All the folk of St. Aliquis are Christians. Nobody, far and wide, except a few Jews in Pontdebois, openly dissents from the Catholic religion, denies the validity of the creeds, or refuses a certain outward conformity to the Church practices. The age is not greatly interested in improving the general moral and social condition of the common people. The common people even are not always interested in this themselves. Each peasant prays for "just treatment" and for good luck. Otherwise, castle and village alike accept as a kind of natural law the immutability of society. God has established the various orders and gradations. All that one can ask is that each man shall accept the condition assigned to him and live in it efficiently and happily.

Conon, like every other knight, has no temptation to unbelief. The doctors of the Church know all about religion, just as the king's falconers know all about hawking. It is sensible to trust the expert. If you ask idle questions, you merely risk your soul, as do the followers of Mahound, the false prophet. The baron frequently denounces the arrogance and covetousness of the clergy and resists their pretentions, but he nevertheless trusts them to supply him with the Sacraments and bless his death and burial so that his soul may pass promptly through purgatory into paradise—where existence presumably is one grand admixture of a marriage feast in a fine garden and of a magnificent tournament. Plenty of knights are lax and blasphemous, but they hardly are deliberately unbelieving.[84] Good knights ought to hear mass every morning; venerate holy objects and places; hate Jews and Saracens; worship the Virgin and the saints; also keep most of the major fasts and other special occasions of the Church. Conon does all these things. He is "a good Christian." But he is exempted from any serious thinking for himself upon mysterious matters.

When Conon prays in the morning, if not hurried he lies down with his head turned toward the east, and his arms stretched out like a cross. He recites the favors which God has shown him in the past, beseeches Heaven to continue favorable. Often he adds a Credo and a certain paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer then very common—"Our Father, who desirest that we all be saved, grant that we acquire Thy love even as have the angels who do thy pleasure on high; and give us our daily bread—for the soul the Holy Sacrament, and for the body its needful sustenance." Yet if his mood is not unusually humble and contrite, he is likely to conclude patronizingly, "And I confide also in the strength of my heart, which thou hast bestowed, in my good sword and my fleet horse, yet especially in Thee!"

Many a cavalier breaks into blasphemies when things go wrong. Such men are like William Rufus of England, who cried, "God shall never see me a good man—I have suffered too much at His hands!" Or Henry II, who, on learning that his son Henry had revolted, cried aloud, "Since Thou, O God, hast taken away from me that which I prized the most, Thou shalt not have what Thou prizest most in me—my soul." And even Conon, once when hard beset, had exclaimed, like a certain crusading lord: "What king, O Lord, ever deserted thus his men? Who now will trust in or fight for thee?"

Nevertheless, one should deal mercifully with such sinful words, for, after all, is not the world very evil and the temptation to rail at God extremely great? It is true that things are not as they were in the year A.D. 1000, when even the wisest felt very sure the Last Day was at hand. Eclipses, comets and famines had then seemed foreshadowing this. People crowded the churches in agony, expecting to hear the Seven Trumpets announce Antichrist. Repeatedly since then, when the years have been calamitous, monks and old wives have stirred multitudes by vehement predictions that the plagues of the Apocalypse and the other preliminaries to the millennium are not to be delayed. As late as A.D. 1200 the monk Rigord, at the abbey of St. Denis, wrote: "The world is ill; it grows so old that it relapses into infancy. Common report has it that Antichrist has been born at Babylon and that the Day of Judgement is nigh."

Fears like this restrain even reckless seigneurs and sodden peasants from proceeding to inconceivable crimes. The agonies of the damned will be so dreadful! The preachers understand very well that it is of little use to try to restrain the wicked by talking of "the love and mercy of God." If King Philip had only used love and mercy upon his vassals he would be now a king without a kingdom. It is the dread of the eternal burning which apparently keeps a large part of all Christendom tolerably obedient to the more essential mandates of morality and of the Church.

When a great criminal deliberately defies the Church there is a ceremony which makes even the righteous inquire as to their own salvation. A few months ago a certain impious baron robbed a parish church of a chalice. Instantly at Pontdebois the bishop took action. The great bell of the cathedral tolled as for a funeral; and such it was, though of the soul, far more precious than merely the body. The bishop appeared in the chancel with all his clergy. Each cleric held a lighted candle. The building was hung with black tapestry. Amid a terrible hush the bishop announced the name of the offending knight to the crowded nave, then proclaimed in loud voice: "Let him be cursed in the city and cursed in the field; cursed in his granery, his harvest, and his children; as Dathan and Abiram were swallowed up by the gaping earth, so may hell swallow him; and even as to-day we quench these torches in our hands, so may the light of his life be quenched for all eternity, unless he do repent!" Whereat all the priests dashed their torches to the pavement and trampled them out. One could almost see that sacrilegious baron writhing in the flames of Gehenna.

After a scene like this there is no reinstatement for the sinner save by some great act of penance and mortification. An excommunicated person is next door to an outlaw. He may find sundry companions in crime, but most people will shun him as they would a leper. This particular baron, after vain boasts and defiance, at last was so conscience-torn and forsaken that he made an abject peace with the bishop. First, he gave ruinously costly gifts to the cathedral; then he presented himself barefoot and in the robe of a pilgrim at the chancel. He prostrated himself and for a day and a night remained in prayer before the high altar, eating and drinking nothing. After that he knelt again while some three-score clerics and monks present each smote him with a rod, he crying aloud, "Just are Thy judgments, O Lord!" after every blow. Not till all this was accomplished did the bishop raise him, pronounce the absolution, and give him the kiss of peace. It was very dreadful.[85]

For lesser offenses against the Church there are lesser but effective penalties. In Pontdebois there was once a religious procession in Lent. A certain woman marched therein with pretended devoutness, but then went home and in defiance of the fast-time dined upon some mutton and ham. The odor escaped into the street. The woman was seized, and the bishop condemned her to walk through the town with her quarter of mutton on the spit over her shoulder, the ham slung round her neck, and with a ribald crowd, of course, trailing behind. After that penance the fasts were well kept in Pontdebois.

Yet one must not think of the religion of this Feudal Age as in general sad. On the contrary (by one of those abrupt contrasts now grown familiar) clergy and people get vast joy, not to say amusement, even out of the sacred ordinances. "Men go gayly along the road to salvation." For example, the great pilgrimages (pardons) are often festive reunions with merchants chaffering and jongleurs playing or doing their tricks while the whole company proceeds to some shrine.

Even in the church building solemnity is not always maintained. The choir, indeed, belongs pretty strictly to worship, but in the nave all sorts of secular proceedings can go on, even the meetings of malcontent factions and of rioters. The church bells ring for markets, for musters, or for peaceful gatherings almost as often as they ring for the holy services. As for the sacred festivals, good bishops complain that they are so numerous that the secular element intrudes utterly, and disfigures them with idleness and carousing. The peasants may go to early mass; after that they will drink, chatter, sing, dance (in a very riotous fashion), and join in wrestlings, races, and archery contests until nightfall.

Besides these ordinary abuses of holy things, every parish seems to have its own special Reign of Folly, although the name of the celebration varies from place to place. Even the younger clergy participate in such mock ceremonies. In Pontdebois the subdeacons elect a Pope of Buffoons, give him a silver tiara, and enthrone him with much dignity, electing at the same time several "cardinals" to help direct his revels. There are noisy processions, cavalcades, and even scandalous parodies of some of the most sacred services of the Church. The mock pope issues "bulls" enjoining all kinds of horseplay, and actually strikes a kind of lead money with such legends as "Live merrily and rejoice," or, "Fools are sometimes wise." It seems next to impossible to confine such proceedings to the streets, the market place and the church porch, although decent bishops fight against intrusions into the holy building. The canons of the cathedral have finally induced the junior clergy and the lay rabble to refrain from the more extreme parodies and from such pranks as stealing the church bells by giving the "Pope" and all his noisy rout a grand dinner. Pious churchmen groan on such days, but they comfort themselves by saying that these proceedings make religion popular and give an outlet for "the flesh," which if restrained too much, will succumb before even worse temptations of the devil.

In St. Aliquis village the parish priest actually participates in a ceremony equally calculated to astonish another age. On a certain Sunday the folk celebrate the virtues of the ass which bore our Lord and the Holy Virgin when St. Joseph fled with them into Egypt. The peasants take the best ass in the neighborhood, caparison it gayly, and lead it through the streets to the church, all the children running along, waving flower wands and shouting, with the older folk almost equally demonstrative. At the holy portal the priest meets them and announces in Latin "This is a day of mirth. Let all sour lookers get themselves hence. Away with envy! Those who celebrate the Festival of the Ass desire jollity!"

