The Greatest Occult & Supernatural Tales of Marjorie Bowen. Bowen Marjorie
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greedily of the beautiful water.
“Ye have come from Basle?” asked the monk.
Dirk nodded.
“And we go to Frankfort.”
“A long way,” said the monk cheerfully. “And on foot, but a pleasant journey, certes.” “Who are you, my father?” asked Theirry abruptly. “I saw you in Courtrai, surely.”
“I am Ambrose of Menthon,” answered the monk. “And I have preached in Courtrai. To the glory of God.”
Both students knew the name of Saint Ambrose.
Theirry flushed uneasily.
“What do you here, father?” he asked. “I thought you were in Rome.”
“I have returned,” replied the saint humbly. “It came to me that I could serve Christus”— he crossed himself —“better here. If God His angel will it I desire to build a monastery up yonder —— above the snow.”
He pointed through the trees towards the mountains; his eyes, that were blue-grey, the colour of his habit, sparkled softly.
“A house to God His glory,” he murmured. “In the whiteness of the snows. That is my intent.” “How will you attain it, holy sir?” questioned Theirry.
Saint Ambrose did not seem to notice the mocking tone.
“I have,” he said, “already considerable moneys. I beg in the great castles, and they are generous to God His poor servant. We, my brethren and I, have sold some land. I return to them now with much gold. Deo gratias.”
As he spoke there was such a pure sweetness in his fair face that Theirry turned away abashed, but Dirk, lying on his side and pulling up the grass, answered —
“Are you not afraid of robbers, my father?”
The saint smiled.
“Nay; God His money is sacred even unto the evildoer. Surely I fear nothing.”
“There is much wickedness in the heart of man,” said Dirk. And he also smiled.
“Judge with charity,” answered Ambrose of Menthon. “There is also much goodness. You speak, my son, with seeming bitterness which showeth a soul not yet at peace. The wages of the world are worthless, but God giveth immortality.”
He rose and began fastening the saddle bags on the pony; as his back was turned Theirry and Dirk exchanged a quick look.
Dirk rose from the grass and spoke.
“May we, my father, come with you, as we know not the way?”
“Surely!” The saint looked at them, his eyes fixed half yearningly on Theirry’s beautiful face. “Ye are most welcome to my poor company.”
The little procession started through the pine forest; Ambrose of Menthon, erect, spare, walking lightly with untroubled face and leading the white pony, burdened with the saddle bags containing the gold; Theirry, sombre, silent, striding beside him, and Dirk, a little behind, in his flame-coloured mantle, his eyes bright in a weary face.
Saint Ambrose spoke, beautifully, on common things; he spoke of birds, of St. Hieronymus and his writings, of Jovinian and his enemy Ambrose of Milan, of Rufinus and Pelagius the Briton, of Vigilantius and violets, with which flowers, he said, the first court of Paradise was paved.
Dirk answered with a learning, both sacred and profane, that surprised the monk; he knew all these writers, all the fathers of the Church and many others, he quoted from them in different tongues; he knew Pagan philosophies and the history of the old world; he argued theology like a priest and touched on geometry, mathematics, astrology.
“Ye have a vast knowledge,” said Saint Ambrose, amazed; and in his heart Theirry was jealous.
And so they came, towards evening, on to the road and saw in a valley beneath them a little town.
All three halted.
The Angelus was ringing, the sound came sweetly up the valley.
Saint Ambrose sank on his knees and bowed his head; the students fell back among the trees. “Well?” whispered Dirk.
“It is our chance,” frowned Theirry in the same tone. “I have been thinking of it all day —” “I also; there is much money . . . ”
“We could get it without . . . blood?”
“Surely, but if need be even that.”
Their eyes met; in the pleasant green shade they saw each other’s excited faces.
“It is God His money,” murmured Theirry.
“What matter for that, if the Devil be stronger?”
“Hush! the Angelus ends.”
“Now — we join him.”
They sank on their knees, to rise as the saint got to his feet and glanced about him; at the edge of the wood they joined him and looked down at the town below.
“Now we can find our way,” said Dirk in a firm, suddenly changed voice.
Ambrose of Menthon considered him over the little white pony.
“Will you not bear me company into the town?” he asked wistfully; he did not notice that Theirry had slipped behind him.
Dirk’s eyes flashed a signal to his companion. “We will into the town,” he said, “but without thy company, Sir Saint, now!”
Theirry flung his mantle from behind and twisted it tightly over the monk’s head and face, causing him to stagger backwards; Dirk rushed, seized his thin hands, and strapped them together with the leather belt he had just loosened from his waist, and between them they dragged him into the trees.
“My ears are weary of thy tedious talk,” said Theirry viciously, “my eyes of thy sickly face.” They took the straps from the pony and bound their victim to a tree; it was an easy matter, for he made no resistance and no sound came from under the mantle twisted over his face.
“There is much evil in the heart of man,” mocked Dirk. “And much folly, oh, guileless, in the hearts of saints!”
Having seen to it that he was securely fastened the two returned to the pony and examined their plunder.
In one bag there were parchments, books, and a knotted rope, in the other numerous little linen sacks of varying sizes.
These they turned out upon the grass and swiftly unfastened the strings.
Gold — each one filled with gold, fine, shining coins with the head of the Emperor glittering on them.
Dirk retied the sacks and replaced them in the saddle bags; neither of them had seen so much gold together before; because of it they were silent and a little trembling.
Theirry, as he heard the good yellow money chink together, felt his last qualms go; for the first time since he had entered into league with the spirits of evil he had plain evidence it was a fine thing to have the Devil on his side. A stupefying pleasure and exaltation came over him, he did not doubt that Satan had sent this saintly man their way, and he was grateful; to find himself possessed of this amount of money was a greater delight than any he had known, even a more delightful thing than seeing Jacobea of Martzburg lean across the stream towards him.
As they reloaded the pony, managing as best they might without the straps, Dirk fell to laughing.
“I will get my mantle,” said Theirry; he went up to Ambrose of Menthon, telling himself he was not afraid of meeting the saint’s eyes, and unwound the heavy mantle from his head. The saint sank together like the dead.
Dirk still laughed, mounted on the white pony, flourishing a stick.
“The fellow has swooned,” said Theirry, bewildered.
“Well,” answered