the preparations for the deed that was to be done that day, and now all
was completed and he sat alone and thought bitter thoughts. The child of
his life was in peril, the beautiful Perpetua, so dear to him for
herself, so dear in reincarnating for him the great love and the great
sorrow of his manhood. Only one moon ago their life had been as it had
ever been, tranquil, happy, a companionship of peace and joy. And now
this beloved child, this dear companion, lay a prisoner under the
terrible charge of sorcery, and in the ordeal of battle which was to
decide her fate the only arm that could be found to champion her was her
father's arm, the arm of an old man against the arm of the most
brilliant swordsman in Sicily. Theron remembered with a pang the ease
and grace with which Hildebrand had wielded the great sword of the
headsman on that unhappy morning, and he asked himself, despairingly,
what hope there could be for him against such an adversary.
Out from an archway in the side of the amphitheatre, a dark archway that
opened from the corridor leading to the cells where prisoners used to
be confined, and where Perpetua was now confined, Hieronymus came forth.
He saw Theron where he sat, and advancing towards him rested his hand on
his shoulder and named his name.
Theron looked wearily up and bowed for the benediction of the religious.
"My son," Hieronymus said, gravely, "by trumpet-call, within the hour,
the chafing populace will be admitted into these royal gardens to
witness the ordeal by battle. My son, my son, when your child's voice
cries for a champion to-day, I fear yours will be the only hand raised
to defend her."
"They fear her for a witch," Theron answered, bitterly; "as if such
golden goodness could go to the making of witch-flesh. Men are
fools--men are devils."
"Be brave, be patient," Hieronymus exhorted. "Courage and patience are
the harness of a soldier of God."
Theron made a gesture of impatience. "You have every man and woman in
Syracuse for son and daughter. She is my only child. How is she?"
"Smiling like a bride," Hieronymus replied. "Never since the heathen
built these walls did any martyr face her fate more radiantly."
"She is not harshly treated?" Theron asked, anxiously.
Hieronymus shook his head.
"Will they not let me see her?" Theron questioned anew.
"I think they will let you see her by-and-by," Hieronymus answered. "I
have entreated for you. I shall know soon."
Theron gripped his hands tightly together. "I wish I had the King here
at my mercy," he muttered.
Hieronymus raised a reproving hand. "We must forgive our enemies,
though, indeed, such a King is God's enemy. His prisons are filled with
the flower of Sicilian chivalry--the list of those he dooms to die is
long."
"Though none have died yet," Theron interrupted.
Hieronymus nodded. "They say he swore a great oath his court-fool should
be the first victim of your sword, and till the fool is found the
victims wait on death."
"Please Heaven he be not found, then," Theron prayed.
Hieronymus smiled sadly. "He will be found when his time comes," he
said. "Yet Heaven seems to counter the wicked King. Those whom he drove
into exile still linger in the port. Contrary winds deny their sails."
Theron lifted his head from his hands. "They say the fairest maids of
Sicily have been carried to his palace."
"Yet they are maids still," Hieronymus said, "for he swears to love no
woman till your daughter dies."
"He is so sure of that," Theron sighed.
Hieronymus sought to console him.
"Your cause is just, your sword is sharp; fight in God's name. I will go
to your daughter now."
Theron thanked him with a grateful glance.
"Tell her her father loves her. She knows that well, yet tell it to
her."
Hieronymus left him and passed out of the arena through the archway
which led to the cells. Theron remained sitting on the step with his
elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his hands.
"This is the time when a man should pray," he said to himself, "but my
thoughts tangle and my words jangle."
Through the gardens came a singular figure, tall and lean and withered,
with a wry shoulder like a gibbous moon and a wry leg like a stricken
tree, and his face had a long, peaked nose and loose, protruding lips,
and ears like the wings of bats. His mottled livery was grass-stained
and earth-stained, and he had dizened it with a kind of woodland finery.
He had wild flowers twisted in his hair; a chaplet of scarlet
wood-berries was about his neck; he carried an ash sapling for a staff,
and he munched at an apple. He looked about him curiously, as if a
little dazed. Then he saw Theron and went towards him.
"Good-morning, gaffer," he said.
Theron looked up and beheld to his surprise the missing court-fool
Diogenes.
"You are the fool Diogenes," Theron said. "Why have you come back? The
King longs for your head. I care little who lives or dies, save one,
but fly if you are wise."
