Jacobea of Martzburg and Ysabeau’s son.

“We seek for his Grace,” smiled the lady. “Wencelaus wishes to say his

Latin lesson, and to tell the tale of the three Dukes and the sack of

gold that he has lately learnt.”

The Empress gave her son a quick glance.

“You shall tell it to me, Wencelaus--my lord is not here.”

The boy, golden, large and glorious to look upon, scowled at her.

“Will not tell it you or any woman.”

Ysabeau answered in a kind of bitter gentleness.

“Be not too proud, Wencelaus,” and the thought of what his future

might be made her eyes fierce.

The Prince tossed his yellow curls.

“I want my father.”

Jacobea, in pity of the Empress’s distracted bearing, tried to pacify

him.

“His Grace cannot see you now--but presently----”

He shook his hand free of hers.

“Ye cannot put me off--my father said an hour before the Angelus;” his

blue eyes were angry and defiant, but his lips quivered.

The Empress crushed back the wild misery of her thoughts, and caught

the child’s embroidered yellow sleeve.

“Certes, ye shall see him,” she said quietly, “if he promised you--I

think he is in the oratory, we will wait at the door until he come

forth.”

The boy kissed her hand, and the shadow passed from his lovely face.

Jacobea saw the Empress look down on him with a desperate and

heart-broken expression; she wondered at the anguish revealed to her

in that second, but she was neither disturbed nor touched; her own

heart had been broken so long ago that all emotions were but names to

her.

The Empress dismissed her with a glance.

Jacobea left the palace, mounted the little Byzantine chariot with the

blue curtains and drove to the church of San Giovanni in Laterano. She

went there every day to hear a mass sung for the soul of one who had

died long ago.

A large portion of her immense fortune had gone in paying for masses

and candles for the repose of Sybilla, one time wife of Sebastian her

steward; if gold could send the murdered woman there Jacobea had

opened to her the doors of Paradise.

In her quiet monotonous life in a strange land, caring for none, and

by none cared for, with a dead heart in her bosom and leaden feet

walking heavily the road to the grave, this Sybilla had come to be

with Jacobea the most potent thing she knew.

Neither Balthasar nor the Empress, nor any of their Court were so real

to her as the steward’s dead wife.

She was as certain of her features, her bearing, the manner of her

dress, as if she saw her daily; there was no face so familiar to her

as the pale countenance of Sybilla with the wide brows and heavy red

hair; she saw no ghost, she was not frightened by dreams nor visions,

but the thought of Sybilla was continuous.

For ten years she had not spoken her name save in a whisper to the

priest, nor had she in any way referred to her; by the people among

whom she moved this woman was utterly forgotten, but in Jacobea’s

bed-chamber stood a samite cushion exquisitely worked with a scarlet

lily, and Jacobea looked at it more often than at anything else in the

world.

She did not regard this image she had created with terror or dread,

with any shuddering remorse or aversion; it was to her a constant

companion whom she accepted almost as she accepted herself.

As she stepped from the chariot at the door of San Giovanni in

Laterano the gathering thunder rolled round the hills of Rome; she

pondered a moment on the ominous clouds that had hung so long over the

city that the people began to murmur that they were under God’s

displeasure, and passed through the dark portals into the dimly

illuminated church.

She turned to a little side chapel and knelt on a purple cushion worn

by her knees.

Mechanically she listened as the priest murmured over the mass,

hurrying it a little that it might not interfere with the Angelus,

mechanically she made the responses and rose when it was over with a

calm face.

She had done this every day for nine years.

There were a few people in the church, kneeling for the Angelus;

Jacobea joined them and fixed her eyes on the altar, where a strong

purple light glowed and flickered, bringing out points of gold in the

moulding of the ancient arches.

A deep hush held the scented stillness; the scattered bent figures

were dark and motionless against the mystic clouds of incense and the

soft bright lights.

Monks in long brown habits came and stood in the chancel; the bell

struck the hour, and young novices entered singing--

“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae,

et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.”

The monks knelt and folded their hands on their breasts; the response

that still seemed very sweet to Jacobea arose.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena----”

A side door near Jacobea opened softly and a man stepped into the

church.…

Now the priest was speaking.

“Ecce ancilla Domini,

fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum.”

A strong sense that the new-comer was observing her made Jacobea turn,

almost unconsciously, her head towards him as she repeated the “Ave

Maria.”

A tall richly-dressed man was gazing at her intently; his face was in

shadow, but she could see long pearls softly gleam in his ears.

“Et Verbum caro factum est,

et habitavit in nobis.”

The deep voices of the monks and the subdued tones of the worshippers

again answered; Jacobea could distinguish the faltering words of the

man near her.

“Ora pro nobis,

Sancta Dei Genitrix.”

Jacobea bent her head in her hands, as she replied--

“Ut digni efficiamur

promissionibus Christi.”

Priests and novices left the church, the monks filed out and the bent

figures rose.

The man stepped from the shadows as Jacobea rose to her feet, and

their eyes met.

“Ah--you!” said Jacobea; she had her hands on her breviary as he had

seen them long ago.

She was so little moved by meeting him that she began to clasp the

ivory covers, bending her head to do so.

“You remember me?” asked Theirry faintly.

“I have forgotten nothing,” she answered calmly. “Why do you seek to

recall yourself to me?”

“I cannot see you and let you pass.”

She looked at him; it was a different face from the one he had known,

though little changed in line or colour.

“You must hate me,” he faltered.

The words did not touch her.

“Are you free of the devils?” she asked, and crossed herself.

Theirry winced; he remembered that she believed Dirk was dead, that

she thought of the Pope as a holy man.…

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“Ah--that I did not understand you to be always a saintly woman.”

Jacobea laughed sadly.

“You must not speak of the past, though you may think of nothing else,

even as I do--we might have been friends once, but the Devil was too

strong for us.”

At that moment Theirry hated Dirk passionately; he felt he could have

been happy with this woman, and with her only in the whole world, and

he loathed Dirk for making it impossible.

“Well,” said Jacobea, in the same unmoved tone, “I must go

back--farewell, sir.”

Theirry strove with speech in vain; as she moved towards the door he

came beside her, his beautiful face white and eager.

Then, by a common impulse, both stopped.

Round one of the dark glittering pillars a brilliant figure flashed

into the rich light.

The masked dancer in orange.

She stepped up to Theirry and laid her fingers on his scarlet sleeve.

“How does Theirry of Dendermonde keep his word!” she mocked, and her

eyes gleamed from their holes; “is your heart of a feather’s weight

that it flutters this way and that with every breath of air?”

“What does she mean?” asked Jacobea, as the man flushed and shuddered.

“And what does she here in this attire?”

The dancer turned to her swiftly.

“What of one who drags his weary limbs beneath a Syrian sun in

penitence for a deed ye urged him to?” she said in the same tone.

Jacobea stepped back with a quick cry, and Theirry seized the dancer’s

arm.

“Begone,” he said threateningly. “I know you, or who you feign to be.”

She answered between laughter and fear.

“Let me go--I have not hurt you; why are you angry, my brave knight?”

At the sound of her voice that she in no way lowered, a monk came

forward and sternly ordered her from the church.

“Why?” she asked. “I am masked, holy father, so cannot prove a

temptation to the faithful!”

“Leave the church,” he commanded, “and if you would worship here come

in a fitting spirit and a fitting dress.”

The dancer laughed.

“So I am flung out of the house of God--well, sir and sweet lady, will

you come to the Mass at the Basilica to-morrow?--nay, do, it will be

worth beholding--the Basilica to-morrow! I shall be there.”

With that she darted before them and slipped from the church.

Man and woman shuddered and knew not why.

A peal of thunder rolled, the walls of the church shook, and an image

of the Virgin was hurled to the marble pavement and shivered into

fragments.

CHAPTER VII.

THE VENGEANCE OF MICHAEL II

From every church and convent in Rome the bells rang out; it was the

Feast of the Assumption and holiday in the city.

Strange, heavy clouds still obscured the sky, and intermittent thunder

echoed in the distance.

The Basilica of St. Peter was crowded from end to end; the bewildering

splendour of walls, ceiling and columns was lit by thousands of wax

tapers and coloured lamps; part of the church had been hung with azure

and silver; the altar steps were covered in cloth of gold, the altar

itself almost hidden with lilies; the various gleaming hues of the

marble, orange, rose, pink, mauve, grey and white, the jewel-like

sparkle of the mosaic capitals, the ivory carving on the rood screen,

the silver arch before the high altar, the silk and satin banners of

the church resting here and there before the walls, all combined into

one soft yet burning magnificence.

The vast congregation all knelt upon the marble floor, save the

Emperor and his wife, who sat under a violet canopy placed opposite

the pulpit.

Balthasar wore the imperial purple and buskins; round his brows was

the circlet that meant dominion of the Latin world, but his comely

face was pale and anxious and his blue eyes troubled. Ysabeau, seated

close beside him, sparkled with gems from her throat to her feet; her

pale locks, twisted with pearls, hung over her bosom; she wore a high

crown of emeralds and her mantle was cloth of silver.

Between them, on a lower step of the daïs, stood their little son,

gleaming in white satin and overawed by the glitter and the silence.

Surrounding the throne were ladies, courtiers, Frankish knights,

members of the Council, German Margraves, Italian nobles, envoys from

France, Spain, and resplendent Greeks from the Court of Basil.

Theirry, kneeling in the press, distinguished the calm face of Jacobea

of Martzburg among the dames of the Empress’s retinue; but he sought

in vain through the immense and varied crowd for the dancer in orange.

A faint chant rose from the sacristy, jewelled crosses showed above

the heads of the multitude as the monks entered holding them aloft,

the fresh voices of the choristers came nearer, acolytes took their

places round the altar, and the blue clouds of incense floated over

the hushed multitude.

The bells ceased.

The rise and fall of singing filled the Basilica.

Cardinal Orsini, followed by a number of priests, went slowly down the

aisle towards the open bronze doors.

His brilliant dalmatica shivered into gleaming light as he moved.

At the door he paused.

The Pontifical train was arriving in a gorgeous dazzle of colour and

motion.

Michael II stepped from a gilt car drawn by four white oxen, whose

polished horns were wreathed with roses white and red.

Preceded by Cardinals, the vivid tints of whose silk robes burnt in

the golden brightness of the Basilica, the Pope passed down the aisle,

while the congregation crouched low on their knees and hid their

faces.

Emperor and Empress rose; he looked at his son, but she at the

Pontiff, who took no heed of either.

Monks, priests and novices moved away from the high altar, where the

rows upon rows of candles shone like stars against the sparkling,

incense-laden air.

He passed to his gold and ivory seat, and the Cardinals took their

places beside him.

Ysabeau, as she resumed her place beside her lord, gazed across the

silent, kneeling crowd at Michael II.

His chasuble was alive with the varying hues of jewels, the purple and

crimson train of his robes spread to right and left along the altar

steps, the triple crown gave forth showers of light from its rubies

and diamonds, while the red hair of the wearer caught the candle-glow

and shone like a halo round his pale calm face, so curiously delicate

of feature to be able to express such resolution, such pride.

His under-garment of white satin was so thickly sewn with pearls that

the stuff was hardly visible, his fingers so covered with huge and

brilliant rings that they looked of an unnatural slenderness by

contrast; he held a crozier encrusted with rubies that darted red

fire, and carbuncles flashed on his gold shoes.

The beautiful dark eyes that always held the expression of some

passion for ever surging up, for ever held in before reaching

expression, were fixed steadily on the bronze doors that now closed

the church.

