Chapter 10

"I and these other women with me, we must fly from the land of our life and of our love. For the honor of no woman is safe in the reign of Robert the Bad, and the feet of good women go not in his halls. Woe to the wicked King!"

She knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

A young man rose and spoke.

"No youth with a clean spirit can live in peace in Sicily. Only the man who will sell his wife, the brother who will betray his sister, the lover who will surrender his sweetheart, may find favor with the tyrant. Woe to the wicked King!"

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

Robert's face was very pale, his body shook with anguish, and he crouched more and more upon the steps of the altar.

A soldier rose and spoke.

"I am not squeamish; I have seen cities sacked, but I will not serve this man-beast. I will carry my sword over-seas. I will follow the flag of some gallant captain, and die remembering Sicily. Woe to the wicked King!"

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

He heard Hieronymus give his benediction--"Benedicto vos in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." A thought came to Robert, he crept to Hieronymus, plucking at his sleeve:

"Father," he whispered, "may I, who am so sore afflicted, speak to these unhappy?"

Hieronymus rested his hand gently on Robert's shoulder as he again addressed the kneeling figures.

"Brethren," he said, "lo, here is one of the tyrant's victims. Speak, my son."

He moved aside a little to give Robert more space, resting his hand upon the iron cross. Robert, his face hidden in his hood, addressed the mourners.

"Brethren," he wailed, "I am the most unhappy soul in Sicily, for God has cursed me with a fearful curse. At night I dream I am this wicked King, and all day long the evil of his deeds grinds down my heart. But in my misery I have heard words more sweet than honey, more fragrant than myrrh, which if you will guard them in your hearts will be to you as wells in the waste places, as orchards in the sand, as shade of palm and strength of manna in the weary, hungry land. 'He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.'"

He would have fallen if Hieronymus's strong arms had not sustained him. With one voice all the wanderers echoed his words.

"'He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.'"

The wanderers rose very slowly from their knees and went very slowly out at the sea-door, followed by Hieronymus, who almost carried Robert in his arms to the outer air.

For some minutes the little church was empty and dark and silent. Then a side door opened and a woman and a man entered, coming from a quiet street. The woman was Lycabetta; the man was Hildebrand. Hildebrand looked curiously around him.

"Why have you brought me here?" he asked.

"Answer me first," Lycabetta replied. "How is the King?"

Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders. "Bloody of purpose, and yet bloodless. Lustful of purpose, and yet loveless. In his prisons many wait for death, but none perish; for the King has sworn that none shall die before the fool Diogenes, and we cannot find the fool. The loveliest women of Sicily have been torn from their homes to his palace, but they have not seen the King, for he will love no woman until he has found the girl Perpetua. And the girl cannot be found."

Lycabetta whispered in his ear:

"Listen; this morning in the flower-market my Lysidice noted a hooded friar who bought white roses. A wind stirred his cowl and she saw the face of Diogenes."

Hildebrand started.

"Was she sure?"

"'Tis no face to forget," Lycabetta answered; "though she swears it less frightful than of old. She made no sign, but she bribed a child to follow the false friar, and the brat ran him to earth here."

Hildebrand grinned savagely.

"If they be here, no fable of the plague shall save them this time."

Lycabetta caught him eagerly by the arm and drew him behind a concealing pillar. She had seen the sea-door open and had seen a figure in a friar's gown.

"Who is this?" she whispered triumphantly to Hildebrand.

Robert came through the sea-door. Inside the church he threw back his hood and his face was plainly visible to the watchers, themselves invisible, screened by the pillars and the gloom. Hildebrand pressed Lycabetta's hand significantly. He had seen all he wanted to see. The pair slipped quietly out by the door through which they had entered. Robert advanced slowly to the altar and flung himself on the steps.

"Dear God," he prayed, "let not the guiltless suffer for my guilt. Punish me to the top of my sin, but pity Sicily."

XV

THE HUNTER'S VOICE

Out of the shadow-land at the back of the altar emerged a white figure, with a fair face and hair the color of flame. She moved unheard across the pavement of the place of sanctuary; unheard she pushed open the little golden wicket in the golden railing; unheard she noted the white rose where it lay upon the ground, and, picking it up, lifted it to her lips before she placed it in her girdle; unheard she moved to where Robert lay in his agony before the altar.

