Chapter Chapter 20 · The Prince and the hermit.

. The Prince and the hermit.

The high hedge hid him from the house, now; and so, under the impulse of

a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped toward a wood in the

distance.  He never looked back until he had almost gained the shelter

of the forest; then he turned and descried two figures in the distance.

That was sufficient; he did not wait to scan them critically, but

hurried on, and never abated his pace till he was far within the

twilight depths of the wood. Then he stopped; being persuaded that he

was now tolerably safe. He listened intently, but the stillness was

profound and solemn--awful, even, and depressing to the spirits.  At

wide intervals his straining ear did detect sounds, but they were so

remote, and hollow, and mysterious, that they seemed not to be real

sounds, but only the moaning and complaining ghosts of departed

ones.  So the sounds were yet more dreary than the silence which they

interrupted.

It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was the rest of

the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and he was at

last obliged to resume movement in order to get warm. He struck straight

through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road presently, but he was

disappointed in this.  He travelled on and on; but the farther he went,

the denser the wood became, apparently.  The gloom began to thicken,

by-and-by, and the King realised that the night was coming on.  It made

him shudder to think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he

tried to hurry faster, but he only made the less speed, for he could

not now see well enough to choose his steps judiciously; consequently he

kept tripping over roots and tangling himself in vines and briers.

And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light! He

approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and listen.  It

came from an unglazed window-opening in a shabby little hut.  He heard

a voice, now, and felt a disposition to run and hide; but he changed his

mind at once, for this voice was praying, evidently.  He glided to the

one window of the hut, raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance

within.  The room was small; its floor was the natural earth, beaten

hard by use; in a corner was a bed of rushes and a ragged blanket or

two; near it was a pail, a cup, a basin, and two or three pots and pans;

there was a short bench and a three-legged stool; on the hearth the

remains of a faggot fire were smouldering; before a shrine, which was

lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an old wooden box

at his side lay an open book and a human skull.  The man was of large,

bony frame; his hair and whiskers were very long and snowy white; he

was clothed in a robe of sheepskins which reached from his neck to his

heels.

“A holy hermit!” said the King to himself; “now am I indeed fortunate.”

The hermit rose from his knees; the King knocked.  A deep voice

responded--

“Enter!--but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt stand

is holy!”

The King entered, and paused.  The hermit turned a pair of gleaming,

unrestful eyes upon him, and said--

“Who art thou?”

“I am the King,” came the answer, with placid simplicity.

“Welcome, King!” cried the hermit, with enthusiasm.  Then, bustling

about with feverish activity, and constantly saying, “Welcome, welcome,”

he arranged his bench, seated the King on it, by the hearth, threw some

faggots on the fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor with a nervous

stride.

“Welcome!  Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not worthy,

and were turned away.  But a King who casts his crown away, and despises

the vain splendours of his office, and clothes his body in rags, to

devote his life to holiness and the mortification of the flesh--he is

worthy, he is welcome!--here shall he abide all his days till death

come.”  The King hastened to interrupt and explain, but the hermit paid

no attention to him--did not even hear him, apparently, but went right

on with his talk, with a raised voice and a growing energy. “And thou

shalt be at peace here.  None shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee

with supplications to return to that empty and foolish life which God

hath moved thee to abandon.  Thou shalt pray here; thou shalt study the

Book; thou shalt meditate upon the follies and delusions of this world,

and upon the sublimities of the world to come; thou shalt feed upon

crusts and herbs, and scourge thy body with whips, daily, to the

purifying of thy soul. Thou shalt wear a hair shirt next thy skin;

thou shalt drink water only; and thou shalt be at peace; yes, wholly at

peace; for whoso comes to seek thee shall go his way again, baffled; he

shall not find thee, he shall not molest thee.”

The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud, and

began to mutter.  The King seized this opportunity to state his case;

and he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension.

But the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed.  And still

muttering, he approached the King and said impressively--

“‘Sh!  I will tell you a secret!”  He bent down to impart it, but

checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude.  After a moment

or two he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out, and

peered around in the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his

face close down to the King’s, and whispered--

“I am an archangel!”

