CHAPTER I

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The Hill of Venus

[Illustration: "He stared spellbound" (_See page 108_)]

THE HILL OF VENUS

BY

_NATHAN GALLIZIER_

AUTHOR OF

"Castel del Monte," "The Sorceress of Rome,"

and "The Court of Lucifer"

PICTURES BY E. H. GARRETT

DECORATIONS BY P. VERBURG

L. G. PAGE & COMPANY

BOSTON

MDCCCCXIII

_Copyright, 1913_

BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY

(INCORPORATED)

_All rights reserved_

First Impression, March, 1913

THE COLONIAL PRESS

C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

"_Thou art all shrouded, in a gauzy veil,

Sombrous and cloudlike, all except that face

Of subtle loveliness, though weirdly pale.

Thy soft, slow-gliding footsteps leave no trace

And stir no sound. Thy drooping hands infold

Their frail white fingers, and unconscious hold

A poppy-wreath: thine anodyne of grace._

_Thy hair is like a twilight round thy head,

Thine eyes are shadowed wells from Lethe-stream,

With drowsy, subterranean waters fed;

Obscurely deep without a stir or gleam.

The gazer drinks in from them with his gaze

An opiate charm, to curtain all his days,

A passive languor of oblivious dream._"

--_JAMES THOMSON._

CONTENTS

BOOK THE FIRST

The Sacrifice

I. The Summons

II. The Pledge

III. Vistas

IV. Proserpina

V. Waves of Destiny

VI. The Broken Troth

VII. The Passage

BOOK THE SECOND

The Pilgrimage

I. The Vigil of Santa Maria Assunta

II. The Passing of Conradino

III. Tonsure and Thorn

IV. The Call

V. The Dells of Vallombrosa

VI. The Duke of Spoleto

VII. Rome!

BOOK THE THIRD

The Bondage

I. The White Lady

II. The Feast at the Capitol

III. Quaint Wayfarers

IV. The Pawn of the Church

V. The Red Tower

BOOK THE FOURTH

The Passion

I. Siren Land

II. The Lady of Shadows

III. An Interlude

IV. The Hill of Venus

V. Twilight Waters

VI. The Crimson Night

BOOK THE FIFTH

The Apostacy

I. A Legend

II. Memories

III. The Grail of Love

IV. Dead Leaves

V. The Abbey of Farfa

VI. Retribution

VII. The Quest

VIII. The Anchoress of Narni

IX. The Dawn

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"He stared spellbound"

"Ilaria had interposed herself between the two"

"He caught her to him with all the old-time love"

"'They lied,' he cried. 'Give me but life'"

Book the First

THE SACRIFICE

The Hill of Venus

BOOK THE FIRST

CHAPTER I

THE SUMMONS

It was the time of the summer solstice in the year 1266.

Evening was falling on the Basilicata, the shadowy, hazy twilight of

the fading midsummer day. The pale green leaves of the olive-branches

hung limply from their boughs, but the great willows which drooped

over the meandering tide of the Garigliano now and then stirred a

feathery twig in response to the delicate touch of the evening breeze.

The sun had entered the waters of ancient Liris for his evening bath,

leaving his robes of crimson and gold draped in the western sky.

Everything in this fabled land had grown enchanted in the sunset glow.

The plane-trees drooped their leaves, as if wrapped in silent dreams.

In the poppy-fields the shrill insect voices were hushed, wan presage

of the coming dusk. The Liris rolled his sunset crimson gold between

the broken scenery of the hills, and the dark forests of the Murgie

spread waving shadows over the sun-kissed Apulian plains.

To eastward the towering promontory of Monte Gargano, with the

shrines of St. Michael, patron of the Sea, rose sheer and precipitous

from the restless element which laved its base. The milk-white Apulian

towns of Foggia, Trani and Bitonto faded into the horizon to

southward, and the shadowy outlines of Castel del Monte, rising upon a

conical hill in the remote Basilicata, terminated the view to

westward.

Out of the green dusk of forest aisles in which lost sunbeams

quivered, there rode a horseman into the shadowy silence of the

deepening twilight.

Horse and rider alike seemed to feel the sway of the hour. Their

appearance did not so much as startle a bird, which from the boughs of

a carob-tree was languidly carolling a slumber song, that melted away

in the purple twilight without a single vibration. Rider and steed

drooped; the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant grass,

into which the tired hoofs sank at every step.

The solitary traveller seemed lost in contemplation of the scenery, as

he now and then paused in the shadow of the dwarfed plane and

carob-trees. Round their grotesquely gnarled trunks vines clung in

fantastic tapestries of living green, between which the path seemed to

wind towards strange twilight worlds. Slowly, as if under the weight

of some heavy spell, the horseman continued upon the deserted road,

when he was suddenly roused from his abstracted reveries by the sound

of the Angelus, cleaving the stillness with echoing chimes.

Reining in his steed with a convulsive start, which caused the

startled animal to rear and champ at the bit, he paused and looked

across the vale. He had reached a point at which the forest descended

into one of those deep ravines from which arise the rocks on which

most of the monasteries of Central Italy are built. On the brow of the

opposite hill, arising from a grove of cypresses and pines, the airy

shafts of the cloisters of San Cataldo pierced the translucent air.

The uplifted cross caught the last rays of the sun, whose misty,

crimson ball was slowly sinking below the world's dark rim.

Slowly the horseman started on the winding descent into the valley

below, thence on the steep climb of the opposite heights, passing

numerous groups of peasants, in grotesque, gaily tinted garbs, who

stood or knelt round the wayside shrine of a saint, their bronzed

countenances aglow with fervor and religious zeal. Some pilgrims,

known by bearing the rosemary branch, were visible among the trees in

the background.--

Francesco Villani was tall and of slender stature. His face possessed

almost classic regularity of features. Hair of chestnut brown,

pointing to an extraction not purely Italian, clustered round the high

forehead. His eyes, gazing wistfully from the well-poised head, were

the brown eyes of a dreamer.

His age might have been reckoned at twenty-five. His appearance and

bearing were those of one bred in the sphere of a court. His garb

consisted of a russet-colored tunic, fastened with a belt of embossed

leather studded with gold, particolored hose, encased in leather

buskins, and a cap with a slanting plume, the ensemble denoting a page

of some princely household.

A shadowy wilderness encompassed the ascent to the cloisters, whose

white walls were sharply outlined against the greenish-blue of the

sky. The scene which on all sides met the youth's gaze seemed almost

unreal. Laden with perfume was the air, of jessamine, of styrax, of

roses heavy in the breathless evening glow. Here and there, under

drooping branches, he passed a wooden cross, rudely carved, marking

the resting-place of some unknown pilgrim, or early martyr of the

faith. Wandering ivy wound its tendrils round the faded or

half-effaced inscriptions, and ilex foliage drooped thickly over the

Memento Mori on the roadside.

The hour added to the beauty of the scene.

A silver moon, hovering midway in the eastern sky, began to

scintillate with trembling lustre on the dreaming world below. An

intermittent breeze now and then swayed the tops of the stately

holm-oaks, wafting the fragrance of almond-trees and oleander along

alleys bordered by yew-trees. A nightingale poured forth its plaintive

song from the shelter of branch-shadowed thickets, and from the

high-domed chapel of the cloisters came the muffled chant of the

monks, borne along on the wings of the evening breeze.

At last the summit was reached.

Francesco stopped before the massive gates of San Cataldo.

With a quick tightening of the lips he dismounted. Then, without a

second's pause, he seized upon the rope which sounded a gong in the

porter's lodge.

"Who is it that would enter?" drawled a surly voice, quaverous with

age.

Francesco, with a twitch of the lips, grasped his horse's mane and

pulled it, till the astonished creature gave forth a neigh of protest,

at the same time rearing violently.

Then, looking up, he shouted:

"One who would see the Prior without delay."

Forthwith, the wicket was pulled back, and the weazened countenance of

Fra Lorenzo, the porter, appeared in the opening.

"You would see the Prior," he gibbered, peering through the dusk upon

the belated caller, and adding with the loquaciousness of old age: "If

you are he the Prior expects, you have indeed need of haste."

With this enigmatical speech the small window above was shut.

A moment or two later the heavy bronze gates of San Cataldo swung

slowly inward, admitting Francesco Villani and his steed. A

lay-brother, who appeared at the same time from an inner court, took

charge of the latter, while the youth followed his guide, till they

stood directly in front of the great stone church, which towered, like

a huge cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness. The chant of

the monks, which had fallen on Francesco's ear as he climbed the

height, had ceased. Deep silence reigned in San Cataldo; only a dim

light, here and there, gave evidence of life within.

Passing the door of the church, they found themselves facing the

visitor's entrance of the cloisters. Before entering, Francesco's

guide knocked sturdily at the door.

In the shadows of the dimly lighted corridor there stood a monk, tall

of stature, who seemed to await them.

He regarded the youth with gloomy curiosity, while Fra Lorenzo, bent

almost double in self-abasement, slowly retreated.

"You are Francesco Villani?" spoke the Prior. Yet it sounded not like

a question. Nor did he extend his hands in greeting.

"How is my father?" came the anxious reply.

"Follow me!" said the Prior, leading the way, and as Francesco strode

behind the tall monk, of whose stern features he had caught but a

glimpse in the shadow of the corridor, he was seized with a sudden

unaccountable dread.

The expression in the face of the Prior was unreadable, but there was

little doubt he was reluctant to speak.

They passed in silence down the refectory, then up a stone stairway,

through a maze of corridors lighted dimly with stone lamps and

torches. At last he paused before the door of a chamber which they

entered, and as soon as they appeared, all those seated within arose

of one accord, while the Prior silently pointed to a bed, under a

silken canopy, whereon lay a white, still form. And as with quickened

pulse, with quickened step, looking neither to right nor left, the

youth strode to the bedside and bent over the passive form reclining

among the cushions, all those present withdrew, flitting noiselessly

as phantoms from the room, perchance more out of respect for the dying

man than regard for the son.

"My father!" Francesco whispered softly.

Gregorio Villani, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights

Hospitallers, who, in the midst of his journey from Rome to Bari, had

been stricken down with a deadly fever, opened his eyes. In those gray

orbs the old-time fire still lingered and when he spoke, weak though

was his voice, the wonted ring of command still dominated.

"Thanks, Francesco, for your quick obedience. It came sooner than I

expected."

"It was my desire and duty," came the response, spoken almost in a

whisper, as the youth was noting each passing change in his father's

weakened face and frame.

There was a silence of some duration between them, as if neither dared

give utterance to his thoughts and fears.

Francesco had lifted the white, resistless hand to his lips and

tenderly replaced it on the coverlet.

"All is well now," the elder Villani spoke at last. "Refreshments will

be brought you. After that we will speak of the business of the

hour,--the purpose of your presence here. As yet--I cannot!"

The last sentence came brokenly, and with a sort of shudder. The sight

of his son seemed to have unnerved the sick man. He closed his eyes as

if he had been taken with a sudden sinking spell.

One of the monks, who practised the art of medicine, hurried to the

bedside with a cordial, which he hastened to administer. Then

Francesco, seeing his father sink back into a torpor, left his side

and went to a table on which had been placed some barley bread,

venison and wine.

Of this he seemed in great need indeed, being thoroughly exhausted

from the long ride and the enervating emotions through which he had

passed since receiving the fatal summons.

Those who had been present in the chamber when he arrived, had now

re-entered. In a corner, whence they cast occasional glances at the

stricken man and at the youth who was devouring his repast with

nervous haste, two confessors and the monk who had administered the

cordial, sat whispering together in lugubrious consultation, while the

object of their concern lay upon the heavily canopied bed, unheedful

of their talk, pallid and motionless, his eyes closed, one hand

clenched tightly on the coarse coverlet.

His first hunger appeased, Francesco watched the scene as one in a

trance. In his mind there was no definite thought or feeling. All

about him there seemed to hang a haze of apprehension, vague and

elusive as the candle-light. Something was to happen, he felt,

something strange, dreadful, unguessed. This unaccountable dread waxed

greater until it became impossible for him to continue his repast. He

finished his wine, then sat quite still on his wooden settle, his head

bent, his fingers tightly interlaced.

The monks thought he was muttering a prayer.

In reality his thoughts had fled from the present hour to the memory

of the scenes he had left at the gay and pleasure-loving Court of

Avellino, scenes of a garden and balcony, where he had been wont to

whisper his hopes and thoughts into the ears of a proud girl, whose

favors, so manifestly bestowed upon himself, were vainly and eagerly

sought by youths of nobler birth and unquestioned parentage, when a

mysterious something recalled him to the reality of the moment.

He rose mechanically and crossed to the bed whereon the sick man lay.

The latter seemed to feel his presence and looked up.

"Are you ready?" he asked in a whisper.

Francesco bowed his head.

The elder Villani raised his thin white hands.

"I would be alone with my son," he addressed the monk sitting nearest

his couch. Rising obediently, the latter imparted the sick man's wish

to the others who slowly filed out of the room.

Wistfully his eyes followed their movements, till their steps had died

to silence in the long corridor. Then, without Francesco's aid, the

elder Villani raised himself in the cushions. There seemed to be no

hint of weakness in the body, racked for weeks by the ravages of the

fever.

It was the last flickering of the indomitable spirit which had with

absolute assurance carried him to the goal of his ambition. From the

unknown monk he had risen step by step in the service of the Church

Militant, until his name resounded through the Christian and Moslem

world, more powerful than that of the Pontiff, whom only in matters

spiritual he acknowledged his superior.

The Knights Hospitallers had long assumed the defence of the Christian

world against the ever bolder encroaching hordes of Islam; they had

constituted themselves the guardians of the Holy Sepulchre, and

Gregorio Villani had not shirked the duties which the fulfillment of

his early ambition had imposed upon him. On his way to Rome, to rouse

the Pope to the proclamation of another crusade, he had stopped at

Avellino in obedience to the voice of his heart, which yearned for the

embrace of his own flesh and blood.

The boy Francesco had indeed fulfilled the promise of his childhood,

and the elder Villani could not but commend his own wisdom, which had

prompted him to place the youth at the Ghibelline court, disregarding

the violent protests of Urban IV, who had time and again

excommunicated the friends and adherents of Emperor Frederick II. But

the irate enemy of the Swabian dynasty could ill afford to estrange

from himself the good-will of the formidable order of St. John, and

for the time, at least, he had seemingly acquiesced.

And his time had come.

The reunion between father and son had been affectionate, but when

the father suddenly hinted at certain secret desires regarding his

son's future, a cold hand seemed to come between them, which caused

the elder Villani to part with a pang from the offspring of an illicit

love. He could hardly have accounted to himself for the subtle change

which his mind had undergone. And to such an extent did it prey on his

thoughts, that he laid his heart open to the Pontiff. What transpired

at their conference, not even the elder Villani's intimate friends

ever knew. But the fact remained, that he emerged from the private

audience with the cobbler's son a changed man, resolved to leave no

stone unturned to make Francesco pliable to his designs.

But ere he reached the port of Bari, whence he was to embark for the

Holy Land, he fell prey to a malignant fever, which compelled him to

forego his journey and to place himself under the care of the monks of

San Cataldo.

Feeling his life ebbing slowly away, he had caused Francesco to be

summoned to his bedside.

He could not die in peace with the blot upon his conscience, the blot

from the womb of a woman,--the blot called Francesco. Ever since he

had again set eyes on the youth, carefree and happy among his

companions, the memory of his own sin had been present with him. The

fear of punishment in the life to come increased with every day; the

dread of damnation everlasting chased the slumber from his eyes, and

the man who had defied the combined forces of the Caliph, trembled at

the thought of his own last hour on earth. Vainly he had racked his

brain for some method of atonement which would dispel the ever present

fear of being barred from his seat in the Heaven of the Blessed, which

would assure him immunity from the lake of everlasting fire. At last,

like a revelation, it dawned upon him: clearly he saw his course.

There was the one way,--there was no choice. A sacrifice must be made

to save his soul, a sacrifice by one near and dear,--yet Gregorio

Villani had no life claims upon any one, save his son. His son!

And,--as according to the Scriptures the sins of the father shall be

visited upon the children even unto the third generation and the

fourth,--why, according to divine permission, might not the son be

requested to take and bear the consequences of his father's sin?

Francesco stood by his father's side, glad that the decisive moment

had come at last, trusting that his gloomy forebodings might be

dispelled. Gregorio Villani was looking at him in silence, with

fearful eyes and slightly parted, expectant lips. Finally, lifting his

hand, the old man pointed to a wooden settle. Francesco understood,

and, placing it near the bed, seated himself thereon, fixing his eyes

on his father's face.

The elder Villani found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremor

in his tone, but with desperate intensity, he said:

"Francesco--do you remember our converse at Avellino?"

The youth nodded. He seemed to have anticipated a similar preliminary.

"You were not born in wedlock," the old man continued.

"So you told me," came the whispered reply.

"It was a grievous sin!"--

Francesco bowed his head.

There was a brief pause, then the elder Villani continued:

"You are my child, Francesco, the single evidence of my swerving from

the narrow path of righteousness. For years have I tried to atone for

my guilt. Yet, neither priest nor pontiff would grant me

absolution!"--

He paused and looked searchingly into Francesco's eyes.

The youth's face showed no expression, save that of earnest attention.

Taking breath again, the old man continued:

"My hours are numbered. As I have bedded myself, so I lie. In another

world I shall be judged! Judged! Francesco! Have you ever thought of

death?"

"I have not," was the answer given in absent tones.

"Nor had I, when I was at your age," returned the elder Villani,

reverting to the ill-fated theme. "But I think of it now,--for I needs

must. When one stands on the threshold of eternity, face to face with

his Creator, then indeed does man begin to bethink himself. Even

though a priest might have absolved me of my transgression, my own

conscience could not! The vows of the Church are sacred. And now, from

the height of time, I look down through the gallery of years. My

prayers of anguish and repentance have brought no peace to my heart.

Ever and ever remorse returns. Purgatory opens before my inner gaze

and Hell yawns to receive my soul!"

Again the Grand Master paused, his strength failing rapidly.

With a strong, final effort, however, he concentrated a glance of

powerful intensity upon Francesco's thoughtful face. The latter

returned the look with one of earnest questioning.

"And was the sin so great?" he queried. "Others have committed worse,

yet despaired not of Heaven!"

The old man sighed. He had made his decision, passed these arguments

from him long ago. Now no word from any one might mitigate his

judgment of himself. The thought that his own flesh and blood was

taking so lenient a view of the matter, irritated and annoyed him.

"I am not Arnold of Brescia, to soothe my conscience with idle

quibbles," he said after a pause. "I am your father, face to face with

the Hereafter, filled with fear for the repose of my soul. The tenets

of indulgence are not for me! One may be a saint on earth and knock in

vain at the gates of Heaven. What are others to me? It is I that am

dying!"

Like a tidal-wave breaking on the shore it came to Francesco in a

sudden flood of understanding. His father had no thought save for

himself. It was not the happiness of others he strove for, his own

welfare his first and final goal. The ties of flesh and blood meant

nothing to him, save for what he might demand of them for himself. In

his earlier years he might have allayed suffering and fears with

words. What were words to him now?

"What would you have me do?" queried Francesco. His voice was low and

fraught with a great pity for the dying man.

A gleam passed over the latter's face. At last he had to put the

question. All hung upon that moment, all;--his eternal happiness and

damnation. Should he reveal his request at once, with nothing to allay

its harshness?

A sudden rush of pain decided the matter.

"You ask me what you should do?" he replied slowly. "There is but one

thing to do,--there is but one choice. It is for you to live the life

in which I have failed. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live

apart from men, alone with tomes and prayers and God,--removed from

the temptation which caused my fall!"

The sick man drew a short and painful breath, scarcely lower in sound

than three words spoken close by his side, spoken as with the voice of

a phantom.

"Become a monk!"--

The elder Villani did not stir. He reclined in the cushions, his eyes

fixed upon his son with a pitiful look of pleading, which might do far

more than words, to prepare the youth's mind for such a thought.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francesco moved away from the bed. His

gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused to

concentrate themselves upon anything. It was too monstrous to

conceive! It was past belief, past understanding,--an ill-timed jest

perhaps--but yet a jest!

And he burst out with a laugh in which there was no thought of mirth.

"A monk!"

The old man regarded him anxiously.

"I did not jest!"

The laugh died to silence, then rose again in his throat, but

Francesco's eyes were terrible.

"Am I fitted for a monk?" he spoke at last. "You know what my life has

been. Have not you placed me in the sphere of the court, even ere I

had attained the power to think? How can I become a monk? What do I

know of the way of monks? What do I know of their lives? I must have

time to think!"

"There is no time," insisted the elder Villani, despair in his eyes.

"There is no time!" Francesco exclaimed aghast.

Then all the blood rushed to his heart.

"You mean that I am to decide, here and now?"

"Here and now!" came the low, inexorable voice.

The youth sprang from his seat.

"Then I say no,--no,--no!" he shouted, his eyes flashing fierce

determination from the pale face. "I am not fit to be a monk! I will

not be a monk! I am of the living,--I came for the sunlight, not the

shadow of the cloister! Never--never--never!"

A terrible, indefinable expression passed into the eyes of the sick

man. It passed out again, but the trace remained.

When he spoke again, his voice was weak, and there was a note in it of

despair.

"Deem you, that I have not thought of it, that I have not weighed in

the balance all your objections to the life of the cloister when I

asked this thing of you? You say you are of the court! You came for

the sunlight, not the shadow! What man does not! But you forget, there

is a force that shapes our ends,--you forget--your origin,--your

birth! I am your father and my sin is yours! We are both impure in the

sight of God! I have opened a means of salvation for both of us--the

Way of the Cross. A glorious way it is, for by it my soul shall belong

to you! In the sight of men you are as nothing! The blot of your birth

can never be effaced! But you are my son! Therefore, here on my

death-bed I command you to leave this world, that you may open the way

to another,--a better one,--to both of us,--to both of us,

Francesco,--to you and to me!"

There was a long silence between them, a silence of dread and

expectation for the one,--of fear and despair for the other.

At last Francesco raised his head.

"And she, whom I never knew,--she who was my mother," he asked

bitterly--"have you saved her soul? Or is that too left for me to do?"

"If prayers and penances avail, and masses untold,--her soul is in

Heaven! Yet--how do I know if the sacrifice availed?"

Francesco again relapsed into silence.

Out of the mist before his eyes there rose his own life. He saw its

shimmering past,--all the allurement for happiness it held out,--and

the dreary future decreed for him, to atone for another's sin.

"What is required to make a monk of me?" he queried with a dead voice.

"What cloister am I to enter?"

The sick man breathed quickly.

"All these matters have I arranged. From His Holiness himself have I

letters, sanctioning the matter. You will be given the right of

friar's orders that shall free you at times from the weariness and

monotony of the cloister. In all difficulties or troubles you will

appeal directly to the Pontiff! These privileges are great!"

"The Pontiff!" Francesco uttered with a start. "Pope Clement IV is the

mortal enemy of those to whom I have pledged my troth, to whom I owe

allegiance. I am a Ghibelline!" he concluded, as if struck by a new

thought. "I can never become a monk!"

For a moment the elder Villani lay silent, as if dazed by this sudden

unforeseen resistance. He forced himself to answer calmly and not to

betray his own misgivings.

"Your reasons are mere sophistry!" he said, after a brief pause. "Has

the party of Conradino the power to pave your way to Heaven,--to save

my soul from perdition? To insure your mother's eternal peace? Your

path lies henceforth with the Church, from which only my own

perverseness and blindness had severed you. For you henceforth there

are no commands save those of the Holy Father! What are Guelphs and

Ghibellines to you in this of all homes,--when I am lying at the door

of death?"

"They will look upon me as an ingrate, a renegade, a traitor,--and she

of all,--she--"

He covered his face with his hands.

"What say you?" asked his father drearily.

"Where am I to go?" came the monotonous response.

"You will repair to Monte Cassino, there to serve your novitiate. Your

time is to be shortened by special dispensation. At the end of that

period you will be called to Rome, to enter the Chapter House of the

Order of St. John. It holds out greater honor and privileges than any

in the world. You will take your orders directly from His Holiness.

The path to glory and to holiness lies open to you. Are you

satisfied?"

A moan came from Francesco's lips.

"My strength is failing,--your word,--to God!"

Francesco stood beside his father's death-bed, his arms hanging limply

by his side. His damp hair clung closely to his head. His eyes were

dull and unseeing.

Like a breath of the evening wind his youth had passed from him. His

gaze was not upon his father's face, but turned inwardly upon the

great aching void where his happiness had been.

When he spoke his words were low, his tone and his face alike without

expression.

"In the sight of God, I promise to become a monk!"

The old man, straining to catch the words, drank them into his soul.

His face relaxed. A sigh passed his lips. His failing strength had

apparently returned to him.

"You may call Fra Anselmo," he said gently. "But first, my son, kneel

to receive my blessing!"

Francesco stumbled blindly to the bedside and forced himself to kneel.

He shivered, as the sick man's hot, dry hand lay upon his hair, and

only by main force he restrained himself from crying out aloud.

Then the whispered phrase of the benediction fell meaningless upon his

ear:

"Pax tecum nunc et per omnia saecula,--Amen!"--

CHAPTER II

THE PLEDGE

In the antechamber of the elder Villani's sick-room, during the talk

between father and son, the monks had quietly waited the termination

of the interview. The Prior sat alone on a settle in a corner, his

tonsured head bent so low that his face was unreadable, while with

nervous fingers he stroked the cloth of his brown robe. One of the

monks was engaged in expounding some dogma to his companions who

obviously paid little heed to his words. A strange friar, who had on

the previous night arrived from Rome, sat with the confessor of San

Cataldo, but neither of them spoke. They, too, seemed to be listening

for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The two mediciners, more

at ease, sat murmuring professionally between themselves, careless of

the mental unrest of their colleagues of the soul. None in the room,

save the strange friar, knew what the elder Villani was saying to his

son, but there were few even among these world-strange men who had not

guessed the truth long ago.

The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the quaint stone lamps

wavered and flickered restlessly in their sconces, while the uneven

light from the cresset-lantern, hung in the centre of the chamber,

cast distorted shadows over floor and ceiling. To all present the wait

was tedious. To the strange friar whose eyes roamed ever again towards

the sick-chamber, it seemed interminable, and ever and anon the monk

at his side leaned uneasily towards him. "Gregorio Villani will find

the task no easy one. He had better left it to one of us!"

Nevertheless, when their wait was ended, and the leather hangings of

the door were raised by a white hand, all in the room were startled,

and gazed alert with wondering eyes, and lips on which the words had

died.

It was a strange apparition that entered. For a moment each was aware

of a slender figure which seemed to sway even as it grasped the

curtain, of a face ghastly white, framed in a wealth of dishevelled

hair, of a voice whose sound seemed but the hoarse whisper of a ghost,

as he staggered towards the strange friar.

"My father desires your presence."

The monk arose quickly, glancing furtively at the face of the youth,

then exchanging a swift glance with the Prior. At the same time one of

the mediciners started up.

With an unspoken "Not yet!" the Prior waved him back, and Francesco

followed the strange friar from the room.

A swift repugnance against his companion, seemingly born of the

moment, filled the youth, as side by side they traversed the short

passage-way. At the door of the sick-room, which they were about to

enter, the monk suddenly paused and turned.

"You have consented?" he whispered.

Francesco's lips formed an answer, barely audible, but which the monk

at his side caught at once.

Something akin to a look of involuntary admiration stole over his face

and something akin to a gleam of pity flickered in his eyes. The

admiration was for the mental powers of the elder Villani, which, it

seemed, not even approaching Death could vanquish. The fleeting pity

was for the son. But not unmingled with both was a look of triumph for

himself.

On entering the sick-room the monk stepped at once to the side of the

dying man. Gregorio Villani's cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes

were brilliant, but his voice was weaker than it had been.

"Francesco has granted my last wish," he said, looking searchingly

into the friar's face. "Have you the briefs that are required for his

going?"

The friar produced a bundle from his cassock, which he placed on the

bed. Gregorio Villani took up the first scroll.

"To this one, containing the pledge, Francesco shall put his name," he

said, with a glance at his son. "The second is a letter from my own

hand, to the monastery and chapter, which His Holiness has decreed for

him. The third is the special dispensation, granting friar's order to

Francesco. Treasure it well, my son, for it will prove the greatest

boon of your life! And now, in presence of this witness, you shall

sign your pledge to me and to the Church!"

He looked imploringly at the youth, who stood by with pale face and

eyes from which every gleam of gladness had faded. When Francesco made

no reply, the strange monk stepped to a table on which there were

scattered sundry writing utensils, and dipping a pen in a composition

serving as ink, brought it to Francesco.

The latter stared for a moment from the friar to his father, his eyes

ablaze. Then he reached out, snatched the pen from the monk's hand and

dashed it on the floor.

"Does not my word suffice?" he spoke hoarsely, catching at his throat

like a drowning man.

"The flesh is weak and temptation ever near,"--the strange friar spoke

in the elder Villani's stead, as he picked up the pen with a sidelong

glance at the sick man. There was to be no hesitation, no wavering

now. The moment lost might never again return!

"You must sign the pledge," the sick man, turning to his son,

interposed tremulously. His own misgivings ran apace with those of the

strange monk.

Snatching the pen from the latter's hand, Francesco bent over the

scroll and scratched his name barbarously under the pledge. Then, from

his nerveless fingers, it dropped anew upon the floor.

The older man, who had been watching him narrowly, heaved a sigh of

relief.

"You have assured my eternal salvation and your own," he said in a

weak, toneless voice. "Retire now, my son, that this holy friar and I

may arrange the details of your going."

A hot flush suffused Francesco's face as he straightened himself to

his full height.

"Of my going?" he said slowly. "Surely I am not yet to go! Am I not to

wait at least until--"

"My death?" finished the elder Villani, looking at him with piercing

intentness. "You shall not have to wait long. I shall never see the

light of another day!"

Francesco struggled to suppress a moan which rose to his lips. Then he

covered his face with both hands. His nerves were giving way. Further

resistance was impossible. Mentally and physically worn, he was

encountering a will, pitiless, uncompromising. He felt further

argument to be useless. And the strange friar, noting his condition,

knew that the victory was theirs.

He placed a scroll in the elder Villani's hands.

"The absolution from His Holiness," he said, with a low, solemn voice,

intended, nevertheless, to be heard by Francesco. "The conditions are

fulfilled."

Francesco glanced from one to the other: he understood.

He had been sold; his youth, his life bartered away, like the life of

a slave.

Fearing an outburst, the elder Villani turned to his son.

"You had best retire and seek your rest, Francesco," he said in a

voice strangely mingled with concern and dread. "Fra Girolamo and I

will arrange these matters between us. Leave us in good faith. You

will depart on the morrow! I wish I knew you safe in the cloister even

now! Go, my son,--and peace be with you!"--

Francesco turned silently to leave the room. Presently something, a

quiver of feeling, stopped him. He hesitated for a moment, then he

returned to the bedside, bending over it and gazing sadly into his

father's face.

"I shall see you again in the morning?" he asked gently.

"By the will of God," the sick man replied with feeble voice.

His head had sunk upon his breast. Francesco crossed the room and was

gone. A moment after they heard a loud, jarring laugh without. Then

all was still.

The elder Villani and the monk exchanged looks in silence. For some

time neither spoke. When the silence was broken at last, it was in a

way which revealed the close touch between the minds of these two.

"Was the struggle great?" questioned the monk.

"Great as the sacrifice demanded," replied the sick man. "And yet, not

as fierce as I had apprehended. Francesco is my own flesh and blood!

Ah! At times my heart reproaches me for what I have done!"

"A weakness you will overcome! In giving back to the Church the boy

who was in a fair way to become her enemy, who had been reared in the

camp of her mortal foes, who had been fed on the milk of heresy and

apostasy, you have but done your duty. He will soon have forgotten

that other life, which would have consigned him to tortures eternal,

and will gladly accept what is required of him for the repose of your

soul and his own!"

There was a brief pause, during which the elder Villani seemed to

collect his waning energies. The monk's speech had roused in him a

spirit of resistance, of defiance. Who were they that would dispose

of the life of his own flesh and blood? It was too late, to undo what

he had done. But it should not pass without a protest.

"Monk, you know not whereof you speak," the sick man said hoarsely.

"The rioting blood of youth cannot suddenly be stemmed in the veins,

and congealed to ice at the command of a priest! I too was young and

happy once,--long ago, and how happy! God who knows of my

transgression, alone knows! I have paid the penalty with my own flesh

and blood. Tell His Holiness, he may be satisfied!"

"His Holiness could demand no less," interposed the monk. "Your sin

was mortal: you added to it by placing the offspring of a forbidden

love at the court of the arch-heretic, thrice under ban of

excommunication."

"That was my real sin,--that other would have been forgiven," replied

the elder Villani bitterly, as if musing aloud. "Let those who are

undefiled, cast the first stone. How beautiful she was,--how heavenly

sweet! And with dying breath, as if the impending dissolution of the

body had imbued her with the faculty to look into the future, she

piteously begged me, as if she apprehended my weakness after her

spirit had fled:--'Do not make a monk of my boy!'"

He paused with a sob, then he continued:

"Will the repose of my soul, which I have purchased with this

immeasurable sacrifice, insure her own in the great beyond? What will

she say to me, when we meet in the realm of shadows, when the plaint

of her child is wafted to her in the fumes of the incense, while his

trembling hands swing the censer and he curses the day when he saw the

light of life?"

"She will rather bless you, knowing from what temptations of the flesh

you have removed him," replied the monk, peering anxiously from his

cowl down to where the sick man lay.

This, at least, must be no enforced sacrifice. Gregorio Villani must

stand acknowledged to himself and the world for the greater glory of

the Church. He, the one time friend of Frederick, the Emperor, by

whose side he had entered the gates of Antioch in the face of the

fierce defence of the Saracens, he, the Ghibelline Emperor's right

hand in the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, must now and forever sever

his cause from that of the arch-enemy of papacy, and die in the fold

of the Church.

The monk had calculated on the sick man's waning strength, and the

ebbing tide of life proved his mightiest ally.

The stricken man lay still for a time, then he heaved a sigh.

"God grant that your words be true,--that I have not cast him in the

way of temptation instead."

Raising himself with difficulty upon his pillows, he glanced

significantly at the envoy from Rome. Then, with voice needlessly

hushed, for there was no one present to hear him, he added:

"He must depart at once! He must not return to Avellino!"

The monk pondered a while, then shook his head.

"It were hardly wise. Francesco has signed the pledge and will not

break his oath. He must himself inform the Apulian court of his

decision, of his choice."

And inwardly he thought: Thus only will the sacrifice be complete and

the triumph of the Church!

"Might he not inform them from wherever he goes?"

There was a strange dread in the elder Villani's eyes, which remained

not unobserved by the other.

"You would not have Francesco, flesh of your flesh, blood of your

blood, appear a coward who fears to proclaim his own free will?"

The monk laid stress on the last words.

The elder Villani was startled. Yet he understood.

"His own free will," he repeated as in a dream. "The boy is proud. He

will never proclaim his father's shame!"

The monk smiled,--a subtle, inward smile.

Francesco's extraction was an open secret, though no one had ever

alluded to it in his presence. Yet the Pope's delegate judged the

youth correctly. Besides, the elder Villani's suggestion would have

upset his own and his master's plans. The Church could be wholly

triumphant only if Francesco openly denounced the friends, the loves

of his boyhood, his youth. A stealthy flight from the court to the

cloister would scarcely have added to the glory of those who had

brought about the deed.

A sinking spell had seized the sick man and the monk hastened to call

in the attendant mediciners. But the cordial they administered with

some difficulty only had the effect of producing more regular

breathing.

Gregorio Villani's prophetic words were to be fulfilled.

Francesco meanwhile lay in the guest-chamber, which had been prepared

for him. His brain rebelled against further labor and his head had

scarcely found its welcome resting-place ere the darkly fringed

eyelids drooped heavily, and he slept. Through the remaining hours of

the night he lay wrapped in a slumber resembling that of death. Only

once or twice he moaned, tossing restlessly on his pillows. The rays

of the morning sun, creeping up to his eyes, held in them a drowsy

dream of a girl's fair face. The dream brought no awakening, and the

sun was high in the heavens, when a hand, cold and thin, was laid upon

his white one, which lay listlessly above his head. Instantly he

started up, ready to resent the intrusion, when he met the gaze of two

sombre eyes, peering down upon him, which recalled him to the place

and hour.

Before him stood the shrunken form of Fra Girolamo.

With a deep sigh, he returned to reality.

"How fares my father?" he asked quickly, his memory stirred by the

sombre eyes that met his own.

"Requiescat in pace!" said the monk with bowed head.

Francesco sank back upon his cushions and hid his face in his arms.

The monk heard him sob and, for a moment, his frame seemed to shake as

with convulsions. At last he raised himself with an effort.

"Conduct me to him!" he then said to the friar, who preceded him in

silence to the death-chamber.

The rays of the morning sun shone upon the face of Gregorio Villani

and imbued the features with a look of peace such as the living had

not worn for many a day. The monks had placed his body on a bier, on

each side of which two tall wax tapers burned in their sconces.

Francesco knelt down by the side of the bier, burying his head in his

hands, while the monk retreated into a remote corner of the room.

When he rose at last, the watcher saw all the young life go out of his

face, which suddenly grew old and cold. Light and color seemed

simultaneously to depart from eyes and lips, and his limbs seemed

hardly able to sustain him upright. After a pause he dared not break,

for dread of revealing his sudden feeling, the youth's lifeless voice

was raised in the dreary monotone of questioning.

"When will they take him away?"

The monk came nearer.

"He will be laid to rest at night-fall under the great altar of the

Cathedral."

A silence fell between them.

Again Francesco spoke.

"The dial points to something like noon?"

The monk nodded.

"When will you ride?"

"At night-fall."

"It is well. You will return to Avellino, that you may bid farewell to

your former master and friends. Thence you will proceed to Monte

Cassino."

"To Monte Cassino," the youth echoed with a voice dead as his soul.

Then he added:

"I ride alone?"

"Alone!"

"Leave me now! I would spend the last hours here with him!"

"Will you not come to the refectory? You are in need of food, and the

day is long!"

Francesco raised his hands as if in abhorrence of the thought. Then,

as he turned towards the bier, he seemed newly overwhelmed at the

sight of the lifeless clay before him. The memory of his father's

first appearance, as he entered the sick-chamber, the ashen pallor,

the traces of cruel pain, now softened or effaced by the majesty of

Death, reverted to him.

He sank down beside the bier.

But try as he might, he could not pray.

Thus the monk left him.--

On that evening, in the presence of the entire chapter of the

Cathedral and the monks of San Cataldo, they laid to rest under the

great altar of the imposing edifice all that was mortal of Gregorio

Villani, Grand Master of the Knights of St. John.

And on that evening the strange friar, who had brought to the dying

man the much craved conditional absolution, departed after a final

interview with Francesco, who was to return at once to Avellino to

prepare himself for the new life which had been decreed for him.

CHAPTER III

VISTAS

The morning dawned gray with heat. The air was lifeless. The sun,

rolling lazily up the eastern sky, scarcely deigned to permit his

beams to penetrate the humid atmosphere. In the night a heavy dew had

fallen and the lush turf on the edge of the forest was a sparkling

mass of drops. The fragrance of the rose-gardens and poppy-fields

environing San Cataldo was stifling. The very worms and insects lay

inert about shrubs and foliage. In the west, a falling arch of heavy

clouds hung low over the distant mountains. It was an unnatural

morning, which presaged a storm.

The forests of the Murgie were still dark when Francesco Villani

entered their cool and fragrant depths. To him the smile of dawn on

that morning had been as the mirthless smile of a ghost. For, with

to-day, there had been awakened the memories of yesterday, the

consciousness of his impending fate.

Fate! What a future it had prepared for him, a future void of

everything which the soul of man may crave, which may delight his

heart. The sins of another were to be visited upon his guiltless

head,--he was to atone for his own existence.

Yet even that seemed bearable compared with the hour to come at the

Court of Avellino, the hour when he must renounce all he held dear in

life, appear an ingrate, a traitor; the hour of parting, a parting for

life, for all eternity from the friends and companions of his youth

and from one who was all the world to him. At the mere thought, the

life blood froze in his veins.

The forests of the Murgie gradually thinned, and Francesco emerged

upon a high level plateau, which to southward sloped into the Apulian

plains, and on which the sun poured the whole fervor of his beams,

till the earth itself seemed to beat up light. And there was no refuge

from the heat in that vast plain, which soon spread on every side with

the broad sterility of the African desert. Half blinded, Francesco

cantered along, dreading every step that carried him nearer to the

gates of his lost paradise.

A mysterious silence was brooding over the immense expanse, which

became more desolate with every step. The wide plains reposed in a

melancholy fertility; flowering thistles were swarming with countless

butterflies; dry fennel, wild and withered, rioted round the scattered

remnants of broken columns, on whose summits wild birds of prey were

screaming.

As the sun rode higher in the heavens, the panorama suddenly changed,

as if transformed by the wand of a magician. Colossal plane and

carob-trees rose on the horizon, waving fantastic shadows over

innumerable old crypts and tombs and the fantastic shapes of the

underbrush. To southward the view was unlimited, while in Francesco's

rear the snowy cone of Soracte rose defiantly over the plains, its

glistening summit towering ruddy in the light of the midday sun

against the transparent azure of the sky. Wild expanses of copse

alternated with pastures brilliant with flowers. Herds of black and

white cattle were browsing on either side, donkeys and half wild

horses, and occasionally Francesco passed a large, white masseria,

like a fortress glistening in the sun. Here and there vineyards made

brown patches in the landscape, and the Caselle had the appearance of

thousands of Arab tents, scattered over the undulating plain to the

rugged, purple hills of the Basilicata, dimly fading away towards the

sun-kissed plains of Calabria.

Almost unconscious of the change, Francesco rode along with abstracted

gaze, his eyes as dead as the Apulian land,--land of the dead.

The knowledge that there lay before him to southward some fifty miles

of solitude nevertheless lightened the heavy burden in Francesco's

breast. The oppression of the stone walls of San Cataldo had, in a

manner, passed away. This day, at least, was his; this day he was to

be alone and free. Yet, as he rode, with the slowly diminishing

distance his momentary relief went from him again. He seemed to

himself to be passing through a mighty sea of desolate thoughts, whose

waves swept over him with resistless power, leaving him utterly

exhausted when they had passed. The realization of his impending fate,

his present position, again took him by storm. By sharp spasms the

picture of his future life and its dreary loneliness rose before his

eyes, then departed as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind it a

black void. The sensation was almost insufferable. In the periods of

mental numbness, when even the desire for struggle seemed to have been

swallowed up by the black gulf of his despair, he wondered vaguely if

his brain had been turned by the sudden prospect of life's changes.

The sunny, care-free days in the Castle of Avellino, the companionship

of those of his own age, others whom he loved and esteemed, the hopes

and ambitions nurtured and fostered in an untainted heart:--all these

he saw slowly vanishing like some Fata Morgana of the desert.

Now, for the first time, discord had come, and the endless vibration

of its echoes was to make his life miserable, perhaps unendurable.

Created eminently for the life in the sunny sphere of a court, young,

handsome of face and form, easily influenced by friendship, easily

fascinated by beauty, all environment suited to the qualities and

endowments of nature was suddenly to be snatched away. He was standing

utterly alone in a strange land, in a new atmosphere, in which at

great distances, dim, unknown figures were eyeing him, invisible, yet

terrible walls waiting to enclose him and his youth as in a tomb. His

world was gone. The new one was filled with shadows. Yet--why rebel,

until the light had broken upon the horizon, until the worst and best

of it all was known to him? At least, in obeying the commands of his

father, he had done what men would call right,--and more than right.

So were the miles before him lessened until, with the slowly declining

orb of day, he came in sight of the walls and towers of Benevento, in

which city he would spend the night, to continue his journey to

Avellino on the morrow.

The bell of Santa Redegonda was wailing through the deep hush of

evening, which brooded over the fateful city, when Francesco crossed

the bridge spanning the Calore, the waves of ancient Liris rolling

golden towards the tide of the Volturno. As he slowly traversed the

fatal field of Grandello, his gaze involuntarily sought the rock pile

under which the body of Manfred had lain, until released by the papal

legate, yet buried in unconsecrated ground. All life seemed to be

extinct as in a plague-ridden town, and the warden nodded drowsily as

under the shadows of the grim Longobard fortress Francesco rode

through the ponderous city gate, over which, sculptured in the

rose-colored granite, the Boar of Benevento showed his tusks.

After having traversed several thoroughfares, without having met a

single human being, Francesco permitted his steed to be its own guide,

for the moment strangely fascinated by the aspect of the city, before

whose walls the destinies of an empire and an imperial dynasty had

been decided. Slowly he rode under the stupendous arch of the Emperor

Trajan, which now spans the road to Foggia, as it once did the Via

Appia. Far away on the slopes of a mountain shone the white Apulian

town of Caiazzo, while Monte Vergine and Monte Vitolano stood out

black against the azure sky.

Traversing an avenue of poplar trees, which intersected the old Norman

and Longobard quarters of the town, Francesco was struck with a

strange sight, that caused him to spur his steed to greater haste and

to hurry shudderingly past, muttering an Ave.

On every other tree, for the entire length of the avenue, there hung a

human carcass. The bodies seemed to have been but recently strung up,

yet above the tree tops, in the clear sun-lit ether, a vulture wheeled

slowly about, as if in anticipation of his gruesome feast.

The distorted faces and the garbs of the victims of this

mass-execution left little to the mere surmise, regarding the nature

of their crime. Yet an instinct almost unfailing told Francesco that

these were not the bodies of thieves or bandits, and he gave a sigh of

relief when the Campanile of the semioriental monastery of St. Juvenal

relieved the gruesome view. After diving into the oldest part of the

city, whose narrow, tortuous lanes were bordered by tall, gloomy

buildings decked out in fantastic decorations in honor of one saint or

another, Francesco chanced at last upon a pilgrim hobbling along who,

having for some time followed in his wake, suddenly caught up with him

and volunteered to guide him to an inn, of whose comfort, at the

present hour, the traveller stood sorely in need. For he had not

quitted the saddle since early dawn, nor had he partaken of food and

drink since he rode out of the gates of San Cataldo. The endurance of

his steed, like his own, was well-nigh spent, and he eagerly accepted

the pilgrim's offer.

The latter proved somewhat more loquacious than chimed with

Francesco's hungry bowels, yet he submitted patiently to his guide's

overflowing fount of information, the more so as much of it

stimulated his waning interest. They passed the Osteria, where the

famous witches of Benevento were said to have congregated. A woman,

thin and hawk-faced, with high shoulders and a lame foot, was standing

in the centre of a huge vault ladling a cauldron suspended from the

ceiling by heavy chains. Heavy masses of smoke rolled about inside,

illumined now and then by long tongues of wavering flames, which

licked the stone ceiling and lighted up quaint vessels of brass

hanging on the rough walls. As she ladled, the crone sang some weird

incantation with the ever returning refrain:

"The green leaves are all red,

And the dragon ate up the stars."

