Front matter (continued 7)

And she kissed the monk's yellow hand with timid reverence.

"Thou! Thou! Stephania,—the wife of Crescentius, and not yet set in the first line of the book of shame!" shouted the monk, convulsively starting at every word of his own climax. "Begone—begone! The vessel is full, even to overflowing!—Tell me no more,—tell me no more!"

"Your suspicion indeed shows me all my ignominy," said Stephania, groping for his hand, which he had snatched furiously away. "But he only suffered it,—because he guessed not my intent in the darkness."

"In the darkness?"

"In the darkness."

"Deemest thou it possible to clasp the plague and to evade the contagion?" questioned the monk. "Woman, I command thee, stop! Stop ere the condemning angel closes the record!"

Stephania raised her head petulantly.

"Monk, thou knowest not all! During all this meeting the Senator of Rome was present in the Grotto and watched us from one of the ivy hollows in the cave!"

"The Senator of Rome!" exclaimed the monk with evident amazement. "How came he there?"

"By contrivance!"

"I do not understand!"

"It was at his behest that I have done the deed, to further his vast projects, call it his ambition, if you will—to which the King is the stumbling block. Ask me no more,—for I will not answer!"

Nilus seemed struck dumb by the revelation.

"Take comfort, daughter, he cannot,—he cannot—" whispered the monk, bending over her and speaking in so low a tone that the devouring listener could not distinguish one word.

For a time not a word was to be heard, Nilus inclining his ear to Stephania's lips, whose confession was oft times broken by sobs.

"Tell me all,—all!" said the monk.

"As the fatal hour approaches the strength begins to forsake me,—I cannot do it!" she groaned.

"Yet he is the enemy of Rome, so you say," the monk said mockingly.

"He is the friend of Rome and—I love him!"

In a shriek the last words broke from her lips.

"Domine an me reliquisti!" shouted the monk. "Some sign now—some sign—or—"

His raving exclamation was cut short by a sound not unlike the oracle implored. A large block of stone, dislodged by a sudden and violent movement of the unseen listener, rolled with a hollow rumble down into the vaults below.

The monk started up from the benediction which he was bending forward to pronounce, almost dashed Stephania away, rushed to his altar and casting himself prostrate before the divine symbol which adorned it, he muttered in a frantic ecstasy of devotion:

"Gloria Domino! Gloria in Excelsis! Blessed be Thy name for ever and ever! Praise ye the Lord! He saves in the furnace of fire!"

Stephania gazed in mute amazement at the monk. His frantic appeal and its apparent fulfilment had struck dismay into her soul, and when at length he raised himself, and turned towards her, she could hardly find words to speak.

But Nilus waved his hand.

"Go now, Stephania," he commanded. "Go! I will devise some fitting penance at more leisure."

"But, Father—my request."

"Ay, truly," he replied, with supreme melancholy. "Is it not the wont of the world to throw away the flower, when we have withered it with our evil breath?"

"But I cannot do it,—I cannot do it," Stephania moaned, raising her hands imploringly to the monk.

"It is for a mightier than Nilus to counsel," the monk spoke mournfully. "Thou standest on the brink of a precipice, from which nothing but the direct intervention of Heaven can save thee! Pray to the Immaculate One for enlightenment, and if the words of a monk have weight with thee, even against him, thou callest thy lord before the world,—desist, ere thou art engulfed in the black abyss, which yawns at thy feet.—When he is dead, it will be too late!"

And raising his lamp, to escort Stephania to her litter, the monk and the woman left the chamber, and Crescentius had barely time to conceal himself behind the boulders ere they appeared and passed by him, the monk anxiously guiding every step of his penitent.

The moon was sinking, when Stephania arrived at Castel San Angelo.

Taking the candle from the hands of the page, who had awaited her return with sleepy eyes, she dismissed him and passed into the lofty hall, dark and chill as a cellar, beyond which lay the Senator's, her husband's, apartments. She swiftly traversed the hall,—then she hesitated. No doubt he was asleep. What good was there in waking him? As she turned to retrace her steps to her own chamber, a strange and eerie gust of wind swept shrieking round the battlements, howled in the chimney, invaded the chamber with icy breath and almost extinguished the candle. Then there was a great hush. It seemed to her she could hear distant music from the Aventine, the murmur of voices, the sound of iron chains from the vaults below. To this,—or to death,—she had consigned the son of Theophano, the boy-king, who loved her.—To this?—Anguish and terror seized her soul. She felt, she must not move—must not look. There it stood,—blacker than the investing darkness,—its head bent,—shrouded in the cowl of a monk. What was it? Once before she had seen it,—then it had faded away in the gloom. But misfortune rode invariably in its wake. She tried to scream, to call the page, but her voice choked in her throat. She staggered toward the door; her limbs refused to support her;—groaning she covered her eyes. Otto down there,—or dead,—why had she never thought of it before? Now the monk made a step toward her; the face had nothing corpse-like in it, nothing appalling, yet she felt a freezing and unearthly cold; almost fainting she staggered up the narrow winding stairs. And entering her lofty chamber Stephania fell unconscious upon her couch.

After Crescentius had returned from the hermitage of Nilus, he gave strict orders to the guards of Castel San Angelo to admit no one, no matter who might crave an audience, and entering his own chamber, he lighted a candle. He had seen and heard, and he knew that the heart of his wife had gone from him for ever! At the terrible certainty he grew dizzy. A fearful price he had paid for his perfidy,—and now, there was no one in all the world he could trust. He dared not speak. He dared not even breathe his anguish. She must never know that he knew all,—no one must know. His lips must be sealed. The world should never point at him,—for this at least!

But terrible as his suffering must be his vengeance. He who had robbed him of his priceless gem, the wife of his soul, all he loved on earth,—he should languish and rot under her very chambers, where she might nightly hear his groans, without daring to plead for him. There was no further time for parley. The stroke must fall at once! Too long had he tarried. The Rubicon was passed.

Pacing up and down the gloomy chamber, Crescentius paused before the sand-clock. It was near midnight. Yet sleep was far from caressing his aching lids, as far as balm from his aching heart. He raised the candle in an unconscious effort, to go to his wife's apartment. He lingered. Then he placed the candle down again and seated himself in a chair. His gaze fell upon a broad stain on the floor and like one fascinated he followed its least meander to a distance of several feet from the door, when suddenly a form met his eyes, whether the off-spring of his delirious fancy or one of those inexplicable and tremendous phenomena, which are incapable of human solution, while the secrets of death remain such. His garb was that of a monk; the face bore the awful pallor of the tomb, and a mournful tenderness seemed to struggle with the rigidity of death. The phantom, if such it was, stood perfectly motionless between Crescentius and the couch, in a few moments it grew indistinct and finally faded into air.

It was then only, that Crescentius recovered breath and life, and staggered back to his chair. A few moments' rally persuaded him that what he had seen had been merely the illusion of his excited organs. But a dreadful longing for death assailed him, a longing like that which prompts men to leap when they gaze down a precipice. He rose,—again the phantom seemed there,—this time distinct and clear. Terror rendered him motionless; the room seemed to whirl round, a million lights danced in his eyes, then he sank back covering his face with his hands.

When he again opened his eyes, his brain seemed shooting with the keenest darts of pain. He endeavoured to pray, but could not. His ideas rushed confusedly through each other. The taper was fast sinking in the socket, and it seemed as if his mind would sink with it. He emptied a goblet of wine which stood upon the table, and strove to remember what he intended to do. It seemed a vain effort and he fell back in his chair into a semi-conscious doze. An hour might have passed thus, when he became aware of a slight crackling noise in his ears and starting with a sensation of cold he looked round. The fire in the chimney had burnt into red embers, and though his own form was lost in the shadow of the chimney, the rest of the room was faintly illumined by the crimson glow from the grate.

Suddenly he saw the tapestry figure of some mythical deity opposite his own seat stir; the tapestry swelled out, then a head appeared, which peered cautiously round. The body soon followed the head, and Crescentius rose with a sigh of relief as he stood face to face with Benilo. The Chamberlain's face was pale; his eyes, with their unsteady glow, showed traces of wakefulness. He took from his doublet a scroll which he placed into the outstretched hand of the Senator of Rome. Mechanically Crescentius unrolled it. His hands trembled as he superficially swept its contents.

"The barons pledge their support,—not a name is missing," Benilo broke the silence in hushed tones.

"What is it to be?" questioned Crescentius.

"I speak for the extreme course and for Rome. For attack—sudden and swift!"

There was a pause, Crescentius stared into the dying embers.

"Are all your plans complete?"

"The Romans wait impatiently upon my words. At the signal all Rome will rise to arms!"

"But how about the Romans? Can they be depended upon?"

"I move them at the raising of my hand!"

There was another pause.

Crescentius appeared strangely abstracted.

"But what of Otto? What of Eckhardt? Do they scent the wind from Castel San Angelo?"

"As for the Saxon cherub," Benilo replied with a disgusting smile, "he is dreaming of his—"

He did not finish the sentence, for Crescentius cast such a terrible look upon him, that the blood froze in the traitor's veins, and his eyes sank before those blazing upon him. After a moment's hesitation he continued, the shadow of a forced smile hovering round his thin, quivering lips:

"When he is dead, we shall cause the Wonder-child to be canonized!"

But Crescentius was in no jocular mood.

"Have you chosen your men?" he queried curtly.

"They will be stationed in the labyrinth of the Minotaurus," Benilo replied. "At the signal agreed upon, they will rush forth and seize the King—"

As he spoke those words the Chamberlain gazed timidly into the Senator's face.

"The signal will not fail," Crescentius replied firmly.

"Is the mausoleum prepared to withstand an assault?" Benilo questioned guardedly.

