a deep shout or a shrill cry, a shot or a clang, pierced high; anon the
thunder of blows at the main doors, echoing through the old house.
As a knock angrier than the rest shook the very foundations, the women
raised a wail. Madam Anastasia, the Abbess, looked round them, a certain
twist of humour belying the sternness of her face.
“O mother, mother!” shrilly lamented the youngest novice, “shall we all
be murdered?”
“Well, and what of that?” quoth the stout daughter of the Bedingfields.
“Do we not lay down our lives, in taking convent vows?—Fie, child, Mary
Veronica!” Her steady tones began to dominate the thin plaints. “And
you, clamouring as you were, but a week ago, to be one of the faithful
virgins! Daughters, is this our faith? And, besides, are we not under her
Majesty’s special protection, and help sent for? To the chapel with ye,
and sing complines. Tut! Have I given permission to break the rules? ’Tis
past the hour. Off with ye!”
She rose, hustling them with gestures of her great hanging sleeves, in
good-humoured yet irresistible authority. Not one attempted protest,
though the smallest novice halted on the threshold to fling a
supplicating look which begged piteously for the shelter of the motherly
skirts. But the kind steel-grey eye was relentless; and, shivering, the
neophyte pattered after her sisters.
Madam Anastasia watched them depart with a shrug of her ample shoulders.
Then as she stood, in deep reflection, by the open door, hearkening to
the increasing menace, there came the faint tinkle of the chapel bell;
and thereafter the uplifted voices of her nuns chanting, dismally enough,
but yet sufficiently in unison. She nodded to herself, with a shrewd
smile, and was about to gather her long blue skirts together, preparatory
to a survey of the defences, when there came the sound of steps along
the flags and the figure of the convent guest moved into her view. The
Abbess’s face brightened.
“Hither, child!” she beckoned, as Mistress Diana Harcourt, bowing her
veiled head, was about to pass on to the chapel.
The young woman approached, flinging back the folds from her face.
Against the black filmy frame, her hair, even in the dimness of the
corridor, took marvellous brightness as of copper and gold. Her
countenance shone with a pearl-like fairness; it was wan, as by long
vigils; sad were her eyes, as though from secret tears; but serenity
enveloped her as fragrance does the rose.
Her kinswoman surveyed her an instant with favour. Then she plunged into
her huge hanging pocket.
“This letter, flung in through a window, tied to a stone; I had nigh
forgotten it! ’Tis addressed to you. Had you been of my flock, ’twas my
duty to have read it.”
Diana glanced at the superscription, announced coldly that it was from
their kinsman, Lionel Ratcliffe, and proceeded to burst the seal. But the
colour welled to her pale cheeks, and she gave a cry of indignation as
she read:—
“A man’s patience is not eternal. You have forbidden me sight of you,
this month past. My offence—the constancy of my love! You will not, so
you tell me, out of your papist cage. Yester-eve our kinswoman threatened
me that you would change your religion and take the vows. You have
reckoned without me, without the anger of the people. ’Tis the cry that
the papists have fired London; I care not, false or true. But no papist
shall help to rob me of you! Here is my chance, and I shall seize it. I
saved you once, in spite of yourself; now, Diana, I shall save you again
from yourself. Have no fear, though every stone in the walls that keep
you from me be laid low, no harm shall come to you. I shall be there,
and with friends. So you are warned; be wise, bid our obstinate old Coz
Anastasia yield you peacefully, unbar the doors, facilitate the search
for the papers we come to seek, and I will even do still what may be done
for her safety and that of all her silly pack.
“If this findeth you open to reason, see that she hang a white cloth from
the window over the porch, and soon after unbar the gate. And leave the
rest to your faithful and ever-loving cousin,
“LIONEL RATCLIFFE.”
* * * * *
“And he of our blood! Shame!” cried the Abbess, with hot cheeks.
“Mother,” said Diana, and her lip trembled in spite of her brave tone,
“had you not best yield, even as he says? Alack! ’tis by bringing peril
on you I repay your shelter!”
“Yield you up? A pretty thought! I would rather we all perished together
’neath the stones of the old house. Yield and facilitate, forsooth!
