Chapter III: Part 3

There then followed a tremendous uproar. They searched the room from end to end; they tore down all the old tapestries; they peered under all the chairs; they climbed up and crawled all over the high canopy of the ancient bed; they shook the mattresses; and in their zeal, even looked in the count’s shaving mug and under the brass candlesticks.

Meantime, Hugo himself, in a towering passion, was striding up and down the room, cuffing his pages, accusing everybody of robbery, and threatening right and left to hang every man of them if the sword were not instantly found!

At last, however, neither threats nor rage proving of the least avail in bringing to light the lost sword, he descended, followed by his terrified retinue, to the inn courtyard, and calling out Monsieur Jean, he stirred up another terrible commotion. He accused everybody of everything, and finally wound up by insisting that the craven Count Boni had hired some robber to steal the sword in hopes that the duel might not be fought. He swore that he would none the less kill poor Boni, sword or no sword, and meantime ordered the man-at-arms, who had slept outside his door, to be mercilessly beaten; for Hugo declared the thief must have entered through the door, as no man could possibly have come in between the bars of the window.

At this Geoffrey, who had been up for a long while, and had witnessed all this uproar in the courtyard, felt himself in a very unhappy position; he had not expected all this. Indeed, he had given very little thought as to what might happen to himself or anybody else, when once he had hidden the sword. He knew now that fearful punishment awaited him if he were found out; but he could not bear to have the good Count Boni’s honor blackened, or that the poor man-at-arms, who was entirely innocent of blame, should suffer, because of what he, Geoffrey, had done.

So biting his lips hard to keep up his courage and tightly clenching his hands behind him, Geoffrey, who was a brave, manly little fellow, straightway strode out and, standing in front of the raging Count Hugo, said:

“Sir, neither Count Boni nor yonder man-at-arms had aught to do with the loss of your evil sword. I took it away myself!”

At this Count Hugo stared at the little boy for a moment in speechless surprise. Then, roaring out a terrible oath in a voice like thunder, he pounced like a wildcat upon poor Geoffrey, and shook him till his teeth chattered.

“Thou—thou—miserable varlet!” roared and sputtered the count. “Thou base-born knave! So thy monkey fingers have dared to meddle with my precious sword! Faugh! Where hast thou put it? Tell me instantly,—_parbleu!_—or I will crack every bone in thy worthless body!”

And here he fell so viciously to shaking and cuffing him again, that poor Geoffrey could hardly open his mouth to answer; but at length he managed to gasp out resolutely:

“I will not tell thee till to-morrow. Then I will restore it to thee! I do not wish to keep the heathenish thing!”

At this the rage of the count knew no bounds, and he doubtless would have killed the poor little boy then and there, had not Monsieur Jean and others among the terrified spectators rushed between them and besought Hugo to be merciful, and give the boy at least till the morrow to fulfil his word.

Hereupon, the count, who even in his wrath saw reason in what they said, savagely flung Geoffrey over to one of his men-at-arms, commanding him to chastise him, chain him, and keep close watch over him till the morrow. For the count reflected that if he should hang the boy then, as he fully intended to do by and by, he would cut off the only possible means of finding out where his sword was hidden. For while the lad was stubborn as a rock, Hugo had to admit that he seemed honest, and so perhaps would keep his promise to restore his prized weapon.

But the more the count thought of Geoffrey’s act, the more it puzzled him to account for it. As he recalled the disturbance of his sleep the night before, he began to understand that Geoffrey was the real cockatoo of the affair.

“Faugh!” he said to himself, “to think ’twas the clanking of my own good sword that I mistook for the rattling of that chattering popinjay’s chain!” But he could not account for the boy’s curious promise to restore the weapon on the morrow. If he meant to return it, why did he take it at all? And why did he confess and get himself into trouble, when no one thought of accusing him? The first part of this question Count Hugo could not answer, because he knew nothing of the coming of the heralds and Geoffrey’s wish to put off the duel; while the last part was equally puzzling to him, because he had no sense of honor, and could not see why one should suffer if an innocent man would do just as well.

At any rate, he soon tired trying to understand the matter. Having placed the boy in safe keeping till the morrow, the next thing was to have his “second”—(for so the friends were called who arranged the details of duels for those who were to do the fighting)—see Count Boni’s second, who had arrived some time before, and have the duel fixed for the following morning, when Count Hugo vowed he would fight to the death with somebody’s sword,—whether his own or another’s.

These matters settled, he remembered that it was fully noon, and he had not yet breakfasted; so he haughtily withdrew to the inn parlor, and commanded Monsieur Jean to have him served instantly.

Meanwhile poor Geoffrey went off with the man-at-arms, who was secretly sorry for the little boy, and so did not chastise him so cruelly as the count would have wished; although he was obliged to give him a few bloody cuts with the lash across his face and hands, for the sake of appearances, in case Hugo should happen to inspect him.

