Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome
observe the happy medium between silence and suffocation. Also, it was
indispensable in the present state of lawlessness to avoid observation,
and the spectacle of a golden chariot with a woman prisoner, gagged
and veiled, the whole drawn by four spirited black steeds, was
not calculated to avoid suspicion and comment. Stefano, Tebaldo's
underling, had indeed suggested a litter, but this had been overruled
by his comrade on the score of speed, and now the congestion of the
streets made speed impossible. To be sure, this enabled his escort to
keep up with them at a distance, but a fight at this present moment
was little to Tebaldo's taste. The darkness which should have favored
him was dispelled by the numerous conflagrations in the various parts
of the city, and when the chariot was stopped and forced to run into
a by-street, to avoid a crowd running toward the Campo Marzo, Tebaldo
felt his heart sink within him in an access of terror such as even he
had rarely felt before.
Up one street, down another, avoiding the main thoroughfares, now
rendered impassable by the throngs, the charioteer directed his steeds
towards Basil's palace on the Pincian Hill.
Hellayne seemed to have either fainted, or resigned herself to her
fate, for she had ceased to struggle and cowered on the floor of
the chariot, silent and motionless. Tebaldo hoped his difficulties
were over, and promised himself never again to be concerned in such
an affair. Already he imagined himself safe on his patron's porch,
claiming his reward, when his advance was stopped by a pageant, which
promised a protracted and hazardous delay.
Winding its slow way along, with all the pomp and splendor attending
it, a procession of chariots crossed in front of Tebaldo's steeds,
and not a man in Rome would have dared to break in upon the train of
Theodora, who was abroad to view the strife of the factions, utterly
indifferent to the perils of the venture.
It may be that something whispered to Hellayne that, of the two perils
confronting her, what she contemplated was the lesser, and no sooner
did the car stop to let the chariots pass, than, tearing away the
bandage, she uttered a piercing scream, which brought it to a halt at
once, while Tebaldo, trying to wear a bold front, quaked in every limb.
At a signal from the woman in the first chariot her giant Africans
seized the shaking Tebaldo and surrounded his chariot. Already a crowd
of curious spectators was gathering, and the glare of the bonfires,
kindled here and there, shed its light on their dark, eager faces,
contrasting strangely with the veiled form of a woman, cold and
immobile as marble.
Two of the Africans seized Tebaldo, and buffeted him unceremoniously
to within a few paces of the occupant of the chariot. Here he stood,
speechless and trembling, anger and fear contending for the mastery,
which changed to dismay as the woman raised her veil with a hand
gleaming white as ivory.
"Do you know me?"
Whatever he had intended to say, the words died on Tebaldo's lips.
"The Lady Theodora!"
"You still have your wits about you," replied the woman. "Whom have you
there?"
The cold sweat stood on the brow of Basil's henchman.
"The run-away mistress of my lord," he said, looking from right to left
for some one to prompt him, some escape from the dilemma.
"Who is your master?" Theodora queried curtly.
"The Lord Basil--"
"The Lord Basil!" shrilled Theodora. "Indeed I knew not he had lost a
mistress. Yet I saw him within the hour and had speech with him."--
Stefano had meanwhile come up, composed and sedate, little guessing
the quality of his companion's interlocutor, with the air of a man
confident in the justice of his case.
"Where are you taking this woman?" Theodora queried.
Tebaldo attempted to speak, but Stefano anticipated him.
"To the palace of my Lord Basil on the Pincian Hill, noble lady," he
said with many obese bows. "Suffer us to proceed, for the streets are
becoming more unsafe every moment and our lord will not be trifled with
in matters of this kind."
"Indeed," Theodora interposed. "Is his heart so much set upon this
prize? Ho there, Bahram--Yussuff--bring the woman here!"
Tebaldo tried to worm himself out of the clutch of the black giants, in
order to prevent them from obeying Theodora's order, but he found the
situation hopeless and was about to address Theodora when the latter
bade him be silent.--
"The woman shall speak for herself," she said in a tone that suffered
no contradiction and, in another moment, Hellayne, lifted by four
muscular arms from the chariot of her abductors, stood, released of her
bandages, before Theodora.
All color left the Roman's face as she gazed into the pallid and
anguished features of the woman whom of all women on earth she feared
and hated most, the woman who dared to enter the arena with her for the
love of the one man whom she was determined to possess, if the universe
should crumble to atoms. Hellayne's fear upon beholding Theodora gave
way to her pride as she met the dark eyes of the Roman in which there
might have been a gleam of pity or a flash of scorn.
But, ere Hellayne could speak, finding herself, caught like a poor
hunted bird, in one net, ere she had well escaped the other, Theodora
turned to Tebaldo.
"Tell the Lord Basil, the woman he craves is under Theodora's roof,
and--if so he be inclined--he may claim her at my hands--"
The gleaming white arm went out, and ere Hellayne knew what happened,
she found herself raised into the second chariot, where sat a tall girl
of great beauty, Persephoné, the Circassian.
A signal to the charioteer and the pageant moved with slightly
increased speed towards the Aventine, while Tebaldo and Stefano,
out-witted and non-plussed, stared after the vanishing procession as if
they were encompassed by a nightmare. Then, simultaneously, they broke
out into such a chorus of vituperation that the by-standers shrank back
from them in horror, and they soon found themselves, their chariot
and its driver, almost the only human beings in the now deserted
thoroughfare.
