It was too late. Before I realized it, the courtyard was full of armed men. La Coquille, who had flung himself to the front with his sword drawn, was ridden down and secured ere he could strike a blow, whilst Lalande and Pierre, who bore no weapons but their poniards, and were utterly surprised, shared the like fate. So suddenly and quickly was this done that--for the courage had gone out of my finger-tips--I had no time to flee, and I stood like a stone, whilst a sea of savage faces surged around me. I gave myself for dead, and one, a trooper--more brute than man--raised his sword to slay me, but was struck from his horse in the act. Then some one seemed to come from nowhere to my side--a tall, straight figure, with a shining blade in his hand, and he called out, "Back! back! Or I run the first man through!"
The men were called to order in a moment at that tone of command, though a voice I well knew and now hated called out:
"Well done, de Rosny, my squire of dames.Pardieu!We have the whole hive--Queen-Bee and all."
"By God!" said another, "they will hang from the rafters in a half-hour, then--my poor Ganache!" And the speaker, whose rough, harsh voice was as pitiless as his speech, swore a bitter oath. "Gently, Tremblecourt," replied the one who had been called de Rosny; "our poor de Ganache's soul has not flown so far but that the others can overtake it in time." And then de Clermont came up to me, but as he passed la Coquille in so doing, the latter strained at his cords, and hissed rather than spoke out the word "Traitor!" as he spat at him.
"You hang in a little time head downwards at de Lorgnac's feet for that," said de Clermont calmly, and then turning to me, "'Tis a sad business this, madame; but war is war, and after all things are going as you would have them, are they not?"
I could not bear to meet that sneering, beautiful face, which, now that its mask was snatched away, cared not in how evil an aspect it showed itself. Words would not come to me, and as I stood there before de Clermont, quivering in every limb at the awful threat conveyed in his speech to la Coquille, de Tremblecourt's voice rang out again, mad and broken with rage:
"Away with them! Sling them from the parapet--now!"
The men around rushed with a yell at la Coquille and his fellow-prisoners--God pardon those who cause the horrors of war--but my defender, de Rosny, again interposed, and drove them back, despite de Tremblecourt's angry protests, whilst de Clermont stayed his rage with a quiet:
"Be still, Tremblecourt. The King will be here in ten minutes with our other prisoner, and we will deal with Messieurs--in a bunch," and he glanced at me with a meaning in his eyes that I read as an open page.
"Come, madame," said de Rosny, who saw my pallor, "let me take you out of this. I pledge the word of Bethune that no harm will touch you; but that is to happen, I fear, which is not fit for you to see." With these words he took my arm kindly and led me inside, unresisting and as in a dream. In the hall where we stopped I forced myself to regain some courage. It was no time for a faint heart.
"Monsieur! What does this all mean? What is to happen to de Lorgnac? Tell me--I am his wife, monsieur."
He bowed gravely yet sadly. "The King of Navarre is generous, madame. Henri will be here soon, and all may yet be well. In the meantime rest you here, and compose yourself--you are safe from harm."
With this, he, who was in after years to be the first man in France, left me almost stunned and broken by what I had heard. Now that I was about to lose him--nay, had already lost him, for nothing, I felt sure, would move these pitiless hearts--I realized to the end what de Lorgnac was to me, and with this came the dreadful conviction that it was I, and I alone, who had brought this on my husband. I, a fool in my folly, who did not know my own heart, I who with a word might have stayed and kept him who was all in all to me, had driven him forth with my senseless pride to death. I could do nothing to save him. What could a woman do against these men? And then it was as if the whole horror that was to be pictured itself before my eyes, and a mocking fiend gibed in whispers in my ears, "You, you have done this!" Almost with a cry I sprang from my seat, my hand on my forehead and an unspoken prayer on my lips. I felt that my brain was giving way, and that I must do something to regain myself and think. This was no time for aught but action, and here I was giving way utterly. I might do something--surely my woman's wit could suggest some means of saving my husband? Then what happens to those who are face to face with an awful terror happened to me, and, as once before, I fell on my knees before God's Throne, and prayed in a mortal agony. "God help me in my distress!" I called out aloud, and a quiet voice answered:
"Perhaps He has sent the help, Denise."
I sprang up with a start, a wild hope rushing through my heart, and saw Raoul de Clermont before me, with the sneering hardness out of his face and all the old soft light in his eyes. If it was so--if he but bore me the glad tidings his words hinted at--I could forgive him all, and be his friend forever.
"Say that again, monsieur," I gasped; "say it again and I will bless you to my last breath." And as I spoke the heavy folds of the curtain that covered the doorway moved as if stirred by a wind.
"I said that perhaps God"--and he bowed reverently--ah! devil and traitor!--"that perhaps God has answered your prayer. You have asked for help, and it has come. I am here to offer it. I, and I alone, can save de Lorgnac, by force if necessary, for I have fifty lances at my heels, and it rests with you to say the word. I have been mad, Denise; then I came to my senses; and now I am mad again. I love you--do you hear? Love you as man never loved woman. You beautiful thing of ice! Come with me, and de Lorgnac is free. Come!"
In his eagerness he put forth his hand towards me, but with a shudder I drew back and his face darkened. Then nerving myself, I made one last appeal.
"Raoul de Clermont, I believed you once to be a man of honour. Let me think so again; give me the chance. Be merciful for once. Save my husband as you say you can. See, it is a wife who pleads. Man! There must be some spark of knighthood in you to fire your soul! You are brave, I know. Can you not be generous and pitiful? You have tried to kill my soul. Monsieur, I will forget that--I will forget the past, and thank you forever if you do this. Save him, for I love him!"