They passed the stump of the famous walnut-tree, to which, riding on

goats with flaming torches in their hands and singing:

"Sotto acqua e sotto viento

Alla noce di Beneviento,"

the witches used to fly from hundreds of miles around, and which tree

had been cut down in the time of Duke Romuald, by San Barbato in holy

zeal.

Passing the gloomy portals of the palace where the ill-fated Prince of

Taranto had spent his last night on earth, they turned down a narrow,

tortuous lane and shortly arrived before an old Abbey of Longobard

memory, forbidding enough in its aspect, which now served the purpose

of a hostelry.

A battered coat-of-arms over the massive arch, under which some now

indistinct motto was hewn in the stone, attracted for a moment

Francesco's passing attention as he rode into the gloomy court. As he

did so, his hand involuntarily gripped the hilt of the hunting knife

which he carried in his belt and a hot flush of resentment swept over

his pale face.

It needed not the emblem of the Fleur-de-Lis, nor their lavish display

on shields and armors, to inform him that he saw before him a

detachment of Anjou's detested soldiery, detested alike by the people

and by the Church, for the greater glory of which a fanatic Pontiff

had summoned them into Italy. In part, at least, Clement IV was to

reap the reward of his own iniquity, for the Provencal scum, whom he

had dignified by the name of crusaders, plundered and insulted with

equal impartiality friend or foe, and in vain the exasperated Pontiff

threatened to anathemize his beloved son, as he had pompously styled

the brother of the King of France, who now held the keys to his

dominions.

Dismounting, Francesco threw the reins of his steed to a villainous

looking attendant, who had come forth and led his horse to the nearby

stables. Then, by the side of the pilgrim who seemed bent upon seeing

him comfortably lodged, or else to claim some recompense for his

services as guide and chronicler, he strode through the ranks of

Anjou's soldiery, whose insolent gaze he instinctively felt riveted

upon himself, toward the guest-chamber of the inn.

That his guide was no stranger to the Abbey and that his vocation had

not been exercised for the first time on the present occasion, soon

became apparent to Francesco. For the captain of the Provencals

treated him with a familiarity which argued for a closer acquaintance,

while the native insolence of a follower of Anjou aired itself in the

lurid mirth which the pilgrim seemed to provoke.

Their brief conversation, carried on in Provencal, accompanied with

unmistakable glances of derision towards himself that caused the hot

blood to surge to Francesco's brow, was but in part intelligible to

the latter, who was listening with an ill-assumed air of

indifference.

"What? An addition to our company?" drawled the Provencal, addressing

the pilgrim.

"Ay, faith, and a most proper," returned the latter sanctimoniously.

"Just arrived from foreign parts."

"Has he been cooling his heels in Lombardy running from the Guelphs?

Or comes he from Rimini, studying the art of cutting throats in a

refined manner?"

The pilgrim shrugged. Francesco saw him clasp his rosary, as if he was

about to mutter an Ave.

"Mayhaps from Padua, learning the art of poisoning at the

fountain-head? Eh? Or from Bologna, having joined the guild of the

coopers?"

"They say the Bolognese have tightened the hoops, since they

discovered a strange amber beverage leaking from one of their casks."

At this allusion to the attempted escape of the ill-fated King Enzo

from the city which was to remain his prison to the end, the Provencal

laughed brutally and the pilgrim, with a significant glance at his

companion, proceeded to enter the inn.

Throwing open the door of a large apartment, battered and decayed, but

showing unmistakable traces of former magnificence, he beckoned to

Francesco to enter, and, without waiting the latter's pleasure,

summoned the host, a large-nosed Calabrian with high cheek-bones and

villainous looks. Having taken proper cognizance of their wants, the

latter departed to fetch the viands. Then they took their seats at a

heavy oaken table, and, gazing about the dimly lighted guest-chamber,

Francesco noted that it was deserted, save for themselves and two men

in plain garbs, seated at the adjoining table. They appeared to be

burghers of the town, and Francesco took no further heed of them, but

pondered how to rid himself of his companion, whose presence began to

grow irksome to him.

The host soon entered with the repast, consisting of cheese, a rough

wine and barley bread. Francesco, being exhausted and out of temper,

ate in silence, and the pilgrim, after having voraciously devoured

what he considered his share of the repast, arose. After muttering

profuse thanks Francesco saw him exchange a nod with the two worthies

at the adjoining table, then hobble from the room by a door opposite

the one through which they had entered.

A chance side glance at the other guests of the Abbey, who ate, for

the most part, in silence or spoke in hushed tones, informed Francesco

that he was the object of their own curiosity, for though he appeared

not to gaze in their direction, he repeatedly surprised them peering

at him, then whispering to each other, and his nervous tension almost

made their scrutiny unendurable.

Surrounded as he knew himself, however, by so questionable a company,

from which the Calabrian host was by no means excluded, he resolved to

restrain himself and again fell to his repast, to which he did ample

justice, at intervals scrutinizing those whose scrutiny he resented

and in whom, after all, he scented more than chance travellers.

The one was a man of middling height, spare frame, past the middle age

of life, if judged by the worn features and the furrowed brows. The

expression of his countenance was ominous and forbidding. The stony

features, sallow, sunken cheeks, hollow, shiftless eyes inspired an

immediate aversion.

From beneath a square cap there fell upon the sunken temples two stray

locks of auburn hair. This cap, much depressed on the forehead, added

to the shade from under which the eyes peered forth, beneath scant

straight brows. Francesco had some difficulty in reconciling his looks

with the simpleness of his gown in other respects. He might have

passed for an itinerant merchant, yet there was something in his

countenance which gainsaid this supposition. A small ornament in his

cap especially drew Francesco's attention. It was a paltry image of

the Virgin in lead, such as poorer pilgrims brought from the

miraculous shrines of Lourdes. There was something strangely immovable

and fateful about the clean-shaven jaw and chin, the thin compressed

lips, something strangely hardened in the straight nose and the

fatuous smile, in the restless glitter of the eyes.

His companion, of stouter build and a trifle taller, seemed more than

ten years younger. His downcast visage was now and then lighted or

distorted by a forced smile, when by chance he gave way to that

impulse at all, which was never the case, save in response to certain

secret signs that seemed to pass between him and the other stranger.

This personage was armed with a sword and a dagger, but, underneath

their plain habits, Francesco observed that they both wore concealed a

Jazeran, or flexible shirt of linked mail.

The unabated scrutiny of these two individuals at last caused such a

sensation of discomfort to Francesco, who imagined that all eyes must

have read and guessed his secret, that he regretted having remained

under the same roof, and, but for his unfamiliarity with the roads, he

would have been tempted even now to pay his reckoning and to leave the

Abbey. But even while he was weighing this resolve, he surprised the

gaze of the older of the two resting upon him with an expression of

such undisguised mockery that at last his restraint gave way.

Rising from his seat, he slowly strode to the table where the two

strangers were seated.

"Why are you staring at me?" he curtly addressed the older, who seemed

in no wise abashed by his action.

"Fair son," said that personage, "you seem, from your temper and

quality, at the right age to prosper, whether among men or women--if

you but serve the right master. And, being in quest of a varlet for

him to whom I owe fealty, I was pondering if you were too high-born to

accept such a service."

Francesco regarded the speaker curiously.

"If your offer is made in good faith, I thank you," he said. "But I

fear I should be altogether unfit for the service of your master!"

"Perchance you are more proficient with the pen than the sword,"

replied his interlocutor. "That may be mended with time."

"The monks have taught me to read and write. But if any one question

my courage, let them not provoke me."

"Magnificent," drawled he of the Leaden Lamb. "By Our Lady of Lourdes!

He whom you serve would greatly miss a Paladin like you, if perchance

the truce should suddenly be broken!"

This was said with a glance at his companion, who answered the

sentiment with a lowering smile, which gleamed along his countenance,

enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter sky.

"Paladin enough for such as either of you," Francesco retorted hotly.

"I know not what master you serve, nor in what capacity, but your

insolence argues little in his favor."

At this they both began to laugh and Francesco, observing the hand of

the speaker's companion stealing to the hilt of his poniard, dealt him

without wavering with his own sheathed weapon a sudden blow across the

wrist, which made him withdraw his hand with a menacing growl.

This incident at first seemed to increase his companion's mirth.

But the laughter suddenly died out of the eyes of the older man and

the look he bestowed on Francesco caused the latter to shiver despite

the warmth of the summer night.

"Hark you, fair youth," he said with a grave sternness, which, despite

all he could do, overawed Francesco. "No more violence! I am not a fit

subject for it, neither is my companion. What is your name and

business?"

The speech was uttered in a tone of unmasked brutality which caused

Francesco's hands to clench, as if he would strike his interrogator

dead.

"When I desire your master's employment, I shall not fail to tell him

my name and business. Until I do, suffice it for you to know, that I

owe an account of myself to no one save my own liege lord!"

"And who may he be?" drawled he with the Leaden Lamb.

Francesco had it in his mind to retort in a manner which might have

startled his interrogator. But though he restrained himself, he fairly

flung the words into the face of the other.

"To no lesser a man than the Viceroy of Apulia!"

A sneer he did not try to conceal, distorted the older man's face and,

irritated by a gesture which heightened his sinister appearance,

Francesco leaned towards him.

"Perchance you boast a better?"

He, to whom the question was put, exchanged a swift look with his

companion, as if to warn him to keep quiet.

"Charles of Anjou and Provence has no ugly favor to look upon," came

the drawling reply.

"The blood-thirsty butcher!" burst out Francesco, with all the innate

hatred of the Ghibelline for his hereditary foe. "Yet I might have

thought so!"

"Indeed!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb with a swift side glance at

his companion, who moved restlessly in his seat. "And would you tell

him so, were you to meet him face to face?"

"Yea,--and in his native hell!" exclaimed Francesco.

"Magnificent!" uttered his interlocutor, whose face seemed utterly

bloodless in the waning evening light, while that of his companion

seemed to have borrowed all its leaden tints. "Yet, fair youth, we are

in King Charles' realm, and they say even the leaves of the trees have

ears which carry all that is spoken to the King's own!"

"Should I see them in a human head, I should not hesitate to crop

them," Francesco replied with a meaning gesture. Then he turned

abruptly to return to his own table.

"A very laudable desire!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb, appearing not

to notice Francesco's intention. "And perchance, fair youth, you have

but lately seen some trees bearing strange fruit."

Stirred by the memory of the poplar avenue he had so recently

traversed, Francesco wheeled about.

"That have I," he flashed. "The work of a miscreant!"

He of the Leaden Lamb interposed with a warning gesture, while his

companion had slowly arisen from his seat.

"The sight is in no ways strange, fair youth," he drawled, his eyelids

narrowing as, from under the shade of his headgear, he ominously

glared at Francesco. "When the summer fades into autumn, and the

moonlight nights are long, he who then lives may see clusters of ten,

even twenty such acorns dangling from the branches. For," he

continued, and his voice grew cold and hard as steel, "each rogue that

hangs there, is a thief, a traitor to the Church, an excommunicated

wretch! These are the tokens of Anjou's justice, and this is the fate

which awaits a Ghibelline spy!"

Raising the heavy drinking vessel, the speaker, as if to lend emphasis

to his words, let it crash down upon the oaken board, and, as if by a

preconcerted signal, the door of the guest-chamber flew open, and in

rushed the rude soldiery of Anjou, in whose wake followed the

terrified Calabrian host.

Ere Francesco grasped the meaning of what had happened, his arms had

been pinioned behind him and, utterly dazed, the words he heard spoken

rang in his ears, like the knell of his doom.

"Fairly caught!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb, turning to his

companion, who glared viciously at Francesco. "Did I not tell you,

there was more in this than the chance resemblance of a Ghibelline

nose and eye? Take him away and hang him at sunrise!"

This command was addressed to the captain of the Provencals, whose

witticisms at his expense had aroused such a resentment in Francesco's

heart on his arrival at the inn. He felt himself jostled and buffeted

by the Pontiff's crusaders, whose ill-repressed mirth now vented

itself in venomous invectives, in which he in command freely joined.

Too proud to ask his tormentors for the cause of his treatment, which

they would in all probability withhold, Francesco, now on the verge of

mental and physical collapse, found himself dragged across a court at

the remoteness of which the walls of the Abbey converged into a sort

of round tower. While the host of the inn, heaping a million

imprecations on the head of his newly arrived guest, and bemoaning his

unpaid reckoning, unlocked a strong oaken door at the command of the

Provencal leader, Francesco stood by as one too utterly dazed to

resent the Calabrian's insults, and scarcely had the grinding sound of

the door turning on its rusty hinges fallen on his ears, than he found

himself rudely grasped and pushed into a dark, prison-like cell,

apparently without any light from without. He stumbled, fell, and his

ear caught the rude laughter of those without, a mirth his own

endeavors to scramble to his feet had incited. For they had not

released his arms, and his frantic efforts to free them from their

bonds exhausted the last remnant of his strength. With a heart-rending

moan he dragged himself over the wet and slimy floor to the wall,

heard the key turn in the lock, and found himself alone in almost

Stygian darkness.

"To be hanged at sunrise!"

The words rang in his ears like the knell of fate. For what crime had

he been condemned unheard, without defence? He was too weary to think.

All he knew and vaguely felt was, that it was all over, and with the

thought there came a numbness almost akin to indifference, a weariness

engendered by the double ordeal he had undergone in so short a space

of time. What if the spark of life were to be suddenly extinguished,

of a life that had become utterly without its own recompense? What if

this quick release had been decreed by fate? But to die like a

malefactor, the prey of the vulture and the birds of ill-omen, which

he had seen coursing above the bodies of those so recently

executed;--no,--not this death at least, not this! With a last frantic

effort of the faintly returning tide of life he tried to release

himself of his shackles. But his efforts served only to drive the

bonds deeper into his own flesh, and at last he desisted, his head

falling back limply against the cold wet stone of the wall.

Outside the night was serene. The air was so pure and transparent that

against the violet depths of the horizon the shimmering summits of the

distant Apennines were visible like everlasting crystals. Everywhere

was the silence of sleep. The Provencals, too, seemed to have

succumbed to its spell. Only on a distant altana could be heard the

mournful cries of a mad woman, bewailing the loss of her child: it

perturbed the stillness like the keening of a bird of ill-omen. At

last she, too, was silent, and Francesco, weary, exhausted, his

eyelids drooping, his arms pinioned behind him, his head resting

against the damp, cold stone, drifted into a restless, uneasy slumber.

He heard the clock in the castle tower strike the hour of midnight,

answered by the wailing chimes of the bell from Sta. Redegonda; then

consciousness left him and he sank into the arms of sleep.

A strange dream haunted his pillow of anguish.

He was at the Witches' Sabbat at Benevento. The moon shone with a

purple lustre on a dreary heather. The meadow-grasses rustled softly

in the night wind; will-o'-the-wisps danced round old tree-trunks

gleaming with rottenness, while the owl, the bittern, the goat-sucker

mourned plaintively among the reeds.

The moon was suddenly hidden by a cloud. Instead, torches flared with

flames of green and blue, and black shapes interlacing and

disentwining began to emerge from the denser gloom. In endless

thousands they came--from Candia, from the isles of Greece, from the

Brocken, from Mirandola, and from the town of Benevento; wheeling and

spreading over the plain like the withered and perishing leaves of

autumn, driven by an unseen gale. And in their midst sat the great

He-Goat enthroned upon the mountain.

There was a screeching of pipes made of dead men's bones, the drum

stretched with the skin of the hanged was beaten with the tail of a

wolf. A loathsome stew, not seasoned with salt, was brewing in a vast

cauldron, and round it danced herds of toads garbed as cardinals, the

sacred Host in their claws.

Long wet whiskers like those of a walrus now swept his neck; a thin

winding tail lashed his face; he stirred uneasily where his head had

fallen against the cold slimy stone of the prison walls; yet the

sleeper did not wake. And the dance whirled around him like a howling

storm.

Suddenly petrifaction fell upon the assembly. All voices were hushed,

all movements arrested. From the black throne in the background there

came a dull roar like the growl of approaching thunder, and the

assembly fell upon their knees, chanting in solemn tones the

ceremonial of the Black Mass.

The sleeper stirred uneasily, yet deeper grew the dream.

When the last sounds had died away, there was renewed stillness, then

the same hoarse voice cried:

"Bring hither the bride! Bring hither the bride!"

An old man, patriarch of sorcerers, nearly bent double with age, came

forward with shuffling steps.

"What is the name of the bride? What is the name of the bride?"

"Ilaria Caselli! Ilaria Caselli!" roared the great voice.

Hearing the pronouncement of her name, Francesco's blood froze in his

veins.

"Ilaria! Ilaria!" rang the cry from the crowd. "Ave Arcisponsa

Ilaria!"

They brought her forward, though she would have fled. They dragged her

trembling before the throne. A chill, as of death smote her; she would

have closed her eyes, but something caused her to look in the

direction where Francesco lay, unable to move, unable to stir. His

limbs seemed paralyzed; he wanted to cry out to her, his voice failed

him. Vainly she called to him, vainly she strained eyes, arms and body

towards him. He tried to rise, to rush to her aid, to rescue her from

the clutches of the terrible apparition on the throne, when suddenly

the goat-skin fell from him and he stood revealed to Francesco, as he

of the Leaden Lamb, his green eyes devouring the girlish form that

stood trembling before him.

Another moment, and she sank lifeless into his embrace.

The setting moon once more shone out from behind the clouds, and as

the pallid crimson of her light faded behind the world's dark rim,

there came from the distance the morning cry of the cock. Slowly,

through the air, came the sound of a bell, and at this sound the

frightened witches, swarm after swarm, streamed away from the

mountain. He of the Leaden Lamb again became the great He-Goat, and

sank lamentably bleating with his beautiful victim through the earth,

leaving a stifling stench of sulphur behind.--

With a moan of intense agony Francesco awoke. His head was like lead,

his body broken with weariness. A sharp odor of fog greeted his

nostrils. He looked about for a moment, unable to determine where he

was. A violent jerk, as he tried to move his arms, informed him of his

condition, and with a groan he sank back, striking his head against

the stone with a sharp pang. Again he closed his eyes, as if still

haunted by the phantoms of the Witches' Sabbat. Had it been but a

dream indeed? Vivid it stood before his soul, and out of the whole

ghostly hubbub the pure face of Ilaria Caselli shone white as marble

against a storm-cloud. Then, with the memory of her he loved dearer

than life, with the memory of her whom he was to renounce forever,

there returned the consciousness of his impending fate. Would she ever

know why he had not returned,--and knowing, would her love for him

endure?

The bell of Sta. Redegonda was tolling heavily and monotonously.

Outside some one was knocking insistently, some one who had already

knocked more than once. There was a brief pause, then the turning of a

key in the lock grated unpleasantly on Francesco's ear.

As the door of his prison swung back, the dull morning light fell on

the form of a monk, who had slowly entered in advance of some five or

six men-at-arms, but paused almost instantly, as if looking for the

object in quest of which he had come.

The import of the monk's presence at this hour was not lost upon

Francesco. It was no hideous dream then, it was terrible reality; he

was to die. To die without having committed a crime, without an

offence with which he might charge his conscience; to die without a

hearing,--without a trial. For a moment all that could render death

terrible, and death in the form in which he was to meet it, most

terrible of all, rushed through his mind. The love of life, despite

the gloomy future it held out to him, re-asserted itself and, as a

drowning man sees all the scenes of the past condensed into one last

conscious moment, so before Francesco's inner gaze the pageant of his

childhood, the sunny days at the Court of Avellino rushed past, as in

the fleeting phantasmagoria of a dream. An hour hence, and his eyes

would no longer gaze upon the scenes once dear to him as his

youth;--he would have followed him, who would have consigned him to a

living death;--he would have been gathered into annihilation's waste.

The monk had walked up slowly to the human heap he saw dimly writhing

on the ground, and, bending over Francesco, exhorted him to think of

the salvation of his soul, to which end, in consideration of his

youth, the clemency of his judge had permitted him to receive the last

rites of the Church.

At the sound of the monk's voice Francesco gave a start, but, as he

made no reply, the friar bent over him anew, in an endeavor to scan

the features of one so obdurate as to refuse his ministrations.

A mutual outcry of surprise broke the intense stillness. They had

recognized each other, the monk who had carried to Gregorio Villani

the Pontiff's conditional absolution, and the youth whom that decree

had consigned to a living death.

To the monk's amazed question as to the cause of his terrible plight,

Francesco wearily and brokenly replied that he knew of nothing. He had

been insulted, overpowered and condemned.

Turning to the leader of the Provencals, the friar sternly plied him

with questions, but his replies seemed far from satisfying, for the

monk demanded to be conducted straightway to their master. Francesco

heard them scurry from his prison, after securing the door, and,

exhausted from his mental and bodily sufferings, his limbs aching as

in the throes of a fever, he fell back against the damp stone and

swooned.

When he waked, he found himself on a bed in a chamber, the only window

of which opened on to a courtyard. The sun was riding high in the

heavens and his beams, falling aslant on the opposite wall, exercised

such a magical effect on the awakened sleeper, that he sat bolt

upright on his couch and, turning to the friar at his bedside,

demanded to know where he was.

The friar enjoined him to be silent and arose, to fetch a repast, but

when he found that Francesco's restlessness was not likely to be

assuaged by this method, he slowly and cautiously informed him of the

events which had transpired, since he had visited him in his cell, to

accompany him, on what was to have been, his last walk on earth.

Dwelling on the probable causes leading to his summary condemnation,

the monk hinted at rumors, that Conradino, son of Emperor Conrad IV,

had crossed the Alps in armed descent upon Italy, to wrest the lands

of Manfred from Anjou's grasp. He further hinted at a conspiracy afoot

among the Northern Italian Ghibellines, to rescue from her prison in

Castel del Ovo, where she had been confined since the fatal battle of

Benevento, the luckless Helena, Manfred's Queen. A fatal resemblance

to one, known to have been entrusted with a similar task, had caused

the swift issuance of the death-warrant on the part of Anjou's

procurator, a sentence which no denial on his part would have

suspended or annulled, as, incensed at Francesco's bearing and

demeanor, he of the Leaden Lamb had remorselessly consigned him to his

fate. And, but for his timely arrival and speedy intervention, and the

vigorous protests with which the monk supported his claim of

Francesco's innocence, the latter's fate would have been hopelessly

sealed.

Francesco, partaking of the viands the monk had placed before him,

listened attentively, while the friar assisted him, for as yet he

could barely make use of his arms and hands, cut and bruised as they

were from the cords of the Provencals.

The abuse and the insults to which he had been subjected since his

arrival at Benevento, and the dire peril from which he had so narrowly

escaped, had exasperated Francesco to a degree, that he was trembling

in every limb with the memory of the outrage, and he vowed a heavy

reckoning against the fiend who, unheard and untried, would have sent

him to an ignominious death. Thereupon the friar informed him, that

the Provencals had departed shortly after he had been released from

his prison, and exhausted, Francesco fell back among the cushions into

a deep and dreamless slumber, while the friar resumed his office of

watchfulness by his bedside.

He awoke strengthened, and, save for the bruises testifying to his

treatment at the hands of the Provencals, his splendid youth swiftly

re-asserted itself. It suffered him no longer within the ominous

confines of the Witches' City.

Heedless of the friar's protests, who declared that he was not strong

enough to continue his journey, he summoned the Calabrian landlord

whose deferential demeanor, when he entered Francesco's presence, was

at marked variance with his conduct on the previous night.

After having paid his reckoning and secured his steed, Francesco

thanked the friar for his intervention on his behalf, then, with some

difficulty, he mounted and rode out of the gates of Benevento, without

as much as looking back with a single glance upon the city's ominous

walls.

CHAPTER IV

PROSERPINA

Francesco arrived at Avellino at dusk. It was the hour when the castle

courtyard was comparatively deserted. Only two bow-men guarded the

lowered drawbridge, and they paid little heed to the familiar form of

the youth as he slowly rode through the gate.

Throwing the reins of his steed to an attendant, Francesco dismounted

and entered the castle, undecided what to do first. Seeing a page

lounging in the hallway, he inquired if the Viceroy was in his

apartments.

"He returned from the falcon hunt at dusk and has retired," came the

response.

"Go, ask him if he will receive me," Francesco entreated,

heavy-hearted.

The page bowed and ran up the winding stairway, leaving Francesco to

wait in the hall below.

Presently he returned.

"The serving-man in my lord's antechamber has orders that my lord is

to be disturbed by no one, since he is preparing for his departure on

the morrow--"

"For his departure?"

The page eyed Francesco curiously, as if he wondered at his ignorance

of that which was on the lips of all the court.

"You have not heard?"

"I have just returned to Avellino,--from a mission," he replied,

avoiding the inquisitive gaze he knew to be upon him.

"Then you know not that King Conradino has crossed the Alps? The court

departs on the morrow to join him before the walls of Pavia!"

Francesco's hand had gone to his head.

"Conradino has crossed the Alps?" he spoke as out of the depths of a

dream.

"I will see the Viceroy on the morrow!"

Leaving the page to gaze after him in strange wonderment, Francesco

went slowly towards the stairs. He shrank unspeakably from

explanations and scenes of farewell. At the idea of pity and amazement

which his fate might call up, he fairly shuddered. Perhaps there might

be even sneers from his companions. And, by the time he had reached

his own chamber, he was debating the possibility of departing as if

for a journey with excuses to none save his liege lord, the Viceroy of

Apulia.

Upon a wooden settle in his chamber, with the moonbeams pouring down

from the window above it, he seated himself, and his heart beat up in

his throat.

If it were true! If the ecstatic dream of his life might be realized!

If face to face he might meet Conradino, the imperial youth, the

rightful heir and ruler of these enchanting Southlands which smarted

under Anjou's insufferable yoke!

How often had that fair-haired youth, gazing with longing eyes towards

the Land of Manfred from the ramparts of his castle in the distant

Tyrol, been the topic of converse at Avellino. His very name had

kindled a holy flame in every heart. At his beck, the beck of the last

of the Hohenstauffen, Ghibelline Italy would fly to arms as one man.

Had the hour come at last?

A cold hand suddenly clutched his heart.

What was it to him? What was anything to him now? What right had he to

enter the lists of those who would flock to the banners of the

imperial youth? Had he not, from the day of his birth, forfeited the

right to live and to act according to the dictates of his own heart?

While they fought he must look on, bound foot and hand, an enemy to

the cause which was his cause. An involuntary groan broke from his

lips.

Too late--too late!

He arose, and, opening a chest in the wall of his chamber, Francesco

took from it a faded flower wrapped in its now dry cloth. The former

scarlet glory was gone, the petals were purple and old. He recalled

the joy with which he had received it. A week ago he would have

proclaimed it to all the world. Now the rose and his life were alike.

Now he was conscious only of a sickening, benumbing bitterness of

spirit, as he laid the faded flower tenderly into its former place.

Then, lighting a cresset lantern in a niche in the wall, he turned

away to look through his possessions, to pack what little he might

take with him on the morrow. And the first necessity which came to his

hand was a small, sharp, jewel-hilted dagger,--Ilaria's gift.

From without the encircling gardens of the castle there came strange

sounds of laughter and merriment which struck Francesco with a deeper

pang. For a time he resumed his seat and, with hands clasped round his

knees, stared in immobile despair into the darkness. Eventually, the

oppression of his mind becoming well-nigh unbearable, and, knowing

that sleep would not come to him in his present overwrought state,

Francesco arose and strayed out into the dimly lighted corridor, until

he emerged on a terrace, whence a flight of broad marble stairs

conducted to the rose-garden below. Beyond, a pile of gray buildings,

rising among thickly wooded hills, was barely discernible in the misty

moonlight. A fault breeze, blowing up from the gardens, bathed him in

the fragrance of roses. He shuddered. From below where he stood came

the sound of laughing voices.

Francesco peered down eagerly into the rose-garden, girdled by the

wall of the terrace, on the summit of which he stood. The bushes were

heavy with blossoms; they drooped over the white sand-strewn walk,

even beneath the occasional shadow of a slender cypress that seemed to

pierce the violet of the night-sky. They clambered up the sides of the

fortress villa, and mingled with the ivy on the opposite sweep of the

wall.

The garden was flooded with that golden moonlight which creates in the

beholder the illusion of unreality; for not in the midnight dark, but

where radiance is warmest and intensest, are spirits most naturally

expected by the sensitive mind.

Where the light of the moon was most translucent, there stood a man in

the mythical garb of Hermes, catching therein the full moon glamour.

As he looked up he met the gaze of Francesco.

"Come down, Francesco," he cried in comical despair. "Despite my

winged feet I cannot pull the car of Amor, and he refuses to use his

wings!"

A strange light leaped into Francesco's eyes.

"Why not summon Pluto, God of the Underworld?"

"He declines to waive his right to march beside Proserpina, and you

know the Frangipani is quite capable of making a quarrel out of a

revel."

"And who is Proserpina?"

"Ilaria Caselli."

"Who calls me?" a voice at this moment spoke from the thicket, and ere

either could answer a girlish figure stepped into the moonlight,

paused and looked in amaze at Francesco.

The latter exchanged a few words with his companion who bowed and

withdrew.

Slowly she moved towards the terrace; lithe and languid, she seemed

herself the Queen of Blossoms, her dusky hair, flower-crowned,

enveloped in rainbow bloom.

"Francesco!" she called, surprise and appeal in her tone. "I knew not

you were here! Come down!"

"Yes,--Ilaria," he said, yet stood at gaze and made no sign to stir.

The light in his eyes had died. She stood below him, half in the

light, half in the shadow, her neck and throat bare, her arms in tight

sleeves of flower-embroidered gauze.

"Come down!" she called more imperiously. "Why do you delay?"

He moved round the wall to the descending stair and presently was by

her side.

"When did you return?" she asked, extending her hands to him.

He took them, pressed them fervently in his own, then, bending over

them, kissed them passionately.

"Within the hour," he replied, his eyes in hers.

"And your mission?"

"It is accomplished!"

"I am glad," she said, and saw not the look of anguish that passed

over his face. "I came to ask you," her bosom was heaving strangely,

"to be near me when the pageant breaks. I am afraid of Raniero

Frangipani!"

"Yet you chose the role of Proserpina, knowing--" He broke off, a

shiver of constraint in his voice.

"Who told you?"

He pointed in the direction where his informant had disappeared.

"Messer Gualtiero! You knew," he then continued slowly, "that Raniero

would be your companion in the pageant!"

Ilaria pouted.

"Mine is the part of Lady of Sorrows--Queen of the Underworld!"

"And the Frangipani's society is the price you pay for your high

estate."

She looked at him, then dropped her eyelids on a sudden.

"Why should I fear, when you are by?"

Something clutched at Francesco's throat.

"I may not always be near you!"

She arched her eyebrows.

"Then I must look for another protector!" she retorted with a shrug.

Noting the pain her words gave him, she added more softly:

"You will not leave me again?"

"You shrink from the Frangipani," he replied, ignoring her question.

"Has he insulted you? Is he your enemy?"

"It is not because he is an enemy, but rather the opposite, that I

would avoid Raniero Frangipani," was her low reply.

All the color had faded from Francesco's lips.

"You mean--" the words died in the utterance.

"He wooes me!" she said low.

A fierce light leaped into Francesco's eyes. She laid a tranquillizing

finger on his arm.

"You have no cause for wrath, that I can see! And yet I would rather

have you near than far. The Frangipani is filled with violent

passions. He wooes me violently. Since you left Avellino," she added

with seeming reluctance, "he seems to have taken new courage,

and--some unexplained umbrage at--I know not what! 'Who is this

Francesco Villani?' he said to me and his eyes glowered. 'What is his

ancestry? What should entitle him to your regard?' Again and again he

dwelled on this point,--Francesco,--you know I love you,--and I care

not,--so you love me,--but you will tell me,--that I may silence

him,--Francesco,--will you not?"

A shadow as from some unseen cloud swept over his face.

"I shall tell him myself,--and in your presence."

"You will not quarrel?" she said anxiously, holding out her hands to

him.

He clasped the soft white fingers fiercely in his own, then pressed

them to his throbbing heart. In the distance voices were heard

calling, clamoring.

For some moments they gazed at each other in silence, then she said:

"They are calling me! I must return to my task of sorrow!"

"Strange words for a queen--" he said with an attempt at merriment.

"Queen of the Shades," she replied. "And I long for life--life--life!

With all it has to give, with all it can bestow!"

A strange, witch-like fire had leaped into her eyes. Her lips,

thirstily ajar, revealed two rows of white even teeth, and in that

moment she looked so alluringly beautiful, that Francesco in a fever

of passion threw his arms about her and kissed her passionately again

and again, with moist, hungry lips.

"Will you not come?" she whispered, after having utterly abandoned

herself to his embrace.

He shook his head.

"I have no part in this! I will await you here!"

The voices sounded nearer. Now could be distinguished the cry:

"Proserpina--Proserpina!"

She turned reluctantly, with a last glance at him, and hastened back

towards the revels.

Francesco watched the slender, girlish form, until she had mingled

with the shadows of the trees. Then, with a low cry of anguish, he

leaned against the balustrade and covered his face with his hands.--

And now the pageant began to gather in the garden, a pageant of Love

in a guise such as might have been conceived by Petrarca,--a mediaeval

divertissement, such as the courts of thirteenth century Italy were

wont to delight in. And Francesco, slowly waking from a disordered

reverie, leaned over the balustrade, straining his gaze towards the

clearing, whence peals of laughter and music of citherns and cymbals

heralded the approach of a procession, which in point of

fantasticality did indeed honor to those who had contrived it.

It was a pageant of the Gods, the outgrowth and conception of a mind,

not yet set adrift by the speculative theory and philosophy of a Dante

or Petrarca, a mind still hovering between Roman austerity and

Hellenic mystery.

As the procession emerged from the inner courtyard, a level ray of

moonlight fell upon attires wherein seemed blended the gayest fantasy

of all times: Juno frowning jealously on the bowed figure of her Lord;

Mars and Venus, and Pluto, his dark face rising over folds of sombre

purple, beside the magically fair Proserpina. After these there came

groups of languid lovers of all ages; enchanters and victims: Orpheus

and Eurydice, Jason and Medea, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristram and

Iseult. Bound with great ropes of blossom or chains of tinsel, they

moved sadly, crushed and sighing, behind the chariot of the King of

Sighs. And he, the dismal ruler, seemed the personified memory of a

figure in the lower church at Assisi, driven shrinking towards the pit

by Giotto's grave angels of penance.

Round that chariot gathered fantastic shapes, clad in dim, floating

garments, their faces concealed by gray masks on which the unknown

artist had stamped an expression, now of wild dismay, now of grinning

triumph, a presage, it would seem, of the Dreams and Errors, and the

Wan Delusions, whom Petrarca conceived to be the closest companions of

the lord of the mortal race.

Exclamations of delight from the balconies of the castle, where dusky

groups of spectators were dimly discernible, broke the dream stillness

of the night.

From his vantage point on the terrace Francesco's burning gaze,

riveted on the pageant, followed the graceful swaying form of

Proserpina with the pale face and lustrous eyes upturned to him, while

the procession circled round the terrace, and a Wan Delusion,

following directly in her wake, flung up her shadowy arms and groaned.

For these mediaeval folk threw themselves into the pageant with the

dramatic impulse native to place and time. Incited by the tragedy of

Benevento, still quivering through men's memory, and the apprehension

of future clouded horizons, this occasion probably meant to many of

them, as to Ilaria Caselli, the rejection rather than the assumption

of a disguise, the free expression through the imaginative form, so

natural to them, of the allegiance to passion in which their life was

passed. Each acting his or her part, they moved slowly through the

garden, Orpheus gazing back wildly in search of Eurydice, Circe

chanting low spells, Tristram touching his harp strings, his eyes upon

Iseult, and all at will sighing and moaning and pointing in pathetic

despair to the chains that bound them, and the arrows that transfixed.

Presently they gathered round a fountain, which, in the centre of a

rose-garden, sent up its iridescent spray in the silver moonlight, and

Tristram, stepping to the side of it, began to sing a Canzona, almost

like a church chant, artificially lovely in the intermingling of the

imagery of Night and of the Dawn. Orpheus and Circe followed with a

Canzona which struck Francesco's ear with music new, yet charged with

echoes of much that he had suffered during the past eventful days.

With the cadenza of the last stanzas the glow of torches had faded,

and the revellers moved towards the opposite wall, whence Francesco

was watching one by one, as they disappeared within a low doorway,

leading to an inner stair. As they emerged upon the summit each

reveller bore a lighted torch which hardly quivered in the still,

balmy air of the summer night. A moment's confusion, and the entire

pageant began to advance in single file against the dusky night-sky in

which the moon, now soaring high above the trees, gleamed with a

strange lustre. Above the garden they moved as above the far dim

world, not earthly men and women in seeming, but phantoms of the air.

The car of Pluto was illumined from within, and the red light struck

with almost ghostly effect the gray faces and garments of the

Delusions. The actors were hushed into silence by the unearthly beauty

of the scene.

Francesco, from across the garden, watched with eyes heavy and weary,

the Triumph of the Gods. As Proserpina came in sight, her pale face

flashed on him by the light of the torches carried by Pluto. It was

strangely alluring in its marble pallor, the dusky hair wreathed with

jasmine stars. Francesco was seized in the grip of sudden terror. The

lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes were passing visibly before

him under the violet night-sky. In a mad, delirious impulse, he thrust

out his arm, the moonlight striking full upon his face. The revellers

paused for an instant, then extended their arms with welcoming shouts.

Proserpina, as she came near, threw a flowery chain round his neck.

Breathless, dazed, Francesco saw them move away, the blood throbbing

wildly in his temples.

The moon had passed her zenith when the revellers, having twice

circled the walls, descended once more into the garden and dispersed,

each at his or her own will, through the demesne. Terraces illumined

by torch-light, afforded ample opportunity for wandering, and the

ilex-wood which covered the castle hill, was a lure for the more

venturesome. The castle itself had flung wide its portals, and a

collation was being served within until a late hour. The gay company

that so recently traversed the gardens had swiftly flown from one

haunt of pleasure to the other. Most of the participants in the

pageant, however, preferred to remain out-doors. Proserpina, Goddess

of the Underworld, and the Delusions seemed still to extend their

dreamy sway over the whole company. Day-light selves had disappeared,

carrying with them any teasing pricks of conscience, and the greater

number of the maskers continued through the night to play their parts

without reserve.

When Francesco had ensconced himself on the terrace to witness the

revels, he had given no thought to the continuation of the same. He

wandered through the labyrinthine walks with troubled mind, every now

and then shrinking, a listener both unwilling and unwelcome, from

sounds that assailed his ear from rose-bower and cypress-wall. Yet the

setting of beauty rendered his repugnance languid. He seemed to feel a

detaining hand upon him that would not let him escape. Life had ever

been, even in his happiest moods, as a masque, lived in a dream. But

to-night the masque had seemed very real. The weird loveliness of the

pageant had enthralled his soul, had brought home to him with new and

intense poignancy the dark fate which lurked in the background.

Aimlessly he strolled on, aimlessly he lost himself in the

labyrinthine maze, hoping, yet fearing, to meet Ilaria Caselli.

He had noted now and again a girlish figure flitting around his

pathway, in an open space, where a murmuring water flowed. It came out

into the starlight and he recognized White Oenone.

She swayed towards him timidly.

"Though Paris be lost to me, are there not other shepherds in the

glades of Ida?"

Her tones blended with the murmur of the stream.

The tumult of sense swept over him. He saw her white smiling face so

close to his, in the faint light of the moon her hair shone golden.

Then he gave a start and thought of Ilaria, and of her strange

request.

"Ay--but thy Paris will return, fair nymph," he replied courteously.

"For the Greek knights have won Troy-Town at last, and the false witch

who lured him from thy side, has sailed for Argos."

He turned away, noting the shade of disappointment in her face. His

steps were aimless no longer. Ilaria was not in the rose-garden, nor

would he find her on the terraces through which the flickering

torch-light gleamed. He hastened onward towards the ilex-wood which

bordered on one side close to the castle. In the dense shadow two dim

figures stood. He knew without seeing that one was Ilaria.

"Ilaria!" he called.

She started, took a step towards him, then paused.

On her face he noted the same dazed, half-bewildered look which he had

discovered thereon in the pageant.

"Ilaria!" he called once more. His voice had still the same purity of

tone as in his childhood.

She came to him slowly, holding out both hands.

"Take me away!" she whispered with a shudder.

Then, from the deeper shadow of the wood, there stepped a form of

remarkable elegance, advancing with the graceful, but assumed,

demeanor of a man immured in his own conceit. He was tall, with a

well-poised head of the purely Latin type. The face was long, but

unusually handsome; of olive hue with regular features, that revealed

many generations of aristocratic ancestry. The nostrils were

delicately chiselled, the eyebrows high and narrow, the thin, cynical

lips revealed the sensualist. There was nothing in the countenance of

Raniero Frangipani to dismay the observer, until one looked at the

eyes. They were narrow and intensely black, filled with a baleful

brilliance that feared no man, yet revealed to view a soul utterly

depraved.

The Frangipani having changed his masque, was clothed in the richest

apparel of the time. Long hose of crimson silk encased the legs,

rising from soft shoes of the same color. A coat of black silk,

embroidered with golden flowers, and the Broken Loaf, the emblem of

his house, was confined at the waist with a golden belt, to which was

affixed a poniard with an exquisitely jewelled hilt. He advanced with

the graceful yet arrogant swing of the bred courtier, yet his handsome

face was not pleasant to behold, as he turned to Francesco with an

insolent air:

"I think, Messer Villani, you will find the rose-garden more agreeable

than the wood!"

Francesco looked at him coldly.

"I am here at the request of Madonna Ilaria," he replied quietly.

"Indeed!" sneered the Frangipani, advancing a step closer. "Madonna

Ilaria did not hint that she preferred the society of a marplot to

that of a Frangipani!"

Francesco made an impetuous step forward, feeling for his dagger. But

Ilaria caught his arm and clung to it. The two were faintly visible in

the starlight.

The Frangipani regarded them for a moment with a contemptuous smile.

"I crave your pardon," he then turned with an ironical bow to the

girl. "I feared Messer Villani would be too fatigued after his journey

in quest of an ancestor!"

Francesco had turned pale at this palpable insult. There was no doubt

that the Frangipani had spied upon him for reasons not difficult to

surmise. But ere he could carry out his intent, but too plainly

revealed in his set features, Ilaria had interposed herself between

the two.

"Leave us!" she turned to the Frangipani with a scorn in her voice

that caused the latter to start, while she clung to Francesco's arm,

hardly less pale than he.

Raniero Frangipani regarded them for a moment in silence, tapped with

his foot, like one to whom a new idea has come, then with a long low

sound, very much like a snarl, he vanished in the gloom.

[Illustration: "Ilaria had interposed herself between the two"]

Francesco turned to the girl who still clung to him. She knew the look

on his face, but there was in it an expression she had never seen

before, penetrating, sorrowful, crushed. His breath came and went in

gasps, yet he spoke not.

"Francesco," she said after a pause, while she anxiously watched the

play of light and shadow on his face. "Listen! Messer Raniero seems to

bear you a grudge. Promise me to avoid a meeting with him! He has said

much to me, thinking thereby to win my favor. He now knows,--let that

suffice!"

"He has told you much? What has he told you?"

"You have not told me what took you away so suddenly!"

He held up his hand deprecatingly.

"A secret mission of the Viceroy's," he said blushing, as he stammered

the falsehood. Yet he could not bring himself to avow even to the girl

he loved best on earth, his father's shame. The pain of life could not

be made less, by adding more pain.

"Trust me!" he begged. "We have always felt together,--I have never

deceived you!"

"Until now!" her voice sounded shrill and strained.

"No! Ilaria, no! Were it mine to tell,--there is no secret for you in

this heart of mine. But the matter concerns another! Perhaps--in

time--"

He broke off and closed his eyes.

"I crave my youth!" cried Ilaria unheeding. "My youth, and the joy of

life which comes but once. If one will not give me what I seek--I look

elsewhere, if so I may!" Her lips trembled. "Why do you look at me

so?" she continued impatiently after an instant's pause. "Before you

came into the wood I saw your eyes, and I see them still in the dark!

What was the object of that mission?"

Francesco drooped his head, but made no reply. In a clover leaf at his

feet a dew-drop mirrored a star, breaking the light into a thousand

tiny shafts.

"I will give you your youth," he spoke at last in a low strained voice

that sounded like a broken sob.

Ilaria laid her hand on his and spoke low. Her light soft fingers were

fevered.

"What do you mean?"

"It is a simple matter!"

She gazed at him startled, terrified. Suddenly she threw her arms

about him.

"Forgive me! Forgive!"

He pressed her to his heart and kissed her dark eyes.

Then slowly they retraced their steps towards the castle.

When Francesco reached his chamber, the moon was slowly sinking

through the azure night-sky.

He noted it not. It seemed to him he was standing in the midst of a

great void. All life about him had died. And he stood there, digging

his own grave, and, as the last spade of turf flew up, the stifling

night of annihilation swallowed up the universe.

CHAPTER V

WAVES OF DESTINY

When Francesco waked on the following morning, the June sun touched

the tree-tops which bounded the western horizon with their delicate

feathery twigs. Throughout the castle of Avellino there was the hum

and murmur of life. An unusual activity prevailed; the Apulian court

was preparing to depart, as the long train of horses and jennets drawn

up in the courtyard indicated.

Francesco listened to the dim murmur of familiar voices, and the

echoes of laughter which reached his ears as he stood contemplating

himself undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron hook upon

his bedroom wall.

Of what use to deck himself in fine raiment for the last time he

should ever wear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be his garment;--what

matter if he went unkempt on the last day in the home he loved?

But the thought of the part he wished to play, came back to him. He

could not bear the thought that his companions should know of his

undoing. Despair is concealed more easily for an hour than unrest. And

so Francesco heaved a long heavy sigh and went to the great carven

chest wherein he kept his apparel.

Slowly, with the demeanor of one whose heart is not in what he does,

he arrayed himself in his splendid court costume, as if preparing to

share the gladsomeness of his companions.

He descended into the courtyard as one walking in a dream, and as in a

dream his ear caught the sounds of laughter and merriment, such as had

not resounded in the Castle of Avellino since the days of Emperor

Frederick II.

On every lip were the glad tidings: Conradino had crossed the Alps!

Conradino was about to descend into Italy with his iron hosts to claim

his heritage. Like an Angel of Vengeance he would march on to Rome,

where the arch-enemy of his house sat enthroned in the chair of St.

Peter. From all parts of Italy the Ghibellines were flocking to the

banners of the golden-haired son of Emperor Conrad IV,--Conradino, as

they lovingly called him,--the last Hohenstauffen!