"The hidden balistae have been disinterred. My Albanian stradiotes and the Romagnole guards occupy the chief approaches. The upper galleries are reserved for our Roman allies. They will never scale these walls while Crescentius lives. Remember—the gates of Rome are to be closed. We will smother the Saxon under our caresses! I must have Otto dead or alive! Revenge and Death are now written on my standards! Up with the flag of rebellion and perdition to the emperor and his hosts!"

The gray dawn was peeping into the windows of the Senator's chamber, when Crescentius sought his couch for a brief and fitful repose.

CHAPTER XIII

THE LION OF BASALT

t was midnight of a dark and still evening on the Tiber and peace had for the most part descended upon the great city. The lamps in the houses were extinguished and the challenges of the watch alone were now and then to be heard. The streets were deserted, for few ventured abroad after night fall. Sluggishly the turbid tide of the Tiber rolled towards ancient Portus. The moon was hidden behind heavy cloudbanks, and when now and then it pierced a rift in the nebulous masses, it shed a spectral light over the silent hills, but to plunge them back into abysmal darkness.

The bells from distant cloisters and convents were pealing the midnight hour when out of the gloom of the waters there passed a light skiff wherein were seated two men, closely wrapped in their long, dark cloaks. The one seated on the prow was bent almost double with age, and his long beard swept the bottom of the skiff. He appeared indifferent to his surroundings and stared straight before him into the darkness, while his companion, constantly on the alert, never seemed to take his eyes from the boatman who plied his oars in silence, causing the frail craft to descend the river with great swiftness.

At last they made for the shore. An extensive mansion loomed out of the gloom, which seemed to be the goal of their journey. Obeying the whispered directions of the taller of his passengers, the boatman steered his craft under a dark archway, whence a flight of stairs led up to the door, of what appeared to be a garden pavilion. Swiftly the sculler shot under the arch and in another moment drew up by the stairs.

Leaning heavily on the arm of his companion the soothsayer alighted from the skiff with slow and uncertain steps and after ascending the water-stairs his guide knocked three times at the door of the pavilion. It was instantly opened and an African in fantastic livery, who seemed to fill the office of Cubicular, beckoned them to enter. With all the signs of exhaustion and the weariness of his years weighing heavily upon him, the conjurer dropped into a seat, paying no heed whatever to his surroundings nor to his companion, who had withdrawn into the shadows, while he awaited the arrival of the woman, who had called on his skill.

He had not long to wait.

Noiselessly a door opened and the majestic and graceful form of a woman glided into the pavilion, robed in a long black cloak and closely veiled. She motioned to the attendants to withdraw and to the astrologer to approach.

"Most learned doctor of astral science," she said in a soft clear voice of command, "you have brought me the calculations which your learning has enabled you to make as to the future of the persons whose nativities were supplied to you?"

The astrologer had been seized with a sudden violent fit of coughing and some moments elapsed ere he seemed able to speak.

So low and weak were his tones, that the woman could not understand one word he uttered, and she began to exhibit unequivocal signs of impatience, when the conjurer's voice somewhat improved.

"The horoscopes," he said in a strangely jarring tone, "are the most wonderful that our science has ever revealed to me. They indicate most amazing changes of life, and signs of imminent peril."

"You speak of one,—or of both?"

"Of both!"

"Give me the details of each horoscope!"

The astrologer nodded.

Theodora watched him from behind her veil as closely as he did her, for ever and anon he stole furtive glances at her and was immediately seized with his cough.

His voice grated strangely in her ear as he spoke.

"The first, whose nativity I have calculated, is that of one born thirty years, one hundred and seventeen days, and ten hours from this moment. It was a birth under the sign of the Serpent, at an hour charged with vast possibilities for the future. At that instant the Zodiac was moved by portentous lights and the earth shook with tremors as I have ascertained in the records of our art!"

"What are the signs of the future?" the woman interrupted the speaker. "What is past and gone, we all know, even without the aid of your profound wisdom. What of the future, I ask?" she concluded imperiously.

"I hate to impart to you what I have found," said the astrologer cringing. "It is terrible. The declination of the house of Death stands close to the right ascension of the house of Life!"

Theodora gave a sudden start. For a moment she seemed to lose her self-control. Her piercing eyes seemed to look the astrologer through and through, though he had shrunk back into the wide girth of his mantle.

"Give me the scroll!"

She stretched out a hand white as alabaster to take the parchment whereon the astrologer had marked the rise and fall of the star records. But, as if seized with a sudden fear, she withdrew the hand ere the man of the stars could comply with her request.

"The second horoscope!" she spoke imperiously.

Again a long fit of coughing prevented the astrologer from speaking.

When it subsided, he said with profound solemnity, watching her expression intently from between his half-closed lids:

"That other, whose nativity you have sent to me, shall find death,—death, sudden and shameful—"

She stood rigid as a statue.

"Tell me more!" she gasped. "Tell me more!"

"He will die hated,—unlamented,—despised—"

She drew a deep breath.

"When shall that be?"

"There is at this moment a most ominous sign in the heavens," replied the astrologer shrinking within himself. "Venus, who rules the skies is obscured by too close attendance upon a lower and less honourable star."

Theodora held her breath.

"What comes after?" she whispered.

"The lore of astral combinations does not reveal such things. But palmistry may aid, where the constellations fail. Deign to let me trace the lines in the palm of your hand."

Flinging aside her last reserve, Theodora in her eagerness held out her palm to the astrologer. He bent over it, without touching it, shaking his head, and muttering:

"The line of life,—the line of love,—the line of death—"

As the astrologer pronounced the last word, his hand grasped with a vice-like grip the one whose lines he had pretended to read, while with the other, which had dropped the supporting staff, he pushed back the loose sleeve of her gown, baring her arm almost to the shoulder, constantly muttering:

"The line of Death,—the line of Death,—the line of Death!"

When Theodora first felt the tightening grip on her wrist, she tried to withdraw her hand, but her strength was not equal to the task. She felt the benumbing pressure of what she imagined were the astrologer's fleshless claws, but when, with a motion almost too swift for one bent with age and infirmity, he laid bare to the shoulder the marble whiteness of her arm, she thought he had gone mad. But when the astrologer's trembling finger pointed to the red birthmark on her arm, just below her shoulder, resembling the claw of a raven, constantly muttering: "The line of Death—the line of Death," she uttered a piercing shriek for help, vainly endeavouring to shake him off.

A shadow dashed between the two, neither knew whence it came.

The astrologer saw the gleam of a dagger before his eyes, felt its point strike against the corselet of mail beneath his cloak, felt the weapon rebound and snap asunder, the fragments falling at his feet, and releasing the woman, who stood like an image of stone, he dropped his cloak and supporting staff, and clove with one blow of his short double-edged sword the skull of his assailant to the neck. With a piercing shriek Theodora rushed from the Pavilion, followed in mad breathless pursuit by the pseudo-astrologer, who had dropped his false beard with his other disguises and stood revealed to her terror-stricken gaze as Eckhardt, the Margrave.

Without heeding the warning cry of Hezilo, his companion, he was bent upon taking the woman. In the darkness he could hear the rush of her frightened footsteps through the corridors; he seemed to gain upon her, when her giant Africans rushing through another passage came between the Margrave and his intended victim. Three steps did he make through the press and three of her guards fell beneath his sword. But a stranger in the labyrinth of the great pavilion, he could hardly hope to gain his end, even if unimpeded, and Theodora's formidable body-guard still outnumbered him three to one. Eckhardt's doom would have been sealed had not at that very moment Hezilo appeared in the passage behind him and laid an arresting hand upon his arm.

Before the harper's well-known presence the Africans fell back, raising their dead from the blood-stained floor and skulking back into the dusk of the corridor.

"You have no time to lose," urged the harper. "Follow me!—Speak not,—question not. Remember your compact and your oath."

Eckhardt turned upon his guide like a lion at bay. His face was pale as that of a corpse. His blood-shot eyes stared, as if they must burst from their sockets; his hair bristled like that of a maniac.

"What care I?" he growled fiercely. "Compact or oath—what care I?"

"There are other considerations at stake," replied Hezilo calmly. "You promised to be guided by my counsel. The hour of final reckoning is not yet at hand."

Eckhardt's breast heaved so violently, that it almost deprived him of the faculty of speech.

"Must I turn back at the very gates of fulfilment?" he burst forth at last. But sheathing his weapon he reluctantly followed the harper and, retracing their steps, they re-entered the Pavilion. In the slain boatman they recognized the ghastly features of John of the Catacombs, though the bravo's skull was literally cloven in twain and a strange dread seized upon them at the terrible revelation. Eckhardt stood by idly, while the harper insisted upon removing the body, and wrapping his ghastly burden in his blood-stained monkish gown, showed small repugnance to carrying the bravo's carcass to the landing, where he fastened a short iron chain to the gruesome package and dropped it into the muddy waves of the Tiber.

Dark clouds swept over the face of the moon and the chill wind of autumn moaned dismally through the spectral pines, as the boat, propelled by the sturdy arms of Hezilo, flew up stream over the murky, foam-crested waves.

An icy hand seemed to grip Eckhardt's heart. The words wrung from the dying wretch in the rock-caves under the Gemonian stairs had proved true. In baring Theodora's left arm his eyes had fallen upon the well-remembered birthmark resembling the raven claw. The terrible revelation had for the nonce almost upset his reason, and caused him prematurely to drop his mask. All clarity of thought, all fixedness of purpose had deserted him; he felt as one stunned by the blinding blow of a maze. Dazed he stared before him into the gloom of the autumnal night; his hair dishevelled, his eyelids swollen, his lips compressed. He could not have uttered a word had his life depended upon it. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; his brow was fevered, yet his hands were cold as ice. At last then he had stood face to face with the awful mystery, which had mocked his waking hours, his dreams,—a mystery, even now but half guessed, but half revealed. He tried to recall fragments of the monk's tale. But his brain refused to work, steeped in the apathy of despair. The future hour must give birth to the considerations of the final step, to the closing chapters of his life. Yet he felt that delay would engender madness; long brooding had shaken his reason and swift action alone could now save it from tottering to a hopeless fall.

