* * * * *"If you would know all,—come at midnight to the churchyard near Ponte Sisto," whispered a voice close by his side, as Crescentius staggered towards the Aelian bridge.He felt a hand upon his shoulder, turned, and saw, like some ill-omened ghost in the wintry twilight, a lean pale face staring into his own.In the darkness, under the dense shadows of the cypress-trees he could not distinguish the features of his companion, who wore the habit of a monk.But when Crescentius turned to reply, he was alone."Christ too prayed a human prayer for a miracle: Father, let this cup pass from me!" he muttered, continuing upon his way.With eyes on the ground he strode along the narrow walk, skirting the Tiber, in whose turbid waves no stars were reflected. And scarce consciously he repeated to himself:"As like as a man and his own phantom,—his own phantom."He passed the bridge and entered the mausoleum of the Flavian emperor. Rapidly he ascended to his own chamber.The candle was burning low.Up and down he paced in the endeavour to order his thoughts. But no order would come into the chaotic confusion of his mind.What was the dominion of Rome to him now?What the dominion of the Universe?What devil in human shape had counselled the act in the seeds of which slumbered his own destruction?The flame of the dying candle flickered and grew dim.Had Stephania returned?He heard no steps, no sound in her chamber.At the memory of what he had seen, a groan broke from his lips.How he hated that boy, who after wresting from him the dominion of the city, had stolen from him the love of his wife!Stolen? Had it not been thrust upon him? What mortal could have resisted the temptation? He would die—thus it was written in the stars;—but Stephania would weep for him—On tip-toe the Senator stole to the chamber of his wife. The door stood ajar. The chamber was empty.The candle flared up for the last time, lighting up the gloom. Then it sank down and went out.Crescentius was alone in the darkness.CHAPTER XITHE INCANTATION[image]t was near the hour of midnight when a figure, muffled and concealed in an ample mantle left Castel San Angelo. The guards on duty did not challenge it and after crossing the Aelian bridge, it traversed the deserted thoroughfares until it reached the Flaminian way, which it entered. Avoiding the foot-path near the river, the figure moved stealthily along the farther side of the road, which, as far as could be discerned by the glimpses of the moon which occasionally shone forth from a bank of heavy clouds, was deserted. A few sounds arose from the banks of the river and there was now and then a splash in the water or a distant cry betokening some passing craft. Otherwise profound silence reigned. The low structures and wharfs on the opposite bank could be but imperfectly discerned, but the moonlight fell clear upon the mausoleum of Augustus and the adjacent church of St. Eufemia. The same glimmer also ran like a silver-belt across the stream and revealed the gloomy walls of the Septizonium. The world of habitations beyond this melancholy stronghold was buried in darkness.After crossing Ponte Sisto the muffled rambler entered a churchyard, which seemed to have been abandoned for ages. The moon was now shining brightly and silvered the massive square watchtowers, the battlements, and pinnacles with gorgeous tracery. Crescentius had hardly set foot on the moss-grown path, when two individuals wrapped in dark, flowing mantles, whose manner was as mysterious as their appearance, glided stealthily past him.They seemed not to have noticed his presence but pursued their way through the churchyard, creeping beneath the shadow of a wall in the direction of some low structure, which appeared to be a charnel-house situated at its north-western extremity. Before this building grew a black and stunted yew-tree. Arrived at it, they paused to see whether they were observed. They did not notice the unbidden visitor, who had concealed himself behind a buttress. One of the two individuals who seemed bent by great age then unlocked the door of the charnel-house and brought out a pick-axe and a spade. Then both men proceeded some little distance from the building and began to shovel out the mould from a grass-grown grave.Determined to watch their proceeding, Crescentius crept towards the yew-tree, behind which he ensconced himself. The bent and decrepit one of the two meanwhile continued to ply his spade with a vigour that seemed incomprehensible in one so far stricken in years and of such infirm appearance. At length he paused, and kneeling within the shallow grave endeavoured to drag something from it. His assistant, apparently younger and possessed of greater vigour, knelt to lend his aid. After some exertion they drew forth the corpse of a woman which had been interred without a coffin and apparently in the habiliments worn during life. Then the two men raised the corpse, and conveyed it to the charnel-house. After having done so, one of them returned to the grave for the lantern and, upon returning, entered the building and closed and fastened the door behind him.Crescentius had chosen the moment when one of the two individuals left the lone house, to enter unobserved and to conceal himself in the shadows. What he had witnessed, had exercised a terrible fascination over him, and he was determined to see to an end the devilish rites about to be performed by the personage, in quest of whom he had come. The chamber in which he found himself was in perfect keeping with the horrible ceremonial about to be performed. In one corner lay a mouldering heap of skulls, bones and other fragments of mortality; in the other a pile of broken coffins, emptied of their tenants and reared on end. But what chiefly attracted his attention, was a ghastly collection of human limbs blackened with pitch, girded round with iron hoops and hung like meat in a shamble against the wall. There were two heads, and although the features were scarcely distinguishable owing to the liquid in which they had been immersed, they still retained a terrible expression of agony. These were the quarters of two priests recently executed for conspiracy against the Pontiff, which had been left there pending their final disposition. The implements of execution were scattered about and mixed with the tools of the sexton, while in the centre of the room stood a large wooden frame supported by rafters. On this frame, bespattered with blood and besmeared with pitch, the body was now placed. This done, the one who seemed to be the moving spirit of the two, placed the lantern beside it, and as the light fell upon its livid features, sullied with earth, and exhibiting traces of decay, Crescentius was so appalled by the sight, that he revealed his presence by a half suppressed outcry. Seeing the futility of further concealment, he stepped into the light of the lantern and was about to speak, when he heard the older address his assistant, neither of whom evinced the least surprise at his presence, while he pointed toward him:"Look! It is the very face! The bronzed and strongly marked features,—the fierce gray eye—the iron frame of the figure we beheld in the show-stone! Thus he looked, as we tracked his perilous course.""You know me then?" asked the intruder uneasily."You are the Senator of Rome!""You spoke of my perilous course! How have you learned this?""By the art that reveals all things! And in proof that your thoughts are known to me, I will tell you the inquiry you would make before it is uttered. You came here to learn whether the enterprise in which you are engaged will succeed.""Such was my intent," replied Crescentius. "From the reports about you, I will freely admit, I regarded you as an impostor! Now I am convinced that you are skilled in the occult science and would fain consult you on the future. What is the meaning of this?" he continued pointing to the corpse before him."I expected you!" was the conjurer's laconic reply."How is that possible?" exclaimed Crescentius. "It is only within the hour, that I conceived the thought,—and only the events of this evening prompted it.""I know all!" replied Dom Sabbat. "Yet I would caution you: beware, how you pry into the future. You may repent of your rashness, when it is too late.""I have no fear! Let me know the worst!" replied Crescentius.The conjurer pointed to the corpse."That carcass having been placed in the ground without the holy rites of burial, I have power over it. As the witch of Endor called up Samuel, as is recorded in Holy Writ,—as Erichtho raised up a corpse, to reveal to Sextus Pompejus the event of the Pharsalian war,—as the dead maid was brought back to life by Appollonius of Thyana,—so I, by certain powerful incantations will lure the soul of this corpse for a short space into its former abode, and compel it to answer my questions. Dare you be present at the ceremony?""I dare!" replied the Senator of Rome."So it be!" replied Dom Sabbat. "You will need all your courage!" and he extinguished the light.An awful silence ensued in the charnel-house, broken only by a low murmur from the conjurer who appeared to be reciting an incantation. As he proceeded, his tones became louder and his voice that of command. Suddenly he paused and seemed to await a response. But as none was made, greatly to the disappointment of Crescentius, whose curiosity, despite his fears, was raised to the highest pitch, cried:"Blood is wanting to complete the charm!""If that be all, I will speedily supply the deficiency," replied the Senator, bared his left arm and, drawing his poniard, pricked it slightly with the point of the weapon."I bleed now!" he cried."Sprinkle the corpse with the blood," commanded Dom Sabbat."The blood is flowing upon it!" replied Crescentius with a shudder.Upon this the conjurer began to mutter an incantation in a louder and more authoritative tone than before. His assistant added his voice, and both joined in a sort of chorus, but in a jargon entirely unintelligible to the Senator.Suddenly a blue flame appeared above their heads, and slowly descending, settled upon the brow of the corpse, lighting up the sunken cavities of the eyes and the discoloured and distorted features."She moves! She moves!" shouted the Senator frantically. "She moves! She is alive.""Be silent!" cried Dom Sabbat, "else mischief may ensue!"And again he started his incantation."Down on your knees!" he exclaimed at length with terrible voice. "The spirit is at hand."There was a rushing sound and a stream of white, dazzling light shot down upon the corpse, which emitted a hollow groan. In obedience to Dom Sabbat's demand Crescentius had prostrated himself on the ground, but he kept his gaze steadily fixed on the body, which, to his infinite amazement, slowly arose until it stood erect upon the frame. There it remained perfectly motionless, with the arms close to the sides and the habiliments torn and