Chapter L: AEM. VIC. TO M. AEM. VIC. S. Q.,--Pardon and bless thy son

Meinhard assures me that I shall be accepted as equal in birth and accessory to the deed. Remember Columba and the value of Verronax's life, and let me save him. Consent and hold him back. Greet all the dear ones.--VALE.

The little tablet could hold no more than this--almost every word curtailed. The Senator's firm lip quivered at last as he exclaimed, "My brave son. Thus does he redeem his father's rash oath!"

Verronax, whose Roman breeding had held his impulsive Keltic nature in check as long as it was only himself that was in danger, now broke into loud weeping--

"My Lucius! my brother beloved! and didst thou deem Arvernian honour fallen so low that I could brook such a sacrifice? Let us hasten on instantly, my father, while yet it is time!"

It would have been impossible to withhold him, and Marcus returned with the strange tidings, while his father and Verronax set forth with a few servants, mounted like themselves on mules, to reach the broad Roman road that led from Gergovia to Bordigala. Three wild, barefooted Gauls of Verronax's clan shook their heads at all his attempts to send them home, and went running along after him with the same fidelity as poor Celer, whom he had left tied up at the villa as his parting gift to little Victorinus, but who had broken loose, and came bounding to his master, caressing him with nose and tongue at their first halt.

There had been, as in all Roman roads, regular posting stations at intervals along the way, where horses and mules could be hired, but the troubles of the Empire, invasion, and scarcity had greatly disturbed the system. Many of the stations were deserted, and at others either the whole of the animals, or all the fleeter ones, had been taken up by Meinhard and his convoy. Indeed it almost seemed that not only Lucius was anxious not to be overtaken, but that Meinhard was forwarding his endeavours to consummate his sacrifice before the Arvernian could prevent it.

Hotly did Verronax chafe at each hindrance. He would have dashed onwards with feverish head-long speed, using his own fleet limbs when he could not obtain a horse, but AEmilius feared to trust him alone, lest, coming too late to rescue Lucius, he should bring on himself the fury of the Goths, strike perhaps in revenge, and not only lose his own life and render the sacrifice vain, but imperil many more.

So, while making all possible speed, he bound the young Arvernian, by all the ties of paternal guardianship and authority, to give his word not to use his lighter weight and youthful vigour to outstrip the rest of the party.

The Senator himself hardly knew what was his own wish, for if his fatherly affection yearned over his gentle, dutiful, studious Lucius, yet Columba's desolation, and the importance of Verronax as a protector for his family, so weighed down the other scale, that he could only take refuge in 'committing his way unto the Lord.'

The last halting-place was at a villa belonging to a Roman, where they heard that an assembly was being held in the fields near Bordigala for judgment on the slaughter of a young Goth of high rank. On learning how deeply they were concerned, their host lent them two horses, and rode with them himself, as they hastened on in speechless anxiety.

These early Teutonic nations all had their solemn assemblies in the open air, and the Goths had not yet abandoned the custom, so that as the Senator and the chieftain turned the summit of the last low hill they could see the plain beneath swarming like an ant-hill with people, and as they pressed onward they could see a glittering tent, woven with cloth of gold, a throne erected in front, and around it a space cleared and guarded by a huge circle of warriors (LITES), whose shields joined so as to form a wall.

Near the throne stood the men of higher degree, all alike to join the King in his judgment, like the Homeric warriors of old, as indeed Sidonius had often said that there was no better comment on the ILIAD than the meetings of the barbarians.

By the time AEmilius and Verronax had reached the spot, and gained an entrance in virtue of their rank and concern in the matter, Euric sat enthroned in the midst of the assembly. He was far removed from being a savage, though he had won his crown by the murder of his brother. He and the counts (comrades) around him wore the Roman garb, and used by preference the Latin speech, learning, arms, and habits, just as European civilisation is adopted by the Egyptian or Japanese of the present day. He understood Roman jurisprudence, and was the author of a code for the Goths, but in a case like this he was obliged to conform to national customs.

There he sat, a small, light-complexioned man, of slighter make than those around him, holding in his hand a scroll. It was a letter from Sidonius, sent beforehand by a swift-footed mountaineer, and containing a guarantee for 1200 soldi, twice the price for a Goth of ordinary rank. On the one side stood, unbound and unguarded, the slender form of Lucius; on the other a gigantic old Visigoth, blind, and with long streaming snowy hair and beard, his face stern with grief and passion, and both his knotted hands crossed upon the handle of a mighty battle-axe.

