as I thought at first, a shapeless bunch of white ribbon. Then, as I
looked more intently or as the vision defined itself more clearly, I
perceived what it was. It was the hand of a man, clenched and knotted in
agony, which held on with a convulsive grasp to the fold of the dress.
The rest of the crouching figure was a mere vague outline, but that
strenuous hand shone clear on the dark background, with a sinister
suggestion of tragedy in its frantic clutch. The man is
frightened--horribly frightened. That I can clearly discern. What has
terrified him so? Why does he grip the woman's dress? The answer lies
amongst those moving figures in the background. They have brought
danger both to him and to her. The interest of the thing fascinated me.
I thought no more of its relation to my own nerves. I stared and stared
as if in a theatre. But I could get no further. The mist thinned. There
were tumultuous movements in which all the figures were vaguely
concerned. Then the mirror was clear once more.
The doctor says I must drop work for a day, and I can afford to do so,
for I have made good progress lately. It is quite evident that the
visions depend entirely upon my own nervous state, for I sat in front of
the mirror for an hour to-night, with no result whatever. My soothing
day has chased them away. I wonder whether I shall ever penetrate what
they all mean? I examined the mirror this evening under a good light,
and besides the mysterious inscription "Sanc. X. Pal.," I was able to
discern some signs of heraldic marks, very faintly visible upon the
silver. They must be very ancient, as they are almost obliterated. So
far as I could make out, they were three spear-heads, two above and one
below. I will show them to the doctor when he calls to-morrow.
_Jan. 14._--Feel perfectly well again, and I intend that nothing else
shall stop me until my task is finished. The doctor was shown the marks
on the mirror and agreed that they were armorial bearings. He is deeply
interested in all that I have told him, and cross-questioned me closely
on the details. It amuses me to notice how he is torn in two by
conflicting desires--the one that his patient should lose his symptoms,
the other that the medium--for so he regards me--should solve this
mystery of the past. He advised continued rest, but did not oppose me
too violently when I declared that such a thing was out of the question
until the ten remaining ledgers have been checked.
_Jan. 17._--For three nights I have had no experiences--my day of rest
has borne fruit. Only a quarter of my task is left, but I must make a
forced march, for the lawyers are clamouring for their material. I will
give them enough and to spare. I have him fast on a hundred counts. When
they realise what a slippery, cunning rascal he is, I should gain some
credit from the case. False trading accounts, false balance-sheets,
dividends drawn from capital, losses written down as profits,
suppression of working expenses, manipulation of petty cash--it is a
fine record!
_Jan. 18._--Headaches, nervous twitches, mistiness, fullness of the
temples--all the premonitions of trouble, and the trouble came sure
enough. And yet my real sorrow is not so much that the vision should
come as that it should cease before all is revealed.
But I saw more to-night. The crouching man was as visible as the lady
whose gown he clutched. He is a little swarthy fellow, with a black
pointed beard. He has a loose gown of damask trimmed with fur. The
prevailing tints of his dress are red. What a fright the fellow is in,
to be sure! He cowers and shivers and glares back over his shoulder.
There is a small knife in his other hand, but he is far too tremulous
and cowed to use it. Dimly now I begin to see the figures in the
background. Fierce faces, bearded and dark, shape themselves out of the
mist. There is one terrible creature, a skeleton of a man, with hollow
cheeks and eyes sunk in his head. He also has a knife in his hand. On
the right of the woman stands a tall man, very young, with flaxen hair,
his face sullen and dour. The beautiful woman looks up at him in
appeal. So does the man on the ground. This youth seems to be the
arbiter of their fate. The crouching man draws closer and hides himself
in the woman's skirts. The tall youth bends and tries to drag her away
from him. So much I saw last night before the mirror cleared. Shall I
never know what it leads to and whence it comes? It is not a mere
imagination, of that I am very sure. Somewhere, some time, this scene
has been acted, and this old mirror has reflected it. But when--where?
_Jan. 20._--My work draws to a close, and it is time. I feel a tenseness
within my brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which warns me that
something must give. I have worked myself to the limit. But to-night
should be the last night. With a supreme effort I should finish the
final ledger and complete the case before I rise from my chair. I will
do it. I will.