A little tremor of thunder filled the stillness, then the fair, faint

chant of the boys arose.

“Gaudeamus omnes in Domino,

diem festum celebrantes

Sub honore Beatae

Mariae Virginis,.…”

Ysabeau murmured the words under her breath; none in the devout

multitude with more sincerity.

As the notes quivered into silence Cardinal Orsini murmured a prayer,

to which a thousand responses were whispered fervently.

And again the thunder made sombre echo.

The Empress put her hand over her eyes; her jewels seemed so heavy

they must drag her from the throne, the crown galled her brow; the

little Wencelaus stood motionless, a bright colour in his cheeks, his

eyes brilliant with excitement; now and then the Emperor looked at him

in a secretive, piteous manner.

There was an involuntary stir among the people as the rich voices of

the men took up the singing at the end of the epistle, a movement of

joy, of pleasure in the triumphant music.

“Alleluia, alleluia,

Assumpta est Maria in Coelum;

Gaudet exercitus Angelorum.

Alleluia.”

Then the Pope moved, descended slowly from the daïs and mounted the

steps of the high altar, his train upheld by two Archbishops.

Emperor and Empress knelt with the rest as he performed the office of

the mass; an intense stillness held the rapt assembly, but as he

turned and displayed the Host, before the vast multitude who hid their

eyes, as he held it like a captured star above the hushed splendour of

the altar, a crash of thunder shook the very foundations of the

church, and the walls shivered as if mighty forces beat on them

without.

Michael II, the only man erect in the crouching multitude, smiled

slowly as he replaced the Eucharist; lightning darted through the high

coloured windows and quivered a moment before it was absorbed in the

rich lights.

The voices of the choir rose with a melancholy beauty.

“Kyrie eleison,

Christe eleison,

Kyrie eleison.”

The Pope turned to the altar; again the thunder rolled, but his low,

steady voice was heard distinctly chanting the “Gloria in excelsis

Deo” with the choir.

At the finish Cardinal Orsini took up the prayers, and a half-muffled

response came from the crowd.

“Gloria tibi, Domine.”

Every head was raised, every right hand made the sacred sign.

“Laus tibi, Christe.”

The Pope blessed the multitude and returned to his seat.

Then as Emperor and Empress rose from their knees a soft, bright sound

of movement filled the Basilica; Ysabeau put out her hand and caught

hold of her husband’s.

“Who is this?” she asked in a whisper.

He turned his eyes in the direction of her gaze.

Down the chancel came a tall monk in the robe of the Order of the

Black Penitents; his arms were folded, his hands hidden in his

sleeves, his deep cowl cast his face into utter shadow.

“I thought Cardinal Colonna preached,” whispered Balthasar fearfully,

as the monk ascended the pulpit. “I know not this man.”

Ysabeau looked at the Pope, who sat motionless in his splendour, his

hands resting on the arms of the gold chair, his gaze riveted on the

black figure of the monk in the glittering pulpit; a faint smile was

on his lips, a faint colour in his cheeks, and Ysabeau’s hand

tightened on the fingers of her lord.

The monk stood for a moment motionless, evidently contemplating the

multitude from the depth of his hood; Balthasar thought he gazed at

him, and shivered.

A strange sense of suspense filled the church, even the priests and

Cardinals about the altar glanced curiously at the figure in the

pulpit; some women began to sob under the influence of nameless and

intense excitement.

The monk drew from his sleeve a parchment from which swung a mighty

seal, slowly he unfurled it; the Empress crouched closer to Balthasar.

The monk began to speak, and both to Ysabeau and her husband the voice

was familiar--a voice long silent in death.

“In the name of Michael II, servant of servants of God and Vicegerent

of Christ, I herewith pronounce the anathema over Balthasar of

Courtrai, Emperor of the West, over Ysabeau, born Marozia

Porphyrogentris, over their son, Wencelaus, over their followers,

servants and hosts! I herewith expel them from the pale of Holy

Church, and curse them as heretics!

“I forbid any to offer them shelter, food or help, I hurl on their

heads the wrath of God and the hatred of man, I forbid any to attend

their sick-bed, to receive their confession or to bury their bodies!

“I cut asunder the ties that bind the Latin people in obedience to

them, and I lay under an interdict any person, village, town or state

that succours or aids them against our wrath! May they and their

children and their children’s children be blighted and cursed in life

and in death, may they taste misery and desolation on the earth before

they go to everlasting torment in hell!”

And now the cowled monk caught up one of the candles that lit the

pulpit, and held it aloft.

“May their race perish with them and their memories be swallowed in

oblivion--thus! As I extinguish this flame may the hand of God

extinguish them!”

He cast the candle on to the marble floor beneath the pulpit, the

flame was immediately dashed out, a slow smoke curled an instant and

vanished.

“For Balthasar of Courtrai cherishes a murderess on the throne, and

until he cast her forth and receive his true wife this anathema rests

upon his head!”

Emperor and Empress listened, holding each other’s hands and staring

at the monk; as he ended, and while the awe of utter fear held the

assembly numb, Ysabeau rose.…

But at that same instant the monk tossed back his cowl and revealed

the stern, pale features of Melchoir of Brabant, crowned with the

imperial diadem.…

A frenzied shriek broke from the woman, and she fell across the steps

of the throne; her crown slipped from her fair head and dazzled on the

pavement.

Groaning in anguish Balthasar stooped to raise her up… when he again

looked at the pulpit it was empty.

Ysabeau’s cry had loosened the souls of the multitude, they rose to

their feet and began to surge wildly towards the door.

But the Pontiff rose, approached the altar and began calmly to chant

the Gratias.

Balthasar gave him a wild and desperate look, staggered and fiercely

recovered himself, then took his child by the hand, and supporting

with the other the Empress, who struggled back to life, he swept down

the aisle, followed by a few of his German knights.

The people shuddered away to right and left to give him passage; the

bronze doors were opened and the excommunicated man stepped into the

thunder-wrapt streets of the city where he no longer reigned.

CHAPTER VIII.

URSULA OF ROOSELAARE

“Say I have done well for you--it seems that I must ask your

thanks.”

The Pope sat at a little table near the window of his private room in

the Vatican and rested his face on his hand.

Leaning against the scarlet tapestries that covered the opposite wall

was Theirry, clothed in chain mail and heavily armed.

“You think I should be grateful?” he asked in a low voice, his

beautiful eyes fixed in a half-frightened, wholly fascinated way on

the slim figure of the other.

Michael II wore a straight robe of gold-coloured silk and a skull-cap

of crimson and blue; no jewels nor any suggestion of pomp concealed

the youthfulness, almost frailty of his appearance; the red hair made

his face the paler by contrast; his full lips were highly coloured

under the darkened upper lip.

“Grateful?” he repeated, and his voice was mournful. “I think you do

not know what I have done--I have dared to cast the Emperor from his

throne--lies he not even now without the walls, defying me with a

handful of Frankish knights? Is not the excommunication on him?”

“Yea,” answered Theirry. “And is it for my sake ye have done this?”

“Must you question it?” returned Michael, with a quick breath. “Yea,

for your sake, to make you, as I promised, Emperor of the West--my

vengeance had else been more quietly satisfied----” He laughed. “I

have not forgot all my magic.”

Theirry winced.

“The vision in the Basilica was proof of that--what are you who can

bring back the hallowed dead to aid your schemes?”

Michael II answered softly.

“And who are you who take my aid and my friendship, and all the while

fear and loathe me?”

He moved his hand from his face and leant forward, showing a deep red

mark on his cheek where the palm had pressed.

“Do you think I am not human, Theirry?” He gave a sigh. “If you would

believe in me, trust me, be faithful to me--why, our friendship would

be the lever to move the universe, and you and I would rule the world

between us.”

Theirry fingered the arras beside him.

“In what way can I be false to you----?”

“You betrayed me once. You are the only man in Rome who knows my

secret. But this is truth, if again you forsake me, you bring about

your own downfall--stand by me, and I will share with you the dominion

of the earth--this, I say, is truth.”

Theirry laughed unhappily.

“Sweet devil, there is no God, and I have no soul!--there, do not

fear--I shall be very faithful to you--since what is there for man

save to glut his desires of pomp and wealth and power?”

He moved from the wall and took a quick turn about the room.

“And yet I know not!” he cried. “Can all your magic, all your

learning, all your riches, keep you where you are? The clouds hang

angrily over Rome, nor have they lifted since Orsini announced you

Pope--the people riot in the streets--all beautiful things are dead,

many see ghosts and devils walking at twilight across the Maremma.…

Oh, horror!--they say Pan has left his ruined temple to enter

Christian churches and laugh in the face of the marble Christ--can

these things be?”

The Pope swept back the hair from his damp brow.

“The powers that put me here can keep me here--be you but true to me!”

“Ay, I will be Emperor”--Theirry grasped his sword hilt

fiercely--“though the world I rule rot about me, though ghouls and

fiends make my Imperial train--I will join hands with Antichrist and

see if there be a God or no!”

The Pope rose.

“You must go against Balthasar. You must defeat his hosts and bring to

me his Empress, then will I crown you in St. Peter’s.”

Theirry pressed his hand to his forehead.

“We start to-morrow with the dawn--beneath the banner of God His

Church; I, in this mail ye gave me, tempered and forged in Hell!”

“Ye need have no fear of failure; you shall go forth triumphantly and

return victoriously. You shall make your dwelling the Golden Palace on

the Aventine, and neither Heliogabalus nor Basil, nor Charlemagne

shall be more magnificently housed than you.…”

Michael seemed to check his words suddenly; he turned his face away

and looked across the city which lay beneath the heavy pall of clouds.

“Be but true to me,” he added in a low voice.

Theirry smiled wildly.

“A curious love have you for me, and but little faith in my strength

or constancy--well, you shall see, I go forth to-morrow, with many men

and banners, to rout the Emperor utterly.”

“Until then, stay in the Vatican,” said Michael II suddenly. “My

prelates and my nobles know you for their leader now.”

“Nay,”--Theirry flushed as he answered--“I must go to my own abode in

the city.”

“Jacobea of Martzburg is still in Rome,” said the other. “Do you leave

me to go to _her_?”

“Nay--I know not even where she lodges,” replied Theirry hastily.

Michael smiled bitterly and was silent.

“What is Jacobea to me?” demanded Theirry desperately.

The other gave him a sinister glance.

“Why did you approach her after her devotions in San Giovanni in

Laterano--speak to her and recall yourself to her mind?”

Theirry went swiftly pale.

“You know that!--Ah, it was the dancer, your accomplice.… What mystery

is this?” he asked in a distracted way. “Why does not Ursula of

Rooselaare come forth under her true name and confound the

Emperor?--why does she follow me, and in such a guise?”

Without looking at him Michael answered.

“Maybe because she is very wise--maybe because she is a very fool--let

her pass, she has served her turn. You say you do not go to palter

with Jacobea, then farewell until to-morrow; I have much to do…

farewell, Theirry.”

He held out his hand with a stately gesture, and, as Theirry took it

in his, the curious thought came to him how seldom he had touched so

much as Dirk’s fingers, even in the old days, so proud a reserve had

always encompassed the youth, and, now, the man.

Theirry left the rich-scented chamber and the vast halls of the

Vatican and passed into the riotous and lawless streets of Rome.

The storm that had hung so unnaturally long over the city had affected

the people; bravoes and assassins crept from their hiding-places in

the Catacombs, or the Palatine, and flaunted in the streets; the wine

shops were filled with mongrel soldiers of all nations, attracted by

the declaration of war from the surrounding towns; blasphemers mocked

openly at the processions of monks and pilgrims that traversed the

streets chanting the penitential psalms, or scourging themselves in an

attempt to avert the wrath of Heaven.

