'YALH«¥JM]IVEI&SinrY"

DIVINITY SCHOOL
TROWBRIDGE LIBRARY

J

IN HIS NAME.

iL STOE/Y OF TIKIS -Vv^^-T-jTJEilSrSES

SEVEN HUNDRED TEABS AGO.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE,
Author of " The Man without a Country," " My Double,'' etc

BOSTON:
LOCKWOOD, BROOKS & COMPANY.
381 Washington Street.
La.7-a,

T.TSO

Entered according to Act of Congress hi the year 1S73, by
Proprietors of " Old and New," _
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

Iprro* of ftochfocll $C Churchill,
No. SO Arch Street, Boston.

IN HIS NAME.

CHAPTER I.
FELICIE.

FfeciciH was the daughter of Jean
Waldo. She was the joy of her
father's life, and the joy of the life
of Madame Gabrielle, his wife. She
was well named Felicie, for she was
happy herself and she made every
body happy. She was a sunbeam in
tho house, in the workshops, in the
court-yard, and among all the neigh
bors. Her father and mother were
waked in the morning b}r her sing
ing ; and many a time, when Jean
Waldo was driving a hard bargain
with some spinner from the country,
the mere sight of his pretty daughter
as she crossed the court-yard, and
the sound of her voice as she sang a
scrap of a hymn or of a crusading
song, would turn his attention from
his barter, and he would relax his
hold on the odd sols and deniers as
if he had never clung to them. By
the same spells she was the joy of
the neighborhood. The beggars
loved her, the weavers loved her, she
could come and go as she chose even
among the fullers and dyers, though
they were rough fellows, and there
was nothing she could not say or do
with their wives and children. When
the country spinners came in with
their yarn, or the weavers With their
webs, they would wait, on one excuse
or another, really to get a word with
her ; and many was the rich farm in
the valley to which Felicie went in

the summer or autumn to make a long
visit as she chose. Felicie was queen
of her father's household and of all
around. On on 3 of the last days in Decem
ber, Felicie was making a pilgrimage, ,,
after her own fashion, to the church
of St. Thomas of Fourvieres. The hill
of Fourvieres is a bold height, rising
almost from the heart of the old city
of Lyons. And Felicie liked nothing
better than a brisk scramble to the top,
where, as she said, she might see some
thing. This was her almost daily ' ' pil
grimage." She gave it this name in
sport, not irreverent. For, as she
went, she always passed by old wo
men who were making a pilgrimage,
as they do to this hour, to the church
of St. Thomas (now the church of
" Our Lady "), which was supposed,
and is supposed, to have great power
in saving from misfortune those who
offer their prayers there. Felicie in
passing always looked into the little
church, and crossed herself with holy
water, and fell on her knees at an
altar in a little chapel where was a
picture of St. Felicie lying on the
ground, wth a vision of Our Lady
above. The Felicie who was not a
saint would say " Ave Maria " here
and " Our Father who art in
heaven," and would wait a minute
upon her knees, to " see if her father
had anything to say to her " ; and

In His Name.

then would cross herself again, and,
as she passed the great altar, would
kneel once more, and so would be
out in the fresh air again.
This was almost an every-day oc
currence. On this day Felicie waited
a little longer. Among a thousand
votive offerings in the church, hung
there by those who were grateful for
an answer to their prayers, she saw
to-day two which she had never seen
before. They were pictures, — not,
to tell the truth, very well painted.
But to Felicie, the finer or coarser art
was a matter of very little account.
Each of them represented a scene of
preservation in danger. In one of
them, a young girl, hardly older than
Felicie herself, was to be seen, as she
safely floated from a river which bore
the ruins of a broken bridge ; in the
other, a young knight on horseback
received unhurt the blows of five
terrible Saracens. The Holy Moth
er could be seen in the clouds with
a staff on her arm, turning off the
lances of the Paynim. Felicie looked
a moment at this picture, but long,
very long, at the other.
The disaster which it represented
was one which the girl had seen her
self, and which had made upon her
an impression for her life. Only the
year before, Richard the Lion-Heart-
ed and Philip Augustus of France
had come to Lyons together, each
with a splendid retinue of knights
and other soldiers, on their way to
the crusade. The Archbishop of Ly
ons was then really an independent
prince, and with all the dignity of
an independent prince he had re
ceived the two kings. There had
been much feasting. There had been
a splendid ceremony of high mass in
the cathedral, and at last, when the
two armies had recruited themselves,
it was announced that they were to

take up their march to the Hob
City. Of course all Lyons was on
the watch to see the display. Some
were in boats upon the river ; som<
were waiting to see them cross the
bridge ; some walked far out on the
road. Girls with flowers threw them
before the horse of the handsome
English king, and priests in splendid
robes carried the banners of the
churches and sang anthems as they
went. And all Lyons, young and
old, was sure that in two or three
short months this famous host would
be in the City of our Lord !
Alas, and alas ! Hardly had the
two kings themselves crossed the
bridge, and a few of their immediate
attendants with them, when, as the
great crowd of towns-people pressed
in upon the men-at-arms, all eager
to see the show, they felt beneath
their feet a horrid tremor for one
moment, and then — first one length
of the bridge, and then. *i^.crrible
succession, two others, gave waj
and the whole multitude — s:/I n ; ¦¦"¦*
horses, men, women, and children -
were plunged into the Rhone belov
The torrent was fast, and swept the
ruin of timbers and the mass of
struggling people and beasts down in
horrible confusion. The boatmen od
the river did their best to rescue om
and another, but were themselves in
danger almost equal to that of thoe<
who were struggling in the water.
The kings turned their horses am!
rode to the shore, but were as power
less as children to help or even 1**
command. And so, in one short
hour, this day of glory and of victory
was shrouded as in" clouds of dark
ness. It seemed a miracle, indeed, that
only a few were drowned in the chaos ;
but of those who were rescued, many
were maimed for life, and there was

In His Name.

not a house in Lyons but had its own
tale of clanger and suffering.
The picture which Felicie stopped
to look at in the church of St. Thomas
represented this calamity, and the
preservation, by what was called mir
acle, of Gabrielle L'Estrange, a god
child of Felicie's mother. For her
self, Felicie had seen the breaking of
the bridge from the safe distance of
her eyrie on the mountain. The girl
had wisely seen that even her father's
good-will could not do much for a
childlike her in the crowd. She had
declared her determination to see the
whole ; and while others went into the
streets to see the armies pass them,
Felicie had perched herself on the very
top of the hill Fourvieres, where she
could see every company join in the
cortege, where she could hear the
blast of music come up to her from
the plain;
As she sat here, as the army began
to cross the river, the girl had been
instantly conscious of the great dis
aster. She could see the companies
in the rear break their ranks and rush
towards the stream. She could see the
dust of the ruin rise above the river,
and could hear the hoarse shouting of
people screaming and commanding.
She had guessed what the calamity
was, and had hurried home to meet
only too many stories of personal
sorrow. Before night they had known
how Gabrielle had been nearly lost,
and how she had been saved. And
all the mingled memories of that day
of glory and of grief came back to Fe
licie again, now that she saw the pic
ture of her playmate's preservation.
She left the little church, crossing
herself again with the holy water, a
little more thoughtful than she entered
it. The " problem of evil " crossed
her mind; and she asked herself
why the Virgin should interpose to

save Gabrielle. when others were left
to perish. But she did not ask this
with bitterness. She knew there was
answer somewhere. And as she
climbed yet higher up the hill, and
came out on the glories of her eyrie,
the wonders of the winter prospect
— more beautiful than ever, as she
thought — swept away all memories
of death or sorrow or doubt ; and the
child wrapped her thick shawl round
her, as she sat beneath the shelter of
a friendly wall, with the full sunlight
blazing on her, to wonder for the
thousandth time on the beauty of the
panorama beyond and below.
There are who say that no view in
France can equal it ; and I am sure
I do not wonder. At her feet the
cheerful city lay between the rivers
Saone and Rhone, which meet here,
just below her. The spires and
towers of the cathedral and the
churches, even the tallest columns
of smoke, as they rose in the still air,
were all far, far below the girl on her
eyrie. Beyond, she could see at
first large farms with their granges,
their immense hay-stacks, their barns,
and their orchards. She could pick
out and name one and another where
at the vintage and at harvest she had
made pleasant visits this* very year.
Further, all became brown and purple
and blue and gray. Sometimes on
a hill she could make out a white
church tower, or the long walls of a
castle, — just some sign that men and
women and happy girls like herself
lived there. But Felicie's eye did
not rest so long on these. Far above
and still beyond — O how far be
yond ! — was her " old friend," as the
girl called Mont Blanc. And to-day
he had his rosy face, she said. Tbe
sunset behind her was making the
snow of the mountain blush with
beauty. And nothing can be con-

In His Name.

ceived more dreamy and more lovely
than this " vision," as Felicie called it,
which even she did not see five times
in a year from her eyrie ; and which
many a lazy canon and abbot, and
many a prosperous weaver like her
father, and many a thrifty merchant
in the town, had never seen at all.
" Good-evening, dear old friend,"
said the girl, laughing, as if the
mountain could hear her ninety miles
away, — " good-evening, dear old
friend. You are lovely to-night in
your evening dress. Will you not
come to my Christmas party ? Thank
you,old friend , for coming out to-night
to see me. I should have been very
lonely without you, dear old friend.
There 's a kiss for you ! — and there 's
another ! — and there 's a feather for
you, and there 's another ! " And she
threw into the west wind two bits of
down, and pleased herself with watch
ing them as they floated high and
quick towards the mountain in the
east. " Good-by, dear old friend,
good-by. Mamma says I must be
home at sunset. Won't you speak to
me ? — no matter ; all the same I
know you love me. Good-by ! good-
by ! " And so she tripped down,
thinking to herself as she went
that everybody and everything did
love her, which was very true ; think
ing that for her, indeed, God's king
dom seemed to have come, and his
will to be done on earth as it was in
heaven. And the shadow, if it may
be called a shadow, of the horrors
depicted in the church of St. Thomas
was all swept away.
Down she tripped again by the
open church, and one after another
beggar at the door blessed her as
she said, " God bless you." Down
she tripped by the convent walls,
and wondered how the gardens with
in could be half as beautiful as the

world without. And she wondered
if the sisters here climbed up the bell-
tower and looked off on the eastern
horizon to see her old friend, and .
whether they knew how friendly he
was to those who loved him. Down
she tripped by one zigzag path and an
other, known to her and to the goats
and to none beside ; and so, before
the sun was fairly down, she had
nodded to Pierre the weaver? and
had stopped and spoken to Ronet
the dyer, and had caught up and
kissed the twin babies who could
hardly tottle along the road, whom
Marguerite the wife of young Stephen
was leading along; she had said a
merry word to half the workmen
and half their wives, and had come
into the court-yard, and had pushed
back the stately heavy oak door, and
stood in the hall of Jean Waldo's
comfortable house.
Her mother came running out from
the kitchen wing to meet the girl.
And Felicie ran up to kiss her as she
entered, as was her pretty way.
And Mistress Gabrielle thought, as
she had thought a thousand times,
that nobody in the world was as pretty
as Felicie, and also that Felicie never
had looked as pretty as she did at
that very moment. This also haa
Madam Gabrielle thought a thousand
times before. The girl's tightly-fit
ting tunic was of fine white woollen.
But the cape, as in those days the
mantle began to be called, also ot
woollen, was of the brightest scarlet,
and, as she had wound it round and
round her head, she became a Red
Riding-Hood indeed. Her cheeks
glowed with life and health as she
came running in from the frosty air,
and the sharp contrast of her dress
was none too bold for a complexion
so brilliant. It was the very imper>
sonation of life and joy.

In His Name.

"Felicie, my child, I have been
asking for you. It is St. Victoria's
night, you know, and I am giving
to them all their Christmas medi
cine." " Medicine for me, my dear moth
er!" And truly the child seemed
to need medicine as little as the
larks. " Of course, dear Felicie. Has there
been a midsummer or a Christmas
since you were born in which I did
not give you your medicine ? And so
is it, thanks to the blessed Virgin and
to St. Felicie, that you are so fresh
and so well. I have given to your
father and to all their men their gen
tian. I have given to all the wom
en their St. Johnswort, and here is a
nice new bottle of the mixture of lav
ender and rosemary, which I brewed
for you when you were away with the
Landr3rs. I have it all waiting."
Felicie knevv by long experience
that there was no good in argument.
Indeed the child was too much used
to doing what her mother bade to
make argument at any time. This
was but a gulp or two of a disagree
able taste, and she knew there
would be waiting a boney-cake and an
orange after it. So she kissed her
mother, ran up-stairs and put away
cape and wimple and girdle, and came
down-stairs singing : —
My lady came down from her pretty gay
room,
In the hall my lady sat down ;
Her apron was heaped with the roses in
bloom,
And her fingers braided a crown,
crown, crown I
And her fingers braided a crown !
" But, mamma ! how much there
is of it. I never had so much be
fore ! "
" Darling, you are older now. You

have passed your second climacteric."
Mistress Gabrielle could be learned
when she chose.
" But, mamma, it tastes horridly.
If. never tasted so badly before."
" Dear child, drink it right down.
Here is your orange, to take the
taste away. Perhaps it is a little
stronger than we have made it. The
leaves were the very best I ever
saw." And the dear child made a laugh
ing face of disgust, and then gulped
down the bitter mixture as she was
bidden. But then all light faded from her
face. With agony such as her moth
er never saw there, she screamed,
" O mamma, dear mamma ! — it
burns me, it burns me ! — you never
hurt your darling so before ! " And
with sobs she could not repress, she
hid her face in her mother's* besom,
crying out, " O, how it burns, how it
burns ! "
Mistress Gabrielle was frightened
indeed. She tore open the orange,
but there was little comfort there.
She sent for oils and for snow, and
for cold water from the very bottom
of the well. But the child's agony
seemed hardly checked ; and though
with a resolute will she would choke
down her groans that she might
not terrify her mother, it was impos
sible for her to check the quivering
from head to foot, which was a sign
of the torture of mouth and throat
and stomach. Mistress Gabrielle
called for Jeanne and Marie, and
they carried the poor child to her bed.
They put hot cloths upon her. They
warmed her feet and her hands. They
made smokes of gums and barks for
her to breathe. They tried all the
simple and all the complicated arts
of the. household. One and another
neighbor was hurried in, and each

6

In His Name.

contradicted the other, and each
advised. One or other of the more powerful
applications would give a moment's
relief, but only a moment's. Tears
which she could not check would roll
down Felicie's cheek to show her in
ward torture, and that terrible quiver
which Mistress Gabrielle learned to
dread so horribly would come in with
every third or fourth minute. Once
and again she had sent for Jean Wal
do, her husband. But none of the
lads could find him. Night had closed
dark around them, and he did not
return. It was then that she took the
responsibility which she had never
taken before, and sent for the young
Florentine doctor, whose shop, next
the cathedral, attracted the wonder
and superstition of all the neighbor

hood. " Bid him come, Adrian, on
the moment! Tell him that my
daughter is dying, and that he has
not a moment to lose. For the love
of Christ, beg him to come on the in
stant." Dying ! The word struck
new terror in the whole panic-swayed
household. Everybody had been in
distress, but no one had dared think
or say that the darling of them all,
but just now so strong and so happy,
could die ! Least of all had Mistress
Gabrielle permitted herself to think
it. But now all her pride was gone.
Niobe before Apollo was not more
prostrate. She knew that if the Flor
entine was to render any help, it must
be rendered right soon. And so, with
a calmness of despair at which she
wondered herself, she sent word to
him that her daughter was dying.

CHAPTER II.

JEAN WALDO.

Gittlio, the Florentine doctor, came
down the street with the boy who had
been sent for him, and with a black
amoor who bore a great hamper which
contained his medicines and his in
struments. As they rapidly ap
proached the doorway they overtook
Jean Waldo himself, slowly walking
up the street. Till they spoke to
him, the father was wholly uncon
scious of the calamity which had
fallen on his child.
If you had told Jean Waldo that
afternoon, as he sat in the Treasurer's
seat at the guild-meeting, that, in
after times, his name of Waldo would
be best known to all people, in all
lands, because his kinsman, Pierre
Waldo, bore it, he would have been
much amazed, and would have taken

you for a fool. Kinsmen they were,
there was no doubt of that. Nobody
could look on their faces — nay, even
on their eyes or their beards, or on
the shape of their hands or their fin
ger-nails, and not see that there was
near kindred between them. " We
are both from the valley of Vaud,"
Jean Waldo used to say when peeple
questioned him. But he was not
pleased to have them question him.
He had taken good care not to mix
himself up with Pierre Waldo's her
esies. " Why does he want to trouble
himself about the priests ? " said Jean
Waldo. " Why does he not do as I do ?
I take care of myself,, and I let other
people take care of themselves. Why
cannot Pierre Waldo, my kinsman,
if he is my kinsman, do as I do?"

In His Name.

ALd so Jean Waldo went on in his
prosperous way. He squeezed down
the spinners who brought yarn to him.
He squeezed the weavers who brought
him webs. He kept a good company
of the best workmen in his shops,
and he had forty looms of his own,
with his own weavers. He put up
linen cloths for market more neatly
and handsomely, the traders said,
than any man in Lyons, and so he
prospered exceedingly. ' ' This is
what comes," he said, >' of minding
your own business, and letting other
people's business alone."
Pierre Waldo, the kinsman of whom
Jean spoke with such contempt, and
who is now remembered in all the
world where the Christian religion is
known, had been a prosperous mer
chant in Lyons. But Pierre Waldo
was not one of those who went to
mass only because the priests bade
him. He went to the mass because
God bad been good to him and to
his, and he wanted to express his
thanks He was glad to express
thanks as other people did and where
they did. He had always had a pas
sion for reading, for in his boy
hood his mother had taught him to
read. And when, one day, a parch
ment book came in his way, which
proved to be an Evangelistary, or
copy of the Four Gospels, in Latin,
Pierre Waldo began to try to read
.this, and with wonder and delight
which cannot be told. Father John
of Lugio, the priest whom he knew
best, an honest man and an humble
priest, was willing to help Pierre as
he could, about the Latin. And there
was not so much difference in those
da}'s between Latin and the Romance
language which half Pierre Waldo's
customers used, that he should And it
hard to make out the language in
svhich the book was written that so

excited him. When Father John saw
how much pleasure Pierre Waldo
took in such reading, he was glad to
show to him, in the church and in
the vestry, other parchments, in
which were Paul's letters and the
Book of the Revelation. And at
last Pierre had seen the whole of the
Old Testament also, and he and the
good priest had read some parts of
the Old Law.
Who shall say whether this knowl
edge of the Bible could ever have
come to anything with Pierre Waldo,
but for a terrible incident which made
its mark on his whole life ? He and
the other merchants of his section
of the town used to meet each other
very often at little feasts, in which
they showed their hospitality and
wealth at the same time, in the
elegance of the service, the rich
ness of the food, and in the choice
of tbe good old wine. A party of
them were together one night at such
a feast in the house of Robert the
Gascon. They had eaten a hearty
supper. The wine had passed freely,
and one of the company, a favor
ite with all of them, had sung a love
song such as the romances of the day
were full of. The glasses clattered
in the applause, and one and an
other of the guests bade him sing it
again. But for some reason Walter,
the singer, declined. The moment he
said " No," William Jal, an old and
near friend of Pierre Waldo, who
was sitting at his side at the table,
rose and said, with a loud laugh,
" You shall sing it, Walter ! " And
he brought his fist down on the table,
and with this terrible oath he went
on, —
"By God, you shall sing it,
Walter, or I will never taste wine

again

i "

Hardly had the awful words left

8

In His Name.

his mouth when the expression of his
face changed in sudden agony. He
seemed to try to balance himself at
the table for an instant, and then
fell dead upon the floor.
From that moment Pierre Waldo
was a new man. In the night of
horror which followed this scene of
mockery and revel, in his wretched
efforts to comfort the widow to whom
they carried the cold corpse home,
and the poor children who were waked
from their beds to look upon it, —
in that night of horror Pierre Waldo
had chance to look forward and to
look backward. And he did so.
From that time forward his reading
of the Gospel was no mere literary
amusement. He copied it for his
own use ; he translated it for his
neighbors' use. He found that other
men, anxious and pious, had already
felt as he began to feel, — that all the
people had a right to parable, to
psalm, and to the words of the blessed
Master. One after another of his
customers brought him, from one and
another town where they travelled,
bits of Paul or Matthew or Luke
which had been translated into the
vulgar language. Pierre Waldo's
home and his warehouse became the
centre of those who sought a purer
and simpler life. For himself, after
that dreadful night with the father
less children and their mother. Pierre
Waldo said he would give all he had
to the poor. Whoever was in need
in Lyons or in the country round
came to him for advice and for help,
and they gained it. If they came
for food, they had food — always they
found a friend.
Almost all the company of mer
chants who were with Pierre on that
night joined him in thfs service of
those that were in need. The com
pany of them began to be called, and

called themselves, the " Poor Men of
Lyons." They had no new religion.
Their religion was what they found
in the Saviour's words to the young
nobleman, to Peter the fisherman,
and to Mary Magdalene. And so
taken were they with these words,
that they read them to all who came for
help to them, and were eager to copy
them out in the people's language,
and give the copies to all who would
carry them into the country.
Almost at the same time, Francisco
of Assisi was moved in much the
same way to give up all he had to the
poor, and to preach the gospel of
poverty. If these two men had come
together ! But it does not appear
that they ever heard each other's
names. No ! At that time Lyons was gov
erned wholly by the great religious
corporation which was known as the
Chapter of St. John, under the Arch
bishop, who was in fact a Prince, and
as a Prince governed the city and the
country at his will. When he found
that the merchants were entering on
the business of distributing the Scrip
tures and reading them to the peo
ple, the Archbishop and the Chapter
forbade it. The " Poor Men of Ly
ons " must leave that business to the
clergy. Pierre and his friends were amazed.
They went to the Holy Father at
Rome, and told him what their work
was. He was well pleased with it,
gave them his approval, but told
them they must not preach without
the permission of the Archbishop
and Chapter. This permission those
great men would not grant to the
" Poor Men." They refused it
squarely. Refused permission to make the
words of the Lord Jesus known!
It was at this point that Pierre Waldo

In His Name.

and the Poor Men of Lyons broke
away from the priests and the Pope.
" They have abandoned the faith," he
said ; " and we ought to obey God
rather than man."
This was the signal on which the
Archbishop and the Chapter drove
Pierre Waldo out from Lyons, and all
those who followed him. His house
and his warehouses, all his books that
they could find, they seized, and he
and his had to take flight into the
mountains. This was the reason why the pros
perous Jean Waldo, the master-wea
ver, the father of the pretty Felicie,
was not well pleased when men asked
Mm if he and Pierre Waldo were kins
men or no. He did not want to be
mixed up with any " Poor Men of
Lyons.'' Not he. He was not one of
the poor men of Lyons, and he did
not mean to be. Pierre Waldo was in
a good business, he said ; there was
not a merchant in Lyons with better
prospects before him, when he took up
with his reading and writing, his beg.
gars, his ministers, and all the rest
of their crew. And so Jean Waldo
would come out, again and again,
with his favorite motto : "I take
care of myself, let tbem take care of
themselves. If Pierre would have
stuck to his own business, he would
not be hiding in the mountains there."
Such was the man who, as he slow
ly walked up the hill just now,
thought himself above all need of ask
ing a service from any man in this

world. He would not have recog
nized Giulio the Florentine this
very afternoon, if they had passed
each other, though he knew the man's
face perfectly well. If you had asked
him why he did not salute such a
man, or even show a consciousness of
his existence, Jean Waldo would have
said, —
"I take care of myself ; let the
Florentine take care of himself. My
business is not his, and his is not
mine." But now, as has been said, in the
narrow street, the Florentine and his
servant, and the boy Adrian, who
had been sent to summon him in hot
haste, overtook the dignified master-
weaver, as he walked home slowly and
complacently. It was with no little
difficulty that Jean Waldo was made
to understand that his treasure and
delight, his own Felicie, who only at
dinner-time hud been so happy and
so lovely, was dying, or seemed to
be dying, in the home he left so little
while before.
After this it was not Jean Waldo
who walked slowly in that party. He
seized the great basket which the
black servant bore, and fairly com
pelled him in his energy to go faster.
He poured question upon question
out as to what had happened upon the
Florentine, who was of course wholly
unable to answer him. And thus
the breathless party arrived together,
under the heavy archway of the court
yard of Jean Waldo's house.

CHAPTER III.
THE FLORENTINE.

The young physician whom Mad- rescue, was a native of the city of Flor-
ame Gabrielle had summoned to the ence, and he had not been so long a

10

In His Name.

resident of Lyons hut that he was
still called "the Florentine." At
that time the profession of a physi
cian, as a distinct calling among
men, was scarcely known. The
clergy were expected to know some
thing of the cure of disease, and in
some instances they really attained
remarkable skill in its treatment.
But with the knowledge of east
ern art which had come in with the
rirst and second crusades, and with
the persistent study of those natural
ists whom we call alchemists, a wider
and more scientific knowledge of the
human frame and its maladies was
beginning to take the place of old
superstitions and other delusions.
And thus it happened that here and
there was a man who, without being
a priest on the one hand or a barber
on the other, had gained the repute
of understanding disease and of the
power of keeping death at bay.
Such a man was Giulio the Floren
tine. He moved quickly and with a de
cided step. He spoke little, and al
ways after a moment's pause, if he
were questioned. It seemed as if he
spoke by some sort of machinery,
which could not be adjusted without
an instant's delay. What he said
was crisp and decided, as were his
steps in walking. It was impossible
to see his manner, even of crossing
the room, or of arranging his pa
tient's head upon the pillow, without
feeling confidence in him. " I felt
as if there were a prophet in the
house," said Matbilde, one of the
maid-servants, who had been sent
for hot water into the kitchen, and
in that minute took occasion to re
peat her hasty observations to the
excited party assembled there.
When he entered the sick-room,
it was n ore than an hour after Fe

licie had drained to the bottom the
beaker which Madame Gabrielle had
filled full of the bitter decoction.
The burning pain of the first draught
had passed away or had been relieved
by some of the palliatives which had
been given. But the second stage
was if possible more terrible than
that of the agony of the beginning.
On the pretty bed where they had
laid her, in the chamber which the
child had decorated with the various
treasures which she had acquired in
her wanderings, she would lie for
a few minutes as if insensible, and
then would spring up in the most
violent convulsions. She threw her
self from side to side without know
ing any of those who tried to soothe
her, and who were forced to hold
her. A few minutes of this violence
would be followed by renewed insen
sibility which seemed almost as ter
rible. Just after one of these paroxysms,
her mother was wiping away the
frothy blood which burst from the
poor child's nostrils, when the Flor
entine entered the room. She made
place for him, in a moment, by the
bed ; and, with that firm hand of
the prophet, which struck Matbilde
with such awe, he felt his patient's
forehead and then the pulse in her
wrist. Then he examined, one by
one, the simples which the mother
and her neighbors had been adminis
tering by way of emetic and of an
tidote. From his own hamper, with
the aid of the blackamoor, he sup
plied the places of these with tinc
tures — of which the use in medicine
was then almost wholly new  of
which he knew the force, and on the
results of which he could rely. He
applied and continued the external
applications which the eager women
were making to the poor child's body.

In His Name.

11

But having noted, in about two min
utes, who of these various assistants
had a head, and never spoke, he
then banished from the room, with
a kind dignity that nothing could
resist, all the others, except the poor
mother. He crossed to the window,
and, though the night was so cold,
he admitted a breath of the winter
air. Then he came back to the bed
side, and, with the courtesy of a
monarch, asked Madame to tell him
all she could of the tragedy. With
the courtesy of a monarch he listened
to her rambling story, still keep
ing his hand on the forehead or on
the pulse of his patient. Madame
Gabrielle,with the tears running down
her cheeks, plunged into the account
of what had happened ; and to all she
said he gave careful heed, never once
attempting to check her, even in the
wildest excursions which she made
to the right or to the left, — into
" dit-elie " and dit-il and "je disais,"
— " says he " and " says she " and
" says I." He seemed to know that
with all her tackings, even if she
" missed stays " sometimes, she
would come by her own course best
to her voyage's end.
It was not till this whole story
was over that he asked to see the
diet-drink, as Madame called it,
which had worked all this misery.
But at that moment, his poor patient
started in another spasm of these
terrible convulsions.
Then was it that the balance and
steadiness of the "prophet" showed
itself as it had not shown itself till
now. He seemed to control even
her almost by a word, as none of the
chattering or beseeching of those
whom he had sent away had done.
When he held her, he held her in
deed, so that she did not even strug
gle against his grasp ; when he bade

her open her mouth to swallow the
sedative which tbe black brought
him at his direction, the poor delir
ious child obeyed him as she would
obey a God ; and under such con
trol the crisis passed, her mother
said, much more easily and quickly
than that of half an hour before:
Still there was the same bloody froth
upon her lips and nostrils, there was
the same deadly pallor as of a corpse ;
and the haggard aspect which came at
once over the face seemed to Madame
Gabrielle and her two waiting wo
men more terrible than ever. The
Florentine noted the pulse again, as
the exhausted child sank back, and
counted the rapidity of her breath
ing. Then for the first time he began
his examination of the poison.
He tasted it, once and again, as
fearlessly as if it had been water
or wine. If he were puzzled, or if
he were distressed by what he learned,
he did not show it in any glance of
those black eyes, or in the least
change of any other feature. He
turned to Madame Gabrielle again
to ask her when it was brewed, and
where she had obtained the materials.
The answer was as voluble as be
fore, and was not, alas, very helpful.
The good dame's custom, for years
upon years, — ever since she was a
married woman indeed, — had been
to go on St. John's Day and on St.
Margaret's Day and on the Eve of
the Assumption and on Halloween,
to collect the various ingredients
which were necessary for the dif
ferent home medicines of a household
so large as hers. Rosemary, wild
lavender, Mary's lavender, tansey,
rue, herb-saffron, herb-dittany, mo
therwort, spearwort, maid's wort,
and St. John's wort, herb of heaven,
herb of winter, poison-kill, and fever
few, she named them all glibly. An/

12

In His Name.

if the expert shuddered within as he
thought of the principles which were
hidden under these names, repeated
so recklessly by an ignorant woman,
he did not show his anger or vexa
tion. And this year, as usual, she
said she had gone out on the Eve of
St. John's day, — surely he knew
that spearwort and herb-of-heaven
and herb-dittany were never so
strong as when you gathered them on
the Eve of St. John's Day, if the
moon were at the full, — and again
she went out, with the two bay horses
on the St. Margaret's Day at e'en, and
came back with three large baskets
full of simples. So she did on As
sumption Eve. But when it came to
Halloween she confessed that she
was kept at home, watching the con
servation of some peaches. The ac
cident — for accident of course there
was — must have happened then.
She had sent out Goodwife Prudhon,
who certainly ought to know. If any
one knew' anything about the simples
of the valley, it was Goodwife Prud
hon. It was she who brought in the
bark and the roots of the autumn,
which the dame herself had not
collected. And for the brewing it
self — O ! that was on St. Elizabeth's
Day and St. Cecile's Day. The pos
set indeed was mixed of decoctions
which were not six weeks old.
Could she bring him any of the
roots or bark which Madame Prud
hon brought her, or had she used
them all?
0 ! Madame Gabrielle -was quite
sure she had not used them all ; and
she retired, to search for what might
be left, to her own sanctuary, not
sorry, perhaps, thus to avoid for the
moment the presence of her wretched
husband. He had been sent away
from the room on some errand which
had been made for him by the in

genuity of the Florentine, and it
was only at this moment that he
returned. So in poor Felicie's next paroxysm
of convulsions it was Jean Waldo
who obeyed the Florentine's orders.
And in that crisis the Florentine took
his measure also, and learned what
manner of man he was. The father
was as firm as the physician. He
knew his place too, and he obeyed
every direction to a letter. It was
piteous to see how he sought for a
recognition from his daughter, which
she would not give. But whether
he hoped or despaired, the poor man
could obey. He brought what tbe
Florentine bade him bring. He stood
where he bade him stand. With a
hand as firm as the physician's, he
dropped the drops of the sedative
from the silver flask in which it was
kept. And with a hand and arm as
steady, he supported the pillow on
which she was to fall back after she
had taken it. The paroxysm was
shorter and less vehement than those
before it. But it seemed to be
checked, rather from the exhaustion
of the patient, than from any relax
ation of the disease. Jean Waldo
himself knew that flesh and blood
could not long abide racking so ter
rible. As she sank back to rest, the Flor
entine counted her pulsations and
the rate of her breathing as carefully
as he did before. He took from his
pocket a silver ball, opened it by a
screw, and drew from the interior a
long silken cord, one end of which
was attached to it. At the other end
was a small silver hook, and this the
Florentine fastened high in the cur
tains of the room opposite to where
he was sitting. He had thus made a
pendulum, several ells in length,
and he set it to swinging solemnly.