dishevelled. The blue light still retained its position upon the brow and communicated a horrible glimmer to the features. The spectacle was so dreadful, that Crescentius would have averted his eyes, but he was unable to do so. The conjurer and his familiar meanwhile continued their invocations, until, as it seemed to the Senator, the lips of the corpse moved and a voice of despair exclaimed: "Why have you called me?""To question you about the future!" replied Dom Sabbat rising."Speak and I will answer," replied the corpse."Ask her,—but be brief;—her time is short," said Dom Sabbat, addressing the Senator. "Only as long as that flame burns, have I power over her!""What is her name?" questioned the Senator."Marozia!"The Senator's hand went to his forehead; he tottered and almost fell. But he caught himself."Spirit of Marozia," he cried, "if indeed thou standest before me, and some demon has not entered thy frame to delude me,—by all that is holy, and by every blessed saint do I adjure thee to tell me, whether the scheme, on which I am now engaged for the glory of Rome, will prosper?""Thou art mistaken, Johannes Crescentius," returned the corpse. "Thy scheme is not for the glory of Rome!""I will not pause to argue this point," continued the Senator. "Will the end be successful?""The end will be death," replied the corpse."To the King—or to myself?""To both!""Ha!" ejaculated Crescentius, breathing hard. "To both!""Proceed if you have more to ask,—the flame is expiring," cried the conjurer."And—Stephania?" But he could not utter the question. He felt like one choking.But before the question was formed, the light vanished and a heavy sound was heard, as of the body falling on the frame."It is over!" said Dom Sabbat"Can you not summon her again?" asked Crescentius, in a tone of deep disappointment. "I must know that other.""Impossible," replied the conjurer. "The spirit has flown and cannot be recalled. We must commit the body to the earth!""My curiosity is excited,—not satisfied," said the Senator. "Would it were to occur again!""Thus it is ever," replied Dom Sabbat. "We seek to know that which is forbidden, and quench our thirst at a fount, which but inflames our curiosity the more. You have embarked on a perilous enterprise;—be warned, Senator of Rome! If you continue to pursue it, it will lead you to perdition.""I cannot retreat," replied Crescentius. "And I would not, if I could. Death to both of us:—this at least is atonement!""I warn you again,—if you persist, you are lost!""Impossible,—I cannot retreat;—I could not, if I would! By no sophistry can I clear my conscience of the ties imposed upon it. I have sworn never to desist from the execution of this scheme, never—never! And so resolved am I, that if I stood alone in this very hour—I would go on.""You stand alone!"No one knew whence the voice had come. The three stood appalled.A deep groan issued from the corpse."For the last time,—be warned!" expostulated Dom Sabbat."Come forth!" cried Crescentius rushing towards the door. "This place stifles me!" And he unbolted the door and threw it wide open, stepping outside.The moon was shining brightly from a deep blue azure. Before him stood the old church of St. Damian bathed in the moonlight. The Senator gazed abstractedly at the venerable structure, then he re-entered the charnel-house, where he found the conjurer and his companion employed in placing the body of the excommunicated denizen of Castel San Angelo into a coffin, which they had taken from a pile in the corner. He immediately proffered his assistance and in a short space the task was completed. The coffin was then borne toward the grave, at the edge of which it was laid, while the Dom Sabbat mumbled a strange Requiem over the departed.This ended, it was laid into its shallow resting place, and speedily covered with earth.When all was ready for their departure, Dom Sabbat turned to the Senator of Rome, bidding him farewell. Declining the proffered gold, he observed:"If you are wise, my lord, you will profit by the awful warning you have this night received.""Who are you?" the Senator questioned abruptly, trying to peer through the cowl which the adept of the black arts had drawn over his face, "since the devils obey your beck?"The conjurer laughed a soundless laugh."Of dominion over devils I am innocent—since I rule no men!"At the entrance of the churchyard, Crescentius parted from the conjurer and his associate, about whose personality he had not troubled himself, and returned in deep rumination to Castel San Angelo.No sooner had the Senator of Rome departed, than the conjurer's familiar tore the trappings from his person and stood revealed to his companion as Benilo, the Chamberlain."Dog! Liar! Impostor," he hissed into Dom Sabbat's face, while kicking and buffeting him. "Marozia has been dead some fifty years. How dare you perpetrate this monstrous fraud? Was it this I bade you tell the Senator of Rome?"Dom Sabbat cringed before the blows and the flaming madness in the Chamberlain's eyes. Folding his arms over his chest and bending low he replied with feigned contrition:"It was not for me to compel the spirit's answer! And as for the corpse, 'twas Marozia's. Thus read you the devil's favour. Until blessed by the holy rite, the body cannot return to its native dust.""Then it was Marozia's spirit we beheld?" Benilo queried with a shudder, as they left the churchyard."Marozia's spirit," replied Dom Sabbat. "Yet who would raise a fabric on the memory of a lie?"CHAPTER XIITHE HERMITAGE OF NILUS[image]tephania's sleep had been broken and restless. She tossed and turned in her pillows and pushed back the hair from her fevered cheeks and throbbing temples in vain. It was weary work, to lie gazing with eyes wide open at the flickering shadows cast by the night-lamp on the opposite wall. It was still less productive of sleep to shut them tight and to abandon herself to the visions thus evoked, which stood out in life-like colours and refused to be dispelled.Do what she would to forget him, to conjure up some other object in her soul, there stood the son of Theophano, towering like a demi-god over the mean, effeminate throng of her countrymen. Her whole being had changed in the brief space of time, since first they had met face to face. Then the woman's heart, filled with implacable hatred of that imperial phantom, which had twice wrested the dominion of Rome from the Senator's iron grasp, filled with hatred of the unwelcome intruder, had given one great bound for joy at the certainty that he was hers,—hers to deal with according to her desire,—that he had not withstood the vertigo of her fateful beauty. With the first kiss she had imprinted on his lips, she had dedicated him to the Erynnies,—it was not enough to vanquish, she must break his heart. Thus only would her victory be complete.What a terrible change had come over her now! All she possessed, all she called her own, she would gladly have given to undo what she had done. For the first time, as with the lightning's glare, the terrible chasm was revealed to her, at the brink of which she stood. Strange irony of fate! Slowly but surely she had felt the hatred of Otto vanish from her heart. He had bared his own before her, she had penetrated the remotest depths of his soul. She had read him as an open book. And as she revolved in her own mind the sordid aspirations of those she called her countrymen, the promptings of tyrants and oppressors,—thrown in the scales against the pure and lofty ideals of the King,—a flush of shame drove the pallor from her cheeks and caused hot tears of remorse to well up from the depths of her eyes.For the first time the whole enormity of what she had done, of the scheme to which she had lent herself, flashed upon her, and with it a wave of hot resentment rushed through her heart. Her own blind hate and the ever-present consciousness of the low estate to which the one-time powerful house of Crescentius had fallen, had prompted her to accept the trust, to commit the deed for which she despised herself. Would the youth, whom she was to lead the sure way to perdition, have chosen such means to attain his ends? And what would he say to her at that fatal moment, when all his illusions would be shattered to atoms, his dreams destroyed and his heart broken? Would he not curse her for ever having crossed his path? Would he not tear the memory of the woman from his heart, who had trifled with its most sacred heavings? He would die, but she! She must live—live beside the man for whom she had sinned, for whose personal ends she had spun this gigantic web of deception. Otto would die:—he would not survive the shock of the revelation. His sensitive, finely-strung temperament was not proof against such unprecedented treachery. What the Senator's shafts and catapults had failed to achieve,—the Senator's wife would have accomplished! But the glory of the deed? "Gloria Victis," he had said to her when she pointed the chances of defeat. "Gloria Victis"—and she must live!Otto loved her;—with a love so passionate and enduring that even death would mock at separation.—They would belong to each other ever after. It was not theirs to choose. It seemed to her as if they had been destined for each other from the begin of time, as if their souls had been one, even before their birth. And all the trust reposed in her, all the love given to her—how was she about to requite them? Were her countrymen worthy the terrible sacrifice? Was Crescentius, her husband? Had his rule ennobled him? Had his rule ennobled the Romans? Were the motives not purely personal?She knew she had gone too far to recede. And even if she would, nothing could now save the German King. The avalanche which had been started could not be stopped. The forces arrayed against Teutonic rule now defied the control of him who had evoked them. How could she save the King?Salvation for him lay only in immediate flight from Rome! The very thought was madness. He would never consent. Not all his love for her could prompt a deed of cowardice. He would remain and perish,—and his blood would be charged to her account in the book of final judgment.How long were these dreadful hours! They seemed never ending like eternity. A moan broke from Stephania's lips. She hid her burning face in her white arms. Oh, the misery of this fatal love! There was no resisting it, there was no renouncing it;—ever present in her soul, omnipotent in her heart, it would not even cease with death; yea, perhaps this was but the beginning.—Would she survive the terrible hour of the final trial, when, a second Delilah, she called the Philistines down upon her trusting foe? She moaned and tossed as in the agues of a fever and only towards the gray dawn of morning she fell into a fitful slumber.The preparations for his last rebellion against German rule had kept the Senator of Rome within the walls of the formidable keep, which since the days of Vitiges, the Goth, had defied every assault, no matter who the assailant. Crescentius had succeeded in repairing the breaches in the walls and in strengthening the defences in a manner, which would cause every attempt to carry the mausoleum by storm to appear an undertaking as mad as it was hopeless. He had augmented his Roman garrison, swelled by the men-at-arms of the Roman barons pledged to his support, by Greek auxiliaries, drawn from Torre del Grecco, and under his own personal supervision the final preparations were being pushed to a close. His activity was so strenuous that he appeared to be in the vaults and the upper galleries of Castel San Angelo at the same time. He had been seized with a restlessness which did not permit him to remain long on any one spot. But the terrible misgivings which filled his heart with drear forebodings, which, now it was too late to recede, caused him to tremble before the final issue, drove the Senator of Rome like a madman through the corridors of the huge mausoleum. Had he in truth lost the love of his wife? Then indeed was the victory of the son of Theophano complete. He had robbed him of all, but life—a life whose last spark should ignite the funeral torches for the King and,—if it must be—for Rome.The day was fading fast, when Crescentius mounted the stairs which led to Stephania's apartments. His heart was heavy with fear. This hour must set matters right between them;—in this hour he must know the worst,—-and from her own lips. She would not fail him at the final issue, of that, as he knew her proud spirit, he was convinced. But what availed that final issue, if he had lost the one jewel in his crown, without which the crown itself was idle mockery?Stephania's apartments were deserted. Where was his wife? She never used to leave the Castello without informing him of the goal of her journey. Times were uncertain and the precaution well justified. With loud voice the Senator of Rome called for Stephania's tirewoman. Receiving no immediate reply, a terrible thought rushed through his head. Perhaps she was even now with him,—with Otto! In its undiminished vividness the scene at the Neptune temple arose before him. What availed it to rave and to moan and to shriek? Was it not his own doing,—rather the counsel of one who perhaps rejoiced in his discomfiture? Crescentius' hand went to his head. Was such black treachery conceivable? Could Benilo,—-but no! Not even the fiend incarnate would hatch out such a plot, tossing on a burning pillow of anguish in sleepless midnight.He was about to retrace his steps below, when the individual desired, Stephania's tirewoman, appeared and informed the Senator that her mistress had but just left, to seek an interview with her confessor. A momentary sigh of relief came from the lips of Crescentius. His fears had perhaps been groundless. Still he felt the imperative necessity to obtain proof positive of her innocence or guilt. Thus only could his soul find rest.Stephania had gone to her confessor. Fate itself would never again throw such an opportunity in his way. And he made such good speed, that, when he came within sight of the ruins of the baths of Caracalla, he perceived by the advancing torches, which the guards accompanying her litter carried, that she had not yet reached her destination.Approaching closer, he saw them halt near the ruins and in a few moments a woman, wrapt in a dark mantilla, stepped from her litter, received by a bubbling, gesticulating monk, in whom the Senator immediately recognized Fra Biccocco, the companion of Nilus. Escorted by him, she walked hastily into the ruins, and was soon lost to sight in their intricate windings.Recalling the observations he had made on a previous visit, Crescentius wound his way from the rear to the same point, so that none of Stephania's retinue, who were laughing and chatting among themselves, discerned him or even discovered his presence. Then he rapidly threaded his way to the chamber through which Fra Biccocco and Stephania had just passed, boldly followed them into the clearing, from which Nilus' cell was reached, and concealed himself in the long grass until Biccocco returned from the hermit's cell. Then he approached the monk's hermitage and took up his post of observation in the shadows, out of sight but able to hear every word which would be exchanged between Nilus and his confessor.The monk of Gaëta had been far from anticipating a visitor at this late hour. Seated at his stone table, he had been reading some illuminated manuscript, when he suddenly laid down the scroll and listened. The perfect stillness of the deserted Aventine permitted some breathings of remote music from the distant groves of Theodora to strike his ear, and after listening for a time, he arose and traversed his cell with rapid steps. He was about to reseat himself and to continue his disquisition by the pale, flickering light of the candle burning before a crucifix, when voices were audible and Biccocco entered, having scarcely time to announce Stephania, ere she followed."Good even, Father,—be not startled,—I was returning from my gardens of Egeria and I have brought your altar some of its choicest flowers," she said in a hushed and timid voice, while at the same time she offered the monk some beautiful white roses of a late bloom. "Moreover, I would speak a few words alone with you,—alone with you,—Father Biccocco,—with your permission."Biccocco, looking at her, as she threw back her mantle from her shoulders, respectfully prepared to obey, almost wondering that there could be on earth anything so wondrously beautiful as this woman."Biccocco, I command thee, stay!" exclaimed Nilus starting up. "I would say—nay, daughter—is it thou? I knew not at first,—my sight is dim—Biccocco, let no one trouble me—but tears? What ails our gentle penitent? Has she forgotten a whole string of Aves? Or what heavier offence? It was but yesterday I counselled thee,—but a few hours are so much to a woman.—Wherefore glow thy cheeks with the fires of shame? Biccocco—leave us!""Father, I have sinned—yea, grievously sinned in these few hours, since I have seen thee," said Stephania, when the restraint of Biccocco's presence was removed, little suspecting what listener had succeeded. "I have sinned and I repent,—but even in my offence lies my greatest chastisement.""Art well assured, that it is remorse, and not regret?" replied the hermit of Gaëta. "Thy sex often mistakes one for the other. But what is the matter? Surely it might not prevent thee from taking thy needful rest, might bide the light of day, to be told,—to be listened to,—yet—thou art strangely pale!""I have been mad, father, crazed,—I know not what I have done! I dare not look upon thee, and tell thee! Let me arrange my flowers in thy chalice, while I speak," replied Stephania, hiding her face in the fragrant bundle."Not so!" replied the monk. "Eye and gesture often confess more than the apologizing lip! Kneel in thy wonted place! No other attitude becomes thy dignity or mine;—for either thou kneelest to the servant of God or thou debasest thyself before the brother of man!"Stephania complied instantly, and Nilus, throwing himself back in his chair, fixed his eyes on the crucifix before him, without even glancing at the penitent."Father—you had warned me of all the ills that would befall," she began, almost inaudibly, "but I longed to see him at my feet,—and more,—much more!""What is all this?" said the monk turning very pale and glancing at his fair penitent with a degree of fierceness mingled with surprise."Ah! You know not what a woman feels,—when—when—" She paused, breathing hard."Hast thou then committed a deadly sin? Some dark adultery of the soul?" exclaimed Nilus. "Nay, daughter," he continued, as she shrank within herself at his words, "I speak too harshly now! But what more hast to say? Time wears—and this soft cheek should be upon the down, or its sweetness will not bloom as freshly as some of its rivals, at dawn. Thou see'st this hermitage, from which thou wouldst lure me, yields some recollections to brighten its desolation and gloom. What is it thou wouldst say?"Stephania stared for a moment into the monk's face, at a loss to grasp his meaning. At last she stammered."Yet—I but intended to win him to—some silly tryst,—wherein I intended to deride his boyish passions.""And he refused thy lures and thou art vexed to have escaped perdition?" said the monk, more mildly."Nay—for he came!""He came! Jest not in a matter like this! He came? Thou knowest of all mankind I have reasons to wish this youth well,—this one at least!" said Nilus somewhat incoherently."He came,—once,—twice,—many times! He came, I say, and—-""What of him? Thou hast not had him harmed for trusting his enemy?"Stephania's cheek took the hues of marble."Harmed? I would rather perish myself than that he should come to harm."Nilus was silent for a moment or two, and Stephania, as if to take courage, timidly took his hand, holding it between her own."I must needs avow my whole offence," she stammered, "he came,—and—""Why dost pause, daughter?" questioned the monk, with penetrating look."Nay—but hear me!" continued Stephania. "I first intended but to win his confidence,—then,—having drawn him out—expose him to the just laughter of my court.""A most womanly deed! But where did this meeting take place?""In the Grottos of Egeria!""In the Grottos of Egeria!" the monk repeated aghast."And then," she continued with a great sadness in her tone, "I never felt so strangely mad,—I would have him share some offence, to justify the clamour I had provided, scarcely I know how to believe it now myself.—I did to his lips,—what I now do to your hand."And she kissed the monk's yellow hand with timid reverence."Thou! Thou! Stephania,—the wife of Crescentius, and not yet set in the first line of the book of shame!" shouted the monk, convulsively starting at every word of his own climax. "Begone—begone! The vessel is full, even to overflowing!