There was no law; crime went unpunished; virtue became a jest; many of

the convents were closed and deserted, while their late occupants

rejoined the world they suddenly longed for; the poor were despoiled,

the rich robbed; ghastly and blasphemous processions nightly paraded

the streets in honour of some heathen deity; the priests inspired no

respect, the name of God no fear; the plague marched among the people,

striking down hundreds; their bodies were flung into the Tiber, and

their spirits went to join the devils that nightly danced on the

Campagna to the accompaniment of rolling storms.

Witches gathered in the low marches of the Maremma and came at night

into the city, trailing grey, fever-laden vapour after them.

The bell-ropes began to rot in the churches, and the bells clattered

from the steeples; the gold rusted on the altars, and mice gnawed the

garments on the holy images of the Saints.

The people lived with reckless laughter and died with hopeless curses;

magicians, warlocks and vile things flourished exceedingly, and all

manner of strange and hideous creatures left their caves to prowl the

streets at nightfall.

And such under Pope Michael II was Rome, swiftly and in a moment.

Theirry, like all others, went heavily armed; his hand was constantly

on his sword hilt as he made his way through the city that was

forsaken by God.

With no faltering step or hesitating bearing he passed through the

crowds that gathered more thickly as the night came on, and turned

towards the Appian Gate.

Here it was gloomy, almost deserted; dark houses bordered the Appian

Way, and a few strange figures crept along in their shadow; in the

west a sullen glare of crimson showed that the sun was setting behind

the thick clouds. Dark began to fall rapidly.

Theirry walked long beyond the Gate and stopped at a low convent

building, above the portals of which hung a lamp, its gentle radiance

like a star in the heavy, noisome twilight.

The gate, that led into a courtyard, stood half open. Theirry softly

pushed it wider and entered.

The pure perfume of flowers greeted him; a sense of peace and

security, grown strange of late in Rome, filled the square grass

court; in the centre was a fountain, almost hidden in white roses;

behind their leaves the water dripped pleasantly.

There were no lights in the convent windows, but it was not yet too

dark for Theirry to distinguish the slim figure of a lady seated on a

wooden bench, her hands passive in her lap.

He latched the gate and softly crossed the lawn.

“You said that I might come.”

Jacobea turned her head, unsmiling, unsurprised.

“Ay, sir; this place is open to all.”

He uncovered before her.

“I cannot hope ye are glad to see me.”

“Glad?” She echoed the word as if it sounded in a foreign tongue;

then, after a pause, “Yes, I am glad that you have come.”

He seated himself beside her, his splendid mail touching her straight

grey robe, his full, beautiful face turned towards her worn and

expressionless features.

“What do you do here?” he asked.

She answered in the same gentle tone; she had a white rose in her

hands, and turned it about as she spoke.

“So little--there are two sisters here, and I help them; one can do

nothing against the plague, but for the little forsaken children

something, and something for the miserable sick.”

“The wretched of Rome are not in your keeping,” he said eagerly. “It

will mean your life--why did you not go with the Empress?”

She shook her head.

“I was not needed. I suppose what they said of her was true. I cannot

remember clearly, but I think that when Melchoir died I knew it was

her doing.”

“We must not dwell on the past,” cried Theirry. “Have you heard that I

lead the Pope’s army against Balthasar?”

“Nay;” her eyes were on the white rose.

“Jacobea, I shall be the Emperor.”

“The Emperor,” she repeated dreamily.

“I shall rule the Latin world--Emperor of the West!”

In the now complete dark they could scarcely see each other; there

were no stars, and distant thunder rolled at intervals; Theirry

timidly put out his hand and touched the fold of her dress where it

lay along the seat.

“I wish you would not stay here--it is so lonely----”

“I think she would wish me to do this.”

“She?” he questioned.

Jacobea seemed surprised he did not take her meaning.

“Sybilla.”

“O Christus!” shuddered Theirry. “Ye still think of her?”

Jacobea smiled, as he felt rather than saw.

“Think of her?… is she not always with me?”

“She is dead.”

He saw the blurred outline of the lady’s figure stir.

“Yea, she died on a cold morning--it was so cold you could see your

breath before you as you rode along, and the road was hard as

glass--there was a yellow dawn that day, and the pine trees seemed

frozen, they stood so motionless--you would not think it was ten years

ago--I wonder how long it seems to her?”

A silence fell upon them for a while, then Theirry broke out

desperately--

“Jacobea--my heart is torn within me--to-day I said there was no

God--but when I sit by you…”

“Yea, there is a God,” she answered quietly. “Be very sure of that.”

“Then I am past His forgiveness,” whispered Theirry.

Again he was mute; he saw before him the regal figure of Dirk--he

heard his words--“Be but true to me”--then he thought of Jacobea and

Paradise… agony ran through his veins.

“Oh, Jacobea!” he cried at last. “I am beyond all measure mean and

vile.… I know not what to do.… I can be Emperor, yet as I sit here

that seems to me as nothing.”

“The Pope favours you, you tell me,” she said. “He is a priest, and a

holy man, and yet--it is strange, what is this talk of Ursula of

Rooselaare?--and yet it is no matter.”

His mail clinked in answer to his tremor.

“Tell me what I must do--see, I am in a great confusion; the world is

very dark, this way and that show little lights, and I strive to

follow them--but they change and move and blind me--and if I grasp one

it is extinguished into greater darkness; I hear whispers, murmurs,

threats, I believe them, and believe them not, and all is confusion,

confusion!”

Jacobea rose slowly from the bench.

“Why do you come to me?”

“Because ye seem to me nearer heaven than anything I know.…”

Jacobea pressed the white rose to her bosom.

“It is dark now--the flowers smell so sweet--come into the house.”

He followed her dim-seen figure across the grass; she lifted the latch

of the convent door and went before him into the building.

For a while she left him in the passage, then returned with a pale

lamp in her hand and conducted him into a small, bare chamber, which

seemed mean in contrast with the glowing splendour of his appearance.

“The sisters are abroad,” said Jacobea. “And I stay here in case any

ring the bell for succour.”

She set the lamp on the wooden table and slowly turned her eyes on

Theirry.

“Sir, I am very selfish.” She spoke with difficulty, as if she

painfully forced expression. “I have thought of myself for so many

years--and somehow”--she lightly touched her breast--“I cannot feel,

for myself or for others; nothing seems real, save Sybilla; nothing

matters save her--sometimes I cry for little things I find dying

alone, for poor unnoticed miseries of animals and children--but for

the rest… you must not blame me if I do not sympathise; that has gone

from me. Nor can I help you; God is far away beyond the stars. I do

not think He can stoop to such as you and me--and--and--I do not feel

as if I should wake until I die----”

Theirry covered his eyes and moaned.

Jacobea was not looking at him, but at the one bright thing in the

room.

A samite cushion worked with a scarlet lily that rested on a chair by

the window.

“Each our own way to death,” she said. “All we can do is so little

compared with that--death--see, I think of it as a great crystal

light, very cold, that will slowly encompass us, revealing everything,

making everything easy to understand--white lilies will not be more

beautiful, nor breeze at summer-time more sweet… so, sir, must you

wait patiently.”

She took her gaze from the red flower and turned her tired grey eyes

on him.

The blood surged into his face; he clenched his hands and spoke

passionately.

“I will renounce the world, I will become a monk.…”

The words choked in his throat; he looked fearfully round; the

lamplight struck his armour into a hundred points of light and cast

pale shadows over the white-washed walls.

“What was that?” asked Jacobea.

One was singing without: Theirry’s strained eyes glistened.

“If Love were all!

His perfect servant I would be,

Kissing where his foot might fall,

Doing him homage on a lowly knee,

If Love were all!”

Theirry turned and went out into the dark, hot night.

He could see neither roses, nor fountain, nor even the line of the

convent wall against the sky; but the light above the gate revealed to

him the dancer in orange, who leant against the stone arch of the

entrance and sang to a strange long instrument that hung round her

neck by a gleaming chain.

At her feet the ape crouched, nodding himself to sleep.

“If Love were all!

But Love is weak,

And Hate oft giveth him a fall,

And Wisdom smites him on the cheek,

If Love were all!”

Behind Theirry came Jacobea, with the lantern in her hand.

“Who is this?” she asked.

The dancer laughed; the sound of it muffled behind her mask.

Theirry made his way across the dark to her.

“What do you do here?” he demanded fiercely. “The Pope’s spy, you!”

“May I not come to worship here as well as another?” she answered.

“You know too much of me!” he cried distractedly. “But I also have

some knowledge of you, Ursula of Rooselaare!”

“How does that help you?” she asked, drawing back a little before him.

“I would discover why you follow me--watch me.”

He caught her by the arms and held her against the stone gateway.

“Now tell me the meaning of your disguise,” he breathed--“and of your

league with Michael II.”

She said a strange little word underneath her breath; the ape jumped

up and tore away the man’s hands while the girl bent to a run and sped

through the gate.

Theirry gave a cry of pain and rage, and glanced towards the convent;

the door was closed; lady and lamp had disappeared in the darkness.

“Shut out!” whispered Theirry. “Shut out!”

He turned into the street and saw, by the scattered lanterns along the

Appian Way, the figure of the dancer slipping fast towards the city

gates.

But he gained on her, and at sound of his clattering step she looked

round.

“Ah!” she said; “I thought you had stayed with the sweet-faced saint

yonder----”

“She wants none of me,” he panted--“but I--I mean to see your face

to-night.…”

“I am not beautiful,” answered the dancer; “and you have seen my

face----”

“Seen your face!”

“Certes! in the Basilica on the Fête.”

“I knew you not in the press.”

“Nevertheless I was there.”

“I looked for you.”

“I thought ye looked for Jacobea.”

“Also I sought you,” said Theirry. “Ye madden me.”

The ever-gathering tempest was drawing near, with fitful flashes of

lightning playing over his jewel-like mail and her orange gown as they

made their way through the ruins.

“Do you wander here alone at night?” asked Theirry. “It is a vile

place; a man might be afraid.”

“I have the ape,” she said.

“But the storm?”

“In Rome now-a-days we are well used to storms,” she answered in a low

voice.

“Yea.”

He did not know what to say to her, but he could not leave her; a

strong, a supreme, fascination compelled him to walk beside her, a

half-delightful excitement stirred his blood.

“Where are we going?” asked Theirry. The wayside lanterns had ceased;

he could see her only by the lightning gleams.

“I know not--why do you follow me?”

“I am mad, I think--the earth rocks beneath me and heaven bends

overhead--you lure me and I follow in sheer confusion--Ursula of

Rooselaare, why have you lured me? What power is it that you have over

me? Wherefore are you disguised?”

She touched his mail in the dark as she answered--

“I am Balthasar’s wife.”

“Ay,” he responded eagerly; “and I do hear ye loved another man----”

“What is that to you?” she asked.

“This--though I have not seen your face--perchance could I love you,

Ursula!”

“Ursula!” She laughed on the word.

“Is it not your name?” he cried wildly.

“Yea--but it is long since any used it----”

The hot darkness seemed to twist and writhe about Theirry; he seemed

to breathe a nameless and uncontrollable passion in with the

storm-laden air.

“Witch or demon,” he said, “I have cast in my lot with the Devil and

Michael II his servant--I follow the same master as you, Ursula.”

He put out his hand through the dark and grasped her arm.