In His Name.

13

He returned to the child's bedside,
and with his hand upon her heart
noted the wiry, stubborn pulsations,
and compared their number with the
vibrations of the ball he had set in
motion. Once and again he bade
Jean Waldo strike the ball for him,
when its original motion was in part
exhausted. While they were thus occupied,
poor Madame Gabrielle, the guilty or
guiltless author of so much wretch
edness, returned. Her apron was full
of herbs, barks, powders, and roots,
tied up in separate parcels, and each
parcel carefully labelled. . The Flor
entine took them, one by one, tasted
each, and made a note of the name
of each, the blackamoor holding his
inkhorn for him that he might do so.
The mother by this time was awed
into silence, and never spoke till she
was spoken to ; but when she was
asked, she was confident in her re
plies. They were able without the least
doubt to lay out upon the table the
bark,( the two parcels of leaves, and
the white roots which had been
steeped and soaked, boiled and
brewed, in the preparation of the
." diet-drink."
¦ As if he had to adjust his speaking
apparatus with a little " click," or as
if he disliked to speak at all, tho
Florentine said to the father and the
mother, " Here was the good-wife
Prudhon's blunder. She thought
that she had here the root of Spanish
maiden-wort. She did not see the
leaves ; I suppose they had dried up
and were gone. But it is the root
of hemlock-leaved oenanthe, what
the peasants call snake-bane. Juba,
bring me the parcel of oenanthe."
He showed to the father and mother
that good- wife Prudhon's maiden- wort
was, in fact, the most dreaded poison
in his repertory.

"And is there no antidote?"
asked the father, so eagerly !
" The antidote," said the physician,
kindly, "is to do what your wife has
tried to do, — to throw out from the
dear child's body what by such mis
fortune has been put in." And he said
one word to comfort the poor blun
derer. " Well for her that she was
at home, and that her mother was at
hand " Then he added reverently,
" God only knows how much is left
in her stomach of this decoction ;
but she drank enough of it to have
killed us all, had not her mother's
promptness compelled her stomach
to throw off »the most part of the
poison." And this was all that he seemed
disposed to say. The father and the
mother were both in too much awe of
him to dare to question him. With the
lapse of every half-hour he would bid
one or the other of them set his silver
pendulum in motion, and he would
note carefully the pulse of the girl,
entering on his note-book a mem
orandum of his observation. But
neither Jean Waldo nor his wife
dared ask if there were improvement
or decline. He renewed from time
to time the applications which had
been made to the child's feet and
legs and stomach. From time to
time she started again in the terrible
convulsions. But these were shorter
and shorter, and more and more in
frequent, either from the power of
his medicines, or from some change
in the action of the poison. Jean
Waldo thought that tbe physician
regarded the reaction from the par
oxysm as more alarming than the.
struggle itself. But who could tell
what that man of iron thought, or did
not think ; felt, or did not feel ? The
poor father knew that very probably
he was but imagining that the Flor>

14

In His Name.

entine showed his own anxieties.
And who was he to ask him ?
At midnight the girl started up
in one of these spasms of agony ;
and at this time she spoke with more
connection of ideas than any of them
had been able to trace before : " This
way ! this way ! Gabrielle, dear
Gabrielle, do you not hear me, my
child ? It is Felicie, — your own pet,
Gabrielle ! Never fear ! never fear !
I haAre spoken to Our Mother, to Our
Lady, you know ! That is brave — my
own little cousin, that is brave. Care !
Care ! See that heavy timber ! 0
how good ! O how good ! She is
quite right, quite right. AH safe, all
safe, all safe " And as she sighed
out these words, she rested from the
most violent and passionate exertion,
as if she had been hard at work in
some effort, which the Florentine did
not in the least understand.
It was the first time that he ever
seemed to make any inquiry regard
ing her symptoms, and he looked his
curiosity rather than expressed it.
Madame Waldo was relieved at hav
ing a fair opportunity to speak.
'• Gabrielle is her cousin, my sister
Margaret's oldest daughter, if you
please. Felicie is fond — O so fond —
of Gabrielle. And she thinks Ga
brielle is in danger, 0 yes ! O yes !
See, she thinks the bridge is breaking,
and that Gabrielle is in the water.
Your reverence remembers, perhaps,
that the Holy Mother saved Gabrielle
and so many more when the bridge
went down." But by this time the
physician, only bowing civilly as he
acknowledged her voluble explana
tions, was counting the pulse-beats
again, and by a motion directed Jean
Waldo to renew the vibration of the
pendulum. Was he perhaps a little more satis
fied with his count and comparison

than he had been before? Who can
tell ? for none of the four attendants in
the darkened room dared to ask him.
And then he sent Jean Waldo away.
•The wretched father begged that he
might stay, but the Florentine was
as flint. Madame Gabrielle and one
of her maids would give him all the
assistance he wanted besides what his
own man could render him, and more.
Indeed, he would send her away also,
he said, in an aside, but that he knew
it would kill her to go. At last he
pitied the poor beseeching father so
much that he promised to let him
come in, an hour before day-break,and
take his wife's place at the, bedside of
his child. Jean WaWo went because
he was bidden. His strong, selfish
will gave way before the strong, un
selfish will of this stranger. Prophet
indeed ! This prophet worked the
miracle of commanding Jean Waldo,
and he saw that he obeyed him. *
Long before it was light, however,
the heart-broken father, who had
slept not a wink in the dreary hours
between, came to claim the right
of taking bis turn. And now he
and the Florentine sent Madame Ga
brielle away, weak as she now was
from her wretchedness and her watch
ing and her anxiety. Yes ! The
night had given but little of en
couragement. The paroxysms of
convulsion were, it is true, more and
more seldom ; but the prostration
after them was more and more ter
rible. It seemed too clear now to the
mother that the child was too weak
for nature to rally from the strug
gle of the paroxysm. Nor did she
in the least regain her consciousness.
The black features and strange look
of the servant did not surprise her,
nor did her mother's familiar face call
the least look of recognition. In the
intervals of rest, her rest was abso-

In His Name.

IB

lute. She saw nothing, said nothing,
and seemed to hear nothing then.
When she roused to these horrid bat
tles the delusion was now one thing
and now another. She saw the sink
ing bridge, or she was talking to some
lame beggar woman, so fast that
they could hardly cntch her words,
or she was throwing kisses and wav
ing her hand to her dear mountain
far away, or she was running down
the side of tbe Hill of Fourvieres
that she might be sure to arrive at
home in time to meet her father when
she came down to supper. In these
delusions the wise physician humored
her. But she seemed to have no
knowledge of him nor of any of them,
nor any consciousness of their pres
ence. The phantoms before her were
all she saw or heard. And they
vanished as strangely and as sud
denly as they came. In the midst of
one of these quick harangues to them,
she would sink back on the pillow,
which the black held ready for her, as
if she were too completely exhausted
and prostrate with the exertion to
utter another syllable.
It was just after one of these vis
ions, and the paroxysm accompany
ing it, that Jean Waldo returned,
and that his wife was sent away.
It seemed that the resolute man had
been nursing resolution in his night-
watch in the passage-way, and that
he was resolved to know the best or
the worst ; that he would command
the young man to tell him all that
he could tell him. He set the pendu
lum in motion as he was bidden ;
he filled with hotter water a jar for
the child's feet to rest upon, and ex
changed for it that which was on the
bed ; he spread the napkin at her
mouth, as the Florentine fed her from
an elixir, which, as Jean Waldo saw,
was not the same which they used at

midnight. Then when she rested
and all was still, he said, firmly, —
" Tell me the worst, sir. Is the
child dying or living? I am not a
fool." The Florentine looked up and said,
after the moment of- preparation,
" If I thought you were a fool, you
would not be in the room with my
patient. You know all that I know,
because you have eyes to see. These
paroxysms of agony are less frequent.
Tbe last interval was nearly twice as
long as the first was, I should think.
She is wholly free from pain too, and
her pulse, though it beats so quick,
beats with a ,more reasonable edge
than when I came in. But her
strength is failing all the same.
Her breath is quicker ; and if the in
terval is longer, it is because nerve
and muscle and life, whatever that is,
cannot rally to the struggle as they
did in the evening. She is at the
omnipotent age, and her life has been
strong and pure as an angel's. Were
it not for that she would have been
dead before now. " And the silent
man paused, but paused as if he
would like to say something more.
For this " something more " the
distressed father waited ; he thought
he waited an eternity, but it did not
come. " Can you not say anything
more ? " he said, miserably. " What
is it that we are doing ? What are
these elixirs and tisans? Is not
there somewhere in God's world,
some potion — do you not call it an
antidote — which will put out this
poison as water puts out fire ? "
" Is there not ? Is there ? " said the
Florentine, setting the click of his
talking apparatus more resolutely if
possible than before. "If there is,
the wit of man has not discovered it
How should it? The water which
puts out the fire is the same water

16

In His Name.

which drowns the sailor. For aught
you and I can tell, this root, of which
the decoction seemed liquid flame
when your daughter drank it, may
give life itself to some fish or beast
or bird for which the good God
made it. All that we do, my friend,"
— it was the first time he had used
those words in that house, — "all
that we do is to undo what we did
wrong before. We have tried to rid
her system of this wretched decoc
tion, and now we are trying to give
time, whatever that is ; and nature,
whatever that is ; and life, whatever
that is, — the chance to do their per
fect work. We can do nothing more.
The good God wishes and means
to save health and strength and joy
and abundant life. So much we
know ; and knowing that, in the
strength and life of a pure child of
His, like this girl, we hope, and have
a right to hope."
" Is this all?" said the father sadly,
after another pause, in which he
thought the Florentine wanted to say
more. 'Is this all? What is the
tisan, what is the mustard on her
stomach, what is the rubbing, what
is the hot water at her feet, what is
the elixir in your phial ? "
" Ah well ! " replied the expert,
after a longer pause than usual per
haps, in what seemed like the ad
justment of his machinery; "what
is it indeed ? • It is our poor effort to
quicken and help from the outside
tbe processes of this nature which is
so mysterious in the beautiful ma
chine. Tbe hot water at her feet keeps
them more near to the warmth which
nature gives. My master taught me
that when the foot and arm and lee o
are fully warm, each movement of
the heart drove easily a tide of the
blood of life itself through them all.
You can see that the warmth of the

jar should make that process easier
for this poor heart which finds its
work so hard. Ah well ! it seems as if
we helped it more by the friction of
these cloths, so long as we do not an
noy her by it, and as if these sina
pisms wrought in the same way. We
think we know that within her system
tinctures which we have tried give
the same help to a life which is too
weak. Perhaps they enable some part
of her nervous system which the poi
son has not reached to act for the good
of the part that it first affected."
Then the talking apparatus seemed
to fail the expert. He opened his
mouth once and again ; he then said
"I" once or twice, but seemed to
reconsider his determination, and to
determine that he would add nothing
more. " But we are so well, and she is so
faint there. Is it not strange that I
cannot give her of this fresh blood of
mine, or from my life, five years, ten,
twenty? I would give them gladly."
" Ah, my friend," said the expert,
without a moment's pause this time ;
"do not speak as if we gave anything
or did anything. It is God gives,
and God who takes. All that you
and I can do is so to adjust and so
to relieve, and perhaps so to help,
this poor frail machine, that the
breath of life God gave it may be
able to work His work. You would
give your life for hers, I do not doubt
it. For one, I would have given my
life once for the brother who was
dearest to me. My master opened
the vein which you see scarred here,
and with a silver tube he drew the
healthy, fresh blood from my young
life into the failing veins of his
ebbing life. But it could not be, my
friend," he added, after another long
pause. " His life was his, and mine
was mine Perhaps in another world

In His Name.

17

our lives may be closer, and we may
be made perfect in one." It seemed
as if this confidence with the father
broke some spell which had been on
tho adept's tongue before. He sat
still for a few minutes,' with his hand
upon the girl's heart, then rose and
went round the bed, and at her back
listened for her breath, and felt again
the heat of his water jugs. Then as
he resumed his seat, he said, half
aloud : —
" I wish my master were here ! " It
was the first wish he had expressed,
the first intimation that he and his
horrid blackamoor and the great
hamper could not produce everything
which human wit could suggest in tbe
exigency. Jean Waldo jumped eagerly at the
suggestion. " Your master? Who is he, where
is he ? Let me send, let me go , let me
beg him to come. Will money buy
him ? Here is enough of that ! What
are gold and silver to me, if this
child die?"
"Has not this night taught you, sir,
that life is something that men can
not buy or sell?" The adept spake
if possible more proudly than ever.
" Know, sir, tbe reason why my mas
ter was not first at this child's bed
stead, with all his skill and tenderness
and experience. It is because he
cared for the Poor Men of Lyons,
more than the Rich men of Lyons."
Then there came one of those queer
clicks in his talking machinery, as if
he were too indignant to say more.
But he went on : —
" Your priests yonder, with their
bells and their masses, and their
feasts inside their convents ; your
famous chapter and your famous ab
bot could not bear to have the ' Poor
Men of Lyons ' fed or taught, and so
they drove my master away, and your

kinsman awayr, and you know how
many others. Men say and I believe
that it was because these men knew
Holy Scripture better than they knew
it, and because they loved the poor
better than they loved them. This
is certain, that these men went about
doing good, that they fed the hungry
and gave drink to the thirsty, they
took the stranger into their homes
and they ministered to the sick and
those that were in prison, they brought
glad tidings to the poor and comfort
to those in sorrow. I do not know
much of Holy Scripture, but I always
supposed that this was the Pure Gos
pel. It was not pure enough for
your priests, and so the liege lords
of Lyons drove those men away.
That is the reason why my master is
not at your daughter's bedside."
The young physician stopped short,
as if he had let his indignation run
further than was wise. _ A wretched
feeling, a sickness at heart swept
over Jean Waldo, when he remem
bered how often he had said to these
men who were in exile with his kins
man, that they would have been wiser
to have minded their own business.
Of his kinsman himself he had said,
once and again, "If he would only
mind his own concerns, all would be
well." Now Jean Waldo began to
see that he did want some one to
take care of him and his, and that this
grand selfishness of his was only
fitted for the times of high prosper
ity. " Is your master beyond all re
call?" he said, a dim notion cross
ing his mind that he had heard some
of the rich burghers say that the
" Poor Men of Lyons " were hiding
in the mountains.
" I have not seen my master there,"
replied the Florentine, thoughtfully
" His home is in the Brevon caves,

18

In His Name.

among men who have never betrayed
him, beyond Cornillon and St. Ram-
bert." " St. Rambert," said the father,
eagerly, — " St. Rambert, — it is close
to us, a miserable six hours away.
I have horses in these stables that
would take me there in six hours."
The adept looked uneasily at the
child, when her father spoke of six
hours, as if he would say, " And
where will she be when six hours
only are gone ? " But he did not say
this. He said, " My master is not
at Cornillon, he is in the valley of
the Brevon beyond. Still, as you
say, that is not so far away."
" Send for him ! send for him ! "
cried the father; "send for him if
you have one ray of hope ! " And
the eagerness both of his attitude
and his voice would have moved a
harder listener than the Florentine.
It seemed as if the child herself was
conscious of what passed. She
moved her head a little on the pillow
and a sunny smile floated over her
face, the first expression except that
of agony or anxiety which the adept
had seen there.
" If you will send, I will write,"
said the adept ; and he whispered to
the black, who brought to him from
a case in the hamper a strip of vel
lum already folded for a letter.
" Have you a trusty man whom
you can send with this ? Bi.d your
grooms saddle the horse, — and he
needs to be your best, — while I am
writing. Jean Waldo asked nothing more
but to be doing something, and at
the word left the room.
The Florentine wrote : —
"Here is a child dying because she has
drunk a decoction of hemlock-leaved
oenanthe. I think there was also the
milky blush mushroom or the Picardy

peaussiere in the decoction. Come If
you can help us.
For the love of Christ. Gioxio."
And in the middle, at the bot
tom, he drew with some little care
the symbol known as the Cross ol"
Malta.

He added, " We have no moment
to lose. Before day-break of St.
Ives." Meanwhile the father had hurried
down the dark passages, out into the
court-yard, past the workshops to the
room where Hugh Prinhac, the most
resolute of the weavers, slept ; a man
who in street fights' had again and
again led the weavers' apprentices in
their victories over the dyers.
He knocked at the door, and
knocked again and again till he heard
a motion within. To a gruff " Who 's
there?" he gave his name in reply ;
and in an instant the astonished
journeyman threw the door open for
his master.
" Prinhac, my daughter is dying.
The only man that can save her is
this Italian, who is only five hours
away. Prinhac, as you love me, take
this parchment, and bring him."
Prinhac was but half awake per
haps. The enterprise was not at
tractive, nor did it seem as if his
employer counted very wisely when
he relied on such love as the weaver

In His Name.

19

bore him. Prinhac asked some hes
itating question.
" For the love of Christ, do not
stay to argue," said the poor old
man. Without knowing it, he struck a
chord in using the sacred words, and
in an instant the weaver was ready

for any duty. " Who stays to
argue ? " said he. " Do you see that
your black stallion is saddled, and
by the time the horse is here, I
will be ready to mount. Love of
Christ indeed ! And who says I
tarry when I am invoked in his
NAME ? "

CHAPTER IV.

UP TO THE HILLS.

Suee enough, the weaver stood on
the step of the door, booted and
spurred, when the trembling old man
appeared with his lantern leading out
Barbe-Noire from the low gateway of
the mews. It was long since Jean
Waldo had saddled and bridled a horse
for himself, but he had not forgot
ten the arts of his boyhood, and
the Arab needed no care because his
master was his groom. At the same
moment Giulio the Florentine ap
peared from above, and as Prinhac
mounted promptly, Giulio put his
hand over the mane of the horse, and
almost in a whisper, though they
three were all alone in the night,
he gave the young fellow precise di
rections where and how Lugio was to
be found. Prinhac bent in the sad
dle, listened carefully, and repeated
the directions to be sure that he had
not mistaken them.
" Never fear me, then ! " he said,
spurred his horse, and was away.
" He must cross the bridge before
sundown," cried poor Jean Waldo
to the rider, himself startled as he
remembered how narrow was the
range thus given.
" Never fear," was still the cheer
ful answer, and Prinhac disappeared
into the night.
The ride across the narrow penin

sula which parts the Saone from the
Rhone, and is to-day covered by the
most beautiful part of the city of
Lyons, took but a few minutes, —
and the rider was soon at the long,
narrow bridge over the larger river,
which had been temporarily con
structed, by the direction of Richard
of the Lion Heart, after the ruin
of the year before. "The old man
bids us return before sunset, He
has forgotten that I have started be
fore sunrise." This was the thought
which amused Prinhac so that even
a smile curled over his hard face as
he rode up to the gateway of the
bridge. The truth was, that no passage was
permitted before sunrise, under the
sharp orders of the Viguier. But
many things were done in the priest-
governed city of Lyons, which neither
Viguiers nor Seneschals nor Couriers
nor the Chapter nor the Bishop sus-
spected. And this the reader will
see. " Hola ! Who commands tne
guard ? " cried Prinhac. " Turn out !
Turn out ! Is this the way our bridges
are watched ? "
A sleepy sentinel appeared.
" Hola ! who commands the guard ? "
cried the fearless weaver again.
"And what is that to you? "re-

20

In His Name.

plied the sentinel, throwing his hal
berd forward in carte. " If you see
the guard, it ought to be enough for
you." Prinhac did not stop to argue. But
the sentinel, as he watched him in
the dim lantern-light, saw that he
made in the air the sign of a Maltese
Cross, and heard him say, in a low
whisper, " Send me the officer of the
guard In His Name."
Sign and whisper were enough.
The sentry threw up his halberd in a
military salute and was gone. Nor
did the rider wait a minute in the
cold, before the officer of the guard,
fully dressed in armor, passed out
from the gateway and saluted.
" Can you let me pass, Mr. Offi
cer?" said Prinhac, quietly and mod
estly this time. "It is for the Love
of Christ that I am riding."
"Go — In His Name,"

Was the only reply made to the wea
ver. The officer turned, passed into
the guard-house, and, as if by invis
ible hand, the portcullis rose before
Prinhac, the only bar to his passage,
and in a moment he was on the
bridge. The grate fell behind him,
and be was again alone.
"And how would my master have
passed there ? " he said to himself,
half aloud. And the same grim
smile crept over his face, — " he
should have asked his friend the
Bishop, or our distinguished .boon
companion the Seneschal, to give him
a pass that he might send into the
mountains for the doctor they have
driven away." And then aloud, " Hist,
hist, Barbe-Noire ! You are not at
Chateaudun ; this is no race-course.
fou shall have running enough be

fore to-day is over. But in the dark,
over these rotten boats, you must
step more carefully, my beauty."
And so the rough fellow began
musing on the strange chance which
had put him astride this horse, which,
in the judgment of weavers, spin-
ners, fullers, and dyers, of the whole
of the little community indeed which
found its centre in Jean Waldo's
court-yard, — was by far the noblest
horse in Lyons. Nor were they far
from right in their judgment. The
noble creature had first appeared
there when Jean Waldo rode him
back from a long absence in Mar
seilles. What price he had paid, or
what debts he had forgiven for him,
no man in the workshops knew. But
there were rumors as to the wild life
of the merchant who had been his
last owner, and of fight with the
Barbary corsair who had been his
master before. How these things
might be, Prinhac did not know. He
did know that any groom who was
permitted to cross Barbe-Noire's sad
dle for an hour, would brag for a
week of that honor, and that, for his
own part, he might the morning be
fore as well have wished for the
crown of Burgundy, as to have wished
for the permission to ride Barbe-
Noire for a day.
And so the weaver was led on, as
the horse took surer foothold on the
causeway, to ask himself why his
master chose him from all workmen
for this mission. Lucky for Jean
Waldo, the man thought it, that he
chose as he did. " Which of them
would have seen that portcullis rise,
as I did?" Ah, Prinhac, Prinhac!
perhaps more of them have the talis
man than you think for !
The truth was that when the Bishop
John Fine-House, — Jean des Belles
Maisons, as some of the archives call

In His Name.

21

him, — when John Fine-House, I say,
or John Fine Hands, as others call
him, chose to banish Peter Waldo
and the " Poor Men of Lyons " from
his city, he strained his new-bought
authority more harshly than he knew.
When the Archbishop and Chapter
had refused to the Poor Men of
Lyons the right to assemble in the
public places, or indeed anywhere,
to read the gospels, they had them
selves possessed for only six years
what they had long wished for, the
temporal government of the city and
outlying country. Before the Pope
of Rome had any such power in
Rome, the Archbishop of Lyons was
as good as an independent Prince in
Lyons. In 1173 the Count of Forez
and his son had sold out all their
rights there, in exchange for some
lands owned by the Chapter, and
eleven hundred marks of money.
The rulers of Burgundy had too lit
tle to do with such " Counties " to
interfere, and practically the Arch
bishop found himself a sovereign
prince. The town of Lyons became
his fief, and all the administration
was in his name.
One of his first acts had been the
prohibition of this nonsense about
gospels and charity and good works,
— about translating the Scriptures,
and assemblies of the people to be
addressed by laymen. '• No Houses
of Bread nor Houses of God, except
such as the Chapter builds ! " And
one of his first victories was that
which he won over Pierre Waldo
when he excommunicated him and
bis, and when the Pope confirmed
the excommunication. For, only six
years before, just as Fine-House was
buying his fief, Pope Alexander
had embraced this barefoot beggar,
and had approved his life of volun
tary poverty. '

But it was one thing to drive the
merchant-preacher and his friends
out of Lyons, and another to make
the people forget them. There were
too many who had been fed by
their bounty, comforted by their sym
pathy, and taught by their zeal, who
were too insignificant for exile, but
were too grateful to forget. The
weaver Prinhac was one of these ;
and by the secret signals which they
had established among themselves, he
knew that many of the men-at-arms
of the Chapter thought as he thought
and felt as he felt. It was his
confidence in their help which had
brought him out over the bridge so
easily. But in truth Jean Waldo had chosen
him only because he had seen that he
was quick as a flash and faltered at
nothing. It had been, alas, not from
any deep religious feeling, but from
the agony of despair, that Jean Wal
do had summoned the young athlete
to rise, " for the love of Christ." The
man had replied to the summons so
fortunately made, with the reply
which, to one initiated into the mys
teries of these " poor men," would
have shown that he was one who was
loyally tied to the teachers and friends
who had clone so much for Lyons, and
were exiled from their homes. But
Jean Waldo was not initiated, and
he had no suspicion that he had made
a choice so happy as he had when he
sent Prinhac upon his errand.
Prinhac and Barbe-Noire crossed
the causeway more slowly than either
of them liked, but as fast as the rider
dared to go over an icy road in the
darkness. As day began to break at
last, they came to a point for which
Giulio's directions had not prepared
him. He had crossed the river again.
The valley road, which in our time
is the road always travelled, was

22

In His Name.

but a half-broken way, little better
than a foot-path. The beaten track
turned to the left and boldly pushed
up the steep hill. The foot-path
was stolen from the edge of the
hill, which here crowds close upon
the Rhone. Still, though it was nar
row, and though, clearly enough, a
block of ice from the river or of rock
from the cliff might easily make it
impassable, it was so much more level
and so much more direct than the
hill road, that Prinhac would have
been glad to choose it. But he did
not dare, without better authority
than his own guess or wish.
A miserable turf hovel stood some
hundred yards back from the way he
had been following, on a steep slope
of the hill. Unwilling to lose an
instant, the young man still forced
Barbe-Xoire, who seemed as unwil
ling as himself, across tbe little tur
nip-patch, and bringing the horse
close to the very door itself, knocked
loud enough to waken Ogier the
Dane. No answer.
Prinhac knocked again and again.
It was no deserted hovel, he knew
that ; and he meant that no one there
should sleep later that morning.
To the fourth knock,, the squeak
ing voice of an old woman answered :
"Who is there?"
" O," said the rider, laughing, " you
have turned over in the bed, have
you? I am a courier from Lyons,
and I want to know which is my best
way to Meximieux."
" Both are the best — both are the
best. Go your way, and do not be
waking honest people at midnight ! "
Prinhac had played on a word in
calling himself a courier. A courier
was indeed a carrier of messages,
and it was true that he was carrying
a message ; but in the phrase of the

time, a "courier" in Lyons corres
ponded to what we now call a prose
cuting attorney, and Prinhac had hatf
the hope that he might frighten the
old crone into an answer. But he
reckoned quite without his host. The
truth was, that she did not know the
word in either of its meanings. She
only guessed that here was some roys-
terer who was to be kept at bay, and
answered as best she could, with the
object of getting rid of him.
Prinhac waited a moment, but found
he was to get no other answer. He
knocked again and again, but there
was no answer. It was half uncon
sciously that he said then, in no loud
tone, " For the love of Christ, will
no one show me the way ? "
And the answer was as prompt as
his own had been to Jean Waldo.
The shutter of the hovel was thrown
open wide. A man thrust half his
body out from the window.
"Who pleads the love of Christ?
If you have all day before you, take
the valley ; but you take the chances
of having to return If your errand
is haste, take the hill road. Trust
me, for I speak it
In His Name."
The rider nodded, made the Cross
of Malta in the air, pushed his
horse down to the roadway again,
and began the tedious ascent of the
hill. As he rose from the fog of the val
ley, he turned uneasily in his saddle
and looked back once and again to
be sure what was the prospect of the
weather now sunrise drew near. For
if this day were to be stormy, if
the hill paths were to be blocked or
obscured by never so little freshly-
fallen snow, little hope was there
that the priest-doctor for whom ho
was sent would ever see little Felicie

In His Name.