Diogenes, for it was indeed he, shook his head. "Nay, nay, gaffer," he
answered. "I am wise; I know my business. I think I have been asleep in
the green wood a thousand years and waited upon by elves and fairies and
all manner of pygmies, and they taught me the speech of birds, and what
the trees whisper to each other from dawn to dusk, and the war-cries of
the winds, with other much delectable knowledge which would have made me
wiser than the wisest--but now that I am awake I have forgot it all."
Theron eyed him curiously. This was not the way the bitter court-fool
had been wont to speak. "You seem to me a changed fool," he said,
wearily.
Diogenes patted him fondly on the shoulder.
"Set it down to hearing birds whistle and watching green things grow. I
am ripe and mellow. If you squeezed me dry you would find no drop of
bitter in me. I bulge with benevolence like a ripe fig--and therefore
your lugubrious visage troubles me."
Theron answered, heavily: "My child is charged with sorcery. There is no
man but me to champion her. If I fail to win the day she dies by fire."
Diogenes seemed grieved. "She was a sweet lass and she gave me sweet
milk to drink, and she showed me the way to the wonder-world of the
wood. If I were something more of a fool and something less of a
wiseacre I would champion her myself." And he swelled his lean body and
strutted, ludicrously martial.
"Away, fool!" Theron said, angrily, for the fantastic figure vexed him.
But Diogenes was not to be offended.
"Nay, now," he hummed, benignly. "You are short with me, yet my brain
bubbles with all the wit of the elder world. When I woke this morn in
the green wood, a bird sang in my ear and his song told me to go down to
Syracuse and creep into the King's garden; and because I am wise enough
to know that the birds are wiser than I, why, I came, but I did not
think it was to see a fair maid murdered. I would have liked such a
sight once, but now I do not, so I will go and sleep in the
rose-garden. That is what the fairies told me to do, and they will tell
me when to wake. Courage, ancient! courage!"
He paused for a moment, with his head cocked on one side, eying the
executioner compassionately, yet listening with pricked, bat-wing ears.
Some sound startled him, for he suddenly stirred like a startled hare,
and, stooping, scuttled with incredible swiftness into the shelter of
the royal gardens, where he was soon lost to sight.
Theron sighed as if his heart would break. "The very fool pities me. I
am grown old and weak and have no hope."
Even as he spoke the sound of the footsteps that had scared away
Diogenes grew louder, and Hieronymus emerged from the archway and came
to Theron.
"Come," Hieronymus said. "Some unfamiliar gentleness in the King permits
you to see your daughter. Go at once. The jailer will admit you."
Theron bowed his head. "Your blessing and your prayers," he said. Then
he rose and moved slowly to the archway and disappeared.
Hieronymus looked after him thoughtfully. "Oh," he mused, "that a poor
priest's blessing might be as potent as a great King's curse!"
At that moment a great trumpet sounded, the signal to admit the people
of Syracuse to the royal gardens. Hieronymus could hear the eager shouts
and the tramp of hurrying feet. Sadly he turned and followed Theron to
the cell where Perpetua lay.
The arena was not long empty. Soon the human flood poured over its sand,
babbling, shouting, eager to get seated.
"Hurry, dame, hurry!" cried one citizen to his mate. "'Tis first come
first served, and there is a rare scrambling for the seats."
"I wish," grumbled another, "the King had given us leave to enter the
gardens earlier. We could have sat here cosily, eating and drinking till
the sport began."
"Nay," philosophized a third, "kings have their whimsies like the rest
of the world and love to make folk uncomfortable."
"Humph!" said a stalwart fellow as he sped. "If I had an odd life or two
to spare I would strike a stroke for the child."
"Ay," grunted his companion, "and be damned for your pains if she be no
better than a black witch."
"I cannot believe it," stalwart said, stoutly.
His companion was positive.
"They say there's no mortal doubt of the matter. She fondles a black
cat, her familiar, and straddles a broomstick for a sky-ride when the
wind is howling."
A listener commented briskly. "Nay, then it is no worse than very well
that she should die. For my part, I cannot abide cats since my
neighbor's grimalkin stole my sausage."
And so they hurried on gossiping, a stream of humanity climbing to its
appointed places. Languidly through the crowd moved Lycabetta with her
women.
