The Project Gutenberg eBook of Under the Witches' Moon, by Nathan Gallizier. (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44827 ***

THE ROMANCES
OF
NATHAN GALLIZIER

Under the
Witches' Moon

A Romantic Tale
of Mediaeval Rome
BY
Nathan Gallizier

Author of "The Crimson Gondola," "The Hill of Venus,"
"The Court of Lucifer," "The Sorceress of Rome,"
"Castel del Monte," Etc.

THE PAGE COMPANY
BOSTON MDCCCCXVII

BOOK THE FIRST

UNDER THE WITCHES'MOON

CHAPTER I
THE FIRES OF ST. JOHN

It was the eve of St. John inthe year of our Lord Nine HundredThirty-Five.

High on the cypress-clad hillsof the Eternal City the eveningsun had flamed valediction, andthe last lights of the dying daywere fading away on the wavesof the Tiber whose changelesstide has rolled down throughcenturies of victory and defeat, of pride and shame, of gloryand disgrace.

The purple dusk began to weave its phantom veil over theancient capital of the Cæsars and a round blood-red moonwas climbing slowly above the misty crests of the Alban Hills,draining the sky of its crimson sunset hues.

The silvery chimes of the Angelus, pealing from churchesand convents, from Santa Maria in Trastevere to Santa Mariaof the Aventine, began to sing their message of peace into theheart of nature and of man.

As the hours of the night advanced and the moon rosehigher in the star-embroidered canopy of the heavens, a vastconcourse of people began to pour from shadowy lanes andthoroughfares, from sanctuaries and hostelries, into thePiazza Navona. Romans and peasants from the Campagna,folk from Tivoli, Velletri, Corneto and Terracina, pilgrimsfrom every land of the then known world, Africans andGreeks, Lombards and Franks, Sicilians, Neapolitans, Syriansand Kopts, Spaniards and Saxons, men from the frozen coastof Thulé and the burning sands of Arabia, traders from theLevant, sorcerers from the banks of the Nile, conjurers fromthe mythical shores of the Ganges, adventurers from theBarbary coast, gypsies from the plains of Sarmatia, monksfrom the Thebaide, Normans, Gascons and folk from Aquitaine.

In the Piazza Navona booths and stalls had been erectedfor the sale of figs and honey, and the fragrant products of theRoman osterié.

Strings of colored lanterns danced and quivered in the air.The fitful light from the torches, sending spiral columns ofresinous smoke into the night-blue ether, shed a lurid glowover the motley, fantastic crowd that increased with everymoment, recruited from fishermen, flower girls, water-carriersand herdsmen from the Roman Campagna.

Ensconced in the shadow of a roofless portico, a relic ofthe ancient Circus Agonalis, which at one time occupied thesite of the Piazza Navona, and regarding the bewilderingspectacle which presented itself to his gaze, with the air ofone unaccustomed to such scenes, stood a stranger whosecountenance revealed little of the joy of life that should bethe heritage of early manhood.

His sombre and austere bearing, the abstracted mood andfar-away look of the eyes would have marked him a dreamerin a society of men who had long been strangers to dreams.For stern reality ruled the world and the lives of a raceuntouched alike by the glories of the past and the dawn ofthe Pre-Renaissance.

He wore the customary pilgrim's habit, almost colorlessfrom the effects of wind and weather. Now and then achance passer-by would cast shy glances at the lone stranger,endeavoring to reconcile his age and his garb, and wonderingat the nature of the transgression that weighed so heavilyupon one apparently so young in years.

And well might his countenance give rise to speculation,were it but for the determined and stolid air of aloofnesswhich seemed to render futile every endeavor to entice himinto the seething maelstrom of humanity on the part of thosewho took note of his dark and austere form as they crossedthe Piazza.

Tristan of Avalon was in his thirtieth year, though thehardships of a long and tedious journey, consummatedentirely afoot, made him appear of maturer age. The face,long exposed to the relentless rays of the sun, had taken onthe darker tints of the Southland. The nose was straight,the grey eyes tinged with melancholy, the hair was of chestnutbrown, the forehead high and lofty. The ensemble wasthat of one who, unaccustomed to the pilgrim's garb, movesuneasily among his kind. Yet the atmosphere of frivolity,while irritating and jarring upon his senses, did not permithim to avert his gaze from the orgy of color, the pandemoniumof jollity, that whirled and piped and roared about him as theflow of mighty waters.

One of many strange wayfarers bound upon business ofone sort or another to the ancient seat of empire, whoseworldly sceptre had long passed from her palsied grip tothe distant shores of the Bosporus, Tristan had arrived duringthe early hours of the day in the feudal and turbulent witches'cauldron of the Rome of the Millennium.

And with him constituents of many peoples, from far andnear, had reached the Leonine quarter from the Tiburtineroad, after months of tedious travel, to worship at the holyshrines, to do penance and to obtain absolution for real orimaginary transgressions.

From Bosnia, from Servia and Hungary, from Negropontand the islands of the Greek Archipelago, from Trebizond andthe Crimea it came endlessly floating to the former capital ofthe Cæsars, a waste drift of palaces and temples and antiquecivilizations, for the End of Time was said to be nigh, and thedread of impending judgment lay heavily upon the totteringworld of the Millennium.

A grotesque and motley crowd it was, that sought andfound a temporary haven in the lowly taverns, erected for theaccommodation of perennial pilgrims, chiefly mean ill-favoreddwellings of clay and timber, divided into racial colonies, sothat pilgrims of the same land and creed might dwell together.

A very Babel of voices assailed Tristan's ear, for theancient sonorous tongue had long degenerated into thelingua Franca of bad Latin, though there were some whocould still, though in a broken and barbarous fashion, makethemselves understood, when all other modes of expressionfailed them.

All about him throbbed the strange, weird music of zithernsand lutes and the thrumming of the Egyptian Sistrum.The air of the summer night was heavy with the odor ofincense, garlic and roses. The higher risen moon gleamedpale as an alabaster lamp in the dark azure of the heavens,trembling luminously on the waters of a fountain which occupiedthe centre of the Piazza Navona.

Here lolled some scattered groups of the populace, discussingthe events of the day, jesting, gesticulating, drinkingor love-making. Others roamed about, engaged in conversationor enjoying the antics of two Smyrniote tumblers,whose contortions elicited storms of applause from an appreciativeaudience.

A crowd of maskers had invaded the Piazza Navona, andthe uncommon spectacle at last drew Tristan from his pointof vantage and caused him to mingle with the crowds, whichincreased with every moment, their shouts and gibes andthe clatter of their tongues becoming quite deafening to hisears. Richly decorated chariots, drawn by spirited steeds,rolled past in a continuous procession. The cries of thewine-venders and fruit-sellers mingled with the acclaim ofthe multitudes. Now and then was heard the fanfare of acompany of horsemen who clattered past, bound upon somefeudal adventure.

Weary of walking, distracted by the ever increasing clamor,oppressed with a sense of loneliness amidst the surgingcrowds, whose festal spirit he did not share, Tristan madehis way towards the fountain and, seating himself on themargin, regardless of the chattering groups, which intermittentlyclustered about it, he felt his mood gradually calmin the monotony of the gurgling flow of the water, whichspurted from the grotesque mouths of lions and dolphins.

The stars sparkled in subdued lustre above the dark,towering cypresses which crowned the adjacent eminenceof Monte Testaccio, and the distant palaces and ruins stoodforth in distinctness of splendor and desolation beneath theluminous brightness of the moonlit heavens. White shredsof mist, like sorrowing spirits, floated above the windingcourse of the Tiber, and enveloped in a diaphanous haze thecloisters upon St. Bartholomew's Island at the base of MountAventine.

For a time Tristan's eyes roamed over the kaleidoscopicconfusion which met his gaze on every turn. His ear wasassailed by the droning sound of many voices that filled theair about him, when he was startled by the approach of twomen, who, but for their halting gait, might have passedunheeded in the rolling sea of humanity that ebbed andflowed over the Piazza.

Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, was endowed with the eleganceof the effeminate Roman noble of his time. Suppleas an eel, he nevertheless suggested great physical strength.The skin was of a deep olive tinge. The black, beady eyeswere a marked feature of the countenance. Inscrutableand steadfast in regard, with a hint of mockery and cynicism,coupled with an abiding alertness, they seemed to penetratethe very core of matter.

He wore a black mantle reaching almost to his feet. Ofhis features, shaded by a hood, little was to be seen, savehis glittering minx-eyes. These he kept alternately fixedupon the crowds that surged around him and on his companion,a hunchback garbed entirely in black, from the Spanishhat, which he wore slouched over his face, to the blackhose and sandals that encased his feet. A large red scaracross the low forehead heightened the repulsiveness of hiscountenance. There was something strangely sinister inhis sunken, cadaverous cheeks, the low brow, the inflamedeyelids, and his limping gait.

Without perceiving or heeding the presence of Tristanthey paused as by some preconcerted signal.

As the taller of the two pushed back the hood of his pilgrimgarb, as if to cool his brow in the night breeze, Tristan peeredinto a face not lacking in sensuous refinement. Dark superciliouseyes roved from one object to another, without dwellinglong on any particular one. There was somewhat of acynical look in the downward curve of the eyebrows, thethin straight lips and the slightly aquiline nose, which seemedto imbue him with an air of recklessness and daring, thatill consorted with his monkish garb.

Their discourse was at first almost unintelligible to Tristan.The language of the common people had, at this period ofthe history of Rome, not only lost its form, but almost thevery echo of the Latin tongue.

After a time, however, Tristan distinguished a name, and,upon listening more attentively, the burden of the messagebegan to unfold itself.

"Why then have you ventured out of your hell-hole ofiniquity, when discovery means death or worse?" said Basil,the Grand Chamberlain. "Do the keeps and dungeons ofthe Emperor's Tomb so allure you? Or do you trust insome miraculous delivery from its vermin-haunted vaults?"

At these words Rome's most dreaded bravo, Il Gobbo ofthe Catacombs, snarled contemptuously.

"You are needlessly alarmed, my lord. They will notlook for Il Gobbo in this company, though even a mole maywalk in the shadow of a saint."

Basil regarded the speaker with mingled pity and contempt.

"There is room for all the world in Rome and the devilto boot."

Il Gobbo chuckled unpleasantly.

"Besides—folk about here show a great reverence fora holy garb—"

"Always with fitting reservations," interposed the GrandChamberlain sardonically. "I have had it in mind at sometime or other to relieve the Grand Penitentiary. The goodman's lungs must be well nigh bursting with the foul airdown there by the Tomb of the Apostle. He will welcome arest!"

"Requiescat," chanted the bravo, imitating the nasaltone of the clergy.

Basil nodded approval.

"He at one time did me the honor of showing some concernin my spiritual welfare. Know you what I replied?"—

The bravo gave a shrug.

"'Father,' I said, when he urged me to confess, 'prayshrive some one worthier than myself. But—if you mustneeds have a confession—I shall whisper into your holyear so many interesting little episodes, so many spicy peccadillos,and—to enhance their interest—mention some namesso high in the grace of God—'"

"And the reverend father?"

"Looked anathema and vanished"—

Basil paused for a moment, after which he continued witha sigh:

"It is too late! The Church is to be purified. Not eventhe pale shade of Marozia will henceforth be permitted tohaunt the crypts of Castel San Angelo—merely for the sakeof decorum. There is nothing less well bred than memory!"

For a moment they relapsed into silence, watching theshifting crowds, then Basil continued:

"Compared with this virtuous boredom the last days ofUgo of Tuscany were a carnival. One could at least speedthe travails of some one who required swift absolution."

"Can you contrive to bring about this happy state?" queriedIl Gobbo.

"It is always the unexpurgated that happens," Basil repliedsardonically.

"I hope to advance in your school," Il Gobbo interposedwith a smile.

"I have long had you in mind. If you are in favor withyourself you will become an apt pupil. Remember! Hewho is dead is dead and long live the survivor."

"In very truth, my lord, breath is the first and last thingwe draw—" rejoined the bravo, evidently not relishing thethought that death might be standing unseen at his elbow.

"Who would end one's days in odious immaculacy," Basilinterposed grandiloquently, "even though you will not incurthat reproach from those who know you from report, or whohave visited your haunts? But to the point. There arecertain forces at work in Rome which make breathing inthis fetid air a rather cumbersome process."

"I doubt me if they could teach your lordship any newtricks," Il Gobbo replied, somewhat dubiously.

The Grand Chamberlain smiled darkly.

"Good Il Gobbo, the darkest of my tricks you have notyet fathomed."

"Perchance then the gust of rumor blows true about mylord's palace on the Pincian Hill?"

"What say they about my palatial abode?" Basil turnedsuavely to the speaker.

There was something in the gleam of his interrogator'seyes that caused Il Gobbo to hesitate. But his native insolencecame to the rescue of his failing courage.

"Ask rather, what do they not say of it, my lord! Itwould require less time to recite—"

"Nevertheless, I am just now in a frame of mind to shuddersoundly. These Roman nights, with their garlic and incense,are apt to befuddle the brain,—rob it of its power to plot.Perchance the recital of these mysteries would bring tomind something I have omitted."

The bravo regarded the speaker with a look of awe.

"They whisper of torture chambers, where knife andscrew and pulley never rest—of horrors that make theblood freeze in the veins—of phantoms of fair women thathaunt the silent galleries—strange wails of anguish thatsound nightly from the subterranean vaults—"

"A goodly account that ought vastly to interest the GrandPenitentiary—were it—with proper decorum—whisperedin his ear. It would make him forget—for the time atleast—the dirty Roman gossip. Deem you not, good IlGobbo?"

"I am not versed in such matters, my lord," replied thebravo, ill at ease. "Perhaps your lordship will now tell mewhy this fondness for my society?"

"To confess truth, good Il Gobbo, I did not join you merelyto meditate upon the pleasant things of life. Rather to beinspired to some extraordinary adventure such as my hungrysoul yearns for. As for the nature thereof, I shall leavethat to the notoriously wicked fertility of your imagination."

The lurid tone of the speaker startled the bravo.

"My lord, you would not lay hands on the Lord's anointed?"

Il Gobbo met a glance that made the blood freeze in hisveins.

"Is it the thing you call your conscience that ails you, orsome sudden indigestion? Or is the bribe not large enough?"

The bravo doggedly shook his head.

"Courage lieth not always in bulk," he growled. "Maymy soul burn to a crisp in the everlasting flames if I drawsteel against the Lord's anointed."

"! What you do in my service shall not burdenyour soul! Have you forgotten our compact?"

"That I have not, my lord! But since the Senator ofRome has favored me with his especial attention, I too havesomething to lose, which some folk hereabout call theirhonor."

"Your honor!" sneered the Grand Chamberlain. "It islike the skin of an onion. Peel off one, there's anotherbeneath."

"My skin then—" the bravo growled doggedly. "However—ifthe lord Basil will confide in me—"

"Pray lustily to your patron saint and frequent the chapelof the Grand Penitentiary," replied Basil suavely, beckoningto Il Gobbo to follow him. "But beware, lest in your zealto confess you mistake my peccadillos for your own."

With these words the two worthies slowly retraced theirsteps in the direction of Mount Aventine and were soon lostto sight.

CHAPTER II
THE WEAVING OF THE SPELL

After they had disappearedTristan stood at gaze, puzzledwhere to turn, for the spectaclehad suddenly changed.

New bands of revellers hadinvaded the Piazza Navona, andit seemed indeed as if the Eveof St. John were assuming thecharacter of the ancient Lupercalia,for the endless variety ofcostumes displayed by a multitude assembled from everycorner of Italy, Spain, Greece, Africa, and the countries ofthe North, was now exaggerated by a wild fancifulness andgrotesque variety of design.

Tristan himself did not escape the merry intruders. Hewas immediately beset by importunate revellers, and notbeing able to make himself understood, they questionedand lured him on, imploring his good offices with the Enemyof Mankind.

Satyrs, fauns and other sylvan creatures accosted him,diverting their antics, when they found themselves but illrepaid for their efforts, and leaving the solitary strangerpondering the expediency of remaining, or wending his stepstoward the Inn of the Golden Shield, where he had takenlodging upon his arrival.

These doubts were to be speedily dispelled by a spectaclewhich attracted the crowds that thronged the Piazza, causingthem to give way before a splendid procession that hadentered the Navona from the region of Mount Aventine.

Down the Navona came a train of chariots, preceded bya throng of persons, clad in rich and fantastic Oriental costumes,leaping, dancing and making the air resound withtambourines, bells, cymbals and gongs. They kept up anincessant jingle, which sounded weirdly above the droningchant of distant processions of pilgrims, hermits and monks,traversing the city from sanctuary to sanctuary.

The occupants of these chariots consisted of a numberof young women in the flower of youth and beauty, whosescant apparel left little to the imagination either as regardedtheir person or the trade they plied. The charioteers wereyouths, scarcely arrived at the age of puberty, but skilledin their profession in the highest degree.

The first chariot, drawn by two milk-white steeds of theBerber breed, was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with gildedspokes and trappings that glistened in the light of a thousandcolored lanterns and torches, like a vehicle from fairyland.The reins were in the hands of a youth hardly over sixteenyears of age, garbed in a snow white tunic, but the skill withwhich he drove the shell-shaped car through the surgingcrowds argued for uncommon dexterity.

Tristan, from his station by the fountain, was enabled totake in every detail of the strange pageant which movedswiftly towards him, a glittering, fantastic procession, as ifdrawn out of dreamland; and so enthralled were his sensesthat he did not note the terrible silence which had suddenlyfallen upon the multitude.

As a half-slumbering man may note a sudden brilliantgleam of sunshine flashing on the walls of his chamber,Tristan gazed in confused bewilderment, when suddenly hisstupefied senses were aroused to hot life and pulsation, ashe fixed his straining gaze on the supreme fair form of thewoman in the first car, standing erect like a queen, surveyingher subjects.

In the silence of a great multitude there is always somethingominous. But Tristan noted it not. Indeed he wasdeaf and blind to everything, save the apparition in the shell-shapedcar, as it bounded lightly over the unevenly laid tufaof the Navona.

Was it a woman, or a goddess? A rainbow flame inmortal shape, a spirit of earth, air, water or fire?

He saw before him a woman combining the charm of thegirl with the maturity of the thirties, dark-haired, exquisitelyproportioned, with clear-cut features and dark slumbrouseyes.

She wore a diaphanous robe of pale silk gauze. Herwonderful arms, white as the fallen snow, were encircledby triple serpentine coils of gold. Else, she was unadorned,save for a circlet of rubies which crowned the dusky head.

Her sombre eyes rested drowsily on the swarming crowds,while a smile of disdain curved the small red mouth, as herchariot proceeded through the frozen silence.

Suddenly her eye caught the admiring gaze of Tristan,who had indeed forgotten heaven and earth in the contemplationof this supremest handiwork of the Creator. A wordto the charioteer and the chariot came to a stop.

Tristan and the woman faced each other in silence, theman with an ill-concealed air of uneasiness, such as onemay experience who finds himself face to face with someunknown danger.

With utter disregard for the gaping crowds which hadgathered around the fountain she bent her gaze upon him,surveying him from head to foot.

"Who are you?" she spoke at last, and he, confused,bewildered, trembling, gazed into the woman's supremelyfair face and stammered:

"A pilgrim!"

Her lips parted in a smile that revealed two rows of smallwhite, even teeth. There was something unutterable inthat smile which brought the color to Tristan's brow.

"A Roman?"

"From the North!"

"Why are you here?"

"For the salvation of my soul!"

He blushed as he spoke.

Again the strange smile curved the woman's lips, againthe inscrutable look shone in her eyes.

"For the salvation of your soul!" she repeated slowlyafter him. "And you so young and fair. Ah! You havedone some little wickedness, no doubt?"

He started to reply, but she checked him with a wave ofher hand.

"I do not wish to be told. Do you repent?"

Tristan's throat was dry. His lips refused utterance. Henodded awkwardly.

"So much the worse! These little peccadillos are thespice of life! What is your name?"

She repeated it lingeringly after him.

"From the North—you say—to do penance in Rome!"

She watched him with an expression of amusement. Whenhe started back from her, a strange fear in his heart, a waveof her hand checked him.

"Let me whisper a secret to you!" she said with a smile.

He felt her perfumed breath upon his cheek.

Inclining his ear he staggered away from her dizzy, bewildered.

Presently, with a dazzling smile, she extended one whitehand and Tristan, trembling as one under a spell, bent overand kissed it. He felt the soft pressure of her fingers andhis pulse throbbed with a strange, insidious fire, as reluctantlyhe released it at last.

Raising his eyes, he now met her gaze, absorbing intohis innermost soul the mesmeric spell of her beauty, drinkingin the warmth of those dark, sleepy orbs that flashedon him half resentfully, half mockingly. Then the charioteerjerked up the reins, the chariot began to move. Like adream the pageant vanished—and slowly, like far-awaythunder, the voice of the multitudes began to return, as theyregarded the lone pilgrim with mingled doubt, fear anddisdain.

With a start Tristan looked about. He was as one bewitched.He felt he must follow her at all risks, ascertainher name, her abode.

Dashing through the crowds that gave way before him,wondering and commenting upon the unseemly haste of onewearing so austere a garb, Tristan caught a last glimpse ofthe procession as it entered the narrow gorge that lies betweenMount Testaccio and Mount Aventine.

With a sense of great disappointment he slowly retracedhis steps, walking as in the thrall of a strange dream, and,after inquiring the direction of his inn of some wayfarershe chanced to meet, he at last reached the Inn of theGolden Shield, situated near the Flaminian Gate, and enteredthe great guest-chamber.

The troubled light of a melancholy dusk was enhancedby the glimmer of stone lamps suspended from the low anddirty ceiling.

Notwithstanding the late hour, the smoky precincts werecrowded with guests from many lands, who were discussingthe events of the day. If Tristan's wakeful ear had beenalive to the gossip of the tavern he might have heard theincident in the Navona, in which he played so prominent apart, discussed in varied terms of wonder and condemnation.

Tristan took his seat near an alcove usually reserved forguests of state. The unaccustomed scene began to exercisea singular fascination upon him, stranger as he was amongstrangers from all the earth, their faces dark against thedarker background of the room. Brooding over a tankardof Falernian of the hue of bronze, which his oily host hadplaced before him, he continued to absorb every detail ofthe animated picture, while the memory of his strange adventuredominated his mind.

Tristan's meagre fund of information was to be enrichedby tidings of an ominous nature. He learned that the Pontiff,John XI, was imprisoned in the Lateran Palace, by his step-brotherAlberic, the Senator of Rome.

While this information came to him, a loyal son of theChurch, as a distinct shock, Tristan felt, nevertheless,strangely impressed with the atmosphere of the place. Evenin the period of her greatest decay, Rome seemed still thecentre of the universe.

Thus he sat brooding for hours.

When, with a start, he roused himself at last, he foundthe vast guest-chamber well-nigh deserted. The pilgrimshad retired to their respective quarters, small, dingy cells,teeming with evil odors, heat and mosquitoes, and the oilyCalabrian host was making ready for the morrow.

The warmth of the Roman night and the fatigue engenderedafter many leagues of tedious travel on a dusty road, underthe scorching rays of an Italian sky, at last asserted itselfand, wishing a fair rest to his host, who was far from displeasedto see his guest-chamber cleared for the night,Tristan climbed the crooked and creaking stairs leading tothe chamber assigned to him, which looked out upon thegate of Castello and the Tiber, where it is spanned by theBridge of San Angelo.

The window stood open to the night air, on which floatedthe perfumes from oleander and almond groves. The roofsof the Eternal City formed a dark, shadowy mass in thedeep blue dusk, and the cylindrical masonry of the FlavianEmperor's Tomb rose ominously against the deep turquoiseof the night sky.

Soon the events of the day and the scenes of the eveningbegan to melt into faint and indistinct memories.

Sleep, deep and tranquil, encompassed Tristan's wearylimbs, but in his dreams the events of the evening wereobliterated before scenes of the past.

CHAPTER III
THE DREAM LADY OF AVALON

Like a disk of glowing gold thesun had set upon hill and dale.The gardens of Avalon lay wraptin the mists of evening. Likeflowers seemed the fair womenwho thronged the winding paths.From fragrant bosquets, borneon the wings of the night windcame the faint sounds of zithernsand lutes.

He, too, was there, mingling joyous, carefree, with the rest,gathering the white roses for the one he loved. Dimly herecalled his delight, as he saw her approach in the waninglight through the dim ilex avenue, an apparition wondrousfair in the crimson haze of slowly departing day, entering hisgarden of dreams. With strangely aching heart he saw themthrong about her in homage and admiration.

At last he knelt before her, kissing the white hand thatlay passive within his own.

How wonderful she was! Never had he seen anythinglike her, not even in this land of flowers and of beautifulwomen. Her hair was warm as if the sun had entered intoit. Her skin had the tints of ivory. The violet eyes withthe long drooping lashes seemed to hold the memories of athousand love thoughts. And the small, crimson mouth, sowitch-like, so alluring, seemed to hold out promise of fulfilmentof dizzy hopes and desires.

"It is our golden hour," she smiled down at him, and thewhite fingers twined the rose in her hair, wove a girdle ofblossoms round her exquisite, girlish form.

To Tristan she seemed an enchantment, an embodied rose.Never had he seen her so fair, so beautiful. On her lipsquivered a smile, yet there was a strange light in her eyes,that gave him pause, a light he had never seen therein before.

She beckoned him away from the throng. "Come wherethe moonlight dreams."

Her smile and her wonderful eyes were his beacon light.He rose to his feet and took her hand. And away theystrayed from the rest of the crowd, far away over greenlawns, emerald in the moonlight, with, here and there, thedark shadow of a cypress falling across the silvery brightnessof their path. Little by little the gardens were deserted.Fainter and fainter came the sounds of lutes and harps.The shadows of the grove now encompassed them, as silentlythey strode side by side.

"This is my Buen Retiro," she spoke at last. "Here wemay rest—for awhile—far from the world."

They entered the rose-bower, a wilderness, blossomingwith roses and hyacinths and fragrant shrubs—a veryparadise for lovers.—

The bells of a remote convent began to chime. Theysmote the silence with their silvery peals. The castle ofAvalon lay dark in the distance, shadowy against the deepazure of the night sky.

When the chimes of the Angelus had died away, she spoke.

"How wonderful is this peace!"

Her tone brought a sudden chill to his heart.

As she moved forward, he dropped his wealth of flowersand held out his hands entreatingly.

"Dearest Hellayne," he said, "tarry but a little longer—"

She seemed to start at his words, and leaned over theback of the stone bench, which was covered with climbingroses. And suddenly under this new light, sad and silent,she seemed no longer his fair companion of the afternoon,all youth, all beauty, all light. Motionless, as if shadowedby some dire foreboding, she stood there and he dared notapproach. Once he raised his hand to take her own. Butsomething in her eyes caused the hand to fall as with itsown weight.

He could not understand what stayed him, what stayedthe one supreme impulse of his heart. He did not understandwhat checked the words that hovered on his lips.Was it the clear pure light of the eyes he loved so well? Wasit some dark power he wot not of?

At last he broke through his restraint.

"Hellayne—" he whispered low. "Hellayne—I loveyou!"

She did not move.

There was a deep silence.

Then she answered.

"Oh, why have you said the word!"

What did she mean? He cried, trembling, within himself.And now he was no longer in the moonlit rose-bower in thegardens of Avalon, but in a dense forest. The trees meetingoverhead made a night so black, that he saw nothing,not even their gnarled trunks.

Hellayne was standing beside him. A pale moonbeamflickered through the interwoven branches.

She pointed to the castle of Avalon, dim in the distance.He made a quick forward step to see her face. Her eyeswere very calm.

"Let us go, Tristan!" she said.

"My answer first," he insisted, gazing longingly, wistfullyinto the eyes that held a night of mystery.

"You have it," she said calmly.

"It was no answer," he pleaded, "from lover to lover—"

"Ah!" she replied, in her voice a great weariness whichhe had never noted before. "But here are neither lovesnor lovers.—Look!"

And he looked.

Before them lay a colorless and lifeless sea, under thearch of a threatening sky. Across that sky dark clouds,with ever-changing shapes, rolled slowly, and presentlycondensed into a vague shadowy form, while the torpidwaves droned a muffled and unearthly dirge.

He covered his eyes, overcome by a mastering fear ofthat dread shape which he knew, yet knew not.

He knelt before her, took the hands he loved so well intohis own and pressed upon them his fevered lips.

"I do not understand—" he moaned.

She regarded him fixedly.

"I am another's wife—"

His head drooped.

"When my eyes first met yours they begged that my lovefor you might find response in your heart," he said, stillholding on to those marvellous white hands. "Did you notaccept my worship?"

She neither encouraged nor repulsed him by word orgesture. And he covered her hands with burning kisses.After his passionate outburst had died to silence she spokequietly, tremulously.

"Tristan," she began, and paused as if she were summoningcourage to do that which she must. "Tristan, thismay not be."

"I love you," he sobbed. "I love you! This is all Iknow! All I shall ever know. How can I support life withoutyou? heart of my heart—soul of my soul?—What mustI do, to win you for my own—to give you happiness?"

A negative gesture came in response.

"Is sin ever happiness?"

"The priests say not! And yet—our love is not sinful—"

"The priests say truth." Hellayne interposed calmly.

He felt as if an immense darkness, the chaos of a thousandspheres, suddenly encompassed him, threatening toplunge him into a bottomless abyss of despair.

Then he made a quick forward step. Her face was closeto his. Wide eyes fastened upon him in a compelling gaze.

"Tell me!" he urged, his own eyes lost in those unfathomablewells of dreams. "When love is with you—doesaught matter? Does sin—discovery—God himself—matter?"

With a frightened cry she drew back.

But those steady, questioning eyes, sombre, yet aflame,compelled the shifting violet orbs.

"Tell me!" he urged again, his face very close to her face.

"Naught matters," she whispered faintly, as if under aspell.

Then her gaze relinquished his, as she looked dreamilyout upon the woods. There was absolute silence, lastingapace. It was the stillness of a forest where no birds sing,no breezes stir. Then a twig snapped beneath Hellayne'sfoot. He had taken her to his heart and, his strong armsabout her, kissed her eyes, her mouth, her hair. She sufferedhis caresses dreamily, passively, her white arms encirclinghis neck.

Suddenly he stiffened. His form was as that of one turnedto stone.

In the shadow of the forest beneath a great oak, hooded,motionless, stood a man. His eyes seemed like glowingcoals, as they stared at them. Hellayne did not see them,but she felt the tremor that passed through Tristan's frame.The mantle's hood was pulled far down over the man's face.No features were visible.

And yet Tristan knew that cowled and muffled form. Heknew the eyes that had surprised their tryst.

It was Count Roger de Laval.

The muffled shadow was gone as quickly as it had come.

It was growing ever darker in the forest, and when helooked up again he saw that Hellayne's white roses werescattered on the ground. Her scarf of blue samite hadfallen heedlessly beside them. He lifted it and pressed itto his lips.

"Will you give it to me?" he said tremulously. "Thatit may be with me always—"

There was no immediate response.

At last she said slowly:

"You shall have it—a parting gift—"

He seized her hands. They lay passively within his own.

There was a great fear in his eyes.

"I do not understand—"

She loosened the roses from her hair and garb before shemade reply. Silently, like dead leaves in autumn, thefragrant petals dropped one by one to earth. Hellaynewatched them with weary eyes as they drifted to their sleep,then, as she held the last spray in her hand, gazing upon itshe said:

"When you gave them to me, Tristan, they were sweetand fresh, the fairest you could find. Now they have faded,perished, died—"

He started to plead, to protest, to silence her, but she continued:

"Ah! Can you not see? Can you not understand?Perchance," she added bitterly, "I was created to adornthe fleeting June afternoon of your life, and when this scarfis torn and faded as these flowers, let the wind carry it away,—likethese dead petals at our feet—"

She let fall the withered spray, but he snatched it ere ittouched the ground.

"I love you," he stammered passionately. "I love you!Love you as no woman was ever loved. You are my world—myfate— Hellayne! Hellayne! Know you what yousay?"—

She gazed at him, with eyes from which all life had fled.

"I am another's," she said slowly. "I have sinned inloving you, in giving to you my soul. And even as you stoodthere and held me in your arms, it flashed upon me, like lightningin a dark stormy night—I saw the abyss, at the brinkof which we stand, both, you and I."—

"But we have done no wrong—we have not sinned," heprotested wildly.

She silenced him with a gesture of her beautiful hands.

"Who may command the waters of the cataract, go here,—orgo there? Who may tell them to return to their lawfulbed? I have neither power nor strength, to resist yourpleading. You have been life and love to me, all,—all,—andall this you are to-day. And therefore must we part,—part,ere it be too late—" she concluded with a wild cryof anguish, "ere we are both engulfed in the darkness."—

And he fell at her feet as if stunned by a thunderbolt.

"Do not send me away—" he pleaded, his voice chokedwith anguish. "Do not send me from you."

"You will go," she said softly, deaf to his prayers. "Itis the supreme test of your love, great as I know it is."

"But I cannot leave you, I cannot go, never to see youmore—" and he grasped the cool white hands of the womanas a drowning man will grasp a straw.

She did not attempt, for the time, to take them from him.She looked down upon him wistfully.

"Would you make me the mock of Avalon?" she said."Once my lord suspects we are lost. And, I fear, he doeseven now. For his gaze has been dark and troubled. AndI cannot, will not, expose you to his cruelty. You know himnot as I do—"

"Even therefore will I not leave you," he interposed,looking into the sweet face. "He has not been kind toyou. His pride was flattered by your ready surrender, andyour great beauty is but one of the many dishes that go tosatiate his varied appetites. Of the others you knownaught—"

She gave a shrug.

"If it be so," she said wearily, "so let it be. Nevertheless,I know whereof I speak. This thing has stolen over uslike a madness. And, like a madness, it will hurl us to ourdoom."

Though he had seen the dark, glowering face among thebranches, he said nothing, not to alarm her, not to cause herfear and misgiving. He loved her spotless purity as dearlyas herself. To him they were inseparable.

His head fell forward on her hands. Her fingers playedin his soft brown hair.

"What would you have me do?" he said, his voice chokedby his anguish.

"Go on a pilgrimage to Rome, to obtain forgiveness, as Ishall visit the holy shrines of Mont Beliard and do likewise,"she said, steadying her voice with an effort. "Let us forgetthat we have ever met—that we have ever loved,—orremember that we loved—a dream."—

"Can love forget so readily?" he said, bitter anguish andreproach in his tones.

She shook her head.

"It is my fate,—for better—or worse—no matter whatbefall. As for you—life lies before you. Love another,happier woman, one that is free to give—and to receive.As for me—"

She paused and covered her face with her hands.

"What will you do?" he cried in his anguish.

A faint, far-off voice made reply.

"I shall do that which I must!"

He staggered away from her. She should not see thescalding tears that coursed down his cheeks. But, as heturned, he again saw the dark and glowering face, the browgloomy as a thunder-cloud, of the Count de Laval. Butagain it was not he. It was the black-garbed, lithe stranger,the companion of the hunchback, who was regarding Hellaynewith evil, leering eyes.

He wanted to cry out, warn her, entreat her to fly.—

But it was too late.

Like a bird that watches spellbound the approach of thesnake, Hellayne stood pale and trembling—her cheekswhite as death—her eyes riveted on the evil shape thatseemed the fiend. But he, Tristan, also was encompassed bythe same spell. He could not move—he could not cry out.With a bound, swift and noiseless as the panther's, he sawthe sinewy stranger hurl himself upon Hellayne, picking herup like a feather and disappear in the gloom of the forest.

With a cry of horror, bathed from head to foot in perspiration,Tristan started from his slumber.

The moonbeams flooded the chamber. The soft breezeof the summer night stole through the open casement.

With a moan as of mortal pain he sat up and lookedabout.

Was he indeed in Rome?

Had it been but a dream, this echo of the past, this visualizedparting from the woman he had loved better thanlife?

Was he indeed in Rome, to do as she had bid him do,not in the misty, flower-scented rose-gardens of Avalon infar Provence?—

And she—Hellayne—where was she at this hour?

Tristan stroked his clammy brow with a hot, dry hand.For a moment the memories evoked by the magic wandof the God of Sleep seemed to banish all consciousnessof the present. He cast a fleeting, bewildered glance atthe dim, distant housetops, then fell back among his cushions,his lips muttering the name of her who had filled hisdream with her never-to-be-forgotten presence, wonderingand questioning if they would ever meet again. Thus hetossed and tossed.

After a time he became still.

Once again consciousness was blotted out and the dreamrealm reigned supreme.

CHAPTER IV
THE WAY OF THE CROSS

It was late on the followingmorning when Tristan waked.The sun was high in the heavensand the perfumes from a thousandgardens were wafted to hisnostrils. He looked aboutbewildered. The dream phantomsof the night still held his sensescaptive, and it was some timeere he came to a realization ofthe present. In the dream of the night he had lived over ascene in the past, conjuring back the memory of one whohad sent him on the Way of the Cross. The pitiless raysof the Roman sun, which began to envelop the white housesand walls, brought with them the realization of the presenthour. He had come to Rome to do penance, to start lifeanew and to forget. So she had bade him do on that never-to-beforgotten eve of their parting. So she had willed it,and he had obeyed.

How it all flooded back to him again in waves of anguish,the memory of those days when the turrets of Avalon hadfaded from his aching sight, when, together with a motleypilgrims' throng, he had tramped the dusty sun-baked road,dead to all about him save the love that was cushioned inhis heart. How that parting from Hellayne still dominatedall other events, even though life and the world had fallenaway from him and he had only prayer for oblivion, forobliteration.

Yet even Hellayne's inexorable decree would not haveavailed to speed him on a pilgrimage so fraught with hopelessness,that during all that long journey Tristan hardlyexchanged word or greeting with his fellow pilgrims. Itwas her resolve, unfalteringly avowed, to leave the worldand enter a convent, if he refused to obey, which had eventuallycompelled. Her own self-imposed penance shouldhenceforth be to live, lonely and heartbroken, by the sideof an unbeloved consort, while Tristan atoned far away, inthe city of the popes, at the shrines of the saints.

At night, when Tristan retired, at dawn, when he arose,Hellayne's memory was with him, and every league thatincreased the distance between them seemed to heightenhis love and his anguish. But human endurance has itslimits, and at last he was seized by a great torpor, a chillindifference that swept away and deadened every otherfeeling. There was no longer a To-day, no longer a Yesterday,no longer a To-morrow.

Such was Tristan's state of mind, when from the Tiburtineroad he first sighted the walls and towers of Rome, withoutdefinite purpose or aim, drawn along, as it were, towardsan uncertain goal by Fate's invisible hand. Utterly indifferentas to what might befall among the Seven Hills, hewas at times dimly conscious of a presentiment that ultimatelyhe would end up his own days in one of those silentplaces where all earthly hopes and desires are forever stilled.So much was clear to him. Like the rest of the pilgrimswho had wended their way to St. Peter's seat, he wouldcomplete the circuit of the holy shrines, kiss the feet of theFather of Christendom, do such penance as the Pontiffshould impose, and then attach himself to one party or anotherin the pontifical city which held out hope for action,since the return to his own native land was barred to himfor evermore.

How he would bear up under the ordeal he did not know.How he would support life away from Hellayne, without aword, a message, without the assurance that all was wellwith her, whether now, his own fate accomplished, othersthronged about her in love and adulation,—he knew not.

For the nonce he was resolved to let new scenes, newimpressions sweep away the great void of an aching heart,lighten the despair that filled his soul.

In approaching the Eternal City he had felt scarcely anyof the elevation of spirit which has affected so many devoutpilgrims. He knew it was the seat of God's earthly Vice-regent,the capital of the universal kingdom of the Church.He reminded himself of this and of the priceless relics itcontained, the tombs of the Apostles St. Peter and St. Paul,the tombs of so many other martyrs, pontiffs and saints.

But in spite of all these memories he drew near the placewith a sinking dread, as if, by some instinct of premonition,he felt himself dragged to the Cross on which at last he wasto be crucified.

Many a pilgrim may have seen Rome for the first timewith an involuntary recollection of her past, with the hopethat for him, too, the future might hold the highest greatness.

Certainly no ambitious fancy cast a halo of romantic hopeover the great city as Tristan first saw her ancient walls.He felt safe enough from any danger of greatness. Hehad nothing to recommend him. On the contrary, somethingin his character would only serve to isolate him, creatingneither admiration nor sympathy.

All the weary road to Rome, the Rome he dreaded, hadhe prayed for courage to cast himself at the feet of the Vicarof Christ. He did not think then of the Pope, as of one ofthe great of the earth, but simply as of one who stood inthe world in God's place. So he would have courage toseek him, confess to him and ask him what it was it behoovedhim to do.

Thus he had walked on—with stammering steps, bruisinghis feet against stones, tearing himself through briars—heedingnothing by the way.

And now, the journey accomplished, he was here in supremeloneliness, without guidance, human or divine, thrown uponhimself, not knowing how to still the pain, how to fill thevoid of an aching heart.

Would the light of Truth come to him out of the encompassingrealms of Doubt?

When Tristan descended into the great guest-chamberhe found it almost deserted. The pilgrims had set outearly in the day to begin their devotions before the shrines.The host of the Golden Shield placed before his sombreand silent guest such viands as the latter found most palatable,consisting of goat's milk, stewed lamb, barley breadand figs, and Tristan did ample justice to the savory repast.

The heat of the day being intense, he resolved to waituntil the sun should be fairly on his downward course beforehe started out upon his own business, a resolution whichwas strengthened by a suggestion from the host, that fewventured abroad in Rome during the Siesta hours, the Romanfever respecting neither rank nor garb.

Thus Tristan composed himself to patience, watchingthe host upon his duties, and permitting his gaze to roamnow and then through the narrow windows upon the objecthe had first encountered upon his arrival: the brown citadel,drowsing unresponsive in the noon-tide glow, a monumentof mystery and dark deeds, the Mausoleum of the FlavianEmperor—or, as it was styled at the period of our story,the Castle of the Archangel.

From this stronghold, less than a decade ago, a womanhad lorded it over the city of Rome, as renowned for herevil beauty as for the profligacy and licentiousness of hercourt. In time her regime had been swept away, yet therewere rumors, dark and sinister, of one who had succeededto her evil estate. None dared openly avow it, but Tristanhad surprised guarded whispers during his long journey.Some accounted her a sorceress, some a thing wholly evil,some the precursor of the Anti-Christ. And he had neverceased to wonder at the tales which enlivened the camp-fires,the reports of her beauty, her daring, her unscrupulousambition.

On the whole, Tristan's prospects in Rome seemed barrenenough. Service might perchance be obtained with theSenator, who would doubtlessly welcome a stout arm and atrue heart. This alternative failing, Tristan was utterly atsea as to what he would do, the prescribed rounds of obediencesbefore the shrines and the penances accomplished.He felt as one who has lost his purpose in life, even beforehe had been conscious of his goal.

The strange incidents of his first night in Rome had graduallyfaded from Tristan's mind with the re-awakeningmemory of Hellayne, never once forgotten, but for the momentdrowned in the deluge of strange events that had almostswept him off his feet.

As the sun was veering towards the west and the lengtheningshadows, presaging dusk, began to roll down from thehills it suffered Tristan no longer in the Inn of the GoldenShield. He strode out and made for the heart of Rome.

The desolate aspect of high-noon had changed materially.Tristan began to note the evidences of life in the PontificalCity. Merchants, beggars, monks, men-at-arms, condottieri,sbirri,—the followers of the great feudal houses, hurried toand fro, bent upon their respective pursuits, and above them,silent and fateful in the evening glow, towered the Archangel'sCastle, the tomb of a former Master of the World.It reared its massive honey-colored bulk on the edge of theyellow Tiber and beyond rose the dark green cypresses ofthe Pincian Hill. Innumerable spires, domes, pinnaclesand towers rose, red-litten by the sunset, into the stillyevening air. Bells were softly tolling and a distant hum likethe bourdon note of a great organ, rose up from the other sideof the Tiber, where the multitudes of the Eternal City trodthe dust of the Cæsars into the churches of the Cross.

Interminable processions traversed the city amidst anthemsand chants, for, on this day, masses were being sung andservices offered up in the Lateran Basilica, the Mother Churchof Rome, in honor of Him who cried in the wilderness.

In silent awe and wonder Tristan pursued his way towardsthe heart of the city. And, as he did so, the spectacle whichhad unfolded itself to his gaze became more varied and manifoldon every turn.

The lone pilgrim could not but admit that the shadows ofworldly empire, which had deserted her, still clung to Romein her ruins, even though to him the desolation which dominatedall sides had but a vague and dreamlike meaning.

Even at this period of deepest darkness and humiliationthe world still converged upon Rome, and in the very centreof the web sat the successor of St. Peter, the appointed guardianof Heaven and Earth.

The chief pagan monuments still existed: the Pantheonof Agrippa and the Septizonium of Alexander Severus; themighty remains of the ancient fanes about the Forum and thestupendous ruins of the Colosseum. But among them rosethe fortress towers of the Roman nobles. Right there, beforehim, dominating the narrow thoroughfare, rose the greatfortress pile of the Frangipani, behind the Arch of the SevenCandles. Farther on the Tomb of Cæcilia Metella presentedan aspect at once sinister and menacing, transformed as itnow was into the stronghold of the Cenci, while the Cætanicastle on the opposite side attracted a sort of wonderingattention from him.

This then was the Rome of which he had heard such marveloustales! The city of palaces, basilicas and shrines hadsunk to this! Her magnificent thoroughfares had becomesqualid streets, her monuments were crumbled and forgotten,or worse, they were abused by every lawless wretch whocared to seize upon them and build thereon his fortress orpalace. A dismal fate indeed to have fallen to the formermistress of the world! Far better, he thought, to be desertedand forgotten utterly, like many a former seat of empire, farbetter to be overgrown with grass and dock and nettle, to beleft to dream and oblivion than to survive in low estate as hadthis city on the banks of the Tiber.

With these reflections, engendered no less by the air ofdesolation than by the occasional appearance of armedbands of feudal soldiery who hurled defiance at each other,Tristan found himself drawn deeper and deeper into theheart of Rome, a hotbed of open and silent rebellion againstthe rule of any one who dared to lord it over the degeneratedescendants of the former masters of the world. Here representativesof the nations of all the earth jostled one anotherand the poor dregs of Romulus; or peoples of wilder aspectfrom Persia or Egypt, within whose mind floated mysteriousOriental wisdom, bequeathed from the dawn of Time. Andas the scope of Tristan's observation widened, the demon ofdisillusion unfolded gloomy wings over the far horizon of hissoul. And the Tiber rolled calmly on below, catching in itsturbid waves the golden sunset glow.

Now and then he encountered the armed retinue of somefeudal baron clattering along the narrow ill-paved streets,chasing pedestrians into adjacent doorways and porticoes andpursuing their precipitate retreat with outbursts of banterand mirth.

Unfamiliar as Tristan was with the factions that usurpedthe dominion of the Seven Hills, the escutcheons and coats-of-armsof these marauding parties meant little to him. Nowand then however it would chance that two rival factionsclashed, each disputing the other's passage. Then, only, didhe become alive to the dangers that beset the unwary in thecity of the Pontiff, and a sudden spirit of recklessness anddaring, born of the moment, prompted the desire to plungeinto this seething vortex, if but to purchase temporary oblivionand relief.

He faced the many dangers of the streets, loitering hereand there and curiously eyeing all things, and would eventuallyhave lost himself, when the mantle of night began tofall on the Seven Hills, had he not instinctively remarkedthat the ascending road removed him from the river.

CHAPTER V
ON THE AVENTINE

When Tristan at last regainedhis bearings, he found himselfamong the convents and cloisterson Mount Aventine. Hiseyes rested wearily on the eddyinggleam of the Tiber as itwound its coils round the baseof the Mount of Cloisters, thencethey roamed among the grassand weed-grown ruins of ancienttemples and crumbling porticoes, which rose on all sides inthe silent desolation.

Just then a last gleam of the disappearing sun touched thebronze figure of the Archangel on the summit of Castel SanAngelo, imbuing it for an instant with a weird effect, as thoughthe ghost of some departed watchman were waving a lightedtorch aloft in the heavens. Then the glow faded before adead grey twilight, which settled solemnly over the melancholylandscape.

The full moon was rising slowly. Round and large shehung, like a yellow shield, on the dark, dense wall of theheavens. In the distance the faint outlines of the AlbanHills and the snow-capped summit of Monte Soracté werefaintly discernible in the night mists. In the backgroundthe ill-famed ruins of the ancient temple of Isis rose intothe purple dusk. The Tiber, in the light of the higher risingmoon, gleamed like a golden ribbon. The gaunt masonryof the Septizonium of Alexander Severus was dimly rimmedwith light, and streaks of amber radiance were wanderingup and down the shadowy slopes of the Mount of Cloisters,like sorrowing ghosts bound upon some sorrowful errand.

All sense of weariness had suddenly left Tristan. Acompelling influence, stronger than himself, seemed to urgehim on as to the fulfillment of some hidden purpose.

Once or twice he paused. As he did so, he became awareof the extraordinary, almost terrible stillness, that encompassedhim. He felt it enclosing him like a thick wall onall sides. Earth and the air seemed breathless, as if inthe throes of some mysterious excitement. The stars,flashing out with the brilliant lustre of the south, were asso many living eyes eagerly gazing down on the solitaryhuman being whose steps led him into these deserted places.The moon herself seemed to stare at him in open wonderment.

At last he found himself before the open portals of thegreat Church of Santa Maria of the Aventine. From thegloom within floated the scent of incense and the soundof chanting. He could see tapers gleaming on the high altarin the choir. Women were passing in and out, and a blindbeggar sat at the gate.

Moved more by curiosity than the desire for worship,Tristan entered and uncovered his head. The Byzantinecupola was painted in vermilion and gold. The slenderpillars of white marble were banded with silver and inlaidwith many colored stones. The basins for holy water wereof black marble, their dark pools gleaming with the colorsof the vault. Side chapels opened on either hand, dimsanctuaries steeped in mystery of incense-saturated dusk.

The saints and martyrs in their stiff, golden Byzantinedalmaticas seemed to endow each relic with an air of mystery.The beauty and the mystery of the place touchedTristan's soul. As in a haze he seemed again to see thepomp and splendor of the sanctuaries of far-away, dream-lostAvalon.

Tristan took his stand by one of the great pillars, and,setting his back to it, looked round the place. There weresome women in the sanctuary, engaged in prayer. Tristanwatched them with vacant eyes.

Suddenly he became conscious that one of these worshipperswas not wholly absorbed in prayer under herhood. Two watchful eyes seemed to consider him witha suggestiveness that no man could mistake, and her thoughtsseemed to be very far from heaven.

Once or twice Tristan started to leave the sanctuary, butsome invisible hand seemed to detain him as with a magichold.

In due season the woman finished her devotions andstood with her hood turned back, looking at Tristan acrossthe church. Her women had gathered about her and outsidethe gates Tristan saw the spear points of her guard.Turning, with a glance cast at him over her shoulder, sheswept in state out of the church, her women following her,all save one tall girl, who loitered at the door.

Suddenly it flashed upon Tristan, as he stood there withhis back leaning against the pillar. Was not this the womanhe had met by the fountain, the woman who had spokenstrange words to him in the Navona?

Had she recognized him? Her eyes had challenged himunmistakably when first they had met his own, and nowagain, as she left the church. They puzzled Tristan, thesesame eyes. Far in their depths lurked secrets he dreadedto fathom. Her scented garments perfumed the very aisles.

Tristan was roused from his reverie by a woman's handplucking at his sleeve. By his side stood a tall girl. Shewas very beautiful, but her eyes were evil. She looked boldlyat Tristan and gave her message.

"Follow my mistress," were her words.

Tristan looked at her, his face almost invisible in the gloom.Only the moonlight touched his hair.

"Whom do you serve?" he replied.

"The Lady Theodora!" came the answer.

Tristan's heart froze within him. Theodora—the womanwho had succeeded to Marozia's dread estate!

In order to conceal his emotions he brought his face closerto the fair messenger, forcing his voice to appear calm as hespoke.

"What would your mistress with me?"

The girl glanced up at him, as if she regarded the questionstrangely superfluous.

"You are to come with me!" she persisted, touching hisarm.

Tristan's mouth hardened as he considered the message,without relinquishing his station by the pillar.

What was he to Theodora—Theodora to him? She wasa woman, evil, despite her ravishing beauty, so he had gatheredduring the days of his journey. The spell she had castover him on the previous evening had vanished before thememory of Hellayne. Her sudden appearance, her witch-likebeauty had, for the time, unmanned him. The hardshipsand privations of a long journey had, for the moment, causedhis senses to run rampant, and almost hurled him into thearms of perdition. Yet he had not then known. And nowhe remembered how they all had fallen away from him, asfrom one bearing on his person the germs of some dreaddisease. The terrible silence in the Navona seemed visualizedonce again in the silence which encompassed him here.Yet she was all powerful, so he had heard. She ruled themen and the factions. In some vague way, he thought, shemight be of service to him.

Tossed between two conflicting impulses, Tristan slowlyfollowed the girl from the church and, crossing the great,moonlit court that lay without, entered the gardens whichseemed to divide the sanctuary from some hidden palace.Mulberry trees towered above the lawns, studded with thick,ripening fruit. Weeping ashes glittered in the moonlight.Cedars and oaks cast their shade over broad beds of mintand thyme.

The girl watched Tristan closely, as she walked beside him,making no effort to conceal her own charms before eyes whichshe deemed endowed with the power of judgment in mattersof this kind. Her mistress had not put her trust in her invain. She studied Tristan's race in order to determine,whether or not he would waver in his resolve and—she beganto speak to him as they crossed the gardens with a simplicity,an interest that was well assumed.

"A good beginning indeed!" she said. "You are in favor,my lord! To have seen her fair face is no small boast, butto be summoned to her presence—I cannot remember herso gracious to any one, since—" she paused suddenly,deliberately.

Tristan regarded her slantwise over his shoulder, withoutmaking response. At last, irritated, he knew not why, heasked curtly: "What is your mistress?"

The girl's glance wandered over the great trees and flowersthat overshadowed the plaisaunce.

"She bears her mother's name," she replied with a shrug,"and, like her mother, the blood that flows in her veins ismingled with the fire that glitters in the stars in heaven, afire affording neither light nor heat, but serving to dazzle, tobewilder.—I am but a woman, but—had I your chance offortune, my lord, I should think twice, ere I bartered it for avow, an empty dream."

He gave her a swift glance, wondering at her woman's wit,yet resenting her speech.

"You would prosper?" she queried tentatively at last,casting about in her mind, how she might win his confidence.

"I have business of my own," he replied, evading herquestion.

She looked up at him, her eyes trembling into his.

"How tall and strong you are! I could almost find it inmy heart to love you myself!"

The flattery seemed so spontaneous that it would havepuzzled one possessed of greater guile than Tristan to haveuncovered her cunning. Nor was Tristan unwilling to seemstrong to her; for the moment he was almost tempted tocontinue questioning her regarding her mistress.

"You may make your fortune in Rome," the girl said witha meaning smile.

"How so?"

"Are you blind? Do you not know a woman's ways?My mistress loves a strong arm. You may serve her."

"That is not possible!"

The girl stared at him and for the moment dropped themask of innocence.

"What was possible once, is possible again," she said.

Then she added:

"Are you not ambitious?"

"I have a task to perform that may not permit of twomasters! Why are you so concerned?"

The question came almost abruptly.

"I serve my lady!" she said, edging towards him. "Is itso strange a thing to serve a woman?"

They had left the garden and had arrived before a highstone wall that skirted the precincts of Theodora's palace.Cypresses and bays raised their tops above the stones. Greatcedars cast deep shadows. In the wall there was a doorstudded with heavy iron nails. The girl took a key thatdangled from her girdle, unlocked the door and beckoned toTristan to enter.

Tristan stood and gazed. In the light of the moon whichdrenched all things he saw a garden in which emerald grassplots alternated with beds of strange-tinted orchids, flowerspurple and red. At the end of the plaisaunce there openedan orange thicket and under the trees stood a woman clad incrimson, her white arms bare. She wore sandals of silver,and her dusky hair was confined in a net of gold.

As Tristan was about to yield to the overmastering temptationthe memory of Hellayne conquered all other emotions.He turned back from the door and looked full into the girl'sdark eyes.

"You will speak to your mistress for me," he said to her,casting a swift glance into the moonlit garden.

The girl looked at him with a puzzled air, but did not stir.

"What am I to say to her?" she said.

"That I will not enter these gates!"

"You will not?"

"No!" He snapped curtly.

"Fool! How you will regret your speech!"

Her face changed suddenly like a fickle sky, and there wassomething in her eyes too wicked for words.

Without vouchsafing a reply, Tristan turned and lost himselfin the desolation of Mount Aventine.

The night marched on majestically.

The moon and her sister planets passed through theirappointed spheres of harmonious light and law, and from allcloisters and convents prayers went up to heaven for pity,pardon and blessing on sinful humanity that had neither pity,pardon nor blessing for itself, till, with magic suddenness,the dense purple skies changed to a pearly grey, the moonsank pallidly beneath the earth's dark rim and the stars wereextinguished one by one.

Morning began to herald its approach in the fresheningair.

Tristan still slept on his improvised couch, a marble slabhe had chosen when he discovered that he had lost his wayin the wilderness of the Aventine. His head on his arm helay quite still among the flowers, wrapt in a sort of dizzydelirium in which the forms of Theodora and Hellaynestrangely intermingled, until the riddles of life were blottedout together with the riddles of Fate.

CHAPTER VI
THE COUP

Tristan spent the greater partof the day visiting the churchesand sanctuaries, offering upprayers for oblivion and peace.His heart was heavy within him.Like the stray leaf that has beentorn from its native branch andflutters resistlessly, aimlesslyhither and thither, at the mercyof the chance breeze, nevermoreto return to its sheltering bough, so the lone wanderer felthimself tossed about by the waves of destiny, a human derelictwithout a haven where he might escape the storms of life.Guiltless in his own conscience of an imputed sin, in thathis love for Hellayne had been pure and holy, Tristan couldfind little comfort in the enforced penance, while his hungryheart cried out for her who had so willed it. And, as withweary feet he dragged himself through the streets of thepontifical city, he vaguely wondered, if his would ever be thepeace of the goal. In the darkness in which he walked, inthe perturbation of his mind, he longed more than ever toopen his heart to some one who would understand and counseland guide his steps.

The Pontiff being a prisoner in the Lateran, Tristan's ardentwish to confide in the successor of St. Peter had suffered asudden and a keen disappointment. There were but Odo ofCluny, Benedict of Soracté or the Grand Penitentiary, holdingforth in the subterranean chapel at St. Peter's, to whom hemight turn for ease of mind, and a natural reluctance to laybare the holiest thoughts man may give to woman, restrainedhim for the nonce from seeking these channels.

Thus three days had sped, yet naught had happened toindicate that events would shape the course so ardentlydesired by Tristan.

It was there, on one of the terraces crowning the splendidheights of immortal Rome, with a view of the distant Sabineand Alban hills, fading into the evening dusk, that the memoryof the golden days of Avalon returned to him in waves ofanguish that almost mastered his resolve to begin life anewunder conditions that seemed insupportable.

Again Hellayne was by his side, as in dream-forgottenAvalon. Again side by side they wandered where the shatteredcolumns of old grey temples, all that remained of asunny Greek civilization of which they knew nothing, crownedthe heights above the lazy lapping waves of the tidelessTyrrhenian sea. There, for whole hours would they sit, theair full of the scent of orange and myrtle; under almond trees,covered with blossoms that sprinkled the emerald groundlike rosy snowflakes, and watch the white sails of the farfeluccas that trailed the waves in monotonous rhythm to orfrom the sunlit shores of Africa. The distant headlandslooked faint and dreamy, and the sparkling sea broke, gurgling,foaming among the rocks at their feet, as it had brokenat the feet of other lovers who had sat there centuries ago,when those shattered columns had been white in their freshnessand the temples had been wreathed with the garlandsof youth. And the eternal waves said to them what they hadsaid to the dead and forgotten; and the fickle winds sang tothem what they had sung to the fair and the nameless, andthey stretched forth their hands, and saw but the sea and thesun.

And they knew not the deity to whom those temple columnshad been raised, just as he knew not to whose worship thosefallen columns had been erected, nor guessed they who hadknelt at the holy shrines. And as they sat there, the man andthe woman, their eyes probing the depths of living sapphire,they would watch the restless sea-weed that seemed to coiland uncoil like innumerable blue snakes upon a bed of brightblue flames, and the luminous mosses that trembled like bluestars ceaselessly towards the surface that they never, neverreached. And down there in the crystal palaces they wouldfancy that they saw faces as of glancing mermen, even as thelovers of older days had seen passing Tritons and the scalychildren of Poseidon.

And again she would croon those sad melancholy songsthat came from her lips like faint echoes of Aeolian harps.Now she flung them upon the air in bursts of weird music,to the accompaniment of a breaking wave, songs so passionateand elemental that they seemed the cry of these same radiantwaters when churned by the storm into fury. Or they mighthave been such wailings as spirits imprisoned in old sea caveswould utter to the hollow walls, or which the ghosts of ship-wreckedcrews might send forth from the rocks where theyhad perished. Or again they might suggest some earthlypassion, love, jealousy, the cry of a longing heart, till thedirge seemed to wear itself out and the soul of the listenerseemed to sail out of the tempest into bright and peacefulwaters like those that skirted dream-lost Avalon, scarcelyrippled by the faint breeze of summer, breaking in long unfurlingwaves among the rocks at their feet. Thus they used tosit long hours, heart listening to heart, soul clinging to soul,while she bared her throat to the scent-laden breezes thatfanned her and looked out on the dazzling horizon—till alightning flash from the clear azure splintered the dream andbroke two lives.

For a long time Tristan gazed about, vainly trying to orderhis thoughts. Could he but forget! Would but the presentengulf the past!—

His adventure at the Church of Santa Maria of the Aventineand his chance meeting with Theodora recurred to him atintervals throughout the day, and he could not but admitthat the reports of the woman's beauty were far from exaggerated.Perchance, if the memory of Hellayne had beenless firmly rooted in his soul, he, too, might, like many another,have sought solace at the forbidden fount. However, he wasresolved to avoid her, for he had seen something in the swiftglance she had bestowed upon him that discoursed of mattersit behooved him to beware of. And yet he wondered howshe had received his denial, she, whom no man had deniedbefore. Then this memory also faded before the exigenciesof the hour.

The sun had sunk to rest in a sky of turquoise, crimson andgold, when Tristan found himself standing on the eminencewhere seven decades later Crescentius, the Senator of Rome,was to build the Church of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli.

Leaning on a broken pillar, Tristan watched the eveninglight as it spread a veil of ethereal splendor over the SevenHills and there came to him a strange feeling of remotenessas to one standing upon some hill-set shrine.

Far beneath him lay the Forum. White columns shoneroseate in the dying light of day.

Wrapt in deep thoughts and meditations, Tristan descendedthe stairs leading from the summit whence in after time thename of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli—Holy Mother at theAltar of Heaven—was to ring in the ears of thousands likea beautiful rhythmic chant, and after a time he found himselfin the Piazza fronting the Lateran.

Seized with a sudden impulse he entered the church.

Slowly the worshippers began to assemble. Their numbersincreased to almost a hundred, though they seemed but asso many shadows in the vast nave. There was somethingin their faces, touched by the uncertain glimmer of the tapersand lamps, that filled him with awe, as if he were standingamong the ghosts of the past.

At last the holy office commenced.

A very old priest, whose features Tristan could not distinguish,began to chant the Introitus, in deep long drawnnotes. Through the narrow windows filtered the light of therising moon. It did little more than stain the dusk. Overthe sombre high altar hung the white ivory figure of theChrist, bowed, sagged, in the last agony. A few blood-redpoppies were the only flowers upon the altar. The fumes ofincense rose in spiral columns to the vaulted ceiling.

The Kyrie had been chanted, the Gloria in Excelsis Deo.Later the Host was consecrated and the cup before the kneelingworshippers, and the priest was turning to those near himwho, as was still the custom in those days, were present tocommunicate in both kinds.

To each came from his lips the solemn words:

"Corpus Domini Nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animamtuam ad Vitam aeternam!"

He dipped his fingers in the cup, cleansing them with alittle wine. He consumed the cleansings and turned to readthe antiphony with resonant voice.

"I saw the heavens opened and Jesus at the right hand ofGod. Lord Jesus receive their spirit and lay not this sin totheir charge!"

Then, with hands folded over his breast, he moved towardsthe altar in the centre, touched it with his lips, and, turningonce more to the people, said:

"Dominus Vobiscum!"

"Et cum spiritu tuo," was not answered.

For at that moment rough shouts were heard and througha side door, near a chapel, a body of ruffians rushed into theBasilica, their faces vizored and masked.

With shouts and oaths they made their way towards thealtar. The worshippers scattered, the mail-clad ruffianssmiting their way through their kneeling ranks up to thealtar where stood the form of a youth clad in pontifical vestments,pale but calm in the face of the impending storm.

It was Pope John XI., held prisoner in the Lateran byAlberic, the Senator of Rome. Tristan had not noted hispresence during the ceremony. Now, like a revelation, theimport of the scene flashed upon his mind.

Bearing Tristan down by the sheer weight of their numbers,they rushed upon the Pontiff, stripped him of his pallium andchasuble, leaving him but one sacred vestment, the whitealbe.

Unable to reach the Pontiff's side, unable to aid him,Tristan stood rooted to the spot, an impotent witness of themost heinous sacrilege his mind could picture, almost turnedto stone.

Before Tristan's very eyes, before the eyes of the worshippers,who outnumbered the ruffians ten to one, an outragewas being committed at which the fiends themselves wouldshudder. Violence was being done to the Father of Christendomin his own city, and the craven cowards had but theirown safety in mind.

Just what happened Tristan could not immediately remember.For, as he rushed towards the spot where he saw thePontiff struggling helplessly against his assailants, he wasviolently thrust back and the ruffians made their way towardsa side chapel with their captive. Thus he found himselfhelplessly borne along in the darkness, and thrust out intothe night. Tristan fell beneath their feet and was for amoment so utterly stunned that he could not rise.

As in a dream he heard the leader of the band give a commandto his followers. They mounted their steeds whichwere tethered outside and tramped away into the night.

The sudden appearance of an armed band in the sacredprecincts of the Lateran had so terrified and cowed the crowdof worshippers that even when the doors of the Basilica wereleft unguarded, not one ventured to give assistance. Likeshadows they fled into the night.

When Tristan regained some sort of consciousness helooked about in vain for aid.

Dimly he remembered that the ruffians were mounted,and by the time he summoned succor they would havestowed their captive safely away in one of their castellatedfortresses, where one might search for him in vain forevermore.

The Piazza in front of the Lateran was deserted. Not ahuman being was to be seen. Tristan pursued his waythrough waste spaces that offered no clue. He rushedthrough narrow and deserted streets, abandoned of the living.He felt like shouting at the top of his voice: "Romans awake!They have abducted the Pontiff." But, stranger as he was,and dreading lest he might share John's fate or worse, hewithstood the impulse and at last found himself upon theBridge of San Angelo before the fortress tomb of the formermaster of the world, dreaming in the surrounding desolation.Before the massive bronze gate cowered a man-at-arms,drowsing over his pike.

Without a moment's hesitation, Tristan shook the drowsyguardian of the Angel's Castle into blaspheming alertness.

"They have abducted the Pontiff!" he shouted, withoutreleasing his clutch on the gaping Burgundian. "Sound thealarums! Even now it may be too late!"

The man in the brown leather jerkin and steel casquestared open-mouthed at the speaker.

"The Lord Alberic is within—" he stammered at last,with an effort to shake off the drowsiness that held his sensescaptive.

"Then rouse him in the devil's name," shouted Tristan.

The last words had their effect upon the stolid Northman.After the elapse of some precious moments Alberic himselfemerged from the Emperor's Tomb and Tristan repeated hisaccount of the outrage, little guessing the rank of him withwhom he was standing face to face.

But now they were confronted with a dilemma which itseemed would put all Tristan's efforts to naught.

Who were the leaders of the party that had abducted thePontiff? For thereon hinged their success of interceptingthe outlaws.

Tristan's description of the leader did not seem to makeany marked impression on the Senator of Rome.

He questioned Tristan with regard to their coat-of-arms orother heraldic emblems. But the author of the outrage hadshown sufficient foresight to avoid a hazardous display.There seemed but one alternative; to scour the city of Romein the uncertain hope of intercepting the outlaws, if theywere still within the walls.

Tristan attached himself to the senatorial party, joining inthe pursuit. At first their task seemed hopeless indeed.Those they met and questioned had seen no armed band, or,if they had, denied all knowledge thereof. The frowningmasonry of the Cenci, Savelli, Frangipani, and Odescalchi,which they passed in turn, returned but an inscrutable replyto their questioning glances.

For a time they continued their fruitless quest. But as ifan outrage so horrible had ignited the very air about them,they soon found people stirring, shutters opening and shadowyfigures issuing from dark doorways, while folk were runningand shouting to one another:

"The Pontiff has been abducted!"

Between cries of rage and shouts of command and indecisionon the part of the leader, who knew not in which directionto pursue, an hour had elapsed, when they suddenlyheard the clatter of hoofs. A company of horsemen camegalloping down the street. Alberic's suspicions that theruffians would prefer carrying their victim by devious bywaysto one or the other of their Roman lairs, rather thanattempt to leave the city in the teeth of the Senator's guard,seemed realized. Oaths and sharp orders broke the silenceof the night.

It was amongst a gigantic pile of ruins, apart from all habitationsof the living, that they came to a halt. To a gauntbrick-built tower they drew close, knocking against the iron-studdeddoor, but ere those within could open, they weresurrounded, outnumbered ten to one.

Tristan was the first to bound in amongst them.

His eyes quivered upon the steel-clad form of the leaderof the band.

At the next moment a blow from Tristan's fist struck himdown and, ere he could recover himself, he had been bound,hand and foot, and turned over to the Senator's guards.

His followers, despairing of success, made a sudden dashthrough the ranks of the people who had been attracted bythe melee, riding down a number, injuring and maimingmany.

The Senator of Rome ranged his men, now re-inforced bythe Prefect's guard, round the drooping form of John, whilea howling and shouting mob, ready to wreak vengeance onthe first object it encountered in its path, followed in theirwake as they made their way towards the Lateran.

An hour later, in a high vaulted, dimly lighted chamber ofthe Archangel's Castle, Tristan, the pilgrim, and Alberic, theSenator of Rome, faced each other for the second time.

In the course of the pursuit of the ruffians in which he participated,Tristan had been casually informed of the rank ofhim who led the Senatorial guard in person and when, theirobject accomplished, he started to detach himself from themen-at-arms, Alberic had foiled his intention by commandinghim to accompany him to the fortress-tomb where he himselfheld forth.

Seated opposite each other, each seemed to scan theother's countenance before a word was spoken betweenthem.

Alberic's regard of the man who seemed utterly unconsciousof the importance of the service he had rendered theSenator betokened approval, and his eyes dwelt for somemoments on the frank and open countenance of this stranger,perchance contrasting it inwardly with the complex natureof those about his person in whom he could trust but so longas he could tempt them with earthly dross, and who wouldturn against him should a higher bidder for their favor appear.

Tristan's first impression of the son of Marozia was thatof one born to command. Dark piercing eyes were set in aface, stern, haughty, yet strangely beautiful. Alberic's tall,slender figure, dressed in black velvet, relieved by slashes ofred satin, added to the impressiveness of his personality.Upon closer scrutiny Tristan could discover a marked resemblancebetween the man before him and his half-brother, theill-fated Pontiff, whom, for political reasons, or considerationsof his personal safety, he kept prisoner in the pontifical palace.

But there was yet another present, who apparently tooklittle heed of the stranger, engaged as he seemed in theperusal of a parchment, spread out upon a table before him,—Basil,the Grand Chamberlain.

A whispered conversation had taken place between theSenator and his confidential adviser, for this was Basil'strue station in the senatorial household. In the evil days ofMarozia's regime he had occupied the same favored positionat the Roman court, and, when Alberic's revolt had swept theregime of Ugo of Tuscany and Marozia from Roman soil, theson had attached to himself the man who had shown a markedsagacity and ability in the days that had come to a close.

Basil's complex countenance proved somewhat more of anenigma to the silent on-looker than did the Senator's stern,though frank face.

He was garbed in black, a color to which he seemed partial.A flat cap of black velvet with a feather curled round thebrim, above a doublet of black velvet, close fitting, the sleevesslashed, to show the crimson tunic underneath. The trunkhose round the muscular legs were of black silk and goldthread, woven together and lined with sarsenet. His feetwere encased in black buskins with silver buckles, and puffedsilk inserted in the slashings of the leather.

The whole suggestion of the dark, sable figure was odd.It was exotic, and the absence of a beard greatly intensifiedthe impression. The face, as Tristan saw it by the light ofthe taper, was expressionless—a physical mask.

At last Alberic broke the silence, turning his eyes full uponthe man who met his gaze without flinching.

"You have—at your own risk—saved Rome and HolyChurch from a calamity the whole extent of which we maynot even surmise, had the Pontiff been carried away by thelawless band of Tebaldo Savello. We owe you thanks—andwe shall not shirk our duty. You are a stranger. Who areyou and why are you here?"

To the same questions that another had put to him on thememorable eve of his arrival, in the Piazza Navona, Tristanreplied with equal frankness. His words bore the stamp oftruth, and Alberic listened to a tale passing strange to Romanears.

And, unseen by Tristan, something began to stir in thedark, unfathomable eyes of Basil, as some unknown thingstirs in deep waters, and the hidden thing therein, to himwho saw, was hidden no longer. Some nameless being waslooking out of these windows of the soul. One looking athim now would have shrank away, cold fear gripping hisheart.

For a moment, after Tristan had finished his tale, therewas silence. Alberic had risen and, seemingly unconsciousof the presences in his chamber, was perambulating itsnarrow confines until, of a sudden, he stopped directly beforeTristan.

"These penances completed, whereof you speak—do youintend returning to the land of your birth?"

A blank dismay shone in Tristan's eyes. Not havingreferred to the nature of the transgression, for which he wasto do penance, and obtain absolution, he found it somewhatdifficult to answer Alberic's question.

"This is a matter I had not considered," he replied withsome hesitancy, which remained not unremarked by theSenator.

Alberic was a man of few words, and he possessed a discernmentfar beyond his years. At the first glance at thisstranger whom fate had led across his path, he had knownthat here was one he might trust, could he but induce himto become his man.

He held out his hand.

"I am going to be your friend and I mean to requite theservice you have done the Senator, ere the dawn of anotherday breaks in the sky. There is a vacancy in the Senator'sguard. I appoint you captain of Castel San Angelo."

Ere Tristan could sufficiently recover from his surprise tomake reply, another voice was audible, a voice, soft andinsinuating—the voice of Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.

"My lord—the chain of evidence against Gamba is notcompleted. In fact, later developments seem to point to anintrigue of which he is but the unwitting victim—"

Alberic turned to the speaker.

"The proofs, my Lord Basil, are conclusive. Gamba is atraitor convicted of having conspired with an emissary ofUgo of Tuscany, to deliver the Archangel's Castle into hishands. He is sentenced—he shall die—as soon as wediscover his abode—"

Basil's face had turned to ashen hues.

"What mean you, my lord? Gamba is awaiting sentencein the dungeon where he has been confined, ever since histrial—"

"The cage is still there," Alberic interposed sardonically."The bird has flown."

"Escaped?" stammered the Grand Chamberlain, risingfrom his seat and raising his furtive eyes to those of theSenator. "Then he has confederates in our very midst—"

"We shall know more of this anon," came the laconicreply. "Will you accept the trust which the Senator ofRome offers you?" Alberic turned from the Grand Chamberlainto Tristan.

The latter found his voice at last.

"How shall I thank you, my lord!" he said, grasping theSenator's hand. "Grant me but a week, wherein to absolvethe business upon which I came—and I shall prove myselfworthy of the lord Alberic's trust!"

"So be it," the son of Marozia replied. "A long deferredpilgrimage to the shrines of the Archangel at Monte Garganowill take me from Rome for the space of a month or more.I should like to be assured that this keep is in the hands of onewho will not fail me in the hour of need! My Lord Basil—greetthe new captain of Castel San Angelo—"

Approaching almost soundlessly over the tiled floor, theGrand Chamberlain extended his hand to Tristan, offeringhis congratulations upon his sudden advancement.

Whatever it was that flashed in Basil's eyes, it was gone asquickly as it had come. His thin lips parted in an inscrutablesmile as Tristan, with a bend of the head, acknowledged thecourtesy.

For a moment, following his acceptance, Tristan wasstartled at his own decision. Another would have felt it tobe an amazing streak of luck. Tristan was frightened,though his misgivings vanished after a time.

Owing to the lateness of the hour and the insecurity of thestreets Alberic offered Tristan the hospitality of his futureabode for the night and the latter gladly accepted.

After Basil had departed, he remained closeted with theSenator for the space of an hour or more. What transpiredbetween these two remained guarded from the outer world,and it was late ere the sentinel on the ramparts saw the lightin the Senator's chamber extinguished, wondering at thenature of the business which detained the lord Alberic andthe tall stranger in the pilgrim's garb.

