Chapter XIV The Last Tryst
he great clock on the tower of San Sebastian struck the second hour of night. The air was so pure, so transparent, that against the horizon the snow-capped summit of Soracté was visible, like a crown of glittering crystal. Mysteriously the stars twinkled in the fathomless blue of the autumnal night. Procession after procession traversed the city. From their torches smoky spirals rose up to the starry skies. The pale rays of the moon, the crimson glare of the torches, illumined faces haggard with fear, seamed with anxiety and dread. Despite the late hour, the people swarmed like ants, occupying every point of vantage, climbing lantern poles and fallen columns, armed with clubs, halberds, scythes, pitchforks and staves. Here and there strange muffled forms were to be seen mingling with the crowds, whispering here and there a word into the ear of a chance passerby and vanishing like phantoms into the night.
Among the many abroad in the city at this hour was Eckhardt. He mistrusted the Romans, he mistrusted the Senator, he mistrusted the monks. The fire of his own consuming thoughts would not permit him to remain within the four walls of his palace. Like a grim spectre of the past he stalked through Rome, alone, unattended. How long would the terrible mystery of his life continue to mock him? How much longer must he bear the awful weight which was crushing his spirit with its relentless agony? What availed his presence in Rome? The king had long ceased to consult him on matters of state; Benilo and Stephania possessed his whole ear—and Eckhardt was no longer in his counsels.
With a degree of anxiety, which he had in vain endeavoured to dispel, Eckhardt had watched the growing intimacy between his sovereign and the Senator’s wife. Time and again he had, even at the risk of Otto’s fierce displeasure, warned the King against the danger lurking behind Stephania’s mask of friendship. Wearied and exasperated with his importunities, Otto had asserted the sovereign, and Eckhardt’s lips had remained sealed ever since, though his watchfulness had not relaxed one jot, and even while he endeavoured to lift the veil, which enshrouded his own life, he remained circumspect and on the alert, true to his promise to the Empress Theophano, now in her grave.
The sounds which on this night fell from every side on Eckhardt’s ear were not of a nature to dispel his misgivings of the Roman temper. As by a subtle intuition he felt that they were ripe for a change, though when and whence and how it would come he could not guess. His own mood was as dark as the sky-gloom lowering over the Seven Hills. Rome had made of him what he was, Rome had poisoned his life with the viper-sting of Ginevra’s terrible deed, and now he longed for nothing more than for some great event, which would toss him into the foaming billows of strife, therein to sink and to go under for ever.
Drawing his mantle closer about him and lowering the vizor of his helmet, Eckhardt slowly made his way through the congested throngs. He had not proceeded very far, when he felt some one pluck him by the mantle. Turning abruptly and shaking himself free, from what he believed to be the clutches of a beggar, he was about to dismiss the offender with an oath, when to his surprise he beheld a woman dressed in the garb of a peasant, but clearly disguised, as her speech gave the lie to her affectation of low birth.
“You are Eckhardt, the Margrave?” she asked timidly.
“I am Eckhardt,” the general replied curtly.
“Then lose no time to save him, else he will run into perdition as sure as yonder moon shines down upon us. Oh! He knows not the dangers that beset him;—on my knees I implore you—-save him!”
“When I understand the meaning of your gibberish, doubt not I will serve you! I pray you give me a glimpse of its purport,” replied the Margrave.
The woman seemed so entirely wrapt up in her own business that she did not heed Eckhardt’s question.
“I dare not whisper the secret to any one else,—and my Lord Benilo bade me seek you in case of danger. And if you cannot move him from his mad purpose, he is lost, for never was he so bent to have his own way. If you come with me, you will find him waiting on the terrace,—and do your best to lead him back,—else he will come to as evil an end as a wasp in a bee’s hive,—for all the honey!”
“And whom shall I find on the terrace?” asked Eckhardt with ill-concealed impatience. He liked not the babbling crone. “Cease your spurting and speak plainly, else go your way:—I am not for such as you!”
“It wants but a moment—whom else but your King, for whom she has sent under pretext of important business,—aye,—at this very hour and on the terraces of the Minotaurus.”
“Otto,—important business,—Minotaurus—” repeated Eckhardt. “Who has sent for him?”
“Stephania.”
Eckhardt shrugged his shoulders.
“What is it to me? Go your way, hoary pander,—what is it to me? Hasten to him, who has paid you to tell this tale and get your ransom from him! I wager, he knows the style of old!”
