Kitabı oku: «The Hill of Venus», sayfa 15

CHAPTER IV
THE HILL OF VENUS

SOME by land, and some by sea, the revellers took their morning way along the coast towards the ruins of ancient Baiae. Francesco was on horseback, a friend having furnished him with an excellent mount. As he cantered on, the road continually revealed the far-sparkling sea. A flock of brilliant butterflies dipped and poised on the waters, – pleasure boats bound for the tryst. Ilaria! Ilaria! She and he were moving by different ways to the same goal.

Steeds proved swifter than sails that morning; the horsemen arrived half an hour before the boats. The place was a lonely wonder. The sloping hillsides, broken by the green hollows of an ancient amphitheatre, rose gently from the beach. From the turf, strewn with wild hyacinth, cyclamen, Star of Bethlehem and tiny fleurs-de-lys, great columns, half embedded in the ground, raised ivy-mantled shafts, now broken, now crowned with Corinthian capitals, which peered through trailing vines. Choice marbles, their rose or white mellowed to gold, lay scattered here and there, the surfaces, fluted or bevelled, still gleaming with the polish of by-gone centuries. Below and above the amphitheatre mysterious masonry broke the climbing slope. The ruins extended to the very verge of the sea.

Francesco ran down the bank as the first boat drew near. Under an awning of silk, shot with green and blue and gold, sat Ilaria, the Countess Violetta and Stefano Maconi. Violetta was rippling with joyous laughter. Ilaria smiled and the beauty of the day found its meaning. She had thrown aside the misty veil, with which she was wont to envelop herself. Her gown, or so Francesco thought, was the same which Proserpina had worn, in the "Triumph of Amor." At least, the same strange broideries shone among its folds.

She stepped lightly ashore. Her fingers rested on Francesco's hand and her eyes accepted his adoring look with a strange inscrutable expression.

"We have been sailing over marvels," cried Violetta wide-eyed. "Below the clear green waves rise palaces! We saw great white columns and a pavement of mosaics. Did we not, Madonna Ilaria?"

"Yes," said Ilaria, dreamily. "Had they not quivered in the light, we could have traced the pattern!"

"The palaces of the sea ladies," Violetta exclaimed gleefully. "I thought I saw one, but she turned out to be a fish!"

"The home of strange beings, at any rate," mused Ilaria, – "of flowers that are alive! Did you see that long blue ribbon sway and beckon to us?"

Ilaria's gravity and pallor seemed to have vanished with the mists of morning. She was flushed and gay, – almost too gay, Francesco thought. A startled quietude, as of one expectant, was upon her.

"I have bidden you to a land of enchantment," laughed Stefano Maconi as they climbed upwards. "We are still within the power of the sea, as you perceive," he added, when the company paused by the half-buried columns below the amphitheatre.

"It is true," said Francesco, pausing by a half-buried shaft. "The stone is fretted by the waves. See the clustered barnacles and tiny shells clinging half-way up!"

A party of cavaliers and their ladies met them on this spot.

As they exchanged greetings, all studied the strange sight.

"Probably," reflected a young page of the court, "it was the doing of Messer Vergilio."

"He had great power hereabout," asserted Andrea Ravignano, "and was a mighty clerk of necromancy. Perhaps it was he who built all these marvels!"

"It was the old Roman folk that built them, ages ago," said another. "A city rose here once, a marvel indeed, as these ruins tell. For their pleasure men built it, and here they lived and throve. And evil livers were they all, and slaves to the foul fiends, their gods!"

"But how did the city sink into the sea?" asked Violetta.

"That was the work of Messer Saint Paul," replied the other. "He landed here and preached the Cross of our Saviour, and when men would not heed but spat upon the cross and defied it, he laid the land under a curse, and it sank to the depths of the sea!"

"And when the waves had done their work," – it was Ilaria, speaking dreamily, "they flowed back, and the ruins rested on a gentle hill. But forever and ever do they remember the sea!"

She sighed a little.

"The slope on which we sit is hollow within," ventured the youthful page. "Behind us is many a love-grotto, tunnelled deep and far. The country folk, when they run the harrow, find great walls. And so none dare come here of nights: strange things are seen!"

"Perhaps the waters will rise again some day and swallow Naples and the court, and we shall turn into sea-folk all," Ilaria said, laughing a little wildly. "Subjects of Lady Venus we should be. She was Queen of the Sea, I've heard!"