Nay, we will even hold the place bolt and bar. An our message have
reached the Tower, ’twill go hard with us if the gates do not stand till
succour comes. How, hand thee over to yon infamous wretch, who useth
the extremity of the city, the blind folly of the mob, the helplessness
of a poor house of gentlewomen, to the furthering of his own base
purposes! As for my threat that you would take the vows,”—she gave a dry
chuckle,—“I’ve overshot the mark, it seems. I deemed to show thee as out
of reach of his pursuit. Well, ’tis ill talking when so much is a-doing.
Hark ye at that, ’tis the fiercest onslaught yet. Get thee to the chapel.
I must to the outer hall.”
“Nay,” quoth Diana, “I go with you.”
The two kinswomen looked at each other for a second with a mutual pride;
then, without further word, they went together to the great outer hall,
reverberating now to its vaulted roof as hammer strokes fell upon the
iron-studded door.
The stolid, elderly red-headed porter came forth from a deep
embrasure,—where he had been philosophically, it seemed, listening to the
progress of the attack,—and with a hand on each arm drew them in their
turn into the shelter out of reach of stone and shots.
“Will the door hold, think you, Bindon?” asked his reverend mistress,
briskly.
“Aye,” quoth Bindon, “good iron, stout oak!—So they lay not gunpowder.”
“And so they do, what then?”
Bindon lifted his hand in slight but expressive gesture. Then his small
eye rolled from the old face to the young.
“Eh, but ye be two brave women—not a blanch, not a squeak!”
“Sho!” said the Abbess, with a tolerant smile. “And why should I fear
death? Have I not been dead these forty years?”
“And why should I fear death,” said Diana’s young voice, “since life has
naught left for me?”
“I hope you’ll not be taken at your word, ladies,” said Bindon, with the
familiarity of long service. “Nay, look you, I’m none so ready myself!
But,” he went on, “I like not this pause without: there may be gunpowder
in it. And by your leave, I’ll creep round to the lookout. Eh, ’tis time
the guards should arrive, in faith!”
As his burly figure had moved out of sight, Madam Anastasia turned with
some asperity:—
“Indeed, Mistress Harcourt, I marvel at you! Life nothing left for you,
forsooth? Tut, tut! Is not the best part of it before you? What have you
done with your good youth, answer me that—not even borne a soul to God’s
service?”
“Why, mother,” Diana exclaimed, and the tears sprang to her eyes. “Do
you know my history, and chide me? Oh, I am dead, and this is my tomb.
And truly, ’tis best so; since, when I lived in the world, I brought—God
knows unwittingly—dire sorrow on two noble hearts that loved me.”
The Abbess thrust her hands impatiently up her big sleeves.
“Tush, child! Shouldst have made thy choice boldly. And he whom you had
left of the two would be no worse off than now. This shilly-shally likes
me not. In a convent, and no nun! A lovely, free woman, and no wife!
Either wed or pray, say I. Nay, my dear, though I threatened your cousin
with it, I have known it long: your vocation is not with us! With the
blessing of God, I’ll yet give the house a feast on the day of Mistress
Harcourt’s wedding with my Lord Rockhurst’s son!”
The renewal of clamour without, the report of a musket, the shattering
of a few more panes of glass in the high windows, all but drowned the
valiant woman’s words. Yet Diana had caught the drift of them, and
clasped the stout shoulders in sudden embrace.
“Wedding! ’Tis more like we feast with death this day!”
“Why, then, ’tis the best feast of all,” cried the Abbess, petulantly.
There came three measured, emphatic blows upon the door. Then, above the
loud, continuous howl of the mob, a ringing call:—
“Stand back, there within, stand back for your lives! We now blow your
door in.—Stand back!”
“’Tis Cousin Lionel’s voice,” whispered Diana, with white lips.
“Sho!” returned the old lady, with great contempt. She caught Diana by
the shoulder and dragged her to the entrance of the passage, where she
paused, panting, being somewhat weighty for such swift movements. Bindon,
trailing a musket, clattered in their rear.
“Aye, truly,” she said to him, “I begin to think this may be the end.
Tut! Where lag those sluggard guards? Sho! Here now come my silly
children!—Well, well, Sister Magdalen, my pastoral staff! So we have
visitors we shall receive in state.”
She took the crook from the hands of the nun; then, waving back the
community, terrified now even to speechlessness:—
“Back to your stalls, daughters! Shame on you! Shall not the shepherd
come when he pleases, and shall he find the sheep dispersed?”