The woman did not move.
“Nay, my lord, that we all should go mad at one time,” she sobbed with evidently strong emotions, which were perhaps not caused by the motive alleged. “Then I must away and fulfil his destiny,—for a man cannot serve two masters,—nor a woman either.”
There was something in the speaker’s tone that caused a shadow of apprehension to rise in Eckhardt’s mind. Was there more behind all this than she cared to confess? “Fulfil his destiny”—these words at least were not her own. A grave fear seized him. Otto might be ambushed,—carried away,—he might rot in Castel San Angelo, and no man the wiser for it.
“Stay! I will go and cross the boy’s path to his guilty paradise,” repeated Eckhardt after permitting the woman to draw away from him at a very slow and wistful pace and overtaking her with a couple of strides. “Lead on, but do not speak! I have no tongue to answer you!”
The woman immediately took the well-known route towards the terraces of the Minotaurus and soon they reached the spot. A covered archway at one extremity admitted on a terrace, flanked on one side by a high dead wall of the Vatican, on the other by a steep and precipitous slope, wooded with orange trees and myrtle. This spot, little frequented in day time, was deserted by night. The woman whispered that it was here, she expected the King, and cautioning Eckhardt to remove him with all speed from this danger zone, which offered no means of escape, she precipitately retired, leaving Eckhardt alone to meditate upon what he had heard, and to pursue his adventure in the darkness.
The Margrave hastened along the archway and peering into the shadows he quickly discerned the slim outline of a man, wrapt in an ample cloak, leaning against the dead wall at the end of the platform. His eyes seemed fixed intently upon the heavens, while an expression of impatience reigned uppermost in the pale, thoughtful face.
Eckhardt quickly approached the edge of the terrace, where he had discovered Otto, and although the King kept his face averted, he could scarcely hope to escape recognition.
“Otto—the King—can it be?” Eckhardt said with feigned surprise, as he faced the youth. “I beg your majesty’s pardon,—are you a lodger in yonder palace or how chances it that you are here alone,—unattended?”
“Ay—since you know me,” replied Otto with a forced smile, “I will not deny my name nor business either. The ladies of the Senator’s court are fair, and an ancient crone whispered to me at my devotions to Our Lady, on this terrace and at this hour, if I prayed heartily, I should have good news. Matter enough, I ween, to stir one’s curiosity, but,—I fear,—I should be alone.”
The blood surged thickly through Eckhardt’s brain. He could scarcely breathe, as he listened to this falsehood and for a few moments he gazed in silence on the flushed and paling visage of the youth.
At last he spoke.
“Is it possible that the air of Rome can even change a nature like yours to utter a falsehood? My liege,—you are not yourself!” Eckhardt exclaimed, discarding all reserve, for he knew there was no time to be lost. And if perchance the fair serpent that had lured him hither was nigh, his words should strike her heart with shame and dismay. “It is to Stephania you go,—it is Stephania, whom you await!”
There was a brief pause during which a hectic flush chased the deep pallor from Otto’s face, as he passively listened to the unaccustomed speech.
“Stephania,” he repeated absently, and suffering his cloak to drop aside in his absorption, he revealed the richness and splendour of the garb beneath.
“The wife of the Senator of Rome!” Eckhardt supplemented sternly.
“And what if it be?” Otto responded with mingled petulancy and confusion. “What if the Senator’s consort has vouchsafed me a private audience?”
“Are you beside yourself, King Otto? You venture into this place alone,—unattended,—to please some woman’s whim,—a woman who is playing with you,—and will lead you to perdition?”
“How dare you arraign your King and his deeds?” Otto exclaimed fiercely.
“I am here to save you—from yourself! You know not the consequences of your deed!”
“Let them be what they will! I am here, to abide them!”
Eckhardt crossed his arms over his broad chest as he regarded the offspring of the vanquisher of the Saracens with mingled scorn and pity.
“The spell is heavy upon you, here among the crimson and purple flowers, where the Siren sings you to destruction,” he said with forced calmness. “But you shall no longer listen to her voice, else you are lost. Otto,—Otto,—away with me! We will leave this accursed spot and Rome together—for ever! There is no other refuge for you from the spell of the Sorceress.”
“Not for all the lands on which the sun sets to-night will I refuse obedience to Stephania’s call,” Otto replied. “You sorely mistake your place and presume too much on the authority placed into your hands by the august Empress, my mother. But attempt not to exercise mastery over your King or to bend him to your will and purpose—for he will do as he chooses!”
“It has come to this then,” replied Eckhardt without stirring from the spot and utterly disregarding Otto’s increasing nervousness. “It has come to this! Are there no chaste and fair maidens in your native land? Maidens of high birth and lineage, fit to adorn an emperor’s couch? Must you needs come hither,—hither,—to this thrice accursed spot, to love an alien, to love a Roman, and of all Romans, a married woman—the wife of your arch-enemy, the Senator? Are you blind, King Otto? Can you not see the game? You alone—of all? Deem you the proud, merciless Stephania, the consort of the Senator, who hates us Teutons more than he does the fiend himself,—would meet you here in this secluded spot, with her husband’s knowledge,—with her husband’s connivance,—simply to listen to your dreams and vagaries? Can you not see that you are but her dupe? King Otto, you have refused to listen to my warnings:—there is sedition rife in Rome. Retire to the Aventine, bar the gates to every one,—I have despatched my fleetest messenger to Tivoli to recall our contingents,—before dawn my Saxons shall hammer at the gates of Rome!”
Otto gazed at the speaker as if the latter addressed him in some unknown tongue.
“Sedition in Rome?” he replied like one wrapt in a dream. “You are mad! The Romans love me! Even as I do them! I will not stir an inch! I remain!”
Eckhardt breathed hard. He must carry his point; he felt oppressed by the sense of a great danger.
“And thus it befalls,” he said laughing aloud with the excess of bitterness, “that to this hour I owe the achievement of knowing the cause why you have declined the demands of the Electors; that I can bear to them the answer to their importunities; that in this hour I have learned the true reason of your refusing to listen to your German subjects, who crave your return, who love you and your glorious house! You say you will remain! Revel then in your Eden, until she is weary of you and Crescentius spares her the pains of the finish.”
“What are you raving?” exclaimed Otto furiously.
“You are mad for love, King Otto, and a frenzied lover is the worst of fools!”
The King blushed, with the consciousness either of his innocence or guilt.
“Since you accuse me,” he spoke more calmly, but a strange fire burning in his eyes, “I do not deny it,—Stephania requested a meeting on matters pertaining to Rome, and I have come! And here,” Otto continued, inflexible determination ringing in his tones—“and here I will await her, if all hell or the swords of Rome barred the way. Do you hear me, Eckhardt? Too long have I been the puppet of the Electors. Too long have I suffered your tyranny. My will is supreme,—and who so defies it, is a traitor!”
Eckhardt gazed fixedly into his sovereign’s eyes.
“King Otto! Is it possible that you beguile yourself with these specious pretexts? That you assail the honour of those who have followed you hither, who have twice conquered Rome for you? Ay,—no one so blind as he who will not see! I tell you, Stephania is luring you into the betrayal of your honour,—perhaps that of the Senator,—who knows? I tell you she is deceiving you! Or,—if she pretends to love, it is to betray you! You cannot resist her magic,—it is not in humanity to do so, were it thrice subdued by years of fasting. If you repel her now, your victory will be bought with your destruction! Her undying hatred will mark you her own! But if you succumb you are lost,—the Virgin herself could not save you! You shall not remain! You shall not meet her,—not as long as the light of these eyes can watch over your credulous heart!”
Otto had advanced a step. Vainly groping for words to vent his wrath, he paced up and down before the trusted leader of his hosts.
At last he paused directly before him.
“My Lord Eckhardt,” he said, “it might content you to rake amidst the slime of the city for matter, with which to asperse a pure and beautiful woman,—as for myself, while my hand can clutch the hilt of a sword, you shall not!” he exclaimed, yielding at last to the voice of his fiery nature.
“Strike then,” Eckhardt replied, raising his arms. “I have no weapon against my King!”
Otto pushed the half drawn sword back into the scabbard.
“For this,” he said, “you shall abide a reckoning.”
“Then let it be now!” Eckhardt exclaimed in a wild jeering tone. “Go and bid Stephania arm her champion, one against whom I may enter the lists, and I swear to you, that from his false breast I will tear the truth, which you refuse to accept, coming from your friends! But I am not in a mood to be trifled with. You shall not remain, King Otto, and I swear by these spurs, I will rather kill your paramour, than to see you betrayed to the doom which awaits you.”
