The Hill of Venus
The Frangipani's eyes were away from Francesco, directed towards the
green curtain that covered the dais door. For a while nothing
happened. Then Francesco heard a sound like the creaking of hinges.
The curtain stirred and bulged, with the pressing against it of some
one's body.
Francesco's blood froze as, in the one who came through, he recognized
Ilaria.
He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she should cry out, and
she moved so closely by him, that he could have almost touched her,
yet he feared to betray his own presence.
Ilaria swept the hall and then came to a point where Raniero sat
motionless as some huge beast, ready to spring upon its prey. Her face
was tense and watchful, her lips pressed tight, her eyes steady,
though afraid.
In the next moment she and Raniero looked at each other in silence.
Raniero was the first to speak.
"Madonna," he sneered, "I have waited for your homecoming."
Ilaria stood by the wall. To Francesco she appeared calm and
unflurried; but her knees were trembling and there was fear in her
eyes.
Ilaria made no reply to the taunting voice of her lord, and Raniero,
after having waited for some time, continued:
"You have no answer, Madonna? Shall I tell you what you already
know?"--
Ilaria regarded him out of shadowy eyes, then flashed:
"Speak out, and save me riddles!"
There was a suggestion of scorn in her voice. Raniero, moistening his
lips, frowned.
"For your good welcome I give you thanks," he snarled.
"What brought you here?" she queried.
"If it had been your beauty, Madonna--"
With a gesture, she cut him short.
"Your courtesy bribes me to silence!"
"What of obedience?"
She took a backward step.
"To you?"
Her voice, always low, quivered with scorn.
"Are you not the Lady of the Frangipani?" he replied with a brutal
laugh, while his eyes grew dull as treacherous water.
"You need not remind me!"
"Your memory will serve us both. Astura awaits you!"
Ilaria shrank against the wall, while, with a swift movement, Raniero
stepped between her and the curtain.
"Astura!" she flashed, horror in her eyes. "Never! Never!"
The Frangipani eyed her ominously.
"I knew not the abode was so distasteful to you!" he said with an
evil leer. "There are no recreant monks in Astura, it is true! Who
shall drink after me?" he cried with the gesture of one throwing up a
libation.
"Why are you here?" Ilaria summoned up her courage.
"To take you back!" he hissed brutally.
She raised her hands, as if to ward off a blow.
"Oh, not that,--not that--"
"No?" He took a step towards her, feasting his eyes on the great
beauty of his wife. "By San Gennaro! I knew not how beautiful you
were!"
Ilaria crept along the wall. He was watching her as a hawk watches its
prey. He made a sudden lurch, and missed her. She uttered a smothered
outcry. Raniero, being sure of himself, was playing with his victim.
But as he reached out his arms, she flashed a poniard in his face.
With a hoarse outcry Raniero seized his sword and rushed upon her.
Only the table was between them and, charging straight, the Frangipani
overturned it, as a bull might crash through a hurdle of osier twigs.
The table struck Ilaria's heel, as she turned to run, and she faltered
under the flash of Raniero's upraised sword. Francesco stood still and
stared. It was beyond belief that he would strike her. But strike her
he did, even though it was with the flat of the blade. She was down
under his feet, and it seemed to Francesco that he trampled upon her.
His heart gave a great bound in him, as seizing a club, which was the
only weapon within his reach, he charged, though still weak from the
effect of his wound, into the hall.
Raniero wheeled round, stood stock-still and stared at Francesco, as
one would at a ghost. But the latter's raised club was not a matter
inspiring reflection. Francesco spoke not a word, but there was
something in his eyes that caused the other to draw a deep breath and
to watch him narrowly.
The overturned table lay between them and, close to Raniero's feet,
lay Ilaria, a prone and twisted shape, one arm flung out.
Francesco leaped the table, swung a blow, missed and swerved for his
life. The whistle of Raniero's sword went through the air a hair's
breadth from Francesco's thigh. Francesco sprang away, while Raniero,
holding high his shield, came forward step by step, crouching a little
and holding his sword with the blade sloping towards the floor.
Francesco gave ground as Raniero pressed him. Instinct told him that
to strike at this moment, would bring Raniero's sword stabbing upward.
The shield too was to be remembered. It was like a pent-house, reared
to break the fall of timber and stones.
Francesco's wits were working as quickly as his feet. He cast swift
glances to right and left, but never lost his grip on Raniero's eyes.
To break his guard, to close in, so steel should not count! An
overturned bench, lying beyond the long table, caught his eyes for a
moment. Francesco set his teeth and looked hard at the other,
wondering whether that side glance had betrayed the move that was in
his mind.
He turned suddenly and ran towards the dais end of the hall, where the
bench lay, leaving Raniero crouching under the shelter of his shield.
He heard the Frangipani roar at him, spitting out a vile epithet, as
he came charging up the hall, his eyes blazing with hate. Dropping his
club, Francesco raised the bench above his head. It was heavy, and his
own strength hardly equal to the task, but in his frenzy he noted it
not. He saw Raniero blunder to a standstill, raise his shield and
lower his head like a ram meeting the butting pate of a rival. With
all his might Francesco hurled the oaken bench at him. It struck
Raniero on the crown of the helmet and sent him sprawling on the
ground.