_Feb. 7._--I did. My God, what an experience! I hardly know if I am
strong enough yet to set it down.
Let me explain in the first instance that I am writing this in Dr.
Sinclair's private hospital some three weeks after the last entry in my
diary. On the night of January 20 my nervous system finally gave way,
and I remembered nothing afterwards until I found myself three days ago
in this home of rest. And I can rest with a good conscience. My work was
done before I went under. My figures are in the solicitors' hands. The
hunt is over.
And now I must describe that last night. I had sworn to finish my work,
and so intently did I stick to it, though my head was bursting, that I
would never look up until the last column had been added. And yet it was
fine self-restraint, for all the time I knew that wonderful things were
happening in the mirror. Every nerve in my body told me so. If I looked
up there was an end of my work. So I did not look up till all was
finished. Then, when at last with throbbing temples I threw down my pen
and raised my eyes, what a sight was there!
The mirror in its silver frame was like a stage, brilliantly lit, in
which a drama was in progress. There was no mist now. The oppression of
my nerves had wrought this amazing clarity. Every feature, every
movement, was as clear-cut as in life. To think that I, a tired
accountant, the most prosaic of mankind, with the account-books of a
swindling bankrupt before me, should be chosen of all the human race to
look upon such a scene!
It was the same scene and the same figures, but the drama had advanced a
stage. The tall young man was holding the woman in his arms. She
strained away from him and looked up at him with loathing in her face.
They had torn the crouching man away from his hold upon the skirt of her
dress. A dozen of them were round him--savage men, bearded men. They
hacked at him with knives. All seemed to strike him together. Their arms
rose and fell. The blood did not flow from him--it squirted. His red
dress was dabbled in it. He threw himself this way and that, purple upon
crimson, like an over-ripe plum. Still they hacked, and still the jets
shot from him. It was horrible--horrible! They dragged him kicking to
the door. The woman looked over her shoulder at him and her mouth gaped.
I heard nothing, but I knew that she was screaming. And then, whether it
was this nerve-racking vision before me, or whether, my task finished,
all the overwork of the past weeks came in one crushing weight upon me,
the room danced round me, the floor seemed to sink away beneath my feet,
and I remembered no more. In the early morning my landlady found me
stretched senseless before the silver mirror, but I knew nothing myself
until three days ago I awoke in the deep peace of the doctor's nursing
home.
_Feb. 9._--Only to-day have I told Dr. Sinclair my full experience. He
had not allowed me to speak of such matters before. He listened with an
absorbed interest. "You don't identify this with any well-known scene in
history?" he asked, with suspicion in his eyes. I assured him that I
knew nothing of history. "Have you no idea whence that mirror came and
to whom it once belonged?" he continued. "Have you?" I asked, for he
spoke with meaning. "It's incredible," said he, "and yet how else can
one explain it? The scenes which you described before suggested it, but
now it has gone beyond all range of coincidence. I will bring you some
notes in the evening."
_Later._--He has just left me. Let me set down his words as closely as I
can recall them. He began by laying several musty volumes upon my bed.
"These you can consult at your leisure," said he. "I have some notes
here which you can confirm. There is not a doubt that what you have seen
is the murder of Rizzio by the Scottish nobles in the presence of Mary,
which occurred in March, 1566. Your description of the woman is
accurate. The high forehead and heavy eyelids combined with great beauty
could hardly apply to two women. The tall young man was her husband,
Darnley. Rizzio, says the chronicle, 'was dressed in a loose
dressing-gown of furred damask, with hose of russet velvet.' With one
hand he clutched Mary's gown, with the other he held a dagger. Your
fierce, hollow-eyed man was Ruthven, who was new-risen from a bed of
sickness. Every detail is exact."
"But why to me?" I asked, in bewilderment. "Why of all the human race to
me?"
"Because you were in the fit mental state to receive the impression.
Because you chanced to own the mirror which gave the impression."
"The mirror! You think, then, that it was Mary's mirror--that it stood
in the room where the deed was done?"
"I am convinced that it was Mary's mirror. She had been Queen of France.