“Are life and death so absolutely in the hands of the Margrave of Meissen?” replied Otto in a towering rage. “In the face of your defiance I will tarry here and abide my fortune.”
And clutching Eckhardt’s mantle, in his wrath, his eye met the eye of the fearless general.
With a jerk the latter freed himself from Otto’s grasp.
“A fool in love: A thing that men spurn and women deride.”
Otto’s face turned deadly pale.
“You dare? This to your King?”
“I dare everything to save you—everything! Otto—the Romans mistrust you! They love you no longer! They are ripe for a change! The longer you tarry, the fiercer will be the strife. Crescentius would rather destroy the whole city than let it be permanently wrested from his power. You have been his dupe,—hark—do you hear those voices?”
“Of all my enemies he is the one sincere.”
“Then he were the more dangerous! A fanatic is always more powerful than a knave. Do you hear these voices, King Otto?”
Otto was pacing the terrace with feverish impatience.
“I hear nothing! I hear nothing! Go—and leave me!”
“And know you sold,—betrayed,—by that—”
A shadow crossed his path, noiseless on the velvety turf.
Before them stood Stephania.
“Finish your words, my Lord Eckhardt,” she said facing the Margrave. “Pray, let not my presence mellow your speech.”
“And it shall not!” retorted Eckhardt hotly.
“And it shall!” thundered Otto rushing upon him. “Upon your life, Eckhardt, one insult and—”
Stephania laid a tranquillizing finger on Otto’s arm.
“I have heard all,” she said, pale as marble, but smiling. “And I forgive.”
“You have heard his accusation—and you forgive, Stephania?” cried Otto, gazing incredulously into her eyes.
“You had faith in me—I thank you—Otto!” she replied softly, and sweeping by Eckhardt, she extended both hands to the King. He grasped them tightly within his own and, bending over them, pressed his fevered lips upon them.
Suddenly all three raised their heads and listened.
A sound not unlike a distant trumpet blast, rent the stillness of night, seemed to swell with the echoes from the hills, then died away.
“What is this?” the German leader questioned, puzzled.
“The monks are holding processions,—the streets are swarming with the cassocks,—their chants can be heard everywhere.”
Stephania gazed at Otto, as she answered Eckhardt’s question.
The Margrave scrutinized her intently.
“I knew not the Senator loved the black crows so well, as to furnish music to their march,” he replied slowly. Then he turned to the woman.
“Hear me, Stephania! You see me here, but you know not that I have ordered all my men-at-arms to attend me at the gates below! If the King’s foolish passion and blind trust have been the means to execute your hellish design, know that with my own hand I will avenge your remorseless treachery, for I will slay you if aught befall him in this night, and hang your lord, the Senator of Rome, from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo,—I swear it by the Five Wounds!”
For a moment Stephania stood petrified with terror and unable to utter a single word in response. Then she turned to Otto.
“This man is mad! Order him begone,—or I will go myself. He frightens me!”
She made a movement as if to depart, but Otto, divining her intention, barred the way.
“Stephania—remain!” he entreated. “Our general is but prompted by an over great zeal for our welfare,” he concluded, restraining himself with an effort. Then breathing hard, he extended his arm, and with flaming eyes spoke to Eckhardt:
“Go!”
“I go!” the general replied with heavy heart. “If anything unusual happens in this night, King Otto, remember my words—remember my warning. My men are stationed at the wicket, through which you came. There is no other exit,—save to perdition. I leave you—may the Saints keep you till we meet again!”
With these words Eckhardt gathered his mantle about him and stalked away, leisurely at first, as if to lull to sleep every inkling of suspicion in Stephania, then faster and faster, and at last he fairly flew up the winding road of Aventine. Those whom he met shied out of his path, as if the fiend himself was coming towards them and shaking their heads in grave wonder and fear, muttered an Ave and told their beads.
Strange noises were in the air. The chants of the monks were intermingled with the fierce howls and shrieks of a mob, harangued by some demagogue, who fed their discontentment with arguments after their own heart. Everywhere Eckhardt met skulking countenances, scowling faces, while half-suppressed oaths fell on his ear. Arrived on the Aventine he immediately ordered Haco, Captain of the Imperial Guards, to his presence.
“Bridle your charger and ride to Tivoli as if ten thousand devils were on your heels,” he said, handing the young officer an order he had hurriedly and barbarously scratched on a fragment of parchment. “Pass through the Tiburtine gate and return with sunrise,—life and death depend upon your speed!”