Poor little boy! Ah! how eagerly he longed for the arrival of the heralds, as the jongleur had predicted. But then the dreadful thought would come, what if something should delay their journey! Or worst of all, what if the jongleur had not spoken the truth, and there were no heralds anyway! These doubts and fears tormented Geoffrey more and more as the hours wore on, and still no sign of the longed-for king’s messengers.

He began to wish dismally that he had set farther off the time for restoring the sword; though he felt sure that unless prevented by the king’s edict, Count Hugo would fight on the morrow anyhow, despite the loss of that particular weapon. It then suddenly occurred to him, that even if the heralds came and stopped the duel as he wished, how was he himself to escape from the clutches of Count Hugo? This thought sent a cold chill through him; but when he thought of his dear Count Boni and the grief of poor little Isabeau, he was not a whit sorry for what he had done, and with childish hopefulness looked forward to some good chance to free him.

Surely, surely, he said to himself, the king’s heralds were persons in authority, and would not see him killed by the cruel Hugo, even if he had taken and hidden the heathenish old sword. Did he not mean to give it back, and had he not done it because of the very law they were coming to proclaim? Surely they would help him in some way!

And so the afternoon wore wearily on. Count Hugo came once or twice to see that the man-at-arms had properly beaten him, and even meditated putting him to some torture to make him disclose at once the whereabouts of the sword. But he scarcely dared, as he feared an uprising of the people of the inn, who, he saw, were very fond of Geoffrey; so he contented himself with cruelly striking the lad once or twice, and determining to deal summarily with him when he should take him away from Dives.

For at that time powerful noblemen did very much as they pleased. The good King Louis had been away fighting in the Holy Land for so long that affairs in France had for the most part taken care of themselves; and though since his return the king was striving hard to correct many abuses, there were many things yet to be looked after. So Count Hugo thought he should have no trouble in carrying Geoffrey away as his private prisoner because of the taking of his sword.

After the count’s last visit, when he had informed Geoffrey of some of the punishments he meant to visit upon him when he got him off in his own castle, the poor boy began really to despair! It was growing late, and the sun was almost to its setting, and still not a sound to tell of any unusual arrival in Dives. The little boy lay back, and shut his eyes tight, trying to forget his miseries, and the dreadful things ahead of him; but try as he might, now and then a big tear would force itself through his closed lids, and trickle down his poor little blood-stained cheeks.

And so another hour wore on, Geoffrey growing all the while more despairing and miserable in his gloomy prospects. But at last, just as he had given up all hope of the heralds, and concluded that the plight he had got himself into had been all useless after all,—he suddenly started up, and clutching the sleeve of the man-at-arms, exclaimed, “Hark! what is that?”

“Hush, hush, little one! ’tis nothing,” said the man, who was a stupid fellow, half dozing, and merely thought the lad crazed by his fright.

“Nay!” cried Geoffrey, “but listen!”

Here the guard somewhat pricked up his ears.

“By my faith!” he answered, “I believe ’tis a blare of trumpets! Some noble must be coming to Dives!”

But Geoffrey, with eyes shining, held his breath, and listened to the sounds, which seemed to be coming nearer. First there was a great fanfare of trumpets; then a blare of horns; and then he could hear the clatter as the inn folk hastened across the paved courtyard to the gateway to see what was going on in the street without. In a little while some of them seemed to return, and Geoffrey, who was burning to know, but could not stir for his chains, besought the man-at-arms to ask some one the cause of the commotion; so going over to the window of the room, he called out to a passer-by.

“Ho, comrade! what is the meaning of yonder uproar?”

“’Tis the king’s heralds,” answered the voice from without; “he hath sent them to proclaim a new law forbidding duels!”

Then, before long, the heralds, having made the tour of the Dives streets, came riding toward the inn, escorted by a train of Dives people. Geoffrey heard their horses’ hoofs as they pricked in through the gateway, and also had the great joy of hearing them make the proclamation itself; for having heard that at that very moment a nobleman was lodging in the inn, come there for the purpose of a now unlawful duel, they halted in the middle of the courtyard, and rising in their stirrups, blew their trumpets, and again elaborately announced the royal edict,—this time for the express benefit of their two countships, Hugo and Boni.

Hearing this, Geoffrey was wild with delight; it was all working out just as he had counted on! That is, all but one fact, which he all at once ruefully remembered; he himself was at that moment still a prisoner of the cruel Count Hugo. He had not counted on that at all!

O, he thought, if he could only get out and throw himself on the mercy of the heralds! They were his only hope; for Count Boni as yet knew not why he had taken the sword, and was perhaps angry with him and would not come at once to help him. So he piteously begged and besought the man-at-arms to take off his chains and let him go only so far as the courtyard. But the man, though he felt sorry for the boy, had too hearty a terror of the consequences to himself if he let him out against Hugo’s orders; so he turned a deaf ear to all Geoffrey’s entreaties, and gruffly told him he could do nothing for him.

At this the poor little boy fell to sobbing, and sobbed and sobbed most of the night; for the dark had now fallen, and the little fellow was quite hopeless for the morrow, when he knew Count Hugo meant to take him away.

