CHAPTER XI
THE BLACK MASS
The night was sultry and dismal.
Dense black clouds rolled over the Roman Campagna, burning blue inthe flashes of jagged lightnings and the low boom of distant thunderreverberated ominously among the hills and valleys of Rome, when threemen, cloaked and wearing black velvet masks, skirted the huge mediaevalwall with which Pope Leo IV had girdled the gardens of the Vatican and,passing along the fortified rampart which surrounded the Vatican Hill,plunged into the trackless midnight gloom of deep, branch-shadowedthickets.
Not a word was spoken between them. Silently they followed theirleader, whose tall, dark form was revealed to them only among the densenetwork of trees and the fantastic shapes of the underbrush, when aflash of white lightning flamed across the limitless depths of themidnight horizon.
Not a sound broke the stillness, save the menacing growl of thethunder, the intermittent soughing of the wind among the branches, orthe occasional drip-drip of dewy moisture trickling tearfully from theleaves, mingling with the dreamy, gurgling sound of the fountains,concealed among bosquets of orange and almond trees.
From time to time, as they proceeded upon their nocturnal errand, thesounds of their footsteps being swallowed up by the soft carpet ofmoss, they caught fleet glimpses of marble statues, gleaming white,like ghosts, from among the tall dark cypresses, or the shimmeringsurface of a marble-cinctured lake, mirrored in the sheen of thelightnings.
The grove they traversed assumed by degrees the character of a tropicalforest. Untrodden by human feet, it seemed as though nature, growntired of the iridescent floral beauty of the environing gardens, had,in a sudden malevolent mood, torn and blurred the fair green frondageand twisted every bud awry, till the awkward, misshapen limbs resembledthe contorted branches of wind-blown trees. Great jagged leaves coveredwith prickles and stained with blotches as of spilt poison, thick brownstems, glistening with slimy moisture and coiled up like the sleepingbodies of snakes, masses of blue and purple fungi, and blossomsseemingly of the orchid-species, some like fleshly tongues, others likethe waxen yellow fingers of a dead hand, protruded spectrally throughthe matted foliage, while all manner of strange overpowering odorsincreased the swooning oppressiveness of the sultry, languorous air.
Arrived at a clearing they paused.
In the distance the Basilica of Constantine was sunk in deep repose.All about them was the pagan world. Goat-footed Pan seemed to peerthrough the interstices of the branches. The fountains crooned in theirmarble basins. Centaurs and Bacchantes disported themselves among theflowering shrubs and, dark against the darker background of the night,the vast ramparts of Leo IV seemed to shut out light and life together.
The Prefect of the Camera turned to his companions, after peeringcautiously into the thickets.
"We must wait for the guards," he said in a whisper. "It were perilousto proceed farther without them."
Tristan's hand tightened upon his sword-hilt. There were tears inhis eyes when he thought of Hellayne and all that was at stake, theoverthrow of the enemies of Christ. He had, in a manner, conquered theterrible fear that had palsied heart and soul as they had started outafter nightfall. Now, taking his position as he found it, since he feltthat his fate was ruled by some unseen force which he might not resist,he was upheld by a staunch resolution to do his part in the workassigned to him and thereby to merit forgiveness and absolution.
Notwithstanding the enforced calm that filled his soul, there weremoments when, assailed by a terrible dread, lest he might be too lateto prevent the unspeakable crime, his energies were almost paralyzed.Silent as a ghost he had traversed the grove by the side of his equallysilent companions, more intent upon his quarry than the patient,velvet-footed puma that follows in the high branches of the trees theunsuspecting traveller below.
Was it his imagination, was it the beating of his own heart in thesilence that preceded the breaking of the storm; or did he indeed hearthe dull throbbing of the drums that heralded the approach of thecrimson banners of Satan?
The wind increased with every moment. The thunder growled ever nearer.The heavens were one sheet of flame. The trees began to bend their topsto the voice of the hurricane. The air was hot as if blown from thedepths of the desert. As the uproar of the elements increased, strangesounds seemed to mingle with the voices of the storm. Black shadowsas of dancing witches darkened the clearing, spread and wheeled,interlaced and disentwined. In endless thousands they seemed to fly,like the withered and perishing leaves of autumn.
Involuntarily Tristan grasped the arm of the Monk of Cluny.
"Are these real shapes--or do my eyes play me false?" he faltered, anexpression of terror on his countenance, such as no consideration ofearthly danger could have evoked.
"To-night, my son, we are invincible," replied the monk. "Trust in theCrucified Christ!"
Across the plaisaunce, washed white by the sheen of the lightnings,there was a stir as of an approaching forest. Tristan watched as in thethroes of a dream.
