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  The Hill of Venus

  "He stared spellbound" (_See page 108_)]

  THE HILL OF VENUS

  BY _NATHAN GALLIZIER_

  AUTHOR OF "Castel del Monte," "The Sorceress of Rome," and "The Court of Lucifer"

  PICTURES BY E. H. GARRETT

  DECORATIONS BY P. VERBURG

  L. G. PAGE & COMPANY BOSTON MDCCCCXIII

  _Copyright, 1913_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED)

  _All rights reserved_

  First Impression, March, 1913

  THE COLONIAL PRESS C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

  "_Thou art all shrouded, in a gauzy veil, Sombrous and cloudlike, all except that face Of subtle loveliness, though weirdly pale. Thy soft, slow-gliding footsteps leave no trace And stir no sound. Thy drooping hands infold Their frail white fingers, and unconscious hold A poppy-wreath: thine anodyne of grace._

  _Thy hair is like a twilight round thy head, Thine eyes are shadowed wells from Lethe-stream, With drowsy, subterranean waters fed; Obscurely deep without a stir or gleam. The gazer drinks in from them with his gaze An opiate charm, to curtain all his days, A passive languor of oblivious dream._"

  --_JAMES THOMSON._

  CONTENTS

  BOOK THE FIRST The Sacrifice

  I. The Summons II. The Pledge III. Vistas IV. Proserpina V. Waves of Destiny VI. The Broken Troth VII. The Passage

  BOOK THE SECOND The Pilgrimage

  I. The Vigil of Santa Maria Assunta II. The Passing of Conradino III. Tonsure and Thorn IV. The Call V. The Dells of Vallombrosa VI. The Duke of Spoleto VII. Rome!

  BOOK THE THIRD The Bondage

  I. The White Lady II. The Feast at the Capitol III. Quaint Wayfarers IV. The Pawn of the Church V. The Red Tower

  BOOK THE FOURTH The Passion

  I. Siren Land II. The Lady of Shadows III. An Interlude IV. The Hill of Venus V. Twilight Waters VI. The Crimson Night

  BOOK THE FIFTH The Apostacy

  I. A Legend II. Memories III. The Grail of Love IV. Dead Leaves V. The Abbey of Farfa VI. Retribution VII. The Quest VIII. The Anchoress of Narni IX. The Dawn

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  "He stared spellbound" "Ilaria had interposed herself between the two" "He caught her to him with all the old-time love" "'They lied,' he cried. 'Give me but life'"

  Book the First

  THE SACRIFICE

  The Hill of Venus

  BOOK THE FIRST

  CHAPTER I

  THE SUMMONS

  It was the time of the summer solstice in the year 1266.

  Evening was falling on the Basilicata, the shadowy, hazy twilight ofthe fading midsummer day. The pale green leaves of the olive-brancheshung limply from their boughs, but the great willows which droopedover the meandering tide of the Garigliano now and then stirred afeathery twig in response to the delicate touch of the evening breeze.The sun had entered the waters of ancient Liris for his evening bath,leaving his robes of crimson and gold draped in the western sky.

  Everything in this fabled land had grown enchanted in the sunset glow.The plane-trees drooped their leaves, as if wrapped in silent dreams.In the poppy-fields the shrill insect voices were hushed, wan presageof the coming dusk. The Liris rolled his sunset crimson gold betweenthe broken scenery of the hills, and the dark forests of the Murgiespread waving shadows over the sun-kissed Apulian plains.

  To eastward the towering promontory of Monte Gargano, with theshrines of St. Michael, patron of the Sea, rose sheer and precipitousfrom the restless element which laved its base. The milk-white Apuliantowns of Foggia, Trani and Bitonto faded into the horizon tosouthward, and the shadowy outlines of Castel del Monte, rising upon aconical hill in the remote Basilicata, terminated the view towestward.

  Out of the green dusk of forest aisles in which lost sunbeamsquivered, there rode a horseman into the shadowy silence of thedeepening twilight.

  Horse and rider alike seemed to feel the sway of the hour. Theirappearance did not so much as startle a bird, which from the boughs ofa carob-tree was languidly carolling a slumber song, that melted awayin the purple twilight without a single vibration. Rider and steeddrooped; the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant grass,into which the tired hoofs sank at every step.

