CHAPTER I
SIREN LAND
It was early on the following morning when Francesco saddled his steedand departed from the Red Tower. He did not trust himself to remainlonger under the same roof with the woman whose spell boded evil tosoul and body, much less to face Raniero Frangipani and to have hisworst fears and suspicions confirmed. He had spent the remainder ofthe night awake with the shadows, dazed, unable to think, beset byweird, mocking phantoms. The woman's insatiate kisses still burned onhis lips; her strange perfume still clung to the air; her passion hadseared his soul. If he remained, he was lost. The spark that hadslumbered in his soul had suddenly leaped into a consuming flame; thevoice of the body, hushed so long, began to clamor; the long restraintthreatened to break down the self-imposed barriers with its own sheerweight. A strange dizziness had seized him; everything seemed to swimin a blood-red haze. It was only by degrees that reason returned; thephantom of desire faded before the memory of Ilaria.
Almost dazed he crossed the mere, expecting every moment to hear theferryman recalled and resolved to resist to the utmost any attempt tostop his departure.
But nothing happened. An enchanted silence encompassed the castle,unbroken even by the voices of the slowly awakening dawn.
Thousand and one thoughts, desires and fears rushed throughFrancesco's brain, as he rode down into the picturesque valley, whichencompassed the feudal masonry where he had spent the night. And withthe memory of the white arms, which had held him in their closeembrace, with the memory of the thirstily parted lips, which hadwell-nigh kissed him to his doom, with the memory of the haunting eyeswhich had discoursed to him a secret he was never to know, anindescribable longing for happiness stole into his heart, a longingwhich made him utterly oblivious of time and space and caused him tospur his steed to greater haste in the desire to arrive at his goal.
Little as Francesco had mingled with the world, inexperienced as hewas in mundane matters, his instinct had not been slow to inform himthat Raniero was leading a double life, that he was deceiving Ilaria,who perchance trusted him utterly. The certainty of the indisputablefact struck him with quick pang. Was Ilaria awake to the truth? Andwhat had been the effect of the stunning revelation?
In the ban of these conflicting emotions, in which love and doubtalternately held the balance in the scales, Francesco rode towardsCirce's land.
On all sides lonely stretches of country expanded before the solitaryhorseman's eyes. With each onward step the scene changed, andFrancesco's abstracted gaze roamed far away to the distant mountainranges of the Basilicata, revealing reaches of fantastic peaks andstretching away in long aerial lines towards the sun-fraught plains ofCalabria.
Though he pushed onward with restless determination, Francesco wascompelled to devote the hours of high-noon to rest and refreshments inthis cloister or that, which he came upon during his journey. For theglare of the August sun was intense, and though the nights were cool,the roads were infested by all manner of outlaws, making progress slowand hazardous.
While at a Cistercian monastery during the siesta hours on the thirdday of his journey, the first tidings of a battle between the hosts ofAnjou and Conradino reached Francesco's ear. The armies had met atTagliacozzo in Apulia--so a peasant had informed the monks--but theoutcome of the conflict was shrouded in mystery. The monks, chieflyold men, who had long cast the vanities of the world behind them, metFrancesco's eager questionings with mute shrugs. The quarrels betweenpope and emperor meant nothing to them.
Ever southward he rode, until, breasting the moors, he saw thestrange, tumultuous magic of the Maremmas drifting into the vaguedistance of night.
The summer woods in the valleys were as a rolling sea, carved out ofebony. Hill rose beyond hill, each more dim and misty and alluring. Agreat silence held. Enchantment brooded over Terra di Lavoro.
The last day of his journey had come.
The torrid plains of Torre del Greco dreamed deserted in the glow ofthe noonday sun. The leaves of the palms and the branches of themimosa hung limp and motionless. The sky was as a burning sapphire.The glare of the sun was almost insufferable, as it fell over the aridexpanse of the Neapolitan Campagna to the pencilled line of thesouthern horizon, where a long circle divided the misty shimmeringdove-color of the Tyrrhene Sea from the pale, sun-fraught sky.
The region, as far as the eye could reach, was deserted. Almost itseemed as if the spell of a magician had banished at once all life andsound. Mala Terra the inhabitants called the stretches beyond the Capeof Circe, where, grim and impregnable upon its chalk cliffs, roseAstura, the sinister stronghold of the Frangipani, silent, bleachedagainst the background of the restless waves, which laved its base.
With a shudder Francesco skirted the dreary castello, and the name ofIlaria flew to his lips. Was it upon yonder lonely castle height shewas waiting Raniero's return; was it up yonder the thread of herdestiny was interminably spinning itself out in self-consuming,wasting monotony? Was she, who had been created for happiness, slowlypining away, remote from all she loved and held dear on earth? Or hadthe lure of the Siren land drawn her into the vortex of life and thepassions of the sun-kissed shores? Francesco shivered despite thenoonday heat, and, fondling the ears of his steed, urged it onwardover the rocky expanse.
The sun was low in the heavens when Francesco came within sight ofNaples. From Castellamare to Posilippo the graceful lines of the gulfrose on the horizon; the blue cone of Vesuvius was wreathed in smoke;Resina and Portici reposed snugly at its base. Eagerly Francesco's eyescanned the outlines of spires and domes as he rode towards the city.The surrounding hillsides were scarlet and purple, gold and bronze,and great masses of green where ilex-trees and acanthus grew. Thewine-pressers were shouting gaily. There was so much light and life inthe world, and he felt almost as if he had lost them in the shadow ofthe cloister.
