Kitabı oku: «The Hill of Venus», sayfa 20
CHAPTER VII
THE QUEST
AS the world grew gray with waking light, Francesco came from the woods and heard the noise of the sea in the hush that breathed in the dawn. The storm had passed over the sea and a vast calm hung upon the lips of the day. In the east a green streak shone above the hills. The sky was still aglitter with sparse stars. An immensity of gloom brooded over the sea.
Gaunt, wounded, triumphant, Francesco rode up beneath the banners of the dawn, eager yet fearful, inspired and strong of purpose. Wood and hill slept in a haze of mist. The birds were only beginning in the thickets, like the souls of children yet unborn, calling to eternity. Beyond in the cliffs, San Nicandro, wrapped round with night, stood silent and sombre athwart the west.
Francesco climbed from the valley as the day came with splendor, a glow of molten gold streaming from the east. Wood and hillside glimmered in a smoking mist, dew-bespangled, wonderful. As the sun rose, the sea stretched sudden into the arch of the west, a great expanse of liquid gold. A mysterious lustre hovered over the cliffs, waves of light bent like saffron mist upon San Nicandro.
The dawn-light found an echo in Francesco's face. He came that morning the ransomer, the champion, defeated in life and hope and happiness, yet with head erect, as if defying Fate. His manhood smote him like the deep-throated cry of a great bell, majestic and solemn. The towers on the cliff were haloed with magic hues. Life, glory, joy, lay locked in the gray stone walls. His heart sang in him; his eyes were afire.
As he walked his horse with a hollow thunder of hoof over the narrow bridge, he took his horn and blew a blast thereon. There was a sense of desolation, a lifelessness about the place that smote his senses with a strange fear. The walls stared void against the sky. There was no stir, no sound within, no watchful faces at portal or wicket. Only the gulls circled from the cliffs and the sea made its moan along the strand.
Francesco sat in the saddle and looked from wall to belfry, from tower to gate. There was something tragic about the place, the silence of a sacked town, the ghostliness of a ship sailing the seas with a dead crew upon her decks. Francesco's glance rested on the open postern, an empty gash in the great gate. His face darkened and his eyes lost their sanguine glow. There was something betwixt death and worse than death in all this calm.
He dismounted and left his steed on the bridge. The postern beckoned to him. He went in like a man nerved for peril, with sword drawn and shield in readiness. Again he blew his horn. No living being answered, no voice broke the silence.
The refectory was open, the door standing half ajar. Francesco thrust it full open with the point of his sword and looked in. A gray light filtered through the narrow windows. The nuns lay huddled on benches and on the floor. Some lay fallen across the settles, others sat with their heads fallen forward upon the table; a few had crawled towards the door and had died in the attempt to escape. The shadow of death was over the whole.
Francesco's face was as gray as the faces of the dead. There was something here, a horror, a mystery, that hurled back the warm courage of the heart.
With frantic despair he rushed from one body to the other, turning the dead faces to the light, fearing every one must be that of his own Ilaria. But Ilaria was not among them; the mystery grew deeper, grew more unfathomable. For a moment, Francesco stood among the dead nuns as if every nerve in his body had been suddenly paralyzed, when his eyes fell upon a crystal chalice, half overturned on the floor. It contained the remnants of a clear fluid. He picked it up and held it to his nostrils. It fell from his nerveless fingers upon the stone and broke into a thousand fragments, a thin stream creeping over the granite towards the fallen dead. It was a preparation of hemlock and bitter almonds. He stared aghast, afraid to move, afraid to call. The nuns had poisoned themselves.
Like a madman he rushed out into the adjoining corridor, hither and thither, in the frantic endeavor to find a trace of Ilaria. Yet not a trace of her did he find. But what he did discover solved the mystery of the grewsome feast of death which he had just witnessed. In a corner where he had dropped it, there lay a silken banderol belonging to a man-at-arms of Anjou's Provencals. They had been here, and the nuns, to escape the violation of their bodies, had died, thus cheating the fiends out of the gratification of their lusts.
