LADY SYBIL'S CHOICE (continued 2)

"Did my Damoiselle think she could never be holy?"

"Yes, I did, Margot, and do."

"Wherefore? Let her forgive her poor servant."

"Oh, holiness seems to mean all sorts of unpleasant things," said I. "You must not wash, nor lie on a comfortable bed, nor wear anything nice, nor dance, nor sing, nor have any pleasure. I don't want to be holy. I really could not do with it, Margot."

"Under my Damoiselle's leave, all those things she has mentioned seem to me to be outside things. And—unless I mistake, for I am but an ignorant creature—holiness must be something inside. My soul is inside of me; and to clean my soul, I must have something that will go inside to it. The inside principle will be sure to put all the outside things straight, will it not? But I do not see what the outside things can do to the inside—except that sometimes they make us cross. But then it is we who are wrong, not they."

"Dost thou suppose it is wicked to be cross, Margot?"

"Damoiselle, Father Eudes once read a list of the good things that a true Christian ought to have in his heart,—there were nine of them: 'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.' I think one cannot have many of them when one is cross and peevish."

"Then thou dost not think it sinful to delight in fine clothes and jewels, and lie in a soft bed, and have dainties for dinner?—for all those are outside."

"Ha! yes, my Damoiselle. Those are the world's substitute for happiness."

"Now, what dost thou mean, Margot?" laughed I. "Have I not all these good things?—and am I not happy?"

"All these,—ah, yes. But, happy? No, no. My Damoiselle is not happy."

"Why, what wilt thou say next?" cried I.

"Will my Damoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question?"

"Oh yes!—anything thou wilt."

"Then is my Damoiselle quite certain—safely, happily certain—what will become of her when she shall die?"

"O Margot, what an ugly question! I hate to think of it Why, I suppose I shall go to Heaven—why should I not? Don't all nobles go there, except those who are very, very wicked?"

"Ha! She hates to think of it? Wherefore?"

"Why, everybody does, of course."

"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. Not I."

"Oh, thou art an old woman, and hast outlived thy youth and its pleasures. No wonder."

"My Damoiselle will find, as life goes on, that the older she grows, the more distasteful that thought becomes to her. That is, unless she should learn to be happy, which may the good God grant!"

I could not help laughing heartily. For a young noble maiden like me, to take lessons of a forlorn old creature like Margot, in the art of being happy, did seem so very ridiculous.

"Ah, my Damoiselle may laugh now," said Marguerite in her quiet way; "but I have told the sober truth."

"Oh dear!" said I. "I think I had better sleep on it.—Margot, art thou not very much pleased at the thought of going to the Holy Land?"

"Ah, yes, my Damoiselle, very much. I would dearly like to behold the earth which the feet of the blessed Lord have trodden,—the lake on which He walked, and the hill from which He went up. Ah! 'He shall so come'—'this same Jesus'!"

I looked at her in astonishment. The worn old face and sunken eyes seemed alight with some hidden rapture. I could not understand her.

"And the Holy Sepulchre!" I said; for that is holiest of all the holy places, as everybody knows.

"Well, I should not so much care to see that," answered Marguerite, to my surprise. "'He is not there; He is risen.' If a dear friend of mine had gone on a journey, I should not make a pet of the saddle on which he rode away. I should rather want not to see it, for it would always remind me that he was gone."

"Marguerite!" exclaimed I, "dost thou not know that a neuvaine offered at the Holy Sepulchre is of more efficacy than ten offered at any other altar?"

"Will my Damoiselle give me leave to wait till I see it? Of course, if the good God choose to have it so, there is an end of the matter. But I think I would rather be sure. For me, I should like to pray in the Church of the Nativity, to thank Him for coming as a little babe into this weary world: and in the Church of the Ascension, to beg Him to hasten His coming again."

"Ah, the Church of the Ascension!" said I. "There are pillars in that church, nearly close to the wall; and the man who can creep between the wall and the pillar has full remission of all his sins."

"Is that in the holy Evangel?" asked Marguerite; but I could not tell her.

"I fancy there may be some mistake about that," she added. "Of course, if it be in the holy Evangel! But it does not look quite of a piece with what Father Eudes reads. He read one day out of the writing of Monseigneur Saint John, that the blood of Jesus Christ, the blessed Lord, cleansed us from all sin: and another time—I think he said it was from the Evangel of Monseigneur Saint Matthew—he read that if a man did but ask the good God for salvation, it should be given him. Well! I asked, and He gave it me. Could He give me anything more?—or would He be likely to do it because I crept between a wall and a pillar?"

"Why, Marguerite! Hast thou been listening to some of those wicked Lyonnese, that go preaching up and down? Dost thou not know that King Henry the father hath strictly forbidden any man to harbour one of that rabble?"

"If it please my Damoiselle, I know nothing at all about them."

"Why, it is a merchant of Lyons, named Pierre Waldo, and a lot more with him; they go up and down the country, preaching, and corrupting people from the pure Catholic faith. Hast thou listened to any such preachers, Margot?"

"Ha, my Damoiselle, what know I? There was a Grey Friar at the Cross a few weeks since"——

"Oh, of course, the holy brethren of Saint Augustine are all right," said I.

"Well, and last Sunday there was a man there, not exactly in a friar's robe, but clad in sackcloth, as if he were in mourning; but he said none but very good words; they were just like the holy Evangel which Father Eudes reads. Very comforting words they were, too. He said the good Lord cared even for the sparrows, poor little things!—and very much more for us that trusted Him. I should like to hear him preach again."

"Take care how thou dost!" said I, as I lay down in bed. "I am afraid, Margot, he is one of those Lyonnese serpents."

"Well!" said Marguerite, as she tucked me up, "he had no sting, if he were."

"No, the sting comes afterwards," said I. "And thou art but a poor villein, and ignorant, and quite unable to judge which is the true doctrine of holy Church, and which the wicked heresy that we must shut our ears against."

"True, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite meekly. "But to say that the dear, blessed Lord cares for His poor servants—no, no!—that is no heresy!"

"What is heresy?" said I. "And what is truth? Oh dear! If one might know, one's own self!"

"Ah! Pilatus asked that of the good God, when He stood before his judgment-seat. But he did not wait for the answer."

"I wish he had done!" I answered. "Then we might have known it. But I suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the Church. So we should not have been much better off, because we do know that."

"We are better off, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite. "For though the good God did not answer Pilatus—maybe he was not worthy—He did answer the same question, asked by Monseigneur Saint Thomas. Did not my Damoiselle hear Father Eudes read that in French? It was only a few weeks ago."

I shook my head. I cannot imagine when or how Marguerite does hear all these things. I never do. But she went on.

"It was one day when the good Lord had told Messeigneurs the Apostles that He was going to ascend to Heaven: and He said, 'The way ye know.' But Monseigneur Saint Thomas—ah! he was rather like my Damoiselle; he wanted to know!—he replied that they did not know the way. (If he had not been a holy apostle, I should not have thought it very civil to contradict his Seigneur, let alone the good Lord.) But the good God was not angry: He saw, I suppose, that Monseigneur Saint Thomas did not mean anything wrong, but he wanted to know, like a damoiselle of the House of Lusignan. So He said, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by Me.'"

"But I do not see what that means," said I. "Truth cannot be a person,—a man cannot be a way. Of course it is a figure of speech; but still I do not see what it means."

I was very sleepy, and I fancy rather cross. Marguerite stooped and kissed my hand, and then turned and put out the light.

"Rest, my fair Damoiselle," she said, tenderly. "And may the good God show my darling what it means!"

CHAPTER IV.

A JOURNEY—AND THE END OF IT.

"A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye:

Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky."

—WORDSWORTH.