"Friend," she whispered, softly.

Robert's consciousness awoke from its dark dreams. He rose and faced the girl, naming her name with joy.

"Perpetua!"

Perpetua came close to him.

"You have been abroad. Have you any news of my father?"

Robert shook his head.

"He is still kept close in the palace; his sword is still idle. The King has doomed many to death, but it seems that none shall die until the fool dies--and they cannot find the fool," he added, with a grim laugh.

Perpetua looked at him with sad affection and said, earnestly, "I wish you would fly from Sicily."

Robert answered her as earnestly, "I wish you would fly from Sicily."

"I will not leave my father."

"I will not leave you in danger."

Perpetua, smiling, gently chided. "All men live in danger through each second of each minute. I do not know the color of fear."

Robert drew a little nearer to her and spoke with a warning voice.

"I fear for you. This morning I saw in the market-place one of the women of Lycabetta. She did not see me, but to see her renewed my fear. If danger should come here ring at this bell," and he pointed to the great rope on the column by the altar. "It was set here by King Robert the Good, that any man having cause of complaint against the King might ring it and rouse all Syracuse to sit in judgment between sovereign and subject. In all his reign no hand ever tugged at that cord."

Perpetua looked at it sadly. "Every hand in Syracuse might itch to clasp it in the reign of Robert the Bad."

There were tears in Robert's eyes as he echoed her.

"Robert the Bad. You might have loved him," he said, after a short silence.

Perpetua turned away, for now there were tears in her eyes. "Oh, I know nothing of love," she said.

Robert saw her sadness and combated his own to cheer her. "Is it not strange," he asked, "your loveliness knows nothing of love while my unloveliness is cunning in love-wisdom? Year in and year out I have watched the world a-wooing--shepherd and shepherdess under the hawthorn hedge, knight and dame in the rose-bower, king and queen on the marble terrace."

She turned to him again and there were now no tears in her eyes; grief should not conquer her and she spoke brightly, entering into the spirit of his speech.

"A prodigal preface. But what is the sum of all your wisdom?"

The wild fancy which had come into Robert's brain when he spoke of love-wisdom grew with the moment into a wild resolve. The lips of the fool should interpret the heart of the King. He motioned to her to sit on the lowest of the steps that led to the altar place, and when she had done so he seated himself thereon. The sunlight fell between them and lay, a pool of many colors at their feet. Neither of them knew that the little side door, which led from the quiet street, opened a little, allowing a woman to slip into the church and vanish behind the shadow of a pillar.

Robert spoke in a slow voice. "Love is the soul of the world. I am no better than a mouthing fool, but I believe the perfect lover to be next of kin to the angels."

Perpetua gave a little sigh. "What is the perfect lover?" she asked, softly. She felt as if she were back in her mountain hut, sitting by her father's side, and asking him questions of the youth of the world. Robert's voice came back to her like a solemn chant.

"Such a one as the many dull would meanly scorn and the few wise nobly envy. For him love comes like a mighty wind of fire and burns his heart clean. He may have been stained and spotted in the slough of life, but when the woman comes she saves him."

There was a nobleness in his voice which she had not noted before; it charmed and lulled her.

"Can human love do so much?" she asked, more of herself than of him.

Robert's voice rose in triumphant assertion. "The heart's woman is the soul's star. She lifts her lover from the common whirl of things. He is thrilled with the elemental wonder, fulfilled with the immortal truth. He shelters imperishable passion in the perishable flesh. To a gray world such love brings glory, and he that is so graced walks in the wilderness as in a rose garden--gentle in reverence, loyal in honor, simple in faith. His eyes have glimpses of the flight of angels; his ears hear snatches of the music of the spheres, and even the very dust he treads upon becomes the golden dust of stars. This is the love that is mightier than death, this is the mystery of mysteries, the rose of changeless youth."

Perpetua put her hand to her heart.

"Is there such love?" she breathed, and instantly Robert answered her and his answer came like music to her ears.

"There is such love. It is no dream, but a glorious reality transfiguring the world, exalting men, immortalizing women. If I could woo you with a hunter's voice, I would cry to you through the parted leaves: Perpetua, I love you with this mighty love, have loved you since that happy forest day, shall love you so, Perpetua, till I die, and bear as my one claim to opened heaven the changeless cry, I love Perpetua."

While Robert was speaking his face seemed to grow comelier, and the pale face of Perpetua showed the influence of his words. Her eyes shone with his enthusiasm, her lips quivered with his emotion, her cheek flushed with his inspiration; she was entirely under the spell of his speech and the associations it evoked. As he came to an end she rose as if entranced, and moved slowly towards him. He, too, rose, as if himself bewitched by the magic of his tongue, and stood with parted arms as if to clasp and welcome her. Each had forgotten time and place, both were again in the green wood with their hearts on fire.

"Hunter, my hunter," Perpetua cried; "your voice comes through the leaves and conquers me!"

Her eyes were half closed, her hands stretched out; she swayed towards him.

Robert sprang forward with a mighty cry. "Perpetua!"

She was almost in his arms; suddenly her opened eyes realized that she was confronted by the rugged visage of the fool. She drew back with a start, and put her hands to her eyes as if to brush away the dream that had possessed her.

Robert, who had advanced like a conqueror, fell back like a slave.

"Ah!" Perpetua moaned. "What have you said to me? I have dreamed a dream."

With a heavy sigh Robert answered her, striving to smile.

"I too have dreamed a dream. As the golden words glowed from my brain they worked a spell upon me, and for a moment I, the hideous cripple, fancied myself young and comely, the lover of my vision. Forgive me, Perpetua."

"What is there to forgive?" Perpetua answered. "I have slept waking, have dreamed with open eyes, and in my dream I seemed to hear a voice that carries all the music of the world, which called me by my name and made me come to it."

"Perpetua!" Robert pleaded.

But she went on speaking, unheeding him, as if she were indeed still under the influence of a dream.

"I was again in the green wood; the fountain bubbled at my feet. Strong hands parted the curtain of green leaves, and through the gap came sunlight--sunlight and the hunter with eyes like mountain lakes; and as I moved to meet him the vision vanished. Are you a wizard?"

Robert could now command himself.

"No," he said; "only a fool who teases his soul with Elysian fancies. But the strings of the lute have snapped; they were made of heartstrings, and a thought too fine for the work. I will play that air no more."

She did not seem to notice the sorrow in his voice; she longed for solitude. "Leave me a little while to myself," she entreated. "I want to be alone and pray."

Robert looked at her wistfully; for a few golden moments he had known youth again, and hope, and the speech of passionate love, had seen the woman he worshipped come to him under the spell of his words. Now he was again God's outcast.

"The will of Heaven be done," he murmured to himself; then to Perpetua he said, quietly, "When you pray, pray for your poor servant, for I think your pure voice must soar at once into the courts of Heaven."

Perpetua smiled kindly at him. "Dear Diogenes," she said; and with that name ringing in his ears Robert went slowly out through the sea-door. Perpetua turned and knelt at the altar, praying,

"Dear Mother of Mercy, help me to forget the hunter's face!"

XVI

THE CALL OF THE BELL

Out of the darkest shadows a woman crept towards the altar. She bent over Perpetua where she knelt, and said, mockingly:

"You would do better to pray to forget the fool's face, for the fool has led you into folly."

Perpetua sprang to her feet and saw Lycabetta. Making the sign of the cross she confronted her. "Why are you here? This place is holy."

Lycabetta laughed. "I loved you so well that I could not part from you. You have no plague mark on your beauty. That was a rare trick, and your fool hid you cunningly--but we have found you, bird, at last."

"I am in sanctuary," Perpetua said, steadily.

Lycabetta sneered, "Our king-hawk will not be scared by a sacred name."

"Sicily still stands in Christendom," Perpetua answered; "and this ground is as holy as the old Jerusalem or the new."

Lycabetta looked at her with languid wonder.

"Why are you so perverse? It is a smiling fortune to be the darling of a king."

"It is a fairer fortune to be the darling of the Lord," Perpetua answered, proudly. "Why do you plague me so vainly? There is no fear nor favor in the world that can move me."

