The Hill of Venus Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE PLEDGE

  In the antechamber of the elder Villani's sick-room, during the talkbetween father and son, the monks had quietly waited the terminationof the interview. The Prior sat alone on a settle in a corner, histonsured head bent so low that his face was unreadable, while withnervous fingers he stroked the cloth of his brown robe. One of themonks was engaged in expounding some dogma to his companions whoobviously paid little heed to his words. A strange friar, who had onthe previous night arrived from Rome, sat with the confessor of SanCataldo, but neither of them spoke. They, too, seemed to be listeningfor the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The two mediciners, moreat ease, sat murmuring professionally between themselves, careless ofthe mental unrest of their colleagues of the soul. None in the room,save the strange friar, knew what the elder Villani was saying to hisson, but there were few even among these world-strange men who had notguessed the truth long ago.

  The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the quaint stone lampswavered and flickered restlessly in their sconces, while the unevenlight from the cresset-lantern, hung in the centre of the chamber,cast distorted shadows over floor and ceiling. To all present the waitwas tedious. To the strange friar whose eyes roamed ever again towardsthe sick-chamber, it seemed interminable, and ever and anon the monkat his side leaned uneasily towards him. "Gregorio Villani will findthe task no easy one. He had better left it to one of us!"

  Nevertheless, when their wait was ended, and the leather hangings ofthe door were raised by a white hand, all in the room were startled,and gazed alert with wondering eyes, and lips on which the words haddied.

  It was a strange apparition that entered. For a moment each was awareof a slender figure which seemed to sway even as it grasped thecurtain, of a face ghastly white, framed in a wealth of dishevelledhair, of a voice whose sound seemed but the hoarse whisper of a ghost,as he staggered towards the strange friar.

  "My father desires your presence."

  The monk arose quickly, glancing furtively at the face of the youth,then exchanging a swift glance with the Prior. At the same time one ofthe mediciners started up.

  With an unspoken "Not yet!" the Prior waved him back, and Francescofollowed the strange friar from the room.

  A swift repugnance against his companion, seemingly born of themoment, filled the youth, as side by side they traversed the shortpassage-way. At the door of the sick-room, which they were about toenter, the monk suddenly paused and turned.

  "You have consented?" he whispered.

  Francesco's lips formed an answer, barely audible, but which the monkat his side caught at once.

  Something akin to a look of involuntary admiration stole over his faceand something akin to a gleam of pity flickered in his eyes. Theadmiration was for the mental powers of the elder Villani, which, itseemed, not even approaching Death could vanquish. The fleeting pitywas for the son. But not unmingled with both was a look of triumph forhimself.

  On entering the sick-room the monk stepped at once to the side of thedying man. Gregorio Villani's cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyeswere brilliant, but his voice was weaker than it had been.

  "Francesco has granted my last wish," he said, looking searchinglyinto the friar's face. "Have you the briefs that are required for hisgoing?"

  The friar produced a bundle from his cassock, which he placed on thebed. Gregorio Villani took up the first scroll.

  "To this one, containing the pledge, Francesco shall put his name," hesaid, with a glance at his son. "The second is a letter from my ownhand, to the monastery and chapter, which His Holiness has decreed forhim. The third is the special dispensation, granting friar's order toFrancesco. Treasure it well, my son, for it will prove the greatestboon of your life! And now, in presence of this witness, you shallsign your pledge to me and to the Church!"

  He looked imploringly at the youth, who stood by with pale face andeyes from which every gleam of gladness had faded. When Francesco madeno reply, the strange monk stepped to a table on which there werescattered sundry writing utensils, and dipping a pen in a compositionserving as ink, brought it to Francesco.

  The latter stared for a moment from the friar to his father, his eyesablaze. Then he reached out, snatched the pen from the monk's hand anddashed it on the floor.

  "Does not my word suffice?" he spoke hoarsely, catching at his throatlike a drowning man.

  "The flesh is weak and temptation ever near,"--the strange friar spokein the elder Villani's stead, as he picked up the pen with a sidelongglance at the sick man. There was to be no hesitation, no waveringnow. The moment lost might never again return!

  "You must sign the pledge," the sick man, turning to his son,interposed tremulously. His own misgivings ran apace with those of thestrange monk.

  Snatching the pen from the latter's hand, Francesco bent over thescroll and scratched his name barbarously under the pledge. Then, fromhis nerveless fingers, it dropped anew upon the floor.

  The older man, who had been watching him narrowly, heaved a sigh ofrelief.

  "You have assured my eternal salvation and your own," he said in aweak, toneless voice. "Retire now, my son, that this holy friar and Imay arrange the details of your going."

  A hot flush suffused Francesco's face as he straightened himself tohis full height.

  "Of my going?" he said slowly. "Surely I am not yet to go! Am I not towait at least until--"

  "My death?" finished the elder Villani, looking at him with piercingintentness. "You shall not have to wait long. I shall never see thelight of another day!"

  Francesco struggled to suppress a moan which rose to his lips. Then hecovered his face with both hands. His nerves were giving way. Furtherresistance was impossible. Mentally and physically worn, he wasencountering a will, pitiless, uncompromising. He felt furtherargument to be useless. And the strange friar, noting his condition,knew that the victory was theirs.

  He placed a scroll in the elder Villani's hands.

  "The absolution from His Holiness," he said, with a low, solemn voice,intended, nevertheless, to be heard by Francesco. "The conditions arefulfilled."

  Francesco glanced from one to the other: he understood.

  He had been sold; his youth, his life bartered away, like the life ofa slave.

  Fearing an outburst, the elder Villani turned to his son.

  "You had best retire and seek your rest, Francesco," he said in avoice strangely mingled with concern and dread. "Fra Girolamo and Iwill arrange these matters between us. Leave us in good faith. Youwill depart on the morrow! I wish I knew you safe in the cloister evennow! Go, my son,--and peace be with you!"--

  Francesco turned silently to leave the room. Presently something, aquiver of feeling, stopped him. He hesitated for a moment, then hereturned to the bedside, bending over it and gazing sadly into hisfather's face.

  "I shall see you again in the morning?" he asked gently.

  "By the will of God," the sick man replied with feeble voice.

  His head had sunk upon his breast. Francesco crossed the room and wasgone. A moment after they heard a loud, jarring laugh without. Thenall was still.

  The elder Villani and the monk exchanged looks in silence. For sometime neither spoke. When the silence was broken at last, it was in away which revealed the close touch between the minds of these two.

  "Was the struggle great?" questioned the monk.

  "Great as the sacrifice demanded," replied the sick man. "And yet, notas fierce as I had apprehended. Francesco is my own flesh and blood!Ah! At times my heart reproaches me for what I have done!"

  "A weakness you will overcome! In giving back to the Church the boywho was in a fair way to become her enemy, who had been reared in thecamp of her mortal foes, who had been fed on the milk of heresy andapostasy, you have but done your duty. He will soon have forgottenthat other life, which would have consigned him to tortures eternal,and will gladly accept what is required of him for the repose of yoursoul and his own!"

  There was a
brief pause, during which the elder Villani seemed tocollect his waning energies. The monk's speech had roused in him aspirit of resistance, of defiance. Who were they that would disposeof the life of his own flesh and blood? It was too late, to undo whathe had done. But it should not pass without a protest.

  "Monk, you know not whereof you speak," the sick man said hoarsely."The rioting blood of youth cannot suddenly be stemmed in the veins,and congealed to ice at the command of a priest! I too was young andhappy once,--long ago, and how happy! God who knows of mytransgression, alone knows! I have paid the penalty with my own fleshand blood. Tell His Holiness, he may be satisfied!"

  "His Holiness could demand no less," interposed the monk. "Your sinwas mortal: you added to it by placing the offspring of a forbiddenlove at the court of the arch-heretic, thrice under ban ofexcommunication."

  "That was my real sin,--that other would have been forgiven," repliedthe elder Villani bitterly, as if musing aloud. "Let those who areundefiled, cast the first stone. How beautiful she was,--how heavenlysweet! And with dying breath, as if the impending dissolution of thebody had imbued her with the faculty to look into the future, shepiteously begged me, as if she apprehended my weakness after herspirit had fled:--'Do not make a monk of my boy!'"

  He paused with a sob, then he continued:

  "Will the repose of my soul, which I have purchased with thisimmeasurable sacrifice, insure her own in the great beyond? What willshe say to me, when we meet in the realm of shadows, when the plaintof her child is wafted to her in the fumes of the incense, while histrembling hands swing the censer and he curses the day when he saw thelight of life?"

  "She will rather bless you, knowing from what temptations of the fleshyou have removed him," replied the monk, peering anxiously from hiscowl down to where the sick man lay.

  This, at least, must be no enforced sacrifice. Gregorio Villani muststand acknowledged to himself and the world for the greater glory ofthe Church. He, the one time friend of Frederick, the Emperor, bywhose side he had entered the gates of Antioch in the face of thefierce defence of the Saracens, he, the Ghibelline Emperor's righthand in the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, must now and forever severhis cause from that of the arch-enemy of papacy, and die in the foldof the Church.

  The monk had calculated on the sick man's waning strength, and theebbing tide of life proved his mightiest ally.

  The stricken man lay still for a time, then he heaved a sigh.

  "God grant that your words be true,--that I have not cast him in theway of temptation instead."

  Raising himself with difficulty upon his pillows, he glancedsignificantly at the envoy from Rome. Then, with voice needlesslyhushed, for there was no one present to hear him, he added:

  "He must depart at once! He must not return to Avellino!"

