The Hill of Venus

by Nathan Gallizier

  CHAPTER VI

  THE CRIMSON NIGHT

  It had been a day of driving wind and rain. The sound of the sea beatweirdly through the streets of Naples. The great street of theProvencals leading from Castel del Ovo to Castel Nuovo was coveredwith spray. Within the palace of the Regent there was singing andfeasting. Distant strains of music wandered out towards the night toFrancesco's chamber. They seemed to whisper of things that were notfor him, and he set his teeth with a smothered groan.

  Ilaria was there, and Stefano Maconi! He, the monk, had not beenbidden to the feast.

  And slowly there came to him a memory, vague and confused, of a wearywandering through endless night, torn by temptation and desire, ragingwith defiance at his fate, consumed by a fear that ran through hisveins like fire and seemed to scorch the very soul within him.Suddenly blind fury at his impotence in the face of a supreme andarrogant power invaded his being. Resist as he would, he was thebondsman of the Church!

  At last it suffered Francesco no longer in his chamber.

  Entering a dark passage, he crept past silent courts, through narrowgalleries. When he heard the sound of footsteps he dropped back intothe shadows. The music allured and repelled him, and hungry-eyed helurched forward, until he had gained a space above the great hall,whence he might catch a glimpse of the merriment below.

  The banqueting hall was a riot of color. On its columns of polishedmarble, veined in green and rose, light played in sliding gleams fromgreat lamps of wrought bronze, hung by chains around the dome andbetween the pillars. The floor of glowing mosaic was overlaid withrugs of fantastic color and with tawny skins of beasts. The walls werewide panels of mosaics, set in stucco, vivid with red and blue, greenand azure, picturing scenes of hunting and carousal. Perfumes burnedin silver jars, set on pedestals of black marble along the walls,sending forth faint spirals of smoke into the heated air. The longtable, lined on either side with men and women, was directly beneaththe dome. Looking down upon it, Francesco saw a confusion of gold andsilver dishes with the ruby glow of Samian plates, and cups gleamingamong strewn leaves and blossoms. The garments of the guests were as afringe of color about the table's edge, purple, saffron and gold,crimson, green and white.

  The central figure at the board was Ilaria. She sat between StefanoMaconi and another noble. At times her gaiety bordered on delirium,though her smiling face, proudly upheld as though she scorned to giveway before the eyes upon her, was white, but her lips were as scarletas the flowers she wore. She had changed her attire since she had lefthim. A Persian gauze, filmy as mist, enveloped her sylph-like form,surmounted by a head-dress of gold, in which two poppies flamed uponeither temple. Never had she looked more beautiful, not even at theparting-feast at Avellino, when alone she had entered the duskydining-hall and had taken her seat apart from him. Then, as now, shehad worn the red rose; the other was long wilted, forgotten perchance.The flowers she wore were of a deep, intense color, almost like bloodupon the stainless skin of her exposed throat.

  She had not even informed him of the evening's festivities. Was it tosave him pain, in not desiring his presence,--was it in order not tosubject him to the taunts and insults of the Neapolitans? Francesconoted the smile of her parted lips; he noted the vivaciousness withwhich she received the adoration of her guests. Yet, while he lookedon from the heights of his dreary solitude, could he have seenIlaria's eyes, they would have taught him different, for they neverparticipated in the smile of her lips. Something like jealousy grippedhim at last, he clenched his teeth and the scene below him swam in ablood-red mist.

  She was lost to him,--always he had known it, known the hopelessnessof his passion, all the sweeter for the bitterness that was init,--but never until then had the knowledge so come home to him. Hewould have liked to force his way in among these smirking, softcavaliers, and tear her from their midst; in his hot eyes there ragedhate and love. His thoughts maddened him. This was her life,--and whatwas his? She would leave him the prey of all the devils of jealousyand fear, which tore his breast. He groaned aloud, and dropped hisface in his hands, a strange figure of desperate longing, desperatebewilderment, rebellion and pain. He shook to the primal passions oflove and hate that tore him, love for one,--hate for all that had goneto make the conditions of his life what they must be; according to themeasure of his pain he suffered in fierce revolt against the mockingFates that were stronger than he. His place was by her side, at thefestal board,--and while another had purchased and possessed her body,her soul was his,--his,--his, for all time and all eternity. He itwas who had waked her heart from its empty sleep, he who taught itfirst to live and love,--he, her soul's lord, even as the other herbody's master,--he, the monk!

