by David Ker
CHAPTER XXXIII
The Last Sunset
It was the fourth of July, 1380, and the sun was shining bright andwarm on the craggy hills, and dark thickets, and quaint little hamletsof Western Auvergne, when four horseman (two of whom wore the goldspurs of knights) came at a brisk pace to a point where three roadsmet, and paused as if in doubt which to take.
"Methinks we cannot be far from the place now, brother Hugo," saidAlured de Claremont; "but how shall we tell which of these roads leadsto it? I see no one of whom to ask our way."
"Stay!" cried Hugo, rising in his stirrups, "meseems I spy a man atwork in yon trench. What ho! good fellow! which of these ways leadethto Chateau-Neuf de Randon?"
"Fair sirs," said the peasant, coming up to them and bowing low, "themidmost road is your way, and ye have scarce three leagues to ride; butknow ye not that the town is sieged by the armies of France, and thatnone may enter?"
"We go not to the town, but to the camp," said Hugo; "men say we shallthere find our old and tried friend, Messire Bertrand du Guesclin."
"Be ye friends of Messire Bertrand?" cried the man, with a sudden glowon his hard face; "nay, then, may God bless ye every one, whoever yebe. But, alack! noble sirs, ye will find him in ill case; for hissickness gaineth on him day by day, and----"
"Sickness, say'st thou?" cried both brothers in dismay. "What ails him?"
Ere the man could reply, he started suddenly, straining his eyes pastthe group as if watching some coming figure, and then threw himself onhis face in the dust. The wondering knights turned and saw that he hadprostrated himself before an old man in the garb of a monk, whosethrown-back cowl fully revealed his face.
The hair that framed that face had turned snow-white since Alured sawit last, but the face itself still wore the same look of calm and holysweetness; and the knight knew it as the monk knew him.
"Give me thy blessing, holy father," said he, leaping from his horse;"I little hoped for such good hap as to see Brother Michael once more."
"May God keep thee in all thy ways, my son," replied the pilgrim-monk,laying his thin, trembling hand gently on the knight's bowed head; "andthanks be to Him that the blessing which awaited thee in southern landshath found thee at last."
"It hath indeed, father, and good cause have I to be thankful for it.But thou art weary; mount my steed, and I will lead him."
"I thank ye, my children," said the old man faintly, as Alured and Hugolifted him into the saddle, "and if ye go to the camp, I shall be rightglad of your aid, for in truth I am weary, and it hath been revealed tome that there is a dying man there who needeth my ministry."
The brothers exchanged looks, and each saw in the other's face thesudden terror that darkened his own.
"Who is this dying man of whom thou speak'st, father?" ask Alured, witha hesitation that told how he dreaded the possible answer.
"I know not, my son; this only do I know, that he hath need of me.Mount before me, and let us on quickly."
But hardly had they gone half a mile, when there was a clatter of hoofsbehind them, and a sturdy Breton man-at-arms, evidently returning froma scouting expedition, came dashing up to them.
"What ho! fair sirs," he called out, "have ye seen, I pray, any Englishsoldiers marching this way?"
Hugo had just time to reply that they had not, when the soldier,catching sight of Brother Michael's face, bowed low, and criedjoyfully--
"Thank God you are here, father; you will save our Bertrand for us."
"It is for God to save him, my son, not for me," said the monk, thegrand calm of whose face was ruffled by a sudden quiver, like the fallof a stone into a deep, still pool. "Doth his sickness, then, continueto gain on him?"
"So sorely, father," said the rough spearman, with a tell-tale tremorin his deep voice, "that--the--physicians--say----"
Here the brave man fairly broke down.
"Let us press on, my sons," cried Michael; "we have no time to lose."
Nor had they, in truth, if they had known all.
The English garrison of the town had stoutly resisted Du Guesclin'sattacks, hoping to hold it till they were relieved. But of this therewas little hope (the English having now been driven fairly out of thecentral provinces of France by Du Guesclin and his comrade, DeClisson), and at last the English commandant agreed to surrender if notrelieved within six days. But during this interval Bertrand's illnessgained on him so rapidly that it was doubtful if he would live towitness the triumph he had won.
The sixth evening was fast fading into night, when Du Guesclin (whosecouch had been brought into the open air at his own request) was seento lift his head as if listening intently, and then he said faintly tothose around--
"Raise me up, friends; here cometh one with whom I must speak."
Sure enough, a few moments later (to the amazement of all present)appeared in the distance Alured de Claremont and Brother Michael, thegallant steed that bore them having kept ahead of the rest, despite itsdouble burden. Hugo and the attendants followed, while Alured, leapingdown and aiding the monk to dismount, took the dying man's hand, andsaid in a tone of bitter grief--
"Bertrand du Guesclin! is it thus we meet again?"
"It was time," replied Bertrand, with unconscious pathos; "the toilhath been long and hard, and I would fain rest. Welcome, good BrotherMichael; thou wert my best friend when I began life, and meet it isthou shouldst be with me when I leave it. Welcome, noble Sir Hugo; Ihave lived long enough, since I have lived to see ye two together oncemore."
"Captain, dost thou talk of dying?" cried the Breton man-at-arms besideHugo, clenching his hands in desperation. "What is to become of uswithout thee? The world would be empty wert thou gone! Wilt thou, whomno foe ever matched, let thyself be borne down by a paltry sickness?"
"Good Thomelin," said Bertrand, with a faint smile, "there is achampion named Death, whom none can resist, for he is sent by God. Northink that all will be nought for this land when I am gone; for I know(though I cannot tell how) that, after my death, God shall raise ye upanother and a greater champion, who shall free the land from its foes,once and for ever. Now, holy father, lend thine ear to what I have tosay."
What he said was heard by none but the monk himself; but as BrotherMichael laid his thin hand in blessing on the dying warrior's head, theold man's face was lighted up all at once with a smile so bright andjoyous, that he seemed already transfigured by the glory which is notof this world. Then his head was seen to droop, and, without a word, hesank forward till his face rested on Bertrand's knee.
They sprang to raise him, but too late; the aged monk was dead!
"He goes before me as my guide," said Du Guesclin, solemnly, "and greathonour it is for a sinner like me to pass through the gate of deathwith the holiest man in France. Sir Alured, give me thy hand once more,and the blessing of a dying man go with thee. Farewell, comrades! loveone another, and serve truly our lord the king; and in whatever land yemake war, bear in mind that the servants of the holy church are sacredto you, and see that ye be good and gentle to all women and children,and show great mercy to the poor!"
As the noble words were spoken, the last gleam of sunset faded from thedarkening sky, and the sun of that glorious life went down along withit.
Then, amid the gloomy silence that followed, a trumpet-blast cameechoing from the besieged town. Presently a growing stir was apparentin the French camp, and all stood to their arms, supposing the Englishto be making a sally.
But it was not so. A few moments later the ranked men-at-arms fell backto right and left as if making way for some one, and through the hushedcamp came, with drooping banners and down-turned lances, the gallantEnglish commandant and his knights, to give up the keys of the fortressto him against whom even the stubborn valour of England had striven invain.
But when the brave Englishman saw what had come to pass, he broke fromthe ranks, and, kneeling by the dead man's side, laid the keys of thetown that he had defended
so well in the cold hand that would nevermove again, and said, in a burst of honest, manly sorrow--
"Would to God I lay there in thy stead, noble Du Guesclin! for ifEngland hath gained by thy death, all Christendom hath lost by it. Thouhast done thy work, and gone to thy rest; but thy work shall live afterthee, and endure for ever and ever!"
He spoke truly. The work that Bertrand had so well begun was completedby Joan of Arc half a century later; and France's awakened spirit madegood her independence once and for ever.
Nor did her great champion lack his reward. Though his native tower hasperished stock and stone, though his domains have passed to strangers,though his very dust was torn from the grave by a senseless mob in thefury of the French Revolution, his name will endure while the worldlasts, crowned not only with the fame due to one who gave his life tosave his oppressed country from her foes, but with the far higher gloryof "the good and gentle knight that cared for the poor."
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