The Hill of Venus
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The Hill of Venus
THE HILL OF VENUS
BY
_NATHAN GALLIZIER_
AUTHOR OF
"Castel del Monte," "The Sorceress of Rome,"
and "The Court of Lucifer"
PICTURES BY E. H. GARRETT
DECORATIONS BY P. VERBURG
L. G. PAGE & COMPANY
BOSTON
MDCCCCXIII
_Copyright, 1913_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, March, 1913
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
"_Thou art all shrouded, in a gauzy veil,
Sombrous and cloudlike, all except that face
Of subtle loveliness, though weirdly pale.
Thy soft, slow-gliding footsteps leave no trace
And stir no sound. Thy drooping hands infold
Their frail white fingers, and unconscious hold
A poppy-wreath: thine anodyne of grace._
_Thy hair is like a twilight round thy head,
Thine eyes are shadowed wells from Lethe-stream,
With drowsy, subterranean waters fed;
Obscurely deep without a stir or gleam.
The gazer drinks in from them with his gaze
An opiate charm, to curtain all his days,
A passive languor of oblivious dream._"
--_JAMES THOMSON._
CONTENTS
BOOK THE FIRST
The Sacrifice
I. The Summons
II. The Pledge
III. Vistas
IV. Proserpina
V. Waves of Destiny
VI. The Broken Troth
VII. The Passage
BOOK THE SECOND
The Pilgrimage
I. The Vigil of Santa Maria Assunta
II. The Passing of Conradino
III. Tonsure and Thorn
IV. The Call
V. The Dells of Vallombrosa
VI. The Duke of Spoleto
VII. Rome!
BOOK THE THIRD
The Bondage
I. The White Lady
II. The Feast at the Capitol
III. Quaint Wayfarers
IV. The Pawn of the Church
V. The Red Tower
BOOK THE FOURTH
The Passion
I. Siren Land
II. The Lady of Shadows
III. An Interlude
IV. The Hill of Venus
V. Twilight Waters
VI. The Crimson Night
BOOK THE FIFTH
The Apostacy
I. A Legend
II. Memories
III. The Grail of Love
IV. Dead Leaves
V. The Abbey of Farfa
VI. Retribution
VII. The Quest
VIII. The Anchoress of Narni
IX. The Dawn
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"He stared spellbound"
"Ilaria had interposed herself between the two"
"He caught her to him with all the old-time love"
"'They lied,' he cried. 'Give me but life'"
Book the First
THE SACRIFICE
The Hill of Venus
BOOK THE FIRST
CHAPTER I
THE SUMMONS
It was the time of the summer solstice in the year 1266.
Evening was falling on the Basilicata, the shadowy, hazy twilight of
the fading midsummer day. The pale green leaves of the olive-branches
hung limply from their boughs, but the great willows which drooped
over the meandering tide of the Garigliano now and then stirred a
feathery twig in response to the delicate touch of the evening breeze.
The sun had entered the waters of ancient Liris for his evening bath,
leaving his robes of crimson and gold draped in the western sky.
Everything in this fabled land had grown enchanted in the sunset glow.
The plane-trees drooped their leaves, as if wrapped in silent dreams.
In the poppy-fields the shrill insect voices were hushed, wan presage
of the coming dusk. The Liris rolled his sunset crimson gold between
the broken scenery of the hills, and the dark forests of the Murgie
spread waving shadows over the sun-kissed Apulian plains.
To eastward the towering promontory of Monte Gargano, with the
shrines of St. Michael, patron of the Sea, rose sheer and precipitous
from the restless element which laved its base. The milk-white Apulian
towns of Foggia, Trani and Bitonto faded into the horizon to
southward, and the shadowy outlines of Castel del Monte, rising upon a
conical hill in the remote Basilicata, terminated the view to
westward.
Out of the green dusk of forest aisles in which lost sunbeams
quivered, there rode a horseman into the shadowy silence of the
deepening twilight.
Horse and rider alike seemed to feel the sway of the hour. Their
appearance did not so much as startle a bird, which from the boughs of
a carob-tree was languidly carolling a slumber song, that melted away
in the purple twilight without a single vibration. Rider and steed
drooped; the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant grass,
into which the tired hoofs sank at every step.
The solitary traveller seemed lost in contemplation of the scenery, as
he now and then paused in the shadow of the dwarfed plane and
carob-trees. Round their grotesquely gnarled trunks vines clung in
fantastic tapestries of living green, between which the path seemed to
wind towards strange twilight worlds. Slowly, as if under the weight
of some heavy spell, the horseman continued upon the deserted road,
when he was suddenly roused from his abstracted reveries by the sound
of the Angelus, cleaving the stillness with echoing chimes.
Reining in his steed with a convulsive start, which caused the
startled animal to rear and champ at the bit, he paused and looked
across the vale. He had reached a point at which the forest descended
into one of those deep ravines from which arise the rocks on which
most of the monasteries of Central Italy are built. On the brow of the
opposite hill, arising from a grove of cypresses and pines, the airy
shafts of the cloisters of San Cataldo pierced the translucent air.
The uplifted cross caught the last rays of the sun, whose misty,
crimson ball was slowly sinking below the world's dark rim.
