THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT

First Series

By Rafael Sabatini

PREFACE

In approaching "The Historical Nights' Entertainment" I set myself thetask of reconstructing, in the fullest possible detail and with all thecolour available from surviving records, a group of more or less famousevents. I would select for my purpose those which were in themselvesbizarre and resulting from the interplay of human passions, and whilstrelating each of these events in the form of a story, I would compelthat story scrupulously to follow the actual, recorded facts withoutowing anything to fiction, and I would draw upon my imagination, if atall, merely as one might employ colour to fill in the outlines whichhistory leaves grey, taking care that my colour should be as true tonature as possible. For dialogue I would depend upon such scrapsof actual speech as were chronicled in each case, amplifying it bytranslating into terms of speech the paraphrases of contemporarychroniclers. 

Such was the task I set myself. I am aware that it has been attemptedonce or twice already, beginning, perhaps, with the "Crimes Celebres"of Alexandre Dumas. I am not aware that the attempt has ever succeeded. This is not to say that I claim success in the essays that follow. Hownearly I may have approached success--judged by the standard I had setmyself--how far I may have fallen short, my readers will discern. Iam conscious, however, of having in the main dutifully resisted thetemptation to take the easier road, to break away from restricting factfor the sake of achieving a more intriguing narrative. In one instance, however, I have quite deliberately failed, and in some others I havepermitted myself certain speculations to resolve mysteries of which noexplanation has been discovered. Of these it is necessary that I shouldmake a full confession. 

My deliberate failure is "The Night of Nuptials. " I discovered anallusion to the case of Charles the Bold and Sapphira Danvelt inMacaulay's "History of England"--quoted from an old number of the"Spectator"--whilst I was working upon the case of Lady Alice Lisle. There a similar episode is mentioned as being related of Colonel Kirke, but discredited because known for a story that has a trick of springingup to attach itself to unscrupulous captains. I set out to track it toits source, and having found its first appearance to be in connectionwith Charles the Bold's German captain Rhynsault, I attempted toreconstruct the event as it might have happened, setting it at least insurroundings of solid fact. 

My most flagrant speculation occurs in "The Night of Hate. " But indefence of it I can honestly say that it is at least no more flagrantthan the speculations on this subject that have become enshrined inhistory as facts. In other words, I claim for my reconstruction of thecircumstances attending the mysterious death of Giovanni Borgia, Duke ofGandia, that it no more lacks historical authority than do any otherof the explanatory narratives adopted by history to assign the guilt toGandia's brother, Cesare Borgia. 

In the "Cambridge Modern History" our most authoritative writers on thisepoch have definitely pronounced that there is no evidence acceptableto historians to support the view current for four centuries that CesareBorgia was the murderer. 

Elsewhere I have dealt with this at length. Here let it suffice to saythat it was not until nine months after the deed that the name of CesareBorgia was first associated with it; that public opinion had in the meantime assigned the guilt to a half-dozen others in succession; that nomotive for the crime is discoverable in the case of Cesare; that themotives advanced will not bear examination, and that they bear on theface of them the stamp of having been put forward hastily to supportan accusation unscrupulously political in purpose; that the first menaccused by the popular voice were the Cardinal Vice-Chancellor AscanioSforza and his nephew Giovanni Sforza, Tyrant of Pesaro; and, finally, that in Matarazzo's "Chronicles of Perugia" there is a fairly detailedaccount of how the murder was perpetrated by the latter. 

Matarazzo, I confess, is worthy of no more credit than any other of thecontemporary reporters of common gossip. But at least he is worthy of noless. And it is undeniable that in Sforza's case a strong motive for themurder was not lacking. 

My narrative in "The Night of Hate" is admittedly a purely theoreticalaccount of the crime. But it is closely based upon all the known factsof incidence and of character; and if there is nothing in the survivingrecords that will absolutely support it, neither is there anything thatcan absolutely refute it. 

In "The Night of Masquerade" I am guilty of quite arbitrarilydiscovering a reason to explain the mystery of Baron Bjelke's suddenchange from the devoted friend and servant of Gustavus III of Swedeninto his most bitter enemy. That speculation is quite indefensible, although affording a possible explanation of that mystery. In the caseof "The Night of Kirk o' Field, " on the other hand, I do not think anyapology is necessary for my reconstruction of the precise manner inwhich Darnley met his death. The event has long been looked upon as oneof the mysteries of history--the mystery lying in the fact that whilstthe house at Kirk o' Field was destroyed by an explosion, Darnley's bodywas found at some distance away, together with that of his page, bearingevery evidence of death by strangulation. The explanation I adopt seemsto me to owe little to speculation. 

In the story of Antonio Perez--"The Night of Betrayal"--I have permittedmyself fewer liberties with actual facts than might appear. I haveclosely followed his own "Relacion, " which, whilst admittedly a pieceof special pleading, must remain the most authoritative document of theevents with which it deals. All that I have done has been to reversethe values as Perez presents them, throwing the personal elements intohigher relief than the political ones, and laying particular stress uponthe matter of his relations with the Princess of Eboli. "The Night ofBetrayal" is presented in the form of a story within a story. Of thecontaining story let me say that whilst to some extent it is fictitious, it is by no means entirely so. There is enough to justify most of it inthe "Relaciori" itself. 

The exceptions mentioned being made, I hope it may be found that I haveadhered rigorously to my purpose of owing nothing to invention in myattempt to flesh and clothe these few bones of history. 

I should add, perhaps, that where authorities differ as to motives, where there is a conflict of evidence as to the facts themselves, orwhere the facts admit of more than one interpretation, I have permittedmyself to be selective, and confined myself to a point of view adoptedat the outset. 

R. S. 

LONDON, August, 1917

CONTENTS

 I. THE NIGHT OF HOLYROOD The Murder of David Rizzio

 II. THE NIGHT OF KIRK O' FIELD The Murder of Darnley

 III. THE NIGHT OF BETRAYAL Antonio Perez and Philip II of Spain

 IV. THE NIGHT OF CHARITY The Case of the Lady Alice Lisle

 V. THE NIGHT OF MASSACRE The Story of the Saint Bartholomew

 VI. THE NIGHT OF WITCHCRAFT Louis XIV and Madame de Montespan

 VII. THE NIGHT OF GEMS The Affaire of the Queen's Necklace

 VIII. THE NIGHT OF TERROR The Drownings at Nantes under Carrier

 IX. THE NIGHT OF NUPTIALS Charles the Bold and Sapphira Danvelt

 X. THE NIGHT OF STRANGLERS Giovanna of Naples and Andreas of Hungary

 XI. THE NIGHT OF HATE The Murder of the Duke of Gandia

 XII. THE NIGHT OF ESCAPE Casanova's Escape from the Piombi

 XIII. THE NIGHT OF MASQUERADE The Assassination of Gustavus III of Sweden

THE HISTORICAL NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT

I. THE NIGHT OF HOLYROOD--The Murder of David Rizzio

The tragedy of my Lord Darnley's life lay in the fact that he was aman born out of his proper station--a clown destined to kingship by theaccident of birth and fortune. By the blood royal flowing in his veins, he could, failing others, have claimed succession to both the Englishand the Scottish thrones, whilst by his marriage with Mary Stuart hemade a definite attempt to possess himself of that of Scotland. 

The Queen of Scots, enamoured for a season of the clean-limbed grace andalmost feminine beauty ("ladyfaced, " Melville had called him once) ofthis "long lad of nineteen" who came a-wooing her, had soon discovered, in matrimony, his vain, debauched, shiftless, and cowardly nature. Shehad married him in July of 1565, and by Michaelmas she had come to knowhim for just a lovely husk of a man, empty of heart or brain; and theknowledge transmuted affection into contempt. 

Her natural brother, the Earl of Murray, had opposed the marriage, chiefly upon the grounds that Darnley was a Catholic, and with Argyll, Chatellerault, Glencairn, and a host of other Protestant lords, hadrisen in arms against his sovereign and her consort. But Mary had chasedher rebel brother and his fellows over the border into England, and bythis very action, taken for the sake of her worthless husband, she sowedthe first seeds of discord between herself and him. It happened thatstout service had been rendered her in this affair by the arrogantborder ruffian, the Earl of Bothwell. Partly to reward him, partlybecause of the confidence with which he inspired her, she bestowedupon him the office of Lieutenant-General of the East, Middle, and WestMarches--an office which Darnley had sought for his father, Lennox. That was the first and last concerted action of the royal couple. Estrangement grew thereafter between them, and, in a measure, as it grewso did Darnley's kingship, hardly established as yet--for the Queen hadstill to redeem her pre-nuptial promise to confer upon him the crownmatrimonial--begin to dwindle. 

At first it had been "the King and Queen, " or "His Majesty and Hers";but by Christmas--five months after the wedding--Darnley was knownsimply as "the Queen's husband, " and in all documents the Queen's namenow took precedence of his, whilst coins bearing their two heads, andthe legend "Hen. Et Maria, " were called in and substituted by a newcoinage relegating him to the second place. 

Deeply affronted, and seeking anywhere but in himself and his ownshortcomings the cause of the Queen's now manifest hostility, hepresently conceived that he had found it in the influence exerted uponher by the Seigneur Davie--that Piedmontese, David Rizzio, who had cometo the Scottish Court some four years ago as a starveling minstrel inthe train of Monsieur de Morette, the ambassador of Savoy. 

It was Rizzio's skill upon the rebec that had first attracted Mary'sattention. Later he had become her secretary for French affairs and theyoung Queen, reared amid the elegancies of the Court of France, grewattached to him as to a fellow-exile in the uncouth and turbulent landover which a harsh destiny ordained that she should rule. Using hisopportunities and his subtle Italian intelligence, he had advanced sorapidly that soon there was no man in Scotland who stood higher withthe Queen. When Maitland of Lethington was dismissed under suspicion offavouring the exiled Protestant lords, the Seigneur Davie succeeded himas her secretary; and now that Morton was under the same suspicion, itwas openly said that the Seigneur Davie would be made chancellor in hisstead. 

Thus the Seigneur Davie was become the most powerful man in Scotland, and it is not to be dreamt that a dour, stiff-necked nobility wouldsuffer it without demur. They intrigued against him, putting it abroad, amongst other things, that this foreign upstart was an emissary, of thePope's, scheming to overthrow the Protestant religion in Scotland. Butin the duel that followed their blunt Scotch wits were no match for hisItalian subtlety. Intrigue as they might his power remained unshaken. And then, at last it began to be whispered that he owed his high favourwith the beautiful young Queen to other than his secretarial abilities, so that Bedford wrote to Cecil:

"What countenance the Queen shows David I will not write, for the honourdue to the person of a queen. "

This bruit found credit--indeed, there have been ever since those whohave believed it--and, as it spread, it reached the ears of Darnley. Because it afforded him an explanation of the Queen's hostility, sincehe was without the introspection that would have discovered the trueexplanation in his own shortcomings, he flung it as so much fuel uponthe seething fires of his rancour, and became the most implacable ofthose who sought the ruin of Rizzio. 

He sent for Ruthven, the friend of Murray and the exiled lords--exiled, remember, on Darnley's own account--and offered to procure thereinstatement of those outlaws if they would avenge his honour and makehim King of Scots in something more than name. 

Ruthven, sick of a mortal illness, having risen from a bed of pain tocome in answer to that summons, listened dourly to the frothing speechesof that silly, lovely boy. 

"No doubt you'll be right about yon fellow Davie, " he agreed sombrely, and purposely he added things that must have outraged Darnley's everyfeeling as king and as husband. Then he stated the terms on whichDarnley might count upon his aid. 

"Early next month Parliament is to meet over the business of a Billof Attainder against Murray and his friends, declaring them by theirrebellion to have forfeited life, land, and goods. Ye can see the powerwith her o' this foreign fiddler, that it drives her so to attaint herown brother. Murray has ever hated Davie, knowing too much of what lies'twixt the Queen and him to her dishonour, and Master Davie thinks so tomake an end of Murray and his hatred. "

Darnley clenched teeth and hands, tortured by the craftily administeredpoison. 

"What then? What is to do?" he cried, Ruthven told him bluntly. 

"That Bill must never pass. Parliament must never meet to pass it. Youare Her Grace's husband and King of Scots. "

"In name!" sneered Darnley bitterly. 

"The name will serve, " said Ruthven. "In that name ye'll sign me a bondof formal remission to Murray and his friends for all their actions andquarrels, permitting their safe return to Scotland, and charging thelieges to convoy them safely. Do that and leave the rest to us. "

If Darnley hesitated at all, it was not because he perceived the ironyof the situation--that he himself, in secret opposition to the Queen, should sign the pardon of those who had rebelled against her preciselybecause she had taken him to husband. He hesitated because indecisionwas inherent in his nature. 

"And then?" he asked at last. 

Ruthven's blood-injected eyes considered him stonily out of a livid, gleaming face. 

"Then, whether you reign with her or without her, reign you shall asKing o' Scots. I pledge myself to that, and I pledge those others, sothat we have the bond. "

Darnley sat down to sign the death warrant of the Seigneur Davie. 

It was the night of Saturday, the 9th of March. 

A fire of pine logs burned fragrantly on the hearth of the small closetadjoining the Queen's chamber, suffusing it with a sense of comfort, the greater by contrast with the cheerlessness out of doors, where aneasterly wind swept down from Arthur's Seat and moaned its dismal wayover a snowclad world. 

The lovely, golden-headed young queen supped with a little company ofintimates: her natural sister, the Countess of Argyll, the Commendatorof Holyrood, Beaton, the Master of the Household, Arthur Erskine, theCaptain of the Guard, and one other--that, David Rizzio, who from anerrant minstrel had risen to this perilous eminence, a man of a swarthy, ill-favoured countenance redeemed by the intelligence that glowed inhis dark eyes, and of a body so slight and fragile as to seem almostmisshapen. His age was not above thirty, yet indifferent health, earlyprivation, and misfortune had so set their mark upon him that he hadall the appearance of a man of fifty. He was dressed with sombremagnificence, and a jewel of great price smouldered upon the middlefinger of one of his slender, delicate hands. 

Supper was at an end. The Queen lounged on a long seat over against thetapestried wall. The Countess of Argyll, in a tall chair on the Queen'sleft, sat with elbows on the table watching the Seigneur Davie's finefingers as they plucked softly at the strings of a long-necked lute. Thetalk, which, intimate and untrammelled, had lately been of the childof which Her Majesty was to be delivered some three months hence, wasflagging now, and it was to fill the gap that Rizzio had taken up thelute. 

His harsh countenance was transfigured as he caressed the strings, hissoul absorbed in the theme of his inspiration. Very softly--indeed, nomore than tentatively as yet--he was beginning one of those wistful airsin which his spirit survives in Scotland to this day, when suddenly theexpectant hush was broken by a clash of curtain-rings. The tapestriesthat masked the door had been swept aside, and on the threshold, unheralded, stood the tall, stripling figure of the young King. 

Darnley's appearance abruptly scattered the Italian's inspiration. Themelody broke off sharply on the single loud note of a string too rudelyplucked. 

That and the silence that followed it irked them all, conveying a sensethat here something had been broken which never could be made wholeagain. 

Darnley shuffled forward. His handsome face was pale save for the twoburning spots upon his cheekbones, and his eyes glittered feveredly. Hehad been drinking, so much was clear; and that he should seek the Queenthus, who so seldom sought her sober, angered those intimates who hadcome to share her well-founded dislike of him. King though he might bein name, into such contempt was he fallen that not one of them rosein deference, whilst Mary herself watched his approach with hostile, mistrusting eyes. 

"What is it, my lord?" she asked him coldly, as he flung himself down onthe settle beside her. 

He leered at her, put an arm about her waist, pulled her to him, andkissed her oafishly. 

None stirred. All eyes were upon them, and all faces blank. After all, he was the King and she his wife. And then upon the silence, ominousas the very steps of doom, came a ponderous, clanking tread from theante-room beyond. Again the curtains were thrust aside, and the Countessof Argyll uttered a gasp of sudden fear at the grim spectre she beheldthere. It was a figure armed as for a tourney, in gleaming steel fromhead to foot, girt with a sword, the right hand resting upon the hilt ofthe heavy dagger in the girdle. The helmet's vizor was raised, revealingthe ghastly face of Ruthven--so ghastly that it must have seemed theface of a dead man but for the blazing life in the eyes that scanned thecompany. Those questing eyes went round the table, settled upon Rizzio, and seemed horribly to smile. 

Startled, disquieted by this apparition, the Queen half rose, Darnley'shindering arm still flung about her waist. 

"What's this?" she cried, her voice sharp. 

And then, as if she guessed intuitively what it might portend, sheconsidered her husband with pale-faced contempt. 

"Judas!" she called him, flung away from his detaining arm, and stoodforth to confront that man in steel. "What seek ye here, my lord--and inthis guise?" was her angry challenge. 

Ruthven's burning eyes fell away before her glance. He clanked forward astep or two, flung out a mailed arm, and with a hand that shook pointedto the Seigneur Davie, who stood blankly watching him. 

"I seek yon man, " he said gruffly. "Let him come forth. "

"He is here by my will, " she told him, her anger mounting. "And so arenot you--for which you shall be made to answer. "

Then to Darnley, who sat hunched on the settle:

"What does this mean, sir?" she demanded. 

"Why--how should I know? Why--why, nothing, " he faltered foolishly. 

"Pray God that you are right, " said she, "for your own sake. And you, "she continued, addressing Ruthven again and waving a hand in imperiousdismissal, "be you gone, and wait until I send for you, which I promiseyou shall be right soon. "

If she divined some of the evil of their purpose, if any fear assailedher, yet she betrayed nothing of it. She was finely tempered steel. 

But Ruthven, sullen and menacing, stood his ground. 

"Let yon man come forth, " he repeated. "He has been here ower lang. "

"Over long?" she echoed, betrayed by her quick resentment. 

"Aye, ower lang for the good o' Scotland and your husband, " was thebrutal answer. 

Erskine, of her guards, leapt to his feet. 

"Will you begone, sir?" he cried; and after him came Beaton and theCommendator, both echoing the captain's threatening question. 

A smile overspread Ruthven's livid face. The heavy dagger flashed fromhis belt. 

"My affair is not with any o' ye, but if ye thrust yersels too closeupon my notice--"

The Queen stepped clear of the table to intervene, lest violence shouldbe done here in her presence. Rizzio, who had risen, stood now besideher, watching all with a white, startled face. And then, before morecould be said, the curtains were torn away and half a score of men, whose approach had passed unnoticed, poured into the room. First cameMorton, the Chancellor, who was to be dispossessed of the great sealin Rizzio's favour. After him followed the brutal Lindsay of the Byres, Kerr of Faudonside, black-browed Brunston, red-headed Douglas, and ahalf-dozen others. 

Confusion ensued; the three men of the Queen's household were instantlysurrounded and overpowered. In the brief, sharp struggle the table wasoverturned, and all would have been in darkness but that as the tablewent over the Countess of Argyll had snatched up the candle-branch, andstood now holding it aloft to light that extraordinary scene. Rizzio, towhom the sight of Morton had been as the removal of his last illusion, flung himself upon his knees before the Queen. Frail and feeble of body, and never a man of his hands, he was hopelessly unequal to the occasion. 

"Justice, madame!" he cried. "Faites justice! Sauvez ma vie!"

Fearlessly, she stepped between him and the advancing horde ofmurderers, making of her body a buckler for his protection. Whiteof face, with heaving bosom and eyes like two glowing sapphires, sheconfronted them. 

"Back, on your lives!" she bade them. 

But they were lost to all sense of reverence, even to all sense ofdecency, in their blind rage against this foreign upstart who hadtrampled their Scottish vanity in the dust. George Douglas, withoutregard for her condition either as queen or woman--and a woman almostupon the threshold of motherhood--clapped a pistol to her breast androughly bade her stand aside. 

Undaunted, she looked at him with eyes that froze his trigger-finger, whilst behind her Rizzio grovelled in his terror, clutching herpetticoat. Thus, until suddenly she was seized about the waist and halfdragged, half-lifted aside by Darnley, who at the same time spurnedRizzio forward with his foot. 

The murderers swooped down upon their prey. Kerr of Faudonside flunga noose about his body, and drew it tight with a jerk that pulled thesecretary from his knees. Then he and Morton took the rope betweenthem, and so dragged their victim across the room towards the door. He struggled blindly as he went, vainly clutching first at an oversetchair, then at a leg of the table, and screeching piteously the whileto the Queen to save him. And Mary, trembling with passion, herselfstruggling in the arms of Darnley, flung an angry warning after them. 

"If Davie's blood be spilt, it shall be dear blood to some of you!Remember that, sirs!"

But they were beyond control by now, hounds unleashed upon the quarry oftheir hate. Out of her presence Morton and Douglas dragged him, the restof the baying pack going after them. They dragged him, screeching still, across the ante-chamber to the head of the great stairs, and there theyfell on him all together, and so wildly that they wounded one anotherin their fury to rend him into pieces. The tattered body, gushing bloodfrom six-and-fifty wounds, was hurled from top to bottom of the stairs, with a gold-hilted dagger--Darnley's, in token of his participation inthe deed--still sticking in his breast. 

Ruthven stood forward from the group, his reeking poniard clutched inhis right hand, a grin distorting his ghastly, vulturine face. Then hestalked back alone into the royal presence, dragging his feet a little, like a man who is weary. 

He found the room much as he had left it, save that the Queen had sunkback to her seat on the settle, and Darnley was now standing over her, whilst her people were still hemmed about by his own men. Without a "byyour leave, " he flung himself into a chair and called hoarsely for a cupof wine. 

Mary's white face frowned at him across the room. 

"You shall yet drink the wine that I shall pour you for this night'swork, my lord, and for this insolence! Who gave you leave to sit beforeme?"

He waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter. It may have seemed to himfrivolous to dwell upon such a trifle amid so much. 

"It's no' frae lack o' respect, Your Grace, " he growled, "but frae lacko' strength. I am ill, and I should ha' been abed but for what was hereto do. "

"Ah!" She looked at him with cold repugnance. "What have you done withDavie?"

He shrugged, yet his eyes quailed before her own. 

"He'll be out yonder, " he answered, grimly evasive; and he took the wineone of his followers proffered him. 

"Go see, " she bade the Countess. 

And the Countess, setting the candle-branch upon the buffet, went out, none attempting to hinder her. 

Then, with narrowed eyes, the Queen watched Ruthven while he drank. 

"It will be for the sake of Murray and his friends that you do this, "she said slowly. "Tell me, my lord, what great kindness is there betweenMurray and you that, to save him from forfeiture, you run the risk ofbeing forfeited with him?"

"What I have done, " he said, "I have done for others, and under a bondthat shall hold me scatheless. "

"Under a bond?" said she, and now she looked up at Darnley, standingever at her side. "And was the bond yours, my lord?"

"Mme?" He started back. "I know naught of it. "

But as he moved she saw something else. She leaned forward, pointing tothe empty sheath at his girdle. 

"Where is your dagger, my lord?" she asked him sharply. 

"My dagger? Ha! How should I know?"

"But I shall know!" she threatened, as if she were not virtually aprisoner in the hands of these violent men who had invaded her palaceand dragged Rizzio from her side. "I shall not rest until I know!"

The Countess came in, white to the lips, bearing in her eyes somethingof the horror she had beheld. 

"What is it?" Mary asked her, her voice suddenly hushed and faltering. 

"Madame-he is dead! Murdered!" she announced. 

The Queen looked at her, her face of marble. Then her voice came hushedand tense:

"Are--you sure?"

"Myself I saw his body, madame. "

There was a long pause. A low moan escaped the Queen, and her lovelyeyes were filled with tears; slowly these coursed down her cheeks. Something compelling in her grief hushed every voice, and the cravenhusband at her side shivered as her glance fell upon him once more. 

"And is it so?" she said at length, considering him. She dried her eyes. "Then farewell tears; I must study revenge. " She rose as if with labour, and standing, clung a moment to the table's edge. A moment she looked atRuthven, who sat glooming there, dagger in one hand and empty wine-cupin the other; then her glance passed on, and came to rest balefullyon Darnley's face. "You have had your will, my lord, " she said, "butconsider well what I now say. Consider and remember. I shall never restuntil I give you as sore a heart as I have presently. "

That said she staggered forward. The Countess hastened to her, andleaning upon her arm, Mary passed through the little door of the closetinto her chamber. 

That night the common bell was rung, and Edinburgh roused in alarm. Bothwell, Huntly, Atholl, and others who were at Holyrood when Rizziowas murdered, finding it impossible to go to the Queen's assistance, andfearing to share the secretary's fate--for the palace was a-swarm withthe murderers' men-at-arms--had escaped by one of the windows. The alarmthey spread in Edinburgh brought the provost and townsmen in arms to thepalace by torchlight, demanding to see the Queen, and refusing to departuntil Darnley had shown himself and assured them that all was wellwith the Queen and with himself. And what time Darnley gave them thisreassurance from a window of her room, Mary herself stood pale and tautamid the brutal horde that on this alarm had violated the privacy of herchamber, while the ruffianly Red Douglas flashed his dagger before hereyes, swearing that if she made a sound they would cut her into collops. 

When at last they withdrew and left her to herself, they left herno illusions as to her true condition. She was a prisoner in her ownpalace. The ante-rooms and courts were thronged with the soldiers ofMorton and Ruthven, the palace itself was hemmed about, and none mightcome or go save at the good pleasure of the murderers. 

At last Darnley grasped the authority he had coveted. He dictatedforthwith a proclamation which was read next morning at Edinburgh MarketCross--commanding that the nobles who had assembled in Edinburgh tocompose the Parliament that was to pass the Bill of Attainder shouldquit the city within three hours, under pain of treason and forfeiture. 

And meanwhile, with poor Rizzio's last cry of "justice!" still ringingin her ears, Mary sat alone in her chamber, studying revenge as shehad promised. So that life be spared her, justice, she vowed, shouldbe done--punishment not only for that barbarous deed, but for the verymanner of the doing of it, for all the insult to which she had beensubjected, for the monstrous violence done her feelings and her veryperson, for the present detention and peril of which she was fullconscious. 

Her anger was the more intense because she never permitted it to diffuseitself over the several offenders. Ruthven, who had insulted her sogrossly; Douglas, who had offered her personal violence; the Lairdof Faudonside, Morton, and all the others who held her now a helplessprisoner, she hew for no more than the instruments of Darnley. It wasagainst Darnley that all her rage was concentrated. She recalled inthose bitter hours all that she had suffered at his vile hands, andswore that at whatever cost to herself he should yield a full atonement. 

He sought her in the morning emboldened by the sovereign power hewas usurping confident that now that he showed himself master of thesituation she would not repine over what was done beyond recall, butwould submit to the inevitable, be reconciled with him, and grant him, perforce--supported as he now was by the rebellious lords--the crownmatrimonial and the full kingly power he coveted. 

But her reception of him broke that confidence into shards. 

"You have done me such a Wrong, " she told him in a voice of cold hatred, "that neither the recollection of our early friendship, nor all the hopeyou can give me of the future, could ever make me forget it. Jamais!Jamais je n'oublierai!" she added, and upon that she dismissed him soimperiously that he went at once. 

She sought a way to deal with him, groped blindly for it, being as yetbut half informed of what was taking place; and whilst she groped, thething she sought was suddenly thrust into her land. Mary Beaton, one ofthe few attendants left her, brought her word later that day that theEarl of Murray, with Rothes and some other of the exiled lords, wasin the palace. The news brought revelation. It flooded with lightthe tragic happening of the night before, showed her how Darnley wasbuilding himself a party in the state. It did more than that. Sherecalled the erstwhile mutual hatred and mistrust of Murray and Darnley, and saw how it might serve her in this emergency. 

Instantly she summoned Murray to her presence with the message thatshe welcomed his return. Yet, despite that message, he hardlyexpected--considering what lay between them--the reception that awaitedhim at her hands. 

She rose to receive him, her lovely eyes suffused with tears. Sheembraced him, kissed him, and then, nestling to him, as if for comfort, her cheek against his bearded face, she allowed her tears to flowunchecked. 

"I am punished, " she sobbed--"oh, I am punished! Had I kept you at home, Murray, you would never have suffered men to entreat me as I have beenentreated. "

Holding her to hint, he could but pat her shoulder, soothing her, utterly taken aback, and deeply moved, too, by this display of anaffection for him that he had never hitherto suspected in her. 

"Ah, mon Dieu, Jamie, how welcome you are to one in my sorrow!" shecontinued. "It is the fault of others that you have been so long out ofthe country. I but require of you that you be a good subject to me, andyou shall never find me other to you than you deserve. "

And he, shaken to the depths of his selfish soul by her tears, herclinging caresses, and her protestations of affection, answered withan oath and a sob that no better or more loyal and devoted subject thanhimself could all Scotland yield her. 

"And, as for this killing of Davie, " he ended vehemently, "I swear by mysoul's salvation that I have had no part in it, nor any knowledge of ituntil my return!"

"I know--I know!" she moaned. "Should I make you welcome, else? Be myfriend, Jamie; be my friend!"

He swore it readily, for he was very greedy of power, and saw the doorof his return to it opening wider than he could have hoped. Then hespoke of Darnley, begging her to receive him, and hear what he mighthave to say, protesting that the King swore that he had not desired themurder, and that the lords had carried the matter out of his hands andmuch beyond all that he had intended. 

Because it suited her deep purpose, Mary consented, feigning to bepersuaded. She had realized that before she could deal with Darnley, andthe rebel lords who held her a prisoner, she must first win free fromHolyrood. 

Darnley came. He was sullen now, mindful of his recent treatment, and infear--notwithstanding Murray's reassurance--of further similar rebuffs. She announced herself ready to hear what he might have to say, and shelistened attentively while he spoke, her elbow on the carved arm of herchair, her chin in her hand. When he had done, she sat long in thought, gazing out through the window at the grey March sky. At length sheturned and looked at him. 

"Do you pretend, my lord, to regret for what has passed?" she challengedhim. 

"You tempt me to hypocrisy, " he said. "Yet I will be frank as at anEaster shrift. Since that fellow Davie fell into credit and familiaritywith Your Majesty, you no longer treated me nor entertained me afteryour wonted fashion, nor would you ever bear me company save this Daviewere the third. Can I pretend, then, to regret that one who deprivedme of what I prized most highly upon earth should have been removed? Icannot. Yet I can and do proclaim my innocence of any part or share inthe deed that has removed him. "

She lowered her eyes an instant, then raised them again to meet his own. 

"You had commerce with these traitor lords, " she reminded him. "It isby your decree that they are returned from exile. What was your aim inthis?"

"To win back the things of which this fellow Davie had robbed me, ashare in the ruling and the crown matrimonial that was my right, yetwhich you denied me. That and no more. I had not intended that Davieshould be slain. I had not measured the depth of their hatred of thatupstart knave. You see that I am frank with you. "

"Aye, and I believe you, " she lied slowly, considering him as she spoke. And he drew a breath of relief, suspecting nothing of her deep guile. "And do you know why I believe you? Because you are a fool. "

"Madame!" he cried. 

She rose, magnificently contemptuous. 

"Must I prove it? You say that the crown matrimonial which I deniedyou is to be conferred on you by these lawless men? Believing that, yousigned their pardon and recall from exile. Ha! You do not see, my lord, that you are no more than their tool, their cat's-paw. You do not seethat they use you but for their ends, and that when they have done withyou, they will serve you as they served poor Davie? No, you see none ofthat, which is why I call you a fool, that need a woman's wit to openwide your eyes. "

She was so vehement that she forced upon his dull wits some ofthe convictions she pretended were her own. Yet, resisting thoseconvictions, he cried out that she was at fault. 

"At fault?" She laughed. "Let my memory inform your judgment. When theselords, with Murray at their head, protested against our marriage, inwhat terms did they frame their protest? They complained that I had setover them without consulting them one who had no title to it, whetherby lineal descent of blood, by nature, or by consent of the Estates. Consider that! They added, remember--I repeat to you the very wordsthey wrote and published--that while they deemed it their duty to endureunder me, they deemed it intolerable to suffer under you. "

She was flushed, and her eyes gleamed with excitement. She clutchedhis sleeve, and brought her face close to his own, looked deep andcompellingly into his eyes as she continued:

"Such was their proclamation, and they took arms against me to enforceit, to pull you down from the place to which I had raised you out of thedust. Yet you can forget it, and in your purblind folly turn to thesevery men to right the wrongs you fancy I have done you. Do you thinkthat men, holding you in such esteem as that, can keep any sort of faithwith you? Do you think these are the men who are likely to fortifyand maintain your title to the crown? Ask yourself, and answer foryourself. "

He was white to the lips. As much by her vehement pretence of sincerityas by the apparently irrefragable logic of her arguments, she forcedconviction upon him. This brought a loathly fear in its train, and thegates of his heart stood ever wide to fear. He stepped aside to a chair, and sank into it, looking at her with dilating eyes--a fool confrontedwith the likely fruits of his folly. 

"Then--then--why did they proffer me their help? How can they achievetheir ends this way?"

"How? Do you still ask? Do you not see what a blind tool you have beenin their crafty hands? In name at least you are king, and your signatureis binding upon my subjects. Have you not brought them back from exileby one royal decree, whilst by another you have dispersed the Parliamentthat was assembled to attaint them of treason?"

She stepped close up to him, and bending over him as he sat there, crushed by realization, she lowered her voice. 

"Pray God, my lord, that all their purpose with you is not yet complete, else in their hands I do not think your life is to be valued at anapple-paring. You go the ways poor Davie went. "

He sank his handsome head to his hands, and covered his face. A whilehe sat huddled there, she watching him with gleaming, crafty eyes. Atlength he rallied. He looked up, tossing back the auburn hair from hiswhite brow, still fighting, though weakly, against persuasion. "It isnot possible, " he, cried. "They could not! They could not!"

She laughed, betwixt bitterness and sadness. 

"Trust to that, " she bade him. "Yet look well at matters as they arealready. I am a prisoner here in these men's hands. They will not letme go until their full purpose is accomplished--perhaps, " she addedwistfully, "perhaps not even then. "

"Ah, not that!" he cried out. 

"Even that, " she answered firmly. "But, " and again she grew vehement, "is it less so with you? Are you less a prisoner than I? D'ye think youwill be suffered to come and go at will?" She saw the increase of fearin him, and then she struck boldly, setting all upon the gamble of aguess. "I am kept here until I shall have been brought to such a statethat I will add my signature to your own and so pardon one and all forwhat is done. "

His sudden start, the sudden quickening of his glance told her howshrewdly she had struck home. Fearlessly, then, sure of herself, shecontinued. "To that end they use you. When you shall have served it youwill but cumber them. When they shall have used you to procure theirsecurity from me, then they will deal with you as they have ever soughtto deal with you--so that you trouble them no more. Ali, at last youunderstand!"

He came to his feet, his brow gleaming with sweat, his slender handsnervously interlocked. 

"Oh, God!" he cried in a stifled voice. 

"Aye, you are in a trap, my lord. Yourself you've sprung it. "

And now you behold him broken by the terror she had so cunningly evoked. He flung himself upon his knees before her, and with upturned face andhands that caught and clawed at her own, he implored her pardon forthe wrong that in his folly he had done her in taking sides with herenemies. 

She dissembled under a mask of gentleness the loathing that hiscowardice aroused in her. 

"My enemies?" she echoed wistfully. "Say rather your own enemies. Itwas their enmity to you that drove them into exile. In your rashness youhave recalled them, whilst at the same time you have so bound my handsthat I cannot now help you if I would. "

"You can, Mary, " he cried, "or else no one can. Withhold the pardon theywill presently be seeking of you. Refuse to sign any remission of theirdeed. "

"And leave them to force you to sign it, and so destroy us both, " sheanswered. 

He ranted then, invoking the saints of heaven, and imploring her intheir name--she who was so wise and strong--to discover some way out ofthis tangle in which his madness had enmeshed them. 

"What way is there short of flight?" she asked him. "And how are we tofly who are imprisoned here you as well as myself? Alas, Darnley, I fearour lives will end by paying the price of your folly. "

Thus she played upon his terrors, so that he would not be dismisseduntil she had promised that she would consider and seek some means ofsaving him, enjoining him meanwhile to keep strict watch upon himselfand see that he betrayed nothing of his thoughts. 

She left him to the chastening of a sleepless night, then sent for himbetimes on Monday morning, and bade him repair to the lords and tellthem that realizing herself a prisoner in their hands she was disposedto make terms with them. She would grant them pardon for what was doneif on their side they undertook to be loyal henceforth and allowed herto resume her liberty. 

The message startled him. But the smile with which she followed it wasreassuring. 

"There is something else you are to do, " she said, "if we are to turnthe tables on these traitorous gentlemen. Listen. " And she added matterthat begat fresh hope in Darnley's despairing soul. 

He kissed her hands, lowly now and obedient as a hound that had beenwhipped to heel, and went below to bear her message to the lords. 

Morton and Ruthven heard him out, but betrayed no eagerness to seize theopportunity. 

"All this is but words that we hear, " growled Ruthven, who lay stretchedupon a couch, grimly suffering from the disease that was, slowly eatingup his life. 

"She is guileful as the serpent, " Morton added, "being bred up in theCourt of France. She will make you follow her will and desire, but shewill not so lead us. We hold her fast, and we do not let her go withoutsome good security of what shall follow. "

"What security will satisfy you?" quoth Darnley. 

Murray and Lindsay came in as he was speaking, and Morton told them ofthe message that Darnley had brought. Murray moved heavily across to awindow-seat, and sat down. He cleared a windowpane with his hand, andlooked out upon the wintry landscape as if the matter had no interestfor him. But Lindsay echoed what the other twain had said already. 

"We want a deal more than promises that need not be kept, " he said. 

Darnley looked from one to the other of them, seeing in theiruncompromising attitude a confirmation of what the Queen had told him, and noting, too--as at another time he might not have noted--their utterlack of deference to himself, their King. 

"Sirs, " he said, "I vow you wrong Her Majesty. I will stake my life uponher honour. "

"Why, so you may, " sneered Ruthven, "but you'll not stake ours. "

"Take what security you please, and I will subscribe it. "

"Aye, but will the Queen?" wondered Morton. 

"She will. I have her word for it. "

It took them the whole of that day to consider the terms of the articlesthat would satisfy them. Towards evening the document was ready, and Morton and Ruthven representing all, accompanied by Murray, andintroduced by Darnley, came to the chamber to which Her Majesty wasconfined by the guard they had set upon her. 

She sat as if in state awaiting them, very lovely and very tearful, knowing that woman's greatest strength is in her weakness, that tearswould serve her best by presenting her as if broken to their will. 

In outward submission they knelt before her to make the pretence ofsuing for the pardon which they extorted by force of arms and duress. When each in his turn had made the brief pleading oration he hadprepared, she dried her eyes and controlled herself by obvious effort. 

"My lords, " she said, in a voice that quivered and broke on every otherword, "when have ye ever found me blood-thirsty, or greedy of your landsor goods that you must use me so, and take such means with me? Ye haveset my authority at naught, and wrought sedition in this realm. Yet Iforgive you all, that by this clemency I may move you to a better loveand loyalty. I desire that all that is passed may be buried in oblivion, so that you swear to me that in the future you will stand my friends andserve me faithfully, who am but a weak woman, and sorely need stout mento be my friends. "

For a moment her utterance was checked by sobs. Then she controlledherself again by an effort so piteous to behold that even theflinty-hearted Ruthven was moved to some compassion. 

"Forgive this weakness in me, who am very weak, for very soon I am to bebrought to bed as you well know, and I am in no case to offer resistanceto any. I have no more to say, my lords. Since you promise on your sidethat you will put all disloyalty behind you, I pledge myself to remitand pardon all those that were banished for their share in the laterising, and likewise to pardon those that were concerned in the killingof Seigneur Davie. All this shall be as if it had never been. I prayyou, my lords, make your own security in what sort you best please, andI will subscribe it. "

Morton proffered her the document they had prepared. She conned itslowly, what time they watched her, pausing ever and anon to brush asidethe tears that blurred her vision. At last she nodded her lovely goldenhead. 

"It is very well, " she said. "All is here as I would have it be betweenus. " And she turned to Darnley. "Give me pen and ink, my lord. "

Darnley dipped a quill and handed it to her. She set the parchmenton the little pulpit at her side. Then, as she bent to sign, the penfluttered from her fingers, and with a deep, shuddering sigh she sankback in her chair, her eyes closed, her face piteously white. 

"The Queen is faint!" cried Murray, springing forward. 

But she rallied instantly, smiling upon them wanly. 

"It is naught; it is past, " she said. But even as she spoke she put ahand to her brow. "I am something dizzy. My condition--" She faltered ona trembling note of appeal that increased their compassion, and arousedin them a shame of their own harshness. "Leave this security with me. Iwill subscribe it in the morning--indeed, as soon as I am sufficientlyrecovered. "

They rose from their knees at her bidding, and Morton in the name of allprofessed himself full satisfied, and deplored the affliction they hadcaused her, for which in the future they should make her their amends. 

"I thank you, " she answered simply. "You have leave to go. "

They departed well satisfied; and, counting the matter at an end, theyquitted the palace and rode to their various lodgings in Edinburgh town, Murray going with Morton. 

Anon to Maitland of Lethington, who had remained behind, came one ofthe Queen's women to summon him to her presence. He found her disposingherself for bed, and was received by her with tearful upbraidings. 

"Sir, " she said, "one of the conditions upon which I consented to thewill of their lordships was that an immediate term should be set to theinsulting state of imprisonment in which I am kept here. Yet men-at-armsstill guard the very door of my chamber, and my very attendants arehindered in their comings and goings. Do you call this keeping faithwith me? Have I not granted all the requests of the lords?"

Lethington, perceiving the justice of what she urged, withdrew shamedand confused at once to remedy the matter by removing the guards fromthe passage and the stairs and elsewhere, leaving none but those whopaced outside the palace. 

It was a rashness he was bitterly to repent him on the morrow, whenit was discovered that in the night Mary had not only escaped, but hadtaken Darnley with her. Accompanied by him and a few attendants, she hadexecuted the plan in which earlier that day she had secured her scaredhusband's cooperation. At midnight they had made their way along the nowunguarded corridors, and descended to the vaults of the palace, whence asecret passage communicated with the chapel. Through this and across thegraveyard where lay the newly buried body of the Siegneur Davie--almostacross the very grave itself which stood near the chapel door they hadwon to the horses waiting by Darnley's orders in the open. And they hadridden so hard that by five o'clock of that Tuesday morning they were inDunbar. 

In vain did the alarmed lords send a message after her to demand hersignature of the security upon which she had duped them into countingprematurely. 

Within a week they were in full flight before the army at the head ofwhich the prisoner who had slipped through their hands was returningto destroy them. Too late did they perceive the arts by which she hadfooled them, and seduced the shallow Darnley to betray them. 

II. THE NIGHT OF KIRK O' FIELD--The Murder of Darnley

Perhaps one of the greatest mistakes of a lifetime in which mistakeswere plentiful was the hesitancy of the Queen of Scots in executing uponher husband Darnley the prompt vengeance she had sworn for the murder ofDavid Rizzio. 

When Rizzio was slain, and she herself held captive by the murderers inher Palace of Holyrood, whilst Darnley ruled as king, she had simulatedbelief in her husband's innocence that she might use him for hervengeful ends. 

She had played so craftily upon his cowardly nature as to convincehim that Morton, Ruthven, and the other traitor lords with whom he hadleagued himself were at heart his own implacable enemies; that theypretended friendship for him to make a tool of him, and that when he hadserved their turn they would destroy him. 

In his consequent terror he had betrayed his associates, assisting herto trick them by a promise to sign an act of oblivion for what wasdone. Trusting to this the lords had relaxed their vigilance, whereupon, accompanied by Darnley, she had escaped by night from Holyrood. 

Hope tempering at first the rage and chagrin in the hearts of the lordsshe had duped, they had sent a messenger to her at Dunbar to requestof her the fulfilment of her promise to sign the document of theirsecurity. 

But Mary put off the messenger, and whilst the army she had summonedwas hastily assembling, she used her craft to divide the rebels againstthemselves. 

To her natural brother, the Earl of Murray, to Argyll, and to all thosewho had been exiled for their rebellion at the time of her marriage--andwho knew not where they stood in the present turn of events, sinceone of the objects of the murder had been to procure theirreinstatement--she sent an offer of complete pardon, on condition thatthey should at once dissociate themselves from those concerned in thedeath of the Seigneur Davie. 

These terms they accepted thankfully, as well they might. Thereupon, finding themselves abandoned by all men--even by Darnley in whoseservice they had engaged in the murder--Morton, Ruthven, and theirassociates scattered and fled. 

By the end of that month of March, Morton, Ruthven, Lindsay of theByres, George Douglas, and some sixty others were denounced as rebelswith forfeiture of life and goods, while one Thomas Scott, who had beenin command of the guards that had kept Her Majesty prisoner at Holyrood, was hanged, drawn, and quartered at the Market Cross. 

News of this reached the fugitives to increase their desperate rage. But what drove the iron into the soul of the arch-murderer Ruthvenwas Darnley's solemn public declaration denying all knowledge of orcomplicity in Rizzio's assassination; nor did it soothe his fury to knowthat all Scotland rang with contemptuous laughter at that impudent andcowardly perjury. From his sick-bed at Newcastle, whereon some six weekslater he was to breathe his last, the forsaken wretch replied to it bysending the Queen the bond to which he had demanded Darnley's signaturebefore embarking upon the business. 

It was a damning document. There above the plain signature and seal ofthe King was the admission, not merely of complicity, but that the thingwas done by his express will and command, that the responsibilitywas his own, and that he would hold the doers scatheless from allconsequences. 

Mary could scarcely have hoped to be able to confront her worthlesshusband with so complete a proof of his duplicity and baseness. She sentfor him, confounded him with the sight of that appalling bond, made anend to the amity which for her own ends she had pretended, and drove himout of her presence with a fury before which he dared not linger. 

You see him, then, crushed under his load of mortification, realizing atlast how he had been duped on every hand, first by the lords for theirown purpose, and then by the Queen for hers. Her contempt of him was nowso manifest that it spread to all who served him--for she made it plainthat who showed him friendship earned her deep displeasure--so thathe was forced to withdraw from a Court where his life was becomeimpossible. For a while he wandered up and down a land where every doorwas shut in his face, where every man of whatsoever party, traitor ortrue, despised him alike. In the end, he took himself off to his father, Lennox, and at Glasgow he sought what amusement he could with his dogsand his hawks, and such odd vulgar rustic love-affairs as came his way. 

It was in allowing him thus to go his ways, in leaving hervengeance--indeed, her justice--but half accomplished, that lay thegreatest of the Queen's mistakes. Better for her had she taken withDarnley the direct way that was her right. Better for her, if actingstrongly then, she had banished or hanged him for his part in thetreason that had inspired the murder of Rizzio. Unfortunately, a factorthat served to quicken her abhorrence of him served also to set a curbof caution upon the satisfaction of it. 

This factor that came so inopportunely into her life was her regard forthe arrogant, unscrupulous Earl of Bothwell. Her hand was stayed by fearthat men should say that for Bothwell's sake she had rid herself of ahusband become troublesome. That Bothwell had been her friend in thehour when she had needed friends, and knew not whom she might trust;that by his masterfulness he seemed a man upon whom a woman might leanwith confidence, may account for the beginnings of the extraordinaryinfluence he came so swiftly to exercise over her, and the passion heawakened in her to such a degree that she was unable to dissemble it. 

Her regard for him, the more flagrant by contrast with her contempt forDarnley, is betrayed in the will she made before her confinement inthe following June. Whilst to Darnley she bequeathed nothing but thered-enamelled diamond ring with which he had married her--"It was withthis that I was married, " she wrote almost contemptuously. "I leave itto the King who gave it me"--she appointed Bothwell to the tutelage ofher child in the event of her not surviving it, and to the government ofthe realm. 

The King came to visit her during her convalescence, and was scowledupon by Murray and Argyll, who were at Holyrood, and most of allby Bothwell, whose arrogance by now was such that he was become thebest-hated man in Scotland. The Queen received him very coldly, whilstusing Bothwell more than cordially in his very presence, so that hedeparted again in a deeper humiliation than before. 

Then before the end of July there was her sudden visit to Bothwellat Alloa, which gave rise to so much scandal. Hearing of it, Darnleyfollowed in a vain attempt to assert his rights as king and husband, only to be flouted and dismissed with the conviction that his life wasno longer safe in Scotland, and that he had best cross the Border. Yet, to his undoing, detained perhaps by the overweening pride thatis usually part of a fool's equipment, he did not act upon that wiseresolve. He returned instead to his hawking and his hunting, and wasseldom seen at Court thereafter. 

Even when in the following October, Mary lay at the point of death atJedburgh, Darnley came but to stay a day, and left her again without anyassurance that she would recover. But then the facts of her illness, andhow it had been contracted, were not such as to encourage kindness inhim, even had he been inclined to kindness. 

Bothwell had taken three wounds in a Border affray some weeks before, and Mary, hearing of this and that he lay in grievous case at Hermitage, had ridden thither in her fond solicitude--a distance of thirtymiles--and back again in the same day, thus contracting a chill whichhad brought her to the very gates of death. 

Darnley had not only heard of this, but he had found Bothwell atJedburgh, whither he had been borne in a litter, when in his turn he hadheard of how it was with Mary; and Bothwell had treated him with morethan the contempt which all men now showed him, but which from nonecould wound him so deeply as from this man whom rumour accounted Mary'slover. 

Matters between husband and wife were thus come to a pass in which theycould not continue, as all men saw, and as she herself confessed atCraigrnillar, whither she repaired, still weak in body, towards the endof November. 

Over a great fire that blazed in a vast chamber of the castle she satsick at heart and shivering, for all that her wasted body was swathed ina long cloak of deepest purple reversed with ermine. Her face was thinand of a transparent pallor, her eyes great pools of wistfulness amidthe shadows which her illness had set about them. 

"I do wish I could be dead!" she sighed. 

Bothwell's eyes narrowed. He was leaning on the back of her tall chair, a long, virile figure with a hawk-nosed, bearded face that was sternlyhandsome. He thrust back the crisp dark hair that clustered about hisbrow, and fetched a sigh. 

"It was never my own death I wished when a man stood in my road to aughtI craved, " he said, lowering his voice, for Maitland of Lethington--nowrestored to his secretaryship--was writing at a table across the room, and my Lord of Argyll was leaning over him. 

She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes startled. 

"What devil's counsel do you whisper?" she asked him. And when he wouldhave answered, she raised a hand. "No, " she said. "Not that way. "

"There is another, " said Bothwell coolly. He moved, came round, andstood squarely upon the hearth, his back to the fire, confronting her, nor did he further trouble to lower his voice. "We have considered italready. "

"What have you considered?"

Her voice was strained; fear and excitement blended in her face. 

"How the shackles that fetter you might be broken. Be not alarmed. It was the virtuous Murray himself propounded it to Argyll andLethington--for the good of Scotland and yourself. " A sneer flittedacross his tanned face. "Let them speak for themselves. " He raised hisvoice and called to them across the room. 

They came at once, and the four made an odd group as they stood there inthe firelit gloom of that November day--the lovely young Queen, so frailand wistful in her high-backed chair; the stalwart, arrogant Bothwell, magnificent in a doublet of peach-coloured velvet that tapered to agolden girdle; Argyll, portly and sober in a rich suit of black; andMaitland of Lethington, lean and crafty of face, in a long furred gownthat flapped about his bony shanks. 

It was to Lethington that Bothwell addressed himself. 

"Her Grace is in a mood to hear how the Gordian knot of her marriagemight be unravelled, " said he, grimly ironic. 

Lethington raised his eyebrows, licked his thin lips, and rubbed hisbony hands one in the other. 

"Unravelled?" he echoed with wondering stress. "Unravelled? Ha!" Hisdark eyes flashed round at them. "Better adopt Alexander's plan, and cutit. 'Twill be more complete, and--and final. "

"No, no!" she cried. "I will not have you shed his blood. "

"He himself was none so tender where another was concerned, " Bothwellreminded her--as if the memory of Rizzio were dear to him. 

"What he may have done does not weigh upon my conscience, " was heranswer. 

"He might, " put in Argyll, "be convicted of treason for having consentedto Your Grace's retention in ward at Holyrood after Rizzio's murder. "

She considered an instant, then shook her head. 

"It is too late. It should have been done long since. Now men will saythat it is but a pretext to be rid of him. " She looked up at Bothwell, who remained standing immediately before her, between her and the fire. "You said that my Lord of Murray had discussed this matter. Was it insuch terms as these?"

Bothwell laughed silently at the thought of the sly Murray renderinghimself a party to anything so direct and desperate. It was Lethingtonwho answered her. 

"My Lord Murray was for a divorce. That would set Your Grace free, and it might be obtained, he said, by tearing up the Pope's bull ofdispensation that permitted the marriage. Yet, madame, although LordMurray would himself go no further, I have no cause to doubt that wereother means concerted, he would be content to look through his fingers. "

Her mind, however, did not seem to follow his speech beyond the matterof the divorce. A faint flush of eagerness stirred in her pale cheeks. 

"Ah, yes!" she cried. "I, too, have thought of that--of this divorce. And God knows I do not want for grounds. And it could be obtained, yousay, by tearing up this papal bull?"

"The marriage could be proclaimed void thereafter, " Argyll explained. 

She looked past Bothwell into the fire, and took her chin in her hand. 

"Yes, " she said slowly, musingly, and again, "yes. That were a way. Thatis the way. " And then suddenly she looked up, and they saw doubt anddread in her eyes. "But in that case--what of my son?"

"Aye!" said Lethington grimly. He shrugged his narrow shoulders, partedhis hands, and brought them together again. "That's the obstacle, as weperceived. It would imperil his succession. "

"It would make a bastard of him, you mean?" she cried, demanding thefull expansion of their thoughts. 

"Indeed it would do no less, " the secretary assented. 

"So that, " said Bothwell, softly, "we come back to Alexander's method. What the fingers may not unravel, the knife can sever. "

She shivered, and drew her furred cloak the more closely about her. 

Lethington leaned forward. He spoke in kindly, soothing accents. 

"Let us guide this matter among us, madame, " he murmured, "and we'llfind means to rid Your Grace of this young fool, without hurt to yourhonour or prejudice to your son. And the Earl of Murray will look theother way, provided you pardon Morton and his friends for the killingthey did in Darnley's service. "

She looked from one to the other of them, scanning each face in turn. Then her eyes returned to a contemplation of the flaming logs, and shespoke very softly. 

"Do nothing by which a spot might be laid on my honour or conscience, "she said, with an odd deliberateness that seemed to insist upon thestrictly literal meaning of her words. "Rather I pray you let the matterrest until God remedy it. "

Lethington looked at the other two, the other two looked at him. Herubbed his hands softly. 