"Truly," Lycabetta said to Lysidice, "the King is ever a good friend to
us. We shall sit in the royal quarter and see as well as any of the
courtly wantons. It is a warm day, but I swear I shall feel a cold at my
heart till I can warm my palms at the girl blazing."
"Have you no pity for her?" Lysidice asked.
Lycabetta laughed. "Why should I, you green ape? She is our enemy. If
there were many such as she in the world we might as well haul down our
sign, for we should not have a bed to lie on."
"'Tis said the Lord Hildebrand is the accuser," Glycerium observed.
"Yea," Lycabetta answered, "and sure of victory. I thought he would have
visited me last night."
"He husbands himself for the combat," Hypsipyle suggested.
Lycabetta tapped her woman in playful anger with her fan.
"You wrong him, minion," she said. Her eyes suddenly brightened, for she
saw Sigurd Olafson making his way towards her through the press. There
was a look of constraint in his blue eyes as he greeted her.
"Loveliest lady," he said, hesitatingly, "I have some unlovely news for
you."
Lycabetta raised her eyebrows in surprise. The salutation was
unexpected.
"What grief do you herald?" she questioned, with an air of unconcern.
Sigurd spoke with evident embarrassment.
"Lady, the King commands that you and all your women return to Naples
with the first fair wind."
For a moment the words shook Lycabetta and her eyes flashed anger. Then
instantly she recovered her composure. She knew that it would be useless
to appeal against any command of the King, the King who had not visited
her now for more than a month.
"Is it so?" she said. "Then be it so. Naples or Sicily, what does it
matter so long as there is sun to warm the blood?"
The blue eyes of Sigurd Olafson burned bright with passion.
"I will follow you to Naples," he said, in a low, eager voice.
Lycabetta's eyes answered his passion, Lycabetta's voice replied to his
desire.
"You will be very welcome, blue eyes," she promised. "But to-day at
least we may stay and see the show?"
"Surely," answered Sigurd. "Let me guide you to your places. They are of
the best." And he conducted her and her women to the tier where their
seats had been set apart.
XVIII
ORDEAL OF BATTLE
By this time the vast amphitheatre, that was capable of seating
twenty-four thousand people, if Syracuse had only had twenty-four
thousand people to offer it, had swallowed up the eager crowds, and the
arena lay bare, save for the little wooden platform with its scarlet
stain. There was a flourish of royal music. Cries of "The King! The
King!" ran from lip to lip; many soldiers marched across the arena from
the royal gardens, and in their midst, on an open litter, was carried
the likeness of the King, attended by a brilliant cloud of courtiers. As
it seemed to all the thousand watching eyes, the King descended from his
litter and mounted, amid salutations, to the enclosure on the
amphitheatre where his throne was set up, and seating himself upon the
throne gazed steadfastly at the arena, where now assistant executioners
were piling the faggots close about the platform.
Not far from the King the court ladies babbled.
"Do they need so much wood to burn one little woman?" Messalinda asked,
curiously, watching the executioners at their task.
Faustina chuckled maliciously.
"If she be a witch, it will take a deal of fire to frighten the devil
out of her."
Soft-haired, soft-eyed Yolande gave a little, delicate shiver, for she
was sensitive and fastidious.
"I hope she will not make a great noise," she said.
Faustina reassured her.
"I do not think so; they say the smoke will soon choke her."
Yolande gave a sigh of relief and settled herself down for
entertainment. Over in the royal enclosure the archbishop of Syracuse
turned with an obeisance to the image of the King.
"Shall we begin, sire?" he asked, and the seeming King answered him.
"Is all ready?"
"All, sire," the archbishop answered.
"Let them begin," the royal figure commanded. The archbishop bent to
where Sigurd Olafson stood, below the royal enclosure.
"The King waits," he said. Sigurd instantly gave the order for the
prisoner to be brought forth. There was a brief pause, then a new
flourish of trumpets, and from the dark archway, that yawned like a
wolf's mouth in the side of the amphitheatre, Perpetua was brought in,
chained and guarded, and led in front of the royal throne. "She looked
very pale," wrote an old Norman chronicler, "and very fair, and as brave
as a sainted martyr."
The archbishop of Syracuse rose and addressed her.
