CHAPTER II

THE PLEDGE

In the antechamber of the elder Villani's sick-room, during the talk

between father and son, the monks had quietly waited the termination

of the interview. The Prior sat alone on a settle in a corner, his

tonsured head bent so low that his face was unreadable, while with

nervous fingers he stroked the cloth of his brown robe. One of the

monks was engaged in expounding some dogma to his companions who

obviously paid little heed to his words. A strange friar, who had on

the previous night arrived from Rome, sat with the confessor of San

Cataldo, but neither of them spoke. They, too, seemed to be listening

for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The two mediciners, more

at ease, sat murmuring professionally between themselves, careless of

the mental unrest of their colleagues of the soul. None in the room,

save the strange friar, knew what the elder Villani was saying to his

son, but there were few even among these world-strange men who had not

guessed the truth long ago.

The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the quaint stone lamps

wavered and flickered restlessly in their sconces, while the uneven

light from the cresset-lantern, hung in the centre of the chamber,

cast distorted shadows over floor and ceiling. To all present the wait

was tedious. To the strange friar whose eyes roamed ever again towards

the sick-chamber, it seemed interminable, and ever and anon the monk

at his side leaned uneasily towards him. "Gregorio Villani will find

the task no easy one. He had better left it to one of us!"

Nevertheless, when their wait was ended, and the leather hangings of

the door were raised by a white hand, all in the room were startled,

and gazed alert with wondering eyes, and lips on which the words had

died.

It was a strange apparition that entered. For a moment each was aware

of a slender figure which seemed to sway even as it grasped the

curtain, of a face ghastly white, framed in a wealth of dishevelled

hair, of a voice whose sound seemed but the hoarse whisper of a ghost,

as he staggered towards the strange friar.

"My father desires your presence."

The monk arose quickly, glancing furtively at the face of the youth,

then exchanging a swift glance with the Prior. At the same time one of

the mediciners started up.

With an unspoken "Not yet!" the Prior waved him back, and Francesco

followed the strange friar from the room.

A swift repugnance against his companion, seemingly born of the

moment, filled the youth, as side by side they traversed the short

passage-way. At the door of the sick-room, which they were about to

enter, the monk suddenly paused and turned.

"You have consented?" he whispered.

Francesco's lips formed an answer, barely audible, but which the monk

at his side caught at once.

Something akin to a look of involuntary admiration stole over his face

and something akin to a gleam of pity flickered in his eyes. The

admiration was for the mental powers of the elder Villani, which, it

seemed, not even approaching Death could vanquish. The fleeting pity

was for the son. But not unmingled with both was a look of triumph for

himself.

On entering the sick-room the monk stepped at once to the side of the

dying man. Gregorio Villani's cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes

were brilliant, but his voice was weaker than it had been.

"Francesco has granted my last wish," he said, looking searchingly

into the friar's face. "Have you the briefs that are required for his

going?"

The friar produced a bundle from his cassock, which he placed on the

bed. Gregorio Villani took up the first scroll.

"To this one, containing the pledge, Francesco shall put his name," he

said, with a glance at his son. "The second is a letter from my own

hand, to the monastery and chapter, which His Holiness has decreed for

him. The third is the special dispensation, granting friar's order to

Francesco. Treasure it well, my son, for it will prove the greatest

boon of your life! And now, in presence of this witness, you shall

sign your pledge to me and to the Church!"

He looked imploringly at the youth, who stood by with pale face and

eyes from which every gleam of gladness had faded. When Francesco made

no reply, the strange monk stepped to a table on which there were

scattered sundry writing utensils, and dipping a pen in a composition

serving as ink, brought it to Francesco.

The latter stared for a moment from the friar to his father, his eyes

ablaze. Then he reached out, snatched the pen from the monk's hand and

dashed it on the floor.

"Does not my word suffice?" he spoke hoarsely, catching at his throat

like a drowning man.

"The flesh is weak and temptation ever near,"--the strange friar spoke

in the elder Villani's stead, as he picked up the pen with a sidelong

glance at the sick man. There was to be no hesitation, no wavering

now. The moment lost might never again return!

"You must sign the pledge," the sick man, turning to his son,

interposed tremulously. His own misgivings ran apace with those of the

strange monk.

Snatching the pen from the latter's hand, Francesco bent over the

scroll and scratched his name barbarously under the pledge. Then, from

his nerveless fingers, it dropped anew upon the floor.

The older man, who had been watching him narrowly, heaved a sigh of

relief.

"You have assured my eternal salvation and your own," he said in a

weak, toneless voice. "Retire now, my son, that this holy friar and I

may arrange the details of your going."

A hot flush suffused Francesco's face as he straightened himself to

his full height.

"Of my going?" he said slowly. "Surely I am not yet to go! Am I not to

wait at least until--"

"My death?" finished the elder Villani, looking at him with piercing

intentness. "You shall not have to wait long. I shall never see the

light of another day!"

Francesco struggled to suppress a moan which rose to his lips. Then he

covered his face with both hands. His nerves were giving way. Further

resistance was impossible. Mentally and physically worn, he was

encountering a will, pitiless, uncompromising. He felt further

argument to be useless. And the strange friar, noting his condition,

knew that the victory was theirs.

He placed a scroll in the elder Villani's hands.

"The absolution from His Holiness," he said, with a low, solemn voice,

intended, nevertheless, to be heard by Francesco. "The conditions are

fulfilled."

Francesco glanced from one to the other: he understood.

He had been sold; his youth, his life bartered away, like the life of

a slave.

Fearing an outburst, the elder Villani turned to his son.

"You had best retire and seek your rest, Francesco," he said in a

voice strangely mingled with concern and dread. "Fra Girolamo and I

will arrange these matters between us. Leave us in good faith. You

will depart on the morrow! I wish I knew you safe in the cloister even

now! Go, my son,--and peace be with you!"--

Francesco turned silently to leave the room. Presently something, a

quiver of feeling, stopped him. He hesitated for a moment, then he

returned to the bedside, bending over it and gazing sadly into his

father's face.

"I shall see you again in the morning?" he asked gently.

"By the will of God," the sick man replied with feeble voice.

His head had sunk upon his breast. Francesco crossed the room and was

gone. A moment after they heard a loud, jarring laugh without. Then

all was still.

The elder Villani and the monk exchanged looks in silence. For some

time neither spoke. When the silence was broken at last, it was in a

way which revealed the close touch between the minds of these two.

"Was the struggle great?" questioned the monk.

"Great as the sacrifice demanded," replied the sick man. "And yet, not

as fierce as I had apprehended. Francesco is my own flesh and blood!

Ah! At times my heart reproaches me for what I have done!"

"A weakness you will overcome! In giving back to the Church the boy

who was in a fair way to become her enemy, who had been reared in the

camp of her mortal foes, who had been fed on the milk of heresy and

apostasy, you have but done your duty. He will soon have forgotten

that other life, which would have consigned him to tortures eternal,

and will gladly accept what is required of him for the repose of your

soul and his own!"

There was a brief pause, during which the elder Villani seemed to

collect his waning energies. The monk's speech had roused in him a

spirit of resistance, of defiance. Who were they that would dispose

of the life of his own flesh and blood? It was too late, to undo what

he had done. But it should not pass without a protest.

"Monk, you know not whereof you speak," the sick man said hoarsely.

"The rioting blood of youth cannot suddenly be stemmed in the veins,

and congealed to ice at the command of a priest! I too was young and

happy once,--long ago, and how happy! God who knows of my

transgression, alone knows! I have paid the penalty with my own flesh

and blood. Tell His Holiness, he may be satisfied!"

"His Holiness could demand no less," interposed the monk. "Your sin

was mortal: you added to it by placing the offspring of a forbidden

love at the court of the arch-heretic, thrice under ban of

excommunication."

"That was my real sin,--that other would have been forgiven," replied

the elder Villani bitterly, as if musing aloud. "Let those who are

undefiled, cast the first stone. How beautiful she was,--how heavenly

sweet! And with dying breath, as if the impending dissolution of the

body had imbued her with the faculty to look into the future, she

piteously begged me, as if she apprehended my weakness after her

spirit had fled:--'Do not make a monk of my boy!'"

He paused with a sob, then he continued:

"Will the repose of my soul, which I have purchased with this

immeasurable sacrifice, insure her own in the great beyond? What will

she say to me, when we meet in the realm of shadows, when the plaint

of her child is wafted to her in the fumes of the incense, while his

trembling hands swing the censer and he curses the day when he saw the

light of life?"

"She will rather bless you, knowing from what temptations of the flesh

you have removed him," replied the monk, peering anxiously from his

cowl down to where the sick man lay.

This, at least, must be no enforced sacrifice. Gregorio Villani must

stand acknowledged to himself and the world for the greater glory of

the Church. He, the one time friend of Frederick, the Emperor, by

whose side he had entered the gates of Antioch in the face of the

fierce defence of the Saracens, he, the Ghibelline Emperor's right

hand in the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, must now and forever sever

his cause from that of the arch-enemy of papacy, and die in the fold

of the Church.

The monk had calculated on the sick man's waning strength, and the

ebbing tide of life proved his mightiest ally.

The stricken man lay still for a time, then he heaved a sigh.

"God grant that your words be true,--that I have not cast him in the

way of temptation instead."

Raising himself with difficulty upon his pillows, he glanced

significantly at the envoy from Rome. Then, with voice needlessly

hushed, for there was no one present to hear him, he added:

"He must depart at once! He must not return to Avellino!"