The King had evidently been explaining to him the terms of the Bishop's letter, for the first words that met the ear of AEmilius were--

"Nay, I say nay, King Euric. Were I to receive treble the weight of gold, how should that enable me to face my son in the halls of Odin, with his blood unavenged?"

There was a murmur, and the King exclaimed--

"Now, now, Odo, we know no more of Odin."

"Odin knows us no more," retorted the old man, "since we have washed ourselves in the Name of another than the mighty Thor, and taken up the weakly worship of the conquered. So my son would have it! He talked of a new Valhal of the Christian; but let him meet me where he will, he shall not reproach me that he only of all his brethren died unavenged. Where is the slayer? Set him before me that I may strike him dead with one blow!"

Lucius crossed himself, looked upwards, and was stepping forwards, when Verronax with a shout of 'Hold!' leapt into the midst, full before the avenger's uplifted weapon, crying--

"Slay me, old man! It was I who killed thy son, I, Fearnagh the Arvernian!"

"Ho!" said Odo. "Give me thine hand. Let me feel thee. Yea, these be sinews! It is well. I marvelled how my Odorik should have fallen by the soft Roman hand of yonder stripling; but thou art a worthy foe. What made the priestling thrust himself between me and my prey?"

"His generous love," returned Verronax, as Lucius flung himself on his neck, crying--

"O my Verronax, why hast thou come? The bitterness of death was past! The gates were opening."

Meanwhile AEmilius had reached Euric, and had made him understand the substitution. Old Odo knew no Latin, and it was the King, an able orator in both tongues, who expounded all in Gothic, showing how Lucius AEmilius had offered his life in the stead of his friend, and how Verronax had hurried to prevent the sacrifice, reiterating, almost in a tone of command, the alternative of the wehrgeld.

The lites all burst into acclamations at the nobility of the two young men, and some muttered that they had not thought these Romans had so much spirit.

Euric made no decision. He did full justice to the courage and friendship of the youths, and likewise to the fact that Odorik had provoked the quarrel, and had been slain in fair fight; but the choice lay with the father, and perhaps in his heart the politic Visigoth could not regret that Arvernia should lose a champion sure to stand up for Roman or national claims.

Odo listened in silence, leaning on his axe. Then he turned his face to the bystanders, and demanded of them--

"Which of them is the bolder? Which of them flinched at my axe?"

The spectators were unanimous that neither had blenched. The slender lad had presented himself as resolutely as the stately warrior.

"It is well," said Odo. "Either way my son will be worthily avenged. I leave the choice to you, young men."

A brief debate ended in an appeal to the Senator, who, in spite of all his fortitude, could not restrain himself from groaning aloud, hiding his face in his hands, and hoarsely saying, "Draw lots."

"Yes," said Euric; "commit the judgment to Heaven."

It was hailed as a relief; but Lucius stipulated that the lots should be blessed by a Catholic priest, and Verronax muttered impatiently--

"What matters it? Let us make an end as quickly as may be!"

He had scarcely spoken when shouts were heard, the throng made way, the circle of lites opened, as, waving an olive branch, a wearied, exhausted rider and horse appeared, and staggering to the foot of the throne, there went down entirely spent, the words being just audible, "He lives! Odorik lives!"

It was Marcus AEmilius, covered with dust, and at first unable to utter another word, as he sat on the ground, supported by his brother, while his father made haste to administer the wine handed to him by an attendant.

"Am I in time?" he asked.

"In time, my son," replied his father, repeating his announcement in Gothic. "Odorik lives!"

"He lives, he will live," repeated Marcus, reviving. "I came not away till his life was secure."

"Is it truth?" demanded the old Goth. "Romans have slippery ways."

Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted the word of an AEmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from his belt, held it out, saying--

"His son said that he would know this token."

Odo felt it. "It is my son's knife," he said, still cautiously; "but it cannot speak to say how it was taken from him."

"The old barbarian heathen," quoth Verronax, under his breath; "he would rather lose his son than his vengeance."

Marcus had gathered breath and memory to add, "Tell him Odorik said he would know the token of the red-breast that nested in the winged helm of Helgund."

"I own the token," said Odo. "My son lives. He needs no vengeance." He turned the handle of his axe downwards, passed it to his left hand, and stretched the right to Verronax, saying, "Young man, thou art brave. There is no blood feud between us. Odo, son of Helgund, would swear friendship with you, though ye be Romans."

"Compensation is still due according to the amount of the injury," said the Senator scrupulously. "Is it not so, O King?"

Euric assented, but Odo exclaimed--

"No gold for me! When Odo, son of Helgund, forgives, he forgives outright. Where is my son?"

Food had by this time been brought by the King's order, and after swallowing a few mouthfuls Marcus could stand and speak.