The frail craft shot round the elbow-like bend of the Tiber at the base of Aventine when Hezilo for the first time broke the silence. He had refrained from questioning or commenting on the result of their visit to the Groves. Now, pointing to the ramparts of Castel San Angelo he whispered into Eckhardt's ear:

"Are your forces beyond recall?"

Eckhardt stared up into the speaker's face, as if the latter had addressed him in some strange tongue. Only after Hezilo had repeated his question, Eckhardt roused himself from the lethargy, which benumbed his senses and gazed in the direction indicated by the harper.

An errant moonbeam illumined just at this moment the upper galleries of Hadrian's tomb. Straining his gaze towards the ramparts of the formidable keep, Eckhardt strove to discover a reason for Hezilo's warning. But the moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds and at that moment the sculler ran in shore.

Unconsciously his hand tightened round the hilt of his sword.

"The earth breeds hard men and weak men," he muttered. "The gods can but laugh at them or grow wroth with them. As for these Romelings,—they are not worth destroying. They will perish of themselves."

"The hour is close at hand, when everything shall be known to you," Hezilo turned to Eckhardt at parting. "But three days remain to the full of the moon."

Weary and sick at heart Eckhardt grasped the harper's proffered hand, as they parted.

But he was in no mood to return within the four walls of his palace. He was as one upon whom has descended a thunder bolt from Heaven.

The terrible revelation deprived him of his senses, of his energies, of the desire to live,—and there was little doubt that this would have been Eckhardt's last night on earth, had there not remained one purpose to his life.

How small did even that appear by the magnitude of the crime, which had been visited upon his head. The how and why and when remained as great a mystery to him as ever. Eckhardt's memory roamed back into the years of the past. He tried to recall every word Ginevra had spoken to him; he tried to recall every wish her lips had expressed, he tried to recall every unstinted caress. And with these memories there rose up before his inner eye Ginevra's image and with it there welled up from his heart an anguish so great, that it drove the nails of his fingers deep into the flesh of his clenched hands.

He remembered her strange request never to inquire into her past, but to love her and let his trust be the proof of his love. Then there came floating faintly, like phantoms on the dark waves of his memory, her inordinate desire for power, hinted rather than expressed,—then darkness swallowed, everything else. Only boundless anguish remained, fathomless despair. After a while his feelings suffered a reverse; they changed to a hate of the woman as great as his love had been,—a hate for the fateful siren, Rome, who had deprived him of all that was dearest to him on earth.

Bending his solitary steps towards the Capitol, he saw the veil-like mists gathering above the wild grass, which waves above the palaces of the Cæsars. On a mound of ruins he stood with folded arms musing and intent. In the distance lay the melancholy tombs of the Campagna and the circling hills faintly outlined beneath the pale starlight. Not a breeze stirred the dark cypresses and spectral pines. There was something weird in the stillness of the skies, hushing the desolate grandeur of the earth below.

He had not gone very far when a shadow fell across his path. Looking up he again found himself by the staircase of the Lion of Basalt. The weird relic from the banks of the Nile filled him with a strange dread. With a shudder he paused. Was it the ghastly and spectral light or did the face of the old Egyptian monster wear an aspect as that of life? The stony eye-balls seemed bent upon him with a malignant scowl and as he passed on and looked behind they appeared almost preternaturally to follow his steps. A chill sank into his heart when the sound of footsteps arrested him and Eckhardt stood face to face with the hermit of Gaëta. He beckoned to the monk to accompany him, vainly endeavouring to frame the question, which hovered on his lips. The monk joined him in silence. After walking some little way Nilus suddenly paused, fixing his questioning gaze on the brooding face of his companion. Then a strange expression passed into his eyes.

"Life is full of strange surprises. Yet we cling to it, just to keep out of the darkness through which we know not the way."

Sick at heart Eckhardt listened. How little the monk knew, he thought, and Nilus was staggered at the haggard expression of the Margrave's face, as he stumbled blindly and giddily down the moonlit avenue beside him.

"Would I had never seen her!" Eckhardt groaned. "In what a fair disguise the fiend did come to tempt my soul!"

He paused. The monk drew him onward.

"Come with me to my hermitage! Thou art strangely excited and do what thou mayest,—thou must follow out thy destiny! Hesitate not to confide in me!"

"My destiny!" Eckhardt replied. "Monk, do not mock me! If thou hast any mystic power, read my soul and measure its misery. I have no destiny, save despair."

The monk regarded him strangely.

"Because a woman is false and thy soul is weak, thou needest not at once make bosom friends with despair. It is a long time since I have been in the world. It is a long time since I have abjured its vanities. Let him who has withstood the terrible temptation, cast the first stone. For the flesh is weak and the sin is as old as the world; And perchance even the monk may be able to counsel, to guide thee in some matters,—for verily thou standest on the brink of a precipice."

"I am well-nigh mad!" Eckhardt replied wearily. "Were there but a ray of light to guide my steps."

Nilus pointed upward.

"All light flows from the fountain-head of truth. Be true to thyself! Life is duty! In its fulfilment alone can there be happiness,—and in the renunciation of that, which has been denied us by the Supreme Wisdom. No more than thou canst reverse the wheel of time, no more canst thou compel that dark power, Fate. And at best—what matters it for the short space of this earthly existence? For believe me, the End of Time is nigh,—and in the beyond all will be as if it had never been."

Nilus paused and their eyes met. And in silence Eckhardt followed the monk among the ruins of the latter's abode.

As the morning dawned, some fishermen dragging their nets off St. Bartholomew's island pulled up from the muddy waves the body of an old man clad in the loose garb of a monk. But as the day grew older a new crime and fresh scandal filled Forum and wine shops and the incident was forgotten ere night-fall.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST TRYST

he great clock on the tower of San Sebastian struck the second hour of night. The air was so pure, so transparent, that against the horizon the snow-capped summit of Soracté was visible, like a crown of glittering crystal. Mysteriously the stars twinkled in the fathomless blue of the autumnal night. Procession after procession traversed the city. From their torches smoky spirals rose up to the starry skies. The pale rays of the moon, the crimson glare of the torches, illumined faces haggard with fear, seamed with anxiety and dread. Despite the late hour, the people swarmed like ants, occupying every point of vantage, climbing lantern poles and fallen columns, armed with clubs, halberds, scythes, pitchforks and staves. Here and there strange muffled forms were to be seen mingling with the crowds, whispering here and there a word into the ear of a chance passerby and vanishing like phantoms into the night.

Among the many abroad in the city at this hour was Eckhardt. He mistrusted the Romans, he mistrusted the Senator, he mistrusted the monks. The fire of his own consuming thoughts would not permit him to remain within the four walls of his palace. Like a grim spectre of the past he stalked through Rome, alone, unattended. How long would the terrible mystery of his life continue to mock him? How much longer must he bear the awful weight which was crushing his spirit with its relentless agony? What availed his presence in Rome? The king had long ceased to consult him on matters of state; Benilo and Stephania possessed his whole ear—and Eckhardt was no longer in his counsels.

With a degree of anxiety, which he had in vain endeavoured to dispel, Eckhardt had watched the growing intimacy between his sovereign and the Senator's wife. Time and again he had, even at the risk of Otto's fierce displeasure, warned the King against the danger lurking behind Stephania's mask of friendship. Wearied and exasperated with his importunities, Otto had asserted the sovereign, and Eckhardt's lips had remained sealed ever since, though his watchfulness had not relaxed one jot, and even while he endeavoured to lift the veil, which enshrouded his own life, he remained circumspect and on the alert, true to his promise to the Empress Theophano, now in her grave.

The sounds which on this night fell from every side on Eckhardt's ear were not of a nature to dispel his misgivings of the Roman temper. As by a subtle intuition he felt that they were ripe for a change, though when and whence and how it would come he could not guess. His own mood was as dark as the sky-gloom lowering over the Seven Hills. Rome had made of him what he was, Rome had poisoned his life with the viper-sting of Ginevra's terrible deed, and now he longed for nothing more than for some great event, which would toss him into the foaming billows of strife, therein to sink and to go under for ever.

Drawing his mantle closer about him and lowering the vizor of his helmet, Eckhardt slowly made his way through the congested throngs. He had not proceeded very far, when he felt some one pluck him by the mantle. Turning abruptly and shaking himself free, from what he believed to be the clutches of a beggar, he was about to dismiss the offender with an oath, when to his surprise he beheld a woman dressed in the garb of a peasant, but clearly disguised, as her speech gave the lie to her affectation of low birth.

"You are Eckhardt, the Margrave?" she asked timidly.

"I am Eckhardt," the general replied curtly.

"Then lose no time to save him, else he will run into perdition as sure as yonder moon shines down upon us. Oh! He knows not the dangers that beset him;—on my knees I implore you—-save him!"

"When I understand the meaning of your gibberish, doubt not I will serve you! I pray you give me a glimpse of its purport," replied the Margrave.

The woman seemed so entirely wrapt up in her own business that she did not heed Eckhardt's question.