—Tell me no more,—tell me no more!""Your suspicion indeed shows me all my ignominy," said Stephania, groping for his hand, which he had snatched furiously away. "But he only suffered it,—because he guessed not my intent in the darkness.""In the darkness?""In the darkness.""Deemest thou it possible to clasp the plague and to evade the contagion?" questioned the monk. "Woman, I command thee, stop! Stop ere the condemning angel closes the record!"Stephania raised her head petulantly."Monk, thou knowest not all! During all this meeting the Senator of Rome was present in the Grotto and watched us from one of the ivy hollows in the cave!""The Senator of Rome!" exclaimed the monk with evident amazement. "How came he there?""By contrivance!""I do not understand!""It was at his behest that I have done the deed, to further his vast projects, call it his ambition, if you will—to which the King is the stumbling block. Ask me no more,—for I will not answer!"Nilus seemed struck dumb by the revelation."Take comfort, daughter, he cannot,—he cannot—" whispered the monk, bending over her and speaking in so low a tone that the devouring listener could not distinguish one word.For a time not a word was to be heard, Nilus inclining his ear to Stephania's lips, whose confession was oft times broken by sobs."Tell me all,—all!" said the monk."As the fatal hour approaches the strength begins to forsake me,—I cannot do it!" she groaned."Yet he is the enemy of Rome, so you say," the monk said mockingly."He is the friend of Rome and—I love him!"In a shriek the last words broke from her lips."Domine an me reliquisti!" shouted the monk. "Some sign now—some sign—or—"His raving exclamation was cut short by a sound not unlike the oracle implored. A large block of stone, dislodged by a sudden and violent movement of the unseen listener, rolled with a hollow rumble down into the vaults below.The monk started up from the benediction which he was bending forward to pronounce, almost dashed Stephania away, rushed to his altar and casting himself prostrate before the divine symbol which adorned it, he muttered in a frantic ecstasy of devotion:"Gloria Domino! Gloria in Excelsis! Blessed be Thy name for ever and ever! Praise ye the Lord! He saves in the furnace of fire!"Stephania gazed in mute amazement at the monk. His frantic appeal and its apparent fulfilment had struck dismay into her soul, and when at length he raised himself, and turned towards her, she could hardly find words to speak.But Nilus waved his hand."Go now, Stephania," he commanded. "Go! I will devise some fitting penance at more leisure.""But, Father—my request.""Ay, truly," he replied, with supreme melancholy. "Is it not the wont of the world to throw away the flower, when we have withered it with our evil breath?""But I cannot do it,—I cannot do it," Stephania moaned, raising her hands imploringly to the monk."It is for a mightier than Nilus to counsel," the monk spoke mournfully. "Thou standest on the brink of a precipice, from which nothing but the direct intervention of Heaven can save thee! Pray to the Immaculate One for enlightenment, and if the words of a monk have weight with thee, even against him, thou callest thy lord before the world,—desist, ere thou art engulfed in the black abyss, which yawns at thy feet.—When he is dead, it will be too late!"And raising his lamp, to escort Stephania to her litter, the monk and the woman left the chamber, and Crescentius had barely time to conceal himself behind the boulders ere they appeared and passed by him, the monk anxiously guiding every step of his penitent.The moon was sinking, when Stephania arrived at Castel San Angelo.Taking the candle from the hands of the page, who had awaited her return with sleepy eyes, she dismissed him and passed into the lofty hall, dark and chill as a cellar, beyond which lay the Senator's, her husband's, apartments. She swiftly traversed the hall,—then she hesitated. No doubt he was asleep. What good was there in waking him? As she turned to retrace her steps to her own chamber, a strange and eerie gust of wind swept shrieking round the battlements, howled in the chimney, invaded the chamber with icy breath and almost extinguished the candle. Then there was a great hush. It seemed to her she could hear distant music from the Aventine, the murmur of voices, the sound of iron chains from the vaults below. To this,—or to death,—she had consigned the son of Theophano, the boy-king, who loved her.—To this?—Anguish and terror seized her soul. She felt, she must not move—must not look. There it stood,—blacker than the investing darkness,—its head bent,—shrouded in the cowl of a monk. What was it? Once before she had seen it,—then it had faded away in the gloom. But misfortune rode invariably in its wake. She tried to scream, to call the page, but her voice choked in her throat. She staggered toward the door; her limbs refused to support her;—groaning she covered her eyes. Otto down there,—or dead,—why had she never thought of it before? Now the monk made a step toward her; the face had nothing corpse-like in it, nothing appalling, yet she felt a freezing and unearthly cold; almost fainting she staggered up the narrow winding stairs. And entering her lofty chamber Stephania fell unconscious upon her couch.After Crescentius had returned from the hermitage of Nilus, he gave strict orders to the guards of Castel San Angelo to admit no one, no matter who might crave an audience, and entering his own chamber, he lighted a candle. He had seen and heard, and he knew that the heart of his wife had gone from him for ever! At the terrible certainty he grew dizzy. A fearful price he had paid for his perfidy,—and now, there was no one in all the world he could trust. He dared not speak. He dared not even breathe his anguish. She must never know that he knew all,—no one must know. His lips must be sealed. The world should never point at him,—for this at least!But terrible as his suffering must be his vengeance. He who had robbed him of his priceless gem, the wife of his soul, all he loved on earth,—he should languish and rot under her very chambers, where she might nightly hear his groans, without daring to plead for him. There was no further time for parley. The stroke must fall at once! Too long had he tarried. The Rubicon was passed.Pacing up and down the gloomy chamber, Crescentius paused before the sand-clock. It was near midnight. Yet sleep was far from caressing his aching lids, as far as balm from his aching heart. He raised the candle in an unconscious effort, to go to his wife's apartment. He lingered. Then he placed the candle down again and seated himself in a chair. His gaze fell upon a broad stain on the floor and like one fascinated he followed its least meander to a distance of several feet from the door, when suddenly a form met his eyes, whether the off-spring of his delirious fancy or one of those inexplicable and tremendous phenomena, which are incapable of human solution, while the secrets of death remain such. His garb was that of a monk; the face bore the awful pallor of the tomb, and a mournful tenderness seemed to struggle with the rigidity of death. The phantom, if such it was, stood perfectly motionless between Crescentius and the couch, in a few moments it grew indistinct and finally faded into air.It was then only, that Crescentius recovered breath and life, and staggered back to his chair. A few moments' rally persuaded him that what he had seen had been merely the illusion of his excited organs. But a dreadful longing for death assailed him, a longing like that which prompts men to leap when they gaze down a precipice. He rose,—again the phantom seemed there,—this time distinct and clear. Terror rendered him motionless; the room seemed to whirl round, a million lights danced in his eyes, then he sank back covering his face with his hands.When he again opened his eyes, his brain seemed shooting with the keenest darts of pain. He endeavoured to pray, but could not. His ideas rushed confusedly through each other. The taper was fast sinking in the socket, and it seemed as if his mind would sink with it. He emptied a goblet of wine which stood upon the table, and strove to remember what he intended to do. It seemed a vain effort and he fell back in his chair into a semi-conscious doze. An hour might have passed thus, when he became aware of a slight crackling noise in his ears and starting with a sensation of cold he looked round. The fire in the chimney had burnt into red embers, and though his own form was lost in the shadow of the chimney, the rest of the room was faintly illumined by the crimson glow from the grate.Suddenly he saw the tapestry figure of some mythical deity opposite his own seat stir; the tapestry swelled out, then a head appeared, which peered cautiously round. The body soon followed the head, and Crescentius rose with a sigh of relief as he stood face to face with Benilo. The Chamberlain's face was pale; his eyes, with their unsteady glow, showed traces of wakefulness. He took from his doublet a scroll which he placed into the outstretched hand of the Senator of Rome. Mechanically Crescentius unrolled it. His hands trembled as he superficially swept its contents."The barons pledge their support,—not a name is missing," Benilo broke the silence in hushed tones."What is it to be?" questioned Crescentius."I speak for the extreme course and for Rome. For attack—sudden and swift!"There was a pause, Crescentius stared into the dying embers."Are all your plans complete?""The Romans wait impatiently upon my words. At the signal all Rome will rise to arms!""But how about the Romans? Can they be depended upon?""I move them at the raising of my hand!"There was another pause.Crescentius appeared strangely abstracted."But what of Otto? What of Eckhardt? Do they scent the wind from Castel San Angelo?""As for the Saxon cherub," Benilo replied with a disgusting smile, "he is dreaming of his—"He did not finish the sentence, for Crescentius cast such a terrible look upon him, that the blood froze in the traitor's veins, and his eyes sank before those blazing upon him. After a moment's hesitation he continued, the shadow of a forced smile hovering round his thin, quivering lips:"When he is dead, we shall cause the Wonder-child to be canonized!"But Crescentius was in no jocular mood."Have you chosen your men?" he queried curtly."They will be stationed in the labyrinth of the Minotaurus," Benilo replied. "At the signal agreed upon, they will rush forth and seize the King—"As he spoke those words the Chamberlain gazed timidly into the Senator's face."The signal will not fail," Crescentius replied firmly."Is the mausoleum prepared to withstand an assault?" Benilo questioned guardedly."The hidden balistae have been disinterred. My Albanian stradiotes and the Romagnole guards occupy the chief approaches. The upper galleries are reserved for our Roman allies. They will never scale these walls while Crescentius lives. Remember—the gates of Rome are to be closed. We will smother the Saxon under our caresses! I must have Otto dead or alive! Revenge and Death are now written on my standards! Up with the flag of rebellion and perdition to the emperor and his hosts!"The gray dawn was peeping into the windows of the Senator's chamber, when Crescentius sought his couch for a brief and fitful repose.
* * * * *
"If you would know all,—come at midnight to the churchyard near Ponte Sisto," whispered a voice close by his side, as Crescentius staggered towards the Aelian bridge.
He felt a hand upon his shoulder, turned, and saw, like some ill-omened ghost in the wintry twilight, a lean pale face staring into his own.
In the darkness, under the dense shadows of the cypress-trees he could not distinguish the features of his companion, who wore the habit of a monk.