Odorik, apparently dead, had been dragged by the Goths into the hut of the widow Dubhina to await his father's decision as to the burial, and the poor woman had been sheltered by her neighbour, Julitta, leaving the hovel deserted.

Columba, not allowing her grief and suspense to interfere with her visits of mercy to the poor woman, had come down as usual on the evening of the day on which her father and her betrothed had started on their sad journey. Groans, not likely to be emitted by her regular patient, had startled her, and she had found the floor occupied by the huge figure of a young Goth, his face and hair covered with blood from a deep wound on his head, insensible, but his moans and the motion of his limbs betraying life.

Knowing the bitter hatred in Claudiodunum for everything Gothic, the brave girl would not seek for aid nearer than the villa. Thither she despatched her male slave, while with her old nurse she did all in her power for the relief of the wounded man, with no inconsiderable skill. Marcus had brought the Greek physician of the place, but he had done nothing but declare the patient a dead man by all the laws of Galen and Hippocrates. However, the skull and constitution of a vigorous young Goth, fresh from the mountains, were tougher than could be imagined by a member of one of the exhausted races of the Levant. Bishop Sidonius had brought his science and sagacity to the rescue, and under his treatment Odorik had been restored to his senses, and was on the fair way to recovery.

On the first gleam of hope, Marcus had sent off a messenger, but so many of his household and dependents were absent that he had no great choice; so that as soon as hope had become security, he had set forth himself; and it was well he had done so, for he had overtaken the messenger at what was reckoned as three days' journey from Bordigala. He had ridden ever since without rest, only dismounting to change his steed, scarcely snatching even then a morsel of food, and that morning neither he nor the horse he rode had relaxed for a moment the desperate speed with which he rode against time; so that he had no cause for the shame and vexation that he felt at his utter collapse before the barbarians. King Euric himself declared that he wished he had a Goth who could perform such a feat of endurance.

While Marcus slept, AEmilius and the two young men offered their heartfelt thanks in the Catholic church of Bordigala, and then Euric would not be refused their presence at a great feast of reconciliation on the following day, two of Verronax's speedy-footed followers having been sent off at once to bear home tidings that his intelligence had been in time.

The feast was served in the old proconsular house, with the Roman paraphernalia, arranged with the amount of correct imitation that is to be found at an English dinner-party in the abode of an Indian Rajah. It began with Roman etiquette, but ended in a Gothic revel, which the sober and refined AEmilii could hardly endure.

They were to set off on their return early on the morrow, Meinhard and Odo with them; but when they at length escaped from the barbarian orgies, they had little expectation that their companions would join them in the morning.

However, the two Goths and their followers were on the alert as soon as they, and as cool-headed as if they had touched no drop of wine.

Old Odo disdained a mule, and would let no hand save his own guide his horse. Verronax and Lucius constituted themselves his guides, and whenever he permitted the slightest assistance, it was always from the Arvernian, whom he seemed to regard as a sort of adopted son.

He felt over his weapons, and told him long stories, of which Verronax understood only a word or two here and there, though the old man seemed little concerned thereat. Now and then he rode along chanting to himself an extemporary song, which ran somewhat thus--

Maids who choose the slain, Disappointed now. The Hawk of the Mountain, The Wolf of the West, Meet in fierce combat. Sinks the bold Wolf-cub, Folds his wing the Falcon! Shall the soft priestling Step before him to Valhal, Cheating Lok's daughter Of weak-hearted prey? Lo! the Wolf wakens. Valkyr relaxes, Waits for a battlefield, Wolf-cub to claim. Friendly the Falcon, Friendly the Gray-Wolf.

So it ran on, to the great scandal of Lucius, who longed for better knowledge of the Gothic tongue to convince the old man of the folly of his heathen dreams. Meinhard, who was likewise rather shocked, explained that the father and son had been recent arrivals, who had been baptized because Euric required his followers to embrace his faith, but with little real knowledge or acceptance on the part of the father. Young Odorik had been a far more ardent convert; and, after the fashion of many a believer, had taken up the distinctions of sect rather than of religion, and, zealous in the faith he knew, had thought it incumbent on him to insult the Catholics where they seemed to him idolatrous.

A message on the road informed the travellers that they would find Odorik at the villa. Thither then they went, and soon saw the whole household on the steps in eager anticipation. A tall young figure, with a bandage still round his fair flowing locks, came down the steps as Verronax helped the blind man to dismount; and Odo, with a cry of 'My son!' with a ring of ecstasy in the sound, held the youth to his breast and felt him all over.