"Trust to us, madame, " he answered. "We will so guide the matterthat Your Grace shall see nothing but what is good and approved byParliament. "

She committed herself to no reply, and so they were content to taketheir answer from her silence. They went in quest of Huntly andSir James Balfour, and the five of them entered into a bond for thedestruction of him whom they named "the young fool and proud tiranne, "to be engaged in when Mary should have pardoned Morton and hisfellow-conspirators. 

It was not until Christmas Eve that she signed this pardon of someseventy fugitives, proscribed for their participation in the Rizziomurder, towards whom she had hitherto shown herself so implacable. 

The world saw in this no more than a deed of clemency and charitybefitting the solemn festival of good-will. But the five who had enteredinto that bond at Craigmillar Castle beheld in it more accurately thefulfilment of her part of the suggested bargain, the price she paid inadvance to be rid of Darnley, the sign of her full agreement that theknot which might not be unravelled should be cut. 

On that same day Her Grace went with Bothwell to Lord Drummond's, wherethey abode for the best part of a week, and thence they went ontogether to Tullibardine, the rash and open intimacy between them givingnourishment to scandal. 

At the same time Darnley quitted Stirling, where he had lately beenliving in miserable conditions, ignored by the nobles, and even stintedin his necessary expenses, deprived of his ordinary servants, and hissilver replaced by pewter. The miserable youth reached Glasgow deadlysick. He had been taken ill on the way, and the inevitable rumour wasspread that he had been poisoned. Later, when it became known that hisonce lovely countenance was now blotched and disfigured, it was realizedthat his illness was no more than the inevitable result of the debauchedlife he led. 

Conceiving himself on the point of death, Darnley wrote piteously to theQueen; but she ignored his letters until she learnt that his conditionwas improving, when at last (on January 29th) she went to visit him atGlasgow. It may well be that she nourished some hope that nature wouldresolve the matter for her, and remove the need for such desperatemeasures as had been concerted. But seeing him likely to recover, twothings became necessary, to bring him to the place that was suitable forthe fulfilment of her designs, and to simulate reconciliation with him, and even renewed and tender affection, so that none might hereaftercharge her with complicity in what should follow. 

I hope that in this I do her memory no injustice. It is thus that I readthe sequel, nor can I read it in any other way. 

She found him abed, with a piece of taffeta over his face to hide itsdisfigurement, and she was so moved--as it seemed--by his condition, that she fell on her knees beside him, and wept in the presence of herattendants and his own; confessing penitence if anything she had donein the past could have contributed to their estrangement. Thusreconciliation followed, and she used him tenderly, grew solicitousconcerning him, and vowed that as soon as he could be moved, he must betaken to surroundings more salubrious and more befitting the dignity ofhis station. 

Gladly then he agreed to return with her to Holyrood. 

"Not to Holyrood, " she said. "At least, not until your health is mended, lest you should carry thither infection dangerous to your little son. "

"Whither then?" he asked her, and when she mentioned Craigmillar, hestarted up in bed, so that the taffeta slipped from his face, and it waswith difficulty that she dissembled the loathing with which the sight ofits pustules inspired her. 

"Craigmillar!" he cried. "Then what I was told is true. "

"What were you told?" quoth she, staring at him, brows knit, her faceblank. 

A rumour had filtered through to him of the Craigmillar bond. He hadbeen told that a letter drawn up there had been presented to her for hersignature, which she had refused. Thus much he told her, adding that hecould not believe that she would do him any hurt; and yet why did shedesire to bear him to Craigmillar?

"You have been told lies, " she answered him. "I saw no such letter; Isubscribed none, nor was ever asked to subscribe any, " which indeed wasliterally true. "To this I swear. As for your going to Craigmillar, youshall go whithersoever you please, yourself. "

He sank back on his pillows, and his trembling subsided. 

"I believe thee, Mary. I believe thou'ld never do me any harm, " herepeated, "and if any other would, " he added on a bombastic note, "theyshall buy it dear, unless they take me sleeping. But I'll never toCraigmillar. "

"I have said you shall go where you please, " she assured him again. 

He considered. 

"There is the house at Kirk o' Field. It has a fine garden, and is in aposition that is deemed the healthiest about Edinburgh. I need good air;good air and baths have been prescribed me to cleanse me of this plague. Kirk o' Field will serve, if it be your pleasure. "

She gave a ready consent, dispatched messengers ahead to prepare thehouse, and to take from Holyrood certain furnishings that should improvethe interior, and render it as fitting as possible a dwelling for aking. 

Some days later they set out, his misgivings quieted by the tendernesswhich she now showed him--particularly when witnesses were at hand. 

It was a tenderness that grew steadily during those twelve days in whichhe lay in convalescence in the house at Kirk o' Field; she was playfuland coquettish with him as a maid with her lover, so that nothing wastalked of but the completeness of this reconciliation, and the hope thatit would lead to a peace within the realm that would be a benefit toall. Yet many there were who marvelled at it, wondering whether thewaywardness and caprice of woman could account for so sudden a changefrom hatred to affection. 

Darnley was lodged on the upper floor, in a room comfortably furnishedfrom the palace. It was hung with six pieces of tapestry, and the floorwas partly covered by an Eastern carpet. It contained, besides thehandsome bed--which once had belonged to the Queen's mother--a couple ofhigh chairs in purple velvet, a little table with a green velvet cover, and some cushions in red. By the side of the bed stood the speciallyprepared bath that was part of the cure which Darnley was undergoing. Ithad for its incongruous lid a door that had been lifted from its hinges. 

Immediately underneath was a room that had been prepared for the Queen, with a little bed of yellow and green damask, and a furred coverlet. Thewindows looked out upon the close, and the door opened upon the passageleading to the garden. 

Here the Queen slept on several of those nights of early February, forindeed she was more often at Kirk o' Field than at Holy-rood, and whenshe was not bearing Darnley company in his chamber, and beguiling thetedium of his illness, she was to be seen walking in the garden withLady Reres, and from his bed he could hear her sometimes singing as shesauntered there. 

Never since the ephemeral season of their courtship had she been on suchfond terms with him, and all his fears of hostile designs entertainedagainst him by her immediate followers were stilled at last. Yet notfor long. Into his fool's paradise came Lord Robert of Holyrood, with awarning that flung him into a sweat of panic. 

The conspirators had hired a few trusted assistants to help them carryout their plans, and a rumour had got abroad--in the unaccountable wayof rumours--that there was danger to the King. It was of this rumourthat Lord Robert brought him word, telling him bluntly that unless heescaped quickly from this place, he would leave his life there. Yet whenDarnley had repeated this to the Queen, and the Queen indignantly hadsent for Lord Robert and demanded to know his meaning, his lordshipdenied that he had uttered any such warning, protested that his wordsmust have been misunderstood--that they referred solely to the King'scondition, which demanded, he thought, different treatment and healthierair. 

Knowing not what to believe, Darnley's uneasiness abode with him. Yet, trusting Mary, and feeling secure so long as she was by his side, hebecame more and more insistent upon her presence, more and more fretfulin her absence. It was to quiet him that she consented to sleep as oftenas might be at Kirk o' Field. She slept there on the Wednesday of thatweek, and again on Friday, and she was to have done so yet again on thatfateful Sunday, February 9th, but that her servant Sebastien--onewho had accompanied her from France, and for whom she had a deepaffection--was that day married, and Her Majesty had promised to bepresent at the masque that night at Holyrood, in honour of his nuptials. 

Nevertheless, she did not utterly neglect her husband on that account. She rode to Kirk o' Field early in the evening, accompanied by Bothwell, Huntly, Argyll, and some others; and leaving the lords at cards belowto while away the time, she repaired to Darnley, and sat beside his bed, soothing a spirit oddly perturbed, as if with some premonition of whatwas brewing. 

"Ye'll not leave me the night, " he begged her once. 

"Alas, " she said, "I must! Sebastien is being wed, and I have promisedto be present. "

He sighed and shifted uneasily. 

"Soon I shall be well, and then these foolish humours will cease tohaunt me. But just now I cannot bear you from my sight. When you arewith me I am at peace. I know that all is well. But when you go I amfilled with fears, lying helpless here. "

"What should you fear?" she asked him. 

"The hate that I know is alive against me. "

"You are casting shadows to affright yourself, " said she. 

"What's that?" he cried, half raising himself in sudden alarm. "Listen!"

From the room below came faintly a sound of footsteps, accompanied by anoise as of something being trundled. 

"It will be my servants in my room--putting it to rights. "

"To what purpose since you do not sleep there tonight?" he asked. Heraised his voice and called his page. 

"Why, what will you do?" she asked him, steadying her own alarm. 

He answered her by bidding the youth who had entered go see what wasdoing in the room below. The lad departed, and had he done his errandfaithfully, he would have found Bothwell's followers, Hay andHepburn, and the Queen's man, Nicholas Hubert better known as FrenchParis--emptying a keg of gunpowder on the floor immediately under theKing's bed. But it happened that in the passage he came suddenly faceto face with the splendid figure of Bothwell, cloaked and hatted, andBothwell asked him whither he went. 

The boy told him. 

"It is nothing, " Bothwell said. "They are moving Her Grace's bed inaccordance with her wishes. "

And the lad, overborne by that commanding figure which so effectivelyblocked his path, chose the line of lesser resistance. He went back tobear the King that message as if for himself he had seen what my LordBothwell had but told him. 

Darnley was pacified by the assurance, and the lad withdrew. 

"Did I not tell you how it was?" quoth Mary. "Is not my word enough?"

"Forgive the doubt, " Darnley begged her. "Indeed, there was no doubt ofyou, who have shown me so much charity in my affliction. " He sighed, andlooked at her with melancholy eyes. 

"I would the past had been other than it has been between you and me, "he said. "I was too young for kingship, I think. In my green youth Ilistened to false counsellors, and was quick to jealousy and the folliesit begets. Then, when you cast me out and I wandered friendless, a deviltook possession of me. Yet, if you will but consent to bury all thepast into oblivion, I will make amends, and you shall find me worthierhereafter. "

She rose, white to the lips, her bosom heaving under her long cloak. She turned aside and stepped to the window. She stood there, peering outinto the gloom of the close, her knees trembling under her. 

"Why do you not answer me?" he cried. 

"What answer do you need?" she said, and her voice shook. "Are you notanswered already?" And then, breathlessly, she added: "It is time to go, I think. "

They heard a heavy step upon the stairs and the clank of a sword againstthe rails. The door opened, and Bothwell, wrapped in his scarlet cloak, stood bending his tall shoulders under the low lintel. His gleamingeyes, so oddly mocking in their glance, for all that his face was set, fell upon Darnley, and with their look flung him into an inward state ofblending fear and rage. 

"Your Grace, " said Bothwell's deep voice, "it is close upon midnight. "

He came no more than in time; it needed the sight of him with itsreminder of all that he meant to her to sustain a purpose that was beingsapped by pity. 

"Very well, " she said. "I come. "

Bothwell stood aside to give her egress and to invite it. But the Kingdelayed her. 

"A moment--a word!" he begged, and to Bothwell: "Give us leave apart, sir!"

Yet, King though he might be, there was no ready obedience from thearrogant Border lord, her lover. It was to Mary that Bothwell looked forcommands, nor stirred until she signed to him to go. And even then hewent no farther than the other side of the door, so that he might beclose at hand to fortify her should any weakness assail her now in thissupreme hour. 

Darnley struggled up in bed, caught her hand, and pulled her to him. 

"Do not leave me, Mary. Do not leave me!" he implored her. 

"Why, what is this?" she cried, but her voice lacked steadiness. "Wouldyou have me disappoint poor Sebastien, who loves me?"

"I see. Sebastien is more to you than I?"

"Now this is folly. Sebastien is my faithful servant. "

"And am I less? Do you not believe that my one aim henceforth will be toserve you and faithfully? Oh, forgive this weakness. I am full of evilforeboding to-night. Go, then, if go you must, but give me at least someassurance of your love, some pledge of it in earnest that you will comeagain to-morrow nor part from me again. "

She looked into the white, piteous young face that had once been solovely, and her soul faltered. It needed the knowledge that Bothwellwaited just beyond the door, that he could overhear what was being said, to strengthen her fearfully in her tragic purpose. 

She has been censured most for what next she did. Murray himself spokeof it afterwards as the worst part of the business. But it is possiblethat she was concerned only at the moment to put an end to a scene thatwas unnerving her, and that she took the readiest means to it. 

She drew a ring from her finger and slipped it on to one of his. 

"Be this the pledge, then, " she said; "and so content and restyourself. "

With that she broke from him, white and scared, and reached the door. Yet with her hand upon the latch she paused. Looking at him she saw thathe was smiling, and perhaps horror of her betrayal of him overwhelmedher. It must be that she then desired to warn him, yet with Bothwellwithin earshot she realized that any warning must precipitate thetragedy, with direst consequences to Bothwell and herself. 

To conquer her weakness, she thought of David Rizzio, whom Darnley hadmurdered almost at her feet, and whom this night was to avenge. Shethought of the Judas part that he had played in that affair, and soughtpersuasion that it was fitting he should now be paid in kind. Yet, very woman that she was, failing to find any such persuasion, she foundinstead in the very thought of Rizzio the very means to convey herwarning. 

Standing tense and white by the door, regarding him with dilating eyes, she spoke her last words to him. 

"It would be just about this time last year that Davie was slain, " shesaid, and on that passed out to the waiting Bothwell. 

Once on the stairs she paused and set a hand upon the shoulder of thestalwart Borderer. 

"Must it be? Oh, must it be?" she whispered fearfully. 

She caught the flash of his eyes in the half gloom as he leaned overher, his arm about her waist drawing her to him. 

"Is it not just? Is it not full merited?" he asked her. 

"And yet I would that we did not profit by it, " she complained. 

"Shall we pity him on that account?" he asked, and laughed softly andshortly. "Come away, " he added abruptly. "They wait for you!" And so, by the suasion of his arm and his imperious will, she was swept onwardalong the road of her destiny. 

Outside the horses were ready. There was a little group of gentlemen toescort her, and half a dozen servants with lighted torches, whilst LadyReres was in waiting. A man stood forward to assist her to mount, hisface and hands so blackened by gunpowder that for a moment she failed torecognize him. She laughed nervously when he named himself. 

"Lord, Paris, how begrimed you are!" she cried; and, mounting, rode awaytowards Holyrood with her torchbearers and attendants. 

In the room above, Darnley lay considering her last words. He turnedthem over in his thoughts, assured by the tone she had used and how shehad looked that they contained some message. 

"It would be just about this time last year that Davie was slain. "

In themselves, those words were not strictly accurate. It wanted yet amonth to the anniversary of Rizzio's death. And why, at parting, shouldshe have reminded him of that which she had agreed should be forgotten?Instantly came the answer that she sought to warn him that retributionwas impending. He thought again of the rumours that he had heard of abond signed at Craigmillar; he recalled Lord Robert's warning to him, afterwards denied. 

He recalled her words to himself at the time of Rizzio's death:"Consider well what I now say. Consider and remember. I shall never restuntil I give you as sore a heart as I have presently. " And further, he remembered her cry at once agonized and fiercely vengeful: "Jamais, jamais je n'oublierai. "

His terrors mounted swiftly, to be quieted again at last when helooked at the ring she had put upon his finger in pledge of her renewedaffection. The past was dead and buried, surely. Though danger mightthreaten, she would guard him against it, setting her love about himlike a panoply of steel. When she came to-morrow, he would question herclosely, and she should be more frank and open with him, and tell himall. Meanwhile, he would take his precautions for to-night. 

He sent his page to make fast all doors. The youth went and did as hewas bidden, with the exception of the door that led to the garden. Ithad no bolts, and the key was missing; yet, seeing his master's nervous, excited state, he forbore from any mention of that circumstance whenpresently he returned to him. 

Darnley requested a book of Psalms, that he might read himself to sleep. The page dozed in a chair, and so the hours passed; and at last the Kinghimself fell into a light slumber. Out of this he started suddenly ata little before two o'clock, and sat upright in bed, alarmed withoutknowing why, listening with straining ears and throbbing pulses. 

He caught a repetition of the sound that had aroused him, a sound akinto that which had drawn his attention earlier, when Mary had been withhim. It came up faintly from the room immediately beneath: her room. Some one was moving there, he thought. Then, as he continued to listen, all became quiet again, save his fears, which would not be quieted. He extinguished the light, slipped from the bed, and, crossing to thewindow, peered out into the close that was faintly illumined by amoon in its first quarter. A shadow moved, he thought. He watched withincreasing panic for confirmation, and presently saw that he had beenright. Not one, but several shadows were shifting there among thetrees. Shadows of men, they were, and as he peered, he saw one thatwent running from the house across the lawn and joined the others, nowclustered together in a group. What could be their purpose here? In thesilence, he seemed to hear again the echo of Mary's last words to him:

"It would be just about this time last year that Davie was slain. "

In terror, he groped his way to the chair where the page slept and shookthe lad vigorously. 

"Afoot, boy!" he said, in a hoarse whisper. He had meant to shout it, but his voice failed him, his windpipe clutched by panic. "Afoot--we arebeset by enemies!"

At once the youth was wide awake, and together the King just in hisshirt as he was--they made their way from the room in the dark, gropingtheir way, and so reached the windows at the back. Darnley opened one ofthese very softly, then sent the boy back for a sheet. Making thisfast, they descended by it to the garden, and started towards the wall, intending to climb it, that they might reach the open. 

The boy led the way, and the King followed, his teeth chattering as muchfrom the cold as from the terror that possessed him. And then, quitesuddenly, without the least warning, the ground, it seemed to them, heaved under their feet, and they were flung violently forward on theirfaces. A great blaze rent the darkness of the night, accompanied bythe thunders of an explosion so terrific that it seemed as if the wholeworld must have been shattered by it. 

For some instants the King and his page lay half stunned where they hadfallen, and well might it have been for them had they so continued. ButDarnley, recovering, staggered to his feet, pulling the boy up with himand supporting him. Then, as he began to move, he heard a soft whistlein the gloom behind him. Over his shoulder he looked towards the house, to behold a great, smoking gap now yawning in it. Through this gaphe caught a glimpse of shadowy men moving in the close beyond, and herealized that he had been seen. The white shirt he wore had betrayed hispresence to them. 

With a stifled scream, he began to run towards the wall, the pagestaggering after him. Behind them now came the clank and thud of a scoreof overtaking feet. Soon they were surrounded. The King turned this wayand that, desperately seeking a way out of the murderous human ring thatfenced them round. 

"What d'ye seek? What d'ye seek?" he screeched, in a pitiful attempt toquestion with authority. 

A tall man in a trailing cloak advanced and seized him. 

"We seek thee, fool!" said the voice of Bothwell. 

The kingliness that he had never known how to wear becomingly now fellfrom him utterly. 

"Mercy--mercy!" he cried. 

"Such mercy as you had on David Rizzio!" answered the Border lord. 

Darnley fell on his knees and sought to embrace the murderer's legs. Bothwell stooped over him, seized the wretched man's shirt, and pulledit from his shivering body; then, flinging the sleeves about the royalneck, slipped one over the other and drew them tight, nor relaxed hishold until the young man's struggles had entirely ceased. 

Four days later, Mary went to visit the body of her husband in thechapel of Holyrood House, whither it had been conveyed, and there, as acontemporary tells us, she looked upon it long, "not only without grief, but with greedy eyes. " Thereafter it was buried secretly in the night byRizzio's side, so that murderer and victim lay at peace together in theend. 

III. THE NIGHT OF BETRAYAL--Antonio Perez and Philip II of Spain

"You a Spaniard of Spain?" had been her taunt, dry and contemptuous. "Ido not believe it. "

And upon that she had put spur to the great black horse that bore herand had ridden off along the precipitous road by the river. 

After her he had flung his answer on a note of laughter, bitter andcynical as the laughter of the damned, laughter that expressed allthings but mirth. 

"Oh, a Spaniard of Spain, indeed, Madame la Marquise. Very much aSpaniard of Spain, I assure you. "

The great black horse and the woman in red flashed round a bend ofthe rocky road and were eclipsed by a clump of larches. The man leanedheavily upon his ebony cane, sighed wearily, and grew thoughtful. Then, with a laugh and a shrug, he sat down in the shade of the firs thatbordered the road. Behind him, crowning the heights, loomed the browncastle built by Gaston Phoebus, Count of Foix, two hundred years ago, and the Tower of Montauzet, its walls scarred by the shots of therebellious Biscayans. Below him, nourished by the snows that weredissolving under the sunshine of early spring, sped the tumbling river;beyond this spread pasture and arable land to the distant hills, andbeyond those stood the gigantic sharp-summited wall of the Pyrenees, itslong ridge dominated by the cloven cone of the snow clad Pic du Midi. There was in the sight of that great barrier, at once natural andpolitical, a sense of security for this fugitive from the perils andthe hatreds that lurked in Spain beyond. Here in Bearn he was a king'sguest, enjoying the hospitality of the great Castle of Pau, safe fromthe vindictive persecution of the mean tyrant who ruled in Spain. Andhere, at last, he was at peace, or would have been but for the thoughtof this woman--this Marquise de Chantenac--who had gone to such lengthsin her endeavours to soften his exile that her ultimate object couldnever have been in doubt to a coxcomb, though it was in some doubt toAntonio Perez, who had been cured for all time of Coxcombry by sufferingand misfortune, to say nothing of increasing age. It was when hebethought him of that age of his that he was chiefly intrigued by theamazing ardour of this great lady of Bearn. A dozen years ago--beforemisfortune overtook him--he would have accepted her flagrant wooing asa proper tribute. For then he had been the handsome, wealthy, witty, profligate Secretary of State to His Catholic Majesty King Philip II, with a power in Spain second only to the King's, and sometimes evengreater. In those days he would have welcomed her as her endowmentsmerited. She was radiantly lovely, in the very noontide of herresplendent youth, the well-born widow of a gentleman of Bearn. Andit would not have lain within the strength or inclinations of AntonioPerez, as he once had been, to have resisted the temptation that sheoffered. Ever avid of pleasure, he had denied himself no single cup ofit that favouring Fortune had proffered him. It was, indeed, becauseof this that he was fallen from his high estate; it was a woman who hadpulled him down in ruin, tumbling with him to her doom. She, poor soul, was dead at last, which was the best that any lover could have wishedher. But he lived on, embittered, vengeful, with gall in his veinsinstead of blood. He was the pale, faded shadow of that arrogant, reckless, joyous Antonio Perez beloved of Fortune. He was fifty, gaunt, hollow-eyed, and grey, half crippled by torture, sickly from long yearsof incarceration. 

What, he asked himself, sitting there, his eyes upon the eternal snowsof the barrier that shut out his past, was there left in him toawaken love in such a woman as Madame de Chantenac? Was it that histribulations stirred her pity, or that the fame of him which rangthrough Europe shed upon his withering frame some of the transfiguringradiance of romance?

It marked, indeed, the change in him that he should pause to question, whose erstwhile habit had been blindly to accept the good things tossedby Fortune into his lap. But question he did, pondering thatparting taunt of hers to which, for emphasis, she had given an oddredundancy--"You a Spaniard of Spain!" Could her meaning have beenplainer? Was not a Spaniard proverbially as quick to love as tojealousy? Was not Spain, that scented land of warmth and colour, ofcruelty and blood, of throbbing lutes under lattices ajar, of mitredsinners doing public penance, that land where lust and piety went handin hand, where passion and penitence lay down together--was not Spainthe land of love's most fruitful growth? And was not a Spaniard the veryhierophant of love?

His thoughts swung with sudden yearning to his wife Juana and theirchildren, held in brutal captivity by Philip, who sought to slake uponthem some of the vindictiveness from which their husband and father hadat last escaped. Not that Antonio Perez observed marital fidelity moreclosely than any other Spaniard of his time, or of any time. But AntonioPerez was growing old, older than he thought, older than his years. Heknew it. Madame de Chantenac had proved it to him. 

She had reproached him with never coming to see her at Chantenac, neglecting to return the too assiduous visits that she paid him here atPau. 

"You are very beautiful, madame, and the world is very foul, " he hadexcused himself. "Believe one who knows the world, to his bitter cost. Tongues will wag. "

"And your Spanish pride will not suffer that clods may talk of you?"

"I am thinking of you, madame. "

"Of me?" she had answered. "Why, of me they talk already--talk theirfill. I must pretend blindness to the leering eyes that watch me eachtime I come to Pau; feign unconsciousness of the impertinent glances ofthe captain of the castle there as I ride in. "

"Then why do you come?" he had asked point-blank. But before her suddenchange of countenance he had been quick to add: "Oh, madame, I amfull conscious of the charity that brings you, and I am deeply, deeplygrateful; but--"

"Charity?" she had interrupted sharply, on a laugh that wasself-mocking. "Charity?"

"What else, madame?"

"Ask yourself, " she had answered, reddening and averting her face fromhis questioning eyes. 

"Madame, " he had faltered, "I dare not. "

"Dare not?"

"Madame, how should I? I am an old man, broken by sickness, disheartenedby misfortune, daunted by tribulation--a mere husk cast aside byFortune, whilst you are lovely as one of the angels about the Throne ofHeaven. "

She had looked into the haggard face, into the scars of suffering thatseared it, and she had answered gently: "Tomorrow you shall come to meat Chantenac, my friend. "

"I am a Spaniard, for whom to-morrow never comes. "

"But it will this time. To-morrow I shall expect you. "

He looked up at her sitting her great black horse beside which he hadbeen pacing. 

"Better not, madame! Better not!" he had said. 

And then he saw the eyes that had been tender grow charged with scorn;then came her angry taunt:

"You a Spaniard of Spain! I do not believe it!"

Oh, there was no doubt that he had angered her. Women of her temperamentare quick to anger as to every emotion. But he had not wished to angerher. God knows it was never the way of Antonio Perez to anger lovelywomen--at least not in this fashion. And it was an ill return for hergentleness and attention to himself. Considering this as he sat therenow, he resolved that he must make amends--the only amends it waspossible to make. 

An hour later, in one of the regal rooms of the castle, where he enjoyedthe hospitality of King Henri IV of France and Navarre, he announcedto that most faithful equerry, Gil de Mesa, his intention of riding toChantenac to-morrow. 

"Is it prudent?" quoth Mesa, frowning. 

"Most imprudent, " answered Don Antonio. "That is why I go. "

And on the morrow he went, escorted by a single groom. Gil de Mesa hadbegged at first to be allowed to accompany him. But for Gil he had otherwork, of which the instructions he left were very full. The distance wasshort--three miles along the Gave de Pau--and Don Antonio covered it ona gently ambling mule, such as might have been bred to bear some ageddignitary of Holy Church. 

The lords of Chantenac were as noble, as proud, and as poor as mostgreat lords of Bearn. Their lineage was long, their rent-rolls short. And the last marquis had suffered more from this dual complaint thanany of his forbears, and he had not at all improved matters by a certainhabit of gaming contracted in youth. The chateau bore abundant signs ofit. It was a burnt red pile standing four-square on a little eminence, about the base of which the river went winding turbulently; it wasturreted at each of its four angles, imposing in its way, but in a sadstate of dilapidation and disrepair. 

The interior, when Don Antonio reached it, was rather better; thefurnishings, though sparse, were massive and imposing; the tapestries onthe walls, if old, were rich and choice. But everywhere the ill-assortedmarriage of pretentiousness and neediness was apparent. The floors ofhall and living-room were strewn with fresh-cut rushes, an obsolescentcustom which served here alike to save the heavy cost of carpets and tolend the place an ancient baronial dignity. Whilst pretence was made ofkeeping state, the servitors were all old, and insufficient in numberto warrant the retention of the infirm seneschal by whom Don Antonio wasceremoniously received. A single groom, aged and without livery, tookcharge at once of Don Antonio's mule, his servant's horse, and theservant himself. 

The seneschal, hobbling before him, conducted our Spaniard across thegreat hall, gloomy and half denuded, through the main living-room of thechateau into a smaller, more intimate apartment, holding some trace ofluxury, which he announced as madame's own room. And there he left himto await the coming of the chatelaine. 

She, at least, showed none of the outward disrepair of her surroundings. She came to him sheathed in a gown of shimmering silk that was of thegolden brown of autumn tints, caught to her waist by a slender girdle ofhammered gold. Eyes of deepest blue pondered him questioningly, whilstred lips smiled their welcome. "So you have come in spite of all?" shegreeted him. "Be very welcome to my poor house, Don Antonio. "

And regally she proffered her hand to his homage. 

He took it, observing the shapely, pointed fingers, the delicatelycurving nails. Reluctantly, almost, he admitted to himself how completewas her beauty, how absolute her charm. He sighed--a sigh for that lostyouth of his, perhaps--as he bowed from his fine, lean height to presscold lips of formal duty on that hand. 

"Your will, madame, was stronger than my prudence, " said he. 

"Prudence?" quoth she, and almost sneered. "Since when has Antonio Perezstooped to prudence?"

"Since paying the bitter price of imprudence. You know my story?"

"A little. I know, for instance, that you murdered Escovedo--all theworld knows that. Is that the imprudence of which you speak? I haveheard it said that it was for love of a woman that you did it. "

"You have heard that, too?" he said. He had paled a little. "You haveheard a deal, Marquise. I wonder would it amuse you to hear more, tohear from my own lips this story of mine which all Europe garbles? Wouldit?"

There was a faint note of anxiety in his voice, a look faintly anxiousin his eyes. 

She scanned him a moment gravely, almost inscrutably. "What purposecan it serve?" she asked; and her tone was forbidding--almost a tone offear. 

"It will explain, " he insisted. 

"Explain what?"

"How it comes that I am not this moment prostrate at your feet; how ithappens that I am not on my knees to worship your heavenly beauty; how Ihave contrived to remain insensible before a loveliness that in happiertimes would have made me mad. "

"Vive Dieu!" she murmured, half ironical. "Perhaps that needsexplaining. "

"How it became necessary, " he pursued, never heeding the interruption, "that yesterday you should proclaim your disbelief that I could be, asyou said, a Spaniard of Spain. How it happens that Antonio Perez hasbecome incapable of any emotion but hate. Will you hear the story--allof it?"

He was leaning towards her, his white face held close to her own, asmouldering fire in the dark, sunken eyes that now devoured her. 

She shivered, and her own cheeks turned very pale. Her lips were faintlytwisted as if in an effort to smile. 

"My friend--if you insist, " she consented. 

"It is the purpose for which I came, " he announced. 

For a long moment each looked into the other's eyes with a singularintentness that nothing here would seem to warrant. 

At length she spoke. 

"Come, " she said, "you shall tell me. "

And she waved him to a chair set in the embrasure of the mullionedwindow that looked out over a tract of meadowland sweeping gently downto the river. 

Don Antonio sank into the chair, placing his hat and whip upon the floorbeside him. The Marquise faced him, occupying the padded window-seat, her back to the light, her countenance in shadow. 

And here, in his own words, follows the story that he told her as sheherself set it down soon after. Whilst more elaborate and intimatein parts, it yet so closely agrees throughout with his own famous"Relacion, " that I do not hesitate to accept the assurance she hasleft us that every word he uttered was burnt as if by an acid upon hermemory. 

THE STORY OF ANTONIO PEREZ

As a love-story this is, I think, the saddest that ever was invented bya romancer intent upon wringing tears from sympathetic hearts. How sadit is you will realize when I tell you that daily I thank God on myknees--for I still believe in God, despite what was alleged against meby the inquisitors of Aragon--that she who inspired this love of whichI am to tell you is now in the peace of death. She died in exile atPastrana a year ago. Anne de Mendoza was what you call in France a greatparti. She came of one of the most illustrious families in Spain, andshe was a great heiress. So much all the world knew. What the worldforgot was that she was a woman, with a woman's heart and mind, awoman's natural instincts to select her mate. There are fools who envythe noble and the wealthy. They are little to be envied, those poorpawns in the game of statecraft, moved hither and thither at the willof players who are themselves no better. The human nature of them is anegligible appendage to the names and rent-rolls that predetermine theirplace upon the board of worldly ambition, a board befouled by blood, byslobberings from the evil mouth of greed, and by infamy of every kind. 

So, because Anne was a daughter of the House of Mendoza, because herendowments were great, they plucked her from her convent at the age ofthirteen years, knowing little more of life than the merest babe, andthey flung her into the arms of Ruy Gomez, Prince of Eboli, who wasold enough to have been her father. But Eboli was a great man in Spain, perhaps the greatest; he was, first Minister to Philip II, and betweenhis House and that of Mendoza an alliance was desired. To establish itthat tender child was sacrificed without ruth. She discovered that lifeheld nothing of all that her maiden dreamings had foreseen; that it wasa thing of horror and greed and lovelessness and worse. For there wasmuch worse to come. 

Eboli brought his child-princess to Court. He wore her lightly asa ribbon or a glove, the insignificant appendage to the wealth andpowerful alliance he had acquired with her. And at Court she cameunder the eye of that pious satyr Philip. The Catholic King is verydevout--perfervidly devout. He prays, he fasts, he approaches thesacraments, he does penance, all in proper season as prescribed byMother Church; he abominates sin and lack of faith--particularly inothers; he has drenched Flanders in blood that he might wash it cleanof the heresy of thinking differently from himself in spiritual matters, and he would have done the same by England but that God--Who cannot, after all, be quite of Philip's way of thinking--willed otherwise. Allthis he has done for the greater honour and glory of his Maker, but hewill not tolerate his Maker's interference with his own minor pleasuresof the flesh. He is, as you would say, a Spaniard of Spain. 

This satyr's protruding eyes fell upon the lovely Princess of Eboli--forlovely she was, a very pearl among women. I spare you details. Eboli wasmost loyal and submissive where his King was concerned, most complacentand accommodating. That was but logical, and need not shock you at all. To advance his worldly ambitions had he taken Anne to wife; why shouldhe scruple, then, to yield her again that thus he might advance thoseambitions further?

If poor Anne argued at all, she must have argued thus. For the rest, she was told that to be loved by the King was an overwhelming honour, a matter for nightly prayers of thankfulness. Philip was something veryexalted, hardly human in fact; almost, if not quite, divine. Who andwhat was Anne that she should dispute with those who knew the world, andwho placed these facts before her? Never in all her little life had shebelonged to herself. Always had she been the property of somebody else, to be dealt with as her owner might consider best. If about the Courtshe saw some men more nearly of her own age--though there were not many, for Philip's Court was ever a gloomy, sparsely peopled place--she tookit for granted that such men were not for her. This until I taught herotherwise, which, however, was not yet a while. Had I been at Court inthose days, I think I should have found the means, at whatever cost, ofpreventing that infamy; for I know that I loved her from the day I sawher. But I was of no more than her own age, and I had not yet been drawninto that whirlpool. 

So she went to the arms of that rachitic prince, and she bore him ason--for, as all the world knows, the Duke of Prastana owns Philip forhis father. And Eboli increased in power and prosperity and the favourof his master, and also, no doubt, in the contempt of posterity. Thereare times when the thought of posterity and its vengeances is of greatsolace. 

It would be some six years later when first I came to Court, broughtthither by my father, to enter the service of the Prince of Eboli as oneof his secretaries. As I have told you, I loved the Princess from themoment I beheld her. From the gossip of the Court I pieced togetherher story, and pitied her, and, pitying her, I loved her the more. Herbeauty dazzled me, her charm enmeshed me, and she had grown by now inworldly wisdom and mental attainments. Yet I set a mask upon my passion, and walked very circumspectly, for all that by nature I was as recklessand profligate as all the world could ever call me. She was the wife ofthe puissant Secretary of State, the mistress of the King. Who was I todispute their property to those exalted ones?

And another consideration stayed me. She seemed to love the King. Youngand lacking in wisdom, this amazed me. In age he compared favourablywith her husband he was but thirteen years older than herself--but innothing else. He was a weedy, unhealthy-looking man, weakly of frame, rachitic, undersized, with spindle-shanks, and a countenance that wasalmost grotesque, with its protruding jaw, gaping mouth, great, doglikeeyes, and yellow tuft of beard. A great king, perhaps, this Philip, having so been born; but a ridiculous man and an unspeakable lover. Andyet this incomparable woman seemed to love him. 

Let me pass on. For ten years I nursed that love of mine in secret. I was helped, perhaps, by the fact that in the mean time I hadmarried--oh, just as Eboli himself had married, an arrangement dictatedby worldly considerations--and no better, truer mate did ever a man findthan I in Juana Coello. We had children and we were happy, and for aseason--for years, indeed--I began to think that my unspoken passion forthe Princess of Eboli was dead and done with. I saw her rarely now, andmy activities increased with increasing duties. At twenty-six I was oneof the Ministers of the Crown, and one of the chief supporters ofthat party of which Eboli was the leader in Spanish politics. I satin Philip's Council, and I came under the spell of that taciturn, suspicious man, who, utterly unlovable as he was, had yet an uncannypower of inspiring devotion. From the spell of it I never quite escapeduntil after long years of persecution. Yet the discovery that one bynature so entirely antipathetic to me should have obtained such swayover my mind helped me to understand Anne's attachment to him. 

When Eboli died, in 1573, I had so advanced in ability and Royal favourthat I took his place as Secretary of State, thus becoming all but thesupreme ruler of Spain. I do not believe that there was ever in Spaina Minister so highly favoured by the reigning Prince, so powerful asI became. Not Eboli himself in his halcyon days had been so deeplyesteemed of Philip, or had wielded such power as I now made my own. All Europe knows it--for it was to me all Europe addressed itself foraffairs that concerned the Catholic King. 

And with my power came wealth--abundant, prodigious wealth. I was housedlike a Prince of the blood, and no Prince of the blood ever kept greaterstate than I, was ever more courted, fawned upon, or t flattered. Andremember I was young, little more than thirty, with all the strength andzest to enjoy my intoxicating eminence. I was to my party what Eboli hadbeen, though the nominal leader of it remained Quiroga, Archbishop ofToledo. On the other side was the Duke of Alva with his following. 

You must know that it was King Philip's way to encourage two rivalparties in the State, between which he shared his confidence and sway. Thus he stimulated emulation and enlightened his own views in theopposing opinions that were placed before him. But the power of my partywas absolute in those days, and Alva himself was as the dust beneath ourfeet. 

Such eminences, they say, are perilous. Heads that are very highlyplaced may at any moment be placed still higher--upon a pike. I am allbut a living witness to the truth of that, and yet I wonder would it sohave fallen out with me had I mistrusted that slumbering passion ofmine for Anne. I should have known that where such fires have once beenkindled in a man they never quite die out as long as life endures. Timeand preoccupations may overlay them as with a film of ashes, but moreor less deeply down they smoulder on, and the first breath will fan theminto flame again. 

It was at the King's request I went to see her in her fine Madrid houseopposite Santa Maria Mayor some months after her husband's death. Therewere certain matters of heritage to be cleared up, and, having regardto her high rank, it was Philip's wish that I--who was by now Eboli'sofficial successor--should wait on her in person. 

There were documents to be conned and signed, and the matter took somedays, for Eboli's possessions were not only considerable, but scattered, and his widow displayed an acquired knowledge of affairs and a naturalwisdom that inspired her to probe deeply. To my undoing, she probedtoo deeply in one matter. It concerned some land--a little property--atVelez. She had been attached to the place, it seemed, and she missed allmention of it from the papers that I brought her. She asked the reason. 

"It is disposed of, " I told her. 

"Disposed of!" quoth she. "But by whom?"

"By the Prince, your husband, a little while before he died. "

She looked up at me--she was seated at the wide, carved writing-table, I standing by her side--as if expecting me to say more. As I left myutterance there, she frowned perplexedly. 

"But what mystery is this?" she asked me. "To whom has it gone?"

"To one Sancho Gordo. "

"To Sancho Gordo?" The frown deepened. "The washerwoman's son? You willnot tell me that he bought it?"

"I do not tell you so, madame. It was a gift from the Prince, yourhusband. "

"A gift!" She laughed. "To Sancho Gordo! So the washerwoman's child isEboli's son!"

And again she laughed on a note of deep contempt. 

"Madame!" I cried, appalled and full of pity, "I assure you that youassume too much. The Prince--"

"Let be, " she interrupted me. "Do you dream I care what rivals I mayhave had, however lowly they may have been? The Prince, my husband, isdead, and that is very well. He is much better dead, Don Antonio. Thepity of it is that he ever lived, or else that I was born a woman. "

She was staring straight before her, her hands fallen to her lap, herface set as if carved and lifeless, and her voice came hard as the soundof one stone beating upon another. 

"Do you dream what it can mean to have been so nurtured on indignitiesthat there is no anger left, no pride to wound by the discovery of yetanother nothing but cold, cold hate? That, Don Antonio, is my case. Youdo not know what my life has been. That man--"

"He is dead, madame, " I reminded her, out of pity. 

"And damned, I hope, " she answered me in that same cold, emotionlessvoice. "He deserves no less for all the wrongs he did to me, the leastof which was the great wrong of marrying me. For advancement he acquiredme; for his advancement he bartered and used me and made of me a thingof shame. "

I was so overwhelmed with grief and love and pity that a groan escapedme almost before I was aware of it. She broke off short, and stared atme in haughtiness. 

"You presume to pity me, I think, " she reproved me. "It is my ownfault. I was wrong to talk. Women should suffer silently, that they maypreserve at least a mask of dignity. Otherwise they incur pity--and pityis very near contempt. "

And then I lost my head. 

"Not mine, not mine!" I cried, throwing out my arms; and though thatwas all I said, there was such a ring in my choking voice that she rosestiffly from her seat and stood tense and tall confronting me, almosteye to eye, reproof in every line of her. 

"Princess, forgive me!" I cried. "It breaks my heart in pieces to hearyou utter things that have been in my mind these many years, poisoningthe devotion that I owed to the late Prince, poisoning the very loyaltyI owe my King. You say I pity you. If that were so, none has the betterright. "

"Who gave it you?" she asked me, breathless. 

"Heaven itself, I think, " I answered recklessly. "What you havesuffered, I have suffered for you. When I came to Court the infamy wasa thing accomplished--all of it. But I gathered it, and gathering it, thanked Heaven I had been spared the pain and misery of witnessing it, which must have been more than ever I could have endured. Yet when Isaw you, when I watched you--your wistful beauty, your incomparablegrace--there was a time when the thought to murder stirred darkly in mymind that I might at least avenge you. "

She fell away before me, white to the very lips, her eyes dilating asthey regarded me. 

"In God's name, why?" she asked me in a strangled voice. 

"Because I loved you, " I replied, "always, always, since the day I sawyou. Unfortunately, that day was years too late, even had I dared tohope--"

"Antonio!" Something in her voice drew my averted eyes. Her lips hadparted, her eyes kindled into life, a flush was stirring in her cheeks. 

"And I never knew! I never knew!" she faltered piteously. 

I stared. 

"Dear Heaven, why did you withhold a knowledge that would have upheldme and enheartened me through all that I have suffered? Once, long, longagog I hoped--"

"You hoped!"

"I hoped, Antonio--long, long ago. "

We were in each other's arms, she weeping on my shoulder as if her heartwould burst, I almost mad with mingling joy and pain--and as God livesthere was more matter here for pain than joy. 

We sat long together after that, and talked it out. There was no helpfor it. It was too late on every count. On her side there was the King, most jealous of all men, whose chattel she was become; on mine, therewas my wife and children, and so deep and true was my love for Anne thatit awakened in me thoughts of the loyalty I owed Juana, thoughts thathad never troubled me hitherto in my pleasure-loving life--and this notonly as concerned Anne herself, but as concerned all women. There wassomething so ennobling and sanctifying about our love that it changedat once the whole of my life, the whole tenor of my ways. I abandonedprofligacy, and became so staid and orderly in my conduct that I wasscarcely recognizable for the Antonio Perez whom the world had knownhitherto. 

We parted there that day with a resolve to put all this behind us; toefface from our minds all memory of what had passed between us! Poorfools were we to imagine we could resist the vortex of circumstancewhich had caught us. For three months we kept our engagementscrupulously; and then, at last, resistance mutually exhausted, weyielded each to the other, both to Fate. 

But because we cherished our love we moved with caution. I wascircumspect in my comings and goings, and such were the precautionswe observed, that for four years the world had little suspicion, andcertainly no knowledge, that I had inherited from the Prince of Ebolimore than his office as Secretary of State. This secrecy was necessaryas long as Philip lived, for we were both fully aware of what manner ofvengeance we should have to reckon with did knowledge of our relationsreach the jealous King. And I think that but for Don John of Austria'saffairs, and the intervention in them of the Escovedo whom you say--whomthe world says I murdered, all might have been well to this day. 

Escovedo had been, like myself, one of Eboli's secretaries in his day, and it was this that won him after Eboli's death a place at the RoyalCouncil board. It was but an inferior place, yet the King remarked himfor a man shrewd and able, who might one day have his uses. 

That day was not very long in coming, though the opportunity it affordedEscovedo was scarcely such as, in his greedy, insatiable ambition, hehad hoped for. Yet the opportunity, such as it was, was afforded himby me, and had he used it properly it should have carried him far, certainly much farther than his talent and condition warranted. 

It came about through Don John of Austria's dreams of sovereignty. Youwill have heard--as who has not?--so much of Don John, the natural sonof Charles V, that I need tell you little concerning him. In body andsoul he was a very different man, indeed, from his half-brother Philipof Spain. As joyous as Philip was gloomy, as open and frank as Philipwas cloudy and suspicious, and as beautiful as Philip was grotesque, DonJohn was the Bayard of our day, the very mirror of all knightly graces. To the victory of Lepanto, which had made him illustrious as a soldier, he had added, in '73--the year of Eboli's death the conquest of Tunis, thereby completing the triumph of Christianity over the Muslim in theMediterranean. Success may have turned his head a little. He was young, you know, and an emperor's son. He dreamt of an empire for himself, ofsovereignty, and of making Tunis the capital of the kingdom he wouldfound. 

We learnt of this. Indeed, Don John made little secret of hisintentions. But they went not at all with Philip's views. It was farfrom his notions that Don John should go founding kingdoms of his own. His valour and talents were required to be employed for the greaterhonour and glory of the Crown of Spain, and nothing further. 

Philip consulted me, who was by then the depositary of all his secrets, the familiar of his inmost desires. There was evidence that Don John'sambitions were being fomented by his secretary, who dreamt, no doubt, of his own aggrandizement in the aggrandizement of his master. Philipproposed the man's removal. 

"That would be something, " I agreed. "But not enough. He must bereplaced by a man of our own, a man loyal to Your Majesty, who will notonly seek to guide Don John in the course that he should follow, butwill keep close watch upon his projects, and warn you should theythreaten to neglect your interests the interests of Spain for his own. "

"And such a man? Where shall we find him?"

I considered a moment, and bethought me of Escovedo. He was able; hehad charm and an ingratiating manner; I believed him loyal, and imaginedthat I could quicken that loyalty by showing him that advancement wouldwait upon its observation; he could well be spared from the Council, where, as I have said, he occupied a quite inferior post; lastly, wewere friends, and I was glad of the opportunity to serve him, and placehim on the road to better things. 

All this I said to Philip, and so the matter was concluded. But Escovedofailed me. His abilities and ingratiating manner endeared him quickly toDon John, whilst himself he succumbed entirely, not only to Don Johnof Austria's great personal charm, but also to Don John's ambitiousprojects. The road to advancement upon which I had set him seemed to himlong and toilsome by contrast with the shorter cut that was offered byhis new master's dreams. He fell as the earlier secretary had fallen, and more grievously, for he was the more ambitious of the two, and frommerely seconding Don John's projects, it was not long before he spurredthem on, not long before he was dreaming dreams of his own for Don Johnto realize. 

From Tunis, which had by now been recovered by the Turks, and any hopesconcerned with which King Philip had discouraged, the eyes of Don Johnwere set, at Escovedo's bidding, I believe, upon the crown of England. 

He had just been invited by Philip to make ready to take in hand theaffairs of Flanders, sadly disorganized under the incompetent rule ofAlva. It occurred to him that if he were to issue victoriously from thatenterprise--and so far victory had waited upon his every venture--ifhe were to succeed in restoring peace and Spanish order in rebelliousFlanders, he would then be able to move against England with the Spanishtroops under his command, overthrow Elizabeth, deliver Mary Stuart fromthe captivity in which she languished, and by marriage with her setthe crown of England on his brow. To this great project he sought thesupport of Rome, and Rome accorded it very readily being naturallyhostile to the heretic daughter of Anne Boleyn. 

It was Escovedo himself who went as Don John's secret ambassador to theVatican in this affair Escovedo, who had been placed with Don John toact as a curb on that young man's ambitions. Nor did he move with theprudence he should have observed. 

Knowledge of what was brewing reached us from the Papal Nuncio inMadrid, who came to see me one day in the matter. 

"I have a dispatch from Rome, " he announced, "in which His Holinessinstructs me to enjoin upon the King that the expedition against Englandbe now executed, and that he consider bestowing its crown upon Don Johnof Austria for the greater honour and glory of Holy Church. "

I was thunderstruck. The expedition against England, I knew, was no newproject. Three years before a secret envoy from the Queen of Scots, anItalian named Ridolfi, had come to propose to Philip that, in concertwith the Pope, he should reestablish the Catholic faith in England andplace Mary Stuart upon the throne. It was a scheme attractive to Philip, since it agreed at once with his policy and his religion. But it hadbeen abandoned under the dissuasions of Alva, who accounted that itwould be too costly even if successful. Here it was again, emanating nowdirectly from the Holy See, but in a slightly altered form. 

"Why Don John of Austria?" I asked him. 

"A great soldier of the faith. And the Queen of Scots must have ahusband. "

"I should have thought that she had had husbands enough by now, " said I. 

"His Holiness does not appear to share that view, " he answered tartly. 

"I wonder will the King, " said I. 

"The Catholic King is ever an obedient child of Mother Church, " the oilyNuncio reminded me, to reprove my doubt. 

But I knew better--that the King's own policy was the measure of hisobedience. This the Nuncio should learn for himself; for if I knewanything of Philip's mind, I knew precisely how he would welcome thisproposal. 

"Will you see the King now?" I suggested maliciously, anxious to witnessthe humbling of his priestly arrogance. 

"Not yet. It is upon that I came to see you. I am instructed first toconsult with one Escoda as to the manner in which this matter shall bepresented to His Majesty. Who is Escoda?"

"I never heard of him, " said I. "Perhaps he comes from Rome. "

"No, no. Strange!" he muttered, frowning, and plucked a parchment fromhis sleeve. "It is here. " He peered slowly at the writing, and slowlyspelled out the name: "Juan de Escoda. "

In a flash it came to me. 

"Escovedo you mean, " I cried, "Yes, yes--Escovedo, to be sure, " he agreed, having consulted thewriting once more. "Where is he?"

"On his way to Madrid with Don John, " I informed him. "He is Don John'ssecretary. "

"I will do nothing, then, until he arrives, " he said, and took hisleave. 

Oh, monstrous indiscretion! That dispatch from Rome so cunninglyand secretly contrived in cipher had yet contained no warning thatEscovedo's share in this should be concealed. There are none soimprudent as the sly. I sought the King at once, and told him all thatI had learnt. He was aghast. Indeed, I never saw him more near to anger. For Philip of Spain was not the man to show wrath or any other emotion. He had a fish-like, cold, impenetrable inscrutability. True, his yellowskin grew yellower, his gaping mouth gaped wider, his goggle eyesgoggled more than usual. Left to himself, I think he would havedisgraced Don John and banished Escovedo there and then, as he did, indeed, suggest. And I have since had cause enough to wish to God that Ihad left him to himself. 

"Who will replace Don John in Flanders?" I asked him quietly. He staredat me. "He is useful to you there. Use him, Sire, to your own ends. "

"But they will press this English business. "

"Acquiesce. "

"Acquiesce? Are you mad?"

"Seem to acquiesce. Temporize. Answer them, 'One thing at a time. 'Say, 'When the Flanders business is happily concluded, we will think ofEngland. ' Give them hope that success in Flanders will dispose youto support the other project. Thus you offer Don John an incentive tosucceed, yet commit yourself to nothing. "

"And this dog Escovedo?"

"Is a dog who betrays himself by his bark. We will listen for it. "

And thus it was determined; thus was Don John suckled on the windy papof hope when presently he came to Court with Escovedo at his heels. Distended by that empty fare he went off to the Low Countries, leavingEscovedo in Madrid to represent him, with secret instructions to advancehis plans. 

Now Escovedo's talents were far inferior to my conception of them. 

He was just a greedy schemer, without the wit to dissemble his appetiteor the patience necessary to secure attainment. 

Affairs in Flanders went none too well, yet that did not set a curbupon him. He pressed his master's business upon the King with an ardouramounting to disrespect, and disrespect was a thing the awful majesty ofPhilip could never brook. Escovedo complained of delays, of indecision, and finally--in the summer of '76--he wrote the King a letter of fierceupbraidings, criticizing his policy in terms that were contemptuous, andwhich entirely exasperated Philip. 

It was in vain I strove to warn the fellow of whither he was drifting;in vain I admonished and sought to curb his headlong recklessness. Ihave said that I had a friendship for him, and because of that I tookmore pains, perhaps, than I should have taken in another's case. 

"Unless you put some judgment into that head of yours, my friend, youwill leave it in this business, " I told him one day. 

He flung into a passion at the admonition, heaped abuse upon me, sworethat it was I who thwarted him, I who opposed the fulfilment of DonJohn's desires and fostered the dilatory policy of the King. 

I left him after that to pursue his course, having no wish to quarrelwith this headstrong upstart; yet, liking him as I did, I spared noendeavour to shield him from the consequences he provoked. But thatletter of his to Philip made the task a difficult one. Philip showed itto me. 

"If that man, " he said, "had uttered to my face what he has dared towrite, I do not think I should have been able to contain myself withoutvisible change of countenance. It is a sanguinary letter. "

I set myself to calm him as best I could. 

"The man is indiscreet, which has its advantage, for we always knowwhither an indiscreet man is heading. His zeal for his master blinds himand makes him rash. It is better, perhaps, than if he were secretive andcrafty. "

With such arguments I appeased his wrath against the secretary. But Iknew that his hatred of Escovedo, his thirst for Escovedo's blood, datedfrom that moment in which Escovedo had forgotten the reverence due tomajesty. I was glad when at last he took himself off to Flanders torejoin Don John. But that was very far from setting a term to hispestering. The Flanders affair was going so badly that the hopes of anEnglish throne to follow were dwindling fast. Something else mustbe devised against the worst, and now Don John and Escovedo began toconsider the acquisition of power in Spain itself. Their ambition aimedat giving Don John the standing of an Infante. Both of them wrote to meto advance this fresh project of theirs, to work for their recall, so that they could ally themselves with my party--the Archbishop'sparty--and ensure its continuing supreme. Escovedo wrote me a letterthat was little better than an attempt to bribe me. The King was ageing, and the Prince was too young to relieve him of the heavy duties ofState. Don John should shoulder these, and in so doing Escovedo andmyself should be hoisted into greater power. 