"Woman, you are charged by the King's sainted majesty with working by
witchcraft against his sovereign person, delivering him to his lips
enchantment in a draught of seeming water, to the hurt of his body and
the peril of his soul. If you are guilty and will confess yourself, we
need not waste some precious moments in a vain contest for your sinful
flesh."
Perpetua answered very quietly and very clearly, and all men in
Syracuse heard what she had to say that day.
"I am not guilty. My soul is as clean of sin as on the day my mother
gave me birth. I pray Heaven's forgiveness for the King."
The archbishop flushed angrily.
"Do not blaspheme," he commanded. "Then you persist in your appeal to
the ordeal of battle?"
"I do appeal," Perpetua answered, firmly, "hoping that Heaven will
strengthen the hand that is lifted to-day in my cause, which is God's."
The archbishop frowned.
"You are perverse and stubborn, but the law is plain and must be obeyed.
Call the King's challenger."
Sigurd, raising his voice, called loudly:
"In the King's name I call on the King's challenger to appear." Rang out
a great rattle of trumpets, voices hummed in expectation, and all heads
turned in the direction of another archway in the amphitheatre, from
which it was known that the challenger and the champion would appear.
Out of the darkness, into the bright light of the arena stepped a
figure all in armor, with the visor of his helmet down, so that none
could see his face. The armor was plain; the shield bore no device, but
it was buzzed about in all directions that this was the Lord Hildebrand,
and any doubts were answered by the assertion, patently true, that the
Lord Hildebrand did not make one of the glittering group about the King.
The archbishop addressed the new-comer.
"Proclaim your purpose," he commanded.
The challenger, still with his visor lowered, said in a low voice:
"In the King's name I accuse this woman of witchcraft, and will maintain
that charge with my sword, if any be found bold to challenge it."
The archbishop again rose and asked:
"Does any champion answer on the woman's side?"
Out of the same archway came Theron in old and rusty armor, with the
visor of his helmet up, so that all could behold his wrinkled, haggard
face.
"I do," he cried. "I am her father, and I know her stainless soul. This
hand that has so often dealt justice to others may now do justice for
itself."
The archbishop again rose, and spoke.
"Then, by the law, opposer and opposed must do battle to the death. If
the challenger gain the day, his charge is proved and the woman dies by
fire. If the woman's champion win, the woman shall be counted innocent
and her accuser shall die as she would have died. Let them begin."
There was a new flourish of trumpets. Then a number of soldiers ran into
the arena and set up a spacious ring of short painted staves of wood,
colored white and red, and linked together with thick ropes of similarly
colored silk. Into this space the challenger and the champion were
conducted and left facing each other, while Perpetua was led to the
stake, where she mounted the platform and stood, with the piled faggots
at her feet, clasping a crucifix to her breast. Father Hieronymus stood
with the assistant executioners at the foot of the platform. Once again
the archbishop rose, and his words seemed the only stir in the intense
silence.
"Let them begin, and God defend the right."
Again the trumpets thundered, and as the sound died away champion and
challenger engaged in combat. The great swords gleamed in the bright
air, fell heavily on the lifted shields. All the spectators held their
breath. No one expected the fight to last long; and indeed it did not
last long. Everybody was confident that the challenger would easily
overcome the aged champion, but everybody's confidence was ill-founded.
After a few blows hotly exchanged the sword of Theron struck the helm of
his enemy, and to the amazement of the spectators the King's challenger
reeled and fell heavily, clattering to the ground. In a moment Theron
was over him with the great sword at the fallen man's throat.
"Yield or die!" he cried, in a voice in which exultation and
astonishment struggled for the mastery.
The fallen man propped himself on one arm.
"I am defeated," he gasped. "The maid is innocent."
XIX
ROBERT THE RIGHTEOUS
"Glory to God!" cried Theron, and flung away his sword. He turned and
ran towards the stake, from which Perpetua was at once unfastened, and
caught her in his arms. Hieronymus hurried to the side of the fallen
man, whose head was now raised on the knee of one soldier, while another
unfastened his helmet. All the great multitude in the arena leaned
forward eagerly to see the face of Hildebrand. Only the figure like the
King remained unmoved and impassive. But when the challenger's helmet
was removed, the spectators saw with astonishment the twisted features
of a face that they knew for the face of the fool Diogenes.
A strange murmur of surprise rippled along the tiers. Sigurd Olafson
called out the name in wonder to the archbishop.