A few moments later the little band was joined by the newcomers,masked, garbed in sombre black and heavily armed, three-scoreSpaniards, trusted above their companions for their loyalty andallegiance to Holy Church. Among them Tristan recognized theCardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna, the Bishop of Orvieto and the Prefectof Rome.
Odo of Cluny noted Tristan's shrinking at the sight of the two men whohad been present when the terrible accusation had been hurled againsthim on that fatal morning--the accusation in the Lateran, which hadlaunched him in the dungeons of Castel San Angelo.
He comforted the trembling youth.
"They know now that the charge was false," he said. "To-night we shallconquer. We shall set our foot upon Satan's neck."
Withdrawing under the shelter of the trees, regardless of theincreasing fury of the storm, the leaders held whispered consultation.
Before them, set in the massive wall, appeared a door not more thanfive feet high, studded with large nails.
The Prefect of Rome bent forward and inserted a gleaming piece of steelin the keyhole. After a wrench or two, which convinced the onlookersthat the door had been long in disuse, it swung inward with a groan.The Prefect, with a muttered imprecation, beckoned his followers toenter, and when they were assembled in what appeared to be a courtyard,he took pains to close the door himself, to avoid the least noise thatmight reach the ear of those within the enclosure.
At the far end of this courtyard a shadowy pavilion arose, culledfrom the Stygian gloom by the sheen of the lightnings. It seemedto have been erected in remote antiquity. A circular structure ofconsiderable extent, its ruinous exterior revealed traces of Etruscanarchitecture. No one dared set foot in it, for it was rumored to bethe abode of evil spirits. Its interior was reported to be a networkof intricate galleries, leading into subterranean chambers, secret andsecluded places into which human foot never strayed, for, not unlikethe catacombs, it was well-nigh impossible to find the exit from itslabyrinthine passages without the saving thread of Ariadne.
At a signal from the Prefect of the Camera all stopped. Heavy drops ofrain were falling. The hurricane increased in fury.
It was a weird scene and one the memory of which lingered long afterthat eventful night with Tristan.
Black cypresses and holm-oaks formed a dense wall around the pavilionon two sides. In the distance the white limbs of some pagan statuescould be seen gleaming through the dark foliage. And, as from asubterranean cavern, a distant droning chant struck the ear now andthen with fateful import.
Now the Prefect of Rome threw off his cloak. The others did likewise.Their masks they retained.
"There is a secret entrance, unknown even to these spawns of hell,behind the pavilion," he addressed his companions in a subdued tone,hardly audible in the shrieking of the storm. "It is concealed amongtall weeds and has long been in disuse. The door is almost invisibleand they think themselves safe in the performance of their iniquitiesbelow."
"How can we reach this pit
of hell?" Tristan, quivering withill-repressed excitement interposed at this juncture. He could hardlyrestrain himself. On every moment hung the life of the being dearerto him than all the world, and he chafed under the restraint like arestive steed. If they should be too late, even now!
But the Prefect retained his calm demeanor knowing what was at stake.It was not enough to locate the chapel of Satan. Those participating inthe unholy rites must not be given the chance to escape. They must betaken, dead or alive, to the last man.
"We have with us one who is familiar with every nook in the city ofRome," the Prefect turned to the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna. "Longhave we suspected that all is not well in the deserted pavilion. Butthough we watched by day and by night nothing seemed to reward ourefforts, until one stormy night a dreadful shape with the face of adevil came forth, and the sight so paralyzed those who watched fromafar that they fled in dismay, believing it was the Evil One in personwho had come forth from the bowels of the earth. From yonder door adark corridor leads to a shaft whence it winds in a slight incline intothe devil's chapel below. The latter is so situated that we can watchthese outcasts at their devotions, unseen, our presence unguessed. Thisway! Let silence be the password. Keep in touch with each other, forthe darkness is as that of the grave."
A flash of lightning that seemed to rend the very heavens envelopedthem for a moment in its sulphureous glare, followed by a crash ofthunder that shook the very earth. The hurricane shrieked, and the raincame down in torrents.
They had advanced to the very edge of the underbrush, stumbling overthe heads and torsos of broken statues that lay among parasiticherbage. Monstrous decaying leaves curled upward, leprous in thelightnings. A poison mist seemed to hover over this lonely and desertedpleasure-house of ancient Pelasgian days.
Skirting the haunted pavilion, unmindful of the onslaught of theelements, they took a path so narrow that they could but advance insingle file. This path had been cut and beaten by the Prefect's guards,for the weeds and underbrush luxuriated, until they mounted some tenfeet against the walls of the pavilion.
