Gerald was lying on a couch in his habitual mood of half dreamy
consciousness, when the Egyptian entered. Her tall and stately figure,
veiled to the very feet, moving with a proud but graceful step, seemed
scarcely to arrest his notice for a moment, and his eyes fell again upon
a few wild-flowers that lay beside him.
Making a sign to the servant that she would be alone, the Egyptian drew
nigh the couch, and stood silently regarding him. After a while, she
raised one arm till the hand was extended over his head, and held it
thus some minutes. He lifted up his eyes toward her, and then, with a
sort of wearied motion, dropped them again, heaved a heavy sigh, and
seemed to sink into a sleep.
Touching the centre of his forehead with her forefinger, she stood for
some minutes motionless; and then slowly passed her hand over his face,
and laid it gently on his heart; a slight, scarcely perceptible shudder
shook the youth’s frame at this instant, and then he was still; so still
and so motionless, that he appeared like one dead. She now breathed
strongly two or three times over his face, making with her hands a
motion, as though sprinkling a fluid over him. As she did so, the
youth’s lips slightly opened, and something like a faint smile seemed to
settle on his features. Bending down she laid her ear close to his lips,
like one listening: she waited a few seconds, and then, in a voice that
slightly trembled, with a thrill of joyous emotion, she whispered out--
‘You have not, then, forgotten, _Gherardi mio_; those happy hours still
live within your memory.’
The sleeper’s mouth moved without a sound, but she seemed to gather the
meaning of the motion: as, after a brief pause, she said: ‘And the well
under the old myrtle-tree at San Domino: hast forgotten _that_? True
enough,’ added she, as if replying; ‘it seems like an age since we
walked that mountain road together; but we will stroll there again, dear
brother: nay, start not, thou knowest well why I call thee so. And
we will wander along the little stream under the old walls of Massa,
beneath the orange-trees; and listen to the cicala in the hot noon, and
catch glimpses of the blue sea through the olives. Happier days! that
they were. No, no, child,’ cried she eagerly; ‘thou art not of a mould
for such an enterprise; besides, they would but entrap thee--there is no
honesty in these men. He that we have lost--he that has left us--might
have guided you in this difficult path; but there is not another like
him. There are plants that only flower once in a whole century, and so
with humanity; great genius only visits the earth after long intervals
of years. What is it?’ broke she in hurriedly; ‘thou seest something;
tell me of it?’ With an intense eagerness she now seemed to drink in
something that his silent lips revealed, a sort of impatient anxiety
urging her, as she said, ‘And then, and then; yes! a wild dreary waste
without a tree; but thou knowest not where--and a light in an old tower
high up--yes! watching for thee; they have expected thee; go on. Ah!
thou hast arrived there at last; with what honour they receive thee;
they fill the hall. No, no, do not let him kneel; thou art right, he is
an old, old man. That was a mild cheer, and see how the tears run down
his cheeks; they are, indeed, glad to see thee, then. What now,’ cried
she hurriedly; ‘thou wilt not go on, and why? Tell me, then, why,
_Gherardi mio_ cried she, in an accent of deep feeling; _is it that
peril scares thee? Thou a Prince, and not willing to pay for thy
heritage by danger? Ah! true,’ broke she in despondingly; _they have
made thee but a tool, and they would now make thee a sacrifice. A long
pause now ensued, and she sat with his hand pressed between both her own
in silence. At length a slight noise startled her; she turned her head,
and beheld the Père Massoni standing close beside her. She arose at
once, and drew the folds of her veil more closely across her features.
‘Is your visit over? If so, I would speak with you,’ said the Père.
She bowed her head in assent, and followed him from the room. Massoni
now led the way to the little tower which formed his study; entering
which, he motioned her to a seat, and having locked the door, took a
place in front of her.
‘What say you of this young man?’ said he, coldly and sternly. ‘Will he
live?’
‘He will live,’ said she, in a low, soft voice.
‘For that you pledge yourself; I mean, your skill and craft!’
‘I have none, holy father--I have but that insight into human nature
which is open to all; but I can promise, that of his present malady he
will not die.’
‘How call you his disease?’
‘Some would name it atrophy; some low fever; some would say that an old
hereditary taint was slowly working its poisonous path through a once
vigorous frame.’
‘How mean you by that; would you imply madness in his race?’
‘There are many disordered in mind whom affluence presents as but
capricious,’ said she, with a half supercilious accent.
‘Be frank with me,’ said he boldly, ‘and say if you suspect derangement
here.’
‘Holy father,’ replied she, in the calm voice of one appealing to a
mature judgment, ‘you, who read men’s natures, as others do a printed
page, well know, that he who is animated strongly by some single
sentiment, which infuses itself into every thought, and every action,
pervading each moment of his daily life, so as to seem a centre around
which all events revolve--that such a man, in the world’s esteem, is of
less sane mind than he who gives to fortune but a passing thought, and
makes life a mere game of accident. Between these two opposing states
this young man’s mind now balances.’
‘But cannot balance long,’ muttered the Père to himself, reflecting on
her words. ‘Will his intellect bear the struggle?’ asked he hastily.
‘Ay, if not overtaxed.’