From the adjoining gardens there came sounds of joyous laughter; the

music of citherns and lyres rippled enchantingly on the soft breeze of

the morning. It was as if an evil spell had been lifted from the land,

but the spell had caught one who could not shake it off, as with stony

gaze and quivering lips he walked along, noting the preparations for

events, in which he was to have no further share. He noted it not that

the grooms and lackeys, pages and squires regarded him curiously, as

if wondering at his luxurious attire, so little in keeping with the

exigencies of a tedious journey. Hardly he noted the casual greeting

of a companion who passed hurriedly, as if bent on his own

preparations. After rambling aimlessly through the demesne, he

bethought himself that the time for repast was at hand, and after

pausing here and there, as if to convince himself that what he saw was

not the phantom of a mocking dream, he returned to the castle, his

heart heavy with the weight of the impending hour.

The banqueting-hall in the Castle of Avellino presented a busy scene.

A small army of lackeys and pages was at work preparing a repast, the

last the court was to partake ere the Viceroy set out. They were to

start at dusk, owing to the extreme noon-day heat in the plains.

One great board stretched down the centre of the room, containing

places enough for every occupant of the building.

Presently the doors leading into the banqueting-hall turned inward and

a throng of court attendants filed into the dimly lighted room. These

were followed by an array of visiting mendicants, who never failed to

infest any noble household, and they had scarcely grouped themselves

standing about the board, when the Viceroy, arm in arm with Galvano

Lancia, entered the hall.

These two seated themselves at the board at once, watching the others

as they entered. The women and their escorts, who had entered laughing

and chatting among themselves, grew silent as they beheld the Viceroy

already seated. One girl, garbed in a flowing gown of sea-green

damask, entered the room alone. As she advanced to her place, after

the prescribed courtesy to the Viceroy, her dark eyes searchingly

scanned the throng of pages. Apparently she did not find among them

the one she sought.

"Donna Ilaria looks for her errant knight," whispered Galvano Lancia

into the ear of Conrad Capece.

"Has not Francesco returned?" queried the Viceroy.

"I hardly expected him before to-day, even if the Grand Master's

illness has not taken a fatal turn."

"Here are the monks!"

"And there--at the door--"

Conrad Capece followed the direction of Lancia's gaze.

"Francesco!"--he finished with a gasp, staring bewildered at the

youth's dazzling garb, richer even than the Viceroy's.

There was a sudden round of forbidden whispering among Francesco's

companions, and significant glances passed between many at the expense

of Ilaria Caselli, for Francesco's entrance had been indeed destined

to create a commotion among the members of the Vice-regal household.

Conscious to the full that all eyes were upon him, Francesco paused

for a moment in the doorway. Then he advanced slowly towards the seat

of the Viceroy, a bright smile on his lips, a feeling akin to death

freezing his heart. The grace remained still unspoken, while the

monks, eager as their worldly brethren, turned upon their stools to

gaze at the newcomer.

Francesco was clad in a tunic made of white cloth, heavily embroidered

with gold, slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky sheen

of his black embroidered hose. His belt was of black and gold, and the

dagger it held was hilted with gleaming jewels. The dark hair framed a

face as white as his garb and the feverish lustre of the deep set eyes

matched the brilliancy of the gems in his belt.

The finishing touch to Francesco's curious attire, the one which gave

the greatest significance to his appearance, was that which appeared

to link him in some way to the most beautiful girl in the hall. It was

a faded rose, which still seemed to cast a crimson shadow upon the

gleaming purity of his tunic, the rose he had discarded in his first

fit of despair, until he had bethought himself of a better course.

Under the wondering or sneering glances of all these eyes, Francesco,

seemingly unabashed, advanced to the Viceroy's chair, and, bending a

knee, muttered an apology for his delayed arrival.

Count Capece bade him arise, saying audibly:

"In truth, Francesco, you shame us all for slovenliness in dress. Sit

you here by my side! Your companions yonder have brilliancy enough in

their midst. You shall relieve our soberness!"

With an amused smile Galvano Lancia made room between himself and the

Viceroy. There was a faint color in the youth's cheeks, as he hastily

dropped into the posture for grace. If no one else at the board had

perceived it, he, at least, had understood the Viceroy's mild rebuke

for overdress, and his mortification was sincere. For Count Capece was

dressed in a sombre suit of dark green, unembroidered and unadorned.

Galvano Lancia supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, with black

hose and leather belt and pouch, and the other nobles were all attired

in garbs suitable for travel. There was a confused hum and medley of

voices, but the one all-absorbing topic of discourse was the

appearance of Conradino on Italian soil, and the hope of the

Ghibellines in the final victory of their cause.

From the first, Francesco was uncomfortable in his new place. In the

eyes of his companions, when he could catch them, he read only

curiosity, mingled in some instances with envy and malice. This was

especially the case at that part of the board where Raniero Frangipani

was seated, not too far removed from Ilaria Caselli, although the

latter had dropped her eyes, without so much as vouchsafing him a

glance.

Francesco noted it all, and between the unmistakable gaze of derision

which came to him from the Frangipani and his associates, Ilaria's

seeming unconsciousness of his presence, and the well-nigh physical

discomfort of being the target of all present, in the seat assigned to

him, he felt ill at ease. Before he had entered the room he had

absolutely believed in his own ability to act. Now he perceived his

mistake. Do what he would, his heart and his expression failed him

together.

At last he fixed his eyes upon the figure of her who bore the flower

symbol of their relationship. Evidently the scarlet flower was being

commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for he beheld

Ilaria's color rise. Unexpectedly she turned her head to glance

stealthily at the faded petals that burned upon the cold purity of his

vestments. In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A shadow of

mingled confusion and anger flitted across her face and, snatching

her own rose from her gown, she dropped it on the floor.

Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw Francesco into a

state of doubt and anxiety as to her feeling for him. Yet, how little

did she guess the uselessness of that coquetry! What evermore would he

have to do with love or the dallying with it? What woman would be

enamored of a sackcloth gown? Yet, at this moment, he perceived that

his feeling for her had rooted deeper than he had admitted to himself.

And now it seemed to him that, were his well of bitterness to be

deepened by one jot, it would drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of

thought were spun out in his tired brain, such a black look of despair

came upon his face that Ilaria was even prepared to smile upon him

when he turned to her again.

Galvano Lancia also saw that expression, and guessed that the

Viceroy's idle whim had made the youth uncomfortable enough for this

time. But in his address there was also a courtier's purpose which

Count Capece, who was looking on, understood.

"Francesco!"

The youth turned, to find Galvano Lancia's kindly eyes upon him.

"Your father is better of his illness?"

"It is well with my father!" Francesco replied laconically.

As the repast progressed, the situation was becoming almost unbearable

for the son of the Grand Master. Only the desire to avoid constituting

the target of the almost general curiosity, prompted Francesco to

remain at the Viceroy's table. He instinctively knew the eyes of

Ilaria to rest upon him and, although not another word had been

spoken, the situation was becoming greatly strained. But he did not

wish to exhibit the misery which racked his soul with a thousand pangs

before the gossiping courtiers and monks. Thus he ate or made a

pretence at eating in silence. He had become acutely susceptible to

the disagreeable features of his surroundings. The gathering heat and

the heavy odor of meats and wines in the immense room, the flickering

glare of the torches, the shrillness of the many voices, the noises of

laughter which flowed together with the wine,--they all smote his

senses with a sharp sting of irritation, disgust and measureless

regret. So many, many times had he been part of all this. Now it was

going from him. The thought and the attempt at its banishment sickened

him. He leaned upon the table, white and faint. His eyes were closed.

He had lost the courage to attempt further concealment. He

instinctively knew the Frangipani was watching him and there was a

suggestion in his gaze which filled him with an inward dread. How

would Ilaria take it? What would become of her, after he had gone? He

glanced down the board. Flagons of wine and platters of fruit were

beginning to be in great demand. Story-telling and jesting, which were

wont to drag out repasts to endless hours, had begun. In the midst of

it all Count Capece arose. His move was not instantly perceived, but

when he was heard to call upon one of the monks for a blessing, there

was a general stir at the board. The blessing given, the Viceroy

started from the hall, when he found himself accosted by Francesco,

who had stumbled blindly after him.

"May I have a word with you, my lord?"

Count Capece nodded and Francesco followed him to his private cabinet,

the doors of which closed behind him.

The Viceroy had seated himself and silently beckoned to the youth to

begin.

With an effort Francesco spoke:

"I returned from San Cataldo last night, but was denied admittance to

your Grace, wherefore my presence here may have startled you!--"

There was something like life in Francesco's tone, now the decisive

moment had come, and looking down he carefully noted the face of him

who was to be his judge.

A silent nod from the Viceroy bade him proceed.

"By your Grace's leave," he continued, with a marked effort, "this

must be my last day at the Court of Avellino. I am bidden on a long

and tedious journey. My father would have me set out upon it at once!

I had wished to acquaint your Grace of the matter last night. I crave

permission to quit the royal household, that I may be free to do my

father's bidding."

Francesco had spoken with marked slowness and precision, that he might

force himself to maintain his calm demeanor. To his own relief he

finished the speech with no hint of a break in his tone, though

gravely uncomfortable under the Viceroy's steady, searching gaze.

Now, with a quiet gentleness that caused him to start painfully, he

felt the latter's hand laid almost tenderly upon his arm. He gave a

startled look into the frank, kindly face of the Apulian, and the

response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of color into his

bloodless cheeks. He would have almost preferred the rude brutality of

Anjou's men to this generosity which left him no weapons for defence.

He moved uneasily where he stood, and his breath came fast.

He was very near to breaking.

"You have my permission to execute your father's behest," the Viceroy

replied while his eyes were fixed on the face of the youth. "Let but

the office wait its hour! You have heard the tidings which have

brought joy to every Ghibelline heart. You note our preparations to

depart. Conradino has crossed the Alps. To him belongs our first duty!

We are bound for Pavia!"

Francesco gave an involuntary start.

"I also am bound northward!" he said, and wished he had not spoken.

The Viceroy nodded.

"The better so! You ride with us!"

Francesco looked up appealingly. His misery received a new shock from

the Viceroy's lack of comprehension.

"I fear that may not be," he faltered, then noting the Viceroy's

puzzled look, he added:

"The office I am bidden to perform, brooks no delay!"

Count Capece eyed him curiously.

"What business may that be, more cogent than our own? On the

hoof-beats of our horses hang the destinies of a kingdom! None may

falter, none may turn back! I pry not into the nature of the office

you are bidden to perform. Yet all personal interests should be

suspended before the one all-absorbing task, that beckons us towards

the Po!"--

"This business may not wait!"

It was almost a wail that broke from Francesco's lips. How could he

make him understand without revealing his father's shame!

A shadow flitted across the Viceroy's brow.

"You will move the more swiftly in our train!"

A choking sensation had seized the youth.

"It may not be,--I must ride,--alone!" he stammered. All the color had

forsaken his face and his knees barely supported his body.

"And when shall you return?" asked the Viceroy, feigning acquiescence.

There was a moment's silence ere Francesco replied:

"I fear, my lord,--I shall not return!"

Count Capece started.

"You speak as if you were about to renounce the Court of Avellino

forever," he replied after a brief pause, charged with apprehension.

"What is the meaning of this? Why do you tremble? Your father is

better of his illness! No messenger has reached us from San Cataldo.

Is not your presence here proof of his recovery?"

"When I left my father's side, his sickness was in nowise lessened,"

responded Francesco laconically.

"Not lessened!" exclaimed the Viceroy. "Then how came you here?"

"At my father's command I am here!"

"For what purpose?"

"To acquaint you of my choice--of the Church!"

He spoke the words in a hard and dry tone.

Count Capece had arisen. He was hardly less pale than Francesco, but

there was a light in his eyes that burnt into the very soul of the

youth.

"You said, your choice?"

"My choice!"

"Ingrate! Renegade!"

Francesco bowed his head.

He no longer attempted to reply, or to vindicate himself. His head had

fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. His temples throbbed

dully. He had known it from the start. They would misjudge him, they

would misjudge his motives. Years of loyalty spent at the Court of

Avellino would not mitigate the judgment of the step he was about to

take; they would rather aggravate it. They believed him bought by the

Guelphs. And his lips must remain sealed forever! Dared he divulge his

father's shame? Dared he cast an aspersion upon the guiltless head of

her who had given him birth and life? A life he had not desired,

forsooth, yet one that it was his to bear to the end,--whatever that

end!--

The Viceroy seemed to await some explanation, some apology--an apology

he could not give. What would words avail? Had not he, Francesco,

bartered his life, his soul, his destiny into eternal bondage? But now

his misery gave way to his pride. Once again he raised his head; but

in his pallid face there lay an expression of haughtiness, of

defiance, with which he met the Viceroy's hostile gaze.

"I take my leave, my lord! As for my future life, it is not of

sufficient import to require or merit your consideration."

The Viceroy pointed silently to the door.

As one dazed, Francesco crept to his chamber.

There with a great sob he sank into a settle.

He gazed about. Nothing seemed altered since the days when he had been

alive. Not a trifle was changed because a human soul, a living human

soul had been struck down. The chamber was just the same as before.

Outside the water plashed in the fountain, the birds carolled in the

trees. As for himself,--he was dead, quite dead.

He sat down on the edge of his couch and stared straight into space.

His head ached. The very centre of his brain seemed to burst. It was

all so dull, so stupid,--life so utterly meaningless.

He remembered he had not spoken with Ilaria. At the very thought

everything grew black before his vision. Yet he could not leave with

the stigma upon his soul. She at least would understand, she at least

would pity him. He felt like one looking down into a self-dug grave.

He arose and stepped to the window.

It was now past the hour of high noon. The activity in the courtyard,

abandoned during the heated term of the day, began gradually to

revive. There was no time to be lost.

Hastily he scratched a few lines on a fragment of vellum which lay

close at hand, called an attendant and bade him despatch it at once to

Ilaria Caselli.

Then, weary and tired, he gathered together his scant belongings, so

scant indeed as not to encumber his steed; then, his arms propped on

his knees, he sat down once more and awaited the coming of dusk.

CHAPTER VI

THE BROKEN TROTH

Spring triumphed with a vaunting pageant in the park of Avellino,

where the gravelled walks were snowy beneath the light of the higher

risen moon, and were in shadows transmuted to dim, violet tints. The

sombre foliage of yew and box and ilex contrasted strangely with the

pale glow of the young grass, sloping in emerald tinted terraces down

to where the lake shimmered through the trees.

It was an enchanted spot, second only to the gardens of Castel

Fiorentino, with their broad terraces and gleaming marble steps, where

peacocks proudly strutted. At one end, a fountain sent its silvery

spray from a tangle of oleanders. Marble kiosks and statues gleamed

from the sea-green dusk of the groves. All around there rioted an

untamed profusion of shrubs: fantastic flowers of night, whose

fragrance hung heavy on the air. Ivy clung and climbed along the

crannies of gray walls; roses sprawled in a crimson torrent of perfume

over the weather-stained torsos of gods and satyrs. In the centre of

an ilex-grove a marble-cinctured lake gazed still-eyed at the sky,

with white swans floating dream-like on its mirrored black and silver.

The dusk deepened; the golden moon hung low in the horizon, flooding

the garden with a wan spectral light. The pool lay a lake of silver,

in a black fringe of trees. The night flowers breathed forth drowsy

perfume, making heavy the still air of summer.

Out of the velvet shadows there now came a woman, with dusky eyes and

scarlet lips and jewels that gleamed among the folds of her perfumed

robe. Slowly, like a phantom, she passed through the grove towards the

ivy-wreathed temple of Pomona by the marble-cinctured lake.

Francesco who had been waiting, his heart in his throat, rose with a

sigh of relief, mingled with a mighty dread. Would she understand?

Would she grasp the enormity of the sacrifice he must make on the

altar of duty and obedience? Could she guess, could she read the

terrible pain that racked his heart and soul at the thought of

parting,--a parting for life,--for all eternity? For never, even if by

chance they should again cross each other's path in life, could there

be aught between them save a look; their lips must be mute forevermore

and the voices of their hearts hushed.

So Fate had decreed it.

Bound hand and foot, he had been sold to his own undoing, to his own

doom.

In a faint whisper came his name. Two white hands were extended

towards him.

He arose, stumbled forward, and the next moment found them in close

embrace.

"My darling! My own! I feared I had been too bold in my feelings for

you!"

And again and again he kissed her mouth, her eyes, and the dusky sheen

of her hair.

"I love you!" she whispered, her arms about his neck, her witch-like

eyes drinking in the love and admiration which beamed from his. "Since

last night, it seemed to me, we had been parted for months!"

A dull insufferable pain gripped his heart.

For a moment he closed his eyes, then, placing his arm about her,

Francesco led her to a remote terrace where the velvet turf was bathed

in bluish silver-light, while far below, turning a little to eastward,

wound the shimmering thread of the Volturno, rippling softly through

the perfumed night into the emerald shadows of the sleeping forest.

All about these two lay dream-like silence.

What wonder they were both loath to break the spell! Francesco, with

heavy heart, watched the familiar scene, not daring to think, only

standing passive beside her, whose faint breath stirred elf-like the

rose upon his breast.

Ilaria, too, was silent, wondering, hoping, fearing, waiting for him

to speak.

A faint zephyr stole through the branches of the cypress and magnolia

trees. And from afar, as from another sphere, the faint sounds of

distant convent bells were wafted through the impassioned silence of

the southern night.

A sudden mighty longing leaped into his heart.

To banish it, he must speak. Yet, try as he would, he could not. His

lips refused to form the words and an ice-cold hand seemed to grip his

heart.

Turning suddenly, he took the sweet face into his hands and held it

for a pace, and looked into her eyes with such a mad hunger, such

delirious longing, that she too caught the moment's spell. Her breath

came in gasps; her lips were thirstily ajar; she began to lean towards

him, and at last he threw his arms about her and caught the dear head

so wildly to his bosom, that woman-like she guessed there was

something hidden beneath it all, and while she abandoned herself to

his caresses, softly responding to them, the waves of a great fear

swept over her own heart.

Looking up at him, she caught the strange, wild expression in his

face, an expression she had twice surprised since his return from his

mysterious voyage, once in the rose-garden, then at the repast.

"Francesco," she breathed, with anxious wonderment in her tone, "why

do you look at me like that?"

Thoroughly frightened by his manner, she caught him by the arm.

He looked at her with bewildered eyes, but made no immediate response.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she repeated, her fear enhanced by

his fierce look, his heaving breath. "Speak! What is it you have to

tell me? They are stirring in the courtyard. We have scant time. And

you--are you ready when the signal sounds? Your garb is ill-suited for

a journey!"

At her words he gradually shook off the lethargy which seemed to

benumb his senses.

Absently he looked down upon his garb.

"I forgot," he muttered, then the realization being forced upon him

that he must speak, he took a deep breath, and the words sprang

fiercely from his lips.

"Ilaria--can you guess the import of this hour? Can you guess why we

are here at this moment?"

She looked up at him questioningly, but did not speak.

"We are here," he stammered, looking helplessly into her face,--"to

say farewell."

"Farewell?" she repeated with wonderment. "Do you not ride with us?"

A negative gesture was slowly followed by the words:

"I do not ride with you."

"I do not understand!" she said, hesitation in her tone. "Has the

Viceroy--"

"I am no longer of the court!"

She started. He saw the roses fade from her cheeks.

"Dismissed?"

The words stung him like a whip-lash.

He bowed his head.

"I will see Count Capece at once! He will not refuse a boon to Ilaria

Caselli!"

She had arisen, as if to suit the action to the words.

He gently drew her back, disregarding her resistance, her wondering

look.

"It is beyond recall!"

From the castle court there came the sound of a fanfare.

Neither noted it.

Yet a touch of impatience tinged Ilaria's words, as she turned to him

anew.

"What ails you, Francesco? You are dealing in enigmas. Why are you

dismissed? Why may I not see the Viceroy at once,--ere it be too

late?"

"Because it _is_ too late. We part--for life!"

A deadly pallor had overspread her features.

"I do not understand!" she faltered.

His head drooped. It was with difficulty he maintained his

self-control.

"I feared as much,--and yet, the word must be

spoken,--farewell--forever--these two words alone--"

"Forever!" she exclaimed, "and between us? No,--no,--not that,--not

that!" She held out both hands to him. He caught them in his own, as a

drowning man would hold on to a straw.

"And yet,--we must!" he replied, with a choking voice. "Oh,

Ilaria--Ilaria--my sweetheart--my darling,--save me! Save me!"

He broke off suddenly and stared at her vacantly.

"Lord Christ,--what do I say! No, no! I did not mean that! I pray to

God, that we may not."

"May not--what?" she interposed, her eyes in his. "Francesco, speak!

What troubles you? What is the meaning of it all?"

"Oh, Ilaria," he said slowly, "it is indeed more difficult to tell

than I had guessed. When I leave Avellino, it will be never to

return!"

"But why--why, Francesco?" she questioned, alarmed by his words, but

more by the wild expression of his countenance.

"How can I tell it--how can I tell it? Is it not enough for you, to

know that I must go?"

"You frighten me!" she whispered, drawing nearer to him.

He took her in his arms and held her close, very close to him,

pressing his lips upon her closed eyes. It was his farewell to love,

to life.

"Tell me that you love me!" he begged in piteous tones.

"I love you," she breathed in whispered accents, broken by a sob. "Do

you not know?"

"I love you," he cried with sudden fierceness, flinging the words in

rebellion at the inexorable fate which was in store for him.

"Then,--why must we say it,--the word?" she queried anxiously. "Think

you that I fear to follow you,--wherever you may go?"

For a moment he held her in close embrace, then his arms fell, as if

paralyzed, from about her. He drew back one quick step, a look

crossing his face that startled her even more than his strange

unexplained words.

"There where I go, you could not follow me ever," he said at last with

the resolution of despair. "I am bound by a sacred oath to leave the

world. I have no right to ask any woman for her love! Henceforth, my

home--this castle--must be a dream, a memory to me, and you, Ilaria,

will stand as far above me as yonder star soars above the earth!

Ilaria! I have pledged my word to my father that I will bid farewell

to life and happiness, to take in their stead the lonely vows of a

Benedictine monk!"

There was a dead silence.

For a moment she looked at him, as if trying fully to comprehend what

it was he had said.

Then his meaning pierced her brain.

She shrank slowly away from him, then stood quite still, her eyes wide

and dark with horror, her face white, as a mask of death. A great icy

wave of silence seemed to have swept between them, shutting them out

from the world of life.

In an instant all the softness and gentleness of her manner dropped

from her like a discarded garment. She drew her trailing robes about

her as if she dreaded contamination from him. A single petal from the

flower he wore had fallen upon her breast. She brushed it from where

it nestled. It fluttered down upon the grass.

"A monk! And you have dared to touch me!" she hissed, as if she would

have spat upon him.

A mist came over Francesco's eyes. For a few moments he was conscious

of nothing. All life and expression had gone from his face. He did not

see the flood of grief, the anguish and the wounded pride that

prompted her action. He only saw her turn about without another word,

and move swiftly from him towards the castle court, her eyes blinded

with tears.

Like one dazed, Francesco stood and stared at the spot whence she had

gone. He saw and heard nothing save in memory. His white garb

shimmered in the moonlight with more life in its purity than there was

in his face. His soul was wrapped in awful bitterness at his

destiny,--the punishment for his father's sin.

He had not told her. He had told no one. Twice on the same day he had

been misunderstood, his integrity assailed. He had hoped and prayed

for understanding. His prayer had been denied. None there was who

understood, none who even vaguely guessed the enormity of the

sacrifice. Pity only he had encountered, a pity akin to contempt, from

those whose cause he had seemingly deserted; disdain from her whose

lips might have alleviated the burden of his destiny by a blessing

that he might take with him on his lonely, solitary road.

How long he stood thus, his limbs benumbed, paralyzed with grief,

afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, he knew not. An icy hand

seemed to clutch his heart.

Suddenly from the castle there came the renewed sound of fanfares,

repeated in brief intervals. They were preparing to start. No one

thought of him. For them he had already ceased to be.

With an effort he roused himself.

Not a moment was to be lost. He had no longer any right here, no

longer the right to mingle with the happy companions of former days.

The thought that she too had turned from him in his hour of need, lent

him wings. He must set out at once. All that had at one time delighted

him, now repelled with the consciousness, that it was not for him.

He stole back to the castle over devious paths, reached his chamber

and gathered up his scant belongings. A last look round the walls he

had learned to love, then he crept softly out into the corridor.

Everywhere he met the rush and hubbub of hurried preparation for

departure. No one heeded him. The hall below seemed to yawn beneath

him like a black pit as he descended.

Crossing the courtyard amidst throngs of pages, squires, and

pursuivants, he made for the stables, saddled his steed, and rode out

by the postern, unheeded, unchallenged.

The land of his heart's desire had vanished behind him, like the

fairy-land of golden sunset dreams that fades away when darkness

comes.

CHAPTER VII

THE PASSAGE

Francesco rode out into the scented night and the round yellow moon

rode with him. Strange things were happening beneath that moon; in the

crucible of destiny a new life was forming, new feelings arising on

the ashes of the old. And Francesco's heart was slowly undergoing a

change as he rode through the night into a season of darkness,

inevitable, irrevertible.

Ahead of him the great road stretched white in the moonlight, a broad

ribbon which lost itself among hills and in the shadows of trees. In

his ears was the thunder of his horse's feet, pounding insistent

clamor into the quiet of the night. He would have desired wings for

his steed; the wind of the speed of his going swept cool against his

face. The night was gray around him, a velvet moon-steeped darkness,

odorous with the fragrance of breaking earth. Far away the

deep-throated bay of a dog rose and died across the world. A bell

note, thinned by distance to a faint dream sound, stole over silent

hill and dale; peace seemed to wrap the world round as in a cloister

garden. With every mile that now carried him farther away from his

Eden, from his garden of dreams, from his lost youth, new scenes

unrolled themselves before him. Off in the wide Apulian plains lights

twinkled here and yonder, wakeful eyes of watchfulness among the

hills. He passed pale glimmering bogs, where lonely herons brooded,

and wide barren heaths, over which the road led straight as an arrow's

flight.

As the miles reeled away under him, his restlessness began to increase

with the sweep of his horse's stride. Vague forms seemed to slip by

him in the shadows; in every bush beside the road he saw white faces

lurking. Strange, half-formed impressions of the new life he was about

to enter upon, haunted him; strange forms in monkish garbs seemed to

pass him in the gloom of the night and vanish silently as ghosts.

Later he could not tell if he had seen them, or if they had been but

the excrescences of his fevered brain. For always, when he had

endeavored to rouse himself and look about him sanely, the road

stretched before him white and desolate.

The weight of the hours past, yet more the presage of those to come,

had crushed Francesco's spirit with merciless relentlessness. He was

yet too young to realize the healing power of time, how it bears

forgetfulness on its kindly wings, how its shadow becomes finally a

shield, by which the keen daggers of remembrance are blunted and

turned aside. He did not know that the human soul can suffer only so

far, that greater miseries efface the memory of the lesser. The irony

of his parting from Ilaria, to him forever lost, her cruel words, had

stabbed his soul to the quick, and to himself he appeared to have

entered into a dismal, dreary land, a boundless valley of shadows.

As he rode on, at a wild and reckless pace, the only human being on

that wide expanse, all sense of pain and misery left the son of

Gregorio Villani for the time, even all consciousness of the region

which he traversed. He could not stop; it seemed an iron weight would

crush him to earth, while, at the same time, a force against which he

could not struggle drove him on. His brain seemed to be on fire; balls

of flame danced before his eyes; while he looked upon them, they

turned to faces grinning from out a blood-red mist. The faces drew

closer and melted into one, Ilaria's face, as he had seen it last,

white in its marble-cold disdain, with scarlet lips and flaming

poppies in her dark scented hair.

Then the mist in his eyes cleared suddenly, and he saw the figure

below the face, wreathed in a floating web of moonlight, through which

white limbs gleamed, while the dusky hair streamed behind it as a

cloud. Again, as he looked, the form was flying from him upon a great

white horse. And as it flew, it looked back at him with laughing,

witch-like eyes, Ilaria's eyes, as he was wont to see them, and in its

hand it bore a wan pale flame which was his soul. And, with the

fleeting vision, there came to him the realization that he had forever

lost that for which all men strive, which all men hold most dear: life

and love; and all his being leaped to the fierce desire to break the

oath that bound him to that other sphere,--the Church. But fast as his

good steed went, with ears laid back and neck outstretched and body

flattened to the desperate headlong stride, that great white horse

went faster, bearing ever just beyond his reach the slender form

veiled in misty moonbeams, the face with the laughing eyes and the

marble-cold disdain.

He laughed aloud in answer, caught up in the whirlwind of his furious

speed; heaven and earth held nothing for him but the frenzy of desire.

Fire of life, the life he had cast from him, coursed through his

veins; the chase was life itself, exultant, all-conquering, sublime.

He had no eyes for the road ahead. Ahead was the darkness of the great

forests. A stride, and he was within their shadows. The moon was

blotted out by the blackness of the trees; and with it had faded the

vision, gone like a wreath of smoke, or a dream that is lost in

darkness. Francesco reeled in his saddle; his steed thundered on, the

reins loose upon its neck, through the damp silence of the wood, where

night hung heavy, thence out into the open, where again the road

gleamed white and desolate beneath the moon.

And at last the moon was gone and the light went out of the world, and

he knew himself for a soul cast into outer darkness. His mind was

blank. He knew not whether he lived or died, nor did he care. He lived

in a nebulous void of gray unconsciousness, horribly empty of all

thought and all sensation.

And thus he rode onward on the road to his destiny.

End of Book the First.

Book the Second

THE PILGRIMAGE

CHAPTER I

THE VIGIL OF SANTA MARIA ASSUNTA

On the summit of a conical hill, rising above the great amphitheatre

of forests that skirt the sunny Apulian plains, upon the ruins of a

temple to Apollo and in a grove sacred to Venus here, in the sixth

century had arisen the model of western monasticism, the cloisters of

Monte Cassino.

From its sun-kissed heights the view extended on one side towards

Arpinum where the Prince of Roman orators was born, on the other,

towards Aquinum, already famous as the birth-place of Juvenal.

Scarcely a pope or emperor of note there was who had not been

personally connected with its history. From its mountain crags it had

seen Goths, Lombards, Saracens and Normans devastate the land, had

witnessed the death struggle between Guelph and Ghibelline, the

discomfiture of Rome, and the extinction of imperial dynasties.

Up to the chapter house of the great Order of Benedict of Nursia,

enthroned upon that predestined height, Francesco slowly and wearily

made his way. After a night, even more restless than the preceding

one, he had journeyed all day, wishing, yet dreading, to behold his

ultimate goal. And as he slowly rode up the hill his heart sank with

the sheer weight of his misery.

It was evening.

An immense silence, full of sadness, had fallen upon the world. The

distant mountains were lost in a dome of roseate fire, which reached

almost to the horizon, bordered by a line of pallid gold. Only in the

west, like the very Host, the sun, shrouded in golden mists, hung in

the heavens over the mystery of the sea. Slowly the light was

changing. It was the moment of Benediction. Great tongues of flame

stole into the firmament; the hills took fire from the splendor of the

skies. Across the world lay the shadow of the Mountain. The earth

seemed as a smoking censer.

As one wrapped in a dream, Francesco gazed across the land. Far and

away in the Umbrian plains a fire shone like a star fallen to earth;

then another and another. Castellazzara flamed on the mountain;

Proceno, Aquapendente, Elciola and Paladino in the plains. Torre

Alfina high in the mountains lighted her beacon; San Lorenzo in the

valley answered it. Every hamlet chanted "Magnificat" and the hills

answered: "Salve Regina!"

It was the Vigil of Santa Maria Assunta.

From the cloisters above came the sound of many droning voices. They

seemed to intensify the stillness, rather than to disturb it.

At last he paused before the great southern entrance to the cloisters.

He pulled rein, but did not dismount. He was suddenly overwhelmed with

a feeling strong enough to bow his head and to call from his lips a

deep, heartbroken groan. After three days of freedom unspeakably

blessed he was now to enter the gates which would shut him in away

from the world of life, away from the world of men, perhaps for all

his remaining existence. Three brief days! That short time had

dispelled from his spirit the dull crust of insensibility, with which

he had striven to clothe it. He was once more to be laid bare to the

lash of inward rebellion from which he shrank in horror. A pardoned

prisoner recondemned to death,--it was easily compared to the life to

which he must voluntarily resign himself; that endless existence of

religious slavery from whose soul-crushing monotony there was no

escape, but death.

Why no escape? Francesco stood there alone in the falling darkness.

None in the cloisters had been advised of his coming. He might

yet--With a tightening of the lips he leaped from his horse and gave

the customary signal.

After a wait of brief duration a lay-brother appeared, opened the

gates and Francesco Villani entered the precincts of Monte Cassino.

Without stating the reasons of his presence, he requested to be

forthwith conducted into the presence of the Prior, and the monk,

after having cared for Francesco's steed, and attended to his behest,

returned after a short time and bade him follow. Arrived at the

Prior's apartment, his guide knocked for admission. The door swung

inward and Francesco entered alone.

The Prior had just finished a special devotion in a small oratory

adjoining his chamber and was now seated before a massive oaken table,

on which there lay a curiously illuminated parchment, from whose azure

and golden initials Francesco's eyes turned shudderingly to the form

of Romuald, Prior of Monte Cassino.

His great and powerful frame was so worn with vigils and fasts that it

seemed like that of a huge skeleton. He regarded the youth, whose

courtly garb and manners would not have remained unremarked even in

the most brilliant assembly, with an air of austerity mingled with

apathy, which age and long solitude might well have engendered and,

after a few brief words of welcome such as took little from

Francesco's sense of forlornness, he bade the youth be seated.

Without attempt at delay or circumlocution the son of the Grand

Master placed his father's letter in the Prior's hands, while he

turned his face from this living Memento Mori in the garb which

henceforth must be evermore his own.

Francesco seated himself upon a settle, while the Prior weighed the

letter absently in his hand as one undecided whether or not to

acquaint himself with its contents. At last he broke the seal and,

with the aid of a torch whose flickering light drew Francesco's

attention towards the open door of an oratory, Romuald slowly began to

read. While thus engrossed, Francesco's gaze wandered down the dim

vistas of corridors revealed beyond Romuald's chamber, which in the

half-light presented an exceedingly gloomy aspect, reposing in the

uncertain glimmer of stone lamps fixed in niches upon the walls. These

corridors were at intervals crossed by archways, marking the

termination of many flights of stairs leading by galleries to the

upper chambers of the cloisters. A pulpit, supported on a pillar fixed

in the wall, was revealed by the light of five or six stone lamps,

which seemed to intensify rather than to dispel the gloom beyond.

During the reading of Gregorio Villani's letter a sudden change had

come over the Prior's face. Francesco noted it not, engrossed as he

was in scanning his surroundings, silently wondering if he would be

able to strip off the gladness of earth, the joy of youth, the

yearning of the flesh, to become the image of that spiritualized

abnegation which the Prior represented; if his strength would support

his resolve.

Suddenly a scowl darkened Romuald's brow, and from the letter in his

trembling hands his dimmed eyes flashed upon the youth. Francesco

wondered. It was not long before he learned.

Romuald, supporting his right arm on the table, turned to the youth.

"You then are the son of Gregorio Villani! And you think to live here

amongst us, to enjoy the peace and the solitude of these cloisters,

whose life-long enemy your father has been!"

At the Prior's words Francesco had started.

"I know nothing of my father's quarrels, nothing of the quarrels of

the monks," he said.

The Prior nodded absently.

"You were raised at the Court of Avellino?"

"Such was my father's will!"

Romuald looked up at him curiously.

"And now, his will is to make of you a monk, to do penance for his own

transgressions!"

Francesco's head sank.

"The burden is mine to bear!"

A strange light shone in the Prior's eyes.

"Then it is not your own desire?"

Every vestige of color had left Francesco's face.

"It is my wish!"--

There was a brief pause.

"You are loyal to the memory of him who gave you life but to destroy

it," nodded the Prior, as unconsciously he picked up the letter from

the table. Signs of deeper inward emotion were revealed upon his face

as, after regarding the youth with a gloomy interest, he said at last:

"For one raised at court you will find the life of the cloister

arduous enough."

A flood of memories rushed with these words over Francesco.

They left his countenance paler than before,

"I shall learn to bear it."

A sudden gleam of pity seemed to beam from Romuald's passionless eyes.

"It is a brave beginning of the new life,--for I doubt not you must

stay. The word of His Holiness is law. To-night, since collation is

over in the refectory, you will sup with me. To-morrow you shall

exchange this garb for the simpler one."

Sick at heart, Francesco nodded silent acquiescence.

At this moment a monk entered, carrying a platter which he placed upon

a table and, after arranging it according to the Prior's direction,

left the latter alone with his guest.

The collation was by no means traditionally meagre. In truth, it

seemed to Francesco far above what his fancy about monastic life had

led him to expect.

At last when everything upon the trenchers, together with the last

flagon of wine, had been done ample justice to, Francesco, after due

thanksgiving, arose.

Romuald's gaze had never relinquished the youth during the repast.

"Now to St. Benedict's chapel, wherein already the bell is calling,"

he said, rising slowly. "After compline you shall be conducted to your

cell,--one for yourself within the dormitory overhead. This is the

way."

A small door at one side of the Prior's room opened upon a narrow

passage, along which they walked side by side in semi-darkness, till

the light from the chapter house met their eyes. Through this large

room they passed, entering from it the great Church itself, the

further end of which opened into a beautiful chapel consecrated many

years ago to the founder of the cloister, St. Benedict of Nursia.

When the Prior and his companion entered here, the monks were already

assembled. There was many a curious glance cast towards Francesco as

he strode along the kneeling company by the side of the Prior.

So occupied was the newcomer with the novelty of the scene, that the

old and familiar worship, witnessed among different surroundings, did

not pall upon him here.

Mechanically his lips moved, while his eyes wandered over the white

carven screen before the altar and the pillar that rose above it out

of the range of candle-light, to mingle with the shadows above.

Then, by a slight turn of the head, he could see the black, well-like

entrance to the large church, where one or two distant lamps, lighted

by penitent monks before special shrines, flashed like infinitesimal

stars through the gloom. As for the long rows of kneeling monks about

him, they seemed to Francesco to differ not at all from those he had

known and met in the monasteries of Apulia, or those he had seen in

the Augustinian monastery of San Cataldo. They were the same

unsympathetic forms, the same shorn pates, the same dull faces, for

whom the world outside the gates of the cloister was but a country

unredeemed. These were part of the hosts that formed the great army of

the Church, with the aid of which she had slowly but surely obtained

her hold on the heritage of Emperor Frederick the Second; these were

the sentinels of the crusading host of Anjou. They knew no will, save

that of an irate, fanatical pontiff who looked about in vain for means

to rid himself of his dearly beloved son and his rapacious hordes. Of

these he was henceforth to be a part, their loves his loves, their

hates his hates. In vain did he look about for a face idealized by the

life of the cloister, and, as he looked and wondered, the last prayer

was concluded.

In irregular groups, amid a low murmur of conversation, the monks left

their devotions, now ended for another day. Francesco followed them as

they moved down the corridor.

Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder. He turned about and gazed

into the face of the Prior.

"Fra Ambrogio will conduct you to your cell," said Romuald, beckoning

to a long, lean monk who stared awkwardly at the newcomer. "The

last--in the western wing," was the Prior's laconic order, and

Francesco bowed in silence and followed his spectral guide.

He was too weary to care to talk; even to inquire about his horse.

In a short while the son of the Grand Master was alone in his dimly

lighted cell. It was larger than he had anticipated and far more

worthily furnished.

Upon a table had been placed the bundle which held his belongings.

This he unrolled carelessly, intending to take from it only his tunic

for the night. With the movement something from the bundle fell out

upon the stone floor. He stooped to pick it up. It was the little

steel dagger which his hand had gripped on the fatal night of his

return from San Cataldo. Thinking nothing of the omen, he slipped the

forbidden weapon between the leaves of a Missal which he placed on the

table, and there it remained for many a long day.

Then he sat down upon his bed, covering his face with his hands.

Ilaria's name rang in his ears; Ilaria's image filled every atom of

his soul. In the paroxysm of grief which convulsed his frame, he shook

like a storm-swept reed; it was in vain he tried to compose his mind

to the proper attitude for prayer.

The crucifix above his bed swam in a misty cloud before his eyes. It

was only after a long litany, mechanically repeated, that Francesco

succeeded in recalling his wandering imagination to the mystery of the

atonement. At last sheer physical weariness conquered the feverish

agitation of his nerves and he lay down.

The long night passed in unbroken blackness and silence. In the utter

void and absence of all external impressions Francesco gradually lost

consciousness of time. The blackness of night seemed an illimitable

thing with no beginning and no ending; but, when at early dawn he

waked, there were tears in his eyes and the name of Ilaria on his

lips.

CHAPTER II

THE PASSING OF CONRADINO

Days and weeks in the cloisters of Monte Cassino sufficed to convince

Francesco that he was not destined to find any friendships there. The

elder Villani had not seen fit, in an age of implied indulgence, to

keep secret the nature of his transgression, and the curious and

unfriendly glances that met him on every turn had soon proclaimed this

fact to the newcomer, who writhed inwardly, but endured in silence.

The changeless, endless rounds endured by many thousands of human

souls for all years of their lives, added new torture; he felt like

the stray leaf blown from its stem on the sheltering branch; would his

ever be the prayerless peace for evermore?

Thus month passed after month,--in dire, changeless monotony.--

It was a stifling afternoon late in summer.

Few of the monks felt energy enough to go about their usual

half-hearted pastimes, and nearly all had retired to their cells in

comatose languor. Francesco had gone up with the rest; but the sun

streamed brilliantly into his little cell through the western window

and from without there came to his ears the myriad droning of

ephemeral insect life. His mind was weighted with many thoughts that

clamored for analysis.

Gradually he felt immersed in a morbid train of reflections concerning

as ever, the utter emptiness of his own existence, now really more

exiled in loneliness than ever before. For months now he had been in

the cloisters, and not one single word from the outer world concerning

his future had come to him. The time was fast approaching when he must

take the final vows. Had the Pontiff forgotten him? Had his emissary

deceived his father on his death-bed? Or--it was unthinkable--had his

father deceived him, to make him pliable to his wishes? Was he

doomed to remain here till the end of time, severed from the

world,--forgotten?

The very thought was unendurable. These conjectures were worse than

immediate annihilation. No matter which it was to be,--he, the monk,

was utterly powerless. It were far better not to yield himself to

these unwise fears. The Prior had been invisible to him for days. He

alone might, by word or hint, have alleviated his fears; but he had

not spoken.

After brooding over these matters till he thought his brain would

burst, Francesco determined to shake off the oppression of his cell

and to seek solace under the azure vault of Heaven.

Suiting the action to the impulse, he opened the door noiselessly and

stepped into the corridor without.

About him there was absolute silence. He stood at the farthest corner

of the western wing. Nearly all the cells immediately about him were

untenanted. For a moment or two he tarried, undecided. Then, following

an irresistible impulse, he stepped on to the trellised walk without

and decided to ascend the top of the mountain.

Escaping from the court and the cloisters, all hushed in dream-like

stillness, he climbed a green knoll which several ancient pines marked

strangely with their shadows. There, leaning against one of the

trunks, he raised his eyes to the barrier of encircling mountains,

discovered by the quivering sunlight falling directly on the forests

which fringed their acclivities.

The vast woods, the steep descents, the precipices and torrents all

lay extended beneath, softened by a pale-blue haze that alleviated in

a measure the stern prospects of the rocky promontories above. The sky

was of the deepest azure. The hoarse roar of torrents, throwing

themselves from distant wildernesses into the gloomy vales below,

mingled with the chant from remote convents.

How long he had stood there, endeavoring to fix some purpose in his

life, something that would fill out the emptiness of his existence and

give him the strength to bear up under the burden of his destiny,

Francesco could not have told, when a vague glittering movement on the

opposite mountain slopes attracted his gaze, a glitter that told of an

armed array marching and riding among the hills. Even the woods seemed

peopled with shadowy forms, slowly emerging into the bright light of

high-noon, while out of the stillness there leaped the cry of a horn,

hawberks glimmered and armor shone. Beyond the armed array the

mountains towered solemn and stupendous, fringed as with aureoles of

lambent flame. The horsemen came from the North; there was a swirl of

thought in Francesco's brain, then his hand went to his heart:

Conradino and his iron hosts were marching on Rome!

And he, who had dreamed of espousing at some day the cause of the last

of the Hohenstauffen, who had hoped, by some great effort, to win the

crown of life and Ilaria's love, stood here on the summit of Monte

Cassino, separated by mountains, chasms and torrents from the

glistening throng, which wound in one long, sinuous line towards the

ravines of Camaldoli, separated by a whole world from the realization

of the hopes nurtured in his childhood. He was the bondsman of the

Church,--the bondsman of the Pope.

It was an indisputable fact; he was being caught in constantly ever

narrowing circles.

Many questions would hourly assail him, questions like the hill-towns

of Umbria, built on the brink of precipices, walled round with

barriers of unhewn rock, seeming so near from the ravine below, where

the wanderer sees every roof, every cypress tree, every pillared

balcony, but which he cannot approach by scaling the unscalable, sheer

precipice, but must slowly wind round from below, circling up and down

endless undulations of vineyard and oakwood, coming forever upon a

tantalizing glimpse of towers and walls, forever seemingly close to

the heights above him, yet forever equally distant, till, at last, by

a sharp unexpected turn of the gradually winding road, he stands

before the gates.

Thus was it with his own isolated soul, a soul unaffected by any

other, unlinked in any work, or feeling, or suffering with any any

other soul,--nay even with any physical thing.

Thus it stood between himself and Ilaria. Thus they would forever

remain alone, never move, never change, never cease absorbing through

all eternity that which the eye cannot see.

A soul purged perchance, of every human desire or will, isolated from

all human affection, raised above the limits of time and space,

hovering in a limbo of endless desire, twisting mystical half

reasoning away from the peace-hungry soul!

What a fate was his! What a vortex of passions he had been thrust

into!

In the streets of Rome, Guelphs and Ghibellines were fighting. To

southward the Provencals ravaged the land. All over Italy the

free-lance companies lay waste and burned. The coarse religion of the

cloister had no uplifting tendency. It was rather a perpetual smart.

The first fervor of the great Franciscan and Dominican movements had

long been spent. Nothing, save the ill-regulated enthusiasm of

heretical sects, had arisen to take its place. In monasteries and

convents scandals were almost the order of the day. It was true, the

torch of Franciscan faith still passed privately from hand to hand.

Some of the ablest men of the Church were discussing the daring tenets

of direct Franciscan inspiration. Representatives of all phases of

mediaeval thought mingled with the adherents of a mystic Oriental

trend.

Nevertheless, Francesco, in the dead of night, found himself waking to

the sense of a dreadful loss and loneliness. He had entered a hushed

world, where human and earthly values alike were ignored or forgotten,

and the drama of the soul was all in all. The demon of disillusionment

which had beset him ever since he had ascended the heights of Monte

Cassino began to unfold his gloomy wings over the far horizon of his

soul.

