Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
What she saw seemed to confirm of the truth of Tristan's speech, and
she agreed readily to his request. Tristan kissed Hellayne on the brow,
then, after a brief and affectionate farewell and the assurance that he
would return on the following day, he left her in charge of the Blessed
Sisters. With a sob she followed the Abbess and the gates shut behind
them.
For a moment Tristan felt as if all the world about him was sinking
into a dark bottomless pit.
Then, suppressing an outcry of anguish, his winged feet bore him across
Rome towards the Basilica of St. John in Lateran.
CHAPTER XIV
THE PHANTOM OF THE LATERAN
It still lacked a few minutes of midnight when Tristan arrived at the
Lateran. The guard had been set in all the chapels, as on the night
when he had kept the watch before.
Without confiding his purpose to any one, he traversed the silent
corridors until he came to the chapel where he was to watch all night.
The men-at-arms were posted outside the door. A lamp was burning in the
corridor, and strict orders had been given that no person whatsoever
was to pass into the chapel.
After assuring himself that all was secure, Tristan seated himself in a
chair which stood in the centre of the chapel.
The place was dim and ghostly. A red lamp burnt before the Blessed
Sacrament, and from the roof of the chapel hung another lamp of bronze.
The light was turned low, but it threw a slight radiance upon portions
of the mosaic of the floor.
Tristan unbuckled his sword and placed it ready to hand. The whole of
the Basilica was hushed in sleep. There was a heaviness and oppression
in the air, and no sound broke the stillness in the courts of the
palace.
Memory flared up and down like the light of a lamp, as Tristan pondered
over the changes and vicissitudes of his life, with all its miseries
and heart-aches, as he thought of the future and of Hellayne. Danger
encompassed them on every side. But there had been even greater
terrors when he had plucked her from the very grip of Death, from the
midst of her foes.
And then he began to pray, pray for Hellayne's happiness and safety,
and his whispering voice sounded as if a dry leaf was being blown over
the marble floor, and when it ceased the silence fell over him like a
cloak, enveloping him in its heavy, stifling folds.
He had been on guard in the Lateran before, but the silence had never
seemed so deep as it was now. His mind, heated and filled with the
events of the past days, would not be tranquil. And yet there was a
deadly fascination in this profound silence, in which it seemed his own
mind and the riot of his thoughts were living and awake.
What, if even now some lurking danger were approaching through the
thousand corridors and anterooms of the palace! For on this night the
enemies of Christ were abroad, silently unfurling the sable banners of
Hell.
The thought was almost unbearable. It was not fear which Tristan felt,
rather a restlessness he was unable to control. Although the night was
no hotter than usual, perspiration began to break out upon his face,
and he felt athirst. The fumes of incense that permeated the chapel,
increased his drowsiness.
With something of an effort Tristan strode to the door and opened it.
In the corridor two men-at-arms were on guard, one standing against
the wall, the other walking slowly to and fro. The men reported that
all was well, and that no one had passed that way. Tristan closed the
door and returned inside. He walked up the chapel's length and then,
his drawn sword beside him on the marble, knelt in prayer before the
Blessed Sacrament which he had come to guard.
There, for a little, his confused and restless mind found peace.
But not for long.
A drowsiness more heavy and insistent than any he had ever known
began to assail him. It billowed into his brain, wave after wave. It
assailed him with an irresistible, physical assault. He fought against
it despairingly and hopelessly, knowing that he would be vanquished.
Once, twice, sword in hand, as though the long blade could help him in
the fight, he staggered up and down the chapel. Then, with a smothered
groan, he sank into the chair, the sword slipping from his grasp. He
felt as if deep waters were closing over him. There was a sound like
dim and distant drums in his ears, a sensation of sinking, lower, ever
lower,--then utter oblivion.
And now silence reigned, silence more intense than his mind had ever
known.
The red lamp burned before the Host. The lamp in the centre of the
chapel threw a dim radiance upon the bowed form of Tristan, whose sword
crossed the mosaics of the floor.
Silence there was in the whole circuit of the Lateran.
Even the Blessed Father, prisoner in his own chamber, was asleep. The
domestic prelates, the whole vast ecclesiastical court were wrapt in
deep repose.
In the chapel of St. Luke the silence was broken by the deep breathing
of Tristan. It was not the breathing of a man in healthy sleep. It
was a long-drawn catching at the breath, then once more a difficult
inhalation. The men-at-arms outside in the corridor heard nothing of
it. The sound was confined to the interior alone.
The ceiling of the chapel was painted, and the various panels were
divided by gilded oak beadings.
Almost in the centre, directly above where Tristan reposed in leaden
slumber, was a panel some two feet square, which represented in faint
and faded colors the martyrdom of St. Sebastian.
Suddenly, without a sound, the panel parted.
If the sleeper had been awake he would have seen almost at his feet a
swaying ladder of silk rope, which for a moment or two hissed back and
forth over the tesselated floor.
Now the dark square in the painted ceiling became faintly illumined.
In its dim oblong a formless shape centred itself. The faint hiss from
the end of the silken rope ladder recommenced and down the ladder from
the roof of the chapel descended a formless spectre, with incredible
swiftness, with incredible silence.