  The solitary traveller seemed lost in contemplation of the scenery, ashe now and then paused in the shadow of the dwarfed plane andcarob-trees. Round their grotesquely gnarled trunks vines clung infantastic tapestries of living green, between which the path seemed towind towards strange twilight worlds. Slowly, as if under the weightof some heavy spell, the horseman continued upon the deserted road,when he was suddenly roused from his abstracted reveries by the soundof the Angelus, cleaving the stillness with echoing chimes.

  Reining in his steed with a convulsive start, which caused thestartled animal to rear and champ at the bit, he paused and lookedacross the vale. He had reached a point at which the forest descendedinto one of those deep ravines from which arise the rocks on whichmost of the monasteries of Central Italy are built. On the brow of theopposite hill, arising from a grove of cypresses and pines, the airyshafts of the cloisters of San Cataldo pierced the translucent air.The uplifted cross caught the last rays of the sun, whose misty,crimson ball was slowly sinking below the world's dark rim.

  Slowly the horseman started on the winding descent into the valleybelow, thence on the steep climb of the opposite heights, passingnumerous groups of peasants, in grotesque, gaily tinted garbs, whostood or knelt round the wayside shrine of a saint, their bronzedcountenances aglow with fervor and religious zeal. Some pilgrims,known by bearing the rosemary branch, were visible among the trees inthe background.--

  Francesco Villani was tall and of slender stature. His face possessedalmost classic regularity of features. Hair of chestnut brown,pointing to an extraction not purely Italian, clustered round the highforehead. His eyes, gazing wistfully from the well-poised head, werethe brown eyes of a dreamer.

  His age might have been reckoned at twenty-five. His appearance andbearing were those of one bred in the sphere of a court. His garbconsisted of a russet-colored tunic, fastened with a belt of embossedleather studded with gold, particolored hose, encased in leatherbuskins, and a cap with a slanting plume, the ensemble denoting a pageof some princely household.

  A shadowy wilderness encompassed the ascent to the cloisters, whosewhite walls were sharply outlined against the greenish-blue of thesky. The scene which on all sides met the youth's gaze seemed almostunreal. Laden with perfume was the air, of jessamine, of styrax, ofroses heavy in the breathless evening glow. Here and there, underdrooping branches, he passed a wooden cross, rudely carved, markingthe resting-place of some unknown pilgrim, or early martyr of thefaith. Wandering ivy wound its tendrils round the faded orhalf-effaced inscriptions, and ilex foliage drooped thickly over theMemento Mori on the roadside.

  The hour added to the beauty of the scene.

  A silver moon, hovering midway in the eastern sky, began toscintillate with trembling lustre on the dreaming world below. Anintermittent breeze now and then swayed the tops of the statelyholm-oaks, wafting the fragrance of almond-trees and oleander alongalleys bordered by yew-trees. A nightingale poured forth its plaintivesong from the shelter of branch-shadowed thickets, and from thehigh-domed chapel of the cloisters came the muffled chant of themonks, b
orne along on the wings of the evening breeze.

  At last the summit was reached.

  Francesco stopped before the massive gates of San Cataldo.

  With a quick tightening of the lips he dismounted. Then, without asecond's pause, he seized upon the rope which sounded a gong in theporter's lodge.

  "Who is it that would enter?" drawled a surly voice, quaverous withage.

  Francesco, with a twitch of the lips, grasped his horse's mane andpulled it, till the astonished creature gave forth a neigh of protest,at the same time rearing violently.

  Then, looking up, he shouted:

  "One who would see the Prior without delay."

  Forthwith, the wicket was pulled back, and the weazened countenance ofFra Lorenzo, the porter, appeared in the opening.

  "You would see the Prior," he gibbered, peering through the dusk uponthe belated caller, and adding with the loquaciousness of old age: "Ifyou are he the Prior expects, you have indeed need of haste."

  With this enigmatical speech the small window above was shut.

  A moment or two later the heavy bronze gates of San Cataldo swungslowly inward, admitting Francesco Villani and his steed. Alay-brother, who appeared at the same time from an inner court, tookcharge of the latter, while the youth followed his guide, till theystood directly in front of the great stone church, which towered, likea huge cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness. The chant ofthe monks, which had fallen on Francesco's ear as he climbed theheight, had ceased. Deep silence reigned in San Cataldo; only a dimlight, here and there, gave evidence of life within.

  Passing the door of the church, they found themselves facing thevisitor's entrance of the cloisters. Before entering, Francesco'sguide knocked sturdily at the door.

