Part 19

Robert shook his rage from him, for he needed the woman to play out the evil play.

"Go into the chapel," he ordered her, "and whisper to the captain of the guard that I need Hildebrand."

Pagan though the woman was, she respected the ruling faith and made bold to protest.

"Sire, if I disturb the ceremony--"

Robert rose and towered above her, disdainful in pride.

"I am the King. There is no church, no shrine, no ceremony where I am not. Go!"

Not daring to disobey, Lycabetta left him, and, mounting the steps of the chapel, opened the door cautiously and entered. Robert seated himself again with burning brain and heart. A little white, bell-like flower grew at his feet. He trampled it with his heel into the grass, crushing it shapeless.

"How I shall triumph over this Diana," he said, aloud, hugging his foul thought, "when every seaman can command her!"

Then he sat in silence, brooding over sins, till Lycabetta came out of the chapel and descended the steps, followed by Hildebrand, who came to Robert.

"You called me, sire?" he said.

Robert sprang to his feet and drew Hildebrand apart.

"Speed to the city," he whispered. "When it dusks, send my two Moorish slaves to Theron's hut. They must persuade or force the girl to go with them and bear her to the house of Lycabetta."

Hildebrand bowed.

"I obey, sire. Will you enter the chapel? They wait for you."

"They shall wait till the world's end, if I choose," Robert answered, sourly. "If I choose that they shall sit there till they die and rot, what is that to you?" He dropped moodily on the seat and sat staring fiercely at the empty air.

Hildebrand left him and joined Lycabetta.

"The King is peevish," he whispered to her, and Lycabetta whispered back to him:

"Some girl has crossed him. It is the first time he has known refusal, and it maddens him like mandrake."

Hildebrand looked thoughtful.

"She may prove court favorite yet, if his mood changes. Maybe we were wise to use her gently. Let me bring you to your litter."

She gave him her hand and the pair descended the mountain-path, leaving the King again alone.

THE ARCHANGEL

Still the King sat on the column, the living sovereign throned on the relic of dead grandeur. He sat so motionless that the birds heeded him no more than if he had stiffened into stone, senseless as the block which supported him, monumental as the marble. His robes, his jewels, glowed and glittered in the light of the descending sun; but the birds in their wheelings heeded them no more than if they had been the adornments of the radiant image that once had reigned in that place. The bees boomed homeward, the shadows lengthened, all the sounds of evening began to voice along the aisles of the forest, but the King gave them no heed. From fierce thoughts of vengeance, from the ache of defied desires, his mind had dropped into the past as a swimmer might drop into the darkness of a cool pool. And as such a swimmer snared by treacherous weeds might in his struggles see all the facts and happenings of his past life flow before him, so to Robert's brain the flood of memory flowed unsummoned, or, rather, he seemed to sit, with a great painted book upon his knee, and turn at once unreluctant and indifferent the gold-and-purple pages of his past--his fretful, curious youth, his joyous flight over sea, his viceroyalty at Naples. And every page of the book was a tale of pleasure sated, fleshly greeds gratified, the pride of life, the lust of the eye. And every page was starred with the faces of fair women, who had welcomed, wooed, worshipped; they seemed to shift and flicker over the fancied pages like the vivid faces of dreams, the many forgotten, the few faintly remembered--dark Faustina, fair Messalinda, brown Yolande--whose score was yet to pay--Lycabetta, the miracle of ivory and ebony. So the faces thronged, thick-haunting, beseeching, teasing, pleading, and then suddenly they vanished; on a white, stainless page one face glowed into life, the face of a girl with clear, honest eyes, with adorable, maiden mouth, with wind-blown tresses as red as the most royal sunset--the face of the executioner's daughter, the face of a brave virgin, the face of Perpetua.

Robert wrenched himself from his lethargy with an impious oath, and glared about him. He laughed as he thought of his company, priests and courtiers, minions and soldiers, cooped up in the church, while he, their master, sat out there enjoying sunshine and shadow and telling the beads of his sweetest sins. A mad thought came into his mind--would it not be droll to girdle the church with soldiers sworn to slay whoever dared to issue from the church without the summons of the King, and so hold them there to hunger and thirst and belike die, so long as it pleased him so to hold them? As he hugged the fancy, chuckling over attendant thoughts, a little bell sounded, clear and sweet as the voice of a child, calling from the belfry of the church. It was vesper-time, and the servants of the church were fulfilling their service for the largest congregation their temple had known since its foundation. Robert frowned at the sound. How did the shavelings dare not to wait for his presence? He struck his hands angrily together. In the chime of the bell he seemed to hear the voice of Perpetua crying out against the words that had ruined the beautiful world. In the golden evening light he seemed to see the face of Perpetua gazing with scornful eyes upon her enemy. He closed his hands as if he were crushing her body and soul in his grasp.

"I did not think the woman lived who could so wound me," he cried, aloud. "If she fawned at my feet now, I would spurn her. To deny me--me, the greatest prince in the world! There is not another woman in the world who would say me nay."

From the little church came the swell of solemn music, mingled with clear, human voices, the voices of the holy ones within chanting the "Magnificat." The noble Roman words came flowing through the still air, grand and simple, to the ears of the King. But their grandeur, their simplicity, carried no calm to his writhing spirit.

"Magnificat anima mea Dominum: et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo."

Robert frowned as he listened. He remembered enough of his boyhood's Latin to interpret their message, and he muttered it sourly to himself in the vulgar tongue of Sicily.