CHAPTER XXIIII

HOW BARTOLOMMEO TRUSTED A STRANGE JAILER

It was morning before Hugh and his father grew weary of talking.

Hugh looked up in amazement at the beam of sunlight that straggled

through a narrow loophole in the wall.

"I had thought we were far underground," he exclaimed.

"Nay, fair son. This chamber is on the first floor of the Tower of

Anemas in the outer walls of Blachernae. Betwixt us and freedom is

naught but those stones."

Hugh examined the wall with interest. It was tremendously thick.

Looking out through the loopholes was like peering through a tunnel,

and midway of the space massy iron bars criss-crossed in an

impenetrable barrier.

"Anemas and the nearby towers and walls," his father continued, "were

built in part to buttress the terrace on which the Palace is placed.

Hence they are vastly heavier than any other section of the

fortifications. Around the base of the Tower of Anemas there is a

counterfort, and this dungeon is constructed behind the protection of

the counterfort as well as within the wall of the tower itself. Nay,

Hugh, be not concerned with it. Escape lies not in that direction.

An you had all the contrivances of a mason, still you must labour

undisturbed for weeks to bore a path through the wall."

"Mayhap we can fall upon our guard when he comes with food,"

suggested Hugh.

Sir James shook his head.

"Three of the blacks come always together. Now that you are here, I

make no doubt that six will come--and they are lusty knaves. Hugh, I

like not to stifle your ambitions, but escape from Anemas is no light

task."

"Art in the right, fair lord," assented Hugh gloomily. "But, by St.

Cuthbert, it should be easier for two than one! And I would fain die

striving for freedom, rather than exist at the sufferance of enemies."

His father smiled gently.

"Hast some understanding now, Hugh, of what I have suffered. But I

would not hamper you. We will cast about and see what devices we may

hit upon. You are like a draught of heady wine, sweet son. I am

uplifted even now. Only, I prithee, be patient, for I am old and you

are young."

Indeed, Hugh was obliged to commit himself to the routine of the

dungeon. Study of the situation convinced him that his father was

not exaggerating the difficulties of forcing an escape. The walls

were impassable. The guards, who visited them twice a day to bring

food and sweep out the dungeon, were alert and powerful, and even if

they could be subdued, Hugh had a vivid recollection of the other

gates and sentinels who must be overcome before the upper air was

reached--and then their troubles would be just begun.

No, he agreed, escape by force was impossible under the present

circumstances. He swallowed this unpleasant fact as readily as he

could, and set himself to vie with Sir James in keeping his body

strong and healthy, in spite of the inevitable languor of

confinement. The two wrestled and contended, walked and danced.

They had sufficient rough food to eat, and if the chill winter air

found access to their chamber, it was proof against dampness. Save

on days when the sun never shone they were not uncomfortable.

Hugh had been a prisoner two days when his guards forced him to

remove his armour and accept in its stead a woollen cloak to cover

his gambeson and quilted drawers. They searched him carefully from

head to foot, and took every piece of metal in his possession, even

to a medallion of St. Cuthbert which Prior Thomas had given him as a

charm to ward off evil. His chief cause for regretting this

deprivation was the disappointment his father experienced. Sir James

had taken a child-like pleasure in donning the mail and accustoming

his muscles to exercise again under the weight of armour. But it

showed that their enemies were not forgetting them, and spurred Hugh

on to seek a means of escape.

Several weeks passed without incident. Then one evening the door

clashed open and Bartolommeo strode in, the six tongueless Ethiopians

at his heels.

"Ha, fair sirs," he cried. "How like you this unwonted comradeship?

Do you not owe old Bartolommeo a blessing for the service he hath

done you? Ay, many folk have said that Bartolommeo had no heart and

served the devil! Mayhap, mayhap! But certes he played the rôle of

guardian angel when he brought you twain together. How now? How

now? Hast talked things over? Art in better frame of mind, Messer

Hugh? And you, Sir James--art prepared to be communicative? I have

an offer for you, a pledge, an undertaking--ay, a veritable bargain

such as one trader makes to another. Belike, you will chaffer with

me."

"With you, Bartolommeo, or with your master?" asked Sir James drily.

"A shrewd wit, oh, a shrewd wit," chuckled Bartolommeo. "Ay, you are

never sleeping when there is craft afoot. Well, what say you,

Messers?"

"There is naught to go upon save Mocenigo's word, then?" said Sir

James.

Bartolommeo cocked his head on one side.

"Hast clapped your finger on the worm-hole in the apple," he

assented. "Ay, but beggers may not be choosers, an you please, Sir

James; and we have you, as I might say, with a dagger to your throat

and your helmet-laces cut."

"'Twas so I deemed it," returned Sir James. "There is naught to

answer. You know me by now, Bartolommeo, and you know, too, that if

you have me here, no less have I that which you seek here."

He touched his head.

"So you have, so you have," Bartolommeo agreed cheerfully. "Ay, and

so hath the good youth, your son. 'Tis a tender morsel this sweet

chit, Sir James, not used to dungeon fare or the torments of the

rack. Mayhap, you would prefer to save him from the torment."

"I would rather he were torn limb from limb than that the secret you

seek were imparted to your masters," replied Sir James shortly. "But

an you tortured him you would gain naught. You know this, knave, so

why clamour uselessly? 'Tis a false scent."

Bartolommeo chuckled again.

"Bravely answered. 'Tis as I expected. Well, Messers, we are busy

in the world above, and we may not attend to you as your deserts

warrant. But bide in patience. We shall yet give you good

entertainment."

It was two weeks before he appeared again. They were weeks of the

same dreary routine, the same conscientious exercise, the same utter

silence save for what the prisoners said to one another. Yet Hugh

did not find it so wearing as he had feared it might be. There was

so much to tell his father, there was so much for his father to tell

him, that the hours passed rapidly. The only times when his courage

failed him were in the night whilst Sir James slept and he conned

over Helena's threats and the danger in which Edith might stand. He

wondered often if Edith thought of him, if his comrades had any idea

of what had become of him, if any one still cared for him or missed

him or strove for his release. One night he walked the dungeon until

dawn.

The next morning Bartolommeo bustled in.

"I give you greeting, fair lords," the ruffian hailed them jovially.

"We must part for a time. I am engaged upon other duties, the import

of which I may not tell you. Ha, ha, ha! But I have a choice varlet

to take my place. He will watch over you like a mother--ay, like a

dam over its kid. Belike, you will regret Bartolommeo even so. Come

within, Messer Ranulphio!"

A slender, hairy, little man stole into the dungeon, rubbing his

hands together with a certain evil joyousness. His face bristled

with a tangled beard, through which stared the sallow skin, and his

eyes were very sharp. Hugh started at sight of him. He seemed

vaguely familiar, uncannily suggestive of another personality. But

there could be no mistake about the wickedness with which he eyed the

prisoners.

"At your pleasure, Messer Caraducci," he answered in a cracked,

high-pitched voice, with a malignant whine. "Are these the charges I

am to take under my care? Ay, they will remember me. They will heed

me. I have had knights in my care ere this, and they came to have

high respect for me."

Bartolommeo regarded him with affectionate respect.

"Is he not a pleasant bit of a man?" he appealed to Sir James and

Hugh. "A very trustworthy fellow, I can tell you. Ere he was

fifteen he cut his mother's throat. A year later he slew the

household of a noble in Florence for whom he worked, and made off

with their ducats. He hath been outlawed from four cities, and hath

been a pirate ten years. Oh, we are careful whom we select, Messer

Mocenigo and I. We specialise in cut-throats. But this knave is

after my own heart. I could envy him some of his deeds, and I take

pride that he is a Venetian."

The new jailer bowed with mock humility.

"Two brave bodies for the torment," he whined. "They are no

crook-boned scarecrows to fall apart at a twist of the rack. Nay,

they will live long and suffer well. I will hold them in good care,

Messer Bartolommeo."

"Why do you leave us, Bartolomeo?" enquired Hugh.

"A fair question, Messer Hugh, and I take it kindly that you ask it.

Ay, it shows that you are not unmindful of old Bartolommeo's worth.

Why, the truth is, there are affairs toward of which I may not speak.

But the world will know in time, and Bartolommeo will be rewarded."

"How goes the siege?"

"Siege, say you? Nay, 'tis little enough of a siege. 'Tis more like

a fly biting at the back of a bull. The bull flicks his tail, and

the fly hangs on. But I say naught against the skill of my

countrymen. Ay, I take pride in that I am a Venetian. For first, I

have this incomparable compatriot here, Ranulphio, and next, I have

those hardy varlets without the walls."

"What have they done?"

"The other night we launched fire-ships against them, planning to

destroy their whole fleet. But think you they were dismayed or

afraid? Not so. They sallied out in small boats to meet the

fire-ships, turned them from their course and did not lose a single

galley. A right seaman-like exploit. I am proud of such

shipmasters."

"Art in a proudful mood, Bartolommeo," said Sir James. "And the

priests say that pride cometh before a fall."

Bartolommeo roared with laughter and clapped his fellow-jailer on the

back so hard that Ranulphio sputtered.

"What a treat you will have, Ranulphio! Now do you gauge my trust in

you--ay, and my affection--that I turn over to you two such rare

souls! I would I might increase our acquaintance, Sir James. But

'tis not every day I may strangle an---- But I say too much. Be

assured, fair sirs, I would not leave you, save there was greater

game in sight. Pride cometh before a fall! Ay, there is to be a

fall for the proud--such a fall as will shake the world."

Ranulphio cackled shrilly in applause, and the two scoundrels left

the dungeon arm in arm.

"Now what meant he by that?" said Sir James wonderingly. "But,

certes, 'tis strange enough they should trust another with me--the

first time in all these years. They must be very sure of us."