"I dare not whisper the secret to any one else,—and my Lord Benilo bade me seek you in case of danger. And if you cannot move him from his mad purpose, he is lost, for never was he so bent to have his own way. If you come with me, you will find him waiting on the terrace,—and do your best to lead him back,—else he will come to as evil an end as a wasp in a bee's hive,—for all the honey!"

"And whom shall I find on the terrace?" asked Eckhardt with ill-concealed impatience. He liked not the babbling crone. "Cease your spurting and speak plainly, else go your way:—I am not for such as you!"

"It wants but a moment—whom else but your King, for whom she has sent under pretext of important business,—aye,—at this very hour and on the terraces of the Minotaurus."

"Otto,—important business,—Minotaurus—" repeated Eckhardt. "Who has sent for him?"

"Stephania."

Eckhardt shrugged his shoulders.

"What is it to me? Go your way, hoary pander,—what is it to me? Hasten to him, who has paid you to tell this tale and get your ransom from him! I wager, he knows the style of old!"

The woman did not move.

"Nay, my lord, that we all should go mad at one time," she sobbed with evidently strong emotions, which were perhaps not caused by the motive alleged. "Then I must away and fulfil his destiny,—for a man cannot serve two masters,—nor a woman either."

There was something in the speaker's tone that caused a shadow of apprehension to rise in Eckhardt's mind. Was there more behind all this than she cared to confess? "Fulfil his destiny"—these words at least were not her own. A grave fear seized him. Otto might be ambushed,—carried away,—he might rot in Castel San Angelo, and no man the wiser for it.

"Stay! I will go and cross the boy's path to his guilty paradise," repeated Eckhardt after permitting the woman to draw away from him at a very slow and wistful pace and overtaking her with a couple of strides. "Lead on, but do not speak! I have no tongue to answer you!"

The woman immediately took the well-known route towards the terraces of the Minotaurus and soon they reached the spot. A covered archway at one extremity admitted on a terrace, flanked on one side by a high dead wall of the Vatican, on the other by a steep and precipitous slope, wooded with orange trees and myrtle. This spot, little frequented in day time, was deserted by night. The woman whispered that it was here, she expected the King, and cautioning Eckhardt to remove him with all speed from this danger zone, which offered no means of escape, she precipitately retired, leaving Eckhardt alone to meditate upon what he had heard, and to pursue his adventure in the darkness.

The Margrave hastened along the archway and peering into the shadows he quickly discerned the slim outline of a man, wrapt in an ample cloak, leaning against the dead wall at the end of the platform. His eyes seemed fixed intently upon the heavens, while an expression of impatience reigned uppermost in the pale, thoughtful face.

Eckhardt quickly approached the edge of the terrace, where he had discovered Otto, and although the King kept his face averted, he could scarcely hope to escape recognition.

"Otto—the King—can it be?" Eckhardt said with feigned surprise, as he faced the youth. "I beg your majesty's pardon,—are you a lodger in yonder palace or how chances it that you are here alone,—unattended?"

"Ay—since you know me," replied Otto with a forced smile, "I will not deny my name nor business either. The ladies of the Senator's court are fair, and an ancient crone whispered to me at my devotions to Our Lady, on this terrace and at this hour, if I prayed heartily, I should have good news. Matter enough, I ween, to stir one's curiosity, but,—I fear,—I should be alone."

The blood surged thickly through Eckhardt's brain. He could scarcely breathe, as he listened to this falsehood and for a few moments he gazed in silence on the flushed and paling visage of the youth.

At last he spoke.

"Is it possible that the air of Rome can even change a nature like yours to utter a falsehood? My liege,—you are not yourself!" Eckhardt exclaimed, discarding all reserve, for he knew there was no time to be lost. And if perchance the fair serpent that had lured him hither was nigh, his words should strike her heart with shame and dismay. "It is to Stephania you go,—it is Stephania, whom you await!"

There was a brief pause during which a hectic flush chased the deep pallor from Otto's face, as he passively listened to the unaccustomed speech.

"Stephania," he repeated absently, and suffering his cloak to drop aside in his absorption, he revealed the richness and splendour of the garb beneath.

"The wife of the Senator of Rome!" Eckhardt supplemented sternly.

"And what if it be?" Otto responded with mingled petulancy and confusion. "What if the Senator's consort has vouchsafed me a private audience?"

"Are you beside yourself, King Otto? You venture into this place alone,—unattended,—to please some woman's whim,—a woman who is playing with you,—and will lead you to perdition?"

"How dare you arraign your King and his deeds?" Otto exclaimed fiercely.

"I am here to save you—from yourself! You know not the consequences of your deed!"

"Let them be what they will! I am here, to abide them!"

Eckhardt crossed his arms over his broad chest as he regarded the offspring of the vanquisher of the Saracens with mingled scorn and pity.

"The spell is heavy upon you, here among the crimson and purple flowers, where the Siren sings you to destruction," he said with forced calmness. "But you shall no longer listen to her voice, else you are lost. Otto,—Otto,—away with me! We will leave this accursed spot and Rome together—for ever! There is no other refuge for you from the spell of the Sorceress."

"Not for all the lands on which the sun sets to-night will I refuse obedience to Stephania's call," Otto replied. "You sorely mistake your place and presume too much on the authority placed into your hands by the august Empress, my mother. But attempt not to exercise mastery over your King or to bend him to your will and purpose—for he will do as he chooses!"

"It has come to this then," replied Eckhardt without stirring from the spot and utterly disregarding Otto's increasing nervousness. "It has come to this! Are there no chaste and fair maidens in your native land? Maidens of high birth and lineage, fit to adorn an emperor's couch? Must you needs come hither,—hither,—to this thrice accursed spot, to love an alien, to love a Roman, and of all Romans, a married woman—the wife of your arch-enemy, the Senator? Are you blind, King Otto? Can you not see the game? You alone—of all? Deem you the proud, merciless Stephania, the consort of the Senator, who hates us Teutons more than he does the fiend himself,—would meet you here in this secluded spot, with her husband's knowledge,—with her husband's connivance,—simply to listen to your dreams and vagaries? Can you not see that you are but her dupe? King Otto, you have refused to listen to my warnings:—there is sedition rife in Rome. Retire to the Aventine, bar the gates to every one,—I have despatched my fleetest messenger to Tivoli to recall our contingents,—before dawn my Saxons shall hammer at the gates of Rome!"

Otto gazed at the speaker as if the latter addressed him in some unknown tongue.

"Sedition in Rome?" he replied like one wrapt in a dream. "You are mad! The Romans love me! Even as I do them! I will not stir an inch! I remain!"

Eckhardt breathed hard. He must carry his point; he felt oppressed by the sense of a great danger.

"And thus it befalls," he said laughing aloud with the excess of bitterness, "that to this hour I owe the achievement of knowing the cause why you have declined the demands of the Electors; that I can bear to them the answer to their importunities; that in this hour I have learned the true reason of your refusing to listen to your German subjects, who crave your return, who love you and your glorious house! You say you will remain! Revel then in your Eden, until she is weary of you and Crescentius spares her the pains of the finish."

"What are you raving?" exclaimed Otto furiously.

"You are mad for love, King Otto, and a frenzied lover is the worst of fools!"

The King blushed, with the consciousness either of his innocence or guilt.

"Since you accuse me," he spoke more calmly, but a strange fire burning in his eyes, "I do not deny it,—Stephania requested a meeting on matters pertaining to Rome, and I have come! And here," Otto continued, inflexible determination ringing in his tones—"and here I will await her, if all hell or the swords of Rome barred the way. Do you hear me, Eckhardt? Too long have I been the puppet of the Electors. Too long have I suffered your tyranny. My will is supreme,—and who so defies it, is a traitor!"

Eckhardt gazed fixedly into his sovereign's eyes.

"King Otto! Is it possible that you beguile yourself with these specious pretexts? That you assail the honour of those who have followed you hither, who have twice conquered Rome for you? Ay,—no one so blind as he who will not see! I tell you, Stephania is luring you into the betrayal of your honour,—perhaps that of the Senator,—who knows? I tell you she is deceiving you! Or,—if she pretends to love, it is to betray you! You cannot resist her magic,—it is not in humanity to do so, were it thrice subdued by years of fasting. If you repel her now, your victory will be bought with your destruction! Her undying hatred will mark you her own! But if you succumb you are lost,—the Virgin herself could not save you! You shall not remain! You shall not meet her,—not as long as the light of these eyes can watch over your credulous heart!"

Otto had advanced a step. Vainly groping for words to vent his wrath, he paced up and down before the trusted leader of his hosts.

At last he paused directly before him.

"My Lord Eckhardt," he said, "it might content you to rake amidst the slime of the city for matter, with which to asperse a pure and beautiful woman,—as for myself, while my hand can clutch the hilt of a sword, you shall not!" he exclaimed, yielding at last to the voice of his fiery nature.

"Strike then," Eckhardt replied, raising his arms. "I have no weapon against my King!"

Otto pushed the half drawn sword back into the scabbard.

"For this," he said, "you shall abide a reckoning."

"Then let it be now!" Eckhardt exclaimed in a wild jeering tone. "Go and bid Stephania arm her champion, one against whom I may enter the lists, and I swear to you, that from his false breast I will tear the truth, which you refuse to accept, coming from your friends! But I am not in a mood to be trifled with. You shall not remain, King Otto, and I swear by these spurs, I will rather kill your paramour, than to see you betrayed to the doom which awaits you."

"Are life and death so absolutely in the hands of the Margrave of Meissen?" replied Otto in a towering rage. "In the face of your defiance I will tarry here and abide my fortune."

And clutching Eckhardt's mantle, in his wrath, his eye met the eye of the fearless general.

With a jerk the latter freed himself from Otto's grasp.

"A fool in love: A thing that men spurn and women deride."

