Ah, where was our Hubert?
No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the veil, after the fashion of storytellers.
It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes of Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters, beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in loose white robes and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of the sun to scorch. There is a young man who toils amidst those vines and melons—yet already he bears the scars of desperate combats, and trouble and adversity have wrought wrinkles on his brow, and added lines of care to a comely face.
A slave toiling in an Eastern garden—taskmasters set over him with loaded whips—alas! can this be our Hubert?
Indeed it is.
The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The Fleur de Lys had been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three others escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the deep, when a vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out their signals of distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at Antioch duly, whence Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at Walderne (which never arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of the Eastern summer—“when the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; when the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell”—in all this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three surviving members of his party set out to traverse the mountainous districts of Lebanon on their way to Jerusalem.
They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in company with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through the wondrous country beneath “The hill of Hermon” on their road southward. Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the cedars of Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a desperate but unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or taken prisoners. Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made captive, after doing all that valour could do, and bound. He saw his faithful squire lying dead on the field, and the other two survivors of the party which had set out in such high hope from Walderne, captives like himself.
Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them for ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the slave market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert prayed for death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and seeks the happy who cling to life.
An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner, had come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and comely, and Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished. All men bowed before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw that he had become the property of “a prince among his people.”
Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind him—taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the only Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him:
“Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope.”
“Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain.”
Hubert started: the “Old Man of the Mountain”—he had often heard of him, but had thought him only a “bogy,” invented by the credulous amongst the crusaders and pilgrims. He was said to be a Mohammedan prince of intense bigotry, who collected together all the promising boys he could find, whom from early years he trained in habits of self devotion, and, alas! of cruelty; eradicating in them all respect for human life, or sympathy for human suffering. His palace was on the slopes of Lebanon, and was well supplied with Christian slaves from the various markets; and it was said that those who continued obstinate in their faith were, sooner or later, put cruelly to death for the sport of the amiable pupils, to familiarise them with such scenes, and render them callous to suffering.
And when his education was finished, the “Old Man” presented each pupil with a dagger, telling him that it was for the heart of such or such a Christian warrior or statesman, and sent him forth. The deeds of his pupils are but too well recorded in the pages of history {28}.
Into the hands of this worthy man our Hubert had fallen, and even his hopeful temperament—always buoyant under misfortune—could not prevent him from sharing the despondency he had so pitied, and a little despised.
In the evening, they arrived at a caravansary, and there the slaves were told to rest, chained two and two together, and, furthermore, huge bloodhounds stalked about the courtyard, within and without, and if a slave but moved, their watchful growl showed what little chance there was of escape.
Little? Rather, none.
In the morning, up again, and away for the west, until the slopes of the mountains were attained on the third day, and the palace of the “Old Man” soon appeared in sight.
A grand Eastern palace—cupolas, minarets gleaming in the setting sun—terraces, fountains, cloistered arcades, cool and refreshing—gardens wherein grew the vine, the fig, the pomegranate, the melon, the orange, the lemon, and all the fruits of the East—wherein toiled wretched slaves under the watchful eyes of cruel overseers and savage dogs.
When they arrived they were all put to sleep in cells opening upon a courtyard with a tank in the centre. They were supplied with mats for beds, and chained, each one by the ankle, to a staple in the wall. And without the dogs prowled and growled all night.
Poor Hubert!
In the morning the “Old Man” appeared, and the slaves were all assembled to hear his words:
“Come, ye Christians, and hearken unto me, for ye shall hear my words—sweet to the wise, but as goads to the foolish. Ye are my property, bought with my money, and is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own? But there is one God, and Mohammed is His prophet; and to please them is more to me than diamonds of Golconda or rubies of Shiraz.
“Therefore, I make proclamation, that every slave who will embrace the true faith of Islam shall be free, only tarrying here until we be assured of his knowledge of the Koran and steadfastness of purpose, when he shall go forth to the world, his own master, the slave of none but God and His prophet.
“But if there be senseless Jews, or unbelieving Nazarenes, who will not accept the blessing offered them, for six months shall they groan beneath the taskmaster, toiling in the sun; and then, if yet obstinate, they shall die, for the edification and warning of others, and the manner of their death shall be in fit proportion to their deserts.
“Hasty judgment beseemeth not a man. Ere the morrow’s sun arise, let your decision be made.”
