Perpetua's heart grew cold at this proof of renewed madness, and she caught him by the arm. "Do not abandon me," she entreated.

Robert shook her off in his eagerness to greet Hildebrand. "No, no, have no fear—" he promised, hurriedly, pressing forward towards the entrance. The hangings parted and Hildebrand entered, exquisite, debonair, radiant.

"Salutations, sweet lady," he said, gayly, advancing towards her, but his advance was interrupted by Robert, who rushed forward, exclaiming: "Hildebrand! Hildebrand! do you not know me? Do you not know my voice?"

Hildebrand frowned resentfully on the intruder. "Why are you here, fool!" he grumbled. "Your head and your hump are like to part company."

Robert gave a great groan and turned away. His last hope had withered. The spell under which he suffered was too potent for his dearest friend to resist; even the eye of comradeship could not pierce through that fleshly mask; even the ear of affection could not discern a familiar voice. Perpetua stood where she was, full of dread at this untimely interruption. Lycabetta tapped her forehead mockingly as she looked from Diogenes to Hildebrand.

"The crazy zany thinks he is the King," she said.

Hildebrand nodded. "He mimicked the King so pertly yesterday morn that the King doomed him, and fear has so addled his weak wits that he believes himself to be his master."

"Yet he is a cunning rogue," Lycabetta added, "for he has won the heart of the woodchuck."

Hildebrand caught at her words. "I came on that business. Have you obeyed the King?"

"Bravely," Lycabetta replied. "I flung her to this fool for a marriage morsel, knowing him to be as cruel as he is crooked, and, by our Lady of Lesbos, he has bewitched her, and she follows his songs like a lamb to the sacrifice."

At the sound of her words, Robert roused himself from his lethargy. "Ay, ay," he chirped, "you shall see. She will follow where I call. Come, sweetheart, come!"

Again he began to move, and again he was followed by Perpetua. Now, for the first time, Hildebrand caught sight of her and moved forward, captured by her loveliness.

"Is this the King's fancy?" he asked.

Lycabetta answered: "This is the girl the King sent me to tame and shame for him. Could I do it better than by giving her to this limping devil?"

Hildebrand struck his hands loudly together in protest. "Ay, by the gods, much better. She is far too fair for the first sweetness of her youth to be wasted on a clumsy clown. We are ourselves indifferent good at this taming and the rest, and, like a loyal subject, I will gladly serve the King in this." He advanced towards Perpetua, but Robert instantly came between them.

"The girl is mine," he asserted. "You shall not take her from me."

Hildebrand grinned maliciously. "Gently, beast, gently," he purred. "You shall have your turn by-and-by. You must give place to your betters, bowback."

Robert glared at him in hate. "I say you shall not have her!" he repeated.

Lycabetta burst into a fit of laughing. "Have a care, my lord," she warned; "the fool's eyes roll horridly, and his mouth twitches. He will do you hurt if you steal his leman."

"You shall not have her!" Robert insisted, fiercely.

Hildebrand's affability vanished. "Out of the way, monkey!" he ordered; then, catching Robert lightly by the collar, he cast him aside as easily as he might have cast a kitten. Robert staggered and fell on his knees. Unheeding him, Hildebrand went towards Perpetua. "You lithe idol of the heights," he asked, smiling, "would you not choose me for your paramour?"

Perpetua looked steadily at her new danger, and her heart was glad to think of the knife that lay hidden in her bosom. "I will go with the fool," she said.

In the corner where he knelt unnoticed Robert was muttering confused, disjointed prayers to Heaven. The passionate desire to save the girl revived within him, and he implored the Heaven that he had wronged for help.

At Perpetua's speech, Lycabetta clapped her hands derisively. "I said he had bewitched her."

"We will exorcise her," Hildebrand laughed back, and advanced towards the girl. Perpetua drew away a little, regarding Hildebrand with a steadiness that puzzled him, resolved to drive the knife into her heart before he could lay hand on her. To Robert, where he lay huddled, the spinning seconds seemed to be beating against his ears like the booming of great bells, and through their clangor came a babble of brisk voices reproaching him, mocking him. "Now for one hour," they seemed to say, "of that royal power which you have used so ill, and now might use so nobly." Again his agony spurred him to supplicate Heaven to send him some thought that might save her, but no thought came; he was weak, helpless, dishonored, and through the darkness of his soul the voices of his enemies stabbed him like many arrows.

Lycabetta, seeing how Hildebrand paused for a moment in his advance upon Perpetua, stung him with a sneer.

"Lord Hildebrand, for a lover of ladies you are at a loss. She clings to her cripple."

Hildebrand, irritated, made a step forward, and again Perpetua moved a step away. Hildebrand frowned, accustomed to conquest.

"You shun me, child," he protested, "as if I had the plague."

The plague!

At those words the booming bells ceased, the babbling voices ceased; Robert's darkness became light; an inspiration told him what to do. He sprang to his feet and advanced towards Hildebrand, barring his way to Perpetua. With outstretched palms, with cringing shoulders, he appealed to Hildebrand, to Lycabetta.

"Sweet lord, sweet lady, I entreat a sweet word with you."

Perpetua, who had lifted her hand to clasp the handle of the knife, let it fall again. Hildebrand, who had forgotten the fool's existence, scowled and snarled at him.

"To heel, sirrah, to heel!"

Lycabetta shook with mirth. "You forget, my lord," she suggested, "that it is the King who addresses you."

"I'll wring his majesty's neck," Hildebrand answered, savagely, "if he vexes me further."

"Nay, if he vexes you, there be others for that task," and Lycabetta struck sharply with a golden hammer upon a golden gong. Immediately the curtains parted and Zal and Rustum entered. At their heels came several of Lycabetta's women, wondering at the summons.

Lycabetta pointed to Robert.

"Cast the fool forth," she commanded.

The black slaves descended the steps. Robert turned a mocking, mouthing face towards Lycabetta.

"Wait, wait," he said; "I have a tale to tell that should divert you much."

Something in the fool's fantastic manner, in his grotesque attitude, in his promise of diversion, took Lycabetta's fitful fancy. She held up a hand and the slaves halted. Robert, who had edged a little nearer to where Perpetua stood, wondering what strange purpose urged the fool, was making singular gestures with his hands, as one inviting, even commanding attention.

"Listen," he said, and his voice had a strange sound in it of defiance, of dominion, of frightful triumph, that jarred horridly on his hearers. "It was cold on the hills to-night and the wind chilled me. By the road-side near the city's gate I found one who slept or seemed to sleep. Wait, wait, my tale is wonderful and worth your patience. The sleeper was wrapped in a great mantle. Why should he lie snug while I shivered? I would have killed him sleeping to steal his cloak, but I was spared the pains, for as I twitched at a corner of it the fellow rolled in a lump before me and lay there dead. Wait, wait, your patience shall not be strained to breaking, and my adventure is good hearing. My man lay on his back in the moonlight, staring stupidly, and I who looked saw that his face was drawn and twisted, as if he had died in great pain; his teeth were dropping from their livid gums and his skin was stained and mottled and discolored, blue and black and green, and he seemed to rot as I watched him. But I was cold and I fear nothing, being a fool, so I went my ways, warm in his mantle. What do I care for the plague?"

The plague!

At that name the listeners shivered as if a wind of death had blown through the heavy scented air. Hildebrand drew back in horror, gasping the dreaded words, "The plague!" Lycabetta grew white with fear. "Oh, gods, the plague!" she moaned, groping for support which none gave her. Her women fluttered together paralyzed with terror, and the black slaves recoiled from the one enemy their courage dared not face.

Robert, lifting his hands as if in a kind of hideous benediction, gibbered at their fear.

"The very plague!" he screamed. "The plague is in the port, the plague is on the city, the plague is at your gates! What care I if all Syracuse dies of it! My mantle reeks with its sweat."

With a rattle of damnable laughter Robert clutched at his mantle, which lay where he had cast it down when he entered, now near his feet. Fluttering it in the air so that its folds seemed to quiver like the pinions of a fiend, he flung it upon Perpetua and swathed it tightly about her unresisting body. To her the plague was better than self-slaughter, as self-slaughter was better than pollution. Still the others cowered, spellbound by their dread.

"Who will woo her now?" Robert screamed, folding her in his arms. "Who now will draw death from her lips? If she dies, she dies mine, and I will sit hunched by her side and watch her white flesh wither."

While he shrieked he was dragging Perpetua towards the entrance, and now he caught at the silken hangings, while his voice, swelling in volume of malignant imprecation, yelled at his terrified enemies, "The plague! the plague! make way there for the plague!"

There was no one to say him nay. With a scream Lycabetta fell fainting to the floor. Hildebrand was trying to cross himself with nerveless fingers, the women were sobbing hysterically, and the slaves had fled.

Robert and Perpetua passed unchallenged from the room and from the house.



XII

IN SYRACUSE

Once in the moonlit darkness of the gardens, maid and man took hands and ran as swiftly as they could through the scented night. They could not go overfast, and it was the maid's hand that helped the man, not the man's hand the maid. Perpetua was as fleet as a deer, but the degraded King limped like the fool whose likeness had been flung upon him, and Perpetua had to slacken her speed in order that he might keep pace with her. But there were no signs of pursuit from the house of Lycabetta. The terror of the plague was so great that Robert's mantle was an unquestionable defence. The most licentious youth in Syracuse would not go near the loveliest woman if he had the least reason to believe that she had been but lightly touched by a plague-spotted garment. Limping and running, their shadows streaming behind them on the white path that threaded the cypresses, they reached the golden gates which opened without demur to Robert's summons in the King's name, and in another instant they were speeding on the level highway to the city. No word passed between them; the dominant thought of each was to get as far as might be, as soon as might be, from the place sacred to the strange Venus.

