The Pilgrim's Shell; Or, Fergan the Quarryman: A Tale from the Feudal Times

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Эжен Сю. The Pilgrim's Shell; Or, Fergan the Quarryman: A Tale from the Feudal Times

PART I. THE FEUDAL CASTLE

CHAPTER I. THE SERFS OF PLOUERNEL

CHAPTER II. FERGAN THE QUARRYMAN

CHAPTER III. AT THE CROSS-ROAD

CHAPTER IV. THE MANOR OF PLOUERNEL

CHAPTER V. AZENOR THE PALE

CHAPTER VI. FEUDAL JUSTICE

CHAPTER VII. ABBOT AND MONK

CHAPTER VIII. THE CHAMBER OF TORTURE

CHAPTER IX. THE RESCUE

CHAPTER X. CUCKOO PETER

PART II. THE CRUSADE

CHAPTER I. THE SYRIAN DESERT

CHAPTER II. SERF AND SEIGNEUR

CHAPTER III. THE EMIR'S PALACE

CHAPTER IV. ORGIES OF THE CRUSADERS

CHAPTER V. THE KING OF THE VAGABONDS

CHAPTER VI. THE MARKET-PLACE OF MARHALA

CHAPTER VII. THE FALL OF JERUSALEM

PART III. THE COMMUNE OF LAON

CHAPTER I. THE RISE OF THE COMMUNES

CHAPTER II. THE CHARTER OF LAON

CHAPTER III. EPISCOPALS AND COMMUNIERS

CHAPTER IV. THE ECCLESIASTICAL SEIGNIORY OF GAUDRY

CHAPTER V. BOURGEOIS AND ECCLESIASTICAL SEIGNEUR

CHAPTER VI. THE GATHERING STORM

CHAPTER VII "TO ARMS, COMMUNIERS!"

CHAPTER VIII. RETRIBUTION

CHAPTER IX. RESTING ON THEIR ARMS

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The day touched its close. The autumn sun cast its last rays upon one of the villages of the seigniory of Plouernel. A large number of partly demolished houses bore testimony to having been recently set on fire during one of the wars, frequent during the eleventh century, between the feudal lords of France. The walls of the huts of the village, built in pisé, or of stones held together with clayish earth, were cracked or blackened by the flames. There were still in sight, half burnt out, the rafters of the roofings, replaced by a few poles wrapped in bundles of furze or reed-grass.

The aspect of the serfs, just returned from the fields, was no less wretched than that of their hovels. Wan, emaciated, barely dressed in rags, they huddled together, trembling and uneasy. The bailiff, justiciary of the seigniory, had just arrived at the village, accompanied with five or six armed men. Presently, to the number of about three hundred, the serfs gathered around him, a fellow so ill disposed towards the poor, that, to his name of Garin, the nick-name "Serf-eater" had been attached. This dreaded man wore a leather casque furnished with ribs of iron, and a coat of goatskin like his shoes. A long sword hung by his side. He was astride a reddish-brown horse, that looked as savage as its master. Men on foot, variously armed, who made up the escort of Garin the Serf-eater, kept watch over several serfs, bound hands and feet, who were brought in prisoners from other localities. Not far from them lay stretched on the ground a wretched fellow, fearfully mutilated, hideous and horrible to behold. His eyes were knocked in, his feet and hands cut off – a common punishment for rebels. This unfortunate being, hardly covered in rags, the stumps of his arms and legs wrapped in dirty bandages, was waiting for some of his companions in misery, back from the fields, to find time to transport him upon the litter which he shared with the beasts of burden. Blind, and without hands or feet, he found himself thrown upon the charity of his fellows, who now ten years helped him to eat and drink. Other serfs of Normandy and Brittany, had, at the time of the revolt against their lords, been blinded, mutilated like this wretched fellow, and left upon the spot of their punishment to perish in the tortures of hunger.

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"I do not like to see the name of Christ mixed up in all this. Are you, perchance, seeking to lead me into some sacrilege?"

A sardonic smile played over the white lips of Azenor the Pale. "So far from that, I have placed the magic charm under the invocation of Christ; I pronounced a verse from the gospels with each needle that I buried in these puppets. The Lord will thus be our protector."

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