But when Crescentius turned to reply, he was alone.
"Christ too prayed a human prayer for a miracle: Father, let this cup pass from me!" he muttered, continuing upon his way.
With eyes on the ground he strode along the narrow walk, skirting the Tiber, in whose turbid waves no stars were reflected. And scarce consciously he repeated to himself:
"As like as a man and his own phantom,—his own phantom."
He passed the bridge and entered the mausoleum of the Flavian emperor. Rapidly he ascended to his own chamber.
The candle was burning low.
Up and down he paced in the endeavour to order his thoughts. But no order would come into the chaotic confusion of his mind.
What was the dominion of Rome to him now?
What the dominion of the Universe?
What devil in human shape had counselled the act in the seeds of which slumbered his own destruction?
The flame of the dying candle flickered and grew dim.
Had Stephania returned?
He heard no steps, no sound in her chamber.
At the memory of what he had seen, a groan broke from his lips.
How he hated that boy, who after wresting from him the dominion of the city, had stolen from him the love of his wife!
Stolen? Had it not been thrust upon him? What mortal could have resisted the temptation? He would die—thus it was written in the stars;—but Stephania would weep for him—
On tip-toe the Senator stole to the chamber of his wife. The door stood ajar. The chamber was empty.
The candle flared up for the last time, lighting up the gloom. Then it sank down and went out.
Crescentius was alone in the darkness.
CHAPTER XI
THE INCANTATION
[image]t was near the hour of midnight when a figure, muffled and concealed in an ample mantle left Castel San Angelo. The guards on duty did not challenge it and after crossing the Aelian bridge, it traversed the deserted thoroughfares until it reached the Flaminian way, which it entered. Avoiding the foot-path near the river, the figure moved stealthily along the farther side of the road, which, as far as could be discerned by the glimpses of the moon which occasionally shone forth from a bank of heavy clouds, was deserted. A few sounds arose from the banks of the river and there was now and then a splash in the water or a distant cry betokening some passing craft. Otherwise profound silence reigned. The low structures and wharfs on the opposite bank could be but imperfectly discerned, but the moonlight fell clear upon the mausoleum of Augustus and the adjacent church of St. Eufemia. The same glimmer also ran like a silver-belt across the stream and revealed the gloomy walls of the Septizonium. The world of habitations beyond this melancholy stronghold was buried in darkness.
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After crossing Ponte Sisto the muffled rambler entered a churchyard, which seemed to have been abandoned for ages. The moon was now shining brightly and silvered the massive square watchtowers, the battlements, and pinnacles with gorgeous tracery. Crescentius had hardly set foot on the moss-grown path, when two individuals wrapped in dark, flowing mantles, whose manner was as mysterious as their appearance, glided stealthily past him.
They seemed not to have noticed his presence but pursued their way through the churchyard, creeping beneath the shadow of a wall in the direction of some low structure, which appeared to be a charnel-house situated at its north-western extremity. Before this building grew a black and stunted yew-tree. Arrived at it, they paused to see whether they were observed. They did not notice the unbidden visitor, who had concealed himself behind a buttress. One of the two individuals who seemed bent by great age then unlocked the door of the charnel-house and brought out a pick-axe and a spade. Then both men proceeded some little distance from the building and began to shovel out the mould from a grass-grown grave.
Determined to watch their proceeding, Crescentius crept towards the yew-tree, behind which he ensconced himself. The bent and decrepit one of the two meanwhile continued to ply his spade with a vigour that seemed incomprehensible in one so far stricken in years and of such infirm appearance. At length he paused, and kneeling within the shallow grave endeavoured to drag something from it. His assistant, apparently younger and possessed of greater vigour, knelt to lend his aid. After some exertion they drew forth the corpse of a woman which had been interred without a coffin and apparently in the habiliments worn during life. Then the two men raised the corpse, and conveyed it to the charnel-house. After having done so, one of them returned to the grave for the lantern and, upon returning, entered the building and closed and fastened the door behind him.
Crescentius had chosen the moment when one of the two individuals left the lone house, to enter unobserved and to conceal himself in the shadows. What he had witnessed, had exercised a terrible fascination over him, and he was determined to see to an end the devilish rites about to be performed by the personage, in quest of whom he had come. The chamber in which he found himself was in perfect keeping with the horrible ceremonial about to be performed. In one corner lay a mouldering heap of skulls, bones and other fragments of mortality; in the other a pile of broken coffins, emptied of their tenants and reared on end. But what chiefly attracted his attention, was a ghastly collection of human limbs blackened with pitch, girded round with iron hoops and hung like meat in a shamble against the wall. There were two heads, and although the features were scarcely distinguishable owing to the liquid in which they had been immersed, they still retained a terrible expression of agony. These were the quarters of two priests recently executed for conspiracy against the Pontiff, which had been left there pending their final disposition. The implements of execution were scattered about and mixed with the tools of the sexton, while in the centre of the room stood a large wooden frame supported by rafters. On this frame, bespattered with blood and besmeared with pitch, the body was now placed. This done, the one who seemed to be the moving spirit of the two, placed the lantern beside it, and as the light fell upon its livid features, sullied with earth, and exhibiting traces of decay, Crescentius was so appalled by the sight, that he revealed his presence by a half suppressed outcry. Seeing the futility of further concealment, he stepped into the light of the lantern and was about to speak, when he heard the older address his assistant, neither of whom evinced the least surprise at his presence, while he pointed toward him:
"Look! It is the very face! The bronzed and strongly marked features,—the fierce gray eye—the iron frame of the figure we beheld in the show-stone! Thus he looked, as we tracked his perilous course."
"You know me then?" asked the intruder uneasily.
"You are the Senator of Rome!"
"You spoke of my perilous course! How have you learned this?"
"By the art that reveals all things! And in proof that your thoughts are known to me, I will tell you the inquiry you would make before it is uttered. You came here to learn whether the enterprise in which you are engaged will succeed."
"Such was my intent," replied Crescentius. "From the reports about you, I will freely admit, I regarded you as an impostor! Now I am convinced that you are skilled in the occult science and would fain consult you on the future. What is the meaning of this?" he continued pointing to the corpse before him.
"I expected you!" was the conjurer's laconic reply.
"How is that possible?" exclaimed Crescentius. "It is only within the hour, that I conceived the thought,—and only the events of this evening prompted it."
"I know all!" replied Dom Sabbat. "Yet I would caution you: beware, how you pry into the future. You may repent of your rashness, when it is too late."
"I have no fear! Let me know the worst!" replied Crescentius.
The conjurer pointed to the corpse.
"That carcass having been placed in the ground without the holy rites of burial, I have power over it. As the witch of Endor called up Samuel, as is recorded in Holy Writ,—as Erichtho raised up a corpse, to reveal to Sextus Pompejus the event of the Pharsalian war,—as the dead maid was brought back to life by Appollonius of Thyana,—so I, by certain powerful incantations will lure the soul of this corpse for a short space into its former abode, and compel it to answer my questions. Dare you be present at the ceremony?"
"I dare!" replied the Senator of Rome.
"So it be!" replied Dom Sabbat. "You will need all your courage!" and he extinguished the light.
An awful silence ensued in the charnel-house, broken only by a low murmur from the conjurer who appeared to be reciting an incantation. As he proceeded, his tones became louder and his voice that of command. Suddenly he paused and seemed to await a response. But as none was made, greatly to the disappointment of Crescentius, whose curiosity, despite his fears, was raised to the highest pitch, cried:
"Blood is wanting to complete the charm!"
"If that be all, I will speedily supply the deficiency," replied the Senator, bared his left arm and, drawing his poniard, pricked it slightly with the point of the weapon.
"I bleed now!" he cried.
"Sprinkle the corpse with the blood," commanded Dom Sabbat.
"The blood is flowing upon it!" replied Crescentius with a shudder.
Upon this the conjurer began to mutter an incantation in a louder and more authoritative tone than before. His assistant added his voice, and both joined in a sort of chorus, but in a jargon entirely unintelligible to the Senator.
Suddenly a blue flame appeared above their heads, and slowly descending, settled upon the brow of the corpse, lighting up the sunken cavities of the eyes and the discoloured and distorted features.
"She moves! She moves!" shouted the Senator frantically. "She moves! She is alive."
"Be silent!" cried Dom Sabbat, "else mischief may ensue!"
And again he started his incantation.
"Down on your knees!" he exclaimed at length with terrible voice. "The spirit is at hand."
There was a rushing sound and a stream of white, dazzling light shot down upon the corpse, which emitted a hollow groan. In obedience to Dom Sabbat's demand Crescentius had prostrated himself on the ground, but he kept his gaze steadily fixed on the body, which, to his infinite amazement, slowly arose until it stood erect upon the frame. There it remained perfectly motionless, with the arms close to the sides and the habiliments torn and dishevelled. The blue light still retained its position upon the brow and communicated a horrible glimmer to the features. The spectacle was so dreadful, that Crescentius would have averted his eyes, but he was unable to do so. The conjurer and his familiar meanwhile continued their invocations, until, as it seemed to the Senator, the lips of the corpse moved and a voice of despair exclaimed: "Why have you called me?"