Suddenly, as they reached the outskirts of the city, Robert tugged at Perpetua's hand and stayed her flight. In an angle of a house at the corner of a street there was a niche. In the niche was the image of a saint, and at the feet of the image the little flame of a votive lamp flickered in the soft air. Robert dropped on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Perpetua immediately knelt by his side, and the two fugitives prayed silently, earnestly for some moments. Perpetua's simple prayer was first that Heaven might be pleased to deliver the fool from his delusion, and next that she might be strengthened to face and accept her threatened fate. Robert's prayers were incoherent, confused supplications for pity, for pardon, whirling with ejaculations of gratitude for having been permitted to rescue the maid from her enemies.

Perpetua rose first, and stood, observing with infinite pity how the deformed body of the fool shook with the storm of emotions that seemed to convulse him. Suddenly Robert sprang to his feet and faced her.

"Did you hear nothing?" he asked. Perpetua shook her head reassuringly, for she thought that he meant the sound of pursuing feet, but Robert persisted.

"Did you not hear a voice that said, 'He will cast down the mighty from their seats?'"

"I heard nothing," Perpetua answered, wondering; then in the darkness the thought of their threatened doom came upon her anew like a black and icy shadow.

"Is there no cure for the plague?" she asked, faintly, her face strained towards his. She almost hated herself for asking; better to die of the plague than to live at the pleasure of Hildebrand. But she was young, and life had been bright. To her astonishment her companion answered her question with a laugh that twisted his thin cheeks fantastically:

"You need not fear the plague, child," he said; and as he spoke his voice sounded kinder than she had ever heard it. "My cloak was my own clean mantle, and came from no dead sailor's carcass. I played on their terrors as I played on the lute-strings. I knew that a whisper of the plague would palsy their hearts, and I conquered them with a lying tale." He added, in a graver tone: "For the which falsehood I have but now prayed Heaven to forgive me. I hope my one good deed may be pardoned to one in whom there is so much to pardon."

Perpetua was amazed at the change that had come over the fool. He seemed saner, gentler, and, as she looked at him now in the moonlight, his features did not show so wholly repulsive as she had first esteemed them. Robert read the amazement in her eyes.

"Child," he said, "do you truly trust me now?"

She extended her hands to him frankly, her heart swelling with gratitude, big with the two-fold joy of escape from the house of Lycabetta and release from the terror of the plague.

"I do," she answered, "with all my heart."

Robert caught at her outstretched hands, and, dropping on his knees in the causeway, kissed them reverentially. Then he rose and faced her, and as he did so it seemed to the maiden that his body was really less distorted than it appeared on a first view.

"Perpetua," he said, and he named her name very tenderly. "Perpetua, I am going to take you to a place of safety. Such women as Lycabetta, such men as Hildebrand, are ever to be feared; we have fooled them for the hour, but they may learn that they have been befooled, and the knowledge will make them revengeful. There is an ancient church in Syracuse, by the sea, whose crypt communicates with the catacombs that burrow into the rock. Hieronymus is its priest, famous as a good and holy man. He will shelter you, protect you; if there be danger you can hide in the catacombs, where our enemies might seek in vain for a century. Come, shall we go to Hieronymus?"

"Let us go," she said; then suddenly: "But you, you too are in danger. The King's anger, the anger of Hildebrand—you must evade these."

A melancholy smile came over the foolish face and lent it a kind of grace.

"Perhaps the good father may find some nook for me. I do not think his heart will be hard, even to me, a sinner. Come."

He turned as if to lead the way, then paused and spoke to her again.

"Perpetua," he said. "Your trust in the fool"—the girl noticed that he shuddered as he spoke, and she wondered—"your trust in the fool is not unwisely placed. In the name of that trust, ask me, I pray you, no questions of my past. Let us believe between us that the fool Diogenes"—and again the convulsive shudder wrung him—"was newly born to-day."

"I will do as you wish," she answered, full of amazement at the change which had come to his warped wits.

He took her hand and guided her through the streets of Syracuse to the little church by the sea. The moon shone brightly on them as they went, the moon which swayed Syracuse, making lovers kiss, poets dream, philosophers sigh, children sport, dogs bay. It guided them, benignly, to their goal.



XIII

THE CHURCH BY THE SEA

The moon which had shone upon the flight of Perpetua had waxed and waned, and her successor ruled the night in the pride of her first quarter. Early one morning in the new month one of Lycabetta's women, Lysidice, amber-haired, slender-limbed, with eyes like sapphires, was wandering in the flower-market of Syracuse, seeking the loveliest blooms for her mistress. Lycabetta loved Lysidice above her fellows, for her slim, boyish body, for her quaint, virginal air; she had not yet tired of the morning sport when Lysidice came from the flower-market and pelted her with many colored blossoms. So as Lysidice, eager to please, went hither and thither, seeking ever the best, her attention was attracted by the sight of a man in a friar's robe, who was buying white roses at a stall. Though friars did not often buy roses in the Syracuse flower-market, the thing was not in itself passing strange, but the fancy of Lysidice, arrested at first by the contrast between the friar in his humble robe, with all that it suggested of denial, and the glory of the brilliant blooms about him, noted that the friar kept his cowl so close about his face as to conceal it completely from view.

The mere fact that the man in thus muffling himself seemed to indicate a desire not to be seen was enough to spur the curiosity of Lysidice into a determination to see. She tiptoed through the flower-stalls and fruit-stalls; she ambushed behind piles of melons; she peeped through clusters of grapes and bunches of lilies. The friar was choosing the loveliest of the white roses; he was eager to choose only the loveliest; as he stooped over them in his eagerness, a little breeze caught for a moment the cowl that hooded him, filled out its folds, and showed a momentary glimpse of features that Lysidice remembered well, the features of the fool who had fled from the house of Lycabetta a month before, bearing with him the girl from the hills and leaving behind him the terror of the plague. In a moment the friar's lean hand had pulled the hood close again about his cheeks, about his chin, but the glimpse had been enough for Lysidice.

What news would be so welcome to Lycabetta, languorous Lycabetta, as news of the whereabouts of the fool who had caused her so many hours of mortal anguish. Lysidice shivered still in the warm air at the thought of that night when all in the palace of pleasure believed themselves to be plague-stricken, and of the slow relief that came with day and the assurances of the physicians that Hildebrand had at last found strength to seek. There was no plague in the city; the fool had befooled them finely, carrying off his prize and disappearing into an obscurity so profound that no searches could unearth him. And now chance would seem to have given him to Lysidice.

Lilting the burden of a love-song, she passed by the stall where the friar stood, and saw, without seeming to see, how the friar dragged his hood closer about his face and bent lower over the roses. It would never do for her, she knew well enough, to attempt to follow the fool to his hiding-place. Her bright robes were not made to play the spy in. She strolled unconcernedly to the end of the market, and at the foot of a pillar she saw a small boy leisurely devouring a vast cantle of melon. She beckoned the boy into the cover of a country cart that had carried fruit and vegetables to the market, and from that intrenchment she pointed out to him the friar who was now bearing away his roses, bade the boy follow him, and promised him a silver piece if he would come back with news of the friar's destination. The boy understood and trotted off after the unconscious friar.

Lysidice had not to wait long for knowledge. In a few minutes the boy came back and told her what she wanted to know; the friar had disappeared within the doors of a little church by the sea-shore, not many yards distant, a church under the charge of an austere religious, Father Hieronymus. Delighted, Lysidice gave the urchin his piece of silver and scurried hot-foot home.

Robert, on his side—for the friar was, indeed, he who wore the fool's face—had seen Lysidice as she passed him, and had pulled his cowl closer about his face. He did not think she had seen him, deceived by her indifferent air and gait, and when he left the market bearing his burden of white roses, though he glanced behind him now and then, he saw nothing of Lycabetta's woman, and believed himself in security. It was, therefore, with a contented mind that he pushed open a doorway in the little church by the sea, and passed from the bright sunlight into the cool shade of the pillared place.

With a contented mind! A month had wrought great changes in him. On the night when the two fugitives sped through the darkness and threw themselves on the protection of Father Hieronymus, Robert's brain, reeling from rebellion and despair to surrender, was too distraught to entertain much else than the wild desire to save Perpetua. But in the mild twilight of the holy place, under the calm authority of Hieronymus, there came to him a strength, a courage of a kind that he had never known before. Hieronymus had welcomed the suppliants. The church communicated through its crypt with some of the many catacombs that pierced the hills of Syracuse into a labyrinth; in one of these it was easy to conceal Perpetua with safety and with some degree of comfort. As for the fool, the church just needed a sacristan; a friar's robe was soon found and fitted; a brown hood concealed the ugly, haggard face, and the cripple Diogenes, who had been Robert the King, became the willing, patient servant of the little church by the sea.

