Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
deserted ship, Rome flounders, never to rise again--"
He paused for a moment and caught his breath hard.
"The Scarlet Woman of Babylon is among us!" he cried. "Hence! accursed
tempter. Thou poisoner of peace, thou quivering sting in the flesh,
destroyer of the strength of manhood! Theodora!--thou abomination--thou
tyrannous treachery! What shall be done unto thee in the hour of
darkness? Put off the ornaments of gold, the jewels, wherewith thou
adornest thy beauty, and crown thyself with the crown of endless
affliction. For thou shalt be girdled about with flame and fire shall
be thy garment. Thy lips that have drunk sweet wine shall be steeped
in bitterness! Vainly shalt thou make thyself fair and call upon thy
legion of lovers. They shall be as dead men, deaf to thine entreaties,
and none shall respond to thy call! None shall hide thee from shame
and offer thee comfort! In the midst of thy lascivious delights shalt
thou suddenly perish, and my soul shall be avenged on thy sins,
queen-courtesan of the earth!"
Scarcely had the last word died to silence when a blinding flash of
lightning rent the gloom followed by a tremendous crash of thunder
that shook the great edifice to its foundation. The bronze portals
opened as of their own accord and a terrific gust of wind extinguished
every light in the thousand-jetted candelabrum. Impenetrable darkness
reigned--thick, suffocating darkness, as the thunder rolled away in
grand, sullen echoes.
There was a momentary lull, then, piercing the profound gloom, came
the cries and shrieks of frightened women, the horrible, selfish
scrambling, struggling and pushing of a bewildered multitude. A
veritable frenzy of fear seemed to possess every one. Groans and sobs,
entreaties and curses from those, who, intent on saving themselves,
were brutally trying to force a passage to the door, the heart-rending,
frantic appeals of the women--all these sounds increased the horror
of the situation, and Tristan, blind, giddy and confused, listened to
the uproar about him with somewhat of the affrighted, panic-stricken
compassion that a stranger in hell might feel, while hearkening to the
ceaseless plaints of the self-tortured damned.
Lost in a dim stupefaction of wonderment, Tristan remained where he
stood, while the crowds rushed from the Basilica. As he was about to
follow in their wake, his gaze was attracted towards the chapel of the
Grand Penitentiary, from which came a number of masked personages while
he, to whose keeping were confided crimes of a magnitude that seemed
beyond the extensive powers of absolution, was barely visible under the
cowl, which was drawn deeply over his forehead.
The thought occurred to Tristan to seek the ear of the Confessor, in as
much as the Pontiff to whom he had hoped to lay bare his heart could
not grant him an audience.
The lateness of the hour and the uncertainty of the fate of the Monk
of Cluny prevented him from following the prompting of the moment and,
staggering rather than walking, Tristan made for the portals of St.
Peter's and walked unseeing into the gathering dusk.
CHAPTER XII
THE CONFESSION
The storm had abated, but the sheen of white lightnings to southward
and the menacing growl of distant thunder that seemed to come from the
bowels of the earth held out promise of renewed upheavals of disturbed
nature.
The streets of Rome were comparatively deserted with the swiftly
approaching dusk, and it occurred to Tristan to seek the Monk of Cluny
in his abode on Mount Aventine whither he had doubtlessly betaken
himself after his sermon in the Basilica of St. Peter's. For ever and
ever the memory of lost Hellayne dominated his thoughts, and, while he
poured out prayers for peace at the shrines of the saints, with the
eyes of the soul he saw not the image of the Virgin, but of the woman
for the sake of whom he had come hither and, having come, knew not
where to find that which he sought.
From a passing friar Tristan learned the direction of Mount Aventine,
where, among the ruins near the newly erected Church of Santa Maria of
the Aventine, Odo of Cluny abode. Tristan could not but marvel at the
courage of the man whose life was in hourly jeopardy and who, in the
face of an ever present menace could put his trust so completely in
Heaven as to brave the danger without even a guard.--
Taking the road indicated by the friar, Tristan pursued his solitary
path. In seeking the Monk of Cluny his purpose was a twofold one,
certainty with regard to his own guilt, in having loved where love was
a crime, and counsel with regard to the woman who, he instinctively
felt, would not stop at her first innuendos.
As Tristan proceeded on his way his feelings and motives became more
and more perplexed, and so lost was he in thought that, without heeding
his way or noting the scattered arches and porticoes, he lost himself
in the wilderness of the Mount of Cloisters. The hush was intensified
rather than broken by the ever louder peals of thunder, which
reverberated through the valleys, and the Stygian darkness, broken at
intervals by vivid flashes of lightning, seemed to hem him in, as a
wall of basalt.
Gradually all traces of a road vanished. On both sides rose woody
acclivities, covered with ruins and melancholy cypresses, whose
spectral outlines seemed to stretch into gaunt immensity, in the sheen
of the lightnings which grew more and more frequent. The wind rose
sobbingly among the trees, and a few scattered rain-drops began to warn
Tristan that a shelter of any sort would be preferable to exposing
himself to the onslaught of the elements.