Meantime, that nobleman had passed into another terrible rage when he heard the edict of the heralds. He was furious! Furious at the king, the heralds, at Geoffrey and the world in general; because he saw himself thwarted in his plans to kill Boni,—as he felt confident he could do, with his unholy skill with the sword,—and to seize Boni’s rich estate. All this put him in a frightful temper; although he was wise enough to know that he dare not defy the king. So he scolded and swore at everybody in sight, and then sulkily withdrew to his own apartments, after giving orders to have his coach made ready to leave early in the morning; for he wished to get off with Geoffrey at least, before any one could prevent _that_! And on the boy he meant to wreak full vengeance.

So the next morning Hugo, contrary to his custom, was astir early; he had breakfasted in his room, and then hastening down to the courtyard, got into his yellow coach and sent instant orders for the man-at-arms to bring Geoffrey and mount the coach also; for he wished to keep an eye on his victim and also to demand fulfilment of his promise to restore the sword. But just as the man-at-arms was on his way to the count, with his miserable little prisoner, he was intercepted by the two heralds, who had been astir earlier even than Hugo.

Indeed, they were up because they had had a word or two put into their ears the night before by the jongleur, who had sought them out and had a bit of a talk with them. Now the jongleur was a shrewd fellow, and recalling his conversation under the plane-tree with Geoffrey, had put two and two together, and had pretty well understood the boy’s reasons for carrying off the sword; and admiring him, he had determined to do the best he could to save him, if explaining things to the heralds could effect this. And it seemed it could; for now the heralds, laying hold of the boy, first asked him if he had restored the stolen sword.

“Nay, sirs,” he answered, “but I will right gladly do as I promised, if ye will let me go and get it!”

So one of the heralds went with him down into the garden, and stood over Geoffrey as he uncovered the weapon and gathered it up still safe in its scabbard. Then conducting him back to the courtyard, and to the door of the count’s coach, the two king’s messengers stood, one on each side, as the boy, making an obeisance, presented the sword to the glowering count.

The heralds then solemnly announced to all,—for everyone in the inn had gathered about by this time,—that they bore witness that the lad had duly restored the stolen property to its rightful owner; and that punishment for his taking it must be meted out by his rightful suzerain, the noble Count Boni, to whose estate the boy’s family belonged. They demanded this right for Geoffrey, in the name of the king.

Now Count Hugo knew well enough that every peasant had a right to be tried for a crime by the nobleman of his own home; but he had trusted to carry things off with a high hand, thinking no one at the inn would dare oppose him; as was undoubtedly the case. But with the king’s heralds it was different; they did not fear him, and so he was obliged to give up the boy.

This last thwarting of his plans, however, was almost too much for Hugo! White with rage, he thundered to his driver to whip up the horses, and off he clattered, disdainfully turning his back on the Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn and all that it contained; and his swarm of retainers followed him, all quaking in their boots from fear of their master’s violent temper.

After the count’s departure, Geoffrey, still in charge of the heralds, was taken into the great kitchen of the inn, where everybody gathered about, delighted at the little boy’s escape from Hugo’s clutches. The cook gave him some nice little cakes fresh from the oven; the peacocks trailed past the open door proudly spreading their beautiful tails; and the pink and white cockatoo overhead screamed his “Tee deedle!” and seemed as pleased as anybody.

After a while the heralds gave Geoffrey over into the charge of Count Boni’s second, who had meantime arrived to say that the count was outside the walls of Dives, at the appointed place, and ready to meet Hugo in the proposed duel. The second was greatly surprised when he heard how matters had turned out; for he had spent the day before with Count Boni at the Château Beauvais, and neither he nor his master had yet heard of the proclamation or the subsequent departure of Count Hugo. However, he took the little boy with him back to Count Boni, to whom he delivered the message the heralds had sent: that he, Boni, was to decide on what punishment Geoffrey was to receive for the taking of Hugo’s sword; though it really seemed that the child had had punishment enough already, at the hands of the cruel count himself!

When Count Boni was told all these things, at first he was greatly displeased; for he was young and high-spirited, and very angry with Hugo, whom he wished to fight regardless of the danger he ran from such an unscrupulous antagonist, and he did not like it that a little peasant boy had interfered.

Though when he understood how much the boy had risked and suffered for love of himself and little Isabeau, he could not find it in his heart to wish Geoffrey punished. And indeed, in after years he came heartily to thank the warm-hearted, devoted little lad, whose impulsive act had no doubt kept him from losing both life and property to a wicked and dishonorable man.

Meantime Count Boni felt himself in a very delicate position. As Geoffrey’s overlord, it was his duty to punish him for taking the sword, even though it had been restored to its rightful owner; but as the sword had been taken because the little boy wished to keep Count Boni himself from the chance of being killed, how could he inflict severe punishment upon him? Indeed, this question was so difficult that the count concluded he must take time to think it over, and meantime he held Geoffrey prisoner at the château. This did not prevent the boy from having the kindest treatment and the freedom of the grounds, where he enjoyed many a merry romp with little Isabeau, who was happy as a bird, and thought Geoffrey the nicest and most wonderful boy in all the world because he had succeeded in preventing the duel. Nor was the least cloud cast over their glee when one day they heard that the wicked Hugo had died in a fit of apoplexy, brought on by one of his terrible rages. In fact, if the truth must be told, they went off by themselves and had a shamelessly gay extra romp in celebration of the news.

