CHAPTER V

THE CRESSETS OF DOOM

Never had Tristan's feelings been more hopelessly involved than since

that eventful night by the Arch of the Seven Candles when, like a ghost

of the past, Hellayne had once more crossed his path and had given

his solemn pledge the lie. And the more Tristan's thoughts reverted

to that fateful hour, when his oath seemed like so many words written

upon water, and the man who believed him guilty held his life in the

hollow of his hand, the greater grew his misery and unrest. Physically

exhausted, mentally startled at the vehemence of his own feelings,

he was suffering the relapse of a passion which he thought had burnt

itself out, letting his mind drift back to the memory of happier

days--days now gone forever.

Why had she followed him? What was she doing here? Was the old fight to

be renewed? And withal happiness mingled with the pain.

In the midst of these thoughts came others.

Had she accompanied the Count Laval to Rome and were his questionings

mere pretense, to surprise the unguarded confession of a wrong of which

he knew himself sinless? Had she been here all these days, seeking him

perchance, yet not daring to make her presence known?

And now where was she? Hardly found had he lost her? And see her he

must--whatever the hazard, even to death. How much he had to say to

her. How much he had to ask. Her presence had undone everything. Was

the old life to begin again, only with a change of scenes?

He had read her love for him in her eyes, and he could have almost

wished that moment to have been his last, ere the untimely arrival of

Theodora saved him from the death stroke of his enraged enemy. For he

had seen the light fade from Hellayne's blue eyes when she faced the

other woman, and Laval's taunts had found receptive ears. Everything

had conspired against him on that night, even to seeming the thing he

was not, and with a heart heavy to breaking Tristan scoured the city of

Rome for three days in quest of the woman, but to no avail.

His duties were not onerous and the city was quiet. No farther attempts

had been made to liberate the Pontiff and the feuds between the rival

factions seemed for the nonce suspended.

Nevertheless Tristan felt instinctively, that all was not well. Night

after night Basil descended into the crypts of the Emperor's Tomb,

sometimes alone, sometimes with one or two companions, men Tristan

had never seen. Ostensibly the Grand Chamberlain visited the cells of

certain prisoners of state, and one night Tristan ventured to follow

him. But he was seized with so great a terror that he resolved to

confide in Odo of Cluny, who possessed the entire confidence of the

Senator of Rome, and be guided by his counsel.

In the meantime, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, the terrible

thing had happened again. From the churches of Santa Maria in

Trastevere and Santa Sabina of the Aventine, the Holy Host had been

taken, notwithstanding the increased number of guards keeping watch in

the sanctuaries.

Rome shivered in the throes of abject terror. People whispered in

groups along the thoroughfares, hardly daring to raise their voices,

and many asserted that the Antichrist had returned once more to earth

and that the End of Time was nigh. Like a dread foreboding of evil it

gripped Tristan's soul.

And day and night interminable processions of hermits and monks

traversed the city with crosses and banners and smouldering incense.

Their chants could be heard from the ancient Flaminian to the Appian

Gate.

Once more the shades of evening laid their cool touch upon the city's

fevered brow, and as the distant hills rose into a black mass against

the sunset two figures emerged on the battlements of the Emperor's Tomb

and gazed down on the dimmed outlines of the Pontifical City.

Before them lay a prospect fit to rouse in the hearts of all who knew

its history an indescribable emotion. There, before them, lay the broad

field of Rome, whereon the first ominous activities of the Old World's

conquerors had been enacted. There in the mellow light of eve, lay the

Latin land, once popular and rich beyond all quarters of the earth

since the plain of Babylon became a desert, and now no less deserted

and forlorn. And from the height from which these two looked down upon

it, its shallow hills and ridges were truly minimized to the aspect of

one mighty plain, increasing the vast sense of desolation. Rome--Rome

alone--denied the melancholy story of disaster, utter and complete, the

work of Goth and Hun and of malarial terror.

But now over all this solemn prospect was the luminous blue light of

evening, fading to violet and palest yellow in the farthest west, where

lay the Tyrrhene Sea.

Presently one of the two laid aside his cloak and, baring his arms

to the kiss of the wind that crept softly about them, said in weary

accents:

"Never in all my life, Father, have I known a day to pass as tardily

as this, for to me the coming hour is fraught with evil that may abide

with me forever, and my soul is eager to know its doom, yet shrinks

from the sentence that may be passed."

Odo of Cluny looked into Tristan's weary face.

"I, too, have a presentiment of Evil, as never before," the monk

replied, laying a gentle hand on his companion's shoulder. "There are

things abroad in Rome--one dares not even whisper. The Lord Alberic

chose an evil hour for his pilgrimage to Monte Gargano. Have you no

tidings?"

"No tidings," reechoed Tristan gloomily.

Odo of Cluny nodded pensively.

"It seems passing strange. I know not why--" his voice sank to a

whisper. "I mistrust the Grand Chamberlain. Whom can we trust? A poison

wind is blowing over these hills--withering--destroying. The awful

sacrilege at Santa Maria in Trastevere, following so closely upon

the one at the Lateran, is but another proof that dark powers are at

work--powers defying human ken--devils in human shape, doomed to burn

to a crisp in the eternal fires."

