love-wisdom grew with the moment into a wild resolve. The lips of the
fool should interpret the heart of the King. He motioned to her to sit
on the lowest of the steps that led to the altar place, and when she had
done so he seated himself thereon. The sunlight fell between them and
lay, a pool of many colors at their feet. Neither of them knew that the
little side door, which led from the quiet street, opened a little,
allowing a woman to slip into the church and vanish behind the shadow of
a pillar.
Robert spoke in a slow voice. "Love is the soul of the world. I am no
better than a mouthing fool, but I believe the perfect lover to be next
of kin to the angels."
Perpetua gave a little sigh. "What is the perfect lover?" she asked,
softly. She felt as if she were back in her mountain hut, sitting by
her father's side, and asking him questions of the youth of the world.
Robert's voice came back to her like a solemn chant.
"Such a one as the many dull would meanly scorn and the few wise nobly
envy. For him love comes like a mighty wind of fire and burns his heart
clean. He may have been stained and spotted in the slough of life, but
when the woman comes she saves him."
There was a nobleness in his voice which she had not noted before; it
charmed and lulled her.
"Can human love do so much?" she asked, more of herself than of him.
Robert's voice rose in triumphant assertion. "The heart's woman is the
soul's star. She lifts her lover from the common whirl of things. He is
thrilled with the elemental wonder, fulfilled with the immortal truth.
He shelters imperishable passion in the perishable flesh. To a gray
world such love brings glory, and he that is so graced walks in the
wilderness as in a rose garden--gentle in reverence, loyal in honor,
simple in faith. His eyes have glimpses of the flight of angels; his
ears hear snatches of the music of the spheres, and even the very dust
he treads upon becomes the golden dust of stars. This is the love that
is mightier than death, this is the mystery of mysteries, the rose of
changeless youth."
Perpetua put her hand to her heart.
"Is there such love?" she breathed, and instantly Robert answered her
and his answer came like music to her ears.
"There is such love. It is no dream, but a glorious reality
transfiguring the world, exalting men, immortalizing women. If I could
woo you with a hunter's voice, I would cry to you through the parted
leaves: Perpetua, I love you with this mighty love, have loved you since
that happy forest day, shall love you so, Perpetua, till I die, and bear
as my one claim to opened heaven the changeless cry, I love Perpetua."
While Robert was speaking his face seemed to grow comelier, and the pale
face of Perpetua showed the influence of his words. Her eyes shone with
his enthusiasm, her lips quivered with his emotion, her cheek flushed
with his inspiration; she was entirely under the spell of his speech and
the associations it evoked. As he came to an end she rose as if
entranced, and moved slowly towards him. He, too, rose, as if himself
bewitched by the magic of his tongue, and stood with parted arms as if
to clasp and welcome her. Each had forgotten time and place, both were
again in the green wood with their hearts on fire.
"Hunter, my hunter," Perpetua cried; "your voice comes through the
leaves and conquers me!"
Her eyes were half closed, her hands stretched out; she swayed towards
him.
Robert sprang forward with a mighty cry. "Perpetua!"
She was almost in his arms; suddenly her opened eyes realized that she
was confronted by the rugged visage of the fool. She drew back with a
start, and put her hands to her eyes as if to brush away the dream that
had possessed her.
Robert, who had advanced like a conqueror, fell back like a slave.
"Ah!" Perpetua moaned. "What have you said to me? I have dreamed a
dream."
With a heavy sigh Robert answered her, striving to smile.
"I too have dreamed a dream. As the golden words glowed from my brain
they worked a spell upon me, and for a moment I, the hideous cripple,
fancied myself young and comely, the lover of my vision. Forgive me,
Perpetua."
"What is there to forgive?" Perpetua answered. "I have slept waking,
have dreamed with open eyes, and in my dream I seemed to hear a voice
that carries all the music of the world, which called me by my name and
made me come to it."
"Perpetua!" Robert pleaded.
But she went on speaking, unheeding him, as if she were indeed still
under the influence of a dream.
"I was again in the green wood; the fountain bubbled at my feet. Strong
hands parted the curtain of green leaves, and through the gap came
sunlight--sunlight and the hunter with eyes like mountain lakes; and as
I moved to meet him the vision vanished. Are you a wizard?"
Robert could now command himself.
"No," he said; "only a fool who teases his soul with Elysian fancies.