They had now reached the back wall and proceeded in utter darknessbroken only by the flashes of lightning. They passed through ahalf-ruined archway and at last came to a halt, prompted by those infront, whose progress had been stopped by, what the others guessedto be, the door. They had to work warily, to keep it from fallinginward. At last the movement continued and they entered the night-wraptcorridor.
Tristan had taken his station directly behind the Prefect of Rome. Theecclesiastics, for their own protection, had been assigned the rear.
By the sheen of lightnings a pile of brushwood was revealed to thesight, which the Prefect, in a low tone, ordered to be cleared away,whereupon a circular opening appeared, like the entrance of a well.
The Prefect summoned the leaders around him.
For a moment they stood in silence and listened.
Between the peals of the thunder which rolled in terrifying echoes overthe Seven Hills, the trained ear could distinguish a strange, droningsound that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.
"Even now the Black Mass is commencing," he turned to Tristan. "We arebut just in time."
After a pause he continued:
"We must proceed in darkness. The faintest glimmer might betray ourpresence. I shall lead the way. Let each follow warily. Let each be intouch with the other. Let all stop when I stop. We shall arrive in acircular gallery, whence we may all witness the abomination below. Fromthis gallery several flights of winding stairs lead into the devil'schapel. Let us descend in silence. When you hear the signal--down thequick descent and--upon them!"
One by one they disappeared in the dark aperture. Their feet touchedground while they still supported themselves on their arms. They foundthemselves in a subterranean chamber, in impenetrable darkness, whosehot, damp murk almost suffocated the intruders.
Slowly, with infinite caution, in infinite silence, they proceeded.Every man stretched his hand before him to touch a companion.
The passage began to slant, yet the incline was gradual. Their feettouched soft earth which swallowed the sound of their steps. There wasneither echo nor vibration, only murky silence and the night of thegrave.
A low, droning sound, infinitely remote, a sound not unlike that ofswarming bees heard at a great distance, was now wafted to their ears.
A shudder ran through that long chain of living men, who were carryingthe Cross into the very abyss of Hell.
For they knew they were listening to the infernal choir, they wereapproaching the hidden chapel of Satan. The chant began to swell. Stillthey continued upon their descent.
The imprisoned air became hotter and murkier, almost suffocating in itsmiasmatic waves that assailed the senses and seemed to weigh like leadupon the brain.
Now the tunnel turned sharply at right angles and after proceedingsome twenty or thirty paces in Stygian darkness, a faint crimson glowbegan suddenly to drive the nocturnal gloom before it, and they emergedin a gallery, terminating in a number of dark archways, from whichnarrow winding stairs led into the hall below. Small round apertures,resembling port-holes, permitted a glimpse into the chapel of Satan,and a weird, droning chant was rising rhythmically from the night-wraptdepths of the pavilion.
Following the example of the leader, they stole on tiptoe to theunglazed port-holes and gazed below, and eager, yet trembling, with theanticipation of the dread mysteries they were about to witness.
At first they could not see anything distinctly, owing to the crimsonmist that seemed to come rolling into the chapel as from some furnaceand their eyes, after having been long in the darkness, refused tofocus themselves. But, by degrees, the scene became more distinct.
In the circular chapel below dim figures, robed in crimson, moved toand fro, bearing aloft perfumed cressets on metal poles, and in itsflickering light an altar became visible, hung with crimson, the summitof which was lost in the gloom overhead. Here and there indistinctshapes were stretched in hideous contortions on the pavement, and asothers drew nigh, these rose and, throwing back their heads, made thevault re-echo with deep-chested roaring.
Suddenly the metal bound gates of a low arched doorway, faintlydiscernible in the uncertain light, seemed to be unclosing with a slowand majestic movement, letting loose a flood of light in which theghostly faces of the worshippers leapt into sudden clearness, men andwomen, all seemingly belonging to the highest ranks of society. Thecrimson garbs of the officiating priests showed like huge stains ofblood against the dark-veined marble.
Tristan gazed with the rest, stark with terror. The blood seemed tofreeze in his veins as his eyes swept the circular vault and rested atthe shrine's farther end, where branching candlesticks flanked each thefoot of two short flights of stairs that led up to the summit of thegreat altar, garnished at the corner with hideous masks, and sending upfrom time to time eddies of smoke, through the reek of which some twoscore of men watched the ceremony from above.
Dim shapes passed to and fro. The droning chant continued. At lengtha shapeless form evolved itself from the crimson mist, approached thealtar and cast something upon it. Instantly a blaze of light floodedthe shrine, and in its radiance a weazened, bat-like creature wasrevealed, garbed in the fantastic imitation of a priest's robes.
Approaching the infernal altar, upon which lay obscene symbols ofhorror, he mounted the steps and his figure melted into the gloom.