  "Will the wound in your heart heal, when I shall have gone--perhapsforever?" he muttered, "or will your love fade and die? It may bethat it shall be never quite forgotten,--that in after days a word, asong, the fragrance of a flower shall revive a dim memory. But my lovemust last,--to burn and sear.--Ah, beloved! We had no right tohappiness, you and I! But wherefore not? And who decreed it so? Longmonths have I lain in darkness, for I dreamed of the time when Ishould come to you! Now the dream has gone from me! On all the earththere is none so lonely, as I am!"--

  Again he buried his face in his hands, crouching against the wall. Themusic of unseen players rose to him like a breath from that scarcelyvanished past playing upon him; calloused body and sensitive torturedsoul, conjuring forth visions of dead golden hours, weaving its ownpoignant spell. Voices from the hall mingled with it, in talk andheedless laughter. When life was gay and careless, when wine was redand eyes were bright and faces fair,--who would pause to give thoughtto another's sorrow? And he--a monk!--

  Minutes dropped away, link by link, from the golden chain of Time. Afaint gleam of light playing on Francesco's features revealed thescarring passion in his face, signs visible of the chaos of inwardtumult which tore him, of the slow forces gathering for the inevitablebattle waged somewhere, somehow, by every human soul. And that face,haggard, with haunted shadowy eyes, looked all at once strangelypurged of the heat of its passion, for on it was the presage of thefierce, slow travail of spirit rending flesh.

  Her white purity had raised her above him; if he had wakened her soul,she had in turn given him a soul within his soul, wakening it to whatit never knew before, new dreams, new ambitions, new desires. Throughher he had seen the great world which was her world, wherein lay allfor which men long and strive. One glimpse he had; and now the gateswere closed and the light was gone and he was thrust back into outerdarkness.--

  A peal of laughter rose to him, a burst of music, a half hundredvoices shouting acclaim in response to some unheard toast. He lookeddown once more into the light and the color of the great hall, seeingone there only, out of all that brilliant throng, one fair anddrooping, with scarlet poppies framing her white face. Long and longhe looked, as though he would burn her image upon his heart and mindforever: the woman he had lost, and who had never been his.

  Suddenly he saw Ilaria start. Some one seemed to have brought amessage to her. With a smile to those seated next to her, she arosefrom the board and, hurrying across the hall, entered a dim, duskycorridor. Almost at the same moment Francesco, impelled by curiosityand misgivings, quitted his point of vantage, and, turning into thenearest passage, descended by a winding stair into the hall below. Insome way the intricate labyrinth of corridors confused his mind, andhe found himself in a circular chamber of rough blocks of stone, withtwo doors. Around the walls hung instruments of war, of torture, ofthe chase; chains with heavy balls of iron attached, a stand ofspears, another of great swords. Here were also great six-foot bows,such as the Saracen archers used, and suits of armor with shields andbreast-plates, and crested helmets of brass and iron.

  Francesco paused, listened for Ilaria's footsteps, then, failing tohear a sound, traversed the chamber on tiptoe until he came to theopposite door.

  Beyond this chamber there opened a spacious court. Blindly Francescostumbled onward, wond
ering at the silence, and wondering whatdirection Ilaria had taken, when, traversing the court, he suddenlypaused at the entrance of a dimly lighted hall.

  A single cresset burned upon the dais wall, and the fire on the groundhearth under the louvre sent up a drift of smoke into the murk above.The great space was full of shadows and of silence.

  Suddenly Francesco gave a start, as if he had seen a spectre.

  In an oaken chair by the dais sat Raniero Frangipani. The brutalexpression of his countenance seemed even enhanced by the shadowswhich played upon it, and the expression of his eyes boded little goodfor whomsoever his presence was intended. His sword lay beside him onthe table; his shield was propped against a carved mazor-bowl.Francesco felt there was mischief brewing, wondered, and held hisbreath.

  Raniero's figure seemed part of the silence and the shadows of thehall. His face was cruel and alert, and the light from the cressetplayed in red streaks upon his helmet. His attitude seemed to indicatethat he was not here by chance, and the furtive glances he cast abouthim seemed to confirm this supposition.

  What was Raniero doing here? From his point of vantage in a niche,Francesco regarded him with a puzzled air, in which there was hardly atrace of resentment of the injury he had so lately suffered at hishand. His fears were all for Ilaria, for he could no longer doubt thatRaniero had sent for her, and he was resolved to be present at themeeting.