No one knew, save himself and perhaps he not fully, how deep a

yearning for guidance underlay his sensitive distaste for the control

of men. His was a nature that craved to follow, as others craved to

lead, but which submitted itself reluctantly, and never at the call of

convention.

Devastated Italy rose before his eyes,--nay, the whole world opened to

the inner vision, one great battle-field. Unconsciously his eyes

followed the direction of the horsemen. Their vanguard had long

disappeared in the dusk of distant forest-aisles; still Swabia's

iron-serried ranks were pouring from the sheltering boughs of the oaks

above San Geminiano.--

Evening drew on apace.

A procession, with its gay dresses and colored tapers gleaming like a

rainbow against the verdant hills along the curving, climbing road

from San Vitale, attracted Francesco's gaze, and with it a sudden dull

pain contracted his heart as he strained his eyes towards the valley.

It seemed like a bridal procession in its pomp, its splendor. A woman

bestriding a palfrey rode gaily by the side of a man conspicuous in

dark velvet. Directly beneath where he stood, she suddenly raised her

head, as if she had divined his presence and desired a witness to her

glory.

With a low cry of pain Francesco drew back.

At that moment, notwithstanding the height, he had recognized the

magically fair features of Ilaria Caselli.

Like an animal hunted to death, that wishes to die in its lair, he was

about to withdraw, when he faced what appeared to be a peasant who had

come with provisions to the cloister.

As he saw the young monk he paused with a salutation, then,

approaching him, he whispered:

"Have you heard the news? Messer Raniero Frangipani and Madonna Ilaria

Caselli are passing on their bridal journey to Rome!"

Francesco's face was so pale that no earthly tint seemed to have

remained in it. Only the large eyes gave evidence of life.

"You come to me from her?" he questioned to the peasant.

"She bade me tell you that from no motive of coercion,--but of her own

free will and choice, the Frangipani's proposal had been accepted!"

Francesco gave a sudden cry like one who leaps over a precipice, and,

falling on his knees, buried his face in his hands.

When he roused himself from the stupor which benumbed his limbs the

peasant had disappeared, with him the bridal procession and the

Swabian contingents of Conradino.

The full moon gazed down upon him through the great silence of the

mountain-world, and a thousand pines thrust up their midnight spears

towards the stars.

CHAPTER III

TONSURE AND THORN

The following weeks dragged along in hopeless monotony. The last night

of Francesco's novitiate had come. There would not be a loophole of

escape for him now. On the morrow, the eternal vows were to pass his

lips. This night he was to spend in the chapel of the saint on his

knees, supposedly in prayer. It was a solitary vigil, for no companion

could be granted him. A dangerous thing for a novice it was, had the

monks but realized it:--putting one for ten hours alone at the mercy

of his thoughts. And Francesco shuddered as they left him, kneeling

upon the stones before the solitary shrine.

Could he have seen himself he would have staggered! How old and

emaciated, shrunken and hopeless he looked, as he knelt there in his

ungainly garments. The face which had formerly borne an open

expression of happiness, was hard now, unreadable and impassive. His

hands, once white and well cared for, had become almost transparent.

As he held his body straight from the knees upward, it was difficult

to perceive how much weaker this body had grown. There was a

pathetically haughty poise to the head still; but the skin was

colorless.

The love for Ilaria, her witch-like face, her witch-like eyes, had

remained with him. He had hoped against hope, that by some human, or

divine interposition, the yoke about to be imposed upon him would be

shattered, that it would prove but a period of probation, a horrid

nightmare forsooth, which would be dispelled by some divine ray, give

him back to earth, to life, to love, for which his heart yearned with

a feverish longing that was fast sapping his strength. His prayers had

been in vain: the moments were fleeting fast towards the consummation

of his destiny.

It suffered him no longer in the incense-saturated gloom of the

chapel. Escaping from his solitary vigil he traversed the courtyard

and almost unconsciously reached the spot whence on the night of his

arrival at the cloisters he had looked down upon the mountain world of

Central Italy.

Above, space soared. Glancing below, he was seized as with a sudden

dizziness. All idea of limitation seemed to have ceased in this

infinity, for he looked down upon a firmament of cloud. And even as he

looked, it was vanishing dream-wise, revealing in widening rifts the

world, that gave it birth. A world,--how flat for all its serrated

mountain ranges, how insignificant for all its far horizons, compared

with that immensity of the starry vault above.

As he gazed with wide, longing eyes, slowly the consciousness of

physical existence seemed to widen, till it extended to the horizon

and in the very extension was transfigured. Francesco tried to summon

images of devotion. But the images mocked the vast concave. He only

saw the deep eyes of Ilaria Caselli. Was not the universe his prayer?

Sharp summits, glistening and far, were better cries of the soul than

he could use.

Long he stood there on the moon-steeped height and gazed to southward

where the winding road led into the plains of Apulia to Avellino, the

cradle of his destiny. And as he gazed, thoughts, or impressions

rather, began to float through his spirit Heaven, like fleecy clouds

which, having withdrawn to the horizon begin to return slowly,

wandering as it seemed at random, yet shepherded steadily by the wind

towards the central upper deeps of the sky.

Faint, clear, a melody, recalling things long left and lost, throbbed

through the silence of the night. He listened, then gazed, spellbound.

Below him the swift waters of the Liris were smitten to tawny light.

Son of the earth once more, he was once more slave of his thoughts.

Far above a world of compromise, conflict and delusion, a world that

was soon to be upheaved by mortal strife, his destiny had lifted him

into this high sphere of purity and peace. No purity save in

isolation. Yet the mass of men were never meant to climb. Should he

take his patient place with the slow, ascending throng,--would not the

old story repeat itself, the old turmoil, conflict, failure?

Turning suddenly, Francesco gave a start.

By his side stood the Prior.

He was not slow to read the distress in the face of the youth.

"This great peace of the world above and about us--does it not

reconcile your soul?" the Prior spoke with a slow sweep of his hand.

"Is there anything greater than isolation above the herd?"

A great bitterness welled up in Francesco's heart, and his eyes filled

with tears, as he turned to his interlocutor with the protest of his

soul.

"You would reject the very affirmations of existence! You cry to the

imperious demands of Nature to create, to propagate, a mere perpetual

No! Let those like-minded betake themselves to monasteries and to

cells. As for myself--"

He broke off with a sob. Had he not lost the clue to Life?

The Prior regarded him quietly.

"The Church does not discourage the actions of the individual,--as

long as they do not conflict with the eternal laws. As for

herself--who must subdue men for men's sake,--she does reject them."

And linking his arm in that of Francesco, the Prior drew him back into

the dusk of the deserted chapel and pointing to the form of the

crucified Christ above the high-altar said:

"Look up! Nails would not have held him on the cross, had Love not

held him there!"

And Francesco sank upon his knees in a paroxysm of grief. The Prior

watched the scalding tears that streamed down the pale, wan face;

then, when Francesco had sobbed himself into a state bordering almost

on apathy, the Prior retraced his steps and left him to himself.

The moonlight streamed through the windows, and lay in broad patches

upon the marble floor. Francesco staggered at last from his kneeling

posture. Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly towards

the chancel and paused at the altar. There he knelt again. Deep

silence reigned. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs. He was wringing

his hands as one in bodily pain.

The sound of his own voice re-echoing through and dying away among the

arches of the roof filled him with fantastic terror as the phantom of

some unknown presence. For a moment he swayed and would have fallen.

It seemed to him as if he had seen Ilaria's face in the purple dusk.

His heart stood still.

He stared spellbound. But it had vanished. He was conscious of nothing

save a sickening pressure of the blood, that seemed as if it would

tear his breast asunder, then it surged back, tingling and burning,

through his body.

It was on the following day.

The ceremony had been accomplished.

Francesco stood before the high altar among the monks and acolytes and

read the Introitus aloud in steady tones. All the cathedral was a

blaze of light and color, from the holiday dresses of the peasants to

the pillars with their flaming draperies and wreaths of flowers. The

religious orders from the adjoining monasteries with their candles and

torches, the companies of the parishes, with their crosses and

pennons, lighted up the dim side-chapels; in the aisles the silken

folds of processional banners drooped their gilded staves and tassels,

glinting under the arches. The surplices of the choristers gleamed,

rainbow-tinted, beneath the colored windows; the sunlight lay on the

chancel floor in checkered stains of orange and purple and green.

Behind the altar hung a shimmering veil of silver tissue, and against

the veil and the decorations and the altar-light, the Prior's figure

stood out in its trailing white robe like a marble statue that had

come to life.

The light of a hundred candles shone in the deep still eyes about him,

eyes that had no answering gleam. At the elevation of the Host the

Prior descended from his platform and knelt before the altar. There

was a strange, even stillness in his movement. The sea of human life

and motion seemed to surge around and below him and die away in the

stillness. A censer was brought to Francesco, he raised his hand with

the action of an automaton and put the incense into the vessel,

looking neither to the right nor left. Then he too knelt, swinging the

censer slowly to and fro. He took from the Prior the sacred golden

sun, while the choristers burst into a peal of triumphal melody:

Pange linqua gloriosi

Corporis mysterium.

Sanguinisque pretiosi

Quem in mundi pretium

Fructus ventris gloriosi

Rex effudit gentium.

Francesco stood above the monks, motionless under the white canopy,

holding the Eucharist aloft with steady hands. Two by two passed the

monks, with lighted candles held left to right, with banners and

torches, with crosses and images and flags, they swept slowly down the

broad nave past the garlanded pillars, the sound of their chanting

dying into a rolling murmur, drowned in the pealing of new and newer

voices, as the unending stream flowed on and yet new footsteps echoed

down the incense-laden nave.

One by one the visiting brotherhoods passed with their white shrouds

and veiled faces, the brothers of the Misericordia, black from head to

foot, their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in their masks;

the mendicant friars with their dusky cowls and bare brown feet, the

russet Benedictines and the white-robed grave Dominicans. They all

bore testimony to the irrevocable step the son of the Grand Master had

taken. A monk followed, holding up a great cross between two acolytes

with gleaming candles. On and on the procession passed, form

succeeding to form and color to color. Long white surplices, grave and

seemly, gave place to gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials. The

roses were strewn, the procession filed out.

When the chant had ceased, Francesco passed between the silent rows of

the monks, where they knelt, each man in his place, the lighted

candles uplifted. And he saw their hungry eyes fixed on the sacred

body that he bore. To right and left the white-robed acolytes knelt

with their censers, as peal after peal of song rang out, resounding

under the arches, echoing along the vaulted roof.

Wearily, mechanically, Francesco went through the remaining part of

his consecration, which had no longer any meaning for him, prayer

eluding him as a vapor. After the Benediction he covered his face. The

voice of the monk reading aloud the indulgences, swelled and sank like

a far-off murmur from a world to which he belonged no more.

CHAPTER IV

THE CALL

During the months that followed, it had become Francesco's habit to

spend most of his leisure time in loneliness on the spot whence he had

beheld the passing of Conradino's iron-serried hosts and where he had

received Ilaria's message. The monks rarely visited the place, and

Francesco's solitude was undisturbed. He never prayed, nor even held a

religious thought while there; but the place was well chosen for

meditation. Situated upon the very summit of the hill, whose slopes

were bathed in purest air and sunlight, his gaze could easily traverse

the intervening space and follow the shining course of the river down

to the blue waters of the lake of Nemi, many miles away. Following the

same direction still, till vision was repulsed by the barrier of

shadowy hills, one knew that just beyond lay the sunny Apulian land,

the spot to which Francesco's eyes ever turned; towards which once in

a passion of rebellion, he had strained his arms, then let them drop

again, helpless at his sides, acknowledging his defeat.

Autumn and winter had come and gone. Again spring was in the land, and

with it at last an evening came; it was Saturday, a night of devotions

and special Aves at the cloisters. The holy office was still in

progress, and Francesco, kneeling in the last row of full-vowed

brethren, was striving to turn his thoughts from useless unhappiness,

watching the play of the candlelight over the high-altar. Thus he

failed to hear the opening of the outer door, and the rapid steps that

passed and returned by the corridor. It was but a lay brother, and not

a monk turned his head. But when a murmured message was delivered in

the Vestibulum, when the jingle of chain-armor and the heavy tread of

nailed feet came echoing towards them, there was a general lifting of

eyes, a craning of necks and a perceptible increase in the speed of

the responses.

The services ended, the monks betook themselves to their

confessionals. A small number still lingered about the door, waiting

the possible arrival of Romuald, the Prior, of whom they might

incidentally learn the title and quality of the stranger. Francesco

had retired into a dim corner, seemingly indifferent to the advent of

the visitor. This appearance was not so much affectation, as a great

struggle to crush back the hope that would sometimes slumber, but

never die, within his breast.

Presently, however, there was a stir in the arch of the corridor,

caused by the advent of one of the Prior's attendants, who stopped

still to look about the chapel. Finally, discovering what he sought,

he approached Francesco, beckoning to him to follow him.

Francesco rose and came forward, his knees shaking, with wildly

beating heart. He followed his guide without looking to right or left,

walking very slowly, that he might regain something of his

self-possession. Had the summons come at last? Concerning its import

he did not speculate, so it sent him into a sphere of action, away

from this self-centred life at the cloisters, the very calm of which

offered no haven for the storm-tossed soul.

When he entered the Prior's presence, his manner was impassively

expectant. Romuald rose slowly from his place, an overpowering, almost

conscience-stricken pity in his heart, which refused to come to his

lips, as on the face of the young monk there was unveiled at last all

the majesty of the bitter loneliness which he had suffered so long and

so silently.

When the Prior turned to Francesco, his words dropped monotonously

from his lips.

"A messenger has arrived from His Holiness, Pope Clement, summoning

you to Rome! You will depart on the morrow!"

Francesco bowed his head in silence and withdrew. As one in a trance

he went out into the empty corridor. At last the call had come: To

Rome,--to Rome! He would leave the dreary solitude of these

mountain-heights, leave their purity and sanctity and peace for the

strife and turmoil of a fevered world. To Rome,--to Rome! His pulses

beat faster at the thought. Thither had those preceded him, among whom

he had spent the golden days of his youth; thither she had gone whose

image filled the dark and desolate chambers of his heart; now lost to

him for aye and evermore! And thither Conradino was marching with his

iron hosts to claim the dominion of the Southlands, his inheritance,

his very own! To Rome,--to Rome! Once it had been the dearest wish of

his soul. Now an unspeakable dread seized him with the summons. He was

the bondsman of the Church,--her shackles were pitiless. Every feeling

must be stifled, the voice of the heart hushed in her grim service.--

Francesco entered his cell; a moment later the cell was in darkness.

But could Francesco's open eyes have served the purpose of a lantern,

a dozen monks might have read by their light, unceasingly, till

matins.

CHAPTER V

THE DELLS OF VALLOMBROSA

It was a windless morning. Stillness and sunlight lay upon the world,

when on the back of his own good steed, which had seen heavy service

since last he rode it, Francesco bade farewell to the cloisters of

Monte Cassino. Though hampered by his monk's habit, he sat in the

saddle with the poise of a nobleman, as he gathered up the reins. With

a cut upon his horse's neck and a word in the pointed black ear, he

was off at a swinging gallop, out and away through the open gate, past

the walls of his prison, giving never a thought to the gaze from

twenty pairs of curious eyes which followed him until he was out of

sight.

Free of the cloister! Oh, the rare intoxication of that thought! And

quickly upon it came the memory of that other departure, when he had

turned his back on the south, had strained his eyes towards the

setting sun. Then spring had awakened in the land, everything was

promise, save the life upon which he was entering. The spring had

gone, and with the spring the happiness of his life. A summer

landscape stretched before him; and he rode towards the setting sun.

Francesco rode slowly enough. The fresh, free air came joyously to his

nostrils. His eyes, less sunken than they had looked for months,

though he knew it not, were seeking out those small tokens of beauty,

which friendly nature gladly exhibits to so devoted a seeker. Two

shrines had he already passed without a Pater Noster, filled with a

quick, delirious happiness, which rose continually from his heart to

his lips.

Through the long, strange, secluded days at Monte Cassino, he had

become aware of a profound respite from the ferment of thought. On

this morning, however, the sense of self, with all its complications,

had utterly vanished. The insistent illusions of the past seemed to

have left him. In the high solitudes in which he had been moving,

living inviolate behind a stillness not of this world, he had wandered

alone, yet not alone, through the spiritual landscape of which Fate

had opened the portals.

Of the monks he had left he thought without regret. They were not

remarkable people, only ordinary men, for whom the veil that separates

the seen from the unseen had become thin and sheer. But if not

remarkable themselves, a remarkable force was playing through them.

Dreamers, yet carrying in their dream the memory of the world's

sorrow, they had gained high victory from long meditation on

redemption accomplished, and on the spiritual glory that transcends.

Yet the knowledge, that by the way of renunciation one comes to the

way of fulfillment, had not yet dawned upon Francesco.

The sun, long clear of the tree-tops, had reached the valleys, and, as

he gazed, the light between the great tree-trunks grew from splendor

to splendor, and flashed its level glories through the forest,

transfiguring the leaves to flame. The dark trees, which crowned the

hill, were giving place, as he descended, to woods of fresher green.

In the grass below cyclamen hung their heads dew-freighted. The birds

were at matins. Through the soft foliage the sky shone, a lustrous

amethyst.

His path struck the main road presently. He wound through an enclosed

valley, fairly wide. The world was all awake. The summer sun, though

young in the heavens, already scorched where it fell. As he passed on,

the unfailing peace of the woods received him, that deep tranquillity

of verdurous gloom which absolves the wanderer from the faint glare of

noon. He saw himself once more a tiny boy, and the years between

shrank into a brief bewilderment in his mind. Dreaming dreams long

forgotten, he rode on. A wandering sunbeam fell through the branches.

For a moment everything seemed withdrawn: fret, fever, confusion not

only exiled, but forgotten among the whispering leaves. The purity of

a great silence was encompassing a great surrender.

Behind him, straight above, the Castle of San Gemignano cut abruptly

into the main curve of the sky. Below, a trifle to the south, a sister

castle, beneath which a few affrighted houses closely huddled, rose

against the purple mass of Monte Santa Fiore. But Francesco was

looking away and out over the desolate sun-lit lands, bordered by sere

brown oak woods, and gray olive hills gilded by the sun.

Before him stretched the fields and oak woods and vineyards of Umbria,

a wide undulating valley, enclosed by high rounded hills, bleak or

dark with ilex, each with its strange terraced white city, Assisi,

Spello, Spoleto and Todi. The Tiber wound lazily along their base,

pale green, limpid, scarcely rippling over its yellow pebbles,

screened by long rows of reeds and tall poplars, reflecting dimly the

sky and trees, pointed mediaeval bridges, and crenelated round-towers.

Barracks of mercenary troops, strongholds of bandit-nobles, besieged

and sacked and heaped with massacre by rival factions, tangled

brushwood of ilex and oak, through which wolves and foxes roamed in

quest of their ghastly prey, now gave evidence of a life other than he

had dreamed of even on his mountain height. Burned houses and

devastated cornfields testified to the late presence here of the Wolf

of Anjou. The mutilated corpses along the road offered a ghastly

sight, which the scattered branches of the mulberries tried in vain

to conceal from the wanderer's gaze.

Grieved by the sight that met his progress through devastated Italy,

resignation schooled Francesco's lips to silence. None the less there

sang irrepressibly in his heart the song of the open road. There is

exhilaration in any enlargement, however painful the personal

experiences of the past months began to appear, a symbol at most in

miniature of the turbulent drama of the age. All he saw and heard,

confirmed the dark situation he had heard described; yet the fact of

decision had soothed his bewilderment. There was hope of action ahead.

On all lips there was the same tale of the unbearable tyranny of the

Provencals, of their mean extortions, their cold sensuality, their

cruelty past belief. Everywhere he found the smouldering fire of a

righteous wrath, everywhere the vaulting flames of a high resolve. The

appearance on the soil of Italy of Conradino was filling the adherents

of the Swabian dynasty with chivalric passion. And Francesco--finding

his own spirit swift to respond to the call--was suddenly reminded

that he had been sold to the Church, who protected the tyrant, to the

Church whose passive servant he was, to do as he was bidden by the

Father of Christendom. And, with the thought, a dread crept cold among

his heart-strings. His friends were phantoms in the sunshine,--a vast

gulf lay between them, now and forevermore.

He was about to be forced into the actual world of practical affairs

and ecclesiastical politics. The shock was rude; he could not as yet

relate the two worlds in his mind, nor project force from one into the

other. What was the Pontiff's desire with regard to himself? Why had

he summoned him to Rome, where he must needs meet anew those in whose

eyes he had become a traitor, a renegade? Had he not suffered enough?

Was the measure of his humiliation still incomplete?--And

Ilaria--Ilaria--

Francesco had ridden all day, stopping for refreshments only, when the

need was most felt, or his steed demanded some rest.

It was a golden evening when he rode into the dells of Vallombrosa.

Everything seemed golden,--a soft and melting gold. The sky, the air,

the motionless holm-oaks, the ground itself, overgrown with short,

tawny moss, beat back a brilliant amber light. The sky flamed orange

and saffron, and the distant lake of Bolsena rolled as a sea of fire.

A company of pilgrims proceeded through the wood, illumined by level,

golden rays, that struck under the high branches, turning the beds of

fern to pale green flame, and the tree-trunks to unsubstantial light.

The fever of the noon-tide had become tranquil in the evening glow. In

their wake a confused mass of men and weapons flashed suddenly into

the sunlight. Another procession with its gay dresses and colored

tapers gleamed like a rainbow among the branches.

To Francesco, always delighting in pageantry, the charm of the scene

tingled through consciousness almost as powerfully as the Masque of

the Gods he had witnessed on that never-to-be-forgotten night at

Avellino. And the same dull particular pain shot through his heart,

intensified a thousand times, as they came nearer through the sun-lit

forest-aisles,--a dark horseman, superbly clad in white velvet, and

beside him the exquisitely moulded, stately form of a woman, both

mounted on palfreys magnificently caparisoned, and followed by a

company of young cavaliers, giddy and gay in their festal array. But

every drop of blood left Francesco's heart, and his cheeks were pale

as death, as in the woman who laughed and chatted so gaily he

recognized Ilaria Caselli,--in the man by her side Raniero Frangipani.

He would have wheeled his steed about and fled, but an ice-cold hand

seemed to clutch at his heart, benumb his senses and paralyze his

endeavors. His eyes were riveted on Ilaria's face; the evening air,

cool and gentle, had waked a sweet color on her cheeks, and her dusky

eyes seemed to reflect the dancing motes of light which permeated the

ether. So bewildering, so intoxicating was her beauty, that Francesco

fairly devoured her with his gaze, as one doomed to starvation would

devour with his eyes the saving morsel which another's hand had

snatched from him. A groan of utter misery betrayed his presence to

the leaders, unseen, as otherwise he might have hoped to remain. The

Frangipani passed him, without taking any notice of the monk, an

accustomed sight indeed in these regions, abounding in chapels and

sanctuaries and the huts of holy hermits. Whether the woman obeyed the

summons of an inner voice, or whether the despairing gaze of the youth

compelled her own,--as she was about to pass him, Ilaria suddenly

reined in her palfrey and met Francesco's gaze. For a moment she

turned white to her very eyes, then a shrill laugh rang like the

breaking of a crystal through the sun-lit wood; the cavalcade cantered

past, many a curious glance being turned on the monk, who in some

unknown way had provoked Ilaria Caselli's sudden mirth.

The sun had set. Filmy rose-clouds brooded in an amethyst mist over

the distant levels of the sea. Then, with the swiftness of the south,

dusk enveloped the dells of Vallombrosa.

The procession had long vanished from sight. Still Francesco stared in

the direction where Ilaria's laughter had died away, as if forced to

do so by some terrible spell. When the awful pain of his heart had to

a degree subsided, he felt as if something had snapped in two in its

dark and desolate chambers. Could love become so utterly forgetful of

its own,--could love be so utterly cruel and blind? Only a miracle

could now save his soul from perishing in its own darkness!

The glory of the night had, as it were, deepened and grown richer. The

purple sky above was throbbing, beating, palpitating with light, of

stars and planets, and a great gold-red moon was climbing slowly over

the misty plains of Romagna. Fireflies whirled in burning circles

through the perfumed air, and from the convent of Vallombrosa came the

chant of the Ave Maris Stella, answered from some distant cloister in

the greenwood: "Vale Carissima!--Vale Carissima!"

CHAPTER VI

THE DUKE OF SPOLETO

Francesco, having spent the night at a wayside inn, was astir with the

breaking of the dawn. He saddled and bridled his horse for the day's

journey, and having paid his reckoning, set his face to the west. The

grass was drenched with dew, the woods towered heavenward with a

thousand golden peaks, while down in the valley a rivulet echoed back

the light, chanting sonorously as it leaped over the moss-grown

boulders in its narrow bed.

Francesco was very solemn about the eyes that morning. He looked as

one who had aged years in one night, and strove with might and main to

forget the past. He watched the sun climb over the leafy hills of

Velletri, saw the fleecy morning clouds sail through the heavens,

heard the thunder of the streams. There was life in the day and wild

love in the woods. Yet from the world of passion and delight he was an

exile, rather a pilgrim, therein fettered by a heavy vow. He was to

bear the Grail of Love through all these wilds, yet might never look

thereon, or quench his thirst.

Through all the heavy morning hours Francesco fought and struggled

with his youth. Ilaria's image floated by his side, robed in crimson

and gold, her hair dazzled him more than the noon-day brightness of

the sun. As for her eyes, he dared not look therein, but the

disdainful laughter of her lips still echoed in his heart. The silence

of the woods had bewitched his soul.

The towers and turrets of Camaldoli had faded behind him in the steely

blue. On the distant horizon Tivoli towered ensconced among her

cypress-groves. To northward the woods bristled under the relentless

gleam of the sun, a glitter like blackened steel under a summer sky.

The road wound under ancient trees. Many a huge ilex cast its gloom

over the grass. The stone pine towered on the hills, above dense woods

of beech and chestnut, and the valleys were full of primeval oaks,

whose sinewy limbs stretched far over the sun-streaked sward.

As for Francesco, his mood partook of the silence of the hills. As the

sun rode higher in the heavens, he came to a wilder region. A desolate

valley opened gradually before him, steeped on every side with the

black umbrage of the woods. A wind had arisen, brisk and eager as a

blithe breath from the sea, and cloud shadows raced athwart the

emerald dells.

Lost in reveries of the past, and brooding over what the times to come

might hold for him, Francesco trotted on through a grove of birches,

whose filmy foliage arabesqued the heavens. A glade opened to the road

below. All around him were tall hills deluged with green woods. A

stream glittered through the flats under elms and drooping willows.

Suddenly a half-score of mounted men rounded the angle of the road.

They sighted the solitary traveller. At once they were at full gallop

over the grass, swords agleam, lances pricking the blue, while the hot

babel of their tongues echoed from the valley. Francesco, with a grim

twist of the mouth, heeled on his horse and took to the woods.

The great trees overarched him, beams of gold came slanting through.

The grass was a deep green under the purple shadows. Through the

silence came the dull thunder of hoofs as the men cantered on,

swerving and blundering through the trees. They rode faster than

Francesco upon his tired steed, and the distance dwindled between the

pack and the chase.

Onward Francesco fled. The black boughs grazed his head, the

tree-trunks seemed to gallop in the gloom. He could see steel flashing

through the wood, like meteorites plunging through a cloud.

Yet he hardly so much as turned his head, for his eyes were piercing

the shadows before him. As he swayed along, he now heard a great

trampling of hoofs in the woods. The nearest galloper swung out from

the gloom. He was leaning over the neck of his horse, his lips parted

over his teeth, his sword poised from his outstretched arm. The sword

circled over Francesco's head, its whistling breath fanning his hair.

He cowered; his horse swerved aside. The horse of his assailant

stumbled over a projecting tree stump, hurling its rider over its head

some six feet away upon the ground, where he lay stunned, dropping his

sword in his fall. Like lightning Francesco leaped from his saddle,

picked up the weapon, and remounted, just in time to ward off a

vicious blow aimed at his head from a second horseman who had plunged

from the thickets.

Francesco's early training served him well and proved his foe's

undoing. Drawing up his horse on sluthering hoofs he faced the second

assailant. Their swords whimpered, screamed and clashed. Francesco's

blade struck the man's throat through. Catching his upreared shield as

he fell, he tore it from its supporting arm, just as two more horsemen

blundered out of the gloom. They sighted the horseless steed, the dead

man on the ground; they saw the monk with sword and shield, and paused

for a moment staggered at the uncommon sight.

Francesco, profiting by their panic, twisted tighter the strapping of

his shield, and with sword circling over his head pushed his horse to

a gathering gallop down the hill. But his assailants had recovered

from their sudden paralysis. Swerving right and left, they dashed down

the glade in hot pursuit. Gaining on him from all sides, his fate

seemed to be sealed, when directly across Francesco's path there rode

leisurely out of the gloom of the forest a score or more of

individuals, mounted on steeds well suited to the riders, the like of

which in point of incongruity of garb and appearance he had never

before beheld.

One wore a cuirass of plaited gold, beneath which was visible a shirt

of coarsest hemp, and two dirty bare legs. Another had a monk's capote

tied about his neck with silver links, like jewels in a swine's snout,

while his carcass was encased in a leather jerkin. A third was covered

with the skin of a wolf, and a fourth wore that of a mountain lion.

Antler's horns protruded from the chain-mail skull-cap of a fifth; a

sixth carried a round shield, covered with raw-hide, and a spear. So

motley was the array and so fantastic the appearance of the newcomers,

that one might have taken them for a band of souls turned out of

purgatory, who, on returning to earth, had robbed a pawn shop to cover

their nakedness.

But he who in point of portliness and bulk would at once have been

acknowledged as the one in authority, a stout and herculean being,

swaying upon an antediluvian steed, with a helmet upon his head

resembling a huge iron cask, now hove into sight, like some portly Pan

bestriding a Centaur. He was of exceeding bulk, with a flaming red

beard and small, close-set eyes. His sword-belt would have girdled two

common men's loins. His arms had the appearance of two clubs. A great

slit of a mouth, under a bristling mustachio, revealed two rows of

teeth, large and strong as a boar's; a double chin flapped to and fro

with the motion of the steed, around which his legs curved like the

staves of a cask.

Being unable to check the speed of his horse in the steep downward

grade of the glen, Francesco was hurled almost bodily into the very

midst of this fantastic array, not knowing whether he had escaped one

foe but to encounter another, or whether there was salvation for him

in the appearance of this strange throng.

The sight of a monk racing at breakneck speed down the glade, swinging

aloft a blood-stained sword and riding as one born in the saddle, for

a moment staggered even the nondescripts and their leader. But, with

eyes blinking under their penthouses of fat, the latter had at a

glance taken in the situation. A signal,--and a whirlwind seemed to

fill the emerald gloom. The wood grew alive with shouting and the

noise of hoofs. Their number compelled Francesco to wheel about and

face his pursuers, as those to whom he trusted for his safety

completely choked up the gorge.

His assailants had come to a sudden halt, as they found themselves

face to face with this fantastic array, outnumbering their own some

ten to one. They seemed to wait the command of their leader, who had,

in the meantime, come up, bestriding a black stallion, a white plume

upon his helmet, and upon his shield and breastplate the armorial

bearings of some great feudal house, the emblem of the Broken Loaf.

The giant of the woods reined in his elephantine steed within a few

paces of Francesco's pursuers and waved his chubby arm, as if he bade

them welcome.

"What ho, gentles!" he roared with a voice like a mountain cataract,

while the fingers of his left hand played with the hilt of his huge

sword. "What is the sport? Pray, let us too share in your pastime! Six

to one--and he of friar's orders--we take the weaker side!"

"Insolent! Know you to whom you speak?" shouted the leader of the

men-at-arms. "The monk is our prisoner! Stand back--at your peril!"

"Your prisoner?" returned he with the iron cask in mocking accents and

barbarous Italian, such as characterized the hired mercenaries and

adventurers who hailed from beyond the Alps. "Are we at war? Pray,

gentles, enlighten our poor understanding, that we too may profit by

your wisdom. Or are we to understand that might is right? We shall be

governed by the oracle!"

"Know you who I am?" shouted the leader of the men-at-arms, relying

rather on the prestige of a dreaded coat-of-arms than on the issue of

so doubtful a conflict, to withdraw with honor from an affair of

little credit to his name. "I am Giovanni Frangipani, Lord of Astura,

Torre del Greco, and Terra di Lavoro! Who are you?"--

The giant bowed slightly in his saddle.

"Sono Rinaldo, Duca di Spoleto," he replied carelessly, squinting his

little watery eyes. "I am much beholden to meet you again, my Lord

Frangipani. Have you counted your beads to-day, after ravishing a

maiden from the Campagna, and are you loving your neighbor as

yourself? Pray--relieve my anxiety!"

At the mention of his name, the name of one of the most renowned

free-lances in Italy, at the period of our story, the Frangipani's

cheek paled and his followers uttered a cry of dismay.

But the Lord of Astura believed discretion the better part of valor.

With a half suppressed oath he wheeled his steed about, and, pursued

by the loud gibes and taunts of Rinaldo's men, they trotted off and

disappeared in the gorge.

He, whose grandiloquent estate seemed to have impressed even so

powerful a baron of the empire as the Lord of Astura, now turned in

his saddle and beckoned Francesco to his side.

His followers brought up the rear, and, choosing a winding forest path

scarcely wide enough for two to ride abreast, the singular cavalcade

cantered into the golden vapor of the wood.

At their feet lay a great valley, a broad bowl touched by the

declining rays of the sun. Its depths were checkered with woods and

meadows, pools set like lapis lazuli in an emerald throne. A lake lay

under the shadow of the hills. Heights girded the valley on every

hand, save where a river like a giant's sword clove a deep defile

through the hill.

Francesco rode in silence by the side of the giant, gazing at the

valley below. It seemed like a new world to him; the craggy heights,

the blown cloud-banners overhead, the dusky woods frowning and smiling

alternately under the sun. A stream sang under the boughs, purling and

foaming over a broad ledge of stone into a misty pool.

They had come to the run of an abyss, where, the trees receding, the

ground broke abruptly into rocky slopes, plunging down perpendicular

under thickets of arbutus and pine. Four roads crossed at a spot where

a great wooden crucifix stretched out rough arms athwart the sky.

For a time the Duke of Spoleto had maintained a grim silence, and

Francesco began to wonder what his captors, if such they were, held in

store for him. The gray walls of a ruin encrusted with lichen gold and

green, rose towards the azure of the evening sky. A great silence

covered the valley, save for the bleating of sheep on remote meadows,

or the cry of the lapwing from the marshes. Distance purpled the far

horizon. The woods stood wondrous green and silent, as mute guardians

of the past.

On the slope of a hill, in the shade of the battered masonry of a

feudal castle overlooking to the north Romagna and the hills of

Umbria, to southward the sun-steeped plains of Calabria, Francesco at

last faced the Duke of Spoleto, his bare, blood-stained sword across

his knees. He had partaken of drink and food, while his steed was

grazing on the emerald turf, and the men-at-arms were roasting a kid

and some chestnuts they had gathered, over a fire kindled with dried

branches and decayed leaves.

Then only the Duke of Spoleto addressed the youth, whose air and

manner had impressed the captain of free-lances to a degree that

confidence challenged confidence, for the duke was not slow to discern

the stalwart metal under the friar's garb.

"Honest men are best out of the way when great folk are upon the

road," he expounded largely, breaking the long silence. "By what

special dispensation have you incurred the love of the Lord of Astura?

Have you perchance confessed his wife?"

And the Duke of Spoleto roared, as if he had given vent to some

uncommon witticism.

The degrading nature of his predicament caused Francesco to be more

frank than he had intended. Nevertheless he replied tentatively.

"The Lord of Astura is a Ghibelline. No doubt it was the friar's garb

which aroused his choler, for I never saw him before."

The Duke of Spoleto nodded grimly.

"A renegade is ever the worst enemy of his kind."

The paradox was lost upon Francesco.

But in the course of their converse the Duke of Spoleto revealed

himself to be one Count Rupert of Teck, a bondsman of the Swabian

branch of the Hohenstauffen, near whose castle his own was situated.

In their cause he had fought Margaret of Flanders and King Ottokar of

Bohemia, William of Holland and Charles of Anjou. After the fateful

day of Benevento, where Manfred, the poet-king, had lost crown and

life against the Provencals, he had withdrawn into the fastnesses of

Central Italy, collecting about him a company of malcontents, such as

follow from afar the camp-fires of an army, and had founded a mythical

dukedom of uncertain territory among the Apennines, to chasten the

world with his club and bruise the devil and all his progeny. From his

stronghold the Duke of Spoleto, as Rupert of Teck more sonorously

styled himself, harassed alike the Pope, the Pope's minion and the

Guelphs. But of all whose watch-towers frowned from inaccessible

heights upon the Roman Campagna, he bore a special and indelible

grudge to the lords of Astura, the cause and nature of which he did

not see fit to disclose.

Francesco listened spellbound to the account of the duke's greatness.

He had his own code of laws, and there was no appeal from his

decision. In the ravine below, a torrent, thundering over moss-grown

boulders, sang a fitting accompaniment to the duke's apotheosis. Far

to the south Soracte towered against the gold of the evening sky. By

his side a cistus was in bloom, its petals falling upon the long grass

and the broken stone.

In the valley the peasantry were returning from Vespers. The silvery

chimes of the Angelus, from some convent concealed in the forest

deeps, smote the silence of evening. Deep to the confines of the dusky

sky glimmered the far Tyrrhenian Sea, washing shores remote with

sheets of foam. Black cliffs, craggy and solemn, frowned upon the sea.

The far heights bristled with woodland, dark under the setting sun.

Not once did Francesco interrupt the guttural account his host gave of

his campaigns, until the Duke of Spoleto referred to the Frangipani.

Some evil fate seemed indeed to have predestined his meeting with the

Lord of Astura, and while his late encounter with the brother of

Raniero lacked the personal element, Francesco's intuition informed

him that, sooner or later, the slumbering spark of an enduring hatred

would be fanned into a devouring flame.

Francesco's apparently irrelevant question with regard to the origin

of his host's acquaintance with the lords of Astura caused the Duke of

Spoleto to utter a great oath.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, "and shall I not pluck out the heart of the devil,

who--"

He suddenly checked himself.

"Though an avowed Ghibelline," he said, "I trust him not! His brother

Latino lords it over Velletri: Archbishop and Grand Inquisitor in one,

he deals out blessings and musty corn, while he mutters the prayer of

the Fourth Innocent in the Lateran: Perdatis hujus Babylonii nomen et

reliquias, progeniem atque germen,--a truly Christian prayer!"

"There is a third!" Francesco interposed with meaning.

"You know him?" shouted the duke. "A twig of the old tree,--a

libertine, who would barter his soul for thirty pieces of silver! From

yonder hill you may see their lair, suspended on a rock beyond the

Cape of Circe."

The speaker suddenly paused and, turning to Francesco, gave a vicious

pull at the latter's garb.

"Cast off your tatters," he roared, and the sound of his great voice

reechoed through the glen. "Join us in a Devil's Ave! Your limbs were

made for something better than to dangle in the noose of a Frangipani.

Or,--if the garb is pleasing in your sight you may wear it over a suit

of chain-mail and lead us in the fray with lance and shield! It will

greatly promote our cause,--above and below!"

And the stout duke grasped Francesco by the shoulders, affectionately,

and shook him till his bones creaked.

Francesco repressed the outcry which the pain drove to his lips. A

spasm of deepest bitterness passed over his face, as he said:

"It may not be;--at least not now! I have a special mission to

perform. The time may come--who knows? Then I will seek you in your

forest glades. I have not always been that thing--a monk!"

The word had passed his lips beyond recall.

Rupert of Teck regarded him quizzically.

"Purge your own pasture and let the Devil take care of his own! Why

subordinate your soul to chains forged of men?"

The day was waning when Francesco accompanied his host back to the

ruin. An arched doorway with broken pillars led to a low room, roofed

with rough timber. There was an improvised bed of bracken in one

corner, where he was to rest for the night, for the Duke of Spoleto

would not hear of his departure before dawn.

"It were perilous even for one familiar with the roads to traverse the

forests at night; there are more rogues about than you wot of," he

said. "On the morrow I will myself guide you to the road you seek!"

Francesco accepted the offer and hospitality of the Duke of Spoleto

gratefully, for he was neither physically nor mentally disposed to

continue his journey at once. They entered the ruin together, while

the band of the duke chose their resting-place outside on the emerald

greensward.

Night came apace with a round moon swimming in a sky of dusky azure,

studded with a myriad glistening stars.

There was a great loneliness upon Francesco's soul.

He lay awake a long time. He heard the night wind in the forest trees

and the occasional murmur of a voice, that seemed to be making a long

prayer. He was moving in the world of men now. Yet all the love seemed

to have left his life and all his struggles to have ended in

bitterness. In the hour of his trial Ilaria had failed him, had hid

her face from him behind the mask of scorn. He had little hope of

sleep, for there were thoughts moving in his brain, tramping like

restless sentinels to and fro. The night seemed full of ghostly voices

crying to him out of the dark. He heard Ilaria's voice, even as he had

heard it when she taunted him at Avellino; her laughter in the dells

of Vallombrosa echoed in his heart. He remembered the days when he had

heard her sing with the voice he loved so well; for him she would sing

no more. He found himself wondering in his heart if she would weep if

he died. Perhaps her scorn would melt away when she learned that he

had gone from earth forever.

Francesco passed the greater part of the night open-eyed, for the

memories of the past drove the sleep from his aching eyes. A soft

breeze played in the branches of the giant oaks, and among the roses

which clambered about the walls of the ruin. Slim cypresses streaked

the misty grass, where a little pool caught the light of the moon.

Soon the dawn came, a silvery haze rising in the east. The cypresses

caught the streaming light, gliding from tree to tree; in the meadows

fluttered golden mists. The far woods glistened and seemed to tongue

forth flame. A trumpet sounded. The duke's band rose to meet the sun.

After having partaken of a morning repast, such as the duke's stores

afforded, Francesco took leave of his host, who assigned to him a

guide, to conduct him to the broad highway to Rome. But, at parting,

the burly duke admonished Francesco to break the fetters forged in

hell and to turn to him in his hour of need.

The world was full of the splendor of the awakened day. The waves of

the mountain torrent were touched with opalescent lights, as they

swept through the gorge below.

Francesco's guide was a godly little man with a goat's beard and a

nose like the snout of a pike. For a goatherd he was amazingly learned

in matters of religion and in his knowledge of the names and

attributes of the saints. He halted frequently, knelt down, prayed and

kissed a little holly-wood cross that he carried. His beard wagged

through long processions of the saints, but St. Joseph of Arimathaea

was honored with his especial confidence.

Francesco had never seen such an example of secular godliness before,

and began to be impatient with the old fellow, who bobbed down so

frequently, looking like a goat squatting upon its haunches, and

mumbling over a great beard. All this devotion was excellent in its

way; but Francesco's religion was running into action, and the old man

loitered and told the miles like beads upon his rosary.

He decided to rid himself of the fellow as soon as the goatherd had

served his purpose, for this verminous piety was like the drawing of a

dirty clout across the fresh flavor of a May morning.

Where four roads crossed, they parted, and Francesco, cantering along

the high-road, little guessed that the wary duke had assigned to him

this especial guide to disgust him with his own garb and calling.

CHAPTER VII

ROME!

The chimes of the Angelus were borne to him on the soft breeze of

evening, when, on the third day of his journey, Francesco caught sight

of the walls and towers of Rome. As he drew rein on the crest of a low

hill, the desolate brown wastes of the Campagna stretched before him,

mile upon mile to northward, towards the impenetrable forests of

Viterbo.

Before him rose the huge half-ruined wall of Aurelian, battered by

Goth and Saracen and imperial Greek; before him towered the

fortress-tomb of the former master of the world, vast and impregnable.

Here and there above the broken crenelations of the city's battlements

rose dark and massive towers, square and round, marking the fortified

mansions of the Roman nobles.

In the evening light the towers seemed encircled as by a halo. The

machicolated heights, the encircling ramparts, the stern tomb of the

Emperor Hadrian rose proudly impregnable into the golden air of

evening, a massive witness to the power of a Church, literally

militant here below. Under the broad Aelian bridge, built centuries

ago, rolled the turbid waves of the Tiber, and upon the bridge itself

a stream of humanity, hardly less intermittent, was moving. Francesco,

having buried his sword and shield under a grass-grown ruin beyond

the city walls, rode dazed and wondering into the sun-kissed splendors

of pontifical Rome.

Gradually the sun sank, the valley of the Tiber filled with golden

lights, moving along little by little, travelling slowly up the

emerald hillocks, covering the bluish mountains of Alba with a golden

flush, crowning the thousand churches and palaces with a rosy sheen,

then dying away into the pale, amber horizon, rosy where it touched

the distant hills, bluish where it merged imperceptibly with the upper

sky. Bluer and bluer became the hills, deeper and deeper that first

faint amber. The valleys were filled with gray-blue mist, against

which the Seven Hills stood out dark, cold and massive.

There was a sudden stillness, as when the last chords of a great

symphony have died away. The yellow waters of the Tiber eddied sullen

and mournful round the ship-shaped island, along by Vesta's temple,

beneath the cypressed Aventine.

After having secured temporary lodging at a tavern bearing the sign of

the Mermaid, over against the tower of Nona, near the bridge of San

Angelo, Francesco wandered out into the streets of Rome.

The inn was old, as the times of Charlemagne, and was a favorite

stopping-place for travellers coming from the north. The quarter was

at that time in the hands of the powerful house of the Pierleoni,

whose first Pope, Anacletus, had been dead a little over a century,

and who, though they lorded the castle and many towers and fortresses

in Rome, had not succeeded in imposing their anti-pope upon the Roman

people against the will of Bernard of Clairvaux.

Francesco wandered through the crooked, unpaved streets, in and out of

gloomy courts, over desolate wastes and open places. There was a

crisis at hand in the strife of the factions. Every one went armed,

and those who knelt to hear mass in a church, knelt with their backs

to the wall.

At his inn, too, he had noted every one lived in a state of armed

defence, against every one, including the host and other guests. And

reasons were not lacking therefor, for Rome was in the throes of

political convulsions and its walls resounded the battle-cry of Guelph

and Ghibelline.

Howling and singing, a mob filled the streets southward to the

Capitol, or even to the distant Lateran, where Marcus Aurelius on his

bronze horse watched the ages go by. Across the ancient Aelian bridge

Francesco stalked, under the haunted battlements of Castel San Angelo,

where the ghost of Theodora was said to walk on autumn nights, when

the south wind blew, and through the long wreck of the fair portico

that had once extended from the bridge to the Basilica, till he saw

glistening in the distance the broad flight of steps leading to the

walled garden court of St. Peter's.

Here he rested among the cypresses, wondering at the vast bronze

pine-cone and the great brass peacocks, which Symmachus had brought

thither from the ruins of Agrippa's baths, in which the family of the

Crescentii had fortified themselves during more than a hundred years.

