Kitabı oku: «The Hill of Venus», sayfa 5
CHAPTER V
WAVES OF DESTINY
WHEN Francesco waked on the following morning, the June sun touched the tree-tops which bounded the western horizon with their delicate feathery twigs. Throughout the castle of Avellino there was the hum and murmur of life. An unusual activity prevailed; the Apulian court was preparing to depart, as the long train of horses and jennets drawn up in the courtyard indicated.
Francesco listened to the dim murmur of familiar voices, and the echoes of laughter which reached his ears as he stood contemplating himself undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron hook upon his bedroom wall.
Of what use to deck himself in fine raiment for the last time he should ever wear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be his garment; – what matter if he went unkempt on the last day in the home he loved?
But the thought of the part he wished to play, came back to him. He could not bear the thought that his companions should know of his undoing. Despair is concealed more easily for an hour than unrest. And so Francesco heaved a long heavy sigh and went to the great carven chest wherein he kept his apparel.
Slowly, with the demeanor of one whose heart is not in what he does, he arrayed himself in his splendid court costume, as if preparing to share the gladsomeness of his companions.
He descended into the courtyard as one walking in a dream, and as in a dream his ear caught the sounds of laughter and merriment, such as had not resounded in the Castle of Avellino since the days of Emperor Frederick II.
On every lip were the glad tidings: Conradino had crossed the Alps! Conradino was about to descend into Italy with his iron hosts to claim his heritage. Like an Angel of Vengeance he would march on to Rome, where the arch-enemy of his house sat enthroned in the chair of St. Peter. From all parts of Italy the Ghibellines were flocking to the banners of the golden-haired son of Emperor Conrad IV, – Conradino, as they lovingly called him, – the last Hohenstauffen!
From the adjoining gardens there came sounds of joyous laughter; the music of citherns and lyres rippled enchantingly on the soft breeze of the morning. It was as if an evil spell had been lifted from the land, but the spell had caught one who could not shake it off, as with stony gaze and quivering lips he walked along, noting the preparations for events, in which he was to have no further share. He noted it not that the grooms and lackeys, pages and squires regarded him curiously, as if wondering at his luxurious attire, so little in keeping with the exigencies of a tedious journey. Hardly he noted the casual greeting of a companion who passed hurriedly, as if bent on his own preparations. After rambling aimlessly through the demesne, he bethought himself that the time for repast was at hand, and after pausing here and there, as if to convince himself that what he saw was not the phantom of a mocking dream, he returned to the castle, his heart heavy with the weight of the impending hour.
The banqueting-hall in the Castle of Avellino presented a busy scene. A small army of lackeys and pages was at work preparing a repast, the last the court was to partake ere the Viceroy set out. They were to start at dusk, owing to the extreme noon-day heat in the plains.
One great board stretched down the centre of the room, containing places enough for every occupant of the building.
Presently the doors leading into the banqueting-hall turned inward and a throng of court attendants filed into the dimly lighted room. These were followed by an array of visiting mendicants, who never failed to infest any noble household, and they had scarcely grouped themselves standing about the board, when the Viceroy, arm in arm with Galvano Lancia, entered the hall.
These two seated themselves at the board at once, watching the others as they entered. The women and their escorts, who had entered laughing and chatting among themselves, grew silent as they beheld the Viceroy already seated. One girl, garbed in a flowing gown of sea-green damask, entered the room alone. As she advanced to her place, after the prescribed courtesy to the Viceroy, her dark eyes searchingly scanned the throng of pages. Apparently she did not find among them the one she sought.
"Donna Ilaria looks for her errant knight," whispered Galvano Lancia into the ear of Conrad Capecé.
"Has not Francesco returned?" queried the Viceroy.
"I hardly expected him before to-day, even if the Grand Master's illness has not taken a fatal turn."
"Here are the monks!"
"And there – at the door – "
Conrad Capecé followed the direction of Lancia's gaze.
"Francesco!" – he finished with a gasp, staring bewildered at the youth's dazzling garb, richer even than the Viceroy's.
There was a sudden round of forbidden whispering among Francesco's companions, and significant glances passed between many at the expense of Ilaria Caselli, for Francesco's entrance had been indeed destined to create a commotion among the members of the Vice-regal household.