"The fool Diogenes!"
Theron, leaving Perpetua, leaned over his antagonist and muttered, "The
fool Diogenes!"
All over the great amphitheatre the words ran, "The fool Diogenes!"
The archbishop turned to the kingly image:
"It was an ill chance, sire, that found you a fool for a champion, but
there's no help now. By the laws of Sicily the field is fought and won."
Robert, lying conquered on the ground, gasped out one word:
"Perpetua!"
Hieronymus beckoned to Perpetua, who came and knelt by the side of the
seeming fool. Her senses were in a whirl, and, hardly conscious, she
stooped and listened to the words which Robert whispered eagerly into
her ear:
"You must not misread me; you must know why I have done what I have
done. My arm was too weak to wield a weapon in your defence, but my vile
body might well be flung away to rescue yours. Hildebrand is dead.
Hieronymus found me a suit of armor. I came as the challenger, resolved
to fall and die."
"I knew this," confirmed Hieronymus; "but I was pledged to keep his
secret."
Perpetua looked into Robert's eyes tenderly. What could be said of
devotion such as his?
"You must not die," she whispered.
Robert shook his head.
"The law demands my death as the very seal of your innocence. But it is
better to die thus in your service than to live forever having wronged
you in a thought."
Fighting emotions swayed Perpetua's soul. Hardly knowing what she said,
she spoke quickly:
"You must not die. Your life is very dear to me. I love you." Her cheeks
flamed crimson as she spoke, but her lips and her eyes were steadfast.
Robert shook his head.
"You could not love this monster. You pity me and you call your pity
love."
All Syracuse watched and wondered at the colloquy between the redeemed
maid and the mysterious fool who had taken the place of the Lord
Hildebrand. Now they saw Perpetua spring to her feet.
"I love you," she said to Robert, "for I love your noble soul."
She left him and advanced to the place where the figure like the King
sat. "King," she cried, so that all could hear, "give me this man!"
Instantly the figure like the King answered her:
"He is yours if you love him."
Robert staggered to his feet and limped over to where Perpetua stood.
"I love him," Perpetua said, proudly.
Robert saw the eyes of the kingly likeness fixed upon him, and he knew
that they asked him if he was content to escape death by this gate.
"No, no, no!" he cried, in answer. He turned to Perpetua. "I should be
baser than I have ever been if I took you at your word. Though no man
may recognize me for a king over men, at least there is one realm in
which I will rule. Here I am king, and while reason rules in my brain
and my blood runs in its channels, I will live a king and die a king,
king over myself and my own evil passions. Take me to my death."
There came no change over the face of him who seemed the King; only his
eyes, terribly bright, were fixed on Robert's eyes and seemed to flood
them with light. Robert turned to the platform and mounted the steps.
Perpetua gave a cry and would have fallen but that Theron caught her in
his arms. Hieronymus held out his crucifix to the doomed man. One of the
executioners, who had a torch in readiness, stooped and applied its
flame to the piled-up faggots. Red tongues of fire licked at the dry
wood.
Even then it seemed to Robert as if again the great darkness came over
the world, a darkness in which nothing was visible save the shining
shape of an angel. And the angel spoke and the voice was the voice that
had spoken the words of doom on the mountain summit.
"Robert of Sicily, purified as by fire, be once again a king, be now and
ever a loyal soldier of the living God. It was Heaven's will that I
should do the wicked deeds you dreamed of. But Heaven now annuls them
and they are as if they had not been."
The darkness vanished, and Robert found himself standing in the arena,
and he knew that he was his old self again, clad in the garments of a
king. At his feet the fool Diogenes knelt a suppliant; the royal throne
was vacant. All in the great amphitheatre were cheering, for they
believed that they had seen the King descend from his throne, enter the
arena, and order the liberation of Diogenes. And that belief they
cherished to the end. But Robert looked into Perpetua's eyes and read
there that she knew better. He caught her hands.
"The hunter wooed you, the King wronged you, the fool served you, the
man loves you. Queen of the world, make me indeed a king."
And Perpetua answered him.
"I love the man."
This is how Perpetua became Queen of Sicily, and how Robert in his long
and happy reign won and wore the title of Robert the Righteous.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors in the
original book; otherwise, every effort has been made to be faithful to
the author's words and intent.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Proud Prince, by Justin Huntly McCarthy