Three Days of Sanctuary [pp. 311-324]

THREE D AYS OF SANCTUARY.
of his sword, drew it half forth, let it fall
back again with a clash, and haughtily
departed. There was a corner of the
cathedral, near the altar-steps, which
was so environed with pillars and cumbrous moldings that it was dark when
all else was light. Thither he retreated, unable to endure the inspection any
longer.
His wound pained him. The rudely
dissevered bandage had dragged the
flesh apart; and the open sword - cut,
clotted with blood, began to fester. He
could not close it again, or even wrap
the bandage around with tolerable skill.
With a curse, he flung the sash away;
and, as the cold currents of air circled
around and touched the flesh, the sharp,
shooting pains increased, until, little by
little, they extended from limb to limb,
and, at last, every part of his body thrilled with anguish. He had eaten or drank
nothing since the afternoon before, but
this alone would not have discomforted
him. His wound, in leading to fever,
had produced an intolerable thirst, and,
at last, he sank down helpless.
It was not sleep he felt, for all the
time he had a dim consciousness of his
situation. He lay prostrate in the corner, at times finding strange, horrible
images chasing themselves through his
brain. Yet all the while he dimly saw
the groined arches spanning the roof
above his head, the grinning corbel ornaments gazing down upon him, and
faintly heard the echoes, as one person
after another entered or departed.
The shadows of evening had already
closed around, the lights shone out from
the silver-smith's little shop on the other
side, and the last worshipers had left the
cathedral. The great folding-door was
not yet closed, and the hum of voices in
the street was very tempting to the imprisoned man. It made him the more
deeply sigh for freedom, and he wondered whether he might not glide forth into
the open air, unperceived. He slowly
and cautiously dragged himself along
toward the door. The way seemed clear
of enemies, and, with a heart full of hope,
he took a step into the street. At the
same moment, a single figure started
forth from a neighboring buttress, with
dagger drawn. At a whistle, others
emerged from retired corners, and the
fugitive beheld eight sturdy, armed men,
prepared to dispute his flight. Baffled
in his attempt, Hugh Martelle re-entered the building, which never appeared
so gloomy as after that faint touch of the
soft evening air.
He saw a man sitting outside the rail
at the altar. How he had come there
Hugh Martelle did not know, for he had
not seen any stranger enter; but that he
was not a devotee, nor yet an officer of
the cathedral, was evident, for the man
was clothed in coarse, torn garments,
and held a stout club at his side, as
though it were a tried companion. He
thought the man had been secretly dispatched to slay him, regardless of the
Church's sanctity, but at the first word
his fears vanished.
"Ho, comrade!" said the man, leaning leisurely upon his club and looking
him in the eye. "Have you come out
to take me? Whatever I may have done,
I am poor game for cavaliers, such as
you are, to seek. No, no; you have
come hither on no such errand, for you
are unarmed, I see, and no man ever
yet dared try to capture me single-handed. Why, man, where is your sword?
Birds of such fine feathers should have
their pretty fighting toys, I think."
There was something offensive in this
familiarity; and Hugh Martelle was uncertain whether it would be becoming
in him to answer. But there was something so very pleasant in the sound of a
friendly human voice, that he determined
to waive his rank, and condescend to
partial intimacy. None the less, perhaps, as he reflected that the huge, rough
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