CHAPTER VII
MASKS AND MUMMERS

Amid the ruin of cities and thedin of strife during the tenthcentury darkness closed in uponthe Romans, while the figuresof strange despots emerged fromobscurity only to disappear asquickly into the night of oblivion.Little of them is known, savethat they ruled the people andthe pope with merciless severity,and that the first one of them was a woman.

The beautiful Theodora the older was the wife of Theophylactus,Consul and Patricius of Rome, but the permanence ofher power seemed to have been due entirely to her owncharm and personality.

Her daughter Marozia, with even greater beauty, greaterfascination and greater gift of daring, played even a moreconspicuous part in the history of her time. She marriedAlberic, Count of Spoleto, whose descendants, the Counts ofTusculum, gave popes and mighty citizens to Rome. One oftheir palaces is said to have adjoined the Church of S. S.Apostoli, and came later into the possession of the powerfulhouse of Colonna.

Alberic of Spoleto soon died and Marozia, as the chroniclestell us, continued as the temporal ruler of the city and thearbitress of pontifical elections. She held forth in CastelSan Angelo, the indomitable stronghold of mediaeval Rome.

In John X. who, in the year 914, had gained the tiarathrough Theodora, she found a man of character, whose aimand ambition were the dominion of Rome, the supremacy ofthe Church.

By the promise of an imperial crown, the pope gainedCount Ugo of Tuscany to his party, but Marozia outwittedhim, by giving her hand to his more powerful half-brotherGuido, then Margrave of Tuscany.

John X., after trying for two years, in spite of his enemies,to maintain his regime from the Lateran, at last fell intotheir hands and was either strangled or starved to death inthe dungeons of Castel San Angelo.

After the death of Guido, Marozia married his half-brotherUgo. The strange wedding took place in the Mausoleum ofthe Emperor Hadrian, where a bridal hall and nuptial chamberhad been arranged and adorned for them.

From the fortress tomb of the Flavian Emperor, Ugo lordedit over the city of Rome, earning thereby the hatred of thepeople and especially of young Alberic, his ambitious step-son,the son of Marozia and Count Alberic of Spoleto.

The proud youth, forced one day to serve him as a page,with intentional awkwardness, splashed some water over himand in return received a blow. Mad with fury, Alberic rushedfrom Castel San Angelo and summoned the people to arms.The clarions sounded and the fortress tomb was surroundedby a blood-thirsty mob. In no time the actors changedplaces. Ugo escaped by means of a rope from a window inthe castello and returned to Tuscany, leaving behind him hishonor, his wife and his imperial crown, while the youthAlberic became master of Rome, cast Marozia into a prisonin Castel San Angelo and kept his half-brother, John XI., aclose prisoner in the Lateran.

But the imprisonment of Marozia, and her mysteriousdisappearance from the scenes of her former triumphs andbaleful activity did not end the story of the woman regime inRome.

There lived in a palace, built upon the ruins of namelesstemples and sanctuaries, and embellished with all the barbaroussplendor of Byzantine and Moorish arts, in theremote wilderness of Mount Aventine, a woman, who, inpoint of physical charms, ambition and daring had not herequal in Rome since the death of Marozia. Theodora theyounger, as she is distinguished from her mother, the wifeof Theophylactus, by contemporary chroniclers, was theyounger sister of Marozia.

The boundless ambition of the latter had left nothing toachieve for the woman who had reached her thirtieth yearwhen Alberic's revolution consigned her sister to a namelessdoom.

Strange rumors concerning her were afloat in Rome.Strange things were whispered of her palace on MountAventine, where she assembled about her the nobility of thecity and the surrounding castelli, and soon her court vied inpoint of sumptuousness and splendor with the most splendidand profligate of her time.

Her admirers numbered by thousands, and her exoticbeauty caused new lovers to swell the ranks of the old withevery day that passed down the never returning tide of time.

Some came openly and some came under the cover ofnight, heavily muffled and cloaked: spendthrifts, gamblers,gallants, men of fashion, officers of the Senator's Court,poets, philosophers, and the feudal lords of the Campagna.

Wealthy debauchees from the provinces, princes from theshores of the Euxine, Lombard and Tuscan chiefs, Northmenfrom Scandinavia and Iceland, wearing over their gnarledlimbs the soft silken tunics of Rome, Greeks, sleek, furtive-eyed,rulers from far-off Cathay, wearing coats of crimsonwith strange embroidery from the scented East, men fromthe isles of Venetia and the stormy plains of Thessaly, menwith narrow slanting eyes from the limitless steppes ofSarmatia, blond warriors from the amber coasts of theBaltic, Persian princes who worshipped the Sun, and Moorsfrom the Spanish Caliphate of Cordova; chieftains from theLybian desert, as restive as their fiery steeds; black despotsfrom the hidden heart of Africa, with thick lips and teeth likeivory, effete youths from Sicily and the Ionian isles, possessedof the insidious beauty of the Lesbian women, adventurersfrom Samarkand and Bokhara, trading in strange wares andsteeped in odor of musk and spices; Hyperboreans from thesea-skirt shores of an ever frozen unimaginable ocean;—fromevery land under the sun they came to Rome, for thesinister fame of Theodora's beauty, the baleful mystery thatsurrounded her, and her dark repute proved powerful incentivesto curiosity, which soon gave way to overmasteringpassion, once the senses had been steeped in the intoxicatingatmosphere of the woman's presence.

And, indeed, her physical charms were such as no mortalhad yet resisted whom she had willed to make her own.Her body, tall as a column, was lustrous, incomparable.The arms and hands seemed to have been chiselled of ivoryby a master creator who might point with pride to the perfectionof his handiwork—the perfection of Aphrodité, Lais and melted into one. The features were of such raremould and faultless type that even Marozia had to concedeto her younger sister the palm of beauty. The wonderful,deep set eyes, with their ever changing lights, now emerald,now purple, now black; the straight, pencilled brows, thebroad smooth forehead and the tiny ears, hidden in thewealth of her raven hair, tied into a Grecian knot and surmountedby a circlet of emeralds, skillfully worked into thetwining bodies of snakes with ruby eyes; the satin sheen ofthe milk-white skin whose ivory pallor was tinted with thefaintest rose-light that never changed either in heat or incold, in anger or in joy: such was the woman whose longslumbering, long suppressed ambition, coupled with a daringthat had not its equal, was to be fanned into a raging holocaustafter Marozia's untimely demise.

Concealing her most secret hopes and ambitions so utterlythat even Alberic became her dupe, Theodora threw herselfinto the whirl of life with a keen appreciation of all its thrillingexcitement. Vitally alive with the pride of her sex and thesense of its power, she found in her existence all the zest ofsome breathlessly fascinating game. Men to her were merepawns. She regarded them almost impersonally, as creaturesto taunt, to tempt, to excite, to play upon. Deliberatelyand unstintingly she applied her arts. She delighted to seethem at her feet, but to repel them as the mood changed,with exasperating disdain. Love to her was a word she knewbut from report,—or, from what she had read. She knewnot its meaning, nor had she ever fathomed its depths.

To revel through delirious nights with some newly-chosenfavorite of the moment, who would soon thereafter mysteriouslydisappear, to be tossed from the embrace of one intothe arms of another; in the restless, fruitless endeavor tokill the pain of life, the memory of consciousness, to fill thevoid of a heart, that, alive to the shallowness of existence,clutches at the saving hope of power, to rule and to crushthe universe beneath her feet, a dream, vague, vain, unattainable:this desire filled Theodora's soul.

Her soul was burning itself to cinders in its own fires,—thosebaleful fires that had proven the undoing of her equallybeautiful sister.

Alone she would pace her gilded chambers, feverishly,unable to think, driven hither and thither by the demons ofunrest, by the disquietude of her heart. Desperately shethrew herself into whatever excitement offered.

But it was always in vain.

She found no respite. Ever and ever a reiterant, restlesscraving gnawed, like a worm, at her heart.

As she approached the thirtieth year of her life, Theodorahad grown more dazzling in beauty. Her body had assumedthe wonderful plasticity of marble. Her eyes had becomemore unfathomable, more wondrously changeful in hues,like the iridescent waters of the sea.

Living as she did in an age where a morbid trend pervadedthe world, where the approach of the Millennium, though noone of the present generation would see the day, was heraldedas the End of Time; living as she did in the darkestepoch of Roman history, Theodora felt the utter inadequacyof her life, a hunger which nothing but power could assuage.

Slowly this desire began to grow and expand. She wishedto wield her will, not only on men's emotions, but upon theirlives as well. Perhaps even the death of Marozia, with itsparalyzing influence over her soul, the captivity in the Lateranof her sister's son, and the hateful rule of Alberic, would nothave brought matters to a focus, had not the appearance uponthe stage of a woman, who, in point of beauty, spirit anddaring bade fair to constitute a terrible rival, roused all thedormant passions in Theodora's soul and when Roxanaopenly boasted that she would wrest the power from thehands of her rival and rule in the Emperor's Tomb in spiteof the Pontiff, of Alberic and Marozia's blood-kin, the soulof Theodora leaped to the challenge of the other woman andshe craved for the conflict as she had never longed for anythingin her life, save perchance, a love of which she had butpossessed the base counterfeit.

No one knew whence Roxana had come, nor how long shehad been in Rome, when an incident at San Lorenzo inLucina had brought the two women face to face. Both, withtheir trains, had simultaneously arrived before the portalsof the sanctuary when Roxana barred Theodora's way.Some mysterious instinct seemed to have informed each ofthe person and ambition of the other. For a moment theyfaced each other white to the lips. Then Roxana and hertrain had entered the church, and as she passed the otherwoman, a deadly challenge had flashed from her blue eyesinto Theodora's dark orbs. The populace applauded Roxana'sdaring, and, in order to taunt her rival, she had establishedher court on desert Aventine, assembling about her the disgruntledlovers of Theodora and others, whom her disdainhad driven to seek oblivion and revenge.

The land of Roxana's birth was shrouded in mystery.Some reported her from the icy regions of the North, otherscredited her with being the fugitive odalisque of some Easterndespot, a native of Kurdistan, the beauty and fire of whosewomen she possessed to a high degree.

Such was Roxana, who had challenged Theodora for thepossession of the Emperor's Tomb.

CHAPTER VIII
THE SHRINE OF HEKATÉ

Athwart the gleaming balconiesof the east the morningsun shone golden and theshadows of the white marblecornices and capitals and juttingfriezes were blue with thereflection of the cloudless sky.Far below Mount Aventine thesoft mists of dawn still hoveredover the seven-hilled city,whence the distant cries of the water carriers and fruit venderscame echoing up from the waking streets.

A fugitive sunbeam stole through a carelessly closed latticeof a chamber in the palace of Theodora, and danced now onthe walls, bright with many a painted scene, now on themarble inlaid mosaic of the floor. Now and then a brightblade or the jewelled rim of a wine cup of eastern designwould flash back the wayward ray, until its shaft rested on acurtained recess wherein lay a faintly outlined form. Tenderlythe sunbeams stole over the white limbs that veiledtheir chiselled roundness under the blue shot webs of theirwrappings, which, at the capricious tossing of the sleeper,bared two arms, white as ivory and wonderful in their statuesquemoulding.

The face of the sleeper showed creamy white under acloud of dark, silken hair, held back in a net of gold from thebroad smooth forehead. Dark, exquisitely pencilled eyebrowsarched over the closed, transparent lids, fringed withlashes that now and then seemed to flicker on the marblepallor of the cheeks, and the proudly poised head lay back,half buried in the cushions, supported by the gleaming whitearms that were clasped beneath it.

Then, as if fearful of intruding on the charms that his rayhad revealed, the sunbeam turned and, kissing the bosomthat swelled and sank with the sleeper's gentle breathing,descended till it rested on an overhanging foot, from which acarelessly fastened sandal hung by one vermilion strap.

Of a sudden a light footfall was audible without and in aninstant the sleeper had heard and awakened, her dark eyesheavy with drowsiness, the red lips parted, revealing tworows of small, pearly teeth, with the first deep breath ofreturning consciousness.

At the sound one white hand drew the silken wrappingsover the limbs, that a troubled slumber and the warmth of theRoman summer night had bared, while the other was endeavoringto adjust the disordered folds of the saffron gossamerweb that clung like a veil to her matchless form.

"Ah! It is but you! Persephoné," she said with alittle sigh, as a curtain was drawn aside, revealing the formof a girl about twenty-two years old, whose office as firstattendant to Theodora had been firmly established by herdeep cunning, a thorough understanding of her mistress'most hidden moods and desires, her utter fearlessnessand a native fierceness, that recoiled from no considerationof danger.

Persephoné was tall, straight as an arrow, lithe and sinuousas a snake. Her face was beautiful, but there wassomething in the gleam of those slightly slanting eyes thatgave pause to him who chanced to cross her path.

She claimed descent from some mythical eastern potentateand was a native of Circassia, the land of beautifulwomen. No one knew how she had found her way to Rome.The fame of Marozia's evil beauty and her sinister reputehad in time attracted Persephoné, and she had been immediatelyreceived in Marozia's service, where she remainedtill the revolt of Alberic swept her mistress into the dungeonsof Castel San Angelo. Thereupon she had attached herselfto Theodora who loved the wild and beautiful creature andconfided in her utterly.

"Evil and troubled have been my dreams," Theodoracontinued, as the morning light fell in through the partedcurtains. "At the sound of your footfall I started up—fearing—Iknew not what—"

"For a long time have I held out against his pleadingsand commands," Persephoné replied in a subdued voice,"knowing that my lady slept. But he will not be denied,—andhis insistence had begun to frighten me. So at lastI dared brave my lady's anger and disturb her—"

"Frighten you, Persephoné?" Theodora's musicallaughter resounded through the chamber. "You—whobraved death at these white hands of mine without flinching?"

She extended her hands as if to impress Persephonéwith their beauty and strength.

Whatever the circumstance referred to, Persephoné madeno reply. Only her face turned a shade more pale.

The draped figure had meanwhile arisen to her full height,as she stretched the sleep from her limbs, then, her questionremaining unanswered, she continued:

"But—of whom do you speak? A new defiance fromRoxana? A new insult from the Senator of Rome? I wouldhave it understood," this with a slight lift of the voice, "thateven were the end of the world at hand, of which they prateso much of late, and heaven and earth to crumble into chaos,I would not be disturbed to listen to shallow plaints and mockheroics."

"It is neither the one nor the other," replied Persephonéwith an apprehensive glance of her slanting eyes over hershoulder, "but my Lord Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. Hewaits without where the eunuchs guard your slumber, andhis eyes are aflame with something more than impatience—"

At the mention of the name a subtle change passed overthe listener's face, and a sombre look crept into her eyesas she muttered:

"What can he be bringing now?"

Then, with a sudden flash, she added, tossing back herbeautiful head:

"Let the Lord Basil wait! And now, Persephoné, removefrom me the traces of sleep and set the couches in betterorder."

Silently and quickly the Circassian sprang forward androlled back the curtains from the lattices, letting a strongerbut still subdued light enter the chamber, revealing, as itdid, many a chased casket, and mirrors of polished steeland bronze, and lighting up exquisite rainbow hued fabrics,thrown carelessly over lion-armed chairs, with here andthere an onyx table wonderfully carved.

The chamber itself looked out upon a terrace and garden,a garden filled with such a marvellous profusion of foliageand flowers, that, looking at it from between the glisteningmarble columns surrounding the palace, it seemed as thoughthe very sky above rested edgewise on towering pyramidsof red and white bloom. Awnings of softest pale bluestretched across the entire width of the spacious outer colonnade,where a superb peacock strutted majestically to andfro, with boastfully spreading tail and glittering crest, asbrilliant as the gleam of the hot sun on the silver fringe ofthe azure canopies, amidst the gorgeousness of wavingblossoms that seemed to surge up like a sea to the verywindows of the chamber.

Filling an embossed bowl with perfumed water, Persephonébathed the hands of her mistress, who had sunkdown upon a low, tapestried couch. Then, combing out herluxuriant hair, she bound it in a jewelled netting that lookedlike a constellation of stars against the dusky masses itconfined. Taking a long, sleeveless robe of amber, Persephonéflung it about her subtle form and bound it overbreast and shoulders with a jewelled band. But Theodora'sglance informed her that something was still wanting and,following the direction of her gaze, Persephoné's eye restedon a life-size statue of Hekaté that stood with deadly calmon its inexorable face and slightly raised hands, from oneof which hung something that glittered strangely in thesubdued light of the recess.

Obeying Theodora's silent gesture, Persephoné advancedto the image and took from its raised arm a circlet fashionedof two golden snakes with brightly enamelled scales, bearingin their mouths a single diamond, brilliant as summer lightning.This she gently placed on her mistress' head, so thatthe jewel flamed in the centre of the coronet, then, kneelingdown, she drew together the unlatched sandals.

Persephoné's touch roused her mistress from a day dreamthat had set her features as rigid as ivory, as she surveyedherself for a moment intently in a great bronze disk whoseburnished surface gave back her flawless beauty linefor line.

In Persephoné's gaze she read her unstinted admiration,for, beautiful as the Circassian was, she loved beauty in herown sex, wherever she found it.

Theodora seemed to have utterly forgotten the presence ofthe Grand Chamberlain in the anteroom, yet, in an impersonalway, her thoughts occupied themselves with the impendingtete-a-tete.

Her life had been one constant round of pleasure andamusement, yet she was not happy, nor even contented.

Day by day she felt the want of some fresh interest, somefresh excitement, and it was this craving probably, morethan innate depravity, which plunged her into those disgracefuland licentious excesses that were nightly enacted in thesunken gardens behind her palace. Lovers she had had bythe scores. Yet each new face possessed for her but theattraction of novelty. The favorite of the hour had smallcause to plume himself on his position. No sooner did hebelieve himself to be secure in the possession of Theodora'slove, than he found himself hurled into the night of oblivion.

A strange pagan wave held Rome enthralled. Italy was inthe throes of a dark revulsion. A woman, beautiful as shewas evil, had exercised within the past decade her balefulinfluence from Castel San Angelo. Theodora had taken upMarozia's tainted inheritance. Members of a family ofcourtesans, they looked upon their trade as a hereditary privilegeand, like the ancient Aspasias, these Roman women ofthe tenth century triumphed primarily by means of theirfeminine beauty and charms over masculine barbarism andgrossness. It was an age of feudalism, when brutal forceand murderous fury were the only divinities whom the barbarianconqueror was compelled to respect. Lombards andHuns, Franks and Ostrogoths, Greeks and Africans, thesavage giants issuing from the deep Teutonic forests, invadingthe classic soil of Rome, became so many Herculeses sittingat the feet of Omphalé, and the atmosphere of the city bythe Tiber—the atmosphere that had nourished the Messalinasof Imperial Rome—poured the flame of ambition intothe soul of a woman whose beauty released the strongestpassions in the hearts of those with whom she surroundedherself, in order to attain her soul's desire. To rule Romefrom the fortress tomb of the Flavian emperor was the dreamof Theodora's life. It had happened once. It would happenagain, as long as men were ready to sacrifice at the shrinesof Hekaté.

Unbridled in her passions as she was strong in her physicalorganization, an unbending pride and an intensity of willcame to her aid when she had determined to win the objectof her desire. In Theodora's bosom beat a heart that coulddare, endure and defy the worst. She was a woman whomnone but a very bold or ignorant suitor would have taken tohis heart. Perchance the right man, had he appeared onthe stage in time, might have made her gentle and quelledthe wild passions that tossed her resistlessly about, like abarque in a hurricane.

Suddenly something seemed to tell her that she had foundsuch a one. Tristan's manly beauty had made a strongappeal upon her senses. The anomaly of his position hadcaptivated her imagination. There was something strangelyfascinating in the mystery that surrounded him, there waseven a wild thrill of pleasure in the seeming shame of lovingone whose garb stamped him as one claimed by the Church.He had braved her anger in refusing to accompany Persephoné.He had closed his eyes to Theodora's beauty, hadsealed his ears to the song of the siren.

"A man at last!" she said half aloud, and Persephoné,looking up from her occupation, gave her an inquisitiveglance.

The splash of hidden fountains diffused a pleasant coolnessin the chamber. Spiral wreaths of incense curled from abronze tripod into the flower-scented ether. The throbbingof muted strings from harps and lutes, mingling with thesombre chants of distant processions, vibrated through thesun-kissed haze, producing a weird and almost startlingeffect.

After a pause of some duration, apparently oblivious ofthe fact that the announced caller was waiting without,Theodora turned to Persephoné, brushing with one whitehand a stray raven lock from the alabaster forehead.

"Can it be the heat or the poison miasma that presagesour Roman fever? Never has my spirit been so oppressedas it is to-day, as if the gloomy messengers from Lethé'sshore were enfolding me in their shadowy pinions. I sawhis face in the dream of the night"—she spoke as if soliloquizing—"itwas as the face of one long dead—"

She paused with a shudder.

"Of whom does my lady speak?" Persephoné interposedwith a swift glance at her mistress.

"The pilgrim who crossed my path to his own or my undoing.Has he been heard from again?"

A negative gesture came in response.

"His garb is responsible for much," replied the Circassian."The city fairly swarms with his kind—"

The intentional contemptuous sting met its immediaterebuke.

"Not his kind," Theodora flashed back. "He has nothingin common with those others save the garb—and there ismore beneath it than we wot of—"

"The Lady Theodora's judgment is not to be gainsaid,"the Circassian replied, without meeting her mistress' gaze."Do they not throng to her bowers by the legion—"

"A pilgrimage of the animals to Circé's sty—each eagerto be transformed into his own native state," Theodora interposedcontemptuously.

"Perchance this holy man is in reality a prince from somemythical, fabled land—come to Rome to resist temptationand be forthwith canonized—"

Persephoné's mirth suffered a check by Theodora's reply.

"Stranger things have happened. All the world comes toRome on one business or another. This one, however, hasnot his mind set on the Beatitudes—"

"Nevertheless he dared not enter the forbidden gates,"the Circassian ventured to object.

"It was not fear. On that I vouch. Perchance he hasa vow. Whatever it be—he shall tell me—face to face—andhere!"

"But if the holy man refuse to come?"

Theodora's trained ear did not miss the note of irony inthe Circassian's question.

"He will come!" she replied laconically.

"A task worthy the Lady Theodora's renown."

"You deem it wonderful?"

"If I have read the pilgrim's eyes aright—"

"Perchance your own sweet eyes, my beautiful Persephoné,discoursed to him something on that night that causedmisgivings in his holy heart, and made him doubt yourerrand?" Theodora purred, extending her white arms andregarding the Circassian intently.

Persephoné flushed and paled in quick succession.

"On that matter I left no doubt in his mind," she saidenigmatically.

There was a brief pause, during which an inscrutablegaze passed between Theodora and the Circassian.

"Were you not as beautiful as you are evil, my Persephoné,I should strangle you," Theodora at last said very quietly.

The Circassian's face turned very pale and there wasa strange light in her eyes. Her memory went back to anhour when, during one of the periodical feuds betweenMarozia and her younger sister, the former had imprisonedTheodora in one of the chambers of Castel San Angelo,setting over her as companion and gaoler in one Persephoné,then in Marozia's service.

The terrible encounter between Theodora and the Circassianin the locked chamber, when only the timely appearanceof the guard saved each from destruction at the handsof the other, as Theodora tried to take the keys of her prisonfrom Persephoné, had never left the latter's mind. Braveas she was, she had nevertheless, after Marozia's fall, enteredTheodora's service, and the latter, admiring the spirit offearlessness in the girl, had welcomed her in her household.

"I am ever at the Lady Theodora's service," Persephonéreplied, with drooping lids, but Theodora caught a gleamof tigerish ferocity beneath those silken lashes that firedher own blood.

"Beware—lest in some evil hour I may be tempted tofinish what I left undone in the Emperor's Tomb!" sheflashed with a sudden access of passion.

"The Lady Theodora is very brave," Persephoné replied,as, stirred by the memory, her eyes sank into those of hermistress.

For a moment they held each other's gaze, then, with agenerosity that was part of her complex nature, Theodoraextended her hand to Persephoné.

"Forgive the mood—I am strangely wrought up," shesaid. "Cannot you help me in this dilemma, where I cantrust in none?"

"There dwells in Rome one who can help my lady,"Persephoné replied with hesitation; "one deeply versed inthe lore and mysteries of the East."

"Who is this man?" Theodora queried eagerly.

"His name is Hormazd. By his spells he can change thenatural event of things, and make Fate subservient to hisdecrees."

"Why have you never told me of him before?"

"Because the Lady Theodora's will seemed to do as muchfor her as could, to my belief, the sorcerer's art!"

The implied compliment pleased Theodora.

"Where does he abide?"

"In the ."

"What does he for those who seek him?"

"He reads the stars—foretells the future—and, withthe aid of strange spells of which he is master, can bringabout that which otherwise would be unattainable—"

"You rouse my curiosity! Tell me more of him."

An inscrutable expression passed over Persephoné's face.

"He was Marozia's trusted friend."

A frozen silence reigned apace.

"Did he foretell that which was to happen?" Theodoraspoke at last.

"To the hour!"

"And yet—forewarned—"

"Marozia, grown desperate in the hatred of her lord,derided his warnings."

"It was her Fate. Tell me more!"

"He has visited every land under the sun. From Thuléto Cathay his fame is known. Strange tales are told of him.No one knows his age. He seems to have lived always.As he appears now he hath ever been. They say he hasbeen seen in places thousand leagues apart at the same time.Sometimes he disappears and is not heard of for months.But—whoever he may be—whatever he may be engagedin—at the stroke of midnight that he must suspend. Thenhis body turns rigid as a corpse, bereft of animation, andhis spirit is withdrawn into realms we dare not even dreamof. At the first hour of the morning life will slowly return.But no one has yet dared to question him, where he hasspent those dread hours."

Theodora had listened to Persephoné's tale with a strangenew interest.

"How long has this Hormazd—or whatever his name—residedin Rome?" she turned to the Circassian.

"I met him first on the night on which the lady Maroziasummoned him to the summit of the Emperor's Tomb.There he abode with her for hours, engaged in some unholyincantation and at last conjured up such a tempest over theSeven Hills, as the city of Rome had not experienced sinceit was founded by the man from Troy—"

Persephoné's historical deficiency went hand in handwith a superstition characteristic of the age, and evokedno comment from one perchance hardly better informedwith regard to the past.

"I well remember the night," Theodora interposed.

"We crept down into the crypts, where the dog-headedEgyptian god keeps watch over the dead Emperor," Persephonécontinued. "The lady Marozia alone remained onthe summit with the wizard—amidst such lightnings andcrashing peals of thunder and a hurricane the like of whichthe oldest inhabitants do not remember—"

"I shall test his skill," Theodora spoke after a pause."Perchance he may give me that which I have neverknown—"

"My lady would consult the wizard?" Persephoné interposedeagerly.

"Such is my intent."

"Shall I summon him to your presence?"

"I shall go to him!"

In Persephoné's countenance surprise and fear struggledfor mastery.

"Then I shall accompany my lady—"

"I shall go alone and unattended—"

"It is an ill-favored region, where the sorcerer dwells—"

An inscrutable look passed into Theodora's eyes.

"Can he but give me that which I desire I shall brave thehazard, be it ever so great."

The last words were uttered in an undertone. Then sheadded imperiously:

"Go and summon the lord Basil and bid two eunuchsattend him hither! And do you wait with them within callbehind those curtains."

Then, as Persephoné silently piled cushions behind herin the lion-armed chair and withdrew bowing, Theodoramurmured to herself:

"Hardly can I trust even him in an hour so fraught withdarkness and peril. Yet strive as he will, he may not breakthe chains his passion has woven around his senses."

CHAPTER IX
THE GAME OF LOVE

The pattering of footsteps resoundedon the marble floor ofthe corridor and the hangingsonce more parted, revealing theform of a man sombre even inthe shadows which seemed partof the darkness that framed hiswhite face.

With eyes that never left thewoman's graceful form the visitorslowly advanced and, concealing his chagrin at havingbeen kept waiting like a slave in the anteroom, bent low overTheodora's hand and raised it to his lips.

She had seated herself on a divan which somewhat shadedher face and invited him with a mute gesture to take his seatbeside her. Persephoné and the eunuchs had left the chamber.

"Fain would I have departed, Lady Theodora, when themaid Persephoné, who has the devil in her eyes, told methat the Lady Theodora slept," Basil spoke as, with the lightof a fierce passion in his eyes, he sank down beside the wondrousform, and his hot breath fanned her shoulder. "Butmy tidings brook no delay. Closer, fairest lady, that yourear alone may hear this new perplexity that does beset us,for it concerns that which lies closest to our heart, and thetime is brief—"

"I cannot even guess your tidings," replied Theodora,withdrawing herself a little from his burning gaze. "Fordays mischance has emptied all her quivers at me, leaving menot a dart wherewith to strike."

"It is as a bolt from the clear blue," interposed the GrandChamberlain. "Yet—how were we to reckon with thatwhich did happen? Every detail had been carefully planned.In the excitement and turmoil which roared and surged overthe Navona the task could not fail of its accomplishment andhe who was to speed the holy man to his doom had but toplunge into that seething vortex of humanity to make hisescape. Surely the foul fiend was abroad on that night andstalked about visibly to our undoing. For not a word have Ibeen able to get out of Il Gobbo who raves that at the verymoment when he was about to strike, St. John himselftowered over him, paralyzed his efforts, and gave him such ablow as sent him reeling upon the turf. Some say,"—thespeaker added meditatively, "it was a pilgrim—"

"A pilgrim?" Theodora interposed, a sudden gleam inher eyes. "A pilgrim? What was he like?"

"To Il Gobbo he appeared no doubt of superhuman height,else had he not affrighted him. For the bravo is no coward—"

"A pilgrim, you say," Theodora repeated, meditatively.

"Whosoever he is," Basil continued after a pause, "heseems to scent ample entertainment in this godly city. For,no doubt it was the same who thwarted by his timely appearancethe abduction of the Pontiff by certain ruffians, earningthereby much distinction in the eyes of the Senator of Romewho has appointed him captain of Castel San Angelo—andGamba in whom we placed our trust has fled. If he is captured—ifhe should confess—"

The color had died out of Theodora's cheeks and she satbolt upright as a statue of marble, gazing into the shadowswith great wide eyes, as in a low voice, hardly audible evento her visitor, she said:

"God! Will this uncertainty never cease? What is tobe done? Speak!—For I confess, I am not myself ."—

Basil hesitated, and a sudden flame leaped into his eyesas they devoured the beauty of the woman beside him, andraising to his lips the hand that lay inert on the saffron-huedcushion, he replied:

"The lady Theodora has many who do her bidding, yet isthe heart of none as true as his, who is even now sittingbeside her. Therefore ask of me whatever you will and, ifa blade be needed, your slightest favor will fire me to anydeed,—however unnameable."—

Lower the man bent, until his hot breath scorched her palecheeks. But neither by word nor gesture did she betraythat she was conscious of his nearer approach as, in a calmvoice, she replied:

"Full well do I know your zeal and devotion, my lord Basil.Yet there hangs in the balance the keen and timely strokethat shall secure for me the dominion of the Seven Hills andthe Emperor's Tomb. For failure would bring in its wakethat which would be harder to endure than death itself.Therefore," she added slowly, "I would choose one whosedevotion is only equalled by his blind indifference to thatwhich I am minded to bring about; not one only fired with apassion, which when cooled might leave nothing but fearand hesitation behind."—

"Has all that has passed between us left you with so illan opinion of me?" Basil replied, drawing back somewhatostentatiously. "There are few that can be trusted withthat which must be done—and trusted blades are scarce."

"The more reason that we choose wisely and well," camethe reply in deliberate tones. "How much longer mustI suffer the indignity which this stripling dares to put uponhis own flesh and blood,—upon myself, who has strivenfor this dominion with all the fire of this restless soul? Howmuch longer must I sit idly by, pondering over the mysterythat enshrouds Marozia's untimely end? How muchlonger must I tremble in abject fear of him whom the Tuscan'schurlishness has set up in yonder castello and whoconspires with my rival to gain his sinister ends?"

"By what sorcery she holds him captive, I cannot tell,"Basil interposed. "Yet, if we are not on our guard, we shallawaken one day to the realization that even the faint chancewhich remains to us now has passed from our hands. Idoubt not but that Roxana will enlist the services of thestranger who in the space of a week, during the lord Alberic'sabsence, will lord it over the city of Rome!"

With a smothered cry of hate, that drove from Theodora'sface every trace of her former mood, she bounded upright.

"What demon of madness possesses you, my lord Basil,to taunt me with your suspicions?" she flashed.

Basil had sped his shaft at random, but he had hit themark.

In suave and insinuating tones, without relinquishinghis gaze upon the woman, he replied:

"I voice but my fears, Lady Theodora, and the urgencyof assembling your friends under the banners of your house.What is more natural," he continued with slow and sinisteremphasis, "than for a beautiful woman to harbor the desirefor conquest, and to profit from so auspicious a throw offate as the stranger's espousing her part against an equallybeautiful, hated rival? Is not the inference justified, that,ignorant of the merits of the feud, which has been ragingthese many months, he will take the part of the one whosebeauty had compelled the Senator's unwitting tribute—asit were?"

He paused for a moment, watching the woman beforehim from under half-shut lids, then continued slowly:

"Roxana is consumed with the desire to stake soul andbody upon attaining her ends, humbling her rival in the dustand set her foot upon her neck. Time and again has shedefied you! At the banquet she gave in honor of the Senatorof Rome, when one of the guests lamented the Lady Theodora'sabsence from the festal board, she openly boasted,that in youth as well as in beauty, in strength as in love,she would vanquish Marozia's sister utterly—and whenone of the guests, commenting upon her boast, suggestedwith a smile that in the time of the Emperor Gallus womenfought in the arena, she bared her arms and replied: 'Arethere no chambers in this demesne where a woman maystrangle her rival?'"

Theodora had listened to Basil's recital, white to the lips.Her bosom heaved and a strange fire burnt in her eyes asshe replied:

"Dares she utter this boast, woman to woman?"—

Basil, checking himself, gave a shrug.

"Misinterpret not my words, dearest lady," he said solicitously."It is to warn you that I came. Alberic's attitudeis no longer a secret. Roxana is leaving no stone unturnedto drive you from the city, to encompass your death—andAlberic is swayed by strange moods. Roxana is growingbolder each day and the woman who dares challenge theLady Theodora is no coward."

A strange look passed into Theodora's eyes.

"Three days hence," she said, "I mean to give a feastto my friends, if," she continued with lurid mockery, "Ican still number such among those who flock to my bowers.I shall ask the Lady Roxana to grace the feast with her presence—"

A puzzled look passed into Basil's eyes.

"Deem you she will come?"

Theodora's lips curved in a smile.

"You said but just now, my lord, the woman who dareschallenge Theodora is no coward—"

"Yet—as your guest—suspecting—knowing—"

"I doubt not, my lord, she is well informed," Theodorainterposed with the same inscrutable smile. "Yet—ifshe is as brave as she is beautiful—she will come—doubtnot, my lord—she will come—"

"Nevertheless, I question the wisdom," Basil venturedto interpose. "A sudden spark—from nowhere—whowill quench the holocaust?"

"When Roxana and Theodora meet,—woman to woman—ah,trust me, my lord, it will be a festive occasion—onelong to be remembered. Perchance you, my lord, whoboast of a large circle know young Fabio of the Cavalli—acomely youth with the air and manners of a girl. Persephoné,my Circassian, could strangle him."

"I know the youth, Lady Theodora," Basil interposed witha puzzled air. "What of him?"

"He once did me the honor to imagine himself in lovewith me. Did he not pursue me with amorous sighs andburning glances and oaths—my lord—such oaths! Cerberuswould wince in Tartarus could he hear but one ofthem—"

Basil's lips straightened and his eyelids narrowed.

"Pardon, Lady Theodora, if I do not quite follow the trendof your reminiscent mood—"

Theodora smiled.

"You will presently, my lord—believe me—you willpresently. When I became satiated with him I sent himon his way and straightway he sought my beautiful rival.I am told she is very fond of him—"

A strange nervousness had seized Basil.

"I shall bid him to the feast," Theodora continued."'Twere scant courtesy to request the Lady Roxaná's presencewithout that of her lover. And more, my lord. Since youboast your devotion to me in such unequivocal terms—yourtask it shall be to bring as your honored guest the valiantstranger who took so brave a part in aiding the Lord Albericto regain his prisoner, and who, within a week, is to be thenew captain of Castel San Angelo."—

Basil was twitching nervously.

"Lady Theodora, without attempting to fathom the moodwhich prompts the request, am I to traverse the city in questof a churl who has hypnotized the Lord Alberic and hasdestroyed our fondest hopes?"—

"That it shall be for myself to decide, my Lord Basil,"Theodora replied with her inscrutable smile. "I do notdesire you to fathom my mood, but to bring to me this man.And believe me, my Lord Basil—as you value my favor—youwill find and bring him to me!"

Half turning she flung a light vesture from off her bosomand the faint light showed not the set Medusa face thatmeditated unnameable things, but eyes alight with desireand a mouth quivering for kisses.

As he gazed, Basil was suddenly caught in the throes ofhis passion. He clutched at the ottoman's carved arms,striving to resist the tide of emotion that tossed him like ahelpless bark in its clutches and, suddenly bearing downevery restraint, his arms went round the supple form ashe crushed her to him with a wild uncontrolled passion,bending her back, and his eyes blazed with a baleful fire intoher own, while his hot kisses scorched her lips.

She struggled violently, desperately in his embrace, and atlast succeeded, bruised and crushed, in releasing herself.

"Beast! Coward!" she flashed, "Can you not bridle theanimal within you? I have it in mind to kill you here andnow."

Basil's face was ashen. His eyes were bloodshot. Thetouch of her lips, of her hands, had maddened him. Hegroaned, and his arms fell limply by his side. Presently heraised his head and, his eyes aflame with the madness ofjealousy, he snarled:

"So I did not go amiss, when I long suspected another inthe bower of roses. Who is he? Tell me quickly, that I mayat least assuage this hatred of mine, for its measure overflows."

His hand closed on his dagger's hilt that was hidden byhis tunic, but Theodora rose and her own eyes flashed likenaked swords as with set face she said:

"Have you not yet learned, my lord, how vain it is toprobe the clouds of my mind for the unseen wind that stirsbehind its curtains? Aye—crouch at my feet, you miserableslave, gone mad with the dream of my favor possessed andwake to learn, that, as Theodora's enchantments compel allliving men, nevertheless she gives herself unto him shepleases. I tell you, you jealous fool, that, although I servethe goddess of night yonder, never till yesterday was myheart touched by the divine enchantments of Venus, norhave the lips ever closed on mine, that could kindle the sparkto set my breast afire with longing."

"Ah me!" she continued, speaking as though she thoughtaloud. "Will Hekaté ever grant me to find amongst thesehusks of passion and plotting that great love whereof once Idreamed, that love which I am seeking and which ever flitsbefore me, disembodied and unattainable, like a ghost inthe purple twilight? Or, must I wander, ever loved yetunloving, until I am gathered to the realms of shadows,robbed of my desire by Death's cold hand?"

She paused, her lips a-quiver, the while Basil watched herwith half-closed eyes, filled with sudden and ominous brooding.

"Who is the favored one?" he queried darkly, "whocame and saw and conquered, while others of long-triedloyalty are starving at the fount?"

She gave him an inscrutable glance, then answered quickly:

"A man willing to risk life and honor and all to serve meas I would be served."

Basil gave her a baffled look.

"Can he achieve the impossible?"

Theodora gave a shrug.

"To him who truly loves nothing is impossible. You arethe trusted friend of the Senator who encompasses myundoing—need I say more?"

"Were I not, Lady Theodora, in seeming,—who knows,but that your blood would long have dyed this Roman soil,or some dark crypt contained your wonderful beauty? Bidebut the time—"

An impatient wave of Theodora's hand interrupted thespeaker.

"Time has me now! Will there ever be an end to thisuncertainty?"

"You have not yet told me the name of him whose suddenadvent on the stage has brought about so marvellous a transformation,"Basil said with an air of baffled passion and rage.

"What matters the name, my lord?" Theodora interposedwith a sardonic smile.

"A nameless stranger then," he flashed with a swiftnessthat staggered even the woman, astute as she was.

"I said not so—"

"A circumstance that should recommend him to our consideration,"he muttered darkly. "I shall find him—andbring him to the feast—"

There was something in his voice that roused the tigressin the woman.

"By the powers of hell," she turned on the man whosefatal guess had betrayed her secret, "if you but dare touchone hair of his head—"

Basil raised his hand disdainfully.

"Be calm, Lady Theodora! The Grand Chamberlainsoils not his steel with such carrion," he said with a toneof contempt that struck home. "And now I will be plainwith you, Lady Theodora. All things have their price. Willyou grant to me what I most desire in return for that whichis ever closest to your heart?"

Theodora gave a tantalizing shrug.

"Like the Fata Morgana of the desert, I am all thingsto all men," she said. "Remember, my lord, I must lookfor that which I desire wherever I may find it, since lifeand the future are uncertain."

There was a silence during which each seemed intentupon fathoming the secret thoughts of the other.

It was Basil who spoke.

"What of that other?"

Theodora had arisen.

"Bring him to me—three days hence—as my guest.Thrice has he crossed my path.—Thrice has he defiedme!—I have that in store for him at which men shall marvelfor all time to come!"

Basil bent over the white hand and kissed it. Then hetook his leave. Had he seen the expression in the woman'seyes as the heavy curtains closed behind him, it would havemade the Grand Chamberlain pause.

Theodora passed to where the bronze mirror hung andstood long before it, with hands clasped behind her shapelyhead, wrapt in deepest thought.

And while she gazed on her mirrored loveliness, an evillight sprang up in her eyes and all her mouth's soft linesfroze to a mould of dreaming evil, as she turned to wherethe image of Hekaté gazed down upon her with inhumancalm upon its face, and, holding out shimmering, imploringarms, she cried:

"Help me now, dread goddess of darkness, if ever youlooked with love upon her whose prayers have been directedto you for good and for evil. Fire the soul of him I desire,as he stands before me, that he lose reason, honor, and manhood,as the price of my burning kisses—that he becomemy utter slave."

She clapped her hands and Persephoné appeared frombehind the curtains.

"For once Fate is my friend," she turned with flashingeyes to the Circassian. "Before his departure to the shrinesof the Archangel, Alberic has appointed this nameless strangercaptain of Castel San Angelo. Go—find him and bringhim to me! Now we shall see," she added, "if all thisbeauty of mine shall prevail against his manhood. Youreyes express doubt, my sweet Persephoné?"

Theodora had raised herself to her full height. Shelooked regal indeed—a wonderful apparition. What manlived there to resist such loveliness of face and form?

Persephoné, too, seemed to feel the woman's magic,for her tone was less confident when she replied:

"Such beauty as the Lady Theodora's surely the worldhas never seen."

"I shall conquer—by dread Hekaté," Theodora flashed,flushed by Persephoné's unwitting tribute. "He shallopen for me the portals of the Emperor's Tomb, he shall sueat my feet for my love—and obtain his guerdon. Not aword of this to anyone, my Persephoné—least of all, theLord Basil. Bring the stranger to me by the postern—"

"But—if he refuse?"

There was something in Persephoné's tone that stungTheodora's soul to the quick.

"He will not refuse."

Persephoné bowed and departed, and for some timeTheodora's dark inscrutable eyes brooded on the equallyinscrutable face of the goddess of the Underworld, whichwas just then touched by a fugitive beam of sunlight andseemed to nod mysteriously.

CHAPTER X
A SPIRIT PAGEANT

When, on the day succeeding hisappointment Tristan returnedto the Inn of the Golden Shieldhe felt as one in a trance. Likea puppet of Fate he had beenplunged into the seething maelstromof feudal Rome. Hehardly realized the import ofthe scene in which he had playedso prominent a part. He hadacted upon impulse, hardly knowing what it was all about.Dimly at intervals it flashed through his consciousness,dimly he remembered facing two youths, the one the Senatorof Rome—the other the High Priest of Christendom, eventhough a prisoner in the Lateran. Vaguely he recalledthe words that had been spoken between them, vaguelyhe recalled the fact that the Senator of Rome had commendedhim for having saved the city, offering him appointment,holding out honor and preferment, if he would enter hisservice. Vaguely he remembered bending his knee beforethe proud son of Marozia and accepting his good offices.

In the guest-chamber Tristan found pilgrims from everyland assembled round the tables discoursing upon the wondersand perils hidden in the strange and shifting corridorsof Rome. Not a few had witnessed the scene in which hehad so conspicuously figured and, upon recognizing him,regarded him with shy glances, while commenting uponthe prevailing state of unrest, the periodical seditions andoutbreaks of the Romans.

Tristan listened to the buzz and clamor of their voices,gleaning here and there some scattered bits of knowledgeregarding Roman affairs.

He could now review more calmly the events of the precedingday. Fortune seemed to have favored him indeed, inthat she had led him across the path of the Senator of Rome.

Thus Tristan set out once again, to make the rounds ofworship and obedience. These absolved, he wandered aimlesslyabout the great city, losing himself in her ruins andgardens, while he strove in vain to take an interest in whathe beheld, rather distracted than amused by the Babel-likeconfusion which surrounded him on all sides.

Nevertheless, once more upon the piazzas and tortuousstreets of Rome, his pace quickened. His pulses beat faster.At times he did not feel his feet upon those stony ways whichPeter and Paul had trod, and many another who, like himself,had come to Rome to be crucified. People stared at his darkand sombre form as he passed. Now and then he wasretarded by chanting processions, that wound their interminablecoils through the tortuous streets, pilgrims from allthe world, the various orders of monks in the habits peculiarto their orders, wine-venders, water-carriers, men-at-arms,sbirri, and men of doubtful calling. Sacred banners floatedin the sunlit air and incense curled its graceful spiral wreathsinto the cloudless Roman ether.

Surely Rome offered a wide field for ambition. A manmight raise himself to a certain degree by subservience tosome powerful prince, but he must continue to serve thatprince, or he fell and would never aspire to independentdomination, where hereditary power was recognized by thepeople and lay at the foundation of all acknowledged authority.It was only in Central Italy, and especially in Romagnaand the States of the Church, where a principle antagonisticto all hereditary claims existed in the very nature of thePapal power, so that any adventurer might hope, either byhis individual genius or courage, or by services rendered tothose in authority, to raise himself to independent rule or tothat station which was only attached to a superior by the thinand worn-out thread of feudal tenure.

Rome was the field still open to the bold spirit, the keenand clear-seeing mind. Rome was the table on which theboldest player was sure to win the most. With every changeof the papacy new combinations, and, consequently, newopportunities must arise. Here a man may, as elsewhere, berequired to serve, in order at length to command. But, if hedid not obtain power at length, it was his fault or Fortune's,and in either event he must abide the consequences.

Revolving in his mind these matters, and wondering whatthe days to come would hold, Tristan permitted himself towander aimlessly through the desolation which arose on allsides about him.

Passing by the Forum and the Colosseum, ruins piled uponruins, he wandered past San Gregorio, where, in the garden,lie the remains of the Servian Porta Capena, by which St.Paul first entered Rome. The Via Appia, lined with vineyardsand fruit-trees, shedding their blossoms on many anancient tomb, led the solitary pilgrim from the memories ofthe present to the days, when the light of the early ChristianChurch burned like a flickering taper hidden low in Romansoil.

The ground sweeping down on either side in gentle, butwell-defined curves, led the vision over the hills of Rome andinto her valleys. Beneath a cloudless, translucent sky thecity was caught in bold shafts of crystal light, revealing her inso strong a relief that it seemed like a piece of exquisitesculpture.

Fronting the Coelian, crowned with the temple church ofSan Stefano in Rotondo, fringed round with tall and gracefulpoplars, rose the immeasurable ruins of Caracalla's Baths,seeming more than ever the work of titans, as Tristan sawthem, shrouded in deep shadows above the old churches ofSan Nereo and San Basilio, shining like white huts, a stone'sthrow from the mighty walls. Beyond, as a beacon of theChristian world in ages to come, on the site of the ancientCircus of Nero, arose the Basilica of Constantine, still in itspristine simplicity, ere the genius of Michel Angelo, Bramantéand Sangallo transformed it into the magnificence of thepresent St. Peter's.

For miles around stretched the Aurelian walls, here fallenin low ruins, there still rising in their proud strength. Weatheredto every shade of red, orange, and palest lemon, theystill showed much of their ancient beauty near the closedLatin gate. High towers, arched galleries and battlementscast a broad band of shade upon a line of peach trees whoseblossoms had opened out to the touch of the summer breeze.

Beneath Tristan's feet, unknown to him, lay the sepulchralchambers of pagan patricians, and the winding passagetombs of the Scipios. Out of the sunshine of the vineyardTristan's curiosity led him into the dusk of the Columbariaof Pomponius Hylas, full of stucco altar tombs. He descendedinto the lower chambers with arched corridors andvaulted roofs where, in the loculi, stood terra-cotta jarsholding the ashes of the freedmen and musicians of Tiberiuswith their servants, even to their cook.

Returning full of wonder to the golden light of day, Tristanretraced his steps once again over the Appian Way. Passingthe ruined Circus of Maxentius, across smooth fields ofgrass, he saw the fortress tomb of Cæcilia Metella, set grandlyupon the hill. It appeared to break through the sunshine,its marble surface of a soft cream color, looking more like theshrine of some immortal goddess of the Campagna than thetomb of a Roman matron.

And, as he wandered along the Appian Way, past the siteof lava pools from Mount Alba, remains of ancient monumentslay thicker by the roadside. Prostrate statues appeared in asetting of wild flowers. Sculptured heads gazed out fromhalf-hidden tombs, while one watch-tower after another roseout of the undulating expanse of the Campagna.

To Tristan the memories of an ancient empire which clungto the place held but little significance.

Here emperors had been carried by in their litters to Albano.Victorious generals returning in their chariots from thesouth, drove between these avenues of cypress-guardedtombs to Rome. The body of the dead Augustus had beenbrought with great following from Bovilæ to the Palatine,as before him Sulla had been borne along to Rome amidthe sound of trumpets and tramp of horsemen. Near thefourth milestone stood Seneca's villa, where he receivedhis death warrant from an emissary of Nero, and nearbywas that of his wife who, by her own desire, bravely sharedhis fate.

And, last to haunt the Appian Way in the spirit pageantof the Golden Age, a memory destined to lie dormant tillthe dawn of the Renaissance, was Paul the Apostle, the tent-makerfrom Tarsus, who entered Rome while Nero reignedin the white marble city of Augustus and suffered martyrdomfor the Faith.

It was verging towards evening when Tristan's feet againbore him past the stupendous ruins of the Colosseum, throughthe roofless upper galleries of which streamed the light ofthe sinking sun.

After reaching the Forum, almost deserted by this hour,save for a few belated ramblers, he seated himself on amarble block and tried to collect his thoughts, at the sametime drinking in the picture which unrolled itself before hisgaze.

If Rome was indeed, as the chroniclers of the MiddleAges styled her, "Caput Mundi," the Forum was the centreof Rome. From this centre Rome threw out and informedher various feelers, farther and farther radiating in all directions,as she swelled out with greatness, drawing her sustenancefirst from her sacred hills and groves, then from thevery marbles and granites of the mountains of Asia andAfrica, from the lives of all sorts of peoples, races and nations.And like the Emperor Constantine, as we are told by AmmianusMarcellinus, on beholding the Forum from theRostra of Domitian, stood wonder-stricken, so Tristan, evenat this period of decay, was amazed at the grandeur of theruins which bore witness to Rome's former greatness.

The sound of the Angelus, whose silvery chimes permeatedthe tomb-like stillness, roused Tristan from hisreveries.

He arose and continued upon his way, until he foundhimself in the square fronting the ancient Basilica of Constantine.

Notwithstanding the fact that it was a Vigil of the Church,popular exhibitions of all sorts were set upon the broadflagstones before St. Peter's. Street dancing girls indulgedon every available spot in those gliding gyrations, so eloquentlycondemned by the worthy Ammianus Marcellinusof orderly and historical memory. Booths crammed withrelics of doubtful authenticity, baskets filled with fruits orflowers, pictorial representations of certain martyrs of theChurch, basking in haloes of celestial light, tempted in everydirection the worldly and unworldly spectators. Cooksperambulated, their shops upon their backs, merchantsshouted their wares, wine-sellers taught Bacchanalian philosophyfrom the tops of their casks; poets recited spuriouscompositions which they offered for sale; philosophers indulgedin argumentations destined to convert the wavering,or to perplex the ignorant. Incessant motion and noiseseemed to be the sole aim and purpose of the crowd whichthronged the square.

Nothing could be more picturesque than the distant viewof the joyous scene, this Carnival in Midsummer, as it were.

The deep red rays of the westering sun cast their radiance,partly from behind the Basilica, over the vast multitudein the piazza. In unrivalled splendor the crimson lighttinted the water that purled from the fountain of BishopSymmachus. Its roof of gilded bronze, supported by sixporphyry columns, was enclosed by small marble screenson which griffins were carved, its corners ornamented bygilded dolphins and peacocks in bronze. The water flowedinto a square basin from out of a bronze pine cone whichmay have come from Hadrian's Mausoleum. Bathed inthe brilliant glow the smooth porphyry colonnades reflected,chameleon-like, ethereal and varying hues. The whitemarble statues became suffused with delicate rose, andthe trees gleamed in the innermost of their leafy depths asif steeped in the exhalations of a golden mist.

Contrasting strangely with the wondrous radiance aroundit, the bronze pine-tree in the centre of the piazza rose upin gloomy shadow, indefinite and exaggerated. The widefacade of the Basilica cast its great depth of shade into themidst of the light which dominated the scene.

Tristan stood for a time gazing into the glowing sky, thenhe slowly made his way towards the Basilica, the edificewhich commemorated the establishment of Christianity asthe state religion of Rome, as in its changes it has reflectedevery change wrought in the spirit of the new worship upto the present hour.

CHAPTER XI
THE DENUNCIATION

The Basilica of Constantine nolonger retained its pristine splendor,its pristine purity as in thedays, ere the revival of paganismby the Emperor Julian the Apostatehad put a sudden and impressivecheck upon the meretriciousdefilement of the glory,for which it was built.

The exterior began to showsigns of decay. The interior, too, had changed with theinexorable trend of the times. The solemn recesses werefilled with precious relics. Many hued tapers surroundedthe glorious pillars, and eastern tapestries wreathed theirfringes round the massive altars.

As Tristan entered the incense-saturated dusk of St.Peter's, the first part of the service had just been concluded.The last faint echoes from the voices in the choir still hoveredupon the air, and the silent crowds of worshippers were stillgrouped in their listening attitudes and absorbed in theirdevotions.

The only light was bestowed by the evening sun, duskilyilluminating the emblazoned windows, or by the glimmerof lamps in distant shrines, hung with sable velvet andattended each by its own group of ministering priests.

Struck with an indefinable awe Tristan looked about.At first he only realized the great space, the four long rowsof closely set columns, and the great triumphal arch whichframed the mosaics of the apse, where Constantine stoodin the clouds offering his Basilica to the Saviour and St.Peter. Then he looked towards the sacred shrines abovethe Apostle's grave, where lamps burned incessantly andcast a dazzling halo above the high altar, reflected in thesilver paving of the presbytery and on the golden gates andimages of the Confessio. Immediately behind the altarwas revealed a long panel of gold, studded with gems andornaments, with figures of Christ and the Apostles, a nativeoffering from the Emperor Valentinian III. The high altarand its brilliant surroundings were seen from the navebetween a double row of twisted marble columns, white assnow. A beam covered with plates of silver united themand supported great silver images of the Saviour, the Virginand the Apostles with lilies and candelabra.

To their shrines, to do homage, had in time come the Kingsfrom all the earth: Oswy, King of the Northumbrians,Cædwalla, King of the West Saxons, Coenred, King of theMercians, and with him his son Sigher, King of the EastSaxons. Even Macbeth is said to have made the pilgrimage.Ethelwulf came in the middle of the ninth century, and withhim came his son Alfred. In the arcades beneath the columnedvestibule of the Basilica, tomb succeeded tomb.Here the popes were buried, Leo I, the Great, being firstin line, the Saxon Pilgrim Kings, the Emperors HonoriusIII and Theodosius II, regarding whom St. John Chrysostomushas written: "Emperors were proud to stand in thehall keeping guard at the fisherman's door."

During the interval between the divisions of the service,Tristan, like many of those present, found his interest directedtowards the relics, which were inclosed in a silvercabinet with crystal doors and placed above the high altar.Although it was impossible to obtain a satisfactory view ofthese ecclesiastical treasures, they nevertheless occupiedhis attention till it was diverted by the appearance of a monkin the habit of the Benedictines, who had mounted therichly carved pulpit fixed between two pillars.

As far as Tristan was enabled to follow the trend of thesermon it teemed with allusions to the state of society andreligion as it prevailed throughout the Christian world, andespecially in the city of the Pontiff. By degrees the monk'seloquence took on darker and more terrible tints, as he seemedslowly to pass from generalities to personal allusions, whichincreased the fear and mortification of the great assemblywith every moment.

From the shadows of the shrine, where he had chosenhis station, Tristan was enabled to mark every shade ofthe emotions which swayed the multitudes and, as his eyesroamed inadvertently towards the chapel of the FatherConfessor, he saw a continuous stream of penitents enterthe dark passage leading towards the crypts, many of whomwere masked.

Turning his head by chance, Tristan's glance fell upontwo men who had apparently just entered the Basilica andpaused a few paces away, to listen to the words which themonk hurled like thunderbolts across the heads of his listeners.Despite their precaution to wear masks, Tristan recognizedthe Grand Chamberlain in the one, while his companion,the hunchback, appeared rather uncomfortable in the sanctifiedair of the Basilica.

Hitherto Odo of Cluny's attacks on the existing state hadbeen general. Now he glanced over the crowd, as if in questof some special object, as with strident voice he declaimed:

"Repent! Death stands behind you! The flag of yourglory shall cease to wave on the towers of your strong citadel.Destruction clamors at your palace gates, and the enemythat cometh upon you unaware is an enemy that none shallvanquish or subdue, not even they who are the mightiestamong the mighty. Blood stains the earth and the sky. Itsred waves swallow up the land! The heavens grow paleand tremble! The silver stars blacken and decay, andthe winds of the desert make lament for that which shallcome to pass, ere ever the grapes be pressed or the harvestgathered. It is a scarlet sea wherein, like a broken anddeserted ship, Rome flounders, never to rise again—"

He paused for a moment and caught his breath hard.

"The Scarlet Woman of Babylon is among us!" he cried."Hence! accursed tempter. Thou poisoner of peace, thouquivering sting in the flesh, destroyer of the strength ofmanhood! Theodora!—thou abomination—thou tyrannoustreachery! What shall be done unto thee in the hourof darkness? Put off the ornaments of gold, the jewels,wherewith thou adornest thy beauty, and crown thyselfwith the crown of endless affliction. For thou shalt begirdled about with flame and fire shall be thy garment. Thylips that have drunk sweet wine shall be steeped in bitterness!Vainly shalt thou make thyself fair and call uponthy legion of lovers. They shall be as dead men, deaf tothine entreaties, and none shall respond to thy call! Noneshall hide thee from shame and offer thee comfort! In themidst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly perish,and my soul shall be avenged on thy sins, queen-courtesanof the earth!"

Scarcely had the last word died to silence when a blindingflash of lightning rent the gloom followed by a tremendouscrash of thunder that shook the great edifice to its foundation.The bronze portals opened as of their own accord and aterrific gust of wind extinguished every light in the thousand-jettedcandelabrum. Impenetrable darkness reigned—thick,suffocating darkness, as the thunder rolled away in grand,sullen echoes.

There was a momentary lull, then, piercing the profoundgloom, came the cries and shrieks of frightened women, thehorrible, selfish scrambling, struggling and pushing of abewildered multitude. A veritable frenzy of fear seemed topossess every one. Groans and sobs, entreaties and cursesfrom those, who, intent on saving themselves, were brutallytrying to force a passage to the door, the heart-rending, franticappeals of the women—all these sounds increased thehorror of the situation, and Tristan, blind, giddy and confused,listened to the uproar about him with somewhat of theaffrighted, panic-stricken compassion that a stranger in hellmight feel, while hearkening to the ceaseless plaints of theself-tortured damned.

Lost in a dim stupefaction of wonderment, Tristanremained where he stood, while the crowds rushed from theBasilica. As he was about to follow in their wake, his gazewas attracted towards the chapel of the Grand Penitentiary,from which came a number of masked personages whilehe, to whose keeping were confided crimes of a magnitudethat seemed beyond the extensive powers of absolution,was barely visible under the cowl, which was drawn deeplyover his forehead.

The thought occurred to Tristan to seek the ear of theConfessor, in as much as the Pontiff to whom he had hopedto lay bare his heart could not grant him an audience.

The lateness of the hour and the uncertainty of the fate ofthe Monk of Cluny prevented him from following the promptingof the moment and, staggering rather than walking,Tristan made for the portals of St. Peter's and walked unseeinginto the gathering dusk.

CHAPTER XII
THE CONFESSION

The storm had abated, but thesheen of white lightnings tosouthward and the menacinggrowl of distant thunder thatseemed to come from the bowelsof the earth held out promise ofrenewed upheavals of disturbednature.

The streets of Rome werecomparatively deserted with theswiftly approaching dusk, and it occurred to Tristan to seekthe Monk of Cluny in his abode on Mount Aventine whitherhe had doubtlessly betaken himself after his sermon in theBasilica of St. Peter's. For ever and ever the memory oflost Hellayne dominated his thoughts, and, while he pouredout prayers for peace at the shrines of the saints, with theeyes of the soul he saw not the image of the Virgin, but of thewoman for the sake of whom he had come hither and, havingcome, knew not where to find that which he sought.

From a passing friar Tristan learned the direction of MountAventine, where, among the ruins near the newly erectedChurch of Santa Maria of the Aventine, Odo of Cluny abode.Tristan could not but marvel at the courage of the man whoselife was in hourly jeopardy and who, in the face of an everpresent menace could put his trust so completely in Heavenas to brave the danger without even a guard.—

Taking the road indicated by the friar, Tristan pursued hissolitary path. In seeking the Monk of Cluny his purposewas a twofold one, certainty with regard to his own guilt, inhaving loved where love was a crime, and counsel with regardto the woman who, he instinctively felt, would not stop at herfirst innuendos.

As Tristan proceeded on his way his feelings and motivesbecame more and more perplexed, and so lost was he inthought that, without heeding his way or noting the scatteredarches and porticoes, he lost himself in the wilderness of theMount of Cloisters. The hush was intensified rather thanbroken by the ever louder peals of thunder, which reverberatedthrough the valleys, and the Stygian darkness,broken at intervals by vivid flashes of lightning, seemed tohem him in, as a wall of basalt.

Gradually all traces of a road vanished. On both sidesrose woody acclivities, covered with ruins and melancholycypresses, whose spectral outlines seemed to stretch intogaunt immensity, in the sheen of the lightnings which grewmore and more frequent. The wind rose sobbingly amongthe trees, and a few scattered rain-drops began to warnTristan that a shelter of any sort would be preferable toexposing himself to the onslaught of the elements.

Entering the first group of ruins he came to, he penetratedthrough a series of roofless corridors and chambers intowhat seemed a dark cylindrical well at the farther extremityof which there gleamed an infinitesimal light. Even throughthe clamor of the storm that raged outside there came tohim the sound of voices from the interior.

Impelled as much by curiosity as by the consideration ofhis own safety Tristan crept slowly towards the aperture.As he did so, the light vanished, but a crimson glow, as ofsmouldering embers, succeeded, and heavy fumes of incense,wafted to his nostrils, informed him that his fears regardingthe character of the abode were but too well founded. Hecowered motionless in the gloom until the storm had abated,determined to return at some time to discover what mysteriesthe place concealed.

A fresher breeze had sprung up, driving the thundercloudsto northward, and from a clear azure the stars shone inundimmed lustre upon the dreaming world beneath.

For a moment Tristan stood gazing at the immense desolation,the wilderness of arches, shattered columns and ivy-coveredporticoes. The hopelessness of finding among theserelics of antiquity the monk's hermitage impressed itself atonce upon him. Pausing irresolutely, he would probablyhave retraced his steps, had he not chanced to see some oneemerge from the adjacent ruins, apparently bound in thesame direction.

Whether it was a presentiment of evil, or whether thefear bred of the region and the hour of the night promptedthe precaution, Tristan receded into the shadows and watchedthe approaching form, in whom he recognized Basil, theGrand Chamberlain. He at once resolved to follow himand the soft ground aided the execution of his design.

The way wound through a veritable labyrinth of ruins,nevertheless he kept his eyes on the tall dark form, stalkingthrough the night before him. At times an owl or bat whirledover his head. With these exceptions he encountered noliving thing among the ruins to break the hush of the sepulchraldesolation.

The distance between them gradually diminished. Tristansaw the other turn to the right into a wilderness of grottoes,the tortuous corridors of which were at times almost chokedup with weeds and wild flowers, but when he reached thespot, there was no vestige of a human presence. Basilhad disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him.

Possessed by a sudden fear that some harm might beintended the monk and remembering certain veiled threatshe had overheard against his life, he proceeded more slowlyand cautiously by the dim light of the stars.

Before long he found himself before a flight of grass grownsteps that led up to a series of desolate chambers which,although roofless and choked with rank vegetation, stillbore traces of their ancient splendor. These corridorsled to a clumsy door, standing half ajar, from beyond whichshone the faint glimmer of a light.

After having reached the threshold Tristan paused.

High, oval-shaped apertures admitted light and air atonce, and the dying embers of a charcoal fire revealed achamber, singularly void of all the comforts of existence.Almost in the centre of this chamber, before a massivestone table, upon which was spread a huge tome, sat theMonk of Cluny, shading his eyes with his right hand andreading half aloud.

For a few moments Tristan regarded the recluse breathlessly,as if he dreaded disturbing his meditations, whenOdo suddenly raised his eyes and saw the dark form standingin the frame of the door.

The look which he bestowed upon Tristan convinced thelatter immediately of the doubt which the monk harboredregarding the quality of his belated caller, a doubt whichhe deemed well to disperse before venturing into the monk'sretreat.

Therefore, without abandoning his position, he addressedthe inmate of the chamber and, as he spoke, the tone of hisvoice seemed to carry conviction, that the speaker wassincere.

"Your pardon, father," Tristan stammered, "for onewho is seeking you in an hour of grave doubt and misgiving."

The monk's ear had caught the accent of a foreign tongue.He beckoned to Tristan to enter, rising from the benchon which he had been seated.

"You come at a strange hour," he said, not withouta note of suspicion, which did not escape Tristan. "Yourbusiness must be weighty indeed to embolden one, a strangeron Roman soil, to penetrate the desolate Aventine whenthe world sleeps and murder stalks abroad."

"I am here for a singular purpose, father,—having obeyedthe impulse of the moment, after listening to your sermonat St. Peter's."

"But that was hours ago," interposed the monk, restinghis hand on the stone table, as he faced his visitor.

"I lost my way—nor did I meet any one to point it,"Tristan replied, as he advanced and kissed the monk'shand reverently.

"What is your business, my son?" asked the monk.

Tristan hesitated a moment. At last he spoke.

"I came to Rome not of my own desire,—but obeyingthe will of another that imposed the pilgrimage. I havesinned, father—and yet there are moments, when I wouldalmost glory in that which I have done. It was my purpose,while at St. Peter's to confess to the Grand Penitentiary.But—I know not why—I chose you instead, knowing thatyou would give truth for truth."

The monk regarded his visitor, wondering what one soyoung and possessed of so frank a countenance might havedone amiss.

"You are a pilgrim?" he queried at last.

"For my sins—"

"Of French descent, yet not a Frenchman—"

Tristan started at the monk's penetration.

"From Provence, father," he stammered, "the land ofsongs and flowers—"

"And women—" the monk interposed gravely.

"There are women everywhere, father."

"There are women and women. Perchance I shouldsay 'Woman.'"

Tristan bowed his head in silence.

The monk cast a penetrating glance at his visitor. Heunderstood the gesture and the silence with that quick comprehensionthat came to him who was to reform Holy CatholicChurch from the abuse of decades—as an intuition.

"But now, my son, speak of yourself," said the monkafter a pause.

"I lived at the court of Avalon, the home of Love andTroubadours."

"Of Troubadours?" the monk interposed dreamily. "Aworldly lot—given to extolling free love and what not—"

"They may sing of love and passion, father, but theirlives are pure and chaste," Tristan ventured to remonstrate.

"You are a Troubadour?" came the swift query.

"In my humble way." Tristan replied with bowed head.

The monk nodded.

"Go on—go on!"

"At the court of Avalon I met the consort of Count Rogerde Laval. He was much absent, on one business or another,—thechase—feuds with neighboring barons.—He choseme to help the Lady Hellayne to while away the long hoursduring his absence—"

"His wife! What folly!"

"The Count de Laval is one of those men who wouldtempt the heavens themselves to fall upon him rather than toair himself beneath them. That his fair young wife, doinghis will among men given to the chase and drinking bouts,and the society of tainted damsels, should long for somethinghigher, she, whom he regarded with the high air of the lordof creation—that she should dare dream of some intangiblesomething, for which she hungered, and craved andstarved—"

"If you are about to confess, as I conceive, to a wrongyou have done to this same lord," interposed the monk, "yoursin is not less black if you paint him you have wronged inodious tints."

"Nevertheless I am most sorry to do so, father," Tristaninterposed, "else could I not make you understand to its fullextent his folly and conceit by placing me, a creature ofemotion, day by day beside so fair a being as his young wife.Therefore I would explain."

"It needs some explanation truly!" the monk said sternly.

"The Count de Laval is a man whose conceit is so colossal,father, that he would never think it possible that anyone could fail in love and admiration at the shrine which hebuilt for himself. A man of supreme arrogance and self-righteousness."

"Sad, indeed—" mused the monk.

"Our thoughts were pagan, drifting back to the dayswhen the world was peopled with sylvan creatures—withthe deities of field and stream—"

"Mere heathen dreams," interposed the monk. "Go on!Go on!"

"I then felt within myself the impulse to throw forth aminstrelsy prophetic of a new world resembling that oldwhich had vanished. It was not to be a mere chant of wrathor exultation—it was to sound the joy of the earth, of theair, of the sun, of the moon and the stars,—the song of thebirds, the perfume of the flowers—"

"Words that have but little meaning left in this sternworld wherein we dwell—"

"They had meaning for me, father. Also for her.They were to both of us a bright and mystical ideal, in thefumes of which we steeped our souls,—our very selves,till our natures seemed to know no hurt, seemed incapableof evil—"

"Alas—the greater the pity!"

"I was sure of myself. She was sure of me. I lovedher. Her presence was to me as some intoxication of thesoul—some rare perfume that captivates the senses, raisingthe spirit to heights too rarefied for breath—"

"And you fell?"

The words came from the monk's lips, slowly, inexorably,as the knell of fate.

"I—all, but fell!" stammered Tristan. "One day ina chamber far removed from the inhabited part of the castlewe sat and read. And suddenly she laid her face closeto mine and with eyes in whose mystic depths lurked somethingmore than I had ever seen in them before asked why,through Fate's high necessity, two should forever wanderside by side, longing for each other—their longing unsatisfied—whenthe hour was theirs—"

Again Tristan paused.

The monk regarded him in silence.

"You fell?" the question came again.

"In that moment, father, I was no more myself, no morethe one whose art is sacred and alone upon the mountainsummit of his soul. Its freedom and aspirations were nomore. I was undone, a tumbled, wingless thing. Mypride had fled. Long, long I looked into her eyes, andwhen she put her wonderful white arms about me, I, in adizzy moment of desire, dropped my face to hers. Thenwas love all uttered. Straightway I arose. I clasped herin my arms. I kissed—I kissed her—"

The monk regarded him sternly, yet not unkindly.

"It was a sin. Yet—there is more?"

Tristan's hands were clasped.

"One evening in the rose garden—at dusk—the eveningon which she sent me from her—bade me go to Rometo obtain forgiveness for a sin of which I could not repent."

The monk nodded. "Go on! Go on!"

"The world had fallen away from us. We stood in agrove, our arms about each other. Suddenly I saw a face.I withdrew my arm, overwhelmed by all the shame of guilt.The face vanished and, passion overmastering once more,we touched our lips anew. It was the last time we wereto see each other. I left behind the wondrous silken hairmy hands had touched in our last mad caress. I left behindthat tender face and form. She made no attempt to follow,or to call me back. I hastened to my chamber, and thereI fought anew with all that evil impulse of my youth, toface the shame, as long as joy endured. If I had sinnedin mind against my high ideal might I not some day recoverit and be purified?"

"What of God and Holy Church?" queried the monk.

"To them I gave no heed, but to my honor. This upheldme."

The monk gave a nod.

"I left Avalon. It seemed as if without her my life wereebbing away. I joined a pilgrim party, and now my pilgrimageis ended. What must I do to still this inward cravingthat will not leave my soul at peace?"

He ended in a sob.

The monk had relapsed into deep thought, and Tristan'seyes were riveted on the ascetic form in silent dread, as towhat would be the verdict.

At last Odo broke the heavy silence.

"You have committed a grievous sin—adultery—nay,speak not!" he said, as Tristan attempted to remonstrateagainst the dire accusation. "The seed of every act slumbersin the mind ere its pernicious shoots are manifest indeeds. He who looks upon a woman with the desire topossess her has already committed adultery with her. Yet—notone in a thousand would have done so nobly undersuch temptation!"

The monk's voice betrayed some feeling as he placedhis hand on Tristan's bowed head.

"I shall consider what penances are most fit for one whohas transgressed as you have, my son. It is for your futurelife—perchance Holy Orders—"

Tristan raised his head imploringly.

"Not that, father,—not that! I am not fit!"

The monk regarded him quizzically.

"The lust of the eye is mighty and the fever of the worldstill burns in your veins, my son, rebelling against the passionthat chastens and purifies. Nevertheless, the Churchdesires no enforced service. She wishes to be servedthrough love, not with aversion and fear. Continue to dopenance, implore His forgiveness, and that He may takefrom you this worldly desire."

Kissing anew the hand which the monk extended, Tristanarose, after Odo had made upon him the holy sign.

"I shall obey your behest," he said in a low, brokenvoice, then withdrew, while the Monk of Cluny returnedto his former pursuit, unconscious that another had witnessedand overheard the strange confession from a recessin the wall.

As one in a trance Tristan left the Monk of Cluny, hisheart filled with gratitude for the man who, in the midstof a world of strife and unrest, had listened to his tale andhad not dealt harshly with him, but had received him sympathetically,even while rebuking the offence. While thepenances imposed upon him were not severe, Tristan chafednevertheless under the restraint they laid upon his soul.

What was his future life to be? What new vistas wouldopen before him? What new impressions would superimposethemselves upon the memories of the past—thememory of Hellayne?

As he passed the church of Santa Maria of the Aventine,Tristan saw the portals open. Puzzled over the problemshe was face in the days to come, he entered the dim shadowsof the sanctuary.

All that night Tristan knelt in solitary prayer.

The great church was empty and silent, unlit save forthe lamp upon the altar. There Tristan kept his vigil, histired, tearful eyes upon the crucifixion, searching his ownheart.

The night of silence brought him no vision and shed nolight upon his path. The pale dawn found him still uponhis knees before the altar, his eyes upon the drooping formof the crucified Christ.

Thus the monks found him when they entered for earlyMatins. At last he arose, in his sombre eyes a touchingresignation and infinite regret.

END OF BOOK THE FIRST

BOOK THE SECOND

CHAPTER I
THE GRAND CHAMBERLAIN

Castel San Angelo, theTomb of the Flavian Emperor,seemed rather to have beenbuilt for a great keep, a breakwateras it were to stem therush of barbarian seas whichwere wont to come stormingdown from the frozen north,than for the resting-place of theformer master of the world. Itsconstructors had aimed at nothing less than its everlastingness.So thick were its bastioned walls, so thick the curtainswhich divided its inner and outer masonry, that no force ofnature seemed capable of honeycombing or weakening them.

Hidden within its screens and vaults, like the gnawings ofa foul and intricate cancer, ran dark passages which dischargedthemselves here and there into dreadful dungeons,or secret places not guessed at in the common tally of itsrooms.

These oubliettes were hideous with blotched and spottedmemories, rotten with the dew of suffering, eloquent in theirterror and corruption and darkness of the cruelty whichturned to these walls for security. The hiss and purr ofsubterranean fires, the grinding of low, grated jaws, theflop and echo of stagnant water that oozed from a stagnantinner moat into vermin-swarming, human-haunted cellars:these sounds spoke even less of grief than the hellish fermentin the souls of those who had lorded it in this keepsince the fall of the Western Empire.

On this night there hung an air of menace about the Mausoleumof the Flavian Emperor which seemed enhanced bythe roar and clatter of the tempest that raged over the seven-hilledcity. Snaky twists of lightning leaped athwart thedriving darkness, and deafening peals of thunder reverberatedin deep, booming echoes through the inky vaultof the heavens.

In one of the upper chambers of the huge granite pile,which seemed to defy the very elements, in a square room,dug out of the very rock, containing but one window thatappeared as a deep wedge in the wall, piercing to the sheerflank of the tower, there sat, brooding over a letter he heldin his hand, Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.

The drowsy odor of incense, smouldering in the littlepurple shrine lamp, robbed the air of its last freshness.