"To question you about the future!" replied Dom Sabbat rising.
"Speak and I will answer," replied the corpse.
"Ask her,—but be brief;—her time is short," said Dom Sabbat, addressing the Senator. "Only as long as that flame burns, have I power over her!"
"What is her name?" questioned the Senator.
"Marozia!"
The Senator's hand went to his forehead; he tottered and almost fell. But he caught himself.
"Spirit of Marozia," he cried, "if indeed thou standest before me, and some demon has not entered thy frame to delude me,—by all that is holy, and by every blessed saint do I adjure thee to tell me, whether the scheme, on which I am now engaged for the glory of Rome, will prosper?"
"Thou art mistaken, Johannes Crescentius," returned the corpse. "Thy scheme is not for the glory of Rome!"
"I will not pause to argue this point," continued the Senator. "Will the end be successful?"
"The end will be death," replied the corpse.
"To the King—or to myself?"
"To both!"
"Ha!" ejaculated Crescentius, breathing hard. "To both!"
"Proceed if you have more to ask,—the flame is expiring," cried the conjurer.
"And—Stephania?" But he could not utter the question. He felt like one choking.
But before the question was formed, the light vanished and a heavy sound was heard, as of the body falling on the frame.
"It is over!" said Dom Sabbat
"Can you not summon her again?" asked Crescentius, in a tone of deep disappointment. "I must know that other."
"Impossible," replied the conjurer. "The spirit has flown and cannot be recalled. We must commit the body to the earth!"
"My curiosity is excited,—not satisfied," said the Senator. "Would it were to occur again!"
"Thus it is ever," replied Dom Sabbat. "We seek to know that which is forbidden, and quench our thirst at a fount, which but inflames our curiosity the more. You have embarked on a perilous enterprise;—be warned, Senator of Rome! If you continue to pursue it, it will lead you to perdition."
"I cannot retreat," replied Crescentius. "And I would not, if I could. Death to both of us:—this at least is atonement!"
"I warn you again,—if you persist, you are lost!"
"Impossible,—I cannot retreat;—I could not, if I would! By no sophistry can I clear my conscience of the ties imposed upon it. I have sworn never to desist from the execution of this scheme, never—never! And so resolved am I, that if I stood alone in this very hour—I would go on."
"You stand alone!"
No one knew whence the voice had come. The three stood appalled.
A deep groan issued from the corpse.
"For the last time,—be warned!" expostulated Dom Sabbat.
"Come forth!" cried Crescentius rushing towards the door. "This place stifles me!" And he unbolted the door and threw it wide open, stepping outside.
The moon was shining brightly from a deep blue azure. Before him stood the old church of St. Damian bathed in the moonlight. The Senator gazed abstractedly at the venerable structure, then he re-entered the charnel-house, where he found the conjurer and his companion employed in placing the body of the excommunicated denizen of Castel San Angelo into a coffin, which they had taken from a pile in the corner. He immediately proffered his assistance and in a short space the task was completed. The coffin was then borne toward the grave, at the edge of which it was laid, while the Dom Sabbat mumbled a strange Requiem over the departed.
This ended, it was laid into its shallow resting place, and speedily covered with earth.
When all was ready for their departure, Dom Sabbat turned to the Senator of Rome, bidding him farewell. Declining the proffered gold, he observed:
"If you are wise, my lord, you will profit by the awful warning you have this night received."
"Who are you?" the Senator questioned abruptly, trying to peer through the cowl which the adept of the black arts had drawn over his face, "since the devils obey your beck?"
The conjurer laughed a soundless laugh.
"Of dominion over devils I am innocent—since I rule no men!"
At the entrance of the churchyard, Crescentius parted from the conjurer and his associate, about whose personality he had not troubled himself, and returned in deep rumination to Castel San Angelo.
No sooner had the Senator of Rome departed, than the conjurer's familiar tore the trappings from his person and stood revealed to his companion as Benilo, the Chamberlain.
"Dog! Liar! Impostor," he hissed into Dom Sabbat's face, while kicking and buffeting him. "Marozia has been dead some fifty years. How dare you perpetrate this monstrous fraud? Was it this I bade you tell the Senator of Rome?"
Dom Sabbat cringed before the blows and the flaming madness in the Chamberlain's eyes. Folding his arms over his chest and bending low he replied with feigned contrition:
"It was not for me to compel the spirit's answer! And as for the corpse, 'twas Marozia's. Thus read you the devil's favour. Until blessed by the holy rite, the body cannot return to its native dust."
"Then it was Marozia's spirit we beheld?" Benilo queried with a shudder, as they left the churchyard.
"Marozia's spirit," replied Dom Sabbat. "Yet who would raise a fabric on the memory of a lie?"
CHAPTER XII
THE HERMITAGE OF NILUS
[image]tephania's sleep had been broken and restless. She tossed and turned in her pillows and pushed back the hair from her fevered cheeks and throbbing temples in vain. It was weary work, to lie gazing with eyes wide open at the flickering shadows cast by the night-lamp on the opposite wall. It was still less productive of sleep to shut them tight and to abandon herself to the visions thus evoked, which stood out in life-like colours and refused to be dispelled.
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Do what she would to forget him, to conjure up some other object in her soul, there stood the son of Theophano, towering like a demi-god over the mean, effeminate throng of her countrymen. Her whole being had changed in the brief space of time, since first they had met face to face. Then the woman's heart, filled with implacable hatred of that imperial phantom, which had twice wrested the dominion of Rome from the Senator's iron grasp, filled with hatred of the unwelcome intruder, had given one great bound for joy at the certainty that he was hers,—hers to deal with according to her desire,—that he had not withstood the vertigo of her fateful beauty. With the first kiss she had imprinted on his lips, she had dedicated him to the Erynnies,—it was not enough to vanquish, she must break his heart. Thus only would her victory be complete.
What a terrible change had come over her now! All she possessed, all she called her own, she would gladly have given to undo what she had done. For the first time, as with the lightning's glare, the terrible chasm was revealed to her, at the brink of which she stood. Strange irony of fate! Slowly but surely she had felt the hatred of Otto vanish from her heart. He had bared his own before her, she had penetrated the remotest depths of his soul. She had read him as an open book. And as she revolved in her own mind the sordid aspirations of those she called her countrymen, the promptings of tyrants and oppressors,—thrown in the scales against the pure and lofty ideals of the King,—a flush of shame drove the pallor from her cheeks and caused hot tears of remorse to well up from the depths of her eyes.
For the first time the whole enormity of what she had done, of the scheme to which she had lent herself, flashed upon her, and with it a wave of hot resentment rushed through her heart. Her own blind hate and the ever-present consciousness of the low estate to which the one-time powerful house of Crescentius had fallen, had prompted her to accept the trust, to commit the deed for which she despised herself. Would the youth, whom she was to lead the sure way to perdition, have chosen such means to attain his ends? And what would he say to her at that fatal moment, when all his illusions would be shattered to atoms, his dreams destroyed and his heart broken? Would he not curse her for ever having crossed his path? Would he not tear the memory of the woman from his heart, who had trifled with its most sacred heavings? He would die, but she! She must live—live beside the man for whom she had sinned, for whose personal ends she had spun this gigantic web of deception. Otto would die:—he would not survive the shock of the revelation. His sensitive, finely-strung temperament was not proof against such unprecedented treachery. What the Senator's shafts and catapults had failed to achieve,—the Senator's wife would have accomplished! But the glory of the deed? "Gloria Victis," he had said to her when she pointed the chances of defeat. "Gloria Victis"—and she must live!
Otto loved her;—with a love so passionate and enduring that even death would mock at separation.—They would belong to each other ever after. It was not theirs to choose. It seemed to her as if they had been destined for each other from the begin of time, as if their souls had been one, even before their birth. And all the trust reposed in her, all the love given to her—how was she about to requite them? Were her countrymen worthy the terrible sacrifice? Was Crescentius, her husband? Had his rule ennobled him? Had his rule ennobled the Romans? Were the motives not purely personal?
She knew she had gone too far to recede. And even if she would, nothing could now save the German King. The avalanche which had been started could not be stopped. The forces arrayed against Teutonic rule now defied the control of him who had evoked them. How could she save the King?
Salvation for him lay only in immediate flight from Rome! The very thought was madness. He would never consent. Not all his love for her could prompt a deed of cowardice. He would remain and perish,—and his blood would be charged to her account in the book of final judgment.
How long were these dreadful hours! They seemed never ending like eternity. A moan broke from Stephania's lips. She hid her burning face in her white arms. Oh, the misery of this fatal love! There was no resisting it, there was no renouncing it;—ever present in her soul, omnipotent in her heart, it would not even cease with death; yea, perhaps this was but the beginning.—Would she survive the terrible hour of the final trial, when, a second Delilah, she called the Philistines down upon her trusting foe? She moaned and tossed as in the agues of a fever and only towards the gray dawn of morning she fell into a fitful slumber.
