The Hill of Venus
voice of the body, hushed so long, began to clamor; the long restraint
threatened to break down the self-imposed barriers with its own sheer
weight. A strange dizziness had seized him; everything seemed to swim
in a blood-red haze. It was only by degrees that reason returned; the
phantom of desire faded before the memory of Ilaria.
Almost dazed he crossed the mere, expecting every moment to hear the
ferryman recalled and resolved to resist to the utmost any attempt to
stop his departure.
But nothing happened. An enchanted silence encompassed the castle,
unbroken even by the voices of the slowly awakening dawn.
Thousand and one thoughts, desires and fears rushed through
Francesco's brain, as he rode down into the picturesque valley, which
encompassed the feudal masonry where he had spent the night. And with
the memory of the white arms, which had held him in their close
embrace, with the memory of the thirstily parted lips, which had
well-nigh kissed him to his doom, with the memory of the haunting eyes
which had discoursed to him a secret he was never to know, an
indescribable longing for happiness stole into his heart, a longing
which made him utterly oblivious of time and space and caused him to
spur his steed to greater haste in the desire to arrive at his goal.
Little as Francesco had mingled with the world, inexperienced as he
was in mundane matters, his instinct had not been slow to inform him
that Raniero was leading a double life, that he was deceiving Ilaria,
who perchance trusted him utterly. The certainty of the indisputable
fact struck him with quick pang. Was Ilaria awake to the truth? And
what had been the effect of the stunning revelation?
In the ban of these conflicting emotions, in which love and doubt
alternately held the balance in the scales, Francesco rode towards
Circe's land.
On all sides lonely stretches of country expanded before the solitary
horseman's eyes. With each onward step the scene changed, and
Francesco's abstracted gaze roamed far away to the distant mountain
ranges of the Basilicata, revealing reaches of fantastic peaks and
stretching away in long aerial lines towards the sun-fraught plains of
Calabria.
Though he pushed onward with restless determination, Francesco was
compelled to devote the hours of high-noon to rest and refreshments in
this cloister or that, which he came upon during his journey. For the
glare of the August sun was intense, and though the nights were cool,
the roads were infested by all manner of outlaws, making progress slow
and hazardous.
While at a Cistercian monastery during the siesta hours on the third
day of his journey, the first tidings of a battle between the hosts of
Anjou and Conradino reached Francesco's ear. The armies had met at
Tagliacozzo in Apulia--so a peasant had informed the monks--but the
outcome of the conflict was shrouded in mystery. The monks, chiefly
old men, who had long cast the vanities of the world behind them, met
Francesco's eager questionings with mute shrugs. The quarrels between
pope and emperor meant nothing to them.
Ever southward he rode, until, breasting the moors, he saw the
strange, tumultuous magic of the Maremmas drifting into the vague
distance of night.
The summer woods in the valleys were as a rolling sea, carved out of
ebony. Hill rose beyond hill, each more dim and misty and alluring. A
great silence held. Enchantment brooded over Terra di Lavoro.
The last day of his journey had come.
The torrid plains of Torre del Greco dreamed deserted in the glow of
the noonday sun. The leaves of the palms and the branches of the
mimosa hung limp and motionless. The sky was as a burning sapphire.
The glare of the sun was almost insufferable, as it fell over the arid
expanse of the Neapolitan Campagna to the pencilled line of the
southern horizon, where a long circle divided the misty shimmering
dove-color of the Tyrrhene Sea from the pale, sun-fraught sky.
The region, as far as the eye could reach, was deserted. Almost it
seemed as if the spell of a magician had banished at once all life and
sound. Mala Terra the inhabitants called the stretches beyond the Cape
of Circe, where, grim and impregnable upon its chalk cliffs, rose
Astura, the sinister stronghold of the Frangipani, silent, bleached
against the background of the restless waves, which laved its base.
With a shudder Francesco skirted the dreary castello, and the name of
Ilaria flew to his lips. Was it upon yonder lonely castle height she
was waiting Raniero's return; was it up yonder the thread of her
destiny was interminably spinning itself out in self-consuming,
wasting monotony? Was she, who had been created for happiness, slowly
pining away, remote from all she loved and held dear on earth? Or had
the lure of the Siren land drawn her into the vortex of life and the
passions of the sun-kissed shores? Francesco shivered despite the
noonday heat, and, fondling the ears of his steed, urged it onward
over the rocky expanse.
The sun was low in the heavens when Francesco came within sight of
Naples. From Castellamare to Posilippo the graceful lines of the gulf
rose on the horizon; the blue cone of Vesuvius was wreathed in smoke;
Resina and Portici reposed snugly at its base. Eagerly Francesco's eye
scanned the outlines of spires and domes as he rode towards the city.
The surrounding hillsides were scarlet and purple, gold and bronze,
and great masses of green where ilex-trees and acanthus grew. The
wine-pressers were shouting gaily. There was so much light and life in
the world, and he felt almost as if he had lost them in the shadow of
the cloister.
Military rule, he saw, as he drew near, obtained in the place. To the
challenge of the sentry at the gate of San Gennaro he gave his name,
and "From Viterbo" repeated the soldier, calling the news back over
his shoulder.