Conscious to the full that all eyes were upon him, Francesco paused for a moment in the doorway. Then he advanced slowly towards the seat of the Viceroy, a bright smile on his lips, a feeling akin to death freezing his heart. The grace remained still unspoken, while the monks, eager as their worldly brethren, turned upon their stools to gaze at the newcomer.
Francesco was clad in a tunic made of white cloth, heavily embroidered with gold, slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky sheen of his black embroidered hose. His belt was of black and gold, and the dagger it held was hilted with gleaming jewels. The dark hair framed a face as white as his garb and the feverish lustre of the deep set eyes matched the brilliancy of the gems in his belt.
The finishing touch to Francesco's curious attire, the one which gave the greatest significance to his appearance, was that which appeared to link him in some way to the most beautiful girl in the hall. It was a faded rose, which still seemed to cast a crimson shadow upon the gleaming purity of his tunic, the rose he had discarded in his first fit of despair, until he had bethought himself of a better course.
Under the wondering or sneering glances of all these eyes, Francesco, seemingly unabashed, advanced to the Viceroy's chair, and, bending a knee, muttered an apology for his delayed arrival.
Count Capecé bade him arise, saying audibly:
"In truth, Francesco, you shame us all for slovenliness in dress. Sit you here by my side! Your companions yonder have brilliancy enough in their midst. You shall relieve our soberness!"
With an amused smile Galvano Lancia made room between himself and the Viceroy. There was a faint color in the youth's cheeks, as he hastily dropped into the posture for grace. If no one else at the board had perceived it, he, at least, had understood the Viceroy's mild rebuke for overdress, and his mortification was sincere. For Count Capecé was dressed in a sombre suit of dark green, unembroidered and unadorned. Galvano Lancia supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, with black hose and leather belt and pouch, and the other nobles were all attired in garbs suitable for travel. There was a confused hum and medley of voices, but the one all-absorbing topic of discourse was the appearance of Conradino on Italian soil, and the hope of the Ghibellines in the final victory of their cause.
From the first, Francesco was uncomfortable in his new place. In the eyes of his companions, when he could catch them, he read only curiosity, mingled in some instances with envy and malice. This was especially the case at that part of the board where Raniero Frangipani was seated, not too far removed from Ilaria Caselli, although the latter had dropped her eyes, without so much as vouchsafing him a glance.
Francesco noted it all, and between the unmistakable gaze of derision which came to him from the Frangipani and his associates, Ilaria's seeming unconsciousness of his presence, and the well-nigh physical discomfort of being the target of all present, in the seat assigned to him, he felt ill at ease. Before he had entered the room he had absolutely believed in his own ability to act. Now he perceived his mistake. Do what he would, his heart and his expression failed him together.
At last he fixed his eyes upon the figure of her who bore the flower symbol of their relationship. Evidently the scarlet flower was being commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for he beheld Ilaria's color rise. Unexpectedly she turned her head to glance stealthily at the faded petals that burned upon the cold purity of his vestments. In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A shadow of mingled confusion and anger flitted across her face and, snatching her own rose from her gown, she dropped it on the floor.
Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw Francesco into a state of doubt and anxiety as to her feeling for him. Yet, how little did she guess the uselessness of that coquetry! What evermore would he have to do with love or the dallying with it? What woman would be enamored of a sackcloth gown? Yet, at this moment, he perceived that his feeling for her had rooted deeper than he had admitted to himself. And now it seemed to him that, were his well of bitterness to be deepened by one jot, it would drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of thought were spun out in his tired brain, such a black look of despair came upon his face that Ilaria was even prepared to smile upon him when he turned to her again.
Galvano Lancia also saw that expression, and guessed that the Viceroy's idle whim had made the youth uncomfortable enough for this time. But in his address there was also a courtier's purpose which Count Capecé, who was looking on, understood.
"Francesco!"
The youth turned, to find Galvano Lancia's kindly eyes upon him.
"Your father is better of his illness?"
"It is well with my father!" Francesco replied laconically.