The preparations for his last rebellion against German rule had kept the Senator of Rome within the walls of the formidable keep, which since the days of Vitiges, the Goth, had defied every assault, no matter who the assailant. Crescentius had succeeded in repairing the breaches in the walls and in strengthening the defences in a manner, which would cause every attempt to carry the mausoleum by storm to appear an undertaking as mad as it was hopeless. He had augmented his Roman garrison, swelled by the men-at-arms of the Roman barons pledged to his support, by Greek auxiliaries, drawn from Torre del Grecco, and under his own personal supervision the final preparations were being pushed to a close. His activity was so strenuous that he appeared to be in the vaults and the upper galleries of Castel San Angelo at the same time. He had been seized with a restlessness which did not permit him to remain long on any one spot. But the terrible misgivings which filled his heart with drear forebodings, which, now it was too late to recede, caused him to tremble before the final issue, drove the Senator of Rome like a madman through the corridors of the huge mausoleum. Had he in truth lost the love of his wife? Then indeed was the victory of the son of Theophano complete. He had robbed him of all, but life—a life whose last spark should ignite the funeral torches for the King and,—if it must be—for Rome.
The day was fading fast, when Crescentius mounted the stairs which led to Stephania's apartments. His heart was heavy with fear. This hour must set matters right between them;—in this hour he must know the worst,—-and from her own lips. She would not fail him at the final issue, of that, as he knew her proud spirit, he was convinced. But what availed that final issue, if he had lost the one jewel in his crown, without which the crown itself was idle mockery?
Stephania's apartments were deserted. Where was his wife? She never used to leave the Castello without informing him of the goal of her journey. Times were uncertain and the precaution well justified. With loud voice the Senator of Rome called for Stephania's tirewoman. Receiving no immediate reply, a terrible thought rushed through his head. Perhaps she was even now with him,—with Otto! In its undiminished vividness the scene at the Neptune temple arose before him. What availed it to rave and to moan and to shriek? Was it not his own doing,—rather the counsel of one who perhaps rejoiced in his discomfiture? Crescentius' hand went to his head. Was such black treachery conceivable? Could Benilo,—-but no! Not even the fiend incarnate would hatch out such a plot, tossing on a burning pillow of anguish in sleepless midnight.
He was about to retrace his steps below, when the individual desired, Stephania's tirewoman, appeared and informed the Senator that her mistress had but just left, to seek an interview with her confessor. A momentary sigh of relief came from the lips of Crescentius. His fears had perhaps been groundless. Still he felt the imperative necessity to obtain proof positive of her innocence or guilt. Thus only could his soul find rest.
Stephania had gone to her confessor. Fate itself would never again throw such an opportunity in his way. And he made such good speed, that, when he came within sight of the ruins of the baths of Caracalla, he perceived by the advancing torches, which the guards accompanying her litter carried, that she had not yet reached her destination.
Approaching closer, he saw them halt near the ruins and in a few moments a woman, wrapt in a dark mantilla, stepped from her litter, received by a bubbling, gesticulating monk, in whom the Senator immediately recognized Fra Biccocco, the companion of Nilus. Escorted by him, she walked hastily into the ruins, and was soon lost to sight in their intricate windings.
Recalling the observations he had made on a previous visit, Crescentius wound his way from the rear to the same point, so that none of Stephania's retinue, who were laughing and chatting among themselves, discerned him or even discovered his presence. Then he rapidly threaded his way to the chamber through which Fra Biccocco and Stephania had just passed, boldly followed them into the clearing, from which Nilus' cell was reached, and concealed himself in the long grass until Biccocco returned from the hermit's cell. Then he approached the monk's hermitage and took up his post of observation in the shadows, out of sight but able to hear every word which would be exchanged between Nilus and his confessor.
The monk of Gaëta had been far from anticipating a visitor at this late hour. Seated at his stone table, he had been reading some illuminated manuscript, when he suddenly laid down the scroll and listened. The perfect stillness of the deserted Aventine permitted some breathings of remote music from the distant groves of Theodora to strike his ear, and after listening for a time, he arose and traversed his cell with rapid steps. He was about to reseat himself and to continue his disquisition by the pale, flickering light of the candle burning before a crucifix, when voices were audible and Biccocco entered, having scarcely time to announce Stephania, ere she followed.
"Good even, Father,—be not startled,—I was returning from my gardens of Egeria and I have brought your altar some of its choicest flowers," she said in a hushed and timid voice, while at the same time she offered the monk some beautiful white roses of a late bloom. "Moreover, I would speak a few words alone with you,—alone with you,—Father Biccocco,—with your permission."
Biccocco, looking at her, as she threw back her mantle from her shoulders, respectfully prepared to obey, almost wondering that there could be on earth anything so wondrously beautiful as this woman.
"Biccocco, I command thee, stay!" exclaimed Nilus starting up. "I would say—nay, daughter—is it thou? I knew not at first,—my sight is dim—Biccocco, let no one trouble me—but tears? What ails our gentle penitent? Has she forgotten a whole string of Aves? Or what heavier offence? It was but yesterday I counselled thee,—but a few hours are so much to a woman.—Wherefore glow thy cheeks with the fires of shame? Biccocco—leave us!"
"Father, I have sinned—yea, grievously sinned in these few hours, since I have seen thee," said Stephania, when the restraint of Biccocco's presence was removed, little suspecting what listener had succeeded. "I have sinned and I repent,—but even in my offence lies my greatest chastisement."
"Art well assured, that it is remorse, and not regret?" replied the hermit of Gaëta. "Thy sex often mistakes one for the other. But what is the matter? Surely it might not prevent thee from taking thy needful rest, might bide the light of day, to be told,—to be listened to,—yet—thou art strangely pale!"
"I have been mad, father, crazed,—I know not what I have done! I dare not look upon thee, and tell thee! Let me arrange my flowers in thy chalice, while I speak," replied Stephania, hiding her face in the fragrant bundle.
"Not so!" replied the monk. "Eye and gesture often confess more than the apologizing lip! Kneel in thy wonted place! No other attitude becomes thy dignity or mine;—for either thou kneelest to the servant of God or thou debasest thyself before the brother of man!"
Stephania complied instantly, and Nilus, throwing himself back in his chair, fixed his eyes on the crucifix before him, without even glancing at the penitent.
"Father—you had warned me of all the ills that would befall," she began, almost inaudibly, "but I longed to see him at my feet,—and more,—much more!"
"What is all this?" said the monk turning very pale and glancing at his fair penitent with a degree of fierceness mingled with surprise.
"Ah! You know not what a woman feels,—when—when—" She paused, breathing hard.
"Hast thou then committed a deadly sin? Some dark adultery of the soul?" exclaimed Nilus. "Nay, daughter," he continued, as she shrank within herself at his words, "I speak too harshly now! But what more hast to say? Time wears—and this soft cheek should be upon the down, or its sweetness will not bloom as freshly as some of its rivals, at dawn. Thou see'st this hermitage, from which thou wouldst lure me, yields some recollections to brighten its desolation and gloom. What is it thou wouldst say?"
Stephania stared for a moment into the monk's face, at a loss to grasp his meaning. At last she stammered.
"Yet—I but intended to win him to—some silly tryst,—wherein I intended to deride his boyish passions."
"And he refused thy lures and thou art vexed to have escaped perdition?" said the monk, more mildly.
"Nay—for he came!"
"He came! Jest not in a matter like this! He came? Thou knowest of all mankind I have reasons to wish this youth well,—this one at least!" said Nilus somewhat incoherently.
"He came,—once,—twice,—many times! He came, I say, and—-"
"What of him? Thou hast not had him harmed for trusting his enemy?"
Stephania's cheek took the hues of marble.
"Harmed? I would rather perish myself than that he should come to harm."
Nilus was silent for a moment or two, and Stephania, as if to take courage, timidly took his hand, holding it between her own.
"I must needs avow my whole offence," she stammered, "he came,—and—"
"Why dost pause, daughter?" questioned the monk, with penetrating look.
"Nay—but hear me!" continued Stephania. "I first intended but to win his confidence,—then,—having drawn him out—expose him to the just laughter of my court."
"A most womanly deed! But where did this meeting take place?"
"In the Grottos of Egeria!"
"In the Grottos of Egeria!" the monk repeated aghast.
"And then," she continued with a great sadness in her tone, "I never felt so strangely mad,—I would have him share some offence, to justify the clamour I had provided, scarcely I know how to believe it now myself.—I did to his lips,—what I now do to your hand."
And she kissed the monk's yellow hand with timid reverence.
"Thou! Thou! Stephania,—the wife of Crescentius, and not yet set in the first line of the book of shame!" shouted the monk, convulsively starting at every word of his own climax. "Begone—begone! The vessel is full, even to overflowing!—Tell me no more,—tell me no more!"
"Your suspicion indeed shows me all my ignominy," said Stephania, groping for his hand, which he had snatched furiously away. "But he only suffered it,—because he guessed not my intent in the darkness."
"In the darkness?"
"In the darkness."
"Deemest thou it possible to clasp the plague and to evade the contagion?" questioned the monk. "Woman, I command thee, stop! Stop ere the condemning angel closes the record!"
Stephania raised her head petulantly.
"Monk, thou knowest not all! During all this meeting the Senator of Rome was present in the Grotto and watched us from one of the ivy hollows in the cave!"
"The Senator of Rome!" exclaimed the monk with evident amazement. "How came he there?"
"By contrivance!"
"I do not understand!"
