this day it is venerated in that spot; and those who kneel at the tomb of st. francesca romana, on raising their eyes to the altar above it behold the sacred image which has been venerated for so many generations. through prosperity and adversity francesca had never ceased to frequent that church. at its confessional and at its altars she had been a constant attendant. other women, her friends and imitators, had followed her example; bound by a tender friendship, bent on the same objects, united by the same love of jesus and of mary, often and often they had been there together, those noble women who had resolved to glory in nothing but the cross, to have no rank but that of handmaids in the house of the lord. francesca was their model, their teacher, their cherished guide: they clung to her with the tenderest affection; they were, according to an eastern poet's expression, [footnote:"they a row of pearls, and i the silken cord on which they lie." a row of goodly pearls, and she the silken cord which bound them together. they were coming out of the church one evening, when francesca gave them the first intimation of her hopes of their future destiny. they were not shown the distant scene, only the first step they were to take. [footnote:"lead thou me on; i do not ask to see the distant scene: one step enough for me." newman's _verses on religious subjects_] it was one of those small beginnings so trifling in men's sight, so important in their results,--the grain of mustard-seed hereafter to grow into a tree. francesca spoke to them, as they walked along, of the order of st. benedict, of the sanctity of its founder, of the virtues, the piety, the good works of its members, and submitted to them that by taking the name of "oblates of mount olivet," and observing conjointly certain rules, such as might befit persons living in the world, they might participate in their merits, and enjoy their privileges. her companions hailed this proposal with joy, and begged her to use all her efforts to carry it into effect. don antonio, to whom francesca communicated their pious wishes, lent a favourable ear to the request, and in his turn brought it under the notice of the vice-prior don ippolito, who, in the absence of the superior, was charged with the government of the monastery. he was the same who at one time formed the project of leaving the order, and was deterred from so doing by francesca's advice. he readily received their overtures, and obtained for her and for her companions from the general of the order permission to assume the name of "oblates of mary," a particular aggregation to the monastery of santa maria nuova, and a share in the suffrages and merits of the order of st. benedict. greatly rejoiced at the happy result of their application, they gave themselves to fasting, prayer, and penance, in preparation for their special consecration to the blessed virgin. it took place on the feast of the assumption of the year 1425. at break of day, in the church of santa maria nuova, francesca, vannozza, rita de celli, agnese selli, and six more noble roman ladies, confessed, received the pious instructions of don antonio, and communicated at a mass which don ippolito said before the miraculous image of the blessed virgin. immediately after the holy sacrifice, they dedicated themselves to her service, according to the formula used by the olivetan monks; only that the phrase "me offero" was substituted for "profiteor;" and that instead of taking solemn vows, they were simply affiliated to the benedictine order of mount olivet. such was the first beginning of the congregation of which francesca was the mother and foundress. in these early times, don antonio, their director, did not assign them any special occupation, and only urged them to the most scrupulous obedience to the commandments of god and of the church, to a tender devotion to the mother of god, a diligent participation in the sacraments, and the exercise of all the christian virtues, and the various works of mercy. the link between them consisted in their constant attendance at the church of santa maria nuova, where they received communion on all the feasts of our lady, and in a tender veneration for francesca, whom they looked upon as their spiritual mother. they had incessant recourse to her advice; and her simplest words were as a law to them, her conduct their example. she assumed no power, and disclaimed all authority; but the sovereign empire of love was forced into her reluctant hands. they insisted on being governed by one they held in such affection, and gave up every pleasure for the sake of being with her, and sharing in her pursuits. it was in the summer of the following year that francesca decided on performing a pilgrimage to santa maria, or, as it is more commonly called "la madonna degli angeli," in honour of our lady and of the seraphic saint of assisi. vannozza and rita eagerly agreed to accompany her; and they resolved to set on on the 2d of august, in order to arrive in time for the celebrated indulgence "del perdono." it was in poverty, not only of spirit but of actual reality that they wished, to perform their journey to the tomb of the great apostle of poverty,--to go on foot, and unprovided with money, provisions, or comforts of any sort. lorenzo and parazza, who had readily consented to the proposed pilgrimage, demurred for a while at this mode of carrying it out; but francesca prayed in her oratory that god would incline their hearts to consent to it; and soon, with a reluctant smile, they consented to all she proposed, and both only ejaculated, "go on your way in peace; do as you list, and only pray for us." out of the gates of rome they went, through that country so well known to those who have often visited the eternal city; up the hill from whence the first sight of its domes and its towers, of its tombs and of its pines, is hailed with rapture, from whence a long last lingering look of love is cast upon what the heart whispers is its own catholic home. it was the first, and as it would seem the only occasion (at least none other is mentioned in her life) in which francesca left its walls, and trod other ground than that which the steps of so many martyrs have hallowed, the blood of so many saints has consecrated. the valleys of veii on the one hand, the heights of baccano on the other, the beautiful and stately mountain of soracte, met their eyes as they do ours: would that we looked upon them with the same earth-abstracted gaze as theirs! the gothic towers of civita castellana looked down upon the humble pilgrims as they passed by in pious meditation. the sound of their sweet voices, reciting prayers or chanting hymns, mingled with the murmurs of the stream that bathes the old walls of nurni; and then through the wild defile of monte somma into the lovely umbrian vale they went, through that enchanting land where every tree and rock wears the form that claude lorraine or salvator rosa have made familiar to the eye and dear to the poetic mind; where the vines hang in graceful garlands, and the fireflies at night dance from bough to bough; where the brooks and the rivers are of the colour of the sapphire or the emerald, and the purple mountains smile rather than frown on the sunny landscape; where the towns and the convents, the churches and the cottages, are set like white gems in the deep verdure that surrounds them. there is no land more fair, no sky more tenderly blue, no breeze more balmy, than the land where spoleto and toligno and assisi rise in their picturesque beauty, than the sky which spreads its azure roof over the umbrian traveller's head, than the airs which are wafted from the heights of monte falco, or the hill of perugia. beautiful is that country! fair these works of god!--but more beautiful still is the invisible world which francesca and her companions contemplated, the while, with weary patient feet, in the sultry august weather, they trod the lengthening road from one humble resting-place to another. fairer the inward perfection of a soul which god has renewed, than all the gorgeous but evanescent loveliness of earth's most lovely scenes. at length their pilgrimage is drawing to a close; the towers of the madonna degli angeli are conspicuous in the distance; half unconsciously they hasten in approaching it; but the heat is intense, and their lips parched with thirst; they can hardly speak, for their tongues cleave to the roof of their mouths, when a stranger meets them, one of striking and venerable appearance, and clothed in the religious habit of st. francis. he hails the travellers, and straightway speaks of mary and of jesus, of the mystery of the passion, of the wonders of divine love. never have such words of fire met the ears of the astonished pilgrims. their hearts burn within them, and they are ready to exclaim, "never did man speak like to this man." francesca sees her angel assume his brightest aspect. hays of light seem to dart from his form, and to envelope in a dazzling halo the monk who is addressing them. she knows him now; and makes a sign to her companions. it is st. francis himself. it is the seraphic saint of assisi. he blesses the little troop, and touching a wild pear-tree by the road-side, he brings down to the ground a fruit of such prodigious size, that it serves to allay the thirst and restore the strength of the exhausted travellers. that day they reached the shrine where they had so longed to kneel; that little hut, once the abode of the saint, which stands in its rough simplicity within the gorgeous church; where the rich and great of the world come daily to do homage to the apostle of poverty, the close imitator of him who had not often where to lay his head. there they received communion the next morning; there they prayed for their absent friends; there francesca had a vision, in which she was encouraged to persevere in her labours, to accomplish her pious design, and the protection of jesus and his mother was promised to her. let us follow them in thought up the steep hill to assisi--to the church where the relics of the saint, where his mortal remains are laid. let us descend into the subterranean chapel, pause at every altar, and muse on the records of that astonishing life, the most marvellous perhaps of any which it has ever been permitted to mortal man to live. let us go with them to the home of his youth, where his confessorship began in childish sufferings for the sake of christ. let us venerate with them the relics of st. clare, the gentle sister spirit whose memory and whose order are linked with his; and for a moment think what prayers, what vows, what acts of faith, of hope, of charity, must have risen like incense from those devoted hearts in such scenes, amidst such recollections. doubtless they bore away with them a host of sweet and pious thoughts. their faces must have shone with heaven's own light as they retraced their steps to the home where loving hearts were awaiting them. few such pilgrimages can have ever been performed, francesca at the tomb of st. francis of assisi must have been a blessed sight even for an angel's eyes. chapter xi. death of francesca's friend and director, don antonio--troubles in rome and italy foretold by francesca--death of vannozza, francesca's sister in law--foundation of the congregation of oblates of tor di specchi. the extraordinary graces which had attended our saint during her pilgrimage were the prelude of a trial which was awaiting her in rome. her earliest friend, her long-trusted guide, don antonio savello, had died during her absence. though she accepted this dispensation of god's providence with her habitual resignation, it cut her to the heart. she had deeply loved and reverenced her spiritual father; he had instructed her in childhood; directed her ever since with wisdom and faithfulness; and his loss was in one sense greater to her than that of any other friend. it occurred, too, at the very moment when she was about to carry out the divine intimation with regard to the foundation of a new congregation, when difficulties were every where staring her in the face, and the want of a powerful and willing auxiliary more than ever needful. she did not, however, lose courage, but prayed fervently that god would inspire her choice of a director; and much time she spent on her knees imploring this favour. no doubt the selection she made was the result of these prayers; and one of the proofs that god's ways are not as our ways, nor his thoughts as our thoughts. her choice fell on don giovanni mattiotti, the curate of santa maria in trastevere, to whom she had already sometimes been to confession. he was a man of irreproachable character and distinguished piety, but of an irresolute and vaccillating disposition, easily disheartened; nor would he at first sight have appeared qualified for the direction of a person as far advanced in perfection as francesca, on whom god had such great designs, and with whom he chose to deal in such wonderful ways. but the trials which francesca had to endure from the irresolution of don giovanni; the patience with which she submitted to his varying commands; and the supernatural means through which he was taught to recognise her sanctity, and to assist in carrying out her designs, tended in the end to the glory of god, and the praise of the saint, whose very humility was a trial to her, in those days of small beginnings, and often of painful doubts. crosses of various kinds arose in connection with the undertaking. some of the monks of santa maria nuova, for instance, took occasion, on the visits of a father inspector, to complain of don ippolito, and to accuse him of transgressing the statutes, and going beyond his powers, in admitting a congregation of women to the name and the privileges of their order; especially considering that several of these women were married, and living in the world. but the visitor was a man of piety and prudence. he closely examined into the question, and satisfied himself that the institution tended to edification, and was pleasing to god; and he sanctioned it accordingly, as far as was in his power, and promised to advocate its cause with the father-general. in the month of july of 1430 francesca had a remarkable vision, which indicated to her the events that were speedily to follow, and which she prophesied with an accuracy, that, in the end, occasioned general astonishment. one night, after spending several hours in prayer, she saw a lurid light, through which a number of satan's ministers were hurrying to and fro, shaking their torches, and rejoicing with dreadful glee over the impending calamities of rome. the saint fell on her knees, and besought the lord to spare her unhappy country. then falling into ecstasy, she beheld the infant jesus in his mother's arms surrounded with angels, and st. peter, st. paul, and st. john the baptist in the attitude of prayer, pleading for mercy to the eternal city, which they seemed to protect by their fervent supplications. at the same time she heard a voice that said, "the prayers of the saints have stayed the arm of the lord; but woe to the guilty city if she repent not, for great afflictions are at hand." some days afterwards the lightning fell simultaneously on the churches of st. peter, st. paul, and on the shrine of st. john baptist in the lateran basilica. francesca shuddered when she heard of it; she felt at once that the day of grace had gone by; and in thrilling words described to her confessor, and to several other persons that were present, the misfortunes that were about to fall upon rome. the fulfilment of her predictions was not long delayed, though nothing at the time seemed to give them weight. the unwearied exertions of martin v. had succeeded in healing the wounds of christendom. in rome he had repressed anarchy, recalled the exiled citizens to their homes, rebuilt the churches, given a new impulse to the government, to the administration of justice, to politics, to literature, to science, and to art. he had worked hard to promote a reformation in the manners of the clergy, and effected in many places the re-establishment of the discipline of the church. the legates whom he sent to all the courts of europe had restored some degree of union between the christian princes, and preached a crusade against the turks and the followers of john huss. he had called together a council, which was first convened at pavia, and afterwards removed, first to sienna, and then to basle. but before he could him self join the assembly, death overtook him. worn out with his indefatigable labours for the welfare of christendom, he went to receive his reward at an unadvanced age, in the month of february of the year 1431. gabriel candalucero succeeded him under the name of eugenius iv. the first consistory which he held was marked by a fearful accident, which people chose to consider as an evil omen. the floor of the hall gave way, and in the midst of the confusion that ensued a bishop was killed, and many persons grievously wounded. a discontented monk put about the report that martin v. had died in possession of a considerable treasure; and the colonnas, catching eagerly at this pretext, took up arms to make good their claims to this supposed heritage. once more the adverse factions rose against each other, and blood flowed in the streets of rome. the colonnas were constrained to fly; and the monk, convicted of having conspired to deliver up the castle of st. angelo to the rebels, and to get the pope assassinated, was condemned to death and executed. a temporary reconciliation was effected between eugenius iv. and the too powerful family of the colonnas; but their haughty and violent temper soon brought about a rupture. they advanced upon rome at the head of their troops; a bloody engagement took place under the walls of the city, in which the pontifical troops had the upper hand, but many of the nobles perished in the affray. conflicts of a still more harrowing nature now arose between the pope and the council of basle. duke philip of milan availed himself of this opportunity to retrieve the sacrifices he had made in a treaty which the pope had led him to sign with the venetians. he forged a decree which, purported to proceed from the fathers of the council, appointing him lieutenant-general of the church in italy; and armed with this assumed title, he despatched to the roman states francesca sforza and nicholas fortebraccio, two famous adventurers in his pay. the latter advanced upon rome, and began to devastate its neighbourhood. the pope, wholly unprepared for defence, warded off the danger by sowing dissension between the two generals, which he effected by giving up to sforza, for his lifetime, the possession of ancona, and of the provinces which he had conquered in the states of the church. sforza, in consequence, took part with eugenius, and defeated fortebraccio at tivoli; but in the meantime a general insurrection broke out in rome itself. the ghibelline party attacked the pope, laid siege to the church of the holy apostles, where he had taken shelter, and from whence he escaped with difficulty disguised as a monk, embarked on the tiber, and found a refuge first at pisa and then at bologna. rome was given up for five months to all the horrors of anarchy, the pontifical palace pillaged, and new magistrates chosen in lieu of those appointed by the pope; the garrison of the castle of st. angelo alone remaining firm in its allegiance to the sovereign pontiff. weary at last of so much disorder, the city of its own accord submitted itself to lawful authority. eugenius sent a legate, who in some measure succeeded in re-establishing peace; but he himself remained in the north of italy, engaged in convoking a council, wherewith to oppose the irregular decrees of that assembled at basle. these events, which spread over several years, are related in confirmation of the prophetical gifts of francesca, who accurately foresaw and foretold them when nothing presaged their occurrence. at the time when this storm was about to burst over italy, and the beginning of sorrow was at hand, she was doomed to experience another of the heavy afflictions that life had yet in store for her. vannozza, her cherished companion, her sister, her counsellor, her bosom friend, was summoned to receive her heavenly crown; and she herself to add to all her virtues a more perfect detachment from all earthly ties. they had been united by every link that affection, sympathy, and similarity of feeling, tastes, and opinions can create between two hearts devoted to god, and through him to each other. their union had not been obscured by the smallest cloud. together they had prayed, suffered, and laboured; and in trials and joys alike they had been inseparable. francesca had been warned in a vision of the approaching end of her sister-in-law; and at length, strong in faith, she stands by her dying-bed; and when the evil one, baffled in life, makes a final effort to disturb the departing soul, she prays for the beloved of her heart, sprinkles holy water on that much-loved form, reads aloud the history of the passion of our lord; and vannozza, supported by those sacramental graces which satan cannot withstand, followed almost beyond the verge of life by that watchful tenderness which had been her joy on earth, sees the evil spirit retire before the might of francesca's angel, and breathes her last in perfect peace. the soul which had served and loved god so fervently upon earth was carried up to heaven in a form visible to the eyes of her friend; a pure flame, enveloped in a light transparent cloud, was the symbol of that gentle spirit's flight into its kindred skies. the mortal remains of vannozza were laid in the church of the ara coeli, in the chapel of santa croce. the roman people resorted there in crowds to behold once more their loved benefactress,--the mother of the poor, the consoler of the afflicted. all strove to carry away some little memorial of one who had gone about among them doing good; and during the three days which preceded the interment, the concourse did not abate. on the day of the funeral, francesca knelt on one side of the coffin, and, in sight of all the crowd, she was rapt in ecstasy. they saw her body lifted from the ground, and a seraphic expression in her uplifted face. they heard her murmur several times with an indescribable emphasis the word, "when? when?" (_quando? quando?_) when all was over, she still remained immovable; it seemed as if her soul had risen on the wings of prayer, and followed vannozza's spirit into the realms of bliss. at last her confessor ordered her to rise, and to go and attend on the sick. she instantly complied, and walked away to the hospital which she had founded, apparently unconscious of every thing about her, and only roused from her trance by the habit of obedience which, in or out of ecstasy, never forsook her. from that day her visions grew more frequent and more astonishing. she seemed to live in heaven; and during those hours of mystical intercourse with saints and angels, and with the lord of angels and of saints, to obtain supernatural lights which guided her in the foundation of her new congregation. the blessed virgin revealed to her that st. paul, st. benedict, and st. mary magdalene were to be its protectors; and that don giovanni mattiotti, her director, fra bartolommeo biondii, of the order of st. francis, and don ippolito, of the olivetan obedience, were to co-operate with her in its establishment. to don giovanni a particular message was sent to confirm him in the intention of forwarding the work, and to warn him against discouragement from the many difficulties it would meet with. wonderful were the sights which it was given her to see in those long ecstasies, during which her soul seemed to absent itself from her all-but spiritualised body. sometimes a speechless contemplation held all her faculties in abeyance; at others, in burning words, she described what passed before her mental sight. at times her motionless attitude almost wore the semblance of death; while often she moved about and performed various actions in connection with the subjects of her visions. in the churches which she frequented,--in santa croce in gerusalemme, in santa maria in trastevere, in the chapel of the angels in santa cecilia, in her own oratory,--she is favoured with the presence of celestial visitants. the various ecclesiastical feasts of the year bring with them analogous revelations; she spends her time in the cave of bethlehem and the house of nazareth, on the mountains, where jesus was wont to pray, where he was transfigured, where he agonised, and where he died. she adores with the shepherds and the wise men; she listens to his voice with the disciples and the devout multitude; she suffers with the mother of sorrows, and weeps with the magdalene at the foot of the cross. the beauties of the new jerusalem, the lovely pastures, the fresh waters, the bright flowers, the precious stones, which typify the glories of the world to come, are spread before her in those mystic trances. deeper and more mysterious revelations are vouchsafed, wonderful secrets disclosed to her under expressive symbols, and st. paul is her guide through those regions where he was ravished in spirit while still, like her, an inhabitant of earth. one day that she was in ecstasy a voice of more than common sweetness addressed to her these words--"thy path is strewn with thorns, francesca, and many an obstacle will stand in thy way, ere thy little flock can be gathered together in our abode. but remember that hail does not always follow upon thunder, and that the brightest sunshine often breaks through the darkest clouds." encouraged by this intimation, the saint began in earnest to consider of the means of establishing her congregation. during a short absence which her husband made from rome, she invited all the oblates to her house, and having made them share her slight repast, she assembled them around her, and spoke to them to the following effect: "my dear companions, i have called you together in order to impart to you the lights which i have received from the lord and his blessed mother with regard to our congregation. for seven years we have been especially consecrated to her service, and have bound ourselves to live in chastity and obedience, and to observe the rules prescribed to us; and i have long thought that as we have been united in spirit and in intention, so ought we to be in our outward mode of life. for a while i fancied that this my desire might only be the result of my maternal affection for you, and of my solicitude for your advancement. but the lord has at last revealed to me that it is his will that i should found a new spiritual edifice in this city, the ancient stronghold of religion and of faith. it will form an asylum for those persons of your sex and of your rank who have conceived the generous resolution of forsaking the world and its allurements; i have tagged of the lord to select for his purpose one less unworthy than myself, but i dare no longer withstand the manifestation of his will. i am prepared to accomplish his bidding; but without you, my sisters what can i do? you are the foundations of the building, the first stones of the new spiritual house of his mother. you are the seed from which a plentiful harvest is to spring. earthly cares, the temporal affairs of life, must no longer take up your time. he summons you to a retreat, where you will live in his presence, imitate his example, and copy the virtues of mary, where you will pray for rome, and turn away his wrath from the degenerate and guilty city. have you not heard how two years ago the thunderbolts fell on her sacred towers? do you not see how every day fresh miseries are gathering on the devoted heads of her people? but god is full of mercy; when most incensed at our sins, he casts about for souls that will appease his anger. he has turned his eyes upon us. he bids us unite, and stand in the breach between him and the daring sinners who each day defy him. why tarry we longer? why further delay? the arms of the blessed virgin are wide open to receive us. shall we draw back from her embrace?--no, rather let us fly to her feet." as she pronounced these last words francesca fell into an ecstasy, which lasted for some time, and during which she pleaded with god for those who were to belong to the new institute. her companions gazed upon her with silent veneration; and when she came to herself, all with one accord, and with tears of joy, professed themselves ready to make every sacrifice which god might require of them, and to adopt the mode of life and the rule which francesca might suggest. but their assent was only a preliminary step in the undertaking. it was necessary to find a house suitable to their purpose, to obtain the consent of the still existing parents of some of the oblates, to fix in a definitive manner their rule and constitutions, and finally to procure the sanction of the holy father, and his approval of the new order. francesca attended in turn to each of these objects. to the first place she consulted her three coadjutors on the choice of a house; and difficulties without number arose on this point. the priests were alarmed at the sensation which this undertaking would produce, and were quite at a loss to find money for the purchase. francesca had long since given away almost all that she possessed. what little remained was devoted to works of charity which could not be abandoned, and all agreed that she was on no account to have recourse on this occasion to her husband or to her son. while they were deliberating, francesca was favoured with a vision, in which the divine assistance was promised to the oblates, and their protectors (don giovanni in particular) exhorted to perseverance. encouraged by these assurances, they looked out for a house adapted to the requirements of a religious community; and after many researches don ippolito proposed to don giovanni a building in the campitelli district, on the spot where the old tower, known by the name of "tor di specchi," used to stand, directly opposite to the capitol, and not far from the santa maria nuova. various obstacles arose to the purchase of this house, which was neither as large nor as convenient as might have been wished; but they were finally overcome, and the acquisition completed towards the end of the year 1432. this house, which was at first considered only as a temporary residence, was subsequently added to, and has remained to this day the central house of the order; and in the pontifical bull the congregation is designed by the name of "oblates of tor di specchi." this matter once arranged, francesca succeeded in dissipating the objections raised by the parents of some of the younger oblates, and to reconcile them to the proposed alteration in their daughters' mode of life. it was doubtless a trial to her that while she was removing all the difficulties in the way of the more perfect life which her companions were about to lead, she herself could only, like moses, look on the promised land of spiritual seclusion which they, her disciples and her children, were entering on, and after which she had yearned from the days of her childhood. but she never hesitated as to her line of duty; it was clear before her. lorenzo had released her from all obligations but one--that of residing in his house and watching over his old age. his infirmities were increasing, and her attentions indispensable to his comfort. no one could supply to him francesca's care. she offered up to god the daily self-denial of her existence; and by fresh tokens of his favour he rewarded her obedience. her next anxiety was the formation of the constitution and of the rules which were to govern the infant congregation; and in frequent conferences with her pious coadjutors the subject was discussed. after many deliberations, during which they could arrive at no conclusion, it was agreed that the matter should be laid before god in prayer; and their hope was not deceived. in a series of visions,--in which st. paul in the first instance, and on other occasions the blessed virgin and st. john the evangelist, appeared to francesca,--directions were given her so ample and so detailed as to the rule which her spiritual daughters were to follow, that there remained no room for hesitation. the several fasts which they were to observe; the length of time which they were to devote to prayer, to work, and to sleep; the manner in which their actions were to be performed; the vocal prayers they were to recite; the solitude, the silence they were to keep; the poverty, the community of goods which they were to practise; their dress, their occupations, their separation from the world, their detachment from all earthly ties of interest and kindred which they were at all times to be inspired with; the precautions to be taken in procuring the consent of parents, and securing the free action of the oblates who might hereafter join the order, were all indicated with the greatest precision; and instructions were transmitted to don giovanni and his co-operators to enlighten them as to the guidance and government of the congregation. the miraculous manner in which the saint had often read their most secret thoughts, the miracles they saw her perform, and the admirable tenour of her life, in which the most active virtues were combined with the deepest humility, and supernatural favours received with the most profound self-abasement, were to them a warrant of the genuineness of her revelations, the substance of which, condensed and reduced into a series of rules, are to this day observed by the oblates of tor di specchi. chapter xii. progress and trials of the young community--it is confirmed by the pope--troubles in rome and the church terminated through francesca's intercession and the council of florence. it was on the 25th of march, the feast of the annunciation, in the year 1433, that the oblates, ten in number, met in the church of santa maria in trastevere, where their holy foundress had so long been in the habit of resorting. they all heard mass, and went to communion with the utmost fervour, and then in procession proceeded to the house they were henceforward to inhabit. that house, which now-a-days is thrown open during the octave of the feast of san francesca, where young women come with their little children, and point out to them the room which they inhabited in their own childhood, when under the gentle care of the oblates of mary. it is no gloomy abode, the convent of tor di specchi even in the eyes of those who cannot understand the happiness of a nun. it is such a place which one loves to see children in; where religion is combined with every thing that pleases the eye and recreates the mind. the beautiful chapel; the garden with its magnificent orange-trees; the open galleries, with their fanciful decorations and scenic recesses, where a holy picture or figure takes you by surprise, and meets you at every turn; the light airy rooms where religious prints and ornaments, with flowers, birds, and ingenious toys, testify that innocent enjoyments are encouraged and smiled upon, while from every window may be caught a glimpse of the eternal city, a spire, a ruined wall,--something that speaks of rome and its thousand charms. on holy thursday no sepulchre is more beautiful than that of tor di specchi. flowers without end, and bright hangings, all sweet and costly things, do homage to the lord in the hours of his loving imprisonment. but on the day when francesca's companions first entered those walls, there was nothing very fair or beautiful to greet them, though they earned there, however, in their hearts, from the altar they had just left, the source of all light and love; and to the eyes of faith the scene must have been a bright one. with delight they exchanged then ordinary dress for that which the rule prescribed: francesca alone stood among them no nun in her outward garb, but the truest nun of all, through the inward consecration of her whole being to god. agnese de sellis, a relation of hers, and a woman highly distinguished for virtue and prudence was elected superior of the house. there was a truly admirable spectacle presented to the people of rome; these women were all of noble birth, and accustomed to all the comforts and conveniences of life. most of them had been wealthy; some of them were still young; and for the love of god they had given op every thing, and made over their possessions to their relations; for it was not to lead a life of ease, of religious quietude, of holy contemplation alone, that they had separated themselves from the world. it was to imitate the poverty of christ, to place in the common stock, as the first christians did, the little they had reserved, and to endure all the privations incident on poverty. their exact and spontaneous obedience to the gentle agnese was as remarkable as the sweetness and humility with which she ruled. seldom seen abroad, their hours were divided between prayer, meditation, spiritual reading, and works of mercy. (footnote: the rule which they then adopted remains the same to this day. the oblates of tor di speechi are not, strictly speaking, nuns: they take no vows, and are bound by no obligations under pain of sin; they are not cloistered, and their dress is that which was worn at the period of their establishment by the widows of the roman nobles.) francesca, obliged to be absent from them in body, was ever present with them in spirit. she was the tenderest mother to the little flock that had gathered under her sheltering wing: ministering to their necessities; visiting them as often as she could leave her husband's side; exciting them on to perfection by her words and example; consoling the weak, and confirming the strong. it was not to be expected that the infant congregation could be free from evil reports, and from the kind of persecution which ever attends the undertakings and tries the courage of god's most faithful servants. the mode of life of the oblates became the general subject of conversation; and though the wiser and better portion of the community were filled with respect and admiration for their virtues, there were not wanting persons to raise a cry against them and against their foundress, and to complain that women should be allowed to lend an existence which was strictly speaking neither secular nor religious; a monastery without enclosure, without vows, without revenues, without any security for its permanent support. their comments were not without effect on the naturally irresolute mind of don giovanni mattiotti and fra bartolommeo biandii. the former, in particular, grew discontented and desponding. the direction of the order was a heavy burden to him; and his faith in francesca's revelations was shaken by the many worldly difficulties which he foresaw. the miraculous manner in which the saint read his thoughts, and transmitted to him and his companion the reproofs and encouragements which were supernaturally addressed to them through the medium of one of her visions, opened their eyes to a sense of their pusillanimity, and made them ashamed of their misgivings. another threatened trial was, by the mercy of god, turned into a consolation. one of the youngest of the oblates, augustina coluzzi, was the only child of her mother, who was a widow. this mother had made a generous sacrifice to god in gladly surrendering this beloved daughter to the exclusive service of him who had called her to that high vocation; but she had miscalculated her sacrifice, or, perhaps, trusted too much to her own strength. when the sacrifice was made, the human feelings rose in her heart with terrible violence, and life appeared to her as one dreary blank, now that her home was shorn of its light, now that the beloved child of her heart had ceased to gladden her eyes. self-reproach for their vain repinings heightened her misery, and misery at last grew into despair. in an instant of wild recklessness she seized a knife, and was about to destroy herself, when, like an angel at the hour of her utmost need, her daughter was at her side, and arrested her arm. it was so against all rules and all probabilities that she should have come to her at that moment, that she gazed on her in silent astonishment. francesca was in prayer at the moment, when satan had been tempting the unfortunate woman; and the dreadful danger she was in was miraculously revealed to her. she instantly ordered augustina to leave what she was about, and hurry to her mother. the young girl arrived in time; and so great was th« impression which this merciful interposition produced on the mother, so deep her sense of the peril to which her soul had been exposed, that she hastened to throw herself at francesca's feet, and with blessings on her and on her daughter, she expressed her gratitude for augustina's vocation, and her earnest wish that she should remain faithful to it. another trial arose in those early days at tor di specchi from the resolution formed by a wealthy young heiress to join the order. she belonged to one of the noblest families in rome, and was bent on employing her fortune in supporting the infant congregation. francesca was reluctant to receive her; but, over persuaded by the opinions of others, she gave way. a violent opposition immediately arose; and there was no end to the calumnies and vituperations which were employed on the occasion. francesca, again enlightened by a divine intimation, insisted on restoring the young person to her family; and a rule was henceforward made that none but persons of a more advanced age should be admitted into the order. these and many other difficulties rendered it very desirable that the approval of the holy father should set its seal on the work, and furnish it with a shield against the malice of the world. the permissions which they sought were as follows: 1st, that the oblates should be allowed the rights to live in community, and to admit other persons into their society; 2d, that they might elect for themselves a superioress; 3d, that this superioress should have the power of choosing a confessor for the house; 4th, that they should have a chapel in which to hear mass, to go to confession and to communion, and be exempted from the jurisdiction of the parish and the parish priests. this scheme was fully approved of by the three coadjutors; but it was some time before don giovanni could be induced to lay it before the sovereign pontiff. he alleged that the disturbed state of rome, and the many distracting cares which were besetting the holy father, held out no prospect of success in such a mission; but, urged by various irresistible proofs that god willed that he should undertake it, he at last consented. the petition was framed in the name of the oblates, francesca absolutely refusing to be mentioned as the foundress. while he bent his way to the pontifical palace, the oblates of tor di specchi and the monks of santa maria nuova joined in fervent prayer to god for the success of his application. eugenius iv. received francesca's messenger with great kindness, and bade him carry back to her assurances of his favourable disposition towards the congregation, recommending himself at the same time to her prayers and to those of her sisters. he commended the examination of the case to gaspard, archbishop of conza, and enjoined him to verify the facts recited in the petition, and to communicate on the subject with the prior and the monks of santa maria nuova; and if satisfied with the result, to grant the privileges therein requested. the archbishop applied himself with diligence to the execution of these orders; and the original document in which this authorisation is recorded still exists amongst the archives of the monastery. it stipulates that the oblates shall be subject to the jurisdiction of the superior and of the monks of santa maria nuova, and that they may continue to inhabit the house of tor di specchi until such time as they shall have made purchase of another. a short time afterwards the oblates, full of gratitude and joy at the favours which had been granted them, and every day more satisfied with their abode, solicited and obtained permission to remain in it in perpetuity. this last transaction took place at the very time when rome was given up to anarchy, and frightful disorders reigned within its walls; when the pontifical magistrates had been thrust aside, and furious demagogues installed in their places. the pope had taken refuge in bologna, and it is from that town that is dated the last-mentioned decree. the congregation was successively confirmed by three of the generals of the olivetan order; and in 1444 eugenius iv. extended still further the privileges and franchises of the oblates. francesca was deeply impressed with the responsibility she had incurred in the establishment of her congregation, and felt herself bound to advance more and more in virtue herself, as well as further the piety of her spiritual daughters. during her visits to the convent she used to work indiscriminately in the kitchen or in the parlour; waited at table, and cleaned the plates, as it might happen; and could not bear to be treated with the least distinction. in coming in, and in going away, she always reverently kissed the hand of agnese de sellis the superioress, and asked for her blessing. she sometimes accompanied the sisters to her vineyard near st. paul without the walls, where they gathered wood, and carried it back to rome bound in faggots for burning. she gently reproved one of the oblates who, on one of these occasions, sought to screen her from observation when an illustrious personage was passing by. she took them with her to visit the hospitals and the poverty-houses in the city: and the miraculous cures which she performed in their presence confirmed their faith, and inflamed them with the most ardent desire to imitate her example. at the time that the misfortunes of rome were at their height, francesca appeared one morning at the monastery, and gathering around her her spiritual daughters, she thus addressed them: "what shall we do, my children? the wrath of god is warring fierce against our unhappy country; rome is in the hands of cruel and lawless men; the holy father in exile; his ministers prison, his life sought after as if he were an odious oppressor, and we know not when to look for his return. immorality is increasing, vice triumphant, hell yawning for souls which christ's blood has redeemed, and those who ought to extinguish do but excite the flame, and draw upon us the just judgment of god. the blessed virgin requires at our hands more fervent prayers, more tears, more penances. we must supply for the great dearth of love. mortifications and prayer are the weapons we are furnished with; our hearts are the victims which must he slain for men's sins; our tears must quench those unholy fires; we shall not be true oblates until we have made a complete sacrifice of ourselves, of our souls and of our bodies, to the lord. we are few; but do not doubt the strength of prayer. let us be fervent and persevere, and soon we shall reap the fruit of our intense supplications, of our long-continued pleadings; and liberty, peace, and all god's blessings, will be restored to rome." francesca's exhortations had their effect, and the fervent prayers they drew forth had theirs also; for in the same year the bishops of recaunti and of turpia reassumed, in the pope's name, possession of the city; and the romans, wearied with anarchy, gladly welcomed their rule. a more terrible evil, a more appalling danger now threatened not only rome but the whole catholic world. the undutiful conduct of the council of basle, with the violence of their language with regard to the holy see, brought matters to such a point that a deplorable schism appeared inevitable. pope eugenius was divided between the fear of hurrying it on, and that of compromising by undue concessions the legitimate authority of the chair of peter. it was at this juncture that the blessed virgin appeared one night to francesca, surrounded by saints and apostles, serenely beautiful, and with a compassionate expression in her countenance. after some preliminary spiritual instructions, she intimated to the saint that god was waiting to have mercy, and that his wrath had to be softened by assiduous prayers and good works. she named certain religious exercises, certain penitential practices; which were to be observed on the principal feasts of the ensuing year; and recommending to the faithful in general, and more particularly to the oblates, a great purity of heart, a sincere contrition for past sin, and a spirit of earnest charity, she charged francesca to see that her orders were complied with; and disappeared after bestowing her blessing. it was in vain, however, that this revelation was communicated by don giovanni to the clergy of rome. they rejected it as the dream of a pious and sickly woman; and even the most earnest amongst them absolutely declined to attach to it the slightest importance. not so the vicar of christ, when francesca's confessor carried to him at bologna the message of the saint; he listened to it with reverence and gratitude, and sent back by his means all the necessary mandates for the execution of the orders which the blessed virgin had given. when he arrived at tor di specchi, francesca met him; and before he could open his mouth, she gave him an exact account of all that had taken place on his journey, and of the very words which the holy father had used during their interview. the pope's directions were attended to, the appointed masses said, the processions organised; and in a short time it was seen that a favourable result ensued. the pope was happily inspired to convene the council that met at ferrara, and subsequently continued its labours at florence. this at last put an end to the pretensions of the illegal assembly at basle, and the wounds of the church were gradually healed. there was but one opinion at the time as to the cause of this favourable change in the aspect of affairs. it was unanimously ascribed to the prayers of francesca and to the pope's compliance with the orders she had received; and in the process of her canonisation this point is treated of at length, and satisfactorily established; and those who are acquainted with the extreme caution observed on these occasions in admitting evidence on such a subject, will he impressed with the conviction that she was used as an instrument of god's mercy towards his suffering church. chapter xiii. death of francesca's husband--she goes to reside with the community of tor di speccc--her life as superioress. francesca had been forty years married to lorenzo ponziano; and through her married life, the heart that had been consecrated to god from the first dawn of existence had been faithful in its love to him whom god himself had appointed to be her chief earthly care: and blessed had been the course of that union; blessed by the tender affection which had reigned between the husband and the wife, and by the exercise of no common virtues, multiplied by the pursuits of one common object. francesca had led the way; in meekness, in humility, in subjection; but with a single aim and an unwavering purpose. many and severe trials had been their portion at different epochs of their lives; but the latter part of lorenzo's existence had been comparatively tranquil. lorenzo was the first to be called away. god spared him the trial he had probably dreaded. we seldom are called upon to suffer the particular grief that fancy has dwelt upon. his health had been breaking for some years past, and now it utterly failed, and his disease assumed an alarming character. francesca, though apparently worn out with toil, with abstinence, and mental and bodily labours, found strength for every duty, and energy for every emergency. during lorenzo's prolonged and painful illness, she was always at his side, nursing him with indefatigable tenderness, and completing the work which her example had wrought. his passage from life to eternity appeared but a journey. the efforts of satan to disturb him on his death-bed, though often repeated, were each time frustrated. lorenzo had been a just man, and his death was the death of the righteous. few men would have shown themselves as worthy as he did of such a wife as francesca. from the moment of his marriage he had appreciated her virtues, rejoiced in her piety, encouraged her good works, and to a great extent shared in them. no mean feelings of jealousy, no human respect, no worldly sentiment of expediency had influenced him. when he saw her renouncing all the pleasures and vanities of the world, dressing like a poor person, wearing herself out in the zeal of her charity, turning the half of his palace into a hospital, he did not complain, but rather rejoiced that she was one of those "whom fools have for a time in derision, and for a parable of reproach; whose life is esteemed madness, and their end without honour; but who are numbered amongst the children of god, and whose lot is amongst the saints." he had his reward; he had it when his sight failed him and his breath grew short, when he felt that his hour was come. he had it when in his dying ears she whispered words of peace; and satan, with a cry of despair, for ever fled away from his couch; and when the everlasting portals opened, and the sentence was pronounced at the immediate judgment that follows death. masses, prayers, fervent communions, and pious suffrages followed him beyond the grave; and when the saint, who had been the model of wives, stood by that grave a widow, her earthly task was, in one sense, done: but work remained; but it was of another sort. from her earliest youth she bad been a nun in spirit; and the heart which had sighed for the cloister in childhood yearned for its shelter in these her latter days. she must go and live in the shade of the tabernacle; she must be alone with her lord during the few remaining years of life. this must have been foreseen by her children; and yet, like all trials of the kind, however long looked forward to, it came upon them at last as a surprise. when she said, "i must go," there was a loud cry of sorrow in the ponziano palace. baptista, the only son of her love, wept aloud. mobilia threw herself into her arms, and with impetuous grief, protested against her leaving them. "are you not afraid for me?" she exclaimed, "if you abandon me, you who have taught me to love god and to serve him i what am i without you? too much, too tenderly you have loved me. it cannot be that you should forsake me. i cannot endure existence without you." her grandchildren also, whom she was tenderly attached to, clung to her, weeping. moved by their tears, but unshaken in her resolution, she gently consoled them; bade them recollect that she was still to inhabit rome; that her affection for them would be unchanged, and that she would always be at hand to advise and to aid them; but that her vocation must now he fulfilled, and the sacrifice completed. then turning to mobilia, as to a dearly-beloved child, she fondly said, "do not weep, my daughter; you will survive me, and bear witness to my memory." this prediction was fulfilled; for mobilia was alive at the time that the process for francesca's canonisation was commenced, and the testimony she gave to her virtues and to her miracles was on that occasion most important, and the most detailed. after this, francesca took leave of her family, and went straight to the tor di specchi. it was on the 21st of march, the festival of st. benedict, that she entered its walls, not as the foundress but as a humble suppliant for admission. at the foot of the stairs, having taken off her black gown, her veil, and her shoes, and placed a cord around her neck, she knelt down, kissed the ground, and, shedding an abundance of tears, made her general confession aloud in the presence of all the oblates; described herself as a miserable sinner, a grievous offender against god, and asked permission to dwell amongst them as the meanest of their servants; and to learn from them to amend her life, and enter upon a holier course. the spiritual daughters of francesca hastened to raise and to embrace her; and clothing her with their habit, they led the way to the chapel, where they all returned thanks to god. while she remained there engaged in prayer, agnese de sellis the superioress, assembled the sisters in the chapter-room, and declared to them, that now that their true mother and foundress had come amongst them, it would be absurd for her to remain in her present office; that francesca was their guide, their head, and that into her hands she would instantly resign her authority. they all applauded her decision, and gathering around the saint, announced to her their wishes. as was to be expected, francesca strenuously refused to accede to this proposal, and pleaded her inability to the duties of a superioress. the oblates had recourse to don giovanni, who began by entreating, and finally commanded her acceptance of the charge. his orders she never resisted; and accordingly, on the 25th of march, she was duly elected to that office. she was favoured with a vision which strengthened and encouraged her in the new task she had before her. the angel who for twenty-four years had been by her side, defending and assisting her on all occasions, took leave of her now with a benignant smile, and in his place another, more refulgent still, was ordained to stand. by day and by night he was continually weaving a mysterious woof, the threads of which seemed to grow out of the mystical palm which he carried. st. benedict appeared to franceses on the day of her election, and explained to her the meaning of those symbols. gold was the type of the love and charity which was to govern her dealings with her daughters, while the palm implied the triumph she was to obtain over human weakness and human respect. the unceasing labours of the angel was to mark the unwearied efforts she was to use for the right ordering and spiritual welfare of the community intrusted to her care; and truly she laboured with indefatigable zeal in her new vocation. she had ever before her eyes the words of st. paul to timothy and to titus: "preach the word. be patient in season and out of season. entreat, rebuke, in all patience and doctrine. in all things show thyself an example of good works, in doctrine, in integrity, in gravity." preaching far more by her actions than by her words, she gave an example of the most heroic virtues. it would be difficult to imagine any thing mom perfect than her life in the world; but the new duties, the new privileges of her present vocation added each day new splendour to her virtues. she appointed agnese de sellis her coadjutress, and begged her to share her room, and watch over her conduct, entreating her at the same time to warn her of every fault she might commit. her strictness with her spiritual children, though tempered by love, was extreme. she never left a single imperfection unreproved, and allowed of no infractions, however slight, of the rule. sometimes, when through shyness or false shame, they concealed some trifling offence which they were bound to confess, she read their hearts, and reminded them not to give satan a hold upon them by such reserve. she was most careful of their health, and sought to procure them as often as she could some innocent recreation. they used occasionally to go with her to one or other of her vine-gardens without the walls, to take exercise in the pure open air. francesca's gentle gaiety on these occasions increased their enjoyment; and the labour of gathering wood and grass, of making up faggots, and carrying away their spoil on their heads at night, was a part of their amusement. the conversation that was carried on between them the while was as merry as it was innocent. these young persons, born in palaces and bred in luxury, worked like peasants, with more than a peasant's lightness of heart. one fine sunny january day--and those who have inhabited rome well know how fine a january day can be--francesca and seven or eight of her companions had been since early dawn in the vine-gardens of porta portese. they had worked hard for several hours, and then suddenly remembered that they had brought no provision with them. they soon became faint and hungry, and above all very thirsty. perna, the youngest of all the oblates, was particularly heated and tired, and approaching the mother superior, with a wearied expression of countenance, she asked permission to go and drink some water at a fountain some way off on the public road. "be patient, my child," francesca answered; "the fountain is too distant." she was afraid of these young persons drinking cold water, heated as they were by toil and exposure to the sun. they went on with their work; and withdrawing aside, francesca knelt down, clasped her hands, and with her eyes raised to heaven, said, "lord jesus, i have been thoughtless in bringing my sisters here, and forgetting to provide food for them. help us in our need." perna, who had kept near to the mother superior, probably with the intention of urging her request, overheard this prayer, and, a little irritated by the feverish thirst she was enduring, said to herself with some impatience, "it would be more to the purpose to take us home at once." francesca read the inward thought, and turning to the discontented girl she said, "my child, you do not trust enough in god. look up and see." perna obeyed, and following the direction of francesca's hand, she saw a vine entwined around a tree, from whose dead and leafless branches were hanging a number of the finest bunches of grapes, of that purple and burnished hue which the fervid sunbeams of august and september impart to that glorious fruit. "a miracle! a miracle!" exclaimed the enraptured perna; and the other oblates assembled round the tree in speechless astonishment, for they had seen all day the bare and withered branches. twenty times at least they had passed and repassed before it; and at all events the season for grapes had long gone by. after kneeling to give thanks to god for this gracious prodigy, they spread a cloth on the grass, and gathered the precious fruit. there were exactly as many bundles as persons present; and with smiling faces and joyful hearts francesca's children fed on the supply which her prayer had obtained for them. obedience was a virtue of which the saint herself gave a most perfect example, and which she unremittingly required of others. one of the oblates having refused one day to comply with an order she had received, francesca fixed her eyes upon her with an expression of so much severity, that the person in question suddenly fainted away, and remained afterwards speechless and in a state of insensibility. the doctors were sent for, and declared that her life was in imminent danger. this was a severe trial to the saint; she could not reproach herself for a severity which had been a matter of duty, not of passion, but at the same time she trembled for the soul of one who had apparently lost the use of reason at the very moment she was committing a serious fault. after addressing a fervent prayer to god, and invoking the blessed virgin, she went straight to the bed-side of the sister, and taking her by the hand with great solemnity, addressed to her these words: "if it be true that our congregation is approved of god, and has his holy mother for its foundress, in the name of holy obedience, i command you to speak to me." the oblate seemed to awake from a long dream, and opening her eyes, she distinctly said, "mother, what would you have me to do?" from that moment she rallied, and was soon restored to health. another time, when an aged member of the congregation was dying, and every moment expected to be her last, franceses prayed that she might not be allowed to depart in the absence of don giovanni, the director of the house. for six days and six nights the sick woman lingered between life and death. on the arrival of her spiritual father she revived, went to confession, and received the last sacrament then, as she again sank into insensibility, francesca bent over her and said, "sister catherine, depart in peace, and pray for us;" and in that instant the aged woman expired. the poverty of the congregration was extreme. the slender means of the first oblates had been exhausted by the purchase of the house and the erection of a small chapel. francesca had indeed made over to it her two vineyards of porta portese and of st. paul without the walls; but the trifling revenue they furnished was wholly inadequate to the support of fifteen persons; and moreover the religions were so endued with the spirit of their foundress, that they never could bring themselves to turn away a beggar from their doors as long as they had a slice of bread to bestow. they often went a whole day without eating, rather than deny themselves the happiness of feeding the poor. francesca, happy in the virtues of her children, but tenderly anxious for their welfare, was indefatigable in her efforts to procure them the necessaries of life. she used on these occasions to beg of her relations, or even of strangers; and almighty god allowed her sometimes to provide for them in a miraculous manner. one day that the sister whose turn it was to attend to the victualling department found herself unable to put upon the table any thing but two or three small fragments of bread, she went to consult the saint, who immediately proposed to go out with her and beg. according to her invariable custom, she asked agnese de sellis, her coadjutoress, for permission so to do. contrary to her habit on such occasions, agnese refused, and said, that if it was necessary for any one to beg, she, with another of the sisters, would undertake it. then francesca, after a moment's thought, replied, "i think that god will provide for us without any one going out of the house;" and calling the oblates to the refectory, she asked a blessing on the bread, and distributed it in minute portions amongst them. each on beginning to eat her share saw it multiply apace; and not only were their wants thus supplied at the moment, but enough remained when they had done to furnish them with food for the next day. the gift of prophecy she also exercised more frequently than ever at this period. once, when she was praying in her cell, the nuns heard her exclaim, "o king of heaven, support and comfort that poor unhappy mother;" and some hours afterwards, they heard that at that very moment a young nobleman, jacobo maddaleni, had been thrown from his horse and killed on the spot, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. lorenzo altieri was dying, and his wife palozza overwhelmed with sorrow; she had several young children, and was almost in despair at the idea of losing her husband. the physician had declared his case hopeless; and when she sent for francesca her heart was breaking. the saint came up to her, and said compassionately, "dear sister, give up the love and the vanities of the world, and god will take pity upon you. lorenzo will yet recover; he will be present at my burial." the prediction was fulfilled, and lorenzo, restored to health, assisted, as she had said, at the funeral of the saint; and palozza, whose heart had been entirely converted at that moment, and who had vowed in case of his death to retire into a convent, whenever her children could spare her, led henceforward, in every respect, the life of a christian wife and mother. the superioress of the sisters of the third order of st. francis consulted her one day on the admission of a young girl, who had requested to be admitted among them. francesca had not seen or known any thing of the candidate, but unhesitatingly answered, that the vocation was not a real one, and she recommended that she should be refused. "she will enter another monastery," she added, "and after remaining in it a short time, will return to the world, and soon after she will die." it happened exactly as the saint had foretold: francesca da fabrica went into the convent of casa di cento finestre, on the shores of the tiber, gave up the habit before the end of the year, and a sharp fever carried her off soon after her return. gregorio and gentilesca selli had a little girl of four years old, who was paralysed, and up to her waist her frame appeared completely withered. they had often been urged to have recourse to the spells or charms then so much in vogue, but had always refused to seek a blessing through such means. they were carrying the little child to francesca, full of faith in her prayers, which they were coming to ask, when she exclaimed at the first sight of them: "happy are you who have not sought your child's recovery in unlawful ways. in three days, my friends, she will be restored to health;" and the prediction was fulfilled to the letter. it would be useless to multiply such recitals as these. as she advances in years, especially since her retirement at tor di specchi, more and more frequent become the exercise of those supernatural gifts with which god had endowed the gentle saint of rome. no day elapses that some new prodigy does not call forth the grateful enthusiasm of the warm-hearted and devout trasteverini. if a child is trodden under foot by a runaway horse, francesca is sent for, and at the sight of the saint he revives. if a young boatman, in the prime of youth, is thrown into the tiber, and curried away by the stream under the arches of the ponte rotto, from whence his afflicted mother receives him into her arms without a symptom of life, she calls out to her friends, "run, ran to the servant of god: go to francesca dei ponziano, and bid her pray for the boy." and when they return, the mother is weeping still over her apparently lifeless child; but they shout from a distance, "the servant of god says he will not die;" and in a few instants, paul guidolini opens his eyes, and smiles on his mother, who some years later becomes one of the oblates of tor di specchi. if francesca sits down for a moment to rest on the steps of a church, as she did one good friday, after the service at st. peter's, a paralytic woman kneels at her feet, and obtains that she should lay her hand on her withered limbs, which are instantly restored. there is no illness on record which her prayers, or the touch of her hand, does not dispel and subdue. she restores sight to the blind, the dumb speak, the deaf hear, the lame walk at her bidding; pestilence and madness and fits and wounds and possession itself disappear before the power with which almighty god has endued her; and she walks this earth of ours dispensing blessings, as the faithful handmaid of him who went about doing good. at the same time, more and more ecstatic grew her prayers, more visible to all eyes the indwelling of the holy spirit in her soul, more removed from the natural conditions of existence the tenour of her life. at the hours of meals, which she observed in obedience to the rule, her companions notice that she hardly ever eats, but that her face is turned to the window, and her eyes fixed on the sky, while rays of light seem to play around her, and her countenance grows dazzling from the celestial brightness which overspreads it. longer and longer became her orisons; often in visiting a church she falls into an ecstasy, which lasts till night. the sublimity of her vision, the glimpses of heaven which she enjoys, the sight of angels, and of the lord of angels, is occasionally exchanged for the terrific apparitions, the renewed assaults of satan, who attack her at times with redoubled violence, now that her ultimate triumph is at hand, and the crown about to descend on a brow which already shines with the mystic radiance of sanctity. the old frescoes of the original chapel of tor di specchi represent some of these mysterious struggles between francesca and the evil one; and her cell bears the impress of that strange violence which satan is permitted to exercise at certain moments, and which is the type of the warfare which is ever waged between him and god's church. he can shake it at times by the storms he raises; but vain are his attempts to overthrow it. the mark of satan's fury is stamped on the roof of franceses's lowly cell; but the relics of the canonised saint now fill the chamber which, in his impotent rage, the tempter once sought to destroy. but this life of wonders, of trials, and of miracles, was drawing to a close. she who had been the holiest of maidens, of wives, and of widows, had all but finished her course, and many were the intimations she received of her approaching end. on one of these occasions she selected one of the chapels in santa maria nuova as a place of sepulture for the oblates, and obtained from the olivetan monks that it should be reserved for that purpose. she often spoke of her death to the sisters, and told rita, one of the companions of her youth, that she would succeed her in the government of the congregation. don ippolito, one of her coadjutors in the foundation of the order, had often implored two favours of her, that she would look upon him as her spiritual son, and that she would summon him to her death-bed. she assured him that the prayers of such a worthless sinner as herself were not deserving of a thought; but, moved by his importunities, she promised in the end to comply with his request. accordingly, towards the end of the year 1439, when he was in sienna on business, he received a letter from francesca, in which she reminded him of his desire to be present at her last moments, and in consequence exhorted him to conclude his affairs, and return to rome as soon as possible, which he accordingly did. on christmas-day and on the feast of st. stephen she had visions of the blessed virgin and of the infant jesus, which she communicated to don ippolito in the church of santa maria nuova, where she had gone on her way back from san lorenzo without the walls and st. john of lateran, which she had successively visited. the religious said to her with emotion: "mother, you will now grant me the favour i have so often asked of you." "yes," replied the saint, who had been all day in a kind of ecstasy, though she moved from one place to another; "yes; i look upon you now as my father, as my brother, and as my son." and so saying she left him, and returned to tor di specchi, still absorbed in contemplation. don ippolito followed her with his eyes till she had disappeared from his sight, and joy and sorrow were struggling in his heart; for he felt that the time was come for her great gain and her children's unspeakable loss. chapter xiv. francesca's last illness and death. francesca was fifty-six years old. her frame, worn out with labour, with fastings, and austerities, was enfeebled also by frequent illnesses; but her activity, her indomitable energy, was still the same. she never flagged, never wearied, never gave way under the pressure of physical or moral sufferings. it was probably a trial of the latter description, one which she had always been keenly alive to, that hurried her end. a fresh schism broke out in the church, to the scandal and grief of all the faithful. the refractory bishops assembled at basle, ventured to decree the deposition of pope eugenius, and to elect as anti-pope the aged amadeus, duke of tuscany, who had abdicated in favour of his son, and was living as a hermit on the shores of the lake of geneva. the usurper took the name of felix v., and this unhappy schism lasted ten years. francesca turned to heaven her weary eyes--she besought her lord to take her away from this scene of trial: too keenly did she feel the woes of the church; too deeply did she sorrow over these renewed conflicts, and the consequent dangers to which the souls of christians were exposed. perhaps it was given to her in that hour to foresee the fearful storm that was lowering over the church,--the monster heresy that, in less than a century, was to rise against the mystical bride of christ, and rob her of her children. on the 3d of march, 1440, francesca was sent for by her son baptista, who was laid up with a sharp attack of fever. she instantly obeyed the summons; and, on arriving at the ponziano palace, found him already much better, and able to leave his bed; but, at the earnest request of the whole family, she agreed to spend the whole day with them, the oblate augustina, who had accompanied her, also remaining to return with her at night. towards evening she grew so weak that she could hardly stand; and baptista and mobilia implored her to stay at the palace, or else to let herself be carried in a litter to the convent; but she persisted in setting out on foot. stopping on her way at the church of santa maria in trastevere, she went in to ask, for the last time, her spiritual father's blessing, and found don giovanni in the chapel of the angels--that spot where she had so often been favoured with divine revelations. as he was inquiring after baptista, he was struck with the more than habitual paleness of her face, and the evident exhaustion she was labouring under, and commanded her, as a matter of obedience, instantly to return to the ponziano palace, and to spend the night there, this order was a severe trial to francesca, for she felt at once that if she was not now to return to tor di specchi, she would never again enter those hallowed walls; but, faithful to the spirit of perfect obedience, she meekly bowed her head in token of submission, and went back to her son's house. in the course of the night a virulent fever came on, and in the morning she was as ill as possible. francesca's first care was to send for her director, and to request him to apprise her spiritual daughters of her illness. four of them (agnese, rita, catherina, and anastasia,) hurried to her side; and when they heard her entreat don giovanni not to omit any of the necessary precautions for her soul's welfare, they all burst into tears, and seemed at once to understand that their beloved mother was about to leave them. francesca gently consoled them, and dismissed them towards the evening, only keeping with her augustina, who watched her during the night, and witnessed the ecstasy during which the following vision was vouchsafed to the sufferer:--our lord appeared, surrounded with angels and with saints, and announced to her that in seven days she would die, and receive the crown which was prepared for her in heaven. sister augustina saw her face shining with supernatural brightness; a radiant smile playing on her lips, and heard her say with ineffable unction: "be thou eternally praised and blessed, o my dear lord jesus christ! thanks be to thee for the unmerited favours i have received at thy hands. to thee, to thee alone, do i owe all the blessings i have, and have yet to receive." when don giovanni saw her afterwards, he imagined she was rallying; but she related to him her vision, and bade him tell her daughters that her end was approaching. their tears and their sobs choked their utterance; and the saint gently reproved that excess of sorrow, and bade them rejoice with her, and bless the divine goodness for the great mercy that was shown to her. during the next two days she suffered much; but no word or sound of complaint escaped her. her face was as serene as if her body had been perfectly free from pain; and to those who expressed a hope that she would yet recover, she only answered with a sweet smile, "god be praised, my pilgrimage will end from wednesday to thursday next." she asked for the sacraments, confessed, went to communion, and received extreme unction. ardent ejaculatory prayers, devout aspirations, burning expressions of love, were ever rising from her heart to her lips. each day she repeated, as if she had been in perfect health, the office of the blessed virgin, the rosary, and all her usual prayers. the oblates watched by her in turns, and mobilia hardly ever left her side; so that the smallest particulars of that wonderful death-bed were carefully recorded. francesca allowed all those who wished to see her to come in. she had words of advice, of warning, and of consolation for all. when the news of her illness was spread in rome, the heart of the great city was stirred to its very depths, and a mournful, anxious, loving multitude beset the palace and the very bed of the dying saint. nowise disturbed or annoyed at this oppressive testimony of their affection, she had a smile, or a look, or a kind word for each. no cloud obscured her understanding; no irritability affected her temper. peace was within and around her, and heaven's own calm on her brow and in her heart. the evil spirits, the arch-enemy himself--who, for her sanctification and the glory of god, had been permitted so often to haunt her path and assault her during life--are banished now, and stand at bay, gazing, no doubt, from afar, with envious rage, on that peace which they may no longer mar. don giovanni, who had known so well her former trials, often inquired, during her last illness, if satan's ministers were molesting her. "no," she wouldd answer, with a smile; "i see them no more. god has conquered; his foes have fled." but the bright archangel, whose task is nearly at an end, is still at his post; he weaves the last threads of the mystic woof, and seems to make haste to finish his work. the halo of light which surrounds him grows brighter and brighter, and francesca's dying form reflects that splendour. on the monday morning she is still in the same state. glorious visions pass before her; divine forms bend over her, and whisper words of welcome. during mass, which her confessor says in her room, the lord himself appears to her again; and from the consecrated host he speaks to her entranced soul. the blessed virgin and the angels surround her, and the voices of the blest make sweet music in her ears. late on that day, when her ecstasy was over, the weeping oblates surround her bed, and with suppliant accents implore her to ask of god yet to leave her upon earth, for the sake of the souls intrusted to her care. it was a hard request: to have had a glimpse of heaven, and to turn back; to have tasted the cup of celestial bliss, and to draw back from its sweetness! full of love, of pity, of resignation, of holy indifference, she exclaims: "god's will is my will; his good pleasure mine. if he chooses me to tarry yet on earth, so be it then. i am ready to remain in this miserable world, if he commands it." but it was not ordained. the next day she grew rapidly worse, and from that time slept not again. "i shall soon rest in god," she replied to those who were urging her to repose. the oblates once more kneel around her to receive her last instructions: one of them alone, francesca del veruli, is kept away by a severe illness, which confines her to her bed. touching were the last words of the dying mother to her spiritual children; sweet the words of blessing she pronounced on their heads. _love, love_, was the burden of her teaching, as it had been that of the beloved disciple. "love one another (she said), and be faithful unto death. satan will assault you, as he has assaulted me; but be not afraid. you will overcome him through patience and obedience; and no trial will be too grievous, if you are united to jesus; if you walk in his ways, he will be with you." then with earnest accents she thanked don giovanni, in her own name and in that of the order, for all he had done to them; and commended the oblates to his fatherly care. at that moment her son baptista entered the room. his mother sat up in the bed, and gazing upon him with an expression of anxious scrutiny, she said: "and can it be that you quarrel with poor shepherds? and do you rob god of his glory by unlawful dealings with hell?" the persons who were standing around the bed looked at each other in surprise, and imagined that francesca was delirious; but baptista's countenance and actions soon undeceived them. tears rushed into his eyes, and with great emotion he publicly acknowledged that he had been guilty of striking, in his anger, some peasants who had injured his fields, and had gone to consult in secret one of the persons who dealt in occult sciences, as to the possibility of his mother's recovery. no one but himself knew of his twofold sin; and the rebuke of the dying saint came upon him as a direct reproof from god, and an awful warning for the rest of his life. as the day advanced, francesca grew weaker and weaker; but the flame of love was burning more brightly, as that of life was waning. "what are you saying?" asked don giovanni at one moment, on seeing her lips move. "the vespers of the blessed virgin," she answered in a scarcely audible voice. as an infant almost she had begun that practice; and on the eve of her death she had not yet omitted it. on the seventh day of her illness, as she had herself announced, her life came to a close. a sublime expression animated her face; a more ethereal beauty clothed her earthly form. her confessor for the last time inquires what it is her enraptured eyes behold, and she whispers, "the heavens open! the angels descend! the archangel has finished his task. he stands before me. he beckons to me to follow him." these are the last words that francesca utters; a smile of indescribable brightness beams from her face. the eyes that have so long been closed to the vanities of life are now closed in death, and her spirit has taken its final leave of earth. chapter xv. francesca's funeral, and her subsequent canonization. the body of the saint remained during a night and a day at the ponziano palace, the oblates watching by turns over the beloved remains. their grief was tempered with joy, for they felt she was in heaven; though the pang of separation was keen, and their home on earth desolate. don giovanni, don ippolito, and don francesco dello schiano recited the prayers of the church over the corpse; and though deeply affected themselves, strove to console the bereaved sisterhood, chiefly by extolling the rare merits and the heroic virtues of their departed mother. almighty god vouchsafed, even during the first night of their loving watch, to give them a proof of that sanctity which was so soon to be triumphantly demonstrated. sister margaret, of the third order of st. frances, had been present at francesca's death, and remained by her side during the night that followed. her arm had been paralysed for six months, and to all appearance withered. inspired with a lively faith, she touched the body of the saint, and was instantaneously cured. the oblates all fell on their knees at the sight of this miracle, and blessed god for the earnest he thus gave of the wonders which francesca's intercession was to accomplish. each moment they were confirmed in the blessed assurance of her immediate admission into heaven; each moment brought with it a new occasion for joyful exultation. the sweet perfume, the "odour of sanctity," which expression is so often supposed to be simply metaphorical, whereas it often indicates an actual physical and miraculous fact, soon pervaded the room and filled it with fragrance. francesca's face, which had recently borne the traces of age and of suffering, became as beautiful again as in the days of youth and prosperity; and the astonished bystanders gazed with wonder and awe at that unearthly loveliness. many of them carried away particles from her clothes, and employed them for the cure of several persons who had been considered beyond the possibility of recovery. in the course of the day, the crowd augmented to a degree which alarmed the inhabitants of the palace, and baptista took measures to have the body removed at once to the church and a procession of the regular and secular clergy escorted the venerated remains to santa maria nuova, where they were to be interred. the popular feeling burst forth on the occasion; it was no longer to be restrained: a sort of pious insurrection, which the church smiles upon, even though it refuses to sanction it; as a mother can scarcely rebuke a somewhat irregular action in one of her children when it springs from a generous feeling, even though she feels herself bound to check it. "francesca was a saint--francesca was in heaven." francesca was invoked by the crowd, and her beloved name was heard in every street, in every piazza, in every corner of the eternal city. it flew from mouth to mouth; it seemed to float in the air, to be borne aloft by the grateful enthusiasm of a whole people, who had seen her walk to that church by her mother's side in her holy childhood; who had seen her kneel at that altar in the grave beauty of womanhood, in the hour of bereavement, and now in death; carried thither in state, she the gentle, the humble saint of rome, the poor woman of the trastevere, as she was sometimes called at her own desire. francesca del veruli, the oblate whom illness had detained from the death-bed of her beloved mother, hears from her sick-room the confused hum of voices, the sound of hurrying feet, which indicate the approach of the procession. full of faith, she starts up, and with clasped hands exclaims, "oh, my mother! oh, francesca! i have not seen you die; i have not received your last blessing; obtain for me now that i may visit your remains." with a violent effort, and leaning on one of her sisters, she contrives to rise and to make her way to the bier. the very instant she has touched it, her health and strength return. meanwhile the crowd augments, and hurries into the church. they press round the precious body; they refuse to let it be buried. as a favour, as a boon of the greatest price, they obtain that the obsequies be put oft to the saturday; and in the meantime, day and night, there is no limit to the concourse of people that assemble in the chapel. still the saintly body exhales its perfume; still the sweet features retain their beauty; and to that spot, in an apparently never-ending succession, come the blind, and the lame, and the halt, and the sick, and the suffering; and each of those who touch the bier, or to whom is carried something that has belonged to francesca, is instantaneously cured. truly god was wonderful in this his saint, and wonderful are the details of the miracles wrought during those days; and not only were the ills of the body relieved by contact with the holy corpse, but grace reaches the souls of many who have been hitherto steeled against its entrance. amongst others, two young men of dissolute lives and irreligious spirits, on hearing of the miracles at santa maria nuova, begin to jeer and laugh on the subject, and, moved only by curiosity, go to the church, approach the bier with mock demonstrations of respect. but no sooner have they knelt before it, than their hearts are simultaneously touched; a sudden change comes over them. having come to scoff, they remain to pray,--they rise from their knees only to seek a confessor; and return home that night converted to god, and ever after lead the lives of pious christians. the miracles wrought before and after francesca's burial are so multifarious, that it might be tedious (a strange word to use on such an occasion, but nevertheless correct) to attempt to relate them all. great was the moral effect of this singular outpouring of god's powers through his servant. faith grew more timid, and hope more strong; charity burned in the hearts of many with an ever-increasing fervour; and the examples which the saint had given, and which were now dwelt upon with affectionate veneration, induced many to walk in the same path, and look to the same end. it was in lent that she had died; and from every pulpit in rome her praises were heard. the most eminent ecclesiastics of the time all foretold her canonisation; and the public voice and the public devotion ratified the burst of popular enthusiasm that had hailed her as a saint on the very day of her death, and long preceded the formal recognition of her sanctity by the authority of the church. a few months after her death, her tomb was opened in order to remove the corpse into a monument which baptista, mobilia, and several roman noblemen had erected in her honour. it was found in a state of perfect preservation, and still exhaling the same fragrance as before. the most exact and detailed examinations were taken in the year of her death, both as to all the particulars of her life, and as to the supernatural and miraculous events which had marked its course, as well as those which had succeeded her death. from time to time earnest endeavours were made to hasten her formal canonisation. the materials were ample, and the evidence complete; but a variety of circumstances interfered with the conclusion of the process; and though several popes, namely, eugenius iv., nicholas v., pius ii., innocent viii., and julius ii., promoted the question, it was not much advanced till the accession of clement viii., who had a great devotion to the saint, and brought the matter nearly to a close; but his death occurring in the meantime, and his successor, leo xi, only outliving him twenty-seven days, it was paul v. (borghese) who decreed the canonisation of francesca, to the joy of the oblates of tor di specchi, of the monks of santa maria nuova, and of the whole people of rome. her festival was appointed to be kept on the 9th of march; and those who have been in rome on that day can tell how vivid is the devotion that still exists,--the worship that is yet paid to the holy francesca, the beloved saint of the trastevere, the model of christian matrons; and in the church of santa francesca romana, as the old santa maria nuova is now called, and in the casa dei esercizii pii (the old ponziano palace), and in the time-honoured walls of tor di specchi, a tribute of love and of devotion is yielded, which touches the heart, and carries the mind back to the days when, amidst the strife of war and the miseries or anarchy, faith, fresh, strong, and pure, asserted its power, and wrought wonders through such feeble instruments as a woman's heart and a woman's works. on the 29th of may, 1608, in the church of st. peter, then lately erected, and adorned for the occasion with the utmost magnificence, after a pontifical high mass, in the presence of the sacred college, and of an immense affluence of strangers as well as of romans, the decree was proclaimed which placed francesca amongst the canonised saints, and sanctioned the worship which a devout people had paid her, with but few interruptions, since the day of her death. rome was illuminated that night; the fiery cupola of st. peter, and the sound of innumerable bells, told the neighbouring plains and hills that "god had regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden," and that, in her measure, all generations were to call her blessed. in 1633, the tomb of francesca, which, in consequence of some alterations in the church, had remained out of sight for a great number of years, was, through the pious exertions of the oblates, assisted by the abbot of santa maria nuova, and the cardinals borghese, barberini, and altiere, discovered in the spot where it had been placed two centuries before. her bones were exposed to the veneration of the faithful, and a number of religious processions and services took place on the occasion. various miracles again gave testimony to the virtues of those holy relics, and a magnificent monument was erected beneath that altar where the saint had so often prayed. blessed lucy of narni. blessed lucy of narni. it was towards the latter end of the 15th century that lucia broccoletti was horn in the ancient city of narni, in umbria, where her father's house had long held a noble and distinguished rank. even as a baby in the cradle, there were not wanting signs which marked her as no ordinary child; and if we may credit the account given us by her old biographers, both her nurses and mother were accustomed to see her daily visited by an unknown religious dressed in the dominican habit, whose majestic appearance seemed something more than human, and who, taking her from her cradle, embraced her tenderly, and gave her her blessing. they watched closely, to see whence this mysterious visitor came and whither she went, but were never able to follow her; and the mother becoming at length alarmed at the daily recurrence of this circumstance, it was revealed to her that her child's unknown visitor was no other than st. catherine of sienna, to whom she was given as an adopted daughter. the accounts that have been preserved of lucia's childhood have a peculiar interest of their own. whilst the early biographies of many saints present us with instances of extraordinary graces and favours granted to them in infancy, quite as numerous and remarkable as those bestowed on blessed lucy, yet in her case we find them mixed with the details of a characteristic vivacity of temperament, which give them a lifelike reality, and show her to us, in the midst of her supernatural visitations, with all the impetuosity of an imaginative child. when she was only four years old, her mother's brother, don simon, came on a visit to his sister's house, and brought with him from rome various toys and presents for the children. lucy was given her choice; and whilst the others were loudly clamouring for the dolls and puppets, she selected a little rosary with an image of the child jesus; and this being given to her, she took it in her arms, bestowing every name of childish endearment on it, kissing its hands and feet, and calling it her dear christarello, a name which continued to be given to it ever afterwards. the rest of the day she spent in her own little room, where she arranged a corner for the reception of the christarello, and was never tired of seeing and caressing her new treasure. henceforth it was here that she spent the happiest moments of the day. if ever she got into any trouble in the house, it was here she came to pour out all her sorrow; and the innocent simplicity of her devotion was so pleasing to god, that more than once he permitted that the christarello should wipe away the tears which she shed on these occasions with his little hand, as was several times witnessed by her mother, who watched her through the half-open door. as she grew a little older, she began to accompany her mother to church; and they frequently went to visit the great church of st. augustine, which was close to the house where they lived. now it happened that in this church, among other devout images, there was a small has-relief of the blessed virgin holding her divine son in her arms, which took the child's fancy the first time they entered, so that she stopped to look at it. her mother observed her as she lingered behind: "lucy," she said, "do you know who that beautiful lady is whom you see there? she is the mother of your christarello; and the little child whom she carries in her arms is the christarello also. if you like, we will come here sometimes; and you shall bring the rosary you are so fond of, and say it before her image." lucy was delighted at the idea; and whenever she could escape from her nurse's hand, she found her way to the church, to admire this new object of her devotion. one day, being thus occupied, the thought came into her head, how much she would like to hold the christarello for once in her own arms, as she had learnt to hold her little baby brother. she therefore prayed to the blessed virgin with great earnestness that her request might be granted, and immediately the marble figure of the little jesus was extended to her by his mother, and placed in her arms. nor was this all: no sooner had she received her precious burden, than she felt the cold marble become a living child; and, full of delight, she ran home still carrying him; and though she met many people on the way, who stopped her as she hurried along, and tried to take him from her, she succeeded in getting safe to her own room at home, where she shut herself up with her treasure, and remained with him for three days and nights without food or sleep, insensible to all the entreaties and remonstrances of her astonished mother. conquered at length by fatigue, on the third day she fell asleep; and when she woke she became sensible of the truth that god abides only with those who watch with him; for, on opening her eyes, the first thing she perceived was that the christarello was gone. her cries of distress were heard by her mother, who, to console her, carried her once more to the church; and there they found the marble child restored to the image as before, although for the three previous days its place in the arms of the virgin's figure had been empty. she was accustomed from time to time to pay a visit to the uncle before mentioned, and when about seven years old she went as usual to spend some time with him at his country house. she remembered, on the occasion of a former visit, to have seen a room in some part of the house where there were some little angels painted on the walls, as it seemed to her, holding their hands and dancing; and the first morning after her arrival, she determined to set out on a diligent search after the dancing angels. the room in which they were painted was in a wing of the house which had fallen out of repair, and was no longer used by the family; a staircase had led to the upper story, but this was now fallen and in ruins; and though lucy, as she stood at the bottom, could see the little angels on the wall above her head, all her efforts were unavailing to climb the broken staircase and reach the object of her search. she had recourse to her usual expedient, prayer to the christarello, and instantly found herself in the empty room, without well knowing how she came there. but her thoughts were soon busy with the angels. there they were; little winged children, their heads garlanded with flowers, their mantles floating as it seemed in the air; and they danced with such an air of enjoyment and superhuman grace, that lucy sat on the ground before them, absorbed in admiration. as she sat thus, she heard her own name called from the window. she turned round, expecting to see her uncle or some of the servants of the house; but a very different spectacle met her eye. a glorious company of saints and angels stood round the person of jesus himself. on his right was his virgin mother; on his left, st. catherine and the great patriarch st. dominic, with many others. then those mystic espousals were celebrated which we read of in so many other tales of the saints of god: the divine spouse receiving the hand of the delighted child from his blessed mother, placed a ring on her finger, which she preserved to the hour of her death; after which he assigned her to the special guardianship of st. dominic and st. catherine, whom from that day she always was used to call her "father and mother." "and have you nothing to give me?" he then asked of his little spouse; "will you not give me that silk mantle and pretty necklace?" lucy was dressed in the rich fashion of the day, with a crimson damask mantle over her other garments, and a necklace of gold and coral beads about her neck; but at these words of her spouse, she hastily stripped them off, and lay them at his feet. he did not fail, however, to give her a richer dress in their place; for she had no sooner taken off the silk mantle, than st. dominic clothed her with the scapular of his order, which she continued to wear during the rest of her life under her other clothes. when the vision had disappeared, lucy found herself full of a new and inexpressible joy. she turned to the little angels on the wall, the only companions left her after the last of the heavenly train had faded from her eyes, and with the simplicity of her childish glee, she spoke to them as though they were alive. "you dear little angels," she said, "are you not glad at what our lord has done?" then the angels seemed to move from the wall, and to become, indeed, full of life; and they spoke to her in reply, and said they were very glad to have her for their queen and lady, as the spouse of their dear lord. and they invited her to join in their dance of joy, and sang so sweet and harmonious a music, and held out their hands so kindly and graciously, that lucy would have been well content never to have left her happy place of retreat; nor would she have done so, if she had not been found by her uncle, and carried against her will back to the house. the death of her father, left her whilst still young, to the guardianship of her uncle. all her own wishes were fixed on a life of religion, but her uncle had different views for her; and after long resistance on her part, he succeeded in inducing her to accept as her husband count pietro of milan, a young nobleman of considerable worth and abilities. the marriage was accordingly celebrated; but not until, in answer to earnest prayers, lucy had received a divine revelation that a life so contrary to all her own wishes and intentions was indeed god's will regarding her. doubtless it is one of those cases in which it is not easy for us to follow the ways of divine providence. the marriage was followed by much suffering to both parties; yet, if we be willing to take the saints' lives as they are given us, without seeking to reduce the supernatural elements we find in them to the level of our own understanding, we shall not he disposed to doubt the truth of the revelation which commanded it, or to fancy things would have been much better if blessed lucy had never been placed in a position so little in harmony with her own wishes. on the contrary, we must admire the grace of god, which would perhaps never have been so amply manifested in his servant, had she been called to a more congenial way of life. we are accustomed to admire the wonderful variety of examples which are presented to us in the lives of the saints: that of blessed lucy offers us one of a soul with all her sympathies and desires fixed on the higher life of religion, yet fulfilling with perfect exactitude the minutest duties of a different vocation. she sanctified herself in the will of god, though that will was manifested to her in a position which the world is used to call the hardest of all to bear--an ill-assorted marriage. she found means to practise the humiliation of the cloister, without laying aside the duties, or even the becoming dignity, of her station. her first care, on finding herself the young mistress of a house full of servants, was with them, whom she ever looked on less as menials than as a cherished portion of her family. and in the beautiful account given us of her intercourse with them, we must remember that at the period in which she lived, it was considered nothing uncommon or unbecoming for ladies of the highest rank to join in the household occupations, and take their part in the day's employment, working with their servants, and presiding amongst them with an affectionate familiarity, which, without rendering them less a mistress, gave them at the same time almost the position of a mother. blessed lucy delighted in the opportunities, which the simple manners of the day thus afforded her, of laying aside her rich dress and ornaments, and assisting in her own kitchen, where she always chose the meanest and most tiresome offices. what was with others only done in compliance with the ordinary habit of the day, was with her made the occasion of secret humiliations. one of her servants, a woman of very holy life and disposition, she took into her confidence, submitting herself to her direction, and obeying her as a religious superior. on holy thursday, she washed the feet of all her domestics; and that with so touching a devotion as to draw tears from the eyes of the rudest and most indifferent among them. so perfect was the discipline she succeeded in introducing among them, that, far from presenting the spectacle of disorder so common in households filled with a crowd of feudal retainers of all kinds, her palace had the quietude and serenity of a monastery. never was an oath or licentious word heard among them; the name of god was honoured; and habits of devotion became cherished and familiar, where before they had been too often an occasion of mockery. all the family dined at the same table; and during the repast the lives of the saints, or the holy scriptures, were read aloud. if any fault were committed by any of the household, blessed lucy knew how to punish it so rigorously as to prevent a repetition of the offence; and in this she was often assisted by the gift of prophecy, which she enjoyed in a remarkable degree. we read an amusing account of two of her maidens, who took the opportunity of their mistress's absence at church to kill two fine capons, which they resolved to dress privately for their own eating. the birds were already on the spit, when their mistress was heard entering the house. fearful of discovery, they took the half-roasted capons from the fire, and hid them under a bed. blessed lucy, however, knew all that had happened. "where are the capons," she said, "that were in the court this morning?" "they have flown away," said the two women, in great confusion: "we have been looking for them every where." "do not try to deceive god, my children," replied blessed lucy: "they are both under your bed; if you will follow me, i will show them to you." the servants followed her in silent dismay; but their astonishment was still more increased, when not only did she lead them to the very place where they had hidden their spoils, hut calling the birds to come out, they flew out alive, and began to crow lustily. in another story of her life, we find her represented with her women washing the linen of the house by the side of a river that flowed by the castle. whilst so engaged, one of them fell into the river and sank to the bottom; but blessed lucy made the sign of the cross over the water, and immediately the drowning woman appeared on the surface safe and sound, close to the river's bank. and in the midst of these simple and homely occupations, the supernatural life of prayer, and ecstacy, and communion with god, was never for a moment interrupted. strange and beautiful sights were seen by many of those who were present in the church when she communicated: sometimes a column of fire rested on her head; sometimes her face itself shone and sparkled like the sun. once two little children, whom she had adopted as her own, saw, as they knelt behind her, two angels come and crown their mother with a garland, of exquisite roses. but the children began to weep; for they said one to another, "certainly our mother cannot have long to live, for the angels are even now crowning her with flowers." the beauty of her face, and its extraordinary brilliancy at these times, had a singular power in controlling those who beheld it. even count pietro himself was tamed and conquered by a glance from her eye, when it shone with this more than human splendour. this mention of count pietro's name reminds us that it is tune we should say something of him, and of his share in a story which has in some parts, as we read it, the character of a romance. he was not a bad man; he seems indeed to have had many good qualities, and to have been possessed in some respects of a degree of refinement beyond what was common at the time. he was sincerely attached to his saintly wife; but he could not understand her. they were beings of different worlds; and the very qualities which extorted his respect and admiration often sadly perplexed and worried him. her very affection for himself was above his comprehension; his own feelings were too much made up of the ordinary selfishness of the world, for him to know how to measure the love of one whose love was in god. he felt her power over himself; and whilst he yielded to it, it irritated him, and not the less because there was nothing of which he could complain. this irritation showed itself in a morose jealousy, sometimes varied by fits of passionate violence; in which he went so far as to confine his wife to her room, and once even to threaten her life. all this, and the yet more wearing trial of their daily intercourse, was borne by blessed lucy with unvarying sweetness and gentleness. but though she accommodated herself in every thing to his sullen temper, and even showed him a true and loyal obedience, the desire after those heavenly espousals to which she had been promised whilst still a child never left her heart; and as time went on, she began to look about for some opportunity of carrying her wishes into effect. in those days it was no uncommon spectacle to see a wife or a husband, in obedience to the interior call of heaven, abandon every tie of flesh and blood for the retirement of the cloister; nor was the propriety of such a step ever questioned. society, as a body, in the ages of faith, acknowledged the principle, that one whom christ calls should leave all and follow him. when, therefore, we hear that blessed lucy at length resolved to leave her husband's house, and take the habit of religion in the order of st. dominic, we must remember that she was no more acting contrary to the custom of the age, than when she worked with her servants in the kitchen. it is not an easy matter at any time for us to judge of the vocation or conscience of another; but when we have to carry back our investigation four hundred years, we can hardly hope that the whole history of a resolution of this nature,--why it was carried out now, and why it was not carried out before her marriage,--should be laid open before us like the pages of a book. of one thing only we cannot doubt,--god's will had been very clearly and sufficiently declared; both at first, when she consented to give up her own wishes, and now, when the time was come for them to be granted. she contented herself at first with receiving the habit of the third order, and remaining in her mother's house for a year; during which time she had to endure much from the indignation of her husband, who expressed his own disapproval of her step in a very summary way, by burning down the monastery of the prior who had given her the habit. but her uncles at length took the case into their own hands; and after considering the very extraordinary signs of a divine call which had been made manifest in her life, they decided that she should be suffered to follow it without further molestation, and placed her in the monastery of st. catherine of sienna at rome. within a year from her entrance there, the fame of her sanctity had become so universal, that father joachim turriano, the general of the order, being about to found a new convent of nuns at viterbo, selected her as the prioress of the new foundation; on which office she accordingly entered in the year 1496, being then exactly twenty years of age. so great was the reputation she enjoyed, that though the number of religious sent with her to viterbo by the general was only five, the crowds that applied for admission as soon as her presence was known was so great that the convent had to be enlarged; and she soon saw herself at the head of a numerous and flourishing community. meanwhile, her unhappy husband had not abandoned all hopes of inducing her even yet to return to the world. he had followed her to rome, and made vain efforts to see and speak with her: he now followed her also to viterbo; and though unsuccessful in his attempts to obtain the slightest answer to his continual applications and appeals, he continued to linger about the convent, in the restless mood of one who would not give up his design as hopeless. every tongue around him was busy with the fame of lucy's saintliness; from one he heard of her almost continual prayer, from another, of the glory which was seen to hover over her face in the presence of the blessed sacrament: but soon, in the february following her removal to viterbo, the interest of all was absorbed in a new report,--that she had received the sacred stigmata; and that in so remarkable a manner as to put all doubt on the subject out of the question. for it was hi the choir, with the other religious, that, being engaged in profound meditation on the passion, she was observed by one of the sisters to look pale and as if suffering acute pain. the sister went up to her to support her, and was struck with the appearance of her hands, the bones of which seemed dislocated, and the nerves torn. "mother of god!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter with your hands?" "nothing," was the faint reply; "they are only gone to sleep." but within a few moments the agony she was enduring and endeavouring to conceal overpowered her, and she became perfectly senseless. they carried her from the choir and restored her to consciousness, so that she was able to return within an hour and receive holy communion; but the same sister who had first observed her, being convinced something very extraordinary had happened, continued to watch her, and followed her to her cell. she then remarked that her hands were livid, and the skin raised and much inflamed; and by the end of the week the wounds became large and open, and shed so great an abundance of blood that it could no longer be concealed. the excitement which followed, when these circumstances became generally known, can hardly be described. a minute investigation was first made by the bishop of viterbo; after which three successive commissions of inquiry were appointed by the command of the pope to examine the affair, and each of these inquiries terminated in the declaration that the truth of the miracle was beyond all dispute. multitudes flocked to the convent to see and touch the sacred wounds, and came back full of the wonders which their own eyes had witnessed. duke hercules of este, the pope's nephew, made earnest applications to his uncle to suffer her to be removed to his own city of ferrara; and whilst all these things were going on, count pietro still remained in viterbo. the world about him was echoing with his wife's renown, but none knew his own connection with her. each marvel that he heard did but seem to widen the gulf between them; yet still he stayed and lingered within sight of the walls that shut her from him for ever: now bitterly accusing himself for the blindness of his own conduct towards her; now striving to keep alive a kind of despairing hope that, could he but once gain admittance to her presence, he might even yet regain possession of a treasure which, when it was his, he knew not how to value. at length his desires were granted. a sudden inspiration induced lucy to consent to an interview: it was the first that had taken place since she had fled from his house, and it was the last they ever had in this life. it must have been a singular meeting: the two years of their separation had altered both. as to the count, his restless despair had worn him to an old man. he had never seen narni since the day of her departure for rome, whither he had followed her; and had spent the long days of those two years hanging about the convent-gates like some miserable beggar. and the same two years had placed lucy far beyond his reach, as it were in a supernatural world above him. when she stood before him at the grate, and he beheld her marked with those sacred and mysterious wounds, and bearing in her whole appearance the air of one whose sympathies were for ever removed from the affections of humanity, his heart failed him. he had thought to speak to her of her home, and the claims which should recall her to the world; he saw before him something a little lower than the angels; and falling on his knees, he bent his eyes to the ground, and remained silent. then she spoke; and heaven seemed to speak to him by her voice. the mists of earthly passion rolled away from his heart as he listened; the world and its hopes died in him at that moment; an extraordinary struggle tore his very soul, then passed away, and left it in a profound calm. for the first time he caught a glimpse of that reality which till now he had treated as a dream; the world and its unquiet joys were now themselves the dream, and heaven opened on him as the reality. all life fell away from him in that hour; and when his wife ceased speaking, she had won his soul to god. he dragged himself to her feet, and bathed them in his tears; he conjured her pardon for all the persecutions and violence of the past, and renounced every right or claim over her obedience for ever. then, leaving her without another word, he obeyed the voice which had so powerfully spoken to his heart; for within a few weeks he took the habit of the friars minor of the strict observance; and persevering in it for many years, died a little before his wife, with the reputation of sanctity. were this a romande, the story of blessed lucy might well end here. but her life was yet scarcely begun. shortly after the interview with her husband just spoken of, duke hercules obtained the pope's orders for her removal to ferrara. this was only done by stealth; for the people of viterbo having got intelligence of the design, guarded the city night and day; so that, in order to gain possession of the saint, the duke was reduced to the expedient of loading several mules with large baskets, as if full of goods; and in one of these blessed lucy was concealed and carried off, under the guardianship of a strong body of armed men. being arrived at ferrara, the duke received her with extraordinary honours, and built a magnificent convent for her reception, to which pope alexander vi. granted singular privileges, by a brief wherein he declared her to have "followed the footsteps of st. catherine of sienna in all things." in this convent she gave the habit to her own mother, as well as to many noble ladies of ferrara. it were too long to tell of all the signs of divine favour which were granted to her during the first years of her new government; of the miracles wrought by her hands, the visions of marvellous beauty that were given to her gaze; and the familiarity with which she seemed to live among the saints and angels. thus one day, passing into the dormitory, she was met by the figure of a religious, whom she knew to be st. catherine of sienna. prostrating herself at her feet, she prayed her to bless the new monastery, which was dedicated in her name. the saint willingly complied, and they went through the house together; blessed lucy carrying the holy water, whilst st. catherine sprinkled the cells, as the manner is in blessing a house. whilst they went along, they sang together the hymn _ace maris stella_; and having finished, st. catherine left her staff with blessed lucy, and took her leave. and another time they saw in the same dormitory a great company of angels, and the form of one of surpassing beauty, and clad in an azure robe in the midst of them, standing among them as their queen. then she sent them hither and thither, like soldiers to their posts, and bid them guard the various offices of the monastery; "for," she said, "we must take possession of this house." one lingers over this period of her story, unwilling to pass on to the sorrowful conclusion. god, who had elevated her so highly in the sight of the world, was about to set upon her life the seal of a profound humiliation. hitherto she had been placed before the eyes of man as an object of enthusiastic veneration: her convent gates were crowded by peisons of all ranks, who thronged only to see her for a moment. duke hercules of este applied to her for counsel in all difficulties of state. the pope had issued extraordinary briefs to enable the religious of other convents and orders to pass under her government, and even to leave the second order to join her community, which belonged to the third,--a privilege we shall scarcely find granted in any other case. but now these triumphs and distinctions were about to have an end. blessed lucy was about twenty-nine years of age. the honour in which she was held, and the public celebrity she enjoyed, were a continual source of sorrow and humiliation to her; and with the desire to escape from something of the popular applause which followed her, she ceased not earnestly to implore her divine spouse to remove from her the visible marks of the sacred stigmata, which were the chief cause of the veneration which was paid her by the world. her request was in part granted, the wounds in her hands and feet closed; but that of the side, which was concealed from the eyes of others, remained open to the hour of her death. whether the withdrawal of these visible tokens of the divine favour was the cause of the change in the sentiments of her subjects, we are not told; but we find shortly after, that some among them, disgusted at her refusal to allow the community to become incorporated with the second order, rose in rebellion, and even attempted her life. the scandal of this crime was concealed through the exertions of lucy herself; but on the death of her great protector, duke hercules, in 1505, the discontented members of the community recommenced their plots against her authority and reputation. then--designs were laid with consummate art; and at length they publicly accused her of having been seen in her cell endeavouring to re-open the wounds of her hands and feet with a knife, in order to impose on the public. their evidence was so ably concocted, that they succeeded in gaining over the heads of the order to their side. hasty and violent measures were at once adopted; every apostolic privilege granted by pope alexander was revoked; she was degraded from her office of prioress, deprived of every right and voice in the community, and placed below the youngest novice in the house. she was, moreover, forbidden to speak to any one except the confessor, kept in a strict imprisonment, and treated in every way as if proved guilty of an infamous imposture. nor was this disgrace confined within the enclosure of her own monastery; it spread as far as her reputation had extended. all italy was moved with a transport of indignation against her; the storm of invective which was raised reached her even in her prison; her name became a proverb of reproach through europe; and the nuns whonad been professed at her hands made their professions over again to the new prioress, as if their vows formerly made to her had been invalid. one can hardly picture a state of desolation equal to that in which blessed lucy now found herself. it was as if this token of deep abjection and humiliation were required as a confirmation of her saintliness. if any such proof were indeed needed, it was furnished by the conduct which she exhibited under this extraordinary trial. during the whole remaining period of her life, a space of eight-and-thirty years, she bore her heavy cross without a murmur. perhaps its hardest suffering was, to live thus among those whom she had gathered, together with her own hands, and had sought to lead to the highest paths of religion, compelled now to be a silent witness of their wickedness. her life was a long prayer for her persecutors, and we are assured that no sorrow or regret ever seemed to shadow the deep tranquillity of her soul. so far as it touched herself, she took it as a more precious token of her spouse's love than all the graces and favours he had ever heaped on her before. but it is no part of saintliness to be indifferent to the sins of others; and we can scarcely fathom the anguish which must hourly have pierced her heart, at the ingratitude and malignity of her unworthy children. and so closed the life which had opened in such a joyous and beautiful childhood. god indeed knew how to comfort one whom the world had utterly cast out; and though cut off from the least communication with any human being, she could scarcely be pitied whilst her neglected and solitary cell was the resort of celestial visitants and friends. the reader is possibly a little tired of such tales; yet we ask his indulgence whilst referring to one of these last incidents in the life of blessed lucy, which we can scarcely omit. there lived at the same time, at caramagna in savoy, another beatified saint of the same illustrious order, blessed catherine of raconigi. she had never seen blessed lucy; but had heard of her saintly fame, and the lustre of her life and miracles, and then also of her sufferings and disgrace. but the saints of god judge not as the world judges; and catherine knew by the light of divine illumination the falsehood of the charges brought against her sister. she had ever longed to see and speak with her; and now more than ever, when the glitter of the world's applause was exchanged for its contumely and persecution. the thought of her sister, never seen with mortal eye, yet so dearly loved in god, never left her mind; and she prayed earnestly to their common lord and spouse, that he would comfort and support her, and, if such were his blessed will, satisfy in some way her own intense desire to hold some kind of intercourse with her even in this life. one night, as she was thus praying in her cell at caramagna, her desires were heard and granted. the same evening lucy was also alone and in prayer; and to her in like manner god had revealed the sanctity of catherine, kindling in her heart a loving sympathy with one who, though a stranger in the world's language, had been brought very near to her heart in the mysteries of the heart of jesus. we cannot say how and in what way it was, but they spent that night together; but when morning came, and found her again alone as before, lucy had received such strength and consolation from her sister's visit, that, as her biographer says, "she desired new affronts and persecutions for the glory of that lord who knew so well how to comfort and suppoit her in them." her last illness came on her in her sixty-eighth year: for eight-and-thirty years she had lived stripped of all human consolation; and the malice of her enemies continued unabated to the last. none came near her, as she lay weak and dying on her miserable bed. like her lord and master, they hid their faces from her, counting her as a leper. the ordinary offices of charity, which they would have done to the poorest beggar in the streets, they denied to her; she was left to die as she had lived, alone. but if the world abandoned her, god did not. her pillow was smoothed and tended by more than a mother's care. saint catherine did not neglect her charge. it is said she was more than once seen by the sick-bed, having in her company one of the sisters of the community, who had departed a short time before, with the reputation of sanctity; and together they did the office of infirmarians to the dying saint. when the last hour drew nigh, she called the sisters around her bed, and humbly asked their pardon for any scandal she had given them in life. we do not find one word of justification, or remonstrance, or even of regret; only some broken words of exhortation, not to be offended at her imperfection, but to love god and be detached from creatures, and abide steadfastly by their rule. at midnight, on the 15th of november, 1544, she felt the moment of release was at hand; and without any death-struggle or sign of suffering, she raised her hands and cried, "up to heaven, up to heaven!" and so expired, with a smile that remained on the dead face with so extraordinary a beauty, that none could look on it without a sentiment of awe, for they knew it was the beauty of one of god's saints. the truth could not longer be concealed; one supernatural token after another was given to declare the blessedness of the departed soul. angelic voices were heard singing above the cell by all the sisters; an extraordinary perfume filled the cell and the whole house; and the community, who had probably for the most part been deceived by one or two in authority, without any malice on their own part, now loudly insisted on justice being done to the deceased. it was done, so far as funeral honours can make amends for a life of cruelty and calumniation. the body was exposed in the church; and the fickle crowds who had called her an impostor while living, crowded now to see and touch the sacred remains. the wound in her side was examined, and found dripping with fresh wet blood; the sick were cured, and evil spirits cast out, by cloths which had been placed on the relics. four years after the body was taken from its grave, and found fresh and beautiful as in life. then it was again exposed in the church to the veneration of the faithful, who crowded once more to pay it honour, and were wonder-struck at the perfume, as of sweet violets, which issued from it, and attached to every thing which it touched. and it was again disinterred, little more than a century ago, in 1710, when it presented the same appearance as before, and the sacred stigmata were observed distinct and visible to all. on this occasion a part of the body was translated to narni, where it now reposes in a magnificent shrine, and receives extraordinary honours, amid the scene of her childish devotion to the christarello. perhaps, as we read of these honours to the dead, we may feel they were but poor reparation for the calumnies and injuries heaped on her while living: or, if we seek to measure these things in the balance of the sanctuary, we can believe that to her blessed spirit now, those long years of abandonment and desolation, which cut her off from all communion with this earth for more than half her mortal life, were a far more precious gift than all the shrines, and funeral honours, and popular veneration, which the world in its tardy repentance was moved to give her. she was finally beatified by benedict xiii. towards the middle of the last century. dominica of paradiso dominica of paradiso. about four hundred years ago there lived at a small country village near florence, called paradiso, a poor gardener and his wife, whose names were francis and costanza. they had several children, of whom the youngest was named dominica, who was brought up to the life of labour and hardship ordinary among the poorer peasantry of italy, and whose daily task it was to help in the cultivation of the garden on which the whole family depended for support. beyond the first rudiments of the christian faith, dominica received no education; for her parents were in no way superior in intelligence to others of their class in life. nevertheless, from her very infancy she showed signs that the few instructions which they were able to give her had made a wonderful impression on her heart; and as her soul received each new religious idea, it was cherished and meditated on; so that she gathered materials enough out of these simple elements to build up a life of the highest contemplative prayer. among all the biographies of the saints which have been preserved to us, there are few which so vividly illustrate the growth of a profound and supernatural devotion in the heart of an uneducated child as that before us. nor will it be thought that the extreme simplicity which mingles with some of the passages of her life which are here selected, lessens the beauty of a narrative whose incidents charm us like a poem. dominica was marked in a special way as the child of mary, even from her cradle. the first occasion when we read of the blessed virgin appearing to her was one day when she was lying on her poor little bed, being then only four years old. the presence of the divine mother with a train of shining angels then first awoke in her little heart a longing after god and heaven; and she began to pray-though scarcely knowing the meaning of the words she uttered-that she might be taught the way to reach that glory, the vision of which had captivated her imagination. then she came to understand that fidelity to god's precepts, and contrition for sin, was the path of saintliness; and so were traced out on her soul the first lineaments of perfection. now she had learnt that contrition was a sorrow for sin; and the simple sort of catechism which her mother was accustomed to teach her spoke also of the heart being full of sin, and how tears of penitence were necessary to wash it from its corrupt steins. a metaphor of any kind was far beyond the reach of dominica's comprehension; she therefore took these expressions in a very straightforward way, and wept heartily to think her heart should be so defiled and dangerous a thing. and the handkerchief which was wet with her childish tears she laid over her breast, thinking that this must be the way to wash away the stains they talked of. all day long she revolved in her mind the one idea which had been revealed to her soul,--perfection, as the road to god's presence; and thinking incessantly of these things amid the various occupations in which she was engaged, she came to make every part of her day's work associated with the subjects of her meditation. to her eye, all untaught by man, but enlightened by the divine light, the invisible things of god were clearly seen by the things that were visible. once she was helping an elder sister to make some cakes mixed with poppy-seeds, to give to her brother who was ill and suffering from want of sleep. as she baked the cakes, her thoughts were, as usual, busy finding divine meanings in the things before her. the interior voice, whose whispers she as yet scarcely understood, seemed to speak to her of another kind of food which should satisfy the soul, so that it should slumber and repose in the sleep of divine love. then she prayed very earnestly to be given this wonderful food; and the voice spoke in answer, and said, "daughter, the food of which i spake is none other than my love, with which when the saints in heaven are filled and satisfied, they sleep so sweetly, that they forget all created things, and watch only unto me." and dominica wondered how the saints took this marvellous slumber, and whether it were on beds made like her own straw mattress, or in the bosom of god, even as her mother was wont to rock the little baby to sleep. when she was at work, in the garden, she would raise her eyes to heaven, and think how she could make her heart a garden of flowers for the delight of god. and once, as she so mused, he who had undertaken the office of teacher and director to her soul appeared to her, and taught her that prayer would keep that soul ever fresh and green before him; and that he would open in that garden five limpid and crystal fountains to refresh it, even the five wounds of his sacred passion; and that she, on her part, must keep it free from weeds, daily plucking up evil passions, and the idle thoughts of vanity and the world; that so it might be beautiful to the eye, and abundant in all-pleasant fruits. if she ran upstairs, her thoughts ascended to heaven; if she came down, she abased herself in the depths of lowliness and humility. the oxen ploughing in the field reminded her to bear meekly the yoke of obedience; and as she stood in her father's wine-press she taught herself to tread under her own will and nature, if she would taste of the sweetness of divine consolations. once the sight of a hen with her brood of chickens so vividly brought before her the mystery of the incarnation, and that wonderful love which gave its life to cover our sins and shield us from the wrath of god, that she was rapt in a state of ecstasy, and so remained in the garden all that day and the following night. and again, as she gathered the ripe apples which her mother was hoarding for the winter, she became absorbed in contemplating the beauty of that soul wherein the fruits of virtue are brought forth, making it pleasant in the eye of god. and she sighed deeply, and said, "oh, that i knew how to store my soul with these precious fruits! how happy should i then be!" and the spouse of her heart came swiftly to her, and showed her how for every apple she gathered for the love of him, there was brought forth a glorious fruit within her soul, more gracious and beautiful in his sight than the fairest apples of her garden. all this was going on in her mind whilst yet not six years old; and so her life divided itself between the homely exterior labour and rough discipline of a peasant life, and an interior of spiritual contemplation, wherein were revealed to her many of the profoundest secrets of mystic theology. the world became to her a book written within and without with the name of god; all creatures talked to her of him. and this was sometimes permitted to be manifested in extraordinary ways; as once, when walking by the side of a lake near their cottage, the thought suggested itself that the fish, being creatures of god, must be obedient to him, and ready to do him service. therefore she stood by the water-side, and called them to come and help her whilst she sang his praises; and the fish, swimming to the shore, did so after their kind, leaping and jumping about out of the water; while she sat on the grass, and sang a little song which she had learnt, and was fond of repeating to herself over her work in the garden. one day she was ill, and her mother desired her to eat some meat, which she did, although it was friday; and afterwards felt great scruples, fearing she had committed a great sin. she had never yet been to confession, being under the age when it is usual for children to confess. but she now felt very anxious to relieve her conscience of this weight; only, being confined to her bed, she could not get to the church; nor did she dare to ask her mother to send for the priest. she therefore considered within herself what she should do; and she remembered to have seen the people in the church not only kneeling in the confessionals, but also before the crucifixes and devout images on the altars; and in her simplicity, she thought that they were likewise confessing their sins to them. now there was a little picture of the madonna holding the holy child in her arms, which hung in her room, and dominica thought she could confess to this; therefore, getting out of bed, she knelt down devoutly before it, and confessed her fault in eating the meat with many tears, praying the little jesus to give her absolution for her fault, which she thought he would do by placing his hand on her head, as she had seen the old priest do to the little children of the village. but when she had knelt a long time, and saw that the image did not move, she became very unhappy, and prayed all the harder that he would not deny her absolution, but would give her the sign she asked for. then it pleased our lord to grant her the answer which her simple confidence extorted from him; and the figures of the mother and the son raised their hands, and placed them on the child's head, who remained filled with delight at the thought that her sins were now forgiven her, and her conscience at rest. after this her mother took her once a year to confession in the church. it grieved her much not to be able to go oftener; but her angel-guardian taught her to submit in this matter to her mother's pleasure, and to supply the place of more frequent confession by every evening examining her conscience, and confessing her daily faults before the same picture as before. nor was this the only teaching which she received from him; he taught her that the path to paradise was a way of suffering; and that they who aspired to the mystic nuptials of christ were careful to clothe themselves with the livery of the cross. and dominica, in obedience to these instructions, began to afflict her body with fasts and other austerities, and gave the food which she saved from her own dinner to the poor. she ever showed great devotion to the blessed virgin, especially after the circumstances narrated above; and made it her particular duty to light the lamp before her picture every saturday, and to garland it with flowers on that day, as being specially dedicated to her. on one of these occasions, mary appeared to her with her divine child in her arms, and promised her that in reward for her devotion she should one day become his spouse, but not until she had grown further in perfection and in his love. this promise became thenceforth the absorbing subject of her thoughts; and at seven years of age she consecrated herself to him, whom from that hour she considered her spouse, by a solemn vow, cutting off her beautiful golden hair, as she understood the custom was, and offering it to her lord. when her mother saw her hair cut off, she was greatly displeased, and commanded her to suffer it to grow again, and not to attempt to cut it a second time. dominica obeyed; but she secretly prayed that god would send her some infirmity of the head, which might prevent the growth of the hair. and this indeed happened; so that the head remained closely cut until her fifteenth year, when it was cured, and miraculously crowned, as we shall see, by god. our blessed lady very often favoured her with her visible presence; but on these occasions she appeared alone, and without her son. dominica was greatly grieved at the absence of her lord, and at length one day resolved to ask the blessed virgin the reason why he never came. "o divine lady," she said, "you come very often to see me and talk to me; but you never bring him who is to be my spouse; why is this, for it grieves me that i never see him?" then our lady, smiling on her, showed her the holy infant sleeping in her bosom. dominica was delighted at the sight. "but how very small he is!" she exclaimed "he will grow," replied mary, "when you will, and as much as you will; and as she spoke, dominica perceived that he was already much larger. "ah! he is already growing," she exclaimed; "now he is twice the size he was!--how is that?" "he grows with your growth," again replied mary; "and your growth must be not in the flesh, but in the spirit: when you have attained to your full growth in holiness, he will come and celebrate those espousals which you desire so much." then the child extended his hand to dominica as a token of his renewed promise; and the vision disappeared. she remained very sad and disconsolate; and her grief, when she thought of the loveliness of jesus, and the long time that was yet to elapse before his promise could be fulfilled, became so poignant, that she fell ill, and spent eight days in continual tears and sorrow of heart. this abandonment of her soul to grief was by no means pleasing to the blessed virgin, who appeared again at the end of the eight days, and gave her a sharp reproof for her want of resignation. "daughter," she said, "you grieve for the loss of sensible consolations; but know this, that to those who attach themselves to such things, visions, and revelations, and the sensible presence of the beloved, are not blessings but evils: wherefore put away your sorrow, and serve god with a joyful and contented heart." "but how can i be joyful," said the weeping child, "whilst i am so far from my spouse and his palace, and still kept a prisoner in this vale of tears?" then the merciful heart of mary was moved with pity, and she said, "follow me with your eyes, and you shall see a glimpse of the country where he dwells;" and so saying, she rose towards heaven before her eyes. dominica watched her as she had said, and she saw how the heavens opened to receive their queen; and caught through the parted doors of those celestial regions something of the glory of the new jerusalem. she saw her pass on through the countless choirs of the angels, till she came close to the throne of god; and in the midst of the unapproachable light she saw the child jesus, more beautiful and glorious than she had ever seen him before; and then, even as she gazed on him, forgetting all beside, the golden gates closed on the scene, and shut it from her eyes. now when dominica looked round, and saw that it had all passed away, she remained full of an unspeakable longing to reach that glorious country, or at least to see it once again. she kept her eyes constantly fixed on the sky, for she thought perhaps it might once more open; and in her simplicity she thought she should be nearer to her lord, and to the beauty amid which he dwelt, on high places: therefore, at night, when all the family were asleep, she rose softly, and taking a ladder, mounted to the roof, where she spent the night in prayer, looking wistfully at the stars, which she thought were at least little sparks of that great glory which had been revealed to her. and having repeated this several times, it pleased god more than once to open the vision of heaven to her again; so that she came to have a familiarity with that blessed place, and to know the choirs of angels one from another, and to tell the different degrees of the blessed by the crowns they wore, and many ether mysteries which, whilst she beheld, she as yet did not fully comprehend. when easter came, her mother took her to church, and she saw all the people going to communion, and grieved much to think she was too young to be suffered to approach with them. it seemed also very strange to her that they should come to so wonderful a banquet, and go away again, just as if nothing had happened to them; and she thought it would not be so with her: for, indeed, whenever she was present at mass, and the priest elevated the sacred host before her eyes, she saw the visible person of her divine spouse, adorned with so wonderful a beauty that it seemed marvellous to her that no one else seemed moved by the sight; and she thought that all saw what she saw, and never dreamt that it was a revelation granted to her eyes alone. and once, as she thus reasoned within herself, and looked sorrowfully on the crowds who were going to receive a happiness which was denied to her, the lord of her soul himself drew near to comfort her with a foretaste of his presence, and dominica felt on her tongue a drop of his precious blood. autumn brought the harvest, and with it hard work in the fields for dominica, whose prayers and visions never interrupted her life of daily labour. she was one day in the fields watching them burn the stubble, and helping to heap the loads of straw and rubbish on to the fire. with childlike glee, she danced and clapped her hands to see the flames leaping high into the air; and she thought to herself that the fire was like divine love, and longed that her own heart could be consumed in its flames like the worthless straw. then the voice of her spouse spoke within her and said, "what would you do, dominica, if you saw your spouse in the midst of those flames?" and she answered, "i would run to him and embrace him." "but," replied the voice, "would you not fear the fire? do you not remember how terrible was the pain when your sister burnt her hand?" and even at that moment dominica saw through the flames, how a beautiful lady entered the field on the other side of the fire, leading a child of surpassing loveliness by the hand. as she looked at them the lady spoke to her: "dominica," she said, "why are you here, and what do you seek?" and dominica replied, "i am looking at the flames, and i am seeking for god in them!" "god." answered the lady, "is very near you, and yet you do not know him." then her eyes opened, and she knew that she had been speaking to no other than jesus and mary; and forgetting the fire and her own danger, and all but the presence of her beloved, she ran through the flames to the other side, and cast herself at his feet. in doing this she was severely burnt, for her legs and arms were bare like other peasant children; but dominica did not feel the pain, for she was gazing on her lord. and the glorious child took her lovingly by the hand, and said, "o dominica, thou has conquered flames for the love of me; therefore shall thou ever abide in my grace, and shalt dwell with me for ever." then he blessed her; and disappearing from sight, dominica was again alone. on looking round her, she found that it was quite dark, and the stars were shining brightly; for the moments that had seemed to her to fly so quickly had indeed been hours, and it was now night. she began to be very frightened; knowing that her absence would cause great alarm; but we are assured that, on returning in the morning, she found she had not been missed, her angel-guardian having taken her form, and discharged all the household offices which it was her duty to perform. on another occasion, she was as usual at work in the garden, whilst her brothers were bringing in a load of manure which smelt very offensive. the habit of drawing spiritual meanings from all external objects had become so completely second nature to dominica, that her thoughts seem to have shaped themselves into these analogies on all occasions. the bad smell therefore suggested to her mind an image of mortal sin, and she prayed that she might be taught in some way how it appeared in the eyes-of god. at that moment a soldier entered the garden for the purpose of purchasing some vegetables, and dominica perceived that his soul was very offensive in the sight of god. she looked in his face, and it seemed to her so disfigured by foul and monstrous deformity, that she was moved with a deep compassion for him; she prayed therefore very earnestly, that god would give him the grace of conversion, and save him from his miserable state. she longed to say something to him; but not daring to address him, she remained before him, still looking up in his face, and weeping bitterly. her manner at length drew his attention, and he asked her what was the matter, and why she kept thus looking at him and weeping. "i weep," she answered, "because your soul is so ugly; you must certainly be very unhappy. how is it you do not remember the precious blood which redeemed you from the power of the devil? do you not see the bow bent, and the arrow ready to fly?" "what bow, and what arrow, are you talking of?" said the astonished man. "the bow," replied the child, "is divine justice, and the arrow is death and the judgment, which will certainly overtake you if you do not change your wicked life and become a good man." as she spoke, the simplicity of her words fairly conquered the obdurate heart to which they were addressed. with tears rolling down his cheeks, he knelt before her, and confessed he was indeed an enormous sinner, who deserved nothing but hell; but that if she would help him with her prayers, he would go that very day to confession, and begin a new life; and with this promise he left her. for eight days dominica continued in very earnest prayer for him, in spite of unheard-of troubles and persecutions of the devils; but on the eighth she knew that her prayers had been heard, for she saw his soul white and clean like that of a newly-baptised child; and he himself came to thank her for the grace she had obtained for him, and by means of which he had been enabled to make a good and contrite confession. he told her, moreover, that he was resolved to leave the world and retire to a hermitage, to spend the remainder of his life in penance; but prayed her, before he went, at least to give him her blessing. this request puzzled dominica; and she replied she would readily oblige him, but she did not know how. then her angel raised her little hand, and guided it to sign the sign of the cross above his head; and a voice which was not hers said for her, "may god bless thee in this world and in the world to come." fourteen years after, this man died in his hermitage, with the reputation of sanctity. this first conversion awoke in her soul an ardent thirst for the salvation of sinners. it was a new feeling, and to her quick and sensitive soul one which soon became wholly absorbing. happening about this time to see a little picture representing the sufferings of the souls in hell, she was greatly touched with compassion, and innocently prayed god to relieve them and set them free. then her faithful guardian instructed her on this matter, and taught her that the only way to save souls from hell was, to prevent sin and convert sinners by her prayers. and to increase her zeal he showed her, not a picture, but the real sufferings of the lost souls; and the sentiments of pity which these excited were so lively, that a desire awoke within her to suffer something in her own body, in order to save other souls from these terrible flames. and with the idea of experiencing something of a like kind of suffering, she took a lighted torch, and courageously held it to her shoulder till the flesh was burnt, which caused her agonies of pain for many days. these, however, she had self-command enough to conceal, in spite of some emotions of very natural alarm, which determined her to find out if possible some other less dangerous method of afflicting her body. she even prayed god to teach her in what way she should do this; and one day seeing a picture in the church of st. john baptist clothed in his garment of camel's hair, the thought was suggested to her mind of forming some such garment for herself out of horsehair; which she accordingly did, and wore it for nine years. and here one can hardly fail to admire the means by which, step by step, she was led on in the path of a saintly life. human teaching she had none; she had probably never seen a book: but yet we see how the commonest incidents and accidents, being accompanied by god's grace, were enough to reveal the secrets of his counsels to her soul. a picture, or a chance word, or the thought which rose spontaneously out of some image of the visible things around her, were food enough for a soul which literally "waited continually upon god;" it drew sustenance and life out of what seemed the very barrenest desert. from this time commenced a new life of austerity, so rigorous and continual, that extraordinary strength must have been supplied to have enabled her to live under the perpetual tortures she inflicted on her innocent flesh. and though in the details of these austerities we find many things precisely similar to those related of other saints, yet it is certain that their lives and examples were wholly unknown to her, and therefore that in this matter she must have followed the instinct of her own devotion, guided by the spirit of god. but, again, we observe how she was directed by that quick and watchful eye of the soul which let nothing escape its vigilance;--a coarse and common print of the scourging of our divine lord, once seen, was enough to teach dominica those sharp disciplines to blood in which she persevered during the remainder of her life. we pass over the account of many temptations and apparitions of evil spirits, to give the story of one vision with which she was favoured, whose beauty can perhaps scarcely be equalled by any similar incident to be met with in the lives of the saints. it has been said that she was accustomed to observe saturday as a day of special devotion in honour of the madonna, whose image on that day had its garland of fresh flowers hung up, and its little lamp brightly burning in the midst. now it happened that one saturday dominica had taken unusual care in the decoration of her little image; she had picked her choicest flowers, and hung them in wreaths and bunches which took her some little time to arrange. but her trouble was well rewarded; for the blessed virgin reached out her hand and took some of the flowers, and smelt them, and then gave them to her son, that he might smell them likewise. dominica, full of delight, besought them ever thus to smell her flowers, and to forget the unworthiness of her who offered them. and then she remembered that she could not stand there looking at her beloved madonna any longer; for it was the hour when she was accustomed to go to the cottage-door with the scraps she had saved from her dinner, that she might give alms to any poor beggar who should be passing by. accordingly, she ran to the door with her basket of broken bread, and waited patiently till some object of charity should pass that way. at length she perceived a woman approaching, leading a child by the hand. by their dress she saw that they were very poor; yet there was an air of dignity, almost of majesty, in the manner and appearance of both. they came up to the spot where she stood; and the child, addressing himself to her with a certain gracious sweetness, held out his hands, as if begging, and said, "you will certainly give me something, my good little peasant girl?" and as he did so, she perceived that in either hand there was a large open wound; and that his dress was likewise covered with blood, as from a fresh wound in his side. touched with compassion, she bade them wait whilst she entered the house for something to give them; but she had scarcely done so, when she perceived that they were by her side. "ah!" said dominica, "what have you done! if my mother knows i have let any one in, she will never forgive me." "fear nothing," said the woman; "we shall do no harm, and no one will see us." then dominica saw that the child's feet were likewise bleeding; and pitying him very much, she said, "how can your son walk on the rough roads with those wounded feet of his?" and his mother replied, "the child's love is so great, he never complains of himself." now as they were thus talking, the child was looking at the image garlanded with the lovely fresh roses; and with a winning and innocent grace he held up his little hands and asked for some of the flowers: and dominica could not refuse to give them to him; for spite of their poor rags, there was something about her strange visitors which captivated her heart. and the mother took the roses, and smelt them, and gave them to her son; and turning to dominica, she said, "why do you garland that image with flowers? it would seem as if you cared for it very much." "it is the madonna and the holy child jesus," answered dominica; "and i give them my flowers because i love them dearly." "and how much do you love them?" continued the woman. "as much as i can," said dominica. "and how much is that?" said the woman again. "ah!" replied dominica, "it is as much as they help me too." but still as she spoke she could not take her eyes off the child; for his extraordinary grace and beauty filled her with an emotion she could not comprehend. "why do you stand thus gazing at my son?" said the woman; "what do you see in him?" "he is such a beautiful child," said dominica; and she leant over him to caress him. but she started back with surprise, for those wounds gave forth a wonderful odour, as of paradise; and turning, to the woman, she exclaimed, "mother of god! what is this? with what do you anoint your son's wounds, for the odour of them is sweeter than my sweetest flowers?" "it is the ointment of charity," said the mother; but dominica scarcely heard the reply: she was still gazing at the child, and trying to attract his notice, as the manner is with children. "come to me, my child," she said, "and i will give you this piece of bread." "it is of no use," said the mother; "tell him of jesus, and how you love him, and the child will come readily enough." and at the words he did indeed come; and looking up sweetly into dominica's face, he asked, "and do you really love jesus?" and that sweet odour became so marvellously powerful, that she was yet more filled with surprise; and she said, "o beautiful child, what wonder is this? if your wounds give forth this delicious perfume, what will the perfume of paradise be like?" "do not wonder," said the mother, "that the perfume of paradise should be where god is;" and then the blindness fell from her eyes, and she knew that she was talking to none other than to jesus and mary. and even at that moment the poor rags fell off them, and she saw them dressed in royal robes of surpassing splendour; and the child jesus grew to the stature of a man, whilst over the wound of his side there gleamed the radiance of a brilliant star. dominica fell prostrate at their feet as they rose into the air; and taking the roses from his mother's bosom, the divine spouse scattered them over the head and garments of his beloved, and said, "o my spouse! thou hast adorned my image with garlands and roses, and therefore do i sprinkle thee with these flowers, as an earnest of the everlasting garland with which i will crown these in paradise;" and so saying, they both disappeared. dominica strove in vain to follow them with her eyes; but for eight days after there remained the perfume of the wounds, and her head and dress were seen covered with flowers. at length she arrived at the age when it is customary for children to make their first communion; and her mother, therefore, took her during lent to the priest, that he might examine and prepare her for that purpose. a very few words satisfied him that she was full of divine grace, and he accordingly desired her to go to communion at the approaching easter, which was considerably sooner than her mother had intended. "how can i do so?" said dominica; "i am only eleven years old, and my mother is used to say, 'children should not go to communion till they are twelve.' moreover, there are but three weeks to easter, and in that short time i can never prepare fitly to receive our lord;" and so saying, she began to weep. nevertheless, the priest laid her under obedience to do as he had said, and sent her away; and dominica returned home with her thoughts full of this weighty matter of the three weeks of preparation. now the dignity of the holy sacrament appeared to her so very great, that she thought a year would be too little to make ready the chamber of her heart; and thinking how she could make the most of the short time allowed her, she determined not to go to bed for that time but to remain in prayer and meditation all night, that she might make the weeks longer; for indeed, she was so simply impressed with the conviction of her own vileness, that she dreaded lest the sacred host should disappear, or some other token of divine displeasure should be evinced, if she approached without much preparation and examination of heart. so, as we have said, she never went to bed; but remained kneeling and praying all night, examining her innocent conscience, and going over a world of resolutions and forms of preparation, which she believed were necessary to be got through in the time. it was a child's simple thought;--we love dominica all the better for the childishness that forgot that its excellent resolve was an impossible one for flesh and blood to keep;--for very often the poor little girl was conquered by weariness, and fell asleep in the midst of her long prayers, and in spite of her manful efforts to keep awake; and then she would try to rouse herself with the thought of her preparation for communion, and begin all over again, with a kind of nervous terror that the time would be too short after all. at length holy week came, and her mother took her to florence to hear the preaching of the passion at the great church of st. reparata. it was a new life to dominica: seated by her mother's side, she drank in every word of the impassioned eloquence of the preacher; and with her usual innocence, believed that christ would really visibly appear, and suffer before the eyes of the people as he did on calvary. and when the preacher said, "yesterday he was betrayed," and "to-day he is led to death," she believed he spoke literally; for she had not learnt to understand metaphors better than when, a child of four years old, she had desired to know the kind of bed that the angels slept on. and, indeed, the spectacle was given to her eyes, and she saw the scene of the crucifixion, and how mary stood beneath the cross, and how nicodemus took down the sacred body and laid it in her arms. she saw it, as it were, in the midst of the crowd of people who stood round her, and wondered how they looked so unconcerned; and she herself longed to push her way through them to get nearer to her dying lord; but the crowd kept her back. then, when she got back to her own room at home, she knelt down to think of what she had witnessed; and the blessed virgin appeared to her, and taught her that it had been but a vision, and one revealed to her alone, and not to the people. dominica then told her all her fears that her preparation had been too short; that our lord would certainly never allow her to come to him; and that she was so unworthy and unfit to communicate, she should drive him out of the church. but mary comforted her, and assured her that the tears of contrition she had shed were all the preparation he required. when dominica heard this she was a little consoled; yet her fear lest the sacred host should indeed fly from her as unworthy was so great, that she spent holy saturday in incessant prayer, promising pilgrimages, fasts on bread and water, and every devotion she could remember, if only our lord would deign to remain with her on the following day. thus the whole night passed, and in the morning she went, pale and trembling to the church to receive holy communion with her mother. her agitation increased every moment; but at length it was her turn to go up to the alter steps. she did so, and the priest came to her and pronounced the customary words; but she did not seem to hear him: he bent down over her to rouse her from her stupor; and it was not till he had shaken her by her dress that she was sufficiently recovered to receive. yet this was not an emotion of terror, but an ecstasy of joy; for at that moment her fears and scruples had been removed by the sight of the sacred host, not flying from her as she had feared, but shining like a glorious sun, whose brilliant rays overpowered her by their excessive lustre. it would be tedious to give in detail any thing like a faithful narration of the ecstasies with which from this time she was favoured every time she communicated. they were so wonderful and so numerous, that we are assured she made a vow by which she obliged herself never to move from the spot where she knelt; and that she did this in order to control the impulse which urged her to cast herself at the feet of her lord, whom she saw in so glorious a shape whenever the sacred host was elevated before her eyes. time went on, and dominica was no longer a child. with womanhood came the cares and charge of the entire family; for her mother, seeing her grave, diligent, and prudent, left every thing in her hands, and troubled herself with none of the household duties. with unmurmuring obedience dominica accepted every thing that was laid on her; she swept and washed the house, cooked the food, washed the clothes, looked after the garden and the horses, and saw to every thing which was sent to the market. long before break of day she had to be up to load the mules, and give them in charge to her brother leonard. when they came home late in the evening, it was she, tired with her innumerable labours, who had to take them to the stable and make up their stalls. not a moment of her time but was filled up with hard bodily work and fatigue; yet, thanks to the habits of her childhood, she knew how to infuse into all these the spirit of prayer; and her incessant occupations never put a stop to the devotions and austerities which she had accustomed herself to practise; nay, she found means to make them assist her in her mortification. she contrived two crosses of wood garnished with sharp nails, which she constantly wore in such a way, that at every movement of the body, in washing, sweeping, and working in the garden, the nails pressed into the flesh; and so constantly reminded her of the sufferings of her lord, even when externally engaged in the commonest employments of her peasant life. but in spite of the way in which she strove to do all in and for god, she secretly sighed after the retirement of the desert or the cloister, and for space and time to pour out her soul in that fulness of contemplation and love which swelled like a deep ocean within it. when she was fifteen, she accidentally heard the history of st. mary magdalen for the first time; and the account of her retirement and long penance in the desert of marseilles made an impression on her mind which was never effaced. she longed to imitate her, and to find some secret place where she might commence a similar life. believing this desire to be the vocation of god, she accordingly determined on the experiment; and secretly leaving her mother's house one night, she went on foot to a neighbouring mountain, and entered a thick wood, where she hoped to find some cavern where she might take up her abode. her first adventure was the meeting with a wolf; but dominica knelt down on the earth, not without some secret emotions of terror, and recommended herself to god; after which she rose, and commanded the animal in god's name to depart without hurting her, which he did, and she pursued her wav without further alarm. at length, near the valle del monte, she found such a spot as she was in search of. there was a grotto sunk in the rocky side of the mountain, and near its mouth ran a stream of crystal water. it was the very picture of a hermitage; and dominica's happiness was complete. she immediately prepared to take up her night's lodging in her grotto. but alas! picturesque and inviting as it seemed, it was very small; so small, that when the fervent little devotee had crawled into it, and knelt down to give vent to her joy and thankfulness, she found it impossible to get her whole body into its shelter; but her feet remained outside, and what was worse, dipping into the cold water of the stream. these inconveniences, however, were neither cared for nor even noticed by dominica. she was alone with god, and that was enough for her. three days and nights she spent in her little cavern, absorbed in ecstatic contemplation, and without food of any kind; but on the third day a voice spoke to her, and roused her from her long trance of silent happiness. "dominica," it said, "rise and come forth; i have already forgiven thee thy sins." at these words she rose and left her cavern, and beheld a beautiful sight. the valle del monte was before her, at she had seen it the evening of her arrival; there was not a human habitation to be seen, nothing but the green woods which clothed the mountain side, and the clear waters of the little stream, and the rocky summits of the hills which rose above the trees. but all these objects were now lit up by a wonderful light, brighter than that of the sun which fell on them from heaven. it grew every moment more and more dazzling, and then she saw in the midst the form of her divine lord, attended by his blessed mother and a vast company of angels. he spoke again, "dominica, what seekest thou here, amid these rocks and woods?" "i have been seeking thee, o lord," she replied, "and it seems to me that i have found thee." "but," returned her spouse, "when i chose thee for my divine espousal, it was not to do thine own will, nor to enjoy aught else than my good pleasure, in doing which thou shalt alone find peace. i have not called thee to the quietude of the desert, but that thou shouldst help me to bear my cross in the great city yonder,--the heavy cross which sinners make for me by their sins. hereafter shalt thou see my face in heaven and contemplate me there for ever; but for the present moment, return to thy mother's house, and wait for the manifestation of my will." "i go," said dominica; "yet i know not what i can do for thee in the world; i am nothing but a poor peasant girl, who have been brought up among beasts and oxen. moreover, if i go back, my mother will certainly beat me, for i have been away three days." "fear nothing," was the answer; "for an angel has taken thy form, and they do not know of thine absence." then dominica found herself transported, she knew not how, back to her own little room in her mother's house; and whilst she still wondered, she heard her brother's voice calling hastily to her from below to come and help unload the mules. dominica obeyed; but she was not a little confused, when on coming down he began to ask her about some money which he had given her the evening before. she knew of no money,--for, indeed, it had been given not to her, but to the angel in her likeness; and she would have been sorely puzzled how to satisfy his demands, if the angel had not discovered to her the place where the money was placed. and so her absence remained a secret to the family; nor were the circumstances ever revealed, until many years after, when, a short time before her death, her confessor obliged her under obedience to reveal all the graces with which god had favoured her. at length, in her twentieth year, dominica resolved to leave the world altogether and enter religion. her wish was not opposed by her mother, and she entered as lay-sister in the augustinian convent at florence. the sisters received her very warmly, for her character for holiness and her discretion and industry were well known to them; and they immediately employed her, much to their own satisfaction, in the garden and kitchen; and kept her so constantly and laboriously occupied, that poor dominica found that she had even less time for her exercises of prayer than when at home. she endeavoured to make up for the loss by secretly rising at night; but when this was discovered, the superior, with a mistaken charity, would send her to bed again, saying that after all her hard day's work she needed rest; not perceiving that the real rest she required was time for her soul to commune with god. dominica, therefore, became very unhappy; and one day as she was digging in the garden she heard a mournful voice speak plainly and articulately by her side, saying, "ah, my spouse! why hast thou left me thus?" and it seemed to her that it was the voice of her lord, who tenderly expostulated with her for suffering the intercourse which had so closely bound them together to be broken and interrupted by so many occupations. she threw the spade on the ground, and sitting down, covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly. was it never to end, this life of many cares? it seemed as though her soul, which was struggling to rise into the serene and quiet atmosphere of contemplation, was ever destined to be kept down amid cares and labours from which she could not escape, and which yet seemed, as it were, to separate her from her lord. so long as it had been his will, she had never resisted nor complained; but now it was not his will. he had said so; and the sweet sorrowful tone pierced her very heart, as she dwelt on the words, and the accent in which they were uttered,--"ah! why hast thou left me thus?" and as she wept and prayed and sorrowed, yet saw no way of escape, the same voice spoke again; but now they were words of comfort and encouragement: "be at peace, dominica; god will follow his own will, and you shall be comforted." and, indeed, a short time after she was attacked by a sickness, which compelled the sisters to send her back to her mother's house; and though on recovering she returned to them, yet she was again taken ill, and again forced to leave. a third time her mother took her back to the convent; but dominica knew that it was not god's wish that she should receive the augustinian habit: and the nuns themselves seemed to feel that this was the case; though, as they well knew her worth and sanctity, it cost them many regrets before they could consent to her finally leaving their community. she returned home, therefore; and now, with the advice of her confessor, entered on a life of strict religious retirement in her mother's house, until the designs of god regarding her should be more plainly manifested. the manner of this new life was not a little remarkable. next to the room where her mother slept was a little rubbish-closet, scarcely large enough to stand in; this she cleared from its rubbish, and chose for her cell. the constant sickness and infirmities which she suffered after her illnesses at the convent prevented her from going out at night and contemplating the heavens, as had been her custom when a child. but she retained her old love for them, and contrived to make a little heaven of blue paper on the roof of her closet, and to cover it with gold stars; which, though but a poor substitute for an italian sky--that sea of deep liquid sapphire, wherein float the bright stars, looking down like the eyes of the seraphim,--yet doubtless had its charm to the simple taste of its designer; and at any rate it reminded her, during the hours of her prayer, of the beautiful days of her childhood, when the heavens opened to her wondering eyes, and she became familiar with its inhabitants, and thought to get nearer to them and to her lord by climbing on the roof of the house. then at one end of the closet was a small altar, and on it a crib, and a representation of mary, and the divine child lying on the straw,--much after the fashion of those still in common use among the peasants of italy; for she always bore a special devotion to the mystery of the infancy. a stool before the altar, a wooden bench, and two boxes, completed the furniture of her cell. there was no bed: she allowed herself but two hours' sleep; and this refreshment, such as it was, was taken on the floor, with her head leaning on the stool,--when she lay down in this way, the straightness of the closet preventing her from taking any position that was not painful or constrained. yet this strange prison, which she never left save to go to the neighbouring church of the bridgetines to hear mass, was a paradise in dominica's eyes; for here, at least, she was left at peace and with god. she kept a continual silence, and divided her time between prayer and work with her needle; and so perfect a mistress was she in all kinds of embroidery, that she obtained large sums of money by her labour. this she left in her mother's hands, who was thus well satisfied to leave her undisturbed in the possession of her little closet, whilst the profits of her daily labours kept the house. the austerity she practised extended to every kind of bodily denial. her food was bread and water, taken so sparingly, that we are assured she sometimes spent a week without drinking at all: when she ate any thing, it was on her knees, as she bound herself ever to accompany the necessary refreshment of the body with interior meditation on the passion. after some little time, she was moved to give the proceeds of her labour no longer to her mother, but to distribute them in alms to the poor; and feeling this inspiration to be the will of god, she immediately executed it, greatly to her mother's dissatisfaction and her own discomfort; for all the indulgence and toleration she had received at her hands so long as the profits of her work were at the disposal of the family, were now turned into sharp reproaches. dominica, however, cared very little for the sufferings which her resolution brought on her; for god did not fail to evince his pleasure in many ways. she was accustomed to wear the bridgetine habit, with the consent of the nuns; not as belonging to their community, but because it was deemed advisable that she should have the protection and sanction of some outward religious habit in her present mode of life. as she returned one morning from church, a miserable beggar met her and asked an alms she had nothing to give him; yet, rather than send him away without any relief, she took the veil from her head, and giving it to him, continued her way. but presently she felt a great scruple at what she had done; the veil was part of her religious habit; and she accused herself of a great fault in appearing in the public roads without it, so as possibly to scandalise the passers by, and be taken for one who mocked the holy garb of religion. but as these thoughts passed in her mind, there met her a man, the surpassing beauty and nobleness of whose countenance revealed him to be her lord. he carried in his hand the veil she had just given away; and throwing it over her head,--" henceforth," he said, "my spouse, shalt thou have the poverty thou desirest, and shalt live for ever on alms, and as a pilgrim in the world, as i did." from this time she redoubled her labours in order to obtain large means for the purpose of charity, and besides this, spent much of her time in nursing and tending the sick, as well as relieving them by her alms; and whenever she did this, her own sicknesses and pains were for a time suspended, and she found herself endowed with strength sufficient for the most extraordinary fatigues and exertions. it was during her residence at home, in her twenty-fourth year, that she received the sacred stigmata. these were not bloody, as in so many cases; but the exact form of the nails appeared in the flesh of the hands and feet; the head protruding on the upper part, and the point coming out in the palms and soles. the crown of thorns was not visible in like manner, though the pain of her head in the part which corresponded to its position was excessive; but very often, in after years, her spiritual children in the monastery of her foundation saw, as she prayed, how the crown appeared round her head in light, and bright rays came out from it and formed its points. dominica strove to conceal the favour she had received, by wearing long sleeves to hide her hands; but the nails were so large and distinct, that it was impossible to prevent the fact from being known and observed by many. after a while, in answer to her earnest prayer, this extraordinary formation of the nails in the flesh disappeared, and the scars of the wounds alone remained, causing her excessive agony, which redoubled every friday and during passion-tide. at length, in her forty-fourth year, the wounds became invisible; but the pain of them continued during her whole life. she remained at home for three years after the reception of the sacred stigmata. they were years of continual suffering and persecution. the violence and coarse selfishness of her mother's nature was vented on her in every way and on all occasions. she was made the object of the most bitter reviling, and had to listen to a torrent of abuse, and what was worse, of blasphemous cursing, whenever she appeared in her presence. once her mother threw her so violently against the wall as to cause her to rupture a blood vessel; yet she bore all meekly and uncomplaining, until at length some friends who lived at florence, having asked her to take up her abode with them, it was revealed to her that she should remove thither, which she accordingly did. the change of residence, however, brought her little or no relief from persecution; for after a few months, the women with whom she was staying, moved by some jealousy, or disgusted at the retired manner in which she lived, and refused to go about with them or join in their way of life, accused her of every crime they could imagine, and even attempted to poison her. her mother, hearing of the sufferings to which she was exposed, was moved with a very natural contrition for her own cruelty to her, and set out for florence to see her, and if possible remove her from the house. unable to obtain admission, she had recourse to one of the canons of the city, and implored him to take her daughter under his protection, and defend her against the cruel restraint and persecution to which she was exposed in her present residence. by his interference she was allowed to leave; and a charitable gentleman of florence, named giovanni, to whom the circumstances of the case were known, received her into his own home, where she--lived very peaceably for some time. in all these most painful and disturbing changes in her life, dominica's tranquillity and resignation remained unmoved. she knew that the will of god had its own designs regarding her, and that these were not yet manifested; but until they were, she was content with whatever was assigned her, and received ill treatment, abandonment, and the desolate destiny of passing from one strange home to another, with an astonishing calmness and indifference. her position in giovanni's house was a very singular one. his wife was a weak and indolent woman, and with little religious character about her; she was the first of the family, however, over whom dominica's influence was felt. in a short time her habits of vanity and self-indulgence were laid aside; and she began to pray night and morning, and to attend mass, which till then she had neglected. then one of the sons, who was to all outward seeming given up to the thoughtless dissipation of his age, and had always neglected his religious duties, was won over by her, and began a new life. giovanni himself soon saw what sort of a person he had brought into his house, and that he was in fact entertaining an angel unawares. he therefore insisted on her taking the entire government of the family; and dominica consented, with the characteristic simplicity which would have made her undertake the government of a kingdom, if her guardian-angel had assured her it was the wish of god. whilst she ruled and directed them, however, in things spiritual, she herself did the servile work of the house, and waited on them in the humblest and most submissive manner. she never affected any other position than that o£ a simple peasant girl; but every one who came within her influence felt its power over them, and owned her as their mistress and mother. it was whilst living in this way that god revealed to her that she was no longer to remain concealed and retired from the world; but that he was about to make her the spiritual mother of many daughters, and to do great things for his own glory through her means. now dominica was naturally of a very timid and bashful disposition; and when she heard of being brought before the eyes of the world, and called on to teach and guide others, she knew not what to think. her diffidence, and what we should call shyness, was naturally so great, that she would turn pale if she had to speak to any one she did not know familiarly, and always at such times suffered from violent beatings of the heart. therefore, when she considered the great things laid before her, she felt sad and a little frightened, and spoke to god with her usual simple frankness, saying, "o my lord, how can this be? i am nothing but a vile peasant; the heart in my breast is a poor contemptible thing, that has no courage in it; my blood is peasant's blood; i am not fit for these great things unless you change it." then god answered, saying, "and i will change it, and will give you a noble and magnanimous heart; wherefore prepare for keen and terrible sufferings; for it is by them that your heart and blood is to be purged and renovated, and fitted for my service in the eyes of men." scarcely had the vision ended, when dominica felt the approach of the sufferings which had been promised; pain in every part of her body, a continual hemorrhage of blood, which seemed to drain every vein, and deadly faintings and weakness, reduced her almost to extremity. then, after she had languished in this state for many weeks, a vision appeared to her of the same mysterious and significant kind as that related in the life of st. catherine of sienna. our lord took her heart from her breast, and supplied its place with one of burning fire. she rose from her sick-bed, and felt her whole nature renewed; every sense was quickened, and the powers of her mind enlarged and ennobled;--nay, her very body seemed already to share in the glory of the resurrection. it gave out a wonderful odour, which communicated itself to every thing which it touched. her sight was so miraculously keen that she could see to embroider in the darkest night, and many _new_ senses seemed given her; whilst those of smell and touch and hearing were also renewed in an equally extraordinary degree. but, at the same time, she lost the bodily vigour which had before enabled her to go through so many hard days' labour; and with her new heart she seemed also to have acquired a new and delicate bodily temperament which utterly incapacitated her for work, whilst she seemed to be wholly immersed in divine and interior contemplation. a strange eloquence was now heard to flow from her lips, the infused wisdom and science of the saints was in her words; nay, she would often quote and explain sentences of the holy fathers, or of the scriptures, which it is certain she had never read or heard read. in short, god had bestowed on her the gift which he deemed necessary to fit her for the design he had regarding her; and still, with all the marvellous spiritual riches which she had acquired, she retained in her ways and thoughts and habits the old simplicity of the peasant child. the first of the spiritual daughters given her by god was giovanni's eldest child, who at her persuasion embraced the life of religion, and placed herself under her obedience. the second soon followed her example; and soon after a third. another daughter, catherine, still remained; like her mother, she was of a thoughtless and indolent character, much given to the vanities of her age, and the foolish pleasures of the world about her. she was accustomed to ridicule and mock at the conversion of her three sisters, and to hinder and disturb them in their religious practices; in short, she was about as hopeless a subject for dominica to exercise her influence upon as might well be imagined. but one christmas-day dominica called her into her little oratory, and first turning to the crucifix, and spending a moment in silent prayer, she laid her hand on her breast, and said, "o hard and evil heart, be softened and yield to thy god; and bend to my will, which is, that thou be the heart of a saint!" three days after this catherine presented herself with her sisters, and implored dominica to take her also under her teaching to convert the brothers; but by degrees she succeeded in persuading all to devote themselves to a holy and religious life; and the eldest, taking the habit of st. dominic, lived and died in the order with the reputation of sanctity. her confessor about this time counselled her herself to take the habit of the third order; and the matter having been agreed upon, he provided a tunic and mantle of the usual kind for her clothing, and appointed a certain day for her to come to the convent of st. mark and receive it with the customary ceremonies. the circumstances which followed have a very marvellous character, yet there seems no reason to doubt the accuracy and reality of what is narrated. we are told that, on the morning of the day appointed, she being in prayer, was rapt in ecstasy; and in this state she saw st. catherine and st. dominic enter her room with the white tunic in their hands. st. dominic himself gave it to her, pronouncing the words and prayer according to the rite of his order,--the responses being given by st. catherine and the angels; and her guardianangel gave the aspersion of holy water, first to the habit, and then to her; and st. catherine received her as her daughter, and gave her the kiss of welcome. when she recovered from her ecstasy, she found herself really clothed in the sacred habit which had been thus wonderfully given her; and, full of joy, she appeared with it in public in the afternoon of the same day. this was a cause of great displeasure to the authorities of the order, who complained that she had assumed their habit without being regularly admitted into their society. the affair was brought before the master-general, at that time vio di cajetan; and the complaint appearing just, he called on her either to lay it aside, or to explain the authority by which she wore it. the account she gave of the whole matter so satisfied the archbishop of florence of her sincerity and holiness, that he undertook to mediate in her behalf; and it was at length agreed that she should keep the habit, provided that she and her companions wore a red cross on the left shoulder, to denote that she had been clothed without the sanction of the ordinary authorities of the order, and was not subject to its jurisdiction; and, in fact, they did so wear it for six years, when, the convent of the holy cross being established, they were afterwards fully admitted to the rights and privileges of the order. after this point was settled, dominica's next step was to retire with her little band of followers (which now included several others besides the daughters of giovanni) to a small house, where they lived a regular life, supporting themselves by the labour of their hands. in time their gains increased to so wonderful a degree, that they found themselves enabled to purchase a more convenient residence, and then to enlarge it, and finally to rebuild it in the form of a cross. in short, in the course of a few years she saw herself at the head of a large community, possessed of a regular and extensive house, with a church attached to it, without any other means having been employed in its erection than the money which she and her sisters had earned by their own needlework. the archbishop of florence (the celebrated julius de medici, afterwards pope) was so struck with the manifest expression of god's will in the whole matter, that he obtained permission from leo x. for the regular foundation of the convent under the rule of st. dominic. they were all solemnly clothed on the 18th of november, 1515, and proceeded to the election of their prioress. their choice of course fell on dominica, but she absolutely refused to accept the office; and used a power given her by the papal brief to nominate another sister in her place, whilst she determined to retain for herself the rank and duties of a lay-sister. the ceremony of the clothing and election being therefore over, she made a solemn renunciation of the house and all it contained into the hands of the archbishop-vicar. then she left the sisters, and went to the kitchen; and coming there, she sent all the other lay-sisters away, saying, it belonged to her to do what had to be done for the community for the first week of their settlement. she cooked the dinner, and sent it to the refectory; and whilst the sisters were sitting at table, she entered the room with a number of broken pieces of earthenware tied round her neck, and knelt humbly in the middle of them all, as one doing penance. the feelings of her children at this sight may be imagined; there was a universal stir; three or four rose from table, and would have placed themselves by her side. the prioress endeavoured to restore order; but the meal was broken by the sobs and sighs of the whole community. when dinner was over, she tried to return to her work in the kitchen; but the feelings of the sisters could no longer be restrained; they ran after her, and threw themselves at her feet. "mother, mother," they cried, "it is a mother we want, not a saint; a guide, and not a servant,--this cannot be suffered." but dominica tried to quell them, and to persuade them to let it be even as she desired; her entreaties, however, were in vain. they left her, and with the prioress met together to consider what should be done; and it was determined that the vicar should be called on to use his authority with dominica, and bring her under obedience to take the office of superior,--which, in short, she was compelled to do, with the title of _vicaress_; for she persevered in refusing to be instituted prioress. when the time came for the profession of the new community, dominica obtained permission from the pope to defer her own profession; only to bind herself by a simple vow to wear the habit of the third order, and keep the rule of st. dominic. does the reader wish to know the motive she had for soliciting this singular privilege? he must go back some twenty years, and recall the time when the story of st. mary magdalen's retirement to the deserts of marseilles had sent the little peasant child into the woods, to spend three happy days and nights in a hermit's cave too small to contain her, but which she considered as a paradise; and where she would have been well content to have remained all her life, if such had been the wish of god. at thirty years of age, dominica was still the same. her simplicity had a touch of what one might call romance about it, and she had never forgotten her great project of a hermitage. she would not be bound to the convent of the holy cross therefore, because she still hoped the time might come when she might find out the desert of marseilles, and realise the life of penance and retirement, the account of which had made so deep an impression on her imagination. when she saw herself threatened with a perpetual appointment as vicaress, she accordingly resolved to fly at once, and did actually escape by one of the windows, and set out towards marseilles in the habit of a pilgrim. the community again had recourse to the vicar, who sent a peremptory order for her return under pain of excommunication; and the messenger who carried it found her laid up in a little village with a swelling of both feet, which had put a speedy stop to her pilgrimage, and which she herself acknowledged to be the declaration that it was not god's will she should proceed in her design. she was therefore compelled to return and reassume the government of her convent, in which office she continued until she died in 1553. with the circumstances which attended her death we must conclude. for months she had lain on a miserable pallet, unable to move or rise, and with the appearance of a living skeleton. but when easter day came, she felt it was the last she should spend with her sisters, and determined to keep the festival with them all in community. she therefore caused herself to be carried to the chair, where she communicated with them. she took her dinner in the refectory, and afterwards held a chapter, where, after briefly and touchingly exhorting them to fidelity to their spouse, she gave them her last blessing. then, in order to assure them in the peaceable possession of their convent, she determined to make her solemn profession, which had never yet been done,--in conformity, we are assured, to the express revealed permission of god. she lingered on until the following august, and on the 5th of that month fell into her agony. when the last moment came, she raised herself on the pallet, and extended her arms in the form of the cross. her face shone with a bright and ruddy colour, and her eyes were dazzling with a supernatural light; and so, without any other death-struggle than a gentle sigh, she expired, at the age of eighty years. her life has been written at length by f. ignatius nente; but the principal facts were drawn up by the abbess of florence very shortly after her decease, at the instance of the grand duchess of lorraine, and forwarded to rome, to form the process for her beatification. anne de montmorency. anne de montmorency, the solitary of the pyrenees. about the year 1666, a young lady of the family of montmorency, one of the most ancient and illustrious in france, disappeared at the age of fifteen from her father's house, because projects were being formed for her establishment, and she believed herself called to a different state of life. after having in vain endeavoured to alter the views of her family respecting her, she entreated permission one day to make a pilgrimage to mount valerian, near paris, where were the stations of our lord's passion. when she reached that which represents our lord on the cross, she implored him whom she had chosen for her spouse, with many tears, to save her from the danger of being ever unfaithful to him, and to teach her how to live from thenceforth as his own bride, unknown, and crucified with him, with her body and soul given up entirely to his charge, and her whole being abandoned to the care of providence. with her mind full of these holy thoughts, she came down from the mountain, and without well knowing what she was going to do, she turned her steps towards the bois de boulogne; and when she reached the abbey of longchamp, feeling a strong impulse to enter the church, she dismissed for some hours the confidential attendants by whom she was accompanied, saying that she had still many prayers to recite; and accordingly they left her without suspicion to finish her devotions. no sooner were they out of sight than she left the church; and committing herself to our blessed lord and his holy mother, plunged into the recesses of the wood. she was following by mere chance an unfrequented path, when she met a poor woman, who asked alms of her. this encounter appeared to her an indication of the will of heaven: she formed her plan in an instant, and began to put it into execution, by taking the clothes of the poor beggar, and giving her own in exchange; and to complete the disguise, she stained her hands and face with clay, and tried to disfigure herself as much as possible. she then turned in the direction contrary to that in which she thought pursuit would first be made; walked all the rest of the day, and found herself in the evening in a village situate on the seine, some leagues from paris. there she was met by some charitable ecclesiastics, who, touched by her youth, and the dangers to which it exposed her, took an interest in her situation, and found her first a temporary asylum, and afterwards a situation with a lady in the neighbourhood, who was very rich, and whose service was safe and respectable, as she was devout and regular in her conduct; but she was a difficult person to live with, being of a sharp and worrying temper, so that she had never been able to keep long either a man or maid-servant. into this house, however, jane margaret, by which name only she was known, entered as lady's-maid; but as no servant but herself could remain, she found herself at the age of sixteen obliged to be cook and housemaid and porteress all at once. what consoled and even rejoiced her in this situation was the opportunity it afforded her of satisfying her thirst for crosses and humiliations, and also her freedom from all intrusion of idle curiosity, so that she felt her secret safe. she endured all the fatigues of so laborious a situation, and all the caprices of a harshness in temper, with unalterable patience and sweetness until her mistress's death; that is to say, for the space of ten years. and so faultless was her, conduct during all this time, that her mistress, on her death bed, publicly begged her pardon for all she had made her suffer, and insisted on leaving her the sum of four thousand francs in addition to her wages, of which she had as yet scarcely received any thing. jane margaret was with difficulty persuaded to accept this present, and when it was forced upon her, she distributed it among the poor, with the exception of a very small sum which she kept for her immediate wants. feeling, however, that such extraordinary liberality on the part of a mere maid-servant would excite suspicion and endanger her secret, she resolved to escape the peril as soon as possible. accordingly, on her return from the funeral of her mistress, seeing the boat for auxerre, she threw herself into it, without a moment's delay; and soon after her arrival in that town succeeded in finding another situation which she considered suitable. it was in the house of a master joiner, who was greatly esteemed both for skill in his profession and for general probity, and who was also clever in carving. the early education of jane margaret made her very useful to her new master, who, in return, taught her how to handle the chisel, and she very soon became sufficiently expert to make wooden clocks. in this town, too, she was happy enough to find a director experienced in the ways of god, who confirmed her in the resolution she had taken. in about a year's time, however, she lost him; and despairing of finding another to whom she could give her entire confidence, she determined to return to paris, in the hope of finding there a guide such as she required, believing herself sufficiently forgotten at this distance of time to run no risk of being recognised. she set forth, therefore, on the road to the capital on foot, and asking alms; for she had taken care before leaving auxerre to give to the poor all that she had earned. on her arrival in paris she placed herself among the poor who ask the charity of the faithful at the church-doors; and begged every morning enough to maintain her for the day, for which purpose very little sufficed. all the rest of her time she passed in prayer in the churches, which she never left except at the approach of night. one day as she was asking alms, according to her custom, at the door of a church, it pleased providence that she should address herself to a very pious and charitable lady, who kept a school at château-fort, and who was under the direction of a holy religious named the father de bray. at the first sight of the young and modest beggar, the virtuous schoolmistress felt moved, and discerning in her something which did not accord with her apparent state of life, ventured to ask her whether it was from sickness that she was reduced to that condition. jane margaret only replied that she believed herself to be fulfilling the will of god; which answer increased the interest she had already excited in the mind of the pious lady, who told her that in her state of weakness the air of the country would do her good, and offered to take her to château-fort. at the same time she spoke to her of father de bray, whose name and merit were well known in paris. this last consideration was sufficient to determine jane margaret to follow a person whose sentiments were so congenial with her own. as soon as father de bray became acquainted with her, he discovered in her one of those wonders which are wrought from time to time by grace for the confusion of the world, and set himself to second the designs of heaven concerning this privileged soul. she too, on her side, convinced that she had at last found a guide such as she had been long seeking, bestowed on him her confidence without reserve, and continued to correspond with him as long as he lived. in process of time, drawn more than ever by the spirit of god, she left château-fort to go and seek a solitude hidden from all men; but it was almost two years before she could find what she desired. she traversed several provinces seeking for an asylum out of the reach of every human eye, until at last she arrived at the pyrenees, where she established herself in a wild recess, which she names in her letters "the solitude of the rocks." it was a little space of a pentagonal shape, shut in by five rocks, which formed a kind of cross, and rendered the little spot of ground which they enclosed not quite inaccessible, but altogether invisible from without. from the foot of the highest of these rocks there gushed a spring of excellent water, and its summit was a kind of observatory, from whence she could espy any intruders who might venture to approach her abode. there were three grottoes at the base of the rocks, one of which was a deep and winding cavern; this she made her cell, and the two others her oratories. this solitude was at least half a league from any road, and surrounded by a thick forest, or rather by a brake, so tangled that, to get through it, the traveller must force his way among thistles and briers, by a path which seemed impracticable to any but wild beasts. our solitary, however, met with none of these, except a bear, who was more afraid than she, and ran away. she found in her retreat shrubs which bore a fruit much like damsons; and the rocks were covered with medlar-trees, the fruit of which was excellent. the cold was not intense even in the heart of winter, while the heat of summer was tempered by the shade of the rocks, and of the woods which surrounded it. all these details are given in the letters of the solitary herself to her director, father de bray. in this retirement she began to lead a life angelic rather than human; looking upon this earth as the blessed do from the heights of heaven, and consecrating every pulsation of her heart to god. for some time she used to go twice a week to the village to ask alms; but by degrees she weaned herself from the use of bread, and at last lived entirely on the vegetables and wild fruits which grew in the neighbourhood of her abode. her spiritual necessities were more difficult to supply. not wishing to risk being recognised, she was obliged to use many precautions whenever she allowed herself the consolation of participating in the divine mysteries; but providence had prepared for her a resource. at a little distance from the forest were two religious houses, one of men, the other of women. there she went to hear mass and receive holy communion; and, in order to escape remark, she went sometimes to the church of the convent, sometimes to that of the monastery; and for her confessor she selected a good curate of the neighbourhood, who simply heard what she had to say, and asked her no questions. she had fixed for herself a rule of life, which she followed exactly: at five in the morning she rose, winter and summer; continued in prayer till six, when she recited prime, and either went to mass or heard it in spirit; and then read some chapters of holy scripture. these exercises lasted till eight; after which she devoted two hours to manual labour, either mending her clothes, or practising sculpture, or cultivating a little garden which she had made round her habitation. at ten she recited tierce, sext, and none; and then, prostrate at the foot of her crucifix, she examined her conscience, and imposed on herself penances in proportion to the number and grievousness of her faults. all this lasted till about noon, when she took the only meal of the day, and after it her recreation, which consisted, in fine weather, of a walk to the summit of the rocks, where she contemplated the greatness of god in his works, and praised and blessed his infinite perfections in pious songs which she knew by heart, or with which divine love inspired her at the moment. on her return home she made her spiritual reading, usually from the imitation, followed by an affectionate prayer, in which she poured out before god all the necessities of her soul; but asked of him nothing but the accomplishment of his own good pleasure. then she resumed her manual labour until four in the afternoon, after which she recited vespers and the entire rosary, accompanied or followed by pious considerations. this exercise brought her on to eight o'clock, when she went through the devotion of the stations in a calvary which she had built herself, and performed the penances and mortifications which she had imposed upon herself. at nine she retired to her cell, and, after a short examination of conscience, and some vocal prayers, slept till eleven, when she rose to recite matins, which she knew by heart, and to pray till two, when she retired again to rest till five. in order to regulate this distribution of her time, she had made herself a wooden clock. she made also several other pieces of workmanship, which were admired by connoisseurs, more especially a crucifix made out of a single piece of corneil wood, which she presented to father de bray, and which afterwards fell into the hands of madaine de maintenon, who valued it as a precious relic. she wrought also three other crucifixes, one very small, which she wore round her neck; another, three feet high, which, she placed in her cell; and a third, six feet high, which she carved out of the wood of a fir-tree, which had been struck down by lightning in the forest, and which she placed in the calvary she had arranged on the summit of one of the highest of the rocks which enclosed her habitation. for her communications with father de bray she made use of a wagoner, who, from time to time, journeyed to and from paris, and who faithfully carried her letters, and brought back to her the answers to them, together with the small sums of money which her director sent her from time to time, and which she used to procure such things as were indispensably necessary to her, such as tools for her carving, needles, thread, worsted, and some pieces of calico and stuff to repair her garments, which were very simple, but always neat, especially when she appeared at church. it may not be uninteresting to see an inventory of her few possessions which she sent to her spiritual director. a roman breviary, which she recited daily, and which she understood, having learnt latin in her childhood; an imitation; an abridgment of the saints' lives; a little book culled horloge du coeur, and another of devotions to the blessed sacrament. such was her library. her workshop contained a supply of ordinary carpenters' tools, and a few more delicate implements for carving; while for her personal use she had a few hundreds of pins, some needles, some grey and white thread, a pair of scissors, and a copper thimble; two bowls and a cup, all in wood; a hair shirt, and a discipline. her wardrobe, as may be supposed, was of the most simple description, but sufficient for decency and neatness. our solitary had but one fear in this peaceful retirement, that of being discovered; and it was long before her evident sanctity drew the attention of the people of the village, and excited the curiosity of so many people, that, in spite of all her precautions, they succeeded, by dint of constant watching, in finding out, if not absolutely her abode, at least the rocks which surrounded it. this was quite enough to force her to seek a more distant solitude. impelled, as she said in one of her letters, by an irresistible force, she transported herself to a distance of twenty leagues, still further among the pyrenees, in the direction of spain. she had dwelt for four years in the solitude of the rocks, and for three years more she abode in that which she called the grot of the rivulets. it was a place full of rocks and caverns, the retreat of wild beasts, enormous serpents, and monstrous lizards, which were the terror of the neighbourhood, so that none dared approach the spot. but when this barrier of rocks was once passed, which required good climbing, there was a little smiling valley enamelled with flowers, and intersected with rivulets from several springs of living water gushing out from the mountains; there, too, were several sorts of fruit of very good taste, and a quantity of wild honey, which the solitary pronounced to be excellent; so that altogether this abode would have been preferable to her former one of the rocks, if it had not been for the presence of the wild beasts. but of these jane margaret had no fear, depending on the help of the lord, who has promised to give his servants the power of treading on serpents and scorpions, and of chaining the mouths of lions; and in truth these animals never disturbed her, though she passed their dens again and again; it seemed as though they respected her and all that belonged to her, for they never approached her dwelling, and even spared a little squirrel which she had found in this wilderness, and taken home with her for company. here, too, as in the neighbourhood of her first solitude, she found a convent of monks; but this was at a more considerable distance, for she had three leagues and a half to walk before she could reach it, and that through tangled thickets; but in this convent she sought a confessor; the superior received her with great kindness, believing her to be a poor country girl, and asking her no questions but such as were suitable to the rural life he supposed her to be leading. for the holy sacrifice she went to the hermitage of st. antony, a league and a half on the other side of the forest. when once fixed in this new abode, our solitary peaceably resumed the course of her accustomed exercises. she arranged for herself two cells in the hollow of two rocks very near to each other, and in the space between the two she formed a little chapel, which she delighted in adorning with verdure and wild flowers. she divided her time, as before, between labour and prayer, and her trances and ecstasies became more frequent and more sublime than ever; but her great humility made her distrust these extraordinary favours of heaven, and she required to be set at rest concerning them by her director, with whom she continued to correspond, and to whom she continued, even to the end, to pour forth all the secrets of her soul with the simplicity of a child. her last letter is dated the 17th of sept. 1699, and in it she expresses a great desire to go to rome in the course of the following year, in order to gain the indulgence of the jubilee, but at the same time submits her own judgment entirely to that of him whom she regarded as the interpreter of the will of heaven in her regard. receiving no answer, she suspected that father de bray was no more; and in fact he had died that very year. she thought herself free to move, and set off for the holy city, since which period it has been impossible to gather any trace of her. whether she accomplished her pilgrimage, whether she died in rome or in some solitude, has never been discovered; as though it pleased providence to second, even after her death, the earnest desire of his servant to be hidden from the sight and knowledge of men; for the tomb, which often becomes the glory of the friends of god, only set the seal to her obscurity. at the last day, when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, this treasure will stand revealed in the face of the universe. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) the executioner's knife complete for the first time in english eugene sue's the mysteries of the people or _history of a proletarian family across the ages_ a fascinating work, thrilling as fiction, yet embracing a comprehensive history of the oppressing and oppressed classes from the commencement of the present era. these stories are nineteen in number, and their chronological order is the following: eugene sue wrote a romance which seems to have disappeared in a curious fashion, called "les mysteres du peuple". it is the story of a gallic family through the ages, told in successive episodes, and, so far as we have been able to read it, is fully as interesting as "the wandering jew", or "the mysteries of paris". the french edition is pretty hard to find, and only parts have been translated into english. we don't know the reason. one medieval episode, telling of the struggle of the communes for freedom, is now translated by mr. daniel de leon, under the title, "the pilgrim's shell" (new york labor news co.). we trust the success of his efforts may be such as to lead him to translate the rest of the romance. it will be the first time the feat has been done in english.--n. y. sun. the gold sickle 50c. the brass bell 50c. the iron collar 50c. the silver cross 50c. the casque's lark 75c. the poniard's hilt 75c. the branding needle 50c. the abbatial crosier 60c. carlovingian coins 50c. the iron arrow head 60c. the infant's skull 50c. the pilgrim's shell 75c. the iron pincers 50c. the iron trevet 75c. executioner's knife $1.00 pocket bible, vol. 1 $1.00 pocket bible, vol. 2 $1.00 blacksmith's hammer 75c. sword of honor, vol. 1 $1.00 sword of honor, vol. 2 $1.00 galley slave's ring 50c. new york labor news company 28 city hall place:: new york the executioner's knife :: :: or :: :: joan of arc a tale of the inquisition by eugene sue translated from the original french by daniel de leon new york labor news company, 1910 copyright 1910, by the new york labor news co. index translator's preface 1 part i. domremy. chapter. i. jeannette 3 ii. gillon the furtive 7 iii. at the fountain of the fairies 11 iv. the harp of merlin 16 v. the prophecy of merlin 23 vi. the legend of hena 29 vii. germination 34 viii. "the english" 37 ix. the flight 44 x. "burgundy!"--"france!" 47 xi. the vision 58 xii. returning visions 63 xiii. wrestling with the angels 68 xiv. "the time has arrived!" 72 xv. captain robert of baudricourt 76 xvi. at the castle of vaucouleurs 80 xvii. john of novelpont 87 xviii. "good luck, joan!" 92 part ii. chinon. i. the council of charles vii 101 ii. aloyse of castelnau 112 iii. the test 118 iv. the hall of rabateau 123 part iii. orleans. chapter. i. friday, april 29th, 1429 137 ii. saturday, april 30th, 1429 147 iii. sunday, may 1st, 1429 155 iv. monday, may 2nd, 1429 157 v. tuesday, may 3rd, 1429 159 vi. wednesday, may 4th, 1429 161 vii. thursday, may 5th, 1429 177 viii. friday, may 6th, 1429 186 ix. saturday, may 7th, 1429 203 x. the king crowned 214 part iv. rouen; or, the mystery of the passion of joan darc. i. bishop and canon 229 ii. in the dungeon 262 iii. the inquisition 277 iv. the temptation 302 v. the sentence 312 vi. physical collapse 326 vii. remorse 348 viii. the relapse 354 ix. the worm turns 357 x. to the flames 360 xi. the pyre 365 epilogue 378 translator's preface. whether one will be satisfied with nothing but a scientific diagnosis in psychology, or a less ponderous and infinitely more lyric presentation of certain mental phenomena will do for him; whether the student of history insist on strict chronology, or whether he prize at its true value the meat and coloring of history; whether a reader prefer in matters canonical the rigid presentation of dogma, or whether the tragic fruits of theocracy offer a more attractive starting point for his contemplation;--whichever the case might be, _the executioner's knife; or, joan of arc_ will gratify his intellectual cravings on all the three heads. this, the fifteenth story of the series of eugene sue's matchless historic novels entitled _the mysteries of the people; or, history of a proletarian family across the ages_, presents the picture of the fifteenth century--a historic elevation climbed up to from the hills of the era sketched in the preceding story, _the iron trevet; or jocelyn the champion_, and from which, in turn, the outlines become vaguely visible of the critically historic era that forms the subject of the next story, _the pocket bible; or, christian the printer_. as in all the stories of this stupendous series bestowed by the genius of sue upon posterity, the leading characters are historic, the leading events are historic, and the coloring is true to history. how true to the facts are the historic revelations made by the author in this series, and how historically true are the conclusions he draws, as they rise in relief on the canvas of these novels, appears with peculiar conspicuousness in _the executioner's knife; or, joan of arc_, above all in this century, when the science of history has remodeled its theory, and, instead of, as in former days, basing man's acts upon impulse, has learned to plant impulse upon material facts. in the pages of this story the central figure is the charming one generally known to history as the maid of orleans. if ever there was in the annals of man a figure that superstitious mysticism combined with grovelling interests to annihilate, it was the figure of the pure-minded, self-sacrificing, intrepid shepherdess of domremy. even the genius of a voltaire succumbed. in righteous revolt against man-degrading superstition, his satire "la pucelle" in fact contributed, by the slur it placed upon joan, to vindicate the very lay and prelatical interests he fought, and whose predecessors dragged her name through the ditch and had consigned her body to the flames. harried by the political interests whom her integrity of purpose menaced and actually thwarted; insulted and put to death by the allies of these, ambushed behind religion; the successors of both elements perpetuating the wrong with false history; and even the enlightened contributing their sneers out of just repugnance for supernaturalism;--all this notwithstanding, the figure of joan triumphed. even the head of the prelatic political machine, which had presumed to speak in the name of the deity with anathema over joan's head, has felt constrained to fall in line with the awakened popular knowledge. the papal beatification of joan of arc in this century is a public retraction and apology to the heroine born from the lowly. of the many works of art--poetic, dramatic, pictorial--that have contributed to this conspicuous "reversal of judgment" sue's _the executioner's knife; or, joan of arc_ has been the most powerful. the pathetic story cleanses joan of the miraculous, uncovers the grovelling influences she had to contend against, exposes the sordid ambitions she had to overcome and that finally slaked their vengeance in her blood. the master's hand weaves together and draws, in the garb of fiction, a picture that is monumental--at once as a work of science, of history and of art. daniel de leon. milford, conn., october, 1909. part i. domremy chapter i. jeannette. domremy is a frontier village of lorraine that cosily nestles on the slope of a fertile valley whose pasture grounds are watered by the meuse. an oak forest, that still preserves some mementoes of druid tradition, reaches out almost to the village church. this church is the handsomest of all in the valley, which begins at vaucouleurs and ends at domremy. st. catherine and st. marguerite, superbly painted and gilded, ornament the sanctuary. st. michael, the archangel, with his sword in one hand and the scales in the other, glistens from the depths of a dark recess in the chapel. happy is the valley that begins at vaucouleurs and ends at domremy! a royal seigniory, lost on the confines of gaul, it has not yet suffered from the disasters of war that for more than a half century have been desolating the center of the country. its inhabitants, profiting by the civil broils of their sovereign and his distance from them, being separated from his main domains by champagne, which had fallen into the power of the english, had emancipated themselves from serfdom. james darc, a member of a family that had long been serfs of the abbey of st. remy, and subsequently of the sire of joinville before the fief of vaucouleurs was consolidated with the royal domain, an honest laborer, stern head of his household and rather rude of manners, lived by the cultivation of the fields. his wife was called isabelle romée; his eldest son, peter; the second, john; and his daughter, born on "the day of kings" in 1412, was named jeannette. at the time when this narrative commences, jeannette was a little over thirteen years of age. she was of pleasant appearance, a sweet and pious child and endowed with precocious intelligence. her disposition was serious for her age. this notwithstanding, she joined in the games of other girls, her friends, and never gloried in her own superior agility when, as usually happened, she won in the races. she could neither read nor write. active and industrious, she helped her mother in the household, led the sheep to pasture and was skilful with the needle and at the distaff. often pensive, when alone in secluded spots of the woods she watched over her flock, she found an inexpressible delight in listening to the distant sound of the church bells, to the point that at times she made little presents of fruits or skeins of wool to the parish clerk of domremy, joining to the gifts the gentle request that he prolong a little the chimes of the vespers or of the angelus.[1] jeannette also took delight in leading her sheep in the ancient forest of oaks, known as the "bois chesnu",[2] towards a limpid spring shaded by a beech tree that was between two and three hundred years old and which was known in the region as the "fairies' tree". the legend had it that the priests of the old gods of gaul sometimes appeared, dressed in their long white robes, under the dark vaults of the oaks of this forest, and that often little fairies approached the fountain by moonlight to see their reflection in its waters. jeannette did not fear the fairies, knowing that a single sign of the cross would put any malignant sprite to flight. she entertained a special spirit of devotion for st. marguerite and st. catherine, the two beautiful saints of the parish. when, on feast days, she accompanied her venerated parents to divine service, she was never tired of contemplating and admiring the good saints, who were at once smiling and majestic under their golden crowns. likewise did st. michael attract her attention. but the severity of the archangel's face and his flaming sword somewhat intimidated the young shepherdess, while, on the contrary, her dear saints inspired her with ineffable confidence. jeannette's god-mother was sybille, an old woman, originally from brittany, and a washerwoman by occupation. sybille knew a mass of marvelous legends; and she spoke familiarly about the fairies, genii and other supernatural beings. some people took her for a witch;[3] but her good heart, her piety and upright life in no way justified the suspicion. jeannette, of whom her god-mother was very fond, drank in with avidity the legends narrated by the latter when they met on the way to the "fountain of the fairies" whither the former frequently took her sheep to water while her god-mother spun her hemp on the banks of a nearby stream. the narratives of her god-mother of the miraculous doings of the fairies and genii impressed themselves profoundly on the imaginative spirit of jeannette, who grew ever more serious and pensive as she approached her fourteenth year. she was frequently subject to a vague sense of sadness. often, when alone in the woods or on the meadows, the distant sounds of the church bells, that she so much loved to hear, struck her ears, and she would weep without knowing why. the involuntary tears comforted her. but her nights grew restless. she no longer slept peacefully as is the wont of rustic children after their wholesome labors. she dreamed much; and her visions would raise before her the spirits of the legends of her god-mother or present to her st. marguerite and st. catherine smiling tenderly upon her. chapter ii. gillon the furtive. on a brilliant summer day the sun was westering behind the castle of ile, a small fortress raised between the two arms of the meuse at a considerable distance from domremy. james darc inhabited a house near the church, the garden of which bordered on that of his own habitation. the laborer's family, gathered before the door of their lodging, were enjoying the coolness of the evening; some were seated on a bench and others on the floor. james darc, a robust man of severe countenance, spare of face and grey of hair, was in the group resting from his day's labor; his wife, isabelle, spun; jeannette was sewing. large and strong for her age, lissom and well proportioned, her hair was black, as were also her large brilliant eyes. the ensemble of her features made promise of a virile and yet tender beauty.[4] she wore, after the fashion of lorraine, a skirt of coarse scarlet fabric, with a corsage that, looped over her shoulders, allowed the short sleeves of her skirt to escape at her upper arms, the rest of which remained bare and were well built and slightly tanned by the sun. darc's family were listening to the account of a stranger dressed in a brown coat, shod in tall and spurred boots, holding a whip in his hands and carrying on his shoulder a tin box held by a leather strap. the stranger, gillon the furtive, was in the habit of traversing long distances on horseback in the capacity of "flying messenger", carrying the correspondence of important personages. he had just returned from one of these errands to the duke of lorraine and was going back to charles vii, who then resided at bourges. while crossing domremy, gillon the furtive had asked james darc to direct him to some inn where he could sup and feed his horse. "share my meal; my sons will take your horse to the stable," the hospitable laborer answered the messenger. the offer being accepted, supper was taken and the stranger, desirous to pay his reckoning in his own way by giving the latest news of france to the family of darc, reported how the english, masters of paris and of almost all the provinces, governed despotically, terrorizing the inhabitants by their continuous acts of violence and rapine; how the king of england, still a boy and under the guardianship of the duke of bedford, had inherited the crown of france; while poor charles vii, the king by right, deserted by almost all his seigneurs and relegated to touraine, the last shred of his domains, did not even entertain the hope of ever being able to redeem those provinces from the domination of the english. being a court messenger and therefore, naturally, a royalist of the armagnac party, gillon the furtive professed, after the fashion of inferior courtiers, a sort of stupid, false, blind and grovelling adoration for charles vii. that young prince, unnerved by his early debaucheries, selfish, greedy, envious and, above all, cowardly, never appeared at the head of the troops still left to him; and consoled himself for their defeats and his disgrace by drinking deep and singing with his mistresses. in his royalist fervor, however, gillon the furtive forgot his master's vices and saw only his misfortunes. "poor young king! it is a pity to see what he has to endure!" said the messenger at the close of his report. "his accursed mother, isabelle of bavaria, is the cause of it all. her misconduct with the duke of orleans and her hatred for the duke of burgundy have brought on the frightful feud between the burgundians and the armagnacs. the english, already masters of several of our provinces since the battle of poitiers, easily took possession of almost all france, torn in factions as the country was. they now impose upon the country an intolerable yoke, sack and burn it right and left and butcher its people. finally, the duke of bedford, tutor of a king in his cradle, reigns in the place of our gentle dauphin! a curse upon isabelle of bavaria! that woman was the ruin of the kingdom. we are no longer french. we are english!" "god be praised! we, at least," said james darc, "still remain french, all of us in this valley. we have not experienced the disasters that you describe, friend messenger. you say that charles vii, our young prince, is a worthy sire?" "just heaven!" cried gillon the furtive, a flatterer and liar, like all court valets, "charles vii is an angel! all who approach him admire him, revere and bless him! he has the meekness of a lamb, the beauty of a swan and the courage of a lion!" "the courage of a lion!" exclaimed james darc with admiration. "then our young sire has fought bravely?" "if he had had his will he would by this time have been killed at the head of the troops that have remained faithful," promptly answered gillon the furtive, puffing out his cheeks. "but the life of our august master is so precious that the seigneurs of his family and council were bound to oppose his risking his precious days in a fashion that i shall be bold to call--uselessly heroic. the soldiers who still follow the royal banners are completely discouraged by the defeats that they have sustained. the larger number of bishops and seigneurs have declared themselves for the party of the burgundians and the english; everybody is deserting our young sire; and soon perhaps, forced to abandon france, he will not find in the whole kingdom of his fathers a place to rest his head! oh, accursed, triply accursed be his wicked mother, isabella of bavaria!" with nightfall gillon the furtive thanked the laborer of domremy for his hospitality, mounted his horse and pursued his route. after mutually expressing their sorrow at the fate of the young king, the family of darc joined in evening prayer and its members retired to sleep. chapter iii. at the fountain of the fairies. that night jeannette slept late and little. silent and attentive during the messenger's narrative, she had then for the first time heard imprecations uttered at the ravages of the english, and about the misfortunes of the gentle dauphin of france. james darc, his wife and sons continued long after the departure of gillon the furtive to lament the public calamities. vassals of the king, they loved him; and they served him all the more seeing they knew him less and in no wise felt his feudal overlordship, having emancipated themselves with the aid of the distance that separated them from him and from the troubles that had fallen upon him. they were worthy but credulous people. children usually are the echoes of their parents. accordingly, following the example of her father and mother, jeannette, in her naïve and tender credulity, pitied with all her heart the young prince who was so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate only through the fault of his wicked mother. "oh," thought she, "he is almost without a place to rest his head, deserted by everybody, and soon will be forced to flee from the kingdom of his ancestors!" so the messenger had said. jeannette, who lately was subject to causeless spells of weeping, now wept over the misfortunes of the king; and fell asleep praying to her dear saints marguerite and catherine and to the archangel michael to intercede with the lord in behalf of the poor young prince. these thoughts followed the little shepherdess even in her dreams, bizarre dreams, in which she now would see the dauphin of france, beautiful as an angel, smiling upon her with sadness and kindness; and then again hordes of armed englishmen, armed with torches and swords, marching, marching and leaving behind them a long trail of blood and flames. jeannette awoke, but her imagination being strongly affected by the remembrance of her dreams, she could not keep her mind from ever returning to the gentle dauphin and being greatly moved with pity for him. at early daylight she gathered her lambs, that every morning she took to pasture, and led them towards the oak forest where the shade was cool and the grass dotted with flowers. while her sheep were pasturing jeannette sat down near the fountain of the fairies, shaded by the centennarian beech tree; and mechanically she plied her distaff. jeannette had not been long absorbed in her revery when she was joined by her god-mother, sybille, who arrived carrying on her shoulder a large bundle of hemp that she wished to lay in the streamlet, formed by the overflow of the spring, in order to have it retted. although simple minded people took sybille for a witch, nothing in her features recalled those usually ascribed to old women possessed of the evil spirit--hooked nose and chin, cavernous eyes and an owlish aspect. no, far from it, nothing could be more venerable than sybille's pale face framed in her white hair. her eyes shone with concentrated fire when she narrated the legends of the olden times or recited the heroic chants of armorica, as her native brittany was once called. without at all believing in magic, sybille had a profound faith in certain prophecies made by the ancient gallic bards. faithful to the druidic creed of her fathers, jeannette's god-mother held that man never dies, but continues to live eternally, body and soul, in the stars, new and mysterious worlds. nevertheless, respecting her god-daughter's religious views, sybille never sought to throw doubt upon the faith of the child. she loved the child tenderly and was ever ready to tell her some legend that jeannette would listen to in rapt attention. thus there was developed in the young shepherdess a contemplative and reflecting spirit that was unusual in one of her years, and that was no less striking than the precociousness of her intellect. she was prepared for a mystic role. jeannette continued, mechanically, to ply her distaff while her eyes, with an absent minded look in them, followed her sheep. she neither saw nor heard sybille approach. the latter, after having laid her hemp in the streamlet and placed a stone on it to keep it in place, approached jeannette slowly and impressed a kiss upon the bowed neck of the young girl, who uttered a startled cry and said smilingly, "oh god-mother, you frightened me so!" "and yet you are not timid! you were braver the other day than i should have been when you stoned the large viper to death. what were you thinking about just now?" "oh, i was thinking that the dauphin, our dear sire, who is so gentle, so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate through the fault of his mother, may, perhaps, be forced to leave france!" "who told you that?" "a messenger, who stopped yesterday at our house. he told us of the harm the english are doing the country whence he came; and also of the troubles of our young sire. oh, god-mother, i felt as grieved for him as if he were my own brother. i could not help crying before falling asleep. oh, the messenger repeated it over and over again that the mother of the young prince is to blame for all of his sufferings; and that that bad woman had lost gaul." "did the messenger say all that?" asked sybille, thrilling at a sudden recollection, "did he say that a woman had lost gaul?" "yes, he did. and he told how, through her fault, the english are heaping sorrows upon the country people. they pillage them, kill them and burn down their houses. they have no mercy for women or children. they drive away the peasants' cattle"--and jeannette cast an uneasy glance upon her woolly flock. "oh, god-mother, my heart bled at the messenger's report of our young king's sufferings and at the trials of the poor folks of those regions. to think that one bad woman could cause so much harm!" "a woman caused the harm," said sybille, raising her head with a faraway look in her eyes, "a woman will redress it." "how can that be?" "a woman lost gaul," resumed sybille, more and more dreamily, with her eyes resting on space, "a young girl shall save gaul. is the prophecy about to be fulfilled? praise be to god!" "what prophecy, god-mother?" "the prophecy of merlin, the famous enchanter. merlin, the bard of brittany." "and when did he make the prophecy?" "more than a thousand years ago." "more than a thousand years! was merlin then a saint, god-mother? he must have been a great saint!" absorbed in her own thoughts, sybille did not seem to hear the young shepherdess's question. with her eyes still gazing afar, she murmured slowly the old chant of armorica: "merlin, merlin, whither this morning with your black dog? 