Otto's face turned deadly pale.

"You dare? This to your King?"

"I dare everything to save you—everything! Otto—the Romans mistrust you! They love you no longer! They are ripe for a change! The longer you tarry, the fiercer will be the strife. Crescentius would rather destroy the whole city than let it be permanently wrested from his power. You have been his dupe,—hark—do you hear those voices?"

"Of all my enemies he is the one sincere."

"Then he were the more dangerous! A fanatic is always more powerful than a knave. Do you hear these voices, King Otto?"

Otto was pacing the terrace with feverish impatience.

"I hear nothing! I hear nothing! Go—and leave me!"

"And know you sold,—betrayed,—by that—"

A shadow crossed his path, noiseless on the velvety turf.

Before them stood Stephania.

"Finish your words, my Lord Eckhardt," she said facing the Margrave. "Pray, let not my presence mellow your speech."

"And it shall not!" retorted Eckhardt hotly.

"And it shall!" thundered Otto rushing upon him. "Upon your life, Eckhardt, one insult and—"

Stephania laid a tranquillizing finger on Otto's arm.

"I have heard all," she said, pale as marble, but smiling. "And I forgive."

"You have heard his accusation—and you forgive, Stephania?" cried Otto, gazing incredulously into her eyes.

"You had faith in me—I thank you—Otto!" she replied softly, and sweeping by Eckhardt, she extended both hands to the King. He grasped them tightly within his own and, bending over them, pressed his fevered lips upon them.

Suddenly all three raised their heads and listened.

A sound not unlike a distant trumpet blast, rent the stillness of night, seemed to swell with the echoes from the hills, then died away.

"What is this?" the German leader questioned, puzzled.

"The monks are holding processions,—the streets are swarming with the cassocks,—their chants can be heard everywhere."

Stephania gazed at Otto, as she answered Eckhardt's question.

The Margrave scrutinized her intently.

"I knew not the Senator loved the black crows so well, as to furnish music to their march," he replied slowly. Then he turned to the woman.

"Hear me, Stephania! You see me here, but you know not that I have ordered all my men-at-arms to attend me at the gates below! If the King's foolish passion and blind trust have been the means to execute your hellish design, know that with my own hand I will avenge your remorseless treachery, for I will slay you if aught befall him in this night, and hang your lord, the Senator of Rome, from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo,—I swear it by the Five Wounds!"

For a moment Stephania stood petrified with terror and unable to utter a single word in response. Then she turned to Otto.

"This man is mad! Order him begone,—or I will go myself. He frightens me!"

She made a movement as if to depart, but Otto, divining her intention, barred the way.

"Stephania—remain!" he entreated. "Our general is but prompted by an over great zeal for our welfare," he concluded, restraining himself with an effort. Then breathing hard, he extended his arm, and with flaming eyes spoke to Eckhardt:

"Go!"

"I go!" the general replied with heavy heart. "If anything unusual happens in this night, King Otto, remember my words—remember my warning. My men are stationed at the wicket, through which you came. There is no other exit,—save to perdition. I leave you—may the Saints keep you till we meet again!"

With these words Eckhardt gathered his mantle about him and stalked away, leisurely at first, as if to lull to sleep every inkling of suspicion in Stephania, then faster and faster, and at last he fairly flew up the winding road of Aventine. Those whom he met shied out of his path, as if the fiend himself was coming towards them and shaking their heads in grave wonder and fear, muttered an Ave and told their beads.

Strange noises were in the air. The chants of the monks were intermingled with the fierce howls and shrieks of a mob, harangued by some demagogue, who fed their discontentment with arguments after their own heart. Everywhere Eckhardt met skulking countenances, scowling faces, while half-suppressed oaths fell on his ear. Arrived on the Aventine he immediately ordered Haco, Captain of the Imperial Guards, to his presence.

"Bridle your charger and ride to Tivoli as if ten thousand devils were on your heels," he said, handing the young officer an order he had hurriedly and barbarously scratched on a fragment of parchment. "Pass through the Tiburtine gate and return with sunrise,—life and death depend upon your speed!"

Withdrawing immediately, Haco saddled his charger and soon the echoes of his horse's hoofs died away in the distance, while Eckhardt hurriedly entered the palace.

After he had vanished from the labyrinth of the Minotaurus, Otto and Stephania faced each other for a moment in silence. The Southern night was very still. The noises from the city had died down. By countless thousands the stars shone in the deep, fathomless heavens.

It was Otto who first broke the heavy silence.

"Stephania," he said, "why are you here to-night?"

"What a strange question," she replied, "and from you."

"Yes—from me! From me to you. Is it because—"

He paused as if oppressed by some great dread. He dared not trust himself to speak those words in her hearing.

"Is it because I love you?" she complemented the sentence, drawing him down beside her. But the seed of doubt Eckhardt had planted in his heart had taken root.

"Stephania," he said with a strange voice, without replying directly to her question. "I have trusted in you and I will continue to trust in you, even despite the whisperings of the fiend,—until with my own eyes I behold you faithless. Eckhardt has been with me all day," he continued with unsteady voice, "he has warned me against you, he has warned me to place no trust in your words, that you are but the instrument of Crescentius; that he has organized a mutiny; that he but awaits your signal for my destruction. He has warned me that you have planned my seizure and selected this spot, to prevent intervention. Stephania, answer me—is it so?"

For a moment the woman gazed at him in dread silence, unable to speak.

"Did you believe?" she faltered at last with averted gaze, very pale.

"I am here!" he replied.

Stephania laughed nervously.

"I had forgotten!" she stammered. "How good of you!"

Otto regarded her with silent wonder, not unmingled with fear, for her countenance betrayed an anxiety he had never read in it before. And indeed her restlessness and terror seemed to increase with every moment. She answered Otto's questions evidently without knowing what she said, and her gaze turned frequently and with a devouring expression of anxiety and dread toward Castel San Angelo. Maddened and desperate with her own perfidy, she began to ruminate the most violent extremities, without perceiving one exit from the labyrinth of guile. The significance of Otto's question, his earnestness and his faith in herself put the crown on her misery. Her eyes grew dim and her senses were failing. Her limbs quaked and for a moment she was unable to speak. Otto bent over her in positive fear. The pale face looked so deathlike that his heart quailed at the thought of life,—life without her.

"I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it," he muttered, holding her hands in his tight grasp.

It seemed as if she had read his inmost, unspoken thoughts.

"And yet it must come at last!" she replied softly, as from the depths of a dream. "What is this short span of life for such love as ours? And,—had we even everything we could crave, all the world can give,—would there not be a sting in each moment of happiness at the thought—"

She paused. Her head drooped.

"My happiness is to be with you," he stammered. "I cannot count the cost!"

"Think you that I would count the cost?" she said. "And you love me despite of all those dreadful things, which he—Eckhardt—has poured into your ear?" she continued with low, purring voice.

"Love you—love you!" he repeated wildly. "Oh, I have loved you all my life, even before I saw you,—are you not the embodied form of all those vague dreams of beauty, which haunted my earliest childhood? That beauty, which I sought yearningly, but oh! so vainly in all things, that breathe the divine essence: the lustrous darkness of night, the glories of sunset, the subtle perfume of the rose, the all-reflecting ocean of poetry in which the Universe mirrors itself? In all have I found the same deep void, which only love can fill. Not love you," he continued covering both hands he held in his with fevered kisses, "oh, Stephania, I love you better than myself,—better than all things,—here and hereafter."

Almost paralyzed with fear she listened to his mad pleading.

"And can nothing—nothing,—destroy this love you have for me?" she faltered.

He took her yielding form in his arms. He drew her closer and closer to his heart.

"Nothing,—nothing,—nothing."

"I love you—Otto—" she whispered deliriously.

"To the end, dearest,—to the end!"

From a tavern at the foot of the hill the sounds of high revelry were borne up to them. The air was filled with the odour of dead leaves and dying creation, that subtle premonition of the end to come.

"And you have anxiously waited my coming?" she said, hiding her face in his arms.

"Oh, Stephania! The hour-glass, with which passion measures a lover's impatience, is a burning torch to his heart."

Supreme stillness intervened again.

Stephania raised her head like a deer in covert, listening for the hunters, listening for the baying of the hounds, coming nearer and nearer. Gladly at this moment would she have given her life to undo what she had done. But it was too late. Even this expiation would not avail! There was nothing now to do, but to nerve herself for that supreme moment, when all would be severed between them for aye and ever; when she would stand before him the embodiment of deception; when he would spurn her as one spurns the reptile, that repays the caressing hand with its deadly sting; when he would curse her perhaps,—cast from him for ever the woman who had cut the thread of the life he had laid at her feet—and all, for what?

That Johannes Crescentius, the Senator of Rome might again come into his own, that he might again lord the rabble which now skulked through the streets to avenge some imaginary wrong on the head of the youth, whose love for them was to be the pass word for his destruction.

And Johannes Crescentius was her husband and lord. He loved her with as great a love as his nature was capable of, and whatever faults might be laid at the door of his regime, if faults they could even be termed in a lawless, feudal age, that knew no right save might,—to her he had never been untrue.

Stephania endeavoured to persuade herself that, what she had done, she had done for the good of Rome. Monstrous deception! She despised the mongrel rabble too heartily to even have raised a finger in its behalf. If they starved, would Crescentius give them bread? If they froze—would Crescentius clothe them? Then there remained but the question, should a Roman govern Rome, or the alien,—the foreigner. Was it for her to decide? How unworthy the cause of the sacrifice she was about to bring on the altar of her happiness. But which ever way the tongue of the scales inclined,—it was too late!

