PART I.--THE TEMPTER.
A world of tents--to the right, to the left--before or behind--a world of tents. And not dismal little canvas tents--but brave erections in cloths of gold and silver, and gay colors.
Truth to tell, all this was evidence of a tournament, given by the Duke of Messina.
Many knights intended to compete in this tournament. Hence, that sea-shore near Palermo was gay as a garden with colored tents, bright gold, shining armor, and brave knights, sumptuously attired.
But no braver knight, more bravely attended, nor surrounded with more magnificence, was there than the unknown, whose arrival had created such a stir in the gorgeous camp.
This unknown knight, as he came from the tent erected for him in the centre of his people’s brilliant little encampment, was the observed of all observers.
“Dost know who he is?”
“Wherefore comes he?”
“I have heard that he will take part in the tournament.”
Calmly the unknown knight came amongst the host of gentlemen, bowing and smiling gravely. They made way for him--nay, some drew forward stools, and soon the whole body of knights were seated about tables, more or less magnificent, as the owner knight was rich and brave, or brave only.
But he who drew on him as much attention as the unknown knight himself, was his companion, a tall, solemn-looking man. His brow was heavy and dark, his step slow, firm, and yet light; no color was in his face, his lips were pale and thin, and the veins of his forehead could be traced--a deep blue color wandering beneath his skin. His eyes were mournful, his hair fell about his head in deep, waving folds, and a kind of settled despair seemed to hang upon him, and weigh him down.
This companion of the unknown knight was dressed in garments of sombre hue, which hung in beautiful sweeping folds about his person. His hands were delicate and white, and had in them a trembling motion, which was at great variance with the close, firm mouth--little, small, delicate hands, beautiful to look upon, and yet, somehow, they looked like claws, the fingers seemed to turn so naturally to the palms.
The knights commenced drinking and dicing at the various tables. Still the stranger knight and his companion sat by themselves at their table of bright metal, inlaid with a winding pattern of jet.
Suddenly the companion whispered the knight, who thereupon, with a smiling face, turned to the body of gentlemen and saluted them, raising his goblet to them, and emptying it at a draught.
The knights readily responded to the appeal, and the next moment began conversing gaily with the two strangers.
The conversation, however, was soon interrupted by the arrival of two men, the one a squire of the stranger knight, the other a simple-looking country fellow, carrying his cap in his hand, and looking about him bashfully.
“Sire,” said the squire, softly, “this pilgrim is a songster, and he cometh from Normandy.”
“Normandy--dear, dear Normandy,” said the young knight, and as he spoke the words he looked handsomer than before.
“_Dear_ Normandy,” said the grave, noiseless companion, as the hand lying on the table twitched. “_Dear_ Normandy--I thought she had driven thee from her soil.”
The young knight frowned the truth of these few words; and then turning to the pilgrim troubadour, gave him some money, and asked him what he could sing.
“Ho--ho!” said the minstrel, laughing and yet trembling in the presence of the splendid company. “Ho--ho! I can sing all songs; but, my faith, the best is the history of our young duke, whom they call Robert the Devil. He hath the evil eye on him, my masters.”
Here he turned to the crowd of warriors who were drawing near, and did not mark the young knight place his right hand quickly upon his dagger.
“Sing of Robert, minstrel; sing of Robert the Devil.”
Again the companion spoke. “‘Tis but a poor minstrel.”
The knight, obediently, it seemed, moved his hand from the weapon, and said, “True!” Then loudly he called to the minstrel, “Begin, thou.”
“Oh, long ago, in Normandy, A valiant prince there chanced to reign; He lived in peace--his wife he loved, And yet he lived a life of pain.
No child had he; for years and years He knelt at shrines--he knelt and prayed; But all in vain--yes all in vain Was every sacrifice he made.
Then loud he swore, before the court, That if a son to him were born, He would devote him to the fiend, And let his soul from Heaven be torn.
And then in time there came a son, Of all the land, the dread and shame-- Robert--Robert--the demon’s own; And truly he deserves the name.