"From Viterbo!" the word passed on. Through the arched gate, Francesco
could see a clustering confusion of people. There was an aspect of
reckless merriment about the crowded streets.
A tall horseman, just inside the gate, beckoned, and Francesco rode
slowly through the arch.
"From Viterbo?" repeated a big man significantly. "Well, friend, you
bear no olive! Hardly the days these for the olive of peace to
circulate in Italy!"
A snicker ran through the crowd.
"But, nevertheless, we are free to perceive that you are a messenger,
and all the more welcome!"
"I know not for whom you take me!" returned Francesco. "But--"
"Are you not a messenger?" interrupted the large man.
A strange audacity possessed Francesco of a sudden.
"Certainly I am a messenger," he returned fearlessly,--"but not to
your rebellious city, Messere!"
The last part of his speech was either not heard, or not heeded, for
at the first there was loud applause. In the midst of the clamor,
Francesco was endeavoring to make himself understood, but finding his
efforts futile, he resigned himself to silence, and was carried onward
with the crowd, calm as the atom at the centre of a cyclone, yet
noting all the incidents of the way. He watched the streets with their
luxuriant picturesqueness, so different in appearance from the severe
and heroic style of Viterbo. At last Francesco accosted the big
horseman, inquiring the direction of the palace. Thereupon the latter
became more civil and offered to accompany the stranger in person.
This innuendo Francesco thought best to decline, giving as his reason
that he intended putting up at an inn, it being too late to see the
Regent.
Having received the desired intelligence, Francesco abandoned himself
for the nonce to the charm of the hour, the magic of the place. As he
rode leisurely through the streets, crowds came and went from Santa
Maria. Now and then the note of a mandolin was heard. All was life,
mirth, happiness! How fair this city,--the city that seemed to be girt
only by lilies! The flower-girl, nodding and smiling, distributed her
violets, embedded in geraniums. The blind beggar touched his harp; in
the distance were heard the rhythmic strains of a Barcarole.
Over the whole gulf a faint, transparent mist had arisen.
The magnolias shone white in the dying light. The soughing of the wind
through the leafy boughs sounded like the faint music of Aeolian
harps.
The dying light touched the walls of houses and palaces with mellow
hues, then faded away before the swift southern night. Here and there
torches gleamed; then the city grew silvery in the moonlight which
flooded the heavens.
As in a dream Francesco rode in the direction indicated by the
horseman. Again he was to enter the sphere of his former life; again
he was to move in the sphere of a court, again he was to taste the
life of the past. It was the same,--yet not the same. Then he had been
happy, care-free, loving and beloved. Now he stood alone, looking from
a frosty elevation upon the joys of life! Would the dark phantoms of
the past vanish, here in this radiant air, under this cloudless,
sun-fraught sky?
The inn, where he took lodging, was built after the manner of the
thirteenth century, in a hollow square. It was of white stone, simple,
harmonious, with quaint carvings and ornamentations. The Byzantine
arches of the cloistered walks were its chief beauty, disclosing a
vista of the garden with its orange trees and grape-vines; its waving
rose bushes, which encircled the ancient fountain. A long parapet of
dusky tiles left open the beautiful view of the Bay of Naples.
After Francesco's steed had been properly cared for, after he had
refreshed himself with a bath and had partaken of food and drink, he
felt irresistibly drawn into the vortex of gladsome humanity, which
enlivened the streets towards the Vice-regal palace.
What an enchanted land this was, contrasted with the shadowy courts of
Viterbo, that hill-encircled city with her dusky shrubbery, her
funereal cypresses!
How fair were the flowery fields, the marble villas, encircling the
bay! The wonderful glow of color seemed like fairyland enchantment!
The gaily dressed crowds that thronged streets and piazzas, the
brilliant processions, continuing way into the night, the mass of
scarlet, blue and gold, which flashed out from under the torch-light,
the music, the tumult, the laughter, the fantastic, the freedom:--here
life was indeed but a merry holiday.
The night was radiant. Sky and houses and bay were aglow with her
silver beams. Merry groups were passing to and fro. There was music,
singing, happiness,--all the gentleness of a perfect night.
Francesco walked more slowly in the moonlight. Suddenly a couple
passed him: a man and a woman. The woman wore a crimson cloak, and in
passing she looked up into his face. It was only a moment's meeting;
but all the color had faded from Francesco's cheeks. He looked back:
they had disappeared among the throngs.
For a moment he stood still as one paralyzed. Could his eyes have
deceived him? Impossible! He could never mistake that face, nor was
there another like it on earth! He faltered, stopped, recovered
himself, then retraced his steps in search of the two. But his efforts
were utterly in vain. As one dazed he returned to the inn. The convent
bells of Santa Lucia, pealing the midnight hour, found him pacing up
and down within the narrow confines of his chamber. Now and then he
paused and looked out into the night. Only when the noise and
merriment had died to silence he sought his couch, but it was long ere
sleep would come to him. For in the woman with the unknown cavalier,
who had passed him without recognition, he had recognized Ilaria
Caselli.
CHAPTER II
THE LADY OF SHADOWS
It was early on the following day when Francesco took the direction of
the palace. The city appeared gay and bright; the beautiful isles of