Afterwards he had noticed these things and how they struck the bottom of the shaft,—lying where she would be now; he desired to see her, yet loathed the thought of it; there was his horse, there the open road, and Jacobea waiting a few miles away, yet he must linger while the accusing daylight gathered about him, while the rising sun discovered him; he must dally with the precious moments, bite the ends of his black hair, frown and stare at the round tower of the donjon the other side of which she lay.
At last he crossed the rough cobbles; skirted the keep and stood still, looking at her.
Yes—he had pictured her; yet he saw her more distinctly than he had imagined he would in this grey light. Her hair and her cloak seemed to be wrapped close about her; one hand still clung to her face; her feet showed bare and beautiful.
Sebastian crept nearer; he wanted to see her face and if her eyes were open; to be certain, also, if that dark red that lay spread on the ground was all her scattered locks… the light was treacherous.
He was stooping to touch her when the quick sound of an approaching horseman made him draw back and glance round.
But before he could even tell himself it were well to fly they were upon him; two horsemen, finely mounted, the foremost Dirk Renswoude, bare-headed, a rich colour in his cheek and a sparkle in his eyes; he reined up the slim brown horse.
“So—it is done?” he cried, leaning from the saddle towards Sebastian.
The steward stepped back.
“Whom have you with you?” he asked in a shaking voice.
“A friend of mine and a suitor to the chatelaine—of which folly you and I shall cure him.”
Theirry pressed forward, the hoofs of his striving horse making musical clatter on the cobbles.
“The steward!” he cried; “and…”
His voice sank; he turned burning eyes on Dirk.
“—the steward’s wife that was,” smiled the youth. “But, certes! you must do him worship now, he will be Lord of Martzburg.”
Sebastian was staring at Sybilla.
“You tell too much,” he muttered.
“Nay, my friend is one with me, and I can answer for his silence.” Dirk patted the horse’s neck and laughed again; laughter with a high triumphant note in it.
Theirry swung round on him in a desperate, bitter fierceness.
“Why have you brought me here? Where is the chatelaine?—by God His saints that woman has been murdered.…”
Dirk turned in the saddle and faced him.
“Ay, and by Jacobea of Martzburg’s commands.”
Theirry laughed aloud.
“The lie is dead as you give it being,” he answered—“nor can all your devilry make it live.”
“Sebastian,” said Dirk, “has not this woman come to her death by the chatelaine’s commands?”
He pointed to Sybilla.
“You know it, since in your presence she bade me hither,” answered Sebastian heavily.
Dirk’s voice rose clear and musical.
“You see your piece of uprightness thought highly of her steward, and that she might endow him with her hand his wife must die——”
“Peace! peace!” cried Sebastian fiercely, and Theirry rose in his saddle.
“It is a lie!” he repeated wildly. “If ’tis not a lie God has turned His face from me, and I am lost indeed!”
“If ’tis no lie,” cried Dirk exultingly, “you are mine—did ye not swear it?”
“An’ she be this thing you name her,” answered Theirry passionately—“then the Devil is cunning indeed, and I his servant; but if you speak false I will kill you at her feet.”
“And by that will I abide,” smiled Dirk. “Sebastian, you shall return with us to give this news to your mistress.”
“Is she not here?” cried Theirry.
Dirk pointed to the silver-plated harness.
“You ride her horse. See her arms upon his breast. Sweet fool, we left her behind in the hostel, waiting the steward’s return.…”
“All ways ye trap and deceive me,” exclaimed Theirry hotly.
“Let us begone,” said Sebastian; he looked at Dirk as if at his master. “Is it not time for us to begone?”
It was full daylight now, though the sun had not yet risen above the hills; the lofty walls and high towers of the huge grey castle blocked up the sky and threw into the gloom the three in their shadow.
“Hark!” said Dirk, and lifted his finger delicately.
Again the sound of a horse approaching on the long white road, the rise and fall of the quick trot bitterly distinct in the hard stillness.
“Who is this?” whispered Sebastian; he caught Dirk’s bridle as if he found protection in the youth’s near presence, and stared towards the blank open gates.
A white horse appeared against the cold misty background of grey country; a woman was in the saddle: Jacobea of Martzburg.
She paused, peered up at the high little windows in the donjon, then turned her gaze on the silent three.
“Now can the chatelaine speak for herself,” breathed Dirk.
Theirry gave a great sigh, his eyes fixed with a painful intensity on the approaching lady, but she did not seem to see either of them.
“Sebastian,” she cried, and drew rein gazing at him, “where is your wife?”
Her words rang on the cold, clear air like strokes on a bell.
“Sybilla died last night,” answered the steward, “but I did nought. And you should not have come.”
Jacobea shaded her brows with her gloved hand and stared past the speaker.
Theirry broke out in a trembling passion.
“In the name of the angels in whose company I ever placed you, what do you know of this that has been done?”
“What is that on the ground?” cried Jacobea. “Sybilla—he has slain Sybilla—but, sirs,”—she looked round her distractedly—“ye must not blame him—he saw my wish.…”
“From your own lips!” cried Theirry.
“Who are you who speak?” she demanded haughtily. “I sent him to slay Sybilla.…” She interrupted herself with a hideous shriek. “Sebastian, ye are stepping in her blood!”
And, letting go of the reins, she sank from the saddle; the steward caught her, and as she slipped from his hold to her knees her unconscious head came near to the stiff white feet of the dead.
“Her yellow hair!” cried Dirk. “Let us leave her to her steward—you and I have another way!”
“May God curse her as He has me,” said Theirry in an agony,—“for she has slain my hope of heaven!”
“You will not leave me?” called Sebastian. “What shall I say?—what shall I do?”
“Lie and lie again!” answered Dirk with a wild air; “wed the dame and damn her people—let fly your authority and break her heart as quickly as you may——”
“Amen to that!” added Theirry.
“And now to Frankfort!” cried Dirk, exultant.
They set their horses to a furious pace and galloped out of Castle Martzburg.
CHAPTER XX.
HUGH OF ROOSELAARE
Dirk took off his riding-coat and listened with a smile to the quick step of Theirry overhead; he was again in the long low chamber looking out on the witch’s garden, and nothing was changed save that the roses bloomed no longer on the bare thorny bushes.
“So you have brought him back,” said Nathalie, caressing the youth’s soft sleeve; “pulled his saint out of her shrine and given her over to the demons.”
Dirk turned his head; a beautiful look was in his eyes.
“Yea, I have brought him back,” he said musingly.
“You have done a foolish thing,” grumbled the witch, “he will ruin you yet; beware, for even now you hold him against his will; I marked his face as he went into his old chamber.”
Dirk seated himself with a sigh.
“In this matter I am not to be moved, and now some food, for I am so weary that I can scarcely think. Nathalie, the toil it has been, the rough roads, the delays, the long hours in the saddle—but it was worth it!”
The witch set the table with a rich service of ivory and silver.
“Worth leaving your fortunes at the crisis? Ye left Frankfort the day after the Emperor died, and have been away two months. Ysabeau thinks you dead.”
Dirk frowned.
“No matter, to-morrow she shall know me living. Martzburg is far away and the weather delayed us, but it had to be; now I am free to work my own advancement.”
He drank eagerly of the wine put before him, and began to eat.
“Ye have heard,” asked Nathalie, “that Balthasar of Courtrai has been elected Emperor?”
“Yea,” smiled Dirk, “and is to marry Ysabeau within the year; we knew it, did we not?”
“Next spring they go to Rome to receive the Imperial crown.”
“I shall be with them,” said Dirk. “Well, it is good to rest. What a thick fool Balthasar is!”
He smiled, and his eyes sparkled.
“The Empress is a clever woman,” answered the witch, “she came here once to know whither you had gone. I told her, for the jest, that you were dead. At that she must think her secret dead with you, yet she gave no sign of joy nor relief, nor any hint of what her business was.”
Dirk elegantly poured out more wine.
“She is never betrayed by her puppet’s face—an iron-hearted fiend, the Empress.”
“They say, though, that she is a fool for Balthasar, a dog at his heels.”
“Until she change.”
“Belike you will be her next fancy,” said Nathalie; “the crystals always foretell a throne for you.”
Dirk laughed.
“I do not mean to share my honours with any—woman,” he answered; “pile up the fire, Nathalie, certes, it is cold.”
He pushed back his chair with a half sigh on his lips, and turned contented eyes on the glowing hearth Nathalie replenished.
“And none has thought evil of Melchoir’s death?” he asked curiously.
The witch returned to her little stool and rubbed her hands together; the leaping firelight cast a false colour over her face.
“Ay, there was Hugh of Rooselaare.”
Dirk sat up.
“The Lord of Rooselaare?”
“Certes, the night Melchoir died he flung ‘Murderess!’ in the Empress’s face.”
Dirk showed a grave, alert face.
“I never heard of that.”
“Nay,” answered the witch with some malice, “ye were too well engaged in parting that boy from his love—it is a pretty jest—certainly, she is a clever woman, she enlists Balthasar as her champion—he becomes enraged, furious, and Hugh is cast into the dungeons for his pains.” The witch laughed softly. “He would not retract, his case swayed to and fro, but Balthasar and the Empress always hated him, he had never a chance.”
Dirk rose and pressed his clasped hand to his temple.
“What do you say? never a chance?”
Nathalie stared at him.
“Why, you seem moved.”
“Tell me of Hugh of Rooselaare,” commanded Dirk in an intense voice.
“He is to die to-night at sunset.”
Dirk uttered a hoarse exclamation.
“Old witch!” he cried bitterly, “why did you not tell me this before? I lose time, time.”
He snatched his cloak from the wall and flung on his hat.
“What is Hugh of Rooselaare to you?” asked Nathalie, and she crept across the room and clung to the young man’s garments.
He shook her off fiercely.
“He must not die—he, on the scaffold! I, as you say, I was following that boy and his love while this was happening!”
The witch fell back against the wall, while overhead the restless tread of Theirry sounded. Dirk dashed from the room and out into the quiet street.
For a second he paused; it was late afternoon, he had perhaps an hour or an hour and a half. Clenching his hands, he drew a deep breath, and turned in the direction of the palace at a steady run.
By reason of the snow clouds and the bitter cold there were few abroad to notice the slim figure running swiftly and lightly; those who were about made their way in the direction of the market-place, where the Lord of Rooselaare was presently to meet his death.
Dirk arrived at the palace one hand over his heart, stinging him with the pain of his great speed; he demanded the Empress.
None among the guards knew either him or his name, but, at his imperious insistence, they sent word by a page to Ysabeau that the young doctor Constantine had a desire to see her.
The boy returned, and Dirk was admitted instantly, smiling gloomily to think with what feelings Ysabeau would look on him.
So far all had been swiftly accomplished; he was conducted to her private chamber and brought face to face with her while he still panted from his running.
She stood against a high arched window that showed the heavy threatening winter clouds without; her purple, green and gold draperies shone warmly in the glitter of the fire; a tray of incense stood on the hearth after the manner of the East, and the hazy clouds of it rose before her.
Until the page had gone neither spoke, then Dirk said quickly—
“I returned to Frankfort to-day.”
Ysabeau was agitated to fear by his sudden appearance.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “I thought you dead.”
Dirk, pale and grave, gave her a penetrating glance.
“I have no time for speech with you now—you owe me something, do you not? Well, I am here to ask part payment.”
The Empress winced.
“Well—what? I had no wish to be ungrateful, ’twas you avoided me.”
She crossed to the hearth and fixed her superb eyes intently on the youth.
“Hugh of Rooselaare is to die this evening,” he said.
“Yea,” answered Ysabeau, and her childish loveliness darkened.
For a while Dirk was silent; he showed suddenly frail and ill; on his face was an expression of emotion, mastered and held back.
“He must not die,” he said at last and lifted his eyes, shadowed with fatigue. “That is what I demand of you, his pardon, now, and at once—we have but little time.”
Ysabeau surveyed him curiously and fearfully.
“You ask too much,” she replied in a low voice; “do you know why this man is to die?”
“For speaking the truth,” he said, with a sudden sneer.
The Empress flushed, and clutched the embroidery on her bodice.
“You of all men should know why he must be silenced,” she retorted bitterly. “What is your reason for asking his life?”
Dirk’s mouth took on an ugly curl.
“My reason is no matter—it is my will.”
Ysabeau beat her foot on the edge of the Eastern carpet.
“Have I made you so much my master?” she muttered.
The young man answered impatiently.
“You will give me his pardon, and make haste, for I must ride with it to the market-place.”
She answered with a lowering glance.
“I think I will not; I am not so afraid of you, and I hate this man—my secret is your secret after all.”
Dirk gave a wan smile.
“I can blast you as I blasted Melchoir of Brabant, Ysabeau, and do you think I have any fear of what you can say? But”—he leaned towards her—“suppose I go with what I know to Balthasar?”
The name humbled the Empress like a whip held over her.
“So, I am helpless,” she muttered, loathing him.
“The pardon,” insisted Dirk; “sound the bell and write me a pardon.”
Still she hesitated; it was a hard thing to lose her vengeance against a dangerous enemy.
“Choose another reward,” she pleaded. “Of what value can this man’s life be to you?”
“You seek to put me off until it be too late,” cried Dirk hoarsely—he stepped forward and seized the hand-bell on the table—“now an’ you show yourself obstinate, I go straight from here to Balthasar and tell him of the poisoning of Melchoir.”
Instinct and desire rose in Ysabeau to defy him with everything in her possession, from her guards to her nails; she shuddered with suppressed wrath, and pressed her little clenched hands against the wall.
Her Chamberlain entered.
“Write out a pardon for the Lord of Rooselaare,” commanded Dirk, “and haste, as you love your place.”
When the man had gone, Ysabeau turned with an ill-concealed savagery.
“What will they think! What will Balthasar think!”
“That must be your business,” said Dirk wearily.
“And Hugh himself!” flashed the Empress.
The youth coloured painfully.
“Let him be sent to his castle in Flanders,” he said, with averted face. “He must not remain here.”
“So much you give in!” cried Ysabeau. “I do not understand you.”
He responded with a wild look.
“No one will ever understand me, Ysabeau.”
The Chamberlain returned, and in a shaking hand the Empress took the parchment and the reed pen, while Dirk waved the man’s dismissal.
“Sign,” he cried to her.
Ysabeau set the parchment on the table and looked out at the gathering clouds; the Lord of Rooselaare must have already left the prison.
She dallied with the pen; then took a little dagger from her hair and sharpened it; Dirk read her purpose in her lovely evil eyes, and snatched the lingering right hand into his own long fingers.
The Empress drew together and looked up at him bitterly and darkly, but Dirk’s breath stirred the ringlets that touched her cheek, his cool grip guided her reluctant pen; she shivered with fear and defiance; she wrote her name.
Dirk flung her hand aside with a great sigh of relief.
“Do not try to foil me again, Marozia Porphyrogentris,” he cried, and caught up the parchment, his hat and cloak.
She watched him leave the room; heard the heavy door close behind him, and she writhed with rage, thrusting, with an uncontrollable gesture of passion, the dagger into the table; it quivered in the wood, then broke under her hand.
With an ugly cry she ran to the window, flung it open and cast the handle out.
When it rattled on the cobbled yard Dirk was already there; he marked it fall, knew the gold and red flash, and smiled.
Showing the parchment signed by the Empress, he had commanded the swiftest horse in the stables. He cursed and shivered, waiting while the seconds fled; his slight figure and fierce face awed into silence the youngest in the courtyard as he paced up and down. At last—the horse; one of the grooms gave him a whip; he put it under his left arm and leapt to his seat; they opened the gate and watched him take the wind-swept street.
The market-place lay at the other end of the town; and the hour for the execution was close at hand—but the white horse he rode was fresh and strong.
The thick grey clouds had obscured the sunset and covered the sky; a few trembling flakes of snow fell, a bitter wind blew between the high narrow houses; here and there a light sparkling in a window emphasized the colourless cold without.
Dirk urged the steed till he rocked in the saddle; curtains were pulled aside and doors opened to see who rode by so furiously; the streets were empty—but there would be people enough in the market-place.
He passed the high walls of the college, galloped over the bridge that crossed the sullen waters of the Main, swept by the open doors of St. Wolfram, then had to draw rein, for the narrow street began to be choked with people.
He pulled his hat over his eyes and flung his cloak across the lower half of his face; with one hand he dragged on the bridle, with the other waved the parchment.
“A pardon!” he cried. “A pardon! Make way!”
They drew aside before the plunging steed; some answered him—
“It is no pardon—he wears not the Empress’s livery.”
One seized his bridle; Dirk leant from the saddle and dashed the parchment into the fellow’s face, the horse snorted, and plunging cleared a way and gained the market-place.
Here the press was enormous; men, women and children were gathered close round the mounted soldiers who guarded the scaffold; the armour, yellow and blue uniforms and bright feathers of the horsemen showed vividly against the grey houses and greyer sky.