23

alive. Prinhac was of a hopeful
mood. But he found it hard to read
the signs of the times in that early
morning, hard indeed to persuade
himself that the rifted clouds which
were beginning to catch their glory
of purple and gold from the sun still
concealed, were only to be painted
clouds that day, and that there
was no malice behind them. " The
mountain will tell me," said Prinhac.
" If, when I have passed the castle
gate, I see the white mountain, I will
lay a wager on the day ; but if there
are as heavy clouds before me as
there are behind, it must go hard with
poor Mademoiselle Felicie."
And they toiled up the broken
hill, Prinhac and the horse. Prinhac
was not too lazy nor too proud to
save his horse, even at this early
hour, as best he might. At the
heaviest ascent, he was off the sad
dle and walked by the noble crea
ture's side, only playing with the
thick and heavy black mane, which
had given to him his name. Then,
without waiting for stirrups, he was
on his back again, and he indulged
Barbe-Noire in a little gallop as they
crossed the flat which is commanded
by the castle.
The heavy square tower of the castle
seemed completely to block the way.
But Prinhac advanced, nothing falter
ing, — rode close along the wall,
turned it, and opened on a vision of
wonder such as he never looked upon
before. '
The- hill which he had been mount
ing commands from its highest ridge
a marvellous view of the valley of tbe
Rhone. Far beneath him lay the
winding course of the river, flowing
between fields which were this morn
ing white with hoar-frost. The blue
of the Rhone and the white of the
frost both revealed themselves to

him through the exquisite purple
mist which even at this hour was be
ginning to rise from the meadows.
Like islands through this mist, Prin
hac could see one and another village,
— here a tower, and there a square
castle, — he could see the spires of
Lhuis and St. Laurent, and far away
Arandon. But he did not pause to
look or to wonder. He pressed his
horse to the point where the prospect
opens most to tbe eastward, and
there, against the purple and the
gold of the sunrise, — the sun him
self not having struggled yet above
the mountains, — there he saw the
monarch of them all, lying purple-
gray against this blazing background,
without one fillet of cloud across his
face, nor a wreath- of mist rising from
his valleys.
The weaver accepted the signal he
had been longing for. "Ah, Mon
sieur Mont Blanc!" he said aloud,
" you are a good friend to my Mis
tress Felicie this day."
How little the good fellow thought
that as lately as sunset on the even
ing before, his young " mistress " had
been throwing her kisses from the
hill of Fourvieres over to her " dear
old friend."
And now he and Barbe-Noire were
fairly in for their work. More than
two hours had passed since he crept
out of Lyons in the darkness, and
daylight must make up for the time
which had been lost in tbe creeping.
Barbe-Noire was as glad as he for
the right to take a quicker pace, —
and now began the real triumph of
blood and good temper and good
breeding. It was not long that the
road held the high ground. As the
sun at last rose glorious behind the
Alps themselves and the thousand
ranges of castellated mountains which^.
lay against the heavy line of the Alps j

24

In His Name.

the descent into the valley again
began. The rider looked his last on
Felicie's old friend, and let his faith
ful horse take as fast a pace as he
dared in the descent. Once on the
flats again, their pace was like flying.
The country children on their way to
morning mass looked with wonder,
and indeed with terror, as they saw
this coal-black horse, with nostrils
open and eyes of fire, dash by them.
The rider was no knight, they could
see that. But not even when the
knights from Burgundy came through
to join in the crusade had these chil
dren seen such a horse or such a
rider. So Prinhac passed village after
village, group after group of church
goers, and began to feel that his work
was more certain of success than he
had feared, and that he should find
the hidden doctor, as he must find
him, before noon of thai day. If only
back in the hills there were any horse
to bring the doctor back who could
compare with this brave Barbe-Noire !
Ah, Prinhac ! ah, Prinhac ! What
says the Scripture? "The race is
not to the swift nor the battle to the
strong." As he was passing through
the little hamlet of Dagnieu, nod
ding good-naturedly to a group of
frightened children, who were hud
dling together by the hedge that they
might be out of his way, Barbe-Noire
trod with his forefoot on a sheet of
ice, disguised under a cloud of slime
which had flowed down on it the day
before. The horse slipped, tried to
rally, and lost the regularity of his
pace ; slipped again, brought up his
hind feet on the same treacherous ice,
and before his master could draw
foot from stirrup, horse and rider had
fallen heavily upon the stones of the
wayside.
. Prinhac uttered no sound. But he
was fettered for the moment beneath

the weight of the horse and was power
less. Poor Barbe-Noire did his best
— his very best. Is the poor fellow
maimed? That was Prinhac's first
thought, — whether he himself were
maimed would appear afterwards.
Then he made outcry enough to
call to his aid, first a frightened girl,
and then her brothers, and then every
man and woman of the wretched
hamlet. Barbe-Noire had in the
mean while struggled to his feet.
But Barbe-Noire would never bear
rider again. In that cruel fall the
horse's slender fore-leg had broken
just above the fetlock ; and though
Prinhac and the rest tried to per
suade themselves that this was but a
sprain, every effort the poor beast
made was more painful to see, and
it needed only the most tender touch
at the place where the bone was
broken, to know that the calamity
could never be cured.
For poor Prinhac himself the fall
had been as hard. " I would not
say a word," he said, " if the horse
could only move." But whether he
chose to say a word or no, none the
less was it clear that his left shoul
der on which he had fallen was power
less. The truth was, that his arm
had been wrenched from its socket
by the blow.
The peasants were stupid, but were
kind. One and all they offered such
help as they could, and suggested
this and that cabin as open to Prin
hac till the priest could be sent for ;
or at Balan below there was a famous
farrier. If the gentleman wished,
Ode, here, should be sent on the
gray mare for him. But Prinhac
listened with little favor to any talk
of the priest, nor did he seem to care
much for the farrier. " This is what
I want, my brave friends," he said.
" I want to send a bit of vellum as big

In His Name.

25

as your two fingers to the doctor who
is in the hills beyond Rambert de
Joux. It is not three hours' ride.
Who will go there ? "
Stupidly they all listened, and no
one answered. There was a look of
inquiry which passed from each to
each which would have been droll
were not the occasion so serious. It
seemed to say : " Is the man a sim
pleton, or does he think we are sim
pletons ? "
" Fifty sols in silver," said Prin
hac, cheerfully, " to the man who will
take this bit of paper to the charcoal-
burner Mark of Seyssel. Who is the
man, or who is the pretty girl that
will do it ? " as his eye fell on a sun
burned maiden. " Fifty sols to a
man, or sixty to a girl."
But they stood as if he spoke He
brew to them, and neither girl nor
man replied.
" Is there nobody," said Prinhac,
discouraged more by his failure than
his pain, — "nobody who is willing
to save a dying woman's life for the
love of Christ?"
" You should have asked that be
fore!" said a tall, lithe man, speaking in
the purest Romance. He had seemed
perfectly indifferent, even uncon
scious, until he heard these last words.
"You should have asked that before.
Antoine, Marie, take these brats home.
Paul, Jean, Pierre, the whole troop of

you, lead this poor beast to the
priest's house, and groom him well.
Felix, show the gentleman the way
to Our Lady's stile. Then he turned
to Prinhac, —
" This is a noble horse, my friend,
who has borne you well ; but the Arab
who is to take me to your doctor,
can give minutes to any beast in the
Abbot's stables, and shall still win the
crown. You willfind me at Our Lady's
stile, ready to serve you, —
'In His Name.'"
Sure enough, when poor Prinhac,
who walked stoutly and stiffly, lean
ing his whole weight, as it seemed, on
the shoulder of this willing Felix, —
when he came to Our Lady's stile,
here was his new friend mounted on
a noble Arab, of the breed which at
that time was just finding its way
into Southern France from the ports
of the southern shore. Prinhac took
from his pocket the precious missive,
and whispered to the workman the di
rections he had -received from Giulio
the Florentine. The villager had a
little switch in his hand with which
he marked in the air the sign of the
Cross of Malta. The poor, faint
weaver did the same with his finger ;
and they parted, the one for his quick
ride, the other for such comfort as he
could find in the cabin of Pierre Bo-
ronne.

CHAPTER V.
LOST AND FOUND.

Gualtiek of the Mill knew every
inch of the way before him, knew
where and how to spare his horse,
where to take a short cut by ways
known to scarcely any except the
charcoal-burners, where to ford a

stream, and how to save a hill. So
far he had the advantage for this
service of poor Prinhac, whose zeal
had cost him so dearly. And Gual-
tier of the Mill trusted more openly
to the talisman which they had boffi

26

In His Name.

been using. As he worked his way
into the mountains, he had less fear of
any spies or tip-staves of the Bishop
and his crew, and did not hesitate to
show the flag under which he served.
It happened to him, as it happened
to Prinhac, to come upon one of the
draw-bridges which so often held the
roadway where it crossed a stream.
But the moment Gualtier appeared
on the height above, it was enough
for him to mark in the air with the
sign of the Cross of Malta, and' the
attendants of the bridge, some sort of
rural gens-d'armes known in those
days, ran to let it down for the rider,
who acknowledged the courtesy as he
passed, by saying, gently, " It is for
the love of Christ," and received, as
he knew he should, the countersign,
"And in his name." The road be
came more and more hilly, but in an
hour he had made more than three
good leagues, and he came upon the
picturesque height of Meximieux just
as the people from village and from
castle had poured into the church for
the Sunday service of the day.
Gualtier looked round him and
saw no man. He rode to the church
door, swung himself from the horse,
which he left wholly unfastened, and
entered in the midst of the assembly,
who were upon their knees. Gualtier
knelt also, and joined in the devo
tions ; but at the first change in the
order of the service, he noted one
worshipper whose white head was
still hidden in his hands, bent over
him, and whispered " For the Love of
Christ." The old man rose without
a word, and they left the church
together. A moment's conference,
and he bade Gualtier wait for him
where the road turns from the stable-
gate of the castle, he swung himself
oyer the hedge-stile and was gone.
Gualtier of the Mill walked his horse

to the fork in the road which had
been indicated, and at the same mo
ment tbe gray-haired villager was
there with the best horse from the
Baron's stab'e. Gualtier left his
own in his care, saluted as before, and
was gone. " It is in nts name," said
his new-found friend.
Two hours from Meximieux with
riding so fast should have brought
him to the charcoal-burner's hut,
which had been indicated all along as
the station at which he was aiming.
But these were no longer ways for
travellers. They were only the paths
that fagot-makers or charcoal-burn
ers had made for their convenience
between rocks, bushes, and trees, and
which at their convenience they neg
lected again. Gualtier of tbe Mill
used his sense as long as any man's
sense could save him at all. He
chose such paths as led a little south
of east, as he had been bidden. He
got a glimpse now and then of the
stronghold above Rossillon, passed,
as he was bidden, the castle of Vieux-
Mont-Ferrand ; but at last, in a tan
gle of low, scrubby oaks, and amid
piles of rocks which seemed to have
been hurled together in some play
of ogres, no path looked promising
amongthe sheep-tracks and the traces
of the feet of the asses and mules,
from whose charcoal loads the litter
still strewed the ground.
Gualtier of the Mill stopped, fairly
confounded. He blew a shrill whistle,
and had no answer. He dropped his
reins on the neck of his horse, and
his horse stood still. He faithfully
tried the pathway which seemed to
trend most to the eastward, and it
led him in fifty yards distance to the
place where chips on the ground
showed that the wood-cutters had
taken out some saplings there, and
had gone no farther. He came back

In His Name.

27

to the " abomination of desolation,"
as it seemed to him, sat undecided,
though he knew indecision was ruin,
and it seemed to him a voice from
heaven when he heard the loud laugh
of a little child.
In an instant the child was hushed,
and all was still again. But the
sound was enough for Gualtier of
the Mill. He pushed his horse to
the place it came from, through a
close thicket of tangled cedars which
he had refused to try before, and
after a steep descent came out on a
group of a dozen frightened chil
dren by the side of a brook. They
had been at play there, had heard
his horse's footsteps, and had been
frightened into silence by the sound.
For in the lawlessness of those times,
the havoc made by everybody who
rode on horseback, whether he rated
himself as knight, squire, man-at-
arms, or highwayman, was such that
peasant children like these, in such a
wilderness as this, had much the same
notion of such travellers as had the
old crone whom Prinhac had sum
moned in tbe early morning. And
so the older brothers and sisters of
this group had been trying to keep
the little ones silent till the horse
man should go by.
Gualtier of the Mill drew up his
horse when he saw the pretty com
pany, and in a cheerful way said,
" Who is playing fox and goose
here ? " And the little children hid
behind the bigger ones, and the big
ger ones hung their heads, and said
nothing. "And which of you can tell me
the way to the house of Mark of
Seyssel, where the road from Culoz
comes in ? "
The little children hid behind the
bigger ones, and the bigger ones
hung their heads, as before.

" Now I really hoped," said the
good-natured miller, " I really hoped
I had found one of Mark's little
girls ; and I really hoped she would
show me the way. At my home I
have four girls and five boys, and
they all know all the sheep-tracks
and all the horse-tracks. And when
Father Antony comes and says, 'Who
will mount my mule and show me
the way?' why Jean runs, and Ger
trude runs, and Antoine runs, and
Marie runs, and all of them want to
show him."
The miller understood the way to
children's hearts. But these chil
dren had been trained to hold their
peace among strangers. More than
once, as the older of them knew, had
life depended on their discretion ;
and so stolid were their faces as
Gualtier of the Blill tried his seduc
tions, that even he was deceived. He
fairly thought they did not know
what the words meant which he was
speaking. He drew from his pocket the sil
ver whistle which he had blown just
before. He sprang from his horse,
and let the creature go at large. He
sat down on the ground by the young
est child, and with the whistle, which
was a flageolet indeed, of the range
of a few notes, played, for the child's
amusement, a little air ; and then tak
ing the little thing upon his knee,
tried if he would not take the play
thing. The child seemed to dread
the reproof of the older children, but
the bauble was too tempting to be
resisted ; and when the pipe gave out
a shrill, sharp sound at his effort, the
little thing laughed and became more
fearless, and seemed more willing to
be won. Gualtier followed up his
victory ; and in the rough dialect of
the Dauphin Mountains, which he
spoke as easily as the Provencal in

28

In His Name.

which he had been talking, he said
again, —
" It is Mark of Seyssel, the char
coal merchant, whom I want to
find. Mark of Seyssel has some good
little girls. Do you not know his
little girls? I have a bright silver
sol here for each of them."
You are a cunning fowler, Gualtier,
and you are a keen fisherman. But
here are fish who will not bite at
every bait. It is one of Mark's
little boys whom you have upon your
knee. And that tall, brave child,
whose hair is braided in with a strip
of red ribbon, is one of his girls. But
they know too well that they are to
say nothing of roads unless they
know they speak to friends. And
not a flash of intelligence passes from
one heavy eye to another.
Then the miller wondered if per
haps these oldest children, wise as he
saw them to be, had been trusted
with secrets more precious than the
mere guarding of a roadway. Still
speaking in the mountain dialect, he
said, as if he were speaking to the
wind, without addressing one child
more than another, "This is life and
death for which I am travelling. A
dear, loving girl will die this night,
if, before the sun is at noon, I do
not find the house of Mark of Seyssel.
I wonder if any one could show me

his house if I asked for the Love of
Christ?" The brown-haired girl, and the
stupid boy, and the other boy who
held the long, peeled rod, and the
other tall girl who had a baby in her
arms — all started at the spell. The
first of the four spoke in Provencal,
and said, " I will lead you gladly to
my father's, now I know you come
In His Name."
And in a minute more he was in
the saddle again ; the child was sit
ting across it before him, he was
pushing through this tangle and over
that ford, scrambling up a hill-side,
and then threading a low growth of
under brush, till in less than a mile
from the point where he had lost
himself, tbe girl found voice again ;
and, speaking in Provencal as before,
said, " There is my father's store
house." And as she pointed, on the
other side of a little clearing in the
forest, he saw a rough cabin, built
half of logs and half of rough stones.
From a hole in the roof, quite too
large, and indeed of too little archi
tectural form, to be called a chimney,
a volume of smoke was pouring.
Without this token, indeed, the loud
voices of the men within would have
taught the traveller that the charcoal-
burner's hut was not deserted.

CHAPTER VL
THE CHARCOAL-BURNER.

The science of the iron forges in
the valley below had already reached
some work so flue that the workmen
there had instructed the peasants of
the hills, and sent them to a separate
industry of burning and paoking
pine, chestnut, and oak charcoal, to

be used in the manufacture of th--;
finer steels. Many a man who was
part hunter and part shepherd wn
willing to provide himself with his
salt, with a few nails, with iron heads
to his arrows, and with better pip
kins and mugs than they baked in

In His Name.

29

the mountains, by answering the de
mand. The rough fellows had found,
however, that it was better to make
but one business of their trade with
the iron and steel men ; and so now,
for a generation and more, this rough
cabin, where Mark of Seyssel now
presided, had become a rendezvous for
the charcoal-burners, and they had
been in the habit of storing here the
full bags in which they had packed
their coals ready for the mules.
In the middle of the cabin or hut,
on an open place for fire, there were
piled a dozen great logs, which made
a cheerful point of union for the
group, and from which, through a
great, square hole in the roof, passed
out the weird column of smoke which
first caught the eye of the traveller.
Around this, sitting and lying in
every possible attitude, was the com
pany of the lazy peasants, getting
rid of the winter day as best they
could. " If you ever see Lambert this
side of purgatory, call me a liar.
When I saw him cro§s the old bay,
with his new baldric on him, I said,
' Good-by, Lambert, we shall never
meet again.' And I said it because
I knew it."
"But why do you know it, and
how do you know it?" persisted the
man with whom the speaker was
talking. He sat shaping a bow, and
letting the shavings of ash fall upon
the live coals, as he made them.
"How do you know it? Here at
Blon I talked with the innkeeper,
with all the grooms, and with Sirand
himself. They all said that the
Saracens would not stand the first
battle with our men. They said
there would be a new king at Jerusa
lem before Easter ; and that long be
fore another Christmas the Bishop
would be at Lyons again, King Philip

in Paris, King Richard in England ;
and by the same token the count will
be in his castle, and Lambert and
Raymond and Forney and all the
boys would be back here, with shells
on their hats, and with gold in their
pockets." " Much does Sirand know," re
torted the implacable grumbler, who
began : " Has he talked with the
Saracens? Has their famous king,
the Lord Saladin, told him that they
were all going to run away at the
first battle? Has he been to see
Jerusalem, that he thinks it a summer
day's journey to go there ? As for
the innkeeper at Blon, the man is a
fool. The last time I was there, he
would have persuaded me to my face
that I did not know a walnut bow
from one made of ash. I wish he
may be choked with his own porridge.
And if his grooms know no more of
Saladiu's men than they know of
Frenchmen's horses, their talk is not
worth retailing. I tell you it is a
fool's errand they have all gone upon,
and you will never see Lambert's face
again." " Is it a fool's errand," struck in a
little, lame man who sat on the other
side of the fire, so that the two could
hardly see him, "to redeem the grave
of our blessed Lord, and our blessed
Lady, his mother, and of more saints
than I could name or you can count,
from these misbegotten dogs, heathen
and sons of heathen ? Did you hear
the father tell how they flayed alive
that poor Mary of Picardy when she
went on a pilgrimage ? Did you hear
him tell how they built their cursed
lire against St. Joseph's tomb, and
cracked the columns, and heaved dirt
upon the stone ? Fool's errand indeed I
It 's well for them to call it a fool's
errand who stay idling here at home.
But had I two feet to walk, or a leg

30

In His Name.

to cross a mule, I would not be hang
ing round here, throwing shame on
better men."
" Limping Pierre," replied the
other, good-naturedly, " I have heard
you say that thing before, or what
came to the same end ; and, if you
choose, you may say it seven times
more, nay, seventy times seven, as
the gospel says, and I will never
quarrel with as good a fellow as you
are. But two things you know and I
know : one is, that Ambrose cared
no more for our Lady nor for St. Jo
seph's tomb than he cared for the
snow on the top of the mountain, nor
would he go one step of his lazy life
to save them both from pollution. He
went because he saw the others go,
and he chose to be fed without work
ing, and to sleep on linen that other
men's wives had woven. He thought
he should come back with gold he
had not earned, and should hector
over you and me and other honest
people because he had a shell in his
hat-band. As for making war upon
people because they are dogs and the
sons of dogs," because their prayers
are false, and their lives mean, — why
we might make war on the Bishop
and Chapter of Lyons for quite as
good cause as they have to make war
on King Saladin and his Emirs, if
that happens to be his name."
The bold effrontery of the allusion
to the bishop and chapter was wel
comed by a guffaw of laughter from
some of tbe lazy throng ; but others
fairly started, not so much in anger
as in terror. " Keep a civil tongue in
your head, Matthew, or it will be the
worse for all of us. There is treason
enough and heresy enough talked in
this store to give a'l the hamlets over
to the Couriers, and we may be sent
a-begging before we know it with our
wives and our children."

But to this protest Mark of Seyssel
himself made answer, speaking for
the first time : —
"Jean Fisherman, if you do not
like the talk here, you need not stay
here. If you have any gossip to re
tail to the Courier or the Viguier
you had better go and retail it, and
good riddance to you. I am master
ofthishovel.anditis my castle ; when
I am afraid of my guests, I will turn
them out-doors. Till I am afraid of
them, they will not check each other's
talk. For my own part," said the
burly collier, "I am quite of black-
eyed Matt's mind, and I drink his
very good health. When the pot is
white, it may scold the kettle for be
ing black ; but while the priests and
the abbots send men from their homes
because they feed the poor, when they
take their houses and steal their goods
to make themselves comfortable, why,
if they do go to the Holy Land with
his Grace the King and his Holiness
the Bishop, I am afraid they will carry
no better Gospel than they left be
hind. For my part I wish I could see
men here live as the saints lived, be
fore they go to whip the Saracens
into living so." And the stout
collier took from the settle by him
a tankard from which he had been
drinking, passed it to black-eyed
Matthew, as he called the bow-ma
ker, and bade him give to the others
to drink in their turn.
It was just as he had done this,
that there was heard at the heavy
doorway the sharp rap of the handle
of Gualtier's riding-whip, and on the
instant the charcoal-burner bade him
enter. The man seemed a little sur
prised at the sight of his own daughter
with the stranger. The child clearly
felt that her duty was done. She
dropped a courtesy, and was off to the
shelter of the shrubbery in an instant.

In His Name.

31

The collier offered Gualtier a seat by
the fire. But the whole assembly was
hushed, so that no one would have
guessed that they were all in talk so
eager only the moment before.
" Are you Mark the collier? " naid
the messenger. " I am told that you
can direct me to the house of Father
Jean of Lugio."
" Eh ? " was the only reply of the
stout collier, who but just now was
so voluble, and was defending so
volubly the sacred rights of volubil
ity in others.
" I have been riding, at my best,
to find Father Jean of Lugio. I am
told he makes his home in these
parts. And he is needed, sorely
needed, to-day in Lyons. I have a
message for him here."
" Eh?" was the grunt again, which
the fuller explanation extorted from
the collier. Gualtier was surprised.
He had never seen this man, but he
had not supposed him to be an idiot.
And he had certainly supposed that
a person who transacted so much
business in the valley would have
some knowledge of the Provencal.
But he repeated his explanation, and
more at length, in the hill dialect, in
which he had spoken to the collier's
children. " Eb? " was the stupid reply as be
fore. But then the clown looked up
heavily upon the others, and in the
same language said, " Boys, do you
hear what the gentleman says ? Do
any of you know anything of this
Jean of Lugio, this father whom he
has come to see ? "
The men looked stupidly upon
each other, as if the}' could not un
derstand this dialect any more than
he could understand the Provencal of
the miller.
Gualtier looked round to see if one
face were any more intelligent than

the others. Then he took from his
pocket six or eight pieces of silver,
tossed them in the air, and caught
them again in his hand. Speaking in
the same dialect he said, " These are
for any good fellow who will go to
the house of the father for me ; and
here are as many more for any one
who comes back with him." But a
dead, stupid wonder, which hardly
counted for curiosity, was the only
emotion which seemed to be aroused ,
even by this unwonted display. Gual
tier of the Mill felt as if, even at the
last moment, he was foiled. " A tall
man," he said, " with a tonsure, and
the hair around it, as white as snow.
He bends a little as he walks, he is
so tall ; he favors his right foot in
walking." " Eh? " from Mark of Seyssel, was
the only answer.
Gualtier was provoked with him
self that he had not kept the child.
The child at least could speak, and
could understand. It seemed to him
that of the group of idlers there was
not one, no, not the stout head of the
castle himself, who seemed to take
the least interest in his mission. Far
less could tbey help him, if they had
chosen. Provoked with himself for letting
the child go, he walked again to the
door to see if he could trace her ; but
she was out of sight long ago. He
turned back, and the others were sit
ting as stolidly as he found them. On
the instant, however, the inspiration
came to him, and he saw that the
talisman by which he had succeeded
with her might be as effective with
these churls. In truth, the dulness
of the men had entirely deceived
him. He had lost his presence of
mind, and was fairly confused by the
charcoal-dealer's well-acted stupidity.
As Gualtier closed the door again,

32

In His Name.

he took up a bit of charcoal from the
floor, and, as if to amuse himself in a
careless habit, on the door itself drew
roughly a Roman cross, of which the
vertical line was not longer than the
cross bar, and then with a few touch
es improved upon it till it became
the Cross of Malta, with its sharp
points and re-entering angles at each
extremity.

Beneath the cross he wrote in La
tin the two words, " Amore Christi."
Before he had finished the inscrip
tion, the bow-maker had risen from
the ground and was putting on his
outer jerkin, as if to leave the fire.
Two others of the idlers, also, seemed
to have done all they had to do in
the cabin, and made as if they were
going away. Mark of Seyssel him
self said aloud, "It's nigh to noon,
and I shall sit here no longer. If
Franijo is, comes bid him ask the old
woman where I am." So saying he
brushed out by Gualtier, and as he
opened the door, said to him, " Come
away from them into the air." As
the miller followed him, he led the
way apart from ear-shot in the house,
and said, " You should have made
some signal before. There are men
in that hut that would gladly put the
Father in irons, and throw him into
the lake of Bourget. But you can
trust me, and indeed more than me,
if you come In His Name.'7
Then Gualtier told the awakened
savage who he was, and why he came ;
that he had in his hand what he
was told it was of the first importance

that the Father should know that he
had been bid to bring this missive : —
" For the love of Christ," and that
he had agreed to do so, "in his
name." He told Mark of Seyssel that
as token of his truth, he would trust
the parchment to him, and that he
might carry it to the master's hiding-
place ; that the master then could
make his own choice whether to come
or to refuse. " Only this I know, said
the miller, " that if he do not show
himself at this spot ready to mount
my horse here when the sun is at
noon, I see no use of his coming here
at all ; for the order is that he is to
cross the bridge at Lyons before the
sun goes down. You know, my
friend," said he, " that he is a brave
horseman who makes that distance in
that time."
The collier hurried away. The
rider returned into the hut and
threw himself on the ground by
Jean the fisherman. Jean was anx
ious enough to try to find out who
the stranger was, and to learn more
of the errand on which he had come ;
but Gualtier was as shrewd as he
was, parried question with question,
and for an hour the group was as
much in doubt as when he found them
as to his business. He had sense
enough to produce a flask of wine
from behind the saddle of his horse,
and offered this in token of good-
fellowship to the company. They
talked about the frost, about the
freshet, about the price of coal, about
the new mines of iron ; and they had
approached the central subject of the
great crusade again, when Mark of
Seyssel again entered the smoky
cabin. He took the place he had left by
the fire, and said to the miller, " I
have given to your horse all the oats
I had, and he has eaten them all."

In His Name.

33

He said this gruffly ; and those who
were not in the secret might well
imagine,' as he meant they should,
that his interview with the stranger
had related chiefly to his horse's wel
fare. Gualtier thanked him with the
good nature he had shown all along,
counted out copper enough to pay

for the oats, bade the party good-by,
and said he would go farther on his
journey. He crossed the opening to
the place where the horse was teth
ered, and there under the juniper-tree
to which he was fastened, he found,
as he had hoped to find, Father Jean
of Lugio.

CHAPTER VII.

JOHN OF LUGIO.

John of Lugio is one of the men
who did the world service wellnigh
inestimable in his clay, and who
is to-day by the world at large, for
gotten. When one reads in the Epis
tle to the Hebrews of men who had
trial of mockings and scourgings,
of bonds and imprisonments ; who
were destitute, afflicted, tormented ;
who wandered in deserts and moun
tains and dens and caves of the earth,
— ''of whom the world was not wor
thy," — one ought to remember for a
moment that he owes it to a few groups
of just such men, one of whom was this
forgotten John of Lugio, that he is
able to read those words at all, or is
indeed permitted to do so.
When Peter Waldo, the prosperous
merchant of Lyons, was first awak
ened to the value of the gospel for
all men around him, and saw their
ignorance of it as well, he gave him
self and his means not only to feed
ing the hungry and finding homes
for the homeless, but to .wayside in
struction in the words of Christ. He
found one and another version of
parts of the Old and New Testament
in the Romance language. The very
oldest specimen of that language
which we have to-day is a paraphrase,
of a generation or two before Peter
Waldo's time, of the Bible history. It

is known by the name of the " Noble
Lesson." The troubadours, whom we
are wont to think of as mere singers
of love songs and roihances, were
in those days quite as apt to sing
these sacred songs, and they carried
from place to place a more distinct
knowledge of the Bible stories than
the people gained in churches.
Peter Waldo undertook to improve
the popular knowledge of the Bible
thus gained. This was an important
part of his enterprise. He had him
self a sufficient knowledge of Latin
to read the Latin Vulgate. To trans
late this into the language of Prov
ence, he gained the assistance of
three intelligent priests, all of them
in office in Lyons. They were Bernard
of Ydros, Stephen of Empsa, and
John of Lugio, with whom tbe reader
is now to become acquainted. Neither
of the three supposed that there was
anything exceptional in their enter
prise, as how should they ? They and
their friend were at work to teach the
common people the " Word of God "
more simply and perfectly, and what
better could they do ? Of the three,
Stephen undertook the work of trans
lation especially ; John examined
the other translations and compared
them with Stephen's, — he studied
the critics, sought in every direction

34

In His Name.

the best authorities, and made this
new Bible of the people as perfect
as careful scholarship and the best
learning of the time could do. Ber
nard took the more humble part of
transcribing the text agreed upon, —
more humble but not less important.
Probably a careful explorer in the old
convent libraries of the South of
France might now find his patient
manuscripts, even after the ruthless
destruction wrought by the persecu
tors of that century and the century
which followed. When Peter Waldo
made his journey to Rome, to ask for
the benediction of the Pope on their
labors, one or all of these men prob
ably accompanied him. As has been
said already, the Pope was only too
glad to find that such assistance in
the organization of religion was
raised up among the laymen of Lyons.
The scheme prepared was very much
like that which St. Francis proposed
only a few years later ; where it dif
fered from his, it differed in a more
broad and generous understanding of
the needs of the great body of the
people. If only the bishop and chapter of
Lyons had been equal to the
exigency ! But, alas, they were not
equal to it. To them the great real
ity of religion was their newly-bought
temporal power over the city and
country. The interference of mer
chants, whether as almoners or as lay
readers in the affairs of the city, was
no part of their plan. They had not
bought out the Count, of Forez, and
freed themselves from his dictation,
to be dictated to now by a set of fana
tics within their own wall. They there
fore, as has been said, refused all ap
proval to the far-seeing plans of Peter
Waldo; they excommunicated him
and his, confiscated their property,
and drove them from their homes.