The terrible discovery unnerved Francesco so completely that for a time he stood as if turned to stone, looking about him like a traveller who has stumbled blindly into a charnel house. Urged by manifold forebodings, he then rushed from room to room, from cell to cell. The same silence met him everywhere. Of Ilaria he found not a trace. Had the fiends of Anjou carried her away, or had she, in endeavoring to escape, found her death outside of the walls of San Nicandro?
He dared not think out the thought.
The shadows of the place, the staring faces, the stiff hands clawing at things inanimate, were like the phantasms of the night. Francesco took the sea-air into his nostrils and looked up into the blue radiance of the sky. All about him the garden glistened in the dawn; the cypresses shimmered with dew. The late roses made very death more apparent to his soul.
As he stood in deep thought, half dreading what he but half knew, a voice called to him, breaking suddenly the ponderous silence of the place. Guided by its sound, Francesco unlatched the door and found himself face to face with the Duke of Spoleto.
For a moment they faced each other in silence.
Then he gave a great cry.
"Ever, ever night!" he said, stretching out his hands despairingly as to an eternal void.
The duke's eyes seemed to look leagues away over moor and valley and hill, where the blackened ruins of Astura rose beneath a dun smoke against the calm of the morning sky.
A strange tenderness played upon his lips, as if with the extinction of the Frangipani brood peace had entered his soul.
"A man is a mystery to himself," he said.
"But to God?"
"I know no God, save the God, my own soul! Let me live and die, – nothing more! Why curse one's life with a 'to be?'"
Francesco sighed heavily.
"It is a kind of Fate to me!" he said, "inevitable as the setting of the sun, natural as sleep. Not for myself do I fear it alone, – but I should not like to think that I should never see her again."
The duke's eyes had caught life on the distant hillside, life surging from the valleys, life and the glory of it. Harness, helm and shield shone in the sun. Gold, azure, silver, scarlet were creeping from the bronzed green of the wilds. Silent and solemn the host rolled slowly into the full splendor of the day.
The duke's face had kindled.
"Grapple the days to come!" he said. "Let Scripture and ethics rot! My men are at your command! Let them ride by stream and forest, moor and mere! Let them ride in quest of your lost one, ride like the wind!"
Francesco looked at the duke through a mist of tears.
"You know?" he faltered.
"For this I came!" replied the duke, extending his hand. "You will find her whom your heart seeks. Like a golden dawn shall she rise out of the past. Blow your horn! Let us not tarry!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE ANCHORESS OF NARNI
SIX days had passed. Once more the sun had tossed night from the sky and kindled hope in the hymning east. The bleak wilderness barriered by sea and crag had mellowed into the golden silence of the autumnal woods. The very trees seemed tongued with prophetic flame. The world leaped radiant out of the dawn.
Through the reddened woods rode Francesco, the Duke of Spoleto silent by his side. Gloom still reigned on the pale, haggard face and there was no lustre in the eyes that challenged ever the lurking shade of Death. Six nights and six days had the quest been baffled. Near and far armor glimmered in the reddened sanctuaries of the woods. Not a trumpet brayed, though a host had scattered in search of a woman's face.
On the seventh day, the trees drew back before Francesco where the shimmering waters of the Nera streaked the meads. Peace dwelled there and calm eternal, as of the Spirit that heals the throes of men. Rare and golden lay the dawn-light on the valleys. The songs of the birds came glad and multitudinous as in the burgeoning dawn of a glorious day.
Francesco had halted under a great oak. His head was bare in the sun-steeped shadows, his face was the face of one weary with long watching under the voiceless stars. Great dread possessed him. He dared not question his own soul.
A horn sounded in the woods, wild, clamorous and exultant. It was as the voice of a prophet, clearing the despair of a godless world. Even the trees stood listening. Far below, in the green shadows of the valley, a horseman spurred his steed.
Francesco's eyes were upon him. Yet he dared not hope, gripped by a great fear.
"I am even as a child," he said.
The duke's lips quivered.
"The dawn breaks, – the night is past. Tidings come to us. Let us ride out!"
Francesco seemed lost in thought. He bowed his head and looked long into the valley.
"Am I he who slew Raniero Frangipani?"