‘I know your meaning; you have told himself that he is not equal to the
task before him; I heard and saw what passed between you; I know, too,
that you have met before in life; tell me, then, where and how.’ There
was a frank, intrepid openness in the way he spoke, that seemed to say,
‘We must deal freely with each other.’
‘Of _me_ you need not to know anything,’ said she proudly, as she arose.
‘Not if you had not penetrated a great secret of mine,’ said Massoni
sternly; ‘you cannot deny it--you know who this youth is!’
‘I know whom you would make him,’ said she, in the same haughty tone.
‘What birth and lineage have made him,--not any will of mine.’
‘There are miracles too great for even priestcraft, holy father--this
is one of them. Nay, I speak not of his birth, it is of the destiny you
purpose for him. Is it now, in the midst of the glorious outburst
of universal freedom, when men are but awakening out of the long and
lethargic dream of slavery, that you would make them to return to
it; would you call them to welcome back a race whose badge has been
oppression? No, no, your Church is too wise, too far-sighted for such
an error; the age of monarchies is over; take counsel from the past, and
learn that, henceforth, you must side with the people.’
‘So have we ever,’ cried the Père enthusiastically; ‘yes, I maintain and
will prove it. Stay, you must not part with me so easily. You shall
tell me who you are. This weak pretence of Egyptian origin deceives not
_me_.’
‘You shall know nothing of me,’ was the brief reply.
‘The Sacred Consulta will not accept this answer.’
‘They will get none other, father.’
‘Such acts as yours are forbidden by the canon law; be careful how you
push me to denounce them.’
‘Does the Inquisition still live, then?’ asked she superciliously.
‘Sorcery is a crime, on the word of Holy Writ, woman; and again I say,
beware!’
‘This is scarcely grateful, holy father; I came here to render you a
service.’
‘And you are carrying away a secret, woman,’ said the priest angrily.
‘This must not be.’
‘How would it advantage you, I ask,’ said she calmly, ‘were I to reveal
the whole story of my past life? it would give you no guarantee for the
future.’
‘It is for _me_ to think of that. I only say, that I must and will know
it.’
‘These are words of passion, holy father, not of that wise forethought
for which the world knows and reveres your name. Farewell.’
She waved her hand haughtily, and moved toward the door; but it was
locked, and resisted her hand. As she turned to remonstrate, Massoni was
gone! How, and by what exit, she could not guess, since every side of
the small tower was covered with books and shelves, that rose from the
floor to the ceiling, and except the one by which she entered, no
door to be seen. Not a word nor an exclamation escaped her, as she saw
herself thus imprisoned; her first care was to examine the windows,
which readily opened, but whose great height from the ground made
escape impossible. She again tried the lock in various ways, but without
success; and then recommenced a close scrutiny of the sides of the
tower, through which she was aware there must be some means of exit. So
cunningly, however, was this devised, that it evaded all her search, and
she sat down at length baffled and weary.
The bright noon faded away into the mellower richness of later day,
and the long shadows of solitary trees or broken columns, stretched far
across the Campagna, showing that the sun was low. While she yet sat
silent and watchful in that lonely tower, her eyes had ranged over the
garden beneath, till she knew every bed and pathway. She had watched the
Campagna too, till her sight ached with the weary toil; but, except far,
far away, long out of reach, no succour appeared in view; and it seemed
to her, at times, as though there was something like destiny in this
dreary desolation. On that very morning, as she drove from Albano, the
fields were filled with labourers, and herds of cattle roved over the
great plains, with large troops of mounted followers. What had become
then of these? The sudden outburst of a hundred bells, pealing in almost
wild confusion now, broke upon the stillness, and seemed to make the
very walls vibrate with their din. Louder and louder this grand chorus
swelled out, till the sound seemed to rise from earth to heaven, filling
space with their solemn music; and, at length, there pealed out through
these the glorious cadences of a rich orchestra, coming nearer and
nearer as she listened. A grand procession soon made its appearance,
issuing out of one of the city gates, and holding its way across the
Campagna. There were banners and gorgeous canopies, splendidly attired
figures walked beneath, and the smoke of incense rose around them in
the still calm of a summer’s evening. It was, then, some festival of the
Church, and to this was doubtless owing the silence and desertion which
reigned over the Campagna.
With a haughty and disdainful motion of her head, the Egyptian turned
away from the sight, and seated herself with her back to the window. The
greyish tinge of half light that foretells the coming night, was fast
falling, as a slight noise startled her. She turned, and beheld two
venerable monks, whose brown hoods and frocks denoted Franciscans,
standing beside her.
‘You are given into our charge, noble lady,’ said one with a tone of
deepest respect. ‘Our orders are to give you a safe-conduct.’
‘Whither to, venerable brother?’ said she calmly.
‘To the convent of St. Ursula, beyond the Tiber.’
‘It is the prison of the Inquisition?’ said she, questioning.
‘There is no Inquisition; there are no prisons,’ muttered the other
monk. ‘They who once met chastisement are won back now with love and
gentleness.’
‘You will be well cared for, and with kindness, noble lady,’ said the
other.
‘It is alike to me; I am ready,’ said she, rising, and preparing to
follow them.