For a long time Francesco sat there in mournful silence, drinking in

the sun-steeped air of evening, and the scent of the flowers that grew

here with the profusion of spring-time.

An indescribable sense of desolation came over him, as he thought of

his happy childhood with its joys and griefs, as he thought of the

spring-time of life, the days of Avellino, and of Ilaria. He sat here

an outcast, an exile, one who had no further claim on the joys of the

living, guiltless himself, the victim of another's sin. The soul of

Rome, the Rome of Innocent and Clement, had taken hold of his soul,

and, for a time, he dreamed himself away from the bleak present and

the bleaker future. The past, with his father's sins, his own sorrows,

the friendship of the Viceroy, the love of Ilaria, were now all

infinitely far removed and dim. The future, whose magic mirror had

once dazzled his senses, had faded like a departing vision into the

blue Roman sky. Only the present remained, only the hour was his, the

dreamy half-narcotic present with its mazy charms which enmeshed him,

far from the reality, the Rome as it existed, where the Church was the

World, and Rome herself meant some seven or eight thousand ruffians,

eager always for a change, because it seemed that no change could be

for the worse.

In the ancient Basilica of St. Peter's at least there was peace. The

white-haired priests solemnly officiated day by day, morning and noon,

and at Vespers more than a hundred voices sang the Vesper psalms in

the Gregorian chant. Slim youths in violet and white swung silver

censers before the high altar, and the incense floated in spiral

clouds upon the sunbeams that fell slanting upon the antique floor.

Here, at least, as in many a cloister of the world, the Church was

still herself, as she was and is and always will be; words were spoken

and solemn prayers intoned that had been familiar to the lips of the

apostles.

But they brought no consolation to Francesco's heart; his soul was not

relieved by the solemn ceremony. With the rest of the worshippers he

knelt unconsciously in the old cathedral; with the rest of the

worshippers he chanted the responses and breathed anew the

incense-laden air, which was to encompass him to his life's end.

Refreshed neither in body nor soul, he returned to the inn late at

night. But he could not sleep. Opening wide the wooden shutters of his

window, he looked out upon the Mausoleum of the Flavian Emperor, at

the tide of the Tiber, which gleamed and eddied in the moonlight.

Life rose before him in a mystery, a mystery for him to solve by

deeds. For a moment he felt that he must rise above his fate, that he

was not idly to dream away his years, and the long dormant instinct of

his race bade him defy the yoke which was about to be imposed upon

him, not to evade it. Then his heart beat faster; his blood surged to

his throat, and his hands hardened one upon the other as he leaned

over the stone sill, and drew the night air sharply between his closed

teeth.

And as a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the willows by the

river brink, in it seemed to float a host of spirit armies, ghostly

knights and fairy-maidens and the forecast shadows of things to come.

Once before during the evening had this sensation gripped his soul, as

with a solitary monk whom he chanced to meet, he had traversed the

desolate regions of the Aventine in the sun's afterglow. And then, as

now, there had come the rude awakening.

But from the monk he had learned that the Pontiff had fled from Rome

before the approaching hosts of Conradino, and had betaken himself to

Viterbo, while his champion, Charles of Anjou, had marched to

southward, leaving the city to the Ghibellines and the imperial party

of the Colonna.

End of Book the Second.

Book the Third

THE BONDAGE

CHAPTER I

THE WHITE LADY

The Piazza of St. John Lateran was alive with the rush and roar of a

vast multitude, which congested the spacious square from the Church of

Santa Croce in Gerusalemme to the distant Esquiline hill, occupying

every point of vantage, thronging the adjacent thoroughfares, crowding

the long Via Merulana, and filling the ruins of temples, the

interstices of fallen walls and roofless porticoes as far as the eye

could reach.

All Rome seemed to be astir, all Rome seemed to have assembled to

welcome the advent of the Swabian host, and in the keen delight of

beholding Conradino, the fair-haired Hohenstauffen come to claim the

fair lands of Constanzia, all petty-strife, contentions and

party-rivalry seemed for the nonce to have been forgotten.

In reality, however, such was not the case.

So sudden had been Conradino's descent upon Rome that the Pontiff and

his minion, Charles of Anjou, had precipitately fled from the city,

ere the first German spear-points gleamed above the heights of Tivoli.

The Roman Ghibellines, at their head the great and powerful house of

the Colonna, hated the Vulture of Provence as intensely as did the

Pontiff, his one time champion, and welcomed with open arms the

grandson of the Emperor Frederick II, their deliverer from an

insufferable yoke, which had been as a blight upon Southern Italy.

Yet, notwithstanding the absence of the pontifical court, the absence

of the Church militant, the institution which, when Europe was

over-run with barbarian hordes, had preserved the ancient

civilization, the power of the city was in evidence even though

huddled affrighted amidst the majesty of imperial ruins. A memory, a

dream, yet the power of a dream outlasting the ages, Rome still

remained the mystic centre of civilization.--

With a sickly sense of curiosity not unmingled with awe, Francesco had

mingled with the crowds.

The dream of his early youth was about to be realized: face to face he

would behold the golden-haired Hohenstauffen,--yet at the thought his

heart sank with a sense of dread. Dull misery had him in its grip. The

keen pain of a false life, resentment of a fate imposed upon him by

another's will, permeated every fibre of his being. In his dreams he

would see the friends of his youth, pointing to him, the renegade; he

would see Ilaria, standing off motionless, spiritless, regarding him

from afar. If she at least had kept her faith! He felt himself

encompassed by the folding wings of a great demon of despair.

This feeling pervaded him with a sickening gloom, in which he walked

with drooping head and uncertain footsteps,--yet with the resolve to

conquer in the end!

Life was no mere existence with Francesco. He loved light and air and

freedom. To be in the great, real world, to feel its joys, its

sunshine, to chafe under no conventional, no restraint, to know the

fascination of recklessness,--that to him was life!

And about him it surged in blinding iridescence.

Notwithstanding the months of monastic life which lay behind him, he

had not in any formal sense severed himself from the world. His

renunciation of the joys of the senses had been not primary, as with

the Franciscans, but, as always with those under Dominican influence,

incidental on a choice of higher interests.

But the conscious choice of a beautiful existence was ever with him,

and here, among the thousands giving vent to their joy, restrained by

no dogma from voicing their gladness, loneliness crept cold among his

heart-strings.

The scenes in which he, half absently, half resentfully, mingled,

afforded a fine opportunity to study sacerdotal types. Now and then a

scholarly countenance detached itself with startling effect from the

coarser elements; now and then among the keen lines of such a

countenance played the hovering, unmistakable light of a personal

sanctity. There were men of the noblest, gentlest blood, from whom

came the example of courtly manners, of polished speech and refined

taste. Through the years of desolation and ruin, which war brought in

its wake, they preserved art, literature and religion and infused into

civilization the principles of self-sacrifice, charity and chastity.

They declared a message that protested against violence and injustice.

Francesco saw men among the priests, whose broad shoulders, singularly

brilliant dark faces and magnificent poise formed a striking contrast

to those upon whose features had settled the beautiful, soft calm of

spotless seclusion.

Yet Francesco felt no need of such a refuge.

The espousals of piety and poverty, the inexplicable mysteries,

martyrdoms, ascetic faces and haggard figures, which he had

encountered upon entering the monastic life, the morbid enthusiasm and

spiritual frenzy were repellent to him now, as they had been then.

Sad-visaged penitents, men scourging themselves, prostrate in prayer,

wrestling with demons, waked no responsive chord in his breast.

A splendid procession, with its gay dresses and colored pennons

gleaming like a rainbow among the sombre garbs of monks and artisans,

at this moment emerged from under the frowning portals of a sombre

palace and swept into the sunlit square of St. John Lateran.

The cavalcade was headed by a cavalier superb in white velvet, riding

abreast of a woman, tall and stately. They were followed by a company

of young nobles, arrayed in festal splendor. The piazza resounded with

the echo of their shouts and mirth, and the multitudes congested on

the steps of the Church of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme shouted loud

acclaim, as they passed on their cantering steeds.

What were those stabbing pangs in Francesco's heart beneath the

noonday brightness of the sky? Why did he wish, almost insanely, that

he had not set foot in Rome?

The banners of the Frangipani waved proudly in the sun-fraught air,

revealing their emblem of "The Broken Loaf," amidst velvet, gilt and

tinsel.

As the cavalcade approached, every word, every tone, every accent was

ringing perversely in his ears. The piazza with its maelstrom of

humanity seemed to whirl and to scintillate about him, and the acclaim

of the crowd surged in his ears like the dull roar of distant billows,

as the procession came to a sudden stop at the fountain whence he had

viewed its approach.

Shrinking beneath his cowl, yet unable to avert his gaze, Francesco

stood leaning on the rim of the fountain.

He heard the voice of Ilaria as, dismounting without the aid of her

companion, she requested a cup, having taken a sudden fancy to drink

of the sparkling water.

The cup having been brought, she put her lips to it, then swiftly

tossed the bright drops towards the sky, singing a little melody as

she did so.

She had apparently not noted Francesco's presence, though his eyes had

been riveted upon her from under the cowl, and his face was deadly

pale. Hemmed in as he was by the crowds, he could not have receded,

had he wished to;--thus he stood, looking upon the face of the woman

he loved better than anything on earth, forgetting heaven and earth in

doing so.

Stooping, she filled the cup once more and looked up at her companions

with a smile.

"Who shall drink after me?" she laughed merrily.

Many a merry voice called out, as they eagerly crowded about her.

"Who but myself?" exclaimed Raniero Frangipani with a laugh, brushing

the others away with perhaps a little more decision than was needed.

But suddenly Ilaria turned and deliberately advanced to the spot where

Francesco stood, his cowl drawn deeply over his face.

"All men do my bidding to-day," she said in her low, vibrant voice,

offering him the cup, while her eyes flung him a glittering challenge.

It was her most winsome self that looked at him, as she said:

"Drink to me!"

Dazed, he took the cup from her. In doing so, he touched her soft,

white skin. The cold draught seemed to burn like fire as he sipped the

clear water. Then, surprised by impulse, he flashed the drops upward,

as he had seen her do.

Her laughter sounded shrill and high as broken glass, as the

dislocated cowl revealed Francesco's features.

But she immediately regained her composure, and, without a hint in her

voice of the taunt in the dells of Vallombrosa, she said, nodding, as

if well pleased, and as if for his ear alone:

"The White Lady is well pleased. Is not this her altar?" But another

had recognized the monk, when for a moment his cowl fell away from

his face; and Raniero Frangipani was regarding him with dark malice.

As if to leave a sting in the memory of their meeting, Ilaria,

returning to Raniero's side, gave the latter a smile so bewitching

that his scowl vanished. Remounting with his help, she signalled for

the cavalcade to proceed.

The pain in Francesco's heart rose, suffocating, once more as the

procession swept onward.

How he had loved her! How he loved her now!

How shall a man be sure of what is hidden in his heart? He was a

monk,--and she the wife of Raniero Frangipani.

How wondrous fair she was, glowing as a rose in the first flush of

spring-time! How her sweet eyes had gleamed into his, with their

subdued fire, half hidden under the long silken lashes!

For a moment he saw and heard nothing.

All sense of the present seemed to have vanished while the cavalcade

faded from sight.

Now, from the gates beyond St. John Lateran, there burst forth the

pomp and panoply of the North, with a flourish of trumpets, a gleaming

of chain-mail, a sparkling of pennons.

Two heralds, on snow-white chargers, rode slowly through the gate,

sounding their fanfares, their standards and particolored garbs

displaying the Sun-Soaring Eagle of Hohenstauffen.

Then, on a black stallion, docile to the hand and impatient of the

spur, Conradino of Swabia hove into sight, beside the friend of his

youth, Frederick of Austria.

They rode in advance of the elite of the army, some two thousand men

in gleaming chain-mail. Conrad and Marino Capece followed hard on

their heels with one thousand heavy infantry and a company of Saracen

archers. Then came Galvano Lancia with the heavy armament, men from

the North, carrying huge battle-axes in addition to their other

weapons.

As they slowly advanced through the great square fronting the ancient

Basilica, a great shout arose from the thousands who lined the

thoroughfares, a counter-blast to the clangor of the clarions.

Then the whole host shouted, tossed up shield and lance, while

trumpets and horns shrieked above the din.

On the steps of houses and churches, in casements, doors and windows,

women waved kerchiefs and scarfs, their shrill acclaim mingling with

the sounds of horn and bugle.

The tramping of thousands of steeds smote the bright air; shields and

surcoats shone and shimmered under the sun-fraught Roman sky.

All the streets through which the armament passed were hung with

garlands and tapestries, blazing with banners, festooned with flowers

and gorgeous ornaments, re-echoing with peals of laughter and ribaldry

and roaring music.

For the fickle Romans gave free rein to their joy of being rid of

Anjou's presence, and the sober and pedantic Northmen viewed with

amaze this manifestation of the Southern temperament, the reflex, as

it were, of a clime which had lured to perdition so many of their own,

who had not withstood the blandishments of the Sorceress.

And the Romans, revelling in their own exuberant gaiety, forgetful of

yesterday, unmindful of the morrow, hailed with delight the

iron-serried cohorts from beyond the Alps,--till the disappearing

menace within their own walls would cause them to turn on their

deliverers.

From the summits of his castle on the well-nigh impregnable heights of

Viterbo, Pope Clement IV had witnessed the passing of the Swabian

host, and his eyes, undimmed by age, had marked the persons and the

quality of the leaders. And, turning to one of his attendants, who

leaned by his side over the ramparts to scan more minutely the

Northern armament, he had spoken the memorable words: "Truly, like two

lambs, wreathed for the sacrifice, they are journeying towards their

fate."--

To the casual observer,--if, indeed, there was such a one in the Rome

of those days,--it must indeed have appeared a strange phenomenon that

Conradino was surrounded almost entirely by Italians, with the

exception of one or two leaders whose contingents the narrow and

parsimonious policy of Duke Goerz of the Tyrol had not been able to

shake in their loyalty, when he recalled his own contingents for want

of pay.

But the popular enthusiasm swept everything before it, and Conradino's

march to the Capitol, where he was to be tendered the keys of the city

by the Senator of Rome, Prince Enrico of Castile, was one continuous

triumph.--

As one in a dream, Francesco continued to gaze after the imperial

cavalcade as it swept past with its gold and glitter and tinsel and

the thunderous hoof-beats of a thousand steeds. As one in a dream, he

kept gazing at the gold-embroidered mantles, the flash of

dagger-hilts, the gleam of chain-mail, the waving plumes, the prancing

steeds.

The procession swept by him, as the phantasmagoria of a dream; but,

after it had passed, one apparition continued to stand forth.

He never forgot that face.

To him it was all that was beautiful and regal, framed in its soft,

golden hair, with its tender blue eyes, its smiling lips. A slender

youth, barely eighteen years of age, with the eyes of a dreamer,

Conradino was possessed of an exaltation which blinded him to the

perils of the situation, intoxicating his ambition,--a quaint

combination of the mystic lore of his tunes, of which Francesco felt

himself to be his other Ego.

The crowds had dispersed by degrees, sweeping in the wake of the

Swabian host towards the Capitol.

And Francesco stared motionless into space.

Was he indeed cast out from the communion of the world, from the

contact of the living?

Had a mocking fate but cast him on the shores of life, that he might

stand idly by, watching the waves bounding, leaping over each other?

He felt as one enslaved, his will-power paralyzed.

Yonder, where the setting sun spun golden vapors round the summits of

the Capitoline Hill, there was the trend of a high, self-conscious

purpose, as revealed in the impending death-struggle for the highest

ideals of mankind.

What had he to oppose it?

What great aim atoned for the agony of his transformation?

The restitution of papacy? The glory of the Church? The vindication of

a crime? The toleration of a despot?

Francesco's passionate nature might have been guided aright by a

controlling affection, such as he could nevermore find in his present

estate.

Slowly, as one wrapped in a dream, gazing neither right nor left, he

permitted himself to be swept along with the crowds, past monuments,

tombs and the desolate grandeur of the Forum, and as one enthralled,

began the ascent of the Capitoline Hill.

CHAPTER II

THE FEAST AT THE CAPITOL

When darkness had fallen on the Capitoline Hill, the old palace of the

Caesars seemed to waken to a semblance of new life. In the gorgeous

reception hall a splendid spectacle awaited the guests. The richly

dressed crowds buzzed like swarms of bees. Their attires were

iridescent, gorgeous in the fashions borrowed from many lands. The

enslavement of Italy and the invasion of foreigners could be read in

the garbs of the Romans. The robes of the women, a slavish imitation

of the Byzantine fashion, hung straight as tapestries, stiff with gold

brocades.

Prince Enrico of Castile, the Senator of Rome, had arranged a festival

in honor of Conradino, such as the deserted halls of the imperial

palace on the Capitoline had not witnessed in centuries.

It was a festival hitherto unequalled in Rome.

The walls of the great reception hall were decorated with garlands and

festoons of flowers; the soft lustre of the candelabra was reflected

in tall Venetian mirrors, brought from Murano for this occasion.

Niches filled with orange-trees, artificial grottoes adorned with

shells, in the midst of which fountains sent their iridescent spray

into the branches of tall cypress-trees and oleanders, met the gaze on

every turn.

But the central part of the festival was the gigantic hall, over which

the girandoles diffused a sea of light. Costly Oriental carpets

covered the mosaic floor, and the ceiling represented the

thousand-starred arch of heaven. Here, too, as in the garden, niches

and grottoes were everywhere to be found, where one, in the midst of

the constantly moving crowd, could enjoy quiet and repose.

In the great hall there were assembled the first Ghibelline families

in Rome, the Colonna, Cavalli, Gaetani, the Massimi and Stefaneschi;

the Frangipani of Astura, the Pierleoni, the Savelli, and the

Annibaldi, whose chief had fallen side by side with Manfred in the

fateful battle of Benevento.--

A loud fanfare of trumpets and horns announced at last the arrival of

Conradino, and his bearing, as he entered the ancient halls of the

Caesars, was indeed that of one coming into his own.

He was surrounded by Giordano and Galvano Lancia, Conrad and Marino

Capece, John de Pietro, John of Procida, who had come expressly from

Palermo to offer homage to the son of his emperor; Count Hirnsius,

Gerhardt Donoratico of Pisa, Thomas Aquino, Count Meinhardt of

Castanea, Frederick of Austria, Prince Raymond of Montferrat,

Frederick of Antioch and Dom Pietro Loria, Grand Admiral of King Peter

of Aragon. The Viceroy of Apulia and the Apulian barons followed

closely in their wake.--

Six senators, headed by Don Enrico of Castile, now advanced, carrying

between them on a purple velvet cushion the keys of the city.

In a kneeling position they presented them to Conradino, who in turn

gave them in charge of the commander-in-chief of his army, while loud

acclaim shook the foundations of the rock, unmoved by the assaults of

centuries.

After the banquet had been served and the guests had arisen from the

festal board, Prince Enrico of Castile claimed the privilege of

conducting the exalted guest through the halls of the Capitoline

palace.

They had not advanced very far when the quick eye of the Senator of

Rome lighted upon an individual who had been watching their advance

from his concealment among the shrubbery.

It was a man, tall, lean, with prominent shoulders, glittering eyes

and a thin, straight mouth. The black hair was cropped close to the

massive head. The eyes were bead-like, bright as polished steel. The

brows met in a straight black line over the nose.

"My Lord Frangipani--"

The Lord of Astura turned. Don Enrico presented him to the King of the

Germans. Conradino extended his hand.

"We are well pleased to count you among our loyal friends and

adherents, my Lord Frangipani," Conradino said with warmth. "Our

illustrious grandsire himself has bestowed upon you the insignia of

knighthood; it is a tie which should bind us for aye and ever!"

The Frangipani grasped the proffered hand, bending low as he replied:

"I count it great honor that King Conradino acknowledges the bonds

which bind the house of Frangipani to the house of Swabia. May I be

afforded the opportunity to prove my devotion towards the grandson of

my glorious emperor!"

While Conradino's gaze was resting upon the Lord of Astura, there came

to him a sensation, strange as it was fleeting.

He felt singularly repelled by the voice and glance of the baron,

notwithstanding the latter having received his schooling at the

brilliant court of Emperor Frederick at Castel Fiorentino.

In order to overcome this sensation, Conradino turned to the Roman.

"You are the Lord of Astura," he said. "I have been told your castello

defends the coast!"--

"Some fifty leagues to southward, Astura rises sea-washed upon its

impregnable rock!" Giovanni Frangipani replied, not without

self-conscious pride. "Corsairs and Saracens have dashed themselves in

vain against its granite walls. The bulwark of Terra di Lavoro, I hold

castello and port as hereditary fief of Emperor Frederick!"

"A port and castello near Rome!" Conradino said with a quick lift of

speech. "My imperial grandsire did well to entrust them to so faithful

a subject. Who knows but that at some day I too shall embark at

Astura?"

He spoke the fateful words and shivered.

It was as if the cold air of a burial vault had fanned his cheeks.--

Impelled hither by a force beyond his control, Francesco instinctively

shrank from mingling with the festive crowds. The one desire of his

life fulfilled, to see face to face Conradino, the idol of his

youthful dreams, he would take his weary feet away and continue upon

his journey towards an unknown destiny.

Opposing thoughts were flying towards contrary poles of his horizon.

On the one hand, the old longing for the world, a world of action, had

risen strangely from forgotten depths. Was this perchance the goal to

which his present life was leading? In the midst of his ruminations he

heard the silvery mirth of Ilaria from the depths of the gardens, and

the pain itself seemed to guide his steps towards her. He had always

thought her the most beautiful of all beautiful women, though with

them Italy blossomed as a garden.

He again remembered the night he first saw her, how the exquisite

purity of her face distinguished her from the glittering throng among

which she moved. He even remembered now in what graceful folds her

white robe fell from the square cut neck to her feet, how the

over-sleeves hung open from the shoulders, revealing the snowy

whiteness of her arms.

He remembered how that night he had refused to go singing carnival

songs with the youths of the court; how they, heated with wine, had

jeered and taunted him, asking if, perchance, he was turning into a

pious monk.

Suddenly in his waking dream he found himself at Monte Cassino in the

cell of the Prior. And the Prior talked and talked about the sins of

the world, and the lust of the flesh, and of prayers and penances.

How, as he sat there in grim silence, the Prior thought he was

listening, instead of thinking of a smile of divine sweetness, and a

fairer face than that of the Virgin looking out at him from the mural

painting of Masaccio. And how the Prior would have crossed himself and

implored protection from the snares of Satan, had he known that

Francesco's thoughts were of a woman. How, when he went to his own

cell that night, when he lay down on the bare hard boards, that served

for bed and pillow, a swift revulsion of feeling had come over him.

At that moment Francesco felt that, wherever he went, he would bear

his shadow with him none the less surely, because its presence might

be hidden by the general negative of that sunlight, which so

inexorably illumined every detail of the road that lay before him.

The shadow!

Was he indeed a living soul created in the image of his Maker, or an

echo merely shouted by some fiend in derision, destined to wander

forever disconsolate among the waste places, seeking and finding

not?--

Now he saw Ilaria come up the moonlit path.

For a moment he wavered, trembling in every limb. Then the memory of

their meeting at the fountain swept over him in a mighty wave. He

called to mind the sweet smile of long ago, the touch of her hands.

No longer master of his feelings, he took a step forward, his eyes,

straining into the night, riveted upon her. There was a hint of

melancholy in the curve about the mouth and the farseeing eyes.

Another moment and he found himself face to face with Ilaria Caselli.

As she noted the shadow across her path, she paused sharply, then, as

their eyes met, he saw the flowing motion of her figure stiffening

into curves that lent a suggestion of resistance. He caught the

momentary impatience of her brow and the start of resentment in her

eyes.

His purpose vanquished, he stood mute in the face of the striking

chill of her pride.

For a moment they regarded each other in silence, a silence that

resembled the settling waters after the plunging of a stone.

Her face was very white, and her eyes, as they met his, shone with an

almost supernatural lustre.

Yet this silence was putting the two asunder, contrasting them

vividly, balancing them one against the other.

The repose and the self-confidence ran all towards the woman.

Her face waited.

She seemed to look down from above on Francesco the monk.

A moment ago he had had so much to say, and now his own voicelessness

begot anger and rebellion.

Ilaria was looking at him, as if she saw something, and nothing, and

Francesco felt that her eyes called him a fool. Her air of aloofness,

as of standing above some utterly impersonal matter, put the man under

her feet.

She could not have trampled upon him more victoriously than by

displaying the utter indifference with which she seemed to rediscover

his existence.

For a moment, that seemed interminable, they stood at gaze, as if some

hidden hand had been laid upon them, arresting every movement.

Then her lips parted slightly.

"Faithless!"

Then she was gone.--

How long Francesco remained rooted to the spot, he did not know.

He felt as one who has walked into a place, where all the doors were

closed, where calm, contemptuous faces were watching him from the

windows.

His chief desire now was to get away from Rome as quickly as possible.

The Pontiff was at Viterbo. Thither he would travel with the dawn. He

was tired of humiliations. Restless and baffled though he felt in his

effort to conform his thoughts to the life he was henceforth to lead,

he resented even compassion.

The moon had risen higher and the sky was sprinkled with myriads of

stars.

Francesco stood leaning against the fountain, and heard the bells on

distant Aventine tolling through the night. Their music filled the

air. He tried to hush the anxiety of his heart by prayer. It was in

vain.

He felt the love for the friends of his youth turning slowly into

hate. Once again he had proved himself, once again he had been

crucified on the altar of Duty!

Let the stormy billows of life then sweep him onward to whatever

destiny a dark fate had consigned him! Since loyalty had proved his

undoing, why cling to outward show?--

How perfect was the night!

The distant hillsides were hushed. The very leaves were still. The

olive woods shone silvery in the moonlight!

The splashing of the fountains came clear to him in the intense

stillness. In the moonlight the roses were nodding to each other and

the perfume of magnolias permeated the balmy night air. Farther in the

shade he could see the Lucciola, in whose heart were hidden the

love-words caught from lovers' lips,--what a mission for a flower! On

the highroad he heard the tramp of horses' feet. They came nearer,

stopped, then died away in the distance.

Afraid even to move Francesco peered through the leaves.

But the only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

He stood alone in the garden.

Love seemed to have died out of the eyes of life, and the world seemed

to shiver in disillusionment.

A great weariness came to him, a weariness of the heart, spreading

with the swiftness of poison in the blood. His head drooped, as if the

moonlight had wilted the strong neck. His eyes lost their lustre of

haughtiness and fell into a vague, brooding stare. He was dull and

weary; but yesterday he had thought well of the world; there seemed

nor valor, nor pity, anywhere.--

Yet Francesco felt that this state could not endure.

Purposeless he had drifted on the waves of destiny, the blind victim

of another's will. Prayers and penances had not availed to rouse him

to the acceptance of his fate.

There must be something to fill out his life, some great palpable

purpose to which he would devote himself, some high mission, in the

fulfilment of which the consciousness of a false existence would

become gradually blurred, and eventually wiped out.

His whole nature craved for action; the still life of the cloister,

far from extinguishing the smouldering fire, had kept it alive with

the fuel of dead hopes and broken ambitions.

What mattered it in the end in whose cause he fought and bled, so he

came out from under the dreary cloud of passive endurance, a slow

paralysis of all that was best of him?

His love for Ilaria had remained with him, had haunted him all these

long and weary months. He felt it would remain with him forever, even

though he banished her image from his heart. And banish it he must! He

must shake off the dreamer, he must look life in the face. Boldly he

must enter the arena in the unequal fight.

"Ave Domina, morituri te salutant!"--

The thought seemed to give him back some of his former elasticity. All

wavering was at an end. The road seemed dark. Yet there must be a way.

Could he but accomplish some great deed, could he but make a name for

himself, but prove himself worthy of the love she bore him

once,--that, at least, would be atonement!

A higher light gleamed in Francesco's eyes, and he heaved a great sigh

as he was about to step into the clearing, when the sound of

approaching footsteps caused him to pause and listen.

They seemed to come in his direction.

In the brilliant moonlight he recognized Conradino and Frederick of

Austria, Conrad Capece and the brothers Lancia. They had been making

the rounds of the gardens and were returning to the palace. In the

gaunt warrior who followed in their wake he recognized the Count

Palatine.

Where the glistening gravel paths branched off, leading into different

parts of the blossoming wilderness, they were joined by another group.

Francesco recognized among them Raniero Frangipani, and the ground

began to burn under his feet.

A thousand invisible eyes seemed to peer at him in his concealment; a

thousand invisible fingers seemed to point towards him,--the

renegade.

They were coming nearer. Now he could hear the sound of their voices.

There was no further doubt; they were coming in his direction.

It was too late to retrace his steps. If he remained where he stood,

they might pass him unheeded, unseen. At this moment Francesco dreaded

even the sound of a human voice, the sight of a human face. On the

pinnacle of a high resolve he but craved to escape unnoticed, unseen,

to be spared further humiliation.

Following a strange, inexplicable impulse, or seized with a sudden

irresistible panic, which mocked his intentions to scorn, he started

to retreat in an opposite direction, when a treacherous moonbeam

revealed him to the eye of Raniero Frangipani.

Two mighty bounds brought him to his side, and ere Francesco knew what

was happening, he found himself dragged over the greensward and stood

pale and trembling before the assembled company.

Conradino had paused precipitately, as if some bird of evil omen had

crossed his path. The others immediately surrounded Francesco, who was

writhing in the futile endeavor to release himself from the grip which

was upon him. In the struggle the cowl had dropped back, revealing

Francesco's features, set and deadly pale, and the cry: "A monk!" was

not for the cloth, but him it covered.

Two men had uttered it as with one voice, the Viceroy of Apulia and

the Count Palatine, while in the faces of their companions Francesco

read only loathing and hatred, such as any traitor would inspire.

The Frangipani released his victim with a reluctant scowl.

Conrad Capece seized Francesco by the shoulders and looked into his

face.

He felt moved despite himself by the expression of petrified grief

which he read in the face of the youth, who, unable longer to endure

the glances of hatred which he instinctively felt resting upon him,

had dropped his gaze.

"What is your purpose here?" the Apulian queried sternly.

Twice, in the thrall of conflicting emotions, Francesco started to

reply, a hot wave of shame chasing the pallor from his cheeks.

The words died on his lips.

At last, with a supreme effort, throwing back his head as in mute

defiance, he replied:

"My business is with the Pontiff!"

"The business of a traitor,--a spy!"

It was the voice of Raniero Frangipani that had fallen sharply on his

ear.

Francesco made no reply. Only he seemed to grow a shade more gray.

In his stead spoke Don Enrico, the Senator of Rome, who had stepped to

the Viceroy's side.

"It must have been known to you that the Pontiff has abandoned the

city and has fled to Viterbo. Do not try to deceive us! We shall find

means to learn the truth!"

The threatening tenor of the Spaniard's voice recalled Francesco to

himself. He turned to Capece who was regarding him gloomily.

"My lord, I have never spoken a falsehood. I arrived in Rome but

yesterday from Monte Cassino. Of the state of the city I knew nothing.

My business is with the Pontiff."

"Then why did you not depart on learning that Clement and the

Provencals have fled?"

A choking sensation came to Francesco. His hand went to his throat.

The Viceroy saw and understood.

With a sweep of the hand he bade the others stand aside.

"Go!"--The command was tinged with scorn and contempt.

"I vouch for this monk!" Francesco heard him address the Senator of

Rome, as with head bowed down he walked slowly away. But with a sharp

pang another voice smote his unwittingly listening ear.

"A renegade!"

It was the voice of Raniero Frangipani.--

On that night, when Francesco returned to the inn and had repaired to

his chamber, he lay on his bed without moving, without even thinking.

He had passed into a strange, half-apathetic state, in which his own

misery was hardly more to him than a dull and mechanical weight,

pressing on some wooden thing that had forgotten to be a soul.

In truth, it seemed of little consequence how all ended. The one thing

that mattered to any sentient being, was to be spared the unbearable

pain.

It seemed to him as if he had left some terrible shadow of himself,

some ghostly trail of his personality, to haunt the room. He sat

trembling and cowering, not daring to look up, lest he should see the

phantom presence of his other self.

At last the pain worked as its own anaesthetic.

Francesco's eyelids drooped and he fell into a deep and dreamless

sleep.

CHAPTER III

QUAINT WAYFARERS

Early on the following morning Francesco left Rome through the ancient

Flaminian gate and started upon his journey towards Viterbo.

It was a fair morning, golden and light.

Over the Campagna hung white mists, that hovered longest where the

Tiber rolled; but over the green mountains of Rocca Romana the woods

were alight with sunbeams and the glancing streams ran sparkling

through meadows, starred with dragon-flower and cyclamen, and shaded

with heavy boughs of beach and chestnut.

In lieu of following the Via Aurelia, where it wound towards the coast

by Santa Marinella and Santa Severa and mediaeval Palo, and the

volcanic soil and the steep ravines by Cervetri, where the long

avenues of cliff sepulchres are all that remain to show the site of

ancient Caere, Francesco pursued the beaten cattle-tracks, avoiding

the Maccarese marshes and following the course of the Aerone as far as

the high cliffs, up by forsaken Galera. And soon the downs and moors,

the tumuli and tombs and the heaving expanse of the Roman Campagna lay

behind him, and with them the fear of encountering roving companies of

Provencals, which might still remain in these regions.

It was a morning such as is only seen in Southern climes, and on

similar elevations; the air so pure and bright that every object

appeared translucent.

The valley into which Francesco descended, although partially veiled

in mists, began to disclose its variety and richness, contrasting

strangely with the undulating monotony of the Campagna, which lay

behind him. Little villages appeared, nestling on the craggy bases of

the mountains, castles and watch-towers rose on remote pinnacles;

forests of oak and pine waved freshly in the morning wind; pastures of

brightest emerald bordered the river; every rock displayed in its

nooks and crevices wild-flowers of brilliant hues; every breath wafted

across the vale brought new intoxicating odors.

The very cataract in the distance, though lost in snowy mists, wore a

diadem, a rainbow of palest pink and azure, like a semi-circular

spectral bridge.

Francesco chose the wider path, and lost himself in a tangled

underbrush of myrtle, stunted vines and high weeds, while the loftier

forest-trees continually showered their golden dew upon him, as he

passed under their odorous, lightly-swaying branches.

If the life at Monte Cassino had seemed hard and uneventful, these few

days in the larger, wider world had crowded experiences upon Francesco

with an impetuosity that had left him a little bewildered. Hungry for

a heart, his soul, bleeding under the leash of Fate, looked down upon

life as from an isolation, and found it as desolate and empty as the

most ascetic soul might have desired.

Heartening himself, he tried to see some reasonable purpose linking

all these happenings. He was being tempted and ill-used for the sake

of a finer patience and stronger discipline, serving his novitiate in

a rougher and more riotous house, meeting winds that had not reached

him behind the walls of Monte Cassino.

He had taken his discipline, his schooling and his vows as a matter

that was inevitable. But the lure of the outer world, combined with

the memories of the past, had thrummed incessantly and insistently

against the armor of his cowl.

And as, with the silence of a great resolve, he pushed slowly along

his solitary path, he wondered vaguely at the ultimate goal.

He had been taught that a monk should accept all the ordinances and

ask no questions, clasping an austere docility like a girdle about his

loins.

Nevertheless, his eyes lost their lustre, as he remembered the scenes

of the past night, and they fell into a vague brooding stare.

Yet he no longer felt angry with those who had turned from him in

disdain. For a time the fire in his heart had sunk too low even for

anger. He was dull and weary and a little stunned by the night's

bafflings, and the collapse of his resolves.

He was fighting against destiny, and the wave was mightier than the

vessel that had ventured upon it.

Francesco had started out before dawn, brushing the dew from the

meadow-grass and following the misty twilight track of a brook that

traced its serpentine course through the forest glades. The songs of

birds went throbbing through the woodland.

Francesco had come to a place where four ways met, with a stone cross

standing on a hillock, when out of the dusk of the forest aisles rode

the portly bulk of a man, who was hardly astir so early in order to

admire the beauties of the dawn, for he came along the greensward with

the gait of one who combines caution with alertness.

No sooner had the Duke of Spoleto laid eyes upon Francesco than he

broke out into a glad roar.

"Whither are you bound so lone and so early?" he bellowed after mutual

greeting. "Has the soil of Rome ignited under your holy feet?"

"I am bound for Viterbo," Francesco replied, glad to have the monotony

of the journey and the trend of his ruminations relieved by one who

had, at one time, been of such signal service to him.

"And whither do you travel?" he asked in turn.

"Every road leads to Rome, or the devil," the duke roared sagaciously,

"though three days of knight-errantry have brought nothing but

petticoats. The world is overburdened with women!"

Francesco nodded, although he was not sure of the fact.

Enlarging on the subject, as they rode side by side, the Duke of

Spoleto opined that women were capable of giving a deal of trouble.

Francesco considered the suggestion with due seriousness without

venturing an expression on the subject.

"You come from Rome?" the duke queried at last.

"The Ghibellines are in possession of the town," Francesco replied

with heavy heart.

The duke laughed.

"The spirit of chivalry runs counter to the growlings of the fathers,"

he said, then paused dramatically. "Anjou's name is a great and

stinking sore. The whole country holds its nose because of its stench.

As for him who succeeded the Cobbler's son in the chair of St.

Peter:--he has yet to learn that self-righteousness but needs the

devil's kiss on the forehead."

Francesco made no reply.

The Duke of Spoleto struck his fist into his palm.

"Meat, drink and the love of woman,--these things matter more than

Heaven and Hell and the solemn ravings of an ascetic though," he added

meditatively, "the holy fathers of the Church teach that woman is the

seed and core of all evil. Perchance we find therein the reason of

their own pitiable estate!"

Francesco remained silent for a space, and the duke gave him a queer

puzzled look.

"Look you," he said at last, picturesquely, "you seem not like other

monks, fit but to be made a mock of by sluts who are ready to laugh at

an ass' hind legs. That gentry I hate,--a mad medley of the devil."

The duke spat with emphasis and rubbed his palms.

Francesco ventured to enlighten the lord of the forests.

"Yet--may not one be as one standing on the threshold, with a light in

one's hand, illumining the path of others, yet remaining himself in

the gloom?"

The duke shrugged.

"Sophistry is the devil's pastime," he said dubiously. "Many an

old-established ghost there is, who has never seen such a thing as an

honest monk. And there is nothing that ghosts love as they do

novelties!"

Francesco pondered over the wisdom of his companion, but did not feel

called upon to enlarge upon it. He was even now far from convinced of

his own sincerity and steadfastness of purpose. He was as a man

shipwrecked on a stormy sea, ever rocking with the waves, with no

beacon-light beckoning him to shore.

"You have seen Conradino?" the duke said after a pause.

It might have been a statement, it might have been a question.

Francesco nodded.

"Rome is as Ghibelline at this hour as if the Pope had lived forever

at Viterbo!"

The Duke of Spoleto shrugged.

"A passing fever! Many a one's soul is in sympathy with one's snout!"

"You do not love the cowl," Francesco ventured, with a sidelong glance

at his companion, whose nose was in the air as if he sniffed countless

monasteries and convents.

After a time the Duke of Spoleto growled.

"If the world were so perilous a place, were it not more manly to go

out and conquer it than to hide from it like a girl that bars the door

of the room? What if Christ and the apostles had shut themselves up in

stone cells, the grim silence, the half-starved sanctity of the

cloister? What has it done for the world? Men make a patchwork quilt

of life and call the patchwork religion and law!"

He threw the challenge into the balance of his discontent.

Knitting his brows, he continued:

"Speak not of the Church to me! We are bidden to perceive therein the

body of the Lord Christ! But what is it we see? The most complete

mechanism for controlling men, manipulated by human intelligence! You

bid me regard the monks in Italy as holy people in the midst of an

evil world?"

He paused with a dramatic gesture.

"Rank heresy!" he bellowed, answering his own question. "A Church with

no lust of temporal power is unthinkable. The Church requires a

statesman for a leader, not a saint! Behold your saintly Clement at

Viterbo, invoking the divine wrath upon the heads of the just

claimants of these realms! Cast off the garb which disgraces your

manhood! Mount a steed, challenge the devil, and slay dragons!"

Francesco felt heavy at heart.

An inner voice had long apprised him that the duke had recognized the

man beneath the garb, and that he was addressing his confidences to

the ghost of Francesco's self.

Now and then he surprised a sidelong glance, directed towards himself,

as if his burly companion were appraising his manhood, his muscles and

his strides.

His surmise fell not far short of the mark, for after a brief silence

the lord of the woods spat vigorously.

"And howsoever did you happen into the cloth?" he blurted with a blunt

directness, as if eager to dispose of the question.

"That is a long story," Francesco replied. "He, however, who suffered

the most thereby, was least concerned in the cause!"--

The duke nodded, as if the matter were perfectly clear to him.

"You were promised special rewards and dispensations?"

Francesco's look of surprise informed the duke of the nature of the

answer before he spoke.

"He who would sup with the Devil must needs have a long spoon!" the

duke roared sententiously, and apparently well pleased with his own

penetration.

They now travelled upon a more densely populated tract; they passed

wayfarers and pilgrims; great folk on horseback with little folk

licking their stirrup.

They passed an old crone at the roadside, eating her meagre meal out

of a basket. Her fingers were like claws; her eyes were half-shut and

she had wisps of hair on her chin. When she saw the twain, she

scratched her chin with a talon and begged Francesco for a blessing,

which the latter gave, while the duke shouted:

"Shave your chin, old fool! Shave your chin!"

Two hairy beggars, brandishing cudgels, emerged from the thicket.

No sooner did they lay eyes on the duke, than they bounded down the

road and out of sight.

The Duke of Spoleto smote his thighs and laughed like a woodpecker.

They passed two howl-women, making for a near-by castle and practising

their doleful chants.

The duke greeted them with a grotesque bow.

"Why so joyful, fascinating graces?" he bellowed through his auburn

bristles. "Is the fiend assembling a chorus in these regions, to lead

it in procession to hell? I commend his taste!"

The howl-women gibbered some inarticulate response and blew down the

road, to the great delight of the duke.

A fat reeve with heavy saddle-bags and a fiery face whipped a

mouse-colored nag right about and departed the way he came, as soon as

he spied the duke in the distance.

The duke's mirth increased as the mud-sticker, as he called him, took

to flight. He seemed vastly pleased with the respect he inspired.

At last, at a cross-road, they came upon two women in red cloaks and

gaudy tunics, seated on the greensward, with a certain dubious

alertness about the eyes, that glimmered between hunger and

discontent. By their side in the grass lay a viol; they seemed to have

chosen the spot to rest.

As the duke and his companion approached, the twain watched them with

a peculiar, hard-eyed intentness, glanced at each other, and smiled.

"Whither away, my dear?" said the taller of the two. "It is fair

weather for a journey!"--

The duke bowed profusely.

"Fair weather for a good thirst," he replied, nodding at the stone

bottle which reposed in the capacious lap of the speaker.

"You carry a lusty belly," replied the dame, whose eyes had a hungry

boldness, while she offered the bottle to her interlocutor.

The duke took a liberal draught. Francesco frowned.

Then the three chaffered with obvious good humor, touching upon many

topics, which sounded strange to Francesco's ears.

They touched upon the wonders of the swamps, wild beasts, wolves and

bears; they conversed of the outlaws of Arezzo, whose leader was said

to be a woman; of the stone that bled on Passion Sunday, of the

mysterious almond-tree at Treviso, that bore fruit showing the impress

of the face of the Christ.

The duke seemed remarkably well versed in all matters pertaining to

Church or state. When he stopped for a pull at the stone bottle, the

two women laughed, taking alternate bites from an apple and munching

the pulp with a voracious movement of the jaws.

Francesco thought them queer wayfarers, for they in turn stared at

him, then at each other and laughed, looking at Francesco's grave face

as if it were the quaintest thing on earth.

"Saints! What a sweet gentleman!" said the taller of the two, "and to

see such a one in the spider's web!"

And as she sighed, her eyes discoursed to Francesco something that

savored not of the Church.

The fat vagrant offered him the bottle, while her companion's eyes

sent him a tentative offer of friendliness, half timid, half bold.

Francesco passed it by with a flash of the eyes to the horizon, and a

straight setting of the chin.

After having parted from the two rowdies in the fantastic cloaks, the

duke and Francesco continued upon their way.

"There is freedom only on the mountain-heights," the duke said, as

they arrived at a crossing, marked by a huge stone cross. "If this

truth ever dawns upon you, if ever your soul shrinks from the greed

and hypocrisy of the world, if you tire of bloodshed in the name of

the Cross and of villainy glorified by the name of Christ--the camp of

the Duke of Spoleto will receive you, standing face to face with God

alone."

With a hearty hand-shake they parted, and Francesco followed the road

pointed out to him by his companion of the morning hours.

He had taken reluctant leave of the burly champion of a lost cause,

whose very presence seemed to breathe the undefiled air of his great

northern forests, undefiled by the trend of human feet, the echoes of

human strife.

And as Francesco gave a parting look to the high hills with the

glitter of their birch-trees, he suddenly experienced an unexplainable

melting of his resentment against Ilaria.

Something that he could neither describe nor account for, came into

his heart, a subtle emotion, that was like a faint perfume, or the

sound of music from afar. He had hated her for her cold pride when he

left his home; yet, into this tawny cloud of hate flashed the vivid

streak of a sudden recollection.

Every faint zephyr reminded him of her charm; transfused itself into

the mellow brilliancy of her beauty, and Francesco suddenly surprised

himself by taking her part against himself.

And, what was more, he experienced a curiously pleasing sensation in

the act, and in this impulse towards tenderness discovered things that

were strange and long forgotten.

It was now the drowsy noon of day, and the wood was full of shadows

and of stealthy, creeping sunlight.

He rested for a pace, then, refreshed by the siesta, he rode onward,

other thoughts beginning to throng his mind.

He was entering a sphere of action.

Hitherto his life had been as that of a recluse. The peace of the

cloister had enveloped him as a mighty cloak of safety. It had

dominated him even to the point of total paralysis of his energies. Of

the purpose of his journey he was still in ignorance. Yet, an inner

voice whispered to him that it was the clarion call of the Church

Militant that had called him out of his repose.

There could be no further compromise between the warring factions.

The death-struggle between Guelph and Ghibelline had reached its

highest crest. Henceforth he would be the soldier of the Church. A

chasm, no eternity could bridge, would gape between himself and the

friends of his youth. Thus Fate had willed it. Hurled into a seething

vortex, he was swept onward by the resistless tide.

Now and again moments of resonant incredulity beat upon his brain.

Why had his guiltless youth been condemned, why had he been sold into

bondage?

For a moment he started, retreating precipitately into the shadows.

On the far bank of the river, whose glittering coils wound through the

emerald depths of the valley, there, among the aspens, he descried a

company of horsemen, waiting, spears erect, helmets glittering, the

wind tossing the dark manes of their horses.

After a time they rode onward, and he, too, cautiously pursued his

solitary path.

Evening had come.

The rose had faded from the sky; but the horizon was flooded with pale

gold, in which shone the pellucid evening star. The air was filled

with the sweet chimes of innumerable bells.

