



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- 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- 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 <DW72>s 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 <DW72>s 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  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  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 <DW72>s
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 
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 <DW72>s, 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 <DW72> 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  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- 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
<DW72>s, 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 <DW18>s, 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- 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 <DW72>s 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 <DW72>. 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 <DW72> 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 <DW72>s
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 <DW72>s 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 <DW72>s 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 <DW72>s,
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 <DW72>s, 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 <DW72>, 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 <DW72> 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 <DW72>, 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 <DW72>. 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

*** 