"There is some deep villainy afoot," replied Hugh. "Doubt it not,

fair lord. Bartolommeo is the chief rogue of Mocenigo, and Mocenigo

is the chief rogue of--well, whoever it may be hath paid him most.

But tell me: hast ever seen this Ranulphio ere this?"

"Nay, Hugh, he is a stranger, a rat of a man, 'twould seem."

"Ay, but it sticks in my mind he is not a stranger to me. I would I

might see clearly. But I may not. It is not the way he looks, but

somewhat I cannot put my finger to."

Three nights later the door of the dungeon clanged open, and a

lighted torch was thrust inside.

"Hugh!"

Hugh bounded to his feet, blinded by the sudden light, dazed,

unbelieving. He put out one hand and touched his father, who had

risen at his side.

"Who--who----" he faltered.

"Hugh, it is I."

The torch-flame etched clearly the hooded, muffled figure. Of face

and hair there was not a sign. Betrayed once before in this wise, he

could scarce trust his ears, scarce dared to credit his tingling

senses.

"You--Edith----"

"Yes, it is I, Hugh."

"Who is with you?"

She turned and the light of the torch fell upon the figure of the man

behind her who upheld it.

"Ranulphio!" cried Hugh. "Then they have----"

He leaped with hands outstretched, furious, intent to kill. But

Edith forced him back. Her hood fell off in the struggle, and her

golden hair, gleaming in the scanty light, was tangled in his hands.

Perforce he hesitated.

"Hugh, are you mad?" she panted. "Do you not know him?"

"Who?" rasped Hugh.

She nodded behind her.

"Nay, I----"

Ranulphio stepped forward, a broad smile on his bearded face.

"'Twas well played, old comrade," he said. "Ha, to think that I have

fooled you! 'Twas more than I expected."

The voice was the voice of Matteo. But still Hugh could not believe.

"Who is he?" he appealed to Edith.

"'Tis Messer Matteo in marvellous disguise. Ay, in sooth, Hugh.

Doubt him not."

Hugh drew one hand across his eye.

"Father," he called abruptly. "Fair lord, art here?"

"I am here, Hugh."

"Do you see two figures as I see them?" questioned Hugh.

"I see them, fair son."

"Then am I sane. But----"

"There is no time for buts, Hugh," Matteo interrupted. "Hell bubbles

overhead. Comnenus tries his skill once more at overturning a

throne. In the confusion we dared to descend here, but if you are to

escape we must hurry. There is no time to lose."

"Do you order us. We will obey. But how knew you where to find me?"

"Anon, comrade. For the nonce we have much to do. Follow me."

He led them out into the passageway, sweeping his torch overhead to

light them, and barred the door of the empty dungeon. Then they

traversed the corridors Hugh remembered on the lower level, until

they came to a point where the passage divided. Here lay one of the

black guards, stabbed to death.

"We have left a trail of blood," said Matteo with grim satisfaction

over his shoulder. "The maid held the torch; I swung the knife.

'Tis a fit ending for such dogs. I would their master might have

come within my ken."

"Where is he?" asked Hugh.

"He lurks above. Comnenus employs him with Mocenigo to do his

killing. Old Isaac, they say, hath died of sheer fright. Alexius is

seized and by now blinded or dead. In the Palace--all through the

city--the contending parties riot over who shall be Emperor. But

Comnenus and that tigress daughter of his pull the strings."

All this time Edith had been silent, walking at Hugh's side, betwixt

him and Sir James. Now Hugh turned to her again.

"How come you hither?"

"'Tis a long story, Hugh. When the lords of the host sent word to

the Emperors after your seizure, bidding them give you up or assume

the consequences of treachery, I set to work to learn what had been

done with you. My father hath ever stayed clear of the intrigue in

the Palace, but I have friends of my own. 'Twas not difficult to

learn how you had been trapped. The rest is Matteo's doing."

"Nay, she robs herself of merit," Matteo broke in. "All I have done

she helped me to do. I was like a madman, Hugh, when Villehardouin

came back without you. So were all of us. The Marshal went to

Boniface and demanded permission to storm the walls that night, but

Dandolo held us back. He counselled us to wait. If they meant to

slay you, he said, they would do it before we could reach you. If

you were a prisoner, we could afford to await a sure opportunity for

your release. So we dispatched a cartel to the Emperors, and for

answer came to me a message from your lady here, who bade me come to

her in the city, prescribing the disguise I should assume and the

part I was to play."

Hugh saw that Edith blushed red as the torch-flame, whose resinous

light betrayed her confusion.

"Messer Matteo is over-modest," she insisted. "All I did was to

advise him. He acted for himself. He entered the city; he came to

Mocenigo as an outcast from the Venetian fleet, begging for service,

convincing Mocenigo he was as great a villain as ever lived, and so

obtained employment in the political prison. After that, 'twas only

necessary to learn where you were imprisoned and await a favourable

opportunity to set you free. To-night was made for us."

"Knew you of my imprisonment, my maid?" asked Sir James.

"Not so, fair lord--not until Bartolommeo took Messer Matteo to your

dungeon. He was greatly surprised to learn who you were--as was I.

My father hath always been told that none knew what had become of

you."

Sir James sighed as he walked along.

"I grow bitter when I think of all the years I have languished here,"

he said, "and 'twas so easy to break loose when the right time came.

Ah, well, the Virgin be thanked that there was a maid as brave and

true as you, Mistress Edith, and a comrade as staunch and valorous as

Messer Matteo. Lion-Heart would have loved a man like you, Sir

Jongleur. God knows that without your aid we must have stayed in the

hands of our enemies."

Matteo halted in front of a door set deep in the rocky walls of the

passage.

"Is this the gate, lady?" he asked.

"Ay," she answered. "This is the postern of Anemas. 'Tis set in the

angle of the tower where it joins the walls and is fronted with stone

so that it may not be discerned from the outside. There is no moat

to cross here, and you will find no further obstacles betwixt you and

your friends."

"But you?" exclaimed Hugh.

"I must say farewell, Hugh. My place is here."

"Nay, that cannot be," he denied passionately. "Here you are in

danger, Edith. Helena Comnena is your enemy. She hath sworn to me

that she will----"

Edith smiled in the torchlight--and Hugh wondered why there was

contentment in her smile.

"She may threaten, Hugh, but she cannot harm me. I am the daughter

of the Grand Acolyth."

"Be not so sure, lady," intervened Sir James. "The Court is not as

it used to be. The adventurers have the upper hand. The Comnenoi

are the most powerful family in Constantinople to-day by all we hear.

An they mean to injure you, doubt not they will achieve their

purpose."

"I thank you, fair lord, for your warning," replied Edith with quiet

dignity, "but an the danger were so great as you say, still is my

place by my father's side. He hath none but me, and certes, the

danger is as great to him."

Sir James bowed before her.

"Right knightly spoken, sweet maid," he said, "Hugh, we may not, with

honour, plead further. She hath the right of us."

Hugh looked at her sorrowfully.

"But how will you regain your apartments from here?" he demanded.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"There is naught betwixt me and my chamber but dead men. Messer

Matteo hath seen to that."

"Ay, she will be safe an she goes quickly," agreed Matteo. "There is

a privy way from the wing of the Palace over our heads to the Grand

Acolyth's apartments."

He fumbled at the bars of the door and made ready to swing it open.

"With your favour, Sir James, we must make haste."

"I follow you."

They put their shoulders to the postern-door, and for a brief minute

Hugh and Edith stood face to face, alone. His fingers were

searching in the breast of his gambeson; her cheeks were pink and her

eyes very bright.

"Here is your glove," he said. "Wilt have it back, Edith, or am I

still your knight?"

"Art still my knight, Hugh," she answered steadily. "There is none

other--nor ever will be. And for that I wronged you when first we

met in the Audience Hall above, I cry your pardon. Hast been true to

me as I have been true to you."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. The postern-door

creaked open behind them.

"Prithee, take the torch, lady," said Matteo. "Come, Hugh."

She stooped quickly and kissed Hugh fair on the lips. Then, before

he could say anything, she pushed him through the postern and the

stone-fronted door swung shut.

CHAPTER XXIV

HOW THE COMRADES RODE TO BLACHERNAE

The barons of the host made much of Sir James, and Boniface offered

him command of the battalion left leaderless by the illness of Count

Louis of Blois. But Sir James declined.

"To say truth, fair lord," he explained, "I have a matter of privy

vengeance in hand. There is no want of puissant knights in this

host, so prithee give the post to some other."

To the great satisfaction of the comrades, Sir James elected to cast

in his lot with them, serving as a simple volunteer in the company of

the Marshal of Champagne. But it was impossible for him to cast off

the honours which were showered upon him. No feast was complete

without him; no decision was reached by the chiefs without his

advice. The pavilion which he shared with Hugh and Matteo was

thronged daily with the best knights of the host.

The weather was still too severe to permit the resumption of active

prosecution of the siege, but the news which came out of the city was

encouraging to the Crusaders. Comnenus, after bringing about the

overthrow of the Angeloi, had endeavoured to promote the selection as

Emperor of Nicholas Canabus, a patrician of unblemished reputation,

but colourless and weak. He had actually succeeded in having Canabus

crowned in St. Sophia, when the other nobles, already jealous of the

Chancellor's power, raised a counter-revolution in favour of Alexius

Ducas, member of a family that had worn the purple in the past.

This movement demonstrated so much strength that Comnenus, in panic

lest he lose his pre-eminence at Court, turned to the side of the

Dukai and assisted the revolt which drove Canabus from the city and

elevated in his place their candidate, who was known popularly as

Murtzuphlus, because of his thick black eyebrows, which formed a

solid ridge above his jutting nose. Murtzuphlus proved a leader of

some ability, possessing his full share of the cruelty and selfish

ambition which were the outstanding traits of practically all the

Greek nobles.