The spider had dropped from the centre of its web. It had chosen the
time well. It was upon its business.
The trembling of the rope ladder ceased. Without a sound the black
figure emerged into the pale light thrown by the central lamp. The
figure was horrible. It was robed in deepest black, and as it made a
quick bird-like movement of the head, the face, plucked as from some
deadly nightmare, was so awful that it seemed well that Tristan was
unconscious.
The High Priest of Satan stood in the chapel of the Lateran. His quick,
dexterous fingers ran over Tristan's sleeping form. Then he nodded
approvingly.
There was a soft pattering of steps and now the black form passed out
of the circle of light and emerged into the red light of the lamp,
which burned before the altar.
Above, upon the embroidered frontal, were the curtains of white silk
edged with gold--the gates of the tabernacle.
A long, lean arm, hardly more than a bone, drew apart the curtains.
Mingling with the heavy breathing of the sleeping man there was a sharp
sound, most startling in the intense silence.
It was a bestial snarl of satisfaction. It was followed by abominable
chirpings of triumph, cold, inhuman, but real.
Tristan slept on. The men-at-arms kept their faithful watch. In the
whole of the Lateran Palace no one knew that the High Priest of Satan
was prowling through the precincts and had seized upon his awful prey.
He thrust the Holy Host into a silver box, and placed it next to his
bosom. Then he drew a wafer of the exact size and shape of the stolen
Host from the pocket of his robe. Gliding over to Tristan he thrust
this unconsecrated wafer into his doublet.
Then the black bat-like thing mounted to the ceiling. The lemon-colored
light reappeared for a moment. In its glare the dark phantom looked
terrific, like a fiend from Hell. The rope ladder moved silently
upwards, and the painted panel with the arrow-pierced Sebastian dropped
soundlessly into its place.
The red lamp burnt in front of the tabernacle. But the chapel was empty
now.
At dawn the unexpected happened.
The guards, expecting to be relieved, found themselves face to face
with a special commission, come to visit the Lateran. It consisted
of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna, the Cardinal of Orvieto, the
Prefect of the Camera and Basil the Grand Chamberlain.
After having made the rounds they at last arrived before the chapel of
St. Luke. They found the two men-at-arms stationed at the door, alert
at their post. The men were exhausted; their faces appeared grey and
drawn in the morning light, but they reported that no one had passed
into the chapel, nor had they seen anything of Tristan since midnight,
when he had questioned them.
The doors of the chapel were locked. Tristan held the keys. Repeated
knocks elicited no response.
The Archbishop of Ravenna looked anxiously at the Prefect of the Camera.
"I do not like this, Messer Salviati," he said in a low voice. "I fear
there is something wrong here."
"Beat upon the door more loudly," the Prefect turned to one of the
halberdiers, and the man struck the solid oak with the staff of his
axe, till the whole corridor, filled with the ghostly advance light of
dawn, rang and echoed with the noise.
The Prefect of the Camera turned to the Archbishop.
"It would seem the Capitano has fallen asleep. That is not a thing he
ought to have done--but as the chapel seems inviolate we need hardly
remain longer."
And he looked inquiringly at the Grand Chamberlain.
The latter shook his head dubiously.
"I fear the Capitano can hardly be asleep, since we have called him so
loudly," he said, looking from the one to the other. "I would suggest
that the door of the chapel be forced."
They were some time about it. The door was of massive oak, the lock
well made and true. A man-at-arms had been despatched to another part
of the Lateran to bring a locksmith who, for nearly half an hour,
toiled at his task.
It was accomplished at last and the four entered the chapel.
It stretched before them, long, narrow, almost fantastic in the grey
light of morning.
The painted ceiling above held no color now. The mosaics of the
floor were dead and lifeless. In the centre of the chapel, with face
unnaturally pale, sat Tristan, huddled up in the velvet chair. By his
side lay his naked sword.
The lamp which was suspended from the centre of the ceiling had almost
expired.
In front of the altar the wick, floating on the oil, in its bowl of red
glass, gave almost the only note of color against the grey.
As they entered the chapel, the four genuflected to the altar. And
while the Prefect and Basil went over to where Tristan was sleeping in
his chair, and stood about with alarmed eyes, the Cardinal of Orvieto
and the Archbishop of Ravenna approached the tabernacle with the proper
reverences, parted the curtains and staggered back, indescribable
horror in their faces.
The Holy Host had disappeared.
The priests stared at each other in terror. What did it mean? Again the
Body of Our Lord had been taken from His resting-place. The captain of
the guard was asleep in his chair. Verily the demons were at work once
more and Hell was loosed again.
The Archbishop of Ravenna began to weep. He covered his face with his
hands. As he knelt upon the altar steps, great tears trickled through
his trembling fingers, while he sent up prayers to the Almighty that
this sacrilege might be discovered and its perpetrators brought to
justice. On either side of him knelt the priests who had come into the
chapel after them. Their hearts were filled with fear and sorrow.
The Cardinal of Ravenna rose at last.
His old, lean face shone with holy anger and sorrow.