'i come here to look for the egg that is red and laid by the serpent that lives in the sea. i come here to look for the cress that is green and the herb that is golden which grow in the valley, and the branch of the oak that is stately, in the woods on the banks of the fountain.'"[5] "the branch of the oak that is stately--in the woods--on the banks of the fountain?" repeated jeannette, questioningly, looking above and around her, as though struck both by the words and the significant expression on sybille's face. "it looks like this spot, god-mother, it looks like this spot!" but noticing that the old breton woman did not listen to her and was seemingly lost in contemplation, she laid her hand upon her arm and said, insistently, "god-mother, who is that merlin of whom you speak? answer me, dear god-mother!" "he was a gallic bard whose chants are still sung in my country," answered sybille, awaking from her revery; "he is spoken of in our oldest legends." "oh, god-mother, tell me one of them, if you please. i love so much to hear your beautiful legends. i often dream of them!" "very well, you shall be pleased, dear child. i shall tell you the legend of a peasant who wed the daughter of the king of brittany." "is it possible! a peasant wed a king's daughter?" "yes, and thanks to merlin's harp and ring." chapter iv. the harp of merlin. sybille seemed to be in a trance. "the legend," she said, "that i shall tell you is called _the harp of merlin_;" and she proceeded to recite in a rythmic cadence: "'my poor grandmother, oh, i wish to attend the feast that the king doth give.' 'no, alain, to this feast shall you not go: last night you wept in your dream.' 'dear little mother, if truly you love me, let me this feast attend.' 'no, you will sing when you go; when you come back you'll weep.' but despite his grandmother, alain did go." "it was wrong in him to disobey," jeannette could not help saying, while she listened with avidity to her god-mother's recital; "it was wrong in him to disobey!" sybille kissed jeannette on the forehead and proceeded: "alain equipped his black colt, shod it well with polished steel, placed a ring on its neck, a bow on its tail, and arrived at the feast. upon his arrival the trumpets were sounded: 'whoever shall clear at one bound, clear and free, the barrier around the fair grounds, his shall the king's daughter be.'" "the king's daughter! can it be!" repeated the little shepherdess wonderingly, and, dropping her distaff, she pressed her hands together in ecstasy. sybille proceeded: "hearing these words of the crier, the black colt of alain neighed loud and long; he leaped and ran, his nostrils shot fire, his eyes emitted flashes of lightning; he distanced all other horses, and cleared the barrier with a leap neat and clean. 'sire,' said alain, addressing the king, 'you swore it; your daughter, linor, must now be mine.' 'not thine, nor of such as you can ever she be- yours is not our race.'" "the king had promised and sworn," cried jeannette, "did he fail in his word? oh, the lovely dauphin, our sire, he would never break his word! would he, god-mother?" sybille shook her head sadly and continued: '"an old man stood by the king, an old man with long white beard, whiter than is the wool on the bush of the heather; his robe was laced with gold from top to bottom. he spoke to the king in a low voice; and the latter, after he had heard what the old man said, struck three times on the ground with his scepter to order silence, and said to alain: "'if you bring me the harp of merlin, that hangs at the head of his bed from three chains of gold; yes, if you can loosen that harp and bring it to me, you shall have my daughter, perhaps.'" "and where was that harp, god-mother?" asked jeannette, more and more interested in the legend. "what must he do to get it?" "'my poor grandmother,' said alain when he returned to the house, 'if truly you love me you'll help and advise me. my heart is broken! my heart is broken!' 'bad boy, had you but listened to me, had you not gone to that feast, your heart would not be broken. but come, do not cry. the harp shall be loosened. here's a hammer of gold; now go.' "alain returned to the king's palace, saying: 'good luck and joy! here am i, and i bring the harp of merlin'--" "then he succeeded in getting the harp?" jeannette asked in amazement. "but where and how did he do it, god-mother?" sybille, with a mysterious look, placed her finger to her lips in token of silence: "'i bring here the harp of merlin,' said alain to the king; 'sire, your daughter, linor, must now be mine. you promised me so.' when the king's son heard this, he made a wry face and spoke to his father, the king, in a low voice. the king, having listened, then said to alain: 'if you fetch me the ring from the finger of merlin's right hand, then you shall have my daughter, linor.'" "oh, god-mother, twice to fail in his promise! oh, that was wrong on the part of the king! what is to become of poor alain?" "alain returns all in tears, and seeks his grandmother in great haste. 'oh, grandmother, the king had said- and now he gainsays himself!' 'do not grieve so, dear child! take a twiglet you'll find in my chest, on which twelve leaves you'll see- twelve leaves as yellow as gold, and that i looked for se'en nights in se'en woods, now se'en years agone.'" "what were those gold leaves, god-mother? did the angels or the saints give them to the grandmother?" sybille shook her head negatively and proceeded: "when at midnight the chanticleer crowed, the black colt of alain awaited his master just outside the door. 'fear not, my dear little grandson, merlin will not awake; you have my twelve leaves of gold. go quickly.' the chanticleer had not yet done with his chant when the black colt was galloping swiftly over the road. the chanticleer had not yet done with his chant when the ring of merlin was taken away--" "and this time alain married the king's daughter, did he not, god-mother?" "at break of dawn was alain at the king's palace, presenting him with merlin's ring. stupefied the king did stand; and all who stood near him declared: 'lo, how, after all, this young peasant won the daughter of our sire!' 'it is true,' the king to alain did say, 'but still there is one thing i now ask of you, and it will be the last. do you that, and my daughter you'll have, and with her the glorious kingdom of leon.' 'what must i do, sire?' 'to my court bring merlin, your wedding to sing with my daughter linor.'" "my god!" interrupted the little shepherdess, more and more carried away with the marvelousness of the story, "how will it end?" "while alain was at the king's palace, his grandmother saw merlin go by; merlin the enchanter went by her house. 'whence, merlin, come you with your clothes all in rags whither thus bare-headed and bare-footed go you? whither, old merlin, with your holly staff go you?' 'alack! alack! i'm looking for my harp, my heart's only solace in all this broad world. i'm looking for my harp and also for my ring, which both i lost, or they have been stolen from me.' "'merlin, merlin, do not grieve! your harp is not lost, and neither is your ring. walk in, merlin, walk in, take rest and food.' 'i shall neither eat nor rest in this world till i've recovered my harp and my ring. they have not been stolen, i've lost them, the two.' 'merlin, walk in, your harp will be found.- merlin, walk in, your ring will be found.' so hard the grandmother begged that merlin entered her hut. "when in the evening alain returned to his house, he trembled with a great fear when, on casting his eyes towards the hearth, he there saw merlin the enchanter, who was seated, his head on his breast reclining. alain knew not whither to flee. "'fear not, my lad, fear not. merlin sleeps a slumber profound. he has eaten three apples, three red ones, which i in the embers have baked. now he'll follow wherever we go. we'll lead him towards the palace of our sire, the king!'" "and did merlin go, god-mother?" "'what has happened in town, that i hear such a noise?' said the next day the queen to the servant; 'what has happened at court, that the crowd are cheering so joyfully?' 'madam, the whole town is having a feast. merlin is entering the town with an old, a very old woman, dressed in white, the grandmother she of the lad who is your daughter to marry. aye, madam the queen.' "and the wedding took place. alain espoused linor. merlin chanted the nuptials. there were a hundred white robes for the priests, a hundred gold chains for the knights, a hundred festal blue mantles for the dames, and eight hundred hose for the poor. and all left satisfied. alain left for the country of leon with his wife, his grandmother, and a numerous suite.- but merlin alone disappeared. merlin was lost. no one knows what of him is become. no one knows when merlin will return."[6] chapter v. the prophecy of merlin. jeannette had listened to sybille in rapt attention, struck above all by the singular circumstance of a peasant marrying the daughter of a king. from that moment jeannette pardoned herself for having so often, since the previous evening, permitted her thoughts to turn to that young sire, so sweet, so beautiful, so brave and yet so unfortunate through his mother's misconduct and the cruelty of the english. when sybille's recital was ended, a short silence ensued which was broken by jeannette: "oh, god-mother, what a beautiful legend! it would be still more beautiful if, the sire of leon having to fight so cruel an enemy as the english, alain, the peasant, had saved the king before wedding his daughter! but what did become of merlin, the great enchanter merlin?" "it is said that he must sleep a thousand years. but before he fell asleep he prophesied that the harm a woman would do to gaul would be redressed by a young girl, a young girl of this region--" "this region in which we live, god-mother?" "yes, of the borders of lorraine; and that she would be born near a large oak forest." jeannette clasped her hands in astonishment and she looked at sybille in silence, revolving in her mind the prophecy of merlin that france was to be saved by a young girl of lorraine, perchance of domremy! was not the emancipatrix to come from an old oak forest? was not the village of domremy situated close to a forest of centennarian oaks?[7] "what! god-mother," jeannette inquired, "can that be true--did merlin make that prophecy?" "yes," answered sybille, thinking that surely the time had come when the prophecy of the gallic bard was to be fulfilled, "yes, more than a thousand years ago merlin so prophesied." "how did he do it, god-mother?" sybille leaned her forehead on her hand, collected herself, and in a low voice, speaking slowly, she imparted to her god-daughter the mysterious prophecy in the following words, to which the child listened with religious absorption: "when down goes the sun and the moon shines, i sing. young, i sang--become old still i sing. people look for me, but they find me not. people will cease looking for, and then will they find me. it matters little what may happen- what must be shall be! "i see gaul lost by a woman. i see gaul saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks. i see at the borders of lorraine a thick forest of oaks where, near a clear fountain, grows the divine druid herb, which the druid cuts with a sickle of gold. i see an angel with wings of azure and dazzling with light. he holds in his hands a royal crown. i see a steed of battle as white as snow- i see an armor of battle as brilliant as silver.- for whom is that crown, that steed, that armor? gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks.- for whom that crown, that steed, that armor? oh, how much blood! it spouts up, it flows in torrents! it steams; its vapor rises--rises like an autumn mist to heaven, where the thunder peals and where the lightning flashes. athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning, that crimson mist, i see a martial virgin. she battles, she battles--she battles still in a forest of lances! she seems to be riding on the backs of the archers.[8] the white steed, as white as snow, was for the martial virgin! for her was the armor of battle as brilliant as silver. she is surrounded by an escort. but for whom the royal crown? gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks. for the martial maid the steed and the armor! but for whom the royal crown? the angel with wings of azure holds it in his hands. the blood has ceased to run in torrents, the thunder to peal, and the lightning to flash. the warriors are at rest. i see a serene sky. the banners float; the clarions sound; the bells ring. cries of joy! chants of victory! the martial virgin receives the crown from the hands of the angel of light. a man on his knees, wearing a long mantle of ermine, is crowned by the warrior virgin. who is the virgin's elect? "it matters little what may happen. what must be shall be! gaul, lost by a woman, is saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks. the prophecy is in the book of destiny." hanging upon the lips of sybille, jeannette never once interrupted her as she listened to the mysterious prophecy with waxing emotion. her active, impressionable imagination pictured to her mind's eye the virgin of lorraine clad in her white armor, mounted on her white courser, battling in the midst of a forest of lances, and, in the words of the prophetic chant, "riding on the backs of the archers." and after that, the war being ended and the foreigner vanquished, the angel of light--no doubt st. michael, thought the little shepherdess--passed the crown to the warrior maid; who, amidst the blare of trumpets, the ringing of bells and the chants of victory, rendered his crown back to the king. and that king, who else could he be but the lovely dauphin whose mother had brought on the misfortunes of france? it never yet occurred to the little shepherdess that she, herself, might be the martial virgin prophesied of in the legend. but the heart of the naïve child beat with joy at the thought that the virgin who was to emancipate gaul was to be a lorrainian. "oh, thanks, god-mother, for having recited this beautiful legend to me!" said jeannette, throwing herself, with tears in her eyes, on the neck of sybille. "morning and noon shall i pray to god and st. michael soon to fulfil the prophecy of merlin. the english will then finally be driven from france and our young sire crowned, thanks to the courage of the young lorrainian maid from the forest of old oaks! may god grant our prayers!" "'it matters little what may happen. what must be shall be.' the prophecy will be fulfilled." "and yet," replied the little shepherdess, after reflecting a moment, "think of a young maid riding to battle and commanding armed men like a captain! is such a thing possible? but god will give her courage!" "my father knew one time, in my country of brittany, the wife of the count of montfort, who was vanquished and taken prisoner by the king of france. her name was jeannette, like yours. long did she fight valiantly, both on land and on sea, with casque and cuirass. she wished to save the heritage of her son, a three-year-old boy. the sword weighed no more to the arm of the countess jeannette than does the distaff to the hands of a girl that spins." "what a woman, god-mother! what a woman!" "and there were a good many other martial women, hundreds and hundreds of years ago! they came in vessels from the countries of the north; and they were daring enough to row up the seine as far even as paris. they were called the buckler maidens. they did not fear the bravest soldier. and who wished to wed them had first to overcome them by force of arms."[9] "you do not say so! what furious women they must have been!" "and in still older days, the breton women of gaul followed their husbands, sons, fathers and brothers to battle. they assisted at the councils of war; and often fought unto death." "god-mother, is not the story of hena that you once told me, a legend of those days?"[10] "yes, my child." "oh, god-mother," replied the enraptured little shepherdess, caressingly, "tell me that legend once more. hena proved herself as courageous as will be the young lorrainian maid whose advent merlin predicts." "very well," said sybille, smiling, "i shall tell you this legend also and shall then return home. my hemp is retting. i shall return for it before evening." chapter vi. the legend of hena. with the enchanted jeannette for her audience, sybille proceeded to recite the legend of hena: "she was young, she was fair, and holy was she. to hesus her blood gave for gaul to be free. hena her name! hena, the maid of the island of sen! "'blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter,' said her father joel, the brenn of the tribe of karnak. 'blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter, since you are home this night to celebrate the day of your birth!' "'blessed be the gods, my sweet girl,' said margarid, her mother. 'blessed be your coming! but why is your face so sad?' "'my face is sad, my good mother, my face is sad, my good father, because hena your daughter comes to bid you adieu, till we meet again.' "'and where are you going, my sweet daughter? will your journey, then, be long? whither thus are you going?' "'i go to those worlds so mysterious, above, that no one yet knows, but that all will yet know. where living ne'er traveled, where all will yet travel, to live there again with those we have loved.'" "and those worlds," asked jeannette, "are they the paradise where the angels and the saints of the good god are? are they, god-mother?" sybille shook her head doubtfully, without answering, and continued the recital of her legend: "hearing hena speak these words, sadly gazed upon her her father, and her mother, aye, all the family, even the little children, for hena loved them very dearly. "'but why, dear daughter, why now quit this world, and travel away beyond without the angel of death having called you?' "'good father, good mother, hesus is angry. the stranger now threatens our gaul, so beloved. the innocent blood of a virgin offered by her to the gods may their anger well soften. adieu then, till we meet again, good father, good mother. "'adieu till we meet again, all, my dear ones and friends. these collars preserve, and these rings, as mementoes of me. let me kiss for the last time your blonde heads, dear little ones. good-bye till we meet. remember your hena, she waits for you yonder, in the worlds yet unknown.' "bright is the moon, high is the pyre which rises near the sacred stones of karnak; vast is the gathering of the tribes which presses 'round the funeral pile. "behold her, it is she, it is hena! she mounts the pyre, her golden harp in hand, and singeth thus: "'take my blood, o hesus, and deliver my land from the stranger. take my blood, o hesus. pity for gaul! victory to our arms!' "so it flowed, the blood of hena. o, holy virgin, in vain 'twill not have been, the shedding of your innocent and generous blood. to arms! to arms! let us chase away the stranger! victory to our arms!" the eyes of jeannette filled anew with tears; and she said to sybille, when the latter had finished her recital: "oh, god-mother, if the good god, his saints and his archangels should ask me: 'jeannette, which would you prefer to be, hena or the martial maid of lorraine who is to drive the wicked english from france and restore his crown to our gentle dauphin?'--" "which would you prefer?" "i would prefer to be hena, who, in order to deliver her country, offered her blood to the good god without shedding the blood of any other people! to be obliged to kill so many people before vanquishing the enemy and before crowning our poor young sire! oh, god-mother," added jeannette, shivering, "merlin said that he saw blood flowing in torrents and steaming like a fog!" jeannette broke off and rose precipitately upon hearing, a few steps off in the copse, a great noise mixed with plaintive bleatings. just then one of her lambs leaped madly out of the bush pursued silently by a large black dog which was snapping viciously at its legs. to drop her distaff, pick up two stones that she armed herself with and throw herself upon the dog was the work of an instant for the child, thoroughly aroused by the danger to one of her pets, while sybille cried in frightened tones: "take care! take care! the dog that does not bark is mad!" but the little shepherdess, with eyes afire and face animated, and paying no heed to her god-mother's warning, instead of throwing her stones at the dog from a safe distance, attacked him with them in her hands, striking him with one and the other alternately until he dropped his prey and fled, howling with pain and with great tufts of wool hanging from his jaws, while jeannette pursued him, picking up more stones and throwing them with unerring aim until the dog had disappeared in the thicket. when jeannette returned to sybille the latter was struck by the intrepid mien of the child. the ribbons on her head having become untied, her hair was left free to tumble down upon her shoulders in long black tresses. still out of breath from running, she leaned for a moment against the moss-grown rocks near the fountain with her arms hanging down upon her scarlet skirt, when, noticing the lamb that lay bleeding on the ground, still palpitating with fear, the little shepherdess fell to crying. her anger gave place to intense pity. she dipped up some water at the spring in the hollow of her hands, knelt down beside the lamb, washed its wounds and said in a low voice: "our gentle dauphin is innocent as you, poor lambkin; and those wicked english dogs seek to tear him up." in the distance the bells of the church of domremy began their measured chimes. at the sound, of which she was so passionately fond, the little shepherdess cried delightedly: "oh, god-mother, the bells, the bells!" and in a sort of ecstasy, with her lamb pressed to her breast, jeannette listened to the sonorous vibrations that the morning breeze wafted to the forest of oaks. chapter vii. germination. several weeks went by. the prophecy of merlin, the remembrance of the king's misfortunes and of the disasters of france, ravaged by the english, obstinately crowded upon jeannette's mind, before whom her parents frequently conversed upon the sad plight of the country. thus, often during the hours she spent in solitary musings with her flock in the fields or the woods, she repeated in a low voice the passage from the prophecy of the gallic bard: "gaul, lost by a woman, shall be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of old oaks." or that other: "oh, how much blood! it spouts up, it flows in torrents! it steams and, like a mist, it rises heavenward where the thunder peals, where the lightning flashes! athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning, i see a martial virgin. white is her steed, white is her armor; she battles, she battles still in the midst of a forest of lances, and seems to be riding on the backs of the archers." whereupon the angel of dazzling light would place the royal crown in the hands of the martial virgin, who crowned her king in the midst of shouts of joy and chants of victory! every day, looking with her mind's eyes towards the borders of lorraine and failing to see the emancipating virgin, jeannette beseeched her two good saints--st. marguerite and st. catherine--to intercede with the lord in behalf of the safety of the gentle dauphin, who had been deprived of his throne. vainly did she beseech them to obtain the deliverance of poor france, for so many years a prey to the english; and she also fervently implored heaven for the fulfilment of the prophecy of merlin, a prophecy that seemed plausible to jeannette's mind after sybille had told her of the exploits of the martial virgins who came in their ships from the distant seas of the north and besieged paris; or the prowess of jeannette of montfort, battling like a lioness defending her whelps; or, finally, the heroic deeds of the gallic women of olden days who accompanied their husbands, their brothers and their fathers to battle. jeannette was approaching her fourteenth year, an age at which robust and healthy natures, well developed by the invigorating labors of a rustic life, ordinarily enter their period of puberty. in that period of their lives, on the point, so grave for their sex, of becoming maids, they are assailed by unaccountable fears, by a vague sense of sadness, by an imperious demand for solitude where to give a loose rein to languorous reveries, novel sensations at which their chaste instincts take alarm, symptoms of the awakening of the virginal heart, first and shadowy aspirations of the maid for the sweet pleasures and austere duties of the wife and mother--the sacred destinies of woman. it was not thus with jeannette. she experienced these mysterious symptoms; but her simplicity misled her as to their cause. her imagination filled with the marvelous legends of her god-mother, whom she continued to meet almost daily at the fountain of the fairies, her spirit ever more impressed by the prophecies of merlin, although she never identified herself with them, jeannette imputed, in the chaste ignorance of her soul, the vague sense of sadness that assailed her, her involuntary tears, her confused aspirations--all precursory symptoms of puberty--to the painful and tender compassion that the misfortunes of gaul and of her young king inspired her with. jeannette darc was to know but one love, the sacred love of her mother-land. chapter viii. the english! "isabelle," one evening james darc said to his wife, with a severe air, she and he being left alone near the hearth, "i am not at all satisfied with jeannette. in a few months she will be fourteen; large and strong though she is for her age, she is becoming lazy. yesterday i ordered her to draw water from the well to water the vegetables in the garden and i saw her stop a score of times with her hands on the rope and her nose in the air gaping at the eaves of the house. i shall have to shake her rudely out of the sin of laziness." "james, listen to me. have you not noticed that for some time our jeannette is rather pale, has hardly any appetite, is often absent minded; and, moreover, she is more reserved than formerly?" "i do not complain of her talking little. i do not love gabblers. i complain of her laziness. i wish her to become again industrious as she once was, and active as of old." "the change that we notice in the girl does not, my friend, proceed from bad will." "whence then?" "only yesterday, feeling truly alarmed for her health, i questioned jeannette. she suffered, she said, with violent headaches for some time; her limbs grew stiff without her having done hardly any walking; she could hardly sleep and was at times so dizzy that everything turned around her. "this morning, as i went to neufchateau with butter and poultry, i consulted brother arsene, the surgeon, on jeannette's condition." "and what did brother arsene say?" "having been told what her ailments were, he asked her age. 'thirteen and a half, near fourteen,' i answered him. 'is she strong and otherwise of good health?' 'yes, brother, she is strong and was always well until these changes came that so much alarm me.' 'be easy,' was brother arsene's final remark, 'be easy, good woman, your "little" daughter will surely soon be a "big" daughter. in a word, she will have "developed." at the approach of that crisis, always grave, young girls grow languishing and dreamy. they experience aches. they become taciturn and seek solitude. even the most robust become feeble, the most industrious indolent, the gayest sad. that lasts a few months and then they become themselves again. but,' added brother arsene, 'you must be careful, under pain of provoking serious accidents, not to cross or scold your daughter at such a period of her life. strong emotions have been known to check and suppress forever the salutary crisis that nature brings on. in such cases serious, often irreparable harm may follow. there are young girls who, in that manner, have gone wholly insane.' so you see, james, how we shall have to humor jeannette." "you have done wisely in consulting brother arsene; and i would blame myself for having thought so severely of the child's laziness and absent mindedness were it not that this evening, when she embraced me as usual before retiring, she showed that she no longer minded my words." "oh, mercy! on the contrary, i noticed that she was as affectionate toward you as ever--" isabelle was suddenly interrupted by violent rapping at the street door. "who can that be, knocking at this hour of the night?" said james darc, rising, as much surprised as his wife at the interruption, to open the door. the door was hardly ajar when an aged man of venerable and mild appearance, but at that moment pale with fear, hastily dismounted from his horse and cried, breathlessly, "woe is us! friend, the english! the english! the country is about to be invaded!" "great god! what is it you say, uncle!" exclaimed isabelle, recognizing denis laxart, her mother's brother. "the french troops have just been routed at the battle of verneuil. the english, re-inforced in champagne, are now overflowing into our valley. look! look!" said denis laxart, drawing isabelle and james darc to the threshold of their street door and pointing to the horizon towards the north, where wide streaks of reddish light went up and accentuated the darkness of the night, "the village of st. pierre is in flames and the bulk of the troop of these brigands is now besieging vaucouleurs, whence i managed to flee. one of their bands is raiding the valley, burning and sacking in their passage! flee! flee! pick up whatever valuables you have. the village of st. pierre is only two leagues from here. the english may be this very night in domremy. i shall hasten to neufchateau to join my wife and children who have been there for the last few days visiting a relative. flee! there is still time. if you do not you may be slaughtered within two hours! flee!" uttering the last word, the distracted denis laxart threw himself upon his horse and disappeared at full gallop, leaving james darc and his wife stupefied and terror stricken. until now the english never had approached the peaceful valley of the meuse. james darc's sons, whom the violent raps given at the door by denis laxart had frightened out of their slumbers, hastily slipped on their clothes and rushed into the main room. "father, has any misfortune happened? what makes you look so frightened?" "the english!" answered isabelle, pale with fear; "we are lost, my dear children! it is done for us!" "the village of st. pierre is on fire," cried james darc. "look yonder, at the border of the meuse, towards the castle of ile. look at those tongues of flame! may god help us! our country is now to be ravaged like the rest of gaul! woe is us!" "children," said isabelle, "help to gather whatever is most valuable and let us flee." "let us drive our cattle before us," added james. "if the english seize or kill them we shall be ruined. woe is us!" "but whither shall we flee?" asked peter, the elder son. "in what direction shall we run without the risk of falling into the hands of the english?" "it is better to stay right here," observed john. "we cannot fare worse than if we flee. we shall try to defend ourselves." "try to defend ourselves! do you wish to see us all killed? alack! the lord has forsaken us!" weeping and moaning and scarcely knowing what she did, poor isabelle tugged at her trunks, all too heavy to be carried far, and threw about pell-mell on the floor the best clothes of herself and her husband. her wedding dress, carefully packed up; pieces of cloth and of wool woven by her during the long winter evenings; jeannette's christening gown, a pious maternal relic;--all lay strewn about. she put around her neck an old chain, inherited from her mother, which was her main ornament on holidays. she stowed away in her pocket a little silver cup, won long ago by her husband in a shooting contest. awakened, like her brothers, jeannette also had hurriedly put on her clothes, and now entered the room. her father and brothers, taking no notice of her, were arguing with increasing anxiety the point of fleeing or of waiting at all hazards the approach of the english. from time to time they stepped to the door and, with despair plainly depicted on their faces, pointed at the conflagration which, only two leagues away, was devouring the village of st. pierre. the flames now leaped up only by fits and starts; evidently the fire had little left to consume. "a curse upon the english! what shall we do?" so suddenly appraised of the enemy's invasion, seeing the distant conflagration, and near by her father and brothers distracted with fear and her mother nervously heaping up whatever she thought might be carried away, jeannette, overcome by terror, trembled in every limb; and a mortal pallor overcast her face. her eyes became suffused with tears and, her blood rushing to her head, she was, for a moment, seized with vertigo. a cloud passed before her eyes, she staggered and fell almost fainting on a stool. but her weakness was short. she soon became herself, and heard her mother calling: "come quick, jeannette, and help me to pack up these clothes! we shall have to flee for our lives! the english are coming and will pillage everything--and kill everything!" "where shall we flee for safety?" asked james. "we may run up against the english on the road and that would be running towards danger!" "let us stay here, father," john insisted, "and defend ourselves. i said so before. it is the best course to take." "but we have no arms!" cried peter, "and those brigands are armed to the teeth! they will slaughter us all!" "what shall we do?" cried in chorus james and his sons, "what shall we do? oh, lord, have pity on us!" isabelle did not listen; she heard neither her husband nor her sons. she thought only of fleeing; and she ran from one room to the other and hither and thither, to make sure that she had left nothing of value behind; and quite unable to resign herself to the giving up of her copper and tin utensils that she had so industriously polished and spread upon the dresser. after her temporary fright and feebleness, jeannette rose, dried her eyes and helped her mother to pack up the articles that lay about on the floor; occasionally rushing to the door, contemplating the distant and dying reflections of the conflagration that still fitfully reddened the horizon in the direction of the castle of ile and the village of st. pierre. she then turned to her father and, guided by her innate good sense, said in a calm voice: "father, there is but one place where we can take refuge--the castle of ile. the castellan is kind. we would have nothing to fear behind fortified walls; and his yard will hold twenty times more cattle than either we or all of our neighbors possess." "jeannette is right," cried her two brothers, "let us to the castle of ile. we and our cattle will cross over on the ferry. sister is right." "your sister is crazy!" replied james stamping on the ground. "the english are at st. pierre. they are burning and killing everything! to go in that direction is to run into the very jaws of the wolf." "father, your fear is unfounded," explained jeannette. "the english, after having burnt the village, will have abandoned it. it will take us more than two hours to reach the place. we shall take the old path through the forest. we are sure not to meet the enemy on that side. we shall cross the ferry and find refuge in the castle." "that is right," said the two boys; "their mischief is done and the brigands will have decamped and left the ruins behind them." james darc seemed convinced by his daughter's reasoning. suddenly one of the lads cried out, pointing to a new conflagration much nearer to domremy: "see, jeannette is not mistaken; the english have left st. pierre and are approaching by the open road. they burn down everything on their way. they must have just set fire to the hamlet of maxey!" "may god help us!" answered james. "let us flee to the castle of ile by the old forest road. jeannette, run to the stable and gather your sheep; you, boys, hitch up our two cows to the wagon. isabelle and myself will carry the bundles to the yard and put them in the wagon while you are hitching up the cows. quick, quick, children, the english will be here within two hours. alack! if we ever again come back to domremy we shall find only the ashes of our poor house!" chapter ix. the flight. the family of darc had not been the only ones to discover the nocturnal raid of the english. the whole parish was on foot, a prey to consternation and terror. the more frightened gathered a few eatables, and abandoning all else, fled to the forest. others, hoping that the english might not advance as far as domremy, took the chances of remaining in the village. finally, others there were who also decided to flee for safety to the castle of ile. the darc family soon left their house, jeannette calling her sheep, which obediently followed, james leading the cows that hauled the wagon on which his wife was seated in the midst of her bundles of goods, a few bags of wheat and the household utensils that she had managed to get together. the two lads carried on their shoulders the implements of husbandry that were portable. the flight of the inhabitants of domremy, in the darkness of the night, that was reddened only on the horizon by the reflection of the conflagrations, was heartrending. the imprecations uttered by the men, the moanings of the women, the cries of the children who clung weeping to their mothers' skirts, not a few of which latter held babies to their breasts; the mass of peasants, cattle and wagons promiscuously jumbled, striking against each other and getting in each others' way; all presented a distressing picture of that desperate flight for life. these poor people left behind them their only wealth--their granaries filled with the grain of the last harvest--expecting soon to see them devoured by the flames along with their humble homes. their distress escaped in sobs, in plaintive cries, and often in curses and expressions of hatred and rage against the english. the spectacle left a profound and indelible impression upon jeannette, now for the first time made acquainted with the horrors of war. soon was she to contemplate them at still closer range and in their most appalling forms. the fugitives arrived near the hamlet of st. pierre, situated on the meuse. there was nothing left but a heap of blackened debris, with here and there a wooden beam still burning--nothing else was left of the village. walking a little ahead of her herd, jeannette stood still, stupefied at the spectacle. a few steps from where she stood a column of smoke rose from the ruins of a cottage that had been sheltered under a large walnut tree, the leaves of which were now singed and its branches charred by the fire. from one of the branches of the tree hung, head down, a man suspended by his feet over a now nearly extinct brazier. his face, roasted by the fire, retained no human form. his arms, twisted and rigid, betokened the intensity of his dying agony. not far from him, two almost naked corpses, one of an old man and the other of a lad, lay in a pool of blood. they must have attempted to defend themselves against their assailants; a butcher's knife lay near the old man's corpse, while the lad still held in his clenched hands the handle of a pitchfork. finally, a young woman, whose face was wholly concealed under her thick blonde hair and who must have been dragged from her bed in her night clothes, lay disemboweled near a still smoking heap of faggots; while a baby, apparently forgotten in the midst of the carnage, crept toward its dead mother crying loudly. such had been the savage war waged in gaul for the last fifty years since the defeat of the french nobility at poitiers. the shocking spectacle unnerved jeannette and, seized again with vertigo, she tottered and fell to the ground; peter, her elder brother, coming close behind, raised her, and, with the help of his father, placed her on the wagon with her mother. the wife of the castellan of ile and her husband, a brave soldier, allowed the fugitives from domremy to camp with their cattle in the yard of the castle, a vast space within the fortifications that were situated between the arms of the meuse. unfortunately the inhabitants of st. pierre, who were taken by surprise at night, had not been able to reach this hospitable place of refuge. after ravaging the valley the english gathered near vaucouleurs and concentrated their forces before that place, the siege of which they pressed vigorously for a short time. a few nights later a few of the peasants who had taken refuge in the castle of ile, among them peter, jeannette's elder brother, went out on a reconnoitering expedition and on their return reported that the enemy had departed from that part of the country. tired of arson and carnage, the english had withdrawn from the neighborhood of domremy after pillaging only a few of the houses and killing some of its inhabitants. back again at their home in domremy the family of darc busied themselves in repairing the damage that their house had sustained. chapter x. "burgundy!"--"france!" during her sojourn in the castle of ile jeannette had been the prey of severe attacks of fever. at times during her delirium she invoked st. catherine and st. marguerite, her good saints, believing that she saw them near her, and beseeching them with her hands clasped to put an end to the atrocities of the english. at other times the shocking scene of the hamlet of st. pierre would rise in her troubled brain and she would cry out aloud or would sob at the sight of the victims that rose before her, livid and blood-bespattered. at still other times, her eyes shooting fire and her cheeks aflame she spoke of a martial virgin clad in white armor and mounted on a milk white steed whom, she said, she saw falling upon and exterminating the english. at such times jeannette repeated with a quivering voice the refrain of merlin's prophecy- "gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of old oaks." isabelle sat up night and day nursing her daughter, imputing the ravings of the poor child to the violence of the fever and to the recollections of the horrible spectacle at st. pierre. great dejection of spirit and extreme feebleness succeeded jeannette's malady. back in domremy, she was compelled to remain in bed several weeks; but her dreams reflected the identical pictures of her delirium. moreover a deep sorrow had fallen upon her, for, strangely, her god-mother was one of the few victims of the english raid into domremy. her corpse was found riddled with wounds; and jeannette wept for sybille as much on account of her tender affection for her god-mother as on account of her regret at being separated forever from her who told such marvelous legends. two months passed and jeannette was now nearly fourteen. she seemed to have regained her normal health, but the symptoms of puberty had disappeared and she frequently suffered from intolerable headaches followed by severe attacks of vertigo. feeling all the more uneasy as she remembered the words of the physician, isabelle once more consulted him and he answered that the violent emotion caused by the invasion of the english and the spectacle of their cruelty must have deeply disturbed the girl's organization and checked her sexual development; but that her ailments would cease and the laws of nature resume their course in her physical being as the mental effects of her deeply stirred emotion wore off. the physician's answer allayed isabelle's fears. moreover jeannette again busied herself with her wonted household and field labors and she redoubled her activity in the effort to conceal from public gaze the spells of sadness and absent mindedness that now no longer were wholly without cause since she had witnessed some of the disasters to which her country was subject. jeannette reflected to herself that the horrors she had seen at st. pierre stained with blood all other sections of the land and fell heaviest upon those of her own class, the peasants. in pitying them she pitied her own. since that fatal day jeannette felt perhaps sadder at and wept more over the ghastly ills, an example of which she had seen with her own eyes, than at or over the misfortunes of the young dauphin whom she did not know. the girl looked with increasing impatience for the advent of the warrior maid who was to bring deliverance to gaul by driving the stranger out of the country, and by restoring his crown to the king and peace and rest to france. these thoughts ever absorbed jeannette's mind when alone in the woods or the field grazing her herd. then would she yield unrestrained to revery and to the recollections of the legends that had had so much to do in forming her mind. the undefinable emotion produced in her by the chiming of the bells began to raise visions before her eyes. the distant tintinnabulations, expiring on her ears, seemed to her transformed into a murmur of celestial voices of inexpressible sweetness.[11] at such moments jeannette felt the blood rush to her head; her eyes were covered as with a mist; the visible world disappeared from her sight and she fell into a kind of ecstasy from which she recovered worn out as if awakened from some painful dream. one day when jeannette was grazing her herd while plying the distaff under the old beech tree near the fountain of the fairies a singular incident occurred that had a decisive influence over the fate of the young shepherdess. reinforced by several bands of burgundians, furnished by marshall john of luxemburg, the english had persisted in the siege of vaucouleurs; which latter was defending itself heroically. the invasion by the english of that valley, otherwise so peaceful, incited a schism among its inhabitants. many of them, especially the people of st. pierre and of maxey, who had been so cruelly dealt with by the invaders, were inclined to pass over to the english in order to save their property and lives. these formed, in the valley, the "english" or "burgundian" party. others, on the contrary, more irritated than frightened, preferred to resist the english. these poor people counted upon the support of their sovereign, the king of france, who, they said, would not longer leave them exposed to such miseries. the latter comprised the "armagnac" or "royalist" party. the children, ever the imitators of their parents, likewise became "armagnacs" and "burgundians" when they played war. in these games the two parties ever finished by taking their roles seriously; when imprecations and actual blows with sticks and stones exchanged by the two "armies" gave these affairs the actual semblance of war. the people of domremy belonged mostly to the royalist, and those of st. pierre and maxey to the english party; and, of course, the children of these several localities shared, or rather aped, the political opinions of their respective families. it thus often happened that the lads of maxey, while guarding their cattle, came to the borders of the commune of domremy and flung insults at the little shepherds of the latter village. the dispute often became heated and hard words would be exchanged, when it would be decided to settle the difference of opinion by force of arms, that is with their fists and sticks accompanied by volleys of stones that figured as cross-bow bolts or cannon balls.[12] guarding her sheep, jeannette spun her hemp under the trees of the forest of old oaks. in her revery she repeated in a low murmur the passage from merlin's prophecy: "for whom that royal crown? that steed? that armor? oh, how much blood! it spouts up, it flows in torrents! oh, how much blood i see! how much blood i see! it is a lake, a sea of blood. it steams--its vapor ascends- it ascends like an autumn mist to the sky, to the sky where the thunder peals and the lightning flashes. athwart these peals of thunder, these flashes of lightning, that blood-red mist, i see a martial virgin. white is her armor, white her steed. she battles- she battles and battles still in the midst of a forest of lances and seems to ride on the backs of the archers--" suddenly jeannette heard in the distance a noise, at first indistinct, but drawing nearer and nearer accompanied by clamorous cries of "burgundy! england!" uttered by infantile voices and answered by the counter cries of "france and armagnac!" almost immediately a crowd of domremy boys appeared at the turn of the forest's skirt, fleeing in disorder under a shower of stones fired at them by the boys of maxey. the engagement had been lively and the victory hotly contested, to judge by the torn clothes, the bruised eyes and the bleeding noses of the more heroic ones of the urchins. but yielding to a panic, they were now in full flight and rout. their adversaries, satisfied with their victory, out of breath with running, and no doubt afraid of drawing too close to domremy, the stronghold of the retreating army, prudently stopped near the forest which now hid them and repeated three times the cry: "burgundy and england!" the cry of victory caused jeannette to bound to her feet transported with anger and shame at the sight of the boys of her village who battled for gaul and the king fleeing before the partisans of burgundy and england. a lad of about fifteen years, named urbain, who captained the fleeing troop, and who was personally a brave soldier, seeing that his scalp was cut by a stone and his cap remained in the hands of the enemy, ran past jeannette. "are you running for safety, urbain?" "sure! that's what i'm doing," answered the mimic captain, raising his head and wiping the blood from his forehead with a handful of grass. "we fought as long as we could--but those of maxey are about twenty and we are only eleven!" jeannette stamped on the ground with her foot and replied: "you have strength to run--and yet you have no strength to fight!" "but they have sticks, and that is not fair--we are the weaker side." "fall upon them and capture their sticks!" "that is easy to say, jeannette!" "as easy to do as to say!" cried the shepherdess. "you will see--come! come back with me!" without noticing whether she was followed or not, but yielding to an involuntary prompting, jeannette walked toward the enemy, then masked by a clump of trees, and cried out in ringing tones, while brandishing her distaff in lieu of a banner: "france! france! off with you burgundians and english!" with her feet and arms bare, in her short white sleeves and scarlet skirt, her little straw hat on her long black hair, her cheeks aflame, her eyes sparkling, her poise heroic, jeannette was at that moment so inspiring that urbain and his followers felt themselves all at once strengthened and exalted. they picked up stones and rushed after the young shepherdess, who in her rapid course now barely seemed to touch the sward with her feet, crying, with her, "france! off with you burgundians and english!" in the security of their triumph, the soldiers of the hostile army, who never expected to see their adversaries rally, had stopped about a hundred yards away and were resting on their laurels; and stretching themselves on the flower-studded grass, picked wild strawberries and played with stones. presently some of them climbed up in the trees looking for birds' nests, and the others scattered among the bushes picking and eating berries. the unexpected resumption of hostilities, the sudden cries hurled at them by the royalist army and by jeannette, who now led it, greatly surprised the burgundians, who, nevertheless, did not show the white feather. their chief recalled his soldiers to arms. immediately the plunderers of birds' nests slid down the trees, the berry pickers rushed up with crimson lips and those who had begun to fall asleep on the grass jumped up and rubbed their eyes. but before the line of battle could be formed the soldiers of jeannette, anxious to avenge their former defeat, and carried away by the inspiring conduct of their present chief, fell valiantly upon the foe with redoubled cries of: "france! france!" our heroes seized the burgundians and english by the hair, boxed their ears and thumped them with such fury that the tables were completely turned; the erstwhile victors now became the vanquished, broke ranks and took to their heels. the triumph redoubled the ardor of the assailants, who were now animated with the desire to carry off a few bonnets as spoils and trophies. the french army rushed breathlessly upon the english, with jeannette ever in the lead. she fought intrepidly and made havoc with her distaff, which was garnished with a thick bunch of hemp--a terrible weapon, as many discovered that day. in the meantime, the english, stupefied by the sudden apparition of the young shepherdess in scarlet, who emerged so strangely from the neighborhood of the fountain of the fairies, the mystic reputation of which place extended far over the valley, took jeannette for a hobgoblin. fear lent them wings and the french were again vanquished--but only in running. the swiftest ones of the army pushed forward in pursuit of the enemy, but were obliged to desist for want of breath. urbain and two or three of the most resolute kept up the pursuit with jeannette, who, now seized with heroic exaltation, no longer thought of her own soldiers or took cognizance at all of her surroundings, but kept her flashing eyes fixed upon a number of fleeing english whom she wished to capture. could she accomplish this it seemed to her that her victory would be complete. but the runaways had so much the lead and ran so fast that she was almost despairing of being able to come to close quarters with them, when, still running, she perceived a donkey peacefully grazing on the meadow, totally unconcerned as to the battle or its outcome. agile and robust, as became a child of the field, she leaped with one bound upon the back of the ass, urged it with heels, distaff and voice, and forced it into a gallop. the animal yielded all the more readily to the desires of jeannette, seeing that the direction whither it was going was that of its own stable. it pricked up its ears and kicked up its heels with great joy, without, however, throwing jeannette, and ran toward the english, who, unfortunately for themselves, were also on the route to the ass's stable and who, still more unfortunately for themselves, in the heat of their flight had never thought to look behind. suddenly, however, hearing the hoof beats of the animal galloping at their heels and the victorious cries of the young shepherdess, they thought themselves pursued by devils; and fearing to see some horrible apparition, they threw themselves upon their knees with their eyes shut, their hands joined as if in prayer and begging for mercy. the enemy was decidedly vanquished. jumping off the ass, jeannette allowed it to continue its route; and threatening with her innocent distaff the soldiers, who surrendered at discretion, she shouted to them in a resonant voice: "wretches! why do you call yourselves burgundians and english, seeing that we are all of france? it is against the english that we must all take the field! oh, they do us so much harm!" saying this, the young shepherdess, a prey to an undefinable emotion, broke into tears, her knees trembled and she fell to the ground beside the vanquished foe, who, rising in inexpressible terror, incontinently resumed their headlong flight, leaving jeannette alone so confused in mind that she knew not whether she was awake or dreaming. nevertheless, her heart still palpitating from the effects of the recent struggle, vague but exhilarating aspirations began to ferment in her being. she had just experienced for the first time the martial ardor caused by a glorious victory, won to the orchestration of the cries of "france!" and "armagnac!" forgetting that this childish battle was but play, indignant at and aroused by the check suffered by her party, she had seen her boys cheered and re-encouraged by her voice and, carried away by her example, return to the fray and vanquish the hitherto victorious enemy. these aspirations were vaguely mixed with the recollections of the horrible butchery in the village of st. pierre and the prophecy of merlin, and caused the young shepherdess to raise her thoughts to st. catherine and st. marguerite, her two good saints, to whom she now prayed fervently to chase the english from france and to take pity on the gentle dauphin. the chaotic jangle of these apparently disconnected and aimless thoughts that clashed together in the burning brain of jeannette immediately brought on one of those painful spells of dizziness to which she had been ever more subject since the profound perturbation of her health. she relapsed into a sort of ecstasy; again a misty curtain was drawn before her eyes; and when she regained consciousness the sun had gone down and it was dusk. on arising jeannette hastened back to the fountain of the fairies, near which she had left her lambs browsing. the walk was long, she lost much time in getting her scattered flock together, and it was dark night ere she reached domremy, trembling at having incurred the anger of her father by her delay; and above all fearing the scolding that she expected for the part she had taken in the combat between the boys. urbain, full of pride at his victory, might, upon his return to the village, have boasted of the battle. thus the poor child felt her heart beat with dismay when, arriving near her house, she saw the uneasy and angry face of james darc. the moment he caught sight of his daughter he went toward her with a threatening look, saying: "by the savior, is it in the dark of night that you must gather the sheep?" and approaching her with increasing irritation and with his hand raised over her head, he continued: "bad and shameless child! have you not been battling with the boys of the village against the boys of maxey?" in his rage james was on the point of beating the guilty girl, when isabelle ran to him and caught his arm, crying, "james, i beg of you to pardon her this time!" "very well--i will be indulgent this time; but let her never again take a notion to romp with the boys. if she does it again, as sure as i am her father, i shall punish her severely; but for this time she can go to bed without supper." chapter xi. the vision. the fast to which jeannette's father had sentenced her was destined to lead to grave consequences. grieved at the reprovals he had heaped upon her, the young shepherdess led her sheep to the fold and retired to bed without sharing the family's evening meal. at jeannette's age hunger is peculiarly imperious. if the stomach is empty the brain is doubly active, as appears from the hallucinations of the anchorites who had long abstained from food. the poor child, overcome by her father's severity, sought solace in the recollections of the day's happenings and wept a great deal before she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. never had her sleep been so troubled by bizarre dreams, in which the marvelous legends that her god-mother sybille had told her reappeared in various grotesque shapes. in her dreams, hena, the virgin of the isle of sen, offered her blood as a sacrifice for the deliverance of gaul and, erect with her harp in her hand, expired amidst the flames on the pyre. but, oh, horror and surprise! jeannette recognized her own features in those of hena. another moment, merlin, followed by a black dog with flaming eyes, rose before her, holding his knotted staff in his hand and with his long white beard streaming in the wind, looking for the red egg of the sea-serpent upon a desert beach and chanting his prophecy: "gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of old oaks." then, again, it was the infantile combat of the day that surged uppermost in her disordered mind and now assumed the gigantic proportions of an immense battle. thousands of cuirassed and casqued soldiers, armed with lances and swords, pressing hard, undulating, combing and breaking like the waves of the sea, were hurled against each other and were cut to pieces--opposing floods of iron in mutual clash. the clash of armors, the cries of the combatants, the neighing of horses, the fanfare of trumpets, the discharges of artillery resounded from afar. the red flag of england quartered with the gold fleur-de-lis floated over the blood-stained embattled ranks. a martial maid, cased in white armor and mounted on a white steed held the french flag--and once more jeannette recognized her own features in those of the martial maid. st. catherine and st. marguerite hovered over her in the azure sky and smiled down upon her while st. michael, the archangel, with his wide wings outspread and his face half turned toward her, pointed with his flaming sword to a brilliant star-like golden crown held by two angels in dazzling white. the long dream, now and then interrupted by periods of semi-wakefulness and feverish starts, during which it would melt into the realities of her surroundings in the disordered mind of jeannette, lasted until morning. when it was again day jeannette awoke exhausted, her face wet with the tears that had flowed during her sleep. she made her customary morning prayer and besought her two good saints to appease her father's anger. she found him in the stable, whither she went to take her flock to the field; but james darc informed her with austere severity that she was no longer to take the sheep to pasture, seeing that she paid so little attention to them. her younger brother was to lead them out and she was to remain at the house to sew or spin. this sentence was a severe punishment to jeannette. it was to her a grievous sorrow to renounce going every day to the clear fountain and the shady spot where she derived so much pleasure from listening to the chimes of the bells, the last vibrations of which had latterly reached her ears as a celestial whisper of silvery voices. she submitted to the paternal will, however, and occupied herself during the morning with household duties. more indulgent than her husband, isabelle said to her daughter shortly before noon, "go and play in the garden until the meal hour." the summer's sun darted its burning rays upon jeannette's head. enfeebled by the fast of the previous night[13] and fatigued by her distressing dreams, she sat down upon a bench with her forehead resting on her hands and dropped into a revery, thinking of the prophecy of merlin. presently, as the bells of greux began to sound from afar, she listened to their chimes with rapture, wholly forgetful of the fact that the sun's rays beat down perpendicularly upon her head. as the sound of the bells was gradually dying away the child suddenly saw a light, so intense, so dazzling in its splendor, that the sunshine reflected from the white wall of the church opposite seemed darkness in comparison.[14] at the same moment it seemed to her that the dying vibrations of the bells, instead of vanishing altogether, as usual, in an unintelligible murmur, were now changed into a voice of infinite sweetness that whispered to her: "joan, be wise and pious--god has a mission for you--you shall chase the strangers from gaul."[15] the voice stopped and the dazzling splendor disappeared. distracted and seized with an uncontrollable fear, jeannette took a few steps in the garden and, falling upon her knees, joined her hands in prayer, invoking the aid of her good saints, st. marguerite and st. catherine, as she believed herself possessed of the devil.[16] that july day of the year 1425 decided the future of joan darc. the brilliant light that had dazzled her eyes, the mysterious voice that had sounded in her ear, were the first communications of the spirits that protected joan, or of _her saints_, as she expressed herself in later years. differently from most other visionaries, whose hallucinations, disconnected and aimless, floated at the caprice of their disordered minds, the communications to joan from the invisible world were ever connected with their original cause--her horror of the english and her wish to drive them out of gaul. finally, her spirit, nursed by the mysterious legends of her god-mother; her imagination struck by the prophecy of merlin; her heart filled with ineffable compassion for the young king, whom she believed worthy of interest; above all deeply affected by the shocking ills to which the rustics of her condition were exposed by the acts of rapine and sanguinary violence of the english; and, finally, feeling against the invaders the dauntless hatred with which william of the swallows and grand-ferre--obscure heroes, sons of the jacquerie and precursors of the shepherdess of domremy--pursued them, joan was driven to look upon herself as called upon to thrust the strangers out of france and restore to the king his throne. chapter xii. returning visions. during the next three years, from july, 1425, to february, 1429, that is from joan's fourteenth to her seventeenth year, the communications from the spirit world became ever more and more frequent. joan saw st. marguerite and st. catherine approach her with smiles on their faces and tenderly embrace her.[17] at other times it was the archangel st. michael who appeared before her, holding his flaming sword in one hand and in the other the crown of france. again, a multitude of angels played before her wondering eyes in the midst of an immense and dazzling ray of light that shot out from heaven, wherein they gamboled like the atoms that swarm before our eyes in a ray of sunlight across a dark space.[18] hardly a day went by but that, especially after the ringing of the bells, joan heard the voice of her dear saints saying to her: "joan, run to the assistance of the king of france! you will drive away the english! you will restore the crown to the gentle sire!" "alack! i am but a poor girl, i would not know how to ride a horse nor to lead armed men,"[19] the naïve shepherdess would answer. but the recollections of the prophetic legend of merlin at times dispelled these doubts, and she would then ask herself why she should not be called to fulfil the prediction. was not the lord urging her by the voices of her saints: go to the assistance of the king? was she not born and brought up on the borders of lorraine and near a forest of oaks? was she not a virgin? had she not voluntarily consecrated herself to eternal celibacy, yielding perhaps in that matter no less to the repugnance of an invincible chastity than to the desire of giving an additional pledge to the fulfilment of the prophecy of the gallic bard? did she not, when only sixteen years of age, in the presence of a large assemblage, confute and prove a liar, by the irresistible sincerity of her words, a lad of her village who pretended to have received from her a promise of marriage?[20] the shy bashfulness of joan recoiled at the bare thought of marriage. finally, did she not remember how, on the occasion of the infantine battle between the urchins of maxey and those of domremy, her courage, her prompt decisiveness, her enthusiasm changed defeat into victory? with the aid of god and his saints, could she not be victorious in an actual battle, also? joan was a pious girl. she was instinct with that genuine piety that raises and connects all things to and with god, the creator of the universe. she thanked him effusively for manifesting himself to her through the intermediation of her saints, whom she ever continued to see and hear. at the same time, however, she did not feel for the priests the confidence that st. catherine and st. marguerite inspired her with. she piously fulfilled her catholic duties: she confessed, and often attended communion service, according to the common usage, without, nevertheless, ever speaking either with master minet, the curate, or with any other clergymen on the subject of her communications with the beings of the invisible world.[21] she locked in the most secret recesses of her heart her vague aspirations after the deliverance of gaul, hiding them even from her little girl friend, mangeste, and from her grown female friend, hauguette, thus guarding her secret also from her father, her mother and her brothers. during three years she imposed upon herself an absolute silence regarding these mysteries. thanks to the powerful control that she exercised over herself, joan showed herself, the same as before, industrious, taking her part in the field and household labors, despite her being increasingly beset by her "voices," that, ever more imperiously, repeated to her almost daily: "go, daughter of god! the time has come! march to the rescue of the invaded fatherland! you will drive away the english, you will deliver your king, you will return to him his crown!" the communications of the spirits became more and more pressing in the measure that joan approached her seventeenth year. the great designs, that she felt driven to be the instrument of, took an ever stronger hold upon her. unremitting and painful the obsession pursued her everywhere. "i felt," said she later, "i felt in my spirit that which a woman must feel when about to be brought to bed of a child."[22] st. marguerite and st. catherine appeared before the young girl, encouraged her, reassured her, promised her the help of god in the deeds that she was to achieve; when the vision vanished the poor child would break out in tears, regretting, as she later expressed it, that her good saints did not take her with them to the angels in the paradise of the good god.[23] despite these alternations between faith and doubt concerning her mission, joan gradually familiarized herself with the thought at which her modesty and simplicity had at first recoiled, the thought of commanding armed men and of vanquishing the english at their head. in that wonderful organism a rare sagacity, an excellent judgment, an astonishing military aptitude were, without losing any of these qualities, without losing aught of virtue, blended with the exaltations of an inspired woman. often, recalling as she constantly did, the infantine battle in which victory remained with her, joan would say: "men and children, when known how to be handled, can not choose but obey the identical impulses, the identical generous sentiments; with the aid of heaven it will be with the men of the royal army as it was with the urchins of domremy; they will follow my example." or again: "to raise the courage of a discouraged and disheartened army, to exalt it, to lead it straight upon the enemy, whatever the number of these may be, to attack it daringly in the open field or behind its entrenchment, and to vanquish it, that is no impossible undertaking. if it succeeds, the consequences of a first victory, by rekindling the fire of an army demoralized by the habit of defeat, are incalculable." thoughts like these revealed in joan a profound intuition in matters of war. joan, moreover, was not of those puling visionaries, who expect from god alone the triumph of a good cause. one of her favorite sayings was: "help yourself, and heaven will help you."[24] she ever put in practice that adage of rustic common sense. when on a later occasion a captain said to her disdainfully: "if god wished to drive the english out of gaul, he could do so by the sole power of his will; he would need neither you, joan, nor any men-at-arms," joan answered: "_the men-at-arms will battle--god will give the victory._" chapter xiii. wrestling with the angels. the three years of mysterious obsessions--between 1425 and 1429--which preluded her glory were for joan a period of secret and distressing struggles. in order to obey her "voices," in order to carry out her divine mission and fulfil the prophecy of merlin she would have to battle--and her horror of blood was such that, as she one day said, her "hair stood on end at the sight of french blood flowing."[25] she would have to live in the field with the soldiers--and one of her leading virtues was a delicate sense of modesty. she would have to leave the house in which she was born, renounce her humble, domestic occupations in which she excelled, "being afraid of none at her needle or her distaff," as she was wont to say in her naïve pride. she would, in short, be forced to bid adieu to her young friends, her brothers, her father and her mother, all of whom she tenderly loved, and move--she, a poor and unknown peasant from a corner of lorraine--to the court of charles vii, and say to him: "sire, i am sent to you by our lord god; confide to me the command of your troops; i shall drive the english out of france and shall restore your crown to you!" when these thoughts assailed joan during her intervals of doubt when, her ecstasy over, she fell back upon actual reality, the poor child recoiled before an abyss of difficulties and of impossibilities without number. she derided and pitied herself. the past would then seem a dream; she would ask herself whether she was not out of her mind; she would beseech "her voices" to speak, and her saints to appear before her, in order that her faith in her divine mission might be revived, and prove to her that she had not been the sport of some mental aberration. but joan's crisis had passed. even if on such occasions the mysterious voices remained silent and she began to look upon herself as a demented wretch, the next day, perhaps that very night, she again saw her beautiful saints approaching, adorned with their golden crowns draped in brocade, exhaling a celestial odor,[26] and, smiling, say to her: "courage, joan, daughter of god! you will deliver gaul. your king will owe his crown to you! the time approaches! stand ready to fulfil your mission!" the young virgin would then again recover confidence in her predestination, until the day when fresh doubts would assail her, and again melt away. nevertheless, the doubts were on the decrease, and the moment came when, no longer faint-hearted, but invincibly penetrated with the divine source of her mission, joan decided to fulfil it at any price, and only awaited an opportune circumstance. from that moment on, above all, and realizing then more than ever the necessity of practicing her favorite adage, _help yourself, and heaven will help you_, joan turned the full bent of her mind upon quickly gathering information on the condition of gaul, and of acquiring the elementary knowledge of arms. public events, together with the geographic location of the valley, joined in meeting joan's wishes. the borders of lorraine were frequently crossed by the messengers to and from germany. anxious for news, as are all people living at a distance from the country's center, james darc often extended the hospitality of his house to these riders. they gossiped on the english war, the only concern of those sad days. always reserved before her parents, who were foreign to the vast designs fermenting within her brain, joan silently worked away at her distaff, losing not a single word of the reports that she heard. at times, however, she would venture one question or another to the travelers, suggested by her secret thoughts, and gradually enlightened herself. nor was that all. the heroic resistance of the inhabitants of vaucouleurs several times forced the english to raise the siege; towards the approach of the bad season these took up their winter quarters in champagne, always to return with the spring. during these marches and counter-marches the hostile army ravaged anew the valley of the meuse. james darc and other peasants were more than once obliged to resort to the castle of ile for refuge, which, on such occasions, was frequently attacked and valiantly defended. when the danger was over the peasants returned to the village. the frequent sojourns of the family of darc at the castle of ile, which was well fortified and garrisoned with experienced soldiers; the military alarms, the watches, the assaults that the garrison had to sustain--all this familiarized joan with the profession of arms. concentrated within herself, yielding to her martial vocation, attentively observing all that passed around her, explaining to herself the means and manoeuvres of defense, listening, meditating over the orders issued to the soldiers by their superiors, joan learned or guessed at the elementary principles of the military art. the ideas thus conceived germinated, budded, matured in the quick and penetrating mind of the young girl. she mistrusted herself less when her voices said to her: "the time approaches--you will drive the english out of gaul--you are the virgin prophesied by merlin." joan's grand uncle, denis laxart, lived in vaucouleurs; he had long known robert of baudricourt, a renowned captain of the country, who abhorred the english and was ardently devoted to the royalist party. joan often interrogated her uncle about captain robert of baudricourt, upon his nature, upon his affability, upon the manner in which he treated the poor. in his simplicity, the good denis had no suspicion of the purpose of his niece's interrogatories; he attributed them to girlish curiosity, and answered that robert of baudricourt, as brave a soldier as he was brutal and violent, usually sent everybody to the devil, was a terrible man, much feared by himself, and finally, that he never approached the captain but in trembling. "it is a pity that so good a captain should be of so intractable and so rough a nature," joan would say with a sigh, to her uncle, and sad and discouraged she would drop the subject only to return to it again. grown to a handsome maid, joan was approaching the end of her sixteenth year--the time predicted by her voices had arrived. chapter xiv. "the time has arrived." towards the end of february of 1429, a small troop of soldiers, on their way back to their duke in lorraine, and belonging to the party of the armagnacs, halted at domremy. the hospitable villagers cordially quartered the strangers at their houses. a sergeant fell to james darc. the family gave him a friendly reception; they helped him to ease himself of his casque, his buckler, his lance and his sword, and the brilliant weapons were deposited in a corner of the apartment where joan and her mother were busy preparing the family meal. the sight of the arms that the soldier had laid aside caused the young girl to tremble. she could not resist the desire of secretly touching them, and profiting by a moment when she was left alone, she even put the iron casque upon her young head and took in her virile hand the heavy sword which she drew from its scabbard and brandished, thrusting and cutting. at seventeen joan was tall and strong. the superb contours of her virginal bosom[27] filled and rounded her corsage, scarlet as her skirt. her large black eyes, pensive and mild, her ebony hair, her clear complexion, slightly tanned by the sun, her cherry lips, her white teeth, her chaste physiognomy, serious and candid, imparted an attractive aspect to her appearance; as she now donned the soldier's casque the young girl was resplendent with martial beauty. the sergeant and james darc entered the room. the latter frowned with severity; the soldier, however, charmed at seeing his casque on the head of the beautiful peasant girl, addressed to her some complimentary words. the anger of james redoubled, but he controlled himself. blushing at being thus surprised, joan quickly took off the casque and returned the sword to its scabbard. the family sat down to table. although the sergeant was still young, he claimed to have often been among the royal troops that had taken the field against the english. he dilated upon his own prowesses, caressed his moustache, and threw side glances at joan. to the great astonishment of her family, and despite the obviously increasing though still controlled anger of her father, joan came out of her ordinary reserve. she drew her stool near that of the soldier, seemed greatly to admire the hero, and overwhelmed him with questions concerning the royal army--its strength, its tactics, its present location, the number of its pieces of artillery, the names of the captains who inspired their soldiers with confidence. greatly flattered by the curiosity of the beautiful young girl concerning his military feats, even imagining that she was perhaps more interested in the warrior than in the war, the sergeant answered gallantly all the questions put by joan. on her part, she listened to him with such rapt attention, and seemed by the fire in her eyes and the animation on her face to take so profound an interest in the conversation, that james darc felt indignant thinking that the military carriage of the soldier was turning joan's head. the eyes of the indignant father shot daggers at the soldier. joan, too much preoccupied with her own thoughts, did not notice the rising anger of her parent, but plied her questions. with secret sorrow she learned then that, driven back beyond the loire after a recent battle called the "battle of the herrings," the royal army had fled in disorder; that the english were besieging orleans; and that, once the city was taken and touraine invaded, the fate of the king and of france would be sealed, all his domains would then be in the hands of the english. "is there then no help for gaul?" cried joan, a prey to inexpressible exaltation. "is all lost?" "if the siege of orleans is not raised within a month," answered the sergeant; "if the english are not driven back far from the loire, then france will cease to exist! and this is as true as you are the most beautiful maid of lorraine. blood of christ! when a little while ago you had my casque on your head, i thought i had before me the goddess of war. with a captain such as you, i would attack a whole army single-handed!" at these words james darc rose abruptly from the table; he told his guest that night was approaching, and country people, who rose with the sun, also retired with the sun. cross at being thus bade to go, the sergeant slowly picked up his arms and sought to catch joan's eyes. but the maid, wholly forgetful of the soldier, now sat on her stool steeped in painful meditations, thinking only of the fresh disasters of gaul, at which her tears flowed freely. "there can now be no doubt left," the peasant said to himself, "my daughter, so chaste and so pious until this day, has suddenly gone crazy over this braggart; she is weeping over his departure. shame upon her and us! a curse upon the hospitality that i have extended to this stranger! may the devil take him!" after the guest had gone, james darc's face assumed an expression of intense severity. barely repressing his indignation, he stepped up to his daughter, took her rudely by the arm, motioned her imperiously to the stairs, and cried: "go upstairs! there has been enough palavering to-day. i shall talk to you to-morrow!" still absorbed in her own racking thoughts, joan obeyed her father mechanically. when she regained her own room, the latter proceeded, addressing his sons, both of whom were surprised at their father's rudeness towards their sister: "may god help us! did you notice the manner in which joan looked at the sergeant? oh, if she ever fell in love with a soldier, it would be your duty to drown her with your own hands; or, i swear it, i would sooner strangle her myself."[28] the peasant uttered the words with such an explosion of rage that joan heard him. she understood the mistake her father had fallen into, and wept. but soon "her voices" whispered to her: "the time has arrived. without you france and her king are lost--go, daughter of god!--save your king--save france!--the lord is with you--you are about to enter upon your mission." chapter xv. captain robert of baudricourt. robert of baudricourt, the commander-in-chief of vaucouleurs, a man in the prime of life, of military bearing and of a face whose harshness was relieved by intelligent and penetrating eyes, was walking in nervous excitement up and down a hall in the castle of the town. instructed by a recent despatch of the desperate position of charles vii and the danger orleans ran from the close siege of the english, the captain walked at a rapid pace, grumbling, blaspheming and shaking the floor under the impatient beat of his spurred heels. suddenly a leather curtain, that concealed the principal entrance to the hall, was pushed aside and revealed a part of the timid and frightened face of denis laxart, joan's grand uncle. robert of baudricourt did not notice the good man; he stamped with his feet on the floor, struck the table a violent blow with his fist near where lay the fatal despatch he had just received, and cried: "death and fury! it is done for france and the king! all is lost, even honor!" at this exclamation of exasperation, the courage of denis laxart failed him; he dared not approach the captain at such a moment, and he reclosed the curtain, behind which, however, he remained standing awaiting a more opportune moment. but the rage of robert of baudricourt redoubled. he again stamped on the floor and cried: "malediction! all is lost--all!" "no, sir! no, all is not lost!" said the good denis laxart, resolutely overcoming his fear, but still remaining behind the shelter of the curtain. a second later he pushed his head through the portiere and repeated: "no, sir; all is not lost!" hearing the timid voice, the captain turned around; he recognized the old man, whom he rather esteemed, and asked in a rough voice: "what are you doing at that door? walk in--why do you not walk in?" but seeing that denis hesitated, he added still more gruffly: "the devil take it! will you come in!" "here i am, sir--here i am," said denis stepping in; "but for the love of god, do not fly off in such a temper; i bring you good news--news--that is unexpected--miraculous news. all is not lost, sir--on the contrary--all is saved. both king and gaul!" "denis!" replied the captain, casting a threatening look at joan's uncle, "if your hair were not grey, i would have you whipped out of the castle with a sword's scabbard! dare you joke! to speak of the safety of king and france under such circumstances as we find ourselves in!" "sir, i beseech you, listen without anger to what i have to tell you, however incredible it may seem! i do not look like a clown, and you know me long. be good enough to listen to me patiently." "i know you, and know you for a good and wise man; hence your incongruous words shock me all the more. come on, speak!" "sir, as you see, my forehead is bathed in perspiration, my voice chokes me, i am trembling at every limb; and yet i have not even begun to inform you why i came here. if you interrupt me with outbursts of rage, i shall lose the thread of my thoughts--" "by the bowels of god! come on! what is it!" denis laxart made a great effort over himself, and after having collected his thoughts he said to the captain in a hurried voice: "i went yesterday to domremy to see my niece, who is married to james darc, an honest peasant from whom she has two sons and a daughter. the daughter is called jeannette and is seventeen years--" noticing that the captain's ill restrained impatience was on the point of exploding at the exordium, denis hastened to add: "i am coming to the point, sir, which will seem surprising, prodigious to you. last evening, my little niece jeannette said to me: 'good uncle, you know captain robert of baudricourt; you must take me to him.'" "what does your niece want of me?" "she wants, sir, to reveal to you what she told me yesterday evening without the knowledge of her parents, without the knowledge even of master minet, the curate--that mysterious voices have long been announcing to her that she would drive the english from gaul by placing herself at the head of the king's troops, and that she would restore to him his crown." struck dumb by the extravagance of these words, robert of baudricourt could now hardly contain himself; he was on the point of brutally driving poor denis out of the hall. nevertheless, controlling his rage out of consideration for the venerable old man, he retorted caustically: "is that the secret your niece wishes to confide to me? it is a singular revelation!" "yes, sir--and she then proposes to ask you for the means to reach the gentle dauphin, our sire, whom she is absolutely determined to inform of the mission that the lord has destined to her--the deliverance of gaul and the king. i must admit it to you, i was struck by the sincerity of jeannette's tone when she narrated to me her visions of saints and archangels, when she told me how she heard the mysterious voices that have pursued her for the last three years, telling her that she was the virgin whose advent merlin foretold for the deliverance of gaul." "so you have confidence in your niece's sincerity?" asked the captain with a mixture of contempt and compassion, interrupting the old man whom he considered either stupid or crazy. "so you attach credence to the words of the girl?" "never did anyone reproach my niece with falsehood. therefore, yielding to her entreaties, i yesterday evening obtained from her father, who seemed greatly irritated at his daughter, permission for her to accompany me, under the pretext of spending a few days in town with my wife. this morning i left domremy at dawn with my niece on the crupper of my horse. we arrived in town an hour ago. my niece is waiting for me at home, where i am to take her your answer." "well! this is my answer: that brazen and insane girl should have both her ears soundly cuffed, and she should be taken back to her parents for them to continue the punishment.[29] master denis laxart, i took you for a level-headed man. you are either an old scamp or an old fool. are not you ashamed, at your age, to attach any faith to such imbecilities, and to have the impudence of coming here with such yarns to me? death and fury! off with you! by the five hundred devils of hell--get out, on the spot!" chapter xvi. at the castle of vaucouleurs. poor denis laxart tumbled out of the room and the castle of vaucouleurs at his wits' end; but he soon returned. he did not now come alone. he was accompanied by joan; his mind was troubled and he trembled at the bare thought of again bearding the bad humor of the sire of baudricourt. but so persistently had joan begged and beseeched her uncle to take her to the terrible captain that he had yielded. the plight of the good man's mind may be imagined when, now accompanied by the young girl, he again approached the leather curtain or portiere of the hall. the captain was just conversing with john of novelpont,[30] a knight who lived at vaucouleurs, and was saying to him, evidently towards the end of a talk: "she is a crazy girl fit for a good cuffing. don't you think so too?" "what of it, if advantage could be drawn from her craziness!" answered john of novelpont. "imagine a man afflicted with some incurable disease and given up by his physicians; being by them condemned to die, someone proposes that he try _in extremis_ a philter of pretended virtue, concocted by some crazy person. should not our patient try that last chance of recovery? soldiers and the masses are credulous folks; the announcement of celestial, supernatural help might revive the hopes of the people and the army, raise their courage, and perchance bring victory to them after so many defeats. would not the consequence of a first success, of a victory over the english, be incalculable?" "if but one victory were won," answered robert of baudricourt somewhat less determined in his first views, "our soldiers would regain courage, and they might finally overpower the english." "why not consent to see the girl? you could question her yourself, and then form an opinion." "a visionary--a cowherd!" "in the desperate condition that france is in, what risk is run by resorting to empiricism? it would be sensible to hear the peasant girl. whether absurd or not, the prophecy of merlin that she invokes is popular in gaul. i remember to have heard it told in my infancy. moreover, everywhere, prophecies are just now afloat in our unhappy country. tired of looking for deliverance from human, our people are now expecting help from supernatural agencies. have not the learned clerks of the university of paris, and even the clergy, resorted to the clairvoyance of men versed in holy writ and habituated to a contemplative life? there are conditions when one must risk something--aye, risk everything." "by the death of christ! are you there again!" cried robert of baudricourt, interrupting his friend at seeing the timid face of denis laxart appearing at the slit of the leather curtain. "are you not afraid of exhausting my patience?" denis made no answer, but vanished behind joan, who pushed the curtain aside and resolutely stepped towards the two cavaliers. her uncle followed her with his eyes raised to heaven, his hat in his hands, and trembling at every limb. had joan been old or homely she would undoubtedly have been instantly driven out by robert of baudricourt with contumely. but he, as well as the sire of novelpont, was struck with the beauty of the young girl, with her firm yet sweet expression, with her modest and yet confident demeanor. seized with admiration, the two cavaliers looked at each other in silence. the sire of novelpont, shrugging his shoulders, seemed to say to his friend: "was i wrong when i advised you to see the poor visionary?" robert of baudricourt was still uncertain as to what reception he should bestow upon joan, when his friend, meaning to test her, interpellated her, saying: "well, my child, so the king is to be driven out of france and we are all to become english? is it to prevent all that that you have come here?[31] speak up! we shall listen." "sir," said joan in a sweet yet firm voice that bore the stamp of unquestionable sincerity, "i have come to this royal city in order to request the sire robert of baudricourt to have me taken to the dauphin of france. my words have been disregarded. nevertheless, it is imperative that i be with the king within eight days. if i could not walk, i would creep thither on my knees. there is in the world no captain, duke or prince able to save the kingdom of france without the help that i bring with the assistance of god and his saints;"[32] joan emitted a sigh, and, her eyes moist with tears, added naïvely: "i would much prefer to remain at our house and sew and spin near my poor mother--but god has assigned a task to me--and i must perform it!"[33] "and in what manner will you perform your task?" put in robert of baudricourt, no less astonished than his friend at the mixture of assurance, of ingenuous sweetness and of conviction that pervaded the young girl's answer. "how will you, a plain shepherdess, go about it, in order to vanquish and drive away the english, when lahire, xaintrailles, dunois, gaucourt, and so many other captains have been beaten and failed?" "i shall boldly place myself at the head of the armed men, and, with the help of god, we will win." "my daughter," replied robert of baudricourt with a smile of incredulity, "if god wished to drive the english out of gaul, he could do so by the sole power of his will; he would need neither you, joan, nor men-at-arms."[34] "the men-at-arms will battle--god will give the victory,"[35] answered joan laconically. "help yourself--heaven will help you." again the two knights looked at each other, more and more astonished at the language and attitude of this daughter of the fields. denis laxart rubbed his hands triumphantly. "so, then, joan," put in john of novelpont, "you desire to go to the king?" "yes, sir; to-morrow rather than the day after; rather to-day than to-morrow. the siege of orleans must be raised within a month.[36] god will give us victory." "and it is you, my pretty child, who will raise the siege of orleans?" "yes, with the pleasure of god." "have you any idea what the siege of a town means, and in what it consists?" "oh, sir! it consists of besieged and besiegers. that is very plain." "but the besieged must attempt sallies against the enemy who are entrenched at their gates." "sir, we are here four in this hall. if we were locked up in here, and we were determined to go out or die, would we not sally forth even if there were ten men at the door?" "how?" "fighting bravely--god will do the rest![37] the besieged will sally forth." "at a siege, my daughter, sallies are not all there is of it. the besiegers surround the town with numerous redoubts or bastilles, furnished with machines for darting bolts and artillery pieces for bombarding, and all are defended with deep moats. how will you take possession of such formidable entrenchments?" "i shall be the first to descend into the moats and the first to climb the ladders, while crying to the armed men: 'follow me! let us bravely enter the place! the lord is with us!'"[38] the two knights looked at each other amazed at joan's answers. john of novelpont especially experienced a rising sensation that verged on admiration for the beautiful girl of so naïve a valor. denis laxart was thinking apart: "my good god! whence does jeannette get all these things that she is saying! she talks like a captain! whence did she draw so much knowledge?" "joan," resumed robert of baudricourt, "if i grant your desire of having you taken to the king, you will have to cross stretches of territory that are in the power of the english. it is a long journey from here to touraine; you would run great risks." "the lord god and his good saints will not forsake us. we shall avoid the towns, and shall travel by night rather than by day. help yourself--and heaven will help you!" "that is not all," persisted robert of baudricourt, fixing upon joan a penetrating look; "you are a woman; you will have to travel the only woman in the company of the men that are to escort you; you will have to lodge pell-mell with them wherever you may stop for rest." denis scratched his ears and looked at his niece with embarrassment. joan blushed, dropped her eyes, and answered modestly: "sir, i shall put on man's clothes, if you can furnish me with any; i shall not take them off day or night;[39] moreover, would the men of my escort be ready to cause annoyance to an honest girl who confides herself to them?" "well, would you know how to ride on horseback?" "i shall have to learn to ride. only see to it that the horse be gentle." "joan," said robert of baudricourt after a moment's silence, "you claim that you are inspired by god; that you are sent by him to raise the siege of orleans, vanquish the english and restore the king on his throne? who is to prove that you are telling the truth?" "my acts, sir."[40] this answer, given in a sweet and confident voice, made a lively impression upon the officers. robert of baudricourt said: "my daughter, go back with your uncle to his house--i shall shortly notify you of my decision. i must think over your request." "i shall wait, sire. but in the name of god, i must depart to the dauphin, and let it be rather to-day than to-morrow; the siege of orleans must be raised before a month is over." "why do you place so much importance upon the raising of that siege?" "oh, sir!" answered joan, smiling, "i would place less importance upon delivering the good town if the english did not place so much importance upon taking it! the success of the war depends upon that with them; it also depends upon that with us!" "well, now, sir captain," said the radiant denis laxart in a low voice to robert of baudricourt, "should i cuff both the ears of the brazen and crazy girl? you advised me to do so." "no; although a visionary, she is a stout-hearted girl!" answered the knight, also in a low voice. "for the rest, i shall send the curate of vaucouleurs to examine her, and, if need be, to exorcise her in case there be some sorcery at the bottom of this. go back home." denis and joan left the hall; the two cavaliers remained in a brown study. chapter xvii. john of novelpont. shortly after joan left, robert of baudricourt hastened to the table and prepared to write, while saying to john of novelpont: "i now think like you; i shall forward the odd adventure to the king and submit to him the opinion that at the desperate pass of things it may not be amiss to try to profit by the influence which this young girl, who claims to be inspired and sent by god, might exercise upon the army, which is completely discouraged. i can see her, docile to the role that she will be put to play, passing before the troops, herself clad in armor and her handsome face under a casque of war! man is captivated through his eyes as well as through his mind." robert of baudricourt stopped upon noticing that the sire of novelpont was not listening, but was pacing the length of the hall. he cried: "john, what in the name of the devil are you thinking about?" "robert," gravely answered the cavalier, "that girl is not a poor visionary, to be used _in extremis_ like an instrument that one may break if it does not meet expectations." "what else is she?" "her looks, her voice, her attitude, her language--everything reveals an extraordinary woman--an inspired woman." "are you going to take her visions seriously?" "i am unable to penetrate such mysteries; i believe what i see, what i hear and what i feel. joan is or will be an illustrious warrior-maid, and not a passive instrument in the hands of the captains. she may save the country--" "if she is a sorceress the curate will play the holy-water sprinkler upon her, and report to us." "i am so much impressed by her answers, her candor, her daring, her good sense, her irresistible sincerity, that if the king sends word back with your messenger that he consents to see joan--i am resolved to accompany her on her journey." "ah, sir john," said robert of baudricourt, laughing; "that is a sudden resolve! are you smitten by the pretty eyes of the maid?" "may i die if i am yielding to any improper thought! such is the proud innocence of that young girl that however lustful i might be, her looks would instantly silence my lust.[41] i am ready to stake my salvation upon it that joan is chaste. did you not see how she blushed to the roots of her hair at the idea of riding alone in the company of the horsemen of her escort? did you not hear her express her wish to assume man's clothes, which she would not take off day or night during her journey? robert, chastity ever proclaims a beautiful soul." "if, indeed, she is chaste, she could not be a sorceress; demons, it is said, can not possess the body of a virgin! but be on your guard, dear sire; without your knowing it, the maid's beauty is seducing you. you wish to be her cavalier during the long journey; lucky chances may offer themselves to your amorous courtesy. but," added robert of baudricourt in answer to an impatient gesture from his friend, "we shall drop joking. this is what i think concerning the young girl: if she is not a sorceress, her brain is disordered by visions, and she believes herself, in good faith, inspired of god. such as she is, or seems to be, the girl can become a valuable instrument in the hands of the king. soldiers and the people are ignorant and credulous. if they see in joan an emissary of god, if they believe she brings them supernatural aid, they will regain courage, and will make strenuous efforts to wipe out their defeats. her exaltation, if skilfully exploited by the chiefs of the army, may have happy results. and that is the important point with us." "the future will prove to you your error. joan is too sincere, and right or wrong, too deeply imbued with the divinity of her mission, to accept the role that you imagine for her, to resign herself to being a machine in the hands of the chiefs of the army. she will act upon her own impulse. i take her to be naturally endowed with military genius, as have been so many other captains who were at first unknown. whatever may happen, you must write to the king and inform him of what has happened." "i think so, too." "which king are you writing to?" "have we two masters?" "my dear robert, i accompanied to court the count of metz, under whom i commanded a company of a hundred lances. i have had a near look of things at chinon and at loches. i have formed my opinion of our sire." "from which it follows that there are two kings?" "there is a king of the name of charles vii, whose mind runs only upon ruling the hearts of easy-going women. unnerved by indulgence, ungrateful, selfish, regardless of his honor, that prince, hemmed in at chinon or loches by his favorites and his mistresses, allows his soldiers to fight and die in the defence of the fragments of his kingdom, but has never been seen at the head of his troops." "it is a disgrace to the royalty!" "there is another king. his name is george of la tremouille, a jealous despot, consumed with malice and vainglory, resentful. he rules supreme over the two or three provinces that the kingdom of france now consists of, and he dominates the royal council. he is the real master." "i knew that the steward of the palace of our do-nothing king was the sire of la tremouille; it is to him i meant to write." "do no such thing, robert; take my advice!" "you say yourself he is the master--the king in fact!" "yes; but anxious to remain master and king in fact, he will not tolerate that any other than himself find the means to save gaul. the sire of la tremouille will, you may rest assured, reject joan's intervention. write, on the contrary, direct to charles vii. he will be struck by the strangeness of the occurrence. if only out of curiosity he will want to see joan. he finds the day long in his retreat of loches or chinon. the blandishments even of his mistresses are often unavailing to draw him from his ennui. the arrival of joan will be a novelty to him; a pastime." "you are a good adviser. i shall write direct to the king and expedite a messenger to him on the spot. should the answer be favorable to joan, would you still think of accompanying her?" "then more than ever!" "the journey is long. you will have to traverse part of burgundy and of champagne, both of them occupied by the enemy." "i shall take with me my equerry bertrand of poulagny, a prudent and resolute man. i shall join to him four well armed valets. a small troop passes more easily unperceived. moreover, as joan wisely proposed, we shall avoid the towns all we can by traveling by night, and shall rest by day in isolated farm-houses." "do not forget that you will have to cross many rivers; since the war, the bridges are everywhere destroyed." "we will find ferries at all the rivers. from here we shall go to st. urbain, where we can stay without danger; we shall avoid troyes, st. florentin, and auxerre; arrived at gien, we shall be on friendly soil. we shall then proceed to loches or chinon, the royal residences." "admit it, sire of novelpont, are you not slightly smitten by the beauty of joan?" "sire robert of baudricourt, i feel proud of being the knight of the warrior-maid and heroine, who, perhaps, may yet save gaul." chapter xviii. "good luck, joan!" towards sun-down of february 28 of the year 1429, a large crowd consisting of men, women and children pressed around the castle of vaucouleurs. the crowd was impatient; it was enthusiastic. "are you sure the pretty joan will leave the castle by this gate?" asked one of the crowd, addressing at random his nearest neighbor. "i think so--she can not go out on horseback by the postern gate. she is to ride along the ramparts with the sire of novelpont, who is to escort her on her long journey. we shall be able to get a good view of her here on her fine white horse." "our hearts all go out to her," remarked a third. "the prophecy of merlin is fulfilled. well did he say--_gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of old oaks!_" said a fourth. "she will deliver us from the english! the poor will again be able to breathe! peace and work for all!" "no more war alarms; no more conflagrations; no more pillaging; no more massacres! may her name be blessed!" "it is god who sent us joan the maid--glory to god!" "and yet a daughter of the field--a simple shepherdess!" "the lord god inspires her--she alone is worth a whole army. the archangels will fight on her side." "do you know that master tiphaine, the curate of the parish of st. euterpe, undertook to exorcise the maid in case she was a sorceress and was possessed of a demon? the clerk carried the cross, the choir-boy the holy-water, and master tiphaine carried the sprinkler. but he did not dare to approach the maid too near, fearing some trick of the spirit of evil. but joan smiled and said: 'come near, good father, i shall not fly away.'"[42] "she felt quite sure that she was a daughter of god!" "evidently she is a virgin. after the exorcism no clawy demon leaped out of her mouth!" "everybody knows that the devil can not inhabit the body of a virgin. consequently joan can not be a sorceress, whatever people may have said of her god-mother sybille." "so far from suspecting that joan was an invoker of demons, master tiphaine was so edified with her mildness and modesty that the day after the exorcism he admitted her to holy communion--she ate the bread of the angels." "that was lucky! who, if not joan, could eat angels' bread?" "do you know, friends, that while the sire of baudricourt was waiting for the answer of the king, and, by god, it seems the answer was long in coming, the duke of lorraine, hearing the report that joan was the maid foretold by merlin, wished to see her?" "and did he?" "the sire of novelpont took joan to the duke. 'well, my young girl,' said the duke to her, 'you who are sent by god should be able to give me advice; i am sick, and, it looks to me, near my end--'" "so much the worse for him! who does not know that the duke is suffering from the consequences of his debaucheries, and that, in order to indulge them at his ease, he has bravely cast off his own wife?" "no doubt joan must have known all that, because she answered the duke: 'monseigneur, call the duchess back to your side, lead an honest life, god will not forsake you.[43] help yourself and heaven will help you.'" "well answered, holy girl!" "it is said that those are her favorite words--'help yourself and heaven will help you!'" "well, may heaven and all its saints protect her during the long journey that she is to undertake!" "is it credible?--a poor child of seventeen years to command an army?" "myself and five other archers of the company of the sire of baudricourt," said a sturdy looking soldier, "requested him as a favor to allow us to escort joan the maid. he refused! by the bowels of the pope, i would have liked to have that beautiful girl for a captain! led by her, i would defy all the english put together! yes, by the navel of satan, i would!" "armed men commanded by a woman! that surely is odd!" observed an impressed cynic. "two beautiful eyes looking upon you and seeming to say: 'march upon the enemy!' are enough to set one's heart on fire! and if, besides, a sweet voice says to you: 'courage--forward!' that would be enough to turn the biggest coward into a hero!" "above all if the voice is inspired by god, my brave archer." "whether she be inspired by god, by the devil or by her own bravery, i care as little as for a broken arrow. if one were but alone against a thousand, he must have the cowardice of a hare not to follow a beautiful girl, who, sword in hand, rushes upon the enemy." "i can not help thinking of the pain it must give joan's family to have her depart, however glorious the maid's destiny may be. her mother must feel very sad." "i have it from dame laxart that james darc, a very strict and rough man, after having twice had his daughter written to, ordering her return home, and objecting to her riding away with men-at-arms, has invoked a curse upon her. furthermore, he forbade his wife and his two sons ever again to see joan. she wept all the tears in her poor body upon learning of her father's curse. 'my heart bleeds to leave my family,' said the poor child to dame laxart, 'but i must go whither god bids me.[44] i have a glorious mission to fill.'" "the maid's father is a brute! he must have a bad heart! the idea of cursing his daughter--who is going to deliver gaul." "she will do so--merlin foretold it." "it will be a beautiful day for us all when the english are thrust out of our poor country which they have been ravaging for so many years!" "the fault lies with the knighthood," put in a civilian; "why did it prove so cowardly at poitiers? this nobility is a costly luxury." "and on top of all, oppressed and persecuted, jacques bonhomme has had to pay the ransom for the cowardly seigneurs with gilded spurs!" "but jacques bonhomme got tired and kicked in his desperation. oh, once at least did the scythe and fork get the better of the lance and sword! the jacquerie revenged the serfs! death to the nobles!" "but what a carnage was not thereupon made of the jacques! the day of reprisals will come!" "well, the jacques had their turn; that is some consolation!"[45] "now it will be the turn of the english, thanks to joan the maid--the envoy of god! she will throw them out!" "aye, aye! let her alone--she promised that within a month there will not be one of these foreigners left in france."[46] "glory to her! the shepherdess of domremy will have done what neither king, dukes, knights nor captains were capable of accomplishing!" "good luck to you, joan, born like ourselves of the common people! a blessing on her from all the poor serfs who have been suffering death and all the agonies of death at the hands of the english!" "they are letting down the drawbridge of the castle!" "there she is! that's she!" "how well shaped and beautiful she is in her man's clothes! prosperity to joan the maid!" "look at her! you would take her for a handsome young page with her black hair cut round, her scarlet cape, her green jacket, her leather hose and her spurred boots! long live our joan!" "by my soul, she has a sword on her side!" "although not a generous man, the sire of baudricourt presented her with it." "that's the least he could do! did not the rest of us in vaucouleurs go down in our pockets to purchase a horse for the warrior maid?" "master simon, the cloth merchant, answered for the palfrey as a patient animal and of a good disposition; a child could lead it; it served as the mount to a noble dame in the hunt with falcons." "upon the word of an archer," again put in the archer of the sire of baudricourt's company, "joan holds herself in the saddle like a captain! by the bowels of the pope! she is beautiful and well shaped! how sorry i am not to be among the armed men of her escort! i would go with her to the end of the world, if only for the pleasure of looking at her!" "indeed, if i were a soldier, i would prefer to obey orders given by a sweet voice and from pretty little lips, than given by a rough voice and from hairy and coarse lips." "look at the sire of novelpont with his iron armor! he rides at joan's right. do you see him? he is a worthy seigneur." "he looks as if he would guard her as his own daughter. may god guard them both!" "he is adjusting a strap on the bridle of the maid's palfrey." "at her left is the sire of baudricourt; he will probably accompany her part of the way." "there is the equerry bertrand of poulagny, carrying his master's lance and shield." "jesus! they have only four armed men with them! all told six persons to escort joan from here to touraine! and through such dangerous territories! what an imprudence!" "god will watch over the holy maid." "look--she is turning in her saddle and seems to wave good-bye to someone in the castle." "she is taking her handkerchief to her eyes; she is drying her tears." "she must have been waving good-bye to her uncle and aunt, the old laxarts." "yes; there they are, both of them, at the lower window of the tower; they are holding each other's hands and weep to see their niece depart, perhaps forever! war is so changeable a thing!" "poor, dear girl! her heart must bleed, as she said, to go all alone, far from her folks, and to battle at the mercy of god!" "she will now turn around the corner of the rampart--" "let her at least hear our hearty adieus--good luck, joan the maid! good luck to joan! good luck! good luck! death to the english!" "she hears us--she makes a sign--she is waving good-bye to us. victory to joan!" "mother! mother! take me up in your arms! put me on your shoulders. let me see her again." "come child! take a good look! always remember joan! thanks to her, no longer will desolate mothers weep for sons and husbands massacred by the english." "good luck to joan--good luck!" "she has turned the corner of the rampart--she is gone!" "good luck to joan the maid! may the good god go with her!" "may she deliver us from the english! good luck, joan!" part ii. chinon. chapter i. the council of charles vii. three of the principal members of the council of king charles vii--george of la tremouille, chamberlain and a despotic, avaricious and suspicious minister; the sire of gaucourt, an envious and cruel soldier; and regnault, bishop of chartres, a double-dealing and ambitious prelate--were assembled on the 7th of march of 1429 in a hall of the castle of chinon. "may the fever carry off that robert of baudricourt! the man's audacity of writing direct to the king inducing him to receive that female cowherd!" cried george of la tremouille. "and charles considers the affair a pleasant thing and wants to have a look at the crazy girl! the fools claim she is sent by god--i hold she has been sent by the devil to thwart my plans!" "there is but one way of eluding the formal orders of the king," observed the bishop of chartres. "that accursed john of novelpont has made so much noise that our sire is determined to see the vassal whom, since her arrival, we have kept confined in the tower of coudray to await the royal audience. the brazen and vagabond minx feels greatly elated at the imbecile enthusiasm that she has been made the object of by the clouts of lorraine, and is surprised at not having been presented to charles vii! blood of christ! our do-nothing king is quite capable, as a means both of ridding himself of us and of dropping all care on the score of the kingdom's safety, of tempting god by accepting the aid of this joan--in that event, my seigneurs, it will be all over with the influence of the royal council! all that will be left for us to do will be to quit our posts." "and i, raoul of gaucourt, who served under sancerre and under the constable of clisson, i who vanquished the turks at nicopolis, i am to take orders from a woman who tended cattle! death and massacre! i sooner would break my sword!" "these are hollow words, raoul of gaucourt," said the sire of la tremouille thoughtfully; "words are powerless against facts. our sire, indolent, fickle and cowardly, may, at the desperate pass his affairs are in, wish to try the supernatural influence of this female cowherd. let us not deceive ourselves. since the day that joan was at my orders relegated to the tower of coudray, half a league from here, the outcry raised by john of novelpont has had its effect upon a part of the court. his enthusiasm for the said joan, his reports of her beauty, her modesty, her military genius, have awakened a lively curiosity among a number of courtiers." "mercy!" cried raoul of gaucourt. "the idea of pretending that peasant possesses military genius! the man must be crazy enough for a strait-jacket." "raoul, collect yourself," replied the bishop of chartres; "my son in god george of la tremouille, has stated the facts. he is right. a part of the court, greedy after novelties, jealous of our power, and tired of seeing a portion of their domains in the hands of the english has given an ear to the excited reports of john of novelpont upon the visionary girl. a goodly number of these courtiers have beset the king. he wishes to see her. it would be absurd and impolitic to try to struggle against the current that has set in." "so, then, we are to yield, are we?" cried raoul of gaucourt, wrathfully striking the table at which they were seated. "yield before this sorceress who should be roasted on fagots!" "we may avail ourselves of the fagots later on, my brave raoul; but at present we must yield.--you know it better than i in your capacity of an experienced captain, sire of la tremouille; the position that can not be carried by a front attack, may yet be flanked." "your words are golden, dear tonsured companion. among friends agreed upon the same end and having identical interests, the full truth is due to each by all. i shall, accordingly, open my mind to you upon the present situation. i have for some time succeeded in removing the princes of the blood from the councils of the king. we reign. moreover, as regards myself, i am, just at present, far from desiring to see the war with the english and burgundians come to an end. i have need of its continuance. my brother, who is on familiar terms with the regent of england and the duke of burgundy, has obtained from both protection for my domains. only this year, when the enemy pushed forward as far as the walls of orleans, my lands and my seigniory of sully were spared.[47] that is not all. thanks to the civil troubles and to the numerous partisans whom i keep in pay in poitou, that province is at my mercy. i do not lose the hope of annexing it to my possessions,[48] provided the war is prolonged a little. you see, i have a powerful interest in thwarting the projects of this female envoy of god, should they ever be realized. i do not wish for the expulsion of the english, i do not wish for the end of the war, for the reason that the war serves my purposes. such, in all sincerity, are my personal motives. now, let us see whether your interests, regnault, bishop of chartres, and yours, raoul of gaucourt are not of the same nature as mine. as to you, bishop of chartres, should the war end suddenly by force of arms, what becomes of all the negotiations that for a long time you have been secretly conducting with the regent of england on one side, and the duke of burgundy on the other--negotiations that have cost so much toil and that, justly so, give the king so high an opinion of your importance? what becomes of the guarantees and the pecuniary advantages that, like a shrewd negotiator, you demand and know how to obtain from the princes that you negotiate with?" "all my hopes will be shattered if our troops, fanaticized by this girl, should gain but one victory in a single encounter with the english," cried the bishop of chartres. "the regent of england wrote to me only recently that _he was not disinclined to entertain my propositions for a treaty_, in which case, added the duke of bedford, _i could be sure of obtaining all that i have demanded of him_. but if the fires of war should flare up again under the inspiration of this bedeviled peasant girl, all negotiations will be broken off, and then good-bye to the profits that i sought to derive. so that you were right, george of la tremouille, when you said that our interests command us to join hands against joan." "and as to you, raoul of gaucourt," replied the sire of la tremouille, "i hope you are not ignorant of the fact that dunois, lahire, xaintrailles, the constable of richemont, the duke of alençon, and other leading commanders, are all jealous of your ability and of your seat in the royal council, and that they will rank themselves on the side of the girl, whom they will turn into a docile instrument to overthrow you. if the royal army wins but one victory, your influence and military prestige will be eclipsed by the success of your rivals. our king, fickle, ungrateful and irresolute as we know him to be, will sacrifice you at the first suspicion of treason or incompetence." "thunder and blood!" cried raoul of gaucourt, "i have a good mind to go straight to the tower of coudray and order the execution of the sorceress without the formality of a trial! we shall find priests enough to affirm that satan carried her off." "the method is violent and clumsy, dear captain!" replied george of la tremouille. "the same end can be reached by other methods. it is understood that i, you, and the bishop of chartres have common interests which bind us against the girl. what we must now do is to consider how to ruin her. let's begin with you, holy bishop of chartres, the spiritual director of our sire. however debauched he is, occasionally he is afraid of the devil. could you not insinuate to the good king that he would endanger the salvation of his soul if he were, precipitately and without a previous inquest, to attach faith to the creature that calls herself a deputy of the lord, but who is more likely a deputy of satan?" "an excellent idea!" exclaimed the bishop of chartres. "i shall convince charles vii that it is imperative to have joan examined by the clerks of theology, they being alone qualified to ascertain and solemnly declare whether she is obeying a divine inspiration, or whether, on the contrary, she is not a brazen impostor possessed of the evil spirit, in which case, by placing confidence in the girl, our sire would then render himself the accomplice in a sorcery. i shall then empanel a canonical college that shall be charged with pronouncing finally and infallibly upon the degree of faith that may be accorded to the alleged divine mission of joan. obedient to my secret instructions she shall be pronounced a heretic, a sorceress and possessed of the evil spirit. the fagots will soon be in full flare to receive her to the heart's content of our brave gaucourt. we shall have her burned alive." "blood of god!" cried the soldier. "i shall myself set fire to the pyre. there is the infamous female serf, who meant to command noble captains, burnt to a crisp!" "she is not yet roasted, dear gaucourt!" observed the sire of la tremouille. "let us suppose that the plan of our friend the bishop of chartres fails; let us suppose that by some fatal accident and contrary to the instructions issued to it by our worthy bishop, the canonical council declares the said joan truly and duly inspired by god--" "i answer for the clerks whom i shall choose for the examination! they will all be men entirely devoted to me." "dear bishop, it sometimes happens that the soldiers we think we can answer for man for man, slip us at the moment of action. it may happen that way with your clerks. let us proceed from the theory that king charles, finding himself _in extremis_, is inclined to take the risk of placing the said joan at the head of his armies. it will then rest with you, raoul of gaucourt, more than with anyone else, to ruin the insolent girl, who has but one fixed thought--to raise the siege of orleans. you must then demand of the king the command of the town of orleans, and you must consent to serve under her orders." "may hell confound me if ever, even for a single hour, i should consent to receive orders from that she-cowherd!" "be not all tempest and flame, brave gaucourt. remember that the bulk of the troops would then be under your immediate orders. joan will issue orders to you, but you can disregard them, you can cross and thwart all her plans of battle; you can cause well calculated delays in the movements of the troops; above all you could--well--manoeuvre in such a way as to have the crazy girl fall into the hands of the english. in short, it would lie with you, more than with us, to prevent her from winning her first battle." "at the first check that she meets," added the bishop of chartres insinuatingly to raoul of gaucourt, "the enthusiasm that she now excites will change into contempt. the people will feel ashamed of having allowed themselves to be duped by so clumsy an imposition. the revulsion against her will be immediate. if, contrary to all expectations--i should say certainty--the canonical council appointed by myself should declare joan truly inspired by god;--if the king then places her at the head of his troops--then, brave gaucourt, the loss of her first battle, brought on by your skilful manoeuvres, will deal a fatal blow to the adventuress! victorious, she would be the envoy of god; vanquished, she becomes the envoy of satan!--then we may proceed against her in regular form under the pretext of heresy and sorcery--then will the fagots that you are in such a hurry to set fire to soon be kindled to receive her. it depends upon you whether she shall be burned alive by us, or allowed to be taken by the english, who will execute her." "well," answered raoul of gaucourt meditatively, "let us suppose the she-cowherd orders a sally against the besiegers; the bridge is lowered; the bedeviled girl rushes out over it; a few of our men follow her;--i give the signal to retreat; my people hasten to re-enter the town; the bridge is raised--and the wench remains in the power of the enemy! is that it?" "yes; can we rely upon you?" "yes; i perceive the way, either by a false sally or some other manoeuvre, to settle the she-devil!" "and now," resumed the sire of la tremouille, "let us feel hopeful; our plot is well laid; our nets are skilfully spread. it will be impossible for the visionary to escape; either you, gaucourt, or you, worthy bishop, will prevent it. as to me, i shall not be idle. but first of all, holy bishop, is it not an established fact that a demon can not possess the body of a virgin?" "it is an unquestionable fact, according to the formula of exorcism--we shall attend to that." "now, then, joan claims to be a virgin. her fanatical and imbecile followers call her joan the maid. either the street-walker, indecently clad in man's clothes, is the concubine of john of novelpont, to judge by the interest he takes in her, or she is really chaste and a virgin. it shall be my part to prick the libertine curiosity of the king on the subject by proposing to him to assemble a council of matrons. such a council, presided over, let us suppose, by the king's mother-in-law, yolande of sicily, will be commissioned to ascertain whether joan is really a virgin. if she is none, the most violent suspicions of imposture and sorcery immediately rise against her. then she no longer is the alleged saint whom god has inspired, but an audacious cheat, a worthy companion of the easy wenches who follow the encampments. she will then be shamefully whipped, and then driven away, if not burned for a sorceress." "i am ready to accept your theory that she is a ribald," replied the bishop of chartres, "and, with you, i feel sure that john of novelpont, who is so fascinated with her, is her lover. nevertheless, if by accident she does not lie and is justified in allowing herself to be called the maid, and if it is solemnly established that she is still pure, would not that greatly redound to her advantage? would not then the presumption of her divine mission be strengthened? on the other hand, by not submitting joan to any such trial, the field remains free for suspicions, which it would then be an easy thing for us to fan; we could easily set calumny afloat." "your objection is serious," answered the sire of la tremouille. "nevertheless, just supposing the girl to be chaste, what must not be her shame at the thought of so humiliating an investigation! the more conscious she be of the chastity of her life, that they say has been irreproachable until now, all the more will the creature feel grieved and indignant at a suspicion that so outrages her honor! the chaster she is, all the more will she revolt at the shamefulness of the verification! she will scorn the proposition as an unbearable insult, and will refuse to appear before the council of matrons!--skilfully exploited, her refusal will turn against her." "upon the word of a soldier, the idea is ingenious and droll! i foresee that our wanton sire will himself want to preside over the council that is to do the examining!" "and yet, should joan submit to the trial, and come out triumphant, she will then have a great advantage over us." "no greater than if she is believed to be a maid upon her own word. the convocation of a council of matrons offers us two chances: if joan submits to the disgraceful examination she may be declared a strumpet; if she refuses, her refusal makes against her!" "there is nothing to answer to that," said raoul of gaucourt; "i adhere to the plan of a council of matrons to pass upon her virginity." "now, let us sum up and lay down our plan of conduct. first, to obtain from the king that a council of matrons be summoned to pass and publicly pronounce itself upon the maidenhood of our adventuress; secondly, in case she issues triumphant from that trial, to convoke a canonical council, instructed to put to the girl the most subtle, the hardest, the most perplexing theological questions, and to announce from her answers whether or not she is inspired by god; thirdly, and lastly, in the next to impossible event that this second examination also result in her favor, to manoeuvre in such manner that she lose her first battle and remain a prisoner in the hands of the english--one way or another she is bound to go down." at this moment the equerry of charles vii knocked at the door of the council hall, and entered to announce to the sire of la tremouille that the king demanded his minister's immediate presence. chapter ii. aloyse of castelnau. charles vii--the "gentle dauphin" of france and object of the fervent adoration of joan, who now for several days lay sequestered in the tower of coudray--soon tired of the interview to which he had summoned his minister, and sought recreation elsewhere. he found it in the company of his mistress, aloyse of castelnau. indolently stretched upon a cushion at her feet he chatted with her. frail and slight of stature, the prince, although barely twenty-three years of age, was pale, worn-out and unnerved by excesses. aloyse, on the other hand, in the full splendor of her beauty, soon found occasion to answer a joke of her royal lover on the subject of joan the maid. she said smiling: "fie, charles! fie, you libertine! to hold such language about an inspired virgin who wishes to restore to you the crown of france!" "if it is to be that way, the ways of the lord are strange and inscrutable, as our tonsured friends say. to have the crown and kingdom of france turn upon the maidenhood, upon the virginity of a cowherd!" "are you still at it?" responded aloyse, interrupting charles. "i guess your villainous thoughts regarding the poor girl." "i ask myself, how could the idea have germinated in the mind of that poor girl of restoring my crown to me!" "you display very little concern about your kingdom!" "on the contrary--i think a good deal of my crown. it is the cares of royalty that cause me to speak in that way, my beautiful mistress." "if the english take orleans, the key of touraine and poitou, and they then invade those provinces, what will then be left to you?" "you, my charmer! and if i must make the confession, it has often occurred to me that my great-grandfather, king john ii, of pious memory, must have recorded among the happy days of his life the one on which he lost the battle of poitiers--" "the day when your great-grandfather, taken prisoner by the english, was transported to their own country? you must be crazy, my dear charles!" "without any doubt, i am crazy; but crazy with love for you, my aloyse! but let us come back to king john, made prisoner at the battle of poitiers. he is taken to england. he is received with chivalrous courtesy and unheard-of magnificence. a sumptuous palace is assigned to him for prison, and he is invited out to exquisite banquets. the handsomest girls of england are charged to watch him. the forests that are at his disposal teem with game; the fields are vast; the rivers limpid. thus his time is divided between love, play, the table, fishing, hunting--until he dies of indigestion. while king john was thus peaceably enjoying life in england, what was his son doing, the unhappy charles v? driven out of paris by a vile populace that rose in rebellion at the voice of marcel, the unhappy charles the wise, as he was called, frightened out of his senses by the ferocities of the jacquerie, beset by the bustle of royalty, broken with the fatigues of war, ever on horseback, ever sleeping on the hard ground, and never sleeping with both eyes shut, living on poor fare and on poorer love, rushing hither and thither over hill and dale, was ever out of breath running after his crown! by the glories of easter! do you call that 'wisdom'?" "he at least had the glory of re-conquering his crown, and indulged the pleasure of executing his enemies." "oh, i well understand the happiness of revenge. i abominate those insolent parisians, those chasers of kings. if i had that accursed town in my power, i would order the most inveterate burgundians to be hanged. but i would be careful not to establish my residence there, out of fear of fresh seditions. charles v revenged himself; he reigned, but at the price of what anxieties, torments and incessant civil wars! while his father, king john, was all the while living happily in england, surrounded by abundance and love! to want this, to oppose that in matters of public concern, are intellectual labors that i leave to the sire of la tremouille and his fellows of the royal council to rack their brains over. without alarming myself over the future, my aloyse, i allow the current to carry me, rocked in your arms. whatever may happen, i laugh! long live love!" "oh, you do not speak like a king." "a plague upon royalty! a burning crown of thorns! i'd rather have your white hands weave me a chaplet of myrtle, and fill my cup. if they do, i would gladly see the debris of my throne crumble and vanish. when the english will have conquered the provinces that still are left to me, they will take care of me as they did of my predecessor, king john! so, then, long live wine, idleness and love! if, on the contrary, in his ill will towards me, the lord has stirred up this raging maid, who is obstinately set upon restoring to me the crown of my fathers with all its escort of uneasiness, bluster and troubles--let it be! let my fate be fulfilled! but, i swear to god, i shall budge not one step to insure the success of the warrior maid!" "then you have no faith in the inspiration of joan, the maid?" "i have faith in your pretty eyes, for the reason that they keep all their promises; and i have none in the shepherdess. were it not that i am daily beset with the outcry of people who have the royalty more at heart than i myself, i long ago would have sent her back to her muttons. but the sire of la tremouille himself inclines to yielding to these clamors. some insist on seeing in joan a divine instrument; others hold that in the desperate state of things we should try to profit by the influence that the maid may exert over the minds of the soldiers. i am, accordingly, compelled to receive her at court to-day. but the sire of la tremouille is of the opinion that a council of matrons should first decide whether the pretty girl really possesses the magic charm with the aid of which i am to reconquer my kingdom." "come, charles! a truce to your villainous jokes!" "if diana were your patron you could not be more intractable, my aloyse! i do not recognize you to-day." "ah, i have one more proof of how indolent you are, how cowardly and how neglectful of your own honor. how often have not i said to you: place yourself at the head of your troops, who are indignant at seeing the king refusing to share their hardships! take a bold resolve; don your cuirass and go to battle!" "a pest! my amazon, you speak at ease of the hardships and perils of war. i am no caesar--that much is certain!" "shameless heart! miserable coward!" "i wish to live to love you." "you make me blush with shame!" "you blush at being the mistress of the poor 'king of bourges' as i am called--at reigning over so sorry a kingdom! you would like to reign over the kingdom of all france!" "am i wrong in wishing that you should reign gloriously? i wish you were more ambitious." "oh, my beloved! would i, if i again were to become king of france, find the satin of your skin whiter and smoother? wine to taste better? or idleness more agreeable?" "but glory! glory!" "vanity! vanity! i never have envied any glory other than that of the great king solomon, of that valorous hero of six hundred concubines and more than four hundred legitimate wives! but unable to reach the heights of that amorous potentate, i content myself with aspiring after the destiny of king john, my great-grandfather." "shame upon you, charles! such sentiments are disgraceful, and will prevent a single captain from taking the field for you." "oh, those valiant captains who combat my enemies have no thought to my interests. they fight at the head of companies of mercenaries in order to pillage the populace and to recover their own seigniories that have fallen into the hands of the english." the belle aloyse was about to answer charles vii when george of la tremouille entered the royal apartment after repeatedly knocking at the door. the minister said: "sire, everything is ready for the reception of joan. we await your orders." "let us go and receive the maid! i greatly approve your idea of putting the inspired girl to the test, and finding out if she can pick me out among the courtiers, while trans will play the role of king. the comedy is to start." chapter iii. the test. animated by conflicting sentiments, the men and women of the court of charles vii, gathered in a gallery of the castle of chinon, awaited the arrival of joan the maid. some, and they were few, believed the girl inspired; most of the others regarded her either as a poor visionary, a docile instrument that might be turned to account by the heads of the state, or an adventuress whom her own audacity, coupled to the credulity of fools, was pushing forward. all, however, whatever their opinion concerning the mission that the peasant girl of domremy claimed for herself, saw in her a daughter of the rustic plebs, and asked themselves how the lord could have chosen his elect from such a low condition. splendidly dressed, the sire of trans sat on what looked like a throne--an elevated seat placed under a canopy at one end of the gallery. he was to simulate the king, while charles vii himself, mixing in the crowd of his favorite courtiers, was laughing in his sleeve, satisfied with the idea of the test that joan's sagacity was to be put to. joan presently entered, conducted by a chamberlain. she held her cap in her hand and was in man's attire--a short jacket, slashed hose and spurred boots. intimidated at first by the sight of the courtiers, joan quickly regained her self-possession; holding her head high and preserving a modest yet confident bearing, she stepped forward in the gallery. vaguely suspecting the ill-will of many of the seigneurs of the king's household, the girl scented a snare, and said to the chamberlain who escorted her: "do not deceive me, sir; take me to the dauphin of france."[49] the chamberlain motioned toward the sire of trans, who lolled ostentatiously on the raised and canopied seat at the extremity of the gallery. the mimic king was a man of large size, corpulent and of middle age. on her journey, joan had often interrogated the knight of novelpont on charles vii, his external appearance, his features. being thus informed that the prince was of a frail physique, pale complexion and short stature, and finding no point of resemblance between that portrait and the robustious appearance of the sire of trans, joan readily perceived that she was being trifled with. wounded to the heart by the fraud, the sign of insulting mistrust or of a joke unworthy of royalty, if charles was an accomplice in the game, joan turned back toward the chamberlain, and said, with indignation mantling her cheek: "you deceive me--him that you point out to me is not the king."[50] immediately noticing a few steps away from her a frail looking and pale young man of small stature, whose features accorded perfectly with the description that she preserved as a perpetual souvenir in her mind, joan walked straight towards the king and bent her knee before him, saying in a sweet and firm voice: "sir dauphin, the lord god sends me to you in his name to save you. place armed men at my command, and i shall raise the siege of orleans and drive the english from your kingdom. before a month is over i shall take you to rheims, where you will be crowned king of france."[51] some of the bystanders, convinced as they were that the peasant girl of domremy obeyed an inspiration, considered supernatural the sagacity that she had just displayed in recognizing charles vii from among the courtiers; they were all the more impressed by the language that she held to the king. a large number of others, attributing joan's penetration to a freak of accident, saw in her words only a ridiculous and foolish boast, and they suppressed with difficulty their jeering disdain at this daughter of the fields daring so brazenly to promise the king that she would clear his kingdom of the english, until then the vanquishers of the most renowned captains. charles fixed upon joan a defiant and libertine look that brought the blush to her cheeks, ordered her to rise, and said to her with an air of nonchalance and sarcasm that revealed mistrust in every word: "my poor child, we are thankful for your good intentions towards us and our kingdom. you promise us miraculously to drive away the english and to restore to us our crown. that is all very well. finally, you claim to be inspired by god--and on top of all, that you are a maid. before placing any faith in your promises we must first make sure that you are not possessed of an evil spirit and that you are virgin. on the latter head, your pretty face at least justifies doubt. in order to remove it the venerable yolande, queen of sicily and mother of my wife, will preside over a council of matrons that will be commissioned by us duly, authentically and notarially to verify your virginity.[52] after that, my pretty child, if you issue triumphant from the trial, we shall then have to establish whether you are really sent to us by god. to that end, an assembly of the most illustrious clerks in theology, convened in our town of poitiers, where our parliament is in session, will examine and interrogate you, and it will then declare, according to the answers that you make, whether you are inspired by god or possessed of the devil. you will admit, my little girl, that it would be insane to confide to you the command of our armed men before we have become convinced that god really inspires you--and, above all, that you are really a virgin." at these words, so full of indifference, of mistrust, and of insulting immodesty, which were received with lewd smiles by the surrounding courtiers, and that, moreover, were pronounced by the "gentle dauphin of france," whose misfortunes had so long been rending her heart, joan felt crushed, and her chastity and dignity revolted at the bare thought of the disgraceful and humiliating examination that her body was first to be submitted to by the orders of that very charles vii. a prey to bitter sorrow, for a moment, in accord with the expectations of the sire of la tremouille, who was the promotor of the unworthy plan, joan thought of renouncing her mission and abandoning the king to his fate. but it immediately occurred to the warm-hearted girl that not that indolent, ungrateful and debauched prince alone was concerned in her mission, but also gaul, for so many years the bleeding victim of the foreigners' rapacity. gaul's deliverance was at stake, gaul, that having drained the cup of suffering to the very dregs, had attracted the compassion of the lord! accordingly, strengthening her faith and her energy in the recollection of the mysterious voices that guided her, recalling the prophecies of merlin, confident in the military genius that she felt developing within her, and drawing from the consciousness of her own chastity and from the ardor of her love of country the necessary courage to resign herself to the ignominy that she was threatened with, yet anxious to make an effort to escape it, she raised to charles vii her eyes bathed in tears and said to him: "oh, sire! why not believe me and try me! i swear to you, i have come to you by the will of heaven!"[53] chapter iv. the hall of rabateau. upon her arrival at poitiers, where the parliament was then in session and where she was to undergo the two examinations--on her virginity and her orthodoxy--joan was placed in the house of master john rabateau, in charge of the latter's wife, a good and worthy woman whom joan charmed with her piety, her innocence and the sweetness of her disposition. joan shared her hostess's bed, and spent the first night weeping at the thought of the indecorous examination that she was to be subjected to the next day. the examination took place in the presence of queen yolande of sicily and several other dames, among whom was the wife of raoul of gaucourt. being an agent of the perfidious projects of george of la tremouille, the soldier had succeeded in securing a place for his own wife on the commission that was to inquire into the chastity of joan. he thought thereby to promote the chances of joan's conviction. he failed. the infamous investigation was held, and joan emerged triumphant from the disgraceful ordeal that deeply wounded her chaste and maidenly heart. more serious and more arduous was the second examination; it lasted longer; and was unnecessarily prolonged. a large number of royal councilors and members of parliament, assisted by several clerks in theology, among the latter of whom was brother seguin of the carmelite order and brother aimery of the preachers' order, and among the former of whom were masters eraut and francois garivel, proceeded at noon to the house of john rabateau, in order to conduct the interrogatories that were to be put to joan, who, always in her man's attire, awaited them and stood ready to answer them. the inquisition took place in a spacious apartment. in the center of the hall stood a table, around which the men appointed to determine whether or not joan the maid was possessed of an evil spirit took their seats. some of the inquisitors wore brown or black robes with black capes, others had on red robes lined with ermine. their aspect was threatening, derisive and severe. they were all carefully picked by the bishop of chartres, who joined them after they arrived at rabateau's house, and who presided in his quality of chancellor of france. the holy man, whose very soul was sold to george of la tremouille, saw with secret annoyance the purity of joan established by the council of matrons. though defeated there, the bishop relied upon being able so to disconcert the poor peasant girl by the imposing appearance of the learned and redoubtable tribunal, and so to confuse her with subtle and insidious questions on the most arduous possible of theological points, that she would compromise and convict herself with her own answers. several of the courtiers who had faith in the mission of the inspired young woman, followed her to poitiers in order to witness the interrogatory. they stood at one end of the hall. joan was brought in. she stepped forward, pale, sad and with eyes cast down. so delicate and proud was the girl's susceptibility that at the sight of the councilors and priests, all of them men informed upon the humiliating examination that she had undergone shortly before, joan, although pronounced pure, now felt as confused as if she had been pronounced impure. to so chaste a soul, to a soul of such elevation as joan's, the shadow of a suspicion, even if removed, becomes an irreparable insult. this notwithstanding, the maid controlled her feelings, she invoked the support of her good saints, and it seemed to her that she heard their mysterious voices softly murmur at her ear: "go, daughter of god! fear naught; the lord is with you. answer in all sincerity and bravely. you will issue triumphant from this new trial." the bishop of chartres motioned to joan to approach nearer to the table, and said to her in a grave, almost threatening voice: "joan, we have been sent by the king to examine and interrogate you. do not hope to impose upon us with your lies and falsifications." the interrogatory, being thus opened, proceeded as follows: joan--"i have never lied! i shall answer you. but you are learned clerks, while i know not a from b. i can say nothing to you but that i have a mission from god to raise the siege of orleans." brother seguin (harshly)--"do you pretend that the lord god sends you to the king? you can not be believed. holy writ forbids faith being attached to the words of people who claim to be inspired from above, unless they give a positive sign of the divinity of their mission. now, then, what sign can you give of yours? we want to know." joan--"the signs i shall give will be my acts.[54] you will then be able to judge whether they proceed from god." master eraut--"what acts do you mean?" joan--"those that i have to accomplish by the will of god." francois garivel--"well, tell us what acts those will be. you will have to give more definite answers." joan--"they are three." brother seguin--"which is the first?" joan--"the raising of the siege of orleans, after which i shall drive the english out of gaul." master eraut--"and the second?" joan--"i shall have the dauphin consecrated at rheims." brother seguin--"and the third?" joan--"i shall deliver paris to the king." despite their prejudice against joan and the ill will they entertained for the girl, whom they now saw for the first time, the members of the tribunal were struck no less by the maid's beauty and conduct than by the exactness of her answers, that bore an irresistible accent of conviction. the audience, composed mainly of france's partisans, among whom was john of novelpont, indicated by a murmur of approbation the increasingly favorable impression made upon them by the girl's answers. even some of the members of the tribunal seemed to begin to feel an interest in her. alarmed at these symptoms, the bishop of chartres addressed joan almost in a rage: "you promise to raise the siege of orleans, to drive the english out of gaul, to consecrate the king at rheims and to place paris in his hands? these are idle words! we refuse to believe you unless you give some sign to show that you are truly inspired by god, and chosen by him to accomplish these truly marvelous things." joan (impatiently)--"once more, i say to you, i have not come to poitiers to display signs! give me men-at-arms and take me to orleans. the siege will be speedily raised, and the english driven from the kingdom. that will be the sign of my mission. if you do not believe me, come and fight under me. you will then see whether, with the help of god, i fail to keep my promise. these will be my signs and my actions." master eraut--"your assurance is great! where do you get it from?" joan--"from my confidence in the voice of my dear saints. they advise and inspire me in the name of god." brother seguin (roughly)--"you speak of god. do you believe in him?" joan--"i believe in him more than you do, who can imagine such a thing possible as not to believe in him!" brother aimery (with a grotesque limousin accent)--"you say, joan, that voices advise you in the name of god? in what tongue do those voices speak to you?" joan (slightly smiling)--"in a better tongue than yours, sir."[55] the humorous and keen retort caused joan's partisans to laugh aloud, a hilarity in which several members of the tribunal shared. they now began to think that despite the lowliness of her condition, the cowherdess, as they called her, was no ordinary being. some of the members of the tribunal began to look upon her as inspired; others, of a less credulous turn of mind, thought to themselves that, thanks to her beauty, her brightness and her valiant resolution, she might, at the desperate state of things, actually become a valuable instrument in the war. in short, it occurred to them that to declare joan possessed of a demon, and thus reject the unexpected help that she brought the king would be to expose themselves to serious reproaches from the partisans of joan who were witnesses to the interrogation, and that the reproaches would soon be taken up and repeated by public clamor. the bishop of chartres, the accomplice of the sire of la tremouille and of gaucourt, was not slow to scent the disposition of the tribunal. in a towering passion he cried to his fellow judges: "messires, the holy canons forbid us to attach faith to the words of this girl; and the holy canons are our guide!" joan (proudly raising her head)--"and i tell you that the book of the lord which inspires me is worth more than yours! in that book no priest, however learned he may be, is able to read!" master eraut--"religion forbids women to wear male attire under pain of mortal sin. why did you put it on? who authorized you to?" joan--"i am compelled to assume male attire, seeing i am to battle with men to the end of my mission. evil thoughts will thus be removed from their minds. that is the reason for my disguise." francois garivel--"and so you, a woman, are not afraid of shedding blood in battle?" joan (with angelic sweetness)--"may god preserve me from shedding blood! i have a horror of blood! i wish to kill nobody; i shall carry in battle only a staff or a standard, to guide the armed men. i shall leave my sword in its scabbard." master eraut--"suppose our assembly declares to the king our sire that, with a safe conscience, he may entrust you with armed men to enable you to undertake the raising of the siege of orleans, what means would you adopt to that end?" joan--"to the end of avoiding, if it is possible, any further shedding of blood, i shall first summon the english, in the name of god who sends me, to raise the siege of orleans and return to their country; if they refuse obedience to my letter, i shall march against them at the head of the royal army, and with the help of heaven, i shall drive them out of gaul!" bishop of chartres (disdainfully)--"you would write to the english, and you have just told us you do, not know a from b?" joan--"i do not know how to write, but i could dictate, seigneur bishop." bishop of chartres--"i take you at your word. here are pens and a parchment. i shall be your secretary. let us see! dictate to me the letter to the english. upon my faith, its style will be singular!" a deep silence ensued. triumphantly the bishop took up a pen, feeling sure he had laid a dangerous trap for the poor peasant girl, incapable, as he thought, of dictating a letter equal to the occasion. even the partisans of joan, although greatly incensed at the manifest ill will of the bishop towards her, feared to see her succumb at this new trial. the minds of all were on tenter-hooks. bishop of chartres (ironically)--"come, now, joan, here i am ready to write under your dictation." joan--"write, sir." and the maid dictated the following letter with a mild but firm voice: "in the name of jesus and mary. "king of england, submit to the kingdom of heaven, and place in the hands of joan the keys of all the towns that you have forced. she comes sent by god to reclaim those towns in the name of charles. she is ready to grant you peace if you are willing to leave france. "king of england, if you do not do as i request you, then i, joan, chief of war, will everywhere smite your men; i shall drive them out, whether they will or no. if they surrender at mercy, i shall grant them mercy; if not, i shall do them so much damage that nothing like it will have been seen in france for a thousand years back. what is here said will be done. "you, archers and other companions in arms who are before orleans, be gone, by the lord's command, back to england, your own country. if not, fear joan. you will remember your defeat! you shall not keep france! france will belong to the king to whom god gave the kingdom!" joan broke off her dictation, and addressing herself to the bishop of chartres, who was stupefied at the virile simplicity of the letter, that, despite himself, he had been compelled to write, she said: "sir, what are the names of the english captains?" bishop of chartres--"the count of suffolk, lord talbot and the knight thomas of escall, lieutenants of the duke of bedford, regent for the king of england." joan--"write, sir! "count of suffolk, lord talbot, knight thomas of escall, all of you lieutenants of the duke of bedford, who styles himself regent of the kingdom of france for the king of england, make answer! will you raise the siege of orleans? will you cease the great cruelty that you heap upon the poor people of the country of france? if you refuse the peace that joan demands of you, you will preserve a sad remembrance of your rout. the most brilliant feats of arms ever accomplished by the french in christendom will be seen. we shall then see who will prevail, you--or heaven! "written on tuesday of the great week of easter, of the year 1429."[56] joan (addressing the bishop of chartres after having dictated)--"sir, sign for me, if you please, my name at the bottom of this letter. i shall make my cross in god beside the signature, seeing i cannot write, and write the following address on the parchment: 'to the duke of bedford who styles himself regent of the kingdom of france for the king of england." the partisans of joan, the members of the tribunal, even the bishop of chartres could hardly believe the evidence of their own senses: a poor rustic girl, only recently arrived from the heart of lorraine, to hold in that letter a language that was at once so courteous, so dignified and so sensible--it bordered on a miracle. aye, a miracle of courage! a miracle of sense! a miracle of patriotism!--readily accomplished by joan, thanks to her superior native intelligence and her confidence in her own military genius, of which she now began to be conscious; thanks to her faith in the heavenly support promised to her by her mysterious voices; finally, thanks to her firm resolve to act bravely obedient to the proverb that she delighted in repeating--_help yourself, and heaven will help you!_ much to the secret anger of the bishop of chartres, the declaration that the tribunal would make was no longer doubtful. joan's triumph in the hall of rabateau was complete. the tribunal declared that, joan's virginity having been established, a demon could possess neither her body nor her soul; that she seemed inspired of god; and that the enormity of the public misfortunes justified the king to avail himself with a clean conscience of the unexpected and seemingly providential help. despite his own shameful indolence, despite the opposition of the sire george of la tremouille, and fearing to exasperate public opinion, that was waxing ever more pronouncedly in favor of joan, charles vii found himself compelled to accept the aid of the peasant girl of domremy; whom, however, he cursed and swore at in secret. inclined now to believe joan inspired, the slothful king fretted at the thought of the trials and cares that the threatened vigorous renewal of hostilities against the english was to inflict upon him. he feared to see himself compelled by the force of circumstances to show himself at the head of his troops, to ride up hills and down dales, to endure fatigue, to face danger. but he was compelled to yield to the current of enthusiasm produced by the promises of deliverance made by joan the maid. it was decided that joan was to proceed to blois, and thence to orleans, where she was to confer with dunois, lahire, xaintrailles and other renowned captains upon the raising of the siege of orleans. an equerry named daulon was attached to the service of the maid, together with a young page of fifteen named imerguet. she was given battle horses, and servants to attend to her needs. a special suit of armor was ordered for her. in remembrance of the prediction of merlin, she demanded that the armor be white, as also one of her chargers, her pennon and her standard, on the latter of which she ordered two blue-winged angels to be painted, holding in their hands the stalk of a lily in blossom. furious at not being able to catch joan in the snares that they had spread for her, george of la tremouille and his two accomplices, the bishop of chartres and the sire of gaucourt, pursued their darksome plots with increased intensity. it was agreed among them, and in line with their previously laid plans, that gaucourt was to demand of charles vii the command of the town of orleans. the three intriguers expected by that means to block the maid's movements, ruin her military operations, and expose her to a first check that would forever confound her, or to allow her to be captured by the english in some sally when she was to be left in the lurch. on thursday the 28th of april, 1429, joan darc left chinon for blois, where she was to join dunois and marshal retz, before proceeding to orleans. the peasant girl, now fast maturing into a warrior, started on the journey, her mind occupied with recollections of the child's combat between the urchins of maxey and of domremy, a battle where she had for the first time vaguely felt her vocation for war, and also recalling the passage in the prophecy where the gallic bard declared: "i see an angel with wings of azure and dazzling with light. he holds in his hands a royal crown. i see a steed of battle as white as snow- i see an armor of battle as brilliant as silver.- for whom is that crown, that steed, that armor? gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks.- for whom that crown, that steed, that armor? oh, how much blood! it spouts up, it flows in torrents! oh, how much blood do i see! it is a lake, it is a sea of blood! it steams; its vapor rises--rises like an autumn mist to heaven, where the thunder peals and where the lightning flashes. athwart those peals of thunder, those flashes of lightning, that crimson mist, i see a martial virgin. white is her armor and white is her steed. she battles--she battles--she battles still in the midst of a forest of lances. and seems to be riding on the backs of the archers. the steed, as white as snow, was for the martial virgin. for her was the armor of battle as brilliant as silver. but for whom the royal crown? gaul, lost by a woman, will be saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks." part iii. orleans. chapter i. friday, april 29, 1429. in one week the martial maid, inspired by the love for her people and country, vanquished the english, triumphant since the battle of poitiers, more than seventy years before, when john ii and the coward nobility of france took to their heels. in one week the brave daughter of the people accomplished what for over seventy years had proved beyond the strength of the most illustrious captains. the week has been called the week of joan darc. night had set in, but it was a balmy night of spring, and anyone on the evening of april 29, 1429, who stood on the street leading to the banier gate, one of the gates of the town of orleans, would have thought it was bright day. all the windows, at which the inhabitants crowded, were illuminated with lamps. to the light of these was joined that of torches with which a large number of armed bourgeois and artisans had furnished themselves and were ranged in a double row along the full length of the thoroughfare for the purpose of keeping back the crowd. the courage of these town soldiers had been severely tested by the perils of the siege which they had long sustained single handed, having at first refused to admit into the city the companies of soldiers that consisted of insolent, thievish and ferocious mercenaries. however, after many a brave attempt, and seeing their numbers reduced from day to day under the shot and fire of the besiegers, the townsmen of orleans had found themselves compelled to accept and support the mercenary bands of lahire, of dunois, of xaintrailles and of other professional captains, who hired themselves and their men for cash to whomsoever paid for their services. they were dangerous auxiliaries, ever drawing in their train a mob of dissolute women who were themselves no less thievish than the english. accordingly, often had the councilmen of orleans--resolute citizens, who bravely led their militia to the ramparts when these were assailed, or outside of the city when they made a sally--had lively disputes with the captains on the score of the misconduct of their men, or of their timidity in battle. these men, to whom arms was a trade, not having as the inhabitants themselves, families, property, their own hearths, to defend, were not particularly anxious about the speedy raising of the siege, well quartered and paid as they were by the town. it was, accordingly, with inexpressible impatience that the people of orleans awaited the arrival of joan darc. they relied upon her help to drive the english from their redoubts, and to free themselves from the heavy burden of the french captains. a compact crowd of men, women and children, held back by a military cordon, filled the two sides of the thoroughfare, at the end of which the residence of master james boucher, the treasurer, was situated, and was even more brilliantly illuminated than any other. presently the hum of the multitude was silenced by the loud and rapid peals from the belfry of the town hall, together with the roar of artillery, announcing the arrival of the maid. the faces of the citizens, until recently sad and somber, now breathed joy and hope. all shared and expressed the opinion that the virgin girl of lorraine, prophesied by merlin, was coming to deliver orleans. she was announced to be of divinely dazzling beauty, brave and instinct with a military genius that struck even dunois, lahire and xaintrailles, all of them renowned captains at the time defending the city for pay, when on the previous day they met her at blois. two of their equerries, who had ridden ahead into orleans during the day, reported the marvel, which spread from mouth to mouth, and they announced the entry of joan darc for that evening. everywhere on her passage from chinon to blois, the equerries added, her march had been a continuous ovation, in which she was greeted by the joyful cries of the peasants, who for so long a time had been exposed to the ravages of the enemy, and was acclaimed by them as their redeeming angel sent by god. these, and similar accounts that were rife, revived the confidence of the townsmen. the crowd was especially dense in the neighborhood of the residence of master james boucher, where the heroine was to lodge. nine o'clock struck from the tower of the church of st. croix. almost at the same instant the sound of trumpets was heard at a distance. the music approached slowly, and presently the brilliant light of the torches revealed a cavalcade riding in. the little page imerguet and the equerry daulon marched ahead, the one carrying the pennon, the other the white standard of the warrior maid, on which two azure-winged angels were painted holding in their hand a stalk of lilies in blossom. behind them followed joan darc, mounted on her white charger, caparisoned in blue, while she herself was cased in a light plate armor of iron that resembled pale silver--a complete suit, leg-pieces, thigh-pieces, and coat of mail, arm-pieces and a rounded breast-plate that protected her virginal bosom. the visor of her casque, wholly raised, exposed her sweet and handsome face, set off by her black hair cut round at the neck. profoundly moved by the acclamations that the good people of orleans greeted her with, and which she received as a homage to her saints, a tear was seen to roll down from her large black eyes, adding to their brilliancy. already familiarized with the handling of a horse, she elegantly guided her mount with one hand, while with the other she held a little white baton, the only weapon that, in her horror of blood, she wished to use in leading the soldiers to battle. behind her rode dunois, accoutered in a brilliant suit of armor, ornamented in gold; behind these came, mixed among the councilmen of orleans, marshal retz, lahire, xaintrailles and other captains. among the latter was the sire of gaucourt, leading a reinforcement of royal troops to orleans and invested with the command of the town. with a sinister look, and hatred in his heart, the sire meditated dark schemes. equerries and bourgeois deputations from the town brought up the rear of the train, which soon was pressed upon from all sides by so compact a mass that for a moment joan darc's steed could not move a step. enraptured at her beauty and at her carriage at once so modest and yet so martial, men, women and children contemplated her with delirious joy and covered her with blessings. some were even carried to the point of wishing to kiss her spurred boots half covered with the scales of her leg-pieces. as much touched as confused, she said naïvely to dunois, turning towards him: "indeed, i will not have the courage to protect myself against these demonstrations, if god does not himself protect me."[57] at that moment one of the militiamen who held a torch approached the maid so closely in order to obtain a better view of her that he involuntarily set fire to the fringe of the standard borne by daulon. fearing the flag was in danger, joan uttered a cry of fright, clapped the spurs to her horse before which the crowd rolled back, and approaching the equerry at a bound seized the burning banner, smothered the flames between her gauntlets and then gracefully waved it over her casque,[58] as if to reassure the people of orleans, who might construe the accident into an evil omen. such was the presence of mind and the horsemanship displayed by joan on the occasion that the enraptured crowd broke out into redoubled acclamations. even the mercenaries, who, not being on guard that night upon the ramparts, had been able to join the crowd, saw in the maid an angel of war and felt stronger; like the archer of vaucouleurs, it seemed to them that, led to battle by such a charming captain, they were bound to vanquish the enemy and avenge their previous defeats. dunois, lahire, xaintrailles, marshal retz, all of them experienced captains, noticed the exaltation of their mercenaries, who but the day before seemed wholly discouraged; while the sire of gaucourt, perceiving the to him unexpected influence that the maid exercised, not upon the orleans militiamen merely, but upon the rough soldiers themselves, grew ever somberer and more secretly enraged. joan was slowly advancing through a surging mass of admiring humanity towards the house of james boucher, when the cavalcade was arrested for a moment by a detachment of armed men that issued from one of the side streets. they were leading two english prisoners, and were headed by a large-sized man of jovial and resolute mien. the leader of the squad was a lorrainian by birth, who had long lived in orleans and was called master john. he had well earned the reputation of being the best culverin-cannonier of the town. his two enormous bomb-throwers, which he had christened "riflard" and "montargis," and which, planted on the near side of the bridge on the redoubt of belle-croix, ejected unerring shot, caused great damage to the english. he was feared and abhorred by them. our merry cannonier was not ignorant of their hatred, his cannons seemed to be the objective point for the best aimed bolts of the enemy's archers. he, accordingly, at times amused himself by feigning to be shot dead, suddenly dropping down beside one of his culverins. on such occasions his fellow townsmen engaged at the cannons would raise him and carry him away with demonstrations of great sorrow, that were echoed by the english with counter-demonstrations of joy. but regularly on the morrow they saw again master john, in happier trim than ever,[59] and ever more accurate and telling with the shot from riflard and montargis. a few days later he would again repeat the comedy of death and the miracle of resurrection. it was this jolly customer who headed the squad that was leading the two prisoners to jail. at the sight of the warrior maid, he drew near her, contemplated her for a moment in rapt admiration, and reaching to her his heavy gloved hand said with considerable pride: "brave maid, here is a countryman of yours, born like yourself in lorraine; and he is at your service, together with riflard and montargis, his two heavy cannons." dunois leaned over towards joan and said to her in a low voice: "this worthy fellow is master john, the ablest and most daring cannonier in the place. he is, moreover, very expert in all things that concern the siege of a town." "i am happy to find here a countryman," said the maid, smiling and cordially stretching out her gauntleted hand to the cannonier. "i shall to-morrow morning see how you manoeuvre riflard and montargis. we shall together examine the entrenchments of the enemy, you shall be my chief of artillery, and we shall drive the english away with shot of cannon--and the help of god!" "countrywoman," cried master john in a transport of delight, "my cannons shall need but to look at you, and they will go off of themselves, and their balls will fly straight at the english." the cannonier was saying these words when joan heard a cry of pain, and from the back of her horse she saw one of the two english prisoners drop on his back, bleeding, with his scalp cut open by the blow of a pike that a mercenary had dealt upon his head, saying: "look well at joan the maid. look at her, you dog of an englishman.[60] as sure as i have killed you, she will thrust your breed out of france!" at the sight of the flowing blood, that she had a horror of, the warrior maid grew pale; with a movement more rapid than thought, and pained at the soldier's brutality, she leaped from her horse, pressed her way to the englishman, knelt down beside him, and raising the unhappy man's head, called with tears in her eyes to the surrounding militiamen: "give him grace; the prisoner is unarmed--come to his help."[60a] at this compassionate appeal, several women, moved with pity, came to the wounded man, tore up their handkerchiefs and bound up his gash, while the warrior maid, still on her knees, held up the englishman's head. the wounded man recovered consciousness for a moment, and at the sight of the young girl's handsome face, instinct with pity, he joined his two hands in adoration and wept. "come, poor soldier; you need not fear. you shall not be hurt," said joan to him, rising, and she put her foot into the stirrup that her little page imerguet presented to her. "daughter of god, you are a saint!" cried a young woman with exaltation at the act of charity that she had just witnessed, and throwing herself upon her knees before the warrior maid at the moment that the latter was about to leap upon her horse she added: "i beseech you, deign to touch my ring!" saying which she raised her hand up to joan. "blessed by you, i shall preserve the jewel as a sacred relic." "i am no saint," answered the warrior maid with an ingenuous smile. "as for your ring, touch it yourself. you are no doubt a good and worthy woman; your touch will be as good as mine."[61] so saying, joan remounted her horse, to be saluted anew by the acclamations of the throng; even the most hardened soldiers were touched by the sentiments of pity that she had displayed towards an unarmed enemy. so far from taxing her with weakness, they admired the goodness of her heart and her generosity. master john frantically cheered his countrywoman, and the cries of "good luck, joan!" "good luck to the liberator of orleans!" resounded like the roll of thunder. almost carried off its feet by the crowding mass of people, joan's horse finally arrived with its inspired rider before the house of master james boucher. standing at the threshold of his door with his wife and his daughter madeleine near him, master james boucher awaited his young guest, and led her, together with the councilmen and captains, into a large hall where a sumptuous supper was prepared for the brilliant train. timid and reserved, the maid said to master boucher: "i thank you, sir, but i shall not take supper. if your daughter will be kind enough to show me to the room where i am to sleep, and to help me take off my armor, i would be grateful to her. all i wish, sir, is a little bread moistened in water and wine--that is all i shall need; i shall immediately go to sleep. i wish to be awakened at early morning, to inspect the entrenchments with master john the cannonier."[62] according to her wishes, the maid retired, master boucher's daughter madeleine showing her to her room. at first seized with fear of the inspired maid, madeleine was soon so completely captivated by her sweetness and the affability of her words, that she naïvely offered to share her room during her sojourn in orleans. joan accepted the offer with gladness, happy at finding a companion that pleased her so well madeleine gently helped her to disarm and brought her her refection. just before lying down to sleep joan said to her: "now that i have met you and your parents, madeleine, i feel all the happier that god has sent me to deliver the good town of orleans."[63] the maid knelt down at the head of her bed, did her devotions for the night, invoked her two patron saints, implored them with a sigh to bestow their blessings upon her mother, her father and her brothers, and was soon plunged in peaceful sleep, while madeleine long remained awake, contemplating the sweet heroine in silent admiration. chapter ii. saturday, april 30, 1429. just before daybreak, and punctual to his appointment made the previous evening, master john the cannonier was at james boucher's door. immediately afterwards, joan opened the window of her room, which was on the first floor, and looked out upon the street which still was dark. she called down: "oh, master john, are you there?" "yes, my brave countrywoman," answered the lorrainian, "i have been waiting for you." joan soon left the house and joined the cannonier. she had not resumed her full armor of battle, but had merely put on a light iron coat of mail which she wore under her coat. a hood took the place of her casque. her baton was in her hand, and on her shoulder was flung a short mantle in which she meant to wrap herself on her return, in order to prevent being recognized and thus becoming the object of popular ovations. she asked master john to make with her the rounds of the town outside the ramparts, in order to inform herself on the strength of the enemy's entrenchments. joan departed with her guide, traversed the still deserted streets, and issuing by the banier gate, started on her excursion. twelve formidable redoubts, called "bastilles," surrounded the town from the side of the beauce and the side of the sologne districts, and only slightly beyond range of the town's cannon. the most considerable of these hostile fortifications were the bastille of st. laurence to the west, of st. pouaire to the north, of st. loup to the east, and of st. privé, of the augustinians and of st. john-le-blanc to the south and on the other side of the loire. furthermore, and opposite to the head of the bridge, which, on the side of the besieged, was protected by a fortified earthwork, the english had raised a formidable castle, flanked with frame towers, called by them "tournelles." all these redoubts, manned with large garrisons, were surrounded with wide and deep moats, besides a belt of palisades planted at the foot of thick earthworks that were crowned with platforms on which were placed culverins and ballistas intended to hurl bolts into the town or upon its sallying forces. the bastilles, raised at distances of from two to three hundred fathoms from each other, completely encircled the town, and cut it off from the roads and the upper river. joan darc minutely questioned the cannonier upon the manner in which the english fought in the redoubts, which she frequently approached with tranquil audacity in order to be able to judge by herself of the besiegers' means of defence. during the examination, she came near being struck by a volley of bolts darted at her from the bastille of st. laurence. she was in no wise frightened, but only smiled at the sight of the projectiles that fell a few paces short of her. joan, astonished the cannonier no less by her calmness and bravery than by the relevancy of her observations. her every word revealed surprising military aptitude, and a quick and accurate eye. among other things, she said to the cannonier, after having inquired from him what were the tactics hitherto pursued by the besieged, that it seemed to her the better way was, not to attack all the redoubts at once in general sallies as had hitherto been done, but to concentrate all the troops upon one point, and in that manner attack the bastilles one after another with the certainty of carrying them, seeing that they could hold but a limited number of defenders, while in the open field nothing could limit the number of the assailants; their combined mass could be three and four times superior to the garrison of each redoubt taken separately. finally, by a number of other observations joan revealed the extraordinary intuition that has ever been the mark of great captains. more and more astonished at such a martial instinct, the cannonier cried: "well, countrywoman, in what book did you learn all that?" "in the book that our lord god inspires me to read. that book is ever open before me," naïvely answered joan.[64] while the maid was thus examining the enemy's works and was meditating upon and maturing her plan of campaign, the sire of gaucourt, who had been appointed chief of the royal troops sent to orleans, was meditating upon and maturing the dark plot of treason long before hatched by him together with his two accomplices of the royal council, the sire of la tremouille and the bishop of chartres. early that morning gaucourt visited the most influential captains. envy and malice supplied the man's lack of acumen. moreover, carefully instructed by la tremouille, he appealed to the worst passions of these men of the sword. he reminded them of the frantic enthusiasm with which joan was received by the populace, by the town militia, even by their own mercenaries. did not they, celebrated warriors, feel humiliated by the triumph of the peasant girl, of that cowherdess? were not the insensate expectations pinned upon the visionary girl an insult to their fame? did they not feel wounded and angry at the thought that their companies until then dejected and discouraged, seemed inflamed with ardor at the bare sight of the seventeen-year-old girl, even before she had delivered her first battle? the insidious words found an echo in the perverse spirits of several of the captains. as has often been seen before and will be seen again in the future with people of the military trade, several of the captains gave a willing ear to the perfidious insinuations of gaucourt, and agreed, if not openly to refuse their co-operation with the maid, at least to thwart her designs, to prevent their successful execution, and ever to oppose her in the councils of war. dunois and lahire were the only ones who thought it would be "good policy" to profit by the exaltation that the maid inspired in the people and even in the mercenaries; they were of the opinion that she should be seconded if she actually gave evidence of military genius. these views notwithstanding, the majority of the captains adhered to their ill will for the young girl of domremy, of whom they were vilely jealous. gaucourt augured well for his black designs without, however, as yet daring fully to reveal to his ready accomplices his infamous machination--to cause the maid to fall into the hands of the english by leaving her in the lurch at a sally and raising the draw-bridge behind her--as, indeed, was one day to happen. back from her long excursion around the ramparts of orleans in the company of master john, joan said to gaucourt and other chiefs who called upon her, that she had consulted her voices and they advised a simultaneous attack on the next day, sunday, by all the combined forces of the army upon the bastille of the tournelles to the end of first of all freeing the head of the orleans bridge, opening the roads from the side of beauce for the entry of provisions, which the town began to run short of, and facilitating the entrance of the reinforcements that had been ordered from tours and blois. the captains crossed themselves at hearing the maid, a daughter of god, propose such an enormity--to fight on sunday! would that not, they remonstrated with joan, be to inaugurate her arms with a sacrilege? as to themselves, sooner should their hands shrivel than draw their swords on that day, a day devoted to rest and prayer! in vain did joan cry: "oh, sirs! he prays who fights for the welfare of gaul!" the captains remained unshakable in their orthodoxy on the pious observance of the dominical rest. much against her will joan saw herself compelled to postpone the plan for monday, but desirous of turning the postponement to account and avoiding all she could the effusion of blood that she had such a horror of, she requested her equerry daulon to write at her dictation another and short letter to the english, the first one having been forwarded to them from blois by a herald. the missive having been written and signed with her name, joan attached to it her "cross in god" in the fashion of a counter-sign, placed the parchment in her leathern girdle-pouch and invited the captains to accompany her to the ramparts on the loire that faced the bastille of the tournelles, occupied by the english. the warrior maid wished once more to examine the important position, preparatorily to the monday attack. the request was complied with, and several captains accompanied her, in the midst of a large concourse of people, of soldiers and of mercenaries, no less enthusiastic than the previous evening, to the gate of the little castle on the river. joan advanced to the edge of the boulevard of the bridge, so near to the bastille of the tournelles, that the voice of the besieged could be heard by the besiegers. a large number of the orleans militiamen were on guard upon the embattled platform of their own entrenchment which was equipped with ballistas and other engines of war used in hurling bolts and large stones. transported with joy at the sight of the maid in their midst, the good people surrounded her and inquired with martial ardor and impatience: "when will the assault be?" she promised it for monday, and ordered them to raise a white flag in order to propose a truce of an hour to the english at the tournelles, to whom she desired to speak. the flag of peace rose in the air, the besiegers answered with a like signal that they accepted a momentary suspension of hostilities, and several of them appeared at the embrasures of their bastille, not yet aware of joan's proximity. the maid picked out a large arrow from one of the quivers that hung from each of the ballistas, pushed the iron through the parchment on which the missive that she had brought with her was written, and having thus securely fastened it, she gave the arrow to one of the cannoniers with the request to hurl it into the tournelles. stepping upon the parapet, joan called out to the english: "stand aside that you may not be wounded by the arrow on which i have fastened the letter that i have written to you. read it!" the ballista was set in motion; the arrow whizzed through the air and carried into the enemy's encampment the missive of joan, which ran as follows: all of you, men of england, who have no rights over the kingdom of france:- i, joan, call upon you by the order of god, to abandon your bastilles and to return to your own country. if not i shall do you such damage that you will eternally remember it. this is the second time that i write to you. i shall write no more.--joan.[65] informed by their spies of the incredible and menacing enthusiasm created in orleans by the arrival of the maid, the english soldiers began to believe her inspired of the devil, nor could the dangerous superstition any longer be easily combated by their chiefs. learning from her missive that the maid was now so near them, the more timid grew pale, while others uttered furious imprecations. one of the most rabid among the latter, an english captain of wide repute named gladescal, a man of colossal size and armed cap-a-pie, still held the maid's letter in his hand, and shook his fist at her, while he foamed at the mouth with rage. "you and your men," cried out joan to them in her kind and serious voice, "surrender yourselves, every man, at mercy. your lives will be spared on condition that you agree to return to your own country."[66] at these words of peace, gladescal and his men answered with a new explosion of vituperation. the stentorian voice of gladescal was heard above all the others: "i shall have you roasted, you bedeviled witch!" "if you catch me!" joan answered. "but i, if i overcome you, and i certainly shall, with the aid of god, i shall cast you far away from france, you and yours; i shall thump you out of the land, seeing that you refuse to surrender at mercy.[67] god battles on our side." "go back to your cows, vile serf!" yelled gladescal. "get you gone, you ribald and triple fraud!" "yes, yes!" repeated the english amidst hisses and jeers. "go back and tend your cows! go back, infernal fraud and strumpet!"[68] the unworthy and obscene insults hurled at her in the presence of so many of her people fell short of the warrior maid, whose conscience was free from any blot. but they deeply wounded her delicate sense of modesty, the most salient feature of her character; she wept.[69] several of the captains who accompanied joan smiled maliciously, and hoped that the invectives of the english would smirch the girl's character in the opinion of the orleans militiamen and of the soldiers who had witnessed the insult. it was otherwise. moved by her virginal beauty, her celestial appearance, her touching tears, and above all, affected by the religious respect that her person inspired in all who approached her, they could not repress their indignation. inflamed with rage, they rushed to the battlements and in turn shook their fists at the english, returning insult for insult, and crying with fervor: "good luck! good luck to joan the maid!" "we shall cut you to pieces, you vagabonds and english swine!" "joan will throw you far from here!" some of the cannoniers even forgot the truce, and set the loaded ballistas in motion, to which the enemy replied with a volley of arrows. joan, unsuspecting of danger, did not budge from the parapet, and seemed to defy death with serenity. two men were wounded near her. covering her with their bodies, the militiamen forced her to descend from the parapet, and implored her to spare herself for the great assault on monday. on the other hand, most of the english attributed her escape from the murderous discharge of their arrows to a supernatural interposition, and their superstitious fears received fresh increment. they feared the devil and his sorceries. chapter iii. sunday, may 1, 1429. unable to overcome the opposition of the captains to attacking the enemy on sunday morning, joan again proceeded at break of day and in the company of john the cannonier to examine the enemy's position. master john conceived a singular attachment for the martial maid, and he later accompanied her in almost all her engagements, being charged by her with the command of the artillery. due to his extensive experience at the siege of orleans, the cannonier had acquired profound skill in matters connected with the attack and defence of fortifications. on her part, endowed with unusual perspicacity in martial matters, joan derived in a short time great advantage from the practical knowledge of master john. back from her sunday morning excursion, the maid proceeded to the church of st. croix, where she attended high mass and took the communion in the presence of a vast concourse of people, upon all of whom the maid's modesty and piety left a profound impression. upon her return to the house of james boucher, joan entertained herself in the afternoon by joining in the family sewing, and she astonished not a little both madeleine and her mother, who were charmed to see the warrior maid, from whom the deliverance of the town and even the kingdom was expected, display so much skill, ingenuity and familiarity in the labors of her own sex. more than once was she obliged to interrupt the sewing at which she was engaged and show herself at one of the casements in response to the clamors of the admiring crowds that pressed before the treasurer's house. towards evening, the captains who were hostile to joan either from jealousy or any other cause, held a meeting and decided that the projected monday attack should not take place. it was absolutely necessary, they claimed, to await a reinforcement that marshal st. sever was bringing from blois and that was expected to attempt an entry during the night of tuesday. this further postponement, of which joan was notified by one of the captains, afflicted her profoundly. guided by her good judgment, joan considered the delays disastrous; they allowed the ardor of the troops to cool off after it had been rekindled by her presence, and gave the english time to recover from their dread, because, thrown into increasing consternation by the reports that they received concerning the maid, the english had not, since her arrival, dared to quit their bastilles to skirmish against the town. but compelled to yield to the will of the captains, whom to oppose had not yet occurred to her, joan could only weep at the further delay. but presently the scales began to drop from her eyes. reflection showed her that the delays were intentional, and her voices, the echoes of her sentiments and her thoughts, said to her: "they are deceiving you--the captains treasonably seek to oppose the will of heaven that you deliver orleans and set gaul free. courage. god protects you. rely only upon yourself for the fulfilment of the mission that he has entrusted to you." chapter iv. monday, may 2, 1429. strengthened by her "voices," joan sent her equerry, daulon, early in the morning to convoke the captains for noon at the house of her host. most of them responded to the call. when they were assembled, the virgin warrior, nowise intimidated, declared to them with mildness but with firmness, that if on the next day, tuesday, they did not in concert with her definitely arrange a plan of attack for wednesday morning, she would then, without any further delay, mount her horse, raise her standard and, preceded by her equerry sounding the trumpet call and her page carrying her pennon, traverse the streets of the town and call to arms the good townsmen of orleans, and the soldiers also; and that she alone would lead them to battle, certain of victory with the aid of god. the maid's resolute language and the fear of seeing her carry out her threat had their effect upon the captains. several signs of popular dissatisfaction had manifested themselves on the inexplicable delay in using the unexpected help that joan had brought from heaven. pointing with becoming dignity to the numberless proofs that they had given of their bravery and of their devotion to the public cause, the councilmen complained bitterly of being ignored, in the councils where the fate of the town was decided upon; and no less than joan they condemned the fatal, perhaps irreparable, delays of the captains. yielding despite themselves to the pressure of public opinion, the captains promised the maid to meet the next day and decide jointly with her upon a plan of battle. without the consciousness of her military genius, that every day rose mightier within her; without her invincible patriotism; without her settled faith in divine help, joan would before now have renounced the painful and glorious task that she had set to herself. the indolence and craven egotism of charles vii, his insulting doubts concerning her character, the infamous physical examination that she was forced to undergo, the ill will of the captains towards her since her arrival in orleans, had profoundly grieved her simple and loyal spirit. but determined to deliver gaul from its age-long foes and to save the king despite himself, seeing that she considered the safety of the country bound up in his throne, the heroine thrust her personal sufferings aside and only thought of pursuing her task of deliverance to its consummation. chapter v. tuesday, may 3, 1429. on tuesday the council of war assembled at the house of james boucher and in the presence of joan. the maid submitted briefly and spiritedly the plan of attack that she had matured and modified after the several reconnoitering tours which she had made during the last three days. instead of first attacking the tournelles, as she had at first contemplated, she proposed collecting all the disposable forces in an attack against the redoubt of st. loup, situated on the left bank of the loire and constituting one of the most important posts of the enemy, seeing that, as it commanded the road to berry and the sologne, it rendered difficult the revictualing of the town and the entry of reinforcements. that redoubt was to be carried, first; she was then to march successively against the others. the only forces that joan proposed to keep from the expedition was a body of reserve, that was to be held ready to sally from the town for the protection of the assailants of the bastille of st. loup, in case the english should issue from their other redoubts to the help of the attacked garrison and thus attempt a diversion. a few men placed in the belfry of the town hall were to watch the movements of the english, and if these were seen to sally in order to attempt either the junction of their forces or the diversion foreseen by joan, the signal was to be given to the reserve corps to fall upon the enemy, intercept their march to st. loup, drive them back, and keep them from taking the french in the rear. the plan, explained with a military precision that stupefied even the captains who envied joan, was unanimously adopted. it was agreed that the troops were to set off at daybreak. chapter vi. wednesday, may 4, 1429. feeling certain of battling on the morrow, joan slept on tuesday night the peaceful sleep of a child, while madeleine, on the contrary, remained almost constantly awake, tossed about by painful uneasiness, and thinking with no little alarm that her companion was to deliver a murderous battle in the early morning. joan awoke at dawn, made her morning prayer, invoked her good saints, and was assisted by madeleine in putting on her armor. a touching and charming picture! one of the two girls, delicate and blonde, raising with difficulty the pieces of the iron armor that she helped her virile and dark complexioned friend to case herself in, and rendering the service with a degree of inexperience that caused herself to smile through the tears that she did her best to repress and that welled up at the thought of the near dangers that threatened the martial maid. "you must excuse me, joan, i am more in the habit of lacing my linen gorget than a gorget of iron," said madeleine, "but with time i shall be able, i hope, to arm you as quickly as could your equerry. to arm you! good god! i can not pronounce the dreadful word without weeping! is it quite certain that you are to lead an assault this morning?" "yes; and if it please god, madeleine, we shall drive hence these english who have caused so much damage to your good town of orleans and to the poor people of france!" the maid said this as she strapped the jambards over her buckskin hose whose waistband outlined her supple and robust shape. her shoulders and bosom were then almost exposed. she hastened to button up her chemise, while blushing with chaste embarrassment although she was in the presence of a girl of her own age; but such was joan's modesty, that on a similar occasion she would have blushed before her own mother! putting on a slightly padded skin jacket that the friction with her armor had already begun to blacken, she cased her breast in her iron corselet, that madeleine strapped on as well as she could. "may this cuirass protect you, joan, against the enemy's swords! alack! to have a young girl fight! to have her face such dangers!" "oh, dear madeleine, before leaving vaucouleurs, i said to the sire of baudricourt, the seigneur who helped me to reach the dauphin of france: 'i would prefer to remain and sew and spin near my mother; but i must fulfil the orders of the lord.'" "what dangers you have run, my dear joan, and still are to run in the fulfilment of your mission!" "danger troubles me little; i place myself in the hands of god. what troubles me is the slowness i encounter in having my services availed of. these delays are fatal to gaul--because it seems to me that my days are numbered."[70] the martial maid pronounced these last words with so sweet a melancholy that madeleine's tears started to flow afresh. placing back upon a table the casque that she was about to place upon her friend's head, she threw herself into her arms without uttering a word, and embraced her, sobbing, as she would have embraced her sister at the supreme hour of an eternal farewell. dame boucher entered at that moment precipitately and said: "joan, joan, the sire of villars and jamet of tilloy, two councilmen, are downstairs in the hall. they wish to speak with you immediately. your page has just led up your horse. it seems that something unexpected has happened." "adieu, till we meet again, my dear madeleine," said joan to the weeping girl. "be comforted. my saints and the lord will protect me, if not against wounds, at least against death until i shall have carried out the mission that they have laid upon me;" and hastily taking up her casque, her sword and the small baton that she habitually carried in her hand, the maid descended quickly into the large hall. "joan," said the councilman jamet of tilloy, an honest and brave townsman, "everything was ready, agreeable to yesterday's decision, to attack the bastille of st. loup this morning. but before dawn a messenger ran in to announce to us the approach of a large convoy of provisions and munitions of war that the people of blois, tours and angers send us, under the command of marshal st. sever, by way of the sologne. the escort of the convoy is not strong enough to pass without danger under the bastille of st. loup, which commands the only available wagon road. the english may sally from their redoubt and attack the train which the town has been impatiently expecting. the captains, who are assembled in council at this hour, are debating the point whether it is better to attack the bastille of st. loup or to go forward to meet marshal st. sever, who is waiting for reinforcements before resuming his march." "how far is the convoy from here, sir?" asked joan. "about two leagues. it can not choose but pass under the bastille of st. loup. there is where the danger lies." after a moment's reflection, joan answered with composure: "let us first of all see to the provisions and munitions of war. we can not fight without victuals. let us help the convoy to enter the town this morning; we shall immediately after attack and take the bastille with the help of god." the maid's advice seemed wise. she mounted her horse, and accompanied by the sire of villars rode to the town hall, whither the councilman jamet of tilloy preceded her in haste while ordering the militia to be called to arms under its captains of tens and of forties and giving the bourgogne gate as the rendezvous. on this occasion the captains yielded without a contest to the will of joan, who was strongly seconded by the councilmen. she marched out of the bourgogne gate at the head of two thousand men, who, loudly clamoring for battle, and impatient to wipe out their previous defeats, were fired by the sight of the martial maid, who gracefully rode her white charger with her banner in her hand. at a little distance from the bastille of st. loup, a veritable fortress that held a garrison of over three thousand men, joan took the command of the vanguard which was to clear the path for the column. whether it was a superstitious terror caused by the presence of the maid, whom they recognized from a distance by her white armor and standard, or whether they were merely reserving their strength to sally forth and attack the convoy itself, the english remained behind their entrenchments and limited themselves to shooting a few almost inoffensive volleys of arrows and artillery balls at the orleans column. the obvious timidity of an enemy who was usually so daring increased the confidence of the french. they soon left the bastille behind them and met near st. laurent, an advance post that covered the convoy. at the sight of the reinforcement from orleans, that reached them without hindrance from the english in their bastille, the escort of the convoy attributed the successful operation to the influence of the maid, and felt in turn elated. himself struck by the successful move, that was due to the promptness of joan's manoeuvre, marshal st. sever still feared, and not without good reason, that the enemy's purpose was to allow the french to pass out freely in order all the more effectively to fall upon them on their return, hampered as they would then be by the large train of carts and cattle that the convoy had to escort. the marshal was undecided what to do. "forward and resolutely!" replied joan. "our bold front will impress the english; if they come out of their redoubt we shall fight them; if they do not come out, we shall soon be in orleans with the convoy. after that we shall immediately return and attack the bastille, and we shall conquer with the aid of god. have confidence, marshal!" these words, pronounced in a firm voice, overheard by some of the soldiers, repeated by them and carried from rank to rank raised the troop's enthusiasm. the march to orleans was struck with the carts and cattle in the center, and joan leading the van with a strong vanguard determined to sustain the first shock of the enemy. but the latter did not show himself. it was later learned from several english prisoners that their captains, aware of the decisive effect for good or evil that the first battle with the maid would have upon the temper of their troops, and realizing that their courage had begun to waver at the marvelous accounts that reached them about her, had determined not to be drawn into a battle until conditions should render triumph certain. hence their inaction at the passage of the convoy, which, without striking a blow, entered orleans to the unutterable delight of the people and the militiamen. the people were carried away with a fanatic zeal at the successful stroke of the maid. wishing to turn their enthusiasm to immediate account, joan proposed to turn about on the spot and attack the bastille of st. loup. the captains argued that their men should first have time to eat, and promised to notify her when they should be ready for the assault. joan yielded to these protestations, returned to the house of james boucher, fed, as was her custom, on a little bread dipped in wine and water, had her cuirass unbuckled, and threw herself upon her bed, where, thus, half armed, she fell asleep. her mind being full of the events of the morning, the maid dreamed that the troops were marching without her against the enemy. the painful impression of the dream woke her up, and no sooner awake than she bounded out of bed at the distant noise that reached her of detonating artillery. her dream had not deceived her.[71] they had begun to attack the redoubt. the sire of gaucourt, who had been commissioned to notify the maid, had left her in ignorance. she ran to the window, saw her little page imerguet holding his own horse by the bridle and talking at the door with dame boucher and her daughter. neither the equerry nor the page of joan had been informed of the sally.[72] but not aware of that, the martial maid leaned out of the window and addressed imerguet in a reproachful tone: "oh, bad boy! they are attacking the entrenchments without me, and you did not come to tell me that french blood was flowing![73] madeleine, come quick, i beg you, to help me put on my cuirass! alack! we are losing time." madeleine and her mother quickly ascended to joan's room. she was helped on with her armor, descended to the street and leaped upon the horse of her page. at that moment it occurred to her that she had forgotten her banner near her bed where she always placed it. she said to imerguet: "run up quick for my standard! it is in the room. hand it to me through the window in order to lose less time."[74] the page hastened to obey, while dame boucher and her daughter paid their adieus to the maid. the latter raised herself upon her stirrups, took the standard that imerguet lowered to her from the window above, and plunging her spurs into the flanks of her horse, the warrior maid waved with her hand a last good-bye to madeleine, and departed with such swiftness that the sparks flew from the pavement under the iron shoes of her steed.[75] by concealing the hour of the assault from joan, the sire of gaucourt had planned to keep her away and thus to injure her in the opinion of the soldiers, who would impute to cowardice her absence at the hour of danger. planted at the bourgogne gate at the head of the reserves, gaucourt saw with surprise and anger joan approaching at a gallop, cased in her white armor and her white standard in her hand. she passed the traitor like an apparition, and soon disappeared from his sight in a cloud of dust raised by the rapid gait of her horse, that she drove with free reins down the sologne road, while with pangs of despair she heard the detonations of the artillery increase in frequency. in the measure that she drew near the field of battle, the cries of the soldiers, the clash of arms, the formidable noise of battle reached her ear more distinctly. finally the bastille of st. loup hove in sight. it intercepted the sologne road, dominating the loire river, and was built at the foot of an old church that in itself was a powerful fortification. the church formed a second redoubt within the first, whose parapets were at that moment half concealed by the smoke of the cannons. their fire redoubled, the last ranks of the french were descending almost perpendicularly into a deep moat, the first defense of the entrenchment, when, leaving her steaming horse, joan rushed forward, her banner in her hands, to join the combatants who at that moment, instead of proceeding forward down into the moat were turning about and climbing out again crying: "the bastille is impregnable!" "the english are full of the devil!" "the maid is not with us!" "god has forsaken us!" the captains had calculated upon the enthusiasm produced by the heroine to lead the troops to the assault with the promise that she was soon to join them. relying upon the promise the first rush of the assailants, who consisted mainly of orleans militiamen, bourgeois and artisans, was intrepid. but the english, not seeing the maid among the french, considered them deprived of a support that many of themselves looked upon as supernatural; the enemy's courage revived and they repelled the otherwise overpowering attack. the revulsion was instantaneous. a panic seized the front ranks of the assailants and the swiftest in the night were seeking to regain the home side of the moat when joan appeared running towards them, with eyes full of inspiration and her face glowing with martial ardor. the fleers stopped; they imagined themselves strengthened by a superhuman power; the shame of defeat mounted to their cheeks; they blushed at the thought of fleeing under the eyes of the beautiful young girl, who, waving her banner, rushed to the moat crying in a ringing voice: "stand firm! follow me! ours is the battle by order of god! victory to gaul!"[76] carried away by the magic of the bravery and beauty of the heroine, the fleers fell in line behind her to the cry of: "good luck to joan!" "joan is with us!" these clamors, which announced the presence of the maid, redoubled the energy of the intrepid ones who still held the middle of the moat, although they were being decimated by the stones, the bullets and the arrows hurled at them from the top of the boulevard of the redoubt. joan, nimble, supple and strong, and supporting herself from time to time upon the shoulders of those who surrounded her, descended into the moat with them, crying: "to the assault! let's march bravely! god is with us! victory to gaul!" the ranks opened before the heroine and closed behind her. her bravery carried away the most timidly disposed. arrived at the foot of the slope that had to be climbed under a shower of projectiles in order to reach a palisaded trench that protected the boulevard, joan perceived master john. neither he nor the other sturdy cannoniers of orleans had retreated an inch since the assault began. they were just making ready to climb out of the ditch on the enemy's side. "helloa, my good countryman," joan called out cheerfully to the cannonier; "let us climb up there quick; the redoubt is ours!" and supporting herself upon the staff of her standard in order to scale the steep slope, the maid soon was several steps in the lead of the front ranks of the assailants. inspired by her example, these soon reached the summit of the slope. many fell dead or wounded by the shower of balls and bolts near the heroine. she was the first to set foot upon the narrow strip surrounding the moat and beyond which rose the palisaded entrenchment. turning to those who followed her, joan cried: "to the palisade! to the palisade! courage! the english are beaten! i tell you so by order of god!"[77] master john and his men hewed down the posts with their axes; a breach was effected; the flood of the assailants rushed through the gap like a torrent through a sluice; and a furious hand-to-hand encounter was joined between the french and the english. "forward!" cried joan keeping her sword in its scabbard and merely waving her banner; "heaven protects us! forward!" "we shall see whether heaven protects you, accursed witch!" cried an english captain, whereat he dealt a furious blow with his sabre upon the head of the maid. her casque protected her. immediately another blow from a heavy iron mace fell upon her right shoulder. dazed by these repeated strokes, she staggered for a moment; master john supported her while two of his cannoniers threw themselves before her to protect her with their bodies. the shock was quickly overcome. joan recovered herself, stood daring and erect, and rushed into action with redoubled spirit. the enthusiasm of the warrior maiden was irresistible; the boulevard was soon heaped with the dead of both sides. driven back, the english again succumbed to the superstitious terror that the maid inspired them with and they sought safety behind the numerous frame buildings that served as barracks to the garrison of the bastille and as lodgings for the officers. the struggle continued with unabated fury, without mercy or pity, through the causeways that separated the vast frame structures. each lodging of the captains, each barrack, became a redoubt that had to be carried. fired by the presence of the maid, the french attacked and carried them one after the other. the english who survived the fury of the first assault defended the ground inch by inch and succeeded in retreating in good order into the church that crowned the boulevard--a church with thick walls, surmounted by a belfry. entrenched in this last fort, whose doors they barricaded from within, the english archers riddled their assailants with arrows, shot through the narrow windows, while other english soldiers, posted on the platform of the belfry, rolled down heavy stones, placed there in advance, upon the heads of the french. gathered in a mass near the portico of the church, and entirely exposed, the french were being crushed and decimated by the invisible enemy, not an arrow or stone of whom was lost. the maid noticed that her men began to waver. banner in hand she rushed forward: "victory to gaul! break in the door! let us boldly enter the church. it is ours by the order of god!" master john, together with several determined men, attacked with hatchets the iron studded door, while a shower of arrows, shot through a narrow slit in an adjoining building, rained upon the cannonier and his companions. their efforts were vain. many of master john's aides fell beside him, his own arm was pierced by a shaft. the english who entrenched themselves in the tower of the church, sawed off the framework of the roofing, and with the aid of levers, threw it down upon their assailants. the avalanche of stones, lead, slates and beams despatched all those upon whom it fell. a panic now threatened. "forward!" cried joan. "we needed beams to beat in the doors. the english now furnish us with them. take up the heaviest of them. ram the door. it will give. we shall have those englishmen even if they are hidden in the clouds."[78] again reanimated by her words, the soldiers obeyed the orders of the maid. despite his wound, master john directed the operation. an enormous beam was taken from the debris, raised by twenty men, and plied like a ram against the door of the church. suddenly, the french soldiers, who, standing on the brow of the parapet, overlooked the plain, cried out: "we are lost! the enemy is coming in large numbers out of the bastille of st. pouaire!" "they are going to take us in the rear!" "we shall be between these fresh troops and the english entrenched in the church!" this move, skilfully foreseen and prepared for by joan, who had issued the necessary orders to meet it, was in fact made by the enemy. "fear not!" said the martial maid to those near her, who were petrified by the news, "a reserve troop will sally from the town and cut off the english. look not behind, but before you! fall to bravely! take the church!" hardly had joan uttered these words when the precipitate ringing of the town hall bell was heard, and it was immediately followed by a sally headed by a cavalry corps. the infantry marched out of the town at the double quick and in good order, and planted itself in battle array across the road that led from the bastille of st. pouaire to that of st. loup. intimidated by the resolute attitude of the reserve corps, which was commanded by marshal st. sever, the english halted, and, giving up their plan of marching to the assistance of their fellows at st. loup, returned to their own entrenchments. seeing joan's words thus verified, her soldiers placed implicit faith in her divine prescience. feeling perfectly safe in their rear and fired by their own success, they turned upon the church with redoubled determination to carry it. two enormous beams were now plied by twenty men apiece shattering the iron-studded door, despite all the arrows of the enemy. the dying and the wounded were quickly replaced by fresh forces. joan, intrepid, ever near the combatants and her banner on high, encouraged them with voice and gesture while escaping a thousand deaths, thanks to the excellent temper of her armor. the door finally broke down under the unceasing blows of the beams, and fell inside the church, but at the same moment, a cannon, placed within and opposite the door, ready for action, vomited with a terrible detonation a discharge of stones and scraps of iron upon the assailants at the gap. many fell mortally wounded, the rest rushed into the vast and dark basilica where a new hand-to-hand encounter, stubborn and murderous, took place. the struggle continued from step to step up the staircase of the tower to the platform, now stripped of its roof, and from the summit of which the english were finally hurled into space. just as the sun was tinting with its westering rays the placid waters of the loire, the standard of joan was seen floating from the summit of the church, and the cry of the vanquishers echoed and re-echoed a thousand times: "good luck! good luck to the maid!" the victory won and the intoxication of battle dissipated, the heroine became again a girl, full of tenderness for the vanquished. descending from the belfry of the church whither her bravery had carried her, the maid wept[79] at the sight of the steps red with blood and almost concealed under the corpses. she implored her men to desist from carnage and to spare the prisoners. among these were three captains. hoping thereby to escape death they had put on some friars' robes that had been left in a corner of the sacristy and had there lain unnoticed since the english had taken possession of the church of st. loup. the three false prelates were found hidden in a dark chapel. the vanquishers wished to massacre them. joan saved them[80] and, together with others, they were taken prisoners. the frame barracks and lodgings were put to the flame, and the vast conflagration, struggling against the first shadows of the thickening night, threw consternation into the other redoubts of the english, while it lighted the departure of the french. when, to the light of torches, joan re-entered orleans at the head of the troops, the belfry of the town hall and all the bells of the churches were ringing their loudest and merriest; cannon boomed; the whole town was in transports of joy, hope and enthusiasm. the maid had by her first triumph given the "sign" so oft demanded of her that she was truly the envoy of god. she was received as a liberator by the people, idolatrous with thankfulness. upon her return to the house of master james boucher, where she was whelmed with caresses by his wife and madeleine, joan convoked the captains and said to them: "god has so far supported us, sirs; but we are only at the beginning of our task; let us finish it quickly. help yourselves, and heaven will help you! we must to-morrow at daybreak profit by the discouragement into which our victory of to-day must have cast the english. we must bravely return to the attack of the other redoubts."[81] the close of this day, so glorious to the martial maid, had a bitter sorrow in store for her. even lahire, dunois and xaintrailles, all of whom were animated with less ill will than the other captains towards joan, recoiled before her brave resolution, and taxed her with foolhardiness. promptly availing himself of the opportunity, gaucourt and the captains who were openly hostile to the maid caused the council of war to declare that "in view of the religious solemnity of the following day, thursday, the feast of the ascension, it would be outrageously impious to go to battle; the council would meet at noon only to consider what measures should be next taken."[82] this deplorable decision afforded the english time to recover from the stupor of their defeat; it also ran the risk of losing the fruits of joan's first victory. the blindness, the perfidy or the cowardice of the captains filled her with indignation. steeped in sorrow she withdrew to her own room where, all in tears, she knelt down and implored the advice of her good saints; and with her eyes still wet with tears that her friend madeleine wiped in sadness and surprise, unable to understand the cause of her friend's grief after so glorious a day, joan fell asleep, evoking in thought as a means of solace the passage of the prophecy so miraculously fulfilled, in which merlin announced: "oh, how much blood do i see! how much blood do i see! it steams! its vapor rises, rises like an autumn mist to heaven, where the thunder peals and the lightning flashes!- across that crimson mist, i see a martial virgin; white is her steed, white is her armor- she battles, she battles, she battles still, in the midst of a forest of lances, and seems to be riding on the backs of the enemy's archers!" chapter vii. thursday, may 5, 1429. despite the ingenuousness of her loyal nature, joan could no longer doubt the ill will or jealousy of the captains. they hypocritically invoked the sanctity of the feast of the ascension merely for the purpose of paralyzing her movements by calculated inertia. in this extremity she asked the advice of her mysterious "voices," and these were now more than ever the echo of her excellent judgment, of her patriotism and of her military genius. the mysterious "voices" answered: "these captains, like almost all the nobles who make of war a trade, are devoured with envy. their jealous hatred is irritated at you, poor child of the field, because your genius crushes them. they would prefer to see the english take possession of orleans rather than have the siege raised by your valor. they may perhaps not dare openly to refuse to second you, fearing to arouse the indignation of their own soldiers, above all of the bourgeois militiamen and of the people of orleans. but these captains will traitorously resist your plans until the day when the general exasperation will compel them to follow you with their bands of mercenaries. accordingly, you can rely for the accomplishment of your mission of liberation only upon yourself, and upon the councilmen and the town militia of orleans. these do not fight out of vainglory or as a trade; they fight in the defence of their hearths, their families, their town. these love and respect you. you are their redeeming angel. their confidence in you, increased by the victory of yesterday, is to-day boundless. lean boldly upon these loyal people; you will triumph over the envious and the enemy combined; and you will triumph with the aid of god." the advice, given to joan through the intermediary of her good saints, comforted her. furthermore she learned in the morning that the capture of the bastille of st. loup had an immense result. as that bastille commanded at once the roads to the sologne district and to berry, and the loire above orleans, it had rendered difficult the provisioning and reinforcing of the town. learning, however, of the destruction of the formidable redoubt, the surrounding peasants promptly began to pour into town with their products as on a market day. thanks to these fresh supplies, besides the convoy of the previous day, abundance succeeded scarcity, and the inhabitants glorified joan for the happy change of things. there was another precious result. numerous well armed bands, fanaticized by the accounts that they received of the maid, entered the town from the side of the sologne, and offered their help to march against the english with the urban militia. the heroine immediately realized that she had a powerful counterpoise to the ill will of the captains, and was not slow in putting it to use. accordingly, she ordered her equerry daulon to convoke the captains and councilmen for the hour of noon after high mass, at the house of master boucher, and she pressed upon her host to see that none of the magistrates be absent; the maid then requested madeleine to procure her a dress of one of the servants of the house and a hooded cloak, took off her male clothes, donned the attire of her sex, carefully wrapped herself so as to be discovered of none in the town, went to the banks of the loire, took a boat and ordered the boatman to cross the river and land at a good distance from the bastille of st. john-le-blanc situated on the opposite bank and face to face with the still smoldering debris of the bastille of st. loup. joan disembarked and proceeded, according to her custom, to examine the entrenchments that she contemplated assailing. not far from the bastille of st. john-le-blanc rose the augustinian convent, composed of massive buildings that were strongly fortified. beyond that, the bastille of the tournelles, a veritable citadel flanked with high wooden towers, spread its wings towards the beauce and touraine and faced the bridge of orleans that had long been cut off by the enemy. still another formidable redoubt, that of st. privé, situated to the left and not far from the tournelles completed the besieging works of the english to the south of the town. the martial maid proposed to carry the four formidable positions one after the other, after which the english would be compelled to abandon the other and less important bastilles which they had raised to the west, these being incapable of resistance after the destruction of the more important works. joan long and leisurely observed the approaches of these works and revolved her plan of attack. her woman's clothes aroused no suspicion with the english sentinels. after she had gathered full information with a quick and intelligent eye, she returned to her boat and re-entered the house of master boucher so well wrapped in her mantle that she actually escaped the observation of all eyes. she forthwith resumed her male attire to attend the high mass, where she again took the communion. the enthusiastic acclamations that broke out along her route to and from the church proved to her that she could count with the support of the people of orleans. she entered the house of master james boucher where the captains and councilmen were gathered. the council soon went into session, but joan was not summoned at the start. at this session there assisted the magistrates of the town as well as xaintrailles, dunois, marshals retz and st. sever, the sire of graville, ambroise of loré, lahire and other captains. the sire of gaucourt presided in his quality of royal captain.[83] the recent victory of the maid, a victory in which several of the captains least hostile to her had played a secondary role, inspired them all with secret and bitter envy. they had expected to serve themselves with the young peasant girl as a passive instrument of their will, to utilize her influence to their own advantage and to issue their commands through her. it had turned out otherwise. forced, especially after the battle of the day before, to admit that joan excelled them all in the profession of war, irritated at the injury done to their military fame, and convinced that the military successes would be wholly placed to the credit of joan, the one time less hostile captains now went wholly though secretly over to her pronounced enemies, and the following plan of battle was unanimously adopted for the morrow: "a feint shall be made against the fortress of the tournelles in order to deceive the enemy and cause it to sally out of the redoubts that lie on the other side of the loire and hasten to bring help to the threatened position. the enemy will be readily duped. a few detachments shall continue skirmishing on the side of the tournelles. but the royal troops and the companies of mercenaries will move upon and easily capture the other bastilles where the english, in their hurry to hasten to the defence of an important post, will have left but feeble garrisons behind."[84] this plan of battle, whether good or bad from the viewpoint of strategy, concealed an act of cowardly perfidy, an infamous, horrible snare spread for joan. speaking in the name of the councilmen, and answering the sire of gaucourt, who explained the plan that the captains had adopted, master james boucher observed that the maid should be summoned so as to submit to her the projects of the council. the sire of gaucourt hastened to object in the name of all the captains, on the ground that they were not sure the young girl would know how to keep so delicate a matter secret, and that, seeing the doubt existed, she should be informed only upon the plan of attack against the tournelles, but should not be apprised that the manoeuvre was only a feint, a ruse of war. accordingly, during a skirmish commanded by the maid in person, the bulk of the army was to carry out the real plan of battle, on which joan was to be kept in the dark.[85] the infernal snare was skilfully planned. the captains relied upon the maid's intrepidity, certain that she would march without hesitation at the head of a small number of soldiers against the formidable tournelles, and they did not doubt that in such an assault, as murderous as it was unequal, she would be either killed or taken, while the captains, sallying from orleans at the opposite side and at the head of the bulk of the troops, would proceed against the other bastilles, that were expected to be found almost wholly deserted by the english, who would have hastened to the aid of the defenders of the tournelles. finally, joan having on the previous day taken an emphatic stand against the captains' opinion, and maintained that the raising of the siege of orleans depended almost wholly upon the capture of the tournelles, and that that important work should be forthwith attacked, it was expected she would imagine her views had been adopted by the council of war after mature reflection, and that, carried away by her courage, she was certain to march to her death. thus the plot concocted long before by the sire of la tremouille, gaucourt and the bishop of chartres was now to be put into execution. despite their mistrust of the captains, the councilmen failed to scent the trap laid for the maid. she was introduced, and gaucourt informed her of the decision of the council omitting, however, to say that the attack upon the tournelles was only to be a feint. gifted with rare good sense and sagacity, the maid had too many proofs of the constant opposition that until then all her plans had met from the captains not to be astonished at seeing them suddenly adopt a plan that they had so loudly condemned the day before. suspecting a snare, she listened silently to gaucourt while pensively pacing up and down the hall. when he ended she stopped walking, fixed her frank and beautiful eyes upon the traitor and said boldly: "seigneur gaucourt, do not hide from me anything of what has been decided. i have known and shall know how to keep other secrets than yours."[86] these words, through which the maid's mistrust of the captains plainly peeped, confused them. they looked at each other dumbfounded and uneasy. dunois, the least depraved of all, felt the pangs of remorse and could not decide to remain an accomplice in the execrable scheme of betrayal. still, not wholly daring to uncover it, he answered: "joan, do not get angry. you can not be told everything at once. you have been made acquainted with the first part of our plan of battle. i must now add that the attack upon the tournelles is to be a feint, and while the english come to the help of their fellows and cross the loire, we shall attack in good earnest their bastilles over in the sologne, which they will have left almost empty of defenders." despite the belated explanation, the heroine no longer doubted the perfidy of the captains. she nevertheless concealed her indignation, and with the full power of her military superiority she declared to them point blank and with her rustic frankness that the council's plan of battle was detestable--worse yet, shameful. did not the plan resolve itself into a ruse of war that was not merely cowardly, but fatal in its consequences? was it not necessary, by keeping the soldiers continually on their mettle by daring, if need be vast exploits, to restore the confidence of the defenders of the town who had been so long beaten? was it not necessary to convince them that nothing could resist their daring? "now, then," the martial maid proceeded to argue, "granted that this pitiful feint succeeds, what a wretched victory! to march upon an enemy whom one knows is not there, and thanks to the excess of numbers crush a handful of men! to thus expose the vanquishers to a cowardly triumph, at a time when the hour has struck for heroic resolutions! a hundred times preferable would be a heroic defeat! and, finally, always granting the success of the ruse, what would have been destroyed? a few defenceless redoubts of no farther importance since the capture of the strong and large redoubt of st. loup, which alone cut off the town's communication with the sologne and berry. assuredly the plan is worthless, it is at all points bad and inopportune." after thus summarizing and disposing of the captains' plans, the maid continued: "on the contrary, we should not to-morrow _feign_, but really and boldly _attack_ the tournelles, by crossing the loire a little above st. john-le-blanc, the first redoubt to take, then marching against the fortified convent of the augustinians, and finally upon the tournelles. these positions being taken, the english, no longer in condition to keep themselves a single day longer in the other bastilles, will find themselves forced to raise the siege." this, joan declared, was her plan of battle, and nothing in the world could turn her from her resolution, her "voices" having inspired her by order of god. she was accordingly determined, she declared, in case the captains opposed her project, to carry it to a successful finish despite them, demanding only the aid of the councilmen and the militia of the good town of orleans, whom the lord would take under his protection, because they would indeed be defending the town, france and the king against the english. finally she would on that very day order the militia to stand ready for the next day at dawn, and, followed or not by the captains and their bands, she would march straight upon the enemy. laid down in a firm voice and fully approved by the councilmen, joan's project aroused the most violent objections on the part of the captains; they declared it to be as hazardous as impracticable. the sire of gaucourt summed up the views of his accomplices, crying with scornful haughtiness: "the council of captains having taken a decision, it will be upheld, and they will oppose _with force_, if necessary, any attempt on the part of the soldiers of orleans to make an attack on the morrow.