Then the ass is led straight up into the chancel and tethered to the altar rail. A solemn Prose, half Latin, half French, is chanted, setting forth the virtues of the faithful, stolid beast which enabled our Lord to escape the wicked Herod. Ever and anon the cantor stops and all the crowded church rings with the refrain, "He! haw! sire ass—he! haw!" everybody trying to pull down his nose and bray as lustily as possible. Finally, when the ass has been led decorously back to his stall, the choristers, with many friends, indulge in a bountiful repast. This Festival of the Ass is celebrated in very many French cities and villages.

One must also comprehend that certain saints are the particular patrons of given regions. St. Martin is a potent saint through all France, but St. Denis is the especial guardian of the royal domains; St. Nicholas of Lorraine, St. Andre of Burgundy, and of course St. George of England. St. Michael, too, may assist French knights sooner than he will foreigners. There are also many local saints of incalculable sacredness in their own small regions, yet hardly heard of elsewhere. Thus, if you travel very far, you are likely to lose all trace of good St. Aliquis, and, indeed, peevish visitors have suggested that he has never been canonized at Rome or properly accepted by the Catholic Church. For all that, he is venerated locally, perhaps with greater fervor than any other holy one, saving always our Blessed Lady herself.

There is no saint with whom it is possible to compare the Virgin. She is the "Lady of Heaven," the "Queen of the Holy City," the "Dame dÉbonnaire." God the Father and God the Son seem perhaps to be inaccessible celestial emperors, but the Holy Virgin, who understands the needs of toiling men, will transmit their pleas and exert her vast influence in their behalf. Therefore, on her statues she is dressed like a feudal queen with rich stuffs, a crown glittering with jewels, and she bears a royal scepter and an orb of the world. All the saints are her vassals and do her liege homage.

There is another set of joyous celebrations legitimate and uplifting. At Christmas time, on NoËl eve the good folk will install a heifer, an ox, and an ass in the parish church "to warm the holy babe with their breath." Torches are lighted everywhere and fires are lit upon the hills. Groups of people march about dressed like shepherds bound for the Christchild's manger and led by pipes and viols, while all sing joyously:

Then in the church are sung long responses, telling the story of Christmas in the vernacular and interspersed with comments by the animals in Latin, because (as says the hymn)

So the cock crows out his satisfaction, the goat bleats, the calf bellows, the ox lows, the ass brays. It is all done simply, reverently, and for the benefit of simple, loving souls.

In Pontdebois, however, they have a more elaborate performance. Twelve clerks, representing six Jews and six pagans, present themselves in the cathedral choir, declaring they wish to examine the evidence that the babe newly born is truly the Redeemer. Whereat appear in stately sequence all the prophets who have forewarned the coming of Christ, besides Moses with his horn, Balaam with his ass, the three Hebrew children of the fiery furnace, the pagan sybils, and the twelve apostles. Each responds with canticles in sonorous Latin, until the twelve doubters declare themselves satisfied and fall down to worship the Infant King.

At Easter there are other mystery plays telling the story of the divine Passion and of the Resurrection; and still others come at intervals through the year. Some of the participants are priests, but many others laymen, both men and women.[86] All the more important episodes in the Bible are acted out with considerable detail and with much comedy interspersed. The crowds howl with glee when Ananias, like a shrewd Jew, chaffers for the sale of his field, or when hideous devils leap up from hell to seize Herodias's daughter the instant she has accomplished her wicked will with John the Baptist. There is no attempt to represent ancient times. Herod is dressed like a feudal duke, and before him is carried a crucifix. The numerous devils are always black; the angels wear blue, red, and white; "God" appears wearing a papal tiara; and the "souls of the dead" appear covered with veils—white for the saved, red or black for the damned. It is a source of great delight for the people to take part in these plays, and even the great folk are not above joining in them. One need not comment on how completely such proceedings impress the imaginations of the unlearned with the stories of the Old and New Testaments. The Bible can be read only by the few, but an essential part of it is seen and reasonably comprehended by the many.

So much for ordinary religious beliefs and occasions. But there are plenty of people who find their sins are so terrible that they must resort to some great penances, often consuming the remainder of their lives, in order to propitiate Heaven. Besides the monks and the nuns dwelling in convents, there exist a great many hermits and "religious solitaries," who abide in little huts in the woods, perhaps maintaining a tiny chapel for travelers, and being fed on the offerings of forest rangers and peasants. Not all these hermits live, however, in genuine solitude. Right in St. Aliquis village there is something everywhere common—a female recluse.

