The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two WarsFrederic, Harold
History
The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two Wars
Frederic, Harold
Great Britain -- History -- Wars of the Roses, 1455-1485 -- Fiction; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
The doors of the rood screen hung wide, so that vision swept from the
choir down through the nave and its outer parts, where the simple and
base-born heard the Mass, straight to the great north porch. Here, too,
the doors were open, for daylight streamed therefrom transversely
across the nave. And in this light the amazed monks saw a mired,
blood-stained, bedraggled swarm of armed men struggling fiercely for
entrance before their fellows, and among these some who smote and
felled the others with their swords or battle-axes--amid clamor of
shrieks and violent curses, rising above the ground-note of a deep wild
shouting as from a multitude without, and the furious clash of steel on
steel. The wrath of hell raged here and tore itself before them on the
consecrated floor of heaven.
While yet this spell of bewilderment lay upon the astounded spectators
in the choir, Hugh felt himself clutched by the shoulder and pushed
forward down the steps and into the aisle by a strong though trembling
hand. It was the old Abbot, who in the moment of horror at this
sacrilege forgot his years. Raising himself to his full height, and
snatching the great beryl monstrance from the altar, he hurried now
down the nave at such a pace that the cross-bearer, whom he dragged at
his side, and the wondering monks and choristers who followed, were
fain almost to run if they would not let him reach the porch alone.
The western end of the nave held now a closely-packed mass of
fugitives, with scarce a weapon among them--gilded and blazoned knight
huddled against unkempt billman, lord and varlet jammed together--all
crowding backward in despair from the open porch where, bestriding
corpses on the blood-wet flags, a dozen mailed ruffians with naked
swords and axes bent ferocious, hungry scowls upon them.
Helpless and dazed, as in an evil dream, the boy felt himself thrust
forward into the very front of these war-wolves; and as he stood there,
holding the cross as steadily as might be, within a cloth-yard shaft's
length of their ravening jaws and flame-lit eyes, his foolish knees
knocked together, and he had liked to swoon.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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