The Hill of Venus
"Indeed!" sneered the Frangipani, advancing a step closer. "Madonna
Ilaria did not hint that she preferred the society of a marplot to
that of a Frangipani!"
Francesco made an impetuous step forward, feeling for his dagger. But
Ilaria caught his arm and clung to it. The two were faintly visible in
the starlight.
The Frangipani regarded them for a moment with a contemptuous smile.
"I crave your pardon," he then turned with an ironical bow to the
girl. "I feared Messer Villani would be too fatigued after his journey
in quest of an ancestor!"
Francesco had turned pale at this palpable insult. There was no doubt
that the Frangipani had spied upon him for reasons not difficult to
surmise. But ere he could carry out his intent, but too plainly
revealed in his set features, Ilaria had interposed herself between
the two.
"Leave us!" she turned to the Frangipani with a scorn in her voice
that caused the latter to start, while she clung to Francesco's arm,
hardly less pale than he.
Raniero Frangipani regarded them for a moment in silence, tapped with
his foot, like one to whom a new idea has come, then with a long low
sound, very much like a snarl, he vanished in the gloom.
Francesco turned to the girl who still clung to him. She knew the look
on his face, but there was in it an expression she had never seen
before, penetrating, sorrowful, crushed. His breath came and went in
gasps, yet he spoke not.
"Francesco," she said after a pause, while she anxiously watched the
play of light and shadow on his face. "Listen! Messer Raniero seems to
bear you a grudge. Promise me to avoid a meeting with him! He has said
much to me, thinking thereby to win my favor. He now knows,--let that
suffice!"
"He has told you much? What has he told you?"
"You have not told me what took you away so suddenly!"
He held up his hand deprecatingly.
"A secret mission of the Viceroy's," he said blushing, as he stammered
the falsehood. Yet he could not bring himself to avow even to the girl
he loved best on earth, his father's shame. The pain of life could not
be made less, by adding more pain.
"Trust me!" he begged. "We have always felt together,--I have never
deceived you!"
"Until now!" her voice sounded shrill and strained.
"No! Ilaria, no! Were it mine to tell,--there is no secret for you in
this heart of mine. But the matter concerns another! Perhaps--in
time--"
He broke off and closed his eyes.
"I crave my youth!" cried Ilaria unheeding. "My youth, and the joy of
life which comes but once. If one will not give me what I seek--I look
elsewhere, if so I may!" Her lips trembled. "Why do you look at me
so?" she continued impatiently after an instant's pause. "Before you
came into the wood I saw your eyes, and I see them still in the dark!
What was the object of that mission?"
Francesco drooped his head, but made no reply. In a clover leaf at his
feet a dew-drop mirrored a star, breaking the light into a thousand
tiny shafts.
"I will give you your youth," he spoke at last in a low strained voice
that sounded like a broken sob.
Ilaria laid her hand on his and spoke low. Her light soft fingers were
fevered.
"What do you mean?"
"It is a simple matter!"
She gazed at him startled, terrified. Suddenly she threw her arms
about him.
"Forgive me! Forgive!"
He pressed her to his heart and kissed her dark eyes.
Then slowly they retraced their steps towards the castle.
When Francesco reached his chamber, the moon was slowly sinking
through the azure night-sky.
He noted it not. It seemed to him he was standing in the midst of a
great void. All life about him had died. And he stood there, digging
his own grave, and, as the last spade of turf flew up, the stifling
night of annihilation swallowed up the universe.
CHAPTER V
WAVES OF DESTINY
When Francesco waked on the following morning, the June sun touched
the tree-tops which bounded the western horizon with their delicate
feathery twigs. Throughout the castle of Avellino there was the hum
and murmur of life. An unusual activity prevailed; the Apulian court
was preparing to depart, as the long train of horses and jennets drawn
up in the courtyard indicated.
Francesco listened to the dim murmur of familiar voices, and the
echoes of laughter which reached his ears as he stood contemplating
himself undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron hook upon
his bedroom wall.
Of what use to deck himself in fine raiment for the last time he
should ever wear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be his garment;--what
matter if he went unkempt on the last day in the home he loved?
But the thought of the part he wished to play, came back to him. He
could not bear the thought that his companions should know of his
undoing. Despair is concealed more easily for an hour than unrest. And
so Francesco heaved a long heavy sigh and went to the great carven
chest wherein he kept his apparel.
Slowly, with the demeanor of one whose heart is not in what he does,
he arrayed himself in his splendid court costume, as if preparing to
share the gladsomeness of his companions.
He descended into the courtyard as one walking in a dream, and as in a
dream his ear caught the sounds of laughter and merriment, such as had
not resounded in the Castle of Avellino since the days of Emperor
Frederick II.
On every lip were the glad tidings: Conradino had crossed the Alps!
Conradino was about to descend into Italy with his iron hosts to claim
his heritage. Like an Angel of Vengeance he would march on to Rome,
where the arch-enemy of his house sat enthroned in the chair of St.
Peter. From all parts of Italy the Ghibellines were flocking to the
banners of the golden-haired son of Emperor Conrad IV,--Conradino, as
they lovingly called him,--the last Hohenstauffen!