"It was at his behest that I have done the deed, to further his vast projects, call it his ambition, if you will—to which the King is the stumbling block. Ask me no more,—for I will not answer!"
Nilus seemed struck dumb by the revelation.
"Take comfort, daughter, he cannot,—he cannot—" whispered the monk, bending over her and speaking in so low a tone that the devouring listener could not distinguish one word.
For a time not a word was to be heard, Nilus inclining his ear to Stephania's lips, whose confession was oft times broken by sobs.
"Tell me all,—all!" said the monk.
"As the fatal hour approaches the strength begins to forsake me,—I cannot do it!" she groaned.
"Yet he is the enemy of Rome, so you say," the monk said mockingly.
"He is the friend of Rome and—I love him!"
In a shriek the last words broke from her lips.
"Domine an me reliquisti!" shouted the monk. "Some sign now—some sign—or—"
His raving exclamation was cut short by a sound not unlike the oracle implored. A large block of stone, dislodged by a sudden and violent movement of the unseen listener, rolled with a hollow rumble down into the vaults below.
The monk started up from the benediction which he was bending forward to pronounce, almost dashed Stephania away, rushed to his altar and casting himself prostrate before the divine symbol which adorned it, he muttered in a frantic ecstasy of devotion:
"Gloria Domino! Gloria in Excelsis! Blessed be Thy name for ever and ever! Praise ye the Lord! He saves in the furnace of fire!"
Stephania gazed in mute amazement at the monk. His frantic appeal and its apparent fulfilment had struck dismay into her soul, and when at length he raised himself, and turned towards her, she could hardly find words to speak.
But Nilus waved his hand.
"Go now, Stephania," he commanded. "Go! I will devise some fitting penance at more leisure."
"But, Father—my request."
"Ay, truly," he replied, with supreme melancholy. "Is it not the wont of the world to throw away the flower, when we have withered it with our evil breath?"
"But I cannot do it,—I cannot do it," Stephania moaned, raising her hands imploringly to the monk.
"It is for a mightier than Nilus to counsel," the monk spoke mournfully. "Thou standest on the brink of a precipice, from which nothing but the direct intervention of Heaven can save thee! Pray to the Immaculate One for enlightenment, and if the words of a monk have weight with thee, even against him, thou callest thy lord before the world,—desist, ere thou art engulfed in the black abyss, which yawns at thy feet.—When he is dead, it will be too late!"
And raising his lamp, to escort Stephania to her litter, the monk and the woman left the chamber, and Crescentius had barely time to conceal himself behind the boulders ere they appeared and passed by him, the monk anxiously guiding every step of his penitent.
The moon was sinking, when Stephania arrived at Castel San Angelo.
Taking the candle from the hands of the page, who had awaited her return with sleepy eyes, she dismissed him and passed into the lofty hall, dark and chill as a cellar, beyond which lay the Senator's, her husband's, apartments. She swiftly traversed the hall,—then she hesitated. No doubt he was asleep. What good was there in waking him? As she turned to retrace her steps to her own chamber, a strange and eerie gust of wind swept shrieking round the battlements, howled in the chimney, invaded the chamber with icy breath and almost extinguished the candle. Then there was a great hush. It seemed to her she could hear distant music from the Aventine, the murmur of voices, the sound of iron chains from the vaults below. To this,—or to death,—she had consigned the son of Theophano, the boy-king, who loved her.—To this?—Anguish and terror seized her soul. She felt, she must not move—must not look. There it stood,—blacker than the investing darkness,—its head bent,—shrouded in the cowl of a monk. What was it? Once before she had seen it,—then it had faded away in the gloom. But misfortune rode invariably in its wake. She tried to scream, to call the page, but her voice choked in her throat. She staggered toward the door; her limbs refused to support her;—groaning she covered her eyes. Otto down there,—or dead,—why had she never thought of it before? Now the monk made a step toward her; the face had nothing corpse-like in it, nothing appalling, yet she felt a freezing and unearthly cold; almost fainting she staggered up the narrow winding stairs. And entering her lofty chamber Stephania fell unconscious upon her couch.
After Crescentius had returned from the hermitage of Nilus, he gave strict orders to the guards of Castel San Angelo to admit no one, no matter who might crave an audience, and entering his own chamber, he lighted a candle. He had seen and heard, and he knew that the heart of his wife had gone from him for ever! At the terrible certainty he grew dizzy. A fearful price he had paid for his perfidy,—and now, there was no one in all the world he could trust. He dared not speak. He dared not even breathe his anguish. She must never know that he knew all,—no one must know. His lips must be sealed. The world should never point at him,—for this at least!
But terrible as his suffering must be his vengeance. He who had robbed him of his priceless gem, the wife of his soul, all he loved on earth,—he should languish and rot under her very chambers, where she might nightly hear his groans, without daring to plead for him. There was no further time for parley. The stroke must fall at once! Too long had he tarried. The Rubicon was passed.
Pacing up and down the gloomy chamber, Crescentius paused before the sand-clock. It was near midnight. Yet sleep was far from caressing his aching lids, as far as balm from his aching heart. He raised the candle in an unconscious effort, to go to his wife's apartment. He lingered. Then he placed the candle down again and seated himself in a chair. His gaze fell upon a broad stain on the floor and like one fascinated he followed its least meander to a distance of several feet from the door, when suddenly a form met his eyes, whether the off-spring of his delirious fancy or one of those inexplicable and tremendous phenomena, which are incapable of human solution, while the secrets of death remain such. His garb was that of a monk; the face bore the awful pallor of the tomb, and a mournful tenderness seemed to struggle with the rigidity of death. The phantom, if such it was, stood perfectly motionless between Crescentius and the couch, in a few moments it grew indistinct and finally faded into air.
It was then only, that Crescentius recovered breath and life, and staggered back to his chair. A few moments' rally persuaded him that what he had seen had been merely the illusion of his excited organs. But a dreadful longing for death assailed him, a longing like that which prompts men to leap when they gaze down a precipice. He rose,—again the phantom seemed there,—this time distinct and clear. Terror rendered him motionless; the room seemed to whirl round, a million lights danced in his eyes, then he sank back covering his face with his hands.
When he again opened his eyes, his brain seemed shooting with the keenest darts of pain. He endeavoured to pray, but could not. His ideas rushed confusedly through each other. The taper was fast sinking in the socket, and it seemed as if his mind would sink with it. He emptied a goblet of wine which stood upon the table, and strove to remember what he intended to do. It seemed a vain effort and he fell back in his chair into a semi-conscious doze. An hour might have passed thus, when he became aware of a slight crackling noise in his ears and starting with a sensation of cold he looked round. The fire in the chimney had burnt into red embers, and though his own form was lost in the shadow of the chimney, the rest of the room was faintly illumined by the crimson glow from the grate.
Suddenly he saw the tapestry figure of some mythical deity opposite his own seat stir; the tapestry swelled out, then a head appeared, which peered cautiously round. The body soon followed the head, and Crescentius rose with a sigh of relief as he stood face to face with Benilo. The Chamberlain's face was pale; his eyes, with their unsteady glow, showed traces of wakefulness. He took from his doublet a scroll which he placed into the outstretched hand of the Senator of Rome. Mechanically Crescentius unrolled it. His hands trembled as he superficially swept its contents.
"The barons pledge their support,—not a name is missing," Benilo broke the silence in hushed tones.
"What is it to be?" questioned Crescentius.
"I speak for the extreme course and for Rome. For attack—sudden and swift!"
There was a pause, Crescentius stared into the dying embers.
"Are all your plans complete?"
"The Romans wait impatiently upon my words. At the signal all Rome will rise to arms!"
"But how about the Romans? Can they be depended upon?"
"I move them at the raising of my hand!"
There was another pause.
Crescentius appeared strangely abstracted.
"But what of Otto? What of Eckhardt? Do they scent the wind from Castel San Angelo?"
"As for the Saxon cherub," Benilo replied with a disgusting smile, "he is dreaming of his—"
He did not finish the sentence, for Crescentius cast such a terrible look upon him, that the blood froze in the traitor's veins, and his eyes sank before those blazing upon him. After a moment's hesitation he continued, the shadow of a forced smile hovering round his thin, quivering lips:
"When he is dead, we shall cause the Wonder-child to be canonized!"
But Crescentius was in no jocular mood.
"Have you chosen your men?" he queried curtly.
"They will be stationed in the labyrinth of the Minotaurus," Benilo replied. "At the signal agreed upon, they will rush forth and seize the King—"
As he spoke those words the Chamberlain gazed timidly into the Senator's face.
"The signal will not fail," Crescentius replied firmly.
"Is the mausoleum prepared to withstand an assault?" Benilo questioned guardedly.
"The hidden balistae have been disinterred. My Albanian stradiotes and the Romagnole guards occupy the chief approaches. The upper galleries are reserved for our Roman allies. They will never scale these walls while Crescentius lives. Remember—the gates of Rome are to be closed. We will smother the Saxon under our caresses! I must have Otto dead or alive! Revenge and Death are now written on my standards! Up with the flag of rebellion and perdition to the emperor and his hosts!"
The gray dawn was peeping into the windows of the Senator's chamber, when Crescentius sought his couch for a brief and fitful repose.