Military rule, he saw, as he drew near, obtained in the place. To thechallenge of the sentry at the gate of San Gennaro he gave his name,and "From Viterbo" repeated the soldier, calling the news back overhis shoulder.
"From Viterbo!" the word passed on. Through the arched gate, Francescocould see a clustering confusion of people. There was an aspect ofreckless merriment about the crowded streets.
A tall horseman, just inside the gate, beckoned, and Francesco rodeslowly through the arch.
"From Viterbo?" repeated a big man significantly. "Well, friend, youbear no olive! Hardly the days these for the olive of peace tocirculate in Italy!"
A snicker ran through the crowd.
"But, nevertheless, we are free to perceive that you are a messenger,and all the more welcome!"
"I know not for whom you take me!" returned Francesco. "But--"
"Are you not a messenger?" interrupted the large man.
A strange audacity possessed Francesco of a sudden.
"Certainly I am a messenger," he returned fearlessly,--"but not toyour rebellious city, Messere!"
The last part of his speech was either not heard, or not heeded, forat the first there was loud applause. In the midst of the clamor,Francesco was endeavoring to make himself understood, but finding hisefforts futile, he resigned himself to silence, and was carried onwardwith the crowd, calm as the atom at the centre of a cyclone, yetnoting all the incidents of the way. He watched the streets with theirluxuriant picturesqueness, so different in appearance from the severeand heroic style of Viterbo. At last Francesco accosted the bighorseman, inquiring the direction of the palace. Thereupon the latterbecame more civil and offered to accompany the stranger in person.This innuendo Francesco thought best to decline, giving as his reasonthat he intended putting up at an inn, it being too late to see theRegent.
Having received the desired intelligence, Francesco abandoned himselffor the nonce to the charm of the hour, the magic of the place. As herode leisurely through the streets, crowds came and went from SantaMaria. Now and then the note of a mandolin was heard. All was life,mirth, happiness! How fair this city,--the city that seemed to be girtonly by
lilies! The flower-girl, nodding and smiling, distributed herviolets, embedded in geraniums. The blind beggar touched his harp; inthe distance were heard the rhythmic strains of a Barcarole.
Over the whole gulf a faint, transparent mist had arisen.
The magnolias shone white in the dying light. The soughing of the windthrough the leafy boughs sounded like the faint music of Aeolianharps.
The dying light touched the walls of houses and palaces with mellowhues, then faded away before the swift southern night. Here and theretorches gleamed; then the city grew silvery in the moonlight whichflooded the heavens.
As in a dream Francesco rode in the direction indicated by thehorseman. Again he was to enter the sphere of his former life; againhe was to move in the sphere of a court, again he was to taste thelife of the past. It was the same,--yet not the same. Then he had beenhappy, care-free, loving and beloved. Now he stood alone, looking froma frosty elevation upon the joys of life! Would the dark phantoms ofthe past vanish, here in this radiant air, under this cloudless,sun-fraught sky?
The inn, where he took lodging, was built after the manner of thethirteenth century, in a hollow square. It was of white stone, simple,harmonious, with quaint carvings and ornamentations. The Byzantinearches of the cloistered walks were its chief beauty, disclosing avista of the garden with its orange trees and grape-vines; its wavingrose bushes, which encircled the ancient fountain. A long parapet ofdusky tiles left open the beautiful view of the Bay of Naples.
After Francesco's steed had been properly cared for, after he hadrefreshed himself with a bath and had partaken of food and drink, hefelt irresistibly drawn into the vortex of gladsome humanity, whichenlivened the streets towards the Vice-regal palace.
What an enchanted land this was, contrasted with the shadowy courts ofViterbo, that hill-encircled city with her dusky shrubbery, herfunereal cypresses!
How fair were the flowery fields, the marble villas, encircling thebay! The wonderful glow of color seemed like fairyland enchantment!The gaily dressed crowds that thronged streets and piazzas, thebrilliant processions, continuing way into the night, the mass ofscarlet, blue and gold, which flashed out from under the torch-light,the music, the tumult, the laughter, the fantastic, the freedom:--herelife was indeed but a merry holiday.
The night was radiant. Sky and houses and bay were aglow with hersilver beams. Merry groups were passing to and fro. There was music,singing, happiness,--all the gentleness of a perfect night.
Francesco walked more slowly in the moonlight. Suddenly a couplepassed him: a man and a woman. The woman wore a crimson cloak, and inpassing she looked up into his face. It was only a moment's meeting;but all the color had faded from Francesco's cheeks. He looked back:they had disappeared among the throngs.
For a moment he stood still as one paralyzed. Could his eyes havedeceived him? Impossible! He could never mistake that face, nor wasthere another like it on earth! He faltered, stopped, recoveredhimself, then retraced his steps in search of the two. But his effortswere utterly in vain. As one dazed he returned to the inn. The conventbells of Santa Lucia, pealing the midnight hour, found him pacing upand down within the narrow confines of his chamber. Now and then hepaused and looked out into the night. Only when the noise andmerriment had died to silence he sought his couch, but it was long eresleep would come to him. For in the woman with the unknown cavalier,who had passed him without recognition, he had recognized IlariaCaselli.
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