How much accident sometimes serves us--nay, how often our own follies
and indiscretions lead us to better results than our wisdom and
prudence could have attained!
"Conduct is fate," "Knowledge is power," are the favourite doctrines
of those who believe they have conduct, or presume they have
knowledge. Carried to the infinite, both axioms are true, but in every
degree below the infinite they are false; and oh, how false with man!
Every abstract, indeed, is often found to be a practical falsehood.
The wisest and the best of men, from Socrates to Galileo, have, by the
purest conduct, won the worst of fates; and power, either to do good
or evil, slipped from the hands of Bacon just when he reached the acme
of his knowledge. It seems as if God himself were pleased to rebuke
continually the axioms of human vanity, and to show man that no
conduct can overrule his will--no knowledge approach even to the steps
of power.
It was unfortunate for Lorenzo that he had imprudently left all his
men but Antonio below. There were two old monks sitting on the rocks
just before the great gates of the monastery, and talking with each
other earnestly. Both started and rose when they heard the sound of
horses' feet; but as the place where they stood commanded a full view
down the road, they could see at once that the party which approached
was not formidable in point of numbers.
In troublous times men built their houses for defence as well as
shelter, and the monks had found it necessary to use even as much
precaution as their more mundane brethren. The monastery was well
walled, and the rocks on which it stood were fortifications in
themselves; but all the skill of the builder had been expended upon
the great gates, which were assailable from the road leading directly
to them. Two massy towers, however, one on either side, a portcullis
with its herse ready to fall on the heads of any enemies who
approached too near, a deep arch behind that, with loop-holes in the
dark, shadowy sides, and machicolations above, and then two heavy
iron-plated doors, gave sufficient defence against anything but
cannon, which were not likely to be dragged up those heights.
One of the monks, as soon as he had satisfied himself of the number of
the approaching party, seated himself again on the rock; the other
retreated a few steps as if to re-enter the building, but stopped just
under the portcullis.
"What seek you, my son?" said the first, as Lorenzo rode up and drew
in his rein by his side. "We are in great trouble this morning, and
the prior, though unwilling to stint our vowed hospitality, has
commanded that no one be admitted."
"I came to seek intelligence regarding those most dear to me, father,"
replied Lorenzo; "there has been a terrible act committed at the Villa
Morelli down below."
"Alas! alas!" said the old man, "a terrible act indeed."
The monk at the gate had by this time drawn nearer, and was looking
steadfastly at Antonio. "Why, surely," he said, "I saw you at the
villa some weeks ago with the ladies Francesca and Leonora."
"Assuredly," replied Antonio; "you came down seeking Brother Benevole,
and stayed for an hour to hear of what was doing at Naples. It is
those two ladies we are seeking. My young lord set out last night from
Pisa, and we have travelled all night, for the purpose of visiting the
Signora Leonora and Madonna Francesca, and when we arrive we find
nothing but ruin and destruction."
"Alas! alas!" said the old monk who was seated on the rock, fixing a
very keen, and Lorenzo thought a very meaning, look upon the other
friar; "alas! alas! it is very terrible."
"But can you give me any information respecting these ladies, good
fathers?" asked the young lord, somewhat impetuously. "If you knew how
closely I am connected with them, you would comprehend what I would
give for even the slightest information regarding them."
"Alas! we can give you none, my son," answered the old man; "can we,
Brother Thomas? In the grey of the morning we were disturbed by the
coming of that fiend in the shape of a man, and some of us ran out
when they heard the cries and saw the flames, but the prior recalled
us all by the bell, and made us shut the gates and keep quite close
within till the man and his company was gone."
"Of whom are you speaking, father?" asked Lorenzo, abruptly. "Whom do
you call 'the man' and 'that fiend'?"
"Do you not know?" exclaimed the monk. "I mean that demon, enemy of
God and man, calling himself Cæsar, Cardinal of Borgia."
"He shall answer me for this, if it be in the Vatican!" said Lorenzo,
setting his teeth hard. "Come, Antonio, I must follow these men, and
may chance to bring those upon them who will take a bloody vengeance."
"Stay a moment, my lord," whispered Antonio; "there is more to be got
here--there is some news, and it may be good news, lying hid
somewhere. If they saw nothing but what the good monk says, how does
he know it was Don Cæsar? Let me deal with him. Good Father
Sylvester," he continued aloud----
"That is not my name, my son," said the monk upon the rock. "I am
called Fra Nicolo, though sometimes men call me Fra Discreto."