Robert stood there in the church newly importuned by the memories of a month that had seemed at once as brief as a noon-day dream and yet to stretch into an age-long quiet. He recalled the gentle gravity with which Hieronymus had listened to the tale of flight, and had forgiven him in the name of Heaven for a fraud that had saved from dishonor the body of a Christian maid. He recalled the gentle strength with which Hieronymus had silenced him when he told for the last time his wild tale of transformation, and declared that he was Robert of Sicily. The rest of his memories were of peaceful hours of service, starred by golden moments of sight of Perpetua, of speech with Perpetua. A strange resignation came to reign in his fevered brain. He had been King—surely he had been King—but now he was no longer King; it had pleased Heaven to cast him from his kingship and to lead him in his degradation to thoughts and deeds undreamed of in his hours of greatness. There were times when he could wellnigh believe, dreamily, that what those nearest to him, Perpetua and Hieronymus, believed was indeed the truth, and that he was in very fact the fool Diogenes, who had lain in the maleficent moonlight on the mountain summit, and dreamed in his madness that he was the lord of Sicily. Moments truly came of fierce rebellion, but they were fewer now, and even while they racked him, the thought of Perpetua brought with it resignation to his fate. She had taught him the meaning of service, of patience, of love.

Quietly he set down his basket of roses; quietly he took from a corner a broom, and, opening the door that gave upon the sea, he reverently swept the little church. As he worked at his humble toil, he mused on the doings of him who was now King of Sicily, how point by point, in his tyrannies, he followed out the plans that had been hatched in Robert's head. How would it end for Perpetua—how would it end for Sicily? He scarcely thought to ask how it would end for himself. Sometime, when it could be safely done, Perpetua should escape to Italy; he would be with her as her servant, his hands would toil for her. Already he had learned to weave baskets, and it was with the money that he got through Hieronymus for these that he had bought the roses which were to adorn the altar of the church.

As he thought, his task was ended, the floor of the little church was clean.

"Swept," he murmured to himself as he laid his broom aside, and taking up the basket of white roses proceeded to set them tenderly upon the altar.

"Garnished," he murmured again, as he stepped back a little way and regarded his handiwork with a greater pleasure than he had ever known, in days now dim as dreams, in the pageants and the festals of Naples. The little church was now the kingdom in which he lived, not as king, but as its lowliest servitor; yet he breathed in it a spirit of content such as he had never known before. Those solemn pillars, those gloomy spaces, those narrow staircases set in the thickness of the walls, were the landmarks, were the confines of his home. The colored light that poured through the windows of painted glass, mottling the stone flooring with splendid patches of yellow and blue and red, gave the gray place to his sad eyes a pomp beyond the pride of courts. Here and there in the darkness dim lamps burned, the beacons for him of inexpressible havens. Portions of the walls were covered with votive offerings—little models of ships that had been set there by sailors, grateful for succor in storm and escape from shipwreck, wreaths and pictures and crosses and images of saints, emblems all of a simple piety that his racked spirit was slowly learning to understand. In front of him was the altar with its image of Our Lady of the Sea, curiously and beautifully wrought in silver, the figure of the Divine Woman on a space of tumbling sea. At the left of the altar, in a niche in the wall hard by, stood the most precious relic of the church, a huge iron cross more than seven feet in height, which had been carried on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem by the founder of the church. On the right of the altar was the golden railing and gateway on which the eyes of Robert always rested in joy, for behind it lay the space of sanctuary, the spot where Perpetua had found a shelter from her enemies. Yet close to this railing rose a pillar, the sight of which always had power to banish any joy from Robert's eyes. Down its length hung a thick rope running through iron rings set in the stone-work. That rope conducted to a bell on the roof of the church. That bell had been set there in the spring of the reign of King Robert the Good for this purpose, that if any man in his kingdom thought he was wrongly used by its King, he had but to drag at the rope to set the great bell ringing, whose sound, tolling over the city, called all good citizens together to hear and decide upon the complaint of the subject against the King. In such a benignant spirit had Sicily been ruled in the days of Robert the Good.

One white rose remained in his fingers. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it reverently. Then he laid it down before the gilded gateway of the sanctuary, with the thought in his mind that perhaps her foot might touch it as she passed and make it sacred. Then he lit a taper at a lamp, and in obedience to the order given him by Father Hieronymus the previous night, he carried the tiny flame to each of the candles on the altar, till all were lighted. This task done, he prostrated himself on the steps before the shrine and prayed aloud.

"Heaven," he supplicated—"Heaven, against whom I have sinned so deeply, hear my prayer for the white child who has led Thy light into my dark. Shield her from danger. Keep holy her who is holy."

As his voice died away into silence, he still knelt with bent head and clasped hands, so steeped in penitential thoughts that he did not hear the sea-door open, did not hear the entrance of a man, grizzled, bronzed, eagle-faced, ascetic, clad in the brown robe of his order. Father Hieronymus paused for a moment, seeing with gratification the kneeling figure before the altar. It would be the sweetest triumph of a life of ceaseless struggle with the Prince of the Power of the Air to save alive the soul of the distracted fool.



XIV

THE EXILES

Hieronymus advanced to the kneeling figure. "My son," he said, gently.

Robert leaped to his feet at the sound of the familiar voice, and moved to meet Hieronymus.

"Father, when we came to you a month ago and begged for shelter, I told you how I lied to save the girl, pretending to be plague-stricken."

Hieronymus inclined his head. "And I absolved you."

Robert spoke in a lower voice, almost a whisper. "I told you, too, that I was Sicily, Robert himself, lapped in this hideous shape."

Hieronymus raised a warning hand. "Does that delusion still vex you?" he asked, sadly.

Robert bowed his head. "My spirit is free from many delusions," he whispered; "but I did not tell you that I, unlovely as I am, I love Perpetua. Her hand has led me, her voice has inspired me. If ever I be saved she will have saved me."

The grave face of Hieronymus looked kindly pity upon the fool in the friar's gown.

"God chooses the time and the way. An earthly love may win the grace of Heaven."

Robert sighed. "My hopeless love is happy service. Daily my spirit creeps a little nearer to the light."

Hieronymus beat his breast.

"Daily the tyrant of Sicily grows more wicked, reeling like a madman from crime to crime. The island groans beneath him more piteously than the imprisoned Titan groans beneath Mount Etna."

Robert turned away from Hieronymus with a bitter sigh. "God forgive me," he said to himself, "for he does the deeds I meant to do!"

Hieronymus did not heed the agitation of his companion; he stood as if listening to some distant sound. "Son, do you hear...?" he questioned.

Robert came swiftly to his side, listened, heard, and answered: "The measured tread of many feet. They seem to walk mournfully over my heart."

"Look out, my son," Hieronymus commanded, "and tell me what you see."

Robert opened the door that gave upon the sea, looked out, and answered, sadly: "A company of men and women, all in black. They seem weighed down with sorrow."

"These," said Hieronymus, grimly, "are the noblest folk in Sicily, flying into exile from the tyrant's lust and greed."

Robert stood motionless, frozen with sorrow.

"These," he said, in his heart, "are the just and righteous whom I meant to vex and banish."

As in a dream he heard the voice of Hieronymus calling to him: "My son, give me that iron cross, the cross of the founder of our church. They shall salute it for the last time."

Robert, going to the wall where the relic stood, tried vainly to lift the cross. Its weight mocked his efforts, and he turned, gasping and trembling, to Hieronymus. "Father, I cannot. The sinews of the fool are too feeble to lift it."

Hieronymus gave a cry of compassion.

"Forgive me. It is heavy, and taxes my strength to move."

In his turn he moved to the cross, lifted it with an effort from its place, and carried it with difficulty to the altar, where he rested it for the new-comers to see.

The ache in Robert's heart was crueler than the ache in Robert's arms.

"I was once so proud of my strength," he murmured.

He moved towards the altar, and seated himself on the lowest step, huddled in grief, while Hieronymus, mounting to the altar, turned to face the new-comers. Through the sea-door came a company of men and women, all dressed in black, who ranged themselves, kneeling, in front of the altar.

Hieronymus addressed the kneeling mourners. "My brethren, are ye going forth into exile?"

An old man rose and spoke.

"From the land where I was born, from the soil where my father's fathers sprang, I now must go a wanderer, houseless, penniless. Woe to the wicked King!"

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

Next a young woman rose and spoke.

"I and these other women with me, we must fly from the land of our life and of our love. For the honor of no woman is safe in the reign of Robert the Bad, and the feet of good women go not in his halls. Woe to the wicked King!"

She knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

A young man rose and spoke.

"No youth with a clean spirit can live in peace in Sicily. Only the man who will sell his wife, the brother who will betray his sister, the lover who will surrender his sweetheart, may find favor with the tyrant. Woe to the wicked King!"

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

Robert's face was very pale, his body shook with anguish, and he crouched more and more upon the steps of the altar.

A soldier rose and spoke.

"I am not squeamish; I have seen cities sacked, but I will not serve this man-beast. I will carry my sword over-seas. I will follow the flag of some gallant captain, and die remembering Sicily. Woe to the wicked King!"

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, "I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned."

He heard Hieronymus give his benediction—"Benedicto vos in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." A thought came to Robert, he crept to Hieronymus, plucking at his sleeve:

"Father," he whispered, "may I, who am so sore afflicted, speak to these unhappy?"

