Part 67 (1/2)
”Be confident, dear friends and lords; deeper yet was the lance when I saw it. Do not distrust the saint!”
They toiled still longer, until by noting the shortening of the candles on the altar they knew that noon was long past, and the day was speeding. None dared utter his doubts. But at last Count Raymond declared that he could stay no more; it was his turn to go and command the fort before the Gate of St. George. Richard could see the anguish on the face of the great lord of the South.
”What shall I say to the people who are waiting without the church?”
demanded he of Peter Barthelmy; ”they will be plunged in despair when they know we have failed.”
”Ah, Lord Count, do not lose faith in the saint! That were mortal sin!
Can St. Andrew lie?” replied Peter, between the strokes of his mattock.
”St. Andrew cannot lie, but Provencal priests can,” was the Count's menacing retort. ”Think well on your sins, my good clerk. If you have been tempted by the devil to deceive us in this--rest a.s.sured the people will pluck you in pieces.”
”I do not fear,” said Peter, steadily, with the stolid resignation of the peasant born.
”You shall be taught to fear,” muttered the Count; then to the others, ”My Lord Bishop, my other lords, and you good Christians, I say farewell;” and he added bitterly,--”and let G.o.d have mercy upon our souls, for we can hope for nothing more on earth.”
The Count was gone. And then for the first time, like the howling of a distant gale, they heard a raging and roaring around the basilica, creeping in through the thick walls and tiny windows.
”The mult.i.tude grows angry,” muttered Pons de Balazan. ”They have waited long.” Then he went forth, and tried to calm the impatient people, and called in other proper men, to take the places of such of the twelve as had grown weary.
But no man took Richard's place. Not his own life, but the lives of a hundred thousand, shut up in that starving Antioch, hung on their toil. The chance of failure was so frightful, that not even he, whose fingers had learned so well to fight, to whom the life of a man was so small a matter, dared look that future in the face. Had the rest all forsaken, he would have toiled on, spading forth the earth, raising the dark mound higher, ever higher.
And all the company wore grim, set faces now, as they wrestled with their strengthening despair, except Peter Barthelmy and Sebastian. The monk was working with an energy surpa.s.sed only by Richard himself.
Longsword saw that he was still calm, that the light in his usually terrible eyes was even mild; and as the two stood side by side in the trench, Sebastian said to him: ”Why fear, dear son? Are we not in G.o.d's hands? Can He do wrong, or bring His own word to naught?”
The Norman answered with an angry gesture:--
”Truly our sins must be greater than we dreamed, to be punished thus--to be promised deliverance, and have Heaven mock us!”
Sebastian's reply was a finger pointed upward to the painted Christ, just behind the two lamps.
”Be not fearful, O ye of little faith!”
Richard fought back the doubts rising in his soul, and flung all his strength anew into his work.
The noise without the church was louder now. They could hear shouts, curses, threats, rising from a thousand throats.
”Deceiver, the devil has led him to blast us with false hopes!
Impostor, he dreamed nothing! Out with them; out with them all! The whole company is leagued with Satan! Kill the false dreamer first, then yield to Kerbogha; he can only slay us!”
These and fifty more like shouts were ringing fiercely. Presently there was a cras.h.i.+ng and pounding at the gates of the church. ”Open, open! There is no lance! Slay the deceiver!”
Richard turned to the Bishop, who in sheer weariness had ceased chanting. ”_Reverendissime_, the people are getting past control. In a moment they will break in on us and commit violence at the very altar; go and reason with them while there is yet time.”
”Open! open! Death to Peter the Provencal!”
The roaring had swelled to thunders now. The strong iron-bound gates were yielding under the strokes of mace and battle-axe. Richard flung down his spade, and gripped Trenchefer. He would not defend the deceiving priest; but no unruly men-at-arms should touch a hair of Sebastian, if he also was menaced. But just as the portals began to give way, Peter Barthelmy, stripped of girdle and shoes, his hands empty, and only his s.h.i.+rt on his back, leaped into the deep black pit.
Even as the doors flew open, but while the crowd stood awed and hesitant at sight of the dim splendor of the nigh empty church, Raymond of Agiles fell on his knees and prayed loudly:--
”O Lord G.o.d of battles and of mercy, have pity on Thy people. Have mercy! Give us the lance, sure token of victory!”
And the moment his words died away, Peter Barthelmy lifted one hand up from the pit--and in his hand _the rusted head of a lance_!...