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diff --git a/39970.txt b/39970.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4da93fc --- /dev/null +++ b/39970.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12845 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hill of Venus, by Nathan Gallizier + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Hill of Venus + +Author: Nathan Gallizier + +Illustrator: E. H. Garrett + P. Verburg + +Release Date: June 11, 2012 [EBook #39970] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HILL OF VENUS *** + + + + +Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Matthew Wheaton and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + The Hill of Venus + + [Illustration: "He stared spellbound" (_See page 108_)] + + + + + THE HILL OF VENUS + + BY + _NATHAN GALLIZIER_ + + + AUTHOR OF + "Castel del Monte," "The Sorceress of Rome," + and "The Court of Lucifer" + + PICTURES BY E. H. GARRETT + + DECORATIONS BY P. VERBURG + + L. G. PAGE & COMPANY + BOSTON + MDCCCCXIII + + + _Copyright, 1913_ + BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY + (INCORPORATED) + + _All rights reserved_ + + First Impression, March, 1913 + + THE COLONIAL PRESS + C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. + + + "_Thou art all shrouded, in a gauzy veil, + Sombrous and cloudlike, all except that face + Of subtle loveliness, though weirdly pale. + Thy soft, slow-gliding footsteps leave no trace + And stir no sound. Thy drooping hands infold + Their frail white fingers, and unconscious hold + A poppy-wreath: thine anodyne of grace._ + + _Thy hair is like a twilight round thy head, + Thine eyes are shadowed wells from Lethe-stream, + With drowsy, subterranean waters fed; + Obscurely deep without a stir or gleam. + The gazer drinks in from them with his gaze + An opiate charm, to curtain all his days, + A passive languor of oblivious dream._" + + --_JAMES THOMSON._ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + BOOK THE FIRST + The Sacrifice + + I. The Summons + II. The Pledge + III. Vistas + IV. Proserpina + V. Waves of Destiny + VI. The Broken Troth + VII. The Passage + + + BOOK THE SECOND + The Pilgrimage + + I. The Vigil of Santa Maria Assunta + II. The Passing of Conradino + III. Tonsure and Thorn + IV. The Call + V. The Dells of Vallombrosa + VI. The Duke of Spoleto + VII. Rome! + + + BOOK THE THIRD + The Bondage + + I. The White Lady + II. The Feast at the Capitol + III. Quaint Wayfarers + IV. The Pawn of the Church + V. The Red Tower + + + BOOK THE FOURTH + The Passion + + I. Siren Land + II. The Lady of Shadows + III. An Interlude + IV. The Hill of Venus + V. Twilight Waters + VI. The Crimson Night + + + BOOK THE FIFTH + The Apostacy + + I. A Legend + II. Memories + III. The Grail of Love + IV. Dead Leaves + V. The Abbey of Farfa + VI. Retribution + VII. The Quest + VIII. The Anchoress of Narni + IX. The Dawn + + + + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + + "He stared spellbound" + "Ilaria had interposed herself between the two" + "He caught her to him with all the old-time love" + "'They lied,' he cried. 'Give me but life'" + + + + +Book the First + +THE SACRIFICE + + + + +The Hill of Venus + + + + +BOOK THE FIRST + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE SUMMONS + + +It was the time of the summer solstice in the year 1266. + +Evening was falling on the Basilicata, the shadowy, hazy twilight of +the fading midsummer day. The pale green leaves of the olive-branches +hung limply from their boughs, but the great willows which drooped +over the meandering tide of the Garigliano now and then stirred a +feathery twig in response to the delicate touch of the evening breeze. +The sun had entered the waters of ancient Liris for his evening bath, +leaving his robes of crimson and gold draped in the western sky. + +Everything in this fabled land had grown enchanted in the sunset glow. +The plane-trees drooped their leaves, as if wrapped in silent dreams. +In the poppy-fields the shrill insect voices were hushed, wan presage +of the coming dusk. The Liris rolled his sunset crimson gold between +the broken scenery of the hills, and the dark forests of the Murgie +spread waving shadows over the sun-kissed Apulian plains. + +To eastward the towering promontory of Monte Gargano, with the +shrines of St. Michael, patron of the Sea, rose sheer and precipitous +from the restless element which laved its base. The milk-white Apulian +towns of Foggia, Trani and Bitonto faded into the horizon to +southward, and the shadowy outlines of Castel del Monte, rising upon a +conical hill in the remote Basilicata, terminated the view to +westward. + +Out of the green dusk of forest aisles in which lost sunbeams +quivered, there rode a horseman into the shadowy silence of the +deepening twilight. + +Horse and rider alike seemed to feel the sway of the hour. Their +appearance did not so much as startle a bird, which from the boughs of +a carob-tree was languidly carolling a slumber song, that melted away +in the purple twilight without a single vibration. Rider and steed +drooped; the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant grass, +into which the tired hoofs sank at every step. + +The solitary traveller seemed lost in contemplation of the scenery, as +he now and then paused in the shadow of the dwarfed plane and +carob-trees. Round their grotesquely gnarled trunks vines clung in +fantastic tapestries of living green, between which the path seemed to +wind towards strange twilight worlds. Slowly, as if under the weight +of some heavy spell, the horseman continued upon the deserted road, +when he was suddenly roused from his abstracted reveries by the sound +of the Angelus, cleaving the stillness with echoing chimes. + +Reining in his steed with a convulsive start, which caused the +startled animal to rear and champ at the bit, he paused and looked +across the vale. He had reached a point at which the forest descended +into one of those deep ravines from which arise the rocks on which +most of the monasteries of Central Italy are built. On the brow of the +opposite hill, arising from a grove of cypresses and pines, the airy +shafts of the cloisters of San Cataldo pierced the translucent air. +The uplifted cross caught the last rays of the sun, whose misty, +crimson ball was slowly sinking below the world's dark rim. + +Slowly the horseman started on the winding descent into the valley +below, thence on the steep climb of the opposite heights, passing +numerous groups of peasants, in grotesque, gaily tinted garbs, who +stood or knelt round the wayside shrine of a saint, their bronzed +countenances aglow with fervor and religious zeal. Some pilgrims, +known by bearing the rosemary branch, were visible among the trees in +the background.-- + +Francesco Villani was tall and of slender stature. His face possessed +almost classic regularity of features. Hair of chestnut brown, +pointing to an extraction not purely Italian, clustered round the high +forehead. His eyes, gazing wistfully from the well-poised head, were +the brown eyes of a dreamer. + +His age might have been reckoned at twenty-five. His appearance and +bearing were those of one bred in the sphere of a court. His garb +consisted of a russet-colored tunic, fastened with a belt of embossed +leather studded with gold, particolored hose, encased in leather +buskins, and a cap with a slanting plume, the ensemble denoting a page +of some princely household. + +A shadowy wilderness encompassed the ascent to the cloisters, whose +white walls were sharply outlined against the greenish-blue of the +sky. The scene which on all sides met the youth's gaze seemed almost +unreal. Laden with perfume was the air, of jessamine, of styrax, of +roses heavy in the breathless evening glow. Here and there, under +drooping branches, he passed a wooden cross, rudely carved, marking +the resting-place of some unknown pilgrim, or early martyr of the +faith. Wandering ivy wound its tendrils round the faded or +half-effaced inscriptions, and ilex foliage drooped thickly over the +Memento Mori on the roadside. + +The hour added to the beauty of the scene. + +A silver moon, hovering midway in the eastern sky, began to +scintillate with trembling lustre on the dreaming world below. An +intermittent breeze now and then swayed the tops of the stately +holm-oaks, wafting the fragrance of almond-trees and oleander along +alleys bordered by yew-trees. A nightingale poured forth its plaintive +song from the shelter of branch-shadowed thickets, and from the +high-domed chapel of the cloisters came the muffled chant of the +monks, borne along on the wings of the evening breeze. + +At last the summit was reached. + +Francesco stopped before the massive gates of San Cataldo. + +With a quick tightening of the lips he dismounted. Then, without a +second's pause, he seized upon the rope which sounded a gong in the +porter's lodge. + +"Who is it that would enter?" drawled a surly voice, quaverous with +age. + +Francesco, with a twitch of the lips, grasped his horse's mane and +pulled it, till the astonished creature gave forth a neigh of protest, +at the same time rearing violently. + +Then, looking up, he shouted: + +"One who would see the Prior without delay." + +Forthwith, the wicket was pulled back, and the weazened countenance of +Fra Lorenzo, the porter, appeared in the opening. + +"You would see the Prior," he gibbered, peering through the dusk upon +the belated caller, and adding with the loquaciousness of old age: "If +you are he the Prior expects, you have indeed need of haste." + +With this enigmatical speech the small window above was shut. + +A moment or two later the heavy bronze gates of San Cataldo swung +slowly inward, admitting Francesco Villani and his steed. A +lay-brother, who appeared at the same time from an inner court, took +charge of the latter, while the youth followed his guide, till they +stood directly in front of the great stone church, which towered, like +a huge cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness. The chant of +the monks, which had fallen on Francesco's ear as he climbed the +height, had ceased. Deep silence reigned in San Cataldo; only a dim +light, here and there, gave evidence of life within. + +Passing the door of the church, they found themselves facing the +visitor's entrance of the cloisters. Before entering, Francesco's +guide knocked sturdily at the door. + +In the shadows of the dimly lighted corridor there stood a monk, tall +of stature, who seemed to await them. + +He regarded the youth with gloomy curiosity, while Fra Lorenzo, bent +almost double in self-abasement, slowly retreated. + +"You are Francesco Villani?" spoke the Prior. Yet it sounded not like +a question. Nor did he extend his hands in greeting. + +"How is my father?" came the anxious reply. + +"Follow me!" said the Prior, leading the way, and as Francesco strode +behind the tall monk, of whose stern features he had caught but a +glimpse in the shadow of the corridor, he was seized with a sudden +unaccountable dread. + +The expression in the face of the Prior was unreadable, but there was +little doubt he was reluctant to speak. + +They passed in silence down the refectory, then up a stone stairway, +through a maze of corridors lighted dimly with stone lamps and +torches. At last he paused before the door of a chamber which they +entered, and as soon as they appeared, all those seated within arose +of one accord, while the Prior silently pointed to a bed, under a +silken canopy, whereon lay a white, still form. And as with quickened +pulse, with quickened step, looking neither to right nor left, the +youth strode to the bedside and bent over the passive form reclining +among the cushions, all those present withdrew, flitting noiselessly +as phantoms from the room, perchance more out of respect for the dying +man than regard for the son. + +"My father!" Francesco whispered softly. + +Gregorio Villani, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights +Hospitallers, who, in the midst of his journey from Rome to Bari, had +been stricken down with a deadly fever, opened his eyes. In those gray +orbs the old-time fire still lingered and when he spoke, weak though +was his voice, the wonted ring of command still dominated. + +"Thanks, Francesco, for your quick obedience. It came sooner than I +expected." + +"It was my desire and duty," came the response, spoken almost in a +whisper, as the youth was noting each passing change in his father's +weakened face and frame. + +There was a silence of some duration between them, as if neither dared +give utterance to his thoughts and fears. + +Francesco had lifted the white, resistless hand to his lips and +tenderly replaced it on the coverlet. + +"All is well now," the elder Villani spoke at last. "Refreshments will +be brought you. After that we will speak of the business of the +hour,--the purpose of your presence here. As yet--I cannot!" + +The last sentence came brokenly, and with a sort of shudder. The sight +of his son seemed to have unnerved the sick man. He closed his eyes as +if he had been taken with a sudden sinking spell. + +One of the monks, who practised the art of medicine, hurried to the +bedside with a cordial, which he hastened to administer. Then +Francesco, seeing his father sink back into a torpor, left his side +and went to a table on which had been placed some barley bread, +venison and wine. + +Of this he seemed in great need indeed, being thoroughly exhausted +from the long ride and the enervating emotions through which he had +passed since receiving the fatal summons. + +Those who had been present in the chamber when he arrived, had now +re-entered. In a corner, whence they cast occasional glances at the +stricken man and at the youth who was devouring his repast with +nervous haste, two confessors and the monk who had administered the +cordial, sat whispering together in lugubrious consultation, while the +object of their concern lay upon the heavily canopied bed, unheedful +of their talk, pallid and motionless, his eyes closed, one hand +clenched tightly on the coarse coverlet. + +His first hunger appeased, Francesco watched the scene as one in a +trance. In his mind there was no definite thought or feeling. All +about him there seemed to hang a haze of apprehension, vague and +elusive as the candle-light. Something was to happen, he felt, +something strange, dreadful, unguessed. This unaccountable dread waxed +greater until it became impossible for him to continue his repast. He +finished his wine, then sat quite still on his wooden settle, his head +bent, his fingers tightly interlaced. + +The monks thought he was muttering a prayer. + +In reality his thoughts had fled from the present hour to the memory +of the scenes he had left at the gay and pleasure-loving Court of +Avellino, scenes of a garden and balcony, where he had been wont to +whisper his hopes and thoughts into the ears of a proud girl, whose +favors, so manifestly bestowed upon himself, were vainly and eagerly +sought by youths of nobler birth and unquestioned parentage, when a +mysterious something recalled him to the reality of the moment. + +He rose mechanically and crossed to the bed whereon the sick man lay. + +The latter seemed to feel his presence and looked up. + +"Are you ready?" he asked in a whisper. + +Francesco bowed his head. + +The elder Villani raised his thin white hands. + +"I would be alone with my son," he addressed the monk sitting nearest +his couch. Rising obediently, the latter imparted the sick man's wish +to the others who slowly filed out of the room. + +Wistfully his eyes followed their movements, till their steps had died +to silence in the long corridor. Then, without Francesco's aid, the +elder Villani raised himself in the cushions. There seemed to be no +hint of weakness in the body, racked for weeks by the ravages of the +fever. + +It was the last flickering of the indomitable spirit which had with +absolute assurance carried him to the goal of his ambition. From the +unknown monk he had risen step by step in the service of the Church +Militant, until his name resounded through the Christian and Moslem +world, more powerful than that of the Pontiff, whom only in matters +spiritual he acknowledged his superior. + +The Knights Hospitallers had long assumed the defence of the Christian +world against the ever bolder encroaching hordes of Islam; they had +constituted themselves the guardians of the Holy Sepulchre, and +Gregorio Villani had not shirked the duties which the fulfillment of +his early ambition had imposed upon him. On his way to Rome, to rouse +the Pope to the proclamation of another crusade, he had stopped at +Avellino in obedience to the voice of his heart, which yearned for the +embrace of his own flesh and blood. + +The boy Francesco had indeed fulfilled the promise of his childhood, +and the elder Villani could not but commend his own wisdom, which had +prompted him to place the youth at the Ghibelline court, disregarding +the violent protests of Urban IV, who had time and again +excommunicated the friends and adherents of Emperor Frederick II. But +the irate enemy of the Swabian dynasty could ill afford to estrange +from himself the good-will of the formidable order of St. John, and +for the time, at least, he had seemingly acquiesced. + +And his time had come. + +The reunion between father and son had been affectionate, but when +the father suddenly hinted at certain secret desires regarding his +son's future, a cold hand seemed to come between them, which caused +the elder Villani to part with a pang from the offspring of an illicit +love. He could hardly have accounted to himself for the subtle change +which his mind had undergone. And to such an extent did it prey on his +thoughts, that he laid his heart open to the Pontiff. What transpired +at their conference, not even the elder Villani's intimate friends +ever knew. But the fact remained, that he emerged from the private +audience with the cobbler's son a changed man, resolved to leave no +stone unturned to make Francesco pliable to his designs. + +But ere he reached the port of Bari, whence he was to embark for the +Holy Land, he fell prey to a malignant fever, which compelled him to +forego his journey and to place himself under the care of the monks of +San Cataldo. + +Feeling his life ebbing slowly away, he had caused Francesco to be +summoned to his bedside. + +He could not die in peace with the blot upon his conscience, the blot +from the womb of a woman,--the blot called Francesco. Ever since he +had again set eyes on the youth, carefree and happy among his +companions, the memory of his own sin had been present with him. The +fear of punishment in the life to come increased with every day; the +dread of damnation everlasting chased the slumber from his eyes, and +the man who had defied the combined forces of the Caliph, trembled at +the thought of his own last hour on earth. Vainly he had racked his +brain for some method of atonement which would dispel the ever present +fear of being barred from his seat in the Heaven of the Blessed, which +would assure him immunity from the lake of everlasting fire. At last, +like a revelation, it dawned upon him: clearly he saw his course. +There was the one way,--there was no choice. A sacrifice must be made +to save his soul, a sacrifice by one near and dear,--yet Gregorio +Villani had no life claims upon any one, save his son. His son! +And,--as according to the Scriptures the sins of the father shall be +visited upon the children even unto the third generation and the +fourth,--why, according to divine permission, might not the son be +requested to take and bear the consequences of his father's sin? + +Francesco stood by his father's side, glad that the decisive moment +had come at last, trusting that his gloomy forebodings might be +dispelled. Gregorio Villani was looking at him in silence, with +fearful eyes and slightly parted, expectant lips. Finally, lifting his +hand, the old man pointed to a wooden settle. Francesco understood, +and, placing it near the bed, seated himself thereon, fixing his eyes +on his father's face. + +The elder Villani found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremor +in his tone, but with desperate intensity, he said: + +"Francesco--do you remember our converse at Avellino?" + +The youth nodded. He seemed to have anticipated a similar preliminary. + +"You were not born in wedlock," the old man continued. + +"So you told me," came the whispered reply. + +"It was a grievous sin!"-- + +Francesco bowed his head. + +There was a brief pause, then the elder Villani continued: + +"You are my child, Francesco, the single evidence of my swerving from +the narrow path of righteousness. For years have I tried to atone for +my guilt. Yet, neither priest nor pontiff would grant me +absolution!"-- + +He paused and looked searchingly into Francesco's eyes. + +The youth's face showed no expression, save that of earnest attention. +Taking breath again, the old man continued: + +"My hours are numbered. As I have bedded myself, so I lie. In another +world I shall be judged! Judged! Francesco! Have you ever thought of +death?" + +"I have not," was the answer given in absent tones. + +"Nor had I, when I was at your age," returned the elder Villani, +reverting to the ill-fated theme. "But I think of it now,--for I needs +must. When one stands on the threshold of eternity, face to face with +his Creator, then indeed does man begin to bethink himself. Even +though a priest might have absolved me of my transgression, my own +conscience could not! The vows of the Church are sacred. And now, from +the height of time, I look down through the gallery of years. My +prayers of anguish and repentance have brought no peace to my heart. +Ever and ever remorse returns. Purgatory opens before my inner gaze +and Hell yawns to receive my soul!" + +Again the Grand Master paused, his strength failing rapidly. + +With a strong, final effort, however, he concentrated a glance of +powerful intensity upon Francesco's thoughtful face. The latter +returned the look with one of earnest questioning. + +"And was the sin so great?" he queried. "Others have committed worse, +yet despaired not of Heaven!" + +The old man sighed. He had made his decision, passed these arguments +from him long ago. Now no word from any one might mitigate his +judgment of himself. The thought that his own flesh and blood was +taking so lenient a view of the matter, irritated and annoyed him. + +"I am not Arnold of Brescia, to soothe my conscience with idle +quibbles," he said after a pause. "I am your father, face to face with +the Hereafter, filled with fear for the repose of my soul. The tenets +of indulgence are not for me! One may be a saint on earth and knock in +vain at the gates of Heaven. What are others to me? It is I that am +dying!" + +Like a tidal-wave breaking on the shore it came to Francesco in a +sudden flood of understanding. His father had no thought save for +himself. It was not the happiness of others he strove for, his own +welfare his first and final goal. The ties of flesh and blood meant +nothing to him, save for what he might demand of them for himself. In +his earlier years he might have allayed suffering and fears with +words. What were words to him now? + +"What would you have me do?" queried Francesco. His voice was low and +fraught with a great pity for the dying man. + +A gleam passed over the latter's face. At last he had to put the +question. All hung upon that moment, all;--his eternal happiness and +damnation. Should he reveal his request at once, with nothing to allay +its harshness? + +A sudden rush of pain decided the matter. + +"You ask me what you should do?" he replied slowly. "There is but one +thing to do,--there is but one choice. It is for you to live the life +in which I have failed. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live +apart from men, alone with tomes and prayers and God,--removed from +the temptation which caused my fall!" + +The sick man drew a short and painful breath, scarcely lower in sound +than three words spoken close by his side, spoken as with the voice of +a phantom. + +"Become a monk!"-- + +The elder Villani did not stir. He reclined in the cushions, his eyes +fixed upon his son with a pitiful look of pleading, which might do far +more than words, to prepare the youth's mind for such a thought. + +Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francesco moved away from the bed. His +gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused to +concentrate themselves upon anything. It was too monstrous to +conceive! It was past belief, past understanding,--an ill-timed jest +perhaps--but yet a jest! + +And he burst out with a laugh in which there was no thought of mirth. + +"A monk!" + +The old man regarded him anxiously. + +"I did not jest!" + +The laugh died to silence, then rose again in his throat, but +Francesco's eyes were terrible. + +"Am I fitted for a monk?" he spoke at last. "You know what my life has +been. Have not you placed me in the sphere of the court, even ere I +had attained the power to think? How can I become a monk? What do I +know of the way of monks? What do I know of their lives? I must have +time to think!" + +"There is no time," insisted the elder Villani, despair in his eyes. + +"There is no time!" Francesco exclaimed aghast. + +Then all the blood rushed to his heart. + +"You mean that I am to decide, here and now?" + +"Here and now!" came the low, inexorable voice. + +The youth sprang from his seat. + +"Then I say no,--no,--no!" he shouted, his eyes flashing fierce +determination from the pale face. "I am not fit to be a monk! I will +not be a monk! I am of the living,--I came for the sunlight, not the +shadow of the cloister! Never--never--never!" + +A terrible, indefinable expression passed into the eyes of the sick +man. It passed out again, but the trace remained. + +When he spoke again, his voice was weak, and there was a note in it of +despair. + +"Deem you, that I have not thought of it, that I have not weighed in +the balance all your objections to the life of the cloister when I +asked this thing of you? You say you are of the court! You came for +the sunlight, not the shadow! What man does not! But you forget, there +is a force that shapes our ends,--you forget--your origin,--your +birth! I am your father and my sin is yours! We are both impure in the +sight of God! I have opened a means of salvation for both of us--the +Way of the Cross. A glorious way it is, for by it my soul shall belong +to you! In the sight of men you are as nothing! The blot of your birth +can never be effaced! But you are my son! Therefore, here on my +death-bed I command you to leave this world, that you may open the way +to another,--a better one,--to both of us,--to both of us, +Francesco,--to you and to me!" + +There was a long silence between them, a silence of dread and +expectation for the one,--of fear and despair for the other. + +At last Francesco raised his head. + +"And she, whom I never knew,--she who was my mother," he asked +bitterly--"have you saved her soul? Or is that too left for me to do?" + +"If prayers and penances avail, and masses untold,--her soul is in +Heaven! Yet--how do I know if the sacrifice availed?" + +Francesco again relapsed into silence. + +Out of the mist before his eyes there rose his own life. He saw its +shimmering past,--all the allurement for happiness it held out,--and +the dreary future decreed for him, to atone for another's sin. + +"What is required to make a monk of me?" he queried with a dead voice. +"What cloister am I to enter?" + +The sick man breathed quickly. + +"All these matters have I arranged. From His Holiness himself have I +letters, sanctioning the matter. You will be given the right of +friar's orders that shall free you at times from the weariness and +monotony of the cloister. In all difficulties or troubles you will +appeal directly to the Pontiff! These privileges are great!" + +"The Pontiff!" Francesco uttered with a start. "Pope Clement IV is the +mortal enemy of those to whom I have pledged my troth, to whom I owe +allegiance. I am a Ghibelline!" he concluded, as if struck by a new +thought. "I can never become a monk!" + +For a moment the elder Villani lay silent, as if dazed by this sudden +unforeseen resistance. He forced himself to answer calmly and not to +betray his own misgivings. + +"Your reasons are mere sophistry!" he said, after a brief pause. "Has +the party of Conradino the power to pave your way to Heaven,--to save +my soul from perdition? To insure your mother's eternal peace? Your +path lies henceforth with the Church, from which only my own +perverseness and blindness had severed you. For you henceforth there +are no commands save those of the Holy Father! What are Guelphs and +Ghibellines to you in this of all homes,--when I am lying at the door +of death?" + +"They will look upon me as an ingrate, a renegade, a traitor,--and she +of all,--she--" + +He covered his face with his hands. + +"What say you?" asked his father drearily. + +"Where am I to go?" came the monotonous response. + +"You will repair to Monte Cassino, there to serve your novitiate. Your +time is to be shortened by special dispensation. At the end of that +period you will be called to Rome, to enter the Chapter House of the +Order of St. John. It holds out greater honor and privileges than any +in the world. You will take your orders directly from His Holiness. +The path to glory and to holiness lies open to you. Are you +satisfied?" + +A moan came from Francesco's lips. + +"My strength is failing,--your word,--to God!" + +Francesco stood beside his father's death-bed, his arms hanging limply +by his side. His damp hair clung closely to his head. His eyes were +dull and unseeing. + +Like a breath of the evening wind his youth had passed from him. His +gaze was not upon his father's face, but turned inwardly upon the +great aching void where his happiness had been. + +When he spoke his words were low, his tone and his face alike without +expression. + +"In the sight of God, I promise to become a monk!" + +The old man, straining to catch the words, drank them into his soul. + +His face relaxed. A sigh passed his lips. His failing strength had +apparently returned to him. + +"You may call Fra Anselmo," he said gently. "But first, my son, kneel +to receive my blessing!" + +Francesco stumbled blindly to the bedside and forced himself to kneel. +He shivered, as the sick man's hot, dry hand lay upon his hair, and +only by main force he restrained himself from crying out aloud. + +Then the whispered phrase of the benediction fell meaningless upon his +ear: + +"Pax tecum nunc et per omnia saecula,--Amen!"-- + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE PLEDGE + + +In the antechamber of the elder Villani's sick-room, during the talk +between father and son, the monks had quietly waited the termination +of the interview. The Prior sat alone on a settle in a corner, his +tonsured head bent so low that his face was unreadable, while with +nervous fingers he stroked the cloth of his brown robe. One of the +monks was engaged in expounding some dogma to his companions who +obviously paid little heed to his words. A strange friar, who had on +the previous night arrived from Rome, sat with the confessor of San +Cataldo, but neither of them spoke. They, too, seemed to be listening +for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The two mediciners, more +at ease, sat murmuring professionally between themselves, careless of +the mental unrest of their colleagues of the soul. None in the room, +save the strange friar, knew what the elder Villani was saying to his +son, but there were few even among these world-strange men who had not +guessed the truth long ago. + +The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the quaint stone lamps +wavered and flickered restlessly in their sconces, while the uneven +light from the cresset-lantern, hung in the centre of the chamber, +cast distorted shadows over floor and ceiling. To all present the wait +was tedious. To the strange friar whose eyes roamed ever again towards +the sick-chamber, it seemed interminable, and ever and anon the monk +at his side leaned uneasily towards him. "Gregorio Villani will find +the task no easy one. He had better left it to one of us!" + +Nevertheless, when their wait was ended, and the leather hangings of +the door were raised by a white hand, all in the room were startled, +and gazed alert with wondering eyes, and lips on which the words had +died. + +It was a strange apparition that entered. For a moment each was aware +of a slender figure which seemed to sway even as it grasped the +curtain, of a face ghastly white, framed in a wealth of dishevelled +hair, of a voice whose sound seemed but the hoarse whisper of a ghost, +as he staggered towards the strange friar. + +"My father desires your presence." + +The monk arose quickly, glancing furtively at the face of the youth, +then exchanging a swift glance with the Prior. At the same time one of +the mediciners started up. + +With an unspoken "Not yet!" the Prior waved him back, and Francesco +followed the strange friar from the room. + +A swift repugnance against his companion, seemingly born of the +moment, filled the youth, as side by side they traversed the short +passage-way. At the door of the sick-room, which they were about to +enter, the monk suddenly paused and turned. + +"You have consented?" he whispered. + +Francesco's lips formed an answer, barely audible, but which the monk +at his side caught at once. + +Something akin to a look of involuntary admiration stole over his face +and something akin to a gleam of pity flickered in his eyes. The +admiration was for the mental powers of the elder Villani, which, it +seemed, not even approaching Death could vanquish. The fleeting pity +was for the son. But not unmingled with both was a look of triumph for +himself. + +On entering the sick-room the monk stepped at once to the side of the +dying man. Gregorio Villani's cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes +were brilliant, but his voice was weaker than it had been. + +"Francesco has granted my last wish," he said, looking searchingly +into the friar's face. "Have you the briefs that are required for his +going?" + +The friar produced a bundle from his cassock, which he placed on the +bed. Gregorio Villani took up the first scroll. + +"To this one, containing the pledge, Francesco shall put his name," he +said, with a glance at his son. "The second is a letter from my own +hand, to the monastery and chapter, which His Holiness has decreed for +him. The third is the special dispensation, granting friar's order to +Francesco. Treasure it well, my son, for it will prove the greatest +boon of your life! And now, in presence of this witness, you shall +sign your pledge to me and to the Church!" + +He looked imploringly at the youth, who stood by with pale face and +eyes from which every gleam of gladness had faded. When Francesco made +no reply, the strange monk stepped to a table on which there were +scattered sundry writing utensils, and dipping a pen in a composition +serving as ink, brought it to Francesco. + +The latter stared for a moment from the friar to his father, his eyes +ablaze. Then he reached out, snatched the pen from the monk's hand and +dashed it on the floor. + +"Does not my word suffice?" he spoke hoarsely, catching at his throat +like a drowning man. + +"The flesh is weak and temptation ever near,"--the strange friar spoke +in the elder Villani's stead, as he picked up the pen with a sidelong +glance at the sick man. There was to be no hesitation, no wavering +now. The moment lost might never again return! + +"You must sign the pledge," the sick man, turning to his son, +interposed tremulously. His own misgivings ran apace with those of the +strange monk. + +Snatching the pen from the latter's hand, Francesco bent over the +scroll and scratched his name barbarously under the pledge. Then, from +his nerveless fingers, it dropped anew upon the floor. + +The older man, who had been watching him narrowly, heaved a sigh of +relief. + +"You have assured my eternal salvation and your own," he said in a +weak, toneless voice. "Retire now, my son, that this holy friar and I +may arrange the details of your going." + +A hot flush suffused Francesco's face as he straightened himself to +his full height. + +"Of my going?" he said slowly. "Surely I am not yet to go! Am I not to +wait at least until--" + +"My death?" finished the elder Villani, looking at him with piercing +intentness. "You shall not have to wait long. I shall never see the +light of another day!" + +Francesco struggled to suppress a moan which rose to his lips. Then he +covered his face with both hands. His nerves were giving way. Further +resistance was impossible. Mentally and physically worn, he was +encountering a will, pitiless, uncompromising. He felt further +argument to be useless. And the strange friar, noting his condition, +knew that the victory was theirs. + +He placed a scroll in the elder Villani's hands. + +"The absolution from His Holiness," he said, with a low, solemn voice, +intended, nevertheless, to be heard by Francesco. "The conditions are +fulfilled." + +Francesco glanced from one to the other: he understood. + +He had been sold; his youth, his life bartered away, like the life of +a slave. + +Fearing an outburst, the elder Villani turned to his son. + +"You had best retire and seek your rest, Francesco," he said in a +voice strangely mingled with concern and dread. "Fra Girolamo and I +will arrange these matters between us. Leave us in good faith. You +will depart on the morrow! I wish I knew you safe in the cloister even +now! Go, my son,--and peace be with you!"-- + +Francesco turned silently to leave the room. Presently something, a +quiver of feeling, stopped him. He hesitated for a moment, then he +returned to the bedside, bending over it and gazing sadly into his +father's face. + +"I shall see you again in the morning?" he asked gently. + +"By the will of God," the sick man replied with feeble voice. + +His head had sunk upon his breast. Francesco crossed the room and was +gone. A moment after they heard a loud, jarring laugh without. Then +all was still. + +The elder Villani and the monk exchanged looks in silence. For some +time neither spoke. When the silence was broken at last, it was in a +way which revealed the close touch between the minds of these two. + +"Was the struggle great?" questioned the monk. + +"Great as the sacrifice demanded," replied the sick man. "And yet, not +as fierce as I had apprehended. Francesco is my own flesh and blood! +Ah! At times my heart reproaches me for what I have done!" + +"A weakness you will overcome! In giving back to the Church the boy +who was in a fair way to become her enemy, who had been reared in the +camp of her mortal foes, who had been fed on the milk of heresy and +apostasy, you have but done your duty. He will soon have forgotten +that other life, which would have consigned him to tortures eternal, +and will gladly accept what is required of him for the repose of your +soul and his own!" + +There was a brief pause, during which the elder Villani seemed to +collect his waning energies. The monk's speech had roused in him a +spirit of resistance, of defiance. Who were they that would dispose +of the life of his own flesh and blood? It was too late, to undo what +he had done. But it should not pass without a protest. + +"Monk, you know not whereof you speak," the sick man said hoarsely. +"The rioting blood of youth cannot suddenly be stemmed in the veins, +and congealed to ice at the command of a priest! I too was young and +happy once,--long ago, and how happy! God who knows of my +transgression, alone knows! I have paid the penalty with my own flesh +and blood. Tell His Holiness, he may be satisfied!" + +"His Holiness could demand no less," interposed the monk. "Your sin +was mortal: you added to it by placing the offspring of a forbidden +love at the court of the arch-heretic, thrice under ban of +excommunication." + +"That was my real sin,--that other would have been forgiven," replied +the elder Villani bitterly, as if musing aloud. "Let those who are +undefiled, cast the first stone. How beautiful she was,--how heavenly +sweet! And with dying breath, as if the impending dissolution of the +body had imbued her with the faculty to look into the future, she +piteously begged me, as if she apprehended my weakness after her +spirit had fled:--'Do not make a monk of my boy!'" + +He paused with a sob, then he continued: + +"Will the repose of my soul, which I have purchased with this +immeasurable sacrifice, insure her own in the great beyond? What will +she say to me, when we meet in the realm of shadows, when the plaint +of her child is wafted to her in the fumes of the incense, while his +trembling hands swing the censer and he curses the day when he saw the +light of life?" + +"She will rather bless you, knowing from what temptations of the flesh +you have removed him," replied the monk, peering anxiously from his +cowl down to where the sick man lay. + +This, at least, must be no enforced sacrifice. Gregorio Villani must +stand acknowledged to himself and the world for the greater glory of +the Church. He, the one time friend of Frederick, the Emperor, by +whose side he had entered the gates of Antioch in the face of the +fierce defence of the Saracens, he, the Ghibelline Emperor's right +hand in the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, must now and forever sever +his cause from that of the arch-enemy of papacy, and die in the fold +of the Church. + +The monk had calculated on the sick man's waning strength, and the +ebbing tide of life proved his mightiest ally. + +The stricken man lay still for a time, then he heaved a sigh. + +"God grant that your words be true,--that I have not cast him in the +way of temptation instead." + +Raising himself with difficulty upon his pillows, he glanced +significantly at the envoy from Rome. Then, with voice needlessly +hushed, for there was no one present to hear him, he added: + +"He must depart at once! He must not return to Avellino!" + +The monk pondered a while, then shook his head. + +"It were hardly wise. Francesco has signed the pledge and will not +break his oath. He must himself inform the Apulian court of his +decision, of his choice." + +And inwardly he thought: Thus only will the sacrifice be complete and +the triumph of the Church! + +"Might he not inform them from wherever he goes?" + +There was a strange dread in the elder Villani's eyes, which remained +not unobserved by the other. + +"You would not have Francesco, flesh of your flesh, blood of your +blood, appear a coward who fears to proclaim his own free will?" + +The monk laid stress on the last words. + +The elder Villani was startled. Yet he understood. + +"His own free will," he repeated as in a dream. "The boy is proud. He +will never proclaim his father's shame!" + +The monk smiled,--a subtle, inward smile. + +Francesco's extraction was an open secret, though no one had ever +alluded to it in his presence. Yet the Pope's delegate judged the +youth correctly. Besides, the elder Villani's suggestion would have +upset his own and his master's plans. The Church could be wholly +triumphant only if Francesco openly denounced the friends, the loves +of his boyhood, his youth. A stealthy flight from the court to the +cloister would scarcely have added to the glory of those who had +brought about the deed. + +A sinking spell had seized the sick man and the monk hastened to call +in the attendant mediciners. But the cordial they administered with +some difficulty only had the effect of producing more regular +breathing. + +Gregorio Villani's prophetic words were to be fulfilled. + +Francesco meanwhile lay in the guest-chamber, which had been prepared +for him. His brain rebelled against further labor and his head had +scarcely found its welcome resting-place ere the darkly fringed +eyelids drooped heavily, and he slept. Through the remaining hours of +the night he lay wrapped in a slumber resembling that of death. Only +once or twice he moaned, tossing restlessly on his pillows. The rays +of the morning sun, creeping up to his eyes, held in them a drowsy +dream of a girl's fair face. The dream brought no awakening, and the +sun was high in the heavens, when a hand, cold and thin, was laid upon +his white one, which lay listlessly above his head. Instantly he +started up, ready to resent the intrusion, when he met the gaze of two +sombre eyes, peering down upon him, which recalled him to the place +and hour. + +Before him stood the shrunken form of Fra Girolamo. + +With a deep sigh, he returned to reality. + +"How fares my father?" he asked quickly, his memory stirred by the +sombre eyes that met his own. + +"Requiescat in pace!" said the monk with bowed head. + +Francesco sank back upon his cushions and hid his face in his arms. +The monk heard him sob and, for a moment, his frame seemed to shake as +with convulsions. At last he raised himself with an effort. + +"Conduct me to him!" he then said to the friar, who preceded him in +silence to the death-chamber. + +The rays of the morning sun shone upon the face of Gregorio Villani +and imbued the features with a look of peace such as the living had +not worn for many a day. The monks had placed his body on a bier, on +each side of which two tall wax tapers burned in their sconces. + +Francesco knelt down by the side of the bier, burying his head in his +hands, while the monk retreated into a remote corner of the room. + +When he rose at last, the watcher saw all the young life go out of his +face, which suddenly grew old and cold. Light and color seemed +simultaneously to depart from eyes and lips, and his limbs seemed +hardly able to sustain him upright. After a pause he dared not break, +for dread of revealing his sudden feeling, the youth's lifeless voice +was raised in the dreary monotone of questioning. + +"When will they take him away?" + +The monk came nearer. + +"He will be laid to rest at night-fall under the great altar of the +Cathedral." + +A silence fell between them. + +Again Francesco spoke. + +"The dial points to something like noon?" + +The monk nodded. + +"When will you ride?" + +"At night-fall." + +"It is well. You will return to Avellino, that you may bid farewell to +your former master and friends. Thence you will proceed to Monte +Cassino." + +"To Monte Cassino," the youth echoed with a voice dead as his soul. + +Then he added: + +"I ride alone?" + +"Alone!" + +"Leave me now! I would spend the last hours here with him!" + +"Will you not come to the refectory? You are in need of food, and the +day is long!" + +Francesco raised his hands as if in abhorrence of the thought. Then, +as he turned towards the bier, he seemed newly overwhelmed at the +sight of the lifeless clay before him. The memory of his father's +first appearance, as he entered the sick-chamber, the ashen pallor, +the traces of cruel pain, now softened or effaced by the majesty of +Death, reverted to him. + +He sank down beside the bier. + +But try as he might, he could not pray. + +Thus the monk left him.-- + +On that evening, in the presence of the entire chapter of the +Cathedral and the monks of San Cataldo, they laid to rest under the +great altar of the imposing edifice all that was mortal of Gregorio +Villani, Grand Master of the Knights of St. John. + +And on that evening the strange friar, who had brought to the dying +man the much craved conditional absolution, departed after a final +interview with Francesco, who was to return at once to Avellino to +prepare himself for the new life which had been decreed for him. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +VISTAS + + +The morning dawned gray with heat. The air was lifeless. The sun, +rolling lazily up the eastern sky, scarcely deigned to permit his +beams to penetrate the humid atmosphere. In the night a heavy dew had +fallen and the lush turf on the edge of the forest was a sparkling +mass of drops. The fragrance of the rose-gardens and poppy-fields +environing San Cataldo was stifling. The very worms and insects lay +inert about shrubs and foliage. In the west, a falling arch of heavy +clouds hung low over the distant mountains. It was an unnatural +morning, which presaged a storm. + +The forests of the Murgie were still dark when Francesco Villani +entered their cool and fragrant depths. To him the smile of dawn on +that morning had been as the mirthless smile of a ghost. For, with +to-day, there had been awakened the memories of yesterday, the +consciousness of his impending fate. + +Fate! What a future it had prepared for him, a future void of +everything which the soul of man may crave, which may delight his +heart. The sins of another were to be visited upon his guiltless +head,--he was to atone for his own existence. + +Yet even that seemed bearable compared with the hour to come at the +Court of Avellino, the hour when he must renounce all he held dear in +life, appear an ingrate, a traitor; the hour of parting, a parting for +life, for all eternity from the friends and companions of his youth +and from one who was all the world to him. At the mere thought, the +life blood froze in his veins. + +The forests of the Murgie gradually thinned, and Francesco emerged +upon a high level plateau, which to southward sloped into the Apulian +plains, and on which the sun poured the whole fervor of his beams, +till the earth itself seemed to beat up light. And there was no refuge +from the heat in that vast plain, which soon spread on every side with +the broad sterility of the African desert. Half blinded, Francesco +cantered along, dreading every step that carried him nearer to the +gates of his lost paradise. + +A mysterious silence was brooding over the immense expanse, which +became more desolate with every step. The wide plains reposed in a +melancholy fertility; flowering thistles were swarming with countless +butterflies; dry fennel, wild and withered, rioted round the scattered +remnants of broken columns, on whose summits wild birds of prey were +screaming. + +As the sun rode higher in the heavens, the panorama suddenly changed, +as if transformed by the wand of a magician. Colossal plane and +carob-trees rose on the horizon, waving fantastic shadows over +innumerable old crypts and tombs and the fantastic shapes of the +underbrush. To southward the view was unlimited, while in Francesco's +rear the snowy cone of Soracte rose defiantly over the plains, its +glistening summit towering ruddy in the light of the midday sun +against the transparent azure of the sky. Wild expanses of copse +alternated with pastures brilliant with flowers. Herds of black and +white cattle were browsing on either side, donkeys and half wild +horses, and occasionally Francesco passed a large, white masseria, +like a fortress glistening in the sun. Here and there vineyards made +brown patches in the landscape, and the Caselle had the appearance of +thousands of Arab tents, scattered over the undulating plain to the +rugged, purple hills of the Basilicata, dimly fading away towards the +sun-kissed plains of Calabria. + +Almost unconscious of the change, Francesco rode along with abstracted +gaze, his eyes as dead as the Apulian land,--land of the dead. + +The knowledge that there lay before him to southward some fifty miles +of solitude nevertheless lightened the heavy burden in Francesco's +breast. The oppression of the stone walls of San Cataldo had, in a +manner, passed away. This day, at least, was his; this day he was to +be alone and free. Yet, as he rode, with the slowly diminishing +distance his momentary relief went from him again. He seemed to +himself to be passing through a mighty sea of desolate thoughts, whose +waves swept over him with resistless power, leaving him utterly +exhausted when they had passed. The realization of his impending fate, +his present position, again took him by storm. By sharp spasms the +picture of his future life and its dreary loneliness rose before his +eyes, then departed as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind it a +black void. The sensation was almost insufferable. In the periods of +mental numbness, when even the desire for struggle seemed to have been +swallowed up by the black gulf of his despair, he wondered vaguely if +his brain had been turned by the sudden prospect of life's changes. +The sunny, care-free days in the Castle of Avellino, the companionship +of those of his own age, others whom he loved and esteemed, the hopes +and ambitions nurtured and fostered in an untainted heart:--all these +he saw slowly vanishing like some Fata Morgana of the desert. + +Now, for the first time, discord had come, and the endless vibration +of its echoes was to make his life miserable, perhaps unendurable. +Created eminently for the life in the sunny sphere of a court, young, +handsome of face and form, easily influenced by friendship, easily +fascinated by beauty, all environment suited to the qualities and +endowments of nature was suddenly to be snatched away. He was standing +utterly alone in a strange land, in a new atmosphere, in which at +great distances, dim, unknown figures were eyeing him, invisible, yet +terrible walls waiting to enclose him and his youth as in a tomb. His +world was gone. The new one was filled with shadows. Yet--why rebel, +until the light had broken upon the horizon, until the worst and best +of it all was known to him? At least, in obeying the commands of his +father, he had done what men would call right,--and more than right. + +So were the miles before him lessened until, with the slowly declining +orb of day, he came in sight of the walls and towers of Benevento, in +which city he would spend the night, to continue his journey to +Avellino on the morrow. + +The bell of Santa Redegonda was wailing through the deep hush of +evening, which brooded over the fateful city, when Francesco crossed +the bridge spanning the Calore, the waves of ancient Liris rolling +golden towards the tide of the Volturno. As he slowly traversed the +fatal field of Grandello, his gaze involuntarily sought the rock pile +under which the body of Manfred had lain, until released by the papal +legate, yet buried in unconsecrated ground. All life seemed to be +extinct as in a plague-ridden town, and the warden nodded drowsily as +under the shadows of the grim Longobard fortress Francesco rode +through the ponderous city gate, over which, sculptured in the +rose-colored granite, the Boar of Benevento showed his tusks. + +After having traversed several thoroughfares, without having met a +single human being, Francesco permitted his steed to be its own guide, +for the moment strangely fascinated by the aspect of the city, before +whose walls the destinies of an empire and an imperial dynasty had +been decided. Slowly he rode under the stupendous arch of the Emperor +Trajan, which now spans the road to Foggia, as it once did the Via +Appia. Far away on the slopes of a mountain shone the white Apulian +town of Caiazzo, while Monte Vergine and Monte Vitolano stood out +black against the azure sky. + +Traversing an avenue of poplar trees, which intersected the old Norman +and Longobard quarters of the town, Francesco was struck with a +strange sight, that caused him to spur his steed to greater haste and +to hurry shudderingly past, muttering an Ave. + +On every other tree, for the entire length of the avenue, there hung a +human carcass. The bodies seemed to have been but recently strung up, +yet above the tree tops, in the clear sun-lit ether, a vulture wheeled +slowly about, as if in anticipation of his gruesome feast. + +The distorted faces and the garbs of the victims of this +mass-execution left little to the mere surmise, regarding the nature +of their crime. Yet an instinct almost unfailing told Francesco that +these were not the bodies of thieves or bandits, and he gave a sigh of +relief when the Campanile of the semioriental monastery of St. Juvenal +relieved the gruesome view. After diving into the oldest part of the +city, whose narrow, tortuous lanes were bordered by tall, gloomy +buildings decked out in fantastic decorations in honor of one saint or +another, Francesco chanced at last upon a pilgrim hobbling along who, +having for some time followed in his wake, suddenly caught up with him +and volunteered to guide him to an inn, of whose comfort, at the +present hour, the traveller stood sorely in need. For he had not +quitted the saddle since early dawn, nor had he partaken of food and +drink since he rode out of the gates of San Cataldo. The endurance of +his steed, like his own, was well-nigh spent, and he eagerly accepted +the pilgrim's offer. + +The latter proved somewhat more loquacious than chimed with +Francesco's hungry bowels, yet he submitted patiently to his guide's +overflowing fount of information, the more so as much of it +stimulated his waning interest. They passed the Osteria, where the +famous witches of Benevento were said to have congregated. A woman, +thin and hawk-faced, with high shoulders and a lame foot, was standing +in the centre of a huge vault ladling a cauldron suspended from the +ceiling by heavy chains. Heavy masses of smoke rolled about inside, +illumined now and then by long tongues of wavering flames, which +licked the stone ceiling and lighted up quaint vessels of brass +hanging on the rough walls. As she ladled, the crone sang some weird +incantation with the ever returning refrain: + + "The green leaves are all red, + And the dragon ate up the stars." + +They passed the stump of the famous walnut-tree, to which, riding on +goats with flaming torches in their hands and singing: + + "Sotto acqua e sotto viento + Alla noce di Beneviento," + +the witches used to fly from hundreds of miles around, and which tree +had been cut down in the time of Duke Romuald, by San Barbato in holy +zeal. + +Passing the gloomy portals of the palace where the ill-fated Prince of +Taranto had spent his last night on earth, they turned down a narrow, +tortuous lane and shortly arrived before an old Abbey of Longobard +memory, forbidding enough in its aspect, which now served the purpose +of a hostelry. + +A battered coat-of-arms over the massive arch, under which some now +indistinct motto was hewn in the stone, attracted for a moment +Francesco's passing attention as he rode into the gloomy court. As he +did so, his hand involuntarily gripped the hilt of the hunting knife +which he carried in his belt and a hot flush of resentment swept over +his pale face. + +It needed not the emblem of the Fleur-de-Lis, nor their lavish display +on shields and armors, to inform him that he saw before him a +detachment of Anjou's detested soldiery, detested alike by the people +and by the Church, for the greater glory of which a fanatic Pontiff +had summoned them into Italy. In part, at least, Clement IV was to +reap the reward of his own iniquity, for the Provencal scum, whom he +had dignified by the name of crusaders, plundered and insulted with +equal impartiality friend or foe, and in vain the exasperated Pontiff +threatened to anathemize his beloved son, as he had pompously styled +the brother of the King of France, who now held the keys to his +dominions. + +Dismounting, Francesco threw the reins of his steed to a villainous +looking attendant, who had come forth and led his horse to the nearby +stables. Then, by the side of the pilgrim who seemed bent upon seeing +him comfortably lodged, or else to claim some recompense for his +services as guide and chronicler, he strode through the ranks of +Anjou's soldiery, whose insolent gaze he instinctively felt riveted +upon himself, toward the guest-chamber of the inn. + +That his guide was no stranger to the Abbey and that his vocation had +not been exercised for the first time on the present occasion, soon +became apparent to Francesco. For the captain of the Provencals +treated him with a familiarity which argued for a closer acquaintance, +while the native insolence of a follower of Anjou aired itself in the +lurid mirth which the pilgrim seemed to provoke. + +Their brief conversation, carried on in Provencal, accompanied with +unmistakable glances of derision towards himself that caused the hot +blood to surge to Francesco's brow, was but in part intelligible to +the latter, who was listening with an ill-assumed air of +indifference. + +"What? An addition to our company?" drawled the Provencal, addressing +the pilgrim. + +"Ay, faith, and a most proper," returned the latter sanctimoniously. +"Just arrived from foreign parts." + +"Has he been cooling his heels in Lombardy running from the Guelphs? +Or comes he from Rimini, studying the art of cutting throats in a +refined manner?" + +The pilgrim shrugged. Francesco saw him clasp his rosary, as if he was +about to mutter an Ave. + +"Mayhaps from Padua, learning the art of poisoning at the +fountain-head? Eh? Or from Bologna, having joined the guild of the +coopers?" + +"They say the Bolognese have tightened the hoops, since they +discovered a strange amber beverage leaking from one of their casks." + +At this allusion to the attempted escape of the ill-fated King Enzo +from the city which was to remain his prison to the end, the Provencal +laughed brutally and the pilgrim, with a significant glance at his +companion, proceeded to enter the inn. + +Throwing open the door of a large apartment, battered and decayed, but +showing unmistakable traces of former magnificence, he beckoned to +Francesco to enter, and, without waiting the latter's pleasure, +summoned the host, a large-nosed Calabrian with high cheek-bones and +villainous looks. Having taken proper cognizance of their wants, the +latter departed to fetch the viands. Then they took their seats at a +heavy oaken table, and, gazing about the dimly lighted guest-chamber, +Francesco noted that it was deserted, save for themselves and two men +in plain garbs, seated at the adjoining table. They appeared to be +burghers of the town, and Francesco took no further heed of them, but +pondered how to rid himself of his companion, whose presence began to +grow irksome to him. + +The host soon entered with the repast, consisting of cheese, a rough +wine and barley bread. Francesco, being exhausted and out of temper, +ate in silence, and the pilgrim, after having voraciously devoured +what he considered his share of the repast, arose. After muttering +profuse thanks Francesco saw him exchange a nod with the two worthies +at the adjoining table, then hobble from the room by a door opposite +the one through which they had entered. + +A chance side glance at the other guests of the Abbey, who ate, for +the most part, in silence or spoke in hushed tones, informed Francesco +that he was the object of their own curiosity, for though he appeared +not to gaze in their direction, he repeatedly surprised them peering +at him, then whispering to each other, and his nervous tension almost +made their scrutiny unendurable. + +Surrounded as he knew himself, however, by so questionable a company, +from which the Calabrian host was by no means excluded, he resolved to +restrain himself and again fell to his repast, to which he did ample +justice, at intervals scrutinizing those whose scrutiny he resented +and in whom, after all, he scented more than chance travellers. + +The one was a man of middling height, spare frame, past the middle age +of life, if judged by the worn features and the furrowed brows. The +expression of his countenance was ominous and forbidding. The stony +features, sallow, sunken cheeks, hollow, shiftless eyes inspired an +immediate aversion. + +From beneath a square cap there fell upon the sunken temples two stray +locks of auburn hair. This cap, much depressed on the forehead, added +to the shade from under which the eyes peered forth, beneath scant +straight brows. Francesco had some difficulty in reconciling his looks +with the simpleness of his gown in other respects. He might have +passed for an itinerant merchant, yet there was something in his +countenance which gainsaid this supposition. A small ornament in his +cap especially drew Francesco's attention. It was a paltry image of +the Virgin in lead, such as poorer pilgrims brought from the +miraculous shrines of Lourdes. There was something strangely immovable +and fateful about the clean-shaven jaw and chin, the thin compressed +lips, something strangely hardened in the straight nose and the +fatuous smile, in the restless glitter of the eyes. + +His companion, of stouter build and a trifle taller, seemed more than +ten years younger. His downcast visage was now and then lighted or +distorted by a forced smile, when by chance he gave way to that +impulse at all, which was never the case, save in response to certain +secret signs that seemed to pass between him and the other stranger. +This personage was armed with a sword and a dagger, but, underneath +their plain habits, Francesco observed that they both wore concealed a +Jazeran, or flexible shirt of linked mail. + +The unabated scrutiny of these two individuals at last caused such a +sensation of discomfort to Francesco, who imagined that all eyes must +have read and guessed his secret, that he regretted having remained +under the same roof, and, but for his unfamiliarity with the roads, he +would have been tempted even now to pay his reckoning and to leave the +Abbey. But even while he was weighing this resolve, he surprised the +gaze of the older of the two resting upon him with an expression of +such undisguised mockery that at last his restraint gave way. + +Rising from his seat, he slowly strode to the table where the two +strangers were seated. + +"Why are you staring at me?" he curtly addressed the older, who seemed +in no wise abashed by his action. + +"Fair son," said that personage, "you seem, from your temper and +quality, at the right age to prosper, whether among men or women--if +you but serve the right master. And, being in quest of a varlet for +him to whom I owe fealty, I was pondering if you were too high-born to +accept such a service." + +Francesco regarded the speaker curiously. + +"If your offer is made in good faith, I thank you," he said. "But I +fear I should be altogether unfit for the service of your master!" + +"Perchance you are more proficient with the pen than the sword," +replied his interlocutor. "That may be mended with time." + +"The monks have taught me to read and write. But if any one question +my courage, let them not provoke me." + +"Magnificent," drawled he of the Leaden Lamb. "By Our Lady of Lourdes! +He whom you serve would greatly miss a Paladin like you, if perchance +the truce should suddenly be broken!" + +This was said with a glance at his companion, who answered the +sentiment with a lowering smile, which gleamed along his countenance, +enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter sky. + +"Paladin enough for such as either of you," Francesco retorted hotly. +"I know not what master you serve, nor in what capacity, but your +insolence argues little in his favor." + +At this they both began to laugh and Francesco, observing the hand of +the speaker's companion stealing to the hilt of his poniard, dealt him +without wavering with his own sheathed weapon a sudden blow across the +wrist, which made him withdraw his hand with a menacing growl. + +This incident at first seemed to increase his companion's mirth. + +But the laughter suddenly died out of the eyes of the older man and +the look he bestowed on Francesco caused the latter to shiver despite +the warmth of the summer night. + +"Hark you, fair youth," he said with a grave sternness, which, despite +all he could do, overawed Francesco. "No more violence! I am not a fit +subject for it, neither is my companion. What is your name and +business?" + +The speech was uttered in a tone of unmasked brutality which caused +Francesco's hands to clench, as if he would strike his interrogator +dead. + +"When I desire your master's employment, I shall not fail to tell him +my name and business. Until I do, suffice it for you to know, that I +owe an account of myself to no one save my own liege lord!" + +"And who may he be?" drawled he with the Leaden Lamb. + +Francesco had it in his mind to retort in a manner which might have +startled his interrogator. But though he restrained himself, he fairly +flung the words into the face of the other. + +"To no lesser a man than the Viceroy of Apulia!" + +A sneer he did not try to conceal, distorted the older man's face and, +irritated by a gesture which heightened his sinister appearance, +Francesco leaned towards him. + +"Perchance you boast a better?" + +He, to whom the question was put, exchanged a swift look with his +companion, as if to warn him to keep quiet. + +"Charles of Anjou and Provence has no ugly favor to look upon," came +the drawling reply. + +"The blood-thirsty butcher!" burst out Francesco, with all the innate +hatred of the Ghibelline for his hereditary foe. "Yet I might have +thought so!" + +"Indeed!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb with a swift side glance at +his companion, who moved restlessly in his seat. "And would you tell +him so, were you to meet him face to face?" + +"Yea,--and in his native hell!" exclaimed Francesco. + +"Magnificent!" uttered his interlocutor, whose face seemed utterly +bloodless in the waning evening light, while that of his companion +seemed to have borrowed all its leaden tints. "Yet, fair youth, we are +in King Charles' realm, and they say even the leaves of the trees have +ears which carry all that is spoken to the King's own!" + +"Should I see them in a human head, I should not hesitate to crop +them," Francesco replied with a meaning gesture. Then he turned +abruptly to return to his own table. + +"A very laudable desire!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb, appearing not +to notice Francesco's intention. "And perchance, fair youth, you have +but lately seen some trees bearing strange fruit." + +Stirred by the memory of the poplar avenue he had so recently +traversed, Francesco wheeled about. + +"That have I," he flashed. "The work of a miscreant!" + +He of the Leaden Lamb interposed with a warning gesture, while his +companion had slowly arisen from his seat. + +"The sight is in no ways strange, fair youth," he drawled, his eyelids +narrowing as, from under the shade of his headgear, he ominously +glared at Francesco. "When the summer fades into autumn, and the +moonlight nights are long, he who then lives may see clusters of ten, +even twenty such acorns dangling from the branches. For," he +continued, and his voice grew cold and hard as steel, "each rogue that +hangs there, is a thief, a traitor to the Church, an excommunicated +wretch! These are the tokens of Anjou's justice, and this is the fate +which awaits a Ghibelline spy!" + +Raising the heavy drinking vessel, the speaker, as if to lend emphasis +to his words, let it crash down upon the oaken board, and, as if by a +preconcerted signal, the door of the guest-chamber flew open, and in +rushed the rude soldiery of Anjou, in whose wake followed the +terrified Calabrian host. + +Ere Francesco grasped the meaning of what had happened, his arms had +been pinioned behind him and, utterly dazed, the words he heard spoken +rang in his ears, like the knell of his doom. + +"Fairly caught!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb, turning to his +companion, who glared viciously at Francesco. "Did I not tell you, +there was more in this than the chance resemblance of a Ghibelline +nose and eye? Take him away and hang him at sunrise!" + +This command was addressed to the captain of the Provencals, whose +witticisms at his expense had aroused such a resentment in Francesco's +heart on his arrival at the inn. He felt himself jostled and buffeted +by the Pontiff's crusaders, whose ill-repressed mirth now vented +itself in venomous invectives, in which he in command freely joined. + +Too proud to ask his tormentors for the cause of his treatment, which +they would in all probability withhold, Francesco, now on the verge of +mental and physical collapse, found himself dragged across a court at +the remoteness of which the walls of the Abbey converged into a sort +of round tower. While the host of the inn, heaping a million +imprecations on the head of his newly arrived guest, and bemoaning his +unpaid reckoning, unlocked a strong oaken door at the command of the +Provencal leader, Francesco stood by as one too utterly dazed to +resent the Calabrian's insults, and scarcely had the grinding sound of +the door turning on its rusty hinges fallen on his ears, than he found +himself rudely grasped and pushed into a dark, prison-like cell, +apparently without any light from without. He stumbled, fell, and his +ear caught the rude laughter of those without, a mirth his own +endeavors to scramble to his feet had incited. For they had not +released his arms, and his frantic efforts to free them from their +bonds exhausted the last remnant of his strength. With a heart-rending +moan he dragged himself over the wet and slimy floor to the wall, +heard the key turn in the lock, and found himself alone in almost +Stygian darkness. + +"To be hanged at sunrise!" + +The words rang in his ears like the knell of fate. For what crime had +he been condemned unheard, without defence? He was too weary to think. +All he knew and vaguely felt was, that it was all over, and with the +thought there came a numbness almost akin to indifference, a weariness +engendered by the double ordeal he had undergone in so short a space +of time. What if the spark of life were to be suddenly extinguished, +of a life that had become utterly without its own recompense? What if +this quick release had been decreed by fate? But to die like a +malefactor, the prey of the vulture and the birds of ill-omen, which +he had seen coursing above the bodies of those so recently +executed;--no,--not this death at least, not this! With a last frantic +effort of the faintly returning tide of life he tried to release +himself of his shackles. But his efforts served only to drive the +bonds deeper into his own flesh, and at last he desisted, his head +falling back limply against the cold wet stone of the wall. + +Outside the night was serene. The air was so pure and transparent that +against the violet depths of the horizon the shimmering summits of the +distant Apennines were visible like everlasting crystals. Everywhere +was the silence of sleep. The Provencals, too, seemed to have +succumbed to its spell. Only on a distant altana could be heard the +mournful cries of a mad woman, bewailing the loss of her child: it +perturbed the stillness like the keening of a bird of ill-omen. At +last she, too, was silent, and Francesco, weary, exhausted, his +eyelids drooping, his arms pinioned behind him, his head resting +against the damp, cold stone, drifted into a restless, uneasy slumber. +He heard the clock in the castle tower strike the hour of midnight, +answered by the wailing chimes of the bell from Sta. Redegonda; then +consciousness left him and he sank into the arms of sleep. + +A strange dream haunted his pillow of anguish. + +He was at the Witches' Sabbat at Benevento. The moon shone with a +purple lustre on a dreary heather. The meadow-grasses rustled softly +in the night wind; will-o'-the-wisps danced round old tree-trunks +gleaming with rottenness, while the owl, the bittern, the goat-sucker +mourned plaintively among the reeds. + +The moon was suddenly hidden by a cloud. Instead, torches flared with +flames of green and blue, and black shapes interlacing and +disentwining began to emerge from the denser gloom. In endless +thousands they came--from Candia, from the isles of Greece, from the +Brocken, from Mirandola, and from the town of Benevento; wheeling and +spreading over the plain like the withered and perishing leaves of +autumn, driven by an unseen gale. And in their midst sat the great +He-Goat enthroned upon the mountain. + +There was a screeching of pipes made of dead men's bones, the drum +stretched with the skin of the hanged was beaten with the tail of a +wolf. A loathsome stew, not seasoned with salt, was brewing in a vast +cauldron, and round it danced herds of toads garbed as cardinals, the +sacred Host in their claws. + +Long wet whiskers like those of a walrus now swept his neck; a thin +winding tail lashed his face; he stirred uneasily where his head had +fallen against the cold slimy stone of the prison walls; yet the +sleeper did not wake. And the dance whirled around him like a howling +storm. + +Suddenly petrifaction fell upon the assembly. All voices were hushed, +all movements arrested. From the black throne in the background there +came a dull roar like the growl of approaching thunder, and the +assembly fell upon their knees, chanting in solemn tones the +ceremonial of the Black Mass. + +The sleeper stirred uneasily, yet deeper grew the dream. + +When the last sounds had died away, there was renewed stillness, then +the same hoarse voice cried: + +"Bring hither the bride! Bring hither the bride!" + +An old man, patriarch of sorcerers, nearly bent double with age, came +forward with shuffling steps. + +"What is the name of the bride? What is the name of the bride?" + +"Ilaria Caselli! Ilaria Caselli!" roared the great voice. + +Hearing the pronouncement of her name, Francesco's blood froze in his +veins. + +"Ilaria! Ilaria!" rang the cry from the crowd. "Ave Arcisponsa +Ilaria!" + +They brought her forward, though she would have fled. They dragged her +trembling before the throne. A chill, as of death smote her; she would +have closed her eyes, but something caused her to look in the +direction where Francesco lay, unable to move, unable to stir. His +limbs seemed paralyzed; he wanted to cry out to her, his voice failed +him. Vainly she called to him, vainly she strained eyes, arms and body +towards him. He tried to rise, to rush to her aid, to rescue her from +the clutches of the terrible apparition on the throne, when suddenly +the goat-skin fell from him and he stood revealed to Francesco, as he +of the Leaden Lamb, his green eyes devouring the girlish form that +stood trembling before him. + +Another moment, and she sank lifeless into his embrace. + +The setting moon once more shone out from behind the clouds, and as +the pallid crimson of her light faded behind the world's dark rim, +there came from the distance the morning cry of the cock. Slowly, +through the air, came the sound of a bell, and at this sound the +frightened witches, swarm after swarm, streamed away from the +mountain. He of the Leaden Lamb again became the great He-Goat, and +sank lamentably bleating with his beautiful victim through the earth, +leaving a stifling stench of sulphur behind.-- + +With a moan of intense agony Francesco awoke. His head was like lead, +his body broken with weariness. A sharp odor of fog greeted his +nostrils. He looked about for a moment, unable to determine where he +was. A violent jerk, as he tried to move his arms, informed him of his +condition, and with a groan he sank back, striking his head against +the stone with a sharp pang. Again he closed his eyes, as if still +haunted by the phantoms of the Witches' Sabbat. Had it been but a +dream indeed? Vivid it stood before his soul, and out of the whole +ghostly hubbub the pure face of Ilaria Caselli shone white as marble +against a storm-cloud. Then, with the memory of her he loved dearer +than life, with the memory of her whom he was to renounce forever, +there returned the consciousness of his impending fate. Would she ever +know why he had not returned,--and knowing, would her love for him +endure? + +The bell of Sta. Redegonda was tolling heavily and monotonously. +Outside some one was knocking insistently, some one who had already +knocked more than once. There was a brief pause, then the turning of a +key in the lock grated unpleasantly on Francesco's ear. + +As the door of his prison swung back, the dull morning light fell on +the form of a monk, who had slowly entered in advance of some five or +six men-at-arms, but paused almost instantly, as if looking for the +object in quest of which he had come. + +The import of the monk's presence at this hour was not lost upon +Francesco. It was no hideous dream then, it was terrible reality; he +was to die. To die without having committed a crime, without an +offence with which he might charge his conscience; to die without a +hearing,--without a trial. For a moment all that could render death +terrible, and death in the form in which he was to meet it, most +terrible of all, rushed through his mind. The love of life, despite +the gloomy future it held out to him, re-asserted itself and, as a +drowning man sees all the scenes of the past condensed into one last +conscious moment, so before Francesco's inner gaze the pageant of his +childhood, the sunny days at the Court of Avellino rushed past, as in +the fleeting phantasmagoria of a dream. An hour hence, and his eyes +would no longer gaze upon the scenes once dear to him as his +youth;--he would have followed him, who would have consigned him to a +living death;--he would have been gathered into annihilation's waste. + +The monk had walked up slowly to the human heap he saw dimly writhing +on the ground, and, bending over Francesco, exhorted him to think of +the salvation of his soul, to which end, in consideration of his +youth, the clemency of his judge had permitted him to receive the last +rites of the Church. + +At the sound of the monk's voice Francesco gave a start, but, as he +made no reply, the friar bent over him anew, in an endeavor to scan +the features of one so obdurate as to refuse his ministrations. + +A mutual outcry of surprise broke the intense stillness. They had +recognized each other, the monk who had carried to Gregorio Villani +the Pontiff's conditional absolution, and the youth whom that decree +had consigned to a living death. + +To the monk's amazed question as to the cause of his terrible plight, +Francesco wearily and brokenly replied that he knew of nothing. He had +been insulted, overpowered and condemned. + +Turning to the leader of the Provencals, the friar sternly plied him +with questions, but his replies seemed far from satisfying, for the +monk demanded to be conducted straightway to their master. Francesco +heard them scurry from his prison, after securing the door, and, +exhausted from his mental and bodily sufferings, his limbs aching as +in the throes of a fever, he fell back against the damp stone and +swooned. + +When he waked, he found himself on a bed in a chamber, the only window +of which opened on to a courtyard. The sun was riding high in the +heavens and his beams, falling aslant on the opposite wall, exercised +such a magical effect on the awakened sleeper, that he sat bolt +upright on his couch and, turning to the friar at his bedside, +demanded to know where he was. + +The friar enjoined him to be silent and arose, to fetch a repast, but +when he found that Francesco's restlessness was not likely to be +assuaged by this method, he slowly and cautiously informed him of the +events which had transpired, since he had visited him in his cell, to +accompany him, on what was to have been, his last walk on earth. + +Dwelling on the probable causes leading to his summary condemnation, +the monk hinted at rumors, that Conradino, son of Emperor Conrad IV, +had crossed the Alps in armed descent upon Italy, to wrest the lands +of Manfred from Anjou's grasp. He further hinted at a conspiracy afoot +among the Northern Italian Ghibellines, to rescue from her prison in +Castel del Ovo, where she had been confined since the fatal battle of +Benevento, the luckless Helena, Manfred's Queen. A fatal resemblance +to one, known to have been entrusted with a similar task, had caused +the swift issuance of the death-warrant on the part of Anjou's +procurator, a sentence which no denial on his part would have +suspended or annulled, as, incensed at Francesco's bearing and +demeanor, he of the Leaden Lamb had remorselessly consigned him to his +fate. And, but for his timely arrival and speedy intervention, and the +vigorous protests with which the monk supported his claim of +Francesco's innocence, the latter's fate would have been hopelessly +sealed. + +Francesco, partaking of the viands the monk had placed before him, +listened attentively, while the friar assisted him, for as yet he +could barely make use of his arms and hands, cut and bruised as they +were from the cords of the Provencals. + +The abuse and the insults to which he had been subjected since his +arrival at Benevento, and the dire peril from which he had so narrowly +escaped, had exasperated Francesco to a degree, that he was trembling +in every limb with the memory of the outrage, and he vowed a heavy +reckoning against the fiend who, unheard and untried, would have sent +him to an ignominious death. Thereupon the friar informed him, that +the Provencals had departed shortly after he had been released from +his prison, and exhausted, Francesco fell back among the cushions into +a deep and dreamless slumber, while the friar resumed his office of +watchfulness by his bedside. + +He awoke strengthened, and, save for the bruises testifying to his +treatment at the hands of the Provencals, his splendid youth swiftly +re-asserted itself. It suffered him no longer within the ominous +confines of the Witches' City. + +Heedless of the friar's protests, who declared that he was not strong +enough to continue his journey, he summoned the Calabrian landlord +whose deferential demeanor, when he entered Francesco's presence, was +at marked variance with his conduct on the previous night. + +After having paid his reckoning and secured his steed, Francesco +thanked the friar for his intervention on his behalf, then, with some +difficulty, he mounted and rode out of the gates of Benevento, without +as much as looking back with a single glance upon the city's ominous +walls. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +PROSERPINA + + +Francesco arrived at Avellino at dusk. It was the hour when the castle +courtyard was comparatively deserted. Only two bow-men guarded the +lowered drawbridge, and they paid little heed to the familiar form of +the youth as he slowly rode through the gate. + +Throwing the reins of his steed to an attendant, Francesco dismounted +and entered the castle, undecided what to do first. Seeing a page +lounging in the hallway, he inquired if the Viceroy was in his +apartments. + +"He returned from the falcon hunt at dusk and has retired," came the +response. + +"Go, ask him if he will receive me," Francesco entreated, +heavy-hearted. + +The page bowed and ran up the winding stairway, leaving Francesco to +wait in the hall below. + +Presently he returned. + +"The serving-man in my lord's antechamber has orders that my lord is +to be disturbed by no one, since he is preparing for his departure on +the morrow--" + +"For his departure?" + +The page eyed Francesco curiously, as if he wondered at his ignorance +of that which was on the lips of all the court. + +"You have not heard?" + +"I have just returned to Avellino,--from a mission," he replied, +avoiding the inquisitive gaze he knew to be upon him. + +"Then you know not that King Conradino has crossed the Alps? The court +departs on the morrow to join him before the walls of Pavia!" + +Francesco's hand had gone to his head. + +"Conradino has crossed the Alps?" he spoke as out of the depths of a +dream. + +"I will see the Viceroy on the morrow!" + +Leaving the page to gaze after him in strange wonderment, Francesco +went slowly towards the stairs. He shrank unspeakably from +explanations and scenes of farewell. At the idea of pity and amazement +which his fate might call up, he fairly shuddered. Perhaps there might +be even sneers from his companions. And, by the time he had reached +his own chamber, he was debating the possibility of departing as if +for a journey with excuses to none save his liege lord, the Viceroy of +Apulia. + +Upon a wooden settle in his chamber, with the moonbeams pouring down +from the window above it, he seated himself, and his heart beat up in +his throat. + +If it were true! If the ecstatic dream of his life might be realized! +If face to face he might meet Conradino, the imperial youth, the +rightful heir and ruler of these enchanting Southlands which smarted +under Anjou's insufferable yoke! + +How often had that fair-haired youth, gazing with longing eyes towards +the Land of Manfred from the ramparts of his castle in the distant +Tyrol, been the topic of converse at Avellino. His very name had +kindled a holy flame in every heart. At his beck, the beck of the last +of the Hohenstauffen, Ghibelline Italy would fly to arms as one man. +Had the hour come at last? + +A cold hand suddenly clutched his heart. + +What was it to him? What was anything to him now? What right had he to +enter the lists of those who would flock to the banners of the +imperial youth? Had he not, from the day of his birth, forfeited the +right to live and to act according to the dictates of his own heart? +While they fought he must look on, bound foot and hand, an enemy to +the cause which was his cause. An involuntary groan broke from his +lips. + +Too late--too late! + +He arose, and, opening a chest in the wall of his chamber, Francesco +took from it a faded flower wrapped in its now dry cloth. The former +scarlet glory was gone, the petals were purple and old. He recalled +the joy with which he had received it. A week ago he would have +proclaimed it to all the world. Now the rose and his life were alike. +Now he was conscious only of a sickening, benumbing bitterness of +spirit, as he laid the faded flower tenderly into its former place. +Then, lighting a cresset lantern in a niche in the wall, he turned +away to look through his possessions, to pack what little he might +take with him on the morrow. And the first necessity which came to his +hand was a small, sharp, jewel-hilted dagger,--Ilaria's gift. + +From without the encircling gardens of the castle there came strange +sounds of laughter and merriment which struck Francesco with a deeper +pang. For a time he resumed his seat and, with hands clasped round his +knees, stared in immobile despair into the darkness. Eventually, the +oppression of his mind becoming well-nigh unbearable, and, knowing +that sleep would not come to him in his present overwrought state, +Francesco arose and strayed out into the dimly lighted corridor, until +he emerged on a terrace, whence a flight of broad marble stairs +conducted to the rose-garden below. Beyond, a pile of gray buildings, +rising among thickly wooded hills, was barely discernible in the misty +moonlight. A fault breeze, blowing up from the gardens, bathed him in +the fragrance of roses. He shuddered. From below where he stood came +the sound of laughing voices. + +Francesco peered down eagerly into the rose-garden, girdled by the +wall of the terrace, on the summit of which he stood. The bushes were +heavy with blossoms; they drooped over the white sand-strewn walk, +even beneath the occasional shadow of a slender cypress that seemed to +pierce the violet of the night-sky. They clambered up the sides of the +fortress villa, and mingled with the ivy on the opposite sweep of the +wall. + +The garden was flooded with that golden moonlight which creates in the +beholder the illusion of unreality; for not in the midnight dark, but +where radiance is warmest and intensest, are spirits most naturally +expected by the sensitive mind. + +Where the light of the moon was most translucent, there stood a man in +the mythical garb of Hermes, catching therein the full moon glamour. + +As he looked up he met the gaze of Francesco. + +"Come down, Francesco," he cried in comical despair. "Despite my +winged feet I cannot pull the car of Amor, and he refuses to use his +wings!" + +A strange light leaped into Francesco's eyes. + +"Why not summon Pluto, God of the Underworld?" + +"He declines to waive his right to march beside Proserpina, and you +know the Frangipani is quite capable of making a quarrel out of a +revel." + +"And who is Proserpina?" + +"Ilaria Caselli." + +"Who calls me?" a voice at this moment spoke from the thicket, and ere +either could answer a girlish figure stepped into the moonlight, +paused and looked in amaze at Francesco. + +The latter exchanged a few words with his companion who bowed and +withdrew. + +Slowly she moved towards the terrace; lithe and languid, she seemed +herself the Queen of Blossoms, her dusky hair, flower-crowned, +enveloped in rainbow bloom. + +"Francesco!" she called, surprise and appeal in her tone. "I knew not +you were here! Come down!" + +"Yes,--Ilaria," he said, yet stood at gaze and made no sign to stir. +The light in his eyes had died. She stood below him, half in the +light, half in the shadow, her neck and throat bare, her arms in tight +sleeves of flower-embroidered gauze. + +"Come down!" she called more imperiously. "Why do you delay?" + +He moved round the wall to the descending stair and presently was by +her side. + +"When did you return?" she asked, extending her hands to him. + +He took them, pressed them fervently in his own, then, bending over +them, kissed them passionately. + +"Within the hour," he replied, his eyes in hers. + +"And your mission?" + +"It is accomplished!" + +"I am glad," she said, and saw not the look of anguish that passed +over his face. "I came to ask you," her bosom was heaving strangely, +"to be near me when the pageant breaks. I am afraid of Raniero +Frangipani!" + +"Yet you chose the role of Proserpina, knowing--" He broke off, a +shiver of constraint in his voice. + +"Who told you?" + +He pointed in the direction where his informant had disappeared. + +"Messer Gualtiero! You knew," he then continued slowly, "that Raniero +would be your companion in the pageant!" + +Ilaria pouted. + +"Mine is the part of Lady of Sorrows--Queen of the Underworld!" + +"And the Frangipani's society is the price you pay for your high +estate." + +She looked at him, then dropped her eyelids on a sudden. + +"Why should I fear, when you are by?" + +Something clutched at Francesco's throat. + +"I may not always be near you!" + +She arched her eyebrows. + +"Then I must look for another protector!" she retorted with a shrug. + +Noting the pain her words gave him, she added more softly: + +"You will not leave me again?" + +"You shrink from the Frangipani," he replied, ignoring her question. +"Has he insulted you? Is he your enemy?" + +"It is not because he is an enemy, but rather the opposite, that I +would avoid Raniero Frangipani," was her low reply. + +All the color had faded from Francesco's lips. + +"You mean--" the words died in the utterance. + +"He wooes me!" she said low. + +A fierce light leaped into Francesco's eyes. She laid a tranquillizing +finger on his arm. + +"You have no cause for wrath, that I can see! And yet I would rather +have you near than far. The Frangipani is filled with violent +passions. He wooes me violently. Since you left Avellino," she added +with seeming reluctance, "he seems to have taken new courage, +and--some unexplained umbrage at--I know not what! 'Who is this +Francesco Villani?' he said to me and his eyes glowered. 'What is his +ancestry? What should entitle him to your regard?' Again and again he +dwelled on this point,--Francesco,--you know I love you,--and I care +not,--so you love me,--but you will tell me,--that I may silence +him,--Francesco,--will you not?" + +A shadow as from some unseen cloud swept over his face. + +"I shall tell him myself,--and in your presence." + +"You will not quarrel?" she said anxiously, holding out her hands to +him. + +He clasped the soft white fingers fiercely in his own, then pressed +them to his throbbing heart. In the distance voices were heard +calling, clamoring. + +For some moments they gazed at each other in silence, then she said: + +"They are calling me! I must return to my task of sorrow!" + +"Strange words for a queen--" he said with an attempt at merriment. + +"Queen of the Shades," she replied. "And I long for life--life--life! +With all it has to give, with all it can bestow!" + +A strange, witch-like fire had leaped into her eyes. Her lips, +thirstily ajar, revealed two rows of white even teeth, and in that +moment she looked so alluringly beautiful, that Francesco in a fever +of passion threw his arms about her and kissed her passionately again +and again, with moist, hungry lips. + +"Will you not come?" she whispered, after having utterly abandoned +herself to his embrace. + +He shook his head. + +"I have no part in this! I will await you here!" + +The voices sounded nearer. Now could be distinguished the cry: +"Proserpina--Proserpina!" + +She turned reluctantly, with a last glance at him, and hastened back +towards the revels. + +Francesco watched the slender, girlish form, until she had mingled +with the shadows of the trees. Then, with a low cry of anguish, he +leaned against the balustrade and covered his face with his hands.-- + +And now the pageant began to gather in the garden, a pageant of Love +in a guise such as might have been conceived by Petrarca,--a mediaeval +divertissement, such as the courts of thirteenth century Italy were +wont to delight in. And Francesco, slowly waking from a disordered +reverie, leaned over the balustrade, straining his gaze towards the +clearing, whence peals of laughter and music of citherns and cymbals +heralded the approach of a procession, which in point of +fantasticality did indeed honor to those who had contrived it. + +It was a pageant of the Gods, the outgrowth and conception of a mind, +not yet set adrift by the speculative theory and philosophy of a Dante +or Petrarca, a mind still hovering between Roman austerity and +Hellenic mystery. + +As the procession emerged from the inner courtyard, a level ray of +moonlight fell upon attires wherein seemed blended the gayest fantasy +of all times: Juno frowning jealously on the bowed figure of her Lord; +Mars and Venus, and Pluto, his dark face rising over folds of sombre +purple, beside the magically fair Proserpina. After these there came +groups of languid lovers of all ages; enchanters and victims: Orpheus +and Eurydice, Jason and Medea, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristram and +Iseult. Bound with great ropes of blossom or chains of tinsel, they +moved sadly, crushed and sighing, behind the chariot of the King of +Sighs. And he, the dismal ruler, seemed the personified memory of a +figure in the lower church at Assisi, driven shrinking towards the pit +by Giotto's grave angels of penance. + +Round that chariot gathered fantastic shapes, clad in dim, floating +garments, their faces concealed by gray masks on which the unknown +artist had stamped an expression, now of wild dismay, now of grinning +triumph, a presage, it would seem, of the Dreams and Errors, and the +Wan Delusions, whom Petrarca conceived to be the closest companions of +the lord of the mortal race. + +Exclamations of delight from the balconies of the castle, where dusky +groups of spectators were dimly discernible, broke the dream stillness +of the night. + +From his vantage point on the terrace Francesco's burning gaze, +riveted on the pageant, followed the graceful swaying form of +Proserpina with the pale face and lustrous eyes upturned to him, while +the procession circled round the terrace, and a Wan Delusion, +following directly in her wake, flung up her shadowy arms and groaned. + +For these mediaeval folk threw themselves into the pageant with the +dramatic impulse native to place and time. Incited by the tragedy of +Benevento, still quivering through men's memory, and the apprehension +of future clouded horizons, this occasion probably meant to many of +them, as to Ilaria Caselli, the rejection rather than the assumption +of a disguise, the free expression through the imaginative form, so +natural to them, of the allegiance to passion in which their life was +passed. Each acting his or her part, they moved slowly through the +garden, Orpheus gazing back wildly in search of Eurydice, Circe +chanting low spells, Tristram touching his harp strings, his eyes upon +Iseult, and all at will sighing and moaning and pointing in pathetic +despair to the chains that bound them, and the arrows that transfixed. + +Presently they gathered round a fountain, which, in the centre of a +rose-garden, sent up its iridescent spray in the silver moonlight, and +Tristram, stepping to the side of it, began to sing a Canzona, almost +like a church chant, artificially lovely in the intermingling of the +imagery of Night and of the Dawn. Orpheus and Circe followed with a +Canzona which struck Francesco's ear with music new, yet charged with +echoes of much that he had suffered during the past eventful days. + +With the cadenza of the last stanzas the glow of torches had faded, +and the revellers moved towards the opposite wall, whence Francesco +was watching one by one, as they disappeared within a low doorway, +leading to an inner stair. As they emerged upon the summit each +reveller bore a lighted torch which hardly quivered in the still, +balmy air of the summer night. A moment's confusion, and the entire +pageant began to advance in single file against the dusky night-sky in +which the moon, now soaring high above the trees, gleamed with a +strange lustre. Above the garden they moved as above the far dim +world, not earthly men and women in seeming, but phantoms of the air. +The car of Pluto was illumined from within, and the red light struck +with almost ghostly effect the gray faces and garments of the +Delusions. The actors were hushed into silence by the unearthly beauty +of the scene. + +Francesco, from across the garden, watched with eyes heavy and weary, +the Triumph of the Gods. As Proserpina came in sight, her pale face +flashed on him by the light of the torches carried by Pluto. It was +strangely alluring in its marble pallor, the dusky hair wreathed with +jasmine stars. Francesco was seized in the grip of sudden terror. The +lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes were passing visibly before +him under the violet night-sky. In a mad, delirious impulse, he thrust +out his arm, the moonlight striking full upon his face. The revellers +paused for an instant, then extended their arms with welcoming shouts. +Proserpina, as she came near, threw a flowery chain round his neck. +Breathless, dazed, Francesco saw them move away, the blood throbbing +wildly in his temples. + +The moon had passed her zenith when the revellers, having twice +circled the walls, descended once more into the garden and dispersed, +each at his or her own will, through the demesne. Terraces illumined +by torch-light, afforded ample opportunity for wandering, and the +ilex-wood which covered the castle hill, was a lure for the more +venturesome. The castle itself had flung wide its portals, and a +collation was being served within until a late hour. The gay company +that so recently traversed the gardens had swiftly flown from one +haunt of pleasure to the other. Most of the participants in the +pageant, however, preferred to remain out-doors. Proserpina, Goddess +of the Underworld, and the Delusions seemed still to extend their +dreamy sway over the whole company. Day-light selves had disappeared, +carrying with them any teasing pricks of conscience, and the greater +number of the maskers continued through the night to play their parts +without reserve. + +When Francesco had ensconced himself on the terrace to witness the +revels, he had given no thought to the continuation of the same. He +wandered through the labyrinthine walks with troubled mind, every now +and then shrinking, a listener both unwilling and unwelcome, from +sounds that assailed his ear from rose-bower and cypress-wall. Yet the +setting of beauty rendered his repugnance languid. He seemed to feel a +detaining hand upon him that would not let him escape. Life had ever +been, even in his happiest moods, as a masque, lived in a dream. But +to-night the masque had seemed very real. The weird loveliness of the +pageant had enthralled his soul, had brought home to him with new and +intense poignancy the dark fate which lurked in the background. +Aimlessly he strolled on, aimlessly he lost himself in the +labyrinthine maze, hoping, yet fearing, to meet Ilaria Caselli. + +He had noted now and again a girlish figure flitting around his +pathway, in an open space, where a murmuring water flowed. It came out +into the starlight and he recognized White Oenone. + +She swayed towards him timidly. + +"Though Paris be lost to me, are there not other shepherds in the +glades of Ida?" + +Her tones blended with the murmur of the stream. + +The tumult of sense swept over him. He saw her white smiling face so +close to his, in the faint light of the moon her hair shone golden. +Then he gave a start and thought of Ilaria, and of her strange +request. + +"Ay--but thy Paris will return, fair nymph," he replied courteously. +"For the Greek knights have won Troy-Town at last, and the false witch +who lured him from thy side, has sailed for Argos." + +He turned away, noting the shade of disappointment in her face. His +steps were aimless no longer. Ilaria was not in the rose-garden, nor +would he find her on the terraces through which the flickering +torch-light gleamed. He hastened onward towards the ilex-wood which +bordered on one side close to the castle. In the dense shadow two dim +figures stood. He knew without seeing that one was Ilaria. + +"Ilaria!" he called. + +She started, took a step towards him, then paused. + +On her face he noted the same dazed, half-bewildered look which he had +discovered thereon in the pageant. + +"Ilaria!" he called once more. His voice had still the same purity of +tone as in his childhood. + +She came to him slowly, holding out both hands. + +"Take me away!" she whispered with a shudder. + +Then, from the deeper shadow of the wood, there stepped a form of +remarkable elegance, advancing with the graceful, but assumed, +demeanor of a man immured in his own conceit. He was tall, with a +well-poised head of the purely Latin type. The face was long, but +unusually handsome; of olive hue with regular features, that revealed +many generations of aristocratic ancestry. The nostrils were +delicately chiselled, the eyebrows high and narrow, the thin, cynical +lips revealed the sensualist. There was nothing in the countenance of +Raniero Frangipani to dismay the observer, until one looked at the +eyes. They were narrow and intensely black, filled with a baleful +brilliance that feared no man, yet revealed to view a soul utterly +depraved. + +The Frangipani having changed his masque, was clothed in the richest +apparel of the time. Long hose of crimson silk encased the legs, +rising from soft shoes of the same color. A coat of black silk, +embroidered with golden flowers, and the Broken Loaf, the emblem of +his house, was confined at the waist with a golden belt, to which was +affixed a poniard with an exquisitely jewelled hilt. He advanced with +the graceful yet arrogant swing of the bred courtier, yet his handsome +face was not pleasant to behold, as he turned to Francesco with an +insolent air: + +"I think, Messer Villani, you will find the rose-garden more agreeable +than the wood!" + +Francesco looked at him coldly. + +"I am here at the request of Madonna Ilaria," he replied quietly. + +"Indeed!" sneered the Frangipani, advancing a step closer. "Madonna +Ilaria did not hint that she preferred the society of a marplot to +that of a Frangipani!" + +Francesco made an impetuous step forward, feeling for his dagger. But +Ilaria caught his arm and clung to it. The two were faintly visible in +the starlight. + +The Frangipani regarded them for a moment with a contemptuous smile. + +"I crave your pardon," he then turned with an ironical bow to the +girl. "I feared Messer Villani would be too fatigued after his journey +in quest of an ancestor!" + +Francesco had turned pale at this palpable insult. There was no doubt +that the Frangipani had spied upon him for reasons not difficult to +surmise. But ere he could carry out his intent, but too plainly +revealed in his set features, Ilaria had interposed herself between +the two. + +"Leave us!" she turned to the Frangipani with a scorn in her voice +that caused the latter to start, while she clung to Francesco's arm, +hardly less pale than he. + +Raniero Frangipani regarded them for a moment in silence, tapped with +his foot, like one to whom a new idea has come, then with a long low +sound, very much like a snarl, he vanished in the gloom. + +[Illustration: "Ilaria had interposed herself between the two"] + +Francesco turned to the girl who still clung to him. She knew the look +on his face, but there was in it an expression she had never seen +before, penetrating, sorrowful, crushed. His breath came and went in +gasps, yet he spoke not. + +"Francesco," she said after a pause, while she anxiously watched the +play of light and shadow on his face. "Listen! Messer Raniero seems to +bear you a grudge. Promise me to avoid a meeting with him! He has said +much to me, thinking thereby to win my favor. He now knows,--let that +suffice!" + +"He has told you much? What has he told you?" + +"You have not told me what took you away so suddenly!" + +He held up his hand deprecatingly. + +"A secret mission of the Viceroy's," he said blushing, as he stammered +the falsehood. Yet he could not bring himself to avow even to the girl +he loved best on earth, his father's shame. The pain of life could not +be made less, by adding more pain. + +"Trust me!" he begged. "We have always felt together,--I have never +deceived you!" + +"Until now!" her voice sounded shrill and strained. + +"No! Ilaria, no! Were it mine to tell,--there is no secret for you in +this heart of mine. But the matter concerns another! Perhaps--in +time--" + +He broke off and closed his eyes. + +"I crave my youth!" cried Ilaria unheeding. "My youth, and the joy of +life which comes but once. If one will not give me what I seek--I look +elsewhere, if so I may!" Her lips trembled. "Why do you look at me +so?" she continued impatiently after an instant's pause. "Before you +came into the wood I saw your eyes, and I see them still in the dark! +What was the object of that mission?" + +Francesco drooped his head, but made no reply. In a clover leaf at his +feet a dew-drop mirrored a star, breaking the light into a thousand +tiny shafts. + +"I will give you your youth," he spoke at last in a low strained voice +that sounded like a broken sob. + +Ilaria laid her hand on his and spoke low. Her light soft fingers were +fevered. + +"What do you mean?" + +"It is a simple matter!" + +She gazed at him startled, terrified. Suddenly she threw her arms +about him. + +"Forgive me! Forgive!" + +He pressed her to his heart and kissed her dark eyes. + +Then slowly they retraced their steps towards the castle. + +When Francesco reached his chamber, the moon was slowly sinking +through the azure night-sky. + +He noted it not. It seemed to him he was standing in the midst of a +great void. All life about him had died. And he stood there, digging +his own grave, and, as the last spade of turf flew up, the stifling +night of annihilation swallowed up the universe. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WAVES OF DESTINY + + +When Francesco waked on the following morning, the June sun touched +the tree-tops which bounded the western horizon with their delicate +feathery twigs. Throughout the castle of Avellino there was the hum +and murmur of life. An unusual activity prevailed; the Apulian court +was preparing to depart, as the long train of horses and jennets drawn +up in the courtyard indicated. + +Francesco listened to the dim murmur of familiar voices, and the +echoes of laughter which reached his ears as he stood contemplating +himself undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron hook upon +his bedroom wall. + +Of what use to deck himself in fine raiment for the last time he +should ever wear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be his garment;--what +matter if he went unkempt on the last day in the home he loved? + +But the thought of the part he wished to play, came back to him. He +could not bear the thought that his companions should know of his +undoing. Despair is concealed more easily for an hour than unrest. And +so Francesco heaved a long heavy sigh and went to the great carven +chest wherein he kept his apparel. + +Slowly, with the demeanor of one whose heart is not in what he does, +he arrayed himself in his splendid court costume, as if preparing to +share the gladsomeness of his companions. + +He descended into the courtyard as one walking in a dream, and as in a +dream his ear caught the sounds of laughter and merriment, such as had +not resounded in the Castle of Avellino since the days of Emperor +Frederick II. + +On every lip were the glad tidings: Conradino had crossed the Alps! +Conradino was about to descend into Italy with his iron hosts to claim +his heritage. Like an Angel of Vengeance he would march on to Rome, +where the arch-enemy of his house sat enthroned in the chair of St. +Peter. From all parts of Italy the Ghibellines were flocking to the +banners of the golden-haired son of Emperor Conrad IV,--Conradino, as +they lovingly called him,--the last Hohenstauffen! + +From the adjoining gardens there came sounds of joyous laughter; the +music of citherns and lyres rippled enchantingly on the soft breeze of +the morning. It was as if an evil spell had been lifted from the land, +but the spell had caught one who could not shake it off, as with stony +gaze and quivering lips he walked along, noting the preparations for +events, in which he was to have no further share. He noted it not that +the grooms and lackeys, pages and squires regarded him curiously, as +if wondering at his luxurious attire, so little in keeping with the +exigencies of a tedious journey. Hardly he noted the casual greeting +of a companion who passed hurriedly, as if bent on his own +preparations. After rambling aimlessly through the demesne, he +bethought himself that the time for repast was at hand, and after +pausing here and there, as if to convince himself that what he saw was +not the phantom of a mocking dream, he returned to the castle, his +heart heavy with the weight of the impending hour. + +The banqueting-hall in the Castle of Avellino presented a busy scene. +A small army of lackeys and pages was at work preparing a repast, the +last the court was to partake ere the Viceroy set out. They were to +start at dusk, owing to the extreme noon-day heat in the plains. + +One great board stretched down the centre of the room, containing +places enough for every occupant of the building. + +Presently the doors leading into the banqueting-hall turned inward and +a throng of court attendants filed into the dimly lighted room. These +were followed by an array of visiting mendicants, who never failed to +infest any noble household, and they had scarcely grouped themselves +standing about the board, when the Viceroy, arm in arm with Galvano +Lancia, entered the hall. + +These two seated themselves at the board at once, watching the others +as they entered. The women and their escorts, who had entered laughing +and chatting among themselves, grew silent as they beheld the Viceroy +already seated. One girl, garbed in a flowing gown of sea-green +damask, entered the room alone. As she advanced to her place, after +the prescribed courtesy to the Viceroy, her dark eyes searchingly +scanned the throng of pages. Apparently she did not find among them +the one she sought. + +"Donna Ilaria looks for her errant knight," whispered Galvano Lancia +into the ear of Conrad Capece. + +"Has not Francesco returned?" queried the Viceroy. + +"I hardly expected him before to-day, even if the Grand Master's +illness has not taken a fatal turn." + +"Here are the monks!" + +"And there--at the door--" + +Conrad Capece followed the direction of Lancia's gaze. + +"Francesco!"--he finished with a gasp, staring bewildered at the +youth's dazzling garb, richer even than the Viceroy's. + +There was a sudden round of forbidden whispering among Francesco's +companions, and significant glances passed between many at the expense +of Ilaria Caselli, for Francesco's entrance had been indeed destined +to create a commotion among the members of the Vice-regal household. + +Conscious to the full that all eyes were upon him, Francesco paused +for a moment in the doorway. Then he advanced slowly towards the seat +of the Viceroy, a bright smile on his lips, a feeling akin to death +freezing his heart. The grace remained still unspoken, while the +monks, eager as their worldly brethren, turned upon their stools to +gaze at the newcomer. + +Francesco was clad in a tunic made of white cloth, heavily embroidered +with gold, slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky sheen +of his black embroidered hose. His belt was of black and gold, and the +dagger it held was hilted with gleaming jewels. The dark hair framed a +face as white as his garb and the feverish lustre of the deep set eyes +matched the brilliancy of the gems in his belt. + +The finishing touch to Francesco's curious attire, the one which gave +the greatest significance to his appearance, was that which appeared +to link him in some way to the most beautiful girl in the hall. It was +a faded rose, which still seemed to cast a crimson shadow upon the +gleaming purity of his tunic, the rose he had discarded in his first +fit of despair, until he had bethought himself of a better course. + +Under the wondering or sneering glances of all these eyes, Francesco, +seemingly unabashed, advanced to the Viceroy's chair, and, bending a +knee, muttered an apology for his delayed arrival. + +Count Capece bade him arise, saying audibly: + +"In truth, Francesco, you shame us all for slovenliness in dress. Sit +you here by my side! Your companions yonder have brilliancy enough in +their midst. You shall relieve our soberness!" + +With an amused smile Galvano Lancia made room between himself and the +Viceroy. There was a faint color in the youth's cheeks, as he hastily +dropped into the posture for grace. If no one else at the board had +perceived it, he, at least, had understood the Viceroy's mild rebuke +for overdress, and his mortification was sincere. For Count Capece was +dressed in a sombre suit of dark green, unembroidered and unadorned. +Galvano Lancia supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, with black +hose and leather belt and pouch, and the other nobles were all attired +in garbs suitable for travel. There was a confused hum and medley of +voices, but the one all-absorbing topic of discourse was the +appearance of Conradino on Italian soil, and the hope of the +Ghibellines in the final victory of their cause. + +From the first, Francesco was uncomfortable in his new place. In the +eyes of his companions, when he could catch them, he read only +curiosity, mingled in some instances with envy and malice. This was +especially the case at that part of the board where Raniero Frangipani +was seated, not too far removed from Ilaria Caselli, although the +latter had dropped her eyes, without so much as vouchsafing him a +glance. + +Francesco noted it all, and between the unmistakable gaze of derision +which came to him from the Frangipani and his associates, Ilaria's +seeming unconsciousness of his presence, and the well-nigh physical +discomfort of being the target of all present, in the seat assigned to +him, he felt ill at ease. Before he had entered the room he had +absolutely believed in his own ability to act. Now he perceived his +mistake. Do what he would, his heart and his expression failed him +together. + +At last he fixed his eyes upon the figure of her who bore the flower +symbol of their relationship. Evidently the scarlet flower was being +commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for he beheld +Ilaria's color rise. Unexpectedly she turned her head to glance +stealthily at the faded petals that burned upon the cold purity of his +vestments. In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A shadow of +mingled confusion and anger flitted across her face and, snatching +her own rose from her gown, she dropped it on the floor. + +Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw Francesco into a +state of doubt and anxiety as to her feeling for him. Yet, how little +did she guess the uselessness of that coquetry! What evermore would he +have to do with love or the dallying with it? What woman would be +enamored of a sackcloth gown? Yet, at this moment, he perceived that +his feeling for her had rooted deeper than he had admitted to himself. +And now it seemed to him that, were his well of bitterness to be +deepened by one jot, it would drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of +thought were spun out in his tired brain, such a black look of despair +came upon his face that Ilaria was even prepared to smile upon him +when he turned to her again. + +Galvano Lancia also saw that expression, and guessed that the +Viceroy's idle whim had made the youth uncomfortable enough for this +time. But in his address there was also a courtier's purpose which +Count Capece, who was looking on, understood. + +"Francesco!" + +The youth turned, to find Galvano Lancia's kindly eyes upon him. + +"Your father is better of his illness?" + +"It is well with my father!" Francesco replied laconically. + +As the repast progressed, the situation was becoming almost unbearable +for the son of the Grand Master. Only the desire to avoid constituting +the target of the almost general curiosity, prompted Francesco to +remain at the Viceroy's table. He instinctively knew the eyes of +Ilaria to rest upon him and, although not another word had been +spoken, the situation was becoming greatly strained. But he did not +wish to exhibit the misery which racked his soul with a thousand pangs +before the gossiping courtiers and monks. Thus he ate or made a +pretence at eating in silence. He had become acutely susceptible to +the disagreeable features of his surroundings. The gathering heat and +the heavy odor of meats and wines in the immense room, the flickering +glare of the torches, the shrillness of the many voices, the noises of +laughter which flowed together with the wine,--they all smote his +senses with a sharp sting of irritation, disgust and measureless +regret. So many, many times had he been part of all this. Now it was +going from him. The thought and the attempt at its banishment sickened +him. He leaned upon the table, white and faint. His eyes were closed. +He had lost the courage to attempt further concealment. He +instinctively knew the Frangipani was watching him and there was a +suggestion in his gaze which filled him with an inward dread. How +would Ilaria take it? What would become of her, after he had gone? He +glanced down the board. Flagons of wine and platters of fruit were +beginning to be in great demand. Story-telling and jesting, which were +wont to drag out repasts to endless hours, had begun. In the midst of +it all Count Capece arose. His move was not instantly perceived, but +when he was heard to call upon one of the monks for a blessing, there +was a general stir at the board. The blessing given, the Viceroy +started from the hall, when he found himself accosted by Francesco, +who had stumbled blindly after him. + +"May I have a word with you, my lord?" + +Count Capece nodded and Francesco followed him to his private cabinet, +the doors of which closed behind him. + +The Viceroy had seated himself and silently beckoned to the youth to +begin. + +With an effort Francesco spoke: + +"I returned from San Cataldo last night, but was denied admittance to +your Grace, wherefore my presence here may have startled you!--" + +There was something like life in Francesco's tone, now the decisive +moment had come, and looking down he carefully noted the face of him +who was to be his judge. + +A silent nod from the Viceroy bade him proceed. + +"By your Grace's leave," he continued, with a marked effort, "this +must be my last day at the Court of Avellino. I am bidden on a long +and tedious journey. My father would have me set out upon it at once! +I had wished to acquaint your Grace of the matter last night. I crave +permission to quit the royal household, that I may be free to do my +father's bidding." + +Francesco had spoken with marked slowness and precision, that he might +force himself to maintain his calm demeanor. To his own relief he +finished the speech with no hint of a break in his tone, though +gravely uncomfortable under the Viceroy's steady, searching gaze. + +Now, with a quiet gentleness that caused him to start painfully, he +felt the latter's hand laid almost tenderly upon his arm. He gave a +startled look into the frank, kindly face of the Apulian, and the +response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of color into his +bloodless cheeks. He would have almost preferred the rude brutality of +Anjou's men to this generosity which left him no weapons for defence. +He moved uneasily where he stood, and his breath came fast. + +He was very near to breaking. + +"You have my permission to execute your father's behest," the Viceroy +replied while his eyes were fixed on the face of the youth. "Let but +the office wait its hour! You have heard the tidings which have +brought joy to every Ghibelline heart. You note our preparations to +depart. Conradino has crossed the Alps. To him belongs our first duty! +We are bound for Pavia!" + +Francesco gave an involuntary start. + +"I also am bound northward!" he said, and wished he had not spoken. + +The Viceroy nodded. + +"The better so! You ride with us!" + +Francesco looked up appealingly. His misery received a new shock from +the Viceroy's lack of comprehension. + +"I fear that may not be," he faltered, then noting the Viceroy's +puzzled look, he added: + +"The office I am bidden to perform, brooks no delay!" + +Count Capece eyed him curiously. + +"What business may that be, more cogent than our own? On the +hoof-beats of our horses hang the destinies of a kingdom! None may +falter, none may turn back! I pry not into the nature of the office +you are bidden to perform. Yet all personal interests should be +suspended before the one all-absorbing task, that beckons us towards +the Po!"-- + +"This business may not wait!" + +It was almost a wail that broke from Francesco's lips. How could he +make him understand without revealing his father's shame! + +A shadow flitted across the Viceroy's brow. + +"You will move the more swiftly in our train!" + +A choking sensation had seized the youth. + +"It may not be,--I must ride,--alone!" he stammered. All the color had +forsaken his face and his knees barely supported his body. + +"And when shall you return?" asked the Viceroy, feigning acquiescence. + +There was a moment's silence ere Francesco replied: + +"I fear, my lord,--I shall not return!" + +Count Capece started. + +"You speak as if you were about to renounce the Court of Avellino +forever," he replied after a brief pause, charged with apprehension. +"What is the meaning of this? Why do you tremble? Your father is +better of his illness! No messenger has reached us from San Cataldo. +Is not your presence here proof of his recovery?" + +"When I left my father's side, his sickness was in nowise lessened," +responded Francesco laconically. + +"Not lessened!" exclaimed the Viceroy. "Then how came you here?" + +"At my father's command I am here!" + +"For what purpose?" + +"To acquaint you of my choice--of the Church!" + +He spoke the words in a hard and dry tone. + +Count Capece had arisen. He was hardly less pale than Francesco, but +there was a light in his eyes that burnt into the very soul of the +youth. + +"You said, your choice?" + +"My choice!" + +"Ingrate! Renegade!" + +Francesco bowed his head. + +He no longer attempted to reply, or to vindicate himself. His head had +fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. His temples throbbed +dully. He had known it from the start. They would misjudge him, they +would misjudge his motives. Years of loyalty spent at the Court of +Avellino would not mitigate the judgment of the step he was about to +take; they would rather aggravate it. They believed him bought by the +Guelphs. And his lips must remain sealed forever! Dared he divulge his +father's shame? Dared he cast an aspersion upon the guiltless head of +her who had given him birth and life? A life he had not desired, +forsooth, yet one that it was his to bear to the end,--whatever that +end!-- + +The Viceroy seemed to await some explanation, some apology--an apology +he could not give. What would words avail? Had not he, Francesco, +bartered his life, his soul, his destiny into eternal bondage? But now +his misery gave way to his pride. Once again he raised his head; but +in his pallid face there lay an expression of haughtiness, of +defiance, with which he met the Viceroy's hostile gaze. + +"I take my leave, my lord! As for my future life, it is not of +sufficient import to require or merit your consideration." + +The Viceroy pointed silently to the door. + +As one dazed, Francesco crept to his chamber. + +There with a great sob he sank into a settle. + +He gazed about. Nothing seemed altered since the days when he had been +alive. Not a trifle was changed because a human soul, a living human +soul had been struck down. The chamber was just the same as before. +Outside the water plashed in the fountain, the birds carolled in the +trees. As for himself,--he was dead, quite dead. + +He sat down on the edge of his couch and stared straight into space. +His head ached. The very centre of his brain seemed to burst. It was +all so dull, so stupid,--life so utterly meaningless. + +He remembered he had not spoken with Ilaria. At the very thought +everything grew black before his vision. Yet he could not leave with +the stigma upon his soul. She at least would understand, she at least +would pity him. He felt like one looking down into a self-dug grave. + +He arose and stepped to the window. + +It was now past the hour of high noon. The activity in the courtyard, +abandoned during the heated term of the day, began gradually to +revive. There was no time to be lost. + +Hastily he scratched a few lines on a fragment of vellum which lay +close at hand, called an attendant and bade him despatch it at once to +Ilaria Caselli. + +Then, weary and tired, he gathered together his scant belongings, so +scant indeed as not to encumber his steed; then, his arms propped on +his knees, he sat down once more and awaited the coming of dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE BROKEN TROTH + + +Spring triumphed with a vaunting pageant in the park of Avellino, +where the gravelled walks were snowy beneath the light of the higher +risen moon, and were in shadows transmuted to dim, violet tints. The +sombre foliage of yew and box and ilex contrasted strangely with the +pale glow of the young grass, sloping in emerald tinted terraces down +to where the lake shimmered through the trees. + +It was an enchanted spot, second only to the gardens of Castel +Fiorentino, with their broad terraces and gleaming marble steps, where +peacocks proudly strutted. At one end, a fountain sent its silvery +spray from a tangle of oleanders. Marble kiosks and statues gleamed +from the sea-green dusk of the groves. All around there rioted an +untamed profusion of shrubs: fantastic flowers of night, whose +fragrance hung heavy on the air. Ivy clung and climbed along the +crannies of gray walls; roses sprawled in a crimson torrent of perfume +over the weather-stained torsos of gods and satyrs. In the centre of +an ilex-grove a marble-cinctured lake gazed still-eyed at the sky, +with white swans floating dream-like on its mirrored black and silver. + +The dusk deepened; the golden moon hung low in the horizon, flooding +the garden with a wan spectral light. The pool lay a lake of silver, +in a black fringe of trees. The night flowers breathed forth drowsy +perfume, making heavy the still air of summer. + +Out of the velvet shadows there now came a woman, with dusky eyes and +scarlet lips and jewels that gleamed among the folds of her perfumed +robe. Slowly, like a phantom, she passed through the grove towards the +ivy-wreathed temple of Pomona by the marble-cinctured lake. + +Francesco who had been waiting, his heart in his throat, rose with a +sigh of relief, mingled with a mighty dread. Would she understand? +Would she grasp the enormity of the sacrifice he must make on the +altar of duty and obedience? Could she guess, could she read the +terrible pain that racked his heart and soul at the thought of +parting,--a parting for life,--for all eternity? For never, even if by +chance they should again cross each other's path in life, could there +be aught between them save a look; their lips must be mute forevermore +and the voices of their hearts hushed. + +So Fate had decreed it. + +Bound hand and foot, he had been sold to his own undoing, to his own +doom. + +In a faint whisper came his name. Two white hands were extended +towards him. + +He arose, stumbled forward, and the next moment found them in close +embrace. + +"My darling! My own! I feared I had been too bold in my feelings for +you!" + +And again and again he kissed her mouth, her eyes, and the dusky sheen +of her hair. + +"I love you!" she whispered, her arms about his neck, her witch-like +eyes drinking in the love and admiration which beamed from his. "Since +last night, it seemed to me, we had been parted for months!" + +A dull insufferable pain gripped his heart. + +For a moment he closed his eyes, then, placing his arm about her, +Francesco led her to a remote terrace where the velvet turf was bathed +in bluish silver-light, while far below, turning a little to eastward, +wound the shimmering thread of the Volturno, rippling softly through +the perfumed night into the emerald shadows of the sleeping forest. + +All about these two lay dream-like silence. + +What wonder they were both loath to break the spell! Francesco, with +heavy heart, watched the familiar scene, not daring to think, only +standing passive beside her, whose faint breath stirred elf-like the +rose upon his breast. + +Ilaria, too, was silent, wondering, hoping, fearing, waiting for him +to speak. + +A faint zephyr stole through the branches of the cypress and magnolia +trees. And from afar, as from another sphere, the faint sounds of +distant convent bells were wafted through the impassioned silence of +the southern night. + +A sudden mighty longing leaped into his heart. + +To banish it, he must speak. Yet, try as he would, he could not. His +lips refused to form the words and an ice-cold hand seemed to grip his +heart. + +Turning suddenly, he took the sweet face into his hands and held it +for a pace, and looked into her eyes with such a mad hunger, such +delirious longing, that she too caught the moment's spell. Her breath +came in gasps; her lips were thirstily ajar; she began to lean towards +him, and at last he threw his arms about her and caught the dear head +so wildly to his bosom, that woman-like she guessed there was +something hidden beneath it all, and while she abandoned herself to +his caresses, softly responding to them, the waves of a great fear +swept over her own heart. + +Looking up at him, she caught the strange, wild expression in his +face, an expression she had twice surprised since his return from his +mysterious voyage, once in the rose-garden, then at the repast. + +"Francesco," she breathed, with anxious wonderment in her tone, "why +do you look at me like that?" + +Thoroughly frightened by his manner, she caught him by the arm. + +He looked at her with bewildered eyes, but made no immediate response. + +"Why do you look at me like that?" she repeated, her fear enhanced by +his fierce look, his heaving breath. "Speak! What is it you have to +tell me? They are stirring in the courtyard. We have scant time. And +you--are you ready when the signal sounds? Your garb is ill-suited for +a journey!" + +At her words he gradually shook off the lethargy which seemed to +benumb his senses. + +Absently he looked down upon his garb. + +"I forgot," he muttered, then the realization being forced upon him +that he must speak, he took a deep breath, and the words sprang +fiercely from his lips. + +"Ilaria--can you guess the import of this hour? Can you guess why we +are here at this moment?" + +She looked up at him questioningly, but did not speak. + +"We are here," he stammered, looking helplessly into her face,--"to +say farewell." + +"Farewell?" she repeated with wonderment. "Do you not ride with us?" + +A negative gesture was slowly followed by the words: + +"I do not ride with you." + +"I do not understand!" she said, hesitation in her tone. "Has the +Viceroy--" + +"I am no longer of the court!" + +She started. He saw the roses fade from her cheeks. + +"Dismissed?" + +The words stung him like a whip-lash. + +He bowed his head. + +"I will see Count Capece at once! He will not refuse a boon to Ilaria +Caselli!" + +She had arisen, as if to suit the action to the words. + +He gently drew her back, disregarding her resistance, her wondering +look. + +"It is beyond recall!" + +From the castle court there came the sound of a fanfare. + +Neither noted it. + +Yet a touch of impatience tinged Ilaria's words, as she turned to him +anew. + +"What ails you, Francesco? You are dealing in enigmas. Why are you +dismissed? Why may I not see the Viceroy at once,--ere it be too +late?" + +"Because it _is_ too late. We part--for life!" + +A deadly pallor had overspread her features. + +"I do not understand!" she faltered. + +His head drooped. It was with difficulty he maintained his +self-control. + +"I feared as much,--and yet, the word must be +spoken,--farewell--forever--these two words alone--" + +"Forever!" she exclaimed, "and between us? No,--no,--not that,--not +that!" She held out both hands to him. He caught them in his own, as a +drowning man would hold on to a straw. + +"And yet,--we must!" he replied, with a choking voice. "Oh, +Ilaria--Ilaria--my sweetheart--my darling,--save me! Save me!" + +He broke off suddenly and stared at her vacantly. + +"Lord Christ,--what do I say! No, no! I did not mean that! I pray to +God, that we may not." + +"May not--what?" she interposed, her eyes in his. "Francesco, speak! +What troubles you? What is the meaning of it all?" + +"Oh, Ilaria," he said slowly, "it is indeed more difficult to tell +than I had guessed. When I leave Avellino, it will be never to +return!" + +"But why--why, Francesco?" she questioned, alarmed by his words, but +more by the wild expression of his countenance. + +"How can I tell it--how can I tell it? Is it not enough for you, to +know that I must go?" + +"You frighten me!" she whispered, drawing nearer to him. + +He took her in his arms and held her close, very close to him, +pressing his lips upon her closed eyes. It was his farewell to love, +to life. + +"Tell me that you love me!" he begged in piteous tones. + +"I love you," she breathed in whispered accents, broken by a sob. "Do +you not know?" + +"I love you," he cried with sudden fierceness, flinging the words in +rebellion at the inexorable fate which was in store for him. + +"Then,--why must we say it,--the word?" she queried anxiously. "Think +you that I fear to follow you,--wherever you may go?" + +For a moment he held her in close embrace, then his arms fell, as if +paralyzed, from about her. He drew back one quick step, a look +crossing his face that startled her even more than his strange +unexplained words. + +"There where I go, you could not follow me ever," he said at last with +the resolution of despair. "I am bound by a sacred oath to leave the +world. I have no right to ask any woman for her love! Henceforth, my +home--this castle--must be a dream, a memory to me, and you, Ilaria, +will stand as far above me as yonder star soars above the earth! +Ilaria! I have pledged my word to my father that I will bid farewell +to life and happiness, to take in their stead the lonely vows of a +Benedictine monk!" + +There was a dead silence. + +For a moment she looked at him, as if trying fully to comprehend what +it was he had said. + +Then his meaning pierced her brain. + +She shrank slowly away from him, then stood quite still, her eyes wide +and dark with horror, her face white, as a mask of death. A great icy +wave of silence seemed to have swept between them, shutting them out +from the world of life. + +In an instant all the softness and gentleness of her manner dropped +from her like a discarded garment. She drew her trailing robes about +her as if she dreaded contamination from him. A single petal from the +flower he wore had fallen upon her breast. She brushed it from where +it nestled. It fluttered down upon the grass. + +"A monk! And you have dared to touch me!" she hissed, as if she would +have spat upon him. + +A mist came over Francesco's eyes. For a few moments he was conscious +of nothing. All life and expression had gone from his face. He did not +see the flood of grief, the anguish and the wounded pride that +prompted her action. He only saw her turn about without another word, +and move swiftly from him towards the castle court, her eyes blinded +with tears. + +Like one dazed, Francesco stood and stared at the spot whence she had +gone. He saw and heard nothing save in memory. His white garb +shimmered in the moonlight with more life in its purity than there was +in his face. His soul was wrapped in awful bitterness at his +destiny,--the punishment for his father's sin. + +He had not told her. He had told no one. Twice on the same day he had +been misunderstood, his integrity assailed. He had hoped and prayed +for understanding. His prayer had been denied. None there was who +understood, none who even vaguely guessed the enormity of the +sacrifice. Pity only he had encountered, a pity akin to contempt, from +those whose cause he had seemingly deserted; disdain from her whose +lips might have alleviated the burden of his destiny by a blessing +that he might take with him on his lonely, solitary road. + +How long he stood thus, his limbs benumbed, paralyzed with grief, +afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, he knew not. An icy hand +seemed to clutch his heart. + +Suddenly from the castle there came the renewed sound of fanfares, +repeated in brief intervals. They were preparing to start. No one +thought of him. For them he had already ceased to be. + +With an effort he roused himself. + +Not a moment was to be lost. He had no longer any right here, no +longer the right to mingle with the happy companions of former days. +The thought that she too had turned from him in his hour of need, lent +him wings. He must set out at once. All that had at one time delighted +him, now repelled with the consciousness, that it was not for him. + +He stole back to the castle over devious paths, reached his chamber +and gathered up his scant belongings. A last look round the walls he +had learned to love, then he crept softly out into the corridor. +Everywhere he met the rush and hubbub of hurried preparation for +departure. No one heeded him. The hall below seemed to yawn beneath +him like a black pit as he descended. + +Crossing the courtyard amidst throngs of pages, squires, and +pursuivants, he made for the stables, saddled his steed, and rode out +by the postern, unheeded, unchallenged. + +The land of his heart's desire had vanished behind him, like the +fairy-land of golden sunset dreams that fades away when darkness +comes. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE PASSAGE + + +Francesco rode out into the scented night and the round yellow moon +rode with him. Strange things were happening beneath that moon; in the +crucible of destiny a new life was forming, new feelings arising on +the ashes of the old. And Francesco's heart was slowly undergoing a +change as he rode through the night into a season of darkness, +inevitable, irrevertible. + +Ahead of him the great road stretched white in the moonlight, a broad +ribbon which lost itself among hills and in the shadows of trees. In +his ears was the thunder of his horse's feet, pounding insistent +clamor into the quiet of the night. He would have desired wings for +his steed; the wind of the speed of his going swept cool against his +face. The night was gray around him, a velvet moon-steeped darkness, +odorous with the fragrance of breaking earth. Far away the +deep-throated bay of a dog rose and died across the world. A bell +note, thinned by distance to a faint dream sound, stole over silent +hill and dale; peace seemed to wrap the world round as in a cloister +garden. With every mile that now carried him farther away from his +Eden, from his garden of dreams, from his lost youth, new scenes +unrolled themselves before him. Off in the wide Apulian plains lights +twinkled here and yonder, wakeful eyes of watchfulness among the +hills. He passed pale glimmering bogs, where lonely herons brooded, +and wide barren heaths, over which the road led straight as an arrow's +flight. + +As the miles reeled away under him, his restlessness began to increase +with the sweep of his horse's stride. Vague forms seemed to slip by +him in the shadows; in every bush beside the road he saw white faces +lurking. Strange, half-formed impressions of the new life he was about +to enter upon, haunted him; strange forms in monkish garbs seemed to +pass him in the gloom of the night and vanish silently as ghosts. +Later he could not tell if he had seen them, or if they had been but +the excrescences of his fevered brain. For always, when he had +endeavored to rouse himself and look about him sanely, the road +stretched before him white and desolate. + +The weight of the hours past, yet more the presage of those to come, +had crushed Francesco's spirit with merciless relentlessness. He was +yet too young to realize the healing power of time, how it bears +forgetfulness on its kindly wings, how its shadow becomes finally a +shield, by which the keen daggers of remembrance are blunted and +turned aside. He did not know that the human soul can suffer only so +far, that greater miseries efface the memory of the lesser. The irony +of his parting from Ilaria, to him forever lost, her cruel words, had +stabbed his soul to the quick, and to himself he appeared to have +entered into a dismal, dreary land, a boundless valley of shadows. + +As he rode on, at a wild and reckless pace, the only human being on +that wide expanse, all sense of pain and misery left the son of +Gregorio Villani for the time, even all consciousness of the region +which he traversed. He could not stop; it seemed an iron weight would +crush him to earth, while, at the same time, a force against which he +could not struggle drove him on. His brain seemed to be on fire; balls +of flame danced before his eyes; while he looked upon them, they +turned to faces grinning from out a blood-red mist. The faces drew +closer and melted into one, Ilaria's face, as he had seen it last, +white in its marble-cold disdain, with scarlet lips and flaming +poppies in her dark scented hair. + +Then the mist in his eyes cleared suddenly, and he saw the figure +below the face, wreathed in a floating web of moonlight, through which +white limbs gleamed, while the dusky hair streamed behind it as a +cloud. Again, as he looked, the form was flying from him upon a great +white horse. And as it flew, it looked back at him with laughing, +witch-like eyes, Ilaria's eyes, as he was wont to see them, and in its +hand it bore a wan pale flame which was his soul. And, with the +fleeting vision, there came to him the realization that he had forever +lost that for which all men strive, which all men hold most dear: life +and love; and all his being leaped to the fierce desire to break the +oath that bound him to that other sphere,--the Church. But fast as his +good steed went, with ears laid back and neck outstretched and body +flattened to the desperate headlong stride, that great white horse +went faster, bearing ever just beyond his reach the slender form +veiled in misty moonbeams, the face with the laughing eyes and the +marble-cold disdain. + +He laughed aloud in answer, caught up in the whirlwind of his furious +speed; heaven and earth held nothing for him but the frenzy of desire. +Fire of life, the life he had cast from him, coursed through his +veins; the chase was life itself, exultant, all-conquering, sublime. +He had no eyes for the road ahead. Ahead was the darkness of the great +forests. A stride, and he was within their shadows. The moon was +blotted out by the blackness of the trees; and with it had faded the +vision, gone like a wreath of smoke, or a dream that is lost in +darkness. Francesco reeled in his saddle; his steed thundered on, the +reins loose upon its neck, through the damp silence of the wood, where +night hung heavy, thence out into the open, where again the road +gleamed white and desolate beneath the moon. + +And at last the moon was gone and the light went out of the world, and +he knew himself for a soul cast into outer darkness. His mind was +blank. He knew not whether he lived or died, nor did he care. He lived +in a nebulous void of gray unconsciousness, horribly empty of all +thought and all sensation. + +And thus he rode onward on the road to his destiny. + + +End of Book the First. + + + + +Book the Second + +THE PILGRIMAGE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE VIGIL OF SANTA MARIA ASSUNTA + + +On the summit of a conical hill, rising above the great amphitheatre +of forests that skirt the sunny Apulian plains, upon the ruins of a +temple to Apollo and in a grove sacred to Venus here, in the sixth +century had arisen the model of western monasticism, the cloisters of +Monte Cassino. + +From its sun-kissed heights the view extended on one side towards +Arpinum where the Prince of Roman orators was born, on the other, +towards Aquinum, already famous as the birth-place of Juvenal. +Scarcely a pope or emperor of note there was who had not been +personally connected with its history. From its mountain crags it had +seen Goths, Lombards, Saracens and Normans devastate the land, had +witnessed the death struggle between Guelph and Ghibelline, the +discomfiture of Rome, and the extinction of imperial dynasties. + +Up to the chapter house of the great Order of Benedict of Nursia, +enthroned upon that predestined height, Francesco slowly and wearily +made his way. After a night, even more restless than the preceding +one, he had journeyed all day, wishing, yet dreading, to behold his +ultimate goal. And as he slowly rode up the hill his heart sank with +the sheer weight of his misery. + +It was evening. + +An immense silence, full of sadness, had fallen upon the world. The +distant mountains were lost in a dome of roseate fire, which reached +almost to the horizon, bordered by a line of pallid gold. Only in the +west, like the very Host, the sun, shrouded in golden mists, hung in +the heavens over the mystery of the sea. Slowly the light was +changing. It was the moment of Benediction. Great tongues of flame +stole into the firmament; the hills took fire from the splendor of the +skies. Across the world lay the shadow of the Mountain. The earth +seemed as a smoking censer. + +As one wrapped in a dream, Francesco gazed across the land. Far and +away in the Umbrian plains a fire shone like a star fallen to earth; +then another and another. Castellazzara flamed on the mountain; +Proceno, Aquapendente, Elciola and Paladino in the plains. Torre +Alfina high in the mountains lighted her beacon; San Lorenzo in the +valley answered it. Every hamlet chanted "Magnificat" and the hills +answered: "Salve Regina!" + +It was the Vigil of Santa Maria Assunta. + +From the cloisters above came the sound of many droning voices. They +seemed to intensify the stillness, rather than to disturb it. + +At last he paused before the great southern entrance to the cloisters. +He pulled rein, but did not dismount. He was suddenly overwhelmed with +a feeling strong enough to bow his head and to call from his lips a +deep, heartbroken groan. After three days of freedom unspeakably +blessed he was now to enter the gates which would shut him in away +from the world of life, away from the world of men, perhaps for all +his remaining existence. Three brief days! That short time had +dispelled from his spirit the dull crust of insensibility, with which +he had striven to clothe it. He was once more to be laid bare to the +lash of inward rebellion from which he shrank in horror. A pardoned +prisoner recondemned to death,--it was easily compared to the life to +which he must voluntarily resign himself; that endless existence of +religious slavery from whose soul-crushing monotony there was no +escape, but death. + +Why no escape? Francesco stood there alone in the falling darkness. +None in the cloisters had been advised of his coming. He might +yet--With a tightening of the lips he leaped from his horse and gave +the customary signal. + +After a wait of brief duration a lay-brother appeared, opened the +gates and Francesco Villani entered the precincts of Monte Cassino. + +Without stating the reasons of his presence, he requested to be +forthwith conducted into the presence of the Prior, and the monk, +after having cared for Francesco's steed, and attended to his behest, +returned after a short time and bade him follow. Arrived at the +Prior's apartment, his guide knocked for admission. The door swung +inward and Francesco entered alone. + +The Prior had just finished a special devotion in a small oratory +adjoining his chamber and was now seated before a massive oaken table, +on which there lay a curiously illuminated parchment, from whose azure +and golden initials Francesco's eyes turned shudderingly to the form +of Romuald, Prior of Monte Cassino. + +His great and powerful frame was so worn with vigils and fasts that it +seemed like that of a huge skeleton. He regarded the youth, whose +courtly garb and manners would not have remained unremarked even in +the most brilliant assembly, with an air of austerity mingled with +apathy, which age and long solitude might well have engendered and, +after a few brief words of welcome such as took little from +Francesco's sense of forlornness, he bade the youth be seated. + +Without attempt at delay or circumlocution the son of the Grand +Master placed his father's letter in the Prior's hands, while he +turned his face from this living Memento Mori in the garb which +henceforth must be evermore his own. + +Francesco seated himself upon a settle, while the Prior weighed the +letter absently in his hand as one undecided whether or not to +acquaint himself with its contents. At last he broke the seal and, +with the aid of a torch whose flickering light drew Francesco's +attention towards the open door of an oratory, Romuald slowly began to +read. While thus engrossed, Francesco's gaze wandered down the dim +vistas of corridors revealed beyond Romuald's chamber, which in the +half-light presented an exceedingly gloomy aspect, reposing in the +uncertain glimmer of stone lamps fixed in niches upon the walls. These +corridors were at intervals crossed by archways, marking the +termination of many flights of stairs leading by galleries to the +upper chambers of the cloisters. A pulpit, supported on a pillar fixed +in the wall, was revealed by the light of five or six stone lamps, +which seemed to intensify rather than to dispel the gloom beyond. + +During the reading of Gregorio Villani's letter a sudden change had +come over the Prior's face. Francesco noted it not, engrossed as he +was in scanning his surroundings, silently wondering if he would be +able to strip off the gladness of earth, the joy of youth, the +yearning of the flesh, to become the image of that spiritualized +abnegation which the Prior represented; if his strength would support +his resolve. + +Suddenly a scowl darkened Romuald's brow, and from the letter in his +trembling hands his dimmed eyes flashed upon the youth. Francesco +wondered. It was not long before he learned. + +Romuald, supporting his right arm on the table, turned to the youth. + +"You then are the son of Gregorio Villani! And you think to live here +amongst us, to enjoy the peace and the solitude of these cloisters, +whose life-long enemy your father has been!" + +At the Prior's words Francesco had started. + +"I know nothing of my father's quarrels, nothing of the quarrels of +the monks," he said. + +The Prior nodded absently. + +"You were raised at the Court of Avellino?" + +"Such was my father's will!" + +Romuald looked up at him curiously. + +"And now, his will is to make of you a monk, to do penance for his own +transgressions!" + +Francesco's head sank. + +"The burden is mine to bear!" + +A strange light shone in the Prior's eyes. + +"Then it is not your own desire?" + +Every vestige of color had left Francesco's face. + +"It is my wish!"-- + +There was a brief pause. + +"You are loyal to the memory of him who gave you life but to destroy +it," nodded the Prior, as unconsciously he picked up the letter from +the table. Signs of deeper inward emotion were revealed upon his face +as, after regarding the youth with a gloomy interest, he said at last: + +"For one raised at court you will find the life of the cloister +arduous enough." + +A flood of memories rushed with these words over Francesco. + +They left his countenance paler than before, + +"I shall learn to bear it." + +A sudden gleam of pity seemed to beam from Romuald's passionless eyes. + +"It is a brave beginning of the new life,--for I doubt not you must +stay. The word of His Holiness is law. To-night, since collation is +over in the refectory, you will sup with me. To-morrow you shall +exchange this garb for the simpler one." + +Sick at heart, Francesco nodded silent acquiescence. + +At this moment a monk entered, carrying a platter which he placed upon +a table and, after arranging it according to the Prior's direction, +left the latter alone with his guest. + +The collation was by no means traditionally meagre. In truth, it +seemed to Francesco far above what his fancy about monastic life had +led him to expect. + +At last when everything upon the trenchers, together with the last +flagon of wine, had been done ample justice to, Francesco, after due +thanksgiving, arose. + +Romuald's gaze had never relinquished the youth during the repast. + +"Now to St. Benedict's chapel, wherein already the bell is calling," +he said, rising slowly. "After compline you shall be conducted to your +cell,--one for yourself within the dormitory overhead. This is the +way." + +A small door at one side of the Prior's room opened upon a narrow +passage, along which they walked side by side in semi-darkness, till +the light from the chapter house met their eyes. Through this large +room they passed, entering from it the great Church itself, the +further end of which opened into a beautiful chapel consecrated many +years ago to the founder of the cloister, St. Benedict of Nursia. + +When the Prior and his companion entered here, the monks were already +assembled. There was many a curious glance cast towards Francesco as +he strode along the kneeling company by the side of the Prior. + +So occupied was the newcomer with the novelty of the scene, that the +old and familiar worship, witnessed among different surroundings, did +not pall upon him here. + +Mechanically his lips moved, while his eyes wandered over the white +carven screen before the altar and the pillar that rose above it out +of the range of candle-light, to mingle with the shadows above. + +Then, by a slight turn of the head, he could see the black, well-like +entrance to the large church, where one or two distant lamps, lighted +by penitent monks before special shrines, flashed like infinitesimal +stars through the gloom. As for the long rows of kneeling monks about +him, they seemed to Francesco to differ not at all from those he had +known and met in the monasteries of Apulia, or those he had seen in +the Augustinian monastery of San Cataldo. They were the same +unsympathetic forms, the same shorn pates, the same dull faces, for +whom the world outside the gates of the cloister was but a country +unredeemed. These were part of the hosts that formed the great army of +the Church, with the aid of which she had slowly but surely obtained +her hold on the heritage of Emperor Frederick the Second; these were +the sentinels of the crusading host of Anjou. They knew no will, save +that of an irate, fanatical pontiff who looked about in vain for means +to rid himself of his dearly beloved son and his rapacious hordes. Of +these he was henceforth to be a part, their loves his loves, their +hates his hates. In vain did he look about for a face idealized by the +life of the cloister, and, as he looked and wondered, the last prayer +was concluded. + +In irregular groups, amid a low murmur of conversation, the monks left +their devotions, now ended for another day. Francesco followed them as +they moved down the corridor. + +Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder. He turned about and gazed +into the face of the Prior. + +"Fra Ambrogio will conduct you to your cell," said Romuald, beckoning +to a long, lean monk who stared awkwardly at the newcomer. "The +last--in the western wing," was the Prior's laconic order, and +Francesco bowed in silence and followed his spectral guide. + +He was too weary to care to talk; even to inquire about his horse. + +In a short while the son of the Grand Master was alone in his dimly +lighted cell. It was larger than he had anticipated and far more +worthily furnished. + +Upon a table had been placed the bundle which held his belongings. +This he unrolled carelessly, intending to take from it only his tunic +for the night. With the movement something from the bundle fell out +upon the stone floor. He stooped to pick it up. It was the little +steel dagger which his hand had gripped on the fatal night of his +return from San Cataldo. Thinking nothing of the omen, he slipped the +forbidden weapon between the leaves of a Missal which he placed on the +table, and there it remained for many a long day. + +Then he sat down upon his bed, covering his face with his hands. + +Ilaria's name rang in his ears; Ilaria's image filled every atom of +his soul. In the paroxysm of grief which convulsed his frame, he shook +like a storm-swept reed; it was in vain he tried to compose his mind +to the proper attitude for prayer. + +The crucifix above his bed swam in a misty cloud before his eyes. It +was only after a long litany, mechanically repeated, that Francesco +succeeded in recalling his wandering imagination to the mystery of the +atonement. At last sheer physical weariness conquered the feverish +agitation of his nerves and he lay down. + +The long night passed in unbroken blackness and silence. In the utter +void and absence of all external impressions Francesco gradually lost +consciousness of time. The blackness of night seemed an illimitable +thing with no beginning and no ending; but, when at early dawn he +waked, there were tears in his eyes and the name of Ilaria on his +lips. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE PASSING OF CONRADINO + + +Days and weeks in the cloisters of Monte Cassino sufficed to convince +Francesco that he was not destined to find any friendships there. The +elder Villani had not seen fit, in an age of implied indulgence, to +keep secret the nature of his transgression, and the curious and +unfriendly glances that met him on every turn had soon proclaimed this +fact to the newcomer, who writhed inwardly, but endured in silence. +The changeless, endless rounds endured by many thousands of human +souls for all years of their lives, added new torture; he felt like +the stray leaf blown from its stem on the sheltering branch; would his +ever be the prayerless peace for evermore? + +Thus month passed after month,--in dire, changeless monotony.-- + +It was a stifling afternoon late in summer. + +Few of the monks felt energy enough to go about their usual +half-hearted pastimes, and nearly all had retired to their cells in +comatose languor. Francesco had gone up with the rest; but the sun +streamed brilliantly into his little cell through the western window +and from without there came to his ears the myriad droning of +ephemeral insect life. His mind was weighted with many thoughts that +clamored for analysis. + +Gradually he felt immersed in a morbid train of reflections concerning +as ever, the utter emptiness of his own existence, now really more +exiled in loneliness than ever before. For months now he had been in +the cloisters, and not one single word from the outer world concerning +his future had come to him. The time was fast approaching when he must +take the final vows. Had the Pontiff forgotten him? Had his emissary +deceived his father on his death-bed? Or--it was unthinkable--had his +father deceived him, to make him pliable to his wishes? Was he +doomed to remain here till the end of time, severed from the +world,--forgotten? + +The very thought was unendurable. These conjectures were worse than +immediate annihilation. No matter which it was to be,--he, the monk, +was utterly powerless. It were far better not to yield himself to +these unwise fears. The Prior had been invisible to him for days. He +alone might, by word or hint, have alleviated his fears; but he had +not spoken. + +After brooding over these matters till he thought his brain would +burst, Francesco determined to shake off the oppression of his cell +and to seek solace under the azure vault of Heaven. + +Suiting the action to the impulse, he opened the door noiselessly and +stepped into the corridor without. + +About him there was absolute silence. He stood at the farthest corner +of the western wing. Nearly all the cells immediately about him were +untenanted. For a moment or two he tarried, undecided. Then, following +an irresistible impulse, he stepped on to the trellised walk without +and decided to ascend the top of the mountain. + +Escaping from the court and the cloisters, all hushed in dream-like +stillness, he climbed a green knoll which several ancient pines marked +strangely with their shadows. There, leaning against one of the +trunks, he raised his eyes to the barrier of encircling mountains, +discovered by the quivering sunlight falling directly on the forests +which fringed their acclivities. + +The vast woods, the steep descents, the precipices and torrents all +lay extended beneath, softened by a pale-blue haze that alleviated in +a measure the stern prospects of the rocky promontories above. The sky +was of the deepest azure. The hoarse roar of torrents, throwing +themselves from distant wildernesses into the gloomy vales below, +mingled with the chant from remote convents. + +How long he had stood there, endeavoring to fix some purpose in his +life, something that would fill out the emptiness of his existence and +give him the strength to bear up under the burden of his destiny, +Francesco could not have told, when a vague glittering movement on the +opposite mountain slopes attracted his gaze, a glitter that told of an +armed array marching and riding among the hills. Even the woods seemed +peopled with shadowy forms, slowly emerging into the bright light of +high-noon, while out of the stillness there leaped the cry of a horn, +hawberks glimmered and armor shone. Beyond the armed array the +mountains towered solemn and stupendous, fringed as with aureoles of +lambent flame. The horsemen came from the North; there was a swirl of +thought in Francesco's brain, then his hand went to his heart: +Conradino and his iron hosts were marching on Rome! + +And he, who had dreamed of espousing at some day the cause of the last +of the Hohenstauffen, who had hoped, by some great effort, to win the +crown of life and Ilaria's love, stood here on the summit of Monte +Cassino, separated by mountains, chasms and torrents from the +glistening throng, which wound in one long, sinuous line towards the +ravines of Camaldoli, separated by a whole world from the realization +of the hopes nurtured in his childhood. He was the bondsman of the +Church,--the bondsman of the Pope. + +It was an indisputable fact; he was being caught in constantly ever +narrowing circles. + +Many questions would hourly assail him, questions like the hill-towns +of Umbria, built on the brink of precipices, walled round with +barriers of unhewn rock, seeming so near from the ravine below, where +the wanderer sees every roof, every cypress tree, every pillared +balcony, but which he cannot approach by scaling the unscalable, sheer +precipice, but must slowly wind round from below, circling up and down +endless undulations of vineyard and oakwood, coming forever upon a +tantalizing glimpse of towers and walls, forever seemingly close to +the heights above him, yet forever equally distant, till, at last, by +a sharp unexpected turn of the gradually winding road, he stands +before the gates. + +Thus was it with his own isolated soul, a soul unaffected by any +other, unlinked in any work, or feeling, or suffering with any any +other soul,--nay even with any physical thing. + +Thus it stood between himself and Ilaria. Thus they would forever +remain alone, never move, never change, never cease absorbing through +all eternity that which the eye cannot see. + +A soul purged perchance, of every human desire or will, isolated from +all human affection, raised above the limits of time and space, +hovering in a limbo of endless desire, twisting mystical half +reasoning away from the peace-hungry soul! + +What a fate was his! What a vortex of passions he had been thrust +into! + +In the streets of Rome, Guelphs and Ghibellines were fighting. To +southward the Provencals ravaged the land. All over Italy the +free-lance companies lay waste and burned. The coarse religion of the +cloister had no uplifting tendency. It was rather a perpetual smart. +The first fervor of the great Franciscan and Dominican movements had +long been spent. Nothing, save the ill-regulated enthusiasm of +heretical sects, had arisen to take its place. In monasteries and +convents scandals were almost the order of the day. It was true, the +torch of Franciscan faith still passed privately from hand to hand. +Some of the ablest men of the Church were discussing the daring tenets +of direct Franciscan inspiration. Representatives of all phases of +mediaeval thought mingled with the adherents of a mystic Oriental +trend. + +Nevertheless, Francesco, in the dead of night, found himself waking to +the sense of a dreadful loss and loneliness. He had entered a hushed +world, where human and earthly values alike were ignored or forgotten, +and the drama of the soul was all in all. The demon of disillusionment +which had beset him ever since he had ascended the heights of Monte +Cassino began to unfold his gloomy wings over the far horizon of his +soul. + +No one knew, save himself and perhaps he not fully, how deep a +yearning for guidance underlay his sensitive distaste for the control +of men. His was a nature that craved to follow, as others craved to +lead, but which submitted itself reluctantly, and never at the call of +convention. + +Devastated Italy rose before his eyes,--nay, the whole world opened to +the inner vision, one great battle-field. Unconsciously his eyes +followed the direction of the horsemen. Their vanguard had long +disappeared in the dusk of distant forest-aisles; still Swabia's +iron-serried ranks were pouring from the sheltering boughs of the oaks +above San Geminiano.-- + +Evening drew on apace. + +A procession, with its gay dresses and colored tapers gleaming like a +rainbow against the verdant hills along the curving, climbing road +from San Vitale, attracted Francesco's gaze, and with it a sudden dull +pain contracted his heart as he strained his eyes towards the valley. + +It seemed like a bridal procession in its pomp, its splendor. A woman +bestriding a palfrey rode gaily by the side of a man conspicuous in +dark velvet. Directly beneath where he stood, she suddenly raised her +head, as if she had divined his presence and desired a witness to her +glory. + +With a low cry of pain Francesco drew back. + +At that moment, notwithstanding the height, he had recognized the +magically fair features of Ilaria Caselli. + +Like an animal hunted to death, that wishes to die in its lair, he was +about to withdraw, when he faced what appeared to be a peasant who had +come with provisions to the cloister. + +As he saw the young monk he paused with a salutation, then, +approaching him, he whispered: + +"Have you heard the news? Messer Raniero Frangipani and Madonna Ilaria +Caselli are passing on their bridal journey to Rome!" + +Francesco's face was so pale that no earthly tint seemed to have +remained in it. Only the large eyes gave evidence of life. + +"You come to me from her?" he questioned to the peasant. + +"She bade me tell you that from no motive of coercion,--but of her own +free will and choice, the Frangipani's proposal had been accepted!" + +Francesco gave a sudden cry like one who leaps over a precipice, and, +falling on his knees, buried his face in his hands. + +When he roused himself from the stupor which benumbed his limbs the +peasant had disappeared, with him the bridal procession and the +Swabian contingents of Conradino. + +The full moon gazed down upon him through the great silence of the +mountain-world, and a thousand pines thrust up their midnight spears +towards the stars. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +TONSURE AND THORN + + +The following weeks dragged along in hopeless monotony. The last night +of Francesco's novitiate had come. There would not be a loophole of +escape for him now. On the morrow, the eternal vows were to pass his +lips. This night he was to spend in the chapel of the saint on his +knees, supposedly in prayer. It was a solitary vigil, for no companion +could be granted him. A dangerous thing for a novice it was, had the +monks but realized it:--putting one for ten hours alone at the mercy +of his thoughts. And Francesco shuddered as they left him, kneeling +upon the stones before the solitary shrine. + +Could he have seen himself he would have staggered! How old and +emaciated, shrunken and hopeless he looked, as he knelt there in his +ungainly garments. The face which had formerly borne an open +expression of happiness, was hard now, unreadable and impassive. His +hands, once white and well cared for, had become almost transparent. +As he held his body straight from the knees upward, it was difficult +to perceive how much weaker this body had grown. There was a +pathetically haughty poise to the head still; but the skin was +colorless. + +The love for Ilaria, her witch-like face, her witch-like eyes, had +remained with him. He had hoped against hope, that by some human, or +divine interposition, the yoke about to be imposed upon him would be +shattered, that it would prove but a period of probation, a horrid +nightmare forsooth, which would be dispelled by some divine ray, give +him back to earth, to life, to love, for which his heart yearned with +a feverish longing that was fast sapping his strength. His prayers had +been in vain: the moments were fleeting fast towards the consummation +of his destiny. + +It suffered him no longer in the incense-saturated gloom of the +chapel. Escaping from his solitary vigil he traversed the courtyard +and almost unconsciously reached the spot whence on the night of his +arrival at the cloisters he had looked down upon the mountain world of +Central Italy. + +Above, space soared. Glancing below, he was seized as with a sudden +dizziness. All idea of limitation seemed to have ceased in this +infinity, for he looked down upon a firmament of cloud. And even as he +looked, it was vanishing dream-wise, revealing in widening rifts the +world, that gave it birth. A world,--how flat for all its serrated +mountain ranges, how insignificant for all its far horizons, compared +with that immensity of the starry vault above. + +As he gazed with wide, longing eyes, slowly the consciousness of +physical existence seemed to widen, till it extended to the horizon +and in the very extension was transfigured. Francesco tried to summon +images of devotion. But the images mocked the vast concave. He only +saw the deep eyes of Ilaria Caselli. Was not the universe his prayer? +Sharp summits, glistening and far, were better cries of the soul than +he could use. + +Long he stood there on the moon-steeped height and gazed to southward +where the winding road led into the plains of Apulia to Avellino, the +cradle of his destiny. And as he gazed, thoughts, or impressions +rather, began to float through his spirit Heaven, like fleecy clouds +which, having withdrawn to the horizon begin to return slowly, +wandering as it seemed at random, yet shepherded steadily by the wind +towards the central upper deeps of the sky. + +Faint, clear, a melody, recalling things long left and lost, throbbed +through the silence of the night. He listened, then gazed, spellbound. +Below him the swift waters of the Liris were smitten to tawny light. +Son of the earth once more, he was once more slave of his thoughts. + +Far above a world of compromise, conflict and delusion, a world that +was soon to be upheaved by mortal strife, his destiny had lifted him +into this high sphere of purity and peace. No purity save in +isolation. Yet the mass of men were never meant to climb. Should he +take his patient place with the slow, ascending throng,--would not the +old story repeat itself, the old turmoil, conflict, failure? + +Turning suddenly, Francesco gave a start. + +By his side stood the Prior. + +He was not slow to read the distress in the face of the youth. + +"This great peace of the world above and about us--does it not +reconcile your soul?" the Prior spoke with a slow sweep of his hand. +"Is there anything greater than isolation above the herd?" + +A great bitterness welled up in Francesco's heart, and his eyes filled +with tears, as he turned to his interlocutor with the protest of his +soul. + +"You would reject the very affirmations of existence! You cry to the +imperious demands of Nature to create, to propagate, a mere perpetual +No! Let those like-minded betake themselves to monasteries and to +cells. As for myself--" + +He broke off with a sob. Had he not lost the clue to Life? + +The Prior regarded him quietly. + +"The Church does not discourage the actions of the individual,--as +long as they do not conflict with the eternal laws. As for +herself--who must subdue men for men's sake,--she does reject them." + +And linking his arm in that of Francesco, the Prior drew him back into +the dusk of the deserted chapel and pointing to the form of the +crucified Christ above the high-altar said: + +"Look up! Nails would not have held him on the cross, had Love not +held him there!" + +And Francesco sank upon his knees in a paroxysm of grief. The Prior +watched the scalding tears that streamed down the pale, wan face; +then, when Francesco had sobbed himself into a state bordering almost +on apathy, the Prior retraced his steps and left him to himself. + +The moonlight streamed through the windows, and lay in broad patches +upon the marble floor. Francesco staggered at last from his kneeling +posture. Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly towards +the chancel and paused at the altar. There he knelt again. Deep +silence reigned. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs. He was wringing +his hands as one in bodily pain. + +The sound of his own voice re-echoing through and dying away among the +arches of the roof filled him with fantastic terror as the phantom of +some unknown presence. For a moment he swayed and would have fallen. +It seemed to him as if he had seen Ilaria's face in the purple dusk. +His heart stood still. + +He stared spellbound. But it had vanished. He was conscious of nothing +save a sickening pressure of the blood, that seemed as if it would +tear his breast asunder, then it surged back, tingling and burning, +through his body. + +It was on the following day. + +The ceremony had been accomplished. + +Francesco stood before the high altar among the monks and acolytes and +read the Introitus aloud in steady tones. All the cathedral was a +blaze of light and color, from the holiday dresses of the peasants to +the pillars with their flaming draperies and wreaths of flowers. The +religious orders from the adjoining monasteries with their candles and +torches, the companies of the parishes, with their crosses and +pennons, lighted up the dim side-chapels; in the aisles the silken +folds of processional banners drooped their gilded staves and tassels, +glinting under the arches. The surplices of the choristers gleamed, +rainbow-tinted, beneath the colored windows; the sunlight lay on the +chancel floor in checkered stains of orange and purple and green. +Behind the altar hung a shimmering veil of silver tissue, and against +the veil and the decorations and the altar-light, the Prior's figure +stood out in its trailing white robe like a marble statue that had +come to life. + +The light of a hundred candles shone in the deep still eyes about him, +eyes that had no answering gleam. At the elevation of the Host the +Prior descended from his platform and knelt before the altar. There +was a strange, even stillness in his movement. The sea of human life +and motion seemed to surge around and below him and die away in the +stillness. A censer was brought to Francesco, he raised his hand with +the action of an automaton and put the incense into the vessel, +looking neither to the right nor left. Then he too knelt, swinging the +censer slowly to and fro. He took from the Prior the sacred golden +sun, while the choristers burst into a peal of triumphal melody: + + Pange linqua gloriosi + Corporis mysterium. + Sanguinisque pretiosi + Quem in mundi pretium + Fructus ventris gloriosi + Rex effudit gentium. + +Francesco stood above the monks, motionless under the white canopy, +holding the Eucharist aloft with steady hands. Two by two passed the +monks, with lighted candles held left to right, with banners and +torches, with crosses and images and flags, they swept slowly down the +broad nave past the garlanded pillars, the sound of their chanting +dying into a rolling murmur, drowned in the pealing of new and newer +voices, as the unending stream flowed on and yet new footsteps echoed +down the incense-laden nave. + +One by one the visiting brotherhoods passed with their white shrouds +and veiled faces, the brothers of the Misericordia, black from head to +foot, their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in their masks; +the mendicant friars with their dusky cowls and bare brown feet, the +russet Benedictines and the white-robed grave Dominicans. They all +bore testimony to the irrevocable step the son of the Grand Master had +taken. A monk followed, holding up a great cross between two acolytes +with gleaming candles. On and on the procession passed, form +succeeding to form and color to color. Long white surplices, grave and +seemly, gave place to gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials. The +roses were strewn, the procession filed out. + +When the chant had ceased, Francesco passed between the silent rows of +the monks, where they knelt, each man in his place, the lighted +candles uplifted. And he saw their hungry eyes fixed on the sacred +body that he bore. To right and left the white-robed acolytes knelt +with their censers, as peal after peal of song rang out, resounding +under the arches, echoing along the vaulted roof. + +Wearily, mechanically, Francesco went through the remaining part of +his consecration, which had no longer any meaning for him, prayer +eluding him as a vapor. After the Benediction he covered his face. The +voice of the monk reading aloud the indulgences, swelled and sank like +a far-off murmur from a world to which he belonged no more. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE CALL + + +During the months that followed, it had become Francesco's habit to +spend most of his leisure time in loneliness on the spot whence he had +beheld the passing of Conradino's iron-serried hosts and where he had +received Ilaria's message. The monks rarely visited the place, and +Francesco's solitude was undisturbed. He never prayed, nor even held a +religious thought while there; but the place was well chosen for +meditation. Situated upon the very summit of the hill, whose slopes +were bathed in purest air and sunlight, his gaze could easily traverse +the intervening space and follow the shining course of the river down +to the blue waters of the lake of Nemi, many miles away. Following the +same direction still, till vision was repulsed by the barrier of +shadowy hills, one knew that just beyond lay the sunny Apulian land, +the spot to which Francesco's eyes ever turned; towards which once in +a passion of rebellion, he had strained his arms, then let them drop +again, helpless at his sides, acknowledging his defeat. + +Autumn and winter had come and gone. Again spring was in the land, and +with it at last an evening came; it was Saturday, a night of devotions +and special Aves at the cloisters. The holy office was still in +progress, and Francesco, kneeling in the last row of full-vowed +brethren, was striving to turn his thoughts from useless unhappiness, +watching the play of the candlelight over the high-altar. Thus he +failed to hear the opening of the outer door, and the rapid steps that +passed and returned by the corridor. It was but a lay brother, and not +a monk turned his head. But when a murmured message was delivered in +the Vestibulum, when the jingle of chain-armor and the heavy tread of +nailed feet came echoing towards them, there was a general lifting of +eyes, a craning of necks and a perceptible increase in the speed of +the responses. + +The services ended, the monks betook themselves to their +confessionals. A small number still lingered about the door, waiting +the possible arrival of Romuald, the Prior, of whom they might +incidentally learn the title and quality of the stranger. Francesco +had retired into a dim corner, seemingly indifferent to the advent of +the visitor. This appearance was not so much affectation, as a great +struggle to crush back the hope that would sometimes slumber, but +never die, within his breast. + +Presently, however, there was a stir in the arch of the corridor, +caused by the advent of one of the Prior's attendants, who stopped +still to look about the chapel. Finally, discovering what he sought, +he approached Francesco, beckoning to him to follow him. + +Francesco rose and came forward, his knees shaking, with wildly +beating heart. He followed his guide without looking to right or left, +walking very slowly, that he might regain something of his +self-possession. Had the summons come at last? Concerning its import +he did not speculate, so it sent him into a sphere of action, away +from this self-centred life at the cloisters, the very calm of which +offered no haven for the storm-tossed soul. + +When he entered the Prior's presence, his manner was impassively +expectant. Romuald rose slowly from his place, an overpowering, almost +conscience-stricken pity in his heart, which refused to come to his +lips, as on the face of the young monk there was unveiled at last all +the majesty of the bitter loneliness which he had suffered so long and +so silently. + +When the Prior turned to Francesco, his words dropped monotonously +from his lips. + +"A messenger has arrived from His Holiness, Pope Clement, summoning +you to Rome! You will depart on the morrow!" + +Francesco bowed his head in silence and withdrew. As one in a trance +he went out into the empty corridor. At last the call had come: To +Rome,--to Rome! He would leave the dreary solitude of these +mountain-heights, leave their purity and sanctity and peace for the +strife and turmoil of a fevered world. To Rome,--to Rome! His pulses +beat faster at the thought. Thither had those preceded him, among whom +he had spent the golden days of his youth; thither she had gone whose +image filled the dark and desolate chambers of his heart; now lost to +him for aye and evermore! And thither Conradino was marching with his +iron hosts to claim the dominion of the Southlands, his inheritance, +his very own! To Rome,--to Rome! Once it had been the dearest wish of +his soul. Now an unspeakable dread seized him with the summons. He was +the bondsman of the Church,--her shackles were pitiless. Every feeling +must be stifled, the voice of the heart hushed in her grim service.-- + +Francesco entered his cell; a moment later the cell was in darkness. +But could Francesco's open eyes have served the purpose of a lantern, +a dozen monks might have read by their light, unceasingly, till +matins. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE DELLS OF VALLOMBROSA + + +It was a windless morning. Stillness and sunlight lay upon the world, +when on the back of his own good steed, which had seen heavy service +since last he rode it, Francesco bade farewell to the cloisters of +Monte Cassino. Though hampered by his monk's habit, he sat in the +saddle with the poise of a nobleman, as he gathered up the reins. With +a cut upon his horse's neck and a word in the pointed black ear, he +was off at a swinging gallop, out and away through the open gate, past +the walls of his prison, giving never a thought to the gaze from +twenty pairs of curious eyes which followed him until he was out of +sight. + +Free of the cloister! Oh, the rare intoxication of that thought! And +quickly upon it came the memory of that other departure, when he had +turned his back on the south, had strained his eyes towards the +setting sun. Then spring had awakened in the land, everything was +promise, save the life upon which he was entering. The spring had +gone, and with the spring the happiness of his life. A summer +landscape stretched before him; and he rode towards the setting sun. + +Francesco rode slowly enough. The fresh, free air came joyously to his +nostrils. His eyes, less sunken than they had looked for months, +though he knew it not, were seeking out those small tokens of beauty, +which friendly nature gladly exhibits to so devoted a seeker. Two +shrines had he already passed without a Pater Noster, filled with a +quick, delirious happiness, which rose continually from his heart to +his lips. + +Through the long, strange, secluded days at Monte Cassino, he had +become aware of a profound respite from the ferment of thought. On +this morning, however, the sense of self, with all its complications, +had utterly vanished. The insistent illusions of the past seemed to +have left him. In the high solitudes in which he had been moving, +living inviolate behind a stillness not of this world, he had wandered +alone, yet not alone, through the spiritual landscape of which Fate +had opened the portals. + +Of the monks he had left he thought without regret. They were not +remarkable people, only ordinary men, for whom the veil that separates +the seen from the unseen had become thin and sheer. But if not +remarkable themselves, a remarkable force was playing through them. +Dreamers, yet carrying in their dream the memory of the world's +sorrow, they had gained high victory from long meditation on +redemption accomplished, and on the spiritual glory that transcends. +Yet the knowledge, that by the way of renunciation one comes to the +way of fulfillment, had not yet dawned upon Francesco. + +The sun, long clear of the tree-tops, had reached the valleys, and, as +he gazed, the light between the great tree-trunks grew from splendor +to splendor, and flashed its level glories through the forest, +transfiguring the leaves to flame. The dark trees, which crowned the +hill, were giving place, as he descended, to woods of fresher green. +In the grass below cyclamen hung their heads dew-freighted. The birds +were at matins. Through the soft foliage the sky shone, a lustrous +amethyst. + +His path struck the main road presently. He wound through an enclosed +valley, fairly wide. The world was all awake. The summer sun, though +young in the heavens, already scorched where it fell. As he passed on, +the unfailing peace of the woods received him, that deep tranquillity +of verdurous gloom which absolves the wanderer from the faint glare of +noon. He saw himself once more a tiny boy, and the years between +shrank into a brief bewilderment in his mind. Dreaming dreams long +forgotten, he rode on. A wandering sunbeam fell through the branches. +For a moment everything seemed withdrawn: fret, fever, confusion not +only exiled, but forgotten among the whispering leaves. The purity of +a great silence was encompassing a great surrender. + +Behind him, straight above, the Castle of San Gemignano cut abruptly +into the main curve of the sky. Below, a trifle to the south, a sister +castle, beneath which a few affrighted houses closely huddled, rose +against the purple mass of Monte Santa Fiore. But Francesco was +looking away and out over the desolate sun-lit lands, bordered by sere +brown oak woods, and gray olive hills gilded by the sun. + +Before him stretched the fields and oak woods and vineyards of Umbria, +a wide undulating valley, enclosed by high rounded hills, bleak or +dark with ilex, each with its strange terraced white city, Assisi, +Spello, Spoleto and Todi. The Tiber wound lazily along their base, +pale green, limpid, scarcely rippling over its yellow pebbles, +screened by long rows of reeds and tall poplars, reflecting dimly the +sky and trees, pointed mediaeval bridges, and crenelated round-towers. + +Barracks of mercenary troops, strongholds of bandit-nobles, besieged +and sacked and heaped with massacre by rival factions, tangled +brushwood of ilex and oak, through which wolves and foxes roamed in +quest of their ghastly prey, now gave evidence of a life other than he +had dreamed of even on his mountain height. Burned houses and +devastated cornfields testified to the late presence here of the Wolf +of Anjou. The mutilated corpses along the road offered a ghastly +sight, which the scattered branches of the mulberries tried in vain +to conceal from the wanderer's gaze. + +Grieved by the sight that met his progress through devastated Italy, +resignation schooled Francesco's lips to silence. None the less there +sang irrepressibly in his heart the song of the open road. There is +exhilaration in any enlargement, however painful the personal +experiences of the past months began to appear, a symbol at most in +miniature of the turbulent drama of the age. All he saw and heard, +confirmed the dark situation he had heard described; yet the fact of +decision had soothed his bewilderment. There was hope of action ahead. +On all lips there was the same tale of the unbearable tyranny of the +Provencals, of their mean extortions, their cold sensuality, their +cruelty past belief. Everywhere he found the smouldering fire of a +righteous wrath, everywhere the vaulting flames of a high resolve. The +appearance on the soil of Italy of Conradino was filling the adherents +of the Swabian dynasty with chivalric passion. And Francesco--finding +his own spirit swift to respond to the call--was suddenly reminded +that he had been sold to the Church, who protected the tyrant, to the +Church whose passive servant he was, to do as he was bidden by the +Father of Christendom. And, with the thought, a dread crept cold among +his heart-strings. His friends were phantoms in the sunshine,--a vast +gulf lay between them, now and forevermore. + +He was about to be forced into the actual world of practical affairs +and ecclesiastical politics. The shock was rude; he could not as yet +relate the two worlds in his mind, nor project force from one into the +other. What was the Pontiff's desire with regard to himself? Why had +he summoned him to Rome, where he must needs meet anew those in whose +eyes he had become a traitor, a renegade? Had he not suffered enough? +Was the measure of his humiliation still incomplete?--And +Ilaria--Ilaria-- + +Francesco had ridden all day, stopping for refreshments only, when the +need was most felt, or his steed demanded some rest. + +It was a golden evening when he rode into the dells of Vallombrosa. +Everything seemed golden,--a soft and melting gold. The sky, the air, +the motionless holm-oaks, the ground itself, overgrown with short, +tawny moss, beat back a brilliant amber light. The sky flamed orange +and saffron, and the distant lake of Bolsena rolled as a sea of fire. +A company of pilgrims proceeded through the wood, illumined by level, +golden rays, that struck under the high branches, turning the beds of +fern to pale green flame, and the tree-trunks to unsubstantial light. +The fever of the noon-tide had become tranquil in the evening glow. In +their wake a confused mass of men and weapons flashed suddenly into +the sunlight. Another procession with its gay dresses and colored +tapers gleamed like a rainbow among the branches. + +To Francesco, always delighting in pageantry, the charm of the scene +tingled through consciousness almost as powerfully as the Masque of +the Gods he had witnessed on that never-to-be-forgotten night at +Avellino. And the same dull particular pain shot through his heart, +intensified a thousand times, as they came nearer through the sun-lit +forest-aisles,--a dark horseman, superbly clad in white velvet, and +beside him the exquisitely moulded, stately form of a woman, both +mounted on palfreys magnificently caparisoned, and followed by a +company of young cavaliers, giddy and gay in their festal array. But +every drop of blood left Francesco's heart, and his cheeks were pale +as death, as in the woman who laughed and chatted so gaily he +recognized Ilaria Caselli,--in the man by her side Raniero Frangipani. +He would have wheeled his steed about and fled, but an ice-cold hand +seemed to clutch at his heart, benumb his senses and paralyze his +endeavors. His eyes were riveted on Ilaria's face; the evening air, +cool and gentle, had waked a sweet color on her cheeks, and her dusky +eyes seemed to reflect the dancing motes of light which permeated the +ether. So bewildering, so intoxicating was her beauty, that Francesco +fairly devoured her with his gaze, as one doomed to starvation would +devour with his eyes the saving morsel which another's hand had +snatched from him. A groan of utter misery betrayed his presence to +the leaders, unseen, as otherwise he might have hoped to remain. The +Frangipani passed him, without taking any notice of the monk, an +accustomed sight indeed in these regions, abounding in chapels and +sanctuaries and the huts of holy hermits. Whether the woman obeyed the +summons of an inner voice, or whether the despairing gaze of the youth +compelled her own,--as she was about to pass him, Ilaria suddenly +reined in her palfrey and met Francesco's gaze. For a moment she +turned white to her very eyes, then a shrill laugh rang like the +breaking of a crystal through the sun-lit wood; the cavalcade cantered +past, many a curious glance being turned on the monk, who in some +unknown way had provoked Ilaria Caselli's sudden mirth. + +The sun had set. Filmy rose-clouds brooded in an amethyst mist over +the distant levels of the sea. Then, with the swiftness of the south, +dusk enveloped the dells of Vallombrosa. + +The procession had long vanished from sight. Still Francesco stared in +the direction where Ilaria's laughter had died away, as if forced to +do so by some terrible spell. When the awful pain of his heart had to +a degree subsided, he felt as if something had snapped in two in its +dark and desolate chambers. Could love become so utterly forgetful of +its own,--could love be so utterly cruel and blind? Only a miracle +could now save his soul from perishing in its own darkness! + +The glory of the night had, as it were, deepened and grown richer. The +purple sky above was throbbing, beating, palpitating with light, of +stars and planets, and a great gold-red moon was climbing slowly over +the misty plains of Romagna. Fireflies whirled in burning circles +through the perfumed air, and from the convent of Vallombrosa came the +chant of the Ave Maris Stella, answered from some distant cloister in +the greenwood: "Vale Carissima!--Vale Carissima!" + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE DUKE OF SPOLETO + + +Francesco, having spent the night at a wayside inn, was astir with the +breaking of the dawn. He saddled and bridled his horse for the day's +journey, and having paid his reckoning, set his face to the west. The +grass was drenched with dew, the woods towered heavenward with a +thousand golden peaks, while down in the valley a rivulet echoed back +the light, chanting sonorously as it leaped over the moss-grown +boulders in its narrow bed. + +Francesco was very solemn about the eyes that morning. He looked as +one who had aged years in one night, and strove with might and main to +forget the past. He watched the sun climb over the leafy hills of +Velletri, saw the fleecy morning clouds sail through the heavens, +heard the thunder of the streams. There was life in the day and wild +love in the woods. Yet from the world of passion and delight he was an +exile, rather a pilgrim, therein fettered by a heavy vow. He was to +bear the Grail of Love through all these wilds, yet might never look +thereon, or quench his thirst. + +Through all the heavy morning hours Francesco fought and struggled +with his youth. Ilaria's image floated by his side, robed in crimson +and gold, her hair dazzled him more than the noon-day brightness of +the sun. As for her eyes, he dared not look therein, but the +disdainful laughter of her lips still echoed in his heart. The silence +of the woods had bewitched his soul. + +The towers and turrets of Camaldoli had faded behind him in the steely +blue. On the distant horizon Tivoli towered ensconced among her +cypress-groves. To northward the woods bristled under the relentless +gleam of the sun, a glitter like blackened steel under a summer sky. +The road wound under ancient trees. Many a huge ilex cast its gloom +over the grass. The stone pine towered on the hills, above dense woods +of beech and chestnut, and the valleys were full of primeval oaks, +whose sinewy limbs stretched far over the sun-streaked sward. + +As for Francesco, his mood partook of the silence of the hills. As the +sun rode higher in the heavens, he came to a wilder region. A desolate +valley opened gradually before him, steeped on every side with the +black umbrage of the woods. A wind had arisen, brisk and eager as a +blithe breath from the sea, and cloud shadows raced athwart the +emerald dells. + +Lost in reveries of the past, and brooding over what the times to come +might hold for him, Francesco trotted on through a grove of birches, +whose filmy foliage arabesqued the heavens. A glade opened to the road +below. All around him were tall hills deluged with green woods. A +stream glittered through the flats under elms and drooping willows. + +Suddenly a half-score of mounted men rounded the angle of the road. +They sighted the solitary traveller. At once they were at full gallop +over the grass, swords agleam, lances pricking the blue, while the hot +babel of their tongues echoed from the valley. Francesco, with a grim +twist of the mouth, heeled on his horse and took to the woods. + +The great trees overarched him, beams of gold came slanting through. +The grass was a deep green under the purple shadows. Through the +silence came the dull thunder of hoofs as the men cantered on, +swerving and blundering through the trees. They rode faster than +Francesco upon his tired steed, and the distance dwindled between the +pack and the chase. + +Onward Francesco fled. The black boughs grazed his head, the +tree-trunks seemed to gallop in the gloom. He could see steel flashing +through the wood, like meteorites plunging through a cloud. + +Yet he hardly so much as turned his head, for his eyes were piercing +the shadows before him. As he swayed along, he now heard a great +trampling of hoofs in the woods. The nearest galloper swung out from +the gloom. He was leaning over the neck of his horse, his lips parted +over his teeth, his sword poised from his outstretched arm. The sword +circled over Francesco's head, its whistling breath fanning his hair. +He cowered; his horse swerved aside. The horse of his assailant +stumbled over a projecting tree stump, hurling its rider over its head +some six feet away upon the ground, where he lay stunned, dropping his +sword in his fall. Like lightning Francesco leaped from his saddle, +picked up the weapon, and remounted, just in time to ward off a +vicious blow aimed at his head from a second horseman who had plunged +from the thickets. + +Francesco's early training served him well and proved his foe's +undoing. Drawing up his horse on sluthering hoofs he faced the second +assailant. Their swords whimpered, screamed and clashed. Francesco's +blade struck the man's throat through. Catching his upreared shield as +he fell, he tore it from its supporting arm, just as two more horsemen +blundered out of the gloom. They sighted the horseless steed, the dead +man on the ground; they saw the monk with sword and shield, and paused +for a moment staggered at the uncommon sight. + +Francesco, profiting by their panic, twisted tighter the strapping of +his shield, and with sword circling over his head pushed his horse to +a gathering gallop down the hill. But his assailants had recovered +from their sudden paralysis. Swerving right and left, they dashed down +the glade in hot pursuit. Gaining on him from all sides, his fate +seemed to be sealed, when directly across Francesco's path there rode +leisurely out of the gloom of the forest a score or more of +individuals, mounted on steeds well suited to the riders, the like of +which in point of incongruity of garb and appearance he had never +before beheld. + +One wore a cuirass of plaited gold, beneath which was visible a shirt +of coarsest hemp, and two dirty bare legs. Another had a monk's capote +tied about his neck with silver links, like jewels in a swine's snout, +while his carcass was encased in a leather jerkin. A third was covered +with the skin of a wolf, and a fourth wore that of a mountain lion. +Antler's horns protruded from the chain-mail skull-cap of a fifth; a +sixth carried a round shield, covered with raw-hide, and a spear. So +motley was the array and so fantastic the appearance of the newcomers, +that one might have taken them for a band of souls turned out of +purgatory, who, on returning to earth, had robbed a pawn shop to cover +their nakedness. + +But he who in point of portliness and bulk would at once have been +acknowledged as the one in authority, a stout and herculean being, +swaying upon an antediluvian steed, with a helmet upon his head +resembling a huge iron cask, now hove into sight, like some portly Pan +bestriding a Centaur. He was of exceeding bulk, with a flaming red +beard and small, close-set eyes. His sword-belt would have girdled two +common men's loins. His arms had the appearance of two clubs. A great +slit of a mouth, under a bristling mustachio, revealed two rows of +teeth, large and strong as a boar's; a double chin flapped to and fro +with the motion of the steed, around which his legs curved like the +staves of a cask. + +Being unable to check the speed of his horse in the steep downward +grade of the glen, Francesco was hurled almost bodily into the very +midst of this fantastic array, not knowing whether he had escaped one +foe but to encounter another, or whether there was salvation for him +in the appearance of this strange throng. + +The sight of a monk racing at breakneck speed down the glade, swinging +aloft a blood-stained sword and riding as one born in the saddle, for +a moment staggered even the nondescripts and their leader. But, with +eyes blinking under their penthouses of fat, the latter had at a +glance taken in the situation. A signal,--and a whirlwind seemed to +fill the emerald gloom. The wood grew alive with shouting and the +noise of hoofs. Their number compelled Francesco to wheel about and +face his pursuers, as those to whom he trusted for his safety +completely choked up the gorge. + +His assailants had come to a sudden halt, as they found themselves +face to face with this fantastic array, outnumbering their own some +ten to one. They seemed to wait the command of their leader, who had, +in the meantime, come up, bestriding a black stallion, a white plume +upon his helmet, and upon his shield and breastplate the armorial +bearings of some great feudal house, the emblem of the Broken Loaf. + +The giant of the woods reined in his elephantine steed within a few +paces of Francesco's pursuers and waved his chubby arm, as if he bade +them welcome. + +"What ho, gentles!" he roared with a voice like a mountain cataract, +while the fingers of his left hand played with the hilt of his huge +sword. "What is the sport? Pray, let us too share in your pastime! Six +to one--and he of friar's orders--we take the weaker side!" + +"Insolent! Know you to whom you speak?" shouted the leader of the +men-at-arms. "The monk is our prisoner! Stand back--at your peril!" + +"Your prisoner?" returned he with the iron cask in mocking accents and +barbarous Italian, such as characterized the hired mercenaries and +adventurers who hailed from beyond the Alps. "Are we at war? Pray, +gentles, enlighten our poor understanding, that we too may profit by +your wisdom. Or are we to understand that might is right? We shall be +governed by the oracle!" + +"Know you who I am?" shouted the leader of the men-at-arms, relying +rather on the prestige of a dreaded coat-of-arms than on the issue of +so doubtful a conflict, to withdraw with honor from an affair of +little credit to his name. "I am Giovanni Frangipani, Lord of Astura, +Torre del Greco, and Terra di Lavoro! Who are you?"-- + +The giant bowed slightly in his saddle. + +"Sono Rinaldo, Duca di Spoleto," he replied carelessly, squinting his +little watery eyes. "I am much beholden to meet you again, my Lord +Frangipani. Have you counted your beads to-day, after ravishing a +maiden from the Campagna, and are you loving your neighbor as +yourself? Pray--relieve my anxiety!" + +At the mention of his name, the name of one of the most renowned +free-lances in Italy, at the period of our story, the Frangipani's +cheek paled and his followers uttered a cry of dismay. + +But the Lord of Astura believed discretion the better part of valor. +With a half suppressed oath he wheeled his steed about, and, pursued +by the loud gibes and taunts of Rinaldo's men, they trotted off and +disappeared in the gorge. + +He, whose grandiloquent estate seemed to have impressed even so +powerful a baron of the empire as the Lord of Astura, now turned in +his saddle and beckoned Francesco to his side. + +His followers brought up the rear, and, choosing a winding forest path +scarcely wide enough for two to ride abreast, the singular cavalcade +cantered into the golden vapor of the wood. + +At their feet lay a great valley, a broad bowl touched by the +declining rays of the sun. Its depths were checkered with woods and +meadows, pools set like lapis lazuli in an emerald throne. A lake lay +under the shadow of the hills. Heights girded the valley on every +hand, save where a river like a giant's sword clove a deep defile +through the hill. + +Francesco rode in silence by the side of the giant, gazing at the +valley below. It seemed like a new world to him; the craggy heights, +the blown cloud-banners overhead, the dusky woods frowning and smiling +alternately under the sun. A stream sang under the boughs, purling and +foaming over a broad ledge of stone into a misty pool. + +They had come to the run of an abyss, where, the trees receding, the +ground broke abruptly into rocky slopes, plunging down perpendicular +under thickets of arbutus and pine. Four roads crossed at a spot where +a great wooden crucifix stretched out rough arms athwart the sky. + +For a time the Duke of Spoleto had maintained a grim silence, and +Francesco began to wonder what his captors, if such they were, held in +store for him. The gray walls of a ruin encrusted with lichen gold and +green, rose towards the azure of the evening sky. A great silence +covered the valley, save for the bleating of sheep on remote meadows, +or the cry of the lapwing from the marshes. Distance purpled the far +horizon. The woods stood wondrous green and silent, as mute guardians +of the past. + +On the slope of a hill, in the shade of the battered masonry of a +feudal castle overlooking to the north Romagna and the hills of +Umbria, to southward the sun-steeped plains of Calabria, Francesco at +last faced the Duke of Spoleto, his bare, blood-stained sword across +his knees. He had partaken of drink and food, while his steed was +grazing on the emerald turf, and the men-at-arms were roasting a kid +and some chestnuts they had gathered, over a fire kindled with dried +branches and decayed leaves. + +Then only the Duke of Spoleto addressed the youth, whose air and +manner had impressed the captain of free-lances to a degree that +confidence challenged confidence, for the duke was not slow to discern +the stalwart metal under the friar's garb. + +"Honest men are best out of the way when great folk are upon the +road," he expounded largely, breaking the long silence. "By what +special dispensation have you incurred the love of the Lord of Astura? +Have you perchance confessed his wife?" + +And the Duke of Spoleto roared, as if he had given vent to some +uncommon witticism. + +The degrading nature of his predicament caused Francesco to be more +frank than he had intended. Nevertheless he replied tentatively. + +"The Lord of Astura is a Ghibelline. No doubt it was the friar's garb +which aroused his choler, for I never saw him before." + +The Duke of Spoleto nodded grimly. + +"A renegade is ever the worst enemy of his kind." + +The paradox was lost upon Francesco. + +But in the course of their converse the Duke of Spoleto revealed +himself to be one Count Rupert of Teck, a bondsman of the Swabian +branch of the Hohenstauffen, near whose castle his own was situated. +In their cause he had fought Margaret of Flanders and King Ottokar of +Bohemia, William of Holland and Charles of Anjou. After the fateful +day of Benevento, where Manfred, the poet-king, had lost crown and +life against the Provencals, he had withdrawn into the fastnesses of +Central Italy, collecting about him a company of malcontents, such as +follow from afar the camp-fires of an army, and had founded a mythical +dukedom of uncertain territory among the Apennines, to chasten the +world with his club and bruise the devil and all his progeny. From his +stronghold the Duke of Spoleto, as Rupert of Teck more sonorously +styled himself, harassed alike the Pope, the Pope's minion and the +Guelphs. But of all whose watch-towers frowned from inaccessible +heights upon the Roman Campagna, he bore a special and indelible +grudge to the lords of Astura, the cause and nature of which he did +not see fit to disclose. + +Francesco listened spellbound to the account of the duke's greatness. +He had his own code of laws, and there was no appeal from his +decision. In the ravine below, a torrent, thundering over moss-grown +boulders, sang a fitting accompaniment to the duke's apotheosis. Far +to the south Soracte towered against the gold of the evening sky. By +his side a cistus was in bloom, its petals falling upon the long grass +and the broken stone. + +In the valley the peasantry were returning from Vespers. The silvery +chimes of the Angelus, from some convent concealed in the forest +deeps, smote the silence of evening. Deep to the confines of the dusky +sky glimmered the far Tyrrhenian Sea, washing shores remote with +sheets of foam. Black cliffs, craggy and solemn, frowned upon the sea. +The far heights bristled with woodland, dark under the setting sun. + +Not once did Francesco interrupt the guttural account his host gave of +his campaigns, until the Duke of Spoleto referred to the Frangipani. +Some evil fate seemed indeed to have predestined his meeting with the +Lord of Astura, and while his late encounter with the brother of +Raniero lacked the personal element, Francesco's intuition informed +him that, sooner or later, the slumbering spark of an enduring hatred +would be fanned into a devouring flame. + +Francesco's apparently irrelevant question with regard to the origin +of his host's acquaintance with the lords of Astura caused the Duke of +Spoleto to utter a great oath. + +"Ha!" he exclaimed, "and shall I not pluck out the heart of the devil, +who--" + +He suddenly checked himself. + +"Though an avowed Ghibelline," he said, "I trust him not! His brother +Latino lords it over Velletri: Archbishop and Grand Inquisitor in one, +he deals out blessings and musty corn, while he mutters the prayer of +the Fourth Innocent in the Lateran: Perdatis hujus Babylonii nomen et +reliquias, progeniem atque germen,--a truly Christian prayer!" + +"There is a third!" Francesco interposed with meaning. + +"You know him?" shouted the duke. "A twig of the old tree,--a +libertine, who would barter his soul for thirty pieces of silver! From +yonder hill you may see their lair, suspended on a rock beyond the +Cape of Circe." + +The speaker suddenly paused and, turning to Francesco, gave a vicious +pull at the latter's garb. + +"Cast off your tatters," he roared, and the sound of his great voice +reechoed through the glen. "Join us in a Devil's Ave! Your limbs were +made for something better than to dangle in the noose of a Frangipani. +Or,--if the garb is pleasing in your sight you may wear it over a suit +of chain-mail and lead us in the fray with lance and shield! It will +greatly promote our cause,--above and below!" + +And the stout duke grasped Francesco by the shoulders, affectionately, +and shook him till his bones creaked. + +Francesco repressed the outcry which the pain drove to his lips. A +spasm of deepest bitterness passed over his face, as he said: + +"It may not be;--at least not now! I have a special mission to +perform. The time may come--who knows? Then I will seek you in your +forest glades. I have not always been that thing--a monk!" + +The word had passed his lips beyond recall. + +Rupert of Teck regarded him quizzically. + +"Purge your own pasture and let the Devil take care of his own! Why +subordinate your soul to chains forged of men?" + +The day was waning when Francesco accompanied his host back to the +ruin. An arched doorway with broken pillars led to a low room, roofed +with rough timber. There was an improvised bed of bracken in one +corner, where he was to rest for the night, for the Duke of Spoleto +would not hear of his departure before dawn. + +"It were perilous even for one familiar with the roads to traverse the +forests at night; there are more rogues about than you wot of," he +said. "On the morrow I will myself guide you to the road you seek!" + +Francesco accepted the offer and hospitality of the Duke of Spoleto +gratefully, for he was neither physically nor mentally disposed to +continue his journey at once. They entered the ruin together, while +the band of the duke chose their resting-place outside on the emerald +greensward. + +Night came apace with a round moon swimming in a sky of dusky azure, +studded with a myriad glistening stars. + +There was a great loneliness upon Francesco's soul. + +He lay awake a long time. He heard the night wind in the forest trees +and the occasional murmur of a voice, that seemed to be making a long +prayer. He was moving in the world of men now. Yet all the love seemed +to have left his life and all his struggles to have ended in +bitterness. In the hour of his trial Ilaria had failed him, had hid +her face from him behind the mask of scorn. He had little hope of +sleep, for there were thoughts moving in his brain, tramping like +restless sentinels to and fro. The night seemed full of ghostly voices +crying to him out of the dark. He heard Ilaria's voice, even as he had +heard it when she taunted him at Avellino; her laughter in the dells +of Vallombrosa echoed in his heart. He remembered the days when he had +heard her sing with the voice he loved so well; for him she would sing +no more. He found himself wondering in his heart if she would weep if +he died. Perhaps her scorn would melt away when she learned that he +had gone from earth forever. + +Francesco passed the greater part of the night open-eyed, for the +memories of the past drove the sleep from his aching eyes. A soft +breeze played in the branches of the giant oaks, and among the roses +which clambered about the walls of the ruin. Slim cypresses streaked +the misty grass, where a little pool caught the light of the moon. + +Soon the dawn came, a silvery haze rising in the east. The cypresses +caught the streaming light, gliding from tree to tree; in the meadows +fluttered golden mists. The far woods glistened and seemed to tongue +forth flame. A trumpet sounded. The duke's band rose to meet the sun. + +After having partaken of a morning repast, such as the duke's stores +afforded, Francesco took leave of his host, who assigned to him a +guide, to conduct him to the broad highway to Rome. But, at parting, +the burly duke admonished Francesco to break the fetters forged in +hell and to turn to him in his hour of need. + +The world was full of the splendor of the awakened day. The waves of +the mountain torrent were touched with opalescent lights, as they +swept through the gorge below. + +Francesco's guide was a godly little man with a goat's beard and a +nose like the snout of a pike. For a goatherd he was amazingly learned +in matters of religion and in his knowledge of the names and +attributes of the saints. He halted frequently, knelt down, prayed and +kissed a little holly-wood cross that he carried. His beard wagged +through long processions of the saints, but St. Joseph of Arimathaea +was honored with his especial confidence. + +Francesco had never seen such an example of secular godliness before, +and began to be impatient with the old fellow, who bobbed down so +frequently, looking like a goat squatting upon its haunches, and +mumbling over a great beard. All this devotion was excellent in its +way; but Francesco's religion was running into action, and the old man +loitered and told the miles like beads upon his rosary. + +He decided to rid himself of the fellow as soon as the goatherd had +served his purpose, for this verminous piety was like the drawing of a +dirty clout across the fresh flavor of a May morning. + +Where four roads crossed, they parted, and Francesco, cantering along +the high-road, little guessed that the wary duke had assigned to him +this especial guide to disgust him with his own garb and calling. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +ROME! + + +The chimes of the Angelus were borne to him on the soft breeze of +evening, when, on the third day of his journey, Francesco caught sight +of the walls and towers of Rome. As he drew rein on the crest of a low +hill, the desolate brown wastes of the Campagna stretched before him, +mile upon mile to northward, towards the impenetrable forests of +Viterbo. + +Before him rose the huge half-ruined wall of Aurelian, battered by +Goth and Saracen and imperial Greek; before him towered the +fortress-tomb of the former master of the world, vast and impregnable. +Here and there above the broken crenelations of the city's battlements +rose dark and massive towers, square and round, marking the fortified +mansions of the Roman nobles. + +In the evening light the towers seemed encircled as by a halo. The +machicolated heights, the encircling ramparts, the stern tomb of the +Emperor Hadrian rose proudly impregnable into the golden air of +evening, a massive witness to the power of a Church, literally +militant here below. Under the broad Aelian bridge, built centuries +ago, rolled the turbid waves of the Tiber, and upon the bridge itself +a stream of humanity, hardly less intermittent, was moving. Francesco, +having buried his sword and shield under a grass-grown ruin beyond +the city walls, rode dazed and wondering into the sun-kissed splendors +of pontifical Rome. + +Gradually the sun sank, the valley of the Tiber filled with golden +lights, moving along little by little, travelling slowly up the +emerald hillocks, covering the bluish mountains of Alba with a golden +flush, crowning the thousand churches and palaces with a rosy sheen, +then dying away into the pale, amber horizon, rosy where it touched +the distant hills, bluish where it merged imperceptibly with the upper +sky. Bluer and bluer became the hills, deeper and deeper that first +faint amber. The valleys were filled with gray-blue mist, against +which the Seven Hills stood out dark, cold and massive. + +There was a sudden stillness, as when the last chords of a great +symphony have died away. The yellow waters of the Tiber eddied sullen +and mournful round the ship-shaped island, along by Vesta's temple, +beneath the cypressed Aventine. + +After having secured temporary lodging at a tavern bearing the sign of +the Mermaid, over against the tower of Nona, near the bridge of San +Angelo, Francesco wandered out into the streets of Rome. + +The inn was old, as the times of Charlemagne, and was a favorite +stopping-place for travellers coming from the north. The quarter was +at that time in the hands of the powerful house of the Pierleoni, +whose first Pope, Anacletus, had been dead a little over a century, +and who, though they lorded the castle and many towers and fortresses +in Rome, had not succeeded in imposing their anti-pope upon the Roman +people against the will of Bernard of Clairvaux. + +Francesco wandered through the crooked, unpaved streets, in and out of +gloomy courts, over desolate wastes and open places. There was a +crisis at hand in the strife of the factions. Every one went armed, +and those who knelt to hear mass in a church, knelt with their backs +to the wall. + +At his inn, too, he had noted every one lived in a state of armed +defence, against every one, including the host and other guests. And +reasons were not lacking therefor, for Rome was in the throes of +political convulsions and its walls resounded the battle-cry of Guelph +and Ghibelline. + +Howling and singing, a mob filled the streets southward to the +Capitol, or even to the distant Lateran, where Marcus Aurelius on his +bronze horse watched the ages go by. Across the ancient Aelian bridge +Francesco stalked, under the haunted battlements of Castel San Angelo, +where the ghost of Theodora was said to walk on autumn nights, when +the south wind blew, and through the long wreck of the fair portico +that had once extended from the bridge to the Basilica, till he saw +glistening in the distance the broad flight of steps leading to the +walled garden court of St. Peter's. + +Here he rested among the cypresses, wondering at the vast bronze +pine-cone and the great brass peacocks, which Symmachus had brought +thither from the ruins of Agrippa's baths, in which the family of the +Crescentii had fortified themselves during more than a hundred years. + +For a long time Francesco sat there in mournful silence, drinking in +the sun-steeped air of evening, and the scent of the flowers that grew +here with the profusion of spring-time. + +An indescribable sense of desolation came over him, as he thought of +his happy childhood with its joys and griefs, as he thought of the +spring-time of life, the days of Avellino, and of Ilaria. He sat here +an outcast, an exile, one who had no further claim on the joys of the +living, guiltless himself, the victim of another's sin. The soul of +Rome, the Rome of Innocent and Clement, had taken hold of his soul, +and, for a time, he dreamed himself away from the bleak present and +the bleaker future. The past, with his father's sins, his own sorrows, +the friendship of the Viceroy, the love of Ilaria, were now all +infinitely far removed and dim. The future, whose magic mirror had +once dazzled his senses, had faded like a departing vision into the +blue Roman sky. Only the present remained, only the hour was his, the +dreamy half-narcotic present with its mazy charms which enmeshed him, +far from the reality, the Rome as it existed, where the Church was the +World, and Rome herself meant some seven or eight thousand ruffians, +eager always for a change, because it seemed that no change could be +for the worse. + +In the ancient Basilica of St. Peter's at least there was peace. The +white-haired priests solemnly officiated day by day, morning and noon, +and at Vespers more than a hundred voices sang the Vesper psalms in +the Gregorian chant. Slim youths in violet and white swung silver +censers before the high altar, and the incense floated in spiral +clouds upon the sunbeams that fell slanting upon the antique floor. + +Here, at least, as in many a cloister of the world, the Church was +still herself, as she was and is and always will be; words were spoken +and solemn prayers intoned that had been familiar to the lips of the +apostles. + +But they brought no consolation to Francesco's heart; his soul was not +relieved by the solemn ceremony. With the rest of the worshippers he +knelt unconsciously in the old cathedral; with the rest of the +worshippers he chanted the responses and breathed anew the +incense-laden air, which was to encompass him to his life's end. + +Refreshed neither in body nor soul, he returned to the inn late at +night. But he could not sleep. Opening wide the wooden shutters of his +window, he looked out upon the Mausoleum of the Flavian Emperor, at +the tide of the Tiber, which gleamed and eddied in the moonlight. + +Life rose before him in a mystery, a mystery for him to solve by +deeds. For a moment he felt that he must rise above his fate, that he +was not idly to dream away his years, and the long dormant instinct of +his race bade him defy the yoke which was about to be imposed upon +him, not to evade it. Then his heart beat faster; his blood surged to +his throat, and his hands hardened one upon the other as he leaned +over the stone sill, and drew the night air sharply between his closed +teeth. + +And as a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the willows by the +river brink, in it seemed to float a host of spirit armies, ghostly +knights and fairy-maidens and the forecast shadows of things to come. +Once before during the evening had this sensation gripped his soul, as +with a solitary monk whom he chanced to meet, he had traversed the +desolate regions of the Aventine in the sun's afterglow. And then, as +now, there had come the rude awakening. + +But from the monk he had learned that the Pontiff had fled from Rome +before the approaching hosts of Conradino, and had betaken himself to +Viterbo, while his champion, Charles of Anjou, had marched to +southward, leaving the city to the Ghibellines and the imperial party +of the Colonna. + + +End of Book the Second. + + + + +Book the Third + +THE BONDAGE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE WHITE LADY + + +The Piazza of St. John Lateran was alive with the rush and roar of a +vast multitude, which congested the spacious square from the Church of +Santa Croce in Gerusalemme to the distant Esquiline hill, occupying +every point of vantage, thronging the adjacent thoroughfares, crowding +the long Via Merulana, and filling the ruins of temples, the +interstices of fallen walls and roofless porticoes as far as the eye +could reach. + +All Rome seemed to be astir, all Rome seemed to have assembled to +welcome the advent of the Swabian host, and in the keen delight of +beholding Conradino, the fair-haired Hohenstauffen come to claim the +fair lands of Constanzia, all petty-strife, contentions and +party-rivalry seemed for the nonce to have been forgotten. + +In reality, however, such was not the case. + +So sudden had been Conradino's descent upon Rome that the Pontiff and +his minion, Charles of Anjou, had precipitately fled from the city, +ere the first German spear-points gleamed above the heights of Tivoli. + +The Roman Ghibellines, at their head the great and powerful house of +the Colonna, hated the Vulture of Provence as intensely as did the +Pontiff, his one time champion, and welcomed with open arms the +grandson of the Emperor Frederick II, their deliverer from an +insufferable yoke, which had been as a blight upon Southern Italy. + +Yet, notwithstanding the absence of the pontifical court, the absence +of the Church militant, the institution which, when Europe was +over-run with barbarian hordes, had preserved the ancient +civilization, the power of the city was in evidence even though +huddled affrighted amidst the majesty of imperial ruins. A memory, a +dream, yet the power of a dream outlasting the ages, Rome still +remained the mystic centre of civilization.-- + +With a sickly sense of curiosity not unmingled with awe, Francesco had +mingled with the crowds. + +The dream of his early youth was about to be realized: face to face he +would behold the golden-haired Hohenstauffen,--yet at the thought his +heart sank with a sense of dread. Dull misery had him in its grip. The +keen pain of a false life, resentment of a fate imposed upon him by +another's will, permeated every fibre of his being. In his dreams he +would see the friends of his youth, pointing to him, the renegade; he +would see Ilaria, standing off motionless, spiritless, regarding him +from afar. If she at least had kept her faith! He felt himself +encompassed by the folding wings of a great demon of despair. + +This feeling pervaded him with a sickening gloom, in which he walked +with drooping head and uncertain footsteps,--yet with the resolve to +conquer in the end! + +Life was no mere existence with Francesco. He loved light and air and +freedom. To be in the great, real world, to feel its joys, its +sunshine, to chafe under no conventional, no restraint, to know the +fascination of recklessness,--that to him was life! + +And about him it surged in blinding iridescence. + +Notwithstanding the months of monastic life which lay behind him, he +had not in any formal sense severed himself from the world. His +renunciation of the joys of the senses had been not primary, as with +the Franciscans, but, as always with those under Dominican influence, +incidental on a choice of higher interests. + +But the conscious choice of a beautiful existence was ever with him, +and here, among the thousands giving vent to their joy, restrained by +no dogma from voicing their gladness, loneliness crept cold among his +heart-strings. + +The scenes in which he, half absently, half resentfully, mingled, +afforded a fine opportunity to study sacerdotal types. Now and then a +scholarly countenance detached itself with startling effect from the +coarser elements; now and then among the keen lines of such a +countenance played the hovering, unmistakable light of a personal +sanctity. There were men of the noblest, gentlest blood, from whom +came the example of courtly manners, of polished speech and refined +taste. Through the years of desolation and ruin, which war brought in +its wake, they preserved art, literature and religion and infused into +civilization the principles of self-sacrifice, charity and chastity. +They declared a message that protested against violence and injustice. +Francesco saw men among the priests, whose broad shoulders, singularly +brilliant dark faces and magnificent poise formed a striking contrast +to those upon whose features had settled the beautiful, soft calm of +spotless seclusion. + +Yet Francesco felt no need of such a refuge. + +The espousals of piety and poverty, the inexplicable mysteries, +martyrdoms, ascetic faces and haggard figures, which he had +encountered upon entering the monastic life, the morbid enthusiasm and +spiritual frenzy were repellent to him now, as they had been then. +Sad-visaged penitents, men scourging themselves, prostrate in prayer, +wrestling with demons, waked no responsive chord in his breast. + +A splendid procession, with its gay dresses and colored pennons +gleaming like a rainbow among the sombre garbs of monks and artisans, +at this moment emerged from under the frowning portals of a sombre +palace and swept into the sunlit square of St. John Lateran. + +The cavalcade was headed by a cavalier superb in white velvet, riding +abreast of a woman, tall and stately. They were followed by a company +of young nobles, arrayed in festal splendor. The piazza resounded with +the echo of their shouts and mirth, and the multitudes congested on +the steps of the Church of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme shouted loud +acclaim, as they passed on their cantering steeds. + +What were those stabbing pangs in Francesco's heart beneath the +noonday brightness of the sky? Why did he wish, almost insanely, that +he had not set foot in Rome? + +The banners of the Frangipani waved proudly in the sun-fraught air, +revealing their emblem of "The Broken Loaf," amidst velvet, gilt and +tinsel. + +As the cavalcade approached, every word, every tone, every accent was +ringing perversely in his ears. The piazza with its maelstrom of +humanity seemed to whirl and to scintillate about him, and the acclaim +of the crowd surged in his ears like the dull roar of distant billows, +as the procession came to a sudden stop at the fountain whence he had +viewed its approach. + +Shrinking beneath his cowl, yet unable to avert his gaze, Francesco +stood leaning on the rim of the fountain. + +He heard the voice of Ilaria as, dismounting without the aid of her +companion, she requested a cup, having taken a sudden fancy to drink +of the sparkling water. + +The cup having been brought, she put her lips to it, then swiftly +tossed the bright drops towards the sky, singing a little melody as +she did so. + +She had apparently not noted Francesco's presence, though his eyes had +been riveted upon her from under the cowl, and his face was deadly +pale. Hemmed in as he was by the crowds, he could not have receded, +had he wished to;--thus he stood, looking upon the face of the woman +he loved better than anything on earth, forgetting heaven and earth in +doing so. + +Stooping, she filled the cup once more and looked up at her companions +with a smile. + +"Who shall drink after me?" she laughed merrily. + +Many a merry voice called out, as they eagerly crowded about her. + +"Who but myself?" exclaimed Raniero Frangipani with a laugh, brushing +the others away with perhaps a little more decision than was needed. + +But suddenly Ilaria turned and deliberately advanced to the spot where +Francesco stood, his cowl drawn deeply over his face. + +"All men do my bidding to-day," she said in her low, vibrant voice, +offering him the cup, while her eyes flung him a glittering challenge. + +It was her most winsome self that looked at him, as she said: + +"Drink to me!" + +Dazed, he took the cup from her. In doing so, he touched her soft, +white skin. The cold draught seemed to burn like fire as he sipped the +clear water. Then, surprised by impulse, he flashed the drops upward, +as he had seen her do. + +Her laughter sounded shrill and high as broken glass, as the +dislocated cowl revealed Francesco's features. + +But she immediately regained her composure, and, without a hint in her +voice of the taunt in the dells of Vallombrosa, she said, nodding, as +if well pleased, and as if for his ear alone: + +"The White Lady is well pleased. Is not this her altar?" But another +had recognized the monk, when for a moment his cowl fell away from +his face; and Raniero Frangipani was regarding him with dark malice. + +As if to leave a sting in the memory of their meeting, Ilaria, +returning to Raniero's side, gave the latter a smile so bewitching +that his scowl vanished. Remounting with his help, she signalled for +the cavalcade to proceed. + +The pain in Francesco's heart rose, suffocating, once more as the +procession swept onward. + +How he had loved her! How he loved her now! + +How shall a man be sure of what is hidden in his heart? He was a +monk,--and she the wife of Raniero Frangipani. + +How wondrous fair she was, glowing as a rose in the first flush of +spring-time! How her sweet eyes had gleamed into his, with their +subdued fire, half hidden under the long silken lashes! + +For a moment he saw and heard nothing. + +All sense of the present seemed to have vanished while the cavalcade +faded from sight. + +Now, from the gates beyond St. John Lateran, there burst forth the +pomp and panoply of the North, with a flourish of trumpets, a gleaming +of chain-mail, a sparkling of pennons. + +Two heralds, on snow-white chargers, rode slowly through the gate, +sounding their fanfares, their standards and particolored garbs +displaying the Sun-Soaring Eagle of Hohenstauffen. + +Then, on a black stallion, docile to the hand and impatient of the +spur, Conradino of Swabia hove into sight, beside the friend of his +youth, Frederick of Austria. + +They rode in advance of the elite of the army, some two thousand men +in gleaming chain-mail. Conrad and Marino Capece followed hard on +their heels with one thousand heavy infantry and a company of Saracen +archers. Then came Galvano Lancia with the heavy armament, men from +the North, carrying huge battle-axes in addition to their other +weapons. + +As they slowly advanced through the great square fronting the ancient +Basilica, a great shout arose from the thousands who lined the +thoroughfares, a counter-blast to the clangor of the clarions. + +Then the whole host shouted, tossed up shield and lance, while +trumpets and horns shrieked above the din. + +On the steps of houses and churches, in casements, doors and windows, +women waved kerchiefs and scarfs, their shrill acclaim mingling with +the sounds of horn and bugle. + +The tramping of thousands of steeds smote the bright air; shields and +surcoats shone and shimmered under the sun-fraught Roman sky. + +All the streets through which the armament passed were hung with +garlands and tapestries, blazing with banners, festooned with flowers +and gorgeous ornaments, re-echoing with peals of laughter and ribaldry +and roaring music. + +For the fickle Romans gave free rein to their joy of being rid of +Anjou's presence, and the sober and pedantic Northmen viewed with +amaze this manifestation of the Southern temperament, the reflex, as +it were, of a clime which had lured to perdition so many of their own, +who had not withstood the blandishments of the Sorceress. + +And the Romans, revelling in their own exuberant gaiety, forgetful of +yesterday, unmindful of the morrow, hailed with delight the +iron-serried cohorts from beyond the Alps,--till the disappearing +menace within their own walls would cause them to turn on their +deliverers. + +From the summits of his castle on the well-nigh impregnable heights of +Viterbo, Pope Clement IV had witnessed the passing of the Swabian +host, and his eyes, undimmed by age, had marked the persons and the +quality of the leaders. And, turning to one of his attendants, who +leaned by his side over the ramparts to scan more minutely the +Northern armament, he had spoken the memorable words: "Truly, like two +lambs, wreathed for the sacrifice, they are journeying towards their +fate."-- + +To the casual observer,--if, indeed, there was such a one in the Rome +of those days,--it must indeed have appeared a strange phenomenon that +Conradino was surrounded almost entirely by Italians, with the +exception of one or two leaders whose contingents the narrow and +parsimonious policy of Duke Goerz of the Tyrol had not been able to +shake in their loyalty, when he recalled his own contingents for want +of pay. + +But the popular enthusiasm swept everything before it, and Conradino's +march to the Capitol, where he was to be tendered the keys of the city +by the Senator of Rome, Prince Enrico of Castile, was one continuous +triumph.-- + +As one in a dream, Francesco continued to gaze after the imperial +cavalcade as it swept past with its gold and glitter and tinsel and +the thunderous hoof-beats of a thousand steeds. As one in a dream, he +kept gazing at the gold-embroidered mantles, the flash of +dagger-hilts, the gleam of chain-mail, the waving plumes, the prancing +steeds. + +The procession swept by him, as the phantasmagoria of a dream; but, +after it had passed, one apparition continued to stand forth. + +He never forgot that face. + +To him it was all that was beautiful and regal, framed in its soft, +golden hair, with its tender blue eyes, its smiling lips. A slender +youth, barely eighteen years of age, with the eyes of a dreamer, +Conradino was possessed of an exaltation which blinded him to the +perils of the situation, intoxicating his ambition,--a quaint +combination of the mystic lore of his tunes, of which Francesco felt +himself to be his other Ego. + +The crowds had dispersed by degrees, sweeping in the wake of the +Swabian host towards the Capitol. + +And Francesco stared motionless into space. + +Was he indeed cast out from the communion of the world, from the +contact of the living? + +Had a mocking fate but cast him on the shores of life, that he might +stand idly by, watching the waves bounding, leaping over each other? + +He felt as one enslaved, his will-power paralyzed. + +Yonder, where the setting sun spun golden vapors round the summits of +the Capitoline Hill, there was the trend of a high, self-conscious +purpose, as revealed in the impending death-struggle for the highest +ideals of mankind. + +What had he to oppose it? + +What great aim atoned for the agony of his transformation? + +The restitution of papacy? The glory of the Church? The vindication of +a crime? The toleration of a despot? + +Francesco's passionate nature might have been guided aright by a +controlling affection, such as he could nevermore find in his present +estate. + +Slowly, as one wrapped in a dream, gazing neither right nor left, he +permitted himself to be swept along with the crowds, past monuments, +tombs and the desolate grandeur of the Forum, and as one enthralled, +began the ascent of the Capitoline Hill. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE FEAST AT THE CAPITOL + + +When darkness had fallen on the Capitoline Hill, the old palace of the +Caesars seemed to waken to a semblance of new life. In the gorgeous +reception hall a splendid spectacle awaited the guests. The richly +dressed crowds buzzed like swarms of bees. Their attires were +iridescent, gorgeous in the fashions borrowed from many lands. The +enslavement of Italy and the invasion of foreigners could be read in +the garbs of the Romans. The robes of the women, a slavish imitation +of the Byzantine fashion, hung straight as tapestries, stiff with gold +brocades. + +Prince Enrico of Castile, the Senator of Rome, had arranged a festival +in honor of Conradino, such as the deserted halls of the imperial +palace on the Capitoline had not witnessed in centuries. + +It was a festival hitherto unequalled in Rome. + +The walls of the great reception hall were decorated with garlands and +festoons of flowers; the soft lustre of the candelabra was reflected +in tall Venetian mirrors, brought from Murano for this occasion. +Niches filled with orange-trees, artificial grottoes adorned with +shells, in the midst of which fountains sent their iridescent spray +into the branches of tall cypress-trees and oleanders, met the gaze on +every turn. + +But the central part of the festival was the gigantic hall, over which +the girandoles diffused a sea of light. Costly Oriental carpets +covered the mosaic floor, and the ceiling represented the +thousand-starred arch of heaven. Here, too, as in the garden, niches +and grottoes were everywhere to be found, where one, in the midst of +the constantly moving crowd, could enjoy quiet and repose. + +In the great hall there were assembled the first Ghibelline families +in Rome, the Colonna, Cavalli, Gaetani, the Massimi and Stefaneschi; +the Frangipani of Astura, the Pierleoni, the Savelli, and the +Annibaldi, whose chief had fallen side by side with Manfred in the +fateful battle of Benevento.-- + +A loud fanfare of trumpets and horns announced at last the arrival of +Conradino, and his bearing, as he entered the ancient halls of the +Caesars, was indeed that of one coming into his own. + +He was surrounded by Giordano and Galvano Lancia, Conrad and Marino +Capece, John de Pietro, John of Procida, who had come expressly from +Palermo to offer homage to the son of his emperor; Count Hirnsius, +Gerhardt Donoratico of Pisa, Thomas Aquino, Count Meinhardt of +Castanea, Frederick of Austria, Prince Raymond of Montferrat, +Frederick of Antioch and Dom Pietro Loria, Grand Admiral of King Peter +of Aragon. The Viceroy of Apulia and the Apulian barons followed +closely in their wake.-- + +Six senators, headed by Don Enrico of Castile, now advanced, carrying +between them on a purple velvet cushion the keys of the city. + +In a kneeling position they presented them to Conradino, who in turn +gave them in charge of the commander-in-chief of his army, while loud +acclaim shook the foundations of the rock, unmoved by the assaults of +centuries. + +After the banquet had been served and the guests had arisen from the +festal board, Prince Enrico of Castile claimed the privilege of +conducting the exalted guest through the halls of the Capitoline +palace. + +They had not advanced very far when the quick eye of the Senator of +Rome lighted upon an individual who had been watching their advance +from his concealment among the shrubbery. + +It was a man, tall, lean, with prominent shoulders, glittering eyes +and a thin, straight mouth. The black hair was cropped close to the +massive head. The eyes were bead-like, bright as polished steel. The +brows met in a straight black line over the nose. + +"My Lord Frangipani--" + +The Lord of Astura turned. Don Enrico presented him to the King of the +Germans. Conradino extended his hand. + +"We are well pleased to count you among our loyal friends and +adherents, my Lord Frangipani," Conradino said with warmth. "Our +illustrious grandsire himself has bestowed upon you the insignia of +knighthood; it is a tie which should bind us for aye and ever!" + +The Frangipani grasped the proffered hand, bending low as he replied: + +"I count it great honor that King Conradino acknowledges the bonds +which bind the house of Frangipani to the house of Swabia. May I be +afforded the opportunity to prove my devotion towards the grandson of +my glorious emperor!" + +While Conradino's gaze was resting upon the Lord of Astura, there came +to him a sensation, strange as it was fleeting. + +He felt singularly repelled by the voice and glance of the baron, +notwithstanding the latter having received his schooling at the +brilliant court of Emperor Frederick at Castel Fiorentino. + +In order to overcome this sensation, Conradino turned to the Roman. + +"You are the Lord of Astura," he said. "I have been told your castello +defends the coast!"-- + +"Some fifty leagues to southward, Astura rises sea-washed upon its +impregnable rock!" Giovanni Frangipani replied, not without +self-conscious pride. "Corsairs and Saracens have dashed themselves in +vain against its granite walls. The bulwark of Terra di Lavoro, I hold +castello and port as hereditary fief of Emperor Frederick!" + +"A port and castello near Rome!" Conradino said with a quick lift of +speech. "My imperial grandsire did well to entrust them to so faithful +a subject. Who knows but that at some day I too shall embark at +Astura?" + +He spoke the fateful words and shivered. + +It was as if the cold air of a burial vault had fanned his cheeks.-- + +Impelled hither by a force beyond his control, Francesco instinctively +shrank from mingling with the festive crowds. The one desire of his +life fulfilled, to see face to face Conradino, the idol of his +youthful dreams, he would take his weary feet away and continue upon +his journey towards an unknown destiny. + +Opposing thoughts were flying towards contrary poles of his horizon. + +On the one hand, the old longing for the world, a world of action, had +risen strangely from forgotten depths. Was this perchance the goal to +which his present life was leading? In the midst of his ruminations he +heard the silvery mirth of Ilaria from the depths of the gardens, and +the pain itself seemed to guide his steps towards her. He had always +thought her the most beautiful of all beautiful women, though with +them Italy blossomed as a garden. + +He again remembered the night he first saw her, how the exquisite +purity of her face distinguished her from the glittering throng among +which she moved. He even remembered now in what graceful folds her +white robe fell from the square cut neck to her feet, how the +over-sleeves hung open from the shoulders, revealing the snowy +whiteness of her arms. + +He remembered how that night he had refused to go singing carnival +songs with the youths of the court; how they, heated with wine, had +jeered and taunted him, asking if, perchance, he was turning into a +pious monk. + +Suddenly in his waking dream he found himself at Monte Cassino in the +cell of the Prior. And the Prior talked and talked about the sins of +the world, and the lust of the flesh, and of prayers and penances. +How, as he sat there in grim silence, the Prior thought he was +listening, instead of thinking of a smile of divine sweetness, and a +fairer face than that of the Virgin looking out at him from the mural +painting of Masaccio. And how the Prior would have crossed himself and +implored protection from the snares of Satan, had he known that +Francesco's thoughts were of a woman. How, when he went to his own +cell that night, when he lay down on the bare hard boards, that served +for bed and pillow, a swift revulsion of feeling had come over him. + +At that moment Francesco felt that, wherever he went, he would bear +his shadow with him none the less surely, because its presence might +be hidden by the general negative of that sunlight, which so +inexorably illumined every detail of the road that lay before him. + +The shadow! + +Was he indeed a living soul created in the image of his Maker, or an +echo merely shouted by some fiend in derision, destined to wander +forever disconsolate among the waste places, seeking and finding +not?-- + +Now he saw Ilaria come up the moonlit path. + +For a moment he wavered, trembling in every limb. Then the memory of +their meeting at the fountain swept over him in a mighty wave. He +called to mind the sweet smile of long ago, the touch of her hands. + +No longer master of his feelings, he took a step forward, his eyes, +straining into the night, riveted upon her. There was a hint of +melancholy in the curve about the mouth and the farseeing eyes. + +Another moment and he found himself face to face with Ilaria Caselli. + +As she noted the shadow across her path, she paused sharply, then, as +their eyes met, he saw the flowing motion of her figure stiffening +into curves that lent a suggestion of resistance. He caught the +momentary impatience of her brow and the start of resentment in her +eyes. + +His purpose vanquished, he stood mute in the face of the striking +chill of her pride. + +For a moment they regarded each other in silence, a silence that +resembled the settling waters after the plunging of a stone. + +Her face was very white, and her eyes, as they met his, shone with an +almost supernatural lustre. + +Yet this silence was putting the two asunder, contrasting them +vividly, balancing them one against the other. + +The repose and the self-confidence ran all towards the woman. + +Her face waited. + +She seemed to look down from above on Francesco the monk. + +A moment ago he had had so much to say, and now his own voicelessness +begot anger and rebellion. + +Ilaria was looking at him, as if she saw something, and nothing, and +Francesco felt that her eyes called him a fool. Her air of aloofness, +as of standing above some utterly impersonal matter, put the man under +her feet. + +She could not have trampled upon him more victoriously than by +displaying the utter indifference with which she seemed to rediscover +his existence. + +For a moment, that seemed interminable, they stood at gaze, as if some +hidden hand had been laid upon them, arresting every movement. + +Then her lips parted slightly. + +"Faithless!" + +Then she was gone.-- + +How long Francesco remained rooted to the spot, he did not know. + +He felt as one who has walked into a place, where all the doors were +closed, where calm, contemptuous faces were watching him from the +windows. + +His chief desire now was to get away from Rome as quickly as possible. +The Pontiff was at Viterbo. Thither he would travel with the dawn. He +was tired of humiliations. Restless and baffled though he felt in his +effort to conform his thoughts to the life he was henceforth to lead, +he resented even compassion. + +The moon had risen higher and the sky was sprinkled with myriads of +stars. + +Francesco stood leaning against the fountain, and heard the bells on +distant Aventine tolling through the night. Their music filled the +air. He tried to hush the anxiety of his heart by prayer. It was in +vain. + +He felt the love for the friends of his youth turning slowly into +hate. Once again he had proved himself, once again he had been +crucified on the altar of Duty! + +Let the stormy billows of life then sweep him onward to whatever +destiny a dark fate had consigned him! Since loyalty had proved his +undoing, why cling to outward show?-- + +How perfect was the night! + +The distant hillsides were hushed. The very leaves were still. The +olive woods shone silvery in the moonlight! + +The splashing of the fountains came clear to him in the intense +stillness. In the moonlight the roses were nodding to each other and +the perfume of magnolias permeated the balmy night air. Farther in the +shade he could see the Lucciola, in whose heart were hidden the +love-words caught from lovers' lips,--what a mission for a flower! On +the highroad he heard the tramp of horses' feet. They came nearer, +stopped, then died away in the distance. + +Afraid even to move Francesco peered through the leaves. + +But the only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart. + +He stood alone in the garden. + +Love seemed to have died out of the eyes of life, and the world seemed +to shiver in disillusionment. + +A great weariness came to him, a weariness of the heart, spreading +with the swiftness of poison in the blood. His head drooped, as if the +moonlight had wilted the strong neck. His eyes lost their lustre of +haughtiness and fell into a vague, brooding stare. He was dull and +weary; but yesterday he had thought well of the world; there seemed +nor valor, nor pity, anywhere.-- + +Yet Francesco felt that this state could not endure. + +Purposeless he had drifted on the waves of destiny, the blind victim +of another's will. Prayers and penances had not availed to rouse him +to the acceptance of his fate. + +There must be something to fill out his life, some great palpable +purpose to which he would devote himself, some high mission, in the +fulfilment of which the consciousness of a false existence would +become gradually blurred, and eventually wiped out. + +His whole nature craved for action; the still life of the cloister, +far from extinguishing the smouldering fire, had kept it alive with +the fuel of dead hopes and broken ambitions. + +What mattered it in the end in whose cause he fought and bled, so he +came out from under the dreary cloud of passive endurance, a slow +paralysis of all that was best of him? + +His love for Ilaria had remained with him, had haunted him all these +long and weary months. He felt it would remain with him forever, even +though he banished her image from his heart. And banish it he must! He +must shake off the dreamer, he must look life in the face. Boldly he +must enter the arena in the unequal fight. + +"Ave Domina, morituri te salutant!"-- + +The thought seemed to give him back some of his former elasticity. All +wavering was at an end. The road seemed dark. Yet there must be a way. + +Could he but accomplish some great deed, could he but make a name for +himself, but prove himself worthy of the love she bore him +once,--that, at least, would be atonement! + +A higher light gleamed in Francesco's eyes, and he heaved a great sigh +as he was about to step into the clearing, when the sound of +approaching footsteps caused him to pause and listen. + +They seemed to come in his direction. + +In the brilliant moonlight he recognized Conradino and Frederick of +Austria, Conrad Capece and the brothers Lancia. They had been making +the rounds of the gardens and were returning to the palace. In the +gaunt warrior who followed in their wake he recognized the Count +Palatine. + +Where the glistening gravel paths branched off, leading into different +parts of the blossoming wilderness, they were joined by another group. +Francesco recognized among them Raniero Frangipani, and the ground +began to burn under his feet. + +A thousand invisible eyes seemed to peer at him in his concealment; a +thousand invisible fingers seemed to point towards him,--the +renegade. + +They were coming nearer. Now he could hear the sound of their voices. +There was no further doubt; they were coming in his direction. + +It was too late to retrace his steps. If he remained where he stood, +they might pass him unheeded, unseen. At this moment Francesco dreaded +even the sound of a human voice, the sight of a human face. On the +pinnacle of a high resolve he but craved to escape unnoticed, unseen, +to be spared further humiliation. + +Following a strange, inexplicable impulse, or seized with a sudden +irresistible panic, which mocked his intentions to scorn, he started +to retreat in an opposite direction, when a treacherous moonbeam +revealed him to the eye of Raniero Frangipani. + +Two mighty bounds brought him to his side, and ere Francesco knew what +was happening, he found himself dragged over the greensward and stood +pale and trembling before the assembled company. + +Conradino had paused precipitately, as if some bird of evil omen had +crossed his path. The others immediately surrounded Francesco, who was +writhing in the futile endeavor to release himself from the grip which +was upon him. In the struggle the cowl had dropped back, revealing +Francesco's features, set and deadly pale, and the cry: "A monk!" was +not for the cloth, but him it covered. + +Two men had uttered it as with one voice, the Viceroy of Apulia and +the Count Palatine, while in the faces of their companions Francesco +read only loathing and hatred, such as any traitor would inspire. + +The Frangipani released his victim with a reluctant scowl. + +Conrad Capece seized Francesco by the shoulders and looked into his +face. + +He felt moved despite himself by the expression of petrified grief +which he read in the face of the youth, who, unable longer to endure +the glances of hatred which he instinctively felt resting upon him, +had dropped his gaze. + +"What is your purpose here?" the Apulian queried sternly. + +Twice, in the thrall of conflicting emotions, Francesco started to +reply, a hot wave of shame chasing the pallor from his cheeks. + +The words died on his lips. + +At last, with a supreme effort, throwing back his head as in mute +defiance, he replied: + +"My business is with the Pontiff!" + +"The business of a traitor,--a spy!" + +It was the voice of Raniero Frangipani that had fallen sharply on his +ear. + +Francesco made no reply. Only he seemed to grow a shade more gray. + +In his stead spoke Don Enrico, the Senator of Rome, who had stepped to +the Viceroy's side. + +"It must have been known to you that the Pontiff has abandoned the +city and has fled to Viterbo. Do not try to deceive us! We shall find +means to learn the truth!" + +The threatening tenor of the Spaniard's voice recalled Francesco to +himself. He turned to Capece who was regarding him gloomily. + +"My lord, I have never spoken a falsehood. I arrived in Rome but +yesterday from Monte Cassino. Of the state of the city I knew nothing. +My business is with the Pontiff." + +"Then why did you not depart on learning that Clement and the +Provencals have fled?" + +A choking sensation came to Francesco. His hand went to his throat. + +The Viceroy saw and understood. + +With a sweep of the hand he bade the others stand aside. + +"Go!"--The command was tinged with scorn and contempt. + +"I vouch for this monk!" Francesco heard him address the Senator of +Rome, as with head bowed down he walked slowly away. But with a sharp +pang another voice smote his unwittingly listening ear. + +"A renegade!" + +It was the voice of Raniero Frangipani.-- + +On that night, when Francesco returned to the inn and had repaired to +his chamber, he lay on his bed without moving, without even thinking. + +He had passed into a strange, half-apathetic state, in which his own +misery was hardly more to him than a dull and mechanical weight, +pressing on some wooden thing that had forgotten to be a soul. + +In truth, it seemed of little consequence how all ended. The one thing +that mattered to any sentient being, was to be spared the unbearable +pain. + +It seemed to him as if he had left some terrible shadow of himself, +some ghostly trail of his personality, to haunt the room. He sat +trembling and cowering, not daring to look up, lest he should see the +phantom presence of his other self. + +At last the pain worked as its own anaesthetic. + +Francesco's eyelids drooped and he fell into a deep and dreamless +sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +QUAINT WAYFARERS + + +Early on the following morning Francesco left Rome through the ancient +Flaminian gate and started upon his journey towards Viterbo. + +It was a fair morning, golden and light. + +Over the Campagna hung white mists, that hovered longest where the +Tiber rolled; but over the green mountains of Rocca Romana the woods +were alight with sunbeams and the glancing streams ran sparkling +through meadows, starred with dragon-flower and cyclamen, and shaded +with heavy boughs of beach and chestnut. + +In lieu of following the Via Aurelia, where it wound towards the coast +by Santa Marinella and Santa Severa and mediaeval Palo, and the +volcanic soil and the steep ravines by Cervetri, where the long +avenues of cliff sepulchres are all that remain to show the site of +ancient Caere, Francesco pursued the beaten cattle-tracks, avoiding +the Maccarese marshes and following the course of the Aerone as far as +the high cliffs, up by forsaken Galera. And soon the downs and moors, +the tumuli and tombs and the heaving expanse of the Roman Campagna lay +behind him, and with them the fear of encountering roving companies of +Provencals, which might still remain in these regions. + +It was a morning such as is only seen in Southern climes, and on +similar elevations; the air so pure and bright that every object +appeared translucent. + +The valley into which Francesco descended, although partially veiled +in mists, began to disclose its variety and richness, contrasting +strangely with the undulating monotony of the Campagna, which lay +behind him. Little villages appeared, nestling on the craggy bases of +the mountains, castles and watch-towers rose on remote pinnacles; +forests of oak and pine waved freshly in the morning wind; pastures of +brightest emerald bordered the river; every rock displayed in its +nooks and crevices wild-flowers of brilliant hues; every breath wafted +across the vale brought new intoxicating odors. + +The very cataract in the distance, though lost in snowy mists, wore a +diadem, a rainbow of palest pink and azure, like a semi-circular +spectral bridge. + +Francesco chose the wider path, and lost himself in a tangled +underbrush of myrtle, stunted vines and high weeds, while the loftier +forest-trees continually showered their golden dew upon him, as he +passed under their odorous, lightly-swaying branches. + +If the life at Monte Cassino had seemed hard and uneventful, these few +days in the larger, wider world had crowded experiences upon Francesco +with an impetuosity that had left him a little bewildered. Hungry for +a heart, his soul, bleeding under the leash of Fate, looked down upon +life as from an isolation, and found it as desolate and empty as the +most ascetic soul might have desired. + +Heartening himself, he tried to see some reasonable purpose linking +all these happenings. He was being tempted and ill-used for the sake +of a finer patience and stronger discipline, serving his novitiate in +a rougher and more riotous house, meeting winds that had not reached +him behind the walls of Monte Cassino. + +He had taken his discipline, his schooling and his vows as a matter +that was inevitable. But the lure of the outer world, combined with +the memories of the past, had thrummed incessantly and insistently +against the armor of his cowl. + +And as, with the silence of a great resolve, he pushed slowly along +his solitary path, he wondered vaguely at the ultimate goal. + +He had been taught that a monk should accept all the ordinances and +ask no questions, clasping an austere docility like a girdle about his +loins. + +Nevertheless, his eyes lost their lustre, as he remembered the scenes +of the past night, and they fell into a vague brooding stare. + +Yet he no longer felt angry with those who had turned from him in +disdain. For a time the fire in his heart had sunk too low even for +anger. He was dull and weary and a little stunned by the night's +bafflings, and the collapse of his resolves. + +He was fighting against destiny, and the wave was mightier than the +vessel that had ventured upon it. + +Francesco had started out before dawn, brushing the dew from the +meadow-grass and following the misty twilight track of a brook that +traced its serpentine course through the forest glades. The songs of +birds went throbbing through the woodland. + +Francesco had come to a place where four ways met, with a stone cross +standing on a hillock, when out of the dusk of the forest aisles rode +the portly bulk of a man, who was hardly astir so early in order to +admire the beauties of the dawn, for he came along the greensward with +the gait of one who combines caution with alertness. + +No sooner had the Duke of Spoleto laid eyes upon Francesco than he +broke out into a glad roar. + +"Whither are you bound so lone and so early?" he bellowed after mutual +greeting. "Has the soil of Rome ignited under your holy feet?" + +"I am bound for Viterbo," Francesco replied, glad to have the monotony +of the journey and the trend of his ruminations relieved by one who +had, at one time, been of such signal service to him. + +"And whither do you travel?" he asked in turn. + +"Every road leads to Rome, or the devil," the duke roared sagaciously, +"though three days of knight-errantry have brought nothing but +petticoats. The world is overburdened with women!" + +Francesco nodded, although he was not sure of the fact. + +Enlarging on the subject, as they rode side by side, the Duke of +Spoleto opined that women were capable of giving a deal of trouble. + +Francesco considered the suggestion with due seriousness without +venturing an expression on the subject. + +"You come from Rome?" the duke queried at last. + +"The Ghibellines are in possession of the town," Francesco replied +with heavy heart. + +The duke laughed. + +"The spirit of chivalry runs counter to the growlings of the fathers," +he said, then paused dramatically. "Anjou's name is a great and +stinking sore. The whole country holds its nose because of its stench. +As for him who succeeded the Cobbler's son in the chair of St. +Peter:--he has yet to learn that self-righteousness but needs the +devil's kiss on the forehead." + +Francesco made no reply. + +The Duke of Spoleto struck his fist into his palm. + +"Meat, drink and the love of woman,--these things matter more than +Heaven and Hell and the solemn ravings of an ascetic though," he added +meditatively, "the holy fathers of the Church teach that woman is the +seed and core of all evil. Perchance we find therein the reason of +their own pitiable estate!" + +Francesco remained silent for a space, and the duke gave him a queer +puzzled look. + +"Look you," he said at last, picturesquely, "you seem not like other +monks, fit but to be made a mock of by sluts who are ready to laugh at +an ass' hind legs. That gentry I hate,--a mad medley of the devil." + +The duke spat with emphasis and rubbed his palms. + +Francesco ventured to enlighten the lord of the forests. + +"Yet--may not one be as one standing on the threshold, with a light in +one's hand, illumining the path of others, yet remaining himself in +the gloom?" + +The duke shrugged. + +"Sophistry is the devil's pastime," he said dubiously. "Many an +old-established ghost there is, who has never seen such a thing as an +honest monk. And there is nothing that ghosts love as they do +novelties!" + +Francesco pondered over the wisdom of his companion, but did not feel +called upon to enlarge upon it. He was even now far from convinced of +his own sincerity and steadfastness of purpose. He was as a man +shipwrecked on a stormy sea, ever rocking with the waves, with no +beacon-light beckoning him to shore. + +"You have seen Conradino?" the duke said after a pause. + +It might have been a statement, it might have been a question. + +Francesco nodded. + +"Rome is as Ghibelline at this hour as if the Pope had lived forever +at Viterbo!" + +The Duke of Spoleto shrugged. + +"A passing fever! Many a one's soul is in sympathy with one's snout!" + +"You do not love the cowl," Francesco ventured, with a sidelong glance +at his companion, whose nose was in the air as if he sniffed countless +monasteries and convents. + +After a time the Duke of Spoleto growled. + +"If the world were so perilous a place, were it not more manly to go +out and conquer it than to hide from it like a girl that bars the door +of the room? What if Christ and the apostles had shut themselves up in +stone cells, the grim silence, the half-starved sanctity of the +cloister? What has it done for the world? Men make a patchwork quilt +of life and call the patchwork religion and law!" + +He threw the challenge into the balance of his discontent. + +Knitting his brows, he continued: + +"Speak not of the Church to me! We are bidden to perceive therein the +body of the Lord Christ! But what is it we see? The most complete +mechanism for controlling men, manipulated by human intelligence! You +bid me regard the monks in Italy as holy people in the midst of an +evil world?" + +He paused with a dramatic gesture. + +"Rank heresy!" he bellowed, answering his own question. "A Church with +no lust of temporal power is unthinkable. The Church requires a +statesman for a leader, not a saint! Behold your saintly Clement at +Viterbo, invoking the divine wrath upon the heads of the just +claimants of these realms! Cast off the garb which disgraces your +manhood! Mount a steed, challenge the devil, and slay dragons!" + +Francesco felt heavy at heart. + +An inner voice had long apprised him that the duke had recognized the +man beneath the garb, and that he was addressing his confidences to +the ghost of Francesco's self. + +Now and then he surprised a sidelong glance, directed towards himself, +as if his burly companion were appraising his manhood, his muscles and +his strides. + +His surmise fell not far short of the mark, for after a brief silence +the lord of the woods spat vigorously. + +"And howsoever did you happen into the cloth?" he blurted with a blunt +directness, as if eager to dispose of the question. + +"That is a long story," Francesco replied. "He, however, who suffered +the most thereby, was least concerned in the cause!"-- + +The duke nodded, as if the matter were perfectly clear to him. + +"You were promised special rewards and dispensations?" + +Francesco's look of surprise informed the duke of the nature of the +answer before he spoke. + +"He who would sup with the Devil must needs have a long spoon!" the +duke roared sententiously, and apparently well pleased with his own +penetration. + +They now travelled upon a more densely populated tract; they passed +wayfarers and pilgrims; great folk on horseback with little folk +licking their stirrup. + +They passed an old crone at the roadside, eating her meagre meal out +of a basket. Her fingers were like claws; her eyes were half-shut and +she had wisps of hair on her chin. When she saw the twain, she +scratched her chin with a talon and begged Francesco for a blessing, +which the latter gave, while the duke shouted: + +"Shave your chin, old fool! Shave your chin!" + +Two hairy beggars, brandishing cudgels, emerged from the thicket. + +No sooner did they lay eyes on the duke, than they bounded down the +road and out of sight. + +The Duke of Spoleto smote his thighs and laughed like a woodpecker. + +They passed two howl-women, making for a near-by castle and practising +their doleful chants. + +The duke greeted them with a grotesque bow. + +"Why so joyful, fascinating graces?" he bellowed through his auburn +bristles. "Is the fiend assembling a chorus in these regions, to lead +it in procession to hell? I commend his taste!" + +The howl-women gibbered some inarticulate response and blew down the +road, to the great delight of the duke. + +A fat reeve with heavy saddle-bags and a fiery face whipped a +mouse-colored nag right about and departed the way he came, as soon as +he spied the duke in the distance. + +The duke's mirth increased as the mud-sticker, as he called him, took +to flight. He seemed vastly pleased with the respect he inspired. + +At last, at a cross-road, they came upon two women in red cloaks and +gaudy tunics, seated on the greensward, with a certain dubious +alertness about the eyes, that glimmered between hunger and +discontent. By their side in the grass lay a viol; they seemed to have +chosen the spot to rest. + +As the duke and his companion approached, the twain watched them with +a peculiar, hard-eyed intentness, glanced at each other, and smiled. + +"Whither away, my dear?" said the taller of the two. "It is fair +weather for a journey!"