“Who is the man for whose sake ye are silent?” he demanded.

There was no answer; he felt her arm quiver under his hand, and heard

the hems of her tunic tinkle against her buskins, as if she trembled.

The air was chokingly hot; Theirry’s heart throbbed high.

At last she spoke, in a half-swooning voice.

“I have taken off my mask… bend your head and kiss me.”

Invisible and potent powers drew him towards her unseen face; his lips

touched and kissed its softness.…

The thunder sounded with such a terrific force and clash that Theirry

sprang back; a cry of agony went up from the darkness. He ran blindly

forward; her presence had gone from his side, nor could he see or feel

her as he moved.

A thousand light shapes danced across the night; witches and warlocks

carrying swinging lanterns, imps and fiends.

They gathered round Theirry, shrieking and howling to the

accompaniment of the storm.

He ran sobbing down the Appian Way, and his pace was very swift, for

all the mail he carried.

CHAPTER IX.

POPE AND EMPRESS

The Pope walked in the garden of the Vatican, behind him Cardinal

Orsini and Cardinal Colonna; the first carried a cluster of daisies,

white and yellow, strong in colour and pungent of odour, the second

tossed up and down a little ball of gold and blue silk.

Both talked of the horrible state of Rome, of the unending storm

hanging over the capital, of the army that had gone forth three days

ago to crush the excommunicated Emperor.

Michael II was silent.

They went along the marble walks and looked at the goldfish in the

basin under the overhanging branches of the yellow rose bushes; they

passed the trellis over which the jasmine clustered, and came out on

the long terrace, where the peacocks flashed their splendour across

the grass.

Oleanders grew here, and lilies; laurel trees rose against the murky

heavens that should have shown blue, and curious statues gleamed

beside the dark foliage.

Cardinal Colonna dropped his ball and let it roll away across the

close grass, and Michael slackened his pace. He wore a white robe, his

soft heavy red hair showing a brilliant colour above it; his dark eyes

were thoughtful, his pale mouth resolutely set. The Cardinals fell

further behind and conversed with the greater ease.

Suddenly the Pope paused and stood waiting, for Paolo Orsini, with a

sprig of pink flower at his chin, was coming across the lawn.

Michael II tapped his gold-shod foot on the marble path. “What is it,

Orsini?”

The secretary went on one knee.

“Your Holiness, a lady, who will neither unveil nor give her name, has

obtained entry to the Vatican and desires to see your Holiness.”

The Pope’s face darkened.

“I thought ye had brought me news of the return of Theirry of

Dendermonde! What can this woman want with us?”

“She says it is a matter of such import it may avert the war, and she

prays, for the love of God, not to be denied.”

Michael II reflected a moment, his slim fingers pulling at the laurel

leaves beside him.

“We will see her,” he said at length. “Bring her here, Orsini.”

The yellow clouds broke over a brief spell of sunshine that fell

across the Vatican gardens, though the horizon was dark with a freshly

gathering storm; Michael II seated himself on a bench where the sun

gleamed.

“Sirs,” he said to the two Cardinals, “stand by me and listen to what

this woman may say.”

And picking a crimson rose from a thorny bush that brushed the seat,

he considered it curiously, and only took his eyes from it when Paolo

Orsini had returned and led the lady almost to his feet.

Then he looked at her.

She wore a dark rough dress showing marks of ill usage, and over her

face a thick veil.

This she loosened as she knelt, and revealed the exceedingly fair, sad

face of Ysabeau the Empress.

Michael II went swiftly pale, he fixed large wide eyes on her.

“What do you here, defying us?” he demanded.

She rose.

“I am not here in defiance. I have come to give myself up to

punishment for the crime you denounced--the crime for which my lord

now suffers.”

Michael crushed the rose in his hand and the Cardinals glanced at each

other, having never seen him show agitation.

“It did not occur to your Holiness,” said Ysabeau, facing him

fearlessly, “that I should do this; you thought that he would never

give me up and you were right--crown, life, heaven he would forfeit

for love of me, but I will not take the sacrifice.”

The fitful sunshine touched her great beauty, her fair, soft hair

lying loosely on her shoulders, her eyes shadowed and dark, her hollow

face.

“Mine was the sin,” she continued. “And I who was strong enough to sin

alone can take the punishment alone.”

At last Michael spoke.

“Ye slew Melchoir of Brabant--ye confess it!”

Her bosom heaved.

“I am here to confess it.”

“For love of Balthasar you did it.…”

“As for love of him I stand here now to take the consequences.”

“We have fire on earth and fire in hell for those who do murder,” said

Michael II; “flames for the body in the market-place, and flames in

the pit for the soul, and though the body will not burn long, the soul

will burn for eternity.”

“I know--do what you will with me.”

The Pope cast the crushed rose from him.

“Has Balthasar sent you here?”

She smiled proudly.

“I come without his knowledge.” Her voice trembled a little. “I left a

writing telling him where I had gone and why----” Her hand crept to

her brow. “Enough of that.”

Michael II rose.

“Why have you done this?” he cried angrily.

Ysabeau answered swiftly.

“That you may take the curse off him--for my sin you cast him forth,

well, if I leave him, if I accept my punishment, if he be free to find

the--woman--who can claim him, your Holiness must absolve him of the

excommunication.”

Michael flushed.

“This comes late--too late;” he turned to the Cardinals. “My lords, is

not this love a mad thing?--that she should hope to cheat Heaven so!”

“My hope is not to cheat Heaven but to appease it,” said Ysabeau; and

the sun, making a pale glimmer in her hair, cast her shadow faintly

before her to the Pontiff’s feet. “If not for myself, for him.”

“This foolish sacrifice,” said Michael, “cannot avail Balthasar. Since

not of his free will ye are parted from him, how is his sin then

lessened?”

She trembled exceedingly.

“Now, perchance he _shall_ loathe me…” she said.

“Had you told him to his face of your crime, would he have given you

over to our wrath?”

“Nay,” she flashed. “It would have been only noble in him to refuse;

but since of myself I am come, I pray you, Lord Pope, to send me to

death and take the curse off him.”

Michael II looked at his hand; the stem of the red rose had scratched

his finger, and a tiny drop of blood showed on the white flesh.

“You are a wicked woman, by your own confession,” he said, frowning.

“Why should I show you any pity?”

“I do not ask pity, but justice for the Emperor. I am the cause of the

quarrel, and now ye have me ye can have no bitterness against him.”

He gave her a quick sidelong look.

“Do you repent, Ysabeau?”

She shook the clinging hood free of her yellow hair.

“No; the gain was worth the sin, nor am I afraid of you nor of Heaven.

I am not of a faltering race, nor of a name easily ashamed. In my own

eyes I am not abashed.”

Michael raised his head and their eyes met.

“So you would die for him?”

Ysabeau smiled.

“I think I shall. I do not think your Holiness is merciful.”

He glanced again at the drop of blood on his finger.

“You show some courage, Ysabeau.”

She smiled.

“When I was a child I was taught that they who live as kings and

queens must not look for age--the flame soon burns away, leaving the

ashes--and gorgeous years are like the flame; why should we taste the

dust that follows? I have lived my life.”

He answered--

“This shall not save Balthasar, nor take our curse from off him;

Theirry of Dendermonde has gone forth with many men and banners, and

soon the Roman gates shall open to him and victory lead his charger

through the streets! And his reward shall be the Latin world, his

badge of triumph the Imperial crown. He is our choice to share with us

the dominion of the West, therefore no more of Balthasar--ye might

speak until the heavens fell and still our heart be as brass!”

He turned swiftly and caught the arm of Cardinal Orsini.

“Away, my lord, we have given this Greek time enough.”

Ysabeau fell on her knees.

“My lord, take off the curse!”

“What shall we do with her?” asked Cardinal Colonna.

She clutched, in her desperation, at the priest’s white garments.

“Show some pity; Balthasar dies beneath your wrath----”

Paolo Orsini drew her away, while Michael II stared at her with a

touch of fear.

“Cast her without the walls--since the excommunication is upon her we

do not need her life.”

“Oh, sirs!” shrieked Ysabeau, striving after them, “my lord is

innocent!”

“Take her away,” said Michael. “Cast her from Rome,”--he glared at her

over his shoulder--“doubtless the Eastern she-cat will find it worse

so to die than as Hugh of Rooselaare perished; come on, my lords.”

Leaning on the arm of Cardinal Orsini, he moved away across the

Vatican gardens.

Paolo Orsini blew a little whistle.

“You must be turned from the city,” he said.

Ysabeau rose from the grass.

“This your Christian priest!” she cried hoarsely, staring after the

white figure; then, as she saw the guards approaching, she fell into

an utter silence.

As Michael II entered the Vatican the sun was again obscured and the

thunder rolled; he passed up the silver stairs to his cabinet and

closed the door on all.

The storm grew and rioted angrily in the sky; in the height of it came

a messenger riding straight to the Vatican.

Blood and dust were smeared on his clothes, and he was weary with

swift travel; they brought him to the ebony cabinet and face to face

with the Pope.

“From Theirry of Dendermonde?” breathed Michael, his face white as his

robe.

“From Theirry of Dendermonde, your Holiness.”

“What says he--victory?”

“Balthasar of Courtrai is defeated, his army lies dead, men and

horses, in the vale of Tivoli, and his conqueror marches home to-day.”

A shaft of lightning showed the ghastly face of Michael II, and a peal

of thunder shook the messenger back against the wall.

CHAPTER X.

THE EVENING BEFORE THE CORONATION

The orange marble pillars glowing in the light of a hundred lamps

gave the chamber a dazzling brightness; the windows were screened by

scarlet silk curtains, and crystal bowls of purple flowers stood on

the serpentine floor.

On a low gilt couch against the wall sat Theirry, his gold armour half

concealed by a violet and ermine mantle; round his close dark hair was

a wreath of red roses, and the long pearls in his ears glimmered with

his movements.

Opposite him on a throne supported by basalt lions was Michael II,

robed in gold and silver tissues under a dalmatica of orange and

crimson brocade.

“It is done,” he said in a low eager voice, “and to-morrow I crown you

in St. Peter’s church; Theirry, it is done.”

“Truly our fortunes are marvellous,” answered Theirry, “to-day--when I

heard the Princes elect me--an unknown adventurer!--when I heard the

mob of Rome shout for me--I thought I had gone mad!”

“It is I who have done this for you,” said the Pope softly.

Theirry seemed to shudder in his gorgeous mail.

“Are you afraid of me?” the other asked. “Why do you so seldom look at

me?”

Theirry slowly turned his beautiful face.

“I am afraid of my own fortunes--I am not as bold as you,” he said

fearfully. “You never hesitated to sin.”

The Pope moved, and his garments sparkled against the gleaming marble

wall.

“I do not sin,” he smiled. “I am Sin--I do no evil for I am Evil--but

you”--his face became grave, almost sad--“you are very human, better

had it been for me never to have met you!”

He placed his little hands either side of him on the smooth heads of

the basalt lions.

“Theirry--for your sake I have risked everything, for your sake maybe

I must leave this strange fair life and go back whence I came--so much

I care for you, so dearly have I kept the vows we made in

Frankfort--cannot you meet with courage the destiny I offer you?”

Theirry hid his face in his hands.

The Pope flushed, and a wild light sparkled in his dark eyes.

“Was not your blood warmed by that charge at Tivoli? When knight and

horse fell before your spears and your host humbled an Emperor, when

Rome rose to greet you and I came to meet you with a kingdom for a

gift, did not some fire creep into your veins that might serve to heat

you now?”