Her personal property would be stamped with the Royal arms. What you
took to be three spear-heads were really the lilies of France."
"And the inscription?"
"'Sanc. X. Pal.' You can expand it into Sanctae Crucis Palatium. Some one
has made a note upon the mirror as to whence it came. It was the Palace
of the Holy Cross."
"Holyrood!" I cried.
"Exactly. Your mirror came from Holyrood. You have had one very singular
experience, and have escaped. I trust that you will never put yourself
into the way of having such another."
XI
THE HOME-COMING
In the spring of the year 528, a small brig used to run as a passenger
boat between Chalcedon on the Asiatic shore and Constantinople. On the
morning in question, which was that of the feast of Saint George, the
vessel was crowded with excursionists who were bound for the great city
in order to take part in the religious and festive celebrations which
marked the festival of the Megalo-martyr, one of the most choice
occasions in the whole vast hagiology of the Eastern Church. The day was
fine and the breeze light, so that the passengers in their holiday mood
were able to enjoy without a qualm the many objects of interest which
marked the approach to the greatest and most beautiful capital in the
world.
On the right, as they sped up the narrow strait, there stretched the
Asiatic shore, sprinkled with white villages and with numerous villas
peeping out from the woods which adorned it. In front of them, the
Prince's Islands, rising as green as emeralds out of the deep sapphire
blue of the Sea of Marmora, obscured for the moment the view of the
capital. As the brig rounded these, the great city burst suddenly upon
their sight, and a murmur of admiration and wonder rose from the crowded
deck. Tier above tier it rose, white and glittering, a hundred brazen
roofs and gilded statues gleaming in the sun, with high over all the
magnificent shining cupola of Saint Sophia. Seen against a cloudless
sky, it was the city of a dream--too delicate, too airily lovely for
earth.
In the prow of the small vessel were two travellers of singular
appearance. The one was a very beautiful boy, ten or twelve years of
age, swarthy, clear-cut, with dark, curling hair and vivacious black
eyes, full of intelligence and of the joy of living. The other was an
elderly man, gaunt-faced and grey-bearded, whose stern features were lit
up by a smile as he observed the excitement and interest with which his
young companion viewed the beautiful distant city and the many vessels
which thronged the narrow strait.
"See! see!" cried the lad. "Look at the great red ships which sail out
from yonder harbour. Surely, your holiness, they are the greatest of all
ships in the world."
The old man, who was the abbot of the monastery of Saint Nicephorus in
Antioch, laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder.
"Be wary, Leon, and speak less loudly, for until we have seen your
mother we should keep ourselves secret. As to the red galleys they are
indeed as large as any, for they are the Imperial ships of war, which
come forth from the harbour of Theodosius. Round yonder green point is
the Golden Horn, where the merchant ships are moored. But now, Leon, if
you follow the line of buildings past the great church, you will see a
long row of pillars fronting the sea. It marks the Palace of the
Caesars."
The boy looked at it with fixed attention. "And my mother is there," he
whispered.
"Yes, Leon, your mother the Empress Theodora and her husband the great
Justinian dwell in yonder palace."
The boy looked wistfully up into the old man's face.
"Are you sure, Father Luke, that my mother will indeed be glad to see
me?"
The abbot turned away his face to avoid those questioning eyes.
"We cannot tell, Leon. We can only try. If it should prove that there is
no place for you, then there is always a welcome among the brethren of
Saint Nicephorus."
"Why did you not tell my mother that we were coming, Father Luke? Why
did you not wait until you had her command?"
"At a distance, Leon, it would be easy to refuse you. An Imperial
messenger would have stopped us. But when she sees you, Leon--your eyes,
so like her own, your face, which carries memories of one whom she
loved--then, if there be a woman's heart within her bosom, she will take
you into it. They say that the Emperor can refuse her nothing. They have
no child of their own. There is a great future before you, Leon. When it
comes, do not forget the poor brethren of Saint Nicephorus, who took you
in when you had no friend in the world."