But the strings of the lute have snapped; they were made of
heartstrings, and a thought too fine for the work. I will play that air
no more."
She did not seem to notice the sorrow in his voice; she longed for
solitude. "Leave me a little while to myself," she entreated. "I want to
be alone and pray."
Robert looked at her wistfully; for a few golden moments he had known
youth again, and hope, and the speech of passionate love, had seen the
woman he worshipped come to him under the spell of his words. Now he was
again God's outcast.
"The will of Heaven be done," he murmured to himself; then to Perpetua
he said, quietly, "When you pray, pray for your poor servant, for I
think your pure voice must soar at once into the courts of Heaven."
Perpetua smiled kindly at him. "Dear Diogenes," she said; and with that
name ringing in his ears Robert went slowly out through the sea-door.
Perpetua turned and knelt at the altar, praying,
"Dear Mother of Mercy, help me to forget the hunter's face!"
XVI
THE CALL OF THE BELL
Out of the darkest shadows a woman crept towards the altar. She bent
over Perpetua where she knelt, and said, mockingly:
"You would do better to pray to forget the fool's face, for the fool has
led you into folly."
Perpetua sprang to her feet and saw Lycabetta. Making the sign of the
cross she confronted her. "Why are you here? This place is holy."
Lycabetta laughed. "I loved you so well that I could not part from you.
You have no plague mark on your beauty. That was a rare trick, and your
fool hid you cunningly--but we have found you, bird, at last."
"I am in sanctuary," Perpetua said, steadily.
Lycabetta sneered, "Our king-hawk will not be scared by a sacred name."
"Sicily still stands in Christendom," Perpetua answered; "and this
ground is as holy as the old Jerusalem or the new."
Lycabetta looked at her with languid wonder.
"Why are you so perverse? It is a smiling fortune to be the darling of a
king."
"It is a fairer fortune to be the darling of the Lord," Perpetua
answered, proudly. "Why do you plague me so vainly? There is no fear nor
favor in the world that can move me."
Lycabetta watched her with half-closed lids. "Are you so sure?" she
said, cruelly. Then she went to the side door and opened it, calling
out, "My lord!" and instant to her summons Hildebrand entered the
church.
"Your chaste angel will play no game with us."
Hildebrand gave Perpetua a courtly salutation. "I am glad to find you,
lady."
Perpetua had drawn close to King Robert's pillar and caught the rope in
her hands.
"If you come near me," she cried, "I will ring this bell and Syracuse
will guard me."
"You mistake me," Hildebrand said, calmly. "I am your friend, and by
your leave I would save you from the King. Do not believe that sanctuary
will serve you. His lust of hate would pluck you from between the horns
of the altar."
"This shrine is sacred, even to him," Perpetua asserted, wearing a
greater confidence than she felt.
Lycabetta laughed stealthily. Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders.
"You talk briskly, but you cannot make and mend the world at your maid's
pleasure. I alone can save you from the King."
"How can you save me?" Perpetua asked him. She was undaunted, but she
thought to gain time.
"Very simply," Hildebrand answered; "I desire your favors more than the
King's favor, and if you will give me yourself I will take care of what
is mine own."
"You are a faithful servant," Perpetua said, in scorn.
Hildebrand waved her scorn away dispassionately with his delicate white
hands.
"I wear no fetters. If the King irks me I will drive my dagger between
his ribs, and make myself king in Sicily. I think a change in the
dynasty would not be unpopular in the island. Why, I will do this
to-night to please you, and make you my queen if you will."
"You are baser than your master." Perpetua flung the words at him.
Hildebrand heard them unmoved. "I am what I am. Will you come to me?"
Perpetua answered him, steadfast in scorn, "You are as foolish as you
are cruel, and you weary me."
Hildebrand turned to Lycabetta. "Daughter of Venus," he said, "a few
paces hence you will find the northern soldier whose kisses you relish.
Bring him here with his company."
Lycabetta went a little way nearer to Perpetua and stared at her. "You
must be a witch," she said, "for you make men mad for you. I cannot see
your marvel." Then she went out of the church.
"I will appeal to Syracuse," Perpetua cried to Hildebrand. She seized
the rope of the great bell and tugged at it. The deep note of the bell
was heard booming out over the city, to be answered almost immediately
by the hum of voices and the hurry of feet.
"Now you are doomed indeed," Hildebrand commented, ironically.
