The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories

by Francesca Alexander

The Silver Cross

The story of "St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver Cross" is one of her many visions, recorded by her confessor.

The Silver Cross

Through the streets of old Siena, at the dawning of the day,

Went the holy Caterina, as the bells began to sound;

With the light of peace celestial in her eyes of olive gray,

For her soul was with the angels, while her feet were on the ground.

She was fair as any lily, with as delicate a grace;

And the air of early morning had just tinged her cheek with rose:

Yet one hardly thought of beauty in that pale, illumined face,

That the souls in trouble turned to, finding comfort and repose.

And the men their heads uncovered, though they dared not speak her praise,

When they saw her like a vision down the row street descend;

And they wondered what she looked at, with that far-off dreamy gaze,

While her lips were often moving, as though talking to a friend.

There were few abroad so early, and she scarcely heard a sound,

Save the cooing of the pigeons, as about her feet they strayed,

Or the bell that sweetly called her to the church where she was bound;

While the palaces around her stood in silence and in shade.

And the towers built for warfare rose about her, dark and proud,

But their summits caught a glory, as the morning onward came,

And the summer sky beyond them was alight with fleecy cloud,

Where the gray of dawn was changing, first to rose and then to flame.

By a shrine of the Madonna, at a corner where she passed,

Stood a stranger leaning on it, as though weary and forlorn,

With a bundle slung behind him and a cloak about him cast;

For he shivered in the freshness of the pleasant summer morn.

Said the stranger, "Will you help me?" and she looked on him and knew,

By his hand that trembled feebly as he held it out for aid,

By his eyes that were so heavy, and his lips of ashen hue,

That the terrible Maremma had its curse upon him laid.

So she listened to his story, that was pitiful to hear,

Of a widowed mother waiting on the mountain for her son;

How to help her he had laboured till the summer time drew near,

And of how the fever took him just before his work was done.

He was young and he was hopeful, and the smile began to come

In his eyes, as though they thanked her for the pity she bestowed,

And he said: "I shall recover if I reach my mountain home,

And if some good Christian people will but help me on the road.

"For I go to Casentino, where the air is pure and fine,

But my strength too often fails me, and the place is far away;

So I pray you give me something, for a little bread and wine,

That I may not set out fasting on my weary walk to-day."

Then a certain faint confusion with her pity seemed to blend,

And her face, so sweet and saintly, showed the shadow of a cloud,

As she said: "I am no lady, though you call me so, my friend,

But a poor Domenicana who to poverty am vowed.

"I can give a prayer to help you on your journey, nothing more,

For these garments I am wearing are the sisterhood's, not mine,

And the very bread they gave me when I left the convent door

To a beggar by the wayside I this morning did consign.

"I would give you all you ask for if I had it to command."

Then she sighed and would have left him, but the stranger made her stay,

For he held her by the mantle, with his cold and wasted hand:

"For the love of Christ, my lady, do not send me thus away!"

He had used the name unthinking, but it moved her none the less,

And she turned again toward him, with a softened, solemn air,

While her hand began to wander up and down her simple dress,

As though vaguely it were seeking for some trifle she could spare.

Then the rosary she lifted that was hanging at her waist,

And its silver cross unfastened, which was small and very old,

With the edges worn and rounded and the image half effaced,

Yet she loved it more than lady ever loved a cross of gold.

It had been her life companion, in the tempest, in the calm;

She had held it to her bosom when she prayed with troubled mind;

And she kissed it very gently, as she laid it in his palm,

"For the love of Christ, then, take it; 'tis the only thing I find."

So he thanked her and departed, and she thought of him no more,

Save to ask the Lord to help him, when that day in church she prayed;

But the cross of Caterina on his heart the stranger wore,

And her presence unforgotten like a blessing with him stayed.

Now the city life is stirring, and the streets are in the sun,

And the bells ring out their music o'er the busy town again,

As the people slowly scatter from the church where Mass is done;

But the blessèd Caterina in her seat did still remain.

