Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
night without a moon, but not wholly dark.
Drawing himself up into the embrasure he stood at last upon a broad
sill of stone. A cool breeze eddied around him. He was at an immense
height. A vast portion of Rome lay below. The Tiber seemed like a river
of lead. Far away to the left the dark cypresses of the Pincian Hill
cut into the night sky in sombre silhouette. He was above the tombs of
Hadrian and Caracalla.
Tristan shivered despite himself as he fastened the rope he had secured
from the unwary Castellan to the stone ledge. It was not fear; but that
actual, physical shrinking, which induces nausea, had him in its grip.
"There is Rome," he said to himself with a savage chuckle.
He made a stirrup loop and curved it round a boss of antique tile,
which stretched above the abyss like a gargoyle. Then, with infinite
precaution, he lowered the coil of rope.
Dawn was already heralded in the East. A faint grey light appeared in
the direction of the Alban Hills. From over the Esquiline came the
shrill trumpeting of a cock.
There was a horrible moment as Tristan's hands left the roof edge and
he fell a foot to grasp the rope. He curled his legs about it, got it
between his crossed feet and began to let himself down. The sinews of
his arms seemed to creak. Once he passed an open window and distinctly
heard the snores of the men-at-arms who were sleeping within. The
descent seemed interminable. As seen from above, had there been any one
to watch him, his form grew less and less. From a man it seemed to turn
into an ape; from an ape as a night bird groping down the Mausoleum's
side; from a bird it dwindled to a spider, spinning downward on a taut
thread. Up there, on the height, the rope groaned and creaked upon
the curved tile from which it hung. But tile and fibre held. Once his
feet rested upon a leaden water pipe and he clung and swayed, glad of
a momentary release from the frightful strain upon his arms. That was
almost the last conscious sensation. Clinging to the rope he came down
quick and more quickly. His arms rose and fell with the precision of a
machine. At last he felt his feet upon solid ground, where he reeled
and staggered like a drunken man.
He had traversed a hundred thirty-five feet of air.
CHAPTER III
THE LURE
For three whole days Hellayne consumed herself waiting for Tristan, and
she began to feel listless and dispirited. She had long acknowledged
to herself the necessity of his presence, and how much his love
had influenced her thoughts and actions ever since she had known
him--a period that now seemed of infinite length. She found herself
perpetually recalling the origin and growth of this love. She dwelt
with a strange pleasure on her terrible plight, when, believing she was
dead, he had remained with her body. As evening approached she strolled
down to the Tiber, with a strange persistency and the vague expectation
of Tristan's return. She now trusted him utterly, since that last and
most potent proof of his love for her.
On the first day this dreamy, imaginative existence was delightful.
The region of the Trastevere at the period of our story was but
sparsely populated, and the great convent, with its church of Santa
Maria, dominated the lowly fisher huts, scattered over its precincts.
Hellayne, during these quiet evening hours, when only the sounds of
far-off chimes from churches and convents smote the silence with their
silver tongues, and during which hours the Abbess of Santa Maria
permitted her to leave the silent walls of her asylum for a short walk
to the Tiber's edge, rarely ever saw a human being. Only at dusk, when
the fishermen and boatmen returned from their daily routine, she saw
them pass in the distance, like phantoms that come and go and vanish in
the evening glow.
On the second day there came a feeling of want; the consciousness that
there was a void which it would be a great happiness to fill. This
grew to a longing for those hours which had glided by so quickly and
sweetly. At intervals there came the startling thought: if she should
never see him again! Then her heart stopped beating, and her cheek
paled with the thought of the bare possibility.
Thus the third day sped, and when Hellayne still remained without
tidings from Tristan her anxiety slowly changed to a great fear.
She could hardly contain herself during the long hours of the day,
and though she spent hours and hours in prayer for his return, her
heart seemed to sink under the weight of her fear and sorrow. She
was alone--alone in Rome--exposed to dangers which her great beauty
rendered even more grave than those that beset an ordinary person.
She feared lest Basil was scouring the city for the woman who had
so mysteriously baffled his desires, and she dreaded the hatred of
Theodora, whose infatuation for her lover had rather increased than
diminished in the face of Tristan's resistance. How long would he be
able to withstand, if Theodora had decreed his undoing?
There were moments when a mad jealousy and despair surged up in
Hellayne's heart, yet she hesitated to confide her fears and anxiety
to the Abbess, voicing only her disquietude at Tristan's prolonged
absence. Then only the latter informed Hellayne of a strange rumor
which had found its way into the Trastevere. Three nights ago a
terrible sacrilege had been committed at the Lateran, during the small
hours of the night, and on the following morning, during an inspection
by some high prelates of the Church, the criminal had been discovered
in the person of a captain of the Senator's guard, who had but recently
arrived in Rome, and had been placed in high command by the Senator
himself, whom he had so cruelly betrayed.