Thus several weeks had passed, when one day there arrived at the château a messenger from the king, demanding the custody of a peasant boy by the name of Geoffrey.

Poor Geoffrey was again badly frightened, thinking that this time surely he would receive punishment! But his fears were turned to delight when Count Boni told him that the king had sent, not to imprison him, but to have him live in the royal household. The messenger explained to Boni that when the heralds returned to Paris, they told King Louis the story of the little boy, and that he was greatly pleased with the lad’s bravery and devotion, and wished to have him brought to the palace.

So Geoffrey became a page of King Louis, and was very, very happy. He was happy, too, because he could now send back to those he loved at home much more for their comfort than he could as a little serving boy at the Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn. And then, sometimes, when one of his messengers had an errand to Dives, the good king would let Geoffrey go along, and he would then make a little visit to his family, and would see his dear Count Boni and little Isabeau, who never ceased to take the greatest pride and interest in him.

By and by, King Louis discovered how sweet a voice he possessed, and that it had been well-trained for church music. This pleased the king much, as he was very devout in his worship, and did a great deal during his reign to improve the music in the cathedrals of France. So Geoffrey was at once placed under masters, and he sang for a number of years in the king’s own chapel, becoming one of the most famous little choristers of the realm. Later on, as he grew to manhood, he passed from being a page, to a squire; and after that, he was appointed man-at-arms in the bodyguard of the king, who grew to love and trust him greatly.

Some years later still, when King Louis again set forth for the East, on the crusade from which he was never to return, Geoffrey was among the most faithful of the followers who took ship with him. And when the poor king lay dying, before the walls of the far-away city of Tunis, it was Geoffrey whose tenderness and devotion helped to comfort the last days of the stricken monarch.

When all was over, and the little band of crusaders once more returned to their homes in France, none among them was more loved and respected than the Viscount Geoffrey; for shortly before his death the good King Louis had, with his own hand, bestowed knighthood upon the little peasant boy, declaring that he had won the distinction, not only because of his great bravery and his honorable life, but also because of the exceeding sweetness and gentleness of his character.

FELIX

WHO SOUGHT HIS LOST SHEEP AT CHRISTMASTIDE
BY A WAY THAT LED TO HIS
HEART’S DESIRE AND MADE
HIM A FAMOUS CARVER
OF OLD PROVENCE

A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little Provençal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the week before Christmas; and in all the world, no one has known better how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people of Provence.

Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle and laurel, bringing home Yule logs with pretty old songs and ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important festival.

Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the blessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations in the cottage of the shepherd, Père Michaud. This cottage, covered with white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the edge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it, and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on this particular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row of tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinkling in the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the Père Michaud had been up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which no Provençal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birds knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfares were gathering in the Père’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairly watering with anticipation.

Within the cottage the good dame, the Misè Michaud, with wide sleeves rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of holiday sweetmeats; while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth the great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and almond pâtés, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.

Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s various errands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, where little Félix Michaud was very busy also.

Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette! Ninette!—thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, in a softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dost thou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’s weak little “Baa, baa!”

For Ninette, Beppo’s mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was a very little lamb; and so they could not possibly be expected to know what a great honor had suddenly befallen them. They did not dream that, the night before, Père Michaud had told Félix that his Beppo (for Beppo was Félix’s very own) had been chosen by the shepherds for the “offered lamb” of the Christmas Eve procession when the holy midnight mass would be celebrated in all its festival splendor in the great church of the village.

Of the importance of this procession in the eyes of the peasant folk it is difficult to say enough. To be the offered lamb, or indeed the offered lamb’s mother, for both always went together, was the greatest honor and glory that could possibly happen to a Provençal sheep, and so little Félix was fairly bursting with pride and delight. And so it was, too, that he was now busying himself washing their wool, which he determined should shine like spun silver on the great night.

He tugged away, scrubbing and brushing and combing the thick fleeces, now and then stopping to stroke Beppo’s nose, or to box Ninette’s ears when she became too impatient, and at last, after much labor, considered their toilets done for the day; then, giving each a handful of fresh hay to nibble, he left the fold and trudged into the cottage.

“Well, little one,” said the Misè, “hast thou finished thy work?”

“Yes, mother,” answered Félix; “and I shall scrub them so each day till the Holy Night! Even now Ninette is white as milk, and Beppo shines like an angel! Ah, but I shall be proud when he rides up to the altar in his little cart! And, mother, dost thou not really think him far handsomer than was Jean’s lamb, that stupid Nano, in the procession last year?”

“There, there,” said the Misè, “never thou mind about Jean’s lamb, but run along now and finish thy crèche.”