For the sleep divine was on her, which so often to her came,

When of mortal life the shadow from around her seemed to fall;

And she looked on things celestial with her happy soul aflame:

But that day the dream that held her was the sweetest of them all.

For the Lord appeared in glory, and he seemed to her to stand

In a chamber filled with treasures such as eye had never seen;

And a cross of wondrous beauty He was holding in His hand,

Set with every stone most precious and with pearls of light serene.

And He told her that those treasures were the presents He received

From the souls on earth who love Him, and are seeking Him to please.

Were they deeds of noble service? that was what she first believed,

And she thought, "What happy people who can bring Him gifts like these!"

For herself could offer nothing, and she sighed to think how far

From the best she ever gave him were the gems in that bright store.

But He held the cross toward her, that was shining like a star,

And He bade her look and tell Him had she seen it e'er before.

"No," she answered humbly, "never did my eyes the like behold."

But a flood of sudden sweetness came upon her like a wave,

For she saw among the jewels and the work of beaten gold

Was the little Cross of Silver that for love of Christ she gave.

And I think her dream that morning was a message from above,

That a proof of deepest meaning we might learn and understand,—

Though our very best be worthless that we give for Jesus' love,

It will change and turn to glory when He takes it in His hand.

The Tears of Repentance

THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE I found in a book called Maraviglie di Dio ne' Suoi Santi, by the Jesuit Father, Padre Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, printed at Bologna in 1696. He says it was written originally by Theophilus Raynaudus.

The Tears of Repentance

PART FIRST

THE MOUNTAIN

A wild, sad story I tell to-day,

And I pray you to listen all!

You cannot think how my heart is moved

As the legend I recall,—

The legend that made me weep so oft,

When I was a child like you!

I tell it now, in my life's decline,

And it brings the tears anew.

It came to us down through ages long;

For this story had its scene

In the far-away, gorgeous, stormy days

Of the empire Byzantine.

And it tells of a famous mountain chief,

A terrible, fierce brigand,

Who ravaged the country, far and wide,

At the head of an armèd band.

So hard of heart was this evil man

That he spared not young nor old:

He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled,

In his maddening thirst for gold;

Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop,

That peacefully went its way,

And the counted gains of a journey long

Were scattered in one short day!

He knew no pity, he owned no law,

Nor human, nor yet divine;

Would take the gold from a Prince's chest,

Or the lamp from a wayside shrine.

In hidden valley, in wild ravine,

On desolate, heath-grown hill,

He buried his treasure away from sight,

And most of it lies there still.

And none were free in that land to dwell,

Except they a tribute paid;

For the robber chief, who was more than king,

Had this burden on them laid.

If any dared to resist the claim,

He was met with vengeance dire;

His lands were wasted before the dawn,

And his harvest burned with fire.

And some day maybe himself was slain,

And left in the road to lie;

To fill with terror the quaking heart

Of the next who journeyed by.

And many fled to the towns afar,

And their fields were left untilled;

While want and trouble and trembling fear

Had the stricken country filled.

High up on a mountain's pathless side

Had the robber made his den,

In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme

Over twenty lawless men.

A price had long on his head been set,

But for that he little cared;

For few were they who could climb the way,

And fewer were those who dared.

For those who hunted him long before

Had a fearful story brought:

They were not men on the mountain side,

But demons who with them fought!

For horrible forms arose, they said,

As if from the earth they grew;

And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above

On any who might pursue.

From town to town and from land to land,

Had his evil fame been spread;

And voices lowered and lips grew grave

When the hated name they said.

The people's heart had grown faint with fear,

And they thought no hope remained;

But hope again on their vision dawned,

When the Emperor's ear they gained.

Mauritius reigned o'er the nations then;

He was great in warlike fame,

And he was not one to shrink or quake

At a mountain bandit's name.

He sent a band of a hundred strong

For the troubled land's release,

To kill the man and his bloody crew,

And to give the country peace.