Withdrawing immediately, Haco saddled his charger and soon the echoes of his horse’s hoofs died away in the distance, while Eckhardt hurriedly entered the palace.
After he had vanished from the labyrinth of the Minotaurus, Otto and Stephania faced each other for a moment in silence. The Southern night was very still. The noises from the city had died down. By countless thousands the stars shone in the deep, fathomless heavens.
It was Otto who first broke the heavy silence.
“Stephania,” he said, “why are you here to-night?”
“What a strange question,” she replied, “and from you.”
“Yes—from me! From me to you. Is it because—”
He paused as if oppressed by some great dread. He dared not trust himself to speak those words in her hearing.
“Is it because I love you?” she complemented the sentence, drawing him down beside her. But the seed of doubt Eckhardt had planted in his heart had taken root.
“Stephania,” he said with a strange voice, without replying directly to her question. “I have trusted in you and I will continue to trust in you, even despite the whisperings of the fiend,—until with my own eyes I behold you faithless. Eckhardt has been with me all day,” he continued with unsteady voice, “he has warned me against you, he has warned me to place no trust in your words, that you are but the instrument of Crescentius; that he has organized a mutiny; that he but awaits your signal for my destruction. He has warned me that you have planned my seizure and selected this spot, to prevent intervention. Stephania, answer me—is it so?”
For a moment the woman gazed at him in dread silence, unable to speak.
“Did you believe?” she faltered at last with averted gaze, very pale.
“I am here!” he replied.
Stephania laughed nervously.
“I had forgotten!” she stammered. “How good of you!”
Otto regarded her with silent wonder, not unmingled with fear, for her countenance betrayed an anxiety he had never read in it before. And indeed her restlessness and terror seemed to increase with every moment. She answered Otto’s questions evidently without knowing what she said, and her gaze turned frequently and with a devouring expression of anxiety and dread toward Castel San Angelo. Maddened and desperate with her own perfidy, she began to ruminate the most violent extremities, without perceiving one exit from the labyrinth of guile. The significance of Otto’s question, his earnestness and his faith in herself put the crown on her misery. Her eyes grew dim and her senses were failing. Her limbs quaked and for a moment she was unable to speak. Otto bent over her in positive fear. The pale face looked so deathlike that his heart quailed at the thought of life,—life without her.
“I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it,” he muttered, holding her hands in his tight grasp.
It seemed as if she had read his inmost, unspoken thoughts.
“And yet it must come at last!” she replied softly, as from the depths of a dream. “What is this short span of life for such love as ours? And,—had we even everything we could crave, all the world can give,—would there not be a sting in each moment of happiness at the thought—”
She paused. Her head drooped.
“My happiness is to be with you,” he stammered. “I cannot count the cost!”
“Think you that I would count the cost?” she said. “And you love me despite of all those dreadful things, which he—Eckhardt—has poured into your ear?” she continued with low, purring voice.
“Love you—love you!” he repeated wildly. “Oh, I have loved you all my life, even before I saw you,—are you not the embodied form of all those vague dreams of beauty, which haunted my earliest childhood? That beauty, which I sought yearningly, but oh! so vainly in all things, that breathe the divine essence: the lustrous darkness of night, the glories of sunset, the subtle perfume of the rose, the all-reflecting ocean of poetry in which the Universe mirrors itself? In all have I found the same deep void, which only love can fill. Not love you,” he continued covering both hands he held in his with fevered kisses, “oh, Stephania, I love you better than myself,—better than all things,—here and hereafter.”
Almost paralyzed with fear she listened to his mad pleading.
“And can nothing—nothing,—destroy this love you have for me?” she faltered.
He took her yielding form in his arms. He drew her closer and closer to his heart.
“Nothing,—nothing,—nothing.”
“I love you—Otto—” she whispered deliriously.
“To the end, dearest,—to the end!”
From a tavern at the foot of the hill the sounds of high revelry were borne up to them. The air was filled with the odour of dead leaves and dying creation, that subtle premonition of the end to come.
“And you have anxiously waited my coming?” she said, hiding her face in his arms.
“Oh, Stephania! The hour-glass, with which passion measures a lover’s impatience, is a burning torch to his heart.”
Supreme stillness intervened again.