Now, in Provence, at the time when Félix lived, no one had ever heard of such a thing as a Christmas tree; but in its stead every cottage had a “crèche”; that is, in one corner of the great living-room, the room of the fireplace, the peasant children and their fathers and mothers built upon a table a mimic village of Bethlehem, with houses and people and animals, and, above all, with the manger, where the Christ Child lay. Every one took the greatest pains to make the crèche as perfect as possible, and some even went so far as to fasten tiny angels to the rafters, so that they hovered over the toy houses like a flock of white butterflies; and sometimes a gold star, hung on a golden thread, quivered over the little manger, in memory of the wonderful star of the Magi.

In the Michaud cottage the crèche was already well under way. In the corner across from the fireplace the Père had built up a mound, and this Félix had covered with bits of rock and tufts of grass, and little green boughs for trees, to represent the rocky hillside of Judea; then, half-way up, he began to place the tiny houses. These he had cut out of wood and adorned with wonderful carving, in which he was very skilful. And then, such figures as he had made, such quaint little men and women, such marvelous animals, camels and oxen and sheep and horses, were never before seen in Sur Varne. But the figure on which he had lavished his utmost skill was that of the little Christ Child, which was not to be placed in the manger until the Holy Night itself.

Félix kept this figure in his blouse pocket, carefully wrapped up in a bit of wool, and he spent all his spare moments striving to give it some fresh beauty; for I will tell you a secret: poor little Félix had a great passion for carving, and the one thing for which he longed above all others was to be allowed to apprentice himself in the workshop of Père Videau, who was the master carver of the village, and whose beautiful work on the portals of the great church was the admiration of Félix’s heart. He longed, too, for better tools than the rude little knife he had, and for days and years in which to learn to use them.

But the Père Michaud had scant patience with these notions of the little son’s. Once, when Félix had ventured to speak to him about it, he had insisted rather sharply that he was to stick to his sheep-tending, so that when the Père himself grew old he could take charge of the flocks and keep the family in bread; for the Père had small faith in the art of the carver as being able to supply the big brown loaves that the Misè baked every week in the great stone oven. So Félix was obliged to go on minding the flocks; but whenever he had a moment of his own, he employed it in carving a bit of wood or chipping at a fragment of soft stone.

But while I have stopped to tell you all this, he had almost finished the crèche; the little houses were all in place, and the animals grouped about the holy stable, or else seeming to crop the tufts of moss on the mimic rocky hillside. Over the manger with its tiny wisp of hay, twinkled a wonderful star that Félix had made from some golden beads that the Misè had treasured for years as part of her peasant bridal finery.

Altogether, the crèche was really very prettily arranged, and after giving several final touches, Félix stood back and surveyed it with much satisfaction.

“Well, well!” said the Père Michaud, who had just entered the cottage, “’tis a fine bit of work thou hast there, my son! Truly ’tis a brave crèche! But,” he added, “I trow thou hast not forgotten the live sheep in the fold whilst thou hast been busy with these little wooden images here?”

“Nay, father,” answered Félix, “that I have not”—but here the Misè called them both to the midday meal, which she had spread smoking hot on the shining deal table.

When this was finished Félix arose, and, as the Père wished, once more went out to the fold to see how the sheep, especially his little Beppo, were faring.

As he pushed open the swinging door, Ninette, who was lazily dozing with her toes doubled up under her fleece, blinked her eyes and looked sleepily around; but Beppo was nowhere to be seen.

“Ninette!” demanded Félix, fiercely, “what hast thou done with my Beppo?”

At this Ninette peered about in a dazed sort of way, and gave an alarmed little “Baa!” For she had not before missed Beppo, who, while she was asleep, had managed to push open the door of the fold and scamper off, no one knew just where.

Félix gazed around in dismay when he realized that his lamb, the chosen one, who had brought such pride and honor to him, was gone!

“Beppo!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Beppo! Beppo-o!”

But no trace could he see of the little bundle of fleece he had scrubbed and combed so carefully that morning.

He stood irresolute a moment; then, thinking that if Beppo really were running off, not a second was to be lost, he set out at a brisk pace across the sheep-meadow. He had no idea in what direction the truant lamb would be likely to stray, but on he went, calling every little while in a shrill voice, “Beppo!” Now and then he fancied that he saw in the distance a glimpse of white; but once it proved to be the Misè Fouchard’s linen hung to dry on a currant-bush, and again it was a great white stone—but no Beppo; and all the while Félix kept on, quite forgetting that Beppo’s weak, woolly legs could not possibly have carried him so great a distance.

By and by he had left the village meadows far behind, and was skirting the great marsh. Sometimes he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked far across this low wet land to see if perhaps Beppo had strayed into its uncertain foothold; but nothing could he see but the waving rushes and the tall bitterns wading about on long, yellow legs.

And still he pressed heedlessly on farther and farther, till, after a while, he found himself thrusting through a thick coppice of willow boughs.