The monk pondered a while, then shook his head.

"It were hardly wise. Francesco has signed the pledge and will not

break his oath. He must himself inform the Apulian court of his

decision, of his choice."

And inwardly he thought: Thus only will the sacrifice be complete and

the triumph of the Church!

"Might he not inform them from wherever he goes?"

There was a strange dread in the elder Villani's eyes, which remained

not unobserved by the other.

"You would not have Francesco, flesh of your flesh, blood of your

blood, appear a coward who fears to proclaim his own free will?"

The monk laid stress on the last words.

The elder Villani was startled. Yet he understood.

"His own free will," he repeated as in a dream. "The boy is proud. He

will never proclaim his father's shame!"

The monk smiled,--a subtle, inward smile.

Francesco's extraction was an open secret, though no one had ever

alluded to it in his presence. Yet the Pope's delegate judged the

youth correctly. Besides, the elder Villani's suggestion would have

upset his own and his master's plans. The Church could be wholly

triumphant only if Francesco openly denounced the friends, the loves

of his boyhood, his youth. A stealthy flight from the court to the

cloister would scarcely have added to the glory of those who had

brought about the deed.

A sinking spell had seized the sick man and the monk hastened to call

in the attendant mediciners. But the cordial they administered with

some difficulty only had the effect of producing more regular

breathing.

Gregorio Villani's prophetic words were to be fulfilled.

Francesco meanwhile lay in the guest-chamber, which had been prepared

for him. His brain rebelled against further labor and his head had

scarcely found its welcome resting-place ere the darkly fringed

eyelids drooped heavily, and he slept. Through the remaining hours of

the night he lay wrapped in a slumber resembling that of death. Only

once or twice he moaned, tossing restlessly on his pillows. The rays

of the morning sun, creeping up to his eyes, held in them a drowsy

dream of a girl's fair face. The dream brought no awakening, and the

sun was high in the heavens, when a hand, cold and thin, was laid upon

his white one, which lay listlessly above his head. Instantly he

started up, ready to resent the intrusion, when he met the gaze of two

sombre eyes, peering down upon him, which recalled him to the place

and hour.

Before him stood the shrunken form of Fra Girolamo.

With a deep sigh, he returned to reality.

"How fares my father?" he asked quickly, his memory stirred by the

sombre eyes that met his own.

"Requiescat in pace!" said the monk with bowed head.

Francesco sank back upon his cushions and hid his face in his arms.

The monk heard him sob and, for a moment, his frame seemed to shake as

with convulsions. At last he raised himself with an effort.

"Conduct me to him!" he then said to the friar, who preceded him in

silence to the death-chamber.

The rays of the morning sun shone upon the face of Gregorio Villani

and imbued the features with a look of peace such as the living had

not worn for many a day. The monks had placed his body on a bier, on

each side of which two tall wax tapers burned in their sconces.

Francesco knelt down by the side of the bier, burying his head in his

hands, while the monk retreated into a remote corner of the room.

When he rose at last, the watcher saw all the young life go out of his

face, which suddenly grew old and cold. Light and color seemed

simultaneously to depart from eyes and lips, and his limbs seemed

hardly able to sustain him upright. After a pause he dared not break,

for dread of revealing his sudden feeling, the youth's lifeless voice

was raised in the dreary monotone of questioning.

"When will they take him away?"

The monk came nearer.

"He will be laid to rest at night-fall under the great altar of the

Cathedral."

A silence fell between them.

Again Francesco spoke.

"The dial points to something like noon?"

The monk nodded.

"When will you ride?"

"At night-fall."

"It is well. You will return to Avellino, that you may bid farewell to

your former master and friends. Thence you will proceed to Monte

Cassino."

"To Monte Cassino," the youth echoed with a voice dead as his soul.

Then he added:

"I ride alone?"

"Alone!"

"Leave me now! I would spend the last hours here with him!"

"Will you not come to the refectory? You are in need of food, and the

day is long!"

Francesco raised his hands as if in abhorrence of the thought. Then,

as he turned towards the bier, he seemed newly overwhelmed at the

sight of the lifeless clay before him. The memory of his father's

first appearance, as he entered the sick-chamber, the ashen pallor,

the traces of cruel pain, now softened or effaced by the majesty of

Death, reverted to him.

He sank down beside the bier.

But try as he might, he could not pray.

Thus the monk left him.--

On that evening, in the presence of the entire chapter of the

Cathedral and the monks of San Cataldo, they laid to rest under the

great altar of the imposing edifice all that was mortal of Gregorio

Villani, Grand Master of the Knights of St. John.

And on that evening the strange friar, who had brought to the dying

man the much craved conditional absolution, departed after a final

interview with Francesco, who was to return at once to Avellino to

prepare himself for the new life which had been decreed for him.