WHEN we arrived
at that hut at mid-afternoon,
we saw no signs of life about
it. The field near by
had been denuded of its crop some time before, and
had a skinned look, so exhaustively had it been harvested and gleaned. Fences,
sheds, everything had a ruined
look, and were eloquent of
poverty. No animal
was around anywhere, no living thing in sight. The
stillness was awful, it was like the stillness of death.
The cabin was a one-story one, whose thatch was
black with age, and ragged from lack of repair.
The door stood a trifle ajar.
We approached it stealthily --
on tiptoe and at half-breath
-- for that is the way one's
feeling makes him do, at such
a time. The king knocked. We
waited. No answer. Knocked again.
No answer. I pushed the door
softly open and looked in. I
made out some dim forms, and
a woman started up from the ground
and stared at me, as one does
who is wakened from sleep. Presently
she found her voice:
"Have mercy!" she pleaded. "All
is taken, nothing is left."
"I have not
come to take anything, poor
woman."
"You are not
a priest?"
"No."
"Nor come not
from the lord of the manor?"
"No, I am a
stranger."
"Oh, then,
for the fear of God, who visits
with misery and
death such as be harmless, tarry
not here, but fly! This place
is under his curse -- and his
Church's."
"Let me come
in and help you -- you are
sick and in trouble."
I was better used to the dim
light now. I could see her hollow
eyes fixed upon me. I could see
how emaciated she was.
"I tell you
the place is under the Church's
ban. Save yourself
-- and go, before some straggler
see thee here, and report it."
"Give yourself
no trouble about me; I don't
care anything for
the Church's curse. Let me help
you."
"Now all good
spirits -- if there be any
such -- bless thee
for that word. Would God I had
a sup of water! -- but hold,
hold, forget I said it, and fly;
for there is that here that even
he that feareth not the Church
must fear: this disease whereof
we die. Leave us, thou brave,
good stranger, and take with
thee such whole and sincere blessing
as them that be accursed can
give."
But before this I had picked
up a wooden bowl and was rushing
past the king on my way to the
brook. It was ten yards away.
When I got back and entered,
the king was within, and was
opening the shutter that closed
the window-hole, to let in air
and light. The place was full
of a foul stench. I put the bowl
to the woman's lips, and as she
gripped it with her eager talons
the shutter came open and a strong
light flooded her face. Smallpox!
I sprang to the king, and said
in his ear:
"Out of the
door on the instant, sire!
the woman is dying of that
disease that wasted the skirts
of Camelot two years ago."
He did not budge.
"Of a truth
I shall remain -- and likewise
help."
I whispered again:
"King, it must
not be. You must go."
"Ye mean well,
and ye speak not unwisely.
But it were shame
that a king should know fear,
and shame that belted knight
should withhold his hand where
be such as need succor. Peace,
I will not go. It is you who
must go. The Church's ban is
not upon me, but it forbiddeth
you to be here, and she will
deal with you with a heavy hand
an word come to her of your trespass."
It was a desperate place for
him to be in, and might cost
him his life, but it was no use
to argue with him. If he considered
his knightly honor at stake here,
that was the end of argument;
he would stay, and nothing could
prevent it; I was aware of that.
And so I dropped the subject.
The woman spoke:
"Fair sir,
of your kindness will ye climb
the ladder there,
and bring me news of what ye
find? Be not afraid to report,
for times can come when even
a mother's heart is past breaking
-- being already broke."
"Abide," said the king, "and
give the woman to eat. I will
go." And he put down the knapsack.
I turned to start, but the
king had already started. He
halted, and looked down upon
a man who lay in a dim light,
and had not noticed us thus far,
or spoken.
"Is it your husband?" the
king asked.
"Yes."
"Is he asleep?"
"God be thanked
for that one charity, yes --
these three hours.
Where shall I pay to the full,
my gratitude! for my heart is
bursting with it for that sleep
he sleepeth now."
I said:
"We will be
careful. We will not wake him."
"Ah, no, that
ye will not, for he is dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes, what
triumph it is to know it! None
can harm him, none
insult him more. He is in heaven
now, and happy; or if not there,
he bides in hell and is content;
for in that place he will find
neither abbot nor yet bishop.
We were boy and girl together;
we were man and wife these five
and twenty years, and never separated
till this day. Think how long
that is to love and suffer together.
This morning was he out of his
mind, and in his fancy we were
boy and girl again and wandering
in the happy fields; and so in
that innocent glad converse wandered
he far and farther, still lightly
gossiping, and entered into those
other fields we know not of,
and was shut away from mortal
sight. And so there was no parting,
for in his fancy I went with
him; he knew not but I went with
him, my hand in his -- my young
soft hand, not this withered
claw. Ah, yes, to go, and know
it not; to separate and know
it not; how could one go peace
-- fuller than that? It was his
reward for a cruel life patiently
borne."
There was a slight noise from
the direction of the dim corner
where the ladder was. It was
the king descending. I could
see that he was bearing something
in one arm, and assisting himself
with the other. He came forward
into the light; upon his breast
lay a slender girl of fifteen.
She was but half conscious; she
was dying of smallpox. Here was
heroism at its last and loftiest
possibility, its utmost summit;
this was challenging death in
the open field unarmed, with
all the odds against the challenger,
no reward set upon the contest,
and no admiring world in silks
and cloth of gold to gaze and
applaud; and yet the king's bearing
was as serenely brave as it had
always been in those cheaper
contests where knight meets knight
in equal fight and clothed in
protecting steel. He was great
now; sublimely great. The rude
statues of his ancestors in his
palace should have an addition
-- I would see to that; and it
would not be a mailed king killing
a giant or a dragon, like the
rest, it would be a king in commoner's
garb bearing death in his arms
that a peasant mother might look
her last upon her child and be
comforted.
He laid the girl down by her
mother, who poured out endearments
and caresses from an overflowing
heart, and one could detect a
flickering faint light of response
in the child's eyes, but that
was all. The mother hung over
her, kissing her, petting her,
and imploring her to speak, but
the lips only moved and no sound
came. I snatched my liquor flask
from my knapsack, but the woman
forbade me, and said:
"No -- she
does not suffer; it is better
so. It might bring
her back to life. None that be
so good and kind as ye are would
do her that cruel hurt. For look
you -- what is left to live for?
Her brothers are gone, her father
is gone, her mother goeth, the
Church's curse is upon her, and
none may shelter or befriend
her even though she lay perishing
in the road. She is desolate.
I have not asked you, good heart,
if her sister be still on live,
here overhead; I had no need;
ye had gone back, else, and not
left the poor thing forsaken
--"
"She lieth at peace," interrupted
the king, in a subdued voice.
"I would not
change it. How rich is this
day in happiness!
Ah, my Annis, thou shalt join
thy sister soon -- thou'rt on
thy way, and these be merciful
friends that will not hinder."
And so she fell to murmuring
and cooing over the girl again,
and softly stroking her face
and hair, and kissing her and
calling her by endearing names;
but there was scarcely sign of
response now in the glazing eyes.
I saw tears well from the king's
eyes, and trickle down his face.
The woman noticed them, too,
and said:
"Ah, I know
that sign: thou'st a wife at
home, poor soul, and
you and she have gone hungry
to bed, many's the time, that
the little ones might have your
crust; you know what poverty
is, and the daily insults of
your betters, and the heavy hand
of the Church and the king."
The king winced under this
accidental home-shot, but kept
still; he was learning his part;
and he was playing it well, too,
for a pretty dull beginner. I
struck up a diversion. I offered
the woman food and liquor, but
she refused both. She would allow
nothing to come between her and
the release of death. Then I
slipped away and brought the
dead child from aloft, and laid
it by her. This broke her down
again, and there was another
scene that was full of heartbreak.
By and by I made another diversion,
and beguiled her to sketch her
story.
"Ye know it
well yourselves, having suffered
it -- for truly
none of our condition in Britain
escape it. It is the old, weary
tale. We fought and struggled
and succeeded; meaning by success,
that we lived and did not die;
more than that is not to be claimed.
No troubles came that we could
not outlive, till this year brought
them; then came they all at once,
as one might say, and overwhelmed
us. Years ago the lord of the
manor planted certain fruit trees
on our farm; in the best part
of it, too -- a grievous wrong
and shame --"
"But it was his right," interrupted
the king.
"None denieth
that, indeed; an the law mean
anything, what
is the lord's is his, and what
is mine is his also. Our farm
was ours by lease, therefore
'twas likewise his, to do with
it as he would. Some little time
ago, three of those trees were
found hewn down. Our three grown
sons ran frightened to report
the crime. Well, in his lordship's
dungeon there they lie, who saith
there shall they lie and rot
till they confess. They have
naught to confess, being innocent,
wherefore there will they remain
until they die. Ye know that
right well, I ween. Think how
this left us; a man, a woman
and two children, to gather a
crop that was planted by so much
greater force, yes, and protect
it night and day from pigeons
and prowling animals that be
sacred and must not be hurt by
any of our sort. When my lord's
crop was nearly ready for the
harvest, so also was ours; when
his bell rang to call us to his
fields to harvest his crop for
nothing, he would not allow that
I and my two girls should count
for our three captive sons, but
for only two of them; so, for
the lacking one were we daily
fined. All this time our own
crop was perishing through neglect;
and so both the priest and his
lordship fined us because their
shares of it were suffering through
damage. In the end the fines
ate up our crop -- and they took
it all; they took it all and
made us harvest it for them,
without pay or food, and we starving.
Then the worst came when I, being
out of my mind with hunger and
loss of my boys, and grief to
see my husband and my little
maids in rags and misery and
despair, uttered a deep blasphemy
-- oh! a thousand of them! --
against the Church and the Church's
ways. It was ten days ago. I
had fallen sick with this disease,
and it was to the priest I said
the words, for he was come to
chide me for lack of due humility
under the chastening hand of
God. He carried my trespass to
his betters; I was stubborn;
wherefore, presently upon my
head and upon all heads that
were dear to me, fell the curse
of Rome.
"Since that
day we are avoided, shunned
with horror. None has
come near this hut to know whether
we live or not. The rest of us
were taken down. Then I roused
me and got up, as wife and mother
will. It was little they could
have eaten in any case; it was
less than little they had to
eat. But there was water, and
I gave them that. How they craved
it! and how they blessed it!
But the end came yesterday; my
strength broke down. Yesterday
was the last time I ever saw
my husband and this youngest
child alive. I have lain here
all these hours -- these ages,
ye may say -- listening, listening
for any sound up there that --"
She gave a
sharp quick glance at her eldest
daughter, then
cried out, "Oh, my darling!" and
feebly gathered the stiffening
form to her sheltering arms.
She had recognized the death-rattle.
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