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by no sound.

 

He shivered again, closed the window and flung himself along the

cushions in the niched seat. Lying there, where Jacobea had sat, he

thought of her; she was more present to his mind than all the crowded

incidents of the past day; his afternoon passed in the sunny library,

his evening before the beautiful witch fire, the wild escape into the

night, the flight through the wet forest, the sombre arrival at the

castle, were but flitting backgrounds to the slim figure of the

chatelaine.

 

Certainly she had a potent personality; she was exquisite, a thing

shut away in sweet fragrancy. He thought of her as an ivory pyx filled

with red flowers; there were her trembling passionate emotions, her

modest secrets, that she guarded delicately.

 

It was his intention to tear open this tabernacle to wrench from her

her treasures and scatter them among blood and ruin; he meant to bring

her to utter destruction; not her body, perhaps, but her soul.

 

And this because she had interfered with the one being on earth he

cared about—Theirry; not because he hated her for herself.

 

“How beautiful she is!” he said aloud, almost tenderly.

 

The last candle fluttered up and sank out; Dirk, lying luxuriously

among the cushions, looked into the complete blackness with half-closed eyes.

 

“How beautiful!” he repeated; he felt he could have loved her himself;

he thought of her now, lying in her white bed, her hair unbound; he

wished himself kneeling beside her, caressing those yellow locks; a

desire possessed him to touch her curls, her soft cheek, to have her

hand in his and hear her laugh surely she was a sweet thing, made to

be loved.

 

Yet the power that had brought him here tonight had made plain that

if he did not take the chance of her destruction set in his way, she

would win Theirry from him for ever.

 

He had made the first move; in the dark face of Sebastian the steward

he had seen the beginning of–the end.

 

But thinking of her he felt the tears come to his eyes; suddenly he

fell into weary weeping, thinking of her, and sobbed sadly, face

downwards, on the cushion.

 

Her yellow hair, mostly he thought of that, her long, fine, soft,

yellow hair, and how, before the end, it would be trailing in the dust

of despair and humiliation.

 

Presently he laughed at himself for his tears, and drying them, fell

asleep; and awoke from blank dreamlessness to hear his name ringing in

his ears. He sat up in the window-seat.

 

His eyes were hot with his late tears; the misty blue light of dawn

that he found about him hurt them; he shrank from this light that came

in a clear shaft through the arched window, and, crouching away from

it, saw Theirry standing close to him, Theirry, fully dressed and

pale, looking at him earnestly.

 

“Dirk, we must go now. I cannot stay any longer in this place.”

 

Dirk, leaning his head against the cushions, said nothing, impressed

anew with his friend’s beauty. How fine and fair a thing Theirry’s

face was in the colourless early light; in hue and line splendid, in

expression wild and pained.

 

“I could not sleep much,” continued Theirry. “I do not want to see

them—her—again—not like this—get up, Dirk—why did you not come to

bed? I wanted your company—things were haunting me.”

 

“Mostly her face?” breathed Dirk.

 

“Ay,” said Theirry sombrely. “Mostly her face.”

 

Dirk was silent again; was not her loveliness the counterpart of his

friend’s?—he imagined them together—close—touching hands, lips—and

as he pictured this he grew paler.

 

“The castle is open, there are varlets abroad,” cried Theirry. “Let us

go—supposing—oh, my heart! supposing one came from the college to

look for us!”

 

Dirk considered; he reflected that he had no desire to meet Sebastian

again; he had said all he wished to.

 

“Let us go,” he assented; his one regret was that he should not see

again the delicate face crowned with the yellow hair.

 

He rose from the seat and shook out his borrowed flame-coloured

mantle, then he closed his tired eyes as he stood, for a very

exquisite sensation rushed over him; nothing had come between him and

his friend; Theirry of his own choice had roused him—wanting him—

they were to go forth together alone.

CHAPTER X THE SAINT

They were wandering through the forest in an endeavour to find the

high road; the sun, nearly at its full strength, dazzled through the

pines and traced figures of gold on the path they followed.

 

Theirry was silent; they were hungry, without money or any hope of

procuring any, fatigued with the rough walking through the heat, and

also, it seemed, lost; these facts were ever present to his mind;

also, every step was taking him further away from Jacobea of

Martzburg, and he longed to see her again, to make her notice him,

speak to him; yet of his own desire he had left her castle

ungraciously; these things held him bitterly silent.

 

But Dirk, though he was pale and weary, kept a light joyous heart; he

had trust in the master he was serving.

 

“We shall be helped yet,” he said. “Were we not hopeless last night

when one came and gave us shelter?”

 

Theirry did not answer.

 

The forest grew up the base of the mountain chain, and after a while,

walking steadily, they came out upon a gorge some landslip had torn,

uprooting trees and hurling aside rocks; over this bare space harshly

cleared, water rippled and dripped, finding its way through fern-grown

rocks and boulders until it fell into a little stream that ran across

the open space of grass and was lost in the shadow of the trees.

 

By the side of it, on the pleasant stretch of grass, a small white

horse was browsing, and a man sat near, on one of the uprooted pines.

