CASUS BELLI

Heaven. The priests promised it, even if conditions for entrance were difficult to accomplish. But surely if a person had already experienced Hell, she would be allowed in, yes? But one of those conditions was absolution before death, forgiveness of sins, anointing…and had it not been her own sinful stubbornness that had caused this plunge into Hell in the first place? Stay home. That’s what her brother had said. Don’t even consider traveling alone – her father had told her that. You’re only a girl and should behave like one, her mother had insisted. She’d ignored them all, had in fact left in the middle of the night, believing she could make it all the way to the monastery unscathed. And now…

She opened one eye, the one that wasn’t too swollen to use, and stared blearily at dirt. She was sprawled face- down on what she assumed was the road, even though the attack had taken place in the woods where they’d dragged her. She closed her eye again as new waves of horrible pain engulfed every part of her body, and forced away the memory of how it had been inflicted. The robbers – they’d done things to her that made her wish only for death, had in fact screamed her desire that they kill her right then. They had laughed and continued to hurt her while apparently finding it greatly pleasurable. After hours of this torture, mortification, of being beaten every time she shrieked with agony, she’d finally succumbed to the darkness. The blissful darkness where numbness ruled and kept her alive.

But now – now she was conscious again, the icy breeze scraping across her bare skin. Death. Why wouldn’t it come? Why was she still breathing? How was she still breathing? She was too hurt, too wounded, to get up and find shelter, find something with which to cover herself. But what did that matter now, anyway? Someone would probably find her, perhaps hurt her again, maybe even unwittingly grant her desire to die. She wanted to weep, but could not. Who she had been less than twenty-four hours ago had been torn away, ripped into unrecognizable pieces and tossed into the cold wind. All recollections of herself still lingering in the twilight between awareness and her newly-acquired loathing of life itself began now to slip away entirely, and soon would be lost to the void growing in the center of her being. Soon, nothing would matter, not even the fact that she’d survived the unimagin- able brutality.

Memories of light held tightly to their perch on the edge of a cold, unfeeling mind for another moment or two, finally giving up, letting go, and falling downward into the dark of a meaningless forever.

INCIPIT: INSANIA

Virtue is its own reward, we are told. For those who have found a way to justify acts of vengeance, so is anger.

Bayard was angry, and was resolved to stay that way. Anger itself was a reaction; staying angry was a choice. He knew this, but had made that choice almost immediately and with determination. As a monk, he also knew - and was ignoring - the scripture verse that said, "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord," had in fact been copying it carefully onto a creamy vellum page the day before the occurrence that had caused this implacable ire. Other words surrounded this admonition, words like, "returning evil for evil to no one," and "not avenging yourselves," but he'd chosen to ignore all of those as well.

Everyone knew the dangers of highway robbery, that to venture onto the road with no other protection than a single sword carried by the driver of one's wagon or carriage was pure suicide - or worse. Still, if set upon by a large enough contingent of outlaws, none of whom understood honor or goodness, even the most well-armed traveler would be overcome. For this reason, Bayard had advised his sister to refrain from visiting him at the monastery. He would be heading to the family estate once the harvest was over anyway, so travel on her part was un- necessary. All outlaws - except for the extremely stupid ones - knew that the monks of St. Gervaise were without worldly possessions. To try and rob one would yield at best the poor monk's robe and perhaps a wooden rosary.

Bayard's sister, however, was a headstrong young lady. Different from others of her gender and class, she refused to accept the limitations set upon all women in their society. To that end, she had managed to learn the sword, could read fluently in several languages, and had no qualms about entering into conversations with various male family members about court politics. All of these accomplish- ments had, over time, given her the confidence to believe she could ride unharmed from their home in Exeter to the Monastery of St. Gervaise twenty or so miles to the east.

She was wrong. A farmer had found her lying naked in the middle of the road, bruises covering her body, blood seeping from places that indicated she'd been raped and sodomized violently and by many men. Neither her horse, her sword, nor her clothing were found anywhere, and from the look of things, she was close to death.

The bruises were a testament to the fact that she'd fought off her attackers furiously, but this had most likely only brought about worse treatment from them than they may have originally intended. Her sword had been useless.

After wrapping her in his cloak, the farmer had carried her to his cottage where the girl had regained consciousness long enough to ask for her brother at the Monastery. Since the attack had taken place only about five miles from there, the farmer had been able to send word, and the next day several monks had arrived with a cart padded carefully with cloth-covered straw. They brought her to the Monastery where she was currently being nursed back to health by their physician and two holy sisters who had been summoned from the closest Abbey.

It had taken no more than a few seconds of observing the girl's condition for the anger to rise in Bayard's heart. He'd turned away, practically choking on it, asked the physician to keep him informed as to her progress, and gone straight to the main chapel. By the time he'd stomped up to the chancel, he'd already made his choice, and suddenly unsure why he was even there, had glared up at the sculpted body on the cross over the altar. He had raised both fists, shaking them at the silent, impassive icon, and hissed, "Why?! She was a virgin, a believer in the Holy Church! How could You let this happen?!"

Back in his sparse cell, he’d sat on the side of his cot and wracked his brain for a plausible way to track down his sister’s despoilers. He was determined to find them and make them pay in the most painful way possible. At one point, he wept, not for those replaceable things they’d stolen, but for what they’d taken that could never be restored. He also despaired of a future for her. After all, what decent man would want her after she’d been used so? Worse, if one did, would she be able to tolerate his touch? Then there was the question of her recovery – if she succumbed to her wounds, everything else would be moot. Except, naturally, for his duty to find the perpetrators and destroy them. As he sat contemplating these problems, the day brightening his small window became a night nowhere near as dark as his thoughts.

A sudden knock on his door jolted him back to awareness of his surroundings – he’d plainly been without light of any kind for quite some time. The small table by his cot contained on its surface a thick candle and flints; with no difficulty he located the small stones and struck them over the candle’s wick. “Who is there?” he demanded, the sparks beginning to catch.

“Brother Bayard, it is I, Brother Renford. The meal has long since been served, and I thought perhaps you would care for something.”

The candle flared to life. “One moment.” He put the flints down and went to the door.

Renford was a small man, slight of stature as well as height, but he was one of the kindest people Bayard had ever met. At the moment, he was holding out a bowl of savory-smelling stew, a hopeful look on his face.

“You’re very kind, Brother Renford, but I have no appetite at the moment. Perhaps you could say a few prayers for my sister, and for me, too. I – I’m sure I’ll need them before this business is over.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Of course! I’m sure your dear sister will be made well again. Please don’t let your heart be heavy.”

“Let my…have you any idea what happened to her?” Bayard couldn’t help himself. A distant part of his mind understood the other monk’s genuine good intentions, but the part that was spiraling into a state of unstoppable rage had no qualms about pointing out the obvious, regardless of whether or not his words were unfairly hurtful. “You know what beasts we men can be, Renford, and beasts they were who deflowered my sister, nearly killing her in the process! How can she face anyone now? How can she contemplate marrying and bearing children after what they did? My God, man, she’ll be fortunate indeed if she even lives! Or maybe death would be the greater mercy! Pray for me, Renford, for I plan to find those evil bastards and do worse to them they could ever imagine!” He stepped back and shut the door as firmly as he could without slamming it in Renford’s face – at least that much control remained.

That much, but not much more.

SECUNDA: DERISIO

Silence pressed heavy on both occupants of the large, stone-walled chamber. The Abbot of St. Gervaise paced behind his desk. A tall, strong-looking man, he carried his surprising number of years better than most of his younger charges. His face, however, which normally settled into pleasant wrinkles from smiling, was making a different set of folds and lines from a deep frown. Hands clasped before him but hidden inside the sleeves of his robe, he looked at the tips of his sandals as they appeared from under the coarse hem with each measured step.

Brother Bayard was sitting on the upholstered chair in front of the desk watching him. He knew better than to say anything, even though he was screaming inwardly to be left alone. Apparently, dear Brother Renford had felt it his duty to report Bayard’s threats against the robbers to the Abbott, and just before dawn, while making his morning ablutions prior to Matins, Bayard was summoned to the man’s offices.

Abbott Friselle explained the summons in short, concise language that made it clear he was not at all pleased, but something in the man’s eyes bespoke both an understand- ing and acceptance of why Bayard felt as he did. He had then gotten up and begun pacing, an action well known among the brothers as a sign that the older man was about to make a vitally important decision.

He stopped at the beautiful tapestry hung on the side wall closest to his desk and stared for a moment at its depiction of the Resurrection of Christ before turning to face the younger monk. When he did, he looked deeply distressed. “Brother Bayard, I know you’re angry. I also know you’re very aware of the words of the Apostle Paul in his letter to the Ephesians that tell us - ”

Bayard expelled an impatient breath, effectively cutting off the Abbot’s words. “Yes, yes. ‘Irascimini et nolite peccare sol non occidat super iracundiam vestram.’ ‘Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger.’ I’ve copied it dozens of times into the manuscripts.” He shook his head, nostrils flaring. “Never thought I’d see a day when I would find myself feeling only derision toward such sentiments.”

“Derision? For God’s words?”

“Yes, Abbott. Derision. Because as wise as they may seem when read, they turn bitter in the mouth of one who says them after he is rendered incapable of carrying them out. I can no more shake off my anger than I can shake off my very skin, and the sun has already set several times on that.” He regarded his superior with a mixture of sorrow and defiance, the whole time fighting to block out the mental image of his damaged sister that kept intruding on his every thought.

Friselle sighed and sat once more, his frown deepening further. “You told Brother Renford that you wish to find the men who did this and, er, make them suffer, I believe he said. How will you do this? Find them, I mean.”

“It won’t be that difficult.” Bayard uttered a short, unpleas- ant laugh. “Men like that will have been boasting about what they did. They’ll go somewhere for drink and let everyone know how they - ” He stopped, shaking his head quickly, unable to finish the sentence or the thought.

“So what then? Assuming you’re able to eventually track them to wherever they’ve gone.”

“I…I don’t know, well, yes. I do know, but not how. Everything depends on their numbers and the circum- stances when I reach them.”

“I see. You are determined, then, to go.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I’d go right now, if I had your permission to do so.”

“Meaning what? That if I refuse to give my permission, you won’t leave?”

Now Bayard sighed. “You know as well as I that regardless of whether or not you allow it, I’ll be leaving. It’s really more a question of wishing to go with your blessing.”

“Ah, Bayard! How can I possibly bless such an endeavor? You expect me to condone murder?”

“Not murder, no. But since we’re quoting the scriptures, please let me respectfully suggest a section of them to you. Surely you recall the story of Dina and Sychem in the Old Testament?”

“Of course I do.” The Abbott sounded annoyed now. “That wasn’t the same thing, and you know it.”

“Oh? How was it different? Life in the days of Genesis 34 may have been different, but human nature was not, nor was the natural sense of justice mankind has been given.” No way was he going to lose this argument. For one thing, he’d given it all far too much thought; and for another, he was willing to be excommunicated, condemned to eternal damnation, for the sake of avenging his poor sister. So what did he have to lose at this point?

Something of this must have been clearly evident to the Abbott, because after staring silently through narrowed eyes at the monk for a long minute, he sat back and pursed his lips, nodding. “I won’t argue this with you, Bayard. To what end? No, you’re going to do what you feel you must, and nothing I can say will deter you. But know this.” He sat forward again, drawing one hand from his sleeve to point a finger at the younger man. “You must never think I have blessed your venture or in any way conclude that you are leaving here as a representative of the Holy Church. What you do, you do entirely on your own, under your own auspices. I may understand your reasons, may even agree to some extent, but it is my obligation – my duty – to condemn your actions.” He lowered his hand and clasped it with the other on top of the desk. “You’re a good man, Bayard of Exeter, and I’ve watched your spiritual progress with great joy. What happened to your beloved sister is a tragedy, and I realize you have to do what you believe to be the most honorable thing on her behalf. I only ask that you not abandon our God, that you remember to pray every day, and that when you do, ask the Lord to mend your heart so that one day you may walk in His grace once more.”

Bayard nodded, biting back the question he really wanted to ask, but aware that Friselle couldn’t possibly have the answer. He wanted to know why God had allowed this to happen, especially to a girl whose life had held so much promise, so much potential for doing good as a mother and a wife. Why? Ask God to mend his heart? What about his sister’s life? She might recover physically, but the girl with whom he’d grown up was gone, blasted into the darkest regions of a personal hell, leaving behind something pitiful and strange, a shell with no soul, no light, no reason to continue living.

He stood up, kissed the ring on the hand the Abbot extended, bowed, and went out to make his preparations for what he suspected would be a long, terrible journey.

TERTIUS: CAPTIO

The monks of St. Gervaise were told only that Brother Bayard was taking a temporary leave from the monastary in order to go home to inform his family of his sister’s fate, nothing more. That much, at least, was true. The girl had neither improved nor worsened, so it seemed sensible for Bayard to take the opportunity to go to Exeter now. He would have preferred to set off in search of the robbers immediately, but he felt he had a moral obligation to inform his family of the situation, for even if she lived, she would never be the same.

The morning after his interview with the Abbott found him in the stables on one side of the frosty courtyard, saddling his horse with hands that were stiff with cold, the smell of snow insinuating itself in and around the warmer, somewhat more comforting scents of manure and hay. Abbott Friselle had already been to Bayard’s cell before daybreak to be sure the monk understood he was to tell no one of his true mission. Short of rescinding all of his vows to the Church, there was no other way he could carry it out without bringing a lasting disgrace upon the Abbey. Bayard had assured the older man that all would be kept secret, and that once his terrible duty to his parents was accompished, he would proceed not in his monk’s garb, but in the clothing of his former life – that of a nobleman. He would use an alias as well, since most who knew him knew also of his religious calling.

Regardless of the outcome, Bayard would have some serious penance to pay, and to that end, he suggested to the Abbott that upon his return he submit to taking a vow of silence, the duration of which would depend upon how he had resolved the issue. If he found the perpetrators and killed every one of them as he so dearly wished to do, that vow would last the rest of his life. This would mean, of course, the abandonment of all ambitions to achieve a higher status than that of mere monk; his life thereafter would consist of nothing grander than the daily chores and prayers attendant upon that lowly station. He would never be able to preach, to hear Mass, to rise above what he did right now – in fact, he’d be in an even lesser position.

He didn’t care. His sister…he tugged fiercely on the final strap securing his saddle, causing the horse to protest with a whinny and a reproving snort.

“Sorry, old boy,” he murmured, patting the animal’s whithers apologetically. Those men had taken more than they’d known, their actions having tainted not only his sister’s life, but also his, his parents’, and perhaps even those of the monks of St. Gervaise. And then there were the possible suitors of the wounded girl – none would be sought now, that was certain, and it might be that some man’s life that could well have been improved by marriage to her would instead be empty, worsened somehow.

He finished preparing the large gelding, mounted, and they exited the stable. His cloak did little to dispel the sudden drop in temperature; the air within the enclosure may have contained winter’s bouquet, but the large bodies in all the stalls provided heat that defied the actual weather. Bayard shivered involuntarily and removed his thick gloves to readjust the brooch at his throat, pulling the cloak up more closely.

Almost predictably, Brother Renford came rushing outside, his hands filled with what could only be a freshly-baked loaf of the monastery’s excellent bread wrapped in a coarse, clean cloth. Feeling somewhat ashamed of his behavior toward the man on the evening of his sister’s arrival, Bayard pulled up on the reins and smiled down at the other monk.

“Brother Bayard, I couldn’t let you leave without something to warm you while reminding you to return to us soon.” He smiled, nothing in the expression betraying the fact that he knew exactly what Bayard was planning. “I wish you Godspeed, my friend, and will be praying for you – and your dear sister, too, of course – every single day.”

“I know you will, Brother Renford, and I am grateful. I, er, well, I have no doubt you shall be discreet…” He trailed off, feeling almost foolish.

“Of course. The Abbot spoke with me of this, and you know how devoted I am to this place and all who share the calling.” He held the loaf upward, his smile genuine.

“Thank you.” Bayard took it, enjoying its aromatic warmth for a moment before sliding it carefully into one of the sacks hanging from the saddle. “You are an inspiration to us all, Brother Renford. I pray that one day I can say I am in some degree like you.” He nodded a quick farewell, spurred the horse, and they trotted out of the courtyard and onto the deserted road.

The sky was typical of late autumn and matched the monk’s mood – gloomy, grey, promising nothing but misery. Being early, Bayard’s only company, other than his horse, was the petrified ground that rang loudly under the gelding’s iron-clad hooves, spindly tree limbs stripped bare and black by the blast of oncoming winter, the few orange and red leaves still clinging to their former source of life waving pitifully from an occasional branch. The birds were silent, or at least too far away for him to hear; no foxes or stoats peered at him from behind dormant bushes or rotting logs. The denizens of nature, it seemed, being more prudent that he at the moment, had not ventured out of their cosy dens.

By midmorning he had gone far enough to start thinking about finding a warm roadside alehouse. He could easily have slowed his mount sufficiently to take some food from his saddle to eat as he rode, but the air had remained statically cold, the sun refusing to appear to warm it even a few small degrees. Thoughts of heated, mulled wine began to fill his head, and a happily blazing fire before which to stretch his legs and thaw the toes he was convinced were as frozen as some of the puddles of ice he’d passed that morning. He knew of such a place several leagues ahead, and before that, a manor house where they would probably welcome a nearly frost-bitten traveling monk. He could offer them the loaf of excellent monastery bread in gratitude, perhaps. Or maybe they wouldn’t require –

The sound of hooves clattering closer from the other side of the hill he’d been climbing rattled him out of his thoughts. “Someone’s in a hurry,” he murmured, guiding the horse to one side of the road to make room for the galloping wayfarer.

A moment later the rider appeared, his dappled mare steaming in the cold, the man’s cloak flapping in a way that had to be letting in more cold than it could keep out. At first, eyes focused on the road ahead, the rider didn’t see Bayard or his horse. But a moment before he would have passed, he pulled up suddenly, causing the dapple to rear, snorting and shaking her head in horse-rage at the rough treatment.

As soon as the man turned toward him, Bayard recognized his face and his own lit with surprise. “Charles? What on earth are you doing out here? Is everything all right at home?”

Charles, one of the family’s servants who often acted as messenger for them, kicked his mare closer. “My lord! Or…I mean, er, Brother Bayard.” He cleared his throat, slighly embarrassed.

“That’s all right. It’s too bloodly cold to worry about titles. What brings you here?”

“It…it’s your sister, my lord. She, well, I’m afraid she’s disappeared. Your father seems to think she may be trying to come here, to reach you, but we’ve had no word, and – ”

“I know.” Bayard looked at the ground. “She’s at the monastery.”

“Then she’s well!”

“No.” He looked back up, his expression terrible, and the servant’s smile vanished. “A farmer found her two days ago and brought her there.”

“My God! Is she – is she dead?”

“Worse, I’m afraid, and very near death, too.”

Charles frowned, confused. “What happened? Was there an accident?”

“Oh, no, my friend, this was no accident.” He took a deep breath, reluctant, but there was no nice way to say it. He tried to speak calmly, only with unexpected force the anger that he’d been keeping carefully reined in broke its bonds and through clenched teeth he said, “She was attacked by a band of robbers. They raped her, beat her to within an inch of her life, and left her naked and bloody on the road. I don’t know how many there were, but the physician at the monastery seems to think there were at least seven or eight – ” His voice caught and he found himself wanting to vomit. “They…they did things to her that…God, Charles, a part of me hopes she doesn’t survive!” Tears of fury and sorrow stood in his eyes, chilling them, and he blinked.

Charles, meanwhile, had been listening in gaping disbelief. Such things simply did not happen to sweet girls like the Lady Lisette – it was unthinkable! Yet nothing in Master Bayard’s demeanor indicated he was exaggerating even a little. “Oh, dear Jesu, that poor child!”

“And well you should pray for her Charles. I - ” He stopped, forgetting what he’d been about to say as another thought pushed that one aside. He regarded the serving man with a critical eye, nodding. Height, similar, yes…about the same build, perhaps a bit heavier but not enough to matter… “Follow me to a tavern I know isn’t all that far from here. We have some things to discuss.”

Obediently, Charles turned his horse to fall in step beside Bayard’s, and together they continued along the road, the sound of mingled hoof-tread chasing away the barren feeling of the day. By the time they reached their goal, both men were half frozen, their limbs stiff from cold and immobility in the saddle. They dismounted and led their animals to a small stable behind the main building, handing the reigns to the stableman who stood rubbing his hands and blowing on them as he watched the two approach. He told them it would cost them each a silver coin; Bayard shrugged at the servant, who remembered that as a monk, his erstwhile master wouldn’t have even a copper piece to his name. He took two coins from a hidden pouch behind his belt and handed them over.

“A bit steep, don’t you think?” murmured Bayard, referring to the stableman’s fee.

“Well, this is the only roadside tavern for miles. I suppose they can charge whatever they wish.”

Bayard shook his head, disgusted, but not enough to reclaim the horses and get back on the icy roads. In fact, all he cared about right then was getting inside where there would be fire and something to warm his insides, too.

A half hour later, he and his servant were leaning comfort- ably against the wall, the backless benches near the building’s massive hearth close enough to the fire to thaw tingling limbs without suffocating the whole person. Their mulled wine had been heated to a perfect warmth, the alcohol completing what several minutes over a flame had begun. The cost of this liquid fare had been about as expected – much higher than one might pay in a local inn but not as prohibitive as it could have been. Charles, however, had gone back out to the stable to retrieve food from their saddlebags, since neither of them imagined any meal being offered would be priced reasonably.

Now, their bodies warm and content, Bayard addressed the notion he believed would satiate the discontent of his emotional state. “Charles, I have a proposition, one that should solve the dilemma in which I find myself, and which should guarantee you a safer passage back to Exeter than you might otherwise expect.”

The other man frowned. “My lord?”

“I need to find these bastards, and was despairing of being able to do so because of my obligation to inform my parents about Lisette’s condition. You see, the trail would not yet be cold, this attack having occurred only a couple of days ago. Naturally, the Abbott cannot condone what I must do once I find them, so my original plan was to go after them in the garb of a nobleman, my status before entering the Monastery. The problem with that is time. It will take too long, I’m afraid, to get home, explain the situation, find proper clothing that does not have our family crest on it somewhere, then get back to this area while the evil-doers are still within reach. So I propose that you and I switch places.”

“Ah, I see – we swap clothing, I go back and report what you’ve told me, and you, dressed like me, go search them out in complete anonymity.”

“Precisely. What do you think?”

Charles pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Yes…well, as you say, I’ll be quite a bit safer, since most of the highway robbers know a monk carries nothing of value. But what about the horses?”

“The horses?”

“Yes, my lord. They’re of about equal quality, but the saddles would mark a difference that would be hard to explain. You’re using one from the Monastery, while mine is from your father’s house and of superior make. Should we perhaps switch them, too?”

“Excellent suggestion.” Bayard managed his first real smile in days and patted the other man on the back. “And since we still have enough hour of daylight for you to make it to the next tavern before stopping for the night, I suggest we take care of this immediately.”

Thanking the taverner for his excellent wine, the two men went back out into the cold, not feeling it at first. But when they ducked behind the stable and stripped, most of the warmth they’d purchased fled. Even after they’d exchanged clothes and were wrapped in cloaks once more, the temptation to go back inside was great. Still, Bayard’s need to pursue his quarry was even greater, so after retrieving their mounts, they led them back to the road to switch saddles away from the curious eyes of the stabler.

As soon as this was accomplished, Charles handed over his extra coin purse, the one not hidden behind his belt, and smiled crookedly at his master. "I think I won't be needing this, either. Oh, and here - " He tugged at a large golden ring on his left middle finger, his action suggesting it was too small for him, but in the frigid air, it slid off easily. "Your father's signet. He let me wear it in case I needed proof of his authority in bringing your sister back with me. We were secretly hoping she'd run off to be with friends not too far from home, but as I traveled and asked questions, the sightings were scarce. After all, she'd left in the middle of the night, so only one cottager who happened to be outside relieving himself saw her gallop past. And even he couldn't have sworn the rider was a girl. But the vague description of her horse actually fit." He shrugged.

Bayard shoved the gold and enameled circlet onto his own hand, the index finger, since he was slimmer than both his father and Charles. "I understand. Thank you. I believe this completes my deception. I should be able to pass for a gentleman of means at the least, a nobleman at best, but not at all as a monk. Your coming was certainly fortuitous. I wish you Godspeed, my friend." He clapped the other man on the shoulder, gave it a quick squeeze of confidence and appreciation, and swung himself into the saddle.

"Take extraordinary care, my lord," said Charles. "It would not do to have your parents' hearts broken by the loss or injury of two

children."

The nobleman nodded, his eyes already casting searching glances along the road in the direction from which he'd come. "I shall, Charles. I shall. Pray for me." And so saying, he spun the chestnut mare about, dug his heels into its sides, and galloped off into the remains of the ice-clad day to begin his quest.

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