She rang her staff threateningly on the flags, and the fluttering bevy
fled back to the chapel. “Sheep, indeed—poor things!” chuckled the Abbess.
She was chuckling still when the thud of the explosion came.
It seemed to lift the stone house about them, to make the solid flags
heave under their feet. For one instant Diana deemed that they all had
been blown in pieces as well as the convent; and, opening her eyes after
a reeling moment, was considerably astonished to find herself whole and
sound. Before her, in stout equilibrium, was the Abbess, jubilantly
chanting a psalm; beside her, Bindon on one knee, poising his firelock.
The words he was breathing were not those of prayer.
There was a burst of wailing from the chapel within. Through the porch a
wall of white smoke rolled up in swirls.
“They’ve made the breach; the door is down,” said Bindon, superfluously.
The vapour parted. Three men were seen cautiously advancing; beyond them,
confusedly, in the ragged breach, Diana caught a glimpse of the street
and a crowd of begrimed faces, in brutal exultation, brutal lust of
destruction. Ravening as wild beasts behind bars, something yet seemed
to hold them back. The next instant, as she recognised Lionel, she knew
whose power at once excited and restrained the mob. Waving his sword, he
advanced, scarce a fold out of place in his handsome suit, plumed hat on
his head, the red curls of his great wig hanging ordered on either side
of the long, pale face.
Their eyes met; she saw the gleam in his, and her heart turned sick.
The two that strode behind him were dark-visaged, sinister enough, yet
had something of the same air, as of men decorously carrying through a
necessary act of violence.
Lionel Ratcliffe halted a pace in front of his old kinswoman and swept an
ironical bow. There was no flinching of shame in him as he met the stern
challenge of her eye.
“Out of my way, madam,” he cried. “I’m not here to deal with you. You’ve
not chosen to take my warning; take your lot. My business is with my
cousin here, whom you unlawfully detain.—Diana, I have seen to your
safety.”
He made an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand as he concluded. The
two men darted forward. Hideous confusion instantly sprang up. Diana
remembered (and afterward it was with tender laughter) seeing the Mother
Abbess strike out right lustily with her pastoral staff; to such good
purpose, indeed, that Lionel’s sword was snapped at mid-blade as he tried
to parry her blow. At the same instant there was a deafening report
in her ear: Bindon had loosed his musket. The foremost of Ratcliffe’s
attendants threw up his arms and fell forward. Then she felt herself
grasped, and knew the hated touch.
“Diana, are you mad?” Lionel was whispering fiercely. “’Tis life or
death!… If you are seen to struggle now, you, whom this rabble believes I
come to rescue from the papists, you are lost, even as the others!”
Through Lionel’s words she was aware of the wild-beast roar, execrating:—
“Kill the papists! Burn them! Fire the convent—fire for fire!”
She was aware also of the invisible bars broken down, of the rush. And
next, even to her bewildered senses, there came the feeling of a change,
a halt.
It was like a flood at full tide miraculously arrested. Shots followed
each other in rapid succession outside; and other sounds now, a roll of
drums, words of command, some cheers, began to mingle with those hideous
recurrent yells. The throng that struggled to pour in through the broken
door recoiled.
“The guards! the guards are on us!” was now the cry.
And with the curious unanimity of crowds general panic succeeded general
fury. Above the torrential sound of feet on the pavement, a voice, clear
yet panting, like the blast of a running trumpeter, rose ever nearer.
“Make way, in the King’s name!”
Then Diana heard the Abbess’s “_Deo gratias_”; heard Lionel curse as his
grasp relaxed; heard him curse again as he leaped forward, brandishing
the stump of his sword, and, in vain frenzy, striving to stop the
fugitives.
Harry Rockhurst was the first of the rescuers to dash through the gaping
door. The Lord Constable had in truth reached the gateway before him,
but had stood aside to let his son pass. Bare-headed, his black curls
flying, his face set with the sternness of fierce intent, Diana for one
delirious instant took the son for the father—the father as she had first
met him in pride of noble strength, when she had loved him, unbidden.
And as he sprang toward her, crying out in accents of unmeasurable joy,
“Diana—safe!” she cast herself into his arms.