A group of towers rising above the distant hills cut sharply into the

glory of the sky.

Yonder lay Viterbo amidst her encircling walls: thence those carolling

chimes, that so strangely stirred him, were singing their message of

peace.

His eyes were fixed afar.

Would he turn back?--

The west was smoking with golden vapors. The forests receding on

either hand revealed the hills and summits of the pontifical city. The

old Longobard walls curved away on each hand, for a long distance,

high and grim, with battlements and towers, bare and menacing.

For a moment Francesco paused; his eyes in the tracks of the sinking

sun, his lips tightly set, the nails of his hands driven into his own

flesh.

Then with head high and erect, never a muscle betraying the anguish of

his soul, he rode into the gates of Viterbo.

CHAPTER IV

THE PAWN OF THE CHURCH

When Francesco arrived on the height it was the hour of the closing of

the city-gates and he took lodging at an inn situated near the city

walls.

He caught his breath the next morning at the imposing aspect of the

place.

In the young sunshine its many towers were no longer phantom intruders

on the sky, but a dominant fact. The machicolated heights, the

encircling ramparts, the stern outlines of the fortress-palace of the

pope, rose proudly impregnable in the air.

On the broad highways from Umbria, Tuscany and Romagna, even at this

early hour, an almost endless stream of humanity was moving. Many a

clerk and prelate was there, superbly arrayed, mounted on steeds gay

with princely trappings. Fair women took in the freshness of the day.

Pilgrims with staff and shell trudged merrily or wearily on. Jewish

merchants, serious of face, bore packs containing valuable

merchandise. For Viterbo lay on the highway, linking Northern and

Southern Italy, and Europe, in motion on its way to Rome, moved

incessantly through its streets. The image of Rome, in her desolation,

recurred, vague as a ghost, to Francesco's mind and vanished before

this city of the present, unhaunted as yet by memories, rising radiant

in the morning air.

Treading the streets, the life which he for the past weeks had so

eagerly accepted, suddenly seemed alien to the whole old order of

thoughts and feelings which Francesco represented.

Mechanically almost he dropped on his knees before an altar, gazing at

the pictured face of a kneeling woman whose eyes were filled with pure

compassion. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be diverted by the

interest of his surroundings, while moving towards the presence of the

head of Christendom.

Pope Clement IV gave audience in a high apartment, overlooking the

winding road to Rome. The sunlight, streaming through the window arch,

revealed the man with much distinctness.

The Pontiff was slight and delicate of build. His face bore the stamp

of a high order of intellect; his features were those of an

aristocrat. Disease of body was plainly portrayed by his shadowy

cheeks, much lined for his fifty-odd years. Disease of soul showed

none the less plainly in a troubled lift of the eyebrows, that

imparted to the face a look of search, expecting yet perhaps desiring

no answer. The countenance withal was unmistakably of the legal cast,

self-contained, alert, studious. On the whole, Francesco's first

impression upon being conducted into the presence of the Father of

Christendom, was of the unconscious dignity of high place, blended

with something too complex for analysis.

Many cardinals and princes of the Church, many orders of

monks, noblemen and foreign ambassadors were assembled in the

audience-chamber of the Pontiff. There was a restlessness among them,

which immediately impressed itself upon the newcomer.

Surrounding the pontifical dais were Antonio Pignatello, Cardinal of

Cosenza and private secretary to His Holiness; Don Stefano, General of

the Carthusians, Master Raimondo, General of the Dominicans, and an

individual who was incessantly fingering his beads, whose bent

countenance, sallow features, sunken eyes, thin lips and claw-like

talons revealed a combination of hypocrisy and cunning, such as but

one man could lay claim to, and he the champion of Pope Clement IV,

Charles of Anjou, brother of King Louis of France.

"Yet--notwithstanding your plea, you have not yet seen the towers of

the Holy City established on earth among the children of men," the

Pontiff turned to the Provencal.

"I have had no visions," replied the latter with a quick lift of the

eyes.

"Nor I, beloved son," said the Pontiff, "save as the spectacle of life

is an ever changing vision. Have you any conception, I wonder, of its

interest and significance in these latter days?"

"Let me remind you, Holy Father, Benevento lies behind us," snarled

the champion of the Church. "Would your black crows have carried the

day without the chivalry of Provence?"

The Pontiff ignored the insolence of the speech.

"Truly--Benevento lies behind us," he said. "Nevertheless I may not

say, here is the hand of God, and there it is withheld. The schism has

widened; the way of the truth is more obscure than ever; the Church

has grown to be the very scorn of men, because of the instruments she

employs,--she is forced to employ!"

The Pontiff's tone had grown hard and there was a steely glitter in

his gray eyes.

Charles of Anjou fingered his beads more swiftly, while his thin lips

stretched into a hard, straight line.

"'The end justifies the means!' has long been the maxim of the princes

of the Church," he said, while his eyes seemed to rest on the tips of

his buskins, protruding from under the monkish garb he affected.

The Pontiff hastened to explain.

"One may not cleanse a pigsty with a silver fork. Yet--shall the

Patrimony of St. Peter be sacked and burned in the name of the Cross?

Shall violence, cunning and greed reign unchecked, that the Beast may

be glorified?"

"Yet the Beast may not gird its loins without drink or food,--and the

Halo makes but a thin mantle!" snarled the Pontiff's crusader.

Clement raised a thin, emaciated hand.

"What a mass of falsehoods and hypocritical phrases have again

assailed our ear! Our dearly beloved son in Christ boasts of his love

and veneration for the Church, while those under his command are

pillaging the sanctuaries!"

The beads passed nervously through Anjou's fingers.

"These reproaches, Holy Father," he said with a sepulchral voice,

"touch me very deeply. The host must be fed, and their zeal for the

cause of Holy Church may lead them to mistake the cornfields of the

righteous!"

The Pontiff bowed.

"Your crusades against the infidels seem to have blurred your vision,

beloved son!"

"You speak of my youthful glories, Holy Father," replied Charles of

Anjou with a leer. "Many years have since gone by, and they sleep with

my youthful sins!"

"That must be a wide berth that enables them to find place side by

side," retorted the Pontiff.

Then, with a nameless shrug, he turned to the Cardinal of Cosenza.

"Has the messenger returned from Astura?"

Instead of the Cardinal, Anjou made reply.

"Wherein would treason benefit the Frangipani? They hold their castle

as fief of the Empire, and the coffers of the Church are dolefully

empty."

The Pontiff turned to the speaker.

"Treason,--beloved son? A harsh word indeed! Were breaking with a

sinful past to be stigmatized in such wise, our indulgences would

indeed go begging and St. Peter tire at his watch!"

Charles of Anjou gave a significant shrug.

"Will the Frangipani exchange a distant master for one hovering over

their rock?"

The Pontiff waved the question aside.

"The bait were hardly tempting!"

The small eyes of Anjou met those of the Pontiff.

"What is the bribe?" he queried brutally.

Clement raised his hands in abhorrence. A lawyer and a diplomat, the

Frenchman's brutal frankness jarred on his nerves.

"What of Astura as his own--to have and to hold?" he said at last with

bated breath.

A sudden sinister gleam from Anjou's eyes betokened his understanding.

"The dead are all immortal," he said with a shrug.

A sudden commotion, the sound of voices in the antechamber, produced a

momentary lull in the conversation, and at the beck of the Pontiff the

Cardinal of Cosenza rose to inquire into the cause of the disturbance.

After a time he returned and whispered some words into Clement's ears.

The Pontiff was seen to start; and to look from one to the other of

those present. Then he nodded and, through the door of the

audience-chamber, Francesco was ushered into the august presence of

the Father of Christendom.

He was received with a courteous quiet, the Pontiff and those about

him regarding him curiously.

Francesco advanced at a signal from the Cardinal of Cosenza, who acted

as master of ceremonies, knelt and kissed the Pontiff's feet. He felt

somewhat dazed by the unwonted presence and awaited in silence the

Pontiff's question. In a fleeting glance he had taken in his

surroundings, but as, when he rose from his kneeling position, his

gaze encountered that of the Pontiff's minion, there swept over him

such a wave of rage, horror and shame, that all the color left his

face, and his hands were clenched, as if he would spring at the cowled

form by the Pontiff's side and strangle him. He restrained himself

with an effort, but the gesture had not passed unremarked by Anjou,

who was engaged in sedulously counting his beads and fingering the

Leaden Lamb about his neck, while he drew the cowl somewhat deeper

over his face.

Francesco, turning to the Pontiff, was struck by the reticent

shrewdness in Clement's eyes, the expression of his face, the calm,

unmoved poise of body and head.

It crossed his consciousness in a flash that it was possible for this

man to impress his will upon a world, no matter if that world

rebelled.

"Your name?" the Pontiff spoke at last.

"Francesco Villani," came the reply, given with bated breath.

Clement stared into space as one endeavoring to recall a memory.

"Villani,--Villani--" he muttered to himself with an absent air.

"Where have we heard the name before?"

The Cardinal of Cosenza leaned forward, his lips at Clement's ear.

The Pontiff nodded.

"We remember,--we remember,--the illegitimate offspring of Gregorio

Villani, Grand Master of the Knights of the Hospital!"

The words had been spoken with intent of being heard by all present.

Francesco straightened himself to his full height.

His eyes blazed as he faced the Pontiff.

"Your Holiness need not proclaim my father's shame to the ears of

Christendom! Let it suffice, that I am atoning for his fault,--if

fault it was!"

There was a heavy silence, during which the Pontiff and Charles of

Anjou exchanged significant glances.

They had not remained unremarked by Francesco, and the spark of

rebellion which had slumbered in his soul all these long and weary

months was fanned to devouring flame, as with inexpressible loathing

his gaze rested upon the man who was the abomination of Christendom,

the instrument of the Pontiff.

"What proof have we that you are atoning for the transgressions of one

who passed from earth in mortal sin?" the Pontiff queried after a

pause, while a fatuous smile played about Anjou's lips.

"The garb I wear," Francesco flashed. "The garb your Holiness has

imposed!"

The Pontiff regarded him quizzically.

"You have served your novitiate?"

"At Monte Cassino!"

"How fares the Prior? It is many moons since we have visited his

mountain-heights!"

Francesco gave a brief account of his life at the cloister, up to the

time when he had received the summons to Rome.

Clement listened warily, the lawyer in his expression uppermost.

"You come from Rome?"

Francesco shivered at the memory.

"From Rome!" he replied curtly.

"What of the city?"

"King Conradino lords the Capitol!"

"You have seen the Pretender?"

"We have stood face to face."

"What is he like?"

Francesco gazed from Clement to Anjou

"A man!"

The Pontiff nodded, as if he approved the observation.

In the man Francesco had long discovered the judicial mind, and the

discreet intelligence of the trained statesman.

From the shadows the Pontiff was warily regarding the sun-steeped

features of the young monk.

At last, his voice sinking down to its accustomed calm, he said, as if

feeling his ground:

"Does the new life satisfy your soul?"

The restless, ceaseless pain of longing again knocked at Francesco's

heart, and with it returned the old spirit of rebellion, which had

possessed him in the days of his novitiate at Monte Cassino. And,

unconsciously, he repeated the words of the Duke of Spoleto:

"Men make a patchwork quilt of life, and call the patchwork religion

and law."

An audible gasp was wafted to his ears.

Clement opened his hand and dropped the little crucifix, which he had

been fingering during their talk, with a gesture of rejection, on the

floor behind him. The palm of the hand, still stretched and open, bore

sharp red marks. The point of the cross had evidently just been

pressed into it with convulsive energy.

"Obedience is holiness," the Pontiff said at last, with a sweep of his

hand.

Francesco discovered himself unwittingly gazing in the direction of

Anjou. The Pontiff intercepted the look. Perhaps there was a reason

for his question which Francesco was far from guessing, as he suavely

said:

"You do not conceive, my son, that the Church can err in the choice of

her instruments?"

"I have heard of some striking instances of the readiness of the

servants of the Church," he replied with a straight look at Anjou, "to

suppress the spirit when it suited them to do so."

At these words a change, visible even in the shadows, crossed the

features of the Provencal leader.

"The spirit is capable of various interpretations," he snarled with a

vicious glare at the young monk, whose air of loathing had stung him

to the quick.

"But not the instrument," Francesco retorted hotly.

Clement at this point thought fit to interpose, yet not without a

sting of rebuke to the brother of Louis of France.

"The Church requires not her subjects to think for her, nor to

interpret her spirit. What she exacts, is unfaltering obedience!"

There was something in the Pontiff's tone which startled Francesco. He

was conscious that Clement avoided touching on the business of his

summons to Rome, as if to force him to betray his own trend of mind.

Yet he shrank unwittingly from uttering the words which hovered on his

lips. He felt instinctively there was no mercy within these walls, and

at the thought he was seized with a secret dread.

The silence at last grew irksome. Francesco felt a cold hand clutching

at his heart.

If the sacrifice had been in vain! If he had been tricked into selling

his birthright, tricked into bartering his happiness for a shroud! He

felt the flood-gates of his memory re-open; he felt the portals of the

past, which had been locked and barred, swing back upon their hinges,

grating deep down into his soul. The mad longing for the world bounded

back into his heart.

Still the Pontiff did not speak.

"I have been summoned from Monte Cassino," Francesco at last spoke

with an assumption of courage which he was far from feeling. "I am

waiting the commands of your Holiness!"

The Pontiff nodded.

"These are grievous times indeed; the Church must needs summon her

faithful about her, to become militant in her service!"

"What would your Holiness have me do?" said Francesco.

"The service that will be demanded of you is to be commensurate with

the boon you have come to ask at our hands," Clement replied at last.

For a moment Francesco stared speechless at the Pontiff. Clement had

read the very depths of his soul.

"When I entered the monastic life," he said at last, "it was

stipulated that at the expiration of a certain period the burden

should be lightened."

"Conditions?" replied Clement, with a slight contraction of the brows.

"The Church demands unconditional surrender! Are you so very anxious

to be relieved of the garb which befits the servant of God?"

"There are various ways to serve the Church," Francesco replied in a

hard voice.

Clement bent serious brows upon him.

"We must subdue the mind for the sake of the mind! The boon you are

about to ask might be granted--in return for some signal service to

the Church!"

Francesco's eyelids narrowed.

"And this service,--what is it?"

He saw the Pontiff and Charles of Anjou exchange glances.

What new traffic were they about to propose to him?

He looked about the circle of ecclesiastics.

He met but the reflection of the Pontiff's quizzical glances.

"We require a special envoy to Naples, to calm the minds of the

disaffected. Our choice has fallen upon you. On the result of your

mission depends the granting of the boon."

Francesco made no reply.

What could he urge in his own behalf that was not defeated in the

utterance?

He was no match for Clement in subtlety and, though he could not

fathom the reasons governing Clement's choice of himself to treat, as

he surmised, with the Neapolitans, he recognized therein the desire on

the part of the Pontiff to strike his enemies through one of their

own.

"What are the commands of your Holiness?" he said at last.

"You will receive your instructions from the Cardinal of Cosenza," the

Pontiff replied calmly.

"Your audience is concluded," the latter whispered into Francesco's

ear. He approached the pontifical dais as one in a dream; and, after

the customary genuflection and the ceremony of kissing the Pontiff's

feet, he passed out of the audience-chamber into the sun-fraught air

of noon, the Pontiff's "Go in peace!" still ringing in his ears.

The personality of Clement had not passed from him without a deep

impress. Here was a man created in the type of his predecessors,

Alexander IV and Urban IV, a man who shrank from nothing that would

advance the cause of the Church.

Thinking of the audience which had just come to a close, a heavy sense

of defeat weighed Francesco down. His resistance had been utterly

swept away; in vain had he waited for a power that did not come to

uplift him and release.

The chasm between the life of the present and the life of the past

gaped ever wider. By some invincible force he was being hurried onward

to a dark and uncertain goal.

In the language of the East, he had his fate bound about his neck.

There was no escape for him. Vainly as he might cast about him for an

anchor, he saw nothing encompassing him but a great void. From the old

life he was barred forevermore. The future appeared as a country bleak

and unredeemed.

Towards evening he rode out of the gates of Viterbo. From its mountain

height the pontifical palace frowned upon the world below with stern

defiance, its architecture expressive of the asceticism, defensive of

the soldier, rather, than the asceticism, contemplative of the saint.

Thus he rode out into the deepening dusk.

CHAPTER V

THE RED TOWER

With the first pulse of dawn in the East, Francesco was up and astir

with the zest of the hour. The woods were full of golden vapor, of dew

and the chanting of birds. A stream sang under the boughs, purling and

foaming over a broad ledge of stone into a misty pool. A blue sky

glimmered above the glistening tree-tops; the dwindling wood-ways

quivered with the multitudinous madrigals of the dawn.

A strange calm encompassed him, as he rode down the castle hill into a

wood of ilex where the dawn freshness still lingered. The rebellious

temper of his mood sank like a sea beneath the benediction of a god.

His was not a soul that bartered through carven screens for penitence

and peace. His face caught a radiance from the vaultings of the trees.

Around him ran wooded hills, streams and pastures, dusted thick with

flowers. The odors of dawn burdened the breeze. In the distance the

purple heights of Viterbo faded into the azure of the sky.

Southward he rode, towards Circe's land. The far heights bristled with

woodlands, shimmering with magic mystery under the rising sun. The

forest spires were smitten with a glamor of gold. Precipice and wooded

heights were solitary as the sea itself.

Francesco had left Viterbo exalted, liberated, glad. The prospect of

high endeavor had lifted him out of his melancholy. His mind, overawed

by the spirit, was for the time set free from that intellectual

restlessness and moral incertitude, which against his will had grown

up in him in the atmosphere wherein he moved.

He was the messenger of the Church, bound for the Neapolitan court on

a mission aiming to restore the Southern Italian cities to the control

of him who was the Vicar of Christ on earth. For a moment even the

paradox did not distress him. Enough that he was under marching

orders, that the walls of Monte Cassino lay far behind him. Surely the

time was coming when loyalty to Church and country would be as one! If

he might only meet some great outward test, he mused, some great

trial, in which, to his own mind, as to the world, his convictions

might shine forth!

All he saw and heard confirmed the dark insinuations of the Duca di

Spoleto; yet the fact of decision had soothed his bewilderment, and

there was hope of action ahead. Meantime he allowed himself to react

passively on the impressions of the way. He was entertained with

making acquaintances all along the route. Nothing in his graceful

aspect betrayed the religious, and people, not suspecting his errand

talked to him with the frankness to which excited times give birth. On

all lips there was the same tale; the cause of the League of Italian

cities against the Pope was filling young and old with chivalric

passion. From the lower undulations of Tuscany, through the valleys of

the Apennines, in the levels of Emilia, everywhere waved the

Florentine banner, blood red, with its flashing motto: "Libertas." It

fanned the fire of a patriotism which he was compelled to recognize as

pure, of that proud spirit of independence and hatred of oppression

which has created the free cities of Italy. Not for the last time

united protest against foreign tyranny was stilling petty strife and

evoking the national consciousness, which even Dante was vainly to

long for. And Francesco's spirit was swift to respond to the call. How

otherwise? Was he not young? Was he not, too, a man, to whom country

and race were dear?

But as he continued upon his way, as with his steady advance the

forests gradually thinned and he began the descent into the plains of

the Campagna, the image of Ilaria was constantly before him. Where was

she? What was she doing? The thought brought with it a troubled

bewilderment. Possessed like himself of a love of beauty, like himself

consumed by a restlessness tremulous for something not quite clearly

understood, this fine and beautiful creature would be ill at ease in

the rough life of the feudal castle. That in the one case the

restlessness might be reaching upwards, in the other, downwards.

Francesco was too loyal to surmise. What good days they had known, he

and she! Together they had watched the play of light on the mountain

slopes, or over the great faint-gleaming lands within the soft curve

of whose farthest blue they could divine the sea; together the two

dark heads had bent over some vellum roll of Lariella's favorite poet.

And again she stood before him; the perfectly arched eyebrows, the

wide forehead, the sweet curves that had dimpled in girlish days

beneath a shadowy crown, greeted him from a dusky frame. With the

increased perfection of her person went, he soon perceived, a trained

and practised instinct for all the graces of life. As she had appeared

to him in Rome, she had been more charming than ever before.

Too charming, alas! to remain unapproached by desire,--and too

reckless, perchance, to resist!

With a jerk he reined in his steed.

Of a sudden, the fears that had been squirming below consciousness

heaved up their heads and Francesco heard himself cry aloud:

"God! If one's lady of the stars should prove a wanton!"--

The uttered words struck cold upon his ear. He had stopped abruptly,

throwing his open palm against the rough bark of a tree. The hurt

mixed with the sound of his own voice.

Dismounting, he permitted the disturbed animal to graze in an adjacent

meadow-land; then, invaded by the terror of the fact, he flung himself

face downward, pressing his cheek into the wet grass, recalling every

too significant word and look of the Proserpina of yore, thrilled in

his senses by her last glance at him and troubled by a passion he

despised. Slowly to the first pain, with which the image of his

dream-lady faded, there succeeded another. The friend of his youth,

the one woman he loved,--what was befalling her? Was she happy? Had

the memory of the past faded from her mind? This pain was sharper than

the other, though Francesco knew it not. It healed the pang of fleshly

desire.

He called to his steed, mounted, and rode on with a new gravity.

According to his curious wont in concrete experience, his relations

with Ilaria became the index to wider questionings.

The old spell had been renewed, with a difference, and Francesco found

himself trembling on the verge of a genuine passion. Through the

mystic reverence which he sought to cultivate towards his lady flashed

the allurement of the senses, and an occasional pang of reproach for

his own cowardly surrender. He reproached himself bitterly for it, as

he rode down the long hill that stretched in uneven rise and fall from

Tivoli to Bracciano. Not that it troubled him, to find in his own love

an earthly taint; many he knew who had struggled, had conquered, not

without salt-tears. But to distrust the brightness of his lady's

image; this surely in the annals of high love was a crime

unparalleled. He tried to cast the evil thought aside, to exalt at

once his love and his ideal. Breathing the morning air, the thing

seemed possible. The situation helped; delicate enough to tickle his

sense of honor, dramatic enough to absorb fancy.

The Ilaria of the ilex-wood grew dim as a fading fresco to Francesco's

memory. He saw in her stead the little maid of the old castle of

Avellino, whose waywardness, whose bright and ready gaiety had seemed

to his more despondent temperament a gift of enchanting sweetness.

Thinking of these things, dubious traits vanished from her image; she

shone before his eyes, the piteous lady of his desire, and the

devotion for which he longed rose ardent within him. It brought a

fulness to the throat, to the eyes a smart which he coaxed into a

tear. Then he rode on in a happier mood. The dark trees, which crowned

the hill, were giving way as he descended to a wood of fresher green.

It was now verging towards evening. Francesco had reached the top of a

lower ridge, from which the towers of Camaldoli, seen through a gap in

the trees, rose shadowy against the fading blue of the horizon. The

path, hardly more than a foottrail, had been lonely. Now a priest came

ambling up on mule-back, feasting his eyes on the pleasant woodland.

At the sight of Francesco he dropped them on his breviary, and passed

on without word or sign.

For a moment the action struck him as a smart.

The sight of the Office-book had opened the door of another chamber in

the house of Mind, that mysterious dwelling which always numbers rooms

which the owner has never entered, and others, closed in long disuse.

At that moment the faint spark of devotion passed into a large

indifference. In his early youth Francesco had been in the habit--how

acquired he could not have told--of repeating, whenever possible, the

canonical hours. He had long abandoned the custom, as far as intention

went; yet in some forgotten chapel of the mind, deserted of the

conscious powers, the holy rites go on forever, biding the time of

their recall. He was as one in the grip of a bitter wrong; for

through the jostling images which filled his mind, the Office

continued to ring in persistent undertones.

The light between the great tree trunks grew from splendor to

splendor; flashing its level glories through the forest, transfiguring

the wood into flame. The sun had reached the rim of the horizon. Some

far memory of brilliance was stirring and seeking. A pageant, withal,

but not that triumph of earthly love, so fair in the false twilight of

a night in the past, so wizened gray and lustful red in the light of

recollection. The beams of the sinking sun were seven candle-sticks of

gold. What noble elders follow, crowned with fleurs-de-lis? What

mystic chariot was this, within which rides a woman olive-garlanded,

robed in hues of living fire and of the fresh spring grass? Memory

found what it sought: but he who thus looked back into the past was

unaware that neither Lethe nor Eunoe might be his, who had not yet

climbed the Purgatorial Mound.

The sun was sinking in the west when Francesco came to a ridge in the

woodland, which sloped southward from the high rocks. The path seemed

to lead into the heart of a wilderness. Pine woods bordered it and

dead bracken and whortleberry spread away under the stiff shadows of

the silent trees. A thousand spires began to blacken against the

sunset, and Francesco was aware that he was carrying a savage hunger.

He had hoped for a manor-house or inn, or some woodman's lodge, but

the brambles that had rooted their long feelers across the path made

it appear that the track had not been used for years. So rough and

tangled did it become that Francesco turned in among the trees, where

the dense summer foliage of the beeches had kept the ground clear of

brush and bramble.

The prospect of a supperless night under the trees, even though he had

never been clogged with heavy feeding at the monastery, made

Francesco's thoughts hark back to the inn he had left at Viterbo, and

he regretted not having supplied himself with a stock of provisions

ere he departed. Suddenly a distant sound made him pause and listen.

The sound had a human note, and seemed nearer to him than he had at

first imagined. He urged his steed on through the on-coming dusk. It

was not long before the trees thinned before him and streams of golden

light, slanting into an open space, gave the clearing the appearance

of a forest-chapel at sunset.

From the open ground ahead came the incessant babbling of a thin and

querulous voice, that faltered between the prattling of a child and

the chatter of a mad soul, talking to the empty air. Sometimes there

was a croon in the voice, sometimes a touch of decrepit anger.

A long, green bank, brushed by the boughs of the beech-trees, hid from

Francesco the open ground that lay ahead of him. But, though it hid

what he desired to see, the bank gave him the chance of approaching

unobserved. Dismounting, he went up it on hands and knees, and

insinuated a cautious head between the turf and the branches of the

beeches.

On the other side of the bank lay a stretch of undulating grass, that

rose into mounds and ridges, and dipped into shallow dykes, the mounds

and ridges catching the fading sunlight, the hollows lying filled with

the shadows. The trunks of the forest-trees shut in this open space on

every side as with a palisade. On a mound in the centre stood crags of

ruined masonry smothered in ivy, a broken squint in the wall looking

like a rent in a cloud, through which the sunlight slanted.

A little old woman, with hair as white as snow, and strange black eyes

in a strange and wrinkled face, knelt there, polishing something

smooth and round that she held in her lap. The strange sight caused

Francesco to peer all the more intently, and he drew back with a quick

gasp, when in the suddenly revealed white dome of the head, the

shadowy eye-sockets, the glistening teeth in the bare jaws, he

recognized the thing for what it was,--the head of a skeleton.

As he sat there, considering the strange picture, Francesco for a time

became oblivious of the cravings of his stomach. It was plain that the

woman was mad, for as she polished the skull, she chattered

incessantly. He asked himself, what was behind this madness. Death had

been here at some time, perhaps with violence, wiping out life and

reason, leaving white hair and tragic madness in its wake. The furrows

deepened above Francesco's eyes. He sat there in the deepening dusk

calling up visions of ruffianism and wrong; the vision of this poor

soul's madness made him forget the dangers of the woods by night.

Picking his way cautiously among the trees, he came within about five

paces of her, before she lifted her head and saw him. Then he crossed

himself and gave her a "Pax Dei."--

The little old woman stared at him and said nothing, her lower lip

drooping, her inert hands resting on the top of the skull.

Her eyes puzzled Francesco, they were so black and bright, like the

eyes of a bird. There was a startled wonder in them, as though she had

never seen such a creature before. Then she suddenly wrapped the head

in a bright-colored scarf which lay by her side, arose, and started

through the thicket, putting her arms around the thing as a mother

would hold a child.

The sun was now below the hills and the woods were turning black.

Francesco felt a vague shudder go through him as, following the woman,

he arrived at the fragments of a ruin, that was smothered up in ivy.

An arched doorway with broken pillars led into a vault in which there

stood an open coffin. He saw her approach the receptacle for the dead,

place the skull in the coffin and close the lid. Then she crooned

softly to herself and hobbled away into the dusk.

The thought that there must be a hut close by, struck Francesco with

the pang of the returning consciousness of hunger, when suddenly he

saw a light gleaming through the night as from a blood-red star.

Straining his eyes, he peered through the dusk in the direction whence

the light shone.

Under the shadow of a wooded spur that ran down into the valley

Francesco saw a tower rising from an island in the centre of one of

the great pools, of which the region abounded.

The walls of the tower shone crimson in the light of the rising moon,

glowing above the black water as though it had been built of iron at

red heat. Thousands of willows and aspens grew about the mere, and in

the shallows were sedges and sword-leaved flags.

Remounting his steed, Francesco resolved to ask for food and a night's

lodging, rather than to traverse the forests at night. He was spent,

and so was his steed, and the region was infested by all manner of

outlaws, who made the roads insecure. As he approached the mere, a

large boat put out from a water-gate and crawled with long oars, like

a beetle on the surface of the water. It disappeared in the night, and

Francesco decided to hail it upon its return, in the meanwhile

watching the red tower overhanging the pool. The reflection of the

walls in the rippling waters was a broken redness wrinkling into

black.

Francesco's wait was destined to be brief. The barge soon returned,

and hailing the astonished oarsmen, he requested to be rowed across

the mere. They seemed to hold silent council, then, seeing it was but

one man, they grumblingly ran out planks for Francesco's horse, and he

rode into the barge, remaining in the saddle and caressing his steed's

black ears.

At the water-gate a lean man in a black tunic stood waiting. He gave

the newcomer the blind stare of two watery eyes and, upon learning his

request, disappeared inside of the tower. After a wait of brief

duration he returned, and, beckoning to Francesco to enter the dark

gateway, called to some attendant, who took charge of his horse and

then led the guest to a dimly lighted chamber, in which he discovered

the forms of a woman and a man. As Francesco appeared on the

threshold, the man precipitately arose and, whispering a few words in

the woman's ear, retreated by an opposite door. Francesco was so

absorbed in the scrutiny of his surroundings, that he paid little heed

to the action of the one of the occupants. The castellan ushered him

into the chamber, closing the door behind him, and Francesco, making

the best of a strange situation, approached the woman, who, reclining

upon a dais, was regarding him intently, and preferred his request for

a night's hospitality.

"Our guest-table waits for strangers," she replied with a smile,

bidding Francesco to take the seat vacated by the former occupant,

then regarding him with unconcealed interest.

For a moment Francesco was mute; the suddenness of the transition

deprived him of speech. Perhaps it was also her complete fearlessness

of manner, bare of every trace of aloofness, which had a somewhat

disconcerting effect upon one who had not known woman's society in a

long space of time, which caused the consciously awkward silence, as

now and then their eyes met.

Her face had a singular charm. The lips were thin, tinged slightly

with scorn, yet tender when she smiled. The eyes were large, of

greenish hue, and strange lights seemed to flash from their depths.

There was a rich, round beauty upon the face; the rose tints of the

skin warm, and sensuous as the bloom upon fruit. She was very slender

where the girdle ran, but big of bosom and long of limb.

Unconsciously, as he joined her at the board and partook of food and

drink, she drew from him his tale. Her swift comprehension was as a

magic mirror, wherein all creatures showed their thoughts. Not being

burdened with the reflective sense, he flung his words in the

welkin's face, with the candour of one who had no shame or fear.

Between the woman's talking and his hunger, Francesco found little

time for reflection. He did not see a dim figure with a white face

pass out behind the hangings, turning half furtively to look at the

two at the high table, before it disappeared. There were no lights in

the hall, save a torch on a bracket by the screens. Francesco saw the

smoke wavering up into the gloom of the roof, and the way it vanished

into nothingness made him think of the updrift of souls into the

night.

He was silent a while, thinking of the little old woman and the skull

she cherished. The woman beside him felt his silence like the sudden

closing of a door.

"You are thinking of some one?" she asked. "Or is it that you are

tired?"

Francesco held his head high, as one looking into the distance. There

seemed no reason why he should conceal the goal of his journey.

He stared at the flaring torchlight as he talked, but had he looked

into the woman's eyes, he might have seen a sudden shiver of light

leap up into them. She became watchful, studying Francesco as he

talked, yet keeping a white calm.

"You journey to Naples," she said at last with a strange smile while

she caught his wrist, her tense arm quivering, her eyes looking into

his. "Do you not fear the contagion of that Court of Love?"

Her face seemed suddenly to blaze with intense passion, her eyes

taking a reddish lustre and shining like points of fire.

"Hot blood and a cold ending," he said, looking past her, and she took

her hand from his wrist and sat silent and stiff, her eyes fixed upon

his face. Then she clapped her hands. An attendant conducted Francesco

to a chamber which had been prepared for him, but as he passed out of

her presence, he still felt the burning touch of her fingers and the

strange look of her eyes.--

Sleep would not come readily to Francesco that night, as he lay on the

couch prepared for him high up in the Red Tower. A full moon had risen

and his wakeful mood shared the wonder and the mystery of the night. A

dog bayed in the courtyard; the sound had but the effect of

intensifying the stillness. The mere lay like a pavement of black

marble, with no wavelets lapping against the base of the tower.

Francesco had lived through many strange moments, since he left

Viterbo, and chance had thrown him with a singular suddenness into the

life that he sought. Vividly in the midst of his wakefulness he saw

the proud beauty of Ilaria as contrasted with the fierce pallor in the

face of the lady of the castle, whose name he knew not. It seemed to

Francesco that these two confronted one another with a mysterious

hatred. And he was conscious of desires that had been awakened within

him, the heat of the blood, the simmering of the brain. The woman was

beautiful, lithe and limp as a snake and he felt, that once she had

set her mind on gratifying a desire, resistance would be utterly in

vain.

It was towards midnight when Francesco fell asleep, and his sleep had

lasted for about an hour when he started awake in bed with a loud cry

and a flinging out of the hands. He sat up with a shiver of fear,

awakened from a dream in which torrents of black water had poured down

to smother him. A wind had suddenly arisen far off in the valley.

Francesco heard it sweeping out of the night, whistling through the

aspens and the willows until it struck the tower and moaned about it,

like a desperate and dying thing clinging to something that it loved.

A cloud passed across the face of the moon. In the court below the

watch-dogs set up a fierce howling.

Francesco crossed himself, feeling the presence of evil in the moaning

of the wind. The night had sprung from moonbeams and slumber into a

tumult of unrest. He heard the water splashing against the base of the

tower.

The moon came out again and Francesco rose from the bed and went to

the window. The mere was scarred with lines of foam and the aspen

boughs glittered and clashed in the moonlight. Francesco, greatly

astonished, saw the barge was crossing the water with long, sinuous

strokes of the oar. In the barge there stood a figure on horseback,

motionless and black as jet, save for a sparkle of moonlight about its

head. On the far bank among the aspen trees, a company of horsemen

waited, spears erect, helmets glimmering, the wind tossing the dark

manes of their steeds.

The nose of the barge turned to the bank, and almost instantly the

wind ceased, and a great calm fell. The night grew quiet. The

watch-dogs turned into their kennels. The plash of the water against

the tower grew less and less.

Francesco saw the black horseman ride up the bank and join those who

waited. There was not a sound save the muffled beat of horses' hoofs,

as they turned and rode away among the trunks of the aspen trees. The

barge had thrust out again and was recrossing the mere, with wrinkles

of silver running from its snout. Francesco watched it with a strange

misgiving. Who was the man who had disappeared the instant he had

entered the presence of the woman? Why were armed men coming and going

at this hour of the night? Why should the wind rise so suddenly and

die down again when the barge touched the further bank? Reality and

dream mingled strangely in the deep of the night, and these happenings

made him question his own eyes and ears.

Again he betook himself to his rest, but it was some time ere sleep

would come to his eyes. And then it seemed not sleep, but rather a

deep trance, that seemed to hold him enthralled, seemed to benumb his

limbs and deprive him of all energy, as if some opiate had been

mingled with his draught.

He was suddenly conscious of an arch in the heavy stone, parting. In

the opening there stood a woman, tall, lithe, slender. Instinctively

he knew it was the lady of the tower. She held a lamp behind the folds

of her skirt, and after she had entered his chamber the aperture

closed noiselessly behind her.

Francesco stared at her wide-eyed, afraid to speak, afraid to move.

Was it indeed the woman at whose side he had partaken of drink and

food,--or was it some restless phantom haunting the abode of former

days? He saw the strange glitter of her eyes in the midst of the

darkness, for the moon was again hidden behind a cloud; he heard the

sudden shrill clanging of a bell from some distant cloister or

convent.

"You are awake!" she said in a whisper.

And suddenly the intimate dimness of the room was surcharged with

faint perfumes, as the woman slowly walked towards him, looking at him

steadily with deep, long breath.

He leaped up, sitting on the edge of the couch. Her fine finger tips

rested on his shoulders, preventing him from rising. He saw the

whiteness of her arms, bare to the shoulders; his eyes rested on the

soft curves of the lithe body, under the clinging, transparent texture

of a gown vying in whiteness with her skin. He looked up and trembled.

"What did you see, my friend?" she queried, bending over him.

"The wind waked me at midnight," he replied evasively.

The pressure of her fingers increased.

"What did you see?"

He noted the strange glitter in her eyes. The strange perfume which

clung to her, crept to his brain.

"I saw armed men waiting among the aspens; a man on a horse ferrying

across in the barge."--

His straightforwardness sent a momentary shadow across her face and

for a moment she shut her lips tightly. But a strange light played in

her eyes, as she said:

"Friends come and go in the night. There may be pain in their passing

to and fro. The man you saw was my brother!"

She spoke with a level and unhesitating voice, yet in her eyes there

gleamed a vague smouldering of unrest.

"I do not even know your name," he said, longing to clasp those firm

white hands which were so close to his eyes.

"What is a name?" she shrugged, then, with a laugh, she added: "Has

the night taken away your courage?"

Their eyes met.

"What is there to be afraid of?" he queried tremulously.

Again her eyes thrilled him.

"I have tricked you!"

He started to rise, grasping the white soft hands in his own and

relinquishing them the next moment, as if he had touched fire. She

held him easily with a glance of her strange eyes.

"What do you want of me?" he stammered. "Why are you here?"

"Come,--let me show you!" she said, taking him by the hand and leading

him towards the window which looked out upon the mere.

He followed her resistlessly.

In a flash he felt her arms about him, drawing him close to her. She

threw words in his face, with a fierce, intimate whispering.

Francesco recoiled, as if he had been bitten by a snake. But the magic

was too strong for his starved senses; ever and ever she caught him

towards her, kissing him with moist, hungry lips, while her eyes

scintillated in strange lights that made him dizzy, and her arms were

coiled about him with a strength he had not guessed.

With a choking outcry he succeeded at last in releasing himself, and

turning to the door, tore at it, and found it fastened on the other

side.

He stood there, facing her, white with fear, anger, passion. He knew

if she willed to make him her own, he was lost, and she came slowly

towards him, with the soundless tread of a tigress who has cornered

her prey.

She was regarding him with a strange amused smile, then she held out

her white arms.

"Are these charms so poor, that they must go begging?" she said with a

return of the sardonic glitter in her eyes.

"In the name of mercy--go!" he stammered with blind pleading eyes.

"The halo cannot fail you," she replied with a laugh, as her glance

swept him from head to foot. "Fool--fool!" She placed her hands

tightly about his throat, looking into his eyes.

"Should you learn at the court of Naples to value the earthly joys

more than the heavenly,--return,--and be forgiven!"--She kissed him

and sent him reeling against the wall.

For a moment he stood paralyzed, facing her in the darkness, while her

laughter, high and shrill, resounded in his ears. He rushed at her,

tried to detain her, as she reached the arch. But as the panel parted,

a figure suddenly came between him and the woman. The moon had emerged

from the cloud, behind which it had been hidden. Francesco recoiled

and staggered back into his chamber, as if he had been dealt a sudden

blow. For, swift as the shadow had come between them, ere the panel

closed behind the woman--he had recognized Raniero Frangipani.

End of Book the Third.

Book the Fourth

THE PASSION

CHAPTER I

SIREN LAND

It was early on the following morning when Francesco saddled his steed

and departed from the Red Tower. He did not trust himself to remain

longer under the same roof with the woman whose spell boded evil to

soul and body, much less to face Raniero Frangipani and to have his

worst fears and suspicions confirmed. He had spent the remainder of

the night awake with the shadows, dazed, unable to think, beset by

weird, mocking phantoms. The woman's insatiate kisses still burned on

his lips; her strange perfume still clung to the air; her passion had

seared his soul. If he remained, he was lost. The spark that had

slumbered in his soul had suddenly leaped into a consuming flame; the

voice of the body, hushed so long, began to clamor; the long restraint

threatened to break down the self-imposed barriers with its own sheer

weight. A strange dizziness had seized him; everything seemed to swim

in a blood-red haze. It was only by degrees that reason returned; the

phantom of desire faded before the memory of Ilaria.

Almost dazed he crossed the mere, expecting every moment to hear the

ferryman recalled and resolved to resist to the utmost any attempt to

stop his departure.

But nothing happened. An enchanted silence encompassed the castle,

unbroken even by the voices of the slowly awakening dawn.

Thousand and one thoughts, desires and fears rushed through

Francesco's brain, as he rode down into the picturesque valley, which

encompassed the feudal masonry where he had spent the night. And with

the memory of the white arms, which had held him in their close

embrace, with the memory of the thirstily parted lips, which had

well-nigh kissed him to his doom, with the memory of the haunting eyes

which had discoursed to him a secret he was never to know, an

indescribable longing for happiness stole into his heart, a longing

which made him utterly oblivious of time and space and caused him to

spur his steed to greater haste in the desire to arrive at his goal.

Little as Francesco had mingled with the world, inexperienced as he

was in mundane matters, his instinct had not been slow to inform him

that Raniero was leading a double life, that he was deceiving Ilaria,

who perchance trusted him utterly. The certainty of the indisputable

fact struck him with quick pang. Was Ilaria awake to the truth? And

what had been the effect of the stunning revelation?

In the ban of these conflicting emotions, in which love and doubt

alternately held the balance in the scales, Francesco rode towards

Circe's land.

On all sides lonely stretches of country expanded before the solitary

horseman's eyes. With each onward step the scene changed, and

Francesco's abstracted gaze roamed far away to the distant mountain

ranges of the Basilicata, revealing reaches of fantastic peaks and

stretching away in long aerial lines towards the sun-fraught plains of

Calabria.

Though he pushed onward with restless determination, Francesco was

compelled to devote the hours of high-noon to rest and refreshments in

this cloister or that, which he came upon during his journey. For the

glare of the August sun was intense, and though the nights were cool,

the roads were infested by all manner of outlaws, making progress slow

and hazardous.

While at a Cistercian monastery during the siesta hours on the third

day of his journey, the first tidings of a battle between the hosts of

Anjou and Conradino reached Francesco's ear. The armies had met at

Tagliacozzo in Apulia--so a peasant had informed the monks--but the

outcome of the conflict was shrouded in mystery. The monks, chiefly

old men, who had long cast the vanities of the world behind them, met

Francesco's eager questionings with mute shrugs. The quarrels between

pope and emperor meant nothing to them.

Ever southward he rode, until, breasting the moors, he saw the

strange, tumultuous magic of the Maremmas drifting into the vague

distance of night.

The summer woods in the valleys were as a rolling sea, carved out of

ebony. Hill rose beyond hill, each more dim and misty and alluring. A

great silence held. Enchantment brooded over Terra di Lavoro.

The last day of his journey had come.

The torrid plains of Torre del Greco dreamed deserted in the glow of

the noonday sun. The leaves of the palms and the branches of the

mimosa hung limp and motionless. The sky was as a burning sapphire.

The glare of the sun was almost insufferable, as it fell over the arid

expanse of the Neapolitan Campagna to the pencilled line of the

southern horizon, where a long circle divided the misty shimmering

dove-color of the Tyrrhene Sea from the pale, sun-fraught sky.

The region, as far as the eye could reach, was deserted. Almost it

seemed as if the spell of a magician had banished at once all life and

sound. Mala Terra the inhabitants called the stretches beyond the Cape

of Circe, where, grim and impregnable upon its chalk cliffs, rose

Astura, the sinister stronghold of the Frangipani, silent, bleached

against the background of the restless waves, which laved its base.

With a shudder Francesco skirted the dreary castello, and the name of

Ilaria flew to his lips. Was it upon yonder lonely castle height she

was waiting Raniero's return; was it up yonder the thread of her

destiny was interminably spinning itself out in self-consuming,

wasting monotony? Was she, who had been created for happiness, slowly

pining away, remote from all she loved and held dear on earth? Or had

the lure of the Siren land drawn her into the vortex of life and the

passions of the sun-kissed shores? Francesco shivered despite the

noonday heat, and, fondling the ears of his steed, urged it onward

over the rocky expanse.

The sun was low in the heavens when Francesco came within sight of

Naples. From Castellamare to Posilippo the graceful lines of the gulf

rose on the horizon; the blue cone of Vesuvius was wreathed in smoke;

Resina and Portici reposed snugly at its base. Eagerly Francesco's eye

scanned the outlines of spires and domes as he rode towards the city.

The surrounding hillsides were scarlet and purple, gold and bronze,

and great masses of green where ilex-trees and acanthus grew. The

wine-pressers were shouting gaily. There was so much light and life in

the world, and he felt almost as if he had lost them in the shadow of

the cloister.

Military rule, he saw, as he drew near, obtained in the place. To the

challenge of the sentry at the gate of San Gennaro he gave his name,

and "From Viterbo" repeated the soldier, calling the news back over

his shoulder.

"From Viterbo!" the word passed on. Through the arched gate, Francesco

could see a clustering confusion of people. There was an aspect of

reckless merriment about the crowded streets.

A tall horseman, just inside the gate, beckoned, and Francesco rode

slowly through the arch.

"From Viterbo?" repeated a big man significantly. "Well, friend, you

bear no olive! Hardly the days these for the olive of peace to

circulate in Italy!"

A snicker ran through the crowd.

"But, nevertheless, we are free to perceive that you are a messenger,

and all the more welcome!"

"I know not for whom you take me!" returned Francesco. "But--"

"Are you not a messenger?" interrupted the large man.

A strange audacity possessed Francesco of a sudden.

"Certainly I am a messenger," he returned fearlessly,--"but not to

your rebellious city, Messere!"

The last part of his speech was either not heard, or not heeded, for

at the first there was loud applause. In the midst of the clamor,

Francesco was endeavoring to make himself understood, but finding his

efforts futile, he resigned himself to silence, and was carried onward

with the crowd, calm as the atom at the centre of a cyclone, yet

noting all the incidents of the way. He watched the streets with their

luxuriant picturesqueness, so different in appearance from the severe

and heroic style of Viterbo. At last Francesco accosted the big

horseman, inquiring the direction of the palace. Thereupon the latter

became more civil and offered to accompany the stranger in person.