"Love him!"
"Yes, love him as he deserves to be loved, and by a better woman. De Clermont, be true to yourself."
His breath came thick and fast, and then he spoke with an effort:
"You ask too much, Denise. I have offered you my terms. I give you five minutes to say yes or no, and I will take your answer as final. God is answering your prayer in His own way," he went on, with the shadow of a sneer once more across his lips.
"He mostly does," came the reply, as the curtain was lifted and de Rosny stepped in, calling out as he entered, "Madame, the King!"
Then there was a tramp of spurred boots, the clashing of steel scabbards, the waving of plumes, and ere I knew it I was at the feet of the Bourbon, sobbing out my prayer for mercy.
He raised me gently--there was no more knightly heart than his. "Madame! It is not enemies that Henri de Bourbon needs, but friends. It is not sorrow his presence would cause, but joy. There has been enough blood shed already in this miserable affair, and--I think it is my good de Rosny here who anticipated me--all our prisoners are free, but there is some one here who will tell you the rest himself better than the Bearnnois can." And, putting a kind hand on my shoulder, he faced me round to meet the eyes of de Lorgnac.
"I have come back unasked, Denise," he said; but I could make no answer, and then he took me in his arms and kissed me before them all.
"A wedding present to the happy pair!" and something struck me lightly on the shoulder and fell at my feet. It was the glove that de Clermont had snatched from me on the day of my marriage. "I return a present from madame, given to me on her wedding day. It is no longer of use to me--Monsieur le Chevalier, will you not take it?" and de Clermont was before us, the same awful look in his eyes that I had seen there when he played with death before de Norreys.
De Lorgnac's arm dropped from my waist, and his bronzed face paled as he stood as if petrified, looking at the soft white glove at my feet. Then with a voice as hard and stern as his look he turned to me, and pointing to the glove, said:
"Is this true, madame?"
"It is my glove," was all I could say.
"And permit me to restore it to you," cut in the King, and with a movement he lifted the glove and placed it in my husband's hand. "Give it to her back, man! Madame de Canillac was at your wedding, and my good Margot who writes me such clever letters, and they have both told me the story of your marriage, and the incident of the glove. They both saw it snatched from your wife's hand by M. le Marquis--Ventre St. Gris! For once I think a woman's gossip has done some good--and on the word of Navarre what I say is true. As for you, monsieur," and Henri turned to de Clermont, "Monsieur de Rosny here has my commands for you, and your further presence is excused."
My husband's arm was round my waist once more; but de Clermont made no movement to go, standing quietly twisting his short blonde moustache.
"Monsieur, you have heard his Majesty," put in de Rosny.
"Yes--I thought, however, that Monsieur de Lorgnac might have a word to say ere I went."
"That will be in another place, and over our crossed swords, Monsieur le Marquis," replied my husband, heedless of my entreating look and gesture, and in as cold and measured a voice as de Clermont's.
"I am at your service, monsieur, when and wherever you please," and with this, and a formal bow to the King, he passed from the room--a man under God's right arm of justice.
What happened I never was able to find out exactly; but as far as I could gather it was this. As already mentioned, la Coquille, Lalande, and Pierre had been released by Navarre on his coming, and the former being faint from his wounds was resting on a wooden bench in the courtyard. As de Clermont passed, the sight of la Coquille and the memory of the insult he had put on him roused the haughty noble, already in a white heat with rage, to madness, and he struck the freelance once, twice, across the face with a light cane he bore in his hand, and fell a moment after stabbed to the heart, his murderer being cut down by the men-at-arms.
At once all was hurry and confusion. The dying man was borne in as gently as he could be, and placed on a settle. There was no leech in hand, and long before the priest of Lorgnac came it was all over. We did what we could, and in the horror of the fate that had overtaken this man in the pride of strength I forgot the past utterly. I could only see a terrible suffering for which there was no relief. We gathered, an awestruck group, around him, and he spoke no word at first, but suddenly called out, "Hold me up--I choke!"
Some one--I afterwards found it was Tremblecourt--raised him slightly and he spoke again, "De Lorgnac! Say what you have to say now, I'm going."
And Blaise de Lorgnac knelt by the couch, saying as he did so:
"I have no message now--forget my words, de Clermont."
"Would to God I had died by your hand," came the answer, "but to go like this--struck down like a dog. Your hand, de Lorgnac--yours, Denise--quick--I am going. Forgive."
De Tremblecourt laid him softly back on the cushion, and my tears fell fast on the cold hand I held in mine. Who could remember wrongs at such a moment?
The King bent over him and whispered in his ear. I thought I heard the word "pray," and a wan smile played on the lips of the dying man.
"Too late--I cannot cringe now. Ah! Norreys! I will join you soon. Denise--pardon," and he was gone.
Late that night when all had gone to rest I walked on the ramparts of Lorgnac, and leaning against the parapet, looked out into the moonlight. So lost was I in thought that it was not until his hand was on my shoulder that I knew my husband had joined me.
"Denise," he said, "the King goes to-morrow, and--I--do I go or stay?"
And Monsieur le Chevalier--he is Monsieur le Maréchal Duc now--got the answer he wanted.
"Halt!" The word, which seemed to come from nowhere, rang out into the crisp winter moonlight so sharply, so suddenly, so absolutely without warning, that the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo, who was ambling comfortably along, reined in his horse with a jerk; and with a start, looked into the night. He had not to fret his curiosity above a moment, for a figure gliding out from the black shadows of the pines, fencing in each side of the lonely road, stepped full into the white band of light, stretching between the darkness on either hand and stood in front of the horse. As the two faced each other, it was not the fact that there was a man in his path that made the rider keep a restraining hand on his bridle. It was the persuasive force, the voiceless command, in the round muzzle of an arquebuse pointed at his heart, and along the barrel of which di Lippo could see the glint of the moonlight, a thin bright streak ending in the wicked blinking star of the lighted fuse. The cavaliere took in the position at a glance, and being a man of resolution, hurriedly cast up his chances of escape by spurring his horse, and suddenly riding down the thief. In a flash the thought came and was dismissed. It was impossible; for the night-hawk had taken his stand at a distance of about six feet off, space enough to enable him to blow his quarry's heart out, well before the end of any sudden rush to disarm him. The mind moves like lightning in matters of this kind, and di Lippo surrendered without condition. Though his heart was burning within him, he was outwardly cool and collected. He had yielded to force he could not resist. Could he have seen ever so small a chance, the positions might have been reversed. As it was, Messer the bandit might still have to look to himself, and his voice was icy as the night as he said: "Well! I have halted. What more? It is chill, and I care not to be kept waiting."
The robber was not without humour, and a line of teeth showed, for an instant, behind the burning match of the weapon he held steadily before him. He did not, however, waste words. "Throw down your purse."
The cavaliere hesitated. Ducats were scarce with him, but the bandit had a short patience. "Diavolo!Don't you hear, signore?"
It was useless to resist. The fingers of the cavaliere fumbled under his cloak, and a fat purse fell squab into the snow, where it lay, a dark spot in the whiteness around, for all the world like a sleeping toad. The bandit chuckled as he heard the plump thud of the purse, and di Lippo's muttered curse was lost in the sharp order: "Get off the horse."
"But----"
"I am in a hurry, signore." The robber blew on the match of his arquebuse, and the match in its glow cast a momentary light on his face, showing the outlines of high aquiline features, and the black curve of a pair of long moustaches.
"Maledetto!" and the disgusted cavaliere dismounted, the scabbard of his useless sword striking with a clink against the stirrup iron, and he unwillingly swung from the saddle and stood in the snow--a tall figure, lean and gaunt.
As he did this, the bandit stepped back a pace, so as to give him the road. "Your excellency," he said mockingly, "is now free to pass--on foot. A walk will doubtless remove the chill your excellency finds so unpleasant."
But di Lippo made no advance. In fact, as his feet touched the snow, he recovered the composure he had so nearly lost, and saw his way to gain some advantage from defeat. It struck him that here was the very man he wanted for an affair of the utmost importance. Indeed, it was for just such an instrument that he had been racking his brains, as he rode on that winter night through the Gonfolina defile, which separates the middle and the lower valleys of the Arno. And now--a hand turn--and he had found his man. True, an expensive find; but cheap if all turned out well--that is, well from di Lippo's point of view. This thing the cavaliere wanted done he could not take into his own hands. Not from fear--it was no question of that; but because it was not convenient; and Michele di Lippo never gave himself any inconvenience, although it was sometimes thrust upon him in an unpleasant manner by others. If he could but induce the man before him to undertake the task, what might not be? But the knight of the road was evidently very impatient.
"Blood of a king!" he swore, "are you going, signore? Think you I am to stand here all night?"
"Certainly not," answered di Lippo in his even voice, "nor am I. But to come to the point. I want a little business managed, and will pay for it. You appear to be a man of courage--will you undertake the matter?"
"Cospetto!But you are a cool hand! Who are you?"
"Is it necessary to know? I offer a hundred crowns, fifty to be paid to you if you agree, and fifty on the completion of the affair."
"A matter of the dagger?"
"That is for you to decide."
The bandit almost saw the snarl on di Lippo's lips as he dropped out slowly: "You are too cautious, my friend--you think to the skin. The rack will come whether you do my business or not." The words were not exactly calculated to soothe, and called up an unpleasant vision before the robber's eyes. A sudden access of wrath shook him. "Begone, signore!" he burst out, "lest my patience exhausts itself, and I give you a bed in the snow. Why I have spared your life, I know not. Begone; warm yourself with a walk----"
"I will pay a hundred crowns," interrupted di Lippo.
"A hundred devils--begone!"
"As you please. Remember, it is a hundred crowns, and, on the faith of a noble, I say nothing about tonight. Where can I find you, in case you change your mind? A hundred crowns is a comfortable sum of money, mind you."
There was no excitement about di Lippo. He spoke slowly and distinctly. His cool voice neither rose nor dropped, but he spoke in a steady, chill monotone. A hundred crownswasa comfortable sum of money. It was a sum not to be despised. For a tithe of that--nay, for two pistoles--the Captain Guido Moratti would have risked his life twice over, things had come to such a pass with him. Highway robbery was not exactly his line, although sometimes, as on this occasion, he had been driven to it by the straits of the times. But suppose this offer was a blind? Suppose the man before him merely wanted to know where to get at him, to hand him over to the tender mercies of the thumbscrew and the rack? On the other hand, the man might be in earnest--and a hundred crowns! He hesitated.
"A--hun--dred--crowns." The cavaliere repeated these words, and there was a silence. Finally the bandit spoke:
"I frankly confess, signore, that stealing purses, even as I have done to-day, is not my way; but a man must live. If you mean what you say, there must be no half-confidences. Tell me who you are, and I will tell you where to find me."
"I am the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo of Castel Lippo on the Greve."
"Where is Castel Lippo?"
"At the junction of the Arno and the Greve--on the left bank."
"Very well. In a week you will hear from me again."
"It is enough. You will allow me to ransom the horse. I will send you the sum. On my word of honour, I have nothing to pay it at once."
"The signore's word of honour is doubtless very white. But a can in the hand is a can in the hand, and I need a horse--Good-night!"
"Good-night! But a can in the hand is not always wine to the lips, though a hundred crowns is ever a hundred crowns;" and saying this, di Lippo drew his cloak over the lower part of his face, and turned sharply to the right into the darkness, without so much as giving a look behind him. His horse would have followed; but quick as thought, Moratti's hand was on the trailing reins, and holding them firmly, he stooped and picked up the purse, poising it at arm's-length in front of him.
"Silver," he muttered, as his fingers felt the coins through the soft leather--"thirty crowns at the most, perhaps an odd gold piece or so--and now to be off.Hola!Steady!" and mounting the horse, he turned his head round, still talking to himself: "I am in luck. Cheese falls on my macaroni--thirty broad pieces and a horse, and a hundred crowns more in prospect. Captain Guido Moratti, the devil smiles on you--you will end a Count.Animo!" He touched the horse with his heels, and went forward at a smart gallop; and as he galloped, he threw his head back and laughed loudly and mirthlessly into the night.
In the meantime it was with a sore heart that the cavaliere made his way through the forest to the banks of the Arno, and then plodded along the river-side, through the wood, by a track scarcely discernible to any but one who had seen it many times. On his right hand the river hummed drearily; on his left, the trees sighed in the night-wind; and before him the narrow track wound, now up, then down, now twisting amongst the pines in darkness, then stretching in front, straight as a plumb-line. It was gall to di Lippo to think of the loss of the crowns and the good horse; it was bitterness to trudge it in the cold along the weary path that led to the ferry across the Arno, which he would have to cross before reaching his own home; and he swore deeply, under the muffling of his cloak, as he pressed on at his roundest pace. He soon covered the two miles that lay between him and the ferry; but it was past midnight ere he did this, and reaching the ferryman's hut, battered at the door with the hilt of his sword. Eventually he aroused the ferryman, who came forth grumbling. Had it been any one else, honest Giuseppe would have told him to go hang before he would have risen from his warm bed; but the Cavaliere Michele was a noble, and, although poor, had a lance or two, and Castel Lippo, which bore an ill name, was only a mangonel shot from the opposite bank. So Giuseppe punted his excellency across; and his excellency vented his spleen with a curse at everything in general, and the bandit in particular, as he stepped ashore and hurried to his dwelling. It was a steep climb that led up by a bridle-path to his half-ruined tower, and di Lippo stood at the postern, and whistled on his silver whistle, and knocked for many a time, before he heard the chains clanking, and the bar put back. At last the door opened, and a figure stood before him, a lantern in one hand.
"St. John! But it is your worship! We did not expect you until sunrise. And the horse, excellency?"
"Stand aside, fool. I have been robbed, that is all. Yes--let the matter drop; and light me up quick. Will you gape all night there?"
The porter, shutting the gate hastily, turned, and walking before his master, led him across the courtyard. Even by the moonlight, it could be seen that the flagstones were old and worn with age. In many places they had come apart, and with the spring, sprouts of green grass and white serpyllum would shoot up from the cracks. At present, these fissures were choked with snow. Entering the tower by an arched door at the end of the courtyard, they ascended a winding stair, which led into a large but only partially furnished room. Here the man lit two candles, and di Lippo, dropping his cloak, sank down into a chair, saying: "Make up a fire, will you--and bring me some wine; after that, you may go."
The man threw a log or two into the fireplace, where there was already the remains of a fire, and the pinewood soon blazed up cheerfully. Then he placed a flask of Orvieto and a glass at his master's elbow, and wishing him good-night, left him.
Michele di Lippo poured himself out a full measure and drained it at a draught. Drawing his chair close to the blazing wood, he stretched out his feet, cased in long boots of Spanish leather, and stared into the flames. He sat thus for an hour or so without motion. The candles burned out, and the fire alone lit the room, casting strange shadows on the moth-eaten tapestry of the hangings, alternately lighting and leaving in darkness the corners of the room, and throwing its fitful glow on the pallid features of the brooding man, who sat as if cut out of stone. At last the cavaliere moved, but it was only to fling another log on the flames. Then he resumed his former attitude, and watched the fire. As he looked, he saw a picture. He saw wide lands, lands rich with olive and vine, that climbed the green hills between which the Aulella babbles. He saw the grey towers of the castle of Pieve. Above the donjon, a broad flag flapped lazily in the air, and the blazon on it--three wasps on a green field--was his own. He was no longer the ruined noble, confined to his few acres, living like a goat amongst the rocks of the Greve; but my lord count, ruffling it again in Rome, and calling the mains with Riario, as in the good old times ten years ago. Diavolo! But those were times when the Borgia was Pope! What nights those were in the Torre Borgia! He had one of Giulia Bella's gloves still, and there were dark stains on its whiteness--stains that were red once with the blood of Monreale, who wore it over his heart the day he ran him through on the Ripetta.Basta!That was twelve years ago! Twelve years! Twelve hundred years it seemed. And he was forty now. Still young enough to run another man through, however.Cospetto!If the bravo would only undertake the job, everything might be his! He would live again--or perhaps! And another picture came before the dreamer. It had much to do with death--a bell was tolling dismally, and a chained man was walking to his end, with a priest muttering prayers into his ears. In the background was a gallows, and a sea of heads, an endless swaying crowd of heads, with faces that looked on the man with hate, and tongues that jeered and shouted curses at him. And the voices of the crowd seemed to merge into one tremendous roar of hatred as the condemned wretch ascended the steps of the platform on which he was to find a disgraceful death.
Michele di Lippo rose suddenly with a shiver and an oath: "Maledetto!I must sleep. It touches the morning, and I have been dreaming too long."
It was mid-day, and the Captain Guido Moratti was at home in his lodging in "The Devil on Two Sticks." Not an attractive address; but then this particular hostel was not frequented by persons who were squeamish about names, or--any other thing. The house itself lay in the Santo Spirito ward of Florence, filling up the end of achiassolinoor blind alley in a back street behind the church of Santa Felicità, and was well known to all who had "business" to transact. It had also drawn towards it the attention of theMagnifici Signori, and the long arm of the law would have reached it ere this but for the remark made by the Secretary Machiavelli, "One does not purify a city by stopping the sewers," he said; and added with a grim sarcasm, "and any one of us might have an urgent affair to-morrow, and need an agents--let the devil rest on his two sticks." And it was so.
Occasionally, the talons of Messer the Gonfaloniere would close on some unfortunate gentleman who had at the time no "friends," and then he was never seen again. But arrests were never made in the house, and it was consequently looked upon as a secure place by its customers. The room occupied by Moratti was on the second floor, and was lighted by a small window which faced a high dead wall, affording no view beyond that of the blackened stonework. The captain, being a single man, could afford to live at his ease, and though it was mid-day, and past the dinner hour, had only just risen, and was fortifying himself with a measure of Chianti. He was seated in a solid-looking chair, his goblet in his hand, and his long legs clothed in black and white trunks, the Siena colours, resting on the table. The upper part of his dress consisted of a closely fitting pied surcoat, of the same hues as his trunks; and round his waist he wore a webbed chain belt, to which was attached a plain, but useful-looking poniard. The black hair on his head was allowed to grow long, and fell in natural curls to his broad shoulders. He had no beard; but under the severe arch of his nose was a pair of long dark moustaches that completely hid the mouth, and these he wore in a twist that almost reached his ears. On the table where his feet rested was his cap, from which a frayed feather stuck out stiffly; likewise his cloak, and a very long sword in a velvet and wood scabbard. The other articles on the table were a half-empty flask of wine, a few dice, a pack of cards, a mask, a wisp of lace, and a broken fan. The walls were bare of all ornament, except over the entrance door, whence a crucified Christ looked down in His agony over the musty room. A spare chair or two, a couple of valises and a saddle, together with a bed, hidden behind some old and shabby curtains, completed the furniture of the chamber; but such as it was, it was better accommodation than the captain had enjoyed for many a day. For be it known that "The Devil on Two Sticks" was meant for the aristocrats of the "profession." The charges were accordingly high, and there was no credit allowed. No! No! Thepadroneknew better than to trust his longest-sworded clients for even so small a matter as a brownpaolo. But at present Moratti was in funds, for thirty broad crowns in one's pocket, and a horse worth full thirty more, went a long way in those days, and besides, he had not a little luck at the cards last night. He thrust a sinewy hand into his pocket, and jingled the coins there, with a comfortable sense of proprietorship, and for the moment his face was actually pleasant to look upon. The face was an eminently handsome one. It was difficult to conceive that those clear, bold features were those of a thief. They were rather those of a soldier, brave, resolute, and hasty perhaps, though hardened, and marked by excess. There was that in them which seemed to point to a past very different from the present. And it had been so. But that story is a secret, and we must take the captain as we find him, nothing more or less than a bravo. Let it be remembered, however, that this hideous profession, although looked upon with fear by all, was not in those days deemed so dishonourable as to utterly cast a man out of the pale of his fellows. Troches, the bravo of Alexander VI., was very nearly made a cardinal; Don Michele, the strangler of Cesare Borgia, became commander-in-chief of the Florentine army, and had the honour of a conspiracy being formed against him--he was killed whilst leaving the house of Chaumont. Finally, there was that romantic scoundrel "Il Medighino," who advanced from valet to bravo, from bravo to be a pirate chief and the brother of a pontiff, ending his days as Marquis of Marignano and Viceroy of Bohemia. So that, roundly speaking, if the profession of the dagger did lead to the galleys or the scaffold, it as often led to wealth, and sometimes, as in the case of Giangiacomo Medici, to a coronet. Perhaps some such thoughts as these flitted in the captain's mind as he jingled his crowns and slowly sipped his wine. His fellow-men had made him a wolf, and a wolf he was now to the end of his spurs, as pitiless to his victims as they had been to him. He was no longer young; but a man between two ages, with all the strength and vitality of youth and the experience of five-and-thirty, so that with a stroke of luck he might any day do what the son of Bernardino had done. He had failed in everything up to now, although he had had his chances. His long sword had helped to stir the times when the Duke of Bari upset all Italy, and the people used to sing:
Cristo in cielo é il Moro in terra,Solo sa il fine di questa guerra.
Cristo in cielo é il Moro in terra,Solo sa il fine di questa guerra.
He had fought at Fornovo and at Mertara; and in the breach at Santa Croce had even crossed swords with the Count di Savelli, the most redoubted knight, with the exception of Bayard, of the age. He had been run through the ribs for his temerity; but it was an honour he never forgot. Then other things had happened, and he had sunk, sunk to be what he was, as many a better man had done before him. A knock at the door disturbed his meditations. He set down his empty glass and called out, "Enter!"
The door opened, and the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo entered the room. Moratti showed no surprise, although the visit was a little unexpected; but beyond pointing to a chair, gave di Lippo no other greeting, saying simply: "Take a seat, signore--and shut the door behind you. I did not expect you until to-morrow."
"True, captain; But you see I was impatient. I got your letter yesterday, and, the matter being pressing, came here at once."
"Well--what is the business?"
The cavaliere's steel-grey eyes contracted like those of a cat when a sudden light is cast upon them, and he glanced cautiously around him. "This place is safe--no eavesdroppers?" he asked.
"None," answered Moratti; and slowly putting his feet down from the table, pushed the wine towards di Lippo. "Help yourself, signore--No! Well, as you wish. And now, your business?"
There was a silence in the room, and each man watched the other narrowly. Moratti looked at the cavaliere's long hatchet face, at the cruel close-set eyes, at the thin red hair showing under his velvet cap, and at the straight line of the mouth, partly hidden by a moustache, and short peaked beard of a slightly darker red than the hair on di Lippo's head. Michele di Lippo, in his turn, keenly scanned the seamed and haughty features of the bravo, and each man recognised in the other the qualities he respected, if such a word may be used. At last the cavaliere spoke: "As I mentioned, captain, my business is one of the highest importance, and----"
"You are prepared to pay in proportion--eh?" and Moratti twirled his moustache between his fingers.
"Exactly. I have made you my offer."
"But have not told me what you want done."
"I am coming to that. Permit me; I think I will change my mind;" and as Moratti nodded assent, di Lippo poured himself out a glass of wine and drained it slowly. When he had done this, he set the glass down with extreme care, and continued: "I am, as you see, captain, no longer a young man, and it is inconvenient to have to wait for an inheritance"--and he grinned horribly.
"I see, cavalierei--you want me to anticipate matters a little--Well, I am willing to help you if I can."
"It is a hundred crowns, captain, and the case lies thus. There is but one life between me and the County of Pieve in the Val di Magra, and you know how uncertain life is."
He paused; but as Guido Moratti said nothing, continued with his even voice: "Should the old Count of Pieve die--and he is on the edge of the grave--the estate will pass to his daughter. In the event of her death----"
"Whew!" Moratti emitted a low whistle, and sat bolt upright. "So it is the lady," he cried. "That is not my line, cavaliere. It is more a matter of the poison-cup, and I don't deal in such things. Carry your offer elsewhere."
"It will be a new experience, captain--and a hundred crowns."
"Blood of a king, man! do you think I hesitate over a paltry hundred crowns? Had it been a man, it would have been different--but a woman! No! No! It is not my way;" and he rose and paced the room.
"Tush, man! It is but a touch of your dagger, and you have done much the same before."
Moratti faced di Lippo. "As you say, I have executed commissions before, but never on a woman, and never on a man without giving him a chance."
"You are too tender-hearted for your profession, captain. Have you never been wronged by a woman? They can be more pitiless than men, I assure you."
The bronze on Moratti's cheek paled to ashes, and his face hardened with a sudden memory. He turned his back upon di Lippo, and stared out of the window at the dead wall which was the only view. It was a chance shot, but it had told. The cavaliere rose slowly and flung a purse on the table. "Better give him the whole at once," he muttered. "Come, captain," he added, raising his voice. "It will be over in a moment; and after all, neither you nor I will ever see heaven. We might as well burn for something; and if I mistake not, both you and I are like those Eastern tigers, who once having tasted blood must go on forever--see!" and he laid his lean hand on the bravo's shoulder, "why not revenge on the whole sex the wrong done you by one----"
The captain swung round suddenly and shook off di Lippo's hand. "Don't touch me," he cried; "at times like this I am dangerous. What demon put into your mouth the words you have just used? They have served your purpose--and she shall die. Count me out the money, the full hundred--and go."
"It is there;" and di Lippo pointed with his finger to the purse. "You will find the tale complete--a hundred crowns--count them at your leisure.Addio!captain. I shall hear good news soon, I trust." Rubbing the palms of his hands together, he stepped softly from the room.
Guido Moratti did not hear or answer him. His mind had gone back with a rush for ten years, when the work of a woman had made him sink lower than a beast. Such things happen to men sometimes. He had sunk like a stone thrown into a lake; he had been destroyed utterly, and it was sufficient to say that he lived now to prey on his fellow-creatures. But he had never thought of the revenge that di Lippo had suggested. Now that he did think of it, he remembered a story told in the old days round the camp fires, when they were hanging on the rear of Charles's retreating army, just before he turned and rent the League at Fornovo. Rodrigo Gonzaga, the Spaniard, had told it of a countryman of his, a native of Toledo, who for a wrong done to him by a girl had devoted himself to the doing to death of women. It was horrible; and at the time he had refused to believe it. Now he was face to face with the same horror--nay, he had even embraced it. He had lost his soul; but the price of it was not yet paid in revenge or gold, and, by Heaven! he would have it. He laughed out as loudly and cheerlessly as on that winter's night when he rode off through the snow; and laying hands on the purse, tore it open, and the contents rolled out upon the table. "The price of my soul!" he sneered as he held up a handful of the coins, and let them drop again with a clash on the heap on the table. "It is more than Judas got for his--ha! ha!"
Some few days after his interview with di Lippo, the Captain Guido Moratti rode his horse across the old Roman bridge which at that time spanned the Aulella, and directed his way towards the castle of Pieve, whose outlines rose before him, cresting an eminence about a league from the bridge. The captain was travelling as a person of some quality, the better to carry out a plan he had formed for gaining admission to Pieve, and a lackey rode behind him holding his valise. He had hired horse and man in Florence, and the servant was an honest fellow enough, in complete ignorance of his master's character and profession. Both the captain and his man bore the appearance of long travel, and in truth they had journeyed with a free rein; and now that a stormy night was setting in, they were not a little anxious to reach their point. The snow was falling in soft flakes, and the landscape was grey with the driving mist, through which the outlines of the castle loomed large and shadowy, more like a fantastic creation in cloudland than the work of human hands. As the captain pulled down the lapels of his cap to ward off the drift which was coming straight in his face, the bright flare of a beacon fire shone from a tower of the castle, and the rays from it stretched in broad orange bands athwart the rolling mist, which threatened, together with the increasing darkness, to extinguish all the view that was left, and make the league to Pieve a road of suffering. With the flash of the fire a weird, sustained howl came to the travellers in an eerie cadence; and as the fearsome call died away, it was picked up by an answering cry from behind, then another and yet another. There could be no mistaking these signals; they meant pressing and immediate danger.
"Wolves!" shouted Moratti; and turning to his knave: "Gallop, Tito!--else our bones will be picked clean by morning. Gallop!"
They struck their spurs into the horses; and the jaded animals, as if realizing their peril, made a brave effort, and dashed off at their utmost speed. It was none too soon, for the wolves, hitherto following in silence, had given tongue at the sight of the fire; and as if knowing that the beacon meant safety for their prey, and that they were like to lose a dinner unless they hurried, laid themselves on the track of the flying horses with a hideous chorus of yells. They could not be seen for the mist; but they were not far behind. They were going at too great a pace to howl now; but an occasional angry "yap" reached the riders, and reached the horses too, whose instinct told them what it meant; and they needed no further spurring, to make them strain every muscle to put a distance between themselves and their pursuers. Moratti thoroughly grasped the situation. He had experienced a similar adventure in the Pennine Alps, when carrying despatches for Paolo Orsini, with this difference, that then he had a fresh horse, and could see where he was going; whereas now, although the distance to Pieve was short, and in ten minutes he might be safe and with a whole skin, yet a false step, a stumble, and nothing short of a miracle could prevent him becoming a living meal to the beasts behind.
He carried, slung by a strap over his shoulder, a light bugle, which he had often found useful before, but never so useful as now. Thrusting his hand under his cloak, he drew it out, and blew a long clear blast; and, to his joy, there came an answer through the storm from the castle. Rescue was near at hand, and faster and faster they flew; but as surely the wolves gained on them, and they could hear the snarling of the leaders as they jostled against and snapped at each other in their haste. Moratti looked over his shoulder. He could see close behind a dark crescent moving towards them with fearful rapidity. He almost gave a groan. It was too horrible to die thus! And he dug his spurs again and again into the heaving flanks of his horse, with the vain hope of increasing its speed. They had now reached the ascent to Pieve. They could see the lights at the windows. In two hundred yards there was safety; when Moratti's horse staggered under him, and he had barely time to free his feet from the stirrups and lean well back in the saddle ere the animal came down with a plunge. Tito went by like a flash, as the captain picked himself up and faced the wolves, sword in hand. There was a steep bank on the side of the road. He made a dash to gain the summit of this; but had hardly reached half-way up when the foremost wolf was upon him, and had rolled down again with a yell, run through the heart. His fellows tore him to shreds, and in a moment began to worry at the struggling horse, whose fore-leg was broken. In a hand-turn the matter was ended, and the wretched beast was no longer visible, all that could be seen being a black swaying mass of bodies, as the pack hustled and fought over the dead animal.
Nevertheless, there were three or four of the wolves who devoted their attention to Moratti, and he met them with the courage of despair. But the odds were too many, and he began to feel that he could not hold out much longer. One huge monster, his shaggy coat icy with the sleet, had pulled him to his knees, and it was only a lucky thrust of the dagger, he held in his left hand, that saved him. He regained his feet only to be dragged down again, and to rise yet once more. He was bleeding and weak, wounded in many places, and the end could not be far off. It was not thus that he had hoped to die; and he was dying like a worried lynx.
The thought drove him to madness. He was of Siena, and somewhere in his veins, though he did not know it, ran the blood of the Senonian Gauls, and it came out now--he went Berserker, as the old northern pirates were wont to do. Sliding down the bank, he jumped full into the pack, striking at them in a dumb fury. He was hardly human himself now, and he plunged his sword again and again into the heaving mass around him, and felt no pain from the teeth of the wolves as they rent his flesh. A fierce mad joy came upon him. It was a glorious fight after all, and he was dying game. It was a glorious fight, and, when he felt a grisly head at his throat, and the weight of his assailant brought him down once more, he flung aside his sword, and grappling his enemy with his hands, tore asunder the huge jaws, and flung the body from him with a yell. Almost at that very instant there was the sharp report of firearms, the rush of hurrying feet, and the blaze of torches. Moratti, half on his knees, was suddenly pulled to his feet by a strong hand, and supported by it he stood, dizzy and faint, bleeding almost everywhere, but safe. The wolves had fled in silence, vanishing like phantoms across the snow; and shot after shot was fired in their direction by the rescue party.