  In the shadows of the dimly lighted corridor there stood a monk, tallof stature, who seemed to await them.

  He regarded the youth with gloomy curiosity, while Fra Lorenzo, bentalmost double in self-abasement, slowly retreated.

  "You are Francesco Villani?" spoke the Prior. Yet it sounded not likea question. Nor did he extend his hands in greeting.

  "How is my father?" came the anxious reply.

  "Follow me!" said the Prior, leading the way, and as Francesco strodebehind the tall monk, of whose stern features he had caught but aglimpse in the shadow of the corridor, he was seized with a suddenunaccountable dread.

  The expression in the face of the Prior was unreadable, but there waslittle doubt he was reluctant to speak.

  They passed in silence down the refectory, then up a stone stairway,through a maze of corridors lighted dimly with stone lamps andtorches. At last he paused before the door of a chamber which theyentered, and as soon as they appeared, all those seated within aroseof one accord, while the Prior silently pointed to a bed, under asilken canopy, whereon lay a white, still form. And as with quickenedpulse, with quickened step, looking neither to right nor left, theyouth strode to the bedside and bent over the passive form recliningamong the cushions, all those present withdrew, flitting noiselesslyas phantoms from the room, perchance more out of respect for the dyingman than regard for the son.

  "My father!" Francesco whispered softly.

  Gregorio Villani, Grand Master of the Order of the KnightsHospitallers, who, in the midst of his journey from Rome to Bari, hadbeen stricken down with a deadly fever, opened his eyes. In those grayorbs the old-time fire still lingered and when he spoke, weak thoughwas his voice, the wonted ring of command still dominated.

  "Thanks, Francesco, for your quick obedience. It came sooner than Iexpected."

  "It was my desire and duty," came the response, spoken almost in awhisper, as the youth was noting each passing change in his father'sweakened face and frame.

  There was a silence of some duration between them, as if neither daredgive utterance to his thoughts and fears.

  Francesco had lifted the white, resistless hand to his lips andtenderly replaced it on the coverlet.

  "All is well now," the elder Villani spoke at last. "Refreshments willbe brought you. After that we will speak of the business of thehour,--the purpose of your presence here. As yet--I cannot!"

  The last sentence came brokenly, and with a sort of shudder. The sightof his son seemed to have unnerved the sick man. He closed his eyes asif he had been taken with a sudden sinking spell.

  One of the monks, who practised the art of medicine, hurried to thebedside with a cordial, which he hastened to administer. ThenFrancesco, seeing his father sink back into a torpor, left his sideand went to a table on which had been placed some barley bread,venison and wine.

  Of this he seemed in great need indeed, being thoroughly exhaustedfrom the long ride and the enervating emotions through which he hadpassed since receiving the fatal summons.

  Those who had been present in the chamber when he arrived, had nowre-entered. In a corner, whence they cast occasional glances at thestricken man and at the youth who was devouring his repast withnervous haste, two confessors and the monk who had administered thecordial, sat whispering together in lugubrious consultation, while theobject of their concern lay upon the heavily canopied bed, unheedfulof their talk, pallid and motionless, his eyes closed, one handclenched tightly on the coarse coverlet.

  His first hunger appeased, Francesco watched the scene as one in atrance. In his mind there was no definite thought or feeling. Allabout him there seemed to hang a haze of apprehension, vague andelusive as the candle-light. Something was to happen, he felt,something strange, dreadful, unguessed. This unaccountable dread waxedgreater until it became impossible for him to continue his repast. Hefinished his wine, then sat quite still on his wooden settle, his headbent, his fingers tightly interlaced.

  The monks thought he was muttering a prayer.

  In reality his thoughts had fled from the present hour to the memoryof the scenes he had left at the gay and pleasure-loving Court ofAvellino, scenes of a garden and balcony, where he had been wont towhisper his hopes and thoughts into the ears of a proud girl, whosefavors, so manifestly bestowed upon himself, were vainly and eagerlysought by youths of nobler birth and unquestioned parentage, when amysterious something recalled him to the reality of the moment.

  He rose mechanically and crossed to the bed whereon the sick man lay.

  The latter seemed to feel his presence and looked up.

  "Are you ready?" he asked in a whisper.

  Francesco bowed his head.

  The elder Villani raised his thin white hands.