Many years ago, a certain peasant woman, Elise, murdered her husband. She was promptly condemned to the gallows, but Baron Garnier, with unusual mercy, pardoned her on condition "that she be shut up within a small house in the cemetery, that she might there do penance and so end her days." A stone hut was accordingly built, and the unhappy woman conducted thither with a regular procession, two priests blessing the hut and giving Elise a kind of consecration. She was put inside. Every aperture was then built up except a narrow chink to admit air, a little light, and a small dole of food from her relatives.

Elise has been vegetating in this hut for now twenty years—living in filth and darkness, but talking most piously to visitors standing outside. Seemingly, she does little except to mutter almost incessant prayers. Already her crime is forgotten. The peasants speak of her as "that holy woman" and even wonder whether, after she dies in her cell—for she will never leave it—she cannot be enrolled among the saints. There are many other much more innocent recluses, male and female, who have been walled up voluntarily—either out of piety or of sheer love of idleness, possibly because of both.

Nevertheless, ordinarily the best way to discharge the load of a guilty conscience is by pilgrimage. Confessors often impose this means of penance upon penitents, as the best way of winning the divine mercy. Since death is about the only judicial penalty for great crimes, a penance of pilgrimage for six, ten, or twelve years—going from shrine to shrine all over Christendom—is really a substitute for a term of imprisonment. Pilgrims of this pronounced type are required to go barefoot, with head shaved, to quit their families and wives, and to fast continually—that is, never to touch meat more than once a day.

Even exalted nobles thus spend the remainder of a lifetime expiating their iniquities. Everyone has heard of Count Fulk the Black of Anjou, who heaped up misdeeds even to the murdering of his wife. Then at last he realized the awful peril to his soul. Three times he made the long pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the third time letting himself be dragged upon a hurdle through the streets of the Sacred City, while two varlets smote him with whips.

Such great criminals often carry passports issued by bishops, certifying that they are expiating by pilgrimage specified evil deeds—and requesting Christian folk to give them lodging, food, and assistance. These penitents, if knights, are likely to wear chains upon their wrists and neck, forged of their own armor, as witnesses at once of their social position and their genuine repentance.

Most pilgrims, however, have no such fearful things weighing down their souls. They are simply ordinary erring men who are moved by a genuine piety, possibly admixed with a willingness to find excuse for "seeing the world." Every day they appear at the gate of St. Aliquis castle to ask a share in the supper and a bed on the rushes in the hall, and they are respectfully treated, although Conon sometimes complains that their trailing robes of brown wool, heavy staffs, and sacks slung at belt are merely the disguises for so many wandering rogues. Unwashed and unkempt though many of them are, it never does to repulse them, lest you lose the Scriptural blessing for those who received strangers and so "have entertained angels unawares."

Pilgrims, too, are good newsmongers. They supply you with tidings from Italy, Germany, Spain, or even the Holy Land. They will carry letters also to foreign parts and transmit verbal messages to kinsmen. They do not always travel alone, but by twos, fives, or even tens. Recently at Dunkirk, where the peasants revolted, the bishop laid upon twenty-five of their leaders the penance that they should spend a year going about in a body to different holy places and joining in religious processions "in twenty-six churches," wearing no clothing save their trousers, going barefoot, and carrying the rods with which they had been disciplined.

Innumerable are the shrines where sinners can profit their souls by a visit. Every important abbey claims to be a pilgrimage resort, and the monks will tell of remarkable miracles wrought by all the saints whose relics they chance to treasure. Probably there are more than a thousand such places whose claims have been somewhat recognized by the Church. Many of these shrines have some famous image of the Madonna, frequently brought from the East by Crusaders, but often very old and, to carnal thinking, ugly, perhaps only a "black virgin," a clumsy doll carved of wood. This matters not, provided it is holy and efficacious. "Our Lady of the Fountain" at Samour, "Our Lady of the Osier" near Grenoble, "Our Lady of Good Hope" at Valenciennes, Our Lady of Chartres, of Liesse, of Rocamadour, of Auray, of Puy—these are merely examples.