"Are we friends?" said Odorik, turning to Verronax, when his father released him.

"That is as thou wiliest," returned the Arvernian gravely.

"Know then," said Odorik, "that I know that I erred. I knew not thy Lord when I mocked thine honour to Him. Father, we had but half learnt the Christian's God. I have seen it now. It was not thy blow, O Arvernian! that taught me; but the Master who inspired yonder youth to offer his life, and who sent the maiden there to wait upon her foe. He is more than man. I own in him the Eternal Creator, Redeemer, and Lord!"

"Yea," said Sidonius to his friend AEmilius, "a great work hath been wrought out. Thus hath the parable of actual life led this zealous but half-taught youth to enter into the higher truth. Lucius will be none the worse priest for having trodden in the steps of Him who was High-priest and Victim. Who may abide strict Divine Justice, had not One stood between the sinner and the Judge? Thus 'Mercy and Truth have met together; Righteousness and Peace have kissed each other.'"

THE CAT OF CAT COPSE

A HAMPSHIRE TRADITION

I

The Dane! the Dane! The heathen Dane Is wasting Hampshire's coast again-- From ravaged church and plundered farm Flash the dread beacons of alarm-- Fly, helpless peasants, fly! Ytene's green banks and forest shades, Her heathery slopes and gorse-clad glades Re-echo to the cry-- Where is the King, whose strong right hand Hath oft from danger freed the land? Nor fleet nor covenant avails To drive aloof those pirate sails, In vain is Alfred's sword; Vain seems in every sacred fane The chant--'From fury of the Dane, Deliver us, good Lord.'

II

The long keels have the Needles past, Wight's fairest bowers are flaming fast; From Solent's waves rise many a mast, With swelling sails of gold and red, Dragon and serpent at each head, Havoc and slaughter breathing forth, Steer on these locusts of the north. Each vessel bears a deadly freight; Each Viking, fired with greed and hate, His axe is whetting for the strife, And counting how each Christian life Shall win him fame in Skaldic lays, And in Valhalla endless praise. For Hamble's river straight they steer; Prayer is in vain, no aid is near-- Hopeless and helpless all must die. Oh, fainting heart and failing eye, Look forth upon the foe once more! Why leap they not upon the shore? Why pause their keels upon the strand, As checked by some resistless hand? The sail they spread, the oars they ply, Yet neither may advance nor fly.

III

Who is it holds them helpless there? 'Tis He Who hears the anguished prayer; 'Tis He Who to the wave Hath fixed the bound--mud, rock, or sand-- To mark how far upon the strand Its foaming sweep may rave. What is it, but the ebbing tide, That leaves them here, by Hamble's side, So firm embedded in the mud No force of stream, nor storm, nor flood, Shall ever these five ships bear forth To fiords and islets of the north; A thousand years shall pass away, And leave those keels in Hamble's bay.

IV

Ill were it in my rhyme to tell The work of slaughter that befell; In sooth it was a savage time-- Crime ever will engender crime. Each Viking, as he swam to land, Fell by a Saxon's vengeful hand; Turn we from all that vengeance wild-- Where on the deck there cowered a child, And, closely to his bosom prest, A snow-white kitten found a nest. That tender boy, with tresses fair, Was Edric, Egbert's cherished heir; The plaything of the homestead he, Now fondled on his grandame's knee; Or as beside the hearth he sat, Oft sporting with his snow-white cat; Now by the chaplain taught to read, And lisp his Pater and his Creed; Well nurtured at his mother's side, And by his father trained to ride, To speak the truth, to draw the bow, And all an English Thane should know, His days had been as one bright dream-- As smooth as his own river's stream! Until, at good King Alfred's call, Thane Egbert left his native hall.

V

Then, five days later, shout and yell, And shrieks and howls of slaughter fell, Upon the peaceful homestead came. 'Mid flashing sword, and axe, and flame, Snatched by a Viking's iron grasp, From his slain mother's dying clasp, Saved from the household's flaming grave, Edric was dragged, a destined slave, Some northern dame to serve, or heed The flocks that on the Saeter feed. Still, with scarce conscious hold he clung To the white cat, that closely hung Seeking her refuge in his arm, Her shelter in the wild alarm-- And who can tell how oft his moan Was soothed by her soft purring tone? Time keeping with retracted claw, Or patting with her velvet paw; Although of home and friends bereft, Still this one comforter was left, So lithe, so swift, so soft, so white, She might have seemed his guardian sprite. The rude Danes deemed her such; And whispered tales of 'disir' bound To human lords, as bird or hound. Nor one 'mid all the fleet was found To hurt one tender paw. And when the captive knelt to pray None would his orisons gainsay; For as they marked him day by day, Increased their wondering awe.