  "I would be alone with my son," he addressed the monk sitting nearesthis couch. Rising obediently, the latter imparted the sick man's wishto the others who slowly filed out of the room.

  Wistfully his eyes followed their movements, till their steps had diedto silence in the long corridor. Then, without Francesco's aid, theelder Villani raised himself in the cushions. There seemed to be nohint of weakness in the body, racked for weeks by the ravages of thefever.

  It was the last flickering of the indomitable spirit which had withabsolute assurance carried him to the goal of his ambition. From theunknown monk he had risen step by step in the service of the ChurchMilitant, until his name resounded through the Christian and Moslemworld, more powerful than that of the Pontiff, whom only in mattersspiritual he acknowledged his superior.

  The Knights Hospitallers had long assumed the defence of the Christianworld against the ever bolder encroaching hordes of Islam; they hadconstituted themselves the guardians of the Holy Sepulchre, andGregorio Villani had not shirked the duties which the fulfillment ofhis early ambition had imposed upon him. On his way to Rome, to rousethe Pope to the proclamation of another crusade, he had stopped atAvellino in obedience to the voice of his heart, which yearned for theembrace of his own flesh and blood.

  The boy Francesco had indeed fulfilled the promise of his childhood,and the elder Villani could not but commend his own wisdom, which hadprompted him to place the youth at the Ghibelline court, disregardingthe violent protests of Urban IV, who had time and againexcommu
nicated the friends and adherents of Emperor Frederick II. Butthe irate enemy of the Swabian dynasty could ill afford to estrangefrom himself the good-will of the formidable order of St. John, andfor the time, at least, he had seemingly acquiesced.

  And his time had come.

  The reunion between father and son had been affectionate, but whenthe father suddenly hinted at certain secret desires regarding hisson's future, a cold hand seemed to come between them, which causedthe elder Villani to part with a pang from the offspring of an illicitlove. He could hardly have accounted to himself for the subtle changewhich his mind had undergone. And to such an extent did it prey on histhoughts, that he laid his heart open to the Pontiff. What transpiredat their conference, not even the elder Villani's intimate friendsever knew. But the fact remained, that he emerged from the privateaudience with the cobbler's son a changed man, resolved to leave nostone unturned to make Francesco pliable to his designs.

  But ere he reached the port of Bari, whence he was to embark for theHoly Land, he fell prey to a malignant fever, which compelled him toforego his journey and to place himself under the care of the monks ofSan Cataldo.

  Feeling his life ebbing slowly away, he had caused Francesco to besummoned to his bedside.

  He could not die in peace with the blot upon his conscience, the blotfrom the womb of a woman,--the blot called Francesco. Ever since hehad again set eyes on the youth, carefree and happy among hiscompanions, the memory of his own sin had been present with him. Thefear of punishment in the life to come increased with every day; thedread of damnation everlasting chased the slumber from his eyes, andthe man who had defied the combined forces of the Caliph, trembled atthe thought of his own last hour on earth. Vainly he had racked hisbrain for some method of atonement which would dispel the ever presentfear of being barred from his seat in the Heaven of the Blessed, whichwould assure him immunity from the lake of everlasting fire. At last,like a revelation, it dawned upon him: clearly he saw his course.There was the one way,--there was no choice. A sacrifice must be madeto save his soul, a sacrifice by one near and dear,--yet GregorioVillani had no life claims upon any one, save his son. His son!And,--as according to the Scriptures the sins of the father shall bevisited upon the children even unto the third generation and thefourth,--why, according to divine permission, might not the son berequested to take and bear the consequences of his father's sin?

  Francesco stood by his father's side, glad that the decisive momenthad come at last, trusting that his gloomy forebodings might bedispelled. Gregorio Villani was looking at him in silence, withfearful eyes and slightly parted, expectant lips. Finally, lifting hishand, the old man pointed to a wooden settle. Francesco understood,and, placing it near the bed, seated himself thereon, fixing his eyeson his father's face.

  The elder Villani found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremorin his tone, but with desperate intensity, he said:

  "Francesco--do you remember our converse at Avellino?"

  The youth nodded. He seemed to have anticipated a similar preliminary.

  "You were not born in wedlock," the old man continued.

  "So you told me," came the whispered reply.

  "It was a grievous sin!"--

  Francesco bowed his head.