Otto had buried his head on Stephania's bosom. She had encircled it with her arms and with gentle fingers that sent a delirium through his brain, she stroked his soft brown hair, while the cry of Delilah hovered on her lips.

He looked up into her eyes.

"Stephania,—why are you here to-night?" he whispered again, and he felt the tremor which quivered through her body.

"I came to bring you the answer which you craved at our last meeting," she replied softly. "Can you guess it?"

"Then you have chosen," he gasped, as if he were suddenly confronted with the crisis in his existence, when that which he held dearest must either slip away from him for ever or remain his through all eternity.

"I have chosen!" she whispered, her arms tightening round him, as if she would protect him against all the world.

"Kiss me," she moaned.

One delirious moment their lips met. They remained locked in tight embrace, lip to lip, heart to heart.

There was a brief breathless silence.

Suddenly the great bell of the Capitol rolled in solemn and majestic sounds upon the air, and was answered from all the belfries of Rome. But louder than the pealing tocsin, above the wild screaming and clanging of the bells rose the piercing cry:

"Death to the Saxon! Death to the King!"

They both raised their heads and listened. With wild-eyed wonder Otto gazed into Stephania's eyes. The marble statues around them were hardly as white as her features.

"What is this?" he questioned.

There was a stir in the depths of the streets below. Shouts and jeers of strident voices were broken by authoritative commands. The tramp of mailed feet was remotely audible, but above all the hubbub and din rose the cry:

"Death to the Saxon! Death to the King!"

When the first peals of the great bell quivered on the silent night air, Stephania had, with a low wail, encircled Otto's head with her arms, pressed him closely to her, as if to shield him from harm. Then, as louder and wilder the iron tongues shrieked defiance through the air, as, turning her head, she saw the fatal spear points of the Albanians gleaming through the thicket, she suddenly shook him off. With a stifled outcry, she rose to her feet; so abruptly that Otto staggered and would have fallen, had he not in time caught himself with the aid of a branch.

To the King it gave the impression of a wild hideous dream. Like one dazed, he stared first at the woman, then down the declivity.

Directly beneath where he stood a scribe was haranguing the crowds, descanting on the ancient glory of the Romans and exhorting his listeners to exterminate all foreigners. From Castel San Angelo came an incessant sound of trumpets, which, mingling with the brazen roar of bells seemed to shake the earth. Torches lighted the streets with their smoky crimson glare. People hurried hither and thither, jostling, pushing, trampling upon each other like black shadows, like living phantoms. The fiery glow, the voices of the angry mob, the pealing of the bells,—they all struck Stephania's heart with a thousand talons of remorse and shame. Fearstruck and trembling, she gazed into the pale face of Theophano's son.

Otto was watching the distant pandemonium as one would gaze upon some strange, hideous ceremonial of occult meaning,—then he turned slowly to Stephania.

For a moment they faced each other in silence, then he stroked the disordered hair from his forehead like one waking from a dream.

"You have betrayed me."

Her lips were tightly compressed; she made no reply.

The next moment he was on his knees before her.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he faltered, "I knew not what I said!"

She breathed hard. For a moment she closed her eyes in mortal anguish.

"Then you still believe in me?" She spoke hardly above a whisper.

"With all my heart," he replied, grasping her hands and covering them with kisses. For a moment she suffered him to exhaust his endearments, then she jerked them away from him.

"Then bid your hopes and dreams farewell and scatter your faith to the winds," she shrieked, almost beside herself with the memory of her vow and its consequences. "You are betrayed,—and I have betrayed you!"

Otto had staggered to his feet and gazed upon the beautiful apparition who faced him like some avenging fury, as if he thought that she had gone suddenly mad. For a moment she paused, as if summoning supreme energy for the execution of her task, as if to lash herself into a paroxysm sufficient to make her forget those accusing eyes and his all-mastering love.

"I have betrayed you, Kong Otto! I, Stephania, a woman! Ah! You believed my words! You were vain enough to imagine that the wife of the Senator of Rome could love you,—you,—her greatest foe, you, the Saxon, the alien, the intruder, who came here to rob us of our own, to wrest the sceptre from the rightful lord of the Seven Hills. You hoped Stephania would aid you to realize your mad dreams! How unsophisticated, how deliciously innocent is the King of the Germans! Know then that I have lied to you, when I feigned interest in your cause, know that I have lied to you when I professed to love you! Love you," she cried, while her heart was breaking with every word she hurled against him, who listened to her speech in frozen terror. "Love you! Fool! And you were mad enough to believe it! Do you hear those bells? Do you hear the great tocsin from the Capitol? Do you hear the alarums from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo? They are calling the Romans to arms! They are summoning the Romans to revolt! Do you hear those shouts? Death to the Germans? They are for you,—for you,—for you!"

Again she paused, breathing hard, collecting all her woman's strength to finish what she had begun.

The end had come,—her task must be finished.

Her voice now assumed its natural tones, the more dreadful in their import, as she spoke in the old deep, soulful accents.

"I have lulled you to sleep," she continued, breaking the bridge, which led back into the past, span by span,—"that the Senator of Rome may once again come into his own! I have pretended interest in your monkish fancies, that Rome may once more shake off the invader's accursed yoke. I am a Roman, King Otto,—and I hate you,—hate you with every beat of my heart, that beats for Rome. King Otto, you are doomed."

He had listened to her words with wide, wondering eyes, his heart frozen with terror and anguish, his face pale as that of a corpse, returned from its grave. He heard voices in the distance and the tread of armed feet coming nearer and nearer. Yet he stirred not. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. There were strange rushing sounds in his ears, like mocking echoes of Stephania's words.

At last his lips moved, while with a desperate effort he tried to shake off the spell.

"May God forgive you, Stephania," he gasped like a drowning man, reeled and caught himself, gazing upon her with delirious, burning eyes.

Closer and closer came the tramp of mailed feet.

Terror struck, Stephania gazed into Otto's face. The fiercest denunciation would not have so completely unnerved her as the simple words of the youth. She almost succumbed under the weight of her anguish.

"Fly,—King Otto,—fly,—save yourself," she gasped, staggering toward him in the endeavour to shake off the fatal torpor which had seized his limbs. But he saw her not, he heard not her warning. Listlessly he gazed into space.

But had those who rushed down the avenue been his enemies and death his certain lot, there would not have been time for flight.

Stephania heaved a sigh of relief as in their leader she recognized the Margrave of Meissen, followed by a score or more of the Saxon guard.

Her own fate she never gave a thought.

"Do you hear those sounds?" thundered the gaunt German leader, rushing with drawn sword upon the scene and pausing breathlessly before Stephania's victim. "Do you hear the great bell of the Capitol, King Otto? All Rome is in revolt! Did I not warn you against the wiles of the accursed sorceress, who, like a vampire fed on your heart's blood? But by the Almighty God, she shall not live to enjoy the fruits of her hellish treason."

And suiting the action to the word, Eckhardt rushed upon Stephania, who stood calmly awaiting his onslaught and seemed to invite the stroke which threatened her life, for her lips curled in haughty disdain and her gaze met Eckhardt's in lofty scorn.

The sight of her peril accomplished what Stephania's efforts had failed to do. Swift as thought Otto had hurled himself between Eckhardt and his intended victim.

"Back," he thundered with flaming eyes. "Only over my dead body lies the way to her!"

Eckhardt's arm dropped, while a wrathful laugh broke from his lips.

"You are magnificent, King Otto! Defend the woman who has foully betrayed you! Be it so! We have no time for argument. Her life is forfeited and by the Eternal God, Eckhardt never broke his oath. Follow me! We must reach the Aventine, ere the Roman rabble bar the way. We are not strong enough to break through their numbers and they swarm like ants."

Otto stirred not.

Calmly he gazed at the Margrave, as if the danger did in no wise concern him. And while Eckhardt stamped his feet in impotent rage, mingling a score or more pagan imprecations with the very unchristian oaths he muttered between his clenched teeth, Otto turned to Stephania. His voice was calm and passionless as one's who has emerged from a terrible ordeal and has nothing more to lose, nothing more to fear.

"What will you do?" he said. "The streets are no safe thoroughfare for you in this night."

"I know not,—I care not," she replied with dead voice, from which all its bewitching tones had faded.

"Then you must come with us!" he said. "My men shall safely conduct you to Castel San Angelo. You have the word of their King!"

"By the flames of purgatory! Are you stark mad, King Otto?" roared Eckhardt, almost beside himself with rage. "Come with us she shall, but as hostage for Crescentius,—and eye for eye,—tooth for tooth!"

He did not finish. Otto waved his hand petulantly.

"The King of the Germans has pledged his word for Stephania's safe conduct, and the King of the Germans will be obeyed," he spoke, his voice the only calm and passionless thing in all the storm and uproar, which assailed them on all sides. "Through the secret passage lies her only safety. She cannot go as she came!"

Eckhardt's eyes fairly blazed with rage.

"Secret passage!" he roared, nervously gripping the hilt of his enormous sword. "Secret passage? Are you raving, King Otto? What secret passage?"

But vainly did the Margrave endeavour to make his gestures explain his denial. Otto cared not, if indeed he noted them at all.

He beckoned to Stephania.

"Come with us!" he spoke in the same apathetic, listless tone. "Fear nothing. You have the word of the German King,—he has never broken it!"

Whether the terrible reproach implied in his words increased the stifling anguish in her heart, whether she dared not trust herself to speak, Stephania silently turned to go. But divining her intent, Otto caught at her mantle.

"Now by all the fiends!" shouted Eckhardt, unable longer to restrain himself, dashing between Stephania and the King and severing the latter's hold on the woman—"Since your heart is set upon it, I will not harm the—"

He paused involuntarily.