On the scaffold were two dark, graceful figures; a man kneeling, with his long throat bare, and a man standing with a double-edged sword in his hands.
“A pardon!” shrieked Dirk. “In the name of the Emperor!”
He was wedged in the crowd, who made bewildered movements but could not give place to him; the soldiers did not or would not hear.
Dirk rose desperately in his stirrups; as he did so the hat and cloak fell back and his head and shoulders were revealed clearly above the swaying mass.
Hugh of Rooselaare heard the cry; he looked across the crowd and his eyes met the eyes of Dirk Renswoude.
“A pardon!” cried Dirk hoarsely; he saw the condemned man’s lips move.
The sword fell.…
“A woman screamed,” said the monk on the scaffold, “and proclaimed a pardon.”
And he pointed to the commotion gathered about Dirk, while the executioner displayed to the crowd the serene head of Hugh of Rooselaare.
“Nay, it was not a woman,” one of the soldiers answered the monk, “ ’twas this youth.”
Dirk forced to the foot of the scaffold.
“Let me through,” he said in a terrible voice; the guard parted; and seeing the parchment in his hand, let him mount the steps.
“You bring a pardon?” whispered the monk.
“I am too late,” said Dirk; he stood among the hurrying blood that stained the platform, and his face was hard.
“Dogs! was this an end for a lord of Rooselaare!” he cried, and clasped his hand on a straining breast. “Could you not have waited a little—but a few moments more?”
The snow was falling fast; it lay on Dirk’s shoulders and on his smooth hair; the monk drew the parchment from his passive hand and read it in a whisper to the officer; they both looked askance at the young man.
“Give me his head,” said Dirk.
The executioner had placed it at a corner of the scaffold; he left off wiping his sword and brought it forward.
Dirk watched without fear or repulsion, and took Hugh’s head in his slim fair hands.
“How heavy it is,” he whispered.
The quick distortion of death had left the proud features; Dirk held the face close to his own, with no heed to the blood that trickled down his doublet.
Priest and captain standing apart, noticed a horrible likeness between the dead and the living, but would not speak of it.
“Churl,” said Dirk, gazing into the half-closed grey eyes that resembled so his own. “He spoke—as he saw me; what did he say?”
The headsman polished the mighty blade.
“Nought to do with you, or with any,” he answered, “the words had no meaning, certes.”
“What were they?” whispered the youth.
“ ‘Have you come for me, Ursula?’ then he said again, ‘Ursula.’ ”
A quiver ran through Dirk’s frame.
“She shall repent this, the Eastern witch!” he said wildly. “May the Devil snatch you all to bitter judgment!”
He turned to the captain, with the head held against his breast.
“What are you going to do with this?”
“His wife has asked for his head and his body that he may be buried befitting his estate.”
“His wife!” echoed Dirk; then slowly, “Ay, he had a wife—and a son, sir?”
“The child is dead.”
Dirk set the head down gently by the body.
“And his lands?” he asked.
“They go, sir, by favour of the Empress, to Balthasar of Courtrai, who married, as you may know, this lord’s heiress, Ursula, dead now many years.”
The snow had scattered the crowd; the soldiers were impatient to begone; the blood stiffened and froze about their feet; Dirk looked down at the dead man with an anguished and hopeless expression.
“Sir,” said the officer, “will you return with me to the palace, and we will tell the Empress how this mischance arose, how you came too late.”
“Nay,” replied Dirk fiercely. “Take that good news alone.”
He turned and descended the scaffold steps in a proud, gloomy manner.
One of the soldiers held his horse; he mounted in silence and rode away; they who watched saw the thick snowflakes blot out the solitary figure, and shuddered with no cause they understood.
CHAPTER XXI.
BETRAYED
Nathalie stood at the door with a lantern in her hand.
Dirk was returning; the witch held up the light to catch a glimpse of his face, then, whispering and crying under her breath, followed into the house.
“There is blood on your shoes and on your breast,” she whispered, when they reached the long chamber at the back.
Dirk flung himself on a chair and moaned; the snow lay still on his hair and his shoulders; he buried his face in the bend of his arm.
“Zerdusht and his master have forsaken us,” whimpered the witch. “I could work no spells to-night, and the mirror was blank.”
Dirk spoke in a muffled voice, without raising his head.
“Of what use magic to me? I should have stayed in Frankfort.”
Nathalie drew his wet cloak from his shoulders.
“Have I not warned you? has not the brass head warned you that the young scholar will be your ruin, bringing you to woe and misery and shame?”
Dirk rose with a sob, and turned to the fire; the one dim lamp alone dispelled the cold darkness of the room, and the thin flames on the hearth fell into ashes before their eyes.
“Look at his blood on me!” cried Dirk, “his blood! Balthasar and Ysabeau make merry with his lands, but my hate shall mean something to them yet—I should not have left Frankfort.”
He rested his head against one of the supports of the chimney-piece, and Nathalie, peering into his face, saw that his eyes were wet.
“Alas! who was this man?”
“I did all I could,” whispered Dirk… “the Empress shall burn in hell.”
The sickly creeping flames illuminated his pallid face and his small hand, hanging clenched by his side.
“This is an evil day for us,” moaned the witch, “the spirits will not answer, the flames will not burn… some horrible misfortune threatens.”
Dirk turned his gaze into the half-dark room.
“Where is Theirry?”
“Gone.” Nathalie rocked to and fro on her stool.
“Gone!” shivered Dirk, “gone where?”
“Soon after you left he crept from his chamber, and his face was evil—he went into the street.”
Dirk paced up and down with uneven steps.
“He will come back, he must come back! Ah, my heart! You say Zerdusht will not speak to-night?”
The witch moaned and trembled over the fire.
“Nay, nor will the spirits come.”
Dirk shook his clenched fist in the air.
“They shall answer me.”
He went to the window, opened it and looked out into blackness.
“Bring the lamp.”
Nathalie obeyed; the faint light showed the hastening snowflakes, no more.
“Maybe they will listen to me, nay, as I say, they shall.”
The witch followed with the swinging lamp in her hand, while they made their way in silence through the darkness and the snow, in between the bare rose bushes, over the wet, cold earth until they reached the trap-door at the end of the garden that led to the witch’s kitchen. Here she paused while Dirk raised the stone.
“Surely the earth shook then,” he said. “I felt it tremble beneath my feet—hush, there is a light below!”
The witch peered over his shoulder and saw a faint glow rising from the open trap, while at that moment her own lamp went suddenly out.
They stood in outer darkness.
“Will you dare descend?” muttered Nathalie.
“What should I fear?” came the low, wild answer, and Dirk put his foot on the ladder… the witch followed… they found themselves in the chamber, and saw that it was lit by an immense fire, seated before which was an enormous man, with his back towards them; he was dressed in black, and at his feet lay stretched a huge black hound.
The snow dripped from the garments of the new-comers as it melted in the hot air; they stood very still.
“Good even,” said Dirk in a low voice.
The stranger turned a face as black as his garments; round his neck he wore a collar of most brilliant red and purple stones.
“A cold night,” he said, and again it seemed as if the earth rumbled and shook.
“You find our fire welcome,” answered Dirk, but the witch crouched against the wall, muttering to herself.
“A good heat, a good heat,” said the Blackamoor.
Dirk crossed the room, his arms folded on his breast, his head erect.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Warming myself, warming myself.”
“What have you to say to me?”
The Blackamoor drew closer to the fire.
“Ugh! how cold it is!” he said, and stuck out his leg and thrust it deep into the seething flames.
Dirk drew still nearer.
“If you be what I think you, you have some reason in coming here.”
The black man put his other leg into the fire, and the flames curled to his knees.
“I have been to the palace, I have been to the palace. I sat under the Empress’s chair while she talked to a pretty youth whose name is Theirry—a-ah! it was cold in the palace, there was snow on the youth’s garments, as there is blood on yours, and the Emperor was there.…”
All this while he looked into the fire, not at Dirk.
“Theirry has betrayed me,” said the youth.
The Blackamoor took his legs from the fire unscorched and untouched, and the hell-hound rose and howled.
“He has betrayed you, and Ysabeau accuses you to save herself; but the devils are on your side since there is other work for you to do; flee from Frankfort, and I will see that you fulfil your destiny.”
And now he glanced over his shoulder.
“The witch comes home to-night, to-night, the work here is done, take the road through Frankfort.”
He stood up, and his head touched the roof; the gems on his throat gave out long rays of light… the fire grew dim; the Blackamoor changed into a thick column of smoke… that spread.…
“Hell will not forsake you, Ursula of Rooselaare.”
Dirk fell back against the wall, thick vapours encompassing him; he put his hands over his face.…
When he looked up again the room was clear and lit by the beams of the dying fire; he gazed round for the witch, but Nathalie had gone.
With a thick sob in his throat he sprang up the ladder into the outer air, and rushed towards the desolate house.
Desolate indeed; empty, dark and cold it stood, the snow drifting in through the open windows, the fires extinguished on the hearths, a dead place never more to be inhabited.
Dirk leant against the door, breathing hard.
Here was a crisis of his fate; betrayed by the one whom he loved, deserted, too, it seemed, since Nathalie had disappeared… the Blackamoor… he remembered him as a vision… a delusion perhaps.
Oh, how cold it was! Would his accusers come for him to-night? He crept to the gate that gave on to the street and listened.
“Nathalie!” he cried forlornly.
Out of the further darkness came a distant hurry and confusion of sound.
Horses, shouting, eager feet; a populace roused, on the heels of the dealer in black magic, armed with fire and sword for the witches.…
Dirk opened the gate, for the last time stepped from the witch’s garden; he wondered if Theirry was with the oncoming crowd, yet he did not think so, probably he was in the palace, probably he had repented already of what he had done; but the Empress had found her chance; her accusation falling first, who would take his word against her? …
He wore neither cloak nor hat, and as he waited against the open gate the thick snow covered him from head to foot; his spirit had never been afraid, was not afraid now, but his frail body shivered and shrank back as when the angry students fronted him at Basle.
He listened to the noises of the approaching people, till through these another sound, nearer and stranger, made him turn his head.
It came from the witch’s house.
“Nathalie!” called Dirk in a half hope.
But the blackness rippled into fire, swift flames sprang up, a column of gold and scarlet enveloped house and garden in a curling embrace.
Dirk ran out into the road, where the glare of the fire lit the swirling snow for a trembling circle, and shading his eyes he stared at the flames that consumed all his books, his magic herbs and potions, the strange things, rich and beautiful, that Nathalie had gathered in her long evil life; then he turned and ran down the street as the crowd surged in at the other end, to fall back upon one another aghast before the mighty flames that gave them mocking welcome.
Their dismayed and angry shouts came to Dirk’s ears as he ran through the snow; he fled the faster, towards the eastern gate.
It was not yet shut; light of foot and swift he darted through before they could challenge him, perhaps even before the careless guards saw him.
He was a fine runner, not easily fatigued, but he had already strained his endurance to the utmost, and, after he had well cleared the city gates, his limbs failed him and he fell to a walk.
The intense darkness produced a feeling of bewilderment, almost of light-headedness; he kept looking back over his shoulder, at the distant lights of Frankfort, to assure himself that he was not unwittingly stumbling back to the gates.
Finally he stood still and listened; he must be near the river; and after a while he could distinguish the sound of its sullen flow coming faintly out of the silent dark.