Such crises try men's souls, and it
is from such fires that tempered metal
only comes out uninjured. Of the
four men who had worked together
in the distribution of the new Bible,
two were taken and two were left.
Peter Waldo endured the loss of all
things, travelled over the world of
Europe, and left everywhere his great
idea of a Bible for the people, and of
a church in which layman as well as
priest was a minister to God. Ber
nard and Stephen could not stand the
test. They made their peace with
the authorities of the Lyonese church,
and no man knows their after history.
John of Lugio, whom we ask the
reader of these lines to remember
among the men of whom the world
of his own time was not worthy, never
turned back from the plough. He
had consecrated his life to this idea
of a free Bible. To this idea he gave
his life. It would be hard to name
any city of Central Europe, even as
far as Bohemia, which did not profit
by his counsels and his studies. And
when John Huss went to the stake, in
loyalty to the same idea, he and the
men around him were willing to ac
knowledge their obligation to John of
Lugio and to Peter Waldo.
The priest stood waiting for the
miller, curious to know what man
ner of man he was who had so reso
lutely brought the message which he
held. He was not himself dressed
in the costume of .any ecclesiastical
order. Nor was he, on the other hand,
dressed as any nobleman, far less
as any soldier of the time would have
been. He might have been taken
for some merchant's messenger, sent
back from Lyons into the country
on a message about flax or woollen.
His white hair appeared below a
traveller's hat ; his tonsure of course
was invisible. His surcoat was

In His Name.

35

tightly buttoned, as for a cold ride.
There was nothing in the color
or in the fashion of his costume
such as would challenge tbe remark
of any wayfarer.
"lam not Jean Waldo's own mes
senger," was the immediate reply of
Gualtier of the Mill, to his first in
quiry ; " I am only, as you see, a
'Poor Man of Lyons,' who was recog
nized as such by our secret password
when the messenger to whom Jean
Waldo gave this mission .fell with
his good horse almost at my house
door. It was clear enough that if
the message meant anything it meant
speed. This Prinhac crossed the draw
bridge at Lyons before daybreak,
because the bridge was held by one
of our people ; but one cannot tell
if there shall be any such good fortune
this evening. The bridge may be
held by your worst enemy. Why!
you have scant five hours to make
these twelve leagues which have cost
us wellnigh seven hours. True, you
have to go down the hills, which we
have had to climb. Your horses
will be ready, while ours had to be
groomed and saddled. But, holy fa
ther, it will not answer to have any
horse fall under you; for, if I un
derstand the message I have brought,
it is not every lay-brother who can
take your place to-night at yon
girl's bedside."
Father John would not even s'mile.
" The Lord will direct," he said, " and
the Lord will provide. Whether ray
journey helps or hinders, only the
Lord knows. But it seems to be His
work. For the love of Christ I am
summoned, and in his name I go.
Young man," he added, as Gualtier
of the Mill adjusted for him the stir
rups of the noble horse who was to
bear him, " when I left Lyons, they
burned in the public square the pre

cious books to which I had given
twenty of the best years of this lit
tle life. What I could do for God
and his Holy Church, they vainly
tried to destroy. They compelled
me to part from my own poor ; from
the widows whose tears were sacred ;
from the orphans I had taught and
had fed ; from humble homes, which
are as so many temples to me of
God's well-beloved Son. I said then,
as their mocking Viguier led me to
the draw-bridge, which I am to pass
to-night, and bade me ' Begone,' — I
said, I will not see you henceforth
till the day in which ye shall say,
' Blessed is he that cometh in the
name of the Lord.' Young man,
this Jean Waldo to whose household
I am bidden lifted no hand for me
that day, nor for his kinsman, my
noble friend, nor for one of the Poor
Men of Lyons, or her Poor Women
or Children. But time brings its
recompense ; and to-day he is praying
God that I may come in time. Fa
ther Almighty, hear and answer his
prayer ; and grant thy servant wis
dom and strength to render some
service this day somewhere to thy
children." The Miller reverently said "Amen."
The priest made the sign of the
cross, and blessed him in parting,
and then was gone.
That is a curious experience in
which a man of fifty-five enters on
an entei prise such as he has not
tested for thirty years. He feels as
young as ever, if he be a man of pure
life. The spirit of man never grows
old ; it seems, indeed, to grow young,
when it becomes as a little child
every day. But John of Lugio knew
that, when he was five-and-twenty,
he would not have put his foot into
the stirrup to spring into the saddle.
He knew that he would not for such

3G

In His Name.

a day's adventure have girt on the
surcoat he was wearing. "It is as
well," he said to the spirited horse
who bore him, " it is as well that you
are not thirty years older than the
gray stallion who bore me the last
day I ever saw the great Bernard."
And the memory of that day of his
youth, and of its contrast with to
day, pleased him and engaged him for
more than one mile. And any lead
er of men who should have watched
his skill in handling his horse, and
making the most of every advantage
in the way, would have chosen the
white-haired priest as he would hard
ly have chosen any younger man for
service like this which engaged him.
As physical strength declines, — and
it does decline after the physical man
is forty-five years old, — still experi
ence, tact, habit of hand and eye, are
all improving in a man well-governed
and self-poised. And John of Lugio
had not yet reached that age when the
declining curve of physical strength
crosses the ascending curve of expe
rience and skill. There was not
among all the crusaders who at that
moment were trying a winter in Pal
estine, or on the way thither, one
knight or squire more fit for hard}*-,
active service than was he.
An hour's quick riding brought
him to St. Rambert, where the Bre-
von, scarcely more than a brook, joins
tbe larger stream called the Albarine.
It was even then a quaint old town,
which is just what the traveller would
call it now. Its name is a corruption
of that of St. Raynebert, a son of
the Duke Radbert, a martyr of five
centuries before John of Lugio's time
and day. Before his time there had
been some worship of Jupiter on the
hills above, and the name of the old
god lingered in the title " Joux,"
which hung even to the saint's

name. St. Rambert de Joux was
the name by which everybody knew
the village. The brook plunges and
rages in a series of cascades down
a narrow valley, and the rider took a
pathway down, which seemed wholly
familiar to him, which led him under
the walls of the Benedictine abbey.
As he passed the gate, two of the
brethren, in the costume of the order,
came out after' their noonday refec
tion, and in the narrow pathway
could not but look upon the rider's
face, as he on them. They recognized
him in an instant.
" Whither so fast, Brother John? "
This was their salutation.
It was impossible not to draw bri
dle. And the first welcome of the
two, impelled perhaps by the very
suddenness of their meeting, was so
cordial, that one must have been
more cynical by far than John of
Lugio not to respond with warmth
and kindness. " My brother Ste
phen, my brother Hugh, are you two"
here ? I was thinking of the breth
ren, but I did not know that you
were so near. Father Ambrose does
not send to me to tell me the names
of the new arrivals."
" Father Ambrose will never send
you the names of new arrivals more.
He lies behind the chapel yonder, and
we shall lay his body in the grave
to-morrow." This was the imme
diate answer ; and then there was
an instant's pause, as they all rec
ognized the awkwardness of their
position. John of Lugio was excommuni
cate. Whether they might speak to
him in friendship was almost a ques
tion. That they ought in strictness
to denounce him, and report to their
superiors his presence in a town
from which he had been formally ban
ished — of this there could be no

In His Name.

37

question. But the two monks were
men and were Christians before they
were monks, and with Jean both of'
them were united by old ties. " Will
you rest your horse — will you rest
yourself?" said Stephen, bravely. " I
will take him myself into the stable,
and Hugh will be only too glad to
find you a cold dinner in the refec
tory. Your horse has travelled far ;
he will not be the worse for groom
ing." " He must travel farther before he
is groomed — and I. But I shall
travel the lighter, Stephen, for the
kind words you speak ; and you will
sleep the easier that you have spoken
them. Do you, too, do your work,
and I will do mine ; and we will let
nothing that men can do or can say
part us. No — I must not stop. I
would not put you two in danger by
accepting your service, if I could ;
out I must clo what few men do in
these degenerate days, and cross
the long bridge at Lyons before the
sun goes down. Take the blessings
of a Poor Man of Lyons, of a here
tic, excommuni ate ! God bless you,
my brother — and you ! "
'' God bless you, John ; God bless
you !" said the two, as they made way
for his horse.
" It is for the love of Christ that
1 am speeding " said he, tenderly ;
" pray in your prayers to-day for the
Father's blessing on me ' in his
name.'" And they parted. If the monks
were startled by the adventure, and
they were,, none the less was John
of Lugio startled by it. He was not
afraid of them. He had seen too
clearly that the voice of the Holy
Spirit had spoken to both of them
more loudly than any rule or inter
dict. He knew that both of them
would confess the sin of concealing

his presence ; that both of them
would loyally do the penances ap
pointed. He knew as well that nei
ther of them would betray him, while
betrayal would endanger him ; and
that neither of them, in his heart' of
hearts, would ever be sorry for the
silent service rendered to him that
day. t
The adventure set him upon other
thought than sympathy with them.
Had he gratified the wishes and pas
sion of his youth, his home would
have been at this hour within those
walls. He would have been the
senior of every man, except Ste
phen, in that fraternity.' He knew
them all, — yes, and he knew perfect
ly well that not one of them affected
to be his equal in the scholarship
and learning to which the abbey was
devoted. Humanly speaking, on
the Abbot Ambrose's death, he him
self, John of Lugio, would have be
come his successor, the lord of this
lovely estate, the director in these
noble ministries, the first student in
these happy cloisters, if — if he had
only obeyed the wish of his heart
thirty years ago, and given himself
here to student life !
But instead of that, Jean of Lugio
had given himself to the immediate
help of the Poor Men of Lyons . He
had turned away from the fascina
tion of study, to make the weavers
and dyers and boatmen of Lyons
purer men and happier ; to bring com
fort and life into their homes, and to
make simpler their children's path to
heaven. He had done this with his
eyes open. He had turned away
from the Abbey of Cornillon, and
had made himself God's minister in
the hovels of Lyons. And of this
the reward was, that this day he haz
arded his life by going back to
Lyons to render one service more,

38

In His Name.

while he might have been waiting,
as the senior in the fraternity, within
those happy abbey walls, to render
fit service at the Abbot Ambrose's
grave. If — and the picture of half a life
came in upon that if. But to John
of Lugio that picture brought no re
grets. He had chosen as his God
directed him. In calmness he had
foreseen what in the heat of conflict
he had seen, and what he now looked
back upon. Foreseeing, — seeing or
looking back, — it was the picture of
duty bravely done. A nd Father Jean
passed down from under the walls of
the abbey without a sigh or a tear.
The road still follows the stream,
and the valley is by no means
straight. Its curves are picturesque
enough, but they do not lead a trav
eller very directly. He passed along
the face of Mount Charvet, left the
village of Serrieres on his left, and
came, before he dared to hope,
to the new Castle of Montferrand.
By a sudden determination he rode
abruptly to the castle gate ; and find
ing no warden, called loudly to a lit
tle boy whom he saw within, and
bade him summon either a porter or
some officer of the baron's house
hold. The truth was, that as he tried
the Baron of Meximieux's noble
gray stallion on one and another
pace in descending the steep slopes
from St. Rambert, it became pain
fully clear that the horse had done
his work for that day. The miller
had pressed him, perhaps, harder
than he meant or knew ; and, what
ever care he had taken, the good
horse had made near ten leagues,
with only the hour's rest which had
been given him at the cabin of Mark
of Seyssel. If the priest were to
succeed in the task assigned to him,

he must make better speed than in
the last hour he had made. This
certainty determined his bold appeal
at the castle.
A summons so hearty roused all
its inmates, and they appeared at one
or another door or corridor with that
curiosity which in all times draws out
the inhabitants of a lonely countiy-
house, when there is chance to look
upon some unexpected face, no mat
ter of what human being. The
Baron of Montferrand himself made
his appearance. He was not dressed
as if for King Philip's court, or for
the Emperor's. In truth, he had
spent the morning in the occupation
— not very lordly, as we count lords,
but perfectly baronial in the customs
of his time — of directing the ser
vants, who flayi'd and cut to pieces a
fat boar which they had brought in
at the end of yesterday's hunting.
From this occupation, in which he
had himself personally assisted, the
baron had been called to dinner ; and
he had dined without the slightest
thought of revising or improving his
toilet. Before dinner was fairly
over, he had fallen asleep in the
chair, not uncomfortable, in which he
sat at the head of the table. He was
roused from his nap by the hurrying
of one and another servant, as it
was announced that a stranger was
at the gate. A stranger in those
days of December was not a frequent
intruder. John of Lugio was already talking
with porter and seneschal. He was
not displeased to see the baron ap
proach him. The old man came
bareheaded, and without any outer
garment, beyond what he had worn
at table, to protect him from the
cold The traveller knew him on the
instant ; had seen him more than
once in one or another journey up

In His Name.

39

or down this valley, and, indeed, in
closer intimacies, in the ministry of
more than thirty years. But the
baron, not caring a great deal for
priests, and not having a great deal
to do with them, did not for an in
stant suspect that the hardy rider
with whom he had to do wore a ton
sure, or had more than once lifted
the consecrated chalice before him at
the mass. He saluted the stranger
somewhat abruptly, but still cour
teously, and invited him to dismount
and rest himself.
" I thank you for your courtesy,
my Lord," was the reply. " But my
errand requires haste, as you will
see. I am bidden to Lyons this very
night, and that on service which
brooks no delay. I had hoped that
this horse, which is from the stables
at Meximieux, would take me thith
er, and there a fresh beast waits me ;
but I have already taken from him
the best that be can give, and he
will make slow work of the long
reach that is left for me. This is
why I have stopped here : to ask, not
your hospitality, but your help. If
I may leave this good horse, and if
you have another which will take me
down the valley, you shall have my
hearty thanks, and the blessings of
the home where they need me."
" You tell your story frankly," said
the baron ; and with a stiff oath he
added, " if I gave horses to every
vagabond from the troop of Mexi
mieux, I should have few horses left
to give." Without farewell or apol
ogy, he turned to go back to his
dining-hall. " Pardon me, my Lord," persisted
Father John, without the slightest
passion or haste in his voice. " I am
no man of the Baron of Meximieux.
I am no man's man. I am sent for
on a work of mercy, because one

Jean Waldo thinks that I can save
his child's life. If I am to serve
her, I must be in Lyons to-night. If
I am there, the service will be yours,
not mine."
" If I should give horses to every
beggar who chooses to ride out of
Lyons, I should have no horses to
give," said the baron. Like many
men of little invention, he had been
so much pleased by the cadence of
his first retort, that he could not but
try its force again. But the repeti
tion of the insult gave the father
courage. A man truly resolved
does not say the same thing twice.
Most likely he does not speak twice
at all.
" I am no beggar from Lyons, or
no servant of the Lyons merchant.
Lyons does not love me, nor is there
any reason but what I tell why I
should care to enter Lyons. But if
you had a daughter dying, my Lord
Baron, and Jean Waldo could send
her a physician, you would be glad
to have him send, though you never
saw his face, and though you do not
love his craft or his city. Can you
not do as you would be done by ?"
He had perhaps gained his point,
though the baron, with a stupid no
tion that he must maintain his dig
nity in the presence of his own ser
vants, tried to do so by a certain de
lay, which would have exasperated a
person of less experience and less
balance than Father John.
" How am I to know," said the
wavering Montferrand, " that you are
the leech you say you are ? What is
your token? If I am to give a horse
to every quack who rides between
Amberieux and St. Rambert, I should
have no horses left to give."
" I have no token, my Lord. A
man who has spoken truth for forty
years, going up and down this val-

40

In His Name.

ley, needs no token that he does not
lie " He took off his hat as he spoke,
and showed the tonsure. " You have
received Christ's body from this hand,
my Lord. You know that these lips
will not speak falsely to you." And
then, watching his man carefully, and
noticing a change come on his face
at the mention of tbe Saviour, he
added as if by intention, and almost
in a whisper : " It is for the love of
Christ that I ask the best horse in
your stables. "
" Saddle Chilperic ! Saddle Chil-
peric ! Why are you clowns gaping
and sneezing there? Saddle Chil
peric ! I say, and take this gentle
man's good horse where he can be
cared for. Take my hand*, father,
take my hand. Gently — so — you
are stiff from riding. Come into the
hall and let the baroness have a
word with you 1 Chilperic will not
be ready for a minute, and you will
at least drink a glass of wine ! If it
only shows that you do not bear
malice, you will drink a glass of
wine ! We ar.' rough fellows, we hill
barons, and we speak when we do
not think, F'ather. But, indeed, in
deed, I would have been more ready
had you summoned me
'In His Name.'" '
And he crossed himself as he passed
the threshold.
In those surroundings, in the com
pany in which they were, the baron
did not dare question the priest fur
ther, nor explain bow he had been
initiated into the secret fraternity by
the password of which he had been
adjured. Nor did he care to say
much to explain the inconsistency of
his brutal refusal of one moment,
when it was compared with his ready
tenderness at the next. Perhaps it
is best for all of us that we do not

have to reconcile such inconsisten
cies as ofteT as we are conscious of
them. Onca more he pressed the
priest to refresh himself with wine,
and he called loudly on his wife to
join in his rough welcome as he en
tered the hall.
The little woman came forward,
bending somewhat with rheumatism
more than age, but with freshness
and quickness, and with all the cour
tesy and dignity of noble breeding.
Whether the grooms and other ser
vants, and the idlers in the court-yard,
had guessed the secret of the baron's
sudden change of purpose, or had
failed to guess it, she, who had seen
the whole from her open easement,
understood it all in a flash. Now
that Father John entered the room
she recognized him in an instant, as
the baron had not done. But she
knew very well that his liberty and
possibly even his life depended on
his passing on his errand unrecog
nized by her servants, and her perfect
manner, therefore, was exactly what
it would have been had he been
any other person — ; a friend of the
Lyonese weaver — summoned in hot
haste to his daughter's bedside. She
dropped her courtesy, advanced to
take the hat of the traveller, begged
him to sit at her husband's side at
the head of the table, and with her
own hand poured the wine from the
coarse jug which held it, into the
highly-wrought cup which the bus
tling baron had found for his guest.
" I heard something said of a lady —
a girl — a sick girl. Is there nothing
I can send from our stores? I could
in a moment put up maiden-wort, or
rosemary, or St. Mary's herb, if your
revereace will only take them."
But the Father thanked her and
declined. His friends in f.yons must
have at their command such drugs

In His Name.

41

as could be of service, if anything
can be of service indeed.
"Ah, sir," she said, " if only you
will render service to them, like the
blessing you once gave to me ! "
" To you ! " and he looked amazed
into those sharp little black eyes,
which twinkled under eyebrows snow
white with the same liveliness as if
she were still sixteen years old.
" To me ! " she said again ; and as
he looked with undisguised ignor
ance of her meaning, it was impos
sible that she should not smile, and
she hastily wiped away from the lit
tle eyes the tears that at first filled
them. " Ah, you do not remember,
my Father. It is a shame for a
knight to forget a lady whose colors
he has worn, — may a priest forget a
lady whom he has served in tbe last
extremity ? " And she fairly laughed
at his perplexity.
" Ah, Madame ! you must pardon
what time does, and exile. W hoever
it is, I can see that you carry the
secret of perpetual youth, but I lost
that long ago. It is very long since
I was in the castle of Montferrand,
long before you were ever here, my
lady." " Chilperic will be ready before
you guess me out," said she ; " and,
as your errand presses, I will tell
you, if you will promise when it is
over to stay as many weeks in the
castle, as you have now spent min
utes here. It is fair to remind you
of the day when a girl with a scarlet
cape, and a girl with a blue cape,
and a girl with no cape at all, went
sailing down the river with two
young squires and with a very fool
ish page, from- the home of the
Barons of Braine. And have you
forgotten — "
•' Alix ! Alix de Braine ! It is im
possible that I should have forgotten !

But that you are here is as strange
as that I am here. Where the four
others are, perhaps you know ! "
" Chilperic is ready, my Lord."
This was the interruption of the groom
at the door,
" Chilperic is ready, and life and
death compel me to go on. Dear
Lady Alix, you ask me to be your
guest. You do not know, then, that
if I had drunk from this cup of wine,
you would share my excommunica
tion ; that if I slept under this roof,
you could never enter church again ;
no, not to be borne there on your
bier ! "
" Did I not know it?" whispered
tbe brave little woman. " Did I not
know that you were journeying ' For
the love of Christ,' and do not my
husband and I beg you to stay with
us as his guest and ours ? Our re
quest is made, and our welcome will
be given 'In His Name."'
And they parted.

The baron had already left the
hall. When the priest stepped into
the court-yard, and as he put his foot
in the stirrup, he saw to his surprise
that his host had already mounted
another horse, and was waiting for
him, himself ready equipped for a
winter's expedition. A heavy fox-
skin jacket had been thrown over the
dress, none too light, which he wore
before, and he had in the moment of
his absence drawn on riding boots
also. The father acknowledged the cour
tesy, but expressed his unwillingness
to give to his host such trouble. He
was glad of his company, he said,
but really he needed no protection.
" Protection ! I think not, while

42

In His Name.

you are on or are near the territory
of Montferrand." This was the
baron's reply, with the addition of
one or two rough oaths, untranslata
ble either into our language or into
the habit of this page, but such as,
it must be confessed, shot like a sort
of lurid thread into tbe web-wqrk of
all the poor man's conversation. " I
should not like to see prfacker or
peasant who would say a rough word
to any man whom he saw riding on
one of my horses. No, my father,
it is not to protect you that I ride,
but to talk with you. We hill barons
are rough fellows, as I said, but we
are not the clowns or the fools that
the gentry of the chapter choose to
think us. Meximieux here has tried
to cheat me ab :ut the fish, and has
sent his falcons after my herons a
dozen times, so that I have not
spoken to him or to his for fifteen
years before he wi>nt off on this Holy
Land tomfoolery, — I beg your rever ¦
ence's pardon for calling it so. But
I will say of Meximieux himself, that
he is neither clown nor fool, and if I
were to have to strike at King Saladin
or any of his Emirs, I had rather
Meximieux were at my side than any
of the dandy-jacks I saw the day
the bridge went down. We are rough
fellows, I say," — and here he tried
to pick up the thread which he had
dropped a long breath before, but
'he tried not wholly successfully, —
" we are rough fellows, I say ; but
when a man of courage and of heart
like your reverence comes to see us,
and that is none too often, we are
glad to learn something of what he
has learned, and we would fain an
swer his questions if he have any to
put to us."
" But I must say to you, my Lord,
as I said to the Lady Alix, that to
help me on my way is to put your

self under the ban. I was recog
nized within this hour by two of
tbe monks in the abbey of Cornillon
yonder, old and intimate friends of
mine. Perhaps they will not de
nounce me, but the first fishermen
we meet may, or the first shepherd's
boy. For I have trudged up and
down this valley too often for me to
be a stranger here. It is n -t fair
that I should expose you, for your
courtesy, to the punishment which
is none too easy upon me."
" Punishment be  ! " said the
baron, with an oath again. Nor did
the excellent man even condescend
to the modern foolery of asking the
clergyman's pardon for such excesses,
— " it is no great punishment to a
hill baron to tell him that he shall
never enter a church. It is some
little while since I have troubled
them, even now. And if it should
happen that this old carcass should
rot on the hill-side where it happens
to fall, why that is neither more nor
less than is happening this very winter
to many a gallant fellow who went on
their fool's errand — I beg your par
don — against the Saracen. To tell
the truth, sir, I want to talk about
this very business, — of your pun
ishment, as you call it, and of what
I and other good fellows are to dd,
who hold that you and your friends
are right, and that the soup-guzzling,
wine-tippling, book-burning, devil-
helping gowned men down in the
city yonder are all wrong." It was
with a good deal of difficulty that he
worked through this long explana
tion, even with the help which his
swearing seemed to give him. But
there could be no doubt that he was
very much in earnest in making it.
He seemed to be helped by the tre
mendous pace at which the two horses,
who had been caged in the stables

In His Name.

4?

for two or three days, were taking
them over a stretch of level road.
'• I do not know what I can tell
you," said the priest, who seemed to
be as little disturbed as the baron
was by the rapidity of their pace,
and rode as if he had been born on
horseback. " I cannot tell you what
to do, because I hardly know what
I am to do myself — except wait.
I wait till the good Lord shall open
brighter days, as in His Day he will.
Meanwhile, from day to day, I do
what my hand finds to do, ' For the
Love of Christ, ' or
' In His Name.' "
"All very fine of you, my Fa
ther," said the other, a little chas
tened perhaps by his temperance of
tone. " All very fine of you, who
have something to do for the ' love of
Christ.' You can go hither or thith
er, and every man has, as my wife
Alix there had, some story to tell of
the cure you have wrought or the
comfort you have given. But that is
nothing to me. It is not every day
that I have a chance to beard the
damned rascals in their own hell
hole, by giving a horse from my
stables to one of these men they are
hunting. I wish to God it were ! "
And the baron's rage rose so that he
became unintelligible, as the horses
forged along.
When the priest caught his drift
again, he was saying, " If it had not
been such damned nonsense, all
nursery tales and chapman's stuff
and priest's gabble, — I beg your par
don, sir, — I would have left the whole
crew of them. Thirty men in good
armor can I put on horseback, Sir
Priest, and though they should not
be all as well mounted as is your
reverence, yet not one of the dogs
should cross a beast but was better

than those which that hog of a Mex
imieux rode and led, when he fol
lowed the Archbishop to the Holy
Land. Enough better," he added,
with a chuckle, " than that waddling
oil-sack that I saw the Archbishop
himself ambling out of Lyons upon.
I tell you I would have gone to these
wars gladly, if I could have thought
there were fewer Archbishops in the
armies, and more men with heads
upon their shoulders. But I told
Alix, said I, they are all fools that
are not knaves, and all knaves that
are not fools; and, if King Saladin
eats them all, the world will be the
better for it. No matter for them,
your reverence. Now the Arch
bishop is gone, could not a few of
us, — perhaps Servctte yonder, Blon,
I think, and very likely Montluel,
no matter for names, — suppose
we put two hundred good men in
saddle, and take down as many more
spearmen witli tough ash lances.
Suppose we raised a cross of our
own, such a cross as this, your rev
erence," and he made the criss-cross
sweep up and down, and then from
right to left, by which all these affili
ated men and women denoted the
cross of Malta. Suppose we rode
into Lyons some moonlight evening,
shouting that we came " For the Love
of Christ," do you not think that
there are as many stout weavers and
dock-men and boatmen, and other
good fellows there, who would turn
out 'In His Name'?"
Then when he saw that the priest
did not answer, he added, " I tell
you, Father, we would send their
seneschals and their viguiers and
their couriers and their popinjay
men-at-arms scattering in no time;
we would smoke the old pot- bellies

44

In His Name.

out of their kitchens and refectories,
and we would bring the Poor Men of
Lyons home to their own houses, to
the House of Bread and the House
of God, quite as quick as they were
driven out." All this, with a scat
tered fire of wild oaths, which added
to tbe droll incongruity of what the
good fellow was saying.
If John of Lugio had been a mere
ecclesiastic, he would have said,
" Ah, my friend, they who take the
sword must perish with the sword."
And then the poor baron, who had
perhaps never spoken at such length
in his life before, would have shrunk
back into his shell, cursed himself
for a fool and his companion for
another, and never would have un
derstood why an offer so promising
was refused. But John of Lugio
was not a mere ecclesiastic, nor was
he any other sort of fool. He was a
man of God, indeed, but he showed
in this case, as in a thousand others,
as in his whole life he showed, that
he knew how to tell God's messages
to all sorts of men. " My Lord," said
he, " perhaps you are right in think
ing that these kings and barons and
archbishops and bishops, aud all the
•rest of the pilgrims who have gone
to the Holy City, will never get there.
Perhaps you are right in thinking
that if they ride down fifty thou
sand Saracens and burn the houses
of filty thousand more, they will not
teach the Saracens any very good
lesson of God's love or of God's
son. I believe you are right, or I
would have gone when my old friend
the Archbishop went. But suppose
we rode into Lyons in the same fash
ion ; suppose we drove out the chap
ter, as the chapter drove us out ; sup
pose we stole their horses, as they
stole ours, — why all the world would
have a right to say worse things of

the ' Poor Men of Lyonsf than it has
ever said till now. No ! no ! my
Lord," he said, after a moment;
" leave it to time and to the good God
above there. No fear that this arch
bishop will ' prosper too leng, or this
chapter ; and for me, what more can
I ask than as good a friend as I have
found this day? And for you, what
more can you ask than such a home
as Montferrand, and such a wife as
the Lady Alix?"
But the baron was hardly disposed-
to turn off, with a laugh, tbe plan
which seemed to him so promising.
He began upon it again ; he even
showed to his friend that he had
thought it out in detail. He knew
how large a guard was here and how
large there ; how many of the -best
men-at-arms were in Syria with the
Archbishop ; and how poor were the
equipments of those who were left at
home. " In old times," he said,
"the Count of Forez would have
been at our backs, but now, who
knows but he would strike a stout
blow on our side? There is not a
man this side Marseilles who would
be more glad than he to see these
black-bellied hornets smoked out of
their hives."
The Father listened as courteously
as before, but as firmly. He seemed
to think that a little authority might
well be exerted now, and he said
simply : "My Lord. I warn you that
you are thinking of what \ ou must
not think of If what you propose
were the right thing to do. you would
have been warned of it before now
by those in authority. Till you are,
and till I am, we must let monks,
priests, and bishops alone."
And Montferrand supposed, per
haps he supposed rightly, that some
where the "Poor Men of Lyons " had
a council and a master, wiser than he

In His Name.