Lycabetta watched her with half-closed lids. "Are you so sure?" she said, cruelly. Then she went to the side door and opened it, calling out, "My lord!" and instant to her summons Hildebrand entered the church.

"Your chaste angel will play no game with us."

Hildebrand gave Perpetua a courtly salutation. "I am glad to find you, lady."

Perpetua had drawn close to King Robert's pillar and caught the rope in her hands.

"If you come near me," she cried, "I will ring this bell and Syracuse will guard me."

"You mistake me," Hildebrand said, calmly. "I am your friend, and by your leave I would save you from the King. Do not believe that sanctuary will serve you. His lust of hate would pluck you from between the horns of the altar."

"This shrine is sacred, even to him," Perpetua asserted, wearing a greater confidence than she felt.

Lycabetta laughed stealthily. Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders.

"You talk briskly, but you cannot make and mend the world at your maid's pleasure. I alone can save you from the King."

"How can you save me?" Perpetua asked him. She was undaunted, but she thought to gain time.

"Very simply," Hildebrand answered; "I desire your favors more than the King's favor, and if you will give me yourself I will take care of what is mine own."

"You are a faithful servant," Perpetua said, in scorn.

Hildebrand waved her scorn away dispassionately with his delicate white hands.

"I wear no fetters. If the King irks me I will drive my dagger between his ribs, and make myself king in Sicily. I think a change in the dynasty would not be unpopular in the island. Why, I will do this to-night to please you, and make you my queen if you will."

"You are baser than your master." Perpetua flung the words at him.

Hildebrand heard them unmoved. "I am what I am. Will you come to me?"

Perpetua answered him, steadfast in scorn, "You are as foolish as you are cruel, and you weary me."

Hildebrand turned to Lycabetta. "Daughter of Venus," he said, "a few paces hence you will find the northern soldier whose kisses you relish. Bring him here with his company."

Lycabetta went a little way nearer to Perpetua and stared at her. "You must be a witch," she said, "for you make men mad for you. I cannot see your marvel." Then she went out of the church.

"I will appeal to Syracuse," Perpetua cried to Hildebrand. She seized the rope of the great bell and tugged at it. The deep note of the bell was heard booming out over the city, to be answered almost immediately by the hum of voices and the hurry of feet.

"Now you are doomed indeed," Hildebrand commented, ironically.

Perpetua still tugged at the bell.

"Syracuse will defend me," she asserted, brave against danger.

"Syracuse will do nothing," Hildebrand said, confidently.

Even as he spoke the sea-door was flung open and a mob of people flooded the church, bearing Hieronymus in their midst. At the same moment through the side door Sigurd entered with his soldiers, followed by Lycabetta.

"Who rings the bell?" Hieronymus asked, sternly, gazing in amazement at Perpetua and the strange display of armed force.

"I do, father," Perpetua answered. Then eagerly she appealed to the murmuring crowd: "People of Syracuse, protect me. That bell appeals to you with the voice of the dead good King, to defend me against the living evil King."

Men and women, the crowd clustered together, murmurous, menacing sound--the men had weapons in their hands and looked as if they were ready to use them in defence of their ancient rights.

Unmoved by their attitude, Hildebrand said to Sigurd: "Make that woman your prisoner. She is the King's enemy."

Sigurd and his soldiers advanced towards Perpetua. As they did so the uneasy crowd about the door parted, and Robert rushed in through the human lane, wild-eyed; he looked from Perpetua to Hildebrand, from the soldiers to the people.

"Perpetua! Perpetua!" he cried. "You dare not touch her. She is in sanctuary."

Instantly the people about the door took up the cry and thundered it: "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"

Hildebrand greeted Robert with an evil smile. "Fool, fool, I thought we should lure you."

"Sanctuary!" Robert cried again. He tried to reach Perpetua, but the soldiers were between him and her, a wall of weapons.

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" the people raved, swaying at Robert's heels.

Hildebrand lifted his hand; there was a lull, and he spoke. "Silence, slaves! There is no sanctuary against sorcery."

Perpetua, clinging to the pillar, echoed his word in horror. "Sorcery!"