  There was a brief pause, then the elder Villani continued:

  "You are my child, Francesco, the single evidence of my swerving fromthe narrow path of righteousness. For years have I tried to atone formy guilt. Yet, neither priest nor pontiff would grant meabsolution!"--

  He paused and looked searchingly into Francesco's eyes.

  The youth's face showed no expression, save that of earnest attention.Taking breath again, the old man continued:

  "My hours are numbered. As I have bedded myself, so I lie. In anotherworld I shall be judged! Judged! Francesco! Have you ever thought ofdeath?"

  "I have not," was the answer given in absent tones.

  "Nor had I, when I was at your age," returned the elder Villani,reverting to the ill-fated theme. "But I think of it now,--for I needsmust. When one stands on the threshold of eternity, face to face withhis Creator, then indeed does man begin to bethink himself. Eventhough a priest might have absolved me of my transgression, my ownconscience could not! The vows of the Church are sacred. And now, fromthe height of time, I look down through the gallery of years. Myprayers of anguish and repentance have brought no peace to my heart.Ever and ever remorse returns. Purgatory opens before my inner gazeand Hell yawns to receive my soul!"

  Again the Grand Master paused, his strength failing rapidly.

  With a strong, final effort, however, he concentrated a glance ofpowerful intensity upon Francesco's thoughtful face. The latterreturned the look with one of earnest questioning.

  "And was the sin so great?" he queried. "Others have committed worse,yet despaired not of Heaven!"

  The old man sighed. He had made his decision, passed these argumentsfrom him long ago. Now no word from any one might mitigate hisjudgment of himself. The thought that his own flesh and blood wastaking so lenient a view of the matter, irritated and annoyed him.

  "I am not Arnold of Brescia, to soothe my conscience with idlequibbles," he said after a pause. "I am your father, face to face withthe Hereafter, filled with fear for the repose of my soul. The tenetsof indulgence are not for me! One may be a saint on earth and knock invain at the gates of Heaven. What are others to me? It is I that amdying!"

  Like a tidal-wave breaking on the shore it came to Francesco in asudden flood of understanding. His father had no thought save forhimself. It was not the happiness of others he strove for, his ownwelfare his first and final goal. The ties of flesh and blood meantnothing to him, save for what he might demand of them for himself. Inhis earlier years he might have allayed suffering and fears withwords. What were words to him now?

  "What would you have me do?" queried Francesco. His voice was low andfraught with a great pity for the dying man.

  A gleam passed over the latter's face. At last he had to put thequestion. All hung upon that moment, all;--his eternal happiness anddamnation. Should he reveal his request at once, with nothing to allayits harshness?

  A sudden rush of pain decided the matter.

  "You ask me what you should do?" he replied slowly. "There is but onething to do,--there is but one choice. It is for you to live the lifein which I have failed. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to liveapart from men, alone with tomes and prayers and God,--removed fromthe temptation which caused my fall!"

  The sick man drew a short and painful breath, scarcely lower in soundthan three words spoken close by his side, spoken as with the voice ofa phantom.

  "Become a monk!"--

  The elder Villani did not stir. He reclined in the cushions, his eyesfixed upon his son with a pitiful look of pleading, which might do farmore than words, to prepare the youth's mind for such a thought.

  Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francesco moved away from the bed. Hisgaze wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused toconcentrate themselves upon anything. It was too monstrous toconceive! It was past belief, past understanding,--an ill-timed jestperhaps--but yet a jest!

  And he burst out with a laugh in which there was no thought of mirth.

  "A monk!"

  The old man regarded him anxiously.

  "I did not jest!"

  The laugh died to silence, then rose again in his throat, butFrancesco's eyes were terrible.

  "Am I fitted for a monk?" he spoke at last. "You know what my life hasbeen. Have not you placed me in the sphere of the court, even ere Ihad attained the power to think? How can I become a monk? What do Iknow of the way of monks? What do I know of their lives? I must havetime to think!"

  "There is no time," insisted the elder Villani, despair in his eyes.

  "There is no time!" Francesco exclaimed aghast.

  Then all the blood rushed to his heart.

  "You mean that I am to decide, here and now?"

  "Here and now!" came the low,
inexorable voice.

  The youth sprang from his seat.

  "Then I say no,--no,--no!" he shouted, his eyes flashing fiercedetermination from the pale face. "I am not fit to be a monk! I willnot be a monk! I am of the living,--I came for the sunlight, not theshadow of the cloister! Never--never--never!"