With the cold sweat streaming from his brow, with a shudder that almostturned him dizzy, Tristan recognized Bessarion. The High Priest ofSatan sat upon the Devil's altar. There was stir and movement in thechapel. Then a deep silence supervened.
Petrifaction fell upon the assembly. All voices were hushed, allmovement arrested. From the black throne, surrounded by terror, wheresat the great Unknown, came a dull hoarse roar, like the roar of anearthquake.
The words were unintelligible to the champions of the Cross. They wereanswered by the Sorcerer's Confession, the hideous, terribl
e contortionof the Credo, and then Tristan's ears were assailed by the sounds hehad heard on that fatal night, ere he lost consciousness, and again inthe Catacombs of St. Calixtus, sounds meaningless in themselves, butfraught with terrible import to him now!
"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! Emen Hetan!"--
Pandemonium broke loose.
"Agora! Agora! Patrisa! Agora!"
There was screeching of pipes, made of dead men's bones. A drumstretched with the skin of the hanged was beaten with the tail of awolf. Like leaves in a howling storm the fantastic red robed formswhirled about, from left to right, from right to left. And in theirmidst, immobile and terrible, sat the Hircus Nocturnus, enthroned uponthe shrine.
When at last they stopped, panting, exhausted, the same voice,deafening as an earthquake, roared:
"Bring hither the bride--the stainless dove!"
A chorus of hideous laughter, a swelling, bleating cacophony ofexecration, so furious and real that it froze the listeners' blood,answered the summons.
Then, from an arch in the apse of the infernal chapel, came fourchanting figures, hideously masked and draped in crimson.
With slow, measured steps they approached. The arch was black again.Deep silence supervened.
Now into the centre came two figures.
One was that of a man robed in doublet and hose of flaming scarlet. Thefigure he supported was that of a woman, though she seemed a corpsereturned to earth.
A long white robe covered her from head to toe, like the winding sheetof death. Her eyes were bound with a white cloth. She seemed unable towalk, and was being urged forward, step by step, by the scarlet man ather side.
Again pandemonium reigned, heightened by the crashing peals of thethunder that rolled in the heavens overhead.
"Emen Hetan! Emen Hetan! Palu! Baalberi! Emen Hetan!"
The bleating of goats, the shrieks of the tortured damned, the howlingof devils in the nethermost pit of Hell, delirious laughter, gibes andexecrations mingled in a deafening chorus, which was followed by a deadsilence, as anew the voice of the Unseen roared through the vault:
"Bring hither the bride, the stainless dove!"
There was a tramp of mailed feet.
Like a human whirlwind it came roaring down the winding stairs, throughthe vomitories into the vault. The rattling of weapons, shouts of rage,horror and dismay mingled, resounding from the vaulted roof, beatenback from the marble walls.
With drawn sword Tristan, well in advance of his companions, leapedinto the chapel of Satan. When the identity of the staggering whiteform beside the scarlet man had been revealed to him, no power inheaven or earth could have restrained him. Without awaiting the signalhe bounded with a choking outcry down the shaft.
But, when he reached the floor of the chapel, he recoiled as if theEvil One had arisen from the floor before him, barring his advance.
Before him stood Theodora.
She wore a scarlet robe, fastened at the throat with a clasp of rubies,representing the heads of serpents. Her wonderful white arms were bare,her hands were clenched as if she were about to fly at the throat of ahated rival and a preternatural lustre shone in her eyes.
"You!"
Tristan's words died in the utterance as he surveyed her for the spaceof a moment with a glance so full of horror and disdain that she knewshe had lost.
"Yes--it is I," she replied, hardly above a whisper, hot flush anddeadly pallor alternating in her beautiful face, terrible in its setcalm. "And--though I may not possess you--that other shall not! See!"
Maddened beyond all human endurance at the sight that met his eyesTristan hurled Theodora aside as she attempted to bar his way, as ifshe had been a toy. Rushing straight through the press towards thespot, where the scarlet man, his arms still about the drooping form ofHellayne, had stopped in dismay at the sudden inrush of the guards,Tristan pierced the Grand Chamberlain through and through. Almostdragging the woman with him he fell beside the devil's altar. His headstruck the flagstones and he lay still.
The Prefect himself dashed up the steps of the ebony shrine and hurledthe High Priest of Satan on the flagstones below. Bessarion's neck wasbroken and, with the squeak of a bat, his black soul went out.
While the guards, giving no quarter, were mowing down all those ofthe devil's congregation who did not seek salvation in flight orconcealment, Tristan caught the swooning form of Hellayne in his arms,calling her name in despairing accents, as he stroked the silken hairback from the white clammy brow. She was breathing, but her eyes wereclosed.
Then he summoned two men-at-arms to his side, and between them theycarried her to the world of light above.
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