Hellayne meanwhile sat, utterly dazed, next to Persephoné. Terrified by
the danger she had escaped, and scarcely reassured by the manner of her
rescue she seemed as one in a stupor, unable to think, unable to speak.
Persephoné regarded her with a strange fascination, not unmingled with
curiosity. Hellayne's fair and wonderful beauty appealed strangely to
the Circassian, while, with her native intuition, she wondered whether
Theodora's act was prompted by kindness or revenge.
Hellayne seemed, for the first time, to note her companion. Looking
into Persephoné's eyes she shuddered.
"Where are we going?" she whispered, gazing about in a state of
bewilderment, as the procession slowly wound up the slopes of the Mount
of Cloisters, and the broad ribbon of the Tiber gleamed below in the
moonlight.
A strange smile curved Persephoné's lips.
"To the Groves of Enchantment," she replied. "You are the guest of the
Lady Theodora."
Hellayne brushed back the silken hair from her brow as if she were
waking from a troubled dream.
She gave a swift glance to her companion, another to the winding road
and, suddenly rising from her seat, started to leap from the chariot.
Ere she could carry out her intent, she was caught in the Circassian's
arms.
A silent, but terrible struggle ensued. Notwithstanding her harrowing
experiences of the past days, despair had given back to Hellayne the
strength of youth. But in the lithe Circassian she found her match
and, after a few moments, she sank back exhausted, Persephoné's arms
encircling her like coils of steel, while her smiling eyes sank into
her own.
The palace of Theodora rose phantom-like from among its environing
groves in the moonlight, and the chariots dashed through the portals of
the outer court, which closed upon the fantastic procession.
CHAPTER V
BITTER WATERS
The dawn was creeping over the Sabine mountains when Tristan, after
having made good his escape from the dungeons of Castel San Angelo,
reached the hermitage of Odo of Cluny on distant Aventine.
Fatigued almost to the point of death, bleeding and bruised, only his
unconquerable will had urged him on towards safety.
His first impulse, after crossing the bridge of San Angelo, was to go
to the Convent of Santa Maria in Trastevere. He abandoned this plan
upon saner reflection. Doubtlessly all Rome was instructed regarding
the crime of which he stood accused. Recognition meant arrest and a
fate he dared not think of. Tears forced themselves into Tristan's
eyes, tears of sheer despair and hopelessness. Now, that he was free,
he dared not follow the all-compelling impulse of his heart, assuage
the craving of his soul, to learn if Hellayne was safe.
After a few moments rest in the shadow of a doorway he set out to seek
the one man in all Rome to whom he dared reveal himself.
Not a soul seemed astir. Dim dusk hovered above the high houses beyond
the Tiber, between whose silent chasms Tristan, dreading the echo of
his own footsteps, made his way towards the Church of the Trespontine.
Thus, after a circuitous route through waste and desert spaces, he
reached the Benedictine's hermitage.
Odo stared at the early visitor as if a ghost had arisen from the floor
before him. He had just concluded his devotions and Tristan, fearing
lest the Monk of Cluny might believe in his guilt, lost no time in
stating his case, pouring forth a tale so fantastic and wild that his
host could not but listen in mingled horror and amaze.
Beginning with the moment when he had been informed of Hellayne's
sudden death, he omitted not a detail up to the time of his escape
from the dungeon, which to him meant nothing less than the antechamber
of death. Minutely he dwelt upon his watch in the Lateran, laying
particular stress upon the deadly drowsiness, which had gradually
overtaken him, binding his limbs as with cords of steel. Graphically he
depicted his awakening, when he found himself surrounded by the high
prelates of the Church who faced him with the supposed evidence of a
crime of which he knew nothing. And lastly he repeated almost word for
word the strange discourse he had overheard in his dungeon between
Basil and the Oriental.
A ghastly pallor flitted over the features of Odo of Cluny at the
latter intelligence.
"If this be true indeed--if Alberic is dead--woe be to Rome! It is too
monstrous for belief, and yet--I have suspected it long."
For a time Odo relapsed into silence, brooding over the tidings of
doom, and Tristan, though many questions struggled for utterance,
waited in anxious suspense.
At last the monk resumed.
"I see in this the hand of one who never strikes but to destroy. The
blow falls unseen, yet the aim is sure. I have not been idle, yet do I
not hold in my hand all the threads of the dark web that encompasses
us. Of the crime of which you stand accused I know you to be innocent.
Nevertheless--you dare not show yourself in Rome. Your escape from
your dungeon once discovered, not a nook or corner of Rome will remain
unsearched. They dare not let you live, for your existence spells their
doom. They will not look for you in this hermitage. It has many secret
winding passages, and it will be easy for you to elude them. Therefore,
my son, school your soul to patience, for here you must remain till
we have assembled around the banner of the Cross the forces of Light
against the legions of Hell."
"What of the woman, Father, who is awaiting my return at the Convent of
Santa Maria in Trastevere?" Tristan turned to the monk in a pleading,
stifled voice. "Doubtless the terrible rumor has reached her ear."
He covered his face with his hands, while convulsive sobs shook his