“Oh,” thought Félix, “what if poor Beppo has strayed into this woodland!” Tired as he was, he urged himself on, searching among the trees; and it was not until he had wandered on and on, deeper and deeper into the wood, that he realized that the dusk had fallen, and that he must be a very, very long way from Sur Varne.

Félix then began to grow uneasy. He stood still and looked anxiously about him; the dark forest trees closed around him on all sides, and he was quite unable to remember from which direction he had entered the wood.

Now, Félix was really a very brave little fellow, but it must be owned his heart misgave him, and he fairly quaked as he peered through the gathering darkness; for in those days the forests of Provence were known to harbor many dangerous animals, especially wild boars and wolves. He pricked up his ears, and now and then thought he heard in the distance the stealthy tread of some four-footed forest prowler, and once he was sure he caught the deep howl of a wolf.

That ended his hesitation. He looked quickly around, and grasping the low boughs of a slender sapling, managed to swing himself up into a tall chestnut tree that grew close by; and there he clung, clutching the thick branches with might and main, feeling very cold and hungry and miserable, his heart all the while sinking clear down into his little peasant shoes.

And indeed he had cause for fear, for, not a great while after he had thus hidden himself, a gaunt wolf really did pass close by, sniffing and peering, till poor Félix gave up all hope of escaping with his life; but, luckily, the wolf did not see him, and at last slowly crept on through the underwood.

How long the little boy stayed in the perilous shelter of the chestnut-tree he never knew, but it seemed untold ages to him. After a while the moon rose, and shed a faint light through the close-lapping branches; then, by and by, Félix’s ears, strained to listen for every lightest sound, caught the echo of distant trampling, as of horses’ hoofs, and presently two horsemen came in sight, pricking their way cautiously along a narrow bridle-path.

He did not know whom they might prove to be, but wisely thinking that anything would be better than staying in a tree all night at the mercy of hungry wolves, he waited till the first rider came quite close, and then he plucked up courage to call out faintly:

“Oh, sir, stop, I pray thee!”

At this, the rider, who was none other than the noble Count Bernard of Bois Varne, quickly drew rein and, turning, called to his companion:

“Ho, Brian! Heardest thou aught?”

“Nay, my Lord,” answered Brian, who was some paces behind, “naught save the trampling of our own horses’ hoofs.”

The count looked all around, and seeing nothing, thought himself mistaken in the sound, and began to pace on. Then Félix in terror gave another shout, this time louder, and at the same moment a little twig he was pressing with his elbow broke away and dropped, striking against the count’s stirrup; for the bridle-path wound directly under the tree where Félix was perched.

The count instantly checked his horse again, and, peering up into the boughs overhead, he caught sight of Félix, his yellow hair wet with dew and shining in the moonlight, and his dark eyes wide with fear.

“Heigh-ho!” exclaimed the count, in blank amazement. “Upon my word, now! what art thou—boy or goblin?”

At this Félix gave a little sob, for he was very tired and very cold. He hugged the tree tightly, and steadying himself against the boughs, at last managed to falter out:

“Please thee, sir, I am Félix Michaud, and my lamb Beppo, who was to ride in the Christmas procession, ran off to-day, and—and—I have been hunting him, I think, ever since—since yesterday!” Here poor Félix grew a trifle bewildered; it seemed to him so very long ago since he had set out in search of Beppo. “And I live in Sur Varne.”

At this the count gave a long whistle.

“At Sur Varne!” he exclaimed. “If thou speakest truly, my little man, thou hast indeed a sturdy pair of legs to carry thee thus far.” And he eyed curiously Félix’s dusty little feet and leathern leggings, dangling limply from the bough above him.

“Dost thou know how far distant is Sur Varne from this forest?”

“Nay, sir,” answered Félix; “but I trow ’tis a great way.”

“There thou art right,” said the count; “’tis a good two leagues, if it is a pace. But how now? Thou canst not bide here to become the prey of hungry wolves, my little night-owl of the yellow hair!”

And thereupon Count Bernard dexterously raised himself in his stirrups, and, reaching upward, caught Félix in his arms and swung him down plump on the saddle-bow in front of him; then, showing him how to steady himself by holding the pommel, he turned to Brian, his squire, who while all this was going on had stood by in silent astonishment, and giving the order to move, the little cavalcade hastened on at a rapid pace in order to get clear of the forest as quickly as possible.

Meantime the Count Bernard, who was really a very kind and noble lord, and who lived in a beautiful castle on the farther verge of the forest, quite reassured Félix by talking to him kindly, and telling him of the six days’ journey from which he and his squire, Brian, were just returning, and how they had been delayed on the way until nightfall.

“And, by my faith!” said Count Bernard, “’twas a lucky hour for thee that snapped my horse’s saddle-girth! else we should have passed this wood by midday—and then, little popinjay, what wouldst thou have done had we not chanced along to pluck thee from out thy chilly nest? Hey? Wolves had been but poor comrades for such as thee!”