  The Frangipani's eyes were away from Francesco, directed towards thegreen curtain that covered the dais door. For a while nothinghappened. Then Francesco heard a sound like the creaking of hinges.The curtain stirred and bulged, with the pressing against it of someone's body.

  Francesco's blood froze as, in the one who came through, he recognizedIlaria.

  He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she should cry out, andshe moved so closely by him, that he could have almost touched her,yet he feared to betray his own presence.

  Ilaria swept the hall and then came to a point where Raniero satmotionless as some huge beast, ready to spring upon its prey. Her facewas tense and watchful, her lips pressed tight, her eyes steady,though afraid.

  In the next moment she and Raniero looked at each other in silence.Raniero was the first to speak.

  "Madonna," he sneered, "I have waited for your homecoming."

  Ilaria stood by the wall. To Francesco she appeared calm andunflurried; but her knees were trembling and there was fear in hereyes.

  Ilaria made no reply to the taunting voice of her lord, and Raniero,after having waited for some time, continued:

  "You have no answer, Madonna? Shall I tell you what you alreadyknow?"--

  Ilaria regarded him out of shadowy eyes, then flashed:

  "Speak out, and save me riddles!"

  There was a suggestion of scorn in her voice. Raniero, moistening hislips, frowned.

  "For your good welcome I give you thanks," he snarled.

  "What brought you here?" she queried.

  "If it had been your beauty, Madonna--"

  With a gesture, she cut him short.

  "Your courtesy bribes me to silence!"

  "What of obedience?"

  She took a backward step.

  "To you?"

  Her voice, always low, quivered with scorn.

  "Are you not the Lady of the Frangipani?" he replied with a brutallaugh, while his eyes grew dull as treacherous water.

  "You need not remind me!"

  "Your memory will serve us both. Astura awaits you!"

  Ilaria shrank against the wall, while, with a swift movement, Ranierostepped between her and the curtain.

  "Astura!" she flashed, horror in her eyes. "Never! Never!"

  The Frangipani eyed her ominously.

  "I knew not the abode was so distasteful to you!" he said with anevil leer. "There are no recreant monks in Astura, it is true! Whoshall drink after me?" he cried with the gesture of one throwing up alibation.

  "Why are you here?" Ilaria summoned up her courage.

  "To take you back!" he hissed brutally.

  She raised her hands, as if to ward off a blow.

  "Oh, not that,--not that--"

  "No?" He took a step towards her, feasting his eyes on the greatbeauty of his wife. "By San Gennaro! I knew not how beautiful youwere!"

  Ilaria crept along the wall. He was watching her as a hawk watches itsprey. He made a sudden lurch, and missed her. She uttered a smotheredoutcry. Raniero, being sure of himself, was playing with his victim.But as he reached out his arms, she flashed a poniard in his face.With a hoarse outcry Raniero seized his sword and rushed upon her.Only the table was between them and, charging straight, the Frangipanioverturned it, as a bull might crash through a hurdle of osier twigs.The table struck Ilaria's heel, as she turned to run, and she falteredunder the flash of Raniero's upraised sword. Francesco stood still andstared. It was beyond belief that he would strike her. But strike herhe did, even though it was with the flat of the blade. She was downunder his feet, and it seemed to Francesco that he trampled upon her.

  His heart gave a great bound in him, as seizing a club, which was theonly weapon within his reach, he charged, though still weak from theeffect of his wound, into the hall.

  Raniero wheeled round, stood stock-still and stared at Francesco, asone would at a ghost. But the latter's raised club was not a matterinspiring reflection. Francesco spoke not a word, but there wassomething in his eyes that caused the other to draw a deep breath andto watch him narrowly.

  The overturned table lay between them and, close to Raniero's feet,lay Ilaria, a prone and twisted shape, one arm flung out.

  Francesco leaped the table, swung a blow, missed and swerved for hislife. The whistle of Raniero's sword went through the air a hair'sbreadth from Francesco's thigh. Francesco sprang away, while Raniero,holding high his shield, came forward step by step, crouching a littleand holding his sword with the blade sloping towards the floor.Francesco gave ground as Raniero pressed him. Instinct told him thatto strike at this moment, would bring Raniero's sword stabbing upward.The shield too was to be remembered. It was like a pent-house, rearedto break the fall of timber and stones.

  Francesco's wits were working as quickly as his feet. He cast swiftglances to right and left, but never lost his grip on Raniero's eyes.To break his guard, to close in, so steel should not count! Anoverturned bench, lying beyond the long table, caught his eyes for amoment. Francesco set his teeth and looked hard at the other,wondering whether that side glance had betrayed the move that was inhis mind.