Now, even as he held her, she knew who it was, knew that there was youth
in his pressure, an unhampered ecstasy of leaping blood. But yet she
clung to him the closer, past and present so inextricably mingled in her
thought that all she felt, all she cared to know, was that now, here, her
heart had come home at last!
The inner circle of their joy lasted but the moment of a radiant bubble.
About them the turmoil still raged. There was one, within a few yards,
white-haired, grappling with a furious blood-stained ruffian. Diana
clutched her lover’s arm.
“Harry, Harry, save the old man!”
Harry turned, saw, and fired his pistol point-blank in the rioter’s face.
In the same instant, with a horror that stifled the cry of warning in her
throat, Diana saw Lionel, with livid countenance of fury, advancing upon
the young man, his broken sword drawn back like a dagger for the thrust.
But even as she found voice, all was over: one whose love had been
swifter than hers had flung himself between the steel and its aim. Then
all was a swirl of confusion. She saw Harry draw his sword from Lionel’s
fallen body, fling it from him, and rush with a deep cry of anguish to
the tall, white-headed man who yet stood erect, smiling, but with a face
of terrible pallor.
She looked again; and, as if the blast of a mighty wind had torn the
mists from her eyes, she knew him. The old man she had called him: it was
Lord Rockhurst himself.
And now it became clear to her that he was wounded, and grievously.
Though he still stood, he was supported on one side by his son; on the
other by a grey-bearded yeoman who, seeing his leader struck, had worked
his way to him with great strides, through the mob of soldiers and
rioters struggling at the door.
“Sir,” he was saying, “this is the weight of a dead man.”
“Ah, no!” cried the son. “For God’s sake, look to the wound! O God!—the
sword, to the very hilt!”
Rockhurst came back from his far-smiling contemplation to forbid the hand
that would have plucked the broken sword from his side.
“Touch it not yet, Sergeant Bracy. When you draw it, you draw my life
with it.”
“He’s sped, Master Harry,” whispered Bracy, and his face began to work.
* * * * *
Then Rockhurst failed in their arms and they gently laid him down on the
flags, but a few paces away from Lionel Ratcliffe’s dead body. As in a
dream, Diana came and knelt by his side. Madam Anastasia was praying
under her voice the prayer for the dying: “… Remember not, O Lord, the
offences of thy servant, and take not revenge of his sins.…”
“Oh, father,” sobbed Harry, “the best, the dearest! Oh, my honoured lord!”
The dying man, as with an effort, brought his far gaze to the two young
faces bending in sorrow over him.
“It is well,” he said, “very well. Diana, lay your hand in his. I would
fain place it there myself, but I cannot, I cannot.” His eye roamed as if
seeking. Once again he smiled at Bracy’s distraught countenance.
“Old comrade,” he breathed, “pluck out the blade.”
* * * * *
The Lord Constable had given his last command.
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD’S NOVELS
THE SARACINESCA SERIES
_In the binding of the Uniform Edition, each, $1.50_
=Saracinesca=
“The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make it
great,—that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giving a
graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s temporal
power.… The story is exquisitely told.”—_Boston Traveler._
=Sant’ Ilario.= A Sequel to “Saracinesca”
“A singularly powerful and beautiful story.… It fulfils every requirement
of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive in human
action, without owing any of its effectiveness to sensationalism or
artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, accordant with experience,
graphic in description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing in
interest.”—_New York Tribune._
=Don Orsino.= A Sequel to “Sant’ Ilario”
“Perhaps the cleverest novel of the year.… There is not a dull paragraph
in the book, and the reader may be assured that once begun, the story of
_Don Orsino_ will fascinate him until its close.”—_The Critic._
=Taquisara=
“To Mr. Crawford’s Roman novels belongs the supreme quality of uniting
subtly drawn characters to a plot of uncommon interest.”—_Chicago
Tribune._
=Corleone=
“Mr. Crawford is the novelist born … a natural story-teller, with wit,
imagination, and insight added to a varied and profound knowledge of
social life.”—_The Inter-Ocean_, Chicago.
=Casa Braccio.=
_In two volumes, $2.00._ Illustrated by A. Castaigne
Like _Taquisara_ and _Corleone_, it is closely related in plot to the
fortunes of the Saracinesca family.