"Courage!" said the duke.
"My blood is as water, my heart as wax. Death and destiny are over my head!"
"Speak not to me of destiny and look not to the skies! I have closed my account with Heaven! In himself is man's power! You have broken the crucifix! Now trust your own soul. So long as you did serve a superstition had you lost your true heaven!"
"And yet – "
"You have played the god, and the Father in Heaven must love you for your strength! God does not love a coward! He will let you rule your destiny – not destiny your soul!"
"Strange words – "
"But true! Were I God, should I love the monk puling prayers in a den? Nay – that man should I choose who dared to follow the dictates of his own soul and strangle Fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are better than mumbled prayers!"
The horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of sun-bronzed fern. His eyes were full of a restless glitter, as the eyes of a man, whose heart is troubled. He sprang from the saddle, and, leading his horse by the bridle, bent low before the twain.
"Tidings, my lord!"
"I listen!" —
The horseman looked for a moment in Francesco's face but, hardened as he was, he dared not abide the trial. There was such a stare of desperate calm in the dark eyes, that his courage failed and quailed from the truth. He hung his head and stood mute.
"I listen – "
"My lord – "
"For God's sake, speak out!"
"My lord – "
"The truth!" —
"She lives – "
A great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of silence, such as comes after the wail of a storm. The duke's lips were compressed, as if he feared to give expression to his feelings. Francesco's face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of his soul. He sat rigid on his horse, a stone image fronting Fate, grim-eyed and steadfast. All his life had been one long sacrifice, one long denial, – had it all been in vain?
There were tears in the eyes of the man-at-arms.
"What more?"
The horseman leaned against his horse, his arm hooked over its neck.
He pointed to the valley.
"Yonder lies Narni. Beyond the Campanile of St. Juvenal is a sanctuary. You can see it yonder by the ford. Two holy women dwell therein. To them, my lord, I commend you!"
"You know more!"
The voice that spoke was terrible.
"Spare me, my lord! The words are for women's lips, not for mine!"
"So be it!"
The three rode in silence, Francesco and the duke together, looking mutely into each other's face. Francesco's head was bowed to his breast. The reins lay loose on his horse's neck.
A gray cell of roughly hewn stone showed amidst the green boughs beyond the water. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross hung from her neck and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode down to the rippling fords.
Autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and Francesco's eyes beheld ruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had come from the cell, and now stood at the wicket-gate with her hands folded as if in prayer.
The horseman took Francesco's bridle. The latter went on foot alone to speak with the anchoress.
"My lord," she said, kneeling at his feet, "God save and comfort you!" —
The man's brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his left wrist. He looked over the woman's head into the woods, and breathed fast through clenched teeth.
"Speak!" he said.
"My lord, the woman lives!"
"I can bear the truth!"
The anchoress made the sign of the cross.
"She came to us here in the valley, my lord, tall and white as a lily, her hair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her soles rent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches of a song, such as tells of love, and of Proserpina, Goddess of Shades. We took her, my lord, gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and gave her raiment. She abode with us, ever gentle and lovely, yet speaking like one who had suffered, even to the death. And yet, – even as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone!" —
The woman had never so much as raised her eyes to the man's face. Her hands held her crucifix, and she was ashen pale, even as new-hewn stone.
"And is this all?"
The man's voice trembled in his throat. His face was terrible to behold in the sun.
"Not all, my lord!"
"Say on!"
The anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle. Her voice was husky with tears.
"My lord, you seek one bereft of reason!"
"Mad!"
"Alas!"
A great cry came from Francesco's lips.
"My God! This, then, is the end!"
CHAPTER IX
THE DAWN
AN undefined melancholy overshadowed the world. Autumn breathed in the wind. The year, red-bosomed, was rushing to its doom.
On the summit of a wood-crowned hill, rising like a pyramid above moor and forest, stood two men silent under the shadows of an oak. In the distance glimmered the sea, and by a rock upon the hillside, armed men, a knot of spears, shone like spirit sentinels athwart the west. Mists were creeping up the valleys, as the sun went down into the sea. A few sparse stars gleamed out like souls still tortured by the mysteries of life. An inevitable pessimism seemed to challenge the universe, taking for its parable the weird afterglow of the west.
