The Hill of Venus
became apparent to Francesco. For the captain of the Provencals
treated him with a familiarity which argued for a closer acquaintance,
while the native insolence of a follower of Anjou aired itself in the
lurid mirth which the pilgrim seemed to provoke.
Their brief conversation, carried on in Provencal, accompanied with
unmistakable glances of derision towards himself that caused the hot
blood to surge to Francesco's brow, was but in part intelligible to
the latter, who was listening with an ill-assumed air of
indifference.
"What? An addition to our company?" drawled the Provencal, addressing
the pilgrim.
"Ay, faith, and a most proper," returned the latter sanctimoniously.
"Just arrived from foreign parts."
"Has he been cooling his heels in Lombardy running from the Guelphs?
Or comes he from Rimini, studying the art of cutting throats in a
refined manner?"
The pilgrim shrugged. Francesco saw him clasp his rosary, as if he was
about to mutter an Ave.
"Mayhaps from Padua, learning the art of poisoning at the
fountain-head? Eh? Or from Bologna, having joined the guild of the
coopers?"
"They say the Bolognese have tightened the hoops, since they
discovered a strange amber beverage leaking from one of their casks."
At this allusion to the attempted escape of the ill-fated King Enzo
from the city which was to remain his prison to the end, the Provencal
laughed brutally and the pilgrim, with a significant glance at his
companion, proceeded to enter the inn.
Throwing open the door of a large apartment, battered and decayed, but
showing unmistakable traces of former magnificence, he beckoned to
Francesco to enter, and, without waiting the latter's pleasure,
summoned the host, a large-nosed Calabrian with high cheek-bones and
villainous looks. Having taken proper cognizance of their wants, the
latter departed to fetch the viands. Then they took their seats at a
heavy oaken table, and, gazing about the dimly lighted guest-chamber,
Francesco noted that it was deserted, save for themselves and two men
in plain garbs, seated at the adjoining table. They appeared to be
burghers of the town, and Francesco took no further heed of them, but
pondered how to rid himself of his companion, whose presence began to
grow irksome to him.
The host soon entered with the repast, consisting of cheese, a rough
wine and barley bread. Francesco, being exhausted and out of temper,
ate in silence, and the pilgrim, after having voraciously devoured
what he considered his share of the repast, arose. After muttering
profuse thanks Francesco saw him exchange a nod with the two worthies
at the adjoining table, then hobble from the room by a door opposite
the one through which they had entered.
A chance side glance at the other guests of the Abbey, who ate, for
the most part, in silence or spoke in hushed tones, informed Francesco
that he was the object of their own curiosity, for though he appeared
not to gaze in their direction, he repeatedly surprised them peering
at him, then whispering to each other, and his nervous tension almost
made their scrutiny unendurable.
Surrounded as he knew himself, however, by so questionable a company,
from which the Calabrian host was by no means excluded, he resolved to
restrain himself and again fell to his repast, to which he did ample
justice, at intervals scrutinizing those whose scrutiny he resented
and in whom, after all, he scented more than chance travellers.
The one was a man of middling height, spare frame, past the middle age
of life, if judged by the worn features and the furrowed brows. The
expression of his countenance was ominous and forbidding. The stony
features, sallow, sunken cheeks, hollow, shiftless eyes inspired an
immediate aversion.
From beneath a square cap there fell upon the sunken temples two stray
locks of auburn hair. This cap, much depressed on the forehead, added
to the shade from under which the eyes peered forth, beneath scant
straight brows. Francesco had some difficulty in reconciling his looks
with the simpleness of his gown in other respects. He might have
passed for an itinerant merchant, yet there was something in his
countenance which gainsaid this supposition. A small ornament in his
cap especially drew Francesco's attention. It was a paltry image of
the Virgin in lead, such as poorer pilgrims brought from the
miraculous shrines of Lourdes. There was something strangely immovable
and fateful about the clean-shaven jaw and chin, the thin compressed
lips, something strangely hardened in the straight nose and the
fatuous smile, in the restless glitter of the eyes.
His companion, of stouter build and a trifle taller, seemed more than
ten years younger. His downcast visage was now and then lighted or
distorted by a forced smile, when by chance he gave way to that
impulse at all, which was never the case, save in response to certain
secret signs that seemed to pass between him and the other stranger.
This personage was armed with a sword and a dagger, but, underneath
their plain habits, Francesco observed that they both wore concealed a
Jazeran, or flexible shirt of linked mail.
The unabated scrutiny of these two individuals at last caused such a
sensation of discomfort to Francesco, who imagined that all eyes must
have read and guessed his secret, that he regretted having remained
under the same roof, and, but for his unfamiliarity with the roads, he
would have been tempted even now to pay his reckoning and to leave the
Abbey. But even while he was weighing this resolve, he surprised the
gaze of the older of the two resting upon him with an expression of
such undisguised mockery that at last his restraint gave way.
Rising from his seat, he slowly strode to the table where the two
strangers were seated.
"Why are you staring at me?" he curtly addressed the older, who seemed
in no wise abashed by his action.