Francesco dashed for his club. Raniero, rising on one elbow, stabbed
at him and missed. The club came down upon the back of his head. He
fell forward, shooting out shield and sword, and lay still. For a
moment Francesco stood over him with raised club. But when he did not
move, he rushed towards the spot where Ilaria lay.
With a moan he sprang over the table and bent over the prostrate form.
She lay with her body twisted, one cheek pressed against the stones,
her right arm under her bosom. He touched her brow, her face, her
fingers. She was breathing; the transparent lids were closed, and a
peaceful expression was on her face, as on that of a slumbering child.
He folded her in his arms, pressed his lips upon the lips of the woman
and whispered a thousand endearing epithets into her ears. As he did
so, she opened her eyes.
Bewildered, she gazed about for a moment, her eyes wandering from
Francesco to the apparently lifeless form on the floor of the hall.
"Take me away!" she moaned. "Take me away! Is he dead?"
A great awe had come into her eyes.
"Only stunned!" replied Francesco, inquiring with great misgiving if
she was hurt, yet preferring to let her attribute her fall to an
accident rather than to reveal the truth.
But she shook her head, as he held it between his hands.
"Take me away," she said with a heart-broken sob. "The hour of which I
have so often dreamed has come. Take me to San Nicandro by the Sea."--
With all the love he bore her, he begged her to remain, to be near
him, not to leave him thus to darkness and despair.
"Your river has reached the sea!" she said with a heart-broken smile.
"As you love me, do as I ask!"
She felt strong enough to walk, only a slight bruise bearing witness
to the Frangipani's violence. Leaving him where he lay, they slowly
retraced their steps, when wild shouts and cries of alarm were wafted
to them from above. The frenzied revellers were rushing to and fro in
the palace; from the city came the clangor of bells, and the loud
blare of the wardens' horns from the gates.
The cause was not slow revealing itself.
An immense black cloud, palpitating with lightnings, had settled on
the cone of Vesuvius. The sky had cleared; and the moon, changed to
blood-red hues, hung like a rayless sun midway in the nocturnal
heavens. Suddenly the air became hot to suffocation. For a moment deep
silence reigned. Then, a sharp report as of a thunder-clap in closest
proximity shook the earth. A gigantic stream of lava was belched forth
from the smoke-wreathed mountain, the air was obscured by a rain of
mud and brimstone, which fell far and wide in Torre del Greco and was
carried to Naples. Like a thousand fiery serpents the lava coiled down
the sides of the mountain; a stench of sulphur filled the air, and
giant tongues of flame, leaping upward through the rugged crater,
lighted the landscape to the remotest horizon.
While, fascinated by the awful spectacle, Francesco and Ilaria gazed
spellbound towards Vesuvius, another incident added to the terror of
the night. Shrill and insistent from the summits of Astura blared the
horn of the warden, waking the slumbering echoes of Torre del Greco.
And suddenly a fleet of many ships came steering round the Cape of
Circe, heading for the open sea; while Astura's ramparts bristled with
spear points.
Francesco turned to the nearest bystander, pointing to the castello.
There was a great fear in the eyes of him who made reply.
"Bribed by the Pontiff the Frangipani have delivered Conradino into
the hands of Anjou. Behold yonder--the fleet of Charles' Admiral,
Robert of Lavenna, carrying the captive king and his companions to
their doom!"--
Wide-eyed, pale as death, Francesco and Ilaria stared at each other,
neither trusting themselves to speak. Then a half-smothered sob broke
from the woman's lips, as she leaned her head on his shoulder.
A strange calm had settled over Francesco as he gazed from Ilaria
towards the ramparts of Astura.
There was a moment's silence between them, then he raised himself to
his full height as he turned to her.
"Hitherto I have served God! Now I will serve my own soul!"
End of Book the Fourth.
Book the Fifth
THE APOSTACY
CHAPTER I
A LEGEND
Out into the open caverns of the night Francesco and Ilaria rode.
Their eyes still roved from the fading city to the great ships
stealing over the water. Their tall masts rose against the last
gleaming cranny of the west. Beyond them the mountains towered solemn
and stupendous, fringed with aureoles of transient fire. Even in the
half-gloom they could see a vague glittering movement on the slopes
behind Astura, a glitter that told of armed men marching from the
hills, while shadowy ships seemed striding, solemn and silent, out of
the night. A thousand oars seemed to churn the water. Sudden out of
the gloom leaped the cry of a horn, its voice echoing from the hills.
A vague clamor came from the shore. In Astura torches were gleaming
like red moths in a garden. From the castle the alarm bell boomed and
clashed; then like giants' ghosts the ships crept out to sea, sable
and strange against the fading west.
As Francesco turned, sick at heart, he met Ilaria's eyes. Her sweet,
proud face was near him once again, overtopping his manhood. The
moonbeams played upon her dusky hair.
The silence was intense. Only the pounding of their horses' feet beat
insistent clamor into the stillness of the night.
The trees and bushes began to mass themselves into denser shadow
against the tinge of ghostly starlight.
Now her face was very close to his.
"At times I feel as if we had lived very, very long ago,--ages and
ages ago, when the world was young and only the moon and the stars
were old. None walked upon the earth save we two and the world and its
beauty was for us alone. Dusky forests covered the land, where strange