Not long ago--but at this day The valiant prince--if you’ll believe-- He lives--he lives--as does the son, For whom the duke doth ever grieve.”
As the gallants laughed at the ballad, and the earnestness with which it was sung, the minstrel stood with his back to the young knight. The next moment, the poor wanderer felt himself thrown to the ground; and, looking up, he saw a bright dagger high in the air above him. But restraining the holder of it, was a small white hand, the fingers of which seemed clawed about the other’s wrist.
“‘Tis but a poor minstrel!” he also heard a voice say.
Again the angry hand gave way, and fell to the young knight’s side; but he bade some of his people seize the unlucky singer.
“I am Robert,” he cried haughtily, and looking with defiance at the knights.
“The fiend!” cried the minstrel, falling on his knees.
“An hour for thy prayers, and the hour following thy purgatory! The next tree shall bear thee as its fruit.”
“Good, my prince; verily we have come all the way to see thee, bearing a holy message.”
“Message--we--who is your companion?”
“She who shall be my wife, if thou wilt let me live, master.”
“A Normandienne, Bertram; a _Normandienne_. Are there any women, think’st thou, their equals? Well, minstrel, thy wife’s eyes have gained for thee a pardon. Send her hither.”
“Good master.”
“Thou art courageous!”
Some well-meaning man-at-arms here gruffly pulled the young minstrel away; and the last he saw of Robert was that he turned inquiringly to the knights, and that they all seemed eager to please him and be near him.
Yet quickly he turned from the knights, as he heard the footsteps of several men approaching, and with them the patter of a pair of light feet.
Then came in the midst of those rough, shaggy men-at-arms, a young, pure-looking girl. She had one of those faces not eminently beautiful, and yet at which you gaze with a kind of awe; holiness too proud to ask the aid of mere beauty! Men seemed to grow better as they looked upon this holy young face.
“Alice, dear Alice--my sister Alice!”
“My prince--my prince!” and the young creature flung herself upon the ground near Robert.
“‘Tis my sister, gentlemen--our breath mingled on the same breast.” And stooping he lifted Alice from the ground.
Strange--his face seemed much lighter than it was, and his very voice happier and freer.
As for his companion, whom he called Bertram, he rose from the table, kept his eyes from the girl, and moved away--farther away--farther away--till he was lost to sight in the midst of the tents.
The knights and gentlemen about seemed to know that she would speak to him privately, for they withdrew, and soon left a wide space between themselves and the girl Alice.
“Prince, Alice. Call me not prince. For I am to thee ever brother. So, thou hast come to see the exile? I have striven to die since last I saw dear Normandy; but I bear a charmed life, methinks. And now here, Alice, love itself is my enemy. But thou dost not say why thou hast come.”
“My duty hath brought me hither.”
“Thou wast ever dutiful.”
“The duty I owe to a dear mistress bringeth me to thee.”
“Thou dost speak of my dear mother whom heaven bless.”
“Then is she blessed in heaven.”
“She--my mother!”
“And when thou shalt next see her, thou shalt be in heaven too.”
“Dead--dead--my mother dead!”
As he spoke Bertram glided from behind one of the tents, but the next moment was lost again. He turned his face angrily away as tears fell from the young knight’s eyes.
“‘Go,’ thy mother said, ‘go, my Alice, to him, and say that, though he has made my heart bleed all his life, I love him heartily; that my last thoughts are for him; that I will pray for him and watch him through his dark hours of temptation. Tell him a terrible power enwraps him, but thou--thou,’ and she laid her hands upon my head, O brother--‘thou shalt be his guardian spirit. I know that I may will it so. The hour must come when between me and the evil I have named my son must make his choice. Be thou near him then, O Alice, be thou near him, that he may pass surely on the narrow way to me!’ Then she lay down, whispering that she would her son were by to close her eyes--and so thy mother died.”
He hung his head and wept for pity and for love of that dear mother.
