‘God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all.'
HUBERT was burning to tell the chancellor everything, and to hear from his lips some explanation of the extraordinary and disgraceful scene in the Council. But he had to crush down his angry, impatient heart, and to give the whole of the next day to hard, monotonous toil. The Council did not sit, but a formidable mass of papers about the affair of Jean Petit had to be arranged and prepared; and Hubert was now reaping the usual reward of doing his work well in having more and more work given to him to do. He dared not ask a question beyond what was absolutely necessary of his careworn and pre-occupied lord; still less could he trouble him with a personal confession. His own prolonged absence the day before seemed to have passed unnoticed, except by subordinate members of the household, to whom he felt justified in refusing an explanation.
On the following morning, that of the 7th of June, he rose very early. He knew that the Council was to meet again that day, that the emperor was to preside, and that, in his presence, John Huss was to be heard in his own defense. He knew also that he was to be there himself, as the chancellor's secretary. He wanted first to be quiet and alone; so he went forth by the Göttlingen gate towards the Brühl. But avoiding the pleasure-gardens, he wandered into a solitary meadow, which, as it happened, had an ill repute with the townsfolk as a place of execution for malefactors and of burial for horses and mules. Hubert, however, knew nothing of this; in the dawn of the bright summer day all looked fair, pure, and peaceful. It was a lovely morning; the blue sky without a cloud, the grass fresh and dewy, a soft breeze lightly stirring the leaves of the linden trees, and the birds that sing among the branches' chanting their early hymn of praise.
Hubert was perplexed and troubled in spirit; and he remembered that he had heard the chancellor exhort men who were in trouble to meditation and to prayer, and to the study of profitable books. So he had taken with him the only book he possessed, the part of the Psalter which had been given to his father by John Wickliffe. He intended to read several Psalms, and then to pray a great deal; which with him meant chiefly to recite a great many Paternosters. He ought perhaps to have known better, since he lived with a man who understood the nature of spiritual prayer so well as to leave us counsels on the subject which may still be read with profit.
But his soul was not yet awake; he had never really felt the' presence of God—never cried to Him out of the depths.
Moreover, the chancellor, not thinking his young favorite had the Divine vocation,' had never singled him out for special religious instruction; though he loved him with a natural, human, fatherly love very honorable to them both.
This love was a sheet-anchor to Hubert, even when so much else to which he clung seemed giving way. Michael the Archangel, to whom in his youthful enthusiasm he had likened the all-conquering Council, seemed to have dropped his beautiful, blazing sword, and veiled his face in shame. What was he crushing beneath his feet? The wicked pope, the dragon of Heresy, or-was it haply an innocent man falsely accused? It was not well to recall that scene in the Council Hall; there was danger, there might even be sin, in the passion that made his cheek burn and his heart throb as he thought of it. He tried to lay the blame upon the Italians, and indeed they had been the worst offenders; but he could not conceal from himself that Germans, Frenchmen, Englishmen even, had taken part in the uproar. What could have stirred them to such a tempest of rage and hate toward a man against whom, after all, they seemed to bring no such very heinous accusations?
Of course a heretic ought to be convicted, and, if obstinate, duly punished. But it should be done soberly and decently; in a pious, orderly manner, like what it most surely was, a good work, well pleasing unto God. In the tumult and confusion of Wednesday, it had been impossible to ascertain if the accused was really guilty. Was he?
Before Hubert's mental eye there rose again that calm, patient face; and the few quiet, dignified words which, amidst the confusion, he had been able to utter, sounded in his ears. Certainly his demeanor was that of an innocent man, and, as Hubert thought, with a quick flash of sympathy, of a brave man too. At least it was no sin to hope him innocent; no sin, but a good and charitable work, to pray for him that if innocent he might this day be cleared; if guilty, that he might be led to abandon his errors.
Choosing a sheltered spot beneath a linden tree, Hubert knelt down. He repeated a great many Paternosters and other Latin prayers which he had learned. Then he rose, opened his book, and began to read. This is what he read: 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? 'What was very unusual, he stopped there and began to think. What did it all mean? That light was to come from God; God Himself, and no other? Not the pope, not the Council even, but God Himself was the light. Whose light? ‘Mine.' But then only great saints, such as the chancellor, could say this. Yet, if so, why was everybody directed to read and to repeat these Psalms? Not priests alone, but acolytes, choristers, laymen of all sorts might and should recite the Psalms. Whence, then, for himself was the light to come? He was beginning to feel very sorely that he needed light. But that God could be his light, his salvation, was beyond his comprehension—beyond his dream even.
Whilst he was thinking thus, a little bird dropped down at his feet with a wild, frightened cry. Perhaps a hawk was pursuing it: he looked up, but saw nothing. Then similar cries were heard from the trees around him; and in a strange, unaccountable way the day began to darken. He looked up again—could a sudden storm be coming? No, the sky was without a cloud; not a breath swayed the boughs above him, or moved the tall grasses underneath. Yet the darkness grew and deepened; grew and deepened still. He sprang to his feet; he gazed around; he listened intently. ‘No rain; no wind; no thunder; ' no sound of any kind, for even the birds had fallen now into the silence of utter terror. The sparrow which had dropped at his feet lay there as if dead; and, stranger yet, a wild cat which had begun to creep stealthily towards it stood motionless, transfixed with terror, her fierce eyes blazing in the darkness.
Deeper—deeper yet, that darkness grew. A dread more awful than he had ever felt before seized upon Hubert: he stood trembling like an aspen-leaf. But at last, rousing himself with a desperate effort, he looked up again. Where was the sun? Had it vanished wholly from the sky? No; but what seemed worse—more terrible, more unnatural—the eye of day itself was darkened, and a black veil drawn over it. Faint, strange reddish flames played about its edge; and in the surrounding heavens he could see the stars glimmering through the darkness. Quite sure now that the end of the world had come, he threw himself down upon his face and muttered faintly:
‘Dies iræ; dies illæ’
After what seemed to him an age of horror, but what was really only a few minutes, he thought the gloom a little less profound. Yes: there was hope. Gradually the shadow lightened—passed away—and the sun resumed its wonted splendor. Still trembling and awe-stricken, Hubert rose and looked about him. Once more all things were smiling peacefully in the joy and glory of the fair June morning; whilst everywhere the little birds were pouring forth their rapturous songs of thanksgiving and praise. Should Hubert's voice alone be wanting? Most unfeignedly thankful that his own day of grace, and that of the wicked world, was not to end so quickly, he chanted, by way of a Laus Deo, the first words that occurred to him: ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’ Ay, he could say that now the sun was shining once more, but—had he been able to say it in the darkness?
Presently, and with rapid footsteps, he returned to the town. There he found everything in confusion, and read dismay and consternation in every face. What evil had this terrible eclipse been sent to foreshadow? Did it threaten the Council, the Kaiser, the city; or, more likely, all of them at once? But the chancellor called his household together, and calmed their minds by a few wise and quiet words; telling them that if they were in the grace of God they had nothing to fear. Yet, certainly, this was a solemn warning unto all men, that they should repent of their sins and amend their lives.