"Well, good Father Nicolo, then," said Antonio, "my young lord here,
Signor Lorenzo Visconti, Knight, proposes to pursue yonder company of
wicked men and bring upon them the whole power of the King of France,
whose cousin he is."
"He will do a good deed," said the old monk, drily.
"But, good father, he cannot do so," said Antonio, "without food for
his horses and men, and drink also. Now I will crave Fra Tomaso here
to go into the prior, and tell him of our case. Ask him to speak with
my young lord in person, for he has a dozen or two of men below, and
as many horses, but he did not choose to approach your peaceful gates
with such a force."
"Brother Thomas can do as he pleases," said the old monk, "but I don't
think the prior can feed so many, especially the horses; so there is
not much use of his going."
Fra Tomaso, however, thought differently, for he immediately turned to
go into the convent; and Antonio, who had dismounted a moment or two
before, went with him as far as the inner gate, whispering eagerly in
his ear all the time. Lorenzo did not perceive that the friar answered
anything, but Antonio's face was much more cheerful when he returned
than it had been after witnessing the ruin of the Villa Morelli.
The old monk who remained did not appear to have any great benevolence
in his nature, or it was not excited by Lorenzo and his servant. "It
is useless," he said--"all useless. There is the prior's mule: that is
all we have."
"Oh, we and our horses are soon satisfied," said Antonio, in his usual
tone. "We only want a little hay and water for ourselves and a little
white bread and wine for our horses."
"I think you are mocking me, my son," said the monk, with a very
cloudy brow. "I do not bear mocking well."
"And yet your Heavenly Master was both mocked and scourged," said
Antonio, "and he uttered not a word."
How far the dispute might have gone between Antonio and Fra
Discreto or Nicolo, had it remained uninterrupted much longer, it is
difficult to say, for the worthy monk was evidently waxing irate; but
at that moment came, almost running forth from the gates, a portly,
jovial-looking friar of some fifty-five or sixty years of age, who
took Antonio in his arms, and gave him a mighty hug. "Welcome!
welcome, my son!" cried Fra Benevole, for he it was; "thrice welcome
at this moment, when we need better comfort than wine can give
us--though, Heaven bless the Pulciano, it was the only thing that did
me good at first. Now this is your young lord, I warrant, of whom you
told me so much, and whom the signorina loves so well."
The very reference to Leonora's name brought down upon the jovial monk
a whole host of questions, but he gave a suspicious look to the old
man, who still continued to oppress the rock, and he likewise
professed inability to answer. But there was something in his manner
which renewed hope in the bosom of Lorenzo, though it did not remove
apprehension. He had spoken of Leonora in the present tense too, not
in the past, and that was something.
"But come to my cell," he cried; "come and rest, and have some light
refreshment; for though I must touch nothing myself, for these three
hours, I can always cater for my friends."
His face was turned toward Lorenzo as he spoke, as if the invitation
was principally directed toward him, and the young nobleman answered,
"I am afraid, good father, I must await the return of Fra Tomaso, who
has gone to bear a message to the prior."
"Oh, Brother Thomas will know where to find you," replied Benevole.
"It was he who told me of your arrival and sent me to you. He will be
sure to seek you first in my cell."
But the monk's hospitable intentions were frustrated by the appearance
of Tomaso himself, followed by no less dignified a person than the
prior himself, a nobleman by birth and a churchman of fair reputation.
Lorenzo dismounted to meet him, and their greetings were courteous, if
not warm.
"I will beg you, my lord," the prior said, "to repose in my apartments
for a time, while your horses and men are cared for by the monastery.
All attention shall be paid to their wants and comfort, and if you
will explain to Brother Benevole where they are exactly, he will have
them brought up to the strangers' lodging."
"They are down by the ruins of the villa," said Lorenzo, "and one man
must remain there to watch that brutal band, for, God willing, they
shall not escape punishment. But I beseech you, reverend father, give
my mind some ease as to the fate----"
The prior bowed his head with graceful dignity, saying, "Of that
presently, my son; let us always trust in God. As to your sentinel,
neither he nor any need remain. We have a watchman in the campanile of
the church. He can see farther than any one below, and will mark
everything at least as well. I lead the way."
Lorenzo followed, leaving Antonio with his friend Benevole and the
horses, and the prior conducted him through a wide court, past the
church, and through the cloister-court to a suite of apartments which
spoke more the habits of a somewhat luxurious literary man than a
severe ecclesiastic.
"These are, by right," said the prior, "the apartments of the abbot;
but an election, as it is called, has not been held for some years,
and may not, perhaps, till a new pope blesses the Church. Pray be
seated, my lord. I see you are impatient," he added, closing the door,
and looking round to assure himself that what he said could not be
overheard. "Set your mind at rest. She for whom I know you feel the
deepest interest has not been injured."
"But is she free? Have not those men carried her off, as they did
others?" exclaimed Lorenzo, in as much impatience as ever.
"She is safe--she is in no danger," replied the prior; "let that
suffice you for the present. If you proposed to follow those daring,
wicked men to rescue her from their hands, the attempt would have been
madness and without object, for she is not with them."
"Let me be sure that we speak of the same person," said Lorenzo, still
unsatisfied.
"Of the Signorina Leonora d'Orco," replied the monk.
"Thank God! oh, thank God!" exclaimed Lorenzo, with a deep sigh. "And
Mona Francesca?" he asked, after a pause; "you have said nothing of
her fate, reverend father."
"Alas! my son," replied the prior, "her fate has been perhaps less
happy, perhaps more so than that of her younger and fairer companion.
It will be as God's grace is granted to her. Let us speak no more of
this. Have you anything else to ask?"
"Simply this," replied Lorenzo; "you are doubtless aware, father, as
you seem to have full knowledge of my relations with the Signora
d'Orco, that she is my promised wife, with the full consent of her
father and the blessing of the good Cardinal Julian de Rovera. It is
absolutely necessary that I should see her, and see her speedily, as I
am obliged to rejoin his Majesty of France at an early hour
to-morrow."
"I fear, my son, that is not possible," said the prior; but the door
opened to admit some of the _servitory_ of the monastery bearing more
than one kind of food and wine, and the good monk stopped suddenly in
his reply. As soon as the refreshments had been spread on a small
stone table, and the room was again clear, he pressed Lorenzo to take
some meat and wine, saying, "I can speak to you while you eat, my
son."
Lorenzo seated himself at the table, and, before he ate anything,
filled the large silver goblet with wine, and drank it off. The mind
was more depressed by anxiety than the body by fatigue. The monk
watched him; for, removed as he was from much active participation in
the world's affairs, he had long been a spectator of the great tragedy
of human life, and comprehended at once, by slight indications, what
was passing in the shadow of the bosoms around him.
"I fear it is impossible, my son," he said, "that you should see the
lady so speedily as you wish. I can communicate with her, it is true,
and can procure for you, under her own hand, assurance which you
cannot doubt, that she is, as I have told you, safe and well; but more
I cannot promise."
"Father, I do not doubt you," said Lorenzo, ceasing from his meal
before more than one mouthful had been tasted. "You would not deceive
me, I am sure; but you cannot tell what I feel--you cannot comprehend
what I endure, and shall endure till I see her again--till I can clasp
her to my heart, and, after she has escaped such a peril, thank God,
with her, for her preservation. In your blessed exemption from the
passions as well as the cares of secular life, you cannot even imagine
the eager, the burning desire I feel to see her, to touch her hand, to
assure myself by every sense that she is safe--that she is mine. Could
you conceive it, you would find or force a way to bring me to her
presence ere I depart for France."
"My son, you are mistaken," said the prior, in a tone of solemn, even
melancholy earnestness. "I can conceive the whole. God help us, poor
sinful mortals that we are. When we renounce the world we renounce its
indulgences; but can we, do we, renounce its passions? How many a
heart beneath the cowl--ay, beneath the mitre--thrills with all the
warmest impulses of man's nature! How many--how terrible are the
struggles, not to subdue the unsubduable passions, but to curb and
regulate them; to bring them into subjection to an ever-present sense
of duty; to chasten, not to kill the most fiery portion of our
immortal essence! My son, you are mistaken; I can conceive your
feelings--nay, I can feel with you and for you. God forbid that, as
some do, I should say these impulses, these sentiments, these
sensations are unconquerable, and therefore must be indulged. On
such principles let the Borgias act. But I say that we--even we
churchmen--must tolerate their existence in our hearts while we
refrain from their indulgence, and that thereby we retain that
sympathy with our fellow-mortals which best enables us to counsel them
aright under all temptations. I will do my best for you, and, if it be
possible, you shall see your Leonora for a time. When must you go
hence?"
"I should set out by sun-down, father," replied Lorenzo; "the King of
France must make a hasty march. Would to Heaven indeed it had been
hastier, for the news we have is bad."
"Can you not remain behind?" said the monk; "you are an Italian, and
not his subject, and it might serve many an excellent purpose if you
could tarry here even for a few days."
"It cannot be, father," answered the young man; "were I to follow my
own will, I would remain for ever by Leonora's side, but I am bound to
King Charles by every tie of gratitude and honour. Those, indeed, I
fear me, I might break in any common circumstance, and trust the king
would pardon me upon the excuse of love; but, father, this is a moment
when I dare not, for my honour, be absent from his force. There are
dangers before and all around him. A battle must be fought ere we can
cut our way to France. His army is small enough, and even one weak
hand may turn the chance for or against him. I had hoped indeed, and I
will own it frankly, that my beloved girl, with her father's full
sanction to our union, which she has, would have consented to be mine
by a hasty marriage, and go with me to France; but, alas! I fear----"
"My son, my son," exclaimed the monk, in a reproachful tone, "you
would not surely dream of taking her into such scenes of danger as you
speak of: nay, that is selfish."
"Is she not in greater danger here in Tuscany?" asked Lorenzo.
"She is in none, I trust," replied the prior. "It was imprudent,
beyond doubt, to come in such times as these to a defenceless villa;
but in Florence she will be safe as any one can be where wrong and
rapine rage as here in Italy. But what you wish is quite impossible.
If you have duties that must take you hence, she has duties also that
must bind her here. I will keep my promise with you; but you must give
up vain wishes and purposes that cannot be executed. She herself will
tell you that it is impossible. Stay a moment; I must ask some
questions."
The prior rose and left the room. He did not close the door behind
him, and Lorenzo heard him give orders to some one without to go up to
the belfry and ascertain if anything could still be seen of the party
who had burned the villa. That done, he rejoined his young guest, but
did not renew the conversation, merely pressing him to eat. In a few
moments, a good fat monk rolled into the room, and announced that the
party of the Borgias were still in sight.
"They have halted, and seem regaling themselves in the gardens of the
Villa Morone," he said; "but I see--at least I think I see, and so
does Brother Luigi--that there are movements taking place about the
gates of the city, and if they stay much longer the Signoria will most
likely send out troops to drive them hence."
"Let them be watched well, good father, I beseech you," exclaimed
Lorenzo; "for if the Florentine troops come forth to attack them, I
will go down to help."
"What an appetite have some men for fighting!" said the prior, making
the monk a sign to depart; "but, my son, you will be better here.
Though our gates and walls may set them at defiance, I do believe, yet
to know that we have some men whose trade is war within might save us
from attack. Now, my son, will you sit here and read, or go with me to
our church and hear high mass? The latter I would counsel, if your
mind be in a fitting state; if not, I never wish any one to attend the
offices of religion with wandering thoughts and inattentive ears."
"I will go with you, father," said the young knight. "I have much to
be thankful for although some hopes may be disappointed; and my
thoughts, I trust, will not wander from my God when I have most cause
to praise Him for sparing to me still the most valuable of all the
blessings he has given me. But is it really the hour for high mass?
How the time flies from us!"
"It wants but a few minutes," said the prior. "Time does fly quickly
to all and every one; but it is only towards the close of life we
really feel how quickly it has flown. Then--then, my son, we know the
value of the treasures we have cast away neglected. Come, I will show
you the way. At the church door I must leave you, and perhaps may not
see you again for several hours; but you can find your way back here
and read or think, if the curiosity of our good brethren be too great
for your patience."
"But you promised," said Lorenzo, eagerly, "that I should see the
Signora Leonora for a time."
"If it be possible," replied the monk; "such was the tenor of my
promise, and it shall not be forgotten. I think it will be possible,"
he added, seeing a shade of disappointment, or, rather, of anxiety,
upon Lorenzo's brow; "but the continued presence of those bad men in
the valley scares away from us those we most need at the present
moment."
He explained himself no further, but led the way onward to the church.
It cannot perhaps be said that the attention of the young nobleman was
not sometimes diverted from the office in which he came to take part;
but there was a soothing influence in the music, and a still more
comforting balm in the very act of prayer. They who reject religion
little know the strength and the consolation, the vigour and the
assurance which is derived even from the acknowledgment of our
dependence upon a Being whom we know to be all-powerful and
all-good--how we can dare all, and endure all, and feel comfort in all
when we raise our hearts in faith to him who can do all for us. How
often in the course of each man's life has he to say--and oh! with
what different feelings and in what different circumstances is it
said--"Help, Lord, I sink!" Nor is it ever said without some
consolation; nor is it ever asked but it is granted--ay, some help is
granted, either in strength, or in resolution, or in patience, or in
deliverance. The fearful exclamation might show some want of faith in
him who had been eye-witness to a thousand miracles, but with us it
shows some faith also. We call upon whom we know to be able to help,
and in the hour of adversity or the moment of peril we remember the
Lord our God, and put our last, best trust in Him.