"Meanwhile--what can we do?"

"Have you seen the Lord Basil?"--

"He was much concerned, examined the place in person, but found no

clue."

"Are your men trustworthy?"

"I know not, Father! For a slight service I chanced to do the Lord

Alberic he made me captain of the guard in place of one who had

incurred his displeasure. My men are Swiss and Lombards, a Spaniard or

two--some Calabrians--no Romans."

"Therein lies your salvation," interposed the Benedictine. "How many

guard this tomb?"

"Some four score men--why do you ask?"

"I hardly know--save that there lurks some dark mystery behind the

curtain. Let no man--nor woman--relax your watchfulness. There are

tempests that destroy even the cedars of Lebanon," the monk continued

with meaning. "And such a one may burst one night."

"Your words are dark, Father, and fill me with misgivings."

"And well they should," Odo interposed with a penetrating glance at the

young captain. "For rumor hath it that another bird has strayed into

the Lady Theodora's bower--"

Tristan colored under the monk's scrutiny.

"I was present at her feast. Yet I know not how I got there!"

The monk looked puzzled.

"Now that you have crossed the dark path of Marozia's sister I fear the

ambushed gorge and the black arrow that sings from the hidden depths.

Why seek the dark waters of Satan, when the white walls of Christ rise

luminously before you?"

"What is the import of these strange words so strangely uttered?"

Tristan turned to the monk with a puzzled air.

"That shall be made known to you in time. Treason lurks everywhere.

Seal your ears against the Siren's song. Some say she is a vampire

returned to earth, doomed to live on, as long as men are base enough

to barter their soul for her kisses. And yet--how much longer? The

Millennium draws nigh. The End of Time is near."

There was a pause. Tristan tried to speak, but the words would not come

from his lips.

At last with an effort he stammered:

"At the risk of incurring your censure, Father--even to the palace of

Theodora must I wend my steps to recover that which is my own."

And he informed the Monk of Cluny how he had lost his poniard and his

scarf of blue Samite.

"Why not send one you trust to fetch them back?" protested the monk.

"It is not well to brave the peril twice."

"Myself must I go, Father. For once and all time I mean to break her

spell."

"Deem you to accomplish that which no man hath--and live?"

"There is that which shall keep my honor inviolate," Tristan replied.

The cloudless sky was shot with dreamy stars, and cooling breezes were

wafted over the Roman Campagna. Through the stillness came the muffled

challenges of the guard.

The twain crossed the ramparts of the Mausoleum in silence, holding

to their way which led towards a postern, when suddenly, out of

the battlements' embrazure, peered two gray, ghastly faces, which

disappeared as suddenly. But Tristan's quick eye had marked them and,

plucking at the monk's sleeve, he whispered:

"Look yonder, Father--where stand two forms that scan us eagerly. My

bewildered brain refuses me the knowledge I seek, yet I could vouch the

sight of them is somehow familiar to my eyes."

"That may well be," replied the monk. "For all this day long have

I been haunted by the consciousness that our movements are being

watched. Yet, I marvel not, for until Purgatory receive the soul of

this accursed wanton, there is neither peace nor security for us.

Her devilish hand may even now be informing all this dark plot, that

seethes about us," Odo of Cluny concluded in apprehensive tones.

Presently they drew near the great gateway, before which the flicker of

cressets showed a company of the guard, with breast plates and shields,

their faces hidden by the lowered visors of their Norman casks. Among

them they noted a wizened eunuch, who, after peering at them with his

ferret-like eyes, pointed to a door sunk in the wall, the while he

whispered something in Tristan's ear. Thereupon Odo and Tristan entered

the guard chamber.

It was deserted.

Beneath the cressets' uncertain gleam, as they emerged beyond, stood

the eunuch with the same ferret-like glance, pointing across the dim

passage, to, where could be made out the entrance to a gallery. The

group behind them stood immobile in the flickering light and the space

about them was naught but a shadowy void. Yet, as they went, their

ears caught the clink of unseen mail, the murmur of unseen voices, and

Tristan gripped the monk's arm and said in husky tones:

"By all the saints,--we are fairly in the midst of Basil's creatures.

An open foe I can face without shrinking, but I tell you this peril,

ambushed in impenetrable night, saps my courage as naught else would.

If but one battle-cry would shatter this numbing silence, one simple

sword would flash, as it leaps from its scabbard, I should be myself

again, ready to face any foe!"

They entered the half gloom of a painted gallery where dog-headed

deities held forth in grotesque representation beside the crucified

Christ. They stole along its whole deserted length until they reached

a door, hardly discernible in the pictured wall. The lamps burned low,

but in the centre of the marble floor a brazier sent up a brighter

flame, filling the air with a fragrance as of sandal wood.

Tristan's hand groped for a spring along the outer edge of the door.