  The monk pondered a while, then shook his head.

  "It were hardly wise. Francesco has signed the pledge and will notbreak his oath. He must himself inform the Apulian court of hisdecision, of his choice."

  And inwardly he thought: Thus only will the sacrifice be complete andthe triumph of the Church!

  "Might he not inform them from wherever he goes?"

  There was a strange dread in the elder Villani's eyes, which remainednot unobserved by the other.

  "You would not have Francesco, flesh of your flesh, blood of yourblood, appear a coward who fears to proclaim his own free will?"

  The monk laid stress on the last words.

  The elder Villani was startled. Yet he understood.

  "His own free will," he repeated as in a dream. "The boy is proud. Hewill never proclaim his father's shame!"

  The monk smiled,--a subtle, inward smile.

  Francesco's extraction was an open secret, though no one had everalluded to it in his presence. Yet the Pope's delegate judged theyouth correctly. Besides, the elder Villani's suggestion would haveupset his own and his master's plans. The Church could be whollytriumphant only if Francesco openly denounced the friends, the lovesof his boyhood, his youth. A stealthy flight from the court to thecloister would scarcely have added to the glory of those who hadbrought about the deed.

  A sinking spell had seized the sick man and the monk hastened to callin the attendant mediciners. But the cordial they administered withsome difficulty only had the effect of producing more regularbreathing.

  Gregorio Villani's prophetic words were to be fulfilled.

  Francesco meanwhile lay in the guest-chamber, which had been preparedfor him. His brain rebelled against further labor and his head hadscarcely found its welcome resting-place ere the darkly fringedeyelids drooped heavily, and he slept. Through the remaining hours ofthe night he lay wrapped in a slumber resembling that of death. Onlyonce or twice he moaned, tossing restlessly on his pillows. The raysof the morning sun, creeping up to his eyes, held in them a drowsydream of a girl's fair face. The dream brought no awakening, and thesun was high in the heavens, when a hand, cold and thin, was laid uponhis white one, which lay listlessly above his head. Instantly hestarted up, ready to resent the intrusion, when he met the gaze of twosombre eyes, peering down upon him, which recalled him to the placeand hour.

  Before him stood the shrunken form of Fra Girolamo.

  With a deep sigh, he returned to reality.

  "How fares my father?" he asked quickly, his memory stirred by thesombre eyes that met his own.

  "Requiescat in pace!" said the monk with bowed head.

  Francesco sank back upon his cushions and hid his face in his arms.The monk heard him sob and, for a moment, his frame seemed to shake aswith convulsions. At last he raised himself with an effort.

  "Conduct me to him!" he then said to the friar, who preceded him insilence to the death-chamber.

  The rays of the morning sun shone upon the face of Gregorio Villaniand imbued the features with a look of peace such as the living hadnot worn for many a day. The monks had placed his body on a bier, oneach side of which two tall wax tapers burned in their sconces.

  Francesco knelt down by the side of the bier, burying his head in hishands, while the monk retreated into a remote corner of the room.

  When he rose at last, the watcher saw all the young life go out of hisface, which suddenly grew old and cold. Light and color seemedsimultaneously to depart from eyes and lips, and his limbs seemedhardly able to sustain him upright. After a pause he dared not break,for dread of revealing his sudden feeling, the youth's lifeless voicewas raised in the dreary monotone of questioning.

  "When will they take him away?"

  The monk came nearer.

  "He will be laid to rest at night-fall under the great altar of theCathedral."

  A silence fell between them.

  Again Francesco spoke.

  "The dial points to something like noon?"

  The monk nodded.

  "When will you ride?"

  "At night-fall."

  "It is well. You will return to Avellino, that you may bid farewell toyour former master and friends. Thence you will proceed to MonteCassino."

  "To Monte Cassino," the youth echoed with a voice dead as his soul.

  Then he added:

  "I ride alone?"

  "Alone!"

  "Leave me now! I would spend the last hours here with him!"

  "Will you not come to the refectory? You are in need of food, and theday is long!"

  Francesco raised his hands as if in abhorrence of the thought. Then,as he turned towards the bier, he seemed newly overwhelmed at thesight of the lifeless clay before him. The memory of his father'sfirst appearance, as he entered the sick-chamber, the ashen pallor,the traces of cruel pain, now softened or effaced by the majesty ofDeath, reverted to him.

  He sank down beside the bier.

  But try as he might, he could not pray.

  Thus the monk left him.--

  On that evening, in the presence of the entire chapter of theCathedral and the monks of San Cataldo, they laid to rest under thegreat altar of the imposing edifice all that was m
ortal of GregorioVillani, Grand Master of the Knights of St. John.

  And on that evening the strange friar, who had brought to the dyingman the much craved conditional absolution, departed after a finalinterview with Francesco, who was to return at once to Avellino toprepare himself for the new life which had been decreed for him.