From the adjoining gardens there came sounds of joyous laughter; the
music of citherns and lyres rippled enchantingly on the soft breeze of
the morning. It was as if an evil spell had been lifted from the land,
but the spell had caught one who could not shake it off, as with stony
gaze and quivering lips he walked along, noting the preparations for
events, in which he was to have no further share. He noted it not that
the grooms and lackeys, pages and squires regarded him curiously, as
if wondering at his luxurious attire, so little in keeping with the
exigencies of a tedious journey. Hardly he noted the casual greeting
of a companion who passed hurriedly, as if bent on his own
preparations. After rambling aimlessly through the demesne, he
bethought himself that the time for repast was at hand, and after
pausing here and there, as if to convince himself that what he saw was
not the phantom of a mocking dream, he returned to the castle, his
heart heavy with the weight of the impending hour.
The banqueting-hall in the Castle of Avellino presented a busy scene.
A small army of lackeys and pages was at work preparing a repast, the
last the court was to partake ere the Viceroy set out. They were to
start at dusk, owing to the extreme noon-day heat in the plains.
One great board stretched down the centre of the room, containing
places enough for every occupant of the building.
Presently the doors leading into the banqueting-hall turned inward and
a throng of court attendants filed into the dimly lighted room. These
were followed by an array of visiting mendicants, who never failed to
infest any noble household, and they had scarcely grouped themselves
standing about the board, when the Viceroy, arm in arm with Galvano
Lancia, entered the hall.
These two seated themselves at the board at once, watching the others
as they entered. The women and their escorts, who had entered laughing
and chatting among themselves, grew silent as they beheld the Viceroy
already seated. One girl, garbed in a flowing gown of sea-green
damask, entered the room alone. As she advanced to her place, after
the prescribed courtesy to the Viceroy, her dark eyes searchingly
scanned the throng of pages. Apparently she did not find among them
the one she sought.
"Donna Ilaria looks for her errant knight," whispered Galvano Lancia
into the ear of Conrad Capece.
"Has not Francesco returned?" queried the Viceroy.
"I hardly expected him before to-day, even if the Grand Master's
illness has not taken a fatal turn."
"Here are the monks!"
"And there--at the door--"
Conrad Capece followed the direction of Lancia's gaze.
"Francesco!"--he finished with a gasp, staring bewildered at the
youth's dazzling garb, richer even than the Viceroy's.
There was a sudden round of forbidden whispering among Francesco's
companions, and significant glances passed between many at the expense
of Ilaria Caselli, for Francesco's entrance had been indeed destined
to create a commotion among the members of the Vice-regal household.
Conscious to the full that all eyes were upon him, Francesco paused
for a moment in the doorway. Then he advanced slowly towards the seat
of the Viceroy, a bright smile on his lips, a feeling akin to death
freezing his heart. The grace remained still unspoken, while the
monks, eager as their worldly brethren, turned upon their stools to
gaze at the newcomer.
Francesco was clad in a tunic made of white cloth, heavily embroidered
with gold, slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky sheen
of his black embroidered hose. His belt was of black and gold, and the
dagger it held was hilted with gleaming jewels. The dark hair framed a
face as white as his garb and the feverish lustre of the deep set eyes
matched the brilliancy of the gems in his belt.
The finishing touch to Francesco's curious attire, the one which gave
the greatest significance to his appearance, was that which appeared
to link him in some way to the most beautiful girl in the hall. It was
a faded rose, which still seemed to cast a crimson shadow upon the
gleaming purity of his tunic, the rose he had discarded in his first
fit of despair, until he had bethought himself of a better course.
Under the wondering or sneering glances of all these eyes, Francesco,
seemingly unabashed, advanced to the Viceroy's chair, and, bending a
knee, muttered an apology for his delayed arrival.
Count Capece bade him arise, saying audibly:
"In truth, Francesco, you shame us all for slovenliness in dress. Sit
you here by my side! Your companions yonder have brilliancy enough in
their midst. You shall relieve our soberness!"
With an amused smile Galvano Lancia made room between himself and the
Viceroy. There was a faint color in the youth's cheeks, as he hastily
dropped into the posture for grace. If no one else at the board had
perceived it, he, at least, had understood the Viceroy's mild rebuke
for overdress, and his mortification was sincere. For Count Capece was
dressed in a sombre suit of dark green, unembroidered and unadorned.
Galvano Lancia supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, with black
hose and leather belt and pouch, and the other nobles were all attired
in garbs suitable for travel. There was a confused hum and medley of
voices, but the one all-absorbing topic of discourse was the
appearance of Conradino on Italian soil, and the hope of the
Ghibellines in the final victory of their cause.
From the first, Francesco was uncomfortable in his new place. In the
eyes of his companions, when he could catch them, he read only
curiosity, mingled in some instances with envy and malice. This was
especially the case at that part of the board where Raniero Frangipani
was seated, not too far removed from Ilaria Caselli, although the
latter had dropped her eyes, without so much as vouchsafing him a
glance.