Bound for the East Countrie! Ay, we are fairly off at last, Amaury and I,—with old Marguerite, and her niece Perette, and Bertrade, Robert's daughter, and Robert himself, to wait upon me; and an escort of armed men, and Amaury's attendants.

Yet it was not all brightness when we came to leave the Castle. Alix and Messire Raymond were there to take leave of us: and I really fancied—it must have been fancy!—that there were tears in Alix's eyes when she kissed me. There were none in Umberge's, nor in Guillot's. But Raoul cried honestly; though Amaury said afterwards that he believed three-quarters of Raoul's tears were due to his having to stay behind. Father Eudes gave me his blessing; and he wept too, poor old man! I dare say he was sorry. He was here before I was born. Then the maidens and servants came forward, the women kissing my hand, and the men my robe: and last of all I came to Monseigneur, our father.

He folded me close in his arms, and bent his head down upon mine; and I felt two or three hot tears on my brow.

"My little Lynette!" he said. "My little, little girl! The one bud of my one love! Must I let thee go? Ha, well!—it is for thy welfare. The good God bless thee, mignonne, and Messeigneurs and Mesdames the saints. Please God, little maiden, we shall meet in Jerusalem."

"Meet in Jerusalem?" I said in surprise. This was news to me—that Monseigneur meant to take the cross.

"Ay," said he softly, "in the 'Syon Aurea, ut clarior oro.' There is an upper City, my child, which is fairer than the lower. Jesu, of His mercy, bring us both there!"

"Amen!" said Father Eudes. "Dame Mary, pray for us poor sinners!"

There was a great bustle after that, and noise, and clashing; and I do not remember much distinctly, till I got into the litter with Bertrade, and then first Amaury set forth on his charger, with his squires after him, and then Marguerite behind Robert on horseback, and Perette behind Amaury's varlet, who is a cousin of hers; and then my litter moved forward, with the armed men around and behind. I just saw them all clearly for one moment—Alix with her lips set, looking at us, as if she were determined not to say a word; and Messire Raymond smoothing his moustache; and Guillot with an old shoe poised in the air, which hit my fore postilion the next minute; and Umberge with that fair false smile with which she deludes every one at first sight; and Monseigneur, with his arms folded, and the tears fairly running down his cheeks, and his lips working as if he were deeply grieved. Just for one minute there they all stood; and I think they will make a picture in my eyes till the end of time for me. And then my litter was drawn out of the Castle gate, and the horses tramped across the drawbridge, and down the slope below: and I drew the curtain of the litter aside, and looked back to see my dear old home, the fair strong Castle of Lusignan, growing less and less behind me every moment, till at last it faded into a more dim speck in the distance, and I felt that my long and venturesome journey had begun.

Oh, why do people never let us know how much they love us, until just as we unclasp hands and part?

Do they always know it themselves?

And I wonder whether dying is anything like this. Do men go a long journey to God, with an armed escort of angels, and do they see the world go less and less behind them as they mount? I will ask Margot what she thinks. She is but a villein, in truth, but then she has such curious fancies.

I have asked Marguerite, and she shakes her head.

"Ha! no, my Damoiselle. It can be no long journey to God. Father Eudes said but last Sunday, reading from the Breviary, in his sermon, that 'He is not far from every one of us.' And the good thief Ditmas, that was crucified with God, was there in half a day. It can only be a little way to Heaven. Ah! much less than half a day, it must be; for did not Monseigneur Saint Gabriel, the holy Archangel, begin to fly when Monseigneur Saint Daniel began to pray?—and he was there before he had finished his beads. It is a long while since Father Eudes told us that; and I thought it so comforting, because it showed that Heaven was not far, and also that the good Lord listens so quickly when we call. Ah! I have to say, 'Wait, Héloïse!—I am listening to Perette:' but the good Lord does not need to do that. He can hear my Lady the Queen, and the Lady Alix, and Monseigneur Guy, and my Damoiselle, and her servant Marguerite, all at once."

Yes, I suppose it must be so, though I cannot understand it. One has to believe so many things that one cannot understand. Do we even know how we live from day to day? Of course it is known that we have certain organs in our bodies, by which we breathe, and speak, and walk, and digest food; but can any one tell how all they do goes to make up what we call life? I do not believe it.

We took our way by Poictiers, across the duchies of Berry and Burgundy, and through Franche-Comté, crossing some terrible mountains between Besançon and Neufchatel. Then we travelled across Switzerland—Oh, how beautiful it is! I felt as though I should have been content to stay there, and never go any farther. But Amaury said that was just like a silly girl. What man, said he—with such an accent on the man!—ever wanted to stop away from gorgeous pageants and gallant deeds of arms, just to stare at a big hill with some snow on it, or a pool of water with some trees round it? How could any body make a name in that foolish way?—said Messire Amaury.

But old Marguerite thought with me. "Damoiselle," she said, "I am very thankful I came on this journey. Methinks I have a better notion what Heaven will be like than I had before we left Poitou. I did not know the good God was so rich. There seems to be no end to the beautiful things He can make. Oh, how beautiful He Himself must be! And we shall see His face. Father Eudes read it."

Whatever one says to Marguerite, she always finds something to say in answer about the good God. Surely she should have been a nun.

We came into Italy through two great passes,—one over the Julier mountain, so called from Julius Cæsar, the great Emperor, who made the road by help of the black art, and set up two pillars on the summit to commemorate his deeds: and then, passing through a beautiful valley, where all flowers of the year were out together, and there was a lovely chain of lakes,—(which naughty Amaury scornfully called crocuses and dirty water!)—we wound up hill after hill, until at last it really seemed as if we must have reached the top of the world. Here were two small lakes, at the foot of a drear slope of ice, which in these parts they call a glacier: and they call them the Black Lake and the White Lake. We had two sturdy peasants as guides over the mountains, and I should have liked dearly to talk with them about their country, but of course it would not have been seemly in a damsel of my rank: noblesse oblige. But I got Marguerite to ask them several questions, for their language is sufficiently like the Langue d'Oc[#] for us to understand them, though they speak very thickly and indistinctly. They told Marguerite that their beautiful valley is named the Val Engiadina,[#] and they were originally a colony from Italy, who fled from a persecution of the Saracens.[#] This pass is called the Bernina, for berne in their tongue signifies a bear, and there are many bears about here in winter. And they say this mountain is the top of the world, for here the waters separate, on the one side flowing far away into Asia, near the place where Adam dwelt in Paradise;[#] and on the other, into the great western sea,[#] which we shall shortly have to cross. And here, on the very summit of this mountain, dwelt a holy hermit, who gave me a shelter in his hut, while the men camped outside round great fires; for though it was August, yet at this great height it was quite cold. And so, through the pass, we wound slowly down into Italy.

[#] Two cognate languages were at this time spoken in France; north of the Loire, the Langue d'Oil, and south, the Langue d'Oc, both words meaning yes in the respective languages. The more northern language was the harsher, ch being sounded as k, just as church in England becomes kirk in Scotland. Cher, chaise, chien, therefore, were pronounced ker, kaise, kien, in the Langue d'Oil.

[#] The Engadine.

[#] All the evil done or doing in the world was at this time attributed to the Saracens. The colony is supposed to have arisen from the flight of a group of Christians in the persecution under Diocletian.

[#] The Black Sea.

[#] The Mediterranean.

Marguerite and Perette were both full of the beauty they had seen in the great glacier, on which they went with the guides: but it would not have done for a damsel of my rank, and really I saw no beauty in it from across the lake; it looked like a quantity of very dirty ice, with ashes scattered over it. But they said it was full of deep cracks or fissures, in which were the loveliest colours that human eye could see or heart imagine.

