CHAPTER X.

MONSIEUR LE CHEVALIER IS PAID IN FULL.

It was too late. Before I realized it, the courtyard was full of armed

men. La Coquille, who had flung himself to the front with his sword

drawn, was ridden down and secured ere he could strike a blow, whilst

Lalande and Pierre, who bore no weapons but their poniards, and were

utterly surprised, shared the like fate. So suddenly and quickly was

this done that--for the courage had gone out of my finger-tips--I

had no time to flee, and I stood like a stone, whilst a sea of

savage faces surged around me. I gave myself for dead, and one, a

trooper--more brute than man--raised his sword to slay me, but was

struck from his horse in the act. Then some one seemed to come from

nowhere to my side--a tall, straight figure, with a shining blade in

his hand, and he called out, "Back! back! Or I run the first man

through!"

The men were called to order in a moment at that tone of command,

though a voice I well knew and now hated called out:

"Well done, de Rosny, my squire of dames. _Pardieu!_ We have the whole

hive--Queen-Bee and all."

"By God!" said another, "they will hang from the rafters in a

half-hour, then--my poor Ganache!" And the speaker, whose rough, harsh

voice was as pitiless as his speech, swore a bitter oath. "Gently,

Tremblecourt," replied the one who had been called de Rosny; "our poor

de Ganache's soul has not flown so far but that the others can

overtake it in time." And then de Clermont came up to me, but as he

passed la Coquille in so doing, the latter strained at his cords, and

hissed rather than spoke out the word "Traitor!" as he spat at him.

"You hang in a little time head downwards at de Lorgnac's feet for

that," said de Clermont calmly, and then turning to me, "'Tis a sad

business this, madame; but war is war, and after all things are going

as you would have them, are they not?"

I could not bear to meet that sneering, beautiful face, which, now

that its mask was snatched away, cared not in how evil an aspect it

showed itself. Words would not come to me, and as I stood there before

de Clermont, quivering in every limb at the awful threat conveyed in

his speech to la Coquille, de Tremblecourt's voice rang out again, mad

and broken with rage:

"Away with them! Sling them from the parapet--now!"

The men around rushed with a yell at la Coquille and his

fellow-prisoners--God pardon those who cause the horrors of war--but

my defender, de Rosny, again interposed, and drove them back, despite

de Tremblecourt's angry protests, whilst de Clermont stayed his rage

with a quiet:

"Be still, Tremblecourt. The King will be here in ten minutes with our

other prisoner, and we will deal with Messieurs--in a bunch," and he

glanced at me with a meaning in his eyes that I read as an open page.

"Come, madame," said de Rosny, who saw my pallor, "let me take you out

of this. I pledge the word of Bethune that no harm will touch you; but

that is to happen, I fear, which is not fit for you to see." With

these words he took my arm kindly and led me inside, unresisting and

as in a dream. In the hall where we stopped I forced myself to regain

some courage. It was no time for a faint heart.

"Monsieur! What does this all mean? What is to happen to de Lorgnac?

Tell me--I am his wife, monsieur."

He bowed gravely yet sadly. "The King of Navarre is generous, madame.

Henri will be here soon, and all may yet be well. In the meantime rest

you here, and compose yourself--you are safe from harm."

With this, he, who was in after years to be the first man in France,

left me almost stunned and broken by what I had heard. Now that I was

about to lose him--nay, had already lost him, for nothing, I felt

sure, would move these pitiless hearts--I realized to the end what de

Lorgnac was to me, and with this came the dreadful conviction that it

was I, and I alone, who had brought this on my husband. I, a fool in

my folly, who did not know my own heart, I who with a word might have

stayed and kept him who was all in all to me, had driven him forth

with my senseless pride to death. I could do nothing to save him. What

could a woman do against these men? And then it was as if the whole

horror that was to be pictured itself before my eyes, and a mocking

fiend gibed in whispers in my ears, "You, you have done this!" Almost

with a cry I sprang from my seat, my hand on my forehead and an

unspoken prayer on my lips. I felt that my brain was giving way, and

that I must do something to regain myself and think. This was no time

for aught but action, and here I was giving way utterly. I might do

something--surely my woman's wit could suggest some means of saving my

husband? Then what happens to those who are face to face with an awful

terror happened to me, and, as once before, I fell on my knees before

God's Throne, and prayed in a mortal agony. "God help me in my

distress!" I called out aloud, and a quiet voice answered:

"Perhaps He has sent the help, Denise."

I sprang up with a start, a wild hope rushing through my heart, and

saw Raoul de Clermont before me, with the sneering hardness out of his

face and all the old soft light in his eyes. If it was so--if he but

bore me the glad tidings his words hinted at--I could forgive him all,

and be his friend forever.

"Say that again, monsieur," I gasped; "say it again and I will bless

you to my last breath." And as I spoke the heavy folds of the curtain

that covered the doorway moved as if stirred by a wind.

"I said that perhaps God"--and he bowed reverently--ah! devil and

traitor!--"that perhaps God has answered your prayer. You have asked

for help, and it has come. I am here to offer it. I, and I alone, can

save de Lorgnac, by force if necessary, for I have fifty lances at my

heels, and it rests with you to say the word. I have been mad, Denise;

then I came to my senses; and now I am mad again. I love you--do you

hear? Love you as man never loved woman. You beautiful thing of ice!

Come with me, and de Lorgnac is free. Come!"

In his eagerness he put forth his hand towards me, but with a shudder

I drew back and his face darkened. Then nerving myself, I made one

last appeal.

"Raoul de Clermont, I believed you once to be a man of honour. Let me

think so again; give me the chance. Be merciful for once. Save my

husband as you say you can. See, it is a wife who pleads. Man! There

must be some spark of knighthood in you to fire your soul! You are

brave, I know. Can you not be generous and pitiful? You have tried to

kill my soul. Monsieur, I will forget that--I will forget the past,

and thank you forever if you do this. Save him, for I love him!"

"Love him!"

"Yes, love him as he deserves to be loved, and by a better woman. De

Clermont, be true to yourself."

His breath came thick and fast, and then he spoke with an effort:

"You ask too much, Denise. I have offered you my terms. I give you

five minutes to say yes or no, and I will take your answer as final.

God is answering your prayer in His own way," he went on, with the

shadow of a sneer once more across his lips.

"He mostly does," came the reply, as the curtain was lifted and de

Rosny stepped in, calling out as he entered, "Madame, the King!"

Then there was a tramp of spurred boots, the clashing of steel

scabbards, the waving of plumes, and ere I knew it I was at the feet

of the Bourbon, sobbing out my prayer for mercy.

He raised me gently--there was no more knightly heart than his.

"Madame! It is not enemies that Henri de Bourbon needs, but friends.

It is not sorrow his presence would cause, but joy. There has been

enough blood shed already in this miserable affair, and--I think it is

my good de Rosny here who anticipated me--all our prisoners are free,

but there is some one here who will tell you the rest himself better

than the Bearnnois can." And, putting a kind hand on my shoulder, he

faced me round to meet the eyes of de Lorgnac.

"I have come back unasked, Denise," he said; but I could make no

answer, and then he took me in his arms and kissed me before them all.

"A wedding present to the happy pair!" and something struck me lightly

on the shoulder and fell at my feet. It was the glove that de Clermont

had snatched from me on the day of my marriage. "I return a present

from madame, given to me on her wedding day. It is no longer of use to

me--Monsieur le Chevalier, will you not take it?" and de Clermont was

before us, the same awful look in his eyes that I had seen there when

he played with death before de Norreys.

De Lorgnac's arm dropped from my waist, and his bronzed face paled as

he stood as if petrified, looking at the soft white glove at my feet.

Then with a voice as hard and stern as his look he turned to me, and

pointing to the glove, said:

"Is this true, madame?"

"It is my glove," was all I could say.

"And permit me to restore it to you," cut in the King, and with a

movement he lifted the glove and placed it in my husband's hand. "Give

it to her back, man! Madame de Canillac was at your wedding, and my

good Margot who writes me such clever letters, and they have both told

me the story of your marriage, and the incident of the glove. They

both saw it snatched from your wife's hand by M. le Marquis--Ventre

St. Gris! For once I think a woman's gossip has done some good--and on

the word of Navarre what I say is true. As for you, monsieur," and

Henri turned to de Clermont, "Monsieur de Rosny here has my commands

for you, and your further presence is excused."

My husband's arm was round my waist once more; but de Clermont made no

movement to go, standing quietly twisting his short blonde moustache.

"Monsieur, you have heard his Majesty," put in de Rosny.

"Yes--I thought, however, that Monsieur de Lorgnac might have a word

to say ere I went."

"That will be in another place, and over our crossed swords, Monsieur

le Marquis," replied my husband, heedless of my entreating look and

gesture, and in as cold and measured a voice as de Clermont's.

"I am at your service, monsieur, when and wherever you please," and

with this, and a formal bow to the King, he passed from the room--a

man under God's right arm of justice.

What happened I never was able to find out exactly; but as far as I

could gather it was this. As already mentioned, la Coquille, Lalande,

and Pierre had been released by Navarre on his coming, and the former

being faint from his wounds was resting on a wooden bench in the

courtyard. As de Clermont passed, the sight of la Coquille and the

memory of the insult he had put on him roused the haughty noble,

already in a white heat with rage, to madness, and he struck the

freelance once, twice, across the face with a light cane he bore in

his hand, and fell a moment after stabbed to the heart, his murderer

being cut down by the men-at-arms.

At once all was hurry and confusion. The dying man was borne in as

gently as he could be, and placed on a settle. There was no leech in

hand, and long before the priest of Lorgnac came it was all over. We

did what we could, and in the horror of the fate that had overtaken

this man in the pride of strength I forgot the past utterly. I could

only see a terrible suffering for which there was no relief. We

gathered, an awestruck group, around him, and he spoke no word at

first, but suddenly called out, "Hold me up--I choke!"

Some one--I afterwards found it was Tremblecourt--raised him slightly

and he spoke again, "De Lorgnac! Say what you have to say now, I'm

going."

And Blaise de Lorgnac knelt by the couch, saying as he did so:

"I have no message now--forget my words, de Clermont."

"Would to God I had died by your hand," came the answer, "but to go

like this--struck down like a dog. Your hand, de Lorgnac--yours,

Denise--quick--I am going. Forgive."

De Tremblecourt laid him softly back on the cushion, and my tears fell

fast on the cold hand I held in mine. Who could remember wrongs at

such a moment?

The King bent over him and whispered in his ear. I thought I heard the

word "pray," and a wan smile played on the lips of the dying man.

"Too late--I cannot cringe now. Ah! Norreys! I will join you soon.

Denise--pardon," and he was gone.

* * * * *

Late that night when all had gone to rest I walked on the ramparts of

Lorgnac, and leaning against the parapet, looked out into the

moonlight. So lost was I in thought that it was not until his hand was

on my shoulder that I knew my husband had joined me.

"Denise," he said, "the King goes to-morrow, and--I--do I go or stay?"

And Monsieur le Chevalier--he is Monsieur le Marechal Duc now--got the

answer he wanted.

THE END.

THE CAPTAIN MORATTI'S LAST AFFAIR

CHAPTER I.

"ARCADES AMBO."

"Halt!" The word, which seemed to come from nowhere, rang out into the

crisp winter moonlight so sharply, so suddenly, so absolutely without

warning, that the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo, who was ambling

comfortably along, reined in his horse with a jerk; and with a start,

looked into the night. He had not to fret his curiosity above a

moment, for a figure gliding out from the black shadows of the pines,

fencing in each side of the lonely road, stepped full into the white

band of light, stretching between the darkness on either hand and

stood in front of the horse. As the two faced each other, it was not

the fact that there was a man in his path that made the rider keep a

restraining hand on his bridle. It was the persuasive force, the

voiceless command, in the round muzzle of an arquebuse pointed at his

heart, and along the barrel of which di Lippo could see the glint of

the moonlight, a thin bright streak ending in the wicked blinking star

of the lighted fuse. The cavaliere took in the position at a glance,

and being a man of resolution, hurriedly cast up his chances of escape

by spurring his horse, and suddenly riding down the thief. In a flash

the thought came and was dismissed. It was impossible; for the

night-hawk had taken his stand at a distance of about six feet off,

space enough to enable him to blow his quarry's heart out, well before

the end of any sudden rush to disarm him. The mind moves like

lightning in matters of this kind, and di Lippo surrendered without

condition. Though his heart was burning within him, he was outwardly

cool and collected. He had yielded to force he could not resist. Could

he have seen ever so small a chance, the positions might have been

reversed. As it was, Messer the bandit might still have to look to

himself, and his voice was icy as the night as he said: "Well! I have

halted. What more? It is chill, and I care not to be kept waiting."

The robber was not without humour, and a line of teeth showed, for an

instant, behind the burning match of the weapon he held steadily

before him. He did not, however, waste words. "Throw down your purse."

The cavaliere hesitated. Ducats were scarce with him, but the bandit

had a short patience. "_Diavolo!_ Don't you hear, signore?"

It was useless to resist. The fingers of the cavaliere fumbled under

his cloak, and a fat purse fell squab into the snow, where it lay, a

dark spot in the whiteness around, for all the world like a sleeping

toad. The bandit chuckled as he heard the plump thud of the purse, and

di Lippo's muttered curse was lost in the sharp order: "Get off the

horse."

"But----"

"I am in a hurry, signore." The robber blew on the match of his

arquebuse, and the match in its glow cast a momentary light on his

face, showing the outlines of high aquiline features, and the black

curve of a pair of long moustaches.

"_Maledetto!_" and the disgusted cavaliere dismounted, the scabbard of

his useless sword striking with a clink against the stirrup iron, and

he unwillingly swung from the saddle and stood in the snow--a tall

figure, lean and gaunt.

As he did this, the bandit stepped back a pace, so as to give him the

road. "Your excellency," he said mockingly, "is now free to pass--on

foot. A walk will doubtless remove the chill your excellency finds so

unpleasant."

But di Lippo made no advance. In fact, as his feet touched the snow,

he recovered the composure he had so nearly lost, and saw his way to

gain some advantage from defeat. It struck him that here was the very

man he wanted for an affair of the utmost importance. Indeed, it was

for just such an instrument that he had been racking his brains, as he

rode on that winter night through the Gonfolina defile, which

separates the middle and the lower valleys of the Arno. And now--a

hand turn--and he had found his man. True, an expensive find; but

cheap if all turned out well--that is, well from di Lippo's point of

view. This thing the cavaliere wanted done he could not take into his

own hands. Not from fear--it was no question of that; but because it

was not convenient; and Michele di Lippo never gave himself any

inconvenience, although it was sometimes thrust upon him in an

unpleasant manner by others. If he could but induce the man before him

to undertake the task, what might not be? But the knight of the road

was evidently very impatient.

"Blood of a king!" he swore, "are you going, signore? Think you I am

to stand here all night?"

"Certainly not," answered di Lippo in his even voice, "nor am I. But

to come to the point. I want a little business managed, and will pay

for it. You appear to be a man of courage--will you undertake the

matter?"

"_Cospetto!_ But you are a cool hand! Who are you?"

"Is it necessary to know? I offer a hundred crowns, fifty to be paid

to you if you agree, and fifty on the completion of the affair."

"A matter of the dagger?"

"That is for you to decide."

The bandit almost saw the snarl on di Lippo's lips as he dropped out

slowly: "You are too cautious, my friend--you think to the skin. The

rack will come whether you do my business or not." The words were not

exactly calculated to soothe, and called up an unpleasant vision

before the robber's eyes. A sudden access of wrath shook him. "Begone,

signore!" he burst out, "lest my patience exhausts itself, and I give

you a bed in the snow. Why I have spared your life, I know not.

Begone; warm yourself with a walk----"

"I will pay a hundred crowns," interrupted di Lippo.

"A hundred devils--begone!"

"As you please. Remember, it is a hundred crowns, and, on the faith of

a noble, I say nothing about tonight. Where can I find you, in case

you change your mind? A hundred crowns is a comfortable sum of money,

mind you."

There was no excitement about di Lippo. He spoke slowly and

distinctly. His cool voice neither rose nor dropped, but he spoke in a

steady, chill monotone. A hundred crowns _was_ a comfortable sum of

money. It was a sum not to be despised. For a tithe of that--nay, for

two pistoles--the Captain Guido Moratti would have risked his life

twice over, things had come to such a pass with him. Highway robbery

was not exactly his line, although sometimes, as on this occasion, he

had been driven to it by the straits of the times. But suppose this

offer was a blind? Suppose the man before him merely wanted to know

where to get at him, to hand him over to the tender mercies of the

thumbscrew and the rack? On the other hand, the man might be in

earnest--and a hundred crowns! He hesitated.

"A--hun--dred--crowns." The cavaliere repeated these words, and there

was a silence. Finally the bandit spoke:

"I frankly confess, signore, that stealing purses, even as I have done

to-day, is not my way; but a man must live. If you mean what you say,

there must be no half-confidences. Tell me who you are, and I will

tell you where to find me."

"I am the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo of Castel Lippo on the Greve."

"Where is Castel Lippo?"

"At the junction of the Arno and the Greve--on the left bank."

"Very well. In a week you will hear from me again."

"It is enough. You will allow me to ransom the horse. I will send you

the sum. On my word of honour, I have nothing to pay it at once."

"The signore's word of honour is doubtless very white. But a can in

the hand is a can in the hand, and I need a horse--Good-night!"

"Good-night! But a can in the hand is not always wine to the lips,

though a hundred crowns is ever a hundred crowns;" and saying this, di

Lippo drew his cloak over the lower part of his face, and turned

sharply to the right into the darkness, without so much as giving a

look behind him. His horse would have followed; but quick as thought,

Moratti's hand was on the trailing reins, and holding them firmly, he

stooped and picked up the purse, poising it at arm's-length in front

of him.

"Silver," he muttered, as his fingers felt the coins through the soft

leather--"thirty crowns at the most, perhaps an odd gold piece or

so--and now to be off. _Hola!_ Steady!" and mounting the horse, he

turned his head round, still talking to himself: "I am in luck. Cheese

falls on my macaroni--thirty broad pieces and a horse, and a hundred

crowns more in prospect. Captain Guido Moratti, the devil smiles on

you--you will end a Count. _Animo!_" He touched the horse with his

heels, and went forward at a smart gallop; and as he galloped, he

threw his head back and laughed loudly and mirthlessly into the night.

In the meantime it was with a sore heart that the cavaliere made his

way through the forest to the banks of the Arno, and then plodded

along the river-side, through the wood, by a track scarcely

discernible to any but one who had seen it many times. On his right

hand the river hummed drearily; on his left, the trees sighed in the

night-wind; and before him the narrow track wound, now up, then down,

now twisting amongst the pines in darkness, then stretching in front,

straight as a plumb-line. It was gall to di Lippo to think of the loss

of the crowns and the good horse; it was bitterness to trudge it in

the cold along the weary path that led to the ferry across the Arno,

which he would have to cross before reaching his own home; and he

swore deeply, under the muffling of his cloak, as he pressed on at his

roundest pace. He soon covered the two miles that lay between him and

the ferry; but it was past midnight ere he did this, and reaching the

ferryman's hut, battered at the door with the hilt of his sword.

Eventually he aroused the ferryman, who came forth grumbling. Had it

been any one else, honest Giuseppe would have told him to go hang

before he would have risen from his warm bed; but the Cavaliere

Michele was a noble, and, although poor, had a lance or two, and

Castel Lippo, which bore an ill name, was only a mangonel shot from

the opposite bank. So Giuseppe punted his excellency across; and his

excellency vented his spleen with a curse at everything in general,

and the bandit in particular, as he stepped ashore and hurried to his

dwelling. It was a steep climb that led up by a bridle-path to his

half-ruined tower, and di Lippo stood at the postern, and whistled on

his silver whistle, and knocked for many a time, before he heard the

chains clanking, and the bar put back. At last the door opened, and a

figure stood before him, a lantern in one hand.

"St. John! But it is your worship! We did not expect you until

sunrise. And the horse, excellency?"

"Stand aside, fool. I have been robbed, that is all. Yes--let the

matter drop; and light me up quick. Will you gape all night there?"

The porter, shutting the gate hastily, turned, and walking before his

master, led him across the courtyard. Even by the moonlight, it could

be seen that the flagstones were old and worn with age. In many places

they had come apart, and with the spring, sprouts of green grass and

white serpyllum would shoot up from the cracks. At present, these

fissures were choked with snow. Entering the tower by an arched door

at the end of the courtyard, they ascended a winding stair, which led

into a large but only partially furnished room. Here the man lit two

candles, and di Lippo, dropping his cloak, sank down into a chair,

saying: "Make up a fire, will you--and bring me some wine; after that,

you may go."

The man threw a log or two into the fireplace, where there was already

the remains of a fire, and the pinewood soon blazed up cheerfully.

Then he placed a flask of Orvieto and a glass at his master's elbow,

and wishing him good-night, left him.

Michele di Lippo poured himself out a full measure and drained it at a

draught. Drawing his chair close to the blazing wood, he stretched out

his feet, cased in long boots of Spanish leather, and stared into the

flames. He sat thus for an hour or so without motion. The candles

burned out, and the fire alone lit the room, casting strange shadows

on the moth-eaten tapestry of the hangings, alternately lighting and

leaving in darkness the corners of the room, and throwing its fitful

glow on the pallid features of the brooding man, who sat as if cut out

of stone. At last the cavaliere moved, but it was only to fling

another log on the flames. Then he resumed his former attitude, and

watched the fire. As he looked, he saw a picture. He saw wide lands,

lands rich with olive and vine, that climbed the green hills between

which the Aulella babbles. He saw the grey towers of the castle of

Pieve. Above the donjon, a broad flag flapped lazily in the air,

and the blazon on it--three wasps on a green field--was his own. He

was no longer the ruined noble, confined to his few acres, living like

a goat amongst the rocks of the Greve; but my lord count, ruffling it

again in Rome, and calling the mains with Riario, as in the good old

times ten years ago. Diavolo! But those were times when the Borgia

was Pope! What nights those were in the Torre Borgia! He had one of

Giulia Bella's gloves still, and there were dark stains on its

whiteness--stains that were red once with the blood of Monreale, who

wore it over his heart the day he ran him through on the Ripetta.

_Basta!_ That was twelve years ago! Twelve years! Twelve hundred

years it seemed. And he was forty now. Still young enough to run

another man through, however. _Cospetto!_ If the bravo would only

undertake the job, everything might be his! He would live again--or

perhaps! And another picture came before the dreamer. It had much to

do with death--a bell was tolling dismally, and a chained man was

walking to his end, with a priest muttering prayers into his ears. In

the background was a gallows, and a sea of heads, an endless swaying

crowd of heads, with faces that looked on the man with hate, and

tongues that jeered and shouted curses at him. And the voices of the

crowd seemed to merge into one tremendous roar of hatred as the

condemned wretch ascended the steps of the platform on which he was to

find a disgraceful death.

Michele di Lippo rose suddenly with a shiver and an oath:

"_Maledetto!_ I must sleep. It touches the morning, and I have been

dreaming too long."

CHAPTER II.

AT "THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS."

It was mid-day, and the Captain Guido Moratti was at home in his

lodging in "The Devil on Two Sticks." Not an attractive address; but

then this particular hostel was not frequented by persons who were

squeamish about names, or--any other thing. The house itself lay in

the Santo Spirito ward of Florence, filling up the end of a

_chiassolino_ or blind alley in a back street behind the church of

Santa Felicita, and was well known to all who had "business" to

transact. It had also drawn towards it the attention of the _Magnifici

Signori_, and the long arm of the law would have reached it ere this

but for the remark made by the Secretary Machiavelli, "One does not

purify a city by stopping the sewers," he said; and added with a grim

sarcasm, "and any one of us might have an urgent affair to-morrow, and

need an agents--let the devil rest on his two sticks." And it was so.

Occasionally, the talons of Messer the Gonfaloniere would close on

some unfortunate gentleman who had at the time no "friends," and then

he was never seen again. But arrests were never made in the house, and

it was consequently looked upon as a secure place by its customers.

The room occupied by Moratti was on the second floor, and was lighted

by a small window which faced a high dead wall, affording no view

beyond that of the blackened stonework. The captain, being a single

man, could afford to live at his ease, and though it was mid-day, and

past the dinner hour, had only just risen, and was fortifying himself

with a measure of Chianti. He was seated in a solid-looking chair, his

goblet in his hand, and his long legs clothed in black and white

trunks, the Siena colours, resting on the table. The upper part of his

dress consisted of a closely fitting pied surcoat, of the same hues as

his trunks; and round his waist he wore a webbed chain belt, to which

was attached a plain, but useful-looking poniard. The black hair on

his head was allowed to grow long, and fell in natural curls to his

broad shoulders. He had no beard; but under the severe arch of his

nose was a pair of long dark moustaches that completely hid the mouth,

and these he wore in a twist that almost reached his ears. On the

table where his feet rested was his cap, from which a frayed feather

stuck out stiffly; likewise his cloak, and a very long sword in a

velvet and wood scabbard. The other articles on the table were a

half-empty flask of wine, a few dice, a pack of cards, a mask, a wisp

of lace, and a broken fan. The walls were bare of all ornament, except

over the entrance door, whence a crucified Christ looked down in His

agony over the musty room. A spare chair or two, a couple of valises

and a saddle, together with a bed, hidden behind some old and shabby

curtains, completed the furniture of the chamber; but such as it was,

it was better accommodation than the captain had enjoyed for many a

day. For be it known that "The Devil on Two Sticks" was meant for the

aristocrats of the "profession." The charges were accordingly high,

and there was no credit allowed. No! No! The _padrone_ knew better

than to trust his longest-sworded clients for even so small a matter

as a brown _paolo_. But at present Moratti was in funds, for thirty

broad crowns in one's pocket, and a horse worth full thirty more, went

a long way in those days, and besides, he had not a little luck at the

cards last night. He thrust a sinewy hand into his pocket, and jingled

the coins there, with a comfortable sense of proprietorship, and for

the moment his face was actually pleasant to look upon. The face was

an eminently handsome one. It was difficult to conceive that those

clear, bold features were those of a thief. They were rather those of

a soldier, brave, resolute, and hasty perhaps, though hardened, and

marked by excess. There was that in them which seemed to point to a

past very different from the present. And it had been so. But that

story is a secret, and we must take the captain as we find him,

nothing more or less than a bravo. Let it be remembered, however, that

this hideous profession, although looked upon with fear by all, was

not in those days deemed so dishonourable as to utterly cast a man out

of the pale of his fellows. Troches, the bravo of Alexander VI., was

very nearly made a cardinal; Don Michele, the strangler of Cesare

Borgia, became commander-in-chief of the Florentine army, and had the

honour of a conspiracy being formed against him--he was killed whilst

leaving the house of Chaumont. Finally, there was that romantic

scoundrel "Il Medighino," who advanced from valet to bravo, from bravo

to be a pirate chief and the brother of a pontiff, ending his days as

Marquis of Marignano and Viceroy of Bohemia. So that, roundly

speaking, if the profession of the dagger did lead to the galleys or

the scaffold, it as often led to wealth, and sometimes, as in the case

of Giangiacomo Medici, to a coronet. Perhaps some such thoughts as

these flitted in the captain's mind as he jingled his crowns and

slowly sipped his wine. His fellow-men had made him a wolf, and a wolf

he was now to the end of his spurs, as pitiless to his victims as they

had been to him. He was no longer young; but a man between two ages,

with all the strength and vitality of youth and the experience of

five-and-thirty, so that with a stroke of luck he might any day do

what the son of Bernardino had done. He had failed in everything up to

now, although he had had his chances. His long sword had helped to

stir the times when the Duke of Bari upset all Italy, and the people

used to sing:

Cristo in cielo e il Moro in terra,

Solo sa il fine di questa guerra.

He had fought at Fornovo and at Mertara; and in the breach at Santa

Croce had even crossed swords with the Count di Savelli, the most

redoubted knight, with the exception of Bayard, of the age. He had

been run through the ribs for his temerity; but it was an honour he

never forgot. Then other things had happened, and he had sunk, sunk to

be what he was, as many a better man had done before him. A knock at

the door disturbed his meditations. He set down his empty glass and

called out, "Enter!"

The door opened, and the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo entered the room.

Moratti showed no surprise, although the visit was a little

unexpected; but beyond pointing to a chair, gave di Lippo no other

greeting, saying simply: "Take a seat, signore--and shut the door

behind you. I did not expect you until to-morrow."

"True, captain; But you see I was impatient. I got your letter

yesterday, and, the matter being pressing, came here at once."

"Well--what is the business?"

The cavaliere's steel-grey eyes contracted like those of a cat when a

sudden light is cast upon them, and he glanced cautiously around him.

"This place is safe--no eavesdroppers?" he asked.

"None," answered Moratti; and slowly putting his feet down from the

table, pushed the wine towards di Lippo. "Help yourself, signore--No!

Well, as you wish. And now, your business?"

There was a silence in the room, and each man watched the other

narrowly. Moratti looked at the cavaliere's long hatchet face, at the

cruel close-set eyes, at the thin red hair showing under his velvet

cap, and at the straight line of the mouth, partly hidden by a

moustache, and short peaked beard of a slightly darker red than the

hair on di Lippo's head. Michele di Lippo, in his turn, keenly scanned

the seamed and haughty features of the bravo, and each man recognised

in the other the qualities he respected, if such a word may be used.

At last the cavaliere spoke: "As I mentioned, captain, my business is

one of the highest importance, and----"

"You are prepared to pay in proportion--eh?" and Moratti twirled his

moustache between his fingers.

"Exactly. I have made you my offer."

"But have not told me what you want done."

"I am coming to that. Permit me; I think I will change my mind;" and

as Moratti nodded assent, di Lippo poured himself out a glass of wine

and drained it slowly. When he had done this, he set the glass down

with extreme care, and continued: "I am, as you see, captain, no

longer a young man, and it is inconvenient to have to wait for an

inheritance"--and he grinned horribly.

"I see, cavalierei--you want me to anticipate matters a little--Well,

I am willing to help you if I can."

"It is a hundred crowns, captain, and the case lies thus. There is but

one life between me and the County of Pieve in the Val di Magra, and

you know how uncertain life is."

He paused; but as Guido Moratti said nothing, continued with his even

voice: "Should the old Count of Pieve die--and he is on the edge of

the grave--the estate will pass to his daughter. In the event of her

death----"

"_Whew!_" Moratti emitted a low whistle, and sat bolt upright. "So it

is the lady," he cried. "That is not my line, cavaliere. It is more a

matter of the poison-cup, and I don't deal in such things. Carry your

offer elsewhere."

"It will be a new experience, captain--and a hundred crowns."

"Blood of a king, man! do you think I hesitate over a paltry hundred

crowns? Had it been a man, it would have been different--but a woman!

No! No! It is not my way;" and he rose and paced the room.

"Tush, man! It is but a touch of your dagger, and you have done much

the same before."

Moratti faced di Lippo. "As you say, I have executed commissions

before, but never on a woman, and never on a man without giving him a

chance."

"You are too tender-hearted for your profession, captain. Have you

never been wronged by a woman? They can be more pitiless than men, I

assure you."

The bronze on Moratti's cheek paled to ashes, and his face hardened

with a sudden memory. He turned his back upon di Lippo, and stared out

of the window at the dead wall which was the only view. It was a

chance shot, but it had told. The cavaliere rose slowly and flung a

purse on the table. "Better give him the whole at once," he muttered.

"Come, captain," he added, raising his voice. "It will be over in a

moment; and after all, neither you nor I will ever see heaven. We

might as well burn for something; and if I mistake not, both you and I

are like those Eastern tigers, who once having tasted blood must go on

forever--see!" and he laid his lean hand on the bravo's shoulder, "why

not revenge on the whole sex the wrong done you by one----"

The captain swung round suddenly and shook off di Lippo's hand. "Don't

touch me," he cried; "at times like this I am dangerous. What demon

put into your mouth the words you have just used? They have served

your purpose--and she shall die. Count me out the money, the full

hundred--and go."

"It is there;" and di Lippo pointed with his finger to the purse. "You

will find the tale complete--a hundred crowns--count them at your

leisure. _Addio!_ captain. I shall hear good news soon, I trust."

Rubbing the palms of his hands together, he stepped softly from the

room.

Guido Moratti did not hear or answer him. His mind had gone back with

a rush for ten years, when the work of a woman had made him sink lower

than a beast. Such things happen to men sometimes. He had sunk like a

stone thrown into a lake; he had been destroyed utterly, and it was

sufficient to say that he lived now to prey on his fellow-creatures.

But he had never thought of the revenge that di Lippo had suggested.

Now that he did think of it, he remembered a story told in the old

days round the camp fires, when they were hanging on the rear of

Charles's retreating army, just before he turned and rent the League

at Fornovo. Rodrigo Gonzaga, the Spaniard, had told it of a countryman

of his, a native of Toledo, who for a wrong done to him by a girl had

devoted himself to the doing to death of women. It was horrible; and

at the time he had refused to believe it. Now he was face to face with

the same horror--nay, he had even embraced it. He had lost his soul;

but the price of it was not yet paid in revenge or gold, and, by

Heaven! he would have it. He laughed out as loudly and cheerlessly as

on that winter's night when he rode off through the snow; and laying

hands on the purse, tore it open, and the contents rolled out upon the

table. "The price of my soul!" he sneered as he held up a handful of

the coins, and let them drop again with a clash on the heap on the

table. "It is more than Judas got for his--ha! ha!"

CHAPTER III.

FELICITA.

Some few days after his interview with di Lippo, the Captain Guido

Moratti rode his horse across the old Roman bridge which at that time

spanned the Aulella, and directed his way towards the castle of Pieve,

whose outlines rose before him, cresting an eminence about a league

from the bridge. The captain was travelling as a person of some

quality, the better to carry out a plan he had formed for gaining

admission to Pieve, and a lackey rode behind him holding his valise.

He had hired horse and man in Florence, and the servant was an honest

fellow enough, in complete ignorance of his master's character and

profession. Both the captain and his man bore the appearance of long

travel, and in truth they had journeyed with a free rein; and now that

a stormy night was setting in, they were not a little anxious to reach

their point. The snow was falling in soft flakes, and the landscape

was grey with the driving mist, through which the outlines of the

castle loomed large and shadowy, more like a fantastic creation in

cloudland than the work of human hands. As the captain pulled down the

lapels of his cap to ward off the drift which was coming straight in

his face, the bright flare of a beacon fire shone from a tower of the

castle, and the rays from it stretched in broad orange bands athwart

the rolling mist, which threatened, together with the increasing

darkness, to extinguish all the view that was left, and make the

league to Pieve a road of suffering. With the flash of the fire a

weird, sustained howl came to the travellers in an eerie cadence; and

as the fearsome call died away, it was picked up by an answering cry

from behind, then another and yet another. There could be no mistaking

these signals; they meant pressing and immediate danger.

"Wolves!" shouted Moratti; and turning to his knave: "Gallop,

Tito!--else our bones will be picked clean by morning. Gallop!"

They struck their spurs into the horses; and the jaded animals, as if

realizing their peril, made a brave effort, and dashed off at their

utmost speed. It was none too soon, for the wolves, hitherto following

in silence, had given tongue at the sight of the fire; and as if

knowing that the beacon meant safety for their prey, and that they

were like to lose a dinner unless they hurried, laid themselves on the

track of the flying horses with a hideous chorus of yells. They could

not be seen for the mist; but they were not far behind. They were

going at too great a pace to howl now; but an occasional angry "yap"

reached the riders, and reached the horses too, whose instinct told

them what it meant; and they needed no further spurring, to make them

strain every muscle to put a distance between themselves and their

pursuers. Moratti thoroughly grasped the situation. He had experienced

a similar adventure in the Pennine Alps, when carrying despatches for

Paolo Orsini, with this difference, that then he had a fresh horse,

and could see where he was going; whereas now, although the distance

to Pieve was short, and in ten minutes he might be safe and with a

whole skin, yet a false step, a stumble, and nothing short of a

miracle could prevent him becoming a living meal to the beasts behind.

He carried, slung by a strap over his shoulder, a light bugle, which

he had often found useful before, but never so useful as now.

Thrusting his hand under his cloak, he drew it out, and blew a long

clear blast; and, to his joy, there came an answer through the storm

from the castle. Rescue was near at hand, and faster and faster they

flew; but as surely the wolves gained on them, and they could hear the

snarling of the leaders as they jostled against and snapped at each

other in their haste. Moratti looked over his shoulder. He could see

close behind a dark crescent moving towards them with fearful

rapidity. He almost gave a groan. It was too horrible to die thus! And

he dug his spurs again and again into the heaving flanks of his horse,

with the vain hope of increasing its speed. They had now reached the

ascent to Pieve. They could see the lights at the windows. In two

hundred yards there was safety; when Moratti's horse staggered under

him, and he had barely time to free his feet from the stirrups and

lean well back in the saddle ere the animal came down with a plunge.

Tito went by like a flash, as the captain picked himself up and faced

the wolves, sword in hand. There was a steep bank on the side of the

road. He made a dash to gain the summit of this; but had hardly

reached half-way up when the foremost wolf was upon him, and had

rolled down again with a yell, run through the heart. His fellows tore

him to shreds, and in a moment began to worry at the struggling horse,

whose fore-leg was broken. In a hand-turn the matter was ended, and

the wretched beast was no longer visible, all that could be seen being

a black swaying mass of bodies, as the pack hustled and fought over

the dead animal.

Nevertheless, there were three or four of the wolves who devoted their

attention to Moratti, and he met them with the courage of despair. But

the odds were too many, and he began to feel that he could not hold

out much longer. One huge monster, his shaggy coat icy with the sleet,

had pulled him to his knees, and it was only a lucky thrust of the

dagger, he held in his left hand, that saved him. He regained his feet

only to be dragged down again, and to rise yet once more. He was

bleeding and weak, wounded in many places, and the end could not be

far off. It was not thus that he had hoped to die; and he was dying

like a worried lynx.

The thought drove him to madness. He was of Siena, and somewhere in

his veins, though he did not know it, ran the blood of the Senonian

Gauls, and it came out now--he went Berserker, as the old northern

pirates were wont to do. Sliding down the bank, he jumped full into

the pack, striking at them in a dumb fury. He was hardly human himself

now, and he plunged his sword again and again into the heaving mass

around him, and felt no pain from the teeth of the wolves as they rent

his flesh. A fierce mad joy came upon him. It was a glorious fight

after all, and he was dying game. It was a glorious fight, and, when

he felt a grisly head at his throat, and the weight of his assailant

brought him down once more, he flung aside his sword, and grappling

his enemy with his hands, tore asunder the huge jaws, and flung the

body from him with a yell. Almost at that very instant there was the

sharp report of firearms, the rush of hurrying feet, and the blaze of

torches. Moratti, half on his knees, was suddenly pulled to his feet

by a strong hand, and supported by it he stood, dizzy and faint,

bleeding almost everywhere, but safe. The wolves had fled in silence,

vanishing like phantoms across the snow; and shot after shot was fired

in their direction by the rescue party.

"_Per Bacco!_" said the man who was holding Moratti up; "but it was an

affair between the skin and the flesh, signore--steady!" and his arm

tightened round the captain. As he did this, a long defiant howl

floated back to them through the night, and Guido Moratti knew no

more. He seemed to have dropped suddenly, into an endless night. He

seemed to be flying through space, past countless millions of stars,

which, bright themselves, were unable to illumine the abysmal darkness

around, and then--there was nothing.

When Moratti came to himself again, he was lying in a bed, in a large

room, dimly lighted by a shaded lamp, set on a tall Corinthian pillar

of marble. After the first indistinct glance around him, he shut his

eyes, and was lost in a dreamy stupor. In a little, he looked again,

and saw that the chamber was luxuriously fitted, and that he was not

alone, for, kneeling at a _prie-dieu_, under a large picture of a

Madonna and Child, was the figure of a woman. Her face was from him;

but ill as he was, Moratti saw that the tight-fitting dress showed a

youthful and perfect figure, and that her head was covered with an

abundance of red-gold hair. The man was still in the shadowland caused

by utter weakness, and for a moment he thought that this was nothing

but a vision of fancy; but he rallied half unconsciously, and looked

again; and then, curiosity overcoming him, attempted to turn so as to

obtain a better view, and was checked by a twinge of pain, which,

coming suddenly, brought an exclamation to his lips. In an instant the

lady rose, and moving towards him, bent over the bed. As she did this,

their eyes met, and the fierce though dulled gaze of the bravo saw

before him a face of ideal innocence, of such saintlike purity, that

it might have been a dream of Raffaelle. She placed a cool hand on his

hot forehead, and whispered softly: "Be still--and drink this--you

will sleep." Turning to a side table, she lifted a silver goblet

therefrom, and gave him to drink. The draught was cool and refreshing,

and he gathered strength from it.

"Where am I?" he asked; and then, with a sudden courtesy,

"Madonna--pardon me--I thank you."

"Hush!" she answered, lifting a small hand. "You are in Pieve, and you

have been very ill. But I must not talk--sleep now, signore."

"I remember now," he said dreamily--"the wolves; but it seems so long

ago."

She made no reply, but stepped softly out of the room, and was gone.

Moratti would have called out after her; but a drowsiness came on him,

and closing his eyes, he slept.

It takes a strong man some time to recover from wounds inflicted by a

wild animal; and when a man has, like Guido Moratti, lived at both

ends, it takes longer still, and it was weeks before the captain was

out of danger. He never saw his fair visitor again. Her place was

taken by a staid and middle-aged nurse, and he was visited two or

three times daily by a solemn-looking physician. But although he did

not see her whom he longed to see, there was a message both morning

and evening from the Count of Pieve and his daughter, hoping the

invalid was better--the former regretting that his infirmities

prevented his paying a personal visit, and the inquiries of the latter

being always accompanied by a bouquet of winter flowers. But strange

as it may seem, when he was under the influence of the opiate they

gave him nightly, he was certain of the presence of the slight

graceful figure of the lady of the _prie-dieu_, as he called her to

himself. He saw again the golden-red hair and the sweet eyes, and felt

again the touch of the cool hand. He began to think that this bright

presence which lit his dreams was but a vision after all, and used to

long for the night and the opiate.

At last one fine morning Tito appeared, and began to set out and brush

the captain's apparel as if nothing had ever happened. Moratti watched

him for a space, and then rising up against his pillows, spoke:

"Tito!"

"Signore!"

"How is it that you have not been here before?"

"I was not allowed, Excellency, until to-day--your worship was too

ill."

"Then I am better."

"Excellency!"

There was a silence of some minutes, and the captain spoke again:

"Tito!"

"Signore!"

"Have you seen the Count and his daughter?"

"Excellency!"

"What are they like?"

"The Count old, and a cripple. Madonna Felicita, small, thin,

red-haired like my wife Sancia."

Moratti sank down again upon the bed, a satisfied smile upon his lips.

So there was truth in his dreams. The vision of the night was a

reality. He would see her soon, as soon as he could rise, and he was

fast getting well, very fast. He had gone back many years in his

illness. He had thoughts stirred within him that he had imagined dead

long ago. He was the last man to day-dream, to build castles in the

air; but as he lay idly watching Tito, who was evidently very busy

cleaning something--for he was sitting on a low chair with his back

towards the captain, and his elbow moving backwards and forwards

rapidly--the bravo pictured himself Guido Moratti as he might have

been, a man able to look all men in the face, making an honourable way

for himself, and worthy the love of a good woman. The last thought

brought before him a fair face and sweet eyes, and a dainty head

crowned with red-gold hair, and the strong man let his fancy run on

with an uprising of infinite tenderness in his heart. He was lost in a

cloudland of dreams.

"Signore!"

Tito's harsh voice had pulled down the castle in Spain, and Tito

himself was standing at the bedside holding a bright and glittering

dagger in his hand. But he had done more than upset his master's

dreams. He had, all unwittingly, brought him back in a flash to the

hideous reality, for, as a consequence of his long illness, of the

weeks of fever and delirium, Moratti had clean forgotten the dreadful

object of his coming to Pieve. It all came back to him with a blinding

suddenness, and he closed his eyes with a shudder of horror as Tito

laid the poniard upon the bed, asking: "Will the signore see if the

blade is keen enough? A touch of the finger will suffice."

CHAPTER IV.

CONCLUSION--THE TORRE DOLOROSA.

Days were yet to pass before Guido Moratti was able to leave his

chamber; but at last the leech who attended him said he might do so

with safety; and later on, the steward of the household brought a

courteous invitation from the Count of Pieve to dine with him. As

already explained, Moratti had not as yet seen his host; and since he

was well enough to sit up, there were no more dreamy visions of the

personal presence of Felicita. He had made many resolutions whilst

left to himself, and had determined that as soon as he was able to

move he would leave the castle, quit Italy, and make a new name for

himself, or die in the German wars. He was old enough to build no

great hopes on the future; but fortune might smile on him, and

then--many things might happen. At any rate, he would wipe the slate

clean, and there should be no more ugly scores on it.

Not that he was a reformed man; he was only groping his way back to

light. Men do not cast off the past as a snake sheds his skin. He knew

that well enough, but he knew, too, that he had seen a faint track

back to honour; and difficult as it was, he had formed a determination

to travel by it. He had been so vile, he had sunk so low, that there

were moments when a despair came on him; but with a new country and

new scenes, and the little flame of hope that was warming his dead

soul back to life, there might yet be a chance. He knew perfectly that

he was in love, and when a man of his age loves, it is for the

remainder of his life. He was aware--none better--that his love was

madness, all but an insult, and that it was worse than presumption to

even entertain the thought that he had inspired any other feeling

beyond that of pity in the heart of Felicita. It is enough to say that

he did not dare to hope in this way; but he meant to so order his

future life, as to feel that any such sentiment as love in his heart

towards her would not be sacrilege.

He sent back a civil answer to the invitation; and a little after

eleven, descended the stairway which led from his chamber to the

Count's apartments, looking very pale and worn, but very handsome. For

he was, in truth, a man whose personal appearance took all eyes. The

apartments of the Count were immediately below Moratti's own chamber,

and on entering, he saw the old knight himself reclining in a large

chair. He was alone, except for a hound which lay stretched out on the

hearth, its muzzle between its forepaws, and a dining-table set for

three was close to his elbow. Bernabo of Pieve received his guest with

a stately courtesy, asking pardon for being unable to rise, as he was

crippled. "They clipped my wings at Arx Sismundea, captain--before

your time; but of a truth I am a glad man to see you strong again. It

was a narrow affair."

"I cannot thank you in words, Count; you and your house have placed a

debt on me I can never repay."

"Tush, man! There must be no talk of thanks. If there are to be any,

they are due to the leech, and to Felicita, my daughter. She is all I

have left, for my son was killed at Santa Croce."

"I was there, Count."

"And knew him?"

"Alas, no. I was on the side of Spain."

"With the besieged, and he with the League. He was killed on the

breach--poor lad."

At this moment a curtain at the side of the room was lifted, and

Felicita entered. She greeted Moratti warmly, and with a faint flush

on her cheeks, inquired after his health, hoping he was quite strong

again.

"So well, Madonna, that I must hurry on my journey to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" Her large eyes opened wide in astonishment, and there was

a pain in her look. "Why," she continued, "it will be a fortnight ere

you can sit in the saddle again."

"It might have been never, but for you," he answered gravely, and her

eyes met his, and fell. At this moment the steward announced that the

table was ready; and by the time the repast was ended, Moratti had

forgotten his good resolutions for instant departure, and had promised

to stay for at least a week, at the urgent intercession of both the

Count and his daughter. He knew he was wrong in doing so, and that,

whatever happened, it was his duty to go at once; but he hesitated

with himself. He would give himself one week of happiness, for it was

happiness to be near her, and then--he would go away forever. And she

would never know, in her innocence and purity, that Guido Moratti,

bravo--he shuddered at the infamous word--loved her better than all

the world beside, and that for her sake he had become a new man.

After dinner the Count slept, and, the day being bright, they stepped

out into a large balcony and gazed at the view. The balcony, which

stretched out from a low window of the dining chamber, terminated on

the edge of a precipice which dropped down a clear two hundred feet;

and leaning over the moss-grown battlements, they looked at the white

winter landscape before them. Behind rose the tower they had just

quitted, and Felicita, turning, pointed to it, saying: "We call this

the Torre Dolorosa."

"A sad name, Madonna. May I ask why?"

"Because all of our house who die in their beds die here."

"And yet you occupy this part of the castle."

"Oh, I do not. My chamber is there--in Count Ligo's Tower;" and she

pointed to the right, where another grey tower rose from the keep.

"But my father likes to occupy the Torre Dolorosa himself. He says he

is living with his ancestors--to whom he will soon go, as he always

adds."

"May the day be far distant."

And she answered "Amen."

After this, they went in, and the talk turned on other matters. The

week passed and then another, but at last the day came for Moratti's

departure. He had procured another horse. It was indeed a gift which

the old Count pressed upon him, and he had accepted it with much

reluctance, but much gratitude. In truth, the kindness of these people

towards him was unceasing, and Moratti made great strides towards his

new self in that week. He was to have started after the mid-day

dinner; but with the afternoon he was not gone, and sunset found him

on the balcony of the Torre Dolorosa with Felicita by his side.

"You cannot possibly go to-night," she said.

"I will go to-morrow, then," replied Moratti, and she looked away from

him.

It was a moment of temptation. Almost did a rush of words come to the

captain's lips. He felt as if he must take her in his arms and tell

her that he loved her as man never loved woman. It was an effort; but

he was getting stronger in will daily, and he crushed down the

feeling.

"It is getting chill for you," he said; "we had better go in."

"Tell me," she answered, not heeding his remark, "tell me exactly

where you are going?"

"I do not know--perhaps to join Piccolomini in Bohemia--perhaps to

join Alva in the Low Countries--wherever a soldier's sword has work to

do."

"And you will come back?"

"Perhaps."

"A great man, with a _condotta_ of a thousand lances--and forget

Pieve."

"As God is my witness--never--but it is chill, Madonna--come in."

When they came in, Bernabo of Pieve was not alone, for standing close

to the old man, his back to the fire, and rubbing his hands softly

together, was the tall, gaunt figure of the Cavaliere Michele di

Lippo.

"A sudden visit, dear cousin," he said, greeting Felicita, and turning

his steel-grey eyes, with a look of cold inquiry in them, on Moratti.

"The Captain Guido Moratti--my cousin, the Cavaliere di Lippo."

"Of Castel Lippo, on the Greve," put in di Lippo. "I am charmed to

make the acquaintance of the Captain Moratti. Do you stay long in

Pieve, captain?"

"I leave to-morrow." Moratti spoke shortly. His blood was boiling, as

he looked on the gloomy figure of the cavaliere, who watched him

furtively from under his eyelids, the shadow of a sneer on his face.

He was almost sick with shame when he thought how he was in di

Lippo's hands, how a word from him could brand him with ignominy

beyond repair. Some courage, however, came back to him with the

thought that, after all, he held cards as well, as for his own sake,

di Lippo would probably remain quiet.

"So soon!" said di Lippo with a curious stress on the word soon, and

then added, "That is bad news."

"I have far to go, signore," replied Moratti coldly, and the

conversation then changed. It was late when they retired; and as the

captain bent over Felicita's hand, he held it for a moment in his own

broad palm, and said: "It is good-bye, lady, for I go before the dawn

to-morrow."

She made no answer; but, with a sudden movement, detached a bunch of

winter violets she wore at her neck, and thrusting them in Moratti's

hand, turned and fled. The Count was half asleep, and did not notice

the passage; but di Lippo said with his icy sneer: "Excellent--you

work like an artist, Moratti."

"I do not understand you;" and turning on his heel, the captain strode

off to his room.

An hour or so later, he was seated in a low chair, thinking. His

valise lay packed, and all was ready for his early start. He still

held the violets in his hand, but his face was dark with boding

thoughts. He dreaded going and leaving Felicita to the designs of di

Lippo. There would be other means found by di Lippo to carry out his

design; and with a groan, the captain rose and began to pace the room.

He was on the cross with anxiety. If he went without giving warning of

di Lippo's plans, he would still be a sharer in the murder--and the

murder of Felicita, for a hair of whose head he was prepared to risk

his soul. If, on the other hand, he spoke, he would be lost forever in

her eyes. Although it was winter, the room seemed to choke him, and he

suddenly flung open the door and, descending the dim stairway, went

out into the balcony. It was bright with moonlight, and the night was

clear as crystal. He leaned over the battlements and racked his mind

as to his course of action. At last he resolved. He would take the

risk, and speak out, warn Bernabo of Pieve at all hazards, and would

do so at once. He turned hastily, and then stopped, for before him in

the moonlight stood the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo.

"I sought you in your chamber, captain," he said in his biting voice,

"and not finding you, came here----"

"And how did you know I would be here?"

"Lovers like the moonlight, and you can see the light from her window

in Ligo's Tower," said di Lippo, and added sharply: "So you are

playing false, Moratti."

The captain made no answer; there was a singing in his ears, and a

sudden and terrible thought was working. His hand was on the hilt of

his dagger, a spring, a blow, and di Lippo would be gone. And no one

would know. But the cavaliere went on, unheeding his silence.

"You are playing false, Moratti. You are playing for your own hand

with my hundred crowns. You think your ship has come home. Fool! Did

you imagine I would allow this? But I still give you a chance. Either

do my business to-night--the way is open--or to-morrow you are laid by

the heels as a thief and a bravo. What will your Felicita----"

"Dog--speak her name again, and you die!" Moratti struck him across

the face with his open palm, and Michele di Lippo reeled back a pace,

his face as white as snow. It was only a pace, however, for he

recovered himself at once, and sprung at Moratti like a wild-cat. The

two closed. They spoke no word, and nothing could be heard but their

laboured breath as they gripped together. Their daggers were in their

hands; but each man knew this, and had grasped the wrist of the other.

Moratti was more powerful; but his illness had weakened him, and the

long lean figure of Michele di Lippo was as strong as a wire rope.

Under the quiet moon and the winter stars, they fought, until at last

di Lippo was driven to the edge of the parapet, and in the moonlight

he saw the meaning in Moratti's set face. With a superhuman effort, he

wrenched his hand free, and the next moment his dagger had sunk to the

hilt in the captain's side, and Moratti's grasp loosened, but only for

an instant. He was mortally wounded, he knew. He was going to die; but

it would not be alone. He pressed di Lippo to his breast. He lifted

him from his feet, and forced him through an embrasure which yawned

behind. Here, on its brink, the two figures swayed for an instant, and

then the balcony was empty, and from the deep of the precipice two

hundred feet below, there travelled upwards the sullen echo of a dull

crash, and all was quiet again.

* * * * *

When the stars were paling, the long howl of a wolf rang out into the

stillness. It reached Felicita in Count Ligo's Tower, and filled her

with a nameless terror. "Guard him, dear saints," she prayed; "shield

him from peril, and hold him safe."

THE TREASURE OF SHAGUL

It was past two o'clock, and Aladin, the elephant-driver, had gathered

together his usual audience under the shade of the mango tree near the

elephant-shed. Aladin was a noted story-teller; he had a long memory,

and an exhaustless fund of anecdote. It was ten years since he had

come from Nepaul with Moula Piari, the big she-elephant, and for ten

years he had delighted the inhabitants of the canal-settlement at

Dadupur with his tales. It was his practice to tell one story daily,

never more than one; and his time for this relaxation was an hour or

so after the midday meal, when he would sit on a pile of _sal_ logs,

under the mango tree, and his small audience, collecting round him in

a semi-circle, would wait patiently until the oracle spoke. No one

ever attempted to ask him to begin. Once Bullen, the water-carrier,

the son of Bishen, after waiting in impatient expectation through ten

long minutes of solemn silence, had suggested that it was time for

Aladin to commence. At this the old man rose in wrath, and asking the

water-carrier if he was his slave, smote him over the ear, and stalked

off to the elephant-shed. For three days there was no story-telling,

and Bullen, the son of Bishen, had a hard time of it with his fellows.

Finally matters were adjusted; both Aladin and Bullen were persuaded

by Gunga Din, the tall Burkundaz guard, to forget the past, and

affairs went on in the old way. That was three years ago, but the

lesson had not been forgotten. So although it happened on this

April afternoon, that all the elephant-driver's old cronies were

there,--Gunga Dino the Burkundaz, Dulaloo the white-haired Sikh

messenger who had been orderly to Napier of Magdala, Piroo Ditta

the telegraph-clerk, and Gobind Ram the canal-accountant, with a

half-score others--yet not one of them ventured to disturb the silence

of Aladin, as he sat, gravely stroking his beard, on the ant-eaten

_sal_ logs which had mouldered there for so many years. They were the

remains of a wrecked raft that had come down in a July flood, and

having been rescued from the water, were stacked under the mango tree

for the owner to claim. No owner ever came, but they had served as

food for the white ants, and as a bench for Aladin, for many a year.

The afternoon was delicious; a soft breeze was blowing, and the leaves

of the trees tinkled overhead. Above the muffled roar of the canal,

pouring through the open sluices, came the clear bell-like notes of a

blackbird, who piped joyously to himself from a snag that stood up,

jagged and sharp, out of the clear waters of the Some. To the north

the Khyarda and Kalessar Duns extended in long lines of yellow, brown,

and grey, and above them rose the airy outlines of the lower

Himalayas, while higher still, in the absolute blue of the sky,

towered the white peaks of the eternal snows. Beeroo, the Sansi, saw

the group under the mango tree as he crossed the canal-bridge, and

hastened towards it. Beeroo was a member of a criminal tribe, a tribe

of nomads who lived by hunting and stealing, who are to be found in

every Indian fair as acrobats, jugglers, and fortune-tellers, or

tramping painfully through the peninsula with a tame bear or

performing monkeys. In short the Sansis are very similar to gipsies,

if they are not, indeed, the parent stock from which our own

"Egyptians" spring. Beeroo came up to the sitters, but as he was of

low caste, or rather of no caste, he took up his position a little

apart, leaning on a long knotted bamboo staff, his coal-black eyes

glancing keenly around him. "It is Beeroo," said Dulaloo the Sikh, and

with this greeting lapsed into silence. Aladin ceased stroking his

henna-stained beard, and looked at the new-comer. "Ai, Beeroo! What

news?"

"There is a tiger at Hathni Khoond, and I have marked him down. Is the

Sahib here?"

"The Sahib sleeps now," replied Aladin; "it is the time for his

noontide rest. He will awaken at four o'clock."

"I will see His Honour then," replied Beeroo, "and there will be a

hunt to-morrow."

"Is it a big tiger?" asked Bullen, the son of Bishen.

"Aho!" and the Sansi, sliding his hands down the bamboo staff, sank to

a sitting posture.

"When was it the Sahib slew his last tiger?" asked Piroo Ditta, the

telegraph-clerk.

"Last May, at Mohonagh, near the temple," answered Aladin; "I remember

well, for the elephant lost a toenail in fording the river-bed--poor

beast!"

"At Mohonagh! That is where the Shagul Tree is," said Gobind Ram.

"True, brother. Hast heard the tale?"

There was a chorus of "noes," that drowned Gobind Ram's "yes," and

Aladin, taking a long pull at his water-pipe, began:

"When Raja Sham Chand had ruled in Suket for six years, he fell into

evil ways, and abandoning the shrine of Mohonagh, where his fathers

had worshipped for generations, set up idols to a hundred and fifty

gods. Prem Chand, the high priest of Mohonagh, cast himself at the

Raja's feet, and expostulated with him in vain, for Sham Chand only

laughed, saying Mohonagh was old and blind. Then he mocked the priest,

and Prem Chand threw dust on his own head, and departed sore at heart.

So Mohonagh was deserted, and the Raja wasted his substance among

dancing-girls and the false priests who pandered to him. About this

time Sham Chand, being a fool although a king, put his faith in the

word of the emperor at Delhi, and came down from the hills to find

himself a prisoner. In his despair the Raja called upon each one of

his hundred and fifty gods to save him, promising half his kingdom if

his prayers were answered; but there was no reply. At last the Raja

bethought him of the neglected Mohonagh, and falling on his knees

implored the aid of the god, making him the same promise of half his

kingdom, and vowing that if he were but free, he would put aside his

evil ways, return to the faith of his fathers, and destroy the temples

of his false gods. As he prayed he heard a bee buzzing in his cell,

and watching it, saw it creep into a hollow between two of the bricks

in the wall, and then creep out again, and buzz around the room. Sham

Chand put his hand to the bricks and found they were loose. He put

them back carefully, and waited till night. Under cover of the dark he

set to work once more, and removing brick after brick, found that he

could make his passage through the wall. This he did and effected his

escape. When he came back to Suket he kept his vow, and more than

this. Within the walls of the _mandar_ of Mohonagh grows a _shagul_,

or wild pear tree. On this tree the Raja nailed a hundred and fifty

gold mohurs, a coin for each one of the false gods whose idols he

destroyed, and decreed that every one in Suket who had a prayer

answered, should affix a coin or a jewel to the tree. That was a

hundred years ago, and now the stem of the Shagul Tree is covered with

coins and jewels to the value of _lakhs_. I saw it with my own eyes.

This is not all, for when at Mohonagh I heard that the god strikes

blind any thief who attempts to steal but a leaf from the tree.

_Bus!_--there is no more to tell."

"_Wah_! _Wah!_" exclaimed the listeners, and Beeroo put in, "Lakhs of

rupees didst thou say, Mahoutjee?"

"I have said what I have said, O Sansi, and thou hast heard. Hast thou

a mind to be struck blind?"

Beeroo made no answer, and the group shortly afterwards broke up. But

Gobind Ram, the canal-accountant, who knew the story of the Shagul

Tree, went straight to his quarters. Here he wrote a brief note on a

piece of soft yellow paper, and sealed it carefully. Then he drew

forth a pigeon from a cage in a corner of the room, and fastening the

letter to the bird, freed the pigeon with a toss into the air. The

carrier circled slowly thrice above the _neem_ trees, and then

spreading its strong slate-coloured wings, flew swiftly towards the

hills. Gobind Ram watched the speck in the sky until it vanished

from sight, then he went in, muttering to himself, "The high priest

will know in an hour that Beeroo the Sansi has heard of the Shagul

Tree--Ho, Aladin, thou hast too long a beard and too long a tongue,"

and the subtle Brahmin squatted himself down to smoke.

An hour afterwards, as Aladin was taking the she-elephant to water, he

saw a figure going at a long slouching trot along the yellow sandbanks

of the Some, making directly towards the north. The old man shaded his

eyes with his hands and looked keenly at it; but his sight was not

what it was, and he turned to Mahboob, the elephant-cooly, who would

step into his shoes some day, when he died, and asked: "See'st thou

that figure on the sandbank there, Mahboob?"

"It is the Sansi," answered Mahboob. "Behold! He limps on the left

foot, where the leopard clawed him at Kara Ho. Perchance the Sahib

will not hear of the tiger to-day."

"If ever, Mahboob," answered the Mahout; "would that mine eyes were

young again. _Hai!_" and he tapped Moula Piari's bald head with his

driving-hook, for her long trunk was reaching out to grasp a bundle of

green grass from the head of a grass-cutter, who was bearing in fodder

for the Sahib's pony.

Mahboob was not mistaken; it was Beeroo. When the party broke up, he

alone remained apparently absorbed in thought. After a time he took

some tobacco from an embroidered pouch hanging at his waist, crushed

it in the palm of his hand, and rolled a cone-shaped cigarette with

the aid of a leaf, fastening the folds of the leaf together with a

small dry stick which he stuck through the cigarette like a hair-pin.

At this he sucked, his forehead contracted into a frown, and his

bead-like eyes fixed steadily before him. Finally he rose quickly, as

one who has made a sudden resolve.

"The tiger can wait for the Sahib," he said to himself; "but _lakhs_

of rupees--they wait also--for me. I will go and worship at Mohonagh.

The idol will surely make the convert a gift."

Laughing softly to himself, he stole off with long cat-like steps in

the direction of the river. He forded the Some where it was crossed by

the telegraph-line, and the water was but breast-deep. Once on the

opposite bank, he shook himself like a dog, and breaking into a trot,

headed straight for the hills. His way led up a narrow and steep

track, hedged in with thorns over which the purple convolvulus twined

in a confused network. On either hand were sparse fields of gram and

corn, which ran in lozenge shapes up the low hillsides, ending in a

tangle of underwood, beyond which rose the solid outlines of the

forest. As the sun was setting he came to a long narrow ravine, over

which the road crossed. Here he stopped, and instead of keeping to the

road, turned abruptly to the right and trotted on. In the darkening

woods above him he heard the cry of a panther, and the alarmed

jabbering of the monkeys in the trees above their most dreaded enemy.

Beeroo marked the spot with a glance as he went on: "I will buy

a gun when I come back from Mohonagh," he muttered to himself, "a

two-barrelled gun of English make. The Thanadar at Thakot has one for

sale, a _birich-lodas_;[1] and then I will shoot that panther."

_Hough_! _Hough!_ The cry of the animal rang through the forest again,

as if in assent to his thoughts, and Beeroo continued his way. Just as

the sun sank and darkness was setting in, he saw the wavering glimmer

of a circle of camp-fires and the outlines of figures moving against

the light. The flare of the burning wood discovered also a few low

tents, shaped like casks cut in half lengthwise, and lit up with red

the grey fur of a number of donkeys that were tethered within the

radius of the fires. In a little time he heard the barking of dogs,

and five minutes later was with the tents of his tribe.

-----------------------------------

Footnote 1: Breechloader.

-----------------------------------

One or two men exchanged brief greetings with him, and answering them,

he stepped up to the centre fire, where a tall good-looking woman

addressed him. "Aho, Beeroo, is it you? Is the hunt to be to-morrow?"

"The Sahib was asleep," answered Beeroo; "give me to eat."

The woman brought him food. It was a stew made of the flesh of a

porcupine that had been kept warm in an earthenware dish, and Beeroo

ate heartily of this, quenching his thirst with a draught of the fiery

spirit made from the blossoms of the _mhowra_, after which he began to

smoke once more, using a small clay pipe called a _chillum_. His wife,

for so the woman was, made no attempt to converse with him, but left

him to the company of his tobacco and his thoughts. Beeroo sat moodily

puffing blue curls of smoke from his pipe, and with a black blanket

drawn over his shoulders, stared steadily into the fire. So he sat for

hours, no one disturbing him, sat until the camp had gone to rest, and

the wind alone was awake and sighing through the forest. Sagoo, his

big white hound, came close to him, and lay by his side, as if to hint

that it was time to sleep. Beeroo stroked the lean, muscular flank of

the dog, and looked around him. "In a little time," he said to

himself, "I will be Beeroo Naik, with a village of my own and wide

lands. Beeroo Naik," he repeated softly to himself, with a lingering

pride on the title implied in the last word. Then he rolled himself up

in his blanket; Sagoo snuggled beside him, and they slept.

Beeroo awoke long before sunrise. He drank some milk, stole into his

tent, and crept out again with a stout canvas haversack in his hands.

Into this sack, which contained other things besides, he stuffed some

broken meat and bread made of Indian corn, and slung is over his

shoulders. Then grasping his staff, he gave a last look around him,

and plunged into the jungle. Sagoo would have followed, but Beeroo

ordered him back, and the hound with drooping tail and wistful eyes

watched the figure of his master until it was lost in the gloom of the

trees. Beeroo walked on tirelessly, and by midday was far in the

hills. He could go from sunrise to sunset at that long trotting pace

of his, rest a little, eat a little, and then keep on till the sun

rose again. He was now high up in the hills. The _sal_ trees had given

place to the screw-pine, silk-cotton and mango were replaced by

holm-oak and walnut. In the tangle of the low bushes the dog-rose and

wild jasmine bloomed, and the short green of the grass was spangled

with the wood violet, the amaranth, and the pimpernel. Far below the

Jumna hummed down to the plains in a white lashing flood, and the

voice of the distant river reached him, soft and dreamy, through the

murmur of the pines. As he glanced into the deep of the valleys, a

blue pheasant rose with its whistling call, and with widespread wings

sailed slowly down into the mist below. The sunlight caught the

splendour of his plumage, and he dropped like a jewel into the pearl

grey of the vapour that clung to the mountain-side. Beeroo looked at

the bird for a moment, and then lifting his gaze, fixed it on a white

spot on the summit of the forest-covered hill to his left. He made out

a cone-like dome, surmounting a square building, built like an eagle's

nest at the edge of the precipice which fell sheer for a thousand feet

to the silver ribbon of the river. It was the _mandar_, or temple of

Mohonagh, and so clear was the air, that it seemed as if Beeroo had

only to stretch out his staff to touch the white spot before him. He

knew better than that, however, and knew too that the sun must rise

again before he could rest himself beneath the walls of the temple,

and look on the treasure of the shagul.

"_Ram_, _ram_, Mohonagh!" he cried, saluting the far-off shrine in

mockery, and then continued his way. When he had gone thus for another

hour or so, he came upon the traces of a recent encampment. There was

a heap of stale fodder, one or two earthenware pots were lying about,

and the remains of a fire still smouldered under the lee of a walnut

tree. Hard by, on the opposite side of the track, a huge rock rose

abruptly, and from its scarred side a bubbling spring plashed

musically into a natural basin, and, overflowing this, ran across the

path in a small stream, past the tree and over the precipice, where it

lost itself in a spray in which a quivering rainbow hung. Here Beeroo

halted, and having broken his fast and slaked his thirst, proceeded to

totally alter his personal appearance. This he did by the simple

process of removing his turban of Turkey red and his warm vest, the

only covering he had for the upper portion of his body. After this he

let down his long straight hair, which he wore coiled in a knot, to

fall freely over his shoulders. Then he smeared himself all over, head

and all, with ashes from the fire; and when this was done he stood up

a grisly phantom in which no one would have recognised the Sansi

tracker. He hid his sandals and the wearing apparel he had removed in

a secure place in a cleft in the rocks, and marking the spot

carefully, went on--no longer Beeroo the Sansi, a man of no caste, but

a holy mendicant. In his left hand he held one of the earthen vessels

he had found under the walnut, in his right, his bamboo staff, and the

knapsack hung over his shoulders. When he had gone thus for about a

mile he heard the melancholy "_Aosh_! _Aosh!_" of cattle-drivers in

the hills and the tinkling of bells. Turning a bluff he came face to

face with a small caravan of bullocks, returning from the interior,

laden with walnuts, dried apricots, and wool. Each bullock had a

bundle of merchandise slung on either side, and the frontlet of the

leading animal was adorned with strings of blue beads and shells. The

caravan-drivers walked, and as they urged their beasts along, repeated

at intervals their call, which to European ears would sound more like

a sigh of despair than a cry of encouragement. Beeroo stood by the

side of the road, and, stretching out his ash-covered hands, held out

the vessel for alms. Each man as he passed dropped a little into it

for luck, one a brown copper, another some dried fruit, a third a

handful of parched grain, and Beeroo received these offerings in a

grave silence as became his holy calling. He stayed thus until the

caravan was out of sight; then he collected the few coins and tossed

the rest of the contents of the vessel on to the roadside. He was

satisfied that his disguise was complete, and that he could face the

priests of the temple at Mohonagh without fear of discovery, for the

carriers were Bunjarees, members of a tribe allied to his own, whose

lynx-eyes would have discovered a Sansi in a moment unless his

disguise was perfect.

"_Thoba!_" laughed Beeroo to himself as he pressed on. "Had the

Bunjarees only known who I was, I had heard the whisper of their

sticks through the air, and my back might have been sore; but the

blessing of Mohonagh is upon me," he chuckled.

Beeroo rested that evening in a cave. He rose at midnight, however,

and travelling without a check was by morning ascending the winding

road that led to the shrine. He was not alone here, for there were a

number of pilgrims toiling up the ascent, halting now and again to

take breath, as they wearily climbed the narrow track set in between

the red and brown rocks, and overhung by wild apricot and holm-oak.

Among the pilgrims were those who, in expiation of their sins,

wriggled up the height on their faces like snakes, others who laid

themselves flat at every third step, others again who crawled up

painfully on their blistered hands and knees; there were women going

to thank the god for the blessing of children, bearded Dogras of the

hills, ash-covered and ochre-robed mendicants, and a fat _mahajun_, or

money-lender, who had won a lawsuit and ruined a village. All these

were hurrying towards the shrine, and their hands were full.

Under the arch of the gateway stood Prem Sagar, the high priest of

Mohonagh, and flung grain towards a countless number of pigeons that

fluttered and cooed around him. "They are the eyes and ears of the

temple," he said to himself as he gazed upon them; "they warn the

shrine of danger, they bring the news of the world beyond the hills,

they are surer than the telegraph of the Sahibs, for they tell no

secrets. Perchance," and he looked down on the specks slowly nearing

the gate, "amongst that crowd of fools is Beeroo the Sansi; if so the

god will welcome him, and there will be another miracle. Purun Chand!"

and he called out to a subordinate priest who approached him

reverently, "Purun Chand, awaken the god."

Purun Chand placed a conch-horn to his lips, and blew a long

deep-toned call. Its dismal notes were caught up in the hills and

echoed from valley to valley, until they died away, moaning in the

deeps of the forest. As the call rang out dolefully, the pilgrims

ascending the road fell on their knees, and with one voice cast up a

wailing cry, "Ai, ai, Mohonagh!" And Beeroo the Sansi, the man of no

caste, whose very presence so near the temple was an abomination,

shouted the loudest of all.

* * * * *