  A terrible, indefinable expression passed into the eyes of the sickman. It passed out again, but the trace remained.

  When he spoke again, his voice was weak, and there was a note in it ofdespair.

  "Deem you, that I have not thought of it, that I have not weighed inthe balance all your objections to the life of the cloister when Iasked this thing of you? You say you are of the court! You came forthe sunlight, not the shadow! What man does not! But you forget, thereis a force that shapes our ends,--you forget--your origin,--yourbirth! I am your father and my sin is yours! We are both impure in thesight of God! I have opened a means of salvation for both of us--theWay of the Cross. A glorious way it is, for by it my soul shall belongto you! In the sight of men you are as nothing! The blot of your birthcan never be effaced! But you are my son! Therefore, here on mydeath-bed I command you to leave this world, that you may open the wayto another,--a better one,--to both of us,--to both of us,Francesco,--to you and to me!"

  There was a long silence between them, a silence of dread andexpectation for the one,--of fear and despair for the other.

  At last Francesco raised his head.

  "And she, whom I never knew,--she who was my mother," he askedbitterly--"have you saved her soul? Or is that too left for me to do?"

  "If prayers and penances avail, and masses untold,--her soul is inHeaven! Yet--how do I know if the sacrifice availed?"

  Francesco again relapsed into silence.

  Out of the mist before his eyes there rose his own life. He saw itsshimmering past,--all the allurement for happiness it held out,--andthe dreary future decreed for him, to atone for another's sin.

  "What is required to make a monk of me?" he queried with a dead voice."What cloister am I to enter?"

  The sick man breathed quickly.

  "All these matters have I arranged. From His Holiness himself have Iletters, sanctioning the matter. You will be given the right offriar's orders that shall free you at times from the weariness andmonotony of the cloister. In all difficulties or troubles you willappeal directly to the Pontiff! These privileges are great!"

  "The Pontiff!" Francesco uttered with a start. "Pope Clement IV is themortal enemy of those to whom I have pledged my troth, to whom I oweallegiance. I am a Ghibelline!" he concluded, as if struck by a newthought. "I can never become a monk!"

  For a moment the elder Villani lay silent, as if dazed by this suddenunforeseen resistance. He forced himself to answer calmly and not tobetray his own misgivings.

  "Your reasons are mere sophistry!" he said, after a brief pause. "Hasthe party of Conradino the power to pave your way to Heaven,--to savemy soul from perdition? To insure your mother's eternal peace? Yourpath lies henceforth with the Church, from which only my ownperverseness and blindness had severed you. For you henceforth thereare no commands save those of the Holy Father! What are Guelphs andGhibellines to you in this of all homes,--when I am lying at the doorof death?"

  "They will look upon me as an ingrate, a renegade, a traitor,--and sheof all,--she--"

  He covered his face with his hands.

  "What say you?" asked his father drearily.

  "Where am I to go?" came the monotonous response.

  "You will repair to Monte Cassino, there to serve your novitiate. Yourtime is to be shortened by special dispensation. At the end of thatperiod you will be called to Rome, to enter the Chapter House of theOrder of St. John. It holds out greater honor and privileges than anyin the world. You will take your orders directly from His Holiness.The path to glory and to holiness lies open to you. Are yousatisfied?"

  A moan came from Francesco's lips.

  "My strength is failing,--your word,--to God!"

  Francesco stood beside his father's death-bed, his arms hanging limplyby his side. His damp hair clung closely to his head. His eyes weredull and unseeing.

  Like a breath of the evening wind his youth had passed from him. Hisgaze was not upon his father's face, but turned inwardly upon thegreat aching void where his happiness had been.

  When he spoke his words were low, his tone and his face alike withoutexpression.

  "In the sight of God, I promise to become a monk!"

  The old man, straining to catch the words, drank them into his soul.

  His face relaxed. A sigh passed his lips. His failing strength hadapparently returned to him.

  "You may call Fra Anselmo," he said gently. "But first, my son, kneelto receive my blessing!"

  Francesco stumbled blindly to the bedside and forced himself to kneel.He shivered, as the sick man's hot, dry hand lay upon his hair, andonly by main force he restrained himself from crying out aloud.

  Then the whispered phrase of the benediction fell meaningless upon hisear:

  "Pax tecum nunc et per omnia saecula,--Amen!"--