The greater the distance the pilgrim must go, the greater his merit ordinarily. Happy the pilgrim who can venerate the bones of an actual apostle, as at Rome. Happiest of all is he who can go to Jerusalem and pray at the Holy Sepulcher. Nevertheless, God has provided very efficacious shrines nearer home. Right at Paris there are the seats of St. GÉnevieve and the great St. Denis. You can pay your devout homage at Tours to the puissant St. Martin, the ideal of pious warriors. In Normandy, where Mont St. Michel looks across the sands to the tumbling ocean, one can pray best to the mighty archangel nearest to God. It avails much, also, to visit St. Martial of Limoges, St. Sernin of Toulouse, and more still to visit Spain and at Compostella beseech the intercession of St. James the Apostle.

Assuredly, however, Rome is best (always barring Jerusalem), and on the way thither the pilgrim can lighten his spiritual load by visiting many excellent Italian shrines—such as "Our Guardian Lady" at Genoa, and, at Lucca, "Our Lady of the Rose." In the city of St. Peter itself, time fails to enumerate the three hundred churches worthy of a devout visit. Besides the majestic cathedral of the Prince of the Apostles and the tomb of St. Paul, even the most hurried pilgrim will not fail to repair to St. Maria Maggiore, where is the actual manger in which Christ was born; and St. John Lateran, where are the holy stairs Christ ascended while wearing the crown of thorns; St. Peter in Montorio, where Peter himself was crucified, St. Lawrence Without the Walls, where the blessed martyrs St. Stephen and St. Lawrence are buried; not to mention others. A man must be a master criminal if he cannot deliver his soul by suitable visits to these invaluable shrines in Rome.

As is well known, the blessed saints both in this life and after death wrought many miracles through their relics. These wonders continue to-day, although the iniquities of mankind render them infrequent. Every now and then Heaven still permits some holy man to work undoubted miracles. Thus only recently it is said that when the venerable abbot of St. Germer preached the Fourth Crusade in England, he need only bless a fountain, lo! its waters made the dumb speak, the blind see, and the sick recover. Once (so a pilgrim related in the castle only the other day) when this abbot reached a village which wanted a supply of water, he gathered all the folk in the church. Right in the presence of the people he smote a stone with his staff and water flowed forth—not merely potable, but healing for all maladies.

God also speaks to us in dreams as he did to Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar. He caused St. Thomas À Becket to visit the late king Louis VII and warn him to make a pilgrimage to St. Thomas's new shrine of Canterbury to pray for the recovery of his son Philip, later "Augustus." Henry II of England was Louis' foe, but the king made the solemn pilgrimage unimpeded, and the crown prince duly recovered.

Omens of calamity, too, appear often, although it is not always clear whether sent from God or the devil. A few years ago the wolves in the forest near the monastery of St. Aliquis howled steadily all through the day of the feast of St. Honore. "A clear sign of trouble," announced the prior; and four days later the feud began betwixt Conon and Foretvert, which convulsed the whole countryside. Many a man is warned to prepare for death by seeing a will-o-the-wisp in the marshes, a shooting star, or a vulture hovering above his house. If thirteen people chance to sit at one table, or if one chances to dream of a physician, it is proof positive some one in the house is about to die. The same is true if a man inadvertently puts on a clean white shirt on Friday; while if the left eye of a dead man will not close promptly the deceased will soon have company in purgatory. Any woman, also, who thoughtlessly washes her clothes in lye during the holy week is not long for this world. It is needless to explain how sinister are eclipses and comets. In July, 1198, there was a great comet visible. Sage people wagged their heads with melancholy satisfaction when Richard the Lion Hearted died very soon after.

Time will fail to list all the strange beings, neither human, angel, nor exactly devil, that Providence permits to infest the world. These creatures possess no souls, and when they perish are gone like cattle, although they live long and are very hard to kill. Probably they are more numerous in wild and solitary places, yet towns and crowded castles are not free from them. Thus there are fÉes (fairies) good and bad—creatures relatively like human beings; undines in the waters, who by their perfidious beauty lure unwary knights to destruction; ogres who lie in wait to devour small children; ghouls who disinter the dead and gnaw their bones; vampires who rise every night from the tombs and suck the blood; wolf-men (humans turned into beasts) who attack lonely travelers; dracs, who carry off little children to their subterranean realms; will-of-the-wisps in the marshes, who are the souls of unbaptized dead infants; also many rather friendly spirits such as the soleves, who sometimes overnight do a weary laborer's work for him. It needs much knowledge to tell the good spirits from the bad—to know, e.g., whether you are dealing with a goblin who will only display harmless antics, or an estrie, a real imp of darkness, who may hug you like a bear, to suffocation.