[87] such is the council's will." "_your_ council has decided, say you?" replied joan with serene assurance; "_my_ council has also decided--it is god's. i shall obey him despite you!"[88] saying this, the maid left the room, wounded to the quick by the obvious perfidy of the captains. firmly resolved to put an end to so many fatal delays, and in accord with the councilmen to demand the safety of their town only from the bravery of her own citizens if need be, joan immediately turned her attention to the preparations for the morrow's attack, and commissioned the councilmen to gather a large number of barges for the transport of the soldiers, at whose head she was to attack the english at early dawn from the side of the tournelles. chapter viii. friday, may 6, 1429. early in the morning the sire of gaucourt, with a squad of soldiers and mercenaries, took possession of the bourgogne gate, through which joan had to pass to reach the river bank and effect the embarkation of the troops. gaucourt ordered the soldiers, whom he planted under the arch, to allow none to leave the town, and to use their arms against anyone who tried to violate their orders. stepping back a few paces, wrapping himself closely in his cloak, and listening from time to time for what was happening in town, the traitor waited. dawn soon appeared; its early glimmer lighted the horizon and set off the outlines of the crenelated bourgogne gate. a distant noise presently attracted the attention of gaucourt; it increased and drew near; and soon he distinguished the muffled tread of many feet and the rattling of arms. he then repeated his orders to his soldiers and withdrew into the shadow of the vault that united the two towers at this entrance to the town. a few minutes later a compact column, marching in good order and composed of the urban militia and surrounding peasants, who had entered orleans after the capture of the bastille of st. loup, turned into the street that led to the bourgogne gate. master john and about twelve other citizen cannoniers marched in the front ranks, dragging a cart on which were two portable culverins, christened by master john "jeannette" and "jeanneton" in honor of his countrywoman; another cart, also hand-drawn, contained the munitions for the two pieces of artillery. the martial maid rode at the head of the column, escorted by several armed councilmen who had previously taken part in the defence of the town. one of these, intending to hasten the egress of the troops, quickened his horse's pace, and advanced toward the gate to have it opened. a sergeant in his cups seized the bridle of the councilman's horse and cried roughly: "there is no passage here. it is forbidden to leave the town! such are our orders!" "the town gates are opened or closed by orders of the councilmen. i am a councilman. you must obey." "i have my orders," replied the mercenary drawing his sword; "back, or i cut you to pieces!" "you miserable drunken fellow! do you dare to threaten a magistrate!" "i only know my captain, and since you are trying to pass despite my orders, here is for you!" saying which he made a thrust at the councilman. the sword glided over the magistrate's armor, and the soldier cried out: "this way, my men!" about twenty soldiers rushed to the spot from under the gate. the squad of drunken men had surrounded and were hooting at and threatening the magistrate when joan, her equerry daulon, her page, and the other councilmen who, together with her, formed the head of the column, reached the scene of the wrangle. at the same moment the sire of gaucourt appeared. he was in a towering rage, made a sign to his soldiers to draw back, and himself stepped towards the heroine whom he insolently addressed: "joan, the council of war pronounced itself yesterday against your proposed plan for to-day. you shall not leave the town--"[89] "you are a bad man!" cried the maid indignantly. "i shall pass whether you will it or not. the men of orleans will follow me--and we shall vanquish the english again as we have done before."[90] the maid's defiant answer to the impudent and imprudent words of the royal captain were heard by master john and his cannoniers, and were repeated down the column from rank to rank of the militiamen, producing such exasperation against gaucourt that from all parts the furious cries were heard: "death to the traitor! cut the captain to pieces!" "he dares to oppose the maid's passage!" "death to the traitor! death to his soldiers! they are worse than the english!" in the midst of these cries, master john and his cannoniers, together with a mass of armed citizens, fell upon gaucourt and his mercenaries and drubbed them soundly with the handles of their pikes; not content with having almost killed the captain and his band, the more enraged of the militiamen insisted upon hanging them. with much difficulty, joan and the councilmen obtained mercy for gaucourt and his crew. on a later occasion he admitted that he had never before been as near death as on that day. the bourgogne gate was opened, and the troops proceeded on their march towards the river whose waters began to glisten in the rays of the rising sun. joan had several times the day before insisted with the councilmen to see that about twenty barges, capable of containing each from fifty to sixty men be safely moored and ready at daybreak for the embarkation of the troops. never forgetful of any precautionary measure, fifty soldiers were to remain on guard during the night on board of the flotilla in order to defend it, if need be, against a "coup de main" of the english. the councilmen themselves superintended the execution of the maid's orders. nevertheless, seeing that her mistrust of the captains gained ground, especially after her last experience with gaucourt, joan wished to make sure that her transports were ready. she put the spurs to her horse and took the lead of the column toward the river bank which a high hill intercepted from her sight. what was the martial maid's stupor at the sight before her! only five or six barges and a few boats lay ready. she rode her horse almost to the saddle into the loire to question an old skipper who sat aft on one of the lighters. from him she learned that towards midnight a captain had requisitioned most of the lighters for the royal army. the wind being favorable, the captain said he had orders to ascend the loire with the flotilla as far as blois in order to take reinforcements. several master skippers, the one who spoke to joan among them, had answered that they would not budge from their anchorage without counter-orders from the councilmen; but the captain threatened the skippers with bodily injury if they refused to obey. the majority yielded to the intimidation in the belief that the purpose was really to bring reinforcements from blois, and spread their sails to the wind. there only remained six barges and a few boats. this new machination of the captains wounded the maid's heart without, however, abating her courage, or disturbing her presence of mind. with the number of barges that she had counted upon, her troops were to be landed in two or three trips; it would now require eight or ten. precious time would thus be lost. observing the movement from the tops of their redoubts, and taking cognizance of the small number of barges at her disposal, the english might attempt a sally and repel the descent upon them by hastening to the opposite river bank before all the troops had time to form in line of battle. joan appreciated the extreme peril of the situation; but so far from being discouraged thereby, only felt that a stronger demand was made upon her audacity, calmness and foresight. full of faith in her mission, she repeated her favorite saying--_help yourself and heaven will help you!_ the sun was rising behind the wooded banks of the loire and the curtain of poplars that shaded its shore when the first ranks of the militia arrived upon the scene. their disappointment was profound at the sight of the small number of barges that awaited them. but leaving them no time to reflect, joan said: "let the bravest follow me! the others will come after!" a race ensued as to who was to be the first upon the barges so as to be considered the bravest by the heroine. she left her horse with a valet, and threw herself into one of the boats accompanied only by her equerry, her page and an oarsman; she had herself rowed several times around the barges to see that they were not overloaded. the militiamen vied with one another to be ranked among the most intrepid. the barges being finally full, their sails were spread, and the wind being favorable, blowing in the direction of the left bank, they moved swiftly, preceded by several boats in which were the councilmen, master john and several of his cannoniers, the rest of whom were on board the barges with the two culverins jeannette and jeanneton. the first of the vanguard boats carried joan cased in her white armor that now glistened in the sun. standing erect and motionless in the prow of the light skiff, and leaning on the staff of her standard that fluttered in the morning breeze, the outlines of the martial maid stood off against the azure sky like the country's protecting angel. hardly had the boat reached the opposite bank when joan leaped ashore and drew up her men in order of battle as fast as they disembarked. master john and his cannoniers landed the two culverins from the barges, and these then returned and returned again bringing over the rest of the army from the right bank of the loire. the work of transportation consumed over an hour, an hour of indescribable impatience and anxiety to the heroine. she feared at every moment to see the english issue from their entrenchments to rush at the small number that she at first landed with. but her fears were idle. the heroic capture of the bastille of st. loup, that two days before had fallen into the hands of the french, spread consternation among the ranks of the english. imputing her prowess to witchcraft, they dared not assail her in the open, and tremblingly awaited her under shelter of their own works. this evidence of timidity augured well for the happy issue of joan's undertaking, nor was she slow to perceive and draw courage from it. when the last phalanx was successfully landed, joan, now at the head of two thousand militiamen and peasants, marched straight upon the bastille of st. john-le-blanc, that was similarly fortified to the bastille of st. loup. to the end of protecting the descent of the assailants in the enclosing moat, master john planted jeannette and jeanneton on the outer edge of the embankment and trained their muzzles at the parapet of the redoubt, whose own cannon and other engines began to pour their projectiles upon the french. thanks, however, to the cannonier's marksmanship most of the english engines were speedily silenced. the assault was accordingly less murderous to the assailants. the maid and her troop speedily crossed the moat, leaving a large number of their own dead and wounded behind; they rushed up and climbed the opposite escarpment, arrived at the palisade and forced it; and in an incredibly short time the white standard was seen floating from the boulevard of the entrenchment. the resistance of the english was at first desperate, but speedily yielding to a panic, they fled pell mell, crossed the loire at a ford and retreated in utter disorder to the little neighboring island of st. aignan. this rough and bloody attack consumed only two hours. without allowing her men a moment's rest, joan ordered the barracks of the bastille to be set on fire, to the end of utterly ruining the works, and also signaling her new victory to the good people of orleans. a short respite was taken, and the combatants, exalted and exhilarated with their triumph, followed the martial maid to the attack of the augustinian convent, still more strongly entrenched. this position had to be first carried, in order to undertake the siege of the tournelles, itself a veritable fortress raised at the entrance of the town bridge. thanks to the protection that her friends deemed divine, joan had not until then been wounded, although ever at the head of her forces. but to offset this, her losses were serious. despite the considerable reduction of her forces, she turned her back upon the burning redoubt of st. john-le-blanc and marched to the attack of the augustinians, which was defended by a garrison of over two thousand men, reinforced by about a thousand more from the tournelles. thanks to this reinforcement, instead of awaiting the enemy under shelter of the fortifications of the convent, the english decided to risk a decisive stroke and deliver battle in the open field, reliant upon the advantage of their own numbers and upon the aid afforded by the redoubt of st. privé, whose garrison sallied forth to take the french in the rear. joan had about fourteen hundred men under her command; before her stood over three thousand, and her right flank was threatened by another considerable force. at the sight of the numerical superiority of the enemy, who advanced in a compact mass, cased in iron, with the red standard of st. george floating in the air, the martial maid collected herself, crossed her arms over her cuirassed bosom, and raised her inspired eyes to heaven. suddenly she believed she heard the mysterious voice of her two good saints murmuring in her ear: "march, daughter of god! attack the enemy boldly! whatever their numbers, you shall vanquish!" for the first time the maid drew her sword, used it to point at the foe, turned towards her own troops and cried in tones that stirred their bosoms: "be brave! forward! god is with us!" the words, accompanied with a heroic gesture, the sublime expression of her beautiful countenance, all contributed to drag the soldiers at her heels. the hearts of all burned with the fires of intensest patriotism. her men were no longer themselves; they were she! the wills of all seemed concentrated in one single will! the souls of all were merged into one! at that supreme moment the militiamen attained that superb contempt for death that transported our ancestors the gauls when, half naked, they rushed upon the iron-cased and serried ranks of the roman legions, throwing these into a panic and breaking through them by the very force of their foolhardiness. thus it was with the intrepid attack of the gallic virgin on this day. so far from yielding to numbers, as the english had hoped she would, she fell upon them at the head of her troop. stupefied, terrified by such audacity, the english ranks wavered and opened despite all the orders, threats, imprecations and desperate efforts to the contrary by their captains. a large breach was opened in the center of the enemy's line. their success added fuel to the exaltation of the men of orleans, and raised them to a delirium of heroism. they made havoc with their swords, pikes and maces among the english ranks. the breach widened amid floods of blood. the white standard of the maid advanced--the red standard of st. george retreated. the arms of the english soldiers seemed paralyzed and struck but uncertain blows. only a few of the french were wounded or killed; on the side of the english, however, the blood ran in torrents. suffolk, who conducted himself gallantly, cried out, showing to his bewildered and panic stricken men his own sword dyed red: "look at this blood, you miserable cowards! do you still deem these varlets to be invulnerable? will you allow yourselves to be vanquished by a female cowherd? if she be a witch, let us capture her, by god, and burn her--the charm will end! but to capture her you must fight or die like soldiers of old england!" this energetic language, the example of their chiefs, the impression, slowly asserting itself, of the vast numerical inferiority of the french, and the bray of the trumpets of the garrison of st. privé that was hastening to the rescue, gradually revived the courage of the english. shame and rage at their threatened defeat presently changed their panic into a furious exaltation. they closed ranks and took the offensive. despite all the prodigies of valor on the part of their adversaries, they, in turn, now forced them to retreat in disorder. in the midst of the maddening struggle joan would certainly have been killed but for the devotion of master john and some twenty other determined men. with their bodies they made a rampart around her, determined to preserve her life that was so dear to them all. the ground was defended inch by inch. every moment the handful of men grew thinner. ten of them, fighting to her left, were scattered and crushed by the opposing numbers. during the movement of retreat joan was driven despite herself towards the loire, and already a few distracted men were heard crying: "to the barges! save himself who can! to the barges! the battle is lost!" the triumphant english pursued the maid with jeers and their accustomed insults. they pushed forward, crying: "strumpet!" "cowherd!" "thief!" "we shall now capture and burn you, witch!" the panic had now completely seized the ranks of the french. they no longer fought but fled wildly towards the loire. in vain did the maid seek to rally them. suddenly and obedient to an inspiration of her genius, instead of resisting the current that was carrying her away, she outran it and overtook the swiftest fleers, waving her standard. these followed and rallied around her and thus naturally and perforce order was gradually restored. during this move, the jeers, imprecations and insults of the english, hurled at the maid, redoubled in volume, especially when they saw the skippers, witnessing the french defeat, share the general panic, raise the sails of their barges, the only means of retreat for the french, and push off from the shore out of fear of being boarded by the vanquishers. the latter, now certain of the success of the day, even disdained to hasten the rout of the fleeing french, who, crowded against the loire, were sure to be drowned or taken--joan first of all. the bulk of the english troops halted to shout three cheers of triumph, a few companies advanced unsupported and with mocking slowness to make the assured capture. "come, now, joan! come!" cried the english captains from a distance. "come now, strumpet, surrender! you shall be burned! that's your fate!" the presumptuous confidence of the enemy afforded the heroine the necessary time to re-form her lines. "prisoners or drowned!" she said to them, pointing to the receding barges. "one more effort--and by the order of god we shall vanquish, as we have vanquished twice before! let us first attack this english vanguard that boasts to have us in its clutches! be brave! forward!" and turning about she rushed upon the enemy. "be brave! forward! forward!" repeated master john and the most determined townsmen of orleans, following the maid. "be brave! forward!" echoed all the others. "let us exterminate the english!" the scene that ensued was no longer one of courage, or of heroism; it was a superhuman frenzy that transported the handful of french and added tenfold strength to their arms. the enemy's companies, that had been detached from the main body and sent forward to make a capture deemed unquestionable, were stupefied at the offensive move, and unable to resist the superhuman shock of despair and patriotism. driven in disorder, the sword in their flanks, towards the main body, they overthrew its front ranks and spread disorder and confusion in the english army. the superstitious fears of the english, fears that they had once before succumbed to, now gained new empire over them that seemed justified by the unheard-of audacity of a body of men, once in full flight, suddenly returning to the attack with intrepidity. the front ranks of the english being broken through, the general panic spread all the quicker seeing that, in sharing it, those who stood away from the center of action were wholly in the dark as to the cause of the sudden rout. the english soldiers struck at and trampled one another; the orders of their captains were lost in the frightful tumult; their efforts were powerless to conjure away the defeat. the cry of the first soldiers to flee: "the witch has let loose her fiends upon us!" was carried from mouth to mouth. finally, and as if to overfill the measure, the english of the bastille of st. privé, upon arriving to the aid of their fellows, saw the barges, that had shortly left the near shore, now returning from the opposite side filled with fresh french soldiers. the french captains had been compelled by the exasperation of the inhabitants of orleans to decide to co-operate with the maid,[91] and they had marched out and reached the river bank just as the barges arrived on that side. at the sight of the re-inforcements, the corps from st. privé hastened back to its own encampment, while the rest of the panic-stricken english ran to their respective bastilles for shelter behind the entrenchments of the redoubts of the augustinians and the tournelles. when the fresh french contingent brought by marshal st. sever and other captains disembarked, the martial maid was preparing to attack the convent of the augustinians, determined not to allow the enemy time to recover from their panic. now supported by the reinforcements, joan threw herself upon the convent, but at the moment when, in the lead of all she set foot upon a narrow passage leading to the palisade that she was to attack, she uttered a piercing cry. the teeth of a man trap had closed above her ankle; it penetrated her jambards and her skin and even reached the bone. it was an english "ruse of war," into which the maid had put her foot.[92] the pain was so keen that joan, exhausted from the fatigues of the day, fainted away, and fell in the arms of her equerry daulon. when she recovered consciousness, the day was nearing its end; the bastille of the augustinians had been carried and its defenders were either dead or prisoners. the heroine had been transported to the lodgings of one of the english captains who had been killed in the combat. when joan returned to consciousness, her equerry wished to remove the armor from her wounded limb and bathe the wound, but blushing at the exposure of even her foot to the surrounding soldiers, joan obstinately refused all attention, and bestowed all her thought to the best use to be made of the capture of the augustinian convent. she forbade that it be set on fire, and ordered it to be held during the night by a strong garrison, that should lead the next day in a determined attack upon the tournelles. after issuing these and other necessary orders with remarkable military sagacity, the warrior maid had herself conveyed to orleans in a boat, feeling unable to walk by reason of the pain of her wound. the augustinian convent rose almost on the river's edge. daulon, master john and a few other cannoniers carried joan to the river on a stretcher improvised out of the shafts of lances and placed her in a boat. her page and equerry accompanied her, and she was rowed over to orleans where she arrived at night. modestly desiring to escape observation in her transit through the town to the house of her host, especially seeing that all the windows in the houses were illuminated, joan asked daulon to spread her cloak over her on the stretcher. thus, although unseen of all, joan was the witness of the delirious joy inspired by her last triumph. the town was in gala, hope radiated from all countenances. in two days, the maid had destroyed or carried three of the most redoubtable fortifications of the english, and set free a large number of prisoners. more than eight hundred of these were found in the augustinian convent. by virtue of the confidence that she inspired, there was no doubt entertained on the success of the morrow's assault--the tournelles would be taken, and, agreeable to the promise she had made in the name of god, the enemy would raise the siege. concealed under the cloak that covered her, the maid was transported to the house of james boucher. informed of the victory by the wild cheers of the people, but full of anxiety for the heroine, his wife and daughter were at first thrown into terror seeing her carried on a stretcher. but the maid soon calmed them, promising that with their help she would soon be restored. assisted by the two she went up to her room, and there submitted to the tender nursing at which her modesty could take no offence. madeleine and her mother, like most women of the time, were versed in the tending of wounds. they applied oil, balm and lint to the heroine's hurt after removing her armor, which, much to their alarm, they saw was indented in more than twenty places with sabre blows and lance thrusts. a large number of contusions, discolored and painful, the results of so many strokes, fortunately deadened by her cuirass and arm protectors, marked the body of joan, who now only felt the reaction of her exertion during the warmly contested battle. she took a little nourishment, performed her evening devotions, thanked god and her saints for having sustained her during the bloody struggle, and implored their aid for the battle of the morrow. the warrior maid was about to compose herself for recuperative sleep, when master boucher requested admission to joan upon an important and urgent matter. she quickly threw one of madeleine's robes over herself in order to receive her host's visit and was struck by the signs of indignation and anger depicted on his face as he entered. his first words on entering were: "what impudence! i can hardly believe it possible! whom do you think i come from this minute, joan? the sire of gaucourt," and answering an interrogating gesture of the heroine, her host proceeded: "would you believe the man has forgotten the rude lesson of this morning? would you believe that at his instigation the captains, assembled this evening after supper, decided that--_in view of the small number of the mercenary troops in town, the council opposes a battle for the morrow, and declares that the people should be satisfied with the successes they have so far won ... and until the arrival of reinforcements no further measures shall be taken against the english_.[93] i was commissioned to inform you of this decision on the spot and demand your submission--" "it is nothing short of treason!" broke in dame boucher, who although ignorant of arms, nevertheless perceived the baseness of the act. "what, remain locked up within our walls, on the eve of the last triumph that is to free our town!" "i spoke in that sense to the sire of gaucourt," replied james boucher, "and i consented to communicate to joan the decision of the captains, but declared at the same time that i was positive she would refuse to obey, and that in that case she should not lack the support of the councilmen and the good people of orleans." "you have answered, sir, as i myself would have answered," said the warrior maid with a smile of deep sorrow at this further evidence of the captains' perfidy. "be at ease. your brave militiamen occupy to-night the augustinian convent. i shall join them to-morrow at daybreak to lead them to the assault, and with god's help and their courage we shall carry the tournelles. as to the captains' ill will, i have a sovereign means to thwart it. it is for that reason that i requested you to have me escorted to-morrow to the sound of the town's trumpets. good night, sir; have faith and courage. the good town of orleans will be set free. god so orders it." james boucher withdrew, followed by his wife. madeleine alone remained with the warrior maid. the latter, before taking to her bed, and yielding to a vague presentiment, requested her companion, to whom she frankly avowed her utter ignorance of reading and writing, to write to her mother, isabelle darc, a letter that she proceeded to dictate--a simple, touching, respectful letter that revealed at every word her love for her family and the tender recollection of the happy days that she spent in domremy. in that missive joan did not forget even her village girl friend, nor the good old sexton who, to oblige her, when she was still little and loved so passionately to listen to the sound of the bells, purposely prolonged the morning chimes or the chimes of the angelus. this missive, that bore the stamp of serious, religious and tender sentiment, breathed a vague presentiment concerning her chances of safety at the murderous battle contemplated for the morrow. madeleine, who more than once, while writing the letter, had dried her tears, was struck by these apprehensions and asked her with a trembling voice: "oh, joan, do you apprehend misfortune to yourself?" "the will of god be done, dear madeleine. i do not know why, but it seems to me i shall be wounded to-morrow again.[94] oh, i was right! it was a mistake to delay employing me so long. i am not to live long!" joan then relapsed into silence and presently added: "may god protect you, dear friend; i am going to sleep. i feel very tired and i must be on my feet to-morrow before dawn." chapter ix. saturday, may 7, 1429. before daybreak joan re-armed herself with the help of madeleine. the wound in her foot pained her severely. although the distance was short from orleans to the convent of the augustinians she asked for her horse. after tenderly embracing her companion, madeleine helped her descend to the ground floor. there they found james boucher, his wife and a female friend named colette, the wife of the registrar millet. all three had risen early to bid the warrior maid godspeed. sadness overspread the faces of all at the thought of the fresh dangers that the heroine was about to brave, but the latter reassured her friends as well as she could, and pressed upon james boucher the necessity of causing it to be proclaimed throughout the city that, in order to insure a successful issue to the assault on the tournelles the fort should be attacked by the captains from the side of the bridge the instant that she began the attack from the side of the augustinian convent. thus pressed upon by popular clamor, the captains would be forced to recede from their treasonable decision of the previous evening. will they, nill they, they would co-operate with her. joan had just given these last instructions to her host, when a fisherman stopped at the door to offer for sale to dame boucher an enormous river shad that he had just caught in the loire. in order not to leave her hosts under a sad impression, joan said mirthfully to james boucher: "do buy this shad and keep it for this evening. i shall return by the orleans bridge after we have carried the tournelles and i shall bring an english prisoner along to help us finish up the fish."[95] saying this joan mounted her horse and preceded by her page, her equerry and the town trumpeters, who at her orders blew the reveille and the call to arms, she crossed the whole city and rode towards the bourgogne gate where she was to be joined by master john the cannonier, the representative of the carpenters named champeaux, and the representative of the fishermen, named poitevin, both of them intelligent and resolute men. by traversing the town from one end to the other to the sound of trumpets, it was the maid's purpose to call the townsmen up and out, and to announce to them that she was about to start on the assault; and thus to compel the captains to choose between seconding her in a combat upon which the final deliverance of orleans depended, or else covering themselves with overwhelming shame and exposing themselves to be killed by an indignant people. upon arriving at the bourgogne gate joan found master john together with champeaux and poitevin. she ordered the former to gather all the necessary workmen and quickly construct a drop-bridge to be thrown over the arches where the english had cut the bridge for the purpose of isolating the tournelles from the boulevard of the town and thus turning the loire into a natural moat for their fortification. the communication being thus re-established it would enable the captains who remained in town to advance with their men to the very foot of the fortress and assail it. the placing of the bridge and the eruption of the soldiers from that side were to be announced by the town belfry. at that signal joan was to commence the assault from her side. the carpenter promised that all would be ready in two hours. the equerry daulon was sent by joan to inform the captains of her dispositions. nevertheless, preparing against the contingency of the captains' failing to comply, she ordered poitevin to fill two large barges with tarred and pitched fagots, and in case no attack was made by way of the improvised bridge, poitevin, assisted by some other intrepid skippers, was to drive the burning barges against the tournelles and fasten them there against the lower framework of the english fortress. the english were thus to be hemmed in between a conflagration and the lances and pikes of the french. obedient to the instructions he had received from joan the previous evening, master john carried during the night a large number of scaling ladders to the augustinian convent for the attack from that side; moreover, assisted by his two sturdy friends, champeaux and poitevin, and their workmen, he had established two pontoon bridges, one from the right bank of the loire to the small island of st. aignan, the second from that island to a path on the left bank of the river and almost opposite the ruins of the bastille of st. john-le-blanc. by opening this path to the foot soldiers, to the cavalry and to the artillery, the maid facilitated the passage of the troops and cannons of master john, both of which could thus be easily brought to bear upon the tournelles; if occasion should arise, the bridge alone offered a safe means of retreat. joan was about to step upon the pontoon bridge when she was joined by dunois and lahire. yielding to the point of honor, no less than to the public outcry of the townspeople, who were notified of the departure of joan to the assault, the two captains came at the head of their companies of troops to take part in the battle. commander gireme, marshal st. sever and other captains were, according to the maid's orders, to attack the tournelles from the side of the bridge. at a signal from the belfry the attack of the fortress was to commence upon both sides. followed by lahire and dunois, the heroine arrived before the augustinian convent. formed in battle line since early morning, the militiamen awaited impatiently the order to march upon the enemy. loud were the cheers with which they received the maid. while waiting for the signal for the general assault, she desired to inspect more closely the outer fortifications of the tournelles, and she approached the fortress which she found protected by a wide moat on the other side of which rose a palisaded embankment, and beyond and above that a rampart equipped with artillery and flanked with frame turrets. the works presented a formidable appearance. already the pieces of artillery of longest range were showering their projectiles at master john and his cannoniers, who were training their cannons against the rampart to the end of knocking a breach through for the assault. unconcerned at the bullets that at times buried themselves in the ground at the feet of her horse, the warrior maid attentively watched the work of master john, and with a visual precision that threw the old cannonier into confusion and wonder, she pointed out to him more correct positions for several of his pieces. master john recognized the justice of her opinion and followed her instructions. suddenly the peals of the belfry reached the ears of joan's troops. it was to be the signal for the general attack, but it turned out otherwise. instead of beginning the action from their side, the captains wasted time with false manoeuvres, and left joan to engage the english alone, in the hope that the latter, not being compelled to divide their forces as joan had counted that they would, might easily crush her. ignorant of this fresh act of treason on the part of the captains, the maid gave master john orders to open fire upon the ramparts in order to protect the descent of the troops into the moat. the cannons roared. at their sound, and unable to support the idea of remaining nailed to her horse instead of taking an active part in this decisive combat, the warrior maid, despite the smarting wound of the previous day, jumped to the ground, and soon forgot the stinging pain in the effervescence of the struggle. her standard in her hand, she marched to the assault. the english were commanded by their most illustrious captains--lord talbot, the earl of suffolk, gladescal and many more. violent at their recent defeats, these warriors were bent upon wiping out the stain on their arms. this supreme day would decide the fate of orleans, perchance also of the english domination of gaul. it was necessary for the english to restore by a brilliant victory the drooping courage of their troops. the captains gathered their best men, veterans of scores of battles, reminded them of their past victories, pricked their national pride, fired their military ardor, and succeeded once more in overcoming the terror that the maid filled them with. the french met with a furious and dogged resistance. three times they mounted to the assault, here through the breach, yonder by means of their scaling ladders. three times they were repelled and their ladders thrown down with all who were climbing them. a hailstorm of balls, bolts and arrows showered down upon the french. the bottom of the moat was covered with the dead and dying. the breach having been opened, master john hastened to join the maid and reached her side at the moment when she rushed at a ladder that her intrepid followers raised for the fourth time at the foot of one of the turrets. master john followed the maid. she had mounted several rungs when she was struck at the juncture of her gorget and cuirass by a "vireton," a long and sharp steel arrow, that was ejected with such force from a ballista that, piercing her armor, it entered near her right breast and partly issued under her shoulder.[96] thrown back by the force of the projectile, the maid fell into the arms of the cannonier who followed close behind her, and who, with the aid of a few militiamen, carried her fainting beyond the moat. there they laid her on the grass near a tree that protected her from the enemy's fire. she felt, she said, as if she were dying, but still retaining her full presence of mind she deplored the slowness of the captains, who, not having attacked the tournelles from the side of the town, endangered by their treason an otherwise certain victory. informed of the wound received by joan, her equerry daulon hastened to her and realizing the seriousness of her condition informed her that in order to avoid being choked by the flowing blood, her cuirass had to be instantly unfastened and the dart extracted. at these words, joan's pale face turned purple. her modesty revolted at the thought of exposing her shoulder and bosom to the eyes of the men who surrounded her; and so painful was the thought that her tears--touching tears, not drawn by the physical pain that she was suffering from, welled up to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.[97] master john, who also had considerable experience in wounds, confirmed the equerry's opinion--to allow the dart to remain longer in the wound was to expose the heroine's precious life. indeed, feeling more and more suffocated, joan believed her last hour had struck, still she did not wish as yet to die. her mission was not yet fulfilled. she invoked her saints, gathered strength from the mental prayer and mustered up the necessary resolution to submit to a necessity that cruelly wounded her modesty. before, however, allowing her wound to be attended, joan ordered the assault to be suspended in order to give the troops some rest. she ordered dunois, who ran to her, together with lahire and xaintrailles, to send one of their orderlies into orleans on the spot, in order to ascertain the cause of the fatal inaction of the other chiefs, and to enjoin them to commence the attack from the side of the town within an hour, or else to order the barges with combustibles to be set on fire and pushed against the tournelles. again the belfry was to give the signal for a general attack. the trumpets sounded a retreat amidst the triumphant cheers of the english, who were intoxicated with their first triumph. thanks, however, to the exaltation that the heroine had produced in her soldiers, they clamored to be allowed to return to the assault. a cordon of sentinels, placed at a little distance from the tree at whose base joan had been laid, kept back the alarmed, trembling and desolate crowd of soldiers. blushing with confusion, the warrior maid allowed her equerry to unfasten her cuirass, and with a steady hand herself extracted the dart from her breast, emitting, however, in doing so, a piercing cry of pain. dunois and the other captains wished to have her transported to orleans, where, said they, she would receive the best of care, and they proposed to adjourn the battle for the next day. joan opposed both propositions, and maintained that, even then, if the captains would support her from the side of orleans, success was certain. "let our people take some food," she said to dunois; "we shall return to the assault; the tournelles will be ours!"[98] once the dart was extracted from the wound, the warrior maid allowed herself to be tended. the mental tortures that she underwent at the moment by far exceeded her physical pain. when, her cuirass and padded jacket having been taken off, she felt her linen shirt, wet with blood and the sole cover on her shoulder and breast, respectfully removed by her equerry, a shudder ran through joan's body and she involuntarily closed her eyes. she seemed to wish to close her eyes to the looks that she feared might be cast at her. but so sacred was the nation's virgin to all the troops that not even the shadow of an improper thought stained the purity of the pious offices of any of the men who saw the beautiful warrior maid thus semi-nude.[99] like all other professional equerries, daulon was expert in surgery. he carried about him, in a leather case suspended from his shoulder, lint, bandages and a bottle of balm. with these he tended the wound which he pronounced so serious that he considered it highly imprudent for joan to return to the combat. but on that point she remained inflexible. so great was the relief she speedily experienced, that she said she hardly felt the wound. tightly laced, her armor would keep the bandage in position. all she wanted was a few mouthfuls of water to slake her burning thirst. master john ran to a nearby streamlet, filled up full a pouch that was half full of wine and returned with it to the maid. she drank and felt better, rose, put on her armor and took a few steps to test her strength. her celestial face, grown pale with the loss of blood, speedily recovered its serene and resolute expression. she requested those near her to step aside for a moment, whereupon she knelt down near the old oak tree, joined her hands, prayed, thanked her good saints for having delivered her from a mortal danger, and besought them further to sustain and protect her. immediately she heard the mysterious voices murmur in her ear: "go, daughter of god. courage! combat with your wonted audacity. heaven will give you victory. by you gaul will be delivered." inspired anew the heroine rose, put on her casque, seized her banner that had been placed against the tree, and cried out aloud: "now, to the assault! ours will the tournelles be, by the order of god! to arms! be brave! forward, victory to gaul!"[100] the cry was repeated from mouth to mouth with a tremor of impatient bravery. the quick peals from the belfry rent the air. the detonations of the artillery resounded from the side of the town, announcing the execution of the maid's orders, however tardy. the tournelles was assailed by the captains from the bridge at the moment when the maid marched to the attack of the fortress in front. the happy plan redoubled the already exalted ardor of the assailants under the maid. led by her they resumed the assault with irresistible impetus. after a stubborn and bloody struggle that lasted until night the tournelles was carried. as on the previous day, the sinking rays of the sun cast the gleam of their ruddy aureola upon the folds of joan darc's standard, planted by herself upon the battlements of the fortress. the enemy was vanquished again. gladescal, who had so outrageously insulted joan, was killed during the combat, as also the seigneurs of moulin and pommiers and the bailiff of trente, together with a great number of english noblemen. almost all their men who were not killed were made prisoners, the rest were either burned or drowned in the attempt to flee when the assailants were upon them. they sought to escape by the improvised bridge under which poitevin let his burning barges float. the bridge took fire and broke under the feet of the fleeing soldiers who thus perished either in the flames or the river. as joan had calculated, the garrisons of the other bastilles, to the number of from eight to ten thousand men, decamped in haste during the very first night that followed the capture of the tournelles. they left in terror and consternation. at break of the next day, the warrior maid mounted her horse, assembled the town militiamen and a few companies of the captains' troops and marched out to offer battle to the english whom they supposed to be still there. but these were gone, they were beating a precipitate retreat towards meung and beaugency, fortified places held by the english. on that day, sunday, may 8, 1429, joan re-entered orleans at the head of the troops, and attended noon mass at the church of st. croix in the midst of an immense concourse of people, delirious with joy and gratitude to the warrior maid--the redeeming angel of orleans. such was the "week of joan darc." in eight days and with three battles she caused the raising of the siege that had lasted nearly a year. the deed achieved by the peasant girl of domremy dealt a mortal blow to the rule of england in gaul. but not yet was joan's secret martyrdom at an end; it increased from day to day with her glory. charles vii, that poltroon and ingrate prince, unnerved and plunged in ignoble effeminacy, was yet to cause the shepherdess of domremy to undergo all the tortures and all the disappointments that a soul inflamed with patriotism can not choose but undergo when it has devoted itself to a prince whose baseness is equal to his selfishness and cowardice. chapter x. the king crowned. immediately upon the raising of the siege of orleans, joan hastened to the castle of loches. the fame of her triumphs ran ahead heralding her approach. the gates of the palace flew open before her. she was told the king was closeted in his private cabinet with his council. thither joan walked resolutely, knocked at the door and intrepidly addressed charles vii: "sire, pray do not hold such long conferences with these seigneurs. the siege of orleans is raised. the good town is now restored to you. you must now march boldly to rheims and be consecrated. the consecration will crown you king of france in the eyes of the french. the english will then be impotent against you." the sound sense and political acumen of joan traced to charles vii in these few words the only path that wisdom dictated. his consecration at rheims, a divine attestation of his contested rights, would impart in the eyes of the ignorant and credulous mass a powerful prestige to a royalty thus reconstituted, rehabilitated, rejuvenated and breaking forth in renewed splendor. the step was moreover a bold challenge flung at the english, whose king claimed also to be king of france, and the challenge had the proper threatening ring coming swiftly upon the victory of orleans. but joan had counted without the pusillanimity of a prince who doted on his idleness, who was jealous of his pleasures, who hated the bare thought of physical exertion, and who considered only his personal comfort. in order to be consecrated at rheims he would have to mount on horseback and place himself at the head of the army. it would be necessary to confront considerable danger seeing that from orleans to rheims the whole country still was in the hands of the english. "go to rheims! why, the project is insane, criminal!" cried la tremouille and the bishop of chartres. "does it not endanger the life, at least the health of the king?" and the sorry king joined his council: "i, risk myself out of my castles of loches and chinon! and do so when the english still are in possession of meung, beaugency, jargeau and other strongholds on the frontier of touraine! why, at the first step that i take out of my retreat they will gobble me up!" and to himself he cursed his luck and wished the possessed maid to the devil, seeing her more interested than himself in the honor of the crown. disappointed and grieved joan hardly repressed her indignation. the brave maid answered that if charles's departure for rheims only depended upon the capture of the strongholds held in touraine by the english, she would capture these fortresses and drive the enemy so far, so very far that they could not then inspire the king with the slightest fear.[101] she then appointed gien for their rendezvous, implored the king to meet her there in a week, and promised him that he would then be able to undertake the journey to rheims without danger. the maid forthwith left the court and rejoined the army. on the 12th of june, 1429, joan took the fortified town of meung; on the 17th of the same month she captured jargeau, and the next day beaugency. in all these assaults the maid displayed the same bravery, the same military genius that distinguished her at the siege of orleans. at the capture of jargeau she came near being killed. this second series of triumphs was crowned by the battle of patay, where all the english forces were assembled under the command of warwick and their most illustrious captains, most of whom were taken prisoner. at this bloody and hotly contested battle joan showed herself the peer of the most famous captains by the boldness of her manoeuvres, the quickness of her eye, the use that she put the artillery to, by the enthusiasm that she knew how to fire her soldiers with, and by her imperturbable good nature. just before the battle she said to the duke of alençon with a cheerfulness and terseness worthy of the best passages of antiquity: "gallant sir, are your spurs good?" "what?" asked the duke in surprise. "spurs? to flee?" "no, sir--to pursue!" was the answer.[102] indeed, after their defeat, the enemy was pursued at the point of the lance for over three leagues. but these victories were won by the warrior maid not over the english merely, they were won also over the ill will of most of the french captains, whose envy of her increased in the same measure as her triumph. accordingly she no longer doubted their secret animosity, and a vague presentiment told her she would be eventually betrayed by them to the enemy. the foreboding did not affect her conduct. long before had she made a sacrifice of her life. considering that these last triumphs must have finally put an end to charles's hesitancy, joan returned to him, and said: "sire, meung, beaugency, jargeau have all been carried by assault, is that enough? the english have been defeated in pitched battle at patay, is that enough? talbot, warwick, suffolk, are either captured or forced to flee, is that enough? would you still hesitate to follow me to rheims and be consecrated king by the command of god?" the royal coward did not now hesitate, he declined point blank. the english had been driven out of touraine, but still they held the provinces that had to be crossed in order to reach rheims. joan was unable to overcome her disgust. no longer expecting anything from the coward, she was of a mind to give him up to his fate. in despair she took off her armor, left the court, and communicating her designs to none, she took to the woods where she wandered the whole day intending to return to domremy. towards evening, and noticing that she had lost her way, she asked for hospitality at a poor peasant house of touraine.[103] unarmed and in her male attire, joan looked like a young page. she was received as such by the good people who gladly gave her shelter, treated her at their best and made room for her at their hearth. joan sat down. the peaceful aspect of the rustic home recalled to her mind the happy days of her childhood spent in domremy. the sweet recollections of the paternal home drew involuntary tears. struck by her sadness, her hosts questioned her with timid and respectful interest. "how can you cry in such happy days as these," they asked naïvely, "in these days of the deliverance of gaul? they are happy days, especially for us peasants! for us who are now at last delivered from the english by the grace of the lord and the bravery of joan the maid, our redeeming angel!" in the enthusiasm of their gratitude, the peasant hosts showed the tenderly touched warrior maid a bit of parchment fastened to the wall above the hearth. on the parchment the name of "joan" was inscribed, surmounted with a cross. in default of the image of their beloved liberatrix, these poor people had inscribed her name and thus gave token of the sincere reverence that they rendered the heroine. the questions were innumerable that they plied their young guest with regarding joan. perhaps he had seen her, seen that holy maid, the new our lady of the peasants who had suffered so grievously at the hands of the english before she drove them away. the questions were tantamount to a choir of benedictions mixed with passionate adoration of the maid. more and more touched by these words, joan began to reproach herself severely for her momentary weakness. to abandon charles vii to his fate was to abandon france; it was above all to expose these poor peasants, the humble and industrious race of which she was herself born, to fall back under the yoke of the stranger; it was to re-deliver the poor wretches to all the horrors of a war which it was her mission to put an end to. these thoughts re-invigorated her; they inspired her with the resolve to struggle onward for the accomplishment of her projects, to struggle doggedly even against the king, against his councilors, against the captains who pursued her with their hatred and whom she perhaps stood in greater fear of than of the english. the latter fought in arms in the open; the former labored in the dark, and plotted treason. absorbed in these meditations, joan threw herself upon a bed of fresh cut grass, the only couch that her hosts could offer her. she invoked the support and the advice of her saints, and their dear voices speedily whispered in her ear: "go, daughter of god; no weakness; fulfil your mission; heaven will not forsake you!" early the next morning, the heroine left her hosts, who remained in ignorance that their humble roof had sheltered the country's savior. resolved to conceal from the king the contempt she entertained for him and to see in him only an instrument for the welfare of gaul, joan returned to court. the maid's disappearance had caused alarm, alarm among those whose every wish was for the termination of the english domination. joan's project--the king's consecration at rheims--spread abroad by the councilors in the hope of giving the widest publicity to its absurdity, met, on the contrary, with a large number of supporters, all of whom were impressed with the political grandeur and the audacity, withal, of the idea. the maid's return was looked upon as providential, and so powerful did the popular outcry wax that the craven monarch finally resigned himself to the idea of departing at the head of his troops that were constantly swelling in numbers, thanks to the fame of the maid. the march to rheims was decided on and undertaken. the journey to the royal town displayed the genius of the heroine from a side not before dreamed of. matchlessly energetic and intrepid in her desperate combats with the foreign enemy of gaul, she now showed herself endowed with an inexpressible power of persuasion. she undertook and succeeded in inducing the towns of the english or burgundian party to become french again and to open their gates to charles vii, from whom she had obtained, not without much trouble, a written promise of absolute amnesty for the dissidents. without drawing her sword, joan reconquered for the king all the fortified places on the route to rheims. the heroine found in her soul, in her aversion to civil war, in her patriotism, such treasures of naïve eloquence that, coupled with her fame, her words penetrated the spirits of all, unarmed all hands, and won over all hearts to the cause of the miserable prince whom she protected, whom she covered with the splendor of her own plebeian glory, and whom she caused the people to love by speaking in his name. upon the arrival of the royal army before a fortified town, joan would approach the barriers alone, her standard in her hand. she swore to god she did not wish to shed french blood; she besought and implored those who heard her to renounce the english domination that was so disgraceful and so fatal to the country, to recognize the sovereignty of charles vii, if not out of loyalty to him at least out of hatred for the foreigner, out of love for the motherland that for so many years had bled and been dishonored by an atrocious yoke. the heroine's beauty, her emotion, her sweet and vibrant voice, the immense stir made by her victories, the irresistible charm of the virginal and martial being, all combined to operate prodigies. the old gallic blood, cold for so long a time, boiled again in the veins of even the least valorous at the cry of national deliverance uttered by the maid of seventeen, whose sword was fleshed in the victory of so many battles. the barriers of the towns fell down at her voice. amazed and above all delighted at not having to incur danger, the royal coward made his triumphant entry into the good towns that acclaimed the maid. one day, however, he had a great fright. a strong english garrison occupied the town of troyes, whose councilmen were bitter partisans of burgundy. the gates were barricaded, the ramparts manned, and the cannons opened fire upon the royal vanguard. charles already spoke of plying his spurs, but was with difficulty restrained by joan, who advanced unescorted towards the barrier and requested a parley with the councilmen. the english captains answered her with insults accompanied with a shower of missiles. the soldier who bore the heroine's banner was killed at her side. a few townsmen of troyes belonging to the french party, who happened to be on the ramparts and heard joan's request for a parley, spread the news among the townsmen, most of whom were tired and dissatisfied with the foreign rule, but were held under by the obstinate burgundian councilmen. a great and increasing agitation manifested itself in the town. a few english companies attempted a sally against the royal vanguard commanded by joan and were beaten back. encouraged by the defeat, the french party within the walls gathered courage and ran to arms. their numbers proved unexpectedly large. the burgundian councilmen were overthrown, a new set of municipal magistrates was set up and they immediately took measures against the english who entrenched themselves in a fort that dominated the town. frightened at the threatening attitude of the people, the english evacuated the citadel over night and drew away. the new councilmen asked for a parley with joan, and in their turn they experienced the irresistible charm of her beauty, her mildness and her eloquence. assured by her that none of the inhabitants would be troubled on the score of past acts, the magistrates placed the keys of the town in the hands of joan, who took them to the king, and he thus resumed possession of one of the most important towns of his empire. the king's march continued triumphal unto rheims, thanks to the marvelous influence of joan. at chalons a delightful surprise was in store for the heroine's heart. she there met four peasants of domremy. informed by public rumor that joan was to traverse champagne, they boldly started out to see her at her passage. among them was urbain, the one-time general of the boys' army, that owed its famous victory over the boys of maxey to jeannette's bravery. these and many other memories of the village were exchanged between the heroine and the companions of her youth. during the conversation that they had a few words of sinister augury escaped from joan's lips. urbain had ingenuously asked her how she had the strength and the courage to face all the dangers of battle. a painful smile played around her lips, she remained pensive for a moment, and then as if moved by the presentiment of the evil days that were approaching for her through the machinations of the captains, she answered urbain: "i fear nothing--except--treason!"[104] poor girl of domremy! her apprehensions did not deceive her. but before climbing her calvary to its summit, and there experiencing her martyrdom, she was first to accomplish the sacred mission that she had assumed--deal a fatal blow to english rule in gaul by awakening the national spirit that had lain in a stupor for over fifty years, and having charles vii consecrated king at rheims. it was not the man, contemptible in her eyes, that joan wished to consecrate in the face of the world; it was the living incarnation of france in the person of the sovereign, an incarnation visible to the eyes of the people. the warrior maid fulfilled her promise. charles vii was led to rheims. he arrived there on july 16, 1429, thirty-five days after the siege of orleans was raised--the signal for the long series of english routs that followed and that culminated with the breakdown of english rule. at rheims joan conceived the noble thought of putting an end to the civil strife--the furious strife that had raged between the burgundians and the armagnacs, and that for so many years had desolated and exhausted the land, and delivered it over to the foreigner. on the day of the consecration of charles vii she dictated the following beautiful and touching letter addressed to the duke of burgundy, the chief of the party that bore his name: high and redoubtable prince, duke of burgundy:--i, joan, call upon you, by orders of the king of heaven, my sovereign lord, to make a good, firm and sincere peace with the king of france, a peace that shall last long. pardon one another with a full heart and entirely, as all loyal christians should. if you take pleasure in war, war against the saracens. duke of burgundy, i pray you and implore you, as humbly as i can implore, do no longer wage war against the holy kingdom of france! do promptly order your men, who still hold several fortresses in the kingdom, to withdraw. the king of france is ready to accord you peace, without detriment to his honor! i notify you in the name of god that you will win no battle against the loyal french, none. so, then, do no longer wage war against us. believe me, whatever the number of soldiers may be that you take to field, they will accomplish nothing. and it would be a great pity still to shed so much blood in fresh battles. may god protect you and give us all peace! written at rheims, before the consecration of king charles, on the seventeenth day of july, 1429. joan.[105] this letter, to which, being unable to write, the warrior maid attached her "cross in god," as was her custom, was sent by a herald to philip of burgundy. thereupon, putting on her white armor, mounting her fine white charger, and with her casque on her head, her sword at her side and her standard in her hand, the maid rode on the right side of charles vii at the head of the captains and splendidly accoutred courtiers to the ancient cathedral of rheims. the procession marched through a vast concourse of people who saw in the consecration of the king the end of the foreigner's rule and the termination of the misfortunes of france. the ceremony was performed with all the pomp of the catholic church. by the light of thousands of wax candles, across the clouds from gold censers, in front of the high altar that was resplendent with candles and where charles vii knelt down, the bishop of rheims consecrated him king to the ringing of bells, the sounding of trumpets and the booming of cannon. a witness to the imposing spectacle, the young peasant girl of domremy stood in the choir of the basilica; pensively as she leaned on the staff of her standard, her recollections wandered four years back. a tear dropped from her eyes in memory of her god-mother sybille, and the passage of merlin's prophecy, now fulfilled, recurred to her mind: "for the martial maid the steed and the armor! but for whom the royal crown? the angel with wings of azure holds it in his hands. the blood has ceased to run in torrents, the thunder to peal, the lightning to flash.- i see a serene sky; the banners float; the clarions sound; the bells ring. cries of joy! chants of victory! the martial virgin receives the royal crown from the hands of the angel of light; a man, wearing a long mantle of ermine is crowned by the warrior virgin.- "it matters little what may happen- what must be, shall be. gaul, lost by a woman, is saved by a virgin from the borders of lorraine and a forest of oaks!--" part iv. rouen; or, the mystery of the passion of joan darc chapter i. bishop and canon. in these my days, so-called "mysteries"--dialogued recitals between men and women who figure as historic personages--are frequently written and performed. these "mysteries" are imitations of the dramatic works of antiquity, such as were also the so-called "plays" of the thirteenth century, of which my ancestor mylio the trouvere left a sample behind. therefore, i, jocelyn the champion, who write this chronicle of joan darc, have decided to conclude it in the form of these "mysteries," now so much in vogue. i shall therein trace the "passion" of the plebeian heroine--for joan, like christ, also underwent her "passion," crowned with martyrdom. * * * * * the first scene is placed in a hall of the palace of the archbishop of rouen, an ancient building where, eight centuries and more ago, king charles the simple married his daughter ghisèle to old rolf, and relinquished one of his best provinces to the northman pirates. these bandits later invaded the country of england under william the conqueror and there raised the breed of english captains who for so many years have been ravaging and enslaving gaul. normandy thus became a province of england. the duke of bedford, regent, occupies rouen. the archbishop's palace of the town serves as the residence of peter cauchon, bishop of beauvais, sold, body and soul, mitre and crosier, to the english party. the month of february, 1431, approaches its end. daintily wadded in a robe of violet silk, peter cauchon is seated in an arm-chair near an open fire-place whence both heat and light radiate into the sumptuously furnished apartment. cheerful reflections play upon the oriental rug on the floor and the painted and gilded roof-beams overhead. a table, covered with parchment scrolls, and placed near the sculptured chimney, is lighted by a candelabrum of massive silver furnished with burning wax candles. a chair, vacant at the moment, and on the back of which lies a black furred cloak, faces on the other side of the table the seat occupied by the bishop. peter cauchon's face, at once striking and repulsive, betokens a mixture of audacity, wile and extraordinary stubbornness. his small light blue eyes, that sparkle with craftiness and occasionally glisten with ferocity, almost disappear under the folds of his fat red cheeks and heavy eyebrows, grey like his hair that is almost wholly covered under his violet skull cap. his forehead is furrowed with purplish veins. his flat nose, bored with large and hairy nostrils, helps to set off the singular prominence of his chin and jaws. when he laughs, his cruel laughter exposes two broken rows of uneven and yellowish teeth. at times he leans over the table, reads a parchment covered with a fine and close writing and rubs his hirsute hands with manifest pleasure; other times he looks impatiently towards the door as if he would hasten with his wishes the return of some absent personage. the door finally opens and another prelate appears. he is a canon of the name of nicolas loyseleur. his face is long and worn; his eyes are covered like a reptile's. his red eyelids are stripped of their lashes. a colorless fissure barely indicates the location of his lips whose smile bears the imprint of hypocrisy. it is at once the face of a hypocrite and a gallows-bird. bishop peter cauchon (half rising and with deep interest)--"what news? what news? good or bad?" canon loyseleur--"the messenger sent by captain morris left the maid in the prison of breville." bishop cauchon--"what is the man's errand?" canon loyseleur--"he came by orders of captain morris to request the earl of warwick to have the dungeon of the old tower prepared to receive joan darc, who is to arrive at rouen under a strong escort to-morrow morning at the latest." bishop cauchon--"did captain morris follow my instructions accurately?" canon loyseleur--"from point to point, monseigneur. the captive travels in a closed litter, with irons on her feet and hands. when a town has to be crossed, the said joan is gagged. no one has been able to approach her. the guards of the escort informed all inquirers that they were taking to rouen an old witch who throttled little children to accomplish her evil deeds." bishop cauchon (laughing)--"and the good people forthwith crossed themselves and gave the litter a wide berth? stupid plebs!" canon loyseleur--"it was just as you say. that notwithstanding, at dieppe, the exasperation of the mob at what they really took for a witch became so violent that the people sought to tear her from our hands and trample her to death." bishop cauchon--"the idiots! what would have been left for us?" canon loyseleur--"this incident excepted, the journey went smooth. no one along the route thought for a moment that the prisoner was joan the maid." bishop cauchon--"that was of the highest importance. the girl's renown is such in gaul at present, even in the provinces that are subject to our english friends, that if it had been learned that she was being taken in chains, the town and country plebs would have been greatly agitated, they might even have taken the she-devil away from her keepers. well, at any rate, we got her now!" canon loyseleur (pointing to the parchments)--"shall we now proceed with the reading of the condensed acts of the maid?" bishop cauchon (taking up a parchment on which he has made a large number of notes)--"yes; these facts and acts are to be the basis of the process. while you, canon, read, i shall mark down the acts upon which the said joan is to be particularly interrogated. this report, which my brother in god the bishop of chartres secretly sent me by orders of the sire of la tremouille, is very full and accurate. it is attributed to one percival of cagny, equerry of the duke of alençon[106] and a partisan of the maid, or to be more accurate, he does her justice. the justice done to her in the report does not trouble me. her acts have been witnessed by such a large number of people, that it would be tactless to deny or alter the truth on that head, all the more seeing that the very acts carry with them their own condemnation. where did we break off in our reading?" canon loyseleur--"at the departure from rheims after the consecration." bishop cauchon--"continue." (he dips his pen in the ink-horn and makes ready to take notes.) canon loyseleur (reading)--"'after being consecrated, the king remained at rheims until the following thursday. he left rheims bound for the abbey of st. marcoul where he took supper and slept over night. the keys of laon were there brought to him. on saturday, july 23, 1429, the king went to dine and sleep at soissons. he was very well received, the maid having preceded him and harangued the people at the barrier of the town, conjuring them to renounce the english party and become again french. her words were received with enthusiasm. several women who were about to go to child bed, or whose children had not yet been baptized, prayed the maid to choose their baptismal names, which, said they, would be to them a pledge of divine protection--'" bishop cauchon (writing rapidly)--"this must be noted--very important--excellent! _excellentissime!_" canon loyseleur (continuing to read)--"'on friday, july 29, the king presented himself before chateau-thierry. the maid ordered the banners to be unfurled, spoke to the people, and the town opened its gates. the king remained there until the following monday, august 1. that day he slept at montmirail in brie. on tuesday, august 2, the king made his entry into provins, where he was received no less well than in the other towns. he remained there until friday the 5th. on sunday, the 7th of august, he slept at coulommiers; on wednesday, the 10th, at ferté-milon; on thursday at crespy in valois; on friday, the 12th, in lagny-le-sec. in this town a woman in tears pressed through the crowd that surrounded the maid and implored her to come to a little dying child, whom, the mother said, the maid could with one word recall to life. in her naïve admiration for the maid, the poor mother attributed to her divine powers comparable to those of jesus of nazareth--'" bishop cauchon (writing with ghoulish glee)--"i would not sell that fact for a hundred gold sous! (inflating his wide and hairy nostrils) oh! what a delectable smell of fagots and roast flesh i begin to scent. proceed, canon. the process is taking shape." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'on saturday, august 13, being instructed by her forerunners that the enemy was only at a little distance, the maid, with her wonted promptness, drew up the army in order of battle in the plain of dammartin-in-gouelle, assigned his post to each, and issued her orders with the consummate skill of a captain. but frightened at the attitude of the royal army the english did not dare to give battle, although much stronger in numbers--'" bishop cauchon (in a hollow voice)--"oh, in order to save the honor of our friends from the other side of the water, it will be absolutely necessary to attribute their cowardice to joan's witchery." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'sunday, august 14, 1429, the maid, the duke of alençon, the count of vendome and other captains, accompanied by six or seven thousand soldiers, encamped near montepilloy, two leagues from senlis. the duke of bedford with eight or nine thousand soldiers defended the approaches of senlis. they were posted half a league in front of the town, having before them the little river of nonette and to their right a village of the name of notre dame de la victoire. both sides skirmished. when night fell both retired to their camps to the great displeasure of the maid, who, contrary to the opinion of the king and his captains, wished to enter into a general engagement. the english profited by the delay. they threw up earthworks during the night, dug moats and set up palisades, and utilized even their carts to cover themselves. at break of day, and despite the opposition of the captains, the maid marched at the head of a few determined companies that always obeyed her and pushed up to the foot of the enemy's entrenchments. arrived there she learned that the english had decamped over night, given up senlis, and withdrawn to paris, the earthworks they had thrown up being intended merely to delay their pursuit--'" bishop cauchon--"witchcraft! devil's work! the girl is possessed!" canon loyseleur (reading)--"'on wednesday, august 17, the keys of compiegne were brought to the king, and on thursday he made his entry into the town amidst the acclamations of the people who cried frantically: "blessings on the daughter of god!"--'" bishop cauchon (writing)--"'daughter of god!' you have rather imprudent fanatics among your admirers, my little girl!" canon loyseleur (reading)--"'when the king left crespy, he ordered marshals boussac and retz to summon the inhabitants of senlis to surrender. they answered that they would surrender, not to the king, but to the maid, whom they considered sent by god and to be a sister of the angels-'" bishop cauchon (writing)--"'sister of the angels!' 'sent by god!' well, the scamps will have contributed their fagots to the pyre." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'much to the annoyance of the maid, the king wished to stop at senlis instead of pushing forward. he seemed satisfied with the success he had so far had, and to wish for nothing more. his council was of his opinion; the maid, however, held that it would be enough for the king to show himself before paris for the town to open its gates to its sovereign. "fear not," joan said to the king; "i shall speak so sweetly to the parisians that they will prefer to become french again rather than to remain english"--'" bishop cauchon--"what an impudence on the part of the she cowherd. she is certain of everything. well, she shall pay dearly for her infernal vanity!" canon loyseleur (reading)--"'on tuesday, august 23, despite the opposition of the king and his council, the maid left compiegne together with the duke of alençon, leaving the prince behind with the bulk of the army. the following friday, august 26, without striking a blow, the maid entered st denis, which declared itself royalist. at this news, the king decided, not without considerable hesitation to proceed to that town, where he arrived in safety. the king's council now opposed the maid more doggedly than ever before. joan, however, affirmed that if she was listened to she would render the parisians to the king by the command of god, and without shedding a drop of blood--'" bishop cauchon (in a rage)--"the execrable hypocrite! to hear her speak she is all honey--and yet at her homicidal voice the french have been turned into the butchers of the english! (writing) we must not forget above all to designate her as a furious monster of carnage." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'learning of the capture of senlis and of the maid's march upon paris, the duke of bedford reinforced his garrison, and took vigorous measures against those of the armagnac or royalist party who wished to surrender the town. the duke picked out only englishmen and bitter burgundians to guard the gates, men who were expected to be able to resist the charm of the maid's sweet words. several times she advanced alone on horseback near the barriers of the town, imploring all those who were french like herself no longer to tolerate the rule of the english, who had inflicted so much damage upon the poor people of france. but the men of the burgundian party and the english answered her with insults and threatened to fire at her although she came for a parley. she would then return weeping over the hard-heartedness or the blindness of men, who, although french, wished to remain english. this notwithstanding, she every day heard "her voices" assure her that gaul would not be saved until all the english were driven from her soil, or were exterminated--'" bishop cauchon (writing)--"again 'her voices.' let us note that important fact. it is capital in the framing of the process." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'seeing that the king continued to refuse to draw nearer to paris and to present himself before the gates, as the maid desired, she declared to the duke of alençon, who placed great confidence in her, that st. marguerite and st. catherine, having again appeared before her, ordered her to demand of the king that he put forth all his efforts to regain the good town of paris by coming in person and by promises of his clemency and a general amnesty--'" bishop cauchon (writing)--"again st. marguerite and st. catherine. let us jot down the fact. it is no less capital than the one about the 'voices.' ah, you double-dyed witch! you see visions! apparitions! (laughing) you will have to roast for it, my daughter!" canon loyseleur (reading)--"'yielding to the wishes of the maid, the duke of alençon returned to the king, who promised him that on august 27 he would proceed to chapelle-st. denis and march from there to paris. but he did not keep his promise. the duke of alençon returned to him on monday, september 5. thanks to the pressure that he exercised, after long hesitating and against the advice of his council, the king came to chapelle-st. denis on september 7 to the great joy of the maid. everybody in the army said: "the maid will restore paris to the king, if he but consents to show himself before the gates." on thursday, the 8th of september, the duke of alençon together with a few captains whom the maid carried away with her persuasion, started from chapelle-st. denis towards eight in the morning with flying colors but leaving behind the king, who did not wish to accompany them. the maid advanced toward the st. honoré gate, which was defended by a body of english soldiers, because, said she, she had a horror of seeing frenchmen fighting frenchmen. she took her standard in her hand and boldly leaped at the head of all into the moat, near the swine market. the assault was long and bloody; the english defended themselves bravely; the maid was wounded by an arrow that ran through her thigh; she fell, but in falling cried out that the attack had to be kept up with all the greater vigor. but despite her feeble efforts, the sire of gaucourt and others carried her to a place of safety seeing that she was losing much blood. she was placed on a cart and taken back to chapelle-st denis--'" bishop cauchon (writing)--"let us underscore once more the bloodthirsty nature of the she-devil, who against the advice of all insists upon fighting. we must emphasize her thirst for carnage. she recommends the extermination of the english." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'on monday, september 12, and still hardly able to keep herself in the saddle, the maid wished to ride out towards st. denis in order to assure herself that a bridge over the seine, the construction of which she had ordered in order to facilitate the passage of the troops, had been properly built. the bridge had been built, but was afterwards cut by orders of the king, who had decided to make no further attempts against paris. on tuesday, the 13th of september, 1429, and with the advice of his council, the king left st. denis after dinner, intending to retreat towards the loire. in despair at the king's departure the maid wept bitterly, and carried away by the first impulse of her grief she decided to renounce his service. she took off her armor and deposited it _ex voto_ before the statue of our lady in the basilica of st. denis--'" bishop cauchon (rubs his hands and writes)--"excellent! very excellent! idolatry! sacrilege! in her infernal pride, she offers her armor to the adoration of the simple-minded!" canon loyseleur (reading)--"'in her despair, the maid wished to return to her own country of lorraine, to her family, and forever renounce war. but the king ordered her to follow him to gien, where, said he, he would need her services. they arrived in that town on september 29. the maid offered the duke of alençon to aid him in reconquering his duchy of normandy. the duke communicated the project to the king. he refused his consent. he wished to keep the maid near him in touraine to defend the province in case the english should return to attack it. the maid took several fortified towns in the neighborhood of charité-on-the-loire and then laid siege to that place. but as the royal council sent neither provisions nor money to the maid for the soldiers, she was, much to her sorrow, forced to give up the attack, and on march 7, 1430, she went to the castle of sully, the property of the sire of la tremouille, where the king was sojourning. the maid expressed in the presence of the prince her unqualified indignation against the royal councilors and the captains, and bitterly reproached them with traitorously putting obstacles in the way of the complete recovery of the realm. fully aware of the uselessness of her further services to the king, but still hoping to serve france, she left charles vii forever, and without taking leave of him she departed under the pretext of exercising outside of the castle a company of determined men attached to her fortunes. she went with them to crespy in valois. there she was soon called for by the sire of flavy who wished her aid in compiegne, a town that the duke of burgundy and the count of arundel had jointly besieged. the maid was not a little perplexed what to do in the matter. she was not ignorant of the proverbial perfidy and ferocity of the sire of flavy. but the inhabitants of the place that he commanded had, at the time of her first visit to the town, received joan with so much affection, that, overcoming her apprehensions, she decided to go to the aid of the good people. on the 23rd of may, 1430, joan departed from crespy at the head of her company, two or three hundred men strong. thanks to the darkness and to the skilful precautions in which she wrapped her nocturnal march, her troops passed unperceived between the burgundian and english camps and entered compiegne with her before daylight. she immediately went to mass in the parish church of st. james. it was barely day, but a large number of the inhabitants had learned of the arrival of their emancipatrix and went to church to see her. after mass, joan retired near one of the pillars of the nave, and addressing herself to several of the people who were gathered there together with their children, all anxious to see her, she said to them in sad accents: "my friends, i have been sold and betrayed, i shall soon be taken and put to death--my voices have for some time been warning me of the contemplated treason"--'" bishop cauchon--"what a lucky thing it was for us that joan did not hearken to these presentiments! the she-devil so often escaped the snares vainly laid for her by the captains, whose vindictive jealousy so well served our purposes and the purposes of the sires of la tremouille and of gaucourt and of my companion in god, the bishop of chartres!" canon loyseleur--"indeed, the emissary whom monseigneur the bishop of chartres sent here secretly and whom i visited in your name, informed me that it was in concert with the sire of la tremouille that the sire of flavy invited the maid to compiegne, meaning to deliver her to the english." bishop cauchon (laughing)--"i shall give flavy, whenever he wishes it, full absolution for all his crimes in return for the capture of joan. proceed, canon. i shall presently tell you more fully what my projects are." canon loyseleur (reading)--"'when it was full daylight the maid made preparations for a vigorous sally. the town of compiegne is situated on the left bank of the oise. on the right bank is a wide meadow about a quarter of a league in length and bounded by crags on the side of picardy. this low meadow, which often is under water, is crossed by a road that starts at compiegne and ends at the foot of the hill that bounds the horizon on that side of the town. three villages border on the meadow: margny, at the extreme end of the road; clairoy about three-fourths of a league up the river at the confluence of the aronde and the oise; and venette about half a league below on the road to pont st. maxence. the burgundians had a camp at margny and one at clairoy. the english occupied venette. the defences of compiegne consisted of a redoubt raised at the head of the bridge and the boulevards. the redoubt was zigzagged and strongly palisaded. the maid's plan of attack was first to carry the village of margny, then that of clairoy, and, mistress of the two positions, to await in the valley of the aronde the troops of the duke of burgundy, who, so soon as he heard the noise of the action, would not fail to hasten to the help of the english. foreseeing the movement and wishing to keep her retreat free, the maid demanded of the sire of flavy to charge himself with keeping the duke of burgundy in check, should he turn into the valley before the capture of margny and clairoy, and also to keep a reserve of troops on the front and the flanks of the redoubt, ready to cover her retreat. furthermore, covered barges, placed on the oise, were to stand ready to receive the footmen in case of a reverse. having given these orders, the maid, despite her sinister forebodings, hastened to mount her horse, and, at the head of her company, marched straight upon the village of margny, which, although vigorously defended, she swiftly carried. the english encamped at clairoy rushed to the defence of their allies and were thrown back; but they thrice returned to the attack with maddening fury. this battle was fought in the low meadow and was dragging along. the duke of burgundy was not long in entering the valley of the aronde with his men and he reached the jetty. it was in order to guard against such a move that joan had charged flavy to keep the burgundians in check. her order was not executed. the burgundians entered the valley by the road. at the sight of these hostile reinforcements, some cowards or traitors cried: "run for your lives! run to the barges!" the maid's auxiliary troops, commanded by flavy's lieutenants, broke ranks and rushed to the barges that lay at the river's bank, leaving joan and her small band to sustain alone the shock of the combined english and burgundian forces. she sustained it bravely, and assailed by fresh presentiments at the sight of the rout of her auxiliaries, whose captains had failed to execute her orders, she decided to die rather than fall alive into the hands of the english. she drew her sword and rushed temerariously upon an enemy a hundred times more numerous than the handful of heroes who stood by her. after prodigies of valor, and seeing the battle lost, the latter wished to save the maid's life at the cost of their own. two of them seized her horse by the bit, and despite her prayers, despite even her resistance, sought to force her back to the city while their companions were to allow themselves to be cut down to the last man in order to cover her retreat. already were they near a drawbridge, thrown over a moat that separated the redoubt from the road, when the bridge was raised by orders of the sire of flavy. thus vilely betrayed and delivered to the enemy, the maid and her soldiers fell upon the surging foe with the fury of despair. struck by several simultaneous blows, joan was thrown from her horse and was immediately surrounded by a mass of english and burgundians who disputed with each other the possession of the glorious capture. joan remained in the power of an archer, who was a banneret of the bastard of vendome, an equerry, a native of the county of artois and lieutenant of sire john of luxembourg of the burgundian party. pinioned on the field of battle, the maid was tied fast to a horse and taken to the castle of beaurevoir, belonging to the sire of luxembourg, the sovereign of the bastard of vendome, whose archer had made the capture. after remaining some time a prisoner in the castle, joan learned that the sire of luxembourg had sold her as a prisoner of war to the english regent for the sum of ten thousand gold sous. despair seized her at the thought of being delivered to the english, and whether she hoped to escape, or whether she meant to put an end to her life, she threw herself out of one of the towers of the castle of beaurevoir. but the fall did not prove fatal. picked up unconscious and severely hurt, joan was thrown into a dungeon and soon thereupon was surrendered to the english captain who was commissioned to deliver to the sire of luxembourg the ten thousand gold sous--the price agreed upon for the blood of the maid. she was taken under a strong escort to the castle of dugy near st. riquier. thus was joan the maid betrayed and sold, to the deep sorrow of the loyal french.'" (the canon lays down on the table the chronicle that he has just read to the end.) bishop cauchon (with ferocious joy)--"and i shall add what that royalist chronicler could not know, to wit, that taken from the castle of dugy to that of crotoy, the maid was there embarked upon the somme, on which she sailed as far as st. valery. she was thence conveyed to the castle of eu, thence to dieppe, and from dieppe hither to rouen, where she is to arrive this very night or to-morrow morning. so, then, the she-devil is in our hands! and, now, canon, i must make a very serious revelation to you. it is in your power to render a signal service to our friends from across the water, to the cardinal of winchester, to the duke of bedford the regent, and to the whole english government. the remuneration will exceed your hopes, i swear that to you! as true as the archbishopric of rouen has been promised to me by the regent of england if joan is duly brought to the pyre and burned, you will be royally rewarded." canon loyseleur--"what must i do, monseigneur? i am ready to obey you." bishop cauchon--"before answering you, and although i am from experience acquainted with the keenness of your mind and the subtlety of your resources, i must succinctly and clearly inform you of the reason and object of the process that we are to start to-morrow against the said joan." canon loyseleur (impassively)--"i listen attentively." bishop cauchon--"first of all let us sum up the situation in a few words and _ab ovo_.[107] two years ago the whole of france was on the point of falling into the hands of the english and would have so fallen but for the help that the maid brought charles vii. in the teeth of that prince, in the teeth of the sire of la tremouille, in the teeth of the captains, the she-devil forced the siege of orleans to be raised, won a number of other and no less brilliant victories, and finally had the king consecrated at rheims--an act of incalculable importance in the eyes of the people, with whom the divine consecration is tantamount to sovereign power. thus a large number of towns, that until then remained in the hands of the english, opened their gates to charles vii upon his return from rheims. everywhere the national spirit awoke at the voice of the maid, and the foreign rule, that had been accepted for over half a century, suddenly seemed unsupportable. on the other hand, and parallel with all this, the prodigious successes of joan have spread consternation and terror in the ranks of the english army. matters have reached such a pass in this line that the government in london has seen itself compelled to issue two decrees, whose titles are (the bishop takes up two parchments from the table and reads:) 'a decree against the captains and soldiers who refuse to pass into france out of fear of the witcheries of the maid,'[108] and, 'a decree against fugitives from the army out of fear of the witcheries of the maid.'[109] i shall do even better. i shall confidentially read to you a significant passage from a letter addressed by our regent the duke of bedford, to the council of the king of england, henry vi. now listen, canon, and ponder. (the bishop reads:) 'we succeeded in everything until the siege of orleans. since then the hand of god has struck our army with severe blows. the principal cause of the unfortunate turn of affairs is, as i think, the fatal opinion and fatal fear that our soldiers entertain for a disciple of the devil, a hound from hell, named "the maid," who has used enchantments and witchery, and thereby caused us discomfitures that have not only greatly diminished the number of our soldiers, but have wondrously depressed the courage of those that are left us.'[110] (the bishop places the parchment back upon the table, and turns again to the other prelate who continues impassive.) the charm of half a century of victories is broken, and the enthusiasm of the masses is now on the ascendant. if charles vii were not the incarnation of indolence and cowardice; if by promising to the sire of la tremouille the sovereignty of poitou and other great advantages to the bishop of chartres and to gaucourt, the regent had not secured for his side the secret support of these powerful dignitaries; finally, if the maid had not been captured at compiegne--france would have become french again! the labors of more than fifty years' struggles would be lost, and henry vi would no longer hold the two most beautiful crowns in the world! but we must not indulge in delusions. henry vi is king of france in name only. the provinces that he still holds in the heart of gaul are about to slip from his hands. the victories of the she-devil, have awakened the sense of patriotism, that slumbered so long. everywhere hope springs up. the people feel ashamed of what they call the foreign yoke, and they curse it. the continued rule of england in this country is gravely compromised. now, then, to those of us who have become english, such a thing spells ruin, exile or the gallows, the moment the french party has vanquished. such is the true state of things. if charles vii triumphs we are all lost." canon loyseleur--"indeed, monseigneur, i was convinced myself of the truth of what you say when i had my last secret interview with the emissary of the sire of la tremouille. the seigneur, although he is the supreme councilor of charles vii, is in the secret recesses of his soul as english as ourselves, and as desirous as we of seeing his master vanquished. he indulges in no illusions on the progress of the malady." bishop cauchon--"as the malady exists, we must endeavor to cure it by ascertaining its cause. now, then, what is the cause?" canon loyseleur--"joan! the bedeviled maid--a veritable limb of satan." bishop cauchon--"we then understand each other. now, then, the sire of flavy, having at the instigation of the sire of la tremouille drawn the maid to compiegne under the pretext of requesting her assistance in behalf of the good people of the town, pushed the fighting maid forward and then had the drawbridge raised behind her, so that, to make a long story short, she is taken. it is now for us to draw the largest possible advantage from our capture, for which we paid ten thousand shining gold sous to john of luxembourg. now let us sum up. the english soldiers are convinced that as long as joan lives they will be beaten by the french. if this continues, the rule of england in gaul will crumble down to nothing, and we will be buried under the ruins. in order to protect ourselves against such a misfortune, what is to be done? restore confidence to the english by freeing them from their bogie--joan! accordingly, joan must die. the maid must be burned alive." canon loyseleur--"logic so orders. she must be tried, sentenced and burned." bishop cauchon--"certes. _logice_, she must be roasted; but right there a serious difficulty arises. it is this: the english captains, proud and imbued with the principles of chivalry, would have considered it an act of cowardice simply and merely to kill a prisoner who had vanquished them by the force of military genius. they feared that if they had joan killed in her prison they would incur the contempt of all who carry spurs and swords. in view of that, the cardinal of winchester and myself held to them the following language: 'you, captains, can not order the death of a warrior who has fallen into your hands by the accidents of war. but the church can. more than that, the church must, at the first call of the holy inquisition, proceed against a witch, an invoker of demons, must convict her of sorcery and heresy, and deliver her to the secular arm, which will then burn her, roast her to the greater glory of god.'" canon loyseleur--"it is the right of the church, our holy mother." bishop cauchon--"and she will exercise the right. then, as soon as the maid shall be delivered to the executioner as a witch, the terror of the english soldiers will vanish, they will pick up courage, and the power of the english rule in gaul, now tottering to its fall, will be reaffirmed. the sire of la tremouille continues to serve us in the hope of obtaining poitou for his domain; the english army will reconquer all that it has recently lost, and will invade the remaining provinces; completely dispossessed and although consecrated at rheims, charles vii will go to live in london, like the good king john ii, his great grandfather did; he will forget all about his kingdom of france; we will have nothing more to fear; and the archepiscopal see of rouen will be mine. the question being thus clearly understood, the point now is, to have joan roasted, in other words to have her convicted of heresy." canon loyseleur--"it all depends upon that, monseigneur. we shall conduct the matter according to your wishes." bishop cauchon--"yes, all, absolutely everything, depends upon that. now, let us look into the chances of the process that we are to institute against her. the first obstacle is this: a direct appeal of charles vii to the pope. that prince may possibly request the holy father to use his omnipotent influence against the inquisition's pursuing its trial of the maid for heresy. it is to her that charles owes his crown. before the consecration at rheims he was quasi uncrowned. the most common gratitude, the least human regard would dictate the measure to him, even if he were certain of failing. but we know what the gratitude of kings amounts to." canon loyseleur--"i received a formal assurance at my interview with the emissary of the sire of la tremouille and the bishop of chartres that such an application on the part of charles vii will not be made. the process of heresy will be allowed to take its course peacefully. besides, the bishop of chartres is commissioned to notify the notables of rheims of the capture of the maid, and to foreshadow the fate that awaits her. he expressed himself in the following terms which his emissary transmitted to me and which i wrote down. they are these: (he reads) 'the bishop of chartres hereby notifies the people of rheims that the maid has been captured before compiegne, as a result of her disinclination to listen to any counsel, and wishing to act only at her own pleasure.' the bishop adds: 'as to the rumor that is rife that the english will put the maid to death, god has so willed it because she set herself up in pride, wore male attire, and did not obey the orders of god.'[111] so you see, monseigneur, after such a letter, written by a bishop, a member of the royal council, we may rest assured that charles vii will neither directly nor indirectly attempt anything with the holy father in the matter of the process. she is dropped and renounced by the king." bishop cauchon--"furthermore, we have the certainty that charles vii and his council are secretly as desirous as ourselves of having joan burned. accordingly, they will not intervene with the secular, seeing that they will not do so with the clerical, power. for the last six months the maid has been dragged from prison to prison, and have charles vii or his council made a shadow of a move with the king of england in favor of the prisoner? could he not demand her either under bail or in exchange for english prisoners? idle attempts, perhaps; but they would at least have been a sign of that self-respect that ingrates always feel it necessary to display." canon loyseleur--"nevertheless, monseigneur, allow me to put you a question. joan was taken on may 24 of last year, 1430. since then she has been a prisoner. why this delay in starting the process? why not taken, sentenced and executed?" bishop cauchon--"i shall answer your question, and you will see that i was not to blame. the news of joan's capture reached us on the morning of may 25. the very next day, the registrar of paris, acting under my orders, addressed in the name and under the seal of the inquisitor of france a summons to monseigneur the duke of burgundy, who is the suzerain of john of luxembourg, one of whose equerries was the captor of the maid. the summons was to the effect that the said joan be surrendered to the jurisdiction of the said inquisitor, to the end that she may answer, in the words of the good formula 'to the good council, favor and aid of the good doctors and masters of the university of paris.'" canon loyseleur--"but, monseigneur, four or five months passed before the summons of the inquisitor received an answer. the preliminaries of the process might have been shortened, and the maid delivered to the executioner before this." bishop cauchon--"do you not know that the decisions of the university of paris--an ecclesiastical body, that, however, has a hand in politics--have a powerful influence not only upon the majority of the higher clergy which upholds the english rule, but also upon the bishops who have remained faithful to the royalist party? now, then, did not the latter, yielding to popular clamor, declare through the medium of the clerics gathered at poitiers two years ago for the purpose of interrogating joan, that 'she is neither a heretic nor a witch, and charles vii may without endangering his salvation, avail himself of the aid that she brought him'? very well, then. that opinion found partisans, even in the bosom of the university of paris, which is an enlightened body and little inclined to believe in witches. the university was at first recalcitrant to my project of itself undertaking the process of heresy against joan. it took me a long time, many negotiations and not a little money, to convince the objectors that from a political point of view it was of the highest importance to seem to believe in the witchery of joan, and thus to deliver her to the flames, without which her influence would continue to assert itself, despite her captivity, and that such an influence, disastrous to the english, beneficent to the french, might, as it came very near doing, make charles vii master of paris. what would then happen? the university would be shorn of its power, its members would be proscribed and stripped of their privileges. in order to escape such a danger, it was imperative to break the instrument that threatened it, in other words, have joan burned as a witch. (laughing) it is a fact, we must always go back to the fagot. the pyre is our supreme argument." canon loyseleur--"and finally, monseigneur, did the university start the process?" bishop cauchon--"yes; but that was only a slight success. the opposition that i had to overcome with many of the members of the university caused me to fear for the issue if it depended wholly upon them. i wished to have the process started by the university, and then continued before an ecclesiastical tribunal devoted to myself. after sedulous endeavors to reach the desired end i hit upon the right means. it is quite ingenious and worthy of us, whose mission it is to lead men by the nose. you may judge for yourself. where was the maid captured?" canon loyseleur--"in compiegne." bishop cauchon--"to what diocese does compiegne belong? follow my reasoning closely." canon loyseleur--"to the diocese of beauvais." bishop cauchon--"who is bishop of beauvais by the grace of intrigues, the intervention of pretty courtesans and divine consent?" canon loyseleur--"you, monseigneur; you are in possession of the bishopric." bishop cauchon (rubbing his hands)--"so, there you have it! the maid, taken on the territory of my diocese, falls within my jurisdiction. i am her judge. the university started the process, but will conduct it before an ecclesiastical tribunal chosen by myself. i have appointed to that tribunal the canons of the chapter of rouen and the priests of the university of paris who are faithful to me. i have above all placed in the tribunal a number of norman beneficiaries whose interests place body and soul on the side of the english. i have also convoked a few young laureates of the college, but only such as are little versed in affairs. my choice of them flatters their pride and assures me their blind support. among these i may name william erard, nicole midi, thomas of courcelles, rising luminaries of theology and canon law. the tribunal is entirely my creature. it can begin operations to-morrow, according to inquisitorial laws. that subject, dear canon, brings me to the matter that concerns you personally. i mean the great service that you can render england. the duke will not show his gratitude to you in the manner that charles vii did to joan. you will have honors and wealth." canon loyseleur--"what must i do, monseigneur?" bishop cauchon--"you are acquainted with the inquisitorial law. its proceedings are simple, and go straight to the point. the sixteenth decretal formally sets forth: 'the judges of heretics have the faculty to proceed in a simplified manner, direct, without the noise of advocates, or form of judgment.'" canon loyseleur--"_simpliciter et de plano, absque advocatorum ac judiciorum strepitu et figura_--the text is formal." bishop cauchon--"whence it follows that myself and the inquisitor john lemaitre will constitute a sufficient authority to apply to joan the law against heretics. but in order to do that she must give us proofs of her heresy. there is where we run up against a grave difficulty, which it will be for you to remove." canon loyseleur--"how, monseigneur? what must i do?" bishop cauchon--"however devoted to me the judges of the tribunal may be, they will require some proofs in order to condemn joan and protect the dignity of the church. now, then, the she-devil has a reputation for craftiness. i have read her answers to the interrogatories at poitiers. she more than once astounded and embarrassed the judges by her quick wit or by the loftiness of her answers. it must not go at rouen as it did at poitiers. this is the summary course that i would stamp upon the process, to the end that joan may not escape. to obtain from herself condemnatory admissions, and pronounce her guilty upon them. and then after her sentence to find means of causing her to make a public recantation and to admit her to penitence." canon loyseleur (stupefied)--"but if she renounces her errors, then she is not condemned, monseigneur! if she is admitted to penitence, then she can not be burned!" bishop cauchon--"patience, listen. if joan abjures her errors, she is admitted to penitence. we shall have given a proof of our gentleness and indulgence. at any rate the fools will think so." canon loyseleur--"if joan escapes the fagot your end is not reached." bishop cauchon--"for one day. immediately after she must be led by some skilful method to relapse into her previous heretical conduct. we may even get her to maintain that her abjuration was the result of a snare, a surprise. we can thus lead her to persevere in her damnable errors. the criminal relapse then gives us the right to condemn the penitent as 'relapsed.' we abandon her to the secular arm, and by it she is delivered to the executioner. thus, the appearances of ecclesiastical charity being saved, the full burden will fall upon joan herself." canon loyseleur--"the proposal is excellent. but how to carry it out?" bishop cauchon--"i shall come to that presently. let us first consider what flagrant proofs of heresy we must find in joan's answers. one example will explain my thoughts to you. the girl pretends to have seen saints and angels and to have heard supernatural voices. now, then, in the eye of the church and its holy canons joan has not the _sufficient and recognized, quality to converse and hold commerce with the blessed beings of paradise_. in the eye of the canon law, the visions and apparitions of the said joan, so far from proceeding from god, and emanating from celestial beings--" canon loyseleur--"proceed directly from satan. a flagrant proof that joan is an invoker of devils, hence a witch, hence deserving of the fagot." bishop cauchon--"one moment--a stone lies there in our way. it will have to be removed." canon loyseleur--"what stone, monseigneur? i do not see the said stone." bishop cauchon--"our canon law admits a qualification in avowals concerning supernatural matters. thus the tribunal would find itself prevented from passing sentence upon the maid, if by some mishap, instead of her declaring affirmatively: 'i have heard the voices,' she were to say: 'i believe i heard the voices.' the doubtful form would cause the principal charge to fall. now, then, i fear that whether guided by the instinct of self-preservation, or whether properly indoctrinated in advance, joan may give her answers such a form as to perfidiously raise an unsurmountable obstacle in our way. do you understand me?" canon loyseleur--"perfectly, monseigneur. but how shall we manage it that instead of saying: 'i believe i heard the voices,' joan shall say: 'i have heard the voices'?" bishop cauchon--"nothing is simpler. all we need is to have a councilor, in whom joan may have full confidence, dictate to her certain answers that will be certain to lead to her condemnation." canon loyseleur--"monseigneur, the girl is of extraordinary intelligence and is gifted with exceptional sound judgment. that is her reputation. how can we expect her to repose blind confidence in an unknown adviser?" bishop cauchon--"my son in christ, what is your name?" canon loyseleur--"my name is nicolas loyseleur."[112] bishop cauchon--"i believe the name is truly predestined." canon loyseleur--"predestined?" bishop cauchon (laughing)--"without a doubt. what is the way that the skilful fowler practices the piping of birds in order to attract the mistrusting partridge? he skilfully imitates the bird's chirping, and the latter believing one of his kind near, flies in the direction of the deceitful voice and falls into the snare. now, then, my worthy canon, the apostle st. peter was a fisher of men, you shall be a decoyer of women--to the greater glory of our order." canon loyseleur (after a moment's reflection)--"i vaguely perceive your thought, monseigneur." bishop cauchon--"the maid will arrive towards morning in rouen. her cell, her irons are ready. well, then, it is necessary that when she enters her cell in the morning, she find you there. you must be a companion in her misery, and presently her confidant." canon loyseleur--"i, monseigneur! such a mission for me!" bishop cauchon--"you--in chains, hands and feet. you will moan. you will sigh at the cruelty of the english, at the severity with which i, a bishop, allow a poor priest to be treated whose only crime is that he remained faithful to the king of france. that is the outline of your role." canon loyseleur (smiling)--"our divine master said: 'render unto caesar what is caesar's, and unto god what is god's.'" bishop cauchon--"what is the application of that quotation! it is out of all connection." canon loyseleur--"let us render to the inquisition what belongs to the inquisition. the method that you propose is skilful, i admit. but it has been practiced before upon the great albigensian heretics as is attested by the following seventh decretal of the inquisitorial law: 'let none approach the heretic, except, from time to time, one or two faithful persons, who cautiously, and as if greatly moved by pity for him, shall give him advice,' etc., etc."[113] bishop cauchon--"well! just because the method has often been successfully put in practice by the inquisition it is sure to succeed again! i do not mean to plume myself upon having invented it. it goes without saying that being joan's fowler you are also to be among her judges. to the end that you may enjoy the results of your skilful chirping, i reserved a place for you on the tribunal. you will sit in your robes with your cowl wholly over your head; it will conceal your face. joan will not be able to recognize you. informer and judge--it is agreed." canon loyseleur--"it will be all the more necessary, seeing that, thanks to my quality of priest, it will be easy for me to induce the girl to confess. in that case, you realize the tremendous advantage that may be gained over her, through her sincerely made avowals before the sacred tribunal of penitence." bishop cauchon (transported with joy)--"canon! canon! the regent of england and the cardinal of winchester will worthily reward your zeal. you shall be bishop; i, archbishop." canon loyseleur--"my reward is in myself, monseigneur. what i do, i do, as you said, to the greater glory of our church, and above all to its great profit. i feel outraged at the sight of a stupid mob attributing supernatural powers and divine relations to this peasant girl, who, according to canonical law, has none of the qualities for such celestial commerce. i feel for joan the hatred, vigorous and legitimate, that the captains, her rivals, pursue her with. 'what is the use,' they justly said, 'of being born noble? what is the use of growing old in the harness, if it is enough for a cowherdess to come and our illustrious houses are eclipsed?' you tax charles vii with ingratitude, monseigneur. you are wrong. by showing himself ungrateful, he asserts his royal dignity. his conduct is politic when he repudiates the services of the maid. charles vii could not intervene in joan's behalf without thereby making the admission, disgraceful to his majesty--'a vassal has rendered the crown to a descendant of the frankish kings.' england, the church, the knighthood of france, charles vii and his council--all are interested in having the maid burned alive. and she shall be roasted, even if i should myself have to light the pyre!" bishop cauchon (laughing)--"that is too much zeal, canon! in her infinite mercy, our holy mother the church sends people to the pyre but never herself burns them with her maternal hands. execution is the province of the secular arm. thanks to your spiritual aid, it will be done that way with joan. she shall be roasted as a relapsed heretic, and the church will have shown herself full of clemency to the very end. our triumph will have results of an importance that you do not dream of. joan will become even in the eyes of her partisans the most despicable of creatures. we shall burn her body and we shall stain her name and fame for now and evermore." canon loyseleur--"how, monseigneur? i do not quite grasp your meaning." bishop cauchon--"i shall prove to you to-morrow what i am now saying. in the meantime we must also see what advantage we can draw from the otherwise annoying chastity of the she-devil. because, may god pardon me, she is still a virgin. but it is growing late. go and take a few hours of rest. to-morrow early you must be all sorrow, moans and sighs, with irons to your hands and feet and lying upon straw in the cell of joan." the canon departs; the bishop remains alone. he busies himself with the preparation of the process and the drawing up of a series of questions based upon the actions and words of joan the maid. chapter ii. in the dungeon. it is still night. a lamp feebly lights a dark subterraneous cell in the old donjon of the castle of rouen. the cell is a semi-circular cave. its greenish walls ooze with the moisture of winter. a narrow window, furnished with an enormous iron bar is cut in a stone wall six feet thick. opposite the airhole and under a vaulted passage is a massive door studded with iron and pierced with a grated wicket always kept open. a wooden box filled with straw lies to the left of the door; a long chain that is soldered in the wall and the other end of which is fastened to a heavy iron belt, now open, lies on the straw. at one end of the box, that is to serve as a bed, rises a beam so contrived as to hold fast the feet of the girl prisoner that is soon to be conveyed thither. a trunk, a stool, a table, the sorrowful furniture of a prisoner's cell, are barely distinguishable by the light of the lamp. opposite this straw bed is another, furnished exactly like the first. on it lies canon loyseleur, in chains. he has just said a few words to the jailer john, an english soldier in burly middle age, who wears an old fur coat, and whose low and savage face is bloated by excessive indulgence in wine and strong liquors. his thick long beard, unkempt like his hair, falls down upon his chest. a cutlass hangs at his side. presently another man of hang-dog looks pushes open the door and says to john: "come, quick. here is the witch!" the jailer goes out precipitately, makes a sign of intelligence to the canon and carries the lamp out. the canon stretches himself on the straw and pretends to sleep. the door is double locked on the outside. the weak light of approaching dawn, so pale in those winter days, filters through the airhole of the cell, yet leaves the interior in substantial darkness. the bed occupied by the canon lies completely in the shadow. the scene is about to begin. again the heavy door grates on its hinges. joan darc enters preceded by john. he casts a savage look upon her. two other jailers, also armed, follow their chief. one of them has a hammer and shears in his hands, the other carries on his shoulder a small box containing some clothes that belong to the prisoner. joan is hardly recognizable. since her prolonged sojourn in a succession of prisons, the fresh color of the child of the fields or of the martial maid always living in the open has disappeared. her beautiful face, now furrowed with suffering and worn with sorrow, is of a sickly hue. a bitter smile contracts her lips. her appearance is sad yet proud. her black eyes seem enlarged through the hollowness of her cheeks. she wears a woman's felt hat, a brown tunic and tight hose fastened with hooks to her shirt. the laces of her leather shoes are hidden under two large iron rings held together by a chain that is hardly long enough to allow her to walk. close manacles hold her hands together. her clothes, worn out and tattered by her journey, are ripped at the elbows and allow glimpses of a coarse shirt. the english soldiers charged to guard the heroine have received orders not to lose sight of her night or day, and to sleep in her room during the few halts that were made. as her chastity would not allow her to undress in their presence, she has not removed her clothes for a whole month. john orders his aides to unchain the prisoner and to fasten her firmly to the straw bed. they approach her with an insolence that is not unmixed with fear. in their eyes she is a witch. they are always in fear of some sorcery. nevertheless they first place around her waist the heavy iron belt, lock it, and give the key to john. the length of the chain, that is fastened at the other end to the wall, barely allows her to sit down or stretch herself out upon the litter. being thus secured to her new fastenings, one of the jailers begins to remove her traveling irons. with a hammer he strikes a chisel which he applied to the jointure of the manacles and these drop from joan's sore wrists. with a sigh of relief she stretches out her aching and swollen arms. her feet are then unchained, to be immediately secured in the rings at the end of the chain that is fastened to the beam at the foot of the litter, on which, worn out with fatigue and broken with sadness, the martial maid drops in a sitting posture and covers her face with her hands. john orders his men out and casts a knowing look at canon loyseleur. the latter has not yet been noticed by the prisoner, as he crouches in a corner that lies wholly in the dark. the jailer goes out and locks the door. through the wicket the iron casques of the two sentinels, posted on the outside, are seen passing and repassing. invisible in the thick darkness, which the feeble light that filters through the airhole is unable to dispel, the canon holds his breath and observes joan. with her face in her hands, she remains profoundly absorbed in her own thoughts--painful, heartrending thoughts. she indulges in no false hopes. charles vii has abandoned her to her executioners. for some time she had known the egotism, cowardice and ingratitude of the prince. twice she had wished to leave him to his fate, indignant and shocked at his cowardice. but out of patriotism she had resigned herself to cover him with her glory, knowing that in the eyes of the people france was personified in the king. this notwithstanding, the heroine at first expected that the prince would endeavor to save her. he owed everything to her, only from him could she expect some degree of pity. enlightened by so many evidences on the envy and hatred that the captains pursued her with, she in no way counted with help from that quarter; after so many attempts at infamous treason, they had finally succeeded in delivering her to the english before compiegne. for a moment, in the innocence of her heart, she expected aid from the charity of the clergy, the bishops who at poitiers declared that charles vii could with a safe conscience accept the unexpected aid that she brought him in the name of god. she hoped for the intervention of the ecclesiastics who were so anxious to admit her, to communion and to confession, who sang her praises, and who, with all the pomp of the church, celebrated the feast of the 8th of may, a commemorative anniversary of the raising of the siege of orleans, a religious solemnity ordered by the bishop of the diocese, which comprised an imposing procession of the clergy, who marched at the head of the councilmen, holding wax candles in their hands, and made its pious stations at the several spots that had been the theater of the glorious deeds of the maid. but joan now no longer indulged in false hopes. the clergy, like the king, abandoned her to her executioners. other priests of christ would judge and condemn her. the english who brought her in chains often told her on the route: "you are going to be burned, witch! we have priests in rouen who will send you to the pyre!" convinced by these words that she need expect neither mercy nor justice from the ecclesiastical tribunal before which she was about to be arraigned, and overpowered by the bitter disillusionment, the recollections of which stabbed her heart without souring her angelic spirit, joan asked herself in a perplexity of doubt, why did the lord forsake her, her the instrument of his divine will? her who was ever obedient to the saintly voices that she heard so distinctly, and that since her captivity still repeated to her: "go, daughter of god! fear not--submit meekly to your martyrdom. you have fulfilled your duty--heaven is with you!" and yet heaven delivered her to the english, her implacable enemies! and yet the priests of the lord were impatient, it was told her on all hands, to sentence her to the flames! these contradictions profoundly troubled the prisoner. often she was overcome with sadness, whenever she thought of her uncompleted mission--the soil of gaul was not yet completely delivered from the foreign rule! such are the thoughts of joan at this hour when, with her face hidden in her hands, she sits on the straw of her cell, and is yet ignorant of the presence of canon loyseleur. suddenly the girl trembles with surprise, almost fright. from the midst of the darkness at the opposite side she hears a compassionate voice addressing her, and the following dialogue ensues: canon loyseleur--"raise your head, virgin! the lord will not forsake you! he watches over you!" joan darc--"who is speaking to me?" canon loyseleur (rising on the straw)--"who speaks to you? a poor old priest--a good christian and royalist--a victim to his loyalty, to his faith, and to his king--crimes that the english do not pardon. for more than a year have i lived chained in this dungeon, and have asked but one favor of my creator--to be recalled to him! alack! i have suffered so much! but i forget my sufferings since i am permitted to behold the holy maid, the virgin inspired by heaven, vanquisher of the english, deliverer of gaul! may her name be glorified!" joan darc (tenderly)--"not so loud, my father! you might be heard. i fear not for myself, but i fear for your sake the anger of the jailers." canon loyseleur (with exaltation and a ringing voice)--"what can the english, whom i abhor, these enemies of our beloved country, do to me? i pray god to send me martyrdom, if he thinks me worthy of such a glorious aureola!" john (appearing at the wicket and affecting rage)--"if you keep on screaming like that, i shall have you whipped till you bleed!" canon loyseleur (with greater exaltation)--"hack my limbs to pieces! tear my scalp from my skull, ferocious beast! unto death shall i cry: 'glory to god--long live king charles vii! anathema upon the english!'" john (still at the wicket)--"the captain of the tower will soon be here. i shall notify him of the danger there is in leaving you in the same cell with that witch, with whom you might enter into wicked machinations, you tonsured devil! but if you continue to scream, your flesh will be flayed!" (he withdraws from the wicket.) canon loyseleur (shaking his chains)--"heathen! criminal! idolater! you will burn in hell!" joan darc (beseechingly)--"good father, calm yourself; do not irritate that man. he will remove you from me, if you do. oh, in my distress, it would be a great consolation to me to hear the word of a priest of our lord. do not withdraw your support from me." canon loyseleur (contritely)--"may god pardon me for having yielded to an impulse of anger! i would regret the act doubly if it were to cause these wicked men to separate me from you. (in a low voice and feigning to look toward the wicket with fear of being overheard) i have hoped to be useful to you--perhaps to save you--by my advice--" joan darc--"what say you, good father?" canon loyseleur (still in a low voice)--"i have hoped to be able to give you useful advice in the matter of the process that is to be instituted against you, and keep you from falling into the snares that those unworthy priests will surely spread before you. those judges are simoniacal, they have been sold to the english. i hoped to be able to admit you to confession and to the ineffable happiness of communion, that you have probably been long deprived of." joan darc (sighing)--"since my captivity i have not been able to approach the sacred table!" canon loyseleur--"i have succeeded in concealing from the jailers some consecrated wafers. but so far from reserving the bread of the angels for myself alone, i wished to invite you to the celestial feast!" joan darc (clasping her hands in pious delight)--"oh, father! good father! how thankful i shall be to you!" canon loyseleur (hurriedly, but in a still lower voice, and casting furtive glances hither and thither)--"our moments are precious. i may be taken away from here any time. i know not whether i shall ever again see you, holy maid. give me your full attention. remember my advice. it may save you. you must know that to-morrow, perhaps to-day, you will be arraigned before an ecclesiastical tribunal on the charges of heresy and witchcraft." joan darc--"the english who brought me hither a prisoner have announced the tribunal to me. i am to be condemned." canon loyseleur--"the threat is not idle. yesterday my jailer said to me: 'you will soon have joan the witch as your cell-mate; she is to be tried, sentenced and burned as a magician who sold herself to satan, and as a heretic'!" joan darc (trembling)--"my god!" canon loyseleur--"what is the matter, my dear daughter? you seem to tremble!" joan darc (with a shiver)--"oh, father! may god stand by me! thanks to him, i never knew fear! (she covers her face with her hands in terror.) i, burned! oh, lord god! burned! what a frightful death!" canon loyseleur--"you are well justified in your fears. the purpose of the tribunal is to send you to the pyre." joan darc (in a smothered voice)--"and yet they are priests! what harm have i done them? why do they persecute me?" canon loyseleur--"oh, my daughter, do not blaspheme that sacred name of priest by applying it to those tigers who thirst for blood." joan darc--"pardon me, father!" canon loyseleur (in a voice of tender commiseration)--"sweet and dear child, need you fear a word of blame from my mouth? no, no. it was but a generous impulse of indignation that carried me away against those new pharisees who conspire to kill you, as their predecessors years ago conspired to kill jesus our redeemer! i am a clerk of theology. i know the manner in which such tribunals as you are about to face are wont to proceed. i know your life; the glorious voice of your fame has informed me of your noble deeds." joan darc (dejectedly)--"oh, if i had only remained home sewing and spinning. i would not now be in imminent danger of death!" canon loyseleur--"come, daughter of god, no weakness! did not the lord tell you by the voice of two of his saints and of his archangel: 'go, daughter of god! go to the aid of the king. you will deliver gaul'?" joan darc--"yes, father." canon loyseleur--"as to those voices, did you hear them?" joan darc--"yes, father." canon loyseleur (pressingly)--"you heard them, the sacred voices? with your bodily ears?" joan darc--"as clearly as i hear your voice at this moment." canon loyseleur--"and you saw your saints? you saw them with your own eyes?" joan darc--"as i see you." canon loyseleur (delighted)--"oh, dear daughter! hold that language before the ecclesiastical tribunal, and you are saved! you will then escape the snare that they will spread before you." joan darc--"please explain what you mean, dear father and protector." canon loyseleur--"however perverse, however iniquitous these tribunals of blood may be, they are nevertheless composed of men who are clothed with a sacred character. these priests must save appearances towards one another and the public. your judges will tell you with a confidential and benign air: 'joan, you claim to have seen st. marguerite, st. catherine and st. michael, the archangel; you claim to have heard their voices. can it not have been an illusion of your senses? if so, the senses, due to their grossness, are liable to error. the church will be slow to impute to you as a crime what may be only a carnal error.' now, then, my poor child (the canon's features are screwed into an expression of anxious concern) if, misled by such insidious language, and thinking to see in it a means of escape, you were to answer: 'indeed, i do not affirm that i saw the saints and the archangel, i do not affirm that i heard their voices, but i believe to have seen, i believe to have heard,' if you should say that, dear and holy child, you will be lost! (joan makes a motion of terror) this is why: to recoil before the affirmation that you have actually seen and heard, to present the fact in the form of a doubt, would be to draw upon your head the charge of falsehood, blasphemy, and heresy in the highest degree. you would be charged (in an increasingly threatening voice) with having made sport of the most sacred things! you would be charged with having, thanks to such diabolical jugglery, deceived the people by holding yourself out as inspired by god, whom you would be outraging in a most infamous, abominable, impious manner! (in a frightful hollow voice) they would then pronounce upon you a terrible excommunication cutting you off from the church as a gangrened, rotten, infected limb! you would thereupon be delivered to the secular arm, you would be taken to the pyre and burned alive for a heretic, an apostate, an idolater! the ashes of your body will be cast to the winds!" joan darc, pale with fear, utters a piercing cry. she is terrified. canon loyseleur (aside)--"the pyre frightens her. she is ours! (he joins his hands imploringly and points to the wicket where the face of john reappears.) silence! joan, my dear daughter, you will ruin us both!" john (roughly, through the wicket)--"you are still making a noise and screaming! must i come in and make you behave?" canon loyseleur (brusquely)--"the irons of my poor mate have wounded her. pain drew from her an involuntary cry." john--"she has not yet reached the end! she will scream much louder on the pyre that awaits her, the miserable witch!" canon loyseleur (seeming hardly able to contain his indignation)--"jailer, have at least the charity of not insulting our distress. have pity for the poor girl!" john withdraws grumbling. joan darc, overwhelmed with terror, has fallen back upon the straw and represses her sobs. after the jailer's withdrawal she slightly regains courage, rises partly and the dialogue proceeds: joan darc--"pardon my weakness, father. oh, the mere thought of such a horrible death--the thought of mounting a pyre!" (she does not finish the sentence, and sobs violently.) canon loyseleur--"by placing before you the frightful fate reserved to you, in case you are snared, i wished to put you upon your guard against your enemies." joan darc (wiping her tears, and in an accent of profound gratitude)--"god will reward you, good father, for the great pity you show me, a stranger to you." canon loyseleur--"you are no stranger to me, joan. i know you are one of the glories of france! the elect of the lord! now listen to the rest of what i have to say to you. i am in a hurry to complete my advice before i am dragged away from here. if, deceived by their perfidious suggestions, you should answer your judges that you believe you saw your saints appear before you, that you believe you heard their voices, instead of resolutely affirming that you saw them with your eyes and heard them with your ears, st. catherine, st. marguerite and the archangel st. michael, sent to you by the lord--" joan darc--"it is the truth, father. i shall tell what i saw and heard. i have never lied." canon loyseleur--"the truth must be boldly confessed, in the face of the judges. you must answer them: 'yes, i have seen these supernatural beings with my eyes; yes, i have heard their marvelous voices with my ears.' then, dear child, despite all its ill will, the tribunal, unable to catch the slightest hesitation in your words, will be forced to recognize that you are a sacred virgin, the elect, the inspired of heaven. and however perverse, however devoted to the english your judges may be, they will find themselves forced to absolve you and set you free." joan darc (yielding to hope)--"if all that is needed to be saved is to tell the truth, then my deliverance is certain. thanks to god and to you, good father. thanks for your friendly advice!" canon loyseleur--"if circumstantial details are asked for upon the form and shape of your apparitions, refuse to answer. they might be able to draw from your words some improper meaning. limit yourself to the pure and simple affirmation of the reality of your visions and revelations." outside of the cell the noise of numerous steps is heard, together with the rattle of arms and the words: "to your posts! to your posts! here is the captain of the tower!" canon loyseleur (listens and says to joan in great hurry)--"it is the captain. perhaps the jailer will carry out his threat, and take me away from you, dear daughter. there is but one means for us to meet again. demand of the captain permission to have me as your confessor. he will not dare to decline. i shall then be able to hold to your lips the sacred wafer, the bread of the angels." the door opens with a great noise. a captain enters, followed by john and other keepers. the captain (pointing to the canon)--"take that tonsured old scamp to another cell, and keep him on a fast." canon loyseleur--"sir captain, i pray you, allow me to remain near joan, my daughter in god." the captain--"if the witch is your daughter, then you must be satan in person." canon loyseleur--"for pity's sake, do not separate us!" the captain (to john)--"take away this priest of beelzebub!" john (brutally to the canon)--"come, get up! be quick about it!" canon loyseleur rises painfully from his couch of straw, clanking his chains all he can and uttering lamentable sighs. joan advances toward the captain as far as her chain will allow her, and says in a sweet and imploring voice: joan darc--"sir, grant me a favor that never is denied to a prisoner. allow me to take this holy man for my confessor." the captain--"your confessor shall be the executioner, strumpet!" canon loyseleur (carrying his chained hands to his eyes)--"oh, sir captain, you are merciless." john (rudely pushing the canon)--"march! march! you will have time enough to cry in your cell." joan darc--"sir captain, do not spurn my prayer--allow the good priest to visit me occasionally as my confessor." the captain (feigns to be mollified)--"i shall consult the duke of warwick upon that. for the present (to john), take the priest of satan away and thrust him into some other cell." canon loyseleur (following the jailer)--"courage, noble joan! courage, my daughter! remember what i told you! may the holy name of god be ever glorified." (he goes out.) joan darc (with tears in her eyes)--"may god guard me from forgetting your advice. may the lord preserve you, good father!" (she drops exhausted upon the straw.) the captain (to john)--"remove the irons from the prisoner. she is to be taken upstairs. the tribunal is in session." joan darc (rises and shivers involuntarily)--"so soon!" the captain (with a savage laugh)--"at last i see you tremble, witch! your bravery came from the devil!" joan darc smiles disdainfully. john and another jailer approach her to remove the irons that hold her by the feet and by the waist. she trembles with disgust and becomes purple with shame at the touch of these men's hands while they remove the irons from her limbs and body. wounded not in her vanity but in her dignity at the thought of appearing before her judges in torn garments she says to the captain: joan darc--"sir, i have in that little trunk some linen and other clothes. please order your men out for a few minutes in order that i may dress myself." the captain (bursting out laughing)--"by the devil, your patron! if you want to change your clothes, change them before us, and instead of a few minutes, i shall let you have all the time that you may want for your toilet. i would even help you, if you wish it, my pretty witch!" joan darc (blushing with confusion, and with a firm voice)--"let us be gone to the tribunal. may god help me. you are truly severe in refusing so slight a favor to a prisoner." chapter iii. the inquisition. the ecclesiastical tribunal before which joan darc is to appear is assembled in the ancient chapel of the old castle of rouen. the vaults overhead, the walls, the pillars, are blackened with age. it is eight in the morning. the pale light of this winter morn, chilly and foggy, penetrates to the vast nave through a single ogive window, cut into the thick wall behind the platform where the clerical judges are seated under the presidency of bishop peter cauchon. to the left of the tribunal is a table at which the registrars are placed. their duty is to keep the minutes of the questions and answers. facing this table is the seat of peter of estivet, the institutor of the process. nothing could be more sinister than the aspect of these men. in order to keep out the cold, they are clad in long furred robes with hoods down and almost completely covering their faces. their backs are turned to the solitary window from which the only light, and that a weak one, enters the place. thus they are wholly in the shade. a slight reflection of greyish light fringes the top of their black hoods and glides over their shoulders. the judges have numerous substitutes to take their places when needed. the priests of the university of paris are partly reserved for the other sessions. here are the names of the infamous priests present at this first session. their names should be inscribed in letters of blood and consigned to eternal execration: peter of longueville, abbot of the holy trinity of fecamp; john hulot of chatillon, archdeacon of evreux; james guesdon of the order of minor friars; john lefevre, augustinian monk; maurice of quesnay, priest and professor of theology; william leboucher, priest and doctor of canon law; william of conti, abbot of the trinity of mount st. catherine; bonnel, abbot of cormeilles; john garin, archdeacon of french vexin; richard of gronchet, canon of the collegiate of saussaye; peter minier, priest and bachelor of theology; raoul sauvage, of the order of st. dominic; robert barbier, canon of rouen; denis gastinel, canon of notre dame-la-ronde; john ledoux, canon of rouen; john basset, canon of rouen; john brouillot, chanter of the cathedral of rouen; aubert morel, canon of rouen; john colombelle, canon of rouen; laurent dubust, priest and licentiate of canon law; raoul auguy, canon of rouen; andre marguerie, archdeacon of petit-coux; john alespee, canon of rouen; geoffroy of crotoy, canon of rouen; gilles of les champs, canon of rouen; john lemaitre, vicar and inquisitor of the faith; finally, nicolas loyseleur, canon of rouen, who completely hides his face under his hood. the registrars, thomas of courcelles, manchon and taquel bois-guillaume, are at their table ready to take down the proceedings. canon peter of estivet, the institutor of the process, is in his seat. the other members of the ecclesiastical tribunal have taken their places. bishop peter cauchon (rising)--"my very dear brothers: peter of estivet, institutor of the process against joan the maid, will concisely state our petition. listen attentively." canon peter of estivet (rises, takes a parchment from the table and reads)--"'we, peter cauchon, bishop of beauvais by the grace of god, metropolitan of the town and diocese of rouen, have convoked you, our very dear brothers, in the name of the venerable and very reverend chapter of the cathedral to examine and judge the facts hereinafter set forth. "'to the author and consummator of the faith, our lord jesus christ, greeting. "'a certain woman, commonly named joan the maid, has been taken and made a prisoner at compiegne, within the jurisdiction of our diocese of beauvais, by the soldiers of our very christian and serene master henry vi, king of england and of the french. "'the said woman being strongly suspected by us of heresy, and our duty in the premises being to investigate her on her faith, we have requisitioned and demanded that the said woman be delivered and sent to us. we, bishop, being informed by public rumor of the acts and deeds of the said joan, acts and deeds that assail not only our faith but the faith of france and of all christendom, and wishing to proceed in this matter with all speed yet deliberately, have decreed that the said joan shall be summoned to appear before us and be interrogated concerning her acts and deeds, as well as upon matters that concern the faith, and we have cited her to appear before us in the chapel of the castle of rouen, on this twentieth day of february, 1431, at eight o'clock in the morning, in order that she may answer the charges brought against her.'" (the institutor resumes his seat.) bishop peter cauchon--"introduce the accused before the tribunal." two beadles in black gowns leave the chapel and speedily re-enter leading joan. once so resolute, so serene in those days of battle when, cased in her white armor and riding her charger, she dashed upon the enemy, her standard in her hand, the martial maid now shivers with fear at the sight of this tribunal of priests half hidden in the shadow of the chapel and their faces barely visible under their hoods--silent, motionless, like black phantoms. she recalls the words and the advice of canon loyseleur, whose presence among her judges she does not remotely suspect. the recollection of his words and advice at once give her heart and fill her with fear. by pretending to give her the means of escaping the snare spread for her, the canon had also informed her that the tribunal was predetermined to deliver her to the pyre. this thought upsets and frightens the prisoner, already weakened by so many sorrows and trials. she feels her knees shake at the first steps that she takes into the chapel, and forced to lean upon the arm of one of the beadles, she halts for a moment. at the sight of the young girl, now hardly nineteen, still so beautiful despite her pallor, thinness and tattered clothes, the ecclesiastical judges contemplate her with somber curiosity, but experience neither concern nor pity for the heroine of so many battles. from the political and religious viewpoint, she is to them an enemy. their animosity towards her smothers all human sentiment in their breasts. her great deeds, her genius, her glory irritate them all the more seeing they are conscious of the abominable crime in which they are about to share through ambition, orthodox fanaticism, cupidity and partisan hatred. presently controlling her emotions, joan darc takes courage and advances between the two beadles. they lead her to the foot of the tribunal, and withdraw. she dares not raise her eyes to her judges, respectfully takes off her hat which she keeps in her hand, inclines herself slightly forward, and remains standing before the platform. bishop cauchon (rising)--"joan, approach (she draws nearer). our duty as protectors and upholders of the christian faith, with the aid of our lord jesus christ, compels us to warn you in all charity that, in order to hasten your trial and the peace of your soul, you must tell the truth, the whole truth. in short, answer without subterfuge to our interrogatories. you are to swear on the holy scriptures to tell the truth. (to one of the beadles) bring a missal." the beadle brings a missal and presents it to joan. bishop cauchon--"joan, down on your knees. swear on that missal to tell the truth." joan darc (mistrustful)--"i know not what you mean to interrogate me upon, sir. you may put such questions to me that i may be unable to answer." bishop cauchon--"you shall swear that you will sincerely answer the questions that we shall put to you concerning your faith--and other things." joan darc (kneels down and puts both her hands on the missal)--"i swear to tell the truth." bishop cauchon--"what are your given names?" joan darc--"in lorraine i was called jeannette. since my arrival in france i have been called joan. that is my name." bishop cauchon--"where were you born?" joan darc--"in the village of domremy, in the valley of vaucouleurs." bishop cauchon--"what are the names of your father and your mother?" joan darc (with deep emotion)--"my father is named james darc, my mother isabelle romée. these are the names of my dear parents." bishop cauchon--"in what place were you baptized?" joan darc--"in the church of domremy." bishop cauchon--"who were your god-father and god-mother?" joan darc--"my god-father's name was john linguet, my god-mother's sybille." (at the recollections invoked by this name a tear rolls down her cheek.) bishop cauchon--"this woman claimed to have seen fairies. did she not pass in the region for a soothsayer and sorceress?" joan darc (with a firmer voice)--"my god-mother was a good and wise woman." bishop cauchon--"what priest baptized you at your birth?" joan darc--"master john minet, our curate, a holy man." bishop cauchon--"how old are you?" joan darc--"nearly nineteen." bishop cauchon--"do you know your pater noster?" joan darc--"my mother taught it to me, and i recite it mornings and evenings." (she sighs.) bishop cauchon--"will you pledge yourself not to flee from the castle of rouen, under pain of passing for a heretic?" joan darc (remains silent for a moment and reflects; by degrees she regains her self-assurance; she answers in a firm voice)--"i shall not take that pledge. i will not promise not to seek to flee, if the opportunity offers." raoul sauvage (threateningly)--"your chains will then be doubled, to keep you from escaping." joan darc--"it is allowed to all prisoners to escape from their prison." bishop cauchon (with severity, after consulting in a low voice with several of the judges sitting near him)--"the rebellious words of the said joan having been heard, we shall particularly commit her to the keeping of the noble john le gris, a guardsman of our sire, the king of england and france, and join to john le gris the equerries berwick and talbot, english men-at-arms. all the three are hereby charged to keep the prisoner, and we recommend to them not to allow anyone to approach her or to speak with her without our permission. (addressing himself to the tribunal) those of our very dear brothers who have any question to put to the accused, are now free to do so." a judge--"joan, do you swear to tell the whole truth? i await your answer." joan darc (with dignity)--"i have sworn; that is enough. i never lie." the same judge--"did you in your infancy learn to work like the other girls of the fields?" joan darc--"my mother taught me to sew and to spin, and also the labors of the field." another judge--"did you have a confessor?" joan darc--"yes, the curate of our parish is my confessor and spiritual guide." the same judge--"did you confess your revelations to your curate or to any other man of the church?" joan darc--"no, i said nothing upon that." the priests exchange meaning glances and a few words in a low voice. the same judge--"why that secrecy towards your curate?" joan darc--"had i spoken about my apparitions my father and mother would have opposed my undertaking." another judge--"do you think you committed a sin in leaving your father and your mother, contrary to the precept of the scriptures--'thou shalt honor thy father and mother'?" joan darc--"i never disobeyed them before i left them. but i wrote to them; they pardoned me." the same judge--"accordingly, you think you can violate without sin the commandments of the church?" joan darc--"god commanded me to go to the aid of orleans. i would not have been the king's servant had i not departed." bishop cauchon (with a significant look at the judges)--"you claim, joan, to have had revelations, visions--at what age did that happen to you?" joan darc--"i was then thirteen and a half years old. it was noon, in summer. i had fasted the previous day. i heard the voice, that seemed to proceed from the church. at the same time i saw a great light that dazzled me." bishop cauchon (slowly and weighing every word)--"you say you heard voices--are you quite certain?" joan darc (to herself: here is the snare that the good priest warned me against--i shall escape it by telling the truth)--"i heard the voices as clearly as i hear yours, sir bishop." bishop cauchon--"do you affirm that?" joan darc--"yes, sir; because it is the truth." bishop cauchon (lets his eyes travel triumphantly over the tribunal; his gesture is understood; a momentary silence ensues; then to the registrars)--"have you taken down textually the prisoner's answer?" a registrar--"yes, monseigneur." a judge--"and in france, joan, did you there also hear those voices?" joan darc--"yes, sir." another judge--"whence do you suppose came those voices?" joan darc (with an accent of profound conviction)--"the voices came from god." another judge--"what do you know about that?" another judge--"what were the circumstances under which you were captured at compiegne?" another judge--"who dictated the letter that you addressed to the english?" these unrelated and cross questions followed close upon one another for the purpose of confusing joan. joan darc (after a moment's silence)--"if you all question me at once, sirs, i shall be unable to answer any of you." bishop cauchon--"well, what makes you believe that the voices you speak about were divine?" joan darc--"they told me to behave like an honest girl, and that with the aid of god i would save france." a judge--"was it revealed to you that if you lost your virginity you would forfeit your luck in war?" joan darc (blushing)--"that was not revealed to me." the same judge--"was it to the archangel st. michael that you promised to remain a virgin?" joan darc (with chaste impatience)--"i made my vow to my good saints, st. marguerite and st. catherine." another judge--"and so the voices of your saints ordered you to come to france?" joan darc--"yes, for my own and the king's safety, and to deliver gaul from the foreign yoke." bishop cauchon--"did you not at that epoch see the apparition of st. marguerite and st. catherine, to whom you attribute the voices, those divine voices according to you?" joan darc--"yes, sir." bishop cauchon (deliberately)--"you are certain of having seen the apparition?" joan darc--"i saw my dear saints as clearly as i see you, sir." bishop cauchon--"you affirm that?" joan darc--"i affirm it upon my salvation." renewed and profound silence among the judges; several of them take notes; others exchange a few words in a low voice. a judge--"by what sign did you recognize those whom you call st. catherine and st. marguerite to have been saints?" joan darc--"by their saintliness." bishop cauchon--"and the archangel st. michael appeared before you?" joan darc--"yes, sir; several times." a judge--"how is he clad?" joan darc (recollecting the advice of canon loyseleur)--"i do not know." the same judge--"you refuse to answer? was the angel perhaps quite nude?" joan darc (blushing)--"do you imagine god has not the wherewithal to clothe him?" bishop cauchon--"your language is quite bold. do you consider yourself under the protection of god?" joan darc--"if i am not, may god place me there. if i am, may he keep me there. (in a loud and strong voice:) but remember this: you are my judges, you assume a grave responsibility in accusing me. as to myself, the burden is light." these noble words, pronounced by the martial maid in the conviction of her innocence, and indicative of her mistrust of her judges, announce a change in her spirit, a fortitude not there when the interrogatory commenced. she had secretly invoked her "voices" and they had answered--"go on; fear not; answer the wicked priests boldly; you have nothing to reproach yourself with; god is with you; he will not forsake you." strengthened by these thoughts and hope, the heroine raises her head; her pale and handsome face is now slightly colored; her large black eyes fix themselves boldly upon the bishop; she realizes that he is her mortal enemy. the ecclesiastical judges remark the increasing assurance of the accused, who but a moment before was so timid and so dejected. the transformation augurs well for their projects. in the pride of her exaltation, joan darc may, and is bound to, drop admissions that she would have kept secret had she remained reserved, timid and mistrustful. despite his wickedness, the bishop feels rebuked by the eyes of joan. he drops his hypocritical face, turns away his eyes and continues the interrogatory in a faltering voice. bishop cauchon--"so, then, joan, it was by order of your voices that you went to vaucouleurs in search of a certain captain named robert of baudricourt, who furnished you with an escort to take you to the king, to whom you promised to raise the siege of orleans?" joan darc--"yes, sir, you speak truly." bishop cauchon--"do you admit having dictated a letter addressed to the duke of bedford, regent of england, and other illustrious captains?" joan darc--"i dictated the letter at poitiers, sir." bishop cauchon--"in that letter you threatened the english with death?" joan darc--"yes; if they did not return to their own country, and if they persisted in heaping trials upon trials on the poor people of france, in ravaging the country, in burning the villages." bishop cauchon--"was not that letter written by you under the invocation of our lord jesus christ and of his immaculate mother, the holy virgin?" joan darc--"i ordered the words 'jesus and mary' to be placed in the form of a prayer at the head of the letters that i dictated. was that wrong?" bishop cauchon (does not answer; looks askance at the judges; several of these enter on their tablets the last answer of the accused, an answer that seems to be of extreme gravity judging from their hurry to note it)--"how did you sign the letters that you dictated?" joan darc--"i do not know how to write. i placed my cross in god as a signature at the foot of the parchment." this second answer, no less dangerous than the first, is likewise noted down with great zest by the priests. a profound silence follows. the bishop seems to interrogate the registrars with his looks, and to ask them whether they have finished writing down the words of the accused. bishop cauchon--"after several battles you forced the english to raise the siege of orleans?" joan darc--"my voices advised me. i fought--and god gave us the victory." a judge--"if those voices are of st. marguerite and st. catherine, these saints must hate the english." joan darc--"what god hates they hate; what he loves they love." another judge--"come, now; god loves the english, seeing he has so long rendered them victorious and they conquered a part of france." joan darc--"he undoubtedly left them to the punishment of their cruelty." another judge--"why should god have chosen a girl of your station rather than some other person to vanquish them?" joan darc--"because it pleased the lord to have the english routed by a poor girl like myself." the same judge--"how much money did your king pay you to serve him?" joan darc (proudly)--"i never asked aught of the king but good arms, good horses, and the payment of my soldiers." bishop cauchon--"when your king put you to the work of war, you ordered a standard to be made for you. what was its material?" joan darc--"it was of white satin." (she drops her head sadly at the recollection of the past glories of her banner, that was so terrible a device to the english, whose prisoner she now is. she smothers a sob.) bishop cauchon--"what figures were painted on it?" joan darc--"two angels holding a lily stalk. two symbols; god and the king." these words are likewise noted down with great zest by the members of the tribunal. a judge--"was your standard frequently renewed?" joan darc--"it was renewed as often as its staff was broken in battle. that happened frequently." another judge--"did not some of those who followed you have standards made similar to yours?" joan darc--"some did; others did not." the same judge--"were those who bore a standard similar to yours lucky in war? did they rout the english?" joan darc--"yes, if they were brave, they then triumphed over the english." another judge--"did your people follow you to battle because they considered you inspired?" joan darc--"i said to them: 'let us fall bravely upon the english!' i was the first to fall to--they followed me." the judge--"in short, your people took you to be inspired of god?" joan darc--"whether they believed me to be inspired or not, they trusted in my courage." bishop cauchon--"did you not, when your king was consecrated at rheims, proudly wave your banner over the prince's head?" joan darc--"no; but alone of all the captains, i accompanied the king into the cathedral with my standard in my hand." a judge (angrily)--"accordingly, while the other captains did not bring their standards to the solemnity, you brought yours!" joan darc--"it had been at the pain--it was entitled to be at the honor." this sublime answer, of such legitimate and touching pride and bearing the stamp of antique simplicity, strikes the assembled ecclesiastical executioners with admiration. they pause despite their bitter malice towards their victim. these were heroic and scathing words. they told of the price of perils and above all of disenchantment that joan had paid for her triumph. aye, she and her glorious standard had been cruelly in pain, poor martyr that she was. her virginal body was broken by the rude trials of war. she had shed her generous blood on the fields of battle. she had struggled with admirable stubbornness, with mortal anxieties born of the most sacred patriotism, against the treasonable plots of the captains who finally brought on her downfall. she had struggled against the sloth of charles vii, the poltroon whom with so much pain she dragged from victory to victory as far as rheims, where she had him consecrated king. her only recompense was to see her standard "at the honor" of that solemn consecration, from which she expected the salvation of gaul. her standard had been at the pain--it was entitled to be at the honor. the astonishment of the ecclesiastics at these sublime words is profound. deep silence ensues. bishop cauchon is the first to break it. addressing himself to the accused in measured words, an ordinary symptom with him of some lurking perfidy, he asks: bishop cauchon--"joan, when you entered a town, did not the inhabitants kiss your hands, your feet, your clothes?" joan darc--"many wished to; and when poor people, women and children, came to me, i feared to grieve them if i repelled them." this answer is to be used against her; several of the judges note it down, while a sinister smile plays around the lips of bishop cauchon; he proceeds: bishop cauchon--"did you ever hold a child at the baptismal font?" joan darc--"yes; i held a child at the holy font of soissons, and two others at st. denis. these are the only ones to whom i have been god-mother." bishop cauchon--"what names did you give them?" joan darc--"to the boy the name of charles, in honor of the king of france; to the girls the name of joan, because the mothers so wished it." these words, that charmingly depict the enthusiasm which the martial maid inspired among the people, and the generosity that she showed towards charles, are to be a further charge against her. several judges note them down. bishop cauchon--"a mother at lagny asked you to visit her dying child, did she not?" joan darc--"yes, but the child had been brought to the church of notre-dame. young girls of the town were on their knees at the door and prayed for the child. i knelt down among them, and i also prayed to god for his blessing upon the child." canon loyseleur (from under his completely lowered hood and disguising his voice)--"which of the two popes is the real pope?" joan darc (stupefied)--"are there, then, two popes, sir? i did not know that." bishop cauchon--"you claim to be inspired by god. he must have instructed you as to which of the two popes you should render obedience to." joan darc--"i know nothing about that. it is for the pope to know whether he obeys god, and for me to obey him who submits to god." bishop cauchon (to canon loyseleur with a significant accent)--"my very dear brother, we shall reserve for another session the grave question that you have broached touching the church triumphant and the church militant. let us now proceed with other matters. (turning to joan with an inflection of his voice that announces the gravity of the question.) when you left vaucouleurs you put on male attire. was that done at the request of robert of baudricourt, or of your own free will? answer categorically." joan darc--"of my own free will." a judge--"did your voices order you to give up the garb of your sex?" joan darc--"whatever good i have done i did by the advice of my voices. whenever i understood them well, my saints and the archangel have guided me well." another judge--"so, then, you do not think you are committing a sin in wearing the man's clothes that you are covered with?" joan darc (with a sigh of regret)--"oh, for the happiness of france and the misfortune of england, why am i not free in man's clothes with my horse and my armor! i would still vanquish our enemies." another judge--"would you like to hear mass?" joan darc (thrilling with hope)--"oh, with all my heart!" the same judge--"you can not hear it in those clothes that are not of your sex." joan darc (reflects a moment; she recalls the obscene language of her jailers and fears to be outraged by them; in man's clothes she feels greater protection than in the habits of her sex; she answers)--"do you promise me that if i resume my woman's clothes i shall be allowed to attend mass?" the same judge--"yes, joan, i promise you that." the bishop makes a gesture of impatience and withers the judge who had last spoken with a look of condemnation. joan darc--"let me, then, be provided with a long dress; i shall put it on to go to chapel. but when i return to my prison i shall resume my man's clothes." the judge consults the bishop with his eye to ascertain whether the request of the accused shall be granted; the prelate answers with a negative sign of his head, and turns to joan. bishop cauchon--"so, then, you persist in keeping your masculine dress?" joan darc--"i am guarded by men; such dress is safer." the inquisitor of the faith--"do you now wear and have you worn masculine garb voluntarily, absolutely of your own free will?" joan darc--"yes; and i shall continue to do so." again silence ensues. the ecclesiastical judges feel triumphant over the answer made so categorically by the accused, a grave answer seeing that bishop cauchon says to the registrars: bishop cauchon--"have you entered the words of the said joan?" a registrar--"yes, monseigneur." bishop cauchon (to the accused)--"you have often spoken of st. michael. in what did you recognize that the form that appeared before you was that of the blessed archangel? could not satan assume the form of a good angel to lead you to evil?" joan darc--"i recognized st. michael by the advice he gave me. it was the advice of an angel and not of satan; it came from heaven, not from hell." a judge--"what advice did he give?" joan darc--"his advice was that i conduct myself as a pious and honest girl; he said to me god would then inspire me, and would aid me to deliver france." the inquisitor of the faith--"so that you claim not only to have seen a supernatural apparition under the form of st. michael with your bodily eyes, but you furthermore claim that the figure was actually that of that holy personage?" joan darc--"i affirm it, seeing that i heard it with my ears, seeing that i saw it with my eyes. there is no doubt in my mind concerning the archangel." bishop cauchon (to the registrars)--"enter that answer without omitting a syllable." a registrar--"yes, monseigneur." canon loyseleur, whose face is carefully concealed under his hood, and who for greater security holds a handkerchief to the lower part of his countenance, rises and whispers in the ear of the bishop; the latter strikes his forehead as if reminded by his accomplice that he had overlooked a matter of grave importance; the canon returns to his seat in the rear. bishop cauchon--"joan, when, after you were captured at compiegne, you were taken to the castle of beaurevoir, you threw yourself out of one of the lower towers, did you not?" joan darc--"it is true." bishop cauchon--"what was the reason of your action?" joan darc--"i heard it said in my prison that i had been sold to the english. i preferred the risk of killing myself to falling into their hands. i endeavored to escape by jumping down from the tower." the inquisitor--"did you act by the advice of your voices?" joan darc--"no. they advised me to the contrary, saying: 'take courage; god will come to your help; it is cowardly to flee danger.' but my fear of the english was stronger than the advice of my saints." a judge--"when you jumped out of the tower, had you the intention of killing yourself?" joan darc--"i wished to escape. when i jumped i commended my soul to god, hoping with his help to escape from the english." the inquisitor--"after your fall, did you renounce the lord and his saints?" joan darc--"i never renounced either god or his saints." a judge--"did you, at the moment of jumping down from the tower, invoke your saints?" joan darc--"yes, i invoked them. despite their having advised me against the move, i invoked through them the protection of god for gaul, my own deliverance, and the salvation of my soul." the inquisitor--"since you have been a prisoner in rouen, have your voices promised you your deliverance?" joan darc--"only an instant ago, they said to me: 'accept everything meekly, bravely undergo your martyrdom. have courage and patience. you will gain paradise!'" the inquisitor--"and do you expect to gain paradise?" joan darc (radiantly)--"i believe it as firmly as if i were there now. god keeps my place." bishop cauchon (excitedly, and looking at the judges)--"here is an answer of much weight. pride! presumption!" joan darc (with a celestial smile)--"indeed, i hold my belief in paradise as a great treasure. hence my strength." the radiancy of joan's face illumines her beautiful features and imparts to them a divine expression. her black eyes, shining with the spark of inspiration, are raised heavenward. she looks through the window, contemplates the sky whose azure is for a moment visible through a rift in the clouds, and in the expansion of her celestial ravishment she seems detached from earth. but, alack! a puerile incident speedily recalls the poor prisoner to reality. a little bird flutters cheerily by the window and lightly touches the glass with its wing. at the sight of the little creature, free in space, the heroine, instantaneously yielding to the painful feeling of awakened reality, drops headlong from the height of her radiantly towering hopes. she sighs, lowers her head, and tears roll from her eyes. these rapidly succeeding emotions prevent joan from observing the joy of the ecclesiastical judges, busily entering on their tablets the last two enormities, which, coupled with so many others, are certain to take her to the pyre. the entries were: "the said joan voluntarily risked suicide by throwing herself down from the tower of beaurevoir"; "the said joan has the sacrilegious audacity of saying and believing that she is as sure of paradise as if she were there now." but the task of the criminal ecclesiastics is not yet complete. the heroine is suddenly drawn from her own painful thoughts by the voice of the bishop. bishop cauchon--"do you believe you are in mortal sin?" joan darc--"i refer all my actions to god." the inquisitor--"you, then, think it useless to confess, even if you are in a state of mortal sin?" joan darc--"i never have committed a mortal sin, at least not that i know of." a judge--"what do you know about it?" joan darc--"my voices would have reproached me for the sin. my saints would have abandoned me. still, if i could, i would confess. one's conscience can not be too clear." bishop cauchon--"and is it not a mortal sin to accept ransom for a man and yet have him executed?" joan darc (stupefied)--"who has done that?" bishop cauchon--"you!" joan darc (indignantly)--"never!" the inquisitor--"what about franquet of arras?" joan darc (consults her memory for a moment)--"franquet of arras was a captain of burgundian marauders. i took him prisoner in battle. he confessed to being a traitor, a thief and a murderer. his trial consumed fifteen days before the judges of senlis. i asked mercy for the man, hoping to exchange him for a worthy bourgeois of paris who was a prisoner of the english. but learning that the bourgeois died in prison, i said to the bailiff of senlis: 'the prisoner whose exchange i wished to obtain has died. you may, if you think fit, execute justice upon franquet of arras, traitor, thief and murderer.'" a judge--"did you give money to the one who helped you capture franquet of arras?" joan darc (shrugging her shoulders)--"i am neither minister nor treasurer of france, to order money to be paid out." bishop cauchon--"you placed your arms _ex voto_ in the basilica of st. denis. what did you mean by that?" joan darc (remains silent for an instant, absorbed in painful recollections. seriously wounded under the walls of paris, she had upon recovery offered her armor to the virgin mary as a pious homage, and did so also through an impulse of indignation, that was provoked by the cowardice of charles vii, who, after the prodigies of the maid's victorious campaign, had returned to touraine to join his mistresses. vainly had joan said to him: "face the english, who almost alone defend the walls of paris; present yourself bravely at the gates of the town promising to the parisians oblivion for the past and harmony for the future; it is almost certain that you will thus conquer your capital!" but the royal poltroon had recoiled before the danger connected with such a step. in utter despair, joan had decided to renounce war, she gave up her armor, and offered it up _ex voto_. joan can not make such an admission to the priests. guided by the generosity of her soul and instructed by her sound judgment, she would prefer to die rather than accuse charles vii and cover him with ignominy in the eyes of his enemies. she sees france in the royalty. the king's shame would fall indelibly upon the country itself. her answer is accordingly so framed as to save the honor of charles vii)--"i was wounded under the walls of poitiers; i offered my armor at the altar of the holy virgin in thankfulness that my wound was not mortal." the inquisitor (seeming to remember something that he had forgotten)--"did you, during the time that you were making war in battle harness and man's attire, take the eucharist?" the stir among the priests and the silence that falls upon the tribunal indicates the gravity of the question put to the accused. joan darc--"i partook of communion as often as i could, and not as often as i would have wished." bishop cauchon (excitedly)--"registrars, did you enter that?" a registrar--"yes, monseigneur." bishop cauchon--"whence did you come the last time you went to compiegne?" joan darc (shivers at the painful recollection)--"i came from crespy, in valois." bishop cauchon--"did your voices order the sally at which you were taken?" joan darc--"during the last week of the easter holidays my voices often warned me that i was soon to be betrayed and delivered--but that it was so decreed--not to be surprised, and to accept everything meekly, and that god would come to my aid." a judge--"thus your voices, the voices of your saints, told you you would be captured?" joan darc (sighing)--"yes, they told me so a long time. i requested my saints to let me die the moment i was taken so as not to prolong my sufferings--" the inquisitor--"did your voices tell you exactly the day on which you would be captured?" joan darc--"no, not exactly; they only announced to me that i was soon to be betrayed and delivered. i said so to the good people of compiegne on the day of the sally." a judge--"if your voices had ordered you to deliver battle before compiegne while warning you that you would be taken prisoner on that day, would you still have obeyed them?" joan darc--"i would have obeyed with regrets; but i would have obeyed, whatever was to happen." a judge--"did you cross the bridge in order to make the sally from compiegne?" joan darc (more and more cruelly affected by these remembrances)--"does that belong to the process?" bishop cauchon--"answer." joan darc (rapidly in short sentences)--"i crossed the bridge. i attacked with my company the burgundians of the sire of luxembourg. i threw them back twice as far as their own trenches, the third time only half way. the english then came up. they cut off my retreat. several of my soldiers wished to force me back into compiegne. but the bridge had been raised. we were betrayed. i was captured." (she shudders.) bishop cauchon--"joan, your interrogatory is closed for to-day. pray to the lord that he may enlighten your soul and guide you to the path of eternal salvation. may god help you, and come to your assistance." (he makes the sign of the cross.) all the other priests (rising)--"amen." bishop cauchon--"conduct joan the maid back to her prison." the two beadles approach joan. each takes her by an arm; they lead her out of the chapel and deliver her to a platoon of english soldiers, who conduct her back to her dungeon. chapter iv. the temptation. livid, haggard, broken with exhaustion after her final interrogatory, joan darc reclines upon the straw of her cell; her male attire is still more dilapidated than when she first appeared before her judges. she is chained by the waist and feet as before. she has wound some rags around the heavy iron rings at her ankles. their pressure made her flesh sore, and in spots broke it to the quick, creating painful wounds. besides, one of the wounds received in battle opened anew and added to her physical suffering. but the look of profound distress upon the martial maid's face proceeds from other than these causes. one of the jailers, noticing that the prisoner barely touched the gross food furnished to her, had said that in order to restore her appetite bishop cauchon was to send her a dish prepared in his own palace. the following day she partook of a fish that the prelate sent her. almost immediately after she was seized with convulsive retchings and had fallen into a swoon. the jailers thought she was upon the point of death and ran for a physician. the latter immediately discovered the symptoms of poison and succeeded in recalling her to life, but not to health. since then the prisoner remained in a languishing state, downcast and weak. joan darc is not alone in her cell. canon loyseleur is seated on a stool near the kind of coffin filled with straw on which she lies. believing herself in danger of death, she has just confessed to loyseleur, a solemnity at which she opened her soul to him and narrated her whole life. so far from remotely suspecting the infamous treason of the prelate, she drew vague hopes and religious consolation from the tokens of kindness which he seemed to bestow upon her. the canon had frequently visited the prisoner since their first interview. he obtained, said he, with much difficulty permission to leave his cell in order to offer her spiritual consolation. she reported to him what happened at her first and subsequent interrogatories. the canon congratulated her upon having asserted the reality of her apparitions and revelations, and warned her against another snare, a more dangerous one that he claimed to perceive. one of the judges having asked her which of the then two popes should be obeyed, he advised her that, if further pressed for an answer thereon, and asked whether she would accept absolutely and blindly the opinion of her judges, she should refuse and appeal from them to god alone. a stranger to theological subtleties, joan darc placed confidence in loyseleur's words. the snare thereby spread by the bishop and his accomplice was extremely adroit. on this day the canon had gone to joan's cell under the pretext of fortifying her in her good resolutions, and after having taken joan's general confession, and bestowed paternal and consoling words upon her, he went to the wicket to call john to let him out. the jailer quickly appeared, grumbled a few words in affected anger, opened the door, hurled the canon out with a great display of force and locked the door after him. joan was left alone. in making her general confession to the canon, in narrating to him her whole, life, joan had yielded not merely to a religious habit, but also to the desire of once more evoking the memories of her whole past existence, and of scrupulously interrogating herself upon all her actions. the threatening present induced the desire. she wished to ascertain with inexorable severity towards herself whether any of her actions were blameworthy. the mere thought of the threatened punishment, to be burned alive, prostrated her mind. the reasons for her terror were various. first of all she shrank before the shame of being publicly dragged to death like a criminal; the atrocious torment of feeling the flames devouring her flesh threw her into further agonies; finally the chaste girl was distracted by the fear of being taken half naked to the pyre. she had questioned the canon several times upon that head, and had learned from him that "heretics, male and female, are taken to death without any other clothing than a shirt, and on their heads a large pasteboard mitre inscribed with the heretic's special crimes." at the thought of appearing in public in an almost nude condition the maid's dignity and modesty revolted. the despair that such thoughts threw her into made her ready to submit to any declaration that her judges might demand of her, if it only could save her from such ignominy. in vain did her voices whisper to her: "submit bravely to your martyrdom, not the shadow of a wrongful act stains the luster of your life. yield not to vain shame, the shamefulness of it must fall upon your murderers. face without a blush the looks of men--glory covers you with a celestial aureola--be strong of heart!" in these moments of despair, the heroine became again the timid young girl whose intense modesty had caused her even to renounce the sacred joys of wifehood, and who had taken the vow of virginity to her saints. thus, despite the encouragement of her voices, her strength failed her, especially at the thought of being led to the pyre in a mere shirt. after her recent spell of sickness that, snapping the springs of her energetic and tender nature, slowly undermined her will power, joan fell with increasing frequency under the dominion of weakness. at intervals her wonted courage and resoluteness resumed the ascendancy. her voices said to her: "do not yield to those false priests, who pretend to judge you and are but your butchers. uphold truth bravely! pride yourself in having saved france with the aid of heaven. defy death! they may burn your body, but your fame will live imperishable as your immortal soul, that will radiantly rejoin its creator! noble victim of priests' hypocrisy and of the wickedness of man, quit this sad world and enter paradise!" such were, after her last interrogatory and the suffering produced by her illness, the spells of resoluteness and faint-heartedness that wrestled with each other and alternately exalted and again cast the heroine down. on this day, however, joan darc feels herself so exhausted that she feels certain she will speedily expire in her cell and escape the ordeal of the pyre. suddenly the noise of approaching steps is heard outside and she recognizes the voice of the bishop saying to the jailers: "open to us the door of joan's prison; open it to the justice of god!" the door is opened, and the prelate appears, accompanied by seven of the ecclesiastical judges--william boucher, jacob of tours, maurice of quesnay, nicolas midi, william adelin, gerard feuillet, and haiton--and the inquisitor john lemaitre. the members of the holy tribunal are accompanied by two registrars. one of these carries a large lighted wax taper, the other a book of parchments and other writing material. the bishop is clad in his sacerdotal robes, his accomplices wear their priestly or their monastic gowns. they silently range themselves in a semi-circle near the straw couch on which the chained prisoner is lying. the bishop steps towards her; one of the registrars sits down at the table he has carried in, on which he lays his parchments; the other remains standing near his companion lighting the desk with his candle, whose reddish glamor falls upon the faces of the ecclesiastics, motionless as specters, and, rather than illuminating, imparts a somber aspect to the scene. surprised at the unexpected visit, the object of which she is ignorant of, joan darc rises painfully and casts a frightened and wondering look around her. bishop cauchon (in accents of hypocritic compassion)--"these reverend priests, doctors of theology, and myself, have come to visit you in your prison, out of which you are at present unable to move. we come to bring you words of consolation. you have been questioned by the most learned clerks of canonical law. your answers, i must tell you paternally, have so far borne the stamp of most damnable error, and if you persist in these errors, errors so prejudicial to the salvation of your soul and the safety of your body, we shall see ourselves compelled to give you over to the secular arm." joan darc (in a feeble voice)--"i feel so ill and so weak, that it seems to me i am about to die. if it must be so by the will of god i request communion before death, and sacred soil for my body after death." a judge--"submit yourself to the church. the more you stand in fear of death, all the more should you mend your ways." joan darc--"if my body dies in prison, i request of you a sacred sepulchre for it. if you refuse that to me, i shall appeal to god. may his will be done." bishop cauchon--"these are grave words. you appeal to god. but between you and god stands his church." joan darc--"is it not all one--god and his church?" bishop cauchon--"learn, my dear daughter, that there is a _church triumphant_ where god is with his saints, his angels and the saved souls; there is, besides, the _church militant_ composed of our holy father the pope, vicar of god on earth, the cardinals, the prelates, the priests and all good catholics, the which church is infallible, in other words, can never err, can never be mistaken, guided as it is by the divine light. that, joan, is the church militant. will you submit to its judgment? will you, yes or no, acknowledge us as your judges, us, members of the church militant?" joan darc (recalls the advice of the canon; there can be no doubt, she thinks, that a snare is being laid for her; her mistrust being in accord with her naïve faith, she answers with all the firmness that her weakness allows)--"i went to the king for the sake of the salvation of france, sent to him by god and his saints. to that church (making a sublime gesture), to that church on high, do i submit in all my acts and words!" bishop cauchon (with difficulty restraining his joy)--"you will not, then, accept the judgment of the church militant upon your acts and words?" joan darc--"i shall submit to this church if it does not demand the impossible from me." the inquisitor--"what do you understand by that?" joan darc--"to deny or repudiate the visions that i have had from god. for nothing in the world shall i deny or repudiate them. i shall not consent to save my life by a falsehood." bishop cauchon (in a blandishing voice)--"if the church militant were to declare those visions and apparitions illusory and diabolical, would you still refuse to submit to its judgment?" joan darc--"i submit only to god, who has ever inspired me. i neither accept nor shall i accept the judgment of any man, all men being liable to error." bishop cauchon (addressing the registrar)--"write down that answer, registrar; write it down without any omission." the registrar--"yes, monseigneur." the inquisitor--"you do not, then, hold yourself subject to the church militant, that is to say to our pope, our seigneurs the cardinals, archbishops, bishops and other holy ministers of god?" joan darc (interrupting him)--"i recognize myself their subject--god being first served." the admirable answer disconcerts the prelates. the ingenuous and pure soul that they expected to entangle in the perfidious net of their theological subtleties, slipped from them with one stroke of its wings. bishop cauchon (is the first to recover, he addresses joan with severity)--"you answer us like an idolater. you are exposing your body and your soul to a grave peril." joan darc--"i could not answer otherwise, monseigneur." a judge (harshly)--"you will then have to die an apostate." joan darc (with touching pride)--"i received baptism; i am a good christian; i shall die a christian." bishop cauchon--"do you desire to receive the body of the savior?" joan darc--"oh, i wish it with all my soul!" bishop cauchon--"you will then have to submit to the church militant." joan darc--"i serve god to the best of my ability--from him i expect everything--nothing from the bishops, nothing from the priests, nothing from anybody." the inquisitor--"if you refuse submission to the holy roman catholic and apostolic church you will be given up for a heretic, and condemned to be burned." joan darc (in a high degree of exaltation springing from her convictions and the disgust that the ecclesiastics inspire her)--"even if the pyre stood ready i would answer no otherwise!" bishop cauchon--"joan, my dear daughter, your stiff-neckedness is execrable. do you mean to say that if you stood before a council composed of our holy father, the cardinals and bishops, and they called upon you to submit to their decision--" joan darc (interrupting him with pained impatience)--"neither pope, nor cardinals, nor bishops will draw from me other statements than those that i have made. pray have mercy upon a poor creature! i am dying!" (she drops back upon the straw in a swoon.) bishop cauchon--"will you submit to the successor of st. peter, our holy father? answer categorically." joan darc (after a long pause and recovering)--"have me taken to him, i shall ask him for his blessing." bishop cauchon--"what you say is insensate. do you persist in keeping your male attire, a most blameworthy conduct?" joan darc--"i would put on female clothes to go to church, if i could, in order to receive the body of my savior. but back in my prison, i shall resume my male attire out of fear of being outraged by your people, as they have tried before now." the inquisitor--"once more and for the last time, and be careful: if you persist in your damnable error our holy mother the church will be forced, despite her infinite mercy, to deliver you over to the secular arm, and it will then be all over with your body and soul." joan darc--"it would then be all over with your own souls--with the souls of yourselves who will have condemned me unjustly. reflect upon that." bishop cauchon--"joan, i must charitably declare to you that if you stubbornly persist in your ways, there are torturers near who will put you to the rack.(he points to the door, joan shivers.) there are torturers near--they are waiting--they will put you to cruel torments, for the sole purpose of drawing less damnable answers from you." joan darc (yields at first to the terror of the thought of being tortured; the momentary weakness is, however, speedily overcome; she draws superhuman strength from the conviction of her innocence; sits up; casts a withering look upon the prelates and cries in an accent of indomitable resolution) --"have my limbs torn one from the other! have my soul leap out of my body! you shall be no further! and if the pain of the torture should draw from my distracted body aught that is contrary to what i have so far said, i take god for my witness, it will be pain alone that will have made me speak contrary to the truth!"[114] bishop cauchon--"joan, your transport singularly aggravates your position." joan darc--"listen, oh, ye priests of christ; listen, oh, ye seigneurs of the church; you are bent upon my death. if in order to make me die, if in order to execute me my clothes are to be taken off, i ask of you but a woman's shirt to march in to the pyre." bishop cauchon (affecting astonishment)--"you pretend that you wear a man's shirt and clothes by the command of god; why should you want a woman's shirt to go to death in? this is a singular inconsistency." joan darc--"because it is longer." the infamous ecclesiastics are determined to inflict upon the wretched young woman of hardly nineteen years all the tortures, from the rack to the pyre. a tremor, nevertheless, runs through them at the sublime modesty of the virgin, who requests of her butchers as a supreme act of mercy that she be allowed a woman's shirt to go to death in because such a shirt was longer, because it could better conceal her figure from the public gaze. bishop cauchon alone remains unaffected. bishop cauchon (harshly addressing his accomplices)--"my very dear brothers, we shall assemble in a room of the tower in order to deliberate upon the torture that should be inflicted upon joan." the bishop and his fellows depart from the cell, followed by the registrars. chapter v. the sentence. the full ecclesiastical tribunal is assembled in a low, somber and vaulted apartment. the registrar reads to the ecclesiastical judges the last interrogatory, at which they had not all been present. they are to consider whether the accused shall be put to the torture. bishop cauchon--"my very dear brothers, you are again assembled in the name of our holy church." all the judges--"amen." bishop cauchon--"my very dear brothers, we peter, bishop of beauvais by divine grace do, in view of the stubbornness of the said joan, and in view of the pestilent heresy that her answers are poisoned with, consult with you, our very dear brothers, whether it is deemed expedient and urgent to submit the said joan to the torture, to the end of obtaining from her answers and avowals that may save her poor soul from the eternal and her body from the temporal flames. please give your opinion in the order of precedence." nicolas of venderesse--"it does not seem to me, at present, opportune to put the said joan to the torture." andre marguerie--"i consider the torture superfluous. the answers of the accused are sufficient to condemn her upon. i am against the torture." william erard--"it is, indeed, unnecessary to obtain new avowals from the said joan. those that she has made call for the chastisement of the temporal arm. let us not go beyond that." robert barbier--"i share the views of my very dear brother." denis gastinel--"i am of the opinion that we should forego the torture. it is useless in the case at bar." aubert morel--"i am of the opinion that the torture should be forthwith applied to the said joan in order to ascertain whether the errors that she persists in are sincere or fraudulent." thomas of courcelles--"i hold that it would be well to put the said joan to the torture." nicolas of coupequesne--"i do not think it expedient to submit joan to bodily torture. but she should be admonished once more, in order to compel her to submit to the church militant." john ledoux--"i think so, too. no torture." isambard of la pierre--"that is my opinion." nicolas loyseleur--"i think it is necessary as a medicine to the soul of the said joan that she be put to the torture.[115] for the rest i shall adhere to the opinion of my very dear brothers. the question must be decided." william haiton--"i consider the torture useless. i pronounce against its application." the result of the deliberation is that a majority of the ecclesiastics is against applying the torture to joan darc, not so much through a sentiment of humanity as because the admissions made by the accused sufficiently justify her condemnation, as canon andre marguerie naïvely put it. nevertheless, bishop cauchon, who panted for the torture like a wolf at the smell of blood, seems greatly displeased with the evangelical mildness of his very dear brothers in jesus christ, who seem so charitably disposed as to think that the burning of joan darc would be glory enough to the church of rome, without previously lacerating her flesh or cracking her bones. moreover, these more clement ecclesiastics consider that, weak and ailing as joan is, the girl may expire under the torture. they aim at a striking death for their victim. bishop cauchon (ill disguising his displeasure)--"the majority of our very dear brothers have pronounced against submitting the said joan to the torture. that means of obtaining her sincere avowals being discarded, i demand that before we now adjourn she be brought hither to the end that she may hear the verdict that is pronounced against her by our very dear brother maurice, canon of the very reverend chapter of the cathedral of rouen." the ecclesiastical judges bow approval. nicolas loyseleur goes out to issue the orders for the carrying in of joan before the tribunal. he, however, does not resume his seat at the session, fearing to be recognized by the prisoner. the traitor trembles before his victim. too feeble to walk, joan darc is brought in upon a chair by two jailers with her feet chained. they deposit the chair a few paces before the ecclesiastical judges. resolved to uphold the truth until death, joan asks herself what crimes she could have committed. she has maintained the reality of the visions that she had; she has conscientiously submitted all the acts of her life to the judgment of her sovereign master--god. convinced though she is of the bias and perfidy of the ecclesiastical tribunal, she is still unable to believe her condemnation possible, or rather she racks her mind to fathom its motive. a feverish hue has slightly colored her pale face. she partially rises from her seat, supporting herself on its arms. her large black eyes are anxiously fixed upon her judges. she waits in the midst of the profound silence that falls upon the assembly at her entrance. dressed in his canonical robes, canon maurice holds in his hands a parchment on which the sentence that he is about to read is written. the virgin warrior, defending her country's soil, had proved herself the peer of the most illustrious captains. the christian maid had usually kept her sword in its scabbard, and even in the heat of the most stubbornly contested battles never used it against men. she contented herself with guiding her soldiers with it and with her standard. every day, when at all possible, she knelt in the temple and held communion with the angels. in the letters that she addressed to the foreign captains and the chiefs of the civil factions, she conjured the english in the name of the god of charity, of concord and of justice to abandon a country that they held contrary to right and that they ruled with violence, and she promised to them mercy and peace if they renounced the iniquitous conquest that rapine and massacre had rendered still more odious. when she addressed herself to the frenchmen in arms against the french she ever reminded them that they were of france, and conjured them to join against the common enemy. as a woman, joan darc ever gave the example of the most generous and most angelic virtues. her chastity inspired her with sublime words that will remain the admiration of the centuries. how could the ecclesiastical judges formulate against the warrior, the christian and the virgin a single accusation that does not cause common judgment to revolt? an accusation that is not a heinous outrage, a despicable insult, a sacrilegious challenge cast at all that ever has been and ever will be the object of man's admiration? these infamous ecclesiastics, these bishops sold to the english, ransacked the canons of the church and the decretals of the inquisition, and with the aid of these found twelve capital charges against the warrior, the christian and the virgin. twelve capital charges! and what is still more abominable, in the eyes of the orthodox judges, the charges are well founded and legitimate. they are the "complete, absolute, irrevocable and infallible" expression of the roman church. they flow in point of right, from the legal application of the jurisdiction of a church that is infallible, eternal and divine--one as god; infallible as god; divine as god; eternal as god!--according to the claims of the ecclesiastics! the sentence of joan is supposed to be the summary of the life of the maid, now present before her judges, and though broken and feverish, yet with a soul full of faith and of energy. the session is re-opened. bishop cauchon (addressing the accused in a grave voice)--"joan, our very dear brother maurice will read to you the sentence that has been pronounced upon you." (the bishop devoutly crosses himself.) all the judges (crossing themselves)--"amen." canon maurice (reading in a sepulchral and threatening voice)--"'first: you said, joan, that at thirteen years you had revelations and apparitions of angels and saints to whom you give the name of st. michael, of st. marguerite and of st. catherine. you said you frequently saw them with the eyes of your body. you said that you frequently conversed with them. "'upon this point, and considering the aim and final object of these revelations and apparitions, the nature of the matters revealed, and the quality of your person, the church pronounces your revelations and visions to be fraudulent, seductive, pernicious, and proceeding from the evil spirit of the devil.'" canon maurice stops for a moment in order that the gravity of the first charge be properly weighed and appreciated by joan darc. but the words that she has just heard carry her back to the days of her childhood, days of peace that flowed in the midst of the sweet enjoyments of her family. she forgets the present and becomes absorbed in the recollection of her infancy, a recollection at once sweet and bitter to her. canon maurice (proceeds to read)--"'secondly: joan, you said that your king, having recognized you by your signs as truly sent by god, gave you men of arms to do battle with. you said that st. marguerite and st. catherine accompanied you to chinon and other places, where they guided you with their advice. "'the church pronounces this declaration mendacious and derogatory to the dignity of the saints and the angels. "'thirdly: joan, you said that you recognized the angels and the saints by the advice that they gave you. you said that you believed the apparitions to be good, and that you believe that as firmly as you do in the faith of our lord jesus christ. this is an outrage to the divinity. "'the church declares that those are not determining signs to recognize the saints by; that your belief is temerarious, your claim braggard, and that you err in the faith. you are outside of the pale of the communion of the faithful.'" recalled from her revery, joan darc listens to this new accusation without understanding it. in what did she brag? in what was she temerarious? in what did she lie? she recognized the saints by the wisdom of their counsel when they said to her: "joan, be pious, behave as a wise girl; heaven will support you in driving the foreigners from gaul." the promise of her saints is verified. she has won brilliant victories over the enemy of france. where is the lie, the temerariousness, the bragging? canon maurice (reads)--"'fourthly: joan, you said you were endowed with the faculty of knowing certain things that lay in the future, and that you recognized your king without ever having seen him before. "'the church pronounces you convicted of presumption, arrogance and witchcraft.'" without concerning herself about the imputation of witchcraft, that seems to her senseless, joan darc sighs at the recollection of her first interview at chinon with "the gentle dauphin of france," when, drawn towards him out of commiseration for his misfortunes and devoted to the royalty, charles vii received her with a miserable buffoonery, thereupon imposed upon her, upon so chaste a girl, an infamous examination, and then sent her to a council of ecclesiastics assembled in poitiers, who, struck by the sincerity of her responses, declared her divinely inspired. and, now, here is another set of priests, speaking in the name of the same church, and treating her as a witch! canon maurice (reads)--"'fifthly: joan, you said that by the advice of god you wore and continue to wear male attire--a short jacket, hose fastened with hooks, cap, and hair cut short down to your ears--preserving nothing that denotes your sex except what nature itself betrays. before being taken prisoner, you frequently partook of the holy eucharist in manly costume; and despite all our efforts to induce you to renounce such a costume, you obstinately persevere in keeping it, pretending to act by the advice of god. "'the church pronounces you upon that head a blasphemer of god, a contemner of its sacraments, a transgressor of divine law, of holy writ and of canonical sanction. the church pronounces you astray and errant in the faith, and idolatrous after the fashion of the gentiles.'" with her mind upon the chaste motives that had decided her to assume male attire so long as her divine mission compelled her to live in camps near soldiers; remembering also with what zeal priests had admitted her to communion when, clad in her martial outfit, she came to thank god for having granted her victory, joan darc asks herself by what mental aberration another set of priests of christ can see in her a blasphemer and an idolatress after the fashion of the gentiles! canon maurice (reads)--"'sixthly: joan, you said that often you caused the divine names of jesus and mary to be placed at the head of the letters, which you addressed to captains and others, and that afterwards, at the bottom of the said letters, you drew the revered sign of the cross. in those homicidal letters, you boasted that you would cause the death of those who should dare resist your insolent orders. you affirmed that you spoke and acted thus by divine inspiration and suggestion. "'the church pronounces you a traitor, mendacious, cruel, desirous of shedding human blood, seditious, a provoker of tyranny and a blasphemer of god in his holy commandments and revelations.'" at this stupid and iniquitous accusation, joan darc is unable to resist a tremor of indignation. they accuse her of cruelty, of causing the shedding of human blood--her who on the very day of her triumphal entry into orleans, seeing an english prisoner fall under the blows of a brutal mercenary, was so moved with pity that she precipitated herself from her horse and knelt down beside the wounded soldier, whose head she raised, and for whom she implored help! she, desirous of the effusion of human blood! she who on many occasions saved english prisoners from massacre and set them free! she who, under the invocation of christ, wrote so many letters making ardent pleas for peace! she who dictated the touching missive to the duke of burgundy imploring him to put an end to the disasters of civil war! she who ever marched into battle, confronting death with no weapon in her hand other than her banner of white satin! she whose own blood ran on the field of battle and who never shed the blood of any! canon maurice (reads)--"'seventhly: joan, you said that, as a result of your revelations, you left the paternal roof at the age of seventeen years, against the will of your parents, who were plunged by your departure into a sorrow that verged upon distraction; that you then went to a captain named robert of baudricourt, who had you escorted to chinon to your king, to whom you said that you came in the name of god to drive away the english and restore him his crown. "'the church pronounces you impious towards your parents; a transgressor of the commandment of god--"thou shalt honor thy father and mother;" a blasphemer of the lord; erring in your faith; and the maker of presumptuous and temerarious promises in defiance of our mother the church.'" this accusation is as unjust as the preceding ones. what heartrending agonies did not joan undergo when, beset by her voices that daily said to her: "march to the deliverance of france!" she felt compelled to resign herself to the idea of leaving her dearly beloved and revered parents! how many times, overcoming the intoxication of her victories, has she not felt and declared: "i would prefer to be sewing and spinning near my dear mother!" and when, become the arbiter of the destiny of france, she received a letter from her father who whelmed her with blessings and pardoned her departure, did she not cry out, less delighted at her triumphs than at the paternal clemency, "my father has pardoned me!" and yet, despite the saintly absolution, these ecclesiastics accuse her of trampling under foot the commandments of god! canon maurice (reads)--"'eighthly: joan, you said that you jumped down out of the tower of the castle of beaurevoir because you preferred death to falling into the hands of the english; and that, despite the advice of the archangel st. michael and your saints, who ordered you not to attempt to escape or kill yourself, you persevered in your project. "'the church pronounces you guilty of yielding to despair, of having contemplated homicide upon yourself, and of having criminally interpreted the law of human freedom of action.'" joan darc smiles disdainfully at hearing these ecclesiastics condemn her for having endeavored to escape her enemies who sold her for ten thousand gold sous to the english. canon maurice (reads)--"'ninthly: joan, you said your saints promised paradise to you if you preserved your virginity and devoted yourself to god, and that you were as certain of paradise as if you were now in the enjoyment of the bliss of the blessed. you said you did not consider yourself in mortal sin because you ever heard the voice of your saints. "'the church pronounces you presumptuous and headstrong in assertions that are mendacious and pernicious, and that exhale a pestilential odor.'" joan raises to the vaulted roof of the apartment her face beaming with faith and hope, and she hears her voices whisper to her: "courage, holy daughter, what need you care for the vain words of these men? god has adjudged you worthy of his paradise." canon maurice (reads)--"'tenthly: joan, you said that the archangel st. michael and your saints, speaking to you in the language of gaul, informed you that they were enemies of the english and friends of your king. "'the church pronounces you superstitious, a sorceress, a blasphemer of the archangel st. michael and of saints marguerite and catherine, and a contemner of love for your neighbor. "'eleventhly: joan, you said that if the evil spirit had appeared under the form of st. michael you would have been able to discover and discern the fact. "'the church pronounces you idolatrous, an invoker of devils and guilty of illicit judgment.'" joan darc believes she is dreaming when she hears the accusation of sorcery and demoniacal invocations. a sorceress because she affirmed she saw what she did see! a sorceress because she affirmed she heard what she did hear! a sorceress and invoker of demons because those visions appeared before her, visions that she neither invoked nor desired, and that, frightening her at first, she prayed god to keep away from her! canon maurice (reads)--"'twelfthly: joan, you said that if the church would demand from you an admission contrary to the inspirations that you pretend to have received from god, you would absolutely refuse obedience, and that in all such matters you do recognize neither the judgment of the church nor of any man on earth. you said the answer proceeded not from yourself but from god, and you persisted, although frequently reminded of the article of faith, _unam ecclesiam catholicam_, and although it was proven to you that every catholic must submit his actions and words to the church militant, represented by the pope and his ministers. "'the church pronounces you a schismatic, an enemy of its unity and authority. it pronounces you, besides, stiff-necked in the errors of your apostate faith.--amen!'" all the judges (in chorus, and crossing themselves)--"amen!" if in her loyalty, in the habitual meekness of her spirit joan darc admitted some of the accusations against her, she would bow before the judgment of these ecclesiastics. but after hearing the charges, the maid remains all the more convinced of their iniquity, and resolves more strongly than ever to spurn such judges and to appeal from them to god. the reading of the indictment being ended, bishop peter cauchon approaches the maid's seat. bishop cauchon--"and now, joan, you know what terrible accusations weigh upon you. the trial is hereby ended. it is now time to reflect well upon what you have heard. if after having been so often admonished by me, as well as by my other very dear brothers, the vicar of the inquisition and other learned prelates, you should, alack! in contumely of god, in defiance of the faith and the law of our lord jesus christ, and in contempt of the safety and security of catholic conscience, still persist in your errors; should you persist in standing out as an object of horrible scandal, of infectious and disgusting pestilence, it will be, dear daughter, a great injury to your soul and your body. in the name of your soul that is imperishable, but that may be damned, in the name of your perishable body, i exhort you once more and for the last time, to re-enter the bosom of our sacred mother the roman catholic and apostolic church, and to submit yourself to her judgment. if not, and i charitably warn you now a last time, your soul will be damned, damned to all eternity and delivered to satan, and your body will be destroyed by fire--a thing that with my joined hands (he prostrates and crosses himself, and clasps his hands) i fervently pray our lord to preserve you from." joan darc (makes a superhuman effort to rise and keep her feet; she succeeds by steadying her chained and shaking limbs against her seat. she then raises her right hand and cries in a firm voice and an accent of profound and heroic conviction)--"i take heaven for my witness! i shall be condemned, i shall see the fagots, the executioner ready to set them on fire; and yet i shall unto death repeat: yes, i have said the truth. yes, god has inspired me. yes, from him i expect everything, nothing from anybody else. yes, god is my sole judge, my sole master." exhausted by this last effort, joan darc falls back upon her seat in the midst of profound silence. the ecclesiastics gather in a group with bishop cauchon in the center. they consult in a low voice. the prelate then approaches joan darc. bishop cauchon (in a ringing voice and a gesture of malediction)--"the sentence is pronounced: we, peter, bishop of beauvais by the grace of god, pronounce you a blasphemer and sacrilegious woman, an invoker of demons, an apostate and a heretic! we smite you with the sentence of the major and minor excommunication; we pronounce you forever cut off from the body of our holy mother the church; and we leave you to the secular arm which will to-morrow burn your body and cast your ashes to the wind! amen." all the ecclesiastical judges (in chorus and making the sign of the cross)--"amen." joan darc (sublimely inspired)--"that is your judgment. i confidently await the judgment of god!" the jailers carry the prisoner back to her cell. chapter vi. physical collapse. on the 24th of may, 1431, a great mass of people is crowding at about eight in the morning and under a brilliant springtide sun towards the cemetery of st. audoin at rouen. a low wall surrounds the place of burial. within, and near the entrance of the cemetery, there rises on this morning a high scaffold with a wide platform on which a number of seats decked with violet coverings are placed. english soldiers, casqued and cuirassed, and lance in hand, form a cordon that keeps the crowd at a distance. all seem to expect a great event. the people are waiting to see joan darc, who is to mount the scaffold, kneel down at the feet of bishop cauchon and with her arms crossed on her breast abjure her past errors, deny her visions and renounce her revelations, her faith, her glory and her patriotism; in short, to make her humble, contrite and repentful submission to the sovereign judgment of the bishop and the ecclesiastics. only yesterday, despite the feebleness of her body, so proud and so resolute in her answers to her accusers, joan had cried: "let the fagots be there, let the executioner stand ready, and yet i shall repeat unto death: yes, god has inspired me. yes, god is my sole judge, my sole master!" what inconceivable change has taken place in this soul, once so firm and so full of conviction? human weakness! after the sentence pronounced upon her the day before by bishop cauchon, the heroine was transported back to her cell. the feverish exaltation that upheld her in the presence of her judges was followed by a reaction of profound dejectment. still she was resigned to suffer death. under these circumstances, and pretending to have obtained from the captain of the tower permission to administer to her the last consolations, canon loyseleur visited joan. she received the priest with thankful joy. instructed by joan on the last events, the canon broke down in tears, moans and laments, and dwelled with affected horror upon the frightful details of joan's pending execution--shocking details: joan was to be taken in a shirt, not a woman's shirt as she had begged for on the ground of its being longer, but in a man's shirt; nor was that all. the english chiefs had decided that before delivering joan to the flames, she was to be stripped wholly naked, and fastened in that state to the stake. from the moment joan learned that she was to be taken to the pyre in a man's shirt, and was then to be bound by the executioner in full view wholly naked to the stake, joan's mind began to wander. she collected whatever strength was left her, and although chained by the feet, hands and waist, she stood upon her straw bed and flinging herself forward, violently struck her head twice against the wall of the dungeon in a frantic attempt to break her skull and die. but the impact of the poor creature, weak, exhausted and fainting as she was, was not strong enough to produce mortal, or even dangerous results. she fell down backward upon her couch where the canon charitably held her down. he sobbed; he implored his dear daughter in christ not to yield to blind despair. true enough, it was an abominable ordeal for so pure a soul, so chaste a body, to be exposed at first half naked, and then wholly so, absolutely naked, to the lascivious looks and obscene jeers of the soldiery and mob! no doubt the ordeal would last an hour, perhaps longer; the english would take a delight in prolonging the period of the maid's nudity. but, alack! how was the abomination to be avoided! there was only one way, and no doubtful one, a sure way of escaping, not the shame only, but even the pyre, aye, of escaping from the hands of the english. thanks to that means, joan might regain her freedom, return to her family at domremy, and enjoy a restoring rest after so many trials. and then, when she should have recovered her health, the martial maid could again don her armor, call her valiant followers to arms, and marching at their head, complete her work of driving the english out of france. joan darc believed herself in a dream as she listened to the canon. his age, his tears, his moaning, the constant interest that he had taken in her since she was brought to her present dungeon--everything contributed to remove from her spirit all thought of suspicion. in a semi-stupor she questioned the canon on the means that he had in mind, from which he promised such certain deliverance. the tempter pursued his dark scheme with infernal skill. he began by asking the heroine whether in her soul and conscience she did not look upon her judges as monsters of iniquity? she readily assented. could she, consequently, feel herself bound by any promises that she might make to the butchers, she a prisoner, under duress? she, sold for the price of gold? no, concluded the canon, a promise made to these butchers for the purpose of escaping abominable ignominy and the horrors of burning, could never be binding upon an innocent victim. such engagements were null. joan asked what the promises would be. the canon answered that it was merely a matter of renouncing _in appearance_ the errors that the tribunal charged her with; in short, to submit _in appearance_ to the judgment of the church. joan's conscience revolted at the lie; to renounce the truth was to renounce god. "yes, but with your lips, with your lips only, and not with your heart!" pursued the tempter. "it is simply yielding to force; it is speaking for a moment the language of the butchers, a fallacious and perfidious language, true enough; but, thanks to such a legitimate fraud, to escape from them, thus to preserve his elect to god, and to france her liberator! it is simply a mouth-renunciation, while the soul will continue to glorify all the acts inspired by heaven." "but to promise to abjure under condition of being set free, is to bind oneself to abjure," answered joan, disconcerted by the canon's sophism. "and what would that matter?" argued the tempter. "what would it matter to make even a public abjuration, even kneeling at the bishop's feet, saying to him with the lips: 'my apparitions and my visions were illusions; i have sinned in assuming man's habits; i have sinned in waging war; i have sinned in refusing to submit to the judgment of the church. i now make my submission and regret my sins.' what would such vain words matter? did they proceed from the interior tribunal, the sacred refuge of truth with the oppressed? would perchance, the lord, who reads our secret thoughts, fail to read in your soul, at the very moment when you would be pretending to abjure: 'my god, you before whom nothing is hidden, i internally glorify these visions and apparitions, the revered signs of your omnipotence! i proclaim you my only judge, oh, my divine master! and in your infinite mercy you will pardon me these few idle words, drawn from me by the desire of continuing to be the instrument of your supreme will, and by the desire of, with your aid, driving the stranger from the sacred soil of the fatherland.' would god fail to read these sentiments?" joan succumbed before the infernal tempter. vainly did she hear her voices warn her: "to deny the truth is to deny god! you are about to lie in the face of heaven and of men, more out of a chaste shame than out of fear to burn. you are about to lie in the hope of regaining your freedom to finish your divine mission. such a fraud is cowardly and criminal." but weakened by her sufferings, exhausted in the physical and mental struggle that she had undergone, above all frightened out of her wits at the thought of her virginal body being exposed naked by the executioner to the eyes of men, and finally tempted by the prospect of freedom, of again seeing her family and perchance achieving her work of liberation, joan shut her ears to the inflexible voice of her honor, of her faith, of her conscience, and promised canon loyseleur to make a public abjuration and submission to the church, under the condition of a pledge from the bishop that she would be set at liberty immediately after her abjuration. the canon charitably offered his services to the prisoner; he expressed his certainty of successfully conducting the negotiation, and of being able to overcome the resistance of the savage captain of the tower and secure permission to call upon the bishop without delay. as may be believed, loyseleur readily obtained the permission. towards midnight he returned with the institutor of the process and a physician. the latter induced the captive to take a mixture that was to serve at once as a tonic and a soporific. the mixture would enable her to sleep restfully until morning, and would give her strength for the expiatory ceremony. joan darc submitted to everything, saying to herself: "i shall be free to-morrow, and shall have escaped an ignominy that is worse than death." the scaffold raised within the precincts of the cemetery of the abbey of st. audoin is the immediate result of canon loyseleur's machinations in joan's cell. on the scaffold's spacious platform joan is to appear, surrounded by the ecclesiastics, and make a public abjuration. the impatient crowd awaits the arrival of the cortege. more than half a century under the yoke of english rule, most of the people of rouen are of the burgundian party, and see in joan darc only an enemy. nevertheless, the astounding renown of the martial maid, her youth, her beauty, her misfortune, her glory, awaken a profound sentiment of pity for her among all, and the feeling is strongest among those who have remained french at heart and are of the armagnac party. the purpose of joan's public and solemn appearance is still unknown to the mass. some say that a public exposure is to precede the death penalty, to which she is doubtlessly condemned; others, ignorant of the course of the trial, believe she is to be publicly interrogated. william poole, the earl of warwick, and other english captains and prominent personages are grouped in a reserved space inside the cemetery and near the scaffold. presently a distant and increasing noise announces the approach of the train. the crowd presses and becomes more compact outside the cemetery. the procession draws near, escorted by english archers. at its head march the cardinal of winchester in the roman purple, and the bishop of beauvais with a gold mitre on his head, a gold crosier in his hand and over his shoulders the chasuble of violet silk, resplendent in embroidery. behind them and in his monk's frock comes the inquisitor john lemaitre, together with peter of estivet, the official institutor of the process, william erard and two registrars, carrying parchments and writing portfolios. a few steps behind them, and sustained by two penitents whose grey robes, covering them from head to foot, are pierced with two holes at the elevation of their eyes, joan advances slowly. her weakness is extreme, and although her eyes are wide open she does not seem to be wholly awake; she still seems under the effect of the soporific and tonic of the night before. she seems to look without seeing, and to hear with indifference the hisses of the mob that, incited by the example of the english soldiers, makes hostile demonstrations against the victim. on joan's head is a high mitre of black pasteboard which bears in large letters the following words: "heretic," "idolater," "apostate." a long robe of coarse black wool envelops her from the neck down to her bare feet. she halts for a moment before the scaffold, while the cardinal, the bishop and other prelates take their seats upon it. at a signal from one of the registrars, the two penitents, holding joan under the arms, help her to ascend the stairs of the scaffold. the sky is this day of an admirable clearness; the sun shines brilliantly; the pleasant warmth of its rays penetrates and gradually warms joan darc, who still shivers from the dampness of the subterraneous dungeon in which she has so long lain buried night and day. she inhales the bracing and pure air with delight, and in full draughts. the atmosphere of her cell was so heavy, so fetid! she seems to revive; her chilled and clogged blood courses anew with the delight of life; she experiences an indescribable sense of happiness at the contemplation of that azure sky bathed in light, and at the sight of the green grass of the cemetery, studded here and there with spring flowers. at a little distance stands a clump of trees, near the abbey. the birds chirp in their foliage, the insects hum--everything seems to sing and express delight on that sweet may morning. the sight of nature that joan has so long been deprived of--she who was from early infancy accustomed to live on the meadows and in the woods--transports her into a sort of ecstasy. she forgets her sufferings, her martyrdom, her sentence and even the abjuration that she is about to pronounce. if her thoughts at all fall upon these topics, the only effect is the pleasurable reminder that she is soon to be free. oh, free! to be free! to see her village again! the oak forest, the fountain of the fairies, the smiling and shady banks of the meuse! to see again her family, her friends, and, renouncing the bitter illusions of glory, escaping the royal ingratitude, the hypocrisy, the hatred and the envy of men, quietly spend her days in domremy at her rustic labors as in the happy days of yore! and that, all that at the price of a few words pronounced before her butcher-judges, those monsters of iniquity! oh, at this moment of physical exaltation joan would sign her abjuration with her own blood. her heart-beats, pulsating with hope, smother within her the austere voices of her honor and her faith. in vain do these whisper to her: "be not faint-hearted! bravely uphold the truth in the teeth of those false priests, and you will be delivered from your trials, not for a day, but for all eternity!" these voices are not now listened to; her physical delight is too vast. suddenly she is recalled to her condition by the voice of bishop cauchon who severely says to her: "joan, down on your knees; bow your head!" joan darc kneels down without removing her eyes from the beautiful blue of the sky, from the radiant light of the sun from which she seeks to draw the strength necessary to persevere in her resolution of abjuring. a profound silence falls upon the crowd, the front ranks of which can hear the words uttered on the scaffold, and bishop cauchon, crossing himself, proceeds: "my very dear brothers, the lord said it to his apostle st. john, the palm tree cannot of itself produce fruit if it does not live. thus, my very dear brothers, you must persevere in the true life of our holy mother the roman catholic and apostolic church, which our lord jesus christ built with his right hand. but, alack! there are perverse souls, abominable and idolatrous (he points at joan darc) filled with heretical crimes, who rise with an audacity that is truly infernal against the unity of our holy church, to the great scandal and to the painful horror of all good believers. (to joan darc with a menacing voice:) there you are now upon a scaffold, in the face of heaven and of men. is the light to enter at last your haughty and diabolical soul? will you at last submit in all humbleness your words and acts to the church militant, the enormities of your acts! your monstrous words! according to the infallible judgment of the priests of the lord? reflect and answer! if not, the church will abandon you to the secular arm and your body will go up in the flames of the pyre." these words produce a deep commotion among the crowd. the majority of those present are hostile to joan darc. a small number feel sincere pity for her. these various sentiments find expression in cries, imprecations and charitable utterances: "she has not yet been condemned, the witch! death to the abominable idolater!" "a door of safety is being held open to her. death to the heretic!" "by st. george! upon the word of an english archer, i shall set the bishop's house on fire if the strumpet is not brought to the pyre at once!" "mercy will be extended to her! and yet with her sorceries she has exterminated our invincible army!" "her partisans want to save her!" "i hope they may succeed! poor girl! she has suffered so much! mercy for her!" "how pale and thin she is! she looks like a ghost! take pity upon the poor creature!" "she fought for france. and after all, we are french!" "speak not so loud, my friend, the english soldiers may overhear you!" "jesus! my god! to burn her! her who was so brave and so pious! it would be an act of barbarism!" "is it her fault that god inspired her?" "if saints appeared before her, and spoke to her, all the greater the honor!" "how can a bishop of the good god dare to pronounce her a sorceress!" "death! death to the witch!" "death! death to the she-devil!" "to the pyre with the strumpet of the armagnacs!" at these ferocious cries and infamous insults joan darc's terror redoubles. the ignominy that awaits her if she does not abjure rises before her. to abjure means to escape mortal shame; to abjure means to regain freedom! joan darc resigns herself. still her loyalty and conscience revolt at that supreme moment, and instead of completely renouncing her errors, she mutters on her knees: "i have sincerely stated all my actions to my judges; i believed i acted under the command of god. i do not wish to accuse either my god or anybody. if i have sinned i alone am guilty. i rely upon god. i implore his mercy." "subterfuges!" cried bishop cauchon. "subterfuges! yes, or no; do you consider true what the priests, your only judges in matters of faith, declare concerning your actions and words--words and acts that have been pronounced fallacious, homicidal, sacrilegious, idolatrous, heretical and diabolical? answer! (joan is silent) i call upon you a second time to answer! (joan is still silent) i ask you a third time to answer! you are silent? you are an abominable criminal!" yes, the heroine remains silent, racked by a supreme internal struggle. "abjure!" whispered to her the instinct of self-preservation. "do not abjure! do not lie! courage! courage!" cries her conscience; "maintain the truth unto shame and death!" the wretched girl wrings her hands, and remains silent, a prey to distracting agonies. "alack!" exclaims bishop cauchon, addressing the people. "my very dear brothers! you see the stiff-neckedness of this unhappy woman! she spurns her tender mother the church, that extends her arms to her with love and pardon! alack! alack! the evil spirit has taken a firm hold of her who might now have been joan. her, whose body shall have to be delivered to the burning flames of the pyre! her, whose ashes will be cast to the winds! her, who, deprived of the holy eucharist at the moment of death, and loaded down with the decree of excommunication, is about to be cast into the bottom of hell for all eternity! alack! alack! joan, you willed it so. we believed in your repentance, we consented not to deliver you to the secular arm. but you persist in your heresy. then listen to your sentence!" while the bishop is recalling the formula of the sentence several english soldiers brandish their lances and cry: "let an end be made of this!" "throw the witch quickly into the fire!" "death to the magician!" at the same time other voices from the crowd cry: "poor, brave girl! mercy for her!" "lord god! how can she deny her visions! mercy! mercy!" "it would be a lie and cowardice on her part! courage! courage!" bishop cauchon rises, terrible, and with his hands extended to heaven makes ready to utter the final curse upon the accused. "joan!" he cries, "listen to your sentence. in the name of the church, we, peter, bishop of beauvais by the mercy of god, declare you--" joan darc interrupts the approaching imprecation with a shriek of terror, clasps her hands, and collapses upon the scaffold, crying: "mercy! mercy!" "do you submit yourself to the judgment of the church?" again asks bishop cauchon. livid and her teeth chattering with terror, joan darc answers: "yes, i submit myself!" "do you renounce your apparitions and visions as false, sacrilegious, and diabolical?" the bishop asks. wholly broken down, and in a gasping voice, joan makes answer: "yes--yes--i renounce them--seeing the priests consider them wicked things. i submit to their opinion--i shall submit to everything that the church may order--mercy! have pity upon me!" and cowering upon herself, she hides her face in her hands amidst convulsive sobs. "oh, my very dear brothers!" exclaims bishop cauchon with an affectation of charity. "what a beautiful day! what a holy day! what a glorious day! that on which the church in her maternal joy opens her arms to one of her children, repentful after having long wandered from the fold! joan, your submission saves your body and your soul! repeat after me the formula of abjuration." the bishop beckons to one of the registrars, who brings to him a parchment containing the formula of abjuration. violent outcries break out from the crowd. the english soldiers and the people of the burgundian party feel irritated at the prospect of the maid's escaping death, and break out into imprecations against the judges. they charge the bishop and the cardinal with treason and threaten to burn down their houses. the english captains share the indignation of their men. one of the former, the earl of warwick, steps out of the group in which he stands, rushes up the stairs of the scaffold, and approaching the prelate says to him angrily, in a low voice: "bishop, bishop, is that what you promised us?" "be patient!" answers the prelate, also in a low voice; "i shall keep my promise; but calm your men; they are quite capable of massacring us!" sufficiently acquainted with peter cauchon to know he can trust him, the earl of warwick again descends from the platform, joins his companions in arms, and communicates the bishop's answer to them. the latter hasten to distribute themselves among the ranks of the soldiers, whose anger they appease with assurances that the witch will be burned despite her abjuration. but while one part of the mob is enraged at the maid's abjuration and the bishop's pardon, another, consisting of the people who pity joan, is thrown into consternation. this feeling soon makes way for indignation. she denies her visions; then they were false pretences; she lied when she claimed to be sent by god. and if her visions were true, she is now disgracing herself by a shameful act of cowardice. coward or liar--such is the judgment they now pass upon joan darc. the infernal ecclesiastical plot is skilfully hatched; through it the sympathy once felt for the heroine is extinguished in the hearts of her partisans themselves. on her knees upon the scaffold, cowering down, and her face covered by her hands, joan darc seems a stranger to what passes around her. overcome by so many conflicting emotions, her mind again begins to wander, she seems to have but one fixed idea--to escape the disgrace of the stake. silence being finally restored, peter cauchon rises with the parchment in his hands and says: "joan, you shall now repeat with your heart and your lips, the following formula of abjuration, in the measure that i pronounce it. listen!" and he proceeds to read in a voice that is heard by the remotest ranks of the pressing crowd: "'any person who has erred in the catholic faith, and who thereafter by the grace of god has returned to the light of truth and to the bosom of our holy mother the church, must be careful not to allow himself to be provoked by the evil spirit into a relapse. for this reason, i, joan, commonly named the maid, a miserable sinner, recognizing that i was fettered by the chains of error, and wishing to return to the bosom of our holy mother the roman catholic and apostolic church, i, joan, to the end of proving that i have returned to my tender mother, not in false appearance, but with my heart, do hereby confess, first, that i gravely sinned by falsely causing others to believe that i had apparitions and revelations of god in the forms of st. marguerite and st. catherine and of st. michael the archangel.'" turning to joan, the bishop asks: "do you confess having wickedly sinned in that, and of having been impious and sacrilegious?" "i confess it!" comes from joan darc in a broken voice. an outburst of cries from the indignant mob greets the confession of the penitent. those now most furious are the ones who were before moved with tender pity for her. "so, then, you lied!" "you imposed upon the poor people, miserable hypocrite!" "and i, who felt pity for her!" "the church is too indulgent!" "think of accepting the penitence of so infamous a cheat!" "upon my word, comrades, she is quite capable of being possessed of the devil as the english claimed! the strumpet and liar!" "and yet her victories were none the less brilliant for all that!" "aye! through witchcraft! are you going to show pity for the liar?" "fear of the fagot makes one admit many a thing!" "then she is a coward! she has not the courage to uphold the truth in the face of death! what faint-heartedness!" silence is restored only by degrees. joan darc hears the frightful accusations hurled at her. to return to her first declarations would be an admission of fear. her mind wanders again. continuing to read from the formula of abjuration, bishop cauchon says: "'secondly, i, joan, confess to have grievously sinned by seducing people with superstitious divinations, by blaspheming the angels and the saints, and by despising the divine law of holy writ and the canonical laws.'" addressing joan the bishop asks: "do you confess it?' "i confess it!" murmurs joan. bishop cauchon proceeds to read: "'thirdly, i, joan confess having grievously sinned by wearing a dissolute garb, deformed and dishonest, in violation of decency and nature; and by wearing my hair cut round, after the fashion of men, and contrary to modesty'--do you confess that sin?" "i confess it!" "'fourthly, i, joan, confess having grievously sinned by boastfully carrying armor of war, and by cruelly desiring the shedding of human blood.'