Lorenzo had mounted the many steps leading to the top of the belfry of
the church, and there, with the old monk who was keeping watch, he
gazed over the beautiful valley of the Arno. High--high up in the air
he stood, far above the rocks and treetops, with the whole country
round, as it were, mapped out before him. The sun was rapidly nearing
the horizon, and there was that undefinable transparent purple in the
atmosphere which in Italy precedes, for nearly an hour, the shades of
night; but yet all was still clear and bright, and the various objects
in the landscape could be distinguished perhaps more sharply than in
the full light of day.
"There they go," said the old monk who was on watch, pointing with his
hand in the direction of the mountains. "They have a good guess that
the people of Florence would not have them here much longer, and so
they are taking themselves away."
Lorenzo turned his eye in the direction to which the monk pointed, and
saw, winding along the mountain road to San Miniato, a long troop of
horse, evidently the same which had been ranging the Valley of the
Arno. He watched them over the several undulations of ground, now
disappearing, now rising again into sight, till at length the foremost
horseman reached the gap over the farthest hill in view, and one by
one they passed out of the range of vision, except a small party which
lingered for a moment or two on the side of the hill, as if taking a
survey of the country they were leaving, and then, following their
companions, disappeared.
"I must go down and tell the prior," said the monk; "but I may as well
ring the bell as I go, to let the people of the country know they are
gone."
Thus saying, he began to descend; but Lorenzo lingered still a few
minutes on the top of the tower, while the great bell below him tolled
out in quick, and, to his ear, joyful tones, the announcement to the
whole country round that the brutal marauders had departed. Hardly had
three or four strokes been given upon the bell when Lorenzo could
perceive a number of women issuing from the various peasants' houses
in sight, and taking their way by narrow mountain paths towards the
monastery or the villa.
He followed the monk down, however, without much delay, and at the
base of the belfry found the old man talking with the prior between
the church and the tower.
"Come with me, my son," said the prior; "I can now keep my promise
with you;" and he led him on through the close around the church,
through the cloisters, and through a long, dimly-lighted passage,
which opened by a key at the prior's girdle, and the next moment
Lorenzo found himself in a small octagonal room, the arched ceiling of
which was supported by a light column in the centre. It seemed well
and tastefully furnished, and on one of the sides was a little recess,
where hung a crucifix and a vessel of holy water.
"Wait here, my son, a few minutes," said the monk; "as soon as the
women come up from below, the signora will join you. She can remain
with you till the hour you have named for your departure. Be wise, be
good, and may God bless you and reunite you soon."
The light in the room was very dim, for the windows consisted only of
those light plates of marble which have been mentioned before; and the
prior, turning before he departed, added, "I will bid her bring a
lamp, otherwise you will soon be in darkness."
He went not out by the same door through which he had entered, and
Lorenzo could hear for some moments the fall of his sandal upon the
pavement, as if he were walking through a long and vaulted passage.
The sound ceased, and the young man's heart beat high with hope and
expectation; but still many a minute elapsed--and to him they seemed
long minutes indeed--before any sound again met his ear. Then there
was a slight rustle, with a quick, light footstep, and through the
chink of the door, which the prior had left ajar, came a ray of light
as from a lamp.
But poor Lorenzo was to be again disappointed. True, the door opened,
and a female form appeared bearing a light; but it was that of a
country girl, who, setting down the lamp on the table, looked up in
Lorenzo's face with a frank good-humoured smile, saying:
"The signora will be here as soon as I get back to attend on Mona
Francesca."
Thus saying, she tripped away, and in a few moments more, a sound not
to be mistaken met Lorenzo's ear, the well known fall of Leonora's
foot, which had so often made his heart thrill in the halls of the
Villa Rovera.
He could not wait till she had reached the room, but ran along the
passage to meet her, and then she was in his arms, and then their lips
were pressed together in all the warmth of young and passionate love,
and then her face was hid upon his bosom, and the tears poured forth
abundantly; and then he kissed them away, and, with his arm cast round
her, and her hand in his, he led her into the room to which the prior
had conducted him.
Let us pass over some five or ten minutes, for all was now a tumult
and confusion of sensations, and words, and caresses, which it would
be difficult to distinguish, and which had meaning only for those who
felt and heard them.
At length, when some degree of calmness was restored, the quick and
eager explanations followed. Leonora told him how the news of the
king's arrival at Pisa had been brought two days before by the
peasantry, and how she had waited, and watched, and could not sleep,
and rose while day was yet infirm and pale, in order not to lose one
moment of his beloved company. Then she told him that on the morning
of that eventful day she had left her bed early, and was hardly
dressed when the sound of horses' feet on the road had made her start
to the window in the joyful hope that they had come at length. She saw
strange arms and strange faces by the pale light of morning, but still
she fancied they were French corps which she did not know; and,
imagining that he must have dismounted and entered before his
companions, she ran along the broad corridor to meet him. To her
surprise and terror, however, she saw a stranger gorgeously habited
and followed by two men in arms, and turning suddenly back, she fled
towards her own apartments. She heard her own name called aloud, she
said, and a sweet and musical voice bidding her stop; but, as if it
were by instinct, she continued her flight. Then came a fierce oath,
and an angry command to follow and bring her back.
"In Heaven's name, how did you escape, my beloved?" exclaimed Lorenzo,
pressing her closely to him.
"Most happily," replied Leonora; "Mona Francesca--it was but
yesterday--had made a great exertion for her, and shown me all the
apartments of the villa, the passages, the corridors, and even the
private way, which her husband constructed before his death, from the
old part of the villa to the monastery above. He was a very pious man,
she said, and often ascended by that passage to pray alone in the
church. I know not why, but I had remarked the passage particularly
and the secret door that led to it; and, without any reason that I
know of, I had opened and shut the door several times, as if to make
myself completely mistress of the means. It would almost seem that I
had a presentiment that my safety might depend upon it; and yet I do
not remember any such feeling at the time. Now, however, when I heard
the footsteps of the three men following me fast, I darted past my own
room, and, winged with fear, fled through the corridors toward the
apartments of Mona Francesca; but I heard voices and loud words in
that direction, and, turning sharply to the right through the old
stone hall, I came suddenly on the secret door, and had opened, passed
in, and closed it before I well knew what I was doing. I stopped as
soon as I had entered the passage, and leaned against the wall for
support, for I was terrified and out of breath with the rapidity of my
flight. Every moment I expected to hear them at the door, and, though
it was well concealed in the masonry, feared they might discover it
and break in. I suppose that my quickness in threading passages which
they did not know had puzzled them, for I heard no steps approach the
door while I stood there. But other and terrible sounds met my ear. I
heard the shrieks of women. Oh! dear Lorenzo, I heard the voice of my
own poor girl Judita crying for mercy; and I fled onward to the
monastery; hoping that the good monks might be able to give that help
which I could not give. I know not well how I came hither, but it was
through long passages, and up many flights of steps, and at last I
found myself in the church. Nor can I well describe to you all that
followed, for my brain seemed confused and stupified with terror. The
prior, and, indeed, all the monks, were very kind to me; but when I
besought them to go down and help the poor people in the villa, they
shook their heads sadly, and pointed to the red light that was rising
up over the tree-tops. The prior, however, brought me along these
passages to a room beyond--it is in one of the towers upon the walls,
I believe--and, leaving me there told me I should be safe, and that he
would go to see what could be done for my poor kinswoman. Oh, Lorenzo,
what a terrible half hour I passed there; and, at length, sorrow was
added to fear, for they bore in upon a pallet poor Mona Francesca,
living, it is true, and, I trust, likely to live, but dreadfully
burned; her neck, her face, her hands, all scorched and swollen, to
that you would not know her. She is suffering agony, and the livelong
day I have sat bathing her with water from the cool well. I have had
none to help me till a few minutes ago, for the peasant girls, it
seems, have been afraid to come up as long as these terrible men were
in sight. At length, however, the girl you saw just now arrived, and
then the prior told me you were here, but must depart tonight. Oh,
Lorenzo, is it so? and will you leave me again so soon?"
Lorenzo's tale had now to be related, and he told her all--the bond of
honour which he felt himself under to accompany the King of France,
and the hopes--the wild, delusive hopes--with which he had come
thither. Leonora listened sadly, and for a few moments after he had
done speaking she sat silent, with the tears glittering in her eyes,
but not overrunning the long black lashes.
"You must go, Lorenzo," she said at length--"you must go. God forbid
that I should keep you when honour and duty call you hence, though my
selfish heart would say, 'Stay.' Oh that you had been a day earlier!
Then all this day's terrible agonies might have been spared us, and
even the pain of parting which is before us. Willingly--willingly, my
Lorenzo, would I have been your bride at an hour's notice, and I do
believe that poor Francesca would have gone with us. But now, oh
Lorenzo! you cannot ask me to leave her. I know you will not. If you
could see the agony she is suffering, you would not have the heart to
do it."
Lorenzo was silent, for the struggle in his bosom was terrible. She
spoke in such a tone that he thought he might still prevail if he had
but the hardness to press her urgently, and yet he felt that he should
esteem, if not love, her less if she yielded. He remained silent, for
he could not speak; but at length her sweet voice decided him.
"Lorenzo, strengthen me," she said; "I am very weak. Tell me--tell me
that it is my duty to remain--that not even love can justify such a
cruel, such an ungrateful act; and, as I tell you to go because honour
calls you away, oh bid me to stay because it is right to do so."
He pressed her to his heart more fondly than ever; he covered her
brow, her cheeks, her lips, with kisses; he held her hand in his as if
he never could part with it, and but few more words were spoken till
the prior came to tell him his horses were prepared and his men
mounted. Then came the terrible parting.
"Father," he said, "I leave her to your care. Oh! you can not tell
what a precious charge it is! In a few weeks I will return to claim
her as my own. Oh! watch over her till then. My brain seems disordered
with the very thought of the dangers that surround her in these days
of violence and wrong."
"Be calm, my son--be calm," said the prior. "Trust in a holier and
more powerful protector. He has saved her this day; He can save her
still. As for me, I will do all that weak man can do. But the first
thing is to remove her, as soon as may be, to the city. Even such holy
walls as these are no safeguard from the violence of man in these
days; but in the city she will be secure. And now, my son, come. Do
you not see how terribly a lingering parting agitates her? Do not
protract it, but come away at once, and then rejoin her again, as soon
as it is possible, to part no more."
Both felt that what he said was just, and yet one long, last,
lingering embrace, and then it was over. All seemed darkness to the
eyes of Leonora d'Orco as she sat there alone. All seemed darkness to
Lorenzo Visconti as he rode away.