45

was, who would some day give him a
signal when he might gallop on this
road on the back of Chilperic, with
every man whom he could put in the
saddle, ready for a raid into Lyons.
The baron was not yet trained enough
in trusting Providence to know that
the only authority to which John of
Lugio would ever defer, was an au
thority far above chapter, archbishop,
king, or pope.
He turned the subject, therefore, a
little uneasily, to the eternal ques
tion of the crusade. Did his rever
ence think the troopers would soon
be home again? and did he think
they would find the sword of Saladin
so weak? and all the other questions
of the home gossip of the day.
Meanwhile, on all the road which
did not absolutely forbid speed, the
two horses flew along, much as Barbe
Noire had flown that morning, and
with no such fatal issue. The ride
was a short one, indeed, before they
entered the court-yard of the Castle
of Meximieux. Here was the horse
of Gualtier of the Mill, saddled,
bridled, and waiting for his rider.
" Sixteen years since I saw the
inside of this court ! " said Mont
ferrand, as he swung himself off his
horse, and as he wiped his forehead.
"The tall tree yonder has been
planted since then. As I remember
the court, my man, there was not a
green twig in it."
The servant bowed, and said that
the trees which the baron saw had
all been there when he came into the
stable service, but, as the baron saw,
they were not very old.
" Sixteen years ! " said the rugged
old chief again. "It was fifteen
years ago at Michaelmas that I asked
Meximieux if he would make the fish
good to me, and he swore he would
do no such thing. And I have not

spoken to him from that day to this,
And now he is lying under some
fig-tree yonder, and I am standing
in his castle court. Your rever
ence, I should have said this morn
ing, that all the devils in hell could
not bring me into the shadow of
Meximieux's walls. And see what
you hare done."
" Ah, my lord," said the other,
who had already mounted ; " a mes
senger from heaven, though he be a
very humble one, can do a great deal
that the devils in hell cannot do.
And now, my lord, good-by. Give
a poor priest's best salutations to the
Lady Alix. And, my lord, when
Meximieux comes home, win a greater
victory than he has done. Ask him
if, ' For the love of Christ,' he will not
make it right about the fish, and see
what a pilgrim like him will answer,
' In His Name.' "
He gave the baron his hand, and
was gone. " As good a horseman,"
said the old man, " as ever served un
der King Philip. And I wonder how
many of them all are doing as good
service as he is this day ! "
Gualtier of the Mill had not exag
gerated the worth of the horse which
the priest mounted, and the horse
had never had a better rider. From
Meximieux to Lyons, the road was
and is more than seven leagues, but
the rider knew that it was by far the
easier part of the way, and, thanks
to Chilperic and the baron, he had
left full half the time allotted for his
journey. He had the hope also,
which proved well founded, that he
might not have to rely on the miller's
horse alone, but that he might find at
Miribel, or some other village on the
road, a fresh horse sent out to meet
him by Jean Waldo.
In this hope, he rode faster than
he would have dared to do, were he

46

In His Name.

obliged to use one horse for the whole
journey. A nd at a rapid rate, indeed,
and without companionship or adven
ture, he came to the hamlet which
the miller had left that morning,
where poor Prinhac's enterprise had
come to a conclusion so untimely.
The horse neighed his recognition of
some of his companions, as they en
tered the wretched hamlet, and, in a
moment more, the father saw Prinhac
himself, evidently waiting for him, in
tne shadow of the wall of the miller's
garden. The weaver stepped forward into
the roadway as John of Lugio ap
proached, and, with his little willow
switch, made in the air the mystic
sign. The priest drew bridle, and
the horse evidently knew that he was
at home. Prinhac and the priest had
never met before. The weaver ea
gerly asked the other if he were the
physician so much desired, and
thanked God as eagerly when he
knew that, so far, his mission had
not been in vain. " I would break
my collar-bone a dozen times, if I
could save my young mistress so
easily. And there is not another
boy on the looms or in the shops
but would say the same thing." He
told the priest hastily that he knew
little about the girl's disaster He
described to him his own route and
progress, and the miserable accident
by which he bad been delayed. He
added, "Nothing was said about
fresh horses, but I have been watch
ing for them all clay. You ought to
meet some one at Miribel, or, at the
worst, when you cross the river the
first time."
The priest asked him what he could
tell him about the girl's illness.
"Nothing — nothing. I know she
was as well as a bird at sunset ; I
Raw her and spoke to her as she came

singing down the hill. The next I
knew was, that my master woke me
in the dead of the dark, and asked
me for the love of Christ to bring to
you this message. Forgive me, fath
er, but if he had asked me to do it
for love of Mademoiselle Felicie, I
should have done it as willingly."
" Hast thou done it unto one of the
least of these, thou hast done it unto
me ! " Such was the half answer of the
priest, which, perhaps, the crippled
weaver understood. " I must not
stay, my good fellow ; if I am to be
of any use, I must go. I shall tell
the child how faithful a messenger
she found in you. God bless you,
and farewell."
The weaver was right in supposing
that a relay would await the physician
at Miribel He found there another
of Jean Waldo's men with another of
his horses. The man did not, of course,
recognize the physician, nor the horse
he rode ; but it was not difficult for
the priest, who was on the lookout
for him, to persuade him that it was
for him that Cceur-Blanc had been
saddled. The man had left Lyons
two hours before noon. His tidings
of his young mistress were scarcely
encouraging. She was no better, he
was sure of that The Florentine
doctor had not left her all the day,
nor her father or mother; he was
sure of that. His directions were
simply to wait for the priest at Mir-
•ibel, and to bid him mount Cceur-
' Blanc, while he was to bring home
Barbe-Noire as soon as might be. So
the good Father rode on alone. The
child was alive. So far was well.
For the rest, he had carried with him
all day that sinking of heart which
any man feels when he is called to
struggle with death, only because all
others have so far failed in that very
encounter.

In His Name.

47

CHAPTER VIII.

THE TROUBADOUR.

Freshly mounted, and well mount
ed too, the tired man bade the groom
good-by, and entered on his last hour
with that comfortable feeling which,
even to the most tired man, the last
hour brings. Alas ! it was the old
story, Prinhac's story of the morn
ing. He was, as it proved, in more
danger in this last hour, than he-
had been through all the rest of the
day. He was pushing over the meadows
of the valley at a sharp trot, when
he met a rider coming out from the
city, on a sorry-looking beast,, in the
rather jaunty or fantastic costume
which indicated that he was one of
the trouveres, or troubadours. The
man nodded good-naturedly, perhaps
a little familiarly. John of Lugio,
absorbed in the old-time memories
which the day had renewed, acknowl
edged the salutation with less famil
iarity, but with a sort of reserved
courtesy, taking, indeed, but little
real notice of the traveller as he did
so. The man pushed on cheerfully,
but, in a moment, stopped his horse,
turned, and scrutinized the priest
with care, and then making a speak
ing trumpet of both hands, hailed
him with : —
" Hola ! hola ! there ; will you halt
a minute ? "
Halting was not in John of Lu-
gio's schedule for that afternoon, if
he could help himself. He heard the
cry distinctly, but knew no reason
why he should stop at the demand of
a troubadour. On the other hand, he
would not seem to avoid- the other.
He did not turn for an instant, there
fore ; he did not spur his horse on
the olher hand, but he let him hold

to the sharp, rapid trot that he was
pursuing. The troubadour saw his haste, and
shouted only with the more eager
ness : —
" Hola, ! hola ! there ; halt ! halt ! "
But the well-mounted rider swept
along. The stranger screamed once more,
but saw that the other halted his
speed not by a second. He was, in
deed, out of any fair ear-shot by this
time. The troubadour fairly groaned.
He looked anxiously at the declining
sun, and resolved, on the instant, to
go in pursuit of the fugitive, even
with the wretched brute which he had
under him, who was but the poorest
competitor in a match with Jean
Waldo's powerful Arab on which the
priest was mounted.
For the priest himself, he did not
once turn round. It was not his part
to show anxiety, and, indeed, he did
not know that he was followed. But,
if he were followed, he did not mean
to be readily overtaken.
There is a little elevation in the
road, as it crosses the slope of a
spur of one of the northern hills,
and the moment that John of Lugio
knew that he was shielded by it from
the sight of any one on the flat
ground' behind, he pressed his horse
even to a gallop, and flew over the
ground at a speed which almost de
fied pursuit. Had this rate of going
lasted he would soon have found him
self at the Rhone again.
But no ; he had to draw bridle in
less than a mile, that his unusuai
rate of travel might not challenge
the curiosity of the loungers in a lit-

48

In His Name.

tie hamlet before him as the road
turned. Two or three horses were
tethered on the outside of a wine
shop, a boy seemed to be watching
them, and one or two idlers stood
by. John of Lugio hoped that he
might get by without attracting at
tention. No ! As he nodded civilly to the
by-standers, two men, half soldiers,
half gens-d'armes, if these modern
words explain at all a race of officers
now existing no longer, stepped out
from the tavern. They were in the
livery worn by the servants of police
of the archbishop and chapter of
Lyons. " Where 's your haste, my tall
friend ? " said the one who was rather
the more tipsy of the two. " Where 's
your haste to-day? Stop and have
something — something to drink with
Jean Gravier here. His wine is bad,
the worst wine I ever drank, but it
is better wine than none."
The priest's business at this mo
ment was, not to preach, nor warn,
nor1 convert drunkards from the error
of their ways, but to get to Lyons
before sunset. He showed no sign
of annoyance, but laughed good-na
turedly, and said, —
" Thank you kindly ; I will pay
the scot if the rest will drink. But
I have but just mounted at Miribel
yonder, and I must be in Lyons be
fore the sun goes down."
" Sun ! "'said the drunken tipstaff,
" sun be hanged ! The sun has two
good hours yet in the sky, and with
that horse of yours, yon will see the
guard long before sunset. Come and
try Jean Gravier' s red wine."
The priest would not show uneasi
ness. But again he declined, pro
posing that a stoup of wine should
be brought out that all the company
might share ; judging, not unwisely,

that he should do well to enlist as
many of them as he might upon his
side. At this, another of the officers
came out from the tavern; Unfor
tunately for the priest's errand, he
was much more sober than his com
panion. Unfortunately again, he was
no foreign hireling, as the others were,
but was a Lyonnais born. The mo
ment he looked upon John of Lugio
he recognized him, or thought he did,
and he addressed him in a mood very
different from that of his noisy com
panions. The man looked jealously
at Father John, as men of his craft
were and are apt to look at all stran
gers. He did not drop or turn his
eye either ; after the first "glance he
surveyed the whole figure of the rider,
and his horse as well.
" You are riding one of Jean Wal
do's horses," he said, gruffly.
" I am," said the priest ; " he sent
it out to meet me by one of his
grooms. - I left my own horse at Mir
ibel." " You are a friend of Jean Waldo's,
then?" " I am a friend of a friend of his,"
said the priest, with an aspect of cour
age and frankness, " and I am eager
to be in Lyons at to-morrow's festival
at his house. That is why I cannot
tarry with our friends here. 1 must
pay my scot and begone." .
" Not quite so fast," said the offi
cer ; " have you any pass to show if
you are asked for one at the bridge ? "
" Pass, — no," said the priest,
laughing. " I had a pass years ago,
signed by the Viguier, but it was worn
out long since, while I waited for
somebody to ask me for it I think
the Viguier will not turn out any of
Jean Waldo's friends. What is my
scot?" he said, as if impatient, to the
tavern-keeper. " All the passes in
the world will not serve me if I come

In His Name.

49

to the long bridge after sundown.
And I should be glad to be there be
fore the crowd."
The tavern-keeper took the copper
coins which the priest paid him, and
Father John, on his part, saluted the
others, and turned as if he would go
away, when the persistent officer
stopped him.
" Not so fast, my friend. You
know very well that I have good right
to question you, and you must not
wonder if I suspect you. If you take
a little ride to-night with me and my
friends here to the chateau of Mey-
zieux where we are going, I promise
you as good a -bed there as Messer
Jean Waldo will give you. Then
you can ride into Lyons with us in
the morning, and can make a little
visit to the Viguier with me, before
you go to your Christmas dinner.-
That will give him a chance to give
you another parchment pass, and I
am quite sure he will be glad to do
so, unless he wants your closer com
pany. And he gave a loud guffaw of
laughter, in which his two compan
ions joined.
For the peasants and the tavern-
keeper, they were too much accus
tomed to such acts of petty tyranny
on the part of petty officials to show
surprise. Indeed, they hardly felt it.
John of Lugio knew that, though he
might have their sympathy, they
wo'uld not render to him any sort
of help if he defied in the least the
authority of his persecutors.
With that same unperturbed man
ner which he had shown all along, he
laughed good-naturedly, and said at
once, what was perfectly true : —
" The Viguier is an old friend of
mine, and, will remember me very
well." Then he added, " Suppose I
meet you and your friends as you

come into town to-morrow, and go
round there and see him. I give you
my hand on it that I will be at the
drawbridge at any time you name."
And he offered his bare hand.
" No," said the other, sternly and
slowly. " We are not such fools as
to take men's hands, unless to put
handcuffs on them. You will go to
Meyzieux with us in half an hour.
Till then you may come into the
house and drink with us, or you may
stay out here and freeze, as it pleases
you. Michel, Antoine, keep your
eyes on him, and see that he does not
leave." And he turned to go into
the tavern. But he saw that the
priest made no resistance. On the
other hand, he dismounted at once,
and occupied himself in looking for
something which had clogged the
shoe of the noble horse which he was
riding. At this moment the attention of all
parties was engaged by the arrival
of a new-comer upon £he scene. The
surly officer himself loitered on the
steps of the inn, when he heard the
clear, loud voice of the troubadour : —
" Who will listen yet again
To the old and jovial strain,
The old tale of love that 's ever new ?
She 's a girl as fair as May,
He 's a boy as fresh as day,
And the story is as gay as it is true."
The voice was a perfectly clear
and pure tenor. The air was lively
without being rapid, and the enun
ciation and emphasis of the singer
were perfect. The poor beast he
rode came panting into the crowd,
his sides wet and dirty ; and the
singer, with undisguised satisfaction,
sprang from his back, and threw the .
rein to a stable-boy.
" Your servant, gentlemen, — your
servant, gentlemen, — are there no
lovers of the gay science in this hon-

50

In His Name.

orable company?" And in that
clear, powerful tone he began again :
" Who will hear the pretty tale
Of my thrush and nightingale, —
Of the dangers and the sorrows that he
met?
How he fought without a fear
For his charming little dear,
Aucassin and his loving Nicolette."
" A beautiful song, and a story
that will make you laugh and make
you cry, gentlemen, both together.
" Will you hear the pretty tale,
Or is it too gay for you ? We are
not always gay. We trouveres have
fathers and mothers and sisters and
brothers like the rest of you. We
have to lay our little babies in the
ground sometimes, as you do." - All
this he said perfectly seriously and
reverently. " We love the good
God as you love him, and we can
tell you the stories of the saints and
of the prophets ; may God bless us
all as we do so."
And then in a minor key, and
with a strain wholly different, he
sang slowly, and almost in tears it
seemed, —
' ' For the Love of Christ our Saviour along
the road I came,
And what I stop to sing you, I sing it m
HIS NAME. "
It need hardly be said that John
of Lugio caught the indication given
to him, that this was a friend, from
whom he had been so rashly escap
ing. The poor brute before him was
still panting from the efforts which
the rider had made to overtake Coeur-
Blanc before he reached the trap in
to which the priest had fallen. In
that the singer had failed. But none
the less had he bravely pressed on
and entered that trap himself. And
by the little scrap he sang, he revealed
himself as a friend to the other, 
one friend who could be relied upon

in the midst of indifferent spectators
and avowed enemies. John of Lugio
did not dare reply, even by a glance.
The singer needed no reply, and
looked for no glance. He went on,
as they all sat down in the one room
of the tavern, as if he were rattling
on in the fashion of his craft : —
" Or I have the new song, which
won the golden violet last year.
" In a pretty little meadow, in a country
that I know,
A pretty little flower did bourgeon and did
grow,
Its root was in a dunghill, but day to day
would bring
Fresh food and fragrance to the weed, all
through the days of spring."
His clear resonant voice was fairly
triumphant as the words rolled on-
But he stopped and said, " Boy, bring
me my little guitar ; if I am to sing to
the gentlemen, I must play to them
too. Only tell me what it shall be,
gentlemen." " Let it be," said John of Lugio,
boldly, " the song you sing ' For the
Love of Christ and in His Name.'"
And thus he opened his communica
tion with the other.
The chief of the officers turned
With an undisguised sneer upon his
prisoner. " So, sai i be, we are com
ing the godly, are *e ? That 's old
chaff for such as ve, Mr. Friend's
friend. Sing one of your love
songs." " Love songs be hanged ! " said the
keeper of the inn ; • the girls here say
they have heard about Nicolette and
Aucassin till they are tired; they
want the new soil.;, the song of the
violet. Can you teach it to them,
Messer Trouvere ? "
" I can sing it, and I can teach it
too, to such apt scholars as Made
moiselle Anne," said the singer, ris
ing and bowing as the buxom girl

In His Name. 51
same into the room rather shyly, with made the boys rise from their seats
one or two of her village cornpan- on a settle that the young women
ions. The troubadour, with some might have them, ran over the air
exercise of authority, cleared a place once or twice onthe guitar, and sang
for them where he sate himself, — again.

THE SONG OF THE VIOLET OF GOLD.
i.
In a pretty little meadow in a country that I know,
A pretty little flower did bourgeon and did grow,
Its root was in a dunghill, but every day would bring
Fresh food and fragrance for the flower, all through the days of spring.
But when the spring was over, and because it was not strong,
The cruel wind came winding down, and did it wretched wrong,
And then came winter's frost, and stretched it on the earth
Above the dirty dunghill on which it had its birth.

By the pretty little meadow beneath the sunny skies,
Is meant this wicked world of ours which lures us with its lies,
For evil takes away the light of life from me and you,
And brings us wicked tales to tell, and naughty deeds to do.
We live along our little lives all foolish and forlorn,
Nor turn to look a minute on the place where we were born,
So comes it that through winding ways in which our souls are tried,
We "stumble stupid onward, with wickedness for guide.

I say the little flower, which in the meadow grew,
Grew fair and then grew foul, just like me and just like you :
We 're gayly clad and bravely fed, when first our lives begin,
Before the enemy of man seduces us to sin.
So God has made the sight of heaven above the sunny sky,
As the blue flowers of spring-time bloom bright before the eye ;
But then the fool of petty pride forgets where he was born,
And dies the death of sinful shame, all foolish and forlorn.

And the dunghill where the flower did flourish and did fade,
Is the dust of earth from which the Lord our father Adam made,
His children's children lived the lives of sinfulness and shame
From which the breath of being to our fathers' fathers came.
We climb the mountains high, and valleys low descend,
We toil and moil, and crowd with care our lives unto the end ;
And when we die, all this we have is treasure thrown away,
And nothing 's left us for the tomb, except a clod of clay.

52

In His Name.

The cruel wind which bent the flower and crushed it like a weed
I say, is grasping pride of life, — is avarice and greed,
Which teaches uS to hide our heads, and steal and cheat an4 lie,
And so it is that wicked folks torment us till we die.
And then, again, this winter wild which sweeps away the flower,
I say is false and cruel Death exulting in his power.
He grasps us in his hard embrace until all life is fled,
And throws us on the dunghill, when he knows our flesh is dead. 1

The girls were nodding to the air,
and were much more interested in
that, perhaps, than in the words, —
but the leader of the gens d'armes,
if we may again use the modern
word, expressed his scorn for the
whole. " Bring him some wine, Jean ; wet
his whistle for him. Dunghills and
Death, indeed, is that the best he has
to sing of ? Give him some wine, and
give me some ; give everybody some.
Mr Friend's friend's friend, take
some wine to show you bear no mal
ice. Girls ! have some wine ; all
drink, and then let him tell us his
love story."
With a good deal of bustle and
readjustment of the company, with
much fuss at serving wine for so
many, these arbitrary orders were
executed. The troubadour, mean
while, was thrumming on his guitar,
— tuning it, — and striking chords,
or trying one or another bit of the
tune. When the Captain gave word,
at last, that they were all ready, he
began again with the same song,
with which he had at first arrested
their attention : —

Who will listen yet again
To'the old and jovial strain,
The old tale of love that *s always new ?
She 's a girl as fair as May,
He 's a boy as fresh as day,
And the story is as gay as it is true.

Who will hear the pretty tale
Of my thrush and nightingale, —
Of the dangers and the sorrows that they
met?
How he fought without a fear,
For his charming little dear,
Aucassin, and his loving Nicolette.
ni.
For, my lords, I tell you true
That you never saw or knew,
Man or woman so ugly or so gray,
Who would not all day long
Sit and listen to the song
And the story that I tell you here to-day.
"THE STORY OF NICOLETTE AND
AUCASSIN."
" Now you must know, my lords
and my ladies, that the Count Bou-
gars of Valence chose to make war
with the Count Garin of Beaucaire.
And the war was so cruel, that the
Count never let one day go by, but
what he came thundering at the
walls and barriers of the town, with
a hundred knights and with ten
thousand men-at-arms, on foot and
on horseback, who burned all the
horses, and stole all the sheep, and
killed all the people that they could.
" Now the Count Garin de Beau
caire was very old, and was sadly-
broken with years. He had used
his time very ill, had the Count de
Beaucaire. And the old wretch had
no heir, either son or daughter, ex
cept one boy whose name was
AUCASSIN.

' The author hastens to admit the anachronism of introducing here this little
•em. It received the Violet of Gold in the year 1345.

poem

In His Name.

53

"Aucassin was gentle and hand
some. He was tall and well made ;
his legs were good and his feet were
good, his body was good and his
arms were good. His hair was
blond, a little curly ; his eyes were
like gray fur, for they were near sil
ver and near blue, and they laughed
when you looked at them. His nose
was high and well placed ; his face
was clear and winning. Yes, and
he had everything charming, and
nothing' bad about him. But this
young man was so wholly conquered
by love, — who conquers everybody,
— that he would not occupy himself
in any other thing. He would not
be a knight, he would not take arms,
he would not go to the tourneys, he
would not do any of the things he
ought to do.
" His father was very much troubled
by this, and he said to him one
morning : —
" ' My son, take your arms, mount
your horse, defend your country, pro
tect your people. If' they only see
you in the midst of them, this will
give them more courage ; they will
fight all the better for their lives and
their homes ; for your land and
mine. "'Father,' said Aucassin, 'why
do you say this to me ?
" ' May God never hear my prayers,
if 1 ever mount horse, or go to tour
ney, or to battle, before you have,
yourself, given to me my darling
Nicolette, — my sweetheart whom I
love so dearly.
" ' My son,' said the father to him,
' this cannot be.
" ' Give up forever your dreams of
this captive girl, whom the Saracens
brought from some strange land, and
sold to the Viscount here.
" 'He trained her ; he baptized her ;
she is his god-child.

" ' Some day he will give her to
some brave fellow who will have to
gain his bread by his sword,
" ' But you, my son, when the time
comes that you wish to take a wife,
I will give you some king's daughter,
or at least the daughter of a Count.
" ' There is not, in all Provence, a
man so rich that you may- not marry
his daughter, if you choose.
" So said the old man. But Aucas
sin replied : —
" ' Alas, my father ; there is not in
this world the principality which
would not be honored if my darling
Nicolette, my sweetest, went to live
there. '"If she were Queen of France or
of England ; if she were Empress
of Germany or of Greece, she could
not be more courteous or more gra
cious ; she could not have sweeter
ways or greater virtues.' "
At this point the troubadour nod
ded to the girl Anne, who, as she
had said, knew the airs and the
songs of the little Romance. One
of the village girls joined her, and
thus in trio the three sang : —
All the night and all the day
Aucassin would beg and pray :
" O, my father, give my Nicolette to me."
Then his mother came to say :
"What is it that my foolish boy can see ? "
— " Nicolette is sweet and gay."
" But Nicolette 's a slave.
If a wife my boy would have,
Let him choose a lady fair of high de
gree. "
" O, no ; my mother, no !
For I love my darling so.
Her face is always bright
And her footstep 's always light,"*
And I cannot let my dainty darling go !
No, mother dear, she rules my heart 1
No, mother dear, we cannot part I "
The commander of the squad of
policemen had not mistaken in hh>

54

In His Name.

estimate of the attractive powers of
fiction, sentiment, and religion in
such an assembly as that around the
tavern. As the little love story went
on with the song belonging to it,
groups of idlers out-doors pressed
into the great doorway of the tav
ern. The grooms left with the
horses arranged that one boy only
should hold them all ; and he, getting
hint of what was passing, made shift
to knot the bridles together, to fas
ten them all to a halter at the corner
of the house, and to crowd in after the
rest. From the other cottage, which
was used as a kitchen in the estab
lishment, two or three more women
appeared, — older than Anne and her
companions, — and for these, as be
fore, seats were provided on a settle.
This last arrangement made a little
delay, but so soon as the women
were seated, the brisk troubadour
went on.
" When the Count Garin of Beau
caire saw that he could not drag Nic
olette out from the heart of Aucas
sin, he went to find the Viscount,
who was his vassal, and he said to
him: —
" ' Sir Viscount, we must get rid of
your god-child, Nicolette.
" ' Cursed be the country where she
was born, for she is the reason why
I am losing my Aucassin, who ought
to be a knight and who refuses to do
what he ought to do.
" ' If I can catch her, I will burn
her at the stake, and I will burn you
too.' " ' My Lord,' replied the Viscount,
' I am very sorry for what has hap
pened, but it is no fault of mine.
" ' I bought Nicolette with my
money ; I trained her ; I had her
baptized, and she is my god-child.
" ' I wanted to marry her to a fine
young man of mine, who would glad

ly have earned her bread for her,
which is more than your son Aucas
sin could do.
" ' But since your wish and your
pleasure are what they are, I will
send this god-child of mine away to
such, a land in such a country that
Aucassin shall never set his eyes
upon her again.' "
The little audience of the trouba
dour, quite unused to " sensation "
of thfs sort, many of them fresh as
children to the charm of a well-told
story, pressed closer and closer to
him. With the rarest of gifts, and
that least possible to gain by study,
the trouvere fairly talked to them
in tones of perfect conversational
familiarity. His eyes caught sympa
thizing eyes as he glanced from side
to side of the room, and his anima
tion quickened, and his words became
more confidential. At last, indeed,
he addressed himself personally to
the Captain ; when he was fully satis
fied that, in the confusion which ac
companied the entrance of the women,
John of Lugio had risen from his
quiet seat behind the inner door, and
had, unnoticed, left the room.
The troubadour continued in his
most confidential narrative tone, —
" ' See that you do so,' cried the
Count Garin to the Viscount, 'or great
misfortunes will come to you.'
" So saying, he left his vassal.
" Now the Viscount had a noble
palace, of high walls, surrounded by
a thickly planted garden. He put
Nicolette into one of the rooms of
this palace, in the very highest
story. " She had an old woman for her
only companion, with enough bread
and meat and wine, and everything
else that they needed to keep them
alive. " Then he fastened and concealed

In His Name.

55

the door, so that no one could go in,
and he left no other opening but the
window, which was very narrow and
opened on the garden . "
Again the story-teller nodded to
the two girls, and they sang all to
gether. Nicolette was put in prison ;
And a vaulted room
Wonderfully built and painted
Was her prison-home.
The pretty maiden came
To the marble window-frame ;
Her hair was light,
Her eyes were bright,
And her face was a charming face to see.
No ; never had a knight
A maid with such a charming face to see.
She looked into the garden close
And there she saw the open rose,
Heard the thrushes sing and twitter,
And she sang in accent bitter :
0, why am I a captive here ?
Why locked up in cruel walls ?
Aucassin, my sweetheart dear,
Whom my heart its master calls,
I have been your sweetheart for this live
long year !
That is why I 've come
To this vaulted room,
But by God, the son of Mary, no 1
I will not be captured so,
If only I can break away, and go !
Then the troubadour continued : —
" So Nicolette was put in prison,
as you have just heard, and soon a
cry and noise ran through tbe coun
try that she was lost. Some said
that she had run away ; others said
that the Count Garin de Beaucaire
had killed her.
" All in despair at the joy which
this news seemed to cause to some
people, Aucassin went to find the
viscount of the town.
" ' Lord Viscount,' he asked him,
' what have you done with Nicolette,
my sweetest love, the thing in all
the world which I love best ?

" ' You have stolen her !
" ' Be sure, Viscount, that if I die
of this, the blame shall fall on you.
" ' For, surely, it is you who tear
away my life in tearing away my
darling Nicolette !
" ' Fair sir,' answered the Vis
count, ' do let this Nicolette alone,
for she is not worthy of you ; she is
a slave whom I have bought with my
deniers, and she must serve as a wife
to a young fellow of her own state,
to a poor man, and not to a lord like
you, who ought to marry none but a
king's daughter, or at least a Count's
daughter. " ' What should you be doing for
yourself if you did make a lady of
this vile creature, and marry her ?
" ' Then would you be very happy,
indeed, very happy, for your soul
would abide forever in hell. And
never should you enter into par
adise. '
" ' Into Paradise? 'repeated Aucas
sin, angrily. ' And what have I to
do there ? I do not care to go. there if
it be not with Nicolette, my sweet
est darling whom I love so much. '
"'Into Paradise! And do you
know who those are that go there,
you who think it is a place where I
must wish to go? They are old
priests,old cripples,old one-eyed men,
who lie day and night before the al
tars, sickly, miserable, shivering, half
naked, half fed ; dead already before
they die ! These are they who go to
paradise, and they are such pitiful
companions that I do not desire to
go to paradise with them.'
" ' But to hell would I gladly go ;
for to hell go the good clerks and the
fair knights slain in battle and in
great wars ; the brave Sergeants-at-
Arms and the men of noble lineage,
And with all these would I gladly
go.'