Perpetua still tugged at the bell.
"Syracuse will defend me," she asserted, brave against danger.
"Syracuse will do nothing," Hildebrand said, confidently.
Even as he spoke the sea-door was flung open and a mob of people flooded
the church, bearing Hieronymus in their midst. At the same moment
through the side door Sigurd entered with his soldiers, followed by
Lycabetta.
"Who rings the bell?" Hieronymus asked, sternly, gazing in amazement at
Perpetua and the strange display of armed force.
"I do, father," Perpetua answered. Then eagerly she appealed to the
murmuring crowd: "People of Syracuse, protect me. That bell appeals to
you with the voice of the dead good King, to defend me against the
living evil King."
Men and women, the crowd clustered together, murmurous, menacing
sound--the men had weapons in their hands and looked as if they were
ready to use them in defence of their ancient rights.
Unmoved by their attitude, Hildebrand said to Sigurd: "Make that woman
your prisoner. She is the King's enemy."
Sigurd and his soldiers advanced towards Perpetua. As they did so the
uneasy crowd about the door parted, and Robert rushed in through the
human lane, wild-eyed; he looked from Perpetua to Hildebrand, from the
soldiers to the people.
"Perpetua! Perpetua!" he cried. "You dare not touch her. She is in
sanctuary."
Instantly the people about the door took up the cry and thundered it:
"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"
Hildebrand greeted Robert with an evil smile. "Fool, fool, I thought we
should lure you."
"Sanctuary!" Robert cried again. He tried to reach Perpetua, but the
soldiers were between him and her, a wall of weapons.
"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" the people raved, swaying at Robert's heels.
Hildebrand lifted his hand; there was a lull, and he spoke. "Silence,
slaves! There is no sanctuary against sorcery."
Perpetua, clinging to the pillar, echoed his word in horror. "Sorcery!"
"Ay," repeated Hildebrand. "Sorcery. The King swears you have cast
spells upon him, delivering him madness in a draught of well-water, that
you are a damnable sorceress."
Through the confused clamor that followed this charge, Perpetua's voice
rang out.
"This is the wickedest story ever told."
"People of Syracuse," Robert called, "do not believe this man. She is
the victim of a wicked King. As you have wives, daughters, sweethearts,
stand by me and save her."
He appealed eagerly to the crowd, rushing to man after man among them,
but each shook his head and hung back, daunted by the terrible charge of
witchcraft.
"Sorcery's a vile thing," said one.
"I'll not meddle with sorcery," said another.
Perpetua's hopes drooped as she saw how popular feeling fell from her.
"I am no sorceress, men of Syracuse," she said, sadly.
Robert pointed to the pale, beautiful girl standing by the pillar and
surrounded by the armed men.
"Can you look upon her and believe one evil thought? Save her, in God's
name!"
Again the crowd swayed a little towards the soldiers, urged by Robert,
urged by Hieronymus. Again it fell back when Hildebrand raised his hand.
"Friends, this fellow is a madman. If you ask him he will tell you that
he is the King."
The crowd that was wellnigh stirred to mutiny by Robert's appeals drew
back from him suspiciously.
Hildebrand saw his advantage and pressed it. "Is it not so, fellow? Are
you not the King?"
Robert's hands raised in appeal, raised in menace, dropped inertly to
his side, and his head drooped on his breast.
"I was the King," he said, in a voice that was but a whisper.
Hildebrand caught at the admission exultantly.
"You hear him? Secure him!"
All his supporters, save Hieronymus, ebbed away from Robert. Two of
Sigurd's soldiers seized him. Whatever chance there might have been of
rescuing Perpetua was lost.
Hildebrand went on, triumphantly:
"Against witchcraft no sanctuary prevails. Let no man hinder the King's
justice on pain of death."
Lycabetta, who had crept near to Perpetua, whispered in her ear:
"My lord Flame is a fierce lover. He clings close and he kisses quick
and he will not spare your modesty. You will burn like a bright torch."
Then Lycabetta went out of the church as she had come in, with a smile
on her face.
Perpetua called to Hieronymus. "Is there no help?"
"There is no help," Hieronymus answered, despairingly.
"Then I will go to death holding my head high," the girl said,
valiantly.
"Take her away," Hildebrand ordered; and at his order Perpetua was borne
away in the midst of a guard of soldiers and followed by Hieronymus.