 

The two students paused and contemplated him; he was a monk in a blue-grey habit; his face was infinitely sweet; with his hands clasped in

his lap and his head a little raised he gazed with large, peaceful

eyes through the shifting fir boughs to the blue sky beyond them.

 

“Of what use he!” said Theirry bitterly; since the Church had hurled

him out the Devil was gaining such sure possession of his soul that he

loathed all things holy.

 

“Nay,” said Dirk, with a little smile. “We will speak to him.”

 

The monk, hearing their voices, looked round and fixed on them a calm

smiling gaze. “Dominus det nobis suam pacem,” he said.

 

Dirk replied instantly.

 

“Et vitam aeternam. Amen.”

 

“We have missed our way,” said Theirry curtly.

 

The monk rose and stood in a courteous, humble position.

 

“Can you put us on the high road, my father?” asked Dirk.

 

“Surely!” The monk glanced at the weary face of his questioner. “I am

myself travelling from town to town, my son. And know this country

well. Will you not rest a while?”

 

“Ay.” Dirk came down the slope and flung himself along the grass;

Theirry, half sullen, followed.

 

“Ye are both weary and in lack of food,” said the monk gently. “Praise

be to the angels that I have wherewithal to aid ye.”

 

He opened one of the leather bags resting against the fallen tree,

took out a loaf, a knife and a cup, cut the bread and gave them a

portion each, then filled the cup from the clear dripping water.

 

They disdained thanks for such miserable fare and ate in silence.

 

Theirry, when he had finished, asked for the remainder of the loaf and

devoured that; Dirk was satisfied with his allowance, but he drank

greedily of the beautiful water.

 

“Ye have come from Basle?” asked the monk.

 

Dirk nodded.

 

“And we go to Frankfort.”

 

“A long way,” said the monk cheerfully. “And on foot, but a pleasant

journey, certes.” “Who are you, my father?” asked Theirry abruptly. “I

saw you in Courtrai, surely.”

 

“I am Ambrose of Menthon,” answered the monk. “And I have preached in

Courtrai. To the glory of God.”

 

Both students knew the name of Saint Ambrose.

 

Theirry flushed uneasily.

 

“What do you here, father?” he asked. “I thought you were in Rome.”

 

“I have returned,” replied the saint humbly. “It came to me that I

could serve Christus”—he crossed himself—“better here. If God His

angel will it I desire to build a monastery up yonder–above the

snow.”

 

He pointed through the trees towards the mountains; his eyes, that

were blue-grey, the colour of his habit, sparkled softly.

 

“A house to God His glory,” he murmured. “In the whiteness of the

snows. That is my intent.” “How will you attain it, holy sir?”

questioned Theirry.

 

Saint Ambrose did not seem to notice the mocking tone.

 

“I have,” he said, “already considerable moneys. I beg in the great

castles, and they are generous to God His poor servant. We, my

brethren and I, have sold some land. I return to them now with much

gold. Deo gratias.”

 

As he spoke there was such a pure sweetness in his fair face that

Theirry turned away abashed, but Dirk, lying on his side and pulling

up the grass, answered—

 

“Are you not afraid of robbers, my father?”

 

The saint smiled.

 

“Nay; God His money is sacred even unto the evildoer. Surely I fear

nothing.”

 

“There is much wickedness in the heart of man,” said Dirk. And he also

smiled.

 

“Judge with charity,” answered Ambrose of Menthon. “There is also much

goodness. You speak, my son, with seeming bitterness which showeth a

soul not yet at peace. The wages of the world are worthless, but God

giveth immortality.”

 

He rose and began fastening the saddle bags on the pony; as his back

was turned Theirry and Dirk exchanged a quick look.

 

Dirk rose from the grass and spoke.

 

“May we, my father, come with you, as we know not the way?”

 

“Surely!” The saint looked at them, his eyes fixed half yearningly on

Theirry’s beautiful face. “Ye are most welcome to my poor company.”

 

The little procession started through the pine forest; Ambrose of

Menthon, erect, spare, walking lightly with untroubled face and

leading the white pony, burdened with the saddle bags containing the

gold; Theirry, sombre, silent, striding beside him, and Dirk, a little

behind, in his flame-coloured mantle, his eyes bright in a weary face.

 

Saint Ambrose spoke, beautifully, on common things; he spoke of birds,

of St. Hieronymus and his writings, of Jovinian and his enemy Ambrose

of Milan, of Rufinus and Pelagius the Briton, of Vigilantius and

violets, with which flowers, he said, the first court of Paradise was

paved.

 

Dirk answered with a learning, both sacred and profane, that surprised

the monk; he knew all these writers, all the fathers of the Church and

many others, he quoted from them in different tongues; he knew Pagan

philosophies and the history of the old world; he argued theology like

a priest and touched on geometry, mathematics, astrology.

 

“Ye have a vast knowledge,” said Saint Ambrose, amazed; and in his

heart Theirry was jealous.

 

And so they came, towards evening, on to the road and saw in a valley

beneath them a little town.

 

All three halted.

 

The Angelus was ringing, the sound came sweetly up the valley.

 

Saint Ambrose sank on his knees and bowed his head; the students fell

back among the trees. “Well?” whispered Dirk.

 

“It is

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