"Ah! I can guess now!" said Marguerite. "I could not think what Monseigneur Saint John meant when he said the city was gold like clear crystal. I know now. Damoiselle, in the glacier there are walls of light, the sweetest green shading into blue that my Damoiselle can possibly imagine: they must be like that, but golden. Ha! if my Damoiselle had seen it! The great nobles have not all the good things. It is well not to be so high up that one cannot see the riches of the good God."

She has the queerest notions!

Well!—we travelled on through Lombardy, and tarried a few days at Milan, whence we journeyed to Venice, which is the strangest place I ever saw or dreamed of, for all the streets are canals, and one calls for one's boat where other people order their horses. The Duke of Venice, who is called the Doge, was very kind to us. He told us at supper a comical story of a Duchess of Venice who lived about a hundred years ago. She so dearly loved ease and luxury that she thought it too much trouble to eat with her fingers like everybody else; and she actually caused her attendants to cut her meat into little pieces, like dice, and then she had a curious instrument with two prongs,[#] made of gold, with which she picked up the bits and put them in her dainty mouth. Only fancy!

[#] The first fork on record.

At Venice we embarked, and sailed to Messina, where most of the pilgrims for the Holy Land assemble, as it is the most convenient port. We did not go overland, as some pilgrims do, through the dominions of the Byzantine Cæsar;[#] but we sailed thence to Crete. I was rather sorry to miss Byzantium,[#] both on account of the beautiful stuffs which are sold there, and the holy relics: but since I have seen a spine of the crown of thorns, which the Lady de Montbeillard has—she gave seven hundred crowns for it to Monseigneur de Rheims[#]—I did not care so much about the relics as I might otherwise have done. Perhaps I shall meet with the same kind of stuffs in Palestine; and certainly there will be relics enough.

[#] The Eastern Emperor; his dominions in Europe extended over Greece and Turkey.

[#] Constantinople.

[#] The Archbishop.

From Crete we sailed to Rhodes, and thence to Cyprus. They all say that I am an excellent sailor, for I feel no illness nor inconvenience at all; but poor Bertrade has been dreadfully ill, and Marguerite and Perette say they both feel very uncomfortable on the water. At Cyprus is an abbey of monks, on the Hill of the Holy Cross; and here Amaury and his men were housed for the night, and I and my women at a convent of nuns not far off. At the Abbey they have a cross, which they say is the very cross on which our Lord suffered, but some say it is only the cross of Ditmas, the good thief. I was rather puzzled to know whether, there being a doubt whether it really is the holy cross, it ought to be worshipped. If it be only a piece of common wood, I suppose it would be idolatry. So I thought it more right and seemly to profess to have a bad headache, and decline to mount the hill. I asked Amaury what he had done.

"Oh! worshipped it, of course," said he.

"But how if it were not the true cross?" I asked.

"My sister, wouldst thou have a knight thus discourteous? The monks believe it true. It would have hurt their feelings to show any doubt."

"But, Amaury, it would be idolatry!"

"Ha, bah!" he answered. "The angels will see it put to the right account—no doubt of that. Dear me!—if one is to be for ever considering little scruples like that, why, there would be no end to them—one would never do any thing."

Then I asked Marguerite if she went up to worship the holy cross.

"No, Damoiselle," said she. "The Grey Friar said we worship not the cross, but the good God that died thereon. And I suppose He is as near to us at the bottom of the hill as at the top."

Well, it does look reasonable, I must say. But it must be one of Marguerite's queer notions. There would be no good in relics and holy places if that were always true.

This island of Cyprus is large and fair. It was of old time dedicated by the Paynims to Venus, their goddess of beauty: but when it fell into Christian hands, it was consecrated anew to Mary the holy Mother.

From Cyprus we sailed again, a day and a half, to Tyre; but we did not land there, but coasted southwards to the great city of Acre, and there at last we took land in Palestine.

Here we were lodged in the castle, which is very strong: and we found already here some friends of Amaury, the Baron de Montluc and his two sons, who had landed about three weeks before us. Hence we despatched a letter to Guy. I was the writer, of course, for Amaury can write nothing but his name; but he signed the letter with me. Messire Renaud de Montluc, who was setting out for the Holy City, undertook to see the letter safe. We were to follow more slowly.

We remained at Acre about ten days. Then we set forth, Amaury and I, the Baron de Montluc and his son Messire Tristan, and several other knights who were waiting for a company, with our respective trains; and the Governor of Acre lent us an additional convoy of armed men, to see us safe to the Holy City.

This was my first experience of tent life; and very strange it felt, and horribly insecure. I, accustomed to dwell within walls several feet thick, with portcullis and doors guarded by bolts and bars, in a chamber opening on an inner court, to have no more than one fold of goats' hair canvas between me and the outside world! True, the men-at-arms were camped outside; but that was no more than a castle garrison: and where was the castle?

"Margot," said I, "dost thou not feel horribly frightened?"

For of course, she, a villein, would be more accessible to fear than a noble.

"Oh no, my Damoiselle," she said very quietly. "Is it not in the holy Psalter that 'the Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them'? We are as safe as in the Castle of Lusignan."

It is a very good thing for Marguerite and the maidens that I am here. Because, of course, the holy angels, who are of high rank, would never think of taking care of mere villeins. It must mean persons of noble blood.

We journeyed on southwards slowly, pausing at the holy places—Capernaum, where Messeigneurs Saint Peter and Saint Andrew dwelt before they followed our Lord; and where Monseigneur Saint Peter left Madame his wife, and his daughter, Madame Saint Petronilla, when he became our Lord's disciple. Of course, he was obliged to leave them behind, for a holy apostle could not have a wife. (Marguerite says that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross at Lusignan, said that in the early ages of the Church, priests and even bishops used to be married men, and that it would have been better if they had continued to be so. I am afraid he must be a very wicked person, and one of those heretical Waldenses.) We also tarried a while at Cæsarea, where our Lord gave the keys to Monseigneur Saint Peter, and appointed him the first Bishop of Rome; and Nazareth, where our Lady was born and spent her early life. Not far from Neapolis,[#] anciently called Sychem, they show the ruins of a palace, where dwelt King Ahab, who was a very wicked Paynim, and had a Saracen to his wife. At Neapolis is the well of Monseigneur Saint Jacob, on which our Lord once sat when He was weary. This was the only holy place we passed which old Marguerite had the curiosity to go and see.

[#] Nablous.

"Now, what made thee care more for that than any other?" I asked her. "Of course it was a holy place, but there was nothing to look at save a stone well in a valley. Our Lady's Fountain, at Nazareth, was much prettier."

"Ah, my Damoiselle is young and blithe!" she said, and smiled. "It is long, long since I was a young mother like our Lady, and longer still since I was a little child. But the bare old well in the stony valley—that came home to me. He was weary! Yet He was God. He is rested now, on the throne of His glory: yet He cares for me, that am weary still. So I just knelt down at the old well, and I said to Him, in my ignorant way,—'Fair Father,[#] Jesu Christ, I thank Thee that Thou wert weary, and that by Thy weariness thou hast given me rest.' It felt to rest me,—a visit to the place where He sat, tired and hungry. But my Damoiselle cannot understand."

[#] "Bel Père"—one of the invocations then usual.

"No, Margot, I don't at all," said I.

"Ah, no! It takes a tired man to know the sweetness of rest."

Three days' journey through the Val de Luna, which used to be called the Vale of Ajalon, brought us to the city of Gran David, which was of old named Gibeon. The valley is styled De Luna because it was here that Monseigneur Saint Joshua commanded the sun and moon to stand still while he vanquished the Paynims. From Gran David it is only one day's journey to the Holy City.

"To-morrow, Margot!" said I, in great glee. "Only to-morrow, we shall see the Holy Sepulchre!"