The Church does not forbid the belief in these creatures, nor of such pagan monsters as giants, pygmies, cyclops, satyrs, tritons, sirens, etc., although it plainly teaches us that they are only ministers of the devil. The existence of the devil is as certain as that of the Holy Trinity. As has been said already, the fear of falling into his clutches has often a more excellent effect upon the sinner than the love of God. Countless legends and sculptures in the cathedrals tell all about the master-fiend. The monk in his convent, the peasant in his hut, yes (for all his brave words and his long sword), the baron in his castle, all tremble lest they meet him.

The devil produces all kinds of misery, and he can actually take possession of the living bodies of men. It is affirmed that once, not far from St. Aliquis, a knight was sitting peaceably at table when suddenly the devil entered into him. The fiend spoke through the poor man's mouth. He raved and uttered blasphemies. The priest brought his book of exorcisms. When he recited them, the devil screamed horribly. Yet for some days he resisted the holy formulas, and then departed, leaving his victim utterly exhausted.

It is much worse when you make a direct pact with the devil. Some time ago, it is affirmed, there was a young scholar at Paris. He was much troubled because he progressed slowly in his studies. Then Satan visited him, saying: "Do me homage. I will make you excel in wisdom!" He gave the youth a stone, asserting that, "So long as you hold this stone in your hand you will know everything." Soon the lad astonished the schools by his erudition, but, on falling sick, confessed his crime, threw away his stone, and at once forgot all his learning. Speedily he died. At once the devils began to torture his soul, but God promptly sent an angel ordering them "to let alone this soul which you have tormented." Immediately the soul flew back into the body, which sprang to life even as the Paris students were celebrating the funeral service. The revived scholar, however, at once entered a convent and took no more chances with carnal studies.

Very many people, however, have compounded with the devil and been less fortunate. The fiend apparently will not come unless one is in a desperate plight and willing to promise everything. Then usually the unhappy mortal must deny the Christian faith, repudiate the saints, utter blasphemies, and, it is even asserted, kiss the arch fiend upon the buttocks. Next a horrid oath must be taken, standing inside of three magic circles and burning incense. After that the devil will, it is true, give his votary great worldly prosperity and especially riches through a long life, but in the end the fiend never fails to claim his soul for an eternal possession. It is even said that Satan made such a bargain with the great ecclesiastic Gerbert, who became Pope Sylvester II. He was very wise[87] or very wicked, probably both; and in the opinion of many he rose to be Pope by the aid of "a hierarchy of demons and a brass idol which uttered oracles." But on the day of his death (A.D. 1002) Satan demanded his own; and whenever a pope lies near his end the bones of Sylvester II rattle in the tomb. The Church discredits this scandalous story, but it is widely believed.

Since the recent trial of a witch and a wizard before the bishop at Pontdebois, the folk near St. Aliquis have gained a much more precise knowledge of the black art. Magicians usually begin their ceremonies by creating a magic smoke of various inflammables and spices, also by burning such fiend-compelling ingredients as the brain of an eagle, the blood of a black cat, and plenty of hellebore. The smoke thus created is so dense and foul that uninitiated customers are readily convinced there are demons rising in the vapor and talking to the wizard. Thanks to such assistance, the magician, and his even more sinful wife, the witch, were able to instruct how to find a pot of gold and how to rob the house of a rich Jew, but especially they could prepare philters—some of them intended to inspire love and others hatred. Wives could buy fearful compounds made of substances from "the three domains of nature"—the entrails of animals, scales of fishes, parings of nails, human blood, pulverized load-stone, and such powerful drugs as mandragora—which, if duly brewed and beaten up together, then put in an unfaithful husband's goblet, would win back his affection. Other such potions, a little changed, however, would make sworn lovers separate.