Slowly the horseman started on the winding descent into the valley
below, thence on the steep climb of the opposite heights, passing
numerous groups of peasants, in grotesque, gaily tinted garbs, who
stood or knelt round the wayside shrine of a saint, their bronzed
countenances aglow with fervor and religious zeal. Some pilgrims,
known by bearing the rosemary branch, were visible among the trees in
the background.--
Francesco Villani was tall and of slender stature. His face possessed
almost classic regularity of features. Hair of chestnut brown,
pointing to an extraction not purely Italian, clustered round the high
forehead. His eyes, gazing wistfully from the well-poised head, were
the brown eyes of a dreamer.
His age might have been reckoned at twenty-five. His appearance and
bearing were those of one bred in the sphere of a court. His garb
consisted of a russet-colored tunic, fastened with a belt of embossed
leather studded with gold, particolored hose, encased in leather
buskins, and a cap with a slanting plume, the ensemble denoting a page
of some princely household.
A shadowy wilderness encompassed the ascent to the cloisters, whose
white walls were sharply outlined against the greenish-blue of the
sky. The scene which on all sides met the youth's gaze seemed almost
unreal. Laden with perfume was the air, of jessamine, of styrax, of
roses heavy in the breathless evening glow. Here and there, under
drooping branches, he passed a wooden cross, rudely carved, marking
the resting-place of some unknown pilgrim, or early martyr of the
faith. Wandering ivy wound its tendrils round the faded or
half-effaced inscriptions, and ilex foliage drooped thickly over the
Memento Mori on the roadside.
The hour added to the beauty of the scene.
A silver moon, hovering midway in the eastern sky, began to
scintillate with trembling lustre on the dreaming world below. An
intermittent breeze now and then swayed the tops of the stately
holm-oaks, wafting the fragrance of almond-trees and oleander along
alleys bordered by yew-trees. A nightingale poured forth its plaintive
song from the shelter of branch-shadowed thickets, and from the
high-domed chapel of the cloisters came the muffled chant of the
monks, borne along on the wings of the evening breeze.
At last the summit was reached.
Francesco stopped before the massive gates of San Cataldo.
With a quick tightening of the lips he dismounted. Then, without a
second's pause, he seized upon the rope which sounded a gong in the
porter's lodge.
"Who is it that would enter?" drawled a surly voice, quaverous with
age.
Francesco, with a twitch of the lips, grasped his horse's mane and
pulled it, till the astonished creature gave forth a neigh of protest,
at the same time rearing violently.
Then, looking up, he shouted:
"One who would see the Prior without delay."
Forthwith, the wicket was pulled back, and the weazened countenance of
Fra Lorenzo, the porter, appeared in the opening.
"You would see the Prior," he gibbered, peering through the dusk upon
the belated caller, and adding with the loquaciousness of old age: "If
you are he the Prior expects, you have indeed need of haste."
With this enigmatical speech the small window above was shut.
A moment or two later the heavy bronze gates of San Cataldo swung
slowly inward, admitting Francesco Villani and his steed. A
lay-brother, who appeared at the same time from an inner court, took
charge of the latter, while the youth followed his guide, till they
stood directly in front of the great stone church, which towered, like
a huge cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness. The chant of
the monks, which had fallen on Francesco's ear as he climbed the
height, had ceased. Deep silence reigned in San Cataldo; only a dim
light, here and there, gave evidence of life within.
Passing the door of the church, they found themselves facing the
visitor's entrance of the cloisters. Before entering, Francesco's
guide knocked sturdily at the door.
In the shadows of the dimly lighted corridor there stood a monk, tall
of stature, who seemed to await them.
He regarded the youth with gloomy curiosity, while Fra Lorenzo, bent
almost double in self-abasement, slowly retreated.
"You are Francesco Villani?" spoke the Prior. Yet it sounded not like
a question. Nor did he extend his hands in greeting.
"How is my father?" came the anxious reply.
"Follow me!" said the Prior, leading the way, and as Francesco strode
behind the tall monk, of whose stern features he had caught but a
glimpse in the shadow of the corridor, he was seized with a sudden
unaccountable dread.
The expression in the face of the Prior was unreadable, but there was
little doubt he was reluctant to speak.
They passed in silence down the refectory, then up a stone stairway,
through a maze of corridors lighted dimly with stone lamps and
torches. At last he paused before the door of a chamber which they
entered, and as soon as they appeared, all those seated within arose
of one accord, while the Prior silently pointed to a bed, under a
silken canopy, whereon lay a white, still form. And as with quickened
pulse, with quickened step, looking neither to right nor left, the
youth strode to the bedside and bent over the passive form reclining
among the cushions, all those present withdrew, flitting noiselessly
as phantoms from the room, perchance more out of respect for the dying
man than regard for the son.
"My father!" Francesco whispered softly.
Gregorio Villani, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights
Hospitallers, who, in the midst of his journey from Rome to Bari, had
been stricken down with a deadly fever, opened his eyes. In those gray
orbs the old-time fire still lingered and when he spoke, weak though
was his voice, the wonted ring of command still dominated.
"Thanks, Francesco, for your quick obedience. It came sooner than I
expected."
"It was my desire and duty," came the response, spoken almost in a