Hieronymus rested his hand gently on Robert's shoulder as he again addressed the kneeling figures.

"Brethren," he said, "lo, here is one of the tyrant's victims. Speak, my son."

He moved aside a little to give Robert more space, resting his hand upon the iron cross. Robert, his face hidden in his hood, addressed the mourners.

"Brethren," he wailed, "I am the most unhappy soul in Sicily, for God has cursed me with a fearful curse. At night I dream I am this wicked King, and all day long the evil of his deeds grinds down my heart. But in my misery I have heard words more sweet than honey, more fragrant than myrrh, which if you will guard them in your hearts will be to you as wells in the waste places, as orchards in the sand, as shade of palm and strength of manna in the weary, hungry land. 'He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.'"

He would have fallen if Hieronymus's strong arms had not sustained him. With one voice all the wanderers echoed his words.

"'He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.'"

The wanderers rose very slowly from their knees and went very slowly out at the sea-door, followed by Hieronymus, who almost carried Robert in his arms to the outer air.

For some minutes the little church was empty and dark and silent. Then a side door opened and a woman and a man entered, coming from a quiet street. The woman was Lycabetta; the man was Hildebrand. Hildebrand looked curiously around him.

"Why have you brought me here?" he asked.

"Answer me first," Lycabetta replied. "How is the King?"

Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders. "Bloody of purpose, and yet bloodless. Lustful of purpose, and yet loveless. In his prisons many wait for death, but none perish; for the King has sworn that none shall die before the fool Diogenes, and we cannot find the fool. The loveliest women of Sicily have been torn from their homes to his palace, but they have not seen the King, for he will love no woman until he has found the girl Perpetua. And the girl cannot be found."

Lycabetta whispered in his ear:

"Listen; this morning in the flower-market my Lysidice noted a hooded friar who bought white roses. A wind stirred his cowl and she saw the face of Diogenes."

Hildebrand started.

"Was she sure?"

"'Tis no face to forget," Lycabetta answered; "though she swears it less frightful than of old. She made no sign, but she bribed a child to follow the false friar, and the brat ran him to earth here."

Hildebrand grinned savagely.

"If they be here, no fable of the plague shall save them this time."

Lycabetta caught him eagerly by the arm and drew him behind a concealing pillar. She had seen the sea-door open and had seen a figure in a friar's gown.

"Who is this?" she whispered triumphantly to Hildebrand.

Robert came through the sea-door. Inside the church he threw back his hood and his face was plainly visible to the watchers, themselves invisible, screened by the pillars and the gloom. Hildebrand pressed Lycabetta's hand significantly. He had seen all he wanted to see. The pair slipped quietly out by the door through which they had entered. Robert advanced slowly to the altar and flung himself on the steps.

"Dear God," he prayed, "let not the guiltless suffer for my guilt. Punish me to the top of my sin, but pity Sicily."



XV

THE HUNTER'S VOICE

Out of the shadow-land at the back of the altar emerged a white figure, with a fair face and hair the color of flame. She moved unheard across the pavement of the place of sanctuary; unheard she pushed open the little golden wicket in the golden railing; unheard she noted the white rose where it lay upon the ground, and, picking it up, lifted it to her lips before she placed it in her girdle; unheard she moved to where Robert lay in his agony before the altar.

"Friend," she whispered, softly.

Robert's consciousness awoke from its dark dreams. He rose and faced the girl, naming her name with joy.

"Perpetua!"

Perpetua came close to him.

"You have been abroad. Have you any news of my father?"

Robert shook his head.

"He is still kept close in the palace; his sword is still idle. The King has doomed many to death, but it seems that none shall die until the fool dies—and they cannot find the fool," he added, with a grim laugh.

Perpetua looked at him with sad affection and said, earnestly, "I wish you would fly from Sicily."

Robert answered her as earnestly, "I wish you would fly from Sicily."

"I will not leave my father."

"I will not leave you in danger."

Perpetua, smiling, gently chided. "All men live in danger through each second of each minute. I do not know the color of fear."

Robert drew a little nearer to her and spoke with a warning voice.

"I fear for you. This morning I saw in the market-place one of the women of Lycabetta. She did not see me, but to see her renewed my fear. If danger should come here ring at this bell," and he pointed to the great rope on the column by the altar. "It was set here by King Robert the Good, that any man having cause of complaint against the King might ring it and rouse all Syracuse to sit in judgment between sovereign and subject. In all his reign no hand ever tugged at that cord."

Perpetua looked at it sadly. "Every hand in Syracuse might itch to clasp it in the reign of Robert the Bad."

There were tears in Robert's eyes as he echoed her.

"Robert the Bad. You might have loved him," he said, after a short silence.

Perpetua turned away, for now there were tears in her eyes. "Oh, I know nothing of love," she said.

Robert saw her sadness and combated his own to cheer her. "Is it not strange," he asked, "your loveliness knows nothing of love while my unloveliness is cunning in love-wisdom? Year in and year out I have watched the world a-wooing—shepherd and shepherdess under the hawthorn hedge, knight and dame in the rose-bower, king and queen on the marble terrace."

She turned to him again and there were now no tears in her eyes; grief should not conquer her and she spoke brightly, entering into the spirit of his speech.

"A prodigal preface. But what is the sum of all your wisdom?"

The wild fancy which had come into Robert's brain when he spoke of love-wisdom grew with the moment into a wild resolve. The lips of the fool should interpret the heart of the King. He motioned to her to sit on the lowest of the steps that led to the altar place, and when she had done so he seated himself thereon. The sunlight fell between them and lay, a pool of many colors at their feet. Neither of them knew that the little side door, which led from the quiet street, opened a little, allowing a woman to slip into the church and vanish behind the shadow of a pillar.

Robert spoke in a slow voice. "Love is the soul of the world. I am no better than a mouthing fool, but I believe the perfect lover to be next of kin to the angels."

Perpetua gave a little sigh. "What is the perfect lover?" she asked, softly. She felt as if she were back in her mountain hut, sitting by her father's side, and asking him questions of the youth of the world. Robert's voice came back to her like a solemn chant.

"Such a one as the many dull would meanly scorn and the few wise nobly envy. For him love comes like a mighty wind of fire and burns his heart clean. He may have been stained and spotted in the slough of life, but when the woman comes she saves him."

There was a nobleness in his voice which she had not noted before; it charmed and lulled her.

"Can human love do so much?" she asked, more of herself than of him.

Robert's voice rose in triumphant assertion. "The heart's woman is the soul's star. She lifts her lover from the common whirl of things. He is thrilled with the elemental wonder, fulfilled with the immortal truth. He shelters imperishable passion in the perishable flesh. To a gray world such love brings glory, and he that is so graced walks in the wilderness as in a rose garden—gentle in reverence, loyal in honor, simple in faith. His eyes have glimpses of the flight of angels; his ears hear snatches of the music of the spheres, and even the very dust he treads upon becomes the golden dust of stars. This is the love that is mightier than death, this is the mystery of mysteries, the rose of changeless youth."

Perpetua put her hand to her heart.

"Is there such love?" she breathed, and instantly Robert answered her and his answer came like music to her ears.

"There is such love. It is no dream, but a glorious reality transfiguring the world, exalting men, immortalizing women. If I could woo you with a hunter's voice, I would cry to you through the parted leaves: Perpetua, I love you with this mighty love, have loved you since that happy forest day, shall love you so, Perpetua, till I die, and bear as my one claim to opened heaven the changeless cry, I love Perpetua."

While Robert was speaking his face seemed to grow comelier, and the pale face of Perpetua showed the influence of his words. Her eyes shone with his enthusiasm, her lips quivered with his emotion, her cheek flushed with his inspiration; she was entirely under the spell of his speech and the associations it evoked. As he came to an end she rose as if entranced, and moved slowly towards him. He, too, rose, as if himself bewitched by the magic of his tongue, and stood with parted arms as if to clasp and welcome her. Each had forgotten time and place, both were again in the green wood with their hearts on fire.

"Hunter, my hunter," Perpetua cried; "your voice comes through the leaves and conquers me!"

Her eyes were half closed, her hands stretched out; she swayed towards him.

Robert sprang forward with a mighty cry. "Perpetua!"

She was almost in his arms; suddenly her opened eyes realized that she was confronted by the rugged visage of the fool. She drew back with a start, and put her hands to her eyes as if to brush away the dream that had possessed her.

Robert, who had advanced like a conqueror, fell back like a slave.

"Ah!" Perpetua moaned. "What have you said to me? I have dreamed a dream."

With a heavy sigh Robert answered her, striving to smile.

"I too have dreamed a dream. As the golden words glowed from my brain they worked a spell upon me, and for a moment I, the hideous cripple, fancied myself young and comely, the lover of my vision. Forgive me, Perpetua."

"What is there to forgive?" Perpetua answered. "I have slept waking, have dreamed with open eyes, and in my dream I seemed to hear a voice that carries all the music of the world, which called me by my name and made me come to it."

"Perpetua!" Robert pleaded.

But she went on speaking, unheeding him, as if she were indeed still under the influence of a dream.

"I was again in the green wood; the fountain bubbled at my feet. Strong hands parted the curtain of green leaves, and through the gap came sunlight—sunlight and the hunter with eyes like mountain lakes; and as I moved to meet him the vision vanished. Are you a wizard?"