"Per Bacco!" said the man who was holding Moratti up; "but it was an affair between the skin and the flesh, signore--steady!" and his arm tightened round the captain. As he did this, a long defiant howl floated back to them through the night, and Guido Moratti knew no more. He seemed to have dropped suddenly, into an endless night. He seemed to be flying through space, past countless millions of stars, which, bright themselves, were unable to illumine the abysmal darkness around, and then--there was nothing.
When Moratti came to himself again, he was lying in a bed, in a large room, dimly lighted by a shaded lamp, set on a tall Corinthian pillar of marble. After the first indistinct glance around him, he shut his eyes, and was lost in a dreamy stupor. In a little, he looked again, and saw that the chamber was luxuriously fitted, and that he was not alone, for, kneeling at aprie-dieu, under a large picture of a Madonna and Child, was the figure of a woman. Her face was from him; but ill as he was, Moratti saw that the tight-fitting dress showed a youthful and perfect figure, and that her head was covered with an abundance of red-gold hair. The man was still in the shadowland caused by utter weakness, and for a moment he thought that this was nothing but a vision of fancy; but he rallied half unconsciously, and looked again; and then, curiosity overcoming him, attempted to turn so as to obtain a better view, and was checked by a twinge of pain, which, coming suddenly, brought an exclamation to his lips. In an instant the lady rose, and moving towards him, bent over the bed. As she did this, their eyes met, and the fierce though dulled gaze of the bravo saw before him a face of ideal innocence, of such saintlike purity, that it might have been a dream of Raffaelle. She placed a cool hand on his hot forehead, and whispered softly: "Be still--and drink this--you will sleep." Turning to a side table, she lifted a silver goblet therefrom, and gave him to drink. The draught was cool and refreshing, and he gathered strength from it.
"Where am I?" he asked; and then, with a sudden courtesy, "Madonna--pardon me--I thank you."
"Hush!" she answered, lifting a small hand. "You are in Pieve, and you have been very ill. But I must not talk--sleep now, signore."
"I remember now," he said dreamily--"the wolves; but it seems so long ago."
She made no reply, but stepped softly out of the room, and was gone. Moratti would have called out after her; but a drowsiness came on him, and closing his eyes, he slept.
It takes a strong man some time to recover from wounds inflicted by a wild animal; and when a man has, like Guido Moratti, lived at both ends, it takes longer still, and it was weeks before the captain was out of danger. He never saw his fair visitor again. Her place was taken by a staid and middle-aged nurse, and he was visited two or three times daily by a solemn-looking physician. But although he did not see her whom he longed to see, there was a message both morning and evening from the Count of Pieve and his daughter, hoping the invalid was better--the former regretting that his infirmities prevented his paying a personal visit, and the inquiries of the latter being always accompanied by a bouquet of winter flowers. But strange as it may seem, when he was under the influence of the opiate they gave him nightly, he was certain of the presence of the slight graceful figure of the lady of theprie-dieu, as he called her to himself. He saw again the golden-red hair and the sweet eyes, and felt again the touch of the cool hand. He began to think that this bright presence which lit his dreams was but a vision after all, and used to long for the night and the opiate.
At last one fine morning Tito appeared, and began to set out and brush the captain's apparel as if nothing had ever happened. Moratti watched him for a space, and then rising up against his pillows, spoke: "Tito!"
"Signore!"
"How is it that you have not been here before?"
"I was not allowed, Excellency, until to-day--your worship was too ill."
"Then I am better."
"Excellency!"
There was a silence of some minutes, and the captain spoke again: "Tito!"
"Signore!"
"Have you seen the Count and his daughter?"
"Excellency!"
"What are they like?"
"The Count old, and a cripple. Madonna Felicità, small, thin, red-haired like my wife Sancia."
Moratti sank down again upon the bed, a satisfied smile upon his lips. So there was truth in his dreams. The vision of the night was a reality. He would see her soon, as soon as he could rise, and he was fast getting well, very fast. He had gone back many years in his illness. He had thoughts stirred within him that he had imagined dead long ago. He was the last man to day-dream, to build castles in the air; but as he lay idly watching Tito, who was evidently very busy cleaning something--for he was sitting on a low chair with his back towards the captain, and his elbow moving backwards and forwards rapidly--the bravo pictured himself Guido Moratti as he might have been, a man able to look all men in the face, making an honourable way for himself, and worthy the love of a good woman. The last thought brought before him a fair face and sweet eyes, and a dainty head crowned with red-gold hair, and the strong man let his fancy run on with an uprising of infinite tenderness in his heart. He was lost in a cloudland of dreams.
"Signore!"
Tito's harsh voice had pulled down the castle in Spain, and Tito himself was standing at the bedside holding a bright and glittering dagger in his hand. But he had done more than upset his master's dreams. He had, all unwittingly, brought him back in a flash to the hideous reality, for, as a consequence of his long illness, of the weeks of fever and delirium, Moratti had clean forgotten the dreadful object of his coming to Pieve. It all came back to him with a blinding suddenness, and he closed his eyes with a shudder of horror as Tito laid the poniard upon the bed, asking: "Will the signore see if the blade is keen enough? A touch of the finger will suffice."