"Fair son," said that personage, "you seem, from your temper and
quality, at the right age to prosper, whether among men or women--if
you but serve the right master. And, being in quest of a varlet for
him to whom I owe fealty, I was pondering if you were too high-born to
accept such a service."
Francesco regarded the speaker curiously.
"If your offer is made in good faith, I thank you," he said. "But I
fear I should be altogether unfit for the service of your master!"
"Perchance you are more proficient with the pen than the sword,"
replied his interlocutor. "That may be mended with time."
"The monks have taught me to read and write. But if any one question
my courage, let them not provoke me."
"Magnificent," drawled he of the Leaden Lamb. "By Our Lady of Lourdes!
He whom you serve would greatly miss a Paladin like you, if perchance
the truce should suddenly be broken!"
This was said with a glance at his companion, who answered the
sentiment with a lowering smile, which gleamed along his countenance,
enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter sky.
"Paladin enough for such as either of you," Francesco retorted hotly.
"I know not what master you serve, nor in what capacity, but your
insolence argues little in his favor."
At this they both began to laugh and Francesco, observing the hand of
the speaker's companion stealing to the hilt of his poniard, dealt him
without wavering with his own sheathed weapon a sudden blow across the
wrist, which made him withdraw his hand with a menacing growl.
This incident at first seemed to increase his companion's mirth.
But the laughter suddenly died out of the eyes of the older man and
the look he bestowed on Francesco caused the latter to shiver despite
the warmth of the summer night.
"Hark you, fair youth," he said with a grave sternness, which, despite
all he could do, overawed Francesco. "No more violence! I am not a fit
subject for it, neither is my companion. What is your name and
business?"
The speech was uttered in a tone of unmasked brutality which caused
Francesco's hands to clench, as if he would strike his interrogator
dead.
"When I desire your master's employment, I shall not fail to tell him
my name and business. Until I do, suffice it for you to know, that I
owe an account of myself to no one save my own liege lord!"
"And who may he be?" drawled he with the Leaden Lamb.
Francesco had it in his mind to retort in a manner which might have
startled his interrogator. But though he restrained himself, he fairly
flung the words into the face of the other.
"To no lesser a man than the Viceroy of Apulia!"
A sneer he did not try to conceal, distorted the older man's face and,
irritated by a gesture which heightened his sinister appearance,
Francesco leaned towards him.
"Perchance you boast a better?"
He, to whom the question was put, exchanged a swift look with his
companion, as if to warn him to keep quiet.
"Charles of Anjou and Provence has no ugly favor to look upon," came
the drawling reply.
"The blood-thirsty butcher!" burst out Francesco, with all the innate
hatred of the Ghibelline for his hereditary foe. "Yet I might have
thought so!"
"Indeed!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb with a swift side glance at
his companion, who moved restlessly in his seat. "And would you tell
him so, were you to meet him face to face?"
"Yea,--and in his native hell!" exclaimed Francesco.
"Magnificent!" uttered his interlocutor, whose face seemed utterly
bloodless in the waning evening light, while that of his companion
seemed to have borrowed all its leaden tints. "Yet, fair youth, we are
in King Charles' realm, and they say even the leaves of the trees have
ears which carry all that is spoken to the King's own!"
"Should I see them in a human head, I should not hesitate to crop
them," Francesco replied with a meaning gesture. Then he turned
abruptly to return to his own table.
"A very laudable desire!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb, appearing not
to notice Francesco's intention. "And perchance, fair youth, you have
but lately seen some trees bearing strange fruit."
Stirred by the memory of the poplar avenue he had so recently
traversed, Francesco wheeled about.
"That have I," he flashed. "The work of a miscreant!"
He of the Leaden Lamb interposed with a warning gesture, while his
companion had slowly arisen from his seat.
"The sight is in no ways strange, fair youth," he drawled, his eyelids
narrowing as, from under the shade of his headgear, he ominously
glared at Francesco. "When the summer fades into autumn, and the
moonlight nights are long, he who then lives may see clusters of ten,
even twenty such acorns dangling from the branches. For," he
continued, and his voice grew cold and hard as steel, "each rogue that
hangs there, is a thief, a traitor to the Church, an excommunicated
wretch! These are the tokens of Anjou's justice, and this is the fate
which awaits a Ghibelline spy!"
Raising the heavy drinking vessel, the speaker, as if to lend emphasis
to his words, let it crash down upon the oaken board, and, as if by a
preconcerted signal, the door of the guest-chamber flew open, and in
rushed the rude soldiery of Anjou, in whose wake followed the
terrified Calabrian host.
Ere Francesco grasped the meaning of what had happened, his arms had
been pinioned behind him and, utterly dazed, the words he heard spoken
rang in his ears, like the knell of his doom.
"Fairly caught!" drawled he of the Leaden Lamb, turning to his
companion, who glared viciously at Francesco. "Did I not tell you,
there was more in this than the chance resemblance of a Ghibelline
nose and eye? Take him away and hang him at sunrise!"
This command was addressed to the captain of the Provencals, whose
witticisms at his expense had aroused such a resentment in Francesco's
heart on his arrival at the inn. He felt himself jostled and buffeted