“A kingdom!” cried Theirry, “the kingdom of Antichrist. The victory

was not mine--the cohorts of the Devil galloped beside us and urged us

to unholy triumph--Rome is a place of horror, full of witches, ghosts

and strange beasts!”

“You said you would be Emperor,” answered the Pope. “And I have

granted you your wish, if you fail me or betray me now… it is

over--for both of us.”

Theirry rose and paced the chamber.

“Ay, I will be Emperor,” he cried feverishly. “Theirry of Dendermonde

crowned by the Devil in St. Peter’s church--why should I hesitate? I

am on the road to hell, to hell.…”

The Pope fixed ardent eyes on him.

“And if ye fail me ye shall go there instantly.”

Theirry stopped in his pacing to and fro.

“Why do you say to me so often, ‘do not fail me, do not betray me’?”

Michael II answered in a low voice.

“Because I fear it.”

Theirry laughed desperately.

“To whom should I betray you! It seems that you have all the world!”

“There is Jacobea of Martzburg.”

“Why do you sting me with that name!”

“Belike I thought ye might wish to make her your Empress,” said the

Pope in sudden mockery.

Theirry pressed his hand to his brow.

“She believes in God… what is such to me?” he cried.

“The other day you lied to me, saying you knew not where she was--and

straightway ye visited her.”

“This is your spy’s work, Ursula of Rooselaare.”

“Maybe,” answered the Pope.

Theirry paused before the basalt throne.

“Tell me of her. She follows me--I--I--know not what to think, she has

been much in my mind of late, since I----” He broke off, and looked

moodily at the ground. “Where has she been these years--what does she

mean to do now?”

“She will not trouble you again,” answered Michael II, “let her go.”

“I cannot--she said I had seen her face----”

“Well, if you have?--take it from me she is not fair.”

“I do not think of her fairness,” answered Theirry sullenly, “but of

the mystery there is behind all of it--why you never told me of her

before, and why she haunts me with witches in her train.”

The Pope looked at him curiously.

“For one who has never been an ardent lover ye dwell much on women--I

had rather you thought on battles and kingdoms--had I been a--were I

you, dancer and nun alike would be nothing to me compared with my

coronation on the morrow.”

Theirry replied hotly.

“Dancer and nun, as ye term them, are woven in with all I do, I

cannot, if I would, forget them. Ah, that I ever came to Rome--would I

were still a Chamberlain at Basil’s Court or a merchant’s clerk in

India!”

He covered his face with his trembling hands and turned away across

the golden room.

The Pope rose in his seat and pressed his jewelled fingers against his

breast.

“Would ye had never come my way to be my ruin and your own--would you

were not such a sweet fair fool that I must love you!… and so, we make

ourselves the mock of destiny by these complaints. Oh, if you have the

desire to be king show the courage to dare a kingly fate.”

Theirry leant against one of the orange marble pillars, the violet

mantle falling away from his golden armour, the fainting roses lying

slackly in his dark hair.

“You must think me a coward,” he said, “and I have been very weak--but

that, I think, is passed; I have reached the summit of all the

greatness I ever dreamed and it confuses me, but when the Imperial

crown is mine you shall find me bold enough.”

Michael II flushed and gave a dazzling smile.

“Then are we great indeed!--we shall join hands across the fairest

dominion men ever ruled, Suabia is ours, Bohemia and Lombardy, France

courts our alliance, Cyprus, the isle of Candy and Malta town, in

Rhodes they worship us, and Genoa town owns us master!”

He paused in his speech and stepped down from the throne.

“Do you remember that day in Antwerp, Theirry, when we looked in the

mirror?” he said, and his voice was tender and beautiful; “we hardly

dared then to think of this.”

“We saw a gallows in that mirror,” answered Theirry, “a gallows tree

beside the triple crown.”

“It was for our enemies!” cried Michael; “our enemies whom we have

triumphed over; Theirry, think of it, we were very young then, and

poor--now I have kings at my footstool, and you will sleep to-night in

the Golden Palace of the Aventine!” He laughed joyously.

Theirry’s face grew gentle at the old memories.

“The house still stands, I wot,” he mused, “though the dust be thick

over the deserted rooms and the vine chokes the windows--when I was in

the East, I have thought with great joy of Antwerp.”

The Pope laid his delicate fragrant hand on the glittering vambrace.

“Theirry--do you not value me a little now?”

Theirry smiled into the ardent eyes.

“You have done more for me than man or God, and above both I do you

worship,” he answered wildly. “I am not fearful any more, and

to-morrow ye shall see me a king indeed.”

“Until to-morrow then, farewell. I must attend a Conclave of the

Cardinals and show myself unto the multitude in St. Peter’s church.

You to the palace, on the Aventine, there to sleep soft and dream of

gold.”

They clasped hands, a hot colour was in the Pope’s face.

“The Syrian guards wait below and the Lombard archers who stood beside

you at Tivoli--they will attend you to the Imperial Palace.”

“What shall I do there?” asked Theirry. “It is early yet, and I do not

love to sit alone.”

“Then, come to the service in the Basilica--come with a bold bearing

and a rich dress to overawe these mongrel crowds of Rome.”

To that Theirry made no answer.

“Farewell,” he said, and lifted the scarlet curtain that concealed the

door, “until to-morrow.”

The Pope came quickly to his side.

“Do not go to Jacobea to-night,” he said earnestly. “Remember, if you

fail me now----”

“I shall not fail you or myself, again--farewell.”

His hand was on the latch when Michael spoke once more--

“I grieve to let you go,” he murmured in an agitated tone. “I have not

before been fearful, but to-night----”

Theirry smiled.

“You have no cause to dread anything, you with your foot on the neck

of the world.”

He opened the door on to the soft purple light of the stairs and

stepped from the room.

In a half-stifled voice the Pope called him.

“Theirry!--be true to me, for on your faith have I staked everything.”

Theirry looked over his shoulder and laughed.

“Will you never let me begone?”

The other pressed his hand to his forehead.

“Ay, begone--why should I seek to keep you?”

Theirry descended the stairs and now and then looked up.

Always to see fixed on him the yearning, fierce gaze of the one who

stood by the gilded rails and stared down at his glittering figure.

Only when he had completely disappeared in the turn of the stairs did

Michael II slowly return to the golden chamber and close the gorgeous

doors.

Theirry, splendidly attended, flashed through the riotous streets of

Rome to the palace on the Aventine Hill.

There he dismissed the knights.

“I shall not go to the Basilica to-night,” he said, “go thou there

without me.”

He laid aside the golden armour, the purple cloak, and attired himself

in a dark habit and a steel corselet; he meant to be Emperor

to-morrow, he meant to be faithful to the Pope, but it was in his

heart to see Jacobea once more before he accepted the Devil’s last

gift and sign.

Leaving the palace secretly, when they all thought him in his chamber,

he took his way towards the Appian Gate.

Once more, for the last time… he would suggest to her that she

returned to Martzburg. The plague was rampant in the city; more than

once he passed the death-cart attended by friars clanging harsh bells;

several houses were sealed and silent; but in the piazzas the people

danced and sang, and in the Via Sacra they held a carnival in honour

of the victory at Tivoli.

It was nearly dark, starless, and the air heavy with the sense of

storm; as he neared the less-frequented part of the city Theirry

looked continually behind him to see if the dancer in orange dogged

his footsteps--he saw no one.

Very lonely, very silent it was in the Appian Way, the only domestic

light he came to the little lamp above the convent gate.

The stillness and gloom of the place chilled his heart, she could not,

must not stay here.…

He gently pushed the gate and entered.

The hot dusk just revealed to him the dim shapes of the white roses

and the dark figure of a lady standing beside them.

“Jacobea,” he whispered.

She moved very slowly towards him.

“Ah! you.”

“Jacobea--you must not remain in this place!--where are the nuns?”

She shook her head.

“They are dead of the plague days past, and I have buried them in the

garden.”

He gave a start of horror.

“You shall go back to Martzburg--you are _alone_ here?”

Her answer came calmly out of the twilight.

“I think there is no one living anywhere near. The plague has been

very fierce--you should not come here if you do not wish to die.”

“But what of you?” His voice was full of horror.

“Why, what can it matter about me?”

He thought she smiled; he followed her into the house, the chamber

where they had sat before.

A tall pale candle burnt on the bare table, and by the light of it he

saw her face.

“Ye are ill already,” he shuddered.

Again she shook her head.

“Why do you come here?” she asked gently. “You are to be Emperor

to-morrow.”

She crept with a slow sick movement to a bench that stood against the

wall and sank down on it; her features showed pinched and wan, her

eyes unnaturally blue in the pallor of her face.

“You must return to Martzburg,” repeated Theirry distractedly; and

thought of her as he had first seen her, bright and gay, in a pale

crimson dress.…

“Nay, I shall return to Martzburg no more,” she answered. “He died

to-day.”

“He?--who died, Jacobea?”

Very faintly she smiled.

“Sebastian--in Palestine. God let me see him then, because I had never

looked on him since that morning on which you saw us, sir… he has been

a holy man fighting the infidel; they wounded him, I think, and he was

sick with fever--he crept into the shade (for it is very hot there,

sir), and died.”

Theirry stood dumb, and the mad hatred of the devil who had brought

about this misery anew possessed him.

Jacobea spoke again.

“Maybe they have met in Paradise--and as for me I hope God may think

me fit to die--of late it seemed to me that the fiends were again

troubling me”--she clasped her hands tightly on her knees and

shivered; “something evil is abroad… who is the dancer?… last night I

saw her crouching by my gate as I was making the grave of Sister

Angela, and it seemed, it seemed, that she bewitched me--as the young

scholar did, long ago.”

Theirry leant heavily against the table.

“She is the Pope’s spy and tool,” he cried hoarsely, “Ursula of

Rooselaare!”

Jacobea’s dim eyes were bewildered.

“Ah, Balthasar’s wife,” she faltered, “but the Pope’s tool--how should

he meddle with an evil thing?”

Then he told her, in an outburst of wild, unnameable feeling.

“The Pope is Dirk Renswoude--the Pope is Antichrist--do you not

understand? And I am to help him rule the kingdom of the Devil!”

Jacobea gave a shuddering cry, half rose in her seat and sank back

against the wall.

Theirry crossed the room and fell on his knees beside her.

“It is true, true,” he sobbed. “And I am damned for ever!”

The lightning darted in from the darkness and thunder crashed above

the convent; Theirry laid his head on her lap and her cold fingers

touched his hair.

“Since, knowing this, you are his ally,” she whispered fearfully.

He answered through clenched teeth.

“Yea, I will be Emperor--and it is too late to turn back.”

Jacobea stared across the candle-lit room.

“Dirk Renswoude,” she muttered, “and Ursula of Rooselaare--why--was it

not to save Hugh of Rooselaare that he rode--that night?”

Theirry lifted his head and looked at her, her utterance was feeble

and confused, her eyes glazing in a livid face; he clasped his hands

tightly over hers.

“What was Lord Hugh to him?” she asked, “Ursula’s father.…”

“I do not understand,” cried Theirry.

“But it is very clear to me--I am dying--she loved you, loves you

still--that such things should be.…”

“Whom do you speak of--Jacobea?” he cried, distracted.

She drooped towards him and he caught her in his arms.

“The city is accursed,” she gasped; “give me Christian burial, if ever

once you cared for me, and fly, fly!”

She strained and writhed in his frantic embrace.

“And you never knew it was a woman,” she whispered, “Pope and

dancer.…”

“God!” shrieked Theirry; and staggered to his feet drawing her with

him.