For from Otto's eyes there flashed upon him such a terrible look that even the old, practiced warrior stepped back abashed.

"Speak the word and I will slay you with my own hands!" spoke the son of Theophano, and for a moment subject and king faced each other in the dread silence with flaming eyes, and faces from which every trace of colour had faded.

Eckhardt lowered his weapon.

His countenance betrayed untold anxiety.

"You invite certain destruction, King Otto," he remonstrated with subdued voice. "What matters it, if her countrymen do slay her? One serpent the less in Rome! Your mercy leads you to perdition,—-what mercy has she shown to you?"

Otto had relapsed into his former state of apathy.

"She goes with us," he said like an automaton, that knows but one speech. "Through the secret passage lies her only safety."

"She will betray it and you and all of us," growled the German leader, whose very beard seemed to bristle with wrath at Otto's obstinacy.

Otto shrugged his shoulders.

"I have spoken!"

"Guards, close round!" thundered Eckhardt. "And every dog of a Roman who approaches upon any pretext whatsoever,—strike him dead without word or parley!"

The Saxon spearmen who had guarded the approach to the avenue gathered hurriedly round them. For at that moment the great bell of the Capitol, whose tolling had ceased for a time, began its clamour anew and the shouts of the masses, subdued and hushed during the interval, rose with increased fury. They drowned the great sob of anguish, which had welled up from Stephania's heart, but when Otto, his attention distracted for the nonce by the uproar, turned round, the woman had gone.

Nor did Eckhardt, inwardly rejoicing over the revelation, grant him one moment's respite. Surrounded by his trusty Saxon spears, Otto felt himself hurried along towards the gates of his palace, which they reached in safety, the insurrection having not yet spread to that region.

Vainly had he strained his gaze into the haze of the moonlit night. The end had come,—Stephania had gone.

When he reached his chamber, Otto sank senseless on the floor.

CHAPTER XV

THE STORM OF CASTEL SAN ANGELO

he sun of autumn hung a bloody circle over Rome, but seemed to give neither light nor warmth. The city itself presented a seething cauldron of rebellion. The gates had been closed against the advancing Germans and when, with the first streak of dawn, Haco had arrived under the Marian hill with the contingents from Tivoli, they found themselves before a city, which had to be reconquered ere they could even join the comparatively weak garrison on the Aventine, where Otto was a prisoner in his own palace. During the night Eckhardt had assayed to reach a place of concealment on the Tiburtine road, where he awaited the arrival of his forces, which he had immediately marshalled in their respective positions. Castel San Angelo rested on an impregnable rock, but Eckhardt had sworn a terrible oath, that he would scale its walls before the sun of another day rose behind the Alban hills; and although a rain of arrows and bolts, so dense and deadly that it threatened to break the line of the assailants, was poured into the German ranks, it did not stay their determined advance.

The first line of assault consisted of heavy-armed foot-soldiers with round bucklers, short swords and massive battle-axes. Forming in close phalanx, these men of gigantic size, in hauberks and round helmets, fixed shield to shield like an iron wall, advanced in dense array to the charge. They were led on the right wing by the imperial guard, whose huge statures, fair long hair and gleaming halberds formed a strange contrast to the lighter arms and the more pliant forms of the defenders of Castel San Angelo.

The Roman army, which the Senator had stationed round the base of his formidable stronghold, could not withstand the shock of this tremendous phalanx, so far heavier in arms and numbers, and with all their courage and skill they wavered and broke into flight. Many were precipitated into the Tiber and drowned miserably within sight of their helpless comrades; most of them were mowed down by the pursuing German cavalry or shot by the German archers.

After the terrible defeat of the Senator's army by the first line of Eckhardt's battle-array, the squadrons of the second line of battle spread over the plain, preparatory to the last and final assault. The vast stronghold of the Senator looked as proud and menacing as ever; reared upon its almost impenetrable granite-foundation it formed even at this date one of the most powerful fortresses of Western Europe. Its huge battlements were defended with a long chain of covered towers, from which Albanian bowmen shot down every living thing, that approached the circuit of its walls. Every attempt to scale the lofty stronghold with ladders had during former sieges been beaten off with fearful loss, after desperate combats at all hours of day and night. Although he had twice stormed the walls of Rome, Eckhardt had never succeeded in capturing the fortress, which he must call his own, who would be master of the Seven Hills. But the wrath of the Margrave defied every obstacle, laughed to scorn every impediment which might retard his vengeance upon the cursed rabble of Rome, those mongrel curs, with whom rebellion was a pastime and for whom oaths existed but to be broken. All day long the Germans had hurled themselves against the massive walls, sustaining terrible losses, while those within the city were equally severe. All day long they had plied their huge catapults, which hurled masses of rock and iron into the city and fortress, keeping up an incessant bombardment. They also used the balista, an immense fixed cross-bar, which shot bolts with extraordinary force and precision upon the battlements, whereon nothing living could stand exposed without certain destruction.

Seated motionless on his coal-black charger, like some dark spirit of revenge, plainly visible from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo, Eckhardt directed the assault of his army at this point, or that, according as the situation required. Many an arrow and stone struck the ground close by his side, but he seemed to bear a charmed existence and never stirred an inch from his chosen vantage ground. Already had a breach been made in one or two places in the base of the walls, yet had he not given the order to break into the city, but seemed to watch for some weak spot in the defences. It was verging towards evening. The besiegers could hear the cries and the rage of those within the walls, who dared not remain in the streets during the terrific rain of iron and stones hurled by the German machines. Despite their strenuous efforts, Castel San Angelo hurled defiance into the teeth of the Margrave, who demanded its surrender, and the task of capturing the stronghold, otherwise than by starving the garrison, seemed to hold out smaller promise with every moment, as the sun hurried on his western course. The sky became overcast and the night bade fair to be stormy.

During the assaults of the day, Eckhardt had many times strained his gaze towards the road leading to Tivoli, as if he expected some succour from that direction, when, as the sun was sinking in a crimson haze, a cloud of dust met the general's gaze and at the same moment a thunderous shout rose from the imperial hosts. Drawn by twelve oxen, there appeared at the edge of the plain a new engine of assault, which Eckhardt had ordered constructed, anticipating an emergency, such as the present. It had remained with the host in Tivoli, and despite the comparatively short distance, it had required almost twenty-four hours to draw it over the sloping ground to Rome. It was a tower of three stages, constructed of massive beams, protected by frames and hides and crowned with a stout roof. It was now being rolled forward on broad heavy wheels to afford means of scaling the walls. As it slowly approached the ramparts of Castel San Angelo, the assault of the Germans, renewed on the whole line of the walls with redoubled fury, presented a terrific sight. The catapults and balistae were pouring stones, bolts and arrows on the defenders; the whizzing of the missiles, the shouts of the assailants, answered by furious yells from the walls, the roar of the flames, as here and there a house near the city walls caught fire from burning pitch, made a truly infernal din.

"The turret is within twenty feet of the walls,—on a level with the ramparts,—fifteen,—ten feet,—-down with the scaling bridge!" shouted Haco, who was standing by the side of Eckhardt. Crashing, the gang-way went from the front of the pent house. But as he spoke, the soft earth, whereon the turret stood, gave way. The gang-way fell short, the turret toppled and split. The besieged hurled on it bolts, rocks, boiling pitch and fire balls, and presently it collapsed with a sudden crash and fell in a heap, mangling and burying the men inside it and beneath it, and at once it blazed up, a mass of burning timber.

"It is, as I feared," said Eckhardt. "No turret lofty enough to overtop these walls can be brought up to work on ground like this. We must resort to the catapults! Let all be brought into action at once!"

The destruction of the great, movable turret, on the success of which such hopes and fears had been placed, caused the ranks of assailants and defenders to pause for a space, while both were watching the spectacle of the blazing pile. A lull ensued in the storm of battle, during which Eckhardt, while he seemed to direct his men towards a certain point near the walls, never released his gaze from Castel San Angelo. Then he gave a whispered order to Haco, who set off at once on its execution. An appalling crash rent the sky, as the German machines began their simultaneous attack on the walls of Rome, while a storming-column, forming under their protection, rushed forth towards the gates of the city. The strain on the mind of Eckhardt, who alone knew the intense crisis of that moment, was almost unbearable. He must succeed this very night; for on the morrow the peremptory order of the Electors would recall his forces beyond the Alps. There would be no respite; there could be no resistance. His only salvation lay in their undaunted courage and their ignorance of the impending decree.

The evening grew more and more sultry.

At intervals a gust came flying, raising the white dust and rustling in the dying leaves. It passed by, leaving the stillness on the Aventine more still than before. Nothing was to be heard, save the dull, seemingly subterranean growls of thunder, and against this low threatening and sullen roar the pounding of Eckhardt's catapults against the walls. At times a flash broke across the clouds; then all stood out sharp and clear against the increasing darkness. Only the watchfires of Castel San Angelo were reflected in the sluggish tide of the Tiber, from which rose noisome odours of backwater, rotting fern leaves and decaying wood.

The Piazza of St. Peter meanwhile presented a singular spectacle, congested as it was with a multitude, which, in the glare of the lightning, resembled one waving mass of heads,—a cornfield before it has been swept by a tornado. It was an infuriated mob, which listened to the harangue of Benilo, interrupting the same ever and ever with the hysterical shout: "Death to the Saxon! Death to the Emperor!"

"Blood of St. John!" exclaimed an individual in the coarse brown garb of a smith, "Why do we bellow here? Let us to the Aventine—to the Aventine!"

His eye met that of Il Gobbo the grave-digger. He pounced upon him like an eagle on his prey, shaking him by the shoulder.