As the repast progressed, the situation was becoming almost unbearable for the son of the Grand Master. Only the desire to avoid constituting the target of the almost general curiosity, prompted Francesco to remain at the Viceroy's table. He instinctively knew the eyes of Ilaria to rest upon him and, although not another word had been spoken, the situation was becoming greatly strained. But he did not wish to exhibit the misery which racked his soul with a thousand pangs before the gossiping courtiers and monks. Thus he ate or made a pretence at eating in silence. He had become acutely susceptible to the disagreeable features of his surroundings. The gathering heat and the heavy odor of meats and wines in the immense room, the flickering glare of the torches, the shrillness of the many voices, the noises of laughter which flowed together with the wine, – they all smote his senses with a sharp sting of irritation, disgust and measureless regret. So many, many times had he been part of all this. Now it was going from him. The thought and the attempt at its banishment sickened him. He leaned upon the table, white and faint. His eyes were closed. He had lost the courage to attempt further concealment. He instinctively knew the Frangipani was watching him and there was a suggestion in his gaze which filled him with an inward dread. How would Ilaria take it? What would become of her, after he had gone? He glanced down the board. Flagons of wine and platters of fruit were beginning to be in great demand. Story-telling and jesting, which were wont to drag out repasts to endless hours, had begun. In the midst of it all Count Capecé arose. His move was not instantly perceived, but when he was heard to call upon one of the monks for a blessing, there was a general stir at the board. The blessing given, the Viceroy started from the hall, when he found himself accosted by Francesco, who had stumbled blindly after him.
"May I have a word with you, my lord?"
Count Capecé nodded and Francesco followed him to his private cabinet, the doors of which closed behind him.
The Viceroy had seated himself and silently beckoned to the youth to begin.
With an effort Francesco spoke:
"I returned from San Cataldo last night, but was denied admittance to your Grace, wherefore my presence here may have startled you! – "
There was something like life in Francesco's tone, now the decisive moment had come, and looking down he carefully noted the face of him who was to be his judge.
A silent nod from the Viceroy bade him proceed.
"By your Grace's leave," he continued, with a marked effort, "this must be my last day at the Court of Avellino. I am bidden on a long and tedious journey. My father would have me set out upon it at once! I had wished to acquaint your Grace of the matter last night. I crave permission to quit the royal household, that I may be free to do my father's bidding."
Francesco had spoken with marked slowness and precision, that he might force himself to maintain his calm demeanor. To his own relief he finished the speech with no hint of a break in his tone, though gravely uncomfortable under the Viceroy's steady, searching gaze.
Now, with a quiet gentleness that caused him to start painfully, he felt the latter's hand laid almost tenderly upon his arm. He gave a startled look into the frank, kindly face of the Apulian, and the response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of color into his bloodless cheeks. He would have almost preferred the rude brutality of Anjou's men to this generosity which left him no weapons for defence. He moved uneasily where he stood, and his breath came fast.
He was very near to breaking.
"You have my permission to execute your father's behest," the Viceroy replied while his eyes were fixed on the face of the youth. "Let but the office wait its hour! You have heard the tidings which have brought joy to every Ghibelline heart. You note our preparations to depart. Conradino has crossed the Alps. To him belongs our first duty! We are bound for Pavia!"
Francesco gave an involuntary start.
"I also am bound northward!" he said, and wished he had not spoken.
The Viceroy nodded.
"The better so! You ride with us!"
Francesco looked up appealingly. His misery received a new shock from the Viceroy's lack of comprehension.
"I fear that may not be," he faltered, then noting the Viceroy's puzzled look, he added:
"The office I am bidden to perform, brooks no delay!"
Count Capecé eyed him curiously.
"What business may that be, more cogent than our own? On the hoof-beats of our horses hang the destinies of a kingdom! None may falter, none may turn back! I pry not into the nature of the office you are bidden to perform. Yet all personal interests should be suspended before the one all-absorbing task, that beckons us towards the Po!" —
"This business may not wait!"
It was almost a wail that broke from Francesco's lips. How could he make him understand without revealing his father's shame!
A shadow flitted across the Viceroy's brow.
"You will move the more swiftly in our train!"
A choking sensation had seized the youth.
"It may not be, – I must ride, – alone!" he stammered. All the color had forsaken his face and his knees barely supported his body.
"And when shall you return?" asked the Viceroy, feigning acquiescence.
There was a moment's silence ere Francesco replied:
"I fear, my lord, – I shall not return!"
Count Capecé started.