For what was a robber chief to him?

He had conquered mighty kings;

He gave the order, and then 't was done,

And he thought of other things.

But few, alas, of that troop returned,

And they told a ghostly tale;

And women wept, and the strongest men,

As they heard, grew mute and pale.

Those soldiers oft in the war had been,

And they counted danger light;

From mortal foe had they never turned,

But with demons who could fight?

The Emperor silent was and grave,

For his thoughts were deep and wise;

He saw that the robber chief was one

Whom he could not well despise.

There might be reason in what they said,

That the demons gave him aid,

And earthly weapon would ne'er be found

That could make such foes afraid.

But yet they will flee from sacred things,

And the martyred saints, he knew,

Have holy virtue, that to them clings,

That can all their spells undo.

But how could such weapon reach the soul

That for years had owned their sway?

A question grave that he pondered long;

But at length he found a way.

A reliquary he made prepare;

It was all of finest gold:

For as monarch might with monarch treat,

He would serve this bandit bold.

The gold was his, but the work he gave

To the skilled and patient hand

Of an artist monk, who counted then

For the first in all the land.

Now see him close to his labour bent,

In a cell remote and high,

Where all he saw of the world without

Was a square of roof and sky.

A holy man was this artist monk,

And for gain he did not ask,

If only the Lord his work would bless,

For his heart was in the task.

And day by day from his touch came forth

The image of holy things;

The cross was there, and the clustered vine,

And the dove with outspread wings,—

The dove that bore in her golden beak

The olive in sign of peace,

And still, as he wrought, his hand kept time

To the prayer that would not cease!

For pity stirred in him when he thought

Of that dark and stormy breast,

So hard, so hopeless, from God so far,

Where the little shrine would rest.

And perhaps if angels were looking on,

(And I doubt not some were there!)

They saw that the work was sown with pearls,

And each pearl a burning prayer.

So weeks went on, and the shrine was done,

And within it, sealed and closed,

Were holy relics of martyred saints

Who near in the church reposed.

And trusted messengers bore it forth

To the distant mountain land;

With such a weapon they need not fear;

They could meet the famed brigand.

'T was winter now on the mountain-side,

And the way was long and hard,

As the faithful envoys upward toiled

In their bandit escort's guard,—

Toiled up to a grove of ancient firs,

For that was the place designed,

Where, after parley and long delay,

Had the meeting been combined.

No sound but their feet that crushed the snow,

And the world looked sad and dead;

They thought of lives on the mountain lost,

And it was not much they said.

The sun, as it shone with slanting ray

Through the stripped and silent trees,

Could melt but little the clinging ice

Which to-night again would freeze.

They reached the grove, and the chief was there,

Like a king in savage state;

Erect and fearless, above them all,

While his men around him wait.

He stood before them like what he was,

A terrible beast of prey;

But even tigers have something grand,

And he looked as grand as they.

But, oh, the look that he on them turned!

It was fearful to behold;

It chilled their hearts, but they did not shrink,

For their faith had made them bold.

And looking straight in those gloomy eyes,

With their hard and cruel glare,

"We come," said one, "in the Emperor's name,

And from him a token bear."

Then said the chief, with a mocking smile,

"And what may my Lord command?"

And made a sign with his evil eye,

For the men on guard to stand.

No faith had he in a tale so wild,

And he somewhat feared a snare;

There might be others in hiding near,

But he did not greatly care.

Then forth came he who the relics bore,—

'T was a prudent man and brave,—

And into the hand that all men feared,

He the holy token gave.

"This gift to you has the Emperor sent,

In token of his good will,"

He said; and at first the fierce brigand

Stood in wonder, hushed and still.

What felt he then as that holy thing

In his guilty hand he took?

What changed his face for a moment's time

To an almost human look?

There lay the shrine in his open palm.

Yet he thought it could not be:

"For me?" he asked, but his voice was strange.