Stephania raised her head like a deer in covert, listening for the hunters, listening for the baying of the hounds, coming nearer and nearer. Gladly at this moment would she have given her life to undo what she had done. But it was too late. Even this expiation would not avail! There was nothing now to do, but to nerve herself for that supreme moment, when all would be severed between them for aye and ever; when she would stand before him the embodiment of deception; when he would spurn her as one spurns the reptile, that repays the caressing hand with its deadly sting; when he would curse her perhaps,—cast from him for ever the woman who had cut the thread of the life he had laid at her feet—and all, for what?
That Johannes Crescentius, the Senator of Rome might again come into his own, that he might again lord the rabble which now skulked through the streets to avenge some imaginary wrong on the head of the youth, whose love for them was to be the pass word for his destruction.
And Johannes Crescentius was her husband and lord. He loved her with as great a love as his nature was capable of, and whatever faults might be laid at the door of his regime, if faults they could even be termed in a lawless, feudal age, that knew no right save might,—to her he had never been untrue.
Stephania endeavoured to persuade herself that, what she had done, she had done for the good of Rome. Monstrous deception! She despised the mongrel rabble too heartily to even have raised a finger in its behalf. If they starved, would Crescentius give them bread? If they froze—would Crescentius clothe them? Then there remained but the question, should a Roman govern Rome, or the alien,—the foreigner. Was it for her to decide? How unworthy the cause of the sacrifice she was about to bring on the altar of her happiness. But which ever way the tongue of the scales inclined,—it was too late!
Otto had buried his head on Stephania’s bosom. She had encircled it with her arms and with gentle fingers that sent a delirium through his brain, she stroked his soft brown hair, while the cry of Delilah hovered on her lips.
He looked up into her eyes.
“Stephania,—why are you here to-night?” he whispered again, and he felt the tremor which quivered through her body.
“I came to bring you the answer which you craved at our last meeting,” she replied softly. “Can you guess it?”
“Then you have chosen,” he gasped, as if he were suddenly confronted with the crisis in his existence, when that which he held dearest must either slip away from him for ever or remain his through all eternity.
“I have chosen!” she whispered, her arms tightening round him, as if she would protect him against all the world.
“Kiss me,” she moaned.
One delirious moment their lips met. They remained locked in tight embrace, lip to lip, heart to heart.
There was a brief breathless silence.
Suddenly the great bell of the Capitol rolled in solemn and majestic sounds upon the air, and was answered from all the belfries of Rome. But louder than the pealing tocsin, above the wild screaming and clanging of the bells rose the piercing cry:
“Death to the Saxon! Death to the King!”
They both raised their heads and listened. With wild-eyed wonder Otto gazed into Stephania’s eyes. The marble statues around them were hardly as white as her features.
“What is this?” he questioned.
There was a stir in the depths of the streets below. Shouts and jeers of strident voices were broken by authoritative commands. The tramp of mailed feet was remotely audible, but above all the hubbub and din rose the cry:
“Death to the Saxon! Death to the King!”
When the first peals of the great bell quivered on the silent night air, Stephania had, with a low wail, encircled Otto’s head with her arms, pressed him closely to her, as if to shield him from harm. Then, as louder and wilder the iron tongues shrieked defiance through the air, as, turning her head, she saw the fatal spear points of the Albanians gleaming through the thicket, she suddenly shook him off. With a stifled outcry, she rose to her feet; so abruptly that Otto staggered and would have fallen, had he not in time caught himself with the aid of a branch.
To the King it gave the impression of a wild hideous dream. Like one dazed, he stared first at the woman, then down the declivity.
Directly beneath where he stood a scribe was haranguing the crowds, descanting on the ancient glory of the Romans and exhorting his listeners to exterminate all foreigners. From Castel San Angelo came an incessant sound of trumpets, which, mingling with the brazen roar of bells seemed to shake the earth. Torches lighted the streets with their smoky crimson glare. People hurried hither and thither, jostling, pushing, trampling upon each other like black shadows, like living phantoms. The fiery glow, the voices of the angry mob, the pealing of the bells,—they all struck Stephania’s heart with a thousand talons of remorse and shame. Fearstruck and trembling, she gazed into the pale face of Theophano’s son.
Otto was watching the distant pandemonium as one would gaze upon some strange, hideous ceremonial of occult meaning,—then he turned slowly to Stephania.
For a moment they faced each other in silence, then he stroked the disordered hair from his forehead like one waking from a dream.
“You have betrayed me.”
Her lips were tightly compressed; she made no reply.