--do you confess it?" joan darc wrings her hands and exclaims: "my god! can i affirm such things?" "what! you hesitate!" exclaims bishop cauchon, and he adds, addressing her in a low voice: "be careful, the fagots await you!" "i confess it, father," stammers joan. "joan, do you confess having cruelly desired the effusion of human blood?" asks bishop cauchon in a thundering voice. "i confess it!" loud cries of horror go up from the mob, while the english soldiers brandish their weapons at joan. some men pick up stones to stone the heroine to death. the imprecations against her redouble threateningly. "the harpy waged war out of pure cruelty!" "she merely wished to soak herself in blood!" "and the church pardons her!" "at one time i felt great pity for the wretch. now i say with the english, death to the tigress who lived on blood!" "you fools! do you believe these priests? do you think joan went after battle to drink the blood of the slain?" "you defend her?" "yes! oh, why am i alone?" "you are a traitor!" "he is an armagnac!" "death to the armagnac!" the mob beats joan's defender to death. as to herself, her condition is now such that she no longer is aware of aught she hears or says. she has practically lost consciousness. she barely has enough strength to respond mechanically, "i confess it," each time she hears bishop cauchon ask her, "do you confess it?" in the midst, however, of her weakness and the wandering of her mind, one thought she is fully conscious of, the thought that her agony cannot last long; within a short time she would be dead or free! poor martyr! bishop cauchon continues to read: "'fifthly, i, joan, confess that i grievously sinned in claiming that all my acts and all my words were inspired to me by god, his saints and his angels, while in truth i despised god and his sacraments and i constantly invoked evil spirits.'--do you confess it?" "i confess it!" "she confesses that she is a witch!" cries a voice from the mob. "by st. george, she has exterminated thousands of my countrymen by her sorceries! and shall she escape the fagots!" "she will be burned later! our captains have promised us!" "they deceive us! we shall burn her ourselves, now!" bishop cauchon reads: "'sixthly, i, joan, confess that i grievously sinned by being a schismatic.'--do you confess it?" "i confess it!" bishop cauchon continues reading: "'all of which crimes and errors, i, joan, having returned to the truth, by the grace of our lord, and also by the grace of our holy and infallible doctrine, my good and reverend fathers, i now renounce and abjure.'--do you renounce, do you abjure these crimes and errors?" "i renounce! i abjure!" bishop cauchon reads on: "'in the faith and the belief of all of which, i declare that i shall submit to the punishment that the church may inflict upon me, and i promise and swear to st. peter, the prince of the apostles, and to our holy father the pope of rome, his vicar, and to his successors, and to you, my seigneurs, and to you, my reverend father in god, monseigneur the bishop of beauvais, and to you religious person, brother john lemaitre, vicar of the inquisition of the faith, i, joan, swear to you, to all of you my judges, never again to relapse into the criminal errors that it has pleased the lord to deliver me from! i swear ever to remain in the union of our holy mother the church, and in obedience to our holy father the pope!'--do you swear?" "i swear--and i am dying!" bishop cauchon beckons to one of the registrars. the latter takes a pen out of his portfolio, dips it in ink, hands it to the prelate, and holds up his square cap for a desk. the prelate places the parchment on the cap, and continues to read from it in a loud voice: "'i, joan, affirm and confirm all that is said above; i swear to it and affirm it in the name of the living and all-powerful god and of the sacred gospels, in proof whereof, and not knowing how to write, i have signed this document with my mark,'" saying which he presents the pen to the kneeling joan and pointing to the parchment on the registrar's cap, adds: "now place your cross here, below, seeing you do not know how to write." in an almost expiring condition joan darc endeavors to trace a cross at the bottom of the parchment. her strength fails her. the registrar kneels down beside the maid, and guiding her inert and icy hand, aids her to make her mark at the bottom of the document. this being done, he calls the two penitents dressed in long grey gowns who have remained at the foot of the scaffold, and delivers to them the almost insensible joan darc. they place themselves on either side of her and take her under the arms. her head drops upon her shoulder; from between her half-closed eyelids her eyes appear fixed and glassy. the only sign that life has not yet fled is a slight tremor that from time to time runs over her frame. stepping forward, bishop cauchon addresses the crowd in a tremendous voice: "all pastors charged with the duty of lovingly guarding the flock of christ must endeavor to keep far from their dear flock all causes of pestilence, infection and corruption, and must seek to lead back the sheep that has wandered off among the brambles. wherefore, we, peter, bishop of beauvais by the grace of god, assisted by john lemaitre, inquisitor of the faith, and other learned and reverend priests, all competent judges, having heard and considered your assertions and your admissions, do now declare to you, joan the maid: we pronounce you guilty of having falsely maintained that you have had divine visions and revelations; guilty of having seduced weak people and having stiff-neckedly held to your opinions; guilty of having despised the sacraments and the holy canons; guilty of having favored sedition against our sovereign and serene master the king of england and france; guilty of having cruelly shed human blood; guilty of having apostatized, schismatized, blasphemed, idolatrized and invoked the evil spirit. but seeing that by the grace of the all-powerful you have at last returned to the pale of our holy and sweet mother the church, and that, filled with sincere contrition and genuine faith, you have publicly and in a loud voice made abjuration of your criminal and heretical errors, we now suspend the punishment of excommunication and its consequences, upon the express condition that you sincerely return to our holy and merciful church. and charitably wishing to aid you in accomplishing your salvation, we condemn you, joan the maid, to perpetual imprisonment where your food shall be the bread of pain, your drink the water of agony, to the end that, weeping throughout the rest of your life over your monstrous sins, you may never again incur them. this is your final and definite condemnation. you now see how the church of our lord shows herself a tender mother towards you. do then forevermore abandon and deplore your culpable error! renounce your male attire forever, a shame to your sex! and should you relapse into that or any other mortal and idolatrous sin, then will the church with profound and maternal pain be forced to cut you off forever from her body, she will then deliver you to the secular arm, and you will be cast into the flames like a gangrened member, seized with incurable rottenness. glory to god on high, amen." the mob, especially the english soldiers, receive the "merciful" sentence with a threatening clamor. the people make a move to force the gate of the cemetery, which is guarded by a platoon of archers. the latter, being no less exasperated, seem ready to join the discontented and attack the platform. the earl of warwick quickly ascends the scaffold and again angrily addresses the bishop: "bishop! has not this comedy lasted long enough? we can no longer answer for our soldiers in their present state of exasperation if, despite her abjuration, the witch is not burned!" bishop cauchon suppresses with difficulty a gesture of impatience. he whispers into the english captain's ear. the latter, seeming to be convinced by what he hears, answers with a gesture of approval. the prelate adds: "rest assured of what i promise you. at present see to it that the gate of the cemetery is well guarded, and that the mob is not allowed to break in. we shall make our exit by the garden of the abbey, and the maid will be taken the same way. she would otherwise be massacred by the good people. and that must not be. she has only fainted. she will be seen to in her prison." the earl of warwick again descends from the platform. the bishop issues his orders to the penitents who are supporting the wholly unconscious joan in their arms. they raise her--one under the arms, the other by the feet, descend the stairs of the platform, and, bearing their burden, walk rapidly across the cemetery to the garden of the abbey, while the english soldiers, obedient to the orders of their captains, who promise to them the speedy execution of joan, close their ranks before the gate of the cemetery and keep back the mob, that shouts for the death of the witch. chapter vii. remorse. after her formal abjuration joan darc is taken in an almost dying condition, not to her cell but to a room in the castle of rouen. by orders of the bishop, two old women are appointed to nurse her. she is laid in a soft bed; her jaws, locked in convulsions, are forced open, and a calming beverage poured down her throat. every day and night the physician visits her. on the second day after the abjuration, the patient is out of danger. when joan darc recovers consciousness, she finds herself in a spacious and neatly furnished room. the warm rays of the sun play upon the glass of the barred casement. the two old women, who have her in charge, are seated at the head of the patient's bed seeming to contemplate her with tender interest. joan darc first thinks that she dreams, but her next belief is that, agreeable to the promise made to her by the institutor in the name of the bishop, she has secretly been set free. she believes that some charitable people have obtained from the bishop permission to transport her to their own house. the first impression felt by joan at these surmises is one of joy at being free, and no remorse assails her at having denied the truth. the bliss of having escaped the dreaded shame of exposure, the hope of soon recovering her health, the prospect of returning to domremy and seeing her parents--all these pleasurable sentiments smother the reproaches of her voices. she asks the two old women where she is. they smile in answer, and mysteriously place their fingers on their lips. from these tokens joan conjectures that they are not free to answer, but that she is in a safe and hospitable asylum. preserving on this head the silence that seems to be recommended to her, joan gives herself over without reserve to the joy of living, of looking through the window panels at the blue sky, at feeling her limbs, so long sore and even wounded by the weight of her chains, finally free from their cruel grip; above all she congratulates herself on being delivered from the presence of her jailers, whose revolting utterances and licentious looks have been a cause of unremitting torture to her. she accepts nourishment and even some generous wine mixed with water. her strength returns. on the third day she is able to rise. her nurses offer her a long woman's dress and a hat. no longer assailed by the chaste apprehension that her jailers inspired her with in her cell, joan resumes without hesitation the garb of her sex. the door of the room that she occupies opens upon a terrace on which her nurses induce her to promenade. a board fence high enough to shut off the view surrounds the terrace. joan remains a long time upon the terrace, inhaling the spring air with delight. when night approaches, feeling herself slightly fatigued by her walk, she undresses, lies down upon her bed, and sleeps profoundly. subject to human weakness, and transported by the joy of being free after such a long, painful and rigid confinement, the poor martyr is not assailed by remorse until towards evening. vague sentiments, the forerunners of the approaching awakening of her conscience having cast a shadow over her spirit, she seeks in sleep both further rest and oblivion. her expectations prove false. st. marguerite and st. catherine appear in the heroine's dream; they do not now smile and look down tenderly upon her. they are sad and threatening, and reproach her for having denied the truth out of fear and shame. profoundly impressed by her dream, joan wakes up, her face covered with tears, when, lo, she sees the two saints with their gold crowns on their heads and robed in white and blue, luminously, almost transparently floating in the darkness of the room, and calling her by her name. with beating heart and clasped hands, joan kneels down on her bed, sobs, and implores their forgiveness. without answering her, the two saints point to heaven with a significant gesture. the apparition then gradually fades away, and darkness again reigns supreme. thus rudely awakened to a sense of her actual condition, the heroine forthwith feels the promptings of her own conscience, that has lain torpid since the abjuration. she traces back the solemnity in all its horrid details; she recalls the maledictions with which she was whelmed by those who just before commiserated her. the terrible, yet legitimate accusation pounds upon her ears: "if joan's visions are inventions and a fraud, she has deceived simple people--she has lied--she only deserves contempt." "if her visions were genuine, if god inspired her, she covers herself with shame by abjuring out of fear of death!" "_coward_ or _liar_" her inexorable voices repeat to her; "coward, or liar!--such is the name that you will leave behind you!" indescribable are the tortures that the poor creature undergoes on that night of desperate remorse. the full lucidity of her mind, of her energy, of her character, have returned to her, but only to curse her. her keen judgment points out to her the fatal consequences of her abjuration; the soldiers and the peoples who rose at her voice against the foreigner will soon learn of the perjury committed by her whom they believed inspired! mistrust of themselves, dejectment, even defeat may follow the victorious exaltation of the soldiers and the people. on the other hand, the memory of the martial maid, surviving her martyrdom, would have added fuel to their courage, it would have aroused an avenging hatred for the english, and the great work of the complete emancipation of gaul would have been achieved in the name of the victim, and in execration of her butchers. finally, could joan continue the war even after she regained her freedom? what confidence could she inspire in the masses, she who had been convicted of falsehood or cowardice? the plot of the ecclesiastics was planned with diabolical craft. they foresaw and calculated the consequences of the heroine's apostasy; they realized that, taken to the pyre after she had confessed the divinity of her mission, joan would have become a saint; if, however, she renounced her past actions, she was dishonored. "idle remorse!" thinks joan. "how retract a public abjuration. impossible! who could believe in the sincerity of a creature who had once before renounced her faith and her honor!" these mind and heartrending thoughts are tearing joan darc to pieces when morning dawns and a rap is heard at the door of her chamber. the old women rise and go to inquire who is there. it is their reverend father in god, canon loyseleur. he wishes to speak to joan without delay. she hastily puts on her woman's clothes and prepares to receive the priest, towards whom she now experiences a secret aversion, seeing that she accuses him in her heart for having led her to abjure by superexciting her dread of the shame and fear of the fagots. she reflects, however, that after all, the priest might have actually believed in the wisdom of his advice, and that she alone is responsible for the cowardly apostasy. joan receives the canon with her habitual sweetness of manners. she learns from him that she is still a prisoner in the castle of rouen, but that the bishop will set her free. the prelate, adds the canon, has no interest in retaining her a prisoner, and is to allow her to escape at night in a day or two. loyseleur pretends that, thanks to his own personal intercession with the captain of the tower, she has been transferred to that room; but the captain demands that, the prisoner being now almost well again, she be returned to her cell. his orders are to be carried out that very morning. joan darc believes the priest's words and easily reconciles herself to the idea of returning to her cell, but she asks as a supreme favor that male attire be provided to her for the sake of protection against her jailers. canon loyseleur promises to carry her wishes to the captain of the tower. suddenly one of the old women rushes into the room saying that the jailer and an escort of soldiers are coming to claim the prisoner. the canon assures joan she is soon to be set free, and leaves the room at the moment that john enters, carrying manacles which he fastens on the wrists of the heroine, and then conducts her back to her cell. upon entering, joan notices that the male clothes which she left there have disappeared. she expects to see herself chained by the waist and feet as she was before; but, freeing her even of the manacles, john informs her that she is no longer to be chained, saying which he leaves, casting a strange look upon her. hardly concerned at this leniency, joan sits down upon her straw couch and remains motionless, occupied with her own thoughts. chapter viii. the relapse. it has long been night. the little iron lamp lights the dungeon of joan darc, who lies upon her straw couch broken with remorse at the continuous reproaches of her voices, and racking her brain for the means to expiate her weakness. the captive bitterly regrets the disappearance of her masculine clothes. agitated by vague presentiments, and apprehensive of dangers on which she hardly dares dwell, she has wrapped herself as closely as she can in her clothes, and fearing to yield to the sleepiness that is gaining upon her, she rises from her straw bed and sits down upon the floor with her back leaning against the wall. but pressed down by sleep, her eyelids close despite herself, by degrees her head droops forward, and finally drops upon her knees which she holds within her arms. she falls asleep. a few minutes later the pale face of canon loyseleur appears at the wicket. he notices that joan is asleep, and withdraws. shortly afterwards the heavy door of the dungeon turns noiselessly upon its hinges. it opens and recloses so silently that joan darc's slumber, is not interrupted either by the slight noise of the door or the steps of two men who creep into the cavernous precinct. the two men are talbot and berwick, the english captains, who are appointed by bishop cauchon as the additional keepers of joan darc. both are men in the prime of life. they wear rich slashed jackets after the fashion of the time. the two noble officers have sought in the stimulus of wine the requisite courage to commit the unheard-of atrocity, the nameless crime that they are bent upon. their cheeks are inflamed, their eyes glisten, a lewd smile contracts their vinous lips. at the sight of joan asleep they stop a moment and take council. presently the two rush upon their victim. awakened with a start, joan darc leaps up and struggles to free herself from the grasp of her assailants. berwick seizes her by the waist, while talbot, sliding behind, seizes her arms and approaches his mouth to the lips of joan, who turns her head away and utters a piercing shriek. the two noblemen drag her to the straw couch. the heroine draws superhuman strength from her despair. a violent struggle ensues, horrible, nameless. the tipsy talbot and berwick, exasperated at the heroine's resistance, give a loose to the fury of unsatisfied lechery. they smite joan darc with their fists. her face bleeds. yet she resists, and calls for help. at last the door opens and canon loyseleur appears at the entrance. he feigns indignation. he brings with him a little trunk containing joan's male clothes, and addressing the captain of the tower who enters with him, says: "you see it with your own eyes! an infamous attempt is contemplated upon the unfortunate woman!" perhaps not wholly dead to conscience, berwick and talbot allow joan darc to escape from their grasp, and leave the cell, followed by the captain. distracted, her face black and blue and covered with blood, joan darc falls almost senseless upon her couch, near which the canon has deposited her man's attire. before he has time to speak with the victim, he is called away by the jailer, who, shaking his fist at him, says roughly: "get out of here, you tonsured dotard, canon of satan! the devil take the marplot!" "poor child!" cries the priest, walking out, "i brought you your clothes. put them on despite the oath you took. you may perhaps be sentenced as a relapsed heretic. but death is preferable to outrage!" the door of the cell closes behind the canon. silence and darkness resume their empire in joan's dungeon. the plot to cause joan's condemnation, induce her abjuration and then provoke her relapse so as to justify her being publicly burned to death is being carried out to the letter. chapter ix. the worm turns. it is eight o'clock of the following morning. joan darc is again clad in her male attire. she is again chained. her handsome face is bruised from the blows that she received in the nocturnal struggle. one thought only absorbs her mind--can she manage to confess aloud the truth of what she has denied? the heroine's expectations are met by the event. instructed by his accomplice of the happenings of the day before, the bishop has commissioned several judges to visit joan in her cell. they are seven. here are their names: nicolas of venderesse, william haiton, thomas of courcelles, isambard of la pierre, james camus, nicolas bertin, julien floquet. considering her crime flagrant, joan darc feels a bitter joy at the sight of the priests. her head erect, calm, resolute, she seems to challenge their questions. out of modesty and dignity, however, and unwilling to run the risk of blushing before these men, she decides to be silent upon the attempt of the previous night. the judges range themselves around the couch of the enchained captive. thomas of courcelles (affecting astonishment)--"what, joan, again in man's attire? and despite your oath to renounce such idolatrous garb forever?" joan darc (tersely)--"i have resumed these clothes because i was forced to." nicolas of venderesse--"you have violated your oath." joan darc (indignant)--"it is you who have violated yours! have the promises made to me been kept? have i been allowed to attend mass? have i been restored to freedom after my abjuration? you are knaves and hypocrites!" james camus--"we had to conform to the ecclesiastical sentence which condemns you to perpetual imprisonment." joan darc--"i prefer to die rather than remain in this prison. (she shivers with horror at the thought of the previous night's attempt upon her.) had i been allowed to attend mass, had i been left in a decent place, free from my chains, and kept by women, i would have continued to clothe myself in the garb of my sex. if there is any fault, it lies with you." isambard of la pierre--"have you heard your voices since your condemnation?" joan darc (with bitterness)--"yes; i have heard them." the priests look at one another and exchange meaning looks. william haiton--"what did your voices say to you? we want to know." joan darc (with a firm voice)--"they told me i committed an act of cowardice by denying the truth." james camus--"and before the abjuration, what did your voices say?" joan darc (intrepidly looking at her judges)--"my voices said to me it would be criminal to deny the divine inspiration that ever guided me. (commotion among the judges.) upon the scaffold my voices said to me: 'answer that preacher boldly--he is a false priest!' woe is me, i did not obey my voices!" the judges remain silent for a moment, and exchange expressive looks. thomas of courcelles--"these words are as rash as they are criminal. after having abjured, you relapse into your damnable errors!" joan darc (in a ringing voice)--"the error lies in lying--by abjuring i lied! what is damnable is to damn one's soul, and i damned it by not maintaining that i obeyed the will of heaven! my voices have reproached me for having abjured." james camus--"thus, after resuming male attire, a capital crime, an unpardonable crime which makes you a relapsed one, _revolvistis ad vestrum vomitum_--you have returned to your vomit, you dare maintain that those alleged voices--" joan darc--"the voices of my saints--come from god." thomas of courcelles--"on the scaffold you confessed." joan darc--"on the scaffold i was a coward! i lied! i yielded to the feeling of terror!" james camus--"at this hour, thinking you no longer need to fear death, you come back to your former declarations." joan darc--"at this hour i maintain that only fear forced me to abjure, to confess the contrary of the truth. i prefer to die, rather than remain in this prison. i have spoken. you shall have not another word from me." james camus--"be it so!" the priests file out slowly and silently. joan darc remains alone, on her knees upon the straw. she raises her eyes to the vault of her prison with a radiant, inspired face, and with her hands joined, she thanks her saints for the courage they have given her to expiate and annul her apostasy by resolutely marching to death. chapter x. to the flames! the scene changes. after the last interrogatory of joan the priests proceed to bishop cauchon in order to inform him of the issue of their visit to the prisoner--a result that the prelate expects, so much so that he has convoked a sufficient number of judges to meet in the chapel of the archbishop's palace at rouen in order to proceed with the final sentence of the relapsed sinner. all the summoned prelates are assembled and in their seats in the chapel. bishop cauchon, seated in the center of the choir, presides, and orders silence with a gesture. bishop cauchon--"my very dear brothers, joan has fallen back into her damnable errors, and in contempt of her solemn abjuration, pronounced in the face of god and his holy writ, not only has she resumed her male attire, but she again stubbornly maintains that all that she has done and said was said and done by divine inspiration! i now call for your views, in the order of precedence, upon the fate of the said joan who is now charged with having relapsed, reserving to myself the right of convoking you again, should i deem it necessary." archdeacon nicolas of venderesse--"the said joan should be given over to the secular arm, to be burned alive as a relapsed sinner." abbot agidie--"joan is a relapsed heretic, no doubt about it. nevertheless, i am of the opinion that a second abjuration should be proposed to her, under pain of being delivered to the secular arm." canon john pinchon--"joan has relapsed; i shall adhere to whatever plan of punishment my very dear brothers may decide upon." canon william erard--"i pronounce the said joan a relapsed sinner and deserving of the pyre." chaplain robert gilbert--"joan should be burned as a relapsed sinner and heretic." abbot of st. audoin--"the woman is a relapsed sinner. let her abjure a second time or be condemned." archdeacon john of castillone--"let the relapsed sinner be delivered to the secular arm." canon ermangard--"i demand the exemplary death of joan." deacon boucher--"joan should be sentenced as a relapsed one." prior of longueville--"that is my opinion. she should be burned alive." father giffard--"i think the relapsed sinner should be sentenced without delay." father haiton--"i pronounce the said joan a relapsed sinner. i am for her speedy punishment, provided, however, she refuses to abjure a second time." canon marguerie--"joan is a relapsed sinner. let her be delivered up to secular justice." canon john of l'epee--"i am of my brother's opinion. she should be burned to death." canon garin--"i think so, too." canon gastinel--"let us give up the relapsed sinner to the pyre." canon pascal--"that is my opinion. let her be burned to death." father houdenc--"the ridiculous explanations of the woman are to me an ample proof that she has always been an idolatress and a heretic. besides that, she is a relapsed sinner. i demand that she be delivered to the secular arm without delay." master john of nibat--"the said joan is impenitent and a relapsed sinner. let her undergo her punishment." father fabre--"a heretic by habit, hardened in her errors, a rebel to the church, the body of the said joan should be delivered to the flames, and her ashes cast to the winds." abbot of montemart--"i hold as my brother. only i am of the opinion that she should be given a second chance to abjure." father guelon--"that is my opinion." canon coupequesne--"mine also." canon guillaume--"let the said joan be offered a second chance to retract. if she refuses, then death." canon maurice--"i favor such a second summons, although i do not expect good results from it." doctor william of bandibosc--"i side with my very dear brother." deacon nicolas caval--"the relapsed sinner should be treated without pity, according to her deserts. she should be burned to death." canon loyseleur--"the said joan should be delivered to the temporal flames." thomas of courcelles--"the woman is a heretic and relapsed sinner. she may be summoned a second time, and told that if she persists in her errors, she has nothing to expect in this world." father john ledoux--"although such a second attempt seems to me idle, it might be tried so as to demonstrate the inexhaustible kindness of our mother the church." master john tiphaine--"i favor this second, though idle, attempt." deacon colombelle--"i am of the same opinion." isambard of la pierre--"secular justice will take its course if the said joan refuses to abjure a second time." from these opinions it transpires that some of the judges demand immediate death, while others, and these are a small majority, favor a second abjuration, although the opinion is general that the attempt is vain. the judges have learned from their accomplices that the heroine is now determined to seek in death the expiation of the confessions which only fear drew from her. more straightforward and frank in his projects, moreover, convinced of the success of his plan, the bishop sums up the deliberation and absolutely opposes the idea of attempting a second abjuration. do not most of those who favor the measure consider it idle? why, then, try it? and even if it were certain that the relapsed sinner would abjure again, the performance would have a deplorable effect. did not the soldiers and the people, exasperated at the clemency of the church, cry "treason!" and seem ready to riot at the time of the first abjuration? is it wise to incur and provoke a terrible turmoil in the town? has not the church given evidence of her maternal charity by admitting joan to penitence, despite her perverse heresy? how was this act of benevolence rewarded by her? it was rewarded with renewed and redoubled boastfulness, audacity and impiety! bishop cauchon closes, conjuring his very dear brothers in the name of the dignity of the church, in the name of the peace of the town, in the name of their conscience, to declare without superfluous verbiage that the said joan is a relapsed sinner, and, as such, is given over to the secular arm, in order to be led to death the next day, after being publicly excommunicated by the church. the judges yield to the views of the prelate. the registrar enters the sentence of death, and the session rises. peter cauchon is the first to leave the chapel. outside he meets several english captains who are waiting for the issue of the deliberations. one of them, the earl of warwick, says to the prelate: "well, what has been decided shall be done with the witch?" "_farewell!_ it is done!" answers the bishop with glee. "the maid--". "shall be burned to-morrow--burned to death in public," interrupts bishop cauchon. chapter xi. the pyre. during the evening of may 29, 1431, the rumor spreads through rouen that the relapsed sinner is to be burned to death on the following day. that same night carpenters raise the necessary scaffoldings while others build the pyre and plant the stake. early the next morning companies of english archers form a cordon around the market-place, where joan darc is to be executed, and a double file extends into one of the streets that runs into the place. the two files of soldiers leave a wide space between them, connecting the street with the vacant area left around the scaffoldings. these are three in number, the highest of the three being at a little distance from the other two. on one of these, the one to the right, which is covered with purple cloth, rises a daised seat of crimson, ornamented with tufts of white feathers and fringed with gold. a row of seats equally decked extends on both sides of the central and daised throne, which is reached by several steps covered with rich tapestry. the scaffold to the left is of the same dimensions as the first, but it, as well as the benches thereon, is draped in black. the last of the three scaffolds consists of solid masonry about ten feet high, broad at the bottom, and ending in a narrow platform in the middle of which stands a stake furnished with iron chains and clamps. the platform is reached by a narrow set of stairs that is lost to sight in the midst of an enormous pile of fagots mixed with straw and saturated with bitumen and sulphur. the executioners have just heaped up the combustibles on the four sides of the pile of masonry. tall poles, fastened in the ground close to the pyre bear banners on which the following legends are to be read in large white letters on a black ground: "joan, who had herself called the maid, condemned to be burned alive." "falsifier, misleader, and deceiver of the people." "soothsayer, superstitious, blasphemer of god." "presumptuous, apostate from the faith of jesus christ, idolatress, cruel, dissolute." "invoker of devils." "schismatic, relapsed."[116] at eight all the bells of rouen begin tolling the funeral knell. poor joan, she loved the bells so well in her childhood! the may sun, that same sun that shone upon the first defeat of the english before orleans, pure and luminous, floods the three scaffolds with its light. the crowd grows thicker around the space kept vacant by the archers; other spectators are grouped at the windows and on the balconies of the old frame houses with pointed gables that enclose the market place. presently flags and plumes are seen waving, the steel of the casques, the gold and precious stones of the mitres and crosiers are seen shining between the two files of archers. the casqued and mitred gentry are the english captains and the prelates. prominent among them is the cardinal of winchester, clad in the roman purple and followed by the bishop of boulogne and the bishop of beauvais, peter cauchon. behind them come the earl of warwick and other noble captains. slowly and majestically they ascend the stairs of the platform to the right of the pyre. the cardinal takes his seat upon the dais, while the other dignitaries distribute themselves to his right and left. the other scaffold, that is draped in black, is occupied by the judges of the process, its institutor, its assessors and its registrars. the appearance and arrival of these illustrious, learned or holy personages does not satisfy the gaping crowd; the condemned girl has not yet appeared. menacing clamors begin to circulate. these are loudest among the soldiers and the burgundian partisans, who say: "will the bishop keep his promise this time? woe to him if he trifles with us." "will the witch be burned at last?" "the fagots are ready; the executioners are holding the lighted wicks." "she ought to be burned twice over, the infamous relapsed sinner!" "she had the brazenness to declare that she abjured under the pressure of force! she persists in declaring herself inspired!" "what an insolent liar! by st. george! could she ever have vanquished us without the assistance of the devil, us the best archers in the world? i was at the battle of patay, where the best men of england were mowed down. i saw whole legions of demons rush upon us at her command. we could be vanquished only by such witchery." "those demons, sir archer, were french soldiers!" "blood and death! do you imagine plain soldiers are able to beat us? they were demons, by st. george! real horned and clawed demons, armed with flaming swords--they plunged over our heads and pelted us with stones and balls!" "it might have been the furious projectiles from some artillery pieces that were masked behind some hedge, sir archer." "artillery pieces of satan, yes; but of france, no!" "as true as our cardinal has his red hat on his head, if the strumpet of the armagnacs is not burned this time, myself and the other archers of my company will roast bishop cauchon together with all his tonsured brethren." "ha, ha, ha, ha! that is well said, my hercules! to roast bishop cauchon like a pig! that would be a funny spectacle!" "they are taking long! death to the witch!" "do they expect us to sleep here to-night?" "to the fagots with the heretic!" "death to the relapsed sinner!" "to the pyre with the invoker of demons! the strumpet! death to joan!" "she cheated the people!" "she denies the religion of jesus christ!" "to the pyre with the idolatress! the apostate! to the pyre with her, quick and soon!" such are the clamors of the english and the partisans of burgundy. the royalists or armagnacs are much less numerous. a few of them, especially women, experience a return of pity for joan darc, whose abjuration incensed all those who believed her inspired. with some this indignation still is uppermost and in full force. as these sentiments are indicative of sympathy, they are not uttered aloud but whispered out of fear of the english. "well, though the maid's strength once failed her, it will not fail her to-day." "it would seem that she had not lied to us. she will now maintain until death that she is inspired of god. poor child." "and yet she abjured!" "whoever lied once may lie again." "if she abjured it was out of fear of the flames--that can be easily understood." "she proved herself a coward! and she was thought so brave!" "well, in the face of the pyre one may well tremble! just look at those fagots soaked in pitch." "when one thinks that the whole pile will be in flames all around joan like so much straw on fire, singeing and consuming her flesh!" "my hair stands on end at the bare thought." "poor child! what a torture!" "what else can you expect? our seigneurs and the doctors of canon law condemn her. she must be guilty!" "such learned men could not be mistaken. we must believe them." "when the church has uttered herself we must bow down in silence. a body has religion, or has none." "well, i have no suspicions. i am an armagnac and a royalist, and i detest the english rule. i looked upon joan as upon a saint before her condemnation. now i cannot even take pity upon her. it would be throwing discredit upon her judges. my religion as a good catholic shuts my mouth. we must believe without reasoning." "did not the ecclesiastical tribunal show how merciful the church is by accepting joan's repentance?" "but why did she relapse!" "so much the worse for her if she is now burned. it will be her own doing." "you must admit that by voluntarily going to the pyre she proves her courage. she is an intrepid girl!" "she is simply displaying her rebellion and idolatrous boastfulness." "did not joan darc defeat the english in a score of battles? did she not have the king consecrated at rheims? answer!" "what you say is true. but our seigneurs the bishops judge such matters differently, and better than we could. this is the way i reason, and it is as simple as correct: the church is infallible; the church condemns joan; consequently joan is guilty." this method of reasoning, which sways the minds of the more orthodox, prevails over the timid and rare utterances that betoken interest in and sympathy for joan; she is destined to behold even those who had remained french under english rule led astray by the recent pharisees, and impassibly assist at her execution, the same as her master jesus, who, sentenced to a malefactor's death, saw the poor and suffering people whom he loved so well, look gapingly on at the execution of a sentence of death that was also pronounced by the holy doctors of the law and by the priests of his time. suddenly a deep commotion is seen swaying the mob. it announces the approach of the condemned woman. standing on a cart drawn by a horse, joan darc is clad in a "san benito," a long black gown painted over with tongues of flame, and bearing on her head a pasteboard mitre on which are printed the words: "idolatress," "heretic," "relapsed sinner." the monk isambard of la pierre, one of her judges, stands near her on the wagon and imparts to her the last consolations. she seems to listen to him, but his tokens of compassion reach her ear only as a confused sound. she no longer expects aught from man. her face, raised to heaven, looks into infinite space. she feels detached from earth, she has shaken off her last human terrors. for a moment she is overcome with fear. "oh!" cries she, sobbing, "must my body, so clean of all stain, be destroyed by fire! i would prefer to be beheaded!" but after this last cry, drawn from her by the dread of bodily pain, her soul resumes its mastery, and the virgin of gaul proceeds resolutely to the pyre. the wagon stops at the foot of the platform on which the cardinal of winchester, the two bishops and the captains are enthroned, in their mitres and their casques. the monk isambard of la pierre alights from the cart and motions joan darc to follow him. he assists her with his arm, seeing that the length of her robe impedes her movements. the unhappy girl walks with difficulty. arrived before the main platform, the monk addresses the victim: "joan, kneel down, to receive in a humble posture the excommunication and sentence that monseigneur the bishop of beauvais is to pronounce upon you." joan darc kneels down in the dust at the foot of the platform that is covered with purple. bishop peter cauchon rises, bows to the cardinal of winchester, and advances to the edge of the platform. from the ranks of the english soldiers the cries are heard: "the devil take any further prayers!" "on with the execution!" "is it a new scheme to keep the strumpet from roasting? we have had enough dilly-dallying!" "look out, bishop! you shall not cheat us this time!" "to the pyre, without further ado! to the pyre with the sorceress! death to the girl or to the bishop!" bishop cauchon silences the growing tumult with a significant gesture and says in a sonorous voice: "my very dear brothers, if a member suffers, the apostle said to the corinthians, the whole body suffers. thus when heresy infects one member of our holy church, it is urgent to separate it from all others, lest its rottenness contaminate the mystical body of our lord. the sacred institutions have decided, my very dear brothers, that, in order to free the faithful from the poison of the heretics, these vipers may not be allowed to devour the bosom of our mother the church. wherefore we, bishop of beauvais, by divine grace, assisted by the learned and very reverend john lemaitre and john graverant, inquisitors of the faith, say to you joan, commonly styled the maid:--we justly pronounced you idolatrous, a soothsayer, an invoker of devils, bloodthirsty, dissolute, schismatic and heretic. you abjured your crimes and voluntarily signed this abjuration with your own hand. but you quickly returned to your damnable errors, like the dog returns to his vomit. on account of this do we now excommunicate you and pronounce you a relapsed heretic. we sentence you to be extirpated from the midst of the faithful like a rotten, leprous member, and we deliver you, and abandon you, and cast you off into the hands of secular justice, and request it that, apart from your death and the mutilation of your members, it treat you with moderation!" the sentence is received with an explosion of shouts of ferocious joy. the english soldiers signify their satisfaction. the mob looks at joan darc with horror. one of the assessors descends from the platform and speaks to isambard in a low voice, whereupon the latter turns to joan: "you have heard your sentence, rise, my daughter." joan darc rises, and pointing to heaven as if taking the spheres for her witness, says in a loud voice and with an accent of crushing reproach to bishop cauchon, who remains standing near the edge of the platform above her: "bishop! bishop! i die at your hands!" despite his audacity, peter cauchon trembles, grows pale, bows his head before the girl's anathema, and hastens to resume his seat near the cardinal. two executioners draw near at the words of the prelate consigning joan darc to the secular powers. each seizes her by an arm and they lead her to the pyre, isambard following. "father," says joan to the latter, "i wish to have a cross, so as to die contemplating it." the request being overheard by several english soldiers, they answer: "you need no cross, relapsed sinner!" "witch! to the fagots with you!" "you only want to gain time!" "we have had enough delays--death to the heretic!" "to the fagots! to the fagots!" the monk isambard says a few words in the ear of the assessor; the latter leaves hurriedly in the direction of a neighboring church. one of the two executioners, a fellow with a blood-stained apron and a hardened face, who also overhears joan's request, feels deeply affected. tears are seen to gather in his eyes. he pulls his knife from his belt, and cuts in two a stick that he holds in his hand; in his hurry he drops his knife to the ground, takes a string from his pocket, ties the two pieces of wood in the shape of a rude cross, roughly thrusts aside two english soldiers who stand in his way, and then, handing the cross to the monk, falls back a few steps, contemplating the victim with something akin to adoration. the monk passes the cross to joan darc, who, seizing it with transport and taking it to her lips, says: "thank you, father!" "i have sent to the church of st. ouen for a large crucifix bearing the image of our savior. it will be held at a distance before your eyes as long as possible. address your prayers to jesus christ," the monk answered in a low voice. "tell them to hold it high so that i may see the image of the savior to the very end." again cries break out from the ranks of the english soldiers: "will there ever be an end of this?" "what is the tonsured fellow whispering to the witch?" "let him travel to the devil in her company!" "to the fagots with the witch, and quickly, too!" "to the flames, both the monk and the maid!" led to the foot of the pyre, joan darc measures its height with her eyes and is unable to suppress a shudder; the executioners wave their torches in the air in order to enliven their flames; two of them precede the victim to the masonry platform within the pile of fagots; they cover it up with straw and twigs, the top layer of the heaped-up combustibles; they then hold up the iron clamps that are fastened to the stake. "climb up this way," says one of the executioners to joan darc, pointing to the stairs, "you will not come down again, witch!" "i shall accompany you, my dear daughter, to the top of the pyre," says the monk. joan darc slowly ascends the steps, greatly embarrassed in her movements by the folds of her gown, and reaches the top of the pyre. a tremendous shout breaks forth from the mob. when the noise subsides, joan cries out aloud: "god alone inspired my actions!" hisses and furious imprecations drown her voice. the cardinal of winchester, the bishops, judges, and captains rise simultaneously so as to obtain a better view of the execution. after placing joan standing with her back against the stake, one of the executioners fastens her to it by the waist and neck with iron carcans; a chain holds her feet; only her hands remain free, and with them she clasps the rough wooden cross that one of the english executioners has just fashioned for her, and that she holds close to her lips. a priest in a surplice, carrying one of those large silver crucifixes usually borne at the head of processions, arrives in a hurry; he places himself at a distance opposite the pyre and holds up the crucifix as high as his arms allow him. it is the crucifix that the monk isambard has sent for. he points it out to joan darc. she turns her head towards it and keeps her eyes fastened upon the image of christ. "come, reverend father," says one of the executioners to the monk isambard, "do not stay here. the flames are about to shoot up." "in a moment," answers the monk; "i shall follow you. i only wish to finish the prayer that i began." "i shall make you come down faster than you would like, my reverend mumbler of prayers," observes the executioner in a low voice. the two executioners descend from the platform of the pyre; the monk administers to joan darc the supreme consolations. suddenly a dry and lively crackling is heard from the base of the pyre, followed by puffs of smoke and thin tongues of flame. "father!" cries joan darc anxiously, "descend! descend quickly! the pyre is on fire!" such is the sublime adieu of the victim to one of her judges! the monk descends precipitately, casting an angry look at the executioners. these light the pyre at several places. volumes of black smoke rise upward, and envelop joan darc from the public gaze. the fire glistens; it runs and twines itself through the lower layers of the fagots; presently the pile is all on fire; the flames rise; they are fanned by the breeze that blows away the cloud of smoke, and joan darc is again exposed to view. the fire reaches the straw and twigs on top of the platform on which her feet rest. her gown begins to smoke. firmly held by the triple iron bands that clasp her neck, waist and feet, she writhes and utters a piercing cry: "water! water!" a second later, as if regretting the vain appeal for mercy that pain drew from her, she exclaims: "it is god who inspired me!" at that moment joan darc's gown takes fire and the flames that flare up from it join the hundred other lambent tongues that shoot upward. from the midst of the tall furnace a voice in a weird accent is heard to exclaim: "jesus!" * * * * * the virgin of gaul has expiated her immortal glory. the flames subside, and finally go out. a smoldering brasier surrounds the base of the masonry pile that served as the center for the pyre. at its top, and held fast by the iron clamps fastened to the charred and smoking stake, is seen a blackened, shapeless, nameless something--all that is left of the maid. the two executioners place a ladder on the side of the stone pile; they climb up, strike down with their axes the members of her who was joan darc, and with the help of long iron forks hurl them all down into the brasier. other executioners lay fresh fagots on the heap. tall flames re-rise. when the second fire is wholly extinguished nothing remains but reddish ashes interspersed with charred human bones, a skull among them. the ashes and bones are gathered by the executioners and thrown into a wooden box, which they lay on a hand-barrow, and, followed by a large and howling mob, the executioners proceed to the banks of the seine, into which they throw the remains of the redeeming angel of france. finally, the cardinal, the bishops, the captains and the ecclesiastical judges leave the market place of rouen in procession, in the same order that they had entered. they have gloated over the death of joan darc. the justice of the courtiers, of the warriors and of the infallible clergy is satisfied. epilogue. i, jocelyn the champion, now a centennarian as was my ancestor amael who fought under charles martel and who later knew charlemagne, wrote the above narrative, a part of which, the tragedy of joan darc's execution, i witnessed with my own eyes. on the eve of her execution i arrived in rouen from vaucouleurs. communication was difficult in those days between distantly located provinces. it thus happened that the tidings of joan's captivity at rouen and her trial did not for some time reach her family. finally apprized thereof by public rumor, her family was anxious to learn of her fate, but, despite their desolation, they neither were able nor did they dare to undertake the long journey. i called upon denis laxart, the worthy relative of joan whom i had long known intimately, and offered him to go to rouen myself. my fervent admiration for the plebeian heroine inspired me with the resolution. despite my advanced age, i was not frightened by the perils of the journey. but i was poor. this difficulty was overcome by denis laxart and several good people of vaucouleurs. the necessary funds were scraped together, a horse was bought, and i started with my grandson at the crupper. arrived at rouen on may 29, 1431, after encountering no end of difficulties, i learned of the solemn abjuration of joan darc and saw how her enemies pronounced her a fraud and her former friends, a coward. i was not then aware of the black plot that had brought about the apostasy; nevertheless, my own instinct and reasoning, the recollection of my frequent conversations with denis laxart, who had often recounted to me the details of joan's childhood, and finally the reports of her glorious deeds that penetrated as far as lorraine--everything combined to point out to me that an abjuration that so utterly belied the courage and loyalty of the martial maid concealed some sinister mystery. the following day i appeared early at the market place, taking my grandson with me. we managed to stand in the front ranks of the mass that witnessed the execution and that crowded us forward. we were pushed so far forward that we stood near the benign executioner who volunteered to fashion a cross for the unhappy victim, and who in his haste dropped his knife. it fell at my grandson's feet. i took it up and shall preserve it as the emblem that is to accompany this narrative. immediately after the execution of joan darc i was the witness of a strange incident. near myself and my grandson was a priest wrapped up in his gown and cowl. he mumbled to himself. he had watched with seeming indifference the preparations for joan darc's execution, until when, writhing with pain, she cried out: "water! water!" at these words the priest trembled. he raised his hands to heaven and murmured: "mercy! oh, mercy!" finally, when with her last breath joan darc made the supreme invocation--"jesus!" the priest cried out in a suffocated voice: "i am damned!" he immediately dropped to the ground, a prey to violent convulsions. he still lay there in a tremor when the mob left the market place to follow the executioners who were to throw the remains of joan darc into the seine. moved with pity for the man whom all others took no notice of, or considered possessed of an evil spirit, my grandson and myself raised him and took him to our inn that faced the market place. we carried him to our room and tended him. by degrees he came to himself and looked upon us with distracted eyes that seemed to reveal deep repentance and also terror, as he cried: "i am damned! i am the accomplice and instrument of the bishop of beauvais in the killing of joan! god will punish me!" that priest was the canon loyseleur.[117] the gowned monster did taste repentance--strange, incredible revulsion, that i never would have believed had i not myself witnessed its unquestionable evidence. the wretch was devoured with remorse; he admitted his guilt to us, and when he noticed the horror that his admissions filled us with he cried: "a curse upon the help i rendered to you, bishop of beauvais, assassin!" with quavering voice he asked me whether i pitied joan. my tears answered him. he then wished to know who i was, and learning of my passionate admiration for the virgin of gaul and my desire for the sake of her desolate family, to be informed upon what had happened, canon loyseleur seemed struck by a sudden thought, and asked me to wait for him at the inn that very evening. "never," said he, "shall i be able to make amends for or expiate my crime; but i wish to place in your hands the means to smite the butchers of the victim." that same evening canon loyseleur brought to me a bundle of parchments. it contained: 1.--the general confession of joan darc transcribed by himself on the very day when he received it, and when that great soul unveiled itself to him in all its heroic simplicity. 2.--notes which he had taken and preserved after his interviews with the emissary of george of la tremouille, and which revealed the plot that was concocted against joan by the people of the court, the captains and the ecclesiastics, before the first meeting of the heroine and charles vii. 3.--a copy of a contemporaneous chronicle entitled "journal of the siege of orleans," and another memoir written by percival of cagny, equerry to the duke of alençon, who did not leave joan's side from the time of the raising of the siege of orleans down to the siege of paris. these two manuscripts were a part of the documents that bishop peter cauchon had gathered to draw up the indictment. 4.--one of the minutes of the process, containing the questions put to joan, and her answers. 5.--a complete admission and detailed account of the machinations of loyseleur and bishop cauchon to capture joan's confidence in her prison, as also of the plans they had laid during a long conversation before the trial. these materials were given to me by the canon in the hope of enabling me some day to rehabilitate the memory of joan darc. as to himself, he realized that, pursued by inexorable remorse, he would soon die, or lose his senses. on that very morning he did not dare to take his seat on the platform among joan's judges, fearing she might recognize him. the spectacle of her martyrdom and agony finally overthrew him. after depositing these manuscripts in my hands, the canon left me precipitately and with a wild look. i know not what became of him. the next morning i left rouen with my grandson, and once again in vaucouleurs i proceeded to write the story of joan darc. thanks to the information i received from denis laxart and the documents of canon loyseleur, i have been able to draw up the above truthful narrative. to it i have attached the executioner's knife, as an additional relic of our family. until now and in this country of lorraine, the cradle of the virgin of gaul, i have vainly sought to rehabilitate joan in the eyes of her friends and even of her parents. all have given me the same answer that i received so often in rouen and so many other towns: "despite her glory, despite her immense services rendered to france, joan is guilty, joan is criminal, joan will burn in the everlasting flames of hell--the infallible church condemned her!" but the judgment of men passes--true glory is imperishable. some day the maid will be exalted and her murderers spat upon. the end. footnotes: [1] _trial and condemnation, and proceedings of the rehabilitation of joan of arc, known as the maid_, by jules quicherat, after the manuscripts in the royal library; vol. i, p. 39. [2] the same. [3] _trial of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 40. [4] _trial of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 74. [5] _song of merlin the enchanter_, in villemarqué, _popular songs of brittany_, vol. i, p. 219. [6] villemarqué, _popular songs of brittany_, vol. i, p. 219. [7] the citation is literal. denis laxart, uncle to jeannette, testified to having heard her say: "has it not been long prophesied that france, desolated by a woman, would be restored by a woman?" (_proceedings of the rehabilitation of joan of arc_, edited by jules quicherat, vol. ii, p. 444.) the wife of henry rolhaire also deposed and said: "jeannette asked: 'have you not heard it said that france, lost by a woman, would be saved by a virgin of the marches (borders) of lorraine, born near an oak forest?'" (the same, p. 447.) [8] "_descendet virgo dorsum sagitarii._ among other writings was found a prophecy of merlin, speaking in this manner."--testimony of matthew thomassin, given by quicherat in the _rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 15. [9] see "the iron arrow head," the tenth of this series. [10] volume one of this series, "the gold sickle." [11] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 67. [12] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 87. [13] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 88. [14] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 88. [15] the same, p. 89. [16] the same, p. 89. [17] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 77. [18] the same, p. 77. [19] the same, pp. 79, 80. [20] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 79. [21] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 80. [22] the same, p. 80. [23] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 80. [24] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 80. [25] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 88. [26] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 29. [27] _"mammae ejas erant pulcherimas"_--testimony of the duke of alençon (_proceedings of the rehabilitation of joan of arc_, vol. iii, p. 220). [28] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 127. [29] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 67. [30] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 79. [31] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 435. [32] this, and the succeeding answers of joan in this interview which are authenticated by references to the _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, are all, with the exception of two otherwise designated, taken from that portion of vol. ii between pp. 436 and 439. [33] _proceedings of the rehabilitation._ [34] the same. [35] the same. [36] the same. [37] _proceedings of the rehabilitation._ [38] the same, vol. ii, p. 459. [39] _proceedings of the rehabilitation._ [40] the same, vol. ii, p. 80. [41] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 401. [42] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 657. [43] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 657. [44] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 567. [45] see the preceding volume of this series, "the iron trevet." [46] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 450. [47] godefroid, _chronicle of the maid_, p. 500; godefroid, _chronicle of berry_, p. 376; _memoirs of argus and richemont_. [48] godefroid, p. 754. quoted by jules quicherat, in the introduction to the _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, p. 27. [49] _chronicle of percival of cagny_, vol. iv. p. 19. [50] _chronicle of percival of cagny_, vol. iv. p. 19. [51] _chronicle of percival of cagny_, vol. iv. p. 19. [52] it is useless to cite the chroniclers severally on the subject of this shameless and abominable examination. they are all agreed on the fact. [53] _chronicle of percival of cagny_, cited by quicherat, vol. iii, p. 71. [54] the interrogations and the replies thereto by joan are here taken in the main literally from _the chronicle of the maid_, a manuscript now in the possession of the institute at paris, no. 245, cited by quicherat in his _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. iv, p. 209; also in the _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, pp. 204-206. [55] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 75. this remarkable reply is quoted literally, like the rest of the inquisition. [56] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. i, p. 87. even english authors have been wont to quote with praise this virile letter of the maid. [57] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 84. [58] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 80. [59] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iv, p. 105. [60] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. iii, p. 74. [60a] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. iii, p. 74. [61] _trial and condemnation of joan of arc_, vol. iii, p. 72, the testimony of louis leconte. [62] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 87. [63] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 124. [64] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 110. [65] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, pp. 108-109. [66] the same. [67] the same. [68] the same, p. 179. [69] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, pp. 69-70. [70] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 29. [71] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, pp. 69-70. [72] the same. [73] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 70. [74] the same. [75] the same. [76] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iii, p. 171. [77] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iii, p. 171. [78] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 49. [79] _chronicle of the maid_, pp. 220-224, cited by quicherat, vol. iv. also the _journal of the siege of orleans_. [80] _chronicle of the maid_, p. 224. [81] _chronicle of the maid_, p. 225. [82] the same. [83] john chartier, vol. iv, p. 57. given by quicherat. [84] john chartier, vol. iv, p. 58, cited by quicherat. the decision of the council is here given literally from the records. there can be no doubt on this abominable attempt at treason. [85] john chartier, vol. iv, p. 58. [86] john chartier, vol. iv, p. 59. [87] john chartier, vol. iv, p, 60. [88] the same. [89] deposition of simon charles, master of petitions. _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 117; _chronicle of the maid_, p. 227; john chartier, vol. iv, p. 50. all the chronicles are in accord on this so capital fact. [90] testimony of simon charles. [91] _chronicle of percival of cagny_, vol. iv, p. 171. [92] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iv, p. 179. [93] literally the testimony of john pasquerel, joan's confessor, who confessed her that very day. (_proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, pp. 108-109.) [94] _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 79. [95] testimony of colette, wife of millet, _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. iii, p. 124. [96] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iv, p. 160. [97] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iv, p. 160. [98] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iv, p. 166. [99] the same. [100] _journal of the siege of orleans_, vol. iv, p. 166. [101] _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 180. [102] testimony of the duke of alençon, _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 79. [103] _chronicle of the maid_, vol. iii, p. 129. [104] testimony of gerardin of epinal, _proceedings of the rehabilitation_, vol. ii, p. 421. [105] this letter is taken literally from the archives of lille. see also quicherat, vol. v, p. 126. [106] with some abridgment, the text of this chronicle is cited almost literally. [107] latin, _from the egg_, i.e., the beginning. [108] rymer, cited by quicherat, vol. x, p. 459. [109] the same. [110] rymer, cited by quicherat, vol. x, p. 459. [111] rogier, cited by quicherat, vol. v, pp. 168-169. [112] fowler, bird-catcher. [113] _tractatus de haersi pauperum de lugduno_, cited by marten in his _thesaurus of anecdotes_, vol. v, collected 1787. [114] this answer of joan, together with all the others, and all the questions and decrees of the judges throughout the trial, are taken literally from the records. [115] _"medicina animae dictae joannae"_, literally, _trial and condemnation_, vol. i, p. 297. [116] these inscriptions are all recorded by an eye-witness, clement of franquenberg; see quicherat, vol. iv, p. 460. [117] for the repentance of canon loyseleur, see _the proceedings of the rehabilitation of joan of arc_, vol. ii, p. 178. anne soulard, charles franks, robert shimmin, and the online distributed proofreading team letters of catherine benincasa [illustration: _the ecstasy of st. catherine detail from bazzis fresco_] saint catherine of siena as seen in her letters translated & edited with introduction by vida d. scudder table of contents table of persons addressed st. catherine of siena as seen in her letters chief events in the life of st. catherine brief outline of contemporary public events to monna alessa dei saracini to benincasa her brother, when he was in florence to the venerable religious, brother antonio of nizza to monna agnese, who was the wife of messer orso malavolti to sister eugenia, her niece at the convent of st. agnes of montepulciano to nanna, daughter of benincasa, a little maid, her niece letters on the consecrated life to brother william of england to daniella of orvieto, clothed with the habit of st. dominic to monna agnese, wife of francesco, a tailor of florence letters in response to certain criticisms to monna orsa, wife of bartolo usimbardi, and to monna agnese to a religious man in florence, who was shocked at her ascetic practices to brother bartolomeo dominici to brother matteo di francesco tolomei to a mantellata of saint dominic, called catarina di scetto to neri di landoccio dei pagliaresi to monna giovanna and her other daughters in siena to messer john, the soldier of fortune to monna colomba in lucca to brother raimondo of capua, of the order of the preachers to gregory xi to gregory xi to gregory xi to brother raimondo of capua, at avignon to catarina of the hospital, and giovanna di capo to sister daniella of orvieto to brother raimondo of capua, and to master john iii to sister bartolomea della seta to gregory xi to the king of france letters to florence to the eight of war chosen by the commune of florence to buonaccorso di lapo: written when the saint was at avignon to gregory xi to monna lapa, her mother, before she returned from avignon to monna giovanna di corrado maconi to messer ristoro canigiani to the anziani and consuls and gonfalonieri of bologna to nicholas of osimo to misser lorenzo del pino of bologna, doctor in decretals letters written from rocca d'orcia to monna lapa, her mother, and to monna cecca to monna catarina of the hospital, and to giovanna di capo to monna alessa, clothed with the habit of saint dominic to gregory xi to raimondo of capua to urban vi to her spiritual children in siena to brother william and to messer matteo of the misericordia to sano di maco, and to all her other sons in siena to brother raimondo of capua to urban vi to don giovanni of the cells of vallombrosa letters announcing peace to monna alessa, when the saint was at florence to sano di maco, and to the other sons in christ to three italian cardinals to giovanna, queen of naples to sister daniella of orvieto to stefano maconi to certain holy hermits who had been invited to rome by the pope to brother william of england, and to brother antonio of nizza to brother andrea of lucca, brother baldo, and brother lando to brother antonio of nizza to queen giovanna of naples to brother raimondo of the preaching order, when he was in genoa to urban vi letters describing the experience preceding death to master raimondo of capua to master raimondo of capua, of the order of the preachers table of persons addressed agnese, monna, di francesco andrea, brother, of lucca antonio, brother, of nizza baldo, brother bartolomea, sister, della seta bartolomeo, brother, dominici benincasa, benincasa benincasa, eugenia benincasa, monna lapa benincasa, nanna bologna, anziani of capo, giovanna di canigiani, ristoro cardinals, three italian catarina, of the hospital cecca, monna colomba, monna, of lucca daniella, sister, of orvieto france, the king of florence, letters to giovanna, queen of naples giovanni, don, of the cells of vallombrosa gregory xi. john, messer, soldier of fortune john iii., master lando, brother lapo, buonaccorso di maco, sano di maconi, monna giovanna di corrado maconi, stefano malavolti, monna agnese matteo, messer, of the misericordia osimo, nicholas of pagliaresi, neri di landoccio dei pino, lorenzo del raimondo, brother, of capua religious, a, in florence saracini, monna alessa dei scetto, catarina di tolomei, brother matteo di urban vi., pope usimbardi, monna orsa war, the eight of william, brother, of england letters of catherine benincasa st. catherine of siena as seen in her letters i the letters of catherine benincasa, commonly known as st. catherine of siena, have become an italian classic; yet perhaps the first thing in them to strike a reader is their unliterary character. he only will value them who cares to overhear the impetuous outpourings of the heart and mind of an unlettered daughter of the people, who was also, as it happened, a genius and a saint. dante, petrarch, boccaccio, the other great writers of the trecento, are all in one way or another intent on choice expression; catherine is intent solely on driving home what she has to say. her letters were talked rather than written. she learned to write only three years before her death, and even after this time was in the habit of dictating her correspondence, sometimes two or three letters at a time, to the noble youths who served her as secretaries. the modern listener to this eager talk may perhaps at first feel wearied. suffocated by words, repelled by frequent crudity and confusion of metaphor, he may even be inclined to call the thought childish and the tone overwrought. but let him persevere. let him read these letters as chapters in an autobiography, noting purpose and circumstance, and reading between the lines, as he may easily do, the experience of the writer. before long the very accents of a living woman will reach his ears. he will hear her voice, now eagerly pleading with friend or wrong-doer, now brooding tender as a mother-bird over some fledgling soul, now broken with sobs as she mourns over the sins of church and world, and again chanting high prophecy of restoration and renewal, or telling in awestruck undertone sacred mysteries of the interior life. dante's angel of purity welcomes wayfarers upon the pilgrim mount "in voce assai più che la nostra, viva." the saintly voice, like the angelic, is more living than our own. these letters are charged with a vitality so intense that across the centuries it draws us into the author's presence. imagination is inclined to see the canonized saints as a row of solemn figures, standing in dull monotony of worshipful gesture, like virgins and confessors in an early mosaic. yet, as a matter of fact, people who have been canonized were to their contemporaries the most striking personalities among men and women striving for righteousness. they were all, to be sure, very good; but goodness, despite a curious prejudice to the contrary, admits more variety in type than wickedness, and produces more interesting characters. catherine benincasa was probably the most remarkable woman of the fourteenth century, and her letters are the precious personal record of her inner as of her outer life. with all their transparent simplicity and mediaeval quaintness, with all the occasional plebeian crudity of their phrasing, they reveal a nature at once so manysided and so exalted that the sensitive reader can but echo the judgment of her countrymen, who see in the dyer's daughter of siena one of the most significant authors of a great age. ii as is the case with many great letter-writers, though not with all, catherine reveals herself largely through her relations with others. some of her letters, indeed, are elaborate religious or political treatises, and seem at first sight to have little personal colouring; yet even these yield their full content of spiritual beauty and wisdom only when one knows the circumstances that called them forth and the persons to whom they were addressed. a mere glance at the index to her correspondence shows how widely she was in touch with her time. she was a woman of personal charm and of sympathies passionately wide, and she gathered around her friends and disciples from every social group in italy, not to speak of many connections formed with people in other lands. she wrote to prisoners and outcasts; to great nobles and plain business men; to physicians, lawyers, soldiers of fortune; to kings and queens and cardinals and popes; to recluses pursuing the beatific vision, and to men and women of the world plunged in the lusts of the flesh and governed by the pride of life. the society of the fourteenth century passes in review as we turn the pages. catherine wrote to all these people in the same simple spirit. with one and all she was at home, for all were to her, by no merely formal phrase, "dearest brothers and sisters in christ jesus." one knows not whether to be more struck by the outspoken fearlessness of the woman or by her great adaptability. she could handle with plain directness the crudest sins of her age; she could also treat with subtle insight the most elusive phases of spiritual experience. no greater distance can be imagined than that which separates the young dominican with her eyes full of visions from a man like sir john hawkwood, reckless free-lance, selling his sword with light-hearted zeal to the highest bidder, and battening on the disorder of the times. catherine writes to him with gentlest assumption of fellowship, seizes on his natural passions and tastes, and seeks to sanctify the military life of his affections. with her sister nuns the method changes. she gives free play to her delicate fancy, drawing her metaphors from the beauty of nature, from tender, homely things, from the gentle arts and instincts of womanhood. does she speak to pope gregory, the timid? her words are a trumpet-call. to the harsh urban, his successor? with finest tact she urges self-restraint and a policy of moderation. temperaments of every type are to be met in her pages--a sensitive poet, troubled by "confusion of thought" deepening into melancholia; a harum-scarum boy, in whose sunny joyousness she discerns the germ of supernatural grace; vehement sinners, fearful saints, religious recluses deceived by selfrighteousness, and men of affairs devoutly faithful to sober duty. catherine enters into every consciousness. as a rule we associate with very pure and spiritual women, even if not cloistered, a certain deficient sense of reality. we cherish them, and shield them from harsh contact with the world, lest the fine flower of their delicacy be withered. but no one seems to have felt in this way about catherine. her "love for souls" was no cold electric illumination such as we sometimes feel the phrase to imply, but a warm understanding tenderness for actual men and women. it would be hard to exaggerate her knowledge of the world and of human hearts. yet sometimes catherine appears to us austere and exacting; unsparing in condemnation, and unrelenting in her demands on those she loves. many of her letters are in a strain of exhortation that rises into rebuke. the impression at first is unpleasant. we are tempted to feel this unfailing candour captious; to resent the note of authority, equally clear whether she write to pope or cardinal; to suspect catherine, in a word, of assuming that very judicial attitude which she constantly deprecates as unbecoming to us poor mortals. and perhaps the very frequency of her plea for tolerance and forbearance suggests a conscious weakness. like most brilliant and ardent people, she was probably by nature of a critical and impatient disposition; she was, moreover, a plebeian. at times, when she is quite sure that men are on the side of the devil, she allows her instinctive frankness full scope; it must be allowed that the result is astounding. yet even as we catch our breath we realise that her remarks were probably justified. it is hard for us moderns to remember how crudely hideous were the sins which she faced. in these days, when we are all reduced to one apparent level of moral respectability, and great saintliness and dramatic guilt are alike seldom conspicuous, we forget the violent contrasts of the middle ages. pure "religious," striving after the exalted perfection enjoined by the counsels, moved habitually among moral atrocities, and bold vigour of speech was a practical duty. catherine handled without evasion the grossest evils of her time, and the spell which she exercised by simple force of direct dealing was nothing less than extraordinary. it is easy to see why catherine's plain speaking was not resented. she rarely begins with rebuke. the note of humility is first struck; she is always "servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ." thence she frequently passes into fervent meditation on some special theme: the exceeding wonder of the divine love, the duty of prayer, the nature of obedience. we are lifted above the world into a region of heavenly light and sweetness, when suddenly--a blow from the shoulder!--a startling sense of return to earth. from the contemplation of the beauty of holiness, catherine has swiftly turned us to face the opposing sin. "thou art the man!" a few trenchant sentences, charged with pain, and the soul which has been raised to celestial places awakes to see in itself the contradiction of all that is so lovely. into the region of darkness catherine goes with it. it is not "thou" but "we" who have sinned. she holds that sinful heart so near her own that the beatings are confounded; her words now and again express a shuddering personal remorse for sins of which she could have had no personal knowledge. her sense of unity with her fellow-men lies deeper than any theory of brotherhood; she feels herself in sober truth guilty of the sins of her brothers: her experience illustrates the profound truth that only purity can know perfect penitence. catherine is then saved from any touch of pharisaism by her remarkable identification of herself with the person to whom she writes. but to understand her attitude we must go further. for she never pauses in reprobation of evil. full of conviction that the soul needs only to recognise its sin to hate and escape it for ever, she passes swiftly on to impassioned appeal. her words breathe a confidence in men that never fails even when she is writing to the most hardened. she succeeded to a rare degree in the difficult conciliation of uncompromising hatred toward sin with unstrained fellowship with the sinner, and invincible trust in his responsiveness to the appeal of virtue. when we consider the times in which she lived, this large and touching trustfulness becomes to our eyes a victory of faith. that it was no mere instinct, but an attitude resolutely adopted and maintained, is evident from her frequent discussions of charity and tolerance, some of which will be found in these selections. she constantly urges her disciples to put the highest possible construction on their neighbours' actions; nor is any phase of her teaching more constantly repeated than the beautiful application of the text: "in my father's house are many mansions," to enjoin recognition of the varieties in temperament and character and practice which may coexist in the house of god. catherine had learned a hard lesson. she saw in human beings not their achievements, but their possibilities. therefore she quickened repentance by a positive method, not by morbid analysis of evil, not by lurid pictures of the consequences of sin, but by filling the soul with glowing visions of that holiness which to see is to long for. she never despaired of quickening in even the most degraded that flame of "holy desire" which is the earnest of true holiness to be. we find her impatient of mint and cummin, of over-anxious self-scrutiny. "strive that your holy desires increase," she writes to a correspondent; "and let all these other things alone." "i, catherine--write to you--with desire": so open all her letters. holy desire! it is not only the watchword of her teaching: it is also the true key to her personality. iii we have dwelt on catherine, the friend and guide of souls; but it is catherine the mystic, catherine the friend of god, before whom the ages bend in reverence. the final value of her letters lies in their revelation, not of her dealings with other souls, but of god's dealings with her own. but in presence of the record of these deep experiences, silence is better than words: is, indeed, for most of us the only possible attitude. the letters that follow must speak for themselves. the clarity of mind which catherine always preserved, even in moments of highest exaltation, and her loving eagerness to share her most sacred experiences with those dear to her, have given her a power of expression that has produced pages of unsurpassed interest and value, alike for the psychologist and for the believer. moreover--and this we well may note--her letters enable us to apprehend with singularly happy intimacy, the natural character and disposition of her whom these high things befell. in the very cadence of their impetuous phrasing, in their swift dramatic changes, in their marvellous blending of sweetness and virility, they show us the woman. some of them, especially those to her family and friends, are of almost childlike simplicity and homely charm; others, among the most famous of their kind, deal with mystical, or if we choose so to put it, with supernatural experience: in all alike, we feel a heart akin to our own, though larger and more tender. the central fact in catherine's nature was her rapt and absolute perception of the love of god, as the supreme reality in the universe. this love, as manifested in creation, in redemption, and in the sacrament of the altar, is the theme of her constant meditations. one little phrase, charged with a lyric poignancy, sings itself again and again, enlightening her more sober prose: "for nails would not have held god-and-man fast to the cross, had love not held him there." her conceptions are positive, not negative, and joyous adoration is the substance of her faith. but the letters show us that this faith was not won nor kept without sharp struggle. we have in them no presentation of a calm spirit, established on tranquil heights of unchanging vision, above our "mortal moral strife." catherine is, as we can see, a woman of many moods--very sensitive, very loving. she shows a touching dependence on those she loves, and an inveterate habit of idealising them, which leads to frequent disillusion. she is extremely eager and intense about little things as well as great; hers is a truly feminine seriousness over the detail of living. she is keenly and humanly interested in life on this earth, differing in this respect from some canonized persons who seem always to be enduring it _faute de mieux_. and, as happens to all sensitive people who refuse to seclude themselves in dreams, life went hard with her. hers was a frail and suffering body, and a tossed and troubled spirit; wounded in the house of her friends, beset by problem, shaken with doubt and fear by the spectacle presented to her by the world and the church of christ. the letters tell us how these, her sorrows and temptations, were not separated from the life of faith, but a true portion of it: how she carried them into the divine presence, and what high reassurance awaited her there. ordinary mortals are inclined to think that supernatural experience removes the saints to a perplexing distance. in catherine's case, however, we become aware as we study the record that it brings her nearer us. for these experiences, far from being independent of her outer life, are in closest relation with it; even the highest and most mysterious, even those in which the symbolism seems most remote from the modern mind, can be translated by the psychologist without difficulty into modern terms. they spring from the problems of her active life; they bring her renewed strength and wisdom for her practical duties. an age, which like our own places peculiar emphasis and value on the type of sanctity which promptly expresses itself through the deed, should feel for catherine benincasa an especial honour. she is one of the purest of contemplatives; she knows, what we to-day too often forget, that the task is impossible without the vision. but it follows directly upon the vision, and this great mediaeval mystic is one of the most efficient characters of her age. iv catherine's soaring imagination lifted her above the circle of purely personal interests, and made her a force of which history is cognisant in the public affairs of her day. she is one of a very small number of women who have exerted the influence of a statesman by virtue, not of feminine attractions, but of conviction and intellectual power. it is impossible to understand her letters without some recognition of the public drama of the time. two great ideals of unity--one roman, one christian in origin--had possessed the middle ages. in the strength of them the wandering barbaric hordes had been reduced to order, and western europe had been trained into some perception of human fellowship. of these two unifying forces, the imperialistic ideal was moribund in catherine's time: not even a dante, born fifty years after his true date, could have held to it. remained the ideal of the church universal, and to this last hope of a peaceful commonwealth that should include all humanity, the idealists clung in desperation. but alas for the faith of idealists when fact gives theory the lie! what at this time was the unity of mankind in the church but a formal hypothesis? the keystone of her all-embracing arch was the papacy. but the pope no longer sat heir of the caesars in the seat of the apostles; for seventy years he had been a practical dependant of the french king, living in pleasant provence. neither the scorn of dante, nor the eloquence of petrarch, nor the warnings of holy men, had prevailed on the popes to return to italy, and make an end of the crying scandal which was the evident contradiction of the christian dream. meantime, the city of the caesars lay waste and wild; the clergy was corrupt almost past belief; the dreaded turk was gathering his forces, a menace to christendom itself. the times were indeed evil, and the "servants of god," of whom then, as now, there were no inconsiderable number, withdrew for the most part into spiritual or literal seclusion, and in the quietude of cloister or forest cell busied themselves with the concerns of their own souls. not so catherine benincasa. she had known that temptation and conquered it. after her reception as a dominican tertiary, she had possessed the extraordinary resolution to live for three years the recluse life, not in the guarded peace of a convent, but in her own room at home, in the noisy and overcrowded house where a goodly number of her twenty-four brothers and sisters were apparently still living. and these had been years of inestimable preciousness; but they came to an end at the command of god, speaking through the constraining impulse of her love for men. from the mystical retirement in which she had long lived alone with her beloved, she emerged into the world. and the remarkable fact is that in no respect did she blench from the situation as she found it. she "faced life steadily and faced it whole." a europe ravaged by dissensions lay before her; a church which gave the lie to its lofty theories, no less by the hateful worldliness of its prelates than by its indifferent abandonment of the seat of peter. above this sorry spectacle the mind of catherine soared straight into an upper region, where only the greatest minds of the day were her comrades. her fellow-citizens were unable to entertain the idea even of civic peace within the limits of their own town; but patriotic devotion to all italy fired her great heart. more than this--her instinct for solidarity forced her to dwell in the thought of a world-embracing brotherhood. her hopes were centred, not like dante's in the emperor the heir of the caesars, but in the pope the heir of christ. despite the corruption from which she recoiled with horror, despite the babylonian captivity at avignon, she saw in the catholic church that image of a pure universal fellowship which the noblest catholics of all ages have cherished. to the service of the church, therefore, her life was dedicated; it was to her the holy house of reconciliation, wherein all nations should dwell in unity; and only by submission to its authority could the woes of italy be healed. catherine's letters on public affairs--historical documents of recognised importance--give us her practical programme. it was formed in the light of that faith which she always describes as "the eye of the mind." she was called during her brief years of political activity to meet three chief issues: the absence of the pope from italy; the rebellion of the tuscan cities, headed by florence, against his authority; and at a later time the great schism, which broke forth under urban vi. during her last five years she was absorbed in ecclesiastical affairs. in certain of her immediate aims she succeeded, in others she failed. it would be hard to say whether her success or her failure involved the greater tragedy. for behind all these aims was a larger ideal that was not to be realised--the dream, entertained as passionately by catherine benincasa as by savonarola or by luther, of thorough church-reform. catherine at avignon, pleading this great cause in the frivolous culture and dainty pomp of the place; catherine at rome, defending to her last breath the legal rights of a pope whom she could hardly have honoured, and whose claims she saw defended by extremely doubtful means--is a figure as pathetic as heroic. few sorrows are keener than to work with all one's energies to attain a visible end for the sake of a spiritual result, and, attaining that end, to find the result as far as ever. this sorrow was catherine's. the external successes which she won--considerable enough to secure her a place in history-availed nothing to forward the greater aim for which she worked. gregory xi., under her magnetic inspiration, gathered strength, indeed, to make a personal sacrifice and to return to rome, but he was of no calibre to attempt radical reform, and his residence in italy did nothing to right the crying abuses that were breaking christian hearts. his successor, on the other hand, did really initiate the reform of the clergy, but so drastic and unwise were his methods that the result was terrible and disconcerting--the development of a situation of which only the catholic idealist could discern the full irony; no less than schism, the rending of the seamless robe of christ. with failing hopes and increasing experience of the complexity of human struggle, catherine clung to her aim until the end. there was no touch of pusillanimity in her heroic spirit. as with deep respect we follow the letters of the last two years, and note their unflagging alertness and vigour, their steady tone of devotion and self-control, we realise that to tragedy her spirit was dedicate. her energy of mind was constantly on the increase. still, it is true, she wrote to disciples near and far long, tender letters of spiritual counsel--analyses of the religious life tranquilly penetrating as those of an earlier time. but her political correspondence grew in bulk. it is tense, nervous, virile. it breathes a vibrating passion, a solemn force, that are the index of a breaking heart. not for one moment did catherine relax her energies. from 1376, when she went to avignon, she led, with one or two brief intermissions only, the life of a busy woman of affairs. but within this outer life of strenuous and, as a rule, thwarted activities, another life went on--a life in which failure could not be, since through failure is wrought redemption. from the days of her stigmatization, which occurred in 1375 at pisa, catherine had been convinced that in some special sense she was to share in the passion of christ, and offer herself a sacrifice for the sins of holy church. now this conception deepened till it became all-absorbing. in full consciousness of failing vital powers, in expectation of her approaching death, she offered her sufferings of mind and body as an expiation for the sins around her. by word of mouth and by letters of heartbroken intensity she summoned all dear to her to join in this holy offering. catherine's faith is alien to these latter days. yet the psychical unity of the race is becoming matter not only of emotional intuition, but established scientific fact: and no modern sociologist, no psychologist who realizes how unknown in origin and how intimate in interpenetration are the forces that control our destiny, can afford to scoff at her. she had longed inexpressibly for outward martyrdom. this was not for her, yet none the less really did she lay down her life on the altar of sacrifice. the evils of the time, and above all of the church, had generated a sense of unbearable sin in her pure spirit; her constant instinct to identify herself with the guilt of others found in this final offering an august climax and fulfilment. during the last months of her life--months of excruciating physical sufferings, vividly described for us by her contemporaries--the woman's rectitude and wisdom, her swift tender sympathies, were still, as ever, at the disposal of all who sought them. with unswerving energy she still laboured for the cause of truth. when we consider the conditions, spiritual and physical, of those last months, we read with amazement the able, clearly conceived, practical letters which she was despatching to the many european potentates whom she was endeavouring to hold true to the cause of urban. but her spirit in the meantime dwelt in the region of the eternal, where the dolorous struggle of the times appeared, indeed, but appeared in its essential significance as seen by angelic intelligences. the awe-struck letters to fra raimondo, her confessor, with which this selection closes, are an accurate transcript of her inner experience. they constitute, surely, a precious heritage of the church for which her life was given. catherine benincasa died heartbroken; yet in the depths of her consciousness was joy, for god had revealed to her that his bride the church, "which brings life to men," "holds in herself such life that no man can kill her." "sweetest my daughter, thou seest how she has soiled her face with impurity and self-love, and grown puffed up by the pride and avarice of those who feed at her bosom. but take thy tears and sweats, drawing them from the fountain of my divine charity, and cleanse her face. for i promise thee that her beauty shall not be restored to her by the sword, nor by cruelty nor war, but by peace, and by humble continual prayer, tears, and sweats poured forth from the grieving desires of my servants. so thy desire shall be fulfilled in long abiding, and my providence shall in no wise fail." v psychologically, as in point of time, st. catherine stands between st. francis and st. teresa. her writings are of the middle ages, not of the renascence, but they express the twilight of the mediaeval day. they reveal the struggles and the spiritual achievement of a woman who lived in the last age of an undivided christendom, and whose whole life was absorbed in the special problems of her time. these problems, however, are in the deepest sense perpetual, and her attitude toward them is suggestive still. it has been claimed that catherine, a century and a half later, would have been a protestant. such hypotheses are always futile to discuss; but the view hardly commends itself to the careful student of her writings. it is suggested, naturally enough, by her denunciations of the corruptions of the church, denunciations as sweeping and penetrating as were ever uttered by luther; by her amazingly sharp and outspoken criticism of the popes; and by her constant plea for reform. the pungency of all these elements in her writings is felt by the most casual reader. but it must never be forgotten that honest and vigorous criticism of the church visible is, in the mind of the catholic philosopher, entirely consistent with loyalty to the sacerdotal theory. there is a noble idealism that breaks in fine impatience with tradition, and audaciously seeks new symbols wherein to suggest for a season the eternal and imageless truth. but perhaps yet nobler in the sight of god--surely more conformed to his methods in nature and history--is that other idealism which patiently bows to the yoke of the actual, and endures the agony of keeping true at once to the heavenly vision and to the imperfect earthly form. iconoclastic zeal against outworn or corrupt institutions fires our facile enthusiasm. let us recognize also the spiritual passion that suffers unflinchingly the disparity between the sign and the thing signified, and devotes its energies, not to discarding, but to restoring and purifying that sign. such passion was catherine's. the most distinctive trait in the woman's character was her power to cling to an ideal verity with unfaltering faithfulness, even when the whole aspect of life and society around her seemed to give that verity the lie. to imagine her without faith in the visible church and the god-given authority of the vicar of christ is to imagine another woman. catherine of siena's place in the history of minds is with savonarola, not with luther. catherine confronted a humanity at enmity with itself, a church conformed to the image of this world. her external policy proved helpless to right these evils. the return of the popes from avignon resulted neither in the pacification of christendom nor in the reform of the church. the great schism, of which she saw the beginning, undermined the idea of christian unity till the thought of the saint of siena was in natural sequence followed by the thought of luther. outwardly her life was spent in labouring for a hopeless cause, discredited by the subsequent movement of history. but the material tragedy was a spiritual triumph, not only through the victory of faith in her own soul, but through the value of the witness which she bore. neither of the great conceptions of unity which possessed the middle ages was identical with the modern democratic conception; yet both, and in particular that of the church, pointed in this direction. that ideal of world-embracing brotherhood to which men have been slowly awakening throughout the christian centuries was the dominant ideal of catherine's mind. she hoped for the attainment of such a brotherhood through the instrument of an organized christendom, reduced to peace and unity under one god-appointed head. history, as some of us think, has rejected the noble dream. we seem to see that the undying hope of the human spirit--a society shaped by justice and love--is never likely to be gained along the lines of the centralization of ecclesiastical power. but if our idea of the means has changed, the same end still shines before us. the vision of human fellowship in the name of christ, for which catherine lived and died, remains the one hope for the healing of the nations. chief events in the life of saint catherine [processor's note: this timeline and the one that follows appeared in the opposite order in the 1905 edition on which this etext is based. their order has been reversed to correctly reflect the order in which they appear in the table of contents.] 1347. on march 25th, catherine, and a twin-sister who dies at once, are born in the strada dell' oca, near the fountain of fontebranda, siena. she is the youngest of the twenty-five children of jacopo benincasa, a dyer, and lapa, his wife. 1353-4. as a child, catherine is peculiarly joyous and charming. when six years old she beholds the vision of christ, arrayed in priestly robes, above the church of st. dominic. she is inspired by a longing to imitate the life of the fathers of the desert, and begins to practise many penances. at the age of seven she makes the vow of virginity. she is drawn to the order of st. dominic by the zeal of its founder for the salvation of souls. 1359-1363. her ascetic practices meet with sharp opposition at home. she is urged to array herself beautifully and to marry, is denied a private chamber, and forced to perform the menial work of the household, etc. in time, however, her perseverance wins the consent of her father and family to her desires. 1363-1364. she is vested with the black and white habit of saint dominic, becoming one of the mantellate, or dominican tertiaries, devout women who lived under religious rule in their own homes. 1364-1367. she leads in her own room at home the life of a religious recluse, speaking only to her confessor. she is absorbed in mystical experiences and religious meditation. during this time she learns to read. the period closes with her espousals to christ, on the last day of carnival, 1367. 1367-1370. in obedience to the commands of god, and impelled by her love of men, she returns gradually to family and social life. from this time dates her special devotion to the blessed sacrament. she joyfully devotes herself to household labours, and to a life of ministration to the sick and needy. in 1368 her father dies, and the revolution puts an end to the prosperity of the benincasa family, which is now broken up. catherine seems to have retained to the end the care of monna lapa. in 1370 she dies mystically and returns to life, having received the command to go abroad into the world to save souls. 1370-1374. her reputation and influence increase. a group of disciples gathers around her. her correspondence gradually becomes extensive, and she becomes known as a peacemaker. at the same time, her ecstasies and unusual mode of life excite criticism and suspicion. in may, 1374, she visits florence, perhaps summoned thither to answer charges made against her by certain in the order. she returns to siena to minister to the plague-stricken. she meets at this time fra raimondo of capua, her confessor and biographer. her gradual induction into public affairs is accompanied by growing sorrow over the corruptions of the church. 1375. at the invitation of pietro gambacorta, catherine visits pisa. her object is to prevent pisa and lucca from joining the league of tuscan cities against the pope. she meets the ambassador from the queen of cyprus, and zealously undertakes to further the cause of a crusade. on april 1st she receives the stigmata in the church of santa cristina; but the marks, at her request, remain invisible. she prophesies the great schism. a brief visit to lucca. 1376. catherine receives stefano maconi as a disciple, and at his instance reconciles the feud between the maconi and the tolomei. she attempts by correspondence to reconcile pope gregory xi. and the florentines. on april 1st the divine commission to bear the olive to both disputants is given her in a vision. in may, at the request of the florentines, she goes to florence. sent as their representative to avignon, she reaches that city on june 18th. gregory entrusts her with the negotiations for peace. the florentine ambassadors, however, delay their coming, and when they come refuse to ratify her powers. thwarted in this direction, she devotes all her efforts to persuading the pope to return to rome, and triumphing over all obstacles, succeeds. she leaves for home on september 13th, but is retained for a month in genoa, at the house of madonna orietta scotta. after a short visit at pisa, she reaches siena in december or january. 1377. catherine converts the castle of belcaro, conveyed to her by its owner, into a monastery. she visits the salimbeni in their feudal castle at rocca d'orcia, for the purpose of healing their family feuds. while here she learns miraculously to write. she also visits sant' antimo and montepulciano. 1378. gregory, in failing health, perhaps regretting his return, becomes alienated from catherine. he sends her, however, to florence, where she stays in a house built for her by niccolò soderini, at the foot of the hill of st. george. she succeeds in causing the interdict to be respected, but almost loses her life in a popular tumult, and keenly regrets not having won the crown of martyrdom. after the death of gregory, and the establishment of the longed-for peace by pope urban, catherine returns to siena, where she devotes herself to composing her "dialogue." after the outbreak of the schism, urban, whom she had known at avignon, summons her to rome. she reluctantly obeys, and takes up her abode in that city on november 28th, accompanied by a large group of disciples, her "famiglia," who live together, subsisting on alms. from this time catherine devotes her whole powers to the cause of urban. she is his trusted adviser, and seeks earnestly to curb his impatient temper on the one hand, and to keep the sovereigns of europe faithful to him on the other. she writes on his behalf to the kings of france and hungary, to queen giovanna of naples, to the magistrates of italian cities, to the italian cardinals who have joined the schism, and to others. fra raimondo, despatched to france, to her grief and exaltation, evades his mission through timidity, to her bitter disappointment, but does not return to rome till after her death. catherine's health, always fragile, gives way under her unremitting labours and her great sorrows. 1380. catherine succeeds in quieting the revolt of the romans against urban. she dedicates herself as a sacrificial victim, in expiation of the sins of the church and of the roman people. in vision at st. peter's, on sexagesima sunday, the burden of the ship of the church descends upon her shoulders. her physical sufferings increase, and on april 30th she dies, in the presence of her disciples. brief table of contemporary public events 1368-1369. political revolution in siena. the compromise government of the riformatori is established. the emperor charles v. is summoned to the city by the party worsted in the revolution, joined by certain nobles. he arrives in january, '69, but is forced to withdraw by a popular rising. the nobles are excluded from the chief power and ravaged by feuds among themselves. 1372. gregory xi. declares war against bernabo visconti of milan, and takes into his pay the english free-lance, sir john hawkwood. peter d'estaing, appointed legate of bologna, makes truce with bernabo. the latter, however, continues secretly to incite tuscany to rebel against the pope, inflaming the indignation of the tuscans at the arbitrary policy of the papal legates, and in particular of the nuncio, gerard du puy, who is supporting the claims of those turbulent nobles, the salimbeni in siena. catherine is in correspondence with both d'estaing and du puy. on april 22nd, gregory, in full consistory, announces his intention of returning to rome. 1373. italy is devastated by petty strife: "it seems as if a planet reigned at this time which produced in the world the following effects: that the brothers of st. austin killed their provincial at sant' antonio with a knife; and in siena was much fighting. at assisi the brothers minor fought, and killed fourteen with a knife. and those of the rose fought, and drove six away. also, those of certosa had great dissensions, and their general came and changed them all about. so all religious everywhere seemed to have strife and dissension among themselves. and every religious of whatever rule was oppressed and insulted by the world. so with brothers according to the flesh--cousins, wives, relatives, and neighbours. it seems that there were divisions all over the whole world. in siena, loyalty was neither proposed nor observed, gentlemen did not show it among themselves nor outside, nor did the nine among themselves or with outside persons, nor did the twelve. the people did not agree with their own leader, nor exactly with any one else. thus all the world was a place of shadows."--_chronicle of neri di donato_. a crusade publicly proclaimed by the pope. 1374. plague and famine lay tuscany waste. william of noellet, the papal legate, refuses to allow corn to be imported into tuscany from the papal states. hawkwood, probably at his instigation, ravages the country, and even threatens the city of florence. florence, enraged, rebels against the pope, and appoints from the ranks of the ghibellines a new body of magistrates, known as the eight of war. meantime, cione de' salimbeni is raiding the country around siena. the roads through the maremma are insecure for peaceable folk, and the peasants are driven to take refuge in the plague-stricken town. 1375. eighty italian cities join a league, headed by florence, against the pope, with the watchword, "fling off the foreign yoke." 1376. gregory despatches ambassadors to the eight of war, who scorn his proposals. florence incites bologna to revolt, and the legate flees. the papal nuncio is flayed alive in the streets of florence. the city is placed under an interdict. envoys are despatched to avignon, who set forth eloquently, but to no avail, the grievances of the city. war is declared against florence by the pope, and count robert of geneva, with an army of free-lances, is sent into italy. count robert, laying waste the territory of bologna, summons hawkwood to his aid, and perpetrates the hideous massacre of cesena. catherine, sent to avignon, fails to procure peace. gregory, swayed by her representations, returns to italy, and reaches rome, after a difficult journey, on january 17th, 1377. 1378. gregory, exhausted and disappointed by the continued discords in italy, dies in march. the archbishop of bari, known as urban vi., is appointed his successor. in july, peace is made with florence, and the interdict upon the city is raised. the harsh measures of urban in dealing with the clergy arouse violent antagonism. in june, the cardinals begin to circulate rumours challenging the validity of the election, and on september 20th they formally announce that the election was invalid, having been forced on them by fear, and appoint as pope the cardinal robert of geneva, who takes the name of clement vii. 1379-1380. the great schism divides europe. england remains faithful to urban: france and naples, after wavering, declare for clement. war rages between the two popes. the schismatic forces gain possession of the castle of saint angelo at rome, but are driven out by the forces of urban, who in gratitude marches barefoot in solemn procession from santa maria in trastevere, to st. peter's. the city, however, later revolts against urban, but is reconciled to him, partly through the efforts of catherine. queen giovanna of naples, having conspired against urban's life, is excommunicated. letters to monna alessa dei saracini the young widow of noble family to whom this letter was written was the most cherished among catherine's women friends. she seems, as often happens with the chosen companion of a fervent and powerful nature, to have been a person simple, lovable, and quietly wise. having after her husband's death assumed the habit of st. dominic, she distributed her possessions to the poor by catherine's advice, but she evidently retained her home in siena. this became a constant refuge for the saint from the overcrowded benincasa household, and the scene of more than one charming episode in her life as told by the legend. for the mantellate, or tertiaries of st. dominic, were not cloistered, nor did they take the monastic vows; they simply lived in their own homes a life of special devotion. to alessa, catherine left on her deathbed the care of her spiritual family. this intimate little letter dates from an early period in their friendship. in its homely, practical wisdom, as in the gentle loftiness of its tone, it shows the watchful and loving care with which catherine entered into the details of the daily life of those whom she sought to lead with her in the way of salvation. the tests she proposes are as penetrating to-day as they were then. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, thy poor unworthy mother, want thee to attain that perfection for which god has chosen thee. it seems to me that one wishing so to attain should walk with and not without moderation. and yet every work of ours ought to be done both without and with moderation: it befits us to love god without moderation, putting to that love neither limit nor measure nor rule, but loving him immeasurably. and if thou wish to reach the perfection of love, it befits thee to set thy life in order. let thy first rule be to flee the conversation of every human being, in so far as it is simply conversation, except as deeds of charity may demand; but to love people very much, and talk with few of them. and know how to talk in moderation even with those whom thou lovest with spiritual love; reflect that if thou didst not do this, thou wouldst place a limit before perceiving it to that limitless love which thou oughtest to bear to god, by placing the finite creature between you: for the love which thou shouldst place in god thou wouldst place in the creature, loving it without moderation; and this would hinder thy perfection. therefore thou shouldst love it spiritually, in a disciplined way. be a vase, which thou fillest at the source and at the source dost drink from. although thou hadst drawn thy love from god, who is the source of living water, didst thou not drink it continually in him thy vase would remain empty. and this shall be the sign to thee that thou dost not drink wholly in god: when thou sufferest from that which thou lovest, either by some talk thou didst hold, or because thou wast deprived of some consolation thou wast used to receiving, or for some other accidental cause. if thou sufferest, then, from this or anything else except wrong against god, it is a clear sign to thee that this love is still imperfect, and drawn far from the source. what way is there, then, to make the imperfect perfect? this way: to correct and chastise the movements of thy heart with true self-knowledge, and with hatred and distaste for thy imperfection, that thou art such a peasant as to give to the creature that love which ought to be given wholly to god, loving the creature without moderation, and god moderately. for love toward god should be without measure, and that for the creature should be measured by that for god, and not by the measure of one's own consolations, either spiritual or temporal. so do, then, that thou lovest everything in god, and correct every inordinate affection. make two homes for thyself, my daughter. one actual home in thy cell, that thou go not running about into many places, unless for necessity, or for obedience to the prioress, or for charity's sake; and another spiritual home, which thou art to carry with thee always--the cell of true selfknowledge, where thou shalt find within thyself knowledge of the goodness of god. these are two cells in one, and when abiding in the one it behoves thee to abide in the other, for otherwise the soul would fall into either confusion or presumption. for didst thou rest in knowledge of thyself, confusion of mind would fall on thee; and didst thou abide in the knowledge of god alone, thou wouldst fall into presumption. the two, then, must be built together and made one same thing; if thou dost this, thou wilt attain perfection. for from self-knowledge thou wilt gain hatred of thine own fleshliness, and through hate thou wilt become a judge, and sit upon the seat of thy conscience, and pass judgment; and thou wilt not let a fault go without giving sentence on it. from such knowledge flows the stream of humility; which never seizes on mere report, nor takes offence at anything, but bears every insult, every loss of consolation, and every sorrow, from whatever direction they may come, patiently, with joy. shames appear glory, and great persecutions refreshment; and it rejoices in all, seeing itself punished for that perverse law of self-will in its members which for ever rebels against god; and it sees itself conformed with christ jesus crucified, the way and the doctrine of truth. in the knowledge of god thou shalt find the fire of divine charity. where shalt thou rejoice? upon the cross, with the spotless lamb, seeking his honour and the salvation of souls, through continual, humble prayer. now herein is all our perfection. there are many other things also, but this is the chief, from which we receive so much light that we cannot err in the lesser works that follow. rejoice, my daughter, to conform thee to the shame of christ. and watch over the impulse of the tongue, that the tongue may not always respond to the impulse of the heart; but digest what is in thy heart, with hatred and distaste for thyself. do thou be the least of the least, subject in humility and patience to every creature through god; not making excuses, but saying: the fault is mine. thus are vices conquered in thy soul and in the soul of him to whom thou shouldest so speak: through the virtue of humility. order thy time: the night to vigil, when thou hast paid the debt of sleep to thy body; and the morning in church with sweet prayer; do not spend it in chatting until the appointed hour. let nothing except necessity, or obedience, or charity, as i said, draw thee away from this or anything else. after the hour of eating, recollect thyself a little, and then do something with thy hands, as thou mayest need. at the hour of vespers, do thou go and keep quiet; and as much as the holy spirit enjoins on thee, that do. then go back and take care of thy old mother without negligence, and provide what she needs; be thine this burden. more when i return. so do that thou mayest fulfil my desire. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to benincasa her brother when he was in florence one questions whether catherine's brother would have relished the admonitions of his saintly sister, had he known what we learn through her biographer: that, feeling the temporal prosperity of her family to be a snare to them, she had earnestly prayed that they might fall into poverty. the petition was promptly granted: worldly losses, and the departure of two of the brothers for florence, followed upon the sienese revolution of 1368. apparently, family misunderstandings accompanied these readjustments. in the first of the present letters catherine takes her elder brother to task for neglect of his mother, monna lapa. we do not know the effect of her remarks, but we do know that in the large family of twenty-four, no one except catherine herself--first recluse, and later busy woman of affairs as she was--seems to have carried the responsibility for the mother's welfare. the mother lived for the most part with her great daughter, except when public interests took catherine away from home--occasions to which poor monna lapa was never reconciled. in the second of these notes, catherine comforts her brother very sweetly, probably for the loss of his wealth. but if we may judge from the nature of the reflections addressed to him, the spiritual instruction by which benincasa was capable of profiting was extremely elementary in character. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest brother in christ jesus: i catherine, a useless servant, comfort and bless thee and invite thee to a sweet and most holy patience, for without patience we could not please god. so i beg you, in order that you may receive the fruit of your tribulations, that you assume the armour of patience. and should it seem very hard to you to endure your many troubles, bear in memory three things, that you may endure more patiently. first, i want you to think of the shortness of your time, for on one day you are not certain of the morrow. we may truly say that we do not feel past trouble, nor that which is to come, but only the moment of time at which we are. surely, then, we ought to endure patiently, since the time is so short. the second thing is, for you to consider the fruit which follows our troubles. for st. paul says there is no comparison between our troubles and the fruit and reward of supernal glory. the third is, for you to consider the loss which results to those who endure in wrath and impatience; for loss follows this here, and eternal punishment to the soul. therefore i beg you, dearest brother, to endure in all patience. and i would not have it escape your mind that you should correct you of your ingratitude, and your ignoring of the duty you owe your mother, to which you are held by the commandment of god. i have seen your ingratitude multiply so that you have not even paid her the due of help that you owe: to be sure, i have an excuse for you in this, because you could not; but if you had been able, i do not know that you would have done it, since you have left her in scarcity even of words. oh, ingratitude! have you not considered the sorrow of her labour, nor the milk that she drew from her breast, nor the many troubles that she has had, over you and all the others? and should you say to me that she has had no compassion on us, i say that it is not so; for she has had so much on you and the other that it costs her dear. but suppose it were true--you are under obligation to her, not she to you. she did not take her flesh from you, but gave you hers. i beg you to correct this fault and others, and to pardon my ignorance. for did i not love your soul, i would not say to you what i do. remember your confession, you and all your family. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and most beloved brother in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, comfort you in the precious blood of the son of god: with desire to see you wholly in accord with the will of god, and transformed thereby; knowing that this is a sweet and holy yoke which makes all bitterness turn into sweetness. every great burden becomes light beneath this most holy yoke of the sweet will of god, without which thou couldst not please god, but wouldst know a foretaste of hell. comfort you, comfort you, dearest brother, and do not faint beneath this chastisement of god; but trust that when human help fails, divine help is near. god will provide for you. reflect that job lost his possessions and his sons and his health: his wife remained to him for a perpetual scourge; and then, when god had tested his patience, he restored everything to him double, and at the end eternal life. patient job never was perturbed, but would say, always exercising the virtue of holy patience, "god gave them to me, god has taken them from me; the name of god be blessed." so i want you to do, dearest brother: be a lover of virtue, with holy patience, often using confession, which will as often help you to endure your afflictions. and i tell you, god will show his benignity and mercy, and will reward you for every affliction which you shall have borne for his love. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to the venerable religious, brother antonio of nizza, of the order of the hermit brothers of saint augustine at the wood of the lake it is in her letters to persons leading the dedicated life that one can most clearly study catherine's own inner experience. when warning and consoling them, she is speaking to herself. this obscure girl had a way of writing to the great of this earth--and indeed to the very fathers of christendom--with the straightforward simplicity of a teacher instructing childish minds in the evident rudiments of virtue. often the sanctified common sense of her letters to dignitaries is the most noticeable thing about them. but when she turns to a holy hermit, the tone changes. the commonplaces of the moral life are assumed or left behind; she speaks to a soul that has presumably already brought its will into accord with the divine will in regard to all outward happenings, and she takes calmly for granted that this is a light and little thing. we proceed to the analysis of temptations more subtle and more alluring. catherine has few superiors among religious thinkers in the power to trace self-will to its remotest lairs, in the deeper reaches of personality. in letters to such correspondents as frate antonio she often gives us, as here, precious records of her intercourse with her lord. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: to you, most beloved and dearest father and brother in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write and commend me in the precious blood of the son of god, with desire to see you kindled and inflamed in the furnace of divine charity and your own selfwill--the will that robs us of all life--consumed therein. let us open our eyes, dearest brother, for we have two wills--one of the senses, which seeks the things of sense, and the other the self-will of the spirit, which, under aspect and colour of virtue, holds firm to its own way. and this is clear when it wants to choose places and seasons and consolations to suit itself, and says: "thus i wish in order to possess god more fully." this is a great cheat, and an illusion of the devil; for not being able to deceive the servants of god through their first will--since the servants of god have already mortified it so far as the things of sense go--the devil catches their second will on the sly with things of the spirit. so many a time the soul receives consolation, and then later feels itself deprived thereof by god; and another experience will harrow it, which will give less consolation and more fruit. then the soul, which is inspired by what gives sweetness, suffers when deprived of it, and feels annoyance. and why annoyance? because it does not want to be deprived; for it says, "i seem to love god more in this way than in that. from the one i feel that i bear some fruit, and from the other i perceive no fruit at all, except pain and ofttimes many conflicts; and so i seem to wrong god." son and brother in christ jesus, i say that this soul is deceived by its self-will. for it would not be deprived of sweetness; with this bait the devil catches it. frequently men lose time in longing for time to suit themselves, for they do not employ what they have otherwise than in suffering and gloominess. once our sweet saviour said to a very dear daughter of his, "dost thou know how those people act who want to fulfil my will in consolation and in sweetness and joy? when they are deprived of these things, they wish to depart from my will, thinking to do well and to avoid offence; but false sensuality lurks in them, and to escape pains it falls into offence without perceiving it. but if the soul were wise and had the light of my will within, it would look to the fruit and not to the sweetness. what is the fruit of the soul? hatred of itself and love of me. this hate and love are the issue of self-knowledge; then the soul knows its faulty self to be nothing, and it sees in itself my goodness, which keeps its will good; and it sees what a person i have made it, in order that it may serve me in greater perfection, and judges that i have made it for the best, and for its own greatest good. such a man as this, dearest daughter, does not wish for time to suit himself, because he has learned humility; knowing his infirmity, he does not trust in his own wish, but is faithful to me. he clothes him in my highest and eternal will, because he sees that i neither give nor take away, save for your sanctification; and he sees that love alone impels me to give you sweetness and to take it from you. for this cause he cannot grieve over any consolation that might be taken from him within or without, by demon or fellow-creature--because he sees that, were this not for his good, i should not permit it. therefore this man rejoices because he has light within and without, and is so illumined that when the devil approaches his mind with shadows to confuse him, saying, 'this is for thy sins,' he replies like a person who shrinks not from suffering, saying, 'thanks be to my creator, who has remembered me in the time of shadows, punishing me by pain in finite time. great is this love, which will not punish me in the infinite future.' oh, what tranquillity of mind has this soul, because it has freed itself from the self-will which brings storm! but not thus does he whose self-will is lively within, seeking things after his own way! for he seems to think that he knows what he needs better than i. many a time he says, 'it seems to me that i am wronging god in this: free me from wrong, and let what he wills be done.' this is a sign that you are freed from wrong, when you see in yourself goodwill not to want to wrong god, and displeasure with sin; thence ought you to take hope. although all external activities and inward consolations should fail, let goodwill to please god ever remain firm. upon this rock is founded grace. if thou sayest, i do not seem to have it, i say that this is false, for if thou hadst it not, thou wouldst not fear to wrong god. but it is the devil who makes things look so, in order that the soul may fall into confusion and disordered sadness, and hold firm its selfwill, by wanting consolations, times and seasons in its own way. do not believe him, dearest daughter, but let your soul be always ready to endure sufferings in howsoever god may inflict them. otherwise you would do like a man who stands on the threshold with a light in his hand, who reaches his hand out and casts light outside, and within it is dark. such is a man who is already united in outward things with the will of god, despising the world; but within, his spiritual self-will is living still, veiled in the colour of virtue." thus spoke god to that servant of his spoken of above. therefore i said that i wished and desired that your will should be absorbed and transformed in him, while we hold ourselves always ready to bear pains and toils howsoever god chooses to send them to us. so we shall be freed from darkness and abide in light. amen. praised be jesus christ crucified and sweet mary. to monna agnese who was the wife of messer orso malavolti catherine is well aware that the world can be as true a school of holiness as the forest cell. she writes to the noble lady, monna agnese malavolti, in much the same strain as to frate antonio. the danger of spiritual selfwill forms indeed one of those recurring themes which pervade her letters like the motifs of wagnerian music--ever the same, yet woven into evernew harmonies. but the general subject of this letter is the "santissima pazienza," which is still frequently invoked by the common folk of siena: and catherine's analysis searches deep. patience could hardly have been one of the virtues most native to the woman's valiant spirit, and one feels in her keen and solemn meditations that she had herself known the bitter and corroding power of the sin "that burns and does not consume," and that "makes the soul unendurable to itself." it is with convincing fervour and fulness that she presents impatience as the permanent condition of the lost. the little discussion of impatience in human relations, and of the "proud humility" resorted to by a soul ravaged by a sense of neglect, has also a very personal note. but it is still more clear in the letter that catherine's had become the disciplined nature which can "endure a restless mind with more reverence than a tranquil one," if such be the will of god, and which has entered deeply into the joy that awaits the meek. monna agnese must have stood in special need of these touching exhortations: she was a woman sorrowfully tried. her son had been beheaded in 1372, in punishment for heinous sin; and now her only daughter had died. "for the which thing," writes catherine, with one of her own inimitable phrases, "i am deeply content, with a holy compassion." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with the desire to see you established in true patience, since i consider that without patience we cannot please god. for just as impatience gives much pleasure to the devil and to one's own lower nature, and revels in nothing but anger when it misses what the lower nature wants, so it is very displeasing to god. it is because anger and impatience are the very pith and sap of pride that they please the devil so much. impatience loses the fruit of its labour, deprives the soul of god; it begins by knowing a foretaste of hell, and later it brings men to eternal damnation: for in hell the evil perverted will burns with anger, hate and impatience. it burns and does not consume, but is evermore renewed--that is, it never grows less, and therefore i say, it does not consume. it has indeed parched and consumed grace in the souls of the lost, but as i said it has not consumed their being, and so their punishment lasts eternally. the saints say that the damned ask for death and cannot have it, because the soul never dies. it dies to be sure to grace, by mortal sin; but it does not die to existence. there is no sin nor wrong that gives a man such a foretaste of hell in this life as anger and impatience. it is hated by god, it holds its neighbour in aversion, and has neither knowledge nor desire to bear and forbear with its faults. and whatever is said or done to it, it at once empoisons, and its impulses blow about like a leaf in the wind. it becomes unendurable to itself, for perverted will is always gnawing at it, and it craves what it cannot have; it is discordant with the will of god and with the rational part of its own soul. and all this comes from the tree of pride, from which oozes out the sap of anger and impatience. the man becomes an incarnate demon, and it is much worse to fight with these visible demons than with the invisible. surely, then, every reasonable being ought to flee this sin. but note, that there are two sources of impatience. there is a common kind of impatience, felt by ordinary men in the world, which befalls them on account of the inordinate love they have for themselves and for temporal things, which they love apart from god; so that to have them they do not mind losing their soul, and putting it into the hands of the devils. this is beyond help, unless a man recognizes himself, how he has wronged god, and cuts down that tree of pride with the sword of true humility, which produces charity in the soul. for there is a tree of love, whose pith is patience and goodwill toward one's neighbour. for, just as impatience shows more clearly than any other sin that the soul is deprived of god-because it is at once evident that since the pith is there, the tree of pride must be there--so patience shows better and more perfectly than any other virtue, that god is in the soul by grace. patience, i say, deep within the tree of love, that for love of its creator disdains the world, and loves insults whencesoever they come. i was saying that anger and impatience were of two kinds, one general and one special. we have spoken of the common kind. now i talk of the more particular, of the impatience of those who have already despised the world, and who wish to be servants of christ crucified in their own way; that is, in so far as they shall find joy and consolation in him. this is because spiritual self-will is not dead in them: therefore they imperiously demand from god that he should give them consolations and tribulations in their own way, and not in his; and so they become impatient, when they get the contrary of what their spiritual self-will wants. this is a little offshoot from pride, sprouting from real pride, as a tree sends out a little tree by its side, which looks separated from it, but nevertheless it gets the substance from which it springs from the same tree. so is self-will in the soul which chooses to serve god in its own way; and when that way fails it suffers, and its suffering makes it impatient, and it is unendurable to itself, and takes no pleasure in serving god or its neighbour. nay, if any one came to it for comfort or help it would give him nothing but reproaches, and would not know how to be tolerant to his need. all this results from the sensitive spiritual self-will that grows from the tree of pride which was cut down, but not uprooted. it is cut down when the soul uplifts its desire above the world, and fastens it on god, but has fastened there imperfectly; the root of pride was left, and therefore it sent up an offshoot by its side, and shows itself in spiritual things. so, if it misses consolations from god, and its mind stays dry and sterile, it at once becomes disturbed and depressed, and, under colour of virtue--because it thinks itself deprived of god--it begins to complain, and lays down the law to god. but were it truly humble and had true hate and knowledge of itself, it would deem itself unworthy of the visitation of god to its soul, and worthy of the pain that it suffers, in being deprived, not of god's grace in the soul, but of its consolations. it suffers, then, because it has to work in its chains; yes, spiritual self-will suffers under the delusion that it is wronging god, while the trouble is really with its own lower nature. therefore the humble soul, which has freely uprooted with eager love the root of pride, has annulled its own will, seeking ever the honour of god and the salvation of souls. it does not mind sufferings, but endures a restless mind with more reverence than a quiet one; having a holy respectful knowledge that god gives and grants this to it for its good, that it may rise from imperfection to perfection. that is the way to make it attain perfection, for it recognizes better thereby its own defects and the grace of god, which it finds within, in the goodwill that god has given it to hate its mortal sin. also, by meditating on its defects and faults, old and new, it has conceived hatred for itself, and love for the highest eternal will of god. therefore it bears these things with reverence, and is content to endure inwardly and outwardly, in whatever way god grants it. provided that it can be filled and clothed with the sweetness of the will of god, it rejoices in everything; and the more it sees itself deprived of the thing it loves, whether the consolations of god, as i said, or of its fellows, the more gladsome it grows. for many a time it happens that the soul loves spiritually; but if it does not find the consolation or satisfaction from the beloved that it would like, or if it suspects that more love or satisfaction is given to another than to itself, it falls into suffering, into depression of mind, into criticism of its neighbour and false judgment, passing judgment on the mind and intention of the servants of god, and especially on those from whom it suffers. thence it becomes impatient, and thinks what it should not think, and says with its tongue what it should not say. in such suffering as this, it likes to resort to a proud humility, which has the aspect of humility, but is really an offshoot of pride, springing up beside it-saying to itself: "i will not pay these people any more attention, or trouble myself any more about them. i will keep entirely to myself; i do not wish to hurt either myself or them." and it abases itself with a perverted scorn. now it ought to perceive that this is scorn, by the impulse to judge that it feels in its heart, and by the complaints of its tongue. it ought not then to do so; for in this fashion it will never get rid of the root of pride, nor cut off the little son at the side, which hinders the soul from attaining the perfection at which it has aimed. but it ought to kneel at the table of the most holy cross, to receive the food of the honour of god and the salvation of souls, with a free heart, with holy hatred of itself, with passionate desire: seeking to gain virtue by suffering and sweat, and not by private consolations either from god or its fellows; following the footsteps and the teaching of christ crucified, saying to itself with sharp rebuke: "thou shouldst not, my soul, thou that art a member, travel by another road than thy head. an unfit thing it is that limbs should remain delicate beneath a thorn-crowned head." if such habits became fixed, through one's own frailty, or the wiles of the devil, or the many impulses that shake the heart like winds, then the soul ought to ascend the seat of its conscience, and reason with itself, and let nothing pass without punishment and chastisement, hatred and distaste for itself. so the root shall be pulled up, and by displeasure against itself the soul will drive out displeasure against its neighbour, grieving more over the unregulated instincts of its own heart and thoughts than over the suffering it could receive from its fellows, or any insult or annoyance they could inflict on it. this is the sweet and holy fashion observed by those who are wholly inspired of christ; for in this wise they have uprooted perverted pride, and that marrow of impatience of which we said above that it was very pleasing to the devil, because it is the beginning and occasion of every sin; and on the contrary that as it is very pleasing to the devil, so it is very displeasing to god. pride displeases him and humility pleases him. so greatly did the virtue of humility please him in mary that he was constrained to give her the word his only-begotten son and she was the sweet mother who gave him to us. know well, that until mary showed by her spoken words her humility and pure will, when she said: "ecce ancilla domini, be it done unto me according to thy word"--the son of god was not incarnate in her; but when she had said this, she conceived within herself that sweet and spotless lamb--the sweet primal truth showing thereby how excellent is this little virtue, and how much the soul receives that offers and presents its will in humility to its creator. so then--in the time of labours and persecutions, of insults and injuries inflicted by one's neighbour, of mental conflicts and deprivation of spiritual consolations, by the creator or the creature, (by the creator in his gentleness, when he withdraws the feeling of the mind, so that it does not seem as if god were in the soul, so many are its pains and conflicts--and by fellow-creatures, in conversation or amusement, or when the soul thinks that it loves more than it is loved)--in all these things, i say that the soul perfected by humility says: "my lord, behold thy handmaid: be it done unto me according to thy word, and not according to what i want with my senses." so it sheds the fragrance of patience, around the creator and its fellow-creature and itself. it has peace and quiet in its mind, and it has found peace in warfare, because it has driven far from it its self-will founded in pride, and has conceived divine grace in its soul. and it bears in its mind's breast christ crucified, and rejoices in the wounds of christ crucified, and seeks to know naught but christ crucified; and its bed is the cross of christ crucified. there it annuls its own will, and becomes humble and obedient. for there is no obedience without humility, nor humility without charity. this is shown by the word, for in obedience to his father and in humility, he ran to the shameful death of the cross, nailing and binding him with the nails and bands of charity, and enduring in such patience that no cry of complaint was heard from him. for nails were not enough to hold godand-man nailed and fastened on the cross had love not held him there. this i say that the soul feels; therefore it will not joy otherwise than with christ crucified. for could it attain to virtue and escape hell and have eternal life, without sufferings, and have in the world consolations spiritual and temporal, it would not wish them; but it desires rather to suffer, enduring even unto death, than to have eternal life in any other way: only let it conform itself with christ crucified, and clothe it with his shames and pains. it has found the table of the spotless lamb. oh, glorious virtue! who would not give himself to death a thousand times, and endure any suffering through desire to win thee? thou art a queen, who dost possess the entire world; thou dost inhabit the enduring life; for while the soul that is arrayed in thee is yet mortal, thou makest it abide by force of love with those who are immortal. since, then, this virtue is so excellent and pleasing to god and useful to us and saving to our neighbour, arise, dearest daughter, from the sleep of negligence and ignorance, casting to earth the weakness and frailty of thy heart, that it feel no suffering nor impatience over anything that god permits to us, so that we may not fall either into the common kind of impatience, or into the special kind, as we were saying before, but serve our sweet saviour manfully, with liberty of heart and true perfect patience. if we do otherwise, we shall lose grace by the first sort of impatience, and by the second we shall hinder our state of perfection; and you would not attain that to which god has called you. it seems that god is calling you to great perfection. and i perceive it by this, that he takes away from you every tie that might hinder it in you. for as i have heard, it seems that he has called to himself your daughter, who was your last tie with the outer world. for which thing i am deeply content, with a holy compassion, that god should have set you free, and taken her from her labours. now then, i want that you should wholly destroy your own will, that it may cling to nothing but christ crucified. in this way you will fulfil his will and my desire. therefore, not knowing any other way in which you could fulfil it, i said to you that i desired to see you established in true and holy patience, because without this we cannot reach our sweet goal. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to sister eugenia, her niece at the convent of saint agnes of montepulciano two nieces, daughters of bartolo benincasa, were nuns in the convent of montepulciano. to one of them the following letter is addressed. one can read between the lines a lively solicitude. never cloistered herself, catherine had a close intimacy with cloisters, and knew their best and worst. she held in hearty and loyal respect the opportunities which they offered for leading an exalted life; to this convent of st. agnes she was peculiarly attached. at the same time, she was well aware, as other letters beside the present show, that even the best of cloisters afforded at this time scant shelter to young girls from emotional temptation, gross or fine. her warnings to her niece have the authoritative tone of anxiety. let us hope that eugenia took them to heart; and that, leading the disciplined life of catherine's desire, she became not unworthy to receive and apprehend in its full beauty the penetrating meditation on prayer which forms the second part of the letter. the thoughts of this meditation, like many others in catherine's letters, will be found amplified in her dialogue--a colloquy between god and her soul, composed and dictated in trance during the year 1378. the following quotation illustrates an interesting passage of the letter:-"in this way, vocal prayer can be useful to the soul and do me pleasure, and from imperfect vocal prayer it can advance by persevering practice to perfect mental prayer. but if it aims simply to complete its number (of paternosters), or if it gave up mental prayer for the sake of vocal, it would never arrive at perfection. sometimes, when a soul has made a resolution to say a certain number of prayers, i may visit its mind, now in one way, now in another: at one time with the light of self-knowledge and contrition over its lightness, at another, with the largesse of my charity; at another, by putting before its mind, in diverse manner as may please me, and as that soul may have craved, the presence of my truth. and the soul will be so ignorant that it will turn from my visitation, in order to complete its number, from a conscientious scruple against giving up what it began. it ought not to do thus, for this would be a wile of the devil. but at once, when it feels its mind ready for my visitation, in any way, as i said, it should abandon the vocal prayer. then, when the mental has passed, if there is time it can resume the other, which it had planned to say. but if there is not time it must not care nor be troubled or bewildered." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood, with desire to see thee taste the food of angels, since thou art made for no other end; and that thou mightest taste it, god bought thee with the blood of his only-begotten son. but reflect, dearest daughter, that this food is not taken upon earth, but on high, and therefore the son of god chose to be lifted up upon the wood of the most holy cross, in order that we might receive this food upon this table on high. but thou wilt say to me: what is this food of angels? i reply to thee: it is the desire of god, which draws to itself the desire that is in the depths of the soul, and they make one thing together. this is a food which while we are pilgrims in this life, draws to itself the fragrance of true and sincere virtues, which are prepared by the fire of divine charity, and received upon the table of the cross. that is, virtue is won by pain and weariness, casting down one's own fleshly nature;--the kingdom of one's soul which is called heaven (_cielo_) because it hides (_cela_) god within it by patience, is seized with force and violence. this is the food that makes the soul angelic, and therefore it is called the food of angels; and also because the soul, separated from the body, tastes god in his essential being. he satisfies the soul in such wise that she longs for no other thing nor can desire aught but what may help her more perfectly to keep and increase this food, so that she holds in hate what is contrary to it. therefore, like a prudent person, she looks with the light of most holy faith, which is in the eye of the mind, and beholds what is harmful and what is useful to her. and as she has seen, so she loves and condemns--holding, i say, her own fleshly nature and all the vices which proceed from it, bound beneath the feet of her affections. she flees all causes that may incline her to vice or hinder her perfection. so she annuls her self-will, which is the cause of all evil, and subjects it to the yoke of holy obedience, not only to the order and its chief, but to every least creature through god. she flees all glory and human indulgence, and glories only in the shames and sorrows of christ crucified: insults, outrage, ridicule, injuries, are milk to her; she joys in them, to be conformed with the bridegroom, christ crucified. she renounces conversation with fellow-beings, because she sees that they often intervene between us and our creator, and she flees to the actual and to the mental cell. to this i summon thee and the others: and i command thee, dearest daughter mine, that thou abide for ever in the cell of self-knowledge, where we find the angelic food of the eager desire of god toward us; and in the actual cell, with vigil and humble faithful continual prayer, divesting thy heart and mind of every creature, and clothing them with christ crucified. otherwise thou wouldst eat upon the earth, and there i have already said to thee, one should not eat. reflect that thy bridegroom, christ sweet jesus, wishes naught between thee and him, and is very jealous. so as soon as he saw that thou didst love any thing apart from him, he would go from thee, and thou wouldst be made worthy to eat the food of beasts. and wouldst thou not truly be a beast, and food for beasts, didst thou leave the creator for the creature, and infinite good for finite and transitory things that pass like the winds, light for darkness, life for death, him who clothes thee in the sun of justice with the clasp of obedience, and pearls of living faith, firm hope, and perfect charity, for him who robs thee of them? and wouldst thou not be foolish indeed to depart from him who gives thee perfect purity--so that the closer thou dost cling to him, the more the flower of thy virginity is refined--for those who many a time and oft shed a stench of impurity, defiling mind and body? god avert them from thee by his infinite mercy! and in order that no such thing may ever happen to thee, be on thy guard: let not thy misfortune be such as to enter into any private conversation, with monk or layman. for if i were to know or hear it, even if i were much farther away than i am, i would give thee such a discipline that it would stay in thy memory all thy whole life; never mind who may be by. beware neither to give nor receive, except in case of need, helping every one in common within and without. be steadfast and mature in thyself. serve the sisters tenderly, with all vigilance, especially those whom thou seest in need. when guests pass by and ask for thee at the gratings, abide in thy peace and do not go--but let them say to the prioress what they wanted to say to thee, unless she commands thee to go on thy obedience. then, hold thy head bowed, and be as savage as a hedgehog. keep in thy mind the manners which that glorious virgin saint agnes made her daughters observe. go to confession and tell thy need; and when thou hast received thy penance, run. beware, moreover, that thy confessors be not from the men who have brought thee up. and do not wonder because i talk so; for many a time thou mayest have heard me say, and it is the truth, that the talk of so-called pious men and women, full of depraved expressions, ruins the souls and the habits and practices of religious. beware that thou bind thy heart to none but christ crucified; for the hour would come when thou wouldst wish to set it free and couldst not, which would be very hard for thee. i say that the soul which has tasted of the food of angels has seen in the light that this and the other things we were speaking of are an obstacle between itself and its food, and therefore flees them with the greatest zeal. i say that it loves and seeks what may increase and preserve it. and because it has seen that this food is better enjoyed by means of prayer offered in self-knowledge, therefore it exercises itself therein continually by all the ways in which it can hold closer to god. prayer is of three sorts. the one is perpetual: it is the holy perpetual desire, which prays in the sight of god, whatever thou art doing; for this desire directs all thy works, spiritual and corporal, to his honour, and therefore it is called perpetual. of this it seems that saint paul the glorious was talking when he said: pray without ceasing. the other kind is vocal prayer, when the offices or other prayers are said aloud. this is ordained to reach the third--that is, mental prayer: your soul reaches this when it uses vocal prayer in prudence and humility, so that while the tongue speaks the heart is not far from god. but one must exert one's self to hold and establish one's heart in the force of divine charity. and whenever one felt one's mind to be visited by god, so that it was drawn to think of its creator in any wise, it ought to abandon vocal prayer, and to fix its mind with the force of love upon that wherein it sees god visit it; then, if it has time, when this has ceased, it ought to take up the vocal prayer again, in order that the mind may always stay full and not empty. and although many conflicts of diverse kinds should abound in prayer, and darkness of mind with much confusion, the devil making the soul feel that her prayer was not pleasing to god--nevertheless, she ought not to give up on account of those conflicts and shadows, but to abide firm in fortitude and long perseverance, considering that the devil so does to draw her away from prayer the mother, and god permits it to test the fortitude and constancy of that soul. also, in order that by those conflicts and shadows she may know herself not to be, and in the goodwill which she feels preserved within her may know the goodness of god, who is giver and preserver of good and holy wills: such wills as are not vouchsafed to all who want them. by this means she attains to the third and last--mental prayer, in which she receives the reward for the labours she underwent in her imperfect vocal prayer. then she tastes the milk of faithful prayer. she rises above herself--that is, above the gross impulses of the senses--and with angelic mind unites herself with god by force of love, and sees and knows with the light of thought, and clothes herself with truth. she is made the sister of angels; she abides with her bridegroom on the table of crucified desire, rejoicing to seek the honour of god and the salvation of souls; since well she sees that for this the eternal bridegroom ran to the shameful death of the cross, and thus fulfilled obedience to the father, and our salvation. this prayer is surely a mother, who conceives virtues by the love of god, and brings them forth in the love of the neighbour. where dost thou show love, faith, and hope, and humility? in prayer. for thou wouldst never take pains to seek the thing which thou didst not love; but he who loves would ever be one with what he loves--that is, god. by means of prayer thou askest of him thy necessity; for knowing thyself--the knowledge on which true prayer is founded--thou seest thyself to have great need. thou feelest thyself surrounded by thine enemies--by the world with its insults and its recalling of vain pleasures, by the devil with his many temptations, by the flesh with its great rebellion and struggle against the spirit. and thou seest that in thyself thou art not; not being, thou canst not help thyself; and therefore thou dost hasten in faith to him who is, who can and will help thee in thine every need, and thou dost hopefully ask and await his aid. thus ought prayer to be made, if thou wishest to have that which thou awaitest. never shall any just thing be denied thee which thou askest in this wise from the divine goodness; but if thou dost in other wise, little fruit shalt thou receive. where shalt thou feel grief in thy conscience? in prayer. where shalt thou divest thee of the self-love which makes thee impatient in the time of insults and of other pains, and shalt clothe thee in the divine love which shall make thee patient, and shalt glory in the cross of christ crucified? in prayer. where shalt thou breathe the perfume of virginity and the hunger for martyrdom, holding thee ready to give thy life for the honour of god and the salvation of souls? in this sweet mother, prayer. this will make thee an observer of thy rule: it will seal in thy heart and mind three solemn vows which thou didst make at thy profession, leaving there the imprint of the desire to observe them until death. this releases thee from conversation with fellow-creatures, and gives thee converse with thy creator; it fills the vessel of thy heart with the blood of the humble lamb, and crowns it with flame, because with flame of love that blood was shed. the soul receives and tastes this mother prayer more or less perfectly, according as it nourishes itself with the food of angels--that is, with holy and true desire for god, raising itself on high, as i said, to receive it upon the table of the most sweet cross. therefore i said to thee that i desired to see thee nourished with angelic food, because i see not that in otherwise thou couldst be a true bride of christ crucified, consecrated to him in holy religion. so do that i may see thee a jewel precious in the sight of god. and do not go about wasting thy time. bathe and drown thee in the sweet blood of thy bridegroom. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to nanna, daughter of benincasa a little maid, her niece, in florence this tender and playful little letter, with its childlike simplicity of fancy and gentle authority of tone, encourages us to believe that catherine appreciated the full advantages of being an aunt. we have other indications that the many spiritual ties which held her as she grew older never weakened the bond of any natural affection. indeed, catherine recreated each natural bond, when possible, as a spiritual bond, an achievement none too common. doubtless, many children grew up around her in the large benincasa household. we know that at the time of the plague, in 1374, lapa was bringing up eleven grandchildren in her own house. of these, eight fell victims to the pestilence, and we have a glimpse of catherine burying them with her own hands, and saying as she laid them to rest one by one, "this one, at least, i shall not lose." of the little nanna to whom this letter was written we know nothing, except that she was the child of the elder brother, who, as we have already seen, had moved to florence. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood, with desire to see thee a real bride of christ crucified, running away from everything which might hinder thee from possessing this sweet and glorious bridegroom. but thou couldst not do this if thou wert not among those wise virgins consecrated to christ who had lamps with oil in them, and light was within. see, then, if thou wishest to be a bride of christ, thou must have lamp, and oil, and light. dost thou know what this means, daughter mine? by the lamp is meant our heart, because a heart ought to be made like a lamp. thou seest that a lamp is wide above and narrow below, and so the heart is made, to signify that we ought always to keep it wide above, through holy thoughts and holy imaginations and continual prayer; always holding in memory the blessings of god, and chiefly the blessing of the blood by which we are bought. for blessed christ, my daughter, did not buy us with gold or silver or pearls or other precious stones; nay, he bought us with his precious blood. so one wants never to forget so great a blessing, but always to hold it before one's eyes, in holy and sweet gratitude, seeing how immeasurably god loves us: who did not shrink from giving his only begotten son to the opprobrious death of the cross, to give us the life of grace. i said that a lamp is narrow below, and so is our heart: to signify that the heart ought to be narrow toward these earthly things--that is, it must not desire nor love them extravagantly, nor hunger for more than god wills to give us; but ever thank him, seeing how sweetly he provides for us so that we never lack anything. now in this way, our heart will really be a lamp. but reflect, daughter mine, that this would not be enough were there no oil within. by oil is meant that sweet little virtue, profound humility: for it is fitting that the bride of christ be humble and gentle and patient; and she will be as humble as she is patient, and as patient as she is humble. but we cannot attain this virtue of humility except by true knowledge of ourselves, knowing our misery and frailty, and that we by ourselves can do no good deed, nor escape any conflict or pain; for if we have a bodily infirmity, or a pain or conflict in our minds, we cannot escape it or remove it--for if we could we should escape from it swiftly. so it is quite true that we in ourselves are nothing other than infamy, misery, stench, frailty, and sins; wherefore, we ought always to abide low and humble. but to abide wholly in such knowledge of one's self would not be good, because the soul would fall into weariness and confusion; and from confusion it would fall into despair: so the devil would like nothing better than to make us fall into confusion, to drive us afterward to despair. we ought, then, to abide in the knowledge of the goodness of god in himself, perceiving that he has created us in his image and likeness, and re-created us in grace by the blood of his only-begotten son, the sweet incarnate lord; and reflecting how continually the goodness of god works in us. but see, that to abide entirely in this knowledge of god would not be good, because the soul would fall into presumption and pride. so it befits us to have one mixed with the other--that is, to abide in the holy knowledge of the goodness of god, and also in the knowledge of ourselves: and so we shall be humble, patient, and gentle, and in this way we shall have oil in our lamp. now, then, we must have light--otherwise it would not be enough. this light has to be the light of most holy faith. but the saints say that faith without works is dead, so our faith might be neither living nor holy, but dead. therefore we need to exert ourselves virtuously all the time, and leave our childishness and vanities, and not behave any longer like worldly girls, but like faithful brides consecrated to christ crucified; in this way we shall have a lamp, and oil, and light. the gospel says that these wise virgins were five. so i tell thee that there must be five in each of us--otherwise we shall not enter the wedding feast of eternal life. by these five it is meant that we must subject and mortify our five bodily senses, in such wise that we may never offend with them, taking through them or some of them unregulated pleasure or delight. in this way we shall be five, when we have subdued our five senses. but think that that sweet bridegroom christ is more jealous of his brides than i could tell thee! therefore if he should see that thou didst love anyone more than him, he would be angry with thee at once. and if thou didst not correct thyself, the door would not be open to thee, to the wedding feast which christ the lamb without spot holds for all his faithful: but we should be driven away like bad women, as those five foolish virgins were, who, glorying only and vainly in the integrity and virginity of their body, lost the virginity of their soul, through the corruption of the five senses, because they did not carry the oil of humility with them, so that their lamps went out. therefore it was said to them: "go hence to buy oil." by this oil is meant in this place the flatteries and praises of men; since all the flatterers and praisers of the world sell this oil. as if it were said to them: "you have not wanted to buy eternal life with your virginity and your good works; no, you have wanted to buy the praises of men, and to have the praises of men you have wrought. go now and buy praises, for you will not enter here." therefore, daughter mine, beware of the praises of men; and do not want praise for any work that thou mayest do, for the door of eternal life would not be open to thee later. so, reflecting that this was the best way, i said that i desired to see thee a real bride of christ crucified; and so i beg and command thee that thou try hard to be. i say no more to thee. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters on the consecrated life catherine is known in history as one of the great ascetics of the church; these letters show her intimate attitude toward the mortification of the flesh. she was a woman called of god and her natural powers, constantly to assume the dangerous duty of convincing men of their sin; these letters give us her conception of the safeguards needed in the performance of that duty. both letters were written to religious. father william flete was an englishman, who, passing through italy in his youth, became fascinated with the land, and spent the rest of his life in a hermit's cell in the forest of lecceto. the annals of the time throw some entertaining sidelights on his figure. famous for his austerities and for the sanctity of his life, he was also a very impatient and somewhat intolerant person, given to carping criticism of his brother hermits. catherine, in writing to him, analyses mercilessly the dangers of the ascetic life; one feels that not much self-righteousness could be left in a man after reading her trenchant phrases. soon, however, she lifts him with her to the ardent contemplation of the perfect life; it is in words of singular beauty that she describes the attitude of generous loving-kindness, uncritical, humble and glad, with which the true servant of god considers all sorts and conditions of men: "such a man rejoices in every type that he sees, saying: thanks be to thee, eternal father, that thou hast many mansions in thy house.... he rejoices more in the differences among men than he would in seeing them all walk in the same way; for so he sees more manifest the greatness of the goodness of god. he gets from everything the fragrance of roses." in the letter to sister daniella, catherine develops these ideas further. of this "great servant of god" nothing is known except what catherine's letters to her show. something may be inferred from the fact that she is one of the few people to whom the greater woman writes as to a spititual equal. she repeats to daniella the letter to father william--such warnings, indeed, being needed by all persons leading the consecrated life--and then goes on, in the remainder of the letter as here given, to discuss those farther reaches of perfection in which charity has done its perfect work. two things she wishes herself and daniella to observe: the first is abstinence from critical thoughts. let us not "judge the minds of our fellow-creatures, which are for god alone to judge." it is the key to her own method in her great cure of souls which she here gives us: "when it seems that god shows us the faults of others, keep on the safer side-for it may be that thy judgment is false. on thy lips let silence abide. and any vice which thou mayest ascribe to others, do thou ascribe at once to them and to thyself, in true humility. if that vice really exists in a person, he will correct himself better, seeing himself so gently understood, and will say of his own accord the thing which thou wouldst have said to him."--the other point which catherine urges on daniella is the secondary importance of that life of mortification to which she firmly believes that they have both been called. "good is penance and maceration of the body; but do not present these to me as a rule for every one. if either for ourselves or others, we made penance our foundation ... we should be ignorant, and should fall into a critical attitude, and become weary and very bitter: for we should strive to give a finished work to god, who is infinite love, and demands from us only infinite desire." surely, in this last thought catherine has attained in a flash to sublime spiritual insight. the saints knew all about telepathy long before societies of psychical research grew eager over the matter. it might surprise some modern psychologists to read the tranquil passage in which catherine, assuming as a matter of course that any servant of god engaged in intercessory prayer has a mystical and direct knowledge of the condition of those she prays for, proceeds to warn daniella as intelligently as any modern could do, though in different terms, as to the limitations within which this kind of knowledge can be trusted. the little note with which this group closes is not written to a great recluse, but to a tailor's wife. with the simple, catherine showed herself simple; but monna agnese is to lead the consecrated life no less than sister daniella. catherine's plain directions to the one about her daily living evince the same mental clarity and sobriety as her exhortations to the other, and discriminate in much the same way between the excitement of religious practices and true consecration. to brother william of england of the hermit brothers of st. augustine in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with desire to see you in true light. for without light we shall not be able to walk in the way of truth, but shall walk in shadows. two lights are necessary. first, we must be illumined to know the transitory things of the world, which all pass like the wind. but these are not rightly known if we do not know our own frailty, how inclined it is, from the perverse law which is bound up with our members, to rebel against its creator. this light is necessary to every rational creature, in whatever state it may be, if it wishes to have divine grace, and to share in the blessing of the blood of the spotless lamb. this is the common light, that everybody in general ought to have, for whoever has it not is in a state of condemnation. this is the reason; that, not having light, he is not in a state of grace; for one who does not know the evil of wrong, nor who is cause of it, cannot avoid it nor hate the cause. so he who does not know good, and virtue the cause of good, cannot love nor desire that good. the soul must not stay content because it has arrived at gaining the general light; nay, it ought to go on with all zeal to the perfect light. for since men are at first imperfect rather than perfect, they should advance in light to perfection. two kinds of perfect people walk in this perfect light. there are some who give themselves to castigating their body perfectly, doing very great harsh penance; and that the flesh may not rebel against the reason, they have placed all their desire rather on mortifying their body than on slaying their self-will. these people feed at the table of penitence and are good and perfect; but unless they have a great humility and conform themselves not wholly to judge according to the will of god and not according to that of men, they often wrong their perfection, making themselves judges of those who do not walk in the same way in which they do. this happens to them because they have put more thought and desire on mortifying their body than on slaying their self-will. such men as these always want to choose times and places and mental consolations to suit themselves; also, worldly tribulations, and their battles with the devil; saying, through self-deceit, beguiled by their own will--which is called spiritual self-will--"i should like this consolation, and not these assaults or battles with the devil; not for my own sake, but to please god, and possess him more fully, because i seem to possess him better in this way than in that." many a time, in such a way as this, the soul falls into suffering and weariness, and becomes unendurable to itself through them, and thus wrongs its state of perfection. the odour of pride clings to it, and this it does not perceive. for, were it truly humble and not presumptuous, it would see well that the sweet primal truth gives conditions, time and place, and consolation and tribulation, according as is needful to our perfection, and to fulfil in the soul the perfection to which it is chosen. it would see that everything is given through love, and therefore with love. all things ought to be received with reverence, as is done by the second class of people, who abide in this sweet and glorious light, who are perfect in whatever condition they are, and, in so far as god permits them, hold everything in due reverence, esteeming themselves worthy of sufferings and scandals in the world, and of missing their consolations. as they hold themselves worthy of sufferings, so they hold themselves unworthy of the reward which follows suffering. these have known and tasted in the light the eternal will of god, which wishes naught but our good, and that we be sanctified in him, therefore giving his gifts. when the soul has known this will, it is arrayed therein, and cares for nothing save to see in what wise it can grow, and preserve its condition perfect, for glory and praise of the name of god. therefore, it opens the eye of the mind upon its object, christ crucified, who is rule and way and doctrine for perfect and imperfect: and sees the loving lamb, who gives it the doctrine of perfection, which seeing it loves. perfection is this: that the word, the son of god, fed at the table of holy desire for the honour of god and for our salvation; and with this desire ran with great zeal to the shameful death of the cross, avoiding neither toil nor labour, not drawing back for the ingratitude and ignorance of us men who did not recognize his benefits, nor for the persecution of the jews, nor for mockery or insults or criticism of the people, but underwent them all, like our captain and true knight, who was come to teach us his way and rule and doctrine, opening the door with the keys of his precious blood, shed with ardent love and hatred against sin. as says this sweet, loving word, "behold, i have made you a way, and opened the door with my blood. be you then not negligent to follow it, and do not sit yourselves down in self-love, ignorantly failing to know the way, and presumptuously wishing to choose it after your own fashion, and not after mine who made it. rise up then, and follow me: for no one can go to the father but by me. i am the way and the door." then the soul, enamoured and tormented with love, runs to the table of holy desire, and sees not itself in itself, seeking private consolation, spiritual or temporal, but, as one who has wholly destroyed his own will in this light and knowledge, refuses no toil from whatever side it comes. nay, in suffering, in pain, in many assaults from the devil and criticisms from men, it seeks upon the table of the cross the food of the honour of god and the salvation of men. and it seeks no reward, from god or from fellow-creatures; such men serve god, not for their own joy, and the neighbour not for their own will or profit, but from pure love. they lose themselves, divesting them of the old man, their fleshly desires, and array them in the new man, christ sweet jesus, following him manfully. these are they who feed at the table of holy desire, and have more zeal for slaying their self-will than for slaying and mortifying the body. they have mortified the body, to be sure, but not as a chief aim, but as the tool which it is, to help in slaying self-will; for one's chief aim ought to be and is to slay the will; that it may seek and wish naught save to follow christ crucified, seeking the honour and glory of his name, and the salvation of souls. such men abide ever in peace and quiet; there are none who can offend them, because they have cast away the thing that gives offence--that is, self-will. all the persecutions which the world and the devil can inflict run away beneath their feet; they stand in the water, made fast to the twigs of eager desire, and are not submerged. such a man as this rejoices in everything; he does not make himself a judge of the servants of god, nor of any rational creature; nay, he rejoices in every condition and every type that he sees, saying, "thanks be to thee, eternal father, that thou hast many mansions in thy house." and he rejoices more in the different kinds of men that he sees than he would do in seeing them all walk in the same way, for so he sees the greatness of god's goodness more manifest. he joys in everything, and gets from it the fragrance of roses. and even as to a thing which he may expressly see to be sin, he does not pose as a judge, but regards it rather with holy true compassion, saying, "to-day it is thy turn, and to-morrow mine, unless it be for divine grace which preserves me." oh, holy minds, who feed at the table of holy desire, who have attained in great light to nourish you with holy food, clothed with the sweet raiment of the lamb, his love and charity! you do not lose time in accepting false judgments, either of the servants of god or of the servants of the world; you do not take offence at any criticism, either against yourselves or others. your love toward god and your neighbour is governed well, and not ungoverned. and because it is governed, such men as these, dearest son, never take offence at those whom they love; for appearances are dead to them, and they have submitted themselves not to be guided by men, but only by the holy spirit. see then, these enjoy in this life the pledge of life eternal. i wish you and the other ignorant sons to reach this light, for i see that this perfection is lacking to you and to others. for were it not lacking to you, you would not have fallen into such criticism and offence and false judgment, as to say and believe that another man was guided and mastered by the will of the creature and not of the creator. my soul and my heart grieve to see you wrong the perfection to which god has called you, under pretence of love and odour of virtue. nevertheless, these are the tares which the devil has sowed in the field of the lord; he has done this to choke the seed of holy desire and doctrine sowed in your fields. will then to do so no more, since god has of grace given you great lights; the first, to despise the world; the second, to mortify the body; the third, to seek the honour of god. do not wrong this perfection with spiritual self-will, but rise from the table of penance and attain the table of the desire of god, where the soul is wholly dead to its own will, nourishing itself without suffering on the honour of god and the salvation of souls, growing in perfection and not wronging it. therefore, considering that this condition cannot be had without light, and seeing that you had it not, i said that i desired and desire to see you in true and perfect light. thus i pray you, by the love of christ crucified--you and brother antonio and all the others--that you struggle to win it, so that you may be numbered among the perfect and not among the imperfect. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. i commend me to all of you. bathe you in the blood of christ crucified. sweet jesus, jesus love. to daniella of orvieto clothed with the habit of st. dominic thou seest, then, that such men enjoy in this life the pledge of life eternal. they receive, not the payment, but the pledge--not waiting to receive it till the enduring life, where is life without death, satiety without disgust, and hunger without pain. for far is the pain of hunger, since they have completely what they desire; and far is the disgust of satiety, since that is the food of life without any lack. it is true that in this life one begins to enjoy the pledge, in this way, that the soul begins to be an-hungered for the food of the honour of god and the salvation of souls. as it is an-hungered, so it feeds thereon; yes, the soul nourishes itself on charity for the neighbour, for whom it has a hungry desire. that is a food which never satisfies those nourished on it. it never satiates, and therefore hunger lasts for ever. as a pledge is a beginning of surety given to a man, through which he expects to receive payment (not that the pledge is perfect in itself, but it gives assurance through one's trust, that fulfilment will come), so the soul enamoured of christ, which has already received in this life the pledge of love for god and its neighbour, is not perfect in itself, but awaits the perfection of the life immortal. i say that this pledge is not perfect--that is, the soul which enjoys it has not yet reached such perfection as not to feel sufferings, in itself or others: in itself, from the wrong it does to god, through the perverse law which is bound into our members; and in others, from the wrong of the neighbour. it is, to be sure, perfect in grace, but it has not the perfection of the saints, who are in the eternal life, as i said; since their desires are free from suffering and ours are not. dost thou know how it is with the true servant of god, who nourishes him at the table of holy desire? he is blessèd and grieving, as was the son of god upon the wood of the most holy cross: for the flesh of christ was grieved and tortured, and the soul was blessèd, through its union with the divine nature. so, through the union of our desire with god, ought we to be blessed, and clothed with his sweet will; and grieving, through compassion for our neighbour, casting from us sensuous joys and comforts and mortifying our flesh. but listen, daughter and dearest sister. i have spoken to thee and me in general, but now i shall speak to thee and me in particular. i want us to do two special things, in order that ignorance may not hinder our perfection, to which god calls us; that the devil, under cloak of virtue and love of the neighbour, may not nourish the root of presumption within our soul. for from this we shall fall into false judgments; seeming to ourselves to judge aright, we shall judge crookedly: often, if we followed our own impressions, the devil would make us see many truths to lead us into falsehood; and this, because we make ourselves judges of the minds of our fellow-creatures, which are for god alone to judge. this is one of the two things from which i wish that we should free ourselves completely. but i want the lesson to be learned reasonably. this is the reasonable way: if god expressly, not only once or twice, but more often, reveals the fault of a neighbour to our mind, we ought never to tell it in particular to the person whom it concerns, but to correct in common the vices of all those whom it befalls us to judge, and to implant virtues, tenderly and benignly. severity in the benignity, as may be needed. and should it seem that god showed us repeatedly the faults of another, yet unless there were, as i said, a special revelation, keep on the safer side, that we may escape the deceit and malice of the devil; for he would catch us with this hook of desire. on thy lips, then, let silence abide, and holy talk of virtues, and disdain of vice. and any vice that it may seem to thee to recognize in others, do thou ascribe at once to them and to thyself, using ever a true humility. if that vice really exists in any such person, he will correct himself better, seeing himself so gently understood, and will say that to thee which thou wouldest have said to him. and thou wilt be safe, and wilt close the way to the devil, who will be unable to deceive us or to hinder the perfection of thy soul. know that we ought not to trust in any appearances, but to put them behind our backs, and abide only in the perception and knowledge of ourselves. and if it ever happened that we were praying particularly for some fellowcreatures, and in prayer we saw some light of grace in one of those for whom we were praying, and none in another, who was also a servant of god-but thou didst seem to see him with his mind abased and sterile--do not therefore assume to judge that there is grave fault or lack in him, for it might be that thy opinion was false. for it happens sometimes that when one is praying for the same person, one occasion will find him in such light and holy desire before god that the soul will seem to fatten on his welfare; and on another occasion thou shalt find him when his soul seems so far from god, and full of shadows and temptations, that it is toil to whoso prays for him to hold him in god's presence. this may happen sometimes through a fault of him for whom one is praying, but more often it is due not to a fault, but to god's having withdrawn himself from this soul--that is, he has withdrawn himself as to any feeling of sweetness and consolation, though not as to grace. so the soul will have stayed sterile, dry, and full of pain--which god makes that soul which is praying for it perceive. and god does this in mercy to that soul which receives the prayer, that thou mayest aid him to scatter the cloud. so thou seest, sweet my sister, how ignorant and worthy of rebuke our opinion would be, if simply from these appearances we judged that there was vice in this soul. therefore, if god showed it to us so troubled and darkened, when we have already seen that it was not deprived of grace, but only of the sweetness of feeling god's presence--i beg thee, then, thee and me and every servant of god, that we apply us to knowing ourselves perfectly, that we may more perfectly know the goodness of god; so that, illumined, we may abandon judging our neighbour, and adopt true compassion, hungering to proclaim virtues and reprove sin in both ourselves and them, in the way we spoke of before. we have spoken of one thing, but now i tell thee of the other, which i beg that we rebuke in ourselves: if sometimes the devil or our own very evil construction of matters tormented us by making us want to send or see all the servants of god walking in the same way that we are walking in ourselves. for it frequently happens that a soul which sees itself advance by way of great penance, would like to send all people by that same way; and if it sees that they do not walk there, it is displeased and shocked, feeling that they are not doing right: while sometimes it will happen that the man is doing better and being more virtuous than his critic, although he does not do as much penance. for perfection does not consist in macerating or killing the body, but in killing our perverse self-will. and in this way, of the will destroyed, submitted to the sweet will of god, we ought indeed to desire all men to walk. good is penance and the maceration of the body; but do not show me these as a rule for every one, since all bodies are not alike, and also since it often happens that a penance begun has to be given up from many accidents that may occur. if, then, we made ourselves or others build on penance as a foundation, it might come to nothing, and be so imperfect that consolation and virtue would fail the soul; for, deprived of the thing which it loved and had made of prime importance, it would seem to be deprived of god, and so would fall into weariness and very great sadness and bitterness, and would lose in the bitterness the activity and fervent prayer to which it was accustomed. so thou seest what evil would follow from making penance alone one's chief concern: we should be ignorant, and should fall into a critical attitude, and become weary and very bitter; we should strive to give only a finished work to god, who is infinite good that demands from us infinite desire. we ought, then, to build our foundation on killing and destroying our own perverse will; with that will submitted to the will of god, we shall devote sweet, hungry, infinite desire to the honour of god and the salvation of souls. thus shall we feed at the table of that holy desire which never takes offence either at itself or at its neighbour, but rejoices and finds fruit in everything. miserable woman that i am, i mourn that i never followed this true doctrine; nay, i have done the contrary, and therefore i feel that i have often fallen into irritation and a judicial attitude toward my neighbour. wherefore i pray thee, by the love of christ crucified, that for this and for my every other infirmity, healing may be found; so that thou and i may begin to-day to walk in the way of truth, enlightened to build our true foundation on holy desire, and not trusting in appearances and impressions; so that we may not lightly neglect ourselves and judge the faults of our neighbours, unless by way of compassion or general rebuke. this we shall do if we nourish us at the table of holy desire: otherwise we cannot. for from desire we have light, and light gives us desire; so one nourishes the other. therefore i said that i desired to see thee in the true light. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to monna agnese wife of francesco, a tailor of florence in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood, with desire to see thee clothed in true and perfect humility--for that is a little virtue which makes us great in the sweet sight of god. this is the virtue which constrained and inclined god to make his most sweet son incarnate in the womb of mary. it is as exalted as the proud are humbled; it shines in the sight of god and men; it binds the hands of the wicked, it unites the soul with god, it purifies and laves away the soil of our sin, and calls on god to show us mercy. i will then, sweetest daughter, that thou strive to embrace this glorious virtue, so that thou mayest pass over the stormy sea of this world free from storm and peril. now comfort thee in this sweet and sincere virtue, and bathe thee in the blood of christ crucified. and when thou canst empty thy time for prayer, i pray thee to do it. and love tenderly every rational being. then, i beg and command thee not to fast, except, when thou canst, on the days commanded by holy church. and when thou dost not feel strong enough to fast then, do not observe them. at other times, do not fast, except when thou feelest able, on saturday. when this heat is over, fast on the days of holy mary, if thou canst, and no more. and drink something beside water every day. labour hard to increase thy holy desire, and let these other things alone for the future. do not be anxious or depressed over us, for we are all well. when it shall please the divine goodness, we shall see one another again. i say no more to thee. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. comfort my sweet daughters, ursula and ginevra. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters in response to certain criticisms catherine had ample opportunity to suffer from those keenly critical instincts of the respectable which she reproved in the last group of letters. her life was full of eager unconventionalities that drew down on her the frequent distrust of her co-religionists and fellow-townsmen. we cannot tell what special cause had excited the indignation of the loyal friends to whom the following note is written; but we may enjoy the spirit of fresh and pure humility in which catherine gives them the difficult injunction to acquiesce in any criticism made upon her. the very matters which were later to be considered as proofs of her sanctity, were during her lifetime grounds of suspicion. some unknown, exercised in his mind over the reports of her extraordinary abstinence, took evidently what would to-day appear the somewhat impertinent course of writing her a letter of remonstrance. catherine's inability or reluctance to eat as much as others was one of the most interesting marvels of her life to her simple contemporaries. it is clear, that partly from the extreme mortification which according to mediaeval custom she inflicted on her flesh from childhood, her condition became at an early age thoroughly abnormal. salads and water were practically her only diet; the curious are referred to the copious details furnished by her biographers. meantime, the present letter shows how reasonable was her own attitude in the matter. it shows also with what gentle dignity she received criticism. the little touch at the end--"i pray you not to be light in judging, if you are not surely illumined in the sight of god"--is the only hint at a natural impulse of resentment: unless one reads, as it is tempting to do, a delicate irony in the opening portion of the letter. to monna orsa wife of bartolo usimbardi and to monna agnese wife of francesco di pipino tailor of florence in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you persevere in holy desire, so that you may never look back. for otherwise you would not receive your reward, and would transgress the word of the saviour, which says that we are not to turn back to look at the furrow. be persevering, then, and contemplate not what is done, but what you have to do. and what have we to do? to turn our affections constantly back toward god, despising the world with all its joys, and loving virtue, bearing with true patience what the divine goodness permits us; considering that whatever he gives is given for our good that we may be sanctified in him. we shall find in the blood that the truth is thus. so we ought to fill our memory with this glorious blood, which shows us so sweet a truth, that we may never be without the recollection of it. thus i want you to do, dearest daughters: that in this life you shall persevere until death, and at the close of your life shall receive the eternal vision of god. i say no more here. i reprove thee, dearest my sweet daughter, because thou hast not kept in mind what i told thee--not to answer anyone who should say to thee anything about myself that seemed to thee less than good. now i do not wish thee to do so any more, but i wish both of you to reply to anyone who narrated my faults to you in this wise--that they are not telling so many that a great many more might not be told. tell them to be moved by compassion within their hearts in the sight of god, as they appear to be by their tongues--and to pray the divine goodness earnestly for me, that it will correct my life. then say to them that it is the highest judge who will punish my every fault, and reward every labour that shall be borne for his name. as to monna paula, i do not wish thee to be in the least indignant with her: but think that she is acting like a good mother, who wants to test her daughter to see whether she has virtue or not. i confess truthfully that i have found little success in myself; but i have hope in my creator, who will make me correct myself and change my way of life. comfort you, and give yourselves no more pain; for we shall find ourselves united in the fire of divine charity, a union that shall be taken from us neither by demon nor by creature. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to a religious man in florence who was shocked at her ascetic practices in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and most beloved father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, a useless servant of jesus christ, commend me to you: with the desire to see us united and transformed in that sweet, eternal and pure truth which destroys in us all falsity and lying. i thank you cordially, dearest father, for the holy zeal and jealousy which you have toward my soul: in that you are apparently very anxious over what you hear of my life. i am certain that nothing affects you except desire for the honour of god and for my salvation, which makes you fear the assaults and illusions of devils. as to your special fear, father, concerning my behaviour about eating, i am not surprised; for i assure you, that not only do you fear, but i myself tremble, for fear of devilish wiles. were it not that i trust in the goodness of god, and distrust myself, knowing that in myself i can have no confidence. for you sent, asking me whether or no i believed that i might be deceived, saying that if i did not believe so, that was a wile of the devil. i answer you, that not only about this, which is above the nature of the body, but about all my other activities also, i am always afraid, on account of my frailty and the astuteness of the devil, and think that i may be deceived; for i am perfectly well aware that the devil lost beatitude, but not wisdom, with which wisdom, as i said, i recognized that he might deceive me. but then i turn me, and lean against the tree of the most holy cross of christ crucified, and there will i fasten me; and i do not doubt that if i shall be nailed and held with him by love and with profound humility, the devils will have no power against me--not through my virtue, but through the virtue of christ crucified. you sent me word to pray god particularly that i might eat. i tell you, my father, and i say it in the sight of god, that in all ways within my power i have always forced myself once or twice a day to take food. and i have prayed constantly, and do pray god and shall pray him, that in this matter of eating he will give me grace to live like other creatures, if it is his will--for it is mine. i tell you, that often enough, when i have done what i could, i enter within myself, to recognize my infirmity, and god, who by most special grace has made me correct the sin of gluttony. i grieve much that i have not corrected that miserable fault of mine through love. i for myself do not know what other remedy to adopt, except that i beg you to pray that highest eternal truth, that he give me grace, if it is more for his honour and the salvation of my soul, to enable me to take food if it please him. and i am sure that the goodness of god will not despise your prayers. i beg you that if you see any remedy you will write me of it; and provided it be for the honour of god, i will accept it willingly. also i beg you not to be light in judging, if you are not clearly illumined in the sight of god. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother bartolomeo dominici of the order of the preachers when he was bible reader at florence belief in the wrath to come is sufficiently real to catherine, and the current demonology of her day slips readily from her tongue. these things she accepted as she found them. but the atmosphere in which her spirit breathes is the perception of the love of god. the spiritual history of the race, from the creation to the coming of the spirit and the perpetual support of the soul in the sacrament of the altar, is to her a revelation of the one encompassing love, poured forth in fresh measure and under new forms at each stage in the movement of human destiny. and so, in this little letter, she invites us to enter with her the "peaceful and profound sea" found in the words "god is love." elsewhere, both in her dialogue and in a letter to one brother matteo tolomei, she analyses with keen insight the relations which redeemed humanity can bear to the loving god; she tells us how the servant, obedient through fear, may become the friend, obedient through gratitude and desire for spiritual blessings; and how these lower loves, through the operation of the holy spirit, may be transformed into the love of the son, who seeks god for his own sake, "with nothing between." and how shall human love, when it has reached this point, reflect the love of him who "needs not man's work nor his own gifts?" how become, not merely receptive, but active and creative? catherine gives the simple christian answer: "god has loved us without being loved, but we love him because we are loved.... we cannot be of any profit to him, nor love him with this first love. yet god demands of us, that as he has loved us without any second thoughts, so he should be loved by us. in what way can we do this, then, since he demands it of us and we cannot give it to him? i tell you: through a means which he has established by which we can love him freely, and without the least regard to any profit of ours: we can be useful, not to him, which is impossible, but to our neighbour.... to show the love we have to him, we ought to serve and love every rational creature.... every virtue receives life from love, and love is gained in love, that is, by raising the eye of our mind to behold how much we are beloved of god. seeing ourselves loved, we cannot do otherwise than love.... so thou seest that we conceive virtues through god and bring them to the birth for our neighbour." thus do catherine's loftiest meditations end on the practical note. her fundamental thought, here as elsewhere, is strikingly akin to the thought of st. bernard. love yourself not for your own sake, but for god! she constantly repeats. to the same effect, bernard describes at length the progress of the soul till it reaches the highest stage, in which self-love is so lost that even gratitude is left behind, and man loves himself and god for the sake of god alone. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: to you, most beloved and dear father, through reverence of the most sweet sacrament, and son in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write and send comfort in his precious blood, with desire to see you kindled, on fire, and consumed in his most ardent charity, since i know that he who is on fire and consumed with this charity sees not himself. this, then, i will that you do. i summon you to enter through this most ardent charity, a sea that is peaceful and profound. this i have just now found anew--not that the sea is new, but that it is new to me in the feeling of my soul--in that word, god is love. and in this word, as the mirror reflects the face of man, and the sun its light upon the earth, so it is reflected in my soul, that all his works whatsoever are love alone, for they are not wrought of anything save love. therefore he says, "i god am love." from this a light is thrown on the unsearchable mystery of the incarnate word, who by force of love was given with such humility that it confounds my pride, and teaches us not to regard his works, but the burning devotion of the word given to us. he says that we should do as he who loves: who, when his friend comes with a present, looks not at the hands for the gift which he brings, but opens the eye of love, and regards his heart and affection. so he wills that we should do, when the highest eternal goodness of god, sweet above all things, visits our soul. it visits us then with measureless benefits. let memory act swiftly to receive the intention in the divine charity: and let the will arise with most ardent desire, and receive and behold the sacrificed heart of sweet and good jesus the giver: and thus you shall find you kindled and clothed with fire, and with the gift of the blood of the son of god; and you shall be free from all pain and disease. this it was which took away the pain of the holy disciples, when it behoved them to leave mary and one another, and gladly they endured that separation, to sow the word of god. run then, run, run. concerning the affairs of benincasa, i cannot reply unless i am at siena. thank messer nicolao for the charity which he has shown for them. alessa and i and cecca, poor women, commend ourselves to you a thousand thousand times. may god be ever in your soul, amen. jesus, jesus. catherine, servant of the servants of god. to brother matteo di francesco tolomei of the order of the preachers in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with desire to see you seek god in truth, not through the intervention of your own fleshliness or of any other creature, for we cannot please god through any intervening means. god gave us the word, his only-begotten son, without regard to his own profit. this is true, that we cannot be of any profit to him; but the reverse is not the case, because, although we do not serve god for our profit, nevertheless we profit just the same. to him belongs the flower of honour, and to us the fruit of profit. he has loved us without being loved, and we love because we are loved: he loves us of grace, and we him of duty, because we are bound to love him. we cannot be of any profit to god just as we cannot love him of grace, without duty. for we are bound to him, and not he to us, because before he was loved, he loved us, and therefore created us in his image and likeness. there it is, then: we cannot be of any profit to him, nor love him with this first love. yet i say that god demands of us, that as he has loved us without any second thoughts, so he should be loved by us. in what way can we do this, then, since he demands it of us, and we cannot give it him? i tell you: through a means which he has established, by which we can love him freely, and without the least regard to any profit of ours; that is, we can be useful, not to him, which is impossible, but to our neighbour. now by this means we can obey what he demands of us for the glory and praise of his name; to show the love that we have for him, we ought to serve and love every rational creature, and extend our charity to good and bad, to every kind of people, as much to one who does us ill service and criticises us as to one who serves us. for god is no respecter of persons, but of holy desires, and his charity extends over just men and sinners. one man, to be sure, he loves as a son, and one as a friend, and another as a servant, and another as a person who has departed from him, for whose return he longs--these last are the wicked sinners who are deprived of grace. but wherein does the highest father show his love to these? in lending them time, and in time he gives them many opportunities, either to repent of their sins, taking from them place and power to do as much ill as they would, or he has many other ways to make them hate vice and love virtue, the love of which takes away the wish to sin. and so, through the time which god gave them in love, from foes they are made friends, and have grace and are fit to become the father's heirs. he loves as sons those who serve him in truth without any servile fear, who have annulled and killed their self-will, and are through god obedient till death to every rational creature: no mercenaries they, who serve him for their own profit, but sons; and they despise consolations and joy in tribulations, and seek only in what way they can conform them to christ crucified, and nourish them on his shames and labours and sorrows. such men seek not god nor serve him for sweetness or consolation, spiritual or temporal, which they receive from god or the fellow-creature; they seek not god for their own sakes, nor the neighbour, but god for god, inasmuch as he is worthy of being loved, and themselves for god, for the glory and praise of his name; and they serve their neighbour for god, being of what profit they may to him. these men follow the footsteps of the father, rejoicing wholly in charity toward their neighbour, loving the servants of god through the love with which they love their creator; and they love imperfect men through love that they should reach perfection, devoting to them holy desire and continual prayers. they love wicked men, who lie in the death of mortal sin, because they are rational beings, created by god, and bought by the same blood as they, wherefore they mourn over their condemnation, and to rescue them would give themselves to bodily death. as to the persecutors and slanderers and judges who take offence at them, they love these both because they are creatures of god, as i said, and also because they are the means and cause of testing their virtue, and helping them reach perfection--especially as to that royal virtue patience, a sweet virtue, which is never offended or disturbed, nor cast down by any contrary wind or any molesting of men. such men are those who seek god with nothing between, and love him truly as dear and lawful sons; and he loves them as a true father, and shows them the secret of his charity, to make them heirs of his eternal kingdom, wherefore they run, refreshed by the blood of christ, kindled by the fire of divine charity, by which they are perfectly illumined. such men do not run in the path of virtue after their own fashion, nay, but after the fashion of christ crucified, following in his steps. were it possible for them to serve god and win virtue without labour, they would not wish it. these men do not act like the second kinds of men, the friend and the servant, for the service of these last has some ulterior thought. sometimes it has regard to the man's own profit; one can reach great friendship in this way, when he knows his need, and his benefactor, who, as he sees, can and will help him. yet first he was a servant, for he knew his own wrong-doing, on which followed punishment; so from the fear of punishment he drives out his sin, and lovingly embraces virtue, serving his lord, whom he has wronged; and he begins to draw hope from his benignity, considering that he wills not the death of a sinner, but that he be converted and live. if the man abode in fear alone, it would not suffice to give him life, nor would he attain to the perfect favour of his lord; but he would be a mercenary servant. nor ought he to remain only in the love of the fruit and the consolation which he might receive from his lord, after he has been made a friend; for this kind of love would not be strong, but would fail when it was deprived of sweetness or consolation and joy of mind, or else when some contrary wind struck it, of persecution or temptation from the devil; then at once it would fail under temptations of the devil or vexations of the flesh. so it would fall into confusion through being deprived of mental consolation; and in the persecutions and insults wrought against it by fellowcreatures, it would fall into impatience. so you see, that this kind of love is not strong. nay, he who loves with this love does as st. peter, who before the passion loved christ tenderly; but he was not strong, therefore he failed in the time of the cross: but then, after the coming of the holy spirit, he separated him from the love of sweetness, and lost fear, and reached a love strong, and tried in the fire of many tribulations. thence, having reached the love of a son, he bore all such with true patience--nay, ran under them in great gladness, as he had been going to a marriage feast and not to torment. this was because he had been made a son. but had peter remained absorbed in the sweetness and the fear which he felt in the passion and after the passion of christ, he would not have reached such perfection as to be a son and champion of holy church, a lover and seeker of souls. but note the way that peter took, and the other disciples, to gain power to lose their servile fear and love of consolations, and to receive the holy spirit, as had been promised them by the sweet primal truth. therefore says the scripture that they shut them in the house, and stayed there in vigil and continual prayers; they stayed ten days, and then came the holy spirit. now this is the teaching which we and every rational creature ought to receive; to shut ourselves into the house, and remain in vigil and continual prayer: to stay ten days, and then we shall receive the plenitude of the holy spirit. who, when he was come, illumined them with truth; and they saw the secret of the immeasurable love of the word, with the will of the father, who willed naught but our sanctification. this has been shown us by the blood of that sweet and enamoured word: who was restored to his disciples, when the plenitude of the holy spirit came. he came with the power of the father, the wisdom of the son, the mercy and clemency of the holy spirit; so the truth of christ is fulfilled, which he spake to his disciples: i shall go and shall return to you. then did he return, because the holy spirit could not come without the son and the father, because he was one thing with them. thus he came, as i said, with the power that is assigned to the father, and the wisdom that is assigned to the son, and the benevolence and love that is assigned to the holy spirit. well did the apostles show it, for suddenly through love they lost their fear. so in true wisdom they knew the truth, and went with great power against the infidels; they threw idols to the ground and drove out devils. this was not with the power of the world, nor with bodily fortitude, but with strength of spirit and the power of god, which they had received through divine grace. now thus it will happen to those who have arisen from the filth of mortal sin and the misery of this world, and begin to taste the highest good and enamour themselves of his sweetness. but as i have said, by remaining in fear alone, one would not escape hell; but would do like the thief, who does not steal, because he is afraid of the gallows; but he would not abstain from stealing if he did not expect to be punished. it is just such a case when one loves god for the sweetness of it; that is, one would not be strong and perfect, but weak and imperfect. the way to arrive at perfection is that of the disciples, as i said. that is, as peter and the others shut themselves into the house, so those have done and should do who have attained the love of the father, who are sons. those who wish to reach this state should enter the house, and shut themselves in; that is, the house of the knowledge of themselves, which is the cell that the soul should inhabit. within this cell another cell is found, that of the knowledge of the goodness of god in himself. so from knowledge of self the soul draws true humility, with holy hatred of the wrong which it has done to its creator, and by this it attains to true and holy patience. and from the knowledge of god, which it finds in itself, it wins the virtue of most ardent charity: whence it draws holy and loving desires. in this wise it finds vigil and continual prayer--that is, while it abides enclosed in so sweet and glorious a thing as is the knowledge of itself and of god. it keeps vigil, i say, not only with the eye of the body, but with the eye of the soul; that is, the eye of the intellect never sees itself closed, but remains opened upon its object and ineffable love, christ crucified: and there it finds love, and its own guilt. for that guilt, christ gave us his blood. then the soul uplifts itself with deepest devotion, to love what god loves and to hate what he hates. and it directs all its works in god, and does everything to the glory and praise of his name. this is the continual prayer of which paul says, "pray without ceasing." now this is the way to rise from being only a servant and a friend--that is, from servile fear and from tender love of one's own consolation--and to arrive at being a true servant, true friend, true son. for when one is truly made a son, he does not therefore lose being a servant and true friend; but is a servant and friend in truth, without any regard to himself, or to anything except pleasing god alone. we said that they abode ten days, and then came the holy spirit. so the soul, which wishes to arrive at this perfection, must observe ten days, that is the ten commandments of the law. and with the legal commandments it will observe the counsels; for they are bound together, and the one cannot be observed without the other. true, those who are in the world must observe the counsels mentally, through holy desire, and those who are freed from the world must observe them both mentally and actually. thus, if the soul receives the abundance of the holy spirit, with true wisdom of true and perfect light and knowledge, and with fortitude and power to make it strong in every battle, it becomes mighty chiefly against itself, lording it over its own fleshly nature. but all this you could not do if you went roaming about, in much conversation, keeping far from the cell, and neglecting the choir. whence, considering this, i said to you when you left me that you should study to flee conversation and to visit the cell, and not to abandon the choir or the refectory (so far as might be possible to you), and to keep vigil with humble prayer: and thus to fulfil my desire, when i told you that i desired to see you seek god in truth, without anything between. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to a mantellata of saint dominic called catarina di scetto in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: my dearest sister and daughter in christ sweet jesus. i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood, with desire to see thee a true servant and bride of christ crucified. servants we ought to be, because we are bought with his blood. but i do not see that we can be of any profit to him by our service; we ought, then, to be of profit to our neighbour, because he is the means by which we test and gain virtue. thou knowest that every virtue receives life from love; and love is gained in love, that is, by raising the eye of our mind to behold how much we are beloved of god. seeing ourselves loved, we cannot do otherwise than love; loving him, we shall embrace virtue through the force of love, and shall hate vice and spurn it. so thou seest that we conceive virtues through god, and bring them to the birth for our neighbour. thou knowest well that for the necessity of thy neighbour thou bringest forth the child charity that is within thy soul, and patience in the wrongs which thou receivest from him. thou givest him prayer, particularly to those who have done thee wrong. and thus we ought to do; if men are untrue to us, we ought to be true to them, and faithfully to seek their salvation; loving them of grace, and not by barter. that is, do thou beware not to love thy neighbour for thine own profit; for that would not be faithful love, and thou wouldst not respond to the love which god bears thee. for as god has loved thee of grace, so he wills that since thou canst not return this love to him, thou return it to thy neighbour, loving him of grace and not by barter, as i said. neither if thou art wronged, nor if thou shouldst see love toward thee, or thy joy or profit lessened, must thou lessen or stint love toward thy neighbour; but love him tenderly, bearing and enduring his faults; and beholding with great consolation and reverence the servants of god. beware lest thou do like mad and foolish people who want to set themselves to investigate and judge the deeds and habits of the servants of god. he who does this is entirely worthy of severe rebuke. know that it would not be different from setting a law and rule to the holy spirit if we wished to make the servants of god all walk in our own way--a thing which could never be done. let the soul inclined to this kind of judgment think that the root of pride is not yet out, nor true charity toward the neighbour planted--that is, the loving him by grace and not by barter. then let us love the servants of god, and not judge them. nay, it befits us to love in general every rational creature: those who are outside of grace we must love with grief and bitterness over their fault, because they wrong god and their own soul. thus thou shalt be in accord with that sweet enamoured paul, who mourns with those who mourn, and joys with those who joy; thus thou shalt mourn with those who are in mournful state, through desire for the honour of god and for their salvation; and thou shalt joy with the servants of god who rejoice, possessing god through loving tenderness. thou seest, then, that through charity to god we conceive virtues, and through charity toward our neighbours they are brought to the birth. being thus--loving thy neighbour sincerely, without any falsity of love or heart, freely, without any regard to thine own profit, spiritual or temporal--thou shalt be a true servant, and respond by means of thy neighbour to the love which thy creator bears thee; thou shalt be a faithful, not a faithless bride. then does the bride fail in faith to her bridegroom, when she gives to another creature the faith which she ought to give to him. thou art a bride, for christ in his circumcision showed that he would wed the human race. thou, beholding love so ineffable, shouldst love him without any means that might be apart from god. thus art thou made the servant of thy neighbour, serving him in all things to the measure of thy power. verily thou art the bride of christ, and shouldst be the servant of thy neighbour. if thou art a faithful bride, since we can neither be of profit nor of service to god by the love which we bear him, we ought, as i said, to serve our neighbour with true and heartfelt love. in no other way nor wise can we serve him. therefore i said to thee that i desired to see thee the true servant and bride of christ crucified. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters to neri di landoccio dei pagliaresi neri di landoccio dei pagliaresi is one of the attractive group of catherine's secretaries, which included also stefano maconi and barduccio canigiani. there is something very charming, wholly italian and mediaeval, in the thought of the three highly-born and gently-bred young tuscans, who, without leaving the world or taking religious vows, attached themselves with a pure and passionate devotion to the person of the beata populana, dedicated their time and powers to her service, caught the fire of her ideals, and after her death followed her wishes for their future. the faces that appear a little later in such pictures as botticelli's "adoration of the magi," help us to understand the type of these young men. of the three secretaries, neri was the first to enter catherine's service. it was he who introduced to her most of the people who later became her disciples, and many letters yet extant from one and another show that he was devotedly loved by the little group. he was of a sensitive, subtle, and despondent temperament--a reader of dante, himself a poet, a man given to self-torment, and, as his later life showed, with a tendency to melancholia. he must have possessed tact, force, and probably charm, for catherine more than once sent him on important embassies--once as harbinger of her own coming to pope gregory at avignon, and again, at a later time, to the corrupt and brilliant court of queen giovanna at naples. in obedience to the dying wish of his spiritual mother--who probably well understood his needs--he became a hermit after her death. catherine writes to this fine but fearful soul with an exquisite tenderness. "confusion of mind," with its inhibiting sadness and helplessness, is of all evils in the world the one most abhorrent to her clear, decisive, intuitive nature. against this, his besetting danger, she seeks with all her customary vigour to protect her beloved disciple. the love rather than the wrath of god was, as we have seen, ever the chief burden of catherine's teaching. never did she dwell on it more earnestly than here, as with searching insight into the unfathomable depths of the divine mercy, she writes firmly: "his truth is this, that he created us to give us life eternal." her words must have brought reassurance to any darkened vision, while her practical counsels were never more adapted to individual need than in these peculiarly gentle letters, written to one whose temptations and spiritual perils were far different from her own. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus. i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee in the true light, that in the light may be known the truth of thy creator. his truth is this, that he created us to give us life eternal. but because man rebelled against god, this truth was not fulfilled, and therefore he descended to the greatest depths to which descent is possible, when deity assumed the vesture of our humanity. so we see in this glorious light that god has been made man, and this he has done to fulfil his truth in us: and he has shown this to us verily by the blood of the loving word, inasmuch that what we held by faith is proved to us with the price of that blood. the creature that has reason in itself cannot deny that this is so. i will, then, that thy confusion be consumed and vanish in the hope of the blood, and in the fire of the immeasurable love of god; and that nothing remain but the true knowledge of thyself, in which thou shalt humble thee and grow, and nourish light in thy soul. is not he more ready to pardon than we to sin? and is not he the physician and we the sick, the bearer of our iniquities? and does not he hold confusion of mind as worse than all other faults? yes, truly. then, dearest son, open the eye of thine intellect in the light of most holy faith, and behold how much thou art beloved of god. and from beholding his love, and the ignorance and coldness of thy heart, do not fall into confusion; but let the flame of holy desire increase, with true knowledge and humility, as i said. and the more thou seest that thou hast not responded to such great favours as thy creator has shown thee, humble thyself the more, and say with holy resolution: "what i have not done to-day, i will do now." thou knowest that confusion is wholly discordant with the doctrine which has always been given thee. it is a leprosy that dries up soul and body, and holds them in continual affliction, and binds the arms of holy desire, and does not let one do what one would; and it makes the soul unendurable to itself, disposing the mind to conflicts and varying fantasies; it robs the soul of supernatural light, and darkens its natural light. so one falls into great faithlessness, because one does not know the truth of god, in which he has created us--that is, that he created us in truth to give us life eternal. then with living faith, with holy desire, and with hope in the blood of christ, let the devil of confusion be defeated. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. i pray him to give thee his sweet benediction. sweet jesus, jesus love. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and sweetest son in christ sweet jesus. i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see in thee the light of most holy faith, in order that thou mayest never be shocked by anything that may happen to thee; but may thy mind be pacified concerning all the mysteries of god, as thou beholdest the ineffable love which moved him to draw forth from himself reasonable creatures, and to give us his image and likeness, and to buy us with the blood of the humble and spotless lamb. thus doing, thou wilt hold all that happens to thee in due reverence, and in true humility thou wilt deny mere appearances, when sometimes through the illusion of the devil things seem to thee to get out of their right proportion, through thy many mental occupations and sweet physical torments. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. may christ the blessed give thee his eternal benediction. sweet jesus, jesus love. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and sweetest son in christ sweet jesus. i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee ever grow from virtue to virtue, till i behold thee return to that sea of peace where thou shalt never have any fear of being separated from god. for the foul perverse law that fights against the spirit shall be left on earth, and shall have rendered its due thereto. i will, sweet my son, that while thou livest in this life thou exert thee to live dead to all self-will, and in such death thou shalt win virtue. thus living, thou shalt resign to earth the law of perverse desire. so thou shalt not fear lest god permit in thy case what he permitted in that other, nor shalt thou suffer, because for a little while the human part of thee is separated from me and from the rest of the family. comfort thee, and may that which truth says abide in thy mind-that not one person shall be lost out of his hands. i say out of his hands, because all things are his. and i know that thou understandest me without many words. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to monna giovanna and her other daughters in siena "teach us, o lord, and enable us to live the life of saints and angels!" cried cardinal newman. there is a lovely parallel to catherine's prayer in the paternoster of dante's blessed souls in purgatory: "come del suo voler gli angeli tuoi fan sacrificio a te, cantando osanna, cosi facciano gli uomini de' suoi." from the gentle thoughts on non-resistance with which this letter opens, catherine turns with transition as fine as sudden to the splendid figure of the holy soul as a horse without bridle, running most swiftly "from grace to grace, from virtue to virtue." one is accustomed by plato--not to speak of browning in "the two poets of croisic"--to the image of the soul as a charioteer. catherine's metaphor is less familiar but not less forceful. the will, to her, is only free when pure: impure and sinful desires, far from being the sign of liberty, are the bit and bridle that hinder its fiery course toward god. the same thought, less vividly put, is found in a modern theologian--dr. moberly. "the real consummation of either moral or immoral character," he writes, "would exclude the ambiguity which was offered as the criterion of free will.... full power to sin is not the key to freedom. on the contrary, all inherent power to do wrong is a direct infringement of the reality of free-will.... freewill is not the independence of the creature, but rather his selfrealisation in perfect dependence. freedom is self-identity with goodness." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and most beloved daughters in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, and your mother in christ, write to you and comfort you in the precious blood of the son of god, who was a gentle lamb, spotless and slain not by power of nails or lance, but by power of love and measureless charity which he felt and still feels to his creatures. oh, charity unspeakable of our god! thou hast taught me, love most sweet, and hast shown me, not by words alone-for thou sayest that thou dost not delight in many words--but by deeds, in which thou sayest that thou dost delight, and which thou dost demand from thy servants. and what hast thou taught me, o love uncreate? thou hast taught me that i should bear, patiently like a lamb, not only harsh words, but even blows harsh and hard and injury and loss. and with this thou dost will that i be innocent and spotless, harmful to no one of my neighbours and brethren; not only in case of those who do not persecute us, but in that of those who injure us; thou dost will that we pray for them as for special friends who give us a good and great gain. and thou dost will that we be patient and meek not only in injuries and temporal losses, but universally, in everything that may be contrary to my will: as thou didst not will thine own will to be done in anything, but the will of thy father. how then shall we lift up our head against the goodness of god, wishing that our perverted wills should be fulfilled? how shall we not will that the will of god be fulfilled? o jesus, most sweet love, make thy will to be fulfilled in us ever, as in heaven by thy angels and saints! dearest my daughter in christ, this is the meekness which our sweet saviour wants to find in us: that we, with hearts wholly peaceful and tranquil, be content with everything which he plans and does concerning us, and wish neither times nor seasons in our own way, but in his alone. then the soul, so divested of its every wish and clothed with the will of god, is very pleasing to god. like an unbridled horse, it runs most swiftly from grace to grace, from virtue to virtue; for it has no bridle that holds or prevents it from running, since it has severed from itself every inordinate appetite and impulse of its own self-will, which are bands and bridles that do not allow the souls of spiritual men to run. the affairs of the crusade are going constantly better and better, and the honour of god is increasing every day. increase constantly in virtue, and furnish the ship of your soul, for our time draws near. comfort and bless francesca, from jesus christ and me; and tell her to be zealous that i may find her increased in virtue when i shall return. bless and comfort all my sons in christ. now this very day the ambassador of the queen of cyprus came and talked to me. he is going to the holy father, christ on earth, to urge him concerning the affairs of the holy crusade. and, moreover, the holy father has sent to genoa to urge them concerning the same thing. our sweet saviour give you his eternal benediction! remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to messer john the soldier of fortune and head of the company that came in the time of famine _which letter is one of credentials, certifying that he may put faith in all things said to him by fra raimondo of capua. wherefore the said fra raimondo went to the said messer john, and the other captains, to induce them to go over and fight against the infidels should it happen that others should go. and before leaving he had from them and from messer john a promise on the sacrament that they would go, and they signed it with their hands and sealed it with their seals._ so runs the old heading to this letter. it is piquant to contemplate catherine writing to that picturesque gentleman, sir john hawkwood. her attitude of friendly and almost sisterly sympathy with the audacious freelance appears in her unwonted addition of the word "glory" to her usual formula, "the honour of god and the salvation of souls," in the last sentence. we are told that the letter and fra raimondo produced a real impression, and that hawkwood not only vowed himself to the crusade, but that, no crusade occurring, he from this time bore arms only in regular warfare. he who follows the englishman's subsequent career may perhaps wonder a little what "regular warfare" meant to his mind. yet let us remember to his credit that hawkwood protested against the massacre of cesena--nor was this the only occasion on which his nature flashed for a moment a chivalrous light. may his bones rest in peace in the duomo of florence, that city to the gates of which he brought terror and dismay, but which bore him no grudge, and at the end decreed him splendid funerals, and sepulchre among her honoured sons! in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: to you, most beloved and dear brothers in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write in his precious blood: with desire to see you a true son and knight of christ, in such wise that you may desire to give your life a thousand times, if need were, in service of sweet and good jesus. this is a gift which would pay off all our sins, which we have committed against our saviour. dearest and sweetest brother in christ jesus, it would be a great thing now if you would withdraw a little into yourself, and consider, and reflect how great are the pains and anguish which you have endured by being in the service and pay of the devil. now my soul desires that you should change your way of life, and take the pay and the cross of christ crucified, you and all your followers and companions; so that you may be christ's company, to march against the infidel dogs who possess our holy place, where rested the sweet primal truth and bore death and pains for us. i beg you, then, gently in christ jesus, that since god and also our holy father have ordered a crusade against the infidels, and you take such pleasure in war and fighting, you should not make war against christians any more--for this is a wrong to god; but go against the infidels! for it is a great cruelty that we who are christians, and members bound in the body of holy church, should persecute one another. we are not to do so; but to rise with perfect zeal, and to uplift ourselves above every evil thought. i marvel much that you, having, as i heard, promised to be willing to go to die for christ in this holy crusade, are wanting to make war in these parts. this is not that holy disposition which god demands from you if you are to go to so holy and venerable a place. it seems to me that you ought now, at this present time, to dispose you to virtue, until the time shall come for us and the others who shall be ready to give their lives for christ: and thus you shall show that you are a manly and true knight. there is coming to you this father and son of mine, brother raimondo, who brings you this letter. trust in what he tells you; because he is a true, faithful servant of god, and will advise you and say to you nothing except what will be to the honour of god and the safety and glory of your soul. i say no more. i beg you, dearest brother, to keep in memory the shortness of your time. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to monna colomba in lucca let us hope that the frivolous monna colomba listened to catherine's gentle but very explicit exhortations and turned away from her levities. if she had a sense of humour--and it is a not uncommon possession of light-minded elderly widows--she must have been lovingly entertained at the pale virgin's identification of herself with those who "walk in the way of luxuries and pleasures," and "set themselves up as an example of sin and vanity." but catherine's use of the first person in this connection, strained though it may appear, is more than a figure of speech, to soften the severity of her rebuke. we learn from the legend that till the end of her life she never ceased to repent, bitterly and with tears, for having at the age of twelve allowed an older sister to dress her prettily, and blanch her hair after the fashion of the day. the reason for this terrible lapse, as she told her confessor, was simply a delight in beautiful things--but she always looked back on it with horror. the application of the finding of christ in the temple, in this letter, is curious, but not devoid of grace. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: to you, dearest sister and daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write in his precious blood, with desire that i might see you a fruitful field, receiving the seed of the word of god, and bringing forth fruit for yourself and others. i want to see you, who are now getting to be an old woman, and who are free from worldly ties, a mirror of virtue to younger women, who are still bound to the world by the tie of their husbands. alas, alas, i perceive that we are unfruitful ground, for we are letting the word of god be smothered by the inordinate affections and desires of the world, and are walking in the way of its luxuries and pleasures, studying to please our fellow-beings rather than our creator. and there is a more wretched thing yet, for our own evil-doing is not enough for us; where we ought to be an example of virtue and modesty, we set ourselves up as an example of sin and vanity. and as the devil was not willing to fall alone, but wanted a large company with him, so we are enticing other people to those same vanities and amusements that we indulge in ourselves. you ought to withdraw, by love of virtue and your salvation, from vain diversions and worldly weddings--for they do not suit your condition--and try to keep others away, who would like to be there. but you talk bad talk, and entice young women, who are wanting to withdraw from going to these things through love of virtue, because they see that it is wronging god. i do not wonder, then, if no fruit appears, since the seed is smothered as i said. perhaps you would find some excuse in saying, "still, i have to condescend to my friends and relatives by doing this, so that they will not be annoyed and irritated with me." so fear and perverted self-indulgence sap our life, and often kill us; rob us of the perfection to which god chose and calls us. this excuse is not acceptable to god; for we ought not to condescend to people in a matter which wrongs god and our own soul; nor to love or serve them, except in those matters which come from god and befit our condition. oh me, miserable! was it our relatives or friends or any fellow-being who bought us? no; christ crucified alone was the lamb who with love unsearchable sacrificed his body, making him our purification and healing, our food and raiment, and the bed where we can rest. he had no regard to love of self nor fleshly joy, but abased himself in pain, enduring shames and insults, seeking the honour of the father and our salvation. it ill befits that we poor miserable men should hold by another way than that held by the sweet primal truth. you know that god is not found in luxuries and pleasures. we perceive that when our saviour was lost in the temple, going to the feast, mary could not find him among friends or relatives, but found him in the temple disputing with the doctors. and this he did to give us an example--for he is our rule, and the way we should follow. notice that it says that he was lost when going to the feast. know, most beloved sister, that, as was said, god is not found at feasts or balls or games or weddings or places of recreation. nay, going there is a very sure means of losing him, and falling into many sins and faults, and inordinate frivolous selfindulgence. since this is the reason that has made us lose god by grace, is there any way to find him again? yes; to accompany mary. let us seek him with her, in bitterness and pain and distaste for the fault committed against our creator, to condescend to the will of men. it befits us then to go to the temple, and there he is found. let our hearts, our minds, and desires be lifted up with this company of bitterness, and let us go to the temple of our soul, and there we shall know ourselves. then the soul, recognizing itself not to be, will recognize the goodness of god towards it, who is he who is. then the will shall be uplifted with zeal, and shall love what god loves and hate what god hates. then, as it enters into reason with itself, it will rebuke the memory which has held in itself the gaieties and pleasures of the world, and has nor held nor retained the favours and gifts and great benefits of god, who has given himself to us with so great fire of love. it will rebuke the mind, which has given itself to understand the will of fellow-creatures, and the shows and observances of the world, rather than the will of its creator, and therefore will and fleshly love have turned them to love and desire those gross things of sense, which pass like the wind. the soul should not do thus, but should note and know the will of god, which seeks and wants naught but our sanctification, and has therefore given us life. god has not set you free from the world, for you are smothered and drowned in the world by your affections and inordinate desires. now, have you more than one soul? no. if you had two, you might give one to god and the other to the world. nor have you more than one body, and this gets tired over every little thing. be a dispenser to the poor of your temporal substance. submit you to the yoke of holy and true obedience. kill, kill your own will, that it may not be so tied to your relatives, and mortify your body, and do not so pamper it in delicate ways. despise yourself, and have in regard neither rank nor riches, for virtue is the only thing that makes us gentlefolk, and the riches of this life are the worst of poverty when possessed with inordinate love apart from god. recall to memory what the glorious jerome said about this, which one can never repeat often enough, forbidding that widows should abound in daintiness, or keep their face anointed, or their garments choice or delicate. nor should their conversation be with vain or dissolute young women, but in the cell: they should do like the turtledove, who, when her companion has died, mourns for ever, and keeps to herself, and wants no other company. limit your intercourse, dearest and most beloved sister, to christ crucified; set your affection and desire on following him by the way of shame and true humility, in gentleness, binding you to the lamb with the bands of charity. this my soul desires, that you may be a true daughter, and a bride consecrated to christ, and a fruitful field, not sterile, but full of the sweet fruits of true virtues. hasten, hasten, for time is short and the road is long. and if you gave all you have in the world, time would not pause for you from running its course. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. pardon me if i have said too many words, for the love and zeal that i have for your salvation have made me say them. know that i would far rather do something for you than merely talk. may god fill you with his most sweet favour. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother raimondo of capua of the order of the preachers the following is one of the famous letters of the world. the record in art and literature of the scene which it depicts has carried knowledge of catherine to many who otherwise would have but the vaguest idea of her personality. the letter has been frequently translated, but most of the translators have avoided the opening and closing paragraphs, with their amazing, confused, and to our modern taste almost shocking metaphors. surely, however, we want the whole just as catherine poured it out; full of intense excitement, her emotions clearer than her ideas, lifted into a region where taste and logic have no meaning, and using, to convey the inexpressible feelings quickened by the events she describes, homeliest figures of speech, such as her commercial surroundings naturally suggest to her. for the matter of that, modern congregations sing with no distress: "jesus let me still abide in thy heart and wounded side." the reiteration of the figure of the blood is here psychologically inevitable. catherine writes still quivering from close contact with the victim of a mediaeval execution. a young gentleman from perugia, niccolo tuldo by name, had been condemned to death for speaking critically of the sienese government. it does not appear that he was a serious political conspirator, but simply a young man whose aristocratic sympathies led him thoughtlessly to the use of haughty or bitter speech. but a _parvenu_ government is always sensitive. we hear of a man at this time being condemned and executed because he had not invited one of the riformatori to a feast! death was lightly inflicted in those days: probably it was no more lightly suffered than in our own. we have vivid accounts of the incredulity with which niccolo tuldo received his sentence--incredulity leading to horror, to rage, to rebellion, to black despair. then catherine went to him; her own words tell the rest. as one reads of the wonderful effect of her soothing presence, as one sees the terrified youth becoming quiet and subdued, clinging wistfully to the spiritual strength of this frail woman, and catching at the end not only her spirit of calm submission, but even something of her exaltation, one is irresistibly reminded of another scene--george eliot's marvellous description in "adam bede" of dinah's ministry to hetty in the prison. but this scene is real, that only imagined; and here no third person, but the consoler herself, reveals the meaning of the experience to her own spirit. in bringing niccolo tuldo to so illumined an end that he recognized the judgment-place as holy, and died in full accord with the will of god, catherine achieved a great marvel which only christianity can compass: she lifted one of those seemingly purposeless and cruel accidents of destiny which stagger faith, into unity with the organic work of the world's redemption. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most beloved and dearest father and dear my son in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you, commending myself to you in the precious blood of the son of god; with desire to see you inflamed and drowned in that his sweetest blood, which is blended with the fire of his most ardent charity. this my soul desires, to see you therein, you and nanni and jacopo my son. i see no other remedy by which we may reach those chief virtues which are necessary to us. sweetest father, your soul, which has made itself food for me--(and no moment of time passes that i do not receive this food at the table of the sweet lamb slain with such ardent love)--your soul, i say, would not attain the little virtue, true humility, were it not drowned in the blood. this virtue shall be born from hate, and hate from love. thus the soul is born with very perfect purity, as iron issues purified from the furnace. i will, then, that you lock you in the open side of the son of god, which is an open treasure-house, full of fragrance, even so that sin itself there becomes fragrant. there rests the sweet bride on the bed of fire and blood. there is seen and shown the secret of the heart of the son of god. oh, flowing source, which givest to drink and excitest every loving desire, and givest gladness, and enlightenest every mind and fillest every memory which fixes itself thereon! so that naught else can be held or meant or loved, save this sweet and good jesus! blood and fire, immeasurable love! since my soul shall be blessed in seeing you thus drowned, i will that you do as he who draws up water with a bucket, and pours it over something else; thus do you pour the water of holy desire on the head of your brothers, who are our members, bound to us in the body of the sweet bride. and beware, lest through illusion of the devils--who i know have given you trouble, and will give you--or through the saying of some fellow-creature, you should ever draw back: but persevere always in the hour when things look most cold, until we may see blood shed with sweet and enamoured desires. up, up, sweetest my father! and let us sleep no more! for i hear such news that i wish no more bed of repose or worldly state. i have just received a head in my hands, which was to me of such sweetness as heart cannot think, nor tongue say, nor eye see, nor the ears hear. the will of god went on through the other mysteries wrought before; of which i do not tell, for it would be too long. i went to visit him whom you know: whence he received such comfort and consolation that he confessed, and prepared himself very well. and he made me promise by the love of god that when the time of the sentence should come, i would be with him. so i promised, and did. then in the morning, before the bell rang, i went to him: and he received great consolation. i led him to hear mass, and he received the holy communion, which he had never before received. his will was accorded and submitted to the will of god; and only one fear was left, that of not being strong at the moment. but the measureless and glowing goodness of god deceived him, creating in him such affection and love in the desire of god that he did not know how to abide without him, and said: "stay with me, and do not abandon me. so it shall not be otherwise than well with me. and i die content." and he held his head upon my breast. i heard then the rejoicing, and breathed the fragrance of his blood; and it was not without the fragrance of mine, which i desire to shed for the sweet bridegroom jesus. and, desire waxing in my soul, feeling his fear, i said: "comfort thee, sweet my brother; since we shall soon arrive at the wedding feast. thou shalt go there bathed in the sweet blood of the son of god, with the sweet name of jesus, which i will never to leave thy memory. and i await thee at the place of justice." now think, father and son, his heart then lost all fear, and his face changed from sorrow to gladness; and he rejoiced, he exulted, and said: "whence comes such grace to me, that the sweetness of my soul will await me at the holy place of justice?" see, that he had come to so much light that he called the place of justice holy! and he said: "i shall go wholly joyous, and strong, and it will seem to me a thousand years before i arrive, thinking that you are awaiting me there." and he said words so sweet as to break one's heart, of the goodness of god. i waited for him then at the place of justice; and waited there with constant prayer, in the presence of mary and of catherine, virgin and martyr. but before i attained, i prostrated me, and stretched my neck upon the block; but my desire did not come there, for i had too full consciousness of myself. then up! i prayed, i constrained her, i cried "mary!" for i wished this grace, that at the moment of death she should give him a light and a peace in his heart, and then i should see him reach his goal. then my soul became so full that although a multitude of people were there, i could see no human creature, for the sweet promise made to me. then he came, like a gentle lamb; and seeing me, he began to smile, and wanted me to make the sign of the cross. when he had received the sign, i said: "down! to the bridal, sweetest my brother! for soon shalt thou be in the enduring life." he prostrated him with great gentleness, and i stretched out his neck; and bowed me down, and recalled to him the blood of the lamb. his lips said naught save jesus! and, catherine! and so saying, i received his head in my hands, closing my eyes in the divine goodness, and saying, "i will!" then was seen god-and-man, as might the clearness of the sun be seen. and he stood wounded, and received the blood; in that blood a fire of holy desire, given and hidden in the soul by grace. he received it in the fire of his divine charity. when he had received his blood and his desire, he also received his soul, which he put into the open treasure-house of his side, full of mercy; the primal truth showing that by grace and mercy alone he received it, and not for any other work. oh, how sweet and unspeakable it was to see the goodness of god! with what sweetness and love he awaited that soul departed from the body! he turned the eye of mercy toward her, when she came to enter within his side, bathed in blood which availed through the blood of the son of god. thus received by god through power--powerful is he to do! the son also, wisdom the word incarnate, gave him and made him share the crucified love with which he received painful and shameful death through the obedience which he showed to the father, for the good of the human race. and the hands of the holy spirit locked him within. but he made a gesture sweet enough to draw a thousand hearts. and i do not wonder, for already he tasted the divine sweetness. he turned as does the bride when she has reached the threshold of her bridegroom, who turns back her head and her look, bowing to those who have accompanied her, and with the gesture she gives signs of thanks. when he was at rest, my soul rested in peace and in quiet, in so great fragrance of blood that i could not bear to remove the blood which had fallen on me from him. ah me, miserable! i will say no more. i stayed on the earth with the greatest envy. and it seems to me that the first new stone is already in place. therefore do not wonder if i impose upon you nothing save to see yourselves drowned in the blood and flame poured from the side of the son of god. now then, no more negligence, sweetest my sons, since the blood is beginning to flow, and to receive the life. sweet jesus, jesus love. to gregory xi this is the first letter to gregory which has come down to us; it may or may not have been the first which catherine wrote him. that she had had relations with him earlier seems fairly certain. as early as 1372 we find her writing to gerard du puy, a relative of the pope and papal legate in tuscany. this letter is evidently a reply, and contains passages which she apparently expected du puy to share with gregory. perhaps gregory had made approaches to her through his cousin. there was nothing unlikely at that time in such action on the part of a great churchman, who, man of the world though he was, retained a sincere reverence for humble men and women. be this as it may, catherine in her letter to gerard du puy writes concerning the condition of the church in the strain of indignant sorrow which she was to hold till her death: "in reply to the first of the three things you ask me, i will say that i believe that our sweet christ on earth should do away entirely with two things which ravage the bride of christ. the first is the over-great tenderness and care for relatives, which ought to be entirely mortified. the other is that over-great good nature which is founded on too great mercy.... christ holds three vices as especially evil--impurity, avarice, and swollen pride, which reign in the bride of christ among the prelates, who care for nothing but luxuries and honours and vast riches. a strong justice is needed to correct them, for too great pity is the greatest cruelty. as to the other question, i say: when i told you that you should toil for holy church, i was not thinking only of the labours you should assume about temporal things, but chiefly that you and the holy father ought to toil and do what you can to get rid of the wolfish shepherds who care for nothing but eating and fine palaces and big horses. oh me, that which christ won upon the wood of the cross is spent with harlots! i beg that if you were to die for it, you tell the holy father to put an end to such iniquities. and when the time comes to make priests or cardinals, let them not be chosen through flatteries or moneys or simony; but beg him, as far as you can, that he notice well if virtue and a good and holy fame are found in the man; and let him not prefer a gentleman to a tradesman, for virtue is the thing that makes a man gentle." savonarola could hardly say more. this present letter must date from 1375, for the rebellion of the tuscan cities was gathering when she wrote. it is evident that catherine at the time had never met the pope personally. she must, however, have gained from hearsay a fairly just idea of his character; in the letter--one of the most carefully composed which we have from her--we see her approaching him with frankness, dignity, and courage, and also with a rare degree of tact. it was one thing to speak her mind out through gerard du puy: it must have been another to speak directly to the head of christendom. how catherine acquits herself the reader may judge. the hint that the "sweet christ on earth," the father of the faithful, lacks self-knowledge, is made so delicately that offence could not be taken; yet as she proceeds the indirect suggestion becomes unmistakable. gregory is that weak prelate in whom through self-indulgence holy justice is dead or dying; the smooth, peaceable man, who to avoid incurring displeasure, shuts his eyes to the corruption of the church and the sins of her priests; he is the indolent physician who anoints when he should cauterize. as soon as she deems his mind prepared, comes the direct statement: "i hope by the goodness of god, venerable father mine, that you will quench this [self-love] in yourself, and will not love yourself for your own sake, nor your neighbour, nor god." nor does she shrink from more specific mention of the dangers which beset him, in his devotion to the interests of "friends and parents," and considerations of temporal policy. it is with relief, here as ever, that catherine passes from criticism implied or explicit to a strain of high enthusiasm by which she tries to rouse the soul to all of latent manhood it may possess. she heartens gregory with stirring appeal to the memories of his great predecessors-yet more with impassioned reminder of that mystery of divine love and sacrifice from which their strength was drawn. all that was possible to them is possible to him, "for the same god is now that was then." "and if up to this time we have not stood very firm," she says--associating herself, as usual, with the weakness she would condemn--"i wish and pray in truth that you deal manfully with the moment of time which remains, following christ, whose vicar you are." gentle encouragement, and a curious tone of almost maternal tenderness, pervade the rest of the letter. in dealing with the political situation which gregory confronted, catherine speaks without reserve. the suggestions concerning practical matters with which the letter closes are lucid and to the point. altogether, it is a masterly document which the daughter of jacopo benincasa despatches to the head of christendom. reading it, one finds no difficulty in understanding the influence which, as the sequel shows, she established over the sensitive and religious if weak spirit of gregory xi. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: to you, most reverend and beloved father in christ jesus, your unworthy, poor, miserable daughter catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, writes in his precious blood; with desire to see you a fruitful tree, full of sweet and mellow fruits, and planted in fruitful earth--for if it were out of the earth the tree would dry up and bear no fruit--that is, in the earth of true knowledge of yourself. for the soul that knows itself humbles itself, because it sees nothing to be proud of; and ripens the sweet fruit of very ardent charity, recognizing in itself the unmeasured goodness of god; and aware that it is not, it attributes all its being to him who is. whence, then, it seems that the soul is constrained to love what god loves and to hate what he hates. oh, sweet and true knowledge, which dost carry with thee the knife of hate, and dost stretch out the hand of holy desire, to draw forth and kill with this hate the worm of self-love--a worm that spoils and gnaws the root of our tree so that it cannot bear any fruit of life, but dries up, and its verdure lasts not! for if a man loves himself, perverse pride, head and source of every ill, lives in him, whatever his rank may be, prelate or subject. if he is lover of himself alone--that is, if he loves himself for his own sake and not for god--he cannot do other than ill, and all virtue is dead in him. such a one is like a woman who brings forth her sons dead. and so it really is; for he has not had the life of charity in himself, and has cared only for praise and self-glory, and not for the name of god. i say, then: if he is a prelate, he does ill, because to avoid falling into disfavour with his fellow-creatures--that is, through self-love--in which he is bound by self-indulgence--holy justice dies in him. for he sees his subjects commit faults and sins, and pretends not to see them and fails to correct them; or if he does correct them, he does it with such coldness and lukewarmness that he does not accomplish anything, but plasters vice over; and he is always afraid of giving displeasure or of getting into a quarrel. all this is because he loves himself. sometimes men like this want to get along with purely peaceful means. i say that this is the very worst cruelty which can be shown. if a wound when necessary is not cauterized or cut out with steel, but simply covered with ointment, not only does it fail to heal, but it infects everything, and many a time death follows from it. oh me, oh me, sweetest "babbo" mine! this is the reason that all the subjects are corrupted by impurity and iniquity. oh me, weeping i say it! how dangerous is that worm we spoke of! for not only does it give death to the shepherd, but all the rest fall into sickness and death through it. why does that shepherd go on using so much ointment? because he does not suffer in consequence! for no displeasure visits one and no ill will, from spreading ointment over the sick; since one does nothing contrary to their will; they wanted ointment, and so ointment is given them. oh, human wretchedness! blind is the sick man who does not know his own need, and blind the shepherd-physician, who has regard to nothing but pleasing, and his own advantage--since, not to forfeit it, he refrains from using the knife of justice or the fire of ardent charity! but such men do as christ says: for if one blind man guide the other, both fall into the ditch. sick man and physician fall into hell. such a man is a right hireling shepherd, for, far from dragging his sheep from the hands of the wolf, he devours them himself. the cause of all this is, that he loves himself apart from god: so he does not follow sweet jesus, the true shepherd, who has given his life for his sheep. truly, then, this perverse love is perilous for one's self and for others, and truly to be shunned, since it works too much harm to every generation of people. i hope by the goodness of god, venerable father mine, that you will quench this in yourself, and will not love yourself for yourself, nor your neighbour for yourself, nor god; but will love him because he is highest and eternal goodness, and worthy of being loved; and yourself and your neighbour you will love to the honour and glory of the sweet name of jesus. i will, then, that you be so true and good a shepherd that if you had a hundred thousand lives you would be ready to give them all for the honour of god and the salvation of his creatures. o "babbo" mine, sweet christ on earth, follow that sweet gregory (the great)! for all will be possible to you as to him; for he was not of other flesh than you; and that god is now who was then: we lack nothing save virtue, and hunger for the salvation of souls. but there is a remedy for this, father: that we flee the love spoken of above, for ourselves and every creature apart from god. let no more note be given to friends or parents or one's temporal needs, but only to virtue and the exaltation of things spiritual. for temporal things are failing you from no other cause than from your neglect of the spiritual. now, then, do we wish to have that glorious hunger which these holy and true shepherds of the past have felt, and to quench in ourselves that fire of self-love? let us do as they, who with fire quenched fire; for so great was the fire of inestimable and ardent charity that burned in their hearts and souls, that they were an-hungered and famished for the savour of souls. oh, sweet and glorious fire, which is of such power that it quenches fire, and every inordinate delight and pleasure and all love of self; and this love is like a drop of water, which is swiftly consumed in the furnace! should one ask me how men attained that sweet fire and hunger--inasmuch as we are surely in ourselves unfruitful trees--i say that those men grafted themselves into the fruitful tree of the most holy and sweet cross, where they found the lamb, slain with such fire of love for our salvation as seems insatiable. still he cries that he is athirst, as if saying: "i have greater ardour and desire and thirst for your salvation than i show you with my finished passion." o sweet and good jesus! let pontiffs shame them, and shepherds, and every other creature, for our ignorance and pride and self-indulgence, in the presence of so great largess and goodness and ineffable love on the part of our creator! he has revealed himself to us in our humanity, a tree full of sweet and mellow fruits, in order that we, wild trees, might graft ourselves in him. now in this wise wrought that enamoured gregory, and those other good shepherds: knowing that they had no virtue in themselves, and gazing upon the word, our tree, they grafted themselves in him, bound and chained by the bands of love. for in that which the eye sees does it delight, when the thing is fair and good. they saw, then, and seeing they so bound them that they saw not themselves, but saw and tasted everything in god. and there was neither wind nor hail nor demons nor creatures that could keep them from bearing cultivated fruits: since they were grafted in the substance of our tree, jesus. they brought forth their fruits, then, from the substance of sweet charity, in which they were united. and there is no other way. this is what i wish to see in you. and if up to this time, we have not stood very firm, i wish and pray in truth that the moment of time which remains be dealt with manfully, following christ, whose vicar you are, like a strong man. and fear not, father, for anything that may result from those tempestuous winds that are now beating against you, those decaying members which have rebelled against you. fear not; for divine aid is near. have a care for spiritual things alone, for good shepherds, good rulers, in your cities--since on account of bad shepherds and rulers you have encountered rebellion. give us, then, a remedy; and comfort you in christ jesus, and fear not. press on, and fulfil with true zeal and holy what you have begun with a holy resolve, concerning your return, and the holy and sweet crusade. and delay no longer, for many difficulties have occurred through delay, and the devil has risen up to prevent these things being done, because he perceives his own loss. up, then, father, and no more negligence! raise the gonfalon of the most holy cross, for with the fragrance of the cross you shall win peace. i beg you to summon those who have rebelled against you to a holy peace, so that all warfare may be turned against the infidels. i hope by the infinite goodness of god that he will swiftly send his aid. comfort you, comfort you, and come, come, to console the poor, the servants of god, your sons! we await you with eager and loving desire. pardon me, father, that i have said so many words to you. you know that through the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. i am certain that if you shall be the kind of tree i wish to see you, nothing will hinder you. i beg you to send to lucca and to pisa with fatherly proposals, as god shall instruct you, supporting them so far as can be, and summoning them to remain firm and persevering. i have been at pisa and at lucca, up to now, influencing them as much as i can not to make a league with the decaying members that are rebelling against you: but they are in great perplexity, because they have no comfort from you, and are constantly urged to make it and threatened from the contrary side. however, up to the present time, they have not wholly consented. i beg you also to write emphatically to messer piero: and do it zealously, and do not delay. i say no more. i have heard here that you have appointed the cardinals. i believe that it would honour god and profit us more if you would take heed always to appoint virtuous men. if the contrary is done, it will be a great insult to god, and disaster to holy church. let us not wonder later if god sends us his disciplines and scourges; for the thing is just. i beg you to do what you have to do manfully and in the fear of god. i have heard that you are to promote the master of our order to another benefice. therefore i beg you, by the love of christ crucified, that if this is so you will take pains to give us a good and virtuous vicar. the order has need of it, for it has run altogether too wild. you can talk of this with messer niccola da osimo and the archbishop of tronto; and i will write them about it. remain in the sweet and holy grace of god. i ask you humbly for your blessing. pardon my presumption, that i presume to write to you. sweet jesus, jesus love. to gregory xi there is less formality here than in the first letter to gregory. catherine in writing to the pope soon felt herself as much at home as a child in her earthly father's house. the little pet name, "babbo," which she habitually uses to him, could be translated only by "daddy"--which would sound so strange in english ears that it seems best to let the italian stand. there is something touching as well as entertaining in the spirit of childlike freedom to which such a term bears witness. the anti-papal league has become a grim reality. the un-christian pomp and arrogance of ruling prelates, the mean cruelty of william of noellet in refusing to allow corn to be imported from the papal states in tuscany in time of famine, the harshness and lack of tact in the policy of gregory toward his unsatisfactory children, were all forces potent to destroy among the rebels any strong sense of committing a religious crime in their opposition to the church. catherine stands as mediator between the two parties. not for a moment condoning the sin of a rebellion heinous indeed in her eyes, she yet does not allow the pope to forget that the chief cause of the trouble has been the unjust and iniquitous things which the florentines have endured from the legates--men "whom you know yourself"-so she writes with vigorous plebeian candour--"whom you know yourself to be incarnate demons"! let god's vicegerent, then, show forth the love of god, and find in the divine attitude toward rebellious man an example for his own attitude toward his rebellious cities. conciliation is to her mind the only wisdom. there is practical sagacity in her remark in another letter: "on with benignity, father! for know that every rational creature is more easily conquered by love and benignity than by anything else: and especially these italians of ours in these parts. i do not see any other way in which you can conquer them, but if you do this you can do anything you like with them." the beautiful opening meditation on the love of god as shown in creation and redemption is then no mere general exordium, but in close dramatic unity with the sequel of the letter. the augustinian theology, however alien to our modern modes of thought, has, as she puts it, a nobility not to be ignored. as presented briefly here, and more grandly by dante in the seventh canto of the _paradiso_, it represents the supreme effort of the law-reverencing mind of the latin church to formulate the methods of infinite love. in the curious figure of the tournament, we have a characteristic play of mediaeval fancy. as langland puts it, a little differently: "then was faith in a fenestre, and cryed: ah! fili david! as doth an heraude of armes when adventrous cometh to jousts. olde jewes of jerusalem for joy they sungen, benedictus qui venit in nomine domini. then i fraynèd at faith what all that fare meant, and who should joust in jerusalem: 'jesus,' he said, 'and fetch that the fiend claimeth: piers' fruit the plowman.' 'is piers in this place?' quoth i: and he winked at me,- 'this jesus of his gentrice will joust in piers' armes, in his helme and in his habergeon, humana natura.'" in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and most reverend my father in christ jesus: i catherine your poor unworthy daughter, servant and slave of the servants of christ, write to you in his precious blood; with desire to see you a good shepherd. for i reflect, sweet my "babbo," that the wolf is carrying away your sheep, and there is no one found to help them. so i hasten to you, our father and our shepherd, begging you on behalf of christ crucified to learn from him, who with such fire of love gave himself to the shameful death of the most holy cross, to rescue that lost sheep, the human race, from the hands of the demons; because, through man's rebellion against god, they were holding it for their own possession. then comes the infinite goodness of god, and sees the evil state and the loss and the ruin of these sheep, and sees that they cannot be won back by wrath or war. so, notwithstanding that it has been wronged by them--since man deserved an infinite penalty for his disobedient rebellion against god--highest and eternal wisdom will not do thus; but finds an attractive way, the most gentle and loving possible to find. for it sees that the heart of man is in no wise so drawn as by love, because he was made by love. this seems to be the reason why he loves so much, that he was made by nothing but love, both his soul and his body. for by love god created him in his image and likeness, and by love his father and mother gave him substance, conceiving and bearing a son. god, therefore, seeing that man is so ready to love, throws the book of love straight at him, giving him the word his only-begotten son, who takes our humanity, to make a great peace. but justice wills that vengeance should be wrought for the wrong that has been done to god: so comes divine mercy and unspeakable charity, and to satisfy justice and mercy condemns his son to death, having clothed him in our humanity--that is, with the clay of adam, who sinned. so by his death the wrath of the father is pacified, having wrought justice on the person of his son: so he has satisfied justice and has satisfied mercy, releasing the human race from the hands of demons. this sweet word jousted in his arms upon the wood of the most holy cross, death making a tournament with life, and life with death: so that by his death he destroyed our death, and to give us life he sacrificed the life of his body. so then with love he has drawn us, and has conquered our malice with his benignness, in so much that every heart should be drawn to him: since greater love one cannot show--and this he himself said--than to give one's life for one's friend. and if he commends the love which gives one's life for a friend, what, then, shall we say of that most burning and complete love which gave its life for its foe? for we through sin had been made foes of god. oh, sweet and amorous word, who with love hast found thy flock once more, and with love hast given thy life for them, and hast brought them back into the fold, restoring to them the grace which they had lost! holiest sweet "babbo" mine, i see no other way for us, and no other help in winning back your sheep, which have left the fold of holy church in rebellion, not obedient nor subject to you, their father. i pray you therefore, on behalf of christ crucified, and i will that you do me this grace, to overcome their malice with your benignity. yours we are, father! i know and recognize that they all feel that they have done wrong; but although they have no excuse for their evil deeds, nevertheless it seemed to them that they could not do otherwise on account of the many sufferings and unjust and iniquitous things that they endured from bad shepherds and governors. for, breathing the stench of the life of many rulers whom you know yourself to be incarnate demons, they fell into the worst of fears, so that they did like pilate, who, not to lose the government, killed christ; so did they, for not to lose the state, they persecuted you. i ask you, then, father, to show them mercy. do not have regard to the ignorance and pride of your sons; but with the food of love and of your benignity, inflicting such sweet discipline and benign reproof as shall please your holiness, restore peace to us miserable children who have done wrong. i tell you, sweet christ on earth, on behalf of christ in heaven, that if you do thus, without any strife or tempest, they will all come, grieving for the wrong they have done, and will put their heads in your bosom. then you will rejoice, and we shall rejoice, because by love you have restored the wandering sheep to the fold of holy church. and then, sweet my "babbo," you will fulfil your holy desire and the will of god, by making the holy crusade, which i summon you in his name to do swiftly and without negligence. they will turn to it with great eagerness; they are ready to give their life for christ. ah me, god, sweet love! raise swiftly, "babbo," the gonfalon of the most holy cross, and you will see the wolves become lambs. peace, peace, peace, that war may not delay this happy time! but if you will wreak vengeance and justice, take them upon me, poor wretch, and give me any pain and torment that may please you, even to death. i believe that through the stench of my iniquities many evils have happened, and many misfortunes and discords. on me, then, your poor daughter, take any vengeance that you will. ah me, father, i die of grief and cannot die! come, come, and resist no more the will of god that calls you; and the hungry sheep await your coming to hold and possess the place of your predecessor and champion, apostle peter. for you, as the vicar of christ, should rest in your own place. come, then, come, and delay no more; and comfort you, and fear not for anything that might happen, since god will be with you. i ask humbly your benediction, for me and for all my sons; and i beg you to pardon my presumption. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to gregory xi "ahi, constantin, di quanto mal fu matre, non la tua conversion, ma quella dote che da te prese il primo ricco patre!" "for ever since holy church has aimed more at temporal than at spiritual things, matters have gone from bad to worse." catherine's sorrowful denunciations of the sins of the church recall the thought of dante, the thought of petrarch--which is also the thought of all the great saints, seers, and loyal catholics, to whom through the christian ages the shortcoming of their spiritual mother has meant grief beyond words. the lovely conception of holy church as a garden, borrowed though it be from holy writ, she has made peculiarly her own by constant repetition. we recognize in it the womanly imagination which, we are told, always found refreshment in wreathing fragrant flowers and walking abroad through the fields and woods. catherine in this letter presents explicitly her threefold policy: reform of the church, return to rome, the initiation of a crusade. in her little letter to sir john hawkwood, we have already seen her devotion to this last cause. a crusade in the fourteenth century was not to be. nevertheless, catherine never showed more political wisdom than in this matter, and it was the one aim of her life in which she wholly failed. we have in the legenda minore a racy account of a personal interview with gregory on the subject, in which she presented cogent considerations to him. she shrewdly suggested that the mercenary troops who ravaged italy, and were "the very cause and nourishment of war," would gladly turn their arms against the infidel, "for there are few people so wicked that they are not willing to serve god by indulging their taste: all men would gladly expiate their sins by doing what they enjoy." behind all such considerations of policy, however, lay, as we clearly see, the intense desire that the infidels should be saved. and not for their own sake only. desperate and desolate as she beheld the worldliness of christian folk, and their remoteness from the faith and ardour of an earlier time, catherine ventured to dream that new converts, won from the peoples that sat in darkness, might revive the spiritual life of christendom by the infusion of spiritual passion strong in young purity. "oh, what joy it would be," she wrote to gregory, "could we see the christian people convert the infidel! for when they had once received the light, they might reach great perfection, like a young plant which has escaped the wintry cold of faithlessness, and expands in the warmth and light of the holy spirit; so they might bear flowers and fruits of virtue in the mystical body of holy church; so that the fragrance of their virtue might help us to drive away the sins and vice, the pride and impurity, which abound today among the christian people, and above all among those high in holy church." it was a strange dream, and hopeless; but it was the dream of a saint. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and dear and sweet father in christ sweet jesus: i your unworthy daughter catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood. with desire have i desired to see in you the fulness of divine grace, in such wise that you may be the means, through divine grace, of pacifying all the universal world. therefore, i beg you, sweet my father, to use the instrument of your power and virtue, with zeal, and hungry desire for the peace and honour of god and the salvation of souls. and should you say to me, father--"the world is so ravaged! how shall i attain peace?" i tell you, on behalf of christ crucified, it befits you to achieve three chief things through your power. do you uproot in the garden of holy church the malodorous flowers, full of impurity and avarice, swollen with pride: that is, the bad priests and rulers who poison and rot that garden. ah me, you our governor, do you use your power to pluck out those flowers! throw them away, that they may have no rule! insist that they study to rule themselves in holy and good life. plant in this garden fragrant flowers, priests and rulers who are true servants of jesus christ, and care for nothing but the honour of god and the salvation of souls, and are fathers of the poor. alas, what confusion is this, to see those who ought to be a mirror of voluntary poverty, meek as lambs, distributing the possessions of holy church to the poor: and they appear in such luxury and state and pomp and worldly vanity, more than if they had turned them to the world a thousand times! nay, many seculars put them to shame who live a good and holy life. but it seems that highest and eternal goodness is having that done by force which is not done by love; it seems that he is permitting dignities and luxuries to be taken away from his bride, as if he would show that holy church should return to her first condition, poor, humble, and meek as she was in that holy time when men took note of nothing but the honour of god and the salvation of souls, caring for spiritual things and not for temporal. for ever since she has aimed more at temporal than at spiritual, things have gone from bad to worse. see therefore that god, in judgment, has allowed much persecution and tribulation to befall her. but comfort you, father, and fear not for anything that could happen, which god does to make her state perfect once more, in order that lambs may feed in that garden, and not wolves who devour the honour that should belong to god, which they steal and give to themselves. comfort you in christ sweet jesus; for i hope that his aid will be near you, plenitude of divine grace, aid and support divine in the way that i said before. out of war you will attain greatest peace; out of persecution, greatest unity; not by human power, but by holy virtue, you will discomfit those visible demons, wicked men, and those invisible demons who never sleep around us. but reflect, sweet father, that you could not do this easily unless you accomplished the other two things which precede the completion of the other: that is, your return to rome and uplifting of the standard of the most holy cross. let not your holy desire fail on account of any scandal or rebellion of cities which you might see or hear; nay, let the flame of holy desire be more kindled to wish to do swiftly. do not delay, then, your coming. do not believe the devil, who perceives his own loss, and so exerts himself to rob you of your possessions in order that you may lose your love and charity and our coming be hindered. i tell you, father in christ jesus, come swiftly like a gentle lamb. respond to the holy spirit who calls you. i tell you, come, come, come, and do not wait for time, since time does not wait for you. then you will do like the lamb slain whose place you hold, who without weapons in his hand slew our foes, coming in gentleness, using only the weapons of the strength of love, aiming only at care of spiritual things, and restoring grace to man who had lost it through sin. alas, sweet my father, with this sweet hand i pray you, and tell you to come to discomfit our enemies. on behalf of christ crucified i tell it you: refuse to believe the counsels of the devil, who would hinder your holy and good resolution. be manly in my sight, and not timorous. answer god, who calls you to hold and possess the seat of the glorious shepherd st. peter, whose vicar you have been. and raise the standard of the holy cross; for as we were freed by the cross--so paul says--thus raising this standard, which seems to me the refreshment of christians, we shall be freed--we from our wars and divisions and many sins, the infidel people from their infidelity. in this way you will come and attain the reformation, giving good priests to holy church. fill her heart with the ardent love that she has lost; for she has been so drained of blood by the iniquitous men who have devoured her that she is wholly wan. but comfort you, and come, father, and no longer make to wait the servants of god, who afflict themselves in desire. and i, poor, miserable woman, can wait no more; living, i seem to die in my pain, seeing god thus reviled. do not, then, hold off from peace because of the circumstance which has occurred at bologna, but come; for i tell you that the fierce wolves will put their heads in your bosom like gentle lambs, and will ask mercy from you, father. i say no more. i beg you, father, to hear and hark that which fra raimondo will say to you, and the other sons with him, who come in the name of christ crucified and of me; for they are true servants of god and sons of holy church. pardon, father, my ignorance, and may the love and grief which make me speak excuse me to your benignity. give me your benediction. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother raimondo of capua at avignon the last letter tells us that catherine had sent to the pope her beloved confessor, who was later to become her biographer--fra raimondo of capua. it is evident that the simple italian priest and his companions have become somewhat daunted by the conditions they have encountered at avignon; and, indeed, the subtlest temptations and most perplexing problems that europe could furnish were doubtless focussed at the papal court. just what the difficulties were which raimondo had confided to catherine and which called forth this spirited answer, we do not know, but we can easily imagine their nature. a holy man of considerable learning, fra raimondo was also of mild disposition, much inclined to sigh over dangers and blench before exposure. catherine, on more than one occasion, showed herself the better man of the two. there was a militant strain in her bright nature; she was really the "happy warrior"- "whose powers shed round him in the common strife or mild concerns of ordinary life a constant influence, a peculiar grace; but who if he be called upon to face some awful moment to which heaven has joined great issues, good or bad for human kind, is happy as a lover; and attired with sudden brightness, like a man inspired; and, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law in calmness made, and sees what he foresaw." so, in this letter, we find the daughter encouraging the father, with reflections much in the temper of browning: "was the trial sore, temptation sharp? thank god a second time! why come temptations but for man to meet, and master, and make crouch beneath his feet, and so be pedestalled in triumph!" in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: reverend father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you and the other sons clothed in the wedding garment that covers all our nakedness. that is a protection which does not let the blows of our adversary the devil pierce our flesh with mortal wound, but makes us rather strengthened than weakened by every blow of temptation or molesting of devils or fellow-creatures or our own flesh, rebellious to the spirit. i say that these blows not only do not hurt us, but they shall be precious stones and pearls placed on this garment of most burning charity. now suppose there should be a soul that did not have to endure many labours and temptations, from whatever direction and in whatever wise god may grant them. no virtue would be tested in it; for virtue is tested by its opposite. how is purity tested and won? through the contrary--that is, through the vexations of uncleanliness. for were a man unclean already, there would be no need for him to be molested by unclean reflections, but because it is evident that his will is free from all depraved consenting, and purified from every spot by his holy and true desire to serve his creator, therefore the devil, the world, and the flesh molest him. yes, everything is driven out by its opposite. see how humility is won through pride. when a man sees himself molested by that vice of pride, at once he humbles himself, recognizing himself to be faulty--proud: while had he not been so molested he would not have known himself so well. when he has humbled and seen himself, he conceives hatred in such wise that he joys and exults in every pain and injury that he bears. such a one is like a manful knight, who does not avoid blows. nay, he holds him unworthy of so great grace, as it seems to him to be, to bear pain, temptations and vexations for christ crucified. all is through the hate he has for himself, and the love he has conceived for virtue. so you see that we are not to flee nor to grieve in the time of darkness, since from the darkness light is born. o god, sweet love, what sweet doctrine thou givest, that through the contrary of virtue, virtue is won! out of impatience is won patience; for the soul that feels the vice of impatience becomes patient over the injury received, and is impatient toward the vice of impatience, and is more hurt because it is hurt than over anything else. and so out of the very contrary its perfection comes to be won. it is not aware of this; it finds itself become perfect in many storms and temptations. in no other wise does one ever arrive at the harbour of perfection. yea, meditate on this: that the soul can never receive nor desire virtue, unless it has cravings, vexations and temptations to endure with true and holy patience for the love of christ crucified. we ought, then, to joy and exult in the time of conflicts, vexations and shadows, since from them proceeds such virtue and delight. oh me, my son given me by mary that sweet mother, i do not want you to fall into weariness or confusion through any vexations that you might feel in your mind; but i want you to keep that good and holy and true faithful will which i know that god in his mercy has given you. i know that you would rather die than offend him mortally. yes, i want that out of the shadows should issue knowledge of yourself, free from confusion; out of your goodwill should issue knowledge of the infinite goodness and unspeakable charity of god; and in this knowledge may our soul abide and fatten. reflect that through love he keeps your will good, and does not let it run by its own consent or pleasure after the suggestions of the devil. and so, through love, he has permitted to you and me and his other servants, the many vexations and deceits of the devil and fellow-creatures and our own flesh, solely in order that we might rise from negligence, and reach perfect zeal, true humility and most ardent charity: humility which comes from knowledge of self, and charity which comes from knowledge of the goodness of god. there is the soul inspired and consumed by love. joy, father, and exult; and comfort you, without any servile fear, and fear not, for any thing that you should see happen. but comfort you: for perfection is near you. and answer the devil saying: "that power against you did not work through me, since it was not in me; it works through grace of the infinite pity and mercy of god." yes, through christ crucified you shall be able to do all things. carry on all your works with living faith; and do not wonder should you see some contrary circumstance present itself which seemed to oppose your work. comfort you, comfort you, because the sweet primal truth has promised to fulfil your and my desire for you. slay yourself through your burning desire, with the lamb that was slain; rest you upon the cross with christ crucified. rejoice in christ crucified; rejoice in pains; steep yourself in shames for christ crucified; graft your heart and your affection into the tree of the most holy cross with christ crucified, and make in his wounds your habitation. and pardon me, cause and instrument that i am of your every pain and imperfection; for were i an instrument of virtue, you and others would breathe the fragrance of virtue. and i do not say these words because i want you to suffer, for your suffering would be mine; but that you may have compassion, you and the other sons, upon my miseries. i hope and firmly hold, through the grace of the holy spirit, that he will put limit and end to all those things that are apart from the will of god. reflect that i, poor miserable woman, abide in the body, and find me through desire continually away from the body. oh me, sweet and good jesus! i die and cannot die, my heart breaks and cannot break, from the desire that i have of the renewal of holy church, for the honour of god and the salvation of every creature; and to see you and the others arrayed in purity, burned and consumed in his most ardent charity! tell christ on earth not to make me wait longer; and when i shall see him, i shall sing with simeon, that sweet old man: "nunc dimittis servum tuum, domine, secundum verbum tuum, in pace." i say no more; for did i follow my wish, i should begin again at once. make me see and feel you bound and fastened into christ sweet jesus, in such wise that nor demon nor creature can ever separate you from so sweet a bond. love, love, love one another. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to catarina of the hospital and giovanna di capo from the comparative quiet of her home catherine looks off to far horizons, surveying the religious and political world. she can encourage fra raimondo, yet the sword has pierced her heart. this letter is full of sickening recognition of evils that hold grave prevision of worse disaster. even now we see clearly formed in catherine's mind that strange sense of responsibility for the sins of her time, so illogical to the natural, so inevitable to the spiritual vision. "i believe that i am the wretched woman who is the cause of so great evils!" thus she cries, not in rhetorical figure of speech, but in deep conviction. it is a conviction destined to grow more intense till it leads direct to her spiritual martyrdom. out of her pain she turns to the simple women, her daughters and companions in faith, calling on them to join her in the life of intercession and expiation. then her thought fastens on one little lamb of the flock--one who had strayed and been rescued, and was in danger of straying again; and in care for this one soul needing shelter and strength she finds comfort. catherine's sense of proportion is that of the spiritual man so finely presented by browning in the person of lazarus. let andrea be saved, and the corruption of the church will seem less painful! she can say as her last word, "sweet daughters, now is the time for toils, which must be our consolations in christ crucified." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughters in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with desire to see you established in true patience and deep humility, so that you may follow the sweet and spotless lamb, for you could not follow him in other wise. now is the time, my daughters, to show if we have virtue, and if you are daughters or not. it behoves you to bear with patience the persecutions and detractions, slanders and criticisms of your fellowcreatures, with true humility, and not with annoyance or impatience; nor must you lift up your head in pride against any person whatever. know well that this is the teaching which has been given us, that it behoves us to receive on the cross the food of the honour of god and the salvation of souls, with holy and true patience. ah me, sweetest daughters, i summon you on behalf of the sweet primal truth to awaken from the sleep of negligence and selfish love of yourselves, and to offer humble and continual prayers, with many vigils, and with knowledge of yourselves, because the world is perishing through the crowding multitude of iniquities, and the irreverence shown to the sweet bride of christ. well, then, let us give honour to god, and our toils to our neighbour. ah, me, do not be willing, you or the other servants of god, that our life should end otherwise than in mourning and in sighs, for by no other means can be appeased the wrath of god, which is evidently falling upon us. ah, me, misfortunate! my daughters, i believe that i am the wretched woman who is the cause of so many evils, on account of the great ingratitude and other faults which i have committed toward my creator. ah, me! ah, me! who is god, who is wronged by his creatures? he is highest and eternal goodness, who in his love created man in his image and likeness, and recreated him by grace, after his sin, in the blood of the immaculate and enamoured lamb, his only-begotten son. and who is mercenary and ignorant man, who wrongs his creator? we are those who are not ourselves by ourselves, save in so far as we are made by god, but by ourselves we are full of every wretchedness. it seems as if people sought nothing except in what way they could wrong god and their fellow-creatures, in contempt of the creator. we see with our wretched eyes that blood which has given us life persecuted in the holy church of god. then let our hearts break in torment and grieving desire; let life stay in our body no more, but let us rather die than behold god so reviled. i die in life, and demand death from my creator and cannot have it. better were it for me to die than to live, instead of beholding such disaster as has befallen and is to befall the christian people. let us draw the weapons of holy prayer, for other help i see not. that time of persecution has come upon the servants of god when they must hide in the caves of knowledge of themselves and of god, craving his mercy through the merits of the blood of his son. i will say no more, for if i did according to my choice, my daughters, i should never rest until god removed me from this life. to thee now i say, andrea, that he who begins only never receives the crown of glory, but he who perseveres till death. o daughter mine, thou hast begun to put thy hand to the plough of virtue, leaving the parbreak of mortal sin; it behoves thee, then, to persevere, to receive the reward of thy labour, which thy soul endures, choosing to bridle its youth, that it may not run to be a member of the devil. ah me, my daughter! and hast thou not reflection that thou wast once a member of the devil, sleeping in the filth of impurity, and that god by his mercy drew thee from that great misery in which thou wast, thy soul and thy body? it does not befit thee, then, to be ungrateful nor forgetful, for evil would befall thee, and the devil would come back with seven companions stronger than at first. then thou shalt show the grace thou hast received by being grateful and mindful, when thou shalt be strong in battles with the devil, the world, and thy flesh, which vexes thee; thou must be persevering in virtue. cling, my daughter, if thou wilt escape such vexations, to the tree of the most holy cross, in bodily abstinence, in vigil and in prayer, bathing thee by holy desire in the blood of christ crucified. so thou shalt attain the life of grace, and do the will of god, and fulfil my desire, which longs to have thee a true servant of christ crucified. i beg thee therefore not to be a child any longer, and to choose for bridegroom christ crucified, who has bought thee with his blood. if thou yet wishest the life of the world, it befits thee to wait long enough so that the way can be found of giving it to thee in a way that shall be for the honour of god and for thy good. be subject and obedient till death, and do not contradict the will of catarina and giovanna, who i know will never counsel thee or tell thee anything that is not for the honour of god and the salvation of thy soul and body. if thou dost not behave so, thou wilt displease me very much, and do thyself little good. i hope in the goodness of god that thou wilt so act that he will be honoured, and thou shalt have thy reward and give me great consolation. i tell thee, catarina and giovanna, to work till death for the honour of god and her salvation. sweet daughters, now is the time for toils, which must be our consolations in christ crucified. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to sister daniella of orvieto clothed with the habit of saint dominic who not being able to carry out her great penances had fallen into deep affliction catherine's beloved sister daniella is in trouble. as happened to many others leading the dedicated life in the middle ages, she has carried her scorn of the body past all bounds of reason, has fallen ill and been obliged to care for her poor physical nature. catherine, who is perpetually trying to raise fra raimondo and others in her spiritual family to more heroic heights, recognizes the different needs of this over-eager soul. she writes her friend, therefore, a long and tender letter, one of the most elaborate among her many analyses of the means that lead to perfection, urging upon her discretion and a sense of proportion in spiritual things. it is noteworthy that catherine's exhortations to impassioned sacrifice are almost always delivered in connection with the claims of active service, to the church or fellow-men. when writing to "contemplatives" absorbed in the ecstasies and trials of the interior life, her habitual warnings are against excess, her constant plea, as here, for a perception of relative values. she ranks, herself, alike as a great "contemplative" and as a great woman of action: both phases of experience relate to something deeper. her soul was athirst for the infinite, and well she knew that neither in deeds nor in ascetic ecstasy, but only in "holy desire," in the life of ceaseless aspiration "which prays for ever in the presence of god," can our mortality attain to untrammelled union with infinite being. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter and sister in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood, with desire to see in thee the holy virtue of discretion, which it is necessary for us to have if we wish to be saved. why is it so necessary? because it proceeds from the knowledge of ourselves and of god; in this house its roots are planted. it is really an offspring of charity, which, properly speaking, is discretion--an illumined knowledge which the soul has, as i said, of god and itself. the chief thing it does is this: having seen, in a reasonable light, what it ought to render and to whom, it renders this with perfect discretion at once. so it renders glory to god and praise to his name; the soul achieves all its works by this light and to this end. it renders to god his due of honour--not like an indiscreet robber, who wants to give honour to himself, and, seeking his own honour and pleasure, does not mind insulting god and harming his neighbour. when the roots of inclination in the soul are rotted by indiscretion, all its works, relating to others or to itself, are rotten. all relating to others, i say: for it imposes burdens indiscreetly, and lays down the law to other people, seculars or spiritual, or of whatever rank they may be. if such a person admonishes or advises, he does it indiscreetly, and wants to load everyone else with the burden which he carries himself. the discreet soul, that sees its own need and that of others reasonably, does just the opposite. when it has rendered to god his due of honour, it gives its own due to itself--that is, hatred of sin and of its own fleshliness. what is the reason? the love of virtue, which it loves in itself. it renders its due to the neighbour with the same light as to itself, and therefore i said, in relation to itself and to others. so it gives goodwill to its neighbour, as it is bound to do, loving virtue in him and hating sin. it loves him as a being created by the highest eternal father. and it gives him loving charity more or less perfectly, according as it has this in itself. yes, this is the principal result which the virtue of discretion achieves in the soul: it has seen clearly what due it ought to render, and to whom. these are three chief branches of that glorious discretion which springs from the tree of charity. from this tree spring infinite fruits, all mellow and very sweet, which nourish the soul in the life of grace, when it plucks them with the hand of free will, and eats them with holy eager desire. whatever condition a person may be in, he tastes these fruits, if he has the light of discretion, in diverse ways, according to his state. he who is placed in the world, and has this light, gathers the fruit of obedience to the commands of god, and distaste for the world, of which he divests himself in mind, although he may be clothed with it in fact. if he has children, he plucks the fruit of the fear of god, and nourishes them with this holy fear. if he is a nobleman, he plucks the fruit of justice, discreetly wishing to render to everyone his due--so he punishes the unjust man rigorously, and rewards the just, tasting the fruit of reason, and for no flatteries or servile fear deserts this way. if he is a subject, he gathers the fruit of obedience and reverence toward his lord, avoiding any cause or means by which he might offend him. had he not seen these things by the light, he would not have avoided them. if men are monks or prelates, they get from the tree the sweet and pleasing fruit of observing their rule, enduring one another's faults, embracing shames and annoyances, placing on their shoulders the yoke of obedience. the prelate takes desire for the honour of god and the salvation of souls, seeking to win them by doctrine and exemplary life. in what different ways and by what different people these fruits are gathered! it would take too long to tell them the tongue could not express it. but let us see, dearest daughter (now we will speak in particular, and so we shall be speaking in general too), what rule that virtue of discretion imposes on the soul. that rule seems to me to apply both to the soul and body of people who wish to live spiritually, in deed and thought. to be sure, it regulates every person in his rank and place: but let us now talk to ourselves. the first rule it gives to the soul is that we have mentioned--to render honour to god, goodwill to one's neighbour, and to oneself, hatred of sin and of one's own fleshliness. it regulates this charity toward the neighbour; for it is not willing to sacrifice the soul to him, since, in order to do him good or pleasure, it is not willing to offend god; but it flees from guilt discreetly, yet holds its body ready for every pain and torment, even to death, to rescue a soul, and as many souls as it can, from the hands of the devil. also, it is ready to give up all its temporal possessions to help and rescue the body of its neighbour. charity does this, when enlightened with discretion; for discretion should regulate one's charity to one's neighbour. the indiscreet man does just the contrary, who does not mind offending god, or sacrificing his soul, to serve or please his neighbour--sometimes by keeping him company in wicked places, sometimes by bearing false witness, or in many other ways, as happens every day. this is the rule of indiscretion, which proceeds from pride and perverse self-love and the blindness of not having known oneself or god. and when measure and rule have been found in regard to charity to the neighbour, discretion regulates also the matter which keeps the soul in that charity, and makes it grow--that is, in faithful, humble, and continual prayer; robing the soul in the cloak of desire for virtue, that it may not be injured by lukewarmness, negligence, or self-love, spiritual or temporal: therefore it inspires the soul with this desire for virtue, that its desire may not be placed on anything by which it might be deceived. also, it rules and orders the creature physically, in this way: the soul which is prepared to wish for god makes its beginning as we have said; but because it has the vessel of its body, enlightened discretion must impose a rule on this, as it has done upon the soul, since the body ought to be a means for the increase of virtue. the rule withdraws it from the indulgences and luxuries of the world, and the conversation of worldlings; gives it conversation with the servants of god; takes it from dissolute places, and keeps it in places that stimulate devotion. it imposes restraint on all the members of the body, that they be modest and temperate: let the eye not look where it should not, but hold before itself earth, and heaven; let the tongue flee idle and vain speech, and be disciplined to proclaim the word of god for the salvation of the neighbour, and to confess its sins: let the ear flee agreeable, flattering, dissolute words, and any words of detraction that might be said to it; and let it hearken for the word of god, and the need of the neighbour, willingly listening to his necessity. so let the hand be swift in touching and working, and the feet in going: to all, discretion gives a rule. and that the perverse law of the flesh that fights against the spirit may not throw these tools into disorder, it imposes a rule upon the body, mortifying it with vigil, fast, and the other exercises which are all meant to bridle our body. but note, that all this is done, not indiscreetly, but with enlightened discretion. how is this shown? in this: that the soul does not place its chief desire in any act of penance. that it may not fall into such a fault as to take penance for its chief desire, enlightened discretion takes pains to robe the soul in the desire for virtue. penance to be sure must be used as a tool, in due times and places, as need may be. if the flesh, being too strong, kicks against the spirit, penance takes the rod of discipline, and fast, and the cilice of many buds, and mighty vigils; and places burdens enough on the flesh, that it may be more subdued. but if the body is weak, fallen into illness, the rule of discretion does not approve of such a method. nay, not only should fasting be abandoned, but flesh be eaten; if once a day is not enough, then four times. if one cannot stand up, let him stay on his bed; if he cannot kneel, let him sit or lie down, as he needs. this discretion demands. therefore it insists that penance be treated as a means and not as a chief desire. dost thou know why it must not be chief? that the soul may not serve god with a thing that can be taken from it and that is finite: but with holy desire, which is infinite, through its union with the infinite desire of god; and with the virtues which neither devil nor fellow-creature nor weakness can take from us, unless we choose. herein must we make our foundation, and not in penance. nay, in weakness the virtue of patience may be tested; in vexing conflicts with devils, fortitude and long perseverance; and in adversities suffered from our fellow-beings, humility, patience, and charity. so as to all other virtues--god lets them be tested by many contraries, but never taken from us, unless we choose. herein must we make our foundation, and not in penance. the soul cannot have two foundations: either the one or the other must be overthrown. let the thing which is not the chief, be used as a means. if i find my chief principle in bodily penance, i build the city of my soul upon the sand, so that each little breeze throws it to the earth, and no building can be erected on it. but if i build upon the virtues, founded upon the living stone, christ sweet jesus, there is no building so great that it will not stand firmly, nor wind so contrary that it can ever blow it down. from these and many other difficulties that arise, it has not been meant that penance should be used otherwise than as a means. i have already seen many penitents who have been neither patient nor obedient, because they have studied to kill their bodies, but not their wills. the rule of indiscretion has wrought this. dost thou know the result? all their consolations and desires centre in carrying out their penance to suit themselves, and not to suit anyone else. therein they nourish their will. while they can fulfil their penance, they have consolation and gladness, and seem to themselves full of god, as if they had accomplished everything; and they do not perceive that they fall into a mere personal estimate, and into a judicial attitude. for if all people do not walk in the same way, they seem to them in a state of damnation, an imperfect state. they indiscreetly want to measure all bodies by one same measure, by that with which they measure themselves. and if one wants to withdraw them from this, either to break their will or from some necessity of theirs, they hold their will harder than a diamond; living in such wise, that at the time of test by a temptation or injury, they find themselves, from indulgence in this wrong will, weaker than straw. indiscretion taught them that penance bridled wrath, impatience, and the other sinful impulses that come into the heart; it is not so. this glorious light teaches thee that thou shalt kill sin in thy soul, and draw out its roots, with hatred and displeasure against thyself, loading thy fault with rebuke, with the consideration of who god is whom thou wrongest, and who thou art who wrongest him, with the memory of death and the longing for virtue. penance cuts off, yet thou wilt always find the root in thee, ready to sprout again; but virtue pulls up. earth in which sins have been planted is always ready to receive them again if self-will puts them there with free choice; not otherwise, when once the root is pulled up. it may happen that a sick body is obliged perforce to give up its habits of life; then it falls at once into weariness and confusion of mind, deprived of all gladness: it thinks itself condemned and confounded, and finds no sweetness in prayer, such as it seemed to have in the time of its penance. and whither is this sweetness gone? lost, with the personal will on which it was built! this cannot be gratified, and so the soul suffers. and why art thou fallen into such confusion and almost despair? and where is the hope which thou hadst in the kingdom of god? all lost, by means of that very penance through which the soul hoped to have eternal life! capable of this no more, it thinks itself deprived of the other. these are the fruits of indiscretion. had the soul the light of discretion, it would see that nothing but being without virtues deprived it of god; and it has eternal life through virtue, by the blood of christ. then let us rise above all imperfection, and set our heart, as i said, on true virtues, which are of such joy and gladsomeness as tongue could not tell. there is none who can give pain to the soul founded on virtue, or take from it the hope of heaven; for it has put its self-will to death in spiritual things as in temporal, and its affections are not set on penance, or private consolations or revelations, but on endurance through christ crucified and the love of virtue. so it is patient, faithful, hopes in god and not in itself or its works: is humble and obedient, believing others rather than itself, because it does not presume. it stretches wide the arms of mercy, and thereby drives forth confusion of mind. in shadows and conflicts it uplifts the light of faith, labouring manfully, with true and profound humility; and in gladness it enters into itself, that the heart may not fall into vain glee. it is strong and persevering, because it has put to death its own will, which made it weak and inconstant. all times are the right time for it; all places the right place. if it is in a season of penance, this is a time of gladness and consolation to it, using penance as a means; and if, by necessity or obedience, penance has to be abandoned, it rejoices; because its chief foundation, in the love of virtue, cannot be and is not taken from it; and because it sees the contradiction of its own will, which it has been enlightened to perceive must always be resisted with great diligence and zeal. it finds prayer in every place, for it bears ever with it the place wherein god lives by grace, and where we ought to pray--that is, the house of our soul wherein holy desire prays constantly. this desire is uplifted by the light of the mind to be reflected in itself and in the immeasurable flame of divine love, which it finds in the blood shed for us, which by largess of love it finds in the vase of the soul. this it cares and should care to know, that it may drink deep of the blood, and therein consume its self-will--and not simply to accomplish the count of many paternosters. so we shall make our prayer continuous and faithful; because in the fire of his love we know that he is powerful to give us what we ask. he is highest wisdom, who knows how to give and discern what we need; he is a most piteous and gracious father, who wishes to give us more than we desire, and more than we know how to ask for our need. the soul is humble, for it has recognized its own defects and that in itself it is not. this is the kind of prayer through which we attain virtue, and preserve in our souls the longing for it. what is the beginning of so great good? discretion, the daughter of charity, as i said. and it presents straightway to its neighbour the good which it has itself. so it seeks to present to its fellow-creature the foundation it has found, and the love and the teaching it has received, and shows these by example of life and doctrine, advising when it sees need or when advice were asked of it. it comforts the soul of its neighbour, and does not confound him by leading him into despair when he has fallen into some fault; but tenderly it makes itself ill with that soul, giving him what healing it can, and enlarging in him hope in the blood of christ crucified. the virtue of discretion gives this and infinitely many other fruits to the neighbour. then, since it is so useful and necessary, dearest and most beloved daughter and sister mine in christ sweet jesus, i summon thee and me to do what in past time i confess not to have done with that perfection which i should. it has not happened to thee as to me, to have been and to be very faulty, or over-lax and easy-going in my life, instead of strict, through my fault; but thou, as one who has wished to subdue her youthful body that it be not rebel to the soul, hast chosen a life so extremely strict that apparently it is out of all bounds of discretion; in so much that it seems to me that indiscretion is trying to make thee feel some of its results, and is quickening thy self-will in this. and now that thou art leaving what thou art accustomed to do, the devil apparently is trying to make it seem to thee that thou art damned. i am very much distressed at this, and i believe that it is a great offence against god. therefore i will and i beg thee that our beginning and foundation be in the love of virtue, as i said. kill thy self-will, and do what thou art made to do; pay attention rather to how things look to others than to thyself. thou dost feel thy body weak and ill; take every day the food that is needed to restore nature. and if thy illness and weakness are relieved, undertake a regular life in moderation, and not intemperately. do not consent to let the little good of penance hinder the greater; nor array thyself therein as thy chief affection--for thou wouldst find thyself deceived: but wish that we may haste in sincerity upon the beaten road of virtue, and that we may guide others on this same road, breaking and shattering our own wills. if we have the virtue of discretion in us, we shall do it; otherwise, not. therefore i said that i desired to see in thee the holy virtue of discretion. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. forgive me should i have talked too presumptuously; the love of thy salvation, through the honour of god, is my reason. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother raimondo of capua of the order of the preachers and to master john iii. of the order of the hermit brothers of st. augustine and to all their companions when they were at avignon catherine's interest in public affairs is rising and widening. this letter marks an inner crisis. her thoughts and deeds have, as we have seen, been already busied for some time with the dissension between the pope and his rebellious tuscan people: now the hour has come when she is to feel herself solemnly dedicated, by a divine command, to the great task of reconciliation. we overhear her, as it were, thinking out in her master's presence and with his aid the deepest questions which the situation suggests: and as we listen to that colloquy, so natural, so sweetly familiar, so deeply reverent, we feel that no problems, however sorrowful and perplexing, could be hopeless there. from communion with her lord, she went forth strong and reassured into the stormy action of her time. christ himself, so she tells us, placed the cross upon her shoulder and the olive in her hand, changed her mourning into a high and rapturous hope, and bade her go, strong in the faith, to bear his message of joy "to one and the other people." thus she should be shown in art--cross-bearer like her lord, and holding to the world the sign of reconciliation. thus did she start upon the via dolorosa of the peace-maker; from now on we shall follow her in her letters, as she treads that way of sorrows which was also the way of life. the experience here described fell on the first of april, 1376. early in may, the florentines, knowing of her holy fame, sent for her to come to their city and give them counsel. for to defy the vicar of christ was a fearsome thing, and many hearts were uneasy in the rebellious town. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest my sons in christ jesus. i your poor mother have longed passionately to see your hearts and affections nailed to the cross, held together by the bond which grafted god into man and man into god. so my soul longs to see your affections grafted into the incarnate word christ jesus, in such wise that nor demons nor creatures can divide you. for if you are held and enkindled by sweet jesus, i do not fear that all the devils of hell with all their wiles can separate you from so sweet love and union. so i wish, because there is mighty need, that you should never cease from throwing fuel on the fire of holy desire--the fuel of the knowledge of yourselves. for that is the fuel which feeds the fire of divine charity: charity which is won by knowledge of the inestimable love of god, and then unites the soul with its neighbour. and the more material one gives to the flame--that is, the more fuel of self-knowledge--the more the warmth of the love of christ and one's neighbour increases. abide, then, hidden in the knowledge of yourselves, and do not live superficially, lest devil malatasca catch you with many illusions and reflections against one another: this he would do to take from you your union in divine charity. so i will and command you that the one be subject to the other, and each bear the faults of the other; learning from the sweet primal truth, who chose to be the least of men, and humbly bore all our faults and iniquities. so i will that you do, dearest sons; love, love, love one another. and joy and exult, for the summer-tide draws near. for the first of april, especially in the night, god opened his secrets, showing his marvellous things in such a wise that my soul did not seem to be in the body, and received such joy and plenitude as the tongue does not suffice to tell. he explained and made clear part by part the mystery of the persecution which holy church is now enduring, and of her renewal and exaltation, which shall be in time to come: saying that the present crisis is permitted to restore her to her true condition. the sweet primal truth quoted two words which are in the holy gospel--"it must needs be that offences come into the world": and then added: "but woe to him by whom the offence cometh." as if he said: "i permit this time of persecution, to uproot the thorns, with which my bride is wholly choked; but i do not permit the evil thoughts of men. dost thou know what i do? i am doing as i did when i was in the world, when i made the scourge of cords, and drove out those who sold and bought in the temple, not choosing that the house of god should be made a den of thieves. so i tell thee that i am doing now. for i have made a scourge out of human beings, and with that scourge i drive out the impure traffickers, greedy, avaricious, and swollen with pride, who buy and sell the gifts of the holy spirit." yes, he was driving them forth with the scourge of the persecutions of their fellow-beings-that is, by force of tribulation and persecution he put an end to their disorderly and immodest living. and, the fire growing in me, i gazed and saw the christian people and the infidel enter into the side of christ crucified; and i passed through the midst of them, by my loving and longing desire, and entered with them into christ sweet jesus, accompanied by my father st. dominic, and john the single, with all my sons together. then he placed the cross on my shoulder and the olive in my hand, almost as if i had asked for them, and said that thus i should bear them, to the one and to the other people. and he said to me: "tell them, i bring you tidings of great joy." then my soul became more full; it was lost to itself among the true believers who feed upon the divine substance, by the uniting force and longing of love. and so great was the delight of my soul, that it no longer realized its past affliction from seeing god wronged; nay! i said: "o blessed and fortunate wrong!" then sweet jesus smiled, and said: "is sin fortunate, which is nothing at all? dost thou know what st. gregory meant when he said, 'blessed and fortunate fault'? what element is it that thou holdest as fortunate and blessed, and that gregory calls so?" i replied as he made me reply, and said: "i see well, sweet my lord, and well i know, that sin is not worthy of good fortune, and is not fortunate nor blessed in itself; but the fruit may be, which comes from sin. it seems to me that gregory meant this: that through the sin of adam, god gave us the word, his onlybegotten son, and the word gave his blood, so that, giving his life, he restored life with a great fire of love. so, then, sin is fortunate, not through the sin itself, but from the fruit and the gift we receive by that sin." now, so it is. thus from the wrong done by the wicked christians who persecute the bride of christ, spring her exaltation, her light, and the fragrance of her virtues. this was so sweet that there seemed no comparison between the wrong, and the unsearchable goodness and benignity of god, which he showed toward his bride. then i rejoiced and exulted, and was so arrayed in assurance of the time to come that i seemed to possess and taste it. and i said then with simeon: "nunc dimittis servum tuum, domine, secundum verbum tuum, in pace." so many mysteries were wrought in me as tongue cannot suffice to tell nor heart to think nor eye to see. now, what tongue could suffice to tell the wonderful things of god? not mine, poor wretch that i am. therefore i choose to keep silence, and to give me wholly to seeking the honour of god and the salvation of souls and the renewal and exaltation of holy church, and through grace and power of the holy spirit to persevere even unto death. with this desire i called our christ on earth, and i will call him, with great love and compassion, and you, father, and all my dear sons; i made and was granted your petition. rejoice, then, rejoice and exult. o sweet god our love, fulfil quickly the desires of thy servants! i will say no more--and i have said nothing. i die, delayed in my desires. have compassion on me. pray the divine goodness and christ on earth that there be no more loitering. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. drown you in the blood of christ crucified; and on no account faint, but rather take comfort. rejoice, rejoice, in your sweet labours. love, love, love one another. sweet jesus, jesus love. to sister bartolomea della seta nun in the convent of santo stefano at pisa the conflicts of the cloister and of the court are not dissimilar; and the first, to catherine, are as real and significant as the second. she writes in a familiar strain to sister bartolomea. the truths on which she is insisting have been reiterated in every age by guides to the spiritual life. but whenever, as here, they come from the depths of personal experience, they possess peculiar freshness and force; and, indeed, this colloquy of the saint of siena with her lord has become a _locus classicus_ in the literature of the interior life. one likes to note, in passing, how frequently catherine urges frail, cloistered women, sheltered from all the din and storm of outer life, to "manfulness." "virile," "virilmente"--they are among her especial words. and, indeed, they well befit her own spirit, singularly vigorous and fearless for a woman whose feminine sensitiveness is evident in every letter she writes. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ jesus. i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a true bride, consecrated to the eternal bridegroom. it belongs to a bride to make her will one with that of her bridegroom; she cannot will more than he wills, and seems unable to think of anything but him. now do you so think, daughter mine, for you, who are a bride of christ crucified, ought not to think or will anything apart from him--that is, not to consent to any other thoughts. that thoughts should not come, this i do not tell thee--because neither thou nor any created being couldst prevent them. for the devil never sleeps; and god permits this to make his bride reach perfect zeal and grow in virtue. this is the reason why god sometimes permits the mind to remain sterile and gloomy, and beset by many perverse cogitations, so that it seems unable to think of god, and can hardly remember his name. beware, when thou mayest feel this in thyself, lest thou fall into weariness or bewildered confusion, and do not give up thy exercises nor the act of praying, because the devil may say to thee: "how does this prayer uplift thee, since thou dost not offer it with any feeling or desire? it would be better for thee not to make it." yet do not give up, nor fall for this into confusion, but reply manfully: "i would rather exert myself for christ crucified, feeling pain, gloom and inward conflicts, than not exert myself and feel repose." and reflect, that this is the state of the perfect; if it were possible for them to escape hell, and have joy in this life and joy eternal beside, they do not want it, because they delight so greatly in conforming themselves to christ crucified; nay, they want to live rather by the way of the cross and pain, than without pain. now what greater joy can the bride have than to be conformed to her bridegroom, and clothed with like raiment? so, since christ crucified in his life chose naught but the cross and pain, and clothed him in this raiment, his bride holds herself blessed when she is clothed in this same raiment; and because she sees that the bridegroom has loved her so beyond measure, she loves and receives him with such love and desire as no tongue can suffice to tell. therefore the highest and eternal goodness, to make her attain most perfect love and possess humility, permits her many conflicts and a dry mind, that the creature may know itself and see that it is not. for were it anything, it would free itself from pain when it chose, but being naught it cannot. so, knowing itself, it is humbled in its non-existence, and knows the goodness of god, which, through grace, has given it being, and every grace that is founded upon being. but thou wilt say to me: "when i have so much pain, and suffer so many conflicts and such gloom, i can see nothing but confusion; and it does not seem as if i could take any hope, i see myself so wretched." i reply to thee, my daughter, that if thou shalt seek, thou shalt find god in thy goodwill. granted that thou feel many conflicts, do thou not therefore feel thy will deprived of wishing god. nay, this is the reason why the soul mourns and suffers, because it fears to offend god. it ought then to joy and exult, and not to fall into confusion through its conflicts, seeing that god keeps its will good, and gives it hatred of mortal sin. i remember that i heard this said once to a servant of god, and it was said to her by the sweet primal truth, when she was abiding in very great pain and temptation, and among other things, felt the greatest confusion, in so much that the devil said: "what wilt thou do? for all the time of thy life thou shalt abide in these pains, and then thou shalt have hell." she then answered with manly heart, and without any fear, and with holy hatred of herself, saying: "i do not avoid pains, for i have chosen pains for my refreshment. and if at the end he should give me hell, i will not therefore abandon serving my creator. for i am she who am worthy of abiding in hell, because i wronged the sweet primal truth; so, did he give me hell, he would do me no wrong, since i am his." then our saviour, in this sweet and true humility, scattered the shadows and torments of the devil, as it happens when the cloud passes that the sun remains; and suddenly came the presence of our saviour. thence she melted into a river of tears, and said in a sweet glow of love: "o sweet and good jesus, where wast thou when my soul was in such affliction?" sweet jesus, the spotless lamb, replied: "i was beside thee. for i move not, and never leave my creature, unless the creature leave me through mortal sin." and that woman abode in sweet converse with him, and said: "if thou wast with me, how did i not feel thee? how can it be that being by the fire, i should not feel the heat? and i felt nothing but freezing cold, sadness, and bitterness, and seemed to myself full of mortal sins." he replied sweetly, and said: "dost thou wish me to show thee, daughter mine, how in those conflicts thou didst not fall into mortal sin, and how i was beside thee? tell me, what is it that makes sin mortal? only the will. for sin and virtue consist in the consent of the will; there is no sin nor virtue, unless voluntarily wrought. this will was not in thee; for had it been, thou wouldst have taken joy and delight in the suggestions of the devil; but since the will was not there, thou didst grieve over them, and suffer for fear of doing wrong. so thou seest that sin and virtue consist in choice-wherefore i tell thee that thou shouldst not, on account of these conflicts, fall into disordered confusion. but i will that from this darkness thou derive the light of self-knowledge, in which thou mayest gain the virtue of humility, and joy and exult in a good will, knowing that then i abide in thee secretly. the will is a sign to thee that i am there; for hadst thou an evil will, i should not be in thee by grace. but knowest thou how i thus abide in thee? in the same way in which i hung upon the wood of the cross. and i take the same way with you that my father took with me. reflect, daughter mine, that upon the cross i was blessed and was sorrowful; blessed i was by the union of the divine and the human nature, and nevertheless the flesh endured pain, because the eternal father withdrew his power to himself, letting me suffer; but he did not withdraw the union in which he was for ever united with me. reflect that in this way i abide in the soul; for often i withdraw to myself feeling, but do not withdraw grace, since grace is never lost, except by mortal sin, as i said. but knowest thou why i do this? only to make the soul reach true perfection. thou knowest that the soul cannot be perfect unless borne on these two wings, humility and charity. humility is won through the knowledge of itself, into which it enters in the time of darkness; and charity is won by seeing that i, through love, have kept its will holy and good. wherefore, i tell thee, that the wise soul, seeing that from this experience proceeds such profit, reassures itself (and for no other cause do i permit the devil to give you temptations), and will hold this time dearer than any other. now i have told thee the way i take. and reflect, that such experience is very necessary to your salvation; for if the soul were not sometimes pressed by many temptations, it would fall into very great negligence, and would lose the exercise of continual desire and prayer. because in the hour of battle it is more alert, through fear of its foes, and provisions the rock of its soul, having recourse to me who am its fortitude. but this is not the intention of the devil--for i permit him to tempt you that he may make you attain virtue, though he, on his part, tempts you to make you attain despair. reflect that the devil will tempt a person who is dedicated to my service, not because he believes that the man may actually fall into that sin, for he sees at once that he would choose death rather than actually to do wrong. but what does he do? he exerts himself to make the man fall into confusion, saying: 'no good is of any use to you, on account of these thoughts and impulses that come to you.' now thou seest how great is the malice of the devil; for, not being able to conquer in the first battle, he often conquers in the second, under guise of virtue. wherefore i do not want thee ever to follow his malicious will; but i want thee to assume my will, as i have told thee. this is the rule which i give thee, and which i wish thee to teach others when there is need." now thus i tell thee, dearest my daughter, that i want thee to do. and be for me a mirror of virtue, following the footsteps of christ crucified. bathe thee in the blood of christ crucified, and so live, as is my will, that thou nor seek nor will aught but the crucified, like a true bride, bought with the blood of christ crucified. well seest thou that thou art a bride, and that he has wedded thee and every creature, not with a ring of silver, but with the ring of his flesh. o depth and height of love unspeakable, how didst thou love this bride, the human race! o life through which all things do live, thou hast plucked it from the hands of the devil, who possessed it as his own; from his hands thou hast plucked it, catching the devil with the hook of thy humanity, and hast wedded it with thy flesh. thou hast given thy blood for a pledge, and at the last, sacrificing thy body, thou hast made the payment. now drink deep, my daughter, and fall not into negligence, but arise with true zeal, and by this blood may the hardness of thy heart be broken in such wise that it never may close again, for any ignorance or negligence, nor for the speech of any creature. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to gregory xi catherine, sent by the florentines as their representative to the pope, has reached avignon and seen the holy father. far from being overawed in his presence, she has evidently felt toward him a mingling of sympathy and tenderness not untouched by compassion. she is impressed by the sensitiveness of the man--by the strength of the adverse influences continually playing upon him from his own household; above all, by his extreme timidity. the gentle, reassuring tone of this letter is almost like that of a mother encouraging a dear but weak-spirited child to make his own decisions and to abide by them. catherine's sweetness of nature preserves her from viewing gregory with any tinge of contempt; but we cannot help feeling the contrast between this frail woman of heroic soul and the hesitating figure of the pope. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and blessed father in christ sweet jesus: your poor unworthy little daughter catherine comforts you in his precious blood, with desire to see you free from any servile fear. for i consider that a timorous man cuts short the vigour of holy resolves and good desire, and so i have prayed, and shall pray, sweet and good jesus that he free you from all servile fear, and that holy fear alone remain. may ardour of charity be in you, in such wise as shall prevent you from hearing the voice of incarnate demons, and heeding the counsel of perverse counsellors, settled in selflove, who, as i understand, want to alarm you, so as to prevent your return, saying, "you will die." and i tell you on behalf of christ crucified, most sweet and holy father, not to fear for any reason whatsoever. come in security: trust you in christ sweet jesus: for, doing what you ought, god will be above you, and there will be no one who shall be against you. up, father, like a man! for i tell you that you have no need to fear. you ought to come; come, then. come gently, without any fear. and if any at home wish to hinder you, say to them bravely, as christ said when st. peter, through tenderness, wished to draw him back from going to his passion; christ turned to him, saying, "get thee behind me, satan; thou art an offence to me, seeking the things which are of men, and not those which are of god. wilt thou not that i fulfil the will of my father?" do you likewise, sweetest father, following him as his vicar, deliberating and deciding by yourself, and saying to those who would hinder you, "if my life should be spent a thousand times, i wish to fulfil the will of my father." although bodily life be laid down for it, yet seize on the life of grace and the means of winning it for ever. now comfort you and fear not, for you have no need. put on the armour of the most holy cross, which is the safety and the life of christians. let talk who will, and hold you firm in your holy resolution. my father, fra raimondo, said to me on your behalf that i was to pray god to see whether you were to meet with an obstacle, and i had already prayed about it, before and after holy communion, and i saw neither death nor any peril. those perils are invented by the men who counsel you. believe, and trust you in christ sweet jesus. i hope that god will not despise so many prayers, made with so ardent desire, and with many tears and sweats. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. pardon me, pardon me. jesus christ crucified be with you. sweet jesus, jesus love. to the king of france catherine's letters to great personages whom she did not know are, as would be expected, less searching and fresh than the many written with a more personal inspiration, but they afford at least an interesting testimony to the breadth of her interests. this letter to charles v. was evidently written during her stay at avignon, where she formed relations with the duke of anjou, and received his promise to lead in the prospective crusade. avignon was a centre of intellectual life and of european politics, and catherine must have been quickened there to think more than ever before in large terms and on great issues. to think of a matter is always, for her, to feel a sense of responsibility toward it; she writes, accordingly, to charles v., urging him to make peace with his brother monarch: "for so," says the maid of siena serenely to the great king--"so you will fulfil the will of god and me." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest lord and father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you observe the holy and sweet commands of god, since i consider that in no other way can we share the fruit of the blood of the spotless lamb. sweet jesus, the lamb, has taught us the way: and thus he said: "ego sum via, veritas et vita." he is the sweet master who has taught us the doctrine, ascending the pulpit of the most holy cross. venerable father, what doctrine and what way does he give us? his way is this: pains, shames, insults, injuries, and abuse; endurance in true patience, hunger and thirst; he was satiate with shame, nailed and held upon the cross for the honour of the father and our salvation. with his pains and shame he gave satisfaction for our guilt, and the reproach in which man had fallen through the sin committed. he has made restitution, and has punished our sins on his own body, and this he has done of love alone and not for debt. this sweet lamb, our way, has despised the world, with all its luxuries and dignity, and has hated vice and loved virtue. do you, as son and faithful servant of christ crucified, follow his footsteps and the way which he teaches you: bear in true patience all pain, torment, and tribulation which god permits the world to inflict on you. for patience is not overcome, but overcomes the world. be, ah! be a lover of virtue, founded in true and holy justice, and despise vice. i beg you, by love of christ crucified, to do in your state three especial things. the first is, to despise the world and yourself and all its joys, possessing your kingdom as a thing lent to you, and not your own. for well you know that nor life nor health nor riches nor honour nor dignity nor lordship is your own. were they yours, you could possess them in your own way. but in such an hour a man wishes to be well, he is ill; or living, and he is dead; or rich, and he is poor; or a lord, and he is made a servant and vassal. all this is because these things are not his own, and he can only hold them in so far as may please him who has lent them to him. very simple-minded, then, is the man who holds the things of another as his own. he is really a thief, and worthy of death. therefore i beg you that, as the wise, you should act like a good steward, made his steward by god; possessing all things as merely lent to you. the other matter is, that you maintain holy and true justice; let it not be ruined, either for self-love or for flatteries, or for any pleasing of men. and do not connive at your officials doing injustice for money, and denying right to the poor: but be to the poor a father, a distributer of what god has given you. and seek to have the faults that are found in your kingdom punished and virtue exalted. for all this appertains to the divine justice to do. the third matter is, to observe the doctrine which that master upon the cross gives you; which is the thing that my soul most desires to see in you: that is, love and affection with your neighbour, with whom you have for so long a time been at war. for you know well that without this root of love, the tree of your soul would not bear fruit, but would dry up, abiding in hate and unable to draw up into itself the moisture of grace. alas, dearest father, the sweet primal truth teaches it to you, and leaves you for a commandment, to love god above everything, and one's neighbour as one's self. he gave you the example, hanging upon the wood of the most holy cross. when the jews cried "crucify!" he cried with meek and gentle voice: "father, forgive those who crucify me, who know not what they do." behold his unsearchable love! for not only does he pardon them, but excuses them before his father! what example and teaching is this, that the just, who has in him no poison of sin, endures from the unjust the punishment of our iniquities! oh, how the man should be ashamed who follows the teaching of the devil and his own lower nature, caring more to gain and keep the riches of this world, which are all vain, and pass like the wind, than for his soul and his neighbour! for while abiding in hate with his neighbour, he has hate by his side, since hate deprives him of divine charity. surely he is foolish and blind, for he does not see that with the sword of hate to his neighbour he is killing himself. therefore i beg you, and will that you follow christ crucified, and love your neighbour's salvation: proving that you follow the lamb, who for hunger of his father's honour and the salvation of souls chose bodily death. so do you, my lord! care not if you lose from your worldly substance; for loss will be gain to you, provided that you can reconcile your soul with your brother. i marvel that you are not willing to devote to this, not only temporal things, but even, were it possible, life itself: considering how great destruction of souls and bodies there has been, and how many religious and women and children have been injured and exiled by this war. no more, by love of christ crucified! do you not reflect of how great harm you are cause, if you fail to do what you can? harm to the christians, and harm to infidels. for your strife has obstructed the mystery of the holy crusade, and is doing so still. if no other harm than this followed, it seems to me that we ought to expect the divine judgment. i beg you that you be no longer a worker of so great harm and an obstructer of so great good as the recovery of holy land and of those poor wretched souls who do not share in the blood of the son of god. of which thing you ought to be ashamed, you and the other christian rulers: for this is a very great confusion in the sight of men and abomination in the sight of god, that war should be made against one's brother, and the enemy left alone, and that a man should want to take away another person's possessions and not to win his own back again. no more such folly and blindness! i tell you, on behalf of christ crucified, that you delay no longer to make this peace. make peace, and direct all your warfare to the infidels. help to encourage and uplift the standard of the most holy cross, which god shall demand from you and others at the point of death--demanding also from you account for such ignorance and negligence as has been committed and is committed every day. sleep no more, for love of christ crucified, and for your own profit, during the little time that remains to us: for time is short, and you are to die, and know not when. may the flame of holy desire to follow this holy cross and to be reconciled with your neighbour, increase in you! in this wise you will follow the way and doctrine of the lamb slain and abandoned on the cross, and you will observe the commandments. you will follow the way, enduring with patience the injuries that have been offered you; the doctrine, being reconciled with your neighbour; and the love of god, which you will manifest by following the most holy cross in the holy and sweet crusade. as to this matter, i think that your brother, messer the duke of anjou, will undertake the labour of this holy enterprise, for the love of christ. there would be reason for self-reproach did so sweet and holy a mystery remain unfulfilled through you. now in this wise you will follow the footsteps of christ crucified, you will fulfil the will of god and me, and his commands: as i told you that i wished to see you observe the holy commands of god. i say no more. pardon my presumption. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters to florence the florentines played with catherine as history shows that subtle folk to have played with more than one of the friends whose services they accepted; the story of their dealings with her strongly recalls the situation in browning's _luria_. having been despatched ostensibly with full powers as harbinger of the formal embassy to be sent later, catherine carried through her part of the negotiations with expedition, prudence and entire success. it shows how such unconventional democracy and matter-offact respect for spiritual values existed in the later middle ages, that no one seems to have been surprised at the situation. apparently it was considered quite natural that a powerful republic should send as its representative to the papal court a young woman, the daughter of simple tradespeople, whose life had been quietly passed in her father's house. gregory bore himself to catherine with compunctious deference. on the third day after her arrival she spoke in full consistory, pleading the cause of peace. the result she records in this letter: the pope put the whole matter in her hands. to the young dominican were left the terms of reconciliation between the two rival powers. all now depended upon the arrival of the florentine ambassadors; but these gentlemen failed to appear, while florence continued to pursue a contumacious policy. the insult, alike to the pope and to catherine, was obvious. avignon jested, shrugged shoulders, finally sneered. gregory gently told catherine the truth--that her friends had played her false. few more mortifying situations than that in which she found herself could be conceived. the spirited letter which follows was written ten days after her arrival. she speaks, as usual, without reserve, but it is noteworthy that the letter contains no word of personal reproof beyond the quiet statement: "you might bring great shame and reproach upon me. for nothing but shame and confusion could result if i told the pope one thing and you another." when at last the ambassadors arrived, they brought small comfort, for they refused to confer with catherine. in the second letter, written after they had come to a personal friend in florence, she tells the situation frankly, and with dignity, but still with remarkable freedom from personal bitterness. in this time of test, no lower element than sorrow for the failure of her cause appears to have been present in her mind. to the eight of war chosen by the commune of florence, at whose instance the saint went to pope gregory xi in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest fathers and brothers in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you true sons, humble and obedient to your father in such wise that you may never look back, but feel true grief and bitterness over the wrong that you have done to your father. for if he who does wrong does not rise in grief above the wrong he has done, he does not deserve to receive mercy. i summon you to true humiliation of your hearts; not looking back, but going forward, following up the holy resolutions which you began to take, and growing stronger in them every day, if you wish to be received in the arms of your father. as sons who have been dead, do you ask for life; and i hope by the goodness of god that you shall have it, if you are willing really to humble yourselves and to recognize your faults. but i complain strongly of you, if it is true what is said in these parts, that you have imposed a tax upon the clergy. if this is so, it is a very great evil for two reasons. the first is that you are wronging god by it, for you cannot do it with a good conscience. but it seems to me that you are losing your conscience and everything good; it seems as if you cared for nothing but transitory things of sense, that pass like the wind. do you not see that we are mortal, and must die, and know not when? therefore it is great folly to throw away the life of grace, and to bring death on one's own self. i do not wish you to do so any more, for if you did you would be turning back, and you know that it is not he who begins who deserves glory, but he who perseveres to the end. so i tell you that you would never reach an effective peace, unless by perseverance in humility, no longer insulting or offending the ministers and priests of holy church. this is the other thing that i was telling you was harmful and bad. for beside the evil i spoke of that comes from wronging god, i tell you that such action is ruin to your peace. for the holy father, if he knew it, would conceive greater indignation against you. that is what some of the cardinals have said, who are seeking and eagerly desiring peace. now, hearing this report, they say: "it doesn't seem true that the florentines want to have peace made; for if it were true, they would beware of any least action that was against the will of the holy father and the habits of holy church." i believe that sweet christ on earth himself may say these and like words, and he has excellent reason to say them if he does. i tell you, dearest fathers, and i beg you, not to choose to hinder the grace of the holy spirit, which by no merits of yours he by his clemency is disposed to give you. you might bring great shame and reproach upon me. for nothing but shame and confusion could result if i told the holy father one thing and you did another. i beg you that it may not be so any more. nay, do you exert yourselves to show in word and deed that you wish peace and not war. i have talked to the holy father. he heard me graciously, by god's goodness and his own, showing that he had a warm love of peace; like a good father, who does not consider so much the wrong the son has done to him, as whether he has become humble, so that he may be shown full mercy. what peculiar joy he felt my tongue could not tell. having discussed with him a good length of time, at the end of our talk he said that if your case were as i presented it to him, he was ready to receive you as sons, and to do what seemed best to me. i say no more here. it seems to me that absolutely no other answer ought to be given to the holy father until your ambassadors arrive. i marvel that they are not here yet. when they shall have come, i shall talk to them, and then to the holy father, and as i shall find things disposed i will write you. but you, with your taxes and frivolities, are spoiling all that is sown. do so no more, for the love of christ crucified and for your own profit. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. given in avignon, the 28th day of june, 1376. to buonaccorso di lapo in florence written when the saint was at avignon in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest brother in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you and the others your lords, pacify your heart and soul in his most sweet blood, wherein all hate and warfare is quenched, and all human pride is lowered. for in the blood man sees god humbled to his own level, assuming our humanity, which was opened and nailed and fastened on the cross, so that it flows from the wounds of the body of christ crucified, and pours over us the blood which is ministered to us by the ministers of holy church. i beg you by the love of christ crucified to receive the treasure of the blood given you by the bride of christ. be reconciled, be reconciled to her in the blood; recognize your sins and offences against her. for he who recognizes his sin, and shows that he does so by his deeds, and humbles him, always receives mercy. but he who shows repentance only in speech, and goes no further in works, never finds it. i do not say this so much for you as for others who might fall into this fault. oh me, oh me, dearest brother! i mourn over the methods which have prevailed in asking the holy father for peace. for words have been more in evidence than deeds. i say this because when i came yonder into the presence of you and your lords, they seemed by their words to have repented for their wrong, and to be willing to humble themselves and to ask mercy from the holy father. and when i said to them: "see, gentlemen, if you intend to show all possible humility in deed and speech, and wish me to offer you like dead children to your father, i will take all the trouble you wish in this matter, otherwise i will not go yonder," they answered me that they were content. alas, alas! dearest brothers, this was the way and the door by which you ought to have entered, and there is no other. had this way been followed in deed as in word, you would have had the most glorious peace that anyone ever gained. and i do not say this without reason, for i know what the holy father's disposition was; but since we began to leave that path, following the astute ways of the world, doing differently from what our words had previously implied, the holy father has had reason, not for peace, but for more disturbance. for when your ambassadors came into these parts, they did not hold to the right way which the servants of god indicated to them. you went on in your own ways. and i never had a chance to confer with them, as you told me that you would direct when i asked for a letter of credentials, so that we might confer together about everything, and you said: "we do not believe that this thing will ever be accomplished by any other hands than those of the servants of god." exactly the contrary has been done. all is because we have not yet true recognition of our faults. i perceive that those humble words proceeded rather from fear and policy than from a real impulse of love and virtue; for had the wrong done really been recognized, deeds would have corresponded to the sound of words, and you would have trusted your needs and what you wished from the holy father to the hands of the true servants of god. they would so have conducted your affairs and those of the holy father that you would have reached a good understanding. you have not done it; wherefore i have felt great bitterness, over the wrong done to god and over our loss. but you do not see what evil and what great misfortunes come from your obstinacy, and clinging fast to your resolution! oh me, oh me! loose yourselves from the bond of pride, and bind you to the humble lamb; and do not scorn or oppose his vicar. no more thus! for the love of christ crucified! hold not his blood cheap! that which has not been done in past time, do it now. do not feel bitter or scornful should it seem to you that the holy father demanded what appeared very hard and impossible to do. nevertheless he will not wish anything but what is possible to you. but he does as a true father, who beats his son when he does wrong. he reproves him very severely, to make him humble, and cognizant of his fault; and the true son does not grow angry with his father, for he sees that whatever he does is done for love of him; therefore the more the father drives him off, the more he returns to him, ever asking for mercy. so i tell you, on behalf of christ crucified, that the more times you should be spurned by our father christ on earth, so many times you are to flee to him. let him do as he will, for he is right. behold that now he is coming to his bride, that is to hold the seat of st. peter and st. paul. do you run to him at once, with true humility of heart and amendment of your sins, following the holy principle with which you began. so doing, you shall have peace, spiritual and bodily. and if you do in any other way, our ancestors never had so many woes as we shall have, for we shall call down the wrath of god upon us, and shall not share in the blood of the lamb. i say no more. be as urgent as you can, now that the holy father is to be at rome. i have done, and shall do, what i can, until death, for the honour of god and for your peace, in order that this obstacle may be removed, for it hinders the holy and sweet crusade. if no other ill should come from it, we are worthy of a thousand hells. comfort you in christ our sweet jesus, for i hope by his goodness that if you will keep in the way you should you will have a good peace. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to gregory xi the attempt to reconcile gregory with the florentines miscarried through their own fault. catherine, far from being daunted by mortification or failure, bent herself with new energy to the cause which she had even more deeply at heart--the return of the pope to rome. the ascendency which she obtained over his sensitive spirit was soon evident to everyone, and no sooner was it realized than counter influences were set to work. other people beside this woman of siena could write letters, and, since gregory proved superstitious and susceptible to the influence of holy fools, why, there were ecstatics enough in europe! the pope, as is obvious from this reply of catherine's, had received an anonymous epistle, craftily wrought, purporting to come from a man of god, working on his well-known love for his family and timidity of nature, warning him of poison should he venture to return to rome. whether catherine's surmise that the letter was a forgery proceeding from the papal court was justified we do not know; the episode is of interest to us now chiefly because it called forth a reply which shows how sardonic the meek of the earth can be. catherine's trenchant exposure of the weakness of the anonymous correspondent shows her in a new aspect. terrible is the scorn of the gentle. "he who wrote it does not seem to me to understand his trade very well; he ought to put himself to school," writes she, and proceeds with analysis so convincing and exhortation so invigorating that even the vacillating gregory must have been magnetized afresh with power to resolve. one feels in the letter that catherine is as near impatience with him and with the situation as is permitted to a saint. gregory must have felt the sting in her words when she tells him plainly that his correspondent treats him like a coward or a frightened child, and adds on her own part, "i pray you on behalf of christ crucified that you be no longer a timorous child, but manly. open your mouth, and swallow down the bitter for the sake of the sweet." if anyone could hold a weak nature true to its better self, it would be this woman, endued as she was with a vitality that tingles through her words down the centuries. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and reverend sweet father in christ sweet jesus: your poor unworthy daughter catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, writes to your holiness in his precious blood, with desire to see you so strong and persevering in your holy resolve that no contrary wind can hinder you, neither devil nor creature. for it seems that your enemies are disposed to come, as our saviour says in his holy gospel, in sheeps' raiment, looking like lambs, while they are ravening wolves. our saviour says that we should be on our guard against such. apparently, sweet father, they are beginning to approach you in writing; and beside writing, they announce to you the coming of the author, saying that he will arrive at your door when you know it not. the man sounds humble when he says, "if it is open to me, i will enter and we will reason together"; but he puts on the garment of humility only that he may be believed. and the virtue in which pride cloaks itself is really boastful. so far as i have understood, this person has treated your holiness in this letter as the devil treats the soul, who often, under colour of virtue and compassion, injects poison into it. and he uses this device especially with the servants of god, because he sees that he could not deceive them with open sin alone. so it seems to me that this incarnate demon is doing who has written you under colour of compassion and in holy style, for the letter purports to come from a holy and just man, and it does come from wicked men, counsellors of the devil, who cripple the common good of the christian congregation and the reform of holy church, self-lovers, who seek only their own private good. but you can soon discover, father, whether it came from that just man or not. and it seems to me that, for the honour of god, you must investigate. so far as i can understand, i do not think the man a servant of god, and his language does not so present him--but the letter seems to me a forgery. nor does he who wrote it understand his trade very well. he ought to put himself to school--he seems to have known less than a small child. notice, now, most holy father: he has made his first appeal to the tendency that he knows to be the chief frailty in man, and especially in those who are very tender and pitiful in their natural affections, and tender to their own bodies--for such men as these hold life dearer than any others. so he fastened on this point from his first word. but i hope, by the goodness of god, that you will pay more heed to his honour and the safety of your own flock than to yourself, like a good shepherd, who ought to lay down his life for his sheep. next, this poisonous man seems on the one hand to commend your return to rome, calling it a good and holy thing; but, on the other hand, he says that poison is prepared for you there; and he seems to advise you to send trustworthy men to precede you, who will find the poison on the tables-that is, apparently, in bottles, ready to be administered by degrees, either by the day, or the month, or the year. now i quite agree with him that poison can be found--for that matter, as well on the tables of avignon or other cities as on those of rome: and prepared for administration slowly, by the month, or the year, or in large quantities, as may please the purchaser: it can be found everywhere. so he would think it well for you to send, and delay your return for this purpose he proposes that you wait till divine judgment fall by this means on those wicked men who, it would seem, according to what he says, are seeking your death. but were he wise, he would expect that judgment to fall on himself, for he is sowing the worst poison that has been sown for a long time in holy church, inasmuch as he wants to hinder you from following god's call and doing your duty. do you know how that poison would be sown? if you did not go, but sent, as the good man advises you, scandal and rebellion, spiritual and temporal, would be stirred up--men finding a lie in you, who hold the seat of truth. for since you have decided on your return and announced it, the scandal and bewilderment and disturbance in men's hearts would be too great if they found that it did not happen. assuredly he says the truth: he is as prophetic as caiphas when he said: "it is necessary for one man to die that the people perish not." he did not know what he was saying, but the holy spirit, who spoke the truth by his mouth, knew very well--though the devil did not make him speak with this intention. so this man is likely to be another caiphas. he prophesies that if you send, men will find poison. truly so it is; for were your sins so great that you stayed and they went, your confidants will find poison bottled in their hearts and mouths, as was said. and not only enough for one day, but it would last the month and the year before it was digested. much i marvel at the words of this man, who commends an act as good and holy and religious, and then wants this holy act to be given up from bodily fear! it is not the habit of the servants of god ever to be willing to give up a spiritual act or work on account of bodily or temporal harm, even should life itself be spent: for had they done thus, none of them would have reached his goal. for the perseverance of holy and good desire into good works, is the thing which is crowned, and which merits glory and not confusion. therefore i said to you, reverend father, that i desired to see you firm and stable in your good resolution (since on this will follow the pacification of your rebellious sons and the reform of holy church) and also to see you fulfil the desire felt by the servants of god, to behold you raise the standard of the most holy cross against the infidels. then can you minister the blood of the lamb to those wretched infidels: for you are cupbearer of that blood, and hold the keys of it. alas, father, i beg you, by the love of christ crucified, that you turn your power to this swiftly, since without your power it cannot be done. yet i do not advise you, sweet father, to abandon those who are your natural sons, who feed at the breasts of the bride of christ, for bastard sons who are not yet made lawful by holy baptism. but i hope, by the goodness of god, that if your legitimate sons walk with your authority, and with the divine power of the sword of holy writ, and with human force and virtue, these others will turn to holy church the mother, and you will legalize them. it seems as if this would be honour to god, profit to yourself, honour and exaltation to the sweet bride of christ jesus, rather than to follow the foolish advice of this just man, who propounds that it would be better for you and for other ministers of the church of god to live among faithless saracens than among the people of rome and italy. i am pleased by the commendable hunger that he has for the salvation of the infidels, but i am not pleased that he wishes to take the father from his lawful sons, and the shepherd from the sheep gathered in the fold. i think he wants to treat you as the mother treats the child when she wants to wean him: she puts something bitter on her bosom, that he may taste the bitterness before the milk, so that he may abandon the sweet through fear of the bitter; because a child is more easily deluded by bitterness than by anything else. so this man wants to do to you, suggesting to you the bitterness of poison and of great persecution, to delude the childishness of your weak sensuous love, that you may leave the milk through fear: the milk of grace, which follows on your sweet return. and i beg of you, on behalf of christ crucified, that you be not a timorous child, but manly. open your mouth, and swallow down the bitter for the sweet. it would not befit your holiness to abandon the milk for the bitterness. i hope by the infinite and inestimable goodness of god, that if you choose he will show favour to both us and to you; and that you will be a firm and stable man, unmoved by any wind or illusion of the devil, or counsel of devil incarnate, but following the will of god and your good desire, and the counsel of the servants of jesus christ crucified. i say no more. i conclude that the letter sent to you does not come from that servant of god named to you, and that it was not written very far away; but i believe that it comes from very near, and from the servants of the devil, who have little fear of god. for in so far as i might believe that it came from that man, i should not hold him a servant of god unless i saw some other proof. pardon me, father, my over-presumptuous speech. humbly i ask you to pardon me and give me your benediction. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. i pray his infinite goodness to grant me the favour soon, for his honour, to see you put your feet beyond the threshold in peace, repose, and quiet of soul and body. i beg you, sweet father, to grant me audience when it shall please your holiness, for i would find myself in your presence before i depart. the time is short: therefore, wherever it may please you, i wish that it might be soon. sweet jesus, jesus love. to monna lapa her mother before she returned from avignon catherine succeeded in her great aim. in september, 1376, gregory actually started for rome. her mission being ended, catherine set forth on her homeward journey on the same day as the pope, though by a different route. but her progress was interrupted at genoa, where, owing to illness among her companions, she was detained for a month in the house of madonna orietta scotta. her prolonged absence seems to have been too much for the patience of monna lapa, who was always unable to understand in the least the actions of her puzzling though beloved child. catherine, though lifted into the region of great anxieties and great triumphs, was yet always tenderly mindful of the claims of home. very daughterly, very gently wise, is this little letter to the lonely and fretful mother, written when the saint had just passed through those exciting and decisive months at the papal court. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest mother in christ sweet jesus: your poor, unworthy daughter catherine comforts you in the precious blood of the son of god. with desire have i desired to see you a true mother, not only of my body but of my soul; for i have reflected that if you are more the lover of my soul than of my body, all disordinate tenderness will die in you, and it will not be such a burden to you to long for my bodily presence; but it will rather be a consolation to you, and you will wish, for the honour of god, to endure every burden for me, provided that the honour of god be wrought. working for the honour of god, i am not without the increase of grace and power in my soul. yes, indeed, it is true that if you, sweetest mother, love my soul better than my body, you will be consoled and not disconsolate. i want you to learn from that sweet mother, mary, who, for the honour of god and for our salvation, gave us her son, dead upon the wood of the most holy cross. and when mary was left alone, after christ had ascended into heaven, she stayed with the holy disciples; and although mary and the disciples had great consolation together, and to separate was sorrow, nevertheless, for the glory and praise of her son, for the good of the whole universal world, she consented and chose that they should go away. and she chose the burden of their departure rather than the consolation of their remaining, solely through the love that she had for the honour of god and for our salvation. now, i want you to learn from her, dearest mother. you know that it behoves me to follow the will of god; and i know that you wish me to follow it. his will was that i should go away; which going did not happen without mystery, nor without fruit of great value. it was his will that i should come, and not the will of man; and whoever might say the opposite, it is not the truth. and thus it will behove me to go on, following his footsteps in what way and at what time shall please his inestimable goodness. you, like a good, sweet mother, must be content, and not disconsolate, enduring every burden for the honour of god, and for your and my salvation. remember that you did this for the sake of temporal goods, when your sons left you to gain temporal wealth; now, to gain eternal life, it seems to you such an affliction that you say that you will go and run away if i do not reply to you soon. all this happens to you because you love better that part which i derived from you--that is, your flesh, with which you clothed me--than what i have derived from god. lift up, lift up your heart and mind a little to that sweet and holiest cross where all affliction ceases; be willing to bear a little finite pain, to escape the infinite pain which we merit for our sins. now, comfort you, for the love of christ crucified, and do not think that you are abandoned either by god or by me. yet shall you be comforted, and receive full consolation; and the pain has not been so great that the joy shall not be greater. we shall come soon, by the mercy of god; and we should not have delayed our coming now, were it not for the obstacle we have had in the serious illness of neri. also master giovanni and fra bartolommeo have been ill.... i say no more. commend us.... remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love! to monna giovanna di corrado maconi monna lapa was evidently not the only mother in siena who fretted over the long absence from home of catherine and her spiritual children. monna giovanna, of the noble family of the maconi, longed for the presence of catherine's secretary, her beloved son stefano. this is the second letter which catherine wrote in the effort to reconcile her. we cannot be surprised if she murmured. stefano had known catherine for a few months only when she bore him off with her to avignon. their relations dated from january, 1376, when at his entreaty she healed a feud of long standing between the maconi and the rival house of the tolomei. from this time he attached himself to her person, and his devotion to her made him an object of ridicule to his bewildered former friends. he was, by all accounts, a singularly attractive and lovable young man--sunny, light-hearted, and popular wherever he went. catherine from the first loved him, as she avows in this letter, with especial tenderness. she made him her trusted intimate, and from now until shortly before her death he was in almost constant attendance upon her, or when away was still occupied in her affairs. catherine was evidently on intimate and affectionate terms with the rest of the maconi family also; but it is not strange if monna giovanna developed a little motherly jealousy, as she saw her brilliant son not only absorbed by this new friendship, but borne away to distant lands. catherine's letter is as applicable to-day as then, to all parents whose misguided tenderness would seek to hinder their children in a high vocation. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: to you, dearest sister and daughter in christ jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write in his precious blood, with desire to see you clothed in the wedding garment. for i consider that without this garment the soul cannot please its creator, nor take its place at the marriage feast in the enduring life. i wish you, therefore, to be clothed in it; and in order that you may clothe you the better, i wish you to divest yourself of all self-love according to nature and the senses, which you feel for yourself, your children, and any other created thing. you ought to love neither yourself nor anything else apart from god; for it is impossible that a man can serve two masters; if he serve the one, he does not give satisfaction to the other. and there is no one who can serve both god and the world, for they have no harmony with each other. the world seeks honour, rank, wealth, sons in high place, good birth, sensuous pleasure and indulgence, all rooted in perverted pride; but god seeks and wants exactly the opposite. he wants voluntary poverty, a humbled heart, disparagement of self and of every worldly joy and grace; that personal honour be not sought, but the honour of god and the salvation of one's neighbour. let a man seek only in what way he may clothe him in the fire of most ardent charity with the ornament of sweet and sincere virtue, with true and holy patience; let him take no revenge on another for any injury his neighbour may show him, but endure all in patience, seeking only to pass sentence on himself, because he sees that he has wronged the sweet primal truth. and what he loves, let him love in god, and apart from god love nothing. and did you say to me, "in what way should i love?" i answer you that children and everything else should be loved for love of him who created them, and not for love of one's self or the children; and that god should never be wronged for their sake or any other. that is, do not love through regard to any utility, nor as your own thing, but as a thing lent to you: since whatever is given us in this life is given for use, as a loan, and is left to us so long only as pleases the divine goodness which gave it us. you should use everything, then, as a steward of christ crucified, spending your temporal substance so far as is possible to you for the poor, who stand in the place of god; and so you ought to spend your children, nourishing and educating them ever in the fear of god, and wishing that they should die rather than wrong their creator. oh, make a sacrifice of yourself and them to god! and if you see that god is calling them, offer no resistance to his sweet will: but if they welcome it with one hand, do you reach out both like a true loving mother, who loves their salvation; do not desire to shape their lives to suit yourself--for this would be a sign that you loved them apart from god--but with any state to which god calls them, with that be you content. for a mother who loves her children according to the wickedness of the world, says many a time: "it pleases me well that my children should please god; they can serve him in the world as well as anywhere else." but it happens often to these simple mothers, who want to plunge their children in the world, that later they possess those children neither in the world nor in god. and it is a just thing that they should be deprived of them, spirit and body, since such ignorance and pride reigns in them that they want to lay down law and rule to the holy spirit, who is calling them. such people do not love their children in god, but with sensuous self-love apart from god, for they love their bodies more than their souls. never, dearest sister and daughter in christ sweet jesus, could he clothe himself in christ crucified who had not first divested him of this. i hope by the goodness of god that all this will not apply to you, but that you will give yourself and them to the honour and glory of the name of god, like a true good mother, and so shall you be clothed in the wedding garment. but in order that you may clothe you the better, i want that you should lift your desire and heart above the world and all its doings, and that you should open the eye of the mind to know what love god bears to you, who has given you, for love, the word, his only-begotten son; and the son in burning love has given you life, and has sacrificed his body that he might cleanse us with his blood. ignorant are we and wretched who nor know nor love so great a benefit! but all this is because our eyes are closed; for were they open, and had they fastened themselves on christ crucified, they would not be ignorant nor ungrateful in presence of so great grace. therefore i say to you, keep your eyes ever open, and fasten them fixedly on the lamb that was slain, in order that you may never fall into ignorance. up, sweetest daughter, let us delay no more! let us recover the time we have lost, with true and perfect love; so that, clothing ourselves in this life with the garment i spoke of, we may joy and exult at the marriage feast in the enduring life--you and your husband and your children together. and comfort you sweetly, and be patient, and do not grow disturbed because i have kept stefano so long: for i have taken good care of him, for by love and tenderness i have become one thing with him, therefore i have treated your things as if they were my own. i think you have not taken this in bad part. i wish to do whatever i can for him and for you, even to death. you, mother, bore him once; and i wish to bear him and you and all your family, in tears and sweats, by continual prayers and desire for your salvation. i say no more. commend me to currado, and bless all the rest of the family, and especially my little new plant, that has just been planted anew in the garden of holy church. be it commended to you, and do you bring it up for me virtuously, so that it may shed fragrance among the other flowers. god fill you with his most sweet favour. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to messer ristoro canigiani apart from her relations with religious seeking to follow the counsels, catherine directed the life of a number of devout laymen. among these was ristoro canigiani, an honourable citizen of florence, whose younger brother, barduccio, became one of her secretaries, and was with her at her death. in the first letter to ristoro here given, we see that he had already become catherine's disciple. he had evinced his sincerity by forgiving his enemies--a feat more practical and difficult for most men in those days than now--by withdrawing in a measure from society-(ecclesiastical, one notes, as well as secular)--and by embracing the simple life, selling his superfluous possessions. in the second letter given, he has evidently advanced in experience. like many religious souls since his day, he suffers from scruples lest he be unworthy to receive the holy communion. catherine handles his difficulties tenderly and wisely, in words which all anxious souls would do well to take to heart. she has no reproofs for this excellent man, only applause and encouragement. it is noteworthy that neither in these letters nor in any others does she seek to induct ristoro into that region of ecstatic mystery where she herself lived, and whither she was wont to expect--often in vain--certain of her friends to follow her. the standard which she sets for this devout layman could not be better summed up than in the familiar words: "a sober, godly, and righteous life." in other letters to ristoro she seeks to inspire him with a fervour of charity by very beautiful meditations, in which she presents the love of friends and family as sanctified and glorified by its relation to the allenfolding love from which all pure human affection must proceed. in her attitude toward the natural world and its claims, catherine again recalls st. bernard, who, in naming the degrees of love, starts from an hypothesis which sets forth natural things, not as evil and destroying, but good, and waiting their transfiguration. like poor francesca, but with a conception more pure, catherine rings the changes on the words "amore," "amare." "perocche, condizione é del' amore d' amare quando si sente amare, d' amare tutte le cose che ama colui ch' egli ama. e però, à mano che l' anima ha conosciuto l' amore del suo creatore verso di lui, l' ama: e amandolo, ama tutte quelle cose che dio ama." "for it is of the nature of love, to love when it feels itself loved, and to love all things loved of its beloved. so when the soul has by degrees known the love of its creator toward it, it loves him, and, loving him, loves all things whatsoever that god loves." ... as we read, we recognize once more how far is this great mystic from the cold asceticism that has sometimes been attributed to her. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest brother in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with desire to see you constant and persevering in virtue; for it is not he who begins who is crowned, but only he who perseveres. for perseverance is the queen who is crowned; she stands between fortitude and true patience, but she alone receives a crown of glory. so i want you, dearest brother, to be constant and persevering in virtue, that you may receive the reward of your every labour. i hope in the great goodness of god that he will fortify you in such wise that neither demon nor fellow-creature can make you look back to your vomit. you seem, according to what you write me, to have made a good beginning, in which i rejoice greatly for your salvation, seeing your holy desire. first, you say that you have forgiven every man who had wronged you or wished to wrong you. this is a thing which is very necessary, if you wish to have god in your soul through grace, and to be at rest even according to the world. for he who abides in hate is deprived of god and is in a state of condemnation, and has in this life the foretaste of hell; for he is always gnawing at himself, and hungers for vengeance, and abides in fear. believing to slay his enemy, he has first killed himself, for he has slain his soul with the knife of hate. such men as these, who think to slay their enemy, slay themselves. he who truly forgives through the love of christ crucified, has peace and quiet, and suffers no perturbation; for the wrath that perturbs is slain in his soul, and god the rewarder of every good gives him his grace and at the last eternal life. what joy the soul, then, receives, and gladness and rest in its conscience, the tongue could never tell. and even according to the world, very great honour is given to the man who through love of virtue and magnanimity does not greedily desire to wreak vengeance on his enemy. so i summon you and comfort you, to persevere in this holy resolution. to demand and obtain your own in a reasonable way, this you can do with good conscience; whoever wants to can do it: for a man is not bound to abandon his possessions more than he chooses; but he who would choose to abandon them would reach a much greater perfection. it is well and excellent not to go to the bishop's house nor to the palace, but to stay peaceably at home. for if other people get excited, we are weak, and often we find our own soul excited, and doing unjust and irrational things, one to show that he knows more than another, and one from appetite for money. yes, it is better to keep away from the place. but i add one thing: that when such poor men and women as are clearly in the right, and have no one to help them, show us the reason why they have no money, it would be greatly to the honour of god for you to undertake their cause, from the impulse of charity, like st. ives, who in his time was the lawyer of the poor. consider that the deed of pity, and ministering to the poor with those faculties which god has given you, is very pleasing to god, and salvation to your soul. therefore st. gregory says that it is impossible that a pitiful man should perish with an evil, that is, an eternal death. this, then, pleases me much, and i beg you to do it. in all your works put god before your eyes, saying to yourself when intemperate appetite would lift its head against the resolution you have made: "consider, my soul, that the eye of god is upon thee, and sees the secret of thy heart. thou art mortal, for thou must die, and knowest not when; and it shall befit thee to render account before the highest judge of what thou shalt do--a judge who punishes every fault and rewards every good deed." in this wise, if you put on the bit it will not slip off, separating from the will of god. you ought to give satisfaction to your soul as soon as you can, and unburden your conscience of what you feel it burdened with. give it satisfaction, either for the trouble it has felt in giving up temporal possessions, or for the other annoyances that others have given it. and have pardon asked fully from everyone, in order that you may always remain in the joy of charity with your neighbour. as for selling the goods which you have over and above, and the showy garments (which are very harmful, dearest brother, and a means of penetrating the heart with vanity, and nourishing it with pride, since they make a man seem to be more and bigger than others, boasting of what one ought not to boast of; so it is great shame to us, false christians, to see our head tormented, and to abide ourselves in such luxuries: so st. bernard says, that it is not fitting for limbs to be delicate beneath a thorn-crowned head),--i say that you do very well to find a remedy for this. but clothe you as you need, modestly, at no immoderate price, and you will greatly please god. and, so far as you can, make your wife and your sons do the same; so that you may be to them example and teacher, as the father should be, who should educate his sons with the words and deeds of virtue. i add one thing; that you abide in the state of marriage, with fear of god, and treat it with reverence as a sacrament, and not with intemperate desire. hold in due reverence the days ordered by holy church, like a reasonable man, and not a brute beast. then from yourself and her, like good trees, you will bring forth good fruits. you will do very well to refuse offices; for a man seldom fails to give offence in them. it ought to weary you simply to hear them mentioned. let the dead, then, bury themselves, and do you exert yourself, in liberty of heart, to please god, loving him above everything in the desire of virtue, and your neighbour as yourself, fleeing the world and its delights. renounce your sins and your own fleshly instincts, ever bringing back to memory the favours of god, and especially the favour of the blood, shed for us with such fire of love. again, it is needful for you, if you wish your soul to preserve grace and grow in virtue, to make your holy confession often for your joy, that you may wash your soul's face in the blood of christ. at least once a month, since indeed we soil it every day. if more, more; but less it seems to me ought not to be done. and rejoice in hearing the word of god. and when the season shall come that we are reconciled with our father, do you communicate on the solemn feasts, or at least once a year: rejoicing in the office, and hearing mass every day; and if you cannot every day, at least you must make an effort, just as far as you can, on the days which are ordered by holy church, to which we are bound. prayer must not be far from you. nay, on the due and ordered hours, so far as you can, seek to withdraw a little, to know yourself, and the wrongs done to god, and the largess of his goodness, which has worked and is working so sweetly in you; opening the eye of your mind in the light of most holy faith, to behold how beyond measure god loves us; love which he shows us through the means of his only-begotten son. and i beg that, if you are not saying it already, you should say every day the office of the virgin, that she may be your refreshment and your advocate before god. as to ordering your life, i beg you to do it. fast on saturday, in reverence for mary. and never give up the days commanded by holy church, unless of necessity. avoid being at intemperate banquets, but live moderately, like a man who does not want to make a god of his belly. but take food for need, and not for the wretched pleasure it gives. for it is impossible that any man who does not govern himself in eating should keep himself innocent. but i am sure that the infinite goodness of god, as regards this and all the rest, will make you yourself adopt that rule which will be needful for your salvation. and i will pray, and will make others pray, that he grant you perfect perseverance until death, and illumine you concerning that which you have to do for your salvation. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you free from every particle of self-love, so that you may not lose the light and knowledge which come from seeing the unspeakable love which god has for you. and because it is light which makes us know this, and false love is what takes light from us, therefore i have very great desire to see it quenched in you. oh, how dangerous this self-love is to our salvation! it deprives the soul of grace, for it takes from it the love of god and of its neighbour, which makes us live in grace. it deprives us of light, as we said, because it darkens the eye of the mind, and when the light is taken away we walk in darkness, and do not know what we need. what do we need to know? the great goodness of god, and his unspeakable love toward us; the perverse law which always fights against the spirit, and our own wretchedness. in this knowledge the soul begins to render his due to god; that is, glory and praise to his name, loving him above everything, and the neighbour as one's self, with eager desire for virtue; and the soul bestows hate and displeasure on itself, hating in itself vice, and its own sensuousness, which is the cause of every vice. the soul wins all virtue and grace in the knowledge of itself, abiding therein with light, as was said. where shall the soul find the wealth of contrition for its sins, and the abundance of god's mercy? in this house of selfknowledge. now let us see whether we find it in ourselves or not. let us talk somewhat about it. for, as you wrote me, you have a desire to feel contrition for your sins, and not being able to feel it, you give up for this reason holy communion. now we shall see whether you ought to give it up for this. you know that god is supremely good, and loved us before we were: and is eternal wisdom, and his power in virtue is immeasurable: so for this reason we are sure that he has power, knowledge, and will to give us what we need. well we see, in proof, that he gives us more than we know how to ask, and that which was not asked by us. did we ever ask him that he should create us reasonable creatures, in his own image and likeness, rather than brute beasts? no. or that he should create us by grace by the blood of the word, his only-begotten son, or that he should give us himself for food, perfect god and perfect man, flesh and blood, body and soul, united to deity? beyond these most high gifts, which are so great, and show such fire of love toward us, that there is no heart so hard that its hardness and coldness would not melt by considering them at all: infinite are the gifts and graces which we receive from him without asking. then, since he gives so much without our asking--how much the more will he fulfil our desires when we shall desire a just thing of him? nay, who makes us desire and ask it? only he. then, if he makes us ask it, it is a sign that he means to fulfil it, and give us what we seek. but you will say to me: "i confess that he is what thou sayest. but how comes it that many a time i ask, both contrition and other things, and they seem not to be given me?" i answer you: it may be it is through a defect in him who asks, asking imprudently, with words alone and not with his whole heart--and of such as these our saviour said that they call him lord, lord, but shall not be known of him--not that he does not know them, but for their fault they shall not be known of his mercy. or, the man who prays asks for something which, if he had it, would be injurious to his salvation. so that, when he does not have what he asks, he really has it, because he asks for it thinking that it would be for his good; but if he had it, it would be to his harm, and it is for his good not to have it; so god has satisfied the intention with which he asked it. so that on god's side we always have our prayer; but this is the case, that god knows the secret and the open, and is aware of our imperfection; so he sees that if he gave us the grace at once as we ask it, we should do like an unclean creature, who, rising from the sweetest honey, does not mind afterwards lighting on a fetid object. god sees that we do so many a time. for, receiving his graces and benefits, sharing the sweetness of his charity, we do not mind afterward alighting on miserable things, turning back to the filth of the world. therefore, god sometimes does not give us what we ask as soon as we should like, to make us increase in the hunger of our desire, because he rejoices and pleases himself in seeing the hunger of his creatures toward him. sometimes he will do us the grace by giving it to us in effect though not in feeling. he uses this means with foresight, because he knows that if a man felt himself to possess it, either he would slacken the pull of desire, or would fall into presumption; therefore he withdraws the feeling, but not the grace. there are others who both receive and feel, according as it pleases the sweet goodness of our physician to give to us sick folk; and he gives to everyone in the way that our sickness needs. you see, then, that in any case the yearning of the creature, with which it asks of god, is always fulfilled. now we see what we ought to seek, and how prudently. it seems to me that the sweet primal truth teaches us what we ought to seek when in the holy gospel, reproving man for the intemperate zeal which he bestows on gaining and holding the honours and riches of the world, he said: "take no thought for the morrow. its own care suffices for the day." here he shows us that we should consider prudently the shortness of time. then he adds: "seek first the kingdom of heaven; for your heavenly father knows well that you have need of these lesser things." what is this kingdom, and how is it sought? it is the kingdom of eternal life, and the kingdom of our own soul, for this kingdom of the soul, unless it is possessed through reason, never becomes part of the kingdom of god. with what is it sought? not only with words--we have already said that such as these are not recognized by god--but with the yearning of true and real virtues. virtue is what seeks and possesses this kingdom of heaven; virtue, which makes a man prudent, so that he works for the honour of god and the salvation of himself and his neighbour, with prudence and maturity. prudently he endures his neighbour's faults; prudently he rules the impulse of charity, loving god above everything, and his neighbour as himself. this is the rule: that he hold him ready to give bodily life for the salvation of souls, and temporal goods to help the body of his neighbour. such a rule is set by prudent charity. were he imprudent, it would be just the opposite as with many who use a foolish and crazy sort of charity, who many a time, to help their neighbour--i speak not of his soul, but of his body--are ready to betray their own souls, by publishing abroad lies, giving false witness. such men as these lose charity, because it is not built upon prudence. we have seen that we must seek the kingdom of heaven prudently: now i answer you about the attitude we should hold toward the holy communion, and how it befits us to take it. we should not use a foolish humility, as do secular men of the world. i say, it befits us to receive that sweet sacrament, because it is the food of souls without which we cannot live in grace. therefore no bond is so great that it cannot and must not be broken, that we may come to this sweet sacrament. a man must do on his part as much as he can, and that is enough. how ought we to receive it? with the light of most holy faith, and with the mouth of holy desire. in the light of faith you shall contemplate all god and all man in that host. then the impulse that follows the intellectual perception, receives with tender love and holy meditation on its sins and faults, whence it arrives at contrition, and considers the generosity of the immeasurable love of god, who in so great love has given himself for our food. because one does not seem to have that perfect contrition and disposition which he himself would wish, he must not therefore turn away; for goodwill alone is sufficient, and the disposition which on his part exists. again i say, that it befits us to receive as was imaged in the old testament, when it was commanded that the lamb should be eaten roasted and not seethed; whole and not in part; girded and standing, staff in hand; and the blood of the lamb should be placed on the stone of the threshold. thus it befits us to receive this sacrament: to eat it roasted, and not seethed; for were it seethed there would be interposed earth and water-that is, earthly affections and the water of self-love. therefore it must be roasted, so that there shall be nothing between. we take it so when we receive it straight from the fire of divine charity. and we ought to be girt with the girdle of conscience, for it would be very shocking that one should advance to so great cleanliness and purity with mind or body unclean. we ought to stand upright, that is, our heart and mind should be wholly faithful and turned toward god; with the staff of the most holy cross, where we find the teaching of christ crucified. this is the staff on which we lean, which defends us from our foes, the world, the devil, and the flesh. and it befits us eat it whole and not in part: that is, in the light of faith, we should contemplate not only the humanity in this sacrament, but the body and soul of christ crucified, wrought into unity with deity, all god and all man. we must take the blood of this lamb and put it upon our forehead--that is, confess it to every rational being, and never deny it, for pain or for death. thus sweetly it befits us to receive this lamb, prepared in the fire of charity upon the wood of the cross. thus we shall be found signed with the seal of tau, and shall never be struck by the avenging angel. i said that it did not befit us, nor do i wish you, to do as many imprudent laymen, who pass over what is commanded them by holy church, saying: "i am not worthy of it." thus they spend a long time in mortal sin without the food of their souls. oh, foolish humility! who does not see that thou art not worthy? at what time dost thou await worthiness? do not await it; for thou wilt be just as worthy at the end as at the beginning. for with all our just deeds, we shall never be worthy of it. but god is he who is worthy, and makes us worthy with his worth. his worth grows never less. what ought we to do? make us ready on our part, and observe his sweet commandment. for did we not do so, giving up communion, in such wise believing to flee from fault, we should fall into fault. therefore i conclude, and will that such folly be not in you; but that you make you ready, as a faithful christian, to receive this holy communion as i said. you will do it just as perfectly as you are in true knowledge of yourself; not otherwise. for if you abide in that knowledge, you will see everything clearly. do not slacken your holy desire, for pain or loss, or injury or ingratitude of those whom you have served; but manfully, with true and long perseverance you shall persevere till death. thus i beg you to do by the love of christ crucified. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to the anziani and consuls and gonfalonieri of bologna catherine lays down admirable political principles, for the fourteenth or for the twentieth century. yet times have changed, and we can hardly imagine a modern city council giving serious welcome to such a letter as this. it is a fair specimen of the letters which she was in the habit of sending to the governments of the italian towns--direct, simple, highminded presentations of the fundamental virtues on which the true prosperity of a state must rest. she was capable, as she showed during the schism, of detailed political sagacity: but she never lost the womanly conviction that moral generalizations would convict men of sin and point them to the path of holiness. nor was she wholly wrong. her letters seem to have been received with respect, and not to have failed in effectiveness. on the present occasion, the authorities of bologna have evidently sent asking her prayers. these she promises gladly, but adds that the bolognese must not expect "the servants of god" to do all their work for them. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest brothers in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you divested of the old man and clothed with the new-divested, that is, of the world and the fleshly self-love which is the old sin of adam, and clothed with the new christ sweet jesus, and his tender charity. when this charity is in the soul, it seeks not its own, but is liberal and generous to render his due to god: to love him above everything else, and to hate its own lower nature; and to love itself for god, rendering praise and glory to his name: to render its neighbour benevolence, with fraternal charity and well-ordered love. for charity ought to be regulated: that is, a man must not wrong himself by sinning, in order to rescue one soul--nay more, in order, were it possible, to save the whole world; since it is not lawful to commit the least fault to achieve a great virtue. and our body should not be sacrificed to rescue the body of our neighbour; but we ought surely to sacrifice our bodily life for the salvation of souls, and temporal possessions for the welfare and life of our neighbour. so you see that this charity should be and is regulated in the soul. but those who are deprived of charity and full of self-love do just the opposite; and as they are extravagant in their affections, so they are in all their works. thus we see that men of the world serve and love their neighbour without virtue, and in sin; and to serve and please them, they do not mind disserving and displeasing god, and injuring their own souls. this is that perverted love which often kills soul and body--robs us of light and casts us into darkness, robs us of life and condemns us to death, deprives us of the conversation of the blessed and leads us to that of hell. and if a man does not correct himself while he has time, he destroys the shining pearls of holy justice, and loses the warmth of true charity and obedience. now on whatever side we turn, we see every kind of rational creature lacking in all virtue, and arrayed in this evil fleshly self-love. if we turn to the prelates, they devote themselves so much to their own affairs and live so luxuriously, that they do not seem to care when they see their subjects in the hands of demons. as to the subjects, it is just the same, they do not care to obey either the civil law or the divine, nor do they care to serve one another unless for their own profit. and yet this kind of love, and the union of those who are united by natural love and not by true charity, does not suffice; such friendship suffices and lasts only so long as pleasure and enjoyment lasts, and the personal profit derived from it. so, when a man is lord, he fails in holy justice. and this is the reason: that he fears to lose his dignity, and, so as not to excite annoyance, he goes about cloaking and hiding men's faults, spreading ointment over a wound at the time when it ought to be cauterized. oh, miserable my soul! when the man ought to apply the flame of divine charity, and burn out the fault with holy punishment and correction inflicted by holy justice, he flatters and pretends that he does not see. he behaves thus toward those who he sees might impair his dignity; but as to the poor, who count for little and whom he does not fear, he shows very great zeal for justice, and without any mercy or pity imposes most severe punishment for a little fault. what causes such injustice? self-love. but the wretched men of the world, because they are deprived of truth, do not recognize truth, either as regards their salvation or as regards the true preservation of their lordship. for did they know the truth, they would see that only living in the fear of god preserves their state and the city in peace: they would preserve holy justice, rendering his due to every subject, they would show mercy on whoso deserved mercy, not by passionate impulse, but by regard for truth; and justice they would show on whoso deserved it, built upon mercy, and not on passionate wrath. nor would they judge by hearsay, but by holy and true justice; and they would heed the common good, and not any private good, and would appoint officials and those who are to rule the city, not by party or prejudice, not for flatteries or bribery, but with virtue and reason alone; and they would choose men mature and excellent, and not mere children--such as fear god and love the commonwealth and not their own particular advantage. now in this way, their state and the city is preserved in peace and unity. but unjust deeds, and living in cliques, and the appointment to rule and government of men who do not know how to rule themselves or their families--unjust and violent, passionate lovers of themselves--these are the methods that make them lose both the state of spiritual grace and their temporal state. to such as these it may be said: "in vain thou dost labour to guard thy city if god guard it not: if thou fear not god, and hold him not before thee in thy works." so you see, dearest brothers and lords, that self-love ruins the city of the soul, and ruins and overturns the cities of earth. i will that you know that nothing has so divided the world into every kind of people as self-love, from which injustice is for ever born. apparently, dearest brothers, you have a desire to increase and preserve the welfare of your city; and this desire moved you to write to me, poor wretch that i am, full of faults. i heard and saw that letter with tender love, and with wish to satisfy your desires, and to exert me, with what grace god shall give me, to offer you and your city before god with continual prayer. if you shall be just men, and carry on your government as i said above, not in passion nor for self-love or your private good, but for the universal good founded on the rock christ sweet jesus, and if you do all your works in his fear, then by means of prayer you shall preserve the state, the peace and unity of your city. therefore i beg you by the love of christ crucified--for there is no other way--that since you have the help of the prayers of the servants of god, you should not fail on your side in what is needful. for did you fail you might to be sure be helped a little by the prayers, but not so much that it would not soon come to nothing; because you ought to help, on your part, to bear this weight. so, considering that if you were clothed in fleshly and personal love, you could not help the servants of god, and that he who does not help himself with virtue and holy zeal for justice, cannot help his brothers' city, i say that it is needful for you to be clothed with the new man, christ sweet jesus, and his immeasurable charity. but we cannot be clothed therein unless first we divest us--nor could i divest me unless i see how harmful it is to me to hold my old sin, and how useful the new garment of divine charity. for when man has seen his sin, he hates it, and strips it off; and loves, and in love arrays him in the garment of virtue woven with the love of the new man. now this is the way. therefore i said to you that i desired to see you divested of the old man and clothed with the new man, christ crucified; and in this way you shall win and keep the state of grace and the state of your city, and you will never fail in the reverence due to holy church, but with pleasing manner will render your due and keep your state. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to nicholas of osimo ardour is the first trait which one feels in approaching the character of catherine; but the second is fidelity. neither the one nor the other flagged till the hour of her death. in the grave and tranquil words of this letter we can see, yet more clearly, perhaps, than in the fervid utterances of hours of excitement or crisis, how profound was her conception of the church, how fixed her resolution to sacrifice herself for "that sweet bride." gregory has returned to italy, and catherine is knowing a brief respite from public responsibilities in the comparative retirement of siena. but peace is not yet made with florence, nor is the reform of the church even begun. her heart, however, refuses to harbour discouragement, and seeking as ever to hold others to the same steady pitch of faith and consecration which she herself maintained, she writes to the secretary of the pope. he appears to have been a holy man who shared her aspirations, but he was evidently disheartened by the apparent failure of his efforts and by the necessary absorption in external things of a life dedicated to public affairs. catherine's keen analysis leaves nicholas of osimo no excuse for indolence. her letter, especially in the earlier portion, reads like a paraphrase of newman's fine verses on "sensitiveness":- "time was, i shrank from what was right for fear of what was wrong: i would not mingle in the fight because the foe was strong: "but now i cast that finer sense and sorer shame aside: such dread of sin was indolence, such aim at heaven was pride. "so, when my saviour calls, i rise, and calmly do my best, leaving to him, with silent eyes of hope and fear, the rest. "i step, i mount, where he has led; men count my haltings o'er; i know them; yet, though self i dread, i love his precept more." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and most reverend father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a firm pillar, that shall never move, except in god; never avoiding or refusing the toils and labours laid on you in the mystical body of holy church, the sweet bride of christ-neither for the ingratitude and ignorance you found among those who feed in that garden, nor from the weariness that might afflict us from seeing the affairs of the church get into a disorderly state. for it often happens that when a man is spending all his efforts on something, and it does not come about in the way or to the end that he wants, his mind falls into weariness and sadness, as if he reflected and said: "it is better for thee to give up this enterprise which thou hast begun and worked on so long, and it is not yet come to an end: and to seek peace and quiet in thy own mind." then the soul ought to reply boldly, hungering for the honour of god and the salvation of souls, and decline personal consolation, and say: "i will not avoid or flee from labour, for i am not worthy of peace and quiet of mind. nay, i wish to remain in that state which i have chosen, and manfully to give honour to god with my labour, and my labour to my neighbour." yet sometimes the devil, to make our enterprises weary us, when we feel little peace of mind, will make a suggestion to the man, saying in his thought: "i am doing more harm in this thing than i am deserving good. so i would gladly run away from it, not on account of the labour, but because i do not want to do harm." oh, dearest father, do not yield either to yourself or the devil, nor believe him, when he puts such thoughts into your heart and mind; but embrace your labour with gladness and ardent desire, and without any servile fear. and do not be afraid to do wrong in this; for wrong is shown to us in a disordered and perverse will. for when the will is not settled in god, then one does wrong. the time of the soul is not lost because it may be deprived of consolations, and of saying its office and many psalms, and cannot say them at the right time or place, or with that peace of mind which it would itself wish. nay, it is occupied wholly for god. so it ought not to feel pain in its mind--especially when it is labouring and working for the bride of christ. for in whatever way or concerning whatever matter we are labouring for her, it is so deserving and gives such pleasure to god, that our intellect does not suffice to see or imagine it. i recall, dearest father, a servant of god to whom it was shown how pleasing this service is to him; i tell this that you may be encouraged to bear labours for holy church. this servant of god, as i understood, having one time among others an intense desire to shed her blood and her life and annihilate her very consciousness for holy church, the bride of christ, lifted the eye of her mind to know that she had no being in herself, and to know the goodness of god toward her--that is, to see how god through love had given her being and all gifts and graces that follow from being. so, seeing and tasting such love and such depths of mercy, she saw not how she could respond to god except by love. but because she could be of no use to him, she could not show her love; therefore she gave herself to considering whether she found anyone to love through him, by whom she might show love. so she saw that god loved supremely his rational creatures, and she found the same love to all that was given to herself, for all are loved of god. this was the means she found (which showed whether she loved god or not) by which she could be of use. so then she rose ardently, full of charity to her neighbours, and conceived such love for their salvation that she would willingly have given her life for it. so the service which she could not render to god she desired to render to her neighbour. and when she had realized that it befitted her to respond by means of her neighbour, and thus to render him love for love--as god by means of the word, his son, has shown us love and mercy--so, seeing that by means of desire for the salvation of souls, giving honour to god and labour to one's neighbour, god was well pleased--she looked then to see in what garden and upon what table the neighbour might be enjoyed. then our saviour showed her, saying: "dearest daughter, it befits thee to eat in the garden of my bride, upon the table of the most holy cross, giving thy suffering, and crucified desire, and vigils and prayers, and every activity that thou canst, without negligence. know that thou canst not have desire for the salvation of souls without having it for holy church; for she is the universal body of all creatures who share the light of holy faith, who can have no life if they are not obedient to my bride. therefore, thou oughtest to desire to see thy christian neighbours, and the infidels and every rational creature, feeding in this garden, under the yoke of holy obedience, clothed in the light of living faith, and with good and holy works--for faith without works is dead. this is the common hunger and desire of that whole body. but now i say and will that thou grow yet more in hunger and desire, and hold thee ready to lay down thy life, if need be, in especial, in the mystical body of holy church, for the reform of my bride. for when she is reformed, the profit of the whole world will follow. how? because through darkness, and ignorance, and selflove, and impurities, and swollen pride, darkness and death are born in the souls of her subjects. so i summon thee and my other servants to labour in desire, in vigils, and prayer, and every other work, according to the skill which i give you; for i tell thee that the labour and service offered her are so pleasing to me, that not only they shall be rewarded in my servants who have a sincere and holy intention, but also in the servants of the world, who often serve her through self-love, though also many a time through reverence for holy church. wherefore i tell thee that there is no one who serves her reverently--so good i hold this service-who shall not be rewarded; and i tell thee that such shall not see eternal death. so, likewise, in those who wrong and serve ill and irreverently my bride, i shall not let that wrong go unpunished, by one way or another." then, as she saw such greatness and generosity in the goodness of god, and perceived what ought to be done to please him more, the flame of desire so increased that had it been possible for her to give her life for holy church a thousand times a day, and from now till the final judgment day, it seemed to her that it would be less than a drop of wine in the sea. and so it really is. i wish you, then, and summon you, to labour for her as you have always done; yea, you are a pillar, who have placed yourself to support and help this bride. so you ought to be, as i said--so that neither tribulation nor consolation should ever stir you. nor because many contrary winds are blowing to hinder those who walk in the way of truth, ought we for any reason to look back. therefore i said that i desired to see you a firm pillar. up, then, dearest and sweetest father: because it is our hour to give for that bride honour to god and labour to her. i beg you, by the love of christ crucified, to pray the holy father that he adopt zealously, without negligence, every remedy which can be found consistent to his conscience for the reform of holy church and peace to this great war which is damning so many souls, since for all negligence and lukewarmness god will rebuke him most severely, and will demand the souls who through this are perishing. commend me to him; and i ask him humbly for his benediction. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to misser lorenzo del pino of bologna, doctor in decretals (written in trance) the familiar but ever-noble theology with which this letter opens, leads first to a severe description of the unworthy and mercenary man, which is followed by a temperately wise discussion of the true use of worldly pleasures and goods. "whatever god has made is good and perfect," says catherine--"except sin, which was not made by him, and so is not worthy of love." the modern religious epicureanism which would applaud this sentiment would, however, be less contented with the sequel; for catherine never forgets the anti-modern position that, though possession be legitimate to the christian, it is, after all, "more perfect to renounce than to possess," and that the man who has preserved true detachment of mind towards this world's goods will, by inevitable logic, come to hunger, sooner or later, for detachment in deed. it is a curiously tranquil letter to have been written in trance. whatever the mysterious condition may have been, it evidently did not rob catherine of her mental sanity and sobriety. the doctor of laws to whom it was addressed was a person of considerable importance in the public and legal life of his time. one cannot help suspecting a personal bearing in the severe description of the hard man--evidently a lawyer--who makes the poor wait before giving them counsel: yet, perhaps, the suspicion is unwarranted, and the letter carried to misser lorenzo nothing more searching than a general account of the temptations to which his profession was subject. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest brother and son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a lover and follower of truth and a despiser of falsehood. but this truth cannot be possessed or loved if it is not known. who is truth? god is the highest and eternal truth. in whom shall we know him? in christ sweet jesus, for he shows us with his blood the truth of the eternal father. his truth toward us is this, that he created us in his image and likeness to give us life eternal, that we might share and enjoy his good. but through man's sin this truth was not fulfilled in him, and therefore god gave us the word his son, and imposed this obedience on him, that he should restore man to grace through much endurance, purging the sin of man in his own person, and manifesting his truth in his blood. so man knows, by the unsearchable love which he finds shown to him through the blood of christ crucified, that god nor seeks nor wills aught but our sanctification. for this end we were created; and whatever god gives or permits to us in this life, he gives that we may be sanctified in him. he who knows this truth never jars with it, but always follows and loves it, walking in the footsteps of christ crucified. and as this sweet loving word, for our example and teaching, despised the world and all delights, and chose to endure hunger and thirst, shame and reproach, even to the shameful death on the cross, for the honour of the father and our salvation, so does he who is the lover of the truth which he knows in the light of most holy faith, follow this way and these footsteps. for without this light it could not be known; but when a man has the light, he knows it, and knowing it, loves it, and becomes a lover of what god loves, and hates what god hates. there is this difference between him who loves the truth and him who hates it. he who hates the truth, lies in the darkness of mortal sin. he hates what god loves, and loves what god hates. god hates sin, and the inordinate joys and luxuries of the world, and such a man loves it all, fattening himself on the world's wretched trifles, and corrupting himself in every rank. if he has an office in which he ought to minister in some way to his neighbour, he serves him only so far as he can get some good for himself out of it, and no farther, and becomes a lover of himself. christ the blessed gave his life for us, and such a man will not give one word to serve his neighbour unless he sees it paid, and overpaid. if the neighbour happens to be a poor man who cannot pay, he makes him wait before telling him the truth, and often does not tell it to him at all, but makes fun of him; and where he ought to be pitiful and a father of the poor, he becomes cruel to his own soul because he wrongs the poor. but the wretched man does not see that the highest judge will return to him nothing else than what he receives from him, since every sin is justly punished and every good rewarded. christ embraced voluntary poverty and was a lover of continence; the wretched man who has made himself a follower and lover of falsehood does just the contrary; not only does he fail to be content with what he has, or to refrain through love of virtue, but he robs other people. nor does he remain content in the state of marriage, in which, if it is observed as it should be, a man can stay with a good conscience; but he plunges into every wretchedness, like a brute beast, without moderation, and as the pig rolls in filth, so does he in the filth of impurity. but we might say: "what shall i do, who have riches, and am in the state of marriage, if these things bring damnation to my soul?" dearest brother, a man can save his soul and receive the life of grace into himself, in whatever condition he may be; but not while he abides in guilt of mortal sin. for every condition is pleasing to god, and he is the acceptor, not of men's conditions, but of holy desire. so we may hold to these things when they are held with a temperate will; for whatever god has made is good and perfect, except sin, which was not made by him, and therefore is not worthy of love. a man can hold to riches and worldly place if he likes, and he does not wrong god nor his own soul; but it would be greater perfection if he renounced them, because there is more perfection in renunciation than in possession. if he does not wish to renounce them in deed, he ought to renounce and abandon them with holy desire, and not to place his chief affections upon them, but upon god alone; and let him keep these things to serve his own needs and those of his family, like a thing that is lent and not like his own. so doing, he will never suffer pain from any created thing; for a thing that is not possessed with love is never lost with sorrow. so we see that the servants of the world, lovers of falsehood, endure very great sufferings in their life, and bitter tortures to the very end. what is the reason? the inordinate love they have for themselves and for created things, which they love apart from god. for the divine goodness has permitted that every inordinate affection should be unendurable to itself. such a man as this always believes falsehood, because there is no knowledge of truth in him. and he thinks to hold to the world and abide in delights, to make a god of his body, and of the other things that he loves immoderately a god, and he must leave them all. we see that either he leaves them by dying, or god permits that they be taken from him first. every day we see it. for now a man is rich, and now poor; to-day he is exalted in worldly state, and to-morrow he is cast down; now he is well, and now ill. so all things are mutable, and are taken from us when we think to clasp them firmly; or we are snatched away from them by death. so you see that all things pass. then, seeing that they pass, they should be possessed with moderation in the light of reason, loved in such wise as they should be loved. and he who holds them thus will not hold them with the help of sin, but with grace; with generosity of heart, and not with avarice; in pity for the poor, and not in cruelty; in humility, not in pride; in gratitude, not in ingratitude: and will recognize that his possessions come from his creator, and not himself. with this same temperate love he will love his children, his friends, his relatives, and all other rational beings. he will hold the condition of marriage as ordained, and ordained as a sacrament; and will have in respect the days commanded by holy church. he will be and live like a man, and not a beast; and will be, not indeed ascetic, but continent and self-controlled. such a man will be a fruitful tree, that will bear the fruits of virtue, and will be fragrant, shedding perfume although planted in the earth; and the seed that issues from him will be good and virtuous. so you see that you can have god in any condition; for the condition is not what robs us of him, but the evil will alone, which, when it is set on loving falsehood, is ill-ordered and corrupts a man's every work. but if he loves truth, he follows the footsteps of truth; so he hates what truth hates and loves what truth loves, and then his every work is good and perfect. otherwise it would not be possible for him to share the life of grace, nor would any work of his bear living fruit. so, knowing no other way, i said that i desired to see you a lover and follower of truth and despiser of falsehood; hating the devil the father of lies, and your own lower nature, that follows such a parent; and loving christ crucified, who is way, truth and life. for he who walks in him reaches the light, and is clothed in the shining garment of charity, wherein are all virtues found. which charity and love unspeakable, when it is in the soul, holds itself not content in the common state, but desires to advance further. thus from mental poverty it desires to advance to actual, and from mental continence to actual; to observe the counsels as well as the commandments of christ; for it begins to feel aversion for the dunghill of the world. and because it sees the difficulty of being in filth and not defiled, it longs with breathless desire and burning charity to free itself by one act from the world so far as possible. if it is not able to escape in deed, it studies to be perfect in its own place. at least, it does not lack desire. then, dearest brother, let us sleep no more, but awaken from slumber. open the eye of the mind in the light of faith, to know, to love, to follow that truth which you shall know through the blood of the humble and loving lamb. you shall know that blood in the knowledge of yourself, that the face of your soul may be washed therein. and it is ours, and none can take it from us unless we choose. then be negligent no more; but like a vase, fill yourself with the blood of christ crucified. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters written from rocca d'orcia these informal little notes were written probably in the autumn of 1377 while catherine was making a visit to the feudal stronghold of the salimbeni family, about twenty-three miles from siena, among the foothills of monte amiata. the young "populana" was admitted to the intimate counsels of these great nobles, leaders of the opposition to the popular government with which her own sympathies would naturally have lain. it must have been a new experience to the town-bred girl--life in this castle-eyrie among the hills, where mercenary troops and rude peasants thronged the courtyard, and manners, one surmises, must have been at once more artful and more brutal than among her bourgeois friends. we hear of picturesque scenes, where men and women afflicted of demons are brought writhing into her presence, to be welcomed, cared for, and healed. she had the comfort of the company of several confessors; the first of these letters shows them labouring with homely eagerness, quaintly expressed, for the religious welfare of the wild soldiery. absorbed, as ever, in the inward life, catherine was as tranquilly at home here in the mountains, among the great ladies of the salimbeni family, as in siena or in the papal court. meantime, good monna lapa grumbled as of old over the separation from her daughter; and evidently catherine's sister mantellate were also disconsolate. she writes them very gently, very simply, trying to reconcile them by the reminder of like sorrows borne by that first group of disciples to whom she and her friends loved to compare themselves. to her beloved alessa she expresses herself more freely, giving just the details of health and mental state that intimate love would crave. these were sad days in her private life; for she had parted from fra raimondo, who had been called to other service. her words to alessa reflect her sadness, and also her entire submission. it is noticeable that she respects the secrets of her hosts with dignity, giving no hint on the matters that occupied her beyond the reticent statement to her mother: "i believe that if you knew the circumstances you yourself would send me here." this is not the only time by any means that catherine had to meet similar complaints. wherever she bore her strong vitality, limitless sympathy and peculiar charm, new friends gathered around her and clung to her with an unreasoning devotion that cried out in exacting hunger for her presence, and often proved to her a real distress. for catherine, swiftly responsive as she was to individual affections, perfect in loyalty as she always showed herself, moved, nevertheless, in a region where unswerving service of a larger duty might at any moment force her to refuse to gratify, at least in outward ways, the personal claim. this was very hard for her friends to understand; one is sorry for them. at the same time, one feels more than a little pathos in her efforts to bring these simpler minds into understanding sympathy with that high sense of vocation which underlay all her doings: "know, dearest mother, that i, your poor little daughter, am not put on earth for anything else than this; to this my creator has chosen me. i know you are content that i should obey him." but monna lapa never was quite content--not to the very end. to monna lapa her mother and to monna cecca in the monastery of saint agnes at montepulciano, when she was at rocca in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest mother and daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you so clothed in the flames of divine charity that you may bear all pain and torment, hunger and thirst, persecution and injury, derision, outrage and insult, and everything else, with true patience; learning from the lamb suffering and slain, who ran with such burning love to the shameful death of the cross. do you then keep in companionship with sweetest mother mary, who, in order that the holy disciples might seek the honour of god and the salvation of souls, following the footsteps of her sweet son, consents that they should leave her presence, although she loved them supremely: and she stays as if alone, a guest and a pilgrim. and the disciples, who loved her beyond measure, yet leave her joyously, enduring every grief for the honour of god, and go out among tyrants, enduring many persecutions. and if you ask them: "why do you carry yourselves so joyously, and you are going away from mary?" they would reply: "because we have lost ourselves, and are enamoured of the honour of god and the salvation of souls." well, dearest mother and daughter, i want you to do just so. if up to now you have not been, i want you to be now, kindled in the fire of divine charity, seeking always the honour of god and the salvation of souls. otherwise you would fall into the greatest grief and tribulation, and would drag me down into them. know, dearest mother, that i, your poor little daughter, am not put on earth for anything else; to this my creator has elected me. i know you are content that i should obey him. i beg you that if i seemed to stay away longer than pleased your will, you will be contented; for i cannot do otherwise. i believe that if you knew the circumstances you yourself would send me here. i am staying to find help if i can for a great scandal. it is no fault of the countess, though; therefore do you all pray god and that glorious virgin to send us a good result. and do you, cecca, and giustina, drown yourselves in the blood of christ crucified; for now is the time to prove the virtue in your soul. god give his sweet and eternal benediction to you all. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to monna catarina of the hospital and to giovanna di capo in siena in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughters in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you obedient daughters, united in true and perfect charity. this obedience and love will dissipate all your suffering and gloom; for obedience removes the thing which gives us suffering, that is our own perverse will, which is wholly destroyed in true holy obedience. gloom is scattered and consumed by the impulse of charity and unity, for god is true charity and highest eternal light. he who has this true light for his guide, cannot miss the road. therefore, dearest daughters, i want, since it is so necessary, that you should study to lose your own will and to gain this light. this is the doctrine which i remember has always been given you, although you have learned little of it. that which is not done, i beg you to do, dearest daughters. if you did not, you would abide in continual sufferings, and would drag poor me, who deserve every suffering, into them too. we must do for the honour of god as the holy apostles did. when they had received the holy spirit, they separated from one another, and from that sweet mother mary. although it was their greatest delight to stay together, yet they gave up their own delight, and sought the honour of god and the salvation of souls. and although mary sends them away from her, they do not therefore hold that love is diminished, or that they are deprived of the affection of mary. this is the rule that we must take to ourselves. i know that my presence is a great consolation to you. nevertheless, as truly obedient, you should not seek your own consolation, for the honour of god and the salvation of souls: and do not give place to the devil, who makes it look to you as if you were deprived of the love and devotion which i bear to your souls and bodies. were it otherwise, true love would not be built on you. i assure you that i do not love you otherwise than in god. why do you fall into such unregulated suffering over things which must necessarily be so? oh, what shall we do when it shall befit us to do great deeds if we fail so in the little ones? we shall have to be together or separated according as things shall befall. just now our sweet saviour wills and permits that we be separated for his honour. you are in siena, and cecca and grandma are in montepulciano. frate bartolomeo and frate matteo will be there and have been there. alessa and monna bruna are at monte giove, eighteen miles from montepulciano; they are with the countess and monna lisa. frate raimondo and frate tommaso and monna tomma and lisa and i are at rocca among the free-lances. and so many incarnate demons are being eaten up that frate tommaso says that his stomach aches over it! with all this they cannot be satisfied, and they are hungry for more, and find work here at a good price. pray the divine goodness to give them big, sweet and bitter mouthfuls! think that the honour of god and the salvation of souls is being sweetly seen. you ought not to want or desire anything else. you could do nothing more pleasing to the highest eternal will of god, and to mine, than feeling thus. up, my daughters, begin to sacrifice your own wills to god! don't be ready always to stay nurselings--for you should get the teeth of your desire ready to bite hard and musty bread, if needs be. i say no more. bind you in the sweet bands of love, so you will show that you are daughters--not otherwise. comfort you in christ sweet jesus, and comfort all the other daughters. we will come back as soon as we can, according as it shall please the divine goodness. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to monna alessa clothed with the habit of saint dominic, when she was at rocca in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee follow the doctrine of the spotless lamb with a free heart, divested of every creature-love, clothed only with the creator, in the light of most holy faith. for without the light thou couldst not walk in the straight way of the slain and spotless lamb. therefore my soul desires to see thee and the others clean and virile, and not blown about by every wind that may befall. beware of looking back, but go on steadily, holding in mind the teaching that has been given thee. be sure to enter every day anew into the garden of thy soul with the light of faith to pull up every thorn that might smother the seed of the teaching given thee, and to turn over the earth; that is, every day do thou divest thy heart. it is necessary to divest it over and over; for many a time i have seen people who seemed to have divested themselves, whom i have found clothed in sin, by evidence rather of deed than of words. the opposite might appear by their words, but deeds showed their affections. i want, then, that thou shouldst divest thy heart in truth, following christ crucified. and let silence abide on thy lips. i have taken note; for i believe that the other woman holds to it very little. i am very sorry for that. if it is so, as it seems to me, my creator wills that i should bear it, and i am content to do so: but i am not content with the wrong done to god. thou didst write me that god seemed to constrain thee in thy orisons to pray for me. thanks be to the divine goodness, who shows such unspeakable love to my poor soul! thou didst tell me to write thee if i were suffering and had my usual infirmities at this time. i reply that god has cared for me marvellously, within and without. he has cared very much for my body this advent, causing the pains to be diverted by writing; it is true that, by the goodness of god, they have been worse than they used to be. if he made them worse, he saw to it that lisa was cured as soon as frate santi fell ill--for he has been at the point of death. now, almost miraculously, he has grown so much better that he can be called cured. but apparently my bridegroom, eternal truth, has wished to put me to a very sweet and genuine test, inward and outward, in the things which are seen and those which are not--the latter beyond count the greater. but while he was testing us, he has cared for us so gently as tongue could not tell. therefore i wish pains to be food to me, tears my drink, sweat my ointment. let pains make me fat, let pains cure me, let pains give me light, let pains give me wisdom, let pains clothe my nakedness, let pains strip me of all self-love, spiritual and temporal. the pain of lacking consolations from my fellow-creatures has called me to consider my own lack of virtue, recognizing my imperfection, and the very perfect light of sweet truth, who gives and receives, not material things, but holy desires: him who has not withdrawn his goodness toward me for my little light or knowledge, but has had regard only to himself, the one supremely good. i beg thee by the love of jesus christ crucified, dearest my daughter, do not slacken in prayer: nay, redouble it--for i have greater need thereof than thou seest--and do thou thank the goodness of god for me. and pray him to give me grace that i may give my life for him, and to take away, if so please him, the burden of my body. for my life is of very little use to anyone else; rather is it painful and oppressive to every person, far and near, by reason of my sins. may god by his mercy take from me such great faults, and for the little time that i have to live, may he make me live impassioned by the love of virtue! and may i in pain offer before him my dolorous and suffering desires for the salvation of all the world and the reformation of holy church! joy, joy in the cross with me! so may the cross be a bed where the soul may rest: a table where may be tasted heavenly food, the fruit of patience with quietness and assurance. thou didst send to me saying ... i was consoled by this thing, both by her life, hoping that she is correcting herself and living with less vanity of heart than she has done till now, and also by the children's having been brought to the light of holy baptism. may god give them his sweetest grace, and grant them death if they are not to be good! bless them, and comfort her, in christ sweet jesus: and tell her to live in the holy and sweet fear of god, and to recognize the grace she has received from god, which has not been small but very great. were she to be ungrateful, it would much displease god, and perhaps he would not leave her unpunished. i commend to thee ... i have had no news at all of them, i do not know why. the will of god be done! our saviour has put me on the island, and the winds beat from every side. let everyone rejoice in christ crucified, however far one from the other. shut thee into the house of selfknowledge. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to gregory xi there is no evidence as to the date of this letter, but the tone is such that catherine's latest editor is probably right in placing it after the return of the pope to italy. it suggests that a long relation is drawing to a close, and closing, so far as catherine is concerned, in disappointment. never, in her earlier relations with gregory, would she have gone such lengths as here, in her amazing hint that he would better resign the papacy if he finds himself unable to sustain the moral burdens it imposes. the pope is at rome, but he has changed his sky and not his mind. catherine's letter is a brief and powerful summary of oft-reiterated pleas. in the solemnity and authority of its adjurations, in the distinctness of its accusations, it is surely one of the most surprising epistles ever written by a devout and wholly faithful subject to her acknowledged head. such a letter proceeds, indeed, from a spiritual region where all earthly distinctions--ecclesiastical as well as intellectual or social--are lost to sight, and the illiterate daughter of the dyer can rebuke and exhort as by her natural right him whom with unwavering faith she believed to be the god-appointed father of all christian people. catherine's patience, one feels, is near the breaking point: and heartbreak for her is in truth not many years away. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and sweet father, your poor unworthy daughter catherine in christ sweet jesus, commends herself to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a manly man, free from any fear or fleshly love toward yourself, or toward any creature related to you in the flesh; since i perceive in the sweet presence of god that nothing so hinders your holy, good desire and so serves to hinder the honour of god and the exaltation and reform of holy church, as this. therefore, my soul desires with immeasurable love that god by his infinite mercy may take from you all passion and lukewarmness of heart, and re-form you another man, by forming in you anew a burning and ardent desire; for in no other way could you fulfil the will of god and the desire of his servants. alas, alas, sweetest "babbo" mine, pardon my presumption in what i have said to you and am saying; i am constrained by the sweet primal truth to say it. his will, father, is this, and thus demands of you. it demands that you execute justice on the abundance of many iniquities committed by those who are fed and pastured in the garden of holy church; declaring that brutes should not be fed with the food of men. since he has given you authority and you have assumed it, you should use your virtue and power: and if you are not willing to use it, it would be better for you to resign what you have assumed; more honour to god and health to your soul would it be. another demand that his will makes is this: he wills that you make peace with all tuscany, with which you are at strife; securing from all your wicked sons who have rebelled against you whatever is possible to secure without war--but punishing them as a father ought to punish a son who has wronged him. moreover, the sweet goodness of god demands from you that you give full authority to those who ask you to make ready for the holy crusade--that thing which appears impossible to you, and possible to the sweet goodness of god, who has ordained it, and wills that so it be. beware, as you hold your life dear, that you commit no negligence in this, nor treat as jests the works of the holy spirit, which are demanded from you because you can do them. if you want justice, you can execute it. you can have peace, withdrawing from the perverse pomps and delights of the world, preserving only the honour of god and the due of holy church. authority also you have to give peace to those who ask you for it. then, since you are not poor but rich--you who bear in your hand the keys of heaven, to whom you open it is open, and to whom you shut it is shut--if you do not do this, you would be rebuked by god. i, if i were in your place, should fear lest divine judgment come upon me. therefore i beg you most gently on behalf of christ crucified to be obedient to the will of god, for i know that you want and desire no other thing than to do his will, that this sharp rebuke fall not upon you: "cursed be thou, for the time and the strength entrusted to thee thou hast not used." i believe, father, by the goodness of god, and also taking hope from your holiness, that you will so act that this will not fall upon you. i say no more. pardon me, pardon me; for the great love which i bear to your salvation, and my great grief when i see the contrary, makes me speak so. willingly would i have said it to your own person, fully to unburden my conscience. when it shall please your holiness that i come to you, i will come willingly. so do that i may not appeal to christ crucified from you; for to no other can i appeal, for there is no greater on earth. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. i ask you humbly for your benediction. sweet jesus, jesus love. to raimondo of capua of the order of the preachers this letter confirms what history elsewhere indicates--that gregory, after his return to italy, turned against catherine. she no longer addresses her "dear babbo" personally, with the old happy familiarity; rather, she sends through fra raimondo formal and almost tremulous messages to "his holiness, the vicar of christ." raimondo, apparently from his connection with her, is evidently included in the papal displeasure. catherine writes to give him courage and comfort; in her touching advice as to the best way of preparing one's self to meet contentions and injustice, we may recognize the secret source of her own rare self-control. catherine's attitude toward the angered pope is a compound of contrition and firmness. no words could express swifter readiness to accept rebuke or a more passionate humility: none could more vigorously maintain the unwelcome convictions which had given offence. there are various surmises as to the exact occasion of the misunderstanding to which this letter refers: were we to add one, we might suspect that the audacity of the preceding letter had been too much, even for gregory. but the general situation speaks for itself. gregory was strong enough, under her inspiration, to make the great physical and moral effort of returning to italy: he was, as we have seen, not strong enough to cope with what he found there. enfeebled by ill-health, hampered by his lack of knowledge of italian, rendered desperate by the difficulties he encountered, it is small wonder that, as many another weak nature would have done, he turned in rage or cold displeasure against the instrument of his return. there is a story that gregory on his deathbed warned the bystanders against catherine, and whether it be true or not, it suggests the contemporary impression as to his tone toward her during his last days. here is sad ending to a relation that during its earlier phases possessed a singular beauty. how sorely catherine must have been hurt we may well imagine. her brief triumph was all turned to bitterness: less, we may be sure, from her personal loss of the pope's confidence--though she was human enough to feel this keenly--than from the utter failure of the hopes she had built on his return. in this letter her genuine self-abasement before gregory's displeasure changes with dramatic suddenness to another tone. the accuser becomes the judge once more, and speaks with the old authority: "god demands that you do this--as you know that you were told." her personal feeling for the man breaks forth in the appeal: "to whom shall i have recourse should you abandon me? who would help me?" but in the same breath comes her magnificent assurance, that though she may offend christ's vicar, the head of the church, she may yet flee with confidence to christ himself, and rest secure upon the bosom of his bride. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and sweetest father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a true combatant against the wiles and vexations of the devil, and the malice and persecution of men, and against your own fleshly self-love, which is an enemy that, unless a man drives it away by virtue and holy hate, prevents him from ever being strong in the other battles which we encounter every day. for self-love weakens us, and therefore it is imperative that we drive it away with the strength of virtue, which we shall gain in the unspeakable love that god has shown us, through the blood of his only-begotten son. this love, drawn from the divine love, gives us light and life; light, to know the truth when necessary to our salvation and to win great perfection, and to endure with true patience and fortitude and constancy until death--for by such fortitude, won from the light that makes us know the truth, we win the life of divine grace. drink deep, then, in the blood of the spotless lamb, and be a faithful servant, not faithless, to your creator. and fear not, nor turn back, for any battle or gloom that may come upon you, but persevere in faith till death; for well you know that perseverance will give you the fruit of your labours. i have understood from a certain servant of god who holds you in continual prayer before him, that you have met very great battles, and that gloom has fallen upon your mind through the crafts and wiles of the devil, who wishes to make you see wrong as right and right as wrong; this he does in order that you may fail in your going and not reach the goal. but comfort you, for god has provided and shall provide, and his providence shall not be lacking. be sure that in all things you have recourse to mary, embracing the holy cross, and never let yourself fall into confusion of mind, but sail in a stormy sea in the ship of divine mercy. i understand: if from men religious or secular, even in the mystical body of holy church, you have suffered persecution or displeasure, or have been visited with the indignation of the vicar of christ, either on your own account, or if you have had something to bear on my account with all these people-you are not to resist, but bear it patiently, leaving at once, and going into your cell, there to know yourself in holy meditation; reflecting that god is making you worthy to endure for the love of truth, and to be persecuted for his name, deeming yourself in true humility worthy of punishment and unworthy to gain results. and do all the things that you have to do prudently, holding god before your eyes; do and say what you have to say and do in the presence of god and of your own thought with the help of holy prayer. there shall you find the master, the holy spirit, rich in clemency, who shall pour upon you a light of wisdom that shall make you discern and choose what shall be to his honour. this is the doctrine given to us by the sweet primal truth, caring for our need with measureless love. if it happened, dearest father, that you found yourself in the presence of his holiness the vicar of christ, our very sweet and holy father, humbly commend me to him. i hold myself in fault before his holiness for much ignorance and negligence which i have committed against god, and for disobedience against my creator, who summoned me to cry aloud with passionate desire, and to cry before him in prayer, and to put myself in word and in bodily presence close to his vicar. in all possible ways i have committed measureless faults, on account of which, yes, on account of my many iniquities, i believe that he has suffered many persecutions, he and holy church. wherefore if he complains of me he is right, and right in punishing me for my defects. but tell him that up to the limits of my power i shall strive to correct my faults, and to fulfil more perfectly his obedience. so i trust by the divine goodness that he will turn the eyes of his mercy upon the bride of christ and his vicar, and upon me, freeing me from my defects and ignorance; but upon his bride, by giving her the refreshment of peace and renewal, with much endurance (for in no way without toils can be uprooted the many thorny faults that choke the garden of holy church), and that god will give him grace in those parts where he wants to be a manly man, and not to look back, for any toil or persecution that may befall him from his wicked sons; constant and persevering, let him not avoid weariness, but let him throw himself like a lamb into the midst of the wolves, with hungry desire for the honour of god and the salvation of souls, putting far from him care for temporal things, and watching over spiritual things alone. if he does so, as divine goodness demands of him, the lamb will lord it over the wolves, and the wolves will turn into lambs; and thus we shall see the glory and praise of the name of god, the good and peace of holy church. in no other way can these be won; not through war, but through peace and benignity, and such holy spiritual punishment as a father should inflict on a son who does wrong. alas, alas, alas, most holy father! the first day that you came to your own place, you should have done so. i hope in the goodness of god and in your holiness that what is not done you will do. in this way both temporalities and spiritualities are won back. god demanded that you do this--as you know that you were told--that you care for the reformation of holy church, punishing its sins and establishing good shepherds; and that you make holy peace with your wicked sons in the best way and most pleasing to god that could be done; so that then you might see to uplifting with your arms the standard of the most holy cross against the infidels. i believe that our negligence and our not doing what could be done--not cruelly nor quarrelsomely, but in peace and benignity--(always punishing a man who has done wrong, not in proportion to his deserts, for he could not endure what he deserves, but in proportion to what the sick man is in a condition to bear)--are, perhaps, the reason why such disaster and loss and irreverence toward holy church and her ministers has befallen. and i fear that unless a remedy is found by doing what has been left undone, our sins may deserve so much that we shall see greater misfortunes; such i say as would grieve us much more than to lose temporal possessions. of all these evils and sorrows, wretched i am the cause, through my little virtue and my great disobedience. most holy father, look in the light of reason and truth at your displeasure against me, not as punishment, but as displeasure. to whom shall i have recourse should you abandon me? who would help me? to whom do i flee, should you cast me out? my persecutors pursue me, and i flee to you, and to the other sons and servants of god. should you abandon me, assuming displeasure and wrath against me, i will hide me in the wounds of christ crucified, whose vicar you are: and i know that he will receive me, for he wills not the death of a sinner. and, when i am received by him, you will not drive me out; nay, we shall abide in our own place to fight manfully with the weapons of virtue for the sweet bride of christ. in her i wish to end my life, with tears, with sweats, with sighs, giving my blood and the marrow of my bones. and should all the world drive me out, i will not care, reposing with plaints and great endurance on the breast of that sweet bride. pardon, most holy father, all my ignorance, and the wrong that i have done to god and to your holiness. it is truth that excuses me and sets me free; truth eternal. humbly i ask your benediction. to you, dearest father (raimondo), i say: when it is possible to you, keep a manly heart in the presence of his holiness, without any pain or servile fear; remain first a while in your cell, in the presence of mary and of the most holy cross, in holy and humble prayer, in true knowledge of yourself, with living faith and will to endure; and then go (to the pope) in security. and do what you can for the honour of god and the salvation of souls, to the point of death. announce to him what i write you in this letter as the holy spirit shall guide you. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to urban vi in march, 1378, gregory died, and was succeeded by the archbishop of bari, who took the name of urban vi. the sensitive, cultured, vacillating frenchman gave place to a neapolitan of coarse physique--a man personally virtuous, but, as history shows us, extraordinarily harsh and violent in disposition. "it seems," the prior of the island of gorgona wrote with alarming candour to catherine, "that our new christ on earth is a terrible man." catherine was at florence at the time--having been sent thither by gregory, who, however alienated from her personally, seems till the end to have valued her services. the following is the first letter from her to urban which we possess. it is evident that she has as yet little knowledge of the new pope at first hand. she writes to him in much the same strain as that in which she was accustomed to address his predecessor; only the sense of a new hearer inspires her, after the rather dull opening of the letter, with fresh fervour in recapitulating the sins and woes of the church. possibly, also, there is a little more insistence than usual on the plea that mercy temper justice, in the case of the rebellious tuscan cities. the sensible policy for such a situation could hardly be better summed up than in her concise phrase: "receive from a sick man what he can give you." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and dear father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you founded upon true and perfect charity, so that, like a good shepherd, you may lay down your life for your sheep. and truly, most holy father, only he who is founded upon charity is ready to die for the love of god and the salvation of souls: because he is free from self-love. for he who abides in self-love is not ready to give his life; and not to speak of his life, apparently he is not willing to bear the least little pain: for he is always afraid for himself, lest he lose his bodily life and his private consolations. so he does whatever he may do imperfectly and corruptly, because his chief impulse, through which he acts, is corrupt. in whatever state he may be, shepherd or subject, he shows little virtue. but the shepherd who is established in true charity does not do so; his every work is good and perfect, because his impulse is absolutely one with the perfection of divine charity. such a man as this fears neither the devil nor his fellow-beings, but only his creator; he does not mind the detractions of the world, nor shames, nor insults, nor jests, nor the criticisms of his subordinates; who take offence, and turn to criticizing when they are reproved by their prelate. but like a manly man, clothed in the fortitude of charity, he does not care. nor, therefore, does he suppress the flame of holy desire, nor cast from him the pearl of justice, lucid and one with mercy, which he bears upon his breast. were justice without mercy, it would abide in the shadows of cruelty, and would turn into injustice. and mercy without justice toward one's subordinate would be like ointment on a wound that ought to be cauterized: if ointment is applied without cauterizing it rots more than it heals. but when both are joined they give life to the prelate who uses them, and health to the subject if he is not a member of the devil, entirely unwilling to correct himself. however, if the subject failed to correct himself a thousand times over, the prelate ought not to give up correcting him, and his virtue will be none the less because that wicked man does not profit by it. in this way works the pure and clean charity of a soul that cares for itself not for its own sake, but for god, and seeks god for the glory and praise of his name, in so far as it sees that he is worthy of being loved for his infinite goodness--nor seeks its neighbour for its own sake, but for god, wishing to render him that service which it cannot render to god. for it recognizes that he is our god, who has no need of us. therefore it studies with great zeal to be useful to its neighbour, and especially to the subjects committed to it. and it does not draw back from pursuing the salvation of their souls and bodies for any ingratitude found in them, nor for the threats or flatteries of man; but, in truth, clothed in the wedding garment, follows the doctrine of the spotless humble lamb, that gentle and good shepherd who, as one enamoured, ran for our salvation to the shameful death of the most holy cross. the unspeakable love which the soul has conceived for christ crucified does all this. most holy father, god has placed you as a shepherd over all his sheep who belong to the whole christian religion; he has placed you as the minister of the blood of christ crucified, whose vicar you are; and he placed you in a time in which wickedness abounds more among your inferiors than it has done for a long time, both in the body of holy church, and in the universal body of the christian religion. therefore it is extremely necessary for you to be established in perfect charity, wearing the pearl of justice, as i said; that you may not mind the world, nor poor people used to evil, nor any injuries of theirs; but manfully correct them, like a true knight and just shepherd, uprooting vices and implanting virtues, ready to lay down your life if needs be. sweetest father, the world cannot bear any more; vices are so abundant, especially among those who were put in the garden of holy church to be fragrant flowers, shedding the fragrance of virtue; and we see that they abound in wretched, hateful vices, so that they make the whole world reek! oh me! where is the purity of heart and perfect charity which should make the incontinent continent by contact with them? it is quite the contrary: many a time the continent and the pure are led by their impurities to try incontinence. oh me! where is the generosity of charity, and the care of souls, and distribution to the poor and to the good of the church, and their necessities? you know well that men do quite the contrary. oh me miserable! with grief i say it --your sons nourish themselves on the wealth they receive by ministering the blood of christ, and are not ashamed of being as money-changers, playing with those most sacred anointed hands of yours, you vicar of christ: without speaking of the other wretched deeds which they commit. oh me! where is that deep humility with which to confound that pride of sensuality of theirs, by which in their great avarice they commit simonies, buying benefices with gifts, or flatteries, or money, dissolute and vain adornments, not as clerics, but worse than seculars! oh me, sweet my babbo, bring us a remedy! and give refreshment to the desperate desires of the servants of god, who die and cannot die. they wait with great desire that you as a true shepherd should put your hand to correcting these things, not only with words but with deeds, while the pearl of justice, joined to mercy, shines on your breast; correcting in truth, without any servile fear, those who nourish them at the breast of the sweet bride of christ, the ministers of the blood. but truly, most holy father, i do not see how this can be well done if you do not make over anew the garden of your bride, stocking it with good virtuous plants; taking pains to choose a troop of very holy men, in whom you find virtue and no fear of death. do not aim at grandeur, but let them be shepherds who rule their flocks with zeal. and a troop of good cardinals, who may be upright columns of yours, helping you to bear the weight of many burdens, with divine help. oh, how blessed will be my soul then, when i shall see that which is hers given back to the bride of christ, and those nourished at her breast regarding not their own good, but the glory and praise of the name of god, and feeding on the food of souls at the table of the holy cross. i have no question that then your lay subjects will correct themselves--for they will not be able to help it, constrained by the holy and pure life of the clergy. we are not, then, to sleep over it, but manfully and without negligence to do what you can, even unto death, for the glory and praise of the name of god. next i beg you, and constrain you by the love of christ crucified, as to those sheep who have left the fold--i believe, for my sins--that by the love of that blood of which you are made minister, you delay not to receive them in mercy, and with your benignity and holiness force their hardness; give them the good of bringing them back into the fold, and if they do not ask it in true and perfect humility, let your holiness fulfil their imperfection. receive from a sick man what he can give you. oh me, oh me, have mercy on so many souls that perish! do not consider the scandal which occurred in this city, in which surely the devils of hell busied themselves, to hinder the peace and quiet of souls and bodies: but divine goodness saw to it that no great harm came from the great evil, but your sons pacified themselves, and now ask of you the oil of mercy. grant that it seems to you, most holy father, that they do not ask it in those conciliatory ways nor with that heartfelt distaste for the sin they committed which they should, as it would please your holiness to have them--yet, oh me, do not give up! for they will make better sons than other people. oh me, babbo mine, i do not want to stay here any longer! do with me then what you will. show me this grace and favour, poor wretch that i am, knocking at your door. do not deny me the easy little things that i ask you for your sons; so that, having made peace, you may raise the standard of the most holy cross. for you see well that the infidels have come to summon you. i hope by the sweet goodness of god that he will fill you with his burning charity, so that you shall know the loss of souls, and how much you are bound to love them: and so you shall increase in eager zeal to set them free from the hands of the devil, and shall seek to heal the mystical body of holy church, and the body of the universal christian religion; and especially to reconcile your sons, winning them with benignity, with as much use of the rod of justice as they are fit to bear, and no more. i am certain that unless we have the virtue of charity, this will not be done; and therefore i said that i wished to see you established in true and perfect charity. not that i do not believe that you are in charity, but because we can grow in the perfection of charity since we are always pilgrims and strangers in this life, i said that i wished this perfection in you, that you feed it constantly with the flame of holy desire, and shed it upon your subjects, like a good shepherd. i beg you to do so. and i will stay, and labour till i die, in prayer and in whatever way i can, for the honour of god and for your peace and that of your sons. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. pardon my presumption, most holy father; but love and grief are my excuse before your holiness. i ask you humbly for your benediction. sweet jesus, jesus love. to her spiritual children in siena catherine turned without difficulty from public cares to the needs and problems of the little group of disciples in the restricted life of siena. to her eyes, there was no great nor small; the one drama was as important as the other, since both were god's appointed schools of character. she was, as we have already seen, wise in the lore of christian friendship. how thoroughly she understood the tendencies likely to appear in a limited group of good people, bound closely together in faith and life, these letters, among others, bear witness. not only in religious communities, but wherever such a group exists, similar conditions arise. the life of the affections becomes of leading importance; too often it is unregulated, and runs to morbid extremes; on the other hand, the peculiarly provincial temptation to carping mutual scrutiny as well as to overwrought sensitiveness, is sure to be at play. all her life long catherine combated these dangers, in the strength at once of a large mind and of a gentle heart. the first of these letters puts in beautiful form the ideal of a truly consecrated affection. the second repeats her familiar warning against a critical temper, and her favourite plea for that generous tolerance which puts the highest possible construction on one's neighbour's conduct. tolerance, one surmises, was to her peculiarly swift and lofty spirit one of the most difficult among the virtues. yet, or rather therefore, no one has ever presented more emphatically the relief afforded by the great permission and command, "judge not." to brother william and to messer matteo of the misericordia and to brother santi and to her other sons in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest sons in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with desire to see you bound in the bands of charity, for i consider that without this bond we cannot please god. this is the sweet sign by which the servants and sons of christ are recognized. but think, my sons, that this bond must be clean, and not spotted by self-love. if thou lovest thy creator, love and serve him in so far as he is highest and eternal good, worthy of being loved, and not for thine own profit, for that would be a mercenary love, like a miser who loves money because of his avarice. so let your love for your neighbour be clean. love, love one another; you are neighbours one of the other. but be on your guard, for if your love were founded in your own profit or in the private affection which you might have for one another, it would not endure, but would fail, and your soul would find itself empty. the love which is founded in god must be of such a sort that it has to love with regard to virtue, and inasmuch as the friend is a creature made in the image of god. for while delight in him whom i love, or profit from him may grow less, if one abides in god love does not fail, because one loves with regard to virtue and the honour of god, and not to one's own personality. i say that if one abides in god, even if virtue should fail in him who loves, yet love does not turn away. the love of the virtue which is not there fails to be sure; but it does not fail in so far as a man is a creature of god, his member, bound in the mystical body of the holy church. nay, there grows within one a love made up of great and true compassion, and with desire he brings his friend to the birth, with tears and sighs and continual prayers in the sweet presence of god. now this is the affection which christ left to his disciples, which never lessens or grows languid, and is not impatient for any injury it receives; there is no spirit of criticism in it nor displeasure, because it loves the friend, not for himself, but for god. it does not judge nor want to judge the will of men, but the will of its creator, which seeks and wills naught but our sanctification. and it joys in what god permits, of whatsoever kind it be, since it seeks naught but the honour of its creator and the salvation of its neighbour. truly may we say that such men are bound in the bond of charity with the band which held god-and-man fast and nailed on the wood of the most holy and sweet cross. but think, sons mine, that you would never reach this perfect union did you not hold as your object christ crucified, and follow his footsteps. for in him you will find this love, who has loved you by grace and not by duty. and because he loves by grace, he has never grown languid in his love, neither for our ingratitude nor ignorance nor pride nor vanity, but ever persevering, even to the shameful death of the cross, freeing us from death and giving us life. now so do you, my sons, learn--learn from him. love, love one another, with pure and holy love, in christ sweet jesus. i say no more, because i hope to see you again soon, when it shall please the divine goodness. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to sano di maco and all her other sons in siena in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest sons in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you strong and persevering till the end of your life. for i consider that without perseverance no one can please god, or receive the crown of reward. he who perseveres is always strong, and fortitude makes him persevere. we have absolute need of the gift of fortitude, for we are besieged by many foes. the world, with its delights and deceits; the devil, with many vexing temptations, who lights upon the lips of men, making them say insulting and critical things, and who often makes us lose our worldly goods--and this he does solely to recall us from devoted charity to our neighbour; the flesh, astir in our own senses, seeking to war against the spirit. yes, truly, all these foes of ours have besieged us; yet we need feel no servile fear, because they are discomfited through the blood of the spotless lamb. we ought bravely to reply to the world and resist it, disparaging its delights and honours, judging it to have in itself no abiding stability whatever. it shows us long life, with youth a-blossom and great riches; and they are all seen to be vanity, since from life we come to death, from youth to age, from wealth to poverty; and thus we are always running toward the goal of death. therefore we need to open the eye of the mind, to see how miserable he is who trusts in the world. in this wise one will come to despise and hate what first he loved. to the wiles of the devil we can reply manfully, seeing his weakness; for he can conquer no one who does not wish to be conquered. one can reply to him then with lively faith and hope, and with holy hatred of one's self. for in such hate one will become patient toward every tempting vexation and tribulation of the world, and will bear these things with true patience, from what side soever they come, if one shall hate one's own fleshliness and love to abide on the cross with christ crucified. from living faith one will derive a will in accord with that of god, and will quench in heart and mind the human instinct of judging. the will of god alone shall judge, which seeks and wills naught but our sanctification. in this wise one is not shocked at his neighbour and does not criticize him. nor does he pass judgment on a man who talks against him: he condemns himself alone, seeing that it is the will of god which permits such men to vex him for his good. ah, how blessed is the soul which clothes itself in a judgment so gentle! he does not condemn the servants of this world who do him injury; nor does he condemn the servants of god, wishing to drive them in his own way, as many presumptuous, proud men do, who under cloak of the honour of god and the salvation of souls, are shocked by the servants of god, and assume a critical attitude under cover of this cloak, saying: "such words do not please me." and so a man becomes disturbed in himself, and also makes others disturbed with his tongue, claiming that he speaks through the force of love--and so he thinks he does. but if he will open his eyes, he will find the serpent of presumption under a false aspect, which plays the judge, judging in its own fashion, and not according to the mysteries and the holy and diverse ways in which god works with his creatures. let human pride be ashamed, and consent to see that in the house of the eternal father are many mansions. let it not seek to impose a rule upon the holy spirit: for he is the rule itself, giver of the rule: nor let it measure him who cannot be measured. the true servant of god, arrayed in his highest eternal will, will not do thus; nay, he will hold in reverence the ways and deeds and habits of god's servants, since he judges them fixed not by man, but by god. for, just because things are not pleasing to us and do not go according to our habits, we ought to be predisposed to believe that they are pleasing to god. we ought not to judge anything at all, nor can we, except what is manifest and open sin. and even this the soul enamoured of god and lost to itself does not assume to judge, except in displeasure for the sin and wrong done to god; and with great compassion for the soul of him who sins, eagerly willing to give itself to any torture for the salvation of that soul. now i summon you to this perfection, dearest sons; do you study with true and holy zeal to acquire it. and reflect that every stage in perfection which you reach will advance you in this holy and true judgment, free from offence or pain. so, on the contrary, false judgment betrays you into every sort of pain, and fault-finding and ruinous faithlessness toward the servants of god. all this proceeds from the personal passion and rooted pride which impels us to judge the will of our fellow-man. so such a man is always looking back, and does not persevere in gracious love of his neighbour, and never has strong and persevering love. nay, his is like the imperfect love felt by the disciples of christ before the passion; for they loved him, rejoicing much in his presence; but because their love was not founded in truth, but pleasure and self-indulgence were in it, it failed when his presence was taken away; and they did not know how to bear pain with christ, but fled in fear. beware, beware, lest this happen to you. you rejoice much in the presence of a friend, and in absence you make a fire of straw; for when the presence is taken away, every little wind and rain quenches it, and nothing remains except the black smoke of a dark conscience. all this happens because we have made ourselves judges of the will of our fellows, and the habits and ways of the servants of god, not according to his sweet will. now no more thus, for love of christ crucified! but be faithful sons, strong and persevering in christ sweet jesus. thus shall you discomfit the temptation of the devil, and the words which he says, lighting on the lips of men. our last enemy--that is, our miserable flesh with its sense-appetites--is overcome by the flesh of christ, scourged and nailed on the wood of the most holy cross, by mastering it with fast and vigil and continuous prayer, with burning sweet and loving desire. thus sweetly shall we conquer and discomfit our foes by the power of the blood of christ. thus shall you fulfil his will and my desire, which grieves when it beholds your imperfection. i hope by his infinite goodness that he will console my desire in you. therefore i beg that you be not negligent, but zealous; do not shift about in the wind like a leaf, but be firm, stable, and constant; loving one another with true brotherly charity, bearing one another's faults. by this i shall perceive whether you love god and me, who desire naught but to see you in true unity. drown you in the blood of christ crucified and hide you in his sweetest wounds. i say no more. let the convent of santa maria degli angeli be commended to you. and never mind because i am not there, for good sons do more when the mother is not present than when she is, because they want to show the love they have for her, and to enter more fully into her favour. i beg you, sano, to read this letter to all the children. and do you all pray god for us, that he grant us to complete what is begun to his honour and the salvation of souls; for we wish no other desire nor work, in despite of any who may wish to hinder it. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. may god fill you with his sweetest favour. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother raimondo of capua of the order of the preachers with all her longing to suffer for her faith, catherine was only once, so far as we know, exposed to physical violence. this was on the occasion of which she is here speaking. she is still in florence, faithful under the new pope as under the old to her efforts to bring about the passionately desired peace. in a tumult in the disordered city, it came to pass that her life was threatened, and she took refuge with her "famiglia," in a garden without the walls. hither her enemies pursued her, but as they drew near, fell back of a sudden, awestruck, as she herself here tells us, by her words and bearing. the danger was averted, and catherine had met one of the disappointments of her life. [footnote: as she herself expresses it, "the eternal bridegroom played a great joke on me."] there is an almost childlike simplicity in her account of the inner side of the experience. nothing could be more genuine than her grief that the crown of martyrdom was not granted her--few things more lovely than her confiding account of the fine joys which the mere hope of martyrdom, brief and frustrated though it were, awakened in her spirit. nor can she know even so supremely isolated an experience without insisting that it be shared by those she loves, and returning thanks for the great mercy which her "dear sons and daughters" have received. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a faithful servant and bridegroom of truth, and of sweet mary, that we may never look back for any reason in the world, nor for any tribulations which god might send you: but with firm hope, with the light of most holy faith, pass through this stormy sea in all truthfulness; and let us rejoice in endurance, not seeking our own glory, but the glory of god and the salvation of souls, as the glorious martyrs did, who for the sake of truth made them ready for death and for all torments, so that with their blood, shed for love of the blood, they built the walls of holy church. ah, sweet blood, that dost raise the dead! thou givest life, thou dost dissolve the shadows that darken the minds of reasonable creatures, and dost give us light! sweet blood, thou dost unite those who strive, thou dost clothe the naked, thou dost feed the hungry and give to drink to those who thirst for thee, and with the milk of thy sweetness thou dost nourish the little ones who have made themselves small by true humility, and innocent by true purity. oh, holy blood, who shall receive thee amiss? the lovers of themselves, because they do not perceive thy fragrance. so, dearest and sweetest father, let us divest us and clothe us in truth, so we shall be faithful lovers. i tell you that today i will to begin again, in order that my sins may not hold me back from such a good as it is to give one's life for christ crucified. for i see that in the past, through my faults, this has been denied me. i had desired very much, with a new intensity, increased in me beyond all custom, to endure without fault for the honour of god and the salvation of souls and the reformation and good of holy church, so that my heart was melting from the love and desire i had to lay down my life. this desire was blessed and grievous; blessed it was for the union that i felt with truth, and grievous it was for the oppression which i felt from the wrong against god, and the multitude of demons who overshadowed all the city, dimming the eye of the mind in human beings. almost it seemed that god was letting them have their way, through justice and divine discipline. therefore my life could not but dissolve in weeping, fearful for the great evil which seemed on the point of coming, and because peace was hindered for this reason. but in this great evil, god, who despises not the desire of his servants, and that sweet mother mary, whose name was invoked with pained and dolorous and loving desires, granted that in all the tumult and the great upheaval that occurred, we may almost say that there were no human deaths, except those which justice inflicted. so the desire i had that god would show his providence and destroy the power of the demons that they might not do so much harm as they were ready to do, was fulfilled; but my desire to give my life for the truth and the sweet bride of christ was not fulfilled. but the eternal bridegroom played a great joke on me, as christopher will tell you more fully by word of mouth. so i have reason to weep, because the multitude of my iniquities was so great that i did not deserve that my blood should give life, or illumine darkened minds, or reconcile the sons with the father, or cement a stone in the mystical body of holy church. nay, it seemed that the hands of him who wanted to kill me were bound. my words, "i am she. take me, and let this family be," were a sword that pierced straight through his heart. o babbo mine, feel a wonderful joy in yourself, for i never experienced in myself such mysteries, with so great joy! there was the sweetness of truth in it, the gladness of a clean and pure conscience; there was the fragrance of the sweet providence of god; there was the savour of the times of new martyrs, foretold as you know by the eternal truth. tongue would not suffice to tell how great the good is that my soul feels. i seem to be so bound to my creator that if i gave my body to be burned i could not satisfy the great mercy which i and my cherished sons and daughters have received. all this i tell you that you may not conceive bitterness; but may feel an unspeakable delight, with softest gladness; and that you and i may begin to sorrow over my imperfection, because so great a good was hindered by my sin. how blessed my soul would have been had i given my blood for the sweet bride, and for love of the blood and the salvation of souls! now let us rejoice and be faithful lovers. i will not say more on this subject; i let christopher tell this and other things. only i want to say this: do you pray christ on earth not to delay the peace because of what has happened, but make it all the more promptly, so that then the other great deeds may be wrought which he has to do for the honour of god and the reformation of holy church. for the condition of things has not been changed by this--nay, for the present the city is pacified suitably enough. pray him to act swiftly; and i ask him this in mercy, for infinite wrongs against god which happen through the situation will thus be put an end to. tell him to have pity and compassion on these souls which are in great darkness: and tell him to release me from prison swiftly; for unless peace is made it does not seem as if i could get out; and i would wish then to come where you are, to taste the blood of the martyrs, and to visit his holiness, and to find myself with you once more, telling of the admirable mysteries which god has wrought at this time; with gladness of mind, and joyousness of heart, and increase of hope, in the light of most holy faith. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to urban vi by this time catherine has evidently more than an inkling of the character of the man she is addressing. gregory had been, if anything, only too susceptible to influences from varying quarters: urban's arbitrary and headstrong nature resented any interference. he was making extraordinary blunders in tact and policy; but woe to the audacious person who sought to point them out! catherine's letters to this new pope, if less familiarly affectionate than those to the old, show the same amazing combination of candour and reverence. true to her constant principles in the interpretation of character, she insists on putting the best possible construction on his actions, ascribing his impatient vehemence and bad temper to a noble and partially impersonal cause. one suspects that urban had lost his temper with poor fra bartolomeo because the friar had used too great freedom of speech rather than too little, as catherine suggests. despite her generosity, however, she can rebuke pungently enough, as this letter shows. on another occasion, we find her sending to urban a tangible allegory in the form of bitter oranges, candied within and gilded without, doubtless by her own hands, with a pretty letter to point the moral. and again she wrote: "mitigate a little, for the love of christ crucified, those sudden impulses which nature forces on you. in holy virtue, throw nature aside. as god has given you a great heart naturally, so i beg and want you to make it great supernaturally: with zealous desire for virtue and the reform of holy church, do you establish the manly heart you have gained in true humility. in this way you will have both natural and supernatural gifts--for the one without the other would avail little, but would rather inspire us with wrath and pride: and when it came to correcting our intimates it would slacken its pace and become cowardly." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: most holy and sweet father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you a true and royal ruler of your flock, whom you have to nourish with the blood of christ crucified. your holiness has to see to it with great diligence to whom you administer that blood, and by what means it is given; that is, i say, most holy father, that when shepherds are to be appointed in the garden of holy church, let them be people who seek god, and not benefices: and let the means of asking for the post be such as act openly in the truth and not in falsehood. most holy father, have patience when you are talked to about these things. for they are only said to you for the honour of god and for your salvation, as a son ought to speak who loves his father tenderly, and cannot bear that anything should be done which should turn to the loss or shame of his father; but watches constantly, with intent earnestness, because he sees well that his father, who has to rule a large family, can see no more than one man sees. so if his lawful sons were not earnest in caring for his honour and welfare, he would be deceived many a time and oft. so it stands, most holy father. you are father and lord of the universal body of the christian religion; we are all under the wings of your holiness: as to authority, you can do everything, but as to seeing, you can do no more than one man; so your sons must of necessity watch and care with clean hearts and without any servile fear over what may be for the honour of god and the safety and honour of you and the flocks that are beneath your crook. and i know that your holiness is very desirous of having people to help you; but you must be patient in listening to them. i am certain that two things must give you pain and make your mind angry, and i am not in the least surprised. the one is that when you hear that sins are committed, it hurts you that god should be wronged, for the wrong and the faults displease you, and you experience a piercing of your heart. in this case we ought not to be patient, or to refrain from grieving over the wrongs that are shown to god. no; for so it would seem as if we conformed us to these same vices. the other thing that might hurt you is when the son who comes to tell you what he feels to be turning into wrong against god and loss to souls and little honour to your holiness, commits such ignorance that he conscientiously obliges himself, in the presence of your holiness, not to tell you clearly the absolute truth as it is; for nothing should be secret nor hidden from you. i beg you, holy father, that when your ignorant son offends in this point, your pain should be without any excitement on your part: correct him in his ignorance. i say this, because according to what master giovanni told me of brother bartolomeo, he annoyed you and made you angry by his faults and his scrupulous conscience; for which he and i have been extremely sorry, since he thought that he had offended your holiness. i beg you, by the love of christ crucified, to punish in me every pain that he may have given you; i am ready for any discipline and correction which shall please your holiness. i believe that my sins were the reason why he showed himself so ignorant, therefore i ought to bear the penalty; and he is very desirous to come penitently to you wherever it might please your holiness. have patience to bear his faults and mine. bathe you in the blood of christ crucified; comfort you in the sweet flame of his charity. pardon my ignorance. i ask you humbly for your benediction. i thank the divine goodness and your holiness for the favour that you granted me on the day of st. john. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to don giovanni of the cells of vallombrosa catherine has missed her chance at martyrdom. schism is threatening, and she knows it: "i seem to have heard that discord is arising yonder between christ on earth and his disciples: from which thing i receive an intolerable grief.... for everything else, like war, dishonour, and other tribulations, would seem less than a straw or a shadow in comparison with this. think! for i tremble only to think of it ... i tell you, it seemed as if my heart and life would leave their body through grief." so she writes, out of trance, to the cardinal pietro di luna--himself destined to become later the antipope benedict xiii. the present sorrowful letter is to a hermit who had sinned violently in youth, and repented passionately through many years of strictest discipline. catherine pours out her heart to him. the words in which shelley's fury drives home to the agonizing prometheus the apparent tragedy of existence were fulfilled before her eyes: "hypocrisy and custom make their minds the fanes of many a worship now outworn: * * * * the good want power but to weep barren tears, the powerful goodness want--worse need for them: the wise want love; and those who love want wisdom; and all best things are thus confused to ill." with unflinching clear-sightedness she presents the situation, turning in vain to every quarter whence help might come. to the whole body of the priesthood; to the timid monastic orders; to pious laymen honestly devout, yet touched by no flame of sacrificial passion such as she felt might bring salvation. it is never the sins of the world that most torture catherine: always, as here, the sins of the church. she does not pause till she comes to the terrible climax: "i see the christian religion lying like a dead man, and i neither mourn nor weep over him." it is the very light of most holy faith that has confused the vision of men. and again we hear the familiar refrain, "i believe that my iniquities are the cause of it." in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you an hungered for souls, on the table of the most holy cross, in company with the humble and immaculate lamb. i do not see, father, that this sweet food can be eaten anywhere else. why not? because we cannot eat it truly without enduring much; it must be eaten with the teeth of true patience and the lips of holy desire, on the cross of many tribulations, from whatsoever side they may come--complaints, or the scandals in the world; and we must endure all things till death. now is the time, dearest father, to show whether we are lovers of christ crucified and rejoice in this food or not. it is time to give honour to god and our toils to our neighbour: toils, i say, of the body, with much endurance, and toils of the mind, with grief and bitterness offering tears and sweats, humble and continual prayer, and suffering desire, before god. for i do not see that in any other way the wrath of god may be pacified toward us, and his mercy inclined, and through his mercy the many sheep recovered who are perishing in the hands of devils, unless in the way i said, through great grief and compassion of heart, and the very greatest devotion in prayer. therefore i invite you, dearest father, on behalf of christ crucified, to begin anew with me to lose ourselves, and to seek only the honour of god in the salvation of souls, without any slavish fear: never to slacken our steps either on account of our sufferings, or in order to please our fellow-creatures, or because we might have to bear death, or for any other reason; but let us run, as inebriate with love and grief over the persecution that is wrought upon the blood of christ crucified. for on whatever side we turn we see it persecuted. if i turn me toward ourselves, rotten members that we are, we are persecuting it with our many faults, and such stench of mortal sins and empoisoned self-love as poisons the whole world. and if i turn me to the ministers of the blood of the sweet and humble lamb, my tongue cannot even narrate their faults and sins. if i turn me to the ministers who are under the yoke of obedience, i see them so imperfect--the accursed root of self-love not being yet dead in them-that not one has come to the point of wishing to give his life for christ crucified; but they have encouraged fear of death and pain rather than holy fear of god and reverence for the blood. and if i turn me to the secular people who have already released their affections from the world, they have not exercised virtue enough to leave the place where they were, or suffer death rather than to do that which ought not to be done. they have behaved so through imperfection, or else they are doing so through prudence. if i had to teach them prudence, i should advise them that if they wanted to reach perfection they should rather choose death, and if they felt themselves weak, they should flee the place and cause of sin, just as far as we can. this same counsel, if any chance came in your way, i should think that you and every servant of god ought to give. for you know that it is never lawful for us to commit a little sin in any way, surely not for fear of suffering or death, since not even for accomplishing some great good. so, then, on whatever side we turn us, we find nothing but faults. for i do not doubt that if one single person had had perfection enough to give his life, during the events which have happened and are happening every day, the blood would have called for mercy, and bound the hands of divine justice, and broken those pharaohhearts which are hard as diamond stone; and i see no way in which they can break other than through blood. ah me, ah me, misfortunate my soul! i see the christian religion lying a dead man, and i neither weep nor mourn over him. i see darkness invading the light, for by the very light of most holy faith, received in the blood of christ, i see men's sight become confused and the pupil of their eye dried up; so that we see them fall as blind men into the ditch, into the mouth of the wolf of hell, stripped of virtue and dead by cold; being stripped of the love of god and their neighbour, and released from the bond of love, and lost to all reverence for god and for the blood. ah me! i believe that my iniquities have been the cause of it. so i beg you, dearest father, to pray god for me, that he take from me so great iniquities, and that i be not the cause of so great ill: or may he give me death. and i beg you to lift these sons of ours as dead up to the table of the most holy cross, and there do you eat this food, bathed in the blood of christ crucified. i tell you that if you and the other servants of god, and all of us, do not persuade ourselves with many prayers, and others, to correct themselves of evils so great, divine judgment will come, and divine justice will draw forth its rod. indeed, if we open our eyes, one of the greatest judgments that we can know in this life is already befallen--that is, that we are deprived of light, and do not see the loss and ill of soul and body. he who does not see cannot correct himself, because he does not hate evil or love true good. so, not correcting himself, he falls from bad to worse. so it seems to me that we are doing, and we are at a worse point now than the first day. it is essential, then, that we should never stop, if we are true servants of god, in our much endurance and true patience, and in giving our toils to our neighbour, and honour to god, with many prayers and grieving desire; let sighs be food to us and tears our drink, upon the table of the cross; for another way i do not see. therefore i said to you that i desired to see you an hungered for souls upon the table of the most holy cross. i beg that your and my dearest sons be commended to you--those yonder, and those here. nourish them and make them grow in great perfection, so far as your power goes. and let us strive to run, dead to all self-will, spiritual and temporal; that is, not seeking our own spiritual consolations, but only the food of souls, rejoicing in the cross with christ crucified and giving our life, if need be, for the glory and praise of his name. i for my part die and cannot die, hearing and seeing the insults to my lord and creator; therefore i ask an alms from you, that you pray god for me, you and the others. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters announcing peace amid the horrors which darkened europe during her last years, one episode of pure joy was vouchsafed to catherine. the decisiveness of urban brought to an end the vacillating negotiations of the papal see with the florentines, and peace was proclaimed at last. the first of these notes announces the first step toward a satisfactory end--the observance of the interdict, placed by gregory upon the city, and contumaciously broken by the rebels. in the second, the news of the establishment of peace has just been brought. catherine's first impulse is to bid the friends at home rejoice with her in news great in itself, and greater because it may clear the way for the realization of wider hopes. it is noteworthy that the instant the end for which she has long been straining is achieved, her loyal and aspiring spirit reverts to her old dreams, and summons her companions to resume prayer for a crusade. the arrival of the olive of peace, of which catherine sends a portion to her friends, is the fit close to the long drama which had opened when christ placed the cross on her shoulder and the olive in her hand, and sent her to bear his command of reconciliation "to one and to the other people." to monna alessa when the saint was at florence in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee and the others brides and faithful servants of christ crucified, that you may constantly renew your wailing for the honour of god, the salvation of souls, and the reform of holy church. now is the time for you to shut yourselves within self-knowledge, with continual vigil and prayer that the sun may soon rise; for the aurora has begun to dawn. the aurora has come in that the dusk of great mortal sins which were committed in the office being said and heard publicly, is now scattered, despite whoso would have hindered: and the interdict is observed. thanks, thanks be to our sweet saviour, who despises not humble prayer, nor the tears and burning desires of his servants! since, then, he despises them not, nay, but accepts them, i summon you to pray and to have prayer offered to the divine goodness that he send us peace swiftly; that god may be glorified and so great an evil ended, and that we may find ourselves united, to tell the wonderful things of god. up! and sleep no more! awaken, all of you, from the sleep of negligence! have special prayers offered at such and such monasteries, and tell our prioress to have all those daughters of hers offer special prayers for peace, that god may show mercy on us, and that i may not return without it. and for me, her poor daughter, that god will give me grace ever to love and to proclaim the truth, and that for that truth i may die. i say no more. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to sano di maco and to the other sons in christ while she was in florence in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest sons in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you true sons, really serving our sweet saviour, that you may give more zealously thanks and praise to his name. oh, dearest sons, god has heard the cry of his servants, who for so long have cried aloud before his face, and the lamentable cry which they have raised so long over the sons who were dead. now are they risen again--from death they have come to life, and from blindness to light. dearest sons, the lame walk, and the deaf hear, the blind eye sees and the dumb speak, crying aloud with a loud voice: "peace, peace, peace!" with great gladness--seeing themselves return as sons into the obedience and favour of their father, their minds being reconciled. as people who now begin to see, they say: "thanks be to thee, lord, who hast reconciled us with our holy father." now the lamb of god, sweet christ on earth, is called holy, while before he was called a heretic and a patarin. now they receive him for a father, where before they refused him. i do not wonder, for the cloud is passed, and fair weather has come. rejoice, rejoice, dearest sons, with very sweet weeping for thanksgiving, before the highest eternal father, not calling yourselves content with this, but praying him that soon may be raised the gonfalon of the most holy cross. rejoice, exult, in christ sweet jesus; let our hearts break, seeing the largess of the infinite goodness of god. now peace is made, despite him who would hinder it. discomfited is the devil of hell. saturday evening one olive came at one o'clock at night; and to-day at vespers came the other. and saturday evening that friend of ours was caught with a companion, so that at one time heresy was thoroughly put an end to and peace came; now he is in prison. pray god for him, that he give him true light and knowledge. drown you and bathe you in the blood of christ crucified. love, love one another. i send you some of the olive of peace. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to three italian cardinals catherine had ardently wished to see in the seat of peter a reformer, who should have courage to apply surgery to the festering wounds of the church. she had her desire; urban began at once a drastic policy of church reform. but his domineering asperity proved unbearable to the college of cardinals, and schism broke upon a horrified world. this was the situation:--after the death of gregory, the cardinals, of whom a large majority were french, when assembled in conclave in what was to them the barbarous city of rome, had been terrified by the shouts of the populace demanding a roman, or at least an italian, for pope. resorting to stratagem, they reported as their choice the old roman cardinal of san pietro, who repudiated the false rumour with distress. meantime, agreeing on compromise and finding a "dark horse," the sacred college elected with all due solemnity the archbishop of bari, and by the usual formalities notified the christian world of the election. they soon, as has been said, rebelled against the man of their choice, and, announcing that the election had been invalid because occasioned by fear, proceeded to appoint an antipope--robert of geneva, a man of personal charm but of evil life, known in history as clement vii. the impudence of the reasons alleged by the cardinals for their action is well pointed out by catherine. but europe became divided in its allegiance, and war of words was soon followed by war of swords. catherine rose to the occasion. the rest of her tempestuous life was spent in the desperate defence of the cause of urban--a man whom she rightly believed to be the lawful successor of peter, yet concerning whose unlovely character she was, as we have already seen, under no illusions. the many letters which she wrote with the aim of convincing important personages of the validity of urban's claims, are historical documents of high value. one feels in them all the amazement with which a woman whose native air was the mystical conception of an infallible church, faced the realities of the ecclesiastical machine. but loyalty stood the test, and while never leaving the highest ground, catherine proved herself capable of a statesmanlike treatment of the actual situation. the present letter is addressed to the three italian members of the sacred college, who, after holding at first by their countryman, were induced by the frenchmen to betray him: it is a tissue of telling and convincing representations, interwoven with indignant rebuke and eloquent pleadings. this was not the first time that a great italian patriot had remonstrated with the churchmen of italy. catherine's letter invites inevitable comparison with that noble letter to italian cardinals written by dante on the occasion of the impending papal election that followed the death of clement v. dante, like catherine, appealed to the cardinals on behalf of rome and italy: his plea, that they put an end to the babylonian captivity in avignon and return to the seat of peter. that letter marked an early stage in the disgraceful abandonment of the holy city; this of catherine treats of the outcome of that great wrong. "yet the wound will be healed," wrote dante; "(though it cannot be otherwise than that the scar and brand of infamy will have burned with fire upon the apostolic see and will disfigure her for whom heaven and earth had been reserved)--if ye who were the authors of this transgression will all with one accord fight manfully for the bride of christ, for the throne of the bride which is rome, for our italy, and that i may speak more fully, for the whole commonwealth of pilgrims upon this earth...." over sixty years had passed since dante wrote thus; they had been years of sin and shame. the words of catherine, as she confronts a situation yet darker than he had faced, breathe a less assured courage. but her patriotism and her christianity are of like temper with his own. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest brothers and fathers in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you turn back to the true and most perfect light, leaving the deep shadows of blindness into which you are fallen. then you shall be fathers to me; otherwise not. yes, indeed, i call you fathers in so far as you shall leave death and turn back to life (for, as things go now, you are parted from the life of grace, limbs cut off from your head from which you drew life), when you shall stand united in faith, and in that perfect obedience to pope urban vi., in which those abide who have the light, and in light know the truth, and knowing it love it. for the thing that is not seen cannot be known, and he who knows not loves not, and he who loves not and fears not his creator loves himself with fleshly love, and whatever he loves, joys or honours and dignities of the world, he loves according to the flesh. since man is created through love, he cannot live without love; either he loves god, or he loves himself and the world with the love that kills, fastening the eye of his mind darkened by self-love on those transitory things that pass like the wind. in this state he can recognize no truth nor goodness; he recognizes naught but falsehood, because he has not light. for truly had he the light, he would recognize that from such a love as this naught can result but pain and eternal death. it gives him a foretaste of hell in this life; for he who immoderately loves himself and the things of this world, becomes unendurable to himself. oh, human blindness! seest thou not, unfortunate man, that thou thinkest to love things firm and stable, joyous things, good and fair? and they are mutable, the sum of wretchedness, hideous, and without any goodness; not as they are created things in themselves, since all are created by god, who is perfectly good, but through the nature of him who possesses them intemperately. how mutable are the riches and honours of the world in him who possesses them without god, without the fear of him! for to-day is he rich and great, and to-day he is poor. how hideous is our bodily life, that living we shed stench from every part of our body! simply a sack of dung, the food for worms, the food of death! our life and the beauty of youth pass by, like the beauty of the flower when it is gathered from the plant. there is none who can save this beauty, none who can preserve it, that it be not taken, when it shall please the highest judge to gather this flower of life by death; and none knows when. oh, wretched man, the darkness of self-love does not let thee know this truth. for didst thou know it, thou wouldst choose any pain rather than guide thy life in this way; thou wouldst give thee to loving and desiring him who is; thou wouldst enjoy his truth in firmness, and wouldst not move about like a leaf in the wind; thou wouldst serve thy creator, and wouldst love everything in him, and apart from him nothing. oh, how will this blindness be reproved at the last moment in every rational being, and much the more in those whom god has taken from the filth of the world, and assigned to the greatest excellence that can be, having made them ministers of the blood of the humble and spotless lamb! oh me, oh me! what have you come to by not having followed up your dignities with virtue? you were placed to nourish you at the breasts of holy church; you were flowers planted to breathe forth the fragrance of virtue in that garden; you were placed as masts to strengthen this ship, and the vicar of christ on earth; you were placed as lights in a candlestick, to give light to faithful christians, and to spread the faith. well you know if you have done that for which you were created. surely no; for self-love has prevented you from knowing that in truth alone, to fortify men and give a shining example of good and holy life, you were put in this garden. had you known this you would have loved it, and clothed you in that sweet truth. where is the gratitude which you ought to have for the bride who has nourished you at her breast? i see in us naught but such ingratitude as dries up the fountain of pity. what shows me that you are ungrateful, coarse, and mercenary? the persecution which you, together with others, are inflicting on that sweet bride, at a time when you ought to be shields, to ward off the blows of heresy. in spite of which, you clearly know the truth, that pope urban vi. is truly pope, the highest pontiff, chosen in orderly election, not influenced by fear, truly rather by divine inspiration than by your human industry. and so you announced it to us, which was the truth. now you have turned your backs, like poor mean knights; your shadow has made you afraid. you have divided you from the truth which strengthens us, and drawn close to falsehood, which weakens soul and body, depriving you of temporal and spiritual grace. what made you do this? the poison of self-love, which has infected the world. that is what has made you pillars lighter than straw. flowers you who shed no perfume, but stench that makes the whole world reek! no lights you placed in a candlestick, that you might spread the faith; but, having hidden your light under the bushel of pride, and become not extenders, but contaminators of the faith, you shed darkness over yourselves and others. you should have been angels on earth, placed to release us from the devils of hell, and performing the office of angels, by bringing back the sheep into the obedience of holy church, and you have taken the office of devils. that evil which you have in yourselves you wish to infect us with, withdrawing us from obedience to christ on earth, and leading us into obedience to antichrist, a member of the devil, as you are too, so long as you shall abide in this heresy. this is not the kind of blindness that springs from ignorance. it has not happened to you because people have reported one thing to you while another is so. no, for you know what the truth is: it was you who announced it to us, and not we to you. oh, how mad you are! for you told us the truth, and you want yourselves to taste a lie! now you want to corrupt this truth, and make us see the opposite, saying that you chose pope urban from fear, which is not so; but anyone who says it--speaking to you without reverence, because you have deprived yourselves of reverence-lies up to his eyes. for it is evident to anyone who wished to see, who it is that you presented as your choice through fear--that was messer di santo pietro. you might say to me, "why do you not believe us? we know the truth as to whom we chose better than you." and i reply, that you yourselves have shown me that you deserted the truth in many ways, so that i ought not to believe you, that pope urban vi. is not the true pope. if i turn to the beginnings of your life, i do not recognize in you so good and holy a life that you would shrink from a lie for conscience' sake. what shows me that your life is badly governed? the poison of heresy. if i turn to the election ordained by your lips, we knew that you chose him canonically and not through fear. we have already said that he whom you presented to the people through fear was messer di santo pietro. what proves to me the regular election with which you chose messer bartolommeo, archbishop of bari, who to-day is made in truth pope urban vi.? in the solemnity with which his coronation was observed, this truth is clear to us. that the solemnity was carried out in good faith is shown by the reverence which you gave him and the favours asked from him, which you have used in all sorts of ways. you cannot deny this truth except with plain lies. ah, foolish men, worthy of a thousand deaths! as blind, you do not see your own wrong, and have fallen into such confusion that you make of your own selves liars and idolaters. for even were it true (which it is not; nay, i assert again that pope urban vi. is the true pope), but were it true what you say, would you not have lied to us when you told us that he was the highest pontiff, as he is? and would you not falsely have shown him reverence, adoring him for christ on earth? and would you not have practised simony, in trying for favours and using them unlawfully? yes, indeed. now they, and you with them, have made an antipope, as far as your action and outward appearance go, since you consented to remain on the spot, when the incarnate demons chose the demon! you might say to me: "no, we did not choose him." i do not know how i can believe that. for i do not believe that you could have borne to stay there otherwise, had you given your life for it; at least the fact that you suppressed the truth, and did not burst out with it--for this would not have been within your power--makes me inclined to think so. although, perhaps, you did less wrong than the others in your intention, yet you did do wrong with all the rest. what can i say? i can say that he who is not for the truth is against the truth; he who was not at that time for christ on earth, pope urban vi., was against him. therefore i tell you that you did wrong, with the antipope: and i may say that he was chosen a member of the devil; for had he been a member of christ, he would have chosen death rather than consent to so great an evil, for he well knows the truth, and cannot excuse himself through ignorance. now you have committed all these faults in regard to this devil: that is, to confess him as pope, which he surely is not, and to show reverence to whom you should not. you have deserted the light, and gone into darkness: the truth, and joined you to a lie. on what side soever, i find nothing but lies. you are worthy of torture, which, i tell you in truth and unburden my conscience thereof, unless you return to obedience with true humility, will fall upon you. o misery upon misery, and blindness upon blindness, which does not let its wrong be seen nor the loss to soul and body! for had you seen it, you would not have deserted the truth so lightly, in servile fear, passionate all, like proud people and arbitrary, accustomed to pleasant and soft dealings from men! you could not endure, not only an actual correction indeed, but even a harsh word of reproof made you lift up rebellious heads. this is the reason why you changed. and it clearly reveals the truth to us; for, before christ on earth began to sting you, you confessed him and reverenced him as the vicar of christ that he is. but this last fruit that you bear, which brings forth death, shows what kind of trees you are; and that your tree is planted in the earth of pride, which springs from the self-love that robs you of the light of reason. oh me, no more thus for the love of god! take refuge in humbling you beneath the mighty hand of god, in obedience to his vicar, while you have time; for when the time is passed there will be no more help for us. recognize your faults, that you may be humble, and know the infinite goodness of god, who has not commanded the earth to swallow you up, nor beasts to devour you; nay, but has given you time, that you may correct your soul. but if you shall not recognize this, what he has given you as a grace shall turn to your great judgment. but if you will return to the fold, and feed in truth at the breast of the bride of christ, you shall be received in mercy, by christ in heaven and by christ on earth, despite the iniquity you have wrought. i beg that you delay no more, nor kick against the prick of conscience that i know is perpetually stabbing you. and let not confusion of mind, over the evil that you have wrought, so overcome you, that you abandon your salvation in weariness and despair, as seeming unable to find help. not so must you do; but in living faith, hold firm hope in your creator, and return humbly to your yoke; for the last sin of obstinacy and despair would be the worst, and most hateful to god and the world. arise, then, into the light! for without light you would walk in darkness, as you have done up to now. my soul considering this, that we can neither know nor love the truth without light, i said and say that i desire intensely to see you arisen from darkness, and one with the light. this desire reaches out to all rational beings, but much more to you three, concerning whom i have had the greatest sorrow, and marvel more at your fault than at all the others who have shared it. for did all desert their father, you should have been such sons as strengthened the father, showing the truth. notwithstanding that the father might have treated you with nothing but reproof, you ought not therefore to have assumed the lead, denying his holiness in any way. speaking entirely in the natural sense--for according to virtue we ought all to be equal--speaking humanly, christ on earth being an italian, and you italian, i see no reason but self-love why passion for your country could not move you as it did the ultramontanes. cast it to earth now, and do not wait for time, since time does not wait for you--trampling such selfishness underfoot, with hate of vice and love of virtue. return, return, and wait not for the rod of justice, since we cannot escape the hands of god! we are in his hands either by justice or by mercy; better it is for us to recognize our faults and to abide in the hands of mercy, than to remain in fault and in the hands of justice. for our faults do not pass unpunished, especially those that are wrought against holy church. but i wish to bind myself to bear you before god with tears and continual prayer, and to bear with you your penitence, provided that you choose to return to your father, who like a true father awaits you with the open wings of mercy. oh me, oh me, avoid and flee it not, but humbly receive it, and do not believe evil counsellors who have given you over to death! oh me, sweet brothers! sweet brothers and fathers you shall be to me, in so far as you draw close to truth. make no more resistance to the tears and sweats which the servants of god shed for you, but wash you in them from head to foot. for did you despise them, and the eager sweet and grieving desires which are offered by them for you, you would receive much greater rebuke. fear god, and his true judgment. i hope by his infinite goodness that he will fulfil in you the desire of his servants. let it not seem hard to you if i pierce you with the words which the love of your salvation has made me write: rather would i pierce you with my living voice, did god permit me. his will be done. and yet you deserve rather deeds than words. i come to an end, and say no more; for did i follow my will i should not yet pause, so full is my soul of grief and sorrow to see such blindness in those who were placed for a light: no lambs they, who feed on the food of the honour of god and the salvation of souls, and the reform of holy church; but as thieves they steal the honour which they ought to give to god, and give it to themselves, and as wolves they devour the sheep, so that i have great bitterness. i beg you by love of that precious blood shed with such fiery love for you, that you give refreshment to my soul, which seeks your salvation. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god: bathe you in the blood of the spotless lamb, where you shall lose all servile fear, and enlightened, you shall abide in holy fear. sweet jesus, jesus love. to giovanna queen of naples giovanna of naples was one of the most depraved, as well as one of the most romantic, figures of her time. in fascination, as in evil, she anticipates the type of the women of the renascence. her many crimes had never prevented catherine benincasa from yearning over her with a peculiar tenderness, and we have many letters written by the daughter of the dyer of siena to the great neapolitan queen. some of the earlier among these letters seem, curiously enough, not to have been without effect; for giovanna not only replied to them, but gave her promise to join in a crusade. now that the great schism had broken forth, the adhesion of giovanna to the cause of urban, who was politically her subject, was of prime importance; and catherine wrote her about the matter, not once, but many times. in her varied correspondence at this period, these letters have a peculiar interest, from the passionate personal feeling which pervades them. it is not only for the sake of the truth that catherine pleads and argues, but for the sake of giovanna's salvation; one would think that even the hardened old queen must have been touched with the intense and tender solicitude of the following letter, even if she were not convinced by its irrefutable reasoning. as a matter of fact, giovanna, after having for a time sided with clement, did temporarily change her base and espouse the cause of urban. soon, however, she reverted to her former position. it is probable that for her, as for many european sovereigns, the matter was decided by considerations with which the naif question of the legitimacy of a papal election had little or nothing to do. dearest mother in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you grounded in the truth which we must know and love for our salvation. he who shall be grounded in the knowledge of the truth, christ sweet jesus, shall win and enjoy peace and quiet of soul, in the ardour of that charity which receives the soul into this knowledge. we should know this truth in two chief ways--although it befits us to know it in everything--that is, everything which exists should love itself in god and through god, who is truth itself, and there is nothing without him; otherwise it would escape from truth and would walk in falsehood, following the devil, who is the father thereof. i was saying that we ought to recognize truth especially in two ways. the first is, we should recognise the truth about god. he loves us unspeakably, and loved us before we were; nay, by love he created us--this was and is the truth--in order that we might have life eternal and enjoy his highest eternal good. what shows us that this is truly so? the blood, shed for us with such fire of love. in the sweet blood of the word, the son of god, we shall know the truth of his doctrine, which gives life and light, scattering every shadow of fleshly love and human self-indulgence, but knowing and following with pure heart the doctrine of christ crucified, which is grounded in the truth. the second and last way is, that we ought to recognize the truth about our neighbour, whether he be great or humble, subject or lord. that is, when we see that men are doing some deed in which we might invite our neighbour to join, we ought to perceive whether it is grounded in truth or not, and what foundation he has who is impelled to do this deed. he who does not do this, acts as one mad and blind, who follows a blind guide, grounded in falsehood, and shows that he has no truth in himself, and therefore seeks not the truth. sometimes it happens that people are so insane and brutal that they see themselves lose through such a deed the life of soul and body and their temporal possessions; and they do not care, for they are blinded, and do not know what they ought to know; they walk in darkness, with a feminine nature that lacks any firmness or stability. dearest mother,--in so far as you are a lover of truth and obedient to holy church i call you mother, but in no otherwise, nor do i speak to you with reverence, because i see a great change in your person. you who were a lady have made yourself a servant, and slave of that which is not, having submitted yourself to falsehood, and to the devil, who is its father; abandoning the counsels of the holy spirit and accepting the counsels of incarnate demons. you who were a branch of the true vine, have cut yourself off from it with the knife of self-love. you who were a legitimate daughter, tenderly beloved of her father, the vicar of christ on earth, pope urban vi., who is really the pope the highest pontiff, have divided yourself from the bosom of your mother, holy church, where for so long a time you have been nourished. oh me! oh me! one can mourn over you as over a dead woman, cast off from the life of grace; dead in soul and dead in body, if you do not escape from such an error. it appears that you have not known god's truth in the way i spoke of; for had you known it, you would have chosen death rather than to offend god mortally. nor have you known truth about your neighbour; but in great ignorance, moved by your own passion, you have followed the most miserable and insulting counsel--having acted according to it--that i ever heard of. what greater shame can be incurred than that one who was a christian, held to be a catholic and virtuous woman, should act like a christian who denies her faith, and depart from good and holy customs and the due reverence she has observed? oh me! open the eye of your mind, and sleep no more in so great misery. do not await the moment of death--after which it will not help you to make excuses, nor to say: "i thought to do good." for you know that you do ill, but like a sick and passionate woman, you let yourself be guided by your passions. i am quite sure that the counsel came from someone beside yourself. will, will to know the truth; who those men are, and why they make you see falsehood for truth, saying that pope urban vi. is not true pope, and making you consider that the antipope, who is simply an antichrist, member of the devil, is christ on earth. with what truth can they say that to you? not with any; but they say it with entire falsity, lying over their heads. what can those iniquitous men say?--not men, but incarnate demons --since, on whatever side they turn, they must see that they have done nothing but ill. even were it true--as it is not--that pope urban vi. was not the pope, they would merit a thousand deaths for this alone, as liars discovered in their untruth; for had they chosen him through fear in the beginning, and not honestly with a regular election, and had presented him to us as a true pope, see! they would have shown us a lie for truth, making us, and themselves at the same time, obey and reverence him whom we ought not. for they did do him reverence, and asked favours from him, and profited by them, as if they came from the highest pontiff, as they did. i say, that were it true that he was not the pope--(which is not the case, by the great goodness of god, who has had mercy upon us)--for this reason alone they could not be too severely disciplined; but they deserve a thousand thousand deaths to pretend that they elected the pope through fear, when it was not so. but they cannot speak the truth, being men founded in falsehood, for they cannot so hide it that its darkness and stench cannot be seen and felt. what they pretended is perfectly true: they did elect a pope through fear after they had elected the true pope, messer bartolomeo, archbishop of bari, who to-day is pope urban vi.: that was, messer di santo pietro. but he, like a good man and just, confessed that he was not the pope, but messer bartolomeo, archbishop of bari, who to-day is called pope urban vi., and revered by faithful christians as highest pontiff and most just man, despite wicked men--not christians, for they bear the name of christ neither on their lips nor on their heart--but infidels who have deserted the faith and obedience of holy church and the vicar of christ on earth, branches cut off from the true vine, sowers of schism and of greatest heresy. open, open the eye of your mind, and sleep no more in such blindness. you should not be so ignorant nor so separated from the true light as not to know the wicked life, with no fear of god, of those who have led you into so great heresy: for the fruits which they bear show you what kinds of trees they are. their life shows you that they do not tell the truth; so do the counsellors they have about them, without and within, who may be men of knowledge, but they are not men of virtue, nor men whose life is praiseworthy, but rather to be blamed for many faults. where is the just man whom they have chosen for antipope, if indeed our highest pontiff, pope urban vi., were not the true vicar of christ? what man have they chosen? a man of holy life? no, but an iniquitous man, a demon--and therefore he does the works of demons. the devil exerts himself to withdraw us from the truth, and he does the very same thing. why did they not choose a just man? because they knew well enough that a just man would have chosen death rather than to have accepted the papacy, since he would have seen no colour of truth in them. therefore the demons took the demon, and the liars the lie. all these things show that pope urban vi. is truly pope, and that they are without truth, lovers of the lie. if you said to me, "my mind is not clear as to all these things," why do you not at least stay neutral? although it is as clear as can possibly be said. and if you are not willing to help the pope with your temporal substance until you have more illumination--(help which you are in duty bound to give, because the sons ought to help the father when he is in need)--at least obey him in spiritual things, and in other things remain neutral. but you are behaving like a passionate woman; and hate, and spite, and the fear of losing him of whom you deprived yourself, which you caught from a cursed teller of tales, has robbed us of light and knowledge; for you do not know the truth, obstinately persevering in this evil; and in this obstinacy you do not see the judgment which is coming upon you. oh me! i say these words with heartfelt grief, because i tenderly love your salvation. if you do not change your ways, and correct your life, by abandoning this great error, and in regard to everything else, the highest judge, who does not let sins pass unpunished unless the soul purifies them with contrition of heart and confession and satisfaction, will give you such a punishment that you will become a signal instance to cause anyone to tremble who should ever lift his head against the holy church. wait not for this rod; for it will be hard for you to kick against the divine justice. you are to die, and know not when. not riches, nor position, however great, nor worldly dignity, nor barons, nor people who are your subjects as to the body, shall be able to defend you before the highest judge, nor hinder the divine justice. but sometimes god works through rascally men, in order that they may execute justice on his enemy. you have invited and invite the people and all your subjects to be rather against you than with you; for they have found little truth in your character--not the quality of a man with virile heart, but that of a woman without any firmness or stability, a woman who changes like a leaf in the wind. they have well in mind that when pope urban vi., true pope, was created by a great and true election, and crowned with great solemnity, you held a great and high festival, as the child should do over the exaltation of the father, and the mother over that of the son. for he was both son and father to you; father, through his dignity to which he had come, son because he was your subject--that is to say, of your kingdom. therefore you did well. further, you commanded everyone to obey his holiness as the highest pontiff. now i see that you have turned about, like a woman who has no decision, and you will them to do the contrary. oh, miserable passion! that evil which you have in yourself you wish to impart to them. how do you suppose that they can love you and be faithful to you, when they see that you are responsible for separating them from life and leading them into death, and casting them from truth into falsehood? you separate them from christ in heaven and from christ on earth, and seek to bind them to the devil, and to antichrist--lover and prophet of lies that he is, he and you and the others who follow him. no more thus for the love of christ crucified! you are in every way calling down the divine judgment. i grieve for it. if you do not hinder the ruin that is coming upon you, you cannot escape from the hands of god. either by justice or by mercy, you are in his hands. correct your life, that you may escape the hands of justice, and remain in those of mercy. and do not wait for the time, for an hour comes when you shall wish and cannot. o sheep, return to your fold; let you be governed by the shepherd: else the wolf of hell shall devour you! take back for your guards the servants of god, who love you in truth more than you yourself, and good, mature and discreet counsellors. for the counsel of incarnate demons, with the inordinate fear into which they have thrown you through terror of losing your temporal state--(which passes like the wind with no permanence, for either it leaves us, or we it through death)--has brought you where you are. you shall yet weep, if you change not your ways, saying: "alas, alas! i am one who has robbed herself, on account of the fear into which i was thrown by villainous counsellors!" but there is yet time, dearest mother, to avert the judgment of god. return to the obedience of holy church: know the ill that you have wrought: humble you under the mighty hand of god; and god, who has regard to the humility of his handmaid, shall show mercy upon us: he will placate his wrath over your faults; through the mediation of the blood of christ, you shall be grafted and bound in him with the chain of that charity in which you shall know and love the truth. the truth shall set you free from lie: it shall scatter all shadows, giving you light and knowledge in the mercy of god. in this truth you shall be freed; in other wise, never. and because the truth sets us free, i, having desire for your salvation, said that i desired to see you established in the truth, that it be not wronged by falsehood. i beg you, fulfil in yourself the will of god and the desire of my soul, for with all the depth and all the strength of my soul i desire your salvation. and, therefore, constrained by the divine goodness which loves you unspeakably, i have moved me to write to you with great sorrow. another time, also, i wrote you on this same matter. have patience if i burden you too much with words, and if i speak with you boldly, irreverently. the love which i bear to you makes me speak with boldness: the fault which you have committed makes me depart from due reverence, and speak irreverently. i could wish far rather to tell you the truth by speech than by writing, for your salvation, and chiefly for the honour of god; and i would far rather deal in deeds than in words with him who is to blame for it all, although the blame and the reason is in yourself, since there is no one, neither demon nor creature, who can force you to the least fault unless you choose. therefore i said to you that you are the cause of it. bathe you in the blood of christ crucified. there are scattered the clouds of self-love and servile fear, and the poison of hate and self-scorn. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to sister daniella of orvieto sister daniella has found herself in straits again; constrained, it would seem, by the spirit, to action not endorsed by her religious superiors. possibly she wished, following the example of catherine, to leave her cloister and take part in the public life of her time. catherine herself had been in like straits during much of her early life. well she knew, as st. francis knew before her, the suffering of that inward conflict, when the voice of god summons one way, and the voices of men, reinforced by that instinct of humility and obedience which the middle ages held so dear, insist upon another. she writes to her friend with comprehending sympathy. daniella, as we have already seen, was a woman who understood her and whom she understood. and it must have been a relief to catherine, at this point in her career, for once to encourage ardour instead of rebuking sin or seeking to inspire timidity. our saint is so constantly on the side of obedience, when, as not infrequently happens, some weak brother or sister is restless under the yoke of vows, that we are sure she must know her woman when she writes: "fear and serve god, disregarding yourself; and then do not care what people say unless it is to feel compassion for them." we see at the end of the letter that catherine is on the point of going to rome. in fact, urban had summoned her thither, being evidently alive to the advantages of the support of one so famed for sanctity. in rome the remainder of her life was to be passed. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest daughter in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see thee in true and very perfect light, that thou mayest know the truth in perfection. oh, how necessary this light is to us, dearest daughter! for without it we cannot walk in the way of christ crucified, a shining way that brings us to life; without it we shall walk among shadows and abide in great storm and bitterness. but, if i consider aright, it behoves us to possess two orders of this light. there is a general light, that every rational creature ought to have, for recognizing whom he ought to love and obey--perceiving in the light of his mind by the pupil of most holy faith, that he is bound to love and serve his creator, loving him directly, with all his heart and mind, and obeying the commandments of the law to love god above everything, and our neighbour as ourselves. these are the principles by which all men beside ourselves are held. this is a general light, which we are all bound by; and without it we shall die, and shall follow, deprived of the life of grace, the darkened way of the devil. but there is another light, which is not apart from this, but one with it--nay, by this first, one attains to the second. there are those who, observing the commandments of god, grow into another most perfect light; these rise from imperfection with great and holy desire, and attain unto perfection, observing both commandments and counsels in thought and deed. one should use this light with hungry desire for the honour of god and the salvation of souls, gazing therewith into the light of the sweet and loving word, where the soul tastes the ineffable love which god has to his creatures, shown to us through that word, who ran as enamoured to the shameful death of the cross, for the honour of the father and for our salvation. when the soul has known this truth in the perfect light, it rises above itself, above its natural instincts; with intense, sweet and loving desires, it runs, following the footsteps of christ crucified, bearing pains, bearing shame, ridicule and insult with much persecution, from the world, and often from the servants of god under pretext of virtue. hungrily it seeks the honour of god and the salvation of souls; and so much does it delight in this glorious food, that it despises itself and everything else: this alone it seeks, and abandons itself. in this perfect light lived the glorious virgins and the other saints, who delighted only in receiving this food with their bridegroom, on the table of the cross. now to us, dearest daughter and sweet my sister in christ sweet jesus, he has shown such grace and mercy that he has placed us in the number of those who have advanced from the general light to the particular--that is, he has made us choose the perfect state of the counsels: therefore we ought to follow that sweet and straight way perfectly, in true light, not looking back for any reason whatever; not walking in our own fashion but in the fashion of god, enduring sufferings without fault even unto death, rescuing the soul from the hands of devils. for this is the way and the rule that the eternal truth has given thee; and he wrote it on his body, not with ink, but with his blood, in letters so big that no one is of such low intelligence as to be excused from reading. well thou seest the initials of that book, how great they are; and all show the truth of the eternal father, the ineffable love with which we were created--this is the truth--only that we might share his highest and eternal good. this our master is lifted up on high upon the pulpit of the cross, in order that we may better study it, and should not deceive ourselves, saying: "he teaches this to me on earth, and not on high." not so: for he ascended upon the cross, and uplifted there in pain, he seeks to exalt the honour of the father, and to restore the beauty of souls. then let us read heartfelt love, founded in truth, in this book of life. lose thyself wholly; and the more thou shalt lose the more thou shalt find; and god will not despise thy desire. nay, he will direct thee, and show thee what thou shouldst do; and will enlighten him to whom thou mightest be subject, if thou dost according to his counsel. for the soul that prays ought to have a holy jealousy, and let it always rejoice to do whatever it does with the help of prayer and counsel. thou didst write me, and as i understood from thy letter it seems that thou art troubled in heart. and this is not a slight feeling; nay, it is mighty, stronger than any other, when on the one side thou dost feel thyself called by god in new ways, and his servants put themselves on the contrary side, saying that this is not well. i have a very great compassion for thee; for i know not what burden is like that, from the jealousy the soul has for itself; for it cannot offer resistance to god, and it would also fulfil the will of his servants, trusting more in their light and knowledge than in its own; and yet it does not seem able to. now i reply to thee simply according to my low and poor sight. do not make up thy mind obstinately, but as thou feelest thyself called without thine own doing, so respond. so, if thou dost see souls in danger, and thou canst help them, do not close thine eyes, but exert thyself with perfect zeal to help them, even to death. and never mind about thy past resolutions to silence or anything else--lest it be said to thee later: "cursed be thou, that thou wast silent." our every principle and foundation is in the love of god and our neighbour alone; all our other activities are instruments and buildings placed on this foundation. therefore thou shouldst not, for pleasure in the instrument or the building, desert the principal foundation in the honour of god and the love of our neighbour. work, then, my daughter, in that field where thou seest that god calls thee to work; and do not get distressed or anxious in mind over what i have said to thee, but endure manfully. fear and serve god, with no regard to thyself; and then do not care for what people may say, except to have compassion on them. as to the desire thou hast to leave thy house and go to rome, throw it upon the will of thy bridegroom, and if it shall be for his honour and thy salvation, he will send thee means and the way when thou art thinking nothing about it, in a way that thou wouldst never have imagined. let him alone, and lose thyself; and beware that thou lose thee nowhere but on the cross, and there thou shalt find thyself most perfectly. but this thou couldst not do without the perfect light; and therefore i said to thee that i desired to see thee in the true and most perfect light, beyond the common light we talked of. let us sleep no more! let us wake from the slumber of negligence, groaning with humble continual prayers, over the mystical body of holy church, and over the vicar of christ! cease not to pray for him, that christ may give him light and fortitude to resist the strokes of incarnate demons, lovers of themselves, who seek to contaminate our faith. it is a time for weeping. as to my coming thy way, pray the highest eternal goodness of god to do what may be for his honour and the salvation of the soul, and pray especially, for i am on the point of going to rome, to fulfil the will of christ crucified and of his vicar. i do not know what way i shall take. pray christ sweet jesus to send us by that way which is most to his honour, in peace and quiet of our souls. i say no more to thee. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to stefano maconi "to stefano di corrado maconi, her ignorant and most ungrateful son": "to stefano maconi, her most ungrateful and unworthy son, when she was at rome": so run the superscriptions to these letters. doubtless, they headed copies made by the hand of stefano himself. we have seen in connection with catherine's letters to his mother how constantly after their first meeting this young disciple had been with her. long before this, he had become the best-beloved of the "famiglia," and next to herself its most important member. he did not, however, for some reason, accompany her to rome, and catherine's heart yearned over him during the last weary months. from the first, she had perceived in his frank and joyous temperament the germs of high spiritual perfection, and had sought to draw him to the monastic life. "cut the bonds that hold thee, and do not merely loosen them," she wrote in one of the first letters to stefano that we possess: "resist no longer the holy spirit that is calling thee--for it will be hard for thee to kick against him. do not let thyself be withheld by thine own lukewarm heart, or by a womanish tenderness for thyself, but be a man, and enter the battlefield manfully." stefano, however, despite his personal devotion to catherine, felt for a long time no vocation for the cloister. she continued, as we see in these letters, to urge him with increasing insistence: but his hesitation was ended only by her death. he hastened to rome at the last, urgently summoned, in time to see her living and to receive her last words. her dying request did what her entreaties during life had failed to do; the brilliant young noble became a carthusian monk. at a later time he was made general of the order. devotion to the memory of catherine was the inspiration of his life after she left him. the letters in this group were all written after catherine had reached rome. they form a strong contrast to the more formal and elaborate documents which she was at this time despatching to dignitaries, concerning the ecclesiastical situation. their serene spiritual fervour bears witness to the "central peace" subsisting at the heart of the "endless agitation" of her active life. in their intimate messages, moreover, to home friends and disciples, they throw a charming light on what may be called the domestic side of her character. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee a true guardian of the city of thy soul. oh, dearest son, this city has many gates! they are three--memory, intellect, and will, and our creator allows all of them to be battered, and sometimes opened by violence, except one--that is, will. so it happens at times that the intellect sees nothing but shadows; the memory is occupied with vain and transitory things, with many and varied reflections and impure thoughts; and likewise all the sensations of the body are ill-regulated and ravaging. so it is perfectly clear that no one of these gates is in our own free possession, except only the gate of will. this belongs to our liberties, and has for its watch free-will. and this gate is so strong that nor demon nor creature can open it if the watch does not consent. and while this gate is not open--that is, while it does not consent to what memory and intellect and the other gates experience--our city keeps its free privileges for ever. let us, then, recognize, my son, let us recognize so excellent a benefit and so unmeasured a largess of charity as we have received from the divine goodness, that has put us in free possession of so noble a city. let us strive to hold good and zealous watch, keeping at the side of our watch free-will, the dog conscience, who when anyone comes at the gate must awake reason by its barking, that she may discern whether it be friend or foe: so that the watch may let friends enter, ordering good and holy inspirations to do their work, and may drive away the foes, locking the gate of will, that it consent not to admit the evil thoughts that come to the gate every day. and when thy city shall be demanded of thee by the lord, thou canst give it up, sound, and adorned with true and royal virtues, thanks to his grace. i say no more here. as i wrote on the first day of the month to all the sons in common, we arrived here on the first sunday in advent with much peace. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee risen above childishness, and become a manly man; risen from enjoying the milk of consolations, mental and actual, and set to eat the hard musty bread of many tribulations in mind and body, of conflicts with devils and injuries from thy fellows, and of any other kind that god might be pleased to grant thee. i desire to see thee rejoicing in such, and hasting to meet them with kindling desire and sweet gratitude to the divine goodness, when it may please him to show thee such great gifts-which will be whenever he shall see thee fit to receive them. rouse thee, my son, rouse thee from thy lukewarmness of heart; steep it in the blood, that it may burn in the furnace of divine charity, so that it may attain to abominate all childish deeds, and be on fire to be all manful, to enter on the battlefield to do great works for christ crucified, fighting manfully. for paul says that none shall be crowned save such as have manfully fought. so he who sees himself abide away from the field has cause for weeping. now i say no more here. i had thy letter, and saw it gladly. concerning the affair of the proposal, i reply that thy disposition pleases me much; and we must be glad of the sweet games that our sweet god plays with his creatures, to persuade them to the end for which we were all created: so that when the sweet medicine and ointment of consolations does not help, he sends us tribulations, cauterizing the wound that it may not suppurate. i will willingly take pains about thy affair, for the love of god and thy salvation, as soon as these festivals and holy days are past. i will try to obtain the indulgences that thou askest me for with the first i shall demand. i do not know when--for i have worn out the clerks of the court. one must hold one's self a little back. i am writing a letter to matteo: give it to him. and comfort him, and go to find him sometimes, to warm him up to the enterprise that is begun. i have heard of the illness which god has sent ... and, considering his need, i beg and constrain thee as much as i can that thou and thy brothers bring it about that the company of the virgin mary give him aid, as much as thou canst get. catarina is very much to be pitied, to find herself alone and poor without any refuge; so be zealous to show this charity. i am writing of this to pietro, too. let me perceive that you have not shown any negligence. i say no more to thee. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. all this family comfort thee in christ, and be the negligent and ungrateful writer commended to thee. sweet jesus, jesus love. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee cut thy bonds, and not simply set thyself to loosening them, for it takes some time to loosen, and this thou art not sure of having, so swiftly it passes from thee. it is better, then, to cut them thoroughly, with a true and holy zeal. oh, how blessed my soul will be when i shall see that thou hast cut thyself off from the world in deed and thought, and from thy own fleshly instincts, and hast united thyself to life eternal: a union that is of such joy and sweetness and suavity that it quenches all bitterness and renders light every heavy weight! who, then, shall hold us from drawing the sword of hate and love, and cutting self from self with the hand of free will? as soon as this sword has cut, it is of such virtue that it unites. but thou wilt say to me, dearest son: "where is this sword found and wrought?" i reply to thee, thou findest it in the cell of selfknowledge, where thou dost conceive hatred of thine own sin and frailty, and love of thy creator and thy neighbour, with true and sincere virtues. where is it wrought? in the fire of divine charity, on the anvil of the body of the sweet and loving word, the son of god. then ignorant indeed, and worthy of great rebuke, is he who has weapons in his possession to defend himself with, and who throws them away. i do not want thee to be of these ignorant people, but i want thee to hasten in thy whole manhood, and respond to mary, who calls thee with greatest love. the blood of these glorious martyrs, buried here in rome as to the body, who gave blood and life with so fiery love for the love of life, is hot with longing, summoning thee and the others that you come to suffer, for glory and praise of the name of god and holy church, and for the trial of your virtues. for to this holy land, wherein god revealed his dignity, calling it his garden, he has called his servants, saying: "now is the time for them to come, to test the gold of virtue." now let us not play the deaf man. were our ears stopped by cold, let us cleanse us in the blood, hot because it is mingled with fire, and all deafness shall be taken away. hide thee in the wounds of christ crucified; flee before the world, leave thy father's house; flee into the refuge of the side of christ crucified, that thou mayest come to the land of promise. this same thing i say also to pietro. place you at the table of the cross, and there, refreshed by the blood, take the food of souls, enduring pains and shames, insults, ridicule, hunger, thirst, and nakedness: glorying, with that sweet paul the chosen vessel, in the shame of christ crucified. if thou shalt cut thee free, as i said, endurance shall be thy glory, otherwise not, but it shall be a pain to thee, and thy shadow will make thee afraid. my soul, considering this, as an hungered for thy salvation. i desire to see thee cut thyself free, and not set thyself to loosen, that thou mayest run thee more swiftly. clothe thee in the blood of christ crucified. i say no more to thee. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. i had thy letters, and had great consolation from them, over battista's being healed, because i have hope that he will yet be a good plant, and for the compassion i felt for monna giovanna. but i rejoiced very much more that god has sent thee a way of extricating thyself from the world, and also over the good disposition of which thou writest me, that the lords and our other citizens have toward our sweet "babbo," pope urban vi. may god by his infinite mercy preserve it, and increase ever their reverence and obedience toward him. while thou and the others shall be there, be zealous to sow the truth and confound falsehood as far as your power extends. commend me closely to monna giovanna and currado. comfort also battista and the rest of the family. comfort all those sons of mine, and tell them also particularly to pardon me if i do not write to them, because it seems somewhat difficult. comfort messer matteo: tell him to send us word of what he wants, first, because i have forgotten it, and fra raimondo went away so soon that we could not get it from him. then i will zealously do all i can. and tell frate tommaso that i do not write to him because i do not know whether he is there, but if he is there, comfort him, and tell him to give me his blessing. our lisa and all the family commend themselves to thee. neri does not write thee because he has been at the point of death; but now he is cured. may god give thee his sweet eternal blessing. tell pietro to come here if he can, for something that is of importance. sweet jesus, jesus love! give all these letters, or have them given. and pray god for us. as to these few letters bound by themselves, give them just as they are to monna catarina di giovanni, and let her distribute them. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to thee in his precious blood: with desire to see thee arise from the lukewarmness of thy heart, lest thou be spewed from the mouth of god, hearing this rebuke, "cursed are ye, the lukewarm! would you had at least been ice-cold!" this lukewarmness proceeds from ingratitude, which comes from a faint light that does not let us see the agonizing and utter love of christ crucified, and the infinite benefits received from him. for in truth, did we see them, our heart would burn with the flame of love, and we should be famished for time, using it with great zeal for the honour of god and the salvation of souls. to this zeal i summon thee, dearest son, that now we begin to work anew. i send thee a letter that i am writing to the lords, and one to the company of the virgin mary. see and understand them, and then give them; and then ... and talk to them fully concerning this matter that is contained in the letters, begging each of them, on behalf of christ crucified and me, that they deal zealously, just so far as they can, with the lords and whoever has to do with it, that the right thing may be done in regard to holy church, and the vicar of christ, urban vi. it weighs upon me very much, for my part, that it should please them to have confidence in this matter, for the honour of god, and the spiritual and temporal profit of the city. do thou be fervent and not tepid in this activity, and in quickening thy brothers and elders of the company to do all they may in the affair of which i write. if you are what you ought to be, you will set fire to all italy, and not only yonder. i say no more to thee. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. comfort ... all these, thy brothers, and thy sister, comfort thee in christ, and all are waiting for thee. sweet jesus, jesus love. to certain holy hermits who had been invited to rome by the pope from early years, catherine had cherished the simple-hearted desire that the affairs of christ's people be put in the hands of his truest followers. now, in this last period of her life, surrounded by the corruption and intrigue of the papal court, her thoughts turned more and more wistfully to the reserves of spiritual passion and insight that lingered in the hearts of obscure "servants of god" living in monasteries or in hermits' cells. to invite these holy men to rome--to gather them around urban, and so show by triumphant witness of those in nearest fellowship with god on which side lay god's truth--was doubtless the political idea of a very unworldly saint. nevertheless, it commended itself to the pope. at his request, then, though probably by her own suggestion, catherine wrote to sundry of those eremites with whom she had long held spiritual converse, summoning them to the holy city. her letters were a thrilling call to the champions of christ, to cast off timidity and indolence, and betake them swiftly to the field where difficulties and troubles, and it might be a martyr's death, was waiting them. in the third of the letters that follow, catherine gives a touching picture of two bewildered hermits--dominican "dogs of the lord" from the gentle umbrian plain--who obeyed the call. "old men, and far from well, who have lived such a long time in their peace," they have made the laborious journey, and are now valiantly suppressing their homesickness, and unsaying their involuntary complaints. but not all the hermits summoned were equally docile. visionary raptures could hardly be looked for in the streets of the metropolis: dear was the seclusion of wood and cell. father william flete, whom catherine had always persisted in admiring, despite his failings, flatly declined to stir; so did his comrade, brother antonio. the abbot of st. antimo, another person for whom she had always entertained a deep respect, although he came, appears from her letters to have played the part of a coward. we cannot be surprised if peaceable religious who had lived their long days in unbroken quiet objected to enter the unpleasant whirlpool of roman politics. a similar attitude on the part of eremites of culture is not unknown to-day. but their refusal was a blow to catherine. she could hardly have drawn the natural conclusion that a recluse life unfitted men to fight for practical righteousness, but she did feel deeply troubled. from early youth she had been, as we have repeatedly seen, alive to the dangers of selfishness and indolence peculiarly incident to the contemplative life; at the same time she had firmly believed that, did the flame of intercession only burn bright enough, this life might be profoundly sacrificial. now her best-beloved recluses did not stand the test in the hour of trial, and their naif egotism disappointed her unspeakably. her grief, her amaze, her all but scathing contempt for a religion that declined to forego its inward comforts even at the dramatic summons of a crisis in the church, find expression in these letters. doubtless the "great refusal" thus offered by men whom she had trusted helped to darken her last months. not even in the hearts of her intimates, not even among the elect of god, was catherine to find here on earth a continuing city. to brother william of england and brother antonio of nizza at lecceto in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest sons in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you so lose yourselves that you shall seek nor peace nor quiet elsewhere than in christ crucified, becoming an-hungered upon the table of the cross, for the honour of god, the salvation of souls, and the reformation of holy church, whom to-day we see in so great need that to help her one must come out from one's wood and renounce one's self. if one sees that he can bear fruit in her, it is no time to stay still nor to say, "i should forfeit my peace." for now that god has given us the grace of providing holy church with a good and just shepherd, who delights in the servants of god, and wishes them near him, and expects to be able to purify the church and uproot vices and plant virtues, without any fear of man, since he bears himself like a just and manly man, we others ought to help him. i shall perceive whether we have in truth conceived love for the reformation of holy church; for if it is really so, you will follow the will of god and of his vicar, will come out of your wood, and make haste to enter the battlefield. but if you do not do it, you will be in discord with the will of god. therefore i pray you, by the love of christ crucified, that you respond swiftly without delay to the request that the holy father makes of you. and do not hesitate because of not having a wood, for there are woods and forests here. up, dearest sons, and sleep no more, for it is time to watch! i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love! in rome, on the fifteenth day of december, 1378. to brother andrea of lucca to brother baldo and to brother lando servants of god in spoleto, when they were summoned by the holy father in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest fathers in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you eager and ready to do the will of god, in obedience to his vicar, pope urban vi., in order that by you and the other servants of god help may be brought to his sweet bride. for we see her in such bitter straits that she is attacked on every side by contrary winds; and you see that she is especially attacked by wicked men, lovers of themselves, by the perilous and evil wind of heresy and schism, which can contaminate our faith. was she ever in so great a need as now, when those who ought to help her have attacked her, and darkness is shed abroad by those whose task it is to enlighten? they should nourish us with the food of souls, ministering the blood of christ crucified which gives the life of grace; and they drag it from men's mouths, ministering eternal death, like wolves who feed not the flock, but devour them. and what shall the dogs do--the servants of god, who are placed in the world as guardians, that they may bark when they see the wolf come, to awaken the chief shepherd? what are they to bark with? with humble and continual prayer, and with the living voice. in this way they shall terrify the demons, visible and invisible, and the heart and mind of our chief shepherd, pope urban vi., shall awaken; and when he shall be wakened, we do not doubt that the mystical body of holy church and the universal body of the christian religion shall be helped, and the flock recovered, and saved from the hands of devils. you ought not to draw back for any reason: not for suffering that you expected, nor for shames nor persecution, nor ridicule that might be cast at you; not for hunger, thirst, or death a thousand times were it possible; not for desire of quiet, nor of your consolations, saying: "i wish my soul's peace, and i can cry out in prayer before the face of god (without going to rome)"; nay, by the love of christ crucified. for it is not now the hour to seek one's self for one's self, nor to flee pains in order to possess consolations; nay, it is the hour to lose one's self, since the infinite goodness and mercy of god has seen to the necessity of holy church, and given her a just and good shepherd, who wishes to have these dogs around him, which shall bark constantly for the honour of god; fearing lest he sleep, and not trusting in his vigil, unless they are always ready to bark to waken him. you are among those whom he has chosen. therefore i beg and constrain you in christ sweet jesus, that you come swiftly, to fulfil the will of god, who wills thus, and the holy will of the vicar of christ, that is calling you and the others. you need not be afraid of luxuries or of great consolations; for you are coming to endure, and not to enjoy yourselves, except with the joy of the cross. lean your head out, and come forth into the field, to fight genuinely for truth; holding before the eye of your mind the persecution wrought to the blood of christ, and the damnation of souls; in order that we may be more inspired for the battle, so that we may look back for no possible cause. come, come! and do not linger, waiting for the hour, for the hour does not wait us. i am sure that the infinite goodness of god will make you know the truth. and yet i know that many, even among those who are servants of god, will go to you and oppose this holy and good work, thinking to speak well, in saying: "you will go, and nothing will be done." and i, like a presumptuous woman, say that something will be done; if our principal desire is not now to be fulfilled, at least the way will be cleared. and even if nothing at all should be done, we have shown in the sight of god and our fellow-men that we have done what we could; our own conscience has been aroused and unburdened. so that it is well in any case. the more opposition you shall have, the clearer sign it is to you that this is a good and holy work; since as we have seen, and continue to see constantly, great, holy, and good works meet more opposition than little ones, because they have larger results; and therefore the devil hinders them in every way he can, especially by means of the servants of god, through obscure deceits, under colour of virtue. i have said this to you in order that you should not give up coming for any reason, but should present yourselves with prompt obedience at the feet of his holiness. drown you in the blood of christ, and may our own will die in all things. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. commend me to all the servants of god near you, that they may pray the divine goodness to give me grace to lay down my life for his truth. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother antonio of nizza of the hermit brothers of saint augustine at the convent of lecceto near siena in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest son in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see you founded upon the living rock, christ sweet jesus, so that the building you shall raise on it may never be overthrown by any contrary wind that may strike you, but may endure wholly solid, firm, and stable, even till your death upon the way of truth. oh, how we need this true and royal foundation--not known of my ignorance! for did i truly know it, i should not build upon myself, who am worse than sand, but upon that living rock i spoke of. following christ upon the way of shame and outrage and insult, i should deprive me of every consolation from whatever source, within or without, to conform myself with him. i would not seek myself for my own sake, but would care only for the honour of god, the salvation of souls, and the reform of holy church, whom i see in so great need! me miserable, who am doing quite the contrary! but though i do wrong, dearest son, i would not that you and the others did; nay, i desire to see you founded on this rock. now the hour is come that proves who is a servant of god, and whether men shall seek themselves for their own sake, and god for the private consolation they find in him, and their neighbours for their own sake in so far as they see consolations in them--yes, or no, and whether we are to believe that god may be found only in one place and not in another. i do not see that this is so--but find that to the true servant of god every place is the right place and every time is the right time. so when the time comes to abandon his own consolations and embrace labours for the honour of god, he does it; and when the time comes to flee the wood for need of the honour of god, he does it, and betakes him to public places, as did the blessed st. antony, who although he supremely loved solitude, yet deserted it many times to comfort the christians. and so i might tell of many other saints. this has always been the habit of the true servants of god, to emerge in time of need and adversity, but not in the time of prosperity--nay, that they flee. there is no need to flee just now, through fear lest our great prosperity make our hearts sail away in the wind of pride and vainglory; for there is no one who can glory now otherwise than in labours. but light seems to be failing us, dazzled as we are by our consolations and the hope we place in special revelations-things which do not let us know the truth rightly, though we act in good faith. but god, who is highest and eternal goodness, gives us perfect and true light. i enlarge no more on this matter. it appears, from the letter which brother william has sent me, that neither he nor you is coming here. i do not intend to reply to this letter: but i grieve much over his simplicity, for little honour to god or edification to his neighbour results from it. for if he is unwilling to come from humility and fear of forfeiting his peace, he ought to exercise the virtue of humility, by asking permission from the vicar of christ humbly and with gentleness, entreating his holiness graciously to permit him to stay in his wood, for his greater peace, nevertheless, as one truly obedient, submitting the matter to his will. thus he would be more pleasing to god, and would secure his own good. but he seems to have done just the contrary, alleging that a person who is bound to divine obedience ought not to obey his fellow-creatures. as to other people, i should care very little; but that he should include the vicar of christ, this does grieve me much, to see him so discordant with truth. for divine obedience never prevents us from obedience to the holy father: nay, the more perfect the one, the more perfect is the other. and we ought always to be subject to his commands and obedient unto death. however indiscreet obedience to him might seem, and however it should deprive us of mental peace and consolation, we ought to obey; and i consider that to do the opposite is a great imperfection, and deceit of the devil. it appears from what he writes that two servants of god have had a great revelation, to the effect that christ on earth, and whoever advised him to send for these servants of god, followed human and not divine counsel, and that it was rather the instigation of the devil than the inspiration of god that made them wish to drag their servants from their peace and consolations: adding that if you and the others came you would lose your spiritual life, and thus would be of no help in prayer, and unable to stand by the holy father in spirit. now really, the spiritual life is quite too lightly held if it is lost by change of place. apparently god is an acceptor of places, and is found only in a wood, and not elsewhere in time of need! then what shall we say --we who, on the one hand, wish that the church of god be reformed, the thorns uprooted, and the fragrant flowers the servants of god planted there; and, on the other hand, we are told that to send for them, and drag them from their mental peace and quiet in order that they may come to help that little ship is a wile of the devil? at least, let a man speak for himself, and not speak of the other servants of god--for among the servants of the world we are not to count ourselves. not thus have done brother andrea of lucca, nor brother paolina, those great servants of god, old men and far from well, who have lived such a long time in their peace: but at once, with all their weariness and disabilities they put themselves on the road, and have come, and fulfilled their obedience: and although desire constrains them to return to their cells, they are not therefore willing to throw off the yoke, but say: "what i have said, be it unsaid!" --disregarding their self-will and their personal consolations. one comes here to endure: not for honours, but for the dignity of many labours, with tears, vigils and continual prayers; thus should one do. now let us not weigh ourselves down with more words. may god by his mercy send us clear vision, and guide us in the way of truth, and give us true and perfect light, that we may never walk among shadows. i beg you, you and the bachellor, and the other servants of god, to pray the humble lamb that he make me walk in his way. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to queen giovanna of naples (written in trance) giovanna, recalcitrant, has failed to respond to the entreaties of catherine. her temporary espousal of the cause of urban has made only more painful her reversion to the side of clement. "you see your subjects pitted against each other like beasts through this unhappy division," writes catherine in another letter. "oh me! how is it that your heart does not burst, to endure that they should be divided by you, and one hold to the white rose and one the red, one to truth and one to falsehood? misfortunate my soul! do you not see that they are all created in that very pure rose, the eternal will of god, and re-created by grace in that very burning rose, crimson with the blood of christ, in which we were washed from sin in baptism? consider that nor you nor another ever so bathed them or gave them that glorious rose, but only our mother, holy church, through the highest pontiff who holds the keys, pope urban vi. how can your soul bear to take from them that which you cannot give? if this does not move you, are you not at least moved by the shame into which you are fallen in the sight of the world? this much more since your change than before; for lately you confessed the truth and your wrong, and showed yourself willing to throw yourself like a daughter upon the mercy of your father; and since then you have wrought worse than ever, whether because your heart was not pure, and feigned what was not there, or because justice willed that i should anew do penance for my ancient sins, that i do not merit to see you in peace and quiet, feeding at the breasts of holy church. it is such a pain to me, that i cannot bear a greater cross in this life, when i consider the letter which i received from you, in which you confessed that pope urban was the true highest father and priest, and said that you were willing to be obedient to him, and now i find the contrary." in the present letter catherine pours forth to the yet living woman a sorrowful elegy over the dead soul. she argues no longer; the political aspect of the situation is for the time being overshadowed by the grief with which she contemplates the hardened sin and coming doom of the woman to whom her heart had from her youth up gone out with an especial tenderness, and in whom she had hoped at one time to see a true defender of the faith. it will be noticed that she writes in trance. whatever may have been the nature of that mysterious state, we may be sure that thoughts then uttered came from the depths of her being which lie below consciousness, and we may so gain an additional evidence of the intensity of her feeling concerning giovanna. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest mother in christ sweet jesus: i, catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood, with desire to see you compassionate to your own soul and body. for if we are not merciful to our own souls, the mercy and pity of others would avail us little. the soul treats itself with great cruelty when of its own accord it puts the knife with which it can be killed in the hands of its foe. for our foes have no weapons with which they can hurt us. they would be very glad to, but they cannot, because will alone can hurt us; and as for the will, neither demon nor creature can move it, nor force it to one least fault more than it chooses. so the perverse will which consents to the malice of our foes is a knife which kills the soul that gives it into the hand of these foes with its own free choice. which shall we call the more cruel--the foes or the very person who receives the blow? it is we who are more cruel, for we consent to our own death. we have three chief foes. first, the devil, who is weak if i do not make him strong by consenting to his malice. he loses his strength in the power of the blood of the humble and spotless lamb. the world with all its honours and delights, which is our foe, is also weak, save in so far as we strengthen it to hurt us by possessing these things with intemperate love. in the gentleness, humility, poverty, in the shame and disgrace of christ crucified, this tyrant the world is destroyed. our third foe, our own frailty, was made weak; but reason strengthens it by the union which god has made with our humanity, arraying the word with our humanity, and by the death of that sweet and loving word, christ crucified. so we are strong, and our foes are weak. it is very true, then, that we are more cruel to ourselves than our foes are. for without our help they cannot kill nor hurt us, since god has not given them to us that we might be vanquished, but that we might vanquish them. then our fortitude and constancy are proved. but i do not see that we can avoid such cruelty and become merciful without the light of most holy faith, opening the eye of the mind to behold how displeasing it is to god and harmful to soul and body, and how pleasing to god and useful to our salvation is mercy. dearest mother--mother i say in so far as i see you to be a faithful daughter of holy church--it seems to me that you have no mercy on yourself. oh me! oh me! because i love you i grieve over the evil state of your soul and body. i would willingly lay down my life to prevent this cruelty. many times i have written you in compassion, showing you that what is shown you for truth is a lie; and the rod of divine justice, which is ready for you if you do not flee so great wrong. it is a human thing to sin, but perseverance in sin is a thing of the devil. oh me! there is none who tells you the truth, nor do you seek among the servants of god those who might tell it you, that you should not stay in a state of condemnation. oh, how blessed my soul would be could i come into your parts, and lay down my life to restore to you the good of heaven and the good of earth; to take from you the knife of cruelty, with which you have killed yourself, and help to give you that of mercy, which kills vice; so that you should clothe you in the holy fear of god and love of truth, and bind you in his sweet will! oh me, do not await the time which you are not sure of having! do not choose that my eyes should have to shed rivers of tears over your wretched soul and body--a soul which i hold as my own! if i consider that soul, i see that it is dead, because separated from its body; it persecutes, not pope urban vi., but our truth and faith. i expected, mother and daughter mine, as you used to write to me, that through you these should be spread among the infidels by means of divine grace, and declared and helped among us, defended when we should see a taint appear, from those who have been or were contaminated. now i see quite the contrary appear in you, through the evil counsel which has been given you for my sins. you have received it as one merciless toward your salvation; and i see that there will be no human creature who can restore your loss, but you yourself must render this account before the highest judge. you did not offend through ignorance, not knowing the right, for the truth was shown to you; but you do not know how to turn back from that which you have begun, because the knife of perverse and selfish will destroys knowledge and choice, making you hold that as shame which is your greatest honour. for perseverance in fault and in such an evil is greatest disgrace, and displays one as a sign of shame before the eyes of one's fellow-creatures; but to escape from them is greatest honour; and by honour and the odour of virtue, shame is escaped and the stench of vice extinguished. and if i consider your condition as to those temporal and transitory goods that pass like the wind--you yourself have deprived yourself of them by right. you have only to receive the last sentence of being deprived of them by deed, and published a heretic. my heart breaks and cannot break, from the fear that i have lest the devil so obscure the eye of your mind that you endure that loss, and such shame and confusion as i should repute greater than the loss that you would suffer. and you cannot hide it with saying, "this would be done to me unjustly, and the thing which is unjustly inflicted casts no shame." that cannot be said; for it would be done justly, both because of the fault you have committed, and because he can do it as highest and true pontiff that he is, chosen by the truth in truth. for were he not so, you would not have offended. so that it would be just. but he has refrained from doing this through love, as a benignant father who waits for his son to correct himself. yet i fear that he may do it, constrained by justice, and by your long perseverance in evil. and i do not say this as one who does not know what she is saying. and if you said to me, "i do not care about this, for i am strong and mighty, and i have other lords who will help me, and i know that he is weak"--i reply to you that he wearies himself in vain who will guard the city with force and with great zeal, if god guard it not. and can you say that you have god with you? we cannot say it, for you have put him against you for putting yourself against truth; you have put you against him, and it is truth that sets him free who holds thereto, and none there is who can confound it. therefore you have reason to fear, and not to trust in your strength and power, had you yet more of them than you have. and he has reason to comfort his weakness in christ sweet jesus, whose place he holds, trusting in his strength and aid, who shall send him aid from such a side as we cannot imagine. and you know that if god is for you, none shall be against you. then let us fear god, and tremble beneath the rod of his justice. let us correct us, and advance no further. be merciful to yourself, and you shall call down the mercy of god upon you. have compassion on the many souls who are perishing through you; of whom you will have to render account before god at the last extremity of death. there is yet healing for us, and time wherein we can return; and he will receive you with great benignity. i am sure that if you will be merciful and not cruel to your soul and also to your body, you will do this, and will have pity upon your subjects: in otherwise, no. therefore i said that i desired to see you merciful and not cruel to your soul. and thus i pray you, through the love of christ crucified, that at least you hold and will to be held, the truth which was announced to you and to the other lords of the world. and if you should say, "it is still doubtful to me," stay neutral till it is made clear to you, and do not do what you should not. desire illumination and counsel from those whom you see to fear god, and not from members of the devil, who would counsel you ill in that which they do not hold for themselves. fear, fear god, and place him before your eyes, and think that god sees you, and his eye is upon you, and his justice wills that every fault be punished and every good rewarded. be merciful, ah, be merciful to yourself! i say naught else to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. to brother raimondo of the preaching order when he was in genoa in more grievous ways than any yet noted, catherine was to be wounded in the house of her friends. the letters already given have shown us how tenderly intimate, on the human as well as on the spiritual side, were her relations with the father of her soul, "given her by that sweet mother, mary." one shares her affection for good father raimondo as one reads the legend. his figure might well have belonged to the trecento rather than to the more strenuous age that followed. he was the simplest, the most modest of men--albeit by no means lacking in homely shrewdness; he was also one of the least heroic. catherine, like most uplifted natures, demanded heroism from those dear to her, as a matter of course. others wish for their beloved ease, delights, the gratification of ambition and desire; catherine sought for them sorrow, hardships, the opportunity to offer their lives in exalted sacrifice for the sins of the church and the world. she craved for them only less passionately than for herself, the crowning grace of martyrdom. now fra raimondo had no affinity whatever for martyrdom. his chance at it came, in the fortunes of those stern times, and was promptly rejected. urban, perhaps at catherine's instigation, had despatched him to the king of france, and raimondo had bidden his spiritual daughter and mother a solemn farewell, surmising doubtless that he was to see her face no more. he proceeded to the port of genoa, planning thence to set sail for france. but the galleys of the antipope sought to debar the passage; and raimondo, accepting the obstacle (one imagines with much ease), allowed himself to give up the expedition. catherine wrote him two letters on the matter. the first is brief, and half-playful in tone: "oh my naughty father" (_cativello padre mio_) she says, "how blessed your soul and mine would have been could you have sealed with your blood a stone in holy church! i do wish i could see you risen above your childishness--see you shed your milk teeth and eat bread, the mustier the better!" evidently raimondo had answered this letter, writing, one imagines, in a deprecating tone, fearing lest catherine may love him the less for his failure, yet after all assuming--so strong is our expectation of finding our own attitude in our friends--that she will rejoice in his escape. in this her reply she tells her whole heart. surely, few more pathetic revelations of disappointed yet faithful affection have drifted to us on the tide of the ages. catherine was at this time far advanced upon her own via dolorosa. one of the stations of her sorrow had been the parting with her friend: "and you have left me here, and have gone away with god." here was another station, marked by a deeper pain: "faithful obedience would have done more in the sight of god and men than all human prudence; my sins have prevented me from seeing it in you." with a glad suffering she had given raimondo up to the service of god; with a suffering that was bitterly shamed, she saw him false to his calling. she utters no vain reproaches. in her own way she begins with earnest self-accusations, and proceeds to comfort the weakness of the man who should have been her guide with tender and subtly-reasoned assurances of her unchanged affection. at the same time she does not flinch from uncondoning, scathing statement of his sin and of her disillusion. considerate, delicate, even courteous to a degree, the letter yet reveals in every line the sense of solitude which the action of raimondo had caused her. there is no rebellion in her spirit: "i hold me none the less in peace, because i am certain that nothing happens without mystery," she sighs. but we grieve with a new, awestruck perception of the loneliness of her great soul, as we realize that to raimondo was to be given perforce her deepest confidence in the passion upon which she was even now entering. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood: with desire to see in you the light of most holy faith. this is a light which shows us the way of truth, and without it no activity, or desire, or work of ours would come to fruition, or to the end for which we began it; but everything would become imperfect--slow we should be in the love of god and of our neighbour. this is the reason: seemingly love is as great as faith, and faith is as great as love. he who loves is always faithful to him whom he loves, and faithfully serves him till death. by this i perceive that in truth i do not love god, nor the creatures through god: for if in truth i loved him, i should be faithful in such wise that i should give myself to death a thousand times a day, were it needful and possible, for the glory and praise of his name, and faith would not fail me, since for the love of god and of virtue and of holy church i should set myself to endure. so i should believe that god was my help and my defender, as he was of those glorious martyrs who went with gladness to the place of martyrdom. were i faithful i should not fear, but i should hold for sure that the same god is for me who was for them; and his power to provide for my necessities is not weakened as to capacity, knowledge, or will. but because i do not love, i do not really trust myself to him, but the sensuous fear in me shows me that love is lukewarm, and the light of faith is darkened by faithlessness toward my creator, and by trusting in myself. i confess and deny not that this root of evil is not yet uprooted from my soul, and therefore those works are hindered which god wants to do or puts in my way, so that they do not reach the lucid and fruitful end for which god had them begun. ah me, ah me, my lord! woe to me miserable! and shall i find myself thus every time, in every place, and in every state? shall i always close with my faithlessness the way to thy providence? yes, truly, if indeed thou by thy mercy do not unmake me, and make me anew. then, lord, unmake me, and break the hardness of my heart, that i be not a tool which spoils thy works! and i beg you, dearest father, to pray earnestly that i and you both together may drown ourselves in the blood of the humble lamb, which will make us strong and faithful. we shall feel the fire of the divine charity: we shall be co-workers with his grace, and not undoers or spoilers of it. so we shall show that we are faithful to god, and trust in his help, and not in our knowledge nor in that of men. with this same faith we shall love the creature; for as love of the neighbour proceeds from love of god, so with faith, in general and in particular; as there is a general faith corresponding to the love which we ought to feel in general to every creature, so there is a special faith belonging to those who love one another more intimately: like this, which beyond the common love has established between us two a close particular love, a love which faith manifests. so much love does it manifest that it cannot believe nor imagine that one of us wishes anything else than the other's good; and it believes earnestly, for it seeks this with great insistence in the sight of god and men, seeking ever in the other the glory of the name of god and the profit of his soul; constraining divine help, that as it adds burdens it may add fortitude and long perseverance. such faith bears he who loves, and never lessens it for any reason, neither for speech of man nor illusion of the devil, nor change of place. if anyone does otherwise, it is a sign that he loves god and his neighbour imperfectly. apparently, as i understood by your letter, many diverse battles befell you, and troubled reflections, through the deceit of the devil and through your own sensuous passion, it seeming to you that a burden was imposed on you greater than you can bear. you did not seem to yourself strong enough for me to measure you with my measure, and on this account you were in doubt lest my affection and love to you were diminished. but you did not see aright, and it was you who showed that i had grown to love more, and you less; for with the love with which i love myself, with that i love you, in the lively faith that all which is lacking on your part, god will complete by his goodness. but this is not done yet, for you have known how to find ways to throw your load down to earth. you present us many scraps of excuses to cover up your faithless frailty, but not in such wise that i do not see it quite enough now, and good it will seem to me if it is not perceived by anyone but me. yes, yes, i show you a love increased in me toward you, and not waning. but what shall i say? how could your ignorance give place to one of the least of those thoughts? could you ever believe that i wished anything else than the life of your soul? where is the faith that you always used to have and ought to have, and the certainty that you have had, that before a thing is done, it is seen and determined in the sight of god--not only this, which is so great a deed, but every least thing? had you been faithful, you would not have gone about vacillating so, nor fallen into fear toward god and toward me; but like a faithful son, ready for obedience, you would have gone and done what you could. and if you could not have gone upright, you would have gone on all fours; if you could not have gone as a frate, you would have gone as a pilgrim; if there is no money for us, one would have gone begging. this faithful obedience would have accomplished more in the sight of god and in the hearts of men than all human prudences. my sins have prevented me from seeing it in you. nevertheless i am quite sure, that although selfish passion was there, you yet had and have holy and good regard to fulfil better the will of god and that of christ on earth, pope urban vi. not that i would have had you stay, though; nay, but take to the road at once, in whatever fashion and by whatever way had been open to you. day and night i was constrained by god concerning many other things also; which, through the carelessness of him who has to do them, but chiefly through my sins which hinder every good, are all coming to nothing. and thus, ah me! we see ourselves drowning, and offences against god increasing, with many torments; and i live in an agony of delay. may god, in his mercy, soon take me from this life of shadows! we see in the kingdom of naples that this last disaster is worse than the first; and so many evils are likely to happen there, that may god remedy them! but he in his pity showed the disaster, and the remedies that ought to be applied. but, as i said, the abundance of my faults hinders all good. i shall have a great deal to say to you about these matters, should i not receive the greatest grace, that of release from earth before i see you again. yes, as i say, i do entirely wish that you had gone. nevertheless i hold me in peace, because i am certain that nothing happens without mystery; and also because i unburdened my conscience, doing what i could that a messenger should be sent to the king of france. may the clemency of the holy spirit achieve it! for we by ourselves are bad workmen. as for going quickly to the king of hungary, it is clear that the holy father would be well enough pleased, and he had planned that you should go with other companions. now, i do not know why, he has changed his mind, and wishes you to stay where you are, and do what good you can. i beg you to be zealous about it. abandon yourself, and every personal pleasure and consolation; and let turfs be thrown upon those who are dead, and with the cords of humble desire and holy prayer let the hands of divine justice be bound, the devil, and fleshly appetite. we are offered dead in the garden of holy church, and to christ on earth, the lord of that garden. then let us do the works of the dead. the dead man does not see nor hear nor feel. be strong to slay yourself with the knife of hate and love, that you may not hear the derision, the insults, the reproaches of the world, which the persecutors of holy church would offer you. let not your eyes see things as impossible to do, nor the torment that may follow; but let them see with the light of faith that through christ crucified you can do all things, and that god will not impose a greater burden than can be borne. why, we are to rejoice in great burdens, because then god gives us the gift of fortitude. with the love of endurance, fleshly sensitiveness is lost; and thus dead, dead, we may nourish ourselves in this garden. when i see this, i shall account my soul as blessed. i tell you, sweetest father, that whether we will or no, the times to-day summon us to die. then be no more alive! end pains in pain, and increase the joy of holy desire in the pain; that our life may pass no otherwise than in crucified desire, and that we may give our bodies willingly to be eaten by beasts; that is, for the love of virtue let us willingly fling ourselves upon the tongues and hands of bestial men, as did those others who have worked, dead, in this sweet garden, and watered it with their blood, but first with their tears and sweats. and i--(grievous my life!)--because i have not given enough water to it, was refused permission to give it my blood. i will it to be no more thus, but be our life renewed and the fire of desire increased! you ask me to pray the divine goodness to give you the fire of vincent, of lawrence, and of sweet paul, and that of the charming john--saying that then you will do great things. and so i shall be glad. surely i say the truth, that without this fire you would not do anything, neither little nor big, nor should i be glad in you. therefore, considering that it is so, and that i have seen it proved, an impulse has grown in me, with great zeal in the sweet sight of god. were you near me in the body, truly i would show you that it is so, and would give you other than words. i rejoice, and i want you to rejoice; for, since this desire grows, he will fulfil it in you and me, because he accepts holy and true desires; provided that you open the eye of your mind in the light of holiest faith, that you may know the truth of the will of god. knowing it you will love it, and loving it you will be faithful, and your heart will not be overshadowed by any wile of the devil. being faithful, you will do every great thing in god: what he puts into your hands will be fulfilled perfectly; that is, it will not be hindered on your part from coming to perfection. with this light you will be cautious, modest, and weighty in speech and conversation and in all your works and way; but without it you would do quite the contrary in your ways and habits, and everything else would turn out contrary for you. so, knowing that this is the case, i desired to see in you the light of most holy faith; and so i want you to have it. and because i want this, and love you immeasurably for your salvation, and desire with great desire to see you in the state of the perfect, therefore i pray you with many words--but i would do so more willingly in deed; and i use reproaches with you, in order that you may return continually to yourself. i have done my best, and i shall do so, to make you assume the burden of the perfect for the honour of god, and ask his goodness to make you reach the last state of perfection; that is, to shed your blood for holy church, whether your servant the flesh will it or no. lose you in the blood of christ crucified, and bear my faults and words with good patience. and whenever your faults may be shown you, rejoice, and thank the divine goodness, which has assigned someone to labour over you, who watches for you in his sight. as to what you write me, that antichrist and his members seek diligently to have you, do not fear; for god is strong to take away their light and their force, that they may not fulfil their desires. beside, you ought to think that you are not worthy of so great a good, and so you need not fear. take confidence; for sweet mary and the truth will be for you always. i, vile slave, who am placed in the field, where blood was shed for the love of blood--(and you have left me here, and gone away with god)--shall never pause from working for you. i beg you so to do that you give me no matter for mourning, nor for shaming me in the sight of god. as you are a man in promising the will to do and bear for the honour of god, do not then turn into a woman when we come to the shutting of the lock; for i should appeal against you to christ crucified and to mary. beware lest it happen later to you as to the abbot of st. antimo, who, through fear and under colour of not tempting god, left siena and came to rome, supposing that he had escaped his prison and was safe; and he was thrown into prison, with the punishment that you know. so are pusillanimous hearts cured. be, then, be all a man: that death may be granted you. i beg you to pardon me whatever i might have said that was not honour to god and due reverence to yourself: let love excuse it. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. i ask your benediction. sweet jesus, jesus love! to urban vi this is the last letter to urban that we possess. if, as seems likely, it is also the last that catherine wrote to him, it must have been written on the monday after sexagesima, 1380, under circumstances which she describes for us in the next letter to be given. she had already at the time entered upon the mystical agony which preceded her _transitus_. the letter alludes to historic details of which we have no knowledge and for which we do not care. yet it has rare interest. that exquisite sweetness which often blends in so unique a way with catherine's authoritative tone, was never more evident. urban's impetuous inconsistencies, and the irrational gusts of anger which were by this time alienating even his friends, could not be more clearly nor more gently rebuked. one's heart aches at the thought of what manner of man he was to whom this sensitive and high-minded woman was forced by her faith to give not only allegiance but championship. not once during catherine's active life was she allowed to fight in a clear cause, or at least in a cause in which sympathies could be undivided; the pathos of the situation is evident in the meek and patient firmness of her tone. but the letter has a deeper interest, if it is really the last she wrote to him. knowing the circumstances of its composition, we must be amazed at the lucidity of her thought and words, at the steady and definite wisdom with which she discusses the movement of events in the outer world. it is surely significant to the psychologist that a woman in the throes of such an experience as the next letters present, could write in such a strain. the whole life of catherine, indeed, refutes the popular opinion that mystics cannot be trusted to sane judgment or sustained wisdom of action in the confused affairs of this world. in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and sweetest father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, your poor unworthy daughter, write to you with great desire to see a prudence and sweet light of truth in you, in such wise that i may see you follow the glorious st. gregory, and govern holy church with such prudence that it may never be necessary to take back anything which may be ordered or done by your holiness; even the least word; so that your firmness grounded in the truth may be evident in the sight of god and men, as ought to be the case with the true holy high priest. i pray the inestimable charity of god that he clothe your soul in this; for it seems to me that light and prudence are very necessary indeed to us, and especially to your holiness and to anyone else who might be in your place; most chiefly in these current times. because i know that you have a desire to find these in yourself, i remind you of them, showing you the desire of your own soul. i have heard, holy father, of the reply which the violence of the prefect made; surely in violence of wrath and irreverence toward the roman ambassadors. on which reply it seems that they are to hold a general council, and then the heads of the wards and certain other good men are to come to you. i beg you, most holy father, that as you have begun so you will continue to meet with them often, and to bind them prudently with the bands of love. so i beg you that now, as to what they will say to you when the council is held, you will receive them with as much gentleness as you can, showing them what your holiness thinks must be done. pardon me--for love makes me say what perhaps there is no need of saying, since i know that you must understand the temperament of your roman sons, who are drawn and held more with gentleness than with any force or asperity of words; and also you recognize the great necessity in which you are, and holy church, to keep this people in obedience and reverence toward your holiness; because the head and beginning of our faith is here. and i humbly beg you, that you will aim prudently always to promise that which it ought to be possible to you fully to perform, so that loss, shame, and confusion may not follow later. pardon me, most sweet and holy father, for saying these words to you. i am confident that your humility and benignity are content that they should be said, and will not feel distaste or scorn for them because they come from the mouth of a most despicable woman; for the humble man does not consider who speaks to him, but pays note to the honour of god, and to truth and his own salvation. comfort you, and do not fear on account of any bad reply which this rebel against your holiness may have made or may make, for god will care for this and for everything else, as ruler and helper of the ship of holy church, and of your holiness. be you manful for me, in the holy fear of god; wholly exemplary in your words, your habits, and all your deeds. let all shine clear in the sight of god and men; as a light placed in the candlestick of holy church, to which looks and should look all the christian people. also i beg you that you should bring us some help for what leo told you; for this scandal grows greater every day, not only through the thing that was done to the sienese ambassador, but also through the other things which are seen day by day, which are enough to provoke to wrath the feeble hearts of men. you do not need this person now, but someone who shall be a means of peace, and not of war. although he may act with a good zeal for justice, there are many who do so with such disorder and such impulse of wrath that they depart from all reason and measure. therefore i earnestly beg your holiness to condescend to the infirmity of men, and provide a physician who shall know how to cure the infirmity better than he. and do not wait so long that death shall follow: for i tell you that if no other help is found, the infirmity will grow. then recall to yourself the disaster that fell upon all italy, because bad rulers were not guarded against, who governed in such wise that they were the cause of the church of god being despoiled. i know that you are aware of this: now let your holiness see what is to be done. comfort you, comfort you sweetly; for god does not despise your desire, nor the prayer of his servants. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. humbly i ask your benediction. sweet jesus, jesus love. letters describing the experience preceding death "fightings and fears within, without," had long been catherine's portion. now the end was at hand. from girlhood she had confronted a great contradiction. the sharpest trial to christian faith throughout the ages is probably the spectacle presented by the visible church of christ. this abiding parable of the contrast between ideal and actual was perhaps never more painful to the devout soul than in catherine's time, and perhaps we are safe in saying that no one ever suffered from it more than she. her whole life was an act of faith: faith the more heroic because maintained against the recurrent attacks of spiritual doubt and despair. at more than one point in her career we see her, overwhelmed by the seeming failure of the divine purpose, lifting her whole being into the presence of god, there to receive reassurance, none the less satisfying to her vigorous intellect because conveyed through the channel of mystic ecstasy. one such experience may be quoted here. it dates apparently from the time of her greatest disappointment in gregory; we can judge of its significance and depth from the fact that she afterward recorded it more fully, and used it as the basis for the first book of her "dialogue." "comfort you, dearest father," she writes to raimondo: "concerning the sweet bride of christ: for the more she abounds in tribulations and bitterness, so much the more divine truth promises to make her abound in sweetness.... when i had thoroughly understood your letters, i begged a servant of god to offer tears and sweats before god, for the bride and because of the 'babbo's' weakness. "whence instantly, by divine grace, there grew in her a desire and gladness beyond all measure. she waited for the morning to have mass, it being the day of mary; and when the hour of mass had come, took her place with true self-knowledge, abasing herself before god for her imperfection. and rising above herself with eager desire, and gazing with the eye of her mind into eternal truth, she made four petitions there, holding herself and her father in the presence of the bride of truth. "first, the reform of holy church. then god, letting himself be constrained by tears and bound by the cords of her desire, said: 'sweetest my daughter, thou seest how she has soiled her face with impurity and self-love, and become swollen by the pride and avarice of those who feed at her bosom. but take thy tears and sweat, drawing them from the fountain of my divine charity, and cleanse her face. for i promise thee that her beauty shall not be restored to her by the sword, nor by cruelty or war, but by peace, and humble continual prayers, tears and sweats, poured forth from the grieving desires of my servants. so thy desire shall be fulfilled in long abiding, and my providence shall in no wise fail you.' "although the salvation of all the whole world was contained in this, nevertheless the prayer reached out more in particular, entreating for the whole world. then god showed in how great love he had created man, and he said: 'now thou seest that every one is striking at me. see, daughter, with what diverse and many sins they strike at me, and especially with their wretched abominable self-love, whence issues every evil, with which they have poisoned the whole world. do you then, my servants, adorn you in my presence with many prayers, and so you shall mitigate the wrath of divine justice. and know that no one can escape from my hands. open the eye of thy mind and gaze upon my hand.' and lifting her eyes she saw held in his grasp all the universal world. then he said: 'i will that thou know that no one can be taken from me; for all are under either justice or mercy; therefore all are mine. and because they came forth from me, i love them unspeakably, and shall show them mercy by means of my servants.' then, the flame of desire increasing, that woman abode as one blessed and grieving, and gave thanks to the divine goodness: as perceiving that god had showed her the faults of his creatures that she might be constrained to arise with more zeal and greater desire. and so greatly increased the holy fire of love, that she despised the sweat of water she poured forth, through her great desire to see a sweat of blood pour from her body: and she said to herself, 'soul mine, thou hast wasted thy whole life. therefore have so great losses and evils fallen on the world and on holy church, in general and in particular. so now i wish thee to atone with sweat of blood.' then that soul, spurred on by holy desire, arose much higher, and opened the eye of her mind, and gazed into the divine charity: where she saw and felt how much we are bound to seek the glory and praise of the name of god in the salvation of souls." in this remarkable passage we see catherine's high and increasing sense of responsibility. her tears and sweats are to cleanse the face of the church, and through the grieving desire of the servants of god, redemption is to be accomplished. she was never, as we know, one of those christian fatalists whose optimism leads them to inaction. from the day when, reluctant, she left her little cell, she threw her power with unwearied constancy and courage into the life of her day, repugnant though its problems might be to her natural temper. catherine was, however, profoundly convinced that social salvation was to be wrought, not by work alone, but also by prayer; or rather, for the antithesis is false, that the forces which re-create society are set in motion in the invisible sphere. constant intercession, and the uplifting of that "holy desire" which is the watchword of her teaching into a sacrificial passion--these are the means from which she hoped for reform and purification. in younger life, she is said to have prayed that she might be made a stopper in the mouth of hell to prevent other souls from entering; through the quaint mediaeval figure one reads the prevailing impulse of her life. the longer catherine lived, the darker became the religious prospect. she saw her aims in practical politics realized one by one, only to mock her by spiritual failure. those whom she best loved disappointed her ideal. she witnessed iniquity in high religious places, violence and corruption enlisted in the defence of truth. as she watched these things, the sense of an inward expiation to be accomplished became overpowering. it summoned her to death, and at the same time offered her a unique consolation. these letters must now speak for themselves. they were written shortly before her death to fra raimondo, who, sadly though he had failed her, remained her most trusted friend. we have impressive accounts from other sources of catherine's slow _transitus_--of the long weeks during which she was literally dying, and by her own choice, of a broken heart. they corroborate many of the details here given. but of still higher value is this transcript by the woman herself--minutely painstaking, while yet obviously composed under strong excitement--of the experience in the secret places of her soul. the first of these letters is written under stress of emotion so intense that coherence is hardly possible. the mind is baffled in seeking to find human speech which shall even adumbrate reality. what catherine has to describe is the culmination of her earthly life: the final triumph of faith over despair, the final offering of herself as a sacrificial victim, in obedience, as she believes, to the express voice of god. the second letter is more calm. the sacrifice has been accepted. she is dying, not indeed by the violence of men, like the martyrs for whose fate she has yearned, but by the agony of her own heart, breaking for the sins of holy church. "i in this way," she writes exulting, "as the holy martyrs with blood." and her agony is serene and joyous; her last thoughts are for others; her soul is full of the victory of peace. outwardly, all was confusion around her; but her own life--the only region in which unity is within our reach--was rounded into a harmonious whole. to read the expression of that life in her letters is to follow one of those tragedies that are the salvation of the world. to master raimondo of capua ... i was breathless with grief from the crucified desire which had been newly conceived in the sight of god. for the light of the mind had mirrored itself in the eternal trinity; and in that abyss was seen the dignity of rational being, and the misery into which man falls by fault of mortal sin, and the necessity of holy church, which god revealed to his servant's bosom; and how no one can attain to enjoy the beauty of god in the abyss of the trinity but by means of that sweet bride; for it befits all to pass by the door of christ crucified, and this door is not found elsewhere than in holy church. she saw that this bride brought life to men, because she holds in herself such life that there is no one who can kill her; and that she gave fortitude and light, and that there is no one who can weaken her, in her true self, or cast her into darkness. and she saw that her fruit never fails, but increases for ever. then said eternal god: "all this dignity, which your intellect could not compass, is given you men by me. consider, therefore, in grief and bitterness, and thou shalt see that people are approaching this bride only for her outer raiment--that is, for temporal possessions. but thou seest her wholly deserted by those who seek her very essence--that is, the fruit of blood. he who pays not the price of charity with true humility and the light of most holy faith, would share this, not unto life, but unto death; he would do like the thief, who takes what is not his. for the fruit of blood is for those who pay the price of love, because she is founded in love, and is very love itself. and i will," said eternal god, "that every one give to her through love, according as i give to my servants to minister in diverse ways, even as they have received. but i grieve that i find none who ministers there. nay, it seems that every one has abandoned her. but i will be the mediator once more." and the pain and fire of her desire increasing, she cried in the sight of god, saying: "what can i do, o unsearchable fire?" and his benignity replied: "do thou offer thy life anew. thou canst refrain from ever giving thyself repose. to this work i have appointed thee--thee and all who follow thee or are to follow. take ye then heed never to relax, but always to increase in desires; for i, impelled by love, am taking good heed to aid you with my bodily and spiritual grace. and in order that your minds may not be occupied by anything else, i have made provision, arousing her whom i have appointed to govern you, and i have led her, and put her to this work by mysteries and in new ways; so that she serves my church with temporal substance, and you with continual humble faithful prayer, and with what activities shall be needed, which shall be appointed to thee and to them by my goodness, to each according to his rank. devote, then, thy life and heart and mind wholly to that bride, for me, with no regard to thyself. contemplate me, and behold the bridegroom of this bride, that is the highest pontiff, and see his holy and good intention--an intention without reserves. and as the bride is alone, so also is the bridegroom. i permit him to cleanse holy church by methods which he applies immoderately, and by fear, with which he inspires his subjects. but another shall come, who shall draw close to her in love, and shall fulfil her. it shall befall this bride as it befalls the soul; for first fear possesses her, but when she is divested of sins, then love fills her and clothes her with virtue. all this it shall do, with sweet sustaining, sweet and suave, of those who shall nourish them at her breast in truth. but do thou this: say to my vicar that he pacify himself to the extent of his power, and grant peace to whosoever will receive it. and to the columns of holy church say that if they wish to remedy great disasters they are to do thus: let them unite, and form a cloak to cover the methods of their father that may seem faulty. and let them adopt a well-ordered life, close to those who fear and love me, and cling together, casting their lower natures aside. if they do thus, i who am light will give them the light needful to holy church. and seeing that there is something which ought to be done among them, let them refer it to my vicar in true unity, quickly, boldly, and after much reflection. he then will be constrained not to resist their goodwills; for he really has a holy and good intention." the tongue does not suffice to narrate such mysteries, nor what intellect saw and affection conceived. and the day passing by, full of marvel, the evening came. and i, feeling that the heart was so drawn by the force of love that i could offer no resistance to going to the place of prayer, and feeling that disposition come upon me which was at the time of my death, prostrated me with great compunction because i had served the bride of christ with much ignorance and negligence, and had been cause that others had done the same. and rising, with the impression of what i have said before the eye of my mind, god placed me before himself--not but that i am always before him, because he contains everything in himself--but in a new way, as if memory, intellect, and will had nothing whatever to do with my body. and this truth was reflected in me with such light that in that abyss were then renewed the mysteries of holy church, and all the graces received in my life, past and present, and the day in which my soul was wedded to him. all which then vanished from me through the increase of the inward fire: and i paid heed only to what should be done, that i should make a sacrifice of myself to god for holy church and for the sake of removing ignorance and negligence from those whom god had put into my hands. then the devils called out havoc upon me, seeking to hinder and slacken with their terrors my free and burning desire. so these beat upon the shell of the body; but desire became the more kindled, crying, "o eternal god, receive the sacrifice of my life in this mystical body of holy church! i have naught to give save what thou hast given to me. take then my heart, and may thy bride lean her face upon it!" then eternal god, turning the eyes of his mercy, removed my heart, and offered it to holy church. and he had drawn it to himself with such force that had he not at once bound it about with his strength--not wishing that the vessel of my body should be broken--my life would have gone. then the devils cried much more clamorously, as if they had felt an intolerable pain; forcing themselves to leave terror with me, threatening me so to disport them that such an act as this could not be wrought. but because hell cannot resist the virtue of humility with the light of most holy faith, the spirit became more single, and worked with tools of fire, hearing in the sight of the divine majesty words most charming, and promises to give gladness. and because in truth it was thus in so great a mystery, the tongue henceforth can suffice to speak of it no more. now i say: thanks, thanks be to the highest god eternal, who has placed us in the battlefield as knights, to fight for his bride with the shield of holiest faith. the field is left free to us by that virtue and power which routed the devil who possessed the human race; who was routed, not in the strength of humanity, but of deity. thus the devil neither is nor shall be routed by the suffering of our bodies, but by strength of the fire of divine, most ardent, and immeasurable love. to master raimondo of capua of the order of the preachers in the name of jesus christ crucified and of sweet mary: dearest and sweetest father in christ sweet jesus: i catherine, servant and slave of the servants of jesus christ, write to you in his precious blood; with the desire to see you a pillar newly established in the garden of holy church, like a faithful bridegroom of truth, as you ought to be; and then shall i account my soul as blessed. therefore i do not wish you to look back for any adversity or persecution, but i wish you to glory in adversity. for by endurance and in no other wise we show our love and constancy, and give glory to god's name. now is the time, dearest father, wholly to lose one's self, not to think of one's self an atom: as the glorious workmen did who were ready with such love and desire to give their life, and watered this garden with blood, with humble continual prayer, and with endurance unto death. beware lest i see you timid; let not your shadow make you afraid; but be a manly fighter, and never desert that yoke of obedience which the highest pontiff has placed on you. moreover, in the order do what you see to be to the honour of god; for the great goodness of god demands this of us, and he has appointed us for nothing else. behold what necessity we see in holy church; for we see her left utterly alone! thus the truth showed, as i write you in another letter. and as the bride has been left solitary, so is her bridegroom. oh, sweetest father, i will not be silent to you of the great mysteries of god, but i will tell them the most briefly that i can, so far as the frail tongue can express them by telling. and further, i say to you what i want you to do. but receive what i say to you without pain, for i do not know what the divine goodness will do with me, whether it will have me remain here, or will call me to itself. father, father and sweetest son, wonderful mysteries has god wrought, from the day of the circumcision till now; such that no tongue could suffice to tell them. but let us pass over all that time, and come to sexagesima sunday, when occurred, as i am writing you briefly, those mysteries which you shall hear: never have i seemed to bear anything like them. for the pain in my heart was so great, that the tunic which clothed me burst, as much as i could clasp of it; and i circled around in the chapel like a person in spasms. he who had held me had surely taken away my life. then, monday coming, in the evening i was constrained to write to christ on earth and to three cardinals. so i had myself helped, and went into the study. and when i had written to christ on earth, i had no way of writing more, the pains had so greatly increased in my body. and, waiting a little, the terror of demons began, in such wise that they stunned me entirely; raging against me as if i, worm that i am, had been the means of taking from their hands what they had possessed a long time in holy church. so great was the terror, with the bodily pain, that i wanted to fly from the study and go to the chapel--as if the study had been the cause of my pains. so i rose up, and not being able to walk, i leaned on my son barduccio. but suddenly i was thrown down; and lying there, it seemed to me as if my soul were parted from my body; not in such wise as when it really was parted, for then my soul tasted the good of the immortals, receiving that highest good together with them; but this now seemed like a special case, for i did not seem to be in the body, but i saw my body as if it had been someone else. and my soul, seeing the grief of him who was with me, wished to know if i had any power over the body, to say to him: "son, do not fear"; and i saw that i could not move the tongue or any member of it, any more than a body quite dead. then i let the body stay just as it was; and the intellect was fixed on the abyss of the trinity. memory was full of recollection of the need of holy church and of all the christian people; and i cried before his face, and demanded divine help with assurance, offering to him my desires, and constraining him by the blood of the lamb and the pains that had been borne. and so eager was the demand that it seemed to me sure that he would not deny that petition. then i asked for all you others, praying him that he would fulfil in you his will and my desires. then i asked that he would save me from eternal condemnation. and while i stayed thus for a very long time, so that the family was mourning me as dead, at this point all the terror of the demons was gone away. then the presence of the humble lamb came before my soul, saying: "fear not: for i will fulfil thy desires, and those of my other servants. i will that thou see that i am a good master, who plays the potter, unmaking and remaking vessels as his pleasure is. these my vessels i know how to unmake and remake; and therefore i take the vessel of thy body, and remake it in the garden of holy church, in different wise than in past time." and as this truth held me close, with ways and words most charming, which i pass over, the body began to breathe a little, and to show that the soul was returned to its vessel. then i was full of wonder. and such pain remained in my heart that i have it there still. all pleasure and all refreshment and all food was then taken away from me. being carried afterward into a place above, the room appeared full of devils: and they began to wage another battle, the most terrible that i ever had, trying to make me believe and see that i was not she who was in the body, but an impure spirit. i, having invoked the divine help with a sweet tenderness, refusing no labour, yet said: "god, listen for my help! lord, haste thee to help me! thou hast permitted that i be alone in this battle, without the refreshment of the father of my soul, of whom i am deprived for my ingratitude." two nights and two days passed in these tempests. it is true that mind and desire received no break, but remained ever fixed on their object; but the body seemed almost to have failed. afterward, on the day of the purification of mary, i wished to hear mass. then all the mysteries were renewed; and god showed the great need that existed, as later appeared; for rome has all been on the point of revolution, backbiting disgracefully, and with much irreverence. only that god has poured oil on their hearts, and i think the thing will have a good end. then god imposed this obedience on me, that during the whole of this holy season of lent i should offer in sacrifice the desires of all the family, and have mass celebrated before him with this one intention alone--that is, for holy church--and that i should myself hear a mass every morning at dawn--a thing which you know is impossible to me; but in obedience to him all things have been possible. and this desire has become so much a part of my flesh, that memory retains nothing else, intellect can see nothing else, and will can desire nothing else. not so much that the soul turns aside from things here below for this reason--but, conversing with the true citizens, it neither can nor will rejoice in their joy, but in their hunger, which they still feel, and which they felt while pilgrims and wayfarers in this life. in this way, and many others which i cannot tell, my life is consumed and shed for this sweet bride: i by this road, and the glorious martyrs with blood. i pray the divine goodness soon to let me see the redemption of his people. when it is the hour of terce, i rise from mass, and you would see a dead woman go to st. peter's; and i enter anew to labour in the ship of holy church. there i stay thus till near the hour of vespers: and from this place i would depart neither day nor night until i see this people at least a little steadily established in peace with their father. this body of mine remains without any food, without even a drop of water: in such sweet physical tortures as i never at any time endured; insomuch that my life hangs by a thread. now i do not know what the divine goodness will do with me: as far as my feelings go, i do not say that i perceive his will in this matter; but as to my physical sensations, it seems to me that this time i am to confirm them with a new martyrdom in the sweetness of my soul--that is, for holy church; then, perhaps, he will make me rise again with him. he will put so an end to my miseries and to my crucified desires. or he may employ his usual ways to strengthen my body. i have prayed and pray his mercy that his will be fulfilled in me, and that he leave not you or the others orphans. but may he ever guide you in the way of the doctrine of truth, with true and very perfect light. i am sure that he will do it. now i pray and constrain you, father, and son given by that sweet mother, mary, that you feel that if god is turning the eye of his mercy upon me, he wills to renew your life; and as dead to all fleshly impulse do you cast yourself into that ship of holy church. and be always discreet in your conversations. you will be able to have the actual cell little; but i wish you to have the cell of the heart always, and always carry it with you. for as you know, while we are locked therein enemies can do us no wrong. then every act you shall do will be guided and ordered of god. also, i beg you that you ripen your heart with holy and true prudence; and that your life be an example to worldly men by your never conforming to the world's customs. may that generosity toward the poor and that voluntary poverty which you have always practised, be renewed and refreshed in you with true and perfect humility. do not slacken in these, for any dignity or exaltation that god may give you, but descend more deep into that valley of humility, rejoicing in the table of the cross. there receive the food of souls: embracing the mother, humble, faithful, and continual prayer, and holy vigil: celebrating every day, unless for some special reason. flee idle and light talking, and be and show yourself mature in your speech and in every way. cast from you all tenderness for yourself and all servile fear; for the sweet church has no need of such folk, but of persons cruel to themselves and compassionate to her. these are the things which i beg you to study to observe. also i beg you that you and brother bartolomeo and brother tommaso and the master should gather together in your hands the book, and any writing of mine that you might find, and do with them what you see will be most to the honour of god: you and misser tommaso too--things in which i found some recreation. i beg you also, that so far as shall be possible to you, you be a shepherd and ruler to this family, as a father, keeping them in the joy of charity and in perfect union; that they be not scattered as sheep without a shepherd. and i think to do more for them and for you after my death than in my life. i shall pray the eternal truth that he pour forth upon you others all plenitude of grace and gifts which he may have given to my soul, so that you may be lights placed in a candlestick. i beg you to pray the eternal bridegroom that he make me manfully fulfil his obedience, and pardon me the multitude of my iniquities. and i beg you that you pardon me every disobedience, irreverence, and ingratitude which i showed to you or committed against you, and all pain and bitterness which i may have caused you: and the slight zeal which i have had for our salvation. and i ask you for your blessing. pray earnestly for me, and have others pray, for the love of christ crucified. pardon me, that i have written you words of bitterness. i do not write them, however, to cause you bitterness, but because i am in doubt, and do not know what the goodness of god will do with me. i wish to have done my duty. and do not feel regret because we are separated one from the other in the body; although you would have been the very greatest consolation to me, greater are my consolation and gladness to see the fruit that you are bearing in holy church. and now i beg you to labour yet more zealously, for she never had so great a need: and do you never depart for any persecution without permission from our lord the pope. comfort you in christ sweet jesus, without any bitterness. i say no more to you. remain in the holy and sweet grace of god. sweet jesus, jesus love. transcribed from the 1896 longmans green and company edition by david price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk a monk of fife being the chronicle written by norman leslie of pitcullo, concerning marvellous deeds that befell in the realm of france, in the years of our redemption, mccccxxix-xxxi. now first done into english out of the french by andrew lang. to henrietta lang my dear aunt,--to you, who read to me stories from the history of france, before i could read them for myself, this chronicle is affectionately dedicated. yours ever, andrew lang. preface norman leslie of pitcullo, whose narrative the reader has in his hands, refers more than once to his unfinished latin chronicle. that work, usually known as "the book of pluscarden," has been edited by mr. felix skene, in the series of "historians of scotland" (vol. vii.). to mr. skene's introduction and notes the curious are referred. here it may suffice to say that the original ms. of the latin chronicle is lost; that of six known manuscript copies none is older than 1480; that two of these copies contain a prologue; and that the prologue tells us all that has hitherto been known about the author. the date of the lost latin original is 1461, as the author himself avers. he also, in his prologue, states the purpose of his work. at the bidding of an unnamed abbot of dunfermline, who must have been richard bothwell, he is to abbreviate "the great chronicle," and "bring it up to date," as we now say. he is to recount the events of his own time, "with certain other miraculous deeds, which i who write have had cognisance of, seen, and heard, beyond the bounds of this realm. also, lastly, concerning a certain marvellous maiden, who recovered the kingdom of france out of the hands of the tyrant, henry, king of england. the aforesaid maiden i saw, was conversant with, and was in her company in her said recovery of france, and till her life's end i was ever present." after "i was ever present" the copies add "etc.," perhaps a sign of omission. the monkish author probably said more about the heroine of his youth, and this the copyists have chosen to leave out. the author never fulfilled this promise of telling, in latin, the history of the maid as her career was seen by a scottish ally and friend. nor did he ever explain how a scot, and a foe of england, succeeded in being present at the maiden's martyrdom in rouen. at least he never fulfilled his promise, as far as any of the six latin mss. of his chronicle are concerned. every one of these mss.--doubtless following their incomplete original--breaks off short in the middle of the second sentence of chapter xxxii. book xii. here is the brief fragment which that chapter contains:-"in those days the lord stirred up the spirit of a certain marvellous maiden, born on the borders of france, in the duchy of lorraine, and the see of toul, towards the imperial territories. this maiden her father and mother employed in tending sheep; daily, too, did she handle the distaff; man's love she knew not; no sin, as it is said, was found in her, to her innocence the neighbours bore witness . . . " here the latin narrative of the one man who followed jeanne d'arc through good and evil to her life's end breaks off abruptly. the author does not give his name; even the name of the abbot at whose command he wrote "is left blank, as if it had been erased in the original" (mr. felix skene, "liber pluscardensis," in the "historians of scotland," vii. p. 18). it might be guessed that the original fell into english hands between 1461 and 1489, and that they blotted out the name of the author, and destroyed a most valuable record of their conqueror and their victim, jeanne d'arc. against this theory we have to set the explanation here offered by norman leslie, our author, in the ratisbon scots college's french ms., of which this work is a translation. leslie never finished his latin chronicle, but he wrote, in french, the narrative which follows, decorating it with the designs which mr. selwyn image has carefully copied in black and white. possessing this information, we need not examine mr. w. f. skene's learned but unconvincing theory that the author of the fragmentary latin work was one maurice drummond, out of the lennox. the hypothesis is that of mr. w. f. skene, and mr. felix skene points out the difficulties which beset the opinion of his distinguished kinsman. our monk is a man of fife. as to the veracity of the following narrative, the translator finds it minutely corroborated, wherever corroboration could be expected, in the large mass of documents which fill the five volumes of m. quicherat's "proces de jeanne d'arc," in contemporary chronicles, and in mss. more recently discovered in french local or national archives. thus charlotte boucher, barthelemy barrette, noiroufle, the scottish painter, and his daughter elliot, capdorat, ay, even thomas scott, the king's messenger, were all real living people, traces of whose existence, with some of their adventures, survive faintly in brown old manuscripts. louis de coutes, the pretty page of the maid, a boy of fourteen, may have been hardly judged by norman leslie, but he certainly abandoned jeanne d'arc at her first failure. so, after explaining the true position and character of our monkish author and artist, we leave his book to the judgment which it has tarried for so long. chapter i--how this book was written, and how norman leslie fled out of fife it is not of my own will, nor for my own glory, that i, norman leslie, sometime of pitcullo, and in religion called brother norman, of the order of benedictines, of dunfermline, indite this book. but on my coming out of france, in the year of our lord one thousand four hundred and fiftynine, it was laid on me by my superior, richard, abbot in dunfermline, that i should abbreviate the great chronicle of scotland, and continue the same down to our own time. {1} he bade me tell, moreover, all that i knew of the glorious maid of france, called jeanne la pucelle, in whose company i was, from her beginning even till her end. obedient, therefore, to my superior, i wrote, in this our cell of pluscarden, a latin book containing the histories of times past, but when i came to tell of matters wherein, as maro says, "pars magna fui," i grew weary of such rude, barbarous latin as alone i am skilled to indite, for of the manner ciceronian, as it is now practised by clerks of italy, i am not master: my book, therefore, i left unfinished, breaking off in the middle of a sentence. yet, considering the command laid on me, in the end i am come to this resolve, namely, to write the history of the wars in france, and the history of the blessed maid (so far at least as i was an eyewitness and partaker thereof), in the french language, being the most commonly understood of all men, and the most delectable. it is not my intent to tell all the story of the maid, and all her deeds and sayings, for the world would scarcely contain the books that should be written. but what i myself beheld, that i shall relate, especially concerning certain accidents not known to the general, by reason of which ignorance the whole truth can scarce be understood. for, if heaven visibly sided with france and the maid, no less did hell most manifestly take part with our old enemy of england. and often in this life, if we look not the more closely, and with the eyes of faith, sathanas shall seem to have the upper hand in the battle, with whose very imp and minion i myself was conversant, to my sorrow, as shall be shown. first, concerning myself i must say some few words, to the end that what follows may be the more readily understood. i was born in the kingdom of fife, being, by some five years, the younger of two sons of archibald leslie, of pitcullo, near st. andrews, a cadet of the great house of rothes. my mother was an englishwoman of the debatable land, a storey of netherby, and of me, in our country speech, it used to be said that i was "a mother's bairn." for i had ever my greatest joy in her, whom i lost ere i was sixteen years of age, and she in me: not that she favoured me unduly, for she was very just, but that, within ourselves, we each knew who was nearest to her heart. she was, indeed, a saintly woman, yet of a merry wit, and she had great pleasure in reading of books, and in romances. being always, when i might, in her company, i became a clerk insensibly, and without labour i could early read and write, wherefore my father was minded to bring me up for a churchman. for this cause, i was some deal despised by others of my age, and, yet more, because from my mother i had caught the southron trick of the tongue. they called me "english norman," and many a battle i have fought on that quarrel, for i am as true a scot as any, and i hated the english (my own mother's people though they were) for taking and holding captive our king, james i. of worthy memory. my fancy, like that of most boys, was all for the wars, and full of dreams concerning knights and ladies, dragons and enchanters, about which the other lads were fain enough to hear me tell what i had read in romances, though they mocked at me for reading. yet they oft came ill speed with their jests, for my brother had taught me to use my hands: and to hold a sword i was instructed by our smith, who had been prentice to harry gow, the burn-thewind of perth, and the best man at his weapon in broad scotland. from him i got many a trick of fence that served my turn later. but now the evil time came when my dear mother sickened and died, leaving to me her memory and her great chain of gold. a bitter sorrow is her death to me still; but anon my father took to him another wife of the bethunes of blebo. i blame myself, rather than this lady, that we dwelt not happily in the same house. my father therefore, still minded to make me a churchman, sent me to robert of montrose's new college that stands in the south street of st. andrews, a city not far from our house of pitcullo. but there, like a wayward boy, i took more pleasure in the battles of the "nations"--as of fife against galloway and the lennox; or in games of catch-pull, football, wrestling, hurling the bar, archery, and golf--than in divine learning--as of logic, and aristotle his analytics. yet i loved to be in the scriptorium of the abbey, and to see the good father peter limning the blessed saints in blue, and red, and gold, of which art he taught me a little. often i would help him to grind his colours, and he instructed me in the laying of them on paper or vellum, with white of egg, and in fixing and burnishing the gold, and in drawing flowers, and figures, and strange beasts and devils, such as we see grinning from the walls of the cathedral. in the french language, too, he learned me, for he had been taught at the great university of paris; and in avignon had seen the pope himself, benedict xiii., of uncertain memory. much i loved to be with father peter, whose lessons did not irk me, but jumped with my own desire to read romances in the french tongue, whereof there are many. but never could i have dreamed that, in days to come, this art of painting would win me my bread for a while, and that a leslie of pitcullo should be driven by hunger to so base and contemned a handiwork, unworthy, when practised for gain, of my blood. yet it would have been well for me to follow even this craft more, and my sports and pastimes less: dickon melville had then escaped a broken head, and i, perchance, a broken heart. but youth is given over to vanities that war against the soul, and, among others, to that wicked game of the golf, now justly cried down by our laws, {2} as the mother of cursing and idleness, mischief and wastery, of which game, as i verily believe, the devil himself is the father. it chanced, on an october day of the year of grace fourteen hundred and twenty-eight, that i was playing myself at this accursed sport with one richard melville, a student of like age with myself. we were evenly matched, though dickon was tall and weighty, being great of growth for his age, whereas i was of but scant inches, slim, and, as men said, of a girlish countenance. yet i was well skilled in the game of the golf, and have driven a holland ball the length of an arrow-flight, there or thereby. but wherefore should my sinful soul be now in mind of these old vanities, repented of, i trust, long ago? as we twain, dickon and i, were known for fell champions at this unholy sport, many of the other scholars followed us, laying wagers on our heads. they were but a wild set of lads, for, as then, there was not, as now there is, a house appointed for scholars to dwell in together under authority. we wore coloured clothes, and our hair long; gold chains, and whingers {3} in our belts, all of which things are now most righteously forbidden. but i carried no whinger on the links, as considering that it hampered a man in his play. so the game went on, now dickon leading "by a hole," as they say, and now myself, and great wagers were laid on us. now, at the hole that is set high above the eden, whence you see far over the country, and the river-mouth, and the shipping, it chanced that my ball lay between dickon's and the hole, so that he could in no manner win past it. "you laid me that stimy of set purpose," cried dickon, throwing down his club in a rage; "and this is the third time you have done it in this game." "it is clean against common luck," quoth one of his party, "and the game and the money laid on it should be ours." "by the blessed bones of the apostle," i said, "no luck is more common. to-day to me, to-morrow to thee! lay it of purpose, i could not if i would." "you lie!" he shouted in a rage, and gripped to his whinger. it was ever my father's counsel that i must take the lie from none. therefore, as his steel was out, and i carried none, i made no more ado, and the word of shame had scarce left his lips when i felled him with the iron club that we use in sand. "he is dead!" cried they of his party, while the lads of my own looked askance on me, and had manifestly no mind to be partakers in my deed. now, melville came of a great house, and, partly in fear of their feud, partly like one amazed and without any counsel, i ran and leaped into a boat that chanced to lie convenient on the sand, and pulled out into the eden. thence i saw them raise up melville, and bear him towards the town, his friends lifting their hands against me, with threats and malisons. his legs trailed and his head wagged like the legs and the head of a dead man, and i was without hope in the world. at first it was my thought to row up the river-mouth, land, and make across the marshes and fields to our house at pitcullo. but i bethought me that my father was an austere man, whom i had vexed beyond bearing with my late wicked follies, into which, since the death of my mother, i had fallen. and now i was bringing him no college prize, but a bloodfeud, which he was like to find an ill heritage enough, even without an evil and thankless son. my stepmother, too, who loved me little, would inflame his anger against me. many daughters he had, and of gear and goods no more than enough. robin, my elder brother, he had let pass to france, where he served among the men of john kirkmichael, bishop of orleans--he that smote the duke of clarence in fair fight at bauge. thinking of my father, and of my stepmother's ill welcome, and of robin, abroad in the wars against our old enemy of england, it may be that i fell into a kind of half dream, the boat lulling me by its movement on the waters. suddenly i felt a crashing blow on my head. it was as if the powder used for artillery had exploded in my mouth, with flash of light and fiery taste, and i knew nothing. then, how long after i could not tell, there was water on my face, the blue sky and the blue tide were spinning round--they spun swiftly, then slowly, then stood still. there was a fierce pain stounding in my head, and a voice said-"that good oar-stroke will learn you to steal boats!" i knew the voice; it was that of a merchant sailor-man with whom, on the day before, i had quarrelled in the market-place. now i was lying at the bottom of a boat which four seamen, who had rowed up to me and had broken my head as i meditated, were pulling towards a merchant-vessel, or carrick, in the eden-mouth. her sails were being set; the boat wherein i lay was towing that into which i had leaped after striking down melville. for two of the ship's men, being on shore, had hailed their fellows in the carrick, and they had taken vengeance upon me. "you scholar lads must be taught better than your masters learn you," said my enemy. and therewith they carried me on board the vessel, the "st. margaret," of berwick, laden with a cargo of dried salmon from eden-mouth. they meant me no kindness, for there was an old feud between the scholars and the sailors; but it seemed to me, in my foolishness, that now i was in luck's way. i need not go back, with blood on my hands, to pitcullo and my father. i had money in my pouch, my mother's gold chain about my neck, a ship's deck under my foot, and the seas before me. it was not hard for me to bargain with the shipmaster for a passage to berwick, whence i might put myself aboard a vessel that traded to bordeaux for wine from that country. the sailors i made my friends at no great cost, for indeed they were the conquerors, and could afford to show clemency, and hold me to slight ransom as a prisoner of war. so we lifted anchor, and sailed out of eden-mouth, none of those on shore knowing how i was aboard the carrick that slipped by the bishop's castle, and so under the great towers of the minster and st. rule's, forth to the northern sea. despite my broken head--which put it comfortably into my mind that maybe dickon's was no worse--i could have laughed to think how clean i had vanished away from st. andrews, as if the fairies had taken me. now having time to reason of it quietly, i picked up hope for dickon's life, remembering his head to be of the thickest. then came into my mind the many romances of chivalry which i had read, wherein the young squire has to flee his country for a chance blow, as did messire patroclus, in the romance of troy, who slew a man in anger over the game of the chess, and many another knight, in the tales of charlemagne and his paladins. for ever it is thus the story opens, and my story, methought, was beginning to-day like the rest. now, not to prove more wearisome than need be, and so vex those who read this chronicle with much talk about myself, and such accidents of travel as beset all voyagers, and chiefly in time of war, i found a trading ship at berwick, and reached bordeaux safe, after much sickness on the sea. and in bordeaux, with a very sore heart, i changed the links of my mother's chain that were left to me--all but four, that still i keep--for money of that country; and so, with a lighter pack than spirit, i set forth towards orleans and to my brother robin. on this journey i had good cause to bless father peter of the abbey for his teaching me the french tongue, that was of more service to me than all my latin. yet my latin, too, the little i knew, stood me in good stead at the monasteries, where often i found bed and board, and no small kindness; i little deeming that, in time to come, i also should be in religion, an old man and weary, glad to speak with travellers concerning the news of the world, from which i am now these ten years retired. yet i love even better to call back memories of these days, when i took my part in the fray. if this be a sin, may god and the saints forgive me, for if i have fought, it was in a rightful cause, which heaven at last has prospered, and in no private quarrel. and methinks i have one among the saints to pray for me, as a friend for a friend not unfaithful. but on this matter i submit me to the judgment of the church, as in all questions of the faith. chapter ii--how norman leslie met noiroufle the cordelier, called brother thomas in religion: and of miracles wrought by brother thomas the ways were rude and long from bordeaux town to orleans, whither i had set my face, not knowing, when i left my own country, that the city was beleaguered by the english. for who could guess that lords and knights of the christian faith, holding captive the gentle duke of orleans, would besiege his own city?--a thing unheard of among the very saracens, and a deed that god punished. yet the news of this great villainy, namely, the leaguer of orleans, then newly begun, reached my ears on my landing at bordeaux, and made me greatly fear that i might never meet my brother robin alive. and this my doubt proved but too true, for he soon after this time fell, with many other scottish gentlemen and archers, deserted shamefully by the french and by charles de bourbon, comte de clermont, at the battle of the herrings. but of this i knew nothing--as, indeed, the battle was not yet fought--and only pushed on for france, thinking to take service with the dauphin against the english. my journey was through a country ruinous enough, for, though the english were on the further bank of the loire, the partisans of the dauphin had made a ruin round themselves and their holds, and, not being paid, they lived upon the country. the further north i held, by ways broken and ruined with rains and suns, the more bare and rugged grew the whole land. once, stopping hard by a hamlet, i had sat down to munch such food as i carried, and was sharing my meal with a little brown herd-boy, who told me that he was dinnerless. a few sheep and lean kine plucked at such scant grasses as grew among rocks, and herbs useless but sweet-scented, when suddenly a horn was blown from the tower of the little church. the first note of that blast had not died away, when every cow and sheep was scampering towards the hamlet and a kind of "barmkyn" {4} they had builded there for protection, and the boy after them, running with his bare legs for dear life. for me, i was too amazed to run in time, so lay skulking in the thick sweetsmelling herbs, whence i saw certain men-at-arms gallop to the crest of a cliff hard by, and ride on with curses, for they were not of strength to take the barmkyn. such was the face of france in many counties. the fields lay weedy and untilled; the starving peasant-folk took to the highway, every man preying on his neighbour. woods had grown up, and broken in upon the roads. howbeit, though robbers harboured therein, none of them held to ransom a wandering poor scots scholar. slowly i trudged, being often delayed, and i was now nearing poictiers, and thought myself well on my road to chinon, where, as i heard, the dauphin lay, when i came to a place where the road should have crossed a stream--not wide, but strong, smooth, and very deep. the stream ran through a glen; and above the road i had long noted the towers of a castle. but as i drew closer, i saw first that the walls were black with fire and roofless, and that carrion birds were hovering over them, some enemy having fallen upon the place: and next, behold, the bridge was broken, and there was neither ford nor ferry! all the ruin was fresh, the castle still smouldering, the kites flocking and yelling above the trees, the planks of the bridge showing that the destruction was but of yesterday. this matter of the broken bridge cost me little thought, for i could swim like an otter. but there was another traveller down by the stream who seemed more nearly concerned. when i came close to him, i found him standing up to his waist in the water, taking soundings with a long and heavy staff. his cordelier's frock was tucked up into his belt, his long brown legs, with black hairs thick on them, were naked. he was a huge, dark man, and when he turned and stared at me, i thought that, among all men of the church and in religion whom i had ever beheld, he was the foulest and most fierce to look upon. he had an ugly, murderous visage, fell eyes and keen, and a right long nose, hooked like a falcon's. the eyes in his head shone like swords, and of all eyes of man i ever saw, his were the most piercing and most terrible. on his back he carried, as i noticed at the first, what i never saw on a cordelier's back before, or on any but his since--an arbalest, and he had bolts enough in his bag, the feathers showing above. "pax vobiscum," he cried, in a loud, grating voice, as he saw me, and scrambled out to shore. "et cum anima tua," i answered. "nom de dieu!" he said, "you have bottomed my latin already, that is scarce so deep as the river here. my malison on them that broke the bridge!" then he looked me over fiercely. "burgundy or armagnac?" he asked. i thought the question strange, as a traveller would scarce care to pronounce for burgundy in that country. but this was a man who would dare anything, so i deemed it better to answer that i was a scot, and, so far, of neither party. "tug-mutton, wine-sack!" he said, these being two of many ill names which the french gave our countrymen; for, of all men, the french are least grateful to us, who, under heaven and the maid, have set their king on his throne again. the english knew this, if the french did not; and their great king, harry the fifth, when he fell ill of st. fiacre's sickness, after plundering that scots saint's shrine of certain horse-shoes, silver-gilt, said well that, "go where he would, he was bearded by scots, dead or alive." but the french are not a thankful people. i had no answer very ready to my tongue, so stepped down silent to the water-edge, and was about taking off my doublet and hose, meaning to carry them on my head and swim across. but he barred the way with his staff, and, for me, i gripped to my whinger, and watched my chance to run in under his guard. for this cordelier was not to be respected, i deemed, like others of the order of st. francis, and all men of holy church. "answer a civil question," he said, "before it comes to worse: armagnac or burgundy?" "armagnac," i answered, "or anything else that is not english. clear the causeway, mad friar!" at that he threw down his staff. "i go north also," he said, "to orleans, if i may, for the foul 'manants' and peasant dogs of this country have burned the castle of alfonse rodigo, a good knight that held them in right good order this year past. he was worthy, indeed, to ride with that excellent captain, don rodrigo de villandradas. king's captain or village labourer, all was fish that came to his net, and but two days ago i was his honourable chaplain. but he made the people mad, and a great carouse that we kept gave them their opportunity. they have roasted the good knight alfonse, and would have done as much for me, his almoner, frock and all, if wine had any mastery over me. but i gave them the slip. heaven helps its own! natheless, i would that this river were between me and their vengeance, and, for once, i dread the smell of roast meat that is still in my nostrils--pah!" and here he spat on the ground. "but one door closes," he went on, "and another opens, and to orleans am i now bound, in the service of my holy calling." "there is, indeed, cause enough for the shriving of souls of sinners, father, in that country, as i hear, and a holy man like you will be right welcome to many." "they need little shriving that are opposite my culverin," said this strange priest. "though now i carry but an arbalest, the gun is my mistress, and my patron is the gunner's saint, st. barbara. and even with this toy, methinks i have the lives of a score of goddams in my boltpouch." i knew that in these wild days many clerics were careless as to that which the church enjoins concerning the effusion of blood--nay, i have named john kirkmichael, bishop of orleans, as having himself broken a spear on the body of the duke of clarence. the abbe of cerquenceaux, also, was a valiant man in religion, and a good captain, and, all over france, clerics were gripping to sword and spear. but such a priest as this i did not expect to see. "your name?" he asked suddenly, the words coming out with a sound like the first grating of a saw on stone. "they call me norman leslie de pitcullo," i answered. "and yours?" "my name," he said, "is noiroufle"--and i thought that never had i seen a man so well fitted with a name;--"in religion, brother thomas, a poor brother of the order of the mad st. francis of assisi." "then, brother thomas, how do you mean to cross this water which lies between you and the exercise of your holy calling? do you swim?" "like a stone cannon-ball, and, for all that i can find, the cursed water has no bottom. cross!" he snarled. "let me see you swim." i was glad enough to be quit of him so soon, but i noticed that, as i stripped and packed my clothes to carry in a bundle on my head, the holy man set his foot in the stirrup of his weapon, and was winding up his arbalest with a windlass, a bolt in his mouth, watching at the same time a heron that rose from a marsh on the further side of the stream. on this bird, i deemed, he meant to try his skill with the arbalest. "adieu, brother thomas," i said, as i took the water; and in a few strokes i was across and running up and down on the bank to get myself dry. "back!" came his grating voice--"back! and without your clothes, you wine-sack of scotland, or i shoot!" and his arbalest was levelled on me. i have often asked myself since what i should have done, and what was the part of a brave man. perchance i might have dived, and swum down-stream under water, but then i had bestowed my bundle of clothes some little way off, and brother thomas commanded it from his side of the stream. he would have waited there in ambush till i came shivering back for hose and doublet, and i should be in no better case than i was now. meanwhile his weapon was levelled at me, and i could see the bolt-point set straight for my breast, and glittering in a pale blink of the sun. the bravest course is ever the best. i should have thrown myself on the earth, no doubt, and so crawled to cover, taking my chance of death rather than the shame of obeying under threat and force. but i was young, and had never looked death in the face, so, being afraid and astonished, i made what seemed the best of an ill business, and, though my face reddens yet at the thought of it, i leaped in and swam back like a dog to heel. "behold me," i said, making as brave a countenance as i might in face of necessity. "well done, norman leslie de pitcullo," he snarled, baring his yellow teeth. "this is the obedience which the young owe to the church. now, ferry me over; you are my boat." "you will drown, man," i said. "not while you swim." then, unbuckling his frock, he packed it as he had seen me do, bade me put it on my head, and so stepped out into the water, holding forth his arm to put about my neck. i was for teaching him how to lay it on my shoulder, and was bidding him keep still as a plank of wood, but he snarled-"i have sailed on a boat of flesh before to-day." to do him justice, he kept still as a log of wood, and so, yielding partly to the stream, i landed him somewhat further down than the place where my own clothes were lying. to them he walked, and very quietly picking up my whinger and my raiment that he gathered under his arm, he concealed himself in a thick bush, albeit it was leafless, where no man could have been aware of him. this amazed me not a little, for modesty did not seem any part of his nature. "now," says he, "fetch over my arbalest. lying where i am you have no advantage to shoot me, as, nom de dieu! i would have shot you had you not obeyed. and hark ye, by the way, unwind the arbalest before you cross; it is ever well to be on the safe side. and be sure you wet not the string." he pushed his face through the bush, and held in his mouth my naked whinger, that shone between his shining eyes. now again i say it, i have thought over this matter many a time, and have even laughed aloud and bitterly, when i was alone, at the figure of me shivering there, on a cold february day, and at my helpless estate. for a naked man is no match for a man with a whinger, and he was sitting on my clothes. so this friar, unworthy as he was of his holy calling, had me at an avail on every side, nor do i yet see what i could do but obey him, as i did. and when i landed from this fifth voyage, he laughed and gave me his blessing, and, what i needed more, some fiery spirits from a water-gourd, in which father thomas carried no water. "well done, my son," he said, "and now we are comrades. my life was not over safe on yonder side, seeing that the 'manants' hate me, and respect not my hood, and two are better company than one, where we are going." this encounter was the beginning of many evils, and often now the picture shines upon my eyes, and i see the grey water, and hear the cold wind whistle in the dry reeds of the river-bank whereon we sat. the man was my master, heaven help me! as surely as sathanas was his. and though, at last, i slipped his clutches, as you shall hear (more readily than, i trow, he will scape his lord in the end, for he still lives), yet it was an ill day that we met--an ill day for me and for france. howbeit we jogged on, he merrily enough singing a sculdudery song, i something surly, under a grey february sky, with a keen wind searching out the threadbare places in our raiment. my comrade, as he called himself, told me what passages he chose in the history of his life: how he came to be frocked (but 'cucullus non facit monachum'), and how, in the troubles of these times, he had discovered in himself a great aptitude for the gunner's trade, of which he boasted not a little. he had been in one and another of these armed companies that took service with either side, for hire, being better warriors and more skilled than the noblesse, but a curse to france: for, in peace or war, friend or foe, they plundered all, and held all to ransom. with rodrigo de villandradas, that blood-hound of spain, he had been high in favour, but when rodrigo went to harry south and east, he had tarried at ruffec, with another thief of that nation, alfonse rodigo. all his talk, as we went, was of slaying men in fight; whom he slew he cared not much, but chiefly he hated the english and them of burgundy. to him, war was what hunting and shooting game is to others; a cruel and bloody pastime, when christians are the quarry! "john the lorrainer, and i, there are no others to be named with us at the culverin," he would brag. "we two against an army, give us good cover, and powder and leaden balls enough. hey! master john and i must shoot a match yet, against english targets, and of them there are plenty under orleans. but if i make not the better speed, the town will have fallen, or yielded, rescue or no rescue, and of rescue there is no hope at all. the devil fights for the english, who will soon be swarming over the loire, and that king of bourges of ours will have to flee, and gnaw horse's fodder, oats and barley, with your friends in scotland." this was one of the many ungenerous taunts which the french made often against us scots, that have been their ancient and leal brethren in arms since the days of king achaius and charlemagne. "the dauphin," he went on, "for king he is none, and crowned he will never be, should be in orleans, leading his men; and lo! he is tied to the belt of fat la tremouille, and is dancing of ballets at chinon--a murrain on him, and on them that make his music!" then he fell to cursing his king, a thing terrible to hear, and so to asking me questions about myself. i told him that i had fled my own country for a man-slaying, hoping, may heaven forgive me! to make him think the higher of me for the deed. "so we all begin," said he; "a shrewd blow, or a fair wench; a death, or a birth unlawful, 'tis all one forth we are driven to the world and the wars. yet you have started well,--well enough, and better than i gave your girl's face credit for. bar steel and rope, you may carry some french gold back to stinking scotland yet." he gave me so much credit as this for a deed that deserved none, but rather called for rebuke from him, who, however unworthy, was in religion, and wore the garb of the blessed francis. but very far from fortifying me in virtuous courses, as was his bounden duty, there was no wickedness that he did not try to teach me, till partly i hated him, and partly, i fear, i admired one so skilled in evil. the truth is, as i said, that this man, for that time, was my master. he was learned in all the arts by which poor and wandering folk can keep their bellies full wandering by the way. with women, ugly and terrible of aspect as he was, he had a great power: a pious saying for the old; a way with the young which has ever been a mystery to me, unless, as some of the learned think, all women are naturally lovers of wickedness, if strength and courage go with it. what by wheedling, what by bullying, what by tales of pilgrimages to holy shrines (he was coming from jerusalem by way of rome, so he told all we met), he ever won a welcome. other more devilish cantrips he played, one of them at the peasant's house where we rested on the first night of our common travel. the lenten supper which they gave us, with no little kindness, was ended, and we were sitting in the firelight, brother thomas discoursing largely of his pilgrimages, and of his favour among the high clergy. thus, at i know not what convent of the clarisses, {5} in italy, the holy sisters had pressed on him a relic of monsieur st. aignan, the patron of the good town of orleans. to see this relic, the farmer, his wife, and his sons and daughters crowded eagerly; it was but a little blackened finger bone, yet they were fain to touch it, as is the custom. but this he would not yet allow. "perchance some of you," he said, "are already corrupt, not knowing it, with the poisonous breath of that damnable hussite heresy, which is blowing from the east like wind of the pestilence, and ye may have doubts concerning the verity of this most holy and miraculous relic?" they all crossed themselves, protesting that no such wicked whisper of sathanas had ever come into their minds, nor had they so much as heard of huss and his blasphemies. "nay," said brother thomas, "i could scarcely blame you if it were partly as i said. for in this latter time of the world, when i have myself met jews flocking to babylon expecting the birth of antichrist, there be many false brethren, who carry about feigned relics, to deceive the simple. we should believe no man, if he be, as i am, a stranger, unless he shows us a sign, such as now i will show you. give me, of your grace, a kerchief, or a napkin." the goodwife gave him a clean white napkin from her aumbry, and he tore it up before their eyes, she not daring to stay his hand. "now note this holy relic and its wonderful power," he said, holding the blackened bone high in his left hand, and all our eyes were fixed on it. "now mark," he said again, passing it over the napkin; and lo! there was a clean white napkin in his hands, and of the torn shreds not a trace! we were still gaping, and crossing ourselves with blessings on this happy day and our unworthy eyes that beheld a miracle, when he did a thing yet more marvellous, if that might be, which i scarce expect any man will believe. going to the table, and catching up a glass vessel on which the goodwife set great store, he threw it against the wall, and we all plainly heard it shiver into tinkling pieces. then, crossing the room into the corner, that was dusky enough, he faced us, again holding the blessed relic, whereon we stared, in holy fear. then he rose, and in his hand was the goodwife's glass vessel, without crack or flaw! {6} "such," he said, "are the properties of this miraculous relic; there is nothing broken but it will mend, ay, a broken limb, as i can prove on my own sinful body,"--thrusting out his great brown leg, whereon, assuredly, were signs of a fracture; "ay, a broken leg, or, my dear daughters, a broken heart." at this, of course, they were all eager to touch the blessed relic with their poor rings of base metal, such as they wear who are not rich. nay, but first, he said, they must give their mites for a convent of the clarisses, that was building at castres, by the care of the holy colette, whom he might call his patroness, unworthy as he was. then he showed us a safe-conduct, signed with that blessed woman's own hand, such as she was wont to give to the religious of the order of st. francis. by virtue of this, he said (and, by miracle, for once he said truly, as i had but too good cause to learn), he could go freely in and out among the camps of french, english, and burgundians. you may conceive how joyous they were in that poor cottage, on a night so blessed, and how brother thomas told us of the holy colette, that famous nun and mother in christ, as he that had often been in her company. he had seen her body lifted in the air while she remained in a pious ecstasy, her mind soaring aloft and her fleshly body following it some way. he had often watched that snow-white beast which followed her, such a creature as is known in no country of the sinful world, but is a thing of paradise. and he had tried to caress this wondrous creature of god, but vainly, for none but the holy sister colette may handle it. concerning her miracles of healing, too, he told us, all of which we already knew for very truth, and still know on better warranty than his. ye may believe that, late and at last, brother thomas had his choice of the warmest place to sleep in--by the "four," as is the wont of pilgrims, for in his humility this holy man would not suffer the farmer's wife and the farmer to give him their bed, as they desired. i, too, was very kindly entreated by the young lads, but i could scarcely sleep for marvelling at these miracles done by one so unworthy; and great, indeed, i deemed, must be the virtue of that relic which wrought such signs in the hands of an evil man. but i have since held that he feigned all by art magic and very sorcery, for, as we wended next morning on our road, he plainly told me, truly or falsely, that he had picked up the blackened finger-bone out of the loathly ashes of the dead in the burned castle near ruffec. wherefore i consider that when brother thomas sold the grace of his relic, by the touching of rings, he dealt in a devilish black simony, vending to simple christians no grace but that of his master, sathanas. thus he was not only evil (if i guess aright, which i submit to the judgment of my ecclesiastical superiors, and of the church), but he had even found out a new kind of wickedness, such as i never read of in any books of theology wherein is much to be learned. i have spoken with some, however, knights and men of this world, who deemed that he did but beguile our eyes by craft and sleight-of-hand. this other hellish art he had, by direct inspiration, as i hold, of his master behemoth, that he could throw his voice whither he would, so that, in all seeming, it came from above, or from below, or from a corner of a room, fashioning it to resemble the voice of whom he would, yet none might see his lips move. with this craft he would affray the peasants about the fire in the little inns where we sometimes rested, when he would be telling tales of bogles and eldritch fantasies, and of fiends that rout and rap, and make the tables and firkins dance. such art of speech, i am advised, is spoken of by st. jerome, in his comment on the holy prophet the saint isaiah, and they that use it he calls "ventriloqui," in the latin, or "belly-speakers," and he takes an unfavourable sense of them and their doings. so much i have from the learned william de boyis, prior of pluscarden, where now i write; with whom i have conversed of these matters privately, and he thinks this art a thing that men may learn by practice, without dealing in nigromancy and the black magic. this question i am content to leave, as is fitting, to the judgment of my superiors. and indeed, as at that time, brother thomas spake not in his belly except to make sport and affray the simple people, soon turning their fears to mirth. certainly the country folk never misdoubted him, the women for a holy man, the men for a good fellow; though all they of his own cloth shrank from him, and i have seen them cross themselves in his presence, but to no avail. he would say a word or two in their ears, and they straightway left the place where he might be. none the less, with his tales and arts, brother thomas commonly so wrought that we seldom slept "a la belle etoile" in that bitter spring weather, but we ordinarily had leave to lie by the hearth, and got a supper and a breakfast. the good peasants would find their henroosts the poorer often, for all that he could snap up was to him fortune of war. i loved these manners little, but leave him i could not. his eye was ever on me; if i stirred in the night he was awake and watching me, and by day he never let me out of a bolt's flight. to cut the string of his wicked weapon was a thought often in my mind, but he was too vigilant. my face was his passport, he said; my face, indeed, being innocent enough, as was no shame to me, but an endless cause of mirth and mockery to him. yet, by reason of the serviceableness of the man in that perilous country, and my constant surprise and wonder at what he did and said, and might do next (which no man could guess beforehand), and a kind of foolish pride in his very wickedness, so much beyond what i had ever dreamed of, and for pure fear of him also, i found myself following with him day by day, ever thinking to escape, and never escaping. i have since deemed that, just as his wickedness was to a boy (for i was little more), a kind of charm, made up of a sort of admiring hate and fear, so my guilelessness (as it seemed to him) also wrought on him strangely. for in part it made sport for him to see my open mouth and staring eyes at the spectacle of his devilries, and in part he really hated me, and hated my very virtue of simplicity, which it was his desire and delight to surprise and corrupt. on these strange terms, then, now drawn each to other, and now forced apart, we wended by poictiers towards chinon, where the dauphin and his court then lay. so we fared northwards, through poitou, where we found evil news enough. for, walking into a village, we saw men, women, and children, all gathered, gaping about one that stood beside a horse nearly foundered, its legs thrust wide, its nostrils all foam and blood. the man, who seemed as weary as his horse, held a paper in his hands, which the priest of that parish took from him and read aloud to us. the rider was a royal messenger, one thomas scott of easter buccleuch, in rankel burn, whom i knew later, and his tidings were evil. the dauphin bade his good towns know that, on the 12th of february, sir john stewart, constable of the scottish forces in france, had fallen in battle at rouvray, with very many of his company, and some frenchmen. they had beset a convoy under sir john fastolf, that was bringing meat to the english leaguered about orleans. but fastolf had wholly routed them (by treachery, as we later learned of the comte de clermont), and sir john stewart, with his brother sir william, were slain. wherefore the dauphin bade the good towns send him money and men, or all was lost. such were the evil tidings, which put me in sore fear for my brother robin, one that, in such an onfall, would go far, as beseemed his blood. but as touching his fortunes, thomas scott could tell me neither good nor bad, though he knew robin, and gave him a good name for a stout man-atarms. it was of some comfort to me to hear a scots tongue; but, for the rest, i travelled on with a heavier heart, deeming that orleans must indeed fall ere i could seek my brother in that town. chapter iii--what befell outside of chinon town my old nurse, when i was a child, used to tell me a long story of a prince who, wandering through the world, made friends with many strange companions. one she called lynx-eye, that could see through a mountain; one was swift-foot, that could outrun the wind; one was fine-ear, that could hear the grass growing; and there was greedy-gut, that could swallow a river. all these were very serviceable to this gracious prince, of i know not what country, in his adventures; and they were often brought into my mind by the companions whom we picked up on the grass-grown roads. these wanderers were as strange as the friends of the prince, and were as variously, but scarce as honourably, gifted. there was the one-armed soldier, who showed his stump very piteously when it was a question of begging from a burgess, but was as well furnished with limbs as other men when no burgess was in sight. there was a wretched woman violer, with her jackanapes, and with her husband, a hang-dog ruffian, she bearing the mark of his fist on her eye, and commonly trailing far behind him with her brat on her back. there was a blind man, with his staff, who might well enough answer to keen-eye, that is, when no strangers were in sight. there was a layman, wearing cope and stole and selling indulgences, but our captain, brother thomas, soon banished him from our company, for that he divided the trade. others there were, each one of them a greedy-gut, a crew of broken men, who marched with us on the roads; but we never entered a town or a house with these discreditable attendants. now, it may seem strange, but the nearer we drew to chinon and the court, the poorer grew the country, for the court and the men-at-arms had stripped it bare, like a flight of locusts. for this reason the dauphin could seldom abide long at one place, for he was so much better known than trusted that the very cordwainer would not let him march off in a new pair of boots without seeing his money, and, as the song said, he even greased his old clouted shoon, and made them last as long as he might. for head-gear he was as ill provided, seeing that he had pawned the fleurons of his crown. there were days when his treasurer at tours (as i myself have heard him say) did not reckon three ducats in his coffers, and the heir of france borrowed money from his very cook. so the people told us, and i have often marvelled how, despite this poverty, kings and nobles, when i have seen them, go always in cloth of gold, with rich jewels. but, as you may guess, near the court of a beggar dauphin the country-folk too were sour and beggarly. we had to tighten our belts before we came to the wood wherein cross-roads meet, from north, south, and east, within five miles of the town of chinon. there was not a white coin among us; night was falling, and it seemed as if we must lie out under the stars, and be fed, like the wolves we heard howling, on wind. by the roadside, at the crossways, but not in view of the road, a council of our ragged regiment was held in a deep ditch. it would be late ere we reached the town, gates would scarce open for us, we could not fee the warders, houses would be shut and dark; the king's archers were apt to bear them unfriendly to wandering men with the devil dancing in their pouches. resource we saw none; if there was a cottage, dogs, like wolves for hunger and fierceness, were baying round it. as for brother thomas, an evil bruit had gone before us concerning a cordelier that the fowls and geese were fain to follow, as wilder things, they say, follow the blessed st. francis. so there sat brother thomas at the cross-roads, footsore, hungry, and sullen, in the midst of us, who dared not speak, he twanging at the string of his arbalest. he called himself our moses, in his blasphemous way, and the blind man having girded at him for not leading us into the land of plenty, he had struck the man till he bled, and now stood stanching his wound. suddenly brother thomas ceased from his twanging, and holding up his hand for silence, leaned his ear to the ground. the night was still, though a cold wind came very stealthily from the east. "horses!" he said. "it is but the noise of the brook by the way," said the blind man, sullenly. brother thomas listened again. "no, it is horses," he whispered. "my men, they that ride horses can spare somewhat out of their abundance to feed the poor." and with that he began winding up his arbalest hastily. "aymeric," he said to one of our afflicted company, "you draw a good bow for a blind man; hide yourself in the opposite ditch, and be ready when i give the word 'pax vobiscum.' you, giles," he spoke to the one-armed soldier, "go with him, and, do you hear, aim low, at the third man's horse. from the sound there are not more than five or six of them. we can but fail, at worst, and the wood is thick behind us, where none may pursue. you, norman de pitcullo, have your whinger ready, and fasten this rope tightly to yonder birch-tree stem, and then cross and give it a turn or two about that oak sapling on the other side of the way. that trap will bring down a horse or twain. be quick, you scotch wine-bag!" i had seen many ill things done, and, to my shame, had held my peace. but a leslie of pitcullo does not take purses on the high-road. therefore my heart rose in sudden anger, i having all day hated him more and more for his bitter tongue, and i was opening my mouth to cry "a secours!"--a warning to them who were approaching, when, quick as lightning, brother thomas caught me behind the knee-joints, and i was on the ground with his weight above me. one cry i had uttered, when his hand was on my mouth. "give him the steel in his guts!" whispered the blind man. "slit his weasand, the scotch pig!" said the one-armed soldier. they were all on me now. "no, i keep him for better sport," snarled brother thomas. "he shall learn the scots for 'ecorcheurs' (flayers of men) "when we have filled our pouches." with that he crammed a great napkin in my mouth, so that i could not cry, made it fast with a piece of cord, trussed me with the rope which he had bidden me tie across the path to trip the horses, and with a kick sent me flying to the bottom of the ditch, my face being turned from the road. i could hear giles and aymeric steal across the way, and the rustling of boughs as they settled on the opposite side. i could hear the trampling hoofs of horses coming slowly and wearily from the east. at this moment chanced a thing that has ever seemed strange to me: i felt the hand of the violer woman laid lightly and kindly on my hair. i had ever pitied her, and, as i might, had been kind to her and her bairn; and now, as it appears, she pitied me. but there could be no help in her, nor did she dare to raise her voice and give an alarm. so i could but gnaw at my gag, trying to find scope for my tongue to cry, for now it was not only the travellers that i would save, but my own life, and my escape from a death of torment lay on my success. but my mouth was as dry as a kiln, my tongue was doubled back till i thought that i should have choked. the night was now deadly still, and the ring of the weary hoofs drew nearer and nearer. i heard a stumble, and the scramble of a tired horse as he recovered himself; for the rest, all was silent, though the beating of my own heart sounded heavy and husky in my ears. closer and closer the travellers drew, and soon it was plain that they rode not carelessly, nor as men who deemed themselves secure, for the tramp of one horse singled itself out in front of the others, and this, doubtless, was ridden by an "eclaireur," sent forward to see that the way ahead was safe. now i heard a low growl of a curse from brother thomas, and my heart took some comfort. they might be warned, if the brother shot at the foremost man; or, at worst, if he was permitted to pass, the man would bear swift tidings to chinon, and we might be avenged, the travellers and i, for i now felt that they and i were in the same peril. the single rider drew near, and passed, and there came no cry of "pax vobiscum" from the friar. but the foremost rider had, perchance, the best horse, and the least wearied, for there was even too great a gap between him and the rest of his company. and now their voices might be heard, as they talked by the way, yet not so loud that, straining my ears as i did, i could hear any words. but the sounds waxed louder, with words spoken, ring of hoofs, and rattle of scabbard on stirrup, and so i knew, at least, that they who rode so late were men armed. brother thomas, too, knew it, and cursed again very low. nearer, nearer they came, then almost opposite, and now, as i listened to hear the traitorous signal of murder--"pax vobiscum"--and the twang of bow-strings, on the night there rang a voice, a woman's voice, soft but wondrous clear, such as never i knew from any lips but hers who then spoke; that voice i heard in its last word, "jesus!" and still it is sounding in my ears. that voice said-"nous voila presqu'arrives, grace a mes freres de paradis." instantly, i knew not how, at the sound of that blessed voice, and the courage in it, i felt my fear slip from me, as when we awaken from a dreadful dream, and in its place came happiness and peace. scarce otherwise might he feel who dies in fear and wakes in paradise. on the forest boughs above me, my face being turned from the road, somewhat passed, or seemed to pass, like a soft golden light, such as in the scots tongue we call a "boyn," that ofttimes, men say, travels with the blessed saints. yet some may deem it but a glancing in my own eyes, from the blood flying to my head; howsoever it be, i had never seen the like before, nor have i seen it since, and, assuredly, the black branches and wild weeds were lit up bare and clear. the tramp of the horses passed, there was no cry of "pax vobiscum," no twang of bows, and slowly the ring of hoofs died away on the road to chinon. then came a rustling of the boughs on the further side of the way, and a noise of footsteps stealthily crossing the road, and now i heard a low sound of weeping from the violer woman, that was crouching hard by where i lay. her man struck her across the mouth, and she was still. "you saw it? saints be with us! you saw them?" he whispered to brother thomas. "fool, had i not seen, would i not have given the word? get you gone, all the sort of you, there is a fey man in this company, be he who he will. wander your own ways, and if ever one of you dogs speak to me again, in field, or street, or market, or ever mention this night . . . ye shall have my news of it. begone! off!" "nay, but, brother thomas, saw'st thou what we saw? what sight saw'st thou?" "what saw i? fools, what should i have seen, but an outrider, and he a king's messenger, sent forward to warn the rest by his fall, if he fell, or to raise the country on us, if he passed, and if afterward they passed us not. they were men wary in war, and travelling on the dauphin's business. verily there was no profit in them." "and that was all? we saw other things." "what i saw was enough for me, or for any good clerk of st. nicholas, and of questions there has been more than enough. begone! scatter to the winds, and be silent." "and may we not put the steel in that scotch dog who delayed us? saints or sorcerers, their horses must have come down but for him." brother thomas caught me up, as if i had been a child, in his arms, and tossed me over the ditch-bank into the wood, where i crashed on my face through the boughs. "only one horse would have fallen, and that had brought the others on us. the scot is safe enough, his mouth is well shut. i will have no blood tonight; leave him to the wolves. and now, begone with you: to fierbois, if you will; i go my own road--alone." they wandered each his own way, sullen and murmuring, starved and weary. what they had seen or fancied, and whether, if the rest saw aught strange, brother thomas saw nought, i knew not then, and know not till this hour. but the tale of this ambush, and of how they that lay in hiding held their hands, and fled--having come, none might say whence, and gone, whither none might tell--is true, and was soon widely spoken of in the realm of france. the woods fell still again, save for the babble of the brook, and there i lay, bound, and heard only the stream in the silence of the night. there i lay, quaking, when all the caitiffs had departed, and the black, chill night received me into itself. at first my mind was benumbed, like my body; but the pain of my face, smarting with switch and scratch of the boughs through which i had fallen, awoke me to thought and fear. i turned over to lie on my back, and look up for any light of hope in the sky, but nothing fell on me from heaven save a cold rain, that the leafless boughs did little to ward off. scant hope or comfort had i; my whole body ached and shuddered, only i did not thirst, for the rain soaked through the accursed napkin on my mouth, while the dank earth, with its graveyard smell, seemed to draw me down into itself, as it drags a rotting leaf. i was buried before death, as it were, even if the wolves found me not and gave me other sepulture; and now and again i heard their long hunting cry, and at every patter of a beast's foot, or shivering of the branches, i thought my hour was come--and i unconfessed! the road was still as death, no man passing by it. this night to me was like the night of a man laid living in the tomb. by no twisting and turning could i loosen the rope that brother thomas had bound me in, with a hand well taught by cruel practice. at last the rain in my face grew like a water-torture, always dropping, and i half turned my face and pressed it to the ground. whether i slept by whiles, or waked all night, i know not, but certainly i dreamed, seeing with shut eyes faces that came and went, shifting from beauty such as i had never yet beheld, to visages more and more hideous and sinful, ending at last in the worst--the fell countenance of noiroufle. then i woke wholly to myself, in terror, to find that he was not there, and now came to me some of that ease which had been born of the strange, sweet voice, and the strange words, "mes freres de paradis." "my brethren of paradise"; who could she be that rode so late in company of armed men, and yet spoke of such great kinsfolk? that it might be the holy colette, then, as now, so famous in france for her miracles, and good deeds, and her austerities, was a thought that arose in me. but the holy sister, as i had heard, never mounted a horse in her many wanderings, she being a villein's daughter, but was carried in a litter, or fared in a chariot; nor did she go in company with armed men, for who would dare to lay hands on her? moreover, the voice that i had heard was that of a very young girl, and the holy sister colette was now entered into the vale of years. so my questioning found no answer. and now i heard light feet, as of some beast stirring and scratching in the trees overhead, and there with a light jingling noise. was it a squirrel? whatever it was, it raced about the tree, coming nearer and going further away, till it fell with a weight on my breast, and, shivering with cold, all strained like a harp-string as i was, i could have screamed, but for the gag in my mouth. the thing crawled up my body, and i saw two red eyes fixed on mine, and deemed it had been a wild cat, such as lives in our corries of the north--a fell beast if brought to bay, but otherwise not hurtful to man. there the red eyes looked on me, and i on them, till i grew giddy with gazing, and half turned my head with a stifled sob. then there came a sharp cry which i knew well enough, and the beast leaped up and nestled under my breast, for this so dreadful thing was no worse than the violer woman's jackanapes, that had slipped its chain, or, rather, had drawn it out of her hand, for now i plainly heard the light chain jingle. this put me on wondering whether they had really departed; the man, verily, thirsted for my life, but he would have slain me ere this hour, i thought, if that had been his purpose. the poor beast a little helped to warm me with the heat of his body, and he was a friendly creature, making me feel less alone in the night. yet, in my own misery, i could not help but sorrow for the poor woman when she found her jackanapes gone, that was great part of her living: and i knew what she would have to bear for its loss from the man that was her master. as this was in my mind, the first grey stole into the sky so that i could see the black branches overhead; and now there awoke the cries of birds, and soon the wood was full of their sweet jargoning. this put some hope into my heart; but the morning hours were long, and colder than the night, to one wet to the bone with the rains. now, too, i comforted myself with believing that, arrive what might, i was wholly quit of brother thomas, whereat i rejoiced, like the man in the tale who had sold his soul to the enemy, and yet, in the end, escaped his clutches by the aid of holy church. death was better to me than life with brother thomas, who must assuredly have dragged me with him to the death that cannot die. morning must bring travellers, and my groaning might lead them to my aid. and, indeed, foot-farers did come, and i did groan as well as i could, but, like the levite in scripture, they passed by on the other side of the way, fearing to meddle with one wounded perchance to the death, lest they might be charged with his slaying, if he died, or might anger his enemies, if he lived. the light was now fully come, and some rays of the blessed sun fell upon me, whereon i said orisons within myself, commanding my case to the saints. devoutly i prayed, that, if i escaped with life, i might be delivered from the fear of man, and namely of brother thomas. it were better for me to have died by his weapon at first, beside the broken bridge, than to have lived his slave, going in dread of him, with a slave's hatred in my heart. so now i prayed for spirit enough to defend my honour and that of my country, which i had borne to hear reviled without striking a blow for it. never again might i dree this extreme shame and dishonour. on this head i addressed myself, as was fitting, to the holy apostle st. andrew, our patron, to whom is especially dear the honour of scotland. then, as if he and the other saints had listened to me, i heard sounds of horses' hoofs, coming up the road from chinon way, and also voices. these, like the others of the night before, came nearer, and i heard a woman's voice gaily singing. and then awoke such joy in my heart as never was there before, and this was far the gladdest voice that ever yet i heard, for, behold, it was the speech of my own country, and the tune i knew and the words. "o, we maun part this love, willie, that has been lang between; there's a french lord coming over sea to wed me wi' a ring; there's a french lord coming o'er the sea to wed and take me hame!" "and who shall the french lord be, elliot?" came another voice, a man's this time, "though he need not cross the sea for you, the worse the luck. is it young pothon de xaintrailles? faith, he comes often enough to see how his new penoncel fares in my hands, and seems right curious in painting." it may be deemed strange that, even in this hour, i conceived in my heart a great mislike of this young french lord, how unjustly i soon well understood. "o, nae french lord for me, father, o, nae french lord for me, but i'll ware my heart on a true-born scot, and wi' him i'll cross the sea." "oh, father, lo you, i can make as well as sing, for that is no word of the old ballant, but just came on to my tongue!" they were now right close to me, and, half in fear, half in hope, i began to stir and rustle in the grass, for of my stifled groaning had hitherto come no profit. then i heard the horses stop. "what stirring is that in the wood, father? i am afraid," came the girl's voice. "belike a fox shifting his lair. push on, maid elliot." the horses advanced, when, by the blessing of the saints, the jackanapes woke in my breast. the creature was used to run questing with a little wooden bowl he carried for largesse, to beg of horsemen for his mistress. this trick of his he did now, hearing the horses' tramp. he leaped the ditch, and i suppose he ran in front of the steeds, shaking his little bowl, as was his wont. "oh, father," sounded the girl's voice, "see the little jackanapes! some travelling body has lost him. let me jump down and catch him. look, he has a little coat on, made like a herald's tabard, and wears the colours of france. here, hold my reins." "no, lass. who can tell where, or who, his owner is? take you my reins, and i will bring you the beast." i heard him heavily dismount. "it will not let itself be caught by a lame man," he said; and he scrambled up the ditch bank, while the jackanapes fled to me, and then ran forward again, back and forth. "nom dieu, whom have we here?" cried the man, in french. i turned, and made such a sound with my mouth as i might, while the jackanapes nestled to my breast. "why do ye not speak, man?" he said again; and i turned my eyes on him, looking as pitifully as might be out of my blood-bedabbled face. he was a burly man, great of growth, with fresh red cheeks, blue eyes, reddish hair, and a red beard, such as are many in the border marches of my own country, the saints bless them for true men! withal he dragged his leg in walking, which he did with difficulty and much carefulness. he "hirpled," as we say, towards me very warily; then, seeing the rope bound about me, and the cloth in my mouth, he drew his dagger, but not to cut my bonds. he was over canny for that, but he slit the string that kept the cursed gag in my mouth, and picked it out with his dagger point; and, oh the blessed taste of that first long draught of air, i cannot set it down in words! "what, in the name of all the saints, make you here, in this guise?" he asked in french, but with a rude border accent. "i am a kindly scot," i said in our own tongue, "of your own country. give me water." and then a dwawm, as we call it, or fainting-fit, came over me. when i knew myself again, i was lying with my head in a maiden's lap, and well i could have believed that the fairies had carried me to their own land, as has befallen many, whereof some have returned to earth with the tale, and some go yet in that unearthly company. "gentle demoiselle, are you the gracious queen of faerie?" i asked, as one half-wakened, not knowing what i said. indeed this lady was clad all in the fairy green, and her eyes were as blue as the sky above her head, and the long yellow locks on her shoulders were shining like the sun. "father, he is not dead," she said, laughing as sweet as all the singingbirds in march--"he is not dead, but sorely wandering in his mind when he takes elliot hume for the fairy queen." "faith, he might have made a worse guess," cried the man. "but now, sir, now that your bonds are cut, i see nothing better for you than a wellwashed face, for, indeed, you are by ordinary 'kenspeckle,' and no company for maids." with that he brought some water from the burn by the road, and therewith he wiped my face, first giving me to drink. when i had drunk, the maid whom he called elliot got up, her face very rosy, and they set my back against a tree, which i was right sorry for, as indeed i was now clean out of fairyland and back in this troublesome world. the horses stood by us, tethered to trees, and browsed on the budding branches. "and now, maybe," he said, speaking in the kindly scots, that was like music in my ear--"now, maybe, you will tell us who you are, and how you came into this jeopardy." i told him, shortly, that i was a scot of fife; whereto he answered that my speech was strangely english. on this matter i satisfied him with the truth, namely, that my mother was of england. i gave my name but not that of our lands, and showed him how i had been wandering north, to take service with the dauphin, when i was set upon, and robbed and bound by thieves, for i had no clearness as to telling him all my tale, and no desire to claim acquaintance with brother thomas. "and the jackanapes?" he asked, whereto i had no better answer than that i had seen the beast with a wandering violer on the day before, and that she having lost it, as i supposed, it had come to me in the night. the girl was standing with the creature in her arms, feeding it with pieces of comfits from a pouch fastened at her girdle. "the little beast is not mine to give," i went on, seeing how she had an affection to the ape, "but till the owner claims it, it is all the ransom i have to pay for my life, and i would fain see it wear the colours of this gentle maid who saved me. it has many pretty tricks, but though today i be a beggar, i trow she will not let it practise that ill trick of begging." "sooner would i beg myself, fair sir," she said, with such a courtly reverence as surprised me; for though they seemed folks well to see in the world, they were not, methought, of noble blood, nor had they with them any company of palfreniers or archers. "elliot, you feed the jackanapes and let our countryman hunger," said the man; and, blushing again, she made haste to give me some of the provision she had made for her journey. so i ate and drank, she waiting on me very gently; but now, being weary of painful writing, and hearing the call to the refectory, and the brethren trampling thither, i must break off, for, if i be late, they will sconce me of my ale. alas! it is to these little cares of creature comforts that i am come, who have seen the face of so many a war, and lived and fought on rat's flesh at compiegne. chapter iv--in what company norman leslie entered chinon; and how he demeaned himself to take service not seemly, was it, that i should expect these kind people, even though they were of my own country, to do more for me than they had already done. so, when i had eaten and drunk, i made my obeisance as if i would be trudging towards chinon, adding many thanks, as well i might. "nay, countryman," said the man, "for all that i can see, you may as well bide a while with us; for, indeed, with leave of my graceless maid, i think we may even end our wild-goose chase here and get us back to the town." seeing me marvel, perhaps, that any should have ridden some four miles or five, and yet speak of returning, he looked at the girl, who was playing with the jackanapes, and who smiled at him as he spoke. "you must know," said he, "that though i am the father of your fairy queen, i am also one of the gracious princess's obedient subjects. no mother has she, poor wench," he added, in a lower voice; "and faith, we men must always obey some woman--as it seems now that the king himself must soon do and all his captains." "you speak," i said, "of the gracious queen of sicily and jerusalem?"