These dealers in the black art at Pontdebois could also sell magic rings which had power over demons, thereby protecting the wearer from sudden death, illness, or dangers of travel, and enabling him to drive good bargains. The witch and wizard also possessed, undoubtedly, the "evil eye"—which, if resolutely fixed on an ox or sheep, would cause it to perish and was almost as dangerous to human beings. However, the twain were presently ruined (thus showing how fickle a protector is the devil) because a certain silly nobleman got them to "overcast" a knightly enemy against whom he lacked the courage to press an honorable war. After the wizard had burned much incense, the witch had proceeded to shape a puppet of virgin wax as much like the victim as possible. Then, with a shameless parody of the baptismal service, she christened the doll with the name of her patron's enemy. Next the wizard placed the livers of swallows under the armpits and upon the place where the heart of the puppet ought to be. Finally, he and his wife pierced the wax image with red-hot needles, then cast it into a blazing fire, chanting all the while cabalistic words—probably beseeching the special help of the devil.[88]

Inevitably, soon after this the knight thus assailed would have sickened and died had not, by the mercy of God, the whole proceeding been discovered. The knight was saved by the powerful exorcisms of the bishop. The wizard—after proper tortures to get confession—was buried alive. His wife, the witch, was burned. The foolish cavalier who had plotted murder saved his life, for he had powerful relatives, but was condemned to go on a pilgrimage to Rome. Certain fatuous women who had bought love philters were publicly rebuked in the church and spent an unhappy afternoon in the pillory. Good Christians hope that it will be a long day before the black art is again practiced so iniquitously in this part of France.

Nevertheless, there are some forms of divining which the Church counts as innocent. Any time you desire you can consult the holy books. With proper prayer and circumspection you should open the Bible at random and note the tenor of the first passage that meets your eye. Is it favorable to your condition, or unfavorable? The pious Simon de Montfort thus consulted the "sacred lots" ere taking the cross for the Albigensian crusade. Chapters of canons use this method to see what the omens are concerning a candidate for a bishopric. According to jongleurs' tales, even popes thus seek for an oracle ere taking any important step in the government of the Church, although these stories are wisely doubted. A more precise method of augury is the "Sortes Apostolorum." Fifty-six sentences (expressing sentiments good or bad) are written on parchment; a string is attached to each and allowed to protrude while the sentences are covered up. You say a prayer, seize a string at random, then follow it down to read its sentiment. In this way the saints and not the devil will reveal the future to you.

Undoubtedly the peasants carry their belief in bad omens or unlucky actions too far. Conon and Adela laugh heartily at some of their notions. To avoid bad luck, Georges, when weaning a calf, always pulls it away from its mother by the tail backward. He never begins plowing until he has walked thrice around the plow with a lighted candle. Jeanne never spins or sews on Thursdays or Fridays, lest she make the Virgin weep. In the springtime a bone from the head of a mare should be set out in the garden to drive off the caterpillars. Time fails to list these rustic beliefs; besides, they vary from village to village. But what peasant has not as many thereof as he has hairs in his head?

There is one pious matter shared in alike by great and humble and highly approved by the Church, although the wiser ecclesiastics deprecate some of its excesses—the worship of holy relics.

Saints' relics abound. Where is the monastery, church, or even castle without them? Sometimes they rest in golden caskets in the very place where the holy personages departed this life. Sometimes they have been brought from Rome or Palestine by pious pilgrims; very often they come as gifts. The direct purchase of relics is somewhat sacrilegious, but you can present a king, duke, or great ecclesiastic with a good relic just as you give him some hawks or ermine skins—as a reward for favors past or expected. The Pope is always sending desirable relics to bishops and abbots whom he wishes to honor; and, as all know, after the Latins sacked Constantinople in 1204 there was hardly a shrine in all France which did not get the skull, a few ribs, or even the entire body of some Eastern saint. The booty in relics in fact, was almost as important as that of gold and jewels.

Possessing relics is most desirable. Prayers said near them have extra efficacy. Oaths taken upon their caskets are doubly binding, but sometimes the holy objects are surreptitiously removed when the pledge is being given; it is then no perjury to break the promise. In dealing with slippery individuals one must, therefore, beware. On the other hand, who is ignorant of the manner in which William the Norman inveigled Harold the Anglo-Saxon into taking a great oath of fealty? The slow-witted Englishman swore to the pact, believing the casket on which he rested his hands contained relics of very inferior worthies, who could never punish him if he perjured himself; but the instant the words were said the priests opened the sacred box, showing it full of the bones of the most powerful saints imaginable. Harold turned pale with horror, realizing how he had been trapped. When later he broke his oath, beyond a doubt it was these angered saints who wrought his death at Hastings.

Good relics also imply a source of income, provided that they are properly advertised so as to make the church or abbey possessing them a pilgrimage resort. Sometimes, indeed, one fears lest overzealous monks exaggerate the miracles wrought by the relics at their abbey church. The tale runs that when the Abbey of St. Vanne was deeply in debt, the abbot asserted: "Our debts will all be paid with the red tunic of St. Vanne (a relic). I never doubt it."