The next moment he was on his knees before her.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” he faltered, “I knew not what I said!”
She breathed hard. For a moment she closed her eyes in mortal anguish.
“Then you still believe in me?” She spoke hardly above a whisper.
“With all my heart,” he replied, grasping her hands and covering them with kisses. For a moment she suffered him to exhaust his endearments, then she jerked them away from him.
“Then bid your hopes and dreams farewell and scatter your faith to the winds,” she shrieked, almost beside herself with the memory of her vow and its consequences. “You are betrayed,—and I have betrayed you!”
Otto had staggered to his feet and gazed upon the beautiful apparition who faced him like some avenging fury, as if he thought that she had gone suddenly mad. For a moment she paused, as if summoning supreme energy for the execution of her task, as if to lash herself into a paroxysm sufficient to make her forget those accusing eyes and his all-mastering love.
“I have betrayed you, Kong Otto! I, Stephania, a woman! Ah! You believed my words! You were vain enough to imagine that the wife of the Senator of Rome could love you,—you,—her greatest foe, you, the Saxon, the alien, the intruder, who came here to rob us of our own, to wrest the sceptre from the rightful lord of the Seven Hills. You hoped Stephania would aid you to realize your mad dreams! How unsophisticated, how deliciously innocent is the King of the Germans! Know then that I have lied to you, when I feigned interest in your cause, know that I have lied to you when I professed to love you! Love you,” she cried, while her heart was breaking with every word she hurled against him, who listened to her speech in frozen terror. “Love you! Fool! And you were mad enough to believe it! Do you hear those bells? Do you hear the great tocsin from the Capitol? Do you hear the alarums from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo? They are calling the Romans to arms! They are summoning the Romans to revolt! Do you hear those shouts? Death to the Germans? They are for you,—for you,—for you!”
Again she paused, breathing hard, collecting all her woman’s strength to finish what she had begun.
The end had come,—her task must be finished.
Her voice now assumed its natural tones, the more dreadful in their import, as she spoke in the old deep, soulful accents.
“I have lulled you to sleep,” she continued, breaking the bridge, which led back into the past, span by span,—“that the Senator of Rome may once again come into his own! I have pretended interest in your monkish fancies, that Rome may once more shake off the invader’s accursed yoke. I am a Roman, King Otto,—and I hate you,—hate you with every beat of my heart, that beats for Rome. King Otto, you are doomed.”
He had listened to her words with wide, wondering eyes, his heart frozen with terror and anguish, his face pale as that of a corpse, returned from its grave. He heard voices in the distance and the tread of armed feet coming nearer and nearer. Yet he stirred not. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. There were strange rushing sounds in his ears, like mocking echoes of Stephania’s words.
At last his lips moved, while with a desperate effort he tried to shake off the spell.
“May God forgive you, Stephania,” he gasped like a drowning man, reeled and caught himself, gazing upon her with delirious, burning eyes.
Closer and closer came the tramp of mailed feet.
Terror struck, Stephania gazed into Otto’s face. The fiercest denunciation would not have so completely unnerved her as the simple words of the youth. She almost succumbed under the weight of her anguish.
“Fly,—King Otto,—fly,—save yourself,” she gasped, staggering toward him in the endeavour to shake off the fatal torpor which had seized his limbs. But he saw her not, he heard not her warning. Listlessly he gazed into space.
But had those who rushed down the avenue been his enemies and death his certain lot, there would not have been time for flight.
Stephania heaved a sigh of relief as in their leader she recognized the Margrave of Meissen, followed by a score or more of the Saxon guard.
Her own fate she never gave a thought.
“Do you hear those sounds?” thundered the gaunt German leader, rushing with drawn sword upon the scene and pausing breathlessly before Stephania’s victim. “Do you hear the great bell of the Capitol, King Otto? All Rome is in revolt! Did I not warn you against the wiles of the accursed sorceress, who, like a vampire fed on your heart’s blood? But by the Almighty God, she shall not live to enjoy the fruits of her hellish treason.”
And suiting the action to the word, Eckhardt rushed upon Stephania, who stood calmly awaiting his onslaught and seemed to invite the stroke which threatened her life, for her lips curled in haughty disdain and her gaze met Eckhardt’s in lofty scorn.
The sight of her peril accomplished what Stephania’s efforts had failed to do. Swift as thought Otto had hurled himself between Eckhardt and his intended victim.