--a lady who was thought to be of much avail, as was but right, in the counsels of her son-in-law, the dauphin, he having married her gentle daughter. "ay; queen yolande is far ben {7} with the king--would he had no worse counsellors!" said he, smiling; "but i speak of a far more potent sovereign, if all that she tells of herself be true. you have heard, or belike you have not heard, of the famed pucelle--so she calls herself, i hope not without a warranty--the lorrainer peasant lass, who is to drive the english into the sea, so she gives us all fair warning?" "never a word have i heard, or never marked so senseless a bruit if i heard it; she must be some moon-struck wench, and in her wits wandering." "moon-struck, or sun-struck, or saint-struck, she will strike down our ancient enemy of england, and show you men how it is not wine and wickedness that make good soldiers!" cried the girl whom he called elliot, her face rose-red with anger; and from her eyes two blue rays of light shot straight to mine, so that i believe my face waxed wan, the blood flying to my heart. "listen to her! look at her!" said her father, jestingly. "elliot, if your renowned maid can fright the english as you have affrayed a good scot, the battle is won and orleans is delivered." but she had turned her back on us pettishly, and was talking in a low voice to her jackanapes. as for me, if my face had been pale before, it now grew red enough for shame that i had angered her, who was so fair, though how i had sinned i knew not. but often i have seen that women, and these the best, will be all afire at a light word, wherein the touchiest man-at-arms who ever fought on the turn of a straw could pick no honourable quarrel. "how have i been so unhappy as to offend mademoiselle?" i asked, in a whisper, of her father, giving her a high title, in very confusion. "oh, she will hear no bourde nor jest on this pucelle that all the countryside is clashing of, and that is bewitching my maid, methinks, even from afar. my maid elliot (so i call her from my mother's kin, but her true name is marion, and the french dub her heliote) hath set all her heart and her hope on one that is a young lass like herself, and she is full of old soothsayings about a virgin that is to come out of an oakwood and deliver france--no less! for me, i misdoubt that merlin, the welsh prophet on whom they set store, and the rest of the soothsayers, are all in one tale with old thomas rhymer, of ercildoune, whose prophecies our own folk crack about by the ingle on winter nights at home. but be it as it may, this wench of lorraine has, these three-quarters of a year, been about the sieur robert de baudricourt, now commanding for the king at vaucouleurs, away in the east, praying him to send her to the court. she has visions, and hears voices--so she says; and she gives baudricourt no peace till he carries her to the king. the story goes that, on the ill day of the battle of the herrings, she, being at vaucouleurs--a hundred leagues away and more,--saw that fight plainly, and our countrymen fallen, manlike, around the constable, and the french flying like hares before a little pack of english talbots. when the evil news came, and was approved true, baudricourt could hold her in no longer, and now she is on the way with half a dozen esquires and archers of his command. the second-sight she may have--it is common enough, if you believe the red-shanked highlanders; but if maiden she set forth from vaucouleurs, great miracle it is if maiden she comes to chinon." he whispered this in a manner that we call "pauky," being a free man with his tongue. "this is a strange tale enough," i said; "the saints grant that the maid speaks truly!" "but yesterday came a letter of her sending to the king," he went on, "but never of her writing, for they say that she knows not 'a' from 'b,' if she meets them in her voyaging. now, nothing would serve my wilful daughter elliot (she being possessed, as i said, with love for this female mystery), but that we must ride forth and be the first to meet the maid on her way, and offer her shelter at my poor house, if she does but seem honest, though methinks a hostelry is good enough for one that has ridden so far, with men for all her company. and i, being but a subject of my daughter's, as i said, and this a saint's day, when a man may rest from his paints and brushes, i even let saddle the steeds, and came forth to see what ferlies heaven would send us." "oh, a lucky day for me, fair sir," i answered him, marvelling to hear him speak of paint and brushes, and even as i spoke a thought came into my mind. "if you will listen to me, sir," i said, "and if the gentle maid, your daughter, will pardon me for staying you so long from the road, i will tell you that, to my thinking, you have come over late, for that yesterday the maiden you speak of rode, after nightfall, into chinon." now the girl turned round on me, and, in faith, i asked no more than to see her face, kind or angry. "you tell us, sir, that you never heard speak of the maid till this hour, and now you say that you know of her comings and goings. unriddle your riddle, sir, if it pleases you, and say how you saw and knew one that you never heard speech of." she was still very wroth, and i knew not whether i might not anger her yet more, so i louted lowly, cap in hand, and said-"it is but a guess that comes into my mind, and i pray you be not angry with me, who am ready and willing to believe in this maid, or in any that will help france, for, if i be not wrong, last night her coming saved my life, and that of her own company." "how may that be, if thieves robbed and bound you?" "i told you not all my tale," i said, "for, indeed, few would have believed the thing that had not seen it. but, upon my faith as a gentleman, and by the arm-bone of the holy apostle andrew, which these sinful eyes have seen, in the church of the apostle in his own town, somewhat holy passed this way last night; and if this maid be indeed sent from heaven, that holy thing was she, and none other." "nom dieu! saints are not common wayfarers on our roads at night. there is no 'wale' of saints in this country," said the father of elliot; "and as this pucelle of lorraine must needs pass by us here, if she is still on the way, even tell us all your tale." with that i told them how the "brigands" (for so they now began to call such reivers as brother thomas) were, to my shame, and maugre my head, for a time of my own company. and i told them of the bushment that they laid to trap travellers, and how i had striven to give a warning, and how they bound me and gagged me, and of the strange girl's voice that spoke through the night of "mes freres de paradis," and of that golden "boyn" faring in the dark, that i thought i saw, and of the words spoken by the blind man and the soldier, concerning some vision which affrayed them, i know not what. at this tale the girl elliot, crossing herself very devoutly, cried aloud-"o father, did i not tell you so? this holy thing can have been no other but that blessed maiden, guarded by the dear saints in form visible, whom this gentleman, for the sin of keeping evil company, was not given the grace to see. oh, come, let us mount and ride to chinon, for already she is within the walls; had we not ridden forth so early, we must have heard tell of it." it seemed something hard to me that i was to have no grace to behold what others, and they assuredly much more sinful men than myself, had been permitted to look upon, if this damsel was right in that she said. and how could any man, were he himself a saint, see what was passing by, when his head was turned the other way? howbeit, she called me a gentleman, as indeed i had professed myself to be, and this i saw, that her passion of anger against me was spent, as then, and gone by, like a shower of april. "gentleman you call yourself, sir," said her father; "may i ask of what house?" "we are cadets of the house of rothes," i answered. "my father, leslie of pitcullo, is the fourth son of the third son of the last laird of rothes but one; and, for me, i was of late a clerk studying in st. andrews." "i will not ask why you left your lore," he said; "i have been young myself, and, faith, the story of one lad varies not much from the story of another. if we have any spirit, it drives us out to fight the foreign loons in their own country, if we have no feud at home. but you are a clerk, i hear you say, and have skill enough to read and write?" "yea, and, if need were, can paint, in my degree, and do fair lettering on holy books, for this art was my pleasure, and i learned it from a worthy monk in the abbey." "o day of miracles!" he cried. "listen, elliot, and mark how finely i have fallen in luck's way! lo you, sir, i also am a gentleman in my degree, simple as you see me, being one of the humes of polwarth; but by reason of my maimed leg, that came to me with scars many, from certain shrewd blows got at verneuil fight, i am disabled from war. a murrain on the english bill that dealt the stroke! to make up my ransom (for i was taken prisoner there, where so few got quarter) cost me every crown i could gather, so i even fell back on the skill i learned, like you, when i was a lad, from a priest in the abbey of melrose. ashamed of my craft i am none, for it is better to paint banners and missals than to beg; and now, for these five years, i am advanced to be court painter to the king himself, thanks to john kirkmichael, bishop of orleans, who is of my faraway kin. a sore fall it is, for a hume of polwarth; and strangely enough do the french scribes write my name--'hauves poulvoir,' and otherwise, so please you; but that is ever their wont with the best names in all broad scotland. lo you, even now there is much ado with bannerpainting for the companies that march to help orleans, ever and again." "when the maiden marches, father, you shall have banner-painting," said the girl. "ay, lass, when the maid marches, and when the lift falls and smoors the laverocks we shall catch them in plenty. {8} but, maid or no maid, saving your presence, sir, i need what we craftsmen (i pray you again to pardon me) call an apprentice, and i offer you, if you are skilled as you say, this honourable post, till you find a better." my face grew red again with anger at the word "apprentice," and i know not how i should have answered an offer so unworthy of my blood, when the girl broke in-"till this gentleman marches with the flower of france against our old enemy of england, you should say, father, and helps to show them another bannockburn on loire-side." "ay, well, till then, if it likes you," he said, smiling. "till then there is bed, and meat, and the penny fee for him, till that great day." "that is coming soon!" she cried, her eyes raised to heaven, and so fair she looked, that, being a young man and of my complexion amorous, i could not bear to be out of her company when i might be in it, so stooped my pride to agree with him. "sir," i said, "i thank you heartily for your offer. you come of as good a house as mine, and yours is the brag of the border, as mine is of the kingdom of fife. if you can put your pride in your pouch, faith, so can i; the rather that there is nothing else therein, and so room enough and to spare. but, as touching what this gentle demoiselle has said, i may march also, may i not, when the maid rides to orleans?" "ay, verify, with my goodwill, then you may," he cried, laughing, while the lass frowned. then we clapped hands on it, for a bargain, and he did not insult me by the offer of any arles, or luck penny. the girl was helped to horse, setting her foot on my hand, that dirled as her little shoe sole touched it; and the jackanapes rode on her saddlebow very proudly. for me, i ran as well as i might, but stiffly enough, being cold to the marrow, holding by the father's stirrup-leather and watching the lass's yellow hair that danced on her shoulders as she rode foremost. in this company, then, so much better than that i had left, we entered chinon town, and came to their booth, and their house on the water-side. then, of their kindness, i must to bed, which comfort i sorely needed, and there i slept, in fragrant linen sheets, till compline rang. chapter v--of the fray on the drawbridge at chinon castle during supper, to which they called me, my master showed me the best countenance that might be, and it was great joy to me to eat off clean platters once again, on white linen strewn with spring flowers. as the time was lent, we had fare that they called meagre: fish from the vienne water, below the town, and eggs cooked in divers fashions, all to the point of excellence, for the wine and fare of chinon are famous in france. as my duty was, i waited on my master and on the maid elliot, who was never silent, but babbled of all that she had heard since she came into the town; as to where the pucelle had lighted off her horse (on the edge-stone of a well, so it seemed), and where and with what goodwife she lodged, and how as yet no message had come to her from the castle and the king; and great joy it was to watch and to hear her. but her father mocked, though in a loving manner; and once she wept at his bourdes, and shone out again, when he fell on his knees, offering her a knife and baring his breast to the stroke, for i have never seen more love between father and child, my own experience being contrary. yet to my sisters my father was ever debonnair; for, as i have often marked, the mothers love the sons best and the sons the mothers, and between father and daughters it is the same. but of my mother i have spoken in the beginning of this history. when supper was ended, and all things made orderly, i had no great mind for my bed, having slept my fill for that time. but the maid elliot left us early, which was as if the light had been taken out of the room. beside the fire, my master fell to devising about the state of the country, as burgesses love to do. and i said that, if i were the dauphin, chinon castle should not hold me long, for my "spur would be in my horse's side, and the bridle on his mane," {9} as the old song of the battle of harlaw runs, and i on the way to orleans. thereto he answered, that he well wished it were so, and, mocking, wished that i were the dauphin. "not that our dauphin is a coward, the blood of saint louis has not fallen so low, but he is wholly under the sieur de la tremouille, who was thrust on him while he was young, and still is his master, or, as we say, his governor. now, this lord is one that would fain run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and this side of him is burgundian and that is armagnac, and on which of the sides his heart is, none knows. at azincour, as i have heard, he played the man reasonably well. but he waxes very fat for a man-at-arms, and is fond of women, and wine, and of his ease. now, if once the king ranges up with the bastard of orleans, and xaintrailles, and the other captains, who hate la tremouille, then his power, and the power of the chancellor, the archbishop of rheims, is gone and ended. so these two work ever to patch up a peace with burgundy, but, seeing that the duke has his father's death to avenge on our king, they may patch and better patch, but no peace will come of it. and the captains cry 'forward!' and the archbishop and la tremouille cry 'back!' and in the meantime orleans will fall, and the dauphin may fly whither he will, for france is lost. but, for myself, i would to the saints that i and my lass were home again, beneath the old thorn-tree at polwarth on the green, where i have been merry lang syne." with that word he fell silent, thinking, i doubt not, of his home, as i did of mine, and of the house of pitcullo and the ash-tree at the door, and the sea beyond the ploughed land of the plain. so, after some space of silence, he went to his bed, and i to mine, where for long i lay wakeful, painting on the dark the face of elliot, and her blue eyes, and remembering her merry, changeful ways. betimes in the morning i was awakened by the sound of her moving about through the house, and having dressed and gone forth from my little chamber, i found her in the house-place, she having come from early mass. she took little heed of me, giving me some bread and wine, the same as she and her father took; and she was altogether less gay and wilful than she had been, and there seemed to be something that lay heavy on her mind. when her father asked her if the gossips at the church door had given her any more tidings of the maid, she did but frown, and soon left the chamber, whence my master led me forth into his booth, and bade me show him my hand in writing. this pleased him not ill, and next i must grind colours to his liking; and again he went about his business, while i must mind the booth, and be cap in hand to every saucy page that came from the castle with an order from his lord. full many a time my hand was on my whinger, and yet more often i wished myself on the free road again, so that i were out of ill company, and assuredly the lorrainer maid, whatever she might be, was scarcely longing more than i for the day when she should unfurl her banner and march, with me at her back, to orleans. for so irksome was my servitude, and the laying of colours on the ground of banners for my master to paint, and the copying of books of hours and missals, and the insolence of customers worse born than myself, that i could have drowned myself in the vienne water but for the sight of elliot. yet she was become staid enough, and betimes sad; as it seemed that there was no good news of her dear maid, for the king would not see her, and all men (it appeared), save those who had ridden with her, mocked the pucelle for a bold ramp, with a bee in her bonnet. but the two gentlemen that had been her escort were staunch. their names were jean de metz and bertrand de poulengy, good esquires. of me elliot made ofttimes not much more account than of her jackanapes, which was now in very high favour, and waxing fat, so that, when none but her father could hear her, she would jest and call him la tremouille. yet i, as young men will, was forward in all ways to serve her, and to win her grace and favour. she was fain to hear of scotland, her own country, which she had never seen, and i was as fain to tell her. and betimes i would say how fair were the maidens of our own country, and how any man that saw her would know her to be a scot, though from her tongue, in french, none might guess it. and, knowing that she loved wildflowers, i would search for them and bring them to her, and would lead her to speak of romances which she loved, no less than i, and of pages who had loved queens, and all such matters as young men and maids are wont to devise of; and now she would listen, and at other seasons would seem proud, and as if her mind were otherwhere. young knights many came to our booth, and looked ill-pleased when i served them, and their eyes were ever on the inner door, watching for elliot, whom they seldom had sight of. so here was i, in a double service, who, before i met brother thomas, had been free of heart and hand. but, if my master's service irked me, in that other i found comfort, when i could devise with elliot, as concerning our country and her hopes for the maid. but my own hopes were not high, nor could i mark any sign that she favoured me more than another, though i had the joy to be often in her company. and, indeed, what hope could i have, being so young, and poor, and in visible station no more than any 'prentice lad? my heart was much tormented in these fears, and mainly because we heard no tidings that the maid was accepted by the dauphin, and that the day of her marching, and of my deliverance from my base craft of painting, was at hand. it so fell out, how i knew not, whether i had shown me too presumptuous for an apprentice, or because of any other reason, that elliot had much forborne my company, and was more often in church at her prayers than in the house, or, when in the house, was busy in divers ways, and i scarce ever could get word of her. finding her in this mood, i also withdrew within myself, and was both proud and sorely unhappy, longing more than ever to take my own part in the world as a man-at-arms. now, one day right early, i being alone in the chamber, copying a psalter, elliot came in, looking for her father. i rose at her coming, doffing my cap, and told her, in few words, that my master had gone forth. thereon she flitted about the chamber, looking at this and that, while i stood silent, deeming that she used me in a sort scarce becoming my blood and lineage. suddenly she said, without turning round, for she was standing by a table gazing at the pictures in a book of hours-"i have seen her!" "the pucelle?--do you speak of her, gentle maid?" "i saw her and spoke to her, and heard her voice"; and here her own broke, and i guessed that she was near to weeping. "i went up within the castle precinct, to the tower coudraye," she said, "for i knew that she lodged hard by, with a good woman who dwells there. i passed into the chapel of st. martin on the cliff, and there heard the voice of one praying before the image of our lady. the voice was even as you said that day--the sweetest of voices. i knelt beside her, and prayed aloud for her and for france. she rested her hand on my hair--her hair is black, and cut 'en ronde' like a man's. it is true that they say, she dresses in man's garb. we came forth together, and i put my hand into hers, and said, 'i believe in you; if none other believes, yet do i believe.' then she wept, and she kissed me; she is to visit me here tomorrow, la fille de dieu--" she drew a long sob, and struck her hand hard on the table; then, keeping her back ever towards me, she fled swiftly from the room. i was amazed--so light of heart as she commonly seemed, and of late disdainful--to find her in this passion. yet it was to me that she had spoken--to me that she had opened her heart. now i guessed that, if i was ever to win her, it must be through this pucelle, on whom her mind was so strangely bent. so i prayed that, if it might be god's will, he would prosper the maid, and let me be her loyal servitor, and at last bring me to my desire. something also i dreamed, as young men will who have read many romances, of myself made a knight for great feats of arms, and wearing in my salade my lady's favour, and breaking a spear on talbot, or fastolf, or glasdale, in some last great victory for france. then shone on my eyesight, as it were, the picture of these two children, for they were little more, elliot and the maid, kneeling together in the chapel of st. martin, the gold hair and the black blended; and what were they two alone against this world and the prince of this world? alas, how much, and again how little, doth prayer avail us! these thoughts were in my mind all day, while serving and answering customers, and carrying my master's wares about the town, and up to the castle on the cliff, where the soldiers and sentries now knew me well enough, and the scots archers treated me kindly. but as for elliot, she was like her first self again, and merrier than common with her father, to whom, as far as my knowledge went, she said not a word about the meeting in the crypt of st. martin's chapel, though to me she had spoken so freely. this gave me some hope; but when i would have tried to ask her a question, she only gazed at me in a manner that abashed me, and turned off to toy with her jackanapes. whereby i went to my bed perplexed, and with a heavy heart, as one that was not yet conversant with the ways of women--nay, nor ever, in my secular life, have i understood what they would be at. happier had it been for my temporal life if i had been wiser in woman's ways. but commonly, when we have learned a lesson, the lore comes too late. next day my master had business at the castle with a certain lord, and took me thither to help in carrying his wares. this castle was a place that i loved well, it is so old, having first been builded when the romans were lords of the land; and is so great and strong that our bishop's castle of st. andrews seems but a cottage compared to it. from the hill-top there is a wide prospect over the tower and the valley of the vienne, which i liked to gaze upon. my master, then, went in by the drawbridge, high above the moat, which is so deep that, i trow, no foeman could fill it up and cross it to assail the walls. my master, in limping up the hill, had wearied himself, but soon passed into the castle through the gateway of the bell-tower, as they call it, while i waited for him on the further end of the bridge, idly dropping morsels of bread to the swans that swam in the moat below. on the drawbridge, standing sentinel, was a french man-at-arms, a young man of my own age, armed with a long fauchard, which we call a bill or halberd, a weapon not unlike the lochaber axes of the highlandmen. other soldiers, french, scottish, spaniards, germans, a mixed company, were idling and dicing just within the gate. i was throwing my last piece of crust to a swan, my mind empty of thought, when i started out of my dream, hearing that rare woman's voice which once i had heard before. then turning quickly, i saw, walking between two gentlemen, even those who had ridden with her from vaucouleurs, one whom no man could deem to be other than that much-talkedof maid of lorraine. she was clad very simply, like the varlet of some lord of no great estate, in a black cap with a little silver brooch, a grey doublet, and black and grey hose, trussed up with many points; a sword of small price hung by her side. {10} in stature she was something above the common height of women, her face brown with sun and wind, her eyes great, grey, and beautiful, beneath black brows, her lips red and smiling. in figure she seemed strong and shapely, but so slim--she being but seventeen years of age--that, were it not for her sweet girl's voice, and for the beauty of her grey eyes, she might well have passed for a page, her black hair being cut "en ronde," as was and is the fashion among men-at-arms. thus much have i written concerning her bodily aspect, because many have asked me what manner of woman was the blessed maid, and whether she was beautiful. i gazed at her like one moon-struck, then, remembering my courtesy, i doffed my cap, and louted low; and she bowed, smiling graciously like a great lady, but with such an air as if her mind was far away. she passed, with her two gentlemen, but the french sentinel barred the way, holding his fauchard thwartwise. "on what business come you, and by what right?" he cried, in a rude voice. "by the dauphin's gracious command, to see the dauphin," said one of the gentlemen right courteously. "here is his own letter, and you may know the seal, bidding la pucelle to come before him at this hour." the fellow looked at the seal, and could not but acknowledge the arms of france thereon. he dropped his fauchard over his shoulder, and stood aside, staring impudently at the maiden, and muttering foul words. "so this is the renowned pucelle," he cried; "by god's name" . . . and here he spoke words such as i may not set down in writing, blaspheming god and the maid. she turned and looked at him, but as if she saw him not; and then, a light of joy and love transfiguring her face, she knelt down on the drawbridge, folding her hands, her face bowed, and so abode while one might count twenty, we that beheld her being amazed. then she rose and bent as if in salutation to one we saw not; next, addressing herself to the sentinel, she said, very gently-"sir, how canst thou take in vain the name of god, thou that art in this very hour to die?" so speaking, she with her gentlemen went within the gate, while the soldier stood gazing after her like a man turned to stone. the maid passed from our sight, and then the sentinel, coming to himself, turned in great wrath on me, who stood hard by. "what make you gaping here, you lousy wine-sack of scotland?" he cried; and at the word, my prayer which i had made to st. andrew in my bonds came into my mind, namely, that i should not endure to hear my country defamed. i stopped not to think of words, wherein i never had a ready wit, but his were still in his mouth when i had leaped within his guard, so that he might not swing out his long halberd. "blasphemer and liar!" i cried, gripping his neck with my left hand, while with two up-cuts of my right i sent his lies down his throat in company, as i deem, with certain of his teeth. he dropped his halberd against the wooden fence of the bridge, and felt for his dagger. i caught at his right hand with mine; cries were in my ears--st. denis for france! st. andrew for scotland!--as the other men on guard came running forth to see the sport. we gripped and swayed for a moment, then the staff of his fauchard coming between his legs, he tripped and fell, i above him; our weight soused against the low pales of the bridge side, that were crazy and old; there was a crash, and i felt myself in mid-air, failing to the moat far below us. down and down i whirled, and then the deep water closed over me. chapter vi--how norman leslie escaped out of chinon castle down and down i sank, the water surging up into my nostrils and sounding in my ears; but, being in water, i was safe if it were but deep enough. presently i struck out, and, with a stroke or two, came to the surface. but no sooner did my head show above, and i draw a deep breath or twain, looking for my enemy, than an arbalest bolt cleft the water with a clipping sound, missing me but narrowly. i had but time to see that there was a tumult on the bridge, and swords out (the scots, as i afterwards heard, knocking up the arbalests that the french soldiers levelled at me). then i dived again, and swam under water, making towards the right and the castle rock, which ran sheer down to the moat. this course i chose because i had often noted, from the drawbridge, a jutting buttress of rock, behind which, at least, i should be out of arrow-shot. my craft was to give myself all the semblance of a drowning man, throwing up my arms, when i rose to see whereabout i was and to take breath, as men toss their limbs who cannot swim. on the second time of rising thus, i saw myself close to the jut of rock. my next dive took me behind it, and i let down my feet, close under the side of this natural buttress, to look around, being myself now concealed from the sight of those who were on the bridge. to my surprise i touched bottom, for i had deemed that the water was very deep thereby. next i found that i was standing on a step of hewn stone, and that a concealed staircase, cut in the rock, goes down, in that place, to the very bottom of the moat; for what purpose i know not, but so it is. {11} i climbed up the steps, shook myself, and wrung the water out of my hair, looking about the while for any sign of my enemy, who had blasphemed against my country and the maiden. but there was nothing to see on the water save my own cloth cap floating. on the other side of the fosse, howbeit, men were launching a pleasure-boat, which lay by a stair at the foot of the further wall of the fosse. the sight of them made me glad to creep further up the steps that rounded a sharp corner, till i came as far as an iron wicket-gate, which seemed to cut off my retreat. there i stopped, deeming that the wicket must be locked. the men were now rowing the boat into the middle of the water, so, without expecting to find the gate open, i tried the handle. it turned, to my no little amazement; the gate swang lightly aside, as if its hinges had been newly oiled, and i followed the staircase, creeping up the slimy steps in the half-dark. up and round i went, till i was wellnigh giddy, and then i tripped and reeled so that my body struck against a heavy ironed door. under my weight it yielded gently, and i stumbled across the threshold of a room that smelled strangely sweet and was very warm, being full of the sun, and the heat of a great fire. "is that you, robin of my heart?" said a girl's voice in french; and, before i could move, a pair of arms were round my neck. back she leaped, finding me all wet, and not the man she looked for; and there we both stood, in a surprise that prevented either of us from speaking. she was a pretty lass, with brown hair and bright red cheeks, and was dressed all in white, being, indeed, one of the laundresses of the castle; and this warm room, fragrant with lavender, whereinto i had stumbled, was part of the castle laundry. a mighty fire was burning, and all the tables were covered with piles and flat baskets of white linen, sweet with scented herbs. back the maid stepped towards the door, keeping her eyes on mine; and, as she did not scream, i deemed that none were within hearing: wherein i was wrong, and she had another reason for holding her peace. "save me, gentle maid, if you may," i cried at last, falling on my knees, just where i stood: "i am a luckless man, and stand in much peril of my life." "in sooth you do," she said, "if robert lindsay of the scottish archers finds you here. he loves not that another should take his place at a tryst." "maiden," i said, beginning to understand why the gate was unlocked, and wherefore it went so smooth on its hinges, "i fear i have slain a man, one of the king's archers. we wrestled together on the drawbridge, and the palisade breaking, we fell into the moat, whence i clomb by the hidden stairs." "one of the archers!" cried she, as pale as a lily, and catching at her side with her hand. "was he a scot?" "no, maid, but i am; and i pray you hide me, or show me how to escape from this castle with my life, and that speedily." "come hither!" she said, drawing me through a door into a small, square, empty room that jutted out above the moat. "the other maids are at their dinner," she went on, "and i all alone--the season being lent, and i under penance, and thinking of no danger." for which reason, i doubt not, namely that the others had gone forth, she had made her tryst at this hour with robin lindsay. but he, if he was, as she said, one of the scottish archers that guarded the gate, was busy enough belike with the tumult on the bridge, or in seeking for the body of mine enemy. "how to get you forth i know not," she said, "seeing that from yonder room you pass into the kitchen and thence into the guard-room, and thence again by a passage in the wall behind the great hall, and so forth to the court, and through the gate, and thereby there is no escape: for see you the soldiers must, and will avenge their comrade." hearing this speech, i seemed to behold myself swinging by a tow from a tree branch, a death not beseeming one of gentle blood. up and down i looked, in vain, and then i turned to the window, thinking that, as better was not to be, i might dive thence into the moat, and take my chance of escape by the stairs on the further side. but the window was heavily barred. yet again, if i went forth by the door, and lurked on the postern stair, there was robin lindsay's dirk to reckon with, when he came, a laggard, to his love-tryst. "stop! i have it," said the girl; and flying into the laundry, she returned with a great bundle of white women's gear and a gown of linen, and a woman's white coif, such as she herself wore. in less time than a man would deem possible, she had my wet hair, that i wore about my shoulders, as our student's manner was, tucked up under the cap, and the clean white smock over my wet clothes, and belted neatly about my middle. "a pretty wench you make, i swear by st. valentine," cried she, falling back to look at me, and then coming forward to pin up something about my coif, with her white fingers. i reckoned it no harm to offer her a sisterly kiss. "'tis lucky robin lindsay is late," cried she, laughing, "though even were he here, he could scarce find fault that one maid should kiss another. now," she said, snatching up a flat crate full of linen, "carry these, the king's shirts, and sorely patched they are, on your head; march straight through the kitchen, then through the guard-room, and then by the door on the left into the long passage, and so into the court, and begone; they will but take you for a newly come blanchisseuse. only speak as little as may be, for your speech may betray you." she kissed me very kindly on both cheeks, for she was as frank a lass as ever i met, and a merry. then, leading me to the door of the inner room, she pushed it open, the savoury reek of the kitchen pouring in. "make good speed, margot!" she cried aloud after me, so that all could hear; and i walked straight up the king's kitchen, full as it was of men and boys, breaking salads, spitting fowls, basting meat (though it was lent, but doubtless the king had a dispensation for his health's sake), watching pots, tasting dishes, and all in a great bustle and clamour. the basket of linen shading my face, i felt the more emboldened, though my legs, verily, trembled under me as i walked. through the room i went, none regarding me, and so into the guard-room, but truly this was another matter. some soldiers were dicing at a table, some drinking, some brawling over the matter of the late tumult, but all stopped and looked at me. "a new face, and, by st. andrew, a fair one!" said a voice in the accent of my own country. "but she has mighty big feet; belike she is a countrywoman of thine," quoth a french archer; and my heart sank within me as the other cast a tankard at his head. "come, my lass," cried another, a scot, with a dice-box in his hand, catching at my robe as i passed, "kiss me and give me luck," and, striking up my basket of linen, so that the wares were all scattered on the floor, he drew me on to his knee, and gave me a smack that reeked sorely of garlic. never came man nearer getting a sore buffet, yet i held my hand. then, making his cast with the dice, he swore roundly, when he saw that he had thrown deuces. "lucky in love, unlucky in gaming. lug out your losings," said his adversary with a laugh; and the man left hold of my waist and began fumbling in his pouch. straightway, being free, i cast myself on the floor to pick up the linen, and hide my face, which so burned that it must have seemed as red as the most modest maid might have deemed seemly. "leave the wench alone; she is new come, i warrant, and has no liking for your wantonness," said a kind voice; and, glancing up, i saw that he who spoke was one of the gentlemen who had ridden with the maiden from vaucouleurs. bertrand de poulengy was his name; belike he was waiting while the king and the nobles devised with the maiden privately in the great hall. he stooped and helped me to pick up my linen, as courteously as if i had been a princess of the blood; and, because he was a gentleman, i suppose, and a stranger, the archers did not meddle with him, save to break certain soldiers' jests, making me glad that i was other than i appeared. "come," he said, "my lass, i will be your escort; it seems that fortune has chosen me for a champion of dames." with these words he led the way forth, and through a long passage lit from above, which came out into the court at the stairs of the great hall. down these stairs the maiden herself was going, her face held high and a glad look in her eyes, her conference with the king being ended. poulengy joined her; they said some words which i did not hear, for i deemed that it became me to walk forward after thanking him by a look, and bending my head, for i dared not trust my foreign tongue. before i reached the gateway they had joined me, which i was glad of, fearing more insolence from the soldiers. but these men held their peace, looking grave, and even affrighted, being of them who had heard the prophecy of the maiden and seen its fulfilment. "have ye found the body of that man?" said poulengy to a sergeant-at-arms. "nay, sir, we deem that his armour weighed him down, for he never rose once, though that scot's head was seen thrice and no more. belike they are good, peaceful friends at the bottom of the fosse together." "of what man speak you?" asked the maiden of poulengy. "of him that blasphemed as we went by an hour ago. wrestling with a scot on some quarrel, they broke the palisade, and--lo! there are joiners already mending it. 'tis old and frail. the gentle dauphin is over poor to keep the furnishings of his castle as a king should do." the maiden grew wan as sun-dried grass in summer when she heard this story told. crossing herself, she said-"alas! i warned him, but he died unconfessed. i will do what i may to have masses said for the repose of his soul, poor man: and he so young!" with that she wept, for she wept readily, even for a less thing than such a death as was that archer's. we had now crossed the drawbridge, whereat my heart beat more lightly, and the maiden told poulengy that she would go to the house where she lodged, near the castle. "and thence," she said, "i must fare into the town, for i have promised to visit a damsel of my friends, one heliote poulvoir, if i may find my way thither. know you, gentle damsel," she said to me, "where she abides? or perchance you can lead me thither, if it lies on your way." "i was even going thither, pucelle," i said, mincing in my speech; whereat she laughed, for of her nature she was merry. "scots are heliote and her father, and a scot are not you also, damsel? your speech betrays you," she said; "you all cling close together, you scots, as beseems you well, being strangers in this sweet land of france"; and her face lighted up as she spoke the name she loved, and my heart worshipped her with reverence. "farewell," she cried to poulengy, smiling graciously, and bowing with such a courtesy as a queen might show, for i noted it myself, as did all men, that this peasant girl had the manners of the court, being schooled, as i deem, by the greatest of ladies, her friends st. margaret and st. catherine. then, with an archer, who had ridden beside her from vaucouleurs, following after her as he ever did, the maiden and i began to go down the steep way that led to the town. little she spoke, and all my thought was to enter the house before elliot could spy me in my strange disguise. chapter vii--concerning the wrath of elliot, and the jeopardy of norman leslie the while we went down into the city of chinon, a man attired as a maid, a maiden clad as a man--strange companions!--we held but little converse. her mind, belike, was on fire with a great light of hope, of which afterwards i learned, and the end of the days of trouble and of men's disbelief seemed to her to be drawing near. we may not know what visions of victory and of auxiliary angels, of her king crowned, and fair france redeemed and at peace, were passing through her fancy. therefore she was not fain to talk, being at all times a woman of few words; and in this, as in so many other matters, unlike most of her sex. on my side i had more than enough to think of, for my case and present jeopardy were enough to amaze older and wiser heads than mine. for, imprimis, i had slain one of the king's guards; and, moreover, had struck the first blow, though my adversary, indeed, had given me uttermost provocation. but even if my enemies allowed me to speak in my own defence, which might scarcely be save by miracle, it was scantly possible for me to prove that the other had insulted me and my country. some little hope i had that sir patrick ogilvie, now constable of the scottish men-at-arms in france, or sir hugh kennedy, or some other of our knights, might take up my quarrel, for the sake of our common blood and country, we scots always backing each the other when abroad. yet, on the other hand, it was more probable that i might be swinging, with a flock of crows pecking at my face, before any of my countrymen could speak a word for me with the king. it is true that they who would most eagerly have sought my life deemed me already dead, drowned in the fosse, and so would make no search for me. yet, as soon as i went about my master's affairs, as needs i must, i would be known and taken; and, as we say in our country proverb, "my craig would ken the weight of my hurdies." {12} none the less, seeing that the soldiers deemed me dead, i might readily escape at once from chinon, and take to the roads again, if but i could reach my master's house unseen, and get rid of this foolish feminine gear of cap and petticoat which now i wore to my great shame and discomfort. but on this hand lay little hope; for, once on the road, i should be in a worse jeopardy than ever before, as an apprentice fled from my master, and, moreover, with blood on my hands. moreover, i could ill brook the thought of leaving elliot, to whom my heart went forth in love, and of missing my chance to strike a blow in the wars for the maiden, and against the english; of which reward i had the promise from my master. fortune, and fame, and love, if i were to gain what every young man most desires, were only to be won by remaining at chinon; but there, too, the face of death was close to mine--as, indeed, death, or at least shame and poverty, lay ambushed for me on all sides. here i sadly remembered how, with a light heart, i had left st. andrews, deeming that the story of my life was now about to begin, as it did for many young esquires of greece and other lands, concerning whom i had read in romances. verily in the tale of my adventures hitherto there had been more cuffs than crowns, more shame than honour; and, as to winning my spurs, i was more in point to win a hempen rope, and in my end disgrace my blood. now, as if these perils were not enough to put a man beside himself, there was another risk which, even more than these, took up my thoughts. among all my dangers and manifold distresses, this raised its head highest in my fancy, namely, the fear that my love should see me in my outlandish guise, clad in woman's weeds, and carrying on my head a woman's burden. it was not so much that she must needs laugh and hold me in little account. elliot laughed often, so that now it was not her mirth, to which she was ever ready, but her wrath (whereto she was ready also) that i held in awful regard. for her heart and faith, in a marvellous manner passing the love of women, were wholly set on this maid, in whose company i now fared. and, if the maid went in men's attire (as needs she must, for modesty's sake, who was about men's business, in men's company), here was i attending her in woman's gear, as if to make a mock of her, though in my mind i deemed her no less than a sister of the saints. and elliot was sure to believe that i carried myself thus in mockery and to make laughter; for, at that time, there were many in france who mocked, as did that soldier whose death i had seen and caused. thus i stood in no more danger of death, great as was that risk, than in jeopardy of my mistress's favour, which, indeed, of late i had been in some scant hope at last to win. thus, on all hands, i seemed to myself as sore bestead as ever man was, and on no side saw any hope of succour. i mused so long and deep on these things, that the thought which might have helped me came to me too late, namely, to tell all my tale to the maiden herself, and throw me on her mercy. nay, even when at last and late this light shone on my mind, i had shame to speak to her, considering the marvellous thing which i had just beheld of her, in the fulfilment of her prophecy. but now my master's house was in sight, at the turning from the steep stairs and the wynd, and there stood elliot on the doorstep, watching and waiting for the maid, as a girl may wait for her lover coming from the wars. there was no time given me to slink back and skulk in the shadow of the corner of the wynd; for, like a greyhound in speed, elliot had flown to us and was kneeling to the maid, who, with a deep blush and some anger in her face--for she loved no such obeisances--bade her rise, and so kissed and embraced her, as young girls use among themselves when they are friends and fain of each other. i had turned myself to go apart into the shadow of the corner, as secretly as i might, when i ran straight into the arms of the archer that followed close behind us. on this encounter he gave a great laugh, and, i believe, would have kissed me; but, the maiden looking round, he stood erect and grave as a soldier on guard, for the maiden would suffer no light loves and daffing. "whither make you, damsel, in such haste?" she cried to me. "come, let me present you to this damsel, my friend--and one of your own countrywomen. elliot, ma mie," she said to my mistress, "here is this kind lass, a scot like yourself, who has guided me all the way from the castle hither, and, faith, the way is hard to find. do you thank her for me, and let her sit down in your house: she must be weary with the weight of her basket and her linen"--for these, when she spoke to me, i had laid on the ground. with this she led me up to elliot by the hand, who began to show me very gracious countenance, and to thank me, my face burning all the while with confusion and fear of her anger. suddenly a new look, such as i had never seen before on her face in her light angers, came into her eyes, which grew hard and cold, her mouth also showing stiff; and so she stood, pale, gazing sternly, and as one unable to speak. then-"go out of my sight," she said, very low, "and from my father's house! forth with you for a mocker and a gangrel loon!"--speaking in our common scots,--"and herd with the base thieves from whom you came, coward and mocking malapert!" the storm had fallen on my head, even as i feared it must, and i stood as one bereft of speech and reason. the maid knew no word of our speech, and this passion of elliot's, and so sudden a change from kindness to wrath, were what she might not understand. "elliot, ma mie," she said, very sweetly, "what mean you by this anger? the damsel has treated me with no little favour. tell me, i pray, in what she has offended." but elliot, not looking at her, said to me again, and this time tears leaped up in her eyes--"forth with you! begone, ere i call that archer to drag you before the judges of the good town." i was now desperate, for, clad as i was, the archer had me at an avail, and, if i were taken before the men of the law, all would be known, and my shrift would be short. "gracious pucelle," i said, in french, turning to the maiden, "my life, and the fortune of one who would gladly fight to the death by your side, are in your hands. for the love of the blessed saints, your sisters, and of him who sends you on your holy mission, pray this demoiselle to let me enter the house with you, and tell my tale to you and her. if i satisfy you not of my honour and good intent, i am ready, in this hour, to go before the men of law, and deliver myself up to their justice. for though my life is in jeopardy, i dread death less than the anger of this honourable demoiselle. and verily this is a matter of instant life or death." so saying, i clasped my hands in the manner of one in prayer, setting all my soul into my speech, as a man desperate. the maiden had listened very gravely, and sweetly she smiled when my prayer was ended. "verily," she said to me, "here is deeper water than i can fathom. elliot, ma mie, you hear how gently, and in what distress, this fair lass beseeches us." "fair lass!" cried elliot: and then broke off between a sob and a laugh, her hand catching at her side. "if you love me," said the maid, looking on her astonished, and not without anger--"if you love me, as you have said, you that are the first of my comforters, and, till this day, my only friend in your strange town, let the lass come in and tell us her tale. for, even if she be distraught, and beside herself, as i well deem, i am sent to be a friend of all them that suffer. moreover, ma mie, i have glad tidings for you, which i am longing to speak, but speak it i will never, while the lass goes thus in terror and fear of death or shame." in saying these last words, the fashion of her countenance was changed to a sweet entreaty and command, such as few could have beheld and denied her what she craved, and she laid her hand lightly on elliot's shoulder. "come," said elliot, "be it as you will; come in with me; and you"--turning to myself--"do you follow us." they passed into the house, i coming after, and the archer waiting at the door. "let none enter," said the maiden to her archer, "unless any come to me from the king, or unless it be the master of the house." we passed into the chamber where my master was wont to paint his missals and psalters when he would be alone. then elliot very graciously bade the maiden be seated, but herself stood up, facing me. "gracious maiden, and messenger of the holy saints," she said, "this lass, as you deem her, is no woman, but a man, my father's apprentice, who has clad himself thus to make of you a mockery and a laughing-stock, because that you, being a maid, go attired as a man, by the will of them who sent you to save france. have i said enough, and do i well to be angry?" and her eyes shone as she spoke. the maiden's brows met in wrath; she gazed upon me steadfastly, and i looked--sinful man that i am!--to see her hand go to the hilt of the sword that she wore. but, making no motion, she only said-"and thou, wherefore hast thou mocked at one who did thee no evil, and at this damsel, thy master's daughter?" "gentle maiden," i said, "listen to me for but a little moment. it may be, when thou hast heard all, that thou wilt still be wroth with me, though not for mockery, which was never in my mind. but the gentle damsel, thy friend, will assuredly pardon me, who have already put my life in peril for thy sake, and for the sake of our dear country of scotland and her good name." "thy life in peril for me! how mean you? i stood in no danger, and i never saw your face before." "yet hast thou saved my life," i said; "but of that we may devise hereafter. i am, indeed, though a gentleman by blood and birth, the apprentice of the father of this damsel, thy friend, who is himself a gentleman and of a good house, but poverty drives men to strange shifts. this day i went with my master to the castle, and i was on the drawbridge when thou, with the gentlemen thy esquires, passed over it to see the king. on that bridge a man-at-arms spoke to thee shameful words, blaspheming the holy name of god. no sooner hadst thou gone by than he turned on me, reviling my native country of scotland. then i, not deeming that to endure such taunts became my birth and breeding, struck him on his lying mouth. then, as we wrestled on the bridge, we both struck against the barrier, which was low, frail, and old, so that it gave way under our weight, and we both fell into the moat. when i rose he was not in sight, otherwise i would have saved him by swimming, for i desire to have the life of no man on my hands in private quarrel. but the archers shot at me from the drawbridge, so that i had to take thought for myself. by swimming under the water i escaped, behind a jutting rock, to a secret stair, whence i pushed my way into a chamber of the castle. therein was a damsel, busy with the linen, who, of her goodwill, clad me in this wretched apparel above my own garb, and so, for that time, saved my life, and i passed forth unknown; but yet hath caused me to lose what i prize more highly than life--that is, the gracious countenance of this gentle lady, thy friend and my master's daughter, whom it is my honour and duty in all things to please and serve. tell me, then, do i merit your wrath as a jester and a mock-maker, or does this gentle lady well to be angry with her servitor?" the maiden crossed herself, and murmured a prayer for the soul of him who had died in the moat. but elliot instantly flew to me, and, dragging off my woman's cap, tore with her fair hands at the white linen smock about my neck and waist, so that it was rent asunder and fell on the floor, leaving me clad in my wet doublet and hose. at this sight, without word spoken, she broke out into the merriest laughter that ever i heard, and the most welcome; and the maid too, catching the malady of her mirth, laughed low and graciously, so that to see and hear her was marvel. "begone!" cried elliot--"begone, and shift thy dripping gear"; and, as i fled swiftly to my chamber, i heard her laughter yet, though there came a sob into it; but for the maid, she had already stinted in her mirth ere i left the room. in this strange and unseemly fashion did i first come into the knowledge of this admirable maid--whom, alas! i was to see more often sad than merry, and weeping rather than laughing, though, even in her utmost need, her heart could be light and her mirth free: a manner that is uncommon even among brave men, but, in women, never known by me save in her. for it is the way of women to be very busy and seriously concerned about the smallest things, whereat a man only smiles. but she, with her life at stake, could pluck gaiety forth of danger, if the peril threatened none but herself. these manners of hers i learned to know and marvel at in the later days that came too soon; but now in my chamber, i shifted my wet raiment for dry with a heart wondrous light. my craig {13} was in peril, as we say, neither less nor more than half an hour agone, but i had escaped the anger of elliot; and even, as i deemed, had won more of her good countenance, seeing that i had struck a blow for scotland and for her friend. this thought made me great cheer in my heart; as i heard, from the room below, the voices of the two girls devising together very seriously for nigh the space of an hour. but, knowing that they might have matters secret between themselves to tell of, for the maiden had said that she brought good tidings, i kept coy and to myself in my little upper chamber. to leave the house, indeed, was more than my life was worth. now to fly and hide was what i could not bring myself to venture; here i would stay where my heart was, and take what fortune the saints might send. so i endured to wait, and not gladden myself with the sight of elliot, and the knowledge of how i now stood with her. to me this was great penance, but at last the voices ceased, and, looking secretly from the window, i saw the maiden depart, her archer following her. now i could no longer bridle in my desire to be with elliot, and learn whether i was indeed forgiven, and how i stood in her favour. so, passing down the stair that led from my cubicle, i stood at the door of the room wherein she was and knocked twice. but none answered, and, venturing to enter, i heard the sound of a stifled sob. she had thrown herself on a settle, her face turned to the wall, and the afternoon sun was shining on her yellow hair, which lay loose upon her shoulders. i dared to say no word, and she only made a motion of her hand towards me, that i should begone, without showing me the light of her countenance. on this i went forth stealthily, my heart again very heavy, for the maiden had spoken of learning good tidings; and wherefore should my mistress weep, who, an hour agone, had been so merry? difficult are the ways of women, a language hard to be understood, wherefore "love," as the roman says, "is full of anxious fears." much misdoubting how i fared in elliot's heart, and devising within myself what this new sorrow of elliot's might signify, i half forgot my own danger, yet not so much as to fare forth of the doors, or even into the booth, where customers might come, and i be known. therefore i passed into a room behind the booth, where my master was wont to instruct me in my painting; and there, since better might not be, i set about grinding and mixing such colours as i knew that he required. i had not been long about this task, when i heard him enter the booth from without, whence he walked straight into my workroom. i looked up from my colours, whereat his face, which was ruddy, grew wan, he staggered back, and, being lame, reeled against the wall. there he brought up, crossing himself, and making the sign of the cross at me. "avaunt!" he said, "in the name of this holy sign, whether thou art a wandering spirit, or a devil in a dead man's semblance." "master," i said, "i am neither spirit nor devil. was it ever yet heard that brownie or bogle mixed colours for a painter? nay, touch me, and see whether i am not of sinful scots flesh and blood"; and thereon i laughed aloud, knowing what caused his fear, and merry at the sight of it, for he had ever held tales of "diablerie," and of wraiths and freits and fetches, in high scorn. he sat him down on a chair and gaped upon me, while i could not contain myself from laughing. "for god's sake," said he, "bring me a cup of red wine, for my wits are wandering. deil's buckie," he said in the scots, "will water not drown you? faith, then, it is to hemp that you were born, as shall shortly be seen." i drew him some wine from a cask that stood in the corner, on draught. he drank it at one venture, and held out the cup for more, the colour coming back into his face. "did the archers tell me false, then, when they said that you had fired up at a chance word, and flung yourself and the sentinel into the moat? and where have you been wasting your time, and why went you from the bridge ere i came back, if the archers took another prentice lad for norman leslie?" "they told you truth," i said. "then, in the name of antichrist--that i should say so!--how scaped you drowning, and how came you here?" i told him the story, as briefly as might be. "ill luck go with yon second-sighted wench that has bewitched elliot, and you too, for all that i can see. never did i think to be frayed with a bogle, {14} and, as might have been deemed, the bogle but a prentice loon, when all was done. to my thinking all this fairy work is no more true than that you are a dead man's wraith. but they are all wild about it, at the castle, where i was kept long, doing no trade, and listening to their mad clatter." he took out of his pouch a parcel heedfully wrapped in soft folds of silk. "here is this book of hours," he said, "that i have spent my eyesight, and gold, purple, and carmine, and cobalt upon, these three years past; a jewel it is, though i say so. and i had good hope to sell it to hugh kennedy, for he has of late had luck in taking two english knights prisoners at orleans--the only profitable trade that men now can drive,--and the good knight dearly loves a painted book of devotion; especially if, like this of mine, it be adorned with the loves of jupiter, and the swan, and danae, and other heathen pliskies. we were chaffering over the price, and getting near a bargain, when in comes patrick ogilvie with a tale of this second-sighted maid, and how she had been called to see the king, and of what befell. first, it seems, she boded the death of that luckless limb of a sentinel, and then you took it upon you to fulfil her saying, and so you and he were drowned, and i left prenticeless. little comfort to me it was to hear kennedy and ogilvie praise you for a good scot and true, and say that it was great pity of your death." at this hearing my heart leaped for joy, first, at my own praise from such good knights, and next, because i saw a blink of hope, having friends at court. my master went on-"next, ogilvie told how he had been in hall, with the dauphin, the chancellor tremouille, and some scores of knights and nobles, a great throng. they were all waiting on this lorrainer wench, for the dauphin had been told, at last, that she brought a letter from baudricourt, but before he would not see her. this letter had been kept from him, i guess by whom, and there was other clash of marvels wrought by her, i know not what. so their wisdom was set on putting her to a kind of trial, foolish enough! a young knight was dressed in jewels and a coronet of the king's, and the king was clad right soberly, and held himself far back in the throng, while the other stood in front, looking big. so the wench comes in, and, walking straight through the press of knights, with her head high, kneels to the king, where he stood retired, and calls him 'gentle dauphin'! "'nay, ma mie,' says he, ''tis not i who am the dauphin, but his highness yonder,'--pointing to the young knight, who showed all his plumage like a muircock in spring. "nay, gentle dauphin," she answers, so ogilvie said, "it is to thee that i am sent, and no other, and i am come to save the good town of orleans, and to lead thee to thy sacring at rheims." "here they were all struck amazed, and the king not least, who then had some words apart with the girl. and he has given her rooms in the tour coudraye within the castle; and the clergy and the doctors are to examine her straitly, whether she be from a good airt, {15} or an ill, and all because she knew the king, she who had never seen him before. why should she never have seen him--who warrants me of it?--she dwelling these last days nigh the castle! freits are folly, to my thinking, and fools they that follow them. lad, you gave me a gliff; pass me another stoup of wine! freits, forsooth!" i served him, and he sat and chuckled in his chair, being pleasured by the thought of his own wisdom. "not a word of this to elliot, though," he said suddenly; "when there is a woman in a house--blessings on her!--it is anything for a quiet life! but, 'nom dieu!' what with the fright you gave me, sitting there, whereas i deemed you were meat for eels and carp, and what with thy tale--ha, ha!--and my tale, and the wine, maybe, i forgot your own peril, my lad. faith, your neck is like to be longer, if we be not better advised." hearing him talk of that marvellous thing, wrought through inspiration by the maid--whereat, as his manner was, he mocked, i had clean forgotten my own jeopardy. now this was instant, for who knew how much the archer might have guessed, that followed with the maid and me, and men-at-arms might anon be at our door. "it may be," said i, "that sir patrick ogilvie and sir hugh kennedy would say a word for me in the king's ear." "faith, that is our one chance, and, luckily for you, the lad you drowned, though in the king's service, came hither in the following of a poor knight, who might take blood-ransom for his man. had he been la tremouille's man, you must assuredly have fled the country." he took up his book of hours, with a sigh, and wrapped it again in its silken parcel. "this must be your price with kennedy," he said, "if better may not be. it is like parting with the apple of my eye, but, i know not well how, i love you, my lad, and blood is thicker than water. give me my staff; i must hirple up that weary hill again, and you, come hither." he led me to his own chamber, where i had never been before, and showed me how, in the chimney-neuk, was a way into a certain black hole of little ease, wherein, if any came in search for me, i might lie hidden. and, fetching me a cold fish (lenten cheer), a loaf, and a stoup of wine, whereof i was glad enough, he left me, groaning the while at his ill-fortune, but laden with such thanks as i might give for all his great kindness. there then, i sat, when i had eaten, my ears pricked to listen for the tramp of armed men below and the thunder of their summons at the door. but they came not, and presently my thought stole back to elliot, who, indeed, was never out of my mind then--nay, nor now is. but whether that memory be sinful in a man of religion or not, i leave to the saints and to good confession. much i perplexed myself with marvelling why she did so weep; above all, since i knew what hopeful tidings she had gotten of her friend and her enterprise. but no light came to me in my meditations. i did not know then that whereas young men, and many lasses too, are like the roman lad who went with his bosom bare, crying "aura veni," and sighing for the breeze of love to come, other maidens are wroth with love when he creeps into their hearts, and would fain cast him out--being in a manner mad with anger against love, and against him whom they desire, and against themselves. this mood, as was later seen, was elliot's, for her heart was like a wild bird trapped, that turns with bill and claw on him who comes to set it free. moreover, i have since deemed that her passion of faith in the maid made war on her love for me; one breast being scantly great enough to contain these two affections, and her pride taking, against the natural love, the part of the love which was divine. but all these were later thoughts, that came to me in musing on the sorrows of my days; and, like most wisdom, this knowledge arrived too late, and i, as then, was holden in perplexity. chapter viii--of certain quarrels that came on the hands of norman leslie belike i had dropped asleep, outwearied with what had befallen me, mind and body, but i started up suddenly at the sound of a dagger-hilt smitten against the main door of the house, and a voice crying, "open, in the name of the dauphin." they had come in quest of me, and when i heard them, it was as if a hand had given my heart a squeeze, and for a moment my breath seemed to be stopped. this past, i heard the old serving-woman fumbling with the bolts, and peering from behind the curtain of my casement, i saw that the ways were dark, and the narrow street was lit up with flaring torches, the lights wavering in the wind. i stepped to the wide ingle, thinking to creep into the secret hiding-hole. but to what avail? it might have served my turn if my escape alive from the moat had only been guessed, but now my master must have told all the story, and the men-at-arms must be assured that i was within. thinking thus, i stood at pause, when a whisper came, as if from within the ingle-"unbar the door, and hide not." it must be elliot's voice, speaking through some tube contrived in the ingle of the dwelling-room below or otherwise. glad at heart to think that she took thought of me, i unbarred the door, and threw myself into a chair before the fire, trying to look like one unconcerned. the bolts were now drawn below; i heard voices, rather scots than french, to my sense. then the step of one man climbed up the stair, heavily, and with the tap of a staff keeping tune to it. it was my master. his face was pale, and falling into a chair, he wiped the sweat from his brow. "unhappy man that i am!" he said, "i have lost my apprentice." i gulped something down in my throat ere i could say, "then it is death?" "nay," he said, and smiled. "but gliff for gliff, {16} you put a fear on me this day, and now we are even." "yet i scarce need a cup of wine for my recovery, master," i said, filling him a beaker from the flagon on the table, which he drained gladly, being sore wearied, so steep was the way to the castle, and hard for a lame man. my heart was as light as a leaf on a tree, and the bitterness of shameful death seemed gone by. "i have lost my prentice another way," he said, setting down the cup on the table. "i had much a do to see kennedy, for he was at the dice with other lords. at length, deeming there was no time to waste, i sent in the bonny book of hours, praying him to hear me for a moment on a weighty matter. that brought him to my side; he leaped at the book like a trout at a fly, and took me to his own chamber. there i told him your story. when it came to the wench in the king's laundry, and robin lindsay, and you clad in girl's gear, and kissed in the guard-room, he struck hand on thigh and laughed aloud. "then i deemed your cause as good as three parts won, and he could not hold in, but led me to a chamber where were many lords, dicing and drinking: tremouille, ogilvie, the bishop of orleans--that holy man, who has come to ask for aid from the king,--la hire, xaintrailles, and i know not whom. there i must tell all the chronicle again; and some said this, and some that, and tremouille mocks, that the maid uttered her prophecy to no other end but to make you fulfil it, and slay her enemy for the sake of her 'beaux yeux.' the others would hear nothing of this, and, indeed, though i am no gull, i wot that tremouille is wrong here, and over cunning; he trusts neither man nor woman. howsoever it be, he went with the story to the king, who is keen to hear any new thing. and, to be short, the end of it is this: that you have your free pardon, on these terms, namely, that you have two score of masses said for the dead man, and yourself take service under sir hugh kennedy, that the king may not lose a man-at-arms." never, sure, came gladder tidings to any man than these to me. an hour ago the rope seemed tight about my neck; one day past, and i was but a prentice to the mean craft of painting and limning, arts good for a monk, or a manant, but, save for pleasure, not to be melled or meddled with by a man of gentle blood. and now i was to wear arms, and that in the best of causes, under the best of captains, one of my own country--a lord in ayrshire. "ay, even so," my master said, marking the joy in my face, "you are right glad to leave us--a lass and a lameter. {17} well, well, such is youth, and eld is soon forgotten." i fell on my knees at his feet, and kissed his hands, and i believe that i wept. "sir," i said, "you have been to me as a father, and more than it has been my fortune to find my own father. never would i leave you with my will, and for the gentle demoiselle, your daughter--" but here i stinted, since in sooth i knew not well what words to say. "ay, we shall both miss you betimes; but courage, man! after all, this new life beseems you best, and, mark me, a lass thinks none the worse of a lad because he wears not the prentice's hodden grey, but a scots archer's green, white, and red, and charles for badge on breast and sleeve, and a sword by his side. and as for the bonny book of hours--'master,' i said with shame, 'was that my ransom?' "kennedy would have come near my price, and strove to make me take the gold. but what is bred in the bone will out; i am a gentleman born, not a huckster, and the book i gave him freely. may it profit the good knight in his devotions! but now, come, they are weary waiting for us; the hour waxes late, and elliot, i trow, is long abed. you must begone to the castle." in the stairs, and about the door, some ten of sir hugh's men were waiting, all countrymen of my own, and the noise they made and their speech were pleasant to me. they gave me welcome with shouts and laughter, and clasped my hands: "for him that called us wine-sacks, you have given him water to his wine, and the frog for his butler," they said, making a jest of life and death. but my own heart for the nonce was heavy enough again, i longing to take farewell of elliot, which might not be, nor might she face that wild company. howbeit, thinking it good to have a friend at court, i made occasion to put in the hand of the old serving-woman all of such small coins as i had won in my life servile, deeming myself well quit of such ill-gotten gear. and thereafter, with great mirth and noise, they set forth to climb the hill towards the castle, where i was led, through many a windy passage, to the chamber of sir hugh kennedy. there were torches lit, and the knight, a broad-shouldered, fair-haired man, with a stern, flushed face, was turning over and gazing at his new book of hours, like a child busy with a fresh toy. he laid the book down when we entered, and the senior of the two archers who accompanied me told him that i was he who had been summoned. "your name?" he asked; and i gave it. "you are of gentle blood?" and i answering "yes," he replied, "then see that you are ready to shed it for the king. your life that was justly forfeit, is now, by his royal mercy, returned to you, to be spent in his service. rutherford and douglas, go take him to quarters, and see that to-morrow he is clad as beseems a man of my command. now good night to you--but stay! you, norman leslie, you will have quarrels on your hand. wait not for them, but go to meet them, if they are with the french menat-arms, and in quarrel see that you be swift and deadly. for the townsfolk, no brawling, marauding, or haling about of honest wenches. here we are strangers, and my men must be respected." he bowed his head: his words had been curt, no grace or kindness had he shown me of countenance. i felt in my heart that to him i was but a pawn in the game of battle. now i seemed as far off as ever i was from my foolish dream of winning my spurs; nay, perchance never had i sunk lower in my own conceit. till this hour i had been, as it were, the hinge on which my share of the world turned, and now i was no more than a wheel in the carriage of a couleuvrine, an unconsidered cog in the machine of war. i was to be lost in a multitude, every one as good as myself, or better; and when i had thought of taking service, i had not foreseen the manner of it and the nature of the soldier's trade. my head, that i had carried high, somewhat drooped, as i saluted, imitating my companions, and we wheeled forth of the room. "hugh has taken the pride out of you, lad, or my name is not randal rutherford," said the border man who had guided me. "faith, he has a keen tongue and a short way with him, but there are worse commanders. and now you must to your quarters, for the hour is late and the guard-room shut." he led me to our common sleeping-place, where, among many snoring men-atarms in a great bare hall, a pallet was laid for me, and my flesh crept as i remembered how this was the couch of him whom i had slain. howbeit, being well weary, despite the strangeness of the place, after brief orisons i slept sound till a trumpet called us in the morning. concerning the strangeness of this waking, to me who had been gently nurtured, and the rough life, and profane words which i must hear (not, indeed, that they had been wholly banished from our wild days at st. andrews), it is needless that i should tell. seeing that i was come among rude neighbours, i even made shift to fall back, in semblance, on such manners as i had used among the students before i left scotland, though many perils, and the fear wherein i stood of brother thomas, and the company of the maid elliot, had caused me half to forget my swaggering ways. so, may god forgive me! i swore roundly; i made as if i deemed lightly of that frenchman's death, and, in brief, i so bore me that, ere noon (when i behoved to go into chinon with randal rutherford, and there provide me with the rich apparel of our company), i had three good quarrels on my hand. first, there was the man-at-arms who had kissed me in the guard-room. he, in a "bourde" and mockery, making pretence that he would repeat his insult, got that which was owing him, and with interest, for indeed he could see out of neither of his squint eyes when i had dealt with him. and for this cause perforce, if he needed more proof of my manhood than the weight of my fist, he must tarry for the demonstration which he desired. then there was robin lindsay, and at his wrath i make no marvel, for the tale of how he came late to tryst, and at second-hand (with many such rude and wanton additions as soldiers use to make), was noised abroad all over the castle. his quarrel was no matter for fisticuffs; so, being attired in helmet, vambrace rere-brace, gauntlets, and greaves out of the armoury, where many such suits were stored, i met him in a certain quiet court behind the castle, where quarrels were usually voided. and now my practice of the sword at home and the lessons of our smith came handily to my need. after much clashing of steel and smiting out of sparks, i chanced, by an art known to me, to strike his sword out of his hand. then, having him at an avail, i threw down my own blade, and so plainly told him the plain truth, and how to his mistress i owed my life, which i would rather lose now at his hand than hear her honour blamed, that he forgave me, and we embraced as friends. neither was this jest anew cast up against either of us, men fearing to laugh, as we say, with the wrong side of their mouths. after this friendly bout at point and edge, robin and randal rutherford, being off duty, must needs carry me to the tennis court, where tremouille and the king were playing two young lords, and that for such a stake as would have helped to arm a hundred men for the aid of orleans. it was pretty to see the ball fly about basted from the walls, and the players bounding and striking; and, little as i understood the game, so eager was i over the sport, that a gentleman within the "dedans" touched me twice on the shoulder before i was aware of him. "i would have a word with you, sir, if your grace can spare me the leisure." "may it not be spoken here?" i asked, for i was sorry to lose the spectacle of the tennis, which was new to me, and is a pastime wherein france beats the world. pity it is that many players should so curse and blaspheme god and his saints! "my business," replied the stranger, "is of a kind that will hardly endure waiting." with that i rose and followed him out into the open courtyard, much marvelling what might be toward. "you are that young gentleman," said my man, "for a gentleman i take you to be, from your aspect and common report, who yesterday were the death of gilles de puiseux?" "sir, to my sorrow, and not by my will, i am he, and but now i was going forth to have certain masses said for his soul's welfare": which was true, randal rutherford having filled my purse against pay-day. "i thank you, sir, for your courtesy, and perchance may have occasion to do the like gentle service for you. gilles de puiseux was of my blood and kin; he has none other to take up his feud for him in this place, and now your quickness of comprehension will tell you that the business wherewith i permit myself to break your leisure will brook no tarrying. let me say that i take it not upon me to defend the words of my cousin, who insulted a woman, and, as i believe, a messenger from the blessed saints that love france." i looked at him in some amazement. he was a young man of about my own years, delicately and richly clad in furs, silks, and velvets, a great gold chain hanging in loops about his neck, a gold brooch with an ancient roman medal in his cap. but the most notable thing in him was his thick golden hair, whence la hire had named him "capdorat," because he was so blond, and right keen in war, and hardy beyond others. and here he was challenging me, who stood before him in a prentice's hodden grey! "sir," i said, "i could wish you a better quarrel, but not more courtesy. many a gentleman seeing me such as i am, would bid me send, ere he crossed swords with me, to my own country for my bor-brief, {18} which i came away in too great haste to carry with me. nay, i was but now to set forth and buy me a sword and other accoutrements; natheless, from the armoury here they may equip me with sword and body armour." "of body-armour take no thought," he answered, "for this quarrel is of a kind that must needs be voided in our smocks"; he meaning that it was "a outrance," till one of us fell. verily, now i saw that this was not to be a matter of striking sparks from steel, as robin and i had done, but of life and death. "i shall be the more speedily at your service," i made answer; and as i spoke randal and robin came forth from the "dedans," the sport being over. they joined me, and i told them in few words my new business, my adversary tarrying, cap in hand, till i had spoken, and then proclaiming himself aymar de puiseux, a gentleman of dauphine, as indeed my friends knew. "i shall wait on you, with your leave, at the isle in the river, where it is of custom, opposite the booths of the gold-workers," quoth he, "about the hour of noon"; and so, saluting us, he went, as he said, to provide himself with friends. "blood of judas!" quoth robin, who swore terribly in his speech, "you have your hands full, young norman. he is but now crept out of the rank of pages, but when the french and english pages fought a valliance of late, under orleans, none won more praise than he, who was captain of the french party." "he played a good sword?" i asked. "he threw a good stone! man, it was a stone bicker, and they had lids of baskets for targes." "and he challenges me to the field," i said hotly, "by st. andrew! i will cuff his ears and send him back to the other boys." "norman, my lad, when were you in a stone bicker last?" quoth randal; and i hung my head, for it was not yet six months gone since the sailors and we students were stoning each other in north street. "yet he does play a very good sword, and is cunning of fence, for your comfort," said randal. so i hummed the old lilt of the leslies, whence, they say, comes our name- between the less lea and the mair, he slew the knight and left him there;-for i deemed it well to show a good face. moreover, i had some conceit of myself as a swordsman, and randal was laughing like a foolbody at my countenance. "faith, you will make a spoon or spoil a horn, and--let me have my laugh out--you bid well for an archer," said randal; and robin counselling me to play the same prank on the french lad's sword as late i had done on his own, they took each of them an arm of mine, and so we swaggered down the steep ways into chinon. first i would go to the tailor and the cordwainer, and be fitted for my new splendours as an archer of the guard. they both laughed at me again, for, said they very cheerfully, "you may never live to wear these fine feathers." but randal making the reflection that, if i fell, there would be none to pay the shopmaster, they both shouted with delight in the street, so that passers-by turned and marvelled at them. clearly i saw that to go to fight a duel is one thing, and to go and look on is another, and much more gay, for my heart had no desire of all this merriment. rather would i have recommended my case to the saints, and chiefly to st. andrew, for whose cause and honour i was about to put my life in jeopardy. but shame, and the fear of seeming fearful, drove me to jest with the others--such risks of dying unconfessed are run by sinful men! howbeit, they helped me to choose cloth of the best colour and fashion, laughing the more because i, being short of stature and slim, the tailor, if i fell, might well find none among the archers to purchase that for which, belike, i should have no need. "we must even enlist the pucelle in our guard, for she might wear this apparel," quoth randal. thus boisterously they bore themselves, but more gravely at the swordsmith's, where we picked out a good cut-and-thrust blade, well balanced, that came readily to my hand. then, i with sword at side, like a gentleman, we made to the river, passing my master's booth, where i looked wistfully at the windows for a blink of elliot, but saw none that i knew, only, from an open casement, the little jackanapes mopped and mowed at me in friendly fashion. hard by the booth was a little pier, and we took boat, and so landed on the island, where were waiting for us my adversary and two other gentlemen. having saluted each other, we passed to a smooth grassy spot, surrounded on all sides by tall poplar trees. here in places daffodils were dancing in the wind; but otherwhere the sward was much trampled down, and in two or three spots were black patches that wellnigh turned my courage, for i was not yet used to the sight of men's blood, here often shed for little cause. the friends of us twain adversaries, for enemies we could scarce be called, chose out a smooth spot with a fair light, the sun being veiled, and when we had stripped to our smocks, we drew and fell to work. he was very quick and light in his movements, bounding nimbly to this side or that, but i, using a hanging guard, in our common scots manner, did somewhat perplex him, to whom the fashion was new. one or two scratches we dealt each other, but, for all that, i could see we were well matched, and neither closed, as men rarely do in such a combat, till they are wroth with hurts and their blood warm. now i gashed his thigh, but not deeply, and with that, as i deemed, his temper fired, for he made a full sweep at my leg above the knee. this i have always reckoned a fool's stroke, as leaving the upper part of the body unguarded, and avoiding with my right leg, i drove down with all my force at his head. but, even as i struck, came a flash and the sudden deadness of a deep wound, for he had but feinted, and then, avoiding me so that i touched him not, he drove his point into my breast. between the force of my own blow and this stab i fell forward on my face, and thence rolled over on my back, catching at my breast with my hands, as though to stop the blood, but, in sooth, not well knowing what i did. he had thrown down his sword, and now was kneeling by my side. "i take you to witness," he said, "that this has befallen to my great sorrow, and had i been where this gentleman was yesterday, and heard my cousin blaspheme, i would myself have drawn on him, but--" and here, as i later heard, he fainted from loss of blood, my sword having cut a great vein; and i likewise lost sense and knowledge. nor did i know more till they lifted me and laid me on a litter of poplar boughs, having stanched my wound as best they might. in the boat, as they ferried us across the river, i believe that i fainted again; and so, "between home and hell," as the saying is, i lay on my litter and was carried along the street beside the water. folk gathered around us as we went. i heard their voices as in a dream, when lo! there sounded a voice that i knew right well, for elliot was asking of the people "who was hurt?" at this hearing i hove myself up on my elbow, beckoning with my other hand; and i opened my mouth to speak, but, in place of words, came only a wave of blood that sickened me, and i seemed to be dreaming, in my bed, of elliot and her jackanapes; and then feet were trampling, and at length i was laid down, and so seemed to fall most blessedly asleep, with a little hand in mine, and rarely peaceful and happy in my heart, though wherefore i knew not. after many days of tossing on the waves of the world, it was as if i had been brought into the haven where i would be. of what was passing i knew or i remember nothing. later i heard that a good priest had been brought to my bedside, and perchance there was made some such confession as the church, in her mercy, accepts from sinful men in such case as mine. but i had no thought of life or death, purgatory or paradise; only, if paradise be rest among those we love, such rest for an unknown while, and such sense of blissful companionship, were mine. but whether it was well to pass through and beyond this scarce sensible joy, or whether that peace will ever again be mine and unending, i leave with humility to them in whose hands are christian souls. chapter ix--of the winning of elliot the days of fever and of dreams went by and passed, leaving me very weak, but not ignorant of where i was, and of what had come and gone. my master had often been by my bedside, and elliot now and again; the old housewife also watched me by night, and gave me drink when i thirsted. most of the while i deemed i was at home, in the house of pitcullo; yet i felt there was something strange, and that there was pain somewhere in the room. but at length, as was said, i came to knowledge of things, and could see elliot and remember her, when she knelt praying by my bed, as oft she did, whiles i lay between life and death. i have heard speak of men who, being inflamed with love, as i had been, fell into a fever of the body, and when that passed, lo! their passion had passed with it, and their longing. and so it seemed to be with me. for some days i was not permitted to utter a word, and later, i was as glad in elliot's company as you may have seen a little lad and lass, not near come to full age, who go playing together with flowers and such toys. so we were merry together, the jackanapes keeping us company, and making much game and sport. perchance these were my most blessed days, as of one who had returned to the sinless years, when we are happier than we know, and not yet acquainted with desire. now and again rutherford and lindsay would come to visit me, seeming strangely still and gentle, speaking little, but looking at me with kind eyes, and vowing that my tailor should yet be paid for his labour. capdorat also came, for he had but suffered a flesh wound with much loss of blood, and we showed each other the best countenance. so time went by, while i grew stronger daily; and now it was ordained by the leech, a skilful man, that i might leave my bed, and be clothed, and go about through the house, and eat stronger food, whereof i had the greatest desire, and would ever be eating like a howlet. {19} now, when i was to rise, i looked that they should bring me my old prentice's gabardine and hose, but on the morning of that day elliot came, bearing in her arms a parcel of raiment very gay and costly. "here is your fine clothing new come from the tailor's booth," she cried merrily. "see, you shall be as bright as spring, in green, and white, and red!" there was the bonnet, with its three coloured plumes, and the doublet, with charles wrought in silver on the arm and breast, and all other things seemly--a joy to mine eyes. she held them up before me, her face shining like the return of life, with a happy welcome; and my heart beat to see and hear her as of old it was wont to do. "and wherefore should not i go to the wars," she cried, "and fight beside the maid? i am as tall as she, if scantly so strong, and brave--oh, i am very brave glacidas, i bid you beware!" she said, putting the archer's bonnet gallantly cocked on her beautiful head, and drawing forth the sword from his scabbard, as one in act to fight, but in innocent unwarlike wise. there she stood before me in the sunlight, like the angel of victory, all glad and fair, and two blue rays from her eyes shot into my heart, and lo! i was no more a child, but a man again and a lover. "o elliot," i said, ere ever i wist what i was saying, and i caught her left hand into mine--"o elliot, i love you! give me but your love, and i shall come back from the wars a knight, and claim my love to be my lady." she snatched her hand suddenly, as if angered, out of mine, and therewith, being very weak, i gave a cry, my wound fiercely paining me. then her face changed from rose-red to lily-white, she dropped on her knees by my bed, and her arms were about my neck, and all over my face her soft, sweet-scented hair and her tears. "oh, i have slain you, i have slain you, my love!" she sobbed, making a low, sweet moan, as a cushat in the wild wood, for i lay deadly still, being overcome with pain and joy. and there i was, my love comforting me as a mother comforts her child. i moved my hand, to take hers in mine--her little hand; and so, for a space, there was silence between us, save for her kind moaning, and in my heart was such gladness as comes but once to men, and may not be spoken in words of this world. there was silence between us; then she rose very gently and tossed back her hair, showing her face wet with tears, but rosy-red with happiness and sweet shame. had it not been for that chance hurt, how long might i have wooed ere i won her? but her heart was molten by my anguish. "hath the pain passed?" she whispered. "sweet was the pain, my love, and sweetly hast thou healed it with thy magic." then she kissed me, and so fled from the room, as one abashed, and came not back that day, when, indeed, i did not rise, nor for two days more, being weaker than we had deemed. but happiness is the greatest leech on earth, and does the rarest miracles of healing; so in three days' space i won strength to leave my bed and my room, and could sit by the door, at noon, in the sun of spring, that is warmer in france than in our own country. now it could not be but that elliot and i must meet, when her father was in town about his affairs, or busy in the painting-room, and much work he had then on his hands. but elliot was right coy, hiding herself from me, who watched warily, till one day, when my master was abroad, i had the fortune to find her alone in the chamber, putting spring flowers in a very fair vessel of glass. i made no more ado, but coming in stealthily, i caught her boldly about the body, saying-"yield you, rescue or no rescue, and strive not against me, lest you slay a wounded man-at-arms." for very fear, as i believe, lest she might stir my wound again, she was still as a bird that lies in your hands when once you have caught it. and all that passes of kiss and kind word between happy lovers passed between us, till i prayed of her grace, that i might tell her father how things stood, for well i had seen by his words and deeds that he cherished me as a son. so she granted this, and we fell to devising as to what was to be in days to come. lackland was i, and penniless, save for my pay, if i got it; but we looked to the common fortune of young men-at-arms, namely, spoil of war and the ransom of prisoners of england or burgundy. for i had set up my resolve either to die gloriously, or to win great wealth and honour, which, to a young man and a lover, seem things easily come by. nor could my master look for a great fortune in marriage, seeing that, despite his gentle birth, he lived but as a burgess, and by the work of his hands. as we thus devised, she told me how matters now were in the country, of which, indeed, i still knew but little, for, to a man sick and nigh upon death, nothing imports greatly that betides beyond the walls of his chamber. what i heard was this: namely, that, about orleans, the english ever pressed the good town more closely, building new bastilles and other great works, so as to close the way from blois against any that came thence of our party with victual and men-at-arms. and daily there was fighting without the walls, wherein now one side had the better, now the other; but food was scant in orleans, and many were slain by cannon-shots. yet much was spoken of a new cannonier, lately come to aid the men of orleans, and how he and john of lorraine slew many of the hardiest of the english with their couleuvrines. at this telling i bethought me of brother thomas, but spoke no word concerning him, for my mistress began very gladly to devise of her dear maid, concerning whom, indeed, she could never long be silent. "faithless heart and fickle," i said in a jest, "i believe you love that maid more than you love me, and as she wears sword at side, like a man, i must even challenge her to fight in the island." here she stayed my speech in the best manner and the most gracious, laughing low, so that, verily, i was clean besotted with love, and marvelled that any could be so fair as she, and how i could have won such a lady. "beware how you challenge my maid," said she at last, "for she fights but on horseback, with lance and sperthe, {20} and the duc d'alencon has seen her tilt at the ring, and has given her the best steed in his stables, whereon she shall soon lead her army to orleans." "then i must lay by my quarrel, for who am i to challenge my captain? but, tell me, hath she heard any word of thee and me?" elliot waxed rosy, and whispered-"we had spoken together about thee, ere she went to poictiers to be examined and questioned by the doctors of law and learning, after thou wert wounded." concerning this journey to poictiers i knew nothing, but i was more concerned to hear what the maid had said about elliot and me. for seeing that the maid herself was vowed (as men deemed) to virginity, it passed into my mind that she might think holy matrimony but a low estate, and might try to set my mistress's heart on following her own example. and then, i thought, but foolishly, elliot's love for me might be weaker than her love for the maid. "yes," my lady went on, "i could not but open my heart about thee and me, to one who is of my own age, and so wise, unlike other girls. moreover, i scarce knew well whether your heart was like disposed with my heart. therefore i devised with her more than once or twice." hiding her face on my breast, she spoke very low; and as my fancy had once seen the children, the dark head and the golden, bowed together in prayer for france and the dauphin, so now i saw them again, held close together in converse, and that strange maid and prophetess listening, like any girl, to a girl's tale of the secrets of her heart. "and what counsel gave the maid?" i said; "or had she any prophecy of our fortune?" "nay, on such matters she knows no more than you or i, or knows but seldom, nor seeks to learn from her counsel. only she is bidden that she must rescue orleans, and lead the dauphin to his sacring at rheims. but she wished me well, and comforted me that your heart was even as my own, as she saw on that day when you wore woman's gear and slew him that blasphemed her. and of you she spoke the best words, for that you, who knew her not, took her part against her enemy. and for your wound she sorrowed much, not knowing, more than i who am simple, whether it would turn to life or death. and if to life, then, if she could but persuade the doctor and clergy and the king's counsellors to let her go, she said that you should follow with her to the wars, and she, if so the saints pleased, would be the making of your fortune, you and i being her first friends." "the saints fight for her!" i said, "for we have done our part thus far, and i would that i may be well ere she raises her standard." but here elliot turned right pale, at the thought of my going to the wars, she holding my face off and gazing steadily upon me with wistful eyes. "o god, send that the maid go speedily!" she cried, "for as now you are not fit to bear arms." "thou wouldst not have me lag behind, when the maid's banner is on the wind?" "nay," she said, but slowly, "thee and all that i have would i give for her and for her cause, and for the saints. but now thou must not go,"--and her eyes yearned upon me--"now that i could overthrow thee if we came to war." so here she laughed again, being like the weather without--a changeful thing of shower and shine. thus we continued devising, and she told me that, some days after my wounding, the maid had held converse apart with the king, and then gave him to wit of certain marvellous matters, that none might know save by heavenly inspiration. but what these matters might be none could tell, save the king and the maiden only. that this was sooth i can affirm, having myself been present in later years, when one that affected to be the very pucelle, never slain, or rearisen by miracle, came before the king, and truly she had beguiled many. then the king said, "welcome pucelle, ma mie, thou art welcome if thou hast memory of that secret thing which is between thee and me." whereon this false woman, as one confounded, fell on her knees and confessed her treason. this that elliot told me, therefore, while the sun shone into the chamber through the bare vine-tendrils, was sooth, and by this miracle, it seems, the maid had at last won the ear of the king. so he bade carry her to poictiers, where the doctors and the learned were but now examining into her holy life, and her knowledge of religion, being amazed by the wisdom of her answers. the noble ladies about her, too, and these mendicant friars that were sent to hold inquisition concerning her at domremy, had found in her nothing but simplicity and holy maidenhood, pity and piety. but, as for a sign of her sending, and a marvel to convince all men's hearts, that, she said, she would only work at orleans. so now she was being accepted, and was to raise her standard, as we had cause to believe. "but," said elliot, "the weeks go by, and much is said, and men and victual are to be gathered, and still they tarry, doing no great deed. oh, would that to-day her standard were on the wind! for to-day, and for these many days, i must have you here, and tend you till you be fit to bear arms." therewith she made me much good cheer; then, very tenderly taking her arms from about me, lest i should be hurt again, she cried-"but we speak idly, and thou hast not seen the standard, and the banner, and the pennon of the maid that my father is painting." then i must lean on her shoulder, as, indeed, i still had cause to do, and so, right heedfully, she brought me into the painting-chamber. there, upon great easels, were stretched three sheets of "bougran," {21} very white and glistering--a mighty long sheet for the standard, a smaller one, square, for the banner, and the pennon smaller yet, in form of a triangle, as is customary. the great standard, in the maiden's wars, was to be used for the rallying of all her host; the pennon was a signal to those who fought around her, as guards of her body; and about the banner afterwards gathered, for prayer and praise, those men, confessed and clean of conscience, whom she had called and chosen. these cloths were now but half painted, the figures being drawn, by my master's hands, and the ground-colours laid; but some portions were quite finished, very bright and beautiful. on the standard was figured god the father, having the globe in his hand; two angels knelt by him, one holding for his blessing the lily of france. the field was to be sown with fleurs-de-lys, and to bear the holy names: jhesu--maria. on the banner was our lord crucified between the holy virgin and st. john. and on the pennon was wrought the annunciation, the angel with a lily kneeling to the blessed virgin. on the standard, my master, later, fashioned the chosen blazon of the maid--a dove argent, on a field azure. but the blazon of the sword supporting the crown, between two lilies, that was later given to her and her house, she did not use, as her enemies said she did, out of pride and vainglory, mixing her arms with holy things, even at rheims at the sacring. for when she was at rheims, no armorial bearings had yet been given to her. herein, then, as always, they lied in their cruel throats; for, as the psalmist says, "quare fremuerunt gentes?" all these evil tongues, and all thought of evil days, were far from us as we stood looking at the work, and praising it, as well we might, for never had my master wrought so well. now, as i studied on the paintings, i well saw that my master had drawn the angel of the pennon in the likeness of his own daughter elliot. wonderful it was to see her fair face and blue eyes, holy and humble, with the gold halo round her head. "ah, love," i said, "that banner i could follow far, pursuing fame and the face of my lady!" with that we fell into such dalliance and kind speech as lovers use, wholly rapt from the world in our happiness. even then, before we so much as heard his step at the door, my master entered, and there stood we, my arm about her neck and hers about my body, embracing me. he stood with eyes wide open, and gave one long whistle. "faith!" he cried, "our surgery hath wrought miracles! you are whole beyond what i looked for; but surely you are deaf, for my step is heavy enough, yet, me thinks, you heard me not." elliot spoke no word, but drawing me very heedfully to a settle that was by the side of the room, she fled without looking behind her. "sir," i said, as soon as she was gone, "i need make no long story--" "faith, no!" he answered, standing back from the banner and holding his hands at each side of his eyes, regarding his work as limners do. "you twain, i doubt not, were smitten senseless by these great masterpieces, and the thought of the holy use to which they were made." "that might well have been, sir, but what we had covenanted to tell you this day we have told unwittingly, methinks, already. i could not be in your daughter's company, and have the grace of her gentle ministerings--" "but you must stand senseless before her father's paintings? faith, you are a very grateful lad! but so it is, and i am not one of those blind folk who see not what is under their eyes. and now, what now? well, i can tell you. you are to be healed, and follow these flags to war, and win your spurs, and much wealth by ransoms, and so make my lass your lady. is it not so?" i was abashed by his "bourdes," and could say nought, for, being still very weak, the tears came into my eyes. then he drew near me, limping, and put his hand on my shoulder, but very gently, saying-"even so be it, my son, as better may not be. 'tis no great match, but i looked, in this country, for nothing nobler or more wealthy. that my lass should be happy, and have one to fend for her, there is my affair, and i am not one of those fathers who think to make their daughters glad by taking from them their heart's desire. so cheer up! what, a man-atarms weeping! strange times, when maids lead men-at-arms and men-at-arms weep at home!" with these words he comforted me, and made me welcome, for indeed he was a kind man and a wise; so many there are that cause shrewd sorrow when there should be joy in their houses! this was never his way, and wise do i call him, for all that has come and gone. in a little time, when i had thanked him, and shown him, i trow, how he stood in my love, he bade me go to my chamber and be at rest, saying that he must take thought as to how matters stood. "for you are not yet fit to bear arms, nor will be for these many days. nor is it seemly, nor our country's custom, that my maid should dwell here in the house with you, as things are between you, and i must consider of how i may bestow her till you march with your troop, if marching there is to be." this i dared not gainsay, and so i went to my chamber with a heart full of grief and joy, for these hours that are all of gladness come rarely to lovers, and to me were scantly measured. perchance it was for my soul's welfare, to win me from the ways of the world. but to elliot and me that night bore no joy, but sorrow, albeit passing. at supper we met, indeed, but she stayed with us not long after supper, when my master, with a serious countenance, told me how he had taken counsel with a very holy woman, of his own kin, widow of an archer, and how she was going on pilgrimage to our lady of puy en velay, by reason of the jubilee, for this year good friday and the annunciation fell on the same day. "to-morrow she sets forth, and whatsoever prayer can do for france and the king shall be done. always, after this day of jubilee, they say that strange and great matters come to pass. that there will be strange matters i make no doubt, for when before, save under holy deborah in scripture, did men follow a woman to war? may good come of it! however it fall out, elliot is willing to go on pilgrimage, for she is very devout. moreover, she tells me that it had been in her mind before, for the mother of that maid is to be at puy, praying for her daughter, as, certes, she hath great need, if ever woman had. and elliot is fain to meet her and devise with her about the maid. and for you, you still need our nursing, and the sooner you win strength, the nearer you are to that which you would win. still, i am sorry, lad, for i remember my courting days and the lass's mother, blessings on her!" to all this i could make no answer but that his will was mine; and so the day ended in a mingling of gladness and sorrow. chapter x--how norman leslie was out of all comfort my brethren the good benedictine fathers here in pluscarden priory, are wont betimes to be merry over my penitents, for all the young lads and lasses in the glen say they are fain to be shriven by old father norman and by no other. this that my brethren report may well be true, and yet i take no shame in the bruit or "fama." for as in my hot youth i suffered sorrows many from love, so now i may say, like that carthaginian queen in maro, "miseris succurrere disco." the years of the youth of most women and men are like a tourney, or jousts courteous, and many fall in the lists of love, and many carry sorer wounds away from love's spears, than they wot of who do but look on from the safe seats and secure pavilions of age. though all may seem but a gentle and joyous passage of arms, and the weapons that they use but arms of courtesy, yet are shrewd blows dealt and wounds taken which bleed inwardly, perchance through a whole life long. to medicine these wounds with kind words is, it may be, part of my poor skill as a healer of souls in my degree, and therefore do the young resort to father norman. some confessors there be who laugh within their hearts at these sorrows of lovers, as if they were mere "nugae" and featherweights: others there are who wax impatient, holding all love for sin in some degree, and forgetting that monseigneur st. peter himself was a married man, and doubtless had his own share of trouble and amorous annoy when he was winning the lady his wife, even as other men. but if i be of any avail (as they deem) in the healing of hearts, i owe my skill of that surgery to remembrance of the days of my youth, when i found none to give me comfort, save what i won from a book that my master had in hand to copy and adorn, namely, "the book of one hundred ballades, containing counsel to a knight, that he should love loyally"; this counsel offered by messire lyonnet de coismes, messire jehan de mailly, the sieur d'yvry, and many other good knights that were true lovers. verily, in sermons of preachers and lives of holy men i found no such comfort. almost the sorest time of my sorrowing was for very grief of heart when elliot set forth on pilgrimage to puy en velay, for we were but newly come together; "twain we were with one heart," as a maker sang whom once i met in france ere i came back to scotland; sweetly could he make, but was a young clerk of no godly counsel, and had to name maitre francoys villon. our heart was one, the heart of elliot and mine own, and lo! here, in a day, it was torn asunder and we were set apart by the wisdom of men. i remember me how i lay wakeful on the night before the day when elliot should depart. tossing and turning, i lay till the small fowls brake forth with their songs, and my own thought seemed to come and go, and come again in my head, like the "ritournelle" of the birds. at last i might not endure, but rose and attired myself very early, and so went down into the chamber. thither presently came elliot, feigning wonder to find me arisen, and making pretence that she was about her housewiferies, but well i wot that she might sleep no more than i. the old housewife coming and going through the room, there we devised, comforting each other with hopes and prayers; indeed we sorely wanted comfort, because never till we were wed, if ever that should be, might we have such solace of each other's presence as we desired. then i brought from the workshop a sheet of vellum and colours, and the painting tools, and so fashioned a little picture of her, to wear within the breast of my doublet. a rude thing it was and is, for what gold, however finely handled, could match with her golden hair, whereof, at my desire, she gave me a lock; and of all worldly gear from my secular life, these and the four links of my mother's chain alone are still mine, and where my heart is there is my treasure. and she, too, must clip a long curl of my hair, for as yet it was not cut "en ronde," as archers use to wear it, but when she came again, she said she would find me shrewdly shaven, and then would love me no longer. then she laughed and kissed me, and fell to comforting me for that she would not be long away. "and in three months or four," she said, "the king will be sacred at rheims, and the maid will give you red wine to drink in paris town, and the english will be swept into the sea, and then we shall have peace and abundance." "and then shall we be wedded, and never part," i cried; whereat she blushed, bidding me not be over bold, for her heart might yet change, and so laughed again; and thus we fleeted the time, till her father came and sent her about disposing such things as she must take with her. among these she was set on carrying her jackanapes, to make her merry on the road, though here i was of another counsel. for in so great a gathering there must be many gangrel folk, and among them, peradventure, the violer woman, who would desire to have the creature given back to her. but, if it were so, elliot said she would purchase the jackanapes, "for i am no lifter of other men's cattle, as all you scots are, and i am fain to own my jackanapes honestly." so she carried him with her, the light chain about her wrist, and he riding on her saddle-bow, for presently, with many banners waving and with singing of hymns, came the troop who wended together on pilgrimage. many townsfolk well armed were there to guard their women; the flags of all the crafts were on the wind; the priests carried blessed banners; so with this goodly company, and her confessor, and her father's old kinswoman, elliot rode away. the jackanapes was screeching on her saddlebow, her yellow hair was lifted on her shoulder with the light breeze; her father rode the first two stages with them. merry enough they seemed that went, and the bells were chiming, but i was left alone, my heart empty, or only full of useless longings. i betook myself, therefore, to a chapel hard by, and there made my orisons for their safety and for good speed to the maid and her holy enterprise. thereafter there was no similitude for me and my unhappy estate, save that of a dog who has lost his master in a strange place, and goes questing everywhere, and comfortless. then randal rutherford, coming to visit me, found me such a lackmirth, he said, and my wits so distraught, that a love-sick wench were better company for a man-at-arms. "cheer up, man," he said. "look at me, did i not leave my heart at branxholme mains with mally grieve, and so in every town where i have been in garrison, and do you see me cast down? off with this green sickness, or never will you have strength to march with the maid, where there is wealth to be won, and golden coronets, and gaudy stones, such as saunders macausland took off the duke of clarence at bauge. faith, between the wound capdorat gave you and this arrow of dan cupid's in your heart, i believe you will not be of strength to carry arms till there is not a pockpudding left in broad france. come forth, and drain a pot or two of wine, or, if the leech forbids it, come, i will play you for all that is owing between you and me." with that he lugged out his dice and fetched a tablier, but presently vowed that it was plain robbery, for i could keep no count of the game. therewith he left me, laughing and mocking, and saying that i had been bolder with robin lindsay's lass. being alone and out of all comfort, i fell to wandering in the workroom, and there lit, to my solace, on that blessed book of the hundred ballades, which my master was adorning with pictures, and with scarlet, blue, and gold. it set forth how a young knight, in sorrow of love, was riding between pont de ce and angiers, and how other knights met him and gave him counsel. these lines i read, and getting them by rote, took them for my device, for they bid the lover thrust himself foremost in the press, and in breach, mine, and escalade. s'en assault viens, devant te lance, en mine, en eschielle, en tous lieux ou proesce les bons avance, ta dame t'en aimera mieux. but reading soon grew a weariness to me, as my life was, and my master coming home, bade me be of better cheer. "by st. andrew," quoth he, "this is no new malady of thine, but well known to leeches from of old, and never yet was it mortal! remede there is none, save to make ballades and rondels, and forget sorrow in hunting rhymes, if thou art a maker. thou art none? nay, nor ever was i, lad; but i have had this disease, and yet you see me whole and well. come, lend me a hand at painting in these lilies; it passes not thy skill." so i wrought some work whereof i have reason to be proud, for these lilies were carried wheresoever blows and honour were to be won, ay, and where few might follow them. meanwhile, my master devised with me about such sights as he had seen on the way, and how great a concourse was on pilgrimage to puy, and how, if prayers availed, the cause of france was won; "and yet, in england too, wives are praying for their lords, and lasses for their lads in france. but ours is the better quarrel." so that weary day went by, one of the longest that i have known, and other days, till now the leech said that i might go back to the castle, though that i might march to the wars he much misdoubted. among the archers i had the best of greetings, and all quarrels were laid by, for, as was said, we were to set forth to orleans, where would be blows enough to stay the greediest stomach. for now the maid had won all hearts, taking some with her piety, and others with her wit and knowledge, that confounded the doctors, how she, a simple wench, was so subtle in doctrine, which might not be but by inspiration. others, again, were moved by her mirth and good-fellowship, for she would strike a man-atarms on the shoulder like a comrade, and her horsemanship and deftness with sword and lance bewitched others, she seeming as valiant and fair as these lady crusaders of whom old romances tell. and others, again, she gained by bourdes and jests; others by her manners, the fairest and most courtly that might be, for she, a manant's daughter, bore herself as an equal before the blood of france, and was right dear to the young bride of the fair duc d'alencon. yet was there about her such a grace of purity, as of one descended from the skies, that no man of them all was so hardy as to speak to her of love, or even so much as to think thereof in the secret of his heart. so all reported of her, and she had let write a letter to the english at orleans, bidding them yield to god and the maid, and begone to their own country, lest a worse thing befall them. at this letter they mocked, swearing that they would burn her heralds who carried the message. but the king had named her chief of war, and given her a household, with a good esquire, jean d'aulon, to govern it, and all that beseems noble or royal blood. new armour had been made for her, all of steel and silver, and there was talk of a sword that she had come by in no common way, but through revelation of the saints. for she being in tours had it revealed to her that a certain ancient sword, with five crosses on the blade, lay buried behind the altar of st. catherine of fierbois. an armourer of tours was therefore sent thither, and after much labour and search they of st. catherine's church found that sword, very ancient, and much bestained with rust. howbeit, they cleaned it and made for it a sheath of cloth of gold. nevertheless, the maid wore it in a leathern scabbard. chapter xi--how madame catherine of fierbois wrought a miracle for a scot, and how norman rode to the wars now, in this place i cannot withhold me from telling of an adventure which at this very time befell, though it scarce belongs to my present chronicle. but it may be that, in time to come, faith will wax cold, and the very saints be misdoubted of men. it therefore behoves me not to hold back the truth which i know, and which this tale makes plain and undeniable even by hussites, lollards, and other miscreants. for he who reads must be constrained to own that there is no strait so terrible but the saints can bring safely forth therefrom such men as call upon them. there came at this season to chinon from fierbois (where the maid's sword was found by miracle) a scottish archer, not aforetime of our company, though now he took service with us. he was named michael hamilton, and was a tall man and strong, grim of face, sudden in anger, heavy of hand, walked a little lame, and lacked one ear. that which follows he himself told to us and to our chaplain, father urquhart, and i myself have read it in the book of the miracles of madame st. catherine of fierbois. {22} you must know that brittany, as at this time, held for the english, and michael hamilton had gone thither reiving and pillaging the country with a company of scots men-at-arms. hard by a place called clisson they had seized a deserted tower and held it for some days. it so fell out that they took a burgess of the country, who was playing the spy on their quarters; him they put to the torture, and so learned that the english were coming against them with a great company of men-at-arms and of the country folk, on that very night. they therefore delayed no longer than to hang the spy from a sufficient bough of a tree, this michael doing what was needful, and so were hurrying to horse, when, lo! the english were upon them. not having opportunity to reach the stables and mount, michael hamilton fled on foot, with what speed he might, but sorely impeded by the weight of his armour. the country folk, therefore, being light of foot, easily overtook him, and after slaying one and wounding more, he was caught in a noose of rope thrown over him from behind. now, even as he felt the noose tighten about his arms, he (though not commonly pious beyond the wont of men-at-arms) vowed in his heart to make a pilgrimage to fierbois, and to the shrine of madame st. catherine, if she would but aid him. and, indeed, he was ever a worshipper of st. catherine, she being the patroness of his own parish kirk, near bothwell. none the less, he was overcome and bound, whereon he that had thrown the noose, and was son of the spy whom michael had hanged, vowed that he would, with his own hands, hang michael. no ransom would this manant take, nor would he suffer michael, as a gentleman of blood and birth, to die by the sword. so hanged michael was; doubt not but it was done in the best manner, and there he was left hanging. now, that night of maundy thursday the cure of clisson was in his chamber and was about to go to bed. but as he made ready for bed he heard, from a corner of the chamber, a clear voice saying, "go forth and cut down the scots man-at-arms who was hanged, for he yet lives." the cure, thinking that he must be half asleep and dreaming, paid no manner of regard to these commands. thereon the voice, twice and thrice, spoke aloud, none save the cure being present, and said, "go forth and cut down the scots man-at-arms who was hanged, for he yet lives." it often so chances that men in religion are more hard of heart to believe than laymen and the simple. the cure, therefore, having made all due search, and found none living who could have uttered that voice, went not forth himself, but at noon of good friday, his service being done, he sent his sexton, as one used not to fear the sight and company of dead men. the sexton set out, whistling for joy of the slaying of the scot, but when he came back he was running as fast as he might, and scarce could speak for very fear. at the last they won from him that he had gone to the tree where the dead scot was hanging, and first had heard a faint rustle of the boughs. not affrighted, the sexton drew out a knife and slit one of michael's bare toes, for they had stripped him before they hanged him. at the touch of the knife the blood came, and the foot gave a kick, whereon the sexton hastened back with these tidings to the cure. the holy man, therefore, sending for such clergy as he could muster, went at their head, in all his robes canonical, to the wild wood, where they cut michael down and rubbed his body and poured wine into his throat, so that, at the end of half an hour, he sat up and said, "pay waiter hay the two testers that i owe him." thereon most ran and hid themselves, as if from a spirit of the dead, but the manant, he whose father michael had hanged, made at him with a sword, and dealt him a great blow, cutting off his ear. but others who had not fled, and chiefly the cure, held the manant till his hands were bound, that he might not slay one so favoured of madame st. catherine. not that they knew of michael's vow, but it was plain to the cure that the man was under the protection of heaven. michael then, being kindly nursed in a house of a certain abbess, was wellnigh recovered, and his vow wholly forgotten, when lo! he being alone, one invisible smote his cheek, so that the room rang with the buffet, and a voice said to him, "wilt thou never remember thy pilgrimage?" moved, therefore, to repentance, he stole the cure's horse, and so, journeying by night till he reached france, he accomplished his vows, and was now returned to chinon. this michael hamilton was hanged, not very long afterwards, by command of the duc d'alencon, for plundering a church at jargeau. the story i have thought it behoved me to tell in this place, because it shows how good and mild is madame st. catherine of fierbois, also lest memory of it be lost in scotland, where it cannot but be of great comfort to all gentlemen of michael's kin and of the name and house of hamilton. again, i tell it because i heard it at this very season of my waiting to be recovered of my wound. moreover, it is a tale of much edification to men-at-arms, as proving how ready are the saints to befriend us, even by speaking as it were with human voices to sinful men. of this i myself, later, had good proof, as shall be told, wherefore i praise and thank the glorious virgin, madame st. catherine of fierbois. this tale was the common talk in chinon, which i heard very gladly, taking pleasure in the strangeness of it. and in the good fortune of the maid i was yet more joyful, both for her own sake and for elliot's, to whom she was so dear. but, for my own part, the leeches gave me little comfort, saying that i might in no manner set forth with the rest, for that i could not endure to march on foot, but must die by the way. poor comfort was this for me, who must linger in garrison while the fortune of france was on the cast of the dice, and my own fortune was to be made now or never. so it chanced that one day i was loitering in the gateway, watching the soldiers, who were burnishing armour, sharpening swords, and all as merry and busy as bees in spring. then to me comes my master, with a glad countenance, and glad was i, for these eight days or nine i had no tidings of him, and knew not if elliot had returned from pilgrimage. i rose to greet him, and he took my hand, bidding me be of good cheer, for that he had good tidings. but what his news might be he would not tell me; i must come with him, he said, to his house. all about his door there was much concourse of people, and among them two archers led a great black charger, fairly caparisoned, and covered with a rich silk hucque of colour cramoisie, adorned with lilies of silver. as i marvelled who the rider might be, conceiving that he was some great lord, the door of my master's house opened, and there, within, and plain to view, was elliot embracing a young knight; and over his silver armour fell her yellow hair, covering gorget and rere-brace. then my heart stood still, my lips opened but gave no cry, when, lo! the knight kissed her and came forth, all in shining armour, but unhelmeted. then i saw that this was no knight, but the maid herself, boden in effeir of war, {23} and so changed from what she had been that she seemed a thing divine. if st. michael had stepped down from a church window, leaving the dragon slain, he would have looked no otherwise than she, all gleaming with steel, and with grey eyes full of promise of victory: the holy sword girdled about her, and a little battle-axe hanging from her saddle-girth. she sprang on her steed, from the mounting-stone beside the door, and so, waving her hand, she cried farewell to elliot, that stood gazing after her with shining eyes. the people went after the maid some way, shouting noel! and striving to kiss her stirrup, the archers laughing, meanwhile, and bidding them yield way. and so we came, humbly enough, into the house, where, her father being present and laughing and the door shut, elliot threw her arms about me and wept and smiled on my breast. "ah, now i must lose you again," she said; whereat i was half glad that she prized me so; half sorry, for that i knew i might not go forth with the host. this ill news i gave them both, we now sitting quietly in the great chamber. "nay, thou shalt go," said elliot. "is it not so, father? for the maid gave her promise ere she went to poictiers, and now she is fulfilling it. for the gentle king has given her a household--pages, and a maitre d'hotel, a good esquire, and these two gentlemen who rode with her from vaucouleurs, and an almoner, brother jean pasquerel, an augustine, that the maid's mother sent with us from puy, for we found her there. and the maid has appointed you to go with her, for that you took her part when men reviled her. and money she has craved from the king; and messire aymar de puiseux, that was your adversary, is to give you a good horse, for that you may not walk. and, above all, the maid has declared to me that she will bring you back to us unscathed of sword, but, for herself, she shall be wounded by an arrow under orleans, yet shall she not die, but be healed of that wound, and shall lead the king to his sacring at rheims. so now, verily, for you i have no fear, but my heart is sore for the maid's sake, and her wound." none the less, she made as if she would dance for joy, and i could have done as much, not, indeed, that as then i put my faith in prophecies, but for gladness that i was to take my fortune in the wars. so the hours passed in great mirth and good cheer. many things we spoke of, as concerning the mother of the maid--how wise she was, yet in a kind of amazement, and not free from fear, wherefore she prayed constantly for her child. moreover elliot told me that the jackanapes was now hers of right, for that the woman, its owner, had been at puy, but without her man, and had sold it to her, as to a good mistress, yet with tears at parting. this news was none of the gladdest to me, for still i feared that tidings of us might come to brother thomas. howbeit, at last, with a light heart, though i was leaving elliot, i went back to the castle. there aymar de puiseux, meeting me, made me the best countenance, and gave me a right good horse, that i named capdorat after him, by his good will. and for my armour, which must needs be light, they gave me a maillet--a coat of slender mail, which did not gall my old wound. so accoutred, i departed next day, in good company, to blois, whence the maid was to set forth to orleans. marvel it was to find the road so full of bestial--oxen, cows, sheep, and swine--all gathered, as if to some great market, for the victualling of orleans. but how they were to be got through the english lines into the city men knew not. for the english, by this time, had girdled the city all about with great bastilles, each joined to other by sunken ways dug in the earth, wherein were streets, and marts, and chambers with fires and chimneys, as i have written in my latin chronicle. {24} there false frenchmen came, as to a fair, selling and buying, with store of food, wine, arms, and things of price, buying and selling in safety, for the cannon and couleuvrines in the town could not touch them. but a word ran through the host how the maid knew, by inspiration of the saints, that no man should sally forth from among the english, but that we should all pass unharmed. meantime the town of blois was in great turmoil--the cattle lowing in the streets, the churches full to the doors of men-at-arms, waiting their turn to be shrived, for the maid had ordained that all who followed her must go clean of sin. and there was great wailing of light o' loves, and leaguer lasses that had followed the army, as is custom, for this custom the maid did away, and drove these women forth, and whither they wandered i know not. moreover, she made proclamation that all dice, and tabliers, and instruments of gambling must be burned, and myself saw the great pile yet smoking in the public place, for this was to be a holy war. so we lodged at blois, where the maid showed me the best countenance, speaking favourable words of elliot and me, and bidding me keep near her banner in battle, which i needed no telling to make me resolve to do. so there, for that night, we rested. chapter xii--how the maid came to orleans, and of the dolorous stroke that first she struck in war concerning the ways of the saints, and their holy counsel, it is not for sinful men to debate, but verify their ways are not as our ways, as shall presently be shown, in the matter of the maid's march to orleans. for the town of blois, where now we lay, is, as all men know, on the right bank of the water of loire, a great river, wider and deeper and stronger by far than our tay or tweed, and the town of orleans, whither we were bound, is also on the same side, namely, the right side of the river. now, orleans was beleaguered in this manner: the great stone bridge had been guarded, on the left, or further side of the stream, first by a boulevard, or strong keep on the land, whence by a drawbridge men crossed to a yet stronger keep, called "les tourelles," builded on the last arches of the bridge. but early in the siege the english had taken from them of orleans the boulevard and les tourelles, and an arch of the bridge had been broken, so that in nowise might men-at-arms of the party of france enter into orleans by way of that bridge from the left bank through the country called sologne. yet that keep, les tourelles, had not been a lucky prize to our enemies of england. for their great captain, the lord salisbury, had a custom to watch them of orleans and their artillery from a window in that tower, and, to guard him from arrow-shots, he had a golden shield pierced with little holes to look through, that he held before his face. one day he came into this turret when they who worked the guns in orleans were all at their meat. but it so chanced that two boys, playing truant from school, went into a niche of the wall, where was a cannon loaded and aimed at les tourelles. they, seeing the gleam of the golden shield at the window of the turret, set match to the touch-hole of the cannon, and, as heaven would have it, the ball struck a splinter of stone from the side of the window, which, breaking through the golden shield, slew my lord of salisbury, a good knight. thus plainly that tower was to be of little comfort to the english. none the less, as they held les tourelles and the outer landward boulevard thereof, the english built but few works on the left side of the river, namely, champ st. prive, that guarded the road by the left bank from blois; les augustins, that was a little inland from the boulevard of les tourelles, so that no enemy might pass between these two holds; and st. jean le blanc, that was higher up the river, and a hold of no great strength. on the orleans side, to guard the road from burgundy, the english had but one fort, st. loup, for burgundy and the north were of their part, and by this way they expected no enemy. but all about orleans, on the right bank of the river, to keep the path from blois on that hand, the english had builded many great bastilles, and had joined them by hollow ways, wherein, as i said, they lived at ease, as men in a secure city underground. and the skill of it was to stop convoys of food, and starve them of orleans, for to take the town by open force the english might in nowise avail, they being but some four thousand men-atarms. thus matters stood, and it was the maid's mind to march her men and all the cattle clean through and past the english bastilles on the right side of the river, and by inspiration she well knew that no man would come forth against us. moreover, she saw not how, by the other way, and the left bank, the cattle might be ferried across, and the great company of men-at-arms, into orleans town, under the artillery of the english. for the english held the pass of the broken bridge, as i said, and therefore all crossing of the water must be by boat. now, herein it was shown, as often again, that the ways of the saints are not as our ways. for the captains, namely, the sieur de rais (who afterwards came to the worst end a man might), and la hire, and ambroise de lore, and de gaucourt, in concert with the bastard of orleans, then commanding for the king in that town, gave the simple maid to understand that orleans was on the left bank of the river. this they did, because they were faithless and slow of belief, and feared that so great a company as ours might in nowise pass meun and beaugency, towns of the english, and convey so many cattle through the bastilles on the right bank. therefore, with many priests going before, singing the veni creator, with holy banners as on a pilgrimage; with men-at-arms, archers, pages, and trains of carts; and with bullocks rowting beneath the goad, and swine that are very hard to drive, and slow-footed sheep, we all crossed the bridge of blois on the morning of april 25th. now, had the holy saints deemed it wise and for our good to act as men do, verily they would have spoken to the maid, telling her that we were all going clean contrary to her counsel. nevertheless, the saints held their peace, and let us march on. belike they designed that this should turn to the greater glory of the maid and to the confusion of them that disbelieved, which presently befell, as i shall relate. all one day of spring we rode, and slept beneath the stars, the maid lying in her armour, so that as one later told me who knew, namely, elliot, her body was sorely bruised with her harness. early in the morning we mounted again, and so rode north, fetching a compass inland; after noontide we came to a height, and lo! beneath us lay the english bastilles and holds on the left bank, and, beyond the glittering river and the broken bridge, the towers and walls of orleans. then i saw the maid in anger, for well she knew that she had been deceived by them who should have guided her. between us and the town of orleans lay the wide river, the broken bridge, and the camps of the english. on the further shore we beheld the people swarming on the walls and quays, labouring to launch boats with sails, and so purposing to ascend the river against the stream and meet us two leagues beyond the english lines. but this they might not do, for a strong wind was blowing down stream, and all their vessels were in disarray. the maid spurred to the front, where were de rais, lore, kennedy, and la hire. we could see her pointing with her staff, and hear speech high and angry, but the words we could not hear. the captains looked downcast, as children caught in a fault, and well they might, for we were now as far off victualling orleans as ever we had been. the maid pointed to the english keep at st. jean le blanc, on our side of the water, and, as it seems, was fain to attack it; but the english had drawn off their men to the stronger places on the bridge, and to hold st. jean le blanc against them, if we took it, we had no strength. so we even wended, from the height of olivet, for six long miles, till we reached the stream opposite checy, where was an island. a rowing-boat, with a knight in glittering arms, was pulled across the stream, and the maid, in her eagerness, spurred her steed deep into the water to meet him. he was a young man, brown of visage, hardy and fierce, and on his shield bore the lilies of orleans, crossed with a baton sinister. he bowed low to the maid, who cried-"are you the bastard of orleans?" "i am," he said, "and right glad of your coming." "was it you who gave counsel that i should come by this bank, and not by the other side, and so straight against talbot and the english?" she spoke as a master to a faulty groom, fierce and high, and to hear her was marvel. "i, and wiser men than i, gave that counsel," said he, "deeming this course the surer." "nom dieu!" she cried. "the council of messire is safer and wiser than yours." she pointed to the rude stream, running rough and strong, a great gale following with it, so that no sailing-boats might come from the town. "you thought to beguile me, and are yourselves beguiled, for i bring you better succour than ever came to knight or town--the help of the king of heaven." then, even as she spoke, and as by miracle, that fierce wind went right about, and blew straight up the stream, and the sails of the vessels filled. "this is the work of our lord," said the bastard of orleans, crossing himself: and the anger passed from the eyes of the maid. then he and nicole de giresme prayed her to pass the stream with them, and to let her host march back to blois and so come to orleans, crossing by the bridge of blois. to this she said nay, that she could not leave her men out of her sight, lest they fell to sin again, and all her pains were lost. but, with many prayers, her confessor pasquerel joining in them, she was brought to consent. so the host, with priests and banners, must set forth again to blois, while the maid, and we that were of her company, crossed the river in boats, and so rode towards the town. on this way (the same is a road of the old romans) the english held a strong fort, called st. loup, and well might they have sallied forth against us. but the people of orleans, who ever bore themselves more hardily than any townsfolk whom i have known, made an onfall against st. loup, that the english within might not sally out against us, where was fierce fighting, and they took a standard from the english. so, at nightfall, the maid, with the bastard and other captains at her side, rode into the town, all the people welcoming her with torches in hand, shouting noel! as to a king, throwing flowers before her horse's feet, and pressing to touch her, or even the harness of her horse, which leaped and plunged, for the fire of a torch caught the fringe of her banner. lightly she spurred and turned him, and lightly she caught at the flame with her hand and quenched it, while all men marvelled at her grace and goodly bearing. never saw i more joy of heart, for whereas all had feared to fall into the hands of the english, now there was such courage in them, as if monseigneur st. michael himself, or monseigneur st aignan, had come down from heaven to help his good town. if they were hardy before, as indeed they were, now plainly they were full of such might and fury that man might not stand against them. and soon it was plain that no less fear had fallen on the english. but the maid, with us who followed her, was led right through the great street of orleans, from the burgundy gate to the gate regnart, whereby the fighting was ever most fell, and there we lodged in the house of the treasurer of the duke of orleans, jacquet boucher. never was sleep sweeter to me, after the two weary marches, and the sounds of music and revelry in the street did not hum a moment in my ears, before i had passed into that blessed world of slumber without a dream. but my waking next day brought instantly the thought of my brother robin, concerning whom i had ever feared that he fell with the flower of scotland, when the comte de clermont deserted us so shamefully on the day of the battle of the herrings. no sooner did this doubt come into my mind, than i leaped from my bed, attired myself, and went forth to the quarters of the scots under sir christian chambers. little need i had to tell my errand, for they that met me guessed who i was, because, indeed, robin and i favoured each other greatly in face and bodily presence. it was even as i had deemed: my dear brother and friend and tutor of old days had died, charging back upon the english who pursued us, and fighting by the side of pothon de xaintrailles. all that day, and in the week which followed, my thought was ever upon him; a look in a stranger's face, a word on another's lips, by some magic of the mind would bring my brother almost visibly before me, ay, among the noise of swords on mail, and the screaming of arrows, and of great cannon-balls. if i heard ill news, it was no more than i looked for; but better news, as it seemed, i also heard, though, in my sorrow, i marked it little. for the soldiers were lamenting the loss of their famed gunner, not john the lorrainer, but one who had come to them, they said, now some weeks agone, in the guise of a cordelier, though he did not fight in that garb, but in common attire, and ever wore his vizor down, which men deemed strange. whither he had gone, or how disappeared, they knew not, for he had not been with those who yesterday attacked st. loup. "he could never thole the thought of the blessed maid," said allan rutherford, "but would tell all that listened how she was a brain-sick wench, or a witch, and under her standard he would never fight. he even avowed to us that she had been a chamber-wench of an inn in neufchateau, and there had learned to back a horse, and many a worse trick," which was a lie devised by the english and them of burgundy. but, go where he would, or how he would, i deemed it well that brother thomas and i (for of a surety it was brother thomas) were not to meet in orleans. concerning the english in this wonderful adventure of the siege, i have never comprehended, nor do i now know, wherefore they bore them as they did. that they sallied not out on the trains which the maid led and brought into the town, a man might set down to mere cowardice and faint heart--they fearing to fight against a witch, as they deemed her. in later battles, when she had won so many a victory, they may well have feared her. but, as now, they showed no dread where honour was to be won, but rather pride and disdain. on this very saturday, the morrow of our arrival, la hire, with florent d'illiers and many other knights, pushed forth a matter of two bowshots from the city walls, and took a keep that they thought to have burned. they were very hardy men, and being comforted by the maid's coming, were full of courage and goodwill; yet the english rallied and drove them back, with much firing of guns, and now first i heard the din of war and saw the great stone balls fly, scattering, as they fell, into splinters that screamed in the air, with a very terrible sound. truly the english had the better of that fray, and were no whit adread, for at sunset the maid sent them two heralds, bidding them begone; yet they answered only that they would burn her for a witch, and called her a ribaulde, or loose wench, and bade her go back and keep her kine. i was with her when this message came, and her brows met and her eyes flashed with anger. telling us of her company to follow, she went to the fair cross on the bridge, where now her image stands, fashioned in bronze, kneeling before the cross, with the king kneeling opposite. there she stood and cried aloud to the english, who were in the fort on the other side of the bridge that is called les tourelles, and her voice rang across the water like a trumpet, so that it was marvel. then came out on to the bridge a great knight and a tall, sir william glasdale; no bigger man have i seen, and i bethought me of goliath in holy scripture. he spoke in a loud, north-country voice, and, whereas she addressed him courteously, as she did all men, he called her by the worst of names, mocking at her for a ribaulde. she made answer that he lied, and that he should die in four days' time or five, without stroke of sword; and so, waving her hand haughtily, turned and went back. but i, who walked close by her, noted that she wept like any girl at his evil and lying accusations. next day was sunday, and no stroke was struck, but the bastard of orleans set forth to bring back the army from blois. and on monday the maid rode out and under the very walls of the english keeps, the townsfolk running by her rein, as if secure in her company; yet no man came forth against them, which was marvel. and on the wednesday, the maid, with many knights, rode forth two leagues, and met the bastard of orleans and all the array from blois, and all the flocks and herds that were sent to orleans by the good towns. right beneath the forts of the english they rode and marched, with chanting of hymns, priests leading the way, but none dared meddle with them. yet a child might have seen that now or never was the chance: howbeit talbot and glasdale and scales, men well learned in war, let fire not even a single cannon. it may be that they feared an attack of the orleans folk on their bastilles, if they drew out their men. for, to tell the plain truth, the english had not men-at-arms enough for the task they took in hand; but they oft achieve much with but little force, and so presume the more, sometimes to their undoing. and, till the maid came, ten of them could chase a hundred of the french. so the maid returned, leading the army, and then, being very weary, she went into her chamber, and lay down on a couch to sleep, her esquire, d'aulon, also resting in the room, where were the lady and a daughter of the house, one charlotte boucher. there was i, devising idly with her page, louis de coutes, a boy half scots by birth, and good-brother to messire florent d'illiers, who had married his sister. but alas! he was more french than scots, and later he left the maid. but then we were playing ourselves at the door of the house, and all was still, the men-atarms reposing, as we deemed, after their march. then suddenly the maid ran forth to us, her face white and her eyes shining, and cried to louis de coutes, in great anger-"wretched boy, the blood of france is being shed, and you told me no word of it!" "demoiselle," said he, trembling, "i wotted not of it. what mean you?" and i also stood in amaze, for we had heard no sound of arms. "go, fetch my horse," she said, and was gone. i went with him, and we saddled and bridled a fresh courser speedily; but when we reached the door, she stood there already armed, and sprang on the horse, crying for her banner, that de coutes gave her out of the upper window. then her spurs were in her horse's side, and the sparks flying from beneath his hoofs, as she galloped towards st. loup, the english fort on the burgundy road. thither we followed her, with what speed we might, yet over tardily; and when we came through crowds of people, many bearing the wounded on litters, there was she, under the wall of that fort, in a rain of arrows, holding up her banner, and crying on the french and scots to the charge. they answered with a cry, and went on, de coutes and i pressing forward to be with them; but ere ever we could gain the fosse, the english had been overwhelmed, and, for the more part, slain. for, as we found, the french captains had commanded an attack on st. loup, and had told the maid no word of it, whether as desiring to win honour without her, or to spare her from the peril of the onslaught, i know not. but their men were giving ground, when by the monition of the saints, as i have shown, she came to them and turned the fray. of the english, as i said, most were slain, natheless certain men in priests' raiment came forth from the church of st. loup, and very humbly begged their lives of the maid, who, turning to d'aulon, her esquire, bade him, with de coutes and me, and such men as we could gather, to have charge of them and be answerable for them. so, while the french were plundering, we mustered these priests orderly together, they trembling and telling their beads, and we stood before them for their guard. false priests, i doubt, many of them were, englishmen who had hastily done on such holy robes as they found in the church of st loup. now louis de coutes, being but a boy, and of a mad humour, cried-"'cucullus non facit monachum!' good sirs, let us see your reverend tonsures." with that he twitched the hood from the head of a tall cordelier, who, without more ado, felled him to the earth with his fist. the hood was off but for a flash of time, yet i saw well the shining wolf's eyes and the long dark face of brother thomas. so, in the pictures of the romance of renard fox, have i seen isengrim the wolf in the friar's hood. "felon and traitor!" i cried, and drawing my sword, was about to run him through the body, when my hand was stunned by a stroke, and the sword dropped from it. i turned, in great anger, and saw the maid, her sword in her hand, wherewith she had smitten me flatlings, and not with the edge. "knave of a scot," she cried, "wouldst thou strike a holy man and my prisoner? verily they say well that the scots are all savages. begone home, till i speak with the captains about thy case! and for these holy men," she said to d'aulon, in a soft voice, "see that they are safely housed and ministered to in the church of monseigneur st. aignan." with that i shrank back like a beaten hound, and saw the maid no more that night, as fearing her wrath. so was i adread and out of all comfort. but, when first i might, i sought d'aulon and told him all the tale of brother thomas, and all the evil i knew of him, as well as i could, and i showed him wherefore i had sought to slay the man, as forsworn and a traitor, who had manifestly fled to the english, being by his doggish nature the enemy of the maid. i so wrought with him, though he was weary, and would scarce listen to my tale, that he promised to speak for me to the maid, without whom i was a man lost. moreover, he swore that, as early as might be, he would visit the church of st. aignan, and there examine into the matter of this cordelier, whom some knew, and could testify against, if he was my man. no more could i do that night, but next morning d'aulon awoke me a little after dawn. "it is a true tale," he said, "and worse than i deemed, for your bird has flown! last night he so spoke with me in the church when i lodged him there, that i reckoned him a simple man and a pious. but he has vanished from among his brethren, none knows how or whither." "the devil, his master, knows," i said. "faith, he has a shrewd care of his own. but this, i misdoubt me, is the beginning of evil to us and to the maid." "a knave more or less is of little count in the world," said he; "but now i must make your peace with the maid, for she speaks of no less than sending you forth from her household." his promise he kept so well--for he was a very honourable man, as any in france--that the maid sent for me and showed me the best countenance, even begging my pardon with all sweetness, and in so fair a manner that i could have wept. "it was my first blow in war," she said, smiling kindly, as was her manner, "and i hope to strike no more as with my own hand, wherefore i carry my banner to avoid the slaying of men. but verily i deemed that you were about stabbing my prisoner, and him a priest. belike we shall hear no more of him, and i misdoubt that he is no true son of holy church. to-day let me see you bear yourself as boldly against armed men, that i may report well of you to your lady and my friend." therewith she held out her hands and took mine, as frankly as does one brother in arms with another. and i kissed her hand, and kept my tears in my own heart. but no deadlier blow for france and for herself was ever dealt than when the maid struck down my sword, that was thirsting for the blood of brother thomas, and was within an inch of his throat. often have i marvelled how the saints, who, as then, guarded her, gave her no warning, as they did of the onslaught on st. loup; but it might not be, or it was not their will, to which we must humbly submit ourselves. and now i think i see that wolf's face, under the hood, with anger and fear in the ominous eyes. in the church of st. loup we found him, and he was a wolf of the holy places. none the less, the words of the maid brought more keenly to my mind the thought of elliot, whom in these crowded hours, between my sorrow and anger, and fear of the maid's wrath, i had to some degree forgotten. they were now ordering an onslaught on a post of the english beyond the river, and there came into my heart that verse of the "book of a hundred ballades": how a lover must press into breach, and mine, and escalade to win advancement and his lady's favour; and i swore within myself that to-day i would be among the foremost. chapter xiii--of the fighting at les augustins and the prophecy of the maid just above the broken bridge of orleans there is a broad island, lying very near the opposite shore, with a narrow, swift passage of water between bank and island. some two furlongs higher up the river, and on the further bank, the english had built a small fort, named st. jean le blanc, to guard the road, and thither they sent men from les augustins. the plan of our captains was to cross by boats on to the island, and thence by a bridge of planks laid on boats to win over the narrow channel, and so make an onslaught on st. jean le blanc. for this onslaught the maid had now been armed by her women, and with all her company, and many knights, was making ready to cross. but before she, or we with her, could attain the shore, horses being ill beasts in a boat ferry, the light-armed townsfolk had crossed over against st. jean le blanc to spy on it, and had found the keep empty, for the english had drawn back their men to the bastille of les augustins. thus there was no more to do, for the captains deemed not that we were of any avail to attack les augustins. they were retreating then to the bridge of boats, and messires de gaucourt, de villars, and other good knights were guarding the retreat, all orderly, lest the english might sally out from les augustins, and, taking us in the rear, might slay many in the confusion of crossing the boat-bridge, when the maid and la hire, by great dint of toil, passed their horses in a ferry-boat on to the further bank. at this moment the english sallied forth, with loud cries, from les augustins, and were falling on our men, who, fearing to be cut off, began to flee disorderly, while the english called out ill words, as "cowards" and "ribaulds," and were blaspheming god that he should damn all frenchmen. hereon the maid, with her banner, and la hire, with lance in rest, they two alone, spurred into the press, and now her banner was tossing like the flag of a ship in the breakers, and methought there was great jeopardy lest they should be taken. but the other french and scots, perceiving the banner in such a peril, turned again from their flight, and men who once turn back to blows again are ill to deal with. striking, then, and crying, montjoie! st. denis! and st. andrew for scotland! they made the english give ground, till they were within the palisade of les augustins, where they deemed them safe enough. now i had struggled through the throng on the island, some flying, some advancing, as each man's heart bade him, till i leaped into the water up to my waist and won the land. there i was running to the front of the fight when d'aulon would have stopped me, for he had a command to hold a certain narrow way, lest the english should drive us to the water again. all this was rightly done, but i, hearing the cry of st. andrew, was as one possessed, and paying no heed to d'aulon, was for thrusting me forward, when a certain spaniard, alphonse de partada, caught me by the arm, and told me, with an oath, that i might well bide where better men than i were content to be. at this i made answer that my place was with the maid, and, as for better men, bigger he might well be, but i, for one, was not content to look on idly where blows were being dealt. he answered in such terms that i bade him follow me, and see which of us would fare furthest into the press. "and for that you may be swifter of foot than i, as you have longer legs," i cried, "clasp hands on this bargain, and let us reach the palisades with the same step." to this he agreed, and d'aulon not refusing permission (for he loved to look on a vaillance), we, clasping hands, ran together swiftly, and struck our swords in the same moment against the wooden fence. a little opening there was, not yet closed, or he that kept it deemed he might win more honour by holding it with his body. he was a great knight and tall, well armed, the red cross of st. george on his breast, and he fought with a mighty sword. together, then, we made at him, two to one, as needs must be, for this was no gentle passage of arms, but open battle. one sweep of his sword i made shift to avoid, but the next lighting on my salade, drove me staggering back for more yards than two or three, and i reeled and fell on my hands. when i rose, alphonse de partada was falling beneath a sword-stroke, and i was for running forward again; but lo! the great english knight leaped in the air, and so, turning, fell on his face, his hands grasping at the ground and his feet kicking. later i heard from d'aulon that he had bidden john the lorrainer mark the man with his couleuvrine, for that he did overmuch mischief. but, thinking of nought save to be foremost in the breach, i ran in, stumbling over the dead man's body, and shouldered at the same time by alphonse, who warded off a stab of a pike that was dealt at me. then it was a fair mellay, our men pressing after us through the gap, and driving us forward by mere weight of onset, they coming with all speed against our enemies that ran together from all parts of the keep, and so left bare the further wall. it was body to body, weight against weight, short strokes at close quarters, and, over our heads, bills striking and foining at the english. each man smote where he could; we wavered and swayed, now off our feet in the press, now making some yard of ground, and evil was the smell and thick the dust that arose. meanwhile came the sound of the riving of planks from the other side of the palisade; above the steel points and the dust i saw the maid's pennon advancing with the face of my lady painted thereon, and i pressed towards it, crying "st. andrew" with such breath as was in me. then rang out the maid's voice, like a clarion, "st. denis!" and so, stroke echoing stroke, and daggers going at close quarters, beaten on and blinded, deaf and breathless, now up, now down, we staggered forward, till i and the maid stood side by side, and the english broke, some falling, some flying to the out-gate. and, when all was done, there was i, knowing little enough of what had come and gone, dazed, with my sword bloody and bent, my head humming, and my foot on the breast of an english knight, one robert heron. him i took to prisoner, rescue or no rescue, and so sat we down, very weary, in the midst of blood and broken arms, for many had been slain and a few taken, though the more part had fled into the boulevard of les tourelles. and here, with a joyous face, and the vizor of her helm raised, stood the maid, her sword sheathed, waving her banner in the sight of the english that were on the bridge fort. natheless, her joy was but for a moment, and soon was she seated lowly on the ground, holding in her arms the head of an english knight, sore wounded, for whom her confessor, father pasquerel, was doing the offices of religion. tears were running down her cheeks, even as if he had been one of her own people; and so, comforting and helping the wounded as she might, she abode till the darkness came, and the captains had made shift to repair the fortress and had set guards all orderly. and all the river was dark with boats coming and going, their lanterns glittering on the stream, and they were laden with food and munitions of war. in one of these boats did the maid cross the river, taking with her us of her company, and speaking to me, above others, in the most gracious manner, for that i had been the first, with that spanish gentleman, to pass within the english palisade. and now my heart was light, though my flesh was very weary, for that i had done my devoir, and taken the firstfruits of elliot's wedding portion. no heavy ransom i put on that knight, sir robert heron, and it was honourably paid in no long time, though he ill liked yielding him to one that had not gained his spurs. but it was fortune of war. so, half in a dream, we reached our house, and there was the greatest concourse of townsfolk clamouring in the praise of the maid, who showed herself to them from the window, and promised that to-morrow they should take les tourelles. that night was friday, yet, so worn were we all that the maid bade us sup, and herself took some meat and a little wine in her water, though commonly she fasted on friday. and now we were about to boun us for bed, and the maid had risen, and was standing with her arms passed about the neck of the daughter of the house, a fair lass and merry, called charlotte boucher, who always lay with her (for she had great joy to be with girls of her own age), when there came the sound of a dagger-hilt beating at the door. we opened, and there stood a tall knight, who louted low to the maid, cap in hand, and she bade him drink to the taking of les tourelles that should be to-morrow. but he, with the flagon full in his hands, and withal a thirsty look upon his face, shook his head. "to another pledge, maiden, i will gladly drink, namely, to the bravest damsel under the sky." and therewith he drank deep. "but now i am sent from gaucourt, and the bastard, for all the captains are in counsel again. and they bid me tell you that enough hath been done, and they are right well content. but we are few against so great a host, in a place so strong that men may not avail to master it by main force. the city is now well seen in all manner of victual; moreover, we can now come and go by sologne and the left bank. the skill is therefore to hold the city till the english wax weary and depart, or till we have succour anew from the king. therefore to-morrow the men-at-arms shall take rest, having great need thereof; and therefore, gentle maid, pardon me that i drank not to the pledge which a lady called." then he drained the flagon. the maid, holding the girl charlotte yet closer to her, smote her right hand on the table, so that it dirled, and the cups and dishes leaped. "you have been with your counsel," she cried, "and i have been with mine! the counsel of messire will stand fast and prevail, and yours shall perish, for it is of men. go back, and bear my words to the captains," quoth she; and then, turning to us, who looked on her in amazement, she said-"do ye all rise right early, and more than ye have done to-day shall ye do. keep ever close by me in the mellay, for to-morrow i shall have much to do, and more than ever yet i did. and to-morrow shall my blood leap from my body, above my breast, for an arrow shall smite here!" and she struck the place with her hand. thereon the knight, seeing that she was not to be moved, made his obeisance, and went back to them that sent him, and all we lay down to sleep while we might. these words of the maid i, norman leslie, heard, and bear record that they are true. chapter xiv--of the fighting at the bridge, and of the prize won by norman leslie from the river on that night i slept soft, and woke oft, being utterly foredone. in the grey dawn i awoke, and gave a little cough, when, lo! there came a hot sweet gush into my mouth, and going to the window, i saw that i was spitting of blood, belike from my old wound. it is a strange thing that, therewith, a sickness came over me, and a cold fit as of fear, though fear i had felt none where men met in heat of arms. none the less, seeing that to-day, or never, i was to be made or marred, i spoke of the matter neither to man nor woman, but drinking a long draught of very cold water, i spat some deal more, and then it stanched, and i armed me and sat down on my bed. my thoughts, as i waited for the first stir in the house, were not glad. birds were singing in the garden trees; all else was quiet, as if men were not waking to slay each other and pass unconfessed to their account. there came on me a great sickness of war. yesterday the boulevard of les augustins, when the fight was over, had been a shambles; white bodies that had been stripped of their armour lay here and there like sheep on a hillside, and were now smirched with dust, a thing unseemly. i put it to myself that i was engaged, if ever man was, in a righteous quarrel, fighting against cruel oppression; and i was under the protection of one sent, as i verily believed, by heaven. but blood runs tardy in the cold dawn; my thoughts were chilled, and i deemed, to speak sooth, that i carried my death within me, from my old wound, and, even if unhurt, could scarce escape out of that day's labour and live. i said farewell to life and the sun, in my own mind, and to elliot, thinking of whom, with what tenderness she had nursed me, and of her mirth and pitiful heart, i could scarce forbear from weeping. of my brother also i thought, and in death it seemed to me that we could scarcely be divided. then my thought went back to old days of childhood at pitcullo, old wanderings by eden banks, old kindness and old quarrels, and i seemed to see a vision of a great tree, growing alone out of a little mound, by my father's door, where robin and i would play "willie wastle in his castle," for that was our first manner of holding a siege. a man-at-arms has little to make with such fancies, and well i wot that randal rutherford troubled himself therewith in no manner. but now there came an iron footstep on the stairs, and the maid's voice rang clear, and presently there arose the sound of hammers on rivets, and all the din of men saddling horses and sharpening swords, so i went forth to join my company. stiff and sore was i, and felt as if i could scarce raise my sword-arm; but the sight of the maid, all gleaming in her harness, and clear of voice, and swift of deed, like st. michael when he marshalled his angels against the enemies of heaven, drove my brooding thoughts clean out of mind. the sun shone yellow and slanting down the streets; out of the shadow of the minster came the bells, ringing for war. the armed townsfolk thronged the ways, and one man, old and ill-clad, brought to the maid a great fish which he had caught overnight in the loire. our host prayed her to wait till it should be cooked, that she might breakfast well, for she had much to do. yet she, who scarce seemed to live by earthly meat, but by the will of god, took only a sop of bread dipped in wine, and gaily leaping to her selle and gathering the reins, as a lady bound for a hunting where no fear was, she cried, "keep the fish for supper, when i will bring back a goddon {25} prisoner to eat his part. and to-night, gentle sir, my host, i will return by the bridge!"--which, as we deemed, might in no manner be, for an arch of the bridge was broken. thereon we all mounted, and rode down to the burgundy gate, the women watching us, and casting flowers before the maiden. but when we won the gate, behold, it was locked, and two ranks of men-at-arms, with lances levelled, wearing the colours of the sieur de gaucourt, were drawn up before it. that lord himself, in harness, but bareheaded, stood before his men, and cried, "hereby is no passage. today the captains give command that no force stir from the town." "to-day," quoth the maid, "shall we take les tourelles, and to-morrow not a goddon, save prisoners and slain men, shall be within three leagues of orleans. gentle sir, bid open the gate, for to-day have i work to do." thereat gaucourt shook his head, and from the multitude of townsfolk rose one great angry shout. they would burn the gate, they cried; they would fire the town, but they would follow the maid and the guidance of the saints. thereon stones began to fly, and arbalests were bended, till the maid turned, and, facing the throng, her banner lifted as in anger-"back, my good friends and people of orleans," she said, "back and open the postern door in the great tower on the river wall. by one way or another shall i meet the english this day, nor shall might of man prevent me." then many ran back, and soon came the cry that the postern was opened, and thither streamed the throng. therefore gaucourt saw well that an onslaught would verily be made; moreover, as a man wise in war, he knew that the townsfolk, that day, would be hard to hold, and would go far. so he even yielded, not ungraciously, and sending a messenger to the bastard and the captains, he rode forth from the burgundy gate by the side of the maid. he was, indeed, little minded to miss his part of the honour; nor were the other captains more backward, for scarce had we taken boat and reached the farther bank, when we saw the banners of the bastard and la hire, florent d'illiers and xaintrailles, chambers and kennedy, above the heads of the armed men who streamed forth by the gate of burgundy. less orderly was no fight ever begun, but the saints were of our party. it was the wise manner of the maid to strike swift, blow upon blow, each stroke finding less resistance among the enemy, that had been used to a laggard war, for then it was the manner of captains to dally for weeks or months round a town, castle, or other keep, and the skill was to starve the enemy. but the manner of the maid was ever to send cloud upon cloud of men to make escalade by ladders, their comrades aiding them from under cover with fire of couleuvrines and bows. even so fought that famed knight of brittany, sir bertrand du guesclin. but he was long dead, and whether the maid (who honoured his memory greatly) fought as she did through his example, or by direct teaching of the saints, i know not. if disorderly we began, the fault was soon amended; they who had beleaguered the boulevard all night were set in the rear, to rest out of shot; the fresh men were arrayed under their banners, in vineyards and under the walls of fields, so that if one company was driven back another was ready to come on, that the english might have no repose from battle. now, the manner of the boulevard was this: first, there was a strong palisade, and many men mustered within it; then came a wide, deep, dry fosse; then a strong wall of earth, bound in with withes and palisaded, and within it the gate of the boulevard. when that was won, and the boulevard taken, men defending it might flee across a drawbridge, over a stream, narrow and deep and swift, into les tourelles itself. here they were safe from them on the side of orleans, by reason of the broken arch of the bridge. so strong was this tower, that monseigneur the duc d'alencon, visiting it later, said he could have staked his duchy on his skill to hold it for a week at least, with but few men, against all the forces in france. the captain of the english was that glasdale who had reviled the maid, and concerning whom she had prophesied that he should die without stroke of sword. there was no fiercer squire in england, and his men were like himself, being picked and chosen for that post; moreover their backs were at the wall, for the french and scots once within the boulevard, it was in nowise easy for talbot to bring the english a rescue, as was seen. the battle began with shooting of couleuvrines at the palisade, to weaken it, and it was marvel to see how the maid herself laid the guns, as cunningly as her own countryman, the famed lorrainer. now, when there was a breach in the palisade, xaintrailles led on his company, splendid in armour, for he was a very brave young knight. we saw the pales fall with a crash, and the men go in, and heard the cry of battle; but slowly, one by one, they staggered back, some falling, some reeling wounded, and rolling their bodies out of arrow-shot. and there, in the breach, shone the back-plate of xaintrailles, his axe falling and rising, and not one foot he budged, till the men of la hire, with a cry, broke in to back him, and after a little space, swords fell and rose no more, but we saw the banners waving of xaintrailles and la hire. soon the side of the palisade towards us was all down, as if one had swept it flat with his hand, but there stood the earthen wall of the boulevard, beyond the fosse. then, all orderly, marched forth a band of men in the colours of florent d'illiers, bearing scaling-ladders, and so began the escalade, their friends backing them by shooting of arbalests from behind the remnant of the palisade. a ladder would be set against the wall, and we could see men with shields, or doors, or squares of wood on their heads to fend off stones, swarm up it, and axes flashing on the crest of the wall, and arrows flying, and smoke of guns: but the smoke cleared, and lo! the ladder was gone, and the three libbards grinned on the flag of england. so went the war, company after company staggering thinned from the fosse, and re-forming behind the cover of the vineyards; company after company marching forth, fresh and glorious, to fare as their friends had fared. and ever, with each company, went the maid at their head, and d'aulon, she crying that the place was theirs and now was the hour! but the day went by, till the sun turned in heaven towards evening, and no more was done. the english, in sooth, showed no fear nor faint heart; with axe, and sword, and mace, and with their very hands they smote and grappled with the climbers, and i saw a tall man, his sword being broken, strike down a french knight with his mailed fist, and drag another from a ladder and take him captive. boldly they showed themselves on the crest, running all risk of our arrows, as our men did of theirs. now came the scots, under kennedy. a gallant sight it was to see them advance, shoulder to shoulder--scots of the marches and the lennox, fife, argyll, and the isles, all gentlemen born. "come on!" cried randal rutherford. "come on, men of the marches, scots of the forest, elliots, rutherfords, armstrongs, and deem that, wheresoever a southron slinks behind a stone, there is carlisle wall!" the rough clan roared "bellenden!" the buchanans cried "clare innis," a rag of a hairy highlander from the lennox blew a wild skirl on the warpipes, and hearing the border slogan shouted in a strange country, nom dieu! my blood burned, as that of any scotsman would. contrary to the maid's desire, for she had noted that i was wan and weary, and had commanded me to bide in cover, i cried "a leslie! a leslie!" and went forward with my own folk, sword in hand and buckler lifted. beside good randal rutherford i ran, and we both leaped together into the ditch. there was a forest of ladders set against the wall, and i had my foot on a rung, when the maid ran up and cried, "nom dieu! what make you here? let me lead my scots"; and so, pennon and axe in her left hand, she lightly leaped on the ladder, and arrows ringing on her mail, and a great stone glancing harmless from her salade, she so climbed that my lady's face on the pennon above her looked down into the english keep. but, even then, i saw a face at an archere, an ill face and fell, the wolf's eyes of brother thomas glancing along the stock of an arbalest. "gardez-vous, pucelle, gardez-vous!" i cried in her ear, for i was next her on the ladder; but a bolt whistled and smote her full, and reeling, she fell into my arms. i turned my back to guard her, and felt a bolt strike my back-piece; then we were in the fosse, and all the scots that might be were between her and harm. swiftly they bore her out of the fray, into a little green vineyard, where was a soft grassy ditch. but the english so cried their hurrah, that it was marvel, and our men gave back in fear; and had not the bastard come up with a fresh company, verify we might well have been swept into the loire. some while i remained with rutherford, kennedy, and many others, for what could we avail to help the maid? and to run has an ill look, and gives great heart to an enemy. moreover, that saying of the maid came into my mind, that she should be smitten of a bolt, but not unto death. so i even abode by the fosse, and having found an arbalest, my desire was to win a chance of slaying brother thomas, wherefore i kept my eyes on that archere whence he had shot. but no arbalest was pointed thence, and the fight flagged. on both sides men were weary, and they took some meat as they might, no ladders being now set on the wall. then i deemed it no harm to slip back to the vineyard where the maid lay, and there i met the good father pasquerel, that was her confessor. he told me that now she was quiet, either praying or asleep, for he had left her as still as a babe in its cradle, her page watching her. the bolt had sped by a rivet of her breast-piece, clean through her breast hard below the shoulder, and it stood a hand-breadth out beyond. then she had wept and trembled, seeing her own blood; but presently, with such might and courage as was marvel, she had dragged out the bolt with her own hands. then they had laid on the wound cotton steeped with olive oil, for she would not abide that they should steep the bolt with weapon salve and charm the hurt with a song, as the soldiers desired. then she had confessed herself to pasquerel, and so had lain down among the grass and the flowers. but it was pasquerel's desire to let ferry her across secretly to orleans. this was an ill hearing for me, yet it was put about in the army that the maid had but taken a slight scratch, and again would lead us on, a thing which i well deemed to be impossible. so the day waxed late, and few onslaughts were made, and these with no great heart, the english standing on the walls and openly mocking us. they asked how it went with the maid, and whether she would not fain be at home among her kine, or in the greasy kitchen? we would cry back, and for my own part i bade them seek the kitchen as pock-puddings and bellygods, and that i cried in their own tongue, while they, to my great amaze, called me "prentice boy" and "jackanapes." herein i saw the craft and devilish enmity of brother thomas, and well i guessed that he had gotten sight of me; but his face i saw not. ill names break no bones, and arrows from under cover wrought slight scathe; so one last charge the bastard commanded, and led himself, and a sore tussle there was that time on the wall-crest, one or two of our men leaping into the fort, whence they came back no more. now it was eight hours of the evening, the sky grey, the men out-worn and out of all heart, and the captains were gathered in council. of this i conceived the worst hope, for after a counsel men seldom fight. so i watched the fort right sullenly, and the town of orleans looking black against a red, lowering sky in the west. some concourse of townsfolk i saw on the bridge, beside the broken arch, and by the boulevard belle croix; but i deemed that they had only come to see the fray as near as might be. others were busy under the river wall with a great black boat, belike to ferry over the horses from our side. all seemed ended, and i misdoubted that we would scarce charge again so briskly in the morning, nay, we might well have to guard our own gates. as i sat thus, pondering by the vineyard ditch, the maid stood by me suddenly. her helmet was off, her face deadly white, her eyes like two stars. "bring me my horse," she said, so sternly that i crushed the answer on my lips, and the prayer that she would risk herself no more. her horse, that had been cropping the grass near him happily enough, i found, and brought to her, and so, with some ado, she mounted and rode at a foot's pace to the little crowd of captains. "maiden, ma mie," said the bastard. "glad i am to see you able to mount. we have taken counsel to withdraw for this night. martin," he said to his trumpeter, "sound the recall." "i pray you, sir," she said very humbly, "grant me but a little while"; and so saying, she withdrew alone from the throng of men into the vineyard. what passed therein i know not and no man knows; but in a quarter of an hour's space she came forth, like another woman, her face bright and smiling, her cheeks like the dawn, and so beautiful that we marvelled on her with reverence, as if we had seen an angel. "the place is ours!" she cried again, and spurred towards the fosse. thence her banner had never gone back, for d'aulon held it there, to be a terror to the english. even at that moment he had given it to a certain basque, a very brave man, for he himself was out-worn with its weight. and he had challenged the basque to do a vaillance, or boastful deed of arms, as yesterday i and the spaniard had done. so d'aulon leaped into the fosse, his shield up, defying the english; but the basque did not follow, for the maid, seeing her banner in the hands of a man whom she knew not, laid hold of it, crying, "ha, mon estandart! mon estandart!" there, as they struggled for it, the basque being minded to follow d'aulon to the wall foot, the banner wildly waved, and all men saw it, and rallied, and flocked amain to the rescue. "charge!" cried the maid. "forward, french and scots; the place is yours, when once my banner fringe touches the wall!" with that word the wind blew out the banner fringe, and so suddenly that, though i saw the matter, i scarce knew how it was done, the whole host swarmed up and on, ladders, lifted, and so furiously went they, that they won the wall crest and leaped within the fort. then the more part of the english, adread, as i think, at the sight of the maid whom they had deemed slain, fled madly over the drawbridge into les tourelles. then standing on the wall crest, whither i had climbed, i beheld strange sights. first, through the dimness of the dusk, i saw a man armed, walking as does a rope-dancer, balancing himself with his spear, across the empty air, for so it seemed, above the broken arch of the bridge. this appeared, in very sooth, to be a miracle; but, gazing longer, i saw that a great beam had been laid by them of orleans to span the gap, and now other beams were being set, and many men, bearing torches, were following that good knight, nicole giresme, who first showed the way over such a bridge of dread. so now were the english in les tourelles between two fires. another strange sight i saw, for in that swift and narrow stream which the drawbridge spanned whereby the english fled was moored a great black barge, its stem and stern showing on either side of the bridge. boats were being swiftly pulled forth from it into the stream, and as i gazed, there leaped up through the dark one long tongue of fire. then i saw the skill of it, namely, to burn down the drawbridge, and so cut the english off from all succour. fed with pitch and pine the flame soared lustily, and now it shone between the planks of the drawbridge. on the stone platform of the boulevard, wherein the drawbridge was laid, stood a few english, and above them shone the axe of a tall squire, glasdale, as it fell on shield and helm of the french. others held us at bay with long lances, and never saw i any knight do his devoir more fiercely than he who had reviled the maid. for on his head lay all the blame of the taking of the boulevard. to rear of him rang the shouts of them of orleans, who had crossed the broken arch by the beam; but he never turned about, and our men reeled back before him. then there shone behind him the flames from the blazing barge; and so, black against that blaze, he smote and slew, not knowing that the drawbridge began to burn. on this the maid ran forth, and cried to him-"rends-toi, rends-toi! yield thee, glacidas; yield thee, for i stand in much sorrow for thy soul's sake." then, falling on her knees, her face shining transfigured in that fierce light, she prayed him thus-"ah! glacidas, thou didst call me ribaulde, but i have sorrow for thy soul. ah! yield thee, yield thee to ransom"; and the tears ran down her cheeks, as if a saint were praying for a soul in peril. not one word spoke glasdale: he neither saw nor heard. but the levelled spears at his side flew up, a flame caught his crest, making a plume of fire, and with a curse he cast his axe among the throng, and the man who stood in front of it got his death. glasdale turned about as he threw; he leaped upon the burning drawbridge, where the last of his men were huddled in flight, and lo! beneath his feet it crashed; down he plunged through smoke and flame, and the stream below surged up as bridge and flying men went under in one ruin. the maid gave a cry that rang above the roar of fire and water. "saints! will no man save him?" she shrieked, looking all around her on the faces of the french. a mad thought leaped up in my mind. "unharness me!" i cried; and one who stood by me undid the clasps of my light jaseran. i saw a head unhelmeted, i saw a hand that clutched at a floating beam. i thought of the maid's desire, and of the ransom of so great a squire as glasdale, and then i threw my hands up to dive, and leaped head foremost into the water. deep down i plunged, and swam far under water, to avoid a stroke from floating timber, and then i rose and glanced up-stream. all the air was fiercely lit with the blaze of the burning barge; a hand and arm would rise, and fall ere i could seize it. a hand was thrown up before me, the glinting fingers gripping at empty air. i caught the hand, swimming strongly with the current, for so the man could not clutch at me, and if a drowning man can be held apart, it is no great skill to save him. in this art i was not unlearned, and once had even saved two men from a wrecked barque in the long surf of st. andrews bay. save for a blow from some great floating timber, i deemed that i had little to fear; nay, now i felt sure of the maid's praise and of a rich ransom. a horn of bank with alder bushes ran out into the stream, a smooth eddy or backwater curling within. i caught a bough of alder, and, though nigh carried down by the drowning man's weight, i found bottom, yet hardly, and drew my man within the backwater. he lay like a log, his face in the stream. pushing him before me, i rounded the horn, and, with much ado, dragged him up to a sloping gravelly beach, where i got his head on dry land, his legs being still in the water. i turned him over and looked eagerly. lo! it was no glasdale, but the drowned face of brother thomas! then something seemed to break in my breast; blood gushed from my mouth, and i fell on the sand and gravel. footsteps i heard of men running to us. i lifted my hand faintly and waved it, and then i felt a hand on my face. chapter xv--how norman leslie was absolved by brother thomas certain scots that found me, weak and bleeding, by the riverside, were sent by the maid, in hopes that i had saved glasdale, whereas it was the accursed cordelier i had won from the water. what they did with him i knew not then, but me they laid on a litter, and so bore me to a boat, wherein they were ferrying our wounded men across to orleans. the maid herself, as she had foretold, returned by way of the bridge, that was all bright with moving torches, as our groaning company were rowed across the black water to a quay. thence i was carried in a litter to our lodgings, and so got to bed, a physician doing what he might for me. a noisy night we passed, for i verily believe that no man slept, but all, after service held in the church of st. aignan, went revelling and drinking from house to house, and singing through the streets, as folk saved from utter destruction. with daybreak fell a short silence; short or long, it seemed brief to me, who was now asleep at last, and i was rueful enough when a sound aroused me, and i found the maid herself standing by my bedside, with one in the shadow behind her. the chamber was all darkling, lit only by a thread of light that came through the closed shutters of wood, and fell on her pale face. she was clad in a light jaseran of mail, because of her wound, and was plainly eager to be gone and about her business, that is, to meet the english in open field. "leslie, my friend," she said, in her sweet voice, "there were many brave men in the fight yesterday, but, in god's name, none did a braver deed than thou! nay, speak not," she said, as i opened my lips to thank her, "for the leech that tended thee last night forbids it, on peril of thy very life. so i have brought thee here a sheet of fair paper, and a pen and horn of ink, that thou, being a clerk, mayst write what thou hast to say. alas! such converse is not for me, who know not a from his brother b. but the saints who helped thee have rewarded thee beyond all expectation. thou didst not save that unhappy glacidas, whom god in his mercy forgive! but thou hast taken a goodlier prize--this holy man, that had been prisoner in the hands of the english." here she stood a little aside, and the thread of light shone on the fell face of brother thomas, lowering beneath his hood. then i would have spoken, leech or no leech, to denounce him, for the maid had no memory of his face, and knew him not for the false friar taken at st. loup. but she laid her mailed finger gently on my lips. "silence! thou art my man-at-arms and must obey thy captain. this worthy friar hath been long in the holy company of the blessed colette, and hath promised to bring me acquainted with that daughter of god. ay, and he hath given to me, unworthy as i am, a kerchief which has touched her wonder-working hands. almost i believe that it will heal thee by miracle, if the saints are pleased to grant it." herewith she drew a kerchief across my lips, and i began, being most eager to instruct her innocence as to this accursed man-"lady--" but alas! no miracle was wrought for a sinner like me. howbeit i am inclined to believe that the kerchief was no saintly thing, and had never come near the body of the blessed colette, but rather was a gift from one of the cordelier's light-o'-loves. assuredly it was stained red with blood from my lungs ere i could utter two words. the maid stanched the blood, saying-"did i not bid thee to be silent? the saints forgive my lack of faith, whereby this blessed thing has failed to heal thee! and now i must be gone, to face the english in the field, if they dare to meet us, which, methinks, they will not do, but rather withdraw as speedily as they may. so now i leave thee with this holy man to be thy nurse-tender, and thou canst write to him concerning thy needs, for doubtless he is a clerk. farewell!" with that she was gone, and this was the last i saw of her for many a day. never have i known such a horror of fear as fell on me now, helpless and dumb, a sheep given over to the slaughter, in that dark chamber, which was wondrous lown, {26} alone with my deadly foe. never had any man more cause for dread, for i was weak, and to resist him was death. i was speechless, and could utter no voice that the people in the house might hear. as for mine enemy, he had always loathed and scorned me; he had a long account of vengeance to settle with me; and if--which was not to be thought of--he was minded to spare one that had saved his life, yet, for his own safety, he dared not. he had beguiled the maid with his false tongue, and his face, not seen by her in the taking of st. loup, she knew not. but he knew that i would disclose all the truth so soon as the maid returned, wherefore he was bound to destroy me, which he would assuredly do with every mockery, cruelty, and torture of body and mind. merely to think of him when he was absent was wont to make my flesh creep, so entirely evil beyond the nature of sinful mankind was this monster, and so set on working all kinds of mischief with greediness. whether he had suffered some grievous wrong in his youth, which he spent his life in avenging on all folk, or whether, as i deem likely, he was the actual emissary of satan, as the maid was of the saints, i know not, and, as i lay there, had no wits left to consider of it. only i knew that no more unavailing victim than i was ever so utterly in the power of a foe so deadly and terrible. the maid had gone, and all hope had gone with her. for a time that seemed unending mine enemy neither spoke nor moved, standing still in the chink of light, a devil where an angel had been. there was silence, and i heard the maid's iron tread pass down the creaking wooden stairs, and soon i heard the sound of singing birds, for my window looked out on the garden. the steps ceased, and then there was a low grating laughter in the dark room, as if the devil laughed. brother thomas moved stealthily to the door, and thrust in the wooden bolt. then he sat him heavily down on my bed, and put his fiend's face close to mine, his eyes stabbing into my eyes. but i bit my lip, and stared right back into his yellow wolf's eyes, that shone like flames of the pit with evil and cruel thoughts. so i lay, with that yellow light on me; and strength came strangely to me, and i prayed that, since die i must, i might at least gladden him with no sign of fear. when he found that he could not daunton me, he laughed again. "our chick of pitcullo has picked up a spirit in the wars," he said; and turning his back on me, he leaned his face on his hand, and so sat thinking. the birds of may sang in the garden; there was a faint shining of silver and green, from the apple-boughs and buds without, in the little chamber; and the hooded back of the cordelier was before me on my bed, like the shape of death beside the sick man, in a picture. now i did not even pray, i waited. doubtless he knew that no cruel thing which the devil could devise was more cruel than this suspense. then he turned about and faced me, grinning like a dog. "these are good words," said he, "in that foolish old book they read to the faithful in the churches, 'vengeance is mine, saith the lord.' ay, it is even too sweet a morsel for us poor christian men, such as the lowly brother thomas of the order of st. francis. nevertheless, i am minded to put my teeth in it"; and he bared his yellow dog's fangs at me, smiling like a hungry hound. "my sick brother," he went on, "both as one that has some science of leech-craft and as thy ghostly counsellor, it is my duty to warn thee that thou art now very near thine end. nay, let me feel thy pulse"; and seizing my left wrist, he grasped it lightly in his iron fingers. "now, ere i administer to thee thy due, as a christian man, let me hear thy parting confession. but, alas! as the blessed maid too truly warned thee, thou must not open thy poor lips in speech. there is death in a word! write, then, write the story of thy sinful life, that i may give thee absolution." so saying, he opened the shutter, and carefully set the paper and inkhorn before me, putting the pen in my fingers. "now, write what i shall tell thee"; and here he so pressed and wrung my wrist that his fingers entered into my living flesh with a fiery pang. i writhed, but i did not cry. "write--" "i, norman leslie of pitcullo--" and, to escape that agony, i wrote as he bade me. "--being now in the article of death--" and i wrote. "--do attest on my hope of salvation--" and i wrote. "--and do especially desire madame jeanne, la pucelle, and all frenchmen and scots loyal to our sovereign lord the dauphin, to accept my witness, that brother thomas, of the order of st. francis, called noiroufle while of the world, has been most falsely and treacherously accused by me--" i wrote, but i wrote not his false words, putting my own in their place--"has been most truly and righteously accused by me--" "--of divers deeds of black treason, and dealing with our enemies of england, against our lord the dauphin, and the maid, the sister of the saints, and of this i heartily repent me,--" but i wrote, "all which i maintain--" "--as may god pardon my sins, on the faith of a sinful and dying man." "now sign thy name, and that of thy worshipful cabbage-garden and dunghill in filthy scotland." so i signed, "norman leslie, the younger, of pitcullo," and added the place, orleans, with the date of day and year of our lord, namely, may the eighth, fourteen hundred and twenty-nine. "a very laudable confession," quoth brother thomas; "would that all the sinners whom i have absolved, as i am about to absolve thee, had cleansed and purged their sinful souls as freely. and now, my brother, read aloud to me this scroll; nay, methinks it is ill for thy health to speak or read. a sad matter is this, for, in faith, i have forgotten my clergy myself, and thou mayst have beguiled me by inditing other matter than i have put into thy lying mouth. still, where the safety of a soul is concerned, a few hours more or less of this vain, perishable life weigh but as dust in the balance." here he took from about his hairy neck a heavy italian crucifix of black wood, whereon was a figure of our lord, wrought in white enamel, with golden nails, and a golden crown of thorns. "now read," he whispered, heaving up the crucifix above me. and as he lifted it, a bright blade, strong, narrow, and sharp, leaped out from beneath the feet of our lord, and glittered within an inch of my throat. an emblem of this false friar it was, the outside of whom was as that of a holy man, while within he was a murdering sword. "read!" he whispered again, pricking my throat with the dagger's point. then i read aloud, and as i read i was half choked with my blood, and now and then was stopped; but still he cried-"read, and if one word is wrong, thine absolution shall come all the swifter." so i read, and, may i be forgiven if i sinned in deceiving one so vile! i uttered not what i had written, but what he had bidden me to write. "i, norman leslie of pitcullo, being now in the article of death, do attest on my hope of salvation, and do especially desire madame jeanne, la pucelle, and all frenchmen and scots loyal to our sovereign lord the dauphin, to accept my witness that brother thomas, of the order of st. francis, called noiroufle while of the world, has been most falsely and treacherously accused by me of divers deeds of black treason, and dealing with our enemies of england, against our lord the dauphin, and the maid, the sister of the saints, and of this i heartily repent me, as may god pardon my sins, on the faith of a sinful and dying man. signed, at orleans, norman leslie, the younger, of pitcullo, this eighth of may, in the year of our lord fourteen hundred and twenty-nine." when i had ended, he took away his blasphemous dagger-point from my throat. "very clerkly read," he spake, "and all runs smooth; methinks myself had been no poor scribe, were i but a clerk. hadst thou written other matter, to betray my innocence, thou couldst not remember what i said, even word for word," he added gleefully. "now i might strangle thee slowly"; and he set his fingers about my throat, i being too weak to do more than clutch at his hand, with a grasp like a babe's. "but that leaves black finger-marks, another kind of witness than thine in my favour. or i might give thee the blade of this blessed crucifix; yet dagger wounds are like lips and have a voice, and blood cries from the ground, says holy writ. pardon my tardiness, my poor brother, but this demands deep thought, and holy offices must not be hurried unseemly." he sat now with his back to me, his hand still on my throat, so deep in thought that he heard not, as did my sharpened ears, a door shut softly, and foot-falls echoing in the house below. if i could only cry aloud! but he would stifle me ere the cry reached my throat! "this will serve," he said. "thou wilt have died of thy malady, and i will go softly forth, and with hushed voice will tell how the brave young scot passed quietly to the saints. yet, after all, i know not. thou hast been sent by heaven to my aid; clearly thou art an instrument of god to succour the unworthy brother thomas. once and twice thou hast been a boat to carry me on my way, and to save my useful life. a third time thou mightst well be serviceable, not by thy will, alas! but by god's, my poor brother"; and he mockingly caressed my face with his abhorred hand. "still, this must even serve, though i would fain find for thee a more bitter way to death"; and he gently and carefully drew the pillow from beneath my head. "this leaves no marks and tells no tales, and permits no dying cry." he was looking at me, the pillow in his hands, his gesture that of a tender nurse, when a light tap sounded on the door. he paused, then came a louder knock, one pushed, and knocked again. "open, in the name of the dauphin!" came a voice i knew well, the voice of d'aulon. "the rope of judas strangle thee!" said brother thomas, dropping the pillow and turning to the casement. but it was heavily barred with stanchions of iron, as the manner is, and thereby he might not flee. then came fiercer knocking with a dagger hilt, and the cry, "open, in the name of the dauphin, or we burst the door!" brother thomas hastily closed the wooden shutter, to darken the chamber as much as might be. "gently, gently," he said. "disturb not my penitent, who is newly shrived, and about to pass"; and so speaking, he withdrew the bolt. d'aulon strode in, dagger in hand, followed by the physician. "what make you here with doors barred, false priest?" he said, laying his hand on the frock of noiroufle. "and what make you here, fair squire, with arms in a sick man's chamber, and loud words to disturb the dying? and wherefore callest thou me 'false priest'? but an hour agone, the blessed maid herself brought me hither, to comfort and absolve her follower, to tend him, if he lived and, if he must die, to give him his dues as a christian man. and the door was bolted that the penitent might be private with his confessor, for he has a heavy weight to unburden his sinful soul withal." "ay, the maid sent thee, not knowing who thou wert, the traitor friar taken at st. loup, and thou hast a tongue that beguiled her simplicity. but one that knew thee saw thy wolfs face in her company, and told me, and i told the maid, who sent me straightway back from the gate, that justice might be done on thee. thou art he whom this scot charged with treason, and would have slain for a spy, some nights agone." brother thomas cast up his eyes to heaven. "forgive us our trespasses," said he, "as we forgive them that trespass against us. verily and indeed i am that poor friar who tends the wounded, and verify i am he against whom this young scot, as, i fear, is the manner of all his benighted people, brought a slanderous accusation falsely. all the more reason was there that i should hear his last confession, and forgive him freely, as may i also be forgiven." "thou liest in thy throat," said d'aulon. "this is a brave man-at-arms, and a loyal." "would that thou wert not beguiled, fair sir, for i have no pleasure in the sin of any man. but, if thou wilt believe him rather than me, even keep thy belief, and read this written confession of his falsehood. of free will, with his own hand, my penitent hereby absolves me from all his slanders. as holy church enjoins, in the grace of repentance he also makes restitution of what he had stolen, namely, all my wealth in this world, the good name of a poor and lowly follower of the blessed francis. here is the scroll." with these words, uttered in a voice of sorrowing and humble honesty, the friar stretched out the written sheet of paper to d'aulon. "had i been a false traitor," he said, "would not her brethren of heaven have warned the blessed maid against me? and i have also a written safeconduct from the holy sister colette." then i knew that he had fallen into my trap, and, weak as i was, i could have laughed to think of his face, when the words i had written came out in place of the words he had bidden me write. for a clerk hath great power beyond the simple and unlettered of the world, be they as cunning even as brother thomas. "nom dieu! this is another story," said d'aulon, turning the paper about in his hands and looking doubtfully at me. but i smiled upon him, whereby he was the more perplexed. "the ink is hardly dry, and in some places has run and puddled, so that, poor clerk as i am, i can make little of it"; and he pored on it in a perplexed sort. "tush, it is beyond my clerkhood," he said at last. "you, messire saint-mesmin,"--turning to the physician--"must interpret this." "willingly, fair sir," said the physician, moving round to the shutter, which he opened, while the cordelier's eyes glittered, for now there was one man less between him and the half-open door. i nodded to d'aulon that he should shut it, but he marked me not, being wholly in amaze at the written scroll of my confession. the physician himself was no great clerk, and he read the paper slowly, stumbling over the words, as it were, while brother thomas, clasping his crucifix to his breast, listened in triumph as he heard what he himself had bidden me write. "i, norman leslie, of--of peet--what name is this? peet--i cannot utter it." "passez outre," quoth d'aulon. "i, norman leslie, being now in the article of death"--here the leech glanced at me, shaking his head mournfully--"do attest on my hope of salvation, and do especially desire madame jeanne la pucelle, and all frenchmen and scots loyal to our sovereign lord the dauphin, to accept my witness that brother thomas, of the order of st. francis, called noiroufle while of the world, has been most truly and righteously accused by me of divers deeds of black treason." at these words the cordelier's hand leaped up from his breast, his crucifix dagger glittered bright, he tore his frock from d'aulon's grip, leaving a rag of it in his hand, and smote, aiming at the squire where the gorget joins the vambrace. though he missed by an inch, yet so terrible was the blow that d'aulon reeled against the wall, while the broken blade jingled on the stone floor. then the frock of the friar whisked through the open door of the chamber; we heard the stairs cleared in two leaps, and d'aulon, recovering his feet, rushed after the false priest. but he was in heavy armour, the cordelier's bare legs were doubtless the nimbler, and the physician, crossing himself, could only gape and stare on the paper in his hand. as he gazed with his mouth open his eyes fell on me, white as my sheets, that were dabbled with the blood from my mouth. "nom dieu!" he stammered, "nom dieu! here is business more to my mind and my trade than chasing after mad cordeliers that stab with crucifixes!" then, coming to my side, he brought water, bathed my face, and did what his art might do for a man in such deadly extremity as was mine. in which care he was still busy when d'aulon returned, panting, having sent a dozen of townsfolk to hunt the friar, who had made good his flight over garden walls, and was now skulking none knew where. d'aulon would fain have asked me concerning the mystery of the confession in which brother thomas had placed his hope so unhappily, but the physician forbade him to inquire, or me to answer, saying that it was more than my life was worth. but on d'aulon's battered armour there was no deeper dint than that dealt by the murderous crucifix. thus this second time did brother thomas make his way out of our hands, the devil aiding him, as always; for it seemed that ropes could not bind or water drown him. but, for my part, i lay long in another bout of sore fever, sick here at orleans, where i was very kindly entreated by the people of the house, and notably by the daughter thereof, a fair maid and gentle. to her care the maid had commanded me when she left orleans, the english refusing battle, as later i heard, and withdrawing to jargeau and paris. but of the rejoicings in orleans i knew little or nothing, and had no great desire for news, or meat, or drink, but only for sleep and peace, as is the wont of sick men. now as touches sickness and fever, i have written more than sufficient, as heaven knows i have had cause enow. a luckless life was mine, save for the love of elliot; danger and wounds, and malady and escape, where hope seemed lost, were and were yet to be my portion, since i sailed forth out of eden-mouth. and so hard pressed of sickness was i, that not even my outwitting of brother thomas was a cause of comfort to me, though to this day i cannot think of it without some mirthful triumph. chapter xvi--how sorrow came on norman leslie, and joy thereafter it little concerns any man to know how i slowly recovered my health after certain failings back into the shadow of death. therefore i need not tell how i was physicked, and bled, and how i drew on from a diet of milk to one of fish, and so to a meal of chicken's flesh, till at last i could sit, wrapped up in many cloaks, on a seat in the garden, below a great mulberry tree. in all this weary time i knew little, and for long cared less, as to what went on in the world and the wars. but so soon as i could speak it was of elliot that i devised, with my kind nurse, charlotte boucher, the young daughter of jacques boucher, the duke's treasurer, in whose house i lay. she was a fair lass, and merry of mood, and greatly hove up my heart to fight with my disease. it chanced that, as she tended me, when i was at my worst, she marked, hanging on a silken string about my neck, a little case of silver artfully wrought, wherein was that portrait of my mistress, painted by me before i left chinon. being curious, like all girls, and deeming that the case held some relic, she opened it, i knowing nothing then of what she did. but when i was well enough to lie abed and devise with her, it chanced that i was playing idly with my fingers about the silver case. "belike," said charlotte, "that is some holy relic, to which, maybe, you owe your present recovery. surely, when you are whole again, you have vowed a pilgrimage to the shrine of the saint, your friend?" here she smiled at me gaily, for she was a right merry damsel, and a goodly. "nay," she said, "i have done more for you than your physician, seeing that i, or the saint you serve, have now brought the red colour into these wan cheeks of yours. is she a scottish saint, then? perchance st. margaret, of whom i have read? will you not let me look at the sacred thing?" "nay," said i. "methinks, from your smiling, that you have taken opportunity to see my treasure before to-day, being a daughter of our mother eve." "she is very beautiful," said charlotte; "nay, show her to me again!" with that i pressed the spring and opened the case, for there is no lover but longs to hear his lady commended, and to converse about her. yet i had spoken no word, for my part, about her beauty, having heard say that he who would be well with one woman does ill to praise another in her presence. "beautiful, indeed, she is," said charlotte. "never have i seen such eyes, and hair like gold, and a look so gracious! and for thy pilgrimage to the shrine of this fair saint, where does she dwell?" i told her at chinon, or at tours, or commonly wheresoever the court might be, for that her father was the king's painter. "and you love her very dearly?" "more than my life," i said. "and may the saints send you, demoiselle, as faithful a lover, to as fair a lady." "nay," she said, reddening. "this is high treason, and well you wot that you hold no lady half so fair as your own. are you scots so smooth-spoken? you have not that repute. now, what would you give to see that lady?" "all that i have, which is little but my service and goodwill. but she knows not where i am, nor know i how she fares, which irks me more than all my misfortunes. would that i could send a letter to her father, and tell him how i do, and ask of their tidings." "the dauphin is at tours," she said, "and there is much coming and going between tours and this town. for the maid is instant with the dauphin to ride forthwith to reims, and there be sacred and crowned; but now he listens and believes, and anon his counsellors tell him that this is foolhardy, and a thing impossible." "o they of little faith!" i said, sighing. "none the less, word has come that the maid has been in her oratory at prayers, and a voice from heaven has called to her, saying, 'fille de dieu, va, va, va! je serai en ton aide. va!' {27} the dauphin is much confirmed in his faith by this sign, and has vowed that he will indeed march with the maid to reims, though his enemies hold all that country which lies between. but first she must take the towns which the english hold on loire side, such as jargeau. now on jargeau, while you lay knowing nothing, the bastard of orleans, and xaintrailles, and other good knights, made an onslaught, and won nothing but loss for their pains, though they slew messire henry bisset, the captain of the town. but if the maid takes jargeau, the dauphin will indeed believe in her and follow her." "he is hard of heart to believe, and would that i were where he should be--under her holy pennon, for thereon, at least, i should see the face painted of my lady. but how does all this bring me nearer the hope of hearing about her, and how she fares?" "there are many messengers coming and going to tours, for the dauphin is gathering force under the maid, and has set the fair duc d'alencon to be her lieutenant, with the bastard, and la hire, and messire florent d'illiers. and all are to be here in orleans within few days; wherefore now write to the father of thy lady, and i will myself write to her." with that she gave me paper and pen, and i indited a letter to my master, telling him how i had lain near to death of my old wound, in orleans, and that i prayed him of his goodness to let me know how he did, and to lay me at the feet of my lady. then charlotte showed me her letter, wherein she bade elliot know that i had hardly recovered, after winning much fame (for so she said) and a ransom of gold from an english prisoner, which now lay in the hands of her father, the duke's treasurer. then she said that a word from elliot, not to say the sight of her face, the fairest in the world (a thing beyond hope), would be of more avail for my healing than all the pharaoh powders of the apothecaries. these, in truth, i had never taken, but put them away secretly, as doubting whether such medicaments, the very dust of the persecuting egyptian and idolatrous race, were fit for a christian to swallow, with any hope of a blessing. thus my kind nurse ended, calling herself my lady's sister in the love of france and of the maid, and bidding my lady be mindful of so true a lover, who lay sick for a token at her hands. these letters she sealed, and intrusted to colet de vienne, the royal messenger, the same who rode from vaucouleurs to chinon, in the beginning of the maid's mission, and who, as then, was faring to tours with letters from orleans. meanwhile all the town was full of joy, in early june, because the maid was to visit the city, with d'alencon and the bastard, on her way to besiege jargeau. it was june the ninth, in the year of our lord fourteen hundred and twenty-nine, the sun shining warm in a clear blue sky, and all the bells of orleans a-ringing, to welcome back the maiden. i myself sat in the window, over the doorway, alone with charlotte sitting by my side, for her father had gone to the hotel de ville, with her mother, to welcome the captains. below us were hangings of rich carpets, to make the house look gay, for every house was adorned in the best manner, and flags floated in the long street, and flowers strewed the road, to do honour to our deliverer. thus we waited, and presently the sound of music filled the air, with fragrance of incense, for the priests were walking in front, swinging censers and chanting the te deum laudamus. and then came a company of girls strewing flowers, and fair boys blowing on trumpets, and next, on a black horse, in white armour, with a hucque of scarlet broidered with gold, the blessed maid herself, unhelmeted, glancing every way with her happy eyes, while the women ran to touch her armour with their rings, as to a saint, and the men kissed her mailed feet. to be alive, and to feel my life returning in a flood of strength and joy in that sweet air, with the gladness of the multitude pulsing through it as a man's heart beats in his body, seemed to me like paradise. but out of paradise our first parents were driven long ago, as anon i was to be from mine. for, as the maid passed, i doffed my cap and waved it, since to shout "noel" with the rest, i dared not, because of my infirmity. now, it so fell that, glancing around, she saw and knew me, and bowed to me, with a gesture of her hand, as queenly as if she, a manant's child, had been a daughter of france. at that moment, noting the maid's courtesy towards me, charlotte stood up from beside me, with a handful of red roses, which she threw towards her. as it chanced, belike because she was proud to be with one whom the maid honoured, or to steady herself as she threw, she laid her left hand about my neck, and so standing, cast her flowers, and then looked laughing back into my eyes, with a happy face. the roses missed the maid, whose horse caracoled at that moment as she went by, but they lit in the lap of a damsel that rode at her rein, on a lyart {28} palfrey, and she looking up, i saw the face of elliot, and elliot saw me, and saw charlotte leaning on me and laughing. then elliot's face grew deadly pale, her lower lip stiff, as when she was angered with me at chinon, and so, wrying her neck suddenly to the left, she rode on her way, nor ever looked towards us again. "who may that proud damsel be, and what ails her at my roses?" quoth charlotte, sitting herself down again and still following them with her eyes. "methinks i have seen her face before; and what ails you?" she asked, looking earnestly on me, "for you are as white as the last snow ere it melts in spring." i had good reason to be pale, for i very well guessed that elliot, having ridden in the maiden's company to see me, and to surprise me with the unlooked-for gladness of her coming, had marked charlotte as she so innocently leaned on me and laughed to me, and had conceived anger against us both, for of a truth charlotte was very fair and of a joyous aspect. yet, taken so suddenly as i was, between the extreme of delight in looking on my lady beyond hope, and the very deep of sorrow that she had so bitterly slighted me, i was yet wary of betraying myself. for the girl beside me had, in all honest and maidenly service that woman may do for man, been kinder to me than a sister, and no thought or word of earthly love had ever passed between us. that she should wot of elliot's anger, and of its cause, and so hold my lady lightly, ay, and triumph over her in her heart (as is the nature of a woman, her ministry being thus churlishly repaid), was more than i could endure. so, may the saints forgive me! i lied, and it is a strange thing, but true, that howsoever a gentleman may hate the very thought of a lie, yet often he finds it hard to tell the truth to a woman. "do i look white?" i said. "then it is because i have a sudden pang of sorrow. for one moment i deemed that proud damsel was the lady of my love, whom, in verity, she most strangely favours, so that you might think them sisters. but alas! she is but the daughter of a good scots knight at chinon, whom i have seen there before to-day, and marvelled how much she and my lady favour each other. therefore am i pale, because that hope of mine is broken. and you know her face, belike, from my poor picture of my lady." charlotte looked at me steadily, and flushed red; but even then, one who rode by among the men-at-arms noted me, and, waving his arm towards me, cried in a loud voice-"hail, fair son, soon will i be with thee!" and so, turning in his saddle to watch me, he laughed a loud laugh and rode onwards. he was my master, and as my eyes followed him, charlotte spoke. "and who is that great scot, with his scots twang of the tongue, who called you 'son'? by the mass, she was your lady, and yonder wight is her father, of whom you have spoken to me more than once"; for, indeed, i had told her all the story of my loves. then i was confused, for i could no longer deny the truth, and not having one word to say, i sighed from my heart. "o faint-spirited man-at-arms!" cried charlotte, blushing, and laughing as if some exquisite jest were abroad. "do you so terribly dread your mistress's anger? nay, be of good cheer! me she will never forgive while the world stands; for have i not been your nurse, and won you back to life and to her service? and has she not seen us twain together in one place, and happy, because of the coming of the maid? she will pardon me never, because, also for my sake, she has been wroth with you, and shown you her wrath, and all without a cause. therefore she will be ashamed, and all the more cruel. nay, nor would i forgive her, in the same case, if it befell me, for we women are all alike, hearts of wolves when we love! hast thou never marked a cat that had kittens, or a brachet that had whelps, how they will fly at man or horse that draws near their brood, even unwittingly. and so, when we love, are we all, and the best of us are then the worst. verily the friendship of you and me is over and done; but for your part be glad, not sorry, for with all her heart and soul she loves you. else she had not been angered." "you must not speak, nor i hear, such words of my lady," i said; "it is not seemly." "such words of your lady, and of aymeric's lady, and of giles's lady, and of myself were i any man's lady, as i am no man's lady, i will think and speak," said charlotte, "for my words are true, and we maids are, at best, pretty fools, and god willed us to be so for a while, and then to be wiser than the rest of you. for, were we not pretty, would you wed us? and were we not fools, would we wed you? and where would god's world be then? but now you have heard enough of my wisdom: for i love no man, being very wise; or you have heard enough of my folly that my mirth bids me speak, as you shall deem it. and now, we must consider how this great feud may be closed, and the foes set at one again." "shall i find out her lodgings, and be carried thither straightway in a litter? her heart may be softened when she sees that i cannot walk or mount a horse?" "now, let me think what i should deem, if i had ridden by, unlooked for, and spied my lover with a maid, not unfriendly, or perchance uncomely, sitting smiling in a gallant balcony. would i be appeased when he came straight to seek me, borne in a litter? would i--?" and she mused, her finger at her mouth, and her brow puckered, but with a smile on her lips and in her eyes. then i, seeing her so fair, yet by me so undesired; and beholding her so merry, while my heart was amazed with the worst sorrow, and considering, too, that but for her all this would never have been, but i sitting happy by my lady's side,--thinking on all this, i say, i turned from her angrily, as if i would leave the balcony. "nay, wait," she cried, "for i must see all the show out, and here come the scots guard, thy friends, and i need time to take counsel with my wisdom on this weighty matter. see, they know you"; and, indeed, many a man in that gallant array waved his hand to me merrily, as they filed past under their banners--the douglas's bloody heart, the crescent moon of harden, the napier's sheaf of spears, the blazons of lindsays and leslies, homes, and hepburns, and stuarts. it was a sight to put life into the dying breast of a scot in a strange country, and all were strong men and young, ruddy and brown of cheek, high of heart and heavy of hand. and most beckoned to me, and pointed onwards to that way whither they were bound, in chase of fame and fortune. all this might have made a sick man whole, but my spirit was dead within me, so that i could scarce beckon back to them, or even remember their faces. "would i forgive you," said charlotte, after she had thrown the remnant of her roses to her friends among the scots, "if you hurried to me, pale, and borne in a litter? nay, methinks not, or not for long; and then i should lay it on you never to see her face again;--she is i, you know, for the nonce. but if you waited and did not come, then my pride might yield at length, and i send for you. but then, if so, methinks i would hate her (that is, me) more than ever. oh, it is a hard case when maids are angry!" "you speak of yourself, how you would do this or that; but my lady is other than you, and pitiful. did she not come all these leagues at a word from me, hearing that i was sick?" "at a word from you, good youth! nay, at a word from me! did you speak of me in your letter to her father?" "nay!" said i. "you did well. and therefore it was that i wrote, for i knew she would move heaven and earth and the maid or she would come when she heard of another lass being in your company. nay, trust me, we women understand each other, and she would ask the maid, who lodged here with us, what manner of lass i was to look upon, and the maid's answer would bring her." "you have been kind," i said. "and to you and the saints i owe it that i yet live to carry a sore heart and be tormented with your ill tongue." "and had you heard that a fair young knight, and renowned in arms, lay sick at your lady's house, she nursing him, would you not have cast about for ways of coming to her?" to this i answered nothing, but, with a very sour countenance, was rising to go, when my name was called in