A tunic of dark velvet, fur bound and girt with a belt offinest Moorish steel, was relieved by an undervest of deepestcrimson. Woven hose to match the tunic ended in crimsonbuskins of soft leather. The mantle and the skull capwhich he had discarded lay beside him on the floor, guardedby a tawny hound of the ancient Molossian breed.

By the fitful light of the two waxen tapers, which flickereddismally under the onslaught of the elements, the inmateof the chamber slowly and laboriously deciphered the letter.Then he placed it in his doublet, lapsing into deep rumination,as one who is vainly seeking to solve a problem that defiessolution.

Rising at last from his chair Basil paced the narrow confinesof the chamber, whose crimson walls seemed to forma fitting background for the dark-robed occupant.

Outside, the storm howled furiously, flinging gusty dashesof rain and hail against the stone masonry and clatteringnoisily with every blow inflicted upon the solid rock.

When, spent by its own fury, the hurricane abated for amoment, the faint sound of a bell tolling the Angelus couldbe heard whimpering through the night.

When Basil had left Theodora after their meeting at thepalace, there had been a darker light in his eyes, a somethingmore ominous of evil in his manner. While his passionhad utterly enslaved him, making him a puppet in thehands of the woman whose boundless ambition must inevitablylead her either to the heights of the empire whereofshe dreamed, or to the deepest abyss of hell, Basil was farfrom being content to occupy a position which made himmerely a creature of her will and making. To mount thethrone with the woman whose beauty had set his sensesaflame, to rule the city of Rome from the ramparts of CastelSan Angelo, as Ugo of Tuscany by the side of Marozia,this was the dream of the man who would leave no stoneunturned to accomplish the ambition of his life.

In an age where certain dark personalities appeared terriblysane to their contemporaries, their occult dealingswith powers whose existence none questioned must haveseemed terribly real to themselves and to those who gazedfrom afar. When the mad were above the sane in power,and beyond the reach of observation, there was no limitto their baleful activity.

Basil, from the early days of his youth, had lived in aworld of evil spirits, imaginary perhaps for us, but realenough for those who might at any moment be at his mercy.Stimulating his mad desire with the potent drug which theSaracens had brought with them from the scented East,he pushed his hashish-born imaginings to the very throneof Evil. His ambition, which was boundless, and centredin the longed for achievement of a hope too stupendouseven for thought, had intimately connected him with thosewhose occult researches put them outside the pale of theChurch, and the power he wielded in the shadowy worldof demons was as unchallenged as that which he felt himselfwielding in the tangible world of men.

Among the people there was no end to the dark storiesof magic and poison, some of them real enough, that werewhispered about him, and many a belated rambler lookedwith a shudder up to the light that burned in a chamberof his palace on the Pincian Hill till the wee, small hoursof the night. Had he been merely a practitioner of theBlack Arts he would probably long since have ended hiscareer in the dungeons of Castel San Angelo. But he wassafe enough as one of the great ones of the world, the confidantof the Senator of Rome; safe, because he was fearedand because none dared to oppose his baleful influence.

Basil pondered, as if the solution of the problem in hismind had at last presented itself, but had again left him,unsatisfied, in the throes of doubt and fear.

Rising from his seat he again unfolded the letter andpeered over its contents.

"Can we regain the door by which we have entered?"he soliloquized. "Can we conquer the phantom that hauntsthe silent chambers of the brain? Were it an eye, or a hand,I could pluck it off. However, if I cannot strangle it, I canconquer it! Shall it forever blot the light of heaven frommy path? Shall I forever suffer and tremble at this impalpablesomething—this shade from the abyss—of hell—thatis there—yet not there?"

He paused for a moment in his perambulation, gazingthrough the narrow unglazed window into the storm-tossednight without. Now and then a flash of lightning shotathwart the inky darkness, lighting up dark recesses anddeep embrasures. The sullen roar of the thunder seemedto come from the bowels of the earth.

And as the Grand Chamberlain walked, as if driven bysome invisible demon, the great Molossian hound followedhim about with a stealthy, noiseless gait, raising its headnow and then as if silently inquiring into its master'smood.

When at length he reseated himself, the huge houndcowered at his feet and licked its huge paws.

The mood of the woman for whom his lust-bitten soulyearned as it had never yearned for anything on earth, herwords of disdain, which had scorched his very brain, and,above all, the knowledge that she read his inmost thoughts,had roused every atom of evil within his soul. This stateof mind was accentuated by the further consideration thatshe, of all women whom he had sent to their shame anddeath, was not afraid of him. She had even dared to hintat the existence of a rival who might indeed, in time, supersedehim, if he were not wary.

For some time Basil had been vaguely conscious of losingground in the favor of the woman whom no man might utterlytrust save to his undoing. The rivalry of Roxaná, who, likeher tenth-century prototypes, was but too eager to enterthe arena for Marozia's fateful inheritance, had poured oilon the flames when Theodora had learned that the Senatorof Rome himself was frequenting her bowers, and she wasnot slow to perceive the agency that was at work to defeatand destroy her utterly.

By adding ever new fuel to the hatred of the two womenfor each other Basil hoped to clear for himself a path thatwould carry him to the height of his aspirations, by compellingTheodora to openly espouse him her champion. Sooneror later he knew they would ignite under each other's taunts,and upon the ruins of the conflagration he hoped to buildhis own empire, with Theodora to share with him the throne.

Alberic had departed for the shrines of the Archangelat Monte Gargano. Intent upon the purification of theChurch and upon matters pertaining to the empire, he wasan element that needed hardly be reckoned with seriously.A successful coup would hurl him into the dungeons of hisown keep, perchance, by some irony of fate, into the verycell where Marozia had so mysteriously and ignominiouslyended her career. Once in possession of the Mausoleum,the Germans and Dalmatians bought and bribed, he wouldbe the master—unless—

Suddenly the huge beast at his feet raised its muzzle,sniffing the air and uttering a low growl.

A moment later Maraglia, the Castellan of Castel SanAngelo, entered through a winding passage.

"What brings you here at this hour, with your damnedbutcher's face?" Basil turned upon the newcomer whohad paused when his gaze fell upon the Molossian.

The brutal features of Maraglia looked ghastly enoughin the flickering light of the tapers and Basil's temper seemedto deepen their ashen pallor.

"My lord—it is there again,—in the lower gallery—nearthe cell where the Lady Marozia was strangled—"

"By all the furies of Hell! Since when are you in thesecrets of the devil?"

"Since I held the noose, my Lord Basil," replied the wardenof the Emperor's Tomb doggedly. "Though I knew notat the time whose breath was being shortened. It wasall too dark—a night just like this—"

"Perchance your memory, going back to that hour, hasretained something more than the mere surmise," Basilglowered from under the dark, straight brows. "Howmany were there?"

"There were three—all masked, my lord. But theirvoices were their own—"

"You possess a keen ear, my man, as one, accustomed todark deeds and passages, well should," Basil interposedsardonically. "Deem you, in your undoubted wisdom, thelady has returned and is haunting her former abode? Onceupon a time she was not wont to abide in estate so lowly.And, they say, she was beautiful—even to her death."

"And well they may," Maraglia interposed. "I sawher but twice. When she came, and before she died."

"Before she died?"

"And the look she bent upon him who led the execution,"Maraglia continued thoughtfully. "She spoke not once.Dumb and silent she went to the fishes. When the LordAlberic arrived, it was all too late—"

"All too late!" Basil interposed sardonically. "Thefishes too were dumb. Profit by their example, Maraglia.Too much wisdom engenders death."

"The death rattle of one sounds to my ears just like thatof another, my lord," Maraglia replied, quaking under thelook that was upon him. "And the voices of the few whostill abide are growing weaker day by day."

"They shall not much longer annoy your delicate ears,"Basil replied. "The Senator who has found this abodesomewhat too draughty has departed for the holy shrines,to do penance for the death of his mother. He suspectsall was not well. He would know more. Perchance theArchangel may grant him a revelation. Meanwhile, wemust to work. The new captain appointed by the Senatorenters his service on the morrow. A holy man, much givento contemplation over the mysteries of love. His attentionmust be diverted. Every trace of life must be extinct—thisvery night. No proofs must be allowed to remain.Meanwhile, what of the apparition whereof you rave?"

"It is there, my lord, as sure as my soul lives," repliedthe castellan. "A shapeless something, preceded by abreath, cold as from a newly dug grave."

"A shapeless something, say you? Whence comes itand where goes it? For whose diversion does it perambulate?"

"The astrologer monk perchance who improvises prophecies."

"Then let his improvising damn himself," replied Basilsullenly. "To call himself inspired and pretend to read thestars! How about his prophecy now?"

"He holds to it!"

"What! That I have less than one month to live?"

"Just that—no more!"—

Basil gave the speaker a quick glance.

"What niggardly dispensation and presumption withal!This fellow to claim kinship with the stars! To profess tobe in their confidence, to share the secrets of the heavenswhile he is smothered by darkness, utter and everlasting.The heavens mind you, Maraglia! My star! It is a starof darker red than Mars and crosses Hell—not Heaven!In thought I watch it every night with sleepless eyes. Isit not well to cleanse the earth of such lying prophets thattruth may have standing room? Where have you lodgedhim?"

"In the Hermit's cell—"

"Well done! Thereby he shall prove his asceticism.Let practised abstinence save him in such a pass! He shalleat his words—an everlasting banquet. A fat astrologer—bythe token—as I hear, was he not?"

"He was fat when he entered."

"Wretch! Would you starve him? Remember the wormsand the fishes—your friends. Would you cheat them?Hath he foretold his end?"

"Ay—by starvation."

"He lies! You shall take him in extremis and, withyour knife in his throat, give him the lie. An impostorproved. What of the night?"

"It rains and thunders."

"Why should we mind rain and thunder? Lead me tothis madman, and, incidentally, to this phantom that keepshim company. Why do you gape, Maraglia? Move on!I follow!"

Maraglia was ill at ease, but he dared not disobey. Takingup one of the candles, he led the way, trembling, his faceashen, his teeth chattering, as if in the throes of a chill.

Through a panel door in the wall they descended a windingstairway, leaving the dog behind. The flight conductedthem to a private postern, well secured and guarded insideand out. As they issued from this the howl of blown rainmet and staggered them. Looking up at the cupola ofbasalt from the depths of that well of masonry, it seemedto crack and split in a rush of fusing stars. Basil's madsoul leapt to the call of the hour. He was one with thismighty demonstration of nature. His brain danced andflickered with dark visions of power. He appeared to himselfas an angel, a destroying angel, commissioned from onhigh to purge the world of lies.

"Take me to this monk!" he screamed through thethunder.

Deep in the foundation of the northeastern crypts themiserable creature was embedded in a stone chamber asutterly void and empty as despair. The walls, the floor,the roof were all chiselled as smooth as glass. There wasnot a foothold anywhere even for a cat, neither door, nortraps, nor egress, nor window of any kind save where, justunder the ceiling, the grated opening by which he had beenlowered, admitted by day a haggard ghost of light. Andeven that wretched solace was withdrawn as night fell,became a phantom, a diluted whisp of memory, sank likewater into the blackness, and left the fancy suddenly nakedin the self-consciousness of hell. Then the monk screamedlike a madman and threw himself towards the flitting spectre.He fell on the smooth surface of the polished rock and bruisedhis limbs horribly. Yet the very pain was a saving occupation.He struck his skull and revelled in the agonizingdance of lights the blow procured him. But one by onethey blew out; and in a moment dead negation had him bythe throat again, rolling him over and over, choking him underenormous slabs of darkness. Gasping, he cursed his improvidence,in not having glued his vision to the place ofthe light's going. It would have been something gained frommadness to hold and gloat upon it, to watch hour by hourfor its feeble redawn. Among all the spawning monstrositiesof that pit, with only the assured prospect of a lingeringdeath before him, the prodigy of eternal darkness quiteovercrowded that other of thirst or starvation.

Yet the black gloom broke, it would seem, before its due.Had he annihilated time and was this death? He roserapturously to his feet and stood staring at the grating, thetears gushing down his sunken cheeks. The bars werewithdrawn, in their place a dim lamp was intruded and aface looked down.

"Barnabo—are you hungry and a-thirst?"

The voice spoke to him of life. It was the name he hadborne in the world and he wondered who from that worldcould be addressing him.

He answered quaveringly.

"Of a truth, I am hungry and a-thirst."

"It is a beatitude," replied the voice suavely. "Youshall have your fill of justice."

"Justice!" screamed the prisoner. "I fear it is but anempty phrase."

"Comfort yourself," said the other. "I shall make afull measure of it! It shall bubble and sparkle to the brimlike a goblet of Cyprian. Know you the wine, monk? Acool fragrant liquid, that gurgles down the arid throat andbrings visions of green meadows and sparkling brooks—"

"I ask no mercy," cried the monk, falling on his kneesand stretching out his lean arms. "Only make an end ofit—of this hellish torment."

"Torment?" came the voice from above. "What tormentis there in the vision of the wine cup—or, for thatmatter, a feast on groaning tables under the trees? Areyou not rich in experiences, Barnabo,—both of the boardand of love? Remember the hours when she lay in yourarms, innocent, save of original sin? Ah! Could she seeyou now, Barnabo—how you have changed! No more theelegant courtier that wooed Theodora ere despair droveyou to don the penitential garb and, like Balaam's ass, toraise your voice and prophesy! Deem you—as fate hasthrown her into these arms of mine—memory will revivethe forgotten joys of the days of long ago?"

"Mercy—demon!" gasped the monk. His swollenthroat could hardly shape the words.

Basil laughed and bent lower.

"Answer me then—you who boast of being inspiredfrom above—you who listen to the music of the spheresin the dead watches of the night—tell me then, you manof God—how long am I to live?"

"Monster, relieve me of your sight!" shrieked the unhappywretch.

"It is the light," mocked Basil. "The light from above.Raise your voice, monk, and prophesy. You who wouldhurl the anathema upon Basil, the Grand Chamberlain,who arrogated to yourself the mission to purge the universeand to summon me—me—before the tribunal of theChurch—tell me, you, who aspired to take to his bed thespouse of the devil, till the white lightnings of her passionseared and blasted your carcass,—tell me—how long amI to live?"

An inarticulate shriek came from within.

"By justice—till the dead rise from their graves."

"Live forever—on an empty phrase?" Basil mocked."Are you, too, provisioned for eternity?"

He held out his hand as if he were offering the starvingwretch food.

The monk fell on his knees. His lips moved, but nosound was audible.

"Perchance he hath a vision," Basil turned to Maragliawho stood sullenly by.

"Oh, dull this living agony."

"How long am I to live?"

"Now, hear me, God," screamed the monk. "Let notthis man ever again know surcease from torment in bed,at board, in body or in mind. Let his lust devour him, letthe worm burrow in his entrails, the maggot in his brain!May death seize and damnation wither him at the momentwhen he is nearest the achievement of his fondest hopes!"

Basil screamed him down.

An uncontrollable terror had seized him.

"Silence, beast, or I shall strangle you!"

"Libertine, traitor, assassin—may heaven's lightningsblast you—"

For a moment the two battled in a war of screeching blasphemy.

At the next moment the grate was flung into place, thelight whisked and vanished, a door slammed and the Stygianblackness of the cell closed once more upon the moaningheap in its midst.

Basil's eyes gleamed like live coals as he turned to Maraglia,who, quaking and ashen, was babbling a prayer betweenwhite lips.

"Make an end of him!" he snarled. "He has livedtoo long. And now, in the devil's name, lead the way above!"

A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the very heavensillumined for a moment the dark and tortuous passage, itssheen reflected through the narrow port-holes on the blacknessof the walls. It was followed by a peal of thunderso terrific that it shook the vast pile of the Emperor's Tombto its foundations, clattering and roaring, as if a thousandworlds had been rent in twain.

Maraglia, who had preceded the Grand Chamberlainwith the taper, uttered a wild shriek of terror, dropped thelight, causing it to be extinguished and his fleeting stepscarried him down a night-wrapped gallery as fast as hislimbs would carry him, utterly indifferent to Basil's fate inthe Stygian gloom.

Paralyzed with terror, the Grand Chamberlain staredinto the inky blackness. For a moment it had seemed tohim as if a breath from an open grave had indeed beenwafted to his nostrils.

But it was neither the thunder, nor the lightning, neitherthe swish of the rain nor the roar of the hurricane, that hadprompted Maraglia's outcry and precipitate flight and hisabject terror, as we shall see.

CHAPTER II
THE CALL OF EBLIS

In the lurid flash that had illuminedthe gallery, lightingup rows of cells and deep recesses,Basil had seen, as ifrisen from the floor, a black,indefinable shape, wrapped in along black mantle, the hood ofwhich was drawn over its face.Through its slits gleamed twoeyes, like live coals. Of smallstature and apparently great age, the bent apparition supporteditself by a crooked staff, the fleshless fingers barelyvisible under the cover of the ample sleeve, and resemblingthe claws of some bird of prey.

At last the terror which the uncanny apparition inspiredchanged to its very counterpart, as, defiance in his tone,the Grand Chamberlain made a forward step.

"Who goes there?—Friend or foe of the Lord Basil?"—

His voice sounded strange in his own ears.

A gibbering response quavered out of the gloom.

"What matters friend or foe as long as you grasp thetenure of power?"

Basil breathed a sigh of relief.

"I ought to know that voice. You are Bessarion?"

"I have waited long," came the drawling reply.

There was a pause brief as the intake of a breath.

"What do you demand?"—

"You shall know in time."

"In time comes death!"

"And more!"

"It is the hour that calls!"

"Are you prepared?"

"Show me what you can do!"

"For this I am here! Are you afraid?"

The air of mockery in the questioner's tone cut the speakerto the quick.

In the intermittent flashes of lightning Basil saw theshapeless form cowering before him in the dusk of the gallery,barring the way. But again it mingled quickly with thedarkness.

"Of whom?" Basil queried.

There was another pause.

"Of the Presence!"

"That craven hound Maraglia has upset the light," mutteredBasil. "I cannot see you."

"Can you not feel my presence?" came the gibberingreply.

"Even so!"

"Know you what high powers of night control your life—whatdark-winged messengers of evil fly about you?"

"Your words make my soul flash like a thunder cloud."

"And yet does your power stand firm?"

"It rests on deep dug dungeons, where the light of heavendoes not intrude. I spread such fear in men's white heartsas the craven have never known."

A faint chuckle came in reply.

"Only last night I saw you in the magic crystal sphere inwhich I read the dire secrets of Fate. Above your headflew evil angels. Beneath your horse's hoofs a corpse-strewnpath."

"The time is not yet ripe."

"Time does not wait for him who waits to dare."

An evil light flashed from Basil's eyes.

"What can you do?"

Response came as from the depths of a grave.

"I shall conjure such shapes from the black caves of fearas have not ventured forth since madness first began toprowl among the human race, when the torturing duskdrowns every helpless thing in livid waves of shadow. Itis the spirit of your sire that draws the evil legions to you."

Basil straightened in surprise.

"What know you of him?" he exclaimed. "Dull prayersand fasts and penances, not such freaks as this, were theonly things he thought of."

From the cowled form came a hiss.

"Fool! Not that grunting and omnivorous swine whotook the cowl, begat you! Your veins run with fiery evildirect from its fountainhead. No, no,—not he!"

"Not he?" shrieked the Grand Chamberlain. "If I amnot his progeny, then whose?"

"Some mighty lord's."

"The Duke of Beneventum?"

"One greater yet."

"King Berengar?"

"One adored by him as his liege."

"Ha! I guess it now! It was Otto the Great, he whosefury gored the heart of the Romans."

"One greater still."

"Earth hath no greater lord."

"Is there not heaven above and hell below? Your sirerules the millions who have donned fear's stole forever.He is lord of lords, where all the lips implore and none reply."

A flash of lightning gleamed through the gallery.

A shadow passed over Basil's countenance, like a swiftsailing cloud.

Darkness supervened, impenetrable, sepulchral.

"Well may you cower," gibbered the shape in its inexorablemonotone. "For you came into this life amongthe death-fed mushrooms that grow where murder rots.The moon-struck wolves howled for three nights, and ill-omenedbirds flapped for three days around the tower whereshe who gave you life breathed her last."

A fitful muttering as of souls in pain seemed to pervadethe night-wrapped galleries, with sultry storm gusts breathinginarticulate evil. No light save the white flash of thelightning revealed now and then the uncanny form of thespeaker. The smell of rotting weeds came through thecrevices of the wall.

When Basil, spell-bound, found no tongue, the dark shapecontinued:

"Wrapped in midnight's cloak, nine witches down inthe castle moat sang a baptismal hymn of horror as yousaw the light. As mighty brazen wings sounded the roaringof the tempest-churned seas. And above you stood he whoholds the keys to thought's dark chambers, he in whoseranks the sullen angels serve, whose shadowy dewlesswings cast evil on the world. And I am he whose palacerings with the eternal Never!"

Frozen with terror Basil listened.

The thunder growled ever louder. A vampire's barkstabbed the darkness; the shriek of witches rose above thetempest, there was a rattling of bones as if skeletons wererising from their graves. All round the Emperor's Tombthe ghouls were prowling, and the soulless corpses were asrestless as the fleshless souls that whimpered and moanedin the night. Giant bats flew to and fro like evil spirits.The great peals shook the huge pile from vault to summit.The running finger of the storm scribbled fiery, cabalisticalzigzags on the firmament's black page. And in every peal,louder and louder as the echoes spread, Basil seemed tohear his name shrieked by the weird powers of darkness,till, half mad with terror, he cried:

"Away! Away! Your presence flings dark glare likeglowing lava—"

"I come across the night," replied the voice, "ere deathhas made you mine! Deserve the doom that is preparedfor those who do my bidding. You have shot into my hearta ray of blackest light—"

Basil held out his hands, as if to ward off some unseenassailant.

"Whirl back into the night—" he shrieked, but thevoice resumed, mocking and gibbering.

"Only a coward will shrink from the dreadful boundariesbetween things of this earth and things beyond this earth.I have sought you by night and by day—as fiercely as anyof those athirst pant round hell's mock springs! In thegreat vaults of wrath, in the sleepless caverns, whose eternaldarkness is only lighted by pools of molten stone thatbathe the lost, where, in the lurid light, the shadows dance—Isit and watch the lakes of torment, taciturn and lone.I summon you to earthly power—to the fulfillment of allyour heart desires!"—

The voice ceased. All the elements of hell seemed toroar and shriek around the battlemented walls.

There was a pause during which Basil regained his composure.

At last the dread shadow was looming across his path.An undefined awe crept over him, such as dark chasmsinstill; an awe at his own self. He would fain have beenscreened from his own substance. By degrees he welcomedthe tidings with a dark rapture. In himself lay the substanceof Evil. It was not the Angel of Light that ruledthe reeling universe. It was the shadow of Eblis loomingdark and terrible over the lives of men. Long before hehad ever guessed what rills of flaming Phlegethon ran riotin his veins, had he not felt his pulses swell with joy at humanpain, had he not played the fiend untaught? Could notthe Fiend, as well as God, live incarnate in human clay?Was not the earth the meeting ground of Heaven and Hell?And why should not he, Basil, defying Heaven, be Hell'sincarnation?—

Ay—but the day of death and the day of reckoning!Would his parentage entail eternal fire, or princely powerand sway in the dark vaults of nameless terror? Shouldhe quail or thrill with awful exaltation?

"And—in return for that which I offer up—King ofthe dark red glare—will you give to me what I crave—boundlesspower and the woman for which my soul is onfire?"

"Have you the courage to snatch them from the talonsof Fate?" came back the gibbering reply.

A blinding flash of lightning was succeeded by an appallingcrash of thunder.

"From Hell itself!" shrieked Basil frenzied. "Give meTheodora and I will fill the cup of torture that I have seizedon your shadowy altars, and quaff your health at the terrificbanquet board of Evil in toasts of torment—in wine ofboundless pain!"

In the quickly succeeding flashes of lightning the darkform seemed to rise and to expand.

"I knew you would not fail me! Come!"

For a moment Basil hesitated, fingering the hilt of hisponiard.

"Where would you lead me?" he queried, his tone farfrom steady. "How many of these twilights must I traversebefore I see him whom you serve?"

"That you shall know to-night!"

In the deep and frozen silence which succeeded the terriblepeals of thunder their retreating footsteps died to silencein the labyrinthine galleries of the Emperor's Tomb.

Only the dog-headed Anubis seemed to stare and nodmysteriously.

CHAPTER III
THE CRYSTAL SPHERE

Outwardly and in daylightthere was nothing noticeableabout the sixth house in theLane of the Sclavonians inTrastevere beyond the fact thatit was a dwelling of a superiorkind to those immediately surroundingit, which were chieflyill-favored cottages of fishermenand boatmen, and had about itan air of almost sombre retirement.

It stood alone within a walled court, containing a few shrubs.The windows were few, high and narrow, and the front borea rather forbidding appearance. One ascending to the flatroof would have found it to command on the left a desolateview of a square devoted to executions, and on the righta scarcely more cheerful prospect over the premises belongingto the convent of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Had thevisitor been farther able to penetrate into the principalchamber of the first floor, on the night of the scene aboutto be related, he might indeed have found himself well repaidfor his trouble.

This chamber, which was of considerable size and altogetherdevoid of windows, being lighted during the daytimeby a skylight, carefully blinded from within, was now duskilyillumined by a transparent device inlaid into the end walland representing the beams of the rising moon gleamingfrom a sky of azure. The extremity of the room, whichfronted the symbol, was semi-circular and occupied by anarrow table, before which moved a tall, shadowy formthat paused now and then before a fire of fragrant sandalwood, which burned in a brazen tripod, passing his fingersmechanically, as it would seem, through the bluish flame.In its unsteady flicker the strange figures on the walls, whichhad defied the decree of Time, seemed to nod fantasticallywhen touched by a fitful ray.

This was Hormazd, the Persian, the former confidantand counsellor of Marozia, in the heyday of her glory. Inthose days he had held forth in a turret chamber on thesummit of Castel San Angelo, where he would read thestars and indulge his studies in the black arts to his heart'scontent. Driven forth by Alberic, after Marozia's fall, thePersian had taken up his abode in the Trastevere, wherehe continued to serve those who came to him for advice,or on business that shunned the light of day.

Now and then the Oriental bent his tall, spare form overa huge tome which lay open upon the table, the inscrutable,ascetic countenance with the deep, brilliant eyes seeminglyplunged in deep, engrossing thought, but in reality listeningintently, as for the approach of some belated caller.

The soft patter of hurried footsteps on the floor of thecorridor without soon rewarded his attention. The rustleof a woman's silken garments caused him to give a startof surprise. A heavy curtain was raised and she glidednoiselessly into his presence.

The woman's face was covered with a silken vizor, buther coronet of raven hair no less than the matchless figure,outlined against the crimson glow, at once proclaimed herrank.

The first ceremony of silent greeting absolved, thePersian's visitor permitted the black silken cloak whichhad enveloped her from head to toe, to fall away, revealinga form exquisitely proportioned. The ivory pallor of thethroat, which rose like a marble column from matchlessshoulders, and the whiteness of the bare arms, seemedeven enhanced by the dusky background whose incense-ladenpall seemed to oppress the very walls.

"I am trusting you to-night with unreserved confidence,"the woman spoke in her rich, vibrant voice. "Many serveme from motives of selfishness and fear. Do you serve me,because I trust you."

She laid her white hand frankly upon his arm and thePersian, isolated above and below the strongest impulsesof humanity, shivered under her touch.

"What is it you desire?" he questioned after a pause.

"If you possess the knowledge with which the vulgar credityou," the woman said slowly, not without an air of mockeryin her tone, "I hardly need reveal to you the motives whichprompted this visit! You knew them, ere I came, even asyou knew of my coming!"

"You speak truly," said Hormazd slowly, now completelymaster of himself. "For even to the hour it was revealedto me!"

The woman scanned him with a searching look.

"Yet I had confided in none!" she said musingly. "Tellme then who I am!"

"You are Theodora!"

"When have we met before?"—

"Not in this life, but in a previous existence. Our soulstouched then, predestined to cross each other on a futureplane."

She removed her silken vizor and faced him.

The dark eyes at once challenged and besought. Nosculptor could have chiselled those features on which adivinity had recklessly squandered all it had to bestow forgood or for evil. No painter could have reproduced theface which had wrought such havoc in the hearts of men.

Like summer lightnings in a dark cloudbank, all the emotionsof the human soul seemed to have played therein andleft it again, forging it in the fires of passion, but leavingit more beautiful, more mysterious than before.

The Oriental regarded her in silence, as she stood beforehim in the flickering flame of the brazier.

"In some previous existence, you say?" she said withdreamy interest. "Who was I then—and who were you?"

"Two driftless spirits on the driftless sea of eternity,"he replied calmly. "Foredoomed to continue our passagetill our final destiny be fulfilled."

"And this destiny is known to you?"

"Else I had watched in vain. But you—queen andsorceress—do you believe in the message?"

She pondered.

"I believe," she said slowly, "that we make for ourselvesthe destiny to which hereafter we must submit. I believethat some dark power can foretell that destiny, and more—compelit!"—

Hormazd bowed ever so slightly. There was a dawninggleam of satire in his brilliant eyes, a glimpse which wasnot lost on her.

Again the question came.

"What is it you desire?"

Theodora gave an inscrutable smile that imparted to herfeatures a singular softness and beauty, as a ray of sunlightfalling on a dark picture will brighten the tints with a momentarywarmth of seeming life.

"I was told," she spoke slowly, as if trying to overcomean inward dread, "that you are known in Rome chieflyas being the possessor of some mysterious internal forcewhich, though invisible, is manifest to all who place themselvesunder your spell! Is it not so?"

The Persian bowed slightly.

"It may be that I have furnished the Romans with somethingto talk about besides the weather; that I have madea few friends, and an amazing number of enemies—"

"The latter argues in your favor," Theodora interposed."They say, furthermore, that by this same force you areenabled to disentangle the knots of perplexity that burdenthe overtaxed brain."

Hormazd nodded again and the sinister gleam of his eyesdid not escape Theodora's watchful gaze.

"If this be so," the woman continued, "if you are notan impostor who exhibits his tricks for the delectation ofthe rabble, or for sordid gain—exert your powers uponme, for something, I know not what, has frozen up theonce overflowing fountain of life."

The Oriental regarded her intently.

"You have the wish to be deluded—even into an imaginaryhappiness?"

Theodora gave a start.

"You have expressed what I but vaguely hinted. It maybe that I am tired"—she passed her hand across her browwith a troubled gesture—"or puzzled by some infinitedistress of living things. Perchance I am going mad—whoknows? But, whatever the cause, you, if report be true,possess the skill to ravish the mind away from its trouble,to transport it to a radiant Elysium of illusions and ecstasies.Do this for me, as you have done it for another, and,whatever payment you demand, it shall be yours!"

She ceased.

Faintly through the silence came the chimes of conventbells from the remote regions of the Aventine, pealing throughthe fragrant summer night above the deep boom of distantthunder that seemed to come as from the bowels of theearth.

Hormazd gave his interrogator a swift, searching glance,half of pity, half of disdain.

"The great eastern drug should serve your turn," hereplied sardonically. "I know of no other means wherewithto stifle the voice of conscience."

Theodora flushed darkly.

"Conscience?" she flashed in resentful accents.

The Persian nodded.

"There is such a thing. Do you profess to be withoutone?"

Theodora's eyes endeavored to pierce the inscrutablemask before her. The ironical curtness of the questionannoyed her.

"Your opinion of me does little honor to your wisdom,"she said after a pause.

"A foul wound festers equally beneath silk and sack-cloth,"came the dark reply.

"How know you that I desire relief from this imaginarymalady?"

The Oriental gave a shrug.

"Why does Theodora come to the haunts of the Persian?Why does she ask him to mock and delude her, asif it were his custom to make dupes of those who appealto him?"

"And are they not your dupes?" Theodora interposed,her face a deeper pallor than before.

"Of that you shall judge after I have answered yourquestions," Hormazd returned darkly. "There are buttwo things in life that will prompt a woman like Theodorato seek aid of one like myself."—

"You arouse my curiosity!"

"Disappointment in power—or love!"

There was a silence.

"Will you help me?"

She was pleading now.

The Oriental sparred for time. It was not his purpose tocommit himself at once.

"I am but one who, long severed from the world, has longrecognized its vanities. My cures are for the body ratherthan the soul."

Theodora's face hardened into an expression of scorn.

"Am I to understand that you will do nothing for me?"she said in a tone which convinced the Persian that the timefor dallying was past.

The words came slowly from his lips.

"I can promise you neither self-oblivion nor visionaryjoys. I possess an internal force, it is true, a force which,under proper control, overpowers and subdues the material,and by exerting this I can, if I think it well to do so, releaseyour soul, that inner intelligence which, deprived of its mundanematter, is yourself, from its house of clay and allow it abrief interval of freedom. But—what in that state its experiencemay be, whether joy or sorrow, I cannot foretell."

"Then you are not the master of the phantoms you evoke?"

"I am merely their interpreter!"

She looked at him steadfastly as if pondering his words.

"And you profess to be able to release the soul from itsabode of clay?"

"I do not profess," he said quietly. "I can do so!"

"And with the success of this experiment your powerceases? You cannot tell whether the imprisoned creaturewill take its course to the netherworld of suffering, or a heavenof delight?"

"The liberated soul must shift for itself."

"Then begin your incantations," Theodora exclaimed recklessly."Send me, no matter where, so long as I escapefrom this den of the world, this dungeon with one smallwindow through which, with the death rattle in our throats,we stare vacantly at the blank, unmeaning horror of life.Prove to me that the soul you prattle of exists, and if minecan find its way straight to the mainsprings of this revolvingcreation, it shall cling to the accursed wheels and stop them,that they may grind out the torture of life no more."

She stood there, dark, defiant, beautiful with the beauty ofthe fallen angel. Her breath came and went quickly. Sheseemed to challenge some invisible opponent.

The tall sinewy form by her side watched her as a physicianmight watch in his patient the workings of a new disease,then Hormazd said in low and tranquil tones:

"You are in the throes of your own overworked emotions.You are seeking to obtain the impossible—"

"Why taunt me?" she flashed. "Cannot your art supplythe secret in whose quest I am?"

The Persian bowed, but kept silent.

Again, with the shifting mood, the rare, half-mournful smileshone in Theodora's face.

"Though you may not be conscious of it," she said, layingher white hand on his trembling arm, "something impels meto unburden my heart to you. I have kept silence long."

Hormazd nodded.

"In the world one must always keep silence, veil one'sgrief and force a smile with the rest. Is it not lamentable tothink of all the pent-up suffering, the inconceivably hideousagonies that remain forever unrevealed? Youth and innocence—"

Theodora raised her arm.

"Was I ever—what they call—innocent?" she interposedmusingly. "When I was young—alas, how longit seems, though I am but thirty—the dream of my lifewas love! Perchance I inherited it from my mother. Shewas a Greek, and she possessed that subtle quality thatcan never die. What I was—it matters not. What I am—youknow!"

She raised herself to her full height.

"I long for power. Men are my puppets. And I long forlove! I have sought it in all shapes, in every guise. But Ifound it not. Only disillusion—disappointment have beenmy share. Will my one desire be ever fulfilled?"

"Some day you shall know," he said quietly, keeping hisdark gaze upon her.

"I doubt me not I shall! But—when and where? Tellme then, you who know so much! When and where?"

Hormazd regarded her quizzically, but made no immediatereply.

After a time she continued.

"Some say you are the devil's servant! Show me thenyour power. Read for me my fate!"

She looked at him with an air of challenge.

"It was not for this you came," the Persian said calmly,meeting the gaze of those mysterious wells of light whoseappeal none had yet resisted whom she wished to bend toher desires.

The woman turned a shade more pale.

"Then call it a whim!"

"What will it avail?"

Her eyes flashed.

"My will against—that other."

A flash of lightning was reflected on the dark walls of thechamber. The thunder rolled in grand sullen echoes downthe heavens.

She heard it not.

"What are you waiting for?" she turned to Hormazd.

There was a note of impatience in her tone.

"You are of to-day—yet not of to-day! Not of yesterday,nor to-morrow. To some in time comes love—"

"But to me?"

His voice sank to a frozen silence.

She stood, gazing at him steadily. She was very pale, butthe smile of challenge still lingered on her lips.

"But to me?" she repeated.

He regarded her darkly.

"To you? Who knows?—Some day—"

"Ah! When my fate has chanced! Are you a cheat then,like the rest?"

He was silent, as one in the throes of some great emotion.She took a step towards him. He raised both hands as ifto ward her off. His eyes saw shapes and scenes not withinthe reach of other's ken.

"Tell me the truth," she said calmly. "You cannotdeceive me!"

Hormazd sprinkled the cauldron with some white powderthat seethed and hissed as it came in contact with the glowingmetal and began to emit a dense smoke, which filledthe interior of the chamber with a strange, pungent odor.

Then he slowly raised one hand until it touched Theodora.Dauntless in spirit, her body was taken by surprise, andas his clammy fingers closed round her own she gave aninvoluntary start. With a compelling glance, still in silence,he looked into her face.

A strange transformation seemed to take place.

She was no longer in the chamber, but in a grove darkwith trees and shrubbery. A dense pall seemed to obscurethe skies. The atmosphere was breathless. Even as shelooked he was no longer there. Great clouds of greenishvapor rolled in through the trees and enveloped her so utterlyas to shut out all vision. It was as if she were alone in someisolated spot, far removed from the ken of man. She wasconscious of nothing save the insistent touch of his handupon her arm.

Gradually, as she peered into the vapors, they seemedto condense themselves into a definite shape. It was thatof a man coming towards her, but some invisible agencyseemed ever to retard his approach. In fact the distanceseemed not to lessen, and suddenly she saw her own selfstanding by, vainly straining her gaze into space, indescribablelonging in her eyes.

A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the vault of heavenwas followed by so terrific a peal of thunder that it seemedto shake the very earth.

A shriek broke from Theodora's lips.

"It is he! It is he!" she cried pointing to the curtain.Hormazd turned, hardly less amazed than the woman. Hedistinctly saw, in the recurrent flash, a face, pale and brooding,framed by the darkness, of which it seemed a part.

At the next moment it was gone, as if it had melted into air.

Theodora's whole body was numb, as if every nerve hadbeen paralyzed. The Persian was hardly less agitated.

"Is it enough?" she heard Hormazd's deep voice saybeside her.

She turned, but, though straining her eyes, she couldnot see him. The flame in the tripod had died down. Shewas trembling from head to foot.

But her invincible will was unshaken.

"Nay," she said, and her voice still mocked. "Havingseen the man my soul desires, I must know more. The end!I have not seen the end! Shall I possess him? Speak!"

"Seek no more!" warned the voice by her side. "Seeknot to know the end!"

She raised herself defiantly.

"The end!"

He made no reply. She saw the white vapors forminginto faces. The hour and the place of the last vision werenot clear. She saw but the man and herself, standing togetherat some strange point, where time seemed to countfor naught.

Between them lay a scarf of blue samite.

After a protracted silence a moan broke from Theodora's lips.

The Persian took no heed thereof. He did not even seemto hear. But, beneath those half-closed lids, not a movementof the woman escaped his penetrating gaze. Thoughpossessed with a vague assurance of his own dark powers,controlled by his nerve and coolness, Hormazd could readin that fair, inscrutable face far more than in the magicscrolls.

And as he scanned it now, from under half-shut lids, itwas fixed and rigid as marble, pale, too, with an unearthlywhiteness. She seemed to have forgotten his presence.She seemed to look into space, yet even as he gazed, theexpression of that wonderfully fair face changed.

Theodora's eyes were fierce, her countenance bore a rigidexpression, bright, cold, unearthly, like one who defies andsubdues mortal pain.

The tools of love and ambition are sharp and double-edged,and Hormazd knew it was safer to trust to wind andwaves than to the whims of woman.

But already her mood had changed and her face hadresumed its habitual expression of inscrutable repose.

"Is it the gods or the devil who sway and torture us andmock at our helplessness?" she turned to the Oriental,then, without waiting his reply, she concluded with a searchingglance that seemed to read his very heart.

"Report speaks true of you. Unknowingly, unwittinglyyou have pointed the way. Farewell!"

Long after she had disappeared Hormazd stared at thespot where her swiftly retiring form had been engulfed bythe darkness. Then, weighing the purse, which she hadleft as an acknowledgment of his services, and finding itsufficiently heavy to satisfy his avarice, the Persian stoodfor a time wrapped in deep thoughts.

"That phantom at least I could not evoke!" he mutteredto himself. "Who dares to cross the path of Hormazd?"

The thunder seemed to answer, for a crash that seemedto split the seven hills asunder caused the house to rockas with the force of an earthquake.

With a shudder the Persian extinguished the fire in thebrazier and retreated to his chamber, while outside thunderand lightning and rain lashed the summer night with theforce of a tropical hurricane.

CHAPTER IV
PERSEPHONÉ

It was not Tristan's other self,conjured by the Persian fromthe mystic realms of night whichTheodora had seen outlinedagainst the dark curtain thatscreened the entrance into theOriental's laboratory. The objectof her craving had, indeed,been present in the body, seekingin the storm that suddenlylashed the city the shelter of an apparently deserted abode.Thus he had unwittingly strayed into the domain of the astrologer,finding the door of his abode standing ajar after Theodorahad entered.

A superstition which was part and parcel of the Persian'scharacter, caused the latter to regard the undesired presencein the same light as did Theodora, the more so as, for thetime, it served his purpose, although, when the woman haddeparted, he was puzzled no little over a phenomenon whichhis skill could not have conjured up. Tristan had precipitatelyretreated, so soon as the woman's outcry had reachedhis ear, convinced that he had witnessed some unholy incantationwhich must counteract the effect of the penances he hadjust concluded and during the return from which the tempesthad overtaken him.

Thoroughly drenched he arrived at the Inn of the GoldenShield and retired forthwith, wondering at the strange scenewhich he had witnessed and its import.

Tristan arose early on the following day.

On the morrow he was to enter the service of the Senatorof Rome, who had departed on his pilgrimage to the shrinesof Monte Gargano.

Tristan resolved to make the most of his time, visiting thesanctuaries and fitly preparing himself to be worthy of thetrust which Alberic had reposed in him. Yet his thoughtswere not altogether of the morrow. Once again memorywandered back to the sunny days in Provence, to the rosegarden of Avalon, and to one who perchance was walkingalone in the garden, along the flower-bordered paths wherehe had found and lost his greatest happiness.—

Persephoné meanwhile had not been idle. It pleased herfor once to propitiate her mistress, and through her own spiesshe had long been informed of Tristan's movements, beingnot altogether averse to starting an intrigue on her ownaccount, if her mistress should fail sufficiently to impress thepredestined victim. Her own beauty could achieve no less.

Drawing a veil about her head and shoulders so as effectuallyto conceal her features, she proceeded to thread herway through the intricate labyrinth of Roman thoroughfares.When she reached her destination she concealed herself ina convenient lurking place from which she took care not toemerge till she had learned all she wished from one who haddogged Tristan's footsteps all these weary days.

"What do you want with me?" asked the latter somewhatdisturbed by her sudden appearance, as he came out of thelittle temple church of San Stefano in Rotondo on the brow ofthe Cælian Hill.

Persephoné had raised her veil and in doing so had takencare to reveal her beautiful white arms.

"I am unwelcome doubtless," she replied, after a swiftglance had convinced her that there was no one near to witnesstheir meeting. "Nevertheless you must come withme—whether you will or no. We Romans take no denial.We are not like your pale, frozen women of the North."

Subscribing readily to this opinion, Tristan felt indignant,nevertheless, at her self-assurance.

"I have neither time nor inclination to attend upon yourfancies," he said curtly, trying to pass her. But she barredhis passage.

"As for your inclination to follow me," Persephoné laughed—"thatis a matter for you to decide, if you intend to prosperin your new station."

She paused a moment, with a swift side glance at the man.Persephoné had not miscalculated the effect of her speech,for Tristan had started visibly at her words and the knowledgethey implied.

"As for your time," Persephoné continued sardonically,"that is another matter. No doubt there are still a fewsanctuaries to visit," she said suggestively, with tantalizingslowness and a tinge of contempt in her tones that was farfrom assumed. "Though I am puzzled to know why one ofyour good looks and courage should creep like a criminalfrom shrine to shrine, when hot life pulsates all about us.Are your sins so grievous indeed?"

She could see that the thrust had pierced home.

"This is a matter you do not understand," he said,piqued at her persistence. "Perchance my sins are grievousindeed."

"Ah! So much the better," Persephoné laughed, showingher white teeth and approaching a step closer. "The worldloves a sinner. What it dislikes is the long-faced repentanttransgressor. You are a man after all—it is time enough tobecome a saint when you can no longer enjoy. Come!"

And the white arm stole forth and a white hand took holdof his mantle.

Every word of the Circassian seemed to sting Tristan likea wasp. His whole frame quivered with anger at her taunts,but he scorned to show it, and putting a strong constraintupon his feelings he only asked quietly:

"What would you with me? Surely it was not to tell methis that you have tracked me hither."

Persephoné thought she had now brought the metal to asufficiently high temperature for fusion. She proceeded tomould it accordingly. Nevertheless she was determined togain some advantage for herself in executing her mistress'behest.

"I tracked you here," she said slowly, "because I wantedyou! I wanted you, because it is in my power to render youa great service. Listen, my lord,—you must come with me!It is not every man in Rome who would require so muchcoaxing to follow a good-looking woman—"

She looked very tempting as she spoke, but her physicalcharms were indeed sadly wasted on the pre-occupied manbefore her, and if she expected to win from him any overt actof admiration or encouragement, she was to be woefully disappointed.

"I cannot follow you," he said. "My way lies in anotherdirection. Besides—you have said it yourself—I am nowin the service of another."

"That is the very reason," she interposed. "Have youever stopped to consider the thousand and one pitfalls whichyour unwary feet will encounter when you—a stranger—unknown—hatedperchance—attempt to wield the authorityentrusted to you? What do you know of Rome that youshould hope to succeed when he, who set you in this hazardousplace, cannot quell the disturbances that break out betweenthe factions periodically?"

"And why should you be disposed to confer upon me sucha favor?" Tristan asked with instinctive caution. "I ama stranger to you. What have we in common?"

Persephoné laughed.

"Perchance I am in love with you myself—ever sincethat night when you would not enter the forbidden gates.Perchance you may be able to serve me in turn—some day.How cold you are! Like the frozen North! Come! Wasteno more time, if you would not regret it forevermore."—

There was something compelling in her words that upsetTristan's resolution.

Still, he wavered.

"You have seen my mistress," Persephoné resumed, "thefairest woman and the most powerful in Rome—a nearkinswoman, too, of your new master—the Senator."

The words startled Tristan.

"It needs but a word from her to make you what shepleases," she continued, as they delved into the now darkeningstreets. "She is headstrong and imperious and doesnot brook resistance to her will."

Tristan remembered certain words Alberic had spokento him at their final parting. It behooved him to be on hisguard, yet without making of Theodora an open enemy."Be wary and circumspect," had been the Senator's partingwords.

"Did the Lady Theodora send you for me?" he asked,with some anxiety in his tone. "And how did you knowwhere to find me in a city like this?"

"I know a great many things—and so does my mistress,"Persephoné made smiling reply. "But she does not chooseevery one to be as wise as she is. I will answer both yourquestions though, if you will answer one of mine in return.The Lady Theodora did not mention you by name," Persephonéprevaricated, "yet I do not think there is anotherman in Rome who would serve her as would you.—And nowtell me in turn.—Deem you not, she is very beautiful?"

"The Lady Theodora is very beautiful," Tristan repliedwith a hesitation that remained not unremarked. "Yet,what is there in common between two strangers from thefarthest extremities of the earth?"

"What is there in common?" Persephoné smiled. "Youwill know ere an hour has sped. But, if you would takecounsel from one who knows, you will do wisely to pondertwice before you choose—your master. Silence now!Step softly, but follow close behind me! It is very dark underthe trees."

They had arrived on Mount Aventine. Before them, inthe dusk, towered the great palace of Theodora.

After cautioning him, Persephoné led Tristan through anarrow door in a wall and they emerged in a garden. Theywere now in a fragrant almond grove where the branches ofthe trees effectually excluded the rays of the rising moon,making it hardly possible to distinguish Persephoné's talland lithe form.

Presently they emerged upon a smooth and level lawn,shut in by a black group of cedars, through the lower branchesof which peeped the crescent moon and, turning the cornerof a colonnade, they entered another door which opened toPersephoné's touch and admitted them into a long darkpassage with a lamp at the farther end.

"Stay here, while I fetch a light," Persephoné whisperedto Tristan and, gliding away, she presently returned, toconduct him through a dark corridor into another passage,where she stopped abruptly and, raising some silken hangings,directed him to enter.

"Wait here. I will announce you."—

CHAPTER V
MAGIC GLOOMS

Floods of soft and mellow lightdazzled Tristan's eyes at first,but he soon realized the luxuriousbeauty of the retreat intowhich he had been ushered. Itwas obvious that, despite a decadentage, all the resources ofwealth had been drawn uponfor its decoration. The wallswere painted in frescoes of therichest colorings and represented the most alluring scenes.Around the cornices, relics of imperial Rome, nymphs andsatyrs in bas-relief danced hand in hand, wild woodlandcreatures, exultant in all the luxuriance of beauty and redundancyof strength; and yonder, where the lamp cast itssoftest glow upon her, stood a marble statue of Venus Anadyomené,her attitude expressive of dormant passion lulledby the languid insolence of power and tinged with an imperiouscoquetry, the most alluring of all her charms.

Tristan moved uneasily in his seat, wishing that he hadnot come, wondering how he had allowed himself to be thusbeguiled, wondering what it was all about, when a rustlingof the hangings caused him to turn his head. There wasno more attraction now in bounding nymph or marble enchantress.The life-like statue of Venus was no longer the masterpieceof the chamber for there, in the doorway, appearedTheodora herself.

Tristan rose to his feet, and thus they stood, confrontingeach other in the subdued light—the hostess and her guest—theassailant and the assailed.

Theodora trembled in every limb, yet she should haveremained the calmer of the two, inasmuch as hers couldscarcely have been the agitation of surprise. Such a stepindeed, as she had taken, she had not ventured upon withoutcareful calculation of its far reaching effect. Determinedto make this obstinate stranger pliable to her desires, toinstill a poison into his veins which must, in time, work herwill, she had deliberately commanded Persephoné to conducthim to this bower, the seductive air of which no onehad yet withstood.

Theodora was the first to speak, though for once shehardly knew how to begin. For the man who stood beforeher was not to be moulded by a glance and would match hiswill against her own. Such methods as she would haveemployed under different circumstances would here andnow utterly fail in their intent. For once she must notappear the dominant factor in Rome, rather a woman wrongedby fate, mankind and report. Let her beauty do the rest.

"I have sent for you," she said, "because somethingtells me that I can rely implicitly on your secrecy. Fromwhat I have seen of you, I believe you are incapable of betrayinga trust."

Theodora's words had the intended effect. Tristan,expecting reproach for his intentional slight of her advances,was thrown off his guard by the appeal to his honor. Hisconfusion at the sight of the woman's beauty, enhanced byher gorgeous surroundings, was such that he did but bow inacknowledgment of this tribute to his integrity.

Theodora watched him narrowly, never relinquishing hisgaze, which wandered unconsciously over her exquisiteform, draped in a diaphanous gown which left the snowyarms and hands, the shoulders and the round white throatexposed.

"I have been told that you have accepted service withthe Lord Alberic, who has offered to you, a stranger, themost important trust in his power to bestow."

Tristan bowed assent.

"The Lord Alberic has rewarded me, far beyond my deserts,for ever so slight a service," he replied, without referringto the nature of the service.

Theodora nodded.

"And you—a stranger in the city, without counsellor—withoutfriend. Great as the honor is, which the Senatorhas conferred upon you—great are the pitfalls that lurkin the hidden places. Doubtlessly, the Lord Alberic didnot bestow his trust unworthily. And, in enjoining aboveall things watchfulness—he has doubtlessly dropped a wordof warning regarding his kinswoman," here Theodora droppedher lids, as if she were reluctantly touching upon a distastefulsubject, "the Lady Theodora?"

As suddenly as she had dropped her lids as suddenly hereyes sank into the unwary eyes of Tristan. The scentedatmosphere of the room and the woman's nearness wereslowly creeping into his brain.

"The Lord Alberic did refer to the Lady Theodora," hestammered, loth to tell an untruth, and equally loth to woundthis beautiful enigma before him.

"I thought so!" Theodora interposed with a smile, withoutpermitting him to commit himself. "He has warnedyou against me. Admit it, my Lord Tristan. He has putyou on your guard. And yet—I fain would be your friend—"

"The Lord Alberic seems to count you among his enemies,"Tristan replied. The mention of an accepted fact could not,to his mind, be construed into betraying a confidence.

Theodora smiled sadly.

"The Lord Alberic has been beguiled into this sad attitudeby one who was ever my foe, perchance, even his. Timewill tell. But it was not to speak of him that I summonedyou hither. It is because I would appear lovable in youreyes. It is, because I am not indifferent to your opinion,my Lord Tristan. Am I not rash, foolish, impulsive, in thusplacing myself in the power of one who may even now beplanning my undoing? One who on a previous occasion sogrievously misjudged my motives as to wound me so cruelly?"

The woman's appeal knocked at the portals of Tristan'sheart. Would she but state her true purpose, relieve thisharrowing suspense. She had propounded the questionwith a deepening color, and glances that conveyed a tale.And it was a question somewhat difficult to answer.

At last he spoke, stammeringly, incoherently:

"I shall try to prove myself worthy of the Lady Theodora'sconfidence."

She seemed somewhat disappointed at the coldness of hisanswer, nevertheless her quick perception showed her whereshe had scored a point, in making an inroad upon his heart.And her critical eye could not but approve of the proud attitudehe assumed, the look that had come into his face.

She edged a little closer to him and continued in a subduedtone.

"A woman is always lonely and helpless—no matterwhat may be her station. How liable we are to be deceivedor—misjudged. But I knew from the first that I couldtrust you. Do you remember when we first met in theNavona?"

Again the warm crimson of the cheek, again the speakingflash from those luring eyes. Tristan's heart began to beatwith a strange sensation of excitement and surprise. Tolove this wonder of all women—to be loved by her in return—lifewould indeed be one mad delirium.

"How could I forget it?" he said, more warmly than heintended, meeting her gaze. "It was on the day when Iarrived in Rome."

Her eyes beamed on him more benevolently than ever.

"I saw you again at Santa Maria of the Aventine. I sentfor you," she said, with drooping lids, "because I so wantedsome one to confide in. I have no counsellor,—no champion—nofriend. The object of hatred to the rabble whichstones those to-day before whom it cringed yesterday—Iam paying the penalty of the name I bear—kinship to oneno longer among the living. But you scorned my messenger.Why did you?"

She regarded Tristan with expectant, almost imploringeyes. She saw him struggling for adequate utterance.Continuing, she held out to him her beautiful hands. Hertone was all appeal.

"I want you to feel that Theodora is your friend. Thatyou may turn to her in any perplexity that may beset you,that you may call upon her for counsel whenever you arein doubt and know not what to do. And oh! I want youto know above all things how much you could be to me, didyou but trust—had not the drop of poison instilled by theSenator set you against the one woman who would makeyou great, envied above all men on earth!"

Tristan bent over Theodora's hands and kissed them.Cool and trusting, yet with a firm grasp, they encircled hisburning palms and their whiteness caused his senses to reel.

"In what manner can I be of service to the Lady Theodora?"he spoke at last, unable to let go of those wonderfulhands that sent the hot blood hurtling to his brain.

Theodora's face was very close to his.

As she spoke, her perfumed breath softly fanned hischeeks.

She spoke with well-studied hesitancy, like a child that,in preferring an overbold request, fears denial in the veryutterance.

"It is a small thing, I would ask," she said in her wonderfullymelodious voice. "I would once again visit the placeswhere I have spent the happy days of my childhood, thegalleries and chambers of the Emperor's Tomb. You start,my Lord Tristan! Perchance this speech may sound strangeto the ears of one who, though newly arrived in Rome, hasheard but vituperations showered upon the head of a defencelesswoman, who, if not better, is at least not worsethan the rest of her kind. Yes—" she continued, returningthe pressure of his fingers and noting, not without inwardsatisfaction, a soft gleam that had dispelled the sterner lookin his eyes, "those were days of innocence and peace, brokenonly when the older sister, my equal in beauty, began toregard me as a possible rival. Stung by her taunts I leapedto her challenge and the fight for the dominion of Rome waswaged between us with all the hot passion of our blood,Marozia conquered, but Death stood by unseen to crown hervictory. The Mount of Cloisters is my asylum. The gatesof the Emperor's Tomb are sealed to me forever more. Whyshould Alberic, disregarding the ties of blood, fear a woman—unlesshe hath deeply wronged her, even as he has wrongedanother who wears the crown of thorns upon earth?"

Theodora paused, her lids half-shut as if to repress a tear;in reality to scan the face of him who found her tale moststrange indeed.

And, verily, Tristan was beginning to feel that he couldnot depend upon himself much longer. The subdued lights,the heavy perfume, the room itself, the seductive beauty ofthis sorceress so near to him that her breath fanned hischeeks, the touch of her hands, which had not relinquishedhis own, were making wild havoc with his senses and reason.

Like many a gentle and inexperienced nature, Tristanshrank from offending a woman's delicacy, by even appearingto question the truth of her words, and he doubted notbut that here was a woman who had been sinned againstmuch more than she had sinned, a woman capable of gentler,nobler impulses than were credited to her in the commonreckoning. It required indeed a powerful constraint uponhis feelings not to give way to the starved impulse that drovehim to forget past, present and future in her embrace.

A sad smile played about the small crimson mouth asTheodora, with a sigh, continued:

"I have quaffed the joys of life. There is nothing thathas remained untasted. And yet—I am not happy. Thefires of unrest drive me hither and thither. After years offiercest conflict, with those of my own sex and age, whoconsider Rome the lawful prey of any one that may usurpMarozia's fateful inheritance, I have had a glimpse of Heaven—aHeaven that perchance is not for me. Yet it arousedthe desire for peace—happiness—love! Yes, my LordTristan, love! For though I have searched for it in everyguise, I found it not. Will the hour every toll—evenfor me? Deem you, my Lord Tristan, that even one so guiltlost as Theodora might be loved?"

"How were it possible," he stammered, "for mortal eyesto resist such loveliness?"

His words sounded stilted in his ears. Yet he knew ifhe permitted the impulse to master him he would be sweptaway by the torrent.

The woman also knew, and woman-like she felt that thepoison rankled in his veins. She must give it time to work.She must not precipitate a scene that might leave him sobered,when the fumes had cleared from his brain.

Putting all the witchery of her beauty into her words shesaid, with a tinge of sadness:

"I fear I am trespassing, my Lord Tristan. It is so long,since I have unveiled the depths of my heart. Forget therequest I have made. It may conflict with your loyaltyto my Lord Alberic. I shall try to foster the memories ofthe place which I dare not enter—"

She had ventured all upon the last throw, and she hadconquered.

"Nay, Lady Theodora," Tristan interposed, with a seriousnessthat even staggered the woman. "There is nosuch clause or condition in the agreement between the LordAlberic and myself. It is true," he added in a solemn tone,"he has warned me of you, as his enemy. Report speaksill of you. Nevertheless I believe you."

"I thank you, my Lord Tristan," she said, releasing hishands. "Theodora never forgets a service. Three nightshence I am giving a feast to my friends. You will not failme?"

"I am happy to know," he said, "that the Lady Theodorathinks kindly of me. I shall not fail her. And now"—headded, genuine regret in his tone—"will the Lady Theodorapermit me to depart? The hour waxes late and there is muchto be done ere the morrow's dawn."

Theodora clapped her hands and Persephoné appearedbetween the curtains.

"Farewell, my Lord Tristan. We shall speak of thisagain," she said, beaming upon him with all the seductive fireof her dark eyes, and he, bowing, took his leave.

When Persephoné returned, she was as much puzzled atthe inscrutable smile that played about her mistress' lips asshe had been at Tristan's abstracted state of mind, for, hardlynoting her presence, he had walked in silence beside her tothe gate, and had there taken silent leave.—

CHAPTER VI
THE LURE OF THE ABYSS

The sun had sunk to rest infleecy clouds of crimson andgold.

The clear and brilliant moonlightof Italy enveloped hill anddale, bathing in its effulgencethe groves, palaces and ruins ofthe Eternal City. The hugepile of the Colosseum was bathedin its rosy glow, raising itself inserene majesty towards the beaming night sky.

A few hours later a great change had come over the heavens.The wind had sprung up and had driven the little downyclouds of sunset into a great, black mass, which it again toreinto flying tatters that it swept before it. The moon rose andraced through the dun and silver. Below it, in the vastspaces of the deserted amphitheatre, from whose vomitoriespale ghosts seemed to flit, the big boulders and rain-left poolslooked dim and misty. Night had cast her leper's cloak onnature and the moon seemed the leprous face.

Deepest silence reigned, broken only by the occasionalhoot of an owl, or the swishing of a bat that whirled its crazyflight in and out the labyrinthine corridors.

By the largest of these boulders stood the dark cloakedform of a man. As the moon-thrown shadows of the cloudsswept over him and the rude rock by which he stood lookingup at the sky, his black mantle flapped in the wind and clungto his limbs, making him look even taller than he was.

At the feet of Basil cowered the huge Molossian hound.As the wind grew stronger and the clouds above assumedmore fantastic shapes, it raised its head and gave voice to alow whine. On the distant hillocks a myriad dusky flamesseemed to writhe and hiss and dart through tinted moon-gleams.

Three times he whistled—and in the misty, moonlitexpanse countless forms, as weird as himself, seemed to riseand form a great circle about him.

Were they the creatures of his brain which had at lastgiven way in the excitement of the hour? Were they phantomsof mist and moon, wreathing round him from the desolatemarshes? Or were they real beings of flesh and blood,congregations of crime and despair, mad with the misery ofa starving century, the horrors of serfdom and oppressionthat had united in the great reel of a Witches' Sabbat?

Round him they circled, at first slowly,—like the curls ofa marsh, then faster and ever faster, till his eyes couldscarcely follow them as they rotated about him in their horribledance of madness and sin.

Black clouds raced over the moon. The reddish gleam ofa forked tongue of fire illumined the dark heavens, andthunder went pealing down the hills. Suddenly out of theunderbrush arose a black form, about the height and breadthof a man, but without the distinct outlines of one. Basil'sface grew white as death, and his gaze became fixed as heclutched at the rock for support. But the next moment heseemed to gain his reassurance from the knowledge that hehad seen this phantom before. The dog lay at his feet andcontinued its low tremulous whine.

"You have kept the tryst," gibbered the bent form as itslowly approached, supporting itself upon a crooked staff ofsingular height.

"Else were I not the man to compel fate to do my bidding,"responded the Grand Chamberlain. "Fear can have nopart in the compact which binds us. I have live things undermy feet that clog my steps and grow more stubborn day byday."—

"Deem you, you can keep your footing in the black lobbiesof hell?" gibbered the cowled form. "For you will need allyour courage, if you would reach the goal!"

Basil, for a moment, faced his shadowy interlocutor insilence. There was a darker light in his eyes when he spoke.

"Give me but that which my soul desires and I shall runthe gauntlet unflinchingly. I shall brace my courage to thedread experiment."

A fierce gust of wind shook the cypresses and holm oaksinto shuddering anxiety.

"You are about to embark upon an enterprise more perilousthan any man now living has ever ventured upon," spoke thecowled form. "Your soul will travel through the channels,through which the red and fiery tide rolls up when the volcanowakes. Each time it wakes the lava washes over the lostsouls, which, chained to rings in the black rock, glow likeliving coals, but leaves them whole, to undergo their fateanew. Do you persist?"

"Give me what I desire—"

"Ay—so say they all—but to grovel in the dust beforethe Unknown Presence which they have defied."

"Who are you to taunt me with a fear my soul knows not?"Basil turned to the black-robed form, stretching out his handas if to touch his mantle.

A magnetic current passed through his limbs that causedhim to drop his arm with a cry of pain.

Forked lightnings leaped from one cloud-bank to another.

Distant thunder growled and died among the hills.

"I have seen the fall of Nineveh and Babylon. I waspresent at the destruction of the Holy City by the legions ofTitus, I witnessed the burning of Rome by Nero and thefall of the temple of Serapis. I stood upon Mount Calvaryunder the shadow of the world's greatest tragedy."

The voice of the speaker died to silence.

Basil's hand went to his head, as if he wished to assurehimself whether he was awake or in the throes of some maddream.

It is a narrow boundary line, that divides the two greatrealms of sanity and madness. And the limits are as restlessas those of two countries divided from each other by anetwork of shifting rivers. What belonged to the one overnightmay belong to the other to-morrow.

An overmastering dread had seized upon Basil at thespeech of the uncanny apparition. Was not he, too, pushinghis excursions now into the one realm, now into the other?And who would know in which of the two to seek for him?

"Have you indeed wandered upon earth ever since thosedays?" he stammered, once more slave to his superstition.

The apparition nodded.

"I have drunk deep from the black wells of despair. Ihave raised the shadowy altars of him who was cast out ofthe heavens, higher and higher, till they almost touch thethrone of the Father."

"Your master then is Lucifer—"

"Cannot the Fiend as well as God live incarnate in humanclay? Is not the earth the meeting ground of Heaven andHell? Why should not Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, beHell's incarnation?"—

"What then must I do to deserve the crimson aureole?"

"Espouse the cause of him who rules the shadows. Hewill give to you what your soul desires. One of the shadowycongregation that rules the world through fear, make quickwings for Time, that crawls through eternity like a monstroussnake, while with starved desire your eyes glare at the fleetingthings of life—dominion, power and love, that you maysnatch from fate! Only by becoming one of us can yoursoul slake its thirst. Speak—for my time is brief—"

When Basil turned towards the bent form of the speakerhis gaze fell upon a gleaming knife which Bessarion hadproduced from under the loose folds of his gown.

For a moment the two stood face to face. Neither spoke,each seemingly intent upon fathoming the thoughts of theother. The wind hissed and screamed through the corridorsof the Colosseum.

It was Basil who broke the silence.

"What is it, you want?"

"Bare your left arm!"

There was a natural hollow in the rock, that the weatherhad scooped out in the stone altar.

Basil obeyed.

The gibbering voice rose again above the silence.

"Hold it over the basin!"

The lightnings twisted and streamed like silvery addersthrough the dark vaults of the heavens, and terrific peals ofthunder shook the shuddering world in its foundations.

The bent form raised the knife.

Three drops of blood dripped, one by one, into the hollowof the stone.

Bessarion chanted some words in an unintelligible jargonas, with a claw-like hand, he bound up the wound in Basil'sarm.

"At midnight—in the Catacombs of St. Calixtus—youwill stand face to face with the Presence," the apparitionspoke once more.

The next moment, after a fantastic salutation, he hadvanished, as if the earth had swallowed him, behind a projectingrock.

Basil remained for a time in deep rumination. The Molossianhound rose up from the ground as soon as the adeptof the black arts had disappeared, and, sitting on its haunches,gazed inquisitively into its master's face.

Suddenly it uttered a growl.

At the next moment the misshapen form of an AfricanMoor crouched at the feet of the Grand Chamberlain. Noiselesslyand swiftly as a panther he had sped through thewaste spaces of the amphitheatre, and even Basil couldnot overcome a feeling of revulsion as he gazed into thehairy, bestial features of Daoud, whom he employed whensecrecy and despatch were essential to the success of aventure.

Red inflamed eyelids gleamed from a face whose cadaveroustints seemed enhanced by wiry black hair that hungin disordered strands from under a broad Spanish hat.Daoud was undersized in stature, but possessed prodigiousstrength, and the size of his hands argued little in favor ofhim who had incurred the disfavor of his master or his own.

This monster in human guise Basil had acquired from acertain nobleman in the suite of the Byzantine ambassadorextraordinary to the Holy See.

Basil looked up at the moon which just then emerged fromthe shadow of a cloud. Then he gave a nod of satisfaction.

"Your promptness argues well for your success," heturned to his runner who was cowering at his feet, the ashenface with the blinking and inflamed eyes raised to his master."Know you the road to southward, my good Daoud?"

The Moor gave a nod and Basil proceeded.

"You must depart this very night. Take the road thatleads by Benevento to the Shrines of the Archangel. Youwill overtake the Senator and deliver into his hands thistoken. You will return forthwith and bring to me—hisanswer. Do I make myself quite clear to your understanding,my good Daoud?"

The Moor fell prostrate and touched Basil's buskin withhis forehead.

"Up!" the latter spurned the kneeling brute. "To-morrownight must find you in the Witches' City."

With these words he placed into the Moor's hand a smallarticle, carefully tied and sealed.

The twain exchanged a mute glance of mutual understanding,then Daoud gave a bound, darted forward and shot awaylike an arrow from the bow. Almost instantly he was out ofsight.

The hound bounded after him but, obedient to his master'scall, instantly returned to the latter's feet.

For some time Basil remained near the rock where theweird ceremony had taken place.

"The Rubicon is passed," he muttered. "The stars—orthe abyss."

Then, slowly quitting the stupendous ruins of the Amphitheatre,he took the direction of the Catacombs of St. Calixtus.

CHAPTER VII
THE FACE IN THE PANEL

On the following day Tristanentered upon his duties as captainof the Senator's guard.

The first person upon whomhe chanced on his rounds at theLateran was the Grand Chamberlain,who inquired affablyhow his penitences were progressingand expressed the hopethat he had received final absolution,and that his sins would not weigh too heavily upon hissoul. Basil commended him for his zeal in the cause of theSenator, hinting incidentally that his duties between the Lateranand Castel San Angelo need not deprive him of thesociety of the fair Roman ladies, who would welcome thestranger from Provence and would doubtlessly enmesh hisheart, if it were not well guarded. He then proceeded tocaution Tristan with respect to his exalted prisoner. Numerousattempts at abduction had been made from time to time,Tristan having, by his prowess and daring, prevented thelast, emanating doubtlessly from the Pontiff's nearest kithand kin. The men under him could be fully relied upon.Nevertheless, it behooved him to be circumspect.

After a time Basil departed, and Tristan went about hisbusiness, inspecting the guard and familiarizing himself withthe place where he was to keep his first watch.

The level beams of the evening sun filled the Basilica ofSt. John in Laterano. There were pearl lights and lights ofsapphire; falling radiances of emerald and blood-red; vaguetranslucent greens, that seemed to tremble under spiralclouds of incense.

Now the sun was sinking behind Mount Janiculum. Theclouds at the zenith of the heavens were rose-hued, but it wasgrowing dark in the valleys, and the great church began totake on sombre hues. It seemed to frown upon him, to warnhim not to enter, an impression he was long afterwards toremember, as he strode through the high-vaulted corridors.

He hesitated, till the sound of a distant chant reached hisear. With a sort of fascination he could not account for, hewatched the advance of the slowly gathering gloom, as anincreasing greyness stole into the chapels.

Evening was about to take the veil of night.

The light left the stained-glass windows and the churchgrew darker and darker. The altar steps lay now in purpleshadows that were growing deeper and denser each moment.

Shadowy forms seemed to be moving about in the sanctuaries.Soon a monk entered with a taper, lighting the lightsbefore some remote shrines. Tristan could not distinguishhis features, for the light was very dim. Yet it enabled himto see that there were a few belated worshippers in thechurch.

After a time the great nave was deserted. As the lonemonk passed quickly through a sphere of thin light, Tristangave a start. It seemed a ghost in a cassock that had vanishedin the sacristy. He told himself that the impressionwas absurd, but he could not throw it off. He had caught amomentary glimpse of a face that had no human likeness, andthe way in which the cassock had flapped about the limbs ofthe fleeting form seemed to suggest that it clothed a framethat had lost its flesh.

Superstitious fear began to creep over him. He felt thathe must seek the open, escape the haunting incense-saturatedpall, these dim sepulchral chapels. Such light as there was,save what emanated from the candles on the altar, camefrom a stone lamp which cast its glimmer on the vanishingform.

In every corner of the vast nave now lay fast gatheringdarkness. The figures of the saints seemed vague andformless. The altar loomed dim in the shadows.

All these things Tristan noted.

The whole interior of the church was now steeped in thedense pall of night, illumined only by the faint radiance ofthe lamp upon the altar, which seemed rather to intensifythan to lift the gloom.

A faint footfall was audible behind the carven screen, nearthe entrance to the chapels. A figure, almost lost in thegloom, glided into the nave, and shadows were falling abouthim like thin veils.

It was an unusual hour for monks to be abroad. None theless, he seemed sure of himself, for he proceeded withouthesitation to the altar, shrouded as it was in utter darkness,but for the light of one faint taper, which gleamed afar, likea star in the nocturnal heavens, driving the gloom a few pacesfrom the carven stone. There the shrouded form seemed tomelt into the very pall of night that weighed heavily upon thetime-stained walls of the Mother Church of Rome.

At first Tristan thought it was some belated penitent seekingforgiveness for his sins, but when the dark-robed form didnot return he strode towards the altar to see if he mightperchance be of assistance to him.

When Tristan reached the altar steps he could discover notrace of a human being, though he searched every nook andcorner and peered into every chapel, examined every shrine.

Seized with a strange restiveness he began to pace up anddown before the altar steps. He was far from feeling at ease.He remembered the warning of the Grand Chamberlain. Heremembered the strange tales he had heard whispered of thePontiff's prison house.

Tristan suddenly paused.

He thought he heard sibilant whispers and the low murmurof voices from behind the screen at the eastern transept ofthe Capella, and at once he began assembling the things inhis mind which might beset him in the hour of darkness.

The Chapel of the Most Holy Saviour of the Holy Stairs,the Scala Santa of the present day, adjoins the LateranChurch. At the period of which we write it was still theprivate chapel of the popes in the Patriarchium, and wascalled the Sancta Sanctorum on account of the great numberof precious relics it enshrines.

To this chapel Tristan directed his steps, oppressed bysome mysterious sense of evil. By a judicious dispositionof the men under his command he had, after a careful surveyof the premises, placed them in such a manner that it wouldbe impossible for any one to gain access to the stairs leadingto the Pontiff's chamber.

Had it been a hallucination of his senses conjured up byhis sudden fear?

Not a sound broke the stillness. Only the echoes of hisown footsteps reverberated uncannily from the worn mosaicsof the floor. In the dim distance of the corridors he saw ashadow moving to and fro. It was the guard before theentrance to a side-chapel of the Basilica.

What caused Tristan to pause in the night gloom of thecorridor leading to the Pontifical Chapel he did not know.He seemed as under a strange spell. At a distance fromhim of some five feet, in the decorated wall, there was a darkpanel some two feet in height and of corresponding breadth,looking obliquely towards the Pontifical Chapel. The panelcontained a small round opening, a spy-hole which communicatedwith a secret chamber in the thickness of the wall.

A slight rustling noise came from behind the masonry.Tristan heard it quite distinctly. It suggested the passingof naked feet over marble.

Suddenly, noiselessly the panel parted.

A sudden gleam of white, blinding light shot into the chapellike a spear of silver.

Tristan paused with a start, looking swiftly and inquiringlyat the black slit in the wall and as he did so the spear of lightshifted a little in its passing.

A face, white with the pallor of death, ghastly and hideousas a corpse that has retained upon its set features the agonyof dying, peered out from blackness into blackness.

A tremor shook Tristan's frame from head to toe. Hecould not have cried out, had he wished to. He felt as onegrazed by a lightning bolt. Then, in a flash that made hisheart and soul shudder within him, he knew.

He had seen looking at him a face—the clean shaven faceof a man. But it was not human. It bore the terrible stigmataof the unquenchable fire; an abominable vision of thelust that cannot be satiated, the utter, unconquerable, fiendishmalevolence of Hell. A harsh, raven-like croak broke thestillness, and at the sound of that cry the terrible face vanishedwith the swiftness of a trick. Instead, a long arm,clothed in a black sleeve, stole through the opening. A flash,keen as that of the lightning, cut the air and a dagger struckthe mosaic floor at Tristan's feet with such force that itspoint snapped after shattering the stone, drawing fire fromthe impact.

Bounding back, Tristan uttered a shrill cry of terror, butwhen he looked in the direction of the panel only dim dundusk met his eyes.

Rushing frantically from the corridor he now called with allhis might. His outcries brought the guards to the scene.Briefly, incoherently, almost mad with terror, he told histale. They listened with an air of amazement in which surpriseheld no small share. Then they accompanied himback to the chapel.

Arriving near the spot he was about to point to the dagger,to corroborate his wild tale. But the dagger had disappeared.Only the shattered marble of the floor lent testimony andcredence to his words.

On the following morning an outcry of horror arose fromall quarters of Rome.

On the night which preceded it, the Holy Host had beentaken from the Pontifical Chapel in the Lateran.

CHAPTER VIII
THE SHADOW OF ASRAEL

It was ten in the morning.

Deep silence reigned in thestrange walled garden on thePincian Hill that surrounded themarble villa of the Grand Chamberlain.Only the murmur ofthe city below and the softsounds of bells from tower andcampanile seemed to break thedreamlike stillness as they beganto toll for High Mass.

In a circular chamber lighted only by lamps, for there wereno windows, and daylight never penetrated there, before anonyx table covered with strange globes and philtres, satBasil.