"Ha! Thanks be to the good God. And we need not wait till to-morrow to see Him that rose from it."

"Why, Marguerite, dost thou ever have visions?"

"Visions? Oh no! Those are for the holy saints; not for a poor ignorant villein woman like me."

"Then what didst thou mean, just now?"

"Ah, my Damoiselle cannot understand."

"Margot, I don't like that. Thou art always saying it. I want to understand."

"Then she must ask the good God to show her."

And that is all I can get out of her.

Short of a league from the Holy City is the little hill called Mont Joie, because from it the palmers catch the first glimpse of the blessed Jerusalem. We were mounting, as it seemed to me, a low hillock, when Amaury rode up beside me, and parting the curtains, said—

"Now, Elaine, look out, for we are on the Mont Joie. Wilt thou light down?"

"Certainly," I answered.

So Amaury stopped the litter, and gave me his hand, and I jumped out. He took me to the place where the palmers kneel in thanksgiving for being brought thus far on their journey: and here I had my first sight of the Holy City.

It is but a small city, yet strongly fortified, having three walls. No Paynim is permitted to enter it, nor of course any heathen Jew. I cannot imagine how it was that the good God ever suffered the Holy City, even for an hour, to be in the hands of those wicked people. Yet last night, in the tent, if Marguerite did not ask me whether Monseigneur Saint Paul was not a Jew! I was shocked.

"Oh dear, no!" said I.

"I heard somebody say so," she replied.

"I should think it was some Paynim," said I. "Why, of course none of the holy Apostles were Jews. That miscreant Judas Iscariot, and Pontius Pilatus, and all those wicked people, I suppose, were Jews: but not the holy Apostles and the saints. It is quite shocking to think of such a thing!"

"Then what were they, if my Damoiselle pleases?" said Marguerite.

"Oh, they were of some other nation," said I.

For really, I do not know of what nation they were,—only that they could never have been Jews.

Amaury said that we must first visit the Holy Sepulchre; so, though I was dying to have news of Guy, I comforted myself with the thought that I should hereby acquire so much more merit than if I had not cared about it.

We entered the Holy City by the west gate, just as the dusk was beginning; and passing in single file along the streets, we descended the hill of Zion to the Holy Sepulchre.

In this church are kept many holy relics. In the courtyard is the prison where our Lord was confined after His betrayal, and the pillar to which He was bound when scourged: and in the portico the lance which pierced His side. The stone which the Angel rolled away from the sepulchre is now broken in two. Here our Lady died, and was buried in the Church of Saint Mary, close by. In this church is kept the cup of our Lord, out of which He habitually drank: it is of silver, with a handle on each side, and holds about a quart. Here also is the sponge which was held to His mouth, and the crown of thorns. (By a miracle of the good God, one half of the crown is also at Byzantium.) The tomb of our Lord is seven feet long, and rises three palms from the floor; fifteen golden lamps burn before it, day and night. I told the whole Rosary at the holy tomb, or should have done, for I felt that the longer I waited to see Guy, the more merit I should heap up: but Amaury became impatient, and insisted on my coming when a Pater and eight Aves were still to say.

Then we mounted the hill of Zion again, passing the church built in honour of the Prince of the Apostles, on the spot where he denied our Lord: and so we reached the King's Palace at last.

Amaury sprang from his horse, and motioned my postilion to draw up in front of the chief gate. I heard him say to the porter—

"Is Sir Guy de Lusignan here?"

"My gracious Lord, the Count of Joppa and Ascalon, is here, if it like you, noble Sir," replied the porter. "He is at this moment in audience of my Lady the Queen."

I was so glad to hear it. Then Guy had really been created a Count! He must be in high favour. One half of his prophecy was fulfilled. But what about the other?

"Pray you," said Amaury to the porter, "do my Lord Count to wit that his brother, Sir Amaury de Lusignan, and his sister, the Lady Elaine, are before the gate."

I hardly know how I got through the next ten minutes. Then came quick steps, a sound of speech, a laugh, and then my curtains were pushed aside, and the voice I loved best in all the world said—

"Lynette! Lynette, my darling!"

Ay, it was my own Guy who came back to me. Changed?—no, not really changed at all. A little older; a little more bronzed; a little longer and fuller in the beard:—that was all. But it was my Guy, himself.

"Come! jump out," he said, holding his hand, "and let me present thee to the Lady Queen. I long to see my Lynette the fairest ornament of her Court. And how goes it with Monseigneur, our fair father?"

So, talking all the way, I walked with Guy, hand in hand, up the stairs, and into the very bower of the imperial lady who bears the crown of all the world, since it is the flower of all the crowns.

"I can assure thee," said Guy, "the Lady Queen has often talked of thee, and is prepared to welcome thee."

It was a beautiful room, though small, decorated with carved and fragrant cedar-work, and hung with blue and gold. Round the walls were blue and gold settles, and three curule chairs in the midst. There were only three ladies there,—but I must describe them.

The Queen, who sat in one of the curule chairs, was rather short and stout, with a pleasant, motherly sort of look. She appeared to be between forty and fifty years of age. Her daughter, the Lady Isabel, who sat in another chair, busied with some embroidery, was apparently about eighteen; but Guy told me afterwards that she is only fifteen, for women ripen early in these Eastern lands, and grow old fast. She has luxuriant black hair and dark shining eyes. On the settle was a damsel a little older than the Princess, not quite so dark, nor so handsome. She, as I afterwards found, was the Damoiselle Melisende de Courtenay,[#] a distant relative of the King, who dwells with the Princesses. Guy led me up to the Queen.

[#] A fictitious person. Millicent is the modern version of this old Gothic name. It comes from Amala-suinde, and signifies heavenly-wisdom.

"Madam," said he, "your Highness has heard me often speak of my younger sister."

"Ha! the little Damoiselle Helena?"[#] replied the Queen, smiling very kindly. "Be welcome, my child. I have indeed heard much of you; this brother of yours thinks nobody like you in the world,—not even one, eh, Sir Count?—Isabel! I desire thee to make much of the Damoiselle, and let her feel herself at home. And,—Melisende! I pray thee, give order for her lodging, and let her women be seen to. Ah!—here comes another who will be glad to be acquainted with you."

[#] Helen is really quite distinct from Ellen, of which lost Elaine is the older form. The former is a Greek name signifying attractive, captivating. The latter is the feminine of the Celtic name Alain,—more generally written Alan or Allan,—and means bright-haired. Eleanor (it is a mistake as regards philology to write Elinor) is simply an amplification of Ellen by the addition of "or," gold. It denotes, therefore, hair bright as gold. Annora is a corruption of Eleanor, and Nora or Norah a further contraction of Annora.

I turned round to see at whom the Queen was looking. An inner door of the chamber had just opened, and two ladies were coming into the room. At the one I scarcely looked, save to see that she was old, and wore the garb of a nun. The other fixed my eyes in an instant.

Shall I say she was beautiful? I do not know. She has a face about which one never thinks whether it is beautiful or not. She is so sweet, so sweet! Her hair is long, of a glossy golden hue: her eyes are dark grey, and all her soul shines out in them. Her age seemed about twenty. And Guy said behind me, in a whisper—

"The Lady Sybil of Montferrat."

Something in Guy's tone made me glance suddenly at his face. My heart felt for a moment as if it stopped beating. The thing that I feared was come upon me. The whole prophecy was fulfilled: the beautiful lady stood before me. I should be first with Guy no longer.

But I did not feel so grieved as I expected. And when Lady Sybil put her arms round me, and kissed me, and told me I should be her dear little sister,—though I felt that matters must have gone very far indeed, yet somehow I was almost glad that Guy had found a heart to love him in this strange land.

