"I don't know a word outside what I have just told you. Oh, he'll be all right! Stephen has nine lives, like a cat. He always falls on his feet."

"But it don't seem natural like!"

Osbert laughed. "I suppose it is natural to a woman to have more curiosity than a man. I never had much of that stuff. Anania's got enough for both."

"Well, I'm free to confess she has. Osbert, how do you manage her? I can't."

"Let her alone as long as I can, and take the mop to her when I can't,"

was the answer.

"I should think the mop isn't often out of your hand," observed Haimet with painful candour.

"It wears out by times," returned Osbert drily.

Note 1. "Into the worlds of worlds" is the Primer's translation of "_in saecula saeculorum_."

Note 2. That witchcraft is no fable, but a real sin, which men have committed in past times, and may commit again, is certain from Holy Scripture. But undoubtedly, in the Middle Ages, numbers of persons suffered under accusation of this crime who were entirely innocent: and the so-called "white witches" were in reality mere herbalists and dealers in foolish but harmless charms, often consisting in a kind of nursery rhyme and a few Biblical words.

Note 3. The wrong of cruelty to men and women, as such, whether they were Christians or not, had not dawned on men's minds in the twelfth century, nor did it till the Reformation. But much pity was often expressed for the sufferings of "Christian blood," and a very few persons had some compa.s.sion for animals.

CHAPTER TEN.

BARRIERS IN THE WAY.

"Christ is my readiness: who lives in Him Can scarcely be unready."

S.W. Partridge.

A little way out of Dorchester, surrounded by pollard willow trees, and on a narrow slip of ground which sloped down towards the river, stood a tiny mud hut, the inhabitants of which lived in great misery even for that time. One small chamber, with a smaller lean-to, const.i.tuted the whole dwelling. As to furniture, a modern eye, glancing round, would have said there was none. There was a bundle of rags, covering a heap of straw, in one corner; and in another was a broken bench, which with a little contrivance might have seated three persons of accommodating tempers. A hole in the roof let out the smoke--when it chose to go; and let in the rain and snow, which generally chose to come. On a niche in the wall stood a single pan, an axe, and a battered tin bowl, which comprised all the family riches. The axe was the tool which obtained bread--and very little of it; the pan did all the cooking; the bowl served for pail, jug, and drinking-vessel. An iron socket let into the wall held a piece of half-burnt pinewood, which was lamp and candle to the whole house. A handful of chips of wood, branches, and dried leaves, in one corner, represented the fuel; and a heap of snow underneath the hole showed that its influence was not potent.

On the heap of rags, five persons were lying, huddled close together for warmth's sake--father, mother, and three children. How had they come into such a condition as this? Ah, they had not always lived thus.

Only a few years ago, this man had been a prosperous silversmith at Reading; his wife had been well dressed, his children well fed, his acquaintance large, and himself generally respected. How had it come about that they were now in this pitiable condition? Had the man been idle and neglectful of his business? By no means; he had been diligent and hard-working. Was he a drunken profligate? Not at all; he was, for the age, unusually sober. Had he committed some terrible crime which had brought him to ruin?

The only true answer seems scarcely possible: and yet the only answer possible is awfully true. The man was born a Jew, and had become a Christian. It was only natural that this should turn the Jewish community against him; and all his acquaintances deserted him as a matter of course. But surely this very fact should have made the Christian community more friendly and helpful! Alas, the Christian community, in bondage to the iron yoke of Rome, hated him more as a Jew than they welcomed him as a Christian. Rome has always been the hater and opponent of Israel. The law of England at that time was actually this: that if a Jew became converted to Christianity, he forfeited everything he possessed to the Crown, and had to begin the world again.

This had been the lot of poor David ben Mossi, and his wife Ruth, whose conversion had taken place under Gerhardt's preaching. They were too honest to hide the change in their convictions, though to reveal it meant worldly ruin. They applied for baptism, and by so doing literally gave up all for Christ--home, goods, gain, and occupation, not to speak of friends. David obtained work as a woodcutter, which brought them in just enough to keep life in them and rags about them; and he built with his own hands, aided by his faithful Ruth, the mud hovel, wherein they found the only shelter that this cold world had for them. They had left Reading, preferring solitude to averted looks and abusive tongues; and not a creature in Dorchester came near them. Alike as Jews and as poor people, they were not worth cultivating.

David had retained his name, being one used also by Christians; but Ruth had been required to change hers. She had chosen the name of Christian, as the most truthful and expressive that she could take.

"And I like to feel," she said to David, "that I have something of our blessed Lord in my name."

"Let us keep Him in our hearts, Wife," was the answer: "then it will not much matter whether or no we have Him any where else."

It was bitterly cold in the hovel that snowy night. The children had cried themselves to sleep, and the parents felt as if they could easily have done the same. The lights were out at Dorchester, and all nature had settled down to rest, when Christian, who could not sleep for the cold, fancied she heard a voice outside the hut.

"David!" it seemed to say.

But the voice, if voice there were, was faint, and Christian did not like to rouse the husband who had lost his suffering in sleep, for what might have been a mere fancy. The voice spoke again.

"Ruth!" it said this time.

Christian hesitated no longer.

"David! There is one without, calling on us. And it must be one we knew of old, for it calls me by my old name. Pray thee, get up, and let the poor soul in; 'tis not a night for a dog to tarry without, never speak of a human creature, who must be in some trouble."

David sat up and listened.

"I hear nothing, Wife. I think thou must have been dreaming."

"Nay, I have been wide awake this hour gone. I am sure some one spoke."

"I think it's fancy, Christian. However--"

"There's no harm in making sure."

"There's the harm of letting in a lot of snow," said David, not suiting the action to the word, for he had risen and was pulling on his hose.

They required careful pulling, as they were so nearly in pieces that very little rough handling would have damaged them past repair. He was fastening the last clasp when the voice spoke again. It was nearer now, close at the door, and it was low and trembling, as if the applicant had hard work to speak at all.

"For the love of the Crucified," it said, "take in a Christian child!"

David's response was to open the door instantly.

Something at once staggered in, and sank down on the bench:--something which looked at first sight more like a statue of white marble than a human being, so thick lay the snow over the wrappers which enfolded it.

But when David had succeeded in unfolding the wrappers, and brushing off the snow, they discovered that their visitor was a woman, and that in her arms a child lay clasped, either dead or sleeping.

The moment that Christian perceived so much as this, she hastily rose, throwing her poor mantle over her, and drew near to the stranger.

"Poor soul, you're heartily welcome," she said, "whoever you are. We have little beside a roof to offer you, for we have scarcely food or raiment ourselves, nor money to buy either; but such as we have we will give you with all our hearts."

"May the Blessed bless you!" was the faint answer. "Don't you know me, Ruth?"

"Know you!" Christian studied the face of her unexpected guest. "Nay, I do almost believe--Countess! Is it you?"

"Ay."

"Whatever has brought you to this? The richest Jewess in Reading! Have you, too, become a Christian like us?"

Countess did not give a direct answer to that direct question.

"I am not poor now," she said. "I can find you money for food for us all, if you will suffer me to stay here till the storm has abated, and the roads can be travelled again."

"That won't be this s'ennight," interjected David.

"But how--what?" queried Christian helplessly.