Three nights ago! It was on the night of the terrible crime from whose
consequences she had been saved just in the nick of time. With painful
minuteness Hellayne recalled, or tried to recall, every incident,
every detail, every utterance of her lover. But there was nothing at
which she could clutch save--but it was sheer madness. Surely it was
some horrid nightmare. Again she sought the Abbess, later in the day,
questioning her regarding the name of him who had been taken in the
commission of so heinous an offence. It was some time ere the Abbess
could recall a name strange in her own land, and Hellayne, with the
persistency of desperation, withheld any aid, so as not to offer a clue
to the one she dreaded to hear. But the strain proved too great. Almost
with a shriek she demanded to know if, perchance, the name was Tristan.
The Abbess regarded her questioner strangely. "Tristan is the name. Do
you know this man, my child?"
Hellayne was on the point of fainting. Everything grew black before her
eyes, and she would have fallen, had not the Abbess supported her.
"A countryman of mine," she said, dreading lest by revealing their
connection she might herself be held in custody. "He came to Rome on
a pilgrimage. Surely there is some horrible mistake! He could not! He
could not!"
The Abbess placed an arm round the trembling girl.
"If he can prove that he is innocent, the Cardinal-Archbishop will
not suffer a hair of his head to be touched," she tried to console
Hellayne whose head rested on her shoulder. She seemed utterly crushed.
Surely--it was too monstrous--too unbelievable. Yet as the moments sped
on, an icy, sickening fear gripped her heart. She recalled an incident
of that last evening with Tristan which, but for what had happened or
was rumored to have happened, she would have utterly ignored. She had
noted her lover's restlessness, and his apparent haste in leaving her
at the convent gates. She recalled now that he repeatedly glanced at
the moon and did, at one time, comment upon the lateness of the hour.
He had not seemed anxious to prolong their tete-a-tete, and he had not
been heard from in three days. Surely, no matter where he was, he could
have sent a message, verbal or otherwise. And the crime had happened
during the small hours of the night--after he had left her! It was too
horrible to ponder upon!
That there was some dreadful mystery which surrounded this deed of
darkness and Tristan's share therein, Hellayne did not question. But
how was she, a woman, a stranger, alone in Rome, to aid in clearing it
up and reveal her lover's innocence? There was no doubt in her mind,
but that he was the victim of some devilish conspiracy--perchance a
thread of that same web which had entangled her to her undoing. But how
to convince the Cardinal-Archbishop of Tristan's innocence, when the
facts surrounding the terrible discovery were unknown to her?
"This man is, no doubt, very dear to you," said the Abbess at last.
Hellayne shrank before the questioner and averted her face. But the
Abbess was resolved to know more, once her suspicions were aroused.
"Could it perchance be he who brought you here three nights ago--your
brother?" she queried with a kind, though penetrating glance at the
woman who was trembling like an aspen, her face colorless, her eyes
dimmed with tears.
A silent nod convinced the Abbess of the truth of her surmise. She
stroked Hellayne's silken hair.
"It is a dreadful crime of which he stands accused, one for which there
is no remission--no pardon here or hereafter," she said sorrowfully.
"He is innocent," sobbed Hellayne. "He is as pure as the light, as the
flowers. There is some dreadful mistake. He must be saved before it is
too late! Oh--dear mother--could you not intercede for him with His
Eminence?"
The Abbess regarded her as if she thought her protege had suddenly
lost her reason. To intercede with the Cardinal-Archbishop for one who
stood committed of so heinous an offence, taken in the very act,--one
who, perchance, was implicated in all those other terrible outrages
committed in the various sanctuaries of Rome! Nevertheless she made
allowance for Hellayne's hysterical plea.
"Has he never mentioned these matters to you?" She queried kindly,
hoping to draw the girl out.
"What matters?" Hellayne queried, with wide eyes, and the question
convinced the Abbess that the woman knew nothing.
"These dark practices," replied the Abbess. "For this is not the first
offence. Even within this very moon cycle the Holy Host has been taken
from the Church of Our Blessed Lady yonder. And all efforts to discover
the guilty one have failed."
"I had not heard of it," said Hellayne. "I have not been long in Rome.
Nor has he. About a month, I should say."
"A month?"
"And he knew nothing of this. Nor knew he even one person in this whole
city."
"Wherefore then came he?"
Hellayne explained and the Abbess listened. Hellayne's account, which
was impersonal, impressed her protectress in so far as she knew she
spoke truth. For, if here was an impostor, it was the cleverest she had
ever faced and, while a stranger to the world and to worldly affairs,
the stamp of truth was too indelibly written upon Hellayne's brow to
even permit of the shadow of a doubt. Perhaps it was for this reason
the Abbess refrained from questioning her farther, for she had been
somehow curious of the relation between the woman and the man who had
brought her here.
Here was matter for thought indeed. For, if the man was guilty and,
notwithstanding Hellayne's protestations, the Abbess was in her own
mind convinced that the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna could not be
deceived in matters of this kind, what was to become of the woman he
had placed in her charge? There were also other matters equally grave
which oppressed the Abbess' mind. Hellayne's connection with one
who had committed the unspeakable crime might militate against her
remaining at the convent. Yet she hesitated to send her out into the
world, unprotected and alone.