Robert could now command himself.

"No," he said; "only a fool who teases his soul with Elysian fancies. But the strings of the lute have snapped; they were made of heartstrings, and a thought too fine for the work. I will play that air no more."

She did not seem to notice the sorrow in his voice; she longed for solitude. "Leave me a little while to myself," she entreated. "I want to be alone and pray."

Robert looked at her wistfully; for a few golden moments he had known youth again, and hope, and the speech of passionate love, had seen the woman he worshipped come to him under the spell of his words. Now he was again God's outcast.

"The will of Heaven be done," he murmured to himself; then to Perpetua he said, quietly, "When you pray, pray for your poor servant, for I think your pure voice must soar at once into the courts of Heaven."

Perpetua smiled kindly at him. "Dear Diogenes," she said; and with that name ringing in his ears Robert went slowly out through the sea-door. Perpetua turned and knelt at the altar, praying,

"Dear Mother of Mercy, help me to forget the hunter's face!"



XVI

THE CALL OF THE BELL

Out of the darkest shadows a woman crept towards the altar. She bent over Perpetua where she knelt, and said, mockingly:

"You would do better to pray to forget the fool's face, for the fool has led you into folly."

Perpetua sprang to her feet and saw Lycabetta. Making the sign of the cross she confronted her. "Why are you here? This place is holy."

Lycabetta laughed. "I loved you so well that I could not part from you. You have no plague mark on your beauty. That was a rare trick, and your fool hid you cunningly—but we have found you, bird, at last."

"I am in sanctuary," Perpetua said, steadily.

Lycabetta sneered, "Our king-hawk will not be scared by a sacred name."

"Sicily still stands in Christendom," Perpetua answered; "and this ground is as holy as the old Jerusalem or the new."

Lycabetta looked at her with languid wonder.

"Why are you so perverse? It is a smiling fortune to be the darling of a king."

"It is a fairer fortune to be the darling of the Lord," Perpetua answered, proudly. "Why do you plague me so vainly? There is no fear nor favor in the world that can move me."

Lycabetta watched her with half-closed lids. "Are you so sure?" she said, cruelly. Then she went to the side door and opened it, calling out, "My lord!" and instant to her summons Hildebrand entered the church.

"Your chaste angel will play no game with us."

Hildebrand gave Perpetua a courtly salutation. "I am glad to find you, lady."

Perpetua had drawn close to King Robert's pillar and caught the rope in her hands.

"If you come near me," she cried, "I will ring this bell and Syracuse will guard me."

"You mistake me," Hildebrand said, calmly. "I am your friend, and by your leave I would save you from the King. Do not believe that sanctuary will serve you. His lust of hate would pluck you from between the horns of the altar."

"This shrine is sacred, even to him," Perpetua asserted, wearing a greater confidence than she felt.

Lycabetta laughed stealthily. Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders.

"You talk briskly, but you cannot make and mend the world at your maid's pleasure. I alone can save you from the King."

"How can you save me?" Perpetua asked him. She was undaunted, but she thought to gain time.

"Very simply," Hildebrand answered; "I desire your favors more than the King's favor, and if you will give me yourself I will take care of what is mine own."

"You are a faithful servant," Perpetua said, in scorn.

Hildebrand waved her scorn away dispassionately with his delicate white hands.

"I wear no fetters. If the King irks me I will drive my dagger between his ribs, and make myself king in Sicily. I think a change in the dynasty would not be unpopular in the island. Why, I will do this to-night to please you, and make you my queen if you will."

"You are baser than your master." Perpetua flung the words at him.

Hildebrand heard them unmoved. "I am what I am. Will you come to me?"

Perpetua answered him, steadfast in scorn, "You are as foolish as you are cruel, and you weary me."

Hildebrand turned to Lycabetta. "Daughter of Venus," he said, "a few paces hence you will find the northern soldier whose kisses you relish. Bring him here with his company."

Lycabetta went a little way nearer to Perpetua and stared at her. "You must be a witch," she said, "for you make men mad for you. I cannot see your marvel." Then she went out of the church.

"I will appeal to Syracuse," Perpetua cried to Hildebrand. She seized the rope of the great bell and tugged at it. The deep note of the bell was heard booming out over the city, to be answered almost immediately by the hum of voices and the hurry of feet.

"Now you are doomed indeed," Hildebrand commented, ironically.

Perpetua still tugged at the bell.

"Syracuse will defend me," she asserted, brave against danger.

"Syracuse will do nothing," Hildebrand said, confidently.

Even as he spoke the sea-door was flung open and a mob of people flooded the church, bearing Hieronymus in their midst. At the same moment through the side door Sigurd entered with his soldiers, followed by Lycabetta.

"Who rings the bell?" Hieronymus asked, sternly, gazing in amazement at Perpetua and the strange display of armed force.

"I do, father," Perpetua answered. Then eagerly she appealed to the murmuring crowd: "People of Syracuse, protect me. That bell appeals to you with the voice of the dead good King, to defend me against the living evil King."

Men and women, the crowd clustered together, murmurous, menacing sound—the men had weapons in their hands and looked as if they were ready to use them in defence of their ancient rights.

Unmoved by their attitude, Hildebrand said to Sigurd: "Make that woman your prisoner. She is the King's enemy."

Sigurd and his soldiers advanced towards Perpetua. As they did so the uneasy crowd about the door parted, and Robert rushed in through the human lane, wild-eyed; he looked from Perpetua to Hildebrand, from the soldiers to the people.

"Perpetua! Perpetua!" he cried. "You dare not touch her. She is in sanctuary."

Instantly the people about the door took up the cry and thundered it: "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"

Hildebrand greeted Robert with an evil smile. "Fool, fool, I thought we should lure you."

"Sanctuary!" Robert cried again. He tried to reach Perpetua, but the soldiers were between him and her, a wall of weapons.

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" the people raved, swaying at Robert's heels.

Hildebrand lifted his hand; there was a lull, and he spoke. "Silence, slaves! There is no sanctuary against sorcery."

Perpetua, clinging to the pillar, echoed his word in horror. "Sorcery!"

"Ay," repeated Hildebrand. "Sorcery. The King swears you have cast spells upon him, delivering him madness in a draught of well-water, that you are a damnable sorceress."

Through the confused clamor that followed this charge, Perpetua's voice rang out.

"This is the wickedest story ever told."

"People of Syracuse," Robert called, "do not believe this man. She is the victim of a wicked King. As you have wives, daughters, sweethearts, stand by me and save her."

He appealed eagerly to the crowd, rushing to man after man among them, but each shook his head and hung back, daunted by the terrible charge of witchcraft.

"Sorcery's a vile thing," said one.

"I'll not meddle with sorcery," said another.

Perpetua's hopes drooped as she saw how popular feeling fell from her.

"I am no sorceress, men of Syracuse," she said, sadly.

Robert pointed to the pale, beautiful girl standing by the pillar and surrounded by the armed men.

"Can you look upon her and believe one evil thought? Save her, in God's name!"

Again the crowd swayed a little towards the soldiers, urged by Robert, urged by Hieronymus. Again it fell back when Hildebrand raised his hand.

"Friends, this fellow is a madman. If you ask him he will tell you that he is the King."

The crowd that was wellnigh stirred to mutiny by Robert's appeals drew back from him suspiciously.

Hildebrand saw his advantage and pressed it. "Is it not so, fellow? Are you not the King?"

Robert's hands raised in appeal, raised in menace, dropped inertly to his side, and his head drooped on his breast.

"I was the King," he said, in a voice that was but a whisper.

Hildebrand caught at the admission exultantly.

"You hear him? Secure him!"

All his supporters, save Hieronymus, ebbed away from Robert. Two of Sigurd's soldiers seized him. Whatever chance there might have been of rescuing Perpetua was lost.

Hildebrand went on, triumphantly:

"Against witchcraft no sanctuary prevails. Let no man hinder the King's justice on pain of death."

Lycabetta, who had crept near to Perpetua, whispered in her ear:

"My lord Flame is a fierce lover. He clings close and he kisses quick and he will not spare your modesty. You will burn like a bright torch."

Then Lycabetta went out of the church as she had come in, with a smile on her face.

Perpetua called to Hieronymus. "Is there no help?"

"There is no help," Hieronymus answered, despairingly.

"Then I will go to death holding my head high," the girl said, valiantly.

"Take her away," Hildebrand ordered; and at his order Perpetua was borne away in the midst of a guard of soldiers and followed by Hieronymus. "Clear the church."

The remaining soldiers drove the crowd into the streets.

"Fling the fool on the altar steps. I think he will have a praying fit on him."

His captors cast Robert roughly on the altar steps, where he lay like one dying.

"Now leave me."

The two soldiers went out, the sea-door closed, and Hildebrand and Robert were left alone.

Hildebrand went slowly over to where Robert lay and talked mockingly to him.

"How mulish a woman may be! Here is a great country girl, who has never lain soft nor known cheer, never worn silk and never sported a jewel, and yet when great men scuffle for her, she will rather die than serve them and herself. Yes, friend Diogenes, your sweetheart will be burned as a witch."

Robert lifted his head. "Pray Heaven you lie!" he moaned.

"I am more truthful than an oracle," Hildebrand retorted. "When the wood-wench flouted him, our good King vowed that she should burn for her virtue."