The old abbot spoke cheerily, but it was easy to see from his anxious
countenance that the nearer he came to the capital the more doubtful
did his errand appear. What had seemed easy and natural from the quiet
cloisters of Antioch became dubious and dark now that the golden domes
of Constantinople glittered so close at hand. Ten years before, a
wretched woman, whose very name was an offence throughout the eastern
world, where she was as infamous for her dishonour as famous for her
beauty, had come to the monastery gate, and had persuaded the monks to
take charge of her infant son, the child of her shame. There he had been
ever since. But she, Theodora, the harlot, returning to the capital, had
by the strangest turn of fortune's wheel caught the fancy and finally
the enduring love of Justinian the heir to the throne. Then on the death
of his uncle Justin, the young man had become the greatest monarch upon
the earth, and raised Theodora to be not only his wife and Empress, but
to be absolute ruler with powers equal to and independent of his own.
And she, the polluted one, had risen to the dignity, had cut herself
sternly away from all that related to her past life, and had shown signs
already of being a great Queen, stronger and wiser than her husband,
but fierce, vindictive, and unbending, a firm support to her friends,
but a terror to her foes. This was the woman to whom the Abbot Luke of
Antioch was bringing Leon, her forgotten son. If ever her mind strayed
back to the days when, abandoned by her lover Ecebolus, the Governor of
the African Pentapolis, she had made her way on foot through Asia Minor,
and left her infant with the monks, it was only to persuade herself that
the brethren cloistered far from the world would never identify Theodora
the Empress with Theodora the dissolute wanderer, and that the fruits of
her sin would be for ever concealed from her Imperial husband.
The little brig had now rounded the point of the Acropolis, and the long
blue stretch of the Golden Horn lay before it. The high wall of
Theodosius lined the whole harbour, but a narrow verge of land had been
left between it and the water's edge to serve as a quay. The vessel ran
alongside near the Neorion Gate, and the passengers, after a short
scrutiny from the group of helmeted guards who lounged beside it, were
allowed to pass through into the great city.
The abbot, who had made several visits to Constantinople upon the
business of his monastery, walked with the assured step of one who knows
his ground; while the boy, alarmed and yet pleased by the rush of
people, the roar and clatter of passing chariots, and the vista of
magnificent buildings, held tightly to the loose gown of his guide,
while staring eagerly about him in every direction. Passing through the
steep and narrow streets which led up from the water, they emerged into
the open space which surrounds the magnificent pile of Saint Sophia, the
great church begun by Constantine, hallowed by Saint Chrysostom, and now
the seat of the Patriarch, and the very centre of the Eastern Church.
Only with many crossings and genuflections did the pious abbot succeed
in passing the revered shrine of his religion, and hurried on to his
difficult task.
Having passed Saint Sophia, the two travellers crossed the marble-paved
Augusteum, and saw upon their right the gilded gates of the hippodrome
through which a vast crowd of people was pressing, for though the
morning had been devoted to the religious ceremony, the afternoon was
given over to secular festivities. So great was the rush of the
populace that the two strangers had some difficulty in disengaging
themselves from the stream and reaching the huge arch of black marble
which formed the outer gate of the palace. Within they were fiercely
ordered to halt by a gold-crested and magnificent sentinel who laid his
shining spear across their breasts until his superior officer should
give them permission to pass. The abbot had been warned, however, that
all obstacles would give way if he mentioned the name of Basil the
eunuch, who acted as chamberlain of the palace and also as
Parakimomen--a high office which meant that he slept at the door of the
Imperial bed-chamber. The charm worked wonderfully, for at the mention
of that potent name the Protosphathaire, or Head of the Palace Guards,
who chanced to be upon the spot, immediately detached one of his
soldiers with instructions to convoy the two strangers into the presence
of the chamberlain.
Passing in succession a middle guard and an inner guard, the travellers
came at last into the palace proper, and followed their majestic guide
from chamber to chamber, each more wonderful than the last. Marbles and
gold, velvet and silver, glittering mosaics, wonderful carvings, ivory
screens, curtains of Armenian tissue and of Indian silk, damask from
Arabia, and amber from the Baltic--all these things merged themselves in
the minds of the two simple provincials, until their eyes ached and
their senses reeled before the blaze and the glory of this, the most
magnificent of the dwellings of man. Finally, a pair of curtains,
crusted with, gold, were parted, and their guide handed them over to a
negro eunuch who stood within. A heavy, fat, brown-skinned man, with a
large, flabby, hairless face, was pacing up and down the small
apartment, and he turned upon them as they entered with an abominable
and threatening smile. His loose lips and pendulous cheeks were those of
a gross old woman, but above them there shone a pair of dark malignant
eyes, full of fierce intensity of observation and judgment.
"You have entered the palace by using my name," he said. "It is one of
my boasts that any of the populace can approach me in this way. But it
is not fortunate for those who take advantage of it without due cause."
Again he smiled a smile which made the frightened boy cling tightly to
the loose serge skirts of the abbot.
But the ecclesiastic was a man of courage. Undaunted by the sinister
appearance of the great chamberlain, or by the threat which lay in his
words, he laid his hand upon his young companion's shoulder and faced
the eunuch with a confident smile.
"I have no doubt, your excellency," said he, "that the importance of my
mission has given me the right to enter the palace. The only thing which
troubles me is whether it may not be so important as to forbid me from
broaching it to you, or indeed, to anybody save the Empress Theodora,
since it is she only whom it concerns."
The eunuch's thick eyebrows bunched together over his vicious eyes.
"You must make good those words," he said. "If my gracious master--the
ever-glorious Emperor Justinian--does not disdain to take me into his
most intimate confidence in all things, it would be strange if there
were any subject within your knowledge which I might not hear. You are,
as I gather from your garb and bearing, the abbot of some Asiatic
monastery?"
"You are right, your excellency, I am the Abbot of the Monastery of St.
Nicephorus in Antioch. But I repeat that I am assured that what I have
to say is for the ear of the Empress Theodora only."
The eunuch was evidently puzzled, and his curiosity aroused by the old
man's persistence. He came nearer, his heavy face thrust forward, his
flabby brown hands, like two sponges, resting upon the table of yellow
jasper before him.
"Old man," said he, "there is no secret which concerns the Empress which
may not be told to me. But if you refuse to speak, it is certain that
you will never see her. Why should I admit you, unless I know your
errand? How should I know that you are not a Manichean heretic with a
poniard in your bosom, longing for the blood of the mother of the
Church?"
The abbot hesitated no longer. "If there be a mistake in the matter,
then on your head be it," said he. "Know then that this lad Leon is the
son of Theodora the Empress, left by her in our monastery within a month
of his birth ten years ago. This papyrus which I hand you will show you
that what I say is beyond all question or doubt."
The eunuch Basil took the paper, but his eyes were fixed upon the boy,
and his features showed a mixture of amazement at the news that he had
received, and of cunning speculation as to how he could turn it to
profit.
"Indeed, he is the very image of the Empress," he muttered; and then,
with sudden suspicion, "Is it not the chance of this likeness which has
put the scheme into your head, old man?"
"There is but one way to answer that," said the abbot. "It is to ask the
Empress herself whether what I say is not true, and to give her the glad
tidings that her boy is alive and well."
The tone of confidence, together with the testimony of the papyrus, and
the boy's beautiful face, removed the last shadow of doubt from the
eunuch's mind. Here was a great fact; but what use could be made of it?
Above all, what advantage could he draw from it? He stood with his fat
chin in his hand, turning it over in his cunning brain.
"Old man," said he at last, "to how many have you told this secret?"
"To no one in the whole world," the other answered. "There is Deacon
Bardas at the monastery and myself. No one else knows anything."
"You are sure of this?"
"Absolutely certain."
The eunuch had made up his mind. If he alone of all men in the palace
knew of this event, he would have a powerful hold over his masterful
mistress. He was certain that Justinian the Emperor knew nothing of
this. It would be a shock to him. It might even alienate his affections
from his wife. She might care to take precautions to prevent him from
knowing. And if he, Basil the eunuch, was her confederate in those
precautions, then how very close it must draw him to her. All this
flashed through his mind as he stood, the papyrus in his hand, looking
at the old man and the boy.
"Stay here," said he. "I will be with you again." With a swift rustle of
his silken robes he swept from the chamber.