At this Félix began to shiver, and the count hastened to add:

“Nay, my little man, I did but jest with thee! Thou shalt sleep this night in the strong castle of Bois Varne, with not even a mouse to fret thy yellow head; and, what is more, thou shalt see the fairest little maid that ever thou hast set eyes on!”

And then he told him of his little daughter, the Lady Elinor, and how she would play with Félix and show him the castle, and how on the morrow they would see about sending him home to Sur Varne.

And all the while the count was talking they were trotting briskly onward, till by and by they emerged from the forest and saw towering near at hand the castle of Bois Varne. The tall turrets shone and shimmered in the moonlight, and over the gateway of the drawbridge hung a lighted cresset—that is, a beautiful wrought-iron basket, in which blazed a ruddy torch of oil to light them on their way.

At sight of this the count and Brian spurred on their horses, and were soon clattering across the bridge and into the great paved courtyard. The count flung his bridle to a little page who hastened out to meet him, and then, springing from his saddle, lightly lifted Félix and swung him to the ground. He then took the boy by the hand and led him into the great hall of the castle.

To Félix this looked marvelously beautiful. Christmas garlands of myrtle hung on the walls, and a great pile of freshly cut laurel boughs lay on a bench, ready for the morrow’s arranging. But that which took his eyes most of all was the lovely carving everywhere to be seen. The benches and tables were covered with it; the wainscot of the spacious room was richly adorned; and over and about the wide fireplace great carved dragons of stone curled their long tails and spread their wings through a maze of intricate traceries. Félix was enchanted, and gazed around till his eyes almost ached.

Presently in came running a little girl, laughing with delight. Bounding up into Count Bernard’s arms, she hugged and kissed him in true Provençal fashion. Then, catching sight of Félix:

“Ah, _mon père_,” she exclaimed, “and where foundest thou thy pretty new page?”

“Nay, sweetheart,” answered the count, looking down at Félix’s yellow hair, “’tis no page, but a little goldfinch we found perched in a chestnut tree as we rode through the forest.”

Then, smiling at the Lady Elinor’s bewilderment, he told her the little boy’s story, and she at once slipped down and greeted him kindly. Then, clapping her hands with pleasure at finding a new playmate, she declared he must come to see the Christmas crèche which she was just finishing.

“Not so fast, _ma chère_!” interposed the count, “we must sup first, for we are famished as the wolves we left behind us in the forest.” And thereupon he called in the steward of the castle, who soon set out a hearty supper on one of the long tables.

Elinor sat close by, eagerly chattering as they ate, and the moment Félix had swallowed the last morsel, she seized him by the hand and hastened across the hall, where her crèche was built upon a carved bench. The poor little Lady Elinor had no mother, and her father, the count, had been gone for several days; and although in the castle were many serving men and women and retainers, yet none of these presumed to dictate to the little mistress; and so she had put her crèche together in a very odd fashion.

“There!” said she, “what thinkest thou of it, Félix? Of a truth, I fancy somewhat is wanting, yet I know not how to better it!”

“Yes,” said Félix, bashfully, “it may be I can help thee.”

And so he set to work rearranging the little houses and figures, till he succeeded in giving a life-like air to the crèche, and Lady Elinor danced with delight.

While placing the little manger he happened to remember the figure of the Christ Child still in his blouse pocket; this he timidly took out and showed the little girl, who was charmed, and still more so when he drew forth a small wooden sheep and a dog, which were also in the same pocket, and which he begged her to keep.

The Lady Elinor was so carried away with joy that she flew to the side of the count, and, grasping both his hands, dragged him across the room to show him the crèche and the wonderful figures carved by Félix. Félix himself was covered with confusion when he saw the count coming, and would gladly have run from the hall, but that was impossible; so he stood still, his eyes averted and his face crimson.

“See, _mon père_!” said Elinor, “see this, and this!” And she held up the carvings for the count’s inspection.

Count Bernard, who had good-naturedly crossed the room to please his daughter, now opened his eyes wide with surprise. He took the little figures she handed him and examined them closely, for he was a good judge of artistic work of this kind. Then he looked at Félix, and at length he said:

“Well, little forest bird, who taught thee the carver’s craft?”

“No one, sir,” faltered Félix; “indeed, I wish, above all things, to learn of the Père Videau, the master carver; but my father says I must be a shepherd, as he is.”

Here a tear rolled down Félix’s cheek, for he was half frightened and terribly tired.

“Well, well,” said the count, “never mind! Thou art weary, little one; we will talk of this more on the morrow. ’Tis high time now that both of you were sound asleep. Hey, there! Jean! Jacques! Come hither and take care of this little lad, and see to it that he hath a soft bed and a feather pillow!”

The next morning the children ate a merry breakfast together, and after it Count Bernard took Félix aside and asked him many questions of his life and his home. Then, by and by, knowing how anxious the boy’s parents would be, he ordered his trusty squire, Brian, to saddle a horse and conduct Félix back to Sur Varne.