The day was given to work in the burning sun, doubtless as a foretaste of what awaited the obstinate Christian. During the day troops of lithe, active boys of all ages from ten to twenty, had pranced about the garden—bright in face, lively and versatile in disposition; but with a certain cruel look about their black eyes and swarthy features which was the result of their system of education.
And they had not been sparing of their remarks about the slaves:
“Fresh food for the stake—fresh work for the torturers.”
“Pooh! They will give way and become good Mussulmen. Bah! Bah! Most of them do, and deprive us of the fun.”
That night Hubert and the young Alphonse of Poitou lay chained side by side.
“What shall you do in the morning, Sir Englishman?” said young Alphonse, after many a sigh.
“God helping us, our course is clear enough—we may not deny our faith.”
“Perhaps you have one to deny,” said the other, with another sigh. “For me, I have never been religious.”
“Nor have I,” said Hubert. “I always laughed at a dear companion who chose the religious life, even while I admired him in my heart. But when it comes to denying one’s faith, and accepting the religion of Mohammed, it seems to me there is no more to be said. I have got at least as much religion as may keep me from that, although I am not a saint.”
“I wish I had; but it is fearful: the toil in the sun, the chains, the silence, the starvation, and then the impalement, the scourging to death, the stake—or whatever else awaits us—at the end of the six months; while all these scoffing youngsters, whose savage mirth we have heard ringing about the place, are taught to exult in one’s sufferings—the bloodthirsty tyrant. But might we not in so hard a case pretend to become Mussulmen, and, as soon as we can escape, seek absolution and reconciliation to the Church?”
“He has said, ‘Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I deny.’ I never read much Scripture, but I remember that the chaplain at Kenilworth, where I once lived as a page, impressed so much as this upon my mind. No; I shall stand firm, and take my chance, God helping me.”
So they awaited the morning. And when it came, they were all marshalled into the presence of the “Old Man of the Mountain.”
“Yesterday you heard the terms, today the choice remains—liberty and the faith of the prophet; slavery and death if you remain obstinate. Those who choose the former, file off to my right hand; those who select the latter, to my left.”
There were some thirty slaves. A moment’s hesitation. Then, at the signal from the guards, about twenty, amongst whom was Alphonse, stalked off to the right. Ten, amongst whom was Hubert, passed to the left.
“Your selection is made. Every moon the same choice will be repeated, until the end of the sixth, when no further grace will be granted; and the death he has chosen awaits the unbeliever.”
From this time the situation of the few who remained faithful became unbearable. They slept in the cells we have described, as best they could, rose at the dawn, and laboured under the guardianship of ferocious dogs and crueler men till the sun set, and darkness put an end to their unremitting toil. Only the briefest intervals were allowed for meals, and the food was barely sufficient to maintain life. Conversation was utterly forbidden, and at night, if the slaves were heard talking, they were visited with stripes.
The cells in which they now slept were single ones. Once only in many days Hubert was able to ask a fellow sufferer:
“What happens in the end?”
“We are impaled on a stake, I believe, after the fashion of the Turcomans; or perhaps burnt alive; or the two may be combined. God help us. Although He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
“God bless you for those words,” replied Hubert.
The merry laughter of boys filled the place at times, between their hours of instruction, for the youngsters had all the European languages to study amongst them, for the ends the founder of this “orphan asylum” had in view. But nothing was done to make them tired of their work, or unfaithful in their attachment to the principles they were to maintain with cup and dagger.
Once or twice slaves disappeared, generally weak and worn-out men.
“Their time is come,” said the others in a terrified whisper.
And on such occasions a few shrieks would sometimes break the silence of a summer day, followed by the derisive laughter of youthful voices. Yet these martyrs might have saved themselves by apostasy at any moment—save, perhaps, at the last, when the appetite of the cruel Mussulmen had been whetted for blood, and must be satiated—yet they would not deny their Lord. Their behaviour was very unlike the conduct of an English officer in the Indian Mutiny, who saved his life readily by becoming a Mussulman, with the intention, of course, of throwing his new creed aside as soon as he was restored to society, and laughed at the folly of those who accepted his profession thereof.
But Hubert, careless of his religious duties as he had been, and almost afraid of appearing religious, could not do this, no more than Martin would have done.
Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in those days.
And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile.