Her touch, though the hand was cool, seemed to burn, but Theodora's

touch affected the other woman likewise for she said:

"There is evil enough in the palm of your hand to destroy the

world! We are well met, you and I. You are worthy of my confidence.

These fingers would pick the fruit off the forbidden tree, for men

to eat and die! Lady Theodora--I may some day teach you the great

secret--meanwhile I will show you that I possess it!"

With these words she walked to the chest, took from it an ebony casket

and laid it upon the table.

"There is death enough in this casket," she said, "to kill every man

and woman in Rome!"

Theodora fastened her gaze upon it, as if she would have drawn out the

secret of its contents by the very magnetism of her eyes. For, even

while Sidonia was speaking, a thought flashed through her visitor's

mind--a thought which almost made her forget the purpose on which she

had come. She laid her hands upon it caressingly, trembling, eager to

see its contents.

"Open it!" said Sidonia. "Touch the spring and look!"

Theodora touched the little spring. The lid flew back and there flashed

from it a light which for a moment dazzled her by its very brilliancy.

She thrust the cabinet from her in alarm, imagining she inhaled the

odor of some deadly perfume.

"Its glitter terrifies me!" she said. "Its odor sickens."

"Your conscience frightens you," sneered Sidonia.

Theodora rose to her feet, her face pale, her eyes alight with a

strange fire.

"This to me?" she flashed.

For a moment the two women faced each other in a white silence.

A strange smile played upon Sidonia's lips.

"The Aqua Tofana in the hands of a coward is a gift as fatal to its

possessor as to its victim!"

"You are brave to speak such words to Theodora!"

Sidonia gave her an inscrutable glance.

"Why should I fear you? Even without these,--woman to woman," she

replied, as she drew the casket to herself and took out a phial, gilt

and chased with strange symbols.

Sidonia took it up and immediately the liquid was filled with a million

sparks of fire. It was the Aqua Tofana, undiluted, instantaneous in its

effect, and not medicable by antidotes. Once administered there was

no more hope for its victim than for the souls of the damned who have

received the final judgment. One drop of the sparkling water upon the

tongue of a Titan would blast him like Jove's thunderbolt, shrivel him

up to a black, unsightly cinder.

This terrible water was rarely used alone by the poisoners, but it

formed the basis of a hundred slower potions which ambition, fear or

hypocrisy, mingled with the element of time, and colored with the

various hues and aspects of natural disease.

Theodora had again taken her seat and leaned towards Sidonia,

supporting her chin in the palm of her hands, as she bent eagerly over

the table, drinking in every word as the hot sand of the desert drinks

in the water that falls upon it.

"What is that?" she pointed to a phial, white as milk and seemingly

harmless, and while she questioned, her busy brain worked with feverish

activity. The Aqua Tofana she had used when she struck down Roxana and

her too talkative lover on the night of the feast in her garden. But

now she required a different concoction to complete the vengeance on

her rival.

"This is called Lac Misericordiae," replied Sidonia. "It brings on

painless consumption and decay! It eats the life out of man or woman,

while the moon empties and fills. The strong man becomes a skeleton.

Blooming maidens sink to their graves blighted and bloodless. Neither

saint or sacrament can arrest its doom. This phial"--and she took

another from the cabinet, replacing the first--"contains innumerable

griefs that wait upon the pillows of rejected and heartbroken lovers,

and the wisest mediciner is mocked by the lying appearances of disease

that defy his skill and make a mock of his wisdom."

There was a moment's silence. At last Theodora spoke.

"Have you nothing that will cause fear--dread--madness--ere it strikes

the victim dumb forever more? Something that produces in the brain

those dreadful visions--horrid shapes--peopling its chambers where

reason once held sway?"

For a moment Sidonia and Theodora held each other's gaze, as if each

were wondering at the wickedness of the other.

"This," Sidonia said at last, taking out a curiously twisted bottle,

containing a clear crimson liquid and sealed with the mystic Pentagon,

"contains the quintessence of mandrakes, distilled in the alembic, when

Scorpio rules the hour. It will produce what you desire."

"How much of it is required to do this thing?"

"Three drops. Within six hours the unfailing result will appear."

"Give it to me!"

"You possess rare ingenuity, Lady Theodora," said Sidonia, placing her

hand in that of her caller. "If Satan prompts you not, it is because he

can teach you nothing, either in love or stratagem."

She shut up her infernal casket, leaving the phial of distilled

mandrakes, shining like a ruby in the lamp light, upon the table. By

its side lay a bag of gold.

Theodora arose. The eyes of the two women flashed in lurid sympathy as

they parted, and Sidonia accompanied her visitor to the door.

As she did so a heavy curtain in the background parted and the white

face of Basil peered into the empty room.

After a brief interval Sidonia returned.

Her face had again assumed its forbidding aspect as, removing the

phials and seemingly addressing no one, she said:

"We are alone now!"

At the next moment Basil stood in the chamber. His eyes burned with a

feverish lustre, and there was a horror in his countenance which he

strove in vain to conceal.

"This must not be," he said hoarsely. "Why did you give her this

devil's brew?"

And staggering up to the table he gripped the soft white wrist of the

woman with fingers of steel.

Sidonia's eyes narrowed as she gazed into those of the man.

"Do you love that one, too?" she said, wrenching herself free. "Or have

you lied to her as you have lied to me?"

"Your voice sounds like the cry from a dark gallery that leads to

Hell," Basil replied. "You, alone, have I loved all these years, and

for your fell beauty have I risked all I have done and am about to do!"

"Fear speaks in your voice," Sidonia replied with a cruel smile upon

her lips. "You are in my power, else had you long ago consigned me to a

place whence there is no return. With me the secret of another's death

would go to the grave."

"Nay, you do not understand!" Basil interposed. "The woman who has

aroused Theodora's maddened jealousy is nothing to me. But I have other

plans concerning her--she must be saved!"

"Other plans?" replied Sidonia darkly. "What other plans? What sort of

woman is she who can arouse the jealousy of Theodora?"

"White and cold as the snows of the North."

"A stranger in Rome?"

"The wife of one whose days are numbered, if I rightly read the oracle."

"What is this plan?" Sidonia insisted.

"She is to be delivered to Hassan Abdullah, as reward for his aid in

the great stroke that is about to fall."

In the distance whimpered a bell.

"And, when the hour tolls--the hour of which you have so often

prated--when you sit in the high seat of the Senator of Rome--where

then will I be, who have watched your power grow and have aided it in

its upward flight?"

Basil's face lighted up with the fires within.

"Where else but by my side? Who dares defy us and the realms of the

Underworld?"

"Who, indeed?" Sidonia replied with a dark, inscrutable glance into

Basil's face. "Perchance I should not love you as I do were you not as

evil as you are good to look upon! I love you, even though I know your

lying lips have professed love to many others, even though I know that

Theodora has kindled in you all the evil passions of your soul. Beware

how you play with me!"

She threw back her wide sleeves and two dazzling white arms encircled

Basil's neck.

"Await me yonder," she then turned to her visitor, pointing to a

chamber situated beyond the curtain. "We will talk this matter over!"

Basil retired and Sidonia busied herself, replacing the different

phials in the ebony chest.

After having assured herself that everything was in its place, she

picked up the lamp and disappeared behind the curtain in the background.

Deep midnight silence reigned in the gorge of Mount Aventine.

CHAPTER VIII

IN TENEBRIS

Another day had gone down the never returning tide of time. The sun was

sinking in a rosy bed of quilted clouds. All day long Hellayne had sat

brooding in her chamber, unable to shake off the lethargy of despair

that bound and benumbed her limbs, rousing herself at long intervals

just sufficiently to wring her hands for very anguish, without even the

faintest ray of hope to pierce the black night of her misery.

Just as a white border of light had been visible on the edge of the

dark cloud that hung over her, just as she had refound the man whose

love was the very breath of her existence, her evil star had again

flamed in the ascendant and, losing him anew, she had utterly lost

herself. She struggled with her thoughts, as a drowning man amid

tossing waves, groping about in the dark for a plank to float upon,

when all else has sunk in the seas around him.

She had hardly touched the food which Persephoné herself had brought to

her. Yet it seemed to her the Circassian had regarded her strangely, as

she placed the viands before her. She had tried to frame a question,

but her lips seemed to refuse the utterance, and at last Persephoné had

departed, with the mocking promise to return later, to inquire how the

Lady Hellayne had spent the day.

Now it seemed to her as if a poison breath of evil was slowly

permeating the narrow confines of her chamber. Something she had never

before experienced was floating before her vision, was creeping into

her brain, was booming in her ears, was turning her blood to ice.

Was it the voiceless echo of an ill-omened incantation, handed down

through generations of poisoners and witches from the time of pagan

Rome?

"Hecaten voco,

Voco Tisiphonem,

Spargens avernales aquas,

Te morti devoveo; te diris ago."

Was she going mad?

Hellayne's hands went to her forehead.

"I think I am sane," she said to herself, "at least--as yet."

Would Heaven not come to her aid? She was but a weak woman who in

vain--too often in vain--had tried to snatch a few moments of happiness

from life. Ah! If Death knew what a service he would render her! But

no! She would brace her heart strings more than ever. She would renew

her fight with dusk and madness. She would face and challenge each mad

phantom--make it speak--reveal itself,--or she would break the silence

of that monstrous place at least with her own voice. Though flesh was

weak she would be strong to-night--but--ah God! here they came trooping

out of the night.

She cowered back, shuddering, her eyes fixed on the dusky depths of the

chamber.

It was the blue one--the one whose limbs and cheeks seemed made of pale

blue ice. She felt her limbs growing numb. But she would bar its way.

The finger of the freezing shape was on its lip. Did it mean that it

was dumb? Well, then, let it speak by signs. The dim blue rays that

draped its silence quaked like aspens.

"Who are you?" she forced herself to speak. "Are you Hate? You shake

your head? Are you Despair? No? Not that? Then you must be Fear!"

The figure nodded with a horrible grin.

"Fear of what?"

The phantom passed its finger slowly across its throat.

She held on to the panelling to keep from falling. Her woman's strength

had bounds. But she recovered herself and forced herself to speak.

"Ah!" she said, "it is this she contemplates? How soon? I needs must

know. How many twilights have I still to live, before they sink my body

in yonder lotus pond?"

The phantom held up three fingers.

"Only three," Hellayne babbled like a child, talking to herself.

"Well--pass upon your way, phantom.--You have given me all you had to

give--three dusks to rise to Heaven."

She raised her eyes in prayer and a strange rapture came into her face.

But it vanished suddenly--and once more she stared, shuddering, into

the gloom.

For craze and hell still prevailed.

Look, there it came!

What new and monstrous phantom was swaying and groping towards her? A

headless monk!--The air grew black with horror. Horror shrivelled her

skin, was raising the roots of her hair.

It was for her he was groping. Her wits were beginning to leave her.

She had to move this way and that to avoid him. She felt, if he only

touched her, madness would win the day. And he groped and groped, and

she seemed to feel him near to her.

"Away! Away!" she shrieked. But she was wasting her breath. He had

neither eyes to see nor ears to hear.

And he groped and groped, as if he felt her already under his vague,

white hands.

"Help--God!" she shrieked.

Nature could not cope with such shapes as these!

And Hellayne fell forward in a swoon.

It was late in the night when she regained consciousness. She opened

her eyes. The shapes of dusk had gone. She was alone--alone on the

stone floor of the chamber. Everything was still in the long dusky

gallery beyond. Perhaps it was all over for the night, and yet--what

was there upon the threshold?

"Oh, my God! my God!" she cried. "Let me die--only not this horror!"

There the phantom stood. Its scarlet mantle glimmered almost black. She

dared not turn her back. She dared not shut her eyes. He made neither

sign, nor beck, nor nod. But, like a crazy shadow, he circled round and

round her, soundlessly, as if he were treading on velvet.

"Keep off--keep off!" she shrieked. "Protect me, oh my God! Madness is

closing in upon me!"

And with a sudden, desperate movement she rushed at the phantom to tear

the crimson mask from its face.

Her arms penetrated empty air.

With a moan she sank upon the floor. Her arms spread out, she lay upon

her face.

The swoon held her captive once more.

But the dream was kinder to Hellayne than life.

She stood upon a rocky promontory in her own far-off land of Provence.

Before her spread the peace of the wide, glimmering sea.

What are these golden columns through which the water glistens?

A man stood within the ruins of a great temple, the sea before him,

violet hills behind. From the summit of an island mountain in the bay

the lilt of a tender song was drifting upwards.

And, as he sang, the great sea stirred. It heaved, it writhed, it rose.

With onward movement, as of a coiling serpent, the whole vast liquid

brilliance rushed upon the temple. Mighty billows of beryl curved and

broke in sheets of white foam.

"Fear nothing," said the man. "Your river has found the sea!"

It was Tristan's voice.

From the distance came the faint tolling of a bell, forlorn, as from a

forest chapel, infinitely sweet and tremulous. In a faint light, like a

mountain mist at dawn, the whole scene faded away, and Hellayne was in

a garden--a rose garden. She had been there before, but how different

it all was. She was being smothered in roses. Flame roses every

one--curled into fiery petal whorls, dancing in the garden dusk under a

red, red sky.

Ah! There it is again, the terrible face, leering from among the

branches, the face that froze the blood in her veins, that made her

heart turn cold as ice and filled her soul with horror.

It is the Count Laval. He is seeking her, seeking her everywhere. Horns

are peering out from under his scarlet cap, and he has long claws.

Now she is fleeing through the rose garden, faster, faster, ever

faster. But he is gaining upon her. From bosquet to bosquet, from

thicket to thicket; she hears his approaching steps. Now she can almost

feel his breath upon her neck.

At last he has overtaken her.

Now he is circling round her, nearer and nearer, extending his hands

towards her, while she follows his movement with horror-stricken eyes.

But her strength, her body, are paralyzed.

As his hands close round her throat, his eyes gloating with dull

malice, she covers her face with her hands and falls with a shriek.

And as she lies there before him, dead, he looks down upon her with a

strange smile upon his lips and casts his scarlet mantle over her.

Once more Hellayne is in the throes of a swoon.

CHAPTER IX

THE CONSPIRACY

It was a night, moonless and starless. Deep silence brooded over the

city. Not a ray of light was in the sky. A dense fog hung like a

funeral pall over the Seven Hills, and a ceaseless, changeless drizzle

was sinking from the heavy clouds whose contours were indistinguishable

in the nocturnal gloom. The Tiber hardly moaned within his banks. The

city fires hissed and smouldered away under the descending rain, soon

to be extinguished altogether.

It was about the second watch of the night when two men, wrapped in

dark mantles that covered them from head to foot, quitted the monastery

of San Lorenzo and were immediately swallowed up by the darkness.

The night by this time was more dismal than ever. The wind began to

rise, and its fitful gusts howled round the stern old walls of the

monastery, or rustled in the laurels and cypresses by which it was

surrounded. The great gates were shut and barred. Hardly a light was to

be seen along the entire range of buildings.

Suddenly a postern gate opened, and what appeared to be a monk, drawing

his black cowl completely over his head, came forth and hurried along

in the direction of the river.

Tristan and his companion, emerging from their hiding-place, followed

at the farthest possible distance which allowed them to retain sight of

their quarry. Through a succession of the worst and narrowest by-lanes

of the city they tracked him to the Tiber's edge.

Here, dark as it was, a boat was ready for launching. Five or six

persons were standing by, who seemed to recognize and address the monk.

Keeping in the shadows of the tall, ill-favored houses, the twain

contrived to approach near enough to hear somewhat that was said.

"The light over yonder has been burning this half hour," said one of

the men.

"I could not come before," said he in the monk's habit. "I was followed

by two men. I threw them out, however, before I reached the monastery

of San Lorenzo. But--by all the saints--lose no more time! We have lost

too much, as it is."

He entered the boat as he spoke. It was pushed out into the water, and

in another moment the measured sound of oars came to their ears.

Odo of Cluny turned to his companion.

"Tell me, did he who spoke first and mentioned the light yonder on St.

Bartholomew's Island--a light there is yonder, sure enough--did he

resemble, think you, one we know?"

"Both in voice and form," replied Tristan.

"My thoughts point the same way as yours!"

"I should know that voice wherever I heard it," Tristan muttered under

his breath. "But what of the light?"

Dimly through the mist the red glow was discernible.

"It beams from the deserted monastery," Odo replied after a pause.

"Can we put across?" Tristan queried.

"The question is not so much to find a boat as a landing-place, where

we shall not be seen."

"There is a boat lying yonder. If my eyes do not deceive me, the

boatman lies asleep on the poop."

"Know you aught of the men who rowed down the river?" Odo turned to the

boatman, after he had aroused him.

The latter stared uncomprehendingly into the speaker's face.

"I know of no men. I fell asleep for want of custom. It is a

God-forsaken spot," he added, rubbing his eyes. "Who would want a boat

on a night like this?"

"We require even such a commodity," Odo replied.

The boatman returned a dull, unresponsive glance and did not move from

his improvised couch.

"Take your oars and row us to the Tiber Island," Odo said sternly,

"unless you would bring upon yourself the curse of the Church. We have

a weighty matter that brooks no delay. And have a care to avoid that

other boat which has preceded yours. We must not be seen."

Something in Odo's voice seemed to compel, and soon they were afloat,

the boatman bending to his oars. They drifted through the dense mist

and soon a dilapidated flight of landing stairs hove in sight, leading

up to the deserted monastery.

"Had we chosen the usual landing-place, we should have found two boats

moored there--I saw them as we turned." Odo turned to his companion.

"Yet we dare not land here. We should be seen from the shore."

Directing their Charon to row his craft higher up, Odo soon discovered

the place of which he was in quest. It was a little cove. The rocks

which bordered it were slippery with seaweed, and in that misty

obscurity offered no very safe footing.

Here the boat was moored, and Odo and his companion clambered slowly,

but steadily, over the rocks and, in a few moments, had made good their

landing.

Having directed the boatman to await their call in the shadow of

the opposite bank, where he might remain unseen, they continued to

grope their way upward, till they reached the angles of a wall which

converged here, sheltered by a projecting pent house. Voices were

heard issuing from within.

"We must have ample security, my lord," said a speaker, whose voice Odo

recognized as the voice of Basil. "You require of us to do everything.

You exact ties and pledges and hostages, and you offer nothing."

"I am desirous of sparing, as much as may be, the blood of my men,"

replied the person addressed. "Rome must be my lord's without conflict."

"That may--or may not be," said the first speaker. "But so much you may

say to the Lord Ugo. If he expects to reconquer Rome, he will need all

the forces he can summon."

"A wiser man than you or I, my lord, has said: 'Never force a foe to

stand at bay,'" interposed a third. "Reject our offers, and we, whom

you might have for your friends, you will have for your most bitter

and determined foes. Accept our terms, and Rome, together with the

Emperor's Tomb, is yours!"

"What terms are contained in this paper?" queried Ugo's emissary.

"They are not very difficult to remember!" returned the Grand

Chamberlain. "But I might as well repeat them here. First--the revenues

of all the churches to flow to the Holy See."

"Proceed."

"Utmost security of life, person and property to those who are aiding

our enterprise."

"It is well," said the voice. "So much I can vouch for, my lord. Is

that all?"

"All--as far as conditions go," returned the third speaker.

"It is not all, by St. Demetrius," cried Basil. "I claim the office

I am holding with all its privileges and appurtenances, to give no

account to any one of the past or the future."

"What of the present?" interposed the voice.

"You never could imagine that I perilled my neck only to secure your

lord in his former possessions, which he so cowardly abandoned," said

Basil contemptuously. "I claim the hand of the Lady Theodora--"

"Theodora?" cried the envoy of Ugo of Tuscany, turning fiercely upon

the speaker. "Surely you are mad, my lord, to imagine that the Lord Ugo

would peril his reign with the presence of this woman within the same

walls that witnessed the regime of her sister--"

"Mind your own business, my lord," interposed Basil. "What the man

thinks who fled from Castel San Angelo at the first cry of revolt, the

man who slunk away like a thief in the night, is nothing to me. We make

the conditions. It is for him to accept or reject them, as he sees fit."

A rasping voice, speaking a villainous jargon, made itself heard at

this juncture.

"What of my Saracens, mighty lord?" Hassan Abdullah, for no lesser than

the great Mahometan chieftain was the speaker, turned to the Grand

Chamberlain. "I, too, am desirous of sparing the blood of my soldiers

and, insofar as lies within my power, that of the Nazarenes also. For

it is written in the book: Slavery for infidels--but death only for

apostates."

"Our compact is sealed beyond recall," Basil made reply.

"Then you will deliver the woman into my hands?"

There was a pause.

"She shall be delivered into the hands of Hassan Abdullah! And he

will sail away with his white-plumed bird--the fairest flower of the

North--and the ransom of a city."

"Yet I do not know the lady's name," said the Saracen. "This I should

know--else how may she heed my call?"

"Those who love her call her Hellayne."

At the name Tristan started so violently that the monk caught his arm

in a grip of steel.

"Silence--if you value your life," Odo enjoined.

"When and where is she to be delivered into my hands?" Hassan Abdullah

continued.

"The place will be made known to you, my lord," Basil replied, "when

the Emperor's Tomb hails its new master."

"Here is an infernal plot," Odo whispered into Tristan's ear, "spawned

up by the very Prince of Darkness."

"What can we do?" came back the almost soundless reply. "Hellayne to be

delivered over to this infidel dog! Nay, do not restrain me, Father--"

"There are six to two of us," Odo interposed. "Silence! Some one

speaks."

It was the voice of the envoy of Ugo of Tuscany.

"Although it seems like a taunt, to fling into the face of my lord the

sister of the woman who was the cause of his defeat--"

"His coward soul was the cause of the Lord Ugo's defeat," Basil

interposed hotly. "In the dark of night, by means of a rope he let

himself down from his lair, to escape the wrath of the fledgling he had

struck for an unintentional affront. Did the Lord Ugo even inquire into

the fate of the woman who perished miserably in the dungeons of the

Emperor's Tomb?"

"Let us not be hasty," interposed another. "The Lord Ugo will listen to

reason."

"The conditions are settled," Basil replied. "On the third night from

to-night!"

The conspirators rose and, emerging from the ruined refectory, made

their way down to their boat.

Soon the sound of oars, becoming fainter and fainter, informed the

listeners that the company had departed.

Tristan's face was very white.

"What is to be done?" he turned pathetically to the monk who stood

brooding by his side. "I almost wish I had let my fate overtake me--"

"Do not blaspheme," Odo interposed. "Sometimes divine aid is nearest

when it seems farthest removed. In three days the blow is to fall! In

three days Rome is to be turned over to the infidels who are ravaging

our southern coasts, and the Tuscan is once more to hold sway in the

Tomb of the former Master of the World. But not he--Basil will rule,

for Ugo has his hands full in Ivrea. With Basil Theodora will lord it

from yonder castello. He will let the Lord Ugo burn his hands and he

will snatch the golden fruit. I will pray that this feeble hand may

undo their dark plotting."

"What is Rome to me? What the universe?" Tristan interposed, "if she

whom I love better than life is lost to me?"

The monk turned to him laying his hand upon his shoulder.

"You have been miraculously delivered from the very jaws of death. You

will save the woman you love from dishonor and shame."

Odo pondered for a pace then he continued:

"There is one in Rome--who is encompassing your destruction. The foul

crime in the Lateran of which you were the victim is but another proof

of the schemes of the Godless, who have desecrated the churches of

Christ for their hellish purposes. We must find their devil's chapel,

hidden somewhere beneath the soil of Rome. None shall escape."

"How will you bring this about, Father?" Tristan queried despairingly.

"The soldiers of the Church have not been bribed," Odo replied.

"Listen, my son, and do you as I direct. On to-morrow's eve Theodora

gives one of her splendid feasts. Go you disguised. Watch--but speak

not. Listen--but answer not. Who knows but that you may receive tidings

of your lost one? As for myself, I shall seek one whose crimes lie

heavily upon him, one who trembles with the fear of death, at whose

door he lies--Il Gobbo--the bravo. His master has dealt him a mortal

wound to remove the last witness of his crimes. Come to me on the

second day at dusk."

Emerging from the shadows of the wall, Tristan hailed the boatman, and

a few moments later they were being rowed towards a solitary spot near

the base of the Aventine, where they paid and dismissed their Charon

and disappeared among the ruins.

CHAPTER X

THE BROKEN SPELL

Again there was feasting and high revels in the palace of Theodora

on Mount Aventine. Colored lanterns were suspended between the

interstices of orange and oleander trees; and incense rose in spiral

coils from bronze and copper vessels, concealed among leafy bowers.

The great banquet hall was thronged with a motley crowd of Romans,

Greeks, men from the coasts of Africa and Iceland, Spaniards, Persians,

Burgundians, Lombards, men from the steppes of Sarmatia, and the amber

coast of the Baltic. Here and there groups were discussing the wines or

the viands or the gossip of the day.

The guests marvelled at the splendor, wealth and the variegated

mosaics, the gilded walls, the profusion of beautiful marble columns

and the wonderfully groined ceiling. It was a veritable banquet of

the senses. The fairylike radiance of the hall with its truly eastern

splendor captivated the eye. From remote grottoes came the sounds of

flutes, citherns and harps, quivering through the dreaming summer night.

On ebony couches upon silver frames, covered with rare tapestries

and soft cushions, the guests reclined. Between two immense,

crescent-shaped tables, made of citron wood and inlaid with ivory, rose

a miniature bronze fountain, representing Neptune. From it spurted

jets of scented water, which cooled and perfumed the air.

Not in centuries had there been such a feast in Rome. Mountain, plain

and the sea had been relentlessly laid under tribute, to surrender

their choicest towards supplying the sumptuous board.

Nubian slaves in spotless white kept at the elbows of the guests and

filled the golden flagons as quickly as they were emptied. A powerful

Cyprian wine, highly spiced, was served. Under its stimulating

influence the revellers soon gave themselves up to the reckless

enjoyment of the hour.

As the feast proceeded the guests cried more loudly for flagons of the

fiery ecobalda. They quaffed large quantities of this wine and their

faces became flushed, their eyes sparkled and their tongues grew more

and more free. The temporary restraint they had imposed upon themselves

gradually vanished. In proportion as they partook of the fiery vintage

their conviviality increased.

The roll-call was complete. None was found missing. Here was the Lord

of Norba and Boso, Lord of Caprara. Here was the Lord Atenulf of

Benevento, the Lord Amgar, from the coasts of the Baltic; here was

Bembo the poet, Eugenius the philosopher and Alboin, Lord of Farfa.

Here was the Prefect of Rome and Roger de Laval. He, too, had joined

the throng of idolators at the shrine of Theodora. The Lord Guaimar of

Salerno was there, and Guido, Duke of Spoleto.

The curtain at the far end of the banquet hall slowly parted.

On the threshold stood Theodora.

Silent, rigid, she gazed into the hall.

Like a sudden snow on a summer meadow, a white silence fell from her

imagination across that glittering, gleaming tinselled atmosphere.

Everywhere the dead seemed to sit around her, watching, as in a trance,

strange antics of the grimacing dead.

A vision of beauty she appeared, radiantly attired, a jewelled diadem

upon her brow. By her side appeared Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.

When her gaze fell upon the motley crowd, a disgust, such as she had

never known, seized her.

She seated herself on the dais, reserved for her, and with queenly

dignity bade her guests welcome.

Basil occupied the seat of honor at her right, Roger de Laval at her

left.

Had any one watched the countenances of Theodora and of Basil he

would have surprised thereon an expression of ravening anxiety. To

themselves they appeared like two players, neither knowing the next

move of his opponent, yet filled with the dire assurance that upon this

move depended the fate of the house of cards each has built upon a

foundation of sand.

At last the Count de Laval arose and whirled his glass about his head.

"Twine a wreath about your cups," he shouted, "and drink to the glory

of the most beautiful woman in the world--the Lady Theodora."

They rose to their feet and shouted their endorsement till the very

arches seemed to ring with the echoes. His initiative was received

with such favor by the others that, fired with the desire to emulate

his example, they fell to singing and shouting the praise of the woman

whose beauty had not its equal in Rome.

Theodora viewed the scene of dissipation with serenity and composure,

and, by her attitude she seemed, in a strange way, even tacitly to

encourage them to drink still deeper. Faster, ever faster, the wine

coursed among the guests. Some of them became more and more boisterous,

others were rendered somnolent and fell forward in a stupor upon the

silken carpets.

Theodora, whose restlessness seemed to increase with every moment, and

who seemed to hold herself in leash by a strenuous effort of the will,

suddenly turned to Basil and whispered a question into his ear.

A silent nod came in response and the next moment a clash of cymbals,

stormily persistent, roused the revellers from their stupor. Then, like

a rainbow garmented Peri, floating easefully out of some far-off sphere

of sky-wonders, an aerial maiden shape glided into the full lustre of

the varying light, a dancer nude, save for the glistening veil that

carelessly enshrouded her limbs, her arms and hands being adorned with

circlets of tiny golden bells which kept up a melodious jingle as she

moved. And now began the strangest music, music that seemed to hover

capriciously between luscious melody and harsh discord, a wild and

curious medley of fantastic minor suggestions in which the imaginative

soul might discover hints of tears and folly, love and madness. To

this uncertain yet voluptuous measure the glittering girl dancer

leaped forward with a startling abruptness and, halting as it were on

the boundary line between the dome and the garden beyond, raised her

rounded arms in a snowy arch above her head.

Her pause was a mere breathing spell in duration. Dropping her arms

with a swift decision, she hurled herself into the giddy mazes of a

dance. Round and round she floated, like an opal-winged butterfly

in a net of sunbeams, now seemingly shaken by delicate tremors,

as aspen leaves are shaken by the faintest wind, now assuming the

most voluptuous eccentricities of posture, sometimes bending down

wistfully as though she were listening to the chanting of demon voices

underground, and again, with her waving white hands, appearing to

summon spirits to earth from their wanderings in the upper air. Her

figure was in perfect harmony with the seductive grace of her gestures;

not only her feet, but her whole body danced, her very features bespoke

abandonment to the frenzy of her rapid movement. Her large black eyes

flashed with something of fierceness as well as languor; and her raven

hair streamed behind her like a darkly spread wing.

Wild outbursts of applause resounded uproariously through the hall.

Count Roger had drawn nearer to Theodora. His arms encircled her body.

Theodora bent over him.

"Not to-night! Not to-night! There are many things to consider.

To-morrow I shall give you my answer."

He looked up into her eyes.

"Do you not love me?"

His hot breath fanned her cheeks.

Theodora gave a shrug and turned away, sick with disgust.

"Love--I hardly know what it means. I do not think I have ever loved."

Laval sucked in his breath between his teeth.

"Then you shall love me! You shall! Ever since I have come to Rome have

I desired you! And the woman lives not who may gainsay my appeal."

She smiled tauntingly.

He had seized her hand. The fierceness of his grip made her gasp with

pain.

"And whatever brought you to Rome?" she turned to him.

"I came in quest of one who had betrayed my honor."

"And you found her?"

"Both!" came the laconic reply.

"How interesting," purred Theodora, suffering his odious embrace,

although she shuddered at his touch.

"And, man-like, you were revenged?"

"She has met the fate I had decreed upon her who wantonly betrayed the

honor of her lord."

"Then she confessed?"

"She denied her guilt. What matter? I never loved her. It is you I

love! You, divine Theodora."

And, carried away by a gust of passion, he drew her to him, covering

her brow, her hair, her cheeks with kisses. But she turned away her

mouth.

She tried to release herself from his embrace.

Roger uttered an oath.

"I have tamed women before--ay--and I shall tame you," he sputtered,

utterly disregarding her protests.

She drew back as far as his encircling arms permitted.

"Release me, my lord!" she said, her dark eyes flashing fire. "You are

mad!"

"No heroics--fair Theodora-- Has the Wanton Queen of Rome turned into a

haloed saint?"

He laughed. His mouth was close to her lips.

Revulsion and fury seized her. Disengaging her hands she struck him

across the face.

There was foam on his lips. He caught her by the throat. Now he was

forcing her beneath his weight with the strength of one insane with

uncontrollable passion.

"Help!" she screamed with a choking sensation.

A shadow passed before her eyes. Everything seemed to swim around

her in eddying circles of red. Then a gurgling sound. The grip on

her throat relaxed. Laval rolled over upon the floor in a horrible

convulsion, gasped and expired.

Basil's dagger had struck him through, piercing his heart.

Slowly Theodora arose. She was pale as death. Her guests, too much

engaged with their beautiful partners, had been attracted to her plight

but by her sudden outcry.

They stared sullenly at the dead man and turned to their former

pursuits.

Theodora clapped her hands.

Two giant Nubians appeared. She pointed to the corpse at her feet. They

raised it up between them, carried it out and sank it in the Lotus

lake. Others wiped away the stains of blood.

Basil bent over Theodora's hands, and covered them with kisses,

muttering words of endearment which but increased the discord in her

heart.

She released herself, resuming her seat on the dais.

"It is the old fever," she turned to the man beside her. "You purchase

and I sell! Nay"--she added as his lips touched her own--"there is no

need for a lover's attitude when hucksters meet."

Though the guests had returned to their seats, a strange silence had

fallen upon the assembly. The rhythmical splashing of the water in the

fountain and the labored breathing of the distressed wine-Bibbie's

seemed the only sounds that were audible for a time.

"But I love you, Theodora," Basil spoke with strangely dilated eyes.

"I love you for what you are, for all the evil you have wrought! You,

alone! For you have I done this thing! For you Alberic lies dead in

some unknown glen. For you have I summoned about us those who shall

seat you in the high place that is yours by right of birth."

Theodora was herself again. With upraised hand, that shone marble white

in the ever-changing light, she enjoined silence.

"What of that other?" she said, while her eyes held those of the man

with their magic spell.

"What other?" he stammered, turning pale.

"That one!" she flashed.

At that moment the curtain parted again and into the changing light,

emitted by the great revolving globe, swayed a woman. At first

it seemed a statue of marble that had become animated and, ere

consciousness had resumed its sway, was slowly gaining life and motion,

still bound up in the dream existence into which some unknown power had

plunged her.

As one petrified, Basil stared at the swaying form of Hellayne. A white

transparent byssus veil enveloped the beautiful limbs. Her wonderful

bare arms were raised above her head, which was slightly inclined, as

in a listening attitude. She seemed to move unconsciously as under a

spell or as one who walks in her sleep. Her eyes were closed. The pale

face showed suffering, yet had not lost one whit of its marvellous

beauty.

The revellers stared spellbound at what, to their superstitious minds,

seemed the wraith of slain Roxana returned to earth to haunt her rival.

Suddenly, without warning, the dark-robed form of a man dashed from

behind a pillar. No one seemed to have noted his presence. Overthrowing

every impediment, he bounded straight for Hellayne, when he saw the

lithe form snatched up before his very eyes and her abductor disappear

with his burden, as if the ground had swallowed them.

It seemed to Tristan that he was rushing through an endless succession

of corridors and passages, crossing each other at every conceivable

angle, in his mad endeavor to snatch his precious prey from her

abductor when, in a rotunda in which these labyrinthine passages

converged, he found himself face to face with an apparition that seemed

to have risen from the floor.

Before him stood Theodora.

Her dark shadow was wavering across the moonlit network of light. The

red and blue robes of the painted figures on the wall glowed about her

like blood and azure, while the moonlight laid lemon colored splashes

upon the varied mosaics of the floor.

His pulses beating furiously, a sense of suffocation in his throat,

Tristan paused as the woman barred his way.

"Let me pass!" he said imperiously, trying to suit the action to the

word.

But he had not reckoned with the woman's mood.

"You shall not," Theodora said, a strange fire gleaming in her eyes.

"Where is Hellayne? What have you done with her?"

Theodora regarded him calmly from under drooping lashes.

"That I will tell you," she said with a mocking voice. "It was my good

fortune to rescue her from the claws of one who has again got her into

his power. Her mind is gone, my Lord Tristan! Be reconciled to your

fate!"

"Surely you cannot mean this?" Tristan gasped, his face under the

monk's cowl pale as death, while his eyes stared unbelievingly into

those of the woman.

"Is not what you have seen, proof that I speak truth?" Theodora

interposed, slightly veiled mockery in her tone.

"Then this is your deed," Tristan flashed.

Theodora gave a shrug.

"What if it were?"

"She is in Basil's power?"

"An experienced suitor."

"Woman, why have you done this thing to me?"

His hands went to his head and he reeled like a drunken man.

Theodora laid her hands on Tristan's shoulders.

"Because I want you--because I love you, Tristan," she said slowly, and

her wonderful face seemed to become illumined as it were, from within.

"Nay--do not shrink from me! I know what you would say! Theodora--the

courtesan queen of Rome! You deem I have no heart--no soul. You deem

that these lips, defiled by the kisses of beasts, cannot speak truth.

Yet, if I tell you, Tristan, that this is the first and only time in my

life that I have loved, that I love you with a love such as only those

know who have thirsted for it all their lives, yet have never known but

its base counterfeit; if I tell you--that upon your answer depends my

fate--my life--Tristan--will you believe--will you save the woman whom

nothing else on earth can save?"

"I do not believe you," Tristan replied.

Theodora's face had grown white to the lips.

"You shall stay--and you shall listen to me!" she said, without raising

her voice, as if she were discoursing upon some trifling matter, and

Tristan obeyed, compelled by the look in her eyes.

Theodora felt Tristan's melancholy gaze resting upon her, as it had

rested upon her at their first meeting. Was not he, too, like herself,

a lone wanderer in this strange country called the world! But his

manhood had remained unsullied. How she envied and how she hated that

other woman to whom his love belonged. Softly she spoke, as one speaks

in a dream.

She had gone forth in quest of happiness--happiness at any price. And

she had paid the forfeit with a poisoned life. The desire to conquer

had eclipsed every other. The lure of the senses was too mighty to be

withstood. Yet how short are youth and life! One should snatch its

pleasures while one may.

How fleet had been the golden empty days of joy. She had drained

the brimming goblet to the dregs. If he misjudged her motive, her

self-abasement, if he spurned the love she held out to him, the one

supreme sacrifice of her life had been in vain. She would fight for

it. Soul and body she would throw herself into the conflict. Her last

chance of happiness was at stake. The poison, rankling in her veins,

she knew could not be expelled by idle sophisms. Life, the despot,

claimed his dues. Had she lived utterly in vain? Not altogether! She

would atone, even though the bonds of her own forging, which bound her

to an ulcered past, could be broken but by the hand of that crowned

phantom: Death.

Now she was kneeling before him. She had grasped his hands.

"I love you!" she wailed. "Tristan, I love you and my love is killing

me! Be merciful. Have pity on me. Love me! Be mine--if but for an

hour! It is not much to ask! After, do with me what you will! Torture

me--curse me before Heaven--I care not--I am yours--body and soul.--I

love you!"

Her voice vibrated with mad idolatrous pleading.

He tried to release himself. She dragged herself yet closer to him.

"Tristan! Tristan!" she murmured. "Have you a heart? Can you reject me

when I pray thus to you? When I offer you all I have? All that I am, or

ever hope to be? Am I so repellent to you? Many men would give their

lives if I were to say to them what I say to you. They are nothing to

me--you alone are my world, the breath of my existence. You, alone, can

save me from myself!"

Tristan felt his senses swooning at the sight of her beauty. He tried

to speak, but the words froze on his lips. It was too impossible, too

unbelievable. Theodora, the most beautiful, the most powerful woman

in Rome was kneeling before him, imploring that which any man in Rome

would have deemed himself a thousand fold blessed to receive. And he

remained untouched.

She read his innermost thoughts and knew the supreme moment when she

must win or lose him forever was at hand.

"Tristan--Tristan," she sobbed--and in the distant grove sobbed flutes

and sistrum and citherns--"say what you will of me; it is true. I own

it. Yet I am not worse than other women who have sold their souls for

power or gold. Am I not fair to look upon? And is all this beauty of

my face and form worthless in your eyes, and you no more than man?

Kill me--destroy me--I care naught. But love me--as I love you!" and

in a perfect frenzy of self-abandonment she rose to her feet and stood

before him, a very bacchante of wild loveliness and passion. "Look upon

me! Am I not more beautiful than the Lady Hellayne? You shall not--dare

not--spurn such love as mine!"

Deep silence supervened. The expression of her countenance seemed quite

unearthly; her eyes seemed wells of fire and the tense white arms

seemed to seek a victim round which they might coil themselves to its

undoing.

The name she had uttered in her supreme outburst of passion had broken

the spell she had woven about him.

Hellayne--his white dove! What was her fate at this moment while he was

listening to the pleadings of the enchantress?

Theodora advanced towards him with outstretched arms.

He stayed her with a fierce gesture.

"Stand back!" he said. "Such love as yours--what is it? Shame to

whosoever shall accept it! I desire you not."

"You dare not!" she panted, pale as death.

"Dare not?"

But she was now fairly roused. All the savagery in her nature was

awakened and she stood before him like some beautiful wild animal at

bay, trembling from head to foot with the violence of her passion.

"You scorn me!" she said in fierce, panting accents, that scarcely

rose above an angry whisper. "You make a mockery of my anguish and

despair--holding yourself aloof with your prated virtue! But you shall

suffer for it! I am your match! You shall not spurn me a third time! I

have humbled myself in the dust before you, I, Theodora--and you have

spurned the love I have offered you--you have spurned Theodora--for

that white marble statue whom I should strangle before your very eyes

were she here! You shall not see her again, my Lord Tristan. Her

fate is sealed from this moment. On the altars of Satan is she to be

sacrificed on to-morrow night!"

Tristan listened like paralyzed to her words, unable to move.

She saw her opportunity. She sprang at him. Her arms coiled about him.

Her moist kisses seared his lips.

"Oh Tristan--Tristan," she pleaded, "forgive me, forgive! I know not

what I say! I hunger for the kisses of your lips, the clasp of your

arms! Do you know--do you ever think of your power? The cruel terrible

power of your eyes, the beauty that makes you more like an angel than

man? Have you no pity? I am well nigh mad with jealousy of that other

whom you keep enshrined in your heart! Could she love, like I? She was

not made for you--I am! Tristan--come with me--come--"

Tighter and tighter her arms encircled his neck. The moonbeams showed

him her eyes alight with rapture, her lips quivering with passion, her

bosom heaving. The blood surged up in his brain and a red mist swam

before his eyes.

With a supreme effort Tristan released himself. Flinging her from him,

he rushed out of the rotunda as if pursued by an army of demons. If he

remained another moment he knew he was lost.

A lightning bolt shot down from the dark sky vault close beside him as

he reached the gardens, and a peal of thunder crashed after in quick

succession.

It drowned the delirious outburst of laughter that shrilled from the

rotunda where Theodora, with eyes wide with misery and madness, stared

as transfixed down the path where Tristan had vanished in the night.

CHAPTER XI

THE BLACK MASS

The night was sultry and dismal.

Dense black clouds rolled over the Roman Campagna, burning blue in

the flashes of jagged lightnings and the low boom of distant thunder

reverberated ominously among the hills and valleys of Rome, when three

men, cloaked and wearing black velvet masks, skirted the huge mediæval

wall with which Pope Leo IV had girdled the gardens of the Vatican and,

passing along the fortified rampart which surrounded the Vatican Hill,

plunged into the trackless midnight gloom of deep, branch-shadowed

thickets.

Not a word was spoken between them. Silently they followed their

leader, whose tall, dark form was revealed to them only among the dense

network of trees and the fantastic shapes of the underbrush, when a

flash of white lightning flamed across the limitless depths of the

midnight horizon.

Not a sound broke the stillness, save the menacing growl of the

thunder, the intermittent soughing of the wind among the branches, or

the occasional drip-drip of dewy moisture trickling tearfully from the

leaves, mingling with the dreamy, gurgling sound of the fountains,

concealed among bosquets of orange and almond trees.

From time to time, as they proceeded upon their nocturnal errand, the

sounds of their footsteps being swallowed up by the soft carpet of

moss, they caught fleet glimpses of marble statues, gleaming white,

like ghosts, from among the tall dark cypresses, or the shimmering

surface of a marble-cinctured lake, mirrored in the sheen of the

lightnings.

The grove they traversed assumed by degrees the character of a tropical

forest. Untrodden by human feet, it seemed as though nature, grown

tired of the iridescent floral beauty of the environing gardens, had,

in a sudden malevolent mood, torn and blurred the fair green frondage

and twisted every bud awry, till the awkward, misshapen limbs resembled

the contorted branches of wind-blown trees. Great jagged leaves covered

with prickles and stained with blotches as of spilt poison, thick brown

stems, glistening with slimy moisture and coiled up like the sleeping

bodies of snakes, masses of blue and purple fungi, and blossoms

seemingly of the orchid-species, some like fleshly tongues, others like

the waxen yellow fingers of a dead hand, protruded spectrally through

the matted foliage, while all manner of strange overpowering odors

increased the swooning oppressiveness of the sultry, languorous air.

Arrived at a clearing they paused.

In the distance the Basilica of Constantine was sunk in deep repose.

All about them was the pagan world. Goat-footed Pan seemed to peer

through the interstices of the branches. The fountains crooned in their

marble basins. Centaurs and Bacchantes disported themselves among the

flowering shrubs and, dark against the darker background of the night,

the vast ramparts of Leo IV seemed to shut out light and life together.

The Prefect of the Camera turned to his companions, after peering

cautiously into the thickets.

"We must wait for the guards," he said in a whisper. "It were perilous

to proceed farther without them."

Tristan's hand tightened upon his sword-hilt. There were tears in

his eyes when he thought of Hellayne and all that was at stake, the

overthrow of the enemies of Christ. He had, in a manner, conquered the

terrible fear that had palsied heart and soul as they had started out

after nightfall. Now, taking his position as he found it, since he felt

that his fate was ruled by some unseen force which he might not resist,

he was upheld by a staunch resolution to do his part in the work

assigned to him and thereby to merit forgiveness and absolution.

Notwithstanding the enforced calm that filled his soul, there were

moments when, assailed by a terrible dread, lest he might be too late

to prevent the unspeakable crime, his energies were almost paralyzed.

Silent as a ghost he had traversed the grove by the side of his equally

silent companions, more intent upon his quarry than the patient,

velvet-footed puma that follows in the high branches of the trees the

unsuspecting traveller below.

Was it his imagination, was it the beating of his own heart in the

silence that preceded the breaking of the storm; or did he indeed hear

the dull throbbing of the drums that heralded the approach of the

crimson banners of Satan?

The wind increased with every moment. The thunder growled ever nearer.

The heavens were one sheet of flame. The trees began to bend their tops

to the voice of the hurricane. The air was hot as if blown from the

depths of the desert. As the uproar of the elements increased, strange

sounds seemed to mingle with the voices of the storm. Black shadows

as of dancing witches darkened the clearing, spread and wheeled,

interlaced and disentwined. In endless thousands they seemed to fly,

like the withered and perishing leaves of autumn.

Involuntarily Tristan grasped the arm of the Monk of Cluny.

"Are these real shapes--or do my eyes play me false?" he faltered, an

expression of terror on his countenance, such as no consideration of

earthly danger could have evoked.

"To-night, my son, we are invincible," replied the monk. "Trust in the

Crucified Christ!"

Across the plaisaunce, washed white by the sheen of the lightnings,

there was a stir as of an approaching forest. Tristan watched as in the

throes of a dream.

A few moments later the little band was joined by the newcomers,

masked, garbed in sombre black and heavily armed, three-score

Spaniards, trusted above their companions for their loyalty and

allegiance to Holy Church. Among them Tristan recognized the

Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna, the Bishop of Orvieto and the Prefect

of Rome.

Odo of Cluny noted Tristan's shrinking at the sight of the two men who

had been present when the terrible accusation had been hurled against

him on that fatal morning--the accusation in the Lateran, which had

launched him in the dungeons of Castel San Angelo.

He comforted the trembling youth.

"They know now that the charge was false," he said. "To-night we shall

conquer. We shall set our foot upon Satan's neck."

Withdrawing under the shelter of the trees, regardless of the

increasing fury of the storm, the leaders held whispered consultation.

Before them, set in the massive wall, appeared a door not more than

five feet high, studded with large nails.

The Prefect of Rome bent forward and inserted a gleaming piece of steel

in the keyhole. After a wrench or two, which convinced the onlookers

that the door had been long in disuse, it swung inward with a groan.

The Prefect, with a muttered imprecation, beckoned his followers to

enter, and when they were assembled in what appeared to be a courtyard,

he took pains to close the door himself, to avoid the least noise that

might reach the ear of those within the enclosure.

At the far end of this courtyard a shadowy pavilion arose, culled

from the Stygian gloom by the sheen of the lightnings. It seemed

to have been erected in remote antiquity. A circular structure of

considerable extent, its ruinous exterior revealed traces of Etruscan

architecture. No one dared set foot in it, for it was rumored to be

the abode of evil spirits. Its interior was reported to be a network

of intricate galleries, leading into subterranean chambers, secret and

secluded places into which human foot never strayed, for, not unlike

the catacombs, it was well-nigh impossible to find the exit from its

labyrinthine passages without the saving thread of Ariadné.

At a signal from the Prefect of the Camera all stopped. Heavy drops of

rain were falling. The hurricane increased in fury.

It was a weird scene and one the memory of which lingered long after

that eventful night with Tristan.

Black cypresses and holm-oaks formed a dense wall around the pavilion

on two sides. In the distance the white limbs of some pagan statues

could be seen gleaming through the dark foliage. And, as from a

subterranean cavern, a distant droning chant struck the ear now and

then with fateful import.

Now the Prefect of Rome threw off his cloak. The others did likewise.

Their masks they retained.

"There is a secret entrance, unknown even to these spawns of hell,

behind the pavilion," he addressed his companions in a subdued tone,

hardly audible in the shrieking of the storm. "It is concealed among

tall weeds and has long been in disuse. The door is almost invisible

and they think themselves safe in the performance of their iniquities

below."

"How can we reach this pit of hell?" Tristan, quivering with

ill-repressed excitement interposed at this juncture. He could hardly

restrain himself. On every moment hung the life of the being dearer

to him than all the world, and he chafed under the restraint like a

restive steed. If they should be too late, even now!

But the Prefect retained his calm demeanor knowing what was at stake.

It was not enough to locate the chapel of Satan. Those participating in

the unholy rites must not be given the chance to escape. They must be

taken, dead or alive, to the last man.

"We have with us one who is familiar with every nook in the city of

Rome," the Prefect turned to the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna. "Long

have we suspected that all is not well in the deserted pavilion. But

though we watched by day and by night nothing seemed to reward our

efforts, until one stormy night a dreadful shape with the face of a

devil came forth, and the sight so paralyzed those who watched from

afar that they fled in dismay, believing it was the Evil One in person

who had come forth from the bowels of the earth. From yonder door a

dark corridor leads to a shaft whence it winds in a slight incline into

the devil's chapel below. The latter is so situated that we can watch

these outcasts at their devotions, unseen, our presence unguessed. This

way! Let silence be the password. Keep in touch with each other, for

the darkness is as that of the grave."

A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the very heavens enveloped

them for a moment in its sulphureous glare, followed by a crash of

thunder that shook the very earth. The hurricane shrieked, and the rain

came down in torrents.

They had advanced to the very edge of the underbrush, stumbling over

the heads and torsos of broken statues that lay among parasitic

herbage. Monstrous decaying leaves curled upward, leprous in the

lightnings. A poison mist seemed to hover over this lonely and deserted

pleasure-house of ancient Pelasgian days.

Skirting the haunted pavilion, unmindful of the onslaught of the

elements, they took a path so narrow that they could but advance in

single file. This path had been cut and beaten by the Prefect's guards,

for the weeds and underbrush luxuriated, until they mounted some ten

feet against the walls of the pavilion.

They had now reached the back wall and proceeded in utter darkness

broken only by the flashes of lightning. They passed through a

half-ruined archway and at last came to a halt, prompted by those in

front, whose progress had been stopped by, what the others guessed

to be, the door. They had to work warily, to keep it from falling

inward. At last the movement continued and they entered the night-wrapt

corridor.

Tristan had taken his station directly behind the Prefect of Rome. The

ecclesiastics, for their own protection, had been assigned the rear.

By the sheen of lightnings a pile of brushwood was revealed to the

sight, which the Prefect, in a low tone, ordered to be cleared away,

whereupon a circular opening appeared, like the entrance of a well.

The Prefect summoned the leaders around him.

For a moment they stood in silence and listened.

Between the peals of the thunder which rolled in terrifying echoes over

the Seven Hills, the trained ear could distinguish a strange, droning

sound that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.

"Even now the Black Mass is commencing," he turned to Tristan. "We are

but just in time."

After a pause he continued:

"We must proceed in darkness. The faintest glimmer might betray our

presence. I shall lead the way. Let each follow warily. Let each be in

touch with the other. Let all stop when I stop. We shall arrive in a

circular gallery, whence we may all witness the abomination below. From

this gallery several flights of winding stairs lead into the devil's

chapel. Let us descend in silence. When you hear the signal--down the

quick descent and--upon them!"

One by one they disappeared in the dark aperture. Their feet touched

ground while they still supported themselves on their arms. They found

themselves in a subterranean chamber, in impenetrable darkness, whose

hot, damp murk almost suffocated the intruders.

Slowly, with infinite caution, in infinite silence, they proceeded.

Every man stretched his hand before him to touch a companion.

The passage began to slant, yet the incline was gradual. Their feet

touched soft earth which swallowed the sound of their steps. There was

neither echo nor vibration, only murky silence and the night of the

grave.

A low, droning sound, infinitely remote, a sound not unlike that of

swarming bees heard at a great distance, was now wafted to their ears.

A shudder ran through that long chain of living men, who were carrying

the Cross into the very abyss of Hell.

For they knew they were listening to the infernal choir, they were

approaching the hidden chapel of Satan. The chant began to swell. Still

they continued upon their descent.

The imprisoned air became hotter and murkier, almost suffocating in its

miasmatic waves that assailed the senses and seemed to weigh like lead

upon the brain.

Now the tunnel turned sharply at right angles and after proceeding

some twenty or thirty paces in Stygian darkness, a faint crimson glow

began suddenly to drive the nocturnal gloom before it, and they emerged

in a gallery, terminating in a number of dark archways, from which

narrow winding stairs led into the hall below. Small round apertures,

resembling port-holes, permitted a glimpse into the chapel of Satan,

and a weird, droning chant was rising rhythmically from the night-wrapt

depths of the pavilion.

Following the example of the leader, they stole on tiptoe to the

unglazed port-holes and gazed below, and eager, yet trembling, with the

anticipation of the dread mysteries they were about to witness.

At first they could not see anything distinctly, owing to the crimson

mist that seemed to come rolling into the chapel as from some furnace

and their eyes, after having been long in the darkness, refused to

focus themselves. But, by degrees, the scene became more distinct.

In the circular chapel below dim figures, robed in crimson, moved to

and fro, bearing aloft perfumed cressets on metal poles, and in its

flickering light an altar became visible, hung with crimson, the summit

of which was lost in the gloom overhead. Here and there indistinct

shapes were stretched in hideous contortions on the pavement, and as

others drew nigh, these rose and, throwing back their heads, made the

vault re-echo with deep-chested roaring.

Suddenly the metal bound gates of a low arched doorway, faintly

discernible in the uncertain light, seemed to be unclosing with a slow

and majestic movement, letting loose a flood of light in which the

ghostly faces of the worshippers leapt into sudden clearness, men and

women, all seemingly belonging to the highest ranks of society. The

crimson garbs of the officiating priests showed like huge stains of

blood against the dark-veined marble.

Tristan gazed with the rest, stark with terror. The blood seemed to

freeze in his veins as his eyes swept the circular vault and rested at

the shrine's farther end, where branching candlesticks flanked each the

foot of two short flights of stairs that led up to the summit of the

great altar, garnished at the corner with hideous masks, and sending up

from time to time eddies of smoke, through the reek of which some two

score of men watched the ceremony from above.

Dim shapes passed to and fro. The droning chant continued. At length

a shapeless form evolved itself from the crimson mist, approached the

altar and cast something upon it. Instantly a blaze of light flooded

the shrine, and in its radiance a weazened, bat-like creature was

revealed, garbed in the fantastic imitation of a priest's robes.

Approaching the infernal altar, upon which lay obscene symbols of

horror, he mounted the steps and his figure melted into the gloom.

With the cold sweat streaming from his brow, with a shudder that almost

turned him dizzy, Tristan recognized Bessarion. The High Priest of

Satan sat upon the Devil's altar. There was stir and movement in the

chapel. Then a deep silence supervened.

Petrifaction fell upon the assembly. All voices were hushed, all

movement arrested. From the black throne, surrounded by terror, where

sat the great Unknown, came a dull hoarse roar, like the roar of an

earthquake.

The words were unintelligible to the champions of the Cross. They were

answered by the Sorcerer's Confession, the hideous, terrible contortion

of the Credo, and then Tristan's ears were assailed by the sounds he

had heard on that fatal night, ere he lost consciousness, and again in

the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, sounds meaningless in themselves, but

fraught with terrible import to him now!

"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! Emen Hetan!"--

Pandemonium broke loose.

"Agora! Agora! Patrisa! Agora!"

There was screeching of pipes, made of dead men's bones. A drum

stretched with the skin of the hanged was beaten with the tail of a

wolf. Like leaves in a howling storm the fantastic red robed forms

whirled about, from left to right, from right to left. And in their

midst, immobile and terrible, sat the Hircus Nocturnus, enthroned upon

the shrine.

When at last they stopped, panting, exhausted, the same voice,

deafening as an earthquake, roared:

"Bring hither the bride--the stainless dove!"

A chorus of hideous laughter, a swelling, bleating cacophony of

execration, so furious and real that it froze the listeners' blood,

answered the summons.

Then, from an arch in the apse of the infernal chapel, came four

chanting figures, hideously masked and draped in crimson.

With slow, measured steps they approached. The arch was black again.

Deep silence supervened.

Now into the centre came two figures.

One was that of a man robed in doublet and hose of flaming scarlet. The

figure he supported was that of a woman, though she seemed a corpse

returned to earth.

A long white robe covered her from head to toe, like the winding sheet

of death. Her eyes were bound with a white cloth. She seemed unable to

walk, and was being urged forward, step by step, by the scarlet man at

her side.

Again pandemonium reigned, heightened by the crashing peals of the

thunder that rolled in the heavens overhead.

"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! Emen Hetan!"

The bleating of goats, the shrieks of the tortured damned, the howling

of devils in the nethermost pit of Hell, delirious laughter, gibes and

execrations mingled in a deafening chorus, which was followed by a dead

silence, as anew the voice of the Unseen roared through the vault:

"Bring hither the bride, the stainless dove!"

There was a tramp of mailed feet.

Like a human whirlwind it came roaring down the winding stairs, through

the vomitories into the vault. The rattling of weapons, shouts of rage,

horror and dismay mingled, resounding from the vaulted roof, beaten

back from the marble walls.

With drawn sword Tristan, well in advance of his companions, leaped

into the chapel of Satan. When the identity of the staggering white

form beside the scarlet man had been revealed to him, no power in

heaven or earth could have restrained him. Without awaiting the signal

he bounded with a choking outcry down the shaft.

But, when he reached the floor of the chapel, he recoiled as if the

Evil One had arisen from the floor before him, barring his advance.

Before him stood Theodora.

She wore a scarlet robe, fastened at the throat with a clasp of rubies,

representing the heads of serpents. Her wonderful white arms were bare,

her hands were clenched as if she were about to fly at the throat of a

hated rival and a preternatural lustre shone in her eyes.

"You!"

Tristan's words died in the utterance as he surveyed her for the space

of a moment with a glance so full of horror and disdain that she knew

she had lost.

"Yes--it is I," she replied, hardly above a whisper, hot flush and

deadly pallor alternating in her beautiful face, terrible in its set

calm. "And--though I may not possess you--that other shall not! See!"

Maddened beyond all human endurance at the sight that met his eyes

Tristan hurled Theodora aside as she attempted to bar his way, as if

she had been a toy. Rushing straight through the press towards the

spot, where the scarlet man, his arms still about the drooping form of

Hellayne, had stopped in dismay at the sudden inrush of the guards,

Tristan pierced the Grand Chamberlain through and through. Almost

dragging the woman with him he fell beside the devil's altar. His head

struck the flagstones and he lay still.

The Prefect himself dashed up the steps of the ebony shrine and hurled

the High Priest of Satan on the flagstones below. Bessarion's neck was

broken and, with the squeak of a bat, his black soul went out.

While the guards, giving no quarter, were mowing down all those of

the devil's congregation who did not seek salvation in flight or

concealment, Tristan caught the swooning form of Hellayne in his arms,

calling her name in despairing accents, as he stroked the silken hair

back from the white clammy brow. She was breathing, but her eyes were

closed.

Then he summoned two men-at-arms to his side, and between them they

carried her to the world of light above.

CHAPTER XII

SUNRISE

The thunder clouds had rolled away to eastward.

A rosy glow was creeping over the sky. The air was fresh with the

coming of dawn. Softly they laid Hellayne by the side of a marble

fountain and splashed the cooling drops upon her pale face. After a

time she opened her eyes.

The first object they encountered was Tristan who was bending over her,

fear and anxiety in his face.

Her colorless lips parted in a whisper, as her arms encircled his neck.

"You are with me!" she said, and the transparent lids drooped again.

Those who had not been slain of the congregation of Hell had been bound

in chains. Among the dead was Theodora. The contents of a phial she

carried on her person had done its work instantaneously.

Suddenly alarums resounded from the region of Castel San Angelo. There

was a great stir and buzz, as of an awakened bee hive. There were

shouts at the Flaminian gate, the martial tread of mailed feet and,

as the sun's first ray kissed the golden Archangel on the summit of

the Flavian Emperor's mausoleum, a horseman, followed by a glittering

retinue, dashed up the path, dismounted and raised his visor.

Before the astounded assembly stood Alberic, the Senator of Rome.

Just then they brought the body of Theodora from the subterranean

chapel and laid it silently on the greensward, beside that of Basil,

the Grand Chamberlain.

The Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna was the first to speak.

"My lord, we hardly trust our eyes. All Rome is mourning you for dead."

Alberic turned to the speaker.

"With the aid of the saint I have prevailed against the foulest treason

ever committed by a subject against his trusting lord. The bribed hosts

of Hassan Abdullah, which were to sack Rome, are scattered in flight.

The attempt upon my own life has been prevented by a miracle from

Heaven. But--what of these dead?"

Odo of Cluny approached the Senator of Rome.

"The awful horror which has gripped the city is passed. Christ rules

once more and Satan is vanquished. This is a matter for your private

ear, my lord."

Odo pointed to the kneeling form of Tristan, who was supporting

Hellayne in his arms, trying to soothe her troubled spirit, to dispel

the memory of the black horrors which held her trembling soul in thrall.

Approaching Tristan, Alberic laid his hand upon his head.

"We knew where to trust, and we shall know how to reward! My lords and

prelates of the Church! Matters of grave import await you. We meet

again in the Emperor's Tomb."

Beckoning to his retinue, Alberic remounted his steed, as company upon

company of men-at-arms filed past--a host, such as the city of Rome had

not beheld in decades, with drums and trumpets, pennants and banderols,

long lines of glittering spears, gorgeous surcoats, and splendid suits

of mail.

The forces of the Holy Roman Empire were passing into the Eternal City.

At their head the Senator of Rome was returning into his own.

At last they were alone, Tristan and Hellayne.

His companions had departed. With them they had taken their dead.

Hellayne opened her eyes. They were sombre, yet at peace.

"Tristan!"

He bent over her.

"My own Hellayne!"

"It is beautiful to be loved," she whispered. "I have never been loved

before."

"You shall be," he replied, "now and forever, before God and the world!"

The old shadow came again into her eyes.

"What of the Lord Roger?"

She read the answer in his silence.

A tear trickled from the violet pools of her eyes.

Then she raised herself in his arms.

"I thought I should go mad," she crooned. "But I knew you would come.

And you are here--here--with me,--Tristan."

He took her hands in his, his soul in his eyes.

The sun had risen higher through the gold bars of the east, dispelling

the grey chill of dawn.

She nestled closer to him.

"Take me back to Avalon, to my rose garden," she crooned. "Life is

before us--yonder--where first we loved."

He took her in his arms and kissed her eyes and the small sweet mouth.

A lark began to sing in the silence.

THE END

WHAT ALLAH WILLS

_By Irwin L. Gordon_

_Author of "The Log of The Ark"_

_Illustrated, net, $1.35; carriage paid, $1.50_

Take Morocco for a background--that quaint and mysterious land of

mosques and minarets, where the _muezzin_ still calls to prayer at

sundown the faithful.

Imagine a story written with power and intensity and the thrill of

adventure in the midst of fanatical Moslems. Add to this a wealthy

young medical student, a red-blooded American, who gives up his life to

helping the lepers of Arzilla, and the presence of a beautiful American

girl who, despite her love for the hero, is induced to take up the

Mohammedan faith, and you have some idea of what this remarkable story

presents.

WHAT ALLAH WILLS is a big story of love and adventure. Mr. Gordon is

the author of two notable non-fiction successes, but he scores heavily

in this, his first work of fiction.

UNDER THE WITCHES' MOON

_By Nathan Gallizier_

_Author of "The Sorceress of Rome," "The Court of

Lucifer," "The Hill of Venus," etc._

_Illustrated by The Kinneys, cloth 12mo, net, $1.50;

carriage paid, $1.65_

This romantic tale of tenth-century Rome concerns itself with the

fortunes and adventures of Tristan of Avalon while in the Eternal City

on a pilgrimage to do penance for his love of Hellayne, the wife of his

liege lord, Count Roger de Laval.

Tristan's meeting with the Queen Courtesan of the Aventine; her

infatuation for the pilgrim; Tristan's rounds of obediences, cut short

by his appointment as Captain of Sant' Angelo by Alberic, Senator

of Rome; the intrigues of Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, who aspires

to the dominion of Rome and the love of Theodora; the trials of

Hellayne, who alternately falls into the power of Basil and Theodora;

the scene between the Grand Chamberlain and Bessarion in the ruins

of the Coliseum; the great feud between Roxana and Theodora and the

final overthrow of the latter's regime constitute some of the dramatic

episodes of the romance.

"This new book adds greater weight to the claim that Mr.

Gallizier is the greatest writer of historical novels in America

today."--_Cincinnati Times-Star._

"In many respects we consider Mr. Gallizier the most versatile and

interesting writer of the day."--_Saxby's Magazine._

_A third CHEERFUL BOOK_

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SYLVIA ARDEN DECIDES

By Margaret R. Piper

_A Sequel to "Sylvia's Experiment: The Cheerful Book"_

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_and "Sylvia of the Hill Top"_

_Illustrated, decorative jacket, net, $1.35; carriage paid,

$1.50_

In the original CHEERFUL BOOK, with its rippling play of incident,

Sylvia proved herself a bringer of tidings of great joy to many people.

In the second book devoted to her adventures, she was a charming

heroine--urbane, resourceful and vivacious--with an added shade of

picturesqueness due to her environment. In this third story Sylvia

is a little older grown, deep in the problem of just-out-of-college

adjustment to the conditions of the "wide, wide world," and in the

process of learning, as she puts it, "to live as deep and quick as

I can." The scene of the new story is laid partly at Arden Hall and

partly in New York and, in her sincere effort to find herself, Sylvia

finds love in real fairy tale fashion.

"There is a world of human nature, and neighborhood contentment and

quaint, quiet humor in Margaret R. Piper's books of good cheer. Her

tales are well proportioned and subtly strong in their literary aspects

and quality."--_North American, Philadelphia._

A PLACE IN THE SUN

_By Mrs. Henry Backus_

_Author of "The Career of Dr. Weaver," "The Rose

of Roses," etc._

_12mo, cloth, illustrated by Wm. Van Dresser, net, $1.35;

carriage paid, $1.50_

Gunda Karoli is a very much alive young person with a zest for life and

looking-forward philosophy which helps her through every trial. She is

sustained in her struggles against the disadvantage of her birth by

a burning faith in the great American ideal--that here in the United

States every one has a chance to win for himself a place in the sun.

Gunda takes for her gospel the Declaration of Independence, only

to find that, although this democratic doctrine is embodied in the

constitution of the country, it does not manifest itself outwardly in

its social life. Nevertheless, she succeeds in mounting step by step

in the social scale, from the time she first appears at Skyland on the

Knobs as a near-governess, to her brief season in the metropolis as a

danseuse.

How she wins the interest of Justin Arnold, the fastidious descendant

of a fine old family, and brings into his self-centered existence a new

life and fresh charm, provides a double interest to the plot.

VIRGINIA OF ELK CREEK

VALLEY

_By Mary Ellen Chase_

_12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by R. Farrington

Elwell, net, $1.35; carriage paid, $1.50_

A sequel to last year's success, THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY

(sixth printing). This new story is more western in flavor than the

first book--since practically all of the action occurs back in the Big

Horn country, at Virginia's home, to which she invites her eastern

friends for a summer vacation. The vacation in the West proves "the

best ever" for the Easterners, and in recounting their pleasures they

tell of the hundreds of miles of horseback riding, how they climbed

mountains, trapped a bear, shot gophers, fished, camped, homesteaded,

and of the delightful hospitality of Virginia and her friends.

"The story is full of life and movement and presents a variety of

interesting characters."--_St. Paul Despatch._

"This is most gladsome reading to all who love healthfulness of mind,

heart and body."--_Boston Ideas._

Selections from

The Page Company's

List of Fiction

WORKS OF

ELEANOR H. PORTER

POLLYANNA: The GLAD Book (360,000)

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Mr. Leigh Mitchell Hodges, The Optimist, in an editorial for the

_Philadelphia North American_, says: "And when, after Pollyanna has

gone away, you get her letter saying she is going to take 'eight steps'

to-morrow--well, I don't know just what you may do, but I know of one

person who buried his face in his hands and shook with the gladdest

sort of sadness and got down on his knees and thanked the Giver of all

gladness for Pollyanna."

POLLYANNA GROWS UP: The Second GLAD Book

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Cloth decorative, illustrated by H. Weston Taylor.

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When the story of POLLYANNA told in The _Glad_ Book was ended a great

cry of regret for the vanishing "Glad Girl" went up all over the

country--and other countries, too. Now POLLYANNA appears again, just as

sweet and joyous-hearted, more grown up and more lovable.

"Take away frowns! Put down the worries! Stop fidgeting and

disagreeing and grumbling! Cheer up, everybody! POLLYANNA has come

back!"--_Christian Herald._

_The GLAD Book Calendar_

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THE POLLYANNA CALENDAR

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(_This calendar is issued annually; the calendar for the new year being

ready about Sept. 1st of the preceding year. Note: in ordering please

specify what year you desire._)

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"There is a message of cheer on every page, and the calendar is

beautifully illustrated."--_Kansas City Star._

MISS BILLY (18th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by

G. Tyng . . _Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"There is something altogether fascinating about 'Miss Billy,'

some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand the

individual attention of the reader from the moment we open the book

until we reluctantly turn the last page."--_Boston Transcript._

MISS BILLY'S DECISION (11th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by

Henry W. Moore.

_Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"The story is written in bright, clever style and has plenty of action

and humor. Miss Billy is nice to know and so are her friends."--_New

Haven Times Leader._

MISS BILLY--MARRIED (8th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by

W. Haskell Coffin.

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"Although Pollyanna is the only copyrighted glad girl, Miss Billy is

just as glad as the younger figure and radiates just as much gladness.

She disseminates joy so naturally that we wonder why all girls are not

like her."--_Boston Transcript._

SIX STAR RANCH (19th Printing)

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell.

_Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"'Six Star Ranch' bears all the charm of the author's genius and

is about a little girl down in Texas who practices the 'Pollyanna

Philosophy' with irresistible success. The book is one of the kindliest

things, if not the best, that the author of the Pollyanna books has

done. It is a welcome addition to the fast-growing family of _Glad_

Books."--_Howard Russell Bangs in the Boston Post._

CROSS CURRENTS

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"To one who enjoys a story of life as it is to-day, with its sorrows

as well as its triumphs, this volume is sure to appeal."--_Book News

Monthly._

THE TURN OF THE TIDE

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"A very beautiful book showing the influence that went to the

developing of the life of a dear little girl into a true and good

woman."--_Herald and Presbyter, Cincinnati, Ohio._

WORKS OF

L. M. MONTGOMERY

THE FOUR ANNE BOOKS

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES (40th printing)

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"In 'Anne of Green Gables' you will find the dearest and most moving

and delightful child since the immortal Alice."--_Mark Twain in a

letter to Francis Wilson._

ANNE OF AVONLEA (24th printing)

Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.

_Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"A book to lift the spirit and send the pessimist into

bankruptcy!"--_Meredith Nicholson._

CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA (6th printing)

Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.

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"A story of decidedly unusual conception and interest."--_Baltimore

Sun._

ANNE OF THE ISLAND (10th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by

H. Weston Taylor.

_Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"It has been well worth while to watch the growing up of Anne, and the

privilege of being on intimate terms with her throughout the process

has been properly valued."--_New York Herald._

THE STORY GIRL (9th printing)

Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.

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"A book that holds one's interest and keeps a kindly smile upon one's

lips and in one's heart."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD (10th printing)

Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.

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"A story born in the heart of Arcadia and brimful of the sweet life of

the primitive environment."--_Boston Herald._

THE GOLDEN ROAD (5th printing)

Cloth decorative, illustrated by George Gibbs.

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"It is a simple, tender tale, touched to higher notes, now and then,

by delicate hints of romance, tragedy and pathos."--_Chicago Record

Herald._

NOVELS BY

MRS. HENRY BACKUS

THE CAREER OF DOCTOR WEAVER

Cloth decorative, illustrated by William Van Dresser.

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"High craftsmanship is the leading characteristic of this novel, which,

like all good novels, is a love story abounding in real palpitant human

interest. The most startling feature of the story is the way its author

has torn aside the curtain and revealed certain phases of the relation

between the medical profession and society."--_Dr. Charles Reed in the

Lancet Clinic._

THE ROSE OF ROSES

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The author has achieved a thing unusual in developing a love story

which adheres to conventions under unconventional circumstances.

"Mrs. Backus' novel is distinguished in the first place for its

workmanship."--_Buffalo Evening News._

NOVELS BY

MARGARET R. PIPER

SYLVIA'S EXPERIMENT: The Cheerful Book

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"An atmosphere of good spirits pervades the book; the humor that

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characters are well individualized."--_Boston Post._

SYLVIA OF THE HILL TOP: The Second Cheerful

Book Trade----Mark

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by Gene Pressler. _Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"There is a world of human nature and neighborhood contentment

and quaint quiet humor in Margaret R. Piper's second book of good

cheer."--_Philadelphia North American._

MISS MADELYN MACK, DETECTIVE By HUGH C. WEIR.

Cloth decorative, illustrated. _Net_, $1.35; _carriage paid_, $1.50

"Clever in plot and effective in style, the author has seized on some

of the most sensational features of modern life, and the result is

a detective novel that gets away from the beaten track of mystery

stories."--_New York Sun._

WORKS OF

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS

HAUNTERS OF THE SILENCES

Cloth decorative, with many drawings by Charles Livingston Bull, four

of which are in full color . . . . $2.00

The stories in Mr. Roberts's new collection are the strongest and best

he has ever written.

He has largely taken for his subjects those animals rarely met with

in books, whose lives are spent "In the Silences," where they are the

supreme rulers.

"As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He

is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all

the nature writers."--_Brooklyn Eagle._

RED FOX

THE STORY OF HIS ADVENTUROUS CAREER IN THE RINGWAAK WILDS, AND OF HIS

FINAL TRIUMPH OVER THE ENEMIES OF HIS KIND. With fifty illustrations,

including frontispiece in color and cover design by Charles Livingston

Bull.

Square quarto, cloth decorative . . . . . $2.00

"True in substance but fascinating as fiction. It will interest old and

young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals and those who

do not."--_Chicago Record Herald._

THE KINDRED OF THE WILD

A BOOK OF ANIMAL LIFE. With fifty-one full-page plates and many

decorations from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.

Square quarto, cloth decorative . . . . . $2.00

"Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories that

has appeared; well named and well done."--_John Burroughs._

THE WATCHERS OF THE TRAILS

A companion volume to "The Kindred of the Wild." With forty-eight

full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by Charles

Livingston Bull.

Square quarto, cloth decorative $2.00

"These stories are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust in

their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft. Among

the many writers about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable

place."--_The Outlook._

WORKS OF

GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO

Signor d'Annunzio is known throughout the world as a poet and a

dramatist, but above all as a novelist, for it is in his novels that he

is at his best. In poetic thought and graceful expression he has few

equals among the writers of the day.

He is engaged on a most ambitious work--nothing less than the writing

of nine novels which cover the whole field of human sentiment. This

work he has divided into three trilogies, and five of the nine books

have been published. It is to be regretted that other labors have

interrupted the completion of the series.

"This book is realistic. Some say that it is brutally so. But the

realism is that of Flaubert, and not of Zola. There is no plain

speaking for the sake of plain speaking. Every detail is justified

in the fact that it illuminates either the motives or the actions of

the man and woman who here stand revealed. It is deadly true. The

author holds the mirror up to nature, and the reader, as he sees his

own experiences duplicated in passage after passage, has something of

the same sensation as all of us know on the first reading of George

Meredith's 'Egoist.' Reading these pages is like being out in the

country on a dark night in a storm. Suddenly a flash of lightning comes

and every detail of your surroundings is revealed."--_Review of "The

Triumph of Death" in the New York Evening Sun._

The volumes published are as follows. Each 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth

. . . . . . . . $1.50

_THE ROMANCES OF THE ROSE_

=THE CHILD OF PLEASURE= (IL PIACERE).

=THE INTRUDER= (L'INNOCENTE).

=THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH= (IL TRIONFO DELLA

MORTE).

_THE ROMANCES OF THE LILY_

=THE MAIDENS OF THE ROCKS= (LE VERGINI

DELLE ROCCE).

_THE ROMANCES OF THE POMEGRANATE_

=THE FLAME OF LIFE= (IL FUOCO).

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note:

Some words appear in both hyphenated and non-hyphenated forms in

the original; these variations have been edited for the sake of

consistency.

Minor punctuation errors have been corrected.

End of Project Gutenberg's Under the Witches' Moon, by Nathan Gallizier