“Mr. Crawford’s books have life, pathos, and insight; he tells a dramatic
story with many exquisite touches.”—_New York Sun._
NOVELS OF ROMAN SOCIAL LIFE
_In decorated cloth covers, each, $1.50_
=A Roman Singer=
“One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist.… None but a
genuine artist could have made so true a picture of human life, crossed
by human passions and interwoven with human weakness. It is a perfect
specimen of literary art.”—_The Newark Advertiser._
=Marzio’s Crucifix=
“We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in
an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. It is as if it
could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does the story unfold
itself, and so logical and consistent is the sequence of incident after
incident. As a story, _Marzio’s Crucifix_ is perfectly constructed.”—_New
York Commercial Advertiser._
=Heart of Rome.= A Tale of the Lost Water
“Mr. Crawford has written a story of absorbing interest, a story with
a genuine thrill in it; he has drawn his characters with a sure and
brilliant touch, and he has said many things surpassingly well.”—_New
York Times Saturday Review._
=Cecilia.= A Story of Modern Rome
“That F. Marion Crawford is a master of mystery needs no new telling.…
His latest novel, _Cecilia_, is as weird as anything he has done since
the memorable _Mr. Isaacs_.… A strong, interesting, dramatic story, with
the picturesque Roman setting beautifully handled as only a master’s
touch could do it.”—_Philadelphia Evening Telegraph._
=Whosoever Shall Offend=
“It is a story sustained from beginning to end by an ever increasing
dramatic quality.”—_New York Evening Post._
=Pietro Ghisleri=
“The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power
and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic
environment,—the entire atmosphere indeed,—rank this novel at once among
the great creations.”—_The Boston Budget._
=To Leeward=
“The four characters with whose fortunes this novel deals, are, perhaps,
the most brilliantly executed portraits in the whole of Mr. Crawford’s
long picture gallery, while for subtle insight into the springs of human
passion and for swift dramatic action none of the novels surpasses this
one.”—_The News and Courier._
=A Lady of Rome=
Mr. Crawford has no equal as a writer of brilliant cosmopolitan fiction,
in which the characters really belong to the chosen scene and the story
interest is strong. His novels possess atmosphere in a high degree.
=Mr. Isaacs= (India)
Its scenes are laid in Simla, chiefly. This is the work which first
placed its author among the most brilliant novelists of his day.
=Greifenstein= (The Black Forest)
“… Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It
possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual ability.
Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even on the
previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Crawford’s work, this
novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read with a great deal
of interest.”—_New York Evening Telegram._
=Zoroaster= (Persia)
“It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and
dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of a
play. By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to
live and lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on
a stage could possibly do.”—_The New York Times._
=The Witch of Prague= (Bohemia)
_“A fantastic tale,” illustrated by W. J. Hennessy._
“The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed
and carried out is admirable and delightful.… Mr. Crawford has scored a
decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout.… A
very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story.”—_New York Tribune._
=Paul Patoff= (Constantinople)
“Mr. Crawford has a marked talent for assimilating local color, not to
make mention of a broader historical sense. Even though he may adopt, as
it is the romancer’s right to do, the extreme romantic view of history,
it is always a living and moving picture that he evolves for us, varied
and stirring.”—_New York Evening Post._
=Marietta= (Venice)
“No living writer can surpass Mr. Crawford in the construction
of a complicated plot and the skilful unravelling of the tangled
skein.”—_Chicago Record-Herald._
“He has gone back to the field of his earlier triumphs, and has, perhaps,
scored the greatest triumph of them all.”—_New York Herald._
_In the binding of the new Uniform Edition, each, $1.50_
=Via Crucis.= A Romance of the Second Crusade. Illustrated by Louis Loeb
“_Via Crucis.…_ A tale of former days, possessing an air of reality and
an absorbing interest such as few writers since Scott have been able to
accomplish when dealing with historical characters.”—_Boston Transcript._
=In the Palace of the King= (Spain)
“_In the Palace of the King_ is a masterpiece; there is a
picturesqueness, a sincerity which will catch all readers in an agreeable
storm of emotion, and even leave a hardened reviewer impressed and
delighted.”—_Literature, London._
=With the Immortals=
“The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a
writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern thought and
progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper literary
clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one whose active
literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative
knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by his courage and
capacity for hard work. The book will be found to have a fascination
entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has
succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordinary plane of novel
interest.”—_Boston Advertiser._