And he resumed his course, followed by his escort.
The wolf did not move; his tongue lay on the snow, which was reddened by his blood. Josserande knelt beside him and prayed fervently. For whom?
For her beloved son. Did she already know that the wolf was Sylvestre Ker? Certainly; such a thing could scarcely be divined; but under what form cannot a mother discover her darling child?
She defended the wolf against the peasants, who had returned to strike him with their pitchforks and pikes, as they believed him dead. The two last who came were Pol Bihan and Matheline. Pol Bihan kicked him on the head, and said, "Take that, you fool!" and Matheline threw stones at him, and cried: "Idiot, take that, and that, and that!"
They had hoped for all the gold in the world, and this dead beast could give them nothing more.
After a while two ragged beggars pa.s.sed by and a.s.sisted Josserande in carrying the wolf into the tower. Where is charity most often found?
Among the poor, who are the figures Of Jesus Christ.
X.
Day dawned. A man slept in the bed of Sylvestre Ker, where widow Josserande had laid a wolf. The room still bore the marks of a fire, and snow fell through the hole in the roof. The young tenant"s face was disfigured with blows, and his hair, stiffened with blood, hung in heavy locks. In his feverish sleep he talked, and the name that escaped his lips was Matheline"s. At his bedside the mother watched and prayed.
When Sylvestre Ker awoke he wept, for the thought of his condemnation returned; but the remembrance of Pol and Matheline dried the tears in his burning eyes.
"It was for those two," said he, "that I forgot G.o.d and my mother. I still feel my friend"s heel upon my forehead, and even to the bottom of my heart the shock of the stones thrown at me by my betrothed!"
"Dearest," murmured Josserande, "dearer to me than ever, I know nothing; tell me all."
Sylvestre Ker obeyed, and when he had finished, Josserande kissed him, took up her staff, and proceeded towards the convent of Ruiz to ask, according to her custom, aid and counsel from Gildas the Wise. On the way, men, women, and children looked curiously at her, for throughout the country it was already known that she was the mother of a wolf. Even behind the hedge which enclosed the abbey orchard Matheline and Pol were hidden to see her pa.s.s; and she heard Pol say,--
"Will you come to-night to see the wolf run around?"
"Without fail," replied Matheline; and the sting of her laughter pierced Josserande like a poisonous thorn.
The grand abbot received her, surrounded by great books and dusty ma.n.u.scripts. When she wished to explain her son"s case, he stopped her, and said,--
"Widow of Martin Ker, poor, good woman, since the beginning of the world, Satan, the demon of gold and pride, has worked many such wickednesses. Do you remember the deceased brother, Thael, who is a saint for having resisted the desire of making gold,--he who had the power to do it?"
"Yes," answered Josserande; "and would to heaven my Sylvestre had imitated him!"
"Very well," replied Gildas the Wise. "Instead of sleeping, I pa.s.sed the rest of the night with St. Thael, seeking a means to save your son, Sylvestre Ker."
"And have you found it, father?"
The grand abbot neither answered yes nor no, but he began to turn over a very thick ma.n.u.script filled with pictures; and, while turning the leaves, he said,--
"Life springs from death, according to the divine word; death seizes the living, according to the pagan law of Rome; and it is nearly the same thing in the order of miserable temporal ambition, whose inheritance is a strength, a life, shot forth from a coffin. This is a book of the defunct Thael"s, which treats of the question of maladies caused by the breath of gold,--a deadly poison.... Woman, would you have the courage to strike your wolf a blow on his head powerful enough to break the skull?"
At these words Josserande fell her full length upon the tiles, as if she had been stabbed to the heart; but in the very depth of her agony--for she thought herself dying--she replied,--
"If you should order me to do it, I would."
"You have this great confidence in me, poor woman?" cried Gildas, much moved.
"You are a man of G.o.d," answered Josserande, "and I have faith in G.o.d."
Gildas the Wise prostrated himself on the ground and struck his breast, knowing that he had felt a movement of pride. Then, standing up, he raised Josserande, and kissed the hem of her robe, saying,--
"Woman, I adore you in the most holy faith. Prepare your axe, and sharpen it!"
XI.
In the days of Gildas the Wise, intense silence always reigned at night through the dense oak forest of the Armorican country. One of the most lonely places was Caesar"s camp, the name was given to the huge ma.s.ses of stone that enc.u.mbered the barren heath; and it was the common opinion that the pagan giants, supposed to be buried under them, rose from their graves at midnight and roamed up and down the long avenues, watching for the late pa.s.sers-by, to twist their necks.
This night, however,--the night after Christmas,--many persons could be seen, about eleven o"clock, on the heath before the stones of Carnac, all around the Great Basin or circle, whose irregular outline was clearly visible by moonlight. The enclosure was entirely empty. Outside no one was seen, it is true; but many could be heard gabbling in the shadow of the high rocks, under the shelter of the stumps of oaks, even in the tufts of th.o.r.n.y brambles; and all this a.s.semblage watched for something, and that something was the wolf, Sylvestre Ker. They had come from Plouharnel, and also from Lannelar, from Carnac, from Kercado, even from the old town of Crach, beyond La Trinite.
Who had brought together all these people, young and old, men and women?
The legend does not say; but very probably Matheline had strewn around the cruel pearls of her laughter, and Pol Bihan had not been slow to relate what he had seen after the midnight Ma.s.s.
By some means or other, the entire country around for five or six leagues knew that the son of Martin Ker, the tenant of the abbey, had become a man-wolf, and that he was doomed to expiate his crime in the spot haunted by the phantoms,--the Great Basin of the Pagans, between the tower and the Druid stones.
Many of the watchers had never seen a man-wolf, and there reigned in the crowd, scattered in invisible groups, a fever of curiosity, terror, and impatience; the minutes lengthened as they pa.s.sed, and it seemed as though midnight, stopped on the way, would never come.
There were at that time no clocks in the neighborhood to mark the hour, but the matin-bell of the convent of Ruiz gave notice that the wished-for moment had arrived.
While waiting there was busy conversation: they spoke of the man-wolf, of phantoms, and also of betrothals, for the rumor was spread that the bans of Matheline du Coat-Dor, the promised bride of Sylvestre Ker, with the strong Pol Bihan, who had never found a rival in the wrestling-field, would be published on the following Sunday; and I leave you to imagine how Matheline"s laughter ran in pearly cascades when congratulated on her approaching marriage.
By the road which led up to the tower a shadow slowly descended; it was not the wolf, but a poor woman in mourning, whose head was bent upon her breast, and who held in her hand an object that shone like a mirror, and the brilliant surface of which reflected the moonbeams.
"It is Josserande Ker!" was whispered around the circle, behind the rocks, in the brambles, and under the stumps of the oaks.
""Tis the widow of the armed keeper of the great door!"
""Tis the mother of the wolf, Sylvestre Ker!"
"She also has come to see...."
"But what has she in her hand?"
Twenty voices asked the question. Matheline, who had good eyes, and such beautiful ones, replied,--
"It looks like an axe.... Happy am I to be rid of those two, the mother and son! With them I could never laugh."
But there were two or three good souls who said in low tones,--
"Poor widow! her heart must be full of sorrow."
"But what does she want with that axe?"
"It is to defend her wolf," again replied Matheline, who carried a pitchfork.
Pol Bihan held an enormous hollow stick which resembled a club. Every one was armed either with threshing-flails or rakes or hoes; some even bore scythes, carried upright; for they had not only come to look on, but to make an end of the man-wolf.
Again was heard the chime of the matin-bells of the convent of Ruiz, and immediately a smothered cry ran from group to group,--