This innuendo Francesco thought best to decline, giving as his reason

that he intended putting up at an inn, it being too late to see the

Regent.

Having received the desired intelligence, Francesco abandoned himself

for the nonce to the charm of the hour, the magic of the place. As he

rode leisurely through the streets, crowds came and went from Santa

Maria. Now and then the note of a mandolin was heard. All was life,

mirth, happiness! How fair this city,--the city that seemed to be girt

only by lilies! The flower-girl, nodding and smiling, distributed her

violets, embedded in geraniums. The blind beggar touched his harp; in

the distance were heard the rhythmic strains of a Barcarole.

Over the whole gulf a faint, transparent mist had arisen.

The magnolias shone white in the dying light. The soughing of the wind

through the leafy boughs sounded like the faint music of Aeolian

harps.

The dying light touched the walls of houses and palaces with mellow

hues, then faded away before the swift southern night. Here and there

torches gleamed; then the city grew silvery in the moonlight which

flooded the heavens.

As in a dream Francesco rode in the direction indicated by the

horseman. Again he was to enter the sphere of his former life; again

he was to move in the sphere of a court, again he was to taste the

life of the past. It was the same,--yet not the same. Then he had been

happy, care-free, loving and beloved. Now he stood alone, looking from

a frosty elevation upon the joys of life! Would the dark phantoms of

the past vanish, here in this radiant air, under this cloudless,

sun-fraught sky?

The inn, where he took lodging, was built after the manner of the

thirteenth century, in a hollow square. It was of white stone, simple,

harmonious, with quaint carvings and ornamentations. The Byzantine

arches of the cloistered walks were its chief beauty, disclosing a

vista of the garden with its orange trees and grape-vines; its waving

rose bushes, which encircled the ancient fountain. A long parapet of

dusky tiles left open the beautiful view of the Bay of Naples.

After Francesco's steed had been properly cared for, after he had

refreshed himself with a bath and had partaken of food and drink, he

felt irresistibly drawn into the vortex of gladsome humanity, which

enlivened the streets towards the Vice-regal palace.

What an enchanted land this was, contrasted with the shadowy courts of

Viterbo, that hill-encircled city with her dusky shrubbery, her

funereal cypresses!

How fair were the flowery fields, the marble villas, encircling the

bay! The wonderful glow of color seemed like fairyland enchantment!

The gaily dressed crowds that thronged streets and piazzas, the

brilliant processions, continuing way into the night, the mass of

scarlet, blue and gold, which flashed out from under the torch-light,

the music, the tumult, the laughter, the fantastic, the freedom:--here

life was indeed but a merry holiday.

The night was radiant. Sky and houses and bay were aglow with her

silver beams. Merry groups were passing to and fro. There was music,

singing, happiness,--all the gentleness of a perfect night.

Francesco walked more slowly in the moonlight. Suddenly a couple

passed him: a man and a woman. The woman wore a crimson cloak, and in

passing she looked up into his face. It was only a moment's meeting;

but all the color had faded from Francesco's cheeks. He looked back:

they had disappeared among the throngs.

For a moment he stood still as one paralyzed. Could his eyes have

deceived him? Impossible! He could never mistake that face, nor was

there another like it on earth! He faltered, stopped, recovered

himself, then retraced his steps in search of the two. But his efforts

were utterly in vain. As one dazed he returned to the inn. The convent

bells of Santa Lucia, pealing the midnight hour, found him pacing up

and down within the narrow confines of his chamber. Now and then he

paused and looked out into the night. Only when the noise and

merriment had died to silence he sought his couch, but it was long ere

sleep would come to him. For in the woman with the unknown cavalier,

who had passed him without recognition, he had recognized Ilaria

Caselli.

CHAPTER II

THE LADY OF SHADOWS

It was early on the following day when Francesco took the direction of

the palace. The city appeared gay and bright; the beautiful isles of

Ischia and Capri, like twin outposts guarding an earthly paradise. He

had arrived at the hour of dusk, which had soon faded into the swift

southern night, and much of the magic of the scene had thus been

veiled before his gaze. Now he saw and marvelled.

All around stretched the bay in its azure immensity, its sweeping

curves bounded on the left by the rocky Sorrentine promontory, with

Sorrento, Meta and a cluster of little fishing villages, nestling on

the olive-clad precipices, half hidden by orange groves and vineyards

and the majestic form of Monte Angelo towering above. Farther along

the coast rose Vesuvius, the tutelary genius of the scene, its

vine-clad lower slopes presenting a startling contrast to the dark

smoke-wreathed cone of the mountain. On the right the graceful

undulations of the Camaldoli hills descended to the beautifully

indented bay of Putcoli, while Naples herself, with Portici and Torre

del Greco, reposed as a marble quarry between the blue waters of the

bay. Beyond, in the far background, the view was shut in by a phantom

range of snowy peaks, an offshoot of the Abruzzi mountains, faintly

discerned in the purple haze of the horizon.

As Francesco strode along his wonder increased step by step. He seemed

to have invaded the realms of the sun, who sent his unrelenting light

rays down upon glistening pavements composed of lava, reflecting the

beams with all the brilliancy of mosaic. Notwithstanding the glare of

August, balconies, casements, terraces and galleries were enlivened by

a gay and merry crowd. The gloomy fronts of marble and granite had

disappeared under silken hangings and garlands of flowers. Everywhere

there was joy and gladness, and the bells from Santa Chiara rang as

joyously over the city and gulf as if the papal Inderdict held no

terrors for these children of an azure sky.

The situation was nevertheless acute. A Clementine court and a

Ghibelline populace, who defied alike the Pontiff and their

self-imposed ruler. Excommunication was hanging black over the leaders

of this movement; the court was in evil moral repute, and it was

difficult to foresee whither matters were drifting under these

sun-fraught, cloudless skies.

Francesco requested and obtained immediate audience of the Duke of

Lerma, Anjou's representative in the kingdom of Sicily. The interview

being terminated, and his duties outlined, he strode out into the

palace gardens, which sloped in picturesque terraces down towards the

bay.

With fevered pulses he leaned against the parapet of the broad stone

wall which encircled the gardens, his eyes resting on the enchanted

landscape, the clustered towers of Naples, beyond which rose the

smoke-wreathed cone of Vesuvius. Thence his gaze wandered to the sea,

which glowed from rose to violet and sapphire, all melting into unity

of lapis lazuli, and finally down into the Parthenopean fields, where

the atmosphere heaved with the pulsing intensity of high noon.

On all sides the spell of Circe enfolded him triumphantly. Truly, here

all painful broodings might be forgotten, where thought and sight

were alike suffused with the radiance of sea and sky. It was a place

of dawns and sunsets, of lights rising amber in the East over purple

hills and amethystine waters; of magic glows at evening in the west

with cypresses and yews carven in ebony against primrose skies, while

the terraces blazed with flower-filled urns, and roses overspread the

balustrade with crimson flame.

How vivid the life of the past weeks stood out before Francesco's

eyes, a life crowned by the memory of his arrival in this Siren City,

and his strange meeting with Ilaria. It seemed like a mocking dream;

yet, the pain in his heart informed him, it was true!

How long he had stood there, he did not know, when he suddenly gave a

start.

An opening door,--a light foot-fall--he stood face to face with

Ilaria.

She paused; stately, unsmiling, reserved. A white silence seemed to

enfold her as their eyes met.

"There is some error," she said, with a retrograde movement. "I will

withdraw--"

"There is no error!" the words leaped from Francesco's lips. "Or

perchance there is! Well,--is it true?"

The words were uttered almost brutally.

"I do not understand!" she replied icily.

"Why are you at Naples?"

His face was a mere whiteness amid shadows.

"Why are you here?" she replied, straightening with a sharp lifting of

the head.

"Perhaps I am here to spy on you!"

"The office does you honor! First, a traitor--then, a spy--"

Her words were fierce and bitter.

"What are you saying?" he flashed. "Betrayal is not man's prerogative

alone!"

She shuddered. His words bit brutally into the truth. For a moment she

stood rigid, searching his eyes and the very depths of his soul.

And so, for a brief space, they faced each other in silence. Francesco

acknowledged anew, and with a mortal pang, that here was a woman for

whom a man might give his life and count it naught. A woman to gain

whose love, a man might sell his soul. Ilaria had come into her own,

as never in her earlier youth. Like all great beauty, hers was

serious. It had acquired a touch of majesty and mystery, a depth of

intensity and significance.

"Is Raniero at Naples?" Francesco spoke at last.

She faced him defiantly, as if resenting his attitude.

"I knew not you were concerned in your former rival!"

Her utterance seemed part of the incomprehensible cruelty of life. His

face was hard and white as he regarded her.

"Perchance my concern is all for my present one!"

"I do not understand--" she faltered, her hands over her bosom. Yet

her tone had lost its defiant ring.

As in mute questioning her eyes were on his face.

"As I passed down the Via Forinara last night, I passed a woman and a

man. The woman was garbed in crimson, and there was no sign of

recognition in her eyes. The woman I knew. Who was the man?"

Ilaria's face was very pale.

"What is he to you,--the monk?"

He came a step nearer.

"Who was the man?"

She gave a little nervous laugh.

"Stefano Maconi,--one of the nobles of the court!" she said, with a

drooping of the head. Then with a quick touch of resentment: "Have you

heard the name before?"

Francesco ignored the irony of her tones.

"What is he to you?" he queried sternly. His face looked pale and

drawn, his eyes shone with an almost supernatural lustre.

"Really," she squirmed, "I knew not that I stood in need of a

confessor. I have one already,--and I do not intend to supplant him

with another!"

"You have not answered my question!" he insisted. "To the office of

your confessor I do not aspire. I am not suited for that exalted

position!"

There was something in his eyes that frightened her.

"And why?"--she faltered.

"I should not prove so passive a listener!"

For a moment she faced him in silence. Then, with a sudden return of

her old hauteur, she flashed:

"Of what do you accuse me?"

He did not speak. But the look he gave her sent the hot blood curdling

to her cheeks; ebbing back, it left them paler than before.

"You have not answered my question!" he said at last.

She lifted heavy lids and eyed him wondering, as one waking from a

dream.

"What do you want of me?"

"What is Stefano Maconi to you?" he queried more fiercely, grasping

her wrists, and compelling her to raise her eyes to his.

"Stefano Maconi is nothing to me!" she replied hoarsely.

Never had he spoken thus to her. As their eyes met, she noted that he

had changed. With a quick pang she saw how thin and haggard he had

grown.

"Is this the truth?" Gropingly her hands went out to him, her

witch-like eyes held his own and like the cry of a tortured soul it

came from her lips:

"It is the truth!"

Her voice died in a sob; her whole body was shaken with convulsive

tremors, when she found herself caught up in his arms.

For a moment she abandoned herself wholly to his embrace, while terms

of endearment fell deliriously from his lips. Again and again he

kissed the pale lips, the eyes of the woman he loved better than life.

How long, it seemed to Ilaria, since she had leaned over the parapets

of Avellino, had watched the sunset light fade into the night! And one

night of all, how slowly the moon had risen! How white the magnolias

had shimmered, while the distant Liris sang his slumber song! How the

red roses burned in the moonlight, as she stole down the path to meet

him!

How long ago was it? Now, she could remember every detail of that

night; how she started when a sleeping bird uttered a dream note among

the leafy boughs, how she listened to her own heart-beats, how she

found herself caught up in Francesco's arms.

All her youth, all her days had been poisoned by the thought of what

she had done. Resolutely, day after day, month after month, had she

fought against the demon of remorse. She had shut eyes and ears to the

haunting spectre of the past. And now, steadily, pitilessly, she went

back, step for step, through the hell of her past life, the mockery

that was bitterer than death, the horror of loneliness, the slow,

grinding, relentless agony of her nights and days.

The crowding phantoms of the past would not release her from their

shadowy grip. Why had he again come into her life? Why had he again

crossed her path?

Staggering, he released her at last, took a backward step and covered

his face with his hands.

"I have tried not to lay hands on a thing that it is not mine to

touch."

She pointed to his garb. A wondering look passed into her eyes.

At first he noted it not, in the thrall of his own emotions. Then, as

she touched him lightly upon the arm, he understood.

"I am here, the legate of Clement, carrying the Interdict, unless

Naples acknowledges the supremacy of the Church! For this I have laid

aside the cowl!"

Ilaria shivered. He was still a monk,--after all.

There was nothing she could do to help him. That was the bitterest

thing of all!

Silence seemed to bind the world into a golden swoon.

"Francesco," she cried, almost with a sob.

He came nearer and took her hands again.

"Let us go down among the terraces!" she said in a whisper. "Let us

forget the loud, insistent clamor of the world. Let us be quite

still,--as if we were among the poppy-flowers!"

By some strange echoing of the mind the idyls of past days woke like

the songs of birds after a storm of rain. Her whole soul yearned out

with a wistfulness borne of infinite regret.

Silently they walked down the flower-bordered path.

The panorama from the spot was enchanting. Far below lay the blue

waters of the bay; out to seaward lay ancient Baiae with her thousand

palaces and the forest of masts at Puteoli; beyond these Sorento and

the shimmering islands, bathed by the boundless sea. The vaporous

cloud from Vesuvius hung like a cone of snow in the still blue

atmosphere.

The foreground was no less enchanting. All round the pavilion lay a

verdant, luxuriant wilderness. The mysterious silence of noon brooded

over the whole landscape; only a faint hum of life came up from the

city. All else was still. Not a living creature seemed to breathe

within ear-shot.

He led her to where a fountain plashed in the sun and stone steps

ringed a quiet pool.

In the silence she bent over him, her hand on his dark hair.

The tonsure burned her fingers like living fire.

"Why have you done this thing?"

He felt the scorn in her voice; he felt the swift repellence of her

body.

Francesco raised his face to that of the woman. It was very pale from

the fierceness of the struggle to keep down even the suspicion of

emotional sentimentality.

"You ask why I have done this thing?" he spoke dryly at last. "The

hour has come when I must tell you, Ilaria! Not that it can steer the

vessel of our lives into different channels,--but that at last I may

stand vindicated in your sight. I am the son of Gregorio Villani,

Grand Master of the Order of St. John. My mother died at my birth. I

was raised at the Court of Avellino. So powerful was the influence of

my father, that, notwithstanding the protests of the Holy See, he

placed his offspring at a Ghibelline court. There came a day when I

was summoned to the bedside of my father at San Cataldo. What passed

between us during that interview, neither you nor any one on earth may

know. I went into his room a happy, care-free youth. I came out the

shadow of my former self,--a monk. One year I lived among shadows in

the Benedictine monastery at Monte Cassino. There I took the vows

which made me a prisoner, far more closely bound than you can know;

for death alone shall release me from a life which has grown to be a

torture. I became a monk half from pity, half from fear. The pity is

almost gone; the fear has left me long ago. After a time I was called

to Rome. The Church I love not! I am unfit to remain in her service.

The monks are to me a hateful body. Willingly, gladly, would I see my

scapular replaced by the tunic for my coffin. Yet death is not for me

to hope for, or even to dream of,--and in vain I ask, what holds the

future?"

Ilaria's head had drooped over his; her eyes wandered blindly over the

ground. Then a warm drop fell to the stone at her feet.

During his recital the very soul in Francesco seemed to have withered

with dread, and he seemed to shrivel up bodily and to grow feeble and

old and wilted, as a leaf that the frost has touched.

"The memory pains you," she said at last.

He bit his lips.

"Deem you, I forget when I am silent? But it is not the thing itself

that haunts me! It is the fact that I have lost the power over

myself--"

"You have suffered--"

"It is the fact that I have come to the end of my courage,--to the

point where I find myself a coward!"

"Surely there is a limit to what one may bear--"

"And he who has once reached that limit never knows when he may reach

it again!"

He looked up with a sudden piteous catching of the breath.

"What will you do?" she spoke after a pause.

He held her hands in a close, passionate clasp. A silence that seemed

to have no end had fallen about them.

"My allotted task," he said at last, in a voice more dead than alive.

"No,--no,--no--!" she started up suddenly. "Cannot you see,--will you

never understand--oh! the bitterness, the misery of it all!"

She clung to him with all her might.

"Come away with me! What have you to do with this dead world of

priests and monks! They are full of the dust of bygone ages! Come out

of this plague-ridden Church,--come with me into the sunlight! I love

you--I have always loved you,--always--"

She bent blindly towards him.

"Take me away from here,--Francesco,--take me away from here! Since I

came here my feet seem to have grown heavy with this lotus-laden air.

At times it sweeps over me like desperation,--I lose the faculty of

thinking, I lose the power over myself!"

"I thought you were at Astura!" he said tentatively, the affair in the

Red Tower flashing through his consciousness.

She gave a quick start.

"I am a woman, and I stand alone! I have lived in hell ever since I

set foot in Astura. Almost have I lost the courage to look life in the

face. How I have wanted you!" she continued, with a wan, wistful

smile. "Ever I see you standing against the background of a great

silence, a silence that engulfs, that maddens, that kills! And you

will go from me, leave me a prey to this gray, suffocating loneliness,

which hovers as a pall over my soul! I am nothing to Raniero! He seeks

his pleasures elsewhere! The lure of the body drove him to me,--it has

vanished,--thank God even for that! I should die in his embrace. He

knows that I loathe him, that my soul spurns him! And he knows that I

love you! Yet, though he has forfeited every right, human and divine,

he grudges my love to another. For days and days he left me alone

within the gray walls of Astura, until in a fit of desperation I left

one night, and came here, to forget. His insults began in Rome. He

went so far as to bring his mistress to the Frangipani palace. I have

heard it whispered there is a curse on Astura. 'Astura--mala

terra,--maledetta!' A beggar uttered these words, whom Raniero struck

for obstructing his path, on the day when we arrived!"

A sudden blood-red cloud seemed to come before Francesco's eyes. With

a voice bare of intonation, he recited his own adventure in the Red

Tower, voicing his suspicions and fears.

Ilaria betrayed no surprise.

"He has never forgiven Fonte Gaia," she said, with drooping head. "And

yet he was untrue to me even then! From that hour matters began to

grow worse. Recklessly he cast the last semblance of decorum to the

winds. When I protested against living under the same roof with his

mistress, he smilingly brought me to Astura, leaving me, as he said,

in undisturbed possession. My youth destroyed, my soul poisoned, I

accepted my fate! I am the lady of the Frangipani! Sold, and bought,

and paid for!"

Ilaria had made mere truth of the matter, neither justifying nor

embellishing. Her clear, bleak words were the more pathetic for their

very simpleness.

With a great cry, he took her in his arms, kissed her dusky tresses,

kissed her flower-soft face. The dimmed sunlight, falling in upon

them, enveloped them as with a halo.

"And you are happy here?" he spoke at last.

She gave a shrug.

"Here as elsewhere it is a phantom scene," she said, with her wan

smile. "But if the fellowship of phantoms be ordained, it is well that

they be like those of Naples, radiant."

"Am I too, then, a phantom like the rest?"

Like an echo a voice said:

"A phantom--like the rest."

"And is he--a phantom too?"

She looked up into his eyes.

"Raniero--"

"That other--"

Her face was very pale.

"Why do you dwell on him?"

"Are you not Queen of Phantoms,--Proserpina,--Lady of Shadows, you--as

in the masque at Avellino?"

She shivered in his arms. He pressed her more closely to his heart.

"It was a long time ago!"

"And then as now you moved in a masque, in which I have no part."

A long silence enfolded them. She nestled close to him.

"I am tired,--very tired," she crooned, as a child about to fall

asleep. "Francesco, help me to forget the years! I am afraid!"

"Afraid?"

"Of myself! Sometimes I dare not be alone at night! No,--no,--it is

not that! The inner darkness! There is no weeping there,--only

silence,--silence,--and the gathering gloom!"

She held his hands in her own.

"But for this," she cried with passionate pressure, "I should long

have cursed God and died--"

Her voice died away in the empty stillness without response.

"It is peace I crave," she said wearily, "a peace, such as broods over

a sunset world!"

"The peace of a dying day!" he replied. "The peace I seek is of a day

that stoops not to evening."

"And this peace,--have you found it?"

Her eyes were fixed gravely on his own.

"I am as one who gropes in twilight by a path half seen, towards a

goal he does not know. Not for me the peace of the goal! But there is

peace also of the quest: a peace I would not forego!"

They had arisen and walked for a time in silence, seeking the remoter

regions of the garden. The softened siesta lights gave to the distant

hills an aspect of pearl and jasper.

It was drawing towards sunset; red banners streaked the amethyst of

the western sky.

A saffron mist enveloped the curves of Vesuvius, shot with gold and

crimson, merging in dusky purple. In the plains the fertile fields

reclaimed round the base of Castiglione gleamed russet with vines,

gray with olives. Beyond the grim walls of distant Astura stretched

the chalk-lands of Torre del Greco.

As they walked side by side, Francesco felt the rhythmic life in

Dana's body. The wan, appealing face was close to his. An instant,

and the passion of the sky leaped into it. Theirs was the calm of a

still pool, which hovers till the wind breaks it into the myriad

agitations of life. He drew her towards him; her head resting on his

shoulder, as if there she had found a home.

The evening star shone out in the fading sky.

The dusk was travelling towards the night.

Creation shivered towards a deeper dream.

The summer moon had risen, shedding its magic light over the Gulf of

Naples.

The very soul of Francesco was thrilled by the harmony around him; the

harmony in the moon's golden trail, which fell upon the waters, a

blazing path, reaching from Posilippo to the rim of the horizon,

harmony in the soft murmur of the sea, and the light breeze which

carried, together with the salt freshness of the sea-air, sweet

perfumes from the shores of Sorento with their lemon and orange

groves; harmony in the silvery curves of Vesuvius, wrapped in luminous

mists, its rugged cone emitting a white smoke, which trailed along the

upper zones of the air, the summit of the mountain flaring up from

time to time, like dying embers consecrated to the gods, the gods who

had died, had risen again, and had again expired.

"How wondrous lovely the night!" Francesco at last turned to his

silent companion. "All nature seems as one magic blossom--"

"My blossom-season is past," she answered very lightly.

"It is always blossom-season where Proserpina treads," said Francesco,

his eyes fixed on the face he loved so well.

"You look almost as you did, when we were both happy."

"Is it so long ago? Yes, I am old, Ilaria. Our youth seems far, far

away!"

"Perhaps I too am not old enough, to be young! Our youth--" she paused

with a sob.

Francesco gazed at her solicitously.

"Even here?"

She gave him a wan, small smile.

"Just now, one might forget!"

"It is a great art, to forget," said Francesco tenderly. "You need it,

Ilaria! What sufferings have been yours!"

She returned his look.

He understood.

Ilaria saw the pain written on his brow, as he looked at her with

tenderness undisguised. She felt his spirit lying openly before her,

as when they were both at the Court of Avellino.

"From the look on your forehead," she said softly, "you have lived

long in your cell, since last we met! So it was meant, I think, from

the beginning!"

"Assuredly so it was meant," he replied. "But I am very sorrowful, for

I see not what was meant for you!"

She smiled at him, as if to reassure.

"If Fate has guided my life ill, not yours the fault," she said

soothingly.

In her, reserve still obtained, yet without a trace of her late

perplexing defiance. Asperity had given way to a great gentleness.

"Yet," Francesco hesitated,--"I am tormented by one thought: that for

you it had perchance been better, if--"

He paused with drooping eyes, then continued:

"I could not profit by the dispensation of Clement and remain a true

man. But you--" and again he paused.

A flash of her old-time perverseness lighted up Ilaria's sad eyes.

"Why pause?" she asked, arching her brow. "You mean that which is

moral disaster for one, might be salvation for the other? And that,

since my salvation should be dearer to you than your own--"

She broke out into quizzical mirth. But she was swiftly grave again,

though tremulous.

"I, too, have lost myself in the quest of happiness," she said,

clasping and unclasping her white fingers. "Dread and desire have

beaten me hither and thither! Great waves have tossed me! On the very

day of your departure from Avellino the Viceroy asked me whom I would

wed! Your name leaped to my lips. I told him I would have none other.

Even as I spoke the dread seized me! I said to myself: this thing can

never be! Then you went away--and I was engulfed in darkness. When we

met at Rome I realized what I had done! Yet in the very effort to keep

you far, I drew you near! Thus Fate had willed it! When we met at

Fonte Gaia, I knew what in one sunset of Avellino I had merely

dreamed: my love for you lived--in all my life the one abiding light.

Longing and horror racked me! She is cold, and foul, and false, that

White Lady--and the gifts she offers turn to poison in the grasp. But

it was that other who conquered,--your White Lady,--not mine! She was

ever a generous enemy, and in taking you from me, she has given me

back my love!"

She had been looking at him with wide piteous eyes, even as a child

might do. On a sudden she covered her face, dropped into a seat among

the bays and myrtles, and broke into wild weeping.

The strong sense of bondage came back with a fuller force as though to

menace her with the fateful realism of her lot. A hand seemed to sweep

down and wave her back with a meaning so sinister that she had the

feeling of standing on the brink of a mysterious sea, whose waves sang

to her a song of peril, of misery and desire in the dim green twilight

of some coral dungeon. The lure of the unknown beat upon her eyes,

while love and hate, like attendant spirits, beckoned her onward with

a weird, perpetual clamor.

Francesco tried in vain to soothe her, calling her by all the

endearing names of the past, and pressing her closely to his heart.

"I do not understand," she cried, sobbing convulsively. "I have wished

no one ill! Ever have I desired only fairness and love, and fullness

of sweet life. And the beauty I seek is befouled by my seeking, my

love has stained my beloved; and when I clutch at life, life crumbles

within my grasp. Wherein has my quest been wrong?"

"Not wrong," he said unsteadily--"not wrong,--I trust!"

She looked at him bewildered.

"I, too, would turn from that agonizing God upon the Cross to paths

where roses bloom," Francesco replied, heavy-hearted. "I have been

walking amid shadows, and I have lost the way."

She caught at his hand and drew it piteously to her lips, but made no

attempt to retain it.

"I am that Proserpina who has lost the spring," she said, raising her

haunting eyes to his. "Yet one comfort is left me still,--one stay,

that shall not fail!"

"And that?"

There was a strange expression about her face, but she was silent.

A shudder seized him with the swift suspicion of her meaning.

"You shall not!" he cried almost roughly. "You shall not! I, too,--did

I give way to that fierce longing,--you shall not yield to that

crawling weakness!"

But Ilaria interrupted him.

"Oh! my dear, I meant not that!" she said. "Of weakness I might reck

little, of the hurt to you I should reck much. There is that in my

heart for you which shall keep me safe henceforth from what would

grieve you!"

"What is it then?" he asked relieved. "The comfort,--the stay,--of

which you spoke?"

She smiled through her tears; the old-time smile.

"I do not see your life," he said anxiously. "What is it--what shall

it be? Till that be known to me, Ilaria, I shall not know rest or

peace. You are beautiful,--too beautiful for this licentious court!

Here you cannot remain--alone!"

"I fear the twilight," she said, with a shudder. "There is but one

goal for me, and, when the hour comes, you shall lead me there.

Proserpina will turn Lady of Shadows in very truth, and move veiled

through her rose garden."

"But why must this thing be?" he queried with a choking sensation. "I,

too, have sinned--"

"Of sin I know nothing," said Ilaria mournfully, "I apprehend neither

the word, nor the thing!"

"Then why this last extremity?"

"Will you not understand?" she interposed petulantly. "Your presence

here has shown me once for all that I may not continue to walk in the

old way; I may not walk in yours, and I would not have you walk in

mine! You wavered towards it of late! Once upon a time I should have

rejoiced; now my spirit is full of fear."

She crept close to him and looked up at him with tremulous lids.

He caught her to him with all the old-time love in his eyes. All

fears, all misgivings, all doubts of the woman he loved, were utterly

blotted out in their embrace, and over Ilaria's features there flitted

the gleam of a long forgotten happiness.

Her look was far away. Of a sudden she turned to Francesco.

"Will you remain at Naples?"

He gave a shrug.

"Days--weeks--who can tell? A Ghibelline victory may turn the tide."

"I have something to say to you," she said, her face very close to

his. "I have long wished to say it: beware of Raniero!"

[Illustration: "He caught her to him with all the old-time love"]

"I have done him no wrong!"

She made a gesture as one throwing up a libation.

"Fonte Gaia!"

He felt her breath fanning his cheek.

Seized with a sudden madness he threw his arms about her, and kissed

her.

Where the roads branched off they parted, after a long passionate

embrace. Ilaria returned to the palace, while Francesco bent his

footsteps towards the bay, shimmering in the light of the higher risen

moon.

He heard her go singing through the garden, a soft chant d'amour that

would have gone wondrously to flute and cithern. It died away slowly

amid the trees like an elf's song coming from woodlands in the

moonlight.

His soul was sobbing within him. He felt his purpose, his resolutions

waver. The crisis of his life had come. Alone with Ilaria at Naples!

Raniero away,--indulging his lusts!

He had feared this meeting, feared it above all things in heaven or

earth!

Again they were abroad, the gods of yore. They rode the wind; they

laughed in the far reaches of the sky; they whispered in his heart.

To love her! To possess her!

The thought had suddenly leaped into his brain, taking its first

clearly defined form, recoiling upon him, dazzling his eyes.

For this he had lived; for this he had suffered!

And now?

A deeper question came, like a wind in a fog; a fearsome thing. Why

should this love be sin? This love,--the one pure emotion in all his

life?

In the spiritual darkness which encompassed Francesco, the fire of his

old love for Ilaria had leaped high upon the altar of his sacrifice.

For her he had kept himself pure, for her he had starved his soul,

while his love smouldered in the dark chambers of his heart.

For hours Francesco was as a man possessed, moving through them

drearily, as through crowding phantoms, struggling to suppress an

imperious craving that tormented him for release.

It was late when he retraced his steps towards his inn.

Gigantic cypresses bordered the way, ranged like dark torch-bearers at

a funeral. Their entwined tips, continually caught by the wind from

the sea, remained bent like heads drooped in sorrow. White statues of

gods gleamed spectre-like in the dark shades. In the laurel thickets

glow-worms flickered like funeral tapers. The heavy scent of the

magnolias recalled the odor of balsam used for anointing the dead. The

waters of the fountain, trickling from an overhanging rock, fell into

the sea, drop by drop, like silent tears, as though a nymph were

weeping in the cave above, bewailing her sisters, some dark Elysium,

the subterranean groves of shadows, the burial grounds of dead gods.

But even sleep brought only one persistent vision to Francesco: a

reach of laughing waters, now turquoise, now sapphire, now upheaving

into a mighty translucent wave, that curled swiftly towards him, and,

quivering within, the face of Ilaria, upturned to his own.

CHAPTER III

AN INTERLUDE

Meantime, the atmosphere of this secular court was not distasteful to

Francesco. The love of poetry and the arts which had made Naples in

the twelfth century the literary centre of Europe, still lingered; and

he found pleasant intercourse on lines along which he had long been

lonely.

Of Ilaria he saw little. She carried herself with a strange, new

dignity and seemed to avoid him even more sedulously than he had

planned to avoid her. He heard her spoken of as among the chief

beauties of the court. The Regent, it was said, had shown her marks of

especial favor, the more noteworthy as the Frangipani were on the side

of the empire, fighting against Clement and Charles of Anjou. But his

only opportunity of seeing her was at the court functions, which it

was his duty to attend. To men of Francesco's temperament the absent

has a more constraining force than the present; the dream-Ilaria, with

her wavering smile, had borne, it would seem, more intimate relations

to his life than the woman he watched from afar. But his restlessness

increased with the certainty that Ilaria avoided him; a circumstance

their meeting had not led him to fear.

Thus a week dragged on.

The African wind, which carries with it clouds of hot sand from the

depths of the Sahara, was raging in the upper regions of the air. On

earth there was still absolute calm. The leaves of the palm and the

branches of the mimosa hung motionless; the sea alone was agitated.

Huge, formless ridges swelled up here and there, dashing themselves

against the shore. The west was shrouded in dense gloom, and the sun,

in the metallic, cloudless haze, was seen dimly, as through a smoked

opal.

The Castello of Astura in the distant plains of Torre del Greco shone

white against the black smoke that rose from Vesuvius as from some

mighty furnace, spreading out in the shape of a long cloud from

Castellamare to Posilippo. For weeks the mountain had displayed a

sinister activity, and at night the red fires were visible far away,

over land and sea, like the glow of some great subterranean furnace.

The peaceful altar of the gods had been transformed into the terrible

torch of the Eumenides.

There were dire forebodings of coming disaster in the air and in the

winds. At Torre del Greco penitential processions made the rounds of

the sun-baked streets, with lighted candles, subdued chanting and loud

sobbing. In Resina and Portici dull terror reigned. And the glare of

the August sun had become almost insufferable, as it fell full over

the waters to the pencilled line of the southern horizon, where a long

circle divided the misty, shimmering dove-color of the Tyrrhene Sea

from the hazy skies.

Then, like the knell of doom, the tidings of the fatal battle of

Tagliacozzo were wafted to Naples. Conradino's army had been utterly

routed. Charles of Anjou was the victor of the day.

The fate of the Swabian youth and that of his companions was still a

matter of surmise. They had fled from the battle-field. No one knew

the direction of their flight.

And for days Francesco went about as one dazed. The Neapolitans

laughed his exhortations to scorn, and seemed to invite the interdict

rather than to submit to the Vulture of Provence.

He was ruminating over the situation, wishing for some inspiration,

wishing for Ilaria, and noting idly how the soft siesta lights played

upon the sea, when Francesco perceived a little pleasure barque

skirting the coast, and heading apparently for his favorite

spot,--where he had met Ilaria on coming to Naples. As the breeze

impelled it nearer, music floated over the waters. A few moments, and

he descried within the boat three of the most charming of the younger

women of the court, with their attendant cavaliers. He eyed the little

boat longingly, as it approached like some swift sprite of the sea. It

was at hand now, moored to the tiny wharf, and one of the women called

out gaily:

"Messer Eremito, we have found your cell!"

"And like many hermits," laughed Stefano Maconi, "he appears to

welcome the intrusion."

"To be welcomed by Messer Francesco," suggested another, "we should be

on the barque which Charon is rowing across the Styx."

Francesco found his tongue at last.

"Beauty should always have precedence over departed souls," he said

with a smile. "Is it your pleasure to land and to enliven this

solitude?"

"No, but to lure you out upon the waters," said the woman who had

spoken.

Francesco, carried away by the spirit of the moment, ran down the

marble steps of the terrace and leaped lightly into the boat.

"Violetta made a wager that you would not come,--Petronella that you

would," said a third. "As for myself--I was neutral. But my fears were

with Violetta."

As the sun sank lower, the wind dropped, and the men bent singing to

their oars.

"We were playing a game, Messere," said the Countess Violetta. "We are

trying to decide who is the fairest lady of this court, exclusive, of

course,--of us three. If we can agree, we shall plan a surprise for

that most lovely one!"

"My vote," said Messer Romano Vivaldi, "is for Madonna Ghisola. The

dusk of her hair is as soft as that of the thickest smoke of Vesuvius,

and, as in the smoke, there are red reflections in it!"

"Beware of the volcano," laughed Petronella. "A merry beauty for me,"

she improvised, speaking half verse, half prose like the others.

"Rose-white as asphodel blossom, and fragrant as the cyclamen of the

hills. What say you to the Contessa Leonora? Who can hear her laugh

without remembering what some one has said: 'Laughter is the radiance

of the soul?'"

"To my mind," said one of the cavaliers, who had not yet spoken, "the

Countess Ilaria Frangipani is the fairest woman of the court."

The eyes of Stefano Maconi flashed emphatic assent.

"She is too sad," objected Violetta, who was the youngest of the

party.

"So was the sea beneath the clouds of dawn," said the cavalier. "It

sighed of sorrows without end. The clouds melted, and the gray waters

brightened to turquoise, but whether under clouds or sun, the sea is a

mystery."

"She has the grace of the swaying wave," assented Petronella.

"And its light in her eyes," added Camilla.

"The lady is fair," acknowledged Messer Romano, "but too

unapproachable for me!"

Startled, Francesco saw, or fancied he saw, a complacent smile flit

across the countenance of Stefano Maconi.

"What thinks Messer Francesco of her beauty?" asked

Violetta. "I believe that each new age sees men and women fairer than

the last."

"I think, that cannot be," said the Countess Petronella, naively. "Was

never woman so fair as Madama Elena of Troy, and she lived before the

coming of our Saviour."

"I agree with Madonna Violetta," said Francesco dreamily. "Gazing at

Madonna Ilaria I think there is come into the world something strange

and new, revealed to us to our joy and our undoing!"

The sun had set. The boatmen were singing together.

"Non senti mai Achille,

Per Pulisena bella,

Le cocenti faville

Quant' io senti per quella.

"Udendo sua favella

Angelica e venozza,

Parlar si amorosa

In su la fresca erbetta."

"The beauty of this coast," said Francesco, speaking low, "is as the

beauty of woman. It transcends all I have imagined, yet is it ever

alien. I have felt it in Rome, but not so strongly. In Umbria, in

Tuscany all is more pure, more distant, yet more clear. The eye is

drawn afar to where earth meets sky; here it seeks to draw all to

itself. It is a beauty unhallowed: The triumph of the Pagan World!"

"Is there a city in Italy more Catholic than Naples?" protested

Violetta, while the others joined in a chorus of protestation.

"Where in Europe shall you find more priests?" asked Stefano Maconi,

shrugging his shoulders. "Where shall you find more churches?"

Francesco had been musing. Now the spirit of contradiction was upon

him.

"Even in your churches," he said suddenly, turning to Camilla, "I find

something strange. They are sumptuous indeed; yet there steals over me

a fearsome feeling, as if the worship were given not to the Deity that

is, but to deities long dead,--or worse than dead!"

A slight shudder ran over one or two of the hearers; the boatmen were

singing softly.

The stars were out, the boat was nearing the shore. And still the

boatmen were singing, as the moon shed her spectral light over the

crooning, murmuring waves.

"We are all agreed, are we not, that the Countess Ilaria Frangipani is

the fairest?" asked Camilla, as they prepared to land.

"Allow me," said Stefano Maconi, "to be responsible for the proposed

surprise. It shall, with your pleasure, take the form of a Festa in

the groves of Circe!"

"It will be fair weather to-morrow!" said Violetta. "We shall all be

there!"

After they had departed Francesco passed swiftly to and fro along the

terrace.

Strange feelings were at work within him. Love, hatred, jealousy were

contending for the mastery. He hated the oily cavalier with the

smooth, pleasant temper; he hated the man who dared aspire to Ilaria's

love. To Raniero he gave not even a thought. He had never felt jealous

of the Frangipani. But now Ilaria's name was on the wind! The sea

shouted it; the flowers exhaled it. It floated on the night-air; the

moon and the stars seemed to whisper it. Ilaria! Ilaria! He was once

more abandoned to the older gods!

"I shall not be there!" he murmured to himself, thinking of the Festa.

Yet, when the morning came, he was among the first to arrive.

CHAPTER IV

THE HILL OF VENUS

Some by land, and some by sea, the revellers took their morning way

along the coast towards the ruins of ancient Baiae. Francesco was on

horseback, a friend having furnished him with an excellent mount. As

he cantered on, the road continually revealed the far-sparkling sea. A

flock of brilliant butterflies dipped and poised on the

waters,--pleasure boats bound for the tryst. Ilaria! Ilaria! She and

he were moving by different ways to the same goal.

Steeds proved swifter than sails that morning; the horsemen arrived

half an hour before the boats. The place was a lonely wonder. The

sloping hillsides, broken by the green hollows of an ancient

amphitheatre, rose gently from the beach. From the turf, strewn with

wild hyacinth, cyclamen, Star of Bethlehem and tiny fleurs-de-lys,

great columns, half embedded in the ground, raised ivy-mantled shafts,

now broken, now crowned with Corinthian capitals, which peered through

trailing vines. Choice marbles, their rose or white mellowed to gold,

lay scattered here and there, the surfaces, fluted or bevelled, still

gleaming with the polish of by-gone centuries. Below and above the

amphitheatre mysterious masonry broke the climbing slope. The ruins

extended to the very verge of the sea.

Francesco ran down the bank as the first boat drew near. Under an

awning of silk, shot with green and blue and gold, sat Ilaria, the

Countess Violetta and Stefano Maconi. Violetta was rippling with

joyous laughter. Ilaria smiled and the beauty of the day found its

meaning. She had thrown aside the misty veil, with which she was wont

to envelop herself. Her gown, or so Francesco thought, was the same

which Proserpina had worn, in the "Triumph of Amor." At least, the

same strange broideries shone among its folds.

She stepped lightly ashore. Her fingers rested on Francesco's hand and

her eyes accepted his adoring look with a strange inscrutable

expression.

"We have been sailing over marvels," cried Violetta wide-eyed. "Below

the clear green waves rise palaces! We saw great white columns and a

pavement of mosaics. Did we not, Madonna Ilaria?"

"Yes," said Ilaria, dreamily. "Had they not quivered in the light, we

could have traced the pattern!"

"The palaces of the sea ladies," Violetta exclaimed gleefully. "I

thought I saw one, but she turned out to be a fish!"

"The home of strange beings, at any rate," mused Ilaria,--"of flowers

that are alive! Did you see that long blue ribbon sway and beckon to

us?"

Ilaria's gravity and pallor seemed to have vanished with the mists of

morning. She was flushed and gay,--almost too gay, Francesco thought.

A startled quietude, as of one expectant, was upon her.

"I have bidden you to a land of enchantment," laughed Stefano Maconi

as they climbed upwards. "We are still within the power of the sea, as

you perceive," he added, when the company paused by the half-buried

columns below the amphitheatre.

"It is true," said Francesco, pausing by a half-buried shaft. "The

stone is fretted by the waves. See the clustered barnacles and tiny

shells clinging half-way up!"

A party of cavaliers and their ladies met them on this spot.

As they exchanged greetings, all studied the strange sight.

"Probably," reflected a young page of the court, "it was the doing of

Messer Vergilio."

"He had great power hereabout," asserted Andrea Ravignano, "and was a

mighty clerk of necromancy. Perhaps it was he who built all these

marvels!"

"It was the old Roman folk that built them, ages ago," said another.

"A city rose here once, a marvel indeed, as these ruins tell. For

their pleasure men built it, and here they lived and throve. And evil

livers were they all, and slaves to the foul fiends, their gods!"

"But how did the city sink into the sea?" asked Violetta.

"That was the work of Messer Saint Paul," replied the other. "He

landed here and preached the Cross of our Saviour, and when men would

not heed but spat upon the cross and defied it, he laid the land under

a curse, and it sank to the depths of the sea!"

"And when the waves had done their work,"--it was Ilaria, speaking

dreamily, "they flowed back, and the ruins rested on a gentle hill.

But forever and ever do they remember the sea!"

She sighed a little.

"The slope on which we sit is hollow within," ventured the youthful

page. "Behind us is many a love-grotto, tunnelled deep and far. The

country folk, when they run the harrow, find great walls. And so none

dare come here of nights: strange things are seen!"

"Perhaps the waters will rise again some day and swallow Naples and

the court, and we shall turn into sea-folk all," Ilaria said, laughing

a little wildly. "Subjects of Lady Venus we should be. She was Queen

of the Sea, I've heard!"

"Though Terce is hardly passed, such talk is not wise," said some

one.

And two or three crossed themselves.

But as the light words drifted on, dim vistas of thought, at the end

of which immemorial things were gleaming, had opened to Francesco.

Violetta had been deftly weaving a green garland of ivy.

"Dream no more, fairest," she turned smiling to Ilaria. "Tell me

rather what flowers to weave into your chaplet. Of no strange blooms

of the sea shall it be wrought, but, at your will, of roses or the

small fior-da-lisa!"

"He who, as I, loves best the sea, loves best the rose," replied

Ilaria smiling. "While he who climbs the height adores the lily!"

She glanced, as she spoke at Francesco, whose gaze had never for a

moment abandoned her. Never had she seemed so fair to him, so utterly

adorable, stirring in his soul the slumbering fires of desire.

Violetta quickly finished her wreath of eglantine, and dropped it

lightly on Ilaria's brow.

"Why fear we ghosts in this radiant air?" laughed she.

"Perhaps we are the ghosts,--ghosts of our former selves," suggested

Ilaria.

"No phantom heart beats in my bosom," laughed Stefano Maconi.

And a look of meaning, or so Francesco felt, passed between them.

"Fair phantom, let us tread a measure!" pleaded Violetta. "What was

this green level made for, if not for the beating of gentle feet?"

"And when the measure is over," said Francesco in an undertone, as

they rose, "perhaps Madonna Ilaria will graciously vouchsafe me a few

moments?"

She nodded assent; but he could see her eyelids quiver, and her breath

came fast. The measure finished, Stefano Maconi at once proposed a new

diversion, from which neither could escape, and time wore on, while

the light grew more intense and the sky burned a deeper blue. Ill at

ease, Francesco withdrew from the pastimes at last and climbed the

hill behind the amphitheatre. He was displeased and nervous. Ilaria,

he was sure, shrank from Stefano Maconi; yet was there not some secret

bond between them?

Would Ilaria come to him? He trembled, as in Avellino of old, and his

heart beat faster at the thought.

The hill was richly draped in ferns and swaying vines. Idly he pushed

aside a mass of ivy: a passage opened behind, deep-vaulted, paved with

broken fragments of mosaic. Stalactites dripped from the roof, through

the verdure of thick maiden-hair fern. The gloom looked grateful.

Francesco stepped within and, looking out on the blue day from the

waving green frame-work, saw Ilaria and Stefano Maconi approaching,

engaged in eager talk. She was flushed and bore herself haughtily.

Francesco stepped quietly out into the light, unnoticed by Ilaria's

companion. Ilaria evidently saw him at once. She paused and dismissed

the other, regardless of his somewhat insistent protests. With

half-ironic salutation she turned down the hill. Whether or no Stefano

had caught sight of Francesco, as he went, was difficult to say.

Ilaria came towards the grotto, trailing her draperies, her brow

troubled and sad beneath the gay chaplet.

"The sun is hot,--one craves shelter," she said lightly, yet with a

tremor in her voice.

Francesco, without replying, lifted the ivy curtain and with a mute

gesture invited her to enter.

They stood in the dusky gloom, speechless, hidden from each other,

till their gaze became accustomed to the shade.

He was helplessly unable to break the silence. Fear, joy, desire,

doubt were tossing him. The breath came fast.

She raised her arms and caught her white throat.

"How cool it is, how sweet!" she said. "At Avellino," and she glanced

at him half shyly, "you would never take me to your grotto!"

"Ah! But this grotto," he tried to speak as lightly as she, "we have

found together!"

"Together!" she reflected, looking away from him. "It is a word we

have not often had occasion to use,--you and I."

"Why might we not in the days to come?"

The words were on his lips; he held them back.

Ilaria waited, her hand pressed to her side, her look full of mingled

tenderness and dread.

As he kept silence, she sighed, almost, it would seem, with relief.