Entering the first group of ruins he came to, he penetrated through
a series of roofless corridors and chambers into what seemed a dark
cylindrical well at the farther extremity of which there gleamed an
infinitesimal light. Even through the clamor of the storm that raged
outside there came to him the sound of voices from the interior.
Impelled as much by curiosity as by the consideration of his own safety
Tristan crept slowly towards the aperture. As he did so, the light
vanished, but a crimson glow, as of smouldering embers, succeeded,
and heavy fumes of incense, wafted to his nostrils, informed him that
his fears regarding the character of the abode were but too well
founded. He cowered motionless in the gloom until the storm had abated,
determined to return at some time to discover what mysteries the place
concealed.
A fresher breeze had sprung up, driving the thunderclouds to northward,
and from a clear azure the stars shone in undimmed lustre upon the
dreaming world beneath.
For a moment Tristan stood gazing at the immense desolation, the
wilderness of arches, shattered columns and ivy-covered porticoes. The
hopelessness of finding among these relics of antiquity the monk's
hermitage impressed itself at once upon him. Pausing irresolutely,
he would probably have retraced his steps, had he not chanced to see
some one emerge from the adjacent ruins, apparently bound in the same
direction.
Whether it was a presentiment of evil, or whether the fear bred of
the region and the hour of the night prompted the precaution, Tristan
receded into the shadows and watched the approaching form, in whom he
recognized Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. He at once resolved to follow
him and the soft ground aided the execution of his design.
The way wound through a veritable labyrinth of ruins, nevertheless
he kept his eyes on the tall dark form, stalking through the night
before him. At times an owl or bat whirled over his head. With these
exceptions he encountered no living thing among the ruins to break the
hush of the sepulchral desolation.
The distance between them gradually diminished. Tristan saw the other
turn to the right into a wilderness of grottoes, the tortuous corridors
of which were at times almost choked up with weeds and wild flowers,
but when he reached the spot, there was no vestige of a human presence.
Basil had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him.
Possessed by a sudden fear that some harm might be intended the monk
and remembering certain veiled threats he had overheard against his
life, he proceeded more slowly and cautiously by the dim light of the
stars.
Before long he found himself before a flight of grass grown steps that
led up to a series of desolate chambers which, although roofless
and choked with rank vegetation, still bore traces of their ancient
splendor. These corridors led to a clumsy door, standing half ajar,
from beyond which shone the faint glimmer of a light.
After having reached the threshold Tristan paused.
High, oval-shaped apertures admitted light and air at once, and the
dying embers of a charcoal fire revealed a chamber, singularly void of
all the comforts of existence. Almost in the centre of this chamber,
before a massive stone table, upon which was spread a huge tome, sat
the Monk of Cluny, shading his eyes with his right hand and reading
half aloud.
For a few moments Tristan regarded the recluse breathlessly, as if he
dreaded disturbing his meditations, when Odo suddenly raised his eyes
and saw the dark form standing in the frame of the door.
The look which he bestowed upon Tristan convinced the latter
immediately of the doubt which the monk harbored regarding the quality
of his belated caller, a doubt which he deemed well to disperse before
venturing into the monk's retreat.
Therefore, without abandoning his position, he addressed the inmate of
the chamber and, as he spoke, the tone of his voice seemed to carry
conviction, that the speaker was sincere.
"Your pardon, father," Tristan stammered, "for one who is seeking you
in an hour of grave doubt and misgiving."
The monk's ear had caught the accent of a foreign tongue. He beckoned
to Tristan to enter, rising from the bench on which he had been seated.
"You come at a strange hour," he said, not without a note of suspicion,
which did not escape Tristan. "Your business must be weighty indeed
to embolden one, a stranger on Roman soil, to penetrate the desolate
Aventine when the world sleeps and murder stalks abroad."
"I am here for a singular purpose, father,--having obeyed the impulse
of the moment, after listening to your sermon at St. Peter's."
"But that was hours ago," interposed the monk, resting his hand on the
stone table, as he faced his visitor.
"I lost my way--nor did I meet any one to point it," Tristan replied,
as he advanced and kissed the monk's hand reverently.
"What is your business, my son?" asked the monk.
Tristan hesitated a moment. At last he spoke.
"I came to Rome not of my own desire,--but obeying the will of another
that imposed the pilgrimage. I have sinned, father--and yet there are
moments, when I would almost glory in that which I have done. It was
my purpose, while at St. Peter's to confess to the Grand Penitentiary.
But--I know not why--I chose you instead, knowing that you would give
truth for truth."
The monk regarded his visitor, wondering what one so young and
possessed of so frank a countenance might have done amiss.
"You are a pilgrim?" he queried at last.
"For my sins--"
"Of French descent, yet not a Frenchman--"
Tristan started at the monk's penetration.
"From Provence, father," he stammered, "the land of songs and flowers--"
"And women--" the monk interposed gravely.
"There are women everywhere, father."
"There are women and women. Perchance I should say 'Woman.'"
Tristan bowed his head in silence.
The monk cast a penetrating glance at his visitor. He understood the
gesture and the silence with that quick comprehension that came to him
who was to reform Holy Catholic Church from the abuse of decades--as an
intuition.