The King started violently, and said to himself, “Would God I were with

the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a madman!”  His

apprehensions were heightened, and they showed plainly in his face.  In

a low excited voice the hermit continued--

“I see you feel my atmosphere!  There’s awe in your face!  None may

be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very

atmosphere of heaven.  I go thither and return, in the twinkling of an

eye.  I was made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years ago,

by angels sent from heaven to confer that awful dignity.  Their presence

filled this place with an intolerable brightness.  And they knelt to me,

King! yes, they knelt to me! for I was greater than they.  I have walked

in the courts of heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs.  Touch

my hand--be not afraid--touch it.  There--now thou hast touched a hand

which has been clasped by Abraham and Isaac and Jacob!  For I have

walked in the golden courts; I have seen the Deity face to face!”  He

paused, to give this speech effect; then his face suddenly changed, and

he started to his feet again saying, with angry energy, “Yes, I am an

archangel; _a mere archangel!_--I that might have been pope!  It is

verily true.  I was told it from heaven in a dream, twenty years ago;

ah, yes, I was to be pope!--and I _should_ have been pope, for Heaven

had said it--but the King dissolved my religious house, and I, poor

obscure unfriended monk, was cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my

mighty destiny!” Here he began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in

futile rage, with his fist; now and then articulating a venomous curse,

and now and then a pathetic “Wherefore I am nought but an archangel--I

that should have been pope!”

So he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little King sat and

suffered. Then all at once the old man’s frenzy departed, and he became

all gentleness.  His voice softened, he came down out of his clouds, and

fell to prattling along so simply and so humanly, that he soon won the

King’s heart completely.  The old devotee moved the boy nearer to the

fire and made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises and abrasions

with a deft and tender hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a

supper--chatting pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the

lad’s cheek or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in

a little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel were

changed to reverence and affection for the man.

This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper; then,

after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed, in a

small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as a mother

might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down by the

fire, and began to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way.

Presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several times with his

fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which had escaped from his

mind.  Apparently he was unsuccessful.  Now he started quickly up, and

entered his guest’s room, and said--

“Thou art King?”

“Yes,” was the response, drowsily uttered.

“What King?”

“Of England.”

“Of England?  Then Henry is gone!”

“Alack, it is so.  I am his son.”

A black frown settled down upon the hermit’s face, and he clenched his

bony hands with a vindictive energy.  He stood a few moments, breathing

fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky voice--

“Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless and

homeless?”

There was no response.  The old man bent down and scanned the boy’s

reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing. “He sleeps--sleeps

soundly;” and the frown vanished away and gave place to an expression of

evil satisfaction.  A smile flitted across the dreaming boy’s features.

The hermit muttered, “So--his heart is happy;” and he turned away.  He

went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something;

now and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around

and casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always

mumbling to himself.  At last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty

old butcher knife and a whetstone.  Then he crept to his place by the

fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone,

still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating.  The winds sighed around the

lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the

distances.  The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at

the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt,

absorbed, and noted none of these things.

At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and

nodded his head with satisfaction. “It grows sharper,” he said; “yes,

it grows sharper.”

He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on,

entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in

articulate speech--

“His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us--and is gone down into the

eternal fires!  Yes, down into the eternal fires!  He escaped us--but it

was God’s will, yes it was God’s will, we must not repine.  But he

hath not escaped the fires!  No, he hath not escaped the fires, the

consuming, unpitying, remorseless fires--and _they_ are everlasting!”

And so he wrought, and still wrought--mumbling, chuckling a low rasping

chuckle at times--and at times breaking again into words--

“It was his father that did it all.  I am but an archangel; but for him

I should be pope!”

The King stirred.  The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and

went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his knife

uplifted.  The boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an instant, but

there was no speculation in them, they saw nothing; the next moment his

tranquil breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more.

The hermit watched and listened, for a time, keeping his position and

scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arms, and presently crept

away, saying,--

“It is long past midnight; it is not best that he should cry out, lest

by accident someone be passing.”

He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and

another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle handling

he managed to tie the King’s ankles together without waking him.  Next

he essayed to tie the wrists; he made several attempts to cross them,

but the boy always drew one hand or the other away, just as the cord was

ready to be applied; but at last, when the archangel was almost ready

to despair, the boy crossed his hands himself, and the next moment

they were bound. Now a bandage was passed under the sleeper’s chin and

brought up over his head and tied fast--and so softly, so gradually,

and so deftly were the knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy

slept peacefully through it all without stirring.