Deep in the woods a voice sang wild and solitary in the gathering gloom. Like the cry of a ghost, it seemed to set the silence quivering, the leaves quaking with windless awe. The men who looked towards the sea heard it, a song that echoed in the heart like woe.
The duke pointed into the darkening wood.
"Trust your own heart: self is the man! Through a mistaken sense of duty have you been brought nigh unto death and despair! Trust not in sophistry: the laws of men are carven upon stone, the laws of Heaven upon the heart! Be strong! From henceforth, scorn mere words! Trample tradition in the dust! Trust yourself, and the God in your heart!"
The distant voice had sunk into silence. Francesco listened for it with hands aloft.
"I must go," he said.
"Go!" —
"I must be near her through the night!"
"The moon stands full upon the hills! I will await you here!"
Dim were the woods that autumn evening, dim and deep with an ecstasy of gloom. Stars flickered in the heavens; the moon came and enveloped the trees with silver flame. A primeval calm lay heavy upon the bosom of the night. The spectral branches of the trees pointed rigid and motionless towards the sky.
Francesco had left the duke gazing out upon the shimmering sea. The voice called to him from the woods with plaintive peals of song. The man followed it, holding to a grass-grown track that curled at random into the gloom. Moonlight and shadow lay alternate upon his armor. Hope and despair battled in his face. His soul leaped voiceless and inarticulate into the darkened shrine of prayer.
The voice came to him clearer in the forest calm. The gulf had narrowed, the words flew as over the waters of Death. They were pure, yet meaningless, passionate, yet void; words barbed with an utter pathos, that silenced desire.
For an hour Francesco roamed in the woods, drawing ever nearer, the fear in him increasing with every step. Anon the voice failed him by a little stream that quivered dimly through the grass. A stillness that was ghostly held the woods. The moonlight seemed to shudder on the trees. A stupendous silence weighed upon the world.
A hollow glade opened suddenly in the woods, a white gulf in a forest gloom. Water shone there, a mere rush-ringed and full of mysterious shadows, girded by the bronzed foliage of a thousand oaks. Moss grew thick about the roots, dead leaves covered the grass.
And ever and anon a dead leaf dropped silently to earth, like a hope that has died on the Tree of Life.
Francesco knelt in a patch of bracken and looked out over the glades. A figure went to and fro by the water's brim, a figure pale in the moonlight, as the form of the restless dead. The man kneeling in the bracken pressed his hands over his breast; his face seemed to start out of the gloom as the face of one who struggles in the sea, submerged, yet desperate.
Francesco saw the woman halt beside the mere. He saw her bend, take water in her palms and dash it in her face. Standing in the moonlight, she smoothed her hair between her fingers, her hands shining white as ivory against the dark bosom of her dress. She seemed to murmur to herself the while, words wistful and full of woe. Once she thrust her hands to the sky and cried: "Francesco! Francesco!" The man kneeling in the shadows quivered like a wind-shaken reed.
The moon climbed higher and the woman by the mere spread her cloak upon a patch of heather and laid herself thereon. Not a sound broke the silence; the woods were mute, the air lifeless as the steely water. An hour passed. The figure on the heather lay still as an effigy on a tomb. The man in the bracken cast one look at the stars, then crossed himself and crept out into the moonlight.
Holding the scabbard of his sword, he skirted the mere with shimmering armor, went down upon his knees and crawled slowly over the grass. Hours seemed to elapse before the black patch of heather spread crisp and dry beneath his hands. Breathing through dilated nostrils, he trembled like one who creeps to stab a sleeping friend. The moonlight seemed to shower sparks upon him, as with supernatural glory. Tense anguish seemed to fill the night with sound.
Two more paces and he was close at the woman's side. The heather crackled beneath his knees. He held his breath, crept nearer, and knelt so near that he could have kissed Ilaria's face. Her head lay pillowed on her arm. Her hair spread as in a dusky halo beneath it. Her bosom moved with the rhythmic calm of dreamless sleep. Her lips were parted in a smile. One hand was hid in the dark folds of her robe.