"You speak as if you were about to renounce the Court of Avellino forever," he replied after a brief pause, charged with apprehension. "What is the meaning of this? Why do you tremble? Your father is better of his illness! No messenger has reached us from San Cataldo. Is not your presence here proof of his recovery?"
"When I left my father's side, his sickness was in nowise lessened," responded Francesco laconically.
"Not lessened!" exclaimed the Viceroy. "Then how came you here?"
"At my father's command I am here!"
"For what purpose?"
"To acquaint you of my choice – of the Church!"
He spoke the words in a hard and dry tone.
Count Capecé had arisen. He was hardly less pale than Francesco, but there was a light in his eyes that burnt into the very soul of the youth.
"You said, your choice?"
"My choice!"
"Ingrate! Renegade!"
Francesco bowed his head.
He no longer attempted to reply, or to vindicate himself. His head had fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. His temples throbbed dully. He had known it from the start. They would misjudge him, they would misjudge his motives. Years of loyalty spent at the Court of Avellino would not mitigate the judgment of the step he was about to take; they would rather aggravate it. They believed him bought by the Guelphs. And his lips must remain sealed forever! Dared he divulge his father's shame? Dared he cast an aspersion upon the guiltless head of her who had given him birth and life? A life he had not desired, forsooth, yet one that it was his to bear to the end, – whatever that end! —
The Viceroy seemed to await some explanation, some apology – an apology he could not give. What would words avail? Had not he, Francesco, bartered his life, his soul, his destiny into eternal bondage? But now his misery gave way to his pride. Once again he raised his head; but in his pallid face there lay an expression of haughtiness, of defiance, with which he met the Viceroy's hostile gaze.
"I take my leave, my lord! As for my future life, it is not of sufficient import to require or merit your consideration."
The Viceroy pointed silently to the door.
As one dazed, Francesco crept to his chamber.
There with a great sob he sank into a settle.
He gazed about. Nothing seemed altered since the days when he had been alive. Not a trifle was changed because a human soul, a living human soul had been struck down. The chamber was just the same as before. Outside the water plashed in the fountain, the birds carolled in the trees. As for himself, – he was dead, quite dead.
He sat down on the edge of his couch and stared straight into space. His head ached. The very centre of his brain seemed to burst. It was all so dull, so stupid, – life so utterly meaningless.
He remembered he had not spoken with Ilaria. At the very thought everything grew black before his vision. Yet he could not leave with the stigma upon his soul. She at least would understand, she at least would pity him. He felt like one looking down into a self-dug grave.
He arose and stepped to the window.
It was now past the hour of high noon. The activity in the courtyard, abandoned during the heated term of the day, began gradually to revive. There was no time to be lost.
Hastily he scratched a few lines on a fragment of vellum which lay close at hand, called an attendant and bade him despatch it at once to Ilaria Caselli.
Then, weary and tired, he gathered together his scant belongings, so scant indeed as not to encumber his steed; then, his arms propped on his knees, he sat down once more and awaited the coming of dusk.
CHAPTER VI
THE BROKEN TROTH
SPRING triumphed with a vaunting pageant in the park of Avellino, where the gravelled walks were snowy beneath the light of the higher risen moon, and were in shadows transmuted to dim, violet tints. The sombre foliage of yew and box and ilex contrasted strangely with the pale glow of the young grass, sloping in emerald tinted terraces down to where the lake shimmered through the trees.
It was an enchanted spot, second only to the gardens of Castel Fiorentino, with their broad terraces and gleaming marble steps, where peacocks proudly strutted. At one end, a fountain sent its silvery spray from a tangle of oleanders. Marble kiosks and statues gleamed from the sea-green dusk of the groves. All around there rioted an untamed profusion of shrubs: fantastic flowers of night, whose fragrance hung heavy on the air. Ivy clung and climbed along the crannies of gray walls; roses sprawled in a crimson torrent of perfume over the weather-stained torsos of gods and satyrs. In the centre of an ilex-grove a marble-cinctured lake gazed still-eyed at the sky, with white swans floating dream-like on its mirrored black and silver.
The dusk deepened; the golden moon hung low in the horizon, flooding the garden with a wan spectral light. The pool lay a lake of silver, in a black fringe of trees. The night flowers breathed forth drowsy perfume, making heavy the still air of summer.