Meantime the little Lady Elinor begged hard that he stay longer in the castle for her playfellow, and was quite heartbroken when she saw the horse standing ready in the courtyard. Indeed, she would not be satisfied until her father, the count, who could not bear to see her unhappy, had promised to take her over some day to see Félix in Sur Varne. Then she smiled and made a pretty farewell courtesy, and suddenly snatching from her dark hair a crimson ribbon of Lyons taffeta, she tied it about Félix’s sleeve, declaring:

“There! thou must keep this token, and be my little knight!” for the Lady Elinor had many lofty notions in her small curly head.

Félix could only stammer out an embarrassed good by, for in the presence of this lively little maid he found himself quaking more than when he feared the terrible wolves of the forest. In another moment Brian lifted him to the saddle, and, springing up behind, took the bridle-rein, and off they went.

When, after several hours’ riding, they drew near Sur Varne, Félix showed Brian the way to the Michaud cottage, and you can fancy how overjoyed were the Père and Misè to see the travelers; for they had been nearly beside themselves with grief, and had searched all night for their little son.

Of course almost the first question Félix asked was about Beppo, and he felt a great load taken off his mind when he learned that the little truant, who really had not strayed very far from the village, had been found and brought home by one of the shepherds, and was even then penned up safe and sound in the sheepfold.

After a good night’s sleep Félix was quite rested from his journey. He was busy the next day in helping to garland the Yule log, in giving Ninette and Beppo an extra scrubbing and brushing, and in all the final happy preparations for the great holiday.

And so Christmas Eve came. It was a lovely starlit night, and on all sides one could hear the beautiful Christmas songs of old Provence, that all the peasants and the children sing as they troop along the roads on their way to the great church of the village; for thither every one flocks as the expected hour draws on.

Within the church all was a blaze of light; hundreds of tall wax tapers shone and twinkled and shed their golden glow over the altar, and a wonderful crèche with its manger and almost life-size figures stood on another special altar of its own.

Then presently the stately service began, and went on with song and incense, and the sweet chanting of children’s voices, till suddenly from the upper tower of the church a joyous peal of bells rang in the midnight! All at once, through the dense throng of worshipers nearest the door a pathway opened, and in came four peasants playing on pipes and flutes and flageolets a quaint old air made up nearly three hundred years before by good King René for just such a ceremony as was to follow.

After the pipers walked ten shepherds, two by two, each wearing a long brown cloak, and carrying a staff and lighted candle; that is, all save the first two, and these bore, one a basket of fruit, melons and grapes and pears of sunny Provence, while the other held in his hands a pair of pretty white pigeons with rose-colored eyes and soft, fluttering wings.

And then, behind the shepherds came—what do you suppose?—Ninette! Ninette, her fleece shining like snow, a garland of laurel and myrtle about her neck, and twigs of holly nodding behind her ears; while bound about her woolly shoulders a little harness of scarlet leather shone against the white with dazzling effect; and fastened to the harness, and trundling along at Ninette’s heels, came the gayest of little wooden carts. It was painted in the brightest colors. Its wheels were wrapped with garlands, and in it, curled up in a fat fleecy ball, lay Beppo! Tied about his neck in a huge bow was a crimson ribbon of Lyons taffeta, with a sprig of holly tucked into its loops.

Beppo lay quite still, looking about him with a bewildered, half-dazed expression, and just behind his cart came ten more shepherds with staves and candles, while following them was a great throng of peasant folk and children, among them Félix, all carrying lighted tapers, and radiant with delight; for this was the Procession of the Offered Lamb, and to walk in its train was considered by all the greatest honor and privilege.

And especially did the shepherd folk love the beautiful old custom which for centuries the people of Provence had cherished in memory of the time, long ago, when the real Christ Child lay in the manger of Bethlehem, and the shepherds of Judea sought him out to worship him, and to offer him their fruits and lambs as gifts.

And so, on, up the long aisle, the procession slowly moved; the pipers playing, and Ninette marching solemnly along, only now and then pausing to thrust her nose between the Père Michaud and his companion, who walked directly in front of her. Ninette pattered on as if she had trod the floors of churches all her life; and as for Beppo, only once did he stir, and then he gave a faint “Baa!” and tried to uncurl himself and stand up; but just then the queer little cart gave a joggle which quite upset his shaky lamb legs, and down he sank, and kept quiet throughout the rest of the time.

When the procession reached the altar the musicians stopped playing, and the first two shepherds, kneeling, presented the pigeons and the basket of fruit; and then the little cart was wheeled up so as to bring Beppo directly in front of all, and the whole company knelt as the priest blessed the offerings.

After this beautiful ceremony which ended the service, the players again struck up King René’s tune, and the procession, shepherds, Ninette, Beppo, peasants, and all, once more moved on, this time down the outer aisle and toward the great open portal.

It took some time for the last of its followers to reach the doorway, for the throng was very great; but at length Félix, who had marched with the children in the last group, came to the threshold and stepped out into the starry night.

He stood for a moment smiling and gazing aimlessly ahead, overwhelmed with the glory of all that had passed within the church. Presently he felt some one pluck his sleeve, and turning round, he met the dancing eyes of the little Lady Elinor.