"I wish to explore the cave," she said suddenly. "Come with me, if you

like!"

And with quick steps she started into the darkness.

"Take care! Take care, Lariella!" cried Francesco, unconsciously using

the familiar diminutive, forgotten so long ago.

She took no heed and he hurried after her, terror-stricken, he knew

not why. She kept in advance, moving swiftly and lightly over the dark

uneven ground. For a short distance the dusk deepened, then a sudden

light, shining from a crack in the vaulting, revealed in startling

contrast a great blackness by the side of which there gleamed

something weird, ghost-like.

Ilaria screamed and stumbled. The passage, widening beneath her feet,

broke downwards into a pool of the waters of Styx. A lost stair had

betrayed her.

Francesco, speeding forward, caught her garments, drew her back. She

staggered and yielded to his arms. They leaned together against the

wall of the grotto. The earth had fallen away a little at the shock,

revealing in the uncertain light the white figure of a woman.

They both stared at it, holding their breath.

The image stood embedded in the rocky cavity, whither some force had

in past ages carried her from her old position, for she had evidently

presided over the Piscina, or the bath of some rich Roman, who

rejoiced in her Greek fairness. The face was free, but soil and mould

had given it a half-sinister expression. The limbs, so far as

visible,--and the earth in falling away had left one white side of the

body entirely bare,--were perfect.

Ilaria struggled to free herself from Francesco's embrace and sank,

half fainting, at the statue's base.

"The peril is over," said Francesco, and echoes filled the whole

cavern with murmuring. "Dearest, be not afraid! Look at me!"

As her head drooped, he knelt beside her, half distraught, and rubbed

her wrists and forehead with water from the pool.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, as a child might.

"Fonte Gaia!" she whispered.

The words had been in his own mind.

Lifting her hand, she touched and stroked the marble, and the awe grew

in her eyes.

"Feel!" she said. "This is not marble! It is very flesh, though turned

to stone!"

And she shuddered.

"Only a statue, dearest!" he answered soothingly. "Around Naples, they

say, the earth is full of such!"

"It is the White Lady!"

She had risen now and regained her self-control, and she spoke with

unwonted dignity and calm.

"It is the White Lady," she repeated, "but you know, you have never

consented to her spells. She rules here in the dusk! How you tremble!

There is no need! Sunlight for you is but a few paces away! See, I

will go with you to the entrance of the grotto!"

In truth a strange tremor had seized him. He stood as if unable to

leave the spot. She was looking on his face with anxious eyes.

"Doubtless," he said at last, and despised himself as he spoke, "you

would prefer other company than mine in the presence of your White

Lady!"

She raised her white hands to her throat again, and laughed, a laugh

which the vaults re-echoed as a sob.

"Forgive,--forgive! I am cruel!" cried Francesco. "I know not what I

say!"

"You are overheated," she said. "Bathe your brows, as you have bathed

mine. It is true, I did not find the touch so cooling."

"The waters of Lethe," said Francesco very slowly. "Shall I bathe my

brows in them indeed? Already, simply standing by them, I think I have

forgotten many things. I have a better thought. Will you drink of them

with me, Ilaria? It would not be the first time we have tasted of the

same cup in the presence of Venus!"

Was he mistaken? Or, in the glimmering light, did he see a shadow

passing over the flower-soft face?

She did not reply, but softly stroked his hair.

Her touch burned, electrified him. For a moment he submitted to the

sensation, then, as her soft, white hands stole around his throat, he

folded her in a close embrace and kissed her passionately on her lips.

From the waters came the swinging rhythm of the Barcarole.

"Non senti mai Achille

Per Pulisena bella,

Le cocenti faville

Quant' io senti per quella.

"Udendo sua favella

Angelica e venozza,

Parlar si amorosa

In su la fresca erbetta."

The time for metaphors had passed. He raised his head.

"I love you, Ilaria," he stammered, drunk with her sweetness, "love

you, as I have never loved anything on earth. Ilaria--Ilaria--"

"Are we not free?" she whispered, her lips very close to his.

He kissed them again and again, then tossed back his head.

"Free?" he said. "Who is free? Ghostly powers, fates from ancient

days,--drive us, flesh and blood, whither they will!"

She shook her head, and on her lips played the old-time childhood

smile.

"Have you forgot?" she whispered into his ear, holding him very close.

"But it is not for me to remind you--"

With a sudden change her restraint had vanished.

"We are among the shades," she continued, "where Proserpina should be

at home. The world of sun is far!"

"I love you--" he stammered, gazing at her with wide, hungry eyes.

She bent back his head, till their eyes met.

She gazed at him with all the love she bore him. Then, drawing him

close, she whispered a word in his ear.

He closed his eyes in mortal anguish.

"All creation knows it,--all things, animate and inanimate: but not

I,--not I!"

"Take me!" Ilaria said calmly, her face very white. "Yes--I will drink

with you! But first--a libation to Venus!"

She gathered a little water in her hands and sprinkled it at the feet

of the statue.

He stared at her for a moment, speechless, full of wonder at her

strange bearing. She was very pale, but in her eyes there gleamed a

subtle fire, which kindled the spark in his soul.

"We have no cup," he said trembling.

But she, stooping swiftly, gathered water once more in the hollow of

her palms and raised them to his face.

"Drink!" she whispered eagerly. "Drink, while yet we dare!"

He stooped to the soft white hands and held them close to his mouth,

kissing them again and again when he had drank.

"Come!" she said softly.

He did not stir. She bent over him.

"Francesco! I love you--come!"

He fell prone at her feet, with a sob that shook his whole frame as

with convulsions.

"Oh! That I might,--that I might! I would not sully your white purity

for all there is in earth, or heaven!"

For a moment she stood rigid, white, dazed.

Suddenly he felt two arms winding themselves about his neck, two soft

lips were pressed upon his own in one long, delirious kiss--then he

saw Ilaria precipitately retrace her steps, and Stefano Maconi peer

into the grotto.

After a time Francesco emerged into the sunlight, bewildered, dazed.

Ilaria had joined the revellers, and he sank down upon a rock and

covered his face with his hands.

His heart and his soul were bleeding to death within him; and like his

own phantom he at last arose and walked towards the sea. The revellers

had lost themselves in the depths of the groves. Again and again the

swinging rhythm of their song was borne to him on the soft, fragrant

breezes; yet there was but one thought in his heart, one name on his

lips, as his feet bore him slowly through the blossoming wilderness:

"Ilaria! Ilaria!"--

CHAPTER V

TWILIGHT WATERS

Dazed, in a state of mind bordering on utter bewilderment, such as he

had not experienced since the Masque of the Gods in the park of

Avellino, Francesco wandered by the shore, trying to bring order into

the confused chaos of his thoughts. Ilaria loved him, always had she

loved him, and so closely were their fates bound up together that

neither could as much as turn without standing accounted to the other.

During the last days the certainty had dawned upon him that the

sacrifice had been utterly in vain. He had been cheated of his youth

and birthright; utterly helpless, he was the blind tool of a power,

which, by no human right nor divine, had constituted itself the

arbiter of his destiny. The future held nothing for him. His

sympathies were forever with the vanquished. The temporal power of the

Church held no allurement. He might climb in her service; the road lay

over the broken and shattered ideals of his youth.--

The uncertainty of the fate of the Ghibelline host weighed heavily

upon him. Where was Conradino, the fair-haired imperial youth, where

were the leaders of the vanquished iron-serried companies, whose march

under the proudly floating banners of the Sun-Soaring Eagle of

Hohenstauffen he had witnessed from the summits of Monte Cassino? Had

they reached the sheltering passes of the Apennines, had they fallen

into Anjou's hands?

Fascinated, yet oppressed by dire forebodings, Francesco gazed out

over the land. In a flood of crimson and gold, trailing his banners

through the western sky, the sun had sunk to rest. The great mass of

the castello of Astura was silent and dark in the swiftly descending

southern night, save where an errant moonbeam glittered over the

gateway and round-towers, shining obliquely over the massive walls,

while two great circles of shadows enclosed the stronghold of the

Frangipani, like huge Saturnian rings. Brightly, like a silver net

flung wide upon the plains below, the moonbeams played upon the

surrounding marshes the wild, rock-strewn maremmas, while a stagnant

pool below the Groves of Circe reflected an indigo sky, pierced by the

blazing constellations of the south.

As in a dream, he turned his steps towards the hostelry, where,

despite the protests of the Regent, he had persisted in remaining. It

suffered him not in the palace, amid that gay gentry of the court,

near Ilaria, whose society he must forego, while others, less

constrained, might bask in the perfume of her presence. Forever he

thought of her as of a flower, entrusted by a generous divinity to

earth-born men, to tend and to surround with care.

Arrived at the inn, Francesco found the public room occupied by a

throng of idlers, who would scarcely take their departure before

midnight. Stranger to all, as he was, the guests in the place greeted

him civilly, as a possible companion, after having studiously examined

the cut of his garments. One individual especially favored him with

his close attention, unnoticed by Francesco, who, traversing the room,

started upstairs to his chamber.

Ere he had reached the door, this individual swaggered through the

crowd and touched him on the shoulder. Francesco looked at him

vaguely; something familiar teased him in the man's face.

"Am I addressing Messer Francesco Villani, the papal envoy?" he said

awkwardly.

Francesco nodded with an air of vague wonder.

"What is your business with me?"

"I am sent to bring you to one who is dying."--

Francesco, with the custom of his confraternity, turned instantly to

go, but on a sudden impulse he lingered.

"Who is your master?" he asked with a quick misgiving.

"Raniero Frangipani," replied the other gruffly, then after a pause:

"He was mortally wounded in the field of Scurcola!"

"Lead the way!" Francesco said with quick resolve.

The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street.

"He is in fearsome pain,--about to die," he said. "He is very anxious

about his soul's salvation."--

Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about his

soul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughts

came to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The bright

vision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning,

vanishing.

The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other image

could hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; the

unshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance a

sinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched.

A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco with

relief.

"Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear the

confession, but the patient will not make it till he has seen

you--Messer Capitano, I withdraw--" he stammered, for the awful eyes

had turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound.

Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety and

something else in his face.

"Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!"--

Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity and

horror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face.

"Must I ask twice?"

Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness.

Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardly

he wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura.

He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction.

"That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint's

blessing should have great power,--should it not? You ought to know

about such things!"

He spoke with an effort, yet with more force than would have been

supposed possible.

"It will be of no avail, if one dies unrepentant," said Francesco.

"Well, I shall not die unrepentant," returned Raniero with a curious

look. "I shall be honest,--and thorough! Have you the indulgence,--and

the last absolution,--and the Host,--and--the oil?" he continued

hoarsely. "They make a good showing,--if one is really holy! One takes

one's little precautions!"

Something like terror mingled with hatred flared up in his eyes, as he

spoke; then, becoming more direct, he turned to Francesco. "And

now,--for you and me!"--

White hate blazed suddenly in the eyes, then was quenched beneath the

light of cunning.

Francesco was mute. How could he speak to this man of the love of

God!

"I am waiting!" growled Raniero, eyeing the other fiercely. "Speak the

prayer for the dying!"

Francesco moved not. He looked at the sick man spellbound, as a bird

would at a snake. The words he wanted to speak died in the utterance.

"I have never questioned one of the Church's doctrines," said Raniero.

"Apparently you are more of a heretic than I."--

"It may well be," said Francesco absently.

The other eyed him coldly, and a silence fell. In the heart of it grew

and deepened a significance.

At last Raniero spoke.

"Of all men living, I have hated you the most!"

He was rolling his eyes fearfully; the face was on guard.

"I have never injured you," replied Francesco. "Look within my heart.

Naught is there towards you but compassion!"

"Looking in--your heart, I find therein the image--of my wife, Ilaria.

As ever,--looking in her heart,--I find therein--your own!"

Raniero hissed the words; the dilated glaring eyes were as a weapon to

pierce the heart of which he spoke.

"It is true!" Francesco cried out with bitter shame. "Yet if your eyes

can see, they behold in my heart the image of the purest woman, before

whom all my thoughts do worship, save rebels still unconquered."

Listening on the stair without, soldier and priest nodded to each

other at the sound of the "De Profundis clamavi ad te." All was going

suitably in the death-chamber.

And Raniero listened, as the other knelt. A spasm seemed to pass over

his face.

"Do you still hate me?" asked Francesco anxiously, when the invocation

was ended. It was painful to him to think that his shadow stood

between this man and eternity.

"A little," replied Raniero with that curious smile. "But I am almost

sure that I shall hate you less--in a moment. You remember--I have

taken from you--Ilaria!"

There was a strange note of triumph in his speech.

"Do you forgive even that?" asked Raniero with some anxiety.

"I have forgiven," said the other with bowed head.

"Come hither then!" cried Raniero. Craving was in his tones and eyes.

"Make on my forehead, and on my breast, in token of your

forgiveness,--the sign of the holy cross!"

He seemed to grow faint. A strange restlessness had seized him. He had

closed his eyes; his lips moved as in prayer. One hand stirred beneath

the cover.

Francesco came to his side, and stooping began solemnly to trace the

sign.

Concentrated hate, loosed from its leash, snarled, shone in Raniero's

face. Francesco saw nothing. A lifted hand,--a glittering flash: the

knife struck fierce and deep. But the hand that guided it, trembled;

it missed the heart. With an outcry of pain Francesco staggered and

fell backward.

"Gr-r-r-h!" snarled Raniero, like a great cat, growling over its prey,

as he leaped from the bed.

At the sound of the fall the two waiting without had rushed in.

Seizing the opportune moment, Raniero dashed past them, out into the

darkness, leaving them with his unconscious victim.

Removed to the inn, where Raniero's messenger had found him,

Francesco's unconscious state slowly gave way to a delirium, which

made constant attendance imperative. Terror-stricken by the act and

its probable consequences, the two who had been present in Raniero's

sick-chamber had summoned a leech, whose efforts to break the delirium

of the sufferer seemed at first of little avail.

Now he was at Avellino, in the garden, at dusk. Roses were

everywhere, in riotous profusion,--flame roses, every one curled into

fiery petal-whorls, dancing in the garden-dusk under a red, red sky.

Now the chariot of Amor! The rose chaplet has burned Amor's brow! Oh!

Turn away from the tortured face of the poor young God of Love! No

matter, we will see the pageant out! But that woman with the Scarlet

Robe must not be in the show! She is the Woman of the Red Tower! Lead

her away! Francesco must wear the fiery circlet and march with the

rest!

Now he is at Viterbo! Clement, most Holy Father, do not caper about so

strangely! Take off those striped clothes! At least, if you will wear

them, put your tiara aside. Yes,--you juggle excellently well with

those many balls. White! Black! How high you toss them up! How deftly

you catch them! Ha! We see the trick. With each toss a white ball

turns black. They are all black now, and Messere, the Cardinals are

grinning! Horror! Are those the Cardinals? Hoofs in red stockings?

Horns peering out under the cap? The scarlet robes are flames of a

burning village, and the Cardinals point long claws and hiss applause,

while the mountebank weeps. And Francesco weeps too!

Now the serene peace of the wide-glimmering sea! Golden columns are

shining through the water! He turns to the shore,--and as he turns the

great sea stirs. It heaves, it writhes, it rises! With onward

movement, as of a coiling snake, the whole vast liquid brilliance

rushes upon the temple. Mighty billows of beryl curve and break in

sheets of whitest foam,--not foam, rather the soft limbs of

sea-nymphs. Within the green translucence,--ah! the threatening

splendor! Behold the awful, tottering walls!

The crash has come! In the depths of the sea Francesco stands alone!

The temple still rises around him, no more a ruin, but perfect in

every part! The light is emerald. He stands by an altar,--no, it is

Fonte Gaia! Bending down he beholds first a dizzying glimmer, as of

sun-rays reflected from wet bright pebbles, set in gay patterns at the

bottom. Presently his own reflection clears: the face of Ilaria,

lovely beyond all memory or dream, is bending beside it.

The White Lady! She is there in her gown, creeping with brightest

broideries. She offers him a golden cup! "Drink, Francesco!" she

implores. Strange sea-lights waver about her beauty; in a way she is

changed; but it is the voice of the girl he has loved better than all

the world. Suddenly a shadow stands between them. He shivers in the

warm air.--

What is there between Ilaria and Stefano Maconi!

Now some one flies past, a cord around his neck.

"Beware!" cries a voice, and on the rainbow brightness of Ilaria falls

the shadow of mighty wings. Swooping down from the roof, one of the

great demons of Lecceto hovers, poised hawk-like. The face is

Raniero's; the body, that of a vulture. Francesco, horror-stricken,

watches for the fiend to dart, to fasten his claws in Ilaria's dusky

hair, to bear her aloft, away, her shrieks trailing after her. But

this does not happen. In a faint light, like a mountain-mist at dawn,

the whole scene fades away, and Francesco bursts into wild and violent

weeping that seems as if it would drain his soul away.

When, after a few days, Francesco opened his eyes, he found himself in

a high-vaulted room of the palace, Ilaria bending over him wide-eyed,

pale of face. With a choked outcry he grasped the soft white hands to

his lips, his eyes raised to her in long, mute questioning. She bent

over him and kissed his lips.

"I love you," she whispered, then looked away.

His questionings at last elicited the response that at the behest of

the Regent he had been brought to the palace, where Ilaria herself had

been tending to his comfort. The name of his assailant had remained no

secret. Yet, beyond vague whisperings, it was not again alluded to.

Sleep, deep and dreamless, blessed the racked body throughout the day;

the sleep that leaves one's past life far behind and from which one

wakes in weak expectancy and the helpless peace of a new-born child.

It was at the Vesper hour that this waking came to Francesco. Sunset

light filled the gloom of the high-vaulted room. A distant silver

gleam had filled him with strange comfort and strange sorrow. Ilaria

had left him in care of the leech, a little Greek with restless,

ever-shifting eyes. Through the casement the evening star looked in.

Beyond Castel del Ovo he divined the far-trembling sea, quieted to a

pure colorless memory of the day that had died, yet brighter than the

darkening skies.--

Lying peacefully convalescent, Francesco looked back as from a still

haven on the storms that had shaken him since his departure from

Avellino. Had a great enfranchisement or a great imprisonment befallen

him? Life, the master, would show him in good time. Certainly the

entrance into fresh intellectual regions which had intoxicated him for

the time, seemed less important now. For one thing, he perceived the

passion for novelty, as synonymous with progress, to be a mere

delusion of the arch-wizard, Time. And, in a flash, he saw that it was

but the old uncertainty in a new sphere. Was the Church the visible

expression of Life? Must he remain forever under the yoke, to atone

for his own existence, hungering after that which other men freely

enjoyed? And suddenly, like a flash, a phase of his dream leaped into

his wakeful state. He closed his eyes and groaned.

What was there between Ilaria Caselli and Stefano Maconi?

CHAPTER VI

THE CRIMSON NIGHT

It had been a day of driving wind and rain. The sound of the sea beat

weirdly through the streets of Naples. The great street of the

Provencals leading from Castel del Ovo to Castel Nuovo was covered

with spray. Within the palace of the Regent there was singing and

feasting. Distant strains of music wandered out towards the night to

Francesco's chamber. They seemed to whisper of things that were not

for him, and he set his teeth with a smothered groan.

Ilaria was there, and Stefano Maconi! He, the monk, had not been

bidden to the feast.

And slowly there came to him a memory, vague and confused, of a weary

wandering through endless night, torn by temptation and desire, raging

with defiance at his fate, consumed by a fear that ran through his

veins like fire and seemed to scorch the very soul within him.

Suddenly blind fury at his impotence in the face of a supreme and

arrogant power invaded his being. Resist as he would, he was the

bondsman of the Church!

At last it suffered Francesco no longer in his chamber.

Entering a dark passage, he crept past silent courts, through narrow

galleries. When he heard the sound of footsteps he dropped back into

the shadows. The music allured and repelled him, and hungry-eyed he

lurched forward, until he had gained a space above the great hall,

whence he might catch a glimpse of the merriment below.

The banqueting hall was a riot of color. On its columns of polished

marble, veined in green and rose, light played in sliding gleams from

great lamps of wrought bronze, hung by chains around the dome and

between the pillars. The floor of glowing mosaic was overlaid with

rugs of fantastic color and with tawny skins of beasts. The walls were

wide panels of mosaics, set in stucco, vivid with red and blue, green

and azure, picturing scenes of hunting and carousal. Perfumes burned

in silver jars, set on pedestals of black marble along the walls,

sending forth faint spirals of smoke into the heated air. The long

table, lined on either side with men and women, was directly beneath

the dome. Looking down upon it, Francesco saw a confusion of gold and

silver dishes with the ruby glow of Samian plates, and cups gleaming

among strewn leaves and blossoms. The garments of the guests were as a

fringe of color about the table's edge, purple, saffron and gold,

crimson, green and white.

The central figure at the board was Ilaria. She sat between Stefano

Maconi and another noble. At times her gaiety bordered on delirium,

though her smiling face, proudly upheld as though she scorned to give

way before the eyes upon her, was white, but her lips were as scarlet

as the flowers she wore. She had changed her attire since she had left

him. A Persian gauze, filmy as mist, enveloped her sylph-like form,

surmounted by a head-dress of gold, in which two poppies flamed upon

either temple. Never had she looked more beautiful, not even at the

parting-feast at Avellino, when alone she had entered the dusky

dining-hall and had taken her seat apart from him. Then, as now, she

had worn the red rose; the other was long wilted, forgotten perchance.

The flowers she wore were of a deep, intense color, almost like blood

upon the stainless skin of her exposed throat.

She had not even informed him of the evening's festivities. Was it to

save him pain, in not desiring his presence,--was it in order not to

subject him to the taunts and insults of the Neapolitans? Francesco

noted the smile of her parted lips; he noted the vivaciousness with

which she received the adoration of her guests. Yet, while he looked

on from the heights of his dreary solitude, could he have seen

Ilaria's eyes, they would have taught him different, for they never

participated in the smile of her lips. Something like jealousy gripped

him at last, he clenched his teeth and the scene below him swam in a

blood-red mist.

She was lost to him,--always he had known it, known the hopelessness

of his passion, all the sweeter for the bitterness that was in

it,--but never until then had the knowledge so come home to him. He

would have liked to force his way in among these smirking, soft

cavaliers, and tear her from their midst; in his hot eyes there raged

hate and love. His thoughts maddened him. This was her life,--and what

was his? She would leave him the prey of all the devils of jealousy

and fear, which tore his breast. He groaned aloud, and dropped his

face in his hands, a strange figure of desperate longing, desperate

bewilderment, rebellion and pain. He shook to the primal passions of

love and hate that tore him, love for one,--hate for all that had gone

to make the conditions of his life what they must be; according to the

measure of his pain he suffered in fierce revolt against the mocking

Fates that were stronger than he. His place was by her side, at the

festal board,--and while another had purchased and possessed her body,

her soul was his,--his,--his, for all time and all eternity. He it

was who had waked her heart from its empty sleep, he who taught it

first to live and love,--he, her soul's lord, even as the other her

body's master,--he, the monk!

"Will the wound in your heart heal, when I shall have gone--perhaps

forever?" he muttered, "or will your love fade and die? It may be

that it shall be never quite forgotten,--that in after days a word, a

song, the fragrance of a flower shall revive a dim memory. But my love

must last,--to burn and sear.--Ah, beloved! We had no right to

happiness, you and I! But wherefore not? And who decreed it so? Long

months have I lain in darkness, for I dreamed of the time when I

should come to you! Now the dream has gone from me! On all the earth

there is none so lonely, as I am!"--

Again he buried his face in his hands, crouching against the wall. The

music of unseen players rose to him like a breath from that scarcely

vanished past playing upon him; calloused body and sensitive tortured

soul, conjuring forth visions of dead golden hours, weaving its own

poignant spell. Voices from the hall mingled with it, in talk and

heedless laughter. When life was gay and careless, when wine was red

and eyes were bright and faces fair,--who would pause to give thought

to another's sorrow? And he--a monk!--

Minutes dropped away, link by link, from the golden chain of Time. A

faint gleam of light playing on Francesco's features revealed the

scarring passion in his face, signs visible of the chaos of inward

tumult which tore him, of the slow forces gathering for the inevitable

battle waged somewhere, somehow, by every human soul. And that face,

haggard, with haunted shadowy eyes, looked all at once strangely

purged of the heat of its passion, for on it was the presage of the

fierce, slow travail of spirit rending flesh.

Her white purity had raised her above him; if he had wakened her soul,

she had in turn given him a soul within his soul, wakening it to what

it never knew before, new dreams, new ambitions, new desires. Through

her he had seen the great world which was her world, wherein lay all

for which men long and strive. One glimpse he had; and now the gates

were closed and the light was gone and he was thrust back into outer

darkness.--

A peal of laughter rose to him, a burst of music, a half hundred

voices shouting acclaim in response to some unheard toast. He looked

down once more into the light and the color of the great hall, seeing

one there only, out of all that brilliant throng, one fair and

drooping, with scarlet poppies framing her white face. Long and long

he looked, as though he would burn her image upon his heart and mind

forever: the woman he had lost, and who had never been his.

Suddenly he saw Ilaria start. Some one seemed to have brought a

message to her. With a smile to those seated next to her, she arose

from the board and, hurrying across the hall, entered a dim, dusky

corridor. Almost at the same moment Francesco, impelled by curiosity

and misgivings, quitted his point of vantage, and, turning into the

nearest passage, descended by a winding stair into the hall below. In

some way the intricate labyrinth of corridors confused his mind, and

he found himself in a circular chamber of rough blocks of stone, with

two doors. Around the walls hung instruments of war, of torture, of

the chase; chains with heavy balls of iron attached, a stand of

spears, another of great swords. Here were also great six-foot bows,

such as the Saracen archers used, and suits of armor with shields and

breast-plates, and crested helmets of brass and iron.

Francesco paused, listened for Ilaria's footsteps, then, failing to

hear a sound, traversed the chamber on tiptoe until he came to the

opposite door.

Beyond this chamber there opened a spacious court. Blindly Francesco

stumbled onward, wondering at the silence, and wondering what

direction Ilaria had taken, when, traversing the court, he suddenly

paused at the entrance of a dimly lighted hall.

A single cresset burned upon the dais wall, and the fire on the ground

hearth under the louvre sent up a drift of smoke into the murk above.

The great space was full of shadows and of silence.

Suddenly Francesco gave a start, as if he had seen a spectre.

In an oaken chair by the dais sat Raniero Frangipani. The brutal

expression of his countenance seemed even enhanced by the shadows

which played upon it, and the expression of his eyes boded little good

for whomsoever his presence was intended. His sword lay beside him on

the table; his shield was propped against a carved mazor-bowl.

Francesco felt there was mischief brewing, wondered, and held his

breath.

Raniero's figure seemed part of the silence and the shadows of the

hall. His face was cruel and alert, and the light from the cresset

played in red streaks upon his helmet. His attitude seemed to indicate

that he was not here by chance, and the furtive glances he cast about

him seemed to confirm this supposition.

What was Raniero doing here? From his point of vantage in a niche,

Francesco regarded him with a puzzled air, in which there was hardly a

trace of resentment of the injury he had so lately suffered at his

hand. His fears were all for Ilaria, for he could no longer doubt that

Raniero had sent for her, and he was resolved to be present at the

meeting.

The Frangipani's eyes were away from Francesco, directed towards the

green curtain that covered the dais door. For a while nothing

happened. Then Francesco heard a sound like the creaking of hinges.

The curtain stirred and bulged, with the pressing against it of some

one's body.

Francesco's blood froze as, in the one who came through, he recognized

Ilaria.

He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she should cry out, and

she moved so closely by him, that he could have almost touched her,

yet he feared to betray his own presence.

Ilaria swept the hall and then came to a point where Raniero sat

motionless as some huge beast, ready to spring upon its prey. Her face

was tense and watchful, her lips pressed tight, her eyes steady,

though afraid.

In the next moment she and Raniero looked at each other in silence.

Raniero was the first to speak.

"Madonna," he sneered, "I have waited for your homecoming."

Ilaria stood by the wall. To Francesco she appeared calm and

unflurried; but her knees were trembling and there was fear in her

eyes.

Ilaria made no reply to the taunting voice of her lord, and Raniero,

after having waited for some time, continued:

"You have no answer, Madonna? Shall I tell you what you already

know?"--

Ilaria regarded him out of shadowy eyes, then flashed:

"Speak out, and save me riddles!"

There was a suggestion of scorn in her voice. Raniero, moistening his

lips, frowned.

"For your good welcome I give you thanks," he snarled.

"What brought you here?" she queried.

"If it had been your beauty, Madonna--"

With a gesture, she cut him short.

"Your courtesy bribes me to silence!"

"What of obedience?"

She took a backward step.

"To you?"

Her voice, always low, quivered with scorn.

"Are you not the Lady of the Frangipani?" he replied with a brutal

laugh, while his eyes grew dull as treacherous water.

"You need not remind me!"

"Your memory will serve us both. Astura awaits you!"

Ilaria shrank against the wall, while, with a swift movement, Raniero

stepped between her and the curtain.

"Astura!" she flashed, horror in her eyes. "Never! Never!"

The Frangipani eyed her ominously.

"I knew not the abode was so distasteful to you!" he said with an

evil leer. "There are no recreant monks in Astura, it is true! Who

shall drink after me?" he cried with the gesture of one throwing up a

libation.

"Why are you here?" Ilaria summoned up her courage.

"To take you back!" he hissed brutally.

She raised her hands, as if to ward off a blow.

"Oh, not that,--not that--"

"No?" He took a step towards her, feasting his eyes on the great

beauty of his wife. "By San Gennaro! I knew not how beautiful you

were!"

Ilaria crept along the wall. He was watching her as a hawk watches its

prey. He made a sudden lurch, and missed her. She uttered a smothered

outcry. Raniero, being sure of himself, was playing with his victim.

But as he reached out his arms, she flashed a poniard in his face.

With a hoarse outcry Raniero seized his sword and rushed upon her.

Only the table was between them and, charging straight, the Frangipani

overturned it, as a bull might crash through a hurdle of osier twigs.

The table struck Ilaria's heel, as she turned to run, and she faltered

under the flash of Raniero's upraised sword. Francesco stood still and

stared. It was beyond belief that he would strike her. But strike her

he did, even though it was with the flat of the blade. She was down

under his feet, and it seemed to Francesco that he trampled upon her.

His heart gave a great bound in him, as seizing a club, which was the

only weapon within his reach, he charged, though still weak from the

effect of his wound, into the hall.

Raniero wheeled round, stood stock-still and stared at Francesco, as

one would at a ghost. But the latter's raised club was not a matter

inspiring reflection. Francesco spoke not a word, but there was

something in his eyes that caused the other to draw a deep breath and

to watch him narrowly.

The overturned table lay between them and, close to Raniero's feet,

lay Ilaria, a prone and twisted shape, one arm flung out.

Francesco leaped the table, swung a blow, missed and swerved for his

life. The whistle of Raniero's sword went through the air a hair's

breadth from Francesco's thigh. Francesco sprang away, while Raniero,

holding high his shield, came forward step by step, crouching a little

and holding his sword with the blade sloping towards the floor.

Francesco gave ground as Raniero pressed him. Instinct told him that

to strike at this moment, would bring Raniero's sword stabbing upward.

The shield too was to be remembered. It was like a pent-house, reared

to break the fall of timber and stones.

Francesco's wits were working as quickly as his feet. He cast swift

glances to right and left, but never lost his grip on Raniero's eyes.

To break his guard, to close in, so steel should not count! An

overturned bench, lying beyond the long table, caught his eyes for a

moment. Francesco set his teeth and looked hard at the other,

wondering whether that side glance had betrayed the move that was in

his mind.

He turned suddenly and ran towards the dais end of the hall, where the

bench lay, leaving Raniero crouching under the shelter of his shield.

He heard the Frangipani roar at him, spitting out a vile epithet, as

he came charging up the hall, his eyes blazing with hate. Dropping his

club, Francesco raised the bench above his head. It was heavy, and his

own strength hardly equal to the task, but in his frenzy he noted it

not. He saw Raniero blunder to a standstill, raise his shield and

lower his head like a ram meeting the butting pate of a rival. With

all his might Francesco hurled the oaken bench at him. It struck

Raniero on the crown of the helmet and sent him sprawling on the

ground.

Francesco dashed for his club. Raniero, rising on one elbow, stabbed

at him and missed. The club came down upon the back of his head. He

fell forward, shooting out shield and sword, and lay still. For a

moment Francesco stood over him with raised club. But when he did not

move, he rushed towards the spot where Ilaria lay.

With a moan he sprang over the table and bent over the prostrate form.

She lay with her body twisted, one cheek pressed against the stones,

her right arm under her bosom. He touched her brow, her face, her

fingers. She was breathing; the transparent lids were closed, and a

peaceful expression was on her face, as on that of a slumbering child.

He folded her in his arms, pressed his lips upon the lips of the woman

and whispered a thousand endearing epithets into her ears. As he did

so, she opened her eyes.

Bewildered, she gazed about for a moment, her eyes wandering from

Francesco to the apparently lifeless form on the floor of the hall.

"Take me away!" she moaned. "Take me away! Is he dead?"

A great awe had come into her eyes.

"Only stunned!" replied Francesco, inquiring with great misgiving if

she was hurt, yet preferring to let her attribute her fall to an

accident rather than to reveal the truth.

But she shook her head, as he held it between his hands.

"Take me away," she said with a heart-broken sob. "The hour of which I

have so often dreamed has come. Take me to San Nicandro by the Sea."--

With all the love he bore her, he begged her to remain, to be near

him, not to leave him thus to darkness and despair.

"Your river has reached the sea!" she said with a heart-broken smile.

"As you love me, do as I ask!"

She felt strong enough to walk, only a slight bruise bearing witness

to the Frangipani's violence. Leaving him where he lay, they slowly

retraced their steps, when wild shouts and cries of alarm were wafted

to them from above. The frenzied revellers were rushing to and fro in

the palace; from the city came the clangor of bells, and the loud

blare of the wardens' horns from the gates.

The cause was not slow revealing itself.

An immense black cloud, palpitating with lightnings, had settled on

the cone of Vesuvius. The sky had cleared; and the moon, changed to

blood-red hues, hung like a rayless sun midway in the nocturnal

heavens. Suddenly the air became hot to suffocation. For a moment deep

silence reigned. Then, a sharp report as of a thunder-clap in closest

proximity shook the earth. A gigantic stream of lava was belched forth

from the smoke-wreathed mountain, the air was obscured by a rain of

mud and brimstone, which fell far and wide in Torre del Greco and was

carried to Naples. Like a thousand fiery serpents the lava coiled down

the sides of the mountain; a stench of sulphur filled the air, and

giant tongues of flame, leaping upward through the rugged crater,

lighted the landscape to the remotest horizon.

While, fascinated by the awful spectacle, Francesco and Ilaria gazed

spellbound towards Vesuvius, another incident added to the terror of

the night. Shrill and insistent from the summits of Astura blared the

horn of the warden, waking the slumbering echoes of Torre del Greco.

And suddenly a fleet of many ships came steering round the Cape of

Circe, heading for the open sea; while Astura's ramparts bristled with

spear points.

Francesco turned to the nearest bystander, pointing to the castello.

There was a great fear in the eyes of him who made reply.

"Bribed by the Pontiff the Frangipani have delivered Conradino into

the hands of Anjou. Behold yonder--the fleet of Charles' Admiral,

Robert of Lavenna, carrying the captive king and his companions to

their doom!"--

Wide-eyed, pale as death, Francesco and Ilaria stared at each other,

neither trusting themselves to speak. Then a half-smothered sob broke

from the woman's lips, as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

A strange calm had settled over Francesco as he gazed from Ilaria

towards the ramparts of Astura.

There was a moment's silence between them, then he raised himself to

his full height as he turned to her.

"Hitherto I have served God! Now I will serve my own soul!"

End of Book the Fourth.

Book the Fifth

THE APOSTACY

CHAPTER I

A LEGEND

Out into the open caverns of the night Francesco and Ilaria rode.

Their eyes still roved from the fading city to the great ships

stealing over the water. Their tall masts rose against the last

gleaming cranny of the west. Beyond them the mountains towered solemn

and stupendous, fringed with aureoles of transient fire. Even in the

half-gloom they could see a vague glittering movement on the slopes

behind Astura, a glitter that told of armed men marching from the

hills, while shadowy ships seemed striding, solemn and silent, out of

the night. A thousand oars seemed to churn the water. Sudden out of

the gloom leaped the cry of a horn, its voice echoing from the hills.

A vague clamor came from the shore. In Astura torches were gleaming

like red moths in a garden. From the castle the alarm bell boomed and

clashed; then like giants' ghosts the ships crept out to sea, sable

and strange against the fading west.

As Francesco turned, sick at heart, he met Ilaria's eyes. Her sweet,

proud face was near him once again, overtopping his manhood. The

moonbeams played upon her dusky hair.

The silence was intense. Only the pounding of their horses' feet beat

insistent clamor into the stillness of the night.

The trees and bushes began to mass themselves into denser shadow

against the tinge of ghostly starlight.

Now her face was very close to his.

"At times I feel as if we had lived very, very long ago,--ages and

ages ago, when the world was young and only the moon and the stars

were old. None walked upon the earth save we two and the world and its

beauty was for us alone. Dusky forests covered the land, where strange

flowers bloomed, where strange birds sang. Beneath the sunken light of

a seared moon we walked hand in hand."--

A great wave of misery swept over him.

"I love you,--I love you," he whispered hoarsely. "Heart of my heart,

that is the tale, a tale of three words, which is yet larger than any

tale that was ever said or sung. Do you know what this must mean to

you and me?"

She drew herself away from him.

"You love me," she repeated, not questioningly, but as one stating a

fact. "Yet such love is not for you and me! All men, all circumstances

would try to part us!"

"But why? But why?" he cried. "Ilaria, I love you with a love that

must last through life and death and all that lies beyond. So, since I

am what I must be, I place my life into your hands for good or evil."

He kissed her, then looked hungrily into her eyes.

She gave a wan smile.

"Dear, do not grieve!" she said. "I have always loved you, love you

now and think it no shame. Had you consented to become my lover, the

man I love had died! What I love best in you, is what held you far!"

"Ilaria!" he cried, loosening the horses' reins, "what is there

between you and Stefano Maconi?"

She breathed hard, and her face was very pale.

"I too might have found forgetfulness where others find. That path was

not for me. Francesco!" She laid her hand upon his own. "Look in my

eyes and see!"

That night they stopped at a wayside inn, as brother and sister,

Francesco keeping watch outside, while Ilaria occupied the only

guest-chamber of the tavern.

Francesco's eyes stayed with her darkly, sadly, after she had gone

inside. His tragic face seemed to look out of the night like the face

of one dead.

He had tethered their horses some distance away, so that the

occasional tramp of their hoofs should fall muffled on the air. The

deeply caverned eyes watching through the night seemed dark with a

quiet destiny. The thin, pale face, white in its meditative repose,

seemed fit to front the ruins of a stricken land.

It was the face of a man who had watched and striven, who had followed

what he held to be truth, like a shadow; who had found the light of

life in a woman's eyes, and saw that light slowly go out and vanish in

outer darkness.

There was bitterness there, pain, and the ghost of a sad desire that

was pleading with death. The face would have seemed stern, but for a

certain something that made its shadows kind.

The woods about him seemed to swim in a mist of silver.

Thus he sat through the night. He saw the moon go down in the west.

Nothing earthly could come into the sad session of remembrances, the

vigil of a dead past.--

The early dawn found them again upon the road.

The evening of another day descended; the green valleys were full of

light. Afar on the hills the great trees dreamed, dome on dome,

touching the transient crimson of the west. Ilex and cedar stood,

sombre giants, in a golden, shimmering sea. The eastern slopes gleamed

in the sun, a cataract of leaves, plunging into gloom. The forests

were full of shadows and mysterious streams of gold, and a great

silence shrouded the wilderness, save for the distant thunder of the

streams.

Whenever Ilaria had grown tired, they had stopped in the shelter of

the giant oaks, and partaken of the refreshments which Francesco had

taken along. At high-noon they had reached what appeared to be a

deserted castle, situated in the midst of a flowery oasis. Here they

had dismounted and Ilaria had found great delight in roaming through

the enchanted wilderness, calling each flower by its name and, now and

then, referring to the old rose-garden at Avellino, those happy days

of their guileless youth. Francesco's heart was heavy within him as he

watched the girlish figure, over whom sorrow had passed with so loving

a hand, idealizing and etherealizing her great beauty, never dimming

her sweet eyes. Then he had led their steeds down to the stream, which

purled through the underbrush, and while they drank, he had seated

himself on the bank and buried his head in his hands.

As he came from watering his horses at the stream, he heard the sound

of her footsteps amid the vines and pomegranates, chanting some

sorrowful legend of lost love. Francesco had discovered a rough bridge

across the stream, where giant boulders seemed to have been set as

stepping-stones between the western grass-land and the castle. There

was a narrow postern giving entrance through the walls. Francesco

stood at the gate and listened. Above the thunder of the foaming

streams her voice seemed to rise; even the great golden vault of

heaven seemed full of the echoes of her passionate song.

He found Ilaria seated on the terrace-way, where the oleanders

bloomed. Under the stone bridge the water foamed and purled, the ferns

and the moss green and brilliant above the foam. About her rose the

knolls of the gold-fruited trees. Further the forests climbed into the

glory of the heavens.

She ceased her chanting as Francesco came to her and made room for him

on the long bench of stone. There was a tinge of petulance about the

red mouth, the pathetic perverseness of a heart that loved not by the

will of circumstance. Ilaria was as a woman deceived by dreams. She

had loved a dream, and since fate bowed not to her desire, she turned

her back in anger upon the world.

How Francesco loved her, she knew full well. Yet she could not forget

that he had chosen the garb he wore rather than herself. Her very love

for him stiffened her perverseness and caused her to delight in

torturing him.

Francesco sat on the stone seat and looked up at her with questioning

gaze. To Ilaria there was a love therein such as only once comes into

a woman's life, yet the look troubled her. She feared its appeal,

feared the weakening of her own resolve.

"Francesco," she said at last.

He took her hand, his eyes fixed solemnly upon the face he loved so

well.

"You will return to Naples?" she queried with a show of indifference.

"Naples is far from me as yet," he said with bowed head.

"Let me not hinder you,--since go you must."--

"Are you so anxious to be relieved of me?" he said bitterly.

"The fate of Conradino,--the fate of our friends hang in the balance."

"I could not save them single-handed, though I would!"

"Yet save them you must! You must redeem your past,--for my sake! Why

not part here, since part we must? There are other claims upon my

soul!"

"Raniero Frangipani still lives--"

"I shall never return to him!"

He did not answer her for a moment. Her eyes were troubled, she looked

as one whose thoughts were buffeted by a strong wind. Above them the

zenith mellowed to a deeper gold, and they had the noise of the waters

in their ears.

"Ilaria," he said at last, "what would you with me? Am I not pledged

to guard your life,--your honor?"

"Ah," she said, drooping her lashes, "I shall not clog your years!

The springtime of life has passed,--for each of us!"

"But not my love for you!" he cried fiercely, with the tone of a man

tortured by suspense.

Ilaria looked at him, and she saw the love upon his face, like a

sunset streaming through a cloud. She pitied him for a moment, but

hardened her heart the more.

"I am weary of the world," she said.

"Weary, Ilaria? Are you not free?"

She looked at him quizzically.

"The wife of Raniero Frangipani?"

"Have you not broken the chains?"

"Mine the forging--mine the suffering," she said, almost with a moan.

"Though I have left him, I am not free. Nor are you! Though you burn

your garb--you are forever a monk--the slave of Rome! Who is free in

life?" she added, after a brief pause. "I am fearful of the ruffian

passions of the world,--the lusts and the terrors,--even love itself!

Life seethes with turbulence and the great throes of wrath. I would be

at peace,--I have suffered--God, how I have suffered!"

Francesco rose up suddenly, and began to stride to and fro before her.

He loved Ilaria, he knew it at this moment, with all the strongest

fibres of his heart. He had hoped too much, trusted too much to the

power of his own faith. He turned and faced her, there, outwardly

calm, miserable within.

"Must this thing be?" he asked her.

There was such deep wistfulness in those words of his that she bent

her head and would not look into his face.

"Francesco," she said, "I pray you, plead no further with my heart. I

shall turn nun,--there is the truth."

"As you will--" he said, and a cord seemed to snap in his heart. "It

is not for me to parley with your soul, not for me to revive a past

that had best never been!"

Ilaria's gaze seemed far away. Her eyes, under their dark lashes,

seemed like spring violets hiding in shadows.

There was an infinite pride, an infinite tenderness in the wistful

face, as she turned to Francesco.

"Ah," she said with a sudden kindling, "why has it been decreed thus?

I think my whole soul was made for beauty, my whole desire born for

fair and lovely things. You will smile at me for a dreamer,--dreaming

still, after the devastating storms of life have spent themselves over

my head,--but often my thoughts seem to fly through forests,

marvellous green glooms all drowned in moonlight. I love to hear the

wind, to watch the great oaks battling, to see the sea, one laugh of

gold. Now, every sunset harrows me into a moan of woe. Yet I can still

sing to the stars at night, songs such as the woods weave from the

voice of a gentle wind, dew-laden, green and lovely. Sometimes I feel

faint for sheer love of this fair earth."

Francesco's eyes were on her with a strange, deep look. Every fibre of

his being, every hidden instinct cried out in him to fold her in his

arms, to hold her there forevermore, safe from the world, from harm.

But, as if she had divined his thoughts, she drew away from him.

He stood motionless, with head thrown back, his eyes gazing upon the

darkening windows of the east. The sound of the running waters surged

in his ears; the colors and odors of the place seemed to faint into

the night. As for Ilaria, she stared immovable into space.

At last she turned to Francesco.

"And are they all,--all lost?"

His lips hardened.

"All, save the lords of Astura."

Her face was pale as death.

Francesco took her hands in his, bent over them and kissed them

passionately.

A soft light shone in her eyes; yet underneath there was that

inexplicable perverseness in her heart that at certain moments makes a

woman treacherous to her own desires.

And Ilaria, as if to inflict a mortal wound on him she loved best,

beckoned her own fate on with a bitterness that Francesco could not

fathom.

"Listen," she said. "You will go to Naples,--you may be of service to

the Swabian cause,--I must not--I will not--detain you,--besides,--I

am weary of the world,--I am weary of it all! Take me to San Nicandro

by the Sea--there I shall strive to forget!"

Francesco watched her, listening like a man to the reading of his own

doom. Ilaria did not look at him. Her head was bowed down. And as he

sat there, gazing on the face he so passionately loved, her eyes, her

lips, Francesco could hardly restrain himself from putting his arms

about her and holding her close, close to his heart. But an icy hand

seemed to come between them, seemed to hold them apart.

"I will do as you wish!" he said.

The west was an open gate of gold. The darkening forests were wreathed

in veils of mist. The island with the dark foliage of its trees and

shrubs, lay like some dusky emerald sewn on the bosom of a sable

robe.