“Back,” he thundered with flaming eyes. “Only over my dead body lies the way to her!”
Eckhardt’s arm dropped, while a wrathful laugh broke from his lips.
“You are magnificent, King Otto! Defend the woman who has foully betrayed you! Be it so! We have no time for argument. Her life is forfeited and by the Eternal God, Eckhardt never broke his oath. Follow me! We must reach the Aventine, ere the Roman rabble bar the way. We are not strong enough to break through their numbers and they swarm like ants.”
Otto stirred not.
Calmly he gazed at the Margrave, as if the danger did in no wise concern him. And while Eckhardt stamped his feet in impotent rage, mingling a score or more pagan imprecations with the very unchristian oaths he muttered between his clenched teeth, Otto turned to Stephania. His voice was calm and passionless as one’s who has emerged from a terrible ordeal and has nothing more to lose, nothing more to fear.
“What will you do?” he said. “The streets are no safe thoroughfare for you in this night.”
“I know not,—I care not,” she replied with dead voice, from which all its bewitching tones had faded.
“Then you must come with us!” he said. “My men shall safely conduct you to Castel San Angelo. You have the word of their King!”
“By the flames of purgatory! Are you stark mad, King Otto?” roared Eckhardt, almost beside himself with rage. “Come with us she shall, but as hostage for Crescentius,—and eye for eye,—tooth for tooth!”
He did not finish. Otto waved his hand petulantly.
“The King of the Germans has pledged his word for Stephania’s safe conduct, and the King of the Germans will be obeyed,” he spoke, his voice the only calm and passionless thing in all the storm and uproar, which assailed them on all sides. “Through the secret passage lies her only safety. She cannot go as she came!”
Eckhardt’s eyes fairly blazed with rage.
“Secret passage!” he roared, nervously gripping the hilt of his enormous sword. “Secret passage? Are you raving, King Otto? What secret passage?”
But vainly did the Margrave endeavour to make his gestures explain his denial. Otto cared not, if indeed he noted them at all.
He beckoned to Stephania.
“Come with us!” he spoke in the same apathetic, listless tone. “Fear nothing. You have the word of the German King,—he has never broken it!”
Whether the terrible reproach implied in his words increased the stifling anguish in her heart, whether she dared not trust herself to speak, Stephania silently turned to go. But divining her intent, Otto caught at her mantle.
“Now by all the fiends!” shouted Eckhardt, unable longer to restrain himself, dashing between Stephania and the King and severing the latter’s hold on the woman—“Since your heart is set upon it, I will not harm the—”
He paused involuntarily.
For from Otto’s eyes there flashed upon him such a terrible look that even the old, practiced warrior stepped back abashed.
“Speak the word and I will slay you with my own hands!” spoke the son of Theophano, and for a moment subject and king faced each other in the dread silence with flaming eyes, and faces from which every trace of colour had faded.
Eckhardt lowered his weapon.
His countenance betrayed untold anxiety.
“You invite certain destruction, King Otto,” he remonstrated with subdued voice. “What matters it, if her countrymen do slay her? One serpent the less in Rome! Your mercy leads you to perdition,—-what mercy has she shown to you?”
Otto had relapsed into his former state of apathy.
“She goes with us,” he said like an automaton, that knows but one speech. “Through the secret passage lies her only safety.”
“She will betray it and you and all of us,” growled the German leader, whose very beard seemed to bristle with wrath at Otto’s obstinacy.
Otto shrugged his shoulders.
“I have spoken!”
“Guards, close round!” thundered Eckhardt. “And every dog of a Roman who approaches upon any pretext whatsoever,—strike him dead without word or parley!”
The Saxon spearmen who had guarded the approach to the avenue gathered hurriedly round them. For at that moment the great bell of the Capitol, whose tolling had ceased for a time, began its clamour anew and the shouts of the masses, subdued and hushed during the interval, rose with increased fury. They drowned the great sob of anguish, which had welled up from Stephania’s heart, but when Otto, his attention distracted for the nonce by the uproar, turned round, the woman had gone.
Nor did Eckhardt, inwardly rejoicing over the revelation, grant him one moment’s respite. Surrounded by his trusty Saxon spears, Otto felt himself hurried along towards the gates of his palace, which they reached in safety, the insurrection having not yet spread to that region.
Vainly had he strained his gaze into the haze of the moonlit night. The end had come,—Stephania had gone.
When he reached his chamber, Otto sank senseless on the floor.