"Gobbo! Dog! Assassin! Art deaf to good news! I tell thee, there is strife in the city,—some new sedition! It may be that our friends have conquered—down with the tyrant and oppressor! Down with the Saxon! Down with everything!"

And he laughed—a hoarse, mad laughter.

"We Romans shall yet be free,—think of it, thou villain,—a thousand curses on thee!"

The artisan had correctly interpreted the temper of the Romans, when he raised his shout: To the Aventine! To the Aventine!

"Romans! We give our enemies red war! War to the knife!" screamed the speaker at the conclusion of his harangue.

"Death to the Saxons! Death to the King!" came the answering yell.

In the midst of all this some partisan of the King ventured to reason with the mob. It was impossible to distinguish in the ensuing mêlée, but in the distance a man was being tossed and torn by the mob. For a moment his white face rose above the sea of heads, with all the despair which a drowning man shows, when it rises for the last time above the waves, then it sank back and something mangled and shapeless was flung out into the great Piazza, where it lay still.

"To the Aventine! To the Aventine!" shouted the mob, and armed with all sorts of rude weapons they trooped off, brandishing their clubs and staves and shouting confused maledictions.

Count Ludeger of the Palatinate, to whom Eckhardt had entrusted the King's safety, had made sure that all approaches were locked and barred, while he had disposed his spearmen and archers in such a manner as to make it appear, in the case of assault, that he commanded a much superior number, than were actually at his disposal.

The warlike Count Palatine, who, aroused on an alarm, had instantly equipped himself with casque and sword, stood listening to what was passing outside, sniffing the air and rolling his eyes as if he desired nothing better than a conflict. Arranging his archers round the barred gate, with the order to hold their bows in readiness, he descended to the entrance which was surrounded by a howling mob, who demanded admittance or, if denied, declared they would enter by force. After having surveyed the assailants through a wicket, and having convinced himself that they were of the baser class, he demanded to speak with the leader of the mob. A surly individual, armed with a club, came boldly forward and demanded to see the King.

"For what purpose?" asked the Count Palatine.

"That is,—as we choose!" replied the ruffian.

By this time the archers had mounted the roof of the palace, while Count Ludeger stood in the foreground. To him the routing of such a rabble seemed a task not worth speaking of, and it was not his intention to parley. He dared not open the gates until he was prepared to act, therefore mounting a balcony in the upper story of the palace, which looked over the entrance, he stood fully visible from where the invaders stood, whose numbers swelled with every moment. Then advancing to the parapet, he made a signal, demanding silence, and spoke in a voice audible to every ear in the throng:

"Dogs! You came hither thinking the palace was defenceless. You wish to see the King. Off! Away with your foul odours and your yelping throats! And if when you have turned tail, any cur among you dares bark back, he shall pay for it with an arrow through his chine! Away with you!"

The crowd seemed to waver and to look for their leader, but the Count Palatine gave them little time. Raising his hand he waved a signal to the archers. The low growling and snarling of the mob swelled to a yell of terror, as three score or more of their number fell under the hail of arrows. At the same moment the gate of the palace was thrown open and the guards charged the Roman mob with drawn swords, mowing down all that were in their path. Back fell the first rank of the rioters, pressing against those in the rear, and with an outcry of terror the crowd scattered in flight.

From the balcony of his palace, Otto had witnessed the scene which had just come to a close. He saw hatred and vengeance around him in the eyes of the populace. He knew himself to be hated, deserted, betrayed, most unjustly, most cruelly, despite all he had done for the state and the people. After the mob had departed, he retreated to his chamber. Here his strength seemed utterly to forsake him. Calling his attendants, they took from him his cloak, his diadem, and his sword of state, they unlaced the imperial buskins and gilt mail, in which he was encased. He seemed eager to fling from him his gilded trappings, while his attendants watched him in perplexity and fear. He spoke not, nor gave any sign.

At length Count Ludeger, presuming on his high office, broke the silence.

"By the Mother of God, we pray you, shake off this grief and take heed of the manifold perils which surround your throne and life. You are surrounded with traitors, intrigues and plots! And the one—once nearest to your heart is your greatest foe!"

Otto raised his head and glared at the speaker like a lion at bay, but spoke not, and again covered his face and sank upon the couch.

The storm clouds gathering over Rome were scarce as dark as those on Count Ludeger's brow. For a time intense silence prevailed. At last, carried away by Otto's mute despair, the Curopalates ventured to approach the King and whispered a word in his ear.

Otto looked up, pale, staring.

Count Ludeger advanced and knelt before the emperor.

"My liege—what shall I say to the Electors?"

There was a breathless silence.

Then Otto raised himself erect on his couch.

"Say to them,—that I will die in Rome—in Rome—"

He checked himself and looked round.

"Leave me! Begone all of you!" he said. "Set double guards at the doors of this chamber and admit no one on pain of death.—I choose to be alone to-night!"

"And may not I even share my sovereign's solitude?" questioned Benilo with a look of feigned concern in his eyes.

"I wish to be alone!" Otto replied, then he beckoned Count Ludeger to his side. After all had departed, the King turned to the Count Palatine.

"Can we hold out?"

The Count's visage reflected deep gloom.

"All Rome is in the throes of revolt! All day Eckhardt has been pounding the walls of Castel San Angelo—to no avail!"

"He will storm the traitor's lair," Otto replied, "but then?" he questioned as one dream-lost.

Ludeger pointed to Northward. With a deep moan Otto's head drooped and the scalding tears streamed down between his fingers. Betrayed—betrayed! Not by Crescentius, his natural, his hereditary foe, but by the woman whom he had loved, whom he had worshipped, whom he still loved above all else on earth. What was the possession of Rome, the rule of the universe, to him without her? He could picture to himself no happiness away from her.

When Otto looked up, Count Ludeger was gone.

For a time there was stillness, deep, intense.

A dazzling flash of light, succeeded by a deafening peal of thunder, that was like the wrath of a mighty God,—then came darkness, the howling of the storm, the sobbing of bells tossed and broken by the hurricane, into a wraith of dirge,—and now, as by some fantastic freak of nature, as the wind rose higher and higher, the iron tongue of the bell from the Capitol came wrangling and discordant through the air, as if tortured by some demon of despair. But the howlings and the tempest and the roar of the thunder had a third, most terrible ally to make that night memorable in Rome. It was the wrath of Eckhardt, the Margrave, as he marshalled his hosts to the assault. Terror-stricken the cowardly Romans scattered before the iron avalanches that swept down upon them. The scythe of the enraged mower made wide gaps in their lists and the dead and dying strewed the field in every direction. Little did Eckhardt care how many he mangled and maimed under the hoofs of his iron-shod charger. Had all Rome been but one huge funeral pyre, he would have exulted. Rome had not been kind to him and the hour of vengeance was at hand at last!

The broken clangour of the bells of Rome, the bellowing of the thunder through the valleys, the howling of the storm—and the shouts of the storming files of his Germans struck Otto's ear in fitful pauses.

For this then he had journeyed to Rome! This was to be the end of the dream!—The man he had trusted was a traitor! The woman whose kisses still burnt upon his lips had sold, betrayed him. The candle sank lower and the shadows deepened; but the tempest howled like a legion of demons over the seven-hilled city of Rome.

What caused him to raise his head after a period of brooding, Otto knew not, nor why the opposite wall with its drear flitting shadows held his gaze spellbound. To his utter discomfiture and amazement he saw the Venus panel noiselessly open, a shadow glided into the chamber and the panel closed behind it.

Ere Otto could utter a word, Stephania stood before him.

He rose and receded before her, as one would before a spectre. Hungrily, madly his eyes gazed into her pale face, despairingly. A strange fire was alight in her orbs, as once more she stood face to face with the youth, whose soul she had absorbed as the vampire the soul of his victim.

With fingers tightly interlaced she stood before him, then, as he would not speak, she said with a strange smile:

"You see,—I have come back."

He made no reply, but receded from her as some evil spirit to the farthest nook of the chamber.

For a time she seemed at a loss how to proceed; when she spoke again, there was a strange, jarring tone in her voice.

"Fear nothing!" she said, a great sadness vibrating in her speech. "I came not hither to renew old scenes. What has been is past for ever! Strange, that I had to come into your life, King Otto, or that you had to cross the line of mine,—who is to blame? You have once told me that you believe in a Force, called Fate. You have convinced me now,—even if my own suffering had not."

"How came you here?" Otto spoke, hardly above a whisper.

Stephania pointed below.

"Through the secret passage!"

Otto started.

"Mother of Christ!" he exclaimed. "Had they seen you they would have killed you."

A smile of disdain curved her lips.

"I should have welcomed the release."

"But what do you want here—and at this hour?"

"Your Saxons are storming Castel San Angelo. By a feigned attack they lured its defenders to a part of the ramparts, where no real danger threatened, but to scale the walls on their rear. Send a messenger to Eckhardt to desist. Crescentius is ready to treat for honourable terms."

If there was indeed truth in her words, the message was lost on him, to whom it was conveyed. His heart was dead to the voice of gladness, as it was dead to any added pang of misery.

"Thrice the Senator of Rome has broken his word! His fate lies with himself!" he replied with a shrug.

Stephania's pallor deepened.

She stared at Otto out of large fear-struck eyes.

"You would not give him over to your Saxons?" she spoke impulsively.

"They will take him without that!"

"Castel San Angelo has never been taken,—it shall never be taken! King Otto! Think how many of your best soldiers will be crushed and mangled in the assault,—be merciful!"

"Has Crescentius been merciful to me? I came not hither to deprive him of his own.—I have not struck at the root of his life.—He has taken from me the faith in all that is human and divine,—and through you! A noble game you have played for my soul! You have won, Stephania! But the blood of Crescentius be on his own head!"