“You weep, my brother. I have yet more to tell thee. Before she spoke these last sad words, she placed a paper in my hands--her will--and she said, ‘Bid him read it when he thinks he is worthy to read it.’”
“That is not now, Alice. Keep this will; something tells me ’tis best in thy hands. Read my mother’s will now! now that I am borne down with sorrow, against which I do rebel with all my strength. And, sister Alice--I love a lady who, I fear, doth dread me.”
“Dread thee?”
“She is the princess of Sicily. Her father looked on me with but a troubled eye--and so I strove to steal her. But they fought bravely for their princess, and they saved her. I was down--down upon the ground, and I feared never more to see my own dear land--when a noble knight came to my rescue and delivered me. They fell before his arm as the blades of corn before the reaper. He saved me and he is my dear friend, my dear loving friend!”
As he spoke, Bertram was standing not far off; his face wearing a grave, almost a gracious smile, and his white right hand high above him playing with the folds of a flame-red tent.
“And the princess, brother--does she love thee?”
“Alas, sister--how should I know?”
“Nay--write to her.”
“And who shall be my herald?”
“Who--I will be thy herald!”
He called quickly, and from his tent came a page. To this child he gave a rapid order, and the next minute he was writing a letter to the lady whom he would have stolen. When he had finished, he pressed the hilt of his dagger on the seal, as was the custom of the day.
“Go--sister of mine--fortune be with you!”
As she turned, she saw the knight, Bertram.
She was not afraid of him, but she seemed to know he was her enemy.
“Brother--who is that man?”
“Ah--Bertram! This is the noble friend I told thee of--wherefore dost thou regard him so strangely?”
“At home, in our village church, there is a picture which tells how the Archangel conquered Satan; and methinks I see in this man a resemblance to--”
“The Archangel?”
“No, verily, the other.”
“Ha!--go, sister.”
She obeyed him with a kind of fearless fear--a courage mixed with a desire to avoid this man.
“Thou art on good terms with thy conquest.”
“Gratitude, Bertram.”
“A good word--a _good_ word.”
“Were I bluntly candid, Bertram, I should say that near thee I never feel so honest as when thou art distant; but now as I stood by Alice, I marvelled much how I seemed to enjoy all things about me, and how much I felt inclined to good.”
“I love thee, Robert, as a father would his son--his only son.”
“Aye--but truly the advice of a father is ever godly.”
“Is it likely I am the fiend? Tush!--drown your cares; rejoin the knights and cavaliers--do as they do--_thou art no worse than they_!”
“Verily!”
“_And thou art rich!_”
Diligently the white knight, as the knights began to call the pallid Bertram--diligently the white knight arranged the gaming tables, and when his friend took the dice-box into his hand, he came and stood near him, slightly smiling.
“Thou shouldst double the stakes, Robert,” said the white knight, after the youth had lost freely. “Fortune hates the niggard hand. Double, friend, double.” And here the white hand gathered up the dice.
“Well, double the stakes!”
“Nay--if thou treblest, then thy chance is almost a surety.”
“Treble the stakes!”
Thrown, and lost.
“Fortune hates the niggard hand; hesitate not--play!”
Again the rattle of the dice was heard, again the knight lost.
Again, and yet again, he played and lost! Then he even wagered the jewels from his robe; then his horses, and his armor. Yet with fell purpose fortune turned her back upon him.
“Fortune doth try thee, Robert. Still tempt her: she loveth the brave.”
Again he plays--again he loses.
“Gold is only a bauble--fling it, fling it, fling it away.”
At last he had played away all--all! There was yet the sword at his side, and the dagger with which he had threatened the poor minstrel. Another moment and they were lost too. He, Robert of Normandy, had disarmed and beggared himself.
But in a moment his natural rage swept over him and he was frantic. With a threatening look at the knights about him, he wrested a battle-axe from a soldier near at hand, and was flying madly at the victorious group. Then indeed, Bertram showed himself a loving friend. He held the youth back, he entreated the gentlemen to pardon his ungracious anger. He shielded him. And all the while he trembled like a woman.