And again he said, "for me?"

Three times the messenger told his tale,

And he said 't was all he knew;

The bandit looked at the wondrous work,

And he could not doubt 't was true.

So over his neck the chain he hung,

The shrine on his bosom lay

With all its wealth of a thousand prayers;

And they were not cast away.

Day followed day in the bandit's cave,

And a restless man was he;

A heart so hard and so proud as his

With the saints could ill agree.

The holy relics that on it lay

Did a strange confusion make;

In all that most he had loved before,

He could no more pleasure take.

A charm there was in the golden shrine

That had all his soul possessed;

He sat and looked at each sacred sign

With a dreamy sense of rest.

'T was not the gold that could soothe him thus,

And 't was not the work so fine:

'T was the holy soul of the artist monk,

For it lived in every line.

Like one who sleeps when the day begins,

And, before his slumbers end,

The morning light and the morning sounds

With his dreaming fancies blend;

So now and then would his heart be stirred

By a feeling strange and new,

And thoughts he never had known before

In his mind unconscious grew.

Till on a sudden his blinding pride,

Like a bubble, failed and broke;

With eyes wide open, the guilty man

From his life-long dream awoke.

From graves forgotten his crimes came forth,

In his face they seemed to stare:

To all one day will such waking come;

God grant it be here, not there.

Then wild remorse on his heart took hold,

And beneath its burning sting

He shrank from himself as one might shrink

From a venomous, hateful thing.

For scenes of blood from the years gone by

Forever before him came;

He closed his eyes, and his face he hid,

But he saw them just the same.

And in the horror he dared not pray,

For he felt his soul accurst,

And he feared to live, and he feared to die,

And he knew not which was worst.

Yet far on high, and beyond his reach,

He could see a vision dim,

A far-off glory of peace and love;

But he felt 't was not for him.

Awhile his trouble he hid from all,

For his will was iron strong,

But never was man, since man was made,

Who could bear such torment long,

A strange, sick longing was growing up

In his spirit, day by day,

A longing for what he most had feared,—

To let justice have her way;

Until the will to a purpose grew,

To the Emperor's feet to fly,

To own his sin without prayer or plea,

And then give up all and die.

And so one night, without sound or word,

Away in the dark he stole,

And all that he took for his journey long

Was the weight of a burdened soul.

They waited long in that den of crime,

But they saw their chief no more;

Or dead or living, they found him not,

Though they searched the mountain o'er.

And in the country, so long oppressed,

When his sudden flight was known,

They spoke of a wild and fearful night,

When the fiends had claimed their own.

And soon the tale to a legend turned,

And men trembling used to tell

Of how they carried him, body and soul,

To the place where demons dwell.

His men, so bold, were in mortal fear

Of what might themselves befall;

So some in a convent refuge sought,

And the rest were scattered all.

And no one climbed to their empty cave,

For 't was called a haunted place,

Though soon the summer had swept away

Of its horror every trace,

And mountain strawberries nestled low,

And delicate harebells hung,

In beauty meek, from its broken arch,

Where the swallows reared their young.

But where had he gone, that man of woe?

Had he found the rest he sought?

In haste he went, but with noiseless tread,

As his bandit life had taught.

And going downward he met the spring,

With its mingled sun and showers;

But storms of winter he bore within,

And he did not see the flowers.

And how did he live from day to day,

And the ceaseless strain endure?

Kind hearts there are that can feel for all,

And the poor will help the poor.

In frightened pity, a shepherd girl,

As she fled o'er the daisied grass,

Would let the bread from her apron fall

On the turf where he should pass;

Or workmen, eating their noonday meal

On a bank beside the way,

Would give him food, but with outstretched arm,

And they asked him not to stay.

He went like a shadow taken shape

From some vague and awful dream,

And word of comfort for him was none,

In his misery so extreme.

Alas, from himself he could not flee,

Though he tried, poor haunted man;

And he reached the city beside the sea,

As the Holy Week began.