She choked her life out against his shoulder, clinging with the

desperation of the dying, to him, while he tried to force her into

speech.

“Answer me, Jacobea! What authority have you for this hideous thing,

in the name of God, Jacobea!”

She slipped from him to the bench.

“Water, a crucifix.… Oh, I have forgot my prayers.” She stretched out

her hands towards a wooden crucifix that hung on the wall, caught hold

of it, pressed her lips to the feet.…

“Sybilla,” she said, and died with that name struggling in her throat.

Theirry stepped back from her with a strangled shriek that seemed to

tear the breath from his body, and staggered against the table.

The lightning leapt in through the dark window, and appeared to plunge

like a sword into the breast of the dead woman.

Dead!--even as she uttered that horror--dead so suddenly. The plague

had slain her--he did not wish to die, so he must leave this

place--was he not to be Emperor to-morrow?

He fell to laughing.

The candle had burnt almost to the socket; the yellow flame struggling

against extinction cast a fantastic leaping light over Jacobea, lying

huddled along the bench with her yellow hair across the breast of her

rough garment; over Theirry, leaning with slack limbs against the

table; it showed his ghastly face, his staring eyes, his dropped

jaw--as his laughter died into silence.

Fly! Fly!

He must fly from this Thing that reigned in Rome--he could not face

to-morrow, he could not look again into the face of Antichrist.…

He crawled across the room and stared at Jacobea.

She was not beautiful; he noticed that her hands were torn and stained

with earth from making the graves of the nuns… she had asked for

Christian burial… he could not stay to give it her.…

He fiercely hated her for what she had told him, yet he took up the

ends of her yellow hair and kissed them.

Again the thunder and lightning and wild howlings reached him from

without, as ghosts and night-hags wandered past to hold court within

the accursed city.

The candle shot up a long tongue of flame--and went out.

Theirry staggered across the darkness.

A flash of lightning showed him the door. As the thunder crashed above

the city he fled from the convent and from Rome.

CHAPTER XI.

THE ANGELS

In a ruined villa, shattered by the barbarians and crumbled by time,

sat Ysabeau the Empress looking over the sunless Maremma.

A few olive trees were all that shaded the bare expanse of marshy

land, where great pools veiled with unhealthy vapours gleamed faintly

under the heavy clouds.

Here and there rose the straight roof of a forsaken convent, or the

stately pillars of a deserted palace.

There was no human being in sight.

A few birds flew low over the marshes; sometimes one screamed in

through the open roof or darted across the gaping broken doorway.

Then Ysabeau would rise from her sombre silence to spurn them from her

with fierce words and stones.

The stained marble was grown with reeds and wild flowers; a straggling

vine half twisted round two of the slender columns; and there the

Empress sat, huddled in her cloak and gazing over the forlorn marshes.

She had dwelt here for three days; at every sunrise a peasant girl,

daring the excommunication, had brought her food, then fled with a

frightened face.

Ysabeau saw nothing before her save death, but she did not mean to die

by the ignoble way of starvation.

She had not heard of the defeat of Balthasar at Tivoli, nor of the

election of Theirry to the crown; day and night she thought on her

husband, and pondered how she might still possibly serve him.

She did not hope to see him again; it never occurred to her to return

to him; when she had fled his camp she had left a confession behind

her--no Greek would have heeded it, but these Saxons, still, to her,

foreigners, were different.

And Balthasar had loved Melchoir of Brabant.

It was very hot, with a sullen, close heat; the dreary prospect became

hateful to her, and she rose and moved to the inner portion of the

villa, where the marigold roots thrust up through the inlaid stone

floor, and a remaining portion of the roof cast a shade.

Here she seated herself on the capital of a broken column, and a

languid weariness subdued her proud spirit; her head sank back against

the stained wall, and she slept.

When she woke the whole landscape was glowing with the soft red of

sunset.

She stretched herself, shivered, and looked about her.

Then she suddenly drew herself together and listened.

There were faint voices coming from the outer room, and the sound of a

man’s tread.

Ysabeau held her breath.

But so close a silence followed that she thought she must have been

deceived.

For a while she waited, then crept cautiously towards the shattered

doorway that led into the other chamber.

She gained it and gazed through.

Sitting where she had just now sat, under the vine-twisted columns,

was a huge knight in defaced armour; his back was towards her; by his

side his helmet stood, and the great glittering dragon that formed the

crest shone in the setting sun.

He was bending over a child that lay asleep on a crimson cloak.

“Balthasar,” said Ysabeau.

He gave a little cry, and looked over his shoulder.

“Tell me, my lord,” she asked in a trembling voice, “as you would tell

a stranger, if evil fortune brings you here.”

He rose softly, his face flushed.

“I am a ruined man. They have elected another Emperor. Now, I think,

it does not matter.”

Her eyes travelled in a dazed way to the child.

“Is he sick?”

“Nay, only weary; we have been wandering since Tivoli----”

While he spoke he looked at her, as if the world held nothing else

worth gazing on.

“I must go,” said Ysabeau.

“Must go?”

“I am cast out--I may not share your misfortunes.”

Balthasar laughed.

“I have been searching for you madly, Ysabeau.”

“Searching?”

And now he looked away from her.

“I thought my heart would have burst when I discovered ye had gone to

Rome----”

“But you found the writing?” she cried.

“Yea----”

“You know--I slew him?”

“I know you went to give your life for me.”

“I am accursed!”

“You have been faithful to me.”

“Oh, Balthasar!--does it make no difference?”

“It cannot,” he said, half sadly. “You are my wife--part of me; I have

given you my heart to keep, and nothing can alter it.”

“You do not mock me?” she questioned, shuddering. “It must be that you

mock me--I will go away----”

He stepped before her.

“You shall never leave me again, Ysabeau.”

“I had not dared--you have forgiven----”

“I am not your judge----”

“It cannot be that God is so tender!”

“I do not speak for Him,” said Balthasar hoarsely--“but for

myself----”

She could not answer.

“Ysabeau,” he cried jealously, “you--could you have lived apart from

me?”

“Nay,” she whispered; “I meant to die.”

“That I might be forgiven!”

“What else could I do! Would they had slain me and taken the curse

from you!”

He put his arm round her bowed shoulders.

“There is no curse while we are together, Ysabeau.”

Her marvellous hair lay across his dinted mail.

“This is sweeter than our marriage day, Balthasar, for now you know

the worst of me----”

“My wife!--my lady and my wife!”

He set her gently on the broken shaft by the door and kissed her hand.

“Wencelaus sleeps,” she smiled through tears. “I could not have put

him to rest more surely----”

“He slept not much last night,” said Balthasar, “for the owls and

flitter mice--and it was very dark with the moon hidden.”

Her hand still lay in his great palm.

“Tell me of yourself,” she whispered.

And he told her how they had been defeated at Tivoli, how the remnant

of his force had forsaken him, and how Theirry of Dendermonde had been

elected Emperor by the wishes of the Pope.

Her eyes grew fierce at that.

“I have ruined you,” she said; “made you a beggar.”

“If you knew”--he smiled half shyly--“how little I care, for

myself--certes, for you.”

“Do not shame me,” she cried.

“Could I have held a throne without you, Ysabeau?”

Her fingers trembled in his.

“Would I had been a better woman, for your sake, Balthasar.”

His swift bright flush dyed his fair face.

“All I grieve for, Ysabeau, is--God.”

“God?” she asked, wondering.

“If He should not forgive?”--his blue eyes were troubled--“and we are

cursed and cast out--what think you?”

She drew closer to him.

“Through me!--you grieve, and this is--through me!”

“Nay, our destiny is one--always. Only, I think--of afterwards--yet,

if you are--damned, as the priest says, why, I will be so too----”

“Do not fear, Balthasar; if God will not receive me, the little images

at Constantinople will forgive me if I pray to them again as I did

when I was a child----”

They fell on silence again, while the red colour of the setting sun

deepened and cast a glow over their weary faces and the sleeping

figure of Wencelaus; the vine leaves fluttered from the ancient marble

and the wild-fowl screamed across the marshes.

“Who is this Pope that he should hate us so?” mused Ysabeau. “And who

Theirry of Dendermonde that he should be Emperor of the West?”

“He is to be crowned in the Basilica to-day,” said Balthasar.

“While we sit here!”

“I do not understand it. Nor do I now, Ysabeau,”--Balthasar looked at

her--“greatly care----”

“But you shall care!” she cried. “If I be all to you, I will be

that--I must see you again upon the throne; we will to Basil’s Court.

That this Theirry of Dendermonde should sleep to-night in the golden

palace!”

“We have found each other,” said the Emperor simply.

She raised his hand, kissed it, and no more was said, while the mists

gathered and thickened over the Maremma and the rich hues faded from

the sky.

“Who is that?” cried Ysabeau, and pointed across the marsh-land.

A figure, dark against the mists, was running aimlessly, wildly to and

fro, winding his way in and out the pools, now and then flinging his

arms up in a frantic gesture towards the evening sky.

“A madman,” said Balthasar; “see, he runs with no object, round and

round, yet always as if pursued----”

Ysabeau drew close to her husband, as they both watched, with a

curious fascination, the man being driven hither and thither as by an

invisible enemy.

“Is it a ghost?” whispered Ysabeau; “strangely chilled and

horror-stricken do I feel----”

The Emperor made the sign of the Cross.

“Part of the curse, maybe,” he muttered.

Suddenly, as if exhausted, the man stopped and stood still with

hanging head and arms; the sun burning to the horizon made a vivid

background to his tall dark figure till the heavy noisome vapours rose

to the level of the sunset, and the solitary, motionless stranger was

blotted from the view of the two watching in the ruined villa.

“Why should we wonder?” said Balthasar. “There must be many men

abroad, both Saxon and Roman----”

“Yet, he ran strangely,” she murmured; “and I have been here three

days and seen no one.”

“We must get away,” said Balthasar resolutely. “This is a vile spot.”

“At dawn a girl comes here with food, enough at least for Wencelaus.”

“I have food with me, Ysabeau, given by one who did not know that we

were excommunicate.”

The Empress looked about her fearfully.

“I heard a step.”

Balthasar peered through the mist.

“The man,” whispered Ysabeau.

Out of the dreary vapours, the forlorn and foul mists of the marshes,

he appeared, stumbling over the stones in his way…

He caught hold of the slender pillar by the entrance and stared at the

three with distraught eyes. His clothes were dark, wet and soiled, his

hair hung lank round a face hollow and pale but of obvious beauty.

“Theirry of Dendermonde!” exclaimed Balthasar.

Ysabeau gave a cry that woke the child and sent him frightened into

her arms.

“The Emperor,” said the new-comer in a feeble voice.

Balthasar answered fiercely--

“Am I still Emperor to you?--you who to-day were to receive my crown

in St. Peter’s church?”

Ysabeau clasped Wencelaus tightly to her breast, and her eyes shone

with a wrathful triumph.

“They have cast him out; Rome rose against such a king!”

Theirry shivered and crouched like one very cold.

“Of my own will I fled from Rome, that city of the Devil!”

Balthasar stared at him.

“Is this the man who broke our ranks at Tivoli?”

“Is this he who would be Emperor of the West?” cried Ysabeau.

“You are the Emperor,” said Theirry faintly, “and I pretend no longer

to these wrongful honours, nor serve I any longer Antichrist----”

“He is mad!” cried Balthasar.

“Nay,” Ysabeau spoke eagerly--“listen to him.”

Theirry moaned.

“I have nothing to say--give me a place to rest in.”