He retained Comnenus as Chancellor, but on learning that the

unfortunate Young Alexius had been permitted to live, after his eyes

had been seared out, he directed that poison be administered. When

this failed to remove the victim, the Emperor himself went to the

youth's dungeon and strangled him with his own hands, remarking that

in a matter of such importance it was well to leave nothing to chance.

This act of hideous cruelty removed the last scruples about the

justice of their enterprise which lingered in the hearts of any of

the Crusaders, and united the host in the determination to tear down

the blood-stained Empire of the Eastern Rome. The bishops and abbots

announced that the abolition of such wicked tyranny was a Christian

duty, and warranted the granting of all the extraordinary privileges

and remissions which were the ghostly rewards of Crusaders.

The situation was discussed, according to custom, in open parliament,

and it was decided to restrict the attack of the city to the walls

along the Golden Horn.

"By death, disease and accident, our numbers are now smaller than

ever," Dandolo pointed out, "whilst our enemies are more numerous,

and we may not reckon upon friendly interest within the walls. We

are too few to make more than one attack. Moreover, you may recall,

when we laid siege to the city before, the knights of the host were

unable to carry the Blachernae walls, but from their ships the

Venetians succeeded in seizing a stretch of the Golden Horn walls.

It behooves us, lords, to concentrate our effort upon one spot."

There was no opposition to this strategy. The barons had learned by

now that mounted knights could not ride over the walls of the

strongest fortress in the world, and they had formed a high opinion

of the seamanship and engineering skill of their Venetian allies.

They joined heartily in the elaborate preparations, and in the

meantime they established a loose blockade of the city by a series of

forays on every side.

Lent came, and brought with it the moderating touch of spring. Icy

winds blew no longer from the frost-bound waters of the Euxine. At

last all was ready. The fleet was divided into squadrons, to each of

which was assigned a battalion of the host, and on Thursday, April

8th, 1204, Boniface gave the order for embarkation. The galleys took

the transports and ships in tow, and the long line, half a league

from wing to wing, moved slowly across the harbour toward the crowded

walls of the city.

Evening shut down as the fleet reached position just out of bowshot

of the walls, and the anchors were lowered. The last rays of the sun

were caught on waving banners and pennons, the blazonry of armorial

shields, the polished tips of weapons. Trumpets brayed from ship to

ship. Gittern, rubible, cymbal, nakir and drum taunted the proud,

wicked city. Priestly voices chanted the order for vespers.

From the crowded walls there came a strident answer. There, too,

processions of priests, bearing holy relics and ikons, marched along

the battlements, imploring the powers of Heaven to guard the Imperial

City--the city which had meant so much to mankind, for all its dark

present, which had been the bulwark of Christianity since Constantine

first traced its limits with his spear, whilst the Archangel walked

before him. There, too, trumpets clanged, cymbals clashed and men

shouted defiance.

Night quelled the tumult, but it could not erase hate from the hearts

of men. They slept dreaming only of the death they hoped to deal to

others on the morrow.

With the first hint of dawn, the fleet moved forward. Stones, nets

of forged bolts, casks of Greek fire, arrows, cross-bow bolts, jagged

balks of timber, huge javelins, whirling pieces of chain, whistled

and droned and blazed through the air. Ships were crushed and

battered, forced out of line; but all those that could pressed on

into the hail of missiles. Each ship or galley that survived ran up

to a tower and landed men on the bank at its foot or assailed the

garrison from flying bridges and belfreys. The horse-transports lay

off out of range, waiting until an entrance should be forced. But

they waited in vain. Frequently the besiegers thought they were on

the brink of victory, but every time the Greeks were reinforced and

the assault pushed back.

Villehardouin's company on the _Paradise_ were directed against a

tower near the Gate of St. Theodosia, which was fronted by a broad

strip of land. It was necessary for them to go ashore under the fire

of catapults and archers, carry ladders across the open space and

then endeavour to climb to the battlements. The task was hopeless,

for they were always outnumbered three or four to one. Their ladders

were swept by monstrous stones; their eyes were filled with

quicklime; Greek fire boiled them in their armour. They returned to

the attack again and again, but they knew they could not succeed.

And when the signal for retirement was displayed from Dandolo's

galley at nones, they collected their dead and wounded and withdrew

sullenly with the rest of the host, the cheers of the exultant Greeks

resounding in their ears.

It was a defeat, the bitterest the host had experienced, and the Doge

summoned a parliament to meet at vespers in the church of Galata for

consideration of their plight. The barons came, sore in pride,

bleeding from wounds, disappointed and morose. Again dissension

raised its head.

"We are well-punished for our sins," cried a German knight in the

company of Boniface. "This is the judgment of Heaven upon us for our

failure to go on to Outremer. We are under God's disfavour. Let

us----"

"You speak like a child, Messer," interrupted Dandolo coldly. "We

are fighting the battles of Heaven here just as much as if we

levelled lances against the Saracens. We are fighting to bring back

the Eastern Christians to acknowledge that the Holy Apostle of Rome

holds Peter's keys. We are fighting to redeem a rich land from

injustice and tyranny. We are fighting to erect a base whence

greater armies may come after us and engage in the conquest of

Jerusalem and all Outremer, with some hope of success."

A murmur of comment greeted this.

"It may be that all your Magnificence says hath truth in it," spoke

up a Burgundian boldly. "Yet certes no man will deny we failed

miserably where all thought victory would be easily won."

"Fools!" snarled Dandolo. "'Twas for that you were defeated!"

Those blind eyes hovered over the room, cowing the disaffected who

had not spoken. But the Burgundian persisted.

"Mayhap, Lord Doge," he kept on doggedly. "But there were other

reasons. We attacked where the Greeks were ready for us. Belike, we

should have gone otherwhere. Why were we not led against the

sea-walls? They are the lowest of all, and the Greeks were not there

in force."

"If you had listened in our councils, you would not have asked that

question," replied the Doge wearily. "Know, sir knight, that the

current through the strait which washes the land walls is so swift

that no vessel can remain stationary opposite the walls without

risking being dashed to pieces against them."

The Burgundian and his friends were silenced, but the blanket of

gloom was not lifted from the assembly. And when Sir James rose in

his place, all eyes turned hopefully to his lean figure, erect and

vigorous as a youth's, despite the snow-white hair which crowned his

splendid head. Hugh, sitting beside him, wondered if others there

were as proud as he was of this knight who had stepped so debonairly

from the oblivion of the tomb back to the life of men.

"With your favour, Lord Doge," began Sir James.

"I speak for all the lords of the host when I say we are right glad

to hear your counsel, sir knight," replied Dandolo courteously.

"I cry you thanks, Magnificence. I have listened here to what hath

been said and it hath come to me that there is somewhat of justice in

the complaint that our attack was ill-conceived--for which are we all

to blame, in that we did not prepare as we should have done."

"How so?" asked Dandolo with interest.

"Thus. I noted that the galley upon which I fought was called upon

to fight alone against a tower, and there were in that tower many

times the men in our company. So ran the order all along the line.

We were assailing, ship by ship, an hundred towers. But how had it

been, fair lords, had we tied ship to ship, and every twain of us

come against one tower? Bethink you, lords, by such means may we

prevail."

There was a stir of interest.

"Messer James hath the right of it," said Boniface.

"Ay, so."

Villehardouin, Count Baldwin and a dozen others echoed the words.

Dandolo nodded.

"'Tis a simple plan and well-conceived," he agreed. "Mayhap much can

be achieved by it. How say you, lords? We are not yet defeated.

Shall we accept Sir James's advice and show the Greeks they do exult

too much?"

He inclined his head as he spoke, and in the momentary silence all

could hear the far-off clamour of church-bells, ringing in

Constantinople to celebrate the retreat of the besiegers.

"Forward! Lead us again! Victory for the host! Let us go back!"

Like the challenge of a tempest, the hoarse shouts reverberated

through the stone aisles of the church. Sword-hilts rattled against

shields. Wounds, weariness, losses of friends were forgotten. The

knights surged around their leaders, clamouring to be led back to the

attack. But Dandolo quieted the din with his first words.

"The spirit that you show doth do you honour, Messers," he said.

"But you must be guided by wisdom, not anger. To-day you have done

all that men may. Now do you rest at your ease. To-morrow and the

next day we will spend in repairing our vessels, for certes they have

suffered no less than you. On the third day we will attack again,

and prove to the Greeks how the men-at-arms of the West can fight

against odds."

The parliament broke up in a mood of hope and confidence which had

seemed impossible to expect when it began. The following day was a

Saturday, and all ranks of the host laboured from morning until night

to make good damages to armour and equipment, whilst the Venetians

hammered and sawed at the repairs to the fleet. On Sunday all

rested, and the clerks shrived such as had cause to plead for Divine

mercy. In the twilight of early morning, on Monday, April 12th, the

armament moved from its moorings on the Galata shore, stealing

through the wreathing mists, so that the Greeks might have no warning

in advance of the new tactics which had been adopted.

The ships and galleys went two and two, bound rigidly together. The

front of attack was reduced by half, and some fifty towers were

singled out for assault, care being taken wherever possible to pick

those which could be boarded directly from the vessels. But the

Greeks were not caught unprepared. The walls were heavily

garrisoned, and in an open space in the rear, swept bare by the two

disastrous fires of the preceding summer, the Emperor Murtzuphlus

waited at the head of a body of armoured knights equal in strength to

the entire muster of the host.

From the flying bridge swung from the mainmast of the _Paradise_, the

comrades had a clear view of the whole line of battle. Miles and

miles of walls, hundreds of machines, a sky darkened by the flights

of missiles, a deafening clamour of voices, and behind all the bulk

of the mighty city, street after street, hill after hill, smoking and

steaming and bellowing defiance at the puny array that threatened it.