the street. looking down, i saw my master, who doffed his cap to the daughter of the house, and begging leave to come up, fastened his horse's bridle to the ring in the wall, by the door. up he came, whom charlotte welcomed very demurely, and so left us, saying that she must go about her household business; but as she departed she cast a look back at me, making a "moue," as the french say, with her red lips. "well, my son," cried my master, taking my hand, "why so pale? sure thou hast had a sore bout, but thou art mending." i could but stammer my lady's name-"elliot--shall i see her soon?" he scratched his rough head and pulled his russet beard, and so laughed shamefacedly. "why, lad, to that very end she came, and now--st. anthony's fire take me if i well know why--she will none of it. the maid brought us in her company, for, as you know, she will ever have young lasses with her when she may, and as far as orleans the roads are safe. and who so glad as elliot when the maid put this command on her, after we got thy letter? i myself was most eager to ride, not only for your sake, but to see how orleans stood after the long pounding. but when we had come to our lodging, and i was now starting off to greet you, elliot made no motion of rising. nay, when i bade her make haste, she said that haste there was none; and when i, marvelling, asked, 'wherefore?' answered that she was loth to spoil good company, and had seen you, as i did myself, happy enough with the lass who nursed you, and who had written to her." "and wherefore, in heaven's name, should we not be happy on such a day as this was an hour agone? but now the sun is out of the sky." "i see him plainer than ever i did in the merse," said my master, looking up where the sun was bright in the west. "but what would you? women have been thus since eve had a daughter, for our father adam, i trow, had no trouble with other ladies than his wife--and that was trouble enough." "but how am i to make my peace, and win my pardon, being innocent as i am?" "faith, i know not!" said he, and laughed again, which angered me some deal, for what was there to laugh at? "may i let bring a litter, for i cannot yet walk, and so go back with you to her?" "indeed, i doubt if it were wise," said he; and so we stood gazing at each other, while i could have wept for very helpless anger. "i have it, i think," said he at last. "the maid is right busy, as needs must be, gathering guns and food for her siege of jargeau. but it is not fitting that she should visit orleans without seeing you, nor would she wish to be so negligent. yet if she were, i would put it in her mind, and then, when you are with her, which elliot shall not know, i will see that elliot comes into the chamber, and so leave all to you, and to her, and to the maid. for she hath great power with that silly wench of mine, who has no other desire, i trow, than a good excuse to be rid of her sudden anger. if she loved you less, she would be never so fiery." i myself could see no better hope or comfort. then he began to devise with me on other matters, and got from me the story of my great peril at the hands of brother thomas. he laughed at the manner of my outwitting that miscreant, who had never been taken, but was fled none knew whither, and my master promised to tell the tale to the maid, and warn her against this enemy. and so bidding me be of good cheer, he departed; but for my part, i went into my chamber, drew the bolt, and cast myself on the bed, refusing meat or drink, or to see the face of man or woman. i was devoured by a bitter anger, considering how my lady had used me, and what was most sore of all, reflecting that i could no longer hold her for a thing all perfect, and almost without touch of mortal infirmity. nay, she was a woman like another, and unjust, and to deem thus of her was to me the most cruel torment. we could never forgive each the other, so it seemed to me, nor be again as we had been. and all the next day no message came for me, and i kept myself quiet, apart in my chamber. lest they who read mock at me in their hearts, and at my lady, let them remember how young we both were, and how innocent of other experience in love. for the roman says that "the angers of lovers are love's renewal," as the brief tempests of april bring in the gladness of may. but in my heart it was all white sleet, and wind, and snow unseasonable, and so i lay, out of all comfort, tossing on my bed. i heard the watchmen call the hours through the night, and very early, having at length fallen on sleep, i was wakened by a messenger from the maid. it was her page, louis de coutes, most richly attired, but still half asleep, grumbling, and rubbing his eyes. "my mistress bids you come with me instantly," he said, when we had saluted each other, "and i have brought a litter and men to carry it. faith, if i lay in it, i should be asleep ere ever they had borne me ten paces. what a life it is that i lead! late to bed and up by prime, so busy is my mistress; and she lives as it were without sleep, and feeds on air." here he threw himself down in a great chair, and verily, by the time i had washed and attired myself, i had to shake him by the shoulder to arouse him. thus i was carried to the maid's lodging, my heart beating like a hammer with hopes and fears. we found her already armed, for that day she was to ride to jargeau, and none was with her but her confessor. she gave me the best of greetings, and bade me eat bread and drink wine. "and soon," she said, "if you recover the quicker, i trust to give you wine to drink in paris." she herself dipped a crust in wine and water, and presently, bidding her confessor, pasquerel, wait for her in the little oratory, she asked me how i did, and told me what fear she had been in for me, as touching brother thomas, when she learned who he was, yet herself could not return from the field to help me. "but now," said she, smiling with a ravishing sweetness, "i hear you are in far greater peril from a foe much harder and more cruel--ma mie elliot. ah! how you lovers put yourselves in jeopardy, and take me from my trade of war to play the peacemaker! surely i have chosen the safer path in open breach and battle, though would that my war was ended, and i sitting spinning again beside my dear mother." hereon her face grew more tender and sad than ever i had seen it, and there came over me forgetfulness of my private grief, as of a little thing, and longing to ride at the maiden's rein, where glory was to be won. "would that even now i could march with you," i said; and she, smiling, made answer-"that shall yet be; yea, verily," and here the fashion of her countenance altered wondrously, "i know, and know not how i know, that thou shalt be with me when all have forsaken me and fled." then she fell silent, and i also, marvelling on her face and on the words which she spoke. there came a light tap at the door, and she awoke as it were from a trance which possessed her. she drew her hands over her face, with a long sigh; she knelt down swiftly, and crossed herself, making an obeisance, for i deem that her saints had been with her, wherefore i also crossed myself and prayed. then she rose and cried "enter!" and ere i could speak she had passed into the oratory, and i was alone with elliot. elliot gave one low cry, and cast her arms about my neck, hiding her face on my breast, and sobbing as if her heart would break. "i have been mad, i have been bad!" she moaned. "oh! say hard words to me, and punish me, my love." but i had no word to say, only i fell back into a great chair for very weakness, holding my lady in my arms. and thus, with words few enough, but great delight, the minutes went past, till she lifted her wet face and her fragrant hair; and between laughing and crying, studied on my face and caressed me, touching my thin cheek, and wept and laughed again. "i was mad," she whispered; "it seemed as if a devil entered into me. but she spoke to me and cast him out, and she bade me repent." "and do penance," i said, kissing her till she laughed again, saying that i was a hard confessor, and that the maid had spoken no word of penances. "yet one i must do and suffer," she said, "and it is more difficult to me than these austerities of thine." here her face grew very red, and she hid it with her hands. "what mean you?" i asked, wondering. "i must see her, and thank her for all her kindness to thee." "the maid?" i asked. "nay, that other, thy--fair nurse. nay, forbid me not, i have sworn it to myself, and i must go. and the maiden told me, when i spoke of it, that it was no more than right." then she threw her arms about me again, in the closest embrace, and hid her head. now, this resolve of hers gave me no little cause of apprehension, as not knowing well how things might pass in such an encounter of two ladies. but even then one touched me on the shoulder from behind, and the maid herself stood beside us. "o joy!" she said, "my peacemaking has been blessed! go, you foolish folk, and sin no more, and peace and happiness be with you, long years, and glad children at your knees. yet hereof i know nothing from my counsel. and now i must go forth about the dauphin's business, and to do that for which i was sent. they that brought thee in the litter will carry thee back again; so farewell." thus saying, she stooped and kissed elliot, who leaped up and caught the maid in her arms, and they embraced, and parted for that time, elliot weeping to lose her, and at the thought of the dangers of war. chapter xvii--how elliot lost her jackanapes the maid's confessor, pasquerel, stood in the chamber where we had met, with his eyes bent on the ground, so that elliot and i had no more free speech at that time. therefore i said farewell, not daring to ask of her when her mind was to visit my hosts, and, indeed, my trust was that she might leave this undone, lest new cause of sorrow should arise. thus we parted, with very courtly leave-taking, the priest regarding us in his manner, and i was carried in the litter through the streets, that had been so quiet when i came forth in the morning, but now they were full of men and of noise. herds of cattle were being driven for the food of the army marching against jargeau; there were trains of carts full of victual, and the citizens having lent the maid their great pieces of ordnance, the bombard called "the shepherdess," and the gun "montargis," these were being dragged along by clamorous companies of apprentices, and there were waggons charged with powder, and stone balls, and boxes of arrows, spades and picks for trenching, and all manner of munition of war. by reason of the troops of horses and of marching men, they that bore me were often compelled to stop. therefore, lest any who knew me should speak with me, i drew the curtains of the litter, for i had much matter to think on, and was fain to be private. but this was to be of no avail, for i heard loud voices in my own tongue. "what fair lady is this who travels so secretly?" and, with this, one drew the curtains, and there was the face of randal rutherford, with others behind him. then he uttered a great cry-"faith, it is our lady of the linen-basket, and no other"; and leaning within, he gave me a rough embrace and a kiss of his bearded lips. "why so early astir, our sick man?" he cried. "get yourself healed anon, and be with us when we take paris town, norman, for there is booty enough to furnish all scotland. shalt thou be with us yet?" "if my strength backs my will, randal; and truly your face is a sight for sair eyne, and does me more good than all the powers of the apothecary." "then here is to our next merry meeting," he cried, "under paris walls!" with that the scots gave a shout, and, some of them crowding round to press my hand, they bade me be of good cheer, and all went onward, singing in the tune of "hey, tuttie tattie," which the pipers played when we broke the english at bannockburn. so i was borne back to the house of jacques boucher, and, in the sunny courtyard, there stood charlotte, looking gay and fair, yet warlike, as i deemed. she was clad in a long garment of red over a white robe, and had sleeves of green, so that she wore the spring's own colours, and she was singing a french ditty concerning a lady who has a lover, and vows that she will never be a nun. seray-je nonnette, oui ou non, serray-je nonnette, je croy que non! seeing me, she stinted in her singing, and in feeding a falcon that was perched on her wrist. "you are early astir for a sick man," she said. "have you been on pilgrimage, or whither have you been faring?" "the maid sent for me right early, for to-day she rides to jargeau, and to you she sends a message of her love,"--as indeed she had done, "but, for the great press of affairs she might not visit you." "and mistress elliot hume, has she forgiven her lover yet? nay, i see by your face that you are forgiven! and you go south, this very day, is it not so?" "indeed," i said, "if it is your will that we part, part we must, though i sorrow for it; but none has given me the word to march, save you, my fair nurse and hostess." "nay, it is not i who shall speed you; nevertheless the maid is not the only prophetess in this realm of france, and something tells me that we part this day. but you are weary; will you get you to your chamber, or sit in the garden under the mulberry-tree, and i shall bring you out a cup of white wine." weary i was indeed, and the seat in the garden among the flowers seemed a haven most desirable. so thither i went, leaning on her shoulder, and she returned to bring the wine, but was some while absent, and i sat deep in thought. i was marvelling, not only as to what my mistress would next do, and when i should see her again (though that was uppermost in my mind), but also concerning the strange words of the maid, that i alone should be with her when all forsook her and fled. how might this be, and was she not to be ever victorious, and drive the english forth of france? to my thinking the maid dwelt ever in two worlds, with her brethren of paradise, and again with sinful men. and i have often considered that she did not always remember, in this common life, what had befallen her, and what she knew when, as the apostle says, she "was out of the body." for i have heard her say, more than once, that she "would last but one year, or little more," and, again, she would make plans for three years to come, or four, which is a mystery. so i was pondering, when i looked up, and saw charlotte standing in the entrance between the court and garden, looking at me and smiling, as she shaded her eyes with her hand from the sun, and then she ran to me lightly as a lapwing. "they are coming down the street, looking every way for our house, your lady and her father," she said, putting the wine-cup into my hand. "now is it war or peace?" and she fled back again within the house. my heart stood still, for now everything was on the fall of the dice. would this mad girl be mocking or meek? would she anger my lady to my ruin with her sharp tongue? for charlotte was of a high temper, and wont to rule all the house by reason of her beauty and kind wild ways. nor was elliot the meekest of women, as well i knew, and a word, nay a smile, or a glance of mockery, might lightly turn her heart from me again for ever. oh! the lot of a lover is hard, at least if he has set all his heart on the cast, as i had done, and verily, as our scots saw runs, "women are kittle cattle." it is a strange thing that one who has learned not to blench from a bare blade, or in bursting of cannon-balls and flight of arrows, should so easily be daunted where a weak girl is concerned; yet so it was in my case. i know not if i feared more than now when brother thomas had me in the still chamber, alone at his mercy. so the minutes went by, the sun and shade flickering through the boughs of the mulberry-tree, and the time seemed long. perchance, i thought, there had been war, as charlotte had said, and my lady had departed in anger with her father, and i was all undone. yet i dared not go to seek them in the house, not knowing how matters were passing, and whether i should do good or harm. so i waited, and at length charlotte came forth alone. now she walked slowly, her eyes bent on the ground, and, as she drew near, i saw that they were red, and i guessed that she had been weeping. so i gave up all for lost, and my heart turned to water within me. "i am sent to bid you come in," she said gravely. "what has passed?" i cried. "for the saints' sake, tell me all!" "this has passed, that i have seen such a lady as i never dreamed i should see, and she has made me weep--foolish that i am!" "why, what did she? did she speak unkindly then, to my kind nurse?" for this i could in no manner have endured, nor have abased myself to love one that was unjust, how dear soever; and none could be dearer than elliot. yet unjust she might have been; and this thought to me was the greatest torment. "speak unkind words? oh, i remember my foolish talk, how i said that she would never forgive me while the world stands. nay, while her father was with mine and with my mother, thanking them for what they did for you, she led me apart to devise with me, and i took her to my chamber, and there, with tears in her eyes, and in the sweetest manner, she prayed me to pardon her for that she had been mad for a moment; and so, looking meek as an angel, she awaited my word. and i could not but weep, though to weep is never my way, and we embraced each the other, and i told her how all your converse had ever been of her, even when you were beside yourself, in your fever, and how never was so faithful a lover. nay, i bid you be glad, for i never deemed that any woman living on earth would so repent and so confess herself to another, where she herself had first been wroth, but would blame all the world rather, and herself--never. so we women are not all alike, as i thought; for i would hardly have forgiven, if i know myself; and yet i am no worse than another. truly, she has been much with the maid, and has caught from her this, to be like her, who is alone among women, and of the greatest heart." here she ceased to speak very gravely, as she had till now done, and breaking out into a sweet laughter, she cried-"nevertheless i am not wholly a false prophetess, for to-day you go with them southward, to tours, to change the air, as the physician counsels, and so now we part. o false scot!" she said, laughing again, "how have you the ill courtesy to look so joyous? nay, i shall change your cheer"; and with that she stooped and kissed my cheek, saying, "go, and joy go with you, as joy abides with me, to see my sick man look so strong again. come, they are waiting for us, and you know we must not tarry." then, giving me her arm, she led me in, and if one of us twain had a shamefaced guise, verify it was not charlotte boucher. "i yield you back your esquire, fair lady," she said merrily, making obeisance to elliot, who stood up, very pale, to receive us. "he has got no ill in the bower of the enchantress," said my master; whereat, elliot seeming some deal confused, and blushing, charlotte bustled about, bringing wine and meat, and waiting upon all of us, and on her father and mother at table. a merry dinner it was among the elder folk, but elliot and i were somewhat silent, and a great joy it was to me, and a heavy weight off my heart, i do confess, when, dinner being ended, and all courtesies done and said, my raiment was encased in wallets, and we all went through the garden, to loire side; and so, with many farewells, took boat and sailed down the river, under the bridge of orleans, towards blois. but charlotte i never saw again, nor did i ever speak of her to elliot, nor elliot of her to me, from that day forth. but within short space came tidings, how that charlotte was wedding a young burgess of orleans, with whom, as i hear, she dwelt happily, and still, for all i know, dwells in peace. as i deem, she kept her lord in a merry life, yet in great order and obedience. so now there is no more to tell of her, save that her picture comes back before me--a tall, brown girl, with black hair and eyes like the hue of hazel boughs glassed in running water, clad in white and green and red, standing smiling beneath the red-and-white blossoms of an apple-tree, in the green garden of jacques boucher. elliot was silent enough, and sat telling her beads, in the beginning of our journey down the water-way, that is the smoothest and the easiest voyaging for a sick man. she was in the stern of the boat, her fingers, when her beads were told, trailing in the smooth water, that was green with the shade of leaves. but her father stood by me, asking many questions concerning the siege, and gaping at the half-mended arch of the bridge, where through we sailed, and at the blackened walls of les tourelles, and all the ruin that war had wrought. but now masons and carpenters were very busy rebuilding all, and the air was full of the tinkling of trowels and hammers. presently we passed the place where i had drawn brother thomas from the water; but thereof i said no word, for indeed my dreams were haunted by his hooded face, like that of the snake which, as travellers tell, wears a hood in prester john's country, and is the most venomous of beasts serpentine. so concerning brother thomas i held my peace, and the barque, swinging round a corner of the bank, soon brought us into a country with no sign of war on it, and here the poplartrees had not been felled for planks to make bulwarks, but whispered by the riverside. the wide stream carried many a boat, and shone with sails, white, and crimson, and brown; the boat-men sang, or hailed each other from afar. there was much traffic, stores being carried from blois to the army. some mile or twain above beaugency we were forced to land, and, i being borne in a litter, we took a cross-path away from the stream, joining it again two miles below beaugency, because the english held that town, though not for long. the sun had set, yet left all his gold shining on the water when we entered blois, and there rested at a hostel for the night. next day--one of the goodliest of my life, so soft and clear and warm it was, yet with a cool wind on the water--we voyaged to tours; and now elliot was glad enough, making all manner of mirth. her desire, she said, was to meet a friend that she had left at their house in tours, one that she had known as long as she knew me, my friend he was too, yet i had never spoken of him, or asked how he did. now i, being wrapped up wholly in her, and in my joy to see her kind again, and so beautiful, had no memory of any such friend, wherefore she mocked me, and rebuked me for a hard heart and ungrateful. "this friend of mine," she said, "was the first that made us known each to other. yea, but for him, the birds might have pecked out your eyne, and the ants eaten your bones bare, yet"--with a sudden anger, and tears in her eyes at the words she spoke--"you have clean forgotten him!" "ah, you mean the jackanapes. and how is the little champion?" "like the lads of wamfray, aye for ill, and never for good," said my master; but she frowned on him, and said-"now you ask, because i forced you on it; but, sir, i take it very ill that you have so short a memory for a friend. now, tell me, in all the time since you left us at chinon, how often have you thought of him?" "nigh as often as i thought of you," i answered. "for when you came into my mind (and that was every minute), as in a picture, thither too came your playfellow, climbing and chattering, and holding out his little bowl for a comfit." "nay, then you thought of me seldom, or you would have asked how he does." here she turned her face from me, half in mock anger. but, just as it is with children, so it was with elliot, for indeed my dear was ever much of a child, wherefore her memory is now to me so tender. and as children make pretence to be in this humour or that for sport, and will affect to be frighted till they really fear and weep, so elliot scarce knew how deep her own humour went, and whether she was acting like a player in a mystery, or was in good earnest. and if she knew not rightly what her humour was, far less could i know, so that she was ever a puzzle to me, and kept me in a hundred pretty doubts and dreads every day. alas! how sorely, through all these years, have i longed to hear her rebuke me in mirth, and put me adread, and laugh at me again i for she was, as it were, wife and child to me, at once, and i a child with her, and as happy as a child. thus, nothing would now jump with her humour but to be speaking of her jackanapes, and how he would come louting and leaping to welcome her, and forsake her old kinswoman, who had followed with them to tours. and she had much to report concerning his new tricks: how he would leap over a rod for the dauphin or the maid, but not if adjured in the name of the english king, or the duke of burgundy. also, if you held him, he would make pretence to bite any that you called englishman or false frenchman. moreover, he had now been taught to fetch and carry, and would climb into elliot's window, from the garden, and bring her little basket of silks, or whatsoever she desired, or carry it thither, as he was commanded. "and he wrung the cat's neck," quoth my master; but elliot bade him hold his peace. in such sport the hours passed, till we were safely come to tours, and so to their house in a street running off the great place, where the cathedral stands. it was a goodly dwelling, with fair carved-work on the beams, and in the doorway stood the old scots kinswoman, smiling wide and toothless, to welcome us. elliot kissed her quickly, and she fondled elliot, and held a hand out over her shoulder to greet me. "but where is my jackanapes, that should have been here to salute his mistress?" elliot cried. "out and alas!" said the old wife in our country tongue--"out and alas! for i have ill news. the poor beast is missing these three days past, and we fear he is stolen away by some gangrel bodies, for the town is full of them. there came two to our door, three days agone, and one was a blind man, and the other a one-armed soldier, maimed in the wars, and i gave them bite and sup, as a christian should do. now, they had not been gone but a few minutes, and i was in the spence, putting away the dishes, when i heard a whistle in the street, and anon another. i thought little of it, and so was about my business for an hour, when i missed the jackanapes. and then there was a hue and cry, and all the house was searched, and the neighbours were called on, but since that day there has been no word of the jackanapes. but, for the blind man and the armless soldier, the town guard saw them leaving by the north gate, with a violer woman and her husband, an ill-looking loon, in their company." elliot sat her down and wept sore. "they have stolen my little friend," she cried, "and now he that was so fat i called him tremouille will go hungry and lean, and be whipped to make him do his tricks, and i shall never see him more." then she ran out of the chamber, to weep alone, as i guessed, for she was pitiful and of very tender affection, and dumb things came near about her heart, as is the manner of many women. but i made no doubt in my mind that the husband of the ape's old mistress had stolen him, and i, too, sorrowed for the poor beast that my mistress loved, and that, in very deed, had been the saving of my own life. then i spoke to my master, and said that we must strive to buy her a new ape, or a little messan dog, to be her playfellow. but he shook his head. "say nothing more of the beast," he muttered, "unless she speaks of him first, and that, methinks, will be never. for it is not her wont to speak of what lies very deep in her heart, and if you talk of the beast it will please her little." and, indeed, i heard no word more of the jackanapes from elliot, save that, coming back from the minster next day, she whispered, "i have prayed for him," and so fled to her own chamber. as then i deemed it a strange thing, and scarcely to be approved by holy church, that my lady should pray for a dumb beast who had no soul to be saved. but a faithful, loving prayer is not unavailing or unheard of him who made the beasts, as well as he made us; for whose sin, or the sin of our father adam, they now suffer, silently. and the answer to this prayer was to be known in the end. as the week went on, tidings came that made elliot glad again, if before she had been sad enough. for this was that great week of wonders which shall never be forgotten while france is france, and the lilies bloom. on june the thirteenth the maid took jargeau, whence the famed bastard of orleans had been driven some weeks agone; and the earl of suffolk yielded him her prisoner, saying that she was "the most valiant woman in the world." scarce had tidings of this great victory come, when messengers followed, declaring that the maid had seized the bridge of meun and driven the english into the castle. next she marched against beaugency, and, at midnight of june the seventeenth, the english made terms, that they might go forth with their lives, but without baggage or arms, and with but one mark of silver apiece. next morning came talbot, the best knight then on ground, and fastolf, the wariest of captains, with a great army of english. first they made for jargeau, but they came too late, and then they rode to meun, and would have assailed the french in the bridge-fort, but, even then, they heard how beaugency had yielded to la pucelle, and how the garrison was departed into normandy, like pilgrims, without swords, and staff in hand. thus all the loire and the water-way was in the power of france, wherefore the english marched off through the country called la beauce, which then lay desert and overgrown with wild wood, by reason of the war. and there, in a place named coynce, near patay, the maid overtook the english, having with her la hire and xaintrailles, and she charged them so rudely, that ere the english could array them in order of battle, they were already flying for their lives. there were talbot and warwick taken and held to ransom, but fastolf fled as fast as his horse could carry him. thus in one week, between june the eleventh and june the eighteenth, the maid had delivered three strong towns from the english, and had utterly routed them in fair field. then, at orleans, on june the nineteenth, the army went to the churches, thanking god, and the blessed virgin, and all the saints, for such great signs and marvels wrought through the maid only. sorrow it is to me to write of such things by report, and not to have seen them done. but, as talbot said to the duc d'alencon, when they took him at patay, "it is fortune of war." but, as day by day messengers came, their horses red with spurring, to the cross in the market-place of tours, and as we that gathered round heard of some fresh victory, you may consider whether we rejoiced, feasted, filled the churches with our thanksgivings, and deemed that, in a few weeks, there would be no living englishman on french soil. and of all that were glad my lady was the happiest, for she had believed in the maid from the very beginning, when her father mocked. and a hard life she now led him with her sallies, day by day, as more and ever more glad tidings were brought, and we could hear elliot singing through the house. yea, i found her once dancing in the garden all alone, a beautiful sight to look upon, as the sun fell on her and the shadow, she footing it as if to music, but the music was made by her own heart. leaning against an apple-tree, i watched her, who waved her hand to me, and still danced on; this was after we had heard the news of beaugency. as she so swayed and moved, dancing daintily, came a blast of a trumpet and a gay peal from the minster bells. then forth rushed elliot, and through the house, and down the street into the market-place, nor did i know where i was, till i found myself beside her, and heard the maire read a letter to all the folk, telling how the english were routed at pathay in open field. thereon the whole multitude fell a-dancing, and i, for all my malady, was fain to dance with them; but elliot led me home, her head high, and blue rays darting from her eyes. from that day my life seemed to come back to me, and i was no longer the sick man. so the weeks went by, in all delight, my master working hard, and i helping him in my degree, for new banners would be wanted when the dauphin went for his sacring to his good town of reims. as we all deemed, this could no longer be delayed; and thereafter our armies would fall on paris, and so strong grew i, that i was in hopes to be with them, where, at last, fortune was to be won. but of this my hope i said little to elliot, waiting till i could wear armour, and exercising myself thereat privately in the garden, before folk had risen in the mornings. chapter xviii--how elliot's jackanapes was seen at the king's crowning "the hearts of kings are in his hand," says holy scripture, and it is of necessity to be believed that the hearts of kings, in an especial sense, are wisely governed. yet, the blindness of our sinful souls, we often may not see, nor by deep consideration find out, the causes wherefore kings often act otherwise, and, as we might deem, less worthily than common men. for it is a truth and must be told, that neither before he was anointed with the blessed oil from the holy vessel, or ampulla, which the angel brought to st. remigius, nor even after that anointing (which is more strange), did charles vii., king of france, bear him kingly as regards the maiden. nay, i have many a time thought with sorrow that if xaintrailles, or la hire, ay, or any the meanest esquire in all our army, had been born dauphin, in three months after the maid's victories in june paris would have been ours, and not an englishman left to breathe the air of france. for it needed but that the king should obey the maid, ride straight to reims, and thence on paris town, and every city would have opened its gates to him, as the walls of jericho fell at the mere sound of the trumpets of israel. this is no foolish fancy of an old man dreaming in a cloister about what might have been. for the regent of the english, brother of their king harry the fifth, and himself a wise man, and brave, if cruel, was of this same mind. first, he left paris and shut himself up in the strong castle of vincennes, dreading an uproar among the people; and next, he wholly withdrew himself to rouen, for he had now no force of men to guard the walls of paris. our dauphin had but to mount and ride, and all would have been his at one blow, ay, or without a blow. the maid, as we daily heard, kept praying him, even with tears, to do no more than this; and from every side came in men free and noble, ready to serve at their own charges. the poorest gentlemen who had lost all in the troubles, and might not even keep a horse to ride, were of goodwill to march as common foot-soldiers. but, while all france called on her king, he was dwelling at sully, in the castle of la tremouille, a man who had a foot in either camp, so that neither english nor burgundians had ever raided on his rich lands, when these lay in their power. so, what with the self-seeking, and sloth, and jealousy of la tremouille; what with the worldly policy of the archbishop of reims, crying peace, where there was no peace, the maid and the captains were not listened to, or, if they were heard, their plans were wrought out with a faint heart, so that, at last, if it is lawful to say so, the will of men prevailed over the will of heaven. never, i pray, may any prince of my own country be so bestead, and so illserved, that, when he has won battles and gained cities two or three, and needs but to ride forward and win all his kingdom, he shall be turned back by the little faith of his counsellors! never may such a thing befall a prince of scotland! concerning these matters of state, as may be believed, we devised much at tours, while messengers were coming and going, and long, weary councils were being held at sully and at gien. d'alencon, we got news, was all for striking a blow yet more bold than the march to reims, and would have attacked the english where they were strongest, and nearest their own shores, namely, at rouen. the counsellors of the peaceful sort were inclined to waste time in besieging la charite, and other little towns on loire-side. but her voices had bidden the maid, from the first, to carry the dauphin to reims, that there he might be anointed, and known to france for the very king. so at last, finding that time was sorely wasted, whereas all hope lay in a swift stroke, ere the english could muster men, and bring over the army lately raised by the cardinal of winchester to go crusading against the miscreants of bohemia--the maid rode out of gien, with her own company, on june the twenty-seventh, and lodged in the fields, some four leagues away, on the road to auxerre. and next day the king and the court followed her perforce, with a great army of twelve thousand men. thenceforth there came news to us every day in tours, and all the news was good. town after town opened its gates at the summons of the maid, and notably troyes and chalons, in despite of the english garrisons. we were all right glad, and could scarce sleep for joy, above all when a messenger rode in, one thomas scott, whom i had encountered before, as i have written, bidding my master come straightway to reims, to join the king, and exercise his craft in designing a great picture of the coronation. so with much ado he bestowed his canvases, brushes, paints, and all other gear of his trade in wallets, and, commending his daughter to his old kinswoman, to obey her in all things, he set off on horseback with thomas scott. but for myself, i was to lodge, while he was at reims, with a worthy woman of tours, for the avoiding of evil tongues, and very tardily the time passed with me, for that i might not be, as before, always in the company of elliot. as for my lady, she was, during most of these days, on her knees at the altar in the great minster, praying to the saints for the dauphin, and the maid, and for her father, that he might come and go safely on his journey. nor did she pray in vain, for, no more than two days after the first tidings had arrived that the sacring was done, and that all had gone well, my master rode to his own door, weary, but glad at heart, and hobbled into his house. one was sent running to bring me this good news, and i myself ran, for now i was able, and found him seated at his meat, as well as he could eat it for elliot, that often stopped his mouth with kisses. he held forth his hand to me, saying, "all is as well as heart could desire, and the maid bids you follow her, if you may, to the taking of paris, for there she says will be your one chance to win your spurs. and now let me eat and drink, for the heat is great, the ways dusty, and i half famished. thereafter ask me what you will, and you, elliot, come not between a hungry man and his meat." so he spoke, sitting at his table with his tankard in his hand, and his wallets lying about him on the floor. elliot was therefore fain not to be embracing him, but rather to carve for him, and serve in the best manner, that he might sup the quicker and tell us all his tale. this he did at last, elliot sitting on his knee, with her arm about his neck. but, as touches the sacring, how it was done, though many of the peers of france were not there to see, and how noble were the manners of the king and the maid, who stood there with her banner, and of the only reward which she would take, namely, that her townsfolk should live free of tax and corvee, all this is known and written of in chronicles. nor did i see it myself, so i pass by. but, next to actual beholding of that glorious rite, the best thing was to hear my master tell of it, taking out his books, wherein he had drawn the king, and the maid in her harness, and many of the great lords. from these pictures a tapestry was afterwards wrought, and hung in reims cathedral, where it is to this day: the maid on horseback beckoning the king onward, the scots archers beside him in the most honourable place, as was their lawful due, and, behind all, the father of the maid entering reims by another road. by great good fortune, and by virtue of being a fellow-traveller with thomas scott, the rider of the king's stable, my master found lodgings easily enough. so crowded was the town that, the weather being warm, in mid july, many lay in tabernacles of boughs, in the great place of reims, and there was more singing that night than sleeping. but my master had lain at the hostelry called l'asne roye, in the parvise, opposite to the cathedral, where also lay jean d'arc, the father of the maid. thither she herself came to visit him, and she gave gifts to such of the people of her own countryside as were gathered at reims. "and, jeannot, do you fear nothing?" one of them asked her, who had known her from a child. "i fear nothing but treason," my master heard her reply, a word that we had afterwards too good cause to remember. "and is she proud now that she is so great?" asked elliot. "she proud! no pride has she, but sat at meat, and spoke friendly with all these manants, and it was 'tu' and 'toy,' and 'how is this one? and that one?' till verily, i think, she had asked for every man, woman, child, and dog in domremy. and that puts me in mind--" "in mind of what?" "of nought. faith, i remember not what i was going to say, for i am well weary." "but paris?" i asked. "when march we on paris?" my master's face clouded. "they should have set forth for paris the very day after the sacring, which was the seventeenth of july. but envoys had come in from the duke of burgundy, and there were parleys with them as touching peace. now, peace will never be won save at the point of the lance. but a truce of a fortnight has been made with burgundy, and then he is to give up paris to the king. yet, ere a fortnight has passed, the new troops from england will have come over to fight us, and not against the heretics of bohemia, though they have taken the cross and the vow. and the king has gone to saint marcoul, forsooth, seeing that, unless he goes there to do his devotions, he may not touch the sick and heal the crewels. {29} faith, they that have the crewels might even wait till the king has come to his own again; they have waited long enough to learn patience while he was dauphin. it should be paris first, and saint marcoul and the crewels afterwards, but anything to waste time and keep out of the brunt of the battle." here he struck his hand on the table so that the vessels leaped. "i fear what may come of it," he said. "for every day that passes is great loss to us and much gain to our enemies of england, who will anon garrison paris." "faint-heart," cried elliot, plucking his beard. "you will never believe in the maid, who has never yet failed to help us, by the aid of the saints." "the saints help them that help themselves," he answered. "and paris town has walls so strong, that once the fresh english are entered in, even the saints may find it a hard bargain. but you, elliot, run up and see if my chamber be ready, for i am well weary." she ran forth, and my master, turning to me, said in a low voice, "i have something for your own ear, but i feared to grieve her. in a booth at reims i saw her jackanapes doing his tricks, and when he came round questing with his bowl the little beast knew me and jumped up into my arms, and wailed as if he had been a christian. then i was for keeping him, but i was set on by three or four stout knaves, and, i being alone, and the crowd taking their part, i thought it not well to draw sword, and so break the king's peace that had just then begun to be king. but my heart was sore for the poor creature, and, in very truth, i bring back no light heart, save to see you twain again, for i fear me that the worst of the darg {30} is still to do. but here comes elliot, so no word of the jackanapes." therewith he went off to his chamber, and i to mine, with less pleasure than i had looked for. still, the thought came into my heart that, the longer the delay of the onslaught on paris, the better chance i had to take part therein; and the harder the work, the greater the glory. the boding words of my master proved over true. the king was sacred on july the sixteenth, and paris then stood empty of english soldiers, being garrisoned by burgundians only. but, so soon as he was anointed, the king began to parley with burgundy, and thus they spun out the time, till, on july the twenty-fifth, a strong army of englishmen had entered paris. whether their hearts were high may not be known, but on their banner they had hung a distaff, and had painted the flag with the words- "ores viegne la belle," meaning, "let the fair maid come, and we shall give her wool to spin." next we heard, and were loth to believe it, that a new truce of fifteen days more had been made with burgundy. the maid, indeed, said openly that she loved not the truce, and that she kept it only for the honour of the king, which was dearer to her than her life, as she proved in the end. then came marchings, this way and that, all about the isle of france, bedford leaving paris to fight the king, and then refusing battle, though the maid rode up to the english palisades, and smote them with her sword, defying the english to come out, if they were men. so the english betook them back to paris, after certain light skirmishes only. meanwhile some of his good towns that had been in the hands of the english yielded to the king, or rather to the maid. among these the most notable was compiegne, a city as great as orleans. many a time it had been taken and retaken in the wars, but now the burgesses swore that they would rather all die, with their wives and children, than open their gates again to the english. and this oath they kept well, as shall be seen in the end. chapter xix--how norman leslie rode again to the wars tidings of these parleys, and marches, and surrenders of cities came to us at tours, the king sending letters to his good towns by messengers. one of these, the very thomas scott of whom i have before spoken, a man out of rankelburn, in ettrick forest, brought a letter for me, which was from randal rutherford. "mess-john urquhart writes for me, that am no clerk," said randal, "and, to spare his pains, as he writes for the most of us, i say no more than this: come now, or come never, for the maid will ride to see paris in three days, or four, let the king follow or not as he will." there was no more but a cross marked opposite the name of randal rutherford, and the date of place and day, august the nineteenth, at compiegne. my face fired, for i felt it, when i had read this, and i made no more ado, but, covenanting with thomas scott to be with him when he rode forth at dawn, i went home, put my harness in order, and hired a horse from him that kept the hostelry of the "hanging sword," whither also i sent my harness, for that i would sleep there. this was all done in the late evening, secretly, and, after supper, i broke the matter to my master and elliot. her face changed to a dead white, and she sat silent, while my master took the word, saying, in our country speech, that "he who will to cupar, maun to cupar," and therewith he turned, and walked out and about in the garden. we were alone, and now was the hardest of my work to do, to comfort elliot, when, in faith, i sorely needed comfort myself. but honour at once and necessity called me to ride, being now fit to bear harness, and foreseeing no other chance to gain booty, or even, perchance, my spurs. nor could i endure to be a malingerer. she sat there, very white, her lip quivering, but her eyes brave and steadfast. i kneeled beside her, and in my hands i took her little hand, that was cold as ice. "it is for the maid, and for you, elliot," i whispered; and she only bent her head on my shoulder, but her cold hand gripped mine firmly. "she did say that you should come back unharmed of sword," whispered elliot, looking for what comfort she might. "but, o my dear! you may be taken, and when shall i see you again? oh! this life is the hardest thing for women, who must sit and tremble and pray at home. sure no danger of war is so terrible! ah, must you really go?" then she clung so closely about me, that it seemed as if i could never escape out of her arms, and i felt as if my heart must break in twain. "how could i look men in the face, and how could i ever see the maid again, if i go not?" i said; and, loosening her grasp, she laid her hands on my shoulders, and so gazed on me steadfastly, as if my picture could be fixed on the tablets of her brain. "on your chin is coming a little down, at last," she said, smiling faintly, and then gave a sob, and her lips met mine, and our very souls met; but, even then, we heard my master's steps hobbling to the door, and she gave a cry, and fled to her chamber. and this was our leave-taking--brief, but i would not have had it long. "it is ill work parting, heaven help us," said my master. "faith, i remember, as if it were to-day, how i set forth for verneuil; a long time i was gone, and came back a maimed man. but it is fortune of war! the saints have you in their keeping, my son, and chiefly st. andrew. come back soon, and whole, and rich, for, meseems, if i lose one of you, i am to lose both." therewith he embraced me, and i set forth to the hostel where i was to lie that night. now, see how far lighter is life to men than to women, for, though i left the house with the heaviest heart of any man in tours, often looking back at the candleshine in my lady's casement, yet, when i reached the "hanging sword," i found thomas scott sitting at his wine, and my heart and courage revived within me. he lacked nothing but one to listen, and soon was telling tales of the war, and of the road, and of how this one had taken a rich prisoner, and that one had got an arrow in his thigh, and of what chances there were to win paris by an onslaught. "for in no other can we take it," said he, "save, indeed, by miracle. for they are richly provisioned, and our hope is that, if we can make a breach, there may be a stir of the common folk, who are well weary of the english and the burgundians." now, with his talk of adventures, and with high hopes, i was so heartened up, that, to my shame, my grief fell from me, and i went to my bed to dream of trenches and escalades, glory and gain. but elliot, i fear me, passed a weary night, and a sorry, whereas i had scarce laid my head on my pillow, as it seemed, when i heard thomas shouting to the grooms, and clatter of our horses' hoofs in the courtyard. so i leaped up, though it was scarce daylight, and we rode northwards before the full coming of the dawn. here i must needs write of a shameful thing, which i knew not then, or i would have ridden with a heavier heart, but i was told concerning the matter many years after, by messire enguerrand de monstrelet, a very learned knight, and deep in the counsels of the duke of burgundy. "you were all sold," he said to me, at dijon, in the year of our lord fourteen hundred and forty-seven--"you were all sold when you marched against paris town. for the maid, with d'alencon, rode from compiegne towards paris, on the twenty-third of august, if i remember well"; and here he turned about certain written parchments that lay by him. "yea, on the twenty-third she left compiegne, but on the twenty-eighth of that month the archbishop of reims entered the town, and there he met the ambassadors of the good duke of burgundy. there he and they made a compact between them, binding your king and the duke, that their truce should last till noel, but that the duke might use his men in the defence of paris against all that might make onfall. now, the archbishop and the king knew well that the maid was, in that hour, marching on paris. to what purpose make a truce, and leave out of the peace the very point where war should be? manifestly the french king never meant to put forth the strength of his army in helping the maid. there was to be truce between france and burgundy, but none between england and the maid." so messire enguerrand told me, a learned knight and a grave, and thus was the counsel of the saints defeated by the very king whom they sought to aid. but of this shameful treaty we men-at-arms knew nothing, and so hazarded our lives against loaded dice. chapter xx--concerning the maid and the birds we rode northwards, first through lands that i had travelled in before to orleans, and so into a country then strange to me, passing by way of lagny, with intent to go to senlis, where we deemed the king lay. the whole region being near paris, and close under the english power, was rich and peaceful of aspect, the corn being already reaped, and standing in sheaves about the fields, whether to feed englishmen or frenchmen, none could tell. for the land was in a kind of hush, in expectancy and fear, no man knowing how things should fall out at paris. natheless the prior of lagny, within that very week wherein we came, had gone to st. denis, and yielded his good town into the hands of the duc d'alencon for the king. and the fair duke had sent thither messire ambrose de lore, a very good knight, with messire jehan foucault, and many men-at-arms. to messire ambrose we were brought, that we might give and take his news. i remember well that i dropped out of the saddle at the door of his lodgings, and could scarce stand on my legs, so weary was i with the long and swift riding. never had i ridden so far, and so fast, fresh horses standing saddled and bridled for thomas scott and me at every stage, but the beast which i had hired i sent back from the first stage to mine host of the "hanging sword." not without labour i climbed the stairs to the chamber of messire ambrose, who bade us sit down, and called for wine to be given us, whereof thomas scott drank well, but i dared take none, lest my legs should wholly refuse their office. when thomas had told how all the country lay at the king's peace, and how our purpose was to ride to the king at senlis, the knight bade us rather make what haste we might to st. denis. "for there, by to-morrow or next day, the king is like to be, and the assault will be delivered on paris, come of it what will." with this he bade us good speed, but, to guess from his countenance, was in no high hopes. and, at supper, whereto we had the company of certain of his men-at-arms, i could well perceive that they were not in the best heart. for now we heard how the maid, being sorrowful for the long delays, had bidden the duc d'alencon ride forth with her from compiegne "to see paris closer than yet she had seen it." the duc d'alencon, who in late days has so strangely forgotten the loyalty of his youth, was then fain to march with her, for they two were the closest friends that might be. therefore they had passed by way of senlis, where they were joined by some force of men-at-arms, and so, on the third day's march, they came to st. denis, where they were now lying. here it is that the kings of france have been buried for these eight hundred years, in the great abbey. "nom dieu!" said one of those who spoke with us. "you might deem that our king is nowise pressed to see the place where his forefathers lie. for d'alencon is riding, now and again, to senlis, to rouse the king, and make him march to st. denis, with the army, that the assault may be given. but if they were bidding him to his own funeral, instead of to a gentle passage of arms, he could not make more excuses. there are skirmishes under paris walls, and at the gates, day by day, and the maid rides here and there, considering of the best place for the onslaught. but the king tarries, and without him and the army they can venture on no great valiance. nevertheless, come he must, if they bring him bound in a cart. wherefore, if you want your part in what is toward, you do well to make no long tarrying here." i was of the same mind, and as the king was shortly to be looked for at st. denis, we rode thither early next morning, with what speed we might. on our left, like a cloud, was the smoke of paris, making me understand what a great city it was, much greater than orleans. before us, far away, were the tall towers of the chapel of st. denis, to be our guide! we heard, also, the noise of ordnance being fired, and therefore made the greater haste, and we so rode that, about six hours after noon, on the eve of the nativity of our blessed lady, we reached the gates of the town. here we found great press of folk, men coming and going, some carrying the wounded, for there had been a skirmish that day, at one of the paris gates, whence came the sound of cannon and culverins, and we had won little advantage. at the gates of st. denis we asked where the quarters of the scots men-atarms might be, and were told in the chapel, whither we needed no guide. but, as we went up the street, we saw women leaning forth from the windows, laughing with the men-at-arms, and beckoning to them, and by the tavern doors many were sitting drinking, with girls beside them, and others were playing dice, and many an oath we heard, and foul words, as is customary in a camp. verily i saw well that this was not the army of men clean confessed and of holy life who had followed the maid from blois to orleans. in place of priests, here were harlots, and, for hymns, ribald songs, for men had flocked in from every quarter; soldiers of the robber companies, bretons, germans, italians, spaniards, all talking in their own speech, rude, foul, and disorderly. so we took our way, as best we knight, through the press, hearing oaths enough if our horses trod over near any man, and seeing daggers drawn. it was a pleasure to come out on the great parvise, where the red, white, and green of our scots were the commonest colours, and where the air was less foul and noisome than in the narrow wynds. high above us the great towers of the abbey shone red and golden in the light of the sinking sun, while beneath all was brown, dusk, and dim with smoke. on these towers i could gladly have looked long, and not wearied. for they are all carven with the holy company of the martyrs and saints, like the angels whom jacob saw ascending by the ladder into heaven; even so that blessed company seemed to scale upwards from the filth of the street, and the darkness, and the din, right on towards the golden heights of the city of god. and beneath them lie the sacred bones of all the kings of france, from the days of st. dagobert even to our own time, all laid there to rest where no man shall disturb them, till the angels' trumpet calls, and the day of judgment is at hand. verily it is a solemn place for a christian man to think on, and i was gazing thereupon, as in a dream, when one plucked my sleeve, and turning, i saw randal rutherford, all his teeth showing in a grin. "welcome," he cried. "you have made good speed, and the beginning of a fray is better than the end of a feast. and, by st. boswell, to-morrow we shall have it, lad! the king came in to-day--late is better than never--and to-morrow we go with the maid, to give these pock-puddings a taste of scottish steel." "and the maid, where is she, randal?" "she lodges beyond the paris gate, at the windmill, wherefrom she drove the english some days agone." "wherefore not in the town?" i asked. "mayhap because she likes to be near her work, and would that all were of her mind. and mayhap she loves not the sight of the wenches whom she was wont to drive from the camp, above all now that she has broken the holy sword of fierbois, smiting a lass with the flat of the blade." "i like not the omen," said i. "freits follow them that freits fear," said randal, in our country speech. "and the maid is none of these. 'well it was,' said she, 'that i trusted not my life to a blade that breaks so easily,' and, in the next skirmish, she took a burgundian with her own hands, and now wears his sword, which is a good cut and thrust piece. but come," he cried, "if needs you must see the maid, you have but to walk to the paris gate, and so to the windmill hard by. and your horse i will stable with our own, and for quarters, we living scots men-at-arms fare as well as the dead kings of france, for to-night we lie in the chapel." i dismounted, and he gave me an embrace, and, holding me at arms'-length, laughed-"you never were a tall man, norman, but you look sound, and whole, and tough for your inches, like a highlandman's dirk. now be off on your errand, and when it is done, look for me yonder at the sign of 'the crane,'" pointing across the parvise to a tavern, "for i keep a word to tell in your lug that few wot of, and that it will joy you to hear. tomorrow, lad, we go in foremost." and so, smiling, he took my horse and went his way, whistling, "hey, tuttie, tattie!" verily his was the gladdest face i had seen, and his words put some heart into me, whereas, of the rest save our own scots, i liked neither what i saw, nor what i heard. i had but to walk down the street, through elbowing throngs of grooms, pages, men-at-arms, and archers, till i found the paris gate, whence the windmill was plain to behold. it was such an old place as we see in northern france, plain, strong, with red walls which the yellow mosses stain, and with high grey roofs. the maid's banner, with the holy dove, and the sacred name, drooped above the gateway, and beside the door, on the mounting-stone, sat the boy, louis des coutes, her page. he was a lad of fifteen years, merry enough of his nature, and always went gaily clad, and wearing his yellow hair long. but now he sat thoughtful on the mounting-stone, cutting at a bit of wood with his dagger. "so you have come to take your part," he said, when we had saluted each the other. "faith, i hope you bring good luck with you, and more joy to my mistress, for we need all that you can bring." "why, what ails all of you?" i asked. "i have seen never a hopeful face, save that of one of my own countrymen. you are not afraid of a crack on your curly pate, are you?" "curly or not, my head knows better than to knock itself against paris walls. they are thick, and high, and the windows of every house on the wall are piled with stones, to drop upon us. and i know not well why, but things go ill with us. i never saw her," and he nodded towards the open gateway, "so out of comfort. when there is fighting toward, she is like herself, and she is the first to rise and the last to lie down. but, in all our waiting here, she has passed many an hour praying in the chapel, where the dead kings lie, yet her face is not glad when she comes forth. it was wont to shine strangely, when she had been praying, at the chapel in couldray, while we were at chinon. but now it is otherwise. moreover, we saw paris very close to-day, and there were over many red crosses of st. george upon the walls. and to-morrow is the feast of the blessed virgin, no day for bloodshed." "faint heart!" said i (and, indeed, after the assault on paris, louis des coutes went back, and rode no more with the maid). "the better the day, the better the deed! may i go within?" "i will go with you," he said, "for she said that you would come, and bade me bring you to her." we entered the gateway together, and before us lay the square of the farm, strewn with litter, and from within the byre we heard the milk ring in the pails, for the women were milking the cows. and there we both stood astonished, for we saw the maid as never yet i had seen her. she was bareheaded, but wore the rest of her harness, holding in her hand a measure of corn. all the fowls of the air seemed to be about her, expecting their meat. but she was not throwing the grain among them, for she stood as still as a graven image, and, wonderful to tell, a dove was perched on her shoulder, and a mavis was nestling in her breast, while many birds flew round her, chiefly doves with burnished plumage, flitting as it were lovingly, and softly brushing her now and again with their wings. many a time had i heard it said that, while she was yet a child, the wild birds would come and nestle in the bosom of the maid, but i had never believed the tale. yet now i saw this thing with mine own eyes, a fair sight and a marvellous, so beautiful she looked, with head unhelmeted, and the wild fowl and tame flitting about her and above her, the doves crooning sweetly in their soft voices. then her lips moved, and she spoke-"tres doulx dieu, en l'onneur de vostre saincte passion, je vous requier, se vous me aimes, que vous me revelez ce que je doy faire demain pour vostre gloire!" so she fell silent again, and to me it seemed that i must not any longer look upon that holy mystery, so, crossing myself, i laid my hand on the shoulder of the page, and we went silently from the place. "have you ever seen it in this manner?" i whispered, when we were again without the farmyard. "never," said he, trembling, "though once i saw a stranger thing." "and what may that have been?" "nay, i spoke of it to her, and she made me swear that i never would reveal it to living soul, save in confession. but she is not as other women." what he had in his mind i know not, but i bade him good even, and went back into the town, where lights were beginning to show in the casements. in the space within the gates were many carts gathered, full of faggots wherewith to choke up the fosse under paris, and tables to throw above the faggots, and so cross over to the assault. chapter xxi--how a hundred scots set forth to take paris town entering the tavern of "the crane," i found the doorways crowded with archers of our guard, among whom was randal rutherford. when i had come, they walked into a chamber on the ground floor, calling for wine, and bidding certain french burgesses go forth, who needed no second telling. the door was shut, two sentinels of ours were posted outside, and then randal very carefully sounded all the panels of the room, looking heedfully lest there should be any hole whereby what passed among us might be heard in another part of the house, but he found nothing of the kind. the room being full, some sitting and some standing, as we could, randal bade father urquhart, our chaplain, tell us to what end we had been called together. the good father thereupon stood up, and spoke in a low voice, but so that all could hear, for we were all hushed to listen. "there is," he said, "within paris, a certain carmelite, a frenchman, and a friend of brother richard, the preacher, whom, as you know, the english drove from the town." "i saw him at troyes," said one, "where he kneeled before the maid, and they seemed very loving." "that is the man, that is brother richard. now, as i was busy tending the wounded, in the skirmish three days agone, this carmelite was about the same duty for those of his party. he put into my hand a slip of paper, wherein brother richard commended him to any scot or frenchman of the king's party, as an honest man, and a friend of the king's. when i had read this, the carmelite spoke with me in latin, and in a low voice. his matter was this: in paris, he said, there is a strong party of armagnacs, who have, as we all know, a long score to settle with them of burgundy. they are of the common folk and labourers, but among them are many rich burgesses. they have banded themselves together by an oath to take our part, within the town, if once we win a gate. here is a cedule signed by them with their names or marks, and this he gave me as a proof of good faith." here he handed a long slip of parchment, all covered with writing, to randal, and it went round among us, but few there were clerks, save myself. i looked on it, and the names, many of them attested by seals with coat armour, were plain to be read. "their counsel is to muster in arms secretly, and to convey themselves, one by one, into certain houses hard by the port st. denis, where certain of their party dwell. now, very early to-morrow morning, before dawn, the purpose of the english is to send forth a company of a hundred men-atarms, who will make a sudden onset on the windmill, where the maid lies to-night, and so will take her, if they may." "by st. bride of douglas," said one of us, "they will get their kail through the reek, for our guard is to lie in arms about the windmill, and be first in the field to-morrow." "the craft is, then," father urquhart went on, "that we shall destroy this english company with sword or arrow, but with no alarm of culverins or cannon. meanwhile, some five score of you will put on to-night the red cross of st. george, with plain armour, so that the english shall mistake you for their own men returning from the sally, and some few men in our own colours and coats you will hale with you as prisoners. and, if one of you can but attire himself in some gear of the maid's, with a hucque of hers, scarlet, and dight with the lilies of france, the english gate-wards will open to you all the more eagerly." "by the bones of st. boswell!" cried randal in his loud voice, but the good father put a hand on his mouth. "quiet, man!" he said. "by the blessed bones of st. boswell," randal said again, as near a whisper as he could attain to, "the lady of the linen-basket shall come as the maid. we have no man so maidenly." they all shouted, laughing, and beating the tables with hands and tankards. "silence!" cried robin lindsay. "nay, the louder we laugh, the less will any suspect what is forward," said randal rutherford. "norman, will you play this part in the mumming?" i was ashamed to say no, though i liked it not over well, and i nodded with my head. "how maidenly he blushes!" cried one, and there was another clamour, till the walls rang. "so be it then," says father urquhart, "and now you know all. the honest armagnacs will rise so soon as you are well within the gate. they command both sides of the street that leads to the port st. denis, and faith, if the english want to take it, when a hundred scots are within, they will have to sally forth by another gate, and come from the outside. and you are to run up the banner of scotland over the port, when once you hold it, so the french attack will be thereby." "we played the same game before verneuil fight, and won it," said one; "will the english have forgotten the trick?" "by st. bride, when once they see us haling the maid along, they will forget old stratagems of war. this is a new device! oh to see their faces when we cry 'st. andrew,' and set on!" "i am not so old as you all in the wars," i began. "no, mademoiselle la lavandiere, but you are of the right spirit, with your wench's face." "but," i said, "how if the english that are to attack the windmill in the first grey of the morning come not to hand-strokes, or take to their heels when they find us awake, and win back to paris before us? our craft, methinks, is to hold them in an ambush, but what if we catch them not? let but one runaway be swift of foot, and we are undone." "there is this to be said," quoth father urquhart, "that the english company is to sally forth by the port st. denis, and it is the port st. denis that our armagnacs will be guarding. now i speak as a man of peace, for that is my calling. but how would it be if your hundred men and norman set forth in the dark, and lay hid not very far from the st. denis gate? then some while after the lighting of the bale-fires from the windmill, to be lit when the english set on, make straight for the gate, and cry, 'st. george for england!' if you see not the bale-fires ere daylight, you will come back with what speed you may; but if you do see them, then--" "father, you have not lived long on the highland line for nothing," quoth robin lindsay. "a very proper stratagem indeed," i said, "but now, gentlemen, there is one little matter; how will sir hugh kennedy take this device of ours? if we try it and fail, without his privity, we had better never return, but die under paris wall. and, even if we hold the gate, and paris town is taken, faith i would rather affront the fire of john the lorrainer than the face of sir hugh." no man spoke, there were not two minds on this matter, so, after some chaffer of words, it was agreed to send father urquhart with randal to show the whole scheme to sir hugh, while the rest of us should await their coming back with an answer. in no long time they were with us, the father very red and shamefaced. "he gave the good father the rough side of his tongue," quoth randal, "for speaking first to me, and not to him. happily we were over cunning to say aught of our gathering here. but when he had let his bile flow, he swore, and said that he could spare a hundred dyvour loons of his command, on the cast of the dice, and, now silence all! not a word or a cry," here he held up his hand, "we are to take 'fortune of war'!" every man grinned gladly on his neighbour, in dead stillness. "now," said randal, "slip out by threes and fours, quietly, and to quarters; but you, norman, wait with me." chapter xxii--how norman leslie fared in paris town "norman, my lad, all our fortunes are made," said randal to me when we were left alone. "there will be gilt spurs and gold for every one of us, and the pick of the plunder." "i like it not," i answered; whereon he caught me rudely by both shoulders, looking close into my face, so that the fume of the wine he had been drinking reached my nostrils. "is a leslie turning recreant?" he asked in a low voice. "a pretty tale to tell in the kingdom of fife!" i stood still, my heart very hot with anger, and said no word, while his grip closed on me. "leave hold," i cried at last, and i swore an oath, may the saints forgive me,--"i will not go!" he loosed his grasp on me, and struck one hand hard into the other. "that i should see this, and have to tell it!" he said, and stepping to the table, he drank like one thirsty, and then fell to pacing the chamber. he seemed to be thinking slowly, as he wiped and plucked at his beard. "what is it that ails you?" he asked. "look you, this onfall and stratagem of war may not miscarry. perdition take the fool, it is safe!" "have i been seeking safety since you knew me?" i asked. "verily no, and therefore i wonder at you the more; but you have been long sick, and men's minds are changeful. consider the thing, nom dieu! if there be no two lights shown from the mill, we step back silently, and all is as it was; the english have thought worse of their night onfall, or the carmelite's message was ruse de guerre. but if we see the two lights, then the hundred english are attempting the taking of the mill; the st. denis gate is open for their return, and we are looked for by our armagnacs within paris. we risk but a short tussle with some drowsy pockpuddings, and then the town is ours. the gate is as strong to hold against an enemy from within as from without. why, man, run to louis de coutes, and beg a cast suit of the maid's; she has plenty, for she is a woman in this, that dearly she loves rich attire." "randal," i said, "i will go with you, and the gladdest lad in france to be going, but i will go in my own proper guise as a man-at-arms. to wear the raiment of the blessed maid, a man and a sinner like me, i will in nowise consent; it is neither seemly nor honourable. take your own way, put me under arrest if you will, and spoil my fortunes, and make me a man disgraced, but i will not wear her holy raiment. it is not the deed of a gentleman, or of a christian." he plucked at his beard. "i am partly with you," he said. "and yet it were a great bourde to play off on the english, and most like to take them and to be told of in ballad and chronicle, like one of wallace's onfalls. for, seeing the pucelle, as they will deem, in our hands, they will think all safe, and welcome us open armed. o norman, can we do nothing? stop, will you wear another woman's short kirtle over your cuisses and taslet? she shall be no saint, i warrant you, but, for a sinner, a bonny lass and a merry. as a gentleman i deem this fair stratagem of war. if i were your own brother,--the saints have his soul in their keeping,--i would still be of this counsel. will you, my lad?" he looked so sad, and yet withal so comical, that i held out my hand to him, laughing. "disguise me as you will," i said, "i have gone mumming as maid marion before now, in the robin hood play, at st. andrews"; and as i spoke, i saw the tall thatched roofs of south street, and the priory gates open, the budding elms above the garden wall of st. leonard's, and all the mayday revel of a year agone pouring out into the good town. "you speak like yourself now, bless your beardless face! come forth," he said, taking a long pull at a tankard,--"that nothing might be wasted,"--and so we went to quarters, and randal trudged off, soon coming back, laughing, with the red kirtle. our men had been very busy furbishing up the red cross of st. george on their breasts, and stripping themselves of any sign of our own colours. as for my busking, never had maid such rough tire-women; but by one way or another, the apparel was accommodated, and they all said that, at a little distance of ground, the english would be finely fooled, and must deem that the maid herself was being led to them captive. it was now in the small hours of morning, dark, save for the glimmer of stars, here and there in a cloudy sky. father urquhart himself went up to the roof of the mill, to say his orisons, having with him certain faggots of pitch-wood, for lighting the beacon-fires if need were; and, as it chanced, braziers to this end stood ready on the roof, as is custom on our own border keeps. we scots, a hundred in all, in english colours, with three or four as prisoners, in our own badges, fared cautiously, and with no word spoken, through dewy woods, or lurking along in dry ditches where best we might, towards the st. denis gate of paris. i had never been on a night surprise or bushment before, and i marvelled how orderly the others kept, as men used to such work, whereas i went stumbling and blindlings. at length, within sight of the twinkling lights of paris, and a hundred yards or thereby off the common way, we were halted in a little wood, and bidden to lie down; no man was so much as to whisper. some slept, i know, for i heard their snoring, but for my part, i never was less in love with sleep. when the sky first grew grey, so that we could dimly see shapes of things, we heard a light noise of marching men on the road. "the english!" whispered he that lay next me. "hush!" breathed randal, and so the footsteps went by, none of us daring to stir, for fear of the rustle in the leaves. the sound soon ceased; belike they had struck off into these very fields wherethrough we had just marched. "now, robin lindsay, climb into yonder ash-tree, and keep your eyes on the mill and the beacon-fires," said randal. robin scrambled up, not easily, because of his armour, and we waited, as it seemed, for an endless time. "what is that sound," whispered one, "so heavy and so hoarse?" it was my own heart beating, as if it would burst my side, but i said nought, and even then robin slid from the tree, as lightly as he might. he held up two fingers, without a word, for a sign that the beacons were lighted, and nodded. "down all," whispered randal. "give them time, give them time." so there we lay, as we must, but that was the hardest part of the waiting, and no sound but of the fowls and wild things arousing, and the cry of sentinels from paris walls, came to our ears. at length randal said, "up all, and onwards!" we arose, loosened our swords in their sheaths, and so crossed to the road. we could now see paris plainly, and were close by the farm of the mathurins, while beyond was the level land they call "les porcherons," with slopes above it, and many trees. "now, norman," said randal, "when we come within clear sight of the gate, two of us shall seize you by the arms as prisoner; then we all cry 'st. george!' and set off running towards paris. the quicker, the less time for discovery." so, having marched orderly and speedily, while the banks of the roadway hid us, we set off to run, randal and robin gripping me when we were full in sight of the moat, of the drawbridge (which was down), and the gate. then our men all cried, "st. george for england! the witch is taken!" and so running disorderly and fast we made for the port, while english men-at-arms might be plainly seen and heard, gazing, waving their hands, and shouting from the battlements of the two gate-towers. down the road we ran, past certain small houses of peasants, and past a gibbet with a marauder hanging from it, just over the dry ditch. our feet, we three leading, with some twenty in a clump hard behind us, rang loud on the drawbridge over the dry fosse. the bridge planks quivered strangely; we were now within the gateway, when down fell the portcullis behind us, the drawbridge, creaking, flew up, a crowd of angry faces and red crosses were pressing on us, and a blow fell on my salade, making me reel. i was held in strong arms, swords shone out above me, i stumbled on a body--it was robin lindsay's--i heard randal give a curse as his blade broke on a helmet, and cry, "i yield me, rescue or no rescue." then burst forth a blast of shouts, and words of command and yells, and english curses. cannon-shot roared overhead, and my mouth was full of sulphur smoke and dust. they were firing on those of our men who had not set foot on the drawbridge when it flew up. soon the portcullis rose again, and the bridge fell, to let in a band of english archers, through whom our scots were cutting their way back towards st. denis. of all this i got glimpses, rather than clear sight, as the throng within the gateway reeled and shifted, crushing me sorely. presently the english from without trooped in, laughing and cursing, welcomed by their fellows, and every man of them prying into my face, and gibing. it had been a settled plan: we were betrayed, it was over clear, and now a harsh voice behind making me turn, i saw the wolf's face of father thomas under his hood, and his yellow fangs. "ha! fair clerk, they that be no clerks themselves may yet hire clerks to work for them. how like you my brother, the carmelite?" then i knew too well how this stratagem had all been laid by that devil, and my heart turned to water within me. randal was led away, but round me the crowd gathered in the open space, for i was haled into the greater gate tower beyond the wet fosse, and from all quarters ran soldiers, and men, women, and children of the town to mock me. "behold her," cried father thomas, climbing on a mounting-stone, as one who would preach to the people, while the soldiers that held me laughed. "behold this wonderful wonder of all wonders, the miraculous maid of the armagnacs! she boasted that, by help of the saints, she would be the first within the city, and lo! she is the first, but she has come without her army. she is every way a miracle, mark you, for she hath a down on her chin, such as no common maidens wear; and if she would but speak a few words of counsel, methinks her tongue would sound strangely scottish for a lorrainer." "speak, speak!" shouted the throng. "dogs," i cried, in french, "dogs and cowards! you shall see the maid closer before nightfall, and fly from her as you have fled before." "said i not so?" asked brother thomas. "a miracle, a miracle, the maid hath a scots tongue in her head." therewith stones began to fall, but the father, holding up his hand, bade the multitude refrain. "harm her not, good brethren, for to-morrow this maid shall be tried by the ordeal of fire if that be the will of our governors. then shall we see if she can work miracles or not," and so he went on gibing, while they grinned horribly upon me. never saw i so many vile faces of the basest people come together, from their filthy dens in paris. but as my eyes ran over them with loathing, i beheld a face i knew; the face of that violer woman who had been in our company before we came to chinon, and lo! perched on her shoulder, chained with a chain fastened round her wrist, was elliot's jackanapes! to see the poor beast that my lady loved in such ill company, seemed as if it would break my heart, and my head fell on my breast. "ye mark, brethren and sisters, she likes not the name of the ordeal by fire," cried brother thomas, whereon i lifted my face again to defy him, and i saw the violer woman bend her brows, and place her finger, as it were by peradventure, on her lips; wherefore i was silent, only gazing on that devil, but then rang out a trumpet-note, blowing the call to arms, and from afar came an answering call, from the quarter of st. denis. "carry him, or her, or whatever the spy is, into the outer gate tower," said a captain; "put him in fetters and manacles; lock the door and leave him; and then to quarters. and you, friar, hold your gibing tongue; lad or lass, he has borne him bravely." six men-at-arms he chose out to do his bidding; and while the gates were cleared of the throng, and trumpets were sounding, and church bells were rung backwards, for an alarm, i was dragged, with many a kick and blow, over the drawbridge, up the stairs of the tower, and so was thrown into a strong room beneath the battlements. there they put me in bonds, gave me of their courtesy a jug of water and a loaf of black bread by me, and then, taking my dagger, my sword, and all that was in my pouch, they left me with curses. "you shall hear how the onfall goes, belike," they said, "and to-morrow shall be your judgment." with that the door grated and rang, the key was turned in the lock, and their iron tread sounded on the stone stairs, going upwards. the room was high, narrow, and lit by a barred and stanchioned window, far above my reach, even if i had been unbound. i shame to say it, but i rolled over on my face and wept. this was the end of my hopes and proud heart. that they would burn me, despite their threats i scarce believed, for i had in nowise offended holy church, or in matters of the faith, and only for such heretics, or wicked dealers in art-magic, is lawfully ordained the death by fire. but here was i prisoner, all that i had won at orleans would do little more than pay my own ransom; from the end of my risk and travail i was now further away than ever. so i mused, weeping for very rage, but then came a heavy rolling sound overhead, as of moving wheeled pieces of ordnance. thereon (so near is hope to us in our despair) i plucked up some heart. ere nightfall, paris might be in the hands of the king, and all might be well. the roar and rebound of cannon overhead told me that the fighting had begun, and now i prayed with all my heart, that the maid, as ever, might again be victorious. so i lay there, listening, and heard the great artillery bellow, and the roar of guns in answer, the shouting of men, and clang of church bells. now and again the walls of the tower rang with the shock of a cannon-ball, once an arrow flew through the casement and shattered itself on the wall above my head. i scarce know why, but i dragged me to the place where it fell, and, put the arrow-point in my bosom. smoke of wood and pitch darkened the light; they had come, then, to close quarters. but once more rang the rattle of guns; the whizzing rush of stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and steel harness, the cries of war, "mont joye st. denis!" "st. george for england!" and slogans too, i heard, as "bellenden," "a home! a home!" and then i knew the scots were there, fighting in the front. but alas, how different was the day when first i heard our own battle-cries under orleans walls! then i had my life and my sword in my hands, to spend and to strike; but now i lay a lonely prisoner, helpless and all but hopeless; yet even so i clashed my chains and shouted, when i heard the slogan. thus with noise and smoke, and trumpets blowing the charge or the recall, and our pipes shrieking the pibroch high above the din, with dust floating and plaster dropping from the walls of my cell till i was wellnigh stifled, the day wore on, nor could i tell, in anywise, how the battle went. the main onslaught, i knew, was not on the gate behind the tower in which i lay, though that tower also was smitten of cannon-balls. at length, well past mid-day, as i deemed by the light, came a hush, and then a thicker smoke, and taste of burning pitch-wood, and a roar as if all paris had been blown into mid-air, so that my tower shook, while heavy beams fell crashing to earth. again came a hush, and then one voice, clear as a clarion call, even the voice of the maid, "tirez en avant, en avant!" how my blood thrilled at the sound of it! it must be now, i thought, or never, but the guns only roared the louder, the din grew fierce and fiercer, till i heard a mighty roar, the english shouting aloud as one man for joy, for so their manner is. thrice they shouted, and my heart sank within me. had they slain the maid? i knew not, but for torment of soul there is scarce any greater than so to lie, bound and alone, seeing nought, but guessing at what is befalling. after these shouts it was easy to know that the fighting waned, and was less fierce. the day, moreover, turned to thunder, and waxed lowering and of a stifling heat. yet my worst fears were ended, for i heard, now and again, the clear voice of the maid, bidding her men "fight on, for all was theirs." but the voice was weaker now, and other than it had been. so the day darkened, only once and again a shot was fired, and in the dusk the shouts of the english told me over clearly that for to-day our chance and hope were lost. then the darkness grew deeper, and a star shone through my casement, and feet went up and down upon the stairs, but no man came near me. below there was some faint cackle of mirth and laughter, and at last the silence fell. once more came a swift step on the stairs, as of one stumbling up in haste. the key rattled in the wards, a yellow light shone in, a man-atarms entered; he held a torch to my face, looked to my bonds, and then gave me a kick, while one cried from below, "come on, dickon, your meat is cooling!" so he turned and went out, the door clanging behind him, and the key rattling in the wards. in pain and fierce wrath i gnawed my black bread, drank some of the water, and at last i bethought me of that which should have been first in the thoughts of a christian man, and i prayed. remembering the story of michael hamilton, which i have already told, and other noble and virtuous miracles of madame st. catherine of fierbois, i commanded me to her, that, by god's grace, she would be pleased to release me from bonds and prison. and i promised that, if she would so favour me, i would go on pilgrimage to her chapel of fierbois. i looked that my chains should now fall from my limbs, but, finding no such matter, and being very weary (for all the last night i had slept none), i fell on slumber and forgot my sorrow. belike i had not lain long in that blessed land where trouble seldom comes when i was wakened, as it were, by a tugging at my clothes. i sat up, but the room was dark, save for a faint light in the casement, high overhead, and i thought i had dreamed. howbeit, as i lay down again, heavy at heart, my clothes were again twitched, and now i remembered what i had heard, but never believed, concerning "lutins" or "brownies," as we call them, which, being spirits invisible, and reckoned to have no part in our salvation, are wont in certain houses to sport with men. curious rather than affrighted, i sat up once more, and looked around, when i saw two bright spots of light in the dark. then deeming that, for some reason unknown to me, the prison door had been opened while i slept, and a cat let in, i stretched out my hands towards the lights, thence came a sharp, faint cry, and something soft and furry leaped on to my breast, stroking me with little hands. it was elliot's jackanapes, very meagre, as i could feel, and all his ribs standing out, but he made much of me, fondling me after his manner; and indeed, for my lady's sake, i kissed him, wondering much how he came there. then he put something into my hands, almost as if he had been a christian, for it was a wise beast and a kind. even then there shone into my memory the thought of how my lady had prayed for her little friend when he was stolen (which i had thought strange, and scarcely warranted by our faith), and with that, hope wakened within me. my eyes being now more accustomed to the darkness, i saw that the thing which the jackanapes gave me was a little wallet, for he had been taught to fetch and carry, and never was such a marvel at climbing. but as i was caressing him, i found a string about his neck, to which there seemed to be no end. now, at length, i comprehended what was toward, and pulling gently at the string, i found, after some time, that it was attached to something heavy, on the outside of the casement. therefore i set about drawing in string from above, and more string, and more, and then appeared a knot and a splice, and the end of a thick rope. so i drew and drew, till it stopped, and i could see a stout bar across the stanchions of the casement. thereon i ceased drawing, and opening the little wallet, i found two files, one very fine, the other of sturdier fashion. verily then i blessed the violer woman, who at great peril of her own life, and by such witty device as doubtless madame st. catherine put into her heart, had sent the jackanapes up from below, and put me in the way of safety. i wasted no time, but began filing, not at the thick circlet on my wrist, but at a link of the chain whereto it was made fast. and such was the temper of the file, that soon i got the stouter weapon into the cut, and snapped the link; and so with the others, working long hours, and often looking fearfully for the first glimmer of dawn. this had not come in, when i was now free of bonds, but there was yet the casement to be scaled. with all my strength i dragged and jerked at the rope, whereby i meant to climb, lest the stanchions should be rusted through, and unable to bear my weight, but they stood the strain bravely. then i cast off my woman's kirtle, and took from my pouch the arrow-point, and therewith scratched hastily on the plastered wall, in great letters: "norman leslie of pitcullo leaves his malison on the english." next i bound the jackanapes within the bosom of my doublet, with a piece of the cord whereto the rope had been knotted, for i could not leave the little beast to die the death of a traitor, and bring suspicion, moreover, on the poor violer woman. then, commanding myself to the saints, and especially thanking madame st. catherine, i began to climb, hauling myself up by the rope, whereon i had made knots to this end; nor was the climbing more difficult than to scale a branchless beech trunk for a bird's nest, which, like other boys, i had often done. so behold me, at last, with my legs hanging in free air, seated on the sill of the casement. happily, of the three iron stanchions, though together they bore my weight, one was loose in the lower socket, for lack of lead, and this one i displaced easily enough, and so passed through. then i put the wooden bar at the rope's end, within the room, behind the two other stanchions, considering that they, by themselves, would bear my weight, but if not, rather choosing to trust my soul to the saints than my body to the english. the deep below me was very terrible to look upon, and the casement being above the dry ditch, i had no water to break my fall, if fall i must. howbeit, i hardened my heart, and turning my face to the wall, holding first the wooden bar, and then shifting my grasp to the rope, i let myself down, clinging to the rope with my legs, and at first not a little helped by the knots i had made to climb to the casement. when i had passed these, methought my hands were on fire; nevertheless, i slid down slowly and with caution, till my feet touched ground. i was now in the dry ditch, above my head creaked and swung the dead body of the hanged marauder, but he did no whit affray me. i ran, stooping, along the bed of the dry ditch, for many yards, stumbling over the bodies of men slain in yesterday's fight, and then, creeping out, i found a hollow way between two slopes, and thence crawled into a wood, where i lay some little space hidden by the boughs. the smell of trees and grass and the keen air were like wine to me; i cooled my bleeding hands in the deep dew; and presently, in the dawn, i was stealing towards st. denis, taking such cover of ditches and hedges as we had sought in our unhappy march of yesterday. and i so sped, by favour of the saints, that i fell in with no marauders; but reaching the windmill right early, at first trumpet-call, i was hailed by our sentinels for the only man that had won in and out of paris, and had carried off, moreover, a prisoner, the jackanapes. to see me, scarred, with manacles on my wrists and gyves on my ankles, weaponless, with an ape on my shoulder, was such a sight as the scots guard had never beheld before, and carrying me to the smith's, they first knocked off my irons, and gave me wine, ere they either asked me for my tale, or told me their own, which was a heartbreak to bear. for no man could unfold the manner of that which had come to pass, if, at least, there were not strong treason at the root of all. for our part of the onfall, the english had made but a feigned attack on the mill, wherefore the bale-fires were lit, to our undoing. this was the ruse de guerre of the accursed cordelier, brother thomas. for the rest, the maid had led on a band to attack the gate st. honore, with gaucourt in her company, a knight that had no great love either of her or of a desperate onslaught. but d'alencon, whom she loved as a brother, was commanded to take another band, and wait behind a butte or knowe, out of danger of arrow-shot. the maid had stormed all day at her gate, had taken the boulevard without, and burst open and burned the outer port, and crossed the dry ditch. but when she had led up her men, now few, over the slope and to the edge of the wet fosse, behold no faggots and bundles of wood were brought up, whereby, as is manner of war, to fill up the fosse, and so cross over. as she then stood under the wall, shouting for faggots and scaling-ladders, her standard-bearer was shot to death, and she was sorely wounded by an arbalest bolt. natheless she lay by the wall, still crying on her men, but nought was ready that should have been, many were slain by shafts and cannon-shot, and in the dusk, she weeping and crying still that the place was theirs to take, d'alencon carried her off by main force, set her on her horse, and so brought her back to st. denis. now, my mind was, and is to this day, that there was treason here, and a black stain on the chivalry of france, to let a girl go so far, and not to follow her. but of us scots many were slain, and more wounded, while robin lindsay died in paris gate, and randal rutherford lay a prisoner in english hands. chapter xxiii--how elliot's jackanapes came home of our blessed lord himself it is said in the gospel of st. matthew, "et non fecit ibi virtutes multas propter incredulitatem illorum." these words i willingly leave in the roman tongue; for by the wisdom of holy church it is deemed that many mysteries should not be published abroad in the vulgar speech, lest the unlearned hear to their own confusion. but if even he, doubtless by the wisdom of his own will, did not many great works "propter incredulitatem," it is the less to be marvelled at that his saints, through the person of the blessed maid, were of no avail where men utterly disbelieved. and that, where infidelity was, even she must labour in vain was shown anon, even on this very day of my escape out of paris town. for i had scarce taken some food, and washed and armed myself, when the maid's trumpets sounded, and she herself, armed and on horseback, despite her wound, rode into st. denis, to devise with the gentle duc d'alencon. together they came forth from the gate, and i, being in their company, heard her cry-"by my baton, i will never go back till i take that city." {31} these words percival de cagny also heard, a good knight, and maitre d'hotel of the house of alencon. thereon arose some dispute, d'alencon being eager, as indeed he always was, to follow where the maiden led, and some others holding back. now, as they were devising together, some for, some against, for men-atarms not a few had fallen in the onfall, there came the sound of horses' hoofs, and lo! messire de montmorency, who had been of the party of the english, and with them in paris, rode up, leading a company of fifty or sixty gentlemen of his house, to join the maid. thereat was great joy and new courage in all men of goodwill, seeing that, within paris itself, so many gentlemen deemed ours the better cause and the more hopeful. thus there was an end of all dispute, our companies were fairly arrayed, and we were marching to revenge ourselves for the losses of yesterday, when two knights came spurring after us from st. denis. they were the duc de bar, and that unhappy charles de bourbon, comte de clermont, by whose folly, or ill-will, or cowardice, the scots were betrayed and deserted at the battle of the herrings, where my own brother fell, as i have already told. this second time charles de bourbon brought evil fortune, for he came on the king's part, straitly forbidding d'alencon and the maid to march forward another lance's length. whereat d'alencon swore profane, and the maiden, weeping, rebuked him. so, with heavy hearts, we turned, all the host of us, and went back to quarters, the maid to pray in the chapel, and the men-at-arms to drink and speak ill of the king. all this was on the ninth of september, a weary day to all of us, though in the evening word came that we were to march early next morning and attack paris in another quarter, crossing the river by a bridge of boats which the duc d'alencon had let build to that end. after two wakeful nights i was well weary, and early laid me down to sleep, rising at dawn with high hopes. and so through the grey light we marched silently to the place appointed, but bridge there was none; for the king, having heard of the maid's intent, had caused men to work all night long, destroying that which the gentle duke had builded. had the king but heard the shouts and curses of our company when they found nought but the bare piles standing, the grey water flowing, and the boats and planks vanished, he might have taken shame to himself of his lack of faith. therefore i say it boldly, it was because of men's unbelief that the maid at paris wrought no great works, save that she put her body in such hazard of war as never did woman, nay, nor man, since the making of the world. i have no heart to speak more of this shameful matter, nor of these days of anger and blasphemy. it was said and believed that her voices bade the maid abide at st. denis till she should take paris town, but the king, and charles de bourbon, and the archbishop of reims refused to hearken to her. on the thirteenth day of september, after dinner, the king, with all his counsellors, rode away from st. denis, towards gien on the loire. the maiden, for her part, hung up all her harness that she had worn, save the sword of st. catherine of fierbois, in front of the altar of our lady, and the blessed relics of st. denis in the chapel. thereafter she rode, as needs she must, and we of her company with her, to join the king, for so he commanded. and now was the will of the maid and of the duc d'alencon broken, and broken was all that great army, whereof some were free lances out of many lands, but more were nobles of france with their men, who had served without price or pay, for love of france and of the maid. never again were they mustered; nay when, after some weeks passed, the gentle duc d'alencon prayed that he might have the maiden with him, and burst into normandy, where the english were strongest, by the marches of maine, even this grace was refused to him, by the malengin and ill-will of la tremouille and the archbishop of reims. and these two fair friends met never more again, neither at fray nor feast. may she, among the saints, so work by her prayers that the late sin and treason of the gentle duke may be washed out and made clean, for while she lived there was no man more dear to her, nor any that followed her more stoutly in every onfall. now concerning the times that came after this shameful treason at paris, i have no joy to write. the king's counsellors, as their manner was, ever hankered after a peace with burgundy, and they stretched the false truce that was to have ended at christmas to easter day, "pacem clamantes quo non fuit pax." for there was no truce with the english, who took st. denis again, and made booty of the arms which the maid had dedicated to our lady. on our part la hire and xaintrailles plundered, for their own hand, the lands of the duke of burgundy, and indeed on every side there was no fair fighting, such as the maid loved, but a war of wastry, the peasants pillaged, and the poor held to ransom. for her part, she spent her days in prayer for the poor and the oppressed, whom she had come to deliver, and who now were in worse case than before, the english harrying certain of the good towns that had yielded to king charles. now her voices ever bade the maid go back to the isle of france, and assail paris, where lay no english garrison, and the armagnacs were stirring as much as they might. but paris, being at this time under the government of the duke of burgundy, was forsooth within the truce. the king's counsellors, therefore, setting their wisdom against that of the saints, bade the maid go against the towns of st. pierre le moustier and la charite, then held by the english on the loire. this was in november, when days were short, and the weather bitter cold. the council was held at mehun sur yevre, and forthwith the maid, glad to be doing, rode to bourges, where she mustered her men, and so marched to st. pierre le moustier, a small town, but a strong, with fosses, towers, and high walls. there we lay some two days or three, plying the town with our artillery, and freezing in the winter nights. at length, having made somewhat of a breach, the maid gave the word for the assault, and herself leading, with her banner in hand, we went at it with what force we might. but twice and thrice we were driven back from the fosse, and to be plain, our men were fled under cover, and only the maid stood within arrow-shot of the wall, with a few of her household, of whom i was one, for i could not go back while she held her ground. the arrows and bolts from the town rained and whistled about us, and in faith i wished myself other where. yet she stood, waving her banner, and crying, "tirez en avant, ils sont a nous," as was her way in every onfall. seeing her thus in jeopardy, her maitre d'hotel, d'aulon, though himself wounded in the heel so that he might not set foot to ground, mounted a horse, and riding up, asked her "why she abode there alone, and did not give ground like the others?" at this the maid lifted her helmet from her head, and so, uncovered, her face like marble for whiteness, and her eyes shining like steel, made answer-"i am not alone; with me there are of mine fifty thousand! hence i will not give back one step till i have taken the town." then i wotted well that, sinful man as i am, i was in the company of the hosts of heaven, though i saw them not. great heart this knowledge gave me and others, and the maid crying, in a loud voice, "aux fagots, tout le monde!" the very runaways heard her and came back with planks and faggots, and so, filling up the fosse and passing over, we ran into the breach, smiting and slaying, and the town was taken. for my own part, i was so favoured that two knights yielded them my prisoners (i being the only man of gentle birth among those who beset them in a narrow wynd), and with their ransoms i deemed myself wealthy enough, as well i might. so now i could look to win my heart's desire, if no ill fortune befell. but little good fortune came in our way. from la charite, which was beset in the last days of november, we had perforce to give back, for the king sent us no munitions of war, and for lack of more powder and ball we might not make any breach in the walls of that town. and so, by reason of the hard winter, and the slackness of the king, and the false truce, we fought no more, at that season, but went, trailing after the court, from castle to castle. many feasts were held, and much honour was done to the maid, as by gifts of coat armour, and the ennobling of all her kith and kin, but these things she regarded not, nor did she ever bear on her shield the sword supporting the crown, between the lilies of france. if these were ill days for the maid, i shame to confess that they were merry days with me. there are worse places than a king's court, when a man is young, and light of heart, full of hope, and with money in his purse. i looked that we should take the field again in the spring; and having gained some gold, and even some good words, as one not backward where sword-strokes were going, i know not what dreams i had of high renown, ay, and the constable's staff to end withal. for many a poor scot has come to great place in france and germany, who began with no better fortune than a mind to put his body in peril. moreover, the winning of elliot herself for my wife seemed now a thing almost within my reach. therefore, as i say, i kept a merry yule at jargeau, going bravely clad, and dancing all night long with the merriest. only the wan face of the maid (that in time of war had been so gallant and glad) came between me and my pleasures. not that she was wilfully and wantonly sad, yet now and again we could mark in her face the great and loving pity that possessed her for france. now i would be half angered with her, but again far more wroth with myself, who could thus lightly think of that passion of hers. but when she might she was ever at her prayers, or in company of children, or seeking out such as were poor and needy, to whom she was abundantly lavish of her gifts, so that, wheresoever the court went, the people blessed her. in these months i had tidings of elliot now and again; and as occasion served i wrote to her, with messages of my love, and with a gift, as of a ring or a jewel. but concerning the manner of my escape from paris i had told elliot nothing for this cause. my desire was, when soonest i had an occasion, to surprise her with the gift of her jackanapes anew, knowing well that nothing could make her greater joy, save my own coming, or a victory of the maid. the little creature had been my comrade wheresoever we went, as at sully, gien, and bourges, only i took him not to the leaguers of st. pierre le moustier and la charite, but left him with a fair lady of the court. he had waxed fat again, for as meagre as he was when he came to me in prison, and he was full of new tricks, warming himself at the great fire in hall, like a man. now in the middle of the month of january, in the year of grace fourteen hundred and thirty, the maid told us of her household that she would journey to orleans, to abide for some space with certain ladies of her friends, namely, madame de st. mesmin and madame de mouchy, who loved her dearly. to the most of us she gave holiday, to see our own friends. the maid knew surely that in france my friends were few, and well she guessed whither i was bound. therefore she sent for me, and bidding me carry her love to elliot, she put into my hands a gift to her friend. it was a ring of silver-gilt, fashioned like that which her own father and mother had given her. at this ring she had a custom of looking often, so that the english conceived it to be an unholy talisman, though it bore the name that is above all names. that ring i now wear in my bosom. so, saying farewell, with many kind words on her part, i rode towards tours, where elliot and her father as then dwelt, in that same house where i had been with them to be healed of my malady, after the leaguer of orleans. to tours i rode, telling them not of my coming, and carrying the jackanapes well wrapped up in furs of the best. the weather was frosty, and folk were sliding on the ice of the flooded fields near tours when i came within sight of the great minster. the roads rang hard; on the smooth ice the low sun was making paths of gold, and i sang as i rode. putting up my horse at the sign of the "hanging sword," i took the ape under my great furred surcoat, and stole like a thief through the alleys, towards my master's house. the night was falling, and all the casement of the great chamber was glowing with the colour and light of a leaping fire within. there came a sound of music too, as one touched the virginals to a tune of my own country. my heart was beating for joy, as it had beaten in the bushment outside paris town. i opened the outer door secretly, for i knew the trick of it, and i saw from the thin thread of light on the wall of the passage that the chamber door was a little ajar. the jackanapes was now fretting and struggling within my surcoat, so, opening the coat, i put him down by the chamber door. he gave a little scratch, as was his custom, for he was a very mannerly little beast, and the sound of the virginals ceased. then, pushing the door with his little hands, he ran in, with a kind of cry of joy. "in our lady's name, what is this?" came the voice of elliot. "my dear, dear little friend, what make you here?" then i could withhold myself no longer, but entered, and my lady ran to me, the jackanapes clinging about her neck with his arms. but mine were round her too, and what words we said, and what cheer we made each the other, i may not write, commending me to all true lovers, whose hearts shall tell them that whereof i am silent. much was i rebuked for that i did not write to warn them of my coming, which was yet the more joyful that they were not warned. and then the good woman, elliot's kinswoman, must be called (though in sooth not at the very first), and then a great fire must be lit in my old chamber; and next my master came in, from a tavern where he had been devising with some scots of his friends; and all the while the jackanapes kept such a merry coil, and played so many of his tricks, and got so many kisses from his mistress, that it was marvel. but of all that had befallen me in the wars, and of how the maiden did (concerning which elliot had questioned me first of all), i would tell them little till supper was brought. and then, indeed, out came all my tale, and they heard of what had been my fortune in paris, and how the jackanapes had delivered me from durance, whereon never, surely, was any beast of his kind so caressed since our father adam gave all the creatures their names. but as touching the maid, i told how she had borne herself at st. pierre le moustier, and of all the honours that had been granted to her, and i bade them be of good heart and hope, for that her banner would be on the wind in spring, after easter day. all the good news that might be truly told i did tell, as how la hire had taken louviers town, and harried the english up to the very gates of rouen. and i gave to elliot the ring which the maid had sent to her, fashioned like that she herself wore, but of silver gilt, whereas the maid's was of base metal, and it bore the holy names mari. ihs. thereon elliot kissed it humbly, and avowed herself to be, that night, the gladdest damsel in all france. "for i have gotten you, mon ami, and my little friend that i had lost, beyond all hope, and i have a kind word and a token from her, la fille de dieu," whereat her speech faltered, and her eyes swam in tears. but some trick of her jackanapes brought back her mirth, and so the hours passed, as happy as any in my life. truly the memory of these things tells me how glad this world might be, wherein god has placed us, were it not troubled by the inordinate desires of men. in my master's house of tours, then, my days of holiday went merrily by, save for one matter, and that of the utmost moment. for my master would in no manner permit me to wed his daughter while this war endured; and elliot herself, blushing like any rose, told me that, while the maid had need of me, with the maid i must abide at my duty, and that she herself had no mind for happiness while her friend was yet labouring in the cause of france. howbeit, i delivered me of my vow, by pilgrimage to the chapel in fierbois. {32} chapter xxiv--how the maid heard ill tidings from her voices, and of the silence of the birds eastertide came at last, and that early, easter day falling on march the twenty-seventh. our king kept his paques at sully with great festival, but his deadly foe, the duke of burgundy, lay at the town of peronne. so soon as eastertide was over, the duke drew all the force he had to montdidier, a town which lies some eight leagues to the north and west of compiegne. hence he so wrought that he made a pact with the captain of the french in gournay, a town some four leagues north and west of compiegne, whereby the garrison there promised to lie idle, and make no onslaught against them of burgundy, unless the king brought them a rescue. therefore the duke went back to noyon on the oise, some eight leagues north and east of compiegne, while his captain, jean de luxembourg, led half his army west, towards beauvais. there he took the castle of provenlieu, an old castle, and ruinous, that the english had repaired and held. and there he hanged certain english, who were used to pillage all the country about montdidier. thence jean de luxembourg came back to the duke, at noyon, and took and razed choisy, which was held for france. now all these marchings, and takings of towns, were designed to one end, namely, that the duke might have free passage over the river oise, so that his men and his victual might safely come and go from the east. for, manifestly, it was his purpose to besiege and take the good town of compiegne, which lies on the river oise some fifteen leagues north and east of paris. this town had come in, and yielded to the maid, some weeks before the onfall of paris, and it was especially dear to her, for the people had sworn that they would all die, and see their wives and children dead, rather than yield to england or burgundy. moreover, whosoever held compiegne was like, in no long time, to be master of paris. but as now guillaume de flavy commanded in compiegne for the king, a very good knight and skilled captain, but a man who robbed and ravished wheresoever he had power. his brother, louis de flavy, also joined him after choisy fell, as i have told. all this i have written that men may clearly know how the maid came by her end. for, so soon as eastertide was over, and the truce ended, she made no tarrying, nor even said farewell to the king, who might have held her back, but drew out all her company, and rode northward, whither she knew that battle was to be. her mind was to take some strong place on the oise, as pont l'eveque, near noyon, that she might cut off them of burgundy from all the country eastward of oise, and so put them out of the power to besiege compiegne, and might destroy all their host at montdidier and in the beauvais country. for the maid was not only the first of captains in leading a desperate onslaught, but also (by miracle, for otherwise it might not be) she best knew how to devise deep schemes and subtle stratagem of war. setting forth, therefore, early in april, on the fifteenth day of the month she came to melun, a town some seven leagues south of paris, that had lately yielded to the king. bidding me walk with her, she went afoot about the walls, considering what they lacked of strength, and how they might best be repaired, and bidding me write down all in a little book. now we two, and no other, were walking by the dry fosse of melun, the day being very fair and warm for that season, the flowers blossoming, and the birds singing so sweet and loud as never i heard them before or since that day. the maid stood still to listen, holding up her hand to me for silence, when, lo! in one moment, in the midst of merry music, the birds hushed suddenly. as i marvelled, for there was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath of cold wind, i beheld the maid standing as i had seen her stand in the farmyard of the mill by st. denis. her head was bare, and her face was white as snow. so she stood while one might count a hundred, and if ever any could say that he had seen the maid under fear, it was now. as i watched and wondered, she fell on her knees, like one in prayer, and with her eyes set and straining, and with clasped hands, she said these words--"tell me of that day, and that hour, or grant me, of your grace, that in the same hour i may die." then she was silent for short space, and then, having drawn herself upon her knees for three paces or four, she very reverently bowed down, and kissed the ground. thereafter she arose, and beholding me wan, i doubt not, she gently laid her hand upon my shoulder, and, smiling most sweetly, she said-"i know not what thou hast seen or heard, but promise, on thine honour, that thou wilt speak no word to any man, save in confession only, while i bear arms for france." then humbly, and with tears, i vowed as she had bidden me, whereto she only said-"come, we loiter, and i have much to do, for the day is short." but whether the birds sang again, or stinted, i know not, for i marked it not. but she set herself, as before, to consider the walls and the fosses, bidding me write down in my little book what things were needful. nor was her countenance altered in any fashion, nor was her wit less clear; but when we had seen all that was to be looked to, she bade me call the chief men of the town to her house, after vespers, and herself went into the church of st. michael to pray. though i pondered much on this strange matter, which i laid up in my heart, i never knew what, belike, the import was, till nigh a year thereafter, at rouen. but there one told me how the maid, before her judges, had said that, at melun, by the fosse, her saints had told her how she should be made prisoner before the feast of st. john. and she had prayed them to warn her of that hour, or in that hour might she die, but they bade her endure all things patiently, and with a willing mind. at that coming, then, of the saints, i was present, though, being a sinful man, i knew not that the holy ones were there. but the birds knew, and stinted in their singing. now that the maid, knowing by inspiration her hour to be even at the doors, and wotting well what the end of her captivity was like to be, yet had the heart to put herself in jeopardy day by day, this i deem the most valiant deed ever done by man or woman since the making of the world. for scarce even wallace wight would have stood to his standard had he known, by teaching of them who cannot lie, what end awaited him beyond all hope. nay, he would have betaken him to france, as once he did in time of less danger. now, i pray you, consider who she was that showed this courage and high heart. she was but the daughter of a manant, a girl of eighteen years of age. remember, then, what manner of creature such a girl is of her nature; how weak and fearful; how she is discomfited and abashed by the company of even one gentleman or lady of noble birth; how ignorant she is of war; how fond to sport and play with wenches of her own degree; how easily set on fire of love; and how eager to be in the society of young men amorous. pondering all these things in your hearts, judge ye whether this maid, the bravest leader in breach, the wisest captain, having foreknowledge of things hidden and of things to come, the most courteous lady who ever with knights sat in hall, not knowing carnal love, nor bodily fear, was aught but a thing miraculous, and a sister of the saints. chapter xxv--of the onfall at pont l'eveque, and how norman leslie was hurt i have now shown wherefore the fighting, in this spring, was to be up and down the water of oise, whence the villagers had withdrawn themselves, of necessity, into the good towns. for the desire of the duke of burgundy was to hold the oise, and so take compiegne, the better to hold paris. and on our side the skill was to cut his army in two, so that from east of the water of oise neither men nor victual might come to him. having this subtle device of war in her mind, the maid rode north from melun, by the king's good towns, till she came to compiegne, that was not yet beleaguered. there they did her all the honour that might be, and thither came to her standard messire jacques de chabennes, messire rigault de fontaines, messire poton de xaintrailles, the best knight then on ground, and many other gentlemen, some four hundred lances in all. {33} with these lances the maid consorted to attack pont l'eveque by a night onfall. this is a small but very strong hold, on the oise, some six leagues from compiegne, as you go up the river, and it lies near the town of noyon, which was held by the english. in pont l'eveque there was a garrison of a hundred lances of the english, and our skill was to break on them in the grey of dawn, when men least fear a surprise, and are most easily taken. by this very device la hire had seized compiegne but six years agone, wherefore our hope was the higher. about five of the clock on an april day we rode out of compiegne, a great company,--too great, perchance, for that we had to do. for our army was nigh a league in length as it went on the way, nor could we move swiftly, for there were waggons with us and carts, drawing guns and couleuvrines and powder, fascines wherewith to fill the fosses, and ladders and double ladders for scaling the walls. so the captains ordered it to be, for ever since that day by melun fosse, when the saints foretold her captivity, the maid submitted herself in all things to the captains, which was never her manner before. as we rode slowly, she was now at the head of the line, now in the midst, now at the rear, wherever was need; and as i rode at her rein, i took heart to say-"madame, it is not thus that we have taken great keeps and holds, in my country, from our enemies of england." "nay," said she, checking her horse to a walk, and smiling on me in the dusk with her kind eyes. "then tell me how you order it in your country." "madame," i said, "it was with a little force, and lightly moving, that messire thomas randolph scaled the castle rock and took edinburgh castle out of the hands of the english, a keep so strong, and set on a cliff so perilous, that no man might deem to win it by sudden onfall. and in like manner the good messire james douglas took his own castle, more than once or twice, by crafty stratagem of war, so that the english named it castle perilous. but in every such onfall few men fought for us, of such as could move secretly and swiftly, not with long trains of waggons that cover a league of road, and by their noise and number give warning to an enemy." "my mind is yours," she said, with a sigh, "and so i would have made this onslaught. but i submitted me to the will of the captains." through the night we pushed our way slowly, for in such a march none may go swifter than the slowest, namely, the carts and the waggons. thus it befell that the maid and the captains were in more thoughts than one to draw back to compiegne, for the night was clear, and the dawn would be bright. and, indeed, after stumbling and wandering long, and doubting of the way, we did, at last, see the church towers and walls of pont l'eveque stand out against the clear sky of morning, a light mist girdling the basement of the walls. had we been a smaller and swifter company, we should have arrived an hour before the first greyness shows the shapes of things. but now, alas! we no sooner saw the town than we heard the bells and trumpets calling the townsfolk and men-at-arms to be on their ward. the great guns of the keep roared at us so soon as we were in reach of shot; nevertheless, pothon and the maid set companies to carry the double ladders, for the walls were high, and others were told off to bring up the fascines, and so, leaving our main battle to wait out of shot, and come on as they were needed, the maid and pothon ran up the first rampart, she waving her standard and crying that all was ours. as we ran, for i must needs be by her side, the din of bells and guns was worse than i had heard at orleans, and on the top of the church towers were men-at-arms waving flags, as if for a signal. howbeit, we sprang into the fosse, under shield, wary of stones cast from above, and presently three ladders were set against the wall, and we went up, the maid leading the way. now of what befell i know but little, save that i had so climbed that i looked down over the wall, when the ladder whereon i stood was wholly overthrown by two great english knights, and one of them, by his coat armour, was messire de montgomery himself, who commanded in pont l'eveque. of all that came after i remember no more than a flight through air, and the dead stroke of a fall on earth with a stone above me. for such is the fortune of war, whereof a man knows but his own share for the most part, and even that dimly. the eyes are often blinded with swift running to be at the wall, and, what with a helm that rings to sword-blows, and what with smoke, and dust, and crying, and clamour, and roar of guns, it is but little that many a man-at-arms can tell concerning the frays wherein, may be, he has borne himself not unmanly. this was my lot at pont l'eveque, and i knew but little of what passed till i found myself in very great anguish. for i had been laid in one of the carts, and so was borne along the way we had come, and at every turn of the wheels a new pang ran through me. for my life i could not choose but groan, as others groaned that were in the same cart with me. for my right leg was broken, also my right arm, and my head was stounding as if it would burst. it was late and nigh sunset or ever we won the gates of compiegne, having lost, indeed, but thirty men slain, but having wholly failed in our onfall. for i heard in the monastery whither i was borne that, when the maid and xaintrailles and their men had won their way within the walls, and had slain certain of the english, and were pushing the others hard, behold our main battle was fallen upon in the rear by the english from noyon, some two miles distant from pont l'eveque. therefore there was no help for it but retreat we must, driving back the english to noyon, while our wounded and all our munitions of war were carried orderly away. as to the pains i bore in that monastery of the jacobins, when my broken bones were set by a very good surgeon, there is no need that i should write. my fortune in war was like that of most men-at-arms, or better than that of many who are slain outright in their first skirmish. some good fortune i had, as at st. pierre, and again, bad fortune, of which this was the worst, that i could not be with the maid: nay, never again did i ride under her banner. she, for her part, was not idle, but, after tarrying certain days in compiegne with guillaume de flavy, she rode to lagny, "for there," she said, "were men that warred well against the english," namely, a company of our scots. and among them, as later i heard in my bed, was randal rutherford, who had ransomed himself out of the hands of the french in paris, whereat i was right glad. at lagny, with her own men and the scots, the maid fought and took one franquet d'arras, a burgundian "routier," or knight of the road, who plundered that country without mercy. him the maid would have exchanged for an armagnac of paris, the host of the bear inn, then held in duresse by the english, for his share in a plot to yield paris to the king. but this burgess died in the hands of the english, and the echevins {34} of lagny, claiming franquet d'arras as a common thief, traitor, and murderer, tried him, and, on his confession, put him to death. this was counted a crime in the maid by the english and burgundian robbers, nay, even by french and scots. "for," said they, "if a gentleman is to be judged like a manant, or a fat burgess by burgesses, there is no more profit or glory in war." nay, i have heard gentlemen of france cry out that, as the maid gave up franquet to such judges as would surely condemn him, so she was rightly punished when jean de luxembourg sold her into the hands of unjust judges. but i answer that the maid did not sell franquet d'arras, as i say de luxembourg sold her: not a livre did she take from the folk of lagny. and as for the slaying of robbers, this very jean de luxembourg had but just slain many english of his own party, for that they burned and pillaged in the beauvais country. yet men murmured against the maid not only in their hearts, but openly, and many men-at-arms ceased to love her cause, both for the slaying of franquet d'arras, and because she was for putting away the leaguer-lasses, and, when she might, would suffer no plundering. whether she was right or wrong, it behoves me not to judge, but this i know, that the king's men fought best when she was best obeyed. and, like him who sent her, she was ever of the part of the poor and the oppressed, against strong knights who rob and ravish and burn and torture, and hold to ransom. therefore the archbishop of reims, who was never a friend of the maid, said openly in a letter to the reims folk that "she did her own will, rather than obeyed the commandments of god." but that god commands knights and gentlemen to rob the poor and needy (though indeed he has set a great gulf between a manant and a gentleman born) i can in nowise believe. for my part, when i have been where gentlemen and captains lamented the slaying of franquet d'arras, and justified the dealings of the english with the maid, i have seemed to hear the clamour of the cruel jews: "tolle hunc, et dimitte nobis barabbam." {35} for barabbas was a robber. howbeit on this matter, as on all, i humbly submit me to the judgment of my superiors and to holy church. meantime the maid rode from lagny, now to soissons, now to senlis, now to crepy-en-valois, and in crepy she was when that befell which i am about to relate. chapter xxvi--how, and by whose device, the maid was taken at compiegne "verily and indeed the maid is of wonderful excellence," quoth father francois to me, in my chamber at the jacobins, where i was healing of my hurts. "any man may know that, who is in your company," the father went on speaking. "and how, good father?" i asked him; "sure i have caught none of her saintliness." "a saint i do not call you, but i scarce call you a scot. for you are a clerk." "the maid taught me none of my clergy, father, nor have i taught her any of mine." "she needs it not. but you are peaceful and gentle; you brawl not, nor drink, nor curse . . . " "nay, father, with whom am i to brawl, or how should i curse in your good company? find you scots so froward?" "but now, pretending to be our friends, a band of them is harrying the sologne country . . . " "they will be johnstons and jardines, and wild wood folk of galloway," i said. "these we scarce reckon scots, but rather picts, and half heathen. and the johnstons and jardines are here belike, because they have made scotland over hot to hold them. we are a poor folk, but honest, let by the clans of the land debatable and of ettrick forest, and the border freebooters, and the galloway picts, and maxwells, and glendinnings, and the red-shanked, jabbering highlanders and islesmen, and some certain of the angus folk, and, maybe, a wild crew in strathclyde." "yours, then, is a very large country?" "about the bigness of france, or, may be, not so big. and the main part of it, and the most lawful and learned, is by itself, in a sort, a separate kingdom, namely fife, whence i come myself. the lothians, too, and the shire of ayr, if you except carrick, are well known for the lands of peaceful and sober men." "whence comes your great captain, sir hugh kennedy?" "there you name an honourable man-at-arms," i said, "the glory of scotland; and to show you i was right, he is none of your marchmen, or highlanders, but has lands in ayrshire, and comes of a very honourable house." "it is sir hugh that hath just held to ransom the king's good town of tours, where is that gracious lady the mother of the king's wife, the queen of sicily." hereat i waxed red as fire. "he will be in arrears of his pay, no doubt," i made answer. "it is very like," said father francois: "but considering all that you tell me, i crave your pardon if i still think that the blessed maid has won you from the common ways of your countrymen." to which, in faith, i had no answer to make, but that my fortune was like to be the happier in this world and the next. "much need have all men of her goodness, and we of her valour," said the father, and he sighed. "this is now the fourth siege of compiegne i have seen, and twice have the leads from our roofs and the metal of our bells been made into munition of war. absit omen domine! and now they say the duke of burgundy has sworn to slay all, and spare neither woman nor child." "a vaunt of war, father. call they not him the good duke? when we lay before paris, the english put about a like lying tale concerning us, as if we should sack and slay all." "i pray that you speak sooth," said father francois. on the next day, being may the twentieth, he came to me again, with a wan face. "burgundians are in claroix," said he, "across the river, and yet others, with jean de luxembourg, at margny, scarce a mile away, at the end of the causeway through the water meadows, beyond the bridge. and the duke is at coudun, a league off to the right of claroix, and i have clomb the tower-top, and thence seen the english at venette, on the left hand of the causeway. all is undone." "nay, father, be of better cheer. our fort at the bridge end is stronger than les tourelles were at orleans. the english shot can scarce cross the river. bridge the enemy has none, and northward and eastward all is open. be of better heart, heaven helps france." "we have sent to summon the maid," said he, "from crepy-en-valois. in her is all my hope; but you speak lightly, for you are young, and war is your trade." "and praying is yours, father, wherefore you should be bolder than i." but he shook his head. so two days passed, and nothing great befell, but in the grey dawn of may the twenty-third i was held awake by clatter of horsemen riding down the street under the window of my chamber. and after matins came father francois, his face very joyful, with the tidings that the maid, and a company of some three hundred lances of hers, had ridden in from crepy-envalois, she making her profit of the darkness to avoid the burgundians. then i deemed that the enemy would soon have news of her, and all that day i heard the bells ring merry peals, and the trumpets sounding. about three hours after noonday father francois came again, and told me that the maid would make a sally, and cut the burgundians in twain; and now nothing would serve me but i must be borne in a litter to the walls, and see her banner once more on the wind. so, by the goodwill of father francois, some lay brethren bore me forth from the convent, which is but a stone's-throw from the bridge. they carried me across the oise to a mill hard by the boulevard of the bridge fort, whence, from a window, i beheld all that chanced. no man sitting in the gallery of a knight's hall to see jongleurs play and sing could have had a better stance, or have seen more clearly all the mischief that befell. the town of compiegne lies on the river oise, as orleans on the loire, but on the left, not the right hand of the water. the bridge is strongly guarded, as is custom, by a tower at the further end, and, in front of that tower, a boulevard. all the water was gay to look on, being covered with boats, as if for a holiday, but these were manned by archers, whom guillaume de flavy had set to shoot at the enemy, if they drove us back, and to rescue such of our men as might give ground, if they could not win into the boulevard at the bridge end. beyond the boulevard, forth to the open country, lay a wide plain, and behind it, closing it in, a long, low wall of steep hills. on the left, a mile and a half away, father francois showed me the church tower of venette, where the english camped; to the right, a league off, was the tower of clairoix; and at the end of a long raised causeway that ran from the bridge across the plain, because of the winter floods, i saw the tower and the village of margny. all these towns and spires looked peaceful, but all were held by the burgundians. men-at-arms were thick on the crest of our boulevard, and on the gate-keep, all looking across the river towards the town, whence the maid should sally by way of the bridge. so there i lay on a couch in the window and waited, having no fear, but great joy. nay, never have i felt my spirit lighter within me, so that i laughed and chattered like a fey man. the fresh air, after my long lying in a chamber, stirred me like wine. the may sun shone warm, yet cooled with a sweet wind of the west. the room was full of women and maids, all waiting to throw flowers before the maid, whom they dearly loved. everything had a look of holiday, and all was to end in joy and great victory. so i laughed with the girls, and listened to a strange tale, how the maid had but of late brought back to life a dead child at lagny, so that he got his rights of baptism, and anon died again. so we fleeted the time, till about the fifth hour after noon, when we heard the clatter of horses on the bridge; and some women waxed pale. my own heart leaped up. the noise drew nearer, and presently she rode across and forth, carrying her banner in the noblest manner, mounted on a grey horse, and clad in a rich hucque of cramoisie; she smiled and bowed like a queen to the people, who cried, "noel! noel!" beside her rode pothon le bourgignon (not pothon de xaintrailles, as some have falsely said), her confessor pasquerel on a palfrey; her brother, pierre du lys, with his new arms bravely blazoned; and her maitre d'hotel, d'aulon. but of the captains in compiegne no one rode with her. she had but her own company, and a great rude throng of footmen of the town that would not be said nay. they carried clubs, and they looked, as i heard, for no less than to take prisoner the duke of burgundy himself. certain of these men also bore spades and picks and other tools; for the maid, as i deem, intended no more than to take and hold margny, that so she might cut the burgundians in twain, and sunder from them the english at venette. now as the night was not far off, then at nightfall would the english be in sore straits, as not knowing the country and the country roads, and not having the power to join them of burgundy at clairoix. this, one told me afterwards, was the device of the maid. be this as it may, and a captain of hers, barthelemy barrette, told me the tale, the maid rode gallantly forth, flowers raining on her, while my heart longed to be riding at her rein. she waved her hand to guillaume de flavy, who sat on his horse by the gate of the boulevard, and so, having arrayed her men, she cried, "tirez avant!" and made towards margny, the foot-soldiers following with what speed they might, while i and father francois, and others in the chamber, strained our eyes after them. all the windows and roofs of the houses and water-mills on the bridge were crowded with men and women, gazing, and it came into my mind that flavy had done ill to leave these mills and houses standing. they wrought otherwise at orleans. this was but a passing thought, for my heart was in my eyes, straining towards margny. thence now arose a great din, and clamour of trumpets and cries of men-at-arms, and we could see tumult, blown dust, and stir of men, and so it went for it may be half of an hour. then that dusty cloud of men and horses drove, forward ever, out of our sight. the sun was now red and sinking above the low wall of the western hills, and the air was thicker than it had been, and confused with a yellow light. despite the great multitude of men and women on the city walls, there came scarcely a sound of a voice to us across the wide river, so still they kept, and the archers in the boats beneath us were silent: nay, though the chamber wherein i lay was thronged with the people of the house pressing to see through the open casement, yet there was silence here, save when the father prayed. a stronger wind rising out of the west now blew towards us with a sweet burden of scent from flowers and grass, fragrant upon our faces. so we waited, our hearts beating with hope and fear. then i, whose eyes were keen, saw, blown usward from margny, a cloud of flying dust, that in scotland we call stour. the dust rolled white along the causeway towards compiegne, and then, alas! forth from it broke little knots of our men, foot-soldiers, all running for their lives. behind them came more of our men, and more, all running, and then mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and still more and more of these; and ever the footmen ran, till many riders and some runners had crossed the drawbridge, and were within the boulevard of the bridge. there they stayed, sobbing and panting, and a few were bleeding. but though the foremost runaways thus won their lives, we saw others roll over and fall as they ran, tumbling down the sides of the causeway, and why they fell i knew not. but now, in the midst of the causeway, between us and margny, our flying horsemen rallied under the maiden's banner, and for the last time of all, i heard that clear girl's voice crying, "tirez en avant! en avant!" anon her horsemen charged back furiously, and drove the picards and burgundians, who pursued, over a third part of the raised roadway. but now, forth from margny, trooped burgundian men-at-arms without end or number, the banner of the maid waved wildly, now up, now down, in the mad mellay, and ever they of burgundy pressed on, and still our men, being few and outnumbered, gave back. yet still some of the many clubmen of the townsfolk tumbled over as they ran, and the drawbridge was choked with men flying, thrusting and thronging, wild and blind with the fear of death. then rose on our left one great cry, such as the english give when they rejoice, or when they charge, and lo! forth from a little wood that had hidden them, came galloping and running across the heavy wet meadowland between us and venette, the men-at-arms and the archers of england. then we nigh gave up all for lost, and fain i would have turned my eyes away, but i might not. now and again the english archers paused, and loosed a flight of clothyard shafts against the stream of our runaways on the bridge. therefore it was that some fell as they ran. but the little company of our horsemen were now driven back so near us that i could plainly see the maid, coming last of all, her body swung round in the saddle as she looked back at the foremost foemen, who were within a lance's length of her. and d'aulon and pierre du lys, gripping each at her reins, were spurring forward. but through the press of our clubmen and flying horsemen they might not win, and now i saw, what never man saw before, the sword of the maid bare in battle! she smote on a knight's shield, her sword shivered in that stroke, she caught her steel sperthe into her hand, and struck and hewed amain, and there were empty saddles round her. and now the english in the meadow were within four lances' lengths of the causeway between her and safety. say it i must, nor cannon-ball nor arrow-flight availed to turn these english. still the drawbridge and the inlet of the boulevard were choked with the press, and men were leaping from bank and bridge into the boats, or into the water, while so mixed were friends and foes that flavy, in a great voice, bade archers and artillerymen hold their hands. townsfolk, too, were mingled in the throng, men who had come but to gape as curious fools, and among them i saw the hood of a cordelier, as i glanced from the fight to mark how the maid might force her way within. still she smote, and d'aulon and pierre du lys smote manfully, and anon they gained a little way, backing their horses, while our archers dared not shoot, so mixed were french, english, and burgundians. flavy, who worked like a man possessed, had turned about to give an order to the archers above him; his back, i swear, was to the press of flying men, to the inlet of the boulevard, and to the drawbridge, when his own voice, as all deemed who heard it, cried aloud, "up drawbridge, close gates, down portcullis!" the men whose duty it was were standing ready at the cranks and pulleys, their tools in hand, and instantly, groaning, the drawbridge flew up, casting into the water them that were flying across, down came the portcullis, and slew two men, while the gates of the inlet of the boulevard were swung to and barred, all, as it might he said, in the twinkling of an eye. flavy turned in wrath and great amaze: "in god's name, who cried?" he shouted. "down drawbridge, up portcullis, open gates! to the front, menat-arms, lances forward!" for most of the mounted men who had fled were now safe, and on foot, within the boulevard. all this i heard and saw, in a glance, while my eyes were fixed on the maid and the few with her. they were lost from our sight, now and again, in a throng of picards, englishmen, burgundians, for all have their part in this glory. swords and axes fell and rose, steeds countered and reeled, and then, they say, for this thing i myself did not see, a picard archer, slipping under the weapons and among the horses' hoofs, tore the maid from saddle by the long skirts of her hucque, and they were all upon her. this befell within half a stone's-throw of the drawbridge. while flavy himself toiled with his hands, and tore at the cranks and chains, the maid was taken under the eyes of us, who could not stir to help her. now was the day and the hour whereof the saints told her not, though she implored them with tears. now in the throng below i heard a laugh like the sound of a saw on stone, and one struck him that laughed on the mouth. it was the laugh of that accursed brother thomas! i had laid my face on my hands, being so weak, and was weeping for very rage at that which my unhappy eyes had seen, when i heard the laugh, and lifting my head and looking forth, i beheld the hood of the cordelier. "seize him!" i cried to father francois, pointing down at the cordelier. "seize that franciscan, he has betrayed her! run, man, it was he who cried in flavy's voice, bidding them raise drawbridge and let fall portcullis. the devil gave him that craft to counterfeit men's voices. i know the man. run, father francois, run!" "you are distraught with very grief," said the good father, the tears running down his own cheeks; "that is brother thomas, the best artilleryman in france, and flavy's chief trust with the couleuvrine. he came in but four days agone, and there was great joy of his coming." thus was the maid taken, by art and device of the devil and brother thomas, and in no otherwise. they who tell that flavy sold her, closing the gates in her face, do him wrong; he was an ill man, but loyal to france, as was seen by the very defence he made at compiegne, for there was none like it in this war. but of what avail was that to us who loved the maid? rather, many times, would i have died in that hour than have seen what i saw. for our enemies made no more tarrying, nor any onslaught on the boulevard, but rode swiftly back with the prize they had taken, with her whom they feared more than any knight or captain of france. this page whereon i work, in a hand feeble and old, and weary with much writing, is blotted with tears that will not be held in. but we must bow humbly to the will of god and of his saints. "dominus dedit, et dominus abstulit; benedictum sit nomen domini." wherefore should i say more? they carried me back in litter over the bridge, through the growing darkness. every church was full of women weeping and praying for her that was the friend of them, and the playmate of their children, for all children she dearly loved. concerning flavy, it was said, by them who loved him not, that he showed no sign of sorrow. but when his own brother louis fell, later in the siege, a brother whom he dearly loved, none saw him weep, or alter the fashion of his countenance; nay, he bade musicians play music before him. i besought the prior, when i was borne home, that i might be carried to flavy, and tell him that i knew. but he forbade me, saying that, in very truth, i knew nought, or nothing that could be brought against a churchman, and one in a place of trust. for i had not seen the lips of the cordelier move when that command was given--nay, at the moment i saw him not at all. nor could i even prove to others that he had this devilish art, there being but my oath against his, and assuredly he would deny the thing. and though i might be assured and certain within myself, yet other witness i had none at all, nor were any of my friends there who could speak with me. for d'aulon, and pasquerel, and pierre du lys had all been taken with the maid. it was long indeed before pierre du lys was free, for he had no money to ransom himself withal. therefore flavy, knowing me only for a wounded scot of the maid's, would think me a brainsick man, and as like as not give me more of oise river to drink than i craved. with these reasonings it behoved me to content myself. the night i passed in prayers for the maid, and for myself, that i might yet do justice on that devil, or, at least, might see justice done. but how these orisons were answered shall be seen in the end, whereto i now hasten. chapter xxvii--how norman leslie fared in compiegne, with the end ofthat leaguer about all that befell in the besieged city of compiegne, after that wicked day of destiny when the maid was taken, i heard for long only from the jacobin brothers, and from one barthelemy barrette. he was a picardy man, more loyal than most of his country, who had joined the maid after the fray at paris. now he commanded a hundred of her company, who did not scatter after she was taken, and he was the best friend i then had. "the burgesses are no whit dismayed," said he, coming into my chamber after the day of the ascension, which was the second after the capture of the maid. "they have sent a messenger to the king, and expect succour." "they sue for grace at a graceless face," said i, in the country proverb; for my heart was hot against king charles. "that is to be seen," said be. "but assuredly the duke of burgundy is more keen about his own business." "how fare the burgundians?" i asked, "for, indeed, i have heard the guns speak since dawn, but none of the good fathers cares to go even on to the roof of the church tower and bring me tidings, for fear of a stray cannonball." "for holy men they are wondrous chary of their lives," said barthelemy, laughing. "were i a monk, i would welcome death that should unfrock me, and let me go a-wandering in paradise among these fair lady saints we see in the pictures." "it is written, barthelemy, that there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage." "faith, the more i am fain of it," said barthelemy, "and may be i might take the wrong track, and get into the paradise of mahound, which, i have heard, is no ill place for a man-at-arms." this man had no more faith than a paynim, but, none the less, was a stout carl in war. "but that minds me," quoth he, "of the very thing i came hither to tell you. one priest there is in compiegne who takes no keep of his life, a cordelier. what ails you, man? does your leg give a twinge?" "ay, a shrewd twinge enough." "truly, you look pale enough." "it is gone," i said. "tell me of that cordelier." "do you see this little rod?" he asked, putting in my hand a wand of dark wood, carven with the head of a strange beast in a cowl. "i see it." "how many notches are cut in it?" "five," i said. "but why spoil you your rod?" "five men of england or burgundy that cordelier shot this day, from the creneaux of the boulevard where the maid," crossing himself, "was taken. a fell man he is, strong and tall, with a long hooked nose, and as black as sathanas." "how comes he in arms?" i asked. "flavy called him in from valenciennes, where he was about some business of his own, for there is no greater master of the culverin. and, faith, as he says, he 'has had rare sport, and will have for long.'" "was there an onfall of the enemy?" "nay, they are over wary. he shot them as they dug behind pavises. {36} for the duke has moved his quarters to venette, where the english lay, hard by the town. and, right in the middle of the causeway to margny, two arrow-shots from our bridge end, he is letting build a great bastille, and digging a trench wherein men may go to and fro. the cordelier was as glad of that as a man who has stalked a covey of partridges. 'keep my tally for me,' he said to myself; 'cut a notch for every man i slay'; and here," said barthelemy, waving his staff, "is his first day's reckoning." now i well saw what chance i had of bringing that devil to justice, for who would believe so strange a tale as mine against one so serviceable in the war? nor was d'aulon here to speak for me, the enemy having taken him when they took the maid. thinking thus, i groaned, and barthelemy, fearing that he had wearied me, said farewell, and went out. every evening, after sunset, he would come in, and partly cheer me, by telling how hardily our people bore them, partly break my heart with fresh tidings of that devil, brother thomas. "things go not ill, had we but hope of succour," he said. "the duke's bastille is rising, indeed, and the duke is building taudis {37} of oaken beams and earth, between the bastille and our boulevard. the skill is to draw nearer us, and nearer, till he can mine beneath our feet. heard you any new noise of war this day?" "i heard such a roar and clatter as never was in my ears, whether at orleans or paris." "and well you might! this convent is in the very line of the fire. they have four great bombards placed, every one of them with a devilish netherland name of its own. there is houpembiere,--that means the beerbarrel, i take it,--and la rouge bombarde, and remeswalle and quincequin, every one shooting stone balls thirty inches in girth. the houses on the bridge are a heap of stones, the mills are battered down, and we must grind our meal in the city, in a cellar, for what i can tell. nom dieu! when they take the boulevard we lose the river, and if once they bar our gates to the east, whence shall viands come?" "is there no good tidings from the messenger?" "the king answers ever like a drawer in a tavern, 'anon, anon, sir!' he will come himself presently, always presently, with all his host." "he will never come," i said. "he is a . . . " "he is my king," said barthelemy. "curse your own king of scots, if you will. scots, by the blood of iscariot, traitors are they; well, i crave your pardon, i spake in haste and anger. know you nichole cammet?" "i have heard of the man," i said. "a town's messenger, is he not?" "the same. but a week agone, cammet was sent on a swift horse to chateau thierry. the good town craved of pothon de xaintrailles, who commands there, to send them what saltpetre he could spare for making gunpowder. the saltpetre came in this day by the pierrefonds gate, and cammet with it, but on another horse, a jade." "well, and what have the scots to do with that?" "no more than this. a parcel of them, routiers and brigands, have crept into an old castle on the road, and hold it for their own hands. thence they sallied forth after cammet, and so chased him that his horse fell down dead under him in the gateway of chateau thierry." "they would be men of the land debatable," i cried: "elliots and armstrongs, they never do a better deed, being corrupted by dwelling nigh our enemies of england. fain would i pay for that horse; see here," and i took forth my purse from under my pillow, "take that to the attournes, and say a scot atones for what scots have done." "norman, i take back my word; i crave your pardon, and i am shamed to have spoken so to a sick man of his own country-folk. but for your purse, i am ill at carrying purses; i have no skill in that art, and the dice draw me when i hear the rattle of them. but look at the cordelier's tally: four men to-day, three yesterday; faith, he thins them!" indeed, to shorten a long story, by the end of barthelemy's count there were two hundred and thirty-nine notches on the rod. that he kept a true score (till he stinted and reckoned no more), i know, having proof from the other side. for twelve years thereafter, i falling into discourse with messire georges chastellain, an esquire of the duke of burgundy, and a maker both of verse and prose, he told me the same tale to a man, three hundred men. and i make no doubt but that he has written it in his book of the praise of his prince, and of these wars, to witness if i lie. consider, then, what hope i had of being listened to by flavy, or by the attournes (or, as we say, bailies), of the good town, if, being recovered from my broken limbs, i brought my witness to their ears. none the less, the enemy battered at us every day with their engines, destroying, as barthelemy had said, the houses on the bridge, and the mills, so that they could no longer grind the corn. and now came the earls of huntingdon and arundel, with two thousand englishmen, while to us appeared no succour. so at length, being smitten by balls from above, and ruined by mines dug under earth from below, our company that held the boulevard at the bridge end were surprised in the night, and some were taken, some drowned in the river oise. wherefore was great sorrow and fear, the more for that the duke of burgundy let build a bridge of wood from venette, to come and go across oise, whereby we were now assailed on both hands, for hitherto we had been free to come and go on the landward side, and through all the forest of pierrefonds. we had but one gate unbeleaguered, the chapel gate, leading to choisy and the north-east. now were we straitened for provender, notably for fresh meat, and men were driven, as in a city beleaguered, to eat the flesh of dead horses, and even of rats and dogs, whereof i have partaken, and it is ill food. none the less we endured, despite the murmuring of the commons, so strong are men's hearts; moreover, all france lay staked on this one cast of the dice, no less than at orleans in the year before. somewhat we were kept in heart by tidings otherwise bitter. for word came that the maid, being in ward at beaurevoir, a strong place of jean de luxembourg, had leaped in the night from the top of the tower, and had, next morning, been taken up all unhurt, as by, miracle, but astounded and bereft of her senses. for this there was much sorrow, but would to god that he had taken her to himself in that hour! nevertheless, when she was come to herself again, she declared, by inspiration of the saints, that compiegne should be delivered before the season of martinmas. whence i, for one, drew great comfort, nor ever again despaired, and many were filled with courage when this tidings came to our ears, hoping for some miracle, as at orleans. now, too, god began to take pity upon us; for, on august the fifteenth, the eighty-fifth day of the siege, came news to the duke of burgundy that philip, duke of brabant, was dead, and he must go to make sure of that great heritage. the duke having departed, the english earls had far less heart for the leaguer; i know not well wherefore, but now, at least, was seen the truth of that proverb concerning the "eye of the master." the bastille, too, which our enemies had made to prevent us from going out by our pierrefonds gate on the landward side, was negligently built, and of no great strength. all this gave us some heart, so much that my hosts, the good jacobins, and the holy sisters of the convent of st. john, stripped the lead from their roofs, and bestowed it on the town, for munition of war. and when i was in case to walk upon the walls, and above the river, i might see men and boys diving in the water and searching for english cannon-balls, which we shot back at the english. it chanced, one day, that i was sitting and sunning myself in the warm september weather, on a settle in a secure place hard by the chapel gate. with me was barthelemy barrette, for it was the day of our lady's feast, that very day whereon we had failed before paris last year, and there was truce for the sacred season. we fell to devising of what had befallen that day year, and without thought i told barthelemy of my escape from prison, and so, little by little, i opened my heart to him concerning brother thomas and all his treasons. never was man more astounded than barthelemy; and he bade me swear by the blessed trinity that all this tale was true. "mayhap you were fevered," he said, "when you lay in the casement seat, and saw the maid taken by device of the cordelier." "i was no more fevered than i am now, and i swear, by what oath you will, and by the bones of st. andrew, which these sinful hands have handled, that flavy's face was set the other way when that cry came, 'down portcullis, up drawbridge, close gates!' and now that i have told you the very truth, what should i do?" "brother thomas should burn for this," quoth barthelemy; "but not while the siege endures. he carries too many english lives in his munitionbox. nor can you slay him in single combat, or at unawares, for the man is a priest. nor would flavy, who knows you not, listen to such a story." so there he sat, frowning, and plucking at his beard. "i have it," he said; "d'aulon is no further off than beaulieu, where jean de luxembourg holds him till he pays his ransom. when the siege is raised, if ever we are to have succour, then purchase safe-conduct to d'aulon, take his testimony, and bring it to flavy." as he spoke, some stir in the still air made me look up, and suddenly throw my body aside; and it was well, for a sword swept down from the low parapet above our heads, and smote into the back of that settle whereon we were sitting. ere i well knew what had chanced, barthelemy was on his feet, his whinger flew from his hand, and he, leaping up on to the parapet, was following after him who smote at me. in the same moment a loud grating voice cried-"the maid shall burn, and not the man," and a flash of light went past me, the whinger flying over my head and clipping into the water of the moat below. rising as i best might, but heedfully, i spied over the parapet, and there was barthelemy coming back, his naked sword in his hand. "the devil turned a sharp corner and vanished," he said. "and now where are we? we have a worse foe within than all the men of burgundy without. there goes the devil's tally!" he cried, and threw the little carven rod far from him into the moat, where it fell and floated. "no man saw this that could bear witness; most are in church, where you and i should have been," i said. then we looked on each other with blank faces. "my post is far from his, and my harness is good," said barthelemy; "but for you, beware!" thenceforth, if i saw any cowl of a cordelier as i walked, i even turned and went the other way. i was of no avail against this wolf, whom all men praised, so serviceable was he to the town. once an arbalest bolt struck my staff from my hand as i walked, and i was fain to take shelter of a corner, yet saw not whence the shot came. once a great stone fell from a turret, and broke into dust at my feet, and it is not my mind that a cannon-ball had loosened it. thus my life went by in dread and watchfulness. no more bitter penance may man dree than was mine, to be near this devil, and have no power to avenge my deadly quarrel. there were many heavy hearts in the town; for, once it was taken, what man could deem his life safe, or what woman her honour? but though they lay down and rose up in fear, and were devoured by desire of revenge, theirs was no such thirst as mine. so the days went on, and darkened towards the promised season of martinmas, but there dawned no light of hope. now, on the wednesday before all saints, i had clambered up into the tower of the church of the jacobins, on the north-east of the city, whence there was a prospect far and wide. with me were only two of the youngest of the fathers. i looked down into the great forest of pierrefonds, and up and down oise, and beheld the army of our enemies moving in divers ways. the banners of the english and their long array were crossing the duke of burgundy's new bridge of wood, that he had builded from venette, and with them the men of jean de luxembourg trooped towards royaulieu. on the crest of their bastille, over against our pierrefonds gate, matches were lighted and men were watching in double guard, and the same on the other side of the water, at the gate margny. plainly our foes expected a rescue sent to us of compiegne by our party. but the forest, five hundred yards from our wall, lay silent and peaceable, a sea of brown and yellow leaves. then, while the english and burgundian men-at-arms, that had marched south and east, were drawn up in order of battle away to the right between wood and water, behold, trumpets sounded, faint enough, being far off. then there was a glitter of the pale sun on long lines of lancepoints, under the banners of french captains, issuing out from the forest, over against the enemy. we who stood on the tower gazed long at these two armies, which were marshalled orderly, with no more than a bowshot and a half between them, and every moment we looked to see them charge upon each other with the lance. much we prayed to the saints, for now all our hope was on this one cast. they of burgundy and of england dismounted from their horses, for the english ever fight best on foot, and they deemed that the knights of france would ride in upon them, and fall beneath the english bows, as at azincour and crecy. we, too, looked for nought else; but the french array never stirred, though here and there a knight would gallop forth to do a valiance. seldom has man seen a stranger sight in war, for the english and burgundians could not charge, being heavy-armed men on foot, and the french would not move against them, we knew not wherefore. all this spectacle lay far off, to the south, and we could not be satisfied with wondering at it nor turn away our eyes, when, on the left, a trumpet rang out joyously. then, all of us wheeling round as one man, we saw the most blessed sight, whereto our backs had been turned; for, into the chapel gate--that is, far to the left of the pierrefonds gate on the north-east--were streaming cattle, sheep and kine, pricked on and hastened by a company of a hundred men-at-arms. they had come by forest paths from choisy way, and anon all our guns on the boulevard of the pierrefonds gate burst forth at once against the english bastille over against it. now this bastille, as i have said, had never been strongly builded, and, in some sort, was not wholly finished. after one great volley of guns against the bastille, we, looking down into our boulevard of the pierrefonds gate, saw the portcullis raised, the drawbridge lowered, and a great array of men-at-arms carrying ladders rush out, and charge upon the bastille. then, through the smoke and fire, they strove to scale the works, and for the space of half an hour all was roar of guns; but at length our men came back, leaving many slain, and the running libbards grinned on the flag of england. i might endure no longer, but, clambering down the tower stairs as best i might, for i was still lame, i limped to my lodgings at the jacobins, did on my harness, and, taking a horse from the stable, i mounted and rode to the pierrefonds gate. for brother thomas and his murderous ways i had now no care at all. never, sure, saw any man such a sight. our boulevard was full, not only of men-at-arms, but of all who could carry clubs, burgesses armed, old men, boys, yea, women and children, some with rusty swords, some with carpenters' axes, some bearing cudgels, some with hammers, spits, and knives, all clamouring for the portcullis to rise and let them forth. their faces were lean and fierce, their eyes were like eyes of wolves, for now, they cried, was the hour, and the prophecy of the maid should be fulfilled! verily, though she lay in bonds, her spirit was with us on that day! but still our portcullis was down, and the long tail of angry people stretched inwards, from the inner mouth of the boulevard, along the street, surging like a swollen loch against its barrier. on the crest of the boulevard was flavy, baton in hand, looking forth across field and forest, watching for i knew not what, while still the people clamoured to be let go. but he stood like the statue of a man-atarms, and from the bastille of the burgundians the arrows rained around him, who always watched, and was still. now the guards of the gate had hard work to keep the angry people back, who leaped and tore at the menat-arms arrayed in front of them, and yelled for eagerness to issue forth and fight. suddenly, on the crest of the boulevard, flavy threw up his arm and gave one cry-"xaintrailles!" then he roared to draw up portcullis and open gates; the men-at-arms charged forth, the multitude trampled over each other to be first in field, i was swept on and along with them through the gate, and over the drawbridge, like a straw on a wave, and, lo! a little on our left was the banner of pothon de xaintrailles, his foremost men dismounting, the rearguard just riding out from the forest. the two bands joined, we from compiegne, the four hundred of xaintrailles from the wood, and, like two swollen streams that meet, we raced towards the bastille, under a rain of arrows and balls. nothing could stay us: a boy fell by my side with an arrow thrilling in his breast, but his brother never once looked round. i knew not that i could run, but run i did, though not so fast as many, and before i reached the bastille our ladders were up, and the throng was clambering, falling, rising again, and flowing furiously into the fort. the townsfolk had no thought but to slay and slay; five or six would be at the throat of one burgundian man-at-arms; hammers and axes were breaking up armour, knives were scratching and searching for a crevice; women, lifting great stone balls, would stagger up to dash them on the heads of the fallen. of the whole garrison, one-half, a hundred and sixty men-at-arms, were put to the sword. only pothon de xaintrailles, and the gentlemen with him, as knowing the manner of war, saved and held to ransom certain knights, as messire jacques de brimeu, the seigneur de crepy, and others; while, for my own part, seeing a knight assailed by a knot of clubmen, i struck in on his part, for gentle blood must ever aid gentle blood, and so, not without shrewd blows on my salade, i took to ransom messire collart de bertancourt. thereafter, very late, and in the twilight of october the twenty-fifth, we turned back to compiegne, leaving the enemies' bastille in a flame behind us, while in front were blazing the bonfires of the people of the good town. and, in compiegne, we heard how the english and the main army of burgundians had turned, late in the day, and crossed by the duke of burgundy's bridge, leaving men to keep guard there. so our victory was great, and wise had been the prudence of the french captains, subtlety being the mother of victory; for, without a blow struck, they had kept jean de luxembourg, and the earls of huntingdon and arundel, waiting idle all day, while their great bastille was taken by xaintrailles and the townsfolk, and food was brought into compiegne. thus for the second time i passed a night of joy in a beleaguered town, for there was music in every street, the churches full of people praising god for this great deliverance, men and maids dancing around bonfires, yet good watch was kept at the gates and on the towers. next day we expected battle, but our spies brought in tidings that burgundians and english had decamped in the dawn, their men deserting. that day was not less joyful than the night had been; for at royaulieu, in the abbey where jean de luxembourg had lain, the townsfolk found all manner of meat, and of wine great plenty, so right good cheer we made, for it cost us nothing. chapter xxviii--how the burgundians hunted hares, with the end of that hunting "tell me, what tidings of him?" barthelemy barrette asked me, on the day after that unbought feast at royaulieu. he was sitting in the noonday sun on the bridge of compiegne, and strange it was to see the place so battered yet so peaceful after five months of war. the oise sliding by and rippling on the piers was not more quiet than this bridge of many battles, yet black in places with dried-up blood of men slain. "tidings can i find none," i answered. "he who saw the cordelier last was on guard in the boulevard during the great charge. he marked brother thomas level his couleuvrine now and again, as we ran for the bastille, and cried out to him to aim higher, for that the ball would go amongst us." "you were his target, i make no doubt," said barthelemy, "but by reason of the throng he had no certain aim." "after we broke into the bastille, i can find no man who has set eyes on him," and i cursed the cordelier for very rage. "he is well away, if he stays away: you and i need scarce any longer pray for eyes in the backs of our heads. but what make we next?" "i have but one thought," i said: "to pluck the maid out of the hands of the english, for now men say that she is sold to them by jean of luxembourg. they mean to take her to arras, and so by crotoy at the mouth of seine, and across normandy to rouen. save her france must, for the honour of france." "my mind is the same," he said, and fell into a muse. "hence the straight road, and the shortest," he said at last, "is by beauvais on to rouen, where she will lie in chains," and drawing his dagger he scratched lines on the bridge parapet with its point. "here is compiegne; there, far to the west, is the sea, and here is rouen. that straight line," which he scratched, "goes to rouen from compiegne. here, midway, is beauvais, whereof we spoke, which town we hold. but there, between us and beauvais, is clermont, held by crevecoeur for the burgundians, and here, midway between beauvais and rouen, is gournay, where kyriel and the lord huntingdon lie with a great force of english. do you comprehend? we must first take clermont ere we can ride to rescue the maid at rouen!" "the king should help us," i said. "for what is the army that has delivered compiegne but a set of private bands, under this gentleman's flag or that, some with boussac, some with xaintrailles, some with a dozen others, and victuals are hard to come by." "ay, many a peaceful man sits by the fire and tells how great captains should have done this, and marched there, never thinking that men fight on their bellies. and the king should help us, and march with d'alencon through normandy from the south, while our companies take clermont if we may, and drive back the english and burgundians. but you know the king, and men say that the archbishop of reims openly declares that the maid is rightly punished for her pride. he has set up a mad shepherd-boy to take her place, heaven help him! who can fight as well as that stone can swim," and he dropped a loose stone over the bridge into the water. "whoever stays at home, we take the field," i said; "let us seek counsel of xaintrailles." we rose and went to the jacobins, where xaintrailles was lodged, and there found him at his dejeuner. he was a tall young knight, straight as a lance, lean as a greyhound; for all his days his sword had won his meat; and he was hardy, keen, and bright, with eyes of steel in a scarred face, and his brow was already worn bald with the helmet. when he walked his legs somewhat straggled apart, by reason of his much riding. xaintrailles received us in the best manner, we telling him that we had ridden with the maid, that i was of her own household, and that to save her we were willing to go far, and well knew that under no banner could we be so forward as under his. "i would all my company were as honest as i take you twain to be," he said, "and i gladly receive you under my colours with any men you can bring." "messire, i have a handful of horse of the maid's company," said barthelemy, hardily; "but when do we march, for to-day is better than tomorrow." "as soon as may be," said the knight; "the marechal de boussac leads us against clermont. that town we cannot leave behind us when we set forth from beauvais. but, with these great bombards, which we have won from the burgundians, we may have reason of clermont, and then," clapping his hands together, and looking up, "then for rouen! we shall burst the cage and free the bird, god willing!" he stood like one in prayer, crossing himself, and our hearts turned to him in loyalty. "if but the king will send a force to join hands with la hire in louviers, the english shall have news of you, messire!" i made bold to say. "ay, if!" quoth xaintrailles, and his face grew darker, "but we must make good speedy for the midwinter draws nigh." therewith we left him, and, in few days, were marching on clermont, dragging with long trains of horses the great bombards of the burgundians. to our summons messire de crevecoeur answered knightly, that clermont he would hold till death or rescue, so we set to battering his house about his ears. but, alas! after four days a sentinel of ours saw, too late, an english knight with nine men slip through the vines, under cover of darkness, and win a postern gate in the town wall. soon we heard a joyfire of guns within clermont town, and foreboded the worst. at midnight came a peasant to xaintrailles, with tidings that a rescue was riding to clermont, and next morning it was boots and saddles and away, so hastily that we left behind us the great bombards of the burgundians. on this they made much mirth; but they laugh best who laugh last, as shall he seen. and the cause of our going was that the earl of huntingdon had ridden out of gournay, in normandy, with a great force of english, to deliver clermont. against foes within the town and foes without the town the captains judged that we were of no avail. so we departed, heavy at heart. now the companies scattered, and barthelemy and i, sorry enough, rode behind xaintrailles, due north to guermigny, whence we threatened amiens. at guermigny, then, for a short season, lay xaintrailles, gathering all the force he might along the picardy marches, for the duke of burgundy was in peronne, full of wrath and sorrow, so many evils had befallen him. for ourselves, we were in no gentler temper, having lost our hope of pushing on to rouen. i was glad, therefore, when xaintrailles himself rode one day to the door of our lodging in guermigny, strode clanging into our chamber, and asked if we were alone? we telling him that none was within ear-shot, he sat him down on the table, playing with his dagger hilt, and, with his hawk's eye on barthelemy, asked, "you know this land well?" "i have ridden over it, in war or peace, since i was a boy." "how far to lihons?" "a matter of two leagues." "what manner of country lies between?" "chiefly plain, rude and untilled, because of the distresses of these times. there is much heath and long grasses, a great country for hares." "know you any covert nigh the road?" "there runs a brook that the road crosses by a bridge, midway between guermigny and lihons. the banks are steep, and well wooded with such trees and undergrowth as love water." "you can guide me thither?" "there is no missing the road." "god could not have made this land better for me, if he had asked my counsel," said xaintrailles. "you can keep your own?" "nom dieu, yea!" said barthelemy. "and your scots friend i can trust. a good-day to you, and thanks many." thereupon he went forth. "what has he in his mind?" i asked barthelemy. "belike an ambush. the duke of burgundy lies at peronne, and has mustered a great force. lihons is midway between us and peronne, and is in the hands of burgundy. i deem xaintrailles has tidings that they intend to ride from peronne to lihons to-night, and thence make early onfall on us to-morrow. being heavy-pated men of war, and bemused with their strong wine, they know not, belike, that we have more with us than the small garrison of guermigny. and we are to await them on the road, i doubt not. you shall see men that wear your cross of st. andrew, but not of your colour." i shame not to say that of bushments in the cold dawn i had seen as much as i had stomach for, under paris. but if any captain was wary in war, and knew how to discover whatsoever his enemy designed, that captain was xaintrailles. none the less i hoped in my heart that his secret tidings of the burgundian onfall had not come through a priest, and namely a cordelier. dawn found us mounted, and riding at a foot's-pace through the great plain which lies rough and untilled between guermigny and lihons. all grey and still it was, save for a cock crowing from a farmstead here and there on the wide wold, broken only by a line of trees that ran across the way. under these trees, which were mainly poplars and thick undergrowth of alders about the steep banks of a little brook, we were halted, and here took cover, our men lying down. "let no man stir, or speak, save when i speak to him, whatever befalls, on peril of his life," said xaintrailles, when we were all disposed in hiding. then touching me on the shoulder that i should rise, he said-"you are young enough to climb a tree; are your eyes good?" "i commonly was the first that saw the hare in her form, when we went coursing at home, sir." "then up this tree with you! keep outlook along the road, and hide yourself as best you may in the boughs. throw this russet cloak over your harness." it was shrewdly chill in the grey november morning, a hoarfrost lying white on the fields. i took the cloak gladly and bestowed myself in the tree, so that i had a wide view down lihons way, whence we expected our enemies, the road running plain to see for leagues, like a ribbon, when once the low sun had scattered the mists. it was a long watch, and a weary, my hands being half frozen in my steel gauntlets. many of our men slept; if ever a wayfarer crossed the bridge hard by he was stopped, gagged, and trussed in a rope's end. but wayfarers were few, and all were wandering afoot. i was sorry for two lasses, who crossed on some business of their farm, but there was no remedy. these diversions passed the time till nigh noon, when i whispered to xaintrailles that i saw clouds of dust (the roads being very dry) a league away. he sent barthelemy and another to waken any that slept, and bade all be ready at a word. now there came shouts on the wind, cries of venerie, loud laughter, and snatches of songs. and now, up in my perch, i myself broke into a laugh at that i saw. "silence, fool!" whispered xaintrailles. "why laugh you, in the name of behemoth?" "the burgundians are hunting hares," i whispered; "they are riding all disorderly, some on the road, some here and there about the plain. one man has no lance, another is unhelmeted, many have left their harness behind with the baggage!" even as i spoke rose up a great hunting cry, and a point of the chase was blown on a trumpet. the foremost burgundians were spurring like madmen after some beast, throwing at it with their lances, and soon i saw a fox making our way for its very life. "to horse," cried xaintrailles, and, leaving thirty men to hold the bridge, the whole of our company, with spears in rest, drove down on these hare-hunters of burgundy. two hundred picked men in all, fully armed, were we, and we scattered the foremost riders as they had scattered the hares. saddles were emptied, archers were cut down or speared ere they could draw bows, the burgundians were spurring for their lives, many cried mercy, and were taken to ransom, of whom i had my share, as i shall tell. but a few men made a right good end. thomas kyriel, a knight of england, stood to his banner, his archers rallied about it, with three or four knights of burgundy. there, unhelmeted for the most part, they chose the way of honour, but they were of no avail where so many lances were levelled and so many swords were hewing at so few. there was a great slaughter, but geoffrey de thoisy, nephew to the bishop of tournay, plucked from danger fortune, for he so bore him that he being fully armed we took him for messire antoine de vienne, a very good knight. for his courage we spared him, but antoine, being unhelmeted and unknown, was smitten on the head by barthelemy barrette, with a blow of a casse-tete. for this barthelemy made much sorrow, not only that so good a knight was slain, but that he had lost a great ransom, whereby he should have been a rich man. yet such is the fortune of war! which that day was strangely seen; for a knight having yielded to me because his horse threw him, and he lost for a moment all sense with the fall and found my boot on his neck when he came to himself, who should he be but messire robert heron, the same whom i took at orleans! who, when he knew me, took off his salade for greater ease, and, sitting down on a rock by the way, swore as never i heard man swear, french, english, spaniard, or scot; and at length laughed, and said it was fortune of war, and so was content. this skirmish being thus ended, we returned, blithe and rich men every one of us, what with prisoners, horses, arms, and all manner of treasure taken with the baggage. that night we slept little in guermigny, but feasted and drank deep. for my own part, i know not well where i did sleep, or how i won to what bed, which shames me some deal after all these years. on the morrow we left guermigny to the garrison of the place for their ill-fortune, and rode back towards compiegne. and this was the sport that the burgundians had in hare-hunting. this battle of the hares was the merriest passage of arms for our party, and bourdes were made on it, and songs sung, as by the english on that other battle of the herrings. now, moreover, i might be called rich, what with ransoms, what with my share of the plunder in horses, rings, chains of gold, jewels, silver dishes, and rich cloths, out of the baggage of the enemy. verily lack of wealth could no more sunder elliot and me! for pothon was as open of hand as he was high of heart, and was no greedy captain, wherefore men followed him the more gladly. chapter xxix--showeth how very noble was the duke of burgundy all this was well, but we were no nearer rouen, and the freeing of the maid, on this twentieth of november, than we had been when the siege of compiegne broke up, on the twenty-sixth of october. the duke of burgundy, we learned, was like a man mad when he heard of the battle of the hares. nothing would serve him that day but to lead all his host to guermigny from peronne, whence he would have got little comfort of vengeance, for we were in a place of safety. but jean de luxembourg told him that he must not venture his nobility among routiers like us, wherein he pleased the duke, but spoke foolishly. for no man, be he duke or prince, can be of better blood than we of the house of rothes, not to speak of xaintrailles and many other gentlemen of our company. the duke, then, put not his noble person in any jeopardy, but, more wisely, he sent messengers after my lord of huntingdon that he should bring up the english to aid the burgundian hare-hunters. but huntingdon had departed to rouen, where then lay henry, king of england, a boy on whom and on whose house god has avenged the maid with terrible judgments, and will yet the more avenge her, blessed be his name! the duke of burgundy comforted himself after his kind, for when he did pluck up heart to go against guermigny, he, finding us departed, sacked the place, and razed it to the very ground, and so withdrew to roye, and there waited for what help england would send him. now roye is some sixteen leagues due north of compiegne. so the days went by, for messire lefebvre saint-remy, the pursuivant, was hunting for my lord of huntingdon, all up and down normandy, and at last came to rouen, and to the presence of the duke of bedford, the uncle of the english king. all this i myself heard from messire saint-remy, who is still a pursuivant, and a learned man, and a maker of books. bedford then, who was busy hounding that devil, cauchon, sometime bishop of beauvais, against the maid, sent the comte de perche and messire loys robsart, to bid the duke of burgundy be of what courage he might, for succour of england he should have. wherein bedford was no true prophet. of all this we, in compiegne, knew so much as that it was wiser to strike the duke at roye, before he could add english talbots to his burgundian harriers. therefore all the captains of companies, as boussac, xaintrailles, alain giron, amadee de vignolles, and loys de naucourt, mustered their several companies, to the number of some five thousand menat-arms. we had news of six hundred english marching to join the duke, and on them we fell at couty, hard by amiens, and there slew loys robsart, a good knight, of the order of the garter, and drove the english that fled into the castle of couty, and we took all their horses, leaving them shamed, for they kept no guard. thence we rode to within a league of roye, and thence sent a herald, in all due form, to challenge the duke to open battle for his honour's sake. this we did, because we had no store of victual, and must fight or ride home. the duke received the herald, and made as if he would hear him as beseems a gentleman under challenge. but his wise counsellors forbade him, because he was so noble. we were but "routiers," they said, and had no prince in all our company; so we must even tarry till the morrow, and then the duke would fight. in truth he expected the english, who were footing it to castle couty. i stood by xaintrailles when the pursuivant bore back this message. pothon spat on the ground. "shall we be more noble to-morrow than to-day, or to-morrow can this huxter of maids, the duke, be less noble than he is, every day that he soils knighthood?" thereon he sent the herald back, to say that the duke should have battle at his gates if he gave no better answer, for that wait for his pleasure we could not, for want of victuals. and so we drew half a league nearer to roye. the duke sent back our herald with word that of victuals he would give us half his own store; for he had read, as i deem, the romance of richard lion-heart, another manner of man than himself. we said nought to this, not choosing to dine in such high company, but rode up under the walls of roye, defying the duke with open ribaldry, such as no manant could bear but he would take cudgel in hand to defend his honour. our intent was, if the duke accepted battle, to fight with none but him, if perchance we might take him, and hold him as hostage for the maid's life. howbeit, so very noble was the duke this day, that he did not put lance in rest (as belike he would have done on the morrow), but, drawing up his men on foot, behind certain mosses and marshes, all in firm array, he kept himself coy behind them, and not too far from the gate of roye. to cross these mosses and marshes was beyond our cunning, nor could we fast all that night, and see if the duke would feel himself less noble, and more warlike, on the morrow. so, with curses and cries of shame, we turned bridle, and, for that we could not hold together, being in lack of meat, the companies broke up, and went each to his own hold. i have heard messire georges chastellain tell, in times that were still to come, how fiercely the duke of burgundy bore him in council that night, after that we had all gone, and how he blamed his people who would not let him fight. but, after he had well supped, he even let this adventure slip by, as being ordained by the will of god, who, doubtless, holds in very high honour men of birth princely, and such, above all, as let sell young virgins to the tormentors. and thus ended our hope to save the maid by taking captive the duke of burgundy. chapter xxx--how norman leslie took service with the english "what make we now?" i asked of barthelemy barrette, one day, after the companies had scattered, as i have said, and we had gone back into compiegne. "what stroke may france now strike for the maid?" he hung his head and plucked at his beard, ere he spoke. "to be as plain with you as my heart is with myself, norman," he answered at last, "deliverance, or hope of deliverance, see i none. the english have the bird in the cage, and rouen is not a strength that can be taken by sudden onslaught. and, were it so, where is our force, in midwinter? i rather put my faith, that can scarce move mountains, in some subtle means, if any man might devise them." "we cannot sit idle here," i said. "and for three long months there will be no moving of armies in open field." "and in three months these dogs of false french doctors of paris will have tried and condemned the maid. for my part, i ride with my handful of spears to the loire. perchance there is yet some hope in the king." "then i ride with you, granted your goodwill, for i must needs to tours, and i have overmuch treasure in my wallet to ride alone." indeed, i was now a rich man, more by luck than by valour; and though i said nought of it, i hoped that my long wooing might now come to a happy end. barthelemy clasped hands gladly on that offer; and not to make a long tale, he and his men were my escort to tours, and thence he rode to sully to see the king. i had no heart for glad surprises this time, but having sent on a letter to my master, by a king's messenger who rode from compiegne ere we did, i was expected and welcomed by elliot and my master, with all the joy that might be, after our long severance. and in my master's hands i laid my newly gotten gear, and heard privily from him that, with his goodwill, i and his daughter might wed so soon as she would. "for she is pining with grief, and prayer, and fasting, and marriage is the best remede for such maladies." of this grace i was right glad; yet christmas went by and i dared not speak, for elliot seemed set on far other things than mirth, and was ever and early in the churches, above all when service and prayer were offered up for the maid. she was very willing to hear all the tale of the long siege, and her face, that was thin and wan, unlike her bright countenance of old, flushed scarlet when she heard how we had bearded and shamed the noble duke of burgundy, and what words xaintrailles had spoken concerning his nobleness. "there is one true knight left in france!" she said, and fell silent again. then, we being alone in the chamber, i tried to take her hand, but she drew it away. "my dear love," she said, "i know all that is in your heart, and all my love that is in mine you know well. but in mine there is no care for happiness and joy, and to speak as plain as a maiden may, i have now no will to marry. while the sister of the saints lies in duresse, or if she be unjustly slain, i have set up my rest to abide unwed, for ever, as the bride of heaven. and, if the last evil befall her, as well i deem it must, i shall withdraw me from the world into the sisterhood of the clarisses." had the great mid-beam of the roof fallen and smitten me, i could not have been stricken more dumb and dead. my face showed what was in my mind belike, for, looking fearfully and tenderly on me, she took my hand between hers and cherished it. "my love," i said at last, "you see in what case i am, that can scarce speak for sorrow, after all i have ventured, and laboured, and won, for you and for the maid." "and i," she answered, "being but a girl, can venture and give nothing but my poor prayers; and if she now perish, then i must pray the more continually for the good rest of her soul, and the forgiveness of her enemies and false friends." "sure, she hath already the certain promise of paradise, and even in this world her life is with the saints. and if men slay her body, we need her prayers more than she needs ours." but elliot said no word, being very wilful. "consider what manner of friend the maid is," i said, "who desires nothing but joy and happy life to all whom she loves, as she loves you. verily, i am right well assured that, could she see us in this hour, she would bid you be happy with me, and not choose penance for love of her." "if she herself bids me do as you desire," said elliot at last, "then i would not be disobedient to that daughter of god." here i took some comfort, for now a thought came into my mind. "but," said elliot, "as we read of the rich man and lazarus, between her and us is a great gulf fixed, and none may come from her to us, or from us to her." "elliot!" i said, "if either the maid be delivered, or if she sends you sure and certain tidings under her own hand that she wills you to put off this humour, will you then be persuaded, and make no more delay!" "indeed, if either of these miracles befall, or both, right gladly will i obey both you and her. but now her saints, methinks, have left her, wearied by the wickedness of france." "i ask no more," i answered, "for, elliot, either the maid shall be free, or she shall send you this command, or you shall see my face no more." my purpose was now clear before me, even as i executed it, as shall be seen. "indeed, if my vow must be kept, never may i again behold you; for oh! my love, my heart would surely break in twain, being already weak with grief and fasting, and weary with prayer." whereon she laid her kind arms about my neck, and, despite my manhood, i wept no less than she. for holy writ says well, that hope deferred maketh the heart sick; and mine was sick unto death. of my resolve i spoke no word more to elliot, lest her counsel should change when she knew the jeopardy whereinto i was firmly minded to go. and to my master i said no more than that i was minded to ride to the court, and for that end i turned into money a part of my treasure, for money i should need more than arms. one matter in especial, which i deemed should stand me in the greatest stead, i purchased for gold of the pottinger at tours, the same who had nursed me after my wound. this draught i bestowed in a silver phial, graven with strange signs, and i kept it ever close and secret, for it was my chief mainstay. secretly as i wrought, yet i deem that my master had some understanding of what was in my mind, though i told him nothing of the words between me and elliot. for i was in no way without hope that, when the bitterness of her grief was overpast, elliot might change her counsel. and again, i would not have him devise and dispute with her, as now, whereby i very well knew that she would be but the more unhappy, and the more set on taking her own wilful way. i therefore said no more than that it behoved me to see such captains as were about the king. thereafter i bade them farewell, nor am i disposed to write concerning what passed at the parting of elliot and me. for thrice ere now i had left her to pass into the mouth of war, but now i went into other peril, and with fainter hope. i did indeed ride to the court, which was at sully, and there i met, as i desired, barthelemy barrette. he greeted me well, and was richly clad, and prosperous to behold. but it gave me greater joy that he spoke of some secret enterprise which should shortly be put in hand, when the spring came. "for i have good intelligence," he said, "that the bastard of orleans will ride privily to louviers with men-at-arms. now louviers, where la hire lies in garrison, is but seven leagues from rouen town, and what secret enterprise can he purpose there, save to break the cage and set free the bird?" in this hope i tarried long, intending to ride with the spears of barthelemy, and placing my trust on two knights so good and skilled in war as la hire and the bastard, the maid's old companions in fight. but the days waxed long, and it was march the thirteenth ere we rode north, and already the doctors had begun to entrap the maid with their questions, whereof there could be but one end. without adventure very notable, riding much at night, through forests and byways, we came to louviers, where they received us joyfully. for it was very well known that the english were minded to besiege this town, that braved them so near their gates at rouen, and that they only held back till they had slain the maid. while she lived they dared not stir against us, knowing well that their men feared to follow their flag. now, indeed, i was in good hope, but alas! there were long counsels of the captains, there was much harrying of normandy, and some outlying bands of english were trapped, and prisoners were taken. but of an assault on rouen we heard no word, and, indeed, the adventure was desperate, though, for the honour of france, i marvel yet that it was not put to the touch. "there is nought to be done," barthelemy said to me; "i cannot take rouen with a handful of spears, and the captains will not stir." "then," said i, "farewell, for under the lilies i fight never again. one chance remains, and i go to prove it." "man, you are mad," he answered me. "what desperate peril are you minded to run?" "i am minded to end this matter," i said. "my honour and my very life stand upon it. ask me not why, and swear that you will keep this secret from all men, if you would do the last service to me, and to her, whom we both love. i tell you that, help me or hinder me, i have no choice but this; yet so much i will say to you, that i put myself in this jeopardy for my honour and the honour of scotland, and for my lady." "the days are past for the old chivalry," he said; "but no more words. i swear by st. ouen to keep your counsel, and if more i can do, without mere madness and risk out of all hope, i will do it." "this you can do without risk. let me have the accoutrements of one of the englishmen who lie in ward, and let me ride with your band at daybreak to-morrow. it is easy to tell some feigned tale, when you ride back without me." "you will not ride into rouen in english guise? they will straightway hang you for a spy, and therein is little honour." "my purpose is some deal subtler," i said, with a laugh, "but let me keep my own counsel." "so be it," said he, "a wilful man must have his way. and now i drink to your better wisdom, and may you escape that rope on which your heart seems to be set!" i grasped his hand on it, and by point of day we were riding out seawards. we made an onslaught on a village, burned a house or twain, and seized certain wains of hay, so, in the confusion, i slipped forward, and rode alone into a little wood. there i clad myself in english guise, having carried the gear in a wallet on my saddle-bow, and so pushed on, till at nightfall i came to a certain little fishing-village. there, under cover of the dark, i covenanted with a fisherman to set me across the channel, i feigning to be a deserter who was fleeing from the english army, for fear of the maid. "i would well that i had to carry all the sort of you," said the boatmaster, for i had offered him my horse, and a great reward in money, part down, and the other part to be paid when i set foot in england. nor did he make any tarrying, but, taking his nets on board, as if he would be about his lawful business, set sail, with his two sons for a crew. the east wind served us to a miracle, and, after as fair a passage as might be, they landed me under cloud of night not far from the great port of winchelsea. that night i slept none, but walking fast and warily, under cover of a fog, i fetched a compass about, and ended by walking into the town of rye by the road from the north. here i went straight to the best inn of the place, and calling aloud for breakfast, i bade the drawer bring mine host to me instantly. for, at louviers, we were so well served by spies, the country siding with us rather than with the english, that i knew how a company of the earl of warwick's men was looked for in winchelsea to sail when they had a fair wind for rouen. mine host came to me in a servile english fashion, and asked me what i would? "first, a horse," said i, "for mine dropped dead last night, ten miles hence on the north road, in your marshes, god damn them, and you may see by my rusty spur and miry boot that i have walked far. here," i cried, pulling off my boots, and flinging them down on the rushes of the floor, "bid one of your varlets clean them! next, breakfast, and a pot of your ale; and then i shall see what manner of horses you keep, for i must needs ride to winchelsea." "you would join the men under the banner of sir thomas grey of falloden, i make no doubt?" he answered. "your speech smacks of the northern parts, and the good knight comes from no long way south of the border. his men rode through our town but few days agone." "and me they left behind on the way," i answered, "so evil is my luck in horse-flesh. but for this blessed wind out of the east that hinders them, my honour were undone." my tale was not too hard of belief, and before noon i was on my way to winchelsea, a stout nag enough between my legs. the first man-at-arms whom i met i hailed, bidding him lead me straight to sir thomas grey of falloden. "what, you would take service?" he asked, in a cumberland burr that i knew well, for indeed it came ready enough on my own tongue. "yea, by st. cuthbert," i answered, "for on the marches nothing stirs; moreover, i have slain a man, and fled my own country." with that he bade god damn his soul if i were not a good fellow, and so led me straight to the lodgings of the knight under whose colours he served. to him i told the same tale, adding that i had heard late of his levying of his men, otherwise i had ridden to join him at his setting forth. "you have seen war?" he asked. "only a warden's raid or twain, on the moss-trooping scots of liddesdale. branxholme i have seen in a blaze, and have faced fire at the castle of the hermitage." "you speak the tongue of the northern parts," he said; "are you noble?" "a poor cousin of the storeys of netherby," i answered, which was true enough; and when he questioned me about my kin, i showed him that i knew every name and scutcheon of the line, my mother having instructed me in all such lore of her family. {38} "and wherefore come you here alone, and in such plight?" "by reason of a sword-stroke at stainishawbank fair," i answered boldly. "faith, then, i see no cause why, as your will is so good, you should not soon have your bellyful of sword-strokes. for, when once we have burned that limb of the devil, the puzel" (for so the english call the maid), "we shall shortly drive these forsworn dogs, the french, back beyond the loire." i felt my face reddening at these ill words, so i stooped, as if to clear my spur of mire. "shortly shall she taste the tar-barrel," i answered, whereat he swore and laughed; then, calling a clerk, bade him write my indenture, as is the english manner. thus, thanks to my northern english tongue, for which i was sore beaten by the other boys when i was a boy myself, behold me a man-at-arms of king henry, and so much of my enterprise was achieved. i make no boast of valour, and indeed i greatly feared for my neck, both now and later. for my risk was that some one of the men-at-arms in rouen, whither we were bound, should have seen my face either at orleans, at paris (where i was unhelmeted), or in the taking of the bastille at compiegne. yet my visor was down, both at orleans and compiegne, and of those few who marked me in girl's gear in paris none might chance to meet me at rouen, or to remember me in changed garments. so i put a bold brow on it, for better might not be. none cursed the puzel more loudly than i, and, without feigning, none longed so sorely as i for a fair wind to france, wherefore i was ever going about winchelsea with my head in the air, gazing at the weather-cocks. and, as fortune would have it, the wind went about, and we on board, and with no long delay were at rouen town. chapter xxxi--how norman leslie saw the maid in her prison on arriving in the town of rouen, three things were my chief care, whereof the second helped me in the third. the first was to be lodged as near as i might to the castle, wherein the maid lay, being chained (so fell was the cruelty of the english) to her bed. the next matter was to purvey me three horses of the fleetest. here my fortune served me well, for the young esquires and pages would ever be riding races outside of the gates, they being in no fear of war, and the time till the maid was burned hung heavy on their hands. i therefore, following the manner of the english marchmen, thrust myself forward in these sports, and would change horses, giving money to boot, for any that outran my own. my money i spent with a very free hand, both in wagers and in feasting menat-arms, so that i was taken to be a good fellow, and i willingly let many make their profit of me. in the end, i had three horses that, with a light rider in the saddle, could be caught by none in the whole garrison of rouen. thirdly, i was most sedulous in all duty, and so won the favour of sir thomas grey, the rather that he counted cousins with me, and reckoned that we were of some far-off kindred, wherein he spoke the truth. thus, partly for our common blood, partly for that i was ever ready at call, and forward to do his will, and partly because none could carry a message swifter, or adventure further to spy out any bands of the french, he kept me close to him, and trusted me as his galloper. nay, he gave me, on occasion, his signet, to open the town gates whensoever he would send me on any errand. moreover, the man (noble by birth, but base by breeding) who had the chief charge and custody of the maid, was the brother's son of sir thomas. he had to name john grey, and was an esquire of the body of the english king, henry, then a boy. this miscreant it was often my fortune to meet, at his uncle's table, and to hear his pitiless and cruel speech. yet, making friends, as scripture commands us, of the mammon of unrighteousness, i set myself to win the affection of john grey by laughing at his jests and doing him what service i might. once or twice i dropped to him a word of my great desire to see the famed puzel, for the trials that had been held in open hall were now done in the dungeon, where only the bishop, the doctors of law, and the notaries might hear them. her noble bearing, indeed, and wise answers (which were plainly put into her mouth by the saints, for she was simple and ignorant) had gained men's hearts. one day, they told me, an english lord had cried--"the brave lass, pity she is not english." for to the english all the rest of god's earth is as nazareth, out of which can come no good thing. thus none might see the maid, and, once and again, i let fall a word in john grey's ear concerning my desire to look on her in prison. i dared make no show of eagerness, though now the month of may had come, which was both her good and ill month. for in may she first went to vaucouleurs and prophesied, in may she delivered orleans, and in may she was taken at compiegne. wherefore i deemed, as men will, that in may she should escape her prison, or in may should die. moreover, on the first day of march they had asked her, mocking her-"shalt thou be delivered?" and she had answered-"ask me on this day three months, and i shall declare it to you." the english, knowing this, made all haste to end her ere may ended, wherefore i had the more occasion for speed. now, on a certain day, being may the eighth, the heart of john grey was merry within him. he had well drunk, and i had let him win of me, at the dice, that one of my three horses which most he coveted. he then struck me in friendly fashion on the back, and cried-"an unlucky day for thee, and for england. this very day, two years agone, that limb of the devil drove us by her sorceries from before orleans. but to-morrow--" and he laughed grossly in his beard. "storey, you are a good fellow, though a fool at the dice." "faith, i have met my master," i said. "but the lesson you gave me was worth bay salkeld," for so i had named my horse, after a great english house on the border who dwell at the castle of corby. "i will do thee a good turn," he said. "you crave to see this puzel, ere they put on her the high witch's cap for her hellward journey." "i should like it not ill," i said; "it were something to tell my grandchildren, when all france is english land." "then you shall see her, for this is your last chance to see her whole." "what mean you, fair sir?" i asked, while my heart gave a turn in my body, and i put out my hand to a great tankard of wine. "to-morrow the charity of the church hath resolved that she shall be had into the torture-chamber." i set my lips to the tankard, and drank long, to hide my face, and for that i was nigh swooning with a passion of fear and wrath. "thanks to st. george," i said, "the end is nigh!" "the end of the tankard," quoth he, looking into it, "hath already come. you drink like a man of the land debatable." yet i was in such case that, though by custom i drink little, the great draught touched not my brain, and did but give me heart. "you might challenge at skinking that great danish knight who was with us under orleans, sir andrew haggard was his name, and his bearings were . . . " {39} so he was running on, for he himself had drunk more than his share, when i brought him back to my matter. "but as touching this puzel, how may i have my view of her, that you graciously offered me?" "my men change guard at curfew," he said; "five come out and five go in, and i shall bid them seek you here at your lodgings. so now, farewell, and your revenge with the dice you shall have when so you will." "nay, pardon me one moment: when relieve you the guard that enters at curfew?" "an hour after point of day. but, now i bethink me, you scarce will care to pass all the night in the puzel's company. hast thou paper or parchment?" i set paper and ink before him, who said-"nay, write yourself; i am no great clerk, yet i can sign and seal." therewith, at his wording, i set down an order to the castle porter to let me forth as early in the night as i would. this pass he signed with his name, and sealed with his ring, bearing his arms. "so i wish you joy of this tryst and bonne fortune," he said, and departed. i had two hours before me ere curfew rang, and the time was more than i needed. therefore i went first to the church of st. ouen, which is very great and fair, and there clean confessed me, and made my orisons that, if it were god's will, this enterprise might turn to his honour, and to the salvation of the maid. and pitifully i besought madame st. catherine of fierbois, that as she had delivered me, a sinner, she would deliver the sister of the saints. next i went back to my lodgings, and there bade the hostler to have my two best steeds saddled and bridled in stall, by point of day, for a council was being held that night in the castle, and i and another of sir thomas's company might be sent early with a message to the bishop of avranches. this holy man, as then, was a cause of trouble and delay to the regent and pierre cauchon, bishop of beauvais, because he was just, and fell not in with their treasons. next i clad myself in double raiment, doublet above doublet, and hose over hose, my doublets bearing the red cross of st. george. over all i threw a great mantle, falling to the feet, as if i feared the night chills. thereafter i made a fair copy of my own writing in the pass given to me by john grey, and copied his signature also, and feigned his seal with a seal of clay, for it might chance that two passes proved better than one. then i put in a little wallet hanging to my girdle the signet of sir thomas grey, and the pass given to me by john grey, also an inkhorn with pen and paper, and in my hand, secretly, i held that phial which i had bought of the apothecary in tours. all my gold and jewels i hid about my body; i sharpened my sword and dagger, and then had no more to do but wait till curfew rang. this was the weariest part of all; for what, i thought, if john grey had forgotten his promise, the wine being about his wits. therefore i walked hither and thither in my chamber, in much misdoubt; but at the chime of curfew i heard rude voices below, and a heavy step on the stairs. it was a man-at-arms of the basest sort, who, lurching with his shoulder against my door, came in, and said that he and his fellows waited my pleasure. thereon i showed him the best countenance, and bade my host fill a pannier with meat and cakes and wine, to pass the hours in the prison merrily. i myself ran down into the host's cellar, and was very busy in tasting wine, for i would have the best. and in making my choice, while the host stooped over a cask to draw a fresh tankard, i poured all the drugs of my phial into a large pewter vessel with a lid, filled it with wine, and, tasting it, swore it would serve my turn. this flagon, such as we call a 'tappit hen' in my country, but far greater, i bore with me up the cellar stairs, and gave it to one of the guard, bidding him spill not a drop, or he should go thirsty. the lourdaud, that was their captain, carried the pannier, and, laughing, we crossed the street and the moat, giving the word "bedford." to the porter i showed my pass, telling him that, though i was loath to disturb him, i counted not to watch all night in the cell, wherefore i gave him a gold piece for the trouble he might have in letting me go forth at an hour untimely. herewith he was well content, and so, passing the word to the sentinel at each post, we entered. and now, indeed, my heart beat so that my body seemed to shake with hope and fear as i walked. at the door of the chamber wherein the maid lay we met her guards coming forth, who cried roughly, bidding her good even, and to think well of what waited her, meaning the torments. they tumbled down the stairs laughing, while we went in, and i last. it was a dark vaulted chamber with one window near the roof, narrow and heavily barred. in the recess by the window was a brazier burning, and casting as much shadow as light by reason of the smoke. here also was a rude table, stained with foul circles of pot-rims, and there were five or six stools. on a weighty oaken bed lay one in man's raiment, black in hue, her face downwards, and her arms spread over her neck. it could scarce be that she slept, but she lay like one dead, only shuddering when the lourdaud, the captain of the guard, smote her on the shoulder, asking, in english, how she did? "here she is, sir, surly as ever, and poor company for christian men. see you how cunningly all her limbs are gyved, and chained to the iron bolts of the bed? what would my lady jeanne give me for this little masterkey?" here he showed a slender key, hung on a steel chain about his neck. "never a saint of the three, michael, margaret, and catherine, can take this from me; nay, nor the devils who wear their forms." "have you seen this fair company of hers?" i whispered in english, crossing myself. "no more than she saw the white lady that goes with that other witch, catherine of la rochelle. but, sir, she is sullen; it is her manner. with your good leave, shall we sup?" this was my own desire, so putting the pannier on the table, i carved the meat with my dagger, and poured out the wine in cups, and they fell to, being hungry, as englishmen are at all times. they roared over their meat, eating like wolves and drinking like fishes, and one would sing a lewd song, and the others strike in with the over-word, but drinking was their main avail. "this is better stuff," says the lourdaud, "than our english ale. faith, 'tis strong, my lads! wake up, jenkin; wake up, hal," and then he roared a snatch, but stopped, looking drowsily about him. o brothers in christ, who hear this tale, remember ye that, for now four months and more, the cleanest soul in christenty, and the chastest lady, and of manners the noblest, had endured this company by night and by day! "nay, wake up," i cried; "ye are dull revellers; what say ye to the dice?" therewith i set out my tablier and the dice. then i filled up the cup afresh, pretending to drink, and laid on the foul table a great shining heap of gold. their dull eyes shone like the metal when i said-"myself will be judge and umpire; play ye, honest fellows, for i crave no gains from you. only, a cup for luck!" they camped at the table, all the five of them, and some while their greed kept them wakeful, and they called the mains, but their drought kept them drinking. and, one by one, their heads fell heavy on the table, or they sprawled on their stools, and so sank on to the floor, so potent were the poppy and mandragora of the leech in tours. at last they were all sound on sleep, one man's hand yet clutching a pile of my gold that now and again would slip forth and jingle on the stone floor. now all this time she had never stirred, but lay as she had lain, her face downwards, her arms above her neck. stealthily i took the chain and the key from about the neck of the sleeping lourdaud, and then drew near her on tiptoe. i listened, and, from her breathing, i believe that she slept, as extreme labour and weariness and sorrow do sometimes bring their own remede. then a thought came into my mind, how i should best awake her, and stooping, i said in her ear-"fille de!" instantly she turned about, and, sitting up, folded her hands as one in prayer, deeming, belike, that she was aroused by the voices of her saints. i kneeled down beside the bed, and whispered--"madame, jeanne, look on my face!" she gazed on me, and now i saw her brave face, weary and thin and white, and, greater than of old, the great grey eyes. "i said once," came her sweet voice, "that thou alone shouldst stand by me when all had forsaken me. fair saints, do i dream but a dream?" "nay, madame," i said, "thou wakest and dost not dream. one has sent me who loves thee, even my lady elliot; and now listen, for the time is short. see, here i have the master-key, and when i have unlocked thy bonds . . . " "thou hast not slain these men?" she asked. "that were deadly sin." "nay, they do but sleep, and will waken belike ere the fresh guard comes, wherefore we must make haste." "when i have freed thee, do on thy body, above thy raiment, this doublet of mine, for it carries the cross of england, and, i being of little stature, you may well pass for me. moreover, this cloak and its hood, which i wore when i came in, will cover thee. then, when thou goest forth give the word 'bedford' to the sentinels; and, to the porter in the gate, show this written pass of john grey's. he knows it already, having seen it this night. next, when thou art without the castle, fare to the hostelry called 'the rose and apple,' which is nearest the castle gate, and so straight into the stable, where stand two steeds, saddled and bridled. choose the black, he is the swifter. if the hostler be awake, he expects me, and will take thee for me; mount, with no word, and ride to the eastern port. there show to the gate ward this signet of sir thomas grey, and he will up with portcullis and down with drawbridge, for he has often done no less for me and that signet. "then, madame, ride for louviers, and you shall break your fast with the bastard and la hire." her white face changed to red, like the morning light, as on that day at orleans, before she took les tourelles. then the flush faded, and she grew ashen pale, while she said-"but thou, how shalt thou get forth?" "madame," i said, "fear not for me. i will follow after thee, and shame the sleepy porter to believe that he has dreamed a dream. and i have written this other pass, on seeing which he will needs credit me, being adrowse, and, moreover, i will pay him well. and i shall be at the stable as soon almost as thou, and i have told the hostler that belike i shall ride with a friend, carrying a message to the bishop of avranches. for i have beguiled the english to believe me of their party, as madame judith wrought to the tyrant holofernes." "nay," she answered simply, "this may not be. even if the porter were to be bought or beguiled, thou couldst not pass the sentinels. it may not be." "the sentinels, belike, are sleeping, or wellnigh sleeping, and i have a dagger. o madame! for the sake of the fortune of france, and the honour of the king"--for this, i knew, was my surest hope--"delay not, nor reck at all of me. i have but one life, and it is thine freely." "they will burn thee, or slay thee with other torments." "not so," i said; "i shall not be taken alive." "that were deadly sin," she answered. "i shall not go and leave thee to die for me. then were my honour lost, and i could not endure to live. entreat me not, for i will not go forth, as now. nay more, i tell thee as i have told my judges, that which the saints have spoken to me. 'bear this thy martyrdom gently,' they say, 'tu t'en viendras en royaume du paradis.' moreover, this i know, that i am to be delivered with great victory!" here she clasped her hands, looking upwards, and her face was as the face of an angel. "fair victory it were to leave thee in my place, and so make liars of my brethren of paradise." then, alas! i knew that i was of no more avail to move her; yet one last art i tried. "madame," i said, "i have prayed you in the name of the fortune of france, and the honour of the king, which is tarnished for ever if you escape not." "i shall be delivered," she answered. "i pray you in the dear name of your lady mother, madame du lys." "i shall be delivered," she said, "and with great victory!" "now i pray thee in my own name, and in that of thy first friend, my lady. she has made a vow to give her virginity to heaven unless either thou art set free, or she have tidings from thee that thou willest her to wed me, without whom i have no desire to live, but far rather this very night to perish. for i am clean confessed, within these six hours, knowing that i was like to be in some jeopardy." "then," she said, smiling sweetly, and signing that i should take her hand--"then live, norman leslie, for this is to me an easy thing and a joyous. thou art a clerk, hast thou wherewithal to write?" "yes, madame, here in my wallet." "then write as i tell thee:- "jhesu maria" "'i, jehanne la pucelle, send from prison here in rouen my tidings of love to elliot hume, my first friend among women, and bid her, for my sake, wed him who loves her, norman leslie of pitcullo, my faithful servant, praying that all happiness may go with them. in witness whereto, my hand being guided to write, i set my name, jehanne la pucelle, this ninth day of may, in the year fourteen hundred and thirty-one.' "so guide my hand," she said, taking the pen from my fingers; and thus guided, while my tears fell on her hand, she wrote jehanne la pucelle. "now," quoth she, smiling as of old, "we must seal this missive. cut off one lock of my hair with your dagger, for my last gift to my first friend, and make the seal all orderly." i did as she bade, and, bringing a lighted stick from the brazier, i melted wax. then, when it was smooth, she laid on it two hairs from the little sundered lock (as was sometimes her custom), and bade me seal with my own signet, and put the brief in my wallet. "now, all is done," she said. "nay, nay," i said, "to die for thee is more to me than to live in love. ah, nay, go forth, i beseech thee!" "with victory shall i go forth, and now i lay my last commands on the last of all my servants. if in aught i have ever offended thee, in word or deed, forgive me!" i could but bow my head, for i was weeping, though her eyes were dry. "and so, farewell," she said-"as thou art leal and true, begone; it is my order, and make no tarrying. to-morrow i have much to do, and needs must i sleep while these men are quiet. say to thy lady that i love her dearly, and bid her hope, as i also hope. farewell!" she moved her thin hand, which i kissed, kneeling. again she said "farewell," and turned her back on me as if she would sleep. then i hung the chain and key again on the neck of the lourdaud; i put some of the fallen coins in the men's pouches, but bestowed the dice and tablier in my wallet. i opened the door, and went forth, not looking back; and so from the castle, showing my pass, and giving the porter another coin. then i went home, in the sweet dawn of may, and casting myself on my bed, i wept bitterly, for to-day she should be tormented. * * * * * of the rest i have no mind to tell (though they had not the heart to torture the maid), for it puts me out of charity with a people who have a name to be christians, and it is my desire, if i may, to forgive all men before i die. at rouen i endured to abide, even until the day of unjust doom, and my reason was that i ever hoped for some miracle, even as her saints had promised. but it was their will that she should be made perfect through suffering, and being set free through the gate of fire, should win her victory over unfaith and mortal fear. wherefore i stood afar off at the end, seeing nothing of what befell; yet i clearly heard, as did all men there, the last word of her sweet voice, and the cry of jhesus! then i passed through the streets where men and women, and the very english, were weeping, and, saddling my swiftest horse, i rode to the east port. when the gate had closed behind me, i turned, and, lifting my hand, i tore the cross of st. george from my doublet. "dogs!" i cried, "ye have burned a saint! a curse on cruel english and coward french! st andrew for scotland!" the shafts and bolts hailed past me as i wheeled about; there was mounting of steeds, and a clatter of hoofs behind me, but the sound died away ere i rode into louviers. there i told them the tale which was their shame, and so betook me to tours, and to my lady. chapter xxxii--the end of this chronicle it serves not to speak of my later fortunes, being those of a private man, nor have i the heart to recall old sorrows. we were wedded when elliot's grief had in some sort abated, and for one year we were happier than god has willed that sinful men should long be in this world. then that befell which has befallen many. i may not write of it: suffice it that god took from me both her and her child. then, after certain weeks and days of which i am blessed enough to keep little memory, i forswore arms, and served in the household of the lady margaret of scotland, who married the dauphin on an unhappy day. i have known much of courts and of the learned, i have seen the wicked man exalted, and brother thomas noiroufle in great honour with charles vii. king of france, and offering before him, with his murderous hands, the blessed sacrifice of the mass. the death of the lady margaret, slain by lying tongues, and the sudden sight of that evil man, brother thomas, raised to power and place, drove me from france, and i was certain years with the king's ambassadors at the courts of italy. there i heard how the holy inquisition had reversed that false judgment of the english and false french at rouen, which made me some joy. and then, finding old age come upon me, i withdrew to my own country, where i have lived in religion, somewhile in the abbey of dunfermline, and this year gone in our cell of pluscardine, where i now write, and where i hope to die and be buried. here ends my tale, in my latin chronicle left untold, of how a scots monk was with the maid both in her victories and recoveries of towns, and even till her death. for myself, i now grow old, and the earthly time to come is short, and there remaineth a rest for all souls christian. miscreants i have heard of, men misbelieving and heretics, who deny that the spirit abides after the death of the body, for in the long years, say they, the spirit with the flesh wanes, and at last dies with the bodily death. wherein they not only make holy church a liar, but are visibly confounded by this truth which i know and feel, namely, that while my flesh wastes hourly towards old age, and of many things my memory is weakened, yet of that day in chinon i mind me as clearly, and see my love as well, and hear her sweet voice as plain, as if she had but now left the room. herein my memory does not fail, nor does love faint, growing stronger with the years, like the stream as it races to the fall. wherefore, being more strong than time, love shall be more strong than death. the river of my life speeds yearly swifter, the years like months go by, the months like weeks, the weeks like days. even so fleet on, o time, till i rest beside her feet! nay, never, being young, did i more desire my love's presence when we were apart than to-day i desire it, the memory of her filling all my heart as fragrance of flowers fills a room, till it seems as if she were not far away, but near me, as i write of her. and, foolish that i am! i look up as if i might see her by my side. i know not if this be so with all men, for, indeed, i have asked none, nor spoken to any of the matter save in confession. for i have loved this once, and no more; wherefore i deem me happier than most, and more certain of a good end to my love, where the blessed dwell in the rose of paradise, beholding the beatific vision. to this end i implore the prayers of all christian souls who read this book, and of all the saints, and of that sister of the saints whom, while i might, i served in my degree. venerabilis johanna ora pro nobis appendix a--norman's miracle (see "livre des miracles de madame sainte katherine de fierboys". mss. bib. nat. 7335, fol. lxxxiv.) le xvi jour du moys de janvier, l'an mil cccc. xxx., vint en la chapelle de ceans norman leslie de pytquhoulle, escoth, escuyer de la compagnie de hugues cande, capitaine. {40} lequel dist et afferma par serment estre vray le miracle cy apres declaire. c'est assavoir que le dit leslie fut prins des anglois a paris le jour de la nativite de nostre dame de l'an dernier passe. lequel norman leslie avoit entre dans la ville de paris avec c. escossoys en guise d'angloys, lesqueuls escossoys furent prins des angloys, et ledit norman fut mis en fers et en ceps. et estoit l'intention de ceux qui l'avoient pris de le faire lendemain ardre, parce qu'il portoit robe de femme par maniere de ruse de guerre. si s'avint que ledit norman se voua a madame sainte katherine, qu'il luy pleust prier dieu qu'il le voulsist delivrer de la prison ou il estoit; et incontinent qu'il pourroit estre dehors, il yroit mercier madame sainte katherine en sa chapelle de fierboys. et incontinent son veu fait si s'en dormit, et au reveiller trouva en la tour avecques luy un singe, qui lui apporta deux files, et un petit cousteau. ainsi il trouva maniere de se deferrer, et adoncques s'en sortit de la prison emportant avecques luy le singe. si se laissoit cheoir a val en priant madame sainte katherine et chut a bas, et oncques ne se fist mal, et se rendit a saint denys ou il trouvoit des compagnons escossoys. et ainsy ledit norman leslie s'en est venu audit lieu de fierboys, tout sain et sauf, emportant avecques luy ledit singe, qui est beste estrange et fol de son corps. et a jure ledit norman ce estre vray par la foy et serment de son corps. presens messire richart kyrthrizian, frere giles lacourt, prestres gouverneurs de la dite chapelle, et messire hauves polnoire, peintre du roy, et plusieurs aultres. appendix b--elliot's ring the ring of the maid, inscribed with the holy names, is often referred to in her trial ("proces," i. 86, 103, 185, 236, 238), and is mentioned by bower, the contemporary scottish chronicler ("proces," iv. 480), whose work was continued in the "liber pluscardensis." we have also, in the text, norman's statement that a copy of this ring was presented by the maid to elliot hume. while correcting the proof-sheets of this chronicle, the translator received from mr. george black, assistant keeper of the national museum of antiquities in edinburgh, a copy of his essay on "scottish charms and amulets" ("proceedings of the society of antiquaries of scotland," may 8, 1893, p. 488). there, to his astonishment, the translator read: "the formula mari. ihs. occurs on two finger-rings of silver-gilt, one of which was found at pluscarden, elginshire, and the other in an old graveyard near fintray house, aberdeenshire." have we in the pluscarden ring a relic of the monk of pluscarden, the companion of jeanne d'arc, the author of "liber pluscardensis"? footnotes {1} several copies of this book, the liber pluscardensis, are extant, but the author's original ms. is lost. {2} this was written after the act of the scots parliament of 1457. {3} daggers. {4} rude wall surrounding a keep. {5} sisters in the rule of st. francis. {6} these tricks of sleight-of-hand are attributed by jean nider, in his "formicarium," to the false jeanne d'arc.--a. l. {7} very intimate. {8} when the sky falls and smothers the larks, {9} this quotation makes it certain that scott's ballad of harlaw, in "the antiquary," is, at least in part, derived from tradition. {10} this description confirms that of the contemporary town-clerk of la rochelle. {11} the staircase still exists. {12} "my neck would learn the weight of my more solid proportions." {13} neck. {14} "frightened by a ghost." {15} "airt," i.e. "quarter." {16} "fright for fright." {17} lameter, a lame. {18} bor-brief, certificate of gentle birth. {19} howlet, a young owl; a proverb for voracity. {20} battle-axe. {21} bougran, lustrous white linen. {22} there are some slight variations, as is natural, in the fierbois record. {23} equipped for battle. {24} that is, in the "liber pluscardensis." {25} englishman. {26} heavy and still. {27} daughter of god, go on, and i will be thine aid. go on! {28} lyrat, grey. {29} the king's evil: "ecrouelles," scrofula. {30} darg, day's work. {31} "par mon martin," the oath which she permitted to la hire. {32} see appendix a, 'norman's miracle,' appendix b, 'elliot's ring.' {33} that in to say, some two thousand combatants. {34} echevins--magistrates. {35} "away with this man, and release unto us barabbas." {36} pavises--large portable shelters. {37} block-houses. {38} the grahames had not yet possessed themselves of netherby.--a. l. {39} substituting 'or' for 'argent,' his bearings were those of the distinguished modern novelist of the same name.--a. l. {40} cande = kennedy. 