The walls of the chamber were of wood stained purple.The far wall was hidden by shelves on which were many rollsof vellum and papyrus, spoils of pagan libraries of the past.There were the works of monks from all the monasteries ofEurope, illuminated by master hands, the black letter pagesglowing with red and gold, almost priceless even then. Inone corner of the room stood an iron chest, secured by locks.What this contained no one even dared to guess.

As the chimes from churches and convents reached hisears, Basil's face paled. Something began to stir in thedark unfathomable eyes as some unknown thing stirs indeep water. Some nameless being was looking out of thosewindows of the soul. Yet the rest of the face was unruffledand expressionless, and the contrast was so horrible that aspectator would have shrank away, cold fear gripping hisheart, and perhaps a cry upon his lips.

Basil had closed the heavy bronze doors behind him whenhe had entered from the atrium. The floor of colored marbleswas flooded with the light from the bronze lamps. Beforehim was a short passage, hardly more than an alcove, terminatingin a door of cedarwood behind a purple curtain.

In the dull yellow gleam of the lamps the chamber seemedcold, full of chill and musty air.

In a moment however the lamps seemed to burn morebrightly, as Basil's eyes became adjusted to their lights.

There was the silence of the tomb. The lamps burntwithout a flicker, for there was not a breath of air to disturbtheir steady glow. The plan of the room, its yellow lights,its silence, its entire lack of correspondence with the outsideworld, was Basil's own. He had designed it as a port, as itwere, whence to put out to sea upon the tide of his ever-changingmoods in the black barque of sin.

For some time he remained alone in the silent room, dreamingand brooding over greatness and power, that terriblemegalomania that is the last and rarest madness of all.

He had read of Caligula, Nero, and Domitian, of Heliogabalus,whose madness passed the bounds of the imaginable.Like gold and purple clouds, bursting with sombre light andpower, they had passed over Rome and were gone.

Then thoughts of the popes came to him, those supremerulers of the temporal and spiritual world whose dominionhad been so superb, since they first began to crown the emperors,one hundred and thirty-five years ago.

In a monstrous and swiftly moving panorama they passedthrough a brain that worked as if it were packed in ice. Andyet one and all had gone into the dark. The power of nonehad been lasting and complete.

But into his reverie stole a secret glow, into his blood anintense, ecstatic quickening. For them the hour had tolled.Each step in life was but one nearer the grave. Not so wasit to be with him.

A black fire began to burn round his heart, coiling therelike a serpent, as he thought of the illumination that was his,the promise he had received—deep down in the crypts ofthe Emperor's Tomb and again in the Catacombs of St.Calixtus. And he had fallen down and worshipped, hadgiven his soul to Darkness and abjured the Light.

Satan should rule again on earth. For this had beenrevealed to him by the High Priest of Satan himself, then ina vision by the Lord of Evil. To penetrate the mysteries ofHell with his whole heart and soul, to strike chill terror intothe hearts of those who worshipped at the altars of Christ,had become Basil's ambition for which he would live and die.

Basil sat dreaming and gloating over his coming glory; aglory in which the woman whose beauty had stung him withmaddening desire should share, even if he had to drag herbefore the dark throne upon which sat the UnspeakablePresence. The yellow light of the lamps fell upon his unnaturaland mask-like face as he sat rigid in his chair hypnotizedby Hell.

Christ had thrown his great Cross upon the feasts andbanquets of the gods. On his head was a crown of thornsand the Stigmata upon his hands and feet. And the gobletsof red gold had lost their brightness. The pagan gods werestricken dumb. They had faded away in vapor and weregone.

And with them the fierce joy of living had left the world.Christ reigned upon earth, implanting conscience in the soulsof men, that robbed ecstasy of its fruition and infused themost delicious cup touched with the Aliquid Amari of thepoet.

Basil paced the narrow confines of the room, and from hislips came the opening stanza of that dreadful parody of theGood Friday hymn sung by the votaries of Satan: "VexillaRegis Prodeunt Inferni."

Already the banners of the advancing hosts were in thesky. Soon—soon would he appear himself—the Lord ofDarkness!

The room suddenly grew very chill, as if the three dreadwinds of Cocytus were blowing through the chamber.

There was a slim rod of copper suspended from the wall,close to the couch of dull grey damask upon which he hadbeen reclining. He pulled it and somewhere away in the villaa gong sounded. A moment later a drab man, lean as askeleton and bald as an egg, with slanting eyes in an ashenface and a stooping gait, came gliding noiselessly into thelamplit room. He wore a long black cassock, which coveredhis fleshless form from head to toe.

"Has no one called?" Basil turned to his factotum.

"A stranger," came the sepulchral reply. "He bade megive you this!"

Basil took the scroll which his famulus handed to him andcut the cord.

A fiendish smile passed over his face and lighted up thedark, sinister eyes. But quickly as the mood had come itleft. It fell from him as a dropped cloak.

He stood upright, supporting himself on the onyx table,while Horus, who only understood in a dull dim way hismaster's moods, assisting him in all his villainies, but confessinghis own share to a household priest, stood impassivelyby.

"Give me some wine!" Basil turned to the sinister MajorDomo, and the latter disappeared and returned with a jugof Malvasian.

The Grand Chamberlain grasped the jug which Horus hadbrought him and held it with shaking fingers to his mouth.When he had drank deep he dismissed his famulus, struck aflint and burnt the scroll to pallid ashes. Then he staggeredout into the hall of colored marbles and through it to thegarden doors.

The bronze gates trembled as they swung back upon theirhinges, and as the full noon of the quiet garden burst uponBasil's eyes he fancied he saw the fold of a dark robe disappearamong the cypresses.

And now the hot air of high noon wrapped him round withits warm southern life, flowing over the lithe body within thesilken doublet, drawing away the inward darkness and thevaulting flames within his soul and reminding his sensuousnature that the future held gigantic promise of love and power.

The great tenor and alto bells of St. John in Lateran werebeating the echoes to silver far away. The roofs and palaces,domes and towers of Rome, were bathed in sunlight as headvanced to the embrasure in the wall and once more surveyedthe city.

The heat shimmered down and, through the quiveringsunlit air, the colors of the buildings shone like pebbles atthe bottom of a pool and the white ruins glowed like a mirageof the desert.

An hour later, regardless of the vertical sun rays that beatdown upon the tortuous streets of the city with unabatedfervor, the Grand Chamberlain rode through the streets ofRome, attended by a group of men-at-arms with the crest ofthe Broken Spear in a Field of Azure embroidered upon theirdoublets.

As the cavalcade swept through the crowded streets, withtheir pilgrims from all parts of the world, the religious intheir habits, men-at-arms, flower-sellers, here and there themagnificent chariot of a cardinal, many of the people loweredtheir eyes as Basil cantered past on his black Neapolitancharger, trapped with crimson. More than one made thesign of the horn, to avert the spell of the evil eye.

When Basil reached the Lateran he found a captain of thenoble guard with two halberdiers in their unsightly liveriesguarding the doors. They saluted and Basil inquired whetherthe new captain of the guard was within.

"The Lord Tristan is within," came the reply, and Basilentered, motioning to his escort to await his return outside.

The Grand Chamberlain traversed several anterooms,speaking to one or the other of the senatorial guard, and onevery face he read consternation and fear. Little groups ofpriests stood together in corners, whispering among eachother; the whole of the Lateran was aroused as by a secretdread. Such deeds, though they were known to have occurred,were never spoken of, and the priests of the variouschurches that had suffered desecration wisely kept their owncounsel.

In this, the darkest age in the history of Rome, when crimeand lust and murder lurked in every corner, an outrage suchas this struck every soul with horror and awe. It wasunthinkable, unspeakable almost, suggesting dark mysteriesand hidden infamies of Hell, which caused the blood to runcold and the heart to freeze.

When Basil had made his way through the crowded corridors,receiving homage, though men looked askance at him ashe passed, he came to a chamber usually reserved for a waitingroom in times when the Pontiff received foreign envoys ormembers of the priesthood and nobility; a privilege fromwhich the unfortunate prisoner in the Lateran was to be foreverdebarred.

Basil entered this chamber, giving orders that he was to bein no wise disturbed until he called and those outside heardhim lock and bar the door from within.

In the exact centre of the wall, reaching within two feet ofthe ground, there was a large picture of St. Sebastian, barbarouslypainted by some unknown artist.

Basil approached the picture and pressed upon the flatframe with all his strength. There was a sudden click, awhirring, as of the wheels of a clock. Then the pictureswung inward, revealing a circular stairway of stone, mountingupward. Without replacing the panel door, Basil mountedthe stairs for nearly a hundred steps, until he came to a doorupon which he beat with the hilt of his poniard.

An answering knock came from within, and the dooropened. Basil entered a small chamber, lighted from aboveby a window in a small dome.

A bat-like figure stood before a table covered with strangemanuscripts. As Basil entered, a thin black arm emergedfrom the folds of the gown, which the inmate of the chamberwore. Then, with a quick bird-like movement, an immenselythin hand twisted like a claw, wrinkled, yellow and of incredibleage, was stretched out toward the newcomer.

On the second finger of this claw was a certain ring. Basilbent and kissed the ring. There was another deft and almostimperceptible movement. When the hand reappeared thering was gone.

"It has been done?" Basil turned to the dark-robed formin bated whispers.

The voice that answered seemed to come from a greatdistance. The lips in the waxen face scarcely moved. Theyparted, that was all. Yet the words were audible and distinct.

"It was done. Last night."

"You were not seen?"

"I wore the mask."

"Is it here?" Basil queried, his eyes flickering with a faintreflection of that hate which had blazed in them earlier in theday.

"It is not here."

"Where is it?"

"You shall know to-night!"

The light faded out of Basil's eyes.

"What of the new captain?"

"His presence is a menace."

In Basil's eyes gleamed a sombre fire.

"I, too, owe him a grudge. In good time!"

"The time is Now!"

"Patience!" replied the Grand Chamberlain. "He willwork his own undoing. We dare not harm him yet."

"Only a miracle saved him last night."

"Are there not other churches in Rome?"—

"Ay!" mouthed the black form. "But the time of thegreat sacrifice draws near—"

"I knew not it was so near at hand," interposed Basil witha start.

"The Becco Notturno demands a bride!"

"How am I to help you in these matters?"

"Am I to counsel the Lord Basil?" sneered the shape."You drew the crimson ball."

"When is it to be?"

"Three weeks from to-night. Mark you—a stainlessdove!"

Basil nodded, an evil smile upon his lips.

"It shall be as you say! As for that other—I am mindedto try his mettle—"

"So be it!" said the shape. "Leave me now! You willhear from me. My familiars are everywhere."

Without another word Basil arose and left the chamber.In the corridor below he met Tristan.

"I know all," he cut short the speech of the new captainof the guard. "All Rome is full of it. How did it happen?And where?"

"Attracted by a noise as of slippered feet passing overmarble, I entered the corridor of the Sacred Stairs, whenone of the panels parted. A devilish apparition stoodwithin, throwing the beam of its lantern into the chapel.When a chance ray of light disclosed my presence theshape of darkness hurled a poniard. It missed me, thanksbe to Our Lady, struck the mosaic of the floor and brokein two."

"You have the pieces?" Basil queried affably and withmuch concern.

"I ran to the end of the gallery, shouting to my men,"Tristan replied. "When we returned the blade had disappeared."

"Where was it?" Basil queried with much concern andsoon they faced the shattered mosaic.

Basil examined the spot minutely.

"From yonder panel, you say?" he turned to Tristan.

"The third from the Capella," came the ready reply.

"Have you searched the premises?"

"From cellar to garret."—

"And discovered nothing?"

"Nothing."

"What of the panel?"

"It defies our combined efforts."

"Strange, indeed."

Basil strode to the wall and struck the spot indicated byTristan with the hilt of his poniard. Then he tested the wallon either side.

"Can your ear detect any difference in sound?"

A negative gesture came in response, and with it a puzzledlook passed into Tristan's eyes.

"Have you seen the Pontiff?"

"We reported the matter to His Holiness."

"And?"

"His Holiness raised his eyes to heaven and said: 'EvenGod's Vicar has no jurisdiction in Hell!'"

"Was that all he said?"

"That was all!"

There was a silence during which Basil seemed to communewith himself.

"It is indeed a matter of grave concern," he said at last."Treason stalks everywhere. I will send for my SpanishCaptain, Don Garcia. He may be of assistance to you."

And Basil turned and walked down the corridor.

After a time Tristan walked out upon the terrace lookingtoward the Cœlian Hill.

A brilliant light beat upon domes and spires and pinnacles,and flooded the august ruins of the Cæsars on the distantPalatine and the thousand temples of the Holy Cross withscintillating radiance which poured down from the intenseblue of heaven.—

The long lights of the afternoon were shifting towards theeventide, giving place to a limpid and colorless light thatsilvered the adjacent olive groves.

Tristan roused himself with a start. The sense of movinglike a ghost among a world of ghosts had left him. He wasonce more awake and aware. But even now his sorrow, hisfears, his hopes of winning again to some safe harbor in thestorm tossed Odyssey of his life, were numbed. They layheavy within him, but without urgency or appeal.

What did it matter after all? Life was a little thing, aforlorn minstrel that evoked melancholy strains from a pipeof oaten straw. Life was a little thing, nor death a great one.For his part he would not be loth to take his poppies and fallasleep.

At one time or another such moods must come to all of usand be endured. We must enter into the middle country,that dull Sahara of the soul, a broad belt of barren land whereno angels seem to walk by our side, nor can the false voicesof demons lure us to our harm.

This is the land where we are imprisoned by the deeds ofothers and never by our own. What we do ourselves willsend us to Heaven or to Hell; but not to the middle countrywhere the plains of disillusion are.

At last the sunset came.

The ashen color of the olive-trees flashed out into silver,the undulating peaks of the Sabine Mountains became faintlyflushed and phantom fair, as in a tempest of fire the sun sankto rest. The groves of ilex and arbutus seemed to tremblewith delight, as the long red heralds touched their topmostboughs.

The whole landscape seemed to smile a farewell to departingday. The chimes of the Angelus trembled on the purpledusk.

Night came on apace.

Tristan re-entered the Lateran Basilica, set the watch andarranged with Don Garcia to spend the night in the sacristy,while Don Garcia was to guard the approaches to the PontificalChapel to prevent a recurrence of the horrible sacrilegeof the preceding night.

One by one the worshippers left the vast nave of the church.After a time the sacristans closed the heavy bronze doors andextinguished the lights, all but the one upon the altar.

When they, too, had departed, and deepest silence filledthe sacred spaces, Tristan emerged from a side chapel andtook his station near the entrance to the sacristy, where, onthe preceding night, he had seen the shadow disappear.

How long he had been there in dread and wonder he didnot know, when two cloaked and hooded figures emergedslowly out of the gloom. He could not tell whence they cameor whether they had been there all the time. They benttheir steps towards the sacristy and, as they were about topass Tristan in his hiding-place, they paused as if consciousof another presence.

"As we proceed in this matter," whispered the one voice,"I grow fearful. You know my relations to the Senator—"

"Your anxiety moves me not," croaked the other voice."Deem you to attain your ends by mortal means?"

The voice caused Tristan to shudder as with an ague,though he saw not him who spoke.

"What of yourself?" whispered the first speaker.

"Have you forgotten," came the hoarse reply, "that eitherI am soulless, or else my spirit, damned from its beginning,will scarce be saved by the grace of Him I dare not name!You are defiled in the very conversing with me."

The tone in which these words were spoken, either defiedanswer, or, if a response was made, it did not reach Tristan'sears as they slowly, noiselessly, proceeded upon their way.

Tristan vaguely listened for the echo of their retreatingfootsteps as, passing behind the altar, they disappeared, as ifthe earth had swallowed them.

Now he was seized with a terrible fear. What, if they wereto repeat the sacrilege? He thought he recognized the voiceof the first speaker; but this no doubt was but a trick of hisexcited imagination.

Determined to prevent so terrible a crime, he crept cautiouslydown the narrow passage through which they haddisappeared. Six steps he counted, then he found himselfin a room which seemed to be part of the sacristy, yet not apart, for a postern stood open through which gleamed themisty moonlight.

There was little doubt in Tristan's mind that they hadpassed out through this postern which had been left unguarded,and he found his conjectures confirmed, when his eye, accustomingitself to the radiance without, saw two misty figurespassing along the road that leads past the Cœlian Hill throughfields of ruins.

Taking care so they would not be attracted by the sound ofhis steps, Tristan crept in the shadows of roofless columns,shattered porticoes and dismantled temples, half hidden amidthe dark foliage that sprang up among the very fanes andpalaces of old. At times he lost sight of his quarry. Againthey would rise up before him like evil spirits wanderingthrough space.

As Tristan continued in his pursuit, he began to be besetby dire misgivings.

The twain had vanished as utterly as if the earth hadswallowed them and he paused in his pursuit to gain hisbearings. Had he followed two phantoms or two beings inthe flesh? Had he abandoned his watch for two penitentswho had perchance been locked in the church?

What might not be happening at the Lateran at this verymoment! How would Don Garcia construe his absence?

A tremor passed through his limbs. He started to retracehis steps, but some unknown agency compelled him onward.

Penetrating the gloomy foliage, Tristan found himself beforea large ruin, grey and roofless, from the interior of whichcame, muffled and indistinct, the sound of voices.

Two men were stealthily creeping beneath the shadow of awall that extended for some distance from the ruin.

Both wore long monkish garbs and were muffled from headto toe. Over their faces they wore vizors with slits for eyesand mouth. One of the twain was spare, yet muscular. Hiscompanion walked with a stooping gait and supported himselfby a staff.

The light which had attracted Tristan, emanated from alantern which they had placed on the ground and which theycould shade at will, but which cast its fitful glimmer over thegrass plot, revealing what appeared to be a grave, from whichthe mould had been thrown up. At a short distance therestood a black and stunted yew tree. Before this they paused.

Now, from under his black cassock, the taller produced astrange object, the nature of which Tristan was unable todiscover by the fitful light of the moon.

No sooner was it revealed to his companion, than the latterbegan to chant a weird incantation, in which he who held thestrange object joined.

Louder and more strident grew their voices, and, notwithstandingthe warmth of the summer night, Tristan felt an icyshudder permeate his whole being while, with a strangefascination, he watched the twain.

Now he who supported himself by a staff uttered a shrillinarticulate outcry, and, producing a long, gleaming knifefrom under his cassock, stabbed the thing viciously, while hisvoice rose in mad, strident screams:

"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! EmenHetan!"

The fit of madness seemed to have caught his companion.Producing a knife similar to that of the other he, too, stabbedthe object he held in his hand, shrieking deliriously:

"Agora! Agora! Patrisa! Agora!"

An hour was to come when Tristan was to learn the terribleimport of the apparently meaningless jumble which struck hisear with mad discordance.

Suddenly he felt upon himself the insane gleam of two eyes,peering from the slits of the bent figure's mask.

There was a death-like stillness, as both looked towards theintruder. Tristan would have fled, but his feet seemed rootedto the spot. His energies were paralyzed as under theinfluence of a terrible spell.

The stooping form raised aloft a small phial. A bluishvapor floated upward, in thin spiral curls.

The effect was instantaneous. Tristan was seized by agreat drowsiness. His limbs refused to support him.He no longer felt the ground under his feet. Hishand went to his head and, reeling like a drunken man, hefell among the tall weeds that grew in riotous profusion aroundthe ancient masonry.

The setting moon shone out from behind a fleecy cloud,and in the pallid crimson of her light the ill-famed ruins ofthe ancient temple of Isis rose weird and ghostly in the summernight.

CHAPTER IX
THE FEAST OF THEODORA

A fairy-like radiance pervadedthe great pavilion in the sunkengardens of Theodora on MountAventine.

It was a vast circular hall,roofed in by a lofty dome ofrichest malachite, from the centreof which was suspended ahuge globe of fire, flinging blood-redrays on the amber coloredsilken carpets and tapestries that covered floors and walls.The dome was supported by rows upon rows of tall taperingcrystal columns, clear as translucent water and green as thegrass in spring, and between and beyond these columns werelarge oval shaped casements set wide open to the summernight, through which the gleam of a broad lake, laden withwater lilies, could be seen shimmering in the yellow radianceof the moon.

The centre of the hall was occupied by a long table in theform of a horseshoe, upon which glittered vessels of gold,crystal and silver in the sheen of the revolving globe of fire,heaped with all the accessories of a sumptuous banquet, suchas might have been spread before the ancient gods of Olympusin the heyday of their legendary prime.

Strange scents assailed the nostrils: pomegranate andfrankincense, myrrh, spikenard and saffron, cinnamon andcalamus mingled their perfume with the insidious distillationsof the jasmine, and spiral clouds of incense rose from tripodsof bronze to the vaulted ceiling.

Inside the horseshoe, black African slaves, attired infantastic liveries of yellow and blue, crimson and white, orangeand green, carried aloft jewelled flagons and goblets, massivegold dishes and great platters of painted earthenware.

There were wines from Cyprus and Malvasia, from Montepulcianoand the sunny slopes of Hymettus, Chianti andLacrymae Christi.

The almost incredible brilliancy of the assembled company,contrasting with the fantastic background, caught the eye aswith a stab of pain, held the gaze for a single instant of frozenincredulity, then gripped the throat in a choking sensation byreason of its wonder.

Lounging on divans of velvet and embroidered satin fromthe looms of fabled Cathay, set in the old Roman fashionround the table, eating, drinking, gossiping and occasionallybursting into wild snatches of song, were a company of distinguishedlooking personages, richly and brilliantly attired,bent upon enjoying the pleasures offered by the immediatehour. All who laid claim to any distinction in the seven-hilledcity were there, the lords of the Campagna and of theadjacent fiefs of the Church. Strangers from all parts of theinhabited globe were there, steeping their bewildered brainin the splendors that assailed their eyes on every point; fromAfrica and Iceland, from Portugal and India, from Burgundyand Aquitaine, from Granada and from Greece, from Germaniaand Provence, from Persia and the Baltic shores. Theirfantastic and semi-barbaric costumes seemed to enhance thegrotesque splendor of the banquet hall.

The Romans were acquainting their guests with the exaltedrank of the woman who ruled the city as surely as ever hadMarozia from the Emperor's Tomb. And the strangerslistened wide-eyed and with bated breath.

Near the raised dais which Theodora was to occupy, at thehead of the table, there were three couches reserved forguests who, like the hostess, had not yet arrived.

Below these, by the side of a martial stranger with the airof one who would fain sweep the board clear of his neighborson either hand, devouring his food in fierce silence, sat thePrefect of Rome, endeavoring to expound the qualities of hiscountrymen to the silent guest, interspersing his encomiumsnow and then with a rapturous eulogy of Theodora.

"Monstrous times have robbed us Romans of the powerof the sword. But they cannot rob us of the power of thespirit, which will endure forever."

The stranger replied with a stony stare of contempt.

Beside the Lord Atenulf of Benevento sat a tall girl withheavy coils of blue black hair, eyes that smouldered with asombre light, curved carnation lips set in a perfect, oval face,and seeming more scarlet than they were, owing to her ivorypallor, the tint of the furled magnolia bud which is, perhaps,only seen to perfection in Italy and especially in Rome.

She looked at the grave-faced guest with quickened eyes.

Snatching some vine leaves from a pyramid of grapes, aspurple as the tapestries of Tyre, she arose and laying herhand on the stranger's arm, said laughingly:

"Oh, what a brow! Dark as a thundercloud in June. Letme crown you with the leaves of the vine! Perchance thehour will evoke the mood!"

She twisted the leaves into a wreath and dropped themlightly on his head. The eyes of the silent guest, set in aface of sanguine color, leered viciously, with the looks of onewho believes himself, however mistakenly, master of himself.There was a contemptuous curl about his lips. They werethick lips and florid.

"Ah!" he turned to the girl in a barbarous jargon, "youare one of those who go veiled in the streets."

And as he spoke his eyes leered with yet livelier malice.

The girl shrank back.

"Those who go veiled know more than ordinary folk," shereplied, then mingled with the other guests.

A young woman of great beauty, with light hair and blueeyes, sat beside young Fabio of the Cavalli. Her bare arms,white as snow, and of exquisite contour, encircled his neck,while he drank and drank. Now and then she sipped of thewine, Lacrymae Christi from Viterbo, of the greenish strawcolor of the chrysoberyl.

Some one had put red poppy leaves in Roxana's hair, andas she sat by the side of the youth, she had the air and appearanceof a Corybante.

Now and then she gave a glance at the purple curtain inthe background, and one who watched her closely might haveseen a strange sparkle in the depths of her clear blue eyes.With a look of disappointment she turned away, as not aripple of air stirred the curtain's heavy fold. Then her armsstole anew round the youth, who drained one goblet afteranother, as if each succeeding one yielded up a new secret tohim.

Roxana marked it well.

Her eyes danced to his, whenever Fabio's gaze stole towardsthe purple curtain which screened the mysterious gardenbeyond, in which the spray of a fountain cast silvery showersinto branch-shadowed thickets, hidden retreats and silent,leafy alcoves, where flowers swooned in the moonlight andgave up their perfume for love.

From the immobile sable hangings the youth's eyes wanderedback to Roxana's face, but there lurked somethingstrange in their depths.

"Am I not more beautiful than Theodora?" whispered thewoman by his side, extending her marble arms before herlover.

"You are beautiful, my Roxana," he stammered. "ButTheodora is the most beautiful woman on earth."

Roxana turned very white at his words.

"She has challenged me to come to her feast," she said ina low tone, audible only to Fabio. "Let her look to herself!"

And her eyes were alight with the desire of the meeting.

On an adjoining couch reclined the huge jelly of a man wholooked like Pan, enormously swollen and bloated. Hispaunch bellied out over the table like a full blown sail. Hisface was stained with many a night of wine. The mulberryeyes twinkled merrily. The swollen lips babbled incessantly.

It was the Lord Boso of Caprara.

"They say that seven devils were cast out of Magdalene—"he turned to Roxana—

The Lord of Norba interposed.

"De mortuis nil nisi bene! Natura abhorret vacuum!I drink to the thirst to come!"

And he raised his goblet and tossed it off.

The Lord Atenulf rose to his feet, swaying and supportinghimself with one hand on the table. His great swollen face,big as a ham, creased itself into merriment.

"Let the wine ferret out the thirst!" he shouted, anddrained off his tankard.

"Argus hath a hundred eyes! A butler ought to have ahundred hands!" shouted the Lord of Camerino. "Wine,—slaves!Wine,—fill up in the name of Lucifer!"

"My tongue is peeling!"

"Wine! Wine!"

The Africans filled up the empty tankards.

"Privatio praesupponit habitum!" opined the Prefect ofRome.

"We drink to Life and the fleeting Hour."

"Pereat Mors."

And the goblets clanged.

"Who speaks of Death?" shrieked young Fabio of theCavalli, attempting to rise. The wine was taking effect onhis brain.

Roxana drew him back on the couch beside her.

"Fill the goblets! A brimmer of Chianti, red as blood—"

"Or the poppies in Roxana's hair!"

"Wine from Samos—sweetened with honey."

"A decoction of Nectar and Ambrosia."

The strangers who crowded the vast hall began to join inthe mirth and jollity of their Roman hosts, their Orientalapathy or frozen stolidity melting slowly in the fumes of thewines.

A curtain had parted and a bevy of girls clad in diaphanousgowns of finest silver gauze made their way into the banquethall and took their seats, as choice directed, beside the guests.Peals of laughter echoed through the vaulted dome, andexcited voices were raised in clamorous disputations andcontentious arguments. The wine began to flow more lavishly.The assembled guests grew more and more carelessof their utterances. They flung themselves full length upontheir luxurious couches, now pulling out handfuls of flowersfrom the tall malachite jars that stood near, and pelting thedancing girls for idle diversion, now summoning the attendantslaves to refill their wine cups, while they lay lounging at easeamong the silken cushions.

There was a moment's silence, sudden, unexplained, likethe presage of some dark event.

The slow solemn boom of a bell sounded the hour of midnight.

The voices had ceased.

With one accord, as though drawn by some magnetic spell,all turned their eyes towards the purple curtain through whichTheodora had just entered, and, rising from their seats, theybroke into boisterous welcome and acclaim. Young Fabio ofthe Cavalli whose flushed face had all the wanton, effeminatebeauty of a pictured Dionysos, reeled forward, goblet in handand, tossing the wine in the air, so that it splashed down athis feet, staining his garments, he shouted:

"Vanish dull moon and be ashamed, for a fairer planetrules the midnight sky! To Theodora—the Queen ofLove!"

He staggered a few paces towards her, holding the emptygoblet in his hand. His hair tossed back from his brows andentangled in a half-crushed wreath of vine-leaves, his garmentsdisordered, his demeanor that of one possessed of adelirium of the senses, he stared at the wonderful apparitionwhen, meeting Theodora's icy glance, he started as if he hadbeen suddenly stabbed. The goblet fell from his hand and ashudder ran through his supple frame.

By the side of the Grand Chamberlain, who was garbed inblack from head to toe, Theodora descended the steps thatled from the raised platform into the brilliant hall.

Greeting her guests with her inscrutable smile, she movedas a queen through a crowd of courtiers, the changing lightsof crimson and green playing about her like living flame, herhead, wreathed with jewelled serpents, rising proudly erectfrom her golden mantle, her eyes scintillating with a gleam ofmockery which made them look so lustrous, yet so cold.

Thus she strode towards the dais, draped in carnation-coloredsilks and surmounted by an arch of ebony.

For the space of a moment she paused, surveying her guests.A film seemed to pass over her eyes as her gaze rested uponone who had slowly arisen and was facing her in white silence.

With a slight bend of the head Roxana acknowledgedTheodora's silent greeting; then, amidst loud shouts ofacclaim she sank languidly upon her couch, trying to sootheyoung Fabio, who had raised his fallen goblet and held it outto a passing slave. The latter refilled it with wine, which hegulped down thirstily, though the purple liquid brought nocolor to his drawn and ashen cheek.

Theodora paid no heed to the youth's discomfiture, butRoxana's face was white as death, and her lips were set asthe lips of a marble mask as she gazed towards the ebonyarch, upon which the eyes of all present were riveted.

With a rustle as of falling leaves Theodora's gorgeousmantle had released itself from its jewelled clasps, and hadslowly fallen on the perfumed carpet at her feet.

A sigh quivered audibly through the hall, whether of joy,hope, desire or despair it was difficult to tell. The pride andperil of matchless loveliness was revealed in all its fatalseductiveness and invincible strength. In irresistible perfectionshe stood revealed before her guests in a robe ofdiaphanous silver gauze, which clung like a pale mist aboutthe wonderful curves of her form and seemed to float abouther like a summer cloud. Her dazzling white arms werebare to the shoulders. A silver serpent with a head ofsapphires girdled her waist.

Sinking indolently among the silken cushions of the dais,where she gleamed in her wonderful whiteness like a glisteningpearl, set in ebony, Theodora motioned to her guests toresume their places at the board.

She was instantly obeyed.

The Grand Chamberlain took what appeared to be hisaccustomed seat at her right, the seat at her left remainingvacant. For a moment Theodora's gaze rested thereon witha puzzled air, then she seemed to pay no farther heed.

But a close observer might have noted a shade of displeasureon the brow of the Grand Chamberlain, which noattempt at dissimulation could dispel.

A triumphant peal of music, the clash of mingled flutes,hautboys, tubas and harps rushed through the dome like awind sweeping in from tropical seas.

Basil turned to Theodora with a searching glance.

"One couch still awaits its guest."

She nodded languidly.

"Tristan—the pilgrim. He is late. Know you aught ofhim, my lord?"

There was an air of mockery in her tone, not unmingledwith concern.

Basil's thin lips straightened.

"Perchance the holy man hath other sheep in mind.What is he to you, Lady Theodora? Your concern for himseems of the suddenest."

"What is it to you, my lord?" she flashed in return. "AmI accountable to you for the moods that sway my soul?"

A mocking laugh startled both the Grand Chamberlainand Theodora.

Low as the words between them had been spoken, theyhad reached the ear of Roxana. Watchful of every shade ofexpression in Theodora's face, she was resolved to take upthe gauntlet her hated rival had thrown to her, to draw herout of her defences into open conflict, for which she longedwith all the fire of her soul. Determined to wrest the dominionof Rome from Marozia's beautiful sister, she was resolvedto stake her all, counting upon the effect of her wonderfulbeauty and her physical perfection, which was a match forTheodora's in every point.

This desire on Roxana's part was precipitated by the strangedemeanor of young Fabio of the Cavalli. From the momentTheodora had entered the banquet hall his fevered gaze haddevoured her wonderful beauty. A feverish restlessness hadtaken possession of the youth and he had rudely repelledRoxana when she tried to soothe his wine-besotten brain.

"Perchance," she turned to Theodora, "remembering howCircé of old changed her lovers into swine, the sainted pilgrimno longer worships at Santa Maria of the Aventine."

Theodora started at the sound of her rival's hated voice asif an asp had stung her.

"Perchance the well-known blandishments of our fairRoxana might accomplish as much, if report speaks true,"she replied, returning the smouldering challenge in the otherwoman's eyes.

"And why not?" came the purring response. "Am I notyour match in body and soul?"

Every vestige of color had faded from Theodora's cheeks.For a moment the two women seemed to search each other'ssouls, their bosoms heaving, their eyes alight with the desirefor the conflict.

Roxana slowly arose and strode toward the vacant seat atTheodora's left.

"When you circled the Rosary on yesternight, fairestTheodora," she purred, "was he not there—waiting foryou?"

Instead of Theodora, it was Basil who made reply.

"Of whom do you speak?"

Again the silvery ripple of Roxana's laughter floated abovethe din.

"Perchance, my Lord Basil, our fair Theodora should beable to enlighten you on that point—"

"Of whom do you speak?" Basil turned to the woman.

There was something ominous in his eyes. His face waspale.

Theodora regarded him contemptuously, her dark slumbrouseyes turning from him to the woman.

"Beware lest I be tempted to strangle you," she spoke ina low tone, her white hands opening and closing convulsively.

"Like Persephoné, your Circassian,—in the Emperor'sTomb?" came the taunting reply.

Theodora's face was white as lightning.

"I should not leave the work undone!"

"Neither should I," came the purring reply, as Roxanaextended her wonderful hands and arms. "Meanwhile—willyou not inform your guests of the story of the pilgrim, who caused Marozia's sister toenter a nunnery?"

A group of listeners had gathered about.

Basil was swaying to and fro in his seat with suppressed fury.

"One convent at least would be damned from gable torefectory," he muttered, emptying the tankard which one ofthe Africans had just replenished.

Theodora regarded him icily. Her inscrutable countenancegave no hint of her thoughts. She did not even seem to hearthe questions which fell thick and fast about her, but therewas something in the velvet depths of her eyes that wouldhave caused even the boldest to tremble in the consciousnessof having incurred her anger.

The Lord of Norba reeled towards the couch, where Roxanahad taken her seat, blinking out of small watery eyes andflirting with his lordly buskins.

"How came it about?"

"What was he like?"

Theodora turned slowly from the one to the other. Thenwith a voice vibrant with contempt she said:

"A man!"

"And you were counting your beads?" shouted the LordAtenulf in so amazed a tone, that the guests broke out intopeals of laughter.

"It was then it happened," Roxana related, without relating.

"How mysterious," shivered some one.

"Will you not tell us?" Roxana challenged Theodora anew.

Their eyes met. Roxana turned to her auditors.

"Our fair Theodora had been suddenly touched by thespirit," she began in her low musical voice. "Withdrawingfrom the eyes of man she gave herself up to holy meditations.In this mood she nightly circled the Penitent's Rosary atSanta Maria of the Aventine, praying that the saint mighttake compassion upon her and deliver unto her keepinga perfect, saintly man, pure and undefiled. And to addweight to her own prayers, we, too, circled the Rosary;Gisla, Adelhita, Pamela and myself. And we prayed veryearnestly."

She paused for a moment and looked about, as if to gaugethe impression her tale was producing on the assembledguests. Her smiling eyes swept the face of Theodora whowas listening as intently as if the incident about to be relatedhad happened to another, her sphinx-like face betraying nota sign of emotion.

"And then?"

It was Basil's voice, hoarse and constrained.

"Then," Roxana continued, "the miracle came to passbefore our very eyes. Behind one of the monolith pillarsthere stood one in a pilgrim's garb, young and tall of stature.His gaze followed our rotations, and each time we circledabout him our fair Theodora offered thanks to the saint forgranting her prayer—"

She paused and again her gaze mockingly swept Theodora'ssphinx-like face.

"And then?" spoke the voice of Basil.

"When our devotions had come to a close," Roxana turnedto the speaker, "Theodora sent Persephoné to conduct thesaintly stranger to her bowers. And then the unlooked forhappened. The saintly stranger fled, like Joseph of old. Hedid not even leave his garb."

There was an outburst of uproarious mirth.

"But do these things ever happen?" fluted the Poet Bembo.

"In the realms of fable," shouted the Lord of Norba.

"Now men have become wiser."

"And women more circumspect."

Theodora turned to the speaker.

"Perchance traditions have been merely reversed."

"Some recent events do not seem to support the theory,"drawled the Grand Chamberlain.

Theodora regarded him with her strange inscrutable smile.

"Who knows,—if all were told?"

"The fact remains," Roxana persisted in her taunts,"that our fair Theodora's power has its limits; that there isone man at least whom she may not drug with the poisonsweetness of her song."

In Theodora's eyes gleamed a smouldering fire, as she metthe insufferable taunts of the other woman.

"Why do you not try your own charms upon him, fairestRoxana?" she turned to her tormentor. "Charms which,I grant you, are second not even to mine."

Roxana's bosom heaved. A strange fire smouldered inher eyes.

"And deem you I could not take him from you, if I choose?"she replied, the pupils of her eyes strangely dilated.

"Not if I choose to make him mine!" flashed Theodora.

Roxana's contemptuous mirth cut her to the quick.

"You have tried and failed!"

"I have neither tried nor have I failed."

"Then you mean to try again, fairest Theodora?" camethe insidious, purring reply.

"That is as I choose!"

"It shall be as I choose."

"What do you mean, fairest Roxana?"

"I mean to conquer him—to make him mine—to steephis senses in so wild a delirium that he shall forget his God,his garb, his honor. And, when I have done with him, I shallsend him to the devil—or to you, fairest Theodora—tofinish, what I began. This to prove you a vain boaster, whohas failed to make good every claim you have put forth—"

Theodora was very pale. In her voice there was an unnaturalcalm as she turned to the other woman.

"You have boasted, you will make this austere pilgrimyour own, body and soul—you will cast the tatters of hissoiled virtue at my feet. I did not desire him. But now"—hereyes sank into those of the other woman, "I mean to havehim,—and I shall—with you, fairest Roxana, and all yourpower of seduction against me! I shall have him—andwhen I have done with him, not even you shall desire him—northat other, whom you serve—"

Both women had risen to their feet and challenged eachother with their eyes.

"By the powers of darkness, you shall not!" Roxanareturned, pale to the lips.

"Take him from me—if you can!" Theodora flashed."I shall conquer you—and him!"

At this point the Grand Chamberlain interposed.

"Were it not wise," he drawled, looking from the one tothe other, "to acquaint this holy man with the perils thatbeset his soul, since the two most beautiful and virtuousladies in Rome seem resolved to guide him on his Way of theCross?"

There was a moment of silence, then he continued in thesame drawl, which veiled emotions he dared not reveal inthis assembly.

"Deem you, the man who journeyed hundreds of leaguesto obtain absolution for having kissed a woman in wedlockhas aught to fear from such as you?"

Ere Theodora could make reply the tantalizing purring voiceof Roxana struck her ear.

"Surely this is no man—"

"A man he is, nevertheless," Basil retorted hotly. "Onenight I wandered out upon the silent Aventine. Losing myselfamong the ruins, I heard voices in the abode of the Monkof Cluny. Fearing, lest some one should attempt to harmthis holy friar," he continued, with a side glance at Theodora,"I entered unseen. I overheard his confession."

There was profound silence.

It seemed too monstrously absurd. Absolution for a kiss!

Roxana spoke at last, and her veiled mockery strained herrival's temper to the breaking point. Her words stung, asneedles would the naked flesh.

"Then," she said with deliberate slowness, "if our fairTheodora persist in her unholy desire, what else is there for meto do but to take him from her just to save the poor man's soul?"

Theodora's white hands yearned for the other woman'sthroat.

"Deem you, your charms would snare the good pilgrim,should I will to make him mine?" she flashed.

"Why not?" Roxana purred. "Shall we try? Are youafraid?"—

"Of you?" Theodora shrilled.

A strange fire burnt in Roxana's eyes.

"Of the ordeal! Once upon a time you took from me theboy I loved. Now I shall take from you the man you desire!"

"I challenge you!"

"To the death!" Roxana flashed, appraising her rival'scharms against her own. Her further utterance was checkedby the sudden entrance of one of the Africans, who prostratedhimself before Theodora, muttering some incoherent wordsat which both the woman and Basil gave a start.

"Have him thrown into the street," Basil turned to Theodora.

"Have him brought in," Theodora commanded.

For the space of a few moments intense silence reignedthroughout the pavilion. Then the curtains at the farther endparted, admitting two huge Africans, who carried betweenthem the seemingly lifeless form of a man.

An imperious gesture of Theodora directed them to approachwith their burden, and a cry of surprise and dismay brokefrom her lips as she gazed into the white, still features ofTristan.

He was unconscious, but faintly breathing, and upon hisgarb were strange stains, that looked like blood. TheAfricans placed their burden on the couch from which Roxanahad arisen, and Theodora summoned the Moorish physicianBahram from the lower end of the table, where he had indulgedin a learned dispute with a Persian sage. The otherguests thronged about, curious to see and to hear.

The Grand Chamberlain changed color when his gaze firstlighted on the prostrate form and he felt inclined to makelight of the matter hinting at the effect of Italian wines uponstrangers unaccustomed to the vintage. The ashen pallor ofTristan's cheeks had not remained unremarked by Theodora,as she turned from the unconscious victim of a villainy to theman beside her, whom in some way she connected with thedeed.

Basil's comment elicited but a glance of contempt as,approaching the couch whereon he lay, Theodora eagerlywatched the Moorish physician in his efforts to revive theunconscious man. Tristan's teeth were so tightly set that itrequired the insertion of a steel bar to pry them apart.

Bahram poured some strong wine down the throat of thestill unconscious man, then placed him in a sitting positionand continued his efforts until, with a violent fit of coughing,Tristan opened his eyes.

It was some time, however, until he regained his facultiessufficiently to manifest his emotions, and the bewildermentwith which his gaze wandered from one face to the other,would have been amusing had not the mystery which encompassedhis presence inspired a feeling of awe. The Moorishphysician, upon being questioned by Theodora, stated, somepowerful poison had caused the coma which bound Tristan'slimbs and added, in another hour he would have been beyondthe pale of human aid. More than this he would not revealand, his task accomplished, he withdrew among the guests.

From the Grand Chamberlain, whose stony gaze wasriveted upon him, Tristan turned to the woman who reclinedby his side on the divan. His vocal chords seemed paralyzed,but his other faculties were keenly alive to the strangeness ofhis surroundings. Perceiving his inability to reply to herquestions, Theodora soothed him to silence.

Vainly endeavoring to speak, Tristan partook but sparinglyof the refreshments which she offered to him with her ownhands. She was now deliberately endeavoring to enmesh hissenses, and her exotic, wonderful beauty could not but accomplishwith him what it had accomplished with all who cameunder its fatal spell. An insidious, sensuous perfume seemedto float about her, which caused Tristan's brain to reel. Herbare arms and wonderful hands made him dizzy. Her eyesheld his own by their strange, subtle spell. Unfathomedmysteries seemed to lurk in their hidden depths. Withoutendeavoring to engage him in conversation, much as shelonged to question him on certain points, she tried to soothehim by passing her cool white hands over his fevered brow.And all the time she was pondering on the nature of hisinfliction and the author thereof, as her gaze pensively sweptthe banquet hall.

The guests had, one by one, returned to their seats. Theodoraalso had arisen, after having made Tristan comfortableon the couch assigned to him.

Unseen, the heavy folds of the curtain behind her parted.A face peered for a moment into her own, that seemed topossess no human attributes. Theodora gave a hardly perceptiblenod and the face disappeared. The Grand Chamberlaintook his seat by her side and Roxana flinging Theodoraa glittering challenge seated herself beside Tristan.

CHAPTER X
THE CHALICE OF OBLIVION

A delirium of the senses suchas he had never experienced tothis hour began to steal overTristan, as he found himselfseated between Theodora, thefairest sorceress that ever triumphedover the frail spirit ofman—and Roxana, who waswhispering strange words intohis bewildered ears.

Across the board the gloomy form of the Grand Chamberlainin his sombre attire loomed up like a shadow of evil in agarden of strangely tinted orchids.

How the time passed on, he could not tell. Peals of laughterresounded now and then through the vaulted dome andvoices were raised in clamorous disputations that just sheeredoff the boundary-line of actual quarrel.

Theodora seemed to pay but little heed to Tristan. Roxanahad coiled her white arms about him and, whenever he raisedhis goblet, their hands touched and a stream of fire coursedthrough his veins. Only now and then Theodora's drowsyeyes shot forth a fiery gleam from under their heavily fringedlids.

Roxana smiled into her rival's eyes and, raising a goblet ofwine to her lips, kissed the brim and gave it to Tristan withan indescribably graceful swaying motion of her whole formthat reminded one of a tall white lily, bowing to the breeze.

Tristan seized the cup eagerly, drank from it and returnedit and, as their hands touched again, he could hardly restrainhimself from giving way to a transport of passion. He wasno longer himself. His brain seemed to reel. He felt as ifhe would plunge into the crater of a seething volcano withoutheeding the flames.

Even Hellayne's pale image seemed forgotten for the time.

The guests waxed more and more noisy, their merrimentmore and more boisterous. Many were now very much theworse for their frequent libations, and young Fabio particularlyseemed to display a desire to break away from all bonds ofprudent reserve.

He lay full length on his silken divan, singing little snatchesof song to himself and, pulling the vine-wreath from histumbled locks, as though he found it too cumbersome, heflung it on the ground amid the other debris of the feast.Then, folding his arms lazily behind his head, he staredstraight and fixedly at Theodora, surveying every curve ofher body, every slight motion of her head, every faint smilethat played upon her lips. She was listening with an air ofill-disguised annoyance to Basil, whose wine-inflamed countenanceand passion-distorted features left little to the surmiseregarding his state of mind.

On the couch adjoining the one of Fabio of the Cavallireclined a nobleman from Gades, who, having partaken lesslavishly of the wine than the rest of the guests, was engagedin a dispute with the burly stranger from the North, whosetemper seemed to have undergone little change for the betterfor his having filled his paunch.

In the barbarous jargon of tenth century Latin they commentedupon Theodora, upon the banquet, upon the guestsand upon Rome in general, and the Spaniard expressed surprisethat Marozia's sister had failed to revenge Marozia'sdeath, contenting herself to spend her life in the desert wastesof Aventine, among hermits, libertines and fools.

Notwithstanding his besotten mood Fabio had heard andunderstood every word the stranger uttered. Before he, towhom his words was addressed could make reply, he shoutedinsolently:

"Ask Theodora why she is content to live in her enchantedgroves instead in the Emperor's Tomb, haunted by the spectreof strangled Marozia!"

A terrible silence followed this utterance. The eyes of allpresent wandered towards the speaker. The Grand Chamberlainground his teeth. Every vestige of color had fadedfrom his face.

"Are you afraid?" shouted Fabio, raising himself upon hiselbows and nodding towards Theodora.

The woman turned her splendid, flashing orbs slowly uponhim. A chill, steely glitter leaped from their velvety depths.

"Pray, Fabio, be heedful of your speech," said she with aquiver in her voice, curiously like the suppressed snarl of atigress. "Most men are fools, like yourself, and by theirutterance shall they be judged!"

Fabio broke out into boisterous mirth.

"And Theodora rules with a rod of iron. Even the LordBasil is but a toy in her hands! Behold him,—yonder."

Basil had arisen, his hand on the hilt of his poniard. Theodoralaid her white hand upon his arm.

"Nay—" she said sweetly, "this is a matter for myself tosettle."

"A very anchorite," the mocking voice of Fabio rose abovethe silence.

A young noble of the Cætani tried to quiet him, but in vain:

"The Lord Basil is no monk."

"Wherefore then his midnight meditations in the devil'sown chapel yonder, in which our fair Theodora officiates asPriestess of Love?"

"Midnight meditations?" interposed the Spaniard, notknowing that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"Ask Theodora," shouted Fabio, "how many lovers areworshipping at her midnight shrine!"

The silence of utter consternation prevailed. Glances ofabsolute dismay went round the table, and the stillness was asominous as the hush before a thunderclap. Fabio, apparentlystruck by the sudden silence, gazed lazily from out the tumbledcushions, a vacant, besotten smile upon his lips.

"What fools you are!" he shouted thickly. "Did you nothear me? I bade you ask Theodora," and suddenly he satbolt upright, his face crimsoning as with an access of passion,"why the Lord Basil creeps in and out her palace at midnightlike a skulking slave? Ask him why he creeps in disguisethrough the underground passage. Ay—stranger," heshouted to Tristan, "you are near enough to our lady ofWitcheries. Ask her how many lovers have tasted of thechalice of oblivion?"

Another death-like silence ensued.

Even the attendants seemed to move with awed treadamong the guests.

Theodora and Roxana had risen almost at the same time,facing each other in a white silence.

Roxana extended her snow-white arms towards Theodora.

"Why do you not reply to your discarded lover?" shetaunted her rival. "Shall I reply for him? You havechallenged me, and I return your challenge! I am yourmatch in all things, Lady Theodora. In my veins flows theblood of kings—in yours the blood of courtesans. There isnot room on earth for both of us. Does not your coward soulquail before the issue?"

Theodora turned to Roxana a face, white as marble, hereyes preternaturally brilliant. "You shall have your wish—evento the death. But—before the dark-winged messengerenfolds you with his sable wings you shall know Theodora asyou have never known her—nor ever shall again."

From the woman Theodora turned to the man.

"Fabio," she said in her sweet mock-caressing tone, "Ifear you have grown altogether too wise for this world. Itwere a pity you should linger in so narrow and circumscribeda sphere."

She paused and beckoned to a giant Nubian who stoodbehind her chair.

"Refill the goblets!"

Her behest executed she clinked goblets with Roxana.An undying hate shone in the eyes of the two women as theyraised the crystal goblets to their lips.

Theodora hardly tasted of the purple beverage. Roxanaeagerly drained her cup, then she kissed the brim and offeredthe fragrant goblet to Tristan, as her eyes challenged Theodoraanew.

Ere he could raise it to his lips, Theodora dashed the gobletfrom Tristan's hands and the purple wine dyed the orangecolored carpet like dark stains of blood.

White as lightning, her eyes ablaze with hidden fires, herwhite hands clenched, Roxana straightened herself to herfull height, ready to bound at Theodora's throat, to avengethe insult and to settle now and here, woman to woman, thequestion of supremacy between them, when she reeled as ifstruck by a thunderbolt. Her hands went to her heart andwithout a moan she fell, a lifeless heap, upon the floor.

Ere Tristan and the other guests could recover from theirconsternation, or fathom the import of the terrible scene, asavage scream from the couch upon which Fabio reclined,turned the attention of every one in that direction.

Fabio, suddenly sobered, had risen from his couch anddrained his goblet. It rolled upon the carpet from his nervelessgrasp. For a moment his arms wildly beat the air, thenhe reeled and fell prone upon the floor. His staring eyesand his face, livid with purple spots, proclaimed him dead,even ere the Moorish physician could come to his aid.

Theodora clapped her hands, and at the signal four giantNubians appeared and, taking up the lifeless bodies, disappearedwith them in the moonlit garden outside.

The Grand Chamberlain, rising from his seat, informed theguests that a sudden ailment had befallen the woman andthe man. They were being removed to receive care andattention.

Though a lingering doubt hovered in the minds of thosewho had witnessed the scene, some kept silent through fear,others whose brains were befuddled by the fumes of thewine gave utterance to inarticulate sounds, from which theview they took of the matter, was not entirely clear.

The shock had restored to Tristan the lost faculty of speech.For a moment he stared horrified at Theodora. Her impassivecalm roused in him a feeling of madness. With animprecation upon his lips he rushed upon her, his gleamingdagger raised aloft.

But ere he could carry out his intent, Theodora's clear,cold voice smote the silence.

"Disarm him!"

One of the Africans had glided stealthily to his side, andthe steel was wrenched from Tristan's grip.

"Be silent,—for your life!" some one whispered into hisear.

Suddenly he grew weak. Theodora's languid eyes met hisown, utterly paralyzing his efforts. A smile parted her lipsas, without a trace of anger, she kissed the ivory bud of amagnolia and threw it to him.

As one in a trance he caught the flower. Its fragranceseemed to creep into his brain, rob his manhood of its strength.Sinking submissively into his seat he gazed up at her in wonderingwistfulness. Was there ever woman so bewilderinglybeautiful? A strange enervating ecstasy took him captive, ashe permitted his eyes to dwell on the fairness of her face, theivory pallor of her skin, the supple curves of her form. Asone imprisoned in a jungle exhaling poison miasmas loses allcontrol over his faculties, feeling a drowsy lassitude stealingover him, so Tristan gave himself up to the spell that encompassedhim, heedless of the memories of the past.

Now Theodora touched a small bell and suddenly themarble floor yawned asunder and the banquet table with allits accessories vanished underground with incredible swiftness.Then the floor closed again. The broad centre spaceof the hall was now clear of obstruction and the guests rousedthemselves from their drowsy postures of half-inebriatedlanguor.

Tristan drank in the scene with eager, dazzled eyes andheavily beating heart. Love and hate strangely mingled stoleover him more strongly than ever, in the sultry air of thisstrange summer night, this night of sweet delirium in whichall that was most dangerous and erring in his nature wakedinto his life and mastered his better will.

Outside the water lilies nodded themselves to sleep amongtheir shrouding leaves. Like a sheet of molten gold spreadthe lake over the spot where Roxana and Fabio had found acommon grave.

Surrounding this lake spread a garden, golden with thesleepy radiance of the late moon, and peacefully fair in thedreaminess of drooping foliage, moss-covered turf and star-sprinkledviolet sky. In full view, and lighted by the reflectedradiance flung out from within, a miniature waterfall tumbledheadlong into a rocky recess, covered and overgrown withlotus-lilies and plumy ferns. Here and there golden tentsglimmered through the shadows cast by the great magnoliatrees, whose half-shut buds wafted balmy odors through thedrowsy summer night. The sounds of flutes, of cithernsand cymbals floated from distant bosquets, as though elfinshepherds were guarding their fairy flocks in some hiddennook. By degrees the light grew warmer and more mellowin tint till it resembled the deep hues of an autumn sunset,flecked through the emerald haze, in the sunken gardens ofTheodora.

Another clash of cymbals, stormily persistent, then thechimes of bells, such as bring tears to the eyes of many awayfarer, who hears the silvery echoes when far away fromhome and straightway thinks of his childhood days, thoseyears of purest happiness.

A curious, stifling sensation began to oppress Tristan ashe listened to those bells. They reminded him of strangethings, things to which he could not give a name, odd suggestionsof fair women who were wont to pray for those theyloved, and who believed that their prayers would be heard inheaven and would be granted!

With straining eyes he gazed out into the languorous beautyof the garden that spread its emerald glamour around him,and a sob broke from his lips as the peals of the chiming bells,softened by degrees into subdued and tremulous semitones,the clarion clearness of the cymbals again smote the silentair.

Ere Tristan, in his state of bewilderment, could realizewhat was happening, the great fire globe in the dome wassuddenly extinguished and a firm hand imperiously closed onhis own, drawing him along, he knew not whither.

He glanced about him. In the semi-darkness he wasable to discern the sheen of the lake with its white burden ofwater lilies, and the dim, branch-shadowed outlines of themoonlit garden. Theodora walked beside him, Theodora,whose lovely face was so perilously near his own, Theodora,upon whose lips hovered a smile of unutterable meaning.His heart beat faster; he strove in vain to imagine what fatewas in store for him. He drank in the beauty of the nightthat spread her star-embroidered splendors about him, hewas conscious of the vital youth and passion that throbbed inhis veins, endowing him with a keen headstrong rapturewhich is said to come but once in a lifetime, and which inthe excess of its folly will bring endless remorse in itswake.

Suddenly he found himself in an exquisitely adornedpavilion of painted silk, lighted by a lamp of tenderest roselustre and carpeted with softest amber colored pile. It stoodapart from the rest, concealed as it were in a grove of its own,and surrounded by a thicket of orange-trees in full bloom.The fragrance of the white waxen flowers hung heavily uponthe air, breathing forth delicate suggestions of languor andsleep. The measured cadence of the waterfall alone brokethe deep stillness, and now and then the subdued and plaintivethrill of a nightingale, soothing itself to sleep with itsown song in some deep-shadowed copse.

Here, on a couch, such as might have been prepared forTitania, Theodora seated herself, while Tristan stood gazingat her in a sort of mad, fascinated wonderment, and graduallyincreasing intensity of passion.

The alluring smile and the quick brightening of the eyes, sorare a thing with him who, since he had left Avalon, was usedto wear so calm and subdued a mask, changed his aspect inan extraordinary manner. In an instant he seemed morealive, more intensely living, pulsing with the joy of the hour.He felt as if he must let the natural youth in his veins runriot, as Theodora's beauty and the magic of the night beganto sting his blood.

Theodora's eyes danced to his. She had marked thesymptoms and knew. Her eyes had lost their mocking glitterand swam in a soft languor, that was strangely bewitching.Her lips parted in a faint sigh and a glance like are shot frombeneath her black silken lashes.

"Tristan!" she murmured tremulously and waited. Thenagain: "Tristan!"

He knelt before her, passion sweeping over him like ahurricane, and took her unresisting hands in his.

"Theodora!" he said, bending over her, and his voice,even to his own ears had a strange sound, as if some one elsewere speaking. "Theodora! What would you have of me?Speak! For my heart aches with a burden of dark memoriesconjured up by the wizard spell of your eyes!"

She gently drew him down beside her on the couch.

"Foolish dreamer!" she murmured, half mockingly, halftenderly. "Are love and passion so strange a thing that youwonder—as you sit here beside me?"

"Love!" he said. "Is it love indeed?"

He uttered the words as if he spoke to himself, in a hushed,awe-struck tone. But she had heard, and a flash of triumphbrightened her beautiful face.

"Ah!" and she dropped her head lower and lower, till thedark perfumed tresses touched his brow. "Then you dolove me?"

He started. A dull pang struck his heart, a chill of vagueuncertainty and dread. He longed to take her in his arms,forget the past, the present, the future, life and all it held.But suddenly a vague thought oppressed him. There wasthe sense that he was dishonoring that other love. Howeverunholy it had been, it was yet for him a real and passionatereality of his past life, and he shrank in shame from suppressingit. Would it not have been far nobler to have foughtit down as the pilgrim he had meant to be than to drown itsmemory in a delirium of the senses?

And—was this love indeed for the woman by his side?Was it not mere passion and base desire?

As he remained silent the silken voice of the fairest womanhe had ever seen once more sent its thrill through his bewilderedbrain in the fateful question:

"Do you love me, Tristan?"

Softly, insidiously, she entwined him with her wonderfulwhite arms. Her perfumed breath fanned his cheeks; herdark tresses touched his brow. Her lips were thirstily ajar.

He put his arms about her. Hungrily, passionately, hisgaze wandered over her matchless form, from the small feet,encased in golden sandals, to the crowning masses of herdusky hair. His heart beat with loud, impatient thuds, likesome wild thing struggling in its cage, but though his lipsmoved, no utterance came.

Her arms tightened about him.

"You are of the North," she said, "though you have hotterblood in your veins. Now under our yellow sun, and in ourhot nights, when the moon hangs like an alabaster lamp inthe sky, a beaten shield of gold trembling over our dreams—forgetthe ice in your blood. Gather the roses while youmay! A time will come when their soft petals will have losttheir fragrance! I love you—be mine!"

And, bending towards him, she kissed him with moist,hungry lips.

He fevered in her embrace. He kissed her eyes—herhair—her lips—and a strange dizziness stole over him, adelirium in which he was no longer master of himself.

"Can you not be happy, Tristan?" she whispered gently."Happy as other men when loved as I love you!"

With a cold sinking of the heart he looked into the woman'sperfect face. His upturned gaze rested on the glitteringserpent heads that crowned the dusky hair, and the words ofFabio of the Cavalli knocked on the gates of his memory.

"Happy as other men when they love—and are deceived,"he said, unable to free himself of her entwining arms.

"You shall not be deceived," she returned quickly."You shall attain that which your heart desires. Your dearesthope shall be fulfilled,—all shall be yours—all—if youwill be mine—to-night."

Tristan met her burning gaze, and as he did so the strangedread increased.

"What of the Grand Chamberlain?" he queried. "Whatof Basil, your lover?"

Her answer came swift and fierce, as the hiss of a snake.

"He shall die—even as Roxana—even as Fabio, he whoboasted of my love! You shall be lord of Rome—and I—yourwife—"

Her words leaped into his brain with the swift, fiery actionof a burning drug. A red mist swam before his eyes.

"Love!" he cried, as one seized with sudden delirium."What have I to do with love—what have you, Theodora,who make the lives of men your sport, and their tormentsyour mockery? I know no name for the fever that consumesme, when I look upon you—no name for the ravishment thatdraws me to you in mingled bliss and agony. I would perish,Theodora. Kill me, and I shall pray for you! But love—love—itrecalls to my soul a glory I have lost. Therecan be no love between you and me!"

He spoke wildly, incoherently, scarcely knowing what hesaid. The woman's arms had fallen from him. He staggeredto his feet.

A low laugh broke from her lips, which curved in an evilsmile.

"Poor fool!" she said in her low, musical tones, "to castaway that for which hundreds would give their last life'sblood. Madman! First to desire, then to spurn. Go!And beware!"

She stood before him in all her white glory and loveliness,one white arm stretched forth, her bosom heaving, her eyesaflame. And Tristan, seized with a sudden fear, fled fromthe pavilion, down the moonlit path as if pursued by an armyof demons.

A man stepped from a thicket of roses, directly into hispath. Heedless of everything, of every one, Tristan endeavoredto pass him, but the other was equally determined tobar his way.

"So I have found you at last," said the voice, and Tristan,starting as if the ground had opened before him, stared intothe face of the stranger at Theodora's board.

"You have found me, my Lord Roger," he said, afterrecovering from his first surprise. "Here I may injure noone—you, my lord, least of all! Leave me in peace!"

The stranger gave a sardonic laugh.

"That I may perchance, when you have told me the truth—thewhole truth!"

"Ask, my lord, and I will answer," Tristan replied.

"Where is the Lady Hellayne?"—

The questioning voice growled like far off thunder.

Tristan recoiled a step, staring into the questioner's face asif he thought he had gone mad.

"The Lady Hellayne?" he stammered, white to the lipsand with a dull sinking of the heart. "How am I to know?I have not seen her since I left Avalon—months ago. Isshe not with you?"

The Lord Laval's brow was dark as a thunder cloud.

"If she were with me—would I be wasting my time askingyou concerning her?" he barked.

"Where is she, then?" Tristan gasped.

"That you shall tell me—or I have forgotten the use ofthis knife!"

And he laid his hand on the hilt of a long dagger that protrudedfrom his belt.

Tristan's eyes met those of the other.

"My lord, this is unworthy of you! I have never committeda deed I dared not confess—and I despise your threatand your accusation as would the Lady Hellayne, were shehere."

Steps were heard approaching from the direction of thepavilion.

"I am a stranger in Rome. Doubtless you are familiarwith its ways. Some one is coming. Where shall wemeet?"

Tristan pondered.

"At the Arch of the Seven Candles. Every child canpoint the way. When shall it be?"

"To-morrow,—at the second hour of the night. Andtake care to speak the truth!"

Ere Tristan could reply the speaker had vanished amongthe thickets.

For a moment he paused, amazed, bewildered. Roger deLaval in Rome! And Hellayne—where was she? She hadleft Avalon—had left her consort. Had she entered a convent?Hellayne—where was Hellayne?

Before this dreadful uncertainty all the events of the nightvanished as if they had never been.

For a long time Tristan remained where Roger de Lavalhad left him. The cool air from the lake blew refreshinglyon his heated brow. A thousand odors from orange andjessamine floated caressingly about him. The night wasvery still. There, in the soft sky-gloom, moved the majesticprocession of undiscovered worlds. There, low on the horizon,the yellow moon swooned languidly down in a bed offleecy clouds. The drowsy chirp of a dreaming bird camesoftly now and again from branch shadowed thickets, and thelilies on the surface of the lake nodded mysteriously to eachother, as if they were whispering a secret of another world.

At last the moon sank out of sight and from afar, softenedby the distance, the chimes of convent bells from the remoteregions of the Aventine were wafted through the flowerscented summer night.

END OF BOOK THE SECOND

BOOK THE THIRD

CHAPTER I
WOLFSBANE

The early summer dawn wascreeping over the silent Campagnawhen Tristan reached theInn of The Golden Shield.

As one dazed he had traversedthe deserted, echoingstreets in the mysterious half-lightwhich flooded the EternalCity; a light in which everythingwas sharply defined yetseemed oddly spectral and ghostlike.

Deep down in his heart two emotions were contending,appalling in their intensity and appeal. One was an agonizedfear for the woman he loved with a love so unwavering thathis love was actually himself, his whole being, the sacramentthat consecrated his life and ruled his destiny.

She had left Avalon; she had left him to whom she hadplighted her troth. Where was she and why was Roger deLaval in Rome?

An icy fear gripped his heart at the thought; a namelessdread and horror of the terrible scene he had witnessed atthe midnight feast of Theodora.

For a time he was as one obsessed, hardly master of himselfand his actions. In an age where scenes such as those hehad witnessed were quickly forgotten the death of Roxanaand young Fabio created but little stir. Rome, just emergingfrom under the dark cloud of Marozia's regime, in the throesof ever-recurring convulsions, without a helmsman to guidethe tottering ship of state, received the grim tidings with ashrug of apathy; and the cowed burghers discussed in awedwhispers the dread power of one whose vengeance nonedared to brave.

Tristan's unsophisticated mind could not so easily forget.He had stood at the brink of the abyss, he had looked downinto the murky depths from which there was no escape oncethe fumes had conquered the senses and vanquished resistance.With a shudder he called to mind, how utterly andcompletely he had abandoned himself to the lure of the sorceress,how little short of a miracle had saved him. She hadled him on step by step, and the struggle had but begun.

No one was astir at the inn.

He ascended the stairs leading to his chamber. The chillof the night was still lingering in the dusky passages. Helighted the taper of a tiny lamp that burnt before an image ofthe Mother of Sorrows in a niche.

Then he sank upon his couch. His vitality seemed to beebbing and his mind clouding before the problems that beganto crowd in upon him.

Nothing since he left Avalon, nothing external or merelyhuman, had stirred him as had his meeting with Theodora.It had roused in him a dormant, embryonic faculty, activeand vivid. What it called into his senses was not a mereseries of pictures. It created a visual representation of thehorrified creature, roused from the flattering oblivion ofdeath to memory and shame and dread, nothing really forgotten,nothing past, the old lie that death ends all pitifullyunmasked.

He shuddered as he thought of the consequences of surrenderfrom which a silent voice out of the far off past hadsaved him—just in time.

His life lay open before him as a book, every fact recorded,nothing extenuated.

A calm, relentless voice bade him search his own life, if hehad done aught amiss. He had never taken or desired thatwhich was another's. Yet his years had been a ceaselessperturbation. There had been endless and desperate clutchingsat bliss, followed by the swift discovery that the exquisitelight had faded, leaving a chill gloaming that threatened alonely night. And if the day had failed in its promise whatwould the night do?

His soul cried out for rest, for peace from the enemy;peace, not this endless striving. He was terrified. In theignominious lament there was desertion, as if he were toosmall for the fight. He was demanding happiness, and thathis own burden should rest on another's shoulders. Howsilent was the universe around him! He stood in tremendous,eternal isolation.

Pale and colorless as a moonstone at first the ghostly dawnhad quickened to the iridescence of the opal, flaming into aglory of gold and purple in the awakening east.

And now the wall in the courtyard was no longer grey. Afaint, clear, golden light was beginning to flow and filter intoit, dispelling, one by one, the dark shadows that lurked inthe corners. Somewhere in the distance the dreamer heardthe shrill silver of a lark, and a dull monotonous sound, feltrather than heard, suggested that sleeping Rome was aboutto wake.

And then came the sun. A long golden ray stabbed themists and leaped into his chamber like a living thing. Thelittle sanctuary lamp before the image of the Blessed Virginglowed no more.

After a brief rest Tristan arose, noting for the first timewith a degree of chagrin that his dagger had not been restoredto him.

It was day now. The sun was high and hot. The streetsand thoroughfares were thronged. A bright, fierce light beatdown upon dome and spire and pinnacle, flooding the augustruins of the Cæsars and the thousand temples of the HolyCross with brilliant radiance from the cloudless azure of theheavens. Over the Tiber white wisps of mist were rising.Beyond, the massive bulk of the Emperor's Tomb was revealedabove the roofs of the houses, and the olive groves of MountJaniculum glistened silvery in the rays of the morning sun.

It was only when, refreshed after a brief rest and frugalrefreshments, Tristan quitted the inn, taking the direction ofCastel San Angelo, that the incidents leading up to his arrivalat the feast of Theodora slowly filtered through his mind.

Withal there was a link missing in the chain of events.From the time he had left the Lateran in pursuit of the twostrangers everything seemed an utter blank. What mysteriousforces had been at work conveying him to his destiny,he could not even fathom and, in a state of perplexity, suchas he had rarely experienced, he pursued his way, paying littleheed to the life and turmoil that seethed around him.

Upon entering Castel San Angelo he was informed thatthe Grand Chamberlain had arrived but a few moments beforeand he immediately sought the presence of the man whosesinister countenance held out little promise of the solution ofthe mystery.

In an octagon chamber, the small windows of which,resembling port-holes, looked out upon the Campagna, Basilwas fretfully perambulating as Tristan entered.

After a greeting which was frosty enough on both sides,Tristan briefly stated the matter which weighed upon hismind.

The Grand Chamberlain watched him narrowly, noddingnow and then by way of affirmation, as Tristan related theexperience at the Lateran, referring especially to two mysteriousstrangers whom he had followed to a distant part of thecity, believing they might offer some clue to the outrage committedat the Lateran on the previous night.

Basil regarded the new captain with a mixture of curiosityand gloom. Perchance he was as much concerned in discoveringwhat Tristan knew as the latter was in finding a solutionof the two-fold mystery. After having questioned him on hisexperience, without offering any suggestion that might clearup his visitor's mind, Basil touched upon the precarious stateof the city and its hidden dangers.

Tristan listened attentively to the sombre account, littleguessing its purpose.

"Much have I heard of the prevailing lawless state," heinterposed at last, "of dark deeds hidden in the silent bosomof the night, of feud and rebellion against the Church whichis powerless to defend herself for the want of a master-handthat would evoke order out of chaos."

The dark-robed figure by his side gave a grim nod.

"Men are closely allied to beasts, giving rein to theirdesires and appetites as the tigers and hyenas. It is onlyfear that will restrain them, fear of some despotic invisibleforce that pervades the universe, whose chiefest attribute isnot so much creative as destructive. It is only through fearyou can rule the filthy rabble that reviles to-day its idol ofyesterday."

There was an undercurrent of scorn in Basil's voice andTristan saw, as it were, the lightning of an angry or disdainfulthought flashing through the sombre depths of his eyes.

"What of the Lady Theodora?" Tristan interposed bluntly.

Basil gave a nameless shrug.

"She bends men's hearts to her own desires, taking fromthem their will and soul. The hot passion of love is to her atoy, clasped and unclasped in the pink hollow of her hand."

And, as he spoke, Basil suited the gesture to the word,closing his fingers in the air and again unclosing them.

"As long as she retains the magic of her beauty so longwill her sway over the Seven Hills endure," he added after abrief pause.

"What of the woman who paid the penalty of her daring?"Tristan ventured to inquire.

Basil regarded the questioner quizzically.

"There have been many disturbances of late," he spokeafter a pause. "Roxana's lust for Theodora's power provedher undoing. Theodora will suffer no rival to threaten herwith Marozia's fate."

"I have heard it whispered she is assembling about hermen who are ready to go to any extreme," Tristan interposedtentatively, thrown off his guard by Basil's affability of manner.

The latter gave a start, but recovered himself.

"Idle rumors. The Romans must have something to talkabout. Odo of Cluny is thundering his denunciations withsuch fervid eloquence that they cannot but linger in therabble's mind."

"The hermit of Mount Aventine?" Tristan queried.

"Even he! He has a strange craze, a doctrine of the Endof Time, to be accomplished when the cycle of the sæculumhas run its course. A doctrine he most furiously proclaimsin language seemingly inspired, and which he promulgates tofarther his own dark ends."

"A theory most dark and strange," Tristan replied with ashudder, for he was far from free of the superstition of thetimes.

Basil gave a shrug. His tone was lurid.

"What shall it matter to us, who shall hardly tread thisearth when the fateful moment comes?"

"If it were true nevertheless?" Tristan replied meditatively.

A sombre fire burnt in the eyes of the Grand Chamberlain.

"Then, indeed, should we not pluck the flowers in ourpath, defying darkness and death and the fiery chariot ofthe All-destroyer that is to sweep us to our doom?"

Tristan shuddered.

Some such words he had indeed heard among the pilgrimthrongs without clearly grasping their import. They hadhaunted his memory and had, for the time at least, laid arestraining hand upon his impulses.

But the mystery of the Monk of Cluny weighed lightlyagainst the mystery of the woman who held in the hollow ofher hand the destinies of Rome.

Basil seemed to read Tristan's thoughts.

Reclining in his chair, he eyed him narrowly.

"You, too, but narrowly escaped the blandishments of theSorceress, blandishments to which many another would havesuccumbed. I marvel at your self-restraint, not being boundby any vow."

The speaker paused and waited, his eyes lying in ambushunder the dark straight brows.

The memory still oppressed Tristan and the mood did notescape Basil, who stored it up for future reckoning.

"Perchance I, too, might have succumbed to the LadyTheodora's beauty, had not something interposed at the crucialmoment."

"The memory of some earlier love, perchance?" Basilqueried with a smile.

Tristan gave a sigh. He thought of Hellayne and theimpending meeting with Roger de Laval.

His questioner abandoned the subject. Master in dissimulationhe had read the truth on Tristan's brow.

"Pray then to your guardian saint, if of such a one youboast," he continued after a pause, "to intervene, shouldtemptation in its most alluring form face you again," he saidwith deliberate slowness. "You witnessed the end of Fabioof the Cavalli?"—

Tristan shuddered.

"And yet there was a time when he called all these charmshis own, and his command was obeyed in Theodora's gildedhalls."

"Can love so utterly vanish?" Tristan queried with anincredulous glance at the speaker.

Basil gave a soundless laugh.

"Love!" he said. "Hearts are but pawns in Theodora'shands. Her ambition is to rule, and he who can give to herwhat her heart desires is the favorite of the hour. Beware ofher! Once the poison of her kisses rankles in your bloodnothing can save you from your doom."

Basil watched the effect of his words upon his listener andfor the nonce he seemed content. Tristan would take heed.

When Tristan had taken his leave a panel in the wall openednoiselessly and Il Gobbo peered into the chamber.

Basil locked and bolted the door which led into the corridor,and the sinister, bat-like form stepped out of its dark frameand approached the inmate of the chamber with a fawninggesture.

"If your lordship will believe me," he said in a huskyundertone, "I am at last on the trail."

"What now?"

"I may not tell your nobility as yet."

"Do you want another bezant, dog?"

"It is not that, my lord."

"Then, who does he consort with?"

"I have tracked him as a panther tracks its prey—heconsorts with no one."

"Then continue to follow him and see if he consorts withany—woman."

"A woman?"

"Why not, fool?"

"But had your nobility said there was a woman—"

"There always is."

"Your nobility let him go—and yet—one word—"

"I must know more, before I strike. I knew he wouldcome. There is more to this than we wot of. Theodora isinfatuated with his austerity. He has jilted her and shesmarts under the blow. She will move heaven and earth tobring him to her feet. Meanwhile there are weightier mattersto be considered. Perchance I shall pay you an early call inyour noble abode. Prepare fitly and bid the ghosts troopfrom their haunted caves. And now be off! Your quarryhas the start!"

Il Gobbo bowed grotesquely and receded backward towardsthe panel which closed soundlessly behind him.

Basil remained alone in the octagon cabinet.

He strode slowly towards one of the windows that faced tosouthward and gazed long and pensively out upon the undulatingexpanse of the Roman Campagna.

"Three messengers, yet none has returned," he muttereddarkly. "Can it be that I have lost my clutch on destiny?"

CHAPTER II
UNDER THE SAFFRON SCARF

Once again the pale planets ofnight ruled the sky, when Tristanemerged from his inn andtook the direction of the Palatine.

All memories of his meetingwith the Lord Basil had fadedbefore the import of the cominghour, when he was to stand faceto face with him who held in hishand the fate of two beings destined for each other from thebeginning of time and torn asunder by the ruthless hand ofFate.

