Читать книгу Attila and His Conquerors - Elizabeth Rundle Charles - Страница 9

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When the pirates had seized Ethne and Baithene, one sharp cry had rung through the glen from the faithful clansman who had been watching below, when a javelin hurled by one of the pirates had pierced his breast, and silenced him for ever. That cry, though unable to reach Ethne and Baithene, muffled as they were in their plaids, had alarmed the household. But, so sudden had been the attack, and so swiftly was the vessel rowed out of the creek, that she was well out at sea before a boat could be launched in pursuit. There were nothing but small river coracles at hand, and the British vessel soon distanced them, and was hopelessly lost sight of.

Even when they reached the opposite shore of the Irish Sea, the pirates still seemed in fear of pursuit, and hugged the shore by day, hiding in creeks, stowing their captives in caves and hollows of the rocks, and then sailing on by moonlight till they reached the southernmost coasts of Britain. At last they came to a creek with which they seemed familiar, carefully steering the vessel through narrow channels between the rocks into a little sandy cove. This cove was shut in by cliffs hollowed at one end into a wonderful series of lofty caverns leading one to another like halls of some palace of the sea-gods.

The sailors had not been rough with the young captives, partly because they were valuable property, partly because their own hearts were not destitute of pity. One especially, called Dewi, had shown them no little kindness (the same who had crossed himself in half-sympathetic, half-superstitious fear of risking the divine displeasure by kidnapping baptized Christians), and missed no opportunity of ministering to their comfort. Moreover, there was in Ethne a heavenly gentleness, and in Baithene an unconquerable good-nature and readiness to help, that won on the rough sailors in spite of themselves. Once, moreover, Dewi had been greatly moved, when he had all but lost his balance in shifting a sail, and Baithene had sprung up from the bottom of the boat, fettered as he was, and had saved him by a timely grasp of his clothes. Here in the strange halls of this sea-cave, for the first time the boy and girl were set free to ramble whither they would. The sides of the cove were quite precipitous, and the outermost of these vaulted palace-chambers opened on another wider bay, which could only be reached by a rocky staircase always carefully guarded. So it happened that the morning after their arrival the brother and sister were left at liberty to wander along the little sandy cove together, to bathe their feet and hands in the waves. They were children enough to enjoy it, and were watching the morning sunbeams dancing on the foaming crests, when in the distance a familiar sound fell on their ears.

“It is like our own Patrick’s bell!” said Ethne.

They listened in silence. It was certainly a bell, and a bell meant Christianity and Christian worship. The clear tones came to them softly, like the pulsations of a heart that loved them.

“It is calling them to the Eucharist of God!” Ethne said, with an awed voice. “There are Christians within reach.”

“Alas! are not these robbers Christians?” exclaimed Baithene.

“I suppose the loveliest things always have the falsest counterfeits,” said Ethne; “but these surely must be real Christians, gathered together to adore our Christ.”

And she knelt down on the sands, and almost for the first time since their capture burst into a passion of tears. Baithene knelt down beside her, and tried to soothe and comfort her. But she was already comforted. The glow of sacred hopes and memories had melted away the icy weight on her heart, or she could not have wept. Instinctively they were drawn towards the sacred sound, creeping noiselessly through the rocky halls, till through an opening like a little arched window they caught a glimpse of the sandy bay on the other side, and above it, on a sandy ridge, of a little building of rough-hewn stones, scarcely larger than the cabins near it, but distinguished by a low bell-tower, within which their friend the Christian bell was slowly swinging. It was a little church, afterwards for centuries buried in the sands.

More surprises awaited them that day. From their post at the rocky window they saw a congregation gather and disperse, and then some of them cluster round a man in a long dark robe, like a priest or a monk. Most of the congregation dispersed in various directions, but a few followed the monk straight across the sands to the cavern where they were; and, to their inexpressible delight, they heard from the lips of the strange priest words in their own Irish language. The voice drew nearer and nearer, and, hidden as they were in a dark recess of the cave, they distinctly caught the name of their own Patrick.

“Patrick the great bishop has sent me,” said the voice of the stranger, in the speech so familiar to them. “I have sought you across Britain, Coroticus and his followers, to fulfil my embassy; and at last I have found you, and you shall hear the message of the great bishop, the Apostle of the Irish.” Many of the sailors and armed followers of the expedition were gathered around, half awed by the solemn tones of the priest, half deriding. But they seemed so far spell-bound as to be constrained to listen. The letter was in Latin, which the men understood, being Britons, until lately under Roman sway, and, to their great satisfaction, Ethne and Baithene found they could also grasp his meaning well.