Well, of what use was the river to him, or aught else; he was cold, weary, pursued and betrayed; all he had with him were some few pieces of white money and a little phial of swift and keen poison that he never failed to carry in his breast; if his master failed him he would not go alive into the flames.
But, hopeless as his case might seem, he was far from resorting to this last refuge; he remembered the Blackamoor’s words, and dragged his numbed and aching limbs along.
After a while he saw, glimmering ahead of him, a light.
It was neither in a house nor carried in the hand, for it shone low on the ground, lower, it seemed to Dirk, than his own feet.
He paused, listened, and proceeded cautiously for fear of the river, that must lie, he thought, very close to his left.
As he neared the light he saw it to be a lantern, that cast long rays across the clearing snowstorm; a glittering, trembling reflection beneath it told him it belonged to a boat roped to the bank.
Dirk crept towards it, went on his knees in the snow and mud, and beheld a small, empty craft, the lantern hanging at the prow.
He paused; the waters, rushing by steadily and angrily, must be flowing towards the Rhine and the town of Cologne.…
He stepped into the boat that rocked while the water splashed beneath him; but with cold hands he undid the knotted rope.
The boat trembled a moment, then sped on with the current as if glad to be freed.
An oar lay in the bottom, with which for a while Dirk helped himself along, fearful lest the owners of the boat should pursue, then he let himself float down stream as he might. The water lapped about him, and the snow fell on his unprotected and already soaked figure; he stretched himself along the bottom of the boat and hid his face in the cushioned seat.
“Hugh of Rooselaare is dead and Theirry has betrayed me,” he whispered into the darkness.
Then he began sobbing, very bitterly.
His anguished tears, the cruel cold, the steady sound of the unseen water exhausted and numbed him till he fell into a sleep that was half a swoon, while the boat drifted towards the town.
When he awoke he was still in the open country. The snow had ceased, but lay on the ground thick and untouched to the horizon.
Dirk dragged his cramped limbs to a sitting posture and stared about him; the river was narrow, the banks flat; the boat had been caught by a clump of stiff withered reeds and the prow driven into the snowy earth.
On either side the prospect was wintry and dreary; a grey sky brooded over a white land, a pine forest showed sadly in dark mournfulness, while near by a few bare isolated trees bent under their weight of snow; the very stillness was horribly ominous.
Dirk found it ill to move, for his limbs were frozen, his clothes wet and clinging to his wincing flesh, while his eyes smarted with his late weeping, and his head was racked with giddy pains.
For a while he sat, remembering yesterday till his face hardened and darkened, and he set his pale lips and crawled painfully out of the boat.
Before him was a sweep of snow leading to the forest, and as he gazed at this with dimmed, hopeless eyes, a figure in a white monk’s habit emerged from the trees.
He carried a rude wooden spade in his hand, and walked with a slow step; he was coming towards the river, and Dirk waited.
As the stranger neared he lifted his eyes, that had hitherto been cast on the ground, and Dirk recognised Saint Ambrose of Menthon.
Nevertheless Dirk did not despair; before the saint had recognised him his part was resolved upon.…
Ambrose of Menthon gazed with pity and horror at the forlorn little figure shivering by the reeds. It was not strange that he did not at once know him; Dirk’s face was of a ghastly hue, his eyes shadowed underneath, red and swollen, his lank hair clinging close to his small head, his clothes muddy, wet and soiled, his figure bent.
“Sir,” he said, and his voice was weak and sweet, “have pity on an evil thing.”
He fell on his knees and clasped his hands on his breast.
“Rise up,” answered the saint. “What God has given me is yours; poor soul, ye are very miserable.”
“More miserable than ye wot of,” said Dirk, through chattering teeth, still on his knees. “Do you not know me?”
Ambrose of Menthon looked at him closely.
“Alas!” he murmured slowly, “I know you.”
Dirk beat his breast.
“Mea culpa!” he moaned. “Mea culpa!”
“Rise. Come with me,” said the saint. “I will attend your wants.”
The youth did not move.
“Will you solace my soul, sir?” he cried. “God must have sent you here to save my soul—for long days I have sought you.”
Saint Ambrose’s face glowed.
“Have ye, then, repented?”
Dirk rose slowly to his feet and stood with bent head.
“May one repent of such offences?”
“God is very merciful,” breathed the saint tenderly.
“Remorse and sorrow fill my heart,” murmured Dirk. “I have cast off my evil comrades, renounced my vile gains and journeyed into the loneliness to find God His pardon… and it seemed He would not hear me.…”
“He hears all who come in grief and penitence,” said the saint joyously. “And He has heard you, for has He not sent me to find you, even in this most desolate place?”
“You feed me with hope,” answered Dirk in a quivering voice, “and revive me with glad tidings… may I dare, I, poor lost wretch, to be uplifted and exalted?”
“Poor youth,” was the tender murmur. “Come with me.”
He led the way across the thick snow, Dirk following with downcast eyes and white cheeks.
They skirted the forest and came upon a little hut, set back and sheltered among the scattered trees.
Saint Ambrose opened the rude door.
“I am alone now,” he said softly, as he entered. “I had with me a frail holy youth, who was travelling to Paris; last night he died, I have just laid his body in the earth, his soul rests on the bosom of the Lord.”
Dirk stepped into the hut and stood meekly on the threshold, and Saint Ambrose glanced at him wistfully.
“Maybe God has sent me this soul to tend and succour in place of that He has called home.”
Dirk whispered humbly—
“If I might think so.”
The saint opened an inner door.
“Your garments are wet and soiled.”
A sudden colour stained Dirk’s face.
“I have no others.”
Ambrose of Menthon pointed to the inner chamber.