There was not a sound, save the echo of his own footsteps,as Tristan wound his way through the narrow streets, highcliffs of ancient houses on either side, down which the whitedisk of the moon penetrated but a yard or two.

At the foot of the Palatine Hill, cutting into the moonlight,the Colosseum rose before him, gaunt, vast, sinister, a silhouetteof enormous blackness, pierced as with innumerableempty eyes flooded by greenish, ghostly moonlight. Necromancersand folk practising the occult arts dwelled in ancienthouses built with the honey-colored Travertine, stolen fromthe Hill of the Cæsars. It was said that strange soundsechoed from the arena at night; that the voices of those whohad died for the faith in the olden days could be heardscreaming in agony at certain periods of the moon.

Gigantic masses of gaunt masonry rose around him as,with fleet steps, he traversed the deserted thoroughfares. Inthe greenish moonlight he could discern the tumbled ruins ofarches and temples scattered about the dark waste. Hisgaze also encountered the frowning masonry of more recentbuildings. The castellated palace of one of the Frescobaldihad been reared right across that ancient site, including in itsmassive bulk more than one monument of imperial days.

As he approached the region of the Arch of the SevenCandles, as the Arch of Titus with its carving of the JewishCandelabrum borne in triumph was then called, Tristanwalked more warily.

The reputed dangers of the Campo Vaccino knocking at thegates of his memory, he loosened the sword in his scabbard.

He had, by this time, arrived at the end of the street, thatcurves towards the Arch of Titus, which commands the avenueof lone holm-oaks, leading towards the Appian Way.

Suddenly a man emerged from the shadows. He wasarmed with sword and buckler, his body was covered withhauberk of mail and he wore the conical steel casque in voguesince Norman arms served as the military model.

Roger and Tristan confronted each other, the former's facetense, drawn, white; the latter with calm eyes in which therewas the light of a great regret. An expression not easy toread lay in Laval's eyes, eyes that scanned Tristan fromunder half-shut lids.

"So you have come?" the stranger said brutally, after abrief and painful pause.

"I have never broken my word," Tristan replied.

"Well spoken! I shall be plain and brief, if you will ownthe truth."

"I have nothing to conceal, my lord."

Roger's eyes gleamed with yet livelier malice.

"Where is the Lady Hellayne? Where is my wife?"

"As God lives, I know not. Yet—I would give my life,to know."

"Indeed! You may be given that chance. You are frankat least—"

"I may have wronged you in heart, my lord,—but neverin deed—" Tristan replied.

"What I have seen, I have seen," the other snarledviciously. "Perchance this silent devotion accounts alsofor many other things."

"I do not understand, my lord."

"Soon after your flight the Lady Hellayne departed, withouta word."

"So you were pleased to inform me."

"I was not pleased," spat out Laval. "How do youexplain her flight?"

"I do not explain, my lord. I have not seen or heardfrom the Lady Hellayne since I left Avalon."

"Then you still aver the lie?"

Tristan raised himself to his full height.

"I am speaking truth, my lord. Why, indeed, should shehave left you without even a word?"

Roger eyed the man before him as a cat eyes a capturedbird at a foot's distance of mock freedom.

"Why, indeed, save for love of you?"

Tristan raised his hands.

"Deep in my heart and soul I worship the Lady Hellayne,"he said. "For me she had but friendship. Else were I nothere!"

"A sainted pilgrim," sneered the Count, "in the Grovesof Enchantment. And for such a one she left her liegelord."

His mocking laughter resounded through the ruins.

"You wrong the Lady Hellayne and myself. Of myself Iwill not speak. As concerns her—"

"Of her you shall not speak! Save to tell me her abode."

"Of her I shall speak," Tristan flashed. "You areinsulting your wife—"

"Take care lest worse befall yourself," snarled Laval,advancing towards the object of his wrath.

Tristan's look of contempt cut him to the quick.

"You think to bully me as you bully your menials," hesaid quietly. "I do not fear you!"

"Why, then, did you leave Avalon, if it was not fear thatdrove you?" drawled Laval, his eyes a mere slit in the face,drawn and white.

The utter baseness and conceit in the speaker's naturewere so plainly revealed in his utterance that Tristan repliedcontemptuously:

"It was not fear of you, my lord, but the Lady Hellayne'sexpressed desire that brought me to Rome."

"The Lady Hellayne's desire? Then it was she whofeared for you?"

"It was not fear for my body, but my soul."

"Your soul? Why your soul?"

"Because my love for her was a wrong to you, my lord,—eventhough I loved her but in thought."—

"On that night in the garden—you embraced inthought?"

The leer had deepened on the speaker's face.

"A resistless something impelled—"

"And you a fair and pleasant-featured youth, besideRoger de Laval—her husband. And now you are heredoing penance at the shrines, at the Lady Theodora'sshrine?"

"What I am doing in Rome does not concern you, my lord,"Tristan interposed firmly. "I did not attend the LadyTheodora's feast of my own choice—"

"Nor were you in her pavilion of your own choice. Yet apinch more of penance will set that right also."

"I take it, my lord, that I have satisfied your anxiety,"Tristan replied, as he started to pass the other.

Laval caught him roughly by the shoulder.

"Not so fast," he cried. "I shall inform you when Ihave done with you—"

Tristan's face was white, as he peered into the mask ofcunning that leered from the other's countenance. Perchancehe would not have heeded the threat had it not been for hisanxiety on Hellayne's account. He suspected that Lavalknew more than he cared to tell.

"For the last time I ask, where is the Lady Hellayne?"

The Count's form rose towering above him, as he threwthe words in Tristan's face.

"For the last time I tell you, my lord, I know not," Tristanreplied, eye in eye. "Though I would gladly give my lifeto know."

"Perchance you may. I have been told the Lady Hellayneis here in Rome. Wherefore is she here? Can it be thespirit that prompted the pilgrimage to her lost lover? Willyou take oath, that you have not seen her?"

The speaker's eyes blazed ominously.

Tristan raised his head.

"I will, my lord, upon the Cross!"

Roger's heavy hand smote his cheek.

"Liar!"—

A woman who at that moment crept in the shadows of theArch of Titus saw Tristan, sword in hand, defending himselfagainst a man apparently much more powerful than himself.For a moment or two she gazed, bewildered, not knowingwhat to do. Tristan at first seemed to stand entirely on thedefensive, but soon his blood grew hot and, in answer to hisadversary's lunge, he lunged again. But the other held adagger in his left hand and with it easily parried the blade.The next pass she saw Tristan reel. She could bear nomore and rushed screaming towards some footmen withtorches who were standing outside a dark and heavilyshuttered building.

Tristan and Roger de Laval rushed at each other withredoubled fury. Both had heard the cry and their blowsrang out with echoing clatter, filling the desolate spaces witha sound not seldom heard there in those days. It was astruggle of sheer strength, in which the odds were all againstTristan. He began to yield step by step. Soon a yet fiercerblow of his antagonist must bring him down to his knees, andhe fell back farther, as a veritable rain of blows fell upon him.

Four men followed by a woman rushed to the scene.

"Haste! Haste!" she cried frantically. "There ismurder abroad!"

She fancied she should behold the younger man alreadyvanquished by his more vigorous enemy. On the contrary,he seemed to have regained his strength and was now pressingthe other with an agility and vigor that outweighed thestrength of maturity on the part of his adversary.

All was clear in the bright moonlight, as if the sun had beenblazing down upon them, and, as the woman leaped forward,she beheld Tristan's assailant gain some advantage. Hewas pressed back along the Arch towards the spot where shestood.

What now followed she could not see. It was all thework of a moment. But the next instant she saw the elderman raise his arm as if to strike with his dagger. Tristanstaggered and fell, and the other was about to strike himthrough when, with a wild, frantic outcry of terror, she rushedbetween them, arresting the blow ere it could fall.

"Hellayne!"

A cry in which Tristan's smothered feelings broke throughevery restraint winged itself from the mouth of the fallenman.

"Tristan!" came the hysterical response.

Roger had hurled his wife aside, his eyes flaming like livecoals under their bushy brows.

Those whom Hellayne had summoned to Tristan's aid,when she first arrived on the scene of the conflict, unacquaintedwith the cause of the quarrel and doubtful which side to aid,stood idly by, since with Tristan's fall there seemed to be nofarther demand for their services, nor did Roger's toweringstature invite interference.

In the heat of the conflict with its attendant turmoil noneof those immediately concerned had remarked a processionapproaching from the distance which now emerged from theshadow of the great arch into the moonlit thoroughfare.

It was headed by four giant Nubians, carrying a litter onsilver poles, from between the half-shut silken curtains ofwhich peered the face of a woman. In its wake marched ascore of Ethiopians in fantastic livery, their broad, nakedscimitars glistening ominously in the moonlight.

The litter and its escort arrived but just in time. EreLaval's blade could pierce the heart of his prostrate victim,Theodora had leaped from her litter and thrown her saffronscarf over the prostrate youth.

With all the outlines of her beautiful form revealed throughthe thin robe of spangled gauze she faced the irate aggressorand her voice cut like steel as she said:

"Dare to touch him beneath this scarf! This man ismine."

Laval drew back, but his glaring eyes, his parted lips andhis labored breath argued little in favor of the fallen man,even though the blow was, for the moment, averted.

With foam-flecked lips he turned to Theodora.

"This man is mine! His life is forfeit. Stand back, thatI may wipe this blot from my escutcheon."

Theodora faced the speaker undauntedly.

Ere he could reply, a woman's voice shrieked.

"Save him! Save him! He is innocent! He has donenaught amiss!"

Hellayne, whom the Count had hurled against the masonryof the arch, bruising her until she was barely able to supportherself, at this moment threw herself between them.

"Who is this woman?" Theodora turned to Tristan'sassailant. "Who is this woman?" Hellayne's eyes silentlyquestioned Tristan.

Laval's sardonic laughter pealed through the silence.

"This lady is my wife, the Countess Hellayne de Laval,noble Theodora, who has followed her perjured lover toRome, so they may do penance in company," he repliedsardonically. "His life is forfeit. His offence is two-fold.Within the hour he swore he knew naught of her abode.But—since you claim him,—by ties this scarf proclaims—takehim and welcome! I shall not anticipate the fate youprepare for your noble lovers!"

The two women faced each other in frozen silence, in theconsciousness of being rivals. Each knew instinctively itwould be a fight between them to the death.

Theodora surveyed Hellayne's wonderful beauty, appraisingher charms against her own, and Hellayne's gaze sweptthe face and form of the Roman.

Tristan had scrambled to his feet, his face white with shameand rage. From Theodora, in whose eyes he read thatwhich caused him to tremble in his inmost soul, he turned toHellayne.

"Oh, why have you done this thing, Hellayne, why?—oh,why?"

Roger de Laval laughed viciously.

"It was indeed not to be expected that the Lady Hellaynewould find her recalcitrant lover in the arms of the LadyTheodora."

With an inarticulate outcry of rage Tristan was about tohurl himself upon his opponent, had not Theodora placed arestraining hand upon him, while her dark eyes challengedHellayne.

All the revulsion of his nature against this man rose up inhim and rent him. All the love for Hellayne, which in thesedays had been floating on the wings of longing, soared anew.

But his efforts at vindication in this strangest of all predicamentswere put to naught by the woman herself.

"Hear me, Hellayne—it is not true!" he cried, andpaused with a choking sensation.

Hellayne stood as if turned to stone.

Then her eyes swept Tristan with a look of such incredulousmisery that it froze the words that were about to tumble fromhis lips.

With a wail of anguish she turned and fled down the moonlitpath like a hunted deer.

"Up and after her!" Laval shouted to the men whomHellayne had summoned to the scene and these, eager todemonstrate their usefulness, started in pursuit, Roger leading,ere Tristan could even make a move to interfere.

Hellayne had fled into the open portals of a church at theend of the street. She tottered and fell. Crawling throughthe semi-darkness she gasped and leaned against a pillar.She saw a small side chapel, where, before an image of theVirgin, guttered a brace of tapers. But ere she reached theshrine her pursuers were upon her. As, with a shriek ofmortal fear she fell, she gazed into the brutal features ofRoger de Laval. His lips were foam-flecked, revealing hiswolfish teeth.

It was then her strength forsook her. She fell faintingupon the hard stone floor of the church.—

For a pace Tristan and Theodora faced each other in silence.

It was the woman who spoke.

Her voice was cold as steel.

"I have saved your life, Tristan! The weapon which myslaves have taken from you awaits the call of its rightfulclaimant."

She reentered her litter while Tristan stood by, utterlydazed. But, when the slaves raised the silver poles, she gavehim a parting glance from within the curtains that seemed toelectrify his whole being.

After the litter-bearers and their retinue had trooped off,Tristan remained for a time in the shadow of the Arch of theSeven Candles.

He knew not where to turn in his misery, nor what to do.

In the same hour he had found and lost his love anew.

CHAPTER III
DARK PLOTTINGS

It was past the hour of midnight.

In a dimly lighted turretchamber in the house ofHormazd the Persian there sattwo personages whose verypresence seemed to enhancethe sinister gloom that broodedover the circular vault.

The countenance of the GrandChamberlain was paler thanusual and there was a slight gathering of the eyebrows, not tosay a frown, which in an ordinary mortal might have signifiedlittle, but in one who had so habitual a command of hisemotions, would indicate to those who knew him well anunusual degree of restlessness. His voice was calm however,and now and then a bland smile belied the shadows on hisbrow.

At times his gaze stole towards a dimly lighted alcovewherein moved a dark cowled figure, its grotesque shadowreflected in distorted outlines upon the floor.

"The Moor tarries over long," Basil spoke at last.

"So do the ends of destiny," replied a voice that seemedto come from the bowels of the earth.

"He is fleeter than a deer and more ferocious than atiger," the Grand Chamberlain interposed. "Nothing hasever daunted him, nor lives the man who would thwart himand live. Can you tell me where he is now?"

"Patience!" came the sepulchral reply. "The magic diskreveals all things! Anon you shall know."

Informed by daily gossip and the reports of his innumerablespies, Basil was aware of a growing belief among the peoplethat the power he wielded was not altogether human, and hewould have viewed it with satisfaction even had he not sharedit. Seeing in it an additional force helpful to the realizationof his ambition, he had thrown himself blindly into the vortexof black magic which was to give to him that which his souldesired.

In this chamber, filled with strange narcotic scents and themysterious rustling of unseen presences, by which he believedit to be peopled, with the aid of one who seemed the personifiedPrinciple of Evil, Basil assembled about him the forces thatwould ultimately launch him at the goal of his ambition.

This devil's kitchen was the portal to the Unseen, the shrineof the Unknown, the observatory of the Past and the Future,and the laboratory of the Forbidden. There were dim andmysterious mirrors, before which stood brazen tripods whosefumes, as they wreathed upward, gleamed with dusky fires.It was in these mirrors that the wizard could summon thedead and the distant to appear darkly, in scarcely definableglimpses. But he could also produce apparitions more vivid,more startling and more beautiful. Once, in the dark depthsof the chamber, Basil had seen a woman's phantom apparitionsuddenly become strangely luminous, her garments glowinglike flames of many colors, that shifted and blent and alternatedin ceaseless dance and play, waving and trembling inunearthly glory, till she seemed to be of the very flame herself.The reflection of the world of shadows was upon her;its splendors were wrapping her round like a mantle. Hewatched her with bated breath, not daring to speak. Andbrighter, ever brighter, dazzling, ever more dazzling, hadgrown the flaming phantom, till the wondrous transfigurationreached the height of its beauty and its terror. Then thephantom of murdered Marozia, evoked at his expresseddesire from the land of shadows, had faded, dying slowlyaway in the mysterious depths of the mirror, as the fires thatproduced it sank and died in white ashes.

There could be no doubt. It was the emissary of Darknesshimself who held forth in this dim, demon-haunted chamberwhere he had so often listened to the record of his awfulvisions. He had made him see in his dreadful ravings thegreat vaults of wrath, where dwelt the dread power of Evil.He had made him see the King of the Hopeless Throngs onhis black basaltic throne in the terrific glare-illumined caves,where Michael had cast him and where Pain's roar riseseternally night and day. He had made him see the greatLord of the Doomed Shadows, receiving the homage of thosedreadful slaves, those terror-spreading angels of woe whosehand flings destruction over the earth and sea and air, whileflames were fawning and licking his feet with countlesstongues.

And then he had shown to him a spirit mightier and moresubtle than any of those great wild destroyers who rushblindly through nature, a spirit who starts in silence on hererrand, whom none behold as, creeping through the gloom,she undermines, unties and loosens all the pillars of creation,with no more sign nor sound than a black snake in the tangledgrass, till with a thunder that stuns the world the house ofGod comes crashing down—dread Hekaté herself.

Was there any crime he had left undone?

His subterranean prisons in which limbs unlearned to bendand eyes to see concealed things whose screams would makethe flesh of a ghost creep, if flesh one had.

But now there was a darker light in Basil's eyes, a somethingmore ominous of evil in his manner. The wizard'srevelation had possessed his soul and his whole terrible beingseemed intensified. With the patience of one conscious ofa superhuman destiny he waited the summons that was tocome to him, even though his soul was consumed by devouringflames.

For he had come yet upon another matter; an inner voice,whose appeal he dared not ignore, had informed him longago of his waning power with Theodora. From the manwont to command he had fallen to the level of the whimperingslave, content to pick up such morsels as the woman saw fitto throw at his feet. Only on the morning of this day, whichhad gone down the never returning tide of time, a terriblescene had passed between them. And he knew he had lost.

Basil had been an unseen witness of Theodora's and Tristan'smeeting in the sunken gardens on the Aventine. Everymoment he had hoped to see the man succumb to charmswhich no mortal had yet withstood upon whom she hadchosen to exert them, and on the point of his poniard satDeath, ready to step in and finish the game. From the fatehe had decreed him some unknown power had saved Tristan.But Basil, knowing that Theodora, once she was jilted bythe object of her desire, would leave nothing undone toconquer and subdue, was resolved to remove from his pathone who must, sooner or later, become a successful rival.By some miraculous interposition of Providence Tristan hadescaped the fate he had prepared for him on the night whenhe had tracked the two strangers from the Lateran. He hadhad him conveyed for dead to the porch of Theodora's palace.But Fate had made him her mock.

Never had Basil met Theodora in a mood so fierce anddestructive as on the morning after she had destroyed Roxanaand her lover, and had, in turn, been jilted by Tristan. And,verily, Basil could not have chosen a more inopportune timeto press his suit or to voice his resentment and disapprobation.Theodora had driven every one from her presence and theunwelcome suitor shared the fate of her menials. Her darkhints had driven the former favorite to madness, for hispassion-inflamed brain could not bear the thought that thelove he craved, the body he had possessed, should be another's,while he was drifting into the silent ranks of the discarded.He knew for a surety that Theodora was not confiding in himas of old. Had she somehow guessed the dread mystery ofthe crypts in the Emperor's Tomb, or had some demon ofHell whispered it into her ear during the dark watches of thenight?

A flash of lightning followed by a terrific peal of thunderroused him from his reveries. The storm which had threatenedduring the early hours of the evening now roared andshrieked round the tower and the very elements seemed inaccord with the dark plottings in Hormazd's chamber.

"How much longer must I wait ere the fiends will reveal theirsecrets?" Basil at last turned to the exponent of the black arts.

The wizard paused before the questioner.

"To what investigation shall we first proceed?"

"You must already have divined my thoughts."

"I knew the instant you arrived. But there is an incompletenesswhich makes my perceptions less exact than usual."

"Where are my messengers? To the number of threehave I sped. None has returned."

The Oriental touched a knob and the lamps were suddenlyextinguished, leaving the room illumined by the red glowof the oven. Then he bade his visitor fix his eyes on thesurface of the disk.

"Upon this you will presently behold two scenes."

He poured a few drops of something resembling black oilupon the disk, which at once spread in a mirror-like surface.Then he began to mutter some words in an Oriental tongue,and lighted a few grains of a chemical preparation whichemitted an odor of bitter aloë. This, when the flames hadsubsided, he threw upon the oil which at the contact becameiridescent.

Basil looked and waited in vain.

The conjurer exhausted all the selections which he thoughtappropriate. The oil gradually lost the changing aspect it hadacquired from the burning substance, and returned to its dullmurky tints, and the interest which had appeared on Basil'sfeatures gave place to a contemptuous sneer.

"Are you, after all, but a trickster who would impose hisart upon the unwary?"

The magician did not reply to this insult, nor did it seem toaffect him visibly.

"We must try a mightier spell," he said, "for hostileforces are in conjunction against us."

By a small tongs he raised from the fire the metallic platethat had been lying upon it. Its surface presented the appearanceof oxidized silver with a deep glow of heat.

Upon this he claimed to be able to produce the picture ofpast or future events, and many scenes had been reflectedupon the magic shield.

He now poured upon it a spoonful of liquid which spreadsimmering and became quickly dissipated in light vapors.Then he busied himself with scattering over the plate somegrains that looked like salt which the heated metal instantlyconsumed.

At the end of a few moments he experienced what resembledan electric or magnetic shock. His frame quivered, his lipsceased to repeat the muttered incantations, his hand firmlygrasped the tongs by which he raised the metal aloft, nowmade brighter by the drugs just consumed, and upon whichappeared a white spot, which enlarged till it filled the lowerhalf of the plate.

What it represented it was difficult to say. It might havebeen a sheet or a snow drift. Basil felt an indefinable dread,as above it shimmered forth the vague resemblance of a manon horseback, apparently riding at breakneck speed.

Slowly his contour became more distinct. Now the horsemanappeared to have reached a ford. Spurring his steed, heplunged into the stream whose waters seemed for a time tocarry horse and rider along with the swift current. But hegained the opposite shore, and the apparition faded slowlyfrom sight.

"It is the Moor!" cried Basil in a paroxysm of excitement."He has forded the rapids of the Garigliano. Now be kindto me O Fate—let this thing come to pass!"

He gave a gasp of relief, wiping the beads from his brow.

The cowled figure now walked up to the central brazier,muttering words in a language his visitor could not understand.Then he bade Basil walk round and round it, fixinghis eyes steadily upon the small blue flame which danced onthe surface of the burning charcoal.

When giddiness prevented his continuing his perambulationhe made him kneel beside the brazier with his eyesriveted upon it.

Its fumes enveloped him and dulled his brain.

The wizard crooned a slow, monotonous chant. Basil felthis senses keep pace with it, and presently he felt himselfgoing round and round in an interminable descent. Theglare of the brazier shrank and diminished, invaded fromoutside by an overpowering blackness. Slowly it becamebut a single point of fire, a dark star, which at length flamedinto a torch. Beside him, with white and leering face, stoodthe dark cowled figure, and below him there seemed to stretchintricate galleries, strangled, interminable caves.

"Where am I?" shrieked the Grand Chamberlain, overpoweredby the fumes and the fear that was upon him.

"Unless you reach the pit," came the dark reply, "farewellforever to your schemes. You will never see a crownupon your head."

"What of Theodora?" Basil turned to his companion,choking and blinded.

"If the bat-winged fiends will carry you safely across theabyss you shall see," came the reply.

A rush as of wings resounded through the room, as ofmonstrous bats.

"Gehenna's flame shall smoothe her brow," the wizardspoke again. "When Death brings her here, she shall standupon the highest steps, in her dark magnificence she shallcommand—a shadow among shadows. Are you content?"

There was a pause.

The storm howled with redoubled fury, flinging great hailstonesagainst the time-worn masonry of the wizard's tower.

"Then," Basil spoke at last, his hands gripping his throatwith a choking sensation, "give me back the love for whichmy soul thirsts and wither the bones of him who dares toaspire to Theodora's hand."

The wizard regarded him with an inscrutable glance.

"The dark and silent angels, once divine, now lost, whodo my errands, shall ever circle round your path. Everlastingties bind us, the one to the other. Keep but the pactand that which seems but a wild dream shall be fulfilled anon.They shall guide you through the dark galleries of fear, tillyou reach the goal."

"Your words are dark as the decrees of Fate," Basilreplied, as the fumes of the brazier slowly cleared in hisbrain and he seemed to emerge once more from the endlesscaverns of night, staring about him with dazed senses.

"You heed but what your passion prompts," the cowledfigure interposed sternly, "oblivious of that greater destinythat awaits you! It is a perilous love born in the depths ofHell. Will you wreck your life for that which, at best, is buta fleeting passion—a one day's dream?"

"Well may you counsel who have never known the hell oflove!" Basil cried fiercely. "The fiery torrent that rushesthrough my veins defies cold reason."

The cowled figure nodded.

"Many a ruler in whose shadow men have cowered, hasobeyed a woman's whim and tamely borne her yoke. Areyou of those, my lord?"

"I have set my soul upon this thing and Fate shall give tome that which I crave!" Basil cried fiercely.

The wizard nodded.

"Fate cannot long delay the last great throw."

"What would you counsel?" the Grand Chamberlainqueried eagerly, peering into the cowled and muffled face,from which two eyes sent their insane gleam into his own.

"Send her soul into the dark caverns of fear—surroundher with unceasing dread—let the ghosts of those you havesent butchered to their doom surround her nightly pillow,whispering strange tales into her ears,—then, when feargrips the maddened brain and there seems no rescue but thegrave—then peals the hour."

Basil gazed thoughtfully into the wizard's cowled face.

"When may that be?"

"I will gaze into the silent pools of my forbidden knowledgewith the dark spirits that keep me company. I have mysteriousrules for finding day and hour."

"I cannot expel the passion that rankles in my blood,"Basil interposed darkly. "But I will tear out my heartstrings ere I shirk the call. An emperor's crown were wortha tenfold price, and ere I, too, descend to the dread shadows,I mean to see it won."

"These thoughts are idle," said the wizard. "Only theweak plumb the depths of their own soul. The strong man'sbark sails lightly on victorious tides. Your soul is pledgedto the Powers of Darkness."

"And by the fiends that sit at Hell's dark gate, I mean todo their bidding," Basil replied fiercely. "Else were Iindeed the mock of destiny. Tell me but this—how didyou obtain a knowledge at which the fiend himself wouldpale?"

The wizard regarded him for a moment in silence.

"You who have peered behind the curtain that screensthe dreadful boundaries—you who have seen the palephantom of Marozia, whom you have sent to her doom,—howdare you ask?"

Basil had raised both hands as if to ward off an evil spirit.

"This, too, then is known to you? Tell me! Was whatI saw a dream?"

"What you have seen—you have seen," the cowled formreplied enigmatically. "The cocks are crowing—and thepale dawn glimmers in the East."

Throwing his mantle about him, Basil left the turret chamberand, after creeping down a narrow winding stair, he madefor his villa on the Pincian Hill.

CHAPTER IV
FACE TO FACE

Roger de Laval had chosenfor his abode in Rome a sombreand frowning building not farfrom the grim ways of the CampoMarzo, half palace half fortalice,constructed about a huge squaretower with massive doors. Likeall palace fortresses of the timewhich might at any moment haveto stand a siege, either at thehands of a city mob or at those of some rapacious noble, itcontained in its vaulted halls and tower chambers all therequisites for protracted resistance as well as aggression. Onthe walls between flaunting banners hung the many quarteredshields and the dark coats of chain, the tabards of the heraldsand the leathern jerkins of the bowmen. On the shelvesbetween the arches stood long rows of hauberks and shiningsteel caps. Dark tapestries covered the walls and the brightlight of the Roman day fell muted through the narrow slits inthe sombre masonry which served as windows.

It was not to seek his wife that Roger had come to Rome,and his meeting with Tristan in the gardens of Theodora hadbeen purely accidental. While his vanity and selfishness hadreceived a severe shock in Hellayne's departure, without evena farewell, he had not allowed an incident in itself so triflingto disturb the even tenor of his ways. He had loved to displayher at his feasts as one displays some exceeding handsomeplaything that gives pleasure to the senses; otherwisehe and the countess had no common bond of interest. Hellaynewas the only child of one of the most powerful barons ofProvence, and had been given in marriage to the older manbefore she even realized what the bonds implied. Only aftermeeting Tristan had the awakening come, and youth soughtyouth.

That which brought every one to Rome in an age when Romewas still by common consent the centre of the universe, suchas the Saxon Chronicles of the Millennium pronounce it, hadalso caused Roger de Laval to seek the Holy Shrines, not inquest of spiritual benefit, but of temporal aggrandizement,in the character of an investiture from the Vicar of Christhimself. His disappointment at finding the head of Christendoma prisoner in his own palace was perhaps only mitigatedby the disclosure that he should have to rely upon his ownfertility of mind for the realization of a long-fostered ambition.

On one of his visits to the Lateran, hoping to obtain aninterview with the Pontiff, he had met Basil as representativeof the Roman government, in the absence of Alberic, and asinister attraction had sprung up between them in the consciousnessthat each had something to give the other lacked.This bond was even strengthened by Basil's promise to aidthe stranger in the attainment of his desires, and at lastRoger had confided in Basil the story of the shadow that hadspread its gloomy pinions over the castle of Avalon. Basilhad listened and suggested that the Lord Laval drown hissorrows at the board of Theodora. Therein the latter hadacquiesced, with the result that he met Tristan on that night.

Hellayne was sitting alone by the window in a long silentgallery. She could not take her eyes off the restless outlineof the clouds where head on head and face on face continuedtaking shape. In vain her teased brain tried to see but clouds.Two nights ago had not a horrid face grinned at her from outof these same clouds? The face of a wolf it had seemed.And it had taken human shape and changed to the face of theman who had brought her to this abode from the sanctuarywhere she had fallen by the shrine.

And yet, as she looked at the sun, whose beams were fastdwindling on the bar of the horizon, how she yearned to keepthe light a little longer, if only a few short minutes. Shecould have cried out to the sun not to leave her so soon,again to wage her lonely war with the Twilight and with Fear.For during the hours of day her lord was away. Business ofstate he termed what took him from her side. With a leerhe left and with a leer he was wont to return. And with himthe memory of his meeting with Tristan!

She had found him again, the man she loved! Found him—buthow? And Hellayne covered her burning eyes withher white hands.

This other woman who had stepped in between her andTristan, who had laid a detaining hand upon his arm and hadsilently challenged her for his possession—what was she tohim?

For three days and three nights the thought had tormentedher even to the verge of madness. Had she sacrificed everythingbut to find him she loved in the arms of another?Silently she had borne the taunts of her lord, his insults, hisvile insinuations. He did not understand. He never understood.What of it? In the great balance what mattered itafter all?

She must see Tristan. She must hear the truth from hisown lips. In vain she puzzled her brain how to reach him.She remembered his last outcry of protest. There was amystery she must solve. Come what might, she was oncemore the woman who loved. And she was going to claimthe payment of love!

As regarded that other, to whom she had bound herself,her conscience had long absolved her of an obligation thathad been forced upon her. Had fate and fact not proved thething impossible? Had fate not cast them again and againinto each other's arms and made mock of their conscience?Nature had made them lovers, let it be the will of God or thedevil.

And lovers till death should they be henceforth. Hebelonged to her. Away with faith—away with fear of thisworld, or the next. Away with all but the dear present, inwhich the brutality of others had set her free. For a momenther thoughts turned almost pagan.

Was she to return to the old, loveless life in that far cornerof the earth, while he whom she loved took up a new existencein the centre of the world, loving another to whose ambitionhe might owe a great career? She needed indeed to sit insilence, she who had done daring things without a misgiving,as if impelled by a power not her own. She had done them,marvelling at her own courage, at her own faith in him sheloved, and she had not faltered.

The torturing dusk was drowning every living thing inpallid waves of shadow. One by one, through the wangallery in which she was locked, the motley spectres of nightwould pass in all their horrors, and begin their crazy, soundlessnods and becks.

Suddenly she cowered back, shuddering, with her eyesfixed on the darkening depths of the gallery and her daydreams died, like pale ashes crumbling on the hearth.

Roger de Laval had entered and was regarding her with amalignant leer that almost froze the blood in her veins.She knew not what business had taken him abroad. Neverthelesswas assured that some dark deed was slumberingin the depths of his soul.

"Are you thinking of your fine lover?" he said as he slowlyadvanced towards her. "You are grieved to have yourthoughts broken into by your husband? No doubt you wishme dead—"

"Spare me this torture, my lord," she entreated. "Ihave answered a thousand times—"

"Then answer again—"

"I swear before God and the Saints he is guiltless. Heknew not I was in Rome."

"Swear what you will! A woman's oath is but a windupon one's cheek on a warm summer day—gone ere youhave felt it. The oath of a woman who has followed herlover—"

"I have not done so!"

"You have done your best to make the world believe it."

"What of yourself?" There was a ring of scorn in hervoice.

"You have brought me to shame!"

"What of the women you have shared with me?"

Hellayne's eyes met those of her tormentor.

"It is a man's part!"

"And you are a man!"

"One at least shall have cause to think so."

"Perchance you will have him murdered. Why not killme, too? That, too, is a man's part."

He gave a great roar.

"And who says that I shall not?"

An icy fear, not for herself, but for Tristan, gripped herheart. She tried to hide it under a mantle of indifference.

"What have you ever done to make yourself beloved?"

"By Beelzebub—you—the runaway mistress of a fop—daresto question me—her rightful lord?"

"Who made the laws that bound me to your keeping?They are man-made, and God knows as little of them as heknows of you. It was your measureless conceit, your boundlessegotism, that whispered to you that any woman shouldfeel honored, should deem it the height of glory, to be yourwife."

"And is it not?"

She shuddered.

"You never dreamed there might be something in thedepths of my soul that cried out for more than the mere comfortsand exigencies of existence! Something that cravedlove, companionship, and, above all, friendship. What haveyou done to waken this little slumbering voice which died inthe shadow of your tremendous egotism?"

He stared at her.

"He has taught you this speech, by God!"

"He has awakened my true self! What was I to you butpart of your magnificence, a thing to make your fellowsenvious—"

He roared. She continued:

"The one decent woman of your life—your world—"

His eyes glared.

"So then, this low-born churl is a better man than I?"

"At least he knew I had a soul of my own."

"Skillfully cultivated to his own sweet ends."

"His ends were innocent, else had he not fled."

"Knowing that you would follow him."

"He knew naught."

"That remains to be seen."

"It was you who brought us together!" she said with quietscorn. "You were so sure in your pride and your power andof my own timidity that you thought it impossible that somethingmight defy them. And you could not understand thatanother might be so much closer to my nature, or that I hada nature of my own. In those days I well remember, ere myheart had strayed too far, I tried to waken you to the greatdanger. I tried to speak of mine. But you would not beapprised of aught that would seem a concession to your pride.So we are come to this!"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Come to what?" he thundered.

"My ruin—and your disgrace!"

His breast heaved.

"Of you I know nothing. As for myself—I suffer nodisgrace. I am too much a man of sense for that. Not asoul but thinks that you are absent with my consent. Apilgrimage to Rome! Many a woman has, for her soul's goodgone alone. Not a soul, I warrant, has thought of your connectionwith that fellow's plight. Not a soul but thinks thatthis is the sole cause of your disappearance. And when I,too, went I was careful to leave the rumor behind."

He stepped closer, his breath fanning her pale cheeks.She looked almost like a ghost in the grey twilight.

"And now—" he continued, licking his sensuous lips,"you are found—you are found—my beautiful wife—youare found—and—to the eyes of the world at least—unstained.One alone whose lips are sealed, knows."

Hellayne's lips tightened.

"And a woman."

A strange expression came into his face.

"Have you spied upon me, too?"

"You forget the meeting at the Arch."

"No woman will spread the story of a rival's claims!"

There was a pause, then he continued, with deliberateslowness:

"You shall come back with me—my beautiful Hellayne—mywife in name, if not in deed! And you shall submitto my caresses, knowing, as I do, how loathsome they are.And you shall smile—smile—and appear happy—my wifehenceforth in name only. And you shall smile no less atwhat henceforth your lord's pleasure may be with other women—fairas yourself—and you shall grow old and grey, andthe thing you call your soul shall die and wither up yourbeauty—and never a word shall pass your lips anent thischastisement. And at last you shall die—and be laid by—andnot a soul shall ever be the wiser for your shame."

Hellayne covered her face with her hands.

"And if I should refuse to accept this fate?"

"Then you shall be flung into a nunnery."

"And if I refuse to become a nun?"

"Then your lover shall pay the price—with his bloodinstead of yours. Know you the woman he so madly loves?"

"It is a lie!" she shrieked.

There was a moment's silence.

"Her name is Theodora. Saw you ever fairer creature?"

"God!"

"I want your answer!" leered the man.

"I do not refuse!"

An evil smile curved his lips.

"I knew you would be reasonable—my fair Hellayne!"

His lips were parted in a fatuous smile. He pictured tohimself the pain at the parting and indeed his satisfactionwas so great that he decided to prolong it yet a little longer.How amusing it would be to watch the face of him who haddared to love Hellayne. Knowing as now he did all themotives for his actions, it gave him pleasure to think that hecould mar the astonishing good fortune of this adventurerwho had found employment in the service of Alberic by theintrusion of this passion for another woman. It would bereal joy to see this creature of sentiment thus torn and tortured.And it was yet a greater joy to force Hellayne towitness the struggle, forced to smile at the conquest of herlover by another woman. And he would watch the pangs oftheir suffering till the day of his departure.

With her own blue eyes Hellayne should witness the loveof him she had so madly followed, estranged by the beautyof Theodora, whose lure no mortal might resist.

After he had entered his own chamber, Hellayne flew likea mad thing down the gloom-haunted gallery. Could shebut escape from this humiliation—even through death'sdoors—she would not shrink. She felt, if she remained,she would go mad.

It was true, then! Tristan loved another. The old lovehad been forgotten and cast aside! All her fears and misgivingsreturned in one mad whirl.

Frantically she tried to remove the heavy bolt when shewas paralyzed by a demoniacal laugh that issued behind herand swooning she fell at the feet of the man whose name shebore.

CHAPTER V
THE CRESSETS OF DOOM

Never had Tristan's feelingsbeen more hopelessly involvedthan since that eventful nightby the Arch of the Seven Candleswhen, like a ghost of thepast, Hellayne had once morecrossed his path and had givenhis solemn pledge the lie. Andthe more Tristan's thoughtsreverted to that fateful hour,when his oath seemed like so many words written upon water,and the man who believed him guilty held his life in thehollow of his hand, the greater grew his misery and unrest.Physically exhausted, mentally startled at the vehemence ofhis own feelings, he was suffering the relapse of a passionwhich he thought had burnt itself out, letting his mind driftback to the memory of happier days—days now gone forever.

Why had she followed him? What was she doing here?Was the old fight to be renewed? And withal happinessmingled with the pain.

In the midst of these thoughts came others.

Had she accompanied the Count Laval to Rome and werehis questionings mere pretense, to surprise the unguardedconfession of a wrong of which he knew himself sinless? Hadshe been here all these days, seeking him perchance, yet notdaring to make her presence known?

And now where was she? Hardly found had he lost her?And see her he must—whatever the hazard, even to death.How much he had to say to her. How much he had to ask.Her presence had undone everything. Was the old life tobegin again, only with a change of scenes?

He had read her love for him in her eyes, and he could havealmost wished that moment to have been his last, ere theuntimely arrival of Theodora saved him from the death strokeof his enraged enemy. For he had seen the light fade fromHellayne's blue eyes when she faced the other woman, andLaval's taunts had found receptive ears. Everything hadconspired against him on that night, even to seeming thething he was not, and with a heart heavy to breaking Tristanscoured the city of Rome for three days in quest of the woman,but to no avail.

His duties were not onerous and the city was quiet. Nofarther attempts had been made to liberate the Pontiff andthe feuds between the rival factions seemed for the noncesuspended.

Nevertheless Tristan felt instinctively, that all was notwell. Night after night Basil descended into the crypts ofthe Emperor's Tomb, sometimes alone, sometimes with oneor two companions, men Tristan had never seen. Ostensiblythe Grand Chamberlain visited the cells of certain prisonersof state, and one night Tristan ventured to follow him. Buthe was seized with so great a terror that he resolved to confidein Odo of Cluny, who possessed the entire confidence of theSenator of Rome, and be guided by his counsel.

In the meantime, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, theterrible thing had happened again. From the churches ofSanta Maria in Trastevere and Santa Sabina of the Aventine,the Holy Host had been taken, notwithstanding the increasednumber of guards keeping watch in the sanctuaries.

Rome shivered in the throes of abject terror. Peoplewhispered in groups along the thoroughfares, hardly daringto raise their voices, and many asserted that the Antichristhad returned once more to earth and that the End of Timewas nigh. Like a dread foreboding of evil it gripped Tristan'ssoul.

And day and night interminable processions of hermits andmonks traversed the city with crosses and banners andsmouldering incense. Their chants could be heard from theancient Flaminian to the Appian Gate.

Once more the shades of evening laid their cool touch uponthe city's fevered brow, and as the distant hills rose into ablack mass against the sunset two figures emerged on thebattlements of the Emperor's Tomb and gazed down on thedimmed outlines of the Pontifical City.

Before them lay a prospect fit to rouse in the hearts of allwho knew its history an indescribable emotion. There, beforethem, lay the broad field of Rome, whereon the first ominousactivities of the Old World's conquerors had been enacted.There in the mellow light of eve, lay the Latin land, oncepopular and rich beyond all quarters of the earth since theplain of Babylon became a desert, and now no less desertedand forlorn. And from the height from which these twolooked down upon it, its shallow hills and ridges were trulyminimized to the aspect of one mighty plain, increasing thevast sense of desolation. Rome—Rome alone—denied themelancholy story of disaster, utter and complete, the work ofGoth and Hun and of malarial terror.

But now over all this solemn prospect was the luminousblue light of evening, fading to violet and palest yellow in thefarthest west, where lay the Tyrrhene Sea.

Presently one of the two laid aside his cloak and, baringhis arms to the kiss of the wind that crept softly about them,said in weary accents:

"Never in all my life, Father, have I known a day to passas tardily as this, for to me the coming hour is fraught withevil that may abide with me forever, and my soul is eager toknow its doom, yet shrinks from the sentence that may bepassed."

Odo of Cluny looked into Tristan's weary face.

"I, too, have a presentiment of Evil, as never before," themonk replied, laying a gentle hand on his companion's shoulder."There are things abroad in Rome—one dares noteven whisper. The Lord Alberic chose an evil hour for hispilgrimage to Monte Gargano. Have you no tidings?"

"No tidings," reechoed Tristan gloomily.

Odo of Cluny nodded pensively.

"It seems passing strange. I know not why—" his voicesank to a whisper. "I mistrust the Grand Chamberlain.Whom can we trust? A poison wind is blowing over thesehills—withering—destroying. The awful sacrilege atSanta Maria in Trastevere, following so closely upon the oneat the Lateran, is but another proof that dark powers are atwork—powers defying human ken—devils in human shape,doomed to burn to a crisp in the eternal fires."

"Meanwhile—what can we do?"

"Have you seen the Lord Basil?"—

"He was much concerned, examined the place in person,but found no clue."

"Are your men trustworthy?"

"I know not, Father! For a slight service I chanced to dothe Lord Alberic he made me captain of the guard in place ofone who had incurred his displeasure. My men are Swissand Lombards, a Spaniard or two—some Calabrians—noRomans."

"Therein lies your salvation," interposed the Benedictine."How many guard this tomb?"

"Some four score men—why do you ask?"

"I hardly know—save that there lurks some dark mysterybehind the curtain. Let no man—nor woman—relax yourwatchfulness. There are tempests that destroy even thecedars of Lebanon," the monk continued with meaning."And such a one may burst one night."

"Your words are dark, Father, and fill me with misgivings."

"And well they should," Odo interposed with a penetratingglance at the young captain. "For rumor hath it that anotherbird has strayed into the Lady Theodora's bower—"

Tristan colored under the monk's scrutiny.

"I was present at her feast. Yet I know not how I gotthere!"

The monk looked puzzled.

"Now that you have crossed the dark path of Marozia'ssister I fear the ambushed gorge and the black arrow that singsfrom the hidden depths. Why seek the dark waters of Satan,when the white walls of Christ rise luminously before you?"

"What is the import of these strange words so strangelyuttered?" Tristan turned to the monk with a puzzled air.

"That shall be made known to you in time. Treasonlurks everywhere. Seal your ears against the Siren's song.Some say she is a vampire returned to earth, doomed to liveon, as long as men are base enough to barter their soul for herkisses. And yet—how much longer? The Millenniumdraws nigh. The End of Time is near."

There was a pause. Tristan tried to speak, but the wordswould not come from his lips.

At last with an effort he stammered:

"At the risk of incurring your censure, Father—even tothe palace of Theodora must I wend my steps to recover thatwhich is my own."

And he informed the Monk of Cluny how he had lost hisponiard and his scarf of blue Samite.

"Why not send one you trust to fetch them back?" protestedthe monk. "It is not well to brave the peril twice."

"Myself must I go, Father. For once and all time I meanto break her spell."

"Deem you to accomplish that which no man hath—andlive?"

"There is that which shall keep my honor inviolate,"Tristan replied.

The cloudless sky was shot with dreamy stars, and coolingbreezes were wafted over the Roman Campagna. Throughthe stillness came the muffled challenges of the guard.

The twain crossed the ramparts of the Mausoleum insilence, holding to their way which led towards a postern,when suddenly, out of the battlements' embrazure, peeredtwo gray, ghastly faces, which disappeared as suddenly. ButTristan's quick eye had marked them and, plucking at themonk's sleeve, he whispered:

"Look yonder, Father—where stand two forms that scanus eagerly. My bewildered brain refuses me the knowledgeI seek, yet I could vouch the sight of them is somehow familiarto my eyes."

"That may well be," replied the monk. "For all this daylong have I been haunted by the consciousness that our movementsare being watched. Yet, I marvel not, for until Purgatoryreceive the soul of this accursed wanton, there isneither peace nor security for us. Her devilish hand mayeven now be informing all this dark plot, that seethes aboutus," Odo of Cluny concluded in apprehensive tones.

Presently they drew near the great gateway, before whichthe flicker of cressets showed a company of the guard, withbreast plates and shields, their faces hidden by the loweredvisors of their Norman casks. Among them they noted awizened eunuch, who, after peering at them with his ferret-likeeyes, pointed to a door sunk in the wall, the while hewhispered something in Tristan's ear. Thereupon Odo andTristan entered the guard chamber.

It was deserted.

Beneath the cressets' uncertain gleam, as they emergedbeyond, stood the eunuch with the same ferret-like glance,pointing across the dim passage, to, where could be made outthe entrance to a gallery. The group behind them stoodimmobile in the flickering light and the space about them wasnaught but a shadowy void. Yet, as they went, their earscaught the clink of unseen mail, the murmur of unseen voices,and Tristan gripped the monk's arm and said in husky tones:

"By all the saints,—we are fairly in the midst of Basil'screatures. An open foe I can face without shrinking, but Itell you this peril, ambushed in impenetrable night, saps mycourage as naught else would. If but one battle-cry wouldshatter this numbing silence, one simple sword would flash,as it leaps from its scabbard, I should be myself again, readyto face any foe!"

They entered the half gloom of a painted gallery wheredog-headed deities held forth in grotesque representationbeside the crucified Christ. They stole along its wholedeserted length until they reached a door, hardly discerniblein the pictured wall. The lamps burned low, but in thecentre of the marble floor a brazier sent up a brighter flame,filling the air with a fragrance as of sandal wood.

Tristan's hand groped for a spring along the outer edge ofthe door. At his touch a panel receded. Both he and themonk entered and the door closed noiselessly behind them.Tristan produced a candle and two flints from under his coatof mail. But ere he could light it by striking the flints, theapproach of a dim light from the farther end of the tortuousgallery caused him to start, and both watched its approachwith dread and misgiving.

Soon a voice fell on their ear, answered by another, andTristan swiftly drew his companion into a shadowy recesswhich concealed them while it yet enabled them to hear everyword spoken by the two.

"Thus we administer justice in Rome," said the onespeaker, in whom Tristan recognized the voice of the GrandChamberlain.

"Somewhat like in our own feudal chateaux," came backthe surly reply.

Tristan started as the voice reached his ear. How cameRoger de Laval here in that company?

"You approve?" said the silken voice.

"There is nothing like night and thirst to make the fleshpliable."

"Then why not profit thereby?—But are you stillresolved upon this thing?"—

There was a pause. The voice barked reply:

"It is a fair exchange."

Their talk died to a vague murmur till presently the harshervoice rose above the silence.

"Well, then, my Lord Basil, if these matters be as you say,—ifyou will use your good offices with the Lady Theodora—"

"Can you doubt my sincerity—my desire to promote yourinterests—even to the detriment of my own?"

His companion spat viciously.

"He who sups with the devil must needs have a longspoon. What is to be your share?"

"Your meaning is not quite clear, my lord."

"Naught for naught!" Roger snarled viciously. "Shallwe say—the price of your services?"

"My lord," piped Basil with an injured air, "you wrongme deeply. It is but my interest in you, my desire to see youreconciled to your beautiful wife—"

"How know you she is beautiful?" came the snarling reply.

"I, too, was an unseen witness of your meeting at the Archof the Seven Candles," Basil replied suavely.

"Was all Rome abroad to gaze upon my shame?" growledBasil's companion. "Though—in a manner—I am revenged,"he continued, through his clenched teeth. "Insteadof giving her her freedom, I shall use her shrinkingbody for my plaything—I shall use her so that no other lovershall desire her. As for that low-born churl—"

With a low cry Tristan, sword in hand, made a forwardlunge. The monk's grip restrained him.

"Madman!" Odo whispered in his ear. "Would youcourt certain death?"

The words of the twain had died to a whisper. Thus theywere lost to Tristan's ear, though he strained every nerve,a deadly fear for Hellayne weighting down his soul.

The two continued their walk, passing so near that Tristancould have touched the hem of their garbs. Basil wasimportuning his companion on some matter which the lattercould not hear. Laval's reply seemed not in accord with theGrand Chamberlain's plans, for his voice became moreinsistent.

"But you will come—my lord—and you will bring yourbeautiful Countess? Remember, her presence in Rome is nolonger a secret. And—whatever the cause which promptedher—pilgrimage, would you have the Roman mob pointsneering fingers at Roger de Laval?"—

"By God, they shall not!"

"Then the wisdom of my counsel speaks for itself," Basilinterposed soothingly. "It is the one reward I crave."

There was a pause. Whatever of evil brooded in thatbrief space of time only these two knew.

"It shall be as you say," Roger replied at last, and fromtheir chain mail the gleam of the lantern they carried evokedintermittent answer.

When their steps had died to silence Tristan turned to themonk. His voice was unsteady and there was a great fearin his eyes.

"Father, I need your help as have I never needed humanhelp before. There is some devil's stew simmering in theLord Basil's cauldron. I fear the worst for her—"

Odo shot a questioning glance at the speaker.

"The wife of the Count Laval?" he returned sharply.

"Father—you know why I am here—and how I havestriven to tear this love from my heart and soul. Would shehad not come! Would I had never seen her more—forwhere is it all to lead? For, after all, she is his wife—andI am the transgressor. But now I fear for her life. Youhave heard, Father. I must see her! I must have speechwith her. I must warn her. Father—I promise—thatshall be all—if you will but consent and find her—for Iknow not her abode."

"You promise—" interposed the monk. "Promise nothing.For if you meet, it will not be all. All flesh is weak.Entrust your message to my care and I shall try to do yourbidding. But see her no more! Your souls are in graveperil—and Death stands behind you, waiting the last throw."

"Even if our souls should be forever stamped with theirdark errors I must see her. I must know why she camehither—I must know the worst. Else should I never findrest this side of the grave. Father, in mercy, do my bidding,for gloom and misery hold my soul in their clutches, and Imust know, ere the twilight of Eternity engulfs us both."

"We will speak of this anon," the Monk of Cluny interposed,as together they left the gallery, now sunk in the deepestgloom and, passing through the vaulted corridors, emergedupon the ramparts. No sign of life appeared in the twilight,cast by the towering walls, save where in the shadowy passagesthe dimmed lights of cressets marked the passing ofarmed men.

Below, the city of Rome began to take shape in the dim andghostly starlight, thrusting shadowy domes and towers outof her dark slumber.

In the distance the undulating crests of the Alban Hillsmingled with the night mists, and from the nearby NeronianField came the croaking of the ravens, intensifying rather thanbreaking the stillness.

CHAPTER VI
A MEETING OF GHOSTS

A voice whose prompting hecould not resist, impelled Tristan,after his parting from theMonk of Cluny, to follow theGrand Chamberlain, who hadtaken the direction of the PincianHill. His retreating formbecame more phantom-like inthe misty moonlight, as viewedfrom the ramparts of the Emperor'sTomb. Nevertheless, mindful of the parting words ofthe monk, and filled with dire misgivings, Tristan set out atonce. True to his determination, he procured a small lanternand a piece of coarse thick cloth, which he concealed underhis cloak, then, by a solitary pathway, he followed the directionhe had seen Basil take. The Bridge of San Angelo wasdeserted and not a human being was abroad.

After a time he arrived at a small copse, where Basil'sform had disappeared from sight. Clearing away the underbrush,Tristan came to what seemed a fissure in a wall, whichcast a tremendous shadow over the surrounding trees andbushes. Creeping in as far as he dared, he paused, then,with mingled emotions of expectancy and apprehensionwhich affected him so powerfully that for a moment he washardly master of his actions, he slowly and carefully uncoveredhis lantern, struck two flints and lighted the wick.

His first glance was intuitively directed to the cavity thatopened beneath him.

Of Basil he saw no trace, notwithstanding he had seen himenter the cavity at the point where he himself had entered.Ere long however, he heard a thin, long-drawn sound, nowlouder, now softer; now approaching, now receding, nowverging toward shrillness, now returning to a faint, gentleswell. This strange, unearthly music was interrupted by asuccession of long, deep rolling sounds, which rose grandlyabout the fissures above, like prisoned thunderbolts strivingto escape. Roused by the mystery of the place and theuncertainty of his own purpose, Tristan was, for a moment,roused to a pitch of such excitement that almost threatenedto unsteady his reason. Conscious of the danger attendinghis venture, and the fearful legends of invisible beings andworlds, he was constrained to believe that demons werehovering around him in viewless assemblies, calling to himin unearthly voices, in an unknown tongue, to proceed uponhis enterprise and take the consequences of his daring.

Thus he remained for a time, fearful of advancing orretracing his steps, looking fixedly into the trackless gloomand listening to the strange sounds which, alternately risingand falling, still floated around him. The fitful light of hislantern suddenly fell upon a shape that seemed to creepthrough one of the stone galleries. In the unsteady gleamit appeared from the distance like a gnome wanderingthrough the bowels of the earth, or a forsaken spiritfrom purgatory.

Had it been but a trick of his imagination, or had his mortaleyes seen a denizen of the beyond? At last he aroused himself,trimmed with careful hand his guiding wick and setforth to penetrate the great rift.

He moved on in an oblique direction for several feet, nowcreeping over the tops of the foundation arches, now skirtingthe extremities of the protrusions in the ruined brickwork,now descending into dark, slimy, rubbish-choked chasms,until the rift suddenly diminished in all directions.

For a moment Tristan paused and considered. He wasalmost tempted to retrace his steps, abandoning the purposeupon which he had come. Before him stretched interminablegloom, brooding, he knew not over what caverns and caves,inhabited by denizens of night.

He moved onward, with less caution than he had formerlyemployed, when suddenly and without warning a considerableportion of brickwork fell with lightning suddenness fromabove. It missed him, else he should never had knownwhat happened. But some stray bricks hurled him prostrateon the foundation arch, dislocating his right shoulder, andshattering his lantern into atoms. A groan of anguish roseto his lips. He was left in impenetrable darkness.

For a short time Tristan lay as one stunned in his darksolitude. Then, trying to raise himself, he began to experiencein all their severity the fierce spasms, the dull gnawingsthat were the miserable consequences of the injury he hadsustained. His arm lay numbed by his side, and for thespace of some moments he had neither the strength nor thewill to even move the sound limbs of his body.

But gradually the anguish of his body awakened a wilderand strange distemper in his mind, and then the two agonies,physical and mental, rioted over him in fierce rivalry, divestinghim of all thoughts, save such as were aroused by their ownagency. At length, however, the pangs seemed to grow lessfrequent. He hardly knew now from what part of his bodythey proceeded. Insensibly his faculties of thinking andfeeling grew blank; he remained for a time in a mysterious,unrefreshing repose of body and mind, and at last his disorderedsenses, left unguided and unrestrained, became thevictims of a sudden and terrible illusion.

The black darkness about him appeared, after an interval,to be dawning into a dull, misty light, like the reflection onclouds which threaten a thunderstorm at the close of day.Soon this atmosphere seemed to be crossed and streakedwith a fantastic trellis work of white, seething vapor. Thenthe mass of brickwork which had fallen in, grew visible,enlarged to an enormous bulk and endowed with the powerof locomotion, by which it mysteriously swelled and shrank,raised and depressed itself, without quitting for a moment itsposition near him. And then, from its dark and toiling surface,there rose a long array of dusky shapes, which twinedthemselves about the misty trellis work above and took thepalpable forms of human countenances.

There were infantile faces wreathed with grave worms thathung round them like locks of slimy hair; aged faces dabbledwith gore and slashed with wounds; youthful faces, seamedwith livid channels along which ran unceasing tears; lovelyfaces distorted into the fixed coma of despairing gloom. Notone of these countenances exactly resembled the other. Eachwas stigmatized by a revolting character of its own. Yet,however deformed their other features, the eyes of all werepreserved unimpaired. Speechless and bodiless they floatedin unceasing myriads up to the fantastic trellis work, whichseemed to swell its wild proportions to receive them. Therethey clustered in their goblin amphitheatre, and fixedly andsilently they glared down, without exception, on the intruder'sface.

Meanwhile the walls at the side began to gleam out with alight of their own, making jaded boundaries to the midwayscenes of phantom faces. Then the rifts in their surfacewidened, and disgorged misshapen figures of priests andidols of the olden time, which came forth in every hideousdeformity of aspect, mocking at the faces of the trellis work,while behind and over the whole soared shapes of giganticdarkness. From this ghastly assemblage there came not theslightest sound. The stillness of a dead and ruined worldwas about him, possessed of appalling mysteries, veiled inquivering vapors and glooming shadows.

Days, years, centuries seemed to pass, as Tristan laygazing up in a trance of horror into this realm of peopled andghostly darkness.

At last he staggered to his feet. He must find an egressor go mad. Slowly raising himself upon his uninjured arm,he looked vainly about for the faintest glimmer of light. Nota single object was discernible about him. Darkness hemmedhim in, in rayless and triumphant obscurity.

The first agony of the pain having resolved itself into adull changeless sensation, the vision that had possessed hissenses was now, in a vast and shadowy form, present only tohis memory, filling the darkness with fearful recollections andurging him on, in a restless, headlong yearning, to effect hisescape from this lonely and unhallowed sepulchre.

"I must pass into light. I must breathe the air of the sky,or I shall perish in this vault," he muttered in a hoarse voice,which the fitful echoes mocked by throwing his words as itwere, to each other, even to the faintest whisper of its lastrecipient.

Gradually and painfully he commenced his meditatedretreat.

Tristan's brain still whirled with the emotion that had soentirely overwhelmed his mind, as, staggering through theinterminable gloom, he set forth on his toilsome, perilousjourney.

Suddenly however he paused, bewildered, in the darkness.He had no doubt mistaken the direction, and a gleam oflight, streaming through the fissure of the rock, informed himthat there were others in this abode of darkness, beside himself.

Had he come upon the object of his quest?

For a moment Tristan's heart stood still, then, with all thecaution which the darkness, the danger of secret pitfalls andthe risk of discovery suggested, he crept toward the creviceuntil the glow gradually increased. From the bowels of theearth, as it were, voices were now audible; they seemed toissue from the depths of a cavern directly below where Tristanstood. Groping his way carefully along the wall of rock,he at last reached the spot whence the light issued and presentlystarted at finding himself before an aperture just wideenough to admit the body of a single man. A sort of perpendicularladder was formed in the wall of narrow juttings ofstone, and below these was the rock chamber from which thevoices proceeded.

It was some time ere the confusion of his ideas and thedarkness allowed Tristan to form any notion of the characterof the locality, when it suddenly dawned upon him that he hadstrayed into a place regarding which he had heard and wonderedmuch: the Catacombs of St. Calixtus.

This revelation was by no means reassuring, although thepresence of others held out hope that he would discover anexit from this shadowy labyrinth.

For a moment Tristan remained as one transfixed, as hegazed from his lofty pinnacle into the shadowy vault below.

He saw a stone table, lighted with a single taper, in thecentre of which lay an unsheathed dagger, and an object theexact character of which he could not determine in the halfgloom, also a brazen bowl. About a dozen men in cloakswith black vizors stood around, and one, taller than the rest,the gleam of whose eyes shone through the slits of his mask,appeared to be concluding an address to his companions.

The words were indistinguishable to Tristan but, when thespeaker had concluded, a dark murmur arose which subsidedanon. Then those present crowded around the stone table.The taper was momentarily obscured by the interveningthrong, and Tristan could not see the ceremony, though hecould hear the muttered formula of an oath they seemed tobe taking. What he did see caused the chill of death to runthrough his veins.

The group again receding, the man bared his left arm,raised the dagger on high and let it descend. Tristan sawthe blood weltering slowly from the self-inflicted wound,trickling drop by drop into the brazen bowl, which anothermuffled figure was holding. Then each one present repeatedthe ceremony, he who was presenting the bowl being the lastto mingle his blood with that of the rest.

Then another stepped forth and, raising the bloody knifeon high, stabbed the object that lay upon the table. Somemysterious signs passed between them, meaningless wordsthat struck Tristan's ear with the vague memory of a dimlyremembered dream. Then he who seemed to be the speakerraised the object on high and, walking to a niche, concealedin the shadows, placed it in, what seemed to Tristan, a fissurein the rock.

Like ghosts returning to the bowels of the earth, theyglided away, silently, soundlessly, and soon the silence ofdeath hovered once again in the rock caverns of the Catacombsof St. Calixtus.

In breathless suspense, utterly oblivious of the injury hehad sustained, Tristan gazed into the deserted rock chamberwhere the dim light of the taper still flickered in a faint breathof air wafted from without.

Hardly did the hearts of the Magi when the vision of theStar in the East first dawned upon their eyes experience atransport more vivid than that which animated Tristan whenhe found his terrible stress relieved.

But almost immediately a reaction set in and a dire misgivingextinguished the quick ray of hope that had lighted hisheart, luring him on to escape from these caverns of Death.

By a strange mischance they had neglected to extinguishthe taper. They might return at any moment and, his presencediscovered, the doom in store for the intruder on theirsecret rites was not a matter of surmise. Composing himselfto patience, Tristan waited, glaring as a caged tiger at thegates whose opening or closing might spell freedom or doom.At last, after a considerable lapse of time, moments thatseemed eternity, he resolved to hazard the descent.

Slowly and painfully moving, with the pace and perseveranceof a turtle, he writhed downward upon his unguidedcourse until he reached the bottom of the cavern. Breathlesswith exhaustion after his breakneck descent, he waited inthe shadow of a projecting rock. When the deep sepulchralsilence remained undisturbed, he advanced toward the fissurein the rock where one of the muffled company had placed themysterious object.

Tristan's quest was not at once rewarded. The shelvingin the rock cavern, being irregular and almost indistinguishable,offered no clue to the mystery. A great fear was uponhim, but he was determined, to discover the meaning of it all.

Suddenly he paused. A small cabinet of sandal wood,concealed behind the jutting stone, had caught his eye. Itwas painted to resemble the rock and the untrained eye wouldnot linger upon it. A small keyhole was revealed, but thekey had been taken away.

Tristan stood irresolute, with straining eyes and listeningear. Not a sound was audible. Even the piping of the nightwind in the rock fissures seemed to have died to silence.With quick resolution he inserted one of the sharp-edgedflints and gave a wrench.

When the top receded he could not repress an outcry. Achill coursed coldly through his veins. His breath came andwent in sobs, as from one half drowned.

He only glanced at what was before him for the fraction ofa second. But he knew what had made the very soul withinhim shudder and his bones grind, as if in mortal agony.

It was as though Hell itself had opened the gates. Hestaggered back in a paroxysm of horror.—

With a grim, set face Tristan closed the top of the cabinetand replaced it on the rocky ledge. Thus he stood, his faceburied in his hands. Could the All-seeing God permit suchan outrage and let the perpetrators live?

But there was no time for reflection. At any moment oneof the muffled phantoms might return, and indeed he thoughthe heard steps approaching through one of the rock galleries.He crouched in breathless, agonized suspense, for it did notsuffer him longer in these caverns of crime and death.

He dimly remembered the direction in which the nocturnalcompany had departed and, after some research, he discovereda narrow corridor that seemed to slope upward through thegloom. His lantern having been broken to atoms, the taperheld out little promise of life beyond a brief space of timeduring which he must find the entrance of the cavern, if hedid not wish to meet a fate even worse than death in theevent of discovery.

Grimly resolved Tristan raised the flickering taper andentered the gallery on his left. The Stygian gloom almostextinguished the feeble light, though he noted every object hepassed, every turn in the tortuous ascent.

After some time which seemed eternity he at last perceiveda dim glow at the extremity of the gallery, and soon foundhimself before the outer cavity of the stone wall, in a regionof the city that seemed miles removed from the place wherehe had entered.

It was near daybreak. The moon shone faintly in thegrey heavens and a vaporous mist was sinking from shapelessclouds that hovered over the course of the Tiber.

Tristan looked about his solitary lurking place, but beheldno human being in its lonely recesses. Then his eyes fixedthemselves with a shudder upon the glooming vault fromwhich he had made his escape.

He was on the track of a terrible mystery, a mystery whichshunned the light of day and of heaven. He must fathom it,whatever the risk. A strange new energy possessed him.His life at last seemed to have a purpose. He was no longera rolling stone. There was work ahead. His future coursestood out clearly defined, as Tristan turned his back uponthe Catacombs of St. Calixtus and took the direction of theAventine. To Odo, the Monk of Cluny, he must confide theterrible discovery he had made in the mephitic caverns of theCatacombs. To him he must turn for counsel, of which hestood sorely in need. And in some way which he could notaccount for to himself, Tristan felt as if the fate of Hellaynewas bound up in these dreadful mysteries. At first thethought seemed absurd, but somehow it gained upon himand began to add new weight to his burden. Could he butsee her! Could he but have speech with her. A great dreadseized him at the thought of what might be her fate at thepresent hour. What would she think of him who seemed tohave abandoned her in the hour of dire distress, when sheneeded him above all men on earth?

Did her intuition, did her heart inform her that he hadroamed the city for days in the hope of finding her? Hadher heart informed her that, like a spirit judged and condemned,he found neither rest nor peace in his vain endeavorsto discover her abode? Was she sinking under her loneliness,perishing from uncertainty of her fate, doubts of hisallegiance? To what perils and miseries had he exposed her,and to what end? He groaned in despair, as his mindreverted from the dark present to the happy past. A past,forever gone!—

A faint streak of light crept across the East, permeatingthe grey dawn with roseate hues as Tristan re-entered theEmperor's Tomb to partake of an hour or two of much neededrest, ere the business of the new-born day claimed him its own.

CHAPTER VII
A BOWER OF EDEN

After some hours of muchneeded rest Tristan started outto find the Monk of Cluny. Thetask he had set himself was notone easy of execution, since theBenedictine friar was wont tovisit the Roman sanctuariesfollowing the promptings of thespirit without adhering to adefinite routine. Thus thegreater part of the day was consumed in a futile quest of himof whose counsel he stood sorely in need.

At the hour of sunset Tristan set anew upon his quest.His feet carried him to a remote region of the city, and whenhe regained his bearings he found himself before the conventof Santa Maria del Priorata with its environing groves ofoleander and almond trees.

The moon was floating like a huge pearl of silver throughvast seas of blue. The sleeping flowers were closed, likehalf-extinguished censers, breathing faint incense on thenight's pale brow. From some dark bough a nightingalewas shaking down a flood of song. The fountains from theirstone basins leaped moonward in the passion of their loveand seemed to fall sobbing back to earth. The night airbreathed hot and languorous across the gardens of the PincianMount. Lutes tinkled here and there. And the magicof the night thrilled Tristan's soul. As in a trance his gazefollowed the white figure that was moving noiselessly down amoss grown path. A thick hedge of laurel concealed her now.Then she paused as if she, too, were enraptured by the magicof the night.

The moon illumined the central lawn and the whisperingfountains. Tall cypresses seemed to intensify the shade.In the distance he could faintly discern the white balustrade,crowning a terrace where green alleys wound obscurelybeneath the canopy of darkest oak, and moss and violet madetheir softest bed. In the very centre of it was a small domedtemple, a shrine to Love.

Tristan's senses began to swoon. Was it a hallucination—wasit reality? A moon maiden she seemed, made mortalfor a night, to teach all comers love in the sacred grove.

"Hellayne! Hellayne!"

His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

As in a dream he saw her come towards him. She cameso silent and so pale in the spectral light that he feared lestit was the spectre of his mind that came to meet him. Andonce more the voice cried "Hellayne!" and then they layin each other's arms. All her reluctance, all her doubts seemedto have flown at the sound of her name from his lips.

"Hellayne! Hellayne!" he whispered deliriously, kissingher eyes, her hair, her sweet lips, and folding her so close tohim, as if he would never again part from her he loved betterthan life. "At last I have found you! How came you here?Speak! Is it indeed yourself, or is it some mocking spiritthat has borrowed your form?"

And again he kissed her and their eyes held silent commune.

"It is I who have just refound you!" she whispered, as helooked enraptured into the sweet girlish face, the face thathad not changed since he had left Avalon, though she seemedto have become more womanly, and in her eyes lay a patheticsorrow.

What a rapture there was in that clear tone. But shetrembled as she spoke. Would he understand? Would hebelieve?

"But—why—why—are you here?" he stammered.

"I have sought you long."

"You have followed me? You are not then a nun?"

"You see I am not."

"But why—oh why,—have you done this thing?"

She made no answer.

"You are here in Rome—and he is here. And you didnot know?"

"I knew!" she replied with a little nod, like a questionedchild.

"You knew! And he believes that I knew!"

"That is a small matter, dear. For he knows, that youknew not."

The endearment startled him. It seemed to cast her faithupon him.

"What are you doing here?" he said.

"I came because I had to come! I had no choice—!"

"No choice! Then why did you send me away?"

She gave a little shrug.

"I knew not how much I loved you."

"And yet, dearest, you cannot remain here. You knowhis moods better than any one else—and you know if hefinds us—for your own sake, dearest, you cannot remain."

In the warmth of his entreaty he had used as endearingwords as she. They were precious to her ears.

"Let him come!" she said, nestling close to him. "Lethim come and kill me!"

She glanced about. He pointed to the castellated buildingthat rose darkly beyond the holm-oaks.

"Yonder—is yonder your abode?" he stammered.

Suddenly the woman in her gained the mastery.

"Oh no! No! No! Let us hide! Wretch that I am, torisk your life with mine."

She had flung herself upon him. Around them riotedroses in wild profusion. To him it seemed like a bosquet ofEden. Upon his breast she sobbed. But no consideration ofpast or present could restrain his hand from gently soothingher silken hair.

"Oh, why did you leave me?" she cried. "Why could wenot have loved without all this? Surely two souls can love—iflove they must—without doing wrong to any one."

His arms stole about her.

"Speak to me! Speak to me!" she whispered withupturned face.

"Had I known that this would happen, I should haveknown that I did foolishly," he replied. "You should haveknown, dearest. You thought to kill our love by cutting itto earth. You have but made its roots grow deeper downinto the present and the future!"

She nodded dreamily.

"Perchance you speak truth!" she said. "You see mehere by your side, having crossed leagues and leagues to seekyour soul, my home—my only home forever. And as surelyas the bee goes back to its one hallowed oak have I refoundyou. And as surely as the ocean knows that every breath ofvapor lifted from its face shall some day come back to its breast,so surely did you know that your love must return to you."

"Unless," he said, "it sinks into the unseen springs thatare so deep that they are lost from sight forever."

"Lost—nothing is lost. The deepest water shall breakout some day and reach the lake—the river. Then, whynot now? I am one who cannot wait for eternity."

"And yet, eternity I fear, is waiting for us!"

There was a deep silence, lasting apace.

"Ah, I know," she said at last. "I know I ought to thinkas you do. I should be conscience stricken now, as I was then.I should be glad that you left me. But I am not—I am not.I am here, dearest, to ask you if you love me still?"—

"Love you?" he replied in a transport, holding her close,while he covered her eyes and her upturned face with kisses."I love you as never woman was loved—as the night lovesthe dew in the cups of the upturned flowers—as the nightingaleloves the dream that weaves its phantom websabout her bowers. I love you above everything in heavenor on earth. You knew the answer, dearest. Why did youask?"

"I see it in your eyes. You love me still," she crooned,her beautiful white arms about his neck, "notwithstanding—"

He started. And yet, after the scene she had witnessed onthat night, her doubts were but too well-founded. Yet shehad not queried before.

"Strange fortunes crossed my path since I came here,"he said. "Ambition lured—I followed, as one who lost hisway. Would you have had me do otherwise?"

In his eyes she read the truth. Yet the shadow of thatother woman had come between them as a phantom.

"Oh, no,—although I never thought that you were madefor statecraft."

"I am in the service of the Senator. And the Senator ofRome is her foe."

"And you?"

"I am his servant."

She laughed nervously.

"I never thought you would come to this, my love."

"Nor ever should I have thought so. But fate is strange.The Holy Father is imprisoned in the Lateran. To him Iwended my way. But the only service I did him was toprevent his escape—unwittingly. I visited the sanctuaries.But though prayers hovered on my lips, repentance was notin my heart. And then it came to pass. And I feel like oneborne in a bark that has neither sail nor rudder. And if,instead of being far-floated to these Roman shores, I amheaded for a port where all is security and peace, can I preventit? I am borne on! I close my eyes and try to think thatFate has intended it for my good."

"For your good!" she said bitterly.

"For yours no less, perchance."

"How so, dearest? What good can come to me fromyour soul's security? To me, who believe our love is rightful?"

"And yet you sent me from you—into darkness—loneliness—despair?"

She stroked his hair.

"It was fear as well as conscience that prompted. Youonce said that all things are right, that may not be escaped.You said, that if God was at the back of all things, all thingswere pure—"

"I know I said it! But, what I meant, I know not now. Isaw things strangely then."

"There were days when I, too, lost my vision," she saidsoftly, "when I said to myself: there is truth and truth—thehigher and the lower. It was the higher, if you like tocall it so, Tristan, that prompted the deed. Since then I havecome down to earth, and the lower truth, more fit for beingsof clay, proclaims my presence here—"

"What will you do?" he queried anxiously.

"I know not—I know not! I came here to be with you—withoutever a thought of meeting him again whom I havewronged—if wronged indeed I have. He has vowed to killyou! Oh, to what a pass have I brought you—my love—mylove! Let us fly from Rome! Let us leave this city.He will never know. And as for me—he but loves mebecause I am fair to look upon, and lovable in the eyes ofanother. What I have suffered in the silence, in the darkness,you will never know. You shall take me with you—anywherewill I go—so we shake the dust of this city from ourfeet."

She leapt at him again and flung her arms about his neck,her face upturned. He had neither will nor power to releasehimself. He scarcely had the strength to speak the wordswhich he knew would stab her to the heart.

Even ere he spoke she fell away from him as if she hadread his mind.

"So you persuaded him of your repentance," she cried."You are friends over the body of your murdered love! AndI—who gave all—am left alone,—the foe of either. Itwas nobly done."

He stared at her as if he thought she had gone mad.

"Listen, Hellayne," he urged, taking her hands in his, inthe endeavor to soothe her. "What spirit of evil has whisperedthis madness into your ears? Even just now yousaid, he has sworn to kill me. How could there be reconciliationbetween Roger de Laval and myself—who love hiswife?"

"Then what is it?" she queried, her eyes upon his lips asif she were waiting sentence to be pronounced upon her.

"I am the Senator's man!"

The words fell upon her ears like the knell of doom.

"He will release you! I will go to him—if your pride isgreater, than your love."

She was all woman now, deaf to reason and entreaty,thinking of nothing but her great love of him.

He drew her down beside him on the marble seat.

"Listen, Hellayne! You do not understand—you wrongme cruelly. Naught is there in this world that I would notdo to make you happy—you, whose love and happiness aremy one concern while life endures. But this thing may notbe. The Senator of Rome is away on a pilgrimage. He haschosen me to watch over this city till his return. Dangerlurks about me in every guise. Its nature I know not. ButI do know that there is some dark power at work plotting evil.There is one I do not trust—the Lord Basil."

Hellayne gave a start.

"The bosom friend, so it would seem, of the Count Laval."

The color had left Tristan's face.

"You have met?"

"He appears to have taken a great liking to my lord.Almost daily does he call, and they seem to have some secretmatter between them."

Tristan gripped Hellayne's hand so fiercely that she hardlysuppressed an outcry.

"Have you surprised any utterance?"

"Only a name. They thought I was out of earshot."

"What name?"

"Theodora!"

She watched him narrowly as she spoke the word.

He gave a start.

"Theodora," Hellayne repeated slowly. "She who savedyour life when my poor efforts failed."

There was a tinge of bitterness in her tone which did notescape Tristan's ear. Ere he could make reply, she followedit up with the question:

"What is there between you and her?"

"For aught I know it is some strange whim of the woman,call it infatuation if you will," he replied, "which, though Ihave repelled her, still maintains. It was at her feast I firstmet the Lord Roger face to face."

"How came you there?" she questioned with pained voice.

Tristan recounted the circumstances, concealing nothingfrom the time of his arrival in Rome to the present hour.Hellayne listened wearily, but the account he gave seemedrather to irritate than to reconcile her to him, who thus laidbare his heart before her.

"And so soon was I forgot?" she crooned.

"Never for a moment were you forgot, my Hellayne," hereplied with all the fervor of persuasion at his command."At all times have I loved you, at all times was your imageenshrined in my heart. Theodora is all-powerful in Rome,as was Marozia before her. The magistrates, the officers ofthe Senator's court, are her creatures,—Basil no less thanthe rest. Would that the Lord Alberic returned, for theburden he has placed upon my shoulders is exceeding heavy.But you, my Hellayne, what will you do? I cannot bear thethought of knowing you with him who has wrecked your life,your happiness."

In Hellayne's blue eyes there was a great pain.

"Why mind such trifles since you but think of yourself?"

"You do not understand!" he protested. "Can I withhonor abandon the trust which the Senator has imposed?What if the dreadful thing should happen? What if suddensedition should sweep his power into the night of oblivion?Could I stand face to face with him, should he ask: 'Howhave you kept your trust?'"

Steps were approaching on the greensward.

Hellayne turned pale and Tristan's arm closed about her,determined to defend her to the death against whosoevershould dare intrude.

Then it was as if some impalpable barrier had arisenbetween the man and the woman. It seemed the last hardmalice of Fate to have brought them so near to what was notto be.

Hardly had Tristan drawn her throbbing bosom to hisembrace when a dark shadow fell athwart their path and,looking up, he became aware of a forbidding form that stoodhard by, wrapped in a black mantle that reached to his heels.From under a hood which was drawn over his face two beadyeyes gleamed with smouldering fire, while the hooked nosegave the face the semblance of a bird of prey, which illusionthe cruel mouth did little to dispel.

Hellayne, too, had seen this phantom of ill omen and wasabout to release herself from Tristan's arms, her face whiteas her robe, when the speech of the intruder arrested hermovement.

"A message from the Lady Theodora."

A hot flush passed over Tristan's face, giving way to adeadly pallor as, hesitating to take the proffered tablet, hereplied with ill-concealed vexation:

"Whom does the Lady Theodora honor by sending so ill-favoreda messenger?"

The cowled figure fixed his piercing eyes first upon Tristanthen upon Hellayne.

"The Lord Tristan will do well to pay heed to the summons,if he values that which lies nearest his heart."

But ere he, for whom the message was intended, could takeit, Hellayne had snatched it from the messenger, had brokenthe seal and devoured its contents by the light of the moonwhich made the night as bright as day.

Then, with a shrill laugh, she cast it at Tristan's feet and,ere the latter could recover himself, both the woman and themessenger had gone and he stood alone in the bosquet ofroses, vainly calling the name of her who had left him withouta word to his misery and despair.

CHAPTER VIII
AN ITALIAN NIGHT

The palace of Theodora onMount Aventine was aglow withlife and movement for the festivitiesof the evening. Thelights of countless cressets werereflected from the marble floorof the great reception hall andshone on the rich panelling, andthe many-hued tapestries whichdecked the walls.

In the shadow of the little marble kiosk which rose, a relicof a happier age, among oleander and myrtles, shadowed bytall cypresses, silent guardians of the past, Theodora and Basilfaced each other. The white, livid face of the man gave testimonyto the passions that consumed him, as his burning gazeswept the woman before him.

"I have spoken, my Lord Basil! Should some unforeseenmischance befall him I have summoned hither, look to itthat I require not his blood at your hands."

Theodora's tone silenced all further questioning. After apause she continued: "And if you desire farther proof thatthis man shall not stand against my enchantments, pass intoyonder kiosk and through its carven windows shall you beable to witness all that passes between us."

She ceased with quivering lips, the while Basil regardedher from under half-shut lids, filled with sudden brooding,and for a space there was silence. At last he said in a low,unsteady voice:

"So I did not err when my hatred rose against this puppetof the Senator's, who came to Rome to do penance for a kiss.You love him, your foe, while I, your utter slave, must standby and, with aching heart, see your mad desire bring all ourschemes to naught."

His hand closed on his dagger hilt, but Theodora's eyesflashed like bared swords as with set face she said:

"Fool!—to see but that which lies in your path, not theintricate nets which are spread in the darkness. I mean tomake this man my very own! His fevered lips shall close onmine, and in my embrace he shall climb to the heaven of theGods. He shall be mine! He shall do my bidding utterly.He shall open for me the gates of the Emperor's Tomb. Heshall stand beside me when I am proclaimed mistress ofRome! For my love he shall defy the world that is—andthe world that is not."

"And what of the woman he loves?" Basil snarled venomously,and the pallor of Theodora's face informed him thatthe arrow he had sped had hit the mark.

She held out her wonderful statuesque arms, then, raisingherself to her full height, she said:

"Is the pale woman from his native land a match for me?What rare sport it shall be to make of this Hellayne a mock,and of her name a memory, and put Theodora's in its highplace. Do you doubt my power to do as I say?"

"Verily I do believe that you love this pilgrim," Basil saidsullenly. "And while I am preparing the quake that shalltumble Alberic's dominion into dust and oblivion, you aremaking him the happiest of mortals. And deem you I willstand by and see yon dotard reap the fruits of my endeavorsand revel where I, your slave, am starving for a look?"

"Well have you chosen the word, my lord—my slave!For then were Theodora indeed the puppet of a lust-bittensubject did she heed his mad ravings and his idle plaints.Know, my lord, that my love is his to whom I choose to giveit, his who gives to me that in return which I desire. Andthough I have drunk deep of the goblet of passion, never hasmy heart beat one jot the faster, nor has the fire in my soulbeen kindled until I met him whom this night I have summoned."

"And deem you, fairest Theodora, that the sainted pilgrimwill come?" Basil interposed with an evil leer.

An inscrutable smile curved Theodora's crimson lips.

"Let that be my affair, my lord, but—that everything maybe clear between us—know this: when I summoned him,after he had spurned me on the night when I intended to makehim the happiest of men, it was to torture him, to make amock of him, to arouse his passions till they overmasteredall else, till in very truth he forgot his God, his honor, and thewoman for whose kisses he does such noble penance—butnow—"

"But now?" came the echo from Basil's lips.

"Who says I shall not?" Theodora replied with her inscrutablesmile. "Who shall gainsay me? You—my lord?"

There was a strange light in Basil's eyes, kindled by hermockery.

"And when he kneels at your feet, drunk with passion—layingbare his soul in his mad infatuation—who shall preventthis dagger from drinking his heart's blood, even as hepeers into the portals of bliss?"

Theodora's eyes flashed lightnings.

"I shall kill you with my own hands, if you but dare buttouch one hair of his head," she said with a calm that wasmore terrible than any outburst of rage would have been."He is mine, to do with as I choose, and look well to it, mylord, that your shadow darken not the path between us.—ElseI shall demand of you such a reckoning as none whomay hear of it in after days shall dare thwart Theodora—eitherin love or in hate."

Basil's writhing form swayed to and fro; passion-tossed hetried in vain to speak when she raised her hand.

With a gesture of baffled wrath and rage Basil bowed low.A sudden light leaped into his eyes as he raised her hand tohis lips. Then he retreated into the shadow of the kiosk.

A moment later Tristan came within view, walking as onein a trance. Mechanically he passed towards the banquethall. Then he paused, seeming to wait for some signal fromwithin.

A hand stole into his and drew him resistlessly into theshadows.

"Why do you linger here? Behold where the moonlightcalls."

"Where is your mistress?" Tristan turned to the Circassian.

A strange smile played on Persephoné's lips.

"She awaits you in yonder kiosk," she replied, edgingclose to him. "Take care you do not thwart her though—forto-day she strikes to kill."

"It is well," Tristan replied. "It must come, and will beno more torture now than any other time."

Persephoné gave a strange smile, then she led him througha cypress avenue, at the remote end of which the marblekiosk gleamed white in the moonlight.

Pointing to it with white outstretched arm she gave him amock bow and returned to the palace.

His lips grimly set, Tristan, insensible to the beauty of thesummer night, strode down the flower-bordered path. Wovensheets of silvery moonlight, insubstantial and unreal, layupon the greensward. The sounds of distant lutes and harpssank down through the hot air. The sky was radiant withthe magic lustre of a great white moon, suspended like analabaster lamp in the deep azure overhead. Her rays invadedthe sombre bosquets, lighted the trellised rose-walks and castinto bold relief against the deep shadows of palm and ilexmany feathery fountain sprays, crowning flower-filled basinsof alabaster with whispering coolness.

The path was strewn with powdered sea shells and borderedon either side with rare plants, filling the air with exquisiteperfume. Between thickets of yellow tufted mimosa andleafy bowers of acacia shimmered the crystal surface of themarble cinctured lake, tinted with pale gold and shrouded bypearl-hued vapors.—Pink and white myrtles, golden-huedjonquils, rainbow tinted chrysanthema, purple rhododendrons,iris, lilac and magnolia mingled their odors in an almost disconcertingorgy, and rare orchids raised their glowing petalswith tropical gorgeousness from vases of verdigris bronze inthe moonlight.

At the entrance of the marble kiosk, there stood the immobileform of a woman, half hidden behind a cluster of bloomingorchids.

The silver light of the moon fell upon the pale features ofTheodora. Her gaze was fixed upon the dark avenue ofcypress trees, through which Tristan was swiftly approaching.

She stood there waiting for him, clad in misty white, likethe moonbeams, yet the byssus of her garb was no whiterthan was the throat that rose from the faultless trunk of herbody, no whiter than her wonderful hands and arms.

Tristan's lips tightened. He had come to claim the scarfand dagger. To-night should end it all. There was no placein his life for this woman whose beauty would be the undoingof him who gave himself up to its fatal spell.

As he stood before her, a gleam of moonlight on his broadshoulders, Theodora felt the blood recede to her heart, thewhile she gazed on his set, yet watchful face. His silenceseemed to numb her faculties and her voice sounded strangeas, extending her hand, she said:

"Welcome, my Lord Tristan."

He bowed low, barely touching the soft white fingers.

"The Lady Theodora has been pleased to summon me andI have obeyed. I am here to claim the dagger which wastaken from me and the scarf of blue samite."

Theodora glanced at him for a moment, the blood drummingin her ears and driving a coherent answer from her mind,while Tristan met her gaze without flinching, with the memoryof Hellayne in his heart.

"Presently will I reveal this matter to you, my Lord Tristan,"she said at last. "Meanwhile sit you here beside me—forthe night is hot, and I have waited long for your coming."

For a moment Tristan hesitated, then he took his seatbeside her on the marble bench, his brain afire, as he musedon all the treachery her soft bosom held.

"You look strangely at me, Tristan," she said in a lowtone, dropping all formality, "almost as if it gave you painto sit beside me. Yet I cannot think that a man like you hasnever rested beside a beautiful woman in an hour of solitudeand passion."

A laugh, soft as the music of the Castalian fountain, fell onTristan's ear, but as he sat without answer, she continued,her face very close to his:

"Strange, indeed, my words may sound in your ears,Tristan—and yet—can it be that you are blind as well asdeaf to the call of the Goddess of Love, who rules us all?"

She paused, her lips ajar, her eyes alight with a strangefire, such as he had seen therein on the night in the sunkengardens, beyond the glimmering lake.

"And what have I to give to you, Lady Theodora," he said atlength. "What can you expect from me, the giving of whichwould not turn my honor to disgrace and my strength towater?"

At his words she rose up and, towering her glorious womanhoodabove him, glided behind the marble bench and, leaninghot hands upon his shoulders, bent low her head, till strandsof perfumed hair rested on his tense features.

"Do you love power, Tristan?" she said with low, yetvibrant voice. "I tell you that, if you give yourself to me,there are no heights to which the lover of Theodora may notclimb. The way lies open from camp to palace, from swordto sceptre, and, though the aim be high, at least it is worththe risk. Steep is the path, but, though attainment seemsimpossible, I tell you it is the wings of love that shall raise youand bid you soar to flights of glory and rapture. I offer youa kingdom, if you will but lay your sword at my feet and yetmore besides, for, Tristan, I offer you myself."

The perfumed head bent lower and the scented cloud fellmore thickly upon him as he sat there, dazed and enchantedout of all powers of resistance by the misty sapphire eyes thatgleamed amid it, and seemed to drag his soul from out ofhim. Now his head was pillowed on her soft bosom and herwhite arms were about him, while lingering kisses burnt onhis unresponsive lips, when suddenly she faced round with acry, for there, directly before them in the clearing, stood awoman, whose gleaming white robe, untouched by any color,save that of the violet band that bound it round her shoulders,seemed one with the sun-kissed hair, tied into a simple knot.

Hellayne stood there as if deprived of motion, her blueeyes wide with horror and pain, her curved lips parted, as ifto speak, though no sound came from them, until Tristanturned and, as their glances met, he gave a strangled groanand buried his face in his hands.

Theodora stood immobile, with blazing eyes and terribleface, then she clapped her hands twice and at the sound twoeunuchs appeared and stood motionless awaiting their mistress'behest. For apace there was silence, while Theodoraglanced from the one to the other, quivering from head tofoot with the violence of the passion that possessed her,casting anon a glance at Tristan who stood silent, with bowedhead.

At length she glided up to him and, as she laid her twowhite hands on his broad shoulders, Tristan shuddered andfelt a longing to make an end of all her evil beauty anddevilish cunning. Then, deliberately, she took the scarf ofblue samite, which lay beside her and put her foot upon it.

"This is very precious to you, Tristan, is it not?" she saidin her sweet voice, while her witching eyes sank into his."I was about to tell you how you might serve me, and deserveall the happiness that is in store for you when I was interruptedby the appearance of this woman. Can you tell me,who she is, and why she is regarding you so strangely?"

As she spoke she turned slowly towards Hellayne whoseface was pale as death.

A spasm of rage shook Tristan, at the sight of the womanwho regarded him out of wide, pitiful eyes, but even as helonged to pierce the heart of her who was striving to wreckall he held dear, Odo of Cluny's warning seemed to clear hisbrain of the rage and hate that was clouding it, and in thatinstant he knew, if he played his part, he held in his handthe last throw in the dread game, of which Rome was thepawn.

"In all things will I do your bidding, Lady Theodora,—forwho can withstand your beauty and your enchantment?"said a voice that seemed not part of himself.

Theodora turned to Hellayne.

"You have heard the words the Lord Tristan has spoken,"she said in veiled tone of mockery. "Tell me now, did younot know that I was engaged upon matters of state when youintruded yourself into our presence?"

For a moment the blue eyes of Hellayne flashed swordswith the dark orbs of Theodora. There was a silence andthe two women read each other's inmost thoughts, Hellaynemeeting Theodora's contemptuous scorn with the keen lookof one who has seen her peril and has nerved herself to meetit.

To Tristan she did not even vouchsafe a glance.

"I followed one, perjured and forsworn," she said in tonesthat cut Tristan's very soul, while a look of immeasurablecontempt flashed from her blue eyes. "You are welcome tohim, Lady Theodora. I do not even envy you his memory."

Ere Theodora could reply, Hellayne, with a choking sob,turned and fled down the moonlit path like some huntedthing, and ere either realized what had happened she hadvanished in the night.

Tristan, dreading the worst, his soul bruised in its innermostdepths, cursing himself for having permitted any considerationexcept Hellayne's life to interfere with his preconceivedplans, started to follow, when Theodora, guessing hispurpose, suddenly barred his way.

Ere he could prevent, she had thrown her arms about himand her face upturned to his stormy brow she whispereddeliriously, utterly oblivious of two eyes that burnt from theirsockets like live coals:

"I love you! I love you!" and her whole being seemedablaze with the fire of an all-devouring passion. "Tristan,I love you with a love so idolatrous, that I could slay you withthese hands rather than be spurned, be denied by you. Loveme Tristan—love me! And I shall give you such love inreturn as mortals have never known. I am as one in a trance—Icannot see—I cannot think! I, the woman born tocommand—am begging—imploring—I care not what youdo with me—what becomes of me. Take me!—I amyours—body and soul!"

Her face was lighted up by the pale rays of the moon.But, though his senses were steeped in a delirium that almosttook from him his manhood, the gloom but deepened onTristan's brow, while with moist hungry lips she kissed him,again and again.

At last, seemingly on the verge of merging his whole beinginto her own, he succeeded in extricating himself from thesteely coils of those white arms.

"Lady Theodora," he said in cold and constrained tones,"I am too poor to return even in part such priceless favors ofthe Lady Theodora's love!"

Stung in her innermost soul by his words, trembling fromhead to foot with the violence of her emotions, she panted ina passion of anger and shame.

"You dare? This to me? Since then you will not loveme—take this—"

Above him, in her hand, gleamed his own unsheatheddagger.

Tristan with a supple movement caught the white wrist andwrenched the weapon from her.

"The Lady Theodora is always true to herself," he saidwith cutting irony, retreating from her in the direction of thelake.

She threw out her arms.

"Tristan—Tristan—forgive me! Come back—I amnot myself."

He paused.

"And were you Aphrodite, I should spurn your love,—Ishould refuse to kiss the lips, which a slave, a churl hasdefiled."

"You spurn me," she laughed deliriously. "Perchance,you are right. And yet," she added in a sadder tone, "howoften does fate but grant us the dream and destroy thereality. Go—ere I forget, and do what I may repent of.Go! My brain is on fire. I know not what I am saying.Go!"

As Tristan turned without response, a gleam of deadlyhatred shone from her eyes. For a long time she stoodmotionless by the kiosk, staring as one in a trance down thelong cypress avenue, whose shadows had swallowed upTristan's retreating form.

The spectral rays of the moon broke here and therethrough the dense, leafy canopy, and dream-like the distantsounds of harps and flutes were wafted through the stillnessof the starlit southern night.

CHAPTER IX
THE NET OF THE FOWLER

The appearance of Basil whohad emerged from the kioskand regarded Theodora with alook in his pale, passion distortedfeatures that seemed tolight up recesses in his ownheart and soul which he himselfhad never fathomed, caused thewoman to turn. But she lookedat the man with an almost unknowingstare. Notwithstanding a self-control which sherarely lost, she had not found herself. The incredible hadhappened. When she seemed absolutely sure of the man,he had denied her. Her ruse had been her undoing. ForHellayne's presence had been neither accidental, nor hadHellayne herself brought it about. The messenger who hadsummoned Tristan had skillfully absolved both commissions.He was to have brought the woman to the tryst, that she might,with her own eyes, witness her rival's triumph. In her flightshe had vanquished Theodora.

Stealthily as a snake moves in the grass, Basil came nearerand nearer. When he had reached Theodora's side he tookthe white hand and raised it, unresisting, to his lips. His eyessought those of the woman, but a moment or two elapsed ereshe seemed even to note his presence.

He bent low. There was love, passion, adoration in hiseyes and there was more. Theodora had over-acted herpart. He had seen the fire in her eyes and he knew. It wasmore than the determination to make Tristan pliable to herdesires in the great hour when she was to enter Castel SanAngelo as mistress of Rome. He saw the abyss that yawnedat his own feet, and in that moment two resolves had shapedthemselves in Basil's mind, shadowy, but gaining definiteshape with each passing moment, and, while his fevered lipstouched Theodora's hand, all the evil passions in his natureleaped into his brain.

Suddenly Theodora, glancing down at him, as if she for thefirst time noted his presence, spoke.

"Acknowledge, my lord, that I have attained my ends!For, had it not been for the appearance of that woman, Ishould have conquered—ay—conquered beyond a doubt."

But when she looked at him she hardly recognized in himthe man she knew, so terribly had rage and jealousy distortedhis countenance.

"How can I gainsay that you have conquered, fairest Theodora,"he said, "when I heard the soft accents of your endearmentsand your panting breath, as you drowned his soul infiery kisses? 'Tis but another poor fool swallowed up in theunsatisfied whirlpool of your desires, another victim markedfor the holocaust that is to be. But why did the Lady Theodoracry out and bring the tender love scene to a close allunfinished?"

"By pale Hekaté, I had almost forgot the woman! Whydid I permit her to go without strangling her on the spot?"she cried, the growing anger which the man's speech hadaroused, brought to white heat in the reminder.

"The honor of being strangled by the fair hands of theLady Theodora may be great," sneered Basil. "Yet I questionif the Lady Hellayne would submit without a struggleeven to so fair an opponent."

"Why do you taunt me?" Theodora flashed.

"Why?" he cried. "Because I witnessed another reapingthe fruit of the deeds I have sown—another stealing from methe love of the woman I have possessed,—one, too, held insilken bondage by another's wife. Rather would I plungethis knife into my own heart and—"

Theodora's bosom heaved convulsively.

"Put up your dagger, my lord," she said, with a wave ofher hand. "For, ere long, it shall drink its fill. Strange it isthat I—the like of whose beauty, as they tell me, is not onearth—should be conquered by a woman from the North—thatthe fires of the South should be quenched by Northernice. I could almost wish that matters had run differentlybetween her and myself, for she is brave, else had she notfaced me as she did."

"What else can you look for, Lady Theodora, from onesprung from such a race?" replied the man sullenly. "Itell you, Lady Theodora, if you do not ward yourself againsther, she will vanquish you utterly, body and soul."

"The future shall decide between us. I am still Theodora,and it will go hard with you, if you interpret my will accordingto your own desires. I foresee that we shall have need of allour resources when the hour tolls that shall see Theodora setupon the throne that is her own, and then—let deeds speak,not words."

"Since when have you found occasion to doubt the surenessof my blade, Lady Theodora?" answered Basil, a darklook in his furtive eyes.

"Peace, my lord!" interposed Theodora. "Why do youraise up the ghost of that which has been between us? Burythe past, for the last throw that is in the hands of destinyends the game which has been played round this city of Romethese many weary days."

"And had you, Theodora, of a truth won over this Tristan,"came the dark reply, "so that one hour's delight in your armswould have caused him to forget the world about him—whatof me who has given to you the love, the devotion of a slave?"

At the words Theodora flung wide her shimmering armsand cried:

"I tell you, my lord, that as I hold you and every mancaptive on whom my charms have fallen, so shall I hold inchains the soul of this Tristan, even though he resist—tothe last."

"Full well do I know the potency of your spell," answeredBasil with lowering eyes, "and, I doubt me, if such is the case.Nevertheless, I warn you, Lady Theodora, not to place toogreat a share of this desperate venture on the shoulders ofone you have never proved."

A contemptuous smile curved Theodora's lips as she rosefrom her seat. With a single sweep her draperies fell fromher like mist from a snow-clad peak, and for the space of amoment there was silence, broken only by Basil's pantingbreath. At last Theodora spoke.

"Man's honor is so much chaff for the burning, when thedarts of love pierce his brain. With beauty's weapons I havefought before, and once again the victory shall be mine!"

There was an ominous light in Basil's eyes.

"Beware, lest the victory be not purchased with the bloodof one whom your fickleness has chosen to sit in the emptyseat of the discarded. At the bidding of a mad passion haveyou been defeated."

A flood of words surged irresistibly to Basil's lips, but atthe sight of Theodora's set face the words froze in the utterance.But when the woman stared into space, her faceshowing no sign that she had even heard his speech, he continued:

"And when you are stretched out on a bed of torment andcall for death to ease your pain, let the bitterest pang be that,had you enlisted my blade and cherished the devotion I boreyou, this night's work would have set the seal of victory onour perilous venture."

"Blinded I have been," said Theodora, a strange lightleaping to her eyes, "to all the devotion which now I begin tofathom more clearly. Answer me then, my lord! Is it onlyto slake the pangs of mad jealousy that you taunt me withwords which no man has dared to speak—and live?"

The sheen of a drawn dagger flashed above his head.Basil faced the death that lurked in Theodora's uplifted armand he replied in an unmoved voice:

"Lady Theodora, if you harbor one single doubt in yourmind of him who has worked your will on those you consignedto their doom and laid their proud heads low in the dust ofthe grave, let your blade descend and quit me according towhat I have deserved. Nay—Lady Theodora," he continued,as her white arm still hovered tense above him, "it isquite evident your love I never had, your trust I have lost!Therefore send my soul to the dim realms of the underworld,for I have no longer any desire for life."

He was gazing up at her with eyes full of passionate devotion,when of a sudden the blade dropped from her grasp,tinkling on the stone beneath, and, burying her face in herhands, Theodora burst into an agony of tears that shook herform with piteous sobbing.

"By all the saints, dear lady, weep not," Basil pleaded,placing gentle hands upon her shoulders. "Rather let yourdagger do its work and drink my blood, than that grief shouldthus undo you."

"Truly had some evil spirit entered into me," she spokeat length in broken accents, "else had I not so madly suspectedone whose devotion to me has never wavered. Canyou forgive me, my lord, most trusted and doubted of myfriends?"

With a fierce outcry the man cast himself at her feet, and,bending low, kissed her hands, while, in tones, hoarse withpassion, he stammered:

"Let me then prove my love, Lady Theodora, most beautifulof all women on earth! Set the task! Show me how towin back that which I have lost! Let me become your utterslave."

And, so saying, he swept the unresisting woman into hisgrasp, and as her body lay motionless against his breast thesight of her lips so close to his own sent the hot blood hurtlingthrough his fevered brain.

Theodora shuddered in his embrace.

He kissed her, again and again, and her wet lips roused inhim all the demoniacal passions of his nature.

"Speak," he stammered, "what must I do to prove to youthe love which is in my heart—the passion that burns mysoul to crisp, as the fires of hell the souls of the damned?"

Theodora's eyes were closed, as if she hesitated to speakthe words that her lips had framed. He, Tristan, had broughther to this pass. He had denied, insulted her, he had madea mock of her in the eyes of this man, who was kneeling ather feet, bond slave of his passions. By his side no taskwould have seemed too great of accomplishment. And whateverthe fruits of her plotting he was to have shared them.How she hated him; and how she hated that woman who hadcome between them. As for him whose stammering wordsof love tumbled from his drunken lips, Theodora could havedriven her poniard through his heart without wincing in theact.

"If you love me then, as you say," she whispered at last,"revenge me on him who has put this slight upon me!"

A baleful light shone in Basil's eyes.

"He dies this very night."

She raised her hands with a shudder.

"No—no! Not a quick death! He would die as anotherchanges his garment—with a smile.—No! Not a quickdeath! Let him live, but wish he were dead a thousandtimes. Strike him through his honor. Strike him throughthe woman he loves."

For a pace Basil was silent. Could Theodora have read histhoughts at this moment the weapon would not have droppedfrom her nerveless grasp.

"Ah!" he said, and a film seemed to pass over his eyes inthe utterance. "There is nothing that shall be left undone—throughhis honor—through the woman he loves."

She utterly abandoned herself to him now, suffering hisendearments and kisses like a thing of stone and therebyrousing his passions to their highest pitch. She could havestrangled him like a poisonous reptile that defiled her body,but, after having suffered his embrace for a time, she suddenlyshook herself free of him.

"My lord—what of our plans? How much longer mustI wait ere the clarions announce to Rome that the Emperor'sTomb harbors a new mistress? What of Alberic? What ofHassan Abdullah, the Saracen?"

Basil was regarding her with a mixture of savage passion,doubt, incredulity and something like fear.

"The death-hounds are on Alberic's scent," he said atlast, with an effort to steady his voice, and hold in leash hisfeelings, which threatened to master him, as his eyes devouredthe woman's beauty.—"Hassan Abdullah is even now inRome."

"Can we rely upon him and his Saracens when the hourtolls that shall see Theodora mistress of Rome?"

"Weighing a sack of gold against the infidel's treachery,it is safe to predict that the scales will tip in favor of the bribe—soit be large enough."

"Be lavish with him, and if his heart be set on other matters—"

She paused, regarding the man with an inscrutable look.Shrewd as he was, he caught not its meaning.

"Why not entrust to his care the Lady Hellayne?"

The devilish suggestion seemed to find not as enthusiastica reception as she had anticipated.

"After having seen the Lady Theodora," Basil said, hiseyes avoiding those of the woman, "I fear the Lady Hellaynewill appear poor in Hassan Abdullah's eyes."

Theodora had grown pensive.

"I do not think so. To me she seemed like a snow-cappedvolcano. All ice without, all fire within. Perchance I shouldbow to your better judgment, my lord, and perchance toHassan Abdullah's, whose good taste in preferring the LadyTheodora cannot be gainsaid. But, our guests are becomingimpatient. Take me to the palace."

Basil barred the woman's way.

"And when you have reached the summit of your desire,will you remember certain nuptials consummated in a certainchamber in the Emperor's Tomb, between two placed as weare and mated as we?"

Theodora's lips curved in one of those rare smiles whichbrought him to whom she gave it to her feet, her abject slave.

"I shall remember, my lord," she said, and, linking herarm in his, they strode towards the palace.

CHAPTER X
DEVIL WORSHIP

The dawn of the following daybrought in its wake consternationand terror. From thechurches of the two EgyptianMartyrs, Sts. Cosmas andDamian, the Holy Host hadbeen taken during the precedingnight. Frightened beyondmeasure, the ministering priestshad suffered the terrible secretto leak out, and this circumstance, coupled with the unexplainedabsence of the Senator, the tardiness of the Prefectto start his investigations, and the captivity of the Pontiff,threw the Romans into a panic. It was impossible to guardevery church in Rome against a similar outrage, as the guardsof the Senator were inadequate in number, and, consistingchiefly of foreign elements, could not be relied upon.

The early hours of the morning found Tristan in the hermitageof Odo of Cluny. To him he confided the incidentsof the night and his adventure in the Catacombs. To him healso imparted the terrible discovery he had made.

Odo of Cluny listened in silence, his face betraying no signof the emotion he felt. When Tristan had concluded hisaccount he regarded him long and earnestly.

"I, too, have long known that all is not well, that there issomething brewing in this witches' cauldron which may notstand the light of day.—"

"But what is it?" cried Tristan. "Tell me, Father, for agreat fear as of some horrible danger is upon me; a fear Icannot define and which yet will not leave me."

Odo's face was calm and grave. The Benedictine monkhad been listening intently, but with a detached interest, asto some tale which, even if it concerned himself, could notin the least disturb his equanimity. With his supernormalquickness of perception he knew at once the powers withwhich he had to cope. Tristan had told him of the devilishface in the panel during the night of his first watch at theLateran.

"The powers of Evil at work are so great that only a miraclefrom heaven can save us," he said at last. "Listen well,and lose not a word of what I am about to say. Have youever heard of one Mani, who lived in Babylonia some sevenhundred years ago and founded a religion in which he professedto blend the teachings of Christ with the cult of theold Persian Magi?"

A negative gesture came in response. Tristan's face wastense with anxiety. Odo continued:

"According to his teachings there exist two kingdoms:the kingdom of Light and the kingdom of Darkness. Lightrepresents the beneficent primal spirit: God. Darkness islikewise a spiritual kingdom: Satan and his demons wereborn from the kingdom of Darkness. These two kingdomshave stood opposed to each other from all eternity—touchingeach other's boundaries, yet remaining unmingled. At lastSatan began to rage and made an incursion into the kingdomof Light. Now, the God of Light begat the primal man andsent him, equipped with the five pure elements, to fight againstSatan. But the latter proved himself the stronger, and theprimal man was, for the time, vanquished. In time the cultof the Manichæans spread. The seat of the Manichæanpope was for centuries at Samarkand. From there, defyingpersecutions, the sect spread, and obtained a foothold innorthern Africa at the time of St. Augustine. Thence it slowlyinvaded Italy."

Tristan listened with deep attention.

"The original creed had meanwhile been split up intonumerous sects," Odo of Cluny continued. "The followersof Mani believed there were two Gods,—the one of Light,the other of Darkness, both equally powerful in their separatekingdoms. But lately one by the name of Bogumil proclaimsthat God never created the world, that Christ had not anactual body, that he neither could have been born, nor thathe died, that our bodies are evil, a foul excrescence, as itwere, of the evil principle. Maintaining that God had twosons—Satan the older and Christ the younger—they refusehomage to the latter, Regent of the Celestial World, and worshipLucifer. And they hold meetings and perform diabolicalceremonies, in which they make wafers of ashes and drinkthe blood of a goat, which their devil-priests administer tothem in communion."

Odo of Cluny paused and took a long breath, fixing Tristanwith his dark eyes. And when Tristan, stark with horror,dared not trust himself to speak, Odo concluded:

"This is the peril that confronts us! And Holy Churchis without a head, and the cardinals cannot cope with the terriblescourge. It is this you saw, my son, and, had your presencebeen discovered, you would never again have greetedthe light of day."

At last Tristan found his tongue.

"God forbid that there should be such a thing, that menshould worship the Fiend."

"Nevertheless they do," Odo replied, "and other thingstoo awful for mortal mind to credit."

The perspiration came out on Tristan's brow. Althoughhe was prepared for matters of infinite moment and knewthat this interview might well be one of the decisive momentsof his life, he yet possessed the detached attitude of mindwhich was curious of strange learning and information, evenin a crisis.

"And you have known this, Father?" he said at last, "andyou have done nothing to check the evil?"

"We are living in evil times, my son," Odo replied. "Ihave long known of the existence of this black heresy, whichhas slowly spread its baleful cult, until it has reached our veryshores. But that they would dare to establish themselves inthe city of the Apostle, this I was not prepared to accept, untilthe terrible crime at the Lateran removed the last doubt.And now I know that the foul thing has obtained a footinghere, and more than that, I know that some high in powerare affiliated with this society of Satan, that would establishthe reign of Lucifer among the Seven Hills. Did you nottell me, my son, of one, terrible of aspect, who peered throughthe panel in the Capella Palatina on the night of that firstand most horrible outrage?"

"One who looked as the Fiend might look, did he assumehuman guise," Tristan confirmed with a nod.

"The high priest of Satan," Odo returned, "a familiar ofblack magic—the most terrible of all heinous crimes againstHoly Church. A wave of crime is rolling its crimson tideover the Eternal City such as the annals of the Church havenever recorded. It started in the reign of Marozia, andTheodora is leagued with the fiend, as was her sister beforeher."

Odo paused for a moment, breathing deep, while Tristanlistened spellbound.

"Have you ever pondered," he continued with slow emphasis,"why the Lord Alberic entrusted to you, a stranger, soimportant a post as the command of the Emperor's Tomb?That there may be one he does not trust and who that onemay be?"

Tristan gave a start.

"There is one I do not trust—one who seems to wraphimself in a poison mist of evil—the Lord Basil."

"Be wary and circumspect. Has he of late come to theTomb?"

"Three days ago—in company with a stranger from theNorth—one I may not meet and again look upon heaven."

"The woman's husband?" Odo queried with a penetratingglance.

Tristan colored.

"How these two met I cannot fathom."

"Remember one thing, my son, their alliance portends evilto some one. What did they in the crypts?"

"The Lord Basil seems to have taken a fancy to exploringthe cells," Tristan replied. "Those who have followed himreport that he holds strange converse with the ghost of somemad monk whom he starved into eternity."

"And this converse—what is its subject?" Odo queriedwith awakening interest.

"A prophecy and a woman," Tristan replied. "Thoughthose who heard them were so terror stricken at their infectiousmadness that they fled—not daring to tarry longer lestthey would find themselves in the clutches of the fiend."

"A prophecy and a woman," Odo repeated pensively."The Lord Alberic has confided much in me—his fears—hisdoubts! For even he knows not, how his mother came toher untimely end."

"The Lady Marozia?"

"The tale is known to you?"

"Rumors—flimsy—intangible—"

"One night she was mysteriously strangled. The LordAlberic was almost beside himself. But the mystery remainedunsolved."

After a pause Odo continued:

"I, too, have not been idle. We must lull them in security!We must appear utterly paralyzed. Our terror will increasetheir boldness. Their ultimate object is still hidden. Wemust be wary. The Lord Alberic must be informed. Wemust spike the bait."

"I have despatched a trusty messenger in the guise of apeasant to the shrine of the Archangel," Tristan interposed.

"God grant that he arrive not too late," Odo replied."And now, my son, listen to my words. A great soul and astout heart must he have who sets himself to such a task asis before you! We are surrounded by the very fiends ofHell in human guise. Speak to no one of what you haveseen. If you are in need of counsel, come to me!"

Odo raised his hands, pronouncing a silent blessing overthe kneeling visitor and Tristan departed, dazed and trembling,wide-eyed and with pallid lips.

As he passed Mount Aventine the dark-robed form of ahunchback suddenly rose like a ghost from the ground besidehim and, approaching Tristan, muttered some words in anunintelligible jargon. Believing he was dealing with a beggar,Tristan was about to dismiss the ill-favored gnome with agift, which the latter refused, motioning to Tristan to inclinehis ear.

With an ill-concealed gesture of impatience Tristan complied,but his strange interlocutor had hardly delivered himselfof his message when Tristan recoiled as if he had seen a snakein the grass before him, every vestige of color fading from hisface.

"At the Lateran?" he chokingly replied to the whisperedconfidence of the hunchback.

The latter nodded.

"At the Lateran."

Ere Tristan could recover from his surprise, his informanthad disappeared among the ruins.

For some time he stood as if rooted to the spot.

It was too monstrous—too unbelievable and yet—whatcould prompt his informant to invent so terrible a tale?

At midnight, two nights hence, the consecrated wafer wasto be taken from the tabernacle in the Lateran!

Perchance he had spoken even to one of the sect who had,at the last moment, repented of his share in the contemplatedoutrage.

If it were granted to him to deliver Rome and the world fromthis terror! A strange fire gleamed in his eyes as he returnedto Castel San Angelo.

Himself, he would keep the watch at the Lateran and foilthe plot.

CHAPTER XI
BY LETHE'S SHORES

Basil the Grand Chamberlainwas giving one of his renownedfeasts in his villa on the PincianMount. But on this evening hehad limited the number of hisguests to two score. On hisright sat Roger de Laval, theguest of honor, on his left theLady Hellayne. Over the companystretched a canopy of clothof gold. The chairs were of gilt bronze, their arms werecarved in elaborate arabesques. The dishes were of gold;the cups inlaid with jewels. There was gayety and laughter.Far into the night they caroused.

Hellayne's face was the only apprehensive one at the board.She was pale and worn, and her countenance betrayed herreluctance to be present at a feast into the spirit of which shecould not enter. She was dimly conscious of the fact thatBasil devoured her with his eyes and her lord seemed to findmore suited entertainment with the other women who werepresent than with his own wife. Only by threats and coercionhad he prevailed upon her to attend the Grand Chamberlain'sbanquet. With a brutality that was part of his coarse naturehe now left her to shift for herself, and she tolerated Basil'sunmistakable insinuations only from a sense of utter helplessness.

Her beauty had indeed aroused the host's passion to apoint where he threw caution to the winds. The exquisiteface, framed in a wealth of golden hair, the deep blue eyes,the marble whiteness of the skin, the faultless contours ofher form—an ensemble utterly opposed to the darker Romantype—had aroused in him desires which soon swept awaythe thin veneer of dissimulation and filled Hellayne with asecret dread which she endeavored to control. Her thoughtswere with the man by whom she believed herself betrayed,and while life seemed to hold nothing that would repay herfor enduring any longer the secret agonies that overwhelmedher, it was to guard her honor that her wits were sharpenedand, believing in the adage that danger, when bravely faced,disappears, she entered, though with a heavy heart, into thevagaries of Basil, but, like a premonition of evil, her dreadincreased with every moment.

And now the host announced to his guests his intention ofleaving Rome on the morrow for his estate in the Rocca,where an overpunctilious overseer demanded his presence.

Raising his goblet he pledged the beautiful wife of theCount de Laval. It was a toast that was eagerly received andresponded to, and even Hellayne was forced to appear joyous,for all that her heart was on the point of breaking.

She raised her goblet, a beautiful chased cup of gold, inacknowledgment. But she did not see the ill-omened smilethat flitted over the thin lips of Basil, and she wished forTristan as she had never wished for him before.

After a time the guests quitted the banquet hall for themoonlit garden, and Basil's attentions became more andmore insistent. It was in vain Hellayne's eyes strained forher lord. He was not to be found.—

It was on the following morning when the horrible newsaroused the Romans that the young wife of the strange lordfrom Provence had, during the night, suddenly died at thebanquet of the Grand Chamberlain. From a friar whom hechanced to pass on his way to the Lateran Tristan receivedthe first news.

Fra Geronimo's face was white as death, and his limbsshook as with a palsy. He had been the confessor of theLady Hellayne, the only visitor allowed to come near her.

"Have you heard the tidings?" he cried in a quaveringvoice, on beholding Tristan.

"What tidings?" Tristan returned, struck by the horror inthe friar's face.

"The Lady Hellayne is dead!" he said with a sob.

Tristan stared at him as if a thunderbolt had cleft theground beside him. For a moment he seemed bereft ofunderstanding.

"Dead?" he gasped with a choking sensation. "Whatis it you say?"

"Well may you doubt your ears," the friar sobbed. "ButMater Sanctissima, it is the truth! Madonna Hellayne isdead. They found her dead—early this morning—in thevineyard of the Lord Basil."

"In the vineyard of the Lord Basil?" came back the echofrom Tristan's lips.

"There was a feast, lasting well into the night. The LadyHellayne took suddenly ill. They fetched a mediciner. Whenhe arrived it was all over."

"God of Heaven! Where is she now?"

"They conveyed her to the palace of the Lord Laval, toprepare her for interment."

Without a word Tristan started to break away from thefriar, his head in a whirl, his senses benumbed. The lattercaught him betime.

"What would you do?"

Tristan stared at him as one suddenly gone mad.

"I will see her."

"It is impossible!" the friar replied. "You cannot seeher."

From Tristan's eyes came a glare that would have dauntedmany a one of greater physical prowess than his informant.

"Cannot? Who is to prevent me?"

"The man whom fate gave her for mate," replied the friar.

"That dog—"

"A brawl in the presence of death? Would you thus dishonorher memory? Would she wish it so?"

For a moment Tristan stared at the man before him as ifhe heard some message from afar, the meaning of which hebut faintly guessed.

Then a blinding rush of tears came to his eyes. Heshook with the agony of his grief regardless of those whopassed and paused and wondered, while the friar's words ofcomfort and solace fell on unmindful ears.

At last, heedless of his companion, heedless of his surroundings,heedless of everything, he rushed away to seeksolitude, where he would not see a human face, not hear ahuman voice.

He must be alone with his grief, alone with his Maker. Itseemed to him he was going mad. It was all too monstrous,too terrible, too unbelievable.

How was it possible that one so young, so strong, so beautiful,should die?

Friar Geronimo knew not. But his gaze had caused Tristanto shiver as in an ague.

He remembered the discourse of Basil and his companionin the galleries of the Emperor's Tomb.

Twice was he on the point of warning Hellayne not toattend Basil's banquet.

Each time something had intervened. The warning hadremained unspoken.

Would she have heeded it?

He gave a groan of anguish.

Hellayne was dead! That was the one all absorbing factwhich had taken possession of him, blotting out every otherthought, every other consideration.

She was dead—dead—dead! The hideous phraseboomed again and again through his distracted mind. Comparedwith that overwhelming catastrophe what signified theHour, the Why and the When. She was dead—dead—dead!

For hours he sat alone in the solitudes of Mount Aventine,where no prying eyes would witness his grief. And thestorm which had arisen and swept the Seven Hilled City withthe vehemence of a tropical hurricane seemed but a feebleecho of the tempest that raged within his soul.

She was dead—dead—dead. The waves of the Tiberseemed to shout it as they leapt up and dashed their foamagainst the rocky declivities of the Mount of Cloisters. Thewind seemed now to moan it piteously, now to shriek itfiercely, as it scudded by, wrapping its invisible coils abouthim and seeming intent on tearing him from his resting place.

Towards evening he rose and, skirting the heights, descendedinto the city, dishevelled and bedraggled, yet caringnothing what spectacle he might afford. And presently agrim procession overtook the solitary rambler, and at thesight of the black, cowled and visored forms that advancedin the lurid light of the waxen tapers, Tristan knelt in thestreet with head bowed till her body had been borne past.No one heeded him. They carried her to the church of SantaMaria in Cosmedin, and thither he followed presently, and,in the shadow of one of the pillars of the aisle, he crouched,while the monks chanted the funeral psalms.

The singing ended the friars departed, and those who hadformed the cortege began to leave the church. In an hourhe was alone, alone with the beloved dead, and there on hisknees he remained, and no one knew whether, during thathorrid hour, he prayed or blasphemed.

It may have been toward the third hour of the night whenTristan staggered up, stiff and cramped, from the cold stone.Slowly, in a half-dazed condition, he walked down the aisleand gained the door of the church. He tried to open it, butit resisted his efforts, and he realized it was locked for thenight.

The appreciation of his position afforded him not theslightest dismay. On the contrary, his feelings were ratherof relief. At least there was none other to share his grief!He had not known whither he should repair, so distracted washis mind, and now chance or fate had settled the matter forhim by decreeing that he should remain.

Tristan turned and slowly paced back, until he stoodbeside the great, black catafalque, at each corner of which atall wax taper was burning. His steps rang with a hollowsound through the vast, gloomy spaces of the cold and emptychurch. But these were not matters to occupy his mind insuch a season, no more than the damp, chill air which permeatedevery nook and corner. Of all of these he remainedunconscious in the absorbing anguish that possessed his soul.

Near the foot of the bier there was a bench, and there hetook his seat and, resting his elbows on his knees, took hisdishevelled head between his trembling hands. His thoughtswere all of her whose poor, murdered clay lay encased abovehim. In turn he reviewed each scene of his life where it hadtouched upon her own. He evoked every word she hadspoken to him since they had again met on that memorablenight.

Thus he sat, clenching his hands and torturing his dull inertbrain while the night wore slowly on. Later a still morefrenzied mood obsessed him, a burning desire to look oncemore upon the sweet face he had loved so well. What wasthere to prevent him? Who was there to gainsay him?

He arose and uttered aloud the challenge in his madness.His voice echoed mournfully along the aisles and the soundof the echoes chilled him, though his purpose gatheredstrength.

Tristan advanced, and, after a moment's pause, with thesilver embroidered hem of the pall in his hands, suddenlyswept off that mantle of black cloth, setting up such a gust ofwind as all but quenched the tapers. He caught up thebench upon which he had been sitting and, dragging it forward,mounted it and stood, his chest on a level with thecoffin lid. His trembling hands fumbled along its surface.He found it unfastened. Without thought or care how hewent about the thing, he raised it and let it crash to theground. It fell on the stone flags with a noise like thunder,booming and reverberating through the gloomy vaults.

A form all in purest white lay there beneath his gaze, theface covered by a white veil. With deepest reverence, anda prayer to her departed soul to forgive the desecration of hisloving hands, he tremblingly drew the veil aside.

How beautiful she was in the calm peace of death! Shelay there like one gently sleeping, the faintest smile upon herlips, and, as he gazed, it was hard to believe that she wastruly dead. Her lips had lost nothing of their natural color.They were as red as he had ever seen them in life.

How could this be?

The lips of the dead are wont to assume a livid hue.

Tristan stared for a moment, his awe and grief almosteffaced by the intensity of his wonder. This face, so ivorypale, wore not the ashen aspect of one that would never wakeagain. There was a warmth about that pallor. And then hebit his nether lip until it bled, and it seemed a miracle that hedid not scream, seeing how overwrought were his senses.

For it had seemed to him that the draperies on her bosomhad slightly moved, in a gentle, almost imperceptible heave,as if she breathed. He looked—and there it came again!

God! What madness had seized upon him, that his eyesshould so deceive him! It was the draught that stirred theair about the church, and blew great shrouds of wax downthe taper's yellow sides. He manned himself to a more sobermood and looked again.

And now his doubts were all dispelled. He knew that hehad mastered any errant fancy, and that his eyes were grownwise and discriminating, and he knew, too, that she lived!Her bosom slowly rose and fell; the color of her lips, the hueof her cheek, confirmed the assurance that she breathed!

He paused a second to ponder. That morning her appearancehad been such that the mediciner had been deceived byit and had pronounced her dead. Yet now there were signsof life! What could it portend, but that the effects of apoison were passing off and that she was recovering?

In the first wild excess of joy, that sent the blood tinglingand beating through his brain, his first impulse was to runfor help. Then Tristan bethought himself of the closed doorsand he realized that, no matter how loudly he shouted, no onewould hear him. He must succour her himself as best hecould, and meanwhile she must be protected from the chillnight air of the church, cold as the air of a tomb. He had hiscloak, a heavy serviceable garment, and, if more were needed,there was the pall which he had removed, and which lay in aheap about the legs of the bench.

Leaning forward Tristan slowly passed his hand under herhead and gently raised it. Then, slipping it downward, hethrust his arm after it, until he had her round the waist in afirm grip. Thus he raised her from the coffin, and the warmthof her body on his arms, the ready bending of her limbs,were so many added proofs that she lived.

Gently and reverently Tristan raised the supple form inhis arms, an intoxication of almost divine joy pervading himas the prayers fell faster from his lips than they had eversince he had recited them on his mother's knee. He laid heron the bench, while he divested himself of the cloak.

Suddenly he paused and stood listening with bated breath.

Steps were approaching from without.

Tristan's first impulse was to rush towards the door,shouting his tidings and imploring assistance. Then, asudden, almost instinctive dread caught and chilled him.Who was it that came at such an hour? What would anyone seek in the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin at deadof night? Was the church indeed their goal, or were theybut chance passers-by?

That last question remained not long unanswered. Thesteps came nearer. They paused before the door. Somethingheavy was hurled against it. Then some one spoke.

"It is locked, Tebaldo! Get out your tools and force it!"

Tristan's wits were working at fever pace. It may havebeen that he was swift of thought beyond any ordinary man,or it may have been a flash of inspiration, or a conclusion towhich he leapt by instinct. But in that moment the wholeproblematical plot was revealed to him. Poisoned forsoothshe had been, but by a drug that but produced for a time theoutward appearance of death, so truly simulated as even todeceive the most learned of doctors. Tristan had heard ofsuch poisons, and here, in very truth, was one of them atwork. Some one, no doubt, intended secretly to bear heroff. And to-morrow, when men found a broken church doorand a violated bier, they would set the sacrilege down tosome wizard who had need of the body for his dark practices.

Tristan cursed himself in that dark hour. Had he butpeered earlier into her coffin while yet there might have beentime to save her. And now? The sweat stood out in beadsupon his brow. At that door there were, to judge by thesound of their footsteps and voices, some five or six men.For a weapon he had only his dagger. What could he do todefend her? Basil's plans would suffer no defeat through hisdiscovery when to-morrow the sacrilege was revealed. Hisown body, lying cold and stark beside the desolated bier,would be but an incident in the work of profanation theywould find; an item that in no wise could modify the conclusionat which they would naturally arrive.

CHAPTER XII
THE DEATH WATCH

A strange and mysteriousthing is the working of terroron the human mind. Some itrenders incapable of thought oraction, paralyzing their limbsand stagnating the blood intheir veins; such creatures diein anticipating death. Others,under the stress of that grimemotion have their wits preternaturallysharpened. The instinct of self-preservationassumes command and urges them to swift and feverishaction.

After a moment of terrible suspense Tristan's hands felllimply beside him. At the next he was himself again. Hischeeks were livid, his lips bloodless. But his hands weresteady and his wits under control.

Concealment—concealment for Hellayne and himself—wasthe thing that now imported, and no sooner was thethought conceived than the means were devised. Slendermeans they were, yet since they were the best the placeafforded, he must trust to them without demurring, and prayto God that the intruders might lack the wit to search. Andwith that fresh hope it came to him that he must find a wayas to make them believe that to search would be a waste ofeffort.

The odds against him lay in the little time at his disposal.Yet a little time there was. The door was stout, and thoseoutside might not resort to violent means to break it openlest the noise arouse the street.

With what tools the sbirri were at work he could not guess,but surely they must be such as to leave him but a fewmoments. Already they had begun. He could distinguisha crunching sound as of steel biting into wood.

Swiftly and silently Tristan set to work. Like a ghost heglided round the coffin's side, where the lid was lying. Heraised it and, after he had deposited Hellayne on the ground,mounted the bench and replaced it. Next he gathered upthe cumbrous pall and, mounting the bench once more, spreadit over the coffin. This way and that he pulled it, until itappeared undisturbed as when he had entered.

What time he toiled, the half of his mind intent upon histask, the other half was as intent upon the progress of theworkers at the door.

At last it was done. Tristan replaced the bench at thefoot of the catafalque and, gathering up the woman in hisarms, as though her weight had been that of a feather, hebore her swiftly out of the radius of the four tapers into theblack, impenetrable gloom beyond. On he sped towards thehigh altar, flying now as men fly in evil dreams, with thesensation of an enemy upon them, and their progress a merestand still.

Thus he gained the chancel, stumbling against the railingas he passed, and pausing for an instant, wondering whetherthose outside had heard. But the grinding sound continuedand he breathed more freely. He mounted the altar stairs,the distant light behind him feebly guiding him on, then heran round to the right and heaved a great sigh of relief uponfinding his hopes realized. The altar stood a pace or sofrom the wall, and behind it there was just such a concealmentas he had hoped to find.

Tristan paused at the mouth of that black well, and evenas he paused something that gave out a metallic sound,dropped at the far end of the church. Intuition informedhim that it was the lock which the miscreants had cut fromthe door. He waited no longer, but like a deer scudding tocover, plunged into the dark abyss.

Hellayne, wrapped in his cloak, as she was, he placed onthe ground, then crept forward on hands and knees andthrust out his head, trusting to the darkness to conceal him.

He waited thus for a time, his heart beating almost audiblyin the intermittent silence, his head and face on fire with thefever of sudden reaction.

From his point of vantage it was impossible for Tristan tosee the door that was hidden in the black gloom. Away inthe centre of the church, an island of light in that vast wellof blackness, stood the catafalque with its four waxen tapers.Something creaked, and almost immediately he saw theflames of those tapers bend toward him, beaten over by thegust that smote them from the door. Thus he surmised thatTebaldo and his men had entered. Their soft foot-fall, forthey were treading lightly now, succeeded, and at last theytook shape, shadowy at first, then clearly defined, as theyemerged within the circle of the light.

For a moment they stood in half whispered conversation,their voices a mere boom of sound in which no words wereto be distinguished. Then Tristan saw Tebaldo step forward,and by his side another he knew by his great height—Gamba,the deposed captain. Tebaldo dragged away, even as Tristanhad done, the pall that hid the coffin. Next he seizedthe bench and gave a brisk order to his men.

"Spread a cloth!"

In obedience to his command, the four who were with himspread a cloak among them, each holding one of its corners.Apparently they intended to carry away the dead body inthis manner.

The sbirro now mounted the bench and started to removethe coffin lid, when a blasphemous cry of rage broke fromhis lips that defied utterly the sanctity of the place.

"By the body of Christ! The coffin is empty!"—

It was the roar of an enraged beast and was succeeded bya heavy crash, as he let fall the coffin lid. A second later asecond crash waked the midnight echoes of that silent place.

In a burst of maniacal fury he had hurled the coffin fromits trestles.

Then he leaped down from the bench and flung all cautionto the winds in the rage that possessed him.

"It is a trick of the devil," he shouted. "They have laida trap for us, and you have never even informed yourselves."

There was foam about the corners of his mouth, the veinshad swollen on his forehead, and from the mad bulging ofhis eyes spoke fury and abject terror. Bully as Tebaldo was,he could, on occasion, become a coward.

"Away!" he shouted to his men. "Look to your weapons!Away!"

Gamba muttered something under his breath, words thelistener's ear could not catch. If it were a suggestion thatthe church should be searched, ere they abandoned it! ButTebaldo's answer speedily relieved his fears.

"I'll take no chances," he barked. "Let us go separately.Myself first and do you follow and get clear of this quarter asbest you may."

Scarcely had the echoes of his footsteps died away, erethe others followed in a rush, fearful of being caught insome trap that was here laid for them, and restrained fromflying on the instant but by their still greater fear of theirmaster.

Thanking Heaven for this miraculous deliverance, and forhis own foresight in so arranging matters as to utterly misleadthe ravishers, Tristan now devoted his whole attention toHellayne. Her breathing had become deeper and moreregular, so that in all respects she resembled one sunk intohealthful slumber. He hoped she would waken before theelapse of many moments, for to try to bear her away in hisarms would have been sheer madness. And now it occurredto him that he should have restoratives ready for the time ofher regaining consciousness. Inspiration suggested to himthe wine that should be stored in the sacristy for altarpurposes. It was unconsecrated, and there could be no sacrilegein using it.

He crept round to the front of the altar. At the angle acandle branch protruded at the height of his head. It heldsome three or four tapers and was so placed as to enable thepriest to read his missal at early Mass on dark winter mornings.Tristan plucked one of the candles from its socket and,hastening down the church, lighted it from one of the burningtapers of the bier. Screening it with his hand he retracedhis steps and regained the chancel. Then, turning to theleft, he made for a door which gave access to the sacristy.It yielded and he passed down a short, stone flagged passageand entered a spacious chamber beyond.

An oak settle was placed against one wall, and above ithung an enormous, rudely carved crucifix. On a bench in acorner stood a basin and ewer of metal, while a few vestments,suspended beside these, completed the appointments of theaustere and white-washed chamber. Placing his candle ona cupboard, he opened one of the drawers. It was full ofgarments of different kinds, among which he noticed severalmonks' habits. Tristan rummaged to the bottom, only tofind therein some odd pairs of sandals.

Disappointed, Tristan closed the drawer and tried another,with no better fortune. Here were undervests of fine linen,newly washed and fragrant with rosemary. He abandonedthe chest and gave his attention to the cupboard. It waslocked, but the key was there. Tristan's candle reflected ablaze of gold and silver vessels, consecrated chalices, andseveral richly carved ciboria of solid gold, set with preciousstones. But in a corner he discovered a dark brown, gourd-shapedobject. It was a skin of wine and, with a half-suppressedcry of joy, he seized upon it.

At that moment a piercing scream rang through the stillnessof the church and startled him so that for some moments hestood frozen with terror, a hundred wild conjectures leapinginto his brain.

Had the ruffians remained hidden in the church? Hadthey returned? Did the screams imply that Hellayne hadbeen awakened by their hands?

A second time it came, and now it seemed to break thehideous spell that its first utterance had cast over him.Dropping the leathern bottle he sped back, down the stonepassage to the door that abutted on the church.

There, by the high altar, Tristan saw a form that seemedat first but a phantom, in which he presently recognizedHellayne, the dim rays of the distant tapers searching outthe white robe with which her limbs were draped. She wasalone, and he knew at once that it was but the natural fearconsequent upon awakening in such a place, that had evokedthe cry he had heard.

"Hellayne!" he called, advancing swiftly to reassure her."Hellayne!"

There was a gasp, a moment's silence.

"Tristan?" she cried questioningly. "What hashappened? Why am I here?"

He was beside her now and found her trembling like anaspen.

"Something horrible has happened, my Hellayne," hereplied. "But it is over now, and the evil is averted."

"What is it?" she insisted, pale as death. "Why am Ihere?"

"You shall learn presently."

He stooped, to gather up the cloak, which had slipped fromher shoulders.

"Do you wrap this about you," he urged, assisting her withhis own hands. "Are you faint, Hellayne?"

"I scarce know," she answered, in a frightened voice."There is a black horror upon me. Tell me," she imploredagain, "Why am I here? What does it all mean?"

He drew her away now, promising to tell her everythingonce she were out of these forbidding surroundings. Heassisted her to the sacristy and, seating her upon a settle,produced the wine skin. At first she babbled like a child, ofnot being thirsty, but he insisted.

"It is not a matter of quenching your thirst, dearest Hellayne.The wine will warm and revive you! Come, dearest—drink!"

She obeyed him now, and having got the first gulp downher throat, she took a long draught, which soon produced ahealthier color, driving the ashen pallor from her cheeks.

"I am cold, Tristan," she shuddered.

He turned to the drawer in which he had espied the monks'habits and pulling one out, held it for her to put on. She satthere now in that garment of coarse black cloth, the cowlflung back upon her shoulder, the fairest postulant that everentered upon a novitiate.

"You are good to me, Tristan," she murmured plaintively,"and I have used you very ill! You do not love that otherwoman?" She paused, passing her hand across her brow.

"Only you, dearest—only you!"

"What is the hour?" she turned to him suddenly.

It was a matter he left unheeded. He bade her braceherself, and take courage to listen to what he was about totell. He assured her that the horror of it all was passed andthat she had naught to fear.

"But—how came I here?" she cried. "I must have lainin a swoon, for I remember nothing."

And then her quick mind, leaping to a reasonable conclusion,and assisted perhaps by the memory of the shatteredcatafalque which she had seen, her eyes dilating with acurious affright as they were turned upon his own, she askedof a sudden:

"Did you believe that I was dead?"

"Yes," he replied with an unnatural calm in his voice."Every one believed you were dead, Hellayne."

And with this he told her the entire story of what hadbefallen, saving only his own part therein, nor did he try toexplain his own opportune presence in the church. When hespoke of the coming of Tebaldo and his men she shudderedand closed her eyes. Only after he had concluded his taledid she turn them full upon him. Their brightness seemedto increase, and now he saw that she was weeping.

"And you were there to save me, Tristan?" she murmuredbrokenly. "Oh, Tristan, it seems that you are ever at handwhen I have need of you! You are, indeed, my one truefriend—the one true friend that never fails me!"

"Are you feeling stronger, Hellayne?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes—I am stronger!"

She rose as if to test her strength.

"Indeed little ails me save the horror of this thing. Thethought of it seems to turn me sick and dizzy."

"Sit then and rest!" he enjoined. "Presently, when youfeel equal to it, we shall start out!"

"Whither shall we go?" she asked.

"Why—to the abode of your liege lord."

"Why—yes—" she answered at length, as though it hadbeen the last suggestion she had expected. "And when hereturns," she added, after a pause, "he will owe you no smallthanks for your solicitude on my behalf."

There was a pause. A hundred thoughts thronged Tristan'smind.

Presently she spoke again.

"Tristan," she inquired very gently, "what was it thatbrought you to the church?"

"I came with the others, Hellayne," he replied, and,fearing such questions as might follow—questions he hadbeen dreading ever since he brought her to the sacristy, hesaid:

"If you are recovered, we had better set out."

"I am not yet sufficiently recovered," she replied. "And,before we go, there are a few points in this strange adventurethat I would have you make clear to me! Meanwhile weare very well here! If the good fathers do come upon us,what shall it signify?"—

Tristan groaned inwardly and grew more afraid than whenBasil's men had broken into the church an hour ago.

"What detained you after all had gone?"

"I remained to pray," he answered, with a sense of irritationat her persistence. "What else was there to do in achurch?"

"To pray for me?"

"Assuredly."

"Dear, faithful heart," she murmured. "And I have usedyou so cruelly. But you merited my cruelty—Tristan!Say that you did, else must I perish of remorse."

"Perchance I deserved it," he replied. "But perchancenot so much as you bestowed, had you understood my motives,"he said unguardedly.

"If I had understood your motives?" she mused. "Ay—thereis much I do not understand! Even in this night'sbusiness there are not wanting things that remain mysterious,despite the elucidations you have supplied. Tell me, Tristan—whatwas it that caused you to believe, that I still lived?"

"I did not believe it," he blundered like a fool, neverseeing whither her question led.

"You did not?" she cried, with deep surprise, and now,when it was too late, he understood. "What was it thenthat induced you, to lift the coffin lid?"—

"You ask me more than I can tell you," he answeredalmost roughly, for fear lest the monks would come at anymoment.

She looked at him with eyes that were singularly luminous.

"But I must know," she insisted. "Have I not theright? Tell me now! Was it that you wished to see myface once more before they gave me over to the grave?"

"Perchance it was, Hellayne," he answered. Then hesuggested their going, but she never heeded his anxiety.

"Do you love me then so much, dearest Tristan?"

He swung round to her now, and he knew that his face waswhite, whiter than the woman's had been when he had seenher in the coffin. His eyes seemed to burn in their sockets.A madness seized upon him and completely mastered him.He had undergone so much that day of grief, and that nightthe victim of a hundred emotions, that he no longercontrolled himself. As it was, her words robbed him of the lastlingering restraint.

"Love you?" he replied, in a voice that was unlike hisown. "You are dearer to me than all I have, all I am, all Iever hope to be! You are the guardian angel of my existence,the saint to whom I have turned mornings and eveningsin my prayers! I love you more than life!"

He paused, staggered by his own climax. The thought ofwhat he had said and what the consequences must be, rushedsuddenly upon him. He shivered as a man may shiver inwaking from a trance. He dropped upon his knees beforeher.

"Forgive," he entreated. "Forgive—and forget!"

"Neither forgive nor forget will I," came her voice,charged with an ineffable sweetness, such as he had neverbefore heard from her lips, and her hands lay softly on hisbowed head as if she would bless and soothe him. "I amconscious of no offence that craves forgiveness, and whatyou have said to me I would not forget if I could. Whencesprings this fear of yours, dear Tristan? Has not he towhom I once bound myself in a thoughtless moment, hewho never understood, or cared to understand my nature,he whose cruelty and neglect have made me what I am to-day,lost every right, human or divine? Am I more than a womanand are you less than a man that you should tremble for theconfession which, in a wild moment, I have dragged fromyou? For that wild moment I shall be thankful to my life'send, for your words have been the sweetest that my poorears have ever listened to. I count you the truest friend andthe noblest lover the world has ever known. Need it surpriseyou then, that I love you, and that mine would be ahappy life if I might spend it in growing worthy of this noblelove of yours?"

There was a choking sensation in his throat and tears inhis eyes. Transport the blackest soul from among thedamned in Hell, wash it white of its sins and seat it uponone of the glorious thrones of Heaven,—such were theemotions that surged through his soul. At last he found histongue.

"Dearest," he said, "bethink yourself of what you say!You are still his wife—and the Church grants no severanceof the bonds that have united two for better or worse."

"Then shall we see the Holy Father. He is just and hewill be merciful. Will you take me, Tristan, no matter towhat odd shifts a cruel Fortune may drive us? Will you takeme?"

She held his face between her palms and forced his eyesto meet her eyes.

"Will you take me, Tristan?" she said again.

"Hellayne—"

It was all he could say.

Then a great sadness overwhelmed him, a tide that sweptthe frail bark of happiness high and dry upon the shores ofblack despair.

"To-morrow, Hellayne, you will be what you were yesterday."

"I have thought of that," she said, a slight flutter in hertone. "But—Hellayne is dead.—We must so dispose thatthey will let her rest in peace."—

CHAPTER XIII
THE CONVENT IN TRASTEVERE

He stared at her speechless, sotaken was he with the immensityof the thing she had suggested.Fear, wonder, joyseemed to contend for themastery.

"Why do you look at me so,Tristan?" she said at last."What is it that daunts you?"

"But how is this thing possible?" he stammered, still in a stateof bewilderment.

"What difficulty does it present?" she returned. "TheLord Basil himself has rendered very possible what I suggest.We may look on him to-morrow as our best friend—"

"But Tebaldo knows," he interposed.

"True! Deem you, he will dare to tell the world what heknows? He might be asked to tell how he came by hisknowledge. And that might prove a difficult question toanswer. Tell me, Tristan," she continued, "if he hadsucceeded in carrying me away, what deem you would havebeen said to-morrow in Rome when the coffin was foundempty?"—

"They would naturally assume that your body had beenstolen by some wizard or some daring doctor of anatomy."

"Ah! And if we were quietly to quit the church and beclear of Rome before morning—would not the same besaid?"

He pondered a while, staggered by the immensity of therisk, when suddenly a memory flashed through his mind thatleft his limbs numb as if they had been paralyzed by a thunderbolt.

It was the night on which the terrible crime at the Lateranwas to be committed. Even now it could not be far from themidnight hour. Did he dare, even for the consideration ofthe greatest happiness which the world and life had to give,to forego his duty towards the Church and the Senator of

Hellayne noted his hesitancy.

"Why do you waste precious moments, Tristan?" shequeried. "Is it that you do not love me enough?"

A negative gesture came in response, and his eyes told hermore than words could have expressed.

At last he spoke.

"If I hesitate," he said, trying to avoid the real issue,instead of stating it without circumlocution, "it is because Iwould not have you do now of what, hereafter, you mightrepent. I would not have you be misled by the impulse of amoment into an act whose consequences must endure whilelife endures."

"Is that the reasoning of love?" she said very quietly."Is this cold argument, this weighing of issues consistentwith the hot passion you professed so lately?"

"It is," he replied. "It is because I love you more thanI love myself, that I would have you ponder, ere you adventureyour life upon a broken raft such as mine. You are stillthe wife of another."

"No!" she replied, her eyes preternaturally brilliant in theintensity of her emotion. "Hellayne, the wife of Roger deLaval, is dead—as dead to him, as if she in reality werebedded in the coffin. Where is he? Where is the man whoshould have been where you are, Tristan? I venture to sayhis grief did not overburden him. He will find ready consolationin the arms of another for the wife who was to himbut the plaything of his idle hours. He never loved me! Heeven threatened to shut me up within convent walls for therest of my days if I did not return with him—his mistress,—hiswife but in a name, a thing to submit to his loathsomekisses and caresses, while her soul is another's. He himselfand death, which perchance he himself decreed, havesevered bonds no persuasion would have tempted me tobreak. Tristan, I am yours—take me."

She held out her beautiful arms.

He was in mortal torment.

"Nevertheless, Hellayne, to-night of all nights it may notbe—" he stammered. "Listen, dearest—"

"Enough!" she silenced him, as she rose. She swepttowards him and, before he knew it, her hands were on hisshoulders, her face upturned, her blue eyes holding his own,depriving him of will and resistance.

"Tristan," she said, and there was an intensity almostfierce in her tones, "moments are fleeting, and you standthere reasoning with me and bidding me weigh what alreadyis weighed for all time. Will you wait until escape is renderedimpossible, until we are discovered, before you willdecide to save me and to grasp with both hands the happinessthat is yours; this happiness that is not twice offered in alifetime?"

She was so close to him that he could almost feel thebeating of her heart. He was now as wax in her hands.Forgotten were all considerations of rank and station. Theywere just man and woman whose fates were linked togetherirrevocably. Under the sway of an impulse he could notresist, he kissed her upturned face, her lips, her eyes. Thenhe broke from her clasp and, bracing himself for the task towhich they stood committed by that act, he said, the wordstumbling from his lips:

"Hellayne, we know not who is abroad to-night. Weknow not what dangers are lurking in the shadows. Tebaldoand his men may even now be scouring the streets of Romefor a fugitive, and once in their power all the saints could notsave us from our doom. I know not the object of this plotof which you were the victim, and even the Lord Roger maybe but the dupe of another. I will take you to the conventof the Blessed Sisters of Santa Maria in Trastevere, thatyou may dwell there in safety until I have ascertained thatall danger is past. You shall enter as my sister, trying toescape the attention of an unwelcome suitor. But the thingthat chiefly exercises my mind now is how to make our escapeunobserved."

Hellayne nodded dreamily.

"I have thought of it already."

"You have thought of it?" he replied. "And of whathave you thought?"

For answer she stepped back a pace and drew the cowl ofthe monk's habit over her head until her features were lostin the shadows. Her meaning was clear to him at once.With a cry of relief he turned to the drawer whence he hadtaken the habit in which she was arrayed and, selectinganother, he hastily donned it above the garments he wore.

No sooner was it done than he caught her by the arm.

There was no time to be lost. Moments were flying.

If he should be too late at the Lateran!

"Come!" he said in an urgent voice.

At the first step she stumbled. The habit was so longthat it cumbered her feet. But that was a difficulty soonovercome. Without regarding the omen, he cut with hisdagger a piece from the skirt, enough to leave her freedomof movement and, this accomplished, they set out.

They crossed the church swiftly and silently, then enteredthe porch, where he left her in order to peer out upon thestreet. All was quiet. Rome was wrapt in sleep. From themoon he gleaned it wanted less than an hour to midnight.

Drawing their cowls about their faces, they abandoned themain streets, Tristan conducting his charge through narrowalleys, deserted of the living. These lanes were dark andsteep, the moonlight being unable to penetrate the chasmsformed between the tall, ill-favored houses. They stumbledfrequently, and in some places he carried her almost bodily,to avoid the filth of the quarter they were traversing.

The night was solemn and beautiful. Myriads of starspaved the deep vault of heaven. The moon, now in herzenith, hung like a silver lamp in the midst of them; a streamof quivering, rosy light, issuing from the north, traversed thesky like the tail of some stupendous comet, sending forth,ever and anon, corruscations like flaming meteors.

At last they reached the Transtiberine region and theconvent of Santa Maria in Trastevere hove into sight. Therange of habitations around were in a ruinous state and thewhole aspect of the region was so dismal as to encouragebut few ramblers to venture there after nightfall.

Passing through the ill-famed quarter of the Sclavonians,where, in after time, one of the blackest crimes in history wascommitted, Tristan and Hellayne at last arrived before thegates of the convent. They had spoken but little, dreadingeven the faintest echo of their footsteps might bring a pursueron their track. Their summons for admission was,after a considerable wait, answered by the porter of thegate, who, upon seeing two monks, relinquished his stationby the wicket and descended to inquire into their behest.

Hellayne shrank up to Tristan, as the latter stated theirpurpose and the old monk, unable to understand the jargonof his belated caller, withdrew, mumbling some equally unintelligiblereply.

Hellayne's eyes were those of a frightened deer.

"What will he do, Tristan?" she whispered, "Oh, Tristan,do not leave me! I feel I shall never see you again,Tristan—my love—take me away—I am afraid—"

He held her close to him.

"There is nothing to fear, my Hellayne! To-morrow nightI shall return and place you safely where we may see eachother till I have absolved my duties to the Senator. Do notfear, sweetheart! Of all the abodes in Rome the sanctity ofthe convent is inviolate! But I hear steps approaching—someone is coming. Courage, dearest—remember howmuch is at stake!"

Another moment and they stood before the Abbess ofSanta Maria in Trastevere.

Summoning all his presence of mind, Tristan told his taleand made his request. Danger lurking in the infatuation ofa Roman noble was threatening his sister. She had fledfrom his innuendos and begged the convent's asylum for abrief space of time, when he, Tristan, would claim her. Heexplained Hellayne's attire, and the Abbess, raising thewoman's head, looked long and earnestly into her face.

What she saw seemed to confirm of the truth of Tristan'sspeech, and she agreed readily to his request. Tristankissed Hellayne on the brow, then, after a brief and affectionatefarewell and the assurance that he would return on thefollowing day, he left her in charge of the Blessed Sisters.With a sob she followed the Abbess and the gates shut behindthem.

For a moment Tristan felt as if all the world about him wassinking into a dark bottomless pit.

Then, suppressing an outcry of anguish, his winged feetbore him across Rome towards the Basilica of St. John inLateran.

CHAPTER XIV
THE PHANTOM OF THE LATERAN

It still lacked a few minutes ofmidnight when Tristan arrivedat the Lateran. The guard hadbeen set in all the chapels, ason the night when he had keptthe watch before.

Without confiding his purposeto any one, he traversed thesilent corridors until he came tothe chapel where he was towatch all night.

The men-at-arms were posted outside the door. A lampwas burning in the corridor, and strict orders had been giventhat no person whatsoever was to pass into the chapel.

After assuring himself that all was secure, Tristan seatedhimself in a chair which stood in the centre of the chapel.

The place was dim and ghostly. A red lamp burnt beforethe Blessed Sacrament, and from the roof of the chapel hunganother lamp of bronze. The light was turned low, but itthrew a slight radiance upon portions of the mosaic of the floor.

Tristan unbuckled his sword and placed it ready to hand.The whole of the Basilica was hushed in sleep. There was aheaviness and oppression in the air, and no sound broke thestillness in the courts of the palace.

Memory flared up and down like the light of a lamp, asTristan pondered over the changes and vicissitudes of hislife, with all its miseries and heart-aches, as he thought ofthe future and of Hellayne. Danger encompassed them onevery side. But there had been even greater terrors whenhe had plucked her from the very grip of Death, from themidst of her foes.

And then he began to pray, pray for Hellayne's happinessand safety, and his whispering voice sounded as if a dry leafwas being blown over the marble floor, and when it ceasedthe silence fell over him like a cloak, enveloping him in itsheavy, stifling folds.

He had been on guard in the Lateran before, but thesilence had never seemed so deep as it was now. His mind,heated and filled with the events of the past days, would notbe tranquil. And yet there was a deadly fascination in thisprofound silence, in which it seemed his own mind and theriot of his thoughts were living and awake.

What, if even now some lurking danger were approachingthrough the thousand corridors and anterooms of the palace!For on this night the enemies of Christ were abroad, silentlyunfurling the sable banners of Hell.

The thought was almost unbearable. It was not fearwhich Tristan felt, rather a restlessness he was unable tocontrol. Although the night was no hotter than usual, perspirationbegan to break out upon his face, and he felt athirst.The fumes of incense that permeated the chapel, increasedhis drowsiness.

With something of an effort Tristan strode to the door andopened it. In the corridor two men-at-arms were on guard,one standing against the wall, the other walking slowly toand fro. The men reported that all was well, and that noone had passed that way. Tristan closed the door andreturned inside. He walked up the chapel's length andthen, his drawn sword beside him on the marble, knelt inprayer before the Blessed Sacrament which he had come toguard.