The old nun proved to be a cousin of the Queen, whom they call Lady Judith.[#] She is an eremitess, and dwells in her cell in the very Palace itself. I notice that Lady Sybil seems very fond of her.

[#] A fictitious person.

Damoiselle Melisende showed me a nice bed-chamber, where I and my three women were to lodge. I was very tired, and the Queen saw it, and in her motherly way insisted on my having some supper, and going to bed at once. So I did not even wait to see Amaury again, and Guy went to look for him and bring him up to the Queen. The King, being a mesel, dwells alone in his own rooms, and receives none. When Guy has to communicate with him, he tells me that he talks with him through a lattice, and a fire of aromatic woods burns between them. But I can see that Guy is a very great man here, and has the affairs of the State almost in his own hands.

I said to Marguerite as I was undressing,—"Margot, I think Count Guy is going to marry somebody."

"Why, if it please my Damoiselle?"

"From the way he looks at Lady Sybil, and—other things."

"Your gracious pardon, but—is he less loving to my Damoiselle?"

"Oh no!—more loving and tender than ever, if that be possible."

"Then it is all right," said Marguerite. "He loves her."

"What dost thou mean, Margot?"

"When a man marries, my Damoiselle, one of three things happens. Either he weds from policy, and has no love for his lady; but Monseigneur Guy loves to look at her, so it is not that. Or, he loves himself, and she is merely a toy which ministers to his pleasure. Then he would be absorbed in himself and her, and not notice whether any other were happy or unhappy. But if he loves her, with that true, faithful, honourable love, which is one of God's best gifts, then he will be courteous and tender towards all women, because she is one. And especially to his own relatives, being women, who love him, he will be very loving indeed. That is why I asked."

"O Margot, Margot!" I said, laughing. "Where on earth dost thou find all thy queer notions?"

"Not all on earth, my Damoiselle. But, for many of them, all that is wanted is just to keep one's eyes open."

"Are my eyes open, Margot?"

"My Damoiselle had better shut them now," replied Marguerite, a little drily. "She can open them again to-morrow."

So I went to sleep, and dreamed that Guy married Lady Judith, in her nun's attire, and that I was in great distress at the sacrilege, and could do nothing to avert it.

CHAPTER V.

CURIOUS NOTIONS.

"The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned."

—ROBERT BROWNING.

For the last few weeks, since we reached Jerusalem, I have been very busy going about with the Damoiselle Melisende, and sometimes the Lady Isabel, with Amaury as escort. We have now visited all the holy places within one day's journey. I commanded Marguerite to attend me, for it amuses me afterwards to hear what she has to say.

We went to the Church of Saint Mary, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, which is built in a round form; and in it is the empty tomb in which our Lady was buried. So some say, and that the angels carried her body away in the night: but other some say, that while the holy Apostles were carrying her to her burial, the angels came down and bore her away to Paradise. I asked Margot (as she always listens) if she had heard Father Eudes read about it from the holy Evangel: but she said he had never read the story of that, at least in French. In this church there is a stone in the wall, on which our Lord knelt to pray on the night of His betrayal; and on it is the impression of His knees, as if the stone were wax. There is no roof to the church, but by miraculous provision of the good God, the rain never falls on it. Here also, our Lord's body, when taken down from the cross, was wrapped and anointed.

We also visited the Church of the Holy Ghost, where is the marble table at which our Lord and the holy Apostles ate the Last Supper, and they received the Holy Sacrament at His hands. There is also a chapel, with an altar whereat our Lord heard mass sung by the angels; and here is kept the vessel wherein our Lord washed the feet of His disciples. All these are on Mount Zion.

Marguerite was very much interested in the vessel in which the holy Apostles' feet were washed: but she wanted to know which of them had put it by and kept it so carefully. This, of course, I could not tell her. Perhaps it was revealed by miracle that this was the vessel.

"Ah, well!" she said, turning away at last, with a contented face. "It does not much matter, if only the good God wash our feet."

"But that cannot be, Margot!" said I.

Lady Judith was with us that day, and she laid her hand on my arm.

"Child," said she gently, "'if He wash thee not, thou hast no part with Him.'"

"And," said Marguerite, "my Lady will pardon me,—if He wash us, we have part with Him."

"Ay," answered Lady Judith. "'Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.' Thou knowest it, my sister?—thou hast washed? Ay, 'we believers enter into rest.'"

I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith—of the Cæsars' purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and old Marguerite,—a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,—marvel to relate! they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendly ever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must be some mystery. I do not understand it at all.

Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on the summit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lord ascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and though palmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yet the impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that I told Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. But she did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of something else.

"Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church, and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He will come again. Thank God! He will come again. 'This same Jesus'—the same that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of the cross,—the same that said 'Weep not' to the bereaved mother, and 'Go in peace' to the woman that was a sinner—the very same, Himself, and none other. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and die here, if it were."

"O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thou art alive?"

"Only the good God knows that," she said, still looking up intently through the roof of the church,—or where the roof should have been—into the sky. "But I would it might. If I could find it in my heart to envy any mortal creature, it would be them who shall look up, maybe with eyes dimmed by tears, and see Him coming!"

"I cannot comprehend thee, Margot," said I. "I think it would be just dreadful. I can hardly imagine a greater shock."

"Suppose, at this moment, my Damoiselle were to look behind her, and see Monseigneur Count Guy standing there, smiling on her,—would she think it a dreadful shock?"

"Margot! How can the two be compared?"

"Only love can compare them," answered the old woman softly.

"Marguerite! Dost thou—canst thou—love our Lord as much as I love Guy? It is not possible!"

"A thousand times more, my Damoiselle. Your Nobility, I know, loves Monseigneur very dearly; yet you have other interests apart from him. I have no interest apart from my Lord. All my griefs, all my joys, I take to Him; and until He has laid His hand on them and blessed them, I can neither endure the one nor enjoy the other."

I wonder if Lady Judith feels like that! I should like to ask her, if I could take the liberty.

Marguerite was looking up again into the sky.

"Only think what it will be!" she said. "To look up from the cradle of your dying child, with the anguish of helplessness pressing tight upon your heart—and see Him! To look up from your own sick bed, faint and weary beyond measure—and see Him! From the bitter sense of sin and failure—from cruel words and unkind looks—from loneliness and desolation—from hunger and cold and homelessness—to look up, and see Him! There will be some suffering all these things when He comes. Oh, why are His chariot-wheels so long in coming? Does not He long for it even more than we?"

I was silent. She looked—this old villein woman—almost like one inspired.

"He knows!" she added softly. "He knows. He can wait. Then we can. Surely I come quickly. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!"'

Amaury called me, and I left her there.

He wanted to creep through the columns, and wished me to try first, as I am slimmer than he. I managed it pretty well,—so now all my sins are remitted, and I do feel so good and nice! Lady Isabel could hardly do it; and Amaury, who has been growing fatter of late, could not get through at all. He was much disappointed, and very cross in consequence. Damoiselle Melisende would not try. She said, laughing, that she was quite sure she could not push through, and she must get her sins forgiven some other way. But she mischievously ran and fetched old Marguerite, and putting on a grave face, proposed to her to try the feat. Now I am quite certain Marguerite could never have done it; for though she is not stout, she is a large-built woman. But she looked at the place for a moment, and then said to Melisende—

"If the Damoiselle pleases, what will follow?"

"Oh, thou wilt have all thy sins forgiven," said she.

"I thank the Damoiselle," answered Marguerite, and turned quietly away. "Then it would be to no good, for my sins are forgiven."

"What a strange old woman!" exclaimed Lady Isabel.

"Oh, Marguerite is very queer," said I. "She amuses me exceedingly."