Robert shuddered at the memory of his own words, of his own purpose.

"Oh, God, have mercy on my wicked soul!" he prayed.

Hildebrand mocked him with a false compassion. "Yet all is not lost, friend Diogenes. If your wit saved her before, your valor may save her now."

Robert turned to him again.

"If your heart holds any pity, speak," he entreated, hoping against hope for some leaven of charity in the heart of Hildebrand.

"She can appeal to the ordeal of battle," Hildebrand said, calmly. "And if she finds a champion valiant enough to overthrow the King's man, who shall accuse her, then she is free."

Robert hid his face. "Heaven have pity!" he murmured.

Hildebrand went on unmoved.

"The King has picked me for his champion, and, as you know, I am skilled in arms. But you are a stalwart fellow. Prove yourself the better man and save your paramour."

A crazy thought came into Robert's brain. He had a dagger at his belt; if he could but take Hildebrand unawares and slay him, one danger would be out of Perpetua's path. His hand felt for the handle, held it fast. He poised his crippled body for a spring, turned swiftly on the altar stairs, and leaped with lifted blade at Hildebrand. But Hildebrand had watched his gesture, divined his thoughts; he caught him as he sprang, by the throat and wrist, and while with the one hand he squeezed so hard that he wellnigh forced the breath from Robert's body, with the other he twisted Robert's wrist so that the knife fell clattering on the flags of the church. Then he tossed Robert, limp and gasping, to the ground.

"Keep your fury for the day of fight," Hildebrand sneered. "See now how easily you could overcome me. Yet you are a trouble to me now, and I think I will kill you, Master Fool!"

Robert did not heed, did not hear his threat. While Hildebrand put his hand to the hilt of his sword and loosened it in its sheath, Robert crawled to the steps of the altar, cowering, with clasped hands.

"God give me back my strength," he prayed. "There is no punishment too heavy for my sin, but for this woman's sake breathe back my manhood into this withered body that I may fight for her. Then cast me unprotesting into hell. Ah!"

Even as he prayed he seemed to feel the breath of a great spirit fill his body with new life, his sinews with new strength, his pulses with new fire. A voice seemed to be calling in his ear, telling him what to do, and he obeyed it as a child obeys its sire. He rose and faced Hildebrand.

"You shall not do this thing," Robert said, and the sound of his voice thrilled him with unspeakable hope.

Hildebrand laughed mockingly.

"Shall I not, rascal? Is it still the King who commands me?" he asked, and his fingers closed tighter upon his sword-hilt.

The voice seemed ever to speak in Robert's ear, and ever Robert obeyed its prompting.



"No," he cried. "It is not the King who commands you, but the humblest, the meanest, the unworthiest of mortal men. There is no creature living in the world lowlier than I, yet I command you in the name of that symbol which casts down the mighty, and before which the King and the beggar are alike but a little quickened dust."

Spurred by inspiration he rushed to the altar and clasped his hands around the iron cross. Scarcely to his surprise he found that he could lift the massive symbol like a reed. Poising the cross on high he turned upon Hildebrand.

"Will you set your cross against my sword?" Hildebrand cried. "You shall carry it to hell."

Robert answered with the voice of a strong man.

"The cross against the sword, in the name of God!"

He advanced against Hildebrand with the iron cross raised. Hildebrand drew his great sword and made to strike, but before he could deal a stroke Robert, swinging the cross, with one blow beat him to the ground, and stood over him with the cross raised.

"The cross against the sword," Robert thundered.

Hildebrand, grovelling on the ground like a crushed snake, rolled on one side, felt at the cold stones with his hands futilely for a moment, and then with infinite difficulty propped himself up a little and looked up at Robert.

"You have killed me," he gasped. Fear and wonder questioned in his dying eyes, forced a question from his dying lips. "Who are you?" Even as he asked, an awful look came over his face, he saw and knew. "The King!" he cried, horribly. His hands slipped on the stones, his head struck the floor, he was dead.

Robert dropped on his knees beside the dead man, and spoke softly.

"He hath uplifted the humble."



XVII

IN THE ARENA

The great amphitheatre which Roman craft had planned, which Roman hands had fashioned, lived almost in its integrity in the days of King Robert the Good. He had girdled it with gardens; he had sought to obliterate the memories of its old-time brutalities, its old-time bloodshed, by the institution of kindly sports and gentle pastimes. A populace had laughed innocently, had contested healthily in the place where man had fought with man, where man had fought with beast, where the soil had sucked thirstily the red wine of life. But a good king does not last forever, and a good king's ways are not always inherited, and Syracuse had been fluttered by the rumor that King Robert the Bad intended to surpass the pagans and to make the ancient amphitheatre again the scene of evil deeds. And by way of consecration to its new-old use, a maiden was to be burned by fire in its arena on a charge of sorcery against the King—burned by fire, unless her appeal to the ordeal of battle could find for her between sky and earth any champion doughty enough to overthrow the King's man, the challenger, who stood for the King and accused the girl of witchcraft. And this did not seem likely, for the King was known to have chosen for his champion the strongest, the most skilful swordsman in all Sicily, his dearest friend, his favorite companion, the Lord Hildebrand.

Of the girl herself, whose life stood in such jeopardy, Syracuse knew little. She was the daughter of Theron the executioner; she had lived on the top of a mountain; she had been snared in a church. Certain citizens of Syracuse had seen her in the church, a beautiful white child, with flame-colored hair, who tugged at King Robert's bell and appealed for pity. There was a queer fool, too, mixed up with the business, but he seemed to have disappeared, and really nobody cared very much what had happened to him. What everybody cared for very much, indeed, was the news that there was to be this great show in the ancient amphitheatre: two men fighting for a woman's life, a young man and an old man—for everybody knew, too, that the only champion Perpetua could find was her own father, the executioner Theron—and at the end of the battle a fair maid on a stack of faggots, and then a big blaze. Such a thing had not been seen, had not been heard of in Syracuse for many a long day, and those who heard of it now were resolved, to a man and to a woman, to see it. Not that the citizens of Syracuse were particularly cruel; but in the first place it was a spectacle too novel to miss, and in the second place all Syracuse had been formally summoned, under pain of death, to be present at the event, and to witness the King's vengeance on his enemy.

The day after Perpetua's capture was lovely, even for Syracuse, even for Sicily. The great amphitheatre lay in the soft morning light, a wonder of white curves, beneath great awnings of silk, crimson and gold. All around the orchards and gardens, that the good King had planted, showed cool and green; the subtle odors of many flowers charged the air with sweetness, and the ceaseless lapse of fountains lulled the ear with distant whispers of delight. It were hard to believe that so fair a place, upon so fair a day, could be destined for a scene of trial by bloodshed and punishment by fire. But in the great space of the arena one object stood ominous, to remind the spectator that the reign of Robert the Good was ended. This was a small wooden platform with two steps and an upright beam, the whole painted a glaring scarlet. Round this platform were banked great piles of faggots, sinister witnesses to the work that was to be done ere noon.

The great arena was almost empty. By order of the King, no citizens of Syracuse were to be permitted to enter the royal gardens, through which alone access to the amphitheatre was possible, until the sounding of a trumpet told the city that the hour had come. The great arena was almost empty, but not quite. On one of the lowest tiers of seats an old man sat in an attitude of grief. This man was Theron the executioner.

It had been his duty, as instrument of the King's justice, to make all the preparations for the deed that was to be done that day, and now all was completed and he sat alone and thought bitter thoughts. The child of his life was in peril, the beautiful Perpetua, so dear to him for herself, so dear in reincarnating for him the great love and the great sorrow of his manhood. Only one moon ago their life had been as it had ever been, tranquil, happy, a companionship of peace and joy. And now this beloved child, this dear companion, lay a prisoner under the terrible charge of sorcery, and in the ordeal of battle which was to decide her fate the only arm that could be found to champion her was her father's arm, the arm of an old man against the arm of the most brilliant swordsman in Sicily. Theron remembered with a pang the ease and grace with which Hildebrand had wielded the great sword of the headsman on that unhappy morning, and he asked himself, despairingly, what hope there could be for him against such an adversary.

Out from an archway in the side of the amphitheatre, a dark archway that opened from the corridor leading to the cells where prisoners used to be confined, and where Perpetua was now confined, Hieronymus came forth. He saw Theron where he sat, and advancing towards him rested his hand on his shoulder and named his name.

Theron looked wearily up and bowed for the benediction of the religious.

"My son," Hieronymus said, gravely, "by trumpet-call, within the hour, the chafing populace will be admitted into these royal gardens to witness the ordeal by battle. My son, my son, when your child's voice cries for a champion to-day, I fear yours will be the only hand raised to defend her."

"They fear her for a witch," Theron answered, bitterly; "as if such golden goodness could go to the making of witch-flesh. Men are fools—men are devils."

"Be brave, be patient," Hieronymus exhorted. "Courage and patience are the harness of a soldier of God."

Theron made a gesture of impatience. "You have every man and woman in Syracuse for son and daughter. She is my only child. How is she?"

"Smiling like a bride," Hieronymus replied. "Never since the heathen built these walls did any martyr face her fate more radiantly."

"She is not harshly treated?" Theron asked, anxiously.

Hieronymus shook his head.

"Will they not let me see her?" Theron questioned anew.