"Though Terce is hardly passed, such talk is not wise," said some one.

And two or three crossed themselves.

But as the light words drifted on, dim vistas of thought, at the end of which immemorial things were gleaming, had opened to Francesco.

Violetta had been deftly weaving a green garland of ivy.

"Dream no more, fairest," she turned smiling to Ilaria. "Tell me rather what flowers to weave into your chaplet. Of no strange blooms of the sea shall it be wrought, but, at your will, of roses or the small fior-da-lisa!"

"He who, as I, loves best the sea, loves best the rose," replied Ilaria smiling. "While he who climbs the height adores the lily!"

She glanced, as she spoke at Francesco, whose gaze had never for a moment abandoned her. Never had she seemed so fair to him, so utterly adorable, stirring in his soul the slumbering fires of desire.

Violetta quickly finished her wreath of eglantine, and dropped it lightly on Ilaria's brow.

"Why fear we ghosts in this radiant air?" laughed she.

"Perhaps we are the ghosts, – ghosts of our former selves," suggested Ilaria.

"No phantom heart beats in my bosom," laughed Stefano Maconi.

And a look of meaning, or so Francesco felt, passed between them.

"Fair phantom, let us tread a measure!" pleaded Violetta. "What was this green level made for, if not for the beating of gentle feet?"

"And when the measure is over," said Francesco in an undertone, as they rose, "perhaps Madonna Ilaria will graciously vouchsafe me a few moments?"

She nodded assent; but he could see her eyelids quiver, and her breath came fast. The measure finished, Stefano Maconi at once proposed a new diversion, from which neither could escape, and time wore on, while the light grew more intense and the sky burned a deeper blue. Ill at ease, Francesco withdrew from the pastimes at last and climbed the hill behind the amphitheatre. He was displeased and nervous. Ilaria, he was sure, shrank from Stefano Maconi; yet was there not some secret bond between them?

Would Ilaria come to him? He trembled, as in Avellino of old, and his heart beat faster at the thought.

The hill was richly draped in ferns and swaying vines. Idly he pushed aside a mass of ivy: a passage opened behind, deep-vaulted, paved with broken fragments of mosaic. Stalactites dripped from the roof, through the verdure of thick maiden-hair fern. The gloom looked grateful. Francesco stepped within and, looking out on the blue day from the waving green frame-work, saw Ilaria and Stefano Maconi approaching, engaged in eager talk. She was flushed and bore herself haughtily.

Francesco stepped quietly out into the light, unnoticed by Ilaria's companion. Ilaria evidently saw him at once. She paused and dismissed the other, regardless of his somewhat insistent protests. With half-ironic salutation she turned down the hill. Whether or no Stefano had caught sight of Francesco, as he went, was difficult to say.

Ilaria came towards the grotto, trailing her draperies, her brow troubled and sad beneath the gay chaplet.

"The sun is hot, – one craves shelter," she said lightly, yet with a tremor in her voice.

Francesco, without replying, lifted the ivy curtain and with a mute gesture invited her to enter.

They stood in the dusky gloom, speechless, hidden from each other, till their gaze became accustomed to the shade.

He was helplessly unable to break the silence. Fear, joy, desire, doubt were tossing him. The breath came fast.

She raised her arms and caught her white throat.

"How cool it is, how sweet!" she said. "At Avellino," and she glanced at him half shyly, "you would never take me to your grotto!"

"Ah! But this grotto," he tried to speak as lightly as she, "we have found together!"

"Together!" she reflected, looking away from him. "It is a word we have not often had occasion to use, – you and I."

"Why might we not in the days to come?"

The words were on his lips; he held them back.

Ilaria waited, her hand pressed to her side, her look full of mingled tenderness and dread.

As he kept silence, she sighed, almost, it would seem, with relief.

"I wish to explore the cave," she said suddenly. "Come with me, if you like!"

And with quick steps she started into the darkness.

"Take care! Take care, Lariella!" cried Francesco, unconsciously using the familiar diminutive, forgotten so long ago.

She took no heed and he hurried after her, terror-stricken, he knew not why. She kept in advance, moving swiftly and lightly over the dark uneven ground. For a short distance the dusk deepened, then a sudden light, shining from a crack in the vaulting, revealed in startling contrast a great blackness by the side of which there gleamed something weird, ghost-like.