"Is she quite right in her head, do you think?" demanded the Princess, eyeing Margot with rather a doubtful expression.

I laughed, and Amaury said, "Oh yes, as bright as a new besant. She is only comical."

Then we went into the Church of Saint John, where a piece of marble is kept on which our Lord wrote when the heathen Jews desired to know His judgment on a wicked woman. Marguerite seemed puzzled with this. She said she had heard Father Eudes read the story, and the holy Evangel said that our Lord wrote on the ground. How did the writing get on that marble?

"Oh," said I, "the marble must have been down below, and it pleased the good God that it should receive the impress."

"The good God can do all things," assented Margot. "But—well, I am an ignorant woman."

Coming down, on the slope of Olivet, the place is shown where our Lady appeared to Monseigneur Saint Thomas, who refused to believe her assumption, and gave him her girdle as a token of it. This girdle is kept in an abbey in England, and is famous for easing pain.

That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen's presence-chamber, were Messire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk—I remember not how—upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would have it that nothing is, but all things only seem to be.

"Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am."

"Pardon me—not at all!" he answered.

"And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende.

"By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy. There is no such thing as matter—only mind. My imagination sees a fire there: your imagination sees a fire:—but there is no fire,—such a thing does not exist."

"Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please, Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you will come to a different conclusion within five minutes."

"I humbly crave your Highness' pardon. My finger is an imagination. It does not really exist."

"And the pain of the burn—would that be imagination also?" she inquired.

"Undoubtedly, Lady," said he.

"But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursued Her Highness.

"Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none. There is no such thing as matter. Mind—Soul—is the only existence, Lady."

"What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron.

"But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how does the idea that I do exist get into my head?"

"How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy.

"Stuff and nonsensical rubbish!" said the Baron. "Under leave of my Lady Queen,—lad, thou hast lost thy senses. No such thing as matter, quotha! Why, there is nothing but matter that is in reality. What men call the soul is simply the brain. Give over thy fanciful stuff!"

"You are a Realist, Messire?" asked Guy.

"Call me what name you will, Sir Count," returned the Baron. "I am no such fool as yon lanky lad of mine. I believe what I see and hear, and there I begin and end. So does every wise man."

"Is it not a little odd," inquired Guy, "that everybody should think all the wise men must believe as he does?"

"Odd? No!" said the Baron. "Don't you think so yourself, Sir Count?"

Guy laughed. "But there is one thing I should like to know," said he. "I have heard much of Realists and Nominalists, but I never before met one of either. I wish to ask each of you, Messires,—In your system, what becomes of the soul after death?"

"Nay, if there be no soul, what can become of it?" put in Damoiselle Melisende.

"Pure foy!" cried the Baron. "I concern myself about nothing of that sort. Holy Church teaches that the soul survives the body, and it were unseemly to gainsay her teaching. But—ha! what know I?"

"For me," said Messire Renaud, a little grandiloquently, "I believe that death is simply the dissolution of that which seems, and leaves only the pure essence of that which is. The modicum of spirit—of that essence—which I call my soul, will then be absorbed into the great soul of the Universe—the Unknowable, the Unknown."

"We have a name for that, Messire," said Guy reverently. "We call it—God."

"Precisely," answered Messire Renaud. "You—we—holy Church—personify this Unknowable Essence, which is the fountain of all essence. The parable—for a parable it is—is most beautiful. But It—He—name it as you will—is none the less the Unknown and the Unknowable."

"The boy must have a fever, and the delirium is on him," said the Baron. "Get a leech, lad. Let out a little of that hot blood which mystifies thy foolish brains."

There was silence for a minute, and it was broken by the low, quiet voice of Lady Judith, who sat next to the Lady Queen, with a spindle in her hand.

"'And this is life eternal, that they should know Thee.'" She added no more.

"Beautiful words, truly," responded Messire Renaud. "But you will permit me to observe, Lady, that they are—like all similar phrases—symbolical. The soul that has risen the nearest to this ineffable Essence—that is most free from the shell of that which seems—may, in a certain typical sense, be said to 'know' this Essence. Now there never was a soul more free from the seeming than that of Him whom we call our Lord. Accordingly, He tells us that—employing one of the loveliest of all types—He 'knew the Father.' It is perfectly charming, to an enlightened mind, to recognise the force, the beauty, the hidden meaning, of these exquisite types."

"Lad, what is the length of thine ears?" growled the Baron. "What crouched ass crammed all this nonsense into thee? 'Enlightened mind'—'exquisite types'—'charming symbolism'! I am not at all sure that I understand thee, thou exquisite gander! But if I do, what thou meanest, put in plain language, is simply that there is no God. Eh?"

"Fair Father, under your good leave, I would choose other words. God—what we call God—is the Unknowable Essence. Therefore, undoubtedly there is God, and in a symbolic sense, He is the Creator of all things, this Essence being the source out of which all other essences are evolved. Therefore, parabolically speaking"——

"I'll lay my stick about thy back, thou parabolical mud-puddle!" cried the Baron. "Let me be served up for Saladin's supper if I understand a word of thy foolery! Art thou a true son of holy Church or not? That is what I want to know."

"Undoubtedly, fair Sir!" said Messire Renaud. "God forbid that I should be a heretic! Our holy Mother the Church has never banned the Nominalists."

"Then it is high time she did!" retorted the Baron. "I reckon she thinks they will do nobody much harm, because no mortal being can understand them. But where, in the name of all the Seven Wonders of the World, thou gattest such moonshine sticking in thy brains, shoot me if I know. It was not from my Lady, thy fair mother; and I am sure it was not from me."

Messire Renaud made no answer beyond a laugh, and the Lady Queen quickly introduced a different subject. I fancy she saw that the Baron was losing his temper. But when Messire Renaud was about to take leave, Lady Judith arose, as quietly as she does everything, and glided to his side.

"Fair Sir," she said gently, "I pray you, pardon one word from an old woman. You know years should teach wisdom."

"Trust me, Lady, to listen with all respect," said he courteously.

"Fair Sir," she said, "when you stand face to face with death, you will find It does not satisfy your need. You will want Him. You are not a thing, but a person. How can the thing produced be greater than that which produces it?"

"Your pardon, fair Lady and holy Mother!" interposed Messire Renaud quickly. "I do not object to designate the Unknowable Essence as Him. Far from it! I do but say, as the highest minds have said,—We cannot know. It maybe Him, It, Them:—we cannot know. We can but bow in illimitable adoration, and strive to perfect, to purify and enlighten, our minds, so that they shall grow nearer and nearer to that ineffable Possibility."

A very sad look passed over Lady Judith's face.

"My son," she said, "'if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!' These are not my words, but His that died for thee."

And without another word, she glided back to her seat.

"Margot," said I, when she came to undress me, "is my body or my soul me?"

"To fall and bruise yourself, Damoiselle, would tell you the one," said she; "and to receive some news that grieved you bitterly would show you the other."

"Messire Renaud de Montluc says that only my soul is me; and that my body does not exist at all,—it only seems to be."

"Does he say the same of his own body?"

"Oh yes; of all."

"Wait till he has fleshed his maiden sword," said Margot. "If he come into my Damoiselle's hands for surgery[#] with a broken leg and a sword-cut on the shoulder, let her ask him, when she has dressed them, whether his body be himself or not."

[#] All ladies were taught surgery, and practised it, at this date.

"Oh, he says that pain is only imagination," said I. "If he chose to imagine that he had no pain, it would stop."

"Very good," said Marguerite. "Then let him set his broken leg with his beautiful imagination. If he can cure his pain by imagining he has none, what must he be if he do not?"

"Well, I know what I should think him. But his father, the Baron de Montluc, will have it just the opposite—that there is no soul, nor anything but what we can see and hear."