Francesco knelt with upturned face, his eyes shut to the sky. He seemed like one faint with pain; his lips moved as in prayer. A hundred inarticulate pleadings surged heavenward from his heart.
Again he bent over her and watched the pure girlish face as she slept. A strange calm fell for a time upon him; his eyes never wavered from the white arm and the glimmering hair. Vast awe held him in thrall. He was as one who broods tearless and amazed over the dead, calm face of one beloved above all on earth.
Hours passed and Francesco found no sustenance, save in prayer. The unuttered yearnings of a world seemed molten in his soul. The moon waned. The stars grew dim. Strange sounds stirred in the forest-deeps; the mysterious breathing of a thousand trees. Life ebbed and flowed with the sigh of a moon-stupored sea. Visions blazed in the night-sky and faded away.
Hours passed. Neither sleeper nor watcher stirred. The night grew faint. The water flickered in the mere. The very stars seemed to gaze upon the destinies of two wearied souls.
Far and faint came the quaver of a bird's note. Gray and mysterious stood the forest spires. Light! Light at last! Spears of amber darting in the east. A shudder seemed to shake the universe. The great vault kindled. The sky grew luminous with gold.
It was the dawn.
Ilaria stirred in her sleep. Her mouth quivered, her hair stirred sudden under the heather, like tendrils of gold shivering in the sun.
Even as the light increased, Francesco knelt and looked down upon her. Hope and life, glorious, sudden, seemed to fall out of the east, a radiant faith begotten of spirit-power. Banners of gold were streaming in the sky. The gloom fled. A vast expectancy hung solemn, breathless, upon the red lips of the day.
A sigh, and the long, silken lashes quivered. The lips moved, the eyes opened.
"Ilaria! Ilaria!"
Sudden silence followed, a vast hush as of undreamed hope. The woman's eyes were silently searching the man's face. He bent and cowered over her as one who weeps. His hands touched her body, yet she did not stir.
"Ilaria! Ilaria!"
It was a hoarse, passionate outcry that broke the golden stupor of the dawn. A sudden light leaped lustrous into the woman's eyes, her face shone radiant in its etherealized beauty.
"Francesco!"
"Ah! At last!"
A great shudder passed through her body. Her eyes grew big with fear.
"Speak to me!"
"Ilaria!"
"Raniero?"
"Dead!"
A great silence held for a moment. The woman's head sank upon the man's shoulder. Madness had passed. Her eyes were fixed upon his with a wonderful earnestness, a splendid calm.
"Is this a dream?"
"It is the truth!"
Through the forest aisles rode the Duke of Spoleto.
He saw and paused.
"I return beyond the Alps to join the forces of Rudolf of Hapsburg. My men are at your disposal. I shall wait for you on yonder hillock."
He wheeled about and was gone.
Again silence held for a pace.
Presently Ilaria gave a great sigh and looked strangely at the sun.
"I have dreamed a dream," she crooned, "and all was dark and fearful. Death seemed near; lurid phantoms, – things from hell! I knew not what I did, nor where I wandered, nor what strange stupor held my soul. All my being cried out to you – yet all was dark about me, horrible midnight, peopled with foul forms! Oh, that night, – that night – "
Shivering, she covered her eyes as if trying to banish the memory.
"It has passed," she breathed after a pause, during which Francesco had taken her in his arms, kissing her eyes, her lips, and the sylph-like, flower-soft face. "I see the dawn!"
"Our dawn!" – Francesco replied, pointing to the hillock beyond.
For a time there was a great silence, as if the fates of two souls were being weighed in the scales of destiny.
It was Francesco who spoke.
"How you have suffered!"
She crept very close to him, smiling up at him with the old-time smile through tear-dimmed eyes.
"It counts for naught now! Are not you with me?"
The sky burned azure above the tree-tops. Transient sunshafts quivered through the vaulted dome of breathless leaves, as slowly Francesco and Ilaria strode towards the camp of the Duke of Spoleto on the sun-bathed hillock above the Nera.