I carried all those letters to the King, and at his suggestion I evenpretended to lend an ear to these proposals that we might draw fromEscovedo a fuller betrayal of his real ultimate aims. It was dangerous, and I enjoined the King to move carefully. 

"Be discreet, " I warned him, "for if my artifice were discovered, Ishould not be of any further use to you at all. In my conscience I amsatisfied that in acting as I do I am performing no more than my duty. Irequire no theology other than my own to understand that much. "

"My theology, " he answered me, "takes much the same view. You would havefailed in your duty to God and me had you failed to enlighten me on thescore of this deception. These things, " he added in a dull voice, "appalme. "

So I wrote to Don John, urging him as one who counselled him for hisgood, who had no interest but his own at heart, to remain in Flandersuntil the work there should be satisfactorily completed. He did so, since he was left no choice in the matter, but the intrigues continued. Later we saw how far he was from having forsaken his dreams of England, when I discovered that he had engaged the Pope to assist him with sixthousand men and one hundred and fifty thousand ducats when the time forthat adventure should be ripe. 

And then, quite suddenly, entirely unheralded, Escovedo reappeared inMadrid, having come to press Philip in person for reinforcements thatshould enable Don John to finish the campaign. He brought news thatthere had been a fresh rupture of the patched-up peace, that Don Johnhad taken the field once more, and had forcibly made himself masterof Namur. This was contrary to all the orders we had sent, a directoverriding of Philip's wishes. The King desired peace in the LowCountries because he was in no case just then to renew the war, andEscovedo's impudently couched demands completed his exasperation. 

"My will, " he said, "is as naught before the ambitions of these two. You sent my clear instructions to Escovedo, who was placed with Don Johnthat he might render him pliant to my wishes. Instead, he stiffens himin rebellion. There must be an end to this man. "

"Sire, " I cried, "it may be they think to advance your interests. "

"Heaven help me!" he cried. "Did ever villain wear so transparent a maskas this dog Escovedo? To advance my interests--that will be his tale, nodoubt. He will advance them where I do not wish them advanced; he willadvance them to my ruin; he will stake all on a success in Flanders thatshall be the preliminary to a descent upon England in the interests ofDon John. I say there must be an end to this man before he works moremischief. "

Again I set myself to calm him, as I had so often done before, and againI was the shield between Escovedo and the royal lightnings, of whosemenace to blot him out the fool had no suspicion. For months things hungthere, until, in January of '78, when war had been forced in earnestupon Spain by Elizabeth's support of the Low Countries, Don John won thegreat victory of Gemblours. This somewhat raised the King's depression, somewhat dissipated his overgrowing mistrust of his half-brother, andgave him patience to read the letters in which Don John urged him tosend money--to throw wood on the fire whilst it was alight, or elseresign himself to the loss of Flanders for all time. As it meant alsoresigning himself to the loss of all hope of England for all time, Escovedo's activities were just then increased a hundredfold. 

"Send me money and Escovedo, " was the burden of the almost daily lettersfrom Don John to me, and at my elbow was Escovedo, perpetually pressingme to bend the King to his master's will. Another matter on which hepressed me then was that I should obtain for himself the governorship ofthe Castle of Mogro, which commands the port of Santander, an ambitionthis which intrigued me deeply, for I confess I could not fathom what ithad to do with all the rest. 

And then something else happened. From the Spanish Ambassador at theLouvre we learnt one day of a secret federation entered into between DonJohn and the Guises, known as the Defence of the Two Crowns. Its objectwas as obscure as its title. But it afforded the last drop to the cupof Philip's mistrust. This time it was directly against Don John thathe inveighed to me. And to defend Don John, in the interests of commonjustice, I was forced to place the blame where it belonged. 

"Nay, Sire, " I assured him, "these ambitions are not Don John's. Withall his fevered dreams of greatness, Don John has ever been, will everbe, loyal to his King. "

"If you know anything of temptation, " he answered me, "you should knowthat there is a breaking-point to every man's resistance of it. How longwill Don John remain loyal while Escovedo feeds his disloyalty, addsdaily to the weight of temptation the burden of a fresh ambition? I tellyou, man, I feel safe no longer. " He rose up before me, a blotch on hissallow face, his fingers tugging nervously at the tuft of straw-colouredbeard. "I tell you some blow is about to fall unless we avert it. Thisman this fellow Escovedo--must be dispatched before he can kill us. "

I shrugged and affected carelessness to soothe him. 

"A contemptible dreamer, " I said. "Pity him, Sire. He has his uses. To remove him would be to remove a channel through which we can alwaysobtain knowledge precisely of what is doing. "

Again I prevailed, and there the matter hung a while. But the King wasright, his fears were well inspired. Escovedo, always impatient, was becoming desperate under persistent frustration. I reasoned withhim--was he not still my friend?--I held him off, urged prudence andpatience upon him, and generally sought to temporize. I was as intentupon saving him from leaving his skin in this business as I was, on theother hand, intent upon doing my duty without pause or scruple to myKing. But the fool forced my hand. A Court is a foul place always, evenso attenuated a Court as that which Philip of Spain encouraged. Rumourthrives in it, scandal blossoms luxuriantly in its fetid atmosphere. And rumour and scandal had been busy with the Princess of Eboli and me, though I did not dream it. 

We had been indiscreet, no doubt. We had been seen together in publictoo often. We had gone to the play together more than once; she had beenpresent with me at a bull-fight on one occasion, and it was matter ofcommon gossip, as I was to learn, that I was a too frequent visitor ather house. 

Another visitor there was Escovedo when in Madrid. Have I not saidthat in his early days he had been one of Eboli's secretaries? Onthat account the house of Eboli remained open to him at all times. ThePrincess liked him, was kindly disposed towards him, and encouraged hisvisits. We met there more than once. One day we left together, andthat day the fool set spark to a train that led straight to the mine onwhich, all unconsciously, he stood. 

"A word of advice in season, Don Antonio, " he said as we stepped forthtogether. "Do not go so often to visit the Princess. "

I sought to pull my arm from his, but he dung to it and pinned it to hisside. 

"Nay, now--nay, now!" he soothed me. "Not so hot, my friend. What thedevil have I said to provoke resentment? I advise you as your friend. "

"In future advise that other friend of yours, the devil, " I answeredangrily, and pulled my arm away at last. "Don Juan, you have presumed, Ithink. I did not seek your advice. It is yourself that stands in need ofadvice this moment more than any man in Spain. "

"Lord of the World, " he exclaimed in amiable protest, "listen to him!I speak because I owe friendship to the Princess. Men whisper of yourcomings and goings, I tell you. And the King, you know well, should hehear of this I am in danger of losing my only friend at Court, and so--"

"Another word of this, " I broke in fiercely, "now or at any other time, and I'll skewer you like a rabbit!"

I had stopped. My face was thrust within a hand's-breadth of his own; Ihad tossed back my cloak, and my fingers clutched the hilt of my sword. He became grave. His fine eyes--he had great, sombre, liquid eyes, suchas you'll scarcely ever see outside of Spain--considered me thoughtfullya moment. Then he laughed lightly and fell back a pace. 

"Pish!" said he. "Saint James! I am no rabbit for your skewering. Ifit comes to skewers, I am a useful man of my hands, Antonio. Come, man"--and again he took my arm--"if I presume, forgive it out of theassurance that I am moved solely by interest and concern for you. Wehave been friends too long that I should be denied. "

I had grown cool again, and I realized that perhaps my show of anger hadbeen imprudent. So I relented now, and we went our ways together withoutfurther show of ill-humour on my part, or further advice on his. Butthe matter did not end there. Indeed, it but began. Going early in theafternoon of the morrow to visit Anne, I found her in tears--tears, as Iwas to discover, of anger. 

Escovedo had been to visit her before me, and he had dared to reproachher on the same subject. 

"You are talked about, you and Perez, " he had informed her, "and thething may have evil consequences. It is because I have eaten our breadthat I tell you this for your own good. "

She had risen up in a great passion. 

"You will leave my house, and never set foot in it again, " she had toldhim. "You should learn that grooms and lackeys have no concern in theconduct of great ladies. It is because you have eaten my bread that Itell you this for your own good. "

It drove him out incontinently, but it left her in the condition inwhich I was later to discover her. I set myself to soothe her. I sworethat Escovedo should be punished. But she would not be soothed. Sheblamed herself for an unpardonable rashness. She should not have takenthat tone with Escovedo. He could avenge himself by telling Philip, and if he told Philip, and Philip believed him--as Philip would, beingjealous and mistrustful beyond all men--my ruin must follow. She hadthought only of herself in dismissing him in that high-handed manner. Coming since to think of me it was that she had fallen into thisdespair. She clung to me in tears. 

"Forgive me, Antonio. The fault is all mine--the fault of all. Alwayshave I known that this danger must overhang you as a penalty for lovingme. Always I knew it, and, knowing it, I should have been stronger. Ishould have sent you from me at the first. But I was so starved of lovefrom childhood till I met you. I hungered so for love--for your love, Antonio--that I had not the strength. I was weak and selfish, andbecause I was ready and glad to pay the price myself, whatever it shouldbe and whenever asked, I did not take thought enough for you. "

"Take no thought now, " I implored her, holding her close. 

"I must. I can't help it. I have raised this peril for you. He will goto Philip. "

"Not he; he dare not. I am his only hope. I am the ladder by which hehopes to scale the heaven of his high ambition. If he destroys me, thereis the kennel for himself. He knows it. "

"Do you say that to comfort me, or is it really true?"

"God's truth, sweetheart, " I swore, and drew her closer. 

She was comforted long before I left her. But as I stepped out intothe street again a man accosted me. Evidently he had been on the watch, awaiting me. He fell into step beside me almost before I realized hispresence. It was Escovedo. 

"So, " he said, very sinister, "you'll not be warned. "

"Nor will you, " I answered, no whit less sinister myself. 

It was broad daylight. A pale March sunshine was beating down upon thecobbled streets, and passers-by were plentiful. There was no fingeringof hilts or talk of skewering on either side. Nor must I show any ofthe anger that was boiling in me. My face was too well known in Madridstreets, and a Secretary of State does not parade emotions to therabble. So I walked stiff and dignified amain, that dog in step with methe while. 

"She will have told you what I have said to her, " he murmured. 

"And what she said to you. It was less than your deserts. "

"Groom and lackey, eh?" said he. "And less than I deserve--a man of myestate. Oh, ho! Groom and lackey! Those are epithets to be washed out inblood and tears. "

"You rant, " I said. 

"Or else to be paid for--handsomely. " His tone was sly--so sly thatI answered nothing, for to answer a sly man is to assist him, and mybusiness was to let him betray the cause of this slyness. Followed aspell of silence. Then, "Do you know, " said he, "that several of herrelatives are thinking seriously of killing you?"

"Many men have thought seriously of that--so seriously that they neverattempted it. Antonio Perez is not easily murdered, Don Juan, as you maydiscover. "

It was a boast that I may claim to have since justified. 

"Shall I tell you their names?" quoth he. 

"If you want to ruin them. "

"Ha!" It was a short bark of a laugh. "You talk glibly of ruining--butthen you talk to a groom and lackey. " The epithets rankled in his mind;they were poison to his blood, it seemed. It takes a woman to find wordsthat burn and blister a man. "Yet groom and lackey that I am, I hold youboth in the hollow of my hand. If I close that hand, it will be very badfor you, very bad for her. If, for instance, I were to tell King Philipthat I have seen her in your arms--"

"You dog!"

"I have--I swear to God I have, with these two eyes--at least with oneof them, applied to the keyhole half an hour ago. Her servants passed mein; a ducat or two well bestowed--you understand?"

We had reached the door of my house. I paused and turned to him. 

"You will come in?" I invited. 

"As the wolf said to the lamb, eh? Well, why not?" And we went in. 

"You are well housed, " he commented, his greedy, envious eyesconsidering all the tokens of my wealth. "It were a pity to lose somuch, I think. The King is at the Escurial, I am told. "

He was. He had gone thither into retreat, that he might cleanse hispious, murky soul against the coming of Eastertide. 

"You would not, I am sure, compel me to undertake so tedious a journey, "said he. 

"Will you put off this slyness and be plain?" I bade him. "You have somebargain in your mind. Propound it. "

He did, and left me aghast. 

"You have temporized long enough, Perez, " he began. "You have beenhunting with the dogs and running with the stag. There must be an endto all that. Stand by me now, and I will make you greater than you are, greater than you could ever dream to be. Oppose me, betray me--for I amgoing to be very frank--and the King shall hear things from me that willmean your ruin and hers. You understand?"

Then came his demands. First of all the command of the fortress of Mogrofor himself. I must obtain him that at once. Secondly, I must see toit that Philip pledged himself to support Don John's expedition againstEngland and Elizabeth and to seat Don John upon the throne with MaryStuart for his wife. These things must come about, and quickly, or Iperished. Nor was that all. Indeed, no more than a beginning. He openedout the vista of his dreams, that having blackmailed me on the one hand, he might now bribe me on the other. Once England was theirs, he aimed atno less than a descent upon Spain itself. That was why he wanted Mogroto facilitate a landing at Santander. Thus, as the Christians hadoriginally come down from the mountains of the Asturias to drive theMoors from the Peninsula, so should the forces of Don John descend againto reconquer it for himself. 

It was a madman's fancy utterly--fruit of a brain that ambition hadcompletely addled; and I do not believe that Don John had any part in itor even knowledge of it. Escovedo saw himself, perhaps, upon the throneof one or the other of the two kingdoms as Don John's vice-regent--forhimself and for me, if I stood by him, there was such power in store asno man ever dreamed of. If I refused, he would destroy me. 

"And if I go straight to the Escurial and lay this project before theKing?" I asked him. 

He smiled. 

"You will force me to tell him that it is a lie invented to deliver youfrom a man who can destroy you by the knowledge he possesses, knowledgewhich I shall at once impart to Philip. Think what that will mean toyou. Think, " he added very wickedly, "what it will mean to her. "

As I am a Christian, I believe that had it been but the considerationof myself I would have flung him from my house upon the instant and badehim do his worst. But he was well advised to remind me of her. WhateverPhilip's punishment of me, it would be as nothing to his punishment ofthat long-suffering woman who had betrayed him. Oh, I assure you it isa very evil, ill judged thing to have a king for rival, particularly afish-souled tyrant of King Philip's kind. 

I was all limp with dread. I passed a hand across my brow, and found itchill and moist. 

"I am in your hands, Escovedo, " I confessed miserably. 

"Say, rather, that we are partners. Forget all else. " He was eager, joyous, believing all accomplished, such was his faith in my influencewith Philip. "And now, Mogro for me, and England for Don John. About itwith dispatch. "

"The King is in retreat. We must wait some days. "

"Till Easter, then. " And he held out his hand. I took it limply, thusclenching the bargain of infamy between us. What else was there for me. What, otherwise, was to become of Anne?

Oh, I may have been self-seeking and made the most of my position, aswas afterwards urged against me. I may have been extortionate and venal, and I may have taken regal bribes to expedite affairs. But always wasI loyal and devoted to the King. Never once had I been bribed to aughtthat ran counter to his interests; never until now, when at a stroke Ihad sold my honour and pledged myself to this betrayal of my trust. 

Not in all Spain was there a more miserable man than I. All night I satin the room where I was wont to work, and to my wife's entreaties thatI should take some rest I answered that the affairs of Spain compelledattention. And when morning found me haggard and distraught came acourier from Philip with a letter. 

"I have letters from Don John, " he wrote, "more insistent than ever intheir tone. He demands the instant dispatch of money and Escovedo. Ihave been thinking, and this letter confirms my every fear. I have causeto apprehend some stroke that may disturb the public peace and ruinDon John himself if he is allowed to retain Escovedo any longer in hisservice. I am writing to Don John that I will see to it that Escovedo ispromptly dispatched as he requests. Do you see him dispatched, then, in precise accordance with his deserts, and this at once, before thevillain kills us. "

My skin bristled as I read. Here was fatality itself at work. Philip wasat his old fears--and, Heaven knows, he was not without justification ofhis intuitions, as I had learnt by now--that Escovedo meditated the mostdesperate measures. He was urging me again, as he had urged me before, and more than once, to dispatch this traitor whose restless existence soperpetually perturbed him. I was not deceived as to the meaning he setupon that word "dispatch. " I knew quite well the nature of the dispatchhe bade me contrive. 

Conceive now my temptation. Escovedo dead, I should be safe, and Annewould be safe, and this without any such betrayal as was being forcedupon me. And that death the King himself commanded a secret, royalexecution, such as his confessor Frey Diego de Chaves has since defendedas an expedient measure within the royal prerogative. He had commandedit before quite unequivocally, but always I had stood between Escovedoand the sword. Was I to continue in that attitude? Could it humanly beexpected of me in all the circumstances again to seek to deflect theroyal wrath from that too daring head? I was, after all, only a man, subject to the temptations of the flesh, and there was a woman whom Iloved better than my own salvation to whose peace and happiness thatfellow Escovedo was become a menace. 

If he lived, and for as long as he lived, she and I were to be as slavesof his will, and I was to drag my honour and my loyalty through the foulkennels of his disordered ambitions. And the King my master was biddingme clearly see to it that he died immediately. 

I sat down and wrote at once, and the burden of my letter was: "Be moreexplicit, Sire. What manner of dispatch is it your will that Escovedoshould be given?"

On the morrow, which was Thursday of Holy Week, that note of minewas returned to me, and on the margin of it, in Philip's own hand, Escovedo's death-warrant. "I mean that it would be well to hasten thedeath of this rascal before some act of his should render it too late;for he never rests, nor will anything turn him from his usual ways. Doit, then, and do it quickly, before he kills us. "

There was no more to be said. My instructions were clear and definite. Obedience alone remained. I went about it. 

Just as all my life I have been blessed with the staunchest friends, sohave I, too, been blessed with the most faithful servants. And of thesenone was more faithful than my steward, Diego Martinez, unless, indeed, it be my equerry, Gil de Mesa, who to this day follows my evil fortunes. But Mesa at that time was as yet untried, whilst in Diego I knew that Ihad a man devoted to me heart and soul, a man who would allow himself tobe torn limb from limb on the rack on my behalf. 

I placed the affair in Diego's hands. I told him that I was actingunder orders from the King, and that the thing at issue was the privateexecution of a dangerous traitor, who could not be brought to trial lestthere he should impeach of complicity one whose birth and blood must beshielded from all scandal. I bade him get what men he required, and seethe thing done with the least possible delay. And thereupon I instantlywithdrew from Madrid and went to Alcala. 

Diego engaged five men to assist him in the task; these were a youngofficer named Enriquez, a lackey named Rubio, the two Aragonese--Mesaand Insausti--and another whose name was Bosque. He clearly meant totake no chances, but I incline to think that he overdid precaution, andemployed more hands than were necessary for the job. However, the six ofthem lurked in waiting on three successive nights for Escovedo near hishouse in the little square of Santiago. At last, on the night of EasterMonday, March 31st, they caught him and dispatched him. He died almostbefore he realized himself beset, from a sword-thrust with whichInsausti transfixed him. But there were at least half a dozen wounds inthe body when it was found. Diego, I have said, was a man who made quitecertain. 

No sooner was it done than they dispersed, whilst the lackey Rubio, instantly quitting Madrid, brought me news of the deed to Alcala, andthe assurance that no arrests had been made. But there was a great adoin Madrid upon the morrow, as you may imagine, for it is no everydayoccurrence to find a royal secretary murdered in the streets. 

The alcaldes set out upon a rigorous search, and they began by arrestingand questioning all who attempted to leave the city. On the next daythey harassed with their perquisitions all those who let lodgings. They were still at this work in the evening when I returned to Madrid, brought back--as it would seem--from my country rest by the news of thismurder of my friend and colleague. I bore myself as I should have donehad I no knowledge of how the thing had been contrived. That was anecessity as imperative as it was odious, and no part of it more odiousthan the visit of condolence I was forced to pay to the Escovedo family, which I found plunged in grief. 

From the very outset suspicion pointed its finger at me, although therewere no visible traces to connect me with the deed. Rumour, however, was astir, and as I had powerful friends, so, too, I had the powerfulenemies which envy must always be breeding for men in high placessuch as mine. Escovedo's wife mistrusted me, though at first she seemsequally to have suspected in this deed the hand of the Duke of Alva, whowas hostile to Don John and all his creatures. Very soon, as a result ofthis, came the Court alcalde to visit and question me. His stated objectwas in the hope that I might give him information which would lead tothe discovery of the assassin; but his real object, rendered apparentby the searching, insistent nature of his questions, was to lead meto incriminate myself. I presented a bold front. I pretended to see inthis, perhaps, the work of the Flemish States. I deplored--that I mightremind him of it--my absence from Madrid at the time. 

He was followed by another high official, who came in simulatedfriendship to warn me that certain rumours linking me with the deed werein circulation, in reality to trap me into some admission, to watch mycountenance for some betraying sign. 

I endured it stoutly, but inwardly I was shaken, as I wrote to Philip, giving him full details of what had been said and what answers I hadreturned, what bitter draughts I had been forced to swallow. 

He wrote in reply: "I find that you answered very well. Continue tobe prudent. They will tell you a thousand things, not for the sakeof telling them, but in the hope of drawing something out of you. The bitter draughts you mention are inevitable. But use all thedissimulation and address of which you are capable. "

We corresponded daily after that, and I told him of every step I took;how I kept my men about me, for fear that if they attempted to leaveMadrid they would be arrested, and how, finally, I contrived theirdeparture one by one, under conditions that placed them beyond allsuspicion. Juan de Mesa set out for Aragon on a mission concerned withthe administration of some property of the Princess of Eboli's. Rubio, Insausti, and Enriquez were each given an ensign's commission, bearingthe King's own signature, and ordered to join the armies in variousparts of Italy; the first was sent to Milan, the second to Sicily, andthe last to Naples. Bosque went back to Aragon. Thus all were placedbeyond the reach of the active justice of Castile, all save myself--andthe King, who wrote to me expressing his satisfaction that there hadbeen no arrests. 

But rumour continued to give tongue, and the burden of its tale was thatthe murder had been my work, in complicity with the Princess of Eboli. How they came to drag her name into the affair I do not know. It mayhave been pure malice trading upon its knowledge of the relationsbetween us. She may have lent colour to the charge by her ownprecipitancy in denying it. She announced indignantly that she wasbeing accused, almost before this had come to pass, and as indignantlyprotested against the accusation, and threatened those who dared tovoice it. 

The end of it all was that, a month later, the Escovedo family drew upa memorial for the consideration of the King, in which they laid themurder to my charge, and Philip consented to receive Don Pedro deEscovedo--the dead man's son--and promised him that he would considerthe memorial, and that he would deliver up to justice whomsoever hethought right. He was embarrassed by these demands of the Escovedos, myown danger, his duty as king, and his interests as an accomplice, or, rather, as the originator of the deed. 

The Escovedos were powerfully seconded by Vasquez, the Secretary of theCouncil, a member of Alva's party, a secret enemy of my own, consumedby jealousy of my power, and no longer fearing to disclose himself andassail me since he believed himself possessed of the means of ruiningme. He spoke darkly to the King of a woman concerned in this business, without yet daring to mention Anne by name, and urged him for thesatisfaction of the State, where evil rumours were abroad, to order aninquiry that should reveal the truth of the affair. 

It was Philip himself who informed me of what had passed, sneering atthe wildness of rumours that missed the truth so wildly, and when Ievinced distress at my position, he sought to reassure me; he even wroteto me after I had left him: "As long as I live you have nothing to fear. Others may change, but I never change, as you should know who know me. "

That was a letter that epitomized many others written me in those daysto Madrid from the Escurial, whither he had returned. And those letterscomforted me not only by their expressed assurances, but by the greaterassurance implicit in them of the King's good faith. I had by now agreat mass of his notes dealing with the Escovedo business, in almostevery one of which he betrayed his own share as the chief murderer, showing that I was no more than his dutiful instrument in thatexecution. With those letters in my power what need I ever fear? NotPhilip himself would dare to betray me. 

But I went now in a new dread--the dread of being myself murdered. Therewere threats of it in the air. The Escovedo family and their partisans, who included all my enemies, and even some members of the Eboli family, who considered that I had sullied the honour of their name by myrelations with Anne, talked openly of vengeance, so that I was driven tosurround myself by armed attendants whenever now I went abroad. 

I appealed again to Philip to protect me. I even begged him to permitme to retire from my Ministerial office, that thus the clamant envy thatinspired my persecution might be deprived of its incentive. Finally, I begged him to order me to stand my trial, that thus, since I wasconfident that no evidence could be produced against me, I should forcean acquittal from the courts and lay the matter to rest for all time. 

"Go and see the President of Castile, " he bade me. "Tell him the causesthat led to the death of Escovedo, and then let him talk to Don Pedro deEscovedo and to Vasquez, so as to induce them to desist. "

I did as I was bidden, and when the president, who was the Bishop ofPati, had heard me, he sent for my two chief enemies. 

"I have, Don Pedro, " he said, "your memorial to the King in which youaccuse Don Antonio Perez of the murder of your father. And I am toassure you in the King's name that justice will be done upon themurderer, whoever he may be, without regard to rank. But I am firstto engage you to consider well what evidence you have to justify yourcharge against a person of such consideration. For should your proofs beinsufficient I warn you that matters are likely to take a bad turn foryourself. Finally, before you answer me, let me add, upon my word as apriest, that Antonio Perez is as innocent as I am. "

It was the truth--the absolute truth, so far as it was known to Philipand to the Bishop--for, indeed, I was no more than the instrument of mymaster's will. 

Don Pedro looked foolish, almost awed. He was as a man who suddenlybecomes aware that he has missed stepping over the edge of a chasm inwhich destruction awaited him. He may have bethought him at last thatall his rantings had no better authority than suspicions which noevidence could support. 

"Sir, " he faltered, "since you tell me this, I pledge you my word onbehalf of myself and my family to make no more mention of this deathagainst Don Antonio. "

The Bishop swung then upon Vasquez, and his brow became furrowed withcontemptuous anger. 

"As for you, sir, you have heard--which was more than your due, forit is not your business by virtue of your office, nor have you anyobligations towards the deceased, such as excuse Don Pedro's rashness, to pursue the murderers of Escovedo. Your solicitude in this matterbrings you under a suspicion the more odious since you are a priest. I warn you, sir, to abstain, for this affair is different far fromanything that you imagine. "

But envy is a fierce goad, a consuming, irresistible passion, corrodingwisdom and deaf to all prudent counsels. Vasquez could not abstain. Ridden by his devil of spite and jealousy, he would not pause until hehad destroyed either himself or me. 

Since Escovedo's immediate family now washed their hands of the affair, Vasquez sought out more distant relatives of the murdered man, andstirred them up until they went in their turn to pester the courts, not only with accusations against myself, but with accusations that nowopenly linked with mine the name of the Princess of Eboli. 

We were driven to the brink of despair, and in this Anne wrote toPhilip. It was a madness. She made too great haste to excuse herself. She demanded protection from Vasquez and the evil rumours he was puttingabroad, implored the King to make an example of men who could pushso far their daring and irreverence, and to punish that Moorish dogVasquez--I dare say there was Moorish blood in the fellow's veins--as hedeserved. 

I think our ruin dated from that letter. Philip sent for me to theEscurial. He wished to know more precisely what the accusations were. I told him, denying them. Then he desired of the Princess proof of whatshe alleged against Vasquez, and she had no difficulty in satisfyinghim. He seemed to believe our assurance that all was lies. Yet he didnot move to punish Vasquez. But then I knew that sluggishness was hisgreat characteristic. "Time and I are one, " he would say when I pressedon matters. 

After that it was open war in the Council between me and Vasquez. Theclimax came when I was at the Escurial. I had sent a servant to Vasquezfor certain State papers to be submitted to the King. He brought them, and folded in them a fiercely denunciatory letter full of insults andinjuries, not the least of which was the imputation that my blood wasnot clean, my caste not good. 

In a passion I sought Philip, beside myself almost, trembling under theinsult. 

"See, Sire, what this Moorish thief has dared to write me. It transcendsall bearing. Either you take satisfaction for me of these insults or youpermit me to take it for myself. "

He appeared to share my indignation, promised to give me leave toproceed against the man, but bade me first wait a while until certainbusiness in the competent hands of Vasquez should be transacted. Butweeks grew into months, and nothing was done. We were in April of '79, a year after the murder, and I was grown so uneasy, so sensitive todangers about me, that I dared no longer visit Anne. And then Philip'sconfessor, Frey Diego de Chaves, came to me one day with a request onthe King's part that I should make my peace with Vasquez. 

"If he will retract, " was my condition. And Chaves went to see my enemy. What passed between them, what Vasquez may have told him, what he mayhave added to those rumours of my relations with Anne, I do not know. But I know that from that date there was a change in the King's attitudetowards me, a change in the tone of the letters that he sent me, and, this continuing, I wrote to him at last releasing him from his promiseto afford me satisfaction against Vasquez, assuring him that since, himself, he could forgive the injuries against us both, I could easilyforgive those I had received myself, and finally begging his permissionto resign my office and retire. 

Anne had contributed to this. She had sent for me, and in tears hadbesought me to make my peace with Vasquez since the King desired it, and this was no time in which to attempt resistance to his wishes. Iremained with her some hours, comforting her, for she was in the verydepths of despair, persuaded that we were both ruined, and inconsolablein the thought that the blame of this was all her own. 

It may be that I was watched, perhaps more closely than I imagined. Itmay be that spies were close about us, set by the jealous Philip, whodesired confirmation or refutation of the things he had been told, therumours that were gnawing at his vitals. 

I left her, little dreaming that I was never to see her again in thislife. That night I was arrested at my house by the Court alcalde upon anorder from the King. The paltry reason advanced was my refusal to makemy peace with Vasquez, and this when already the King was in possessionof my letter acknowledging my readiness to do so; for the King was inMadrid, unknown to me. He came, it seems, that he might be present atanother arrest effected that same night. From the porch of the Churchof Santa Maria Mayor, he watched his alguazils enter the house of thePrincess of Eboli, bring her forth, bestow her in a waiting carriagethat was to bear her away to the fortress of Pinto, to an imprisonmentwhich was later exchanged for exile to Pastrana lasting as long as lifeitself. 

To sin against a Prince is worse, it seems, than to sin against GodHimself. For God forgives, but princes, wounded in their vanity andpride, know nothing of forgiveness. 

I was kept for four months a prisoner by the alcalde, no charge beingpreferred against me. Then, because my health was suffering grievouslyfrom confinement and the anxiety of suspense, I was moved to my ownhouse, and detained there for another eight months under close guard. Myfriends besought the King in vain either to restore me to liberty orto bring me to trial. He told them the affair was of a nature verydifferent from anything they deemed, and so evaded all demands. 

In the summer of 1580, Philip went to Lisbon to take formal possessionof the crown of Portugal, which he had inherited. I sent my wife to himto intercede for me. But he refused to see her, and so I was left tocontinue the victim of his vindictive lethargy. After a year of this, upon my giving a formal promise to renounce all hostility towardsVasquez, and never seek to do him harm in any way, I was accorded somedegree of liberty. I was allowed to go out and to receive visitors, butnot to visit any one myself. 

Followed a further pause. Vasquez was now a man of power, for my partyhad fallen with me, and his own had supplanted it in the royal councils. It was by his work that at last, in '84, I was brought to trial upon acharge of corruption and misappropriation. I knew that my enemies had, meanwhile, become possessed of Enriquez, and that he was ready to giveevidence, that he was making no secret of his share in the death ofEscovedo, and that the King was being pressed by the Escovedos to bringme to trial upon the charge of murder. Instead, the other charge alonewas preferred. 

It was urged against me that I had kept a greater state than any grandeeof Spain, that when I went abroad I did so with a retinue befittinga prince, that I had sold my favour and accepted bribes from foreignprinces to guard their interests with the King of Spain. 

They sentenced me to two years' imprisonment in a fortress, to befollowed by ten years of exile, and I was to make, within nine days, restitution of some twenty million maravedis*--the alleged extent ofmy misappropriations--besides some jewels and furniture which I hadreceived from the Princess of Eboli, and which I was now ordered todeliver up to the heirs of the late Prince. 

 *Ten thousand pounds, but with at least five times the present purchasing power of that sum. 

Perquisitions had been made in my house, and my papers ransacked. WellI knew what they had sought. For the thought of the letters that hadpassed between Philip and myself at the time of Escovedo's death mustnow be troubling his peace of mind. I had taken due precautions whenfirst I had seen the gathering clouds foreshadowing this change ofweather. I had bestowed those papers safely in two iron-bound chestswhich had been concealed away against the time when I might need themto save my neck. And because now he failed to find what hesought--the evidence of his own share in the deed and his present baseduplicity--Philip dared not slip the leash from those dogs who wouldbe at my throat for the murder of Escovedo. That was why he bade themproceed against me only on the lesser charge of corruption. 

I was taken to the fortress of Turruegano, and there they came todemand of me the surrender of my papers which the alcalde had failed todiscover at my house. I imagined the uneasiness of Philip in dispatchingthose emissaries. I almost laughed as I refused. Those papers were mybuckler against worse befalling me than had befallen already. Even now, if too hard pressed, I might find the opportunity of breaking my bondsby means of them. I sometimes wonder why I did not apply myself to that. Yet there is small cause for wonder, really. From boyhood, almost, KingPhilip had been my master. Loyalty to him was a habit that went to thevery roots of my being. I had served him without conscience and withoutscruple, and the notion of betraying him, save as a very last and verydesperate resource, was inconceivable. I do not think he ever knew thedepth and breadth of that loyalty of mine. 

My refusal led those sons of dogs to attempt to frighten my wife withthreats of unmentionable horrors unless she delivered up the papersI had secreted. She and our children were threatened with perpetualimprisonment on bread and water if she persisted in refusing tosurrender them. But she held out against all threats, and remained firmeven under the oily persecution to the same end of Philip's confessor, Frey Diego. Finally, I was notified that, in view of her stubbornnessand my own, she and our children were cast into prison, and that therethey would remain until I saw fit to become submissive to the royalwill. 

It is a subtle form of mental torture that will bid a man contemplatethe suffering for his sake to which those who are dear to him are beingsubjected. 

I raged and stormed before the officer who brought me this infamouspiece of news. I gave vent to my impotent anger in blasphemousexpressions that were afterwards to be used against me. The officer wassubtly sympathetic. 

"I understand your grief, Don Antonio, " he said. "Believe me, I feelfor you--so much that I urge you to set an end to the captivity of thosedear ones who are innocent, who are suffering for your sake. "

"And so make an end of myself?" I asked him fiercely. 

"Reflection may show that even that is your duty in the circumstances. "

I looked into his smug face, and I was within an ace of striking him. Then I controlled myself, and my will was snapped. 

"Very well, " I said. "The papers shall be surrendered. Let my steward, Diego Martinez, come to me here, and he shall receive my instructionsto deliver the chests containing them to my wife, that she in turn maydeliver them to the King. "

He withdrew, well pleased. No doubt he would take great credit tohimself for this. Within three days, such haste did they make, myfaithful steward stood before me in my prison at Turruegano. 

You conceive the despair that had overwhelmed me after giving myconsent, the consciousness that it was my life I was surrendering withthose papers, --that without them I should be utterly defenceless. Butin the three days that were sped I had been thinking, and not quite invain. 

Martinez left me with precise instructions, as a result of which thosetwo iron-bound chests, locked and sealed, were delivered, togetherwith the keys, to the royal confessor. Martinez was asked what theycontained. 

"I do not know, " he answered. "My orders are merely to deliver them. "

I can conceive the King's relief and joy in his conviction that thus hadhe drawn my teeth, that betide now what might, I could never defend orjustify myself. The immediate sequel took me by surprise. We were atthe end of '85, and my health was suffering from my confinement andits privations. And now my captivity was mitigated. My wife Juana evensucceeded in obtaining permission that I should be taken home to Madrid, and there for fourteen months I enjoyed a half liberty, and received thevisits of my old friends, among whom were numbered most of the membersof the Court. 

I imagined at first that since my teeth were drawn the King despised me, and intended nothing further. But I was soon to be disillusioned on thatscore. It began with the arrest of Martinez on a charge of complicity inthe murder of Escovedo. And then one day I was again arrested, withoutwarning, and carried off for a while to the fortress of Pinto. ThenceI was brought back in close captivity to Madrid, and there I learnt atlast what had been stirring. 

In the previous summer King Philip had gone into Aragon to presideover the Cortes, and Vasquez, who had gone with him, had seizedthe opportunity to examine the ensign Enriquez, who had, meanwhile, denounced himself of complicity in the murder of Escovedo. Enriquez madea full confession--turned accuser under a promise of full pardonfor himself and charged Mesa, Rubio, and my steward Martinez withcomplicity, denouncing Martinez as the ringleader of the business. Theother two, Insausti and Bosque, were already dead. 

Immediately Vasquez attempted to seize the survivors. But Mesa had goneto earth in Aragon, and Rubio was with him. Martinez alone remained, and him they seized and questioned. He remained as cool and master ofhimself as he was true and loyal to me. Their threats made no impressionon him. He maintained that the tale was all a lie, begotten of spite, that I had been Escovedo's best friend, that I had been greatlyafflicted by his death, and that no man could have done more than I todiscover his real murderers. They confronted him with Enriquez, andthe confrontation no whit disturbed him. He handled the traitorcontemptuously as a perjured, suborned witness, a false servant, a manwho, as he proceeded to show, was a scoundrel steeped in crime, whoseword was utterly worthless, and who, no doubt, had been bought to bringthese charges against his sometime master. 

The situation, thanks to Martinez's stoutness, had reached a deadlock. Between the assertions of one man, who was revealed to the judges for aworthless scoundrel, and the denials of the other, against whom nothingwas known, it was impossible for the court of inquiry to reach anyconclusion. At least another witness must be obtained. And Vasquezlaboured with all his might and arts and wiles to draw Rubio out ofAragon into the clutches of the justice of Castile. But he laboured invain, for I had secretly found the means to instruct my trusty Mesa toretain the fellow where he was. 

In this inconclusive state of things the months dragged on and mycaptivity continued. I wrote to Philip, imploring his mercy, complainingof these unjust delays on the part of Vasquez, which threatened to goon forever, and begging His Majesty to command the conclusion of theaffair. That was in August of '89. You see how time had sped. All thatcame of my appeal was at first an increased rigour of imprisonment, andthen a visit from Vasquez to examine and question me upon thetestimony of Enriquez. As you can imagine, the attempt to lure me intoself-betrayal was completely fruitless. My enemy withdrew, baffled, togo question my wife, but without any better success. 

Nevertheless, Vasquez proclaimed the charge established against myselfand Martinez, and allowed us ten days in which to prepare our answer. Immediately upon that Don Pedro de Escovedo lodged a formal indictmentagainst us, and I was put into irons. 

To rebut the evidence of one single, tainted witness I produced sixwitnesses of high repute, including the Secretary of the Council ofAragon. They testified for me that I was at Alcala at the time ofEscovedo's death, that I had always been Escovedo's friend, that I wasa good Christian incapable of such a deed, and that Enriquez as an evilman whose word was worthless, a false witness inspired by vengeance. 

Thus, in spite of the ill-will of my judges and the hatred of myenemies, it was impossible legally to condemn me upon the evidence. There were documents enough in existence to have proved my part in theaffair; but not one of them dared the King produce, since they wouldalso show me to have been no more than his instrument. And so, desiringmy death as it was now clear he did, he must sit impotently broodingthere with what patience he could command, like a gigantic, evil spiderinto whose web I obstinately refused to fling myself. 

My hopes began to revive. When at last the court announced that itpostponed judgment whilst fresh evidence was sought, there was an outcryof indignation on all sides. This was a tyrannical abuse of power, men said; and I joined my voice to theirs to demand that judgmentbe pronounced and my liberty restored to me, pointing out that Ihad already languished years in captivity without any charge againstme--beyond that of corruption, which had been purged by now--having beenestablished. 

Then at last the King stirred in his diabolical underground manner. Hesent his confessor to me in prison. The friar was mild and benign. 

"My poor friend, " he said, "why do you allow yourself to suffer in thisfashion, when a word from you can set a term to it? Confess the deedwithout fear, since at the same time you can advance a peremptory reasonof State to justify it. "

It was too obvious a trap. Did I make confession, indeed, upon suchgrounds, they would demand of me proof of what I asserted; and meanwhilethe documents to prove it had been extorted from me and had passed intothe King's possession. In the result I should be ruined completely asone who, to the crime of murder, added a wicked, insidious falsehoodtouching the honour of his King. 

But I said naught of this. I met guile with guile. "Alas! I have beentempted, " I answered him. "But I thank Heaven I have known even in myextremity how to resist the temptation of such disloyalty. I cannotforget, Brother Diego, that amongst the letters from the King was onethat said, 'Be not troubled by anything your enemies may do against you. I shall not abandon you, and be sure their animosity cannot prevail. Butyou must understand that it must not be discovered that this death tookplace by my order. "'

"But if the King were to release you from that command?" he asked. 

"When His Majesty in his goodness and generosity sends me a note in hisown hand to say, 'You may confess that it was by my express order thatyou contrived the death of Escovedo, ' then I shall thankfully accountmyself absolved from the silence his service imposes on me. "

He looked at me narrowly. He may have suspected that I saw through thetransparent device to ruin me, and that in a sense I mocked him with myanswer. 

He withdrew, and for some days nothing further happened. Then therigours of my captivity were still further increased. I was allowedto communicate with no one, and even the alguazil who guarded me wasforbidden, under pain of death, to speak to me. 

And in January I was visited by Vasquez, who brought me a letter fromthe King, not, indeed, addressed to me and in the terms I had suggested, but to Vasquez himself, and it ran:

You may tell Antonio Perez from me, and, if necessary, show him thisletter, that he is aware of my knowledge of having ordered him to putEscovedo to death and of the motives which he told me existed for thismeasure; and that as it imports for the satisfaction of my consciencethat it be ascertained whether or not those motives were sufficient, Iorder him to state them in the fullest detail, and to advance proof ofwhat he then alleged to me, which is not unknown to yourself, since Ihave clearly imparted it to you. When I shall have seen his answers, andthe reasons he advances, I shall give order that such measures be takenas may befit. 

I, THE KING

You see what a twist he had given to the facts. It was I who had urgedthe death of Escovedo; it was I who had advanced reasons which he hadconsidered sufficient, trusting to my word; and it was because of thishe had consented to give the order. Let me confess so much, let me proveit, and prove, too, that the motives I had advanced were sound ones, orI must be destroyed. That was all clear. And that false king held fastthe two trunks of papers that would have given the lie to this atrociousnote of his, that would have proved that again and again I had shieldedEscovedo from the death his king designed for him. 

I looked into the face of my enemy, and there was a twisted smile on mylips. 

"What fresh trap is this?" I asked him. "King Philip never wrote thatnote. "

"You should know his hand. Look closer, " he bade me harshly. 

"I know his hand--none better. But I claim, too, to know something ofhis heart. And I know that it is not the heart of a perjured liar suchas penned those lines. "

That was as near as a man dared to go in expressing his true opinion ofa prince. 

"For the rest, " I said, "I do not understand it. I know nothing of thedeath of Escovedo. I have nothing to add to what already I have said inopen court unless it be to protest against you, who are a passionate, hostile judge. "

Six times in the month that followed did Vasquez come to me, accompaniednow by a notary, to press me to confess. At last, seeing that nopersuasions could bend my obstinacy, they resorted to other measures. 

"You will drive us to use the torture upon you so that we may loosenyour tongue!" snarled Vasquez fiercely, enraged by my obduracy. 

I laughed at the threat. I was a noble of Spain, by birth immune fromtorture. They dared not violate the law. But they did dare. There wasno law, human or divine, the King was not prepared to violate so thathe might slake his vengeance upon the man who had dared to love where hehad loved. 

They delivered me naked into the hands of the executioner, and Iunderwent the question at the rope. They warned me that if I lost mylife or the use of any of my limbs, it would be solely by my own fault. I advanced my nobility and the state of my health as all-sufficientreasons why the torture should not be applied to me, reminding them thatfor eleven years already I had suffered persecution and detention, sothat my vigour was all gone. 

For the last time they summoned me to answer as the King desired. Andthen, since I still refused, the executioner was recalled, he crossed myarms upon my breast, bound them securely, thrust a long rod beneath thecord, and, seizing one end of this in either hand, gave the first turn. 

I screamed. I could not help it, enfeebled as I was. But my spirit beingstouter than my flesh, I still refused to answer. Not indeed, untilthey had given the rope eight turns, not until it had sliced through mymuscles and crushed the bone of one of my arms, so that to this dayit remains of little use to me, did they conquer me. I had reached thelimit of endurance. 

"In Christ's name, release me!" I gasped. "I will say anything youwish. "

Released at last, half swooning, smothered in blood, agonized by pain, I confessed that it was myself had procured the death of Escovedo forreasons of State and acting upon the orders of the King. The notary madehaste to write down my words, and, when I had done, it was demanded ofme that I should advance proof of the State reasons which I had alleged. 

Oh, I had never been under any delusion on that score, as I have shownyou. The demand did not take me by surprise at all. I was waitingfor it, knowing that my answer to it would pronounce my doom. But Idelivered it none the less. 

"My papers have been taken from me, and without them I can provenothing. With them I could prove my words abundantly. "

They left me then. On the morrow, as I afterwards learnt, they read myconfession to my devoted Martinez, and the poor fellow, who hitherto hadremained staunch and silent under every test, seeing that there was nofurther purpose to be served by silence, gave them the confirmation theydesired of Enriquez's accusation. 

Meanwhile, I was very ill, in a raging fever as you may well conceive, and in answer to my prayer my own doctor was permitted to visit me inprison. He announced that he found my case extremely grave, and that Imust perish unless I were relieved. As a consequence, and considering myweakness and the uselessness just then of both my arms, one of which wasbroken, first a page of my own, then other servants, and lastly my wifewere allowed to come and tend me. 

That was at the end of February. By the middle of April my wounds hadhealed, I had recovered the use of my limbs, though one remains halfmaimed for life, and my condition had undergone a very considerableimprovement. But of this I allowed no sign to show, no suspicion even. Icontinued to lie there day after day in a state of complete collapse, so that whilst I was quickly gathering strength it was believed by mygaolers that I was steadily sinking, and that I should soon be dead. 

My only hope, you see, lay now in evasion, and it was for this thatI was thus craftily preparing. Once out of Castile I could deal withPhilip, and he should not find me as impotent, as toothless as hebelieved. But I go too fast. 

One night at last, on April 20th, by when all measures had beenconcerted, and Gil de Mesa awaited me outside with horses--the wholehaving been contrived by my dear wife--I made the attempt. My apparentcondition had naturally led to carelessness in guarding me. Who wouldguard a helpless, dying man? Soon after dark I rose, donned over my ownclothes a petticoat and a hooded cloak belonging to my wife, and thusmuffed walked out of my cell, past the guards, and so out of the prisonunchallenged. I joined Gil de Mesa, discarded my feminine disguise, mounted and set out with him upon that ninety-mile journey into Aragon. 

We reached Saragossa in safety, and there my first act was to surrendermyself to the Grand Justiciary of Aragon to stand my trial for themurder of Escovedo with which I was charged. 

It must have sent a shudder through the wicked Philip when he receivednews of that. A very stricken man he must have been, for he musthave suspected something of the truth, that if I dared, after all theevidence amassed now against me, including my own confession undertorture, openly to seek a judgment, it was because I must possess someunsuspected means of establishing all the truth--the truth that mustmake his own name stink in the nostrils of the world. And so it was. Have you supposed that Antonio Perez, who had spent his life in studyingthe underground methods of burrowing statecraft, had allowed himself tobe taken quite so easily in their snare? Have you imagined that when Isent for Diego Martinez to come to me at Turruegano and instructed himtouching the surrender of those two chests of documents, that I didnot also instruct him carefully touching the abstraction in the firstinstance of a few serviceable papers and the renewal of the seals thatshould conceal the fact that he had tampered with the chests? If youhave thought that, you have done me less than justice. There had been somuch correspondence between Philip and myself, so many notes had passedtouching the death of Escovedo, and there was that habit of Philip's ofwriting his replies in marginal notes to my own letters and so returningthem, that it was unthinkable he should have kept them all in hismemory, and the abstraction of three or four could not conceivably bedetected by him. 

Ever since then those few letters, of a most deeply incriminatingcharacter, selected with great acumen by my steward, had secretlyremained in the possession of my wife. Yet I had not dared produce themin Castile, knowing that I should instantly have been deprived of them, and with them of my last hope. They remained concealed against preciselysuch a time as this, when, beyond the immediate reach of Philip'sjustice, I should startle the world and clear my own character by theirproduction. 

You know the ancient privileges enjoyed by Aragon, privileges of whichthe Aragonese are so jealous that a King of Castile may not assume thetitle of King of Aragon until, bareheaded, he shall have received fromthe Grand Justiciary of Aragon the following admonition: "We, who are ofequal worth and greater power than you, constitute you our king on thecondition that you respect our privileges, and not otherwise. " And tothat the king must solemnly bind himself by oath, whose violation wouldraise in revolt against him the very cobbles of the streets. No king ofSpain had ever yet been found to dare violate the constitution andthe fueros of Aragon, the independence of their cortes, or parliament, composed of the four orders of the State. The Grand Justiciary's Courtwas superior to any royally constituted tribunal in the kingdom; tothat court it was the privilege of any man to appeal for justice in anycause; and there justice was measured out with a stern impartiality thathad not its like in any other State of Europe. 

That was the tribunal to which I made surrender of my person and mycause. There was an attempt on the part of Philip to seize me and dragme back to Castile and his vengeance. His officers broke into the prisonfor that purpose, and already I was in their power, when the men of theJusticiary, followed by an excited mob, which threatened open rebellionat this violation of their ancient rights, delivered me from theirhands. 

Baffled in this--and I can imagine his fury, which has since been ventedon the Aragonese--Philip sent his representatives and his jurists toaccuse me before the Court of the Grand Justiciary and to conduct myprosecution. 

The trial began, exciting the most profound interest, not only inAragon, but also in Castile, which, as I afterwards learnt, had openlyrejoiced at my escape. It proceeded with the delays and longueurs thatare inseparable from the sluggish majesty of the law. One of thesepauses I wrote to Philip, inviting him to desist, and to grant me theliberty to live out my days in peace with my family in some remotecorner of his kingdom. I warned him that I was not helpless before hispersecution, as he imagined; that whilst I had made surrender of twochests of papers, I yet retained enough authentic documents--letters inhis own hand--to make my innocence and his guilt apparent in a startlingdegree, with very evil consequences to himself. 

His answer was to seize my wife and children and cast them into prison, and then order the courts of Madrid to pronounce sentence of deathagainst me for the murder of Escovedo. Such were the sops with which hesought to quench his vindictive rage. 

Thereupon the trial proceeded. I prepared my long memorial of theaffair, supporting it with proofs in the shape of those letters I hadretained. And then at last Philip of Spain took fright. He was warnedby one of his representatives that there was little doubt I should beacquitted on all counts, and, too late, he sought to save his face byordering the cessation of the prosecution he had instructed. 

He stated that since I had chosen a line of defence, to answer which--asit could be answered--it would be necessary to touch upon matters ofa secrecy that was inviolable, and to introduce personages whosereputation and honour was of more consequence to the State than thecondemnation of Antonio Perez, he preferred to renounce the prosecutionbefore the tribunal of Aragon. But he added a certificate upon his royalword to the effect that my crimes were greater than had ever been thecrimes of any man, and that, whilst he renounced the prosecution beforethe courts of Aragon, he retained the right to demand of me an accountof my actions before any other tribunal at any future time. 

My acquittal followed immediately. And immediately again that wassucceeded by fresh charges against me on behalf of the King. Firstit was sought to prove that I had procured the death of two of myservants--a charge which I easily dispersed by proving them to havedied natural deaths. Then it was sought to prosecute me on the charge ofcorruption, for which I had once already been prosecuted, condemned, andpunished. Confidently I demanded my release, and Philip must have groundhis teeth in rage to see his prey escaping him, to see himself the buttof scorn and contempt for the wrongs that it became clear he had doneme. 

One weapon remained to him, and a terrible weapon this--the Holy Officeof the Inquisition, a court before which all temporal courts must bowand quail. He launched its power against me, and behold me, in themoment when I accounted myself the victor in the unequal contest, accused of the dread sin of heresy. Words lightly weighed--uttered by mein prison under stress--had been zealously gathered up y spies. 

On one occasion I had exclaimed: "I think God sleeps where my affairsare concerned, and I am in danger of losing my faith. " The Holy Officeheld this to be a scandalous proposition, offensive to pious ears. 

Again, when I heard of the arrest of my wife and children I had criedout in rage: "God sleeps! God sleeps! There cannot be a God!"

This they argued at length to be rank heresy, since it is man's dutypositively to believe, and who does not believe is an infidel. 

Yet again it seems I had exclaimed: "Should things so come to pass, I shall refuse to believe in God!" This was accounted blasphemous, scandalous, and not without suspicion of heresy. 

Upon these grounds the Supreme Council of the Inquisition at Madrid drewup its impeachment, and delivered it to the inquisitors of Aragon atSaragossa. These at once sent their familiars to demand the surrender ofme from the Grand Justiciary, in whose hands I still remained. The GrandJusticiary incontinently refused to yield me up. 

Thereupon the three Inquisitors drew up a peremptory demand, addressedto the lieutenants of the Justiciary, summoning them by virtue of holyobedience, under pain of greater excommunication, of a fine in the caseof each of them of one thousand ducats, and other penalties to whichthey might later be condemned, to deliver me up within three hours tothe pursuivants of the Holy Office. 

This was the end of the Justiciary's resistance. He dared not refusea demand so framed, and surrender of me was duly made. But the newsof what was doing had run abroad. I had no lack of friends, whom Iinstantly warned of what was afoot, and they had seen to it that theknowledge spread in an inflammatory manner. Saragossa began to stir atonce. Here was a thinly masked violation of their ancient privileges. Ifthey suffered this precedent of circumventing their rights, what wasto become of their liberties in future, who would be secure against anunjust persecution? For their sympathies were all with me throughoutthat trial. 

I was scarcely in the prison of the Holy Office before the dread cry ofContrafueros! was ringing through the streets of Saragossa, summoningthe citizens to arm and come forth in defence of their inviolablerights. They stormed the palace of the Grand Justiciary, demanded thathe should defend the fueros, to whose guardianship he had been elected. Receiving no satisfaction, they attacked the palace of the Inquisition, clamouring insistently that I should immediately be returned to theJusticiary's prison, whence I had so unwarrantably been taken. 

The Inquisitors remained firm a while, but the danger was increasinghourly. In the end they submitted, for the sake of their skins, andconsidering, no doubt, a later vengeance for this outrage upon theirholy authority. But it was not done until faggots had been stackedagainst the Holy House, and the exasperated mob had threatened to burnthem out of it. 

"Castilian hypocrites!" had been the insurgent roar. "Surrender yourprisoner, or you shall be roasted in the fire in which you roast somany!"

Blood was shed in the streets. The King's representative died of woundsthat he received in the affray, whilst the Viceroy himself was assailedand compelled to intervene and procure my deliverance. 

For the moment I was out of danger. But for the moment only. There wasno question now of my enlargement. The Grand Justiciary, intimidatedby what had taken place, by the precise expression of the King'swill, dared not set me at liberty. And then the Holy Office, under thedirection of the King, went to work in that subterranean way which ithas made its own; legal quibbles were raised to soothe the sensibilitiesof the Aragonese with respect to my removal from the Justiciary's prisonto that of the Holy Office. Strong forces of troops were brought toSaragossa to overawe the plebeian insolence, and so, by the followingSeptember, all the preliminaries being concluded, the Inquisition camein force and in form to take possession of me. 

The mob looked on and murmured; but it was intimidated by the show ofordered force; it had perhaps tired a little of the whole affair, anddid not see that it should shed its blood and lay up trouble for itselffor the sake of one who, after all, was of no account in the affairs ofAragon. I stood upon the threshold of my ruin. All my activities wereto go unrewarded. Doom awaited me. And then the unexpected happened. The alguazil of the Holy Office was in the very act of setting the gyvesupon my legs when the first shot was fired, followed almost at once by afusillade. 

It was Gil de Mesa, faithfullest servant that ever any man possessed. He had raised an armed band, consisting of some Aragonese gentlemenand their servants, and with this he fell like a thunderbolt upon theCastilian men-at-arms and the familiars of the Inquisition. The alguazilfled, leaving me one leg free, the other burdened by the gyve, and ashe fled so fled all others, being thus taken unawares. The Inquisitorsscuttled to the nearest shelter; the Viceroy threw himself into hishouse and barricaded the door. There was no one to guide, no one todirect. The soldiery in these circumstances, and accounting themselvesoverpowered, offered no resistance. They, too, fled before the fusilladeand the hail of shot that descended on them. 

Before I realized what had happened, the iron had been struck from myleg, I was mounted on a horse, and, with Gil at my side, I was gallopingout of Saragossa by the gate of Santa Engracia, and breasting the slopeswith little cause to fear pursuit just yet, such was the disorder we hadleft behind. 

And there, very briefly, you have the story of my sufferings and myescapes. Not entirely to be baulked, numerous arrests were made by theInquisitors in Saragossa when order was at last restored. There followedan auto-da-fe, the most horrible and vindictive of all those horrors, inwhich many suffered for having displayed the weakness of charity towardsa persecuted man. And, since my body was no longer in their clutches, they none the less sentenced me to death as contumaciously absent, andmy effigy was burnt in the holy fires they lighted, amongst the humancandles which they offered up for the greater honour and glory of amerciful God. Let me say no more, lest I blaspheme in earnest. 

After months of wandering and hiding, Gil and I made our way here intoNavarre, where we remain the guests of Protestant King Henri IV, whodoes not love King Philip any better since he has heard my story. 

Still King Philip's vengeance does not sleep. Twice has he sent after mehis assassins--since assassination is the only weapon now remaining tohim. But his poor tools have each time been taken, exposed to Philip'sgreater infamy and shame--and hanged as they deserve who can so vilelyserve so vile a master. It has even been sought to bribe my faithfulGil de Mesa into turning his hand against me, and that attempt, too, hasbeen given the fullest publication. Meanwhile, my death to-day couldno longer avail Philip very much. My memorial is published throughoutEurope for all to read. It has been avidly read until Philip of Spainhas earned the contempt of every upright man. In his own dominions thevoice of execration has been raised against him. One of his own nobleshas contemptuously announced that Spain under Philip has become unsafefor any gentleman, and that a betrayal of a subject by his king iswithout parallel in history. 

That is some measure of vengeance. But if I am spared I shall not leaveit there. Henry of Navarre is on the point of turning Catholic that hisinterests may be better served. Elizabeth of England remains. In herdominions, where thrives the righteous hatred of Philip and all theevil that he stands for, I shall find a welcome and a channel for theactivities that are to show him that Antonio Perez lives. I have senthim word that when he is weary of the conflict he can signify hissurrender by delivering from their prison my wife and children, uponwhom he seeks still to visit some of the vengeance I have succeeded ineluding. When he does that, then will I hold my hand. But not before. 

"That, madame, is my story, " said Don Antonio, after a pause, and fromnarrowing eyes looked at the beauty who had heard him through. 

Daylight had faded whilst the tale was telling. Night was come, andlights had long since been fetched, the curtains drawn over the longwindows that looked out across the parkland to the river. 

Twice only had he paused in all that narrative. Once when he haddescribed the avowal of his love for Anne, Princess of Eboli, when aburst of sobs from her had come to interrupt him; again when a curiousbird-note had rung out upon the gathering dusk. Then he stopped tolisten. 

"Curious that, " he had said--"an eagle's cry. I have not heard it thesemany months, not since I left the hills of Aragon. "

Thereafter he had continued to the end. 

Considering her now, his glance inscrutable, he said:

"You weep, madame. Tell me, what is it that has moved you--thecontemplation of my sufferings, or of your own duplicity?"

She started up, very white, her eyes scared. 

"I do not understand you. What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, madame, that God did not give you so much beauty that youshould use it in the decoying of an unfortunate, that you should hire itat an assassin's fee to serve the crapulous King of Spain. "

He rose and towered before her, a figure at once of anger, dignity, andsome compassion. 

"So much ardour from youth and beauty to age and infirmity was in itselfsuspicious. The Catholic King has the guile of Satan, I remembered. Iwondered, and hoped my suspicions might be unfounded. Yet prudence mademe test them, that the danger, if it existed, should manifest itself andbe destroyed. So I came to tell you all my story, so that if you did thething I feared, you might come to the knowledge of precisely what it wasyou did. I have learnt whilst here that what I suspected is--alas! quitetrue. You were a lure, a decoy sent to work my ruin, to draw me intoa trap where daggers waited for me. Why did you do this? What was thebribe that could corrupt you, lovely lady?"

Sobs shook her. Her will gave way before his melancholy sternness. 

"I do not know by what wizardry you have discovered it!" she cried. "It was true; but it is true no longer. I knew not what I did. By thatwindow, across the meadows, you can reach the river in safety. " Sherose, controlling her emotion that she might instruct him. "They waitfor you in the enclosed garden. "

He smiled wistfully. 

"They waited, madame. They wait no longer, unless it be for death. Thateagle's cry, thrice repeated, was the signal from my faithful Gil, notonly that the trap was discovered, but that those who baited it weretaken. Suspecting what I did, I took my measures ere I came. AntonioPerez, as I have told you, is not an easy man to murder. Unlike Philip, I do not make war on women, and I have no reckoning to present to you. But I am curious, madame, to know what led you to this baseness. "

"I--I thought you evil, and--and they bribed me. I was offered tenthousand ducats for your head. We are very poor, we Chantenacs, and soI fell. But, sir--sir"--she was on her knees to him now, and she hadcaught his hand in hers--"poor as I am, all that I have is yours to dowith as you will, to help to avenge yourself upon that Spanish monster. Take what you will. Take all I have. "

His smile grew gentler. Gently he raised her. 

"Madame, " he said, "I am myself a sinner, as I have shown you, a manunequal to resisting temptation when it took me in its trammels. Of allthat you offer, I will take only the right to this kiss. "

And bending, he bore her hand to his lips. 

Then he went out to join Gil and his men, who waited in the courtyard, guarding three prisoners they had taken. 

Perez considered them by the light of the lantern that Gil held aloftfor him. 

"One of you, " he announced, "shall return to Castile and give tidings toPhilip, his master, that Antonio Perez leaves for England and the Courtof Elizabeth, to aid her, by his knowledge of the affairs of Spain, inher measures against the Catholic King, and to continue his holy work, which is to make the name of Philip II stink in the nostrils of allhonest men. One of you I will spare for that purpose. You shall drawlots for it in the morning. The other two must hang. "

IV. THE NIGHT OF CHARITY--The Case Of The Lady Alice Lisle

Of all the cases tried in the course of that terrible circuit, justlyknown as the Bloody Assizes, the only one that survives at all in thepopular memory is the case of the Lady Alice Lisle. Her advanced age, the fact that she was the first woman known in English history to havesuffered death for no worse an offence than that of having exercised thefeminine prerogative of mercy, and the further fact that, even so, thisoffence--technical as it was--was never fully proved against her, areall circumstances which have left their indelible stamp of horror uponthe public mind. There is also the further circumstance that hers wasthe first case tried in the West by that terrible Chief Justice, BaronJeffreys of Wem. 

But the feature that renders her case peculiarly interesting to thehistorical psychologist--and it is a feature that is in danger of beingoverlooked--is that she cannot really be said to have suffered for thetechnical offence for which she took her trial. That was the pretextrather than the cause. In reality she was the innocent victim of arelentless, undiscerning Nemesis. 

The battle of Sedgemoor had been fought and lost by the Protestantchampion, James, Duke of Monmouth. In the West, which had answered theDuke's summons to revolt, there was established now a horrible reign ofterror reflecting the bigoted, pitiless, vindictive nature of the King. Faversham had left Colonel Percy Kirke in command at Bridgwater, aruthless ruffian, who at one time had commanded the Tangier garrison, and whose men were full worthy of their commander. Kirke's Lambs theywere called, in an irony provoked by the emblem of the Paschal Lamb onthe flag of this, the First Tangier Regiment, originally levied to wagewar upon the infidel. 

From Bridgwater Colonel Kirke made a horrible punitive progress toTaunton, where he put up at the White Hart Inn. Now, there was a verysolid signpost standing upon a triangular patch of green before thedoor of the White Hart, and Colonel Kirke conceived the quite facetiousnotion of converting this advertisement of hospitality into a gallows--asignpost of temporal welfare into a signpost of eternity. So forth hefetched the prisoners he had brought in chains from Bridgwater, andproceeded, without any form of trial whatsoever, to string them upbefore the inn. The story runs that as they were hoisted to thatimprovised gibbet, Kirke and his officers, standing at the windows, raised their glasses to pledge their happy deliverance; then, whenthe victims began to kick convulsively, Kirke would order the drumsto strike up, so that the gentlemen might have music for their betterdancing. 

The colonel, you see, was a humorist, as humour was then understood uponthe northern shores of Africa, where he had been schooled. 

When, eventually, Colonel Kirke was recalled and reprimanded, it was notbecause of his barbarities many of which transcend the possibilities ofdecent print--but because of a lenity which this venal gentleman beganto display when he discovered that many of his victims were willing topay handsomely for mercy. 

Meanwhile, under his reign of terror, men who had cause to fear theterrible hand of the King's vengeance went into hiding wherever theycould. Among those who escaped into Hampshire, thinking themselves saferin a county that had not participated in the war, were a dissentingparson named George Hicks, who had been in Monmouth's army, and a lawyernamed Richard Nelthorp, outlawed for participation in the Rye HousePlot. In his desperate quest for shelter, Hicks bethought him of thecharitable Nonconformist lady of Moyle's Court, the widow of that JohnLisle who had been one of Cromwell's Lords Commissioners of the GreatSeal, and most active in bringing King Charles I to justice. 

John Lisle had fled to Switzerland at the Restoration; but Stuartvengeance had followed him, set a price upon his head, and procuredhis murder at Lausanne. That was twenty years ago. Since then his lady, because she was known to have befriended and sheltered many Royalists, and because she had some stout Tory friends to plead for her, wasallowed to remain in tranquil possession of her estates. And there theLady Alice Lisle--so called by courtesy, since Cromwell's titles did notat law survive the Restoration--might have ended her days in peace, butthat it was written that those who hated her--innocent and aged thoughshe was--for the name she bore, who included her in the rancour whichhad procured her husband's assassination, were to be fully satisfied. And the instrument of fate was this parson Hicks. He prevailed uponDunne, a baker of Warminster, and a Nonconformist, to convey to the LadyLisle his prayer for shelter. With that message Dunne set out on July25th for Ellingham, a journey of some twenty miles. He went by way ofFovant and Chalk to Salisbury Plain. But as he did not know the waythence, he sought out a co-religionist named Barter, who undertook, fora consideration, to go with him and direct him. 

Together the pair came in the late afternoon of that Saturday to thehandsome house of Moyle's Court, and to my lady's steward, who receivedthem. Dunne, who appears to have been silly and imprudent, states thathe is sent to know if my lady will entertain a minister named Hicks. 

Carpenter, the steward, a staid, elderly fellow, took fright at once. Although he may not have associated an absconding Presbyterian parsonwith the late rebellion, he must have supposed at least that he was oneof those against whom there were warrants for preaching in forbiddenprivate meetings. So to her ladyship above stairs Carpenter conveyed awarning with the message. 

But that slight, frail, homely lady of seventy, with kindly eyes ofa faded blue, smiled upon his fears. She had sheltered fugitivesbefore--in the old days of the Commonwealth--and nothing but good hadever come of it. She would see this messenger. 

With misgivings, Carpenter haled Dunne into her presence, and left themalone together. The impression conveyed by Dunne was that Hicks wasin hiding from the warrants that were out against all Nonconformistpreachers. But when he mentioned that Hicks had a companion, she desiredto know his name. 

"I do not know, my lady. But I do not think he has been in the army, either. "

She considered a while. But in the end pity conquered doubt in hersweetly charitable soul. 

"Very well, " she said, "I will give them entertainment for a week. Bring them on Tuesday after dark, and come by the back way through theorchard, that they may not be seen. "

And upon this she rose, and took up an ebony cane, herself to reconducthim and to see to his entertainment before he left. Not until they cameto the kitchen did she realize that he had a companion. At sight ofBarter, who rose respectfully when she entered, she checked, turned toDunne, and whispered something, to which his answer provoked from her alaugh. 

Now Barter, intrigued by this whispering and laughing, of which hedeemed himself the object, questioned Dunne upon it as they rode forthagain together. 

"She asked me if you knew aught of the business, " replied Dunne; "and Ianswered 'No. "'

"Business, say'st thou?" quoth Barter. "What business?"

"Sure, the business on which we came, " Dunne evaded; and he laughed. 

It was an answer that left Barter uneasy. Nor was his mind set at restby the parting words with which Dunne accompanied the half-crown for hisservices. 

"This is but an earnest of what's to come if you will meet me here onTuesday to show me the way to Moyle's Court again. I shall be bringingtwo gentlemen with me--wealthy men, of a half-score thousand pounds ayear apiece. I tell you there will be a fine booty for my part, so finethat I shall never want for money again all the days of my life. And, sothat you meet us here, you too may count upon a handsome reward. "

Consenting, Barter went his ways home. But as he pondered Dunne's sillyspeech, and marvelled that honest men should pay so disproportionatelyfor an honest service, he came to the reasonable conclusion that he hadto do with rebels. This made him so uneasy that he resolved at last tolodge information with the nearest justice. 

Now, it happened, by the irony of Fate, that the justice sought byBarter was one Colonel Penruddock--the vindictive son of that Penruddockwhom the late John Lisle--whilst Lord President of the High Court--hadsentenced to death some thirty years ago for participation in anunsuccessful Wiltshire rising against the Commonwealth. 

The colonel, a lean, stark man of forty-five, heard with interestBarter's story. 

"Art an honest fellow!" he commended him. "What are the names of theserogues?"

"The fellow named no names, sir. "

"Well, well, we shall discover that for ourselves when we come to takethem at this trysting-place. Whither do you say you are to conductthem?"

"To Moyle's Court, sir, where my Lady Lisle is to give thementertainment. "

The colonel stared a moment; then a heavy smile came to light thesaturnine face under the heavy periwig. Beyond that he gave no sign ofwhat was passing in his mind. 

"You may go, " he said slowly, at last. "Be sure we shall be at the trystto take these rascals. "

But the colonel did not keep his promise. To Barter's surprise, therewere no soldiers at the tryst on Salisbury Plain on the followingTuesday; and he was suffered to lead Dunne and the two men with him theshort, corpulent Mr. Hicks and the long, lean Nelthorp--to Moyle's Courtwithout interference. 

The rich reward that Dunne had promised him amounted in actual factto five shillings, that he had from Nelthorpe at parting. Puzzled byColonel Penruddock's failure to do his part, Barter went off at onceto the colonel's house to inform him that the pair were now at LadyLisle's. 

"Why, that is very well, " said the colonel, his smile more sinister thanever. "Trouble not yourself about that. "

And Barter, the unreasoning instrument of Fate, was not to know thatthe apprehending of a couple of traitorous Jack Presbyters was of smallaccount to Colonel Penruddock by comparison with the satisfaction of theblood-feud between himself and the House of Lisle. 

Meanwhile the fugitives were being entertained at Moyle's Court, andwhilst they sat at supper in a room above-stairs, Dunne being still ofthe party, my lady came in person to see that they had all that theyrequired, and stayed a little while in talk with them. There was somemention of Monmouth and the battle of Sedgemoor, which was natural, thatbeing the topic of the hour. 

My lady asked no questions at the time regarding Hicks's long, leancompanion. But it occurred to her later that perhaps she should knowmore about him. Early next morning, therefore, she sent for Hicks as hewas in the act of sitting down to breakfast, and by her direct questionselicited from him that this companion was that Richard Nelthorp outlawedfor his share in the Rye House Plot. Not only was the informationalarming, but it gave her a sense that she had not been dealt withfairly, as indeed she told him. 

"You will see, sir, " she concluded, "that you cannot bide here. So longas I thought it was on the score of Nonconformity alone that you weresuffering persecution, I was willing to take some risk in hiding you. But since your friend is what he is, the risk is greater than I shouldbe asked to face, for my own sake and for that of my daughters. Norcan I say that I have ever held plottings and civil war in anything butabhorrence--as much in the old days as now. I am a loyal woman, and asa loyal woman I must bid you take your friend hence as soon as your fastis broken. "

The corpulent and swarthy Hicks stood dejectedly before her. He mighthave pleaded, but at that moment there came a loud knocking at the gatesbelow, and instantly Carpenter flung into the room with a white, scaredface and whirling gestures. 

"Soldiers, my lady!" he panted in affright. "We have been betrayed. Thepresence of Mr. Hicks here is known. What shall we do? What shall wedo?"

She stood quite still, her countenance entirely unchanged, unless itwere to smile a little upon Carpenter's terror. The mercy of her naturerose dominant now. 

"Why, we must hide these poor fellows as best we can, " said she; andHicks flung down upon one knee to kiss her hand with protestations thathe would sooner be hanged than bring trouble upon her house. 

But she insisted, calm and self-contained; and Carpenter carried Hicksaway to bestow him, together with Dunne, in a hole in the malt-houseunder a heap of sacking. Nelthorp had already vanished completely on hisown initiative. 

Meanwhile, the insistent knocking at the gate continued. Came shouteddemands to open in the name of the King, until from a window my lady'sdaughters looked out to challenge those who knocked. 

Colonel Penruddock, who had come in person with the soldiers to raid thehouse of his hereditary foe, stood forth to answer, very stiff and bravein his scarlet coat and black plumed hat. 

"You have rebels in the house, " he announced, "and I require you in theKing's name to deliver them up to me. "

And then, before they could answer him, came Carpenter to, unbar thedoor, and admit them to the court. Penruddock, standing squarely beforethe steward, admonished him very sternly. 

"Friend, " said he, "you had best be ingenuous with me and discoverwho are in your lady's house, for it is within my knowledge that somestrangers came hither last night. "

The stricken Carpenter stood white-faced and trembling. 

"Sir--sir--" he faltered. 

But the colonel was impatient. 

"Come, come, my friend. Since I know they are here, there's an end on't. Show me where they are hid if you would save your own neck from thehalter. "

It was enough for Carpenter. The pair in the malthouse might haveeluded all search but for the steward's pusillanimity. Incontinently, hebetrayed the hiding-place. 

"But, sir, of your charity do not tell my mistress that I have told you. Pray, sir--"

Penruddock brushed him aside as if he had been a pestering fly, and withhis men went in, and straight to the spot where Hicks and Dunne werelurking. When he had taken them, he swung round on Carpenter, who hadfollowed. 

"These be but two, " he said, "and to my knowledge three rogues camehither last night. No shufling with me, rascal. Where have you bestowedthe other?"

"I swear, as Heaven's my witness, I do not know where he is, " protestedthe afflicted steward, truly enough. 

Penruddock turned to his men. 

"Make search, " he bade them; and search was made in the ruthless mannerof such searches. 

The brutal soldiers passed from room to room beating the wainscotingwith pike and musket-butts, splintering and smashing heedlessly. Presseswere burst open and their contents scattered; chests were broken intoand emptied, the searchers appropriating such objects as took theirfancy, with true military cynicism. A mirror was shattered, and someboards of the floor were torn up because a sergeant conceived that theblows of his halbert rang hollow. 

When the tumult was at its height, came her ladyship at last into theroom, where Colonel Penruddock stood watching the operations of his men. She stood in the doorway leaning upon her ebony cane, her faded eyesconsidering the gaunt soldier with reproachful question. 

"Sir, " she asked him with gentle irony, masking her agitation, "has myhouse been given over to pillage?"

He bowed, doffing his plumed hat with an almost excessive courtesy. 

"To search, madame, " he corrected her. And added: "In the King's name. "

"The King, " she answered, "may give you authority to search my house, but not to plunder it. Your men are robbing and destroying. "

He shrugged. It was the way of soldiers. Fine manners, he suggested, were not to be expected of their kind. And he harangued her upon thewrong she had done in harbouring rebels and giving entertainment to theKing's enemies. 

"That is not true, " said she. "I know of no King's enemies. "

He smiled darkly upon her from his great height. She was so frail a bodyand so old that surely it was not worth a man's while to sacrificeher on the altar of revenge. But not so thought Colonel Penruddock. Therefore he smiled. 

"Two of them, a snivelling Jack Presbyter named Hicks and a rascal namedDunne, are taken already. Pray, madame, be so free and ingenuous with meaye, and so kind to yourself--as if there be any other person concealedin your house--and I am sure there is somebody else--to deliver him up, and you shall come to no further trouble. "

She looked up at him, and returned him smile for smile. 

"I know nothing, " she said, "of what you tell me, or of what you ask. "

His countenance hardened. 

"Then, mistress, the search must go on. "

But a shout from the adjoining room announced that it was at an end. Nelthorp had been discovered and dragged from the chimney into which hehad crept. 

Almost exactly a month later--on August 27th the Lady Alice Lisle wasbrought to the bar of the court-house at Winchester upon a charge ofhigh treason. 

The indictment ran that secretly, wickedly, and traitorously she didentertain, conceal, comfort, uphold, and maintain John Hicks, knowinghim to be a false traitor, against the duty of her allegiance andagainst the peace of "our sovereign lord the King that now is. "

Demurely dressed in grey, the little white-haired lady calmly faced theLord Chief Justice Jeffreys and the four judges of oyer and terminer whosat with him, and confidently made her plea of "Not Guilty. "

It was inconceivable that Christian men should deal harshly with her fora technical offence amounting to an act of Christian charity. And thejudge, sitting there in his robe of scarlet reversed with ermine, lookeda gentle, kindly man; his handsome, oval, youthful face--Jeffreys was inhis thirty-sixth year--set in the heavy black periwig, was so pale thatthe mouth made a vivid line of scarlet; and the eyes that now surveyedher were large and liquid and compassionate, as it seemed to her. 

She was not to know that the pallor which gave him so interesting anair, and the dark stains which lent his eyes that gentle wistfulness, were the advertisements at once of the debauch that had kept him fromhis bed until after two o'clock that morning and of the inexorabledisease that slowly gnawed away his life and enraged him out of allhumanity. 

And the confidence his gentle countenance inspired was confirmed bythe first words he had occasion to address to her. She had interruptedcounsel to the Crown when, in his opening address to the jury--composedof some of the most considerable gentlemen of Hampshire--he seemed toimply that she had been in sympathy with Monmouth's cause. She was, ofcourse, without counsel, and must look herself to her defence. 

"My lord, " she cried, "I abhorred that rebellion as much as any woman inthe world!"

Jeffreys leaned forward with a restraining gesture. 

"Look you, Mrs. Lisle, " he admonished her sweetly, "because we mustobserve the common and usual methods of trial in your case I mustinterrupt you now. " And upon that he promised that she should be fullyheard in her own defence at the proper time, and that himself he wouldinstruct her in the forms of law to her advantage. He reassured herby reverent allusions to the great Judge of Heaven and Earth, in whosesight they stood, that she should have justice. "And as to what you sayconcerning yourself, " he concluded, "I pray God with all my heart youmay be innocent. "

He was benign and reassuring. But she had the first taste of his truequality in the examination of Dunne--a most unwilling witness. 

Reluctantly, under the pressure put upon him, did Dunne yield up thetale of how he had conducted the two absconders to my lady's house withher consent, and it was sought to prove that she was aware of theirconnection with the rebellion. The stubbornly evasive Dunne was asked atlast:

"Do you believe that she knew Mr. Hicks before?"

He returned the answer that already he had returned to many questions ofthe sort. 

"I cannot tell truly. "

Jeffreys stirred in his scarlet robes, and his wistful eyes grewterrible as they bent from under beetling brows upon the witness. 

"Why, " he asked, "dost thou think that she would entertain any one shehad no knowledge of merely upon thy message? Mr. Dunne, Mr. Dunne! Havea care. It may be more is known to me of this matter than you thinkfor. "

"My lord, I speak nothing but the truth!" bleated the terrified Dunne. 

"I only bid you have a care, " Jeffreys smiled; and his smile was moreterrible than his frown. "Truth never wants a subterfuge; it alwaysloves to appear naked; it needs no enamel nor any covering. But lyingand snivelling and canting and Hicksing always appear in masquerade. Come, go on with your evidence. "

But Dunne was reluctant to go on, and out of his reluctance he liedfoolishly, and pretended that both Hicks and Nelthorp were unknown tohim. When pressed to say why he should have served two men whom he hadnever seen before, he answered:

"All the reason that induced me to it was that they said they were menin debt, and desired to be concealed for a while. "

Then the thunder was heard in Jeffreys' voice. 

"Dost thou believe that any one here believes thee? Prithee, what tradeart thou?"

"My lord, " stammered the unfortunate, "I--I am a baker by trade. "

"And wilt thou bake thy bread at such easy rates? Upon my word, then, thou art very kind. Prithee, tell me. I believe thou dost use to bake onSundays, dost thou not?"

"No, my lord, I do not!" cried Dunne indignantly. 

"Alackaday! Art precise in that, " sneered the judge. "But thou cansttravel on Sundays to lead rogues into lurking-holes. "

Later, when to implicate the prisoner, it was sought to draw from Dunnea full account of the reception she had given his companions, his terrorunder the bullying to which he was subjected made him contradict himselfmore flagrantly than ever. Jeffreys addressed the jury. 

"You see, gentlemen, what a precious fellow this is; a very pretty toolto be employed upon such an errand; a knave that nobody would trust forhalf a crown. A Turk has more title to an eternity of bliss than thesepretenders to Christianity. "

And as there was no more to be got from Dunne just then, he waspresently dismissed, and Barter's damning evidence was taken. Thereafter the wretched Dunne was recalled, to be bullied by Jeffreys inblasphemous terms that may not be printed here. 

Barter had told the Court how my lady had come into the kitchen withDunne, and how, when he had afterwards questioned Dunne as to why theyhad whispered and laughed together, Dunne told him she had asked "Ifhe knew aught of the business. " Jeffreys sought now to wring from Dunnewhat was this business to which he had so mysteriously alluded--thiswith the object of establishing Lady Lisle's knowledge of Hicks'streason. 

Dunne resisted more stubbornly than ever. Jeffreys, exasperated--sincewithout the admission it would be difficult to convict herladyship--invited the jury to take notice of the strange, horriblecarriage of the fellow, and heaped abuse upon the snivelling, cantingsect of which he was a member. Finally, he reminded Dunne of his oath totell the truth, and addressed him with a sort of loving ferocity. 

"What shall it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his ownsoul?" bellowed that terrible judge, his eyes aflame. "Is not this thevoice of Scripture itself? And wilt thou hazard so dear and precious athing as thy soul for a lie? Thou wretch! All the mountains and hills ofthe world heaped upon one another will not cover thee from the vengeanceof the Great God for this transgression of false-witness bearing. "

"I cannot tell what to say, my lord, " gasped Dunne. 

In his rage to see all efforts vain, the judge's language became thatof the cockpit. Recovering at last, he tried gentleness again, and veryelaborately invited Dunne, in my lady's own interest, to tell him whatwas the business to which he had referred to Barter. 

"She asked me whether I did not know that Hicks was a Nonconformist. "

"That cannot be all. There must be something more in it. "

"Yes, my lord, " Dunne protested, "it is all. I know nothing more. "

"Was there ever such an impudent rascal?" roared the judge. "Dolt thinkthat, after all the pains I have been at to get an answer, thou canstbanter me with such sham stuff as this? Hold the candle to his brazenface, that we may see it clearly. "

Dunne stood terrified and trembling under the glance of those terribleeyes. 

"My lord, " he cried, "I am so baulked, I am cluttered out of my senses. "

Again he was put down whilst Colonel Penruddock gave his evidence ofthe apprehension of the rebels. When he had told how he found Hicks andDunne concealed under some stuff in the malt-house, Dunne was broughtback yet again, that Jeffreys might resume his cross-examination. 

"Dunne, how came you to hide yourself in the malthouse?"

"My lord, " said Dunne foolishly, "I was frighted by the noise. "

"Prithee, what needest thou be afraid of, for thou didst not knowHicks nor Nelthorp; and my lady only asked thee whether Hicks were aNonconformist parson. Surely, so very innocent a soul needed no occasionto be afraid. I doubt there was something in the case of that businesswe were talking of before. If we could but get out of thee what it was. "

But Dunne continued to evade. 

"My lord, I heard a great noise in the house, and did not know what itmeant. So I went and hid myself. "

"It is very strange thou shouldst hide thyself for a little noise, whenthou knewest nothing of the business. "

Again the witness, with a candle still held close to his nose, complained that he was quite cluttered out of his senses, and did notknow what he was saying. 

"But to tell the truth would not rob thee of any of thy senses, if everthou hadst any, " Jeffreys told him angrily. "But it would seem thatneither thou nor thy mistress, the prisoner, had any; for she knewnothing of it either, though she had sent for them thither. "

"My lord, " cried her ladyship at that, "I hope I shall not be condemnedwithout being heard. "

"No, God forbid, Mrs. Lisle, " he answered; and then viciously flashedforth a hint of the true forces of Nemesis at work against her. "Thatwas a sort of practice in your late husband's time--you know very wellwhat I mean--but God be thanked it is not so now. "

Came next the reluctant evidence of Carpenter and his wife, and afterthat there was yet a fourth equally futile attempt to drag from Dunnean admission that her ladyship was acquainted with Hicks's share in therebellion. But if stupid, Dunne at least was staunch, and so, with awealth of valedictory invective, Jeffreys dismissed him, and addressedat last the prisoner, inviting her to speak in her own defence. 

She rose to do so, fearlessly yet gently. 

"My lord, what I have to say is this. I knew of nobody's coming to myhouse but Mr. Hicks, and for him I was informed that he did abscond byreason of warrants that were out against him for preaching in privatemeetings; for that reason I sent to him to come by night. But I hadnever heard that Nelthorp was to come with him, nor what name Nelthorphad till after he had come to my house. I could die upon it. As forMr. Hicks, I did not in the least suspect that he had been in the army, being a Presbyterian minister that used to preach and not to fight. "

"But I will tell you, " Jeffreys interrupted her, "that there is not oneof those lying, snivelling, canting Presbyterian rascals but one way orthe other had a hand in the late horrid conspiracy and rebellion. "

"My lord, I abhorred both the principles and the practices of the laterebellion, " she protested; adding that if she had been tried in London, my Lady Abergavenny and many other persons of quality could havetestified with what detestation she had spoken of the rebellion, andthat she had been in London until Monmouth had been beheaded. 

"If I had known the time of my trial in the country, " she pursued, "Icould have had the testimony of those persons of honour for me. But, my lord, I have been told, and so I thought it would have been, thatI should not have been tried for harbouring Mr. Hicks until he shouldhimself be convict as a traitor. I did abhor those that were in the plotand conspiracy against the King. I know my duty to my King better, andhave always exercised it. I defy anybody in the world that ever knewcontrary to come and give testimony. "

His voice broke harshly upon the pause. "Have you any more to say?"

"As to what they say to my denying Nelthorp to be in the house, " sheresumed. "I was in very great consternation and fear of the soldiers, who were very rude and violent. I beseech your lordship to make thatconstruction of it, and not harbour an ill opinion of me because ofthose false reports that go about of me, relating to my carriage towardsthe old King, that I was anyways consenting to the death of King CharlesI; for, my lord, that is as false as God is true. I was not out of mychamber all the day in which that king was beheaded, and I believe Ished more tears for him than any other woman then living. 

"And I do repeat it, my lord, as I hope to attain salvation, I never didknow Nelthorp, nor did I know of anybody's coming but Mr. Hicks. Him Iknew to be a Nonconformist minister, and there being, as is well known, warrants out to apprehend all Nonconformist ministers, I was willing togive him shelter from these warrants, which I knew was no treason. "

"Have you any more to say for yourself?" he asked her. 

"My lord, " she was beginning, "I came but five days before this into thecountry. "

"Nay, " he broke in, "I cannot tell when you came into the country, nor Idon't care. It seems you came in time to harbour rebels. "

She protested that if she would have ventured her life for anything, itwould have been to serve the King. 

"But, though I could not fight for him myself, my son did; he wasactually in arms on the King's side in this business. It was I that bredhim in loyalty and to fight for the King. "

"Well, have you done?" he asked her brutally. 

"Yes, my lord, " she answered; and resumed her seat, trembling a littlefrom the exertion and emotion of her address. 

His charge to the jury began. It was very long, and the first half ofit was taken up with windy rhetoric in which the Almighty was invokedat every turn. It degenerated at one time into a sermon upon the text of"render unto Caesar, " inveighing against the Presbyterian religion. Andthe dull length of his lordship's periods, combined with the monotonein which he spoke, lulled the wearied lady at the bar into slumber. Sheawakened with a start when suddenly his fist crashed down and his voicerose in fierce denunciation of the late rebellion. But she was dozingagain--so calm and so little moved was she--before he had come to applyhis denunciations to her own case, and this in spite of all her proteststhat she had held the rebellion in abhorrence. 

It was all calculated to prejudice the minds of the jurymen beforehe came to the facts and the law of the case. And that charge of histhroughout, far from being a judicial summing-up, was a virulent addressfor the prosecution, just as his bearing hitherto in examining andcross-examining witnesses had been that of counsel for the Crown. Thestatement that she had made in her own defence he utterly ignored, savein one particular, where he saw his opportunity further to prejudice hercase. 

"I am sorry, " he said, his face lengthening, "to remember something thatdropped even from the gentlewoman herself. She pretends to religion andloyalty very much--how greatly she wept at the death of King Charles theMartyr--and owns her great obligations to the late king and his royalbrother. And yet no sooner is one in the grave than she forgets allgratitude and entertains those that were rebels against his royalsuccessor. 

"I will not say, " he continued with deliberate emphasis, "what handher husband had in the death of that blessed martyr; she has enough toanswer for her own guilt; and I must confess that it ought not, one wayor other, to make any ingredient into this case what she was in formertimes. "

But he had dragged it in, protesting that it should not influence thecase, yet coldly, calculatingly intending it to do so. She was the widowof a regicide, reason and to spare in the views of himself and his royalmaster why she should be hounded to her death upon any pretext. 

Thereafter he reviewed the evidence against her, dwelt upon theshuffling of Dunne, deduced that the reason for so much lying was toconceal the damning truth--namely, that she knew Hicks for a rebel whenshe gave him shelter, and thus became the partner of his horribleguilt. Upon that he charged them to find their verdict "without anyconsideration of persons, but considering only the truth. "

Nevertheless, although his commands were clear, some of the jury wouldseem to have feared the God whom Jeffreys invoked so constantly. Oneof them rose to ask him pertinently, in point of law, whether it wastreason to have harboured Hicks before the man had been convicted oftreason. 

Curtly he answered them that beyond doubt it was, and upon thatassurance the jury withdrew, the Court settled down into an expectantsilence, and her ladyship dozed again in her chair. 

The minutes passed. It was growing late, and Jeffreys was eager to bedone with this prejudged affair, that he might dine in peace. His voicebroke the stillness of the court, protesting his angry wonder at theneed to deliberate in so plain a case. He was threatening to adjournand let the jury lie by all night if they did not bring in their verdictquickly. When, at the end of a half-hour, they returned, his fierce, impatient glance found them ominously grave. 

"My lord, " said Mr. Whistler, the foreman, "we have to beg of yourlordship some directions before we can bring our verdict. We have somedoubt upon us whether there be sufficient proof that she knew Hicks tohave been in the army. "

Well might they doubt it, for there was no proof at all. Yet he neverhesitated to answer them. 

"There is as full proof as proof can be. But you are judges of theproof. For my part, I thought there was no difficulty in it. "

"My lord, " the foreman insisted, "we are in some doubt about it. "

"I cannot help your doubts, " he said irritably. "Was there not proveda discourse of the battle and of the battle and of the army atsupper-time?"

"But, my lord, we are not satisfied that she had notice that Hicks wasin the army. "

He glowered upon them in silence for a moment. They deserved to bethemselves indicted for their slowness to perceive where lay their dutyto their king. 

"I cannot tell what would satisfy you, " he said; and sneered. "Did shenot inquire of Dunne whether Hicks had been in the army? And when hetold her he did not know, she did not say she would refuse if he hadbeen, but ordered him to come by night, by which it is evident shesuspected it. "

He ignored, you see, her own complete explanation of that circumstance. 

"And when Hicks and Nelthorp came, did she not discourse with them aboutthe battle and the army?" (As if that were not at the time a commontopic of discussion. ) "Come, come, gentlemen, " he said, with amazingimpudence, "it is plain proof. "

But Mr. Whistler was not yet satisfied. 

"We do not remember, my lord, that it was proved that she asked any suchquestion. "

That put him in a passion. 

"Sure, " he bellowed, "you do not remember anything that has passed. Didnot Dunne tell you there was such a discourse, and she was by? But ifthere were no such proof, the circumstances and management of the thingare as full proof as can be. I wonder what it is you doubt of!"

Mrs. Lisle had risen. There was a faint flush of excitement on her greyold face. 

"My lord, I hope--" she began, in trembling tones, to get no further. 

"You must not speak now!" thundered her terrible judge; and thus struckher silent. 

The brief resistance to his formidable will was soon at an end. Withina quarter of an hour the jury announced their verdict. They found herguilty. 

"Gentlemen, " said his lordship, "I did not think I should have occasionto speak after your verdict, but, finding some hesitancy and doubt amongyou, I cannot but say I wonder it should come about; for I think, in myconscience, the evidence was as full and plain as it could be, and if Ihad been among you, and she had been my own mother, I should have foundher guilty. "

She was brought up for sentence on the morrow, together with severalothers subsequently convicted. Amid fresh invectives against thereligion she practised, he condemned her to be burned alive--which wasthe proper punishment for high treason--ordering the sheriff to preparefor her execution that same afternoon. 

"But look you, Mrs. Lisle, " he added, "we that are the judges shall stayin town an hour or two. You shall have pen, ink, and paper, and if, inthe mean time, you employ that pen, ink, and paper and that hour or twowell--you understand what I mean it may be that you shall hear furtherfrom us in a deferring of this execution. "

What was this meaning that he assumed she understood? Jeffreys hadknowledge of Kirke's profitable traffic in the West, and it is knownthat he spared no means of acquiring an estate suitable to his rankwhich he did not possess by way of patrimony. Thus cynically he inviteda bribe. 

It is the only inference that explains the subsequent rancour hedisplayed against her, aroused by her neglect to profit by hissuggestions. The intercession of the divines of Winchester procuredher a week's reprieve, and in that week her puissant friends in London, headed by the Earl of Abergavenny, petitioned the King on her behalf. Even Feversham, the victor of Sedgemoor, begged her life of theKing--bribed to it, as men say, by an offer of a thousand pounds. Butthe King withheld his mercy upon the plea that he had promised LordJeffreys he would not reprieve her, and the utmost clemency influentialpetitions could wring from James II was that she should be beheadedinstead of burned. 

She suffered in the market-place of Winchester on September 2d. Christian charity was all her sin, and for this her head was demandedin atonement. She yielded it with a gentle fortitude and resolution. Inlieu of speech, she left with the sheriff a pathetic document whereinshe protests her innocence of all offence against the King, and forgivesher enemies specifically--the judge, who prejudiced her case, andforgot that "the Court should be counsel for the prisoner, " and ColonelPenruddock, "though he told me he could have taken those men before theycame to my house. "

Between those lines you may read the true reason why the Lady AliceLisle died. She died to slake the cruelly vindictive thirst of KingJames II on the one hand, and Colonel Penruddock on the other, againsther husband who had been dead for twenty years. 

V. THE NIGHT OF MASSACRE--The Story Of The Saint Bartholomew

There are elements of mystery about the massacre of Saint Bartholomewover which, presumably, historians will continue to dispute as long ashistories are written. Indeed, it is largely of their disputes that themystery is begotten. Broadly speaking, these historians may be dividedinto two schools--Catholic and anti-Catholic. The former have made ittheir business to show that the massacre was purely a political affair, having no concern with religion; the latter have been equally at painsto prove it purely an act of religious persecution having no concernwith politics. Those who adopt the latter point of view insist thatthe affair was long premeditated, that it had its source in somethingconcerted some seven years earlier between Catherine of Medicis andthe sinister Duke of Alva. And they would seem to suggest that Henry ofNavarre, the nominal head of the Protestant party, was brought to Paristo wed Marguerite de Valois merely so that by this means the Protestantnobles of the kingdom, coming to the capital for the wedding, should belured to their destruction. 

It does not lie within the purview of the present narrative to enterinto a consideration of the arguments of the two schools, nor will it beattempted. 

But it may briefly be stated that the truth lies probably in a middlecourse of reasoning--that the massacre was political in conception andreligious in execution; or, in other words, that statecraft deliberatelymade use of fanaticism as of a tool; that the massacre was brought aboutby a sudden determination begotten of opportunity which is but anotherword for Chance. 

Against the theory of premeditation the following cardinal facts may beurged:

(a) The impossibility of guarding for seven years a secret that severalmust have shared;

(b) The fact that neither Charles IX nor his mother Catherine were inany sense bigoted Catholics, or even of a normal religious sincerity. 

(c) The lack of concerted action--so far as the kingdom generally wasconcerned--in the execution of the massacre. 

A subsidiary disproof lies in the attempted assassination of Coligny twodays before the massacre, an act which might, by putting the Huguenotson their guard, have caused the miscarriage of the entire plan--had itexisted. 

It must be borne in mind that for years France had been divided byreligious differences into two camps, and that civil war betweenCatholic and Huguenot had ravaged and distracted the country. Atthe head of the Protestant party stood that fine soldier Gaspard deChatillon, Admiral de Coligny, virtually the Protestant King ofFrance, a man who raised armies, maintaining them by taxes levied uponProtestant subjects, and treated with Charles IX as prince with prince. At the head of the Catholic party--the other imperium in imperio--stoodthe Duke of Guise. The third and weakest party in the State, serving, asit seemed, little purpose beyond that of holding the scales between theother turbulent two, was the party of the King. 

The motives and events that precipitated the massacre are set forth inthe narration of the King's brother, the Duke of Anjou (afterwardsHenri III). It was made by him to Miron, his physician and confidentialservant in Cracow, when he ruled there later as King of Poland, undercircumstances which place it beyond suspicion of being intended to serveulterior aims. For partial corroboration, and for other details of themassacre itself, we have the narratives, among others, of Sully, who wasthen a young man in the train of the King of Navarre, and of Lusignan, a gentleman of the Admiral's household. We shall closely follow these inour reconstruction of the event and its immediate causes. 

The gay chatter of the gallants and ladies thronging the long galleryof the Louvre sank and murmured into silence, and a movement was made toyield a free passage to the King, who had suddenly made his appearanceleaning affectionately upon the shoulder of the Admiral de Coligny. 

The Duke of Anjou, a slender, graceful young man in a gold-embroideredsuit of violet, forgot the interest he was taking in his beautifulhands to bend lower over the handsome Madame de Nemours what time theunfriendly eyes of both were turned upon the Admiral. 

The King and the great Huguenot leader came slowly down the gallery, an oddly contrasting pair. Coligny would have been the taller by ahalf-head but for his stoop, yet in spite of it there was energy andmilitary vigour in his carriage, just as there was a severe dignityamounting to haughtiness in his scarred and wrinkled countenance. Abullet that had pierced his cheek and broken three of his teeth at thebattle of Moncontour had left a livid scar that lost itself in his longwhite beard. His forehead was high and bald, and his eyes were ofa steely keenness under their tufted brows. He was dressed withCalvinistic simplicity entirely in black, and just as this contrastedwith the King's suit of sulphur-coloured satin, so did the gravity ofhis countenance contrast with the stupidity of his sovereign's. 

Charles IX, a slimly built young man in his twenty-fourth year, was ofa pallid, muddy complexion, with great, shifty, greenish eyes, and athick, pendulous nose. The protruding upper lip of his long, thin mouthgave him an oafish expression, which was increased by his habit ofcarrying his head craned forward. 

His nature was precisely what you would have expected from hisappearance--dull and gross. He was chiefly distinguished among men ofbirth for general obscenity of speech and morphological inventiveness inblasphemy. 

At the end of the gallery Coligny stooped to kiss the royal hand inleave-taking. With his other hand Charles patted the Admiral's shoulder. 

"Count me your friend, " he said, "body and soul, heart and bowels, evenas I count you mine. Fare you well, my father. "

Coligny departed, and the King retraced his steps, walking quickly, hishead hunched between his shoulders, his baleful eyes looking neither toleft nor right. As he passed out, the Duke of Anjou quitted the sideof Madame de Nemours, and went after him. Then at last the suspendedchatter of the courtiers broke loose again. 

The King was pacing his cabinet--a simple room furnished with a medleyof objects appertaining to study, to devotion, and to hunting. A largepicture of the Virgin hung from a wall flanked on either side by anarquebus, and carrying a hunting-horn on one of its upper corners. Alittle alabaster holy-water font near the door, crowned by a sprig ofpalm, seemed to serve as a receptacle for hawk-bells and straps. Therewas a writing-table of beautifully carved walnut near the leaded window, littered with books and papers--a treatise on hunting lay cheek by jowlwith a Book of Hours; a string of rosary beads and a dog-whip layacross an open copy of Ronsard's verses. The King was quite the vilestpoetaster of his day. 

Charles looked over his shoulder as his brother entered. The scowl onhis face deepened when he saw who came, and with a grunt he viciouslykicked the liver-coloured hound that lay stretched at his feet. Thehound fled yelping to a corner, the Duke checked, startled, in hisadvance. 

"Well?" growled the King. "Well? Am I never to have peace? Am I never tobe alone? What now? Bowels of God! What do you want?"

His green eyes smouldered, his right hand opened and closed on the goldhilt of the dagger at his girdle:

Scared by the maniac ferocity of this reception, the young Dukeprecipitately withdrew. 

"It is nothing. Another time, since I disturb you now. " He bowed andvanished, followed by an evil, cackling laugh. 

Anjou knew how little his brother loved him, and he confesses how muchhe feared him in that moment. But under his fear it is obvious thatthere was lively resentment. He went straight in quest of his mother, whose darling he was, to bear her the tale of the King's mood, and whathe accounted, no doubt rightly, the cause of it. 

"It is the work of that pestilential Huguenot admiral, " he announced, atthe end of a long tirade, "It is always thus with him after he has seenColigny. "

Catherine of Medicis considered. She was a fat, comfortable woman, witha thick nose, pinched lips, and sleepy eyes. 

"Charles, " she said at length, in her monotonous, emotionless voice, "isa weathercock that turns with every wind that blows upon him. You shouldknow him by now. " And she yawned, so that one who did not know her andher habit of perpetually yawning might have supposed that she was butindifferently interested. 

They were alone together in the intimate little tapestried room shecalled her oratory. She half sat, half reclined upon a couch of rosebrocade. Anjou stood over by the window, his back to it, so that hispale face was in shadow. He considered his beautiful hands, which he wasreluctant to lower, lest the blood should flow into them and mar theirwhite perfection. 

"The Admiral's influence over him is increasing, " he complained, "and heuses it to lessen our own. "

"Do I not know it?" came her dull voice. 

"It is time to end it, " said Anjou passionately, "before he ends us. Your influence grows weaker every day and the Admiral's stronger. Charles begins to take sides with him against us. We shall have him atool of the Huguenot party before all is done. Ah, mon Dieu! You shouldhave seen him leaning upon the shoulder of that old parpaillot, callinghim 'my father, ' and protesting himself his devoted friend 'bodyand soul, heart and bowels, ' in his own words. And when I seek himafterwards, he scowls and snarls at me, and fingers his dagger as if hewould have it in my throat. It is plain to see upon what subject the oldscoundrel entertained him. " And again he repeated, more fiercely thanbefore: "It is time to end it!"

"I know, " she said, ever emotionless before so much emotion. "And itshall be ended. The old assassin should have been hanged years ago forguiding the hand that shot Francois de Guise. Daily he becomes a greaterdanger, to Charles, to ourselves, and to France. He is embroiling uswith Spain through this Huguenot army he is raising to go and fight thebattles of Calvinism in Flanders. A fine thing that. Ah, per Dio!" For amoment her voice was a little warmed and quickened. "Catholic France atwar with Catholic Spain for the sake of Huguenot Flanders!" She laughedshortly. Then her voice reverted to its habitual sleepy level. "Youare right. It is time to end it. Coligny is the head of this rebelliousbeast. If we cut off the head, perhaps the beast will perish. We willconsult the Duke of Guise. " She yawned again. "Yes, the Duke of Guisewill be ready to lend us his counsel and his aid. Decidedly we must getrid of the Admiral. "

That was on Monday, August 18th of that year 1572, and such was the firmpurpose and energy of that fat and seemingly sluggish woman, that withintwo days all necessary measures were taken, and Maurevert, theassassin, was at his post in the house of Vilaine, in the Cloistersof Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, procured for the purpose by Madame deNemours, who bore the Admiral a mortal hatred. 

It was not, however, until the following Friday that Maurevert was giventhe opportunity of carrying out the task to which he had been hired. Onthat morning, as the Admiral was passing, accompanied by a few gentlemenof his household, returning from the Louvre to his house in the RueBetisy, the assassin did his work. There was a sudden arquebusade froma first-floor window, and a bullet smashed two fingers of the Admiral'sright hand, and lodged itself in the muscles of his left arm. 

With his maimed and bleeding hand he pointed to the window whence theshot had been fired, bidding his gentlemen to force a way into the houseand take the assassin. But whilst they were breaking in at the front, Maurevert was making his escape by the back, where a horse waited forhim, and, though pursued, he was never overtaken. 

News of the event was instantly borne to the King. It found him attennis with the Duke of Guise and the Admiral's son-in-law, Teligny. 

"In this assassin's work, Sire, " said the blunt gentleman whom Colignyhad sent, "the Admiral desires you to see the proof of the worth of theagreement between himself and Monsieur de Guise that followed upon thetreaty of peace of Saint-Germain. "

The Duke of Guise drew himself stiffly up, but said no word. The King, livid with rage, looked at him balefully a moment, then to vent some ofhis fury he smashed his racket against the wall. 

"God's Blood!" he cried, mouthing horribly. "Am I then never to haverest?" He flung away the broken remnants of his racket, and went outcursing. Questioning the messenger further, he learnt that the shot hadbeen fired from the house of Vilaine, a sometime tutor to the Duke ofGuise, and that the horse upon which the assassin had fled had been heldfor him by a groom in the Guise livery. 

Meanwhile the Duke and Monsieur de Teligny had gone their ways withno word spoken between them--Guise to shut himself up in his hotel andassemble his friends, Teligny to repair at once to his father-in-law. 

At two o'clock in the afternoon, in response to an urgent requestfrom the Admiral, the King went to visit him, accompanied by theQueen-Mother, by his brothers Anjou and Alencon, and a number ofofficers and courtiers. The royal party saw nothing of the excitementwhich had been prevailing in the city ever since the morning's event, an excitement which subsided at their approach. The King was gloomy, resentful, and silent, having so far refused to discuss the matter withany one, denying audience even to his mother. Catherine and Anjou werevexed by the miscarriage of the affair, anxious and no less silent thanthe King. 

They found the Admiral awaiting them, calm and composed. The famousAmbroise Pare had amputated the two broken fingers, and had dealt withthe wound in the arm. But although Coligny might be considered to haveescaped lightly, and not to be in any danger, a rumour was abroad thatthe bullet was poisoned; and neither the Admiral nor his people seem tohave rejected the possibility. One suspects, indeed, that capital wasmade out of it. It was felt, perhaps, that thus should the Admiralmaintain a greater influence with the King. For in any uncertainty asto whether Coligny would live or die, the King's feelings must be moredeeply stirred than if he knew that the wound carried no peril to life. 

Followed closely by his mother and his brothers, Charles swept throughthe spacious ante-chamber, thronged now with grim-faced, resentfulHuguenot gentlemen, and so entered the room where Coligny reclined upona day bed near the window. The Admiral made shift to rise, but this theKing hurried forward to prevent. 

"Rest yourself, my dear father!" he cried, in accents of deep concern. "Heart of God! What is this they have done to you? Assure me, at least, that your life is safe, or, by the Mass, I'll--"

"I hold my life from God, " the Admiral replied gravely, "and when Herequires it of me I will yield it up. That is nothing. "

"Nothing? God's Blood! Nothing? The hurt is yours, my father, but theoutrage mine; and I swear to you, by the Blood and the Death, that Iwill take such a vengeance as shall never be forgotten!"

Thereupon he fell into such a storm of imprecation and blasphemy thatthe Admiral, a sincerely devout, God-fearing heretic, shuddered to hearhim. 

"Calm, Sire!" he begged at last, laying his sound hand upon the King'svelvet sleeve. "Be calm and listen, for it is not to speak of myself, ofthese wounds, or of the wrong done me, that I have presumed to beg youto visit me. This attempt to murder me is but a sign of the evil thatis stirring in France to sap your authority and power. But--" He checkedand looked at the three who stood immediately behind the King. "What Ihave to say is, if you will deign to listen, for your private ear. "

The King jerked round in a fashion peculiar to him; his every action wasabrupt and spasmodic. He eyed his mother and brothers shiftily. It wasbeyond his power to look any one directly in the face. 

"Outside!" he commanded, waving an impatient hand almost in their faces. "Do you hear? Leave me to talk with my father the Admiral. "

The young dukes fell back at once, ever in dread of provoking thehorrible displays of passion that invariably followed upon anyresistance of his feeble will. But the sluggish Catherine was not soeasily moved. 

"Is Monsieur de Coligny strong enough, do you think, to treat of affairsat present? Consider his condition, I beg, " she enjoined in her levelvoice. 

"I thank you for your consideration, madame, " said the Admiral, theghost of an ironic smile about his lips. "But I am strong enough, thankGod! And even though my strength were less than it is, it would be moreheavily taxed by the thought that I had neglected my duty to His Majestythan it ever could be by the performance of that duty. "

"Ha! You hear?" snapped the King. "Go, then; go!"

They went, returning to the ante-chamber to wait until the audienceshould conclude. The three stood there in the embrasure of a window thatlooked out upon the hot, sunlit courtyard. There, as Anjou himselftells us, they found themselves hemmed about by some two hundred sullen, grim-faced gentlemen and officers of the Admiral's party, who eyed themwithout dissembling their hostility, who preserved a silence that wasdisturbed only by the murmurs of their constant whisperings, and whomoved to and fro before the royal group utterly careless of the properdegree of deference and respect. 

Isolated thus in that hostile throng, Catherine and her sons became moreand more uneasy, so that, as the Queen-Mother afterwards confessed, shewas never in any place where her tarrying was attended by so much fear, or her departure thence by so much pleasure. 

It was this fear that spurred her at last to put an end to that secretconference in the room beyond. She did it in characteristic manner. Inthe most complete outward composure, stifling a yawn as she went, she moved deliberately across to the door, her sons following, rappedshortly on the panel, and entered without waiting to be bidden. 

The King, who was standing by the Admiral's side, wheeled sharply atthe sound of the opening door. His eyes blazed with sudden anger when hebeheld his mother, but she was the first to speak. 

"My son, " she said, "I am concerned for the poor Admiral. He will havethe fever if you continue to permit him to weary himself with affairs atpresent. It is not to treat him as a friend to prolong this interview. Let business wait until he is recovered, which will be the sooner if heis given rest at present. "

Coligny stroked his white beard in silence, while the King flared out, striding towards her:

"Par la Mort Dieu! What is this sudden concern for the Admiral?"

"Not sudden, my son, " she answered in her dull voice, her eyes intentupon him, with something magnetic in their sleepy glance that seemedto rob him of half his will. "None knows more accurately than I theAdmiral's precise, value to France. "

Anjou behind her may have smiled at that equivocal phrase. 

"God's Bowels! Am I King, or what am I?"

"It ill becomes a king to abuse the strength of a poor wounded subject, "she returned, her eyes ever regarding him steadily. "Come, Charles. Another day, when the Admiral shall have recovered more fully, you maycontinue this discourse. Come now. "

His anger was subdued to mere sullenness, almost infantile in itsoutward petulant expression. He attempted to meet her glance, and he wascompletely lost. 

"Perhaps... Ah, Ventre Dieu, my mother is right! Let the matter rest, then, my father. We will talk of it again as soon as you are well. "

He stepped up to the couch, and held out his hand. 

Coligny took it, and his eyes looked up wistfully into the weak youngface of his King. 

"I thank you, Sire, for coming and for hearing me. Another day, if I amspared, I may tell you more. Meanwhile, bear well in mind what I havesaid already. I have no interests in this world but your own, Sire. " Andhe kissed the royal hand in farewell. 

Not until they were back in the Louvre did the Queen attempt to breakupon the King's gloomy abstraction, to learn--as learn she must--thesubject of the Admiral's confidential communication. 

Accompanied by Anjou, she sought him in his cabinet, nor would shebe denied. He sat at his writing-table, his head sunken between hisshoulders, his receding chin in his cupped palms. He glared at the pairas they entered, swore savagely, and demanded their business with him. 

Catherine sat down with massive calm. Anjou remained standing beside andslightly behind her, leaning upon the back of her tall chair. 

"My son, " she said bluntly, "I have come to learn what passed betweenyou and Coligny. "

"What passed? What concern is that of yours?"

"All your concerns are mine, " she answered tranquilly. "I am yourmother. "

"And I am your king!" he answered, banging the table. "And I mean to beking!"

"By the grace of God and the favour of Monsieur de Coligny, " shesneered, with unruffled calm. 

"What's that?" His mouth fell open, and his eyes stared. A crimson flushoverspread his muddy complexion. "What's that?"

Her dull glance met and held his own whilst calmly she repeated hersneering words. 

"And that is why I have come to you, " she added. "If you are unableto rule without guidance, I must at least do what I can so that theguidance shall not be that of a rebel, of one who guides you to the endthat he may master you. "

"Master me!" he screamed. He rose in his indignation and faced her. Buthis glance, unable to support her steady eyes, faltered and fell away. Foul oaths poured from his royal lips. "Master me!" he repeated. 

"Aye--master you, " she answered him. "Master you until the littleremnant of your authority shall have been sapped; until you are no morethan a puppet in the hands of the Huguenot party, a roi faineant, a kingof straw. "

"By God, madame, were you not my mother--"

"It is because I am your mother that I seek to save you. "

He looked at her again, but again his glance faltered. He paced thelength of the room and back, mouthing and muttering. Then he came tostand, leaning on the prie-dieu, facing her. 

"By God's Death, madame, since you demand to know what the Admiral said, you shall. You prove to me that what he told me was no more than true. He told me that a king is only recognized in France as long as he is apower for good or ill over his subjects; that this power, togetherwith the management of all State affairs, is slipping, by the craftycontrivances of yourself and Anjou there, out of my hands into your own;that this power and authority which you are both stealing from me mayone day be used against me and my kingdom. And he bade me be on my guardagainst you both and take my measures. He gave me this counsel, madame, because he deemed it his duty as one of my most loyal and faithfulservants at the point of death, and--"

"The shameless hypocrite!" her dull, contemptuous voice interrupted him. "At the point of death! Two broken fingers and a flesh-wound in the armand he represents himself as in articulo mortis that he may play uponyou, and make you believe his lies. "

Her stolidity of manner and her logic, ponderous and irresistible, hadtheir effect. His big, green eyes seemed to dilate, his mouth fell open. 

"If--" he began, and checked, rapped out an oath, and checked again. "Are they lies, madame?" he asked slowly. 

She caught the straining note of hope in that question of his--a hopefounded upon vanity, the vanity to be king in fact, as well as king inname. She rose. 

"To ask me that--me, your mother--is to insult me. Come, Anjou. "

And on that she departed, craftily, leaving her suggestion to prey uponhis mind. 

But once alone in her oratory with Anjou, her habitual torpor wassloughed away. For once she quivered and crimsoned and raised her voice, whilst for once her sleepy eyes kindled and flashed as she inveighedagainst Coligny and the Huguenots. 

For the moment, however, there was no more to be done. The stroke hadfailed; Coligny had survived the attempt upon his life, and there wasdanger that on the recoil the blow might smite those who had launchedit. But on the morrow, which was Saturday, things suddenly assumed avery different complexion. 

That great Catholic leader, the powerful, handsome Duke of Guise, who, more than suspected of having inspired the attempted assassination, hadkept his hotel since yesterday, now sought the Queen-Mother with newsof what was happening in the city. Armed bands of Huguenot nobles wereriding through the streets, clamouring:

"Death to the assassins of the Admiral! Down with the Guisards!"

And, although a regiment of Gardes Francaises had been hastily broughtto Paris to keep order, the Duke feared grave trouble in a citywhich the royal wedding had filled with Huguenot gentlemen and theirfollowing. Then, too, there were rumours that the Huguenots werearming everywhere--rumours which, whether true or not, were, under thecircumstances, sufficiently natural and probable to be taken seriously. 

Leaving Guise in her oratory, and summoning her darling Anjou, Catherineat once sought the King. She may have believed the rumours, and she mayeven have stated them as facts beyond dispute so as to strengthen andestablish her case against Gaspard de Coligny. 

"King Gaspard I, " she told him, "is already taking his measures. TheHuguenots are arming; officers have been dispatched into the provincesto levy troops. The Admiral has ordered the raising of ten thousandhorse in Germany, and another ten thousand Swiss mercenaries in theCantons. "

He stared at her vacuously. Some such rumour had already reached him, and he conceived that here was definite confirmation of it. 

"You may determine now who are your friends, who your loyal servants, "she told him. "How is so much force to be resisted in the state in whichyou find yourself? The Catholics exhausted, and weary as they are by acivil war in which their king was of little account to them, are goingto arm so as to offer what resistance they can without depending uponyou. Thus, within your State you will have two great parties under arms, neither of which can be called your own. Unless you stir yourself, andquickly, unless you choose now between friends and foes, you will findyourself alone, isolated, in grave peril, without authority or power. "

He sank overwhelmed to a chair, and took his head in his hands, cogitating. When next he looked at her there was positive fear in hisgreat eyes, a fear evoked by contemplation of the picture which herwords had painted for him. 

He looked from her to Anjou. 

"What then?" he asked. "What then? How is the danger to be averted?"

"By a simple stroke of the sword, " she answered calmly. "Slice off at ablow the head of this beast of rebellion, this hydra of heresy. "

He huddled back, horror in his eyes. His hands slid slowly along thecarved arms of his chair, and clenched the ends so tightly that hisknuckles looked like knobs of marble. 

"Kill the Admiral?" he said slowly. 

"The Admiral and the chief Huguenot leaders, " she said, much in the toneshe might have used, were it a matter of wringing the necks of a dozencapons. 

"Ah, ca! Par la Mort Dieu!" He heaved himself up, raging. "Thus wouldyour hatred of him be served. Thus would you--"

Coolly she sliced into his foaming speech. 

"Not I--not I!" she said. "Do nothing upon my advice. Summon yourCouncil. Send for Tavannes, Biragues, Retz, and the others. Consult withthem. They are your friends; you trust and believe in them. When theyknow the facts, see if their counsel will differ from your mother's. Send for them; they are in the Louvre now. "

He looked at her a moment. 

"Very well, " he said; and reeled to the door, bawling hoarsely hisorders. 

They came, one by one--the Marshal de Tavannes, the Duke of Retz, theDuke of Nevers, the Chancellor de Biragues, and lastly the Duke ofGuise, upon whom the King scowled a jealous hatred that was now fullyalive. 

The window, which overlooked the quay and the river, stood open to admitwhat air might be stirring on that hot day of August. 

Charles sat at his writing-table, sullen and moody, twining a string ofbeads about his fingers. Catherine occupied the chair over beyond thetable, Anjou sitting near her on a stool. The others stood respectfullyawaiting that the King should make known his wishes. The shifty royalglance swept over them from under lowering brows; then it rested almostin challenge upon his mother. 

"Tell them, " he bade her curtly. 

She told them what already she had told her son, relating all now withgreater detail and circumstance. For some moments nothing was heard inthat room but the steady drone of her unemotional voice. When she hadfinished, she yawned and settled herself to hear what might be answered. 

"Well, " snapped the King, "you have heard. What do you advise? Speakout!"

Nevers was the first to answer. 

"There is no other way, " he said stiffly, "but that which Her Majestyadvises. The danger is grave. If it is to be averted, action must beprompt and effective. "

Tavannes clasped his hands behind him and said much the same, as didpresently the Chancellor. 

Twisting and untwisting his chaplet of beads about his long fingers, his eyes averted, the King heard each in turn. Then he looked up. Hisglance, deliberately ignoring Guise, settled upon the Duke of Retz, whoheld aloof. 

"And you, Monsieur le Marechal, what is your counsel?"

Retz drew himself up, as if bracing himself to meet opposing forces. Hewas a little pale, but quite composed. 

"If there is a man whom I should hate, " he said, "it is this Gaspard deColigny, who has defamed me and all my family by the foul accusations hehas put abroad. But I will not, " he added firmly, "take vengeance uponmy enemies at the expense of my king and master. I cannot counsel acourse so disastrous to Your Majesty and the whole kingdom. Did weact as we have been advised, Sire, can you doubt that we shouldbe taxed--and rightly taxed in view of the treaty that has beensigned--with perfidy and disloyalty?"

Dead silence followed that bombshell of opposition, coming from aquarter whence it was least expected. For Catherine and Anjou hadconfidently counted upon the Duke's hatred of Coligny to ensure hissupport of their designs. 

A little colour crept into the pale cheeks of the King. His glancekindled out of its sullenness. He was as one who sees sudden hope amiddespair. 

"That is the truth, " he said. "Messieurs, and you, madame my mother, youhave heard the truth. How do you like it?"

"Monsieur de Retz is deceived by an excess of loyalty, " said Anjouquickly. "Because he bears a personal enmity to the Admiral, heconceives that it would hurt his honour to speak otherwise. It mustsavour to him, as he has said, of using his king and master to avengehis own personal wrongs. We can respect Monsieur de Retz's view, although we hold it mistaken. "

"Will Monsieur de Retz tell us what other course lies open?" quoth thebluff Tavannes. 

"Some other course must be found, " cried the King, rousing himself. "Itmust be found, do you hear? I will not have you touch the life of myfriend the Admiral. I will not have it--by the Blood!"

A hubbub followed, all speaking at once, until the King banged thetable, and reminded them that his cabinet was not a fish-market. 

"I say that there is no other way, " Catherine insisted. "There cannot betwo kings in France, nor can there be two parties. For your own safety'ssake, and for the safety of your kingdom, I beseech you so to contrivethat in France there be but one party with one head--yourself. "

"Two kings in France?" he said. "What two kings?"

"Yourself and Gaspard I--King Coligny, the King of the Huguenots. "

"He is my subject--my faithful, loyal subject, " the King protested, butwith less assurance. 

"A subject who raises forces of his own, levies taxes of his own, garrisons Huguenot cities, " said Biragues. "That is a very dangeroustype of subject, Sire. "

"A subject who forces you into war with Protestant Flanders againstCatholic Spain, " added the blunt Tavannes. 

"Forces me?" roared the King, half rising, his eyes aflash. "That is avery daring word. "

"It would be if the proof were absent. Remember, Sire, his very speechto you before you permitted him to embark upon preparations for thiswar. 'Give us leave, ' he said, 'to make war in Flanders, or we shall becompelled to make war upon yourself. '"

The King winced and turned livid. Sweat stood in beads upon his brow. Hewas touched in his most sensitive spot. That speech of Coligny's was ofall things the one he most desired to forget. He twisted the chaplet sothat the beads bit deeply into his fingers. 

"Sire, " Tavannes continued, "were I a king, and did a subject so addressme, I should have his head within the hour. Yet worse has happenedsince, worse is happening now. The Huguenots are arming. They ridearrogantly through the streets of your capital, stirring up rebellion. They are here in force, and the danger grows acute and imminent. "

Charles writhed before them. He mopped his brow with a shaking hand. 

"The danger--yes. I see that. I admit the danger. But Coligny--"

"Is it to be King Gaspard or King Charles?" rasped the voice ofCatherine. 

The chaplet snapped suddenly in the King's fingers. He sprang to hisfeet, deathly pale. 

"So be it!" he cried. "Since it is necessary to kill the Admiral, killhim, then. Kill him!" he screamed, in a fury that seemed aimed at thosewho forced this course upon him. "Kill him--but see to it also that atthe same time you kill every Huguenot in France, so that not one shallbe left to reproach me. Not one, do you hear? Take your measures and letthe thing be done at once. " And on that, his face livid and twitching, his limbs shaking, he flung out of the room and left them. 

It was all the warrant they required, and they set to work at oncethere in the King's own cabinet, where he had left them. Guise, whohad hitherto been no more than a silent spectator, assumed now the mostactive part. Upon his own shoulders he took the charge of seeing theAdmiral done to death. 

The remainder of the day and a portion of the evening were spent inconcerting ways and means. They assured themselves of the Provost ofthe merchants of Paris, of the officers of the Gardes Francaises andthe three thousand Swiss, of the Captains of the quarters and othernotoriously factious persons who could be trusted as leaders. By teno'clock at night all preparations were made and it was agreed that theringing of the bell of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois for matins was to bethe signal for the massacre. 

A gentleman of the Admiral's household taking his way homeward thatnight passed several men bearing sheaves of pikes upon their shoulders, and never suspected whom these weapons were to arm. He met several smallcompanies of soldiers marching quietly, their weapons shouldered, theirmatches glowing, and still he suspected nothing, whilst in one quarterhe stopped to watch a man whose behaviour seemed curious, and discoveredthat he was chalking a white cross upon the doors of certain houses. 

Meeting soon afterwards another man with a bundle of weapons on hisshoulder, the intrigued Huguenot gentleman asked him bluntly what hecarried and whither he went. 

"It is for the divertissement at the Louvre tonight, " he was answered. 

But in the Louvre the Queen-Mother and the Catholic leaders, the laboursof preparation ended, were snatching a brief rest. Between two and threeo'clock in the morning Catherine and Anjou repaired again to the King'scabinet. They found him waiting there, his face haggard and his eyesfevered. 

He had spent a part of the evening at billiards, and among the playershad been La Rochefoucauld, of whom he was fond, and who had left himwith a jest at eleven o'clock, little dreaming that it was for the lasttime. 

The three of them crossed to the window overlooking the river. Theyopened it, and peered out fearfully. Even Catherine trembled now thatthe hour approached. The air was fresh and cool, swept clean by thestirring breeze of the dawn, whose first ghostly gleams were already inthe sky. Suddenly, somewhere near at hand, a pistol cracked. The noiseaffected them oddly. The King fell into an ague and his teeth chatteredaudibly. Panic seized him. 

"By the Blood, it shall not be! It shall not be!" he cried suddenly. 

He looked at his mother and his brother and they looked at him; ghastlywere the faces of all three, their eyes wide and staring with horror. 

Charles swore in his terror that he would cancel all commands. Andsince Catherine and Anjou made no attempt to hinder him, he summoned anofficer and bade him seek out the Duke of Guise at once and command himto stay his hand. 

The messenger eventually found the Duke in the courtyard of theAdmiral's house, standing over the Admiral's dead body, which hisassassins had flung down from the bedroom window. Guise laughed, andstirred the head of the corpse with his foot, answering that themessage came too late. Even as he spoke the great bell of Saint-Germainl'Auxerrois began to ring for matins. 

The royal party huddled at that window of the Louvre heard it at thesame moment, and heard, as if in immediate answer, shots of arquebusand pistol, cries and screams near at hand, and then, gradually swellingfrom a murmur, the baying of the fierce multitude. Other bells gavetongue, until from every steeple in Paris the alarm rang out. The redglow from thousands of torches flushed the heavens with a rosy tint asof dawn, the air grew heavy with the smell of pitch and resin. 

The King, clutching the sill of the window, poured out a stream ofblasphemy from between his chattering teeth. Then the hubbub rosesuddenly near at hand. The neighbourhood of the Louvre was populouswith Huguenots, and into it now poured the excited Catholic citizensand soldiers. Soon the quay beneath the palace windows presented thefiercest spectacle of any quarter, of Paris. 

Half-clad men, women, and children fled screaming before the assassins, until they were checked by the chains that everywhere had been placedacross the streets. Some sought the river, hoping to find a way ofescape. But with Satanic foresight, the boats usually moored there hadbeen conveyed to the other side. Thus some hundreds of Huguenots werebrought to bay, and done to death under the very eyes of the King whohad unleashed this horror. Doors were crashed open, flames rose toheaven, men and women were shot down under the palace wall, bodies wereflung from windows, and on every side--in the words of D'Aubigne--theblood now flowed, seeking the river. 

The King watched a while, screams and curses pouring from his lips tobe lost in the horrible uproar. He turned, perhaps to upbraid his motherand his brother, but found that they were no longer at his side. Behind him in the room a page was crouching, watching him with a white, horrified face. 

Suddenly the King laughed--it was the fierce, hysterical laugh of amadman. His eyes fell on the arquebuses flanking the picture of theMother of Mercy. He took one of them down, then caught the boy by thecollar of his doublet and dragged him forward to the window. 

"Hither, and load for me!" he bade him, between peals of his terriblelaughter. Then he levelled the weapon across the sill of the window. "Parpaillots! Parpaillots!" he screamed. "Kill! Kill!" and he dischargedthe arquebus into a fleeing group of Huguenots. 

Five days later, the King--who by now had thrown the blame of the wholeaffair, with its slaughter of some two thousand Huguenots, upon theGuises and their hatred of Coligny--rode out to Montfaucon to behold thedecapitated body of the Admiral, which hung from the gallows in chains. A courtier of a poor but obtrusive wit leaned towards him. 

"The Admiral becomes noisome, I think, " he said. 

The King's green eyes considered him, his lips curling grimly. 

"The body of a dead enemy always smells sweet, " he said. 

VI. THE NIGHT OF WITCHCRAFT--Louis XIV and Madame De Montespan

If you scrape the rubbish-heap of servile, coeval flattery that usuallysmothers the personality of a monarch, you will discover a few kingswho have been truly great; many who have achieved greatness because theywere wisely content to serve as masks for the great intellects of theirtime; and, for the rest, some bad kings, some foolish kings, and someridiculous kings. But in all that royal gallery of history you willhardly find a more truly absurd figure than that of the resplendent RoiSoleil, the Grand Monarque, the Fourteenth Louis of France. 

I am not aware that he has ever been laughed at; certainly never to theextent which he deserves. The flatterers of his day, inevitable productsof his reign, did their work so thoroughly that even in secret they donot appear to have dared to utter--possibly they did not even dareto think--the truth about him. Their work survives, and when you haveassessed the monstrous flattery at its true worth, swept it aside andcome down to the real facts of his life, you make the discovery thatthe proudest title their sycophancy could bestow and his own fatuityaccept--Le Roi Soleil, the Sun-King--makes him what indeed he is: aking of opera bouffe. There is about him at times something almostreminiscent of the Court buffoons of a century before, who puffedthemselves out with mock pride, and aped a sort of sovereignty to excitelaughter; with this difference, however, that in his own case it was notintended to be amusing. 

A heartless voluptuary of mediocre intelligence, he contrived to wraphimself in what Saint-Simon has called a "terrible majesty. " He wasobsessed by the idea of the dignity, almost the divinity--of kingship. Icannot believe that he conceived himself human. He appears to haveheld that being king was very like being God, and he duped the world byceremonials of etiquette that were very nearly sacramental. We findhim burdening the most simple and personal acts of everyday life with asuccession of rites of an amazing complexity. Thus, when he rose in themorning, princes of the blood and the first gentlemen of France were inattendance: one to present to him his stockings, another to profferon bended knee the royal garters, a third to perform the ceremony ofhanding him his wig, and so on until the toilette of his plump, notunhandsome person was complete. You miss the incense, you feel that somenoble thurifer should have fumigated him at each stage. Perhaps he neverthought of it. 

The evil fruits of his reign--evil, that is to say, from the pointof view of his order, which was swept away as so much anachronisticrubbish--did not come until a hundred years later. In his own day Francewas great, and this not because but in spite of him. After all, he wasnot the absolute ruler he conceived himself. There were such capable menas Colbert and Louvois at the King's side'; there was the great geniusof France which manifests itself when and as it will, whatever theregime--and there was Madame de Montespan to whose influence not alittle of Louis's glory may be ascribed, since the most splendid yearsof his reign were those between 1668 and 1678 when she was maitresse entitre and more than Queen of France. The women played a great part atthe Court of Louis XIV, and those upon whom he turned his dark eyes werein the main as wax under the solar rays of the Sun-King. But Madame deMontespan had discovered the secret of reversing matters, so that in herhands it was the King who became as wax for her modelling. It is withthis secret--a page of the secret history of France that we are hereconcerned. 

Francoises Athenais de Tonnay-Charente had come to Court in 1660 asa maid of honour to the Queen. Of a wit and grace to match her superbbeauty, she was also of a perfervid piety, a daily communicant, a modelof virtue to all maids of honour. This until the Devil tempted her. Whenthat happened, she did not merely eat an apple; she devoured an entireorchard. Pride and ambition brought about her downfall. She shared theuniversal jealousy of which Louise de la Valliere was a victim, and coveted the honours and the splendour by which that unfortunatefavourite was surrounded. 

Not even her marriage with the Marquis de Montespan some three yearsafter her coming to Court sufficed to overcome the longings born ofher covetousness and ambition. And then, when the Sun-King looked withfavour upon her opulent charms, when at last she saw the object of herambition within reach, that husband of hers went very near to wreckingeverything by his unreasonable behaviour. This preposterous marquis hadthe effrontery to dispute his wife with Jupiter, was so purblind as notto appreciate the honour the Sun-King proposed to do him. 

In putting it thus, I but make myself the mouthpiece of the Court. 

When Montespan began to make trouble by railing furiously against thefriendship of the King for his wife, his behaviour so amazed the King'scousin, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, that she called him "an extravagantand extraordinary man. " To his face she told him that he must be mad tobehave in this fashion; and so incredibly distorted were his views, thathe did not at all agree with her. He provoked scenes with the King, inwhich he quoted Scripture, made opposite allusions to King David whichwere in the very worst taste, and even ventured to suggest that theSun-King might have to reckon with the judgment of God. If he escapeda lettre de cachet and a dungeon in the Bastille, it can only have beenbecause the King feared the further spread of a scandal injurious to thesacrosanctity of his royal dignity. 

The Marchioness fumed in private and sneered in public. WhenMademoiselle de Montpensier suggested that for his safety's sake sheshould control her husband's antics, she expressed her bitterness. 

"He and my parrot, " she said, "amuse the Court to my shame. "

In the end, finding that neither by upbraiding the King nor by beatinghis wife could he prevail, Monsieur de Montespan resigned himself afterhis own fashion. He went into widower's mourning, dressed his servantsin black, and came ostentatiously to Court in a mourning coach to takeceremonious leave of his friends. It was an affair that profoundlyirritated the Sun-King, and very nearly made him ridiculous. 

Thereafter Montespan abandoned his wife to the King. He withdrew firstto his country seat, and, later, from France, having received more thana hint that Louis was intending to settle his score with him. By thattime Madame de Montespan was firmly established as maitresse en titre, and in January of 1669 she gave birth to the Duke of Maine, the firstof the seven children she was to bear the King. Parliament was tolegitimize them all, declaring them royal children of France, and thecountry was to provide titles, dignities, and royal rent-rolls for themand their heirs forever. Do you wonder that there was a revolutiona century later, and that the people, grown weary of the parasiticanachronism of royalty, should have risen to throw off the intolerableburden it imposed upon them?

The splendour of Madame de Montespan in those days was something thelike of which had never been seen at the Court of France. On her estateof Clagny, near Versailles, stood now a magnificent chateau. Louis hadbegun by building a country villa, which satisfied her not at all. 

"That, " she told him, "might do very well for an opera-girl"; whereuponthe infatuated monarch had no alternative but to command its demolition, and call in the famous architect, Mansard, to erect in its place anultraroyal residence. 

At Versailles itself, whilst the long-suffering Queen had to be contentwith ten rooms on the second floor, Madame de Montespan was installedin twice that number on the first; and whilst a simple page sufficedto carry the Queen's train at Court, nothing less than the wife of amarshal of France must perform the same office for the favourite. Shekept royal state as few queens have ever kept it. She was assigned atroop of royal bodyguards for escort, and when she travelled there was anever-ending train to follow her six-horse coach, and officers of Statecame to receive her with royal honours wherever she passed. 

In her immeasurable pride she became a tyrant, even over the Kinghimself. 

"Thunderous and triumphant, " Madame de Sevigne describes her in thosedays when the Sun-King was her utter and almost timid slave. 

But constancy is not a Jovian virtue. Jupiter grew restless, andthen, shaking off all restraint, plunged into inconstancy of the mostscandalous and flagrant kind. It is doubtful if the history of royalamours, with all its fecundity, can furnish a parallel. Within a fewmonths, Madame de Soubise, Mademoiselle de Rochefort-Theobon, Madamede Louvigny, Madame de Ludres, and some lesser ones passed in rapidsuccession through the furnace of the Sun-King's affection--which is tosay, through the royal bed--and at last the Court was amazed to see theWidow Scarron, who had been appointed governess to Madame de Montespan'sroyal children, empanoplied in a dignity and ceremony that left no doubton the score of her true position at Court. 

And so, after seven years of absolute sway in which homage had beenpaid her almost in awe by noble and simple alike, Madame de Montespan, neglected now by Louis, moved amid reflections of that neglect, witharrogantly smiling lips and desperate rage in her heart. She sneeredopenly at the royal lack of taste, allowed her barbed wit to makeoffensive sport with the ladies who supplanted her; yet, ravagedby jealousy, she feared for herself the fate which through her hadovertaken La Valliere. 

That fear was with her now as she sat in the window embrasure, hell inher heart and a reflection of it in her eyes, as, fallen almost to therank of a spectator in that comedy wherein she was accustomed to theleading part, she watched the shifting, chattering, glittering crowd. And as she watched, her line of vision was crossed to her undoing by theslender, wellknit figure of de Vanens, who, dressed from head to foot inblack, detached sharply from that dazzling throng. His face was pale andsaturnine, his eyes dark, very level, and singularly piercing. Thushis appearance served to underline the peculiar fascination which heexerted, the rather sinister appeal which he made to the imagination. 

This young Provencal nobleman was known to dabble in magic, and therewere one or two dark passages in his past life of which more thana whisper had gone abroad. Of being a student of alchemy, a"philosopher"--that is to say, a seeker after the philosopher's stone, which was to effect the transmutation of metals--he made no secret. Butif you taxed him with demoniacal practices he would deny it, yet in away that carried no conviction. 

To this dangerous fellow Madame de Montespan now made appeal in herdesperate need. 

Their eyes met as he was sauntering past, and with a lazy smile and alanguid wave of her fan she beckoned him to her side. 

"They tell me, Vanens, " said she, "that your philosophy succeeds so wellthat you are transmuting copper into silver. "

His piercing eyes surveyed her, narrowing; a smile flickered over histhin lips. 

"They tell you the truth, " he said. "I have cast a bar which has beenpurchased as good silver by the Mint. "

Her interest quickened. "By the Mint!" she echoed, amazed. "But, then, my friend--" She was breathless with excitement. "It is a miracle. "

"No less, " he admitted. "But there is the greater miracle to come--thetransmutation of base metal into gold. "

"And you will perform it?"

"Let me but conquer the secret of solidifying mercury, and the rest isnaught. I shall conquer it, and soon. "

He spoke with easy confidence, a man stating something that he knewbeyond the possibility of doubt. The Marquise became thoughtful. Shesighed. 

"You are the master of deep secrets, Vanens. Have you none that willsoften flinty hearts, make them responsive?"

He considered this woman whom Saint-Simon has called "beautiful as theday, " and his smile broadened. 

"Look in your mirror for the alchemy needed there, " he bade her. 

Anger rippled across the perfect face. She lowered

"I have looked--in vain. Can you not help me, Vanens, you who know somuch?"

"A love-philtre?" said he, and hummed. "Are you in earnest?"

"Do you mock me with that question? Is not my need proclaimed for all tosee?"

Vanens became grave. 

"It is not an alchemy in which myself I dabble, " he said slowly. "But Iam acquainted with those who do. "

She clutched his wrist in her eagerness. 

"I will pay well, " she said. 

"You will need to. Such things are costly. " He glanced round to see thatnone was listening, then bending nearer: "There is a sorceress named LaVoisin in the Rue de la Tannerie, well known as a fortuneteller to manyladies of the Court, who at a word from me will do your need. "

La Montespan turned white. The piety in which she had been reared--thehabits of which clung to her despite the irregularity of her life-madeher recoil before the thing that she desired. Sorcery was of the Devil. She told him so. But Vanens laughed. 

"So that it be effective. . . " said he with a shrug. 

And then across the room floated a woman's trilling laugh. She lookedin the direction of the sound and beheld the gorgeous figure of the Kingbending--yet haughty and condescending even in adoration--over handsomeMadame de Ludres. Pride and ambition rose up in sudden fury to trampleon religious feeling. Let Vanens take her to this witch of his, for bethe aid what it might, she must have it. 

And so, one dark night late in the year, Louis de Vanens handed a maskedand muffled lady from a coach at the corner of the Rue de la Tannerie, and conducted her to the house of La Voisin. 

The door was opened for them by a young woman of some twenty yearsof age--Marguerite Monvoisin, the daughter of the witch--who led themupstairs to a room that was handsomely furnished and hung with fantastictapestry of red designs upon a black ground--designs that took monstrousshapes in the flickering light of a cluster of candles. Black curtainsparted, and from between them stepped a short, plump woman, of a certaincomeliness, with two round black beads of eyes. She was fantasticallyrobed in a cloak of crimson velvet, lined with costly furs and closelystudded with double-headed eagles in fine gold, which must have beenworth a prince's ransom; and she wore red shoes on each of which therewas the same eagle design in gold. 

"Ah, Vanens!" she said familiarly. 

He bowed. 

"I bring you, " he announced, "a lady who has need of your skill. "

And he waved a hand towards the tall cloaked figure at his side. 

La Voisin looked at the masked face. 

"Velvet faces tell me little, Madame la Marquise, " she said calmly. "Nor, believe me, will the King look at a countenance that you concealfrom me. "

There was an exclamation of surprise and anger from Madame de Montespan. She plucked off her mask. 

"You knew me?"

"Can you wonder?" asked La Voisin, "since I have told you what you carryconcealed in your heart?"

Madame de Montespan was as credulous as only the very devout can be. 

"Since that is so, since you know already what I seek, tell me can youprocure it me?" she asked in a fever of excitement. "I will pay well. "

La Voisin smiled darkly. 

"Obdurate, indeed, is the case that will not yield to such medicine asmine, " she said. "Let me consider first what must be done. In a few daysI shall bring you word. But have you courage for a great ordeal?"

"For any ordeal that will give me what I want. "

"In a few days, then, you shall hear from me, " said the witch, and sodismissed the great lady. 

Leaving a heavy purse behind her, as Vanens had instructed her, theMarchioness departed with her escort. And there, with that initiation, as far as we can ascertain, ended Louis de Vanens's connection with theaffair. 

At Clagny Madame de Montespan waited for three days in a fever ofimpatience for the coming of the witch. But when at last La Voisinpresented herself, the proposal that she had to make was one beforewhich the Marchioness recoiled in horror and some indignation. 

The magic that La Voisin suggested involved a coadjutor, the AbbeGuibourg, and the black mass to be celebrated by him. Madame deMontespan had heard something of these dread sacrificial rites to Satan;sufficient to fill her with loathing and disgust of the whitefaced, beady-eyed woman who dared to insult her by the proposal. She fumed andraged a while, and even went near to striking La Voisin, who lookedon with inscrutable face and stony, almost contemptuous, indifference. Before that impenetrable, almost uncanny, calm, Madame de Montespan'sfury at last abated. Then the urgency of her need becoming paramount, she desired more clearly to be told what would be expected of her. What the witch told her was more appalling than anything she could haveimagined. But La Voisin argued:

"Can anything be accomplished without cost? Can anything be gained inthis life without payment of some kind?"

"But the price of this is monstrous!" Madame de Montespan protested. 

"Measure it by the worldly advantages to be gained. They are not small, madame. To enjoy boundless wealth, boundless power, and boundlesshonour, to be more than queen--is not all this worth some sacrifice?"

To Madame de Montespan it must have been worth any sacrifice in thisworld or the next, since in the end she conquered her disgust, andagreed to lend herself to this horror. 

Three masses, she was told, would be necessary to ensure success, andit was determined that they should be celebrated in the chapel of theChateau de Villebousin, where Guibourg had been almoner, to which he hadaccess, and which was at the time untenanted. 

The chateau was a gloomy mediaeval fortress, blackened by age, andstanding, surrounded by a moat, in a lonely spot some two miles to thesouth of Paris. Thither on a dark, gusty night of March came Madame deMontespan, accompanied by her confidential waiting-woman, MademoiselleDesceillets. They left the coach to await them on the Orleans road, andthence, escorted by a single male attendant, they made their way by arutted, sodden path towards the grim castle looming faintly through theenveloping gloom. 

The wind howled dismally about the crenellated turrets; and a row ofpoplars, standing like black, phantasmal guardians of the evil place, bent groaning before its fury. From the running waters of the moat, swollen by recent rains, came a gurgling sound that was indescribablywicked. 

Desocillets was frightened by the dark, the desolate loneliness andeeriness of the place; but she dared utter no complaint as she stumbledforward over the uneven ground, through the gloom and the buffetingwind, compelled by the suasion of her mistress's imperious will. Thus, by a drawbridge spanning dark, oily waters, they came into a vastcourtyard and an atmosphere as of mildew. A studded door stood ajar, andthrough the gap, from a guiding beacon of infamy, fell a rhomb of yellowlight, suddenly obscured by a squat female figure when the steps of theMarchioness and her companions fell upon the stones of the yard. 

It was La Voisin who stood on the threshold to receive her client. Inthe stone-flagged hall behind her the light of a lantern revealed herdaughter, Marguerite Monvoisin, and a short, crafty-faced, misshapenfellow in black homespun and a red wig--a magician named Lesage, one ofLa Voisin's coadjutors, a rogue of some talent who exploited the witchesof Paris to his own profit. 

Leaving Leroy--the Marchioness's male attendant below in this fellow'scompany, La Voisin took up a candle and lighted Madame de Montespan upthe broad stone staircase, draughty and cold, to the ante-room of thechapel on the floor above. Mademoiselle Desceillets followed closely andfearfully, and Marguerite Monvoisin came last. 

They entered the ante-room, a spacious chamber, bare of furniture savefor an oaken table in the middle, some faded and mildewed tapestries, and a cane-backed settle of twisted walnut over against the wall. Analabaster lamp on the table made an island of light in that place ofgloom, and within the circle of its feeble rays stood a gross old man ofsome seventy years of age in sacerdotal garments of unusual design: thewhite alb worn over a greasy cassock was studded with black fir-cones;the stole and maniple were of black satin, with fir-cones wrought inyellow thread. 

His inflamed countenance was of a revolting hideousness: his cheeks werecovered by a network of blue veins, his eyes squinted horribly, his lipsvanished inwards over toothless gums, and a fringe of white hair hungin matted wisps from his high, bald crown. This was the infamousAbbe Guibourg, sacristan of Saint Denis, an ordained priest who hadconsecrated himself to the service of the Devil. 

He received the great lady with a low bow which, despite herself, sheacknowledged by a shudder. She was very pale, and her eyes were dilatingand preternaturally bright. Fear began to possess her, yet she sufferedherself to be ushered into the chapel, which was dimly illumined by acouple of candles standing beside a basin on a table. The altar lighthad been extinguished. Her maid would have hung back, but that shefeared to be parted from her mistress. She passed in with her in thewake of Guibourg, and followed by La Voisin, who closed the door, leaving her daughter in the ante-room. 

Although she had never been a participant in any of the sorceriespractised by her mother, yet Marguerite was fully aware of their extent, and more than guessed what horrors were taking place beyond the closeddoors of the chapel. The very thought of them filled her with loathingand disgust as she sat waiting, huddled in a corner of the settle. Andyet when presently through the closed doors came the drone of the voiceof that unclean celebrant, to blend with the whine of the wind in thechimney, Marguerite, urged by a morbid curiosity she could not conquer, crept shuddering to the door, which directly faced the altar, and goingdown on her knees applied her eye to the keyhole. 

What she saw may very well have appalled her considering the exaltedstation of Madame de Montespan. She beheld the white, sculptural form ofthe royal favourite lying at full length supine upon the altar, her armsoutstretched, holding a lighted candle in each hand. Immediately beforeher stood the Abbe Guibourg, his body screening the chalice and itsposition from the eye of the watching girl. 

She heard the whine of his voice pattering the Latin of the mass, whichhe was reciting backwards from the last gospel; and occasionallyshe heard responses muttered by her mother, who with MademoiselleDesceillets was beyond Marguerite's narrow range of vision. 

Apart from the interest lent to the proceedings by the presence ofthe royal favourite the affair must have seemed now very stupid andpointless to Marguerite, although she would certainly not have found itso had she known enough Latin to understand the horrible perversionof the Credo. But when the Offertory was reached, matters suddenlyquickened. In stealing away from the door, she was no more than in timeto avoid being caught spying by her mother, who now issued from thechapel. 

La Voisin crossed the ante-room briskly and went out. 

Within a very few minutes she was back again, her approach now heraldedby the feeble, quavering squeals of a very young child. 

Marguerite Monvoisin was sufficiently acquainted with the ghastly ritesto guess what was impending. She was young, and herself a mother. She had her share of the maternal instinct alive in every femaleanimal--with the occasional exception of the human pervert--and thehoarse, plaintive cries of that young child chilled her to the soul withhorror. She felt the skin roughening and tightening upon her body, and asense of physical sickness overcame her. That and the fear of her motherkept her stiff and frozen in an angle of the settle until La Voisin hadpassed through and reentered the chapel bearing that piteous bundle inher arms. 

Then, when the door had closed again, the girl, horrified andfascinated, sped back to watch. She saw that unclean priest turn andreceive the child from La Voisin. As it changed hands its cries werestilled. 

Guibourg faced the altar once more, that little wisp of humanity thatwas but a few days old held now aloft, naked, in his criminal hands. His muttering, slobbering voice pronouncing the words of that demoniacconsecration reached the ears of the petrified girl at the keyhole. 

"Ashtaroth, Asmodeus, Princes of Affection, I conjure you to acknowledgethe sacrifice I offer to you of this child for the things I ask ofyou, which are that the King's love for me shall be continued, and thathonoured by princes and princesses nothing shall be denied me of allthat I may ask. "

A sudden gust of wind smote and rattled the windows of the chapel andthe ante-room, as if the legions of hell had flung themselves againstthe walls of the chateau. There was a rush and clatter in the chimney ofthe ante-room's vast, empty fireplace, and through the din Marguerite, as her failing limbs sank under her and she slithered down in a heapagainst the chapel door, seemed to hear a burst of exultantly cruelsatanic laughter. With chattering teeth and burning eyes she sathuddled, listening in terror. The child began to cry again, moreviolently, more piteously; then, quite suddenly, there was a littlechoking cough, a gurgle, the chink of metal against earthenware, andsilence. 

When some moments later the squat figure of La Voisin emerged from thechapel, Marguerite was back in the shadows, hunched on the settle towhich she had crawled. She saw that her mother now carried a basin underher arm, and she did not need the evidence of her eyes to inform her ofthe dreadful contents that the witch was bearing away in it. 

Meanwhile in the chapel the ineffably blasphemous rites proceeded. Tothe warm human blood which had been caught in the consecrated chalice, Guibourg had added, among other foulnesses, powdered cantharides, thedust of desiccated moles, and the blood of bats. By the addition offlour he had wrought the ingredients into an ineffable paste, and overthis, through the door, which La Voisin had left ajar, Marguerite heardhis voice pronouncing the dread words of Transubstantiation. 

Marguerite's horror mounted until it threatened to suffocate her. Itwas as if some hellish miasma, released by Guibourg's monstrousincantations, crept through to permeate and poison the air she breathed. 

It would be a half-hour later when Madame de Montespan at last came out. She was of a ghastly pallor, her limbs shook and trembled under her asshe stepped forth, and there was a wild horror in her staring eyes. Yetshe contrived to carry herself almost defiantly erect, and she spokesharply to the half-swooning Desceillets, who staggered after her. 

She took her departure from that unholy place bearing with her thehost compounded of devilish ingredients which when dried and reduced topowder was to be administered to the King to ensure the renewal of hisfailing affection for her. 

The Marchioness contrived that a creature of her own, an officer ofthe buttery in her pay, should introduce it into the royal soup. Theimmediate and not unnatural result was that the King was taken violentlyill, and Madame de Montespan's anxiety and suspense were increasedthereby. On his recovery, however, it would seem that the demoniacsacrament--thrice repeated by then--had not been in vain. 

The sequel, indeed, appeared to justify Madame de Montespan's faithin sorcery, and to compensate her for all the horror to which inher despair she had submitted. Madame de Ludres found herself coldlyregarded by the convalescent King. Very soon she was discarded, theWidow Scarron neglected, and the fickle monarch was once more at thefeet of the lovely marchioness, her utter and devoted slave. 

Thus was Madame de Montespan "thunderously triumphant" once more, andestablished as firmly as 'ever in the Sun-King's favour. Madame deSevigne, in speaking of this phase of their relations, dilates upon thecompleteness of the reconciliation, and tells us that the ardour ofthe first years seemed now to have returned. And for two whole years itcontinued thus. Never before had Madame de Montespan's sway been moreabsolute, no shadow came to trouble, the serenity of her rule. 

But it proved, after all, to be no more than the last flare of anexpiring fire that was definitely quenched at last, in 1679, byMademoiselle de Fontanges. A maid of honour to madame, she was a childof not more than eighteen years, fair and flaxen, with pink cheeks andlarge, childish eyes; and it was for this doll that the regal Montespannow found herself discarded. 

Honours rained upon the new favourite. Louis made her a duchess withan income of twenty thousand livres, and deeply though this may havedisgusted his subjects, it disgusted Madame de Montespan still more. Blinded by rage she openly abused the new duchess, and provoked a fairlypublic scene with Louis, in which she gave him her true opinion of himwith a disturbing frankness. 

"You dishonour yourself, " she informed him among other things. "And youbetray your taste when you make love to a pink-and-white doll, a littlefool that has no more wit nor manners than if she were painted oncanvas!" Then, with an increase of scorn, she delivered herself of anunpardonable apostrophe: "You, a king, to accept the inheritance of thatchit's rustic lovers!"

He flushed and scowled upon her. 

"That is an infamous falsehood!" he exclaimed. "Madame, you areunbearable!" He was very angry, and it infuriated him the more thatshe should stand so coldly mocking before an anger that could bow theproudest heads in France. "You have the pride of Satan, your greed isinsatiable, your domineering spirit utterly insufferable, and you havethe most false and poisonous tongue in the world!"

Her brutal answer bludgeoned that high divinity to earth. 

"With all my imperfections, " she sneered, "at least I do not smell asbadly as you do!"

It was an answer that extinguished her last chance. It was fatal tothe dignity, to the "terrible majesty" of Louis. It stripped him ofall divinity, and revealed him authoritatively as intensely and evenunpleasantly human. It was beyond hope of pardon. 

His face turned the colour of wax. A glacial silence hung over theagonized witnesses of that royal humiliation. Then, without a word, in avain attempt to rescue the dignity she had so cruelly mauled, he turned, his red heels clicked rapidly and unsteadily across the polished floor, and he was gone. 

When Madame de Montespan realized exactly what she had done, nothingbut rage remained to her--rage and its offspring, vindictiveness. TheDuchess of Fontanges must not enjoy her victory, nor must Louis escapepunishment for his faithlessness. La Voisin should afford her the meansto accomplish this. And so she goes once more to the Rue de la Tannerie. 

Now, the matter of Madame de Montespan's present needs was one in whichthe witches were particularly expert. Were you troubled with a rival, did your husband persist in surviving your affection for him, did thosefrom whom you had expectations cling obstinately and inconsideratelyto life, the witches by incantations and the use of powders--in whicharsenic was the dominant charm--could usually put the matter right foryou. Indeed, so wide and general was the practice of poisoning become, that the authorities, lately aroused to the fact by the sensationalrevelations of the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, had set up in thisyear 1670 the tribunal known as the Chambre Ardente to inquire into thematter, and to conduct prosecutions. 

La Voisin promised help to the Marchioness. She called in another witchof horrible repute, named La Filastre, her coadjutor Lesage, and twoexpert poisoners, Romani and Bertrand, who devised an ingenious plot forthe murder of the Duchess of Fontanges. They were to visit her, Romanias a cloth merchant, and Bertrand as his servant, to offer her theirwares, including some Grenoble gloves, which were the most beautifulgloves in the world and unfailingly irresistible to ladies. These glovesthey prepared in accordance with certain magical recipes in such a waythat the Duchess, after wearing them, must die a lingering death inwhich there could be no suspicion of poisoning. 

The King was to be dealt with by means of a petition steeped in similarpowders, and should receive his death by taking it into his hands. LaVoisin herself was to go to Saint-Germain to present this petition onMonday, March 13th, one of those days on which, according to ancientcustom, all comers were admitted to the royal presence. 

Thus they disposed. But Fate was already silently stalking La Voisin. 

It is to the fact that an obscure and vulgar woman had drunk one glassof wine too many three months earlier that the King owed his escape. 

If you are interested in the almost grotesque disparity that can liebetween cause and effect, here is a subject for you. Three monthsearlier a tailor named Vigoureux, whose wife secretly practised magic, had entertained a few friends to dinner, amongst whom was an intimateof his wife's, named Marie Bosse. This Marie Bosse it was who drank thatexcessive glass of wine which, drowning prudence, led her to boast ofthe famous trade she drove as a fortune-teller to the nobility, and evento hint of something further. 

"Another three poisonings, " she chuckled, "and I shall retire with myfortune made!"

An attorney who was present pricked up his ears, bethought him of thetales that were afloat, and gave information to the police. The policeset a trap for Marie Bosse, and she betrayed herself. Later, undertorture, she betrayed La Vigoureux. La Vigoureux betrayed others, andthese others again. 

The arrest of Marie Bosse was like knocking down the first of a row ofninepins, but none could have suspected that the last of these stood inthe royal apartments. 

On the day before she was to repair to Saint-Germain, La Voisin, betrayed in her turn, received a surprise visit from the police--who, ofcourse, had no knowledge of the regicide their action was thwarting--andshe was carried off to the Chatelet. Put to the question, she revealeda great deal; but her terror of the horrible punishment reservedfor regicides prevented her to the day of her death at the stake--inFebruary of 1680 from saying a word of her association with Madame deMontespan. 

But there were others whom she betrayed under torture, and whose arrestfollowed quickly upon her own, who had not her strength of character. Among these were La Filastre and the magician Lesage. When it was foundthat these two corroborated each other in the incredible things whichthey related, the Chambre Ardente took fright. La Reynie, who presidedover it, laid the matter before the King, and the King, horror-strickenby the discovery of the revolting practices in which the mother ofhis children had been engaged, suspended the sittings of the ChambreArdente, and commanded that no further proceedings should be takenagainst Lesage and La Filastre, and none initiated against Romani, Bertrand, the Abbe Guibourg, and the scores of other poisoners andmagicians who had been arrested, and who were acquainted with Madame deMontespan's unholy traffic. 

But it was not out of any desire to spare Madame de Montespan that theKing proceeded in this manner; he was concerned only to spare himselfand his royal dignity. He feared above all things the scandal andridicule which must touch him as a result of publicity, and becausehe feared it so much, he could impose no punishment upon Madame deMontespan. 

This he made known to her at the interview between them procured by hisminister Louvois, at about the time that the sittings of the ChambreArdente were suspended. 

To this interview that proud, domineering woman came in dread, and intears and humility for once. The King's bearing was cold and hard. Coldand hard were the words in which he declared the extent of his knowledgeof her infamy, words which revealed the loathing and disgust thisknowledge brought him. If at first she was terror-stricken, crushedunder the indictment, yet she was never of a temper to bear reproacheslong. Under his scorn her anger kindled and her humility was sloughed. 

"What then?" she cried at last, eyes aflash through lingering tears. "Isthe blame all mine? If all this is true, it is no less true that Iwas driven to it by my love for you and the despair to which yourheartlessness and infidelity reduced me. To you, " she continued, gathering force at every word, "I sacrificed everything--my honour, anoble husband who loved me, all that a woman prizes. And what did yougive me in exchange? Your cruel fickleness exposed me to the low mockeryof the lick-spittles of your Court. Do you wonder that I went mad, andthat in my madness I sacrificed what shreds of self-respect you had leftme? And now it seems I have lost all but life. Take that, too, if itbe your pleasure. Heaven knows it has little value left for me! Butremember that in striking me you strike the mother of your children--thelegitimate children of France. Remember that!"

He remembered it. Indeed, he was never in danger of forgetting it; forshe might have added that he would be striking also at himself and atthat royal dignity which was his religion. And so that all scandalouscomment might be avoided she was actually allowed to remain at Court, although no longer in her first-floor apartments; and it was not untilten years later that she departed to withdraw to the community of SaintJoseph. 

But even in her disgrace this woman, secretly convicted among otherabominations of attempting to procure the poisoning of the King and ofher rival, enjoyed an annual pension of 1, 200. 000 livres; whilst nonedared proceed against those who shared her guilt--not even the infamousGuibourg, the poisoners Romani and Bertrand, and La Filastre--nor yetagainst some scores of associates of these, who were known to live bysorcery and poisonings, and who might be privy to the part played byMadame de Montespan in that horrible night of magic at the Chateau deVillebousin. 

The hot blast of revolution was needed to sweep France clean. 

VII. THE NIGHT OF GEMS--The "Affairs" Of The Queen's Necklace

Under the stars of a tepid, scented night of August of 1784, PrinceLouis de Rohan, Cardinal of Strasbourg, Grand Almoner of France, madehis way with quickened pulses through the Park of Versailles to amomentous assignation in the Grove of Venus. 

This illustrious member of an illustrious House, that derived from boththe royal lines of Valois and Bourbon, was a man in the prime of life, of a fine height, still retaining something of the willowy slendernessthat had been his in youth, and of a gentle, almost womanly beauty ofcountenance. 

In a grey cloak and a round, grey hat with gold cords, followed closelyby two shadowy attendant figures, he stepped briskly amain, eager toopen those gates across the path of his ambition, locked against himhitherto by the very hands from which he now went to receive the key. 

He deserves your sympathy, this elegant Cardinal-Prince, who had beenthe victim of the malice and schemings of the relentless AustrianEmpress since the days when he represented the King of France at theCourt of Vienna. 

The state he had kept there had been more than royal and royal inthe dazzling French manner, which was perturbing to a woman of MarieTherese's solid German notions. His hunting-parties, his supper-parties, the fetes he gave upon every occasion, the worldly inventiveness, thesumptuousness and reckless extravagance that made each of these affairsseem like a supplement to "The Arabian Nights' Entertainments, " thesybaritic luxury of his surroundings, the incredible prodigality ofhis expenditure, all served profoundly to scandalize and embitter theEmpress. 

That a priest in gay, secular clothes should hunt the stag on horsebackfilled her with horror at his levity; that he should flirt discreetlywith the noble ladies of Vienna made her despair of his morals; whilsthis personal elegance and irresistible charm were proofs to her of aprofligacy that perverted the Court over which she ruled. 

She laboured for the extinction of his pernicious brilliance, andintrigued for his recall. She made no attempt to conceal her hostility, nor did she love him any the better because he met her frigidhaughtiness with an ironical urbanity that seemed ever to put her in thewrong. And then one day he permitted his wit to be bitingly imprudent. 

"Marie Therese, " he wrote to D'Aiguillon, "holds in one hand ahandkerchief to receive her tears for the misfortunes of oppressedPoland, and in the other a sword to continue its partition. "

To say that in this witticism lay one of the causes of the FrenchRevolution may seem at first glance an outrageous overstatement. Yetit is certain that, but for that imprudent phrase, the need would neverhave arisen that sent Rohan across the Park of Versailles on that Augustnight to an assignation that in the sequel was to place a terribleweapon in the hands of the Revolutionary party. 

D'Aiguillon had published the gibe. It had reached the ears of MarieAntoinette, and from her it had travelled back to her mother in Vienna. It aroused in the Empress a resentment and a bitterness that did notrest until the splendid Cardinal-Prince was recalled from his embassy. It did not rest even then. By the ridicule to which the gibe exposedher--and if you know Marie Therese at all, you can imagine what thatmeant--it provoked a hostility that was indefatigably to labour againsthim. 

The Cardinal was ambitious, he had confidence in his talents and inthe driving force of his mighty family, and he looked to become anotherRichelieu or Mazarin, the first Minister of the Crown, the empurpledruler of France, the guiding power behind the throne. All this he lookedconfidently to achieve; all this he might have achieved but for theobstacle that Marie Therese's resentment flung across his path. TheEmpress saw to it that, through the person of her daughter, her hatredshould pursue him even into France. 

Obedient ever to the iron will of her mother, sharing her mother'sresentment, Marie Antoinette exerted all her influence to thwart thisCardinal whom her mother had taught her to regard as a dangerous, unprincipled man. 

On his return from Vienna bearing letters from Marie Therese to LouisXVI and Marie Antoinette, the Cardinal found himself coldly received bythe dull King, and discouraged from remaining at Court, whilst the Queenrefused to grant him so much as the audience necessary for the deliveryof these letters, desiring him to forward them instead. 

The chagrined Cardinal had no illusions. He beheld here the handof Marie Therese controlling Marie Antoinette, and, through MarieAntoinette, the King himself. Worse followed. He who had dreamt himselfanother Richelieu could only with difficulty obtain the promisedposition of Grand Almoner of France, and this solely as a result of thepowerful and insistent influence exerted by his family. 

He perceived that if he was to succeed at all he must begin by softeningthe rigorous attitude which the Queen maintained towards him. To thatend he addressed himself. But three successive letters he wrote to theQueen remained unanswered. Through other channels persistently he beggedfor an audience that he might come in person to express his regrets forthe offending indiscretion. But the Queen remained unmoved, ruled everby the Austrian Empress, who through her daughter sought to guide theaffairs of France. 

Rohan was reduced to despair, and then in an evil hour his path wascrossed by Jeanne de la Motte de Valois, who enjoyed the reputationof secretly possessing the friendship of the Queen, exerting a sort ofback-stair influence, and who lived on that reputation. 

As a drowning man clutches at a straw, so the Cardinal-Prince Louis deRohan, Grand Almoner of France, Landgrave of Alsace, Commander of theOrder of the Holy Ghost, clutched at this faiseuse d'affaires to helphim in his desperate need. 

Jeanne de la Motte de Valois--perhaps the most astounding adventuressthat ever lived by her wits and her beauty--had begun life by beggingher bread in the streets. She laid claim to left-handed descent fromthe royal line of Valois, and, her claim supported by the MarchionessBoulainvilliers, who had befriended her, she had obtained from the Crowna small pension, and had married the unscrupulous Marc Antoine de laMotte, a young soldier in the Burgundy regiment of the Gendarmerie. 

Later, in the autumn of 1786, her protectress presented her to Cardinalde Rohan. His Eminence, interested in the lady's extraordinary history, in her remarkable beauty, vivacity, and wit, received the De la Mottesat his sumptuous chateau at Saverne, near Strasbourg, heard her story ingreater detail, promised his protection, and as an earnest of hiskindly intentions obtained for her husband a captain's commission in theDragoons. 

Thereafter you see the De la Mottes in Paris and at Versailles, hustledfrom lodging to lodging for failure to pay what they owe; and finallyinstalled in a house in the Rue Neuve Saint-Gilles. There they kepta sort of state, spending lavishly, now the money borrowed from theCardinal, or upon the Cardinal's security; now the proceeds of pawnedgoods that had been bought on credit, and of other swindles practisedupon those who were impressed by the lady's name and lineage and thepatronage of the great Cardinal which she enjoyed. 

To live on your wits is no easy matter. It demands infinite address, coolness, daring, and resource qualities which Madame de la Mottepossessed in the highest degree, so that, harassed and pressed bycreditors, she yet contrived to evade their attacks and to present acalm and, therefore, confidence-inspiring front to the world. 

The truth of Madame de la Motte de Valois's reputation for influenceat Court was never doubted. There was nothing in the character of MarieAntoinette to occasion such doubts. Indiscreet in many things, HerMajesty was most notoriously so in her attachments, as witness herintimacy with Madame de Polignac and the Princesse de Lambelle. And thepublic voice had magnified--as it will--those indiscretions until it hadtorn her character into shreds. 

The fame of the Countess Jeanne de Valois--as Madame de la Motte nowstyled herself--increasing, she was employed as an intermediary byplace-seekers and people with suits to prefer, who gratefully purchasedher promises to interest herself on their behalf at Court. 

And then into her web of intrigue blundered the Cardinal de Rohan, who, as he confessed, "was completely blinded by his immense desire to regainthe good graces of the Queen. " She aroused fresh hope in his despairingheart by protesting that, as some return for all the favours she hadreceived from him, she would not rest until she had disposed the Queenmore favourably towards him. 

Later came assurances that the Queen's hostility was melting under herpersuasions, and at last she announced that she was authorized by HerMajesty to invite him to submit the justification which so long and sovainly he had sought permission to present. 

Rohan, in a vertigo of satisfaction, indited his justification, forwarded it to the Queen by the hand of the Countess, and some dayslater received a note in the Queen's hand upon blue-edged paper adornedby the lilies of France. 

"I rejoice, " wrote Marie Antoinette, "to find at last that you were notin fault. I cannot yet grant you the audience you desire, but as soon asthe circumstances allow of it I shall let you know. Be discreet. "

Upon the advice of the Countess of Valois, His Eminence sent a replyexpressive of his deep gratitude and joy. 

Thus began a correspondence between Queen and Cardinal which continuedregularly for a space of three months, growing gradually moreconfidential and intimate. As time passed his solicitations of anaudience became more pressing, until at last the Queen wrote announcingthat, actuated by esteem and affection for him who had so long been keptin banishment, she herself desired the meeting. But it must be secret. An open audience would still be premature; he had numerous enemies atCourt, who, thus forewarned, might so exert themselves against him asyet to ruin all. 

To receive such a letter from a beautiful woman, and that woman a queenwhose glories her inaccessibility had magnified a thousandfold in hisimagination, must have all but turned the Cardinal's head. The secrecyof the correspondence, culminating in a clandestine meeting, seemed toestablish between them an intimacy impossible under other circumstances. 

Into the warp of his ambition was now woven another, tenderly romantic, though infinitely respectful, feeling. 

You realize, I hope, the frame of mind in which the Cardinal-Prince tookhis way through that luminous, fragrant summer night towards the Groveof Venus. He went to lay the cornerstone of the proud edifice ofhis ambitions. To him it was a night of nights--a night of gems, hepronounced it, looking up into the jewelled vault of heaven. And in thatphrase he was singularly prophetic. 

By an avenue of boxwood and yoke-elm he entered into an open glade, in the middle of which there was a circle where the intended statue ofVenus was never placed. But if the cold marble effigy of a goddess wereabsent, the warm, living figure of a queen stood, all in shimmeringwhite amid the gloom, awaiting him. 

Rohan checked a moment, his breath arrested, his pulses quickened. Thenhe sped forward, and, flinging off his wide-brimmed hat, he prostratedhimself to kiss the hem of her white cambric gown. Something--a rosethat she let fall--brushed lightly past his cheek. Reverently herecovered it, accounting it a tangible symbol of her favour, andhe looked up into the proud, lovely face--which, although but dimlydiscernible, was yet unmistakable to him protesting his gratitude anddevotion. He perceived that she was trembling, and caught the quiver inthe voice that answered him. 

"You may hope that the past will be forgiven. "

And then, before he could drink more deeply of this cup of delight, came rapid steps to interrupt them. A slender man, in whom the Cardinalseemed to recognize the Queen's valet Desclaux, thrust through thecurtains of foliage into the grove. 

"Quick, madame!" he exclaimed in agitation. "Madame la Comtesse andMademoiselle d'Artois are approaching!"

The Queen was whirled away, and the Cardinal discreetly effaced himself, his happiness tempered by chagrin at the interruption. 

When, on the morrow, the Countess of Valois brought him a blue-borderednote with Her Majesty's wishes that he should patiently await apropitious season for his public restoration to royal favour, heresigned himself with the most complete and satisfied submission. Hadhe not the memory of her voice and the rose she had given him? Soonafterwards came a blue-bordered note in which Marie Antoinette advisedhim to withdraw to his Bishopric of Strasbourg until she should judgethat the desired season of his reinstatement had arrived. 

Obediently Rohan withdrew. 

It was in the following December that the Countess of Valois's goodoffices at Court were solicited by a new client, and that she firstbeheld the famous diamond necklace. 

It had been made by the Court jewellers of the Rue Vendome--Bohmer andBassenge--and intended for the Countess du Barry. On the assembling ofits component gems Bohmer had laboured for five years and travelled allover Europe, with the result that he had achieved not so much a necklaceas a blazing scarf of diamonds of a splendour outrivalling any jewelthat the world had ever seen. 

Unfortunately, Bohmer was too long over the task. Louis XV diedinopportunely, and the firm found itself with a necklace worth twomillion livres on its hands. 

Hopes were founded upon Marie Antoinette's reputed extravagance. Butthe price appalled her, while Louis XVI met the importunities of thejeweller with the reply that the country needed a ship of war moreurgently than a necklace. 

Thereafter Bohmer offered it in various Courts of Europe, but alwayswithout success. Things were becoming awkward. The firm had borrowedheavily to pay for the stones, and anxiety seems to have driven Bohmerto the verge of desperation. Again he offered the necklace to theKing, announcing himself ready to make terms, and to accept payment ininstalments; but again it was refused. 

Bohmer now became that pest to society, the man with a grievance that hemust be venting everywhere. On one occasion he so far forgot himselfas to intrude upon the Queen as she was walking in the gardens of theTrianon. Flinging himself upon his knees before her, he protested withsobs that he was in despair, and that unless she purchased the necklacehe would go and drown himself. His tears left her unmoved to anythingbut scorn. 

"Get up, Bohmer!" she bade him. "I don't like such scenes. I haverefused the necklace, and I don't want to hear of it again. Instead ofdrowning yourself, break it up and sell the diamonds separately. "

He did neither one nor the other, but continued to air his grievance;and among those who heard him was one Laporte, an impecunious visitor atthe house of the Countess of Valois. 

Bohmer had said that he would pay a thousand louis to any one who foundhim a purchaser for the necklace. That was enough to stir the needyLaporte. He mentioned the matter to the Countess, and enlisted herinterest. Then he told Bohmer of her great influence with the Queen, andbrought the jeweller to visit her with the necklace. 

Dazzled by the fire of those gems, the Countess neverthelessprotested--but in an arch manner calculated to convince Bohmer of thecontrary--that she had no power to influence Her Majesty. Yet yieldingwith apparent reluctance to his importunities, she, nevertheless, endedby promising to see what could be done. 

On January 3d the Cardinal came back from Strasbourg. Correspondencewith the Queen, through Madame de Valois, had continued during hisabsence, and now, within a few days of his return, an opportunity wasto be afforded him of proving his readiness to serve Her Majesty, and ofplacing her under a profound obligation to him. 

The Countess brought him a letter from Marie Antoinette, in which theQueen expressed her desire to acquire the necklace, but added that, being without the requisite funds at the moment, it would be necessaryto settle the terms and arrange the instalments, which should be paid atintervals of three months. For this she required an intermediary who inhimself would be a sufficient guarantee to the Bohmers, and she ended byinviting His Eminence to act on her behalf. 

That invitation the Cardinal, who had been waiting ever since themeeting in the Grove of Venus for an opportunity of proving himself, accepted with alacrity. 

And so, on January 24th, the Countess drives up to the Grand Balcon, thejewellers' shop in the Rue Vendome. Her dark eyes sparkle, the lovely, piquant face is wreathed in smiles. 

"Messieurs, " she greets the anxious partners, "I think I can promise youthat the necklace will very shortly be sold. "

The jewellers gasp in the immensity of the hope her words arouse. 

"The purchase, " she goes on to inform them, "will be effected by a verygreat nobleman. "

Bassenge bursts into voluble gratitude. She cuts it short. 

"That nobleman is the Cardinal-Prince Louis de Rohan. It is with himthat you will arrange the affair, and I advise you, " she adds in aconfidential tone, "to take every precaution, especially in the matterof the terms of payment that may be proposed to you. That is all, I think, messieurs. You will, of course, bear in mind that it is noconcern of mine, and that I do not so much as want my name mentioned inconnection with it. "

"Perfectly, madame, " splutters Bohmer, who is perspiring, although theair is cold--"perfectly! We understand, and we are profoundly grateful. If--" His hands fumble nervously at a case. "If you would deign, madame, to accept this trifle as an earnest of our indebtedness, we--"

There is a tinge of haughtiness in her manner as she interrupts him. 

"You do not appear to understand, Bohmer, that the matter does not atall concern me. I have done nothing, " she insists; then, melting intosmiles, "My only desire, " she adds, "was to be of service to you. "

And upon that she departs, leaving them profoundly impressed by hergraciousness and still more by her refusal to accept a valuable jewel. 

On the morrow the great nobleman she had heralded, the Cardinal himself, alighted at the Grand Balcon, coming, on the Queen's behalf, to see thenecklace and settle the terms. By the end of the week the bargain wasconcluded. The price was fixed at 1, 600, 000 livres, which the Queen wasto pay in four instalments extending over two years, the first fallingdue on the following August 1st. 

These terms the Cardinal embodied in a note which he forwarded to Madamede la Motte, that they might be ratified by the Queen. 

The Countess returned the note to him next day. 

"Her Majesty is pleased and grateful, " she announced, "and she approvesof all that you have done. But she does not wish to sign anything. "

On that point, however, the Cardinal was insistent. The magnitude ofthe transaction demanded it, and he positively refused to move furtherwithout Her Majesty's signature. 

The Countess departed to return again on the last day of the monthwith the document completed as the Cardinal required, bearing now thesignature "Marie Antoinette de France, " and the terms marked "approved"in the Queen's hand. 

"The Queen, " Madame de la Motte informed him, "is making this purchasesecretly, without the King's knowledge, and she particularly begs thatthis note shall not leave Your Eminence's hands. Do not, therefore, allow any one to see it. "

Rohan gave the required promise, but, not conceiving that the Bohmerswere included in it, he showed them the note and the Queen's signaturewhen they came to wait upon him with the necklace on the morrow. 

In the dusk of evening a closed carriage drew up at the door of Madamede la Motte Valois's lodging on the Place Dauphine at Versailles. Rohanalighted, and went upstairs with a casket under his arm. 

Madame awaited him in a white-panelled, indifferently lighted room, towhich there was an alcove with glass doors. 

"You have brought the necklace?"

"It is here, " he replied, tapping the box with his gloved hand. 

"Her Majesty is expecting it to-night. Her messenger should arrive atany moment. She will be pleased with Your Eminence. "

"That is all that I can desire, " he answered gravely; and sat down inanswer to her invitation, the precious casket on his knees. 

Waiting thus, they talked desultorily for some moments. At last camesteps upon the stairs. 

"Quick! The alcove!" she exclaimed. "You must not be seen by HerMajesty's messenger. "

Rohan, with ready understanding, a miracle of discretion, effacedhimself into the alcove, through the glass doors of which he could seewhat passed. 

The door was opened by madame's maid with the announcement:

"From the Queen. "

A tall, slender young man in black, the Queen's attendant of that othernight of gems--the night of the Grove of Venus--stepped quickly into theroom, bowed like a courtier to Madame de la Motte, and presented a note. 

Madame broke the seal, then begged the messenger to withdraw for amoment. When he had gone, she turned to the Cardinal, who stood in thedoorway of the alcove. 

"That is Desclaux, Her Majesty's valet, " she said; and held out to himthe note, which requested the delivery of the necklace to the bearer. 

A moment later the messenger was reintroduced to receive the casket fromthe hands of Madame de la Motte. Within five minutes the Cardinal was inhis carriage again, driving happily back to Paris with his dreams of aqueen's gratitude and confidence. 

Two days later, meeting Bohmer at Versailles, the Cardinal suggested tohim that he should offer his thanks to the Queen for having purchasedthe necklace. 

Bohmer sought an opportunity for this in vain. None offered. It was alsoin vain that he waited to hear that the Queen had worn the necklace. But he does not appear to have been anxious on that score. Moreover, the Queen's abstention was credibly explained by Madame de la Motte toLaporte with the statement that Her Majesty did not wish to wear thenecklace until it was paid for. 

With the same explanation she answered the Cardinal's inquiries inthe following July, when he returned from a three months' sojourn inStrasbourg. 

And she took the opportunity to represent to him that one of the reasonswhy the Queen could not yet consider the necklace quite her own was thatshe found the price too high. 

"Indeed, she may be constrained to return it, after all, unless theBohmers are prepared to be reasonable. "

If His Eminence was a little dismayed by this, at least any nascentuneasiness was quieted. He consented to see the jewellers in the matter, and on July 10th--three weeks before the first instalment was due--hepresented himself at the Grand Balcon to convey the Queen's wishes tothe Bohmers. 

Bohmer scarcely troubled to prevent disgust from showing on hiskeen, swarthy countenance. Had not his client been a queen and herintermediary a cardinal, he would, no doubt, have afforded it fullexpression. 

"The price agreed upon was already greatly below the value of thenecklace, " he grumbled. "I should never have accepted it but for thedifficulties under which we have been placed by the purchase of thestones--the money we owe and the interest we are forced to pay. Afurther reduction is impossible. "

The handsome Cardinal was suave, courtly, regretful, but firm. Sincethat was the case, there would be no alternative but to return thenecklace. 

Bohmer took fright. The annulment of the sale would bring him face toface with ruin. Reluctantly, feeling that he was being imposed upon, hereduced the price by two hundred thousand livres, and even consented towrite the Queen the following letter, whose epistolary grace suggeststhe Cardinal's dictation:

MADAME, --We are happy to hazard the thought that our submission withzeal and respect to the last arrangement proposed constitutes a proofof our devotion and obedience to the orders of Your Majesty. And we havegenuine satisfaction in thinking that the most beautiful set of diamondsin existence will serve to adorn the greatest and best of queens. 

Now it happened that Bohmer was about to deliver personally to the Queensome jewels with which the King was presenting her on the occasion ofthe baptism of his nephew. He availed himself of that opportunity, twodays later, personally to hand his letter to Her Majesty. But chancebrought the Comptroller-General into the room before she had openedit, and as a result the jeweller departed while the letter was, stillunread. 

Afterwards, in the presence of Madame de Campan, who relates the matterin her memoirs, the Queen opened the note, pored over it a while, andthen, perhaps with vivid memories of Bohmer's threat of suicide:

"Listen to what that madman Bohmer writes to me, " she said, and read thelines aloud. "You guessed the riddles in the 'Mercure' this morning. Iwonder could you guess me this one. "

And, with a half-contemptuous shrug, she held the sheet in the flameof one of the tapers that stood alight on the table for the purpose ofsealing letters. 

"That man exists for my torment, " she continued. "He has always some madnotion in his head, and must always be visiting it upon me. When nextyou see him, pray convince him how little I care for diamonds. "

And there the matter was dismissed. 

Days passed, and then a week before the instalment of 350, 000 livreswas due, the Cardinal received a visit from Madame de la Motte on theQueen's behalf. 

"Her Majesty, " madame announced, "seems embarrassed about theinstalment. She does not wish to trouble you by writing about it. ButI have thought of a way by which you could render yourself agreeable toher and, at the same time, set her mind at rest. Could you not raise aloan for the amount?"

Had not the Cardinal himself dictated to Bohmer a letter which Bohmerhimself had delivered to the Queen, he must inevitably have suspected bynow that all was not as it should be. But, satisfied as he was by thatcircumstance, he addressed himself to the matter which Madame de laMotte proposed. But, although Rohan was extraordinarily wealthy, he hadever been correspondingly lavish. 

Moreover, to complicate matters, there had been the bankruptcy of hisnephew, the Prince de Guimenee, whose debts had amounted to some threemillion livres. Characteristically, and for the sake of the familyhonour, Rohan had taken the whole of this burden upon his own shoulders. Hence his resources were in a crippled condition, and it was beyond hispower to advance so considerable a sum at such short notice. Nor did hesucceed in obtaining a loan within the little time at his disposal. 

His anxieties on this score were increased by a letter from the Queenwhich Madame de la Motte brought him on July 30th, in which Her Majestywrote that the first instalment could not be paid until October 1st; butthat on that date a payment of seven hundred thousand livres--half ofthe revised price--would unfailingly be made. Together with this letter, Madame de la Motte handed him thirty thousand livres, interest on theinstalment due, with which to pacify the jewellers. 

But the jewellers were not so easily to be pacified. Bohmer, at theend of his patience, definitely refused to grant the postponement orto receive the thirty thousand livres other than as on account of theinstalment due. 

The Cardinal departed in vexation. Something must be done at once, or his secret relations with the Queen would be disclosed, thusprecipitating a catastrophe and a scandal. He summoned Madame de laMotte, flung her into a panic with his news and sent her away to seewhat she could do. What she actually did would have surprised him. Realizing that a crisis had been reached calling for bold measures, shesent for Bassenge, the milder of the two partners. He came to the RueNeuve Saint-Gilles, protesting that he was being abused. 

"Abused?" quoth she, taking him up on the word. "Abused, do you say?"She laughed sharply. "Say duped, my friend; for that is what hashappened to you. You are the victim of a swindle. "

Bassenge turned white; his prominent eyes bulged in his rather pastyface. 

"What are you saying, madame?" His voice was husky. 

"The Queen's signature on the note in the Cardinal's possession is aforgery. "

"A forgery! The Queen's signature? Oh, mon Dieu!" He stared at her, andhis knees began to tremble. "How do you know, madame?"

"I have seen it, " she answered. 

"But--but--"

His nerveless limbs succumbing under him, he sank without ceremony toa chair that was opportunely near him. With the same lack of ceremony, mechanically, in a dazed manner, he mopped the sweat that stood in beadson his brow, then raised his wig and mopped his head. 

"There is no need to waste emotion, " said she composedly. "The Cardinalde Rohan is very rich. You must look to him. He will pay you. "

"Will he?"

Hope and doubt were blended in the question. 

"What else?" she asked. "Can you conceive that he will permit such ascandal to burst about his name and the name of the Queen?"

Bassenge saw light. The rights and wrongs of the case, and who mightbe the guilty parties, were matters of very secondary importance. Whatmattered was that the firm should recover the 14, 000, 000 livres forwhich the necklace had been sold; and Bassenge was quick to attach fullvalue to the words of Madame de la Motte. 

Unfortunately for everybody concerned, including the jewellersthemselves, Bohmer's mind was less supple. Panic-stricken by Bassenge'sreport, he was all for the direct method. There was no persuading him toproceed cautiously, and to begin by visiting the Cardinal. He tore awayto Versailles at once, intent upon seeing the Queen. But the Queen, as we know, had had enough of Bohmer. He had to content himself withpouring his mixture of intercessions and demands into the ears of Madamede Campan. 

"You have been swindled, Bohmer, " said the Queen's lady promptly. "HerMajesty never received the necklace. "

Bohmer would not be convinced. Disbelieving, and goaded to fury, hereturned to Bassenge. 

Bassenge, however, though perturbed, retained his calm. The Cardinal, he insisted, was their security, and it was impossible to doubt thatthe Cardinal would fulfil his obligations at all costs, rather than beoverwhelmed by a scandal. 

And this, no doubt, is what would have happened but for that hasty visitof Bohmer's to Versailles. It ruined everything. As a result of it, Bohmer was summoned to wait instantly upon the Queen in the mater ofsome paste buckles. 

The Queen received the jeweller in private, and her greeting proved thatthe paste buckles were a mere pretext. She demanded to know the meaningof his words to Madame de Campan. 

Bohmer could not rid himself of the notion that he was being trifledwith. Had he not written and himself delivered to the Queen a letterin which he thanked her for purchasing the necklace, and had not thatletter remained unanswered--a silent admission that the necklace was inher hands? In his exasperation he became insolent. 

"The meaning, madame? The meaning is that I require payment for mynecklace, that the patience of my creditors is exhausted, and thatunless you order the money to be paid, I am a ruined man!"

Marie Antoinette considered him in cold, imperious anger. 

"Are you daring to suggest that your necklace is in my possession?"

Bohmer was white to the lips, his hands worked nervously. 

"Does Your Majesty deny it?"

"You are insolent!" she exclaimed. "You will be good enough to answerquestions, not to ask them. Answer me, then. Do you suggest that I haveyour necklace?"

But a desperate man is not easily intimidated. 

"No, madame; I affirm it! It was the Countess of Valois who--"

"Who is the Countess of Valois?"

That sudden question, sharply uttered, was a sword of doubt throughthe heart of Bohmer's confidence. He stared wide-eyed a moment at theindignant lady before him, then collected himself, and made as plain atale as he could of the circumstances under which he had parted withthe necklace Madame de la Motte's intervention, the mediation of theCardinal de Rohan with Her Majesty's signed approval of the terms, andthe delivery of the necklace to His Eminence for transmission to theQueen. 

Marie Antoinette listened in increasing horror and anger. A flush creptinto her pale cheeks. 

"You will prepare and send me a written statement of what you have justtold me, " she said. "You have leave to go. "

That interview took place on August 9th. The 15th was the Feast of theAssumption, and also the name-day of the Queen, therefore a gala day atCourt, bringing a concourse of nobility to Versailles. Mass was to becelebrated in the royal chapel at ten o'clock, and the celebrant, as bycustom established for the occasion, was the Grand Almoner of France, the Cardinal de Rohan. 

But at ten o'clock a meeting was being held in the King's cabinet, composed of the King and Queen, the Baron de Breteuil, and the Keeper ofthe Seals, Miromesnil. They were met, as they believed, to decide upon acourse of action in the matter of a diamond necklace. In reality, thesepuppets in the hands of destiny were helping to decide the fate of theFrench monarchy. 

The King, fat, heavy, and phlegmatic, sat in a gilded chair by anormolu-encrusted writing-table. His bovine eyes were troubled. Twowrinkles of vexation puckered the flesh above his great nose. Beside, and slightly behind him, stood the Queen, white and imperious, whilstfacing them stood Monsieur de Breteuil, reading aloud the statementwhich Bohmer had drawn up. 

When he had done, there was a moment's utter silence. Then the Kingspoke, his voice almost plaintive. 

"What is to be done, then? But what is to be done?"

It was the Queen who answered him, harshly and angrily. 

"When the Roman purple and a princely title are but masks to cover aswindler, there is only one thing to be done. This swindler must beexposed and punished. "

"But, " the King faltered, "we have not heard the Cardinal. "

"Can you think that Bohmer, that any man, would dare to lie upon such amatter?"

"But consider, madame, the Cardinal's rank and family, " calmlyinterposed the prudent Miromesnil; "consider the stir, the scandal thatmust ensue if this matter is made public. "

But the obedient daughter of Marie Therese, hating Rohan at her mother'sbidding and for her mother's sake, was impatient of any such wiseconsiderations. 

"What shall the scandal signify to us?" she demanded. The King looked atBreteuil. 

"And you, Baron? What is your view?"

Breteuil, Rohan's mortal enemy, raised his shoulders and flipped thedocument. 

"In the face of this, Sire, it seems to me that the only course is toarrest the Cardinal. "

"You believe, then--" began the King, and checked, leaving the sentenceunfinished. 

But Breteuil had understood. 

"I know that the Cardinal must be pressed for money, " he said. "Everprodigal in his expenditure, he is further saddled with the debts of thePrince de Guimenee. "

"And you can believe, " the King cried, "that a Prince of the House ofRohan, however pressed for money, could--Oh, it is unimaginable!"

"Yet has he not stolen my name?" the Queen cut in. "Is he not proven acommon, stupid forger?"

"We have not heard him, " the King reminded her gently. 

"And His Eminence might be able to explain, " ventured Miromesnil. "Itwere certainly prudent to give him the opportunity. "

Slowly the King nodded his great, powdered head. "Go and find him. Bringhim at once!" he bade Breteuil; and Breteuil bowed and departed. 

Very soon he returned, and he held the door whilst the handsomeCardinal, little dreaming what lay before him, serene and calm, acommanding figure in his cassock of scarlet watered silk, rustledforward into the royal presence, and so came face to face with the Queenfor the first time since that romantic night a year ago in the Grove ofVenus. 

Abruptly the King launched his thunderbolt. 

"Cousin, " he asked, "what purchase is this of a diamond necklace thatyou are said to have made in the Queen's name?"

King and Cardinal looked into each other's eyes, the King's narrowing, the Cardinal's dilating, the King leaning forward in his chair, elbowson the table, the Cardinal standing tense and suddenly rigid. 

Slowly the colour ebbed from Rohan's face, leaving it deathly pale. Hiseyes sought the Queen, and found her contemptuous glance, her curlinglip. Then at last his handsome head sank a little forward. 

"Sire, " he said unsteadily, "I see that I have been duped. But I haveduped nobody. "

"You have no reason to be troubled, then. You need but to explain. "

Explain! That was precisely what he could not do. Besides, what wasthe nature of the explanation demanded of him? Whilst he stood strickenthere, it was the Queen who solved this question. 

"If, indeed, you have been duped, " she said scornfully, her colour high, her eyes like points of steel, "you have been self-duped. But even thenit is beyond belief that self-deception could have urged you to thelengths of passing yourself off as my intermediary--you, who should knowyourself to be the last man in France I should employ, you to whom Ihave not spoken once in eight years. " Tears of anger glistened in hereyes; her voice shrilled up. "And yet, since you have not denied it, since you put forward this pitiful plea that you have been duped, wemust believe the unbelievable. "

Thus at a blow she shattered the fond hopes he had been cherishing eversince the night of gems--of gems, forsooth!--in the Grove of Venus; thusshe laid his ambition in ruins about him, and left the man himself halfstunned. 

Observing his disorder, the ponderous but kindly monarch rose. 

"Come, my cousin, " he said more gently, "collect yourself. Sit down hereand write what you may have to say in answer. "

And with that he passed into the library beyond, accompanied by theQueen and the two Ministers. 

Alone, Rohan staggered forward and sank nervelessly into the chair. Hetook up a pen, pondered a moment, and began to write. But he did notyet see clear. He could not yet grasp the extent to which he had beendeceived, could not yet believe that those treasured notes from MarieAntoinette were forgeries, that it was not the Queen who had met him inthe Grove of Venus and given him the rose whose faded petals kept thoseletters company in a portfolio of red morocco. But at least it was clearto him that, for the sake of honour--the Queen's honour--he must assumeit so; and in that assumption he now penned his statement. 

When it was completed, himself he bore it to the King in the library. 

Louis read it with frowning brows; then passed it to the Queen. 

"Have you the necklace now?" he asked Rohan. 

"Sir, I left it in the hands of this woman Valois. "

"Where is this woman?"

"I do not know, Sire. "

"And the letter of authority bearing the Queen's signature, which thejewellers say you presented to them--where is that?"

"I have it, Sire. I will place it before you. It is only now that Irealize that it is a forgery. "

"Only now!" exclaimed the Queen in scorn. 

"Her Majesty's name has been compromised, " said the King sternly. "Itmust be cleared. As King and as husband my duty is clear. Your Eminencemust submit to arrest. "

Rohan fell back a step in stupefaction. For disgrace and dismissal hewas prepared, but not for this. 

"Arrest?" he whispered. "Ah, wait, Sire. The publicity! The scandal!Think of that! As for the necklace, I will pay for it myself, and so payfor my credulous folly. I beseech you, Sire, to let the matter end here. I implore it for my own sake, for the sake of the Prince de Soubiseand the name of Rohan, which would be smirched unjustly and to no goodpurpose. "

He spoke with warmth and force; and, without adding more, yet conveyedan impression that much more could be said for the course he urged. 

The King hesitated, considering. Noting this, the prudent, far-seeingMiromesnil ventured to develop the arguments at which Rohan had hinted, laying stress upon the desirability of avoiding scandal. 

Louis was nodding, convinced, when Marie Antoinette, unable longer tocontain her rancour, broke into opposition of those prudent measures. 

"This hideous affair must be disclosed, " she insisted. "It is due to methat it should publicly be set right. The Cardinal shall tell the worldhow he came to suppose that, not having spoken to him for eight years, I could have wished to make use of his services in the purchase of thisnecklace. "

She was in tears, and her weak, easily swayed husband accounted herjustified in her demand. And so, to the great consternation of all theworld, Prince Louis de Rohan was arrested like a common thief. 

A foolish, indiscreet, short-sighted woman had allowed her rancour tooverride all other considerations--careless of consequences, careless ofinjustice so that her resentment, glutted by her hatred of the Cardinal, should be gratified. The ungenerous act was terribly to recoil upon her. In tears and blood was she to expiate her lack of charity; very soon shewas to reap its bitter fruits. 

Saint-Just, a very prominent counsellor of the Parliament, one of themost advanced apostles of the new ideas that were to find full fruitionin the Revolution, expressed the popular feeling in the matter. 

"Great and joyful affair! A cardinal and a queen implicated in a forgeryand a swindle! Filth on the crosier and the sceptre! What a triumph forthe ideas of liberty!"

At the trial that followed before Parliament, Madame de la Motte, aman named Reteaux de Villette--who had forged the Queen's hand andimpersonated Desclaux and a Mademoiselle d'Oliva--who had used herstriking resemblance to Marie Antoinette to impersonate the Queen in theGrove of Venus were found guilty and sentenced. But the necklace was notrecovered. It had been broken up, and some of the diamonds were alreadysold; others were being sold in London by Captain de la Motte, who hadgone thither for the purpose, and who prudently remained there. 

The Cardinal was acquitted, amid intense public joy and acclamation, which must have been gall and wormwood to the Queen. His powerfulfamily, the clergy of France, and the very people, with whom he had everbeen popular, had all laboured strenuously to vindicate him. And thusit befell that the one man the Queen had aimed at crushing was the onlyperson connected with the affair who came out of it unhurt. The Queen'sanimus against the Cardinal aroused against her the animus of hisfriends of all classes. Appalling libels of her were circulatedthroughout Europe. It was thought and argued that she was more deeplyimplicated in the swindle than had transpired, that Madame de la Mottewas a scapegoat, that the Queen should have stood her trial with theothers, and that she was saved only by the royalty that hedged her. 

Conceive what a weapon this placed in the hands of the men of the newideas of liberty--men who were bent on proving the corruption of asystem they sought to destroy!

Marie Antoinette should have foreseen something of this. She might havedone so had not her hatred blinded her, had she been less intent uponseizing the opportunity at all costs to make Rohan pay for his barbedwitticism upon her mother. She might have been spared much had she butspared Rohan when the chance was hers. As it was, the malevolent echoesof the affair and of Saint-Just's exultation were never out of herears. They followed her to her trial eight years later before therevolutionary tribunal. They followed her to the very scaffold, of whichthey had undoubtedly supplied a plank. 

VIII, THE NIGHT OF TERROR--The Drownings At Nantes Under Carrier

The Revolutionary Committee of the city of Nantes, reinforced by someof the administrators of the district and a few members of the People'sSociety, sat in the noble hall of the Cour des Comptes, whichstill retained much of its pre-republican sumptuousness. They satexpectantly--Goullin, the attorney, president of the committee, afrail, elegant valetudinarian, fierily eloquent; Grandmaison, thefencing-master, who once had been a gentleman, fierce of eye andinflamed of countenance; Minee, the sometime bishop, now departmentalpresident; Pierre Chaux, the bankrupt merchant; the sans-culotte Forget, of the People's Society, an unclean, ill-kempt ruffian; and some thirtyothers called like these from every walk of life. 

Lamps were lighted, and under their yellow glare the huddledcompany--for the month was December, and the air of the vast room waschill and dank--looked anxious and ill at ease. 

Suddenly the doors were thrown open by an usher; and his voice rang loudin announcement--

"The Citizen Representative Carrier. "

The great man came in, stepping quickly. Of middle height, very frailand delicate, his clay-colored face was long and thin, with archedeyebrows, a high nose, and a loose, coarse mouth. His deeply sunken darkeyes glared fiercely, and wisps of dead-black hair, which had escapedthe confining ribbon of his queue, hung about his livid brow. He waswrapped in a riding-coat of bottle-green, heavily lined with fur, theskirts reaching down to the tops of his Hessian boots, and the enormousturned-up collar almost touching the brim of his round hat. Under thecoat his waist was girt with the tricolour of office, and there weregold rings in his ears. 

Such at the age of five-and-thirty was Jean Baptiste Carrier, Representative of the Convention with the Army of the West, the attorneywho once had been intended by devout parents for the priesthood. He hadbeen a month in Nantes, sent thither to purge the body politic. 

He reached a chair placed in the focus of the gathering, which sat in asemicircle. Standing by it, one of his lean hands resting upon the back, he surveyed them, disgust in his glance, a sneer curling his lip, soterrible and brutal of aspect despite his frailness that more than oneof those stout fellows quailed now before him. 

Suddenly he broke into torrential speech, his voice shrill and harsh:

"I do not know by what fatality it happens, but happen it does, thatduring the month that I have been in Nantes you have never ceased togive me reason to complain of you. I have summoned you to meet me herethat you may justify yourselves, if you can, for your ineptitude!" Andhe flung himself into the chair, drawing his fur-lined coat about him. "Let me hear from you!" he snapped. 

Minee, the unfrocked bishop, preserving still a certain episcopalportliness of figure, a certain episcopal oiliness of speech, respectfully implored the representative to be more precise. 

The invitation flung him into a passion. His irascibility, indeed, deserved to become a byword. 

"Name of a name!" he shrilled, his sunken eyes ablaze, his faceconvulsed. "Is there a thing I can mention in this filthy city of yoursthat is not wrong? Everything is wrong! You have failed in your duty toprovide adequately for the army of Vendee. Angers has fallen, and nowthe brigands are threatening Nantes itself. There is abject want in thecity, disease is rampant; people are dying of hunger in the streets andof typhus in the prisons. And sacre nom!--you ask me to be precise! I'llbe precise in telling you where lies the fault. It lies in your lousyadministration. Do you call yourselves administrators? You--" He becameunprintable. "I have come here to shake you out of your torpor, andby--I'll shake you out of it or I'll have the blasted heads off the lotof you. "

They shivered with chill fear under the wild glare of his sunken eyes. 

"Well?" he barked after a long pause. "Are you all dumb as well asidiots?"

It was the ruffian Forget who had the courage to answer him:

"I have told the People's Society that if the machine works badly it isbecause the Citizen Carrier refuses to consult with the administration. "

"You told them that, did you, you--liar?" screeched Carrier. "Am I nothere now to consult with you? And should I not have come before had yousuggested it? Instead, you have waited until, of my own accord, I shouldcome to tell you that your administration is ruining Nantes. "

Goullin, the eloquent and elegant Goullin, rose to soothe him:

"Citizen Representative, we admit the truth of all that you have said. There has been a misunderstanding. We could not take it upon ourselvesto summon the august representative of the Sacred People. I We haveawaited your own good pleasure, and now that you have made thismanifest, there is no reason why the machine should not workeffectively. The evils of which you speak exist, alas! But they are notso deeply rooted that, working under your guidance and advice, we cannotuproot them, rendering the soil fertile once more of good under thebeneficent fertilizing showers of liberty. "

Mollified, Carrier grunted approval. 

"That is well said, Citizen Goullin. The fertilizer needed by thesoil is blood--the bad blood of aristocrats and federalists, and Ican promise you, in the name of the august people, that it shall beabundantly provided. "

The assembly broke into applause, and his vanity melted to it. He stoodup, expressed his gratification at being so completely understood, opened his arms, and invited the departmental president, Minee, to comedown and receive the kiss of brotherhood. 

Thereafter they passed to the consideration of measures of improvement, of measures to combat famine and disease. In Carrier's view there wasonly one way of accomplishing this--the number of mouths to be fed mustbe reduced, the diseased must be eliminated. It was the direct, theradical, the heroic method. 

That very day six prisoners in Le Bouffay had been sentenced to deathfor attempting to escape. 

"How do we know, " he asked, "that those six include all the guilty? Howdo we know that all in Le Bouffay do not share the guilt? The prisonersare riddled with disease, which spreads to the good patriots of Nantes;they eat bread, which is scarce, whilst good patriots starve. We musthave the heads off all those blasted swine!" He took fire at his ownsuggestion. "Aye, that would be a useful measure. We'll deal with it atonce. Let some one fetch the President of the Revolutionary Tribunal. "

He was fetched--a man of good family and a lawyer, named FrancoisPhelippes. 

"Citizen President, " Carrier greeted him, "the administration of Nanteshas been considering an important measure. To-day you sentenced todeath six prisoners in Le Bouffay for attempting to escape. You are topostpone execution so as to include all the Bouffay prisoners in thesentence. "

Although an ardent revolutionary, Phelippes was a logically mindedman with a lawyer's reverence for the sacredness of legal form. Thiscommand, issued with such cynical coldness, and repudiated by noneof those present, seemed to him as grotesque and ridiculous as it washorrible. 

"But that is impossible, Citizen Representative, " said he. 

"Impossible!" snarled Carrier. "A fool's word. The administrationdesires you to understand that it is not impossible. The sacred will ofthe august people--"

Phelippes interrupted him without ceremony. 

"There is no power in France that can countermand the execution of asentence of the law. "

"No--no power!"

Carrier's loose mouth fell open. He was too amazed to be angry. 

"Moreover, " Phelippes pursued calmly, "there is the fact that all theother prisoners in Le Bouffay are innocent of the offence for which thesix are to die. "

"What has that to do with it?" roared Carrier. "Last year I rode ashe-ass that could argue better than you! In the name of--, what hasthat to do with it?"

But there were members of the assembly who thought with Phelippes, andwho, whilst lacking the courage to express themselves, yet found courageto support another who so boldly expressed them. 

Carrier sprang up quivering with rage before that opposition. "It seemsto me, " he snarled, "that there are more than the scoundrels in LeBouffay who need to be shortened by a head for the good of the nation. I tell you that you are slaying the commonweal by your slowness andcircumspection. Let all the scoundrels perish!"

A handsome, vicious youngster named Robin made chorus. 

"Patriots are without bread! It is fitting that the scoundrels shoulddie, and not eat the bread of starving patriots. "

Carrier shook his fist at the assembly. 

"You hear, you--! I cannot pardon whom the law condemns. "

It was an unfortunate word, and Phelippes fastened on it. 

"That is the truth, Citizen Representative, " said Phelippes. "And as forthe prisoners in Le Bouffay, you will wait until the law condemns them. "

And without staying to hear more, he departed as firmly as he had come, indifferent to the sudden uproar. 

When he had gone, the Representative flung himself into his chair again, biting his lip. 

"There goes a fellow who will find his way to the guillotine in time, "he growled. 

But he was glad to be rid of him, and would not have him broughtback. He saw how the opposition of Phelippes had stiffened the weakeropposition of some of those in the assembly. If he was to have hisway he would contrive better without the legal-minded President of theRevolutionary Tribunal. And his way he had in the end, though notuntil he had stormed and cursed and reviled the few who dared to offerremonstrances to his plan of wholesale slaughter. 

When at last he took his departure, it was agreed that the assemblyshould proceed to elect a jury which was to undertake the duty ofdrawing up immediately a list of those confined in the prisons ofNantes. This list they were to deliver when ready to the committee, which would know how to proceed, for Carrier had made his meaningperfectly clear. The first salutary measure necessary to combat theevils besetting the city was to wipe out at once the inmates of all theprisons in Nantes. 

In the chill December dawn of the next day the committee--which had satall night under the presidency of Goullin forwarded a list of somefive hundred prisoners to General Boivin, the commandant of the city ofNantes, together with an order to collect them without a moment's delay, take them to L'Eperonniere, and there have them shot. 

But Boivin was a soldier, and a soldier is not a sans-culotte. He tookthe order to Phelippes, with the announcement that he had no intentionof obeying it. Phelippes, to Boivin's amazement, agreed with him. He sent the order back to the committee, denouncing it as flagrantlyillegal, and reminding them that it was illegal to remove any prisoner, no matter by whose order, without such an order as might follow upon adecision of the Tribunal. 

The committee, intimidated by this firmness on the part of the Presidentof the Revolutionary Tribunal, dared not insist, and there the matterremained. 

When Carrier learnt of it the things he said were less than ever fit forpublication. He raved like a madman at the very thought that a quibblinglawyer should stand in the very path of him, the august representativeof the Sacred People. 

It had happened that fifty-three priests, who had been brought to Nantesa few days before, were waiting in the sheds of the entrepot for prisonaccommodation, so that their names did not yet appear upon any of theprison registers. As a solatium to his wounded feelings, he ordered hisfriends of the Marat Company to get rid of them. 

Lamberty, the leader of the Marats, asked him how it should be done. 

"How?" he croaked. "Not so much mystery, my friend. Fling the swine intothe water, and so let's be rid of them. There will be plenty of theirkind left in France. "

But he seems to have explained himself further, and what precisely werehis orders, and how they were obeyed, transpires from a letter whichhe wrote to the Convention, stating that those fifty-three wretchedpriests, "being confined in a boat on the Loire, were last nightswallowed up by the river. " And he added the apostrophe, "What arevolutionary torrent is the Loire!"

The Convention had no illusions as to his real meaning; and when Carrierheard that his letter had been applauded by the National Assembly, hefelt himself encouraged to break down all barriers of mere legalitythat might obstruct his path. And, after all, what the RevolutionaryCommittee as a body--intimidated by Phelippes--dared not do could bedone by his faithful and less punctilious friends of the Marat Company. 

This Marat Company, the police of the Revolutionary Committee, enrolledfrom the scourings of Nantes' sans-culottism, and captained by a ruffiannamed Fleury, had been called into being by Carrier himself with theassistance of Goullin. 

On the night of the 24th Frimaire of the year III (December 14, 1793, old style), which was a Saturday, Fleury mustered some thirty of hismen, and took them to the Cour des Comptes, where they were awaited byGoullin, Bachelier, Grandmaison, and some other members of the committeeentirely devoted to Carrier. From these the Marats received their formalinstructions. 

"Plague, " Goullin informed them, "is raging in the gaols, and itsravages must be arrested. You will therefore proceed this evening to theprison of Le Bouffay in order to take over the prisoners whom you willmarch up to the Quay La Fosse, whence they will be shipped to BelleIsle. "

In a cell of that sordid old building known as Le Bouffay lay acocassier, an egg and poultry dealer, arrested some three years beforeupon a charge of having stolen a horse, and since forgotten. His ownversion was that a person of whom he knew very little had entrustedhim with the sale of the stolen animal in possession of which he wasdiscovered. 

The story sounds familiar; it is the sort of story that must have doneduty many times; and it is probable that the cocassier was no betterthan he should have been. Nevertheless Fate selected him to be one ofher unconscious instruments. His name was Leroy, and we have his ownword for it that he was a staunch patriot. The horse business wascertainly in the best vein of sans-culottism. 

Leroy was awakened about ten o'clock that night by sounds that were veryunusual in that sombre, sepulchral prison. They were sounds of unbridledrevelry--snatches of ribald song, bursts of coarse, reverberatinglaughter and they proceeded, as it seemed to him, from the courtyard andthe porter's lodge. 

He crawled from the dank straw which served him for a bed, andapproached the door to listen. Clearly the porter Laqueze wasentertaining friends and making unusually merry. It was also to begathered that Laqueze's friends were getting very drunk. What the devildid it mean?

His curiosity was soon to be very fully gratified. Came heavy steps upthe stone staircase, the clatter of sabots, the clank of weapons, andthrough the grille of his door an increasing light began to beat. 

Some one was singing the "Carmagnole" in drunken, discordant tones. Keys rattled, bolts were drawn; doors were being flung open. The noiseincreased. Above the general din he heard the detestable voice of theturnkey. 

"Come and see my birds in their cages. Come and see my pretty birds. "

Leroy began to have an uneasy premonition that the merrymaking portendedsinister things. 

"Get up, all of you!" bawled the turnkey. "Up and pack your traps. You're to go on a voyage. No laggards, now. Up with you!"

The door of Leroy's cell was thrown open in its turn, and he foundhimself confronting a group of drunken ruffians. One of these--ared-capped giant with long, black mustaches and a bundle of ropes overone arm suddenly pounced upon him. The cocassier was an active, vigorousyoung man. But, actuated by fear and discretion, he permitted himselftamely to be led away. 

Along the stone-flagged corridor he went, and on every hand beheld hisfellow-prisoners in the same plight, being similarly dragged from theircells and similarly hurried below. At the head of the stairs one fellow, perfectly drunk, was holding a list, hiccupping over names which hegarbled ludicrously as he called them out. He was lighted in his task bya candle held by another who was no less drunk. The swaying pair seemedto inter-support one another grotesquely. 

Leroy suffered himself to be led down the stairs, and so came to theporter's lodge, where he beheld a half-dozen Marats assembled round atable, with bumpers of wine before them, bawling, singing, cursing, andcracking lewd jests at the expense of each prisoner as he entered. Theplace was in a litter. A lamp had been smashed, and there was a puddleof wine on the floor from a bottle that had been knocked over. On abench against the wall were ranged a number of prisoners, others layhuddled on the floor, and all of them were pinioned. 

Two or three of the Marats lurched up to Leroy, and ran their handsover him, turning out his pockets, and cursing him foully for theiremptiness. He saw the same office performed upon others, and saw themstripped of money, pocket-books, watches, rings, buckles, and whateverelse of value they happened to possess. One man, a priest, was evendeprived of his shoes by a ruffian who was in want of foot-gear. 

As they were pinioning his wrists, Leroy looked up. He confesses that hewas scared. 

"What is this for?" he asked. "Does it mean death?"

With an oath he was bidden to ask no questions. 

"If I die, " he assured them, "you will be killing a good republican. "

A tall man with an inflamed countenance and fierce, black eyes, thatwere somewhat vitreous, now leered down upon him. 

"You babbling fool! It's not your life, it's your property we want. "

This was Grandmaison, the fencing-master, who once had been a gentleman. He had been supping with Carrier, and he had only just arrived at LeBouffay, accompanied by Goullin. He found the work behind time, and toldthem so. 

"Leave that fellow now, Jolly. He's fast enough. Up and fetch the rest. It's time to be going... Time to be going. "

Flung aside now that he was pinioned, Leroy sat down on the floor andlooked about him. Near him an elderly man was begging for a cup ofwater. They greeted the prayer with jeering laughter. 

"Water! By Sainte Guillotine, he asks for water!" The drunkensans-culottes were intensely amused. "Patience, my friend--patience, andyou shall drink your fill. You shall drink from the great cup. "

Soon the porter's lodge was crowded with prisoners, and they wereoverflowing into the passage. 

Came Grandmaison cursing and swearing at the sluggishness of the Marats, reminding them--as he had been reminding them for the last hour--that itwas time to be off, that the tide was on the ebb. 

Stimulated by him, Jolly--the red-capped giant with the blackmustaches--and some others of the Marat Company, set themselves to tiethe prisoners into chains of twenty, further to ensure againstpossible evasion. They were driven into the chilly courtyard, and thereGrandmaison, followed by a fellow with a lantern, passed along the rankscounting them. 

The result infuriated him. 

"A hundred and five!" he roared, and swore horribly. "You have been herenearly five hours, and in all that time you have managed to truss uponly a hundred and five. Are we never to get through with it? I tell youthe tide is ebbing. It is time to be off. "

Laqueze, the porter of Le Bouffay, with whose food and wine thosemyrmidons of the committee had made so disgracefully free, came toassure him that he had all who were in the prison. 

"All?" cried Grandmaison, aghast. "But according to the list thereshould have been nearer two hundred. " And he raised his voice to call:"Goullin! Hola, Goullin! Where the devil is Goullin?"

"The list, " Laqueze told him, "was drawn up from the register. But youhave not noted that many have died since they came--we have had thefever here--and that a few are now in hospital. "

"In hospital! Bah! Go up, some of you, and fetch them. We are takingthem somewhere where they will be cured. " And then he hailed the elegantGoullin, who came up wrapped in a cloak. "Here's a fine bathing-party!"he grumbled. "A rare hundred of these swine!"

Goullin turned to Laqueze. 

"What have you done with the fifteen brigands I sent you this evening?"

"But they only reached Nantes to-day, " said Laqueze, who understoodnothing of these extraordinary proceedings. "They have not yet beenregistered, not even examined. "

"I asked you what you have done with them?" snapped Goullin. 

"They are upstairs. "

"Then fetch them. They are as good as any others. "

With these, and a dozen or so dragged from sick-beds, the total was madeup to about a hundred and thirty. 

The Marats, further reinforced now by half a company of National Guards, set out from the prison towards five o'clock in the morning; urgingtheir victims along with blows and curses. 

Our cocassier found himself bound wrist to wrist with a young Capuchinbrother, who stumbled along in patient resignation, his head bowed, hislips moving as if he were in prayer. 

"Can you guess what they are going to do with us?" murmured Leroy. 

He caught the faint gleam of the Capuchin's eyes in the gloom. 

"I do not know, brother. Commend yourself to God, and so be prepared forwhatever may befall. "

The answer was not very comforting to a man of Leroy's temperament. Hestumbled on, and they came now upon the Place du Bouffay, where thered guillotine loomed in ghostly outline, and headed towards the QuaiTourville. Thence they were marched by the river the whole length of theQuai La Fosse. Fear spreading amongst them, some clamours were raised, to be instantly silenced by blows and assurances that they were to beshipped to Belle Isle, where they were to be set to work to build afort. 

The cocassier thought this likely enough, and found it more comfortingthan saying his prayers--a trick which he had long since lost. 

As they defiled along the quays, an occasional window was thrown up, andan inquisitive head protruded, to be almost instantly withdrawn again. 

On the Cale Robin at last they were herded into a shed which opened onto the water. Here they found a large lighter alongside, and they beheldin the lantern-light the silhouettes of a half-dozen shipwrights busilyat work upon it, whilst the place rang with the blows of hammers and thescream of saws. 

Some of those nearest the barge saw what was being done. Two greatports were being opened in the vessel's side, and over one of these thusopened the shipwrights were nailing planks. They observed that theseports, which remained above the water-line now that the barge was empty, would be well below it once she were laden, and conceiving that theyperceived at last the inhuman fate awaiting them, their terror roseagain. They remembered snatches of conversation and grim jests utteredby the Marats in Le Bouffay, which suddenly became clear, and the alarmspreading amongst them, they writhed and clamoured, screamed for mercy, cursed and raved. 

Blows were showered upon them. In vain was it sought to quiet them againwith that fable of a fort to be constructed on Belle Isle. One of themin a frenzy of despair tore himself free of his bonds, profited by amoment of confusion, and vanished so thoroughly that Grandmaison andhis men lost a quarter of an hour seeking him in vain, and would haveso spent the remainder of the night but for a sharp word from a man ina greatcoat and a round hat who stood looking on in conversation withGoullin. 

"Get on, man! Never mind that one! We'll have him later. It will bedaylight soon. You've wasted time enough already. "

It was Carrier. 

He had come in person to see the execution of his orders, and at hiscommand Grandmaison now proceeded to the loading. A ladder was setagainst the side of the lighter by which the prisoners were to descend. The cords binding them in chains were now severed, and they were leftpinioned only by the wrists. They were ordered to embark. But asthey were slow to obey, and as some, indeed, hung back wailing andinterceding, he and Jolly took them by their collars, thrust them to theedge, and bundled them neck and crop down into the hold, recking nothingof broken limbs. Finding this method of embarkation more expeditious, the use of the ladder was neglected thenceforth. 

Among the last to be thus flung aboard was our cocassier Leroy. He fellsoft upon a heaving, writhing mass of humanity, which only graduallyshook down and sorted itself out on the bottom of the lighter when thehatches overhead were being nailed down. Yet by an odd chance the youngCapuchin and Leroy, who had been companions in the chain, were notseparated even now. Amid the human welter in that agitated place ofdarkness, the cries and wails that rang around him, Leroy recognized thevoice of the young friar exhorting them to prayer. 

They were in the stern of the vessel, against one of the sides, andLeroy, who still kept a grip on the wits by which he had lived, bade theCapuchin hold up his wrists. Then he went nosing like a dog, until atlast he found them, and his strong teeth fastened upon the cord thatbound them, and began with infinite patience to gnaw it through. 

Meanwhile that floating coffin had left its moorings and was glidingwith the stream. On the hatches sat Grandmaison, with Jolly and twoother Marats, howling the "Carmagnole" to drown the cries of thewretches underneath, and beating time with their feet upon the deck. 

Leroy's teeth worked on like a rat's until at last the cord was severed. Then, lest they should be parted in the general heaving and shifting ofthat human mass, those teeth of his fastened upon the Capuchin's sleeve. 

"Take hold of me!" he commanded as distinctly as he could; and theCapuchin gratefully obeyed. "Now untie my wrists!"

The Capuchin's hands slid along Leroy's arms until they found his hands, and there his fingers grew busy, groping at the knots. It was no easymatter to untie them in the dark, guided by sense of touch alone. Butthe friar was persistent and patient, and in the end the last knot ranloose, and our cocassier was unpinioned. 

It comforted him out of all proportion to the advantage. At least hishands were free for any emergency that might offer. That he depended insuch a situation, and with no illusions as to what was to happen, uponemergency, shows how tenacious he was of hope. 

He had been released not a moment too soon. Overhead, Grandmaison andhis men were no longer singing. They were moving about. Something bumpedagainst the side of the vessel, near the bow, obviously a boat, andvoices came up from below the level of the deck. Then the lightershuddered under a great blow upon the planks of the forecastle port. The cries in the hold redoubled. Panting, cursing, wailing men hurtledagainst Leroy, and almost crushed him for a moment under their weight asthe vessel heaved to starboard. Came a succession of blows, not only onthe port in the bow, but also on that astern. There was a cracking andrending of timbers, and the water rushed in. 

Then the happenings in that black darkness became indescribablyhorrible. In their frenzy not a few had torn themselves free of theirbonds. These hurled themselves towards the open ports through which thewater was pouring. They tore at the planks with desperate, laceratedhands. Some got their arms through, seeking convulsively to widen theopenings and so to gain an egress. But outside in the shipwrights' boatstood Grandmaison, the fencing-master, brandishing a butcher's sword. 

With derision and foul objurgations he slashed at protruding arms andhands, thrust his sword again and again through the port into thatclose-packed, weltering mass, until at last the shipwrights backed awaythe boat to escape the suction of the sinking lighter. 

The vessel, with its doomed freight of a hundred and thirty humanlives, settled down slowly by the head, and the wailing and cursingwas suddenly silenced as the icy waters of the Loire eddied over it andraced on. 

Caught in the swirl of water, Leroy had been carried up against the deckof the lighter. Instinctively he had clutched at a crossbeam. The waterraced over his head, and then, to his surprise, receded, beat up once ortwice as the lighter grounded, and finally settled on a level with hisshoulders. 

He was quick to realize what had happened. The lighter had gone down bythe head on a shallow. Her stern remained slightly protruding, so thatin that part of her between the level of the water and the deck therewas a clear space of perhaps a foot or a foot and a half. Yet of thehundred and thirty doomed wretches on board he was the only one who hadprofited by this extraordinary chance. 

Leroy hung on there; and thereafter for two hours, to use his ownexpression, he floated upon corpses. A man of less vigorous mettle, moral and physical, could never have withstood the ordeal of a twohours' immersion in the ice-cold water of that December morning. Leroyclung on, and hoped. I have said that he was tenacious of hope. And soonafter daybreak he was justified of his confidence in his luck. As thefirst livid gleams of light began to suffuse the water in which hefloated, a creaking of rowlocks and a sound of voices reached his ears. A boat was passing down the river. 

Leroy shouted, and his voice rang hollow and sepulchral on the morningstillness. The creak of oars ceased abruptly. He shouted again, and wasanswered. The oars worked now at twice their former speed. The boat wasalongside. Blows of a grapnel tore at the planking of the deck untilthere was a hole big enough to admit the passage of his body. 

He looked through the faint mist which he had feared never to see again, heaved himself up with what remained him of strength until his breastwas on a level with the deck, and beheld two men in a boat. 

But, exhausted by the effort, his numbed limbs refused to support him. He sank back, and went overhead, fearing now, indeed, that help hadarrived too late. But as he struggled to the surface the bight of a ropesmacked the water within the hold. Convulsively he clutched it, wound itabout one arm, and bade them haul. 

Thus they dragged him out and aboard their own craft, and put him ashoreat the nearest point willing out of humanity to do so much, but daringto do no more when he had told them how he came where they had foundhim. 

Half naked, numbed through and through, with chattering teeth andfailing limbs, Leroy staggered into the guard-house at Chantenay. Soldiers of the Blues stripped him of his sodden rags, wrapped him in ablanket, thawed him outwardly before a fire and inwardly with gruel, andthen invited him to give an account of himself. 

The story of the horse will have led you to suppose him a ready liar. He drew now upon that gift of his, represented himself as a marinerfrom Montoir, and told a harrowing tale of shipwreck. Unfortunately, heoverdid it. There was present a fellow who knew something of the sea, and something of Montoir, to whom Leroy's tale did not ring quite true. To rid themselves of responsibility, the soldiers carried him before theRevolutionary Committee of Nantes. 

Even here all might have gone well with him, since there was no memberof that body with seacraft to penetrate his imposture. But asill-chance would have it, one of the members sitting that day was theblack-mustached sans-culotte Jolly, the very man who had dragged Leroyout of his cell last night and tied him up. 

At sight of him Jolly's eyes bulged in his head. 

"Where the devil have you come from?" he greeted him thunderously. 

Leroy quailed. Jolly's associates stared. But Jolly explained to them:

"He was of last night's bathing party. And he has the impudence to comebefore us like this. Take him away and shove him back into the water. "

But Bachelier, a man who, next to the President Goullin, exerted thegreatest influence in the committee, was gifted with a sense of humourworthy of the Revolution. He went off into peals of laughter as hesurveyed the crestfallen cocassier, and, perhaps because Leroy'ssituation amused him, he was disposed to be humane. 

"No, no!" he said. "Take him back to Le Bouffay for the present. Let theTribunal deal with him. "

So back to Le Bouffay went Leroy, back to his dungeon, his fetid strawand his bread and water, there to be forgotten again, as he had beenforgotten before, until Fate should need him. 

It is to him that we owe most of the materials from which we are ableto reconstruct in detail that first of Carrier's drownings on a grandscale, conceived as an expeditious means of ridding the city ofuseless mouths, of easing the straitened circumstances resulting frommisgovernment. 

Very soon it was followed by others, and, custom increasing Carrier'saudacity, these drownings--there were in all some twenty-threenoyades--ceased to be conducted in the secrecy of the night, or to beconfined to men. They were made presently to include women--of whom atone drowning alone, in Novose, three hundred perished under the mostrevolting circumstances--and even little children. Carrier himselfadmitted that during the three months of his rule some three thousandvictims visited the national bathing-place, whilst other, and no doubtmore veracious, accounts treble that number of those who received theNational Baptism. 

Soon these wholesale drownings had become an institution, a sort ofnational spectacle that Carrier and his committee felt themselves induty bound to provide. 

But at length a point was reached beyond which it seemed difficult tocontinue them. So expeditious was the measure, that soon the obviousmaterial was exhausted. The prisons were empty. Yet habits, oncecontracted, are not easily relinquished. Carrier would be lookingelsewhere for material, and there was no saying where he might look, or who would be safe. Soon the committee heard a rumour that theRepresentative intended to depose it and to appoint a new one, whereuponmany of its members, who were conscious of lukewarmness, began to growuneasy. 

Uneasy, too, became the members of the People's Society. They had senta deputation to Carrier with suggestions for the better conduct ofthe protracted campaign of La Vendee. This was a sore point with theRepresentative. He received the patriots with the foulest abuse, and hadthem flung downstairs by his secretaries. 

Into this atmosphere of general mistrust and apprehension came the mostridiculous Deus ex machina that ever was in the person of the very youngand very rash Marc Antoine Jullien. His father, the Deputy Jullien, was an intimate of Robespierre's, by whose influence Marc Antoine wasappointed to the office of Agent of the Committee of Public Safety, and sent on a tour of inspection to report upon public feeling and theconduct of the Convention's Representatives. 

Arriving in Nantes at the end of January of '94, one of Marc Antoine'sfirst visits happened to be to the People's Society, which was stillquivering with rage at the indignities offered by Carrier to itsdeputation. 

Marc Antoine was shocked by what he heard, so shocked that instead ofgoing to visit the Representative on the morrow, he spent the morninginditing a letter to Robespierre, in which he set forth in detail theabuses of which Carrier was guilty, and the deplorable state of miseryin which he found the city of Nantes. 

That night, as Marc Antoine was sinking into the peaceful slumber of theman with duty done, he was rudely aroused by an officer and a coupleof men of the National Guard, who announced to him that he was underarrest, and bade him rise and dress. 

Marc Antoine flounced out of bed in a temper, and flaunted hiscredentials. The officer remained unmoved. He was acting upon ordersfrom the Citizen Representative. 

Still in a temper, Marc Antoine hurriedly dressed himself. He would soonshow this Representative that it is not safe to trifle with Agents ofthe Public Safety. The Citizen Representative should hear from him. Theofficer, still unimpressed, bundled him into a waiting carriage, andbore him away to the Maison Villetreux, on the island where Carrier hadhis residence. 

Carrier had gone to bed. But he was awake, and he sat up promptly whenthe young muscadin from Paris was roughly thrust into his room by thesoldiers. The mere sight of the Representative sufficed to evaporateMarc Antoine's anger, and with it his courage. 

Carrier's pallor was of a grey-green from the rage that possessed him. His black eyes smouldered like those of an animal seen in the gloom, andhis tumbled black hair, fluttering about his moist brow, increased theterrific aspect of his countenance. Marc Antoine shrank and was dumb. 

"So, " said Carrier, regarding him steadily, terribly, "you are the thingthat dares to denounce me to the Safety, that ventures to find faultwith my work!" From under his pillow he drew Marc Antoine's letter toRobespierre. "Is this yours?"

At the sight of this violation of his correspondence with theIncorruptible, Marc Antoine's indignation awoke, and revived hiscourage. 

"It is mine, " he answered. "By what right have you intercepted it?"

"By what right?" Carrier put a leg out of bed. "So you question myright, do you? You have so imposed yourself upon folk that you are givenpowers, and you come here to air them, by--"

"You shall answer to the Citizen Robespierre for your conduct, " MarcAntoine threatened him. 

"Aha!" Carrier revealed his teeth in a smile of ineffable wickedness. Heslipped from the bed, and crouching slightly as if about to spring, hepointed a lean finger at his captive. 

"You are of those with whom it is dangerous to deal publicly, and youpresume upon that. But you can be dealt with privily, and you shall. Ihave you, and, by--, you shall not escape me, you--!"

Marc Antoine looked into the Representative's face, and saw there thewickedness of his intent. He stiffened. Nature had endowed him withwits, and he used them now. 

"Citizen Carrier, " he said, "I understand. I am to be murdered to-nightin the gloom and the silence. But you shall perish after me in daylight, and amid the execrations of the people. You may have intercepted myletters to my father and to Robespierre. But if I do not leave Nantes, my father will come to ask an account of you, and you will end your lifeon the scaffold like the miserable assassin that you are. "

Of all that tirade, but one sentence had remained as if corroded intothe mind of Carrier. "My letters to my father and to Robespierre, " theastute Marc Antoine had said. And Marc Antoine saw the Representative'smouth loosen, saw a glint of fear replace the ferocity in his dark eyes. 

What Marc Antoine intended to suggest had instantly leapt to Carrier'smind--that there had been a second letter which his agents had missed. They should pay for that. But, meanwhile, if it were true, he dare notfor his neck's sake go further in this matter. He may have suspectedthat it was not true. But he had no means of testing that suspicion. Marc Antoine, you see, was subtle. 

"Your father?" growled the Representative. "Who is your father?"

"The Deputy Jullien. "

"What?" Carrier straightened himself, affecting an immense astonishment. "You are the son of the Deputy Julien?" He burst into a laugh. He cameforward, holding out both his hands. He could be subtle, too, you see. "My friend, why did you not say so sooner? See in what a ghastly mistakeyou have let me flounder. I imagined you--of course, it was foolish ofme--to be a proscribed rascal from Angers, of the same name. "

He had fallen upon Marc Antoine's neck, and was embracing him. 

"Forgive me, my friend!" he besought him. "Come and dine with meto-morrow, and we will laugh over it together. "

But Marc Antoine had no mind to dine with Carrier, although he promisedto do so readily enough. Back at his inn, scarce believing that he hadgot away alive, still sweating with terror at the very thought of hisnear escape, he packed his valise, and, by virtue of his commission, obtained post-horses at once. 

On the morrow from Angers, safe beyond the reach of Carrier, he wroteagain to Robespierre, and this time also to his father. 

"In Nantes, " he wrote, "I found the old regime in its worst form. " Heknew the jargon of Liberty, the tune that set the patriots a-dancing. "Carrier's insolent secretaries emulate the intolerable haughtiness ofa ci-devant minister's lackeys. Carrier himself lives surrounded byluxury, pampered by women 'and parasites, keeping a harem and a court. He tramples justice in the mud. He has had all those who filled theprisons flung untried into the Loire. The city of Nantes, " he concluded, "needs saving. The Vendean revolt must be suppressed, and Carrier theslayer of Liberty recalled. "

The letter had its effect, and Carrier was recalled to Paris, but notin disgrace. Failing health was urged as the solicitous reason for hisretirement from the arduous duties of governing Nantes. 

In the Convention his return made little stir, and even when early inthe following July he learnt that Bourbotte, his successor at Nantes, had ordered the arrest of Goullin, Bachelier, Grandmaison, and hisother friends of the committee, on the score of the drownings and theappropriation of national property confiscated from emigres, he remainedcalm, satisfied that his own position was unassailable. 

But the members of the Committee of Nantes were sent to Paris for trial, and their arrival there took place on that most memorable date in theannals of the Revolution, the 10th Thermidor (July 29, 1794, O. S. ), theday on which Robespierre fell and the floodgates of vengeance upon theterrorists were flung open. 

You have seen in the case of Marc Antoine Jullien how quick Carriercould be to take a cue. In a coach he followed the tumbril that boreRobespierre to execution, radiant of countenance and shouting with theloudest, "Death to the traitor!" On the morrow from the rostrum ofthe Convention, he passionately represented himself as a victim ofthe fallen tyrant, cleverly turning to his own credit the Marc Antoineaffair, reminding the Convention how he had himself been denouncedto Robespierre. He was greeted with applause in that atmosphere ofThermidorean reaction. 

But Nemesis was stalking him relentlessly if silently. 

Among a batch of prisoners whom a chain of curious chances had broughtfrom Nantes to Paris was our old friend Leroy the cocassier, requirednow as a witness against the members of the committee. 

Having acquainted the court with the grounds of his arrest, and thefact that for three years he had lain forgotten and without trial in thepestilential prison of Le Bouffay, Leroy passed on to a recital of hissufferings on that night of terror when he had gone down the Loire inthe doomed lighter. He told his tale with an artlessness that renderedit the more moving and convincing. The audience crowding the chamberof justice shuddered with horror, and sobbed over the details of historments, wept for joy over his miraculous preservation. At the closehe was applauded on all sides, which bewildered him a little, for he hadnever known anything but abuse in all his chequered life. 

And then, at the promptings of that spirit of reaction that was abroadin those days when France was awakening from the nightmare of terror, some one made there and then a collection on his behalf, and came tothrust into his hands a great bundle of assignats and bank bills, whichto the humble cocassier represented almost a fortune. It was his turn toweep. 

Then the crowd in the court which had heard his story shouted for thehead of Carrier. The demand was taken up by the whole of Paris, and finally his associates of the Convention handed him over to theRevolutionary Tribunal. 

He came before it on November 25th, and he could not find counsel todefend him. Six advocates named in succession by the President refusedto plead the cause of so inhuman a monster. In a rage, at last Carrierannounced that he would defend himself. He did. 

He took the line that his business in Nantes had been chiefly concernedwith provisioning the Army of the West; that he had had little to dowith the policing of Nantes, which he left entirely to the RevolutionaryCommittee; and that he had no knowledge of the things said to have takenplace. But Goullin, Bachelier, and the others were there to flingback the accusation in their endeavours to save their own necks at theexpense of his. 

He was sentenced on the very anniversary of that terrible night on whichthe men of the Marat Company broke into the prison of Le Bouffay, and hewas accompanied in the tumbril by Grandmaison the pitiless, who was nowfilled with self-pity to such an extent that he wept bitterly. 

The crowd, which had hooted and insulted him from the Conciergerie tothe Place de Greve, fell suddenly silent as he mounted the scaffold, hisstep firm, but his shoulders bowed, and his eyes upon the ground. 

Suddenly upon the silence, grotesquely, horribly merry, broke the soundof a clarinet playing the "Ca ira!"

Jerking himself erect, Carrier turned and flung the last of his terribleglances at the musician. 

A moment later the knife fell with a thud, and a bleeding head rolledinto the basket, the eyes still staring, but powerless now to inspireterror. 

Upon the general silence broke an echo of the stroke. 

"Vlan!" cried a voice. "And there's a fine end to a great drowner!"

It was Leroy the cocassier. The crowd took up the cry. 

IX. THE NIGHT OF NUPTIALS--Charles The Bold And Sapphira Danvelt

When Philip the Good succumbed at Bruges of an apoplexy in the earlypart of the year 1467, the occasion was represented to the stout folkof Flanders as a favourable one to break the Burgundian yoke under whichthey laboured. It was so represented by the agents of that astute king, Louis XI, who ever preferred guile to the direct and costly exertion offorce. 

Charles, surnamed the Bold (le Temeraire), the new Duke of Burgundy, wasof all the French King's enemies by far the most formidable and menacingjust then; and the wily King, who knew better than to measure himselfwith a foe that was formidable, conceived a way to embarrass the Dukeand cripple his resources at the very outset of his reign. To thisend did he send his agents into the Duke's Flemish dominions, there tointrigue with the powerful and to stir up the spirit of sedition thatnever did more than slumber in the hearts of those turbulent burghers. 

It was from the Belfry Tower of the populous, wealthy city ofGhent--then one of the most populous and wealthy cities of Europe--thatthe call to arms first rang out, summoning the city's forty thousandweavers to quit their looms and take up weapons--the sword, the pike, and that arm so peculiarly Flemish, known as the goedendag. From Ghentthe fierce flame of revolt spread rapidly to the valley of the Meuse, and the scarcely less important city of Liege, where the powerful guildsof armourers and leather workers proved as ready for battle as theweavers of Ghent. 

They made a brave enough show until Charles the Bold came face to facewith them at Saint-Trond, and smashed the mutinous burgher army intoshards, leaving them in their slaughtered thousands upon the strickenfield. 

The Duke was very angry. He felt that the Flemings had sought to take abase advantage of him at a moment when it was supposed he would not beequal to protecting his interests, and he intended to brand it for alltime upon their minds that it was not safe to take such liberties withtheir liege lord. Thus, when a dozen of the most important burghers ofLiege came out to him very humbly in their shirts, with halters roundtheir necks, to kneel in the dust at his feet and offer him the keys ofthe city, he spurned the offer with angry disdain. 

"You shall be taught, " he told them, "how little I require your keys, and I hope that you will remember the lesson for your own good. "

On the morrow his pioneers began to smash a breach, twenty fathoms wide, in one of the walls of the city, rolling the rubble into the ditch tofill it up at the spot. When the operation was complete, Charles rodethrough the gap, as a conqueror, with vizor lowered and lance onthigh at the head of his Burgundians, into his city of Liege, whosefortifications he commanded should be permanently demolished. 

That was the end of the Flemish rising of 1467 against Duke Charles theBold of Burgundy. The weavers returned to their looms, the armourers totheir forges, and the glove-makers and leather workers to their shears. Peace was restored; and to see that it was kept, Charles appointedmilitary governors of his confidence where he deemed them necessary. 

One of these was Claudius von Rhynsault, who had followed the Duke'sfortunes for some years now, a born leader of men, a fellow of infiniteaddress at arms and resource in battle, and of a bold, reckless couragethat nothing could ever daunt. It was perhaps this last quality thatrendered him so esteemed of Charles, himself named the Bold, whose viewof courage was that it was a virtue so lofty that in the nature of itspossessor there could, perforce, be nothing mean. 

So now, to mark his esteem of this stalwart German, the Duke made himGovernor of the province of Zeeland, and dispatched him thither to stampout there any lingering sparks of revolt, and to rule it in his name asducal lieutenant. 

Thus, upon a fair May morning, came Claud of Ryhnsault and his hardyriders to the town of Middelburg, the capital of Zeeland, to take up hisresidence at the Gravenhof in the main square, and thence to dispensejustice throughout that land of dykes in his master's princely name. This justice the German captain dispensed with merciless rigour, conceiving that to be the proper way to uproot rebellious tendencies. Itwas inevitable that he should follow such a course, impelled to it by aremorseless cruelty in his nature, of which the Duke his master had seenno hint, else he might have thought twice before making him Governorof Zeeland, for Charles--despite his rigour when treachery was to bepunished--was a just and humane prince. 

Now, amongst those arrested and flung into Middelburg gaol as a resultof Rhynsault's ruthless perquisitions and inquisitions was a wealthyyoung burgher named Philip Danvelt. His arrest was occasioned by aletter signed "Philip Danvelt" found in the house of a marked rebelwho had been first tortured and then hanged. The letter, of a dateimmediately preceding the late rising, promised assistance in the shapeof arms and money. 

Brought before Rhynsault for examination, in a cheerless hall of theGravenhof, Danvelt's defence was a denial upon oath that he had evertaken or offered to take any part in the rebellion. Told of the letterfound, and of the date it bore, he laughed. That letter made everythingvery simple and clear. At the date it bore he had been away at Flushingmarrying a wife, whom he had since brought thence to Middelburg. It wasludicrous, he urged, to suppose that in such a season--of all seasonsin a man's life--he should have been concerned with rebellion orcorrespondence with rebels, and, urging this, he laughed again. 

Now, the German captain did not like burghers who laughed in hispresence. It argued a lack of proper awe for the dignity of hisoffice and the importance of his person. From his high seat at theJudgment-board, flanked by clerks and hedged about by men-at-arms, hescowled upon the flaxen-haired, fresh-complexioned young burgher whobore himself so very easily. He was a big, handsome man, this Rhynsault, of perhaps some thirty years of age. His thick hair was of a reddishbrown, and his beardless face was cast in bold lines and tanned byexposure to the colour of mahogany, save where the pale line of a scarcrossed his left cheek. 

"Yet, I tell you, the letter bears your signature, " he grumbled sourly. 

"My name, perhaps, " smiled the amiable Danvelt, "but assuredly not mysignature. "

"Herrgott!" swore the German captain. "Is this a riddle? What is thedifference?"

Feeling himself secure, that very foolish burgher ventured to be mildlyinsolent. 

"It is a riddle that the meanest of your clerks there can read for you, "said he. 

The Governor's blue eyes gleamed like steel as they, fastened uponDanvelt, his heavy jaw seemed to thrust itself forward, and a dull flushcrept into his cheeks. Then he swore. 

"Beim blute Gottes!" quoth he, "do you whet your trader's wit upon me, scum?"

And to the waiting men-at-arms:

"Take him back to his dungeon, " he commanded, "that in its quiet he maystudy a proper carriage before he is next brought before us. "

Danvelt was haled away to gaol again, to repent him of his pertness andto reflect that, under the governorship of Claudius von Rhynsault, itwas not only the guilty who had need to go warily. 

The Governor sat back in his chair with a grunt. His secretary, on hisimmediate right, leaned towards him. 

"It were easy to test the truth of the man's assertion, " said he. "Lethis servants and his wife attend and be questioned as to when he was inFlushing and when married. "

"Aye, " growled von Rhynsault. "Let it be done. I don't doubt we shalldiscover that the dog was lying. "

But no such discovery was made when, on the morrow, Danvelt's householdand his wife stood before the Governor to answer his questions. Theirreplies most fully bore out the tale Danvelt had told, and appeared inother ways to place it beyond all doubt that he had taken no part, indeed or even in thought, in the rebellion against the Duke of Burgundy. His wife protested it solemnly and piteously. 

"To this I can swear, my lord, " she concluded. "I am sure no evidencecan be brought against him, who was ever loyal and ever concerned withhis affairs and with me at the time in question. My lord"--she heldout her hands towards the grim German, and her lovely eyes gleamedwith unshed tears of supplication--"I implore you to believe me, and indefault of witnesses against him to restore my husband to me. "

Rhynsault's blue eyes kindled now as they considered her, and his fullred lips slowly parted in the faintest and most inscrutable of smiles. She was very fair to look upon--of middle height and most exquisiteshape. Her gown, of palest saffron, edged with fur, high-waistedaccording to the mode, and fitted closely to the gently swelling bust, was cut low to display the white perfection of her neck. Her softlyrounded face looked absurdly childlike under the tall-crowned hennin, from which a wispy veil floated behind her as she moved. 

In silence, then, for a spell, the German mercenary pondered her withthose slowly kindling eyes, that slowly spreading, indefinite smile. Then he stirred, and to his secretary he muttered shortly:

"The woman lies. In private I may snare the truth from her. "

He rose--a tall, massively imposing figure in a low-girdled tunic ofdeep purple velvet, open at the breast, and gold-laced across a whitesilken undervest. 

"There is some evidence, " he informed her gruffly. "Come with me, andyou shall see it for yourself. "

He led the way from that cheerless hall by a dark corridor to asmall snug room, richly hung and carpeted, where a servant waited. Hedismissed the fellow, and in the same breath bade her enter, watchingher the while from under lowered brows. One of her women had followed;but admittance was denied her. Danvelt's wife must enter his room alone. 

Whilst she waited there, with scared eyes and fluttering bosom, he wentto take from an oaken coffer the letter signed "Philip Danvelt. " Hefolded the sheet so that the name only was to be read, and came tothrust it under her eyes. 

"What name is that?" he asked her gruffly. 

Her answer was very prompt. 

"It is my husband's, but not the writing--it is another hand; some otherPhilip Danvelt; there will be others in Zeeland. "

He laughed softly, looking at her ever with that odd intentness, andunder his gaze she shrank and cowered in terror; it spoke to her of somenameless evil; the tepid air of the luxurious room was stifling her. 

"If I believed you, your husband would be delivered from hisprison--from all danger; and he stands, I swear to you, in mortalperil. "

"Ah, but you must believe me. There are others who can bear witness. "

"I care naught for others, " he broke in, with harsh and arrogantcontempt. Then he softened his voice to a lover's key. "But I mightaccept your word that this is not your husband's hand, even though I didnot believe you. "

She did not understand, and so she could only stare at him with thoseround, brown eyes of hers dilating, her lovely cheeks blanching withhorrid fear. 

"Why, see, " he said at length, with an easy, gruff good-humour, "I placethe life of Philip Danvelt in those fair hands to do with as you please. Surely, sweeting, you will not be so unkind as to destroy it. "

And as he spoke his face bent nearer to her own, his flaming eyesdevoured her, and his arm slipped softly, snake-like round her to drawher to him. But before it had closed its grip she had started away, springing back in horror, an outcry already on her pale lips. 

"One word, " he admonished her sharply, "and it speaks your husband'sdoom!"

"Oh, let me go, let me go!" she cried in anguish. 

"And leave your husband in the hangman's hands?" he asked. 

"Let me go! Let me go!" was all that she could answer him, expressingthe only thought of which in that dread moment her mind was capable. 

That and the loathing on her face wounded his vanity for this beast wasvain. His manner changed, and the abysmal brute in him was revealed inthe anger he displayed. With foul imprecations he drove her out. 

Next day a messenger from the Governor waited upon her at her house witha brief note to inform her that her husband would be hanged upon themorrow. Incredulity was succeeded by a numb, stony, dry-eyed grief, inwhich she sat alone for hours--a woman entranced. At last, towards dusk, she summoned a couple of her grooms to attend and light her, andmade her way, ever in that odd somnambulistic state, to the gaol ofMiddelburg. She announced herself to the head gaoler as the wife ofPhilip Danvelt, lying under sentence of death, and that she was come totake her last leave of him. It was not a thing to be denied, nor had thegaoler any orders to deny it. 

So she was ushered into the dank cell where Philip waited for his doom, and by the yellow wheel of light of the lantern that hung from theshallow vaulted ceiling she beheld the ghastly change that the news ofimpending death had wrought in him. No longer was he the self-assuredyoung burgher who, conscious of his innocence and worldly importance, had used a certain careless insolence with the Governor of Zeeland. Hereshe beheld a man of livid and distorted face, wild-eyed, his hair andgarments in disarray, suggesting the physical convulsions to which hehad yielded in his despair and rage. 

"Sapphira!" he cried at sight of her. A sigh of anguish and he flunghimself, shuddering and sobbing, upon her breast. She put her arms abouthim, soothed him gently, and drew him back to the wooden chair fromwhich he had leapt to greet her. 

He took his head in his hands and poured out the fierce anguish ofhis soul. To die innocent as he was, to be the victim of an arbitrary, unjust power! And to perish at his age!

Hearing him rave, she shivered out of an agony of compassion and alsoof some terror for herself. She would that he found it less hard to die. And thinking this she thought further, and uttered some of her thoughtaloud. 

"I could have saved you, my poor Philip. "

He started up, and showed her again that livid, distorted face of his. 

"What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely. "You could have saved me, do yousay? Then--then why--"

"Ah, but the price, my dear, " she sobbed. 

"Price?" quoth he in sudden, fierce contempt. "What price is too greatto pay for life? Does this Rhynsault want all our wealth, then yield itto him yield it so that I may live--"

"Should I have hesitated had it been but that?" she interrupted. 

And then she told him, whilst he sat there hunched and shuddering. 

"The dog! The foul German dog!" he muttered through clenched teeth. 

"So that you see, my dear, " she pursued brokenly, "it was too great aprice. Yourself, you could not have condoned it, or done aught else butloathe me afterwards. "

But he was not as stout-mettled as she deemed him, or else theall-consuming thirst of life, youth's stark horror of death, made him atemporizing craven in that hour. 

"Who knows?" he answered. "Certes, I do not. But a thing so done, athing in which the will and mind have no part, resolves itself perhapsinto a sacrifice--"

He broke off there, perhaps from very shame. After all he was a man, andthere are limits to what manhood will permit of one. 

But those words of his sank deeply into her soul. They rang again andagain in her ears as she took her anguished way home after the agony oftheir farewells, and in the end they drove her out again that very nightto seek the Governor of Zeeland. 

Rhynsault was at supper when she came, and without quitting the tablebade them usher her into his presence. He found her very white, butsingularly calm and purposeful in her bearing. 

"Well, mistress?"

"May I speak to you alone?"

Her voice was as steady as her glance. 

He waved away the attendants, drank a deep draught from the cup at hiselbow, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat back in histall chair to hear her. 

"Yesterday, " she said, "you made, or seemed to make, me a proposal. "

He looked up at first in surprise, then with a faint smile on hiscoarse, red mouth. His glance had read her meaning clearly. 

"Look you, mistress, here I am lord of life and death. Yet in the caseof your husband I yield up that power to you. Say but the word and Isign the order for his gaol delivery at dawn. "

"I have come to say that word, " she informed him. 

A moment he looked up at her, his smile broadening, a flush mounting tohis cheek-bones. Then he rose and sent his chair crashing behind him tothe ground. 

"Herrgott!" he grunted; and he gathered her slim, trembling body to hismassive gold-laced breast. 

Soon after sunrise on the morrow she was beating at the gates ofMiddelburg gaol, a paper clutched convulsively in her left hand. 

She was admitted, and to the head gaoler she showed the paper that shecarried. 

"An order from the Governor of Zeeland for the gaol delivery of PhilipDanvelt!" she announced almost hysterically. 

The gaoler scanned the paper, then her face. His lips tightened. 

"Come this way, " he said; and led her down a gloomy corridor to the cellwhere yesterday she had seen her husband. 

He threw wide the door, and Sapphira sprang in. 

"Philip!" she cried, and checked as suddenly. 

He lay supine and still upon the miserable pallet, his hands foldedupon his breast, his face waxen, his eyes staring glassily throughhalf-closed lids. 

She sped to his side in a sudden chill of terror. She fell on her kneesand touched him. 

"Dead!" she screamed, and, kneeling, span round questioning to face thegaoler in the doorway. "Dead!"

"He was hanged at daybreak, mistress, " said the gaoler gently. 

She rocked a moment, moaning, then fell suddenly forward across herhusband's body in a swoon. 

That evening she was again at the Gravenhof to see Rhynsault, and againshe was admitted--a haggard faced woman now, in whom there was no traceof beauty left. She came to stand before the Governor, considered himin silence a moment with a loathing unutterable in her glance, thenlaunched into fierce recriminations of his broken faith. 

He heard her out, then shrugged and smiled indulgently. 

"I performed no less than I promised, " said he. "I pledged my word toDanvelt's gaol delivery, and was not my gaol delivery effective? Youcould hardly suppose that I should allow it to be of such a fashion asto interfere with our future happy meetings. "

Before his leering glance she fled in terror, followed by the sound ofhis bestial laugh. 

For a week thereafter she kept her house and brooded. Then one day shesallied forth all dressed in deepest mourning and attended by a trainof servants, and, embarking upon a flat-bottomed barge, was borne up theriver Scheldt towards Antwerp. Bruges was her ultimate destination, ofwhich she left no word behind her, and took the longest way round toreach it. From Antwerp her barge voyaged on to Ghent, and thence bycanal, drawn by four stout Flemish horses, at last to the magnificentcity where the Dukes of Burgundy kept their Court. 

Under the June sunshine the opulent city of Bruges hummed with activitylike the great human hive it was. For Bruges at this date was the marketof the world, the very centre of the world's commerce, the cosmopolisof the age. Within its walls were established the agencies of a score offoreign great trading companies, and the ambassadors of no less anumber of foreign Powers. Here on a day you might hear every language ofcivilization spoken in the broad thoroughfares under the shadow of suchimposing buildings as you would not have found together in another cityof Europe. To the harbour came the richly laden argosies from Veniceand Genoa, from Germany and the Baltic, from Constantinople and fromEngland, and in her thronged markets Lombard and Venetian, Levantine, Teuton, and Saxon stood jostling one another to buy and sell. 

It was past noon, and the great belfry above the Gothic Cloth Hall inthe Grande Place was casting a lengthening shadow athwart the crowdedsquare. Above the Babel of voices sounded on a sudden the note of ahorn, and there was a cry of "The Duke! The Duke!" followed by a generalscuttle of the multitude to leave a clear way down the middle of thegreat square. 

A gorgeous cavalcade some twoscore strong came into sight, advancingat an amble, a ducal hunting party returning to the palace. A hush fellupon the burgher crowd as it pressed back respectfully to gaze; andto the din of human voices succeeded now the clatter of hoofs upon thekidney-stones of the square, the jangle of hawkbells, the baying ofhounds, and the occasional note of the horn that had first broughtwarning of the Duke's approach. 

It was a splendid iridescent company, flaunting in its apparel everycolour of the prism. There were great lords in silks and velvets ofevery hue, their legs encased in the finest skins of Spain; therewere great ladies, in tall, pointed hennins or bicorne headdresses andfloating veils, with embroidered gowns that swept down below thebellies of their richly harnessed palfreys. And along the flanks of thiscavalcade ran grooms and huntsmen in green and leather, their jaggedliripipes flung about their necks, leading the leashed hounds. 

The burghers craned their necks, and Levantine merchant argued withLombard trader upon an estimate of the wealth paraded thus before them. And then at last came the young Duke himself, in black, as if to detachhimself from the surrounding splendour. He was of middle stature, ofa strong and supple build, with a lean, swarthy face and lively eyes. Beside him, on a white horse, rode a dazzling youth dressed from headto foot in flame-coloured silk, a peaked bonnet of black velvet set uponhis lovely golden head, a hooded falcon perched upon his left wrist, a tiny lute slung behind him by a black ribbon. He laughed as he rode, looking the very incarnation of youth and gaiety. 

The cavalcade passed slowly towards the Prinssenhof, the ducalresidence. It had all but crossed the square when suddenly a voice--awoman's voice, high and tense--rang out. 

"Justice, my Lord Duke of Burgundy! Justice, Lord Duke, for a woman'swrongs!"

It startled the courtly riders, and for a moment chilled their gaiety. The scarlet youth at the Duke's side swung round in his saddle to obtaina view of her who called so piteously, and he beheld Sapphira Danvelt. 

She was all in black, and black was the veil that hung from her steeplehead-dress, throwing into greater relief her pallid loveliness which theyouth's glance was quick to appraise. He saw, too, from her air and fromthe grooms attending her, that she was a woman of some quality, and thetragic appeal of her smote home in his gay, poetic soul. He put forth ahand and clutched the Duke's arm, and, as if yielding to this, the Dukereined up. 

"What is it that you seek?" Charles asked her not unkindly, his livelydark eyes playing over her. 

"Justice!" was all she answered him very piteously, and yet with acertain fierceness of insistence. 

"None asks it of me in vain, I hope, " he answered gravely. "But I do notdispense it from the saddle in the public street. Follow us. "

And he rode on. 

She followed to the Prinssenhof with her grooms and her woman Catherine. There she was made to wait in a great hall, thronged with grooms andmen-at-arms and huntsmen, who were draining the measure sent them by theDuke. She stood apart, wrapped in her tragic sorrow, and none molestedher. At last a chamberlain came to summon her to the Duke's presence. 

In a spacious, sparsely furnished room she found the Duke awaiting her, wearing now a gown of black and gold that was trimmed with rich fur. Hesat in a tall chair of oak and leather, and leaning on the back of itlounged gracefully the lovely scarlet youth who had ridden at his side. 

Standing before him, with drooping eyes and folded hands, she told hershameful story. Darker and darker grew his brow as she proceeded withit. But it was the gloom of doubt rather than of anger. 

"Rhynsault?" he cried when she had done. "Rhynsault did this?"

There was incredulity in his voice and nothing else. 

The youth behind him laughed softly, and shifted his attitude. 

"You are surprised. Yet what else was to be looked for in that Teutonswine? Me he never could deceive, for all his--"

"Be silent, Arnault, " said the Duke sharply. And to the woman: "It isa grave, grave charge, " he said, "against a man I trusted and haveesteemed, else I should not have placed him where he is. What proof haveyou?"

She proffered him a strip of parchment--the signed order for the gaoldelivery of Philip Danvelt. 

"The gaoler of Middelburg will tell Your Grace that he was hangedalready when I presented this. My woman Catherine, whom I have withme, can testify to part. And there are some other servants who can bearwitness to my husband's innocence. Captain von Rhynsault had ceased todoubt it. "

He studied the parchment, and fell very grave and thoughtful. 

"Where are you lodged?" he asked. 

She told him. 

"Wait there until I send for you again, " he bade her. "Leave this orderwith me, and depend upon it, justice shall be done. "

That evening, a messenger rode out to Middelburg to summon von Rhynsaultto Bruges, and the arrogant German came promptly and confidently, knowing nothing of the reason, but conceiving naturally thatfresh honours were to be conferred upon him by a master who lovedstout-hearted servants. And that Rhynsault was stout-hearted he showedmost of all when the Duke taxed him without warning with the villainy hehad wrought. 

If he was surprised, he was not startled. What was the life of a Flemishburgher more or less? What the honour of a Flemish wife? These were notconsiderations to daunt a soldier, a valiant man of war. And becausesuch was his dull mood--for he was dull, this Rhynsault, as dull ashe was brutish--he considered his sin too venial to be denied. And theDuke, who could be crafty, perceiving that mood of his, and simulatingalmost an approval of it, drew the German captain into self-betrayal. 

"And so this Philip Danvelt may have been innocent?"

"He must have been, for we have since taken the guilty man of the samename, " said the German easily. "It was unfortunate, but--"

"Unfortunate!" The Duke's manner changed from silk to steel. He heavedhimself out of his chair, and his dark eyes flamed. "Unfortunate! Isthat all, you dog?"

"I conceived him guilty when I ordered him to be hanged, " spluttered thecaptain, greatly taken aback. 

"Then, why this? Answer me--why this?"

And under his nose the Duke thrust the order of gaol delivery Rhynsaulthad signed. 

The captain blenched, and fear entered his glance. The thing wasbecoming serious, it seemed. 

"Is this the sort of justice you were sent to Middelburg to administerin my name? Is this how you dishonour me? If you conceived him guilty, why did you sign this and upon what terms? Bah, I know the terms. Andhaving made such foul terms, why did you not keep your part of thebargain, evil as it was?"

Rhynsault had nothing to say. He was afraid, and he was angry too. Herewas a most unreasonable bother all about nothing, it seemed to him. 

"I--I sought to compromise between justice and--and--"

"And your own vile ends, " the Duke concluded for him. "By Heaven, youGerman dog, I think I'll have you shortened by a head!"

"My lord!" It was a cry of protest. 

"There is the woman you have so foully wronged, and so foully swindled, "said the Duke, watching him. "What reparation will you make to her? Whatreparation can you make? I can toss your filthy head into her lap. Butwill that repair the wrong?"

The captain suddenly saw light, and quite a pleasant light it was, forhe had found Sapphira most delectable. 

"Why, " he said slowly, and with all a fool's audacity, "having made hera widow, I can make her a wife again. I never thought to wive, myself. But if Your Grace thinks such reparation adequate, I will afford ither. "

The Duke checked in the very act of replying. Again the expression ofhis countenance changed. He strode away, his head bowed in thought; thenslowly he returned. 

"Be it so, " he said. "It is not much, but it is all that you can do, andafter a fashion it will mend the honour you have torn. See that you wedher within the week. Should she not consent, it will be the worse foryou. "

She would not have consented--she would have preferred death, indeed--but for the insistence that the Duke used in private with her. And so, half convinced that it would in some sort repair her honour, the poor woman suffered herself to be led, more dead than living, to thealtar in the Duke's private chapel, and there, scarcely knowing what shedid, she became the wife of Captain Claudius von Rhynsault, the man shehad most cause to loathe and hate in all the world. 

Rhynsault had ordered a great banquet to celebrate his nuptials, for onthe whole he was well satisfied with the issue of this affair. But as heleft the altar, his half-swooning bride upon his arm, the Duke in persontapped his shoulder. 

"All is not yet done, " he said. "You are to come with me. "

The bridal pair were conducted to the great hall of the Prinssenhof, where there was a great gathering of the Court--to do honour to hisnuptials, thought the German captain. At the broad table sat two clerklyfellows with quills and parchments, and by this table the Duke tookhis stand, Arnault beside him--in peacock-blue to-day--and called forsilence. 

"Captain von Rhynsault, " he said gravely and quietly, "what you havedone is well done; but it does not suffice. In the circumstances of thismarriage, and after the revelation we have had of your ways of thoughtand of honour, it is necessary to make provision against the future. Itshall not be yours, save at grave cost, to repudiate the wife you havenow taken. "

"There is no such intent--" began Rhynsault, who misliked this homily. 

The Duke waved him into silence. 

"You are interrupting me, " he said sharply. "You are a wealthy man, Rhynsault, thanks to the favours I have heaped upon you ever sincethe day when I picked you from your German kennel to set you where youstand. Here you will find a deed prepared. It is in the form of a will, whereby you bequeath everything of which you are to-day possessed--andit is all set down--to your wife on your death, or on the day on whichyou put her from you. Your signature is required to that. "

The captain hesitated a moment. This deed would fetter all his future. The Duke was unreasonable. But under the steady, compelling eyes ofCharles he moved forward to the table, and accepted the quill the clerkwas proffering. There was no alternative, he realized. He was trapped. Well, well! He must make the best of it. He stooped from his greatheight, and signed in his great sprawling, clumsy, soldier's hand. 

The clerk dusted the document with pounce, and handed it to the Duke. Charles cast an eye upon the signature, then taking the quill himself, signed under it, then bore the document to the half-swooning bride. 

"Keep this secure, " he bade her. "It is your marriage-gift from me. "

Rhynsault's eyes gleamed. If his wife were to keep the deed, the thingwas none so desperate after all. But the next moment he had other thingsto think of. 

"Give me your sword, " the Duke requested. 

Wondering, the German unsheathed the weapon, and proffered the hiltto his master. Charles took it, and a stern smile played about hisbeardless mouth. He grasped it, hilt in one hand and point in the other. Suddenly he bent his right knee, and, bearing sharply downward with theflat of the weapon upon his thigh, snapped in into two. 

"So much for that dishonourable blade, " he said, and cast the piecesfrom him. Then he flung out an arm to point to Rhynsault. "Take himout, " he commanded; "let him have a priest, and half an hour in which tomake his soul, then set his head on a spear above the Cloth Hall, thatmen may know the justice of Charles of Burgundy. "

With the roar of a 'goaded bull the German attempted to fling forward. But men-at-arms, in steel and leather, who had come up quietly behindhim, seized him now. Impotent in their coiling arms, he was borneaway to his doom, that thereby he might complete the reparation of hishideous offence, and deliver Sapphira from the bondage of a wedlockwhich Charles of Burgundy had never intended her to endure. 

X. THE NIGHT OF STRANGLERS--Govanna Of Naples And Andreas Of Hungary

Charles, Duke of Durazzo, was one of your super chess-players, handlingkings and queens, knights and prelates of flesh and blood in the gamethat he played with Destiny upon the dark board of Neapolitan politics. And he had no illusions on the score of the forfeit that would beclaimed by his grim opponent in the event of his own defeat. He knewthat his head was the stake he set upon the board, and he knew, too, that defeat must inevitably follow upon a single false move. Yet heplayed boldly and craftily, as you shall judge. 

He made his first move in March of 1343, some three months after thedeath of Robert of Anjou, King of Jerusalem and Sicily, as ran the titleof the ruler of Naples. He found his opportunity amid the appallinganarchy into which the kingdom was then plunged as a result of a wrongand an ill judged attempt to right it. 

Good King Robert the Wise had wrested the crown of Naples from his elderbrother, the King of Hungary, and had ruled as a usurper. Perhaps toquiet his conscience, perhaps to ensure against future strife betweenhis own and his brother's descendants, he had attempted to right thewrong by a marriage between his brother's grandson Andreas and hisown granddaughter Giovanna, a marriage which had taken place ten yearsbefore, when Andreas was but seven years of age and Giovanna five. 

The aim had been thus to weld into one the two branches of the House ofAnjou. Instead, the rivalry was to be rendered more acute than ever, andKing Robert's fear of some such result contributed to it not a little. On his deathbed he summoned the Princes of the Blood--the members ofthe Houses of Durazzo and Taranto--and the chief nobles of the kingdom, demanding of them an oath of allegiance to Giovanna, and himselfappointing a Council of Regency to govern the kingdom during herminority. 

The consequence was that, against all that had been intended when themarriage was contracted, Giovanna was now proclaimed queen in herown right, and the government taken over in her name by the appointedCouncil. Instantly the Court of Naples was divided into two camps, theparty of the Queen, including the Neapolitan nobility, and the party ofAndreas of Hungary, consisting of the Hungarian nobles forming histrain and a few malcontent Neapolitan barons, and guided by the sinisterfigure of Andreas's preceptor, Friar Robert. 

This arrogant friar, of whom Petrarch has left us a vivid portrait, ared-faced, red-bearded man, with a fringe of red hair about his tonsure, short and squat of figure, dirty in his dress and habits, yet imbuedwith the pride of Lucifer despite his rags, thrust himself violentlyinto the Council of Regency, demanding a voice in the name of hispupil Andreas. And the Council feared him, not only on the score ofhis over-bearing personality, but also because he was supported by thepopulace, which had accepted his general filthiness as the outward signof holiness. His irruption occasioned so much trouble and confusion thatin the end the Pope intervened, in his quality as Lord Paramount--Naplesbeing a fief of Holy Church--and appointed a legate to rule the kingdomduring Giovanna's minority. 

The Hungarians, with Andreas's brother, King Ludwig of Hungary, at theirhead, now appealed to the Papal Court of Avignon for a Bull commandingthe joint coronation of Andreas and Giovanna, which would be tantamountto placing the government in the hands of Andreas. The Neapolitans, headed by the Princes of the Blood--who, standing next in succession, had also their own interests to consider clamoured that Giovanna aloneshould be crowned. 

In this pass were the affairs of the kingdom when Charles of Durazzo, who had stood watchful and aloof, carefully weighing the chances, resolved at last to play that dangerous game of his. He began by thesecret abduction of Maria of Anjou, his own cousin and Giovanna'ssister, a child of fourteen. He kept her concealed for a month in hispalace, what time he obtained from the Pope, through the good officesof his uncle the Cardinal of Perigord, a dispensation to overcome thebarrier of consanguinity. That dispensation obtained, Charles marriedthe girl publicly under the eyes of all Naples, and by the marriage--towhich the bride seemed nowise unwilling--became, by virtue of his wife, next heir to the crown of Naples. 

That was his opening move. His next was to write to his obliginguncle the Cardinal of Perigord, whose influence at Avignon was veryconsiderable, urging him to prevail upon Pope Clement VI not to sign theBull in favour of Andreas and the joint coronation. 

Now, the high-handed action of Charles in marrying Maria of Anjou hadvery naturally disposed Giovanna against him; further, it had disposedagainst him those Princes of the Blood who were next in the succession, and upon whom he had stolen a march by this strengthening of his ownclaims. It is inevitable to assume that he had counted preciselyupon this to afford him the pretext that he sought--he, a Neapolitanprince--to ally himself with the Hungarian intruder. 

Under any other circumstances his advances must have been viewed withsuspicion by Andreas, and still more by the crafty Friar Robert. But, under the circumstances which his guile had created, he was receivedwith open arms by the Hungarian party, and his defection from the Courtof Giovanna was counted a victory by the supporters of Andreas. Heprotested his good-will towards Andreas, and proclaimed his hatred ofGiovanna's partisans, who poisoned her mind against her husband. Hehunted and drank with Andreas--whose life seems to have been largelymade up of hunting and drinking--and pandered generally to the rathergross tastes of this foreigner, whom in his heart he despised for abarbarian. 

From being a boon companion, Charles very soon became a counsellor tothe young Prince, and the poisonous advice that he gave seemed shrewdand good, even to Friar Robert. 

"Meet hostility with hostility, ride ruthlessly upon your own way, showing yourself confident of the decision in your favour that the Popemust ultimately give. For bear ever in your mind that you are King ofNaples, not by virtue of your marriage with Giovanna, but in your ownright, Giovanna being but the offspring of the usurping branch. "

The pale bovine eyes of Andreas would kindle into something likeintelligence, and a flush would warm his stolid countenance. He wasa fair-haired young giant, white-skinned and well-featured, but dull, looking, with cold, hard eyes suggesting the barbarian that he wasconsidered by the cultured Neapolitans, and that he certainly lookedby contrast with them. Friar Robert supporting the Duke of Durazzo'sadvice, Andreas did not hesitate to act upon it; of his own authorityhe delivered prisoners from gaol, showered honours upon his Hungarianfollowers and upon such Neapolitan barons as Count Altamura, who wasill-viewed at Court, and generally set the Queen at defiance. Theinevitable result, upon which again the subtle Charles had counted, wasto exasperate a group of her most prominent nobles into plotting theruin of Andreas. 

It was a good beginning, and unfortunately Giovanna's own behaviourafforded Charles the means of further speeding up his game. 

The young Queen was under the governance of Filippa the Catanese, anevil woman, greedy of power. This Filippa, once a washerwoman, had inher youth been chosen for her splendid health to be the foster-motherof Giovanna's father. Beloved of her foster-child, she had becomeperpetually installed at Court, married to a wealthy Moor named Cabane, who was raised to the dignity of Grand Seneschal of the kingdom, wherebythe sometime washerwoman found herself elevated to the rank of one ofthe first ladies of Naples. She must have known how to adapt herself toher new circumstances, otherwise she would hardly have been appointed, as she was upon the death of her foster-son, governess to his infantdaughters. Later, to ensure her hold upon the young Queen, and beingutterly unscrupulous in her greed of power, she had herself contrivedthat her son, Robert of Cabane, became Giovanna's lover. 

One of Giovanna's first acts upon her grandfather's death had been tocreate this Robert Count of Evoli, and this notwithstanding that inthe mean time he had been succeeded in her favour by the handsomeyoung Bertrand d'Artois. This was the group--the Catanese, her son, and Bertrand--that, with the Princes of the Blood, governed the Queen'sparty. 

With what eyes Andreas may have looked upon all this we have no meansof determining. Possibly, engrossed as he was with his hawks and hishounds, he may have been stupidly blind to his own dishonour, at leastas far as Bertrand was concerned. Another than Charles might havechosen the crude course of opening his eyes to it. But Charles was toofar-seeing. Precipitancy was not one of his faults. His next move mustbe dictated by the decision of Avignon regarding the coronation. 

This decision came in July of 1345, and it fell like a thunderbolt uponthe Court. The Pope had pronounced in favour of Andreas by granting theBull for the joint coronation of Andreas and Giovanna. 

This was check to Charles. His uncle the Cardinal of Perigord had donehis utmost to oppose the measure, but he had been overborne in theend by Ludwig of Hungary, who had settled the matter by the powerfulargument that he was himself the rightful heir to the crown of Naples, and that he relinquished his claim in favour of his younger brother. Hehad backed the argument by the payment to the Pope of the enormous sum, for those days, of one hundred thousand gold crowns, and the issue, obscure hitherto, had immediately become clear to the Papal Court. 

It was check to Charles, as I have said. But Charles braced himself, andconsidered the counter-move that should give him the advantage. He wentto congratulate Andreas, and found him swollen with pride and arrogancein his triumph. 

"Be welcome, Charles, " he hailed Durazzo. "I am not the man to forgetthose who have stood my friends whilst my power was undecided. "

"For your own sake, " said the smooth Charles, as he stepped back fromthat brotherly embrace, "I trust you'll not forget those who have beenyour enemies, and who, being desperate now, may take desperate means toavert your coronation. "

The pale eyes of the Hungarian glittered. 

"Of whom do you speak?"

Charles smoothed his black beard thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowedand pensive. There must be a victim, to strike fear into Giovanna'sfriends and stir them to Charles's purposes. 

"Why, first and foremost, I should place Giovanna's counsellor Isernia, that man of law whose evil counsels have hurt your rights as king. Nextcome--"

But here Charles craftily paused and looked away, a man at fault. 

"Next?" cried Andreas. "Who next? Speak out!" The Duke shrugged. 

"By the Passion, there is no lack of others. You have enemies to spareamong the Queen's friends. "

Andreas paled under his faint tan. He flung back his crimson robe asif he felt the heat, and stood forth, lithe as a wrestler, in hisclose-fitting cote-hardie and hose of violet silk. 

"No need, indeed, to name them, " he said fiercely. 

"None, " Charles agreed. "But the most dangerous is Isernia. Whilsthe lives you walk amid swords. His death may spread a panic that willparalyze the others. "

He would say no more, knowing that he had said enough to send Andreas, scowling and sinister, to sow terror in hearts that guilt must renderuneasy now, amongst which hearts be sure that he counted Giovanna's own. 

Andreas took counsel with Friar Robert. Touching Isernia, there wasevidence and to spare that he was dangerous, and so Isernia fell on themorrow to an assassin's sword as he was in the very act of leaving theCastel Nuovo, and it was Charles himself who bore word of it to theCourt, and so plunged it into consternation. 

They walked in the cool of evening in the pleasant garden of the CastelNuovo, when Charles came upon them and touched the stalwart shoulder ofBertrand d'Artois. Bertrand the favourite eyed him askance, mistrustingand disliking him for his association with Andreas. 

"The Hungarian boar, " said Charles, "is sharpening his tusks now thathis authority is assured by the Holy Father. "

"Who cares?" sneered Bertrand. 

"Should you care if I added that already he has blooded them?"

Bertrand changed countenance. The Duke explained himself. 

"He has made a beginning upon Giacomo d' Isernia. Ten minutes ago hewas stabbed to death within a stone's throw of the castle. " So Charlesunburdened himself of his news. "A beginning, no more. "

"My God!" said Bertrand. "D' Isernia! Heaven rest him. " And devoutly hecrossed himself. 

"Heaven will rest some more of you if you suffer Andreas of Hungary tobe its instrument, " said Charles, his lips grimly twisted. 

"Do you threaten?"

"Nay, man; be not so hot and foolish. I warn. I know his mood. I knowwhat he intends. "

"You ever had his confidence, " said Bertrand, sneering. 

"Until this hour I had. But there's an end to that. I am a Prince ofNaples, and I'll not bend the knee to a barbarian. He was well enoughto hunt with and drink with, so long as he was Duke of Calabria with noprospect of being more. But that he should become my King, and thatour lady Giovanna should be no more than a queen consort--" He made agesture of ineffable disgust. 

Bertrand's eyes kindled. He gripped the other's arm, and drew him alongunder a trellis of vines that formed a green cloister about the walls. 

"Why, here is great news for our Queen, " he cried. "It will rejoice her, my lord, to know you are loyal to her. "

"That is no matter, " he replied. "What matters is that you should bewarned--you, yourself in particular, and Evoli. No doubt there will beothers, too. But the Hungarian's confidences went no further. "

Bertrand had come to a standstill. He stared at Charles, and slowly thecolour left his face. 

"Me?" he said, a finger on his heart. 

"Aye, you. You will be the next. But not until the crown is firmly onhis brow. Then he will settle his score with the nobles of Naples whohave withstood him. Listen, " and Charles's voice sank as if under theawful burden of his news; "a black banner of vengeance is to precede himto his coronation. And your name stands at the head of the list of theproscribed. Does it surprise you? After all, he is a husband, and he hassome knowledge of what lies between the Queen and you--"

"Stop!"

"Pish!" Charles shrugged. "What need for silence upon what all Naplesknows? When have you and the Queen ever used discretion? In your placeI should not need a warning. I should know what to expect from a husbandbecome king. "

"The Queen must be told. "

"Indeed, I think so, too. It will come best from you. Go tell her, sothat measures may be taken. But go secretly and warily. You are safeuntil he wears the crown. And above all--whatever you may decide--donothing here in Naples. "

And on that he turned to depart, whilst Bertrand sped to Giovanna. Onthe threshold of the garden Charles paused and looked back. His eyessought and found the Queen, a tall, lissome girl of seventeen, in aclose-fitting, revealing gown of purple silk, the high, white gorgetoutlining an oval face of a surpassing loveliness, crowned by a wealthof copper-coloured hair. She was standing in a stricken attitude, looking up into the face of her lover, who was delivering himself of hisnews. 

Charles departed satisfied. 

Three days later a man of the Queen's household, one Melazzo, who wasin Duke Charles's pay, brought him word that the seed he had cast hadfallen upon fertile soil. A conspiracy to destroy the King had been laidby Bertrand d'Artois, Robert of Cabane, Count of Evoli, and thelatter's brothers-in-law, Terlizzi and Morcone. Melazzo himself, for hisnotorious affection for the Queen, had been included in this band, andalso a man named Pace, who was body servant to Andreas, and who, likeMelazzo, was in Charles's pay. 

Charles of Durazzo smiled gently to himself. The game went excellentlywell. 

"The Court, " he said, "goes to Aversa for a month before the coronation. That would be a favourable season to their plan. Advise it so. "

The date appointed for the coronation was September 20th. A monthbefore--on August 20th--the Court removed itself from the heat andreek of Naples to the cooler air of Aversa, there to spend the time ofwaiting. They were housed in the monastery of Saint Peter, whichhad been converted as far as possible into a royal residence for theoccasion. 

On the night of their arrival there the refectory of the monastery wastransfigured to accommodate the numerous noble and very jovial companyassembled there to sup. The long, stone-flagged room, lofty and withwindows set very high, normally so bare and austere, was hung now withtapestries, and the floor strewn with rushes that were mingled withlemon verbena and other aromatic herbs. Along the lateral walls andacross the end of the room that faced the double doors were set thestone tables of the Spartan monks, on a shallow dais that raised themabove the level of the floor. These tables were gay now with the gleamof crystal and the glitter of gold and silver plate. Along one side ofthem, their backs to the walls, sat the ladies and nobles of theCourt. The vaulted ceiling was rudely frescoed to represent theopen heavens--the work of a brother whose brush was more devout thancunning--and there was the inevitable cenacolo above the Abbot's tableat the upper end of the room. 

At this table sat the royal party, the broad-shouldered Andreas ofHungary, slightly asprawl, his golden mane somewhat tumbled now, forhe was drinking deeply in accordance with his barbarian habit; ever andanon he would fling down a bone or a piece of meat to the liver-colouredhounds that crouched expectant on the rushes of the floor. 

They had hunted that day in the neighbourhood of Capua, and Andreas hadacquitted himself well, and was in high good-humour, giving now littlethought to the sinister things that Charles of Durazzo had latelywhispered, laughing and jesting with the traitor Morcone at his side. Behind him in close attendance stood his servant Pace, once a creatureof Durazzo's. The Queen sat on his right, making but poor pretence toeat; her lovely young face was of a ghostly pallor, her dark eyes werewide and staring. Among the guests were the black-browed Evoli and hisbrother-in-law, Terlizzi; Bertrand of Artois and his father; Melazzo, that other creature of Charles's, and Filippa the Catanese, handsome andarrogant, but oddly silent to-night. 

But Charles of Durazzo was not of the company. It is not for the player, himself, to become a piece upon the board. 

He had caught a whisper that the thing he had so slyly prompted toBertrand d'Artois was to be done here at Aversa, and so Charles hadremained at Naples. He had discovered very opportunely that his wife wasailing, and he developed such concern for her that he could not bringhimself to leave her side. He had excused himself to Andreas with athousand regrets, since what he most desired was to enjoy with him thecool, clean air of Aversa and the pleasures of the chase; and he hadpresented the young King at parting with the best of all his falcons inearnest of affection and disappointment. 

The night wore on, and at last, at a sign from the Queen, the ladiesrose and departed to their beds. The men settled down again. Thecellarers redoubled their activities, the flagons circulated morebriskly, and the noise they made must have disturbed the monksentrenched in their cells against these earthly vanities. The laughterof Andreas grew louder and more vacuous, and when at last he heavedhimself up at midnight and departed to bed, that he might take some restagainst the morrow's hunt, he staggered a little in his walk. 

But there were other hunters there whose impatience could not keep untilthe morrow, whose game was to be run to death that very night. Theywaited--Bertrand d'Artois, Robert of Cabane, the Counts of Terlizzi andMorcone, Melazzo and Andreas's body servant Pace--until all those wholay at Aversa were deep in slumber. Then at two o'clock in the morningthey made their stealthy way to the loggia on the third floor, a longcolonnaded gallery above the Abbot's garden. They paused a moment beforethe Queen's door which opened upon this gallery, then crept on to thatof the King's room at the other end. It was Pace who rapped sharplyon the panels thrice before he was answered by a sleepy growl from theother side. 

"It is I--Pace--my lord, " he announced. "A courier has arrived fromNaples, from Friar Robert, with instant messages. "

From within there was a noisy yawn, a rustle, the sound of anoverturning stool, and, lastly, the rasp of a bolt being withdrawn. Thedoor opened, and in the faint light of the dawning day Andreas appeared, drawing a furlined robe about his body, which was naked of all but ashirt. 

He saw no one but Pace. The others had drawn aside into the shadows. Unsuspecting, he stepped forth. 

"Where is this messenger?"

The door through which he had come slammed suddenly behind him, and heturned to see Melazzo in the act of bolting it with a dagger to preventany one from following that way--for the room had another door openingupon the inner corridor. 

Instead, Melazzo might have employed his dagger to stab Andreas behind, and so have made an instant end. But it happened to be known thatAndreas wore an amulet--a ring that his mother had given him--whichrendered him invulnerable to steel or poison. And such was the credulityof his age, such the blind faith of those men in the miraculous powerof that charm, that none of them so much as attempted to test it with adagger. It was for the same reason that no recourse was had to the stilleasier method of disposing of him by poison. Accepting the amulet atits legendary value, the conspirators had resolved that he must bestrangled. 

As he turned now they leapt upon him, and, taking him unawares, borehim to the ground before he could realize what was happening. Here theygrappled with him, and he with them. He was endowed with the strength ofa young bull, and he made full use of it. He rose, beating them off, tobe borne down again, bellowing the while for help. He smote out blindly, and stretched Morcone half senseless with a blow of his great fist. 

Seeing how difficult he proved to strangle, they must have cursed thatamulet of his. He struggled to his knees again, then to his feet, and, at last, with bleeding face, leaving tufts of his fair hair in theirmurderous hands, he broke through and went bounding down the loggia, screaming as he ran, until he came to his wife's door. Against that hehurled himself, calling her. 

"Giovanna! Giovanna! For the love of God crucified! Open! Open! I ambeing murdered!"

From within came no answer--utter silence. 

"Giovanna! Giovanna!" He beat frenziedly upon the door. 

Still no answer, which yet was answer enough. 

The stranglers, momentarily discomfited, scared, too, lest his criesshould rouse the convent, had stood hesitating after he broke from them. But now Bertrand d'Artois, realizing that too much had been done alreadyto admit of the business being left unfinished, sprang upon him suddenlyagain. Locked in each other's arms, those wrestlers swayed and panted inthe loggia for a moment, then with a crash went down, Bertrand ontop, Andreas striking his head against the stone floor as he fell. TheQueen's lover pinned him there, kneeling upon his breast. 

"The rope!" he panted to the others who came up. 

One of them threw him a coil of purple silk interwrought with goldthread, in which a running noose had been tied. Bertrand slipped itover Andreas's head, drew it taut, and held it so, despite the man'sdesperate, convulsive struggles. The others came to his assistance. Amongst them they lifted the writhing victim to the parapet of theloggia, and flung him over; whilst Bertrand, Cabane, and Pace bore uponthe rope, arresting his fall, and keeping him suspended there until heshould be dead. Melazzo and Morcone came to assist them, and it was thenthat Cabane observed that Terlizzi held aloof, as if filled with horror. 

Peremptorily he called to him:

"Hither, and lend a hand! The rope is long enough to afford you a grip. We want accomplices, not witnesses, Lord Count. "

Terlizzi obeyed, and then the ensuing silence was broken suddenly byscreams from the floor below the screams of a woman who slept in theroom immediately underneath, who had awakened to behold in the greylight of the breaking day the figure of a man kicking and writhing at arope's end before her window. 

Yet a moment the startled stranglers kept their grip of the rope untilthe struggles at the end of it had ceased; then they loosed their holdand let the body go plunging down into the Abbot's garden. Thereafterthey scattered and fled, for people were stirring now in the convent, aroused by the screams of the woman. 

Thrice, so the story runs, came the monks to the Queen's door to knockand demand her orders for the disposal of the body of her husbandwithout receiving any answer to their question. It remained stillunanswered when later in the day she departed from Aversa in a closedlitter, and returned to Naples escorted by a company of lances, andfor lack of instructions the monks left the body in the Abbot's garden, where it had fallen, until Charles of Durazzo came to remove it two dayslater. 

Ostentatiously he bore to Naples the murdered Prince--whose death he hadso subtly inspired--and in the cathedral before the Hungarians, whom hehad assembled, and in the presence of a vast concourse of the people, hesolemnly swore over the body vengeance upon the murderers. 

Having made a cat's-paw of Giovanna--through the person of her lover, Bertrand d'Artois, and his confederate assassins--and thus cleared awayone of those who stood between himself and the throne, he now soughtto make a cat's-paw of justice to clear away the other. Meanwhile, daysgrew into weeks and weeks into months, and no attempt was made by theQueen to hunt out the murderers of her husband, no inquiry instituted. Bertrand d'Artois, it is true, had fled with his father to theirstronghold of Saint Agatha for safety. But the others--Cabane, Terlizzi, and Morcone--continued unabashed about Giovanna's person at the CastelNuovo. 

Charles wrote to Ludwig of Hungary, and to the Pope, demanding thatjustice should be done, and pointing out the neglect of all attemptto perform it in the kingdom itself, and inviting them to construe forthemselves that neglect. As a consequence, Clement VI issued, on June2d of the following year, a Bull, whereby Bertrand des Baux, theGrand Justiciary of Naples, was commanded to hunt down and punish theassassins, against whom--at the same time--the Pope launched a secondBull, of excommunication. But the Holy Father accompanied his commandsto Des Baux by a private note, wherein he straitly enjoined the GrandJusticiary for reasons of State to permit nothing to transpire thatmight reflect upon the Queen. 

Des Baux set about his task at once, and inspired, no doubt, by Charles, proceeded to the arrest of Melazzo and the servant Pace. It was not forCharles to accuse the Queen or even any of her nobles, whereby he mighthave aroused against himself the opposition of those who were herloyal partisans. Sufficient for him to point out the two meanest of theconspirators, and depend upon the torture to wring from them confessionsthat must gradually pull down the rest, and in the end Giovanna herself. 

Terlizzi, alive to his danger when he heard of the arrest of those two, made a bold and desperate attempt to avert it. Riding forth with a bandof followers, he attacked the escort that was bearing Pace to prison. The prisoner was seized, but not to be rescued. All that Terlizzi wantedwas his silence. By his orders the wretched man's tongue was torn out, whereupon he was abandoned once more to his guards and his fate. 

Had Terlizzi been able to carry out his intentions of performingthe like operation upon Melazzo, Charles might have been placed in adifficult position. So much, however, did not happen, and the horribledeed upon Pace was in vain. Put to the question, Melazzo denouncedTerlizzi, and together with him Cabane, Morcone, and the others. Further, his confession incriminated Filippa, the Catanese, and her twodaughters, the wives of Terlizzi and Morcone. Of the Queen, however, hesaid nothing, because, one of the lesser conspirators, little morethan a servant like Pace, he can have had no knowledge of the Queen'scomplicity. 

The arrest of the others followed instantly, and, sentenced to death, they were publicly burned in the Square of Sant' Eligio, after sufferingall the brutal, unspeakable horrors of fourteenth-century torture, whichcontinued to the very scaffold, with the alleged intention of inducingthem to denounce any further accomplices. But though they writhed andfainted under the pincers of the executioners, they confessed nothing. Indeed, they preserved a silence which left the people amazed, for thepeople lacked the explanation. The Grand Justiciary, Hugh des Baux, had seen to it that the Pope's injunctions should be obeyed. Lest thecondemned should say too much, he had taken the precaution of havingtheir tongues fastened down with fish-hooks. 

Thus Charles was momentarily baulked, and he was further baulked by thefact that Giovanna had taken a second husband, in her cousin, Louisof Taranto. Unless matters were to remain there and the game end ina stalemate, bold measures were required, and those measures Charlesadopted. He wrote to the King of Hungary now openly accusing Giovannaof the murder, and pointing out the circumstances that in themselvesafforded corroboration of his charge. 

Those circumstances Ludwig embodied in a fulminating letter whichhe wrote to Giovanna in answer to her defence against the charge ofinaction in the matter of her late husband's murderers: "Giovanna, thyantecedent disorderly life, thy retention of the exclusive power in thekingdom, thy neglect of vengeance upon the murderers of thy husband, thyhaving taken another husband, and thy very excuses abundantly prove thycomplicity in thy husband's death. "

So far this was all as Charles of Durazzo could have desired it. Butthere was more. Ludwig was advancing now in arms to take possession ofthe kingdom, of which, under all the circumstances, he might considerhimself the lawful heir, and the Princes of Italy were affordinghim unhindered passage through their States. This was not at all toCharles's liking. Indeed, unless he bestirred himself, it might prove tobe checkmate from an altogether unexpected quarter, rendering vain allthe masterly play with which he had conducted the game so far. 

It flustered him a little, and in his haste to counter it he blundered. 

Giovanna, alarmed at the rapid advance of Ludwig, summoned her barons toher aid, and in that summons she included Charles, realizing that atall costs he must be brought over to her side. He went, listened, andfinally sold himself for a good price the title of Duke of Calabria, which made him heir to the kingdom. He raised a powerful troop oflances, and marched upon Aquila, which had already hoisted the Hungarianbanner. 

There it was that he discovered, and soon, his move to have been a badone. News was brought to him that the Queen, taken with panic, had fledto Provence, seeking sanctuary at Avignon. 

Charles set about correcting his error without delay, and marched outof Aquila to go and meet Ludwig that he might protest his loyalty, andrange himself under the invader's banner. 

At Foligno, the King of Hungary was met by a papal legate, who in thename of Pope Clement forbade him under pain of excommunication to invadea fief of Holy Church. 

"When I am master of Naples, " answered Ludwig firmly, "I shall countmyself a feudatory of the Holy See. Until then I render account to nonebut God and my conscience. " And he pushed on, preceded by a black bannerof death, scattering in true Hungarian fashion murder, rape, pillage, and arson through the smiling countryside, exacting upon the whole landa terrible vengeance for the murder of his brother. 

Thus he came to Aversa, and there quartered himself and his Hungariansupon that convent of Saint Peter where Andreas had been strangled a yearago. And it was here that he was joined by Charles, who came protestingloyalty, and whom the King received with open arms and a glad welcome, as was to be expected from a man who had been Andreas's one true friendin that land of enemies. Of Charles's indiscreet escapade in the matterof Aquila nothing was said. As Charles had fully expected, it wascondoned upon the score both of the past and the present. 

That night there was high feasting in that same refectory where Andreashad feasted on the night when the stranglers watched him, waiting, andCharles was the guest of honour. In the morning Ludwig was to pursue hismarch upon the city of Naples, and all were astir betimes. 

On the point of setting out, Ludwig turned to Charles. 

"Before I go, " he said, "I have a mind to visit the spot where mybrother died. "

To Charles, no doubt, this seemed a morbid notion to be discouraged. ButLudwig was insistent. 

"Take me there, " he bade the Duke. 

"Indeed, I scarce know--I was not here, remember, " Charles answeredhim, rendered faintly uneasy, perhaps by a certain grimness in the gauntKing's face, perhaps by the mutterings of his own conscience. 

"I know that you were not; but surely you must know the place. It willbe known to all the world in these parts. Besides, was it not yourselfrecovered the body? Conduct me thither, then. "

Perforce, then, Charles must do his will. Arm-in-arm they mounted thestairs to that sinister loggia, a half-dozen of Ludwig's escortingofficers following. 

They stepped along the tessellated floor above the Abbot's garden, flooded now with sunshine which drew the perfume from the roses bloomingthere. 

"Here the King slept, " said Charles, "and yonder the Queen. Somewherehere between the thing was done, and thence they hanged him. "

Ludwig, tall and grim, stood considering, chin in hand. Suddenly hewheeled upon the Duke who stood at his elbow. His face had undergone achange, and his lip curled so that he displayed his strong teeth as adog displays them when he snarls. 

"Traitor!" he rasped. "It is you--you who come smiling and fawning uponme, and spurring me on to vengeance--who are to blame for what happenedhere. "

"I?" Charles fell back, changing colour, his legs trembling under him. 

"You!" the King answered him furiously. "His death would never havecome about but for your intrigues to keep him out of the royal power, tohinder his coronation. "

"It is false!" cried Charles. "False! I swear it before God!"

"Perjured dog! Do you deny that you sought the aid of your preciousuncle the Cardinal of Perigord to restrain the Pope from granting theBull required?"

"I do deny it. The facts deny it. The Bull was forthcoming. "

"Then your denial but proves your guilt, " the King answered him, andfrom the leather pouch hanging from his belt, he pulled out a parchment, and held it under the Duke's staring eyes. It was the letter he hadwritten to the Cardinal of Perigord, enjoining him to prevent the Popefrom signing the Bull sanctioning Andreas's coronation. 

The King smiled terribly into that white, twitching face. 

"Deny it now, " he mocked him. "Deny, too, that, bribed by the title ofDuke of Calabria, you turned to the service of the Queen, to abandonit again for ours when you perceived your danger. You think to use us, traitor, as a stepping-stone to help you to mount the throne--as yousought to use my brother even to the extent of encompassing his murder. "

"No, no! I had no hand in that. I was his friend--"

"Liar!" Ludwig struck him across the mouth. 

On the instant the officers of Ludwig laid hands upon the Duke, fearingthat the indignity might spur him to retaliation. 

"You are very opportune, " said Ludwig; and added coldly, "Dispatch him. "

Charles screamed a moment, even as Andreas had screamed on that samespot, when he found himself staring into the fearful face of death. Thenthe scream became a cough as a Hungarian sword went through him fromside to side. 

They picked up his body from the tessellated floor of the loggia, carried it to the parapet as Andreas's had been carried, and flung itdown into the Abbot's garden as Andreas's had been flung. It lay in arosebush, dyeing the Abbot's roses a deeper red. 

Never was justice more poetic. 

XI. THE NIGHT OF HATE--The Murder Of The Duke Of Gandia

The Cardinal Vice-Chancellor took the packet proffered him by thefair-haired, scarlet-liveried page, and turned it over, considering it, the gentle, finely featured, almost ascetic face very thoughtful. 

"It was brought, my lord, by a man in a mask, who will give no name. Hewaits below, " said the scarlet stripling. 

"A man in a mask, eh? What mystery!"

The thoughtful brown eyes smiled, the fine hands broke the fragment ofwax. A gold ring fell out and rolled some little way along the blackand purple Eastern rug. The boy dived after it, and presented it to hislordship. 

The ring bore an escutcheon, and the Cardinal found graven upon thisescutcheon his own arms the Sforza lion and the flower of the quince. Instantly those dark, thoughtful eyes of his grew keen as they flashedupon the page. 

"Did you see the device?" he asked, a hint of steel under the silkinessof his voice. 

"I saw nothing, my lord--a ring, no more. I did not even look. "

The Cardinal continued to ponder him for a long moment very searchingly. 

"Go--bring this man, " he said at last; and the boy departed, soonto reappear; holding aside the tapestry that masked the door to givepassage to a man of middle height wrapped in a black cloak, his faceunder a shower of golden hair, covered from chin to brow by a blackvisor. 

At a sign from the Cardinal the page departed. Then the man, comingforward, let fall his cloak, revealing a rich dress of close-fittingviolet silk, sword and dagger hanging from his jewelled girdle; heplucked away the mask, and disclosed the handsome, weak face of GiovanniSforza, Lord of Pesaro and Cotignola, the discarded husband of MadonnaLucrezia, Pope Alexander's daughter. 

The Cardinal considered his nephew gravely, without surprise. He hadexpected at first no more than a messenger from the owner of thatring. But at sight of his figure and long, fair hair he had recognizedGiovanni before the latter had removed his mask. 

"I have always accounted you something mad, " said the Cardinal softly. "But never mad enough for this. What brings you to Rome?"

"Necessity, my lord, " replied the young tyrant. "The need to defend myhonour, which is about to be destroyed. "

"And your life?" wondered his uncle. "Has that ceased to be of value?"

"Without honour it is nothing. "

"A noble sentiment taught in every school. But for practical purposes--"The Cardinal shrugged. 

Giovanni, however, paid no heed. 

"Did you think, my lord, that I should tamely submit to be a derided, outcast husband, that I should take no vengeance upon, that villainousPope for having made me a thing of scorn, a byword throughout Italy?"Livid hate writhed in his fair young face. "Did you think I should, indeed, remain in Pesaro, whither I fled before their threats to mylife, and present no reckoning?"

"What is the reckoning you have in mind?" inquired his uncle, faintlyironical. "You'll not be intending to kill the Holy Father?"

"Kill him?" Giovanni laughed shortly, scornfully. "Do the dead suffer?"

"In hell, sometimes, " said the Cardinal. 

"Perhaps. But I want to be sure. I want sufferings that I can witness, sufferings that I can employ as balsam for my own wounded honour. Ishall strike, even as he has stricken me--at his soul, not at his body. I shall wound him where he is most sensitive. "

Ascanio Sforza, towering tall and slender in his scarlet robes, shookhis head slowly. 

"All this is madness--madness! You were best away, best in Pesaro. Indeed, you cannot safely show your face in Rome. "

"That is why I go masked. That is why I come to you, my lord, forshelter here until--"

"Here?" The Cardinal was instantly alert. "Then you think I am as mad asyourself. Why, man, if so much as a whisper of your presence in Rome gotabroad, this is the first place where they would look nor you. If youwill have your way, if you are so set on the avenging of past wrongsand the preventing of future ones, it is not for me, your kinsman, to withstand you. But here in my palace you cannot stay, for your ownsafety's sake. That page who brought you, now; I would not swear he didnot see the arms upon your ring. I pray that he did not. But if he did, your presence is known here already. "

Giovanni was perturbed. 

"But if not here, where, then, in Rome should I be safe?"

"Nowhere, I think, " answered the ironical Ascanio. "Though perhaps youmight count yourself safe with Pico. Your common hate of the Holy Fathershould be a stout bond between you. "

Fate prompted the suggestion. Fate drove the Lord of Pesaro to actupon it, and to seek out Antonio Maria Pico, Count of Mirandola, in hispalace by the river, where Pico, as Ascanio had foreseen, gave him acordial welcome. 

There he abode almost in hiding until the end of May, seldom issuingforth, and never without his mask--a matter this which excited nocomment, for masked faces were common in the streets of Rome in theevening of the fifteenth century. In talk with Pico he set forthhis intent, elaborating what already he had told the CardinalVice-Chancellor. 

"He is a father--this Father of Fathers, " he said once. "A tender, loving father whose life is in his children, who lives through themand for them. Deprive him of them, and his life would become empty, worthless, a living death. There is Giovanni, who is as the apple of hiseye, whom he has created Duke of Gandia, Duke of Benevento, Princeof Sessa, Lord of Teano, and more besides. There is the Cardinal ofValencia, there is Giuffredo, Prince of Squillace, and there is my wife, Lucrezia, of whom he has robbed me. There is, you see, an ample heel toour Achilles. The question is, where shall we begin?"

"And also, how, " Pico reminded him. 

Fate was to answer both those questions, and that soon. 

They went on June 1st--the Lord of Pesaro, with his host and his host'sdaughter, Antonia--to spend the day at Pico's vineyard in Trastevere. Atthe moment of setting out to return to Rome in the evening the Count wasdetained by his steward, newly returned from a journey with matters tocommunicate to him. 

He bade his guest, with his daughter and their attendants, to ride on, saying that he himself would follow and overtake them. But the stewarddetained him longer than he had expected, so that, although the companyproceeded leisurely towards the city, Pico had not come up with themwhen they reached the river. In the narrow street beyond the bridge thelittle escort found itself suddenly confronted and thrust aside by amagnificent cavalcade of ladies and gallants, hawk on wrist and followedby a pack of hounds. 

Giovanni had eyes for one only in that gay company--a tall, splendidlyhandsome man in green, a Plumed bonnet on his auburn head, and aroguish, jovial eye, which, in its turn, saw nobody in that moment butMadonna Antonia, reclining in her litter, the leather curtains of whichshe had drawn back that she might converse with Giovanni as they rode. 

The Lord of Pesaro beheld the sudden kindling of his brother-in-law'sglance, for that handsome gallant was the Duke of Gandia, the Pope'seldest son, the very apple of the Holy Father's eye. He saw the Duke'salmost unconscious check upon his reins; saw him turn in the saddle tostare boldly at Madonna Antonia until, grown conscious of his regard, she crimsoned under it. And when at last the litter had moved on, hesaw over his shoulder a mounted servant detach from the Duke's side tofollow them. This fellow dogged their heels all the way to the ParioneQuarter, obviously with intent to discover for his master where thebeautiful lady of the litter might be housed. 

Giovanni said naught of this to Pico when he returned a little later. He was quick to perceive the opportunity that offered, but far from surethat Pico would suffer his daughter to be used as a decoy; far, indeed, from sure that he dared himself so employ her. But on the morrow, chancing to look from a window out of idle curiosity to see what horseit was that was pacing in the street below, he beheld a man in a richcloak, in whom at once he recognized the Duke, and he accounted that thedice of destiny had fallen. 

Himself unseen by that horseman, Giovanni drew back quickly. On the spurof the moment, he acted with a subtlety worthy of long premeditation. Antonia and he were by an odd fatality alone together in that chamber ofthe mezzanine. He turned to her. 

"An odd fellow rides below here, tarrying as if expectant. I wondershould you know who he is. "

Obeying his suggestion, she rose--a tall, slim child of some eighteenyears, of a delicate, pale beauty, with dark, thoughtful eyes and long, black tresses, interwoven with jewelled strands of gold thread. Sherustled to the window and looked down upon that cavalier; and, as shelooked, scanning him intently, the Duke raised his head. Their eyes met, and she drew back with a little cry. 

"What is it?" exclaimed Giovanni. 

"It is that insolent fellow who stared at me last evening in the street. I would you had not bidden me look. "

Now, whilst she had been gazing from the window, Giovanni, moving softlybehind her, had espied a bowl of roses on the ebony table in the room'smiddle. Swiftly and silently he had plucked a blossom, which he now heldbehind his back. As she turned from him again, he sent it flying throughthe window; and whilst in his heart he laughed with bitter hate andscorn as he thought of Gandia snatching up that rose and treasuring itin his bosom, aloud he laughed at her fears, derided them as idle. 

That night, in his room, Giovanni practised penmanship assiduously, armed with a model with which Antonia had innocently equipped him. Hewent to bed well pleased, reflecting that as a man lives so does he die. Giovanni Borgia, Duke of Gandia, had been ever an amiable profligate, aheedless voluptuary obeying no spur but that of his own pleasure, whichshould drive him now to his destruction. Giovanni Borgia, he consideredfurther, was, as he had expressed it, the very apple of his father'seye; and since, of his own accord, the Duke had come to thrust hisfoolish head into the noose, the Lord of Pesaro would make a sweetbeginning to the avenging of his wrongs by drawing it taut. 

Next morning saw him at the Vatican, greatly daring, to deliver inperson his forgery to the Duke. Suspicious of his mask, they asked himwho he was and whence he came. 

"Say one who desires to remain unknown with a letter for the Duke ofGandia which his magnificence will welcome. "

Reluctantly, a chamberlain departed with his message. Anon he wasconducted above to the magnificent apartments which Gandia occupiedduring his sojourn there. 

He found the Duke newly risen, and with him his brother, theauburn-headed young Cardinal of Valencia, dressed in a close-fittingsuit of black, that displayed his lithe and gracefully athleticproportions, and a cloak of scarlet silk to give a suggestion of hisecclesiastical rank. 

Giovanni bowed low, and, thickening his voice that it might not berecognized, announced himself and his mission in one. 

"From the lady of the rose, " said he, proffering the letter. 

Valencia stared a moment; then went off into a burst of laughter. Gandia's face flamed and his eyes sparkled. He snatched the letter, broke its seal, and consumed its contents. Then he flung away to atable, took up a pen, and sat down to write; the tall Valencia watchinghim with amused scorn a while, then crossing to his side and setting ahand upon his shoulder. 

"You will never learn, " said the more subtle Cesare. "You must foreverbe leaving traces where traces are not to be desired. "

Gandia looked up into that keen, handsome young face. 

"You are right, " he said; and crumpled the letter in his hand. 

Then he looked at the messenger and hesitated. 

"I am in Madonna's confidence, " said the man in the mask. 

Gandia rose. "Then say--say that her letter has carried me to Heaven;that I but await her commands to come in person to declare myself. Butbid her hasten, for within two weeks from now I go to Naples, and thenceI may return straight to Spain. "

"The opportunity shall be found, Magnificent. Myself I shall bring youword of it. "

The Duke loaded him with thanks, and in his excessive gratitude pressedupon him at parting a purse of fifty ducats, which Giovanni flung intothe Tiber some ten minutes later as he was crossing the Bridge of Sant'Angelo on his homeward way. 

The Lord of Pesaro proceeded without haste. Delay and silence he knewwould make Gandia the more sharp-set, and your sharp-set, impatientfellow is seldom cautious. Meanwhile, Antonia had mentioned to herfather that princely stranger who had stared so offendingly one evening, and who for an hour on the following morning had haunted the streetbeneath her window. Pico mentioned it to Giovanni, whereupon Giovannitold him frankly who it was. 

"It was that libertine brother-in-law of mine, the Duke of Gandia, " hesaid. "Had he persisted, I should have bidden you look to your daughter. As it is, no doubt he has other things to think of. He is preparingfor his journey to Naples, to accompany his brother Cesare, who goes aspapal legate to crown Federigo of Aragon. "

There he left the matter, and no more was heard of it until the night ofJune 14th, the very eve of the departure of the Borgia princes upon thatmission. 

Cloaked and masked, Giovanni took his way to the Vatican at dusk thatevening, and desired to have himself announced to the Duke. But he wasmet with the answer that the Duke was absent; that he had gone to takeleave of his mother and to sup at her villa in Trastevere. His returnwas not expected until late. 

At first Giovanni feared that, in leaving the consummation of his plotuntil the eleventh hour, he had left it too late. In his anxiety he atonce set out on foot, as he was, for the villa of Madonna Giovanna deCatanei. He reached it towards ten o'clock that night, to be informedthat Gandia was there, at supper. The servant went to bear word tothe Duke that a man in a mask was asking to see him, a message whichinstantly flung Gandia into agitation. Excitedly he commanded that theman be brought to him at once. 

The Lord of Pesaro was conducted through the house and out into thegarden to an arbour of vine, where a rich table was spread in theevening cool, lighted by alabaster lamps. About this table Giovannifound a noble company of his own relations by marriage. There wasGandia, who rose hurriedly at his approach, and came to meet him; therewas Cesare, Cardinal of Valencia, who was to go to Naples to-morrow aspapal legate, yet dressed tonight in cloth of gold, with no trace of hischurchly dignity about him; there was their younger brother Giuffredo, Prince of Squillace, a handsome stripling, flanked by his wife, thefree-and-easy Donna Sancia of Aragon, swarthy, coarse-featured, andfleshy, despite her youth; there was Giovanni's sometime wife; thelovely, golden-headed Lucrezia, the innocent cause of all this hate thatfestered in the Lord of Pesaro's soul; there was their mother, the noblyhandsome Giovanozza de Catanei, from whom the Borgias derived theirauburn heads; and there was their cousin, Giovanni Borgia, Cardinal ofMonreale, portly and scarlet, at Madonna's side. 

All turned to glance at this masked intruder who had the power so oddlyto excite their beloved Gandia. 

"From the lady of the rose, " Giovanni announced himself softly to theDuke. 

"Yes, yes, " came the answer, feverishly impatient. "Well, what is yourmessage?"

"To-night her father is from home. She will expect your magnificence atmidnight. "

Gandia drew a deep breath. 

"By the Host! You are no more than in time. I had almost despaired, my friend, my best of friends. To-night!" He pronounced the wordecstatically. "Wait you here. Yourself you shall conduct me. Meanwhile, go sup. "

And beating his hands, he summoned attendants. 

Came the steward and a couple of Moorish slaves in green turbans, towhose care the Duke commanded his masked visitor. But Giovanni neitherrequired nor desired their ministrations; he would not eat nor drink, but contented himself with the patience of hatred to sit for two longhours awaiting the pleasure of his foolish victim. 

They left at last, a little before midnight the Duke, his brotherCesare, his cousin Monreale, and a numerous attendance, his own retinueand those of the two cardinals. Thus they rode back to Rome, the Borgiasvery gay, the man in the mask plodding along beside them. 

They came to the Rione de Ponte, where their ways were to separate, andthere, opposite the palace of the Cardinal Vice-Chancellor, Gandia drewrein. He announced to the others that he went no farther with them, summoned a single groom to attend him, and bade the remainder return tothe Vatican and await him there. 

There was a last jest and a laugh from Cesare as the cavalcade went ontowards the papal palace. Then Gandia turned to the man in the mask, bade him get up on the crupper of his horse, and so rode slowly offin the direction of the Giudecca, the single attendant he had retainedtrotting beside his stirrup. 

Giovanni directed his brother-in-law, not to the main entrance of thehouse, but to the garden gate, which opened upon a narrow alley. Herethey dismounted, flinging the reins to the groom, who was bidden towait. Giovanni produced a key, unlocked the door, and ushered the Dukeinto the gloom of the garden. A stone staircase ran up to the loggiaon the mezzanine, and by this way was Gandia now conducted, treadingsoftly. His guide went ahead. He had provided himself with yet anotherkey, and so unlocked the door from the loggia which opened upon theante-room of Madonna Antonia. He held the door for the Duke, whohesitated, seeing all in darkness. 

"In, " Giovanni bade him. "Tread softly. Madonna waits for you. "

Recklessly, then, that unsuspecting fellow stepped into the trap. 

Giovanni followed, closed the door, and locked it. The Duke, standingwith quickened pulses in that impenetrable blackness, found himselfsuddenly embraced, not at all after the fond fashion he was expecting. Awrestler's arms enlaced his body, a sinewy leg coiled itself snake-wiseabout one of his own, pulling it from under him. As he crashed downunder the weight of his unseen opponent, a great voice boomed out:

"Lord of Mirandola! To me! Help! Thieves!"

Suddenly a door opened. Light flooded the gloom, and the writhing Dukebeheld a white vision of the girl whose beauty had been the lure thathad drawn him into this peril which, as yet, he scarcely understood. Butlooking up into the face of the man who grappled with him, the man whoheld him there supine under his weight, he began at last to understand, or, at least, to suspect, for the face he saw, unmasked now, leering athim with hate unspeakable through the cloud of golden hair that halfmet across it, was the face of Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, whom hisfamily had so cruelly wronged. Giovanni Sforza's was the voice that nowfiercely announced his doom. 

"You and yours have made me a thing of scorn and laughter. Yourself havelaughed at me. Go laugh in hell!"

A blade flashed up in Giovanni's hand. Gandia threw up an arm to fendhis breast, and the blade buried itself in the muscles. He screamed withpain and terror. The other laughed with hate and triumph, and stabbedagain, this time in the shoulder. 

Antonia, from the threshold, watching in bewilderment and panic, senta piercing scream to ring through the house, and then the voice ofGiovanni, fierce yet exultant, called aloud:

"Pico! Pico! Lord of Mirandola! Look to your daughter!"

Came steps and voice, more light, flooding now the chamber, and throughthe mists gathering before his eyes the first-born of the house ofBorgia beheld hurrying men, half dressed, with weapons in their hands. But whether they came to kill or to save, they came too late: Ten timesGiovanni's blade had stabbed the Duke, yet, hindered by the Duke'sstruggles and by the effort of holding him there, he had been unable tofind his heart, wherefore, as those others entered now, he slashed hisvictim across the throat, and so made an end. 

He rose, covered with blood, so ghastly and terrific that Pico, thinkinghim wounded, ran to him. But Giovanni reassured him with a laugh, andpointed with his dripping dagger. 

"The blood is his--foul Borgia blood!"

At the name Pico started, and there was a movement as of fear from thethree grooms who followed him. The Count looked down at that splendid, blood-spattered figure lying there so still, its sightless eyesstaring up at the frescoed ceiling, so brave and so pitiful in hisgold-broidered suit of white satin, with the richly jewelled girdlecarrying gloves and purse and a jewelled dagger that had been so uselessin that extremity. 

"Gandia" he cried; and looked at Giovanni with round eyes of fear andamazement. "How came he here?"

"How?"

With bloody hand Giovanni pointed to the open door of Antonia's chamber. 

"That was the lure, my lord. Taking the air outside, I saw him slinkinghither, and took him for a thief, as, indeed, he was--a thief of honour, like all his kind. I followed, and--there he lies. "

"My God!" cried Pico. And then hoarsely asked, "And Antonia?"

Giovanni dismissed the question abruptly. 

"She saw, yet she knows nothing. "

And then on another note:

"Up now, Pico!" he cried. "Arouse the city, and let all men know howGandia died the death of a thief. Let all men know this Borgia brood forwhat it is. "

"Are you mad?" cried Pico. "Will I put my neck under the knife?"

"You took him here in the night, and yours was the right to kill. Youexercised it. "

Pico looked long and searchingly into the other's face. True, all theappearances bore out the tale, as did, too, what had gone before andhad been the cause of Antonia's complaint to him. Yet, knowing what laybetween Sforza and Borgia, it may have seemed to Pico too extraordinarya coincidence that Giovanni should have been so ready at hand to defendthe honour of the House of Mirandola. But he asked no questions. He wascontent in his philosophy to accept the event and be thankful for it onevery count. But as for Giovanni's suggestion that he should proclaimthrough Rome how he had exercised his right to slay this Tarquin, theLord of Mirandola had no mind to adopt it. 

"What is done is done, " he said shortly, in a tone that conveyed much. "Let it suffice us all. It but remains now to be rid of this. "

"You will keep silent?" cried Giovanni, plainly vexed. 

"I am not a fool, " said Pico gently. 

Giovanni understood. "And these your men?"

"Ate very faithful friends who will aid you now to efface all traces. "

And upon that he moved away, calling his daughter, whose absence wasintriguing him. Receiving no answer, he entered her room, to find herin a swoon across her bed. She had fainted from sheer horror at what shehad seen. 

Followed by the three servants bearing the body, Giovanni went downacross the garden very gently. Approaching the gate, he bade them wait, saying that he went to see that the coast was clear. Then, going forwardalone, he opened the gate and called softly to the waiting groom:

"Hither to me!"

Promptly the man surged before him in the gloom, and as promptlyGiovanni sank his dagger in the fellow's breast. He deplored thenecessity for the deed, but it was unavoidable, and your cinquecentistnever shrank from anything that necessity imposed upon him. To let thelackey live would be to have the bargelli in the house by morning. 

The man sank with a half-uttered cry, and lay still. 

Giovanni dragged him aside under the shelter of the wall, where theothers would not see him, then called softly to them to follow. 

When the grooms emerged from Pico's garden, the Lord of Pesaro wasastride of the fine white horse on which Gandia had ridden to his death. 

"Put him across the crupper, " he bade them. 

And they so placed the body, the head dangling on one side, the legs onthe other. And Giovanni reflected grimly how he had reversed the orderin which Gandia and he had ridden that same horse an hour ago. 

At a walk they proceeded down the lane towards the river, a groomon each side to see that the burden on the crupper did not jolt off, another going ahead to scout. At the alley's mouth Giovanni drew rein, and let the man emerge upon the river-bank and look to right and left tomake sure that there was no one about. 

He saw no one. Yet one there was who saw them Giorgio, the timbermerchant, who lay aboard his boat moored to the Schiavoni, and who, three days later, testified to what he saw. You know his testimony. Ithas been repeated often--how he saw the man emerge from the alley andlook up and down, then retire, to emerge again, accompanied now by thehorseman with his burden, and the other two; how he saw them take thebody from the crupper of the horse, and, with a "one, two, and three, "fling it into the river; how he heard the horseman ask them had theythrown it well into the middle, and their answer of, "Yes my lord"; andfinally, when asked why he had not come earlier to report the matter, how he had answered that he had thought nothing of it, having in histime seen more than a hundred bodies flung into the Tiber at night. 

Returned to the garden gate, Giovanni bade the men go in withouthim. There was something yet that he must do. When they had gone, hedismounted, and went to the body of the groom which he had left underthe wall. He must remove that too. He cut one of the stirrup-leathersfrom the saddle, and attaching one end of it to the dead man's arm, mounted again, and dragged him thus--ready to leave the body and rideoff at the first alarm--some little way, until he came to the Piazzadella Giudecca. Here, in the very heart of the Jewish quarters, he leftthe body, and his movements hereafter are a little obscure. Perhaps heset out to return to Pico della Mirandola's house, but becoming, as wasnatural, uneasy on the way, fearing lest all traces should, after all, not have been effaced, lest the Duke should be traced to that house, andhimself, if found there, dealt with summarily upon suspicion, heturned about, and went off to seek sanctuary with his uncle, theVice-Chancellor. 

The Duke's horse, which he had ridden, he turned loose in the streets, where it was found some hours later, and first gave occasion to rumoursof foul play. The rumours growing, with the discovery of the body ofGandia's groom, and search-parties of armed bargelli scouring Rome, andthe Giudecca in particular, in the course of the next two days, forth atlast came Giorgio, that boatman of the Schiavoni, with the tale of whathe had seen. When the stricken Pope heard it, he ordered the bed of theriver to be dragged foot by foot, with the result that the ill-starredDuke of Gandia was brought up in one of the nets, whereupon theheartless Sanazzaro coined his terrible epigram concerning thatsuccessor of Saint Peter, that Fisherman of Men. 

The people, looking about for him who had the greatest motive for thatdeed, were quick to fasten the guilt upon Giovanni Sforza, who by thattime was far from Rome, riding hard for the shelter of his tyranny ofPesaro; and the Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who was also mentioned, andwho feared to be implicated, apprehensive ever lest his page should haveseen the betraying arms upon the ring of his masked visitor--fled also, nor could be induced to return save under a safe-conduct from the HolyFather, expressing conviction of his innocence. 

Later public rumour accused others; indeed, they accused in turn everyman who could have been a possible perpetrator, attributing to some ofthem the most fantastic and incredible motives. Once, prompted no doubtby their knowledge of the libertine, pleasure-loving nature of the deadDuke, rumour hit upon the actual circumstances of the murder so closely, indeed, that the Count of Mirandola's house was visited by the bargelliand subjected to an examination, at which Pico violently rebelled, appealing boldly to the Pope against insinuations that reflected uponthe honour of his daughter. 

The mystery remained impenetrable, and the culprit was never brought tojustice. We know that in slaying Gandia, Giovanni Sforza vented a hatredwhose object was not Gandia, but Gandia's father. His aim was to dealPope Alexander the cruellest and most lingering of wounds, and if helacked the avenger's satisfaction of disclosing himself, at least hedid not lack assurance that his blow had stricken home. He heard--as allItaly heard--from that wayfarer on the bridge of Sant' Angelo, how thePope, in a paroxysm of grief at sight of his son's body fished from theTiber, had bellowed in his agony like a tortured bull, so that hiscries within the castle were heard upon the bridge. He learnt how thehandsome, vigorous Pope staggered into the consistory of the 19th ofthat same month with the mien and gait of a palsied old man, and, in avoice broken with sobs, proclaimed his bitter lament:

"Had we seven Papacies we would give them all to restore the Duke tolife. "

He might have been content. But he was not. That deep hate of hisagainst those who had made him a thing of scorn was not so easily to beslaked. He waited, spying his opportunity for further hurt. It came ayear later, when Gandia's brother, the ambitious Cesare Borgia, divestedhimself of his cardinalitial robes and rank, exchanging them fortemporal dignities and the title of Duke of Valentinois. Then it wasthat he took up the deadly weapon of calumny, putting it secretly aboutthat Cesare was the murderer of his brother, spurred to it by worldlyambition and by other motives which involved the principal members ofthe family. 

Men do not mount to Borgia heights without making enemies. The evil talewas taken up in all its foul trappings, and, upon no better authoritythan the public voice, it was enshrined in chronicles by every scribblerof the day. And for four hundred years that lie has held its place inhistory, the very cornerstone of all the execration that has beenheaped upon the name of Borgia. Never was vengeance more terrible, far-reaching, and abiding. It is only in this twentieth century of oursthat dispassionate historians have nailed upon the counter of truth thebase coin of that accusation. 

XII. THE NIGHT OF ESCAPE--Casanova's Escape From The Piombi

Patrician influence from without had procured Casanova's removal inAugust of that year, 1756, from the loathsome cell he had occupiedfor thirteen months in the Piombi--so called from the leaded roofimmediately above those prisons which are simply the garrets of theDoge's palace. 

That cell had been no better than a kennel seldom reached by the lightof day, and so shallow that it was impossible for a man of his fineheight to stand upright in it. But his present prison was comparativelyspacious and it was airy and well-lighted by a barred window, whence hecould see the Lido. 

Yet he was desperately chagrined at the change, for he had almostcompleted his arrangements to break out of his former cell. The only rayof hope in his present despair came from the fact that the implement towhich he trusted was still in his possession, safely concealed in theupholstery of the armchair that had been moved with him into his presentquarters. That implement he had fashioned for himself with infinitepains out of a door-bolt some twenty inches long, which he had founddiscarded in a rubbish-heap in a corner of the attic where he had beenallowed to take his brief daily exercise. Using as a whetstone a smallslab of black marble, similarly acquired, he had shaped that bolt into asharp octagonal-pointed chisel or spontoon. 

It remained in his possession, but he saw no chance of using it now, forthe suspicions of Lorenzo, the gaoler, were aroused, and daily a coupleof archers came to sound the floors and walls. True they did not soundthe ceiling, which was low and within reach. But it was obviouslyimpossible to cut through the ceiling in such a manner as to leave theprogress of the work unseen. 

Hence his despair of breaking out of a prison where he had spent over ayear without trial or prospect of a trial, and where he seemed likely tospend the remainder of his days. He did not even know precisely whyhe had been arrested. All that Giacomo Casanova knew was that hewas accounted a disturber of the public peace. He was notoriously alibertine, a gamester, and heavily in debt: also--and this was moreserious--he was accused of practising magic, as indeed he had done, as ameans of exploiting to his own profit the credulity of simpletons of alldegrees. He would have explained to the Inquisitors of State of the MostSerene Republic that the books of magic found by their apparitors inhis possession--"The Clavicula of Solomon, " the "Zecor-ben, " and otherkindred works--had been collected by him as curious instances of humanaberration. But the Inquisitors of State would not have believed him, for the Inquisitors were among those who took magic seriously. And, anyhow, they had never asked him to explain, but had left him as ifforgotten in that abominable verminous cell under the leads, until hispatrician friend had obtained him the mercy of this transfer to betterquarters. 

This Casanova was a man of iron nerve and iron constitution. Tall andwell-made, he was boldly handsome, with fine dark eyes and dark brownhair. In age he was barely one and twenty; but he looked older, aswell he might, for in his adventurer's way he had already gathered moreexperience of life than most men gain in half a century. 

The same influence that had obtained him his change of cell had alsogained him latterly the privilege--and he esteemed it beyond allelse--of procuring himself books. Desiring the works of Maffai, hebade his gaoler purchase them out of the allowance made him by theInquisitors in accordance with the Venetian custom. This allowance wasgraduated to the social status of each prisoner. But the books beingcostly and any monthly surplus from his monthly expenditure beingusually the gaoler's perquisite, Lorenzo was reluctant to indulge him. He mentioned that there was a prisoner above who was well equipped withbooks, and who, no doubt, would be glad to lend in exchange. 

Yielding to the suggestion, Casanova handed Lorenzo a copy of Peteau's"Rationarium, " and received next morning, in exchange, the first volumeof Wolf. Within he found a sheet bearing in six verses a paraphrase ofSeneca's epigram, "Calamitosus est animus futuri anxius. " Immediatelyhe perceived he had stumbled upon a means of corresponding with one whomight be disposed to assist him to break prison. 

In reply, being a scholarly rascal (he had been educated for thepriesthood), he wrote six verses himself. Having no pen, he cut the longnail of his little finger to a point, and, splitting it, suppliedthe want. For ink he used the juice of mulberries. In addition to theverses, he wrote a list of the books in his possession, which he placedat the disposal of his fellow-captive. He concealed the written sheet inthe spine of that vellum-bound volume; and on the title-page, in warningof this, he wrote the single Latin word "Latet. " Next morning he handedthe book to Lorenzo, telling him that he had read it, and requesting thesecond volume. 

That second volume came on the next day, and in the spine of it a longletter, some sheets of paper, pens, and a pencil. The writer announcedhimself as one Marino Balbi, a patrician and a monk, who had been fouryears in that prison, where he had since been given a companion inmisfortune, Count Andrea Asquino. 

Thus began a regular and very full correