COUNT ANTONIO AND THE SACRED BONES.
There is one tale concerning Count Antonio of Monte Velluto, when he
dwelt an outlaw in the hills, which men tell with fear and doubt,
marvelling at the audacity of his act, and sometimes asking themselves
whether he would in very truth have performed what he swore on the faith
of his honour he would do, in case the Duke did not accede to his
demands. For the thing he threatened was such as no man of Firmola dares
think on without a shudder; for we of Firmola prize and reverence the
bones of our saint, the holy martyr Prisian, above and far beyond every
other relic, and they are to us as it were the sign and testimony of
God's enduring favour to our country. But much will a man do for love of
a woman, and Antonio's temper brooked no obstacle: so that I, who know
all the truth of the matter, may not doubt that he would have done even
as he said, braving the wrath of Heaven and making naught of the terror
and consternation that had fallen on the city and the parts round about
it. Whether that thought of his heart was such as would gain pardon, I
know not: had the thing been done, I could scarce hope even in Heaven's
infinite mercy. Yet this story also I must tell, lest I be charged with
covering up what shames Antonio; for with the opinions of careless and
faithless men (who are too many in this later age) I have no communion,
and I tell the tale not to move laughter or loose jests, but rather that
I may show to what extremity a man in nature good may be driven by
harshness and the unmerited disfavour of his Prince.
In the third year, then, of Count Antonio's outlawry, His Highness the
Duke looked on the Lady Lucia and found that she was of full age for
marriage. Therefore he resolved that she should be wed, and, since
Robert de Beauregard, to whom he had purposed to give her, was dead, he
chose from among his lords a certain gentleman of great estate and a
favourite of his, by name Lorenzo, and sent word to Lucia that she had
spent too much of her youth pining for what could not be hers, and must
forthwith receive Lorenzo for her husband. But Lucia, being by now a
woman and no more a timid girl, returned to His Highness a message that
she would look on no other man than Antonio. On this the Duke, greatly
incensed, sent and took her, and set her in a convent within the city
walls, and made her know that there she should abide till her life's
end, or until she should obey his command; and he charged the Abbess to
treat her harshly and to break down her pride: and he swore that she
should wed Lorenzo; or, if she were obstinate, then she should take the
vows of a nun in the convent. Many weeks the Lady Lucia abode in the
convent, resisting all that was urged upon her. But at last, finding no
help from Antonio, being sore beset and allowed no rest, she broke one
day into passionate and pitiful weeping, and bade the Abbess tell His
Highness that, since happiness was not for her in this world, she would
seek to find it in Heaven, and would take the vows, rendering all her
estate into the Duke's hand, that he might have it, and give it to
Lorenzo or to whom he would. Which message being told to Duke Valentine,
weary of contending with her, and perchance secretly fearing that
Antonio would slay Lorenzo as he had slain Robert, he cursed her for an
obstinate wench, and bade her take the vows, and set a day for her to
take them: but her estate he assumed into his own hand, and made from
out of it a gift of great value to Lorenzo. And Lorenzo, they say, was
well content thus to be quit of the matter. "For," said he, "while that
devil is loose in the hills, no peace would there have been for the
lady's husband."
But when it came to the ears of Count Antonio that the Lady Lucia was to
take the veil on the morrow of the feast of St. Prisian, his rage and
affliction knew no bounds. "If need be," he cried, "I will attack the
city with all my men, before I will suffer it."
"Your men would be all killed, and she would take the veil none the
less," said Tommasino. For Antonio had but fifty men, and although they
were stout fellows and impossible to subdue so long as they stayed in
the hills, yet their strength would have been nothing against a fortress
and the Duke's array.
"Then," said Antonio, "I will go alone and die alone."
As he spoke, he perceived Martolo coming to him, and, calling him, he
asked him what he would. Now Martolo was a devout man and had been much
grieved when Antonio had fallen under a sentence of excommunication by
reason of a certain quarrel that he had with the Abbot of the Abbey of
St. Prisian in the hills, wherein the Count had incurred the
condemnation of the Church, refusing, as his way was, to admit any rule
save of his own conscience. Yet Martolo abode with Antonio from love of
him. And now he bowed and answered, "My lord, in three days it is the
feast of St. Prisian, and the sacred bones will then be carried from the
shrine in the church of the saint at Rilano to the city." For it was at
Rilano that Prisian had suffered, and a rich church had been built on
the spot.
"I remember that it is wont to be so, Martolo," answered the Count.
"When I dwelt with my father," said Martolo, "I was accustomed to go
forth with all the people of my village and meet the sacred bones, and
kneeling, receive the benediction from the Lord Archbishop as he passed,
bearing the bones in their golden casket. And the like I would do this
year, my lord."
"But are you not excommunicated in company with Count Antonio and me?"
asked Tommasino, lightly smiling; for Tommasino also stood condemned.
"I pray not. I was not named in the sentence," said Martolo, signing the
cross.
"Go in peace, Martolo; but see that you are not taken by the Duke's
men," said Count Antonio.
"But few of them go with the Archbishop, my lord. For who would lay
hands on the sacred bones? The guard is small, and I shall easily elude
them." So Martolo departed, and told the man they called Bena what had
passed; but Bena was a graceless fellow and would not go with him.
Now when Martolo was gone, Count Antonio sat down on a great stone and
for a long while he said nothing to Tommasino. But certain words out of
those which Martolo had spoken were echoing through his brain, and he
could not put them aside; for they came again and again and again; and
at last, looking up at Tommasino who stood by him, he said, "Tommasino,
who would lay hands on the sacred bones?"
Tommasino looked down into his eyes; then he laid a hand on his
shoulder; and Antonio still looked up and repeated, "Who would lay hands
on the sacred bones?"
Tommasino's eyes grew round in wonder: he smiled, but his smile was
uneasy, and he shifted his feet. "Is it that you think of, Antonio?" he
asked in a low voice. "Beside it, it would be a light thing to kill the
Duke in his own palace."
Then Antonio cried, striking his fist on the palm of his hand, "Are dead
bones more sacred than that living soul on which the Duke lays hands to
force it to his will?"
"The people reverence the bones as God Himself," said Tommasino,
troubled.
"I also reverence them," said Antonio, and fell again into thought. But
presently he rose and took Tommasino's arm, and for a long while they
walked to and fro. Then they went and sought out certain chosen men of
the band; for the greater part they dared not trust in such a matter,
but turned only to them that were boldest and recked least of sacred
things. To ten of such Antonio opened his counsel; and by great rewards
he prevailed on them to come into the plan, although they were, for all
their boldness, very sore afraid lest they, laying hands on the bones,
should be smitten as was he who touched the Ark of the Covenant.
Therefore Antonio said, "I alone will lay hands on the golden casket;
the rest of you shall but hold me harmless while I take it."
"But if the Lord Archbishop will not let it go?"
"The Lord Archbishop," said Tommasino, "will let it go." For Tommasino
did not love the Archbishop, because he would not remove the sentence of
excommunication which he had laid upon Antonio and Tommasino on the
prayer of the Abbot of St. Prisian's.
Now when the feast of St. Prisian was come, the Lord Archbishop, who had
ridden from the city on the eve of the feast, and had lodged in the
house of the priests that served the church, went with all his train
into the church, and, the rest standing afar off and veiling their eyes,
took from the wall of the church, near by the High Altar, the golden
casket that held the bones of the blessed St. Prisian. And he wrapped
the casket in a rich cloth and held it high before him in his two hands.
And when the people had worshipped, the Archbishop left the church and
entered his chair and passed through the village of Rilano, the priests
and attendants going first, and twelve of the Duke's Guard, whom the
Duke had sent, following after. Great was the throng of folk, come from
all the country round to gaze on the casket and on the procession of the
Lord Archbishop; and most devout of them all was Martolo, who rested on
his knees from the moment the procession left the church till it was
clear of the village. And Martolo was still on his knees when he beheld
go by him a party of peasants, all, save one, tall and powerful men,
wearing peasants' garb and having their faces overshadowed by large
hats. These men also had knelt as the casket passed, but they had risen,
and were marching shoulder to shoulder behind the men of the Duke's
Guard, a peasant behind every pikeman. Martolo gazed long at them; then
he moistened his lips and crossed himself, murmuring, "What does this
thing mean? Now God forbid----!" And, breaking off thus, he also rose
and went to the house of his father, sore vexed and troubled to know
what the thing might mean. But he spoke of it to none, no, not to his
father, observing the vow of secrecy in all matters which he had made to
Count Antonio.
At the bounds of the village the greater part of the people ceased to
follow the procession of the sacred bones, and, having received the
Archbishop's blessing, turned back to their own homes, where they
feasted and made merry; but the twelve peasants whom Martolo had seen
followed the procession when it set forth for the next village, distant
three miles on the road to Firmola. Their air manifested great
devotion, for they walked with heads bent on their breasts and downcast
eyes, and they spoke not once on the way; but each kept close behind a
pikeman. When the procession had gone something more than a mile from
the village of Rilano, it came where a little stream crosses the
highway; and the rains having been heavy for a week before, the stream
was swollen and the ford deeper than it was wont to be. Therefore the
officer of the Guard, thinking of no danger, bade six of his men lay
down their pikes and go lift the Archbishop's chair over the ford, lest
the Archbishop should be wetted by the water. And on hearing this order,
the tallest among the peasants put his hand up to his hat and twisted
the feather of it between his thumb and his forefinger: and the shortest
of them whispered, "The sign! The sign!" while every man of them drew a
great dagger from under his habit and held it behind his back. Now by
this time the priests and attendants had passed the ford; and one-half
of the Guard had laid down their pikes and were gone to raise the
Archbishop's chair, the remainder standing at their ease, leaning on
their pikes and talking to one another. Again the tallest peasant
twisted the feather in his hat; and without speech or cry the peasants
darted forward. Six of them seized the pikes that lay on the ground; the
remaining six sprang like wild-cats on the backs of the pikemen,
circling the necks of the pikemen with their arms, pulling them back and
coming near to throttling them, so that the pikemen, utterly amazed and
taken full at disadvantage, staggered and fell backward, while the
peasants got on the top of them and knelt on their breasts and set the
great daggers at their hearts. While this passed on the road, the
remainder of Antonio's band--for such were the peasants--rushed into the
stream and compelled the unarmed pikemen to set down the Archbishop's
chair in the midst, so that the water came in at the windows of the
chair; and the pikemen, held at bay with their own pikes, sought to draw
their poniards, but Antonio cried, "Slay any that draw!" And he came to
the chair and opened the door of it, and, using as little force as he
might, he laid hands on the casket that held the sacred bones, and
wrested it from the feeble hands of the Archbishop. Then he and his men,
standing in line, stepped backwards with the pikes levelled in front of
them till they came out of the water and on to the dry road again; and
one pikeman rushed at Antonio, but Tommasino, sparing to kill him,
caught him a buffet on the side of the head with a pike, and he fell
like a log in the water, and had been drowned, but that two of his
comrades lifted him. Then all twelve of the band being together--for the
first six had risen now from off the six pikemen, having forced them, on
pain of instant death, to deliver over their pikes to them--Antonio,
with the casket in his hands, spoke in a loud voice, "I thank God that
no man is dead over this business; but if you resist, you shall die one
and all. Go to the city; tell the Duke that I, Antonio of Monte Velluto,
have the bones of the blessed St. Prisian, and carry them with me to my
hiding-place in the highest parts of the hills. But if he will swear by
these bones that I hold, and by his princely word, that he will not
suffer the Lady Lucia to take the vows, nor will constrain her to wed
any man, but will restore her to her own house and to her estate, then
let him send the Archbishop again, and I will deliver up the sacred
bones. But if he will not swear, then, as God lives, to-morrow, at
midnight, I will cause a great fire to be kindled on the top of the
hills--a fire whose flame you shall see from the walls of the city--and
in that fire will I consume the sacred bones, and I will scatter the
ashes of them to the four winds. Go and bear the message that I give you
to the Duke."
And, having thus said, Antonio, with his men, turned and went back at a
run along the road by which they had come; but to the village of Rilano
they did not go, but turned aside before they came to it, and, coming to
the farm of one who knew Antonio, they bought of him, paying him in good
coin of the Duchy, three horses, which Antonio, Tommasino, and Bena
mounted; and they three rode hard for the hills, the rest following as
quickly as they might; so that by nightfall they were all safely
assembled in their hiding-place, and with them the bones of the blessed
St. Prisian. But they told not yet to the rest of the band what it was
that Antonio carried under his cloak; nor did Martolo, when he returned
from Rilano, ask what had befallen, but he crossed himself many times
and wore a fearful look.
But Tommasino came to Antonio and said to him, "Why did you not ask also
pardon for all of us, and for yourself the hand of Lucia?"
"A great thing, and a thing that troubles me, I have done already,"
answered Antonio. "Therefore I will ask nothing for myself, and nothing
may I ask for you or for my friends. But if I ask nothing save that
right and justice be done, it may be that my sin in laying hands on the
sacred bones will be the less."
Now after Antonio and his men were gone, the Archbishop's train stayed
long by the stream on the road, lamenting and fearing to go forward. Yet
at last they went forward, and being come to the next village found all
the people awaiting them at the bounds. And when the people saw the
disorder of the procession, and that the pikemen had no pikes, they ran
forward, eagerly asking what had befallen; and learning of the
calamity, they were greatly afraid and cursed Antonio; and many of them
accompanied the Archbishop on his way to the city, whence he came
towards evening. A great concourse of people awaited his coming there,
and the Duke himself sat on a lofty seat in the great square, prepared
to receive the sacred bones, and go with them to the Cathedral, where
they were to be exposed to the gaze of the people at High Mass. And they
set the Archbishop's chair down before the Duke's seat, and the
Archbishop came and stood before the Duke, and his priests and the
pikemen with him. And the Duke started up from his seat, crying, "What
ails you?" and sank back again, and sat waiting to hear what the
Archbishop should say.
Then the Archbishop, his robes still damp and greatly disordered, his
limbs trembling in anger and in fear, raised his voice; and all the
multitude in the square was silent while he declared to His Highness
what things Count Antonio had done, and rehearsed the message that he
had sent. But when the Archbishop told how Antonio had sworn that as
God lived he would scatter the ashes of the sacred bones to the winds,
the men caught their breath with a gasp, while the women murmured
affrightedly, "Christ save us;" and Duke Valentine dug the nails of his
hand, whereon his head rested, into the flesh of his cheek. For all the
city held that, according to the words St. Prisian himself had uttered
before he suffered, the power and prosperity of the Duchy and the favour
of Heaven to it rested on the presence among them and the faithful
preservation and veneration of those most holy relics. And the
Archbishop, having ended the message, cried, "God pardon my lips that
repeat such words," and fell on his knees before Duke Valentine, crying,
"Justice on him, my lord, justice!" And many in the throng echoed his
cry; but others, and among them a great part of the apprenticed lads who
loved Antonio, muttered low one to another, "But the Duke has taken his
sweetheart from him," and they looked on the Duke with no favourable
eye.
Then Duke Valentine rose from his seat and stood on the topmost step
that led to it, and he called sundry of his lords and officers round
him, and then he beckoned for silence, and he said, "Before the sun sets
to-morrow, the Lady Lucia shall take the vows;" and he, with his train,
took their way to the palace, the pikemen clearing a path for them. And
now indeed was silence; for all marvelled and were struck dumb that the
Duke said naught concerning the bones of St. Prisian, and they searched
one another's faces for the meaning of his words. But the Archbishop
arose, and, speaking to no man, went to the Cathedral, and knelt before
the altar in the chapel of St. Prisian, and there abode on his knees.
Surely never, from that day until this hour, has such a night passed in
the city of Firmola. For the Duke sent orders that every man of his
Guard should be ready to start at break of day in pursuit of Antonio,
and through the hours of the evening they were busied in preparing their
provisions and accoutrements. But their looks were heavy and their
tongues tied, for they knew, every man of them, that though the Duke
might at the end take Antonio, yet he could not come at him before the
time that Antonio had said. And this the townsmen knew well also; and
they gathered themselves in groups in the great square, saying, "Before
the Duke comes at him, the sacred bones will be burnt, and what will
then befall the Duchy?" And those who were friendly to Antonio, foremost
among them being the apprenticed lads, spread themselves here and there
among the people, asking cunningly whether it concerned the people of
Firmola more that the blessing of St. Prisian should abide with them, or
that a reluctant maiden should be forced to take the veil; and some grew
bold to whisper under their breath that the business was a foul one, and
that Heaven did not send beauty and love that priests should bury them
in convent walls. And the girls of the city, ever most bold by reason of
their helplessness, stirred up the young men who courted them, leading
them on and saying, "He is a true lover who risks his soul for his
love;" or, "I would I had one who would steal the bones of St. Prisian
for my sake, but none such have I:" with other stirring and inflaming
taunts, recklessly flung from pouting lips and from under eyes that
challenged. And all the while Duke Valentine sat alone in his cabinet,
listening to the tumult that sounded with muffled din through the walls
of the palace.
Now there was in the city a certain furrier named Peter, a turbulent
fellow who had been put out of his craft-guild because he would not
abide by the laws of the craft, and lived now as he best could, being
maintained in large measure by those who listened to his empty and
seditious conversation. This man, loving naught that there was worthy of
love in Count Antonio, yet loved him because he defied the Duke; and
about midnight, having drunk much wine, he came into the square and
gathered together the apprentices, saying, "I have a matter to say to
you--and to you--and to you," till there were many scores of them round
him: then he harangued them, and more came round; and when at last Peter
cried, "Give us back the sacred bones!" a thousand voices answered him,
"Aye, give us back the bones!" And when the pikemen would have seized
him, men, and women also, made a ring round him, so that he could not
be taken. And sober men also, of age and substance, hearkened to him,
saying, "He is a knave, but he speaks truth now." So that a very great
throng assembled, every man having a staff, and many also knives; and to
those that had not knives, the women and girls brought them, thrusting
them into their hands; nay, sundry priests also were among the people,
moaning and wringing their hands, and saying that the favour of St.
Prisian would be lost for ever to the city. And the square was thronged,
so that a man could not move unless all moved, nor raise his hand to his
head save by the favour of his neighbour. Yet presently the whole mass
began to move, like a great wave of water, towards the Palace of the
Duke, where the pikemen stood in ranks, ready now to go against Antonio.
Suddenly arose a cry, "The Archbishop comes!" and the venerable man was
seen, led through the crowd by Peter and some more, who brought him and
set him in the front ranks of the people; and Peter cried boldly, "Where
is the Duke?" But the Captain of the Guard came forward, sword in hand,
and bade Peter be still, cursing him for insolence, and shouted that
the people should disperse on pain of His Highness's displeasure. "Where
is the Duke? Let him come out to us!" cried Peter; and the captain,
despising him, struck him lightly with the flat of his sword. But Peter
with a cry of rage struck the captain a great blow with his staff, and
the captain staggered back, blood flowing from his head. Such was the
beginning of the fray; for in an instant the pikemen and the people had
joined battle: men cried in anger and women in fright: blood flowed, and
sundry on both sides fell and rose no more; and the Archbishop came near
to being trodden under foot till his friends and the priests gathered
round him; and when he saw that men were being slain, he wept.
Then the lord Lorenzo hastened to the cabinet of the Duke, whom he found
pacing up and down, gnawing his finger-nails, and told him of what was
done outside.
"I care not," said the Duke. "She shall take the vows! Let the pikemen
scatter them."
Lorenzo then besought him, telling him that all the city was in arms,
and that the conflict would be great. But the Duke said still, "She
shall take the vows!" Nevertheless he went with Lorenzo, and came forth
on to the topmost step of the portico. And when the people saw him they
ceased for a moment to assail the pikemen, and cried out, "Give us back
the sacred bones!"
"Scatter these fellows!" said the Duke to the Captain of the Guard.
"My lord, they are too many. And if we scatter them now, yet when we
have gone against Count Antonio, they may do what they will with the
city."
The Duke stood still, pale, and again gnawing his nails; and the
pikemen, finding the fight hard, gave back before the people; and the
people pressed on.
Then Peter the furrier came forward, and the hottest with him, and
mocked the pikemen; and one of the pikemen suddenly thrust Peter through
with his pike, and the fellow fell dead; on which a great cry of rage
rose from all the people, and they rushed on the pikemen again and slew
and were slain; and the fight rolled up the steps even to the very feet
of the Duke himself. And at last, able no longer to contend with all the
city, he cried, "Hold! I will restore the sacred bones!" But the people
would not trust him and one cried, "Bring out the lady here before us
and set her free, or we will burn the palace." And the Archbishop came
suddenly and threw himself on his knees before the Duke, beseeching him
that no more blood might be shed, but that the Lady Lucia should be set
free. And the Duke, now greatly afraid, sent hastily the Lieutenant of
the Guard and ten men, who came to the convent where Lucia was, and,
brooking no delay, carried her with them in her bedgown, and brought and
set her beside the Duke in the portico of the palace. Then the Duke
raised his hand to heaven, and before all the people he said, "Behold,
she is free! Let her go to her own house, and her estate shall be hers
again. And by my princely word and these same holy bones, I swear that
she shall not take the vows, neither will I constrain her to wed any
man." And when he had said this, he turned sharply round on his heel,
and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, went through the
great hall to his cabinet and shut the door. For his heart was very sore
that he must yield to Antonio's demand, and for himself he had rather a
thousand times that the bones of St. Prisian had been burnt.
Now when the Duke was gone, the people brought the Lady Lucia to her own
house, driving out the steward whom the Duke had set there, and, this
done, they came to the Archbishop, and would not suffer him to rest or
to delay one hour before he set forth to carry the Duke's promise to
Antonio. This the Archbishop was ready to do, for all that he was weary.
But first he sent Lorenzo to ask the Duke's pleasure; and Lorenzo,
coming to the Duke, prayed him to send two hundred pikes with the
Archbishop. "For," said he, "your Highness has sworn nothing concerning
what shall befall Antonio; and so soon as he has delivered up the bones,
I will set on him and bring him alive or dead to your Highness."
But the Duke would not hearken. "The fellow's name is like stale lees
of wine in my mouth," said he. "Ten of my pikemen lie dead in the
square, and more of the citizens. I will lose no more men over it."
"Yet how great a thing if we could take him!"
"I will take him at my own time and in my own way," said the Duke. "In
God's name, leave me now."
Lorenzo therefore got from the Duke leave for but ten men to go with the
Archbishop, and to go himself if he would. And thus they set out,
exhorted by the people, who followed them beyond the bounds of the city,
to make all speed. And when they were gone, the people came back and
took up the bodies of the dead; while the pikemen also took up the
bodies of such of their comrades as were slain.
Yet had Duke Valentine known what passed on the hills while the city was
in tumult, it may not be doubted, for all his vexation, that he would
have sent the two hundred whom Lorenzo asked: never had he a fairer
chance to take Antonio. For when the Count and those who had been with
him to Rilano were asleep, Antonio's head resting on the golden casket,
a shepherd came to the rest of the band and told them what had been done
and how all the country was in an uproar. Then a debate arose amongst
the band, for, though they were lawless men, yet they feared God, and
thought with great dread on what Antonio had sworn; so that presently
they came altogether, and aroused Antonio, and said to him, "My lord,
you have done much for us, and it may be that we have done somewhat for
you. But we will not suffer the sacred bones to be burnt and scattered
to the winds."
"Except the Duke yields, I have sworn it, as God lives," answered
Antonio.
"We care not. It shall not be, no, not though you and we die," said
they.
"It is well; I hear," said Antonio, bowing his head.
"In an hour," said they, "we will take the bones, if you will not
yourself, my lord, send them back."
"Again I hear," said Antonio, bowing his head; and the band went back to
the fire round which they had been sitting, all save Martolo, who came
and put his hand in Antonio's hand.
"How now, Martolo?" asked Antonio.
"What you will, I will, my lord," said Martolo. For though he trembled
when he thought of the bones of St. Prisian, yet he clung always to
Antonio. As for Bena and the others of the ten who had gone to Rilano,
they would now have burnt not the bones only, but the blessed saint
himself, had Antonio bidden them. Hard men, in truth, were they, and the
more reckless now, because no harm had come to them from the seizing of
the bones; moreover Antonio had given them good wine for supper, and
they drank well.
Now the rest of the band being gone back to their fire and the night
being very dark, in great silence and caution Antonio, Tommasino,
Martolo, Bena, and their fellows--being thirteen in all--rose from their
places, and taking naught with them but their swords (save that Antonio
carried the golden casket), they stole forth from the camp, and set
their faces to climb yet higher into the heights of the hills. None
spoke; one following another, they climbed the steep path that led up
the mountain side; and when they had been going for the space of an
hour, they heard a shout from far below them.
"Our flight is known," said Tommasino.
"Shall we stand and meet them, my lord?" asked Bena.
"Nay, not yet," said Antonio; and the thirteen went forward again at the
best speed they could.
Now they were in a deep gorge between lofty cliffs; and the gorge still
tended upwards; and at length they came to the place which is now named
"Antonio's Neck." There the rocks came nigh to meeting and utterly
barring the path; yet there is a way that one man, or at most two, may
pass through at one time. Along this narrow tongue they passed, and,
coming to the other side, found a level space on the edge of a great
precipice, and Antonio pointing over the precipice, they saw in the
light of the day, which now was dawning, the towers and spires of
Firmola very far away in the plain below.
"It is a better place for the fire than the other," said Antonio; and
Bena laughed, while Martolo shivered.
"Yet we risk being hindered by these fellows behind," said Tommasino.
"Nay, I think not," said Antonio.
Then he charged Tommasino and all of them to busy themselves in
collecting such dry sticks and brushwood as they could; and there was
abundance near, for the fir-trees grew even so high. And one of the men
also went and set a snare, and presently caught a wild goat, so that
they had meat. But Antonio took Bena and set him on one side of the way
where the neck opened out into the level space; and he stood on the
other side of the way himself. And when they stretched out their arms,
the point of Bena's sword reached the hilt of Antonio's. And Antonio
smiled, saying to Bena, "He had need to be a thin man, Bena, that passes
between you and me."
And Bena nodded his head at Count Antonio, answering, "Indeed this is as
strait as the way to heaven, my lord, and leads, as it seems to me, in
much the same direction."
Thus Antonio and Bena waited in the shelter of the rocks at the opening
of the neck, while the rest built up a great pile of wood. Then, having
roasted the meat, they made their breakfast, Martolo carrying portions
to Antonio and to Bena. And, their pursuers not knowing the path so well
and therefore moving less quickly, it was but three hours short of noon
when they heard the voices of men from the other side of the neck. And
Antonio cried straightway, "Come not through at your peril! Yet one may
come and speak with me."
Then a great fellow, whose name is variously given, though most of those
whom I have questioned call him Sancho, came through the neck, and,
reaching the end of it, found the crossed swords of Antonio and Bena
like a fence against his breast. And he saw also the great pile of wood,
and resting now on the top of it the golden casket that held the sacred
bones. And he said to Antonio, "My lord, we love you; but sooner than
that the bones should be burnt, we will kill you and all that are with
you."
But Antonio answered, "I also love you, Sancho; yet you and all your
company shall die sooner than my oath shall be broken."
"Your soul shall answer for it, my lord," said Sancho.
"You speak truly," answered Antonio.
Then Sancho went back through the neck and took counsel with his
fellows; and they made him their chief, and promised to be obedient to
all that he ordered. And he said, "Let two run at their highest speed
through the neck: it may be they will die, but the bones must be saved.
And after them, two more, and again two. And I will be of the first
two."
But they would not suffer him to be of the first two, although he
prevailed that he should be of the last two. And the six, being chosen,
drew their swords and with a cry rushed into the neck. Antonio, hearing
their feet, said to Bena, "A quick blow is as good as a slow, Bena." And
even as he spoke the first two came to the opening of the neck. But
Antonio and Bena struck at them before they came out of the narrowest
part or could wield their swords freely; and the second two coming on,
Bena struck at one and wounded him in the breast, and he wounded Bena
in the face over the right eye, and then Bena slew him; while Antonio
slew his man at his first stroke. And the fifth man and Sancho, the
sixth, coming on, Antonio cried loudly, "Are you mad, are you mad? We
could hold the neck against a hundred."
But they would not stop, and Antonio slew the fifth, and Bena was in the
act to strike at Sancho, but Antonio suddenly dashed Sancho's sword from
his hand, and caught him a mighty buffet, so that he fell sprawling on
the bodies of the five that were dead.
"Go back, fool, go back!" cried Antonio.
And Sancho, answering nothing, gathered himself up and went back; for he
perceived now that not with the loss of half of his men would he get by
Antonio and Bena; and beyond them stood Tommasino with ten whom he knew
to be of the stoutest of the band.
"It is a sore day's work, Bena," cried Antonio, looking at the dead
bodies.
"If a man be too great a fool to keep himself alive, my lord, he must
die," answered Bena; and he pushed the bodies a little further back
into the neck with his foot.
Then Sancho's company took counsel again; for, much as they reverenced
the sacred bones, there was none of them eager to enter the neck. Thus
they were at a loss, till the shepherd who had come along with them
spoke to Sancho, saying, "At the cost of a long journey you may come at
him; for there is a way round that I can lead you by. But you will not
traverse it in less than twelve or thirteen hours, taking necessary rest
by the way."
But Sancho, counting the time, cried, "It will serve! For although a
thousand came against him, yet the Count will not burn the bones before
the time of his oath."
Therefore he left fifteen men to hold the neck, in case Antonio should
offer to return back through it, and with the rest he followed the
shepherd in great stealth and quiet; by reason of which, and of the rock
between them, Antonio knew not what was done, but thought that the whole
company lay still on the other side of the neck.
Thus the day wore to evening as the Archbishop with the Lord Lorenzo and
the guards came to the spur of the hills; and here they found a man
waiting, who cried to them, "Do you bring the Duke's promise to the
Count Antonio?"
"Yes, we bring it," said they.
"I am charged," said he, "to lead the Archbishop and one other after the
Count." But since the Archbishop could not climb the hills, being old
and weary, Lorenzo constrained the man to take with him four of the
Guards besides; and the four bore the Archbishop along. Thus they were
led through the secret tracks in the hills, and these Lorenzo tried to
engrave on his memory, that he might come again. But the way was long
and devious, and it was hard to mark it. Thus going, they came to the
huts, and passing the huts, still climbed wearily till they arrived near
to the neck. It was then night, and, as they guessed, hard on the time
when Antonio had sworn to burn the sacred bones; therefore they pressed
on more and more, and came at last to the entrance of the neck. Here
they found the fifteen, and Lorenzo, running up, cried aloud, "We bring
the promise, we bring the promise!"
But scarcely had he spoken these words, when a sudden great shout came
from the other side of the neck; and Lorenzo, drawing his sword, rushed
into the neck, the fifteen following, yet leaving a space between him
and them, lest they should see him fall, pierced by Antonio and Bena.
And Lorenzo stumbled and fell over the five dead bodies which lay in the
way of the neck. Uttering a cry, "What are these?" he scrambled again to
his feet, and passed unhurt through the mouth of the neck, and the
fifteen followed after him, while the Guards supported the Archbishop in
their hands, his chair being too wide to pass through the neck. And when
thus they all came through, wild and strange was the sight they saw. For
it chanced that at the same time Sancho's company had completed their
circuit, and had burst from behind upon Antonio and the twelve. And when
the twelve saw them, they retreated to the great pile and made a ring
round it, and stood there ready to die rather than allow Sancho's men
to reach the pile. It was then midnight and the time of Count Antonio's
oath. Count Antonio stood on the top of the great pile; at his feet lay
the golden casket containing the sacred bones, and in his hand was a
torch. And he cried aloud, "Hold them, while I fire the pile!" and he
leapt down and came to the side of the pile and laid his torch to the
pile. And in an instant the flames shot up, for the pile was dry.
Now when Sancho's men saw the pile alight, with shouts of horror and of
terror they charged at the top of their speed against the twelve who
guarded the pile. And Lorenzo and his men also rushed; but the cries of
Sancho's company, together with the answering defiance of the twelve,
drowned the cries of Lorenzo; and Antonio and the twelve knew not that
Lorenzo was come. And the flames of the pile grew, and the highest
tongue of flame licked the side of the golden casket. But Antonio's
voice rose above all, as he stood, aye, almost within the ambit of the
fire, and cried, "Hold them a moment, Tommasino--a moment, Bena--and
the thing is done!" Then Lorenzo tore his casque from his head and flung
down his sword, and rushed unarmed between Antonio's men and Sancho's
men, shouting louder than he had thought ever to shout, "The promise!
the promise!" And at the same moment (so it is told, I but tell it as it
is told) there came from heaven a great flash of lightning, which,
aiding the glare of the flames, fully revealed the features of Lorenzo.
Back fell Sancho's men, and Antonio's arrested their swords. And then
they all cried as men cry in great joy, "The promise! the promise!" And
for a moment all stood still where they were. But the flames leapt
higher; and, as Antonio had said, they were seen by the great throng
that gazed from the city walls; and they were seen by Duke Valentine as
he watched from the wall of his garden by the river; and he went pale,
gnawing his nails.
Then the Count Antonio sprang on the burning pile, though it seemed that
no man could pass alive through it. Yet God was with him, and he gained
the top of it, and, stooping, seized the golden casket and flung it
down, clear of the pile, even at the Lord Lorenzo's feet; and when
Lorenzo sought to lift it, the heat of it blistered his hands, and he
cried out with pain. But Count Antonio, choked by the smoke, his hair
and his eyebrows scorched by the fire, staggered half-way down the pile
and there sank on his knees. And there he had died, but that Tommasino,
Bena, and Sancho, each eager to outstrip the other, rushed in and drew
him forth, and fetched water and gave it to him, so that he breathed
again and lived. But the flames leapt higher and higher; and they said
on the city walls, "God help us! God help us! The sacred bones are
burnt!" And women, aye, and men too, fell to weeping, and there was
great sorrow, fear, and desolation. And the Duke gnawed his nails even
to the quick, and spat the blood from his mouth, cursing Antonio.
But Lorenzo, having perceived that the greater number was against
Antonio, cried out to Sancho's men, "Seize him and bring him here!" For
the Duke's promise carried no safety to Antonio.
But Sancho answered him, "Now that the sacred bones are safe, we have no
quarrel with my lord Antonio;" and he and his men went and laid down
their swords by the feet of Antonio, where he lay on the ground, his
head on Tommasino's lap. So that the whole band were now round Antonio,
and Lorenzo had but four with him.
"He asks war!" growled Bena to Tommasino. "Shall he not have war, my
lord?"
And Tommasino laughed, answering, "Here is a drunkard of blood!"
But Count Antonio, raising himself, said, "Is the Archbishop here?"
Then Lorenzo went and brought the Archbishop, who, coming, stood before
Antonio, and rehearsed to him the oath that Duke Valentine had taken,
and told him how the Lady Lucia was already free and in her own house,
and made him aware also of the great tumult that had happened in the
city. And Antonio listened to his tale in silence.
Then the Archbishop raised a hand towards heaven and spoke in a solemn
and sad voice, "Behold, there are ten of the Duke's Guard dead in the
city, and there are twelve of the townsmen dead; and here, in the
opening of the neck, there lie dead five men of those who followed you,
my lord. Twenty-and-seven men are there that have died over this
business. I pray more have not died in the city since I set forth. And
for what has this been done, my lord? And more than the death of all
these is there. For these sacred bones have been foully and
irreligiously stolen and carried away, used with vile irreverence and
brought into imminent hazard of utter destruction: and had they been
destroyed and their ashes scattered to the four winds, according to your
blasphemous oath, I know not what would have befallen the country where
such an act was done. And for what has this been done, my lord? It has
been done that a proud and violent man may have his will, and that his
passion may be satisfied. Heavy indeed is the burden on your soul my
lord; yes, on your soul is the weight of sacrilege and of much blood."
The Archbishop ceased, and his hand dropped to his side. The flames on
the pile were burning low, and a stillness fell on all the company. But
at last Count Antonio rose to his feet and stood with his elbow on
Tommasino's shoulder, leaning on Tommasino. His face was weary and sad,
and he was very pale, save where in one spot the flame had scorched his
cheek to an angry red. And looking round on the Archbishop, and on the
Lord Lorenzo, and on them all, he answered sadly, "In truth, my Lord
Archbishop, my burden is heavy. For I am an outlaw, and excommunicated.
Twenty-and-seven men have died through my act, and I have used the
sacred bones foully, and brought them into imminent peril of total
destruction, according to my oath. All this is true, my lord. And yet I
know not. For Almighty God, whom all we, whether honest men or knaves,
men of law or lawless, humbly worship--Almighty God has His own scales,
my lord. And I know not which thing be in those scales the heavier; that
twenty-and-seven men should die, and that the bones of the blessed St.
Prisian should be brought in peril, aye, or should be utterly
destroyed; or again that one weak girl, who has no protection save in
the justice and pity of men, should be denied justice and bereft of
pity, and that no man should hearken to her weeping. Say, my lord--for
it is yours to teach and mine to learn--which of these things should God
count the greater sin? And for myself I have asked nothing; and for my
friends here, whom I love--yes, even those I have killed for my oath's
sake, I loved--I have dared to ask nothing. But I asked only that
justice should be done and mercy regarded. Where, my lord, is the
greater sin?"
But the Archbishop answered not a word to Count Antonio; but he and the
Lord Lorenzo came and lifted the golden casket, and, no man of Antonio's
company seeking to hinder them, they went back with it to the city and
showed it to the people; and after that the people had rejoiced greatly
that the sacred bones, which they had thought to be destroyed, were
safe, the Archbishop carried the golden casket back to the shrine in the
village of Rilano, where it rests till this day. But Count Antonio
buried the five men of his band whom he and Bena had slain, and with
the rest he abode still in the hills, while the Lady Lucia dwelt in her
own house in the city; and the Duke, honouring the oath which he had
sworn before all the people, did not seek to constrain her to wed any
man, and restored to her the estate that he had taken from her. Yet the
Duke hated Count Antonio the more for what he had done, and sought the
more eagerly how he might take him and put him to death.