At his touch a panel receded. Both he and the monk entered and the

door closed noiselessly behind them. Tristan produced a candle and

two flints from under his coat of mail. But ere he could light it by

striking the flints, the approach of a dim light from the farther end

of the tortuous gallery caused him to start, and both watched its

approach with dread and misgiving.

Soon a voice fell on their ear, answered by another, and Tristan

swiftly drew his companion into a shadowy recess which concealed them

while it yet enabled them to hear every word spoken by the two.

"Thus we administer justice in Rome," said the one speaker, in whom

Tristan recognized the voice of the Grand Chamberlain.

"Somewhat like in our own feudal chateaux," came back the surly reply.

Tristan started as the voice reached his ear. How came Roger de Laval

here in that company?

"You approve?" said the silken voice.

"There is nothing like night and thirst to make the flesh pliable."

"Then why not profit thereby?--But are you still resolved upon this

thing?"--

There was a pause. The voice barked reply:

"It is a fair exchange."

Their talk died to a vague murmur till presently the harsher voice rose

above the silence.

"Well, then, my Lord Basil, if these matters be as you say,--if you

will use your good offices with the Lady Theodora--"

"Can you doubt my sincerity--my desire to promote your interests--even

to the detriment of my own?"

His companion spat viciously.

"He who sups with the devil must needs have a long spoon. What is to be

your share?"

"Your meaning is not quite clear, my lord."

"Naught for naught!" Roger snarled viciously. "Shall we say--the price

of your services?"

"My lord," piped Basil with an injured air, "you wrong me deeply. It

is but my interest in you, my desire to see you reconciled to your

beautiful wife--"

"How know you she is beautiful?" came the snarling reply.

"I, too, was an unseen witness of your meeting at the Arch of the Seven

Candles," Basil replied suavely.

"Was all Rome abroad to gaze upon my shame?" growled Basil's companion.

"Though--in a manner--I am revenged," he continued, through his

clenched teeth. "Instead of giving her her freedom, I shall use her

shrinking body for my plaything--I shall use her so that no other lover

shall desire her. As for that low-born churl--"

With a low cry Tristan, sword in hand, made a forward lunge. The monk's

grip restrained him.

"Madman!" Odo whispered in his ear. "Would you court certain death?"

The words of the twain had died to a whisper. Thus they were lost

to Tristan's ear, though he strained every nerve, a deadly fear for

Hellayne weighting down his soul.

The two continued their walk, passing so near that Tristan could have

touched the hem of their garbs. Basil was importuning his companion on

some matter which the latter could not hear. Laval's reply seemed not

in accord with the Grand Chamberlain's plans, for his voice became more

insistent.

"But you will come--my lord--and you will bring your beautiful

Countess? Remember, her presence in Rome is no longer a secret.

And--whatever the cause which prompted her--pilgrimage, would you have

the Roman mob point sneering fingers at Roger de Laval?"--

"By God, they shall not!"

"Then the wisdom of my counsel speaks for itself," Basil interposed

soothingly. "It is the one reward I crave."

There was a pause. Whatever of evil brooded in that brief space of time

only these two knew.

"It shall be as you say," Roger replied at last, and from their chain

mail the gleam of the lantern they carried evoked intermittent answer.

When their steps had died to silence Tristan turned to the monk. His

voice was unsteady and there was a great fear in his eyes.

"Father, I need your help as have I never needed human help before.

There is some devil's stew simmering in the Lord Basil's cauldron. I

fear the worst for her--"

Odo shot a questioning glance at the speaker.

"The wife of the Count Laval?" he returned sharply.

"Father--you know why I am here--and how I have striven to tear this

love from my heart and soul. Would she had not come! Would I had never

seen her more--for where is it all to lead? For, after all, she is his

wife--and I am the transgressor. But now I fear for her life. You have

heard, Father. I must see her! I must have speech with her. I must warn

her. Father--I promise--that shall be all--if you will but consent and

find her--for I know not her abode."

"You promise--" interposed the monk. "Promise nothing. For if you meet,

it will not be all. All flesh is weak. Entrust your message to my care

and I shall try to do your bidding. But see her no more! Your souls are

in grave peril--and Death stands behind you, waiting the last throw."

"Even if our souls should be forever stamped with their dark errors I

must see her. I must know why she came hither--I must know the worst.

Else should I never find rest this side of the grave. Father, in mercy,

do my bidding, for gloom and misery hold my soul in their clutches, and

I must know, ere the twilight of Eternity engulfs us both."

"We will speak of this anon," the Monk of Cluny interposed, as together

they left the gallery, now sunk in the deepest gloom and, passing

through the vaulted corridors, emerged upon the ramparts. No sign of

life appeared in the twilight, cast by the towering walls, save where

in the shadowy passages the dimmed lights of cressets marked the

passing of armed men.

Below, the city of Rome began to take shape in the dim and ghostly

starlight, thrusting shadowy domes and towers out of her dark slumber.

In the distance the undulating crests of the Alban Hills mingled with

the night mists, and from the nearby Neronian Field came the croaking

of the ravens, intensifying rather than breaking the stillness.