THE DUCHESS IN SAFETY.
Emerging from the gallery, the Duchess uttered a faint cry, and would
have shrunk back again on seeing some dark figures stealthily
approaching; but they proved to be only two of her own servants, each
with a led horse, on which she and Cynthia were speedily mounted, and on
their way to Vallecorsa.
Meantime a desperate conflict was raging in the town and castle, led on
by the fiery Barbarossa himself, his lieutenant Dragut, and the renegade
Sinan, the most relentless of his corsairs. Again and again resounds the
cry "Where is the Duchess, ye Christian dogs?"--"Out of your reach!"
they shout back; and a volley of stones descends from the battlements.
Defence is vain; the gates are forced in, the assailants pour through
the rooms, and, disappointed of their prey, hack and spoil the rich
furniture, and carry off what comes ready to hand. Faithful retainers
are cut down; others have their hands tied and are carried off to be
sold into slavery; among them, a youth called Tebaldo Adimari, the pride
and hope of Fondi.
Day was breaking when the corsairs, laden with booty, drew off from the
town in good order and formidable numbers, leaving very few of their
party behind them. The little town was sick and gasping. Here and there
were low wails and continuous sobbings in-doors. Here and there a hollow
groan from some ditch. Here and there a broken scimitar, an unrolled
turban, a pool of blood. Monks now began to steal forth in couples from
the Dominican convent in which St. Thomas Aquinas had taught theology.
They went to shrive the dying, bury the dead, and console the bereaved.
A Jewish physician, with a couple of Hebrew servants, was also engaged
in offices of benevolence; causing some to be carefully removed; binding
up the wounds of others on the spot. The peril of the Duchess--though
she escaped unscathed--caused great commiseration and excitement at the
time. The death and captivity of the nobodies elicited a slight shudder
or a shrug, and was passed over.
Cautiously the withered face of the Mother-of-the-maids peered forth
from the cellar-door when all was quiet; and fearfully issued forth the
train of scared, bewildered females who had taken shelter under her
wing. They were relieved to find themselves alive and safe; but
lamentations soon succeeded gratulations. Isaura's betrothed had been
carried away captive; Tonina's father lay stark and stiff. As for the
_cameriera_, she was weeping herself blind to find the Duchess's room
ransacked, the mirror smashed, the gowns tossed like hay, the pictures
stabbed, and many of the properties made booty of. She smote her breast
and wrung her hands to that degree that it was dreadful to see her.
The news of the attack reaching Rome, Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici, who
was much more of a warrior than a churchman, hastened to the rescue with
a troop of horse.
Meanwhile, a messenger from Vallecorsa brought a billet from the
Duchess.
"Are the wretches gone? Have they done much harm? I have nothing to put
on. Is anybody hurt? I suppose I may come back?"
As everybody was at sixes and sevens without the Duchess, a council was
held, the Dominican prior was consulted, evidence was heard, and it was
finally reported that the Paynims had made off, _viâ_ Itri, and put to
sea.
On this, back came the Duchess, in very miscellaneous toilette; and she
was met by a general turn-out of the people of Fondi--a rough,
wild-looking set at their best, poor creatures! furnishing more than
their due quota, then as now, to the briganti. In the midst were two
biers, supporting the corpses of men who had been slain in the late
attack, and borne by monks, while the populace confusedly pressed around
them, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and filling the air
with their lamentations. These were redoubled at sight of the Duchess,
whose tender heart melted at the scene. The sight of their liege-lady in
tears redoubled their woe; they closed round her, kissing her dress,
hands, and feet, recounting their losses, and each doing his possible to
prove himself more in want of solace than the rest. She condoled with
all, promised monetary restitution to the living and masses for the
dead; and, to crown all, proceeded straight to church to give thanks
for her deliverance and pray for the souls of the slain. Then she
re-entered her castle in a chastened frame of mind.
"Caterina," said she to her old nurse, "how little we know what a few
hours may bring forth! It seems an age since yesterday. What a turn it
gave me when Cynthia first shrieked out! By the way, do you think she
was really frightened?"
"Really frightened, Eccellenza?"
"Yes. Do you not think it possible she might be glad the Moors were
landing and might carry her off?"
"Barbarossa, Signora?"
"Well, I know it was Barbarossa; but still he was her own countryman,
and--"
"I do not think she would acknowledge Barbarossa for a countryman,
Illustrissima. She claims descent from the old Moors of Grenada--from
the Abencerrages."
"Oh, yes, she may claim descent, and call herself a princess and all
that. They all do, I believe. You should have seen her look when I told
her Mahound was a false prophet--"
"She's very touchy about that, I well know," said Caterina.
"Touchy? Why, I believe she prays to him still--swears by him at any
rate. There is no sounding the depths of these Paynims."
"I believe you would find great love for yourself in the depths of
Cynthia's heart,--poor, darkened young thing--if you could sound it,
Signora."
"Ah, but unfortunately, I cannot; and she behaved very improperly to me
in the cavern."
"You shock me, Illustrissima!"
"She thrust the lamp into my hand, saying: 'Hold the light!' and
stamped!"
"Inconceivable! Abominable!" ejaculated Caterina. "What could she have
been thinking of?"
"And she brandished a dagger! Not to kill me, but telling me to kill
_her_. So uncalled for!"
"I fear I must give her up," said Caterina, "though Perez lent her the
dagger to defend you, and she has returned it. I was beginning to grow
fond of her. She must be corrected, Signora."
"Well, truly, I think she must. Let me speak to her first. I dare say
she is as hard as a stone. Call her."
To the Duchess's surprise, when Cynthia was brought to the bar of
justice, and accused of _lèse-majesté_, she at once pleaded guilty,
saying her proud heart sometimes got the better of her; and kneeling
down, kissed the hem of her mistress's garment, in token of submission.
This appeased the placable Giulia, who contented herself with asking
what business she had with pride.
"You doubted my fidelity, Leila," said Cynthia. "No one must doubt the
fidelity of an Abencerrage."
"Tut! how do I know that you are an Abencerrage?" said the Duchess
lightly. "And what are the Abencerrages, or any other Moors, in the eyes
of Christians?"
"They may be nothing now, but they were something once," said Cynthia
proudly; without rising, however, from her knees; or rather, sitting
upon her heels. "While the western Caliphate lasted, the Christians were
few and straggling in the land; and the mountains of Spain echoed back
the cry of the muezzins: 'There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his
prophet!'"
"Ah, profanity!" exclaimed the Duchess, in disgust; and at the same
instant, her seneschal, bowing low, announced to her the arrival of
Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici. The Cardinal was already standing in the
doorway, noting at his leisure, and with admiration, the contrast
between Giulia's high-born beauty and that of the dusky Moorish girl at
her feet.
He then advanced, with the mien of a prince and the tread of a soldier,
and said:
"Your peril compelled me to fly to your succour. I have brought a troop
of horse, and will not leave you till danger and alarm be past."
"How very good of you!" said the Duchess. "I was, indeed, sorely
scared--"
"Fear no more," said he. "No harm shall reach you but through myself."
"How very good of you," repeated the Duchess. "I was, indeed, as I said,
sorely scared; but all danger, and even the fear of it, is now over--"
"That is more than you can tell," interrupted the Cardinal, "and since
you, the noblest and fairest lady in Italy, are so utterly unprotected,
I shall make your safety my care as long as Barbarossa is off the
coast."
"Though I hope to have no need of you as a guard, you are most welcome
as a guest," said the Duchess. Then, addressing her seneschal, she said,
"Let suitable apartments be instantly prepared for his Eminence and also
for his suite, and provide good quarters for his Eminence's troops and
good stabling for their horses--"
"I lodge with the Dominicans," interrupted the Cardinal, "and the Prior
will tell me where to bestow my men--"
"Nay, then," said the Duchess, "direct immediate refection to be served
for his Eminence, and bid the Prior and a few select friends to supper;
to wit, Sertorio Pepe and his sister, Madonna Bianca, the Abate Siffredi
and the Abate Vincenzo."
The seneschal bowed low and withdrew.
"Giulia," said the Cardinal, reproachfully, "I am unwelcome."
"On the contrary, you are most welcome," said she; "but I seek to grace
my guest, and distrust my own powers of entertainment. You find us in
sad disorder, but I will send a line to the Bishop--"
"Pray do nothing so unnecessary, so unwished for--Ah, Giulia! it was
not thus I hoped you would welcome me! You will never understand that I
am your true friend, and prefer your conversation to that of any one
else. Your welfare, your safety, are dear to me; and yet you always
distrust me."
"How can you say so?" said she, dropping her eyes.
"How, indeed, save that you always betray it! Come, cannot we be
friends?" said he, pleasantly. "Once we might have been more, and now
need we be less?"
"By no means, Cardinal, and--"
"I am always Ippolito, to _you_--"
"By no means, Cardinal; I enjoy using your title, it is so noble, so
imposing, it becomes you so well. You have taken a decided part at last,
and I esteem you all the more for it. Your learning and genius will
adorn your high vocation. What influence you now possess! how many look
up to you! Surely your position must be an enviable one?"
A complex expression crossed his face, as he said, with emphasis,
"Very! And yours?"
"Oh, mine is what it has long been. It has its lights and its shadows."
"Shadows?"
"Not very dark ones, certainly; but three-fourths of my life are spent
in a sort of dull twilight, that is--infinitely melancholy!"
"Whence proceeds that melancholy?"
"I know not. My natural disposition, perhaps. I have everything I can
want or wish, yet it sometimes seems to me that there is only one thing
to reconcile us to life--"
"What is that?"
"The fear of death."
"Just so," said he, abruptly.
"Can you, a churchman, tell me how to overcome that fear?"
"There is no fear of your dying--"
"Die I must, soon or late! Death comes to all. Can you, a churchman,
tell me how to meet it?"
"Surely, surely! The Church has provided supports. There are the
sacraments. There is absolution. There is extreme unction."
"I do not know how these may support me when the time comes. Meanwhile
they do not remove the fear of death."
He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and was about to speak, but
refrained. At the same time, the customary refection of wine and
comfits was brought in by two of the Duchess's damsels, while a third
brought a golden ewer of rose-water, and a fourth a basin and
gold-fringed napkin. The duenna and Moorish girl were embroidering at
one of the windows.
When the girls had withdrawn, the Cardinal and Duchess resumed their
conversation, like two old and familiar friends, who had at some former
period seen a good deal more of one another than of late.
He spoke of Hayraddin Barbarossa's descent upon Fondi, and minutely
inquired into the particulars, and the amount of damage done. He ended
with "Well, a wilful woman must have her way. All this may happen again,
and with a worse end."
"Please do not frighten me," said the Duchess. "It is very unkind."
"I mean it for kindness, for I want to put you on your guard."
"I shall be on my guard now. My poor people have suffered sufficiently
to be on the alert. And I have long thought I should like to winter at
Naples. Now I have a sufficient reason for going."
"The sooner the better. Giulia, how you surprised me just now by what
you said! How can one so good, so blameless as you are, be afraid of
death? You have never done anything wrong. I cannot conceive you ever to
have offended God, even in thought. Can _you_, then, be afraid to meet
Him?"
"Ah! I am always shy of strangers; and, to me, God is such a
stranger!--"
"But you _believe_ in Him, do not you? You believe that He _is_?"
"Of course! But that is so little!"
The Cardinal looked as if he thought it a good deal.
"Your nerves are weak," said he, after a pause. "Your organisation is
too delicate. I should advise you to dwell as little as you can on
these things."
"Oh, I speak of them to _no_ one. I don't know how I came to do so now.
Only, I suppose, because you are a friend and a churchman."
"I _like_ you so to speak. Say on."
"Why, then, I will add that, apart from this fear of death, which
sometimes thrills me, and especially did so last night, is a far more
permanent feeling--a desire for some higher good. An intense
dissatisfaction with myself and with all the things of this life."
"Do you really suppose that that feeling is peculiar to yourself?
Everybody has it!--everybody who thinks and feels. I myself suffer
martyrdom from it."
"Can you--a churchman--prescribe its remedy?"
"There are two ways," said the Cardinal, after a pause, "in which you
may overcome it. In the first case, you must fast, you must pray, you
must keep painful vigils, you must perform pilgrimages barefoot, you
must deny yourself every innocent enjoyment, you must bestow all your
possessions on the Church--"
"Hold, hold, I can never do all that," interrupted the Duchess. "Tell me
some other way, I beseech you, of remedying the weariness of life and
the fear of death."
"The only other way," said he, hurriedly, "is to take the world as you
find it; enjoy the passing hour, indulge every innocent desire, and--let
come what may."
"Is there no other course?"
"None, Giulia, none! There is no middle path.[5] You must choose for
yourself."
[5] Non c' è mezzo termine.
"Of course I know which I ought to choose," said she, sorrowfully. "But
to give up _all_--and to the Church!--ah! this Church must have charms
for you that she has not for me!"
"I am not very deeply in love with her," said the Cardinal, attentively
regarding his nails. "But my part is taken and I will play it out. Come,
shall we talk of something pleasanter?"
"Yes, and, some of these days, I will try this better way you point
out--this watching, this fasting; only I know beforehand, I shall not
carry it out."
"No good in trying then."
"I am afraid you are right. I so dread the world's laugh! And I so
dislike doing what is disagreeable!"
"Why on earth should you, then?" said he briskly.
"Ay, why indeed?" said she, laughing and changing the subject.
Afterwards she thought, "What an answer for a priest! I was a goose to
say so much to him. I will not do so again."