“Through you we have no place ourselves to rest in,” answered

Balthasar grimly. “No shelter save these broken walls you see; but

since you have returned to your allegiance, we command that you tell

us of this Antichrist----”

Theirry straightened himself.

“He who reigns in Rome is Antichrist, Michael, who was Dirk

Renswoude----”

“He perished,” said the Emperor, very pale; “and the Pope was Blaise

of Dendermonde.”

“That was the Devil’s work, black magic!” cried Theirry wildly; “the

youth Blaise died ten years ago, and Dirk Renswoude took his

place----”

“It is true!” cried the Empress; “by what he said to me I know it

true--now do I see it very clearly----”

But Balthasar stared at Theirry in a confused manner.

“I do not understand.”

The lightning darted through the broken wall, and a solitary winged

thing flapped over the roofless villa.

Theirry began to speak.

He told them, in a thick, expressionless voice, all he knew of Dirk

Renswoude.

He did not mention Ursula of Rooselaare.

As his tale went on, the storm gathered till all light had vanished

from the sky, the lightning rent a starless gloom, and the continual

roar of the thunder quivered in the stifling air.

In the pauses between the lightning they could not see each other;

Wencelaus sobbed on his mother’s breast, and the owls hooted in the

crevices of the marble.

Theirry’s voice suddenly strengthened.

“Now, turn against Rome, for all men will join you--a force of

Lombards marches up from Trastevere, and the Saxons gather without the

walls of the accursed city.”

A blue flash showed them his face… they heard him fall.…

After a while Balthasar made his way to him through the dark.

“He has fainted,” he said fearfully; “is he, belike, mad?”

“He speaks the hideous truth,” whispered Ysabeau.

Suddenly, at its very height the storm ceased, the air became cool and

fragrant, and a bright moon floated from the clouds.

The silver radiance of it, extraordinarily bright and vivid,

illuminated the Maremma, the pools, the tall reeds, the deserted

buildings, the ruins that sheltered them; the clouds rolled swiftly

from the sky, leaving it clear and blazing with stars.

The first moon and the first stars that had shone since Michael II’s

reign in the Vatican.

Theirry’s dark dress and hair, and deathlike face pressed against the

marble pavement showed now plainly.

Balthasar looked at his wife; neither dared to speak, but Wencelaus

gave a panting sigh of relief at the lifting of the darkness.

“My lord,” he said, striving out of his mother’s arms, “a goodly

company comes across the marsh----”

A great awe and fear held them silent, and the wonderful silver shine

of the moon lay over them like a spell.

They saw, slowly approaching them, two knights and two ladies, who

seemed to advance without motion across the marsh-land.

The knights wore armour that shone like glass, and long mantles of

white samite; the dames were clad in silver tissue, and around their

brows were close-pressed wreaths of roses mingled red and white.

Very bright and fair they seemed; the knights came to the fore,

carrying silver trumpets; the ladies held each other’s hands lovingly,

and their gleaming tresses of red and gold wove together as they

walked.

They reached the portals of the villa, and the air blew cold and pure.

The lady with the yellow hair who held white violets in her hand,

spoke to the other, and her voice was like the echo of the sea in a

wide-lipped shell.

They paused; Balthasar drew back before the great light they brought

with them, and Ysabeau hid her face, for some of them she knew.

On earth their names had been Melchoir, Sebastian, Jacobea and

Sybilla.

“Balthasar,” said the foremost Knight, “we are come from the courts of

Paradise to bid you march against Rome. In that city reigns Evil,

permitted to punish a sinful people, but now her time is come. Go you

to Viterbo, there you will find the Cardinal of Narbonne, whom God has

ordained Pope, and with him an army; at the head of it storm Rome, and

all the people shall join you in destroying Antichrist.”

Balthasar fell on his knees.

“And the curse!” he cried.

“’Tis not the curse of God upon you, therefore be comforted, Balthasar

of Courtrai, and at the dawn haste to Viterbo.”

With that they moved away, and were absorbed into the silver light

that transfigured the Maremma.

Balthasar sprang to his feet, shouting--

“I am not excommunicate! I shall be Emperor again. The curse is

lifted!”

The moonlight faded, again the clouds rolled up.…

Balthasar caught Theirry by the shoulder.

“Did you see the vision?--the angels?”

Theirry came shuddering from his swoon.

“I saw nothing--Ursula… Ursula.…”

CHAPTER XII.

IN THE VATICAN

In the ebony cabinet in the Vatican sat Michael II; an expression of

utter anguish marked his face.

On the gold table were spread books and parchments; the sullen light

of a stormy midday filtered through the painted curtains and showed

the rich splendours of the chamber, the glittering, closed wings of

the shrine, the carved gold arms of the Pope’s chair, the threads of

silver tissue in his crimson robe.

He sat very still, his elbow resting on the table, his cheek propped

on his palm, now and then he looked at the little sand clock.

Presently Paolo Orsini entered; the Pope glanced at him without

moving.

“No news?” he asked.

“None of the Lord Theirry, your Holiness.”

Michael II moistened his lips.

“They have searched--everywhere?”

“Throughout Rome, your Holiness, but----”

“Well?”

“Only this, my lord, a man might easily disappear--there is no law in

the city.”

“He was armed, they said, when he left the palace; have you sent to

the convent I told you of--St. Angela, beyond the Appian Gate?”

“Yea, your Holiness,” answered Orsini, “and they found nought but a

dead woman.”

The Pope averted his eyes.

“What did they with her?”

Orsini lifted his brows.

“Cast her into the plague pit, Holiness,--that quarter is a

charnel-house.”

The Pope drew a deep breath.

“Well, he is gone--I do not think him dead,”--he flung back his

head--“but the game is over, is it not, Orsini? We fling down our

pieces and say--good-night!”

His nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed, he brought his open hand

softly on to the table.

“What does your Holiness mean?” asked Orsini.

“We mean that this puppet Emperor of ours has forsaken us, and that

our position becomes perilous,” answered the Pope. “Cardinal Narbonne,

hurling defiance at us from Viterbo, grows stronger, and the mob--do

not seek to deceive me, Orsini, the mob clamours against us?”

“It is true, my lord.”

The Pope gave a terrible smile, and his beautiful eyes widened.

“And the soldiers mutiny, the Saxons at Trastevere have joined

Balthasar and the Veronese have left me--we have not enough men to

hold Rome an hour; well, Orsini, you shall take a summons to the

Cardinals and we will hold a conclave, there to decide how we may meet

our fortune.”

He rose and turned towards the window.

“Hark, do you hear how the factions howl below?--begone, Orsini.”

The secretary departed in silence.

Mutterings, murmurings, howlings rose from the accursed city to the

Pontiff’s chamber; lightning darted from the black heavens, and

thunder rolled round the hills of Rome.

Michael II walked to and fro in his gorgeous cabinet.

In the three days since Theirry had fled the city, his power had

crumbled like a handful of sand; Rome had turned against him, and

every hour men fell away from his cause.

The devils, too, had forsaken him; he could not raise the spirits, the

magic fires would not burn… all was blank darkness and silence.

Up and down he paced, listening to the mob surging in the Piazza of

St. Peter.

The day wore on and the storm grew in violence.

Paolo Orsini came again to him, his face pale.

“Half the Cardinals are fled to Viterbo and those remaining refuse to

acknowledge your Holiness.”

The Pope smiled.

“I had expected it.”

“News comes from a Greek runner that Theirry of Dendermonde is with

Balthasar’s host----”

“Also I expected that,” said Michael II wildly.

“And they proclaim you,” continued Orsini in an agitated manner, “an

impostor, one given to evil practices, and by these means incite the

people against you; Cardinal Orvieto has led a thousand men across the

marshes to the Emperor’s army----”

“And Theirry of Dendermonde has denounced me!” said the Pope.

As he spoke one beat for admission on the gilt door.

The secretary opened and there entered an Eastern chamberlain.

“Holiness,” he cried fearfully, “the people have set fire to your

palace on the Palatine Hill, and Cardinal Colonna, with his brother

Octavian, have seized Castel San Angelo for the Emperor, and hold it

in defiance of your Grace.”

As he finished the lightning darted into the now darkening chamber,

and the thunder mingled with the howling of the mob that surged

beneath the Vatican walls.

“The captain of my guard and those faithful to me,” answered the Pope,

“will know how to do what may be done--apprise me of the approach of

Balthasar’s host, and now go.”

They left him; he stood for a while listening to those ominous sounds

that filled the murky air, then he pressed a spring in one of the

mother-of-pearl panels and stepped into the secret chamber that was

revealed.

Cautiously he closed the panel by which he had entered, and looked

furtively about him.

The small windowless space was lit only by one blood-red lamp, locked

cupboards lined the walls, and a huge globe of faint gold, painted

with curious and mystic signs, hung from the ceiling.

The Pope’s stiff garments made a soft rustling sound as he moved; his

quick desperate breathing disturbed the heavy confined air.

In his pallid face his eyes rolled and gleamed.

“Sathanas, Sathanas,” he muttered, “is this the end?”

A throbbing shook the red-lit gloom, his last words were echoed

mournfully--

“The end.”

He clutched his hands into the jewelled embroidery on his breast.

“Now you mock me--by my old allegiance, is this the end?”

Again the echo from the dark walls--

“The end.”

The Pope glared in front of him.

“Must I die, Sathanas--must I swiftly die?”

A little confused laughter came before the echo “swiftly die.”

He paced up and down the narrow space.

“I staked my fortunes on that man’s faith and he has forsaken me, and

I have lost, lost!”

“Lost! lost!”

The Pope laughed frantically.

“At least she died, Sathanas, her yellow hair rots in the plague pit

now; I had some skill left… but what was all my skill if I could not

keep him faithful to me----”

He clasped his jewelled hand over his eyes; utter silence followed his

words now; the globe of pallid gold trembled in the darkness of the

domed ceiling, and the mystic characters on it began to writhe and

move.

“Long had I lived with the earth beneath my feet had I not met that

fair sweet fool, and I go to ruin for his sake who has denounced

me----”

The red lamp became dull as a dying coal.

“Ye warned me,” breathed the Pope, “that this man would be my

bane--you promised on his truth to you and me to halve the world

between us; he was false, and you have utterly forsaken me?”

The echo answered--

“Utterly forsaken.…”

The lamp went out.

The pale luminous globe expanded to a monstrous size, the circle of

dark little fiends round it danced and whirled madly.…

Then it burst and fell in a thousand fragments at the Pope’s feet.

Out of the darkness came a wail as of some thing hurt or dying, then

long sighing shook the close air.…

The Pope felt along the wall, touched the spring and stepped into the

ebony cabinet.

He looked quite old and small and bowed.

Night had fallen; the chamber was lit by perfumed candles in curious

carved sticks of soapstone; faint veils of incense floated in the air.

Without the thunder rolled and threatened, and the factions of Rome

fought in the streets.

The Pope sank into a chair and folded his hands in his lap; his head

fell forward on his breast; his lips quivered and two tears rolled

down his cheeks.

The Angelus bells rang out over the city, there were not many to ring

now; as they quivered away a clock struck, quite near.

The Pope did not move.

Once again Paolo Orsini entered, and Michael II averted his face.

“Holiness, Balthasar marches on Rome,” said the secretary, “the mob

rush forth to join him, and if the gates were brass, and five times

brass, the Vatican could not withstand them.”

The Pope spoke without looking round.

“Will they storm the Vatican?”

“Ay, that they will, Holiness,” answered Orsini.

Now the Pontiff turned his white face.

“What may I do?”