"By St. Cuthbert, but 'tis a marvellous spectacle!" exclaimed Hugh.

"I saw the hordes of Saladin stream over the Mount of Olives against

the Holy City," answered his father. "'Twas not like this. How say

you, Matteo?"

"Ay, indeed, fair lord. I have heard men tell of that scene, and I

doubt not this surpasses it."

"'Tis monstrous distressing to think how easy it makes the slaying of

a body," remarked Ralph, as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and

straddled his feet to meet the swaying of their perch.

"Art not afraid, Ralph?" queried Matteo humorously. "Belike the

sea-sickness is gripping you again?"

"Art always poking fun, Messer Matteo," reproached the archer.

"Certes, you know well I have never suffered from the sea-sickness

since that first voyage over the Narrow Seas."

"Then it must be plain fear that hath gripped you, Ralph," said Hugh,

mock-solemnly.

"Fear?" returned Ralph indignantly. "I should like to see anybody

else telling me so! But I will admit, Messer Hugh, I am often giving

up hope we shall ever see England again, what with all the ventures

we run into."

Sir James laughed.

"Talk not to me of Ralph's fears," he said. "How many varlets would

fare as far as hath he, and never know a qualm for home--ay, or what

knight, either?"

He clapped Ralph on the back. "Fear naught, lad. An I still live,

after eight years entombed, doubt not you shall win home. And when

you do, Ralph, 'tis in my mind to make you constable of Chesby Castle

and appoint you to the raising of a company of bowmen like yourself.

How now, Hugh? What lord would hunger for our lands, an we had such

a guard for them?"

"You say sooth, sweet lord," replied Hugh. "But--Ha!"

He raised his shield and deflected a crossbow quarrel which was aimed

at his father's shoulder.

"Shoot fast, Ralph," he cried. "An you may, keep down the fire of

yon archers!"

The _Paradise_, buckled by stout cables to the hull of the _Pilgrim_,

Dandolo's flagship, was rowing clumsily toward a tower near the Gate

of Ispigas, where there was almost no land betwixt the foot of the

tower walls and the water. A constantly freshening wind had sprung

up since the fleet began its advance, blowing against the sterns of

the vessels and driving the water upon the city shore of the harbour,

with the effect of deepening the channel adjacent to the walls. With

this fortuitous circumstance to aid them the Venetians were able to

approach closer than ever before.

Ralph shot as rapidly as he could nock his arrows and aim, and his

clothyard shafts wrought havoc with the tower's defenders. They

drove through mantlets, shields and armour, and the comrades gave him

good cover with their shields when the Greek archers sought to answer

him. Nearer and nearer rowed the _Paradise_. She was so close now

that the catapults on the walls could not be brought to bear upon

her. The stones and other missiles flew over the vessel and splashed

harmlessly into the water.

The comrades, with Villehardouin and other knights, stepped out upon

the flying bridge, which Venetian shipmen lowered by ropes and

pulleys from the masthead to the level of the tower's top. Sir James

and Hugh, leaning against the webbed ropes which guarded the end of

their frail foot rest, crossed lances with the Greeks on the tower.

Strange faces frowned at them; strange war-cries rang in their ears.

Ralph shot his arrows between their shoulders, sometimes transfixing

two and three of the enemy at one discharge. Nearer and nearer crept

the _Paradise_ and her mate the _Pilgrim_. Looking down for a

fleeting instant from the dizzy height of the flying-bridge, Hugh saw

the armoured figure of the Doge, the gonfalon of St. Mark beside him,

standing impassively on the stern-castle of their companion-vessel.

Suddenly Hugh heard his father's voice through the eye-holes of his

helm.

"Art ready, Hugh?"

He nodded for answer, and turned to see if Matteo was poised behind

him. The jongleur's eyes met his with a cool smile. The next

instant the end of the flying-bridge touched the tower's battlements,

and Sir James leaped high in air. For the space of a breath Hugh

hesitated, conscious though he was of others jostling his heels for

the next chance. The tower looked so small, the ground and water so

far below. But he shut his eyes and leaped.

He landed in a press of bodies, and caught a sword-stroke on his

shield. There were Greeks all around him, and a few feet distant he

saw his father similarly encompassed. But while he looked Matteo

joined him. Then came Villehardouin and others. Soon there were as

many Crusaders as Greeks on the tower. The Greeks began to cast down

their arms and flee. The Crusaders leaped forward and quickly won

the postern giving upon the wall. Villehardouin led a rush to the

street behind the walls and flung open the nearby gate. A signal was

displayed from the _Pilgrim_, and the horse-transports trimmed their

sails to the favouring breeze and headed for the shore.

Demoralisation spread rapidly amongst the Greeks. Tower after tower

was carried; gate after gate was opened. And presently columns of

mounted knights were riding into the water-front streets of

Constantinople.

Villehardouin's troop swung northward as soon as their horses were

landed. They were directed to seize the Palace of Blachernae, and in

advance of the column, rode the comrades, shoulder to shoulder, hoofs

thundering on the cobbled way. Such Greeks as they encountered fled

up the side-streets. They saw no soldiers all the way to the great

gate of the Palace, which a parcel of frightened varlets were trying

to shut.

These scurried off at first sight of the invaders, but Hugh ran down

one in the courtyard and his father cross-questioned the man. The

Court had gone, the fellow quavered. Everybody but the servants had

left for the Palace of the Bucoleon--except those who were fighting

upstairs.

"Who?" demanded Sir James.

"Nay, lord, I know not. I saw the black mutes on the stairs, and I

fled."

The man was obviously hysterical with fright, and Sir James let him

go.

"Put up your horses," he ordered. "We must look into this."

With swords drawn, they passed the outer courtyard and explored the

vast emptiness of the Palace, hundreds of gorgeous rooms and

corridors, scores of buildings and gardens. They did not find a

trace of human existence until they came upon the body of a dead

Varangian at the foot of the steps leading to the Hall of Audience.

Farther up the steps, under the columned portico, lay a heap of

Varangians and mutes of the Ethiopian Guard.

As they cautiously entered the doorway of the Hall itself a cry of

horror escaped the lips of every one of them. The magnificent

chamber, floored and walled and roofed with semi-precious stones,

carpeted with ancient rugs and tapestries, was a shambles running

blood. Dead men lay in windrows and scattered piles, and on the

steps of the Imperial throne a wall of corpses was reared, topped by

one body half-erect. The helmet had been hacked off; the gilded

armour and scarlet surcoat were rent and torn and stained with blood;

the grey beard was flecked with gore.

"Sir Cedric!" exclaimed Hugh in awe.

"Ay, 'tis the Grand Acolyth," said Sir James. "Here is foul work!"

They lifted the body from the corpses that cumbered it, and stretched

it in a clear corner beside the dais. As they stood back, Sir

Cedric's eyes flickered open.

"Mocenigo," he gasped, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

Hugh's face was twisted with pain.

"Edith!" he cried. "Ah, I knew he intended evil! 'Tis he and Helena

Comnena, I will warrant!"

There was a wild shriek from the recess behind the throne. A fat,

shapeless figure staggered out, and swayed back and forth, arms

upraised.

"Oh, Messer Hugh! Is it you? In sooth, is it you? And Ralph

Fletcher of Chesby that I knew as a babe--ay, from suckling-time, and

the mother that bore him! Is it you? Say, is it you? By the Holy

Virgin and all the company of blessed saints,--by St. Cuthbert of

Crowden and the Blessed Cedric and Edward, Ethelreda and Swithin,

Hubert and Agnes, St. Cornelia, St. Martha, St.----"

"Messer Hugh, 'tis Dame Alicia," shouted Ralph. "Now, is that not a

favour from Heaven that----"

But Hugh had ears for none of them. He took the old nurse by the

shoulders and shook her gently.

"'Tis I, in sooth, good dame," he assured her. "Prithee, calm

yourself. Be at ease. You are safe. Naught shall harm you. Do but

tell us what hath become of the Lady Edith?"

"Oh, sorry is the day that ever we came into this land of wicked,

un-Christian people! I had warning of our doom ere we sailed, and

certes, I told my lady, but----"

"Whither hath she gone?" insisted Hugh.

"Gone? Why, with that false Italian hound, Mocenigo--and Messer

Comnenus and his harlot of a daughter. Sir Cedric was to garrison

the Palace here after the Court left; and this morning Messer

Comnenus and Mocenigo came hither with their black men and demanded

of Sir Cedric that he give up my lady to them--and they fought."

"Ay," said Hugh, unable to check her flow of words. "But whither did

they carry her?"

"I heard talk of a galley--ay, and as they left the room Messer

Comnenus called back to Mocenigo: 'We meet at the Kontoscalion.'"

"The Harbour of the Kontoscalion!" exclaimed Sir James. "'Tis on the

Marmora shore, west of the Bucoleon. They must be planning to slip

across to Asia. We must hasten, Hugh, an we would catch them."

CHAPTER XXV

VENGEANCE

Dame Alicia twisted her fingers in the folds of Hugh's surcoat.

"Art never going off to leave me again, Messer Hugh?" she pleaded.

"Ah, fair sir, the sight of English faces is like home! Certes, you

will not abandon me in this awful place. They will come and cut my

throat, the wretches. They will----"

Hugh contrived to wriggle free as gracefully as possible.

"Peace, peace," he adjured her. "There is no more to fear, good

dame. The Greeks are fled. The French are occupying the Palace, and

with them you are safe. Now, do you bestir yourself to see what may

be done for your lord. He is sore wounded, but he still breathes."

"Harrow and alas that he should come to his end afar among

strangers," she wailed. "Do but look at the blood on him! Oh,

Messer Hugh, do not leave me with all these dead men. Alack for that

I ever came hither, and a fool I was to listen to Sir Godfrey when

he----"

But Hugh could stand no more. He turned and fled, his father and the

others at his heels. In the courtyard outside they met Villehardouin

and a party of knights, to whom Sir James reported the desertion of

the Palace and the intention of the comrades to pursue the Comnenoi.

"I would lend you a foison of spears, an I had the men to spare,"

said Villehardouin, "but I have few enough to hold the Palace, and we

can not risk its capture. May St. Remi aid you, sweet friends."

"Our numbers will serve--an we are in time," replied Sir James

grimly. "In God's keeping, friends!"

They galloped out of the Palace gate and turned westward through a

tangle of narrow streets, lined with high-built houses, interspersed

with monasteries and nunneries. This route brought them to the Mesè,

the main thoroughfare of Constantinople, a wide, handsome avenue, set

with trees and terraced porticos. They passed the gigantic Cistern

of Aspar on their left and began to meet advanced parties of the

Crusaders and Venetians, plundering the fine buildings on either hand.

A horde of foot-sergeants had battered their way into the Church of

the Apostles, whose gilded bronze roof sheltered the mausoleums of

the most famous Emperors of the East--Constantine the Great,

Justinian, Heraclius and dozens of others, with their Empresses. The

rabble of the camp, composed mainly of the Latin colonists who had

been driven from the city by the Greeks, were tearing open the tombs

in search of jewelry and valuables. The contents of the vestry was

scattered about the church, pearl-embroidered copes, dalmatics,

chasubles and vestments, gold and silver relic-cases, the prey of

whoever coveted them.

Beyond the Church of the Apostle the comrades rode under the shadow

of the Aqueduct of Valens, whose sturdy arches marched across the

valley between two of the city's seven hills. The street was crowded

with people, Greeks and Crusaders, all in apparent amity. Indeed,

the inhabitants of the city were forming processions to greet the

conquerors, saluting the Franks and Venetians with songs and speeches

of welcome.

But the comrades never stayed their pace to note what happened beside

them, and those who stood in their path risked death. They thundered

through the huge Forum of Theodosius, rimmed with palaces, baths,

public buildings and luxurious shops. A short distance farther on

they entered the Forum of Constantine, a beautiful elliptical space,

surrounded by double tiers of marble porticos, crowned by verdant

terraces, and pierced at either end by a marble arch. In the centre

stood the statue of Constantine the Great in the rôle of Apollo,

crowned with seven golden rays, high aloft on a soaring pedestal of

porphyry. On the north side rose the Palace of the Senate, its broad

flights of steps and columned porch, which had seen eight hundred

years of history, jammed with curious Greeks, who watched the hurried

passage of the little knot of Frankish warriors.

Ahead of them, as they emerged from the forum, loomed the white dome

of St. Sophia, floating like a bubble above the houseroofs. To their

right the stone walls of the Hippodrome, bristling with statues, cut

off the view. Sir James turned here from the Mesè into a meaner

street running southward. After passing the gates of the Hippodrome

they saw in the distance, across a maze of smaller palaces, homes of

merchants and better-class citizens, the far-flung walls of the

Palace of the Bucoleon, the traditional residence of the Byzantine

Emperors.

Onward they raced at headlong gait. People shouted to them as they

went by. Parties of Greek soldiers scurried to cover. In the

distance appeared a streak of silver--the waters of the Marmora

glimpsed between the houses. Sir James spurred on. They came to a

church on a hill, St. Thomas's, and there, drawing rein for an

instant, the comrades saw below them a crescent indentation in the

sea-walls, where the Imperial galleys lay in ordered ranks beside

stone wharves.

"The Kontoscalion!" said Sir James.

Down the hill at a mad gallop, horses foaming and reeking with bloody

sweat, and out upon the level again. The harbour gate gaped wide.

Customs officers, naval guards and police had disappeared. There was

nobody to halt the comrades as they rode through the gateway.

"See!" cried Matteo, pointing with his scimiter.

At the far end of the harbour a twelve-oared galley was backing from

its slip. In order to reach the sea the vessel had to traverse the

length of the basin and then row out through the narrow entrance

between the mole which guarded the harbour and the tower at the apex

of the sea-wall. Sir James grasped the situation in a single glance.

"Hither, Ralph!" he shouted. "'Tis for you to stop them. We must

rely on your yew-bow this day. Pull string, lad, and St. Cuthbert be

your aid!"

Ralph slipped from his horse and ran to the edge of the quay,

notching his string with one crook of his knee. He loosed his first

arrow whilst the galley was swinging around to set its head for the

harbour entrance. The shaft quivered in the planking of the deck

below the stern-castle.

Ralph pursed his lips.

"An my father hears of that shoot he will tan me with my own bow,

belike," he muttered. "Steady arm, now. Ha!"

"Harrow! Harrow!" cheered Hugh. "Well shot!"

The galley's helmsman had pitched forward with a shaft in his breast.

Another sprang to catch the tiller before the vessel yawed seriously,

but Ralph was ready for him. The long bow twanged and the arrows

buzzed like angry hornets. The second helmsman sank to the deck,

pierced through the thigh. An oarsman choked and fell over his

sweep. Another dropped his oar and leaped overboard in fright when a

shaft drummed into the wood of his rowing-bench.

Mocenigo, in full armour, with shield upraised, sprang from the

protection of the stern-castle to take the helm, but he was too late.

The confusion amongst the rowers and the swaying rudder had thrown

the galley off her course. She veered, even whilst Mocenigo tugged

at the tiller, and drove her sharp bow amongst the boulders which

were strewn about the base of the mole. The rowers backed water and

strove to work her off; but the bow was anchored fast.

"Hast done right well, Ralph," said Sir James. "It will go hard with

us, an we do not punish these caitiffs. Comrades, here is required

an escalade. Forward!"

They left their horses on the quay, and clambered out over the

slippery boulders of the mole. Mocenigo and Bartolommeo, with a

handful of the Ethiopians, were bracing the crew to meet the attack.

But when Ralph began to loose again, the shipmen broke and dived

overboard, swimming for the quay across the harbour.

"Ralph," commanded Sir James gently, "do you wreak what harm you may

on the blacks, but an you graze Mocenigo or his familiar I will leave

you behind us when we fare home."

Ralph grinned and extended his quiver. Only two arrows remained.

"So!" exclaimed Sir James. "That is better, for I have a fancy for

sword-play. The more knaves slain, the greater shall be our glory.

But see that you make both shafts count."

They gained the cluster of rocks in which the galley's bow was

wedged, and paused to study the approach to her deck.

"Ha, messers," Mocenigo hailed them ironically. "You are welcome

guests. An you will come aboard we will do what we may to put you at

your ease. Mayhap we have some small surprise in store for you."

"Mayhap," rejoined Sir James. "I have looked forward long to this

day. What, Bartolommeo, hast no word for me?"

"Words in plenty when I have you on the rack," replied the ruffian

composedly. "For the nonce, Messer James, I will trust to my sword."

Hugh surveyed the bare well of the galley, cluttered with oars and

ropes and deserted save for the group of six Ethiopians headed by the

renegades. There was no sign of Edith or Comnenus and his daughter.

"She that you seek is safe," jeered Mocenigo, noticing his glance.

"But we hold her hostage for your retreat. An you threaten us, her

fate will not be a pretty one."

Hugh jumped blindly from his boulder, a bleak fury gripping his soul.

By sheer luck he dropped in the midst of the enemy, his mail shoes

staving in the ribs of one of the blacks and the force of his impact

scattering the others to right and left. But they picked themselves

up and closed around him. Mocenigo hewed at him with a sword;

Bartolommeo pounded him with a mace; the Ethiopians stabbed and

slashed with their javelins and knives.

This moment of diversion was Ralph's opportunity. At such close

range he could not miss. The first arrow drilled a black throat and

lodged in the thigh of another man. The second went clean through

the body of an Ethiopian and spattered on the deck. The pressure on

Hugh was eased at once, as his opponents opened their ranks in fear

of the deadly archer. Before they could surround him again Sir James

and Matteo had gained his side.

The comrades were still outnumbered five to three, but their heavy

armour was an advantage which the three surviving black men did not

share. Ralph had disappeared after loosing his last arrow. Hugh

wondered what had become of the archer, but Bartolommeo's mace

allowed him scant time for reflection. If that spiked steel knob

ever struck his helm with the muscles of those knotted arms behind

it, he knew his skull must be shattered.

Sir James was fencing with Mocenigo, his wondrous dexterity matching

the Italian's vigour. Matteo kept two of the blacks in play. But

the third hovered near Hugh, darting in for a vicious stab whenever

Bartolommeo had the upper hand. Hugh was menaced from groin to head,

and to protect himself he must shift his guard with lightning

rapidity. His shield dragged down his arm; his sword seemed burdened

with lead. But at all costs he must ward off that terrible mace.

When weariness slowed his guard and he could not counter two blows at

once, he accepted the thrusts of javelin or knife, trusting to the

strength of his mail.

He found himself despairing of being able to shake off these

persistent foes. His shield-arm ached from the blows of the mace it

had turned; his sword-hand tingled from the parries it had made. His

whole body was sore from the thrusts of the Ethiopian's weapons. To

keep his footing he was obliged to give ground, and he was out of

touch with his father and Matteo.

Then, without any warning, Ralph came bounding over the

rowing-benches in the rear of the enemy. The bowman lopped off the

head of the black who had been menacing Hugh, and proceeded to

relieve Matteo of half of his task. A weight seemed to be lifted

from Hugh's shoulders. His mind cleared. Instead of standing on the

defensive under Bartolommeo's hail of blows, he began to advance and

delivered strokes as stout as those he had received. The burly

ruffian roared with ferocious amazement.

"How now, my cockerel! Would you take liberties with old Bartolommeo

that nursed you and fed you--ay, and treasured you safely? What

gratitude is this? By the three-horned devil of Calabria, I never

saw such a boy! Heaven opens wide its gates; the angels are tuning

up to welcome him; he must have had a vision of the splendour

ahead--an he tries to turn from the path! Have a care, Messer Hugh.

You will lose your chance, an you disappoint Peter again. You will

be going down to Hell to tend the spit that waits for old

Bartolommeo. What! You never think to master me? Alackaday, what

folly! Know, good youth, I have made a bargain with the Devil, and

he must protect me. Ay, in sooth, he----"

Bartolommeo leaped backward with a lightness extraordinary in a man

of his bulk, and retreated aft along the deck. Hugh glanced around,

and saw the explanation. Mocenigo lay in a huddle across a

rowing-bench, a cruel gash draining his side, and Matteo stood over

the last of the Ethiopians. Bartolommeo was alone.

"Are you whole, fair lord?" Hugh called to his father.

"Ay, Hugh, and happier than I have been in many a day. I did not

dwell those years in Blachernae without avail, now that I have slain

this hound."

"Is he dead, indeed?"

"He soon will be."

Mocenigo's eyes fixed on Hugh's in a glare of baffled hate.

"The--end--is--not--yet," he gasped. "Shalt--not--have--your----"

He mouthed a word of vile import, the bloody foam on his lips mocking

the bestiality of his tongue.

"Ay--you--shall--not--have---her! Curse----"

He died.

Bartolommeo, standing beyond the galley's single mast, raised his

visor.

"Is he sped?" he called.

"Ay. Prepare to follow him."

"Mayhap, but not alone."

Bartolommeo turned as he spoke and ran toward the stern-castle. He

wrenched at the door of the cabin, and when it refused to open,

raised his mace to shatter the panels.

"Quick, Messer Hugh!" shrieked Ralph. "He would murder Lady Edith!"

The mace rose and fell, but before it could achieve Bartolommeo's

purpose the comrades were upon him. He ran to meet them, roaring

like a bull.

"Out of my path! Who seeks to stay Bartolommeo? By St. Bacchus, a

few have sought to do that who did not tell their fate in the

wine-shops! Back! Back, there! Bartolommeo comes!"

He gained the rail and mounted it, clinging to the rigging of the

mast with one hand.

"Spare your swords, fair sirs," he said, bowing courteously. "I have

a mind to test the accomplishment of that sorcerer who bargained for

my soul. An he spoke sooth, doubt not the Devil will save me.

Farewell! Sir James, I had ever a warm place in my heart for you!

Messer Hugh, you had the makings of a youth who would give fine sport

on the rack. May you come to a good end."

He leaped, mace in hand, into the water. The ripples closed over

him, as Ralph reached the railing where he had stood.

"Certes, my masters, he hath gone," said the bowman in an awed tone.

"A right valiant rogue," remarked Sir James.

"A rare treat he will provide for his master in hell," quoth Matteo.

"How was it that he failed to open the cabin-door?" demanded Hugh.

"An he had won in there, he must have defied us, whilst he might----"

He shuddered.

"He did not get in for that I had entered before him," replied Ralph

cheerfully. "And I bade Lady Edith bar the door after me when I left

her."

The comrades stared at Ralph.

"When was this done?" asked Hugh.

"Whilst you and Sir James and Messer Matteo were fighting by your

lone," explained Ralph. "I thought Messer Mocenigo might have some

deviltry in store for your lady, so I ran along beside the galley as

far as I might under the rocks, and clambered aboard behind those who

contended with you. They did not see me, and I entered the

stern-castle, where Messer Comnenus and the Lady Helena were watching

the fray. Lady Edith was bound helpless; but I released her and set

her to watch them whilst I went to your aid."

Sir James took Ralph's hand.

"The glory of this bicker belongs to you," he said solemnly. "Hast

conducted in right knightly fashion. When we return to Chesby,

Ralph, you shall have a quarter-hide of land in the beechwood next

the forest and a halfling of pigs to stock it with."

"Nay, fair lord, 'twas naught," stammered Ralph.

"Naught!" repeated Hugh. "Perchance it meant the Lady Edith's life.

But come. Let us have her forth of the cabin."

He pounded the door with his sword-hilt.

"Open, Edith! 'Tis Hugh!"

There was a noise of shifting bars, and the door was thrown back.

Edith stood in the low portal, starry-eyed, cheeks aflame, her hair

in tumbled masses.

"Is it you, in sooth, Hugh?" she whispered.

"Ay, sweet friend," he answered, and knelt before her.

But she placed her hands under his arms and raised him to his feet.

"Kneel not to me," she said. "I am not worthy. No woman may be so

proud as I am of you, for none was ever served so nobly. Art my own

knight and lord, faithful and always true."

For the second time she raised her lips to his, and Hugh's heart

hammered so that it seemed it must burst through gambeson and

hauberk. The domes and towers of Constantinople danced before his

eyes. But he cast down his sword and caught her to him, straining

her in his mailed arms until she sobbed:

"Oh, Hugh, have done! Prithee! I may not breathe."

As he let her go, a cold voice sneered close by:

"A touching sight! Ay, by the Panagia! The parted lovers meet at

last!"

Helena Comnena swept out of the cabin, her lithe figure erect in a

clinging gown of apple-green, her eyes blazing with a venom that

belied her calm, still face. Behind her shambled her father,

cringing and fearful, despite his fur-trimmed garments and the jewels

that flashed in cap and chain and rings.

Hugh drew back to the rail.

"In you we are not interested," he answered civilly. "You have most

foully wronged me and mine, lady. Certes, you deserve death. But we

do not war on women. You are free to go whither you will outside of

Constantinople. Here you may not stay. But as for you--" he turned

upon Comnenus--"you, knave that you are, base-born for all your high

estate, ingrate who turned against the hand that saved him, coward

withal, you shall we deliver up to the lords of the host for

judgment. Perchance they will see that you taste of the torment you

devised for others."

Comnenus waved his hands before his face.

"No--no--no!" he screamed. "Never that! Save me--save me--save

me--save me! I cannot! I----"

The words seemed to stick in his throat; he beat the air with his

clenched fists, choked and crumpled in a motionless heap of silk and

satin on the deck.

"He hath fainted from fright," said Sir James contemptuously.

"Nay," said Matteo, stooping to feel the man's heart. "He hath died

of it."

There was a pause. Helena Comnena did not look at her father. From

the time he had emerged from the cabin until he sank almost at her

feet her eyes were fastened upon the face of Hugh.

"You think that you have won!" she mocked him now. "You think that

you have beaten Helena Comnena--scorned her! You think that all hath

been done, all hath been said! You fool! I do not know whether I

pity you or hate you or love you most! But you shall not exult in

your victory!"

She flashed across the deck like a green flame. She wound her supple

body about Hugh, pinning his arms and legs, and fell with him over

the rail. So swiftly did she move that Hugh had no inkling of her

purpose. He was helpless, for the momentum of her rush threw him off

his balance the instant she struck him and her garments and twining

limbs restricted his movements. He had a brief sensation of falling,

with her face pressed close to his, her eyes shining with insane

brilliancy--then came a splash. His last thought was that he must

perish exactly as Bartolommeo had perished, for he knew that no man

weighted down with armour could hope to keep himself afloat. He felt

himself sinking--sinking. Helena's limbs clung to him like cramping

bands of ice. There was a deafening clamour in his ears....

When he came to himself he lay on the deck of the galley, his armour

stripped off, wrapped around with rugs. His chest burned as though

it had been seared with fire. Over him crouched Edith, the water

dripping from her hair and gown, her hands chafing at his.

"See, his eyes are open," she cried. "Oh, the Virgin be praised!

Certes, you will not die now that we have found one another, Hugh?

Speak to me!"

"How came I here?" he croaked.

"Nay, I know not. It hath been all one nightmare to me."

"Nightmare, saith she!" It was Sir James who spoke, kneeling

opposite Edith. "Belike! But you had been at the bottom of the

Kontoscalion now, but for her brave self, Hugh."

Hugh's eyes mirrored his unspoken question.

"We none of us could aid you, for that we were in armour," explained

Sir James, "but she leaped straight-way overside, snatching a rope

from the ship's gear as she ran. In the water she tore off that

she-devil's grip from you, and fastened the rope about your waist so

that we might haul you on board."

"She is as brave as she is beautiful," said Matteo's voice at Hugh's

feet. "Ah, comrade, there is not in all the world another lady it

would be worth crossing the world to find."

Hugh looked up at the face that hung over him, tender as a mother's.

"Ay, she is, indeed," he said contentedly. "Now am I happy, for I

have my dear lady and you, fair lord, my father, and the best

comrades that ever a man knew."

CHAPTER XXVI

LORDS OF THE WORLD

Constantinople had fallen. Murtzuphlus abandoned his first intention

of holding the Palace of the Bucoleon as a citadel of last resort and

fled in the night. The next day the entire city was occupied by the

Crusaders. From the Golden Horn to the Golden Gate the capital of

the Eastern Empire--by actual fact the capital of the Christian

world--was in their possession. The prize was the richest won by any

army of their time--money, jewels, vessels of gold and silver, the

costliest cloths and furs, works of art such as existed nowhere else

in Europe, all the hoarded accumulation of centuries of conquest and

security.

Every lord of the host had a palace assigned to him for his

residence; every knight won a fortune; every sergeant and shipman of

the fleet received enough to make him independent. The chiefs gave

strict commands that order should be established and the lives and

property of citizens respected; but it was impossible immediately to

secure full recognition of this obligation. Only when punishments

were inaugurated for those who abused their power was anarchy at an

end. The Count of St. Paul hung one of his knights with his shield

around his neck as a lesson to other marauders, and sergeants and

camp followers were flogged.