“There Blaise died yester-eve; there are his clothes, enter and put them on.”
“It will be the habit of a novice?” asked Dirk softly.
“Yea.”
Dirk bent and kissed the saint’s fingers with ice-cold lips.
“I have dared,” he whispered, “to hope that I might die wearing the garb of God His servants, and now I dare even to hope that He shall grant my prayer.”
He stepped into the inner chamber and closed the door.
CHAPTER XXII.
BLAISE
Ambrose of Menthon and his meek and humble follower rested at Châlons, on their way to Paris.
For many weeks they had begged from door to door, sleeping in some hermit’s cell or by the roadside when the severity of the bitter nights permitted, occasionally finding shelter in a wayside convent.
So patient, so courageous before hardship, so truly sad and remorseful, so grateful for the distant chance of ultimate pardon was Dirk, that the saint grew to love the penitent vagabond.
No one eager to look for it could have found any fault with his behaviour; he was gentle as a girl, obedient as a servant, rigid in his prayers (and he had a strangely complete knowledge of the offices and penances of the Church), silent and sorrowful often, taking no pleasure in anything save the saint’s talk of Paradise and holy things.
Particularly he loved to hear of the dead youth Blaise, of his saintly life, of his desire to join the stern Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart, in Paris, of his fame as one beloved of God, of the convent’s wish to receive him, of his great learning, of his beautiful death in the snowy evening.
To all this Dirk listened with still attention, and from Saint Ambrose’s rapt and loving recital he gathered little earthly details of the subject of their speech.
Such as that he was from Flanders, of a noble family, that his immediate relatives were dead, that his years were no more than twenty, and that he was dark and pale.
For himself Dirk had little to say; he described simply his shame and remorse after he had stolen the holy gold, his gradual sickening of his companions, the long torture of his awakening soul, his attempts to find the saint, and how, finally, after he had resolved to flee his evil life and enter a convent, he had run out of Frankfort, found a boat waiting—and so drifted to Saint Ambrose’s feet.
The saint, rejoicing in his penitence, suggested that he should enter the convent whither they journeyed with the tidings of the holy youth’s death, and Dirk consented with humble gratitude.
And so they passed through Châlons, and rested in a deserted hut overlooking the waters of the Marne.
Having finished their scanty meal they were seated together under the rough shelter; the luxury of a fire was denied their austerity; a cold wind blew in and out of the ill-built doors, and a colourless light filled the mean bare place. Dirk sat on a broken stool, reading aloud the writings of Saint Jerome.
He wore a coarse brown robe, very different from his usual attire, fastened round the waist with a rope into which was twisted a wooden rosary; his feet were encased in rude leather boots, his hands reddened with the cold, his face hollow and of a bluish pallor in which his eyes shone feverishly large and dark.
His smooth hair hung on to his shoulders; he stooped, in contrast with his usual erect carriage.
Pausing on his low and gentle reading he looked across at the saint.
Ambrose of Menthon sat on a rough-hewn bench against the rougher wall; weariness, exposure, and sheer weakness of body had done their work at last; Dirk knew that for three nights he had not slept… he was asleep now or had swooned; his fair head fell forward on his breast, his hands hung by his side.
As Dirk became assured that his companion was unconscious, he slowly rose and set down the holy volume. He was himself half starved, cold to the heart and shuddering; he looked round the plaster walls and the meek expression of his face changed to one of scorn, derision and wicked disdain; he darted a bitter glance at the wan man, and crept towards the door.
Opening it softly, he gazed out; the scene was fair and lonely—the distant tourelles of Châlons rose clear and pointed against the winter clouds; near by the grey river flowed between its high banks, where the bare willows grew and the snow-wreaths still lay.
Dirk took shivering steps into the open and turned towards the Marne; the keen wind penetrated his poor garments and lifted the heavy hair from his thin cheeks; he beat his breast, chafed his hands and walked rapidly.
Reaching the bank he looked up and down the river; there was no one in sight, neither boat nor animal nor house to break the monotony of land, sky and water, only those distant towers of the town.
Dirk walked among the twisted willows, then came to a pause.
A little ahead of him were a black man and a black dog, both seated on the bank and gazing towards Châlons.
The youth came a little nearer.
“Good even,” he said. “It is very cold.”
The Blackamoor looked round.
“Are you pleased with the way you travel?” he asked, nodding his head. “And your companion?”
Dirk’s face lowered.
“How much longer am I to endure it?”
“You must have patience,” said the black man, “and endurance.”
“I have both,” answered Dirk. “Look at my hands—they are no longer soft, but red and hard; my feet are galled and wounded in rough boots—I must walk till I am sick, then pray instead of sleeping; I see no fire, and scarcely do I touch food.”
The hell-hound stirred and whined among the osiers, the jewels in the Blackamoor’s collar flashed richly, though there was no light to strike them.
“You will be rewarded,” he said, “and revenged too—o—ho—o! it is very cold, as you say, very cold.”
“What must I do?” asked Dirk.
The black man rubbed his hands together.
“You know—you know.”
Dirk’s pinched wan face grew intent, and eager.
“Am I to use… this?” He touched the breast of his rough habit.
“Yea.”
“Then shall I be left defenceless.” Dirk’s voice shook a little. “If anything should happen—I would not, I could not—oh, Sathanas!—I could not be revealed!”
The Blackamoor rose from among the willows.
“Do you trust yourself and me?” he asked.
Dirk put his thin hand over his eyes.
“Yea, master.”
“Then you know what to do. You will not see me for many years—when you have triumphed I shall come.”
He turned swiftly and ran down the bank, the hound at his heels; one after another they leaped into the waters of the Marne and disappeared with an inner sound.