Out of the velvet shadows there now came a woman, with dusky eyes and scarlet lips and jewels that gleamed among the folds of her perfumed robe. Slowly, like a phantom, she passed through the grove towards the ivy-wreathed temple of Pomona by the marble-cinctured lake.
Francesco who had been waiting, his heart in his throat, rose with a sigh of relief, mingled with a mighty dread. Would she understand? Would she grasp the enormity of the sacrifice he must make on the altar of duty and obedience? Could she guess, could she read the terrible pain that racked his heart and soul at the thought of parting, – a parting for life, – for all eternity? For never, even if by chance they should again cross each other's path in life, could there be aught between them save a look; their lips must be mute forevermore and the voices of their hearts hushed.
So Fate had decreed it.
Bound hand and foot, he had been sold to his own undoing, to his own doom.
In a faint whisper came his name. Two white hands were extended towards him.
He arose, stumbled forward, and the next moment found them in close embrace.
"My darling! My own! I feared I had been too bold in my feelings for you!"
And again and again he kissed her mouth, her eyes, and the dusky sheen of her hair.
"I love you!" she whispered, her arms about his neck, her witch-like eyes drinking in the love and admiration which beamed from his. "Since last night, it seemed to me, we had been parted for months!"
A dull insufferable pain gripped his heart.
For a moment he closed his eyes, then, placing his arm about her, Francesco led her to a remote terrace where the velvet turf was bathed in bluish silver-light, while far below, turning a little to eastward, wound the shimmering thread of the Volturno, rippling softly through the perfumed night into the emerald shadows of the sleeping forest.
All about these two lay dream-like silence.
What wonder they were both loath to break the spell! Francesco, with heavy heart, watched the familiar scene, not daring to think, only standing passive beside her, whose faint breath stirred elf-like the rose upon his breast.
Ilaria, too, was silent, wondering, hoping, fearing, waiting for him to speak.
A faint zephyr stole through the branches of the cypress and magnolia trees. And from afar, as from another sphere, the faint sounds of distant convent bells were wafted through the impassioned silence of the southern night.
A sudden mighty longing leaped into his heart.
To banish it, he must speak. Yet, try as he would, he could not. His lips refused to form the words and an ice-cold hand seemed to grip his heart.
Turning suddenly, he took the sweet face into his hands and held it for a pace, and looked into her eyes with such a mad hunger, such delirious longing, that she too caught the moment's spell. Her breath came in gasps; her lips were thirstily ajar; she began to lean towards him, and at last he threw his arms about her and caught the dear head so wildly to his bosom, that woman-like she guessed there was something hidden beneath it all, and while she abandoned herself to his caresses, softly responding to them, the waves of a great fear swept over her own heart.
Looking up at him, she caught the strange, wild expression in his face, an expression she had twice surprised since his return from his mysterious voyage, once in the rose-garden, then at the repast.
"Francesco," she breathed, with anxious wonderment in her tone, "why do you look at me like that?"
Thoroughly frightened by his manner, she caught him by the arm.
He looked at her with bewildered eyes, but made no immediate response.
"Why do you look at me like that?" she repeated, her fear enhanced by his fierce look, his heaving breath. "Speak! What is it you have to tell me? They are stirring in the courtyard. We have scant time. And you – are you ready when the signal sounds? Your garb is ill-suited for a journey!"
At her words he gradually shook off the lethargy which seemed to benumb his senses.
Absently he looked down upon his garb.
"I forgot," he muttered, then the realization being forced upon him that he must speak, he took a deep breath, and the words sprang fiercely from his lips.
"Ilaria – can you guess the import of this hour? Can you guess why we are here at this moment?"
She looked up at him questioningly, but did not speak.
"We are here," he stammered, looking helplessly into her face, – "to say farewell."
"Farewell?" she repeated with wonderment. "Do you not ride with us?"
A negative gesture was slowly followed by the words:
"I do not ride with you."
"I do not understand!" she said, hesitation in her tone. "Has the Viceroy – "
"I am no longer of the court!"
She started. He saw the roses fade from her cheeks.
"Dismissed?"
The words stung him like a whip-lash.
He bowed his head.
"I will see Count Capecé at once! He will not refuse a boon to Ilaria Caselli!"
She had arisen, as if to suit the action to the words.