"Ay," repeated Hildebrand. "Sorcery. The King swears you have cast spells upon him, delivering him madness in a draught of well-water, that you are a damnable sorceress."

Through the confused clamor that followed this charge, Perpetua's voice rang out.

"This is the wickedest story ever told."

"People of Syracuse," Robert called, "do not believe this man. She is the victim of a wicked King. As you have wives, daughters, sweethearts, stand by me and save her."

He appealed eagerly to the crowd, rushing to man after man among them, but each shook his head and hung back, daunted by the terrible charge of witchcraft.

"Sorcery's a vile thing," said one.

"I'll not meddle with sorcery," said another.

Perpetua's hopes drooped as she saw how popular feeling fell from her.

"I am no sorceress, men of Syracuse," she said, sadly.

Robert pointed to the pale, beautiful girl standing by the pillar and surrounded by the armed men.

"Can you look upon her and believe one evil thought? Save her, in God's name!"

Again the crowd swayed a little towards the soldiers, urged by Robert, urged by Hieronymus. Again it fell back when Hildebrand raised his hand.

"Friends, this fellow is a madman. If you ask him he will tell you that he is the King."

The crowd that was wellnigh stirred to mutiny by Robert's appeals drew back from him suspiciously.

Hildebrand saw his advantage and pressed it. "Is it not so, fellow? Are you not the King?"

Robert's hands raised in appeal, raised in menace, dropped inertly to his side, and his head drooped on his breast.

"I was the King," he said, in a voice that was but a whisper.

Hildebrand caught at the admission exultantly.

"You hear him? Secure him!"

All his supporters, save Hieronymus, ebbed away from Robert. Two of Sigurd's soldiers seized him. Whatever chance there might have been of rescuing Perpetua was lost.

Hildebrand went on, triumphantly:

"Against witchcraft no sanctuary prevails. Let no man hinder the King's justice on pain of death."

Lycabetta, who had crept near to Perpetua, whispered in her ear:

"My lord Flame is a fierce lover. He clings close and he kisses quick and he will not spare your modesty. You will burn like a bright torch."

Then Lycabetta went out of the church as she had come in, with a smile on her face.

Perpetua called to Hieronymus. "Is there no help?"

"There is no help," Hieronymus answered, despairingly.

"Then I will go to death holding my head high," the girl said, valiantly.

"Take her away," Hildebrand ordered; and at his order Perpetua was borne away in the midst of a guard of soldiers and followed by Hieronymus. "Clear the church."

The remaining soldiers drove the crowd into the streets.

"Fling the fool on the altar steps. I think he will have a praying fit on him."

His captors cast Robert roughly on the altar steps, where he lay like one dying.

"Now leave me."

The two soldiers went out, the sea-door closed, and Hildebrand and Robert were left alone.

Hildebrand went slowly over to where Robert lay and talked mockingly to him.

"How mulish a woman may be! Here is a great country girl, who has never lain soft nor known cheer, never worn silk and never sported a jewel, and yet when great men scuffle for her, she will rather die than serve them and herself. Yes, friend Diogenes, your sweetheart will be burned as a witch."

Robert lifted his head. "Pray Heaven you lie!" he moaned.

"I am more truthful than an oracle," Hildebrand retorted. "When the wood-wench flouted him, our good King vowed that she should burn for her virtue."

Robert shuddered at the memory of his own words, of his own purpose.

"Oh, God, have mercy on my wicked soul!" he prayed.

Hildebrand mocked him with a false compassion. "Yet all is not lost, friend Diogenes. If your wit saved her before, your valor may save her now."

Robert turned to him again.

"If your heart holds any pity, speak," he entreated, hoping against hope for some leaven of charity in the heart of Hildebrand.

"She can appeal to the ordeal of battle," Hildebrand said, calmly. "And if she finds a champion valiant enough to overthrow the King's man, who shall accuse her, then she is free."

Robert hid his face. "Heaven have pity!" he murmured.

Hildebrand went on unmoved.

"The King has picked me for his champion, and, as you know, I am skilled in arms. But you are a stalwart fellow. Prove yourself the better man and save your paramour."