"Clear the church."
The remaining soldiers drove the crowd into the streets.
"Fling the fool on the altar steps. I think he will have a praying fit
on him."
His captors cast Robert roughly on the altar steps, where he lay like
one dying.
"Now leave me."
The two soldiers went out, the sea-door closed, and Hildebrand and
Robert were left alone.
Hildebrand went slowly over to where Robert lay and talked mockingly to
him.
"How mulish a woman may be! Here is a great country girl, who has never
lain soft nor known cheer, never worn silk and never sported a jewel,
and yet when great men scuffle for her, she will rather die than serve
them and herself. Yes, friend Diogenes, your sweetheart will be burned
as a witch."
Robert lifted his head. "Pray Heaven you lie!" he moaned.
"I am more truthful than an oracle," Hildebrand retorted. "When the
wood-wench flouted him, our good King vowed that she should burn for her
virtue."
Robert shuddered at the memory of his own words, of his own purpose.
"Oh, God, have mercy on my wicked soul!" he prayed.
Hildebrand mocked him with a false compassion. "Yet all is not lost,
friend Diogenes. If your wit saved her before, your valor may save her
now."
Robert turned to him again.
"If your heart holds any pity, speak," he entreated, hoping against hope
for some leaven of charity in the heart of Hildebrand.
"She can appeal to the ordeal of battle," Hildebrand said, calmly. "And
if she finds a champion valiant enough to overthrow the King's man, who
shall accuse her, then she is free."
Robert hid his face. "Heaven have pity!" he murmured.
Hildebrand went on unmoved.
"The King has picked me for his champion, and, as you know, I am skilled
in arms. But you are a stalwart fellow. Prove yourself the better man
and save your paramour."
A crazy thought came into Robert's brain. He had a dagger at his belt;
if he could but take Hildebrand unawares and slay him, one danger would
be out of Perpetua's path. His hand felt for the handle, held it fast.
He poised his crippled body for a spring, turned swiftly on the altar
stairs, and leaped with lifted blade at Hildebrand. But Hildebrand had
watched his gesture, divined his thoughts; he caught him as he sprang,
by the throat and wrist, and while with the one hand he squeezed so hard
that he wellnigh forced the breath from Robert's body, with the other he
twisted Robert's wrist so that the knife fell clattering on the flags of
the church. Then he tossed Robert, limp and gasping, to the ground.
"Keep your fury for the day of fight," Hildebrand sneered. "See now how
easily you could overcome me. Yet you are a trouble to me now, and I
think I will kill you, Master Fool!"
Robert did not heed, did not hear his threat. While Hildebrand put his
hand to the hilt of his sword and loosened it in its sheath, Robert
crawled to the steps of the altar, cowering, with clasped hands.
"God give me back my strength," he prayed. "There is no punishment too
heavy for my sin, but for this woman's sake breathe back my manhood into
this withered body that I may fight for her. Then cast me unprotesting
into hell. Ah!"
Even as he prayed he seemed to feel the breath of a great spirit fill
his body with new life, his sinews with new strength, his pulses with
new fire. A voice seemed to be calling in his ear, telling him what to
do, and he obeyed it as a child obeys its sire. He rose and faced
Hildebrand.
"You shall not do this thing," Robert said, and the sound of his voice
thrilled him with unspeakable hope.
Hildebrand laughed mockingly.
"Shall I not, rascal? Is it still the King who commands me?" he asked,
and his fingers closed tighter upon his sword-hilt.
The voice seemed ever to speak in Robert's ear, and ever Robert obeyed
its prompting.
[Illustration: "ROBERT, SWINGING THE CROSS, WITH ONE BLOW BEAT HIM TO
THE GROUND"]
"No," he cried. "It is not the King who commands you, but the humblest,
the meanest, the unworthiest of mortal men. There is no creature living
in the world lowlier than I, yet I command you in the name of that
symbol which casts down the mighty, and before which the King and the
beggar are alike but a little quickened dust."
Spurred by inspiration he rushed to the altar and clasped his hands
around the iron cross. Scarcely to his surprise he found that he could
lift the massive symbol like a reed. Poising the cross on high he turned
upon Hildebrand.
"Will you set your cross against my sword?" Hildebrand cried. "You shall
carry it to hell."
Robert answered with the voice of a strong man.
"The cross against the sword, in the name of God!"