Dirk straightened himself and set his lips. He reentered the hut to find Ambrose of Menthon still against the wall, now indeed wearily asleep; Dirk came softly forward; slowly and cautiously he put his hand into his bosom and drew out a small green-coloured phial.
With his eyes keenly on the saint he broke the seal, then crept close.
By Saint Ambrose’s side hung his rosary, every bead smooth with the constant pressure of his lips; Dirk raised the heavy crucifix attached, and poured on to it the precious drop contained in the phial.
Saint Ambrose did not wake nor move; Dirk drew away and crouched against the wall, cursing the bitter wind with fierce eyes.…
When the saint awoke, Dirk was on the broken stool reading aloud the writings of Saint Jerome.
“Is it still light?” asked Ambrose of Menthon amazedly.
“It is the dawn,” answered Dirk.
“And I have slept the night through.” The saint dragged his stiff limbs from the seat and fell on his knees in a misery of prayer.
Dirk closed the book and watched him; watched his long fingers twining in the beads of his rosary, watched him kiss the crucifix, again and again; then he, too, knelt, his face hidden in his hands.
He was the first to rise.
“Master, shall we press on to Paris?” he asked humbly.
The saint lifted dazed eyes from his devotions.
“Yea,” he said. “Yea.”
Dirk began putting together in a bundle their few books, and the wooden platter in which they collected their broken food; this being their all.
“I dreamt last night of Paradise,” said Saint Ambrose faintly, “the floor was so thick-strewn with close little flowers, red, white, and purple… and it was warm as Italy in May.…”
Dirk swung the bundle on to his shoulder and opened the door of the hut.
“There is no sun to-day,” he remarked.
“How long it is since we have seen the sun!” said Saint Ambrose wistfully.
They passed out into the dreary landscape and took their slow way along the banks of the Marne.
Until midday they did not pause, scarcely spoke; then they passed through a little village, and the charitable gave them food.
That night they slept in the open, under shelter of a hedge, and Ambrose of Menthon complained of weakness; Dirk, waking in the dark, heard him praying… heard, too, the rattle of the wooden rosary.
When the light came and they once more recommenced their journey the saint was so feeble he was fain to lean on Dirk’s shoulder.
“I think I am dying,” he said; his face was flushed, his eyes burning, he smiled continuously.
“Let me reach Paris,” he added, “that I may tell the Brethren of Blaise.…”
The youth supporting him wept bitterly.
Towards noon they met a woodman’s cart that helped them on their way; that night they spent in the stable of an inn; the next day they descended into the valley of the Seine, and by the evening reached the gates of Paris.
As the bells over all the beautiful city were ringing to vespers they arrived at their destination, an old and magnificent convent surrounded with great gardens set near the river bank.
The winter sky had broken at last, and wreathed and motionless clouds curled back from a clear expanse of gold and scarlet, against which the houses, churches and palaces rose from out the blue mist of evening.
The straight roof of the convent, the little tower with its slow-moving bell, the bare bent fruit trees, the beds of herbs, sweet-smelling even now, the red lamp glowing in the dark doorway, showed themselves to Dirk as he entered the gate,—he looked at them all intently, and bitter distant memories darkened his hollow face.
The monks were singing the Magnificat; their thin voices came clearly on the frosty air.
“Fecit potentiam in brachio suo:
dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.”
Ambrose of Menthon took his feeble hand from Dirk’s arm and sank on his knees.
“Deposuit potentes de sede,
et exaltavit humiles.”
But Dirk’s pale lips curled, and as he gazed at the sunset flaming beyond the convent walls, there was a haughty challenge in his brooding eyes.
“Esurientes implevit bonis,
et divites dimisit inanes.
Suscepit Israel puerum suum,
recordatus misercordiae suae.”
The saint murmured the chanted words and clasped his hands on his breast, while the sky brightened vividly above the wide waters of the Seine.
“Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros
Abraham et semini ejus in saecula.”
The chant faded away on the still evening, but the saint remained kneeling.
“Master,” whispered Dirk, “shall we not go in to them?”
Ambrose of Menthon raised his fair face.
“I am dying,” he smiled. “A keen flame licks up my blood and burns my heart to ashes—‘Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus.’ ” His voice failed, he sank forward and his head fell against the grey beds of rue and fennel.
“Alas! alas!” cried Dirk; he made no attempt to bring assistance nor called aloud, but stood still, gazing with intent eyes at the unconscious man.
But when the monks came out of the chapel and turned two by two towards the convent, Dirk pulled off his worn cap.
“Divinum auxilium maneat semper
nobiscum.”
“Amen,” said Dirk, then he ran lightly forward and flung himself before the procession.
“My father!” he cried, with a sob in his voice.
The priests stopped, the “amens” still trembling on their lips.
“Ambrose of Menthon lies within your gates a dying man,” said Dirk meekly and sadly.
With little exclamations of awe and grief the grey-clad figures followed him to where the saint lay.
“Ah me!” murmured Dirk. “The way has been so long, so rough, so cold.”
Reverently they raised Saint Ambrose.
“He has done with his body,” said an old monk, holding up the dying man.
The flushed sky faded behind them; the saint stirred and half opened his eyes.
“Blaise,” he whispered. “Blaise”—he tried to point to Dirk who knelt at his feet—“he will tell you.” His eyes closed again, he strove to pray; the “De profundis” trembled on his lips, he made a sudden upward gesture with his hands, smiled and died.
For a while there was silence among them, broken only by a short sob from Dirk, then the monks turned to the ragged, emaciated youth who crouched at the dead feet.
“Blaise, he said,” one murmured, “it is the holy youth.”
Dirk roused himself as from a silent prayer, made the sign of the cross and rose.
“Who art thou?” they asked reverently.
Dirk raised a tear-stained, weary face.
“The youth Blaise, my fathers,” he answered humbly.