VI

Crouched by the mast, the child and cat, Through the dire time of slaughter sat, By terror both spellbound; But when night came, a silence drear Fell on the coast; and far or near, No voice caught Edric's wakeful ear, Save water's lapping sound. He wandered from the stern to prow, Ate of the stores, and marvelled how He yet might reach the ground; Till low and lower sank the tide, Dark banks of mud spread far and wide Around that fast-bound wreck. Then the lone boy climbed down the ship, To cross the mud by bound and skip, His cat upon his neck. Light was his weight and swift his leap, Now would he softly tread, now creep, For treacherous was the mud, and deep From stone to weed, from weed to plank, Leaving a hole where'er he sank; With panting breath and sore taxed strength The solid earth he felt at length. Sheltered within the copse he lay, When dawn had brightened into day, For when one moment there was seen, His red cap glancing 'mid the green, A fearful cry arose-- "Here lurks a Dane!" "The Dane seek out" With knife and axe, the rabble rout Made the copse ring with yell and shout To find their dreaded foes. And Edric feared to meet a stroke, Before they knew the tongue he spoke. Hid 'mid the branches of an oak, He heard their calls and blows. Of food he had a simple store, And when the churls the chase gave o'er, And evening sunk upon the vale, With rubbing head and upright tail, Pacing before him to and fro, Puss lured him on the way to go-- Coaxing him on, with tender wile, O'er heath and down for many a mile. Ask me not how her course she knows. He from Whom every instinct flows Hath breathed into His creatures power, Giving to each its needful dower; And strive and question as we will, We cannot trace the inborn skill, Nor fathom how, where'er she roam, The cat ne'er fails to find her home.

VII

What pen may dare to paint the woe, When Egbert saw his home laid low? Where, by the desolated hearth, The mother lay who gave him birth, And, close beside, his fair young wife, And servants, slain in bootless strife-- Mournful the King stood near. Alfred, who came to be his guest, And deeply rued that his behest Had all unguarded left that nest, To meet such ruin drear. With hand, and heart, and lip, he gave All king or friend, both true and brave, Could give, one pang of grief to save, To comfort, or to cheer-- As from the blackened walls they drew Each corpse, and laid with reverence due; And then it was that Egbert knew All save the child were here. King Alfred's noble head was bent, A monarch's pain his bosom rent; Kindly he wrung Thane Egbert's hand-- "Lo! these have won the blissful land, Where foeman's shout is heard no more, Nor wild waves beat upon the shore; Brief was the pang, the strife is o'er-- They are at peace, my friend! Safe, where the weary are at rest; Safe, where the banish'd and opprest Find joys that never end." Thane Egbert groaned, and scarce might speak For tears that ploughed his hardy cheek, As his dread task was done. And for the slain, from monk and priest Rose requiems that never ceased, While still he sought his son. "Oh, would to Heaven!" that father said, "There lay my darling calmly dead, Rather than as a thrall be bred-- His Christian faith undone." "Nay, life is hope!" bespake the King, "God o'er the child can spread His wing And shield him in the Northman's power Safe as in Alswyth's guarded bower; Treaty and ransom may be found To win him back to English ground."

VIII

The funeral obsequies were o'er, But lingered still the Thane, Hanging around his home once more, Feeding his bitter pain. The King would fain with friendly force Urge him anew to mount his horse, Turn from the piteous sight away, And fresh begin life's saddened day, His loved ones looking yet to greet, Where ne'er shall part the blest who meet. Just then a voice that well he knew, A sound that mixed the purr and mew, Went to the father's heart. On a large stone King Alfred sat Against his buskin rubbed a cat, Snow-white in every part, Though drenched and soiled from head to tail. The poor Thane's tears poured down like hail-- "Poor puss, in vain thy loving wail," Then came a joyful start! A little hand was on his cloak-- "Father!" a voice beside him spoke, Emerging from the wood. All travel-stained, and marked with mire, With trace of blood, and toil, and fire, Yet safe and sound beside his sire, Edric before them stood. And as his father wept for joy, King Alfred blessed the rescued boy, And thanked his Maker good! Who doth the captive's prayer fulfil, Making His creatures work His will By means not understood.

NOTE.--The remains of the five Danish vessels still lie embedded in the mud of the Hamble River near Southampton, though parts have been carried off and used as wood for furniture in the farm-houses. The neighbouring wood is known as Cat Copse, and a tradition has been handed down that a cat, and a boy in a red cap, escaped from the Danish ships, took refuge there.

DE FACTO AND DE JURE