The monks at St. Aliquis are proud of their collection, although by no means the largest in the region. They have two teeth of the prophet Amos; hairs of St. Martin and St. Leonard; finger-nail parings of the martyrs of the Theban legion; bits of the robe of St. Bernard; finger bones of Saints Saturnin, Sebastian, and of the Patriarch Jacob; a fifth rib of St. Amond; a skull of one of the Holy Innocents; a chip of the stone on which Christ stood when He ascended to heaven; the jaw bone of St. Sixtus; some of the hay from the manger of Bethlehem; and, last but not least, a fair-sized splinter of the true Cross. The mere adoration of such things cancels many grievous years in purgatory.

It is advantageous to the whole region to have such a collection. If there is need of rain, the relics can be carried in procession around the thirsty country and relief is sure to follow. If there is a public assembly, the holy relics can be brought in before the contending knights or burghers—wise counsels will ensue. If you are going on a journey, a visit to a shrine with such relics almost guarantees a safe return. We have already seen how Conon (as did other knights) kept certain relics always in his sword hilt, to confirm his oaths and to lend efficacy to his actions.

The enormous value of such sacred things often makes them the booty of thieves. Thus in 1219 a band of robbers stole the remains of St. Leocadia from the Abbey of Vic, and when pursued cast the holy bones into the Aisne, whence they were rescued with serious difficulty. We need not multiply records of similar crimes. Profligate noblemen will sometimes seize and keep very sacred relics in their castles, as talismans against long-delayed justice.

Not less miraculous is the manner in which the relics have been preserved when less sacred objects have been lost. This is, indeed, a divine mystery, not lightly to be inquired into. When, however, two identical relics of the same saint are displayed in France, how are worldly questionings to be silenced? For surely the holy men of old had only one head and two arms apiece. Not long since, the monks of St. Étienne exhibited a skull of St. Denis. But the monks of St. Denis claimed they had the skull of their own patron saint already. What lack of charity ensued! The backbiting did not cease till the great Pope Innocent III tactfully silenced the controversy without actually deciding which relic was the more authentic. Many say that such relics can miraculously duplicate themselves—so that all are equally genuine; and undoubtedly God has worked far greater wonders than this.

Nevertheless, such is the sinfulness of men that spurious relics are often imposed upon the faithful. Good churchmen do zealous work in exposing these sacrilegious frauds. Not long since, Father GrÉgoire had Conon give a terrific flogging to a pretended pilgrim who was trying to sell the credulous peasants "a bit of the sail of St. Peter's boat and a feather of the Angel Gabriel." It is more serious when a spurious shrine is set up. Near Lyons recently the peasant women insisted in venerating "the tomb of St. Guinefort." It was discovered to be only the spot where a lady had buried a favorite greyhound. In another case, many years ago, the great St. Martin found near Tours a chapel where the people worshiped a supposed martyr. The saint stood on the sepulcher and prayed, "Reveal unto me who is really here!" Soon a dark form arose and the specter confessed to Martin: "I am a robber. My soul is in hell, but my body is in this sepulcher." The saint, therefore, destroyed the chapel, and saved many from wasting their prayers and substance.

It is a dangerous business, however, to be over-skeptical concerning popular relics. Even great churchmen, such as the late Bishop of OrlÉans, are liable to be mobbed if they call an alleged and much-venerated skull of St. GÉnevieve "the head of some old woman"—as once did that astute prelate. Nevertheless, the authorities try to do their duty. Pope Innocent III has issued a formal warning to the French clergy against accepting spurious relics, and the monks of every monastery never hesitate to dispute the authenticity of almost every kind of a relic provided only it is deposited in a neighboring and rival abbey!

If, however, relics are genuine, it is impossible to exaggerate their desirability. They are produced on numerous holidays; and often a special holiday is proclaimed when they are "translated." Then you may see the relics of some saint being carried through the streets of a village or town, the holy objects themselves borne in their golden boxes under a canopy, accompanied by all the local clergy, with perhaps the barons and the duke of the entire region being allowed to assist the highest prelates in carrying or at least in escorting the sacred casket.

Thus has been explained certain features of the religion of the laity, humble and exalted. At length we can approach one of those great institutions which have built up the strength of Catholic Christianity. A league from the castle lies the other great center for the countryside—the monastery of St. Aliquis.