“‘I, Patrick,’” the priest began, reading from the parchment, “‘a sinner and unlearned, declare that I was made bishop in Ireland. I most certainly hold that it was from God I received what I am, and therefore for the love of God I dwell a pilgrim and an exile among a barbarous people. He is my witness that I speak the truth. It is not my wish to use language so harsh and so severe, but I am compelled by zeal for God and the truth of Christ, Who stirred me up for the love of my neighbours and sons, for whom I have given up country and parents, and am ready to give my life also, if I am worthy.’”

“He calls us his sons!” murmured the captives, “he has given up country and parents for us!”

“‘With my own hand I have written these words, to be delivered to the soldiers of Coroticus, no more my fellow-citizens, nor the fellow-citizens of the Roman saints, but fellow-citizens of demons, shedding the blood of innocent Christians, multitudes of whom I have begotten to God, and confirmed in Christ. Cruel slaughter and massacre was committed by them on some neophytes while still in their white robes the day after they had been anointed with the chrism, while it was yet visible on their foreheads.’”

“Then there are others captured besides ourselves,” groaned Baithene, “and some slain. Who? Shall we ever know?”

“‘I sent a letter by a holy presbyter whom I taught from his infancy, accompanied by other clergymen, to entreat they would restore some of the baptized captives whom they had taken, but they turned them into ridicule. Therefore I know not for whom I should rather grieve, whether for those who were slain, or those whom they took captive, or those whom Satan so grievously ensnared, and who shall be delivered over like himself, to the eternal pains of hell; “for whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin, and the child of the devil.” Wherefore let every one who fears God know that these strangers to me and to Christ my God, Whose ambassador I am, are parricides and fratricides. Wherefore I earnestly beseech those who are lowly and humble of heart, not to eat or drink with them or receive alms from them, until they repent with bitter tears, and make satisfaction to God, and set free those servants and baptized handmaids of Christ for whom He was crucified and died.

“‘Avarice is a deadly crime. The Most High rejects the offerings of the unjust. He who offers a sacrifice from the substance of the poor, is like one who offers a son as a victim in the sight of his father. Do I show a true compassion for that nation which formerly took me captive? I was free born!’”

“Patrick understands captivity!” murmured Baithene. The voice of the priest had been ringing like a trumpet, now it deepened and softened.

“‘Therefore I will cry aloud with sorrow and grief. Oh, most goodly, well-beloved brothers and sons, whom I have begotten in Christ, what shall I do for you?’ Listen, beloved!” the priest interposed in words of his own, “if there be any of you within hearing, Patrick weeps for you as his brothers and sisters and sons. ‘What shall I do for you?’ he says. ‘It is written, “Weep with them that do weep;” and again, “If one member suffers, all the members suffer with it.” The Church weeps and laments her sons and daughters whom the sword of the enemy has not slain, but who have been carried away to far-off lands. These Christian free-men are sold and reduced to slavery. A crime has been committed which is horrible and unspeakable. I grieve, my well-beloved, for you and for myself. But at the same time I rejoice that I have not laboured in vain, and that my pilgrimage has not been in vain. Thanks be to God, ye, O believers and baptized ones, have departed from the world to Paradise. I behold you. Ye have begun your journey to that region where there shall be no night, nor sorrow, nor death any more. Ye therefore shall reign with the apostles and martyrs, and shall receive an everlasting kingdom.’” Then the priest’s voice grew stern again. “‘But where shall they find themselves who distribute among their depraved followers, baptized women and captive orphans, for the sake of a wretched earthly kingdom which passes away in a moment like a cloud, or like smoke scattered by the wind?’” Then his voice changed once more to a tone of appeal. “‘But oh that God would inspire them, that at some time they might return unto Him! They have murdered the brothers of the Lord. But let them repent and release the baptized women whom they have already taken captive, that so they may be worthy to live to God, and be made whole here and for eternity.’” Then with the invocation of the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, the voice of Patrick’s ambassador ceased.

An angry murmur rose in the cave, and then there were mocking cries, and spears were pointed at the priest. No captives were allowed to be seen, and at last he turned sorrowfully away. But the message had reached three hearts that were in sore need of it.

“Patrick cares for us! he calls us his brothers and sisters. He is our shepherd, our brother, our father!” said Ethne.