There, for a little, his confused and restless mind foundpeace.

But not for long.

A drowsiness more heavy and insistent than any he hadever known began to assail him. It billowed into his brain,wave after wave. It assailed him with an irresistible, physicalassault. He fought against it despairingly and hopelessly,knowing that he would be vanquished. Once, twice, swordin hand, as though the long blade could help him in the fight,he staggered up and down the chapel. Then, with a smotheredgroan, he sank into the chair, the sword slipping fromhis grasp. He felt as if deep waters were closing over him.There was a sound like dim and distant drums in his ears, asensation of sinking, lower, ever lower,—then utter oblivion.

And now silence reigned, silence more intense than hismind had ever known.

The red lamp burned before the Host. The lamp in thecentre of the chapel threw a dim radiance upon the bowedform of Tristan, whose sword crossed the mosaics of thefloor.

Silence there was in the whole circuit of the Lateran.

Even the Blessed Father, prisoner in his own chamber,was asleep. The domestic prelates, the whole vast ecclesiasticalcourt were wrapt in deep repose.

In the chapel of St. Luke the silence was broken by thedeep breathing of Tristan. It was not the breathing of a manin healthy sleep. It was a long-drawn catching at the breath,then once more a difficult inhalation. The men-at-arms outsidein the corridor heard nothing of it. The sound wasconfined to the interior alone.

The ceiling of the chapel was painted, and the various panelswere divided by gilded oak beadings.

Almost in the centre, directly above where Tristan reposedin leaden slumber, was a panel some two feet square, whichrepresented in faint and faded colors the martyrdom of St.Sebastian.

Suddenly, without a sound, the panel parted.

If the sleeper had been awake he would have seen almostat his feet a swaying ladder of silk rope, which for a momentor two hissed back and forth over the tesselated floor.

Now the dark square in the painted ceiling became faintlyillumined. In its dim oblong a formless shape centred itself.The faint hiss from the end of the silken rope ladder recommencedand down the ladder from the roof of the chapeldescended a formless spectre, with incredible swiftness, withincredible silence.

The spider had dropped from the centre of its web. It hadchosen the time well. It was upon its business.

The trembling of the rope ladder ceased. Without a soundthe black figure emerged into the pale light thrown by thecentral lamp. The figure was horrible. It was robed indeepest black, and as it made a quick bird-like movement ofthe head, the face, plucked as from some deadly nightmare,was so awful that it seemed well that Tristan was unconscious.

The High Priest of Satan stood in the chapel of the Lateran.His quick, dexterous fingers ran over Tristan's sleeping form.Then he nodded approvingly.

There was a soft pattering of steps and now the black formpassed out of the circle of light and emerged into the redlight of the lamp, which burned before the altar.

Above, upon the embroidered frontal, were the curtains ofwhite silk edged with gold—the gates of the tabernacle.

A long, lean arm, hardly more than a bone, drew apart thecurtains. Mingling with the heavy breathing of the sleepingman there was a sharp sound, most startling in the intensesilence.

It was a bestial snarl of satisfaction. It was followed byabominable chirpings of triumph, cold, inhuman, but real.

Tristan slept on. The men-at-arms kept their faithfulwatch. In the whole of the Lateran Palace no one knewthat the High Priest of Satan was prowling through the precinctsand had seized upon his awful prey.

He thrust the Holy Host into a silver box, and placedit next to his bosom. Then he drew a wafer of the exactsize and shape of the stolen Host from the pocket of hisrobe. Gliding over to Tristan he thrust this unconsecratedwafer into his doublet.

Then the black bat-like thing mounted to the ceiling. Thelemon-colored light reappeared for a moment. In its glarethe dark phantom looked terrific, like a fiend from Hell. Therope ladder moved silently upwards, and the painted panelwith the arrow-pierced Sebastian dropped soundlessly intoits place.

The red lamp burnt in front of the tabernacle. But thechapel was empty now.

At dawn the unexpected happened.

The guards, expecting to be relieved, found themselvesface to face with a special commission, come to visit theLateran. It consisted of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna,the Cardinal of Orvieto, the Prefect of the Camera and Basilthe Grand Chamberlain.

After having made the rounds they at last arrived beforethe chapel of St. Luke. They found the two men-at-armsstationed at the door, alert at their post. The men wereexhausted; their faces appeared grey and drawn in the morninglight, but they reported that no one had passed into thechapel, nor had they seen anything of Tristan since midnight,when he had questioned them.

The doors of the chapel were locked. Tristan held thekeys. Repeated knocks elicited no response.

The Archbishop of Ravenna looked anxiously at the Prefectof the Camera.

"I do not like this, Messer Salviati," he said in a lowvoice. "I fear there is something wrong here."

"Beat upon the door more loudly," the Prefect turned toone of the halberdiers, and the man struck the solid oakwith the staff of his axe, till the whole corridor, filled with theghostly advance light of dawn, rang and echoed with thenoise.

The Prefect of the Camera turned to the Archbishop.

"It would seem the Capitano has fallen asleep. That isnot a thing he ought to have done—but as the chapel seemsinviolate we need hardly remain longer."

And he looked inquiringly at the Grand Chamberlain.

The latter shook his head dubiously.

"I fear the Capitano can hardly be asleep, since we havecalled him so loudly," he said, looking from the one to theother. "I would suggest that the door of the chapel beforced."

They were some time about it. The door was of massiveoak, the lock well made and true. A man-at-arms had beendespatched to another part of the Lateran to bring a locksmithwho, for nearly half an hour, toiled at his task.

It was accomplished at last and the four entered the chapel.

It stretched before them, long, narrow, almost fantastic inthe grey light of morning.

The painted ceiling above held no color now. The mosaicsof the floor were dead and lifeless. In the centre of thechapel, with face unnaturally pale, sat Tristan, huddled up inthe velvet chair. By his side lay his naked sword.

The lamp which was suspended from the centre of theceiling had almost expired.

In front of the altar the wick, floating on the oil, in its bowl ofred glass, gave almost the only note of color against the grey.

As they entered the chapel, the four genuflected to thealtar. And while the Prefect and Basil went over to whereTristan was sleeping in his chair, and stood about withalarmed eyes, the Cardinal of Orvieto and the Archbishop ofRavenna approached the tabernacle with the proper reverences,parted the curtains and staggered back, indescribablehorror in their faces.

The Holy Host had disappeared.

The priests stared at each other in terror. What did itmean? Again the Body of Our Lord had been taken fromHis resting-place. The captain of the guard was asleep inhis chair. Verily the demons were at work once more andHell was loosed again.

The Archbishop of Ravenna began to weep. He coveredhis face with his hands. As he knelt upon the altar steps,great tears trickled through his trembling fingers, while hesent up prayers to the Almighty that this sacrilege might bediscovered and its perpetrators brought to justice. On eitherside of him knelt the priests who had come into the chapelafter them. Their hearts were filled with fear and sorrow.

The Cardinal of Ravenna rose at last.

His old, lean face shone with holy anger and sorrow.

"An expiatory service will be held in this chapel beforenoon," he addressed those present. "I shall myself sayMass here. Meanwhile the whole of the palace must bearoused. Somewhere the emissaries of Satan have in theirpossession the Blessed Sacrament. See that the secret Judasdoes not escape us!"

Almost upon his words there came a loud wail of anguishfrom the centre of the chapel where Tristan was still huddledin his chair.

Basil had opened the doublet at his neck, as if to give himair, and the Prefect of the Camera, who was standing by,clapped his hands to his temples, and groaned like a soul intorment.

The two ecclesiastics hurried down from the altar steps.

Upon the lining of Tristan's doublet there lay the largeround wafer, which every one present believed to be the consecratedHost.

The Cardinal-Archbishop reverently took the wafer fromTristan and held it up in two hands.

The men-at-arms sank to their knees with a rattle andring of accoutrement.

Every one knelt.

Then in improvised procession, His Eminence restored thewafer to the tabernacle.

Tristan was dragged out of the chapel.

In the corridor horror-stricken men-at-arms buffeted himinto some sort of consciousness. His bewildered ears caughtthe words: "To San Angelo," as he staggered between themen-at-arms as one in the thrall of an evil dream, leavingbehind him a nameless fear and horror among the monks,priests and attendants at the Lateran.

END OF BOOK THE THIRD

BOOK THE FOURTH

CHAPTER I
THE RETURN OF THE MOOR

In a domed chamber of theEmperor's Tomb there sat twopersonages engaged in whisperedconversation, Basil anda weird hooded phantom thatseemed part of the dread shadowswhich crowded in upon theroom, quenching the dying lightof day. Deep silence reigned.Only the monotonous tread ofthe sentries broke the stillness as they made the roundsabove them.

It was Basil who spoke.

"All is going well! We shall prevail! We shall set upthe throne of Ebony in the stead of the Cross. I bow to yourwisdom, my master! The promised reward shall not failyou!"

As he spoke, the thin, black arm of his vis-a-vis trembledfor a moment in the ample folds of his black gown. Then,with a quick, bird-like movement, a thin hand, twisted like aclaw, wrinkled and yellow, was stretched out towards theGrand Chamberlain.

On the second finger of this claw there was a ring. Basilbent and kissed it.

Basil began to speak in his ordinary, conversational tone,but there was a strange gleam in his eyes.

"It has been accomplished," he said. "They tell me allRome is astir!"

The voice that replied seemed to come from a great distance;the lips of the waxen face hardly moved. They parted,that was all.

"It has been done! I took it myself! It was the Hostwhich the Cardinal of Ravenna had consecrated on thatmorning."

"And you were not seen?"

"I was not," came the whispered reply. "As a measureof precaution I wore the mask which I use to go about thechurches at night. I met no one."

"Is it here?" Basil queried eagerly.

"It is not here," replied the voice. "It must be keptuntil the night of the great consecration, when Lucifer himselfshall sit upon the ebony throne and demand his bride—hisstainless dove. Where is she now?"

The light had faded out of Basil's eyes, and his face wasashen.

"One has been found, worthy of even as fastidious amaster as he, whom we both serve. Well-nigh had sheescaped us, had not one who never fails me tracked her onthat fatal night, when her body lay in her coffin ready to beconsecrated to the Nameless one."

From the eyeless sockets of the shadow-mask a phosphorescentgleam shot towards the Grand Chamberlain.

"What of the man?"

"The wafer was discovered on a certain captain of theguard who hath crossed my path to his undoing once toooften. The Church herself shall pronounce sentence upon him—throughme!"

"And—that other?"

There was a pause.

"Her husband!—He deems her dead, nor grieves heovermuch, believing, as he does, that her love was another's—evenhis whom I have marked for certain doom. I haveit in my mind to try what a jest will do for him."

The lurid tone of the speaker seemed to impress even hisshadowy companion.

"A jest?"

"He shall attend the great ceremony," Basil explained."And he shall behold the stainless dove. When is it to be?"he added after a pause.

"When is it to be?"

"Six nights hence—on the night of the full moon."

"And then you shall give to me that which I crave, andthe forfeit shall be paid."

"The forfeit shall be paid," the voice re-echoed from theshadows, and to Basil it seemed as if the damp, cold breathfrom an open grave had been wafted to his cheeks.

Like a phantom that sinks back into the night of the grave,whence it had emerged, Bessarion vanished from the chamber.In his place stood Hormazd, who had noiselesslyentered through a panel in the wall.

Basil greeted him with a silent nod.

"What of the messenger?" he turned to the Oriental.

"He returns within the hour," replied the voice.

"What are his tidings?" Basil queried eagerly. "IsAlberic in the land of shadows, where she dwells who gavehim birth?"

"Sent by the same relentless hand across the Styx," thecowled figure spoke, yet Basil knew not whether it was aquestion or a statement.

He gave a start.

"Tell me, how are secrets known to you at which Hellitself would pale?" he turned with unsteady tone to hiscompanion.

"Those of the shadows commune with the shadows,"came the enigmatical reply. "Is everything prepared?"

"When the brazen tongue from the Capitol tolls the hour,the blow shall fall," Basil replied. "Hassan Abdullah andhis Saracens are anchored off the port of Ostia. The Epirotesand Albanians in the Senator's service are bribed to our cause.Rome is in the throes of mortal terror. Even the Monk ofCluny is under the spell, and has ceased to arraign the ScarletWoman of Babylon. The dread of the impending judgmentday will succor our cause. And—once installed withinthese walls as master of Rome—with Theodora by myside—you shall have full sway, to do whatever your darkfancies may prompt. You shall have a chamber and a laboratoryand be at liberty to roam at will through your devil'skitchen."

The cowled figure gave a silent nod, but, before he couldspeak, the door leading into the chamber opened as from theeffect of a violent gust of wind, and a shapeless form, thatseemed half human, half ape, flew at Basil's feet, who recoiledas if a ghost had arisen before him from the floor.

For a moment Basil stared from Daoud the Moor to hisshadowy visitor, then he bade the runner arise and commandedhim in some Eastern tongue to unburden himself.

With many protestations of his devotion the monster produceda bundle which Basil had not noted, owing to theswiftness with which the African had entered the chamber.Panting, with deft, though trembling fingers, Daoud untiedthe cords and a bloody head, severed from its trunk, rolledupon the floor of the chamber, and lay still at Basil's feet. Ithad lost all human semblance and exhaled the putrid odor ofthe grave.

Basil started to his feet, staring from the Moor to Hormazd.

"Dead—" his pale lips stammered. Then, turning tohis dark companion, he added by way of encouragement tohimself:

"You gave me truth!"

Daoud was cowering on the floor, his eyes staring into theshadows, where hovered the Persian's almost invisibleform.

A nod from Basil caused him to rise.

"Away with it!" shrieked the Grand Chamberlain overcomewith terror. "See that no one sets eyes upon it!"

The Moor wrapped the severed head into the blood-stainedcloth and darted from the chamber.

Then Basil turned to his visitor.

"In six days Rome shall hail a new master! Let thenthe sable banners of Hell be unfurled and the NamelessPresence rejoice upon his ebony throne! And now do youcome with me into the realms of doom that gape below, thatyour eyes may be gladdened by that which is in store for you!"

Taking up a torch, Basil lighted it with the aid of two flintsand the twain trooped out of the chamber into the shadowycorridor leading into the crypts of the Emperor's Tomb.

CHAPTER II
THE ESCAPE FROM SAN ANGELO

Hidden away in some secretvault of the great honey-coloredMausoleum Tristan foundhimself when the men-at-armshad departed, and he had regainedhis full senses. Colorhad faded out of everything.The rock walls were lifeless andgrey. The immense silence ofthe tomb surrounded him. Therayless gloom was without relief, save what sparse lightfiltered through a narrow grated window so high in the wallthat nothing could be seen from below, save the sky.

The torture of it all he could have endured very well. Therewas something greater. It was the thought of Hellayne.This dreadful uncertainty swung like a bell in his brain, cutthrough the fibre of his being. And when these thoughtscame over him in his lone confinement he beat his handsupon the stone and wept.

They had placed him in a cell, which seemed to have beenhollowed out of the Travertine rock. It was small, built inthe thickness of the mighty Roman walls. Tristan set histeeth hard, prepared to endure. He knew well enough whatit meant. He would be confined in this living tomb till hisenemies thought his spirit was broken, and then he would besummoned before a tribunal of the Church.

Once a day, and once only, the door of his cell opened.By the smoky light of a torch, his gaoler pushed a pitcher ofwater and a machet of bread into his prison. Then the redlight died and darkness and silence supervened. Yet it wasnot the ordinary darkness which men know. Through thehaunted chambers of Tristan's mind fantastic forms beganto chase each other, evil things to uncoil themselves and raisetheir heads. More and more drearily the burden of the daysbegan to press upon him. What availed heroic endurance?

But it was not only darkness, nor was it only despair. Norwas it only silence. It was a strange impalpable somethingwhich haunted his restless, enforced vigil; a dim inchoatenothingness, that drove him to the verge of madness. Thoughday draped the sky with blue and golden banners, to tell thesons of men that Night was past and they need not longerfear, for Tristan darkness was not a transient thing, but anawful negation of hope.

All of this Tristan could have endured, had not the thoughtof Hellayne unnerved him utterly.

She was safe—so he hoped—in the Convent of SantaMaria in Trastevere. But, as hour succeeded hour, his assurancebegan to pale. Everything had been arranged with theAbbess. But—had she indeed eluded her pursuers? Theempty coffin had no doubt long been discovered. Did theybelieve she was dead, or did the hand who had dealt theblow in the dark, the vigilant eye that had pursued her everystep, plot further mischief?

He thought of Odo of Cluny. The monk was influential,but there was, at this hour, in Rome, one even more powerful,and he doubted not but that by his agency the wafer had beenplaced into his doublet, though the events of that fateful nightfrom the time he had entered the Lateran, were like a blackblot upon his memory.

Had Odo even sought admission to his cell? Did he, too,believe him guilty? Had his ears, too, been poisoned by themonstrous lie? To him he might indeed have turned; of himhe might have received assurance of Hellayne's fate; and inreturn he might have reassured her who was pining at theConvent of Santa Maria in Trastevere.

But, was she ignorant indeed of what was happening in theseven-hilled city of Rome? Would not the rumor of theterrible outrage committed at the Lateran knock even at thesilent walls of the convent? A captain of the Senator's guardcaught red-handed in the perpetration of a crime too heinousfor the human mind to conceive!

He reviewed his own life, the close of which seemed verynear at hand. Free from cunning and that secret conceitwhich is peculiarly alarming to natures that know themselvesto be, in all practical matters, confounded and confused, hehad, in a short time, found himself placed upon the world'sgreatest stage, a world little fit for dreamers and for dreams.He had been plunged into the inner circles of the mightystruggle, impending between Powers of Light and the Powersof Darkness, upon a sea he knew not how to navigate, andupon whose cliffs his ship had stranded.

One evening, when the cold greyness of an early twilighthad enveloped the city, and from the darkening sky everynow and then was heard a sound of approaching thunder,Tristan, counting the weary hours of his unbroken solitude,which he could but measure by the appearance and departureof his gaoler, had been more restless than usual. He hadhoped to be summoned for early trial before those high inthe Church, when, in Odo of Cluny, he would find an advocate,who alone might save him from his doom. But nothing hadhappened. Nothing had broken the dreary, maddeningmonotony, save now and then the shriek and curses of amaddened fellow-prisoner, or the moans of a wretch who wasdying of thirst or hunger.

Whoever the powers that dominated his life, they evidentlyhad not decreed his immediate death, as if they were rejoicingin the torture of false hopes which each recurrent day wakedin his breast, and which each departing day extinguished.The food never varied, and the water intended for the cleansingof his body was so sparse that he had to husband it as aprecious possession till the gaoler refilled the bronze eweron the succeeding day.

When waking from feverish, troubled slumbers, broken bythe squeaking of the rats that scurried over the filthy floorof his dungeon, and other presences that caused him to prayfor a speedy death from this slow torture, he found himselfnevertheless listening for the approach of the gaoler who,after dispensing his bounty, departed as he had come, silentas the tomb, without making reply to Tristan's queries.

Escape, to all appearances, seemed quite beyond the scopeof possibility. Yet, with failing hopes, the spirit of Tristanseemed to rise. Had not his good fortune been with himever since he arrived at Rome? Had he not, by somemiraculous decree of destiny, again met the woman heloved better than all the world? And then, they had lefthim his dagger. After all, not such wretched companyin his present plight.

It was on the eve of the third day when the voices of mencoming down the night-wrapt passage struck his wakeful ear.

In one of the speakers he recognized Basil.

"And you are quite sure no one saw you enter?" he saidto his companion.

"No one!" came the snarling reply. "Nevertheless—theyare on my track. I breathe the air of the gibbet whichburns my throat."

"And you are positive no one recognized you?" spoke thesilken voice.

"No one."

"Take courage, Hormazd. Then there is little danger, yetyou should take care that no one may see you. We aresurrounded by spies."

"Do you not trust Maraglia?"

"I trust none! You will therefore remain a short timeconcealed in this subterranean passage."

"Subterranean?"

There was a note of terror in the Oriental's voice.

"That is to say—the vaults! Here you will find honorableand pleasant company, who will not betray you. Youwill find straw in abundance and each day Maraglia willbring you something to eat. Go slowly. How do you likethe abode?"

"Not even the devil can find me here."

"No one will find you here!"

"No one knows where I am," Hormazd interposed dubiously.

"Nor ever shall."

"It is of no consequence. So I am safe."

"You are safe enough. Lower your head and take carenot to stumble over the threshold. Here—this side—enter."

"Enter," re-echoed the other. Then there was a pause.

"It is very evident, you are afraid—"

"Afraid? No—but I am thinking we always know whenwe enter such places—never when we shall leave them."

"How? Did I not say to-morrow night?"

"But if you should not come for me?"

"What profit would your death be to me? Where shall Ifind another wizard to bring to foretell the death of anotherAlberic?"

Tristan gave an audible gasp at these words. He felt hislimbs grow numb. Had his ears heard aright? Surely theyhad not. Some demon had mocked him, to drive him mad.Ere he could regain his mental balance, the voice of theGrand Chamberlain's companion again struck his ear.

"But if you should not come, my lord?"

"You could scream!"

"What would that avail?"

"Mind you—I might have to stay here myself for shelteringsuch a patriarch as you."

"Nevertheless—to guard against all risks—leave thedoor open—"

He entered, but the door turned immediately upon itshinges.

"My Lord Basil—" shrieked Hormazd, "the door is shut—"

"I stumbled against it."

"Bring a light—open the door—" came a muffled voicefrom within.

"I shall soon return."

"Do not forget the light."

"Light!—Ay! You shall not want for light,—if what Isay be not false: Et lux perpetua luceat eis," chanted theGrand Chamberlain in Requiem measure, as he strode away.

Silence, deep and sepulchral, succeeded. Tristan coweredon the floor, his face covered with his hands. If what he hadoverheard was true, he, too, was lost. What had happened?Who was the Grand Chamberlain's companion?

Now Hormazd began to scream and rave in the darkness.Terrible execrations broke from the Oriental's lips, as hehurled his body against the iron bars of his prison cell.Demoniacal yells waked the silent echoes. The other prisoners,alarmed and rendered restless, soon joined in, andsoon the dark vaults of the Emperor's Tomb resounded witha veritable pandemonium, a chorus of the damned thatcaused Tristan to put his fingers to his ears lest he, too, gomad.

At nine o'clock that night the last visit was to be paid theprisoners. At nine o'clock Maraglia, the Castellan, came,attended by the guard, which waited outside. The Castellanwas in a state of nervous excitement. As he entered Tristan'scell he looked about, as if he dreaded a listener, thenhe approached his prisoner and whispered something into hisear.

For a moment Tristan knew not what has happening tohim. Was he alone with a mad man and was Maraglia toopossessed?—

The Castellan, to prove his assertion that he was a bat,began forthwith to squeak, and waved his arms, as if theywere wings.

Curious stories were told about Maraglia. No one knew,why he had retained his post so long amidst ever recurringchanges, and it was whispered that he was subject to strangepossessions of the mind. He faced his prisoner nervously,fingering a poniard in his belt. Tristan watched his everygesture.

A little foam came out of the corners of Maraglia's lips.He wrung his hands and his voice rose into a sort of shriek.He jerked his head half round towards the men-at armsoutside in the gallery. The screams of Hormazd continued.

"It is the Ape of Antichrist," he whispered to Tristan."I have a mind to try conclusions with him. Close thedoor."

Tristan's wits, preternaturally sharpened in his predicamentput words in his mouth which he seemed unableto account for. He had heard rumors of the Castellan.Perchance he might turn his madness to account.

"I can tell you much," he said. "But not here! But onething I perceive. You are approaching one of your badspells."

Maraglia shrank back against the door. His face was paleas death.

"Then you know?" he squeaked.

Tristan nodded. The torch which the Castellan had placedin an iron holder that projected from the wall, was burninglow and the resinous fumes filled the cell.

"Something I know—but not all! Yet, I believe I cancure you—"

"I am about to turn into a bat! And when I go abroad Iscream like a bat—in a thin, high pitched tone. And I flapmy arms—and fly away—thus—"

Tristan nodded wisely.

"I know the symptoms—they are of Satan. Nevertheless,I can cure you."

"Without conference with the evil powers?"

Tristan pondered.

"You shall not imperil your soul! But—take heed! Itis well that you have spoken to me of these matters. For,from feeling that you are a bat, a bat you will become."

Maraglia was pale as a ghost.

"Then I was just in the nick of time?"

"You are already half immersed," Tristan replied in adeep and menacing tone. "Take heed lest you be utterlydrowned."

The Castellan shivered as one in an ague.

"Every Friday at midnight the Black Mass is said by oneBessarion, that is of unthinkable age—a hideous wizard andHigh Priest of Satan. It is he who has cast the spell overme."

Hope mounted high in Tristan. The alert confidence ofhis companion animated him and he felt almost as if the greatordeal was over. A distant bell was tolling. Its tones camein muffled cadence into the night wrapt corridors of theEmperor's Tomb.

Nevertheless he shivered at the Castellan's confession.Maraglia, then, was under the spell of this Wizard of Hell.

"I have seen him stalking through these galleries," heturned to his gaoler. "But I possess a spell which rendershim harmless. He cannot touch me—nor breathe his evilbreath into my soul. I can compel him to take away thespell he has cast over you—that is, if you so wish it."

The Castellan squeaked and waved his arms.

"You would do this for me?"

"If you will not betray me. For only a more powerfulspell than that which he possesses can take away the cursehe has put upon you."

"Ah! If you would do this! It is coming upon me now.I am going mad. I am a bat!"

And Maraglia squeaked like a whole company of duskymice, and flapped his arms as if he were about to fly away.

"This very night will I do it," Tristan replied. "But youmust help me."

"What can I do?"

Tristan cast all upon one throw.

"Remove your guards from this corridor and leave me alight and a rope."

"It is but reasonable," Maraglia returned. "I will fetchthem. When appears the wizard?"

"At midnight! See that I am not disturbed."

Maraglia nodded. Fear had almost deprived him of hissenses.

"Last time I saw him he came from yonder corridor,"Tristan informed the Castellan.

"That may not be!" the latter replied. "Unless he hathwings. This passage leads to the ramparts."

"It is possible I have been confused by the darkness,"Tristan replied pensively. "Nevertheless, I will oblige you,Messer Maraglia."

The Castellan retired with many manifestations of hisgratitude, leaving Tristan in possession of a lantern, a candleand a coil of rope.

It was midnight.

The sharp click of a flint upon steel was repeated severaltimes before a spark fell upon the tinder and it caught witha blue, ghostly flicker. There were strange reflections inTristan's cell. Curious steely lights played upon him.

Then the candle ignited. The glow widened out. Tristanpeered about cautiously. The door of his cell had been leftunfastened by Maraglia. He had no fear of his prisonerescaping. No one had ever escaped from these vaults, exceptto certain death.

He crept out into the corridor. It was dark as in therealms of the underworld. The silence of the tomb prevailed.After a time the passage made a sharp turn at right angles.A cooler air blew upon his face, wafted through an unbarredembrasure, beyond which showed a star-lit night without amoon, but not wholly dark.

Drawing himself up into the embrasure he stood at lastupon a broad sill of stone. A cool breeze eddied aroundhim. He was at an immense height. A vast portion ofRome lay below. The Tiber seemed like a river of lead.Far away to the left the dark cypresses of the Pincian Hillcut into the night sky in sombre silhouette. He was abovethe tombs of Hadrian and Caracalla.

Tristan shivered despite himself as he fastened the ropehe had secured from the unwary Castellan to the stone ledge.It was not fear; but that actual, physical shrinking, whichinduces nausea, had him in its grip.

"There is Rome," he said to himself with a savage chuckle.

He made a stirrup loop and curved it round a boss of antiquetile, which stretched above the abyss like a gargoyle. Then,with infinite precaution, he lowered the coil of rope.

Dawn was already heralded in the East. A faint greylight appeared in the direction of the Alban Hills. Fromover the Esquiline came the shrill trumpeting of a cock.

There was a horrible moment as Tristan's hands left theroof edge and he fell a foot to grasp the rope. He curled hislegs about it, got it between his crossed feet and began tolet himself down. The sinews of his arms seemed to creak.Once he passed an open window and distinctly heard thesnores of the men-at-arms who were sleeping within. Thedescent seemed interminable. As seen from above, hadthere been any one to watch him, his form grew less and less.From a man it seemed to turn into an ape; from an ape as anight bird groping down the Mausoleum's side; from a birdit dwindled to a spider, spinning downward on a taut thread.Up there, on the height, the rope groaned and creaked uponthe curved tile from which it hung. But tile and fibre held.Once his feet rested upon a leaden water pipe and he clungand swayed, glad of a momentary release from the frightfulstrain upon his arms. That was almost the last conscioussensation. Clinging to the rope he came down quick andmore quickly. His arms rose and fell with the precision of amachine. At last he felt his feet upon solid ground, wherehe reeled and staggered like a drunken man.

He had traversed a hundred thirty-five feet of air.

CHAPTER III
THE LURE

For three whole days Hellayneconsumed herself waiting forTristan, and she began to feellistless and dispirited. She hadlong acknowledged to herselfthe necessity of his presence,and how much his love hadinfluenced her thoughts andactions ever since she hadknown him—a period that nowseemed of infinite length. She found herself perpetuallyrecalling the origin and growth of this love. She dwelt witha strange pleasure on her terrible plight, when, believing shewas dead, he had remained with her body. As eveningapproached she strolled down to the Tiber, with a strangepersistency and the vague expectation of Tristan's return.She now trusted him utterly, since that last and most potentproof of his love for her.

On the first day this dreamy, imaginative existence wasdelightful. The region of the Trastevere at the period of ourstory was but sparsely populated, and the great convent,with its church of Santa Maria, dominated the lowly fisherhuts, scattered over its precincts. Hellayne, during thesequiet evening hours, when only the sounds of far-off chimesfrom churches and convents smote the silence with their silvertongues, and during which hours the Abbess of Santa Mariapermitted her to leave the silent walls of her asylum for ashort walk to the Tiber's edge, rarely ever saw a humanbeing. Only at dusk, when the fishermen and boatmenreturned from their daily routine, she saw them pass in thedistance, like phantoms that come and go and vanish in theevening glow.

On the second day there came a feeling of want; the consciousnessthat there was a void which it would be a greathappiness to fill. This grew to a longing for those hourswhich had glided by so quickly and sweetly. At intervalsthere came the startling thought: if she should never see himagain! Then her heart stopped beating, and her cheek paledwith the thought of the bare possibility.

Thus the third day sped, and when Hellayne still remainedwithout tidings from Tristan her anxiety slowly changed to agreat fear. She could hardly contain herself during the longhours of the day, and though she spent hours and hours inprayer for his return, her heart seemed to sink under theweight of her fear and sorrow. She was alone—alone inRome—exposed to dangers which her great beauty renderedeven more grave than those that beset an ordinary person.She feared lest Basil was scouring the city for the womanwho had so mysteriously baffled his desires, and she dreadedthe hatred of Theodora, whose infatuation for her lover hadrather increased than diminished in the face of Tristan'sresistance. How long would he be able to withstand, ifTheodora had decreed his undoing?

There were moments when a mad jealousy and despairsurged up in Hellayne's heart, yet she hesitated to confideher fears and anxiety to the Abbess, voicing only her disquietudeat Tristan's prolonged absence. Then only thelatter informed Hellayne of a strange rumor which had foundits way into the Trastevere. Three nights ago a terriblesacrilege had been committed at the Lateran, during thesmall hours of the night, and on the following morning, duringan inspection by some high prelates of the Church, the criminalhad been discovered in the person of a captain of theSenator's guard, who had but recently arrived in Rome, andhad been placed in high command by the Senator himself,whom he had so cruelly betrayed.

Three nights ago! It was on the night of the terriblecrime from whose consequences she had been saved just inthe nick of time. With painful minuteness Hellayne recalled,or tried to recall, every incident, every detail, every utteranceof her lover. But there was nothing at which she couldclutch save—but it was sheer madness. Surely it was somehorrid nightmare. Again she sought the Abbess, later in theday, questioning her regarding the name of him who had beentaken in the commission of so heinous an offence. It wassome time ere the Abbess could recall a name strange in herown land, and Hellayne, with the persistency of desperation,withheld any aid, so as not to offer a clue to the one shedreaded to hear. But the strain proved too great. Almostwith a shriek she demanded to know if, perchance, the namewas Tristan. The Abbess regarded her questioner strangely."Tristan is the name. Do you know this man, my child?"

Hellayne was on the point of fainting. Everything grewblack before her eyes, and she would have fallen, had not theAbbess supported her.

"A countryman of mine," she said, dreading lest by revealingtheir connection she might herself be held in custody."He came to Rome on a pilgrimage. Surely there is somehorrible mistake! He could not! He could not!"

The Abbess placed an arm round the trembling girl.

"If he can prove that he is innocent, the Cardinal-Archbishopwill not suffer a hair of his head to be touched," shetried to console Hellayne whose head rested on her shoulder.She seemed utterly crushed. Surely—it was too monstrous—toounbelievable. Yet as the moments sped on, an icy,sickening fear gripped her heart. She recalled an incidentof that last evening with Tristan which, but for what hadhappened or was rumored to have happened, she would haveutterly ignored. She had noted her lover's restlessness, andhis apparent haste in leaving her at the convent gates. Sherecalled now that he repeatedly glanced at the moon and did,at one time, comment upon the lateness of the hour. Hehad not seemed anxious to prolong their tete-a-tete, and hehad not been heard from in three days. Surely, no matterwhere he was, he could have sent a message, verbal or otherwise.And the crime had happened during the small hoursof the night—after he had left her! It was too horrible toponder upon!

That there was some dreadful mystery which surroundedthis deed of darkness and Tristan's share therein, Hellaynedid not question. But how was she, a woman, a stranger,alone in Rome, to aid in clearing it up and reveal her lover'sinnocence? There was no doubt in her mind, but that he wasthe victim of some devilish conspiracy—perchance a threadof that same web which had entangled her to her undoing.But how to convince the Cardinal-Archbishop of Tristan'sinnocence, when the facts surrounding the terrible discoverywere unknown to her?

"This man is, no doubt, very dear to you," said the Abbessat last.

Hellayne shrank before the questioner and averted herface. But the Abbess was resolved to know more, once hersuspicions were aroused.

"Could it perchance be he who brought you here threenights ago—your brother?" she queried with a kind, thoughpenetrating glance at the woman who was trembling like anaspen, her face colorless, her eyes dimmed with tears.

A silent nod convinced the Abbess of the truth of her surmise.She stroked Hellayne's silken hair.

"It is a dreadful crime of which he stands accused, one forwhich there is no remission—no pardon here or hereafter,"she said sorrowfully.

"He is innocent," sobbed Hellayne. "He is as pure asthe light, as the flowers. There is some dreadful mistake.He must be saved before it is too late! Oh—dear mother—couldyou not intercede for him with His Eminence?"

The Abbess regarded her as if she thought her protege hadsuddenly lost her reason. To intercede with the Cardinal-Archbishopfor one who stood committed of so heinous anoffence, taken in the very act,—one who, perchance, wasimplicated in all those other terrible outrages committed inthe various sanctuaries of Rome! Nevertheless she madeallowance for Hellayne's hysterical plea.

"Has he never mentioned these matters to you?" Shequeried kindly, hoping to draw the girl out.

"What matters?" Hellayne queried, with wide eyes, andthe question convinced the Abbess that the woman knewnothing.

"These dark practices," replied the Abbess. "For thisis not the first offence. Even within this very moon cyclethe Holy Host has been taken from the Church of Our BlessedLady yonder. And all efforts to discover the guilty one havefailed."

"I had not heard of it," said Hellayne. "I have not beenlong in Rome. Nor has he. About a month, I should say."

"A month?"

"And he knew nothing of this. Nor knew he even oneperson in this whole city."

"Wherefore then came he?"

Hellayne explained and the Abbess listened. Hellayne'saccount, which was impersonal, impressed her protectress inso far as she knew she spoke truth. For, if here was animpostor, it was the cleverest she had ever faced and, while astranger to the world and to worldly affairs, the stamp oftruth was too indelibly written upon Hellayne's brow to evenpermit of the shadow of a doubt. Perhaps it was for thisreason the Abbess refrained from questioning her farther,for she had been somehow curious of the relation betweenthe woman and the man who had brought her here.

Here was matter for thought indeed. For, if the man wasguilty and, notwithstanding Hellayne's protestations, theAbbess was in her own mind convinced that the Cardinal-Archbishopof Ravenna could not be deceived in matters ofthis kind, what was to become of the woman he had placedin her charge? There were also other matters equally gravewhich oppressed the Abbess' mind. Hellayne's connectionwith one who had committed the unspeakable crime mightmilitate against her remaining at the convent. Yet she hesitatedto send her out into the world, unprotected and alone.

For a time there was silence. Hellayne, utterly exhaustedfrom the recital of a past, which had reopened every woundin her heart, causing it to bleed anew, anxious, afraid, doubtingand wondering how far her protectress might go, stoodbefore the woman who seemed to hold in her hand both herown fate and that of her lover.

"I will retire to my cell and pray to the Blessed Virgin forlight to guide my steps," the Abbess said at last, laying herhand on Hellayne's head. "Do not venture away too far,"she enjoined, "and come to me after the Ave Maria. PerchanceI may then know what to counsel."

Hellayne bowed her head and kissed the hem of theAbbess' robe.

After she had left, Hellayne remained standing where shewas, transfixed with anxiety and grief.

What forces of gloom and evil encompassed her on allsides? The man to whom she had given her youth andbeauty, who had plucked the flower which others had vainlydesired, instead of cherishing the gift she had bestowed uponhim, had trampled the delicate blossom in the dust. He, towhom her heart belonged ever since she had power to think,was doomed for a deed too terrible to name. She had beenruthlessly sacrificed by the one, and now the other hadfailed her, and a third tried to encompass her ruin. And shewas alone—utterly alone!

What was she to do? To request an audience of theCardinal-Archbishop was little short of madness. In herown heart Hellayne doubted seriously that the Abbess wouldconcern herself any further about her or her distress. Neverthelessshe felt that something must be done. This inertiawhich was creeping over her would drive her mad. Butfirst of all she must know the nature of the charge placedagainst the man she loved before she would determine whatto do. In vain she taxed her tired brain for a ray of hope inthe encompassing gloom.

The long lights of the afternoon crossed and recrossed thesanctuary of Santa Maria in Trastevere when Hellayne, afteran hour of fervent prayer, emerged from its portals and tookthe direction of the Tiber, where she sat on her accustomedseat and brooded over her misery.

At last the sunset came. The ashen color of the olive treesflashed out into silver. The mountain peaks of distant Albabecame faintly flushed and phantom fair as, in a tempest offire, the sun sank to rest. The forests of ilex and arbutus onthe Janiculum Hill seemed to tremble with delight as thelong red heralds touched their topmost boughs. The wholelandscape seemed to smile farewell to departing day.

As she sat there, Hellayne's attention was attracted to awoman who had paused near the river's edge. There wasnothing remarkable either in her carriage or apparel. It wasa wrinkled hag, swart, snake-locked, cowled, her dress jinglingwith sequins, her right hand clawed upon a crookedstaff. She appeared, in fact, just an old Levantine hoodie-crowof the breed which was familiar enough in Rome inthose cataclysmic days, when all sorts of queer, tragic fowlwere being driven northward from over seas before the tidalwave of invading Islam. Her speech as well as her mannersand dress betrayed Oriental origin.

As she hobbled up to where Hellayne was seated shestopped and asked some trifling question about her way,which Hellayne pointed with some hesitation, explaining thatshe was herself a stranger in Rome, and knew not the directionof the city.

The old crone seemed interested.

"In yonder cloister—yet not of it?" she queried, pointingwith the crooked staff to the convent walls that towereddarkly behind them in the evening dusk.

Her penetration startled Hellayne.

"How did you guess, old mother?" she queried with alook of awe, which was not unremarked by the other.

"Ay—there is lore enough under these faded locks ofmine to turn the foulest cesspool in Rome as clear as crystal,or to change this staff whereon I lean into a thing that creepsand hisses," she said with a low laugh.

Hellayne shrank back from her with a gesture of dismay.Believing implicitly in their power, she felt a deadly fear ofthose who professed the black arts.

The old woman read her thoughts.

"My daughter," she said, "be not afraid of the old woman'ssecret gifts. Mine is a harmless knowledge, gained by studyof the scrolls of wise men, in my own native land. Fear not,I say, for I, who have pored over those mystic characters tillme eyes grew dim, can read your sweet pale face as plainlyas the brazen tablets in the Forum, and I can see in it sorrowand care and anxiety for one you love."

Hellayne gave a start.

It was true! But how had the old crone found it out! Sheglanced wistfully at her companion, and the latter, satisfiedshe was on the right track, proceeded to answer that questioningglance.—

"You think he is in danger, or in grief," she continuedmysteriously, "and you wonder why he does not come.What would you not give, my poor child, to see him this verymoment—to look into his face—his eyes. And I can showhim to you, if you will. I am not ungrateful, even for a slightservice."

The blood mounted to Hellayne's brow, and a strangelight kindled in her eyes, while a soft radiance swept over herface such as comes into every countenance when the heartvibrates with an illusion to its happiness, as though thesilver cord thrilled to the touch of an angel's wing. It wasno clumsy guess of the wise woman to infer that the womanbefore her loved.

"What mean you?" asked Hellayne eagerly. "How canyou show him to me? What do you know of him? Whereis he? Is he safe?"

The wise woman smiled. Here was a bird flying blindlyinto the net. Take her by her affections, there would belittle difficulty in the capture.

"He is in danger—in grave danger," she replied. "Butyou could save him, if you only knew how. He might behappy, too, if he would. But—with another!"

To do Hellayne justice, she heard only the first sentence.

"In grave danger," she repeated. "I knew it! And Icould save him! Oh, tell me where he is, and what I can dofor him?"

The wise woman pulled a small mirror from her bosom.

"I cannot tell you," she replied. "But I can show him toyou. Only not here, where the shadow of any chance passer-bymight destroy the charm. Let us turn aside into yonderruins. There is no one near, and you shall gaze withoutinterruption into the face of him you love—"

It was but a short way off, though the ruins which surroundedit made the place lonely and secluded. Had itbeen twice the distance however, Hellayne would haveaccompanied her new acquaintance for Tristan's sake, in theeagerness to obtain tidings of his fate. As she approachedthe ruins she could not repress a faint sigh, which was notlost on her companion.

"It was here you parted," she said. "It is here you shallsee him again."

This was scarcely a random shaft, for it required littlepenetration to discover that Hellayne had some tender associationconnected with a spot, the solitude of which appealedto her in so great a degree.

Nevertheless the utterance convinced Hellayne of hercompanion's supernatural power and, though it roused alarm,it excited curiosity to a still greater degree.

"Take the mirror in your hand," whispered the wisewoman, when they reached the portico, casting a searchingglance around. "Shut your eyes while I speak the charmthat calls him three times over, and then look steadily on itssurface till I have counted ten."

Hellayne obeyed these instructions implicitly. Standingin the centre of the ruin with the mirror in her hand, sheshut her eyes and listened intently to the low solemn tonesof the woman's chanting, while from the deep shadows ofthe ruin there stole out a muffled form and at the same timea half dozen sbirri rose from their different hiding placesamong the ruins.

Ere the incantation had been twice repeated, the leaderthrew a scarf over Hellayne's head, muffling her so completelythat an outcry was impossible.

Resistlessly she felt herself taken up and carried to achariot, which was waiting a short space away. A momentlater the driver whipped the horses into a gallop and thevehicle with its occupants and burden disappeared in thegathering dusk.

CHAPTER IV
A LYING ORACLE

It was an eventful night inRome and, although for thatreason well adapted to deedsof violence, the tumult andconfusion exacted great cautionfrom those who wished toproceed without interruptionalong the streets.

A storm had burst as out of aclear sky, and was sweeping inits fury throughout a large portion of the city. Like allsimilar outbreaks, it gathered force from many sources unconnectedwith its original course.

Rome was the theatre that night of a furious strife betweenthe great feudal houses which lorded it over the city.

The Leonine city with its protecting walls did not exist untilsome decades later. Thus, not only hordes of maraudingSaracens, but Franks and Teutons used to make occasionalinroads to the very gates of the city. On this evening Pandulphof Benevento, having taken umbrage at some decisionof the Sacred Consistory regarding the lands he held as fiefof the Church, conferring upon him a title which was disputedby Wido of Prænesté, had broken into the city and a bloodyand obstinate conflict was being waged between his forcesand the soldiers of the Church. The Roman nobles, everrestless and ready to revolt alike from the authority of theEmperor or of the Church, would not let this glorious opportunitypass without reminding those in power that they hadbuilt upon a volcano. They joined in the fray, some takingthe part of the invader, others of the Church.

An hour or two before sunset an undisciplined horde ofmercenaries, armed cap-a-pie, and formidable chiefly for thewild fury with which they seemed inspired, attacked theMausoleum of the Flavian Emperor. The assailants, havingno engines of war either for protection or assault, sufferedseverely from the missiles showered upon them by thebesieged. Being repulsed after repeated assaults, they threwflaming torches into the houses that lined the river on theopposite shore and withdrew. From another quarter of thecity a large body of Epirotes, who had hoisted the standard ofthe Lord Gisulph of Salerno and had already suffered onedefeat, which rather roused their animosity than quelled theirardor, were advancing in good order. Before the Lateranthey met the forces of Pandulph of Benevento, and a terriblehand-to-hand encounter ensued. Nor was man the onlydemon on the scene. Unsexed women with bare bosoms,wild eyes and streaming hair, the very outcast of the Romanscum, their feet stained with blood, flew to and fro, stimulatingeach other to fresh atrocities with wine, caresses and ribaldmirth. It was a feast of Death and Sin. She had wreathedher white arms about the spectral king and crowned his fleshlesshead with her gaudy garlands, wrapped him in a mantleof flame and pressed the blood-red goblet to his lips, maddeninghim with her shrieks of wild, mocking mirth, the whilemailed feet trampled out the lives of their victims on the flagstonesof Rome.

Through a town in such a state of turmoil and confusionTebaldo took it upon himself to conduct in safety the prizehe had succeeded in capturing, not, it must be confessed,without many hearty regrets that he had ever embarked onthe enterprise.

It was indeed a difficult and perilous task. He had beencompelled to dismiss his men long ago, in order not to attractattention. There was but room for himself and one stoutslave, beside the charioteer and his captive. The latter hadstruggled violently and required to be held down by sheerforce, nor, in muffling her screams, was it easy to observe thehappy medium between silence and suffocation. Also, it wasindispensable in the present state of lawlessness to avoidobservation, and the spectacle of a golden chariot with awoman prisoner, gagged and veiled, the whole drawn by fourspirited black steeds, was not calculated to avoid suspicionand comment. Stefano, Tebaldo's underling, had indeedsuggested a litter, but this had been overruled by his comradeon the score of speed, and now the congestion of the streetsmade speed impossible. To be sure, this enabled his escortto keep up with them at a distance, but a fight at this presentmoment was little to Tebaldo's taste. The darkness whichshould have favored him was dispelled by the numerousconflagrations in the various parts of the city, and when thechariot was stopped and forced to run into a by-street, toavoid a crowd running toward the Campo Marzo, Tebaldofelt his heart sink within him in an access of terror such aseven he had rarely felt before.

Up one street, down another, avoiding the main thoroughfares,now rendered impassable by the throngs, the charioteerdirected his steeds towards Basil's palace on thePincian Hill.

Hellayne seemed to have either fainted, or resigned herselfto her fate, for she had ceased to struggle and coweredon the floor of the chariot, silent and motionless. Tebaldohoped his difficulties were over, and promised himself neveragain to be concerned in such an affair. Already he imaginedhimself safe on his patron's porch, claiming his reward, whenhis advance was stopped by a pageant, which promised aprotracted and hazardous delay.

Winding its slow way along, with all the pomp and splendorattending it, a procession of chariots crossed in front ofTebaldo's steeds, and not a man in Rome would have daredto break in upon the train of Theodora, who was abroad toview the strife of the factions, utterly indifferent to the perilsof the venture.

It may be that something whispered to Hellayne that, ofthe two perils confronting her, what she contemplated wasthe lesser, and no sooner did the car stop to let the chariotspass, than, tearing away the bandage, she uttered a piercingscream, which brought it to a halt at once, while Tebaldo,trying to wear a bold front, quaked in every limb.

At a signal from the woman in the first chariot her giantAfricans seized the shaking Tebaldo and surrounded hischariot. Already a crowd of curious spectators was gathering,and the glare of the bonfires, kindled here and there, shedits light on their dark, eager faces, contrasting strangely withthe veiled form of a woman, cold and immobile as marble.

Two of the Africans seized Tebaldo, and buffeted himunceremoniously to within a few paces of the occupant of thechariot. Here he stood, speechless and trembling, anger andfear contending for the mastery, which changed to dismay asthe woman raised her veil with a hand gleaming white asivory.

"Do you know me?"

Whatever he had intended to say, the words died onTebaldo's lips.

"The Lady Theodora!"

"You still have your wits about you," replied the woman."Whom have you there?"

The cold sweat stood on the brow of Basil's henchman.

"The mistress of my lord," he said, looking fromright to left for some one to prompt him, some escape fromthe dilemma.

"Who is your master?" Theodora queried curtly.

"The Lord Basil—"

"The Lord Basil!" shrilled Theodora. "Indeed I knewnot he had lost a mistress. Yet I saw him within the hourand had speech with him."—

Stefano had meanwhile come up, composed and sedate,little guessing the quality of his companion's interlocutor,with the air of a man confident in the justice of his case.

"Where are you taking this woman?" Theodora queried.

Tebaldo attempted to speak, but Stefano anticipated him.

"To the palace of my Lord Basil on the Pincian Hill, noblelady," he said with many obese bows. "Suffer us to proceed,for the streets are becoming more unsafe every moment andour lord will not be trifled with in matters of this kind."

"Indeed," Theodora interposed. "Is his heart so muchset upon this prize? Ho there, Bahram—Yussuff—bringthe woman here!"

Tebaldo tried to worm himself out of the clutch of theblack giants, in order to prevent them from obeyingTheodora's order, but he found the situation hopeless andwas about to address Theodora when the latter bade himbe silent.—

"The woman shall speak for herself," she said in a tonethat suffered no contradiction and, in another moment, Hellayne,lifted by four muscular arms from the chariot of herabductors, stood, released of her bandages, before Theodora.

All color left the Roman's face as she gazed into the pallidand anguished features of the woman whom of all women onearth she feared and hated most, the woman who dared toenter the arena with her for the love of the one man whomshe was determined to possess, if the universe should crumbleto atoms. Hellayne's fear upon beholding Theodora gaveway to her pride as she met the dark eyes of the Roman inwhich there might have been a gleam of pity or a flash ofscorn.

But, ere Hellayne could speak, finding herself, caught likea poor hunted bird, in one net, ere she had well escaped theother, Theodora turned to Tebaldo.

"Tell the Lord Basil, the woman he craves is under Theodora'sroof, and—if so he be inclined—he may claim herat my hands—"

The gleaming white arm went out, and ere Hellayne knewwhat happened, she found herself raised into the secondchariot, where sat a tall girl of great beauty, Persephoné, theCircassian.

A signal to the charioteer and the pageant moved withslightly increased speed towards the Aventine, while Tebaldoand Stefano, and non-plussed, stared after thevanishing procession as if they were encompassed by a nightmare.Then, simultaneously, they broke out into such achorus of vituperation that the by-standers shrank back fromthem in horror, and they soon found themselves, their chariotand its driver, almost the only human beings in the nowdeserted thoroughfare.

Hellayne meanwhile sat, utterly dazed, next to Persephoné.Terrified by the danger she had escaped, and scarcely reassuredby the manner of her rescue she seemed as one in astupor, unable to think, unable to speak.

Persephoné regarded her with a strange fascination, notunmingled with curiosity. Hellayne's fair and wonderfulbeauty appealed strangely to the Circassian, while, with hernative intuition, she wondered whether Theodora's act wasprompted by kindness or revenge.

Hellayne seemed, for the first time, to note her companion.Looking into Persephoné's eyes she shuddered.

"Where are we going?" she whispered, gazing about in astate of bewilderment, as the procession slowly wound upthe slopes of the Mount of Cloisters, and the broad ribbon ofthe Tiber gleamed below in the moonlight.

A strange smile curved Persephoné's lips.

"To the Groves of Enchantment," she replied. "You arethe guest of the Lady Theodora."

Hellayne brushed back the silken hair from her brow as ifshe were waking from a troubled dream.

She gave a swift glance to her companion, another to thewinding road and, suddenly rising from her seat, started toleap from the chariot.

Ere she could carry out her intent, she was caught in theCircassian's arms.

A silent, but terrible struggle ensued. Notwithstandingher harrowing experiences of the past days, despair had givenback to Hellayne the strength of youth. But in the litheCircassian she found her match and, after a few moments,she sank back exhausted, Persephoné's arms encircling herlike coils of steel, while her smiling eyes sank into her own.

The palace of Theodora rose phantom-like from among itsenvironing groves in the moonlight, and the chariots dashedthrough the portals of the outer court, which closed upon thefantastic procession.

CHAPTER V
BITTER WATERS

The dawn was creeping over theSabine mountains when Tristan,after having made good hisescape from the dungeons ofCastel San Angelo, reached thehermitage of Odo of Cluny ondistant Aventine.

Fatigued almost to the pointof death, bleeding and bruised,only his unconquerable will hadurged him on towards safety.

His first impulse, after crossing the bridge of San Angelo,was to go to the Convent of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Heabandoned this plan upon saner reflection. Doubtlessly allRome was instructed regarding the crime of which he stoodaccused. Recognition meant arrest and a fate he dared notthink of. Tears forced themselves into Tristan's eyes, tearsof sheer despair and hopelessness. Now, that he was free, hedared not follow the all-compelling impulse of his heart,assuage the craving of his soul, to learn if Hellayne was safe.

After a few moments rest in the shadow of a doorway heset out to seek the one man in all Rome to whom he daredreveal himself.

Not a soul seemed astir. Dim dusk hovered above thehigh houses beyond the Tiber, between whose silent chasmsTristan, dreading the echo of his own footsteps, made his waytowards the Church of the Trespontine. Thus, after a circuitousroute through waste and desert spaces, he reachedthe Benedictine's hermitage.

Odo stared at the early visitor as if a ghost had arisen fromthe floor before him. He had just concluded his devotionsand Tristan, fearing lest the Monk of Cluny might believe inhis guilt, lost no time in stating his case, pouring forth a taleso fantastic and wild that his host could not but listen inmingled horror and amaze.

Beginning with the moment when he had been informed ofHellayne's sudden death, he omitted not a detail up to thetime of his escape from the dungeon, which to him meantnothing less than the antechamber of death. Minutely hedwelt upon his watch in the Lateran, laying particular stressupon the deadly drowsiness, which had gradually overtakenhim, binding his limbs as with cords of steel. Graphicallyhe depicted his awakening, when he found himself surroundedby the high prelates of the Church who faced him with thesupposed evidence of a crime of which he knew nothing. Andlastly he repeated almost word for word the strange discoursehe had overheard in his dungeon between Basil and theOriental.

A ghastly pallor flitted over the features of Odo of Clunyat the latter intelligence.

"If this be true indeed—if Alberic is dead—woe be toRome! It is too monstrous for belief, and yet—I havesuspected it long."

For a time Odo relapsed into silence, brooding over thetidings of doom, and Tristan, though many questions struggledfor utterance, waited in anxious suspense.

At last the monk resumed.

"I see in this the hand of one who never strikes but todestroy. The blow falls unseen, yet the aim is sure. I havenot been idle, yet do I not hold in my hand all the threads ofthe dark web that encompasses us. Of the crime of whichyou stand accused I know you to be innocent. Nevertheless—youdare not show yourself in Rome. Your escape fromyour dungeon once discovered, not a nook or corner of Romewill remain unsearched. They dare not let you live, for yourexistence spells their doom. They will not look for you inthis hermitage. It has many secret winding passages, andit will be easy for you to elude them. Therefore, my son,school your soul to patience, for here you must remain till wehave assembled around the banner of the Cross the forces ofLight against the legions of Hell."

"What of the woman, Father, who is awaiting my returnat the Convent of Santa Maria in Trastevere?" Tristan turnedto the monk in a pleading, stifled voice. "Doubtless theterrible rumor has reached her ear."

He covered his face with his hands, while convulsive sobsshook his whole frame.

Odo tried to soothe him.

"This is hardly the spirit I expected of one who has hithertoshown so brave a front, and whose aim it is not to anticipatethe blows of chance."

"Nevertheless, Father, it is more than I can bear. I haveno lust for life, and care not what fate has in store for me,for my heart is heavy within me, and all the fountains of myhopes are dried up, until I know the fate of the Lady Hellayne—andknow from her own lips that she does not believe thisdevilish calumny."

A troubled look passed into Odo's face.

"If she still is at the convent of the Blessed Sisters ofTrastevere she is undoubtedly safe," he said, but therewas something in his tone which struck Tristan's ear withdismay.

"You are keeping something from me, Father," he saidfalteringly. "Tell me the worst! For this anxiety is worsethan death. Where is the Lady Hellayne? Is she—dead?"

"Would she were," replied the monk gloomily. "I wishedto spare you the tidings! She was taken from the conventon some pretext—the nature of which I know not. Atpresent she is at the palace of Theodora on Mount Aventine."

Tristan sat up as if electrified.

"At the palace of Theodora?" he cried. "How is thisknown to you?"

"Little transpires in Rome which I do not know," Odoreplied darkly. "It seems that those whom the Lord Basilentrusted with the task of abducting the woman were in turnoutwitted by Theodora who, in rescuing her from a fate worsethan death at the hands of the Grand Chamberlain, has perchanceconsigned her to one equally, if not more, cruel."

A moan broke from Tristan's lips. Then he was seizedwith a terrible fit of rage.

"Then it is Theodora's hand that has sundered us in theflesh as her witches' beauty had estranged our hearts. Moremerciless than a beast of prey she did not strike Hellaynewith death, so that I might have sentinelled her hallowedtomb, and with her sweet memory for company might havewatched for the coming of my own hour to join her again!I have lost my love—my honor—my manhood—at thehands of a wanton."

Odo tried for a time, though in vain, to calm him by remindinghim that Hellayne would rather suffer death than dishonor.As regarded himself, he was convinced that Theodorawould have moved heaven and earth to have set him free,had not his supposed crime concerned the Church and theCardinal-Archbishop was adamant.

"Oft, in my visions," he concluded, speaking lower, as ifhis mind strove with some vague elusive memory, "have Iheard the voice of Theodora's doom cried aloud. A cruelfate is yours indeed—and we can but pray to the saints thatthe worst may be averted from the woman who has sufferedso much."

"Something must be done," Tristan interposed, his fiercemood gaining the mastery over every other feeling. "I carenot if the minions of the devil take me back to the prison thatleads to death, so I snatch her prey from this arch-courtesanof the Aventine."

Odo laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

"Madman! You are but planning your own destruction.And, if you die, wherein will it benefit the woman who is leftto her fate? You are weak from the night's work and yournerves are overwrought. Follow me into the adjoining roomeven though the repast be meagre. We will devise somemeans to rescue the Lady Hellayne from the powers of darknessand, trusting in Him who died that we may live, weshall succeed."

Pointing to the drooping form of the crucified Christ onthe opposite wall of his improvised oratory, Odo beckoned toTristan to follow him, and the latter accompanied the Benedictineinto the adjoining rock chamber, where he did amplejustice to the frugal repast which Odo placed before him, andof which the monk himself partook but sparingly.

CHAPTER VI
FROM DREAM TO DREAM

Theodora's sleep had beenbroken and restless. She tossedand turned upon her pillow. Itwas weary work to lie gazingwith eyes wide open at the fantasticshadows cast by theflickering night lamp. It wasstill less productive of sleep toshut them tight and abandonherself to the visions thus createdwhich stood out in life-like colors and refused to bedispelled. Do what she would to forget him, Tristan everand ever stood before her, towering like a demigod above themean, effeminate throng that surrounded her. She could nolonger analyze her feelings. She believed herself to bebewitched. She had not reached the prime of womanhoodwithout having sounded, as she thought, every chord of thehuman heart. Descendant from a family of courtesans, suchas had ruled Rome during the tenth century, she had tastedevery cup, as she thought, that promised gratification andexcitement. She had been flattered, courted, loved, admired.Yet she had remained utterly cold to all these experiences,and none of her lovers could boast that her passion hadendured beyond the hour. The terrible fascination she exercisedover all men made them slaves in her hands, blindinstruments of her will. But, as the years went by, the utterdisgust she felt with these hordes of beasts that thronged herbowers, was only equalled by a mad desire for power, astruggle, which alone could bring to her oblivion. To rulehad become a passion with the woman, who had no heartinterest that made life worth living. The fleeting passionfor Basil had long ceased to kindle a responsive fire in herveins. Fit but to be her tool, she was determined to ridherself of him as soon as her ambition should have beenrealized.

Suddenly the unbelievable had come to pass. She hadmet a man. Not one of those crawling, fawning reptiles whonightly desecrated her groves, but a man who might havesteered her life into different channels, who might havedirected the flight of her soul to regions of light, instead ofchaining it to the dark abyss among the shadows. It was anew sensation altogether. This intense and passionate longingshe had never felt before. But in its novelty it wasabsolutely painful. For the man whom she craved with allthe fibres of her being, to whom her soul went out as it hadnever gone out to mortal, had scorned her.

Her fame had proved more potent than her beauty.

Tristan's continued indifference had roused in her all thedemons in her nature. Her first impulse had been revengeat any price. Her compact with Basil was the fruit of herfirst madness. Even now she would have rescinded it hadTristan but shown a softer, kindlier feeling towards her.Some incongruous whim had prompted her to choose for herinstrument the very man whom in her heart she loathed,whose attentions were an insult to her. For, in her ownheart, Theodora held herself to be some God-decreed thing,like the Laides and Thaides and Phrynes of old. She couldnot escape her destiny.

With all her self-command Theodora's feelings had almostoverpowered her. Ever since the tidings of Tristan's supposedcrime and captivity had reached her ear, she had taxedher brain, though in vain, to bring about his rescue. Foronce her efforts were baffled and she met a resistance whichall the tigerish ferocity of her nature could not overcome.Tristan was in the custody of the Church. In his guilt Theodoradid not believe, rather did she suspect foul play at thehands of one of whom she would demand a terrible reckoning.She thought of Tristan night and day, and she was determinedto save him, whatever the hazard,—save him forherself and her love. Her spies were at work, but meanwhileshe must sit idly by and wait—wait, though the bloodcoursed like lava through her veins. She dared confide innone, nor could she even have speech with the man she loved.She had managed to curb her feelings and to preserve anoutward calm, while Persephoné prepared her for repose.The latter was much puzzled by her mistress's mood, butshe retired to her own couch carefree, while Theodora writhedin an agony such as she had never known before.

Yet, fate had been kind to her,—kinder than she haddared to hope. By some fatal throw of chance the womanTristan loved—her rival—had fallen into her hands. Whilethis circumstance did not in itself take the sting of Tristan'sinsult from the wound, she would, at least, be revenged uponthe cause of her suffering.

When, on that memorable evening at the Arch of the SevenCandles, she had first met Hellayne face to face, when firstthe truth had flashed upon her and she knew herself rejectedfor that white lily from the North, a hatred such as she hadnever known had crept into her heart, a hatred to whichfresh fuel was added from the consciousness of her rival'sbeauty, her strength, her youth. With all the fire of hersouthern temperament she longed to meet this woman, toconquer her, to take from her the man she loved.

Morning brought in its wake its unfailing accession ofclear-sightedness and practical resolve. Long before sherose she had made up her mind where and how to strike.Nothing remained but to choose the weapon and to put akeener edge upon the steel.

When Persephoné came to assist her mistress, she wonderedhow the mood of the evening had passed. Whileattiring Theodora, the Circassian could not but wonder at themarvellous beauty of this woman who had bent the hearts ofmen to her desires like wind blown reeds, only to break themand cast them at their feet. Only on the previous day a newwooer had entered the lists; a man rude of speech and manner,vain withal and self-satisfied, had laid gifts at Theodora'sfeet. Roger de Laval was the great man's name. He camefrom some far away, fabled land, and it was rumored that hehad come to Rome to seek his truant wife. Having surprisedher in the arms of her lover, whom she had followed, he hadkilled both. Such a temper was to the liking of Persephoné,and, as her soft white fingers played around hermistress' throat, in the endeavor to fasten her rose-coloredtunic, she could hardly restrain herself from encircling thatwhite throat and strangling the woman who had spurned theattentions of one for whose love she would have sacrificedher soul.

"What of the Lady Hellayne?" Theodora broke the heavysilence.

"She remains in the chamber which the Lady Theodorahas assigned to her." Persephoné replied.

"Are the eunuchs at their post?"

"Before her door and beneath her windows."

Theodora gave a nod.

"Bring the Lady Hellayne here!"

"The Lady Theodora has not breakfasted."

"I know! Yet I would not delay this meeting longer."

Persephoné hesitated.

"The Lady Hellayne is in a perilous mood—"

"I should love nothing better than to find her so," Theodorareplied, extending her two snowy arms, whose steelystrength Persephoné knew so well. "I long for the conflictwith this marble statue as I have never longed for anythingin my life. I could find it in my heart to be happy if shedestroyed me with those white hands that rival mine, if shebut stepped out of her reserve, her marble calm, if her soulignited from mine."

"If I know aught about her kind, the Lady Theodora willdo well to be wary," Persephoné replied demurely.

The covert taunt had its instantaneous effect.

"Deem you I fear this white siren from the North?"Theodora flashed, regarding herself in the bronze mirror andbrushing a stray lock of hair from her white brow.

"What will you do with her, Lady Theodora?" Persephonépurred.

Theodora's face was very white.

"There are times when nothing but the physical touch willsatisfy. And now go and fetch hither the Lady Hellaynethat I may hear from her own lips how she fared under theroof of her rival."

Persephoné departed from the room, while Theodora aroseand, stepping to the casement, looked out into the blossominggardens that encircled her palace.

Her beauty was regal indeed, as she stood there brooding,her bare arms dropping by her side. But for the expressionof the eyes, in which a turmoil of passion seemed to seethe,the wonderful face in repose would have seemed that of anangel rather than a woman meditating the destruction ofanother.

After a time Persephoné returned. By her side walkedHellayne.

Her beauty seemed even enhanced by the expression ofsuffering revealed in the depths of her blue eyes. She worea dark robe, almost severe in its straight lines. The loosesleeves revealed her white arms. Her hair was tied in aGrecian knot.

At a sign from Theodora Persephoné left the room.

For a moment the two women faced each other in silence,fixing each other with their gaze, each trying to read thethoughts of the other.

It was Hellayne who spoke.

"The Lady Theodora has desired my presence."

"It was my anxiety for your welfare, Lady Hellayne,"Theodora replied, inviting her to a seat, while she seatedherself opposite her visitor. "After the trying experiencesof yesterday I do not wonder at the shadows that creepunder your eyes. They but prove that my anxiety was wellfounded. May I ask if you rested well?"

"I owe you thanks, Lady Theodora, for your timely aid,"Hellayne replied in cold, passionless accents. "They tellme I was in dire straits, though I cannot conceive who shouldcare to abduct one who would so little repay the effort."

"Enough to infatuate him, whoever he was, with a beautyas rare as it is wonderful," Theodora replied, forced to anexpression of her own admiration at the sight of the exquisiteface, the white throat, the wonderful arms and hands of herrival. "I but did what any woman would do for anotherwhose life she saw imperilled. Your wonderful youth andstrength will soon restore you to your former self. Deignthen to accept the hospitality of this abode until such a time."

There was a pause during which each seemed to searchthe soul of the other.

It was Hellayne who spoke.

"I thank you, Lady Theodora. Nevertheless I intend todepart at the earliest. I can picture to myself the anxietyof the Blessed Sisters of Santa Maria in Trastevere at mymysterious disappearance."

"You intend taking holy orders?"

Theodora's question was pregnant with a strange wonder.

A negative gesture came in response.

"The convent proved a haven of refuge to me when I wassorely tried."

"Yet—you cannot return there," Theodora interposed."You would not be safe. Know you from whose minionsmy Africans rescued you on yester eve?"

Hellayne's wide eyes were silent questioners.

"Then listen well and ponder. You were in the power ofthe Lord Basil. And that which he desires he usuallyobtains."

Hellayne covered her face with her hands.

"The Lord Basil!"

"You know him, Lady Hellayne?"

"Slightly. He was wont to call upon the man I once calledmy husband."

"The man you deserted for another."

Hellayne's eyes glittered like steel.

"That is a matter which concerns only myself, Lady Theodora,"she said coldly. "You saved my honor—perchancemy life. For this I thank you. I shall depart at once."

She walked to the door, opened it and recoiled.

Before it stood two Africans with gleaming scimitars.

White to the lips, Hellayne closed the door and faced Theodora.

"Lady Theodora—why are these there?"

Theodora's smouldering gaze met the fire in the otherwoman's eyes.

"Those who come to the bowers of Theodora, remain,"she said slowly.

"Am I to understand that you will detain me by forcewithin these walls of infamy?"

"Your language is a trifle harsh, fairest Lady Hellayne,"Theodora replied mockingly. "Your over-wrought nervesmust bear the burden of the blame. Yet, whatever it mayplease you to call the place where Theodora dwells, alwaysremember, I am Theodora. You have heard of me before."

"Yes—I have heard of you before!"

The calm and cutting contempt which lingered in thesewords stung Theodora like a whip-lash.

"You know then, Lady Hellayne, it is your will againstmine! We have met before!"

"You mean to detain me here, against my will?"

"Whether I detain you or no—shall depend upon yourself.We are two women—young,—beautiful—passionate—determinedto win that which we deem our happiness.I will be plain with you. All the reverses and heartaches ofmonths and days are wiped out in this glorious moment whenI hold you here in my power. For once my guardian angel,if I can still boast of one, has been kind to me. He hasdelivered you into my hands—and I shall bend or breakyou!"

Hellayne listened to this outburst of passion with outwardcalm, though her heart beat so wildly that she thought theother woman must hear it through the deadly silence whichprevailed for a space.

"You will bend or break me, Lady Theodora?" Hellaynereplied with a pathetic shrug. "There is nothing that youcould do that would even leave a memory. I have sufferedthat in life which makes you to me but the nightmare of anevil dream."

"We shall see, Lady Hellayne," Theodora replied, herpassion kindling at the other woman's calm.

"What then is the ransom you desire, Lady Theodora?"Hellayne continued sardonically. "A woman of your kinddesires but one thing—and gold I do not possess—"

Theodora's eyes scanned Hellayne's pale face.

"Lady Hellayne," she said slowly, "of all the things inheaven or on earth there is but one I desire: Tristan,—theman you love—the man who loves you with a passion soidolatrous that, did I possess but the one thousandth atom ofwhat he gives to your ice cold heart, I should deem myselfblessed above all women on earth. Give him to me—renouncehim—and you are free to go wherever your fancymay lead you."

Hellayne regarded the speaker as if she thought she hadgone mad.

"Give him to you?" she said, hardly above a whisper, buther tone stung Theodora to the quick.

"To me!" she said. "Look at me! Am I not beautiful?Am I not created to make man happy? What woman maymatch herself with me? Even your pale beauty, Lady Hellayne,is but as a disembodied wraith as compared to mine.To me! To me! You are young, Lady Hellayne. Whatcan the sacrifice matter to you? To you it can mean little.There are other men with whom you may be happy. Forme it spells salvation—or eternal doom! For I love him, Ilove him with my whole heart and soul, love him as never Iloved the thing called man before! He has shown to me oneglimpse of heaven, and now I mean to have him, to atone fora past that was my evil inheritance, to taste life ere I toodescend to those shadowy regions whence there is no return.Lady Hellayne," she continued, hardly noting the expressionof horror and loathing that had crept into Hellayne's countenance."You have heard of me—you know who I am—andwhat! Those who went before me were the same,generations, perchance. It rankles in our blood. But thereis salvation—even for such as myself. To few it comes, but Ihave seen the star. It is the love of a man, pure and true.Where such a one is found, even the darkness of the grave isdispelled. I have lived and loved, Lady Hellayne! I havebeen loved as few women have. I have hurled myself intothis mad whirlpool to forget—but forget I could not. Man,the beast, is ever ready to drag the woman who cries for lifeand its true meaning back into the mire. He alone of allhas spurned me—he alone has resisted the deadly lure ofmy charms. Never have I spoken to woman before as I amspeaking to you, Lady Hellayne. Hear my prayer!—Renouncehim!"

Hellayne stared mute at the speaker, as if her tonguerefused her utterance. Was she going mad? Theodora,the courtesan queen of Rome, trying to obtain salvation bytaking from her her lover? She could almost have found itin her heart to laugh aloud. A death-bed repentance thatmade the devils laugh! In her virginal purity Hellaynecould not fathom what was going on in the soul of a womanwho had suddenly awakened to the terror of her life andwas snatching at the last straw to save herself from drowningin the cesspool of vice.

Theodora, with her woman's intuition, saw what was goingon in the other woman's soul. She noted the slow transformationfrom amazement to horror, and from horror todefiance. She saw Hellayne slowly raising herself to herfull height, and approaching her, who had risen, until herbreath fanned her cheek.

"Give him to you, Lady Theodora? Surely you must bemad to even dream of so monstrous a thing."

She was very white, and her hands were clenched as ifshe forcibly restrained herself from flying at her opponent'sthroat.

Theodora's self-restraint was slowly waning. She knewshe had pleaded in vain. She knew Hellayne did not understand,or, if she understood, did not believe.

She spoke calmly, yet there was something in her voicethat warned Hellayne of the impending storm.

"Listen, Lady Hellayne," she said. "You are alone inRome! At the mercy of any one who desires you! Yourlover is accused of the most heinous crime. He has takenthe consecrated wafer from the chapel in the Lateran and,who knows, from how many other churches in Rome."

Hellayne's eyes sank into those of the other woman.

"No one knows better than yourself, Lady Theodora, howutterly false and infamous this accusation is. Tristan is adevout son of the Church. His whole life bears testimonythereof."

"If the Consistory pronounce him guilty, who will believehim innocent?" came the mocking reply.

"His God—his conscience—and I," Hellayne repliedquietly.

"Will that save his life—which is forfeit?" Theodorainterposed.

"Where is he? Oh, where is he?"

For a moment Hellayne gave way to her emotions.

"He lies in the vaults of Castel San Angelo," Theodorareplied, "awaiting his doom."

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" Hellayne moaned, covering herface with her hands and sobbing convulsively.

"His rescue—though difficult of achievement—lies withyou," Theodora said, veiling her inmost feelings. She wasstaking all on the last throw.

"With me?" Hellayne turned to her piteously.

"I will tell you," Theodora interposed, placing her whitehands on Hellayne's shoulders. "The Consistory hasspoken—" she lied—"and no power on earth can saveyour lover from his doom save—myself!"

"How may that be?"

"I know the ways of the Emperor's Tomb. Its denizensobey me! If you love him as I do you will bring the sacrificeand save his life."

"Oh, save him if you can, Lady Theodora," Hellayneprayed, her hands closing round Theodora's wrists. "Savehim—save him."

"I shall, if you will do this thing, I ask," Theodora replied,sinking her dark orbs into the blue depths of Hellayne's.

"What am I to do?"

"It is easy. Here are stylus and tablet. Write to theLord Basil to meet you at the Groves of Theodora. A hintof love, passion, promise—fulfillment of his desires—thengive it to me. It shall save your lover."

For a moment Hellayne stared wild-eyed at the woman.It was as if she had heard a voice, the meaning of which sheno longer understood.

Then, in her unimpassioned voice, she turned to Theodora.

"Only the fiend himself and Theodora could ask as much!"

The blood was coursing like a stream of lava throughTheodora's veins.

Would Hellayne but step out of her reserve! Would shebut abandon her icy calm!

"Then you refuse?" she flashed.

"I defy you," Hellayne replied. "Do your worst! Ratherwould I see him dead than defiled by such as you!"

"Would you, indeed?" Theodora returned with a deadlycalm. "Nevertheless, when first we met, he, for the mereasking, gave to me a scarf of blue samite, a chased dagger,tokens from the woman he had loved."

Theodora paused, to watch the effect of the poison shaftshe had sped. She saw by Hellayne's agonized expressionthat it had struck home.

"For the last time, Lady Hellayne, do my bidding!"

Hellayne had regained her self-possession. With asupreme effort she fought down the pain in her heart.

"Never!" came the firm reply.

"Then I shall take him from you!"

"Deem you, I have aught to fear from such as you?"Hellayne said slowly, the blue fire of her eyes burning on thepale face of Theodora. "Deem you, that Tristan woulddefile his manhood with the courtesan queen of Rome?"

A gasp, a choking outcry, and Theodora's white handsclosed round Hellayne's throat. Though their touch burnther like fire, Hellayne did not even raise her hands.

Fearlessly she gazed into Theodora's face.

"I am waiting," she said with the same passionless voice,but there was something in her eyes that gave the otherwoman pause.

Theodora's hands fell limply by her side. What she readin Hellayne's eyes had caused her, perchance, for the firsttime, to blanch.

She clapped her hands.

The door opened and Persephoné stood on the threshold.