"I think they will let you see her by-and-by," Hieronymus answered. "I have entreated for you. I shall know soon."

Theron gripped his hands tightly together. "I wish I had the King here at my mercy," he muttered.

Hieronymus raised a reproving hand. "We must forgive our enemies, though, indeed, such a King is God's enemy. His prisons are filled with the flower of Sicilian chivalry—the list of those he dooms to die is long."

"Though none have died yet," Theron interrupted.

Hieronymus nodded. "They say he swore a great oath his court-fool should be the first victim of your sword, and till the fool is found the victims wait on death."

"Please Heaven he be not found, then," Theron prayed.

Hieronymus smiled sadly. "He will be found when his time comes," he said. "Yet Heaven seems to counter the wicked King. Those whom he drove into exile still linger in the port. Contrary winds deny their sails."

Theron lifted his head from his hands. "They say the fairest maids of Sicily have been carried to his palace."

"Yet they are maids still," Hieronymus said, "for he swears to love no woman till your daughter dies."

"He is so sure of that," Theron sighed.

Hieronymus sought to console him.

"Your cause is just, your sword is sharp; fight in God's name. I will go to your daughter now."

Theron thanked him with a grateful glance.

"Tell her her father loves her. She knows that well, yet tell it to her."

Hieronymus left him and passed out of the arena through the archway which led to the cells. Theron remained sitting on the step with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his hands.

"This is the time when a man should pray," he said to himself, "but my thoughts tangle and my words jangle."

Through the gardens came a singular figure, tall and lean and withered, with a wry shoulder like a gibbous moon and a wry leg like a stricken tree, and his face had a long, peaked nose and loose, protruding lips, and ears like the wings of bats. His mottled livery was grass-stained and earth-stained, and he had dizened it with a kind of woodland finery. He had wild flowers twisted in his hair; a chaplet of scarlet wood-berries was about his neck; he carried an ash sapling for a staff, and he munched at an apple. He looked about him curiously, as if a little dazed. Then he saw Theron and went towards him.

"Good-morning, gaffer," he said.

Theron looked up and beheld to his surprise the missing court-fool Diogenes.

"You are the fool Diogenes," Theron said. "Why have you come back? The King longs for your head. I care little who lives or dies, save one, but fly if you are wise."

Diogenes, for it was indeed he, shook his head. "Nay, nay, gaffer," he answered. "I am wise; I know my business. I think I have been asleep in the green wood a thousand years and waited upon by elves and fairies and all manner of pygmies, and they taught me the speech of birds, and what the trees whisper to each other from dawn to dusk, and the war-cries of the winds, with other much delectable knowledge which would have made me wiser than the wisest—but now that I am awake I have forgot it all."

Theron eyed him curiously. This was not the way the bitter court-fool had been wont to speak. "You seem to me a changed fool," he said, wearily.

Diogenes patted him fondly on the shoulder.

"Set it down to hearing birds whistle and watching green things grow. I am ripe and mellow. If you squeezed me dry you would find no drop of bitter in me. I bulge with benevolence like a ripe fig—and therefore your lugubrious visage troubles me."

Theron answered, heavily: "My child is charged with sorcery. There is no man but me to champion her. If I fail to win the day she dies by fire."

Diogenes seemed grieved. "She was a sweet lass and she gave me sweet milk to drink, and she showed me the way to the wonder-world of the wood. If I were something more of a fool and something less of a wiseacre I would champion her myself." And he swelled his lean body and strutted, ludicrously martial.

"Away, fool!" Theron said, angrily, for the fantastic figure vexed him.

But Diogenes was not to be offended.

"Nay, now," he hummed, benignly. "You are short with me, yet my brain bubbles with all the wit of the elder world. When I woke this morn in the green wood, a bird sang in my ear and his song told me to go down to Syracuse and creep into the King's garden; and because I am wise enough to know that the birds are wiser than I, why, I came, but I did not think it was to see a fair maid murdered. I would have liked such a sight once, but now I do not, so I will go and sleep in the rose-garden. That is what the fairies told me to do, and they will tell me when to wake. Courage, ancient! courage!"

He paused for a moment, with his head cocked on one side, eying the executioner compassionately, yet listening with pricked, bat-wing ears. Some sound startled him, for he suddenly stirred like a startled hare, and, stooping, scuttled with incredible swiftness into the shelter of the royal gardens, where he was soon lost to sight.

Theron sighed as if his heart would break. "The very fool pities me. I am grown old and weak and have no hope."

Even as he spoke the sound of the footsteps that had scared away Diogenes grew louder, and Hieronymus emerged from the archway and came to Theron.

"Come," Hieronymus said. "Some unfamiliar gentleness in the King permits you to see your daughter. Go at once. The jailer will admit you."

Theron bowed his head. "Your blessing and your prayers," he said. Then he rose and moved slowly to the archway and disappeared.

Hieronymus looked after him thoughtfully. "Oh," he mused, "that a poor priest's blessing might be as potent as a great King's curse!"

At that moment a great trumpet sounded, the signal to admit the people of Syracuse to the royal gardens. Hieronymus could hear the eager shouts and the tramp of hurrying feet. Sadly he turned and followed Theron to the cell where Perpetua lay.

The arena was not long empty. Soon the human flood poured over its sand, babbling, shouting, eager to get seated.

"Hurry, dame, hurry!" cried one citizen to his mate. "'Tis first come first served, and there is a rare scrambling for the seats."

"I wish," grumbled another, "the King had given us leave to enter the gardens earlier. We could have sat here cosily, eating and drinking till the sport began."

"Nay," philosophized a third, "kings have their whimsies like the rest of the world and love to make folk uncomfortable."

"Humph!" said a stalwart fellow as he sped. "If I had an odd life or two to spare I would strike a stroke for the child."

"Ay," grunted his companion, "and be damned for your pains if she be no better than a black witch."

"I cannot believe it," stalwart said, stoutly.

His companion was positive.

"They say there's no mortal doubt of the matter. She fondles a black cat, her familiar, and straddles a broomstick for a sky-ride when the wind is howling."

A listener commented briskly. "Nay, then it is no worse than very well that she should die. For my part, I cannot abide cats since my neighbor's grimalkin stole my sausage."

And so they hurried on gossiping, a stream of humanity climbing to its appointed places. Languidly through the crowd moved Lycabetta with her women.

"Truly," Lycabetta said to Lysidice, "the King is ever a good friend to us. We shall sit in the royal quarter and see as well as any of the courtly wantons. It is a warm day, but I swear I shall feel a cold at my heart till I can warm my palms at the girl blazing."

"Have you no pity for her?" Lysidice asked.

Lycabetta laughed. "Why should I, you green ape? She is our enemy. If there were many such as she in the world we might as well haul down our sign, for we should not have a bed to lie on."

"'Tis said the Lord Hildebrand is the accuser," Glycerium observed.

"Yea," Lycabetta answered, "and sure of victory. I thought he would have visited me last night."

"He husbands himself for the combat," Hypsipyle suggested.

Lycabetta tapped her woman in playful anger with her fan.

"You wrong him, minion," she said. Her eyes suddenly brightened, for she saw Sigurd Olafson making his way towards her through the press. There was a look of constraint in his blue eyes as he greeted her.

"Loveliest lady," he said, hesitatingly, "I have some unlovely news for you."

Lycabetta raised her eyebrows in surprise. The salutation was unexpected.

"What grief do you herald?" she questioned, with an air of unconcern.

Sigurd spoke with evident embarrassment.

"Lady, the King commands that you and all your women return to Naples with the first fair wind."

For a moment the words shook Lycabetta and her eyes flashed anger. Then instantly she recovered her composure. She knew that it would be useless to appeal against any command of the King, the King who had not visited her now for more than a month.

"Is it so?" she said. "Then be it so. Naples or Sicily, what does it matter so long as there is sun to warm the blood?"

The blue eyes of Sigurd Olafson burned bright with passion.

"I will follow you to Naples," he said, in a low, eager voice.

Lycabetta's eyes answered his passion, Lycabetta's voice replied to his desire.

"You will be very welcome, blue eyes," she promised. "But to-day at least we may stay and see the show?"

"Surely," answered Sigurd. "Let me guide you to your places. They are of the best." And he conducted her and her women to the tier where their seats had been set apart.



XVIII

ORDEAL OF BATTLE

By this time the vast amphitheatre, that was capable of seating twenty-four thousand people, if Syracuse had only had twenty-four thousand people to offer it, had swallowed up the eager crowds, and the arena lay bare, save for the little wooden platform with its scarlet stain. There was a flourish of royal music. Cries of "The King! The King!" ran from lip to lip; many soldiers marched across the arena from the royal gardens, and in their midst, on an open litter, was carried the likeness of the King, attended by a brilliant cloud of courtiers. As it seemed to all the thousand watching eyes, the King descended from his litter and mounted, amid salutations, to the enclosure on the amphitheatre where his throne was set up, and seating himself upon the throne gazed steadfastly at the arena, where now assistant executioners were piling the faggots close about the platform.

Not far from the King the court ladies babbled.

"Do they need so much wood to burn one little woman?" Messalinda asked, curiously, watching the executioners at their task.

Faustina chuckled maliciously.

"If she be a witch, it will take a deal of fire to frighten the devil out of her."

Soft-haired, soft-eyed Yolande gave a little, delicate shiver, for she was sensitive and fastidious.