Ilaria screamed and stumbled. The passage, widening beneath her feet, broke downwards into a pool of the waters of Styx. A lost stair had betrayed her.

Francesco, speeding forward, caught her garments, drew her back. She staggered and yielded to his arms. They leaned together against the wall of the grotto. The earth had fallen away a little at the shock, revealing in the uncertain light the white figure of a woman.

They both stared at it, holding their breath.

The image stood embedded in the rocky cavity, whither some force had in past ages carried her from her old position, for she had evidently presided over the Piscina, or the bath of some rich Roman, who rejoiced in her Greek fairness. The face was free, but soil and mould had given it a half-sinister expression. The limbs, so far as visible, – and the earth in falling away had left one white side of the body entirely bare, – were perfect.

Ilaria struggled to free herself from Francesco's embrace and sank, half fainting, at the statue's base.

"The peril is over," said Francesco, and echoes filled the whole cavern with murmuring. "Dearest, be not afraid! Look at me!"

As her head drooped, he knelt beside her, half distraught, and rubbed her wrists and forehead with water from the pool.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, as a child might.

"Fonté Gaia!" she whispered.

The words had been in his own mind.

Lifting her hand, she touched and stroked the marble, and the awe grew in her eyes.

"Feel!" she said. "This is not marble! It is very flesh, though turned to stone!"

And she shuddered.

"Only a statue, dearest!" he answered soothingly. "Around Naples, they say, the earth is full of such!"

"It is the White Lady!"

She had risen now and regained her self-control, and she spoke with unwonted dignity and calm.

"It is the White Lady," she repeated, "but you know, you have never consented to her spells. She rules here in the dusk! How you tremble! There is no need! Sunlight for you is but a few paces away! See, I will go with you to the entrance of the grotto!"

In truth a strange tremor had seized him. He stood as if unable to leave the spot. She was looking on his face with anxious eyes.

"Doubtless," he said at last, and despised himself as he spoke, "you would prefer other company than mine in the presence of your White Lady!"

She raised her white hands to her throat again, and laughed, a laugh which the vaults re-echoed as a sob.

"Forgive, – forgive! I am cruel!" cried Francesco. "I know not what I say!"

"You are overheated," she said. "Bathe your brows, as you have bathed mine. It is true, I did not find the touch so cooling."

"The waters of Lethé," said Francesco very slowly. "Shall I bathe my brows in them indeed? Already, simply standing by them, I think I have forgotten many things. I have a better thought. Will you drink of them with me, Ilaria? It would not be the first time we have tasted of the same cup in the presence of Venus!"

Was he mistaken? Or, in the glimmering light, did he see a shadow passing over the flower-soft face?

She did not reply, but softly stroked his hair.

Her touch burned, electrified him. For a moment he submitted to the sensation, then, as her soft, white hands stole around his throat, he folded her in a close embrace and kissed her passionately on her lips.

From the waters came the swinging rhythm of the Barcarole.

 
"Non senti mai Achillé
Per Pulisena bella,
Lé cocenti favillé
Quant' io senti per quella.
 
 
"Udendo sua favella
Angelica e venozza,
Parlar si amorosa
In su la fresca erbetta."
 

The time for metaphors had passed. He raised his head.

"I love you, Ilaria," he stammered, drunk with her sweetness, "love you, as I have never loved anything on earth. Ilaria – Ilaria – "

"Are we not free?" she whispered, her lips very close to his.

He kissed them again and again, then tossed back his head.

"Free?" he said. "Who is free? Ghostly powers, fates from ancient days, – drive us, flesh and blood, whither they will!"

She shook her head, and on her lips played the old-time childhood smile.

"Have you forgot?" she whispered into his ear, holding him very close. "But it is not for me to remind you – "

With a sudden change her restraint had vanished.

"We are among the shades," she continued, "where Proserpina should be at home. The world of sun is far!"

"I love you – " he stammered, gazing at her with wide, hungry eyes.

She bent back his head, till their eyes met.

She gazed at him with all the love she bore him. Then, drawing him close, she whispered a word in his ear.

He closed his eyes in mortal anguish.

"All creation knows it, – all things, animate and inanimate: but not I, – not I!"

"Take me!" Ilaria said calmly, her face very white. "Yes – I will drink with you! But first – a libation to Venus!"

She gathered a little water in her hands and sprinkled it at the feet of the statue.

He stared at her for a moment, speechless, full of wonder at her strange bearing. She was very pale, but in her eyes there gleamed a subtle fire, which kindled the spark in his soul.

"We have no cup," he said trembling.

But she, stooping swiftly, gathered water once more in the hollow of her palms and raised them to his face.

"Drink!" she whispered eagerly. "Drink, while yet we dare!"

He stooped to the soft white hands and held them close to his mouth, kissing them again and again when he had drank.

"Come!" she said softly.

He did not stir. She bent over him.

"Francesco! I love you – come!"

He fell prone at her feet, with a sob that shook his whole frame as with convulsions.

"Oh! That I might, – that I might! I would not sully your white purity for all there is in earth, or heaven!"

For a moment she stood rigid, white, dazed.

Suddenly he felt two arms winding themselves about his neck, two soft lips were pressed upon his own in one long, delirious kiss – then he saw Ilaria precipitately retrace her steps, and Stefano Maconi peer into the grotto.

After a time Francesco emerged into the sunlight, bewildered, dazed. Ilaria had joined the revellers, and he sank down upon a rock and covered his face with his hands.

His heart and his soul were bleeding to death within him; and like his own phantom he at last arose and walked towards the sea. The revellers had lost themselves in the depths of the groves. Again and again the swinging rhythm of their song was borne to him on the soft, fragrant breezes; yet there was but one thought in his heart, one name on his lips, as his feet bore him slowly through the blossoming wilderness: "Ilaria! Ilaria!" —

CHAPTER V
TWILIGHT WATERS

DAZED, in a state of mind bordering on utter bewilderment, such as he had not experienced since the Masque of the Gods in the park of Avellino, Francesco wandered by the shore, trying to bring order into the confused chaos of his thoughts. Ilaria loved him, always had she loved him, and so closely were their fates bound up together that neither could as much as turn without standing accounted to the other. During the last days the certainty had dawned upon him that the sacrifice had been utterly in vain. He had been cheated of his youth and birthright; utterly helpless, he was the blind tool of a power, which, by no human right nor divine, had constituted itself the arbiter of his destiny. The future held nothing for him. His sympathies were forever with the vanquished. The temporal power of the Church held no allurement. He might climb in her service; the road lay over the broken and shattered ideals of his youth. —

The uncertainty of the fate of the Ghibelline host weighed heavily upon him. Where was Conradino, the fair-haired imperial youth, where were the leaders of the vanquished iron-serried companies, whose march under the proudly floating banners of the Sun-Soaring Eagle of Hohenstauffen he had witnessed from the summits of Monte Cassino? Had they reached the sheltering passes of the Apennines, had they fallen into Anjou's hands?

Fascinated, yet oppressed by dire forebodings, Francesco gazed out over the land. In a flood of crimson and gold, trailing his banners through the western sky, the sun had sunk to rest. The great mass of the castello of Astura was silent and dark in the swiftly descending southern night, save where an errant moonbeam glittered over the gateway and round-towers, shining obliquely over the massive walls, while two great circles of shadows enclosed the stronghold of the Frangipani, like huge Saturnian rings. Brightly, like a silver net flung wide upon the plains below, the moonbeams played upon the surrounding marshes the wild, rock-strewn maremmas, while a stagnant pool below the Groves of Circé reflected an indigo sky, pierced by the blazing constellations of the south.

As in a dream, he turned his steps towards the hostelry, where, despite the protests of the Regent, he had persisted in remaining. It suffered him not in the palace, amid that gay gentry of the court, near Ilaria, whose society he must forego, while others, less constrained, might bask in the perfume of her presence. Forever he thought of her as of a flower, entrusted by a generous divinity to earth-born men, to tend and to surround with care.

Arrived at the inn, Francesco found the public room occupied by a throng of idlers, who would scarcely take their departure before midnight. Stranger to all, as he was, the guests in the place greeted him civilly, as a possible companion, after having studiously examined the cut of his garments. One individual especially favored him with his close attention, unnoticed by Francesco, who, traversing the room, started upstairs to his chamber.

Ere he had reached the door, this individual swaggered through the crowd and touched him on the shoulder. Francesco looked at him vaguely; something familiar teased him in the man's face.

"Am I addressing Messer Francesco Villani, the papal envoy?" he said awkwardly.

Francesco nodded with an air of vague wonder.

"What is your business with me?"