“Patrick also was once a captive and a slave!” murmured Baithene.

“And Patrick,” Ethne replied, “has lived to serve and to liberate those who enslaved him, and to be their saviour and friend, like his Lord.”

And before the sun of that Sunday night had set, their friend the sailor Dewi contrived to get near them, as they strayed with the deer-hound along the little inner cove, now reduced by the high tide to a narrow strip of sand.

“The voice of Patrick has reached one at least of those it was meant to reach,” Dewi said, in a low, tremulous voice. “One of us at least repents at last. Never again will Dewi help to rob and murder the brothers and sisters of Patrick, and of our Lord Christ. Children,” he concluded, “what can I do for you?”

“What can any one do for us?” said Baithene, despondingly.

But Ethne took the sailor’s rough hands and clasped them in her own.

“You can do this for us,” she said, “the best service any can render us now. Go back to Ireland and tell our people, tell Patrick the bishop, we are alive! And find our father, Conan, chief of the O’Neills, and our mother, if they are still alive, and tell them about us.”

“I will try, lady,” he said. “If I fail, you will know it was not for want of trying. But the country of your kindred is, and ought to be, as a den of lions for any of our band.”

“I know!” she said. “But I know you would like to have something hard and dangerous to do for us.”

“You know the truth,” said Dewi, with quivering lips. “And if I can, I will come back and hunt you out again, and bring news of your own to you.”

“We shall be lonelier and more friendless than ever when you are gone,” Ethne said.

“They do not want me any further,” Dewi said. “Just now I heard them say they have other Irish captives in other vessels further south, who are to be joined to-morrow. And they have hired new sailors who know this coast. For it is a perilous coast, beset by rocks and shoals and narrow channels between islands full, they say, of savage people.”

“Where are they taking us?” Baithene asked.

“To Gaul, I believe. There are men of our race there who speak our language.”

“And then?”

“To Rome, they say. To the great Court of the Empire and mart of the world. They have a good cargo: gold ornaments of great price among the Irish plunder, copper and tin from the ancient mines in this west country, and a goodly troop of captives.”

“To Rome!” exclaimed Baithene. “To the great slave-market!”

And Dewi could not deny that this was their destination.

The brother and sister slept little that night.

“I longed and prayed to go to Rome, sister. And some one must have heard me! Can it be the Friend or the Enemy? For there is an Enemy, you know. We renounced him at our baptism, and no doubt he will do us all the harm he can. And he is strong, they say. It would seem, sometimes, nearly as strong as God!”

“He is weak, they told us!” replied Ethne. “He can only hurt people who give themselves up to him and are cowards. And, brother,” she added, after a long silence, “a beautiful thing has come back into my mind. One of the priests (I think it was Patrick) was speaking to our mother about prayer. He said we must tell all our wants to God. But mother said, ‘How could we dare? we know so little, and we might ask for the wrong thing.’ But he told her, God never gives wrong things when His children ask for them, any more than she would. And then he told her a story about a great saint, I think he was called Paul, who prayed that he might go to Rome; and God heard him, and he went to Rome, but shipwrecked and a prisoner.”

“What comfort is there in that melancholy story, Ethne? It is exactly what I am afraid of!” Baithene said gloomily.

“Do you think the great Paul did not know what he was asking, or the good God what He was giving?” she said. “Hear the end of my story. In his prison in Rome Paul gathered together crowds of people who came to listen to him. And many of them became Christians. And,” she added, after a pause, “in the end he died a martyr at Rome. And that, you know, is the greatest death, they say, that any Christian can die.”

“But that Paul wished to go to Rome to do good,” said Baithene, “to serve his people and God.”

“And so did you, darling,” she replied; “and God has heard.”

“I did not exactly wish to be a martyr,” he replied, “at least not quite yet. I do not feel fit for it. And I did want to learn Latin, and so many things, and to do so many things.”

“Ah,” she said, “I suppose we none of us quite know when we are fit to be martyrs. And, darling, do I want you to be a martyr? God has many good things to let us be besides that. The Church would scarcely get on if all her noblest were to be martyrs, nor the world either, could it?”

“Patrick did come back; and he saved the people who might have martyred him, which seems almost better in some ways,” Baithene rejoined, more cheerfully.

“But Patrick forgave first, and I suppose that is what we have to do now,” said Ethne.

“Is it?” replied Baithene, with some hesitation. “That scarcely seems much easier than being a martyr.”