He gently drew her back, disregarding her resistance, her wondering look.
"It is beyond recall!"
From the castle court there came the sound of a fanfare.
Neither noted it.
Yet a touch of impatience tinged Ilaria's words, as she turned to him anew.
"What ails you, Francesco? You are dealing in enigmas. Why are you dismissed? Why may I not see the Viceroy at once, – ere it be too late?"
"Because it is too late. We part – for life!"
A deadly pallor had overspread her features.
"I do not understand!" she faltered.
His head drooped. It was with difficulty he maintained his self-control.
"I feared as much, – and yet, the word must be spoken, – farewell – forever – these two words alone – "
"Forever!" she exclaimed, "and between us? No, – no, – not that, – not that!" She held out both hands to him. He caught them in his own, as a drowning man would hold on to a straw.
"And yet, – we must!" he replied, with a choking voice. "Oh, Ilaria – Ilaria – my sweetheart – my darling, – save me! Save me!"
He broke off suddenly and stared at her vacantly.
"Lord Christ, – what do I say! No, no! I did not mean that! I pray to God, that we may not."
"May not – what?" she interposed, her eyes in his. "Francesco, speak! What troubles you? What is the meaning of it all?"
"Oh, Ilaria," he said slowly, "it is indeed more difficult to tell than I had guessed. When I leave Avellino, it will be never to return!"
"But why – why, Francesco?" she questioned, alarmed by his words, but more by the wild expression of his countenance.
"How can I tell it – how can I tell it? Is it not enough for you, to know that I must go?"
"You frighten me!" she whispered, drawing nearer to him.
He took her in his arms and held her close, very close to him, pressing his lips upon her closed eyes. It was his farewell to love, to life.
"Tell me that you love me!" he begged in piteous tones.
"I love you," she breathed in whispered accents, broken by a sob. "Do you not know?"
"I love you," he cried with sudden fierceness, flinging the words in rebellion at the inexorable fate which was in store for him.
"Then, – why must we say it, – the word?" she queried anxiously. "Think you that I fear to follow you, – wherever you may go?"
For a moment he held her in close embrace, then his arms fell, as if paralyzed, from about her. He drew back one quick step, a look crossing his face that startled her even more than his strange unexplained words.
"There where I go, you could not follow me ever," he said at last with the resolution of despair. "I am bound by a sacred oath to leave the world. I have no right to ask any woman for her love! Henceforth, my home – this castle – must be a dream, a memory to me, and you, Ilaria, will stand as far above me as yonder star soars above the earth! Ilaria! I have pledged my word to my father that I will bid farewell to life and happiness, to take in their stead the lonely vows of a Benedictine monk!"
There was a dead silence.
For a moment she looked at him, as if trying fully to comprehend what it was he had said.
Then his meaning pierced her brain.
She shrank slowly away from him, then stood quite still, her eyes wide and dark with horror, her face white, as a mask of death. A great icy wave of silence seemed to have swept between them, shutting them out from the world of life.
In an instant all the softness and gentleness of her manner dropped from her like a discarded garment. She drew her trailing robes about her as if she dreaded contamination from him. A single petal from the flower he wore had fallen upon her breast. She brushed it from where it nestled. It fluttered down upon the grass.
"A monk! And you have dared to touch me!" she hissed, as if she would have spat upon him.
A mist came over Francesco's eyes. For a few moments he was conscious of nothing. All life and expression had gone from his face. He did not see the flood of grief, the anguish and the wounded pride that prompted her action. He only saw her turn about without another word, and move swiftly from him towards the castle court, her eyes blinded with tears.
Like one dazed, Francesco stood and stared at the spot whence she had gone. He saw and heard nothing save in memory. His white garb shimmered in the moonlight with more life in its purity than there was in his face. His soul was wrapped in awful bitterness at his destiny, – the punishment for his father's sin.
He had not told her. He had told no one. Twice on the same day he had been misunderstood, his integrity assailed. He had hoped and prayed for understanding. His prayer had been denied. None there was who understood, none who even vaguely guessed the enormity of the sacrifice. Pity only he had encountered, a pity akin to contempt, from those whose cause he had seemingly deserted; disdain from her whose lips might have alleviated the burden of his destiny by a blessing that he might take with him on his lonely, solitary road.