-- + +The duke bowed profusely. + +"Fair weather for a good thirst," he replied, nodding at the stone +bottle which reposed in the capacious lap of the speaker. + +"You carry a lusty belly," replied the dame, whose eyes had a hungry +boldness, while she offered the bottle to her interlocutor. + +The duke took a liberal draught. Francesco frowned. + +Then the three chaffered with obvious good humor, touching upon many +topics, which sounded strange to Francesco's ears. + +They touched upon the wonders of the swamps, wild beasts, wolves and +bears; they conversed of the outlaws of Arezzo, whose leader was said +to be a woman; of the stone that bled on Passion Sunday, of the +mysterious almond-tree at Treviso, that bore fruit showing the impress +of the face of the Christ. + +The duke seemed remarkably well versed in all matters pertaining to +Church or state. When he stopped for a pull at the stone bottle, the +two women laughed, taking alternate bites from an apple and munching +the pulp with a voracious movement of the jaws. + +Francesco thought them queer wayfarers, for they in turn stared at +him, then at each other and laughed, looking at Francesco's grave face +as if it were the quaintest thing on earth. + +"Saints! What a sweet gentleman!" said the taller of the two, "and to +see such a one in the spider's web!" + +And as she sighed, her eyes discoursed to Francesco something that +savored not of the Church. + +The fat vagrant offered him the bottle, while her companion's eyes +sent him a tentative offer of friendliness, half timid, half bold. + +Francesco passed it by with a flash of the eyes to the horizon, and a +straight setting of the chin. + +After having parted from the two rowdies in the fantastic cloaks, the +duke and Francesco continued upon their way. + +"There is freedom only on the mountain-heights," the duke said, as +they arrived at a crossing, marked by a huge stone cross. "If this +truth ever dawns upon you, if ever your soul shrinks from the greed +and hypocrisy of the world, if you tire of bloodshed in the name of +the Cross and of villainy glorified by the name of Christ--the camp of +the Duke of Spoleto will receive you, standing face to face with God +alone." + +With a hearty hand-shake they parted, and Francesco followed the road +pointed out to him by his companion of the morning hours. + +He had taken reluctant leave of the burly champion of a lost cause, +whose very presence seemed to breathe the undefiled air of his great +northern forests, undefiled by the trend of human feet, the echoes of +human strife. + +And as Francesco gave a parting look to the high hills with the +glitter of their birch-trees, he suddenly experienced an unexplainable +melting of his resentment against Ilaria. + +Something that he could neither describe nor account for, came into +his heart, a subtle emotion, that was like a faint perfume, or the +sound of music from afar. He had hated her for her cold pride when he +left his home; yet, into this tawny cloud of hate flashed the vivid +streak of a sudden recollection. + +Every faint zephyr reminded him of her charm; transfused itself into +the mellow brilliancy of her beauty, and Francesco suddenly surprised +himself by taking her part against himself. + +And, what was more, he experienced a curiously pleasing sensation in +the act, and in this impulse towards tenderness discovered things that +were strange and long forgotten. + +It was now the drowsy noon of day, and the wood was full of shadows +and of stealthy, creeping sunlight. + +He rested for a pace, then, refreshed by the siesta, he rode onward, +other thoughts beginning to throng his mind. + +He was entering a sphere of action. + +Hitherto his life had been as that of a recluse. The peace of the +cloister had enveloped him as a mighty cloak of safety. It had +dominated him even to the point of total paralysis of his energies. Of +the purpose of his journey he was still in ignorance. Yet, an inner +voice whispered to him that it was the clarion call of the Church +Militant that had called him out of his repose. + +There could be no further compromise between the warring factions. + +The death-struggle between Guelph and Ghibelline had reached its +highest crest. Henceforth he would be the soldier of the Church. A +chasm, no eternity could bridge, would gape between himself and the +friends of his youth. Thus Fate had willed it. Hurled into a seething +vortex, he was swept onward by the resistless tide. + +Now and again moments of resonant incredulity beat upon his brain. +Why had his guiltless youth been condemned, why had he been sold into +bondage? + +For a moment he started, retreating precipitately into the shadows. + +On the far bank of the river, whose glittering coils wound through the +emerald depths of the valley, there, among the aspens, he descried a +company of horsemen, waiting, spears erect, helmets glittering, the +wind tossing the dark manes of their horses. + +After a time they rode onward, and he, too, cautiously pursued his +solitary path. + +Evening had come. + +The rose had faded from the sky; but the horizon was flooded with pale +gold, in which shone the pellucid evening star. The air was filled +with the sweet chimes of innumerable bells. + +A group of towers rising above the distant hills cut sharply into the +glory of the sky. + +Yonder lay Viterbo amidst her encircling walls: thence those carolling +chimes, that so strangely stirred him, were singing their message of +peace. + +His eyes were fixed afar. + +Would he turn back?-- + +The west was smoking with golden vapors. The forests receding on +either hand revealed the hills and summits of the pontifical city. The +old Longobard walls curved away on each hand, for a long distance, +high and grim, with battlements and towers, bare and menacing. + +For a moment Francesco paused; his eyes in the tracks of the sinking +sun, his lips tightly set, the nails of his hands driven into his own +flesh. + +Then with head high and erect, never a muscle betraying the anguish of +his soul, he rode into the gates of Viterbo. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE PAWN OF THE CHURCH + + +When Francesco arrived on the height it was the hour of the closing of +the city-gates and he took lodging at an inn situated near the city +walls. + +He caught his breath the next morning at the imposing aspect of the +place. + +In the young sunshine its many towers were no longer phantom intruders +on the sky, but a dominant fact. The machicolated heights, the +encircling ramparts, the stern outlines of the fortress-palace of the +pope, rose proudly impregnable in the air. + +On the broad highways from Umbria, Tuscany and Romagna, even at this +early hour, an almost endless stream of humanity was moving. Many a +clerk and prelate was there, superbly arrayed, mounted on steeds gay +with princely trappings. Fair women took in the freshness of the day. +Pilgrims with staff and shell trudged merrily or wearily on. Jewish +merchants, serious of face, bore packs containing valuable +merchandise. For Viterbo lay on the highway, linking Northern and +Southern Italy, and Europe, in motion on its way to Rome, moved +incessantly through its streets. The image of Rome, in her desolation, +recurred, vague as a ghost, to Francesco's mind and vanished before +this city of the present, unhaunted as yet by memories, rising radiant +in the morning air. + +Treading the streets, the life which he for the past weeks had so +eagerly accepted, suddenly seemed alien to the whole old order of +thoughts and feelings which Francesco represented. + +Mechanically almost he dropped on his knees before an altar, gazing at +the pictured face of a kneeling woman whose eyes were filled with pure +compassion. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be diverted by the +interest of his surroundings, while moving towards the presence of the +head of Christendom. + +Pope Clement IV gave audience in a high apartment, overlooking the +winding road to Rome. The sunlight, streaming through the window arch, +revealed the man with much distinctness. + +The Pontiff was slight and delicate of build. His face bore the stamp +of a high order of intellect; his features were those of an +aristocrat. Disease of body was plainly portrayed by his shadowy +cheeks, much lined for his fifty-odd years. Disease of soul showed +none the less plainly in a troubled lift of the eyebrows, that +imparted to the face a look of search, expecting yet perhaps desiring +no answer. The countenance withal was unmistakably of the legal cast, +self-contained, alert, studious. On the whole, Francesco's first +impression upon being conducted into the presence of the Father of +Christendom, was of the unconscious dignity of high place, blended +with something too complex for analysis. + +Many cardinals and princes of the Church, many orders of +monks, noblemen and foreign ambassadors were assembled in the +audience-chamber of the Pontiff. There was a restlessness among them, +which immediately impressed itself upon the newcomer. + +Surrounding the pontifical dais were Antonio Pignatello, Cardinal of +Cosenza and private secretary to His Holiness; Don Stefano, General of +the Carthusians, Master Raimondo, General of the Dominicans, and an +individual who was incessantly fingering his beads, whose bent +countenance, sallow features, sunken eyes, thin lips and claw-like +talons revealed a combination of hypocrisy and cunning, such as but +one man could lay claim to, and he the champion of Pope Clement IV, +Charles of Anjou, brother of King Louis of France. + +"Yet--notwithstanding your plea, you have not yet seen the towers of +the Holy City established on earth among the children of men," the +Pontiff turned to the Provencal. + +"I have had no visions," replied the latter with a quick lift of the +eyes. + +"Nor I, beloved son," said the Pontiff, "save as the spectacle of life +is an ever changing vision. Have you any conception, I wonder, of its +interest and significance in these latter days?" + +"Let me remind you, Holy Father, Benevento lies behind us," snarled +the champion of the Church. "Would your black crows have carried the +day without the chivalry of Provence?" + +The Pontiff ignored the insolence of the speech. + +"Truly--Benevento lies behind us," he said. "Nevertheless I may not +say, here is the hand of God, and there it is withheld. The schism has +widened; the way of the truth is more obscure than ever; the Church +has grown to be the very scorn of men, because of the instruments she +employs,--she is forced to employ!" + +The Pontiff's tone had grown hard and there was a steely glitter in +his gray eyes. + +Charles of Anjou fingered his beads more swiftly, while his thin lips +stretched into a hard, straight line. + +"'The end justifies the means!' has long been the maxim of the princes +of the Church," he said, while his eyes seemed to rest on the tips of +his buskins, protruding from under the monkish garb he affected. + +The Pontiff hastened to explain. + +"One may not cleanse a pigsty with a silver fork. Yet--shall the +Patrimony of St. Peter be sacked and burned in the name of the Cross? +Shall violence, cunning and greed reign unchecked, that the Beast may +be glorified?" + +"Yet the Beast may not gird its loins without drink or food,--and the +Halo makes but a thin mantle!" snarled the Pontiff's crusader. + +Clement raised a thin, emaciated hand. + +"What a mass of falsehoods and hypocritical phrases have again +assailed our ear! Our dearly beloved son in Christ boasts of his love +and veneration for the Church, while those under his command are +pillaging the sanctuaries!" + +The beads passed nervously through Anjou's fingers. + +"These reproaches, Holy Father," he said with a sepulchral voice, +"touch me very deeply. The host must be fed, and their zeal for the +cause of Holy Church may lead them to mistake the cornfields of the +righteous!" + +The Pontiff bowed. + +"Your crusades against the infidels seem to have blurred your vision, +beloved son!" + +"You speak of my youthful glories, Holy Father," replied Charles of +Anjou with a leer. "Many years have since gone by, and they sleep with +my youthful sins!" + +"That must be a wide berth that enables them to find place side by +side," retorted the Pontiff. + +Then, with a nameless shrug, he turned to the Cardinal of Cosenza. + +"Has the messenger returned from Astura?" + +Instead of the Cardinal, Anjou made reply. + +"Wherein would treason benefit the Frangipani? They hold their castle +as fief of the Empire, and the coffers of the Church are dolefully +empty." + +The Pontiff turned to the speaker. + +"Treason,--beloved son? A harsh word indeed! Were breaking with a +sinful past to be stigmatized in such wise, our indulgences would +indeed go begging and St. Peter tire at his watch!" + +Charles of Anjou gave a significant shrug. + +"Will the Frangipani exchange a distant master for one hovering over +their rock?" + +The Pontiff waved the question aside. + +"The bait were hardly tempting!" + +The small eyes of Anjou met those of the Pontiff. + +"What is the bribe?" he queried brutally. + +Clement raised his hands in abhorrence. A lawyer and a diplomat, the +Frenchman's brutal frankness jarred on his nerves. + +"What of Astura as his own--to have and to hold?" he said at last with +bated breath. + +A sudden sinister gleam from Anjou's eyes betokened his understanding. + +"The dead are all immortal," he said with a shrug. + +A sudden commotion, the sound of voices in the antechamber, produced a +momentary lull in the conversation, and at the beck of the Pontiff the +Cardinal of Cosenza rose to inquire into the cause of the disturbance. + +After a time he returned and whispered some words into Clement's ears. + +The Pontiff was seen to start; and to look from one to the other of +those present. Then he nodded and, through the door of the +audience-chamber, Francesco was ushered into the august presence of +the Father of Christendom. + +He was received with a courteous quiet, the Pontiff and those about +him regarding him curiously. + +Francesco advanced at a signal from the Cardinal of Cosenza, who acted +as master of ceremonies, knelt and kissed the Pontiff's feet. He felt +somewhat dazed by the unwonted presence and awaited in silence the +Pontiff's question. In a fleeting glance he had taken in his +surroundings, but as, when he rose from his kneeling position, his +gaze encountered that of the Pontiff's minion, there swept over him +such a wave of rage, horror and shame, that all the color left his +face, and his hands were clenched, as if he would spring at the cowled +form by the Pontiff's side and strangle him. He restrained himself +with an effort, but the gesture had not passed unremarked by Anjou, +who was engaged in sedulously counting his beads and fingering the +Leaden Lamb about his neck, while he drew the cowl somewhat deeper +over his face. + +Francesco, turning to the Pontiff, was struck by the reticent +shrewdness in Clement's eyes, the expression of his face, the calm, +unmoved poise of body and head. + +It crossed his consciousness in a flash that it was possible for this +man to impress his will upon a world, no matter if that world +rebelled. + +"Your name?" the Pontiff spoke at last. + +"Francesco Villani," came the reply, given with bated breath. + +Clement stared into space as one endeavoring to recall a memory. + +"Villani,--Villani--" he muttered to himself with an absent air. +"Where have we heard the name before?" + +The Cardinal of Cosenza leaned forward, his lips at Clement's ear. + +The Pontiff nodded. + +"We remember,--we remember,--the illegitimate offspring of Gregorio +Villani, Grand Master of the Knights of the Hospital!" + +The words had been spoken with intent of being heard by all present. + +Francesco straightened himself to his full height. + +His eyes blazed as he faced the Pontiff. + +"Your Holiness need not proclaim my father's shame to the ears of +Christendom! Let it suffice, that I am atoning for his fault,--if +fault it was!" + +There was a heavy silence, during which the Pontiff and Charles of +Anjou exchanged significant glances. + +They had not remained unremarked by Francesco, and the spark of +rebellion which had slumbered in his soul all these long and weary +months was fanned to devouring flame, as with inexpressible loathing +his gaze rested upon the man who was the abomination of Christendom, +the instrument of the Pontiff. + +"What proof have we that you are atoning for the transgressions of one +who passed from earth in mortal sin?" the Pontiff queried after a +pause, while a fatuous smile played about Anjou's lips. + +"The garb I wear," Francesco flashed. "The garb your Holiness has +imposed!" + +The Pontiff regarded him quizzically. + +"You have served your novitiate?" + +"At Monte Cassino!" + +"How fares the Prior? It is many moons since we have visited his +mountain-heights!" + +Francesco gave a brief account of his life at the cloister, up to the +time when he had received the summons to Rome. + +Clement listened warily, the lawyer in his expression uppermost. + +"You come from Rome?" + +Francesco shivered at the memory. + +"From Rome!" he replied curtly. + +"What of the city?" + +"King Conradino lords the Capitol!" + +"You have seen the Pretender?" + +"We have stood face to face." + +"What is he like?" + +Francesco gazed from Clement to Anjou + +"A man!" + +The Pontiff nodded, as if he approved the observation. + +In the man Francesco had long discovered the judicial mind, and the +discreet intelligence of the trained statesman. + +From the shadows the Pontiff was warily regarding the sun-steeped +features of the young monk. + +At last, his voice sinking down to its accustomed calm, he said, as if +feeling his ground: + +"Does the new life satisfy your soul?" + +The restless, ceaseless pain of longing again knocked at Francesco's +heart, and with it returned the old spirit of rebellion, which had +possessed him in the days of his novitiate at Monte Cassino. And, +unconsciously, he repeated the words of the Duke of Spoleto: + +"Men make a patchwork quilt of life, and call the patchwork religion +and law." + +An audible gasp was wafted to his ears. + +Clement opened his hand and dropped the little crucifix, which he had +been fingering during their talk, with a gesture of rejection, on the +floor behind him. The palm of the hand, still stretched and open, bore +sharp red marks. The point of the cross had evidently just been +pressed into it with convulsive energy. + +"Obedience is holiness," the Pontiff said at last, with a sweep of his +hand. + +Francesco discovered himself unwittingly gazing in the direction of +Anjou. The Pontiff intercepted the look. Perhaps there was a reason +for his question which Francesco was far from guessing, as he suavely +said: + +"You do not conceive, my son, that the Church can err in the choice of +her instruments?" + +"I have heard of some striking instances of the readiness of the +servants of the Church," he replied with a straight look at Anjou, "to +suppress the spirit when it suited them to do so." + +At these words a change, visible even in the shadows, crossed the +features of the Provencal leader. + +"The spirit is capable of various interpretations," he snarled with a +vicious glare at the young monk, whose air of loathing had stung him +to the quick. + +"But not the instrument," Francesco retorted hotly. + +Clement at this point thought fit to interpose, yet not without a +sting of rebuke to the brother of Louis of France. + +"The Church requires not her subjects to think for her, nor to +interpret her spirit. What she exacts, is unfaltering obedience!" + +There was something in the Pontiff's tone which startled Francesco. He +was conscious that Clement avoided touching on the business of his +summons to Rome, as if to force him to betray his own trend of mind. +Yet he shrank unwittingly from uttering the words which hovered on his +lips. He felt instinctively there was no mercy within these walls, and +at the thought he was seized with a secret dread. + +The silence at last grew irksome. Francesco felt a cold hand clutching +at his heart. + +If the sacrifice had been in vain! If he had been tricked into selling +his birthright, tricked into bartering his happiness for a shroud! He +felt the flood-gates of his memory re-open; he felt the portals of the +past, which had been locked and barred, swing back upon their hinges, +grating deep down into his soul. The mad longing for the world bounded +back into his heart. + +Still the Pontiff did not speak. + +"I have been summoned from Monte Cassino," Francesco at last spoke +with an assumption of courage which he was far from feeling. "I am +waiting the commands of your Holiness!" + +The Pontiff nodded. + +"These are grievous times indeed; the Church must needs summon her +faithful about her, to become militant in her service!" + +"What would your Holiness have me do?" said Francesco. + +"The service that will be demanded of you is to be commensurate with +the boon you have come to ask at our hands," Clement replied at last. + +For a moment Francesco stared speechless at the Pontiff. Clement had +read the very depths of his soul. + +"When I entered the monastic life," he said at last, "it was +stipulated that at the expiration of a certain period the burden +should be lightened." + +"Conditions?" replied Clement, with a slight contraction of the brows. +"The Church demands unconditional surrender! Are you so very anxious +to be relieved of the garb which befits the servant of God?" + +"There are various ways to serve the Church," Francesco replied in a +hard voice. + +Clement bent serious brows upon him. + +"We must subdue the mind for the sake of the mind! The boon you are +about to ask might be granted--in return for some signal service to +the Church!" + +Francesco's eyelids narrowed. + +"And this service,--what is it?" + +He saw the Pontiff and Charles of Anjou exchange glances. + +What new traffic were they about to propose to him? + +He looked about the circle of ecclesiastics. + +He met but the reflection of the Pontiff's quizzical glances. + +"We require a special envoy to Naples, to calm the minds of the +disaffected. Our choice has fallen upon you. On the result of your +mission depends the granting of the boon." + +Francesco made no reply. + +What could he urge in his own behalf that was not defeated in the +utterance? + +He was no match for Clement in subtlety and, though he could not +fathom the reasons governing Clement's choice of himself to treat, as +he surmised, with the Neapolitans, he recognized therein the desire on +the part of the Pontiff to strike his enemies through one of their +own. + +"What are the commands of your Holiness?" he said at last. + +"You will receive your instructions from the Cardinal of Cosenza," the +Pontiff replied calmly. + +"Your audience is concluded," the latter whispered into Francesco's +ear. He approached the pontifical dais as one in a dream; and, after +the customary genuflection and the ceremony of kissing the Pontiff's +feet, he passed out of the audience-chamber into the sun-fraught air +of noon, the Pontiff's "Go in peace!" still ringing in his ears. + +The personality of Clement had not passed from him without a deep +impress. Here was a man created in the type of his predecessors, +Alexander IV and Urban IV, a man who shrank from nothing that would +advance the cause of the Church. + +Thinking of the audience which had just come to a close, a heavy sense +of defeat weighed Francesco down. His resistance had been utterly +swept away; in vain had he waited for a power that did not come to +uplift him and release. + +The chasm between the life of the present and the life of the past +gaped ever wider. By some invincible force he was being hurried onward +to a dark and uncertain goal. + +In the language of the East, he had his fate bound about his neck. +There was no escape for him. Vainly as he might cast about him for an +anchor, he saw nothing encompassing him but a great void. From the old +life he was barred forevermore. The future appeared as a country bleak +and unredeemed. + +Towards evening he rode out of the gates of Viterbo. From its mountain +height the pontifical palace frowned upon the world below with stern +defiance, its architecture expressive of the asceticism, defensive of +the soldier, rather, than the asceticism, contemplative of the saint. + +Thus he rode out into the deepening dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE RED TOWER + + +With the first pulse of dawn in the East, Francesco was up and astir +with the zest of the hour. The woods were full of golden vapor, of dew +and the chanting of birds. A stream sang under the boughs, purling and +foaming over a broad ledge of stone into a misty pool. A blue sky +glimmered above the glistening tree-tops; the dwindling wood-ways +quivered with the multitudinous madrigals of the dawn. + +A strange calm encompassed him, as he rode down the castle hill into a +wood of ilex where the dawn freshness still lingered. The rebellious +temper of his mood sank like a sea beneath the benediction of a god. +His was not a soul that bartered through carven screens for penitence +and peace. His face caught a radiance from the vaultings of the trees. + +Around him ran wooded hills, streams and pastures, dusted thick with +flowers. The odors of dawn burdened the breeze. In the distance the +purple heights of Viterbo faded into the azure of the sky. + +Southward he rode, towards Circe's land. The far heights bristled with +woodlands, shimmering with magic mystery under the rising sun. The +forest spires were smitten with a glamor of gold. Precipice and wooded +heights were solitary as the sea itself. + +Francesco had left Viterbo exalted, liberated, glad. The prospect of +high endeavor had lifted him out of his melancholy. His mind, overawed +by the spirit, was for the time set free from that intellectual +restlessness and moral incertitude, which against his will had grown +up in him in the atmosphere wherein he moved. + +He was the messenger of the Church, bound for the Neapolitan court on +a mission aiming to restore the Southern Italian cities to the control +of him who was the Vicar of Christ on earth. For a moment even the +paradox did not distress him. Enough that he was under marching +orders, that the walls of Monte Cassino lay far behind him. Surely the +time was coming when loyalty to Church and country would be as one! If +he might only meet some great outward test, he mused, some great +trial, in which, to his own mind, as to the world, his convictions +might shine forth! + +All he saw and heard confirmed the dark insinuations of the Duca di +Spoleto; yet the fact of decision had soothed his bewilderment, and +there was hope of action ahead. Meantime he allowed himself to react +passively on the impressions of the way. He was entertained with +making acquaintances all along the route. Nothing in his graceful +aspect betrayed the religious, and people, not suspecting his errand +talked to him with the frankness to which excited times give birth. On +all lips there was the same tale; the cause of the League of Italian +cities against the Pope was filling young and old with chivalric +passion. From the lower undulations of Tuscany, through the valleys of +the Apennines, in the levels of Emilia, everywhere waved the +Florentine banner, blood red, with its flashing motto: "Libertas." It +fanned the fire of a patriotism which he was compelled to recognize as +pure, of that proud spirit of independence and hatred of oppression +which has created the free cities of Italy. Not for the last time +united protest against foreign tyranny was stilling petty strife and +evoking the national consciousness, which even Dante was vainly to +long for. And Francesco's spirit was swift to respond to the call. How +otherwise? Was he not young? Was he not, too, a man, to whom country +and race were dear? + +But as he continued upon his way, as with his steady advance the +forests gradually thinned and he began the descent into the plains of +the Campagna, the image of Ilaria was constantly before him. Where was +she? What was she doing? The thought brought with it a troubled +bewilderment. Possessed like himself of a love of beauty, like himself +consumed by a restlessness tremulous for something not quite clearly +understood, this fine and beautiful creature would be ill at ease in +the rough life of the feudal castle. That in the one case the +restlessness might be reaching upwards, in the other, downwards. +Francesco was too loyal to surmise. What good days they had known, he +and she! Together they had watched the play of light on the mountain +slopes, or over the great faint-gleaming lands within the soft curve +of whose farthest blue they could divine the sea; together the two +dark heads had bent over some vellum roll of Lariella's favorite poet. + +And again she stood before him; the perfectly arched eyebrows, the +wide forehead, the sweet curves that had dimpled in girlish days +beneath a shadowy crown, greeted him from a dusky frame. With the +increased perfection of her person went, he soon perceived, a trained +and practised instinct for all the graces of life. As she had appeared +to him in Rome, she had been more charming than ever before. + +Too charming, alas! to remain unapproached by desire,--and too +reckless, perchance, to resist! + +With a jerk he reined in his steed. + +Of a sudden, the fears that had been squirming below consciousness +heaved up their heads and Francesco heard himself cry aloud: + +"God! If one's lady of the stars should prove a wanton!"-- + +The uttered words struck cold upon his ear. He had stopped abruptly, +throwing his open palm against the rough bark of a tree. The hurt +mixed with the sound of his own voice. + +Dismounting, he permitted the disturbed animal to graze in an adjacent +meadow-land; then, invaded by the terror of the fact, he flung himself +face downward, pressing his cheek into the wet grass, recalling every +too significant word and look of the Proserpina of yore, thrilled in +his senses by her last glance at him and troubled by a passion he +despised. Slowly to the first pain, with which the image of his +dream-lady faded, there succeeded another. The friend of his youth, +the one woman he loved,--what was befalling her? Was she happy? Had +the memory of the past faded from her mind? This pain was sharper than +the other, though Francesco knew it not. It healed the pang of fleshly +desire. + +He called to his steed, mounted, and rode on with a new gravity. +According to his curious wont in concrete experience, his relations +with Ilaria became the index to wider questionings. + +The old spell had been renewed, with a difference, and Francesco found +himself trembling on the verge of a genuine passion. Through the +mystic reverence which he sought to cultivate towards his lady flashed +the allurement of the senses, and an occasional pang of reproach for +his own cowardly surrender. He reproached himself bitterly for it, as +he rode down the long hill that stretched in uneven rise and fall from +Tivoli to Bracciano. Not that it troubled him, to find in his own love +an earthly taint; many he knew who had struggled, had conquered, not +without salt-tears. But to distrust the brightness of his lady's +image; this surely in the annals of high love was a crime +unparalleled. He tried to cast the evil thought aside, to exalt at +once his love and his ideal. Breathing the morning air, the thing +seemed possible. The situation helped; delicate enough to tickle his +sense of honor, dramatic enough to absorb fancy. + +The Ilaria of the ilex-wood grew dim as a fading fresco to Francesco's +memory. He saw in her stead the little maid of the old castle of +Avellino, whose waywardness, whose bright and ready gaiety had seemed +to his more despondent temperament a gift of enchanting sweetness. +Thinking of these things, dubious traits vanished from her image; she +shone before his eyes, the piteous lady of his desire, and the +devotion for which he longed rose ardent within him. It brought a +fulness to the throat, to the eyes a smart which he coaxed into a +tear. Then he rode on in a happier mood. The dark trees, which crowned +the hill, were giving way as he descended to a wood of fresher green. + +It was now verging towards evening. Francesco had reached the top of a +lower ridge, from which the towers of Camaldoli, seen through a gap in +the trees, rose shadowy against the fading blue of the horizon. The +path, hardly more than a foottrail, had been lonely. Now a priest came +ambling up on mule-back, feasting his eyes on the pleasant woodland. +At the sight of Francesco he dropped them on his breviary, and passed +on without word or sign. + +For a moment the action struck him as a smart. + +The sight of the Office-book had opened the door of another chamber in +the house of Mind, that mysterious dwelling which always numbers rooms +which the owner has never entered, and others, closed in long disuse. + +At that moment the faint spark of devotion passed into a large +indifference. In his early youth Francesco had been in the habit--how +acquired he could not have told--of repeating, whenever possible, the +canonical hours. He had long abandoned the custom, as far as intention +went; yet in some forgotten chapel of the mind, deserted of the +conscious powers, the holy rites go on forever, biding the time of +their recall. He was as one in the grip of a bitter wrong; for +through the jostling images which filled his mind, the Office +continued to ring in persistent undertones. + +The light between the great tree trunks grew from splendor to +splendor; flashing its level glories through the forest, transfiguring +the wood into flame. The sun had reached the rim of the horizon. Some +far memory of brilliance was stirring and seeking. A pageant, withal, +but not that triumph of earthly love, so fair in the false twilight of +a night in the past, so wizened gray and lustful red in the light of +recollection. The beams of the sinking sun were seven candle-sticks of +gold. What noble elders follow, crowned with fleurs-de-lis? What +mystic chariot was this, within which rides a woman olive-garlanded, +robed in hues of living fire and of the fresh spring grass? Memory +found what it sought: but he who thus looked back into the past was +unaware that neither Lethe nor Eunoe might be his, who had not yet +climbed the Purgatorial Mound. + +The sun was sinking in the west when Francesco came to a ridge in the +woodland, which sloped southward from the high rocks. The path seemed +to lead into the heart of a wilderness. Pine woods bordered it and +dead bracken and whortleberry spread away under the stiff shadows of +the silent trees. A thousand spires began to blacken against the +sunset, and Francesco was aware that he was carrying a savage hunger. +He had hoped for a manor-house or inn, or some woodman's lodge, but +the brambles that had rooted their long feelers across the path made +it appear that the track had not been used for years. So rough and +tangled did it become that Francesco turned in among the trees, where +the dense summer foliage of the beeches had kept the ground clear of +brush and bramble. + +The prospect of a supperless night under the trees, even though he had +never been clogged with heavy feeding at the monastery, made +Francesco's thoughts hark back to the inn he had left at Viterbo, and +he regretted not having supplied himself with a stock of provisions +ere he departed. Suddenly a distant sound made him pause and listen. +The sound had a human note, and seemed nearer to him than he had at +first imagined. He urged his steed on through the on-coming dusk. It +was not long before the trees thinned before him and streams of golden +light, slanting into an open space, gave the clearing the appearance +of a forest-chapel at sunset. + +From the open ground ahead came the incessant babbling of a thin and +querulous voice, that faltered between the prattling of a child and +the chatter of a mad soul, talking to the empty air. Sometimes there +was a croon in the voice, sometimes a touch of decrepit anger. + +A long, green bank, brushed by the boughs of the beech-trees, hid from +Francesco the open ground that lay ahead of him. But, though it hid +what he desired to see, the bank gave him the chance of approaching +unobserved. Dismounting, he went up it on hands and knees, and +insinuated a cautious head between the turf and the branches of the +beeches. + +On the other side of the bank lay a stretch of undulating grass, that +rose into mounds and ridges, and dipped into shallow dykes, the mounds +and ridges catching the fading sunlight, the hollows lying filled with +the shadows. The trunks of the forest-trees shut in this open space on +every side as with a palisade. On a mound in the centre stood crags of +ruined masonry smothered in ivy, a broken squint in the wall looking +like a rent in a cloud, through which the sunlight slanted. + +A little old woman, with hair as white as snow, and strange black eyes +in a strange and wrinkled face, knelt there, polishing something +smooth and round that she held in her lap. The strange sight caused +Francesco to peer all the more intently, and he drew back with a quick +gasp, when in the suddenly revealed white dome of the head, the +shadowy eye-sockets, the glistening teeth in the bare jaws, he +recognized the thing for what it was,--the head of a skeleton. + +As he sat there, considering the strange picture, Francesco for a time +became oblivious of the cravings of his stomach. It was plain that the +woman was mad, for as she polished the skull, she chattered +incessantly. He asked himself, what was behind this madness. Death had +been here at some time, perhaps with violence, wiping out life and +reason, leaving white hair and tragic madness in its wake. The furrows +deepened above Francesco's eyes. He sat there in the deepening dusk +calling up visions of ruffianism and wrong; the vision of this poor +soul's madness made him forget the dangers of the woods by night. +Picking his way cautiously among the trees, he came within about five +paces of her, before she lifted her head and saw him. Then he crossed +himself and gave her a "Pax Dei."-- + +The little old woman stared at him and said nothing, her lower lip +drooping, her inert hands resting on the top of the skull. + +Her eyes puzzled Francesco, they were so black and bright, like the +eyes of a bird. There was a startled wonder in them, as though she had +never seen such a creature before. Then she suddenly wrapped the head +in a bright-colored scarf which lay by her side, arose, and started +through the thicket, putting her arms around the thing as a mother +would hold a child. + +The sun was now below the hills and the woods were turning black. +Francesco felt a vague shudder go through him as, following the woman, +he arrived at the fragments of a ruin, that was smothered up in ivy. +An arched doorway with broken pillars led into a vault in which there +stood an open coffin. He saw her approach the receptacle for the dead, +place the skull in the coffin and close the lid. Then she crooned +softly to herself and hobbled away into the dusk. + +The thought that there must be a hut close by, struck Francesco with +the pang of the returning consciousness of hunger, when suddenly he +saw a light gleaming through the night as from a blood-red star. +Straining his eyes, he peered through the dusk in the direction whence +the light shone. + +Under the shadow of a wooded spur that ran down into the valley +Francesco saw a tower rising from an island in the centre of one of +the great pools, of which the region abounded. + +The walls of the tower shone crimson in the light of the rising moon, +glowing above the black water as though it had been built of iron at +red heat. Thousands of willows and aspens grew about the mere, and in +the shallows were sedges and sword-leaved flags. + +Remounting his steed, Francesco resolved to ask for food and a night's +lodging, rather than to traverse the forests at night. He was spent, +and so was his steed, and the region was infested by all manner of +outlaws, who made the roads insecure. As he approached the mere, a +large boat put out from a water-gate and crawled with long oars, like +a beetle on the surface of the water. It disappeared in the night, and +Francesco decided to hail it upon its return, in the meanwhile +watching the red tower overhanging the pool. The reflection of the +walls in the rippling waters was a broken redness wrinkling into +black. + +Francesco's wait was destined to be brief. The barge soon returned, +and hailing the astonished oarsmen, he requested to be rowed across +the mere. They seemed to hold silent council, then, seeing it was but +one man, they grumblingly ran out planks for Francesco's horse, and he +rode into the barge, remaining in the saddle and caressing his steed's +black ears. + +At the water-gate a lean man in a black tunic stood waiting. He gave +the newcomer the blind stare of two watery eyes and, upon learning his +request, disappeared inside of the tower. After a wait of brief +duration he returned, and, beckoning to Francesco to enter the dark +gateway, called to some attendant, who took charge of his horse and +then led the guest to a dimly lighted chamber, in which he discovered +the forms of a woman and a man. As Francesco appeared on the +threshold, the man precipitately arose and, whispering a few words in +the woman's ear, retreated by an opposite door. Francesco was so +absorbed in the scrutiny of his surroundings, that he paid little heed +to the action of the one of the occupants. The castellan ushered him +into the chamber, closing the door behind him, and Francesco, making +the best of a strange situation, approached the woman, who, reclining +upon a dais, was regarding him intently, and preferred his request for +a night's hospitality. + +"Our guest-table waits for strangers," she replied with a smile, +bidding Francesco to take the seat vacated by the former occupant, +then regarding him with unconcealed interest. + +For a moment Francesco was mute; the suddenness of the transition +deprived him of speech. Perhaps it was also her complete fearlessness +of manner, bare of every trace of aloofness, which had a somewhat +disconcerting effect upon one who had not known woman's society in a +long space of time, which caused the consciously awkward silence, as +now and then their eyes met. + +Her face had a singular charm. The lips were thin, tinged slightly +with scorn, yet tender when she smiled. The eyes were large, of +greenish hue, and strange lights seemed to flash from their depths. +There was a rich, round beauty upon the face; the rose tints of the +skin warm, and sensuous as the bloom upon fruit. She was very slender +where the girdle ran, but big of bosom and long of limb. + +Unconsciously, as he joined her at the board and partook of food and +drink, she drew from him his tale. Her swift comprehension was as a +magic mirror, wherein all creatures showed their thoughts. Not being +burdened with the reflective sense, he flung his words in the +welkin's face, with the candour of one who had no shame or fear. + +Between the woman's talking and his hunger, Francesco found little +time for reflection. He did not see a dim figure with a white face +pass out behind the hangings, turning half furtively to look at the +two at the high table, before it disappeared. There were no lights in +the hall, save a torch on a bracket by the screens. Francesco saw the +smoke wavering up into the gloom of the roof, and the way it vanished +into nothingness made him think of the updrift of souls into the +night. + +He was silent a while, thinking of the little old woman and the skull +she cherished. The woman beside him felt his silence like the sudden +closing of a door. + +"You are thinking of some one?" she asked. "Or is it that you are +tired?" + +Francesco held his head high, as one looking into the distance. There +seemed no reason why he should conceal the goal of his journey. + +He stared at the flaring torchlight as he talked, but had he looked +into the woman's eyes, he might have seen a sudden shiver of light +leap up into them. She became watchful, studying Francesco as he +talked, yet keeping a white calm. + +"You journey to Naples," she said at last with a strange smile while +she caught his wrist, her tense arm quivering, her eyes looking into +his. "Do you not fear the contagion of that Court of Love?" + +Her face seemed suddenly to blaze with intense passion, her eyes +taking a reddish lustre and shining like points of fire. + +"Hot blood and a cold ending," he said, looking past her, and she took +her hand from his wrist and sat silent and stiff, her eyes fixed upon +his face. Then she clapped her hands. An attendant conducted Francesco +to a chamber which had been prepared for him, but as he passed out of +her presence, he still felt the burning touch of her fingers and the +strange look of her eyes.-- + +Sleep would not come readily to Francesco that night, as he lay on the +couch prepared for him high up in the Red Tower. A full moon had risen +and his wakeful mood shared the wonder and the mystery of the night. A +dog bayed in the courtyard; the sound had but the effect of +intensifying the stillness. The mere lay like a pavement of black +marble, with no wavelets lapping against the base of the tower. + +Francesco had lived through many strange moments, since he left +Viterbo, and chance had thrown him with a singular suddenness into the +life that he sought. Vividly in the midst of his wakefulness he saw +the proud beauty of Ilaria as contrasted with the fierce pallor in the +face of the lady of the castle, whose name he knew not. It seemed to +Francesco that these two confronted one another with a mysterious +hatred. And he was conscious of desires that had been awakened within +him, the heat of the blood, the simmering of the brain. The woman was +beautiful, lithe and limp as a snake and he felt, that once she had +set her mind on gratifying a desire, resistance would be utterly in +vain. + +It was towards midnight when Francesco fell asleep, and his sleep had +lasted for about an hour when he started awake in bed with a loud cry +and a flinging out of the hands. He sat up with a shiver of fear, +awakened from a dream in which torrents of black water had poured down +to smother him. A wind had suddenly arisen far off in the valley. +Francesco heard it sweeping out of the night, whistling through the +aspens and the willows until it struck the tower and moaned about it, +like a desperate and dying thing clinging to something that it loved. +A cloud passed across the face of the moon. In the court below the +watch-dogs set up a fierce howling. + +Francesco crossed himself, feeling the presence of evil in the moaning +of the wind. The night had sprung from moonbeams and slumber into a +tumult of unrest. He heard the water splashing against the base of the +tower. + +The moon came out again and Francesco rose from the bed and went to +the window. The mere was scarred with lines of foam and the aspen +boughs glittered and clashed in the moonlight. Francesco, greatly +astonished, saw the barge was crossing the water with long, sinuous +strokes of the oar. In the barge there stood a figure on horseback, +motionless and black as jet, save for a sparkle of moonlight about its +head. On the far bank among the aspen trees, a company of horsemen +waited, spears erect, helmets glimmering, the wind tossing the dark +manes of their steeds. + +The nose of the barge turned to the bank, and almost instantly the +wind ceased, and a great calm fell. The night grew quiet. The +watch-dogs turned into their kennels. The plash of the water against +the tower grew less and less. + +Francesco saw the black horseman ride up the bank and join those who +waited. There was not a sound save the muffled beat of horses' hoofs, +as they turned and rode away among the trunks of the aspen trees. The +barge had thrust out again and was recrossing the mere, with wrinkles +of silver running from its snout. Francesco watched it with a strange +misgiving. Who was the man who had disappeared the instant he had +entered the presence of the woman? Why were armed men coming and going +at this hour of the night? Why should the wind rise so suddenly and +die down again when the barge touched the further bank? Reality and +dream mingled strangely in the deep of the night, and these happenings +made him question his own eyes and ears. + +Again he betook himself to his rest, but it was some time ere sleep +would come to his eyes. And then it seemed not sleep, but rather a +deep trance, that seemed to hold him enthralled, seemed to benumb his +limbs and deprive him of all energy, as if some opiate had been +mingled with his draught. + +He was suddenly conscious of an arch in the heavy stone, parting. In +the opening there stood a woman, tall, lithe, slender. Instinctively +he knew it was the lady of the tower. She held a lamp behind the folds +of her skirt, and after she had entered his chamber the aperture +closed noiselessly behind her. + +Francesco stared at her wide-eyed, afraid to speak, afraid to move. +Was it indeed the woman at whose side he had partaken of drink and +food,--or was it some restless phantom haunting the abode of former +days? He saw the strange glitter of her eyes in the midst of the +darkness, for the moon was again hidden behind a cloud; he heard the +sudden shrill clanging of a bell from some distant cloister or +convent. + +"You are awake!" she said in a whisper. + +And suddenly the intimate dimness of the room was surcharged with +faint perfumes, as the woman slowly walked towards him, looking at him +steadily with deep, long breath. + +He leaped up, sitting on the edge of the couch. Her fine finger tips +rested on his shoulders, preventing him from rising. He saw the +whiteness of her arms, bare to the shoulders; his eyes rested on the +soft curves of the lithe body, under the clinging, transparent texture +of a gown vying in whiteness with her skin. He looked up and trembled. + +"What did you see, my friend?" she queried, bending over him. + +"The wind waked me at midnight," he replied evasively. + +The pressure of her fingers increased. + +"What did you see?" + +He noted the strange glitter in her eyes. The strange perfume which +clung to her, crept to his brain. + +"I saw armed men waiting among the aspens; a man on a horse ferrying +across in the barge."-- + +His straightforwardness sent a momentary shadow across her face and +for a moment she shut her lips tightly. But a strange light played in +her eyes, as she said: + +"Friends come and go in the night. There may be pain in their passing +to and fro. The man you saw was my brother!" + +She spoke with a level and unhesitating voice, yet in her eyes there +gleamed a vague smouldering of unrest. + +"I do not even know your name," he said, longing to clasp those firm +white hands which were so close to his eyes. + +"What is a name?" she shrugged, then, with a laugh, she added: "Has +the night taken away your courage?" + +Their eyes met. + +"What is there to be afraid of?" he queried tremulously. + +Again her eyes thrilled him. + +"I have tricked you!" + +He started to rise, grasping the white soft hands in his own and +relinquishing them the next moment, as if he had touched fire. She +held him easily with a glance of her strange eyes. + +"What do you want of me?" he stammered. "Why are you here?" + +"Come,--let me show you!" she said, taking him by the hand and leading +him towards the window which looked out upon the mere. + +He followed her resistlessly. + +In a flash he felt her arms about him, drawing him close to her. She +threw words in his face, with a fierce, intimate whispering. + +Francesco recoiled, as if he had been bitten by a snake. But the magic +was too strong for his starved senses; ever and ever she caught him +towards her, kissing him with moist, hungry lips, while her eyes +scintillated in strange lights that made him dizzy, and her arms were +coiled about him with a strength he had not guessed. + +With a choking outcry he succeeded at last in releasing himself, and +turning to the door, tore at it, and found it fastened on the other +side. + +He stood there, facing her, white with fear, anger, passion. He knew +if she willed to make him her own, he was lost, and she came slowly +towards him, with the soundless tread of a tigress who has cornered +her prey. + +She was regarding him with a strange amused smile, then she held out +her white arms. + +"Are these charms so poor, that they must go begging?" she said with a +return of the sardonic glitter in her eyes. + +"In the name of mercy--go!" he stammered with blind pleading eyes. + +"The halo cannot fail you," she replied with a laugh, as her glance +swept him from head to foot. "Fool--fool!" She placed her hands +tightly about his throat, looking into his eyes. + +"Should you learn at the court of Naples to value the earthly joys +more than the heavenly,--return,--and be forgiven!"--She kissed him +and sent him reeling against the wall. + +For a moment he stood paralyzed, facing her in the darkness, while her +laughter, high and shrill, resounded in his ears. He rushed at her, +tried to detain her, as she reached the arch. But as the panel parted, +a figure suddenly came between him and the woman. The moon had emerged +from the cloud, behind which it had been hidden. Francesco recoiled +and staggered back into his chamber, as if he had been dealt a sudden +blow. For, swift as the shadow had come between them, ere the panel +closed behind the woman--he had recognized Raniero Frangipani. + + +End of Book the Third. + + + + +Book the Fourth + +THE PASSION + + + + +CHAPTER I + +SIREN LAND + + +It was early on the following morning when Francesco saddled his steed +and departed from the Red Tower. He did not trust himself to remain +longer under the same roof with the woman whose spell boded evil to +soul and body, much less to face Raniero Frangipani and to have his +worst fears and suspicions confirmed. He had spent the remainder of +the night awake with the shadows, dazed, unable to think, beset by +weird, mocking phantoms. The woman's insatiate kisses still burned on +his lips; her strange perfume still clung to the air; her passion had +seared his soul. If he remained, he was lost. The spark that had +slumbered in his soul had suddenly leaped into a consuming flame; the +voice of the body, hushed so long, began to clamor; the long restraint +threatened to break down the self-imposed barriers with its own sheer +weight. A strange dizziness had seized him; everything seemed to swim +in a blood-red haze. It was only by degrees that reason returned; the +phantom of desire faded before the memory of Ilaria. + +Almost dazed he crossed the mere, expecting every moment to hear the +ferryman recalled and resolved to resist to the utmost any attempt to +stop his departure. + +But nothing happened. An enchanted silence encompassed the castle, +unbroken even by the voices of the slowly awakening dawn. + +Thousand and one thoughts, desires and fears rushed through +Francesco's brain, as he rode down into the picturesque valley, which +encompassed the feudal masonry where he had spent the night. And with +the memory of the white arms, which had held him in their close +embrace, with the memory of the thirstily parted lips, which had +well-nigh kissed him to his doom, with the memory of the haunting eyes +which had discoursed to him a secret he was never to know, an +indescribable longing for happiness stole into his heart, a longing +which made him utterly oblivious of time and space and caused him to +spur his steed to greater haste in the desire to arrive at his goal. + +Little as Francesco had mingled with the world, inexperienced as he +was in mundane matters, his instinct had not been slow to inform him +that Raniero was leading a double life, that he was deceiving Ilaria, +who perchance trusted him utterly. The certainty of the indisputable +fact struck him with quick pang. Was Ilaria awake to the truth? And +what had been the effect of the stunning revelation? + +In the ban of these conflicting emotions, in which love and doubt +alternately held the balance in the scales, Francesco rode towards +Circe's land. + +On all sides lonely stretches of country expanded before the solitary +horseman's eyes. With each onward step the scene changed, and +Francesco's abstracted gaze roamed far away to the distant mountain +ranges of the Basilicata, revealing reaches of fantastic peaks and +stretching away in long aerial lines towards the sun-fraught plains of +Calabria. + +Though he pushed onward with restless determination, Francesco was +compelled to devote the hours of high-noon to rest and refreshments in +this cloister or that, which he came upon during his journey. For the +glare of the August sun was intense, and though the nights were cool, +the roads were infested by all manner of outlaws, making progress slow +and hazardous. + +While at a Cistercian monastery during the siesta hours on the third +day of his journey, the first tidings of a battle between the hosts of +Anjou and Conradino reached Francesco's ear. The armies had met at +Tagliacozzo in Apulia--so a peasant had informed the monks--but the +outcome of the conflict was shrouded in mystery. The monks, chiefly +old men, who had long cast the vanities of the world behind them, met +Francesco's eager questionings with mute shrugs. The quarrels between +pope and emperor meant nothing to them. + +Ever southward he rode, until, breasting the moors, he saw the +strange, tumultuous magic of the Maremmas drifting into the vague +distance of night. + +The summer woods in the valleys were as a rolling sea, carved out of +ebony. Hill rose beyond hill, each more dim and misty and alluring. A +great silence held. Enchantment brooded over Terra di Lavoro. + +The last day of his journey had come. + +The torrid plains of Torre del Greco dreamed deserted in the glow of +the noonday sun. The leaves of the palms and the branches of the +mimosa hung limp and motionless. The sky was as a burning sapphire. +The glare of the sun was almost insufferable, as it fell over the arid +expanse of the Neapolitan Campagna to the pencilled line of the +southern horizon, where a long circle divided the misty shimmering +dove-color of the Tyrrhene Sea from the pale, sun-fraught sky. + +The region, as far as the eye could reach, was deserted. Almost it +seemed as if the spell of a magician had banished at once all life and +sound. Mala Terra the inhabitants called the stretches beyond the Cape +of Circe, where, grim and impregnable upon its chalk cliffs, rose +Astura, the sinister stronghold of the Frangipani, silent, bleached +against the background of the restless waves, which laved its base. + +With a shudder Francesco skirted the dreary castello, and the name of +Ilaria flew to his lips. Was it upon yonder lonely castle height she +was waiting Raniero's return; was it up yonder the thread of her +destiny was interminably spinning itself out in self-consuming, +wasting monotony? Was she, who had been created for happiness, slowly +pining away, remote from all she loved and held dear on earth? Or had +the lure of the Siren land drawn her into the vortex of life and the +passions of the sun-kissed shores? Francesco shivered despite the +noonday heat, and, fondling the ears of his steed, urged it onward +over the rocky expanse. + +The sun was low in the heavens when Francesco came within sight of +Naples. From Castellamare to Posilippo the graceful lines of the gulf +rose on the horizon; the blue cone of Vesuvius was wreathed in smoke; +Resina and Portici reposed snugly at its base. Eagerly Francesco's eye +scanned the outlines of spires and domes as he rode towards the city. +The surrounding hillsides were scarlet and purple, gold and bronze, +and great masses of green where ilex-trees and acanthus grew. The +wine-pressers were shouting gaily. There was so much light and life in +the world, and he felt almost as if he had lost them in the shadow of +the cloister. + +Military rule, he saw, as he drew near, obtained in the place. To the +challenge of the sentry at the gate of San Gennaro he gave his name, +and "From Viterbo" repeated the soldier, calling the news back over +his shoulder. + +"From Viterbo!" the word passed on. Through the arched gate, Francesco +could see a clustering confusion of people. There was an aspect of +reckless merriment about the crowded streets. + +A tall horseman, just inside the gate, beckoned, and Francesco rode +slowly through the arch. + +"From Viterbo?" repeated a big man significantly. "Well, friend, you +bear no olive! Hardly the days these for the olive of peace to +circulate in Italy!" + +A snicker ran through the crowd. + +"But, nevertheless, we are free to perceive that you are a messenger, +and all the more welcome!" + +"I know not for whom you take me!" returned Francesco. "But--" + +"Are you not a messenger?" interrupted the large man. + +A strange audacity possessed Francesco of a sudden. + +"Certainly I am a messenger," he returned fearlessly,--"but not to +your rebellious city, Messere!" + +The last part of his speech was either not heard, or not heeded, for +at the first there was loud applause. In the midst of the clamor, +Francesco was endeavoring to make himself understood, but finding his +efforts futile, he resigned himself to silence, and was carried onward +with the crowd, calm as the atom at the centre of a cyclone, yet +noting all the incidents of the way. He watched the streets with their +luxuriant picturesqueness, so different in appearance from the severe +and heroic style of Viterbo. At last Francesco accosted the big +horseman, inquiring the direction of the palace. Thereupon the latter +became more civil and offered to accompany the stranger in person. +This innuendo Francesco thought best to decline, giving as his reason +that he intended putting up at an inn, it being too late to see the +Regent. + +Having received the desired intelligence, Francesco abandoned himself +for the nonce to the charm of the hour, the magic of the place. As he +rode leisurely through the streets, crowds came and went from Santa +Maria. Now and then the note of a mandolin was heard. All was life, +mirth, happiness! How fair this city,--the city that seemed to be girt +only by lilies! The flower-girl, nodding and smiling, distributed her +violets, embedded in geraniums. The blind beggar touched his harp; in +the distance were heard the rhythmic strains of a Barcarole. + +Over the whole gulf a faint, transparent mist had arisen. + +The magnolias shone white in the dying light. The soughing of the wind +through the leafy boughs sounded like the faint music of Aeolian +harps. + +The dying light touched the walls of houses and palaces with mellow +hues, then faded away before the swift southern night. Here and there +torches gleamed; then the city grew silvery in the moonlight which +flooded the heavens. + +As in a dream Francesco rode in the direction indicated by the +horseman. Again he was to enter the sphere of his former life; again +he was to move in the sphere of a court, again he was to taste the +life of the past. It was the same,--yet not the same. Then he had been +happy, care-free, loving and beloved. Now he stood alone, looking from +a frosty elevation upon the joys of life! Would the dark phantoms of +the past vanish, here in this radiant air, under this cloudless, +sun-fraught sky? + +The inn, where he took lodging, was built after the manner of the +thirteenth century, in a hollow square. It was of white stone, simple, +harmonious, with quaint carvings and ornamentations. The Byzantine +arches of the cloistered walks were its chief beauty, disclosing a +vista of the garden with its orange trees and grape-vines; its waving +rose bushes, which encircled the ancient fountain. A long parapet of +dusky tiles left open the beautiful view of the Bay of Naples. + +After Francesco's steed had been properly cared for, after he had +refreshed himself with a bath and had partaken of food and drink, he +felt irresistibly drawn into the vortex of gladsome humanity, which +enlivened the streets towards the Vice-regal palace. + +What an enchanted land this was, contrasted with the shadowy courts of +Viterbo, that hill-encircled city with her dusky shrubbery, her +funereal cypresses! + +How fair were the flowery fields, the marble villas, encircling the +bay! The wonderful glow of color seemed like fairyland enchantment! +The gaily dressed crowds that thronged streets and piazzas, the +brilliant processions, continuing way into the night, the mass of +scarlet, blue and gold, which flashed out from under the torch-light, +the music, the tumult, the laughter, the fantastic, the freedom:--here +life was indeed but a merry holiday. + +The night was radiant. Sky and houses and bay were aglow with her +silver beams. Merry groups were passing to and fro. There was music, +singing, happiness,--all the gentleness of a perfect night. + +Francesco walked more slowly in the moonlight. Suddenly a couple +passed him: a man and a woman. The woman wore a crimson cloak, and in +passing she looked up into his face. It was only a moment's meeting; +but all the color had faded from Francesco's cheeks. He looked back: +they had disappeared among the throngs. + +For a moment he stood still as one paralyzed. Could his eyes have +deceived him? Impossible! He could never mistake that face, nor was +there another like it on earth! He faltered, stopped, recovered +himself, then retraced his steps in search of the two. But his efforts +were utterly in vain. As one dazed he returned to the inn. The convent +bells of Santa Lucia, pealing the midnight hour, found him pacing up +and down within the narrow confines of his chamber. Now and then he +paused and looked out into the night. Only when the noise and +merriment had died to silence he sought his couch, but it was long ere +sleep would come to him. For in the woman with the unknown cavalier, +who had passed him without recognition, he had recognized Ilaria +Caselli. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE LADY OF SHADOWS + + +It was early on the following day when Francesco took the direction of +the palace. The city appeared gay and bright; the beautiful isles of +Ischia and Capri, like twin outposts guarding an earthly paradise. He +had arrived at the hour of dusk, which had soon faded into the swift +southern night, and much of the magic of the scene had thus been +veiled before his gaze. Now he saw and marvelled. + +All around stretched the bay in its azure immensity, its sweeping +curves bounded on the left by the rocky Sorrentine promontory, with +Sorrento, Meta and a cluster of little fishing villages, nestling on +the olive-clad precipices, half hidden by orange groves and vineyards +and the majestic form of Monte Angelo towering above. Farther along +the coast rose Vesuvius, the tutelary genius of the scene, its +vine-clad lower slopes presenting a startling contrast to the dark +smoke-wreathed cone of the mountain. On the right the graceful +undulations of the Camaldoli hills descended to the beautifully +indented bay of Putcoli, while Naples herself, with Portici and Torre +del Greco, reposed as a marble quarry between the blue waters of the +bay. Beyond, in the far background, the view was shut in by a phantom +range of snowy peaks, an offshoot of the Abruzzi mountains, faintly +discerned in the purple haze of the horizon. + +As Francesco strode along his wonder increased step by step. He seemed +to have invaded the realms of the sun, who sent his unrelenting light +rays down upon glistening pavements composed of lava, reflecting the +beams with all the brilliancy of mosaic. Notwithstanding the glare of +August, balconies, casements, terraces and galleries were enlivened by +a gay and merry crowd. The gloomy fronts of marble and granite had +disappeared under silken hangings and garlands of flowers. Everywhere +there was joy and gladness, and the bells from Santa Chiara rang as +joyously over the city and gulf as if the papal Inderdict held no +terrors for these children of an azure sky. + +The situation was nevertheless acute. A Clementine court and a +Ghibelline populace, who defied alike the Pontiff and their +self-imposed ruler. Excommunication was hanging black over the leaders +of this movement; the court was in evil moral repute, and it was +difficult to foresee whither matters were drifting under these +sun-fraught, cloudless skies. + +Francesco requested and obtained immediate audience of the Duke of +Lerma, Anjou's representative in the kingdom of Sicily. The interview +being terminated, and his duties outlined, he strode out into the +palace gardens, which sloped in picturesque terraces down towards the +bay. + +With fevered pulses he leaned against the parapet of the broad stone +wall which encircled the gardens, his eyes resting on the enchanted +landscape, the clustered towers of Naples, beyond which rose the +smoke-wreathed cone of Vesuvius. Thence his gaze wandered to the sea, +which glowed from rose to violet and sapphire, all melting into unity +of lapis lazuli, and finally down into the Parthenopean fields, where +the atmosphere heaved with the pulsing intensity of high noon. + +On all sides the spell of Circe enfolded him triumphantly. Truly, here +all painful broodings might be forgotten, where thought and sight +were alike suffused with the radiance of sea and sky. It was a place +of dawns and sunsets, of lights rising amber in the East over purple +hills and amethystine waters; of magic glows at evening in the west +with cypresses and yews carven in ebony against primrose skies, while +the terraces blazed with flower-filled urns, and roses overspread the +balustrade with crimson flame. + +How vivid the life of the past weeks stood out before Francesco's +eyes, a life crowned by the memory of his arrival in this Siren City, +and his strange meeting with Ilaria. It seemed like a mocking dream; +yet, the pain in his heart informed him, it was true! + +How long he had stood there, he did not know, when he suddenly gave a +start. + +An opening door,--a light foot-fall--he stood face to face with +Ilaria. + +She paused; stately, unsmiling, reserved. A white silence seemed to +enfold her as their eyes met. + +"There is some error," she said, with a retrograde movement. "I will +withdraw--" + +"There is no error!" the words leaped from Francesco's lips. "Or +perchance there is! Well,--is it true?" + +The words were uttered almost brutally. + +"I do not understand!" she replied icily. + +"Why are you at Naples?" + +His face was a mere whiteness amid shadows. + +"Why are you here?" she replied, straightening with a sharp lifting of +the head. + +"Perhaps I am here to spy on you!" + +"The office does you honor! First, a traitor--then, a spy--" + +Her words were fierce and bitter. + +"What are you saying?" he flashed. "Betrayal is not man's prerogative +alone!" + +She shuddered. His words bit brutally into the truth. For a moment she +stood rigid, searching his eyes and the very depths of his soul. + +And so, for a brief space, they faced each other in silence. Francesco +acknowledged anew, and with a mortal pang, that here was a woman for +whom a man might give his life and count it naught. A woman to gain +whose love, a man might sell his soul. Ilaria had come into her own, +as never in her earlier youth. Like all great beauty, hers was +serious. It had acquired a touch of majesty and mystery, a depth of +intensity and significance. + +"Is Raniero at Naples?" Francesco spoke at last. + +She faced him defiantly, as if resenting his attitude. + +"I knew not you were concerned in your former rival!" + +Her utterance seemed part of the incomprehensible cruelty of life. His +face was hard and white as he regarded her. + +"Perchance my concern is all for my present one!" + +"I do not understand--" she faltered, her hands over her bosom. Yet +her tone had lost its defiant ring. + +As in mute questioning her eyes were on his face. + +"As I passed down the Via Forinara last night, I passed a woman and a +man. The woman was garbed in crimson, and there was no sign of +recognition in her eyes. The woman I knew. Who was the man?" + +Ilaria's face was very pale. + +"What is he to you,--the monk?" + +He came a step nearer. + +"Who was the man?" + +She gave a little nervous laugh. + +"Stefano Maconi,--one of the nobles of the court!" she said, with a +drooping of the head. Then with a quick touch of resentment: "Have you +heard the name before?" + +Francesco ignored the irony of her tones. + +"What is he to you?" he queried sternly. His face looked pale and +drawn, his eyes shone with an almost supernatural lustre. + +"Really," she squirmed, "I knew not that I stood in need of a +confessor. I have one already,--and I do not intend to supplant him +with another!" + +"You have not answered my question!" he insisted. "To the office of +your confessor I do not aspire. I am not suited for that exalted +position!" + +There was something in his eyes that frightened her. + +"And why?"--she faltered. + +"I should not prove so passive a listener!" + +For a moment she faced him in silence. Then, with a sudden return of +her old hauteur, she flashed: + +"Of what do you accuse me?" + +He did not speak. But the look he gave her sent the hot blood curdling +to her cheeks; ebbing back, it left them paler than before. + +"You have not answered my question!" he said at last. + +She lifted heavy lids and eyed him wondering, as one waking from a +dream. + +"What do you want of me?" + +"What is Stefano Maconi to you?" he queried more fiercely, grasping +her wrists, and compelling her to raise her eyes to his. + +"Stefano Maconi is nothing to me!" she replied hoarsely. + +Never had he spoken thus to her. As their eyes met, she noted that he +had changed. With a quick pang she saw how thin and haggard he had +grown. + +"Is this the truth?" Gropingly her hands went out to him, her +witch-like eyes held his own and like the cry of a tortured soul it +came from her lips: + +"It is the truth!" + +Her voice died in a sob; her whole body was shaken with convulsive +tremors, when she found herself caught up in his arms. + +For a moment she abandoned herself wholly to his embrace, while terms +of endearment fell deliriously from his lips. Again and again he +kissed the pale lips, the eyes of the woman he loved better than life. + +How long, it seemed to Ilaria, since she had leaned over the parapets +of Avellino, had watched the sunset light fade into the night! And one +night of all, how slowly the moon had risen! How white the magnolias +had shimmered, while the distant Liris sang his slumber song! How the +red roses burned in the moonlight, as she stole down the path to meet +him! + +How long ago was it? Now, she could remember every detail of that +night; how she started when a sleeping bird uttered a dream note among +the leafy boughs, how she listened to her own heart-beats, how she +found herself caught up in Francesco's arms. + +All her youth, all her days had been poisoned by the thought of what +she had done. Resolutely, day after day, month after month, had she +fought against the demon of remorse. She had shut eyes and ears to the +haunting spectre of the past. And now, steadily, pitilessly, she went +back, step for step, through the hell of her past life, the mockery +that was bitterer than death, the horror of loneliness, the slow, +grinding, relentless agony of her nights and days. + +The crowding phantoms of the past would not release her from their +shadowy grip. Why had he again come into her life? Why had he again +crossed her path? + +Staggering, he released her at last, took a backward step and covered +his face with his hands. + +"I have tried not to lay hands on a thing that it is not mine to +touch." + +She pointed to his garb. A wondering look passed into her eyes. + +At first he noted it not, in the thrall of his own emotions. Then, as +she touched him lightly upon the arm, he understood. + +"I am here, the legate of Clement, carrying the Interdict, unless +Naples acknowledges the supremacy of the Church! For this I have laid +aside the cowl!" + +Ilaria shivered. He was still a monk,--after all. + +There was nothing she could do to help him. That was the bitterest +thing of all! + +Silence seemed to bind the world into a golden swoon. + +"Francesco," she cried, almost with a sob. + +He came nearer and took her hands again. + +"Let us go down among the terraces!" she said in a whisper. "Let us +forget the loud, insistent clamor of the world. Let us be quite +still,--as if we were among the poppy-flowers!" + +By some strange echoing of the mind the idyls of past days woke like +the songs of birds after a storm of rain. Her whole soul yearned out +with a wistfulness borne of infinite regret. + +Silently they walked down the flower-bordered path. + +The panorama from the spot was enchanting. Far below lay the blue +waters of the bay; out to seaward lay ancient Baiae with her thousand +palaces and the forest of masts at Puteoli; beyond these Sorento and +the shimmering islands, bathed by the boundless sea. The vaporous +cloud from Vesuvius hung like a cone of snow in the still blue +atmosphere. + +The foreground was no less enchanting. All round the pavilion lay a +verdant, luxuriant wilderness. The mysterious silence of noon brooded +over the whole landscape; only a faint hum of life came up from the +city. All else was still. Not a living creature seemed to breathe +within ear-shot. + +He led her to where a fountain plashed in the sun and stone steps +ringed a quiet pool. + +In the silence she bent over him, her hand on his dark hair. + +The tonsure burned her fingers like living fire. + +"Why have you done this thing?" + +He felt the scorn in her voice; he felt the swift repellence of her +body. + +Francesco raised his face to that of the woman. It was very pale from +the fierceness of the struggle to keep down even the suspicion of +emotional sentimentality. + +"You ask why I have done this thing?" he spoke dryly at last. "The +hour has come when I must tell you, Ilaria! Not that it can steer the +vessel of our lives into different channels,--but that at last I may +stand vindicated in your sight. I am the son of Gregorio Villani, +Grand Master of the Order of St. John. My mother died at my birth. I +was raised at the Court of Avellino. So powerful was the influence of +my father, that, notwithstanding the protests of the Holy See, he +placed his offspring at a Ghibelline court. There came a day when I +was summoned to the bedside of my father at San Cataldo. What passed +between us during that interview, neither you nor any one on earth may +know. I went into his room a happy, care-free youth. I came out the +shadow of my former self,--a monk. One year I lived among shadows in +the Benedictine monastery at Monte Cassino. There I took the vows +which made me a prisoner, far more closely bound than you can know; +for death alone shall release me from a life which has grown to be a +torture. I became a monk half from pity, half from fear. The pity is +almost gone; the fear has left me long ago. After a time I was called +to Rome. The Church I love not! I am unfit to remain in her service. +The monks are to me a hateful body. Willingly, gladly, would I see my +scapular replaced by the tunic for my coffin. Yet death is not for me +to hope for, or even to dream of,--and in vain I ask, what holds the +future?" + +Ilaria's head had drooped over his; her eyes wandered blindly over the +ground. Then a warm drop fell to the stone at her feet. + +During his recital the very soul in Francesco seemed to have withered +with dread, and he seemed to shrivel up bodily and to grow feeble and +old and wilted, as a leaf that the frost has touched. + +"The memory pains you," she said at last. + +He bit his lips. + +"Deem you, I forget when I am silent? But it is not the thing itself +that haunts me! It is the fact that I have lost the power over +myself--" + +"You have suffered--" + +"It is the fact that I have come to the end of my courage,--to the +point where I find myself a coward!" + +"Surely there is a limit to what one may bear--" + +"And he who has once reached that limit never knows when he may reach +it again!" + +He looked up with a sudden piteous catching of the breath. + +"What will you do?" she spoke after a pause. + +He held her hands in a close, passionate clasp. A silence that seemed +to have no end had fallen about them. + +"My allotted task," he said at last, in a voice more dead than alive. + +"No,--no,--no--!" she started up suddenly. "Cannot you see,--will you +never understand--oh! the bitterness, the misery of it all!" + +She clung to him with all her might. + +"Come away with me! What have you to do with this dead world of +priests and monks! They are full of the dust of bygone ages! Come out +of this plague-ridden Church,--come with me into the sunlight! I love +you--I have always loved you,--always--" + +She bent blindly towards him. + +"Take me away from here,--Francesco,--take me away from here! Since I +came here my feet seem to have grown heavy with this lotus-laden air. +At times it sweeps over me like desperation,--I lose the faculty of +thinking, I lose the power over myself!" + +"I thought you were at Astura!" he said tentatively, the affair in the +Red Tower flashing through his consciousness. + +She gave a quick start. + +"I am a woman, and I stand alone! I have lived in hell ever since I +set foot in Astura. Almost have I lost the courage to look life in the +face. How I have wanted you!" she continued, with a wan, wistful +smile. "Ever I see you standing against the background of a great +silence, a silence that engulfs, that maddens, that kills! And you +will go from me, leave me a prey to this gray, suffocating loneliness, +which hovers as a pall over my soul! I am nothing to Raniero! He seeks +his pleasures elsewhere! The lure of the body drove him to me,--it has +vanished,--thank God even for that! I should die in his embrace. He +knows that I loathe him, that my soul spurns him! And he knows that I +love you! Yet, though he has forfeited every right, human and divine, +he grudges my love to another. For days and days he left me alone +within the gray walls of Astura, until in a fit of desperation I left +one night, and came here, to forget. His insults began in Rome. He +went so far as to bring his mistress to the Frangipani palace. I have +heard it whispered there is a curse on Astura. 'Astura--mala +terra,--maledetta!' A beggar uttered these words, whom Raniero struck +for obstructing his path, on the day when we arrived!" + +A sudden blood-red cloud seemed to come before Francesco's eyes. With +a voice bare of intonation, he recited his own adventure in the Red +Tower, voicing his suspicions and fears. + +Ilaria betrayed no surprise. + +"He has never forgiven Fonte Gaia," she said, with drooping head. "And +yet he was untrue to me even then! From that hour matters began to +grow worse. Recklessly he cast the last semblance of decorum to the +winds. When I protested against living under the same roof with his +mistress, he smilingly brought me to Astura, leaving me, as he said, +in undisturbed possession. My youth destroyed, my soul poisoned, I +accepted my fate! I am the lady of the Frangipani! Sold, and bought, +and paid for!" + +Ilaria had made mere truth of the matter, neither justifying nor +embellishing. Her clear, bleak words were the more pathetic for their +very simpleness. + +With a great cry, he took her in his arms, kissed her dusky tresses, +kissed her flower-soft face. The dimmed sunlight, falling in upon +them, enveloped them as with a halo. + +"And you are happy here?" he spoke at last. + +She gave a shrug. + +"Here as elsewhere it is a phantom scene," she said, with her wan +smile. "But if the fellowship of phantoms be ordained, it is well that +they be like those of Naples, radiant." + +"Am I too, then, a phantom like the rest?" + +Like an echo a voice said: + +"A phantom--like the rest." + +"And is he--a phantom too?" + +She looked up into his eyes. + +"Raniero--" + +"That other--" + +Her face was very pale. + +"Why do you dwell on him?" + +"Are you not Queen of Phantoms,--Proserpina,--Lady of Shadows, you--as +in the masque at Avellino?" + +She shivered in his arms. He pressed her more closely to his heart. + +"It was a long time ago!" + +"And then as now you moved in a masque, in which I have no part." + +A long silence enfolded them. She nestled close to him. + +"I am tired,--very tired," she crooned, as a child about to fall +asleep. "Francesco, help me to forget the years! I am afraid!" + +"Afraid?" + +"Of myself! Sometimes I dare not be alone at night! No,--no,--it is +not that! The inner darkness! There is no weeping there,--only +silence,--silence,--and the gathering gloom!" + +She held his hands in her own. + +"But for this," she cried with passionate pressure, "I should long +have cursed God and died--" + +Her voice died away in the empty stillness without response. + +"It is peace I crave," she said wearily, "a peace, such as broods over +a sunset world!" + +"The peace of a dying day!" he replied. "The peace I seek is of a day +that stoops not to evening." + +"And this peace,--have you found it?" + +Her eyes were fixed gravely on his own. + +"I am as one who gropes in twilight by a path half seen, towards a +goal he does not know. Not for me the peace of the goal! But there is +peace also of the quest: a peace I would not forego!" + +They had arisen and walked for a time in silence, seeking the remoter +regions of the garden. The softened siesta lights gave to the distant +hills an aspect of pearl and jasper. + +It was drawing towards sunset; red banners streaked the amethyst of +the western sky. + +A saffron mist enveloped the curves of Vesuvius, shot with gold and +crimson, merging in dusky purple. In the plains the fertile fields +reclaimed round the base of Castiglione gleamed russet with vines, +gray with olives. Beyond the grim walls of distant Astura stretched +the chalk-lands of Torre del Greco. + +As they walked side by side, Francesco felt the rhythmic life in +Dana's body. The wan, appealing face was close to his. An instant, +and the passion of the sky leaped into it. Theirs was the calm of a +still pool, which hovers till the wind breaks it into the myriad +agitations of life. He drew her towards him; her head resting on his +shoulder, as if there she had found a home. + +The evening star shone out in the fading sky. + +The dusk was travelling towards the night. + +Creation shivered towards a deeper dream. + +The summer moon had risen, shedding its magic light over the Gulf of +Naples. + +The very soul of Francesco was thrilled by the harmony around him; the +harmony in the moon's golden trail, which fell upon the waters, a +blazing path, reaching from Posilippo to the rim of the horizon, +harmony in the soft murmur of the sea, and the light breeze which +carried, together with the salt freshness of the sea-air, sweet +perfumes from the shores of Sorento with their lemon and orange +groves; harmony in the silvery curves of Vesuvius, wrapped in luminous +mists, its rugged cone emitting a white smoke, which trailed along the +upper zones of the air, the summit of the mountain flaring up from +time to time, like dying embers consecrated to the gods, the gods who +had died, had risen again, and had again expired. + +"How wondrous lovely the night!" Francesco at last turned to his +silent companion. "All nature seems as one magic blossom--" + +"My blossom-season is past," she answered very lightly. + +"It is always blossom-season where Proserpina treads," said Francesco, +his eyes fixed on the face he loved so well. + +"You look almost as you did, when we were both happy." + +"Is it so long ago? Yes, I am old, Ilaria. Our youth seems far, far +away!" + +"Perhaps I too am not old enough, to be young! Our youth--" she paused +with a sob. + +Francesco gazed at her solicitously. + +"Even here?" + +She gave him a wan, small smile. + +"Just now, one might forget!" + +"It is a great art, to forget," said Francesco tenderly. "You need it, +Ilaria! What sufferings have been yours!" + +She returned his look. + +He understood. + +Ilaria saw the pain written on his brow, as he looked at her with +tenderness undisguised. She felt his spirit lying openly before her, +as when they were both at the Court of Avellino. + +"From the look on your forehead," she said softly, "you have lived +long in your cell, since last we met! So it was meant, I think, from +the beginning!" + +"Assuredly so it was meant," he replied. "But I am very sorrowful, for +I see not what was meant for you!" + +She smiled at him, as if to reassure. + +"If Fate has guided my life ill, not yours the fault," she said +soothingly. + +In her, reserve still obtained, yet without a trace of her late +perplexing defiance. Asperity had given way to a great gentleness. + +"Yet," Francesco hesitated,--"I am tormented by one thought: that for +you it had perchance been better, if--" + +He paused with drooping eyes, then continued: + +"I could not profit by the dispensation of Clement and remain a true +man. But you--" and again he paused. + +A flash of her old-time perverseness lighted up Ilaria's sad eyes. + +"Why pause?" she asked, arching her brow. "You mean that which is +moral disaster for one, might be salvation for the other? And that, +since my salvation should be dearer to you than your own--" + +She broke out into quizzical mirth. But she was swiftly grave again, +though tremulous. + +"I, too, have lost myself in the quest of happiness," she said, +clasping and unclasping her white fingers. "Dread and desire have +beaten me hither and thither! Great waves have tossed me! On the very +day of your departure from Avellino the Viceroy asked me whom I would +wed! Your name leaped to my lips. I told him I would have none other. +Even as I spoke the dread seized me! I said to myself: this thing can +never be! Then you went away--and I was engulfed in darkness. When we +met at Rome I realized what I had done! Yet in the very effort to keep +you far, I drew you near! Thus Fate had willed it! When we met at +Fonte Gaia, I knew what in one sunset of Avellino I had merely +dreamed: my love for you lived--in all my life the one abiding light. +Longing and horror racked me! She is cold, and foul, and false, that +White Lady--and the gifts she offers turn to poison in the grasp. But +it was that other who conquered,--your White Lady,--not mine! She was +ever a generous enemy, and in taking you from me, she has given me +back my love!" + +She had been looking at him with wide piteous eyes, even as a child +might do. On a sudden she covered her face, dropped into a seat among +the bays and myrtles, and broke into wild weeping. + +The strong sense of bondage came back with a fuller force as though to +menace her with the fateful realism of her lot. A hand seemed to sweep +down and wave her back with a meaning so sinister that she had the +feeling of standing on the brink of a mysterious sea, whose waves sang +to her a song of peril, of misery and desire in the dim green twilight +of some coral dungeon. The lure of the unknown beat upon her eyes, +while love and hate, like attendant spirits, beckoned her onward with +a weird, perpetual clamor. + +Francesco tried in vain to soothe her, calling her by all the +endearing names of the past, and pressing her closely to his heart. + +"I do not understand," she cried, sobbing convulsively. "I have wished +no one ill! Ever have I desired only fairness and love, and fullness +of sweet life. And the beauty I seek is befouled by my seeking, my +love has stained my beloved; and when I clutch at life, life crumbles +within my grasp. Wherein has my quest been wrong?" + +"Not wrong," he said unsteadily--"not wrong,--I trust!" + +She looked at him bewildered. + +"I, too, would turn from that agonizing God upon the Cross to paths +where roses bloom," Francesco replied, heavy-hearted. "I have been +walking amid shadows, and I have lost the way." + +She caught at his hand and drew it piteously to her lips, but made no +attempt to retain it. + +"I am that Proserpina who has lost the spring," she said, raising her +haunting eyes to his. "Yet one comfort is left me still,--one stay, +that shall not fail!" + +"And that?" + +There was a strange expression about her face, but she was silent. + +A shudder seized him with the swift suspicion of her meaning. + +"You shall not!" he cried almost roughly. "You shall not! I, too,--did +I give way to that fierce longing,--you shall not yield to that +crawling weakness!" + +But Ilaria interrupted him. + +"Oh! my dear, I meant not that!" she said. "Of weakness I might reck +little, of the hurt to you I should reck much. There is that in my +heart for you which shall keep me safe henceforth from what would +grieve you!" + +"What is it then?" he asked relieved. "The comfort,--the stay,--of +which you spoke?" + +She smiled through her tears; the old-time smile. + +"I do not see your life," he said anxiously. "What is it--what shall +it be? Till that be known to me, Ilaria, I shall not know rest or +peace. You are beautiful,--too beautiful for this licentious court! +Here you cannot remain--alone!" + +"I fear the twilight," she said, with a shudder. "There is but one +goal for me, and, when the hour comes, you shall lead me there. +Proserpina will turn Lady of Shadows in very truth, and move veiled +through her rose garden." + +"But why must this thing be?" he queried with a choking sensation. "I, +too, have sinned--" + +"Of sin I know nothing," said Ilaria mournfully, "I apprehend neither +the word, nor the thing!" + +"Then why this last extremity?" + +"Will you not understand?" she interposed petulantly. "Your presence +here has shown me once for all that I may not continue to walk in the +old way; I may not walk in yours, and I would not have you walk in +mine! You wavered towards it of late! Once upon a time I should have +rejoiced; now my spirit is full of fear." + +She crept close to him and looked up at him with tremulous lids. + +He caught her to him with all the old-time love in his eyes. All +fears, all misgivings, all doubts of the woman he loved, were utterly +blotted out in their embrace, and over Ilaria's features there flitted +the gleam of a long forgotten happiness. + +Her look was far away. Of a sudden she turned to Francesco. + +"Will you remain at Naples?" + +He gave a shrug. + +"Days--weeks--who can tell? A Ghibelline victory may turn the tide." + +"I have something to say to you," she said, her face very close to +his. "I have long wished to say it: beware of Raniero!" + +[Illustration: "He caught her to him with all the old-time love"] + +"I have done him no wrong!" + +She made a gesture as one throwing up a libation. + +"Fonte Gaia!" + +He felt her breath fanning his cheek. + +Seized with a sudden madness he threw his arms about her, and kissed +her. + +Where the roads branched off they parted, after a long passionate +embrace. Ilaria returned to the palace, while Francesco bent his +footsteps towards the bay, shimmering in the light of the higher risen +moon. + +He heard her go singing through the garden, a soft chant d'amour that +would have gone wondrously to flute and cithern. It died away slowly +amid the trees like an elf's song coming from woodlands in the +moonlight. + +His soul was sobbing within him. He felt his purpose, his resolutions +waver. The crisis of his life had come. Alone with Ilaria at Naples! +Raniero away,--indulging his lusts! + +He had feared this meeting, feared it above all things in heaven or +earth! + +Again they were abroad, the gods of yore. They rode the wind; they +laughed in the far reaches of the sky; they whispered in his heart. + +To love her! To possess her! + +The thought had suddenly leaped into his brain, taking its first +clearly defined form, recoiling upon him, dazzling his eyes. + +For this he had lived; for this he had suffered! + +And now? + +A deeper question came, like a wind in a fog; a fearsome thing. Why +should this love be sin? This love,--the one pure emotion in all his +life? + +In the spiritual darkness which encompassed Francesco, the fire of his +old love for Ilaria had leaped high upon the altar of his sacrifice. +For her he had kept himself pure, for her he had starved his soul, +while his love smouldered in the dark chambers of his heart. + +For hours Francesco was as a man possessed, moving through them +drearily, as through crowding phantoms, struggling to suppress an +imperious craving that tormented him for release. + +It was late when he retraced his steps towards his inn. + +Gigantic cypresses bordered the way, ranged like dark torch-bearers at +a funeral. Their entwined tips, continually caught by the wind from +the sea, remained bent like heads drooped in sorrow. White statues of +gods gleamed spectre-like in the dark shades. In the laurel thickets +glow-worms flickered like funeral tapers. The heavy scent of the +magnolias recalled the odor of balsam used for anointing the dead. The +waters of the fountain, trickling from an overhanging rock, fell into +the sea, drop by drop, like silent tears, as though a nymph were +weeping in the cave above, bewailing her sisters, some dark Elysium, +the subterranean groves of shadows, the burial grounds of dead gods. + +But even sleep brought only one persistent vision to Francesco: a +reach of laughing waters, now turquoise, now sapphire, now upheaving +into a mighty translucent wave, that curled swiftly towards him, and, +quivering within, the face of Ilaria, upturned to his own. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +AN INTERLUDE + + +Meantime, the atmosphere of this secular court was not distasteful to +Francesco. The love of poetry and the arts which had made Naples in +the twelfth century the literary centre of Europe, still lingered; and +he found pleasant intercourse on lines along which he had long been +lonely. + +Of Ilaria he saw little. She carried herself with a strange, new +dignity and seemed to avoid him even more sedulously than he had +planned to avoid her. He heard her spoken of as among the chief +beauties of the court. The Regent, it was said, had shown her marks of +especial favor, the more noteworthy as the Frangipani were on the side +of the empire, fighting against Clement and Charles of Anjou. But his +only opportunity of seeing her was at the court functions, which it +was his duty to attend. To men of Francesco's temperament the absent +has a more constraining force than the present; the dream-Ilaria, with +her wavering smile, had borne, it would seem, more intimate relations +to his life than the woman he watched from afar. But his restlessness +increased with the certainty that Ilaria avoided him; a circumstance +their meeting had not led him to fear. + +Thus a week dragged on. + +The African wind, which carries with it clouds of hot sand from the +depths of the Sahara, was raging in the upper regions of the air. On +earth there was still absolute calm. The leaves of the palm and the +branches of the mimosa hung motionless; the sea alone was agitated. +Huge, formless ridges swelled up here and there, dashing themselves +against the shore. The west was shrouded in dense gloom, and the sun, +in the metallic, cloudless haze, was seen dimly, as through a smoked +opal. + +The Castello of Astura in the distant plains of Torre del Greco shone +white against the black smoke that rose from Vesuvius as from some +mighty furnace, spreading out in the shape of a long cloud from +Castellamare to Posilippo. For weeks the mountain had displayed a +sinister activity, and at night the red fires were visible far away, +over land and sea, like the glow of some great subterranean furnace. +The peaceful altar of the gods had been transformed into the terrible +torch of the Eumenides. + +There were dire forebodings of coming disaster in the air and in the +winds. At Torre del Greco penitential processions made the rounds of +the sun-baked streets, with lighted candles, subdued chanting and loud +sobbing. In Resina and Portici dull terror reigned. And the glare of +the August sun had become almost insufferable, as it fell full over +the waters to the pencilled line of the southern horizon, where a long +circle divided the misty, shimmering dove-color of the Tyrrhene Sea +from the hazy skies. + +Then, like the knell of doom, the tidings of the fatal battle of +Tagliacozzo were wafted to Naples. Conradino's army had been utterly +routed. Charles of Anjou was the victor of the day. + +The fate of the Swabian youth and that of his companions was still a +matter of surmise. They had fled from the battle-field. No one knew +the direction of their flight. + +And for days Francesco went about as one dazed. The Neapolitans +laughed his exhortations to scorn, and seemed to invite the interdict +rather than to submit to the Vulture of Provence. + +He was ruminating over the situation, wishing for some inspiration, +wishing for Ilaria, and noting idly how the soft siesta lights played +upon the sea, when Francesco perceived a little pleasure barque +skirting the coast, and heading apparently for his favorite +spot,--where he had met Ilaria on coming to Naples. As the breeze +impelled it nearer, music floated over the waters. A few moments, and +he descried within the boat three of the most charming of the younger +women of the court, with their attendant cavaliers. He eyed the little +boat longingly, as it approached like some swift sprite of the sea. It +was at hand now, moored to the tiny wharf, and one of the women called +out gaily: + +"Messer Eremito, we have found your cell!" + +"And like many hermits," laughed Stefano Maconi, "he appears to +welcome the intrusion." + +"To be welcomed by Messer Francesco," suggested another, "we should be +on the barque which Charon is rowing across the Styx." + +Francesco found his tongue at last. + +"Beauty should always have precedence over departed souls," he said +with a smile. "Is it your pleasure to land and to enliven this +solitude?" + +"No, but to lure you out upon the waters," said the woman who had +spoken. + +Francesco, carried away by the spirit of the moment, ran down the +marble steps of the terrace and leaped lightly into the boat. + +"Violetta made a wager that you would not come,--Petronella that you +would," said a third. "As for myself--I was neutral. But my fears were +with Violetta." + +As the sun sank lower, the wind dropped, and the men bent singing to +their oars. + +"We were playing a game, Messere," said the Countess Violetta. "We are +trying to decide who is the fairest lady of this court, exclusive, of +course,--of us three. If we can agree, we shall plan a surprise for +that most lovely one!" + +"My vote," said Messer Romano Vivaldi, "is for Madonna Ghisola. The +dusk of her hair is as soft as that of the thickest smoke of Vesuvius, +and, as in the smoke, there are red reflections in it!" + +"Beware of the volcano," laughed Petronella. "A merry beauty for me," +she improvised, speaking half verse, half prose like the others. +"Rose-white as asphodel blossom, and fragrant as the cyclamen of the +hills. What say you to the Contessa Leonora? Who can hear her laugh +without remembering what some one has said: 'Laughter is the radiance +of the soul?'" + +"To my mind," said one of the cavaliers, who had not yet spoken, "the +Countess Ilaria Frangipani is the fairest woman of the court." + +The eyes of Stefano Maconi flashed emphatic assent. + +"She is too sad," objected Violetta, who was the youngest of the +party. + +"So was the sea beneath the clouds of dawn," said the cavalier. "It +sighed of sorrows without end. The clouds melted, and the gray waters +brightened to turquoise, but whether under clouds or sun, the sea is a +mystery." + +"She has the grace of the swaying wave," assented Petronella. + +"And its light in her eyes," added Camilla. + +"The lady is fair," acknowledged Messer Romano, "but too +unapproachable for me!" + +Startled, Francesco saw, or fancied he saw, a complacent smile flit +across the countenance of Stefano Maconi. + +"What thinks Messer Francesco of her beauty?" asked + +Violetta. "I believe that each new age sees men and women fairer than +the last." + +"I think, that cannot be," said the Countess Petronella, naively. "Was +never woman so fair as Madama Elena of Troy, and she lived before the +coming of our Saviour." + +"I agree with Madonna Violetta," said Francesco dreamily. "Gazing at +Madonna Ilaria I think there is come into the world something strange +and new, revealed to us to our joy and our undoing!" + +The sun had set. The boatmen were singing together. + + "Non senti mai Achille, + Per Pulisena bella, + Le cocenti faville + Quant' io senti per quella. + + "Udendo sua favella + Angelica e venozza, + Parlar si amorosa + In su la fresca erbetta." + +"The beauty of this coast," said Francesco, speaking low, "is as the +beauty of woman. It transcends all I have imagined, yet is it ever +alien. I have felt it in Rome, but not so strongly. In Umbria, in +Tuscany all is more pure, more distant, yet more clear. The eye is +drawn afar to where earth meets sky; here it seeks to draw all to +itself. It is a beauty unhallowed: The triumph of the Pagan World!" + +"Is there a city in Italy more Catholic than Naples?" protested +Violetta, while the others joined in a chorus of protestation. + +"Where in Europe shall you find more priests?" asked Stefano Maconi, +shrugging his shoulders. "Where shall you find more churches?" + +Francesco had been musing. Now the spirit of contradiction was upon +him. + +"Even in your churches," he said suddenly, turning to Camilla, "I find +something strange. They are sumptuous indeed; yet there steals over me +a fearsome feeling, as if the worship were given not to the Deity that +is, but to deities long dead,--or worse than dead!" + +A slight shudder ran over one or two of the hearers; the boatmen were +singing softly. + +The stars were out, the boat was nearing the shore. And still the +boatmen were singing, as the moon shed her spectral light over the +crooning, murmuring waves. + +"We are all agreed, are we not, that the Countess Ilaria Frangipani is +the fairest?" asked Camilla, as they prepared to land. + +"Allow me," said Stefano Maconi, "to be responsible for the proposed +surprise. It shall, with your pleasure, take the form of a Festa in +the groves of Circe!" + +"It will be fair weather to-morrow!" said Violetta. "We shall all be +there!" + +After they had departed Francesco passed swiftly to and fro along the +terrace. + +Strange feelings were at work within him. Love, hatred, jealousy were +contending for the mastery. He hated the oily cavalier with the +smooth, pleasant temper; he hated the man who dared aspire to Ilaria's +love. To Raniero he gave not even a thought. He had never felt jealous +of the Frangipani. But now Ilaria's name was on the wind! The sea +shouted it; the flowers exhaled it. It floated on the night-air; the +moon and the stars seemed to whisper it. Ilaria! Ilaria! He was once +more abandoned to the older gods! + +"I shall not be there!" he murmured to himself, thinking of the Festa. +Yet, when the morning came, he was among the first to arrive. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE HILL OF VENUS + + +Some by land, and some by sea, the revellers took their morning way +along the coast towards the ruins of ancient Baiae. Francesco was on +horseback, a friend having furnished him with an excellent mount. As +he cantered on, the road continually revealed the far-sparkling sea. A +flock of brilliant butterflies dipped and poised on the +waters,--pleasure boats bound for the tryst. Ilaria! Ilaria! She and +he were moving by different ways to the same goal. + +Steeds proved swifter than sails that morning; the horsemen arrived +half an hour before the boats. The place was a lonely wonder. The +sloping hillsides, broken by the green hollows of an ancient +amphitheatre, rose gently from the beach. From the turf, strewn with +wild hyacinth, cyclamen, Star of Bethlehem and tiny fleurs-de-lys, +great columns, half embedded in the ground, raised ivy-mantled shafts, +now broken, now crowned with Corinthian capitals, which peered through +trailing vines. Choice marbles, their rose or white mellowed to gold, +lay scattered here and there, the surfaces, fluted or bevelled, still +gleaming with the polish of by-gone centuries. Below and above the +amphitheatre mysterious masonry broke the climbing slope. The ruins +extended to the very verge of the sea. + +Francesco ran down the bank as the first boat drew near. Under an +awning of silk, shot with green and blue and gold, sat Ilaria, the +Countess Violetta and Stefano Maconi. Violetta was rippling with +joyous laughter. Ilaria smiled and the beauty of the day found its +meaning. She had thrown aside the misty veil, with which she was wont +to envelop herself. Her gown, or so Francesco thought, was the same +which Proserpina had worn, in the "Triumph of Amor." At least, the +same strange broideries shone among its folds. + +She stepped lightly ashore. Her fingers rested on Francesco's hand and +her eyes accepted his adoring look with a strange inscrutable +expression. + +"We have been sailing over marvels," cried Violetta wide-eyed. "Below +the clear green waves rise palaces! We saw great white columns and a +pavement of mosaics. Did we not, Madonna Ilaria?" + +"Yes," said Ilaria, dreamily. "Had they not quivered in the light, we +could have traced the pattern!" + +"The palaces of the sea ladies," Violetta exclaimed gleefully. "I +thought I saw one, but she turned out to be a fish!" + +"The home of strange beings, at any rate," mused Ilaria,--"of flowers +that are alive! Did you see that long blue ribbon sway and beckon to +us?" + +Ilaria's gravity and pallor seemed to have vanished with the mists of +morning. She was flushed and gay,--almost too gay, Francesco thought. +A startled quietude, as of one expectant, was upon her. + +"I have bidden you to a land of enchantment," laughed Stefano Maconi +as they climbed upwards. "We are still within the power of the sea, as +you perceive," he added, when the company paused by the half-buried +columns below the amphitheatre. + +"It is true," said Francesco, pausing by a half-buried shaft. "The +stone is fretted by the waves. See the clustered barnacles and tiny +shells clinging half-way up!" + +A party of cavaliers and their ladies met them on this spot. + +As they exchanged greetings, all studied the strange sight. + +"Probably," reflected a young page of the court, "it was the doing of +Messer Vergilio." + +"He had great power hereabout," asserted Andrea Ravignano, "and was a +mighty clerk of necromancy. Perhaps it was he who built all these +marvels!" + +"It was the old Roman folk that built them, ages ago," said another. +"A city rose here once, a marvel indeed, as these ruins tell. For +their pleasure men built it, and here they lived and throve. And evil +livers were they all, and slaves to the foul fiends, their gods!" + +"But how did the city sink into the sea?" asked Violetta. + +"That was the work of Messer Saint Paul," replied the other. "He +landed here and preached the Cross of our Saviour, and when men would +not heed but spat upon the cross and defied it, he laid the land under +a curse, and it sank to the depths of the sea!" + +"And when the waves had done their work,"--it was Ilaria, speaking +dreamily, "they flowed back, and the ruins rested on a gentle hill. +But forever and ever do they remember the sea!" + +She sighed a little. + +"The slope on which we sit is hollow within," ventured the youthful +page. "Behind us is many a love-grotto, tunnelled deep and far. The +country folk, when they run the harrow, find great walls. And so none +dare come here of nights: strange things are seen!" + +"Perhaps the waters will rise again some day and swallow Naples and +the court, and we shall turn into sea-folk all," Ilaria said, laughing +a little wildly. "Subjects of Lady Venus we should be. She was Queen +of the Sea, I've heard!" + +"Though Terce is hardly passed, such talk is not wise," said some +one. + +And two or three crossed themselves. + +But as the light words drifted on, dim vistas of thought, at the end +of which immemorial things were gleaming, had opened to Francesco. + +Violetta had been deftly weaving a green garland of ivy. + +"Dream no more, fairest," she turned smiling to Ilaria. "Tell me +rather what flowers to weave into your chaplet. Of no strange blooms +of the sea shall it be wrought, but, at your will, of roses or the +small fior-da-lisa!" + +"He who, as I, loves best the sea, loves best the rose," replied +Ilaria smiling. "While he who climbs the height adores the lily!" + +She glanced, as she spoke at Francesco, whose gaze had never for a +moment abandoned her. Never had she seemed so fair to him, so utterly +adorable, stirring in his soul the slumbering fires of desire. + +Violetta quickly finished her wreath of eglantine, and dropped it +lightly on Ilaria's brow. + +"Why fear we ghosts in this radiant air?" laughed she. + +"Perhaps we are the ghosts,--ghosts of our former selves," suggested +Ilaria. + +"No phantom heart beats in my bosom," laughed Stefano Maconi. + +And a look of meaning, or so Francesco felt, passed between them. + +"Fair phantom, let us tread a measure!" pleaded Violetta. "What was +this green level made for, if not for the beating of gentle feet?" + +"And when the measure is over," said Francesco in an undertone, as +they rose, "perhaps Madonna Ilaria will graciously vouchsafe me a few +moments?" + +She nodded assent; but he could see her eyelids quiver, and her breath +came fast. The measure finished, Stefano Maconi at once proposed a new +diversion, from which neither could escape, and time wore on, while +the light grew more intense and the sky burned a deeper blue. Ill at +ease, Francesco withdrew from the pastimes at last and climbed the +hill behind the amphitheatre. He was displeased and nervous. Ilaria, +he was sure, shrank from Stefano Maconi; yet was there not some secret +bond between them? + +Would Ilaria come to him? He trembled, as in Avellino of old, and his +heart beat faster at the thought. + +The hill was richly draped in ferns and swaying vines. Idly he pushed +aside a mass of ivy: a passage opened behind, deep-vaulted, paved with +broken fragments of mosaic. Stalactites dripped from the roof, through +the verdure of thick maiden-hair fern. The gloom looked grateful. +Francesco stepped within and, looking out on the blue day from the +waving green frame-work, saw Ilaria and Stefano Maconi approaching, +engaged in eager talk. She was flushed and bore herself haughtily. + +Francesco stepped quietly out into the light, unnoticed by Ilaria's +companion. Ilaria evidently saw him at once. She paused and dismissed +the other, regardless of his somewhat insistent protests. With +half-ironic salutation she turned down the hill. Whether or no Stefano +had caught sight of Francesco, as he went, was difficult to say. + +Ilaria came towards the grotto, trailing her draperies, her brow +troubled and sad beneath the gay chaplet. + +"The sun is hot,--one craves shelter," she said lightly, yet with a +tremor in her voice. + +Francesco, without replying, lifted the ivy curtain and with a mute +gesture invited her to enter. + +They stood in the dusky gloom, speechless, hidden from each other, +till their gaze became accustomed to the shade. + +He was helplessly unable to break the silence. Fear, joy, desire, +doubt were tossing him. The breath came fast. + +She raised her arms and caught her white throat. + +"How cool it is, how sweet!" she said. "At Avellino," and she glanced +at him half shyly, "you would never take me to your grotto!" + +"Ah! But this grotto," he tried to speak as lightly as she, "we have +found together!" + +"Together!" she reflected, looking away from him. "It is a word we +have not often had occasion to use,--you and I." + +"Why might we not in the days to come?" + +The words were on his lips; he held them back. + +Ilaria waited, her hand pressed to her side, her look full of mingled +tenderness and dread. + +As he kept silence, she sighed, almost, it would seem, with relief. + +"I wish to explore the cave," she said suddenly. "Come with me, if you +like!" + +And with quick steps she started into the darkness. + +"Take care! Take care, Lariella!" cried Francesco, unconsciously using +the familiar diminutive, forgotten so long ago. + +She took no heed and he hurried after her, terror-stricken, he knew +not why. She kept in advance, moving swiftly and lightly over the dark +uneven ground. For a short distance the dusk deepened, then a sudden +light, shining from a crack in the vaulting, revealed in startling +contrast a great blackness by the side of which there gleamed +something weird, ghost-like. + +Ilaria screamed and stumbled. The passage, widening beneath her feet, +broke downwards into a pool of the waters of Styx. A lost stair had +betrayed her. + +Francesco, speeding forward, caught her garments, drew her back. She +staggered and yielded to his arms. They leaned together against the +wall of the grotto. The earth had fallen away a little at the shock, +revealing in the uncertain light the white figure of a woman. + +They both stared at it, holding their breath. + +The image stood embedded in the rocky cavity, whither some force had +in past ages carried her from her old position, for she had evidently +presided over the Piscina, or the bath of some rich Roman, who +rejoiced in her Greek fairness. The face was free, but soil and mould +had given it a half-sinister expression. The limbs, so far as +visible,--and the earth in falling away had left one white side of the +body entirely bare,--were perfect. + +Ilaria struggled to free herself from Francesco's embrace and sank, +half fainting, at the statue's base. + +"The peril is over," said Francesco, and echoes filled the whole +cavern with murmuring. "Dearest, be not afraid! Look at me!" + +As her head drooped, he knelt beside her, half distraught, and rubbed +her wrists and forehead with water from the pool. + +She opened her eyes and smiled at him, as a child might. + +"Fonte Gaia!" she whispered. + +The words had been in his own mind. + +Lifting her hand, she touched and stroked the marble, and the awe grew +in her eyes. + +"Feel!" she said. "This is not marble! It is very flesh, though turned +to stone!" + +And she shuddered. + +"Only a statue, dearest!" he answered soothingly. "Around Naples, they +say, the earth is full of such!" + +"It is the White Lady!" + +She had risen now and regained her self-control, and she spoke with +unwonted dignity and calm. + +"It is the White Lady," she repeated, "but you know, you have never +consented to her spells. She rules here in the dusk! How you tremble! +There is no need! Sunlight for you is but a few paces away! See, I +will go with you to the entrance of the grotto!" + +In truth a strange tremor had seized him. He stood as if unable to +leave the spot. She was looking on his face with anxious eyes. + +"Doubtless," he said at last, and despised himself as he spoke, "you +would prefer other company than mine in the presence of your White +Lady!" + +She raised her white hands to her throat again, and laughed, a laugh +which the vaults re-echoed as a sob. + +"Forgive,--forgive! I am cruel!" cried Francesco. "I know not what I +say!" + +"You are overheated," she said. "Bathe your brows, as you have bathed +mine. It is true, I did not find the touch so cooling." + +"The waters of Lethe," said Francesco very slowly. "Shall I bathe my +brows in them indeed? Already, simply standing by them, I think I have +forgotten many things. I have a better thought. Will you drink of them +with me, Ilaria? It would not be the first time we have tasted of the +same cup in the presence of Venus!" + +Was he mistaken? Or, in the glimmering light, did he see a shadow +passing over the flower-soft face? + +She did not reply, but softly stroked his hair. + +Her touch burned, electrified him. For a moment he submitted to the +sensation, then, as her soft, white hands stole around his throat, he +folded her in a close embrace and kissed her passionately on her lips. + +From the waters came the swinging rhythm of the Barcarole. + + "Non senti mai Achille + Per Pulisena bella, + Le cocenti faville + Quant' io senti per quella. + + "Udendo sua favella + Angelica e venozza, + Parlar si amorosa + In su la fresca erbetta." + +The time for metaphors had passed. He raised his head. + +"I love you, Ilaria," he stammered, drunk with her sweetness, "love +you, as I have never loved anything on earth. Ilaria--Ilaria--" + +"Are we not free?" she whispered, her lips very close to his. + +He kissed them again and again, then tossed back his head. + +"Free?" he said. "Who is free? Ghostly powers, fates from ancient +days,--drive us, flesh and blood, whither they will!" + +She shook her head, and on her lips played the old-time childhood +smile. + +"Have you forgot?" she whispered into his ear, holding him very close. +"But it is not for me to remind you--" + +With a sudden change her restraint had vanished. + +"We are among the shades," she continued, "where Proserpina should be +at home. The world of sun is far!" + +"I love you--" he stammered, gazing at her with wide, hungry eyes. + +She bent back his head, till their eyes met. + +She gazed at him with all the love she bore him. Then, drawing him +close, she whispered a word in his ear. + +He closed his eyes in mortal anguish. + +"All creation knows it,--all things, animate and inanimate: but not +I,--not I!" + +"Take me!" Ilaria said calmly, her face very white. "Yes--I will drink +with you! But first--a libation to Venus!" + +She gathered a little water in her hands and sprinkled it at the feet +of the statue. + +He stared at her for a moment, speechless, full of wonder at her +strange bearing. She was very pale, but in her eyes there gleamed a +subtle fire, which kindled the spark in his soul. + +"We have no cup," he said trembling. + +But she, stooping swiftly, gathered water once more in the hollow of +her palms and raised them to his face. + +"Drink!" she whispered eagerly. "Drink, while yet we dare!" + +He stooped to the soft white hands and held them close to his mouth, +kissing them again and again when he had drank. + +"Come!" she said softly. + +He did not stir. She bent over him. + +"Francesco! I love you--come!" + +He fell prone at her feet, with a sob that shook his whole frame as +with convulsions. + +"Oh! That I might,--that I might! I would not sully your white purity +for all there is in earth, or heaven!" + +For a moment she stood rigid, white, dazed. + +Suddenly he felt two arms winding themselves about his neck, two soft +lips were pressed upon his own in one long, delirious kiss--then he +saw Ilaria precipitately retrace her steps, and Stefano Maconi peer +into the grotto. + +After a time Francesco emerged into the sunlight, bewildered, dazed. +Ilaria had joined the revellers, and he sank down upon a rock and +covered his face with his hands. + +His heart and his soul were bleeding to death within him; and like his +own phantom he at last arose and walked towards the sea. The revellers +had lost themselves in the depths of the groves. Again and again the +swinging rhythm of their song was borne to him on the soft, fragrant +breezes; yet there was but one thought in his heart, one name on his +lips, as his feet bore him slowly through the blossoming wilderness: +"Ilaria! Ilaria!"-- + + + + +CHAPTER V + +TWILIGHT WATERS + + +Dazed, in a state of mind bordering on utter bewilderment, such as he +had not experienced since the Masque of the Gods in the park of +Avellino, Francesco wandered by the shore, trying to bring order into +the confused chaos of his thoughts. Ilaria loved him, always had she +loved him, and so closely were their fates bound up together that +neither could as much as turn without standing accounted to the other. +During the last days the certainty had dawned upon him that the +sacrifice had been utterly in vain. He had been cheated of his youth +and birthright; utterly helpless, he was the blind tool of a power, +which, by no human right nor divine, had constituted itself the +arbiter of his destiny. The future held nothing for him. His +sympathies were forever with the vanquished. The temporal power of the +Church held no allurement. He might climb in her service; the road lay +over the broken and shattered ideals of his youth.-- + +The uncertainty of the fate of the Ghibelline host weighed heavily +upon him. Where was Conradino, the fair-haired imperial youth, where +were the leaders of the vanquished iron-serried companies, whose march +under the proudly floating banners of the Sun-Soaring Eagle of +Hohenstauffen he had witnessed from the summits of Monte Cassino? Had +they reached the sheltering passes of the Apennines, had they fallen +into Anjou's hands? + +Fascinated, yet oppressed by dire forebodings, Francesco gazed out +over the land. In a flood of crimson and gold, trailing his banners +through the western sky, the sun had sunk to rest. The great mass of +the castello of Astura was silent and dark in the swiftly descending +southern night, save where an errant moonbeam glittered over the +gateway and round-towers, shining obliquely over the massive walls, +while two great circles of shadows enclosed the stronghold of the +Frangipani, like huge Saturnian rings. Brightly, like a silver net +flung wide upon the plains below, the moonbeams played upon the +surrounding marshes the wild, rock-strewn maremmas, while a stagnant +pool below the Groves of Circe reflected an indigo sky, pierced by the +blazing constellations of the south. + +As in a dream, he turned his steps towards the hostelry, where, +despite the protests of the Regent, he had persisted in remaining. It +suffered him not in the palace, amid that gay gentry of the court, +near Ilaria, whose society he must forego, while others, less +constrained, might bask in the perfume of her presence. Forever he +thought of her as of a flower, entrusted by a generous divinity to +earth-born men, to tend and to surround with care. + +Arrived at the inn, Francesco found the public room occupied by a +throng of idlers, who would scarcely take their departure before +midnight. Stranger to all, as he was, the guests in the place greeted +him civilly, as a possible companion, after having studiously examined +the cut of his garments. One individual especially favored him with +his close attention, unnoticed by Francesco, who, traversing the room, +started upstairs to his chamber. + +Ere he had reached the door, this individual swaggered through the +crowd and touched him on the shoulder. Francesco looked at him +vaguely; something familiar teased him in the man's face. + +"Am I addressing Messer Francesco Villani, the papal envoy?" he said +awkwardly. + +Francesco nodded with an air of vague wonder. + +"What is your business with me?" + +"I am sent to bring you to one who is dying."-- + +Francesco, with the custom of his confraternity, turned instantly to +go, but on a sudden impulse he lingered. + +"Who is your master?" he asked with a quick misgiving. + +"Raniero Frangipani," replied the other gruffly, then after a pause: + +"He was mortally wounded in the field of Scurcola!" + +"Lead the way!" Francesco said with quick resolve. + +The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street. + +"He is in fearsome pain,--about to die," he said. "He is very anxious +about his soul's salvation."-- + +Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about his +soul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughts +came to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The bright +vision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning, +vanishing. + +The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other image +could hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; the +unshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance a +sinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched. + +A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco with +relief. + +"Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear the +confession, but the patient will not make it till he has seen +you--Messer Capitano, I withdraw--" he stammered, for the awful eyes +had turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound. + +Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety and +something else in his face. + +"Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!"-- + +Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity and +horror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face. + +"Must I ask twice?" + +Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness. + +Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardly +he wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura. +He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction. + +"That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint's +blessing should have great power,--should it not? You ought to know +about such things!" + +He spoke with an effort, yet with more force than would have been +supposed possible. + +"It will be of no avail, if one dies unrepentant," said Francesco. + +"Well, I shall not die unrepentant," returned Raniero with a curious +look. "I shall be honest,--and thorough! Have you the indulgence,--and +the last absolution,--and the Host,--and--the oil?" he continued +hoarsely. "They make a good showing,--if one is really holy! One takes +one's little precautions!" + +Something like terror mingled with hatred flared up in his eyes, as he +spoke; then, becoming more direct, he turned to Francesco. "And +now,--for you and me!"-- + +White hate blazed suddenly in the eyes, then was quenched beneath the +light of cunning. + +Francesco was mute. How could he speak to this man of the love of +God! + +"I am waiting!" growled Raniero, eyeing the other fiercely. "Speak the +prayer for the dying!" + +Francesco moved not. He looked at the sick man spellbound, as a bird +would at a snake. The words he wanted to speak died in the utterance. + +"I have never questioned one of the Church's doctrines," said Raniero. +"Apparently you are more of a heretic than I."-- + +"It may well be," said Francesco absently. + +The other eyed him coldly, and a silence fell. In the heart of it grew +and deepened a significance. + +At last Raniero spoke. + +"Of all men living, I have hated you the most!" + +He was rolling his eyes fearfully; the face was on guard. + +"I have never injured you," replied Francesco. "Look within my heart. +Naught is there towards you but compassion!" + +"Looking in--your heart, I find therein the image--of my wife, Ilaria. +As ever,--looking in her heart,--I find therein--your own!" + +Raniero hissed the words; the dilated glaring eyes were as a weapon to +pierce the heart of which he spoke. + +"It is true!" Francesco cried out with bitter shame. "Yet if your eyes +can see, they behold in my heart the image of the purest woman, before +whom all my thoughts do worship, save rebels still unconquered." + +Listening on the stair without, soldier and priest nodded to each +other at the sound of the "De Profundis clamavi ad te." All was going +suitably in the death-chamber. + +And Raniero listened, as the other knelt. A spasm seemed to pass over +his face. + +"Do you still hate me?" asked Francesco anxiously, when the invocation +was ended. It was painful to him to think that his shadow stood +between this man and eternity. + +"A little," replied Raniero with that curious smile. "But I am almost +sure that I shall hate you less--in a moment. You remember--I have +taken from you--Ilaria!" + +There was a strange note of triumph in his speech. + +"Do you forgive even that?" asked Raniero with some anxiety. + +"I have forgiven," said the other with bowed head. + +"Come hither then!" cried Raniero. Craving was in his tones and eyes. +"Make on my forehead, and on my breast, in token of your +forgiveness,--the sign of the holy cross!" + +He seemed to grow faint. A strange restlessness had seized him. He had +closed his eyes; his lips moved as in prayer. One hand stirred beneath +the cover. + +Francesco came to his side, and stooping began solemnly to trace the +sign. + +Concentrated hate, loosed from its leash, snarled, shone in Raniero's +face. Francesco saw nothing. A lifted hand,--a glittering flash: the +knife struck fierce and deep. But the hand that guided it, trembled; +it missed the heart. With an outcry of pain Francesco staggered and +fell backward. + +"Gr-r-r-h!" snarled Raniero, like a great cat, growling over its prey, +as he leaped from the bed. + +At the sound of the fall the two waiting without had rushed in. +Seizing the opportune moment, Raniero dashed past them, out into the +darkness, leaving them with his unconscious victim. + +Removed to the inn, where Raniero's messenger had found him, +Francesco's unconscious state slowly gave way to a delirium, which +made constant attendance imperative. Terror-stricken by the act and +its probable consequences, the two who had been present in Raniero's +sick-chamber had summoned a leech, whose efforts to break the delirium +of the sufferer seemed at first of little avail. + +Now he was at Avellino, in the garden, at dusk. Roses were +everywhere, in riotous profusion,--flame roses, every one curled into +fiery petal-whorls, dancing in the garden-dusk under a red, red sky. +Now the chariot of Amor! The rose chaplet has burned Amor's brow! Oh! +Turn away from the tortured face of the poor young God of Love! No +matter, we will see the pageant out! But that woman with the Scarlet +Robe must not be in the show! She is the Woman of the Red Tower! Lead +her away! Francesco must wear the fiery circlet and march with the +rest! + +Now he is at Viterbo! Clement, most Holy Father, do not caper about so +strangely! Take off those striped clothes! At least, if you will wear +them, put your tiara aside. Yes,--you juggle excellently well with +those many balls. White! Black! How high you toss them up! How deftly +you catch them! Ha! We see the trick. With each toss a white ball +turns black. They are all black now, and Messere, the Cardinals are +grinning! Horror! Are those the Cardinals? Hoofs in red stockings? +Horns peering out under the cap? The scarlet robes are flames of a +burning village, and the Cardinals point long claws and hiss applause, +while the mountebank weeps. And Francesco weeps too! + +Now the serene peace of the wide-glimmering sea! Golden columns are +shining through the water! He turns to the shore,--and as he turns the +great sea stirs. It heaves, it writhes, it rises! With onward +movement, as of a coiling snake, the whole vast liquid brilliance +rushes upon the temple. Mighty billows of beryl curve and break in +sheets of whitest foam,--not foam, rather the soft limbs of +sea-nymphs. Within the green translucence,--ah! the threatening +splendor! Behold the awful, tottering walls! + +The crash has come! In the depths of the sea Francesco stands alone! +The temple still rises around him, no more a ruin, but perfect in +every part! The light is emerald. He stands by an altar,--no, it is +Fonte Gaia! Bending down he beholds first a dizzying glimmer, as of +sun-rays reflected from wet bright pebbles, set in gay patterns at the +bottom. Presently his own reflection clears: the face of Ilaria, +lovely beyond all memory or dream, is bending beside it. + +The White Lady! She is there in her gown, creeping with brightest +broideries. She offers him a golden cup! "Drink, Francesco!" she +implores. Strange sea-lights waver about her beauty; in a way she is +changed; but it is the voice of the girl he has loved better than all +the world. Suddenly a shadow stands between them. He shivers in the +warm air.-- + +What is there between Ilaria and Stefano Maconi! + +Now some one flies past, a cord around his neck. + +"Beware!" cries a voice, and on the rainbow brightness of Ilaria falls +the shadow of mighty wings. Swooping down from the roof, one of the +great demons of Lecceto hovers, poised hawk-like. The face is +Raniero's; the body, that of a vulture. Francesco, horror-stricken, +watches for the fiend to dart, to fasten his claws in Ilaria's dusky +hair, to bear her aloft, away, her shrieks trailing after her. But +this does not happen. In a faint light, like a mountain-mist at dawn, +the whole scene fades away, and Francesco bursts into wild and violent +weeping that seems as if it would drain his soul away. + +When, after a few days, Francesco opened his eyes, he found himself in +a high-vaulted room of the palace, Ilaria bending over him wide-eyed, +pale of face. With a choked outcry he grasped the soft white hands to +his lips, his eyes raised to her in long, mute questioning. She bent +over him and kissed his lips. + +"I love you," she whispered, then looked away. + +His questionings at last elicited the response that at the behest of +the Regent he had been brought to the palace, where Ilaria herself had +been tending to his comfort. The name of his assailant had remained no +secret. Yet, beyond vague whisperings, it was not again alluded to. + +Sleep, deep and dreamless, blessed the racked body throughout the day; +the sleep that leaves one's past life far behind and from which one +wakes in weak expectancy and the helpless peace of a new-born child. + +It was at the Vesper hour that this waking came to Francesco. Sunset +light filled the gloom of the high-vaulted room. A distant silver +gleam had filled him with strange comfort and strange sorrow. Ilaria +had left him in care of the leech, a little Greek with restless, +ever-shifting eyes. Through the casement the evening star looked in. +Beyond Castel del Ovo he divined the far-trembling sea, quieted to a +pure colorless memory of the day that had died, yet brighter than the +darkening skies.-- + +Lying peacefully convalescent, Francesco looked back as from a still +haven on the storms that had shaken him since his departure from +Avellino. Had a great enfranchisement or a great imprisonment befallen +him? Life, the master, would show him in good time. Certainly the +entrance into fresh intellectual regions which had intoxicated him for +the time, seemed less important now. For one thing, he perceived the +passion for novelty, as synonymous with progress, to be a mere +delusion of the arch-wizard, Time. And, in a flash, he saw that it was +but the old uncertainty in a new sphere. Was the Church the visible +expression of Life? Must he remain forever under the yoke, to atone +for his own existence, hungering after that which other men freely +enjoyed? And suddenly, like a flash, a phase of his dream leaped into +his wakeful state. He closed his eyes and groaned. + +What was there between Ilaria Caselli and Stefano Maconi? + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE CRIMSON NIGHT + + +It had been a day of driving wind and rain. The sound of the sea beat +weirdly through the streets of Naples. The great street of the +Provencals leading from Castel del Ovo to Castel Nuovo was covered +with spray. Within the palace of the Regent there was singing and +feasting. Distant strains of music wandered out towards the night to +Francesco's chamber. They seemed to whisper of things that were not +for him, and he set his teeth with a smothered groan. + +Ilaria was there, and Stefano Maconi! He, the monk, had not been +bidden to the feast. + +And slowly there came to him a memory, vague and confused, of a weary +wandering through endless night, torn by temptation and desire, raging +with defiance at his fate, consumed by a fear that ran through his +veins like fire and seemed to scorch the very soul within him. +Suddenly blind fury at his impotence in the face of a supreme and +arrogant power invaded his being. Resist as he would, he was the +bondsman of the Church! + +At last it suffered Francesco no longer in his chamber. + +Entering a dark passage, he crept past silent courts, through narrow +galleries. When he heard the sound of footsteps he dropped back into +the shadows. The music allured and repelled him, and hungry-eyed he +lurched forward, until he had gained a space above the great hall, +whence he might catch a glimpse of the merriment below. + +The banqueting hall was a riot of color. On its columns of polished +marble, veined in green and rose, light played in sliding gleams from +great lamps of wrought bronze, hung by chains around the dome and +between the pillars. The floor of glowing mosaic was overlaid with +rugs of fantastic color and with tawny skins of beasts. The walls were +wide panels of mosaics, set in stucco, vivid with red and blue, green +and azure, picturing scenes of hunting and carousal. Perfumes burned +in silver jars, set on pedestals of black marble along the walls, +sending forth faint spirals of smoke into the heated air. The long +table, lined on either side with men and women, was directly beneath +the dome. Looking down upon it, Francesco saw a confusion of gold and +silver dishes with the ruby glow of Samian plates, and cups gleaming +among strewn leaves and blossoms. The garments of the guests were as a +fringe of color about the table's edge, purple, saffron and gold, +crimson, green and white. + +The central figure at the board was Ilaria. She sat between Stefano +Maconi and another noble. At times her gaiety bordered on delirium, +though her smiling face, proudly upheld as though she scorned to give +way before the eyes upon her, was white, but her lips were as scarlet +as the flowers she wore. She had changed her attire since she had left +him. A Persian gauze, filmy as mist, enveloped her sylph-like form, +surmounted by a head-dress of gold, in which two poppies flamed upon +either temple. Never had she looked more beautiful, not even at the +parting-feast at Avellino, when alone she had entered the dusky +dining-hall and had taken her seat apart from him. Then, as now, she +had worn the red rose; the other was long wilted, forgotten perchance. +The flowers she wore were of a deep, intense color, almost like blood +upon the stainless skin of her exposed throat. + +She had not even informed him of the evening's festivities. Was it to +save him pain, in not desiring his presence,--was it in order not to +subject him to the taunts and insults of the Neapolitans? Francesco +noted the smile of her parted lips; he noted the vivaciousness with +which she received the adoration of her guests. Yet, while he looked +on from the heights of his dreary solitude, could he have seen +Ilaria's eyes, they would have taught him different, for they never +participated in the smile of her lips. Something like jealousy gripped +him at last, he clenched his teeth and the scene below him swam in a +blood-red mist. + +She was lost to him,--always he had known it, known the hopelessness +of his passion, all the sweeter for the bitterness that was in +it,--but never until then had the knowledge so come home to him. He +would have liked to force his way in among these smirking, soft +cavaliers, and tear her from their midst; in his hot eyes there raged +hate and love. His thoughts maddened him. This was her life,--and what +was his? She would leave him the prey of all the devils of jealousy +and fear, which tore his breast. He groaned aloud, and dropped his +face in his hands, a strange figure of desperate longing, desperate +bewilderment, rebellion and pain. He shook to the primal passions of +love and hate that tore him, love for one,--hate for all that had gone +to make the conditions of his life what they must be; according to the +measure of his pain he suffered in fierce revolt against the mocking +Fates that were stronger than he. His place was by her side, at the +festal board,--and while another had purchased and possessed her body, +her soul was his,--his,--his, for all time and all eternity. He it +was who had waked her heart from its empty sleep, he who taught it +first to live and love,--he, her soul's lord, even as the other her +body's master,--he, the monk! + +"Will the wound in your heart heal, when I shall have gone--perhaps +forever?" he muttered, "or will your love fade and die? It may be +that it shall be never quite forgotten,--that in after days a word, a +song, the fragrance of a flower shall revive a dim memory. But my love +must last,--to burn and sear.--Ah, beloved! We had no right to +happiness, you and I! But wherefore not? And who decreed it so? Long +months have I lain in darkness, for I dreamed of the time when I +should come to you! Now the dream has gone from me! On all the earth +there is none so lonely, as I am!"-- + +Again he buried his face in his hands, crouching against the wall. The +music of unseen players rose to him like a breath from that scarcely +vanished past playing upon him; calloused body and sensitive tortured +soul, conjuring forth visions of dead golden hours, weaving its own +poignant spell. Voices from the hall mingled with it, in talk and +heedless laughter. When life was gay and careless, when wine was red +and eyes were bright and faces fair,--who would pause to give thought +to another's sorrow? And he--a monk!-- + +Minutes dropped away, link by link, from the golden chain of Time. A +faint gleam of light playing on Francesco's features revealed the +scarring passion in his face, signs visible of the chaos of inward +tumult which tore him, of the slow forces gathering for the inevitable +battle waged somewhere, somehow, by every human soul. And that face, +haggard, with haunted shadowy eyes, looked all at once strangely +purged of the heat of its passion, for on it was the presage of the +fierce, slow travail of spirit rending flesh. + +Her white purity had raised her above him; if he had wakened her soul, +she had in turn given him a soul within his soul, wakening it to what +it never knew before, new dreams, new ambitions, new desires. Through +her he had seen the great world which was her world, wherein lay all +for which men long and strive. One glimpse he had; and now the gates +were closed and the light was gone and he was thrust back into outer +darkness.-- + +A peal of laughter rose to him, a burst of music, a half hundred +voices shouting acclaim in response to some unheard toast. He looked +down once more into the light and the color of the great hall, seeing +one there only, out of all that brilliant throng, one fair and +drooping, with scarlet poppies framing her white face. Long and long +he looked, as though he would burn her image upon his heart and mind +forever: the woman he had lost, and who had never been his. + +Suddenly he saw Ilaria start. Some one seemed to have brought a +message to her. With a smile to those seated next to her, she arose +from the board and, hurrying across the hall, entered a dim, dusky +corridor. Almost at the same moment Francesco, impelled by curiosity +and misgivings, quitted his point of vantage, and, turning into the +nearest passage, descended by a winding stair into the hall below. In +some way the intricate labyrinth of corridors confused his mind, and +he found himself in a circular chamber of rough blocks of stone, with +two doors. Around the walls hung instruments of war, of torture, of +the chase; chains with heavy balls of iron attached, a stand of +spears, another of great swords. Here were also great six-foot bows, +such as the Saracen archers used, and suits of armor with shields and +breast-plates, and crested helmets of brass and iron. + +Francesco paused, listened for Ilaria's footsteps, then, failing to +hear a sound, traversed the chamber on tiptoe until he came to the +opposite door. + +Beyond this chamber there opened a spacious court. Blindly Francesco +stumbled onward, wondering at the silence, and wondering what +direction Ilaria had taken, when, traversing the court, he suddenly +paused at the entrance of a dimly lighted hall. + +A single cresset burned upon the dais wall, and the fire on the ground +hearth under the louvre sent up a drift of smoke into the murk above. +The great space was full of shadows and of silence. + +Suddenly Francesco gave a start, as if he had seen a spectre. + +In an oaken chair by the dais sat Raniero Frangipani. The brutal +expression of his countenance seemed even enhanced by the shadows +which played upon it, and the expression of his eyes boded little good +for whomsoever his presence was intended. His sword lay beside him on +the table; his shield was propped against a carved mazor-bowl. +Francesco felt there was mischief brewing, wondered, and held his +breath. + +Raniero's figure seemed part of the silence and the shadows of the +hall. His face was cruel and alert, and the light from the cresset +played in red streaks upon his helmet. His attitude seemed to indicate +that he was not here by chance, and the furtive glances he cast about +him seemed to confirm this supposition. + +What was Raniero doing here? From his point of vantage in a niche, +Francesco regarded him with a puzzled air, in which there was hardly a +trace of resentment of the injury he had so lately suffered at his +hand. His fears were all for Ilaria, for he could no longer doubt that +Raniero had sent for her, and he was resolved to be present at the +meeting. + +The Frangipani's eyes were away from Francesco, directed towards the +green curtain that covered the dais door. For a while nothing +happened. Then Francesco heard a sound like the creaking of hinges. +The curtain stirred and bulged, with the pressing against it of some +one's body. + +Francesco's blood froze as, in the one who came through, he recognized +Ilaria. + +He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she should cry out, and +she moved so closely by him, that he could have almost touched her, +yet he feared to betray his own presence. + +Ilaria swept the hall and then came to a point where Raniero sat +motionless as some huge beast, ready to spring upon its prey. Her face +was tense and watchful, her lips pressed tight, her eyes steady, +though afraid. + +In the next moment she and Raniero looked at each other in silence. +Raniero was the first to speak. + +"Madonna," he sneered, "I have waited for your homecoming." + +Ilaria stood by the wall. To Francesco she appeared calm and +unflurried; but her knees were trembling and there was fear in her +eyes. + +Ilaria made no reply to the taunting voice of her lord, and Raniero, +after having waited for some time, continued: + +"You have no answer, Madonna? Shall I tell you what you already +know?"-- + +Ilaria regarded him out of shadowy eyes, then flashed: + +"Speak out, and save me riddles!" + +There was a suggestion of scorn in her voice. Raniero, moistening his +lips, frowned. + +"For your good welcome I give you thanks," he snarled. + +"What brought you here?" she queried. + +"If it had been your beauty, Madonna--" + +With a gesture, she cut him short. + +"Your courtesy bribes me to silence!" + +"What of obedience?" + +She took a backward step. + +"To you?" + +Her voice, always low, quivered with scorn. + +"Are you not the Lady of the Frangipani?" he replied with a brutal +laugh, while his eyes grew dull as treacherous water. + +"You need not remind me!" + +"Your memory will serve us both. Astura awaits you!" + +Ilaria shrank against the wall, while, with a swift movement, Raniero +stepped between her and the curtain. + +"Astura!" she flashed, horror in her eyes. "Never! Never!" + +The Frangipani eyed her ominously. + +"I knew not the abode was so distasteful to you!" he said with an +evil leer. "There are no recreant monks in Astura, it is true! Who +shall drink after me?" he cried with the gesture of one throwing up a +libation. + +"Why are you here?" Ilaria summoned up her courage. + +"To take you back!" he hissed brutally. + +She raised her hands, as if to ward off a blow. + +"Oh, not that,--not that--" + +"No?" He took a step towards her, feasting his eyes on the great +beauty of his wife. "By San Gennaro! I knew not how beautiful you +were!" + +Ilaria crept along the wall. He was watching her as a hawk watches its +prey. He made a sudden lurch, and missed her. She uttered a smothered +outcry. Raniero, being sure of himself, was playing with his victim. +But as he reached out his arms, she flashed a poniard in his face. +With a hoarse outcry Raniero seized his sword and rushed upon her. +Only the table was between them and, charging straight, the Frangipani +overturned it, as a bull might crash through a hurdle of osier twigs. +The table struck Ilaria's heel, as she turned to run, and she faltered +under the flash of Raniero's upraised sword. Francesco stood still and +stared. It was beyond belief that he would strike her. But strike her +he did, even though it was with the flat of the blade. She was down +under his feet, and it seemed to Francesco that he trampled upon her. + +His heart gave a great bound in him, as seizing a club, which was the +only weapon within his reach, he charged, though still weak from the +effect of his wound, into the hall. + +Raniero wheeled round, stood stock-still and stared at Francesco, as +one would at a ghost. But the latter's raised club was not a matter +inspiring reflection. Francesco spoke not a word, but there was +something in his eyes that caused the other to draw a deep breath and +to watch him narrowly. + +The overturned table lay between them and, close to Raniero's feet, +lay Ilaria, a prone and twisted shape, one arm flung out. + +Francesco leaped the table, swung a blow, missed and swerved for his +life. The whistle of Raniero's sword went through the air a hair's +breadth from Francesco's thigh. Francesco sprang away, while Raniero, +holding high his shield, came forward step by step, crouching a little +and holding his sword with the blade sloping towards the floor. +Francesco gave ground as Raniero pressed him. Instinct told him that +to strike at this moment, would bring Raniero's sword stabbing upward. +The shield too was to be remembered. It was like a pent-house, reared +to break the fall of timber and stones. + +Francesco's wits were working as quickly as his feet. He cast swift +glances to right and left, but never lost his grip on Raniero's eyes. +To break his guard, to close in, so steel should not count! An +overturned bench, lying beyond the long table, caught his eyes for a +moment. Francesco set his teeth and looked hard at the other, +wondering whether that side glance had betrayed the move that was in +his mind. + +He turned suddenly and ran towards the dais end of the hall, where the +bench lay, leaving Raniero crouching under the shelter of his shield. +He heard the Frangipani roar at him, spitting out a vile epithet, as +he came charging up the hall, his eyes blazing with hate. Dropping his +club, Francesco raised the bench above his head. It was heavy, and his +own strength hardly equal to the task, but in his frenzy he noted it +not. He saw Raniero blunder to a standstill, raise his shield and +lower his head like a ram meeting the butting pate of a rival. With +all his might Francesco hurled the oaken bench at him. It struck +Raniero on the crown of the helmet and sent him sprawling on the +ground. + +Francesco dashed for his club. Raniero, rising on one elbow, stabbed +at him and missed. The club came down upon the back of his head. He +fell forward, shooting out shield and sword, and lay still. For a +moment Francesco stood over him with raised club. But when he did not +move, he rushed towards the spot where Ilaria lay. + +With a moan he sprang over the table and bent over the prostrate form. + +She lay with her body twisted, one cheek pressed against the stones, +her right arm under her bosom. He touched her brow, her face, her +fingers. She was breathing; the transparent lids were closed, and a +peaceful expression was on her face, as on that of a slumbering child. +He folded her in his arms, pressed his lips upon the lips of the woman +and whispered a thousand endearing epithets into her ears. As he did +so, she opened her eyes. + +Bewildered, she gazed about for a moment, her eyes wandering from +Francesco to the apparently lifeless form on the floor of the hall. + +"Take me away!" she moaned. "Take me away! Is he dead?" + +A great awe had come into her eyes. + +"Only stunned!" replied Francesco, inquiring with great misgiving if +she was hurt, yet preferring to let her attribute her fall to an +accident rather than to reveal the truth. + +But she shook her head, as he held it between his hands. + +"Take me away," she said with a heart-broken sob. "The hour of which I +have so often dreamed has come. Take me to San Nicandro by the Sea."-- + +With all the love he bore her, he begged her to remain, to be near +him, not to leave him thus to darkness and despair. + +"Your river has reached the sea!" she said with a heart-broken smile. +"As you love me, do as I ask!" + +She felt strong enough to walk, only a slight bruise bearing witness +to the Frangipani's violence. Leaving him where he lay, they slowly +retraced their steps, when wild shouts and cries of alarm were wafted +to them from above. The frenzied revellers were rushing to and fro in +the palace; from the city came the clangor of bells, and the loud +blare of the wardens' horns from the gates. + +The cause was not slow revealing itself. + +An immense black cloud, palpitating with lightnings, had settled on +the cone of Vesuvius. The sky had cleared; and the moon, changed to +blood-red hues, hung like a rayless sun midway in the nocturnal +heavens. Suddenly the air became hot to suffocation. For a moment deep +silence reigned. Then, a sharp report as of a thunder-clap in closest +proximity shook the earth. A gigantic stream of lava was belched forth +from the smoke-wreathed mountain, the air was obscured by a rain of +mud and brimstone, which fell far and wide in Torre del Greco and was +carried to Naples. Like a thousand fiery serpents the lava coiled down +the sides of the mountain; a stench of sulphur filled the air, and +giant tongues of flame, leaping upward through the rugged crater, +lighted the landscape to the remotest horizon. + +While, fascinated by the awful spectacle, Francesco and Ilaria gazed +spellbound towards Vesuvius, another incident added to the terror of +the night. Shrill and insistent from the summits of Astura blared the +horn of the warden, waking the slumbering echoes of Torre del Greco. +And suddenly a fleet of many ships came steering round the Cape of +Circe, heading for the open sea; while Astura's ramparts bristled with +spear points. + +Francesco turned to the nearest bystander, pointing to the castello. + +There was a great fear in the eyes of him who made reply. + +"Bribed by the Pontiff the Frangipani have delivered Conradino into +the hands of Anjou. Behold yonder--the fleet of Charles' Admiral, +Robert of Lavenna, carrying the captive king and his companions to +their doom!"-- + +Wide-eyed, pale as death, Francesco and Ilaria stared at each other, +neither trusting themselves to speak. Then a half-smothered sob broke +from the woman's lips, as she leaned her head on his shoulder. + +A strange calm had settled over Francesco as he gazed from Ilaria +towards the ramparts of Astura. + +There was a moment's silence between them, then he raised himself to +his full height as he turned to her. + +"Hitherto I have served God! Now I will serve my own soul!" + + +End of Book the Fourth. + + + + +Book the Fifth + +THE APOSTACY + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A LEGEND + + +Out into the open caverns of the night Francesco and Ilaria rode. +Their eyes still roved from the fading city to the great ships +stealing over the water. Their tall masts rose against the last +gleaming cranny of the west. Beyond them the mountains towered solemn +and stupendous, fringed with aureoles of transient fire. Even in the +half-gloom they could see a vague glittering movement on the slopes +behind Astura, a glitter that told of armed men marching from the +hills, while shadowy ships seemed striding, solemn and silent, out of +the night. A thousand oars seemed to churn the water. Sudden out of +the gloom leaped the cry of a horn, its voice echoing from the hills. +A vague clamor came from the shore. In Astura torches were gleaming +like red moths in a garden. From the castle the alarm bell boomed and +clashed; then like giants' ghosts the ships crept out to sea, sable +and strange against the fading west. + +As Francesco turned, sick at heart, he met Ilaria's eyes. Her sweet, +proud face was near him once again, overtopping his manhood. The +moonbeams played upon her dusky hair. + +The silence was intense. Only the pounding of their horses' feet beat +insistent clamor into the stillness of the night. + +The trees and bushes began to mass themselves into denser shadow +against the tinge of ghostly starlight. + +Now her face was very close to his. + +"At times I feel as if we had lived very, very long ago,--ages and +ages ago, when the world was young and only the moon and the stars +were old. None walked upon the earth save we two and the world and its +beauty was for us alone. Dusky forests covered the land, where strange +flowers bloomed, where strange birds sang. Beneath the sunken light of +a seared moon we walked hand in hand."-- + +A great wave of misery swept over him. + +"I love you,--I love you," he whispered hoarsely. "Heart of my heart, +that is the tale, a tale of three words, which is yet larger than any +tale that was ever said or sung. Do you know what this must mean to +you and me?" + +She drew herself away from him. + +"You love me," she repeated, not questioningly, but as one stating a +fact. "Yet such love is not for you and me! All men, all circumstances +would try to part us!" + +"But why? But why?" he cried. "Ilaria, I love you with a love that +must last through life and death and all that lies beyond. So, since I +am what I must be, I place my life into your hands for good or evil." + +He kissed her, then looked hungrily into her eyes. + +She gave a wan smile. + +"Dear, do not grieve!" she said. "I have always loved you, love you +now and think it no shame. Had you consented to become my lover, the +man I love had died! What I love best in you, is what held you far!" + +"Ilaria!" he cried, loosening the horses' reins, "what is there +between you and Stefano Maconi?" + +She breathed hard, and her face was very pale. + +"I too might have found forgetfulness where others find. That path was +not for me. Francesco!" She laid her hand upon his own. "Look in my +eyes and see!" + +That night they stopped at a wayside inn, as brother and sister, +Francesco keeping watch outside, while Ilaria occupied the only +guest-chamber of the tavern. + +Francesco's eyes stayed with her darkly, sadly, after she had gone +inside. His tragic face seemed to look out of the night like the face +of one dead. + +He had tethered their horses some distance away, so that the +occasional tramp of their hoofs should fall muffled on the air. The +deeply caverned eyes watching through the night seemed dark with a +quiet destiny. The thin, pale face, white in its meditative repose, +seemed fit to front the ruins of a stricken land. + +It was the face of a man who had watched and striven, who had followed +what he held to be truth, like a shadow; who had found the light of +life in a woman's eyes, and saw that light slowly go out and vanish in +outer darkness. + +There was bitterness there, pain, and the ghost of a sad desire that +was pleading with death. The face would have seemed stern, but for a +certain something that made its shadows kind. + +The woods about him seemed to swim in a mist of silver. + +Thus he sat through the night. He saw the moon go down in the west. +Nothing earthly could come into the sad session of remembrances, the +vigil of a dead past.-- + +The early dawn found them again upon the road. + +The evening of another day descended; the green valleys were full of +light. Afar on the hills the great trees dreamed, dome on dome, +touching the transient crimson of the west. Ilex and cedar stood, +sombre giants, in a golden, shimmering sea. The eastern slopes gleamed +in the sun, a cataract of leaves, plunging into gloom. The forests +were full of shadows and mysterious streams of gold, and a great +silence shrouded the wilderness, save for the distant thunder of the +streams. + +Whenever Ilaria had grown tired, they had stopped in the shelter of +the giant oaks, and partaken of the refreshments which Francesco had +taken along. At high-noon they had reached what appeared to be a +deserted castle, situated in the midst of a flowery oasis. Here they +had dismounted and Ilaria had found great delight in roaming through +the enchanted wilderness, calling each flower by its name and, now and +then, referring to the old rose-garden at Avellino, those happy days +of their guileless youth. Francesco's heart was heavy within him as he +watched the girlish figure, over whom sorrow had passed with so loving +a hand, idealizing and etherealizing her great beauty, never dimming +her sweet eyes. Then he had led their steeds down to the stream, which +purled through the underbrush, and while they drank, he had seated +himself on the bank and buried his head in his hands. + +As he came from watering his horses at the stream, he heard the sound +of her footsteps amid the vines and pomegranates, chanting some +sorrowful legend of lost love. Francesco had discovered a rough bridge +across the stream, where giant boulders seemed to have been set as +stepping-stones between the western grass-land and the castle. There +was a narrow postern giving entrance through the walls. Francesco +stood at the gate and listened. Above the thunder of the foaming +streams her voice seemed to rise; even the great golden vault of +heaven seemed full of the echoes of her passionate song. + +He found Ilaria seated on the terrace-way, where the oleanders +bloomed. Under the stone bridge the water foamed and purled, the ferns +and the moss green and brilliant above the foam. About her rose the +knolls of the gold-fruited trees. Further the forests climbed into the +glory of the heavens. + +She ceased her chanting as Francesco came to her and made room for him +on the long bench of stone. There was a tinge of petulance about the +red mouth, the pathetic perverseness of a heart that loved not by the +will of circumstance. Ilaria was as a woman deceived by dreams. She +had loved a dream, and since fate bowed not to her desire, she turned +her back in anger upon the world. + +How Francesco loved her, she knew full well. Yet she could not forget +that he had chosen the garb he wore rather than herself. Her very love +for him stiffened her perverseness and caused her to delight in +torturing him. + +Francesco sat on the stone seat and looked up at her with questioning +gaze. To Ilaria there was a love therein such as only once comes into +a woman's life, yet the look troubled her. She feared its appeal, +feared the weakening of her own resolve. + +"Francesco," she said at last. + +He took her hand, his eyes fixed solemnly upon the face he loved so +well. + +"You will return to Naples?" she queried with a show of indifference. + +"Naples is far from me as yet," he said with bowed head. + +"Let me not hinder you,--since go you must."-- + +"Are you so anxious to be relieved of me?" he said bitterly. + +"The fate of Conradino,--the fate of our friends hang in the balance." + +"I could not save them single-handed, though I would!" + +"Yet save them you must! You must redeem your past,--for my sake! Why +not part here, since part we must? There are other claims upon my +soul!" + +"Raniero Frangipani still lives--" + +"I shall never return to him!" + +He did not answer her for a moment. Her eyes were troubled, she looked +as one whose thoughts were buffeted by a strong wind. Above them the +zenith mellowed to a deeper gold, and they had the noise of the waters +in their ears. + +"Ilaria," he said at last, "what would you with me? Am I not pledged +to guard your life,--your honor?" + +"Ah," she said, drooping her lashes, "I shall not clog your years! +The springtime of life has passed,--for each of us!" + +"But not my love for you!" he cried fiercely, with the tone of a man +tortured by suspense. + +Ilaria looked at him, and she saw the love upon his face, like a +sunset streaming through a cloud. She pitied him for a moment, but +hardened her heart the more. + +"I am weary of the world," she said. + +"Weary, Ilaria? Are you not free?" + +She looked at him quizzically. + +"The wife of Raniero Frangipani?" + +"Have you not broken the chains?" + +"Mine the forging--mine the suffering," she said, almost with a moan. +"Though I have left him, I am not free. Nor are you! Though you burn +your garb--you are forever a monk--the slave of Rome! Who is free in +life?" she added, after a brief pause. "I am fearful of the ruffian +passions of the world,--the lusts and the terrors,--even love itself! +Life seethes with turbulence and the great throes of wrath. I would be +at peace,--I have suffered--God, how I have suffered!" + +Francesco rose up suddenly, and began to stride to and fro before her. +He loved Ilaria, he knew it at this moment, with all the strongest +fibres of his heart. He had hoped too much, trusted too much to the +power of his own faith. He turned and faced her, there, outwardly +calm, miserable within. + +"Must this thing be?" he asked her. + +There was such deep wistfulness in those words of his that she bent +her head and would not look into his face. + +"Francesco," she said, "I pray you, plead no further with my heart. I +shall turn nun,--there is the truth." + +"As you will--" he said, and a cord seemed to snap in his heart. "It +is not for me to parley with your soul, not for me to revive a past +that had best never been!" + +Ilaria's gaze seemed far away. Her eyes, under their dark lashes, +seemed like spring violets hiding in shadows. + +There was an infinite pride, an infinite tenderness in the wistful +face, as she turned to Francesco. + +"Ah," she said with a sudden kindling, "why has it been decreed thus? +I think my whole soul was made for beauty, my whole desire born for +fair and lovely things. You will smile at me for a dreamer,--dreaming +still, after the devastating storms of life have spent themselves over +my head,--but often my thoughts seem to fly through forests, +marvellous green glooms all drowned in moonlight. I love to hear the +wind, to watch the great oaks battling, to see the sea, one laugh of +gold. Now, every sunset harrows me into a moan of woe. Yet I can still +sing to the stars at night, songs such as the woods weave from the +voice of a gentle wind, dew-laden, green and lovely. Sometimes I feel +faint for sheer love of this fair earth." + +Francesco's eyes were on her with a strange, deep look. Every fibre of +his being, every hidden instinct cried out in him to fold her in his +arms, to hold her there forevermore, safe from the world, from harm. +But, as if she had divined his thoughts, she drew away from him. + +He stood motionless, with head thrown back, his eyes gazing upon the +darkening windows of the east. The sound of the running waters surged +in his ears; the colors and odors of the place seemed to faint into +the night. As for Ilaria, she stared immovable into space. + +At last she turned to Francesco. + +"And are they all,--all lost?" + +His lips hardened. + +"All, save the lords of Astura." + +Her face was pale as death. + +Francesco took her hands in his, bent over them and kissed them +passionately. + +A soft light shone in her eyes; yet underneath there was that +inexplicable perverseness in her heart that at certain moments makes a +woman treacherous to her own desires. + +And Ilaria, as if to inflict a mortal wound on him she loved best, +beckoned her own fate on with a bitterness that Francesco could not +fathom. + +"Listen," she said. "You will go to Naples,--you may be of service to +the Swabian cause,--I must not--I will not--detain you,--besides,--I +am weary of the world,--I am weary of it all! Take me to San Nicandro +by the Sea--there I shall strive to forget!" + +Francesco watched her, listening like a man to the reading of his own +doom. Ilaria did not look at him. Her head was bowed down. And as he +sat there, gazing on the face he so passionately loved, her eyes, her +lips, Francesco could hardly restrain himself from putting his arms +about her and holding her close, close to his heart. But an icy hand +seemed to come between them, seemed to hold them apart. + +"I will do as you wish!" he said. + +The west was an open gate of gold. The darkening forests were wreathed +in veils of mist. The island with the dark foliage of its trees and +shrubs, lay like some dusky emerald sewn on the bosom of a sable +robe. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +MEMORIES + + +How the birds sang that evening when the saffron afterglow had fainted +over the forest spires, and when all was still with the hush of night, +how the cry of a nightingale thrilled from a tree near the cottage! + +The glamor of the day had passed, and now what mockery and bitterness +came with the cold, unimpassioned light of the moon! Ilaria tossed and +turned on her couch like one taken with a fever; her brain seemed +afire, her hair like so much shadow about her head. As she lay staring +with wide, wakeful eyes, the birds' song mocked her to the echo; the +scent of rose and honeysuckle floated in like a sad savor of death, +and the moonlight seemed to watch her without a quaver of pity. Her +heart panted in the darkness; she was torn by the thousand torments of +a troubled conscience; wounded to tears, yet her eyes were dry and +waterless as a desert. Raniero's face seemed to glare down on her out +of the dusky gloom, and she could have cried out with the fear that +lay like an icy hand over her bosom. + +How her heart wailed for Francesco; how she longed for the touch of +his hand. God of heaven, she could not let him go again and starve her +soul with the old, cursed life. His lips had touched hers; his arms +had held her close; she had felt the warmth of his body, and the +beating of his heart. Was all this nothing,--a dream, a splendid +phantasm, to be rent away like a crimson cloud? Was she to be +Raniero's wife despite of all, a bitter flower growing up under a +gallows? + +God of heaven, no! What had the world done for her, that she should +obey its edicts, and suffer for its tyrannies? Raniero had cheated her +of her youth, her happiness; let him pay the price to the fates! What +honor, indeed, had she to preserve for him? If he was a brute piece of +lust, a tyrant, a traitor, so much the better! It would ease her +conscience. She owed him no fealty, no marriage vow! Her body was no +more his than was her soul, and a dozen priests and a dozen masses +might as well marry ice to fire! How could a fool in a cape and frock, +by gabbling a service, bind an irresponsible woman to the man she +hated with a hatred enduring as the stars? It was a stupendous piece +of nonsense, to say the least of it. No God calling himself a just +God, could hold such a bargain holy. + +And then the truth! What a stumbling-block truth was on occasions. She +knew Francesco's fine sensibilities, and his very love for her made +him the victim of an ethical tyranny. And again! For all her passion +and the fire of her rebellious heart she was not a woman who could +fling reason to the winds and stifle up her conscience with a kiss. +Besides, she loved Francesco to the very zenith of her soul. To have a +lie understood upon her lips, to be shamed before the man's eyes, were +things that scourged her in fancy even more than the thought of losing +him. She trembled when she thought how he might look at her in the +days to come, if a passive lie were proven against her with open +shame. + +And Francesco was a monk! He might break the shackles, defy the powers +of the Church,--he was a monk nevertheless! It might be possible that +his love proved stronger than his reason; it was possible that he +might face the world and frown down the petty judgments of men! +Glorious and transcendent sacrifice! She could face calumny beside +him, as a rock faces the froth of the waves, she could look Raniero +in the eye and know neither pity nor shame. + +Her mood that night was like the passage of a blown leaf, tossed up to +heaven, whirled over the tree-tops, driven down again into the mire. +Strong woman that she was, her very strength made the struggle more +indecisive and more racking. She could not renounce Francesco for the +great love she bore him; and yet she could not will to play a false +part by reason of this same great love! Her soul, like a wanderer in +the wilds, halted and wavered between two tracks that led forward into +the unknown. + +As she tossed and tossed and thought of her life in Astura, her face +became hard as stone. Even since they had journeyed from Naples, +Ilaria had been conscious of a change. Her face showed melancholy, +mingled with a constant scorn that had rarely found expression in the +old days, within the walls of Avellino. For a time hope had waited +wide-eyed in her heart. She had conjured up love like some Eastern +house of magic, only to see its domes faint away into the gloom of +night. The past was as a wounded dream to her! Her eyes had hungered +for a face, grieving in dark reserve and silence. Her love, once +forged, could bend to no new craft. + +After the barren months at Astura, the long bondage of hate, Francesco +had come into her life again. He had come to her with a glory of love +in his eyes, he had taken her hands and kissed them, as though there +were no such divine flesh in the whole wide world. How wonderful it +was, to be touched so, to have such eyes pouring out so strong a soul +before her face; to know the presence of a great love and to feel the +echoing passion of it in her own heart! + +Was this faery time but for an hour, a day, and no longer? Was she but +to see the man's face, to feel the touch of his hands, the grand calm +of his love, before losing him, perhaps for life? Her heart fluttered +in her like a smitten bird. Could she but creep to him, where he lay, +touch his hands, his lips! Her eyes stared out in the night with a +starved frenzy. + +"Francesco! Francesco!"-- + +It was like the wild cry of a woman over her dead love. + +A wind had arisen. The thousand voices of the trees seemed to call to +her with a weird, perpetual clamor. She saw their spectral hands +jerking and clutching against the sky. The wind was crying through the +trees, swaying them restlessly against the starry sky, making +plaintive moan through all the myriad aisles. + +How many a heart trembles with the return of day! What fears rise with +the first blush of light in the purple bowl of night! To Ilaria the +dawn would come as a message of misery; she dared not think what the +coming hours would bring. + +At last she closed her weary eyes, and under the sheer weight of her +own grief fell into a deep and dreamless slumber, while the gloom was +growing less and less, and dawn, like a pale phantom, stalked out of +the east. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE GRAIL OF LOVE + + +Francesco was astir early with the coming of the dawn. The grass was +drenched with dew, the woods towered heavenwards with a thousand +golden peaks. In the valleys the stream echoed back the light. + +Francesco was very solemn about the eyes. He looked as one who took +little joy in life, but worked to forget and to ease his heart of its +great pain. He watched the sun climb over the leafy hills, saw the +clouds trend the heavens, heard the thunder of the streams. There was +life in the day and wild love in the woods. Yet from this world of +passion and delight he was as an exile, rather a pilgrim, fettered by +a heavy vow. He was to bear the Grail of Love through all these wilds, +yet might never look thereon, nor quench his thirst. + +He met Ilaria in the garden, took her head between his hands, and +kissed her upon the lips. She clung close to him and smiled, yet her +looks were distraught; she seemed fearful of looking in his eyes. + +"I have saddled the horses," he said laconically. + +She read the heroism in his heart; the bitterness of the faith she +compelled from him. The truth troubled and shamed her. + +Francesco strapped the wallet and water flask to his saddle and +lifted Ilaria to her steed. Then they crossed the stream and, riding +northwards, plunged into the woods. + +All that day Francesco strove and struggled with his youth, his heart +beating fast and loud under his steel-hauberk. Love was at his side, +robed in crimson and green; Ilaria's hair blinded him more than the +noon-brightness of the sun. And as for her eyes, he dared not look +therein, lest they should tempt him to deceive his honor. The silence +enfolded them as though they were half fearful of each other's +thoughts. + +Francesco spoke little, keeping his distance, as though mistrusting +his own tongue. As for Ilaria, the same passionate perverseness +possessed her heart, and, though she pitied Francesco, she pitied him +silently and from afar. + +The following night they lodged in a beech wood, where dead leaves +spread a dry carpet under the boughs. Francesco made a bed of leaves +at the foot of a great tree. He spread a cloak underneath for Ilaria's +comfort, then started away, as though to increase the distance between +them. + +"Francesco!" she cried suddenly, looking slantwise at his face. + +He turned and stood waiting. + +"You have given me your cloak!" + +"It will keep the chill air from you!" + +"What of yourself?" + +"I shall not need it!" he said. "I shall not sleep to-night. I will +keep watch and guard you! Have no fear!" + +She sighed and hung her head as she sat down at the foot of the tree. +Francesco's deep and unselfish love shamed her more and more. Yet his +very patience with her hardened her discontent. Had he rebelled and +conquered her against her will, she would have followed him to the +ends of the earth. + +Francesco, with a last look, left her there and strode away to a point +where he might see, though not speak to her. A full moon climbed in +the east and the wide lands were smitten with her mystery. The +valleys were as lakes of glimmering mist, the hills like icy pinnacles +gleaming towards the stars. The forest glades were white under the +moon; the trees tall, sculptured obelisks, their trunks as of ebony +inlaid with pearl wherever the moonlight splashed the bark. The +silence of the wilderness was as the silence of a windless sea. + +Francesco wandered in the woods, his heart full of the strange, +haunting beauty of the autumnal night. The stars spoke to him of +Ilaria; the trees had her name unuttered on their lips. What was this +woman that she should bring such bitterness into his life? Were there +not others in the world as fair as she, with lips as red and eyes as +deep? Strangeness--mystery! She was one with the moon; a goddess +shrined in the gloom of forests dim. White and immaculate, beautifully +strange, she seemed as an elf child fated to doom men to despair, to +their own undoing.-- + +Francesco passed back and found her asleep under the trees. He stood +beside her and gazed on the sleeping face. There was silent faith in +that slumber; trust in the man who guarded her honor. The moonlight +streamed on the upturned face, shining like ivory amid the gleam of +her dusky hair. How white her throat was, how her bosom rose and fell +with the soft white hands folded thereon. + +A sudden warmth flooded Francesco's heart; and youth cried in him for +youth. Should this beauty be mured in stone, this red rose be hid by +convent trees? Was she not flesh and blood, born to love and to be +loved in turn,--and what was life but love and desire? + +He crept near on his knees, hung over her breathlessly, gazing on her +face. God, but to wake her with one long kiss, to feel those white +arms steal around his neck! They were alone, the two of them, under +the stars. For many minutes Francesco hung there like a man tottering +on a crag betwixt sea and sky. Passion whimpered in him; his heart +beat fast. Yet even as he crouched over Ilaria asleep, some dream or +vision seemed to trouble her soul. Her hands stirred; her lids +quivered; the breath came fast betwixt her lips. A shadow as of pain +passed over the moonlit face. Francesco, kneeling motionless, heard +her utter a low name, saw tears glistening on her cheeks; she was +weeping in her sleep. + +Pity, the strong tenderness of his nobler self, his great love for the +girl of his youth, rushed back into the deeps as a wave from a cliff. +He rose up; the shadows flying from his heart as bats afraid of their +own flight. He knelt at the foot of the tree and covered his face with +his hands.-- + +On the following evening they saw the sea, a wild streak of troubled +gold under the kindling cressets of the west. Beneath them lay a +valley full of tangled shrubs and windworn trees. Westward rose a +great rock, thrusting its huge black bastions out into the sea. Upon +this rock rose the towers and pinnacles of San Nicandro, smitten with +gold, wrapped in mysterious vapor. Into the east stretched a +wilderness of woods, dun and desolate, welcoming the night. + +Francesco and Ilaria rode out from the woods towards the sea, while in +the west the sun sank into a bank of burning clouds. The trees were +wondrous green in the slant light; the whole land seemed bathed in +strange, ethereal glory. San Nicandro upon its headland stood like +black marble above the far glimmerings of the sea. + +Francesco rode with his eyes fixed on the burning clouds. Ilaria was +watching him with strange unrest. Since that first night in the woods +he had held aloof from her, had spoken little, had wrapped himself in +his iron pride. Yet at times, when his eyes had unwittingly met hers, +she had seen the sudden gleam therein of a strong desire. She had +watched the color rise in Francesco's sunburnt face; the deep-drawn +sighs that ebbed and flowed under the steel hauberk. Though his mouth +was as granite, though he hid his heart from her, she knew full well +that he loved her to the death. The fine temper of his faith had +humiliated, even angered her. Though his silent despair defied her +vanity with heroic silence, his courage made her miserable from sheer +sympathy and shame. + +They crossed a small stream and came to a sandy region, where stunted +myrtles clambered over the rocks, and tamarisks, tipped as with flame, +waved in the wind. Storm-buffeted and dishevelled pines stood gathered +upon the hillock. The region was sombre and very desolate; silent, +save for the low piping of the wind. + +Neither Francesco nor Ilaria had spoken since they had left the woods +and sighted San Nicandro upon its rocky height. Suddenly he pointed +with his hands towards the cliffs, the light of the setting sun +streaming upon his white and solemn face. + +"Yonder lies San Nicandro," he said to her. + +There was a species of defiance in the cry, as though the man's soul +challenged fate. His heart's cords were wrung with misery. Ilaria +quailed inwardly, like one ashamed; her lips quivered; her eyes for +the nonce were in peril of tears.-- + +"Yonder lies San Nicandro," she echoed in an undertone. "There I may +be at peace. I shall not forget--" + +"Nor I," he said, with grim emphasis. + +A narrow causeway curled upwards towards the tower on the rock. The +sea had sunk behind the cliff, the sky had faded to a misty gray. +Ilaria's eyes were on the walls of San Nicandro and she seemed lost in +musings as they rode side by side. + +"Francesco," she said suddenly, as they neared the sea, "think not +hard of me! Strife and unrest are everywhere. It is better to escape +the world!" + +"Better perhaps," he said, with his eyes upon the clouds. + +"Forget that there is such a woman as Ilaria," she said. "I, too, +shall strive to forget the past."-- + +"Who can forget?" he muttered. "While life lasts, memory lives on!" + +They had come to the causeway, where the track wound like a black +snake towards the golden heights. Not a sound was there save the +distant surging of the sea. The distorted trees thrust out their hands +and seemed to cry an eternal "Vale" to the two upon the road. + +At the foot of the causeway, Francesco turned his horse. + +"Go in peace!" he said, his voice vibrating with inward emotion, her +image haunting his heart, like a fell dream at night. + +She stretched out a hand. + +"Francesco--you will not leave me yet?" + +"Ah!" he cried with sudden great bitterness, "is it so easy to say +farewell?" + +His strong despair swept over her like a wind. She sat mute and +motionless upon her horse, gazing at him helplessly as one half dazed. +On the cliffs above, San Nicandro beckoned with the great cross above +its topmost pinnacle. + +Ilaria shivered, struggled with herself, perverse as of yore. + +"What am I, that you should desire me?" she said. "I have but little +beauty, and am growing old. Leave me, Francesco, and forget me! Forget +and forgive! I have no heart to struggle with the world!" + +Francesco was white to the lips, as he stiffened his manhood to meet +the wrench. + +"God knows how I have loved you,--how I love you still!" + +"Francesco," she said, leaning towards him from the saddle. + +He gave a hoarse cry and covered his face with his hands. + +"For pity's sake," he said, "say no more to me! It is enough!"-- + +They had reached the gate. + +He pricked his horse with his spurs, wheeled from her and dashed down +the road without a look. His face was as the face of a man who rode to +meet his death. + +"Francesco!" she cried to him, as she saw him plunge to a gallop, saw +the shield between his shoulders dwindle into the night. + +"Francesco!" she cried again, a sudden loneliness seizing on her +heart. "Francesco, come back! Francesco--" + +The cry was in vain, for he would not listen, deeming her pity more +grievous than her scorn. Despair spurred him on; the black night +called. + +Ilaria watched him vanish into the increasing gloom, while on the +cliffs San Nicandro stood, like the great gate of death. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +DEAD LEAVES + + +Through bleak and desolate stretches Francesco spurred his steed, as +if to outstrip his mastering agony. + +Ilaria had gone from him. Nothing mattered any longer. He had no +longer the sense that there could be duty for him. Even in his wish +for freedom there was cowardice; his soul cried out for rest, for +peace from the enemy; peace, not this endless striving. He was +terrified. In the ignominious lament there was desertion, as if he +were too small for the fight. He was demanding happiness, and that his +own burden should rest on other shoulders. To his demand Fate had +cried its unrelenting No. How silent was the universe about him! He +stood in sheer and tremendous eternal isolation. + +Ruin was everywhere, black, saturnine, solemn. The flames of Ninfa in +the Pontine marshes, of distant Alba dyed the night crimson, while +Norba, the papal robber-nest on the ragged crest of the Lepinian +mountain, bristled behind her cyclopean walls. The Provencals had been +here,--the Pontiff's champion. A strange silence encompassed the +world. The wind had passed. The storm blasts moaned no more. + +Ever to southward Francesco held his course, towards the mountain +fastnesses, which harbored the Duke of Spoleto. To him he would open +his heart, enlist his services in the cause of Conradino and his +friends. Himself he would join the ranks of the discarded, for, to his +life, there was but one purpose now, and that accomplished, he would +go whence none might bid him return. + +As Francesco rode through the darkening woods, through the desolate +stretches, he bowed his head and was heavy of heart. The bleak trees +along the storm-swept sea were outlined against the deeper gold of a +memory, a melancholy afterglow, weird yet tender. Childhood and youth +came back once again; Ilaria's sweet eyes and the dusky sheen of her +hair. + +Ilaria! Ilaria! + +For the nonce he forgot the grim, grinding present, forgot the tens +and thousands, who had been here, had laid waste the land, driving +clouds of dust from the ashes under their horses' feet. + +As night came on apace, the full moon hung tangled in a knot of pines. +The turrets and bastions of Norba stood black against the shimmer of +the night. + +Drawing rein on the brow of a hill, he saw a river gleaming below in +the valley, shining like silver set in ebony, as it coursed through +the blackened country. He hardly knew the region, so great was the +havoc and desolation wrought by Anjou. + +His eyes roved over the desolate stretches, the sepulchral trees, the +sun-scorched grass. Francesco seemed as one dizzy, his face the face +of a starved ascetic. His eye strained towards the towering crags +where the Duke of Spoleto held solitary court. The light of the moon +still wavered through the gloom. To the north rose the dome of the +great pine-forests, and into the opaque darkness of the giant-firs +Francesco spurred his steed. + +Onward he rode as a man who has battled at night through a stormy sea. +And ever as he rode his heart hungered for Ilaria, for that dusky +head bowed down beneath the pathos of the past. He remembered her in a +hundred scenes; her deep eyes haunted him, her rich voice pealed +through the silent avenues of his thoughts. And while his lips moved +in silent prayer that he might again look upon Ilaria's face, a dreary +hopelessness bowed him down with the certainty that on earth they +should meet no more. + +The moon had risen higher, and the forests spread their green canopies +against her silver disk. + +Francesco shook himself free from the benumbing agony of his heart. A +firm resolution was burning in his eyes; his very soul seemed enhaloed +about his face, as he rode at breakneck speed through the silent +forest-aisles. He was guided by the shadowy contours of the distant +hills, for he had noted their shapes on that summer day, when he +journeyed from Viterbo into Terra di Lavoro. To the west gaunt crags +rose above the trees, towering pinnacles, huge and grim, natural +obelisks cleaving the blue. It was past midnight when he saw water +glimmering in a blackened hollow. The moon went down and the light +went out of the world. Francesco tethered his steed to one of the +giants of the forest and slept till the east was forging a new day in +its furnace of gold. + +The gray mists of the hour before dawn made the forests gaunt like an +abode of the dead. Francesco opened his eyes, heard the birds wake in +brake and thicket. He saw the red deer scamper, frightened, into the +glooms, and the rabbits scurrying among the bracken. + +The face of the sky grew gray with waking light, and the hold of the +stars and of night relaxed on wood and meadow. The gaunt trees stood +without a rustling leaf in a stupor of silence. A vast hush held, as +if the world knelt at orisons. Soon ripple on ripple of light surged +from the hymning east. About him rose the slopes of a valley, set tier +upon tier with trees, nebulous, silent, in the hurrying light. + +His feet weighted with the shackles of an impotent fear, Francesco +remounted his steed. About him the flowers were thick as on some rich +tapestry; the scent of the dawn was as the incense of many temples. As +he rode, his steed shook showers of dew from the feathery turf. +Foxgloves rose like purple rods amid the snow webs of the wild daisy. +Tangled domes of dog-rose and honeysuckle lined the blurred track, and +there were countless harebells lying like a deep blue haze under the +green shadows of the grass. + +Francesco had ridden for some hours and a craving for food began to +assert itself. He had not touched a morsel since he had left Ilaria, +and now he began to look about for some wayside tavern, the hut of a +charcoal burner or some other evidence of human life. He began to fear +that he had gone astray in the dusk of the forests, for not a sign did +he encounter pointing to the camp of the duke. + +A voice, coming from somewhere, caused him suddenly to start and rein +in his steed with a jerk. The animal snorted, as if it scented danger, +and Francesco loosened the sword in the scabbard anticipating an +ambush, when he pushed it back with a puzzled look. Before a wayside +shrine, almost entirely concealed by weeds, there knelt a grotesque +figure at orisons. He either had not heard the tramp of Francesco's +steed, or ignored it on purpose, for not until the latter called to +him did he turn, and with much relief Francesco recognized his former +guide from the camp of the Duke of Spoleto. + +"Where is the camp of the duke?" he queried curtly, impatient with the +man's exhibition of secular godliness. + +"Many miles away," replied he of the goat's-beard, as he arose and +kissed a little holly-wood cross that he carried. + +"Lead me to it!" + +The godly little man flopped again, scraped some dust together with +his two hands, spat upon it, then smeared his forehead with the stuff, +uttering the names of sundry saints. + +Francesco had come to the end of his patience. + +"Get up, my friend," he said, "we have had enough praying for one +day!" + +The goatherd offered to anoint him with dust and spittle, pointing a +stumpy forefinger, but Francesco was filled with disgust. He caught +the man by the girdle and lifted him to his feet. + +"Enough of this!" he said. "Is the devil so much your master?" + +The goatherd blinked red-lidded and pious eyes, while he scanned the +horizon. Then he pointed with his holly staff to a blue hill that rose +against the eastern sky. + +"How far?" queried Francesco. + +The goatherd was anointing himself with spittle. + +"Each mile in these parts grows more evil," he said, tracing the sign +of the cross. "It behooves a Christian to be circumspect!" + +Francesco prodded him with his scabbard. + +"How far?" + +"Some ten leagues," replied the gnome. "The day is clear, and the +place looks nearer than it is!" + +It occurred to Francesco that there must be some human abode close by, +as the goatherd, entirely familiar with the region, would not wander +too far from habitations of the living. And upon having made known his +request, the little man preceded him at a lively pace. At a lodge in +the forest deeps they halted, and here Francesco and his guide rested +during the hot hours of noon, partaking of such food as the liberality +of their host, an old anchorite, set before them. + +After men and steed had rested, they set out anew. + +The goatherd's inclination to invoke untold saints, whenever there +seemed occasion and whenever there was not, was curbed by a hard line +round Francesco's lips, and they plunged into the great silence. A +sense of green mystery encompassed them, as they traversed the green +forest-aisles. The sky seemed to have receded to a greater distance. +Everywhere the smooth dark trunks converged upon one another, sending +up a tangle of boughs that glittered in the soft sheen of the +sunlight. Withered bracken stood in thin silence, and here and there a +dead bough lay like a snake with its head raised to strike. + +The silence was immense, and yet it was a stillness that suggested +sounds. It resembled the silence of a huge cavern, out of which came +strange whisperings; innumerable crepitations seemed to come from the +dead leaves. Francesco fancied he could hear the trees breathing, and +from afar he caught the wild note of a bird. + +The sun was low when they came at last to the edge of the forest and +saw a hill rise steeply against the sky. It was covered with silver +birches, whose stems looked like white threads in the level light of +the setting sun. And rising against the sky-line from amidst the +fretwork of birch-boughs Francesco saw the well-remembered outlines of +the ruined tower wherein he had spent a memorable night. + +The valley before them was flooded with golden light, and, as they +crossed it, Francesco felt a curious desire for physical pain, +something fierce and tangible to struggle with, to drown the +ever-pulsing memory of the woman who had gone from him. + +As the dusk deepened they went scrambling up the hillside amid the +birches, whose white stems glimmered upwards into the blue gloom of +the twilight. Francesco's thoughts climbed ahead of him, hurrying to +deal with the unknown dangers that might be awaiting him. He had to +dismount, pull his steed after him; but the scramble upwards gave him +the sense of effort and struggle that he needed. It was like scaling a +wall to come to grips with an enemy, whose wild eyes and sword-points +showed between the crenelations. + +At last they had reached the high plateau. A dog barked. The wood +suddenly swarmed with bearded and grotesque forms. They did not +recognize in Francesco the monk who had spent a night in their midst. +The goatherd had maliciously disappeared, as if to revenge himself for +his interrupted orisons. With glowering faces they thronged around +Francesco, a babel of voices shouting questions and threatening the +intruder. + +He waved them contemptuously aside, and his demeanor seemed to raise +him in their regards. + +At his request to be forthwith conducted into the presence of the +duke, one pointed to a low building at the edge of the plateau. Wisps +of smoke curled out of it and vanished into the night. + +"The duke and the Abbot are at orisons," the man said with a grimace, +the meaning of which was lost upon Francesco. "He will not return +before midnight." + +"I will await him here," said the newcomer, dismounting and leading +his steed to a small plot of pasture, where the grass was tall and +untrodden. Then, spent as he was, he requested food and drink, and as +he joined the band of outlaws, listening to their jokes and banter, he +thought he could discern among them many a one whom Fate had, like +himself, buffeted into a life, not of his forming, not of his choice. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE ABBEY OF FARFA + + +The great vaults of the Abbey of Farfa resounded with glee and +merriment. + +Before a low, massive stone table, resembling a druidical altar, +surrounded by giant casks filled with the choicest wines of Italy, +Greece and Spain, there sat the Duke of Spoleto and the Abbot +Hilarius, discoursing largely upon the vanities of the world, and +touching incidentally upon questions pertaining to the welfare of +Church and State. A single cresset shed an unsteady light over the +twain, while a lean, cadaverous friar glided noiselessly in and out +the transepts, obsequiously replenishing the beverage as it +disappeared with astounding swiftness in the feasters' capacious +stomachs. And each time he replenished the vessels, he refilled his +own with grim impartiality, watching the Abbot and his guest from a +low settle in a dark recess. + +The vault was of singular construction and considerable extent. The +roof was of solid stone masonry and rose in a wide semicircular arch +to the height of about twelve feet, measured from the centre of the +ceiling to the ground floor. + +The transepts were divided by obtusely pointed arches, resting on +slender granite pillars, and the intervening space was filled up with +drinking vessels of every conceivable shape and size. + +The Abbot of Farfa was a discriminating drinker, boasting of an +ancestral thirst of uncommonly high degree, the legacy of a Teutonic +ancestor who had served the Church with much credit in his time. + +They had been carousing since sunset. + +The spectral custodian had refilled the tankards with amber liquid. +Thereof the Abbot sipped understandingly. + +"Lacrymae Christi," he turned to the duke. "Vestrae salubritati bibo!" + +The duke raised his goblet. + +"Waes Hael!" and he drained its contents with a huge gulp. + +"I would chant twenty psalms for that beverage," he mused after a +while. + +The Abbot suggested "Attendite Populi!"--"It is one of the longest," +he said, with meaning. + +"Don't trifle with a thirsty belly," growled the duke. "In these +troublous times it behooves men to be circumspect!" + +"Probatum est," said the Abbot. "It is a noble vocation! Jubilate +Deo!" + +And he raised his goblet. + +The Duke of Spoleto laid a heavy hand upon his arm. + +"It is a Vigil of the Church!" + +The Abbot gave himself absolution on account of the great company. + +"There's no fast on the drink!" he said with meaning. "Nor is there +better wine between here and Salamanca!" + +The duke regarded his host out of half-shut watery eyes. + +"My own choice is Chianti!" + +"A difference of five years in purgatory!" + +Thereupon the duke blew the froth of his wine in the Abbot's face. + +"Purgatory!--A mere figure of speech!" + +The Abbot emptied his tankard. + +"The figures of speech are the pillars of the Church!" + +He beckoned to the custodian. + +"Poculum alterum imple!" + +The lean friar came and disappeared noiselessly. + +They drank for a time in heavy silence. After a time the Abbot +sneezed, which caused Beelzebub, the Abbot's black he-goat, who had +been browsing outside, to peer through the crescent-shaped aperture in +the casement and regard him quizzically. + +The duke, who chanced to look up at that precise moment, saw the red +inflamed eyes of the Abbot's tutelar genius, and, mistaking the goat +for another presence, turned to his host. + +"Do you not fear," he whispered, "lest Satan may pay you a visit +during some of your uncanonical pastimes?" + +"Uncanonical!" roared the Abbot. "I scorn the charge! I +scorn it with my heels! Two masses daily,--morning and +evening--Primes,--Nones,--Vespers,--Aves,--Credos,--Paters--" + +"Excepting on moonlight nights," the duke blinked. + +"Exceptis excipiendis," replied the Abbot. + +"Sheer heresy!" roared the duke. "The devil is apt to keep an eye on +such exceptions. Does he not go about like a roaring lion?" + +"Let him roar!" shouted the Abbot, bringing his fist down upon the +table, and looking about in canonical ire, when the door opened +noiselessly and in its dark frame stood Francesco. + +He had waited at the camp for the return of the duke until his misery +and restlessness had mastered every other sensation. Sleep, he felt, +would not come to his eyes, and he craved for action. He should have +liked nothing better than to mount his steed on the spot, ride +single-handed into Anjou's camp and redeem his honor in the eyes of +those who regarded him a bought instrument of the Church. The memory +of Ilaria wailed through the dark chambers of his heart. He felt at +this moment, more than ever, what she had been to him, and to himself +he appeared as a derelict, tossed on a vast and shoreless sea. + +For a moment he gazed as one spellbound at the drinkers, then he +strode up to the duke and shook him soundly. + +"To the rescue, my lord duke!" he shouted, in the excess of his +frenzy, till the vaults re-echoed his cry from their farthest +recesses. "Conradino has been betrayed by the Frangipani!" + +At the sound of the name he hated above all on earth, the duke's +nebulous haze fell from him like a mantle. + +With a great oath he arose. + +"Where is the King?" + +"They have taken him to Rome,--or Naples,--or to some fortress near +the coast," Francesco replied. + +"Into whose hands was he delivered?" + +"Anjou's admiral,--Robert of Lavenna!" + +The duke paused a moment, as if endeavoring to bring order into the +chaos of his thoughts. He scanned Francesco from head to toe, as if +there was something about the latter's personality which he could not +reconcile with his previous acquaintance. + +At last Francesco's worldly habit flashed upon him. + +"What of the Cross?" he flashed abruptly. + +"There is blood upon it!" retorted Francesco. + +"All is blood in these days," the duke said musingly. "Are you with +us?"-- + +"I have broken the rosary!"-- + +The duke extended his broad hand, in which Francesco's almost +disappeared as he closed upon it. + +There was a great wrath in his eyes. + +"We ride at sun-rise!" + +"Our goal?"-- + +"To Naples!"-- + +The dawn was streaking the east with faint gold, and transient +sunshafts touched the woods, when Francesco stood before the doorway +of his lodge of pine boughs. The men of the Duke of Spoleto were +gathering in on every side, some girding their swords, others +tightening their shield-straps, as they came. + +The duke ordered a single horn to sound the rally. + +The glade was full of stir and action. Companies were forming up, +shoulder to shoulder; spears danced and swayed; horses steamed in the +brisk morning air. + +At last the tents sank down, and, as the sun cleared the trees, the +armed array rolled out from the woods into a stretch of open land, +that sloped towards the bold curves of a river. + +On that morning Francesco felt almost happy, as his fingers gripped +his sword and he cantered along by the side of the duke. The great +heart of the world seemed to beat with his. + +"The day of reckoning has come at last!" he said to the leader of the +free lances. + +The duke's features were hard as steel. Yet he read the other's humor +and joined him with the zest of the hour. + +"You smile once more!" said the grim lord of the woods, turning to the +slender form in the saddle. + +"I shall smile in the hour when the Frangipani lies at my feet," +Francesco replied with heaving chest. "It is good to be strong!" + +The duke's horsemen were scouring ahead, keeping cover, scanning the +horizon for the Provencals. By noon they had left the open land, +plunged up hills covered thick with woods. The duke's squadrons sifted +through, and he halted them in the woods under the brow of the hill. + +Below lay a broad valley running north and south, chequered with +pine-thickets and patches of brushwood. On a hill in the centre stood +a ruined tower. Towards the south a broad loop of the river closed the +valley, while all around on the misty hills shimmered the giants of +the forest, mysterious and silent. The duke's outriders had fallen +back and taken cover in the thickets. Down the valley could be seen a +line of spears, glittering snake-like towards the tower on the hill. +Companies of horse were crossing the river, pushing up the slopes, +mass on mass. In the midst of the flickering shields and spears blew a +great banner with the Fleur-de-Lis. + +It was a contingent of Charles of Anjou, which had been on the march +since dawn. They had thrown their advance guard across the river and +were straggling up the green slopes, while the main host crossed the +ford. + +The sound of a clarion re-echoed from crag to crag: and down towards +the river played the whirlwind, with dust and clangor and the shriek +of steel. Spears went down like trampled corn. The battle streamed +down the bloody slope, for nothing could stand that furious charge. + +The river shut in the broken host, for the ford was narrow, not easy +of passage. From the north came the thundering ranks of horse, and on +the south the waters were calm and clear. The Provencals, streaming +like smoke blown from a fire by a boisterous wind, were hurled in rout +upon the water. They were hurled over the banks, slain in the +shallows, drowned in struggling to cross at the ford. Some few hundred +reached the southern bank, and scattered fast for the sanctuary of the +woods. + +In less than half an hour from the first charge the duke's men had won +the day. They gave no quarter; slew all who stood. + +The duke rode back up the hill, Francesco by his side, amid the cheers +of his men. + +Southwest they rode towards the sea, their hundred lances aslant under +the autumnal sky. They were as men challenging a kingdom with their +swords, and they tossed their shields in the face of fate. The +audacity of the venture set the hot blood spinning in their hearts. +To free Conradino from Anjou's clutches; to hurl damnation in the +mouth of the Provencals. + +As for Francesco, he was as a hound in leash. His sword thirsted in +its scabbard; he had tasted blood, and was hot for the conflict. + +On the fourth day they came upon the ruins of Ninfa, a town set upon a +hill in a wooded valley. Vultures flapped heavenward as they rode into +the gate; lean, red-eyed curs snarled and slinked about the streets. +Francesco smote one brute through with his spear, as it was feeding in +the gutter on the carcass of a child. In the market square the +Provencals had made such another massacre as they had perpetrated in +Alba. The horrible obscenity of the scene struck the duke's men dumb +as the dead. The towns-folk had been stripped, bound face to face, +left slain in many a hideous and ribald pose. The vultures' beaks had +emulated the sword. The stench from the place was as the breath of a +charnel house, and the duke and his men turned back with grim faces +from the brutal silence of that ghastly town. + +Near one of the gates a wild, tattered figure darted out from a +half-wrecked house, stood blinking at them in the sun, then sped away, +screaming and whimpering at the sight of the duke, as though possessed +with a demon. It was a woman, still retaining the traces of her former +great beauty, gone mad, yet the only live thing they found in the +town. + +The duke had reined in his steed at the sight, gone white to the roots +of his hair. Then he covered his face with his hands, and Francesco +heard him utter a heart-rending moan. + +When his hands fell, after a lapse of time, he seemed to have aged +years in this brief space. + +"Forward, my men," he shouted with iron mouth. "The Frangipani shall +not complain of our swords!" + +They passed out of Ninfa through the opposite gate. At dark they +reached the moors, and soon the entire host swept silently into the +ebony gloom of the great forests, which seemed sealed up against the +moon and stars. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +RETRIBUTION + + +Beneath the dark cornices of a thicket of wind-stunted pines stood a +small company of men, looking out into the hastening night. The +half-light of evening lay over the scene, rolling wood and valley into +a misty mass, while the horizon stood curbed by a belt of heavy +thunder-clouds. In the western vault, a vast rent in the wall of gray +shot out a blaze of translucent gold that slanted like a spear shaft +to a sullen sea. + +The walls of Astura shone white and ghostly athwart the plains. +Sea-gulls came screaming to the cliffs. Presently out of the blue +bosom of an unearthly twilight a vague wind arose. Gusts came, +clamored, and died into nothingness. The world seemed to shudder. A +red sword flashed sudden out of the skies and smote the hills. Thunder +followed, growling over the world. The lurid crater of Vesuvius poured +gold upon the sea, whose hoarse underchant mingled with the fitful +wind. + +A storm came creeping black out of the west. The sea grew dark. The +forests began to weave the twilight into their columned halls. A +sudden gust came clamoring through the woods. The myriad boughs tossed +and jerked against the sky, while a mysterious gloom of trees rolled +back against the oncoming night. + +The men upon the hill strained their eyes towards the sea, where the +white patch of a sail showed vaguely through the gathering gloom. +Their black armor stood out ghostly against the ascetic trunks of the +trees. Grim silence prevailed, and so immobile was their attitude, +that they might have been taken for stone images of a dead, gone age. + +The wind cried restlessly amid the trees, gusty at intervals, but +tuning its mood to a desolate and constant moan. The woods seemed full +of a vague woe and of troubled breathings. The trees seemed to sway to +one another, to fling strange words with the tossing of hair and +outstretched hands. The furze in the valley, swept and harrowed, +undulated like a green lagoon. + +Between the hills and the cliff lay the marshes, threaded by a meagre +stream that quavered through the green. A poison mist hung over them +despite the wind. The mournful clangor of a bell came up from the +valley, with a vague sound as of voices chanting. + +After a time the bell ceased pulsing. In its stead sounded a faint +eerie whimper, an occasional shrill cry that startled the moorlands, +leaped out of silence like a bubble from a pool where death has been. + +The men were shaken from their strained vigilance as by a wind. The +utter gray of the hour seemed to stifle them, then a sound stumbled +out of the silence and set them listening. It dwindled and grew again, +came nearer: it was the smite of hoofs in the wood-ways. The rider +dismounted, tethered his foam-flecked steed to a tree and stumbled up +to where the Duke of Spoleto and Francesco stood, their gaze riveted +upon the ghostly masonry of Astura. + +Panting and exhausted he faced the twain. + +"They have all died on the scaffold," he said with a hoarse, rasping +voice. "The Swabian dynasty is no more." + +With a cry and a sob that shook his whole being, Francesco covered his +face with his hands. + +For a moment the duke stared blankly at the speaker. + +"And the Frangipani?" he asked, his features ashen-gray and drawn. + +The messenger pointed to Astura. + +"There is feasting and high glee: the Pontiff's bribe was large."-- + +Francesco trembled in every limb. + +"Such a day was never seen in Naples," the messenger concluded with a +shudder. "To a man they died under the axe--the soil was dyed crimson +with their blood." + +There was a silence. + +The messenger pointed to the sea, which had melted into the indefinite +background of the night. + +Dim and distant, like a pearl over the purple deeps, one sail after +another struck out of the vague west. They came heading for the land, +the black hulls rising and falling against the tumultuous blackness of +the clouds. + +A red gleam started suddenly from the waves. A quick flame leaped up +like a red finger above the cliff. + +The duke ignited a pine-wood torch. The blue resinous light spluttered +in the wind. + +Three times he circled it above his head, then he flung it into the +sea. + +"Bernardo Sarriano and the Pisan galleys," he turned to Francesco. +"They are heading for the Cape of Circe." + +A shout of command rang through the woods. + +As with phantom cohorts the forest-aisles teemed with moving shadows. + +A ride of some five miles lay between them and the Cape of Circe. Much +of that region was wild forest land and moor; bleak rocky wastes let +into woods and gloom. Great oaks, gnarled, vast, terrible, held giant +sway amid the huddled masses of the underbrush. Here the wild boar +lurked and the wolf hunted. But for the most it was dark and +calamitous, a ghostly wilderness forsaken by man. + +As they rode along they struck the occasional trail of the Crusaders +of the Church. A burnt hamlet, a smoking farmhouse with a dun mist +hanging over it like a shroud, and once they stumbled upon the body of +a dead girl. They halted for a brief space to give her burial. The +duke's men dug a shallow grave under an oak and they left her there +and went on their way with greater caution. + +"There is one man on earth to whom I owe a debt," the duke, leading +the van beside Francesco, turned to the latter, "a debt that shall be +paid this night, principal and interest." + +Francesco looked up into the duke's face, and by the glare of the now +more frequent lightnings he saw that it was drawn and gray. + +"There lies his lair," the duke pointed to the white masonry of +Astura, as it loomed out of the night, menacing and spectral, as a +thunderbolt hissed into the sea, and again lapsed into gloom. +"Betrayer of God and man,--his hour is at hand!"-- + +The duke's beard fairly bristled as he uttered these words, and he +gripped the hilt of his sword as if he anticipated a conflict with +some wild beast of the forest, some mythical monster born of night and +crime. + +Francesco made no reply. He was bowed down beneath the gloom of the +hour, oppressed with unutterable forebodings. He too had an account to +settle: yet, whichever way the tongue inclined in the scales, life +stretched out from him as a sea at night. He dared not think of +Ilaria, far away in the convent of San Nicandro by the sea; yet her +memory had haunted him all day, knocked at the gates of his +consciousness, dominated the hours. Compared with the ever present +sense of her loss, all in life seemed utterly trifling, and he longed +for annihilation only. + +Yet a kindred note which he sounded in the duke's soul found him in a +more receptive mood for the latter's confidences; once life had +seemed good to him; he had thought men heroes, the world a faerie +place. Thoughts had changed with time, and that for which he once +hungered he now despised. Cursed with perversities, baffled and +mocked, the eternal trivialities of life made the soul sink within +him. Not all are mild earth, to be smitten and make no moan. There are +sea spirits that lash and foam, fire spirits that leap and burn,--was +he to be cursed because he was born with a soul of fire? + +They were now in the midst of the great wilderness. On all sides +myriads of trees, interminably pillared; through their tops the wind +sighed and pined like the soft breath of a sleeping world. Away on +every hand stretched oblivious vistas, black under multitudinous green +spires. + +The interminable trees seemed to vex the duke's spirit, as their +trunks crowded the winding track and seemed to shut in the twain as +with a never ending barrier. And behind them, with the muffled tread +of a phantom army, came the duke's armed array striding through the +night. + +"Have you too suffered a wrong at the hands of the Frangipani?" +Francesco at last broke the silence, turning to his companion. + +The latter jerked the bridle of his charger so viciously that the +terrified animal reared on its haunches and neighed in protest. + +"Man, know you whereof you speak?" the duke snarled, as he came closer +to Francesco. "He has made the one woman the Duke of Spoleto ever +loved--a wanton!"-- + +They pushed uphill through the solemn shadows of the forest. A sound +like the raging of a wind through a wood came down to them faintly +from afar. It was a sullen sound, deep and mysterious as the hoarse +babel of the sea, smitten through with the shrill scream of trumpets, +like the cry of gulls above a storm. Yet in the aisles of the pine +forest it was still as death. + +Then, like a spark struck from flint and steel falling upon tinder, a +red glare blazed out against the background of the night. A horn +blared across the moorlands; the castle bell began to ring, jerkily, +wildly, a bell in terror. Yellow gleams streaked the fretted waters, +and again the trumpet challenged the dark walls, like the cry of a +sea-bird driven by the storm. + +The duke and Francesco looked meaningly at each other. The sound +needed no words to christen it; they knew that the Pisans had +attacked. They heard the roar and the cries from the rampart, the +cataractine thunder of a distant battle. + +Pushing on more swiftly as the woods thinned, the din grew more +definite, more human, more sinister in detail. It stirred the blood, +challenged the courage, racked conjecture with the infinite chaos it +portended. Victory and despair were trammelled up together in its +sullen roar; life and death seemed to swell it with the wind sound of +their wings. It was stupendous, chaotic, a tempest cry of steel and +passions inflamed. + +The duke's face kindled to the sound as he shouted to his men to +gallop on. Yet another furlong, and the spectral trunks dwindled, the +sombre boughs seemed to mingle with the clouds, while gray, indefinite +before them, engulfing the lightnings of heaven, loomed the great +swell of the Tyrrhene, dark and restless under the thunderclouds, that +came nearer and nearer. Ghostly the plains of Torre del Greco +stretched towards the Promontory of Circe, and, solitary and +impregnable, the Castello of Astura rose upon its chalk-cliffs, white +in the lightnings which hissed around its summit. + +The duke's men had come up, forming a wide semicircle around the +leaders. At their feet opened a deep ravine, leading into the plain; +half a furlong beyond, although it seemed less than a lance's throw +across, rose the castle of the Frangipani, washed by the waves of the +Tyrrhene. The Pisans had attacked the southern acclivity, and the +defenders, roused from their feast of blood, had poured all their +defences towards the point of attack, leaving the northern slope to +look to itself. + +As they rode down the ravine there came from the bottom of the valley +the sharp yelp of a dog. It was instantly answered by a similar bark +from the very top of the castello. + +"No two dogs ever had the same voice," the duke turned to Francesco. +"They must be hell-hounds, whom the fiend has trained to one tune. But +what is that yonder? A goat picking its way?" + +"A goat walking on its hind legs!" + +"Are there horns on its head?" + +"No!"-- + +"Then it is not the Evil One! Forward, my men!" + +The pause that preceded the breaking of the storm had been unnaturally +long. Save for the gleam of the lightnings, the waters had grown to an +inky blackness. There came one long moment, when the atmosphere sank +under the weight of a sudden heat. Then the ever increasing thunder +rushed upon the silence with a mighty roar and out of the west, driven +by the hurricane, came a long line of white waves, that rose as they +advanced, till the very Tritons beat their heads and the nymphs +scurried down to greener depths. + +And now a sudden streak of fire hissed from the clouds, followed by a +crash as if all the bolts of heaven had been let off at once. From the +ramparts of Astura came cries of alarm, the din of battle, the blaring +of horns, the shouting of commands. + +The duke and Francesco had dismounted and were gazing up towards the +storm-swept ramparts. Shrieks and curses rolled down upon them like +the tumbling of a cascade. + +Then they began to scale the ledge, the path dwindling to a goat's +highway. + +Above them rose a sheer wall on which there appeared not clinging +space for a lizard. The abyss below was ready to welcome them to +perdition if their feet slipped. + +After a brief respite they continued, the duke's men scrambling up +behind them, looking like so many ants on the white chalk-cliffs. The +air was hot to suffocation; the storm roared, the thunder bellowed in +deafening echoes through the skies, and the heavens seemed one blazing +cataract of fire, reflected in the throbbing mirror of the sea. + +They had reached a seam in the rock, where they paused for a moment to +let their brains rest. There was hardly room for the duke and +Francesco on the ledge, so narrow was the rocky shelf, and the latter +was pushing close against the wall when he was suddenly forced to look +up. He heard the din of the encounter above. The Pisans, having +attacked the Frangipani from the south, were driving them out at the +north. Suddenly two bodies whizzed by him, thrust over the ramparts in +the fierceness of the assault. Another came; he seemed to have jumped +for life, for he kept feet foremost for a distance through the air, +before he began to whirl. These fell clear of the scaling party, and +were impaled on the broken tops of the stunted trees, that bossed the +side of the precipice. One came so near the duke that his flight +downward almost blew him off his narrow perch. His head struck the +ledge, while his body caught in the bushes, hung a moment, then dashed +after its comrades below. + +Just then the end of a rope fell dangling by their side, let down from +the ramparts above. The duke tried to grasp it, but it shifted beyond +the gap. Down the rope came a man, then another; they both gained a +foothold on the narrow ledge. No sooner were their feet on it, than +the duke sent them headlong to the bottom. Then grasping the rope +without waiting to see if a third or fourth were coming down, he +shouted to Francesco to follow. Perilous as was the task, it was no +more so than to follow the steep and narrow goat's trail, and in a +brief space of time they swung into a courtyard which was deserted. +Anticipating no attack on this side, the defenders of Astura had +turned their whole attention to the southern slope, where the Pisans +were scaling the walls. The roar of the conflict seemed to grow with +the roar of the hurricane, and, as one by one the duke's men leaped +into the dark square, and the muster was complete, Count Rupert turned +to Francesco. + +"I feared lest they might clean out the nest before our arrival," he +said, then, pointing to a distant glare of torches, he gave the word. +They caught the unwary defenders in the rear. No quarter was to be +given; the robber brood of Astura was to be exterminated. + +"Conradino!" was the password, and above the taunts and cries of +Frangipani's hirelings it filled the night with its clamor, rode on +the wings of the storm, like the war-cry of a thousand demons. + +Notwithstanding the fact that a few of the most daring among the Pisan +admiral's men had scaled the ramparts and, leaping into the +Frangipani's stronghold, had tried to pave a way for those lagging +behind, their companions-in-arms were in dire straits. For those of +Astura poured boiling pitch upon the heads of the attacking party, +hurled rocks of huge dimensions down upon them which crushed into a +mangled mass scores of men, unable to retain the vantage they had +gained under the avalanche of arrows, rocks and fire. + +In a moment's time the situation was changed. + +Noiselessly as leopards, the duke's men fell upon their rear, raising +their war-cry as they leaped from the shadows. Those on the ramparts, +forced to grapple with the nearer enemy, abandoned their tasks. The +Pisans, profiting by the lull, swarmed over the walls. Taken between +two parties, a deadly hand-to-hand conflict ensued. Above the din and +the roar of the hurricane, of the clashing of arms, above the cries +of the wounded, the death-rattle of the dying, sounded the voice of +the Duke of Spoleto. + +"Onward, my men! Kill and slay!" + +Side by side the duke and Francesco leaped into the thickest of the +fray, both animated by the same desire to come face to face with the +lords of Astura, spurning a lesser enemy. + +For a time they seemed doomed to disappointment. Had the Frangipani +been slain? + +The zest of the conflict pointed rather to their directing the +defence. Else their mercenaries would have left Astura to its fate. + +Suddenly an unearthly voice startled the combatants. + +"Guard, devil, guard!" + +There was the upflashing of a sword, and a hoarse challenge frightened +the night. + +Giovanni Frangipani saw a furious face glaring dead white from under +the shadow of a shield. + +He stopped in his onward rush, blinked at the duke as one gone mad. + +"Damnation, what have we here?" + +"By the love of God, I have you now!" + +"Fool, are you mad?" + +The hoarse voice echoed him, the eyes flashed fire. + +"Guard, ravisher,--guard!" + +"Ten thousand devils! Who are you?" + +"Your obedient servant,--the Duke of Spoleto!" + +The Frangipani growled like a trapped bear. + +He raised his sword, put forward his shield. + +"On with you, dog!" he roared. "Join your wanton under the sod!" + +"Ha, say you so?" cried the duke, closing in. + +Their swords flashed, yelped, twisted in the air. A down cut hewed the +dexter cantrel from the Frangipani's shield. His face with a gashed +cheek glared at the duke from under his upreared arm. So close were +they that blood spattered in the duke's face as the Frangipani blew +the red stream from his mouth and beard. + +[Illustration: "'They lied,' he cried. 'Give me but life.'"] + +The duke broke away, wheeled and came again. He lashed home, split the +Frangipani's collar-bone even through the rags of his hauberk. The +Frangipani yelped like a gored hound. Rabid, dazed, he began to make +blind rushes that boded ill for him. The swords began to leap and to +sing, while blinding flashes of lightning followed each other in quick +succession and thunder rolled in deafening echoes through the heavens. +Cut and counter-cut rang through the night, like the cry of axes, +whirled by woodmen's hands. + +Suddenly the Frangipani parried an upper cut and stabbed at the duke. +The sword point missed him a hair's breadth. Before he could guard the +duke was upon him like a leopard. Both men smote together, both swords +met with a sound that seemed to shake the rocks. The Frangipani's +blade snapped at the hilt. + +He stood still for a moment as one dazed, then plucked out his poniard +and made a spring. A merciless down cut beat him back. His courage, +his assurance seemed to ebb from him on a sudden, as though the blow +had broken his soul. He fell on his knees and held up his hands, with +a thick, choking cry. + +"Mercy! God's mercy!" + +"Curse you! Had you pity on your victims?" + +Thunder crashed overhead; the girdles of the sky were loosed. A +torrent of rain beat upon the Frangipani's streaming face; he tottered +on his knees, but still held his hands to the heavens. + +"They lied," he cried. "Give me but life."-- + +The duke looked at him and heaved up his sword. + +Giovanni Frangipani saw the white face above him, gave a great cry and +cowered behind his hands. It was all ended in a moment. The rain +washed his gilded harness as he lay with his blood soaking into the +crevices of the rocks.-- + +Francesco had witnessed neither the fight nor the ending. Impelled by +an insensate desire to find Raniero, to have a final reckoning for all +the baseness and insults he had heaped upon him in the past, for his +treachery and cruelty to Ilaria, he had made his way to the great +hall. + +The door was closed and locked from within. + +Francesco dealt it a terrific blow. Its shattered framework heaved +inward and toppled against the wall. + +In the doorway stood Raniero and looked out at his opponent. He did +not recognize Francesco. His face was sullen; the glitter of his +little eyes mimicked the ring gleams of his hauberk. He put out the +tip of a tongue and moistened his lips. + +Francesco's face was as the face of a man who has but one purpose left +in life and, that accomplished, cares not what happens. Raising his +vizor, he said: + +"I wait for you!" + +Raniero broke into a boisterous laugh. + +"The bastard! The monk! Go home, Francesco, and don your lady's +attire! What would you with a sword?" + +Francesco's mouth was a hard line. He breathed through hungry +nostrils, as he went step by step toward Raniero. + +Then with a swift shifting of his sword from right to left he smote +him on each cheek, then, lowering his vizor, he put up his guard. + +With an oath Raniero's sword flashed, feinted, turned with a cunning +twist, and swept low for Francesco's thigh. + +Francesco leaped back, but was slashed by the point a hair's breadth +above the knee. It was a mere skin wound, but the pain of it seemed to +snap something that had been twisted to a breaking point within him. +He gave a great cry and charged down Raniero's second blow. + +Their shields met and clashed, and Raniero staggered. Francesco rushed +him across the hall as a bull drives a rival about a yard. Raniero +crashed against the wall, and Francesco sprang back to use his sword. +The blow hewed the top from Raniero's shield and smote him slant-wise +across the face. + +Raniero gathered himself and struck back, but the blow was caught on +Francesco's shield. Francesco thrust at him, before he could recover, +and the point slipped under the edge of Raniero's gorget. He twisted +free and blundered forward into a fierce exchange of half-arm blows. +Once he struck Francesco upon the mouth with the pommel of his sword, +and was smitten in turn by the beak of Francesco's shield. + +Again Francesco rushed Raniero to the wall, leaped back and got in his +blow. Raniero's face was a red blur. He dropped his shield, put both +his hands to his sword and swung great blows at Francesco, with the +huge rage of a desperate and tiring man. Francesco led him up and down +the hall. Raniero's breath came in gasps, and his strength began to +wane. + +Francesco bided his chance and seized it. He ran in, after Raniero had +missed him with one of his savage sweeping blows, and rushed him +against the wall. Then he struck and struck again, without uttering a +word, playing so fast upon Raniero that he had his man smothered, +blundering and dazed. The end came with a blow that cut the crown of +Raniero's helmet. He threw up his hands with a spasmodic gesture, +lurched forward, fell, rolled over on his back and lay still. + +For a moment Francesco stood over him, the point of his sword on +Raniero's throat. He seemed to waver; then all the misery the +Frangipani had inflicted on Ilaria rushed over him as in a blinding +cloud. + +His sword went home. A strange cry passed through the hall, then all +was still. The torch spluttered once more and went out. Francesco was +in the darkness beside the dead body of Raniero.-- + +Meanwhile the Pisans had succeeded in scaling the walls. The clamor of +the fight grew less and less, as one by one the defenders of Astura +were relentlessly struck down and hurled over the ramparts. The storm +had increased in violence, the heavens were cataracts of fire.-- + +In the blood-drenched court the duke and the Pisan admiral shook +hands. Everything living had been slain. Astura was a castle of the +dead. + +"God! What work!" exclaimed the Pisan. It was the testimony wrung from +him by the stress of sheer hard fighting. + +"One of the viper-brood still lives," the duke turned to his +companion, kicking with the tip of his steel boot the lifeless form of +Giovanni Frangipani. + +The Pisan turned to a man-at-arms. + +"Take twenty men! Scour the lair from vault to pinnacle! We must have +that other,--dead or alive!" + +The rain had ceased for the time. New thunder-clouds came rolling out +of the west. Flambeaux flared in the court. Black shadows danced along +the ghostly walls. The wind moaned about the crenelated turrets; +sentinels of the Pisans stood everywhere, alert for ambush. + +The duke and his companions approached the door leading into the great +hall. It lay in splinters. Stygian darkness held sway within. + +Suddenly the duke paused, as if turned to stone, at the same time +plucking his companion back by the sleeve of his surcoat. + +Noiselessly as a ghost out of the door came the form of a woman. She +was tall, exquisitely proportioned, and young. For a moment she paused +on the threshold and looked out into the night. Almost immediately a +second form followed, and paused near the first: that of a man. The +woman seemed to stare blindly at the duke, with wide, unseeing eyes, +as one who walks in a sleep. + +With a choked, inarticulate outcry the duke snatched bow and arrow +from the nearest sentry, and ere the Pisan could grasp the meaning of +what he saw, or prevent, he set and sped the bolt. A moan died on the +stillness. A form collapsed, shuddered and lay still. + +The duke dropped bow and arrow, staring like a madman, then rushed +towards the prostrate form. + +Bending over it, a moan broke from his lips, as he threw his arms +about the lifeless clay of her he had loved in the days of yore, ere +the honeyed treachery of the Frangipani had sundered and broken their +lives. The woman of the Red Tower had expiated her guilt. + +He saw at once that no human agency might here avail. Death had been +instantaneous. The arrow had pierced the heart. + +The duke knelt long by her side, and the strong man's frame heaved +with convulsive sobs, as he closed the eyes and muttered an Ave for +her untimely departed soul. + +When he arose, he looked into the pale face of Francesco, whose +blood-stained sword and garments told a tale his lips would not. He +understood without a word. Silently he extended his hand to the duke, +then, taking off his own mantle, he covered therewith the woman's +body. + +It was midnight when the Pisans and the duke's men groped their way +cautiously down the steep winding path to the shore. The Pisans made +for their ships and Spoleto's men for the dusk of their native woods, +carrying on a hurriedly constructed bier the body of the woman of the +Red Tower. + +Not many minutes had passed after their perilous descent when a sphere +of fire shot from the clouds, followed by a crash as if the earth had +been rent in twain, and the western tower of Astura was seen toppling +into the sea. + +Bye and bye sea and land reflected a crimson glow, which steadily +increased, fanned by the gale, until it shone far out upon the sea. + +Astura was in flames, the funeral pyre of the Frangipani. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE QUEST + + +As the world grew gray with waking light, Francesco came from the +woods and heard the noise of the sea in the hush that breathed in the +dawn. The storm had passed over the sea and a vast calm hung upon the +lips of the day. In the east a green streak shone above the hills. The +sky was still aglitter with sparse stars. An immensity of gloom +brooded over the sea. + +Gaunt, wounded, triumphant, Francesco rode up beneath the banners of +the dawn, eager yet fearful, inspired and strong of purpose. Wood and +hill slept in a haze of mist. The birds were only beginning in the +thickets, like the souls of children yet unborn, calling to eternity. +Beyond in the cliffs, San Nicandro, wrapped round with night, stood +silent and sombre athwart the west. + +Francesco climbed from the valley as the day came with splendor, a +glow of molten gold streaming from the east. Wood and hillside +glimmered in a smoking mist, dew-bespangled, wonderful. As the sun +rose, the sea stretched sudden into the arch of the west, a great +expanse of liquid gold. A mysterious lustre hovered over the cliffs, +waves of light bent like saffron mist upon San Nicandro. + +The dawn-light found an echo in Francesco's face. He came that +morning the ransomer, the champion, defeated in life and hope and +happiness, yet with head erect, as if defying Fate. His manhood smote +him like the deep-throated cry of a great bell, majestic and solemn. +The towers on the cliff were haloed with magic hues. Life, glory, joy, +lay locked in the gray stone walls. His heart sang in him; his eyes +were afire. + +As he walked his horse with a hollow thunder of hoof over the narrow +bridge, he took his horn and blew a blast thereon. There was a sense +of desolation, a lifelessness about the place that smote his senses +with a strange fear. The walls stared void against the sky. There was +no stir, no sound within, no watchful faces at portal or wicket. Only +the gulls circled from the cliffs and the sea made its moan along the +strand. + +Francesco sat in the saddle and looked from wall to belfry, from tower +to gate. There was something tragic about the place, the silence of a +sacked town, the ghostliness of a ship sailing the seas with a dead +crew upon her decks. Francesco's glance rested on the open postern, an +empty gash in the great gate. His face darkened and his eyes lost +their sanguine glow. There was something betwixt death and worse than +death in all this calm. + +He dismounted and left his steed on the bridge. The postern beckoned +to him. He went in like a man nerved for peril, with sword drawn and +shield in readiness. Again he blew his horn. No living being answered, +no voice broke the silence. + +The refectory was open, the door standing half ajar. Francesco thrust +it full open with the point of his sword and looked in. A gray light +filtered through the narrow windows. The nuns lay huddled on benches +and on the floor. Some lay fallen across the settles, others sat with +their heads fallen forward upon the table; a few had crawled towards +the door and had died in the attempt to escape. The shadow of death +was over the whole. + +Francesco's face was as gray as the faces of the dead. There was +something here, a horror, a mystery, that hurled back the warm courage +of the heart. + +With frantic despair he rushed from one body to the other, turning the +dead faces to the light, fearing every one must be that of his own +Ilaria. But Ilaria was not among them; the mystery grew deeper, grew +more unfathomable. For a moment, Francesco stood among the dead nuns +as if every nerve in his body had been suddenly paralyzed, when his +eyes fell upon a crystal chalice, half overturned on the floor. It +contained the remnants of a clear fluid. He picked it up and held it +to his nostrils. It fell from his nerveless fingers upon the stone and +broke into a thousand fragments, a thin stream creeping over the +granite towards the fallen dead. It was a preparation of hemlock and +bitter almonds. He stared aghast, afraid to move, afraid to call. The +nuns had poisoned themselves. + +Like a madman he rushed out into the adjoining corridor, hither and +thither, in the frantic endeavor to find a trace of Ilaria. Yet not a +trace of her did he find. But what he did discover solved the mystery +of the grewsome feast of death which he had just witnessed. In a +corner where he had dropped it, there lay a silken banderol belonging +to a man-at-arms of Anjou's Provencals. They had been here, and the +nuns, to escape the violation of their bodies, had died, thus cheating +the fiends out of the gratification of their lusts. + +The terrible discovery unnerved Francesco so completely that for a +time he stood as if turned to stone, looking about him like a +traveller who has stumbled blindly into a charnel house. Urged by +manifold forebodings, he then rushed from room to room, from cell to +cell. The same silence met him everywhere. Of Ilaria he found not a +trace. Had the fiends of Anjou carried her away, or had she, in +endeavoring to escape, found her death outside of the walls of San +Nicandro? + +He dared not think out the thought. + +The shadows of the place, the staring faces, the stiff hands clawing +at things inanimate, were like the phantasms of the night. Francesco +took the sea-air into his nostrils and looked up into the blue +radiance of the sky. All about him the garden glistened in the dawn; +the cypresses shimmered with dew. The late roses made very death more +apparent to his soul. + +As he stood in deep thought, half dreading what he but half knew, a +voice called to him, breaking suddenly the ponderous silence of the +place. Guided by its sound, Francesco unlatched the door and found +himself face to face with the Duke of Spoleto. + +For a moment they faced each other in silence. + +Then he gave a great cry. + +"Ever, ever night!" he said, stretching out his hands despairingly as +to an eternal void. + +The duke's eyes seemed to look leagues away over moor and valley and +hill, where the blackened ruins of Astura rose beneath a dun smoke +against the calm of the morning sky. + +A strange tenderness played upon his lips, as if with the extinction +of the Frangipani brood peace had entered his soul. + +"A man is a mystery to himself," he said. + +"But to God?" + +"I know no God, save the God, my own soul! Let me live and +die,--nothing more! Why curse one's life with a 'to be?'" + +Francesco sighed heavily. + +"It is a kind of Fate to me!" he said, "inevitable as the setting of +the sun, natural as sleep. Not for myself do I fear it alone,--but I +should not like to think that I should never see her again." + +The duke's eyes had caught life on the distant hillside, life surging +from the valleys, life and the glory of it. Harness, helm and shield +shone in the sun. Gold, azure, silver, scarlet were creeping from the +bronzed green of the wilds. Silent and solemn the host rolled slowly +into the full splendor of the day. + +The duke's face had kindled. + +"Grapple the days to come!" he said. "Let Scripture and ethics rot! My +men are at your command! Let them ride by stream and forest, moor and +mere! Let them ride in quest of your lost one, ride like the wind!" + +Francesco looked at the duke through a mist of tears. + +"You know?" he faltered. + +"For this I came!" replied the duke, extending his hand. "You will +find her whom your heart seeks. Like a golden dawn shall she rise out +of the past. Blow your horn! Let us not tarry!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE ANCHORESS OF NARNI + + +Six days had passed. Once more the sun had tossed night from the sky +and kindled hope in the hymning east. The bleak wilderness barriered +by sea and crag had mellowed into the golden silence of the autumnal +woods. The very trees seemed tongued with prophetic flame. The world +leaped radiant out of the dawn. + +Through the reddened woods rode Francesco, the Duke of Spoleto silent +by his side. Gloom still reigned on the pale, haggard face and there +was no lustre in the eyes that challenged ever the lurking shade of +Death. Six nights and six days had the quest been baffled. Near and +far armor glimmered in the reddened sanctuaries of the woods. Not a +trumpet brayed, though a host had scattered in search of a woman's +face. + +On the seventh day, the trees drew back before Francesco where the +shimmering waters of the Nera streaked the meads. Peace dwelled there +and calm eternal, as of the Spirit that heals the throes of men. Rare +and golden lay the dawn-light on the valleys. The songs of the birds +came glad and multitudinous as in the burgeoning dawn of a glorious +day. + +Francesco had halted under a great oak. His head was bare in the +sun-steeped shadows, his face was the face of one weary with long +watching under the voiceless stars. Great dread possessed him. He +dared not question his own soul. + +A horn sounded in the woods, wild, clamorous and exultant. It was as +the voice of a prophet, clearing the despair of a godless world. Even +the trees stood listening. Far below, in the green shadows of the +valley, a horseman spurred his steed. + +Francesco's eyes were upon him. Yet he dared not hope, gripped by a +great fear. + +"I am even as a child," he said. + +The duke's lips quivered. + +"The dawn breaks,--the night is past. Tidings come to us. Let us ride +out!" + +Francesco seemed lost in thought. He bowed his head and looked long +into the valley. + +"Am I he who slew Raniero Frangipani?" + +"Courage!" said the duke. + +"My blood is as water, my heart as wax. Death and destiny are over my +head!" + +"Speak not to me of destiny and look not to the skies! I have closed +my account with Heaven! In himself is man's power! You have broken the +crucifix! Now trust your own soul. So long as you did serve a +superstition had you lost your true heaven!" + +"And yet--" + +"You have played the god, and the Father in Heaven must love you for +your strength! God does not love a coward! He will let you rule your +destiny--not destiny your soul!" + +"Strange words--" + +"But true! Were I God, should I love the monk puling prayers in a den? +Nay--that man should I choose who dared to follow the dictates of his +own soul and strangle Fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are +better than mumbled prayers!" + +The horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of +sun-bronzed fern. His eyes were full of a restless glitter, as the +eyes of a man, whose heart is troubled. He sprang from the saddle, +and, leading his horse by the bridle, bent low before the twain. + +"Tidings, my lord!" + +"I listen!"-- + +The horseman looked for a moment in Francesco's face but, hardened as +he was, he dared not abide the trial. There was such a stare of +desperate calm in the dark eyes, that his courage failed and quailed +from the truth. He hung his head and stood mute. + +"I listen--" + +"My lord--" + +"For God's sake, speak out!" + +"My lord--" + +"The truth!"-- + +"She lives--" + +A great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of +silence, such as comes after the wail of a storm. The duke's lips were +compressed, as if he feared to give expression to his feelings. +Francesco's face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of +his soul. He sat rigid on his horse, a stone image fronting Fate, +grim-eyed and steadfast. All his life had been one long sacrifice, one +long denial,--had it all been in vain? + +There were tears in the eyes of the man-at-arms. + +"What more?" + +The horseman leaned against his horse, his arm hooked over its neck. + +He pointed to the valley. + +"Yonder lies Narni. Beyond the Campanile of St. Juvenal is a +sanctuary. You can see it yonder by the ford. Two holy women dwell +therein. To them, my lord, I commend you!" + +"You know more!" + +The voice that spoke was terrible. + +"Spare me, my lord! The words are for women's lips, not for mine!" + +"So be it!" + +The three rode in silence, Francesco and the duke together, looking +mutely into each other's face. Francesco's head was bowed to his +breast. The reins lay loose on his horse's neck. + +A gray cell of roughly hewn stone showed amidst the green boughs +beyond the water. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross +hung from her neck and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood +motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode +down to the rippling fords. + +Autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and Francesco's eyes beheld +ruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had come from the cell, and +now stood at the wicket-gate with her hands folded as if in prayer. + +The horseman took Francesco's bridle. The latter went on foot alone to +speak with the anchoress. + +"My lord," she said, kneeling at his feet, "God save and comfort +you!"-- + +The man's brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his +left wrist. He looked over the woman's head into the woods, and +breathed fast through clenched teeth. + +"Speak!" he said. + +"My lord, the woman lives!" + +"I can bear the truth!" + +The anchoress made the sign of the cross. + +"She came to us here in the valley, my lord, tall and white as a lily, +her hair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her +soles rent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches of a +song, such as tells of love, and of Proserpina, Goddess of Shades. We +took her, my lord, gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and +gave her raiment. She abode with us, ever gentle and lovely, yet +speaking like one who had suffered, even to the death. And yet,--even +as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone!"-- + +The woman had never so much as raised her eyes to the man's face. Her +hands held her crucifix, and she was ashen pale, even as new-hewn +stone. + +"And is this all?" + +The man's voice trembled in his throat. His face was terrible to +behold in the sun. + +"Not all, my lord!" + +"Say on!" + +The anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle. Her voice was +husky with tears. + +"My lord, you seek one bereft of reason!" + +"Mad!" + +"Alas!" + +A great cry came from Francesco's lips. + +"My God! This, then, is the end!" + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE DAWN + + +An undefined melancholy overshadowed the world. Autumn breathed in the +wind. The year, red-bosomed, was rushing to its doom. + +On the summit of a wood-crowned hill, rising like a pyramid above moor +and forest, stood two men silent under the shadows of an oak. In the +distance glimmered the sea, and by a rock upon the hillside, armed +men, a knot of spears, shone like spirit sentinels athwart the west. +Mists were creeping up the valleys, as the sun went down into the sea. +A few sparse stars gleamed out like souls still tortured by the +mysteries of life. An inevitable pessimism seemed to challenge the +universe, taking for its parable the weird afterglow of the west. + +Deep in the woods a voice sang wild and solitary in the gathering +gloom. Like the cry of a ghost, it seemed to set the silence +quivering, the leaves quaking with windless awe. The men who looked +towards the sea heard it, a song that echoed in the heart like woe. + +The duke pointed into the darkening wood. + +"Trust your own heart: self is the man! Through a mistaken sense of +duty have you been brought nigh unto death and despair! Trust not in +sophistry: the laws of men are carven upon stone, the laws of Heaven +upon the heart! Be strong! From henceforth, scorn mere words! Trample +tradition in the dust! Trust yourself, and the God in your heart!" + +The distant voice had sunk into silence. Francesco listened for it +with hands aloft. + +"I must go," he said. + +"Go!"-- + +"I must be near her through the night!" + +"The moon stands full upon the hills! I will await you here!" + +Dim were the woods that autumn evening, dim and deep with an ecstasy +of gloom. Stars flickered in the heavens; the moon came and enveloped +the trees with silver flame. A primeval calm lay heavy upon the bosom +of the night. The spectral branches of the trees pointed rigid and +motionless towards the sky. + +Francesco had left the duke gazing out upon the shimmering sea. The +voice called to him from the woods with plaintive peals of song. The +man followed it, holding to a grass-grown track that curled at random +into the gloom. Moonlight and shadow lay alternate upon his armor. +Hope and despair battled in his face. His soul leaped voiceless and +inarticulate into the darkened shrine of prayer. + +The voice came to him clearer in the forest calm. The gulf had +narrowed, the words flew as over the waters of Death. They were pure, +yet meaningless, passionate, yet void; words barbed with an utter +pathos, that silenced desire. + +For an hour Francesco roamed in the woods, drawing ever nearer, the +fear in him increasing with every step. Anon the voice failed him by a +little stream that quivered dimly through the grass. A stillness that +was ghostly held the woods. The moonlight seemed to shudder on the +trees. A stupendous silence weighed upon the world. + +A hollow glade opened suddenly in the woods, a white gulf in a forest +gloom. Water shone there, a mere rush-ringed and full of mysterious +shadows, girded by the bronzed foliage of a thousand oaks. Moss grew +thick about the roots, dead leaves covered the grass. + +And ever and anon a dead leaf dropped silently to earth, like a hope +that has died on the Tree of Life. + +Francesco knelt in a patch of bracken and looked out over the glades. +A figure went to and fro by the water's brim, a figure pale in the +moonlight, as the form of the restless dead. The man kneeling in the +bracken pressed his hands over his breast; his face seemed to start +out of the gloom as the face of one who struggles in the sea, +submerged, yet desperate. + +Francesco saw the woman halt beside the mere. He saw her bend, take +water in her palms and dash it in her face. Standing in the moonlight, +she smoothed her hair between her fingers, her hands shining white as +ivory against the dark bosom of her dress. She seemed to murmur to +herself the while, words wistful and full of woe. Once she thrust her +hands to the sky and cried: "Francesco! Francesco!" The man kneeling +in the shadows quivered like a wind-shaken reed. + +The moon climbed higher and the woman by the mere spread her cloak +upon a patch of heather and laid herself thereon. Not a sound broke +the silence; the woods were mute, the air lifeless as the steely +water. An hour passed. The figure on the heather lay still as an +effigy on a tomb. The man in the bracken cast one look at the stars, +then crossed himself and crept out into the moonlight. + +Holding the scabbard of his sword, he skirted the mere with shimmering +armor, went down upon his knees and crawled slowly over the grass. +Hours seemed to elapse before the black patch of heather spread crisp +and dry beneath his hands. Breathing through dilated nostrils, he +trembled like one who creeps to stab a sleeping friend. The moonlight +seemed to shower sparks upon him, as with supernatural glory. Tense +anguish seemed to fill the night with sound. + +Two more paces and he was close at the woman's side. The heather +crackled beneath his knees. He held his breath, crept nearer, and +knelt so near that he could have kissed Ilaria's face. Her head lay +pillowed on her arm. Her hair spread as in a dusky halo beneath it. +Her bosom moved with the rhythmic calm of dreamless sleep. Her lips +were parted in a smile. One hand was hid in the dark folds of her +robe. + +Francesco knelt with upturned face, his eyes shut to the sky. He +seemed like one faint with pain; his lips moved as in prayer. A +hundred inarticulate pleadings surged heavenward from his heart. + +Again he bent over her and watched the pure girlish face as she slept. +A strange calm fell for a time upon him; his eyes never wavered from +the white arm and the glimmering hair. Vast awe held him in thrall. He +was as one who broods tearless and amazed over the dead, calm face of +one beloved above all on earth. + +Hours passed and Francesco found no sustenance, save in prayer. The +unuttered yearnings of a world seemed molten in his soul. The moon +waned. The stars grew dim. Strange sounds stirred in the forest-deeps; +the mysterious breathing of a thousand trees. Life ebbed and flowed +with the sigh of a moon-stupored sea. Visions blazed in the night-sky +and faded away. + +Hours passed. Neither sleeper nor watcher stirred. The night grew +faint. The water flickered in the mere. The very stars seemed to gaze +upon the destinies of two wearied souls. + +Far and faint came the quaver of a bird's note. Gray and mysterious +stood the forest spires. Light! Light at last! Spears of amber darting +in the east. A shudder seemed to shake the universe. The great vault +kindled. The sky grew luminous with gold. + +It was the dawn. + +Ilaria stirred in her sleep. Her mouth quivered, her hair stirred +sudden under the heather, like tendrils of gold shivering in the sun. + +Even as the light increased, Francesco knelt and looked down upon her. +Hope and life, glorious, sudden, seemed to fall out of the east, a +radiant faith begotten of spirit-power. Banners of gold were streaming +in the sky. The gloom fled. A vast expectancy hung solemn, breathless, +upon the red lips of the day. + +A sigh, and the long, silken lashes quivered. The lips moved, the eyes +opened. + +"Ilaria! Ilaria!" + +Sudden silence followed, a vast hush as of undreamed hope. The woman's +eyes were silently searching the man's face. He bent and cowered over +her as one who weeps. His hands touched her body, yet she did not +stir. + +"Ilaria! Ilaria!" + +It was a hoarse, passionate outcry that broke the golden stupor of the +dawn. A sudden light leaped lustrous into the woman's eyes, her face +shone radiant in its etherealized beauty. + +"Francesco!" + +"Ah! At last!" + +A great shudder passed through her body. Her eyes grew big with fear. + +"Speak to me!" + +"Ilaria!" + +"Raniero?" + +"Dead!" + +A great silence held for a moment. The woman's head sank upon the +man's shoulder. Madness had passed. Her eyes were fixed upon his with +a wonderful earnestness, a splendid calm. + +"Is this a dream?" + +"It is the truth!" + +Through the forest aisles rode the Duke of Spoleto. + +He saw and paused. + +"I return beyond the Alps to join the forces of Rudolf of Hapsburg. My +men are at your disposal. I shall wait for you on yonder hillock." + +He wheeled about and was gone. + +Again silence held for a pace. + +Presently Ilaria gave a great sigh and looked strangely at the sun. + +"I have dreamed a dream," she crooned, "and all was dark and fearful. +Death seemed near; lurid phantoms,--things from hell! I knew not what +I did, nor where I wandered, nor what strange stupor held my soul. All +my being cried out to you--yet all was dark about me, horrible +midnight, peopled with foul forms! Oh, that night,--that night--" + +Shivering, she covered her eyes as if trying to banish the memory. + +"It has passed," she breathed after a pause, during which Francesco +had taken her in his arms, kissing her eyes, her lips, and the +sylph-like, flower-soft face. "I see the dawn!" + +"Our dawn!"--Francesco replied, pointing to the hillock beyond. + +For a time there was a great silence, as if the fates of two souls +were being weighed in the scales of destiny. + +It was Francesco who spoke. + +"How you have suffered!" + +She crept very close to him, smiling up at him with the old-time smile +through tear-dimmed eyes. + +"It counts for naught now! Are not you with me?" + +The sky burned azure above the tree-tops. Transient sunshafts quivered +through the vaulted dome of breathless leaves, as slowly Francesco and +Ilaria strode towards the camp of the Duke of Spoleto on the +sun-bathed hillock above the Nera. + + + The End. + + + * * * * * + + +POLLYANNA + +_By Eleanor H. Porter_ + +Author of "Miss Billy," "Miss Billy's Decision," etc. + +_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25; postpaid $1.40_ + +"Enter Pollyanna! She is the daintiest, dearest, most irresistible +maid you have met in all your journeyings through Bookland. And you +forget she is a story girl, for Pollyanna is so real that after your +first introduction you will feel the inner circle of your friends has +admitted a new member. A brave, winsome, modern American girl, +Pollyanna walks into print to take her place in the hearts of all +members of the family." + +_Of "Miss Billy" the critics have written as follows:_ + + "To say of any story that it makes the reader's heart feel warm + and happy is to pay it praise of sorts, undoubtedly. Well, + that's the very praise one gives 'Miss Billy.'"--_Edwin L. + Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald._ + + "The story is delightful and as for Billy herself--she's _all + right_!"--_Philadelphia Press._ + + "There is a fine humor in the book, some good revelation of + character and plenty of romance of the most unusual + order."--_The Philadelphia Inquirer._ + + "There is something altogether fascinating about 'Miss Billy,' + some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand + the individual attention of the reader from the moment we open + the book until we reluctantly turn the last page."--_Boston + Transcript._ + + "The book is a wholesome story, as fresh in tone as it is + graceful in expression, and one may predict for it a wide + audience."--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._ + + "Miss Billy is so carefree, so original and charming, that she + lives in the reader's memory long after the book has been laid + aside."--_Boston Globe._ + + "You cannot help but love dear 'Billy;' she is winsome and + attractive and you will be only too glad to introduce her to + your friends."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ + + + * * * * * + + +THE CAREER OF DR. WEAVER + +_By Mrs. Henry W. Backus_ + +_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25; postpaid $1.40_ + +A big and purposeful story interwoven about the responsibilities and +problems in the medical profession of the present day. Dr. Weaver, a +noted specialist, and head of a private hospital, had allowed himself +to drift away from the standards of his youth in his desire for wealth +and social and scientific prestige. When an expose of the methods +employed by him in furthering his schemes for the glorifying of the +name of "Weaver" in the medical world is threatened, it is frustrated +through the efforts of the famous doctor's younger brother, Dr. Jim. +The story is powerful and compelling, even if it uncovers the problems +and temptations of a physician's career. Perhaps the most important +character, not even excepting Dr. Weaver and Dr. Jim, is "The Girl," +who plays such an important part in the lives of both men. + + "The story becomes one of those absorbing tales of to-day which + the reader literally devours in an evening, unwilling to leave + the book until the last page is reached, and constantly alert, + through the skill of the author, in following the characters + through the twisted ways of their career."--_Boston Journal._ + + "The story is well-written, unique, quite out of the usual + order, and is most captivating."--_Christian Intelligencer._ + + + * * * * * + + +THE HILL OF VENUS + +_By Nathan Gallizier_ + +Author of "Castel del Monte," "The Sorceress of Rome," "The Court of +Lucifer," etc. + +_12mo, cloth decorative, with four illustrations in color, net $1.35; +postpaid $1.50_ + +This is a vivid and powerful romance of the thirteenth century in the +times of the great Ghibelline wars, and deals with the fortunes of +Francesco Villani, a monk, who has been coerced by his dying father to +bind himself to the Church through a mistaken sense of duty, but who +loves Ilaria, one of the famous beauties of the Court at Avellino. The +excitement, splendor and stir of those days of activity in Rome are +told with a vividness and daring, which give a singular fascination to +the story. + +_The Press has commented as follows on the author's previous books_: + + "The author displays many of the talents that made Scott + famous."--_The Index._ + + "The book is breathless reading, as much for the adventures, + the pageants, the midnight excursions of the minor characters, + as for the love story of the prince and Donna + Lucrezia."--_Boston Transcript._ + + "Mr. Gallizier daringly and vividly paints in glowing word and + phrases, in sparkling dialogue and colorful narrative, the + splendor, glamor and stir in those days of excitement, + intrigue, tragedy, suspicion and intellectual activity in + Rome."--_Philadelphia Press._ + + "A splendid bit of old Roman mosaic, or a gorgeous piece of + tapestry. Otto is a striking and pathetic figure. Description + of the city, the gorgeous ceremonials of the court and the + revels are a series of wonderful pictures."--_Cincinnati + Enquirer._ + + "The martial spirit of these stirring times, weird beliefs in + magic and religion are most admirably presented by the author, + who knows his subject thoroughly. It belongs to the class of + Bulwer-Lytton's romances; carefully studied, well wrought, and + full of exciting incident."--_Cleveland Enquirer._ + + "Romance at its best."--_Boston Herald._ + + + * * * * * + + +THE WHAT-SHALL-I-DO GIRL + +Or, The Career of Joy Kent + +_By Isabel Woodman Waitt_ + +_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by Jessie Gillespie. Net $1.25; +postpaid $1.40_ + +When Joy Kent finds herself alone in the world, thrown on her own +resources, after the death of her father, she looks about her, as do +so many young girls, fresh from the public schools, wondering how she +can support herself and earn a place in the great business world about +her. Still wondering, she sends a letter to a number of girls she had +known in school days, asking that each one tell her just how she had +equipped herself for a salary-earning career, and once equipped, how +she had found it possible to start on that career. In reply come +letters from the milliner, the stenographer, the librarian, the +salesgirl, the newspaper woman, the teacher, the nurse, and from girls +who had adopted all sorts of vocations as a means of livelihood. Real +friendly girl letters they are, too, not of the type that preach, but +of the kind which give sound and helpful advice in a bright and +interesting manner. Of course there is a splendid young man who also +gives advice. Any "What-shall-I-do" young girl can read of the careers +suggested for Joy Kent with profit and pleasure, and, perhaps, with +surprise! + + + * * * * * + + +THE HARBOR MASTER + +_By Theodore Goodridge Roberts_ + +Author of "Comrades of the Trails," "Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery," +etc. + +_12mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color by John +Goss. Net $1.25; postpaid $1.40_ + +The scene of the story is Newfoundland. The story deals with the love +of Black Dennis Nolan, a young giant and self-appointed skipper of the +little fishing hamlet of Chance Along, for Flora Lockhart, a beautiful +professional singer, who is rescued by Dennis from a wreck on the +treacherous coast of Newfoundland, when on her way from England to the +United States. The story is a strong one all through, with a mystery +that grips, plenty of excitement and action, and the author presents +life in the open in all its strength and vigor. Mr. Roberts is one of +the younger writers whom the critics have been watching with interest. +In "The Harbor Master" he has surely arrived. + +_Of Mr. Roberts' previous books the critics have written as follows_: + + "The action is always swift and romantic and the love is of the + kind that thrills the reader. The characters are admirably + drawn and the reader follows with deep interest the adventures + of the two young people."--_Baltimore Sun._ + + "Mr. Roberts' pen has lost none of its cunning, while his style + is easier and breezier than ever."--_Buffalo Express._ + + "It is a romance of clean, warm-hearted devotion to friends and + duty. The characters are admirable each in his own or her own + way, and the author has made each fit the case in excellent + fashion."--_Salt Lake City Tribune._ + + "In this book Mr. Roberts has well maintained his reputation + for the vivid coloring of his descriptive pictures, which are + full of stirring action, and in which love and fighting hold + chief place."--_Boston Times._ + + "Its ease of style, its rapidity, its interest from page to + page, are admirable; and it shows that inimitable power--the + story-teller's gift of verisimilitude. Its sureness and + clearness are excellent, and its portraiture clear and + pleasing."--_The Reader._ + + + * * * * * + + +AT THE SIGN OF THE TOWN PUMP + +The Further Adventures of Peggy of Spinster Farm + +_By Helen M. Winslow_ + +_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, net $1.25; postpaid $ 1.40_ + +Miss Winslow calls us again away from the strenuous and noisy +confusion of modern cities to the charm and contentment of life "under +the greenwood tree." Peggy's adventures had only just begun in the +first book. In this new record of life at Spinster Farm and "Elysium," +"At the Sign of the Town Pump," there is plenty of romantic adventure +of the kind that proves truth to be stranger sometimes than fiction. +There is humor, too, in even greater quantities than in the preceding +book, sparkling humor that places the author well up in the list of +our New England humorists. "At the Sign of the Town Pump" will be +welcomed not only by those who enjoyed making the acquaintance of +Spinster Farm, but by thousands of new readers who appreciate a clever +story and a fascinating heroine. + +_On "Peggy at Spinster Farm" the Press opinions are as follows_: + + "Very alluring are the pictures she draws of the old-fashioned + house, the splendid old trees, the pleasant walks, the gorgeous + sunsets, and--or it would not be Helen Winslow--the + cats."--_The Boston Transcript._ + + "'Peggy at Spinster Farm' is a rewarding volume, original and + personal in its point of view, redolent of unfeigned love for + the country and the sane, satisfying pleasures of country + life."--_Milwaukee Free Press._ + + "It is an alluring, wholesome tale."--_Schenectady Star._ + + "Is a story remarkably interesting, and no book will be found + more entertaining than this one, especially for those who enjoy + light-hearted character sketches, and startling and unexpected + happenings."--_Northampton Gazette._ + + "An exceptionally well-written book."--_Milwaukee Evening + Wisconsin._ + + "The Spinster and Peggy have a quiet sense of humor of their + own and they convey their experiences with a quaint enjoyment + that holds us irresistibly."--_The Argonaut._ + + "This is a thoroughly enjoyable story. Mary Wilkins at her best + was never more interesting, and she has never produced a book + more normal and as wholesome as this."--_Journal of Education._ + + + * * * * * + + +Selections from L. C. Page and Company's List of Fiction + + + WORKS OF ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS + + _Each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative_ $1.50 + + + THE FLIGHT OF GEORGIANA + + A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER. Illustrated by H. + C. Edwards. + + "A love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a + remarkably well finished piece of work."--_Chicago + Record-Herald._ + + + THE BRIGHT FACE OF DANGER + + Being an account of some adventures of Henri de Launay, son of + the Sieur de la Tournoire. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. + + "Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself. We thank him + heartily. The story is nothing if not spirited and + entertaining, rational and convincing."--_Boston Transcript._ + + + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + (40th thousand.) + + "This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done. + Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure + of this praise, which is generous."--_Buffalo News._ + + + CAPTAIN RAVENSHAW + + OR, THE MAID OF CHEAPSIDE. (52d thousand.) A romance of + Elizabethan London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other + artists. + + Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we had + anything so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy. + + + THE CONTINENTAL DRAGOON + + A ROMANCE OF PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778. (53d thousand.) + Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. + + A stirring romance of the Revolution, with its scenes laid on + neutral territory. + + + PHILIP WINWOOD + + (70th thousand.) A Sketch of the Domestic History of an + American Captain in the War of Independence, embracing events + that occurred between and during the years 1763 and 1785 in New + York and London. Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton. + + + AN ENEMY TO THE KING + + (70th thousand.) Illustrated by H. De M. Young. + + An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the + adventures of a young French nobleman at the court of Henry + III., and on the field with Henry IV. + + + THE ROAD TO PARIS + + A STORY OF ADVENTURE. (35th thousand.) Illustrated by H. C. + Edwards. + + An historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an + account of the life of an American gentleman adventurer. + + + A GENTLEMAN PLAYER + + HIS ADVENTURES ON A SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH. (48th + thousand.) Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. + + The story of a young gentleman who joins Shakespeare's company + of players, and becomes a protege of the great poet. + + + CLEMENTINA'S HIGHWAYMAN + + Illustrated by A. Everhart. + + The story is laid in the mid-Georgian period. It is a dashing, + sparkling, vivacious comedy. + + + TALES FROM BOHEMIA + + Illustrated by Wallace Goldsmith. + + These bright and clever tales deal with people of the theatre + and odd characters in other walks of life which fringe on + Bohemia. + + + A SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE + + By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS AND THEODORE GOODRIDGE ROBERTS. + + With frontispiece by Frank T. Merrill. + + "The plot shows invention and is developed with originality, + and there is incident in abundance."--_Brooklyn Times._ + + + THE SWORD OF BUSSY + + By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS AND HERMAN NICKERSON. + + With frontispiece by Edmund H. Garrett. + + _Net, $1.25; postpaid, $1.40_ + + "The plot is lively, dashing and fascinating, the very kind of + a story that one does not want to stop reading until it is + finished."--_Boston Herald._ + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + +Archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hill of Venus, by Nathan Gallizier + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HILL OF VENUS *** + +***** This file should be named 39970.txt or 39970.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/9/7/39970/ + +Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Matthew Wheaton and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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