  He turned suddenly and ran towards the dais end of the hall, where thebench lay, leaving Raniero crouching under the shelter of his shield.He heard the Frangipani roar at him, spitting out a vile epithet, ashe came charging up the hall, his eyes blazing with hate. Dropping hisclub, Francesco raised the bench above his head. It was heavy, and hisown strength hardly equal to the task, but in his frenzy he noted itnot. He saw Raniero blunder to a standstill, raise his shield andlower his head like a ram meeting the butting pate of a rival. Withall his might Francesco hurled the oaken bench at him. It struckRaniero on the crown of the helmet and sent him sprawling on theground.

  Francesco dashed for his club. Raniero, rising on one elbow, stabbedat him and missed. The club came down upon the back of his head. Hefell forward, shooting out shield and sword, and lay still. For amoment Francesco stood over him with raised club. But when he did notmove, he rushed towards the spot where Ilaria lay.

  With a moan he sprang over the table and bent over the prostrate form.

  She lay with her body twisted, one cheek pressed against the stones,her right arm under her bosom. He touched her brow, her face, herfingers. She was breathing; the transparent lids were closed, and apeaceful expression was on her face, as on that of a slumbering child.He folded her in his arms, pressed his lips upon the lips of the womanand whispered a thousand endearing epithets into her ears. As he didso, she opened her eyes.

  Bewildered, she gazed about for a moment, her eyes wandering fromFrancesco to
the apparently lifeless form on the floor of the hall.

  "Take me away!" she moaned. "Take me away! Is he dead?"

  A great awe had come into her eyes.

  "Only stunned!" replied Francesco, inquiring with great misgiving ifshe was hurt, yet preferring to let her attribute her fall to anaccident rather than to reveal the truth.

  But she shook her head, as he held it between his hands.

  "Take me away," she said with a heart-broken sob. "The hour of which Ihave so often dreamed has come. Take me to San Nicandro by the Sea."--

  With all the love he bore her, he begged her to remain, to be nearhim, not to leave him thus to darkness and despair.

  "Your river has reached the sea!" she said with a heart-broken smile."As you love me, do as I ask!"

  She felt strong enough to walk, only a slight bruise bearing witnessto the Frangipani's violence. Leaving him where he lay, they slowlyretraced their steps, when wild shouts and cries of alarm were waftedto them from above. The frenzied revellers were rushing to and fro inthe palace; from the city came the clangor of bells, and the loudblare of the wardens' horns from the gates.

  The cause was not slow revealing itself.

  An immense black cloud, palpitating with lightnings, had settled onthe cone of Vesuvius. The sky had cleared; and the moon, changed toblood-red hues, hung like a rayless sun midway in the nocturnalheavens. Suddenly the air became hot to suffocation. For a moment deepsilence reigned. Then, a sharp report as of a thunder-clap in closestproximity shook the earth. A gigantic stream of lava was belched forthfrom the smoke-wreathed mountain, the air was obscured by a rain ofmud and brimstone, which fell far and wide in Torre del Greco and wascarried to Naples. Like a thousand fiery serpents the lava coiled downthe sides of the mountain; a stench of sulphur filled the air, andgiant tongues of flame, leaping upward through the rugged crater,lighted the landscape to the remotest horizon.

  While, fascinated by the awful spectacle, Francesco and Ilaria gazedspellbound towards Vesuvius, another incident added to the terror ofthe night. Shrill and insistent from the summits of Astura blared thehorn of the warden, waking the slumbering echoes of Torre del Greco.And suddenly a fleet of many ships came steering round the Cape ofCirce, heading for the open sea; while Astura's ramparts bristled withspear points.

  Francesco turned to the nearest bystander, pointing to the castello.

  There was a great fear in the eyes of him who made reply.

  "Bribed by the Pontiff the Frangipani have delivered Conradino intothe hands of Anjou. Behold yonder--the fleet of Charles' Admiral,Robert of Lavenna, carrying the captive king and his companions totheir doom!"--

  Wide-eyed, pale as death, Francesco and Ilaria stared at each other,neither trusting themselves to speak. Then a half-smothered sob brokefrom the woman's lips, as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

  A strange calm had settled over Francesco as he gazed from Ilariatowards the ramparts of Astura.

  There was a moment's silence between them, then he raised himself tohis full height as he turned to her.

  "Hitherto I have served God! Now I will serve my own soul!"

  End of Book the Fourth.

  Book the Fifth

  THE APOSTACY