So complete was the triumph of the host that men were bewildered by

it. They wandered through the miles of streets of the city, gazing

at the public parks, the cisterns like lakes, the hundreds of stately

churches, the baths fitted up with a luxury unknown in the West, the

palaces of the nobles and merchant-princes, the schools and colleges,

and most of all at the tremendous walls. It was size and grandeur

which impressed these rude Frankish warriors. Few among them had any

conception of the store of art and learning at their feet, which

outweighed in value the material wealth which committees of Crusaders

and Venetians were reckoning and distributing.

Now and then a churchman joined with Hugh in admiration of a statue

showing that pure outline of form which distinguished Greek sculpture

of the golden age. There were thousands of statues, marble,

porphyry, granite and bronze, scattered about the city. Every square

or forum, the porticoes which lined the principal thoroughfares and

market-places, the fountains, the public buildings, were decorated

with them. Some were monumental in proportions like the bronze

equestrian statue of Justinian, mounted on a structure of seven

arches, in the Augustaion. Some were exquisite miniature

representations of Pagan gods and goddesses.

Hugh found more among the clerks who appreciated the contents of the

libraries of the palaces, the Senate, the churches and monasteries.

Constantinople was the treasure-house of the learning of the ancient

world. The complete works of the ancient Greek and Roman

philosophers, poets, mathematicians, dramatists and historians were

ranged on the library shelves of the capital. Manuscripts of

priceless worth were common in the schools. Hugh could scarcely

restrain his delight when he found himself able to secure the books

of men of the past whom he had known only by their names or monkish

corruptions of their liquid texts.

It was natural, perhaps, that the essentially sensuous beauty of

Greek art and architecture should not appeal to the great body of the

Crusaders, men whose own national souls were to find expression in

the massive dignity of Gothic art. But it was deplorable. The whole

artistic development of Western Europe, as well as the history of the

world, might have been changed and human progress advanced centuries

ahead of time, had the lords of the host perceived the full measure

of their opportunity. They did not, and for that they cannot be

blamed.

They rejoiced in the splendour of St. Sophia and the vast harmony of

its echoing interior, decked with mosaics and frescoes, whose melting

polychromes were brought out in fascinating detail by the myriad

lamps of silver that hung on golden chains from the roof. They

rioted in the fastidious comfort of the palaces, fitted with

conveniences which were not to be common in Europe for six centuries

to come. They regarded with respect the huge dimensions of the

Hippodrome, with its tens of thousands of marble seats and the

hundreds of statues that decorated it, including bronzes depicting

the winners of the chariot races, standing in their chariots,

life-size, beside the eastern goals.

But they could go no farther in their appreciation of the wonders

which surrounded them. Statues to them were stone and bronze, and

the value of the metal consisted in the possibility of melting it

down to turn into so many denarii. The statue of Helen, the colossal

figure of Juno from Samos, Paris presenting the apple of discord to

Venus, the Hercules of Lysippus which had been brought from Tarentum,

the ass and rider which had been cast by Augustus to commemorate his

reception of the news of the battle of Actium, and, most precious of

all, the very group of the wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, founders

of the Elder Rome, which had been brought by Constantine from the

Palatine--all these and many more as notable were consigned to the

melting-pot.

Hugh saved what he could of the smaller objects which appealed to

him. The Venetians reserved for themselves the four bronze horses

which the Emperor Theodosius had brought from Chios and shipped them

home to adorn the front of their new cathedral church of St. Mark.

An occasional churchman, broader-minded than his fellows, obtained a

bust of Emperor or general; but the delicate nude figures of old

Greece were ruthlessly banished from view.

What did appeal to churchman, soldier and shipman alike was the

remarkable accumulation of holy relics in Constantinople. It was by

long odds the largest collection extant in Christendom. Its

dispersal served to stock the churches and shrines of Western Europe.

Spurious as it undoubtedly was in great part, nevertheless it exerted

an influence of inestimable proportions. Not a saint recognised by

the Eastern church was unrepresented in it. All the greater apostles

and disciples were perpetuated by some garment or mortal fragment.

There was not a knight in the host who did not send home some relic,

more or less miraculous in its properties, to the church or monastery

of the district whence he had come.

After the distribution of the booty, the question which confronted

the host was the selection from among their number of a new Emperor.

All were agreed that the rule of the Greeks must be ended, that for

the sake of Western Christianity and the redemption of the Holy Land,

the empire must be reorganised under Latin dominion.

"You are the lords of the world, Messers," declared Dandolo in the

parliament which met in the Palace of the Bucoleon to decide the

matter. "An you use rightly the power which God hath conferred upon

you, it will multiply and increase a thousand fold. Certes, no

empire was ever so powerful as this one in its prime. It hath fallen

because of the wickedness of its rulers and the schism which its

people affected. Now do you set about to rear it again, in

accordance with Christian rule, giving justice to all and promoting

commerce, for 'tis only by commerce that the best empire may prosper."

They debated the question this way and that, and in the end it was

decided that twelve electors should be nominated from the host, six

by the Crusaders and six by the Venetians. And lest there should be

any question of feudal influence in the voting of the Crusaders'

representatives, it was decreed that these six should all be

churchmen, who were not bound by ties of service or blood to any of

the lords of the host. The twelve, after attending high mass in St.

Sophia on the morning of May 9th, 1204, were led into the Church of

Our Lady the Illuminator, which was situated within the walls of the

Palace of the Bucoleon, and the door was locked behind them.

All day the lords and knights thronged the halls and courts of the

Palace, whilst the deliberation of the electors went on. Excitement

filled the air and partisanship ran high. The Lombards and Italians,

other than the Venetians, favoured the Marquis Boniface; the northern

French were for Count Baldwin of Flanders; the Burgundians and

Germans demanded that the sovereignty of the Eastern Roman Empire

should be given to Philip, King of Suabia, who, in defiance of Pope

Innocent, had claimed the title of Western Roman Emperor. The

Venetians said little, and a rumour grew that the Doge was likely to

be the choice of their electors. During the afternoon this rumour

became so pronounced that Dandolo himself went to the door of the

Church where the electors were sitting and in the presence of all who

could crowd within hearing expressly forbade his election.

"I am a citizen of the Republic," he said. "By the suffrage of my

fellow-citizens I have been elected to rule over them. But it would

not be fitting for any Venetian to accept an Imperial crown. The

Republic cannot permit it; I, as Doge, must forbid it."

"Who think you will receive it?" asked Hugh of Villehardouin after

this renunciation had thrilled the thousands who heard of it.

"Messer Dandolo can tell you better than I," replied the Marshal

shrewdly. "There can be no doubt he might have had it an he wished.

There is no man in the host like him in wisdom."

"But why is there so little talk of Lord Boniface?" urged Hugh. Both

Villehardouin and Sir James, who stood by, laughed at this question.

"Set a man over others and he makes enemies," said Sir James. "How

say you, Lord Marshal?"

"Ay, you have put your finger on it," Villehardouin agreed.

"Moreover--I say this of my own judgment--it is not to the interest

of the Venetians to have Boniface for Emperor. His lands of

Montferrat are too close for comfort to the confines of their state."

"Who then?" asked Hugh.

Count Baldwin of Flanders, tall, handsome in figure, in the flower of

youth, a merry smile on his blonde face, made his way by them. He

did not force others aside, as many a great noble might have done,

but stepped slowly and with a pleasant word for all he met.

"By your leave, Messer! Ha, Sir James, I greet you well! Messer

Fulk, we have not met this week past; prithee dine with me at

Blachernae. Messer, I regret to trouble you, but----"

Villehardouin did not answer, but Matteo, who had been silent

hitherto, raised his hand in a slight gesture.

"There walks a _man_" he said.

"God send that you be right, Messer," added Villehardouin.

The afternoon passed, and evening came on. Still the Bucoleon was

crowded by all who had the right of admittance. The excitement

increased. From the tensity in the atmosphere it might have been

supposed that each knight anticipated his own election. Men forbore

to eat and drink. The court in front of the Church of Our Lady the

Illuminator was packed to suffocation. More rumours filled the air.

It was said that the electors could not agree.

But at midnight the doors of the church were thrown open. Nevelon,

Bishop of Soissons, appeared on the topmost step. He raised his arms

in a benediction, and a hush fell upon the sea of faces upturned in

the light of the torches.

"Messers," he said slowly, "thanks be to God, we are all agreed upon

our choice. Ye have sworn that ye would accept him whom we should

elect to be Emperor, and that you would support him against all

opponents. This hour of the night, which saw the birth of God, sees

also the birth of a new Empire. We proclaim as Emperor Count Baldwin

of Flanders and Hainault."

For the space of a man's breath silence lasted, drawn taut as a

bowstring to the breaking point. Then cheers rent the night, such

cheers as had greeted no new Emperor of Rome since the legions

elected their chosen generals.

"Harrow! Harrow! Long life to Emperor Baldwin! Success to him!

Harrow! Harrow! Baldwin reigns!"

They tore him from his knights, and Boniface, Count Louis of Blois,

Count Hugh of St. Paul, Villehardouin, Sir James and the chief lords

of the host made a throne for him of their shields, then swung him up

on it, shoulder-high above the throng. And an Emperor he looked,

with his yellow beard sweeping his hauberk and his youthful face

glowing with pride and satisfaction.

When Dandolo came to greet him, he leaped down from his

shield-throne, and met the old Doge with arms spread wide.

"God keep and cherish you, Sire," the Doge said. "You are the best

man of us all."

"Nay," protested Baldwin. "Certes, there is no one of us the equal

of you."

"I am old," returned Dandolo. "My course is run. 'Tis for you, fair

lord, to build up from the foundations we have laid for you. An you

succeed, your children will sit upon a throne above all others."