"I am sent to bring you to one who is dying." —

Francesco, with the custom of his confraternity, turned instantly to go, but on a sudden impulse he lingered.

"Who is your master?" he asked with a quick misgiving.

"Raniero Frangipani," replied the other gruffly, then after a pause:

"He was mortally wounded in the field of Scurcola!"

"Lead the way!" Francesco said with quick resolve.

The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street.

"He is in fearsome pain, – about to die," he said. "He is very anxious about his soul's salvation." —

Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about his soul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughts came to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The bright vision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning, vanishing.

The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other image could hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; the unshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance a sinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched.

A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco with relief.

"Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear the confession, but the patient will not make it till he has seen you – Messer Capitano, I withdraw – " he stammered, for the awful eyes had turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound.

Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety and something else in his face.

"Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!" —

Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity and horror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face.

"Must I ask twice?"

Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness.

Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardly he wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura. He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction.

"That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint's blessing should have great power, – should it not? You ought to know about such things!"

He spoke with an effort, yet with more force than would have been supposed possible.

"It will be of no avail, if one dies unrepentant," said Francesco.

"Well, I shall not die unrepentant," returned Raniero with a curious look. "I shall be honest, – and thorough! Have you the indulgence, – and the last absolution, – and the Host, – and – the oil?" he continued hoarsely. "They make a good showing, – if one is really holy! One takes one's little precautions!"

Something like terror mingled with hatred flared up in his eyes, as he spoke; then, becoming more direct, he turned to Francesco. "And now, – for you and me!" —

White hate blazed suddenly in the eyes, then was quenched beneath the light of cunning.

Francesco was mute. How could he speak to this man of the love of God!

"I am waiting!" growled Raniero, eyeing the other fiercely. "Speak the prayer for the dying!"

Francesco moved not. He looked at the sick man spellbound, as a bird would at a snake. The words he wanted to speak died in the utterance.

"I have never questioned one of the Church's doctrines," said Raniero. "Apparently you are more of a heretic than I." —

"It may well be," said Francesco absently.

The other eyed him coldly, and a silence fell. In the heart of it grew and deepened a significance.

At last Raniero spoke.

"Of all men living, I have hated you the most!"

He was rolling his eyes fearfully; the face was on guard.

"I have never injured you," replied Francesco. "Look within my heart. Naught is there towards you but compassion!"

"Looking in – your heart, I find therein the image – of my wife, Ilaria. As ever, – looking in her heart, – I find therein – your own!"

Raniero hissed the words; the dilated glaring eyes were as a weapon to pierce the heart of which he spoke.

"It is true!" Francesco cried out with bitter shame. "Yet if your eyes can see, they behold in my heart the image of the purest woman, before whom all my thoughts do worship, save rebels still unconquered."

Listening on the stair without, soldier and priest nodded to each other at the sound of the "De Profundis clamavi ad te." All was going suitably in the death-chamber.

And Raniero listened, as the other knelt. A spasm seemed to pass over his face.

"Do you still hate me?" asked Francesco anxiously, when the invocation was ended. It was painful to him to think that his shadow stood between this man and eternity.

"A little," replied Raniero with that curious smile. "But I am almost sure that I shall hate you less – in a moment. You remember – I have taken from you – Ilaria!"

There was a strange note of triumph in his speech.

"Do you forgive even that?" asked Raniero with some anxiety.

"I have forgiven," said the other with bowed head.

"Come hither then!" cried Raniero. Craving was in his tones and eyes. "Make on my forehead, and on my breast, in token of your forgiveness, – the sign of the holy cross!"

He seemed to grow faint. A strange restlessness had seized him. He had closed his eyes; his lips moved as in prayer. One hand stirred beneath the cover.

Francesco came to his side, and stooping began solemnly to trace the sign.

Concentrated hate, loosed from its leash, snarled, shone in Raniero's face. Francesco saw nothing. A lifted hand, – a glittering flash: the knife struck fierce and deep. But the hand that guided it, trembled; it missed the heart. With an outcry of pain Francesco staggered and fell backward.

"Gr-r-r-h!" snarled Raniero, like a great cat, growling over its prey, as he leaped from the bed.

At the sound of the fall the two waiting without had rushed in. Seizing the opportune moment, Raniero dashed past them, out into the darkness, leaving them with his unconscious victim.

Removed to the inn, where Raniero's messenger had found him, Francesco's unconscious state slowly gave way to a delirium, which made constant attendance imperative. Terror-stricken by the act and its probable consequences, the two who had been present in Raniero's sick-chamber had summoned a leech, whose efforts to break the delirium of the sufferer seemed at first of little avail.

Now he was at Avellino, in the garden, at dusk. Roses were everywhere, in riotous profusion, – flame roses, every one curled into fiery petal-whorls, dancing in the garden-dusk under a red, red sky. Now the chariot of Amor! The rose chaplet has burned Amor's brow! Oh! Turn away from the tortured face of the poor young God of Love! No matter, we will see the pageant out! But that woman with the Scarlet Robe must not be in the show! She is the Woman of the Red Tower! Lead her away! Francesco must wear the fiery circlet and march with the rest!

Now he is at Viterbo! Clement, most Holy Father, do not caper about so strangely! Take off those striped clothes! At least, if you will wear them, put your tiara aside. Yes, – you juggle excellently well with those many balls. White! Black! How high you toss them up! How deftly you catch them! Ha! We see the trick. With each toss a white ball turns black. They are all black now, and Messeré, the Cardinals are grinning! Horror! Are those the Cardinals? Hoofs in red stockings? Horns peering out under the cap? The scarlet robes are flames of a burning village, and the Cardinals point long claws and hiss applause, while the mountebank weeps. And Francesco weeps too!

Now the serene peace of the wide-glimmering sea! Golden columns are shining through the water! He turns to the shore, – and as he turns the great sea stirs. It heaves, it writhes, it rises! With onward movement, as of a coiling snake, the whole vast liquid brilliance rushes upon the temple. Mighty billows of beryl curve and break in sheets of whitest foam, – not foam, rather the soft limbs of sea-nymphs. Within the green translucence, – ah! the threatening splendor! Behold the awful, tottering walls!

The crash has come! In the depths of the sea Francesco stands alone! The temple still rises around him, no more a ruin, but perfect in every part! The light is emerald. He stands by an altar, – no, it is Fonté Gaia! Bending down he beholds first a dizzying glimmer, as of sun-rays reflected from wet bright pebbles, set in gay patterns at the bottom. Presently his own reflection clears: the face of Ilaria, lovely beyond all memory or dream, is bending beside it.

The White Lady! She is there in her gown, creeping with brightest broideries. She offers him a golden cup! "Drink, Francesco!" she implores. Strange sea-lights waver about her beauty; in a way she is changed; but it is the voice of the girl he has loved better than all the world. Suddenly a shadow stands between them. He shivers in the warm air. —

What is there between Ilaria and Stefano Maconi!

Now some one flies past, a cord around his neck.

"Beware!" cries a voice, and on the rainbow brightness of Ilaria falls the shadow of mighty wings. Swooping down from the roof, one of the great demons of Lecceto hovers, poised hawk-like. The face is Raniero's; the body, that of a vulture. Francesco, horror-stricken, watches for the fiend to dart, to fasten his claws in Ilaria's dusky hair, to bear her aloft, away, her shrieks trailing after her. But this does not happen. In a faint light, like a mountain-mist at dawn, the whole scene fades away, and Francesco bursts into wild and violent weeping that seems as if it would drain his soul away.

When, after a few days, Francesco opened his eyes, he found himself in a high-vaulted room of the palace, Ilaria bending over him wide-eyed, pale of face. With a choked outcry he grasped the soft white hands to his lips, his eyes raised to her in long, mute questioning. She bent over him and kissed his lips.

"I love you," she whispered, then looked away.

His questionings at last elicited the response that at the behest of the Regent he had been brought to the palace, where Ilaria herself had been tending to his comfort. The name of his assailant had remained no secret. Yet, beyond vague whisperings, it was not again alluded to.

Sleep, deep and dreamless, blessed the racked body throughout the day; the sleep that leaves one's past life far behind and from which one wakes in weak expectancy and the helpless peace of a new-born child.

It was at the Vesper hour that this waking came to Francesco. Sunset light filled the gloom of the high-vaulted room. A distant silver gleam had filled him with strange comfort and strange sorrow. Ilaria had left him in care of the leech, a little Greek with restless, ever-shifting eyes. Through the casement the evening star looked in. Beyond Castel del Ovo he divined the far-trembling sea, quieted to a pure colorless memory of the day that had died, yet brighter than the darkening skies. —