"I hope she will not make a great noise," she said.

Faustina reassured her.

"I do not think so; they say the smoke will soon choke her."

Yolande gave a sigh of relief and settled herself down for entertainment. Over in the royal enclosure the archbishop of Syracuse turned with an obeisance to the image of the King.

"Shall we begin, sire?" he asked, and the seeming King answered him.

"Is all ready?"

"All, sire," the archbishop answered.

"Let them begin," the royal figure commanded. The archbishop bent to where Sigurd Olafson stood, below the royal enclosure.

"The King waits," he said. Sigurd instantly gave the order for the prisoner to be brought forth. There was a brief pause, then a new flourish of trumpets, and from the dark archway, that yawned like a wolf's mouth in the side of the amphitheatre, Perpetua was brought in, chained and guarded, and led in front of the royal throne. "She looked very pale," wrote an old Norman chronicler, "and very fair, and as brave as a sainted martyr."

The archbishop of Syracuse rose and addressed her.

"Woman, you are charged by the King's sainted majesty with working by witchcraft against his sovereign person, delivering him to his lips enchantment in a draught of seeming water, to the hurt of his body and the peril of his soul. If you are guilty and will confess yourself, we need not waste some precious moments in a vain contest for your sinful flesh."

Perpetua answered very quietly and very clearly, and all men in Syracuse heard what she had to say that day.

"I am not guilty. My soul is as clean of sin as on the day my mother gave me birth. I pray Heaven's forgiveness for the King."

The archbishop flushed angrily.

"Do not blaspheme," he commanded. "Then you persist in your appeal to the ordeal of battle?"

"I do appeal," Perpetua answered, firmly, "hoping that Heaven will strengthen the hand that is lifted to-day in my cause, which is God's."

The archbishop frowned.

"You are perverse and stubborn, but the law is plain and must be obeyed. Call the King's challenger."

Sigurd, raising his voice, called loudly:

"In the King's name I call on the King's challenger to appear." Rang out a great rattle of trumpets, voices hummed in expectation, and all heads turned in the direction of another archway in the amphitheatre, from which it was known that the challenger and the champion would appear.

Out of the darkness, into the bright light of the arena stepped a figure all in armor, with the visor of his helmet down, so that none could see his face. The armor was plain; the shield bore no device, but it was buzzed about in all directions that this was the Lord Hildebrand, and any doubts were answered by the assertion, patently true, that the Lord Hildebrand did not make one of the glittering group about the King. The archbishop addressed the new-comer.

"Proclaim your purpose," he commanded.

The challenger, still with his visor lowered, said in a low voice:

"In the King's name I accuse this woman of witchcraft, and will maintain that charge with my sword, if any be found bold to challenge it."

The archbishop again rose and asked:

"Does any champion answer on the woman's side?"

Out of the same archway came Theron in old and rusty armor, with the visor of his helmet up, so that all could behold his wrinkled, haggard face.

"I do," he cried. "I am her father, and I know her stainless soul. This hand that has so often dealt justice to others may now do justice for itself."

The archbishop again rose, and spoke.

"Then, by the law, opposer and opposed must do battle to the death. If the challenger gain the day, his charge is proved and the woman dies by fire. If the woman's champion win, the woman shall be counted innocent and her accuser shall die as she would have died. Let them begin."

There was a new flourish of trumpets. Then a number of soldiers ran into the arena and set up a spacious ring of short painted staves of wood, colored white and red, and linked together with thick ropes of similarly colored silk. Into this space the challenger and the champion were conducted and left facing each other, while Perpetua was led to the stake, where she mounted the platform and stood, with the piled faggots at her feet, clasping a crucifix to her breast. Father Hieronymus stood with the assistant executioners at the foot of the platform. Once again the archbishop rose, and his words seemed the only stir in the intense silence.

"Let them begin, and God defend the right."

Again the trumpets thundered, and as the sound died away champion and challenger engaged in combat. The great swords gleamed in the bright air, fell heavily on the lifted shields. All the spectators held their breath. No one expected the fight to last long; and indeed it did not last long. Everybody was confident that the challenger would easily overcome the aged champion, but everybody's confidence was ill-founded. After a few blows hotly exchanged the sword of Theron struck the helm of his enemy, and to the amazement of the spectators the King's challenger reeled and fell heavily, clattering to the ground. In a moment Theron was over him with the great sword at the fallen man's throat.

"Yield or die!" he cried, in a voice in which exultation and astonishment struggled for the mastery.

The fallen man propped himself on one arm.

"I am defeated," he gasped. "The maid is innocent."



XIX

ROBERT THE RIGHTEOUS

"Glory to God!" cried Theron, and flung away his sword. He turned and ran towards the stake, from which Perpetua was at once unfastened, and caught her in his arms. Hieronymus hurried to the side of the fallen man, whose head was now raised on the knee of one soldier, while another unfastened his helmet. All the great multitude in the arena leaned forward eagerly to see the face of Hildebrand. Only the figure like the King remained unmoved and impassive. But when the challenger's helmet was removed, the spectators saw with astonishment the twisted features of a face that they knew for the face of the fool Diogenes.

A strange murmur of surprise rippled along the tiers. Sigurd Olafson called out the name in wonder to the archbishop.

"The fool Diogenes!"

Theron, leaving Perpetua, leaned over his antagonist and muttered, "The fool Diogenes!"

All over the great amphitheatre the words ran, "The fool Diogenes!"

The archbishop turned to the kingly image:

"It was an ill chance, sire, that found you a fool for a champion, but there's no help now. By the laws of Sicily the field is fought and won."

Robert, lying conquered on the ground, gasped out one word:

"Perpetua!"

Hieronymus beckoned to Perpetua, who came and knelt by the side of the seeming fool. Her senses were in a whirl, and, hardly conscious, she stooped and listened to the words which Robert whispered eagerly into her ear:

"You must not misread me; you must know why I have done what I have done. My arm was too weak to wield a weapon in your defence, but my vile body might well be flung away to rescue yours. Hildebrand is dead. Hieronymus found me a suit of armor. I came as the challenger, resolved to fall and die."

"I knew this," confirmed Hieronymus; "but I was pledged to keep his secret."

Perpetua looked into Robert's eyes tenderly. What could be said of devotion such as his?

"You must not die," she whispered.

Robert shook his head.

"The law demands my death as the very seal of your innocence. But it is better to die thus in your service than to live forever having wronged you in a thought."

Fighting emotions swayed Perpetua's soul. Hardly knowing what she said, she spoke quickly:

"You must not die. Your life is very dear to me. I love you." Her cheeks flamed crimson as she spoke, but her lips and her eyes were steadfast.

Robert shook his head.

"You could not love this monster. You pity me and you call your pity love."

All Syracuse watched and wondered at the colloquy between the redeemed maid and the mysterious fool who had taken the place of the Lord Hildebrand. Now they saw Perpetua spring to her feet.

"I love you," she said to Robert, "for I love your noble soul."

She left him and advanced to the place where the figure like the King sat. "King," she cried, so that all could hear, "give me this man!"

Instantly the figure like the King answered her:

"He is yours if you love him."

Robert staggered to his feet and limped over to where Perpetua stood.

"I love him," Perpetua said, proudly.

Robert saw the eyes of the kingly likeness fixed upon him, and he knew that they asked him if he was content to escape death by this gate.

"No, no, no!" he cried, in answer. He turned to Perpetua. "I should be baser than I have ever been if I took you at your word. Though no man may recognize me for a king over men, at least there is one realm in which I will rule. Here I am king, and while reason rules in my brain and my blood runs in its channels, I will live a king and die a king, king over myself and my own evil passions. Take me to my death."

There came no change over the face of him who seemed the King; only his eyes, terribly bright, were fixed on Robert's eyes and seemed to flood them with light. Robert turned to the platform and mounted the steps. Perpetua gave a cry and would have fallen but that Theron caught her in his arms. Hieronymus held out his crucifix to the doomed man. One of the executioners, who had a torch in readiness, stooped and applied its flame to the piled-up faggots. Red tongues of fire licked at the dry wood.

Even then it seemed to Robert as if again the great darkness came over the world, a darkness in which nothing was visible save the shining shape of an angel. And the angel spoke and the voice was the voice that had spoken the words of doom on the mountain summit.

"Robert of Sicily, purified as by fire, be once again a king, be now and ever a loyal soldier of the living God. It was Heaven's will that I should do the wicked deeds you dreamed of. But Heaven now annuls them and they are as if they had not been."

The darkness vanished, and Robert found himself standing in the arena, and he knew that he was his old self again, clad in the garments of a king. At his feet the fool Diogenes knelt a suppliant; the royal throne was vacant. All in the great amphitheatre were cheering, for they believed that they had seen the King descend from his throne, enter the arena, and order the liberation of Diogenes. And that belief they cherished to the end. But Robert looked into Perpetua's eyes and read there that she knew better. He caught her hands.

"The hunter wooed you, the King wronged you, the fool served you, the man loves you. Queen of the world, make me indeed a king."

And Perpetua answered him.

"I love the man."

This is how Perpetua became Queen of Sicily, and how Robert in his long and happy reign won and wore the title of Robert the Righteous.

THE END



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors in the original book; otherwise, every effort has been made to be faithful to the author's words and intent.