“The captain of the guard suggests that ye come to terms with the

Emperor, and by submission save your life.”

“That I will not.”

“Then it were well if your Holiness would flee; there is a secret way

out of the Vatican----”

“And that I will not.”

Orsini, too, was very pale.

“Then are you doomed to fall into the hands of Balthasar, and he and

his faction say--horrible things.”

The Pope rose.

“You think they would lay hands on me?”

“I do fear it!”

“It would be a shameful death, Orsini?”

“Surely not that! I cannot think the Emperor would do more than

imprison your Holiness.”

“Well, you are very faithful, Orsini.”

The young Roman shrugged his shoulders.

“Cardinal Narbonne is a Colonna, Holiness, and I have always found you

a generous master.”

The Pope went to the window.

“How they howl!” he said through his teeth, “and Balthasar comes

nearer, nearer----”

He checked himself abruptly.

“I will dine here to-night, Orsini, see that everything is done as

usual.”

The secretary bowed himself out of the gilt door.

Michael II went to the table on the daïs and took from it a scroll of

parchment.

Standing in the centre of the room he unrolled it; some verses were

written in a scarlet ink on the smooth surface; in a low voice he read

aloud the two last.

“If Love were all!

I had lived glad and meek,

Nor heard Ambition call

And Valour speak,

If Love were all!”

He smiled bitterly.

“But Love is weak,

And often leaves his throne,

Among his scattered roses pale

To weep and moan,

And I, apostate to his whispered creed,

Shall miss his wings above my pall,

Nor find his face in this my bitter need,

When Love is all!”

“The metre halts,” said Michael II, “the metre… halts.”

He tore the parchment into fragments and scattered them on the floor.

Again the gilt doors were opened, this time a chamberlain entered.

A herald had brought a fierce and grim message from Balthasar.

It spoke of the Pope as Antichrist, and called on him to submit if he

would keep his life.

The Pope read it with haughty eyes; when he had finished he rent it

across and cast the pieces down among the others.

“And ye shall hang the herald,” he said. “We have so much authority.”

The chamberlain handed him a second packet, sealed.

“This also the herald brought, Holiness.”

“From whom?”

“From Theirry of Dendermonde.”

“Theirry of--of Dendermonde?”

“Yea, Holiness.”

The Pope took the packet.

“Let the herald live,” he said, “but cast him into the dungeons.”

The chamberlain withdrew.

For a while Michael II stood staring at the packet, while the thunder

crashed over Rome.

Then he slowly broke the seal.

“What curses have you for me?” he cried wildly. “What curses? You!”

He unfolded the long strip of vellum, and went nearer the candles to

read it.

Thus it ran--

“The Emperor’s camp, marching on Rome, Theirry of Dendermonde to

Michael, Pope of Rome, thus--

“I am approaching madness, I cannot sleep or rest--after days of

torment I write to you whom I have twice betrayed. She died on my

breast, but I do not care; Balthasar says he saw her walking on the

Maremma, but I saw nothing… before she died she said something. I

think of you and of nothing else, though I have betrayed you, I have

never uttered what she said. No one guesses.

“The uncertainty, the horror, gnaw away my heart. So I write this to

you.

“This is my message--

“If you are a devil, be satisfied, for your devil’s work is done.

“If you are a man, you have befriended, wronged me, and I have avenged

myself.

“If you are that other thing you may be, then I know you love me, and

that I kissed you once.

“If this last be true, as I do think it true, have some pity on my

long ignorance and believe I have it in me to love even as you have

loved.

“Oh, Ursula, I know a city in India where we might live, and you

forget you ever ruled in Rome; yonder are other gods who are so old

they have forgot to punish, and they would smile on you and me there,

Ursula. Balthasar marches on the city, and you must be ruined and

discovered--brought to an end so horrible. You have showed me a secret

way out of the Vatican, use it now, this night. I am in advance of the

host--I shall be without the Appian Gate to-night, and I have means

whereby we may fly to the coast and there take ship to India; until we

meet, farewell! and in the name of all the passions you have roused in

me--come!”

As the Pope read, all the colour slowly left his face; when he had

finished he mechanically rolled up the parchment, then unrolled it

again.

Thunder shook the Vatican and the mob howled without.

Again he read the letter.

Then he thrust it into one of the candles and watched it blacken,

curl, burst into flame.

He flung it on the marble floor and set his gold heel on it, grinding

it into ashes.

At the usual hour they served his sumptuous supper; when it was

finished and removed, Paolo Orsini came again.

“Will not your Holiness fly, before it is too late?”

All traces of anguish and woe had vanished from his master’s features;

he looked proud and beautiful.

“I shall stay here; but let them who will, seek safety.”

He dismissed Orsini and the attendants.

It was now late in the evening--and the thunder unceasing.

The Pope locked the door of the cabinet, then went to the gilt table,

and wrote a letter rapidly--this he folded, sealed with purple wax and

stamped with his great thumb ring.

He sat silent a little while after this and stared with great luminous

eyes before him, then roused himself and unlocked a drawer in the

table.

From this he took some documents, tied together with orange silk, and

a ring with a red stone in it.

One by one he burnt the parchments in the candle, and when they were

reduced to a little pile of ashes he cast the ring into the midst of

it and turned away.

He crossed to the window, drew the curtains and looked out over Rome.

In the black heavens, above the black hills, hung a huge meteor, a

blazing globe of fire with a trail of flame.…

The Pope let the silk fall together again.

He took up one of the candles and went to the gold door that led to

his bed-chamber.

Before he opened it he paused a moment; the candle-flame lit his vivid

eyes, his haughty face, his glittering vestments.…

He turned the handle and entered the dark, spacious room.

Through the high, undraped window could clearly be seen the star that

seemed to burn away the very sky.

The Pope set the candle on a shelf where it showed dim glimpses of

white and gold tapestries, walls of alabaster, a bed of purple and

gilt, mysterious, gorgeous luxury.…

He returned to the cabinet and took from the bosom of his gown a

little bottle of yellow jade; for the stopper a ruby served.

The thunder crashed deafeningly; the lightning seemed to split the

room in twain; the Pope stood still, listening.

Then he blew out the candles and returned to his bed-chamber.

Softly he passed into the scented, splendid chamber and closed the

door behind him.

In the little pause between two thunder-peals was the sound of a great

key turning in a lock.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SECRET

The mob had stormed the Vatican; Octavian Colonna, with a handful of

fighting men, ascended the undefended marble staircase.

The papal guards lay slain in the courtyard and in the entrance hall;

chamberlains, secretary, pages, and priests, fled or surrendered.

With the Lord Colonna was Theirry of Dendermonde, who had entered Rome

that morning by the Appian Gate and headed a faction of the lawless

crowd in their wild attack on the Vatican.

To himself he kept saying--

“I shall know, she did not come; I shall know, she did not come.”

It was early morning; the terrific storm of last night still lingered

over Rome; flashes of blue light divided the murky clouds and the

thunder hung about the Aventine; the Colonna grew afraid; he waited

below in the gorgeous audience-chamber and sent up to the Pope’s

apartments, demanding his submission and promising him safety.

The overawed crowd retired into the courtyard and the Piazza while

Paolo Orsini ascended the silver stairs.

He returned with this message--

“His Holiness’s apartments were locked, nor could they make him hear.”

“Break down the doors,” said the Colonna, but he trembled.

It was a common thought among the knights that Michael II had escaped;

a monk offered to show them the secret passage where his Holiness

might be even now; many went; but Theirry followed the attendants to

the gilt door of the ebony cabinet.

They broke the lock and entered, fearfully.

On the floor torn fragments of parchments, a pile of ashes with a ruby

ring lying in the midst.…

Nothing else.

“His Holiness is in his chamber--we dare not enter.”

They had always been afraid of him; even now his name held terror.

“The Colonna waits our news!” cried Theirry wildly, “I--I dare enter.”

They tiptoed to the other gilt door; it took them some time to remove

the lock.

When at last the door gave and swung open they shrunk away--but

Theirry passed into the chamber.

The sombre light of dawn filled it; heavy shadows obscured the rich

splendours of golden colours, of gleaming white walls; the men crept

after him--it seemed to Theirry as if the world had stopped about

them.

On the magnificent purple bed lay the Pope; on his brow the tiara

glittered, and on his breast the chasuble; the crozier lay by his side

on the samite coverlet, and his feet glittered in their golden shoes;

by the crozier was a letter and a jade bottle.

The attendants shrieked and fled.

Theirry crept to the bedside and took up the parchment; his name was

over the top; he broke the seal.

He read the fair writing.

“If I be a devil I go whence I came, if a man I lived as one and die

as one, if woman I have known Love, conquered it and by it have been

vanquished. Whatsoever I am, I perish on the heights, but I do not

descend from them. I have known things in their fulness and will not

stay to taste the dregs. So, to you greeting, and not for long

farewell.”

The letter fell from Theirry’s hand, fluttered and sank to the floor.

He raised his eyes and saw through the window the meteor, blazing over

Rome.

Dead.…

He looked now at the proud smooth face on the pillow; the gems of the

papal crown gleaming above the red locks, the jewelled chasuble

sparkling in the strengthening dawn until he was nearly fooled into

thinking the bosom heaved beneath.

He was alone.

At least he could know.

The air was like incense sweet and stifling; his blood seemed to beat

in his brain with a little foolish sound of melody; a shaft of grey

light fell over the splendours of the bed, the roses and dragons,

hawks and hounds sewn on the curtains and coverlets; from the Pope’s

garments rose a subtle and beautiful perfume.

“Ursula,” said Theirry; he bent over the bed until the pearls in his

ears touched his cheeks.

Without the thunder muttered.

To know--

He lifted the dead Pope’s arm; there seemed to be neither weight nor

substance under the stiff silk.

He dropped the sleeve; his cold fingers unclasped the heavy chasuble,

underneath lay perfumed samite, white and soft.

An awful sensation crept through his veins; he thought that under

these gorgeous vestments was nothing--nothing--ashes.

He did not dare to uncover the bosom that lay, that must lie, under

the gleaming samite.…

But he must know.

He lifted up the fair crowned head to peer madly into the proud

features.…

It came away in his hands, like crumbling wood that may preserve, till

touched, the semblance of the carving… so the Pope’s head parted from

the trunk.

Theirry smiled with horror and stared at what he held.

Then it disappeared, fell into ashes before his eyes, and the tiara

rolled on to the floor.

Gone--like an image of smoke.

He sank across the headless thing on the bed.

“Must I _follow_ you to know, follow you to hell?” he whispered.

Now he could open the rich garments.

They were empty of all save dust.

The strange strong perfume was stinging and numbing his brain, his

heart; he thought he heard the fiends coming for his soul--at last.

He hid his face in the purple silk robes and felt his blood grow cold.

The room darkened about him, he knew he was being drawn downwards into

eternity, he sighed and slipped from the bed on to the floor.

As his last breath hovered on his lips the meteor vanished, the

thunder-clouds rolled away from a fair blue sky and a glorious sunrise

laughed over the city.

The reign of Antichrist was ended.

Through the Pope’s chamber the notes of silver trumpets quivered.

Balthasar’s trumpets as his hosts marched triumphantly into Rome.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. dais/daïs, fireplace/fire-place,

vine-leaves/vine leaves, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings.

Change five instances of _Thierry_ to _Theirry_.

[Part I/Chapter IV]

(“How old are you” he asked.) add a question mark.

[Part I/Chapter VI]

“likened her to the pale crimson pistil of a lily _whch_ has yellow”

to _which_.

[End of text]