"Ah! they will both find out their mistakes when they come to die," said Margot. "Poor blind things! The good God grant that they may find them out a little sooner."

I asked Guy if he did not think the Baron's notion a very dangerous one. But while he said "yes," he added that he thought Messire Renaud's much more so.

"It is so much more difficult to disprove," said he. "It may look more absurd on the surface, but it is more subtle to deal with, and much more profound."

"They both look to me very silly," said I.

"I wish they were no worse," was Guy's answer.

To-day we have been to the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. This is a little city, nearly two leagues from Jerusalem, that is, half a day's ride. The way thither is very fair, by pleasant plains and woods. The city is long and narrow, and well walled, and enclosed with good ditches on all sides. Between the city and the church lies the field Floridus, where of old time a certain maiden was brought to the burning, being falsely accused. But she, knowing her innocence, prayed to our Lord, and He by miracle caused the lighted faggots to turn into red roses, and the unlighted into white roses; which were the first roses that were ever in the world.

The place where our Lord was born is near the choir of the church, down sixteen steps, made of marble and richly painted; and under the cloister, down eighteen steps, is the charnel-house of the holy Innocents. The tomb of Saint Jerome is before the holy place. Here are kept a marble table, on which our Lady ate with the three Kings that came from the East to worship our Lord; and the cistern into which the star fell that guided them. The church, as is meet, is dedicated to our Lady.

Marguerite wanted to know if I were sure that the table was marble. Because, she said, our Lady was a poor woman—only imagine such a fancy!—but she insisted upon it that she had heard Father Eudes read something about it. As if the Queen of Heaven, who was, moreover, Queen of the land, could have been poor! I told Marguerite I was sure she must be mistaken, for our Lady was a Princess born.

"That may be, of blood," said she; "but she was poor. Our Lord Himself, when on earth, was but a villein."

I was dreadfully shocked.

"O Marguerite!" I cried. "What horrible sacrilege! Art thou not afraid of the church falling on thee?"

"It would not alter that if it did," said she drily.

"Our Lord a villein!" exclaimed I. "How is such a thing possible? He was the King of Kings."

"He is the King of Kings," said Marguerite, so reverently that I was sure she could mean no ill; "and He was of the royal blood of Monseigneur Saint David. That is the Evangel of the nobles. But He was by station a villein, and wrought as a carpenter, and had no house and no wealth. That is the Evangel of the villeins. And the villeins need their Evangel, Damoiselle; for they have nothing else."

I could not tell what to answer. It is rather puzzling. I suppose it is true that our Lord was reputed the son of a carpenter; and he must have wrought as such,—Monseigneur Saint Joseph, I mean,—for the Lady de Montbeillard, who is fond of picking up relics, has a splinter of wood from a cabinet that he made. But I always thought that it was to teach religious persons[#] a lesson of humility and voluntary poverty. It could not be that He was poor!

[#] By this term a Romanist does not mean what a Protestant does. The only "religious persons," in the eyes of the former, are priests or monks.

Then our Lady,—I have seen a scrap of her tunic, and it was as fine stuff as it could be; and I have heard, though I never saw it, that her wedding-ring is set with gems. I said this to Marguerite. How could our Lady be poor?

"All that may be," she replied, with quiet perverseness. "But I know, for all that, Father Eudes read that our Lord was born in a cratch, or laid in one, because there was no room in the inn. And they do not behave in that way to kings and nobles. That is the lot of the villein. And He chose the villein's lot; and I, a villein, have been giving Him thanks for it."

And nothing that I could say would disturb her calm conviction.

Damoiselle Melisende told me some interesting things as we rode back to the Holy City. As,—that Jerusalem is very badly supplied with water, and the villeins collect and drink only rain-water. Of course this does not affect the nobles, who drink wine. About two leagues from Jerusalem, towards the north, is a little village called Jericho, where the walls of the house of Madame Saint Rahab are still standing. She was a great lady who received into her house certain spies sent by Monseigneur Saint Joshua, and hid them behind the arras. (Now, there again!—if that stupid old Marguerite would not have it that Madame Saint Rahab kept a cabaret. How could a great lady keep a cabaret? I wish she would give over listening, if it makes her take such fancies.) Damoiselle Melisende also told me that Adam, our first father, was buried in the place where our Lord was crucified; and our Lord's blood fell upon him, and he came to life again, and so did many others. And Adam wept for his son Abel one hundred years. Moreover, there is a rock still standing in the place where the wicked Jews had their Temple, which was in the holiest place of all; and here our Lord was wont to repose whilst His disciples confessed themselves to Him.[#]

[#] All these legends may be found in the Travels of Sir John Mandeville.

Coming home, we passed by the Golden Gate, which is the gate whereby our Lord entered the Holy City on the ass, and the gate opened to Him of its own accord. Damoiselle Melisende bade me observe three marks in the stone where the ass had set his feet. The marks I certainly saw, but I could not have told that they were the print of an ass's hoofs. I suppose I was not worthy to behold them quite distinctly.

Guy called me to him this evening.

"Little Lynette," he said, "I have something to tell thee."

"Let me spare thee the pains, Guy," answered I mischievously. "Dost thou think I have no eyes? I saw it the first night we came."

"Saw what?" asked Guy, with an astonished look.

"That thy beautiful lady had appeared," I replied. "Thou art going to wed with Lady Sybil."

"What fairy whispered it to thee, little witch?" said Guy, laughing. "Thou art right, Lynette. The King hath bestowed on me the regency of the kingdom, and the hand of his fair sister. To-morrow, in presence of the nobles, I am to be solemnly appointed Regent: and a month hence, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I wed with the Lady Sybil."

"If thou art happy, Guy, I am very glad," said I; and I said it honestly.

"Happy? I should think so!" cried he. "To be Regent of the land of all lands! And she, Lynette—she is a gem and a treasure."

"I am sure of that, Guy," said I.

"And now, my news is not finished, little sister," said he. "The King has given Amaury a wife."

"Oh, poor thing!—who is it?" said I.

Guy laughed till his eyes were full of tears.

"Poor thing!—who?" said he. "Amaury or his bride?"

"Oh, the bride, of course," said I. "Amaury won't care a straw for her, and she will be worried out of her life if she does not dress to please him."

"Let us hope that she will, then," answered Guy, still laughing. "It is the Damoiselle Eschine d'Ibellin, daughter of Messire de Rames. Thou dost not know her."

"Dost thou?—what is she like?"

"Oh, most women are like one another," said Guy—(what a falsehood!). "Except my fair Lady, and thee, little Lynette, and the Lady Clémence, thy fair mother,—a woman is a woman, and that is all."

"Oh, indeed!" said I, rather indignantly. "A man is a man, I suppose, and that is all! Guy, I am astonished at thee. If Amaury had said such a thing, I should not have wondered."

"Men are different, of course," answered Guy. "But a woman's business is to look pretty and be attractive. Everybody understands that. Nobody expects a woman to be over wise or clever."

"Thou hadst better be quiet, Guy, if thou dost not want thine ears boxed," said I. "If that is not a speech enough to vex any woman, I never heard one. You men are the most aggravating creatures. You seem to look upon us as a kind of pretty animal, to be kept for a pet and plaything; and if you are not too obtuse yourselves to find out that your plaything occasionally shows signs of a soul within it, you cry out, 'Look here! This toy of mine is actually exhibiting scintillations of something which really looks almost like human intellect!' Let me tell you, Sir Count, we have as much humanity, and sense, and individuality, as yourselves; and rather more independence. Pretty phrases, and courtly reverences, and professions of servitude, may sound very well in your ears; and of those you give us plenty. Does it never occur to you that we should thank you a great deal more for a little genuine respect and consideration? We are not toys; we are not pet animals; we are not pretty pictures. We are human creatures with human feelings like yourselves. We can put up with fewer compliments to our complexions, if you please, and a little more realisation of our separate consciences and intellects."