56

In His Name.

" ' Stop,' says the Viscount ; ' all
which you can say and nothing at
all, are exactly the same thing;
never shall you see Nicolette again.
" ' What you and I may get for
this, would not be pleasant, if you
still will be complaining.
" ' We all might be burned by
your father's command, — Nicolette,
vou, and I myself into the bargain.'
" ' I am in despair ! ' murmured
Aucassin, leaving the Viscount, who
was no less angry than himself. "
The company gathered nearer and
nearer together, eager not to lose one
word. Nor was any one roused from
the interest of the story, till a new
traveller stopped at the wretched
tavern. "Hola! hola!" he cried. "Is
there no one to care for my horse ? "
Antoine, the stable-boy, rushed
out, and to his shame and horror all
the horses were gone.
But with the agony and falsehood
of despair, he took the stranger's
horse, as if nothing had happened,
and said to him : —
" I will see to the horse, Monsieur,
give yourself no care. Will you step
into the house? There is the best
trouvere singing there,who travels all
over this country. He is telling the
story of Nicolette.
"I will take good care of your
horse, sir ; never fear me."
For poor Antoine's only fear was,
that the master of the newly arrived
beast would stay outside.
In fact that worthy did loiter a
moment, and gave one or two direc
tions about his horse. Poor Antoine
was dying to ask him if he met five
saddled horses as he came. But he
did not dare disgrace himself; and
he thought, wisely enough, that if
the stranger had seen any such cav

alcade, he would surely have men
tioned it.
At last, by repeated solicitation, he
induced the man to enter the tavern,
and, with solicitude wholly unusual,
the stable-boy drew the door to, after
the traveller had passed in. He
could hear the trio again, as the
two girls joined with the trouba
dour. But the poor stable-boy cursed
Nicolette and Aucassin both, with
adjurations and anathemas which
they had never learned, and wished
all troubadours were on the other
side of the sea. If those horses
could not be brought back before his
master, or before the Viguier's officer
found they were gone, he, Antoine,
would be well flogged before he went
to bed. That was certain. No
Christmas holiday for him, — that
was certain also. And whether, at
the beginning of a cold winter, he
were not put in handcuffs and car
ried to one of those horrid prisons
which he had heard the officers talk
ing of; of this the frightened boy
was by no means certain.
So soon as he had closed the door,
instead of leading the hot and wet
beast, intrusted to him, to the stable,
as he knew he should do, he fastened
him by the rein firmly but quickly,
and at his best speed ran up the road,
where he might gain the view from
the hill, and get a survey of the
whole meadow.
" For the cursed brutes," he said,
" are all fastened together, wherever
they have gone."
And then he reflected, with pro
found satisfaction, that the tale of
Nicolette and Aucassin was very
long, — or that one of the girls had
told him so in a whisper. Perhaps
they would stay in the tavern longer
than the Captain had said, if only

In His Name

57

the troubadour could make it enter
taining enough.
Ah! Antoine, you need not fear
the troubadour ! He is making it as
entertaining as he knows how, — and
that is what he is there for, — that he
may keep them all for the precious
minutes that shall take Cceur-Blanc
into Lyons.
So Antoine pressed up the road to
the little swell of land over which
it passed, from which, as he ap
proached, John of Lugio had first seen
the group standing at the tavern
The poor boy came up the hill, all
out of breath, and scanned the wide
meadows. A few cows here ; a stray
traveller or two there ; clouds of
dust on the highway, which might
conceal this or that or something
else, — who should say? But no defi
nite sign of the horses.
The wretched boy climbed a tree ;
but he only lost time, and saw
nothing. He could see that Philip
of Fontroyes, the lame man, was
hobbling home with his sorry cow.
The boy rushed to meet Philip.
Philip was very deaf, and, like other
dull people, could not answer the
square question put to him, till he
knew who he was that asked it, why-
he asked it, and for what purpose he
asked it. When he was at last se
cure on these points, he ventured to
say,— "Horses, no horses ; no, no horses.
There was a span of mules that a
man with a red jerkin drove by,
that was two hours ago. But no
horses." As Antoine knew that if Philip
had had any eye, or any memory, he
must have reported at least the pas
sage of Cceur-Blanc, and that of the
troubadour, and that of the stranger
whom he had just left ; three horses,
certainly"; this assurance that no

horses had passed on the road was
anything but encouraging.
Poor boy ! he looked back a mo
ment on the tavern ; he thought of
the pretty, pleasant way in which
Lulu had spoken to him only that
morning, and of the blue ribbon be
had ready to give to her the next
day ; he thought, shall we confess it
in this connection, of his own feast-
day suit of clothes, which were in his
box in the wretched attic where he
slept. But he thought also of the flog
ging which was so sure if he were
detected. He would never see Lulu
again, nor his gay garments again !
He looked his last on the tavern, and
fled along the high road — away from
it and from Lyons — as fast as his
feet could carry him.
The troubadour, who saw every
thing, saw or knew or felt or com
prehended the entrance of the new
comer, and heard Antoine as he
closed the outer door of the tavern.
The troubadour did not pause a mo
ment in his story. The stranger,
with a courteous gesture, intimated
that he would not interrupt it, and
took the seat by the great fire, which
Dame Gravier, with a good deal of
fuss and pretence of hospitality,
cleared for him.
The Captain of the officers start
ed, as if he had perhaps dozed a lit
tle in the last refrain of the singers,
but really gave some attention to the
story-teller, as he. went on without
any pause —as the story required him
to do — after another little song : —
Then Aucassin went home,
But his heart was wrung with fear
By the parting from his dainty dear :
His dainty dear so fair,
Whom he sought for everywhere,
But nowhere could he find her, far oi
near.

58

In His Name.

To the palace he has come,
And he climbs up every stair, —
He hides him in his room
And weeps in his despair.
" O, my Nicolette," said he,
" So dear and sweet is she !
So sweet for that, so sweet for this,
So sweet to speak, so sweet to kiss,
So sweet to come, so sweet to stay,
So sweet to sing, so sweet to play,
So sweet when there, so sweet when
here,
O, my darling ! 0, my dear,
Where are you, my sweet? while I
Sit and weep so near to die,
Because I cannot find my darling dear."1
To a modern ear it is difficult to
give the impression of the effect of
the long closing line, as the three
voices, in strict unison, closed the
little song, — with perfect spirit, run
ning up rapidly in a whole octave,
and closiDg an octave higher than the
key-note, to which they would nat
urally have returned.
The narrative then continued : —
" Meanwhile, I can tell you, the
fighting went on. For the Count
Bougars pressed hard on the Count
Garin. He had a thousand men-at-
arms in one camp, and he had a thou
sand in another. And while Aucas
sin was shut up in his chamber, and
lamenting his dear Nicolette, the
Count was bringing up great batter
ing-rams to hammer down the walls
' of the city."
"Ah, yes." grunted the Captain,
"let us hear about the battering-
rams. I was sergeant in a batter
ing-train at Gron, myself, I was ! "
And he drank off another good
draught from his tankard, and then
droppng back in his chair, gave at-
1 The original Is very pretty, and can be guessed
out, even by tbe unlearned reader : —
"Nicolete biax esters,
Biax venir et biax alers
Biax deduis et dous purlers,
Biax borders et biax jouers,
Biax bolsters, biax acolers ."

tention in the manner of those peo
ple, who can hear a preacher better
when their eyes are closed.
" He brought up one battering-
ram, with a very brave sergeant in
charge of it, on one side the city;
and, on another side, he brought up
another with two counts, and a duke
in charge of it.
" At last he thought all was ready,
and on each side of the town he
gathered all his footmen and all his
horsemen for the assault."
" What did he want horsemen for,
to storm a breach with ? " growled
the sergeant.
" I beg your honor's pardon," said
the trouvere, who had not made the
blunder without a purpose. " But
the troubadour who told this story to
me had not seen so many sieges as
your honor."
"I should think not; I should
think not," grunted the drunken
critic, well satisfied with the success
of his interruption, and the trouvere
continued as confidentially as before,
and as if the sergeant was his only
auditor. " Everybody in the city was called
to arms to defend the walls. They
supposed that the attack would be
made on the eastern side, because
the breach was there,"
"Yes, yes," grunted the experi
enced soldier, " of course the attack
would be made where tho breach
was." And he nodded complacently upon
the inn-keeper and upon his own
companions, as if he would say, " Of
course we know more of war than
these singing fellows do."
The troubadour continued : —
" The principal attacking party
might have gone quite wrong had it
been left to the dukes, but the brave
fellow I told you of before — "

In His Name.

59

And it is impossible to tell what
wonders the sergeant on his side might
have wrought, or the duke and the
count on theirs, in vain rivalry
with a sergeant so puissant. For at
this fatal moment, the horse whom
Antoine had left to freeze, thinking
it was quite time that his needs
should be attended to, gave an omi
nous neigh.
" Neigh-eigh-eigh-eigh "
The sound rang through the crowd
ed room ; and Jean the inn-keeper
himself started from his seat and
looked around, and, seeing that all
the servants were rushing out-doors,
followed them. The master of the
horse of course followed, and the
officers ; and the troubadour and
the girls were left in the confusion
alone. " Where's Antoine? where 's An
toine ? " Cries of Antoine ! Antoine !
resounded everywhere. To tell the
truth, the tavern was not unused to
such clamor. Poor Antoine was
the man-of -all-work, always sum
moned. " Don't come out into the cold,
sir ! " said Jean Gravier, perfectly
used to making up the scanty re
sources of his wretched tavern by
the boldest lying. " Go back into
the inn, if you please. My wife has
supper ready. Antoine has taken
the horses to water them."
" Water them ! " said the stranger,
with an oath ; " and why has he not
taken mine to groom him and give
him a bed, as he said he would ? The
beast is wellnigh frozen already,
while you and your people are sing
ing your love-songs."
" Certainly, certainly," said Jean
Gravier, " I shall rub him down my
self." And he led the poor wretch
to the stable, wondering where An
toine was with the other horses, and

beckoning to Ode, one of the hangers-
on, to follow.
"Jean Gravier, come back; what
is all this row about, and what are
you doing with the horses of the
honorable men-at-arms of the Bishop
and Chapter of Lyons ? "
With many oaths, some hiccough,
and other interruptions, the Captain
of the policemen, standing upon the
step, thus hailed the tavern-keeper.
Jean Gravier pretended not to hear.
" Come back, you dog, come back,
and answer to the charge made
against you." This was the second
appeal of the drunken fool, who
doubted a little his own ability to
run after the delinquent vintner, and
made up in grandeur of words for
whatever failure of bodily force he
was conscious of.
Jean Gravier did not dare go on.
" For God's sake, find the horses,
Ode. Send Pierre up the road, and
send Andre down ; unless, indeed,
which God grant, that brute of an
Antoine has had the grace to put
them all into the stable."
And, with the happy thought of a
new lie, he turned to the stranger,
who was following him in a rage, and
said, —
" I did not understand, monsieur.
The boy has taken them all to the
stable, it was so cold."
" Took them to the stable ! Why
did he not take mine to the stable ?
What do I care for other people's
horses ? I will groom my own ! "
And, with little comfort, Jean Gra
vier was left to take the rage of the
drunken sergeant.
But this rage, and the rage of the
two officers, who abetted and ap
plauded the threats and abuse of
their chief, need not be written down.
Jean Gravier bent before the storm,
acknowledged that it was natural that

60

In His Name.

his guests should be indignant, but
explained that they were wholly mis
taken. He repeated eagerly his lie
that the horses were in the stable,
praying to all the saints in the cal
endar that they might prove to be so.
In a moment more, he was relieved
from the necessity of inventing any
more lies by a shout from Andr6, who
appeared in the roadway, leading
out four of the five horses from be
hind an old mill, which stood perhaps
a furlong along the Lyons road, in
the direction exactly opposite that
which Antoine had taken.
Ah me ! if Antoine had dared ask
the stranger if he met five horses
saddled, he would have gone the right
way when he did go wrong ; he would
have found the horses ; he would
have brought them back undetected ;
he would have given Lulu her ribbon
on Christmas day, and would have
worn his own fine clothes. And now
the poor boy is flying, as if for life,
across the meadows.
Andre came leading along the cof-
fle of horses. For a moment no one
observed that there were but four, and
should be five ; but, the moment he
came to the tavern with them, the
loss of Cceur-Blanc was evident.
"It is that damned horse-thief
from Meyzieux !" cried Jean Gravier,
the tavern-keeper ; " and he has stolen
the best horse of them all." And
Jean Gravier went sadly back into
the tavern, to think what lie he
should invent to satisfy the quiet
gentleman with white hair who sat
behind the door.
But, as the reader knows, the quiet
gentleman with white hair had taken
leave long before.

All this, time he had been increas
ing the distance between him
and the tavern as rapidly as Coeur-

Blanc's longest stride would take
him. The sun was yet more than
half an hour high, though he had
lost certainly half an hour in that
miserable altercation, and in the
enforced delay in the tavern.
At the moment when he found
himself free, he had not mounted
Cceur-Blanc ; he had only cut the
long halter at the place where it was
fastened to the house, and by it
had led along the five horses together,
as if to the trough where they were
used to be watered. If any one
within the room heard their tread,
be supposed the stable-boys were
leading them to the trough, and to
the cover which, as evening drew
on, they all required. As the other
horses drank, John of Lugio mounted
his own. Not losing his hold of the
halter, he walked carefully two hun
dred yards or more into the shelter of
a little copse and of a deserted mill.
Here he stopped, eager for time
though he was, and once more se
curely tethered them all. Then was
it that he gave Cceur-Blanc his head ;
and for the next fifteen minutes he
rode like the wind.
He understood then, what the
reader understands, that the trou
badour, whose salutation he had
acknowledged; but whose call he had
not regarded, Lad been acting as his
true friend, in an emergency when
he had no other.
The man was one of the affiliated
" Poor Men of Lyons." That was
made certain by the signal he had
given. He had recognized John of Lugio,
but in that uncertain way that a
minute had passed before he was sure
of his man. Then was it that the
good fellow had been certain that the
priest, whom all the "Poor Men of
Lyons" loved and honored, was rid-

In His Name.

61

ing into danger ; and then was it that
he had turned and hailed him, in the
hope that he might in time save him
from the inspection and inquiry of
the officers, whom the troubadour
had passed just before at the tavern-
In truth, he had gladly evaded them
himself; for the reputation of the
Lyonnais officers was so bad that
any man of peace was glad to keep
out of the way when it was in his
power. .
And now, as Father John saw, the
good fellow had boldly come to the
rescue, and had taken the chances of
sharing his fate, that he might also
take the chance of coming to his re
lief.1 The priest did not dare think
1 This is no place for an essay on the troubadours
or their poetry. But the author may be permitted
to say in a few words, that they are not to be dis
missed, as they are perhaps too often, as if they
had no important place in the rapid changes and
curious development of the time in which they
lived. Every new manuscript disinterred and
editedin France tends to raise rather than lower
the estimate which is to be formed of their power
and their merit.
It has already been said that the earliest speci
men of their written language which we have is a
Scripture poem, and that they were largely occu
pied in giving a general knowledge of Scripture
to the people. In this regard they rendered, per
haps, more efficient service than their successors, to
whom we give a French name also, — the " colpor
teurs." Mr. Hallam says, " No romances of chivalry and
hardly any tales are found in their works." But
since Mr. Hallam wrote the " Middle Ages,'' inany
of the troubadour books have been discovered and
edited. Among them is this curious Aucassin and
Nicolette, of which I have transferred the begin
ning without hesitation to my story ; because the
critics assure us that the earlier versions of it be
longed to the twelfth century.
Mr.Hallam's estimate of the troubadour poetry is
in these words : —
" Their poetry was entirely of that class which
is allied to music, and excites the fancy or feelings
rather by the power of sound than any stimulancy
of imagery and passion. Possessing a flexible and
harmonious language, they invented a variety of
metrical arrangements, perfectly new to the nations
of Europe. The Latin hymns were striking, but
monotonous ; the metre of the Northern French
unvaried ; but in Provencal almost every length of
verse from two syllables to twelve, and the most
intricate disposition of rhymes, were at the choice
of the troubadour. The canzoni, the sestine, all
tho lyric measures of Italy and Spain, were bor
rowed from his treasury. With such a command
of poetical sounds, it was natural that he should

he was safe himself till he crossed
the long bridge. But he heard no
outcry behind him ; and every min
ute, as Cceur-Blanc flew, was two or
three furlongs gained.
Fortunately the high road was, for
a while, quite clear of passengers ; so
that the tremendous rate at which he
rode challenged but little attention.
Fifteen minutes may have passed
before he dared take a pace less no
ticeable ; and by that time the spires
of Lyons were in sight in the dis
tance. He satisfied himself that the
sun was still high enough for him to
pass without challenge at the draw
bridge. And then, still keeping up
a bold trot, he joined with one and
inspire delight into ears not yet rendered familiar
to the artifices of verse ; and even now the frag
ments of these ancient lays, quoted by M. Sismondi
and M. Gingucne, seem to possess a sort of charm
which has evaporated in translation. Upon this
harmony, and upon the facility with which man
kind are apt to be deluded into an admiration of
exaggerated sentiment in poetry, they depended
for their influence. And, however vapid the songs
of Provence may seem to our apprehensions, they
were undoubtedly the source from which poetry
for many centuries derived a great portion of its
habitual language."
Mr. Pater has published an interesting essay on
this little romance of Aucassin and Nicolette. He
says : —
11 Below this jntenser poetry (of Provence) there
was probably a wide range of literature, less seri
ous and elevated, reaching by lightness of form and
comparative homeliness of interest, an audience
which the concentrated passion of thoBe higher
lyrics left untouched. This literature has long since
perished, or lives only in later French or Italian
versions. One such version, the only representative
of its species, M. Fauriel thought he detected in the
story of Aucassin and Nicolette, written in the
French of the latter half of the thirteenth century,
and preserved in a unique manuscript in the na
tional library of Paris; and there were reasons
which made him divine for it a still more ancient
ancestry. ..." The writer himself calls the piece a
cante-fdble, a tale told in pi-ose, but with its inci
dents and sentiment helped forward by songs, in
serted at irregular intervals. In the junctions of the
story itself there are signs of .roughness and want
of skill, which make one suspect that the prose was
only put together to connect a series of songs, —a
series of songs so moving and attractive that peo
ple wished to heighten and dignify their effect by a
regular framework or setting. Tet the songs them
selves are of the simplest kind, not rhymed even,
but only imperfectly assonant, stanzas of twenty
or thirty lines, all ending with a similar vowel

02

In His Name.

another group of those who were go
ing into the city, and even ventured
to chat with some of them as to the
festivities which were in preparation.
The Chapter was giving more dis
tinction than ever to Christmas cele
bration, perhaps to signalize the ad
vantages which the people of Lyons
and the neighborhood were to gain
from the new arrangement of affairs,
which made them temporal masters
of the city and suburbs, as well as
their spiritual guides.
Father John felt a little sheltered
when he rode chatting by the side of
a well-to-do farmer, who was coming
in by invitation to spend the holiday
with his brother in the city. In
front of them was a rude cart, cov
ered with canvass, in which were the
farmer's daughters and his wife. The
talk fell, as it always did, on the
crusade ; and the man showed ignor
ance of the deepest dye as to its
geography and its causes, which the
priest did his best to enlighten.
" And will the knights be back,
with the heathen hounds by Easter ? "
" The good God knows," replied
the priest, reverently.
" Yes ; the good God knows, but
what do you think? They have been
gone long."
" It is a long journey," said the
priest. " Not so long, though, as those
fine Englishmen had come, I sup
pose?" " O." said Father John, surprised
a little, " much longer ! "
"Longer than they had come?
sound. And here, as elsewhere in that early poe
try, much of the interest is in the spectacle of the
formation of a new artistic sense.
" A new music is arising, the music of rhymed
poetry, and in tho songs of Aucassin and Nicolette,
which seem always on the point of passing into
true rhyme, but which halt somehow, and can never
quite take flight, you see people just growing aware
of tho elements of a new music in their possession,

Why did they cross the sea at all
then ? Why not go by land ? "
Father John explained that Eng
land was on an island ; that if the
king of England left his dominions
at all he must cross the seas.
" And do King Saladin, and the
foul fiend Mahomed, — do they live
on another island? I believe," said
the stout farmer, " I should have
gone to the Holy War nryself, if I
could have gone by land "
Father John exclaimed again that
the Holy City was not on an island ;
that it could be reached by land.
" In the old war," said he, " many
of the knights went by land. They
rode their good horses all the way.
But so many perished that the kings
have taken ship this time, to go
thither more quickly."
" O ! " cried his friend, " they are
all wrong. Many men would go by
land who never would go by sea. I
am one. Philippe there is two. Jean,
Hubert, Joseph, — I could tell you
seven men who would go were there
no sailing."
The priest listened kindly, but
the pace to which the good farmer
held him was such that he dared not
loiter long. He bade him good-by,
and pressed on, to join one and
another group of people, who were
attracted in the same way to the city.
But always he was expecting to
hear the challenge from behind of
the Viguier's officers.
The last obstruction of all was, as
he waited in a corner of the road,
that a company of a hundred or more
and anticipating how pleasant such music might
become. " The piece was probably intended to be recited
by a company of trained performers, many of
whom, at least for the lesser parts, were probably
children. The songs are introduced by the rubric
' Or se cante,' ' ici on chante,' and each division
of the prose, by tho rubric, ' or dient et content et
fablioient,' ' lei on conte.' "

In His Name.

63

mounted soldiers might march past
him, who were the men for whom
his persecutors had ridden in ad
vance, that they might provide their
quarters for the night at Meyzieux.
The priest waited till the last of
them had gone, and then boldly
crossed the causeway over the
meadow before they came to the tem
porary bridge, where he was to pass
fhe Rhone for the last time, — the
bridge which poor Prinhac had
crossed so fortunately in the morning.
The sun was glowing, red and angry,
above the height of Fourvieres, and
Father John had again so far relaxed
the rate of speed to which he had
held the horse, that his more deco
rous trot did not attract tho atten
tion of the town-servants, who were
farmers' boys, and were going out of
the town that they might enjoy the
festival of the next day at their fath
ers' homes, or that of the groups of
peasants who were pressing in to see
the great solemnities by which the
chapter celebrated the Saviour's birth,
and amused their subjects at the same
time. There were, indeed, so many
of these parties now, and they pro
ceeded at a rate so confidently slow,
that, had the priest any doubt
whether he should find the gates
open, the number of travellers would
have reassured him.
At the bridge itself, there was not
even the pretence of any examination
or detention. So many of the towns.
people and of the peasants were pass
ing in or passing out, that it seemed
to be taken as an exceptional day,
when the usual forms of military order
might be relaxed, and the sentinel,
who was lazily sitting on a bench by
the portcullis, with his halberd lying
by his side, did not so much as chal
lenge the passers-by. Father John,
who had heard from Prinhac the story

of the secret of his passage, looked
rather curiously into the face of this
man, and of his officer also, who was
lounging in the guard-house behind
him. But he recognized neither of
them. They certainly were none whom
he had known among the clients of
his " Poor Men of Lyons," and prob
ably both belonged to some hireling
company of soldiers whom the chap
ter had imported from another prov
ince. The priest had picked his way
across the bridge slowly and with cau
tion, and now entered upon ground
where every house was familiar to
him, and had some story of grief or
joy in his old memories. The streets
were more alive than usual, because
the Eve of the Festival of Christmas
was almost as much a holiday as was
the Christmas day proper. And Fath
er John was well aware, that, had he
been dressed in the proper uniform
of his profession, any fifth person he
met would have recognized him as
one of the proscribed men. Recog
nition was dangerous at the best ;
but to night an arrest by some offi
cer of the Viguier would make delay
long enough to defeat any hope of
his rendering the service he had been
sent for. He had therefore, in the
little distance left to him, as he
threaded the streets of the town, a
greater risk to run than he had in
curred the whole day through. His
risk was his patient's risk, and he
must avoid it as best he could.
The priest looked eagerly among
the groups of people who were gath
ered at the street corners, in the hope
that there might be some one known
to him as belonging to the affiliated
"Poor Men of Lyons," whom he
should dare withdraw from the crowd
by a signal, who would take the well-
known horse he rode quietly to its

64

In His Name.

master's stables, while he himself
found his way to the house on foot,
and so escape observation. But the
handful of the " Poor Men " who were
in Lyons did not care much for such
street gatherings, nor, indeed, were
they greatly interested in such cel
ebrations of Christmas as the Abbot
had prepared. The priest was obliged
to turn from the public square into a
narrow by-street, less crowded with
curious idlers. He dismounted from
his horse, and led him by the bridle,
and so approached a group of boys
who were lounging in the open gate
way of a tradesman's court-yard. He
held out a copper coin in his hand,
and said, " Which of you will take
my horse across the little bridge for
me ? This is for him."
" That is not your horse. That is
Messer Jean Waldo's horse, and no
one rides him honestly, but Jean
Waldo or his groom."
This was the impudent reply of the
largest boy of the group. And all of
them seemed, not indifferent to his
money, but afraid of the errand. To
be found with a stolen horse, as Lyons
was then governed, might cost any
boy his Christmas holiday, and, very
likely, more.
The priest's imperturbable balance
did not leave him. "It is Jean
Waldo's horse, and it is to Jean
Waldo's stable that I ask you to take
him. Do I not pay enough ? " Here
is another of the Archbishop's cro-
ziers. And he took out another piece
of money.
The bribe was a temptation. But

the fear of the Courier was stronger ;
and the second boy answered, with a
coarse oath, that the traveller had
better take his own horses, and groom
them too. And both these precocious
young rascals, as if they were com
promising the dignity of Lyons by
so long talk with a dusty country
man, then gave a loud battle howl
known to the other gamins of their
section, and rushed wildly to the
square, from which John of Lugio
had just now turned. Two smaller
boys, who made the rest of the group,
seemed disposed to follow them, when
the priest, perhaps because he must
run some risk, perhaps because the
purer faces of these boys attracted
him, bent down, and said, almost in
a whisper, "Could you take this horse
to Jean Waldo's 'for the love of
Christ'?" "I will go anywhere," said the
brave fellow, clambering into the sad
dle, "when I am summoned
'In His Name.'"
" You are to say, boy, that he who
was sent for is close at hand."
" I am to say, that he who was
sent for is close at hand. Farewell."
The boy was gone ; and the priest,
through court-yard and arched ways
where he could not have ridden, has
tily crossed the peninsula, crossed
the bridge which spanned the nar
rower river of the two, and, in two
or three minutes after the boy had
given warning of his approach, he
met Giulio the Florentine at Jean
Waldo's door.

CHAPTER IX.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
The master and his pupil fell on other without one word. It was five
each other's necks, and kissed each years since they had met, and com-

In His Name.