"An you help me, I will," said Baldwin.

"That will I right cheerfully. And I pray for you the spiritual help

of St. Mark, even as I promise you the physical help of the Republic."

On Sunday, May 16th, Baldwin was crowned in St. Sophia. The Papal

Legate placed the Imperial crown on his head, saying: "He is worthy."

"He is worthy!" thundered back the knights.

The lords of the host elevated him again upon their shields. The

Greek Empire of Constantinople was at an end.

On the following day Hugh and Edith were married in the Church of Our

Lady of Blachernae. Sir Cedric had recovered sufficiently from his

wounds to be present, and all the barons came to wish the couple

happiness. The Emperor Baldwin himself stood at Hugh's elbow, and

when the service was ended drew him to one side.

"The Marshal of Champagne is a close friend to me, Messer Hugh," he

said, "and he has told me much of your merit. It is my desire that

you will remain here and assist me in the work of conquering my

Empire, for there is much to be done before we may move against the

Saracens. How say you if I give you the Duchy of Adrianople?"

Duke of Adrianople! Hugh's head swam at the thought.

"Prithee, give me leave to think upon it for a day, Augustus," he

answered.

The Emperor nodded.

"Be it so. I need a young, active lord to be Warden of the Bulgarian

March. There will be great glory for you, Messer Hugh."

That night Hugh told Edith.

"What think you of becoming Duchess of Adrianople?" he asked.

She looked at him, troubled and uncertain.

"Whatever you wish, Hugh, that is my wish, too. But----"

She hesitated.

"But what?"

"I love our England."

"Ay, so do I," admitted Hugh.

He could not make up his mind, and in the middle of the night he

sought his father's chamber. Sir James listened to his tale in

silence.

"Duke of Adrianople," he repeated when Hugh had finished. "Ay, 'tis

a vast honour. Boniface is to be King of Salonica, and chief

feudatory of the Imperial Crown, but you would press him close. You

should win great place and power, fair son. But----"

He hesitated as Edith had done.

"My mind is open, lord," said Hugh.

"Then hear my counsel," replied Sir James, with sudden decision.

"Hugh, I would not have you make the mistake I made. 'Tis well

enough for a man to go upon Crusade or aventuring to fulfil a vow,

mayhap. But he who severs himself from home loses more than place

and power can supply. Get you to England, Hugh. In England lies

your lot. There will you be Lord of Chesby soon--ay, and of

Blancherive, too, I make no doubt. England is your home. For

England should you work. I say naught of those who remain here. But

for myself----"

"Ay?" Hugh prompted.

"Nay, Hugh, I will do that which you do."

"You will stay, if I stay?"

"Ay, there must be work for old knights like me."

"Work!" retorted Hugh. "For you, with the Treasure of the Bucoleon

in your power to disclose! You may have what you will!"

Sir James buried his face in his hands.

"It may not be," he answered tonelessly. "You know not what you say,

fair son."

"But why?"

"For that this treasure is not mine. It belongs to a dead man--who

trusted me. I may not betray his trust. My honour would be soiled

thereby. It was his wish that this wealth, which he wrung from those

he deemed to have defrauded their fellows, should be put to use to

build up anew this broken Empire."

"Is not that what we do?" cried Hugh.

"Ay, but do we?" replied Sir James. "Bethink you, fair son. Our

people are drunk with victory. Lords of the world, Dandolo called

them, and lords of the world they may become, if they are content to

serve as well as conquer, to deal righteously with those beneath

them. I hope for much from Baldwin. I fain would see him succeed.

But I will not give up to him the treasure that Andronicus amassed.

'Twould do no more than create discontent and grumbling because it

might not be divided. And certes, he hath enough problems on his

back, without that added to them. Let Baldwin--let the host--prove

their worth. Let them make the most of the tools they have in hand.

Then will I give up to them the secret--or if I am dead, 'twill be

for you to do so, for ere I pass it is my purpose to render it to

you."

Hugh stood up, a light shining in his face.

"I have learned my lesson," he said. "You have taught it to me, fair

lord. I would have put place and power before all else. But you set

honour over all, and I prefer to walk as you have walked."

"And England, Hugh?"

"I am for England--England and Chesby. I would rather hold one

knight's fee in England than be Duke of Adrianople. Certes, and we

labour aright, we may erect in England an Empire no less rich and

powerful than this, which we have helped to conquer."

"That may we, fair son!" exclaimed Sir James. "Right knightly

spoken! I rejoice in my heart at your decision. Doubt not you will

never regret it."

But Hugh did find cause to regret--and almost to cancel his

determination--when he told his decision to Matteo.

"So we sail for home by the first galley which leaves the Golden

Horn," he concluded. "Ha, Matteo, think on the times we shall have

at Chesby and in Crowden Wood! We shall live over again every

venture we have made, and you shall sing gests and romaunts of them

which will bring lords from all the country round."

"Nay, Hugh," said Matteo sadly. "I do not sail with you."

"Not sail with me? St. Cuthbert! comrade, dost think I'll be content

to part with you?"

Matteo threw his arm around Hugh's shoulders. There were tears in

his eyes.

"Ah, I would that I might cast in my lot with you until eternity!

Art more than friend, Hugh--ay, more than brother! But this that you

ask of me, I may not do. I have no place in England, save that which

you make for me. I do not belong there. Your English lords care not

for the jongleur's company. They seek the gleeman and juggler. An I

went with you, I should be no more than a hanger-on in your train."

Hugh cried out in protest.

"Oh, well I know 'twould never seem so to you, Hugh! But my pride

might not suffer it. In England you have a high rank to fill. You

must take your part with the other barons of the realm. You will

have your wife--children, in time. You do not need me--or I would

come, ay, an it were to clean your stables! Nay, my place is here in

Constantinople, or belike, in Outremer. My blood calls me here.

Here there is work for me to do. Here men count it not against me

that I am a jongleur or that my birth was unhallowed by wedlock.

"There is a rift in my heart at thought of losing you; but certes,

you will treasure me in your memory, as I will treasure you in mine.

And I will make a chanson of your deeds that men shall sing all the

way from Outremer to the land of the Scots. Mayhap you will tell

your sons of Matteo, and if you have friends who voyage to Outremer,

you will bid them seek me out that I may know you are in life. And

always, Hugh, there will be none other in my heart save you."

Hugh bowed his head in mute acceptance.

"Let it be as you wish, Matteo," he answered. "An I do not hold with

all that you say, still I know right well that you would do naught

which was not worthy and honourable. Only, prithee, take my sword

and Beosund as keepsakes of the days we rode together."

"Gladly, Hugh."

That day week, Hugh, with Sir James, Edith, Sir Cedric and Ralph, set

sail from the Golden Horn in the galley _Good Adventure_, Messer

Contarini, Master.

------------

A charter in the possession of the Abbey Church of St. Cuthbert of

Crowden, bearing date of All Hallows, A.D. 1204, provides for the

celebration of a mass weekly for the salvation of the soul of a

Paynim lady, mother of the jongleur, Matteo of Antioch, who perished

in mortal sin.

There are still Chesbys in England, and men still find friends loyal

and unselfish in adversity--and England is a greater Empire to-day

than ever was the Eastern Rome.

EPILOGUE

From its very inception the Fourth Crusade was marred by an evil

destiny. Born of the pangs of rivalry betwixt Church and State, its

object was distorted by ambition, avarice, politics and misfortune.

Dandolo utilised it to lay the foundations of Venetian greatness. No

other State or people gained anything from it of permanent value.

Instead of heeding the advice of the wise old Doge to encourage

commerce and bulwark their Empire with trade, the barons of the

conquered realm crushed the inhabitants under the iron heel of

feudalism. Within a year of his election the Emperor Baldwin was

dead, slain by the Bulgarians who had burst the frontiers his knights

were too weak to defend. Dandolo died not long afterward, exhausted

by the marvellous exertions he had undertaken.

Had Western Europe backed the new Empire, had the Papacy lent it

ungrudging support, Baldwin's successors might have triumphed,

despite their mistaken policies. But the West remained occupied with

its own affairs. The religious fervour which had conceived the

Crusades was fast expiring. Rulers and peoples were engaged in

beating out the groundwork of civilisation from the brutishness of

the Middle Ages. There was a dying flicker of fanaticism under the

lash of St. Louis's personality a half-century later, but like others

which preceded and followed this, it gained no material purpose, it

did not better the lot of the Eastern Christians or redeem the

dwindling territory of the Holy Land that yet remained in Christian

hands.

Perhaps it is too much to say that the Latin conquest of

Constantinople benefited nobody but the Venetians. Perhaps it had

some value in that it breathed life into the decaying national spirit

of the Greeks. They were stirred to fresh exertions by the

humiliations put upon them. They waged relentless warfare upon the

Latin Empire, and finally, on the night of July 24th, 1261, taking

advantage of the absence of the reigning Emperor, Baldwin II, and the

Venetian fleet, a Greek force of 1,000 men led by Alexis

Strategopoulos Cæsar entered the Gate of the Pegé by treachery and

brought the Latin Empire to an inglorious close. The dynasty of the

Palaeologoi supplanted the house of Hainault.

It was a brave effort misdirected. That is the most charitable

judgment which can be pronounced on it. Had it succeeded in the

genuine ambition of its leaders--that is, had they been able enough

men to contrive the accomplishment of such far-reaching schemes--it

might very well have achieved the lasting junction of the Eastern and

Western Churches, reared a great, progressive Christian state athwart

the path of Islam and redeemed once and for all the Holy Land.

But it failed to accomplish any of these objects. Venice alone

turned to account the spoils which fell to her portion to check the

Moslem sweep, in the Eastern Mediterranean. It failed, and as a

failure it is remembered.

THE END