"'Ha, Lusignan!'" cried Guy, looking half ashamed and half amused. "'Sainte Marguerite for Poitou!' Upon my word, Lynette, I have had a lecture. I shall not forget it in a hurry."

"Yes," said I, "and thou feelest very much as if Lady Isabel's pet monkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon the rights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rights of apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amused with that one ape in particular."

Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.

Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects a woman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman is nobody.

I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take it as a personal insult—as though every spark of intellect added to our brains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is, of course, to please the men,—not to make the most of herself as an individual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.

They will see what they will see. I can live without them. And I mean to do.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE.

"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?

Now do let me grumble and groan:

It is all very well other folks should have fun;

But why can't they let me alone?"

Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying out dried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of this land are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,—of which one variety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the system and purify the blood,—and garlic, which they consider an antidote to poison,—and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,—and hyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Two curious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the one is a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plums or damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows on trees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to the eye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful of ashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home and showed them to Marguerite.

[#] Senna.

[#] Colocynth.

[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders.

"Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, and found out what sort of thing it was.

"Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in this country, and only in one particular spot."

"Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit, my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are running after it all their lives."

Then I saw what she meant.

They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are not unlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy and pleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the golden apples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewise the "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in Holy Writ. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, luscious figs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts, and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make children clever. They make no hay in this country.

[#] Oranges.

As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weave byssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comes from Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But the fairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none in Europe,—especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. I have bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the other blue.

[#] Cotton.

Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common in Europe. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night, they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once. It seems to me rather a good idea.

Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Of course I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the black art; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known his approach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roars louder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear that is so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by the machinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholic could be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.

[#] All mediæval Christians thought this.

[#] The first drum on record.

We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three, on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married to Damoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!—how I pity her! I would not marry Amaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And on Monday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.

I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,—Oh, so much! She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had.

"And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly.

"Very much indeed," said I,—"if you love him, Lady."

"Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "O Lynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was wedded to my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we never chose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutiful wife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, as concerned him. Never, till he came hither."

Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But—shall I own to having been the least bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?

I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despises women—I have noticed that brainless men always do—and I should not have expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy. Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has rather disappointed me.

Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up too high a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask Lady Judith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.

I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day. We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic of which is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deep red roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabel will be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rose damask.

I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because I had not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of no colour in particular; she is not beautiful—nor ugly: she is not agreeable—nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutely indifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.

Well!—we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and I the red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the green leaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So Lady Judith and I were left alone.

"Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question."

"Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt."

"Then, holy Mother,—do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when you fancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action which you think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected from him?"

Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile.

"Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?"

"Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy? Loyauté d'amour forbid! "But I mean in general."

"Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thy question. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling."

"And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I. "Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?"

"That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set up the man too high."

"Oh!" said I deprecatingly.

"Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that which he brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man can understand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admire it he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a very complicated thing."

"Then one may be too low to see a man's character?"

"True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand a double one.—Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthrift are both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other."

"But where the temperaments are alike—?" said I; for I always think Guy and I were cast in the same mould.

"They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by two brothers, there is always a difference."

"Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?"

"Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from one mould,—yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other."

"What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?"

"Wouldst thou like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again.

"Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not of that sort."

"No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one."

"Certainly," said I; "I am noble."

Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in her grey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes.

"Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?"

"I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it."

"No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to the words of the Master—thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him? He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."

Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes.

"I don't know how!" I said.

"No, dear heart; He knows how," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thou art willing to learn of Him—if thou art willing, Helena."

"I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But—I could not leave Guy."

"Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going into the cloister?"

"I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain in the world,—can one?"

"Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out. Its root is in thine own heart, little one."

"But—your pardon, holy Mother!—you yourself have chosen the cloister."

"Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact, it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since I was five years old."

"Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than a wife?"[#]

[#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to express any approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, an unmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and no woman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In these early times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well as religion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in later years. The original nunneries were simply houses where single women could live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries of learning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very different places at the date of the dissolution.

"Better? I am not so sure. Happier,—yes, I think so."

"Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I, laughing.

"Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "But Monseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode without marriage."

"That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun? Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still get leave from my superiors to live with Guy."

"It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guy never disappoint thee, my child?"

It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"—but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I did not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith saw it, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, Damoiselle Melisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of something else.

I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her.

"Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered, turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem to think one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then I am afraid she will be disappointed."

"But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them to do?"

"Does one always know what is right? As to why,—there are the world, the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the grace of the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."

The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,—that is other people; and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes. But the flesh,—why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right. Marguerite must be mistaken.

Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I never properly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one can see and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God puts into our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite. Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal of sense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt with nobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course the blood must remain the same.

I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have been puzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there were something slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but I should never think of calling her sweet—at least, not sweet like her sister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops to think whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it because it wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do only what she wants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out of every thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that one never sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people of that sort. But I do not like them.

As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I do not wonder at Guy.

Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and too busy to attend to any thing.

"Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?"

"Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"

I nodded.

"I think it is help," she answered.

"But what sort of help?"

"The sort we need at the minute."

"But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receive the good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?"

"If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is the reason why she does not get it."

"Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, and not receive grace?"

"Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?"

"Margot! Is not that heresy?"

"Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be."

"But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread, the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#]

[#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Bare transubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty years later.

"I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully. "But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts set on something else, and not caring whether He came or not."

I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keep feeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort, whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot help fancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept into England, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out of doors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was a very bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as I suppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I could not but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had in their arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitter word, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishment that would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered up and down the snowy streets in company, singing—only fancy, singing! And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heaped snow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they could give; and then they went on, singing,—always singing. I asked Damoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,—it was she who told me,—what they sang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the Nativity Song of the angels,—"Glory to God in the highest,—on earth peace towards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under the snow but one,—one poor old man, who survived last. And he went on alone, singing. He tottered out of the town,—I think it was Lincoln, but I am not sure,—and as far as men's ears could follow, they caught his thin, quavering voice, still singing,—"Glory to God in the highest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, not singing,—dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might have worn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, as if the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish his song.[#]

[#] Vulgate version.

[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professing Christians, by professing Christians.

Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein lies the difference from truth and holiness?

I must ask Lady Judith.

Oh dear, why will people?—I do think it is too bad. I never thought of such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,—But that Guy, of all people in all this world—

Come, I had better tell my story straight.

I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of the Lady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought I might perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I felt myself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who had caught me.

"Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!"

"And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "How many weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?"

"Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I."

"What wouldst thou say to four?"

"Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride."

"Ah, but suppose thou wert?"

"Cry my eyes out, I think."

Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone.

"Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camest hither for that object."

"I came hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation.

"Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone. "Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assure thee."

"Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought it of thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.

For that was the bitterest drop—that Guy should be willing to part with me.

"No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thou shalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost not like the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But it would be an excellent match,—and of course I should be glad to see thee comfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."

Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men ever understand women?

"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What is there about me that is unsettled?"

"Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, no woman is considered settled till she marries."

"I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world," said I.

"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in what age thou wert born, but certainly not this."

"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"

"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"—I think Guy saw that had hurt me—"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear foolish child?"

I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary. I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't, generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.

"My dear little sister," said Guy again,—and very lovingly he said it,—"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be married."

Ah, that was it. He did not understand!

"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"

"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou wilt."

"Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.

It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I might have guessed what was coming.

[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.

"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.

"No," said I; "none."

"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"

"I dare say it will piece again," said I.

Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.

"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"

And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.

Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.

I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry. Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went down to my embroidery.

Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.

I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.

"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,