63

munication by letter or by message
was most infrequent. And then the
first words of both were for their pa
tient. " How 'does she bear herself?"
These were the priest's first words.
" She is living. At least I can
say that. I do not know if I can say
anything more. At every hour her
pulse is quicker and weaker, and her
breathing worse. But there are now
hardly any of the convulsions of
agony. Do you remember that flight
with the boatmen at Anse ? This girl
has suffered as those men did not
suffer." '• Does she know you?"
" She knows no one, and no thing.
But she talks now to her ' dear moun
tain,' now to some old lame beggar,
now to King Saladin, now to her
cousin Gabrielle."
, " She is living over the life of the
hour before she took the drug. That
is the way with these poisons "
These few words passed as they
entered and crossed the court-yard,
and mounted the stairway to the poor
sufferer's pretty room.
In that day of the infancy of med
ical science, the distinctions among
poisons now observed were quite
unknown, even to the most learned.
Poisons are now distinguished as
irritants, narcotics, narcotic acrid,
or septic, according as they act,
by one or another method of injury
on the human organization. The
wild hemlock-like parsley, which
grows abundantly in the meadows of
Southern France, and which had been
so carelessly substituted for some in
nocent root by Goodwife Prudhon, is
one of the poisons known as narcotic
acrid. In the eagerness of Mistress
Waldo to make her preparation
strong, she had even let the powder
of the root itself remain in her de

coction ; and the child, in her consci
entious desire to do all her mothei
wished, even because the medicine
was so nauseous, had, alas, drank all
the drugs of the preparation , as well
as the more innocent liquid. The
Florentine would be called only an
empiric by the science of to-day ; that
is to say, only a person who acts on
the remembrance of the results of his
observations. He would himself have
confessed that he was little more.
But bis observations had been wide
and intelligent. Since he was a child,
the laws of life, and the methods of
life, had fascinated him. And what
he had seen of sickness and of health
he had noted with absolute precision,
and he had remembered thoroughly.
When he wrote to his master that he
suspected that the women had mixed
one of the poisonous mushrooms of
the valley of the Rhone in with their
hemlock-brewing, it was because he
had already detected symptoms, which
were not to be accounted for, by the
mere action of the root which he had
identified in the mother's stores.
These anomalous symptoms had,
through the day, asserted themselves.
And tho Florentine, as it would seem,
had varied his treatment somewhat
from that with which he began. None
the less, however, was the patient
sinking. The balance and force of
her admirable constitution, and her
lifj of perfect purity, asserted them
selves all along. But every symp
tom showed that she had less strength
with every hour.
John of Lugio came to the bed
side, and received silently, with a
kind bow, the eager and profoundly
respectful salutation of the child's
father. Jean Waldo was surprised
indeed. It seemed that this master
of the young Giulio, this man so much
hoped for and longed for, in this day

66

In His Name.

of agony and of prayer, was one of
those daily companions of his kins
man, Peter Waldo, whom he had,
fifty times, seen with him at his home
or at his stdre-house. For all of
those companions, Jean Waldo's con
tempt had been even more bitter than
that with which he regarded his kins
man. For he looked upon these men
as being the tempters who lured the
merchant into the follies outside his
vocation. And now, as God ordered,
it was this very man for whom he
had sent his servants and his horses,
for whom he had defied the law of
Lyons, and for whose coming he
had been hoping and praying all
that day !
Madame Waldo rose from her chair
at the bedside, and yielded it to the
stranger, with a respectful courtesy.
But, for a minute, no word was spoken
in the room.
The new physician did not put his
chilled band upon pulse or forehead.
He bent his ear close enough above
the child's heart to listen to her faint
breathing. He tried to catch the
odor of her breath as it passed from
her nostrils. He brought the candle
closer to her that he might note, the
complexion of her face ; and even
threw it upon the open and rather
rigid eye, which look'-"1 'ir>r>n bim so
unnaturally. Then he turned to his pupil, and
asked in detail what he had tried to
do for her.
The reader knows something of
this already. Madame Waldo and
her neighbors knew enough of the
not mistaken medical practice of their
time, to give to the suffering child
full potions of oil stirred in with hot
water as soon as they found that she
had swallowed poison. Nor had they
been unsuccessful in relieving her
stomach from much of the decoction,

and fro^n a part even of the dregs
of the draught which she had taken.
But, as Giulio had found, the root
and whatever was mingled with it
had so long lodged themselves in her
system, that the poison was, in a
measure, absorbed by her organiza
tion ; and the convulsions which made
her father and mother so miserable,
were the proof that they had not suc
ceeded in removing all or most of the
cause of her suffering.
" The convulsions never lasted
long," said the young man to his
master, " but they left her deadly pale,
her face all haggard, and they came
again as if we did nothing. Once
and again I found it hard to open
her mouth, so firmly set were her
jaws. I have been all day long keep
ing up this warmth and rubbing, on
which the women had begun. Her
pulse seemed to me so exceptional,
that at noon, and again three hours
after noon, I ventured to draw blood,
which we have saved for you to see.
It is here. And it is now six
times, at intervals of an hour perhaps,
that I have given to her this bone-
black which I had ready. I made it
myself by the burning of sea-gulls'
bones, and I know that it is unmixed,
and that there is no vegetable in it.
But whether it has absorbed any
thing, I dare not say. I have hesi
tated about giving wine to one from
whom I was drawing blood. But
when I could hardly find her pulse,
and could hardly see her breath upon
the mirror, I gave her Bourdeaux
wine, such as you see here, and it
seemed to me to do no harm. I.
renewed this twice therefore. And
I have given her also, three or four
times to-day, this camomile which
her mother has served for me."
The Master nodded sympatheti
cally, in approval or" in assent, and,

In His Name

67

when his pupil showed to him the
camomile, drained the bowl himself.
He returned it to Dame Waldo with
a smile, the first smile which any one
had seen in that room for twenty-four
hours, and the first indication which
he had given that he was not wholly
discouraged by the situation. The
mother at least was encouraged. The
new physician had thus entered on
his work at that point, which is by
no means the least important of a
physician's duties, the care of the
family of his patient. The good
woman suddenly recollected that a
man who had ridden fifteen leagues
on a winter day, might be in want of
some refreshment, and, only delighted
that there was anything that she
could do, retired instantly to her
maids and her kitchen, to do what
she then reflected she should have
. done before, and take order for his
evening meal.
John of Lugio himself crossed to
the open fireplace, and sat opposite
the blaze, warming his cold hands
over the embers. He asked the young
Florentine one and another questions,
called, himself, for the barks and
leaves which the women had used in
their pharmacy, and which still lay
on broad salvers in a little antecham
ber. So soon as he was sure that his
cold touch would not chill the girl,
he went back to the bedside, assured
himself as to the circulation in her
feet and hands, listened at the beat-:
ing of the heart, and noted the wiry
pulsation of her wrists, and then with
his own hand poured into the silver
cup five times as much of the wine of
Bordeaux as his pupil had dared to
use. He then administered the whole
draught to the girl, with a practised
hand, and a sort of command in his
manner which, even in her torpor, she
obeyed.

" Do not disturb her. Let her
lie," he said. And they both with
drew again to the fire.
" You relieve me more than I can
say," said the young man. I have
been haunted all the afternoon with
the remembrance of Gerbert's ax
iom — "
" Which you have had the good
sense to violate. Perhaps the child
owes her life to your rebellion. The
Pope Sylvester has learned some
thing since he wrote out his axioms,
and you and I must not be frightened
by dead popes more than by living
ones.* Your stimulant has done her
no harm that I can see. And if she
is to rally, we must help her if we
can. Let me see your hamper there,
and let us be ready to follow up your
treatment with some elixir a little
more prompt than my good friend's
sour wines."
The blackamoor drew to the side
of the fireplace a small table*, and
with his master's help brought from
the basket a varied collection of
flasks and bottles, which he set in
order on it. The master looked at
the labels on these in their order, —
sometimes unstopped a flask and
poured a few drops into the hollow of
his left hand, and tasted them, set
aside two of the phials, and then
bade the black repack the others, and
take them all away. Then turning to
Giulio with a renewal of the sweet
and half-quizzical smile, which had
lighted up his face when he drank off
the potion of camomile, he said,
" Have you gone back into the dark

ages

? I have not seen such medi

cines since our great Bernhard died,
because he had no better. I shoulu
think we were Adam and Eve in
* Gerbert, distinguished as a Frencu
naturalist, was afterwards Pope Sylvester
the Second.

68

In His Name.

Paradise, and that Adam drank what
Eve brewed."
" Dear master," said the Floren
tine, " remember where you are, and,
first of all, speak lower. We are in
the Dark Ages again, and, under the
shadow of this cathedral, we are in
the darkest centre of the dark ages.
Why, my dear master, to speak of
Averroes in any presence where one
should be reported to the Courier,
would be to sign the order for one's
own exile to your mountains. And,
though I might speak of Abulcasis,
it is because no one in Lyons but
yourself has ever heard of his name.
No, we are to live and die by Eve's
simples, exactly as we are to be saved
or to be damned by Pope Alexander's
theology. I have hoarded my essen
ces and. elixirs, drop by drop. And
the little phials you have set aside
here, are all that are left of the stores
I rescued, the day when the tipstaves
of the Viguier emptied your work
room into the street. I would fain
have carried away your precious
alembics, but the Archbishop's men
were before me, and they all went to
the palace."
"To the palace?"
" I suppose they went to the pal
ace ; perhaps they went to the dung-
heap ; perhaps they went as a pres
ent to Muley Pasha. There is not a
man in Lyons outside this room who
knows their inestimable worth, nor
how to handle them ! "
"To the palace?" said Father
John again, quite regardless of his
pupil's last words, and almost as if he
were dreaming himself. " To the
palace ! yes ; to the palace ! " Then
he turned to Madame Gabrielle, who
came in gently, and placed on the
disencumbered table at his side a
salver covered with a napkin and
crowded with warm drinks, savory

soup, and meat hot from her broiler.
" I hope your worship is not faint,"
she said.
" My worship is better," he an
swered, with that same tender smile,
" because I think that your darling
here is no worse. Such prayers as
you have offered for her, and, I think,
such prayers as she has offered for
herself, are profiting her well, and.
such care as you and my friend have
given her this day, are fit compan
ions to such prayers." As he spoke
these gentle words, none the less did
the pbysician-priest turn to the po-
tage which the good dame had pre
pared for him. .And he ate it with
the appetite, not of a scholastic, but
of a hunter or a soldier. As he ate,
he went on in his talk with the Flor
entine, wholly regardless of the pres
ence of the mother, who stood with
her napkin on her arm as if she
were a servant, noting every spoon
ful and every salt-grain of his hasty
repast. " To the palace, you say — to the
palace ! Do you mean to tell me,
Giulio, that there is nobody here who
cares for ¦ tho Eternal Truth of things ?
Is there nobody who cares for the
way God made the world? Where
are all the old set — Lambert, Eti-
enne, Suger, Montereau, Marly, and
le Laboureur — where are they all?
And your friends, the ' sacred five,'
as you youngsters called yourselves ?
Alas ! I answer my own question.
Etienne and Marly were dead before
the bad times came. Lambert and
Suger are in Boheinia with our friend,
because these people here know not
The Truth, and The Truth knows
them not. Montereau, they told me,
went to the Holy War. He will
come back, knowing something more
perhaps. Would God they all had
gone thither with as noble purpose 1 "

In His Name.

69

" And le Laboureur, sir, has
burned his books and broken his in
struments, and joined the Benedic
tines yonder in Cornillon. Of the
sacred five you asked for, I only am
left to tell you. George is under the
Mediterranean. Hugh is with the
Emperor, the others are at Acre, I
hope, — they are in the East, as I
had wellnigh been myself this day.
"No, my -master; Lyons, I tell
you, is the darkest spot of the Dark
Ages." The nurse at the bedside spoke at
this moment, and the priestscrossed
to his patient. The child was more
restive, and her stomach seemed
likely to reject the draught which
he had given her. He gave to her
mother some direction as to her po
sition, and the clothes upon her stom
ach, and, with quite another tone,
came back to his pupil. " Give her
thirty drops from this,'' he said, giv
ing t.> him one of the reserved phials
upon the table, " but it is a sin that
we must poison her with sour
wine, when we want to give her an
elixir. Do you tell me that if love
will not give us two hundred drops of
the Elixir of the formula of Arnauld
or Abulcasis, money will not do it?
Has no man flask, phial, jar, or nut
shell filled with it ? "
" No one, my master, since the tip
staves broke into the warehouse of
Simon Cimchi, and poured his pre
cious elixirs into the gutter."
" No one," repeated the other,
slowly; "no one except — in the
palace. The archbishop knows his
right hand from his left, and knows
an elixir from a decoction. He has
gone on the fool's errand. Who is in
his place ? "
The Florentine was not expert in
ecclesiastical matters, and called
Jean Waldo himself, who had sat

silently at his daughters bedside,
to put to him his master's question :
" Who holds the primacy of Lyons
in the archbishop's absence in the
East? " Giulio would have said that
morning that, whether it were one
priest or another, it mattered noth
ing to him.
Jean Waldo replied respectfully,
that Father Stephen of St. Amour
was the dean of the chapter, and
acted as the archbishop's substitute.
But he said that he was now absent
in Burgundy on a visit with his fam
ily, and that the senior canon, one
Father William, held his place. Jean
Waldo knew that it was he who took
the archbishop's plac'e in the high
solemnity of Christmas.
" William of St. Bonnet, perhaps ;
William of Roux, perhaps ; William
of Chapinel, perhaps ; William of
Cologne, perhaps. ^ remember them
all, and there is not one of them all
but will know my sign-manual.
Giulio, will you take a message
to this locum tenentem, this arch
bishop pro tempore?" And as he
spoke he wrote rapidly on his tab
lets. " You would not dare, my master ?"
"The child's stomach will not
bear your watery wine. But all the
child wants is as much stimulant
within as you have been giving to
her skin without. In the archbish
op's medicine-chests are doubtless
my precious elixirs, and Cimchi's, I
do not doubt, as well. If the arch
bishop himself were here, there would
be no danger. He can handle an
alembic as well as I can.
" As for daring, boy, to the child
of God there is no danger. I came
here ' for the love of Christ.' ' For
the love of Christ ' I shall bid this
servant of Christ send to this child
this elixir. You will not refuse to

70

Tn His Name.

go, he will not refuse to give ;' if
then the Lord pleases to give his
blessing to our stumbling endeavor,
all will be well. At the least, we
will do our best, and make our en
deavor In His Name."
The Florentine said no other word,
but rose, bowed, and took the parch
ment. There was written there this
missive : —
For the Love of Christ.
To my Brother William, Canon in
the Cathedral op St. John:
I write these words by the bedside of
one of your flock, the child Felicie
Waldo. The child is dying because we
need for her the Elixir of Cordova, of the
second formula of Abulcasis. Send it to
us, my brother, In His Name.
Your brother in Christ,
Jean of Lugio.
And at the bottom of the letter
was the rough design of the cross of
Malta.

Giulio the Florentine took the let
ter, crossed the court-yard, and, as
he went, threw over him the black stu
dent's gown, which he had left in the
hall as he came up to the ministra
tion which had held him here all day.
He was amazed, himself, at the con
fidence with which he undertook an
office so strange. Had anybody told
him he was to go on such an errand,
he would have said that the errand
was absurd, and that success in it
was impossible. But now that he
had it to do, the confidence of his
master gave him confidence, — nay,

even the absolute necessity of suc
cess made him sure that he should
not fail. It was clear that the mas
ter thought that unless this Elixir of
•Cordova could be found, and found
soon, their battle was lost ; that the
child would not rally unless some
stimulant could be used, more pre
cisely adjusted, and more highly con
centrated than any he had had at
command. On the strangest duty, therefore,
as he knew, that ever he had been
engaged in, the student left the
weaver's court-yard ; but still with the
certaiuty of success. A few steps
uphill, and he was within sound of
the evening chant, as in the newly-
finished nave of the Cathedral church
of St. John, the whole chapter
and the great company of subor
dinate priests were engaged in the
first of tbe series of services of the
great festival. The nave itself, the
porch and the street in front, were
crowded with people, and the young
man saw that entrance there was im
possible. He passed round the church
to a little side portal, which gave
entrance to a vestry which adjoined
the chancel, and there he pressed for
entrance. He did not find it difficult to enter
the room itself. For in the general
enthusiasm and general confusion,
all the minor clergy, and all the at
tendants and sacristans, of one tribe
and another, had passed up to door
ways and other openings, where they
could see the pageant within, — and
the Florentine soon found himself in
the back of this throng, one of a
crowd of half-official spectators. He
chose his man instantly among these,
and chose, as it proved, not unwisely.
He whispered to a tall priest, who
stood looking over the heads of the
crowd in front, and spoke to him in

In His Name.

71

that dialect of rustic Latin which was
already passing into Italian in his
own country. It proved that the
priest was, as he suspected he was,
his countryman, and understood him.
" I need," whispered Giulio, " to
speak, at this moment, to his rever
ence the Dean."
"Impossible!" said tbe other,
amazed at his presumption ; " you
see it is impossible. Yonder is the
acting Dean in the Archbishop's
chair. A moment more, and he will
advance to the Eagle"
"Apud homines hoc impossibile
est ; apud Deum autem omnia possibil-
ia sunt," replied the bold Florentine,
still in a whisper. " It is impossible
with men ; but with God, all things
are possible." The. good-natured
priest turned, with surprise, to see
what man he was who quoted Scrip
ture so happily and reverently.
" I tell you, my friend," persisted
Giulio, eagerly, " I tell you I have
that for the Canon William to see
which is life and death, — perhaps for
him, for aught I know, — certainly for
others. He will not thank the man
who keeps me away from him ! "
" Who keeps thee away ! " said the
other, almost with scorn. " Enter if
you can. You see it is impossible,
at least for you and me. Hush, now,
hush, you see he is kneeling at the
Eagle." The Eagle was the gilded Eagle,
on whose outstretched wings lay the
beautiful missal book, from which the
Senior Canon, in place of the Dean
and the Archbishop, was about to
read his part in the service. With a
clear and earnest voice he began,
" For the love of Christ, my friend,"
said Giulio, speaking almost aloud to
his companion, " let us press in to
gether. We two can reach his rev
erence with this missive. What is

there that two of us cannot do if we
attempt it In His Name?"
The eagerness with which he spoke,
in truth, and the invocation which he
used, swept the other away. Scarce
ly knowing what he did, scarcely
knowing that he exercised authority
upon those that stood around, the
father touched one and another of
them, with command", as if he also
had a part in the appointed service, —
as, indeed, he had, if ever any man
had special part in sacred ritual. So
decided was his manner, that those
in front of him instinctively obeyed.
To his own surprise, and to Giulio's
indeed, they were standing, in a mo
ment more, in the front rank of the
crowd of clergy who were looking in
reverently upon the solemnity. The
Florentine, at the instant, was in
spired. One of those great impulses
seized him, which do not often come
to a man in a lifetime, — when he is
swept away by a Life and Power
larger than his own, and acts without
fear or hesitation, though on a stage
which he has never trodden before,
and in a scene to which he has never
looked forward. Taking his unknown
guide by the hand, Giulio boldly
walked across the brilliant chancel in
face of the immense assembly, pass
ing confidently among the kneeling
priests, who were in their several
places, till he came to the Eagle, and
to the side of the Arch-Canon Wil
liam as he knelt there. The priest
instinctively fell on his knees at one
side, while the student knelt on the
other. To the clergy, each iD his
appointed place, this movement was
of course inexplicable, and it was a
surprise. To the great body of the
assembly, however, it was equally in
explicable ; but it was no surprise,

72

In His Name.

To them it was only a part of the
great pageant, of which all the so
lemnity impressed and awed them,
while they did not pretend to know
•¦'be purpose of its several details.
The acting Archbishop himself was
not aware of the neighborhood of
these two new-comers. • Completely
carried away by the spirit of the ser
vice in which he was engaged, scarce
ly conscious of the presence of any
of those around him, simply eager to
carry to the multitude before him the
true sense of the Scripture he was
reading, and in his heart praying all
'¦he time for Divine Help that he
might so render those sacred words
that, even in this ancient Latin, these
people might, in a measure, under
stand their import, the good father
passed from point to point of the les
son, and only paused for the inter
ludes which had been arranged to be
played on the great organ, whose
notes in this new-built Cathedral were
still a novelty. The priest on one
side, and the Florentine on the other,
offered no interruption to his sacred
service. But, in a moment, the prelate had
finished his reading, and the " organ
ists of the Hallelujah," four priests
who sang, in parts, a portion of the
mass arranged for them, took up
their service. As the prelate, awed
by the solemnity of his own words,
lifted his head from the bent attitude
in which he had been reading, the
Florentine touched him lightly on
the shoulder, and said to him in
Latin : —
" It is ' For the Love of Christ '
that I am here and speak to you. A
dying girl needs your help, and I am
bidden to come to call you
In His Name."
There was tot a priest of the lesser

degree in the great circle around
but was chafing with indignation
and amazement as he witnessed the
utterly unauthorized intrusion which
had been made in the very crisis of
the great solemnity. But to William,
who was the central officer in it all,
whose whole heart was glowing with
one eager wish that this people might
understand how a child born in a
manger might yet be the Prince of
Peace, how the Lord of lords and
King of kings might yet minister in
the humblest offices, it seemed in this
interruption as if the Holy Spirit had
sent the immediate present answer to
his yearning prayer ; and when, in the
language of Holy Writ itself, with the
great invocation which had worked
all miracles from the beginning, man
spoke to him, he answered imme
diately, —
"Ecce adsum Domine"; and, to
the Florentine, he added, "quo ducas
sequar," — "Lord, I am here ; where
thou leadest, I will follow." At the
moment, seeing the priest Alexander
at his other side, he counted his pres
ence also as a part of the vision or
miracle which surrounded him; he
touched him, in turn, and pointed to
him the place of the reading on the
open missal-book on the Eagle ; in
timated to him that he was to go on
with the service when the organists
of the Hallelujah were done, and so
followed the Florentine out from the
brilliant chancel, threading his way
among the kneeling ranks of the
amazed clergy, and came with him
into the narrow crypts of the darker
vestry. A crowd of officers of the
church, from sacristans up to canons,
of those waiting at the doors, turned
and pressed around them ; but their
chief waved them back to the chan
cel. " Leave me alone with the mes
senger," he said, " and let the service

In His Name.

73

of Noel not be abated, not in one
syllable of the office."
Then he turned to the Florentine,
and almost whispered to him, " Ad-
sum et sequar," — " I am here, and I
will follow."
" Your grace need not follow," said
the young man, who was only sur
prised that he was not surprised at
all that was passing. The truth is,
that any actor in one of those waves
of inspiration, in which true men are
buoyed up together by the Holy
Spirit, only feels that the whole is
entirely what must be and should be ;
and his only wonder is that such
strength and' simplicity are not the
law of all life. V Your grace need
not follow. If your grace will read
this message, that is all."
Father William glanced at the scrap
of vellum which the young man gave
him, looked from the top to the bot
tom, saw the invocation " For the
Love of Christ," and the appeal " In
His Name" ; saw the signature of the
old companion of his novitiate, John
of Lugio, and saw the Cross of
Malta^the significance of which among
" the initiates he well knew. The awe,
which had controlled him from the
beginning of the appeal made to him,
was not diminished as his eye caught
these words. He still felt that hn
was under Sacred Guidance, and read
the letter once and again.
"O, my brother !" he said, then,
with a sad sigh, " our brother asks
what I am powerless to give. If our
brother Stephen of St. Amour were
here, he understands the Archbishop's
alembics and elixirs. Even William
of Cologne has some novice's notion
of them. But I — I am but a child —
nor do I even dare open the cloister
room where these things are, lest I
wake spirits that I cannot lay."
" If your worship will pardon me,

I have studied of these elixirs with
the very men with whom the Arch
bishop has studied." In that sacred
presence, the Florentine would not
name paynim oounds like Abulcasis
and Averroes. " If your grace will
only lead to the cloister, I will de
cide. ' Ecce adsum, quo ducas se
quar,' " citing his own words of the
moment before.
" As the Lord will. ' For the Love
of Christ,' I do what you bid me.
And service cannot be mistaken,
which is rendered ' In His Name.' "
So saying, the prelate took from
the sconce one of the large conse
crated candles which furnished the
light to the dim vestry, and bade the
student take the other. They left the
room in darkness, and, with these
strange flaring torches, they crossed
the court-yard to the amazement of
the grooms in attendance, and entered
by the Archbishop's private door to
the corridor of his apartments, to the
equal astonishment of the porter on
duty there. The palace of the Arch
bishop was one of the grandest and
most beautiful buildings then in
France. As the young man stood in
the magnificent hall of entrance, he
wondered at the richness and beauty
of its sculptures. After a moment's
pause the Canon joined him again,
coming out from his chamber with a
heavy bunch of keys, and led the way
to the corridor to the very end. He
quickly turned the key in the lock,
and said to Giulio, with a sweet
smile, —
"To this moment, I have believed
that I might be in a dream — nescie-
bam rem veram esse quod fiebat per
angelum, sed putabam me visum vi-
dere." *
* "Nor deemed that it was true which
was spoken by the angel, but thought 1
saw a vision."

74

In His Name.

"We are both guided by angels
and archangels whom we cannot see,
my lord." This was the young man's
reverent reply.
The heavy door of the Archbishop's
private laboratory swung open. The
Canon himself, who had unlocked it,
ha"d never entered the chamber before.
And the man of science was himself
surprised, when he saw how extensive
was the apparatus of mystery and of
alchemy which was collected there.
He recognized one and another imple
ment of infant chemistry, which he
had himself used in his master's
workshop, and which the Archbishop
had rescued from destruction when
his master fled. He saw also in an
instant that, as he had supposed, the
stores of the Jew Cimchi had found
their way to this collection. The
place itself, with its collection of un
known machines, had a little of the
look of that curiosity-shop, repre
sented by Albert Durer, some centuries
later, in which his weird Melancolia
sits brooding. In the Archbishop's
den, however, neither prelate nor
physician had time to lose. The
young man cast his eye around, and,
seeing an exquisite cabinet of Vene
tian inlaid work on one side, asked
his companion if there were no Vene
tian keys upon the chain which he
had brought with him. A few exper
iments threw open the little case, and
a series of choice phials — some of
silver, some of glass — stood before
them both, which the younger of the
two visitors recognized at once as
being of the most careful Saracen
workmanship of the time.
He brought his tall candle to the
little shelves, and read the names
marked upon the several elixirs, tinc
tures, spirits, and " humors." To his
eye, some of the flasks before him
were worth a king's ransom. But at

this moment they had not kings ts
ransom, but Felicie to save. And,
in an instant, he showed to the prel.
ate what they wanted. Marked first
in Arabic, and beneath in Latin, was
the " Elixir of Cordova, of the second
formula of Abulcasis."
" Your reverence sees that here is
what we need. Am I to take the
flask to the child ? "
The prelate bent, and read the sec
ond inscription. " It is in his grace's
own handwriting," he said. " How
strange that these Saracens whom we
are riding down in the field are those
who send to us the elixirs of life in
our homes. Let it be as the Lord
wills. If my Lord did not deem the
elixir precious, he would not have
saved it. But it is written that the
paynim also shall serve. 'Ask of
me, and I will give thee the heathen
for thine inheritance.' Take what is
needed, my son, ' For the Love of
Christ,' and may the Holy Mother
give the blessing which is promised
to those who serve
'In His Name.'"
Unconsciously the father had twice '
used the first and last passwords of
the initiated Poor Men of Lyons.
The proficient started as he did be
fore, when he heard the two phrases
together, and felt, indeed, that the
true minister before him had used
them wisely and well. The permis
sion once given him, he took the pre
cious flask from its companions. The
prelate locked the cabinet, locked the
door of the cell, and then offered to
go with the other to the child's bed
side. " I will administer extreme
unction, if you think her case so des
perate." "My father, the child is uncon
scious. But, at the least, her breath
will not pass away for hours. You

In His Name.

75

can be ill spared from yonder service.
If, when it is over, she needs your
care, you shall find me waiting at the
door of the chapel."
A«nd so they parted: the Floren
tine with the priest's blessing, the
prelate with the other's thanks. With
his great candle flaring, he crossed
the street in the darkness, passed
rapidly up to the great cathedral
door, and bade the throng open, that
he might enter. At the sight of the
great chief of the whole solemnity in
his full robes of ceremony, the crowd
in street and porch rolled back rever
ently, and the holy man, still wonder
ing at all which had passed, walked
up the nave, where all made room for
him, bearing his flambeau still, and
as if he were in a dream. To the
multitude, this seemed a part of the
ceremonial. To the canons and the
other clergy, it was all amazing. He
came to the altar as his humble sub
stitute was chanting the words, —
"The glory of the Lord shall be
revealed, and all flesh shall see the
salvation of our God."

And never had those words seemed
to Father William to mean so much
as they meant now. He knelt at
Father Alexander's side. He gave
to him the candle which he bore, still
burning, and assumed again his part
in the Sacred office.
And so the service of triumph went
on, the Communion and the Post-
Communion. And, at the close, Fa
ther William offered the prayer : —
" Grant us, 0 Lord, we pray, that
we may live in the new life of thine
only begotten son, in whose heavenly
mystery we eat and drink this night.
Through that same Lord, we offer our
petitions." And it seemed to Father William
that never had he known, as now,
what that New Life was. And as,
upon his knees, he thought how a
Gospel of Love was lifting Felicie
from the dead that night, and who
should say how many more of the
sick and suffering, the priest felt as
he had never felt before, on the Vigil
of the Nativity, that "the Lord had
visited his people."

CHAPTER X.

CHRISTMAS DAWNS.

The blackamoor was waiting at the
outer doorway for the Florentine's
return. The master, he said, was in
Madame Waldo's kitchen, and thither
the young man carried to him the
precious Elixir.
" Thank God that you are here ! "
said his master who, with his outer
garments off, was at work as a cook
might be, over the coals. " And
thank God again, that you have this
that you are sent for." He hald the
dark-red elixir to the light, and
smiled graciously and sweetly again,

as he saw its perfect clearness and
the richness of its color. "Dearchild,
these sour watery wines would not
lie upon her stomach. You were
right in using them so sparingly. I
left her just now, after another of
these spasms you described to me.
I do not know but I myself brought
it on. Yet I could not have seen
her die before my eyes, in lipothymy,
for want of stimulant and reaction.
Now we can quicken the beating of
her heart, without flooding her
stomach with sour grape juice.

76

In His Name.

" My faith began to fail me. I
knew she was lost if they had seized
you," he continued, as they mounted
the stair. " I was at work with the
dame's pipkins and pans trying to
make a little spirit pass over upon
the bit of earthenware you saw me
holding. But it was a poor alembic
I had made, compared to that in
which this spirit was distilled."
And so they entered the child's
room once more.
The Florentine was amazed, him
self, to see how much she seemed to
have withered away since he was
gone. He had been in that chamber
twenty-seven hours continuously, be
fore he left it. From minute to min
ute he had watched her face, and so
gradual had been the decline which
that time had wrought in it, that, from
the very watchfulness of his care, he
did not enough appreciate it. But
the hour of his absence had changed
her terribly. And because he had
been absent, he now noted every de
tail of the change.
Ready for his use, John of Lugio
had three or four silver spoons lying
heated on the hearth, close to the
embers. With a gloved hand he took
one of these, dropped into it what
he thought enough of his precious
Christ-sent elixir, partially cooled it,
for an instant, on the surface of a
full cup of water, and then poured the
spirit with a firm hand between the
close lips of the child, who never
seemed to struggle when he dealt
with her. Jean Waldo, from the
other side of the bed, and Madame
Gabrielle, from tbe foot of it, sadly
watched the whole.
The adept placed his hand upon
the heart of his patient, counting the
pulsations with his eyes closed, and
then, crossing the room, set Giulio's
pendulum again in motion. There

stole over the girl's face an. expres
sion which p.11 of them construed as
that of relief from pain. No one of
all those watching her said a single
word, as a space of time which rfnght
have been five minutes went by. But
in that time the dear child twice
turned her head on the pillow, as if
she would say, " I can sleep now,"
and her whole expression certainly
came to indicate the absence of pain.
The Florentine once and again re
newed the motion of the pendulum ;
and his master, again by the bed
side, as often noted the pulsation of
the sufferer's heart, and counted the
heaving of her lungs.
He said nothing. None of them
now said anything. But at the end,
perhaps of ten minutes, not dissatis
fied, as it would seem, with the exper
iment, he heated again a few drops of
the elixir, and again poured them
into her mouth, which opened now
without any of the spasmodic strug
gle which had, sometimes, checked
their efforts for her. The master put
his hand upon her forehead, smiled
with that tender smile which they
had now all come to look for and
hope for, and then whispered to her
mother, " Now for your hot cloths
at her stomach and hot water for her
feet again. If she sleeps she shall
do well. ' Si dormit salva erit,'
he said to Giulio again ; " there is
better authority for that than for
any of Pope Sylvester's maxims."
And then, rather in following his
example than in obedience to any
formal directions, they all seated
themselves, — the two physicians by
the fire, the father and mother by the
sides of the bed, the one attendant
in the corner, and no one spoke a
word* The last thing had been done
that their skill or energy could com
mand. Every one of the group had

In His Name.