She had listened, and not a word of their discourse hadescaped her watchful ears.

"The Lady Hellayne desires to return to her chamber,"Theodora turned to the Circassian, and without another wordHellayne followed her guide.

Yet, as she did so, her head was turned towards Theodoraand in her eyes was an expression so inscrutable that Theodoraturned away with a shudder, as the door closed behindtheir retreating forms, leaving her alone with her overmasteringagony.

CHAPTER VII
A ROMAN MEDEA

It was a moonless night.—

Deep repose was upon theseven hilled city. The sky wasintensely dark, but the starsshone out full and lustrous.Venus was almost setting. Marsglowed red and fiery towardsthe zenith; the constellationsseemed to stand out from theinfinite spaces behind them.Orion glittered like a giant in golden armour; Cassiopeiashone out in her own peculiar radiance and the Pleiades intheir misty brightness.

A litter, borne by four stalwart Nubians, and preceded bytwo torch bearers, slowly emerged from the gates of Theodora'spalace and took the direction of the gorge whichdivides the Mount of Cloisters from Mount Testaccio.

Owing to the prevailing darkness which made all objects,moving and immobile, indistinguishable, the inmates of thelitter had not drawn the curtains, so as to admit the coolingnight air. There was a fixedness in Theodora's look and arecklessness in her manner that showed anger and determination.It struck Persephoné, who was seated by herside, with a sort of terror, and for once she did not dare toaccost her mistress with her usual banter and freedom.

Theodora had spent the early hours of the evening in ahalf obscured room, whose sable hangings seemed to reflectthe unrest of her soul. She had forbidden the lamps to belighted, brooding alone in darkness and solitude. Then shehad summoned Persephoné, ordered her litter-bearers andcommanded them to take her to the house of Sidonia, awoman versed in all manner of lore that shunned the lightof day.

"It must be done! It shall be done!" she muttered, herwhite face tense, her white hands clenched.

Suddenly her hand closed round Persephoné's wrist.

"She defies me, knowing herself in my power," she said."We shall see who shall conquer."

"The Lady Hellayne is as fearless of death, as yourself,Lady Theodora," Persephoné replied. "Indeed, she seemedrather to desire it, for no woman ever faced you with suchdefiance as did she when you put before her the fatal choice."

Theodora's face shone ghostly in the nocturnal gloom.

"We shall see! She shall desire death a thousand foldere she quits the abode I have assigned to her. God! Noteven Roxana had dared to say to me what this one did."

"Nor would her shafts have struck so deep a wound,"Persephoné interposed with studied insolence.

Theodora's grip tightened round the girl's wrist.

"You admire the Lady Hellayne?" she said softly, butthere was a gleam in her eyes like liquid fire.

"As one brave woman admires another!" Persephonéreplied fearlessly, turning her beautiful face to the speaker.

"You may require all your courage some day to faceanother task," Theodora replied. "Beware, lest you temptme to do what I might regret."

Persephoné turned white. Her bosom heaved. Her eyesmet Theodora's.

"I shall welcome the ordeal with all my heart!"

Theodora relapsed into silence, oppressed by dark thoughts,the memory of unresisted temptations, a chaotic world whereblack unscalable rocks, like circles of the Inferno, hemmedher in on every side, while devils whispered into her earsthe words that gave shape and substance to her desire todestroy her rival in the love of the one man whom, in all herchangeable life, she had truly desired.

"Deem you, that I have aught to fear from such as you?Deem you, that Tristan would defile his manhood with thecourtesan queen of Rome?"

The words still boomed in her ears, the words and thetone in which they had been hurled in her face.

Even to this moment she knew not what restrained herfrom strangling Hellayne. It seemed to her that only in aphysical encounter could she quench the hatred she bore thiswhite, beautiful statue who never raised her voice while thefire of her blue eyes seared her very soul.

A thousand frightful forms of evil, stalking shapes of death,came and went before her imagination, which caused her toclutch first at one, then at another of the dire suggestionsthat came in crowds which overwhelmed her powers ofchoice. Then, like an inspiration from the very depths ofHell, a thought flashed into her mind, and, no sooner conceived,than she determined upon its execution.

The laboratory of the woman whom Theodora was seekingon this night was in an old house midway in the gorge. Ina deep hollow, almost out of sight, stood a square structureof stone, gloomy and forbidding, with narrow windows andan uninviting door. Tall pines shadowed it on one side, asmall rivulet twisted itself, like a live snake, half round it onthe other. A plot of green grass, ill-kept and teeming withnoxious weeds, fennel, thistle and foul stramonium, wassurrounded by a rough wall of loose stone; and here livedthe woman who supplied all those who desired her wares,and plied her nocturnal trade.

Sidonia was tall and straight, of uncertain age, though shemight have been reckoned at forty. The whiteness of herskin was enhanced by her blue black hair and lustrous blackeyes. Far from forbidding, she exercised a sinister charmupon those who called upon her, and who vainly tried toreconcile her trade with the traces of a great beauty. Yether thin, cruel lips never smiled, unless she had an objectto gain by assuming a disguise as foreign to her as light isto an angel of darkness.

Hardly any known poison there was, which was not obtainableat her hands. In a sombre chest, carved with fantasticfigures from Etruscan designs, were concealed the subtledrugs, cabalistical formulas and alchemic preparations whichwere so greatly in demand during those years of darkness.

In the most secret place of all were deposited, ready foruse, a few phials of a crystal liquid, every single drop ofwhich contained the life of a man, and which, administeredin due proportion of time and measure, killed and left notrace.

Here was the sublimated dust of the deadly night-shadewhich kindles the red fires of fever and rots the roots of thetongue. Here was the fetid powder of stramonium thatgrips the lungs like an asthma, and quinia that shakes itsvictims like the cold hand of the miasma in the PontineMarshes. The essence of poppies, ten times sublimated, afew grains of which bring on the stupor of apoplexy, and thesardonic plant that kills its victims with the frightful laughterof madness upon their countenance, were here. The knowledgeof these and many other cursed herbs, once known toMedea in the Colchian land, and transplanted to Greeceand Rome with the enchantments of their use, had beenhanded down by a long succession of sorcerers and poisonersto the woman, who seemed endowed by nature as the legitimateinheritrix of this lore of Hell.

At last the litter of Theodora was set down by its swarthybearers before the threshold of Sidonia's house. Theodoraalighted and, after commanding the Africans to await herreturn, ascended the narrow stone steps alone and knockedat the door. After a brief wait, shuffling steps were heardfrom within, and a bent, lynx-eyed individual of Orientalorigin opened the door, inviting the visitor to enter. Shewas ushered into a dusky hallway, in which brooded strangeodors, thence into a dimly lighted room, the laboratory ofSidonia.

Hardly had she seated herself when the woman enteredand stood face to face with Theodora.

The eyes of the two women instantly met in a searchingglance that took in the whole ensemble, bearing, dress andalmost the very thoughts of each other. In that one glanceeach knew and understood; each knew that she could trustthe other, in evil, if not in good.

And there was trust between them. The evil spirits thatpossessed their hearts clasped hands, and a silent league wasformed in their souls ere a word had been spoken.

Sidonia wore a long, purple robe, totally unadorned. Thesleeves were wide, and revealed her white, bare arms. Herfinely cut features were crossed with thin lines of crueltyand cunning. No mercy was in her eyes, still less on herlips, and none in her heart, cold to every human feeling.

"The Lady Theodora is fair to look upon," Sidonia brokethe silence. "All women admit it; all men confess it." Andher gaze swept the other woman, who was clad in an ampleblack mantle which ended in a hood.

"Can you guess why I am here?" Theodora replied."You are wise and know a woman's desire better than shedares avow."

"Can I guess?" replied Sidonia, returning Theodora'sscrutiny. "You have many lovers, Lady Theodora, butthere is one who does not return your passion. And, youhave a rival. A woman, more potent than yourself, has,notwithstanding your beauty, entangled the man you love,and you are here to win him back and to triumph over yourrival. Is it not so, Lady Theodora?"

"More than that," replied the other, clenching her whitehands and gazing into the eyes that met her own with a lookof merciless triumph at what she saw reflected therein."It is all that—and more—"

Sidonia met her eager gaze.

"You would kill your rival!" she said with a smile uponher lips. "There is death in your eyes—in your voice—inyour heart! You would kill the woman. It is good inthe eyes of a woman to kill her rival—and women like youare rare!"

"Your reward shall be great," Theodora said with aninquisitive glance at the woman who had read her inmostthoughts.

"To kill woman or man were a pleasure even without theprofit," replied Sidonia, darkly. "I come from a race,ancient and terrible as the Cæsars, and I hate the punyrabble. I have my own joy in making my hand felt in aworld I hate and which hates me!"

She held out her hands, as if the ends of her fingers weretrickling poison.

"Death drops on whomsoever I send it," she continued,"subtly, secretly. The very spirits of air cannot tracewhence it comes."

"I know you are the possessor of terrible secrets," Theodorareplied, fascinated beyond all her experiences with thewoman and her trade.

"Such secrets never die," said the poisoner. "Few men,still fewer women, are there who would not listen at thedoor of Hell to learn them. Let me see your hand!"

Theodora complied with her abrupt demand and laid herbeautiful white hand into the no less beautiful one of thewoman before her.

Her touch, though the hand was cool, seemed to burn,but Theodora's touch affected the other woman likewisefor she said:

"There is evil enough in the palm of your hand to destroythe world! We are well met, you and I. You are worthyof my confidence. These fingers would pick the fruit offthe forbidden tree, for men to eat and die! Lady Theodora—Imay some day teach you the great secret—meanwhileI will show you that I possess it!"

With these words she walked to the chest, took from itan ebony casket and laid it upon the table.

"There is death enough in this casket," she said, "tokill every man and woman in Rome!"

Theodora fastened her gaze upon it, as if she would havedrawn out the secret of its contents by the very magnetismof her eyes. For, even while Sidonia was speaking, a thoughtflashed through her visitor's mind—a thought which almostmade her forget the purpose on which she had come. Shelaid her hands upon it caressingly, trembling, eager to seeits contents.

"Open it!" said Sidonia. "Touch the spring and look!"

Theodora touched the little spring. The lid flew back andthere flashed from it a light which for a moment dazzled herby its very brilliancy. She thrust the cabinet from her inalarm, imagining she inhaled the odor of some deadly perfume.

"Its glitter terrifies me!" she said. "Its odor sickens."

"Your conscience frightens you," sneered Sidonia.

Theodora rose to her feet, her face pale, her eyes alightwith a strange fire.

"This to me?" she flashed.

For a moment the two women faced each other in a whitesilence.

A strange smile played upon Sidonia's lips.

"The Aqua Tofana in the hands of a coward is a gift asfatal to its possessor as to its victim!"

"You are brave to speak such words to Theodora!"

Sidonia gave her an inscrutable glance.

"Why should I fear you? Even without these,—womanto woman," she replied, as she drew the casket to herselfand took out a phial, gilt and chased with strange symbols.

Sidonia took it up and immediately the liquid was filledwith a million sparks of fire. It was the Aqua Tofana,undiluted, instantaneous in its effect, and not medicable byantidotes. Once administered there was no more hope forits victim than for the souls of the damned who have receivedthe final judgment. One drop of the sparkling water uponthe tongue of a Titan would blast him like Jove's thunderbolt,shrivel him up to a black, unsightly cinder.

This terrible water was rarely used alone by the poisoners,but it formed the basis of a hundred slower potions whichambition, fear or hypocrisy, mingled with the element oftime, and colored with the various hues and aspects of naturaldisease.

Theodora had again taken her seat and leaned towardsSidonia, supporting her chin in the palm of her hands, asshe bent eagerly over the table, drinking in every word asthe hot sand of the desert drinks in the water that falls uponit.

"What is that?" she pointed to a phial, white as milk andseemingly harmless, and while she questioned, her busybrain worked with feverish activity. The Aqua Tofana shehad used when she struck down Roxana and her too talkativelover on the night of the feast in her garden. But now sherequired a different concoction to complete the vengeanceon her rival.

"This is called Lac Misericordiae," replied Sidonia. "Itbrings on painless consumption and decay! It eats the lifeout of man or woman, while the moon empties and fills. Thestrong man becomes a skeleton. Blooming maidens sink totheir graves blighted and bloodless. Neither saint or sacramentcan arrest its doom. This phial"—and she tookanother from the cabinet, replacing the first—"containsinnumerable griefs that wait upon the pillows of rejectedand heartbroken lovers, and the wisest mediciner is mockedby the lying appearances of disease that defy his skill andmake a mock of his wisdom."

There was a moment's silence. At last Theodora spoke.

"Have you nothing that will cause fear—dread—madness—ereit strikes the victim dumb forever more? Somethingthat produces in the brain those dreadful visions—horridshapes—peopling its chambers where reason onceheld sway?"

For a moment Sidonia and Theodora held each other'sgaze, as if each were wondering at the wickedness of theother.

"This," Sidonia said at last, taking out a curiously twistedbottle, containing a clear crimson liquid and sealed with themystic Pentagon, "contains the quintessence of mandrakes,distilled in the alembic, when Scorpio rules the hour. Itwill produce what you desire."

"How much of it is required to do this thing?"

"Three drops. Within six hours the unfailing result willappear."

"Give it to me!"

"You possess rare ingenuity, Lady Theodora," saidSidonia, placing her hand in that of her caller. "If Satanprompts you not, it is because he can teach you nothing,either in love or stratagem."

She shut up her infernal casket, leaving the phial of distilledmandrakes, shining like a ruby in the lamp light, uponthe table. By its side lay a bag of gold.

Theodora arose. The eyes of the two women flashed inlurid sympathy as they parted, and Sidonia accompanied hervisitor to the door.

As she did so a heavy curtain in the background partedand the white face of Basil peered into the empty room.

After a brief interval Sidonia returned.

Her face had again assumed its forbidding aspect as,removing the phials and seemingly addressing no one, shesaid:

"We are alone now!"

At the next moment Basil stood in the chamber. His eyesburned with a feverish lustre, and there was a horror in hiscountenance which he strove in vain to conceal.

"This must not be," he said hoarsely. "Why did yougive her this devil's brew?"

And staggering up to the table he gripped the soft whitewrist of the woman with fingers of steel.

Sidonia's eyes narrowed as she gazed into those of the man.

"Do you love that one, too?" she said, wrenching herselffree. "Or have you lied to her as you have lied to me?"

"Your voice sounds like the cry from a dark gallery thatleads to Hell," Basil replied. "You, alone, have I loved allthese years, and for your fell beauty have I risked all I havedone and am about to do!"

"Fear speaks in your voice," Sidonia replied with a cruelsmile upon her lips. "You are in my power, else had youlong ago consigned me to a place whence there is no return.With me the secret of another's death would go to the grave."

"Nay, you do not understand!" Basil interposed. "Thewoman who has aroused Theodora's maddened jealousy isnothing to me. But I have other plans concerning her—shemust be saved!"

"Other plans?" replied Sidonia darkly. "What otherplans? What sort of woman is she who can arouse thejealousy of Theodora?"

"White and cold as the snows of the North."

"A stranger in Rome?"

"The wife of one whose days are numbered, if I rightlyread the oracle."

"What is this plan?" Sidonia insisted.

"She is to be delivered to Hassan Abdullah, as rewardfor his aid in the great stroke that is about to fall."

In the distance whimpered a bell.

"And, when the hour tolls—the hour of which you haveso often prated—when you sit in the high seat of the Senatorof Rome—where then will I be, who have watched yourpower grow and have aided it in its upward flight?"

Basil's face lighted up with the fires within.

"Where else but by my side? Who dares defy us andthe realms of the Underworld?"

"Who, indeed?" Sidonia replied with a dark, inscrutableglance into Basil's face. "Perchance I should not love youas I do were you not as evil as you are good to look upon!I love you, even though I know your lying lips have professedlove to many others, even though I know that Theodora haskindled in you all the evil passions of your soul. Bewarehow you play with me!"

She threw back her wide sleeves and two dazzling whitearms encircled Basil's neck.

"Await me yonder," she then turned to her visitor, pointingto a chamber situated beyond the curtain. "We willtalk this matter over!"

Basil retired and Sidonia busied herself, replacing thedifferent phials in the ebony chest.

After having assured herself that everything was in itsplace, she picked up the lamp and disappeared behind thecurtain in the background.

Deep midnight silence reigned in the gorge of MountAventine.

CHAPTER VIII
IN TENEBRIS

Another day had gone downthe never returning tide oftime. The sun was sinkingin a rosy bed of quilted clouds.All day long Hellayne had satbrooding in her chamber, unableto shake off the lethargy ofdespair that bound and benumbedher limbs, rousing herselfat long intervals just sufficientlyto wring her hands for very anguish, without even thefaintest ray of hope to pierce the black night of her misery.

Just as a white border of light had been visible on the edgeof the dark cloud that hung over her, just as she had refoundthe man whose love was the very breath of her existence, herevil star had again flamed in the ascendant and, losing himanew, she had utterly lost herself. She struggled with herthoughts, as a drowning man amid tossing waves, gropingabout in the dark for a plank to float upon, when all else hassunk in the seas around him.

She had hardly touched the food which Persephoné herselfhad brought to her. Yet it seemed to her the Circassian hadregarded her strangely, as she placed the viands before her.She had tried to frame a question, but her lips seemed torefuse the utterance, and at last Persephoné had departed,with the mocking promise to return later, to inquire how theLady Hellayne had spent the day.

Now it seemed to her as if a poison breath of evil wasslowly permeating the narrow confines of her chamber.Something she had never before experienced was floatingbefore her vision, was creeping into her brain, was boomingin her ears, was turning her blood to ice.

Was it the voiceless echo of an ill-omened incantation,handed down through generations of poisoners and witchesfrom the time of pagan Rome?

"Hecaten voco,
Voco Tisiphonem,
Spargens avernales aquas,
Te morti devoveo; te diris ago."

Was she going mad?

Hellayne's hands went to her forehead.

"I think I am sane," she said to herself, "at least—asyet."

Would Heaven not come to her aid? She was but a weakwoman who in vain—too often in vain—had tried tosnatch a few moments of happiness from life. Ah! IfDeath knew what a service he would render her! But no!She would brace her heart strings more than ever. Shewould renew her fight with dusk and madness. She wouldface and challenge each mad phantom—make it speak—revealitself,—or she would break the silence of that monstrousplace at least with her own voice. Though flesh wasweak she would be strong to-night—but—ah God! herethey came trooping out of the night.

She cowered back, shuddering, her eyes fixed on thedusky depths of the chamber.

It was the blue one—the one whose limbs and cheeksseemed made of pale blue ice. She felt her limbs growingnumb. But she would bar its way.

The finger of the freezing shape was on its lip. Did itmean that it was dumb? Well, then, let it speak by signs.The dim blue rays that draped its silence quaked like aspens.

"Who are you?" she forced herself to speak. "Are youHate? You shake your head? Are you Despair? No? Notthat? Then you must be Fear!"

The figure nodded with a horrible grin.

"Fear of what?"

The phantom passed its finger slowly across its throat.

She held on to the panelling to keep from falling. Herwoman's strength had bounds. But she recovered herselfand forced herself to speak.

"Ah!" she said, "it is this she contemplates? How soon?I needs must know. How many twilights have I still to live,before they sink my body in yonder lotus pond?"

The phantom held up three fingers.

"Only three," Hellayne babbled like a child, talking toherself. "Well—pass upon your way, phantom.—Youhave given me all you had to give—three dusks to rise toHeaven."

She raised her eyes in prayer and a strange rapture cameinto her face. But it vanished suddenly—and once moreshe stared, shuddering, into the gloom.

For craze and hell still prevailed.

Look, there it came!

What new and monstrous phantom was swaying andgroping towards her? A headless monk!—The air grewblack with horror. Horror shrivelled her skin, was raisingthe roots of her hair.

It was for her he was groping. Her wits were beginningto leave her. She had to move this way and that to avoidhim. She felt, if he only touched her, madness would winthe day. And he groped and groped, and she seemed tofeel him near to her.

"Away! Away!" she shrieked. But she was wastingher breath. He had neither eyes to see nor ears to hear.

And he groped and groped, as if he felt her already underhis vague, white hands.

"Help—God!" she shrieked.

Nature could not cope with such shapes as these!

And Hellayne fell forward in a swoon.

It was late in the night when she regained consciousness.She opened her eyes. The shapes of dusk had gone. Shewas alone—alone on the stone floor of the chamber. Everythingwas still in the long dusky gallery beyond. Perhapsit was all over for the night, and yet—what was there uponthe threshold?

"Oh, my God! my God!" she cried. "Let me die—onlynot this horror!"

There the phantom stood. Its scarlet mantle glimmeredalmost black. She dared not turn her back. She darednot shut her eyes. He made neither sign, nor beck, nornod. But, like a crazy shadow, he circled round and roundher, soundlessly, as if he were treading on velvet.

"Keep off—keep off!" she shrieked. "Protect me, ohmy God! Madness is closing in upon me!"

And with a sudden, desperate movement she rushed atthe phantom to tear the crimson mask from its face.

Her arms penetrated empty air.

With a moan she sank upon the floor. Her arms spreadout, she lay upon her face.

The swoon held her captive once more.

But the dream was kinder to Hellayne than life.

She stood upon a rocky promontory in her own far-offland of Provence.

Before her spread the peace of the wide, glimmering sea.

What are these golden columns through which the waterglistens?

A man stood within the ruins of a great temple, the seabefore him, violet hills behind. From the summit of anisland mountain in the bay the lilt of a tender song was driftingupwards.

And, as he sang, the great sea stirred. It heaved, itwrithed, it rose. With onward movement, as of a coilingserpent, the whole vast liquid brilliance rushed upon thetemple. Mighty billows of beryl curved and broke in sheetsof white foam.

"Fear nothing," said the man. "Your river has found thesea!"

It was Tristan's voice.

From the distance came the faint tolling of a bell, forlorn,as from a forest chapel, infinitely sweet and tremulous. Ina faint light, like a mountain mist at dawn, the whole scenefaded away, and Hellayne was in a garden—a rose garden.She had been there before, but how different it all was. Shewas being smothered in roses. Flame roses every one—curledinto fiery petal whorls, dancing in the garden duskunder a red, red sky.

Ah! There it is again, the terrible face, leering fromamong the branches, the face that froze the blood in herveins, that made her heart turn cold as ice and filled hersoul with horror.

It is the Count Laval. He is seeking her, seeking hereverywhere. Horns are peering out from under his scarletcap, and he has long claws.

Now she is fleeing through the rose garden, faster, faster,ever faster. But he is gaining upon her. From bosquet tobosquet, from thicket to thicket; she hears his approachingsteps. Now she can almost feel his breath upon her neck.

At last he has overtaken her.

Now he is circling round her, nearer and nearer, extendinghis hands towards her, while she follows his movement withhorror-stricken eyes.

But her strength, her body, are paralyzed.

As his hands close round her throat, his eyes gloating withdull malice, she covers her face with her hands and fallswith a shriek.

And as she lies there before him, dead, he looks downupon her with a strange smile upon his lips and casts hisscarlet mantle over her.

Once more Hellayne is in the throes of a swoon.

CHAPTER IX
THE CONSPIRACY

It was a night, moonless andstarless. Deep silence broodedover the city. Not a ray oflight was in the sky. A densefog hung like a funeral pallover the Seven Hills, and aceaseless, changeless drizzlewas sinking from the heavyclouds whose contours wereindistinguishable in the nocturnalgloom. The Tiber hardly moaned within his banks.The city fires hissed and smouldered away under the descendingrain, soon to be extinguished altogether.

It was about the second watch of the night when two men,wrapped in dark mantles that covered them from head tofoot, quitted the monastery of San Lorenzo and were immediatelyswallowed up by the darkness.

The night by this time was more dismal than ever. Thewind began to rise, and its fitful gusts howled round thestern old walls of the monastery, or rustled in the laurelsand cypresses by which it was surrounded. The great gateswere shut and barred. Hardly a light was to be seen alongthe entire range of buildings.

Suddenly a postern gate opened, and what appeared to bea monk, drawing his black cowl completely over his head,came forth and hurried along in the direction of the river.

Tristan and his companion, emerging from their hiding-place,followed at the farthest possible distance whichallowed them to retain sight of their quarry. Through asuccession of the worst and narrowest by-lanes of the citythey tracked him to the Tiber's edge.

Here, dark as it was, a boat was ready for launching.Five or six persons were standing by, who seemed to recognizeand address the monk. Keeping in the shadows ofthe tall, ill-favored houses, the twain contrived to approachnear enough to hear somewhat that was said.

"The light over yonder has been burning this half hour,"said one of the men.

"I could not come before," said he in the monk's habit."I was followed by two men. I threw them out, however,before I reached the monastery of San Lorenzo. But—byall the saints—lose no more time! We have lost too much,as it is."

He entered the boat as he spoke. It was pushed out intothe water, and in another moment the measured sound ofoars came to their ears.

Odo of Cluny turned to his companion.

"Tell me, did he who spoke first and mentioned the lightyonder on St. Bartholomew's Island—a light there is yonder,sure enough—did he resemble, think you, one we know?"

"Both in voice and form," replied Tristan.

"My thoughts point the same way as yours!"

"I should know that voice wherever I heard it," Tristanmuttered under his breath. "But what of the light?"

Dimly through the mist the red glow was discernible.

"It beams from the deserted monastery," Odo repliedafter a pause.

"Can we put across?" Tristan queried.

"The question is not so much to find a boat as a landing-place,where we shall not be seen."

"There is a boat lying yonder. If my eyes do not deceiveme, the boatman lies asleep on the poop."

"Know you aught of the men who rowed down the river?"Odo turned to the boatman, after he had aroused him.

The latter stared uncomprehendingly into the speaker'sface.

"I know of no men. I fell asleep for want of custom.It is a God-forsaken spot," he added, rubbing his eyes. "Whowould want a boat on a night like this?"

"We require even such a commodity," Odo replied.

The boatman returned a dull, unresponsive glance anddid not move from his improvised couch.

"Take your oars and row us to the Tiber Island," Odosaid sternly, "unless you would bring upon yourself thecurse of the Church. We have a weighty matter that brooksno delay. And have a care to avoid that other boat whichhas preceded yours. We must not be seen."

Something in Odo's voice seemed to compel, and soon theywere afloat, the boatman bending to his oars. They driftedthrough the dense mist and soon a dilapidated flight of landingstairs hove in sight, leading up to the deserted monastery.

"Had we chosen the usual landing-place, we should havefound two boats moored there—I saw them as we turned."Odo turned to his companion. "Yet we dare not land here.We should be seen from the shore."

Directing their Charon to row his craft higher up, Odosoon discovered the place of which he was in quest. It wasa little cove. The rocks which bordered it were slipperywith seaweed, and in that misty obscurity offered no verysafe footing.

Here the boat was moored, and Odo and his companionclambered slowly, but steadily, over the rocks and, in a fewmoments, had made good their landing.

Having directed the boatman to await their call in theshadow of the opposite bank, where he might remain unseen,they continued to grope their way upward, till they reachedthe angles of a wall which converged here, sheltered by aprojecting pent house. Voices were heard issuing fromwithin.

"We must have ample security, my lord," said a speaker,whose voice Odo recognized as the voice of Basil. "Yourequire of us to do everything. You exact ties and pledgesand hostages, and you offer nothing."

"I am desirous of sparing, as much as may be, the bloodof my men," replied the person addressed. "Rome mustbe my lord's without conflict."

"That may—or may not be," said the first speaker."But so much you may say to the Lord Ugo. If he expects toreconquer Rome, he will need all the forces he can summon."

"A wiser man than you or I, my lord, has said: 'Neverforce a foe to stand at bay,'" interposed a third. "Rejectour offers, and we, whom you might have for your friends,you will have for your most bitter and determined foes.Accept our terms, and Rome, together with the Emperor'sTomb, is yours!"

"What terms are contained in this paper?" queried Ugo'semissary.

"They are not very difficult to remember!" returned theGrand Chamberlain. "But I might as well repeat themhere. First—the revenues of all the churches to flow tothe Holy See."

"Proceed."

"Utmost security of life, person and property to thosewho are aiding our enterprise."

"It is well," said the voice. "So much I can vouch for,my lord. Is that all?"

"All—as far as conditions go," returned the thirdspeaker.

"It is not all, by St. Demetrius," cried Basil. "I claimthe office I am holding with all its privileges and appurtenances,to give no account to any one of the past or thefuture."

"What of the present?" interposed the voice.

"You never could imagine that I perilled my neck onlyto secure your lord in his former possessions, which he socowardly abandoned," said Basil contemptuously. "I claimthe hand of the Lady Theodora—"

"Theodora?" cried the envoy of Ugo of Tuscany, turningfiercely upon the speaker. "Surely you are mad, my lord,to imagine that the Lord Ugo would peril his reign with thepresence of this woman within the same walls that witnessedthe regime of her sister—"

"Mind your own business, my lord," interposed Basil."What the man thinks who fled from Castel San Angelo atthe first cry of revolt, the man who slunk away like a thiefin the night, is nothing to me. We make the conditions.It is for him to accept or reject them, as he sees fit."

A rasping voice, speaking a villainous jargon, made itselfheard at this juncture.

"What of my Saracens, mighty lord?" Hassan Abdullah,for no lesser than the great Mahometan chieftain was thespeaker, turned to the Grand Chamberlain. "I, too, amdesirous of sparing the blood of my soldiers and, insofar aslies within my power, that of the Nazarenes also. For it iswritten in the book: Slavery for infidels—but death onlyfor apostates."

"Our compact is sealed beyond recall," Basil made reply.

"Then you will deliver the woman into my hands?"

There was a pause.

"She shall be delivered into the hands of Hassan Abdullah!And he will sail away with his white-plumed bird—thefairest flower of the North—and the ransom of a city."

"Yet I do not know the lady's name," said the Saracen."This I should know—else how may she heed my call?"

"Those who love her call her Hellayne."

At the name Tristan started so violently that the monkcaught his arm in a grip of steel.

"Silence—if you value your life," Odo enjoined.

"When and where is she to be delivered into my hands?"Hassan Abdullah continued.

"The place will be made known to you, my lord," Basilreplied, "when the Emperor's Tomb hails its new master."

"Here is an infernal plot," Odo whispered into Tristan'sear, "spawned up by the very Prince of Darkness."

"What can we do?" came back the almost soundlessreply. "Hellayne to be delivered over to this infidel dog!Nay, do not restrain me, Father—"

"There are six to two of us," Odo interposed. "Silence!Some one speaks."

It was the voice of the envoy of Ugo of Tuscany.

"Although it seems like a taunt, to fling into the face ofmy lord the sister of the woman who was the cause of hisdefeat—"

"His coward soul was the cause of the Lord Ugo's defeat,"Basil interposed hotly. "In the dark of night, by means ofa rope he let himself down from his lair, to escape the wrathof the fledgling he had struck for an unintentional affront.Did the Lord Ugo even inquire into the fate of the womanwho perished miserably in the dungeons of the Emperor'sTomb?"

"Let us not be hasty," interposed another. "The LordUgo will listen to reason."

"The conditions are settled," Basil replied. "On thethird night from to-night!"

The conspirators rose and, emerging from the ruinedrefectory, made their way down to their boat.

Soon the sound of oars, becoming fainter and fainter,informed the listeners that the company had departed.

Tristan's face was very white.

"What is to be done?" he turned pathetically to themonk who stood brooding by his side. "I almost wish Ihad let my fate overtake me—"

"Do not blaspheme," Odo interposed. "Sometimesdivine aid is nearest when it seems farthest removed. Inthree days the blow is to fall! In three days Rome is to beturned over to the infidels who are ravaging our southerncoasts, and the Tuscan is once more to hold sway in theTomb of the former Master of the World. But not he—Basilwill rule, for Ugo has his hands full in Ivrea. WithBasil Theodora will lord it from yonder castello. He willlet the Lord Ugo burn his hands and he will snatch the goldenfruit. I will pray that this feeble hand may undo their darkplotting."

"What is Rome to me? What the universe?" Tristaninterposed, "if she whom I love better than life is lost tome?"

The monk turned to him laying his hand upon his shoulder.

"You have been miraculously delivered from the veryjaws of death. You will save the woman you love fromdishonor and shame."

Odo pondered for a pace then he continued:

"There is one in Rome—who is encompassing yourdestruction. The foul crime in the Lateran of which youwere the victim is but another proof of the schemes of theGodless, who have desecrated the churches of Christ fortheir hellish purposes. We must find their devil's chapel,hidden somewhere beneath the soil of Rome. None shallescape."

"How will you bring this about, Father?" Tristan querieddespairingly.

"The soldiers of the Church have not been bribed," Odoreplied. "Listen, my son, and do you as I direct. Onto-morrow's eve Theodora gives one of her splendid feasts.Go you disguised. Watch—but speak not. Listen—butanswer not. Who knows but that you may receive tidingsof your lost one? As for myself, I shall seek one whosecrimes lie heavily upon him, one who trembles with the fearof death, at whose door he lies—Il Gobbo—the bravo.His master has dealt him a mortal wound to remove thelast witness of his crimes. Come to me on the second dayat dusk."

Emerging from the shadows of the wall, Tristan hailedthe boatman, and a few moments later they were beingrowed towards a solitary spot near the base of the Aventine,where they paid and dismissed their Charon and disappearedamong the ruins.

CHAPTER X
THE BROKEN SPELL

Again there was feasting andhigh revels in the palace ofTheodora on Mount Aventine.Colored lanterns were suspendedbetween the intersticesof orange and oleandertrees; and incense rose inspiral coils from bronze andcopper vessels, concealedamong leafy bowers. Thegreat banquet hall was thronged with a motley crowd ofRomans, Greeks, men from the coasts of Africa and Iceland,Spaniards, Persians, Burgundians, Lombards, men from thesteppes of Sarmatia, and the amber coast of the Baltic. Hereand there groups were discussing the wines or the viands orthe gossip of the day.

The guests marvelled at the splendor, wealth and thevariegated mosaics, the gilded walls, the profusion of beautifulmarble columns and the wonderfully groined ceiling.It was a veritable banquet of the senses. The radiance of the hall with its truly eastern splendor captivatedthe eye. From remote grottoes came the sounds of flutes,citherns and harps, quivering through the dreaming summernight.

On ebony couches upon silver frames, covered with raretapestries and soft cushions, the guests reclined. Betweentwo immense, crescent-shaped tables, made of citron woodand inlaid with ivory, rose a miniature bronze fountain,representing Neptune. From it spurted jets of scentedwater, which cooled and perfumed the air.

Not in centuries had there been such a feast in Rome.Mountain, plain and the sea had been relentlessly laid undertribute, to surrender their choicest towards supplying thesumptuous board.

Nubian slaves in spotless white kept at the elbows of theguests and filled the golden flagons as quickly as they wereemptied. A powerful Cyprian wine, highly spiced, wasserved. Under its stimulating influence the revellers soongave themselves up to the reckless enjoyment of the hour.

As the feast proceeded the guests cried more loudly forflagons of the fiery ecobalda. They quaffed large quantitiesof this wine and their faces became flushed, their eyessparkled and their tongues grew more and more free. Thetemporary restraint they had imposed upon themselvesgradually vanished. In proportion as they partook of thefiery vintage their conviviality increased.

The roll-call was complete. None was found missing.Here was the Lord of Norba and Boso, Lord of Caprara.Here was the Lord Atenulf of Benevento, the Lord Amgar,from the coasts of the Baltic; here was Bembo the poet,Eugenius the philosopher and Alboin, Lord of Farfa. Herewas the Prefect of Rome and Roger de Laval. He, too,had joined the throng of idolators at the shrine of Theodora.The Lord Guaimar of Salerno was there, and Guido, Dukeof Spoleto.

The curtain at the far end of the banquet hall slowly parted.

On the threshold stood Theodora.

Silent, rigid, she gazed into the hall.

Like a sudden snow on a summer meadow, a white silencefell from her imagination across that glittering, gleamingtinselled atmosphere. Everywhere the dead seemed to sitaround her, watching, as in a trance, strange antics of thegrimacing dead.

A vision of beauty she appeared, radiantly attired, a jewelleddiadem upon her brow. By her side appeared Basil,the Grand Chamberlain.

When her gaze fell upon the motley crowd, a disgust,such as she had never known, seized her.

She seated herself on the dais, reserved for her, and withqueenly dignity bade her guests welcome.

Basil occupied the seat of honor at her right, Roger deLaval at her left.

Had any one watched the countenances of Theodora andof Basil he would have surprised thereon an expression ofravening anxiety. To themselves they appeared like twoplayers, neither knowing the next move of his opponent, yetfilled with the dire assurance that upon this move dependedthe fate of the house of cards each has built upon a foundationof sand.

At last the Count de Laval arose and whirled his glassabout his head.

"Twine a wreath about your cups," he shouted, "anddrink to the glory of the most beautiful woman in the world—theLady Theodora."

They rose to their feet and shouted their endorsementtill the very arches seemed to ring with the echoes. Hisinitiative was received with such favor by the others that,fired with the desire to emulate his example, they fell tosinging and shouting the praise of the woman whose beautyhad not its equal in Rome.

Theodora viewed the scene of dissipation with serenityand composure, and, by her attitude she seemed, in a strangeway, even tacitly to encourage them to drink still deeper.Faster, ever faster, the wine coursed among the guests.Some of them became more and more boisterous, otherswere rendered somnolent and fell forward in a stupor uponthe silken carpets.

Theodora, whose restlessness seemed to increase withevery moment, and who seemed to hold herself in leash bya strenuous effort of the will, suddenly turned to Basil andwhispered a question into his ear.

A silent nod came in response and the next moment aclash of cymbals, stormily persistent, roused the revellersfrom their stupor. Then, like a rainbow garmented Peri,floating easefully out of some far-off sphere of sky-wonders,an aerial maiden shape glided into the full lustre of thevarying light, a dancer nude, save for the glistening veilthat carelessly enshrouded her limbs, her arms and handsbeing adorned with circlets of tiny golden bells which keptup a melodious jingle as she moved. And now began thestrangest music, music that seemed to hover capriciouslybetween luscious melody and harsh discord, a wild andcurious medley of fantastic minor suggestions in which theimaginative soul might discover hints of tears and folly, loveand madness. To this uncertain yet voluptuous measurethe glittering girl dancer leaped forward with a startlingabruptness and, halting as it were on the boundary linebetween the dome and the garden beyond, raised her roundedarms in a snowy arch above her head.

Her pause was a mere breathing spell in duration. Droppingher arms with a swift decision, she hurled herself intothe giddy mazes of a dance. Round and round she floated,like an opal-winged butterfly in a net of sunbeams, nowseemingly shaken by delicate tremors, as aspen leaves areshaken by the faintest wind, now assuming the most voluptuouseccentricities of posture, sometimes bending downwistfully as though she were listening to the chanting ofdemon voices underground, and again, with her wavingwhite hands, appearing to summon spirits to earth fromtheir wanderings in the upper air. Her figure was in perfectharmony with the seductive grace of her gestures; not onlyher feet, but her whole body danced, her very featuresbespoke abandonment to the frenzy of her rapid movement.Her large black eyes flashed with something of fiercenessas well as languor; and her raven hair streamed behind herlike a darkly spread wing.

Wild outbursts of applause resounded uproariously throughthe hall.

Count Roger had drawn nearer to Theodora. His armsencircled her body.

Theodora bent over him.

"Not to-night! Not to-night! There are many thingsto consider. To-morrow I shall give you my answer."

He looked up into her eyes.

"Do you not love me?"

His hot breath fanned her cheeks.

Theodora gave a shrug and turned away, sick with disgust.

"Love—I hardly know what it means. I do not think Ihave ever loved."

Laval sucked in his breath between his teeth.

"Then you shall love me! You shall! Ever since I havecome to Rome have I desired you! And the woman livesnot who may gainsay my appeal."

She smiled tauntingly.

He had seized her hand. The fierceness of his grip madeher gasp with pain.

"And whatever brought you to Rome?" she turned to him.

"I came in quest of one who had betrayed my honor."

"And you found her?"

"Both!" came the laconic reply.

"How interesting," purred Theodora, suffering his odiousembrace, although she shuddered at his touch.

"And, man-like, you were revenged?"

"She has met the fate I had decreed upon her who wantonlybetrayed the honor of her lord."

"Then she confessed?"

"She denied her guilt. What matter? I never lovedher. It is you I love! You, divine Theodora."

And, carried away by a gust of passion, he drew her tohim, covering her brow, her hair, her cheeks with kisses.But she turned away her mouth.

She tried to release herself from his embrace.

Roger uttered an oath.

"I have tamed women before—ay—and I shall tameyou," he sputtered, utterly disregarding her protests.

She drew back as far as his encircling arms permitted.

"Release me, my lord!" she said, her dark eyes flashingfire. "You are mad!"

"No heroics—fair Theodora— Has the Wanton Queenof Rome turned into a haloed saint?"

He laughed. His mouth was close to her lips.

Revulsion and fury seized her. Disengaging her handsshe struck him across the face.

There was foam on his lips. He caught her by the throat.Now he was forcing her beneath his weight with the strengthof one insane with uncontrollable passion.

"Help!" she screamed with a choking sensation.

A shadow passed before her eyes. Everything seemedto swim around her in eddying circles of red. Then a gurglingsound. The grip on her throat relaxed. Laval rolledover upon the floor in a horrible convulsion, gasped andexpired.

Basil's dagger had struck him through, piercing his heart.

Slowly Theodora arose. She was pale as death. Herguests, too much engaged with their beautiful partners, hadbeen attracted to her plight but by her sudden outcry.

They stared sullenly at the dead man and turned to theirformer pursuits.

Theodora clapped her hands.

Two giant Nubians appeared. She pointed to the corpseat her feet. They raised it up between them, carried it outand sank it in the Lotus lake. Others wiped away thestains of blood.

Basil bent over Theodora's hands, and covered them withkisses, muttering words of endearment which but increasedthe discord in her heart.

She released herself, resuming her seat on the dais.

"It is the old fever," she turned to the man beside her."You purchase and I sell! Nay"—she added as his lipstouched her own—"there is no need for a lover's attitudewhen hucksters meet."

Though the guests had returned to their seats, a strangesilence had fallen upon the assembly. The rhythmical splashingof the water in the fountain and the labored breathing ofthe distressed wine-Bibbie's seemed the only sounds thatwere audible for a time.

"But I love you, Theodora," Basil spoke with strangelydilated eyes. "I love you for what you are, for all the evilyou have wrought! You, alone! For you have I done thisthing! For you Alberic lies dead in some unknown glen.For you have I summoned about us those who shall seat youin the high place that is yours by right of birth."

Theodora was herself again. With upraised hand, thatshone marble white in the ever-changing light, she enjoinedsilence.

"What of that other?" she said, while her eyes held thoseof the man with their magic spell.

"What other?" he stammered, turning pale.

"That one!" she flashed.

At that moment the curtain parted again and into thechanging light, emitted by the great revolving globe, swayeda woman. At first it seemed a statue of marble that hadbecome animated and, ere consciousness had resumed itssway, was slowly gaining life and motion, still bound up inthe dream existence into which some unknown power hadplunged her.

As one petrified, Basil stared at the swaying form of Hellayne.A white transparent byssus veil enveloped thebeautiful limbs. Her wonderful bare arms were raisedabove her head, which was slightly inclined, as in a listeningattitude. She seemed to move unconsciously as under aspell or as one who walks in her sleep. Her eyes wereclosed. The pale face showed suffering, yet had not lostone whit of its marvellous beauty.

The revellers stared spellbound at what, to their superstitiousminds, seemed the wraith of slain Roxana returnedto earth to haunt her rival.

Suddenly, without warning, the dark-robed form of a mandashed from behind a pillar. No one seemed to have notedhis presence. Overthrowing every impediment, he boundedstraight for Hellayne, when he saw the lithe form snatchedup before his very eyes and her abductor disappear with hisburden, as if the ground had swallowed them.

It seemed to Tristan that he was rushing through an endlesssuccession of corridors and passages, crossing eachother at every conceivable angle, in his mad endeavor tosnatch his precious prey from her abductor when, in a rotundain which these labyrinthine passages converged, he foundhimself face to face with an apparition that seemed to haverisen from the floor.

Before him stood Theodora.

Her dark shadow was wavering across the moonlit networkof light. The red and blue robes of the painted figureson the wall glowed about her like blood and azure, while themoonlight laid lemon colored splashes upon the variedmosaics of the floor.

His pulses beating furiously, a sense of suffocation in histhroat, Tristan paused as the woman barred his way.

"Let me pass!" he said imperiously, trying to suit theaction to the word.

But he had not reckoned with the woman's mood.

"You shall not," Theodora said, a strange fire gleamingin her eyes.

"Where is Hellayne? What have you done with her?"

Theodora regarded him calmly from under droopinglashes.

"That I will tell you," she said with a mocking voice."It was my good fortune to rescue her from the claws of onewho has again got her into his power. Her mind is gone,my Lord Tristan! Be reconciled to your fate!"

"Surely you cannot mean this?" Tristan gasped, his faceunder the monk's cowl pale as death, while his eyes staredunbelievingly into those of the woman.

"Is not what you have seen, proof that I speak truth?"Theodora interposed, slightly veiled mockery in her tone.

"Then this is your deed," Tristan flashed.

Theodora gave a shrug.

"What if it were?"

"She is in Basil's power?"

"An experienced suitor."

"Woman, why have you done this thing to me?"

His hands went to his head and he reeled like a drunkenman.

Theodora laid her hands on Tristan's shoulders.

"Because I want you—because I love you, Tristan," shesaid slowly, and her wonderful face seemed to becomeillumined as it were, from within. "Nay—do not shrinkfrom me! I know what you would say! Theodora—thecourtesan queen of Rome! You deem I have no heart—nosoul. You deem that these lips, defiled by the kisses ofbeasts, cannot speak truth. Yet, if I tell you, Tristan, thatthis is the first and only time in my life that I have loved, thatI love you with a love such as only those know who havethirsted for it all their lives, yet have never known but itsbase counterfeit; if I tell you—that upon your answer dependsmy fate—my life—Tristan—will you believe—willyou save the woman whom nothing else on earth can save?"

"I do not believe you," Tristan replied.

Theodora's face had grown white to the lips.

"You shall stay—and you shall listen to me!" she said,without raising her voice, as if she were discoursing uponsome trifling matter, and Tristan obeyed, compelled by thelook in her eyes.

Theodora felt Tristan's melancholy gaze resting upon her,as it had rested upon her at their first meeting. Was nothe, too, like herself, a lone wanderer in this strange countrycalled the world! But his manhood had remained unsullied.How she envied and how she hated that other woman towhom his love belonged. Softly she spoke, as one speaksin a dream.

She had gone forth in quest of happiness—happiness atany price. And she had paid the forfeit with a poisoned life.The desire to conquer had eclipsed every other. The lure ofthe senses was too mighty to be withstood. Yet how shortare youth and life! One should snatch its pleasures whileone may.

How fleet had been the golden empty days of joy. Shehad drained the brimming goblet to the dregs. If he misjudgedher motive, her self-abasement, if he spurned thelove she held out to him, the one supreme sacrifice of herlife had been in vain. She would fight for it. Soul andbody she would throw herself into the conflict. Her lastchance of happiness was at stake. The poison, rankling inher veins, she knew could not be expelled by idle sophisms.Life, the despot, claimed his dues. Had she lived utterlyin vain? Not altogether! She would atone, even thoughthe bonds of her own forging, which bound her to an ulceredpast, could be broken but by the hand of that crowned phantom:Death.

Now she was kneeling before him. She had grasped hishands.

"I love you!" she wailed. "Tristan, I love you and mylove is killing me! Be merciful. Have pity on me. Loveme! Be mine—if but for an hour! It is not much to ask!After, do with me what you will! Torture me—curse mebefore Heaven—I care not—I am yours—body and soul.—Ilove you!"

Her voice vibrated with mad idolatrous pleading.

He tried to release himself. She dragged herself yetcloser to him.

"Tristan! Tristan!" she murmured. "Have you aheart? Can you reject me when I pray thus to you? WhenI offer you all I have? All that I am, or ever hope to be?Am I so repellent to you? Many men would give their livesif I were to say to them what I say to you. They are nothingto me—you alone are my world, the breath of my existence.You, alone, can save me from myself!"

Tristan felt his senses swooning at the sight of her beauty.He tried to speak, but the words froze on his lips. It wastoo impossible, too unbelievable. Theodora, the most beautiful,the most powerful woman in Rome was kneeling beforehim, imploring that which any man in Rome would havedeemed himself a thousand fold blessed to receive. And heremained untouched.

She read his innermost thoughts and knew the suprememoment when she must win or lose him forever was at hand.

"Tristan—Tristan," she sobbed—and in the distantgrove sobbed flutes and sistrum and citherns—"say whatyou will of me; it is true. I own it. Yet I am not worsethan other women who have sold their souls for power orgold. Am I not fair to look upon? And is all this beauty ofmy face and form worthless in your eyes, and you no morethan man? Kill me—destroy me—I care naught. Butlove me—as I love you!" and in a perfect frenzy of self-abandonmentshe rose to her feet and stood before him, avery bacchante of wild loveliness and passion. "Look uponme! Am I not more beautiful than the Lady Hellayne?You shall not—dare not—spurn such love as mine!"

Deep silence supervened. The expression of her countenanceseemed quite unearthly; her eyes seemed wells offire and the tense white arms seemed to seek a victim roundwhich they might coil themselves to its undoing.

The name she had uttered in her supreme outburst ofpassion had broken the spell she had woven about him.

Hellayne—his white dove! What was her fate at thismoment while he was listening to the pleadings of theenchantress?

Theodora advanced towards him with outstretched arms.

He stayed her with a fierce gesture.

"Stand back!" he said. "Such love as yours—whatis it? Shame to whosoever shall accept it! I desire you not."

"You dare not!" she panted, pale as death.

"Dare not?"

But she was now fairly roused. All the savagery in hernature was awakened and she stood before him like somebeautiful wild animal at bay, trembling from head to footwith the violence of her passion.

"You scorn me!" she said in fierce, panting accents, thatscarcely rose above an angry whisper. "You make a mockeryof my anguish and despair—holding yourself aloof withyour prated virtue! But you shall suffer for it! I am yourmatch! You shall not spurn me a third time! I havehumbled myself in the dust before you, I, Theodora—andyou have spurned the love I have offered you—you havespurned Theodora—for that white marble statue whom Ishould strangle before your very eyes were she here! Youshall not see her again, my Lord Tristan. Her fate is sealedfrom this moment. On the altars of Satan is she to besacrificed on to-morrow night!"

Tristan listened like paralyzed to her words, unable tomove.

She saw her opportunity. She sprang at him. Her armscoiled about him. Her moist kisses seared his lips.

"Oh Tristan—Tristan," she pleaded, "forgive me, forgive!I know not what I say! I hunger for the kisses ofyour lips, the clasp of your arms! Do you know—do youever think of your power? The cruel terrible power of youreyes, the beauty that makes you more like an angel thanman? Have you no pity? I am well nigh mad with jealousyof that other whom you keep enshrined in your heart! Couldshe love, like I? She was not made for you—I am! Tristan—comewith me—come—"

Tighter and tighter her arms encircled his neck. Themoonbeams showed him her eyes alight with rapture, herlips quivering with passion, her bosom heaving. The bloodsurged up in his brain and a red mist swam before his eyes.

With a supreme effort Tristan released himself. Flingingher from him, he rushed out of the rotunda as if pursued byan army of demons. If he remained another moment heknew he was lost.

A lightning bolt shot down from the dark sky vault closebeside him as he reached the gardens, and a peal of thundercrashed after in quick succession.

It drowned the delirious outburst of laughter that shrilledfrom the rotunda where Theodora, with eyes wide withmisery and madness, stared as transfixed down the pathwhere Tristan had vanished in the night.

CHAPTER XI
THE BLACK MASS

The night was sultry and dismal.

Dense black clouds rolledover the Roman Campagna,burning blue in the flashes ofjagged lightnings and the lowboom of distant thunder reverberatedominously among thehills and valleys of Rome, whenthree men, cloaked and wearingblack velvet masks, skirtedthe huge mediæval wall with which Pope Leo IV had girdledthe gardens of the Vatican and, passing along the fortifiedrampart which surrounded the Vatican Hill, plunged into thetrackless midnight gloom of deep, branch-shadowed thickets.

Not a word was spoken between them. Silently theyfollowed their leader, whose tall, dark form was revealed tothem only among the dense network of trees and the fantasticshapes of the underbrush, when a flash of white lightningflamed across the limitless depths of the midnight horizon.

Not a sound broke the stillness, save the menacing growlof the thunder, the intermittent soughing of the wind amongthe branches, or the occasional drip-drip of dewy moisturetrickling tearfully from the leaves, mingling with the dreamy,gurgling sound of the fountains, concealed among bosquetsof orange and almond trees.

From time to time, as they proceeded upon their nocturnalerrand, the sounds of their footsteps being swallowed up bythe soft carpet of moss, they caught fleet glimpses of marblestatues, gleaming white, like ghosts, from among the talldark cypresses, or the shimmering surface of a marble-cincturedlake, mirrored in the sheen of the lightnings.

The grove they traversed assumed by degrees the characterof a tropical forest. Untrodden by human feet, itseemed as though nature, grown tired of the iridescent floralbeauty of the environing gardens, had, in a sudden malevolentmood, torn and blurred the fair green frondage andtwisted every bud awry, till the awkward, limbsresembled the contorted branches of wind-blown trees.Great jagged leaves covered with prickles and stained withblotches as of spilt poison, thick brown stems, glistening withslimy moisture and coiled up like the sleeping bodies ofsnakes, masses of blue and purple fungi, and blossoms seeminglyof the orchid-species, some like fleshly tongues, otherslike the waxen yellow fingers of a dead hand, protrudedspectrally through the matted foliage, while all manner ofstrange overpowering odors increased the swooning oppressivenessof the sultry, languorous air.

Arrived at a clearing they paused.

In the distance the Basilica of Constantine was sunk indeep repose. All about them was the pagan world. Goat-footedPan seemed to peer through the interstices of thebranches. The fountains crooned in their marble basins.Centaurs and Bacchantes disported themselves among theflowering shrubs and, dark against the darker backgroundof the night, the vast ramparts of Leo IV seemed to shut outlight and life together.

The Prefect of the Camera turned to his companions, afterpeering cautiously into the thickets.

"We must wait for the guards," he said in a whisper."It were perilous to proceed farther without them."

Tristan's hand tightened upon his sword-hilt. There weretears in his eyes when he thought of Hellayne and all thatwas at stake, the overthrow of the enemies of Christ. Hehad, in a manner, conquered the terrible fear that had palsiedheart and soul as they had started out after nightfall. Now,taking his position as he found it, since he felt that his fatewas ruled by some unseen force which he might not resist,he was upheld by a staunch resolution to do his part in thework assigned to him and thereby to merit forgiveness andabsolution.

Notwithstanding the enforced calm that filled his soul,there were moments when, assailed by a terrible dread, lesthe might be too late to prevent the unspeakable crime, hisenergies were almost paralyzed. Silent as a ghost he hadtraversed the grove by the side of his equally silent companions,more intent upon his quarry than the patient, velvet-footedpuma that follows in the high branches of the treesthe unsuspecting traveller below.

Was it his imagination, was it the beating of his ownheart in the silence that preceded the breaking of the storm;or did he indeed hear the dull throbbing of the drums thatheralded the approach of the crimson banners of Satan?

The wind increased with every moment. The thundergrowled ever nearer. The heavens were one sheet of flame.The trees began to bend their tops to the voice of the hurricane.The air was hot as if blown from the depths of thedesert. As the uproar of the elements increased, strangesounds seemed to mingle with the voices of the storm. Blackshadows as of dancing witches darkened the clearing, spreadand wheeled, interlaced and disentwined. In endless thousandsthey seemed to fly, like the withered and perishingleaves of autumn.

Involuntarily Tristan grasped the arm of the Monk ofCluny.

"Are these real shapes—or do my eyes play me false?"he faltered, an expression of terror on his countenance, suchas no consideration of earthly danger could have evoked.

"To-night, my son, we are invincible," replied the monk."Trust in the Crucified Christ!"

Across the plaisaunce, washed white by the sheen of thelightnings, there was a stir as of an approaching forest. Tristanwatched as in the throes of a dream.

A few moments later the little band was joined by thenewcomers, masked, garbed in sombre black and heavilyarmed, three-score Spaniards, trusted above their companionsfor their loyalty and allegiance to Holy Church. Amongthem Tristan recognized the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna,the Bishop of Orvieto and the Prefect of Rome.

Odo of Cluny noted Tristan's shrinking at the sight of thetwo men who had been present when the terrible accusationhad been hurled against him on that fatal morning—theaccusation in the Lateran, which had launched him in thedungeons of Castel San Angelo.

He comforted the trembling youth.

"They know now that the charge was false," he said."To-night we shall conquer. We shall set our foot uponSatan's neck."

Withdrawing under the shelter of the trees, regardless ofthe increasing fury of the storm, the leaders held whisperedconsultation.

Before them, set in the massive wall, appeared a door notmore than five feet high, studded with large nails.

The Prefect of Rome bent forward and inserted a gleamingpiece of steel in the keyhole. After a wrench or two, whichconvinced the onlookers that the door had been long in disuse,it swung inward with a groan. The Prefect, with a mutteredimprecation, beckoned his followers to enter, and when theywere assembled in what appeared to be a courtyard, he tookpains to close the door himself, to avoid the least noise thatmight reach the ear of those within the enclosure.

At the far end of this courtyard a shadowy pavilion arose,culled from the Stygian gloom by the sheen of the lightnings.It seemed to have been erected in remote antiquity. Acircular structure of considerable extent, its ruinous exteriorrevealed traces of Etruscan architecture. No one dared setfoot in it, for it was rumored to be the abode of evil spirits.Its interior was reported to be a network of intricate galleries,leading into subterranean chambers, secret and secludedplaces into which human foot never strayed, for, not unlikethe catacombs, it was well-nigh impossible to find the exitfrom its labyrinthine passages without the saving thread ofAriadné.

At a signal from the Prefect of the Camera all stopped.Heavy drops of rain were falling. The hurricane increasedin fury.

It was a weird scene and one the memory of which lingeredlong after that eventful night with Tristan.

Black cypresses and holm-oaks formed a dense wallaround the pavilion on two sides. In the distance the whitelimbs of some pagan statues could be seen gleaming throughthe dark foliage. And, as from a subterranean cavern, adistant droning chant struck the ear now and then withfateful import.

Now the Prefect of Rome threw off his cloak. The othersdid likewise. Their masks they retained.

"There is a secret entrance, unknown even to thesespawns of hell, behind the pavilion," he addressed his companionsin a subdued tone, hardly audible in the shrieking ofthe storm. "It is concealed among tall weeds and has longbeen in disuse. The door is almost invisible and they thinkthemselves safe in the performance of their iniquities below."

"How can we reach this pit of hell?" Tristan, quiveringwith ill-repressed excitement interposed at this juncture.He could hardly restrain himself. On every moment hungthe life of the being dearer to him than all the world, and hechafed under the restraint like a restive steed. If theyshould be too late, even now!

But the Prefect retained his calm demeanor knowing whatwas at stake. It was not enough to locate the chapel ofSatan. Those participating in the unholy rites must not begiven the chance to escape. They must be taken, dead oralive, to the last man.

"We have with us one who is familiar with every nook inthe city of Rome," the Prefect turned to the Cardinal-Archbishopof Ravenna. "Long have we suspected that all isnot well in the deserted pavilion. But though we watchedby day and by night nothing seemed to reward our efforts,until one stormy night a dreadful shape with the face of adevil came forth, and the sight so paralyzed those whowatched from afar that they fled in dismay, believing it wasthe Evil One in person who had come forth from the bowelsof the earth. From yonder door a dark corridor leads to ashaft whence it winds in a slight incline into the devil'schapel below. The latter is so situated that we can watchthese outcasts at their devotions, unseen, our presenceunguessed. This way! Let silence be the password. Keepin touch with each other, for the darkness is as that of thegrave."

A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the very heavensenveloped them for a moment in its sulphureous glare, followedby a crash of thunder that shook the very earth. Thehurricane shrieked, and the rain came down in torrents.

They had advanced to the very edge of the underbrush,stumbling over the heads and torsos of broken statues thatlay among parasitic herbage. Monstrous decaying leavescurled upward, leprous in the lightnings. A poison mistseemed to hover over this lonely and deserted pleasure-houseof ancient Pelasgian days.

Skirting the haunted pavilion, unmindful of the onslaughtof the elements, they took a path so narrow that they couldbut advance in single file. This path had been cut andbeaten by the Prefect's guards, for the weeds and underbrushluxuriated, until they mounted some ten feet againstthe walls of the pavilion.

They had now reached the back wall and proceeded inutter darkness broken only by the flashes of lightning. Theypassed through a half-ruined archway and at last came to ahalt, prompted by those in front, whose progress had beenstopped by, what the others guessed to be, the door. Theyhad to work warily, to keep it from falling inward. At lastthe movement continued and they entered the night-wraptcorridor.

Tristan had taken his station directly behind the Prefect ofRome. The ecclesiastics, for their own protection, had beenassigned the rear.

By the sheen of lightnings a pile of brushwood was revealedto the sight, which the Prefect, in a low tone, ordered to becleared away, whereupon a circular opening appeared, likethe entrance of a well.

The Prefect summoned the leaders around him.

For a moment they stood in silence and listened.

Between the peals of the thunder which rolled in terrifyingechoes over the Seven Hills, the trained ear could distinguisha strange, droning sound that seemed to come fromthe bowels of the earth.

"Even now the Black Mass is commencing," he turnedto Tristan. "We are but just in time."

After a pause he continued:

"We must proceed in darkness. The faintest glimmermight betray our presence. I shall lead the way. Let eachfollow warily. Let each be in touch with the other. Let allstop when I stop. We shall arrive in a circular gallery,whence we may all witness the abomination below. Fromthis gallery several flights of winding stairs lead into thedevil's chapel. Let us descend in silence. When you hearthe signal—down the quick descent and—upon them!"

One by one they disappeared in the dark aperture. Theirfeet touched ground while they still supported themselves ontheir arms. They found themselves in a subterraneanchamber, in impenetrable darkness, whose hot, damp murkalmost suffocated the intruders.

Slowly, with infinite caution, in infinite silence, they proceeded.Every man stretched his hand before him to toucha companion.

The passage began to slant, yet the incline was gradual.Their feet touched soft earth which swallowed the sound oftheir steps. There was neither echo nor vibration, onlymurky silence and the night of the grave.

A low, droning sound, infinitely remote, a sound not unlikethat of swarming bees heard at a great distance, was nowwafted to their ears.

A shudder ran through that long chain of living men, whowere carrying the Cross into the very abyss of Hell.

For they knew they were listening to the infernal choir,they were approaching the hidden chapel of Satan. The chantbegan to swell. Still they continued upon their descent.

The imprisoned air became hotter and murkier, almostsuffocating in its miasmatic waves that assailed the sensesand seemed to weigh like lead upon the brain.

Now the tunnel turned sharply at right angles and afterproceeding some twenty or thirty paces in Stygian darkness,a faint crimson glow began suddenly to drive the nocturnalgloom before it, and they emerged in a gallery, terminatingin a number of dark archways, from which narrow windingstairs led into the hall below. Small round apertures,resembling port-holes, permitted a glimpse into the chapel ofSatan, and a weird, droning chant was rising rhythmicallyfrom the night-wrapt depths of the pavilion.

Following the example of the leader, they stole on tiptoeto the unglazed port-holes and gazed below, and eager, yettrembling, with the anticipation of the dread mysteries theywere about to witness.

At first they could not see anything distinctly, owing tothe crimson mist that seemed to come rolling into the chapelas from some furnace and their eyes, after having been longin the darkness, refused to focus themselves. But, bydegrees, the scene became more distinct.

In the circular chapel below dim figures, robed in crimson,moved to and fro, bearing aloft perfumed cressets on metalpoles, and in its flickering light an altar became visible, hungwith crimson, the summit of which was lost in the gloomoverhead. Here and there indistinct shapes were stretchedin hideous contortions on the pavement, and as others drewnigh, these rose and, throwing back their heads, made thevault re-echo with deep-chested roaring.

Suddenly the metal bound gates of a low arched doorway,faintly discernible in the uncertain light, seemed to beunclosing with a slow and majestic movement, letting loosea flood of light in which the ghostly faces of the worshippersleapt into sudden clearness, men and women, all seeminglybelonging to the highest ranks of society. The crimsongarbs of the officiating priests showed like huge stains ofblood against the dark-veined marble.

Tristan gazed with the rest, stark with terror. The bloodseemed to freeze in his veins as his eyes swept the circularvault and rested at the shrine's farther end, where branchingcandlesticks flanked each the foot of two short flights ofstairs that led up to the summit of the great altar, garnishedat the corner with hideous masks, and sending up from timeto time eddies of smoke, through the reek of which some twoscore of men watched the ceremony from above.

Dim shapes passed to and fro. The droning chant continued.At length a shapeless form evolved itself from thecrimson mist, approached the altar and cast somethingupon it. Instantly a blaze of light flooded the shrine, andin its radiance a weazened, bat-like creature was revealed,garbed in the fantastic imitation of a priest's robes.

Approaching the infernal altar, upon which lay obscenesymbols of horror, he mounted the steps and his figuremelted into the gloom.

With the cold sweat streaming from his brow, with ashudder that almost turned him dizzy, Tristan recognizedBessarion. The High Priest of Satan sat upon the Devil'saltar. There was stir and movement in the chapel. Thena deep silence supervened.

Petrifaction fell upon the assembly. All voices werehushed, all movement arrested. From the black throne,surrounded by terror, where sat the great Unknown, camea dull hoarse roar, like the roar of an earthquake.

The words were unintelligible to the champions of theCross. They were answered by the Sorcerer's Confession,the hideous, terrible contortion of the Credo, and then Tristan'sears were assailed by the sounds he had heard on thatfatal night, ere he lost consciousness, and again in the Catacombsof St. Calixtus, sounds meaningless in themselves,but fraught with terrible import to him now!

"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! EmenHetan!"—

Pandemonium broke loose.

"Agora! Agora! Patrisa! Agora!"

There was screeching of pipes, made of dead men's bones.A drum stretched with the skin of the hanged was beatenwith the tail of a wolf. Like leaves in a howling storm thefantastic red robed forms whirled about, from left to right,from right to left. And in their midst, immobile and terrible,sat the Hircus Nocturnus, enthroned upon the shrine.

When at last they stopped, panting, exhausted, the samevoice, deafening as an earthquake, roared:

"Bring hither the bride—the stainless dove!"

A chorus of hideous laughter, a swelling, bleating cacophonyof execration, so furious and real that it froze thelisteners' blood, answered the summons.

Then, from an arch in the apse of the infernal chapel,came four chanting figures, hideously masked and drapedin crimson.

With slow, measured steps they approached. The archwas black again. Deep silence supervened.

Now into the centre came two figures.

One was that of a man robed in doublet and hose of flamingscarlet. The figure he supported was that of a woman,though she seemed a corpse returned to earth.

A long white robe covered her from head to toe, like thewinding sheet of death. Her eyes were bound with a whitecloth. She seemed unable to walk, and was being urgedforward, step by step, by the scarlet man at her side.

Again pandemonium reigned, heightened by the crashingpeals of the thunder that rolled in the heavens overhead.

"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! EmenHetan!"

The bleating of goats, the shrieks of the tortured damned,the howling of devils in the nethermost pit of Hell, deliriouslaughter, gibes and execrations mingled in a deafeningchorus, which was followed by a dead silence, as anew thevoice of the Unseen roared through the vault:

"Bring hither the bride, the stainless dove!"

There was a tramp of mailed feet.

Like a human whirlwind it came roaring down the windingstairs, through the vomitories into the vault. The rattlingof weapons, shouts of rage, horror and dismay mingled,resounding from the vaulted roof, beaten back from themarble walls.

With drawn sword Tristan, well in advance of his companions,leaped into the chapel of Satan. When the identityof the staggering white form beside the scarlet man hadbeen revealed to him, no power in heaven or earth couldhave restrained him. Without awaiting the signal he boundedwith a choking outcry down the shaft.

But, when he reached the floor of the chapel, he recoiledas if the Evil One had arisen from the floor before him,barring his advance.

Before him stood Theodora.

She wore a scarlet robe, fastened at the throat with aclasp of rubies, representing the heads of serpents. Herwonderful white arms were bare, her hands were clenchedas if she were about to fly at the throat of a hated rival anda preternatural lustre shone in her eyes.

"You!"

Tristan's words died in the utterance as he surveyed herfor the space of a moment with a glance so full of horror anddisdain that she knew she had lost.

"Yes—it is I," she replied, hardly above a whisper, hotflush and deadly pallor alternating in her beautiful face,terrible in its set calm. "And—though I may not possessyou—that other shall not! See!"

Maddened beyond all human endurance at the sight thatmet his eyes Tristan hurled Theodora aside as she attemptedto bar his way, as if she had been a toy. Rushing straightthrough the press towards the spot, where the scarlet man,his arms still about the drooping form of Hellayne, hadstopped in dismay at the sudden inrush of the guards,Tristan pierced the Grand Chamberlain through and through.Almost dragging the woman with him he fell besidethe devil's altar. His head struck the flagstones and helay still.

The Prefect himself dashed up the steps of the ebonyshrine and hurled the High Priest of Satan on the flagstonesbelow. Bessarion's neck was broken and, with the squeakof a bat, his black soul went out.

While the guards, giving no quarter, were mowing downall those of the devil's congregation who did not seek salvationin flight or concealment, Tristan caught the swooningform of Hellayne in his arms, calling her name in despairingaccents, as he stroked the silken hair back from thewhite clammy brow. She was breathing, but her eyes wereclosed.

Then he summoned two men-at-arms to his side, andbetween them they carried her to the world of light above.

CHAPTER XII
SUNRISE

The had rolledaway to eastward.

A rosy glow was creepingover the sky. The air wasfresh with the coming of dawn.Softly they laid Hellayne bythe side of a marble fountainand splashed the cooling dropsupon her pale face. After atime she opened her eyes.

The first object they encountered was Tristan who wasbending over her, fear and anxiety in his face.

Her colorless lips parted in a whisper, as her arms encircledhis neck.

"You are with me!" she said, and the transparent lidsdrooped again.

Those who had not been slain of the congregation of Hellhad been bound in chains. Among the dead was Theodora.The contents of a phial she carried on her person had doneits work instantaneously.

Suddenly alarums resounded from the region of CastelSan Angelo. There was a great stir and buzz, as of anawakened bee hive. There were shouts at the Flaminiangate, the martial tread of mailed feet and, as the sun's firstray kissed the golden Archangel on the summit of the FlavianEmperor's mausoleum, a horseman, followed by a glitteringretinue, dashed up the path, dismounted and raised his visor.

Before the astounded assembly stood Alberic, the Senatorof Rome.

Just then they brought the body of Theodora from thesubterranean chapel and laid it silently on the greensward,beside that of Basil, the Grand Chamberlain.

The Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna was the first tospeak.

"My lord, we hardly trust our eyes. All Rome is mourningyou for dead."

Alberic turned to the speaker.

"With the aid of the saint I have prevailed against thefoulest treason ever committed by a subject against histrusting lord. The bribed hosts of Hassan Abdullah, whichwere to sack Rome, are scattered in flight. The attemptupon my own life has been prevented by a miracle fromHeaven. But—what of these dead?"

Odo of Cluny approached the Senator of Rome.

"The awful horror which has gripped the city is passed.Christ rules once more and Satan is vanquished. This is amatter for your private ear, my lord."

Odo pointed to the kneeling form of Tristan, who wassupporting Hellayne in his arms, trying to soothe her troubledspirit, to dispel the memory of the black horrors which heldher trembling soul in thrall.

Approaching Tristan, Alberic laid his hand upon his head.

"We knew where to trust, and we shall know how toreward! My lords and prelates of the Church! Mattersof grave import await you. We meet again in the Emperor'sTomb."

Beckoning to his retinue, Alberic remounted his steed, ascompany upon company of men-at-arms filed past—a host,such as the city of Rome had not beheld in decades, withdrums and trumpets, pennants and banderols, long lines ofglittering spears, gorgeous surcoats, and splendid suits ofmail.

The forces of the Holy Roman Empire were passing intothe Eternal City.

At their head the Senator of Rome was returning into hisown.

At last they were alone, Tristan and Hellayne.

His companions had departed. With them they had takentheir dead.

Hellayne opened her eyes. They were sombre, yet atpeace.

"Tristan!"

He bent over her.

"My own Hellayne!"

"It is beautiful to be loved," she whispered. "I havenever been loved before."

"You shall be," he replied, "now and forever, beforeGod and the world!"

The old shadow came again into her eyes.

"What of the Lord Roger?"

She read the answer in his silence.

A tear trickled from the violet pools of her eyes.

Then she raised herself in his arms.

"I thought I should go mad," she crooned. "But I knewyou would come. And you are here—here—with me,—Tristan."

He took her hands in his, his soul in his eyes.

The sun had risen higher through the gold bars of theeast, dispelling the grey chill of dawn.

She nestled closer to him.

"Take me back to Avalon, to my rose garden," shecrooned. "Life is before us—yonder—where first weloved."

He took her in his arms and kissed her eyes and the smallsweet mouth.

A lark began to sing in the silence.

THE END

Take Morocco for a background—that quaint andmysterious land of mosques and minarets, where themuezzin still calls to prayer at sundown the faithful.

Imagine a story written with power and intensityand the thrill of adventure in the midst of fanaticalMoslems. Add to this a wealthy young medical student,a red-blooded American, who gives up his lifeto helping the lepers of Arzilla, and the presence of abeautiful American girl who, despite her love for thehero, is induced to take up the Mohammedan faith,and you have some idea of what this remarkable storypresents.

WHAT ALLAH WILLS is a big story of love andadventure. Mr. Gordon is the author of two notablenon-fiction successes, but he scores heavily in this, hisfirst work of fiction.

This romantic tale of tenth-century Rome concernsitself with the fortunes and adventures of Tristan ofAvalon while in the Eternal City on a pilgrimage todo penance for his love of Hellayne, the wife of hisliege lord, Count Roger de Laval.

Tristan's meeting with the Queen Courtesan of theAventine; her infatuation for the pilgrim; Tristan'srounds of obediences, cut short by his appointment asCaptain of Sant' Angelo by Alberic, Senator of Rome;the intrigues of Basil, the Grand Chamberlain, whoaspires to the dominion of Rome and the love ofTheodora; the trials of Hellayne, who alternately fallsinto the power of Basil and Theodora; the scene betweenthe Grand Chamberlain and Bessarion in theruins of the Coliseum; the great feud between Roxanaand Theodora and the final overthrow of the latter'sregime constitute some of the dramatic episodes of theromance.

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In the original CHEERFUL BOOK, with its ripplingplay of incident, Sylvia proved herself a bringer oftidings of great joy to many people. In the secondbook devoted to her adventures, she was a charmingheroine—urbane, resourceful and vivacious—with anadded shade of picturesqueness due to her environment.In this third story Sylvia is a little older grown,deep in the problem of just-out-of-college adjustmentto the conditions of the "wide, wide world," and in theprocess of learning, as she puts it, "to live as deep andquick as I can." The scene of the new story is laidpartly at Arden Hall and partly in New York and, inher sincere effort to find herself, Sylvia finds love inreal fairy tale fashion.

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CROSS CURRENTS

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WORKS OF
L. M. MONTGOMERY

THE FOUR ANNE BOOKS

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THE CAREER OF DOCTOR WEAVER

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NOVELS BY
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MISS MADELYN MACK, DETECTIVEBy Hugh C. Weir.

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WORKS OF
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HAUNTERS OF THE SILENCES

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RED FOX

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WORKS OF
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO

Signor d'Annunzio is known throughout the world as a poetand a dramatist, but above all as a novelist, for it is in his novelsthat he is at his best. In poetic thought and graceful expressionhe has few equals among the writers of the day.

He is engaged on a most ambitious work—nothing less thanthe writing of nine novels which cover the whole field of humansentiment. This work he has divided into three trilogies, andfive of the nine books have been published. It is to be regrettedthat other labors have interrupted the completion of the series.

"This book is realistic. Some say that it is brutally so.But the realism is that of Flaubert, and not of Zola. Thereis no plain speaking for the sake of plain speaking. Everydetail is justified in the fact that it illuminates either the motivesor the actions of the man and woman who here stand revealed.It is deadly true. The author holds the mirror up to nature,and the reader, as he sees his own experiences duplicated inpassage after passage, has something of the same sensation asall of us know on the first reading of George Meredith's 'Egoist.'Reading these pages is like being out in the country ona dark night in a storm. Suddenly a flash of lightning comesand every detail of your surroundings is revealed."—Reviewof "The Triumph of Death" in the New York Evening Sun.

The volumes published are as follows. Each 1 vol., library12mo, cloth $1.50

THE ROMANCES OF THE ROSE

THE CHILD OF PLEASURE (Il Piacere).

THE INTRUDER (L'Innocente).

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH (Il Trionfo della Morte).

THE ROMANCES OF THE LILY

THE MAIDENS OF THE ROCKS (Le Verginidelle Rocce).

THE ROMANCES OF THE POMEGRANATE

THE FLAME OF LIFE (Il Fuoco).

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