He advanced against Hildebrand with the iron cross raised. Hildebrand
drew his great sword and made to strike, but before he could deal a
stroke Robert, swinging the cross, with one blow beat him to the ground,
and stood over him with the cross raised.
"The cross against the sword," Robert thundered.
Hildebrand, grovelling on the ground like a crushed snake, rolled on one
side, felt at the cold stones with his hands futilely for a moment, and
then with infinite difficulty propped himself up a little and looked up
at Robert.
"You have killed me," he gasped. Fear and wonder questioned in his dying
eyes, forced a question from his dying lips. "Who are you?" Even as he
asked, an awful look came over his face, he saw and knew. "The King!" he
cried, horribly. His hands slipped on the stones, his head struck the
floor, he was dead.
Robert dropped on his knees beside the dead man, and spoke softly.
"He hath uplifted the humble."
XVII
IN THE ARENA
The great amphitheatre which Roman craft had planned, which Roman hands
had fashioned, lived almost in its integrity in the days of King Robert
the Good. He had girdled it with gardens; he had sought to obliterate
the memories of its old-time brutalities, its old-time bloodshed, by the
institution of kindly sports and gentle pastimes. A populace had laughed
innocently, had contested healthily in the place where man had fought
with man, where man had fought with beast, where the soil had sucked
thirstily the red wine of life. But a good king does not last forever,
and a good king's ways are not always inherited, and Syracuse had been
fluttered by the rumor that King Robert the Bad intended to surpass the
pagans and to make the ancient amphitheatre again the scene of evil
deeds. And by way of consecration to its new-old use, a maiden was to
be burned by fire in its arena on a charge of sorcery against the
King--burned by fire, unless her appeal to the ordeal of battle could
find for her between sky and earth any champion doughty enough to
overthrow the King's man, the challenger, who stood for the King and
accused the girl of witchcraft. And this did not seem likely, for the
King was known to have chosen for his champion the strongest, the most
skilful swordsman in all Sicily, his dearest friend, his favorite
companion, the Lord Hildebrand.
Of the girl herself, whose life stood in such jeopardy, Syracuse knew
little. She was the daughter of Theron the executioner; she had lived on
the top of a mountain; she had been snared in a church. Certain citizens
of Syracuse had seen her in the church, a beautiful white child, with
flame-colored hair, who tugged at King Robert's bell and appealed for
pity. There was a queer fool, too, mixed up with the business, but he
seemed to have disappeared, and really nobody cared very much what had
happened to him. What everybody cared for very much, indeed, was the
news that there was to be this great show in the ancient amphitheatre:
two men fighting for a woman's life, a young man and an old man--for
everybody knew, too, that the only champion Perpetua could find was her
own father, the executioner Theron--and at the end of the battle a fair
maid on a stack of faggots, and then a big blaze. Such a thing had not
been seen, had not been heard of in Syracuse for many a long day, and
those who heard of it now were resolved, to a man and to a woman, to see
it. Not that the citizens of Syracuse were particularly cruel; but in
the first place it was a spectacle too novel to miss, and in the second
place all Syracuse had been formally summoned, under pain of death, to
be present at the event, and to witness the King's vengeance on his
enemy.
The day after Perpetua's capture was lovely, even for Syracuse, even for
Sicily. The great amphitheatre lay in the soft morning light, a wonder
of white curves, beneath great awnings of silk, crimson and gold. All
around the orchards and gardens, that the good King had planted, showed
cool and green; the subtle odors of many flowers charged the air with
sweetness, and the ceaseless lapse of fountains lulled the ear with
distant whispers of delight. It were hard to believe that so fair a
place, upon so fair a day, could be destined for a scene of trial by
bloodshed and punishment by fire. But in the great space of the arena
one object stood ominous, to remind the spectator that the reign of
Robert the Good was ended. This was a small wooden platform with two
steps and an upright beam, the whole painted a glaring scarlet. Round
this platform were banked great piles of faggots, sinister witnesses to
the work that was to be done ere noon.
The great arena was almost empty. By order of the King, no citizens of
Syracuse were to be permitted to enter the royal gardens, through which
alone access to the amphitheatre was possible, until the sounding of a
trumpet told the city that the hour had come. The great arena was almost
empty, but not quite. On one of the lowest tiers of seats an old man sat
in an attitude of grief. This man was Theron the executioner.