77

done, in his best way, what he could
in bringing it about, and every one of
them knew that now life or death was,
in no sense, in their hands. In his
own fashion, probably, each of them
prayed : even the poor silent black
amoor, to such God as he knew ; the
mother, to the virgin and St. Felicie
and St. Gabrielle ; the father, with a
wretched consciousness that he had
hitherto conceived that his wife and
daughter could do all the praying
needful in that house, or that he
could pay for what more might be
needed ; the Florentine as to the Spirit
of Life, that that living spirit would
so purify and quicken the child's
spirit, that flesh and blood, drug and
poison, might obey its requisition and
command ; and the priest, because the
wisest of them all, with the very sim
plest prayer of all, " Fatner of all of
us, come to us all."
There was no method of noting the
passage of time, unless they had
counted the beatings of their own
hearts, now that the pendulum of the
Florentine had been left unmoved.
But, after a longer space than any, in
which either the girl's stillness or their
own anxiety had permitted them to sit
silent before, the master crossed to
the bed again, felt of her head and of
her heart again, and then, with his
pleased smile, nodded to his assistant,
and, in a whisper, bade him bring a
larger draught than they had given of
the cordial. He only nodded and
smiled, as he caught the anxious and
eager, questioning look of Madame
Gabrielle. But those signals were
enough, — and she, poor soul, was on
her knees at the bedside, in the most
voluble prayer, though wholly silent.
The master indulged her for a few
moments in these grateful devotions,
then walked round and touched her
on the shoulder, and made her su

premely happy by summoning her to
duty. It was simply that she should
place a fresh pillow on the bed, and
then, with her stoutest maid, should
lift the child from the one side of it
to the other, that she might have tho
best chance for the sleep which seemed
now to be nature's best restorative,
These cares ended, he banished Mad
ame Gabrielle absolutely from the
room, and her husband as well. He
bade the- maid prepare a bed for the
Florentine, as if he were her master,
and sent them both away. He told
the blackamoor to renew the heap of
wood by the fire, and then to wait
in the corridor till he was called.
He extinguished all the candles which
they had been using in their sev
eral cares, so that he could remove
from the girl's bedside the screens
which had kept the light from her
eyes. And then, as the only watch
man by the flickering fire of her earthly
being, he threw himself into one of the
deep arm-chairs which Madame Ga
brielle had provided, and, in the abso
lute stillness of the night, waited the
issue of their efforts and their prayers.
As he looked into the waning em
bers of the fire, and saw, once and
again, a spark running in its wayward
course, up and down and everywhere
on the back of the chimney, telling
what the children called prophetic
tales to the looker-on, — as be looked
back, were it only on the events of
that day, since he was interrupted by
the charcoal-dealer, as he compared
the various readings in St. Jerome's
Evangelistaries, but just before noon,
it was as if in to-day's experience
his whole life took order before him.
The master was not much in tbe habit
of raking over the embers of his past
life, but it was almost impossible not
to look into them in the midst of the
reminiscences of such a day as this.

78

In His Name.

Of the two Benedictines whom he
had met so unexpectedly by the pos
tern gate of the abbey at Cornillon,
one was the companion even of his
childish life, the son of his father's
nearest neighbor. The master's mem
ory did not go back to a time before
that, when, with a little boy of just
his own strength and size, he dug in
the sand-heaps by the road-side, or
made ineffectual traps for the spar
rows. With that boy he had grown, —
had worked in the simple farm-life of
the fields around Lugio, — had, when
they were older, learned his letters,
and learned to write at last. The par
ish priest had taken a fancy to both
these boys, who discouraged the noisy-
and mischievous urchins of the town,
as they all sat together in the church,
and wondered when the mass would
be over. As the little fellows grew
bigger, the worthy man selected these
two to be robed in little robes, and to
carry, in the service, bell and book
and incense. He loved nothing better
than to walk with them and talk with
them, now of saints and their battles
and victories, now of birds and snakes
and frogs, or of flowers and fruits, as
they found them in the fields and
woods and marshes. And, by this
selection of his, and by their own
natural bent, it had happened that,
when the other boys around them be
came masons, or vineyard dressers,
or sometimes carriers and merchants'
men ; when some of them went into
the service of one or another of the
neighboring gentry, and so showed
themselves, on the first holidays, in
new jerkins or hauberks, to the won
der of the boys less smartly dressed,
Jean and Francois had too much to
do in the service of the church, or in
studying with the priest, or in one or
another message of his, sometimes
taking them as far as the Cathedral,

and into high intimacy Pith arch
deacons and canons ; had too much
of this dignified and grateful service
for them to think or care for the more
carnal lines of life in which their com
panions were engaging. Francois,
his companion, under the ecclesias
tical name of Stephen, was the older
of the Benedictines he had met that
day. It was in one of those early
journeys,when he was yet hardly more
than a boy, that he had gone on some
errand to the great Monastery of
Clairvaux, a place not unfamiliar to
him, and had been actually there,
awaiting the answer to a message,
when the great Bernard died, — the
man to whom all Europe deferred
more, as it owed more, than to any
other. And as the master looked
back, he knew that it was the lesson
of that hour, sad and solemn, which
had determined him, then and there
to give up his life to the service and
help of other men. Then came on
years of life, — impatient enough at
the time, very likely, but, as he looked
back upon them, sunny indeed, and
crowded with incident and enjoyment.
The sailing down the river with his
lively companions, of which the Bar
oness of Montferrand had reminded
him, was a - fair enough illustration
of that life. And there was a wrench
at his heart now, renewing many and
many a march of many a night of
struggle at that time, as he asked
himself now, for the thousandth
time, if — f
"If he had then and there given
up his determination to make him
self a priest, if he had then and
there asked his mother's goddaugh
ter, Anne of Thoissey, — so brave
and true and loyal as she was, and
so beautiful withal, — to share life
with him ; and If —
" If she had said, what it some

In His Name.

79

times seemed that she might say ;
and they two together had given
themselves to the service of God and
ministry to man, might it have been
that they could have rendered wider
service, and made their own lives
and other lives more godly, than
had happened as it was? " He had
torn himself from her, and with so
many of these men, with whom to
day was mixing him again, had en
tered on his priestly training. And
she, — at this moment she was abbess
in the Convent of Montmerle. Was
she happier and better — and was he ?
Then there was all his earlier
training of manhood, and the taking
of his vows. And the memories of
all those young men who then sur
rounded him : they were now canons
and deacons and bishops and arch
bishops ; they were with Philip and
Richard in the East ; they were the
heads of houses here in the West ;
yes, — and so many of them were in
heaven ! How strangely had every
one of them falsified every prediction
which, in those days of their novi
tiate, they would have been sure to
make regarding each other !
And so he came down to the period
of a man's activity, to what one of
our poets calls " the joy of eventful
living." Those happy days here in
Lyons, when he never looked back,
and scarcely ever looked forward ;
when he found, at his right hand and
at his left hand, noble men and no
ble women from every grade in life,
only eager to serve God as God
should show them how. The prac
tical enthusiasm of Peter of Waldo !
The discovery of new truth and high
er Life which each day made, as they
studied gospel and epistle ! The
strength they all gained in sympathy :
sometimes from the droll beggars
whs came to them in travel ; some

times from women and children who
seemed inspired in the very propor
tion of their ignorance of books ;
waifs and strays these, who came to
light, as the " Poor Men of Lyons "
assembled the troops from highways
and byways, from hedges and ditches,
at their houses of bread and houses
of God ! Tn tbe midst of this, as if
it were almost another man whose
life he was recalling, came the mem
ories of all those studies in physi
cal science, the fruits of which he
was this night using ; his journeys
to Cordova and Seville ; his inter
views with the Cimchis and Abul
casis ; the enthusiasm which even
Guichard, now Archbishop,showed, as
in the cell of Abulcasis he and Jean
of Lugio together saw for the first
time what seemed almost the' miracle
of distillation , and their first success
in repeating that experiment with
the humble apparatus which they two
had made for themselves ! And to
think of what had passed since then !
Guichard, an archbishop, Lord of the
fief of Lyons, and John of Lugio, an
exile, with a sword hanging over his
head !
And so his memories ran down
through all the days of trial. First,
there was the happy work over Scrip
ture with Peter Waldo, with Bernard
of Ydros, and with Stephen of Empsa.
Then, the journey to Rome with Peter
Waldo, and the welcome by Pope Al
exander, more than cordial — the wel
come which gave such wings and such
courage to their return. Then, John
of Balmeis's scorn, as he received
the Pope's letter, his pretended in
quiry, and his bitter and cruel excom
munication. Then, the wretched
years of suspense, more wretched
than those of certainty in exile ;
Peter's second visit to Rome ; the
council called by Lucius, and its

80

In His Name.

jealousies ; the clergy against the
laymen, and the laymen scorned and
rejected. " Ah me," said John of
Lugio, aloud, " it is always as it was
in the beginning The carpenter's
shop could gain no welcome in the
temple courts, and it cannot to-day.
He was despised and rejected of
men." Had he disturbed his patient by
speaking ?
She turned on her pillow, and said,
" Mamma ! Mamma ! "
John of Lugio gently crossed the
room, removing the candle from its
shelter as he did so, that she might
see him distinctly, and then he said,
as if he had known her all her life,
and was her dear friend, " Your
mamma is asleep now, dear child,
and she has left me to take care of
you. She left this bunch of grapes
for you to wet your lips with."
" Bunch of grapes — wet my lips,"
said the girl, almost laughing at the
oddity which supposed that she, of
all people, needed nursing in the mid
dle of tho night ; and then she tried
to rise upon her elbow, and then found
she had not just the balance that she
needed, and dropped back upon her
pillow. "Where am I? what is it?"
she asked, more doubtfully.
" You have been very ill, my dear
child, but you are better now ; wet
your lips with the grapes ; that will
please mamma ; or let me give you
a little of the broth which she left
for you."
" Broth which she left for me ? Did
not I drink some — herb drink which
she made for me ? or — or — is that —
all that — a horrid dream? O, sir,
I have had such dreams." And she
sank quite exhausted on the pillow.
"Dear Felicie, you shall forget
them all. Take mamma's broth, and
take with it a little of this cordial,

and try to sleep again." There was
little need for persuasion. The child
lay almost impassive as he fed her ;
thanked him then with the same pret-
tincss and sweetness with which she
spoke to beggar or worshipper on the
hill or in the church of St. Thomas,
and, in a moment, was asleep again.
But sleep now was so beautiful and
so regular, her pale face had lost so
entirely the lines of agony and strug
gle, that the priest, as he looked on,
thanked God in his heart of hearts
for the greatest of blessings, the re
turn of health, and for the sight
most beautiful of all His gifts, — the
sight of a sleeping child.
As he returned to his watch by the
fire, the silence of night was broken
by the chimes of the . cathedral. In' ¦
an instant more he heard the rival
chimes of the Abbey of He Barbe,
and then the chimes of Ainay, and
then the ringing of bells that could
not be named, as Sts. Machabees and
St. Nizier and St. Paul, and the tower
of the Augustins, and every church
and abbey and convent in all the
country around broke out with joy
to announce that the Lord of Life was
born into the world.
"Unto us a child is born," said
John of Lugio, reverently.
.Hour after hour his quiet watch
went by. Wise as he was, he did not
dream that only on the other side of
the doorway, crouching on a mat
tress, through all these hours, was
Madame Gabrielle, waiting for sound
or signal which might give her per
mission to return to her post at her
child's side. No! The house was so
still, that the wise man thought that
all had obeyed his orders, and that
all were sleeping. From hour to
hour he took such occasion as the
child's occasional restlessness gave
him, to feed her with her mother's

In His Name.

81

broth, and to give the precious stim
ulant of the Archbishop's elixir. And
she, dear girl, fairly smiled in her
sleep, once and again, as happier
dreams came over her, and as Nature
asserted herself now, that the poison
was so nearly gone from her. At
last, as the priest supposed, this night
had nearly sped. He drew the cur
tain, and" he was right ; there was a
gray light spread over the east, in the
midst of which the morning-star shone
with beauty preternatural, . with a
light so bright that he could see it
reflected in the river below. The
light was so gentle that he thought it

would not disturb the child. He
crossed to the door to bid the black
call Madame Gabrielle. And lo, she
was already there ! He led her to
the bedside, that he might show to
her the glow of new life upon Feli
cie's face. And just as they ap
proached, the child opened her eyes
again, and looked wistfully around,
and even sat up and began to speak.
" Mamma, mamma."
And he delivered her to her moth
er. With that gift of Life new born,
the Christmas Day of that home be
gan.

CHAPTER XI.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

When Twelfth Night came,'the great
hall of Jean Waldo's workshop had
been cleared from all its looms.
In their places were three long ta
bles, which stretched from end to end
of the long room, and across the top
a fourth table, which united these to
gether. All through the day the great kitch
en was crowded by the eager servants
of the household, and all the neigh
bors' kitchens were put into requisi
tion as well, to furnish forth the most
noble feast which had been seen in
Lyons for many, many years. Men
even whispered that the great feast,
when the Archbishop entertained
King Richard and King Philip, was
not so grand.
That morning Felicie, and her moth
er and father, and her cousin Gabrielle
L'Estrange, and many others of the
family, — " too many for to name," —
nad all gone together in a little pil
grimage of thanksgiving to the cathe
dral. Felicie had begged that they

would take her to her own little eyrie
church of St. Thomas, on the top of
the hill ; but no, that was quite too
far, even though Felicie rode in the
chariot which appeared in public so
seldom. At the cathedral, also, they
could be present while the good Fa
ther William said mass, and their
solemnity would hardly be complete
without him.
After this offering, they had all re
turned together to the house, and
there the grand salon was opened, the
room which seemed to Felicie almbst._
mysterious, so seldom did it see the-
light of day. And when it did, she
found that it was like most other
mysteries, for there was very little in
it. But to-day, dear old Eudes, who
had been a sort of major-domo, or
servant-master, in Madame Waldo's
household, even before Felicie was
born, had done his best to make it
seem cheerful. At each end a lordly
fire, made of great oak logs, blazed
cheerfully. Eudes had sent the lada

82

In His Name.

every where to bring laurel and other
evergreens to hang above the chim
ney-pieces and between the windows
and around the sconces ; and after
they had come home from mass, when
one and another of the guests began
to appear, whom Jean Waldo had sum
moned from far and near, — as they
gathered, at first a little shyly,
around one fireplace or another, but
soon unbending before the genuine
hospitality of ail who were at home,
and as people will unbend, in France
of all nations, when old and young
meet in the same company, — the
great hall was then cheerful indeed.
The talk was loud and the mer
riment contagious. Dear little Fe
licie sat in a great arm-chair, with
her feet lifted upon a footstool, but
she did not look as if this care were
in the least needful. Only her mother
and her father seemed to feel that un
less they were taking care of her, in
some visible fashion, at every mo
ment, all might escape again, and be
gone. But Felicie had her aids, to
fetch and carry for her, and to run
hither and thither with her messages.
She said she meant to play at being
queen upon her throne ; and, indeed,
she was so, pretty creature, in the
midst of all that assembly. Gabrielle
L'Estrange took great airs as being a
lady in waiting, and came and whis
pered, and ran hither and thither, as
if her sovereign's commands were
most difficult of execution. And for
the first hour, that shy, pretty Fan-
chon, the daughter of Mark of Seys
sel, stood almost constantly at the
side of Felicie's chair. She was
dressed in a holiday costume, such as
the peasants of the hills were fond
of wearing, so simple and pretty and
quaint that she attracted everybody's
notice in the midst of the Lyonnaise
girls, in their more uniform costume.

Fanchon felt at ease with Felicie fiom
the very first kiss. It took her longer
to adjust herself to Gabrielle's busy,
active, diplomatic managing of the
party. But Fanchon, also, melted at
last to the simple courtesies and hos
pitalities of the place. And, as the
afternoon began to come in, and the
winter sun crept in a little at the west
ern windows, Felicie had the joy to
see all her guests — for her father
said that this was her party, and only
hers — obeying the sound of pipe
and tabor and harp, and dancing mer
rily, from one end of the hall to the
other. Always there was a little
court clustered around her throne.
But always she would order them
away, in such couples as it pleased
her Majesty to select, and send them
out again " to try the adventure " of
the dance, she said. " To try " this
or that " adventure" was the stand
ard phrase of the romances of the
troubadours, with which Felicie and
her young friends, and, indeed, all the
company, were wholly familiar.
And, before the early winter sun
went down, others joined in the fes
tival, so thai when Eudes came bus
tling in, to tell Madame Waldo that
all was ready at the tables, Father
John of Lugio was one of her guests
again. And she brought him to her
daughter, and, in that sweet, cour
teous way of his, he told her Majesty
that he was bidden to take her to the
supper-room, and asked her to lead
with him the procession. And then,
even to Felicie's amazement, and al
most to her terror, Father William
appeared also, whom she had not seen
before, and Father William followed
close on Father John, giving his hand
to Felicie's mother. And then the
order required that Giulio the Flor
entine should lead in Madame L'Es
trange, who wondered indeed herself

In His Name.

83

at finding herself so provided for, and
then the other guests followed, in
many a combination quite as strange.
In a few minutes all were ordered :
Felicie at her mother's side, and on
their right and left the two priests ;
the Florentine and Madame L'Es-
trange ; the Baron of Montferrand
and the Lady Alix Even the two
monks, Stephen and Hugh, had ob
tained some sort of dispensation from
their convent, and were here ; Gual
tier of the Mill was here ; Mark of
Seyssel and his wife and all his chil
dren, down to Hubert, were here ; poor
Prinhac was here, with his arm in a
sling ; the officer of fhe night, who
threw up the portcullis so promptly,
was here, and the sentinel who held
the gate. Here was the farmer of the
hill-side . Here was every groom that
had cared for the horses who that day
sped so well ; here was the boy who
rode Cceur-Blanc into tbe stable, when
Father Jean was afraid to be seen ;
here was Father Alexander, who
crossed the blazing chancel so fear
lessly with the Florentine. Here was
every messenger who had been sent
on that sad night for Felicie's father
and for the doctor ; every neighbor
who had brought in oil, or snow, or
herbs, for her relief ; every maid who
had warmed a plate for her. Here
were the trouvere and Antoine. Seven
score guests were assembled, of every
degree, — gentlemen and grooms, la
dies and scullion-maids. The invita
tions had been given with diligent
care to every one who had done any
thing, in that night of trial, which
had helped our darling Felicie, and to
every one who had tried to do so.
Father William asked God's bless
ing on the feast; and, with great
merriment and joy, it went forward.
The young men and the girls had
every sort of joke about the Twelfth-

Night presents, which they had se
cretly brought for each other ; and, at
the last, there was great ceremony
and rivalry as to who should have the
sacred bean, which was baked in the
Twelfth cake, which Felicie pretended
to cut, and which was, in truth( cut
by the strong right arm of John of
Lugio. No ; there was no manner
of cheating or forcing, and the bean
fell to the pretty Fanchon, — Mark's
daughter, — who blushed almost as
red as her own bright ribbons when
Philip L'Estrange brought to her the
bean on a silver plate, and made to
her a low bow and a flourishing speech,
in which he said that her Majesty
Queen Felicie sent it with her royal
regards to her Majesty Queen Fan
chon. The feasting went on, and the
fun went on, and no one seemed to
enjoy the feasting or the fun more
than Jean Waldo himself, though he
sat at neither table, but passed about
from guest to guest, with a napkin on
his arm, as one of the servants, bring
ing here a plate, and there a cup, and
urging all to eat and drink and only
happy as he saw that his guests were
happy, and were provided for.
And, when the feasting seemed to
be nearly ended, not because the
bountiful stores provided had failed,
but because there is an end even to a
Twelfth-Night appetite, Jean Waldo
came round, and stood by John of
Lugio, and whispered to him, and
then the Father rose, and asked for
silence, which awaited him of course.
And he said, nearly what I have said,
that this was Felicie's feast, and that
her father had given it for her, as his
simplest way of showing honor to all
who had prayed for her and toiled for
her on the terrible night when her
life was ia danger. " He wants to
thank you all, and to promise yon his
best praj^ers for your welfare in all

\

84

In His Name.

your lives. He is afraid he cannot
say what he would fain say," said the
master, " and so he bids me say it for
him to you all." And there was great
clapping of hands from all the guests
at all the tables, and they all cried
" He is welcome, he is welcome," and
some cried, "Long life to the lady
Felicie." And poor Felicie was cry
ing, as if her heart was breaking,
though her face seemed so happy all
the while. And her mother held her
hand, and cried as if her heart was
breaking too.
And then Jean Waldo waved his
hand, and said, " I do not know how
to speak as these Fathers do. But I
must try. I must thank you all, all
of you, with all my heart, that my
darling is here, and that we are all
so happy; Ah, my friends," he said,
" you know me for a hard man, who
has said to you a thousand times,
that I would take care of my affairs,
if other people would take care of
theirs. O, my God, I have said it
again and again, — I know not how
often I have said it to those who are
in this company. But I learned every
thing, I think, on the eve of Noel.
In those terrible nights I learned that
I wanted others — O, how many others
— to take care of me and. of my dear
est concerns, yes, though they risked
their lives for it, as my friend here.
did so bravely. And as those slow
hours went by, I prayed to my God,
and I promised him, that whether my
' darling lived or died, — whether she
lived with me here, or with his angels
there, — for me, I would live from that
day forward for all my brothers, and
all my sisters, for you, and for you,
and for you ; yes, for all his chil
dren, if I could help them. But, dear
friends, I could not begin to do this,
without asking him to forgive me,
and you to forgive me, that so often

I have said I would care for myself,
if the others for themselves would
care. I could not begin to live for
the rest, without asking the rest to
pardon me that I had lived for myself
before. And so, at little Felicie's
feast, I ask her, and I ask you, as I
ask the good God, to show me how
to take care for others, and to show
others how to take care of me."
Some of the guests were weeping,
and some of them were clapping their
hands, and some of them were shout
ing " Long life to our Host, long life
to Master Jean." But Father Wil
liam, who was standing with the tears
running down his cheeks, waved his
hand ; and they were all so amazed
that he who acted as Archbishoj
should be here at all, most of all that
he should sit and stand so near to
John of Lugio, that they all stopped
their shouting, that they might listen.
And he smiled drolly, and as if he
had a secret, upon them all, till he
saw that all were very curious ; and
then, with his finger, he drew in the
air the sign of the Cross of Malta ;
and then he said, " I will teach our
brother how to forget himself, and
how to live for others. What he does,
let him do ' For the Love of Christ,'
and whom he welcomes, let him wel
come
'In His Name.'"
And then, passing behind Madame
Waldo and little Felicie, he threw his
own arm about John of Lugio's neck,
turned him, all surprised as he was,
so that he was face to face with him,
and kissed him.
O, the cheering and clapping, the
tears and the surprise ! To those who
were initiated, the wonder was how
the reigning prince of Lyons had
come upon their secret. To those
whose eyes were only partly opened

In His Name.

85

to what Jean Waldo. had seen so
clearly in those visions of his terrible
night-watches, it was as if Saladin
and Philip had kissed each other on
tbe Mount of Olives. To those in
itiates, who were as bigoted in their
way as was Montferrand, it was all
amazement, that an Archbishop of
Lyons, or any one who sat in an
Archbishop's throne, should have any
heart, or should speak aught but evil.
To the churchmen, as to Alexander
and Hugh and Stephen, it was relief
unspeakable. For here was their
chief, doing more than they had done
to express sympathy and love which
they were yearning to offer to all.

Jean of Lugio himself did not
seem surprised. With an eager em
brace he returned the embrace, —
with a second kiss upon William's
cheek, he returned the kiss. " Ah ! "
said he, "the Kingdom of God has
truly come. The City of God is res
cued, and we are in it now. Heaven
can offer us nothing sweeter than we
have here. You will never misun
derstand us, William ; we shall never
misunderstand you. What you ask
of us we shall perform ; for you will
ask ' For the Love of Christ,' and
we shall answer
' In His Name.' "

CHAPTER XII.

the whole story.

My uncle Adrian had brought us
home this story, which you have been
reading, from the city of Lyons. He
had walked over every inch of the
ground that Felicie had tripped over,
that Giulio and Jean Waldo had hur
ried over, that the Canon William
had passed over as he bore his weird
candle through the darkness ; he had
crossed the short bridge and the long
bridge ; he had seen the site of Jean
Waldo's workshops ; had climbed to
the church of St. Thomas, which is
now " Our Lady of Fourvieres " ; he
had crossed himself there, and had
seen there the fresh votive offerings,
which young soldiers have hung there,
whom our Lady savetl from wounds
in the Prussian war. My uncle had
looked across the valley of the Rhone,
to see the distant Mont Blanc near
thirty leagues away.
He had been through those Dau
phin Mountains, and the scarped hills
to the north of them ; down the val

ley of the Brevon and the Alberine,
and along the Rhone, crossing it back
and forth, twice, just as Father John
of Lugio did. He would not say that
he had found the charcoal hut of Mark
of Seyssel, but he would say that he
had been on the place where it might
very well have been.
Then he had spent a happy day,
how happy, in that quiet but cheerful
old library at Lyons, where nobody
cared about Peter Waldo, but where
all were as ready to serve my uncle as
if he had been Henry Fifth himself.
He is about the age of the Fifth
Henry. And here he studied Claude
Francis Menestrier's ponderous civil
or consular history of Lyons, while
the full-length portrait of the benevo
lent Claude Francis Menestrier smiled
on him from the wall above. He
studied Montfalcon's Monuments of
Lyons, magnificent in its apparel and
precision. And was it, perhaps, M.
Montfalcon himself, who showed such

86

In His Name.

courtesy to my uncle, though his
French was so bad, and he a stranger
without introduction ? Then he fa tud-
ied pamphlet upon pamphlet of in
dignant men who had to reply to M.
Montfalcon for this and for that,
for which this reader need not care,
so that my uncle well understood that
the flame which Peter Waldo and John
of Lugio, and the other Poor Men of
Lyons, lighted, was not aflame which
burned out in one century, nor in two,
nor in five. Nay, when my uncle
went into the street, and found that
the City Council were trying to lock
out the Government Prefect from their
own old town hall, he thought the old
flame seemed to be burning still.
And many a map of brook and
river and mountain had my uncle
brought home, — and many a sketch
and photograph which we have not
shown to you. He had many a story
of those who befriended John of Lugio
and Peter Waldo, in their time. And
long stories he had to tell us of this
hidden valley, and that defended cave,
in which one or another of the Poor
Men of Lyons, or of those Walden-
ses, who, for centuries after, defended
the same faith, had hidden ; but these
things had nothing to do with our lit
tle Felicie's Christmas and Twelfth
Night, so that, as my uncle writes out
her story for you, they are not writ
ten down.
It was on two warm September
evenings, as we were all at the New
Sybaris, by the sea shore, — two of
those evenings when we can have
every window open, but when, so ear
ly is the sunset, there are two or three
hours after tea before it is bedtime, —
it was on two such evenings that my
uncle read to us the story of Felicie,
of Jean Waldo, of Giulio the Floren
tine, of the ride to the hills, and the
charcoal-burner's hut, of John of Lu

gio, and of Christmas eve, as poor
Felicie spent it, and as the Canon
William spent it ; and then of Christ
mas morning, and of Felicie's Twelfth-
Night Feast, — the story which you
have just now read, dear reader, to
which you and I give the title,
" In His Name."
My boy Philip had been permitted to
sit up later than usual, to hear the end
of the Twelfth-Night Feast. When
it was finished, his mother bade him
take his candle, but he lingered a mo
ment to ask his uncle the inevitable
question, " Is it true, Uncle Adrian ? "
" I do not know why not," said my
uncle. " Peter of Waldo was driven
out, just thus and so, and John of
Lugio with him, — two men of whom
the world was not worthy. Richard
and Philip went to the Crusade just
there and then, and broke down the
bridge as the story tells you. Aver-
roes and Abulcasis, and a dozen oth
ers like them, had, just then, set every
man of sense in Europe on the studies
which turned the old quackeries of
medicine upside down. And the ' Poor
Men of Lyons,' and their associates
in the mountains, had to protect them
selves with all their wits, I can tell
you, and with more passwords than
the story tells you of, as they went
back and forth from city to mountain.
Which Canon William took tbe dean's
place when he was away, the story
does not tell, and I do not know, but
it was some Canon William . Whether
Cceur-Blanc's feet were white* or black,
the story does not tell, and I do not
know ; nor whether Mark's daughter
Fanchon were fifteen or sixteen. But
this is true, I am sure, that none of
them in the end failed who did any
thing ' for the Love of Christ,' if they
could find anybody to join them ' in
His Name.' "

In His Name.

87

" My dear Philip," said his Aunt
Priscilla, " there has been just the
same story going on in this last week,
here under your nose, only you have
been too busy with your boat and
your gun to see it or hear it."
" Going on here, dear aunt?"
" It is always going on, Philip.
Jesus Christ is giving life more
abundantly, and awakening the
dead now, just as he said he would.
When Dr. Sargent gets up at mid
night, and rides behind the old gray
twenty miles before morning, to poor
old Mrs. Fetridge's bedside, do you
suppose he does it because he thinks
the town will pay him half-a- dollar for
going ? He does it because Jesus Christ
bade him do it, though very likely he
never says he does it ' for the love of
Christ,' or ' In His Name.' When
Mr. Johnson sent down the mustard
that I put on Mary's chest last night,
sharp mustard and fiery, instead of
sending saw-dust, colored with turme
ric ; do you suppose he did it to save
your father's eustom? He did it be
cause he would rather die than cheat
any man out of the shadow of a pen

ny. And that comes from what your
Father John would have called ' the
love of Christ,' and working ' in his
name." Or when the expressman came
in afoot last night, with the telegram
from Kingston, when his team had
broken down, because he was afraid
it was important, do you think he
walked those five miles because any
body hired him ? He did not make
any cross of Malta, and he did not
speak any password at the door;
but, all the same, the good fellow did
his message for ' the love of Christ,'
and never would have done it if he
had not lived and moved, his life
long, among people who are confed
erated ' in his name.'
" Five hundred years hence, dear
Phil, they will publish a story about
you and me. We shall seem very ro
mantic then ; and we shall be worth
reading about, if what we do is sim
ple enough, and brave enough, and
loving enough, for anybody to think
that we do it ' for the love of Christ,'
or for anybody to guess that we had
been bound together
" In His Name."

YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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