'So (he) did not see the face
Which then was as an angel's.'
Idylls of the King.
IN a few minutes Hubert emerged from the chancellor's house with the sealed packet in his hand, and, seeking the least frequented streets, tore madly along, caring little whom he jostled or thrust aside. Never, even in Constance, had such crowds been seen before. The whole population of the city seemed to be out of doors, as well as the vast concourse of strangers the Council had brought together. The men were mostly armed, and there were troops of soldiers about; beside the guard of nearly a thousand appointed for the safe keeping of the prisoner. The phantom of a wild hope flickered across the excited brain of Hubert. Were the Kaiser and the Council afraid of a rescue? Was a rescue possible? Might it be attempted? What were those gallant knights about with whom he had gone to the Kaiser a month ago? If only he might stand once more beside them now and strike one blow in this cause, welcome then the death of a soldier!
He might have known that, against such overwhelming odds, the desperate courage of a handful of Bohemian knights would have availed nothing. But he could not know that the best and bravest of them all was keeping down his indignant heart that day with his dear master's' words of counsel and of peace. Chlum knew well that he would not have him fight;—his last charge to him had been, ‘Serve the Lord Jesus Christ quietly at home—whom to serve is to reign.'
At last Hubert reached the goldsmith's shop opposite the Rhine-Thor-Thurm, but he found it shut and barred; indeed, most of the shops in the town were shut that day. It seemed deserted also. Not until he thundered angrily three times at the door did a young apprentice, who looked as if he had been asleep, open it suspiciously a little way and inquire his business.
Hubert explained, and said he must see Maître Lebrun himself.
‘That you cannot,' said the lad. ‘For the Queen—a plague upon her whims and fancies!—must needs send for him this morning to Petershausen, to show her some new trinkets from Paris. As if they would not keep until another day! He took with him all the men he could muster to guard the jewels. So, for my sins, I am shut up here to keep watch and ward, while all the town is making holiday.'
‘Thank God, brother Frenchman, that thou hast neither act nor part in such a holiday as this,' said Hubert. ‘When dost thou expect thy master? '
‘He ought to be back by this time. Can you not give me the packet? He said he thought you might come during his absence.'
‘I wish I could; but my orders are absolute. I will go across the bridge and meet him.'
Hubert was so far fortunate that when he reached the head of the old wooden bridge he discerned the man he sought on horseback, and already half-way across. A reasonable person would have stayed where he was, and quietly awaited his coming; but Hubert that day was not reasonable. He could not keep quiet anywhere. He must needs push his way through the dense crowd upon the bridge—all going towards the town—in the hope of thrusting his packet into the hands of Lebrun, and telling him he would return later for the receipt.
It was a difficult task, but at last he succeeded. The master was on horseback, the stout serving-men who guarded him and his treasure with their staves were on foot. Hubert, who was naturally mistaken by them for a daring robber, got more blows than one before he could attract the attention of Lebrun. But at last he showed him the packet, and entreated breathlessly that he would oblige the Chancellor of Paris by forwarding it, as he had promised to do.
One would think it was a matter of life and death,' said the goldsmith, vexed at being stopped at such a spot, and in such a way. ‘Yes, I will do the chancellor's pleasure, and with goodwill, for I and mine have been ever good Armagnacs, as he knoweth. But my lord had no need of such headlong haste. My man cannot go till tomorrow. Never was the town in such a state; the Duke of Austria's tournament, when the pope ran away, was nothing to this Burning.'
‘Nevertheless, take the packet; I will come back later for the receipt.'
Lebrun took it hastily, his horse growing restive with the crowd and the noise. ‘Stand aside, master,' he cried to Hubert, ‘there are other horsemen coming after us.' Then to the crowd, ‘Have a care, good people. Keep quiet, or there will be mischief done here.'
Relieved at having so far performed his errand, Hubert sprang aside. As he did so, he felt the timbers of the old bridge shaking beneath his feet. There was a low parapet, against which he leant for an instant. Just then a little boy, in a gray jerkin and flat cap, leaped up, and stood upon it close to him, apparently to get out of the crowd.
‘Take care, my lad!’ cried Hubert, though without turning round to look at him. ‘Take care, or you will fall over! '
Too late! The boy lost his balance, and with a great cry fell down into the river. Hubert was after him in a moment. He threw himself from the parapet sheer into the water, seized the boy with one hand by his stout cloth jerkin, while with the other he clung to one of the many cross-beams which strengthened the wooden supports of the bridge.
The child at first struggled in his grasp; but Hubert called to him—in German—to be quiet; and he made a really brave effort to obey. But meanwhile the beam to which Hubert was clinging, being rotten with age, gave way. He slipped into the water—caught at another beam—with a great effort reached and grasped it, but in so doing gave his arm a violent wrench. In a voice choked with pain he called again to the boy: ‘Hold on to me—for I can hold you no longer. Clasp me round the waist.'
The boy did as he was told; and Hubert just managed to get his sound arm round the beam. But, disabled as he was, it was hopeless to think either of swimming to the shore with his burden, or of climbing up again to the bridge by the woodwork. All he could do was to hold on, and shout for help. Surely, in that crowded place, help would come to them immediately. He called aloud, with all his might, and bade the boy do the same.
No help, no answer came. All were moving towards one spot, absorbed in one purpose. Probably no one heard; certainly no one heeded. Once and again Hubert raised his voice—in vain. The current was strong—the beam to which he clung was slippery with wet and slime—and he was in terrible pain. The drops of anguish were on his brow, and his strength was failing. Would no one hear, would no one answer? Was his last hour come—his and this child's? He tried to look up—the blue sky was over him, he could even see the shadowy white of the distant Alps. The well-known words of the Psalter surged through his brain—' I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.'
No—not from the hills—from above the hills, from above the stars and sun—from Christ Himself. Christ—to whom His martyr called, and He heard him— ‘ ‘My Lord Jesus Christ,' that was what he said,' thought Hubert. Christ heard him; He will hear me too.' So a strong cry went up from his heart, ‘Jesus, Lord—My Lord Jesus Christ, help and save us!'
Still praying thus he grew fainter. His mind began to wander; he thought himself in the Brühl, and even confused the anguish he felt with what was being suffered there by another. But still he held on. To himself it seemed that he was holding on thus with failing strength, but steadfast purpose, to the Lord Christ, the martyr's God, who would save them yet.
Suddenly the boy called out to him: ‘Master! '
‘Yes—I hear,' said Hubert, with an effort.
‘Master,' said the boy again, in broken words of imperfect German, with quick, short gasps between, ‘we shall both be drowned. Better save one. I will let you go. I am not afraid to die. The water does not hurt—oh, not like fire! Only tell my father—'
‘No—no!’ cried Hubert, roused effectually by this. ‘Hold on bravely still. God will hear us.'
Another silence—then the boy cried out joyfully, ‘A boat!—a boat! '
Hubert heard, as if in a dream, the splashing of the oars; but there was a mist before his eyes; he could not see. Presently he was conscious of relief: the boy's weight no longer dragged him down; and yet he was not afraid for him; he knew he was saved. Then he was aware of a voice, a woman's, almost a girl's, which said to him: ‘Oh, Master Hubert, do not faint! There is no one here to help but me and Fritz, my young brother.'
‘No—no! I am strong,' said Hubert, with the new strength of hope, as he tried with his feet to rind the boat, which was now close to him. He soon felt it beneath him, though as yet he dared not let go his hold of the beam. However, the slight sinewy arms of a lad of fifteen gave him effectual help, and at last he lay safe, though exhausted, in the little boat. The boy he had saved was there already, lying at the other end. The lad Fritz held one of the oars; the other was in the small but capable hands of Robert's Nänchen. Already they were pulling to the shore, and until they reached it no one spoke a word.
Then the rescued boy rose up, and stood shaking out his damp, dark locks. ‘I thank God and you, sir, for saving me,' he said to Hubert; ‘but I fear you are greatly hurt.'
Hubert opened his weary eyes and looked at him. Surely be knew his face—where had he seen it before? Nänchen he knew well, and stretched out his hand to her with a murmured word of thanks.
‘Where is Robert?’ he asked, without thinking; but the next moment he was sorry for the question. All the great joy of having saved a life—perhaps two lives—went at once out of Nänchen's face, and she answered very sadly: ‘Oh, sir, you know! '
He did know.
‘How many—how long have we been in the water?’ he asked. He was about to say ‘How many hours?’ but checked himself.
‘Not many minutes, sir, I think; but I cannot quite tell. I heard your cry, for I happened to be at the waterside. I ran everywhere to get help; but all the men who live near us are away, and those from beyond the bridge would not stop, or listen to me. So at last I found Fritz; and we put out in the little boat. Thank God, sir, that we were in time. Will it please you and the little lad to come to our home to rest and to get dry clothing? It is close at hand-just within the gate.'
Hubert thanked her, but said he would rather go home. His soul was still bent on his purpose; and he hoped, from her words, that he might reach the Brühl in time, after all.
But when he stepped on shore he found he could scarcely stand.
‘Master Hubert, you must come with me!’ said Nänchen. ‘Your face is white as marble. Where are you hurt?’ 'My shoulder—but it is nothing.'
He was glad, however, to lean upon. Fritz, and to follow Nänchen through the gate, and across the broad path by the river to the modest lodging which she and Robert called their home. She led her guests up a steep and narrow staircase into a comfortable room, with furniture of plain, unpainted wood, but spotlessly clean. A fire was burning on the hearth; and apparently some cooking was going forward. But she would not let Hubert linger here; she brought him at once into a smaller chamber beyond.
‘Will it please you to change your clothing, sir?’ she said. ‘This room belongs to our lodgers, two English priests, who are out—like the rest. But plenty of their spare garments are lying yonder; and they would make you kindly welcome to the loan of them. Sit down upon the bed, master, and Fritz shall come and help you, while I attend to the boy elsewhere. Fritz, come hither, and wait upon Master Hubert.'
The help of Fritz was very necessary. However, with his assistance, Hubert managed to get his dripping garments exchanged for dry ones; then he came, or rather staggered back into the keeping-room, and sank upon the seat Nänchen had placed for him by the fire. He was ready to faint, and his arm was very painful. But just then he only cared for pain and weakness because they spoiled his purpose.
‘Too late! Too late!’ he moaned, bowing his head in bitter disappointment. ‘I shall see his face no more!'
On the table there was a flask of wine, which Nänchen had just fetched from the nearest hostelry. She poured some into a cup and was about to give it to Hubert; but the rescued boy, who was lying on a settle, dressed in clothes much too large for him, sprang up and took the cup out of her hand, saying: ‘Please let me do it; he saved me.' Then he presented it to Hubert. ‘Dear, kind friend,' he said, ‘you must drink it. It will do you good.'
Hubert experienced the curious impression, so familiar to most of us, that exactly the same thing had happened to him before. But it is not given to most of us to find it rooted in fact, as he did.
‘I was offered a cup of wine somewhere,' he said dreamily, and it was by you. ‘Where was it? Who are you? Let me think! ‘Then the whole scene flashed back upon his memory. He stood awaiting the Bohemian lords in that house in St. Paul's Street, with Fidelia, and Petr Mladenowie and an eager, dark-eyed boy. Panec̆ Vaclav, the son of Chlum!’ he exclaimed aloud. ‘I know you now. Thank God! Thank God!’ He covered his face in deep emotion. ‘Thank God!’ he said again. ‘He knew I would have given my life to save His servant. It could not be—but instead, He has let me risk it, to save the son of his dearest friend.'
Then there came a mist before his eyes: all things grew dim and dreamlike, were about to vanish from him altogether. No!—once more, for a moment's space, all things grew clear again. He was standing in the crowded church, gazing on the grand calm face, lit with that joy, strange, and solemn, mysterious even to its possessor,' which he had seen in it that day. And as he gazed the martyr turned towards him, and bent upon him an expressive look of recognition and of thanks. ‘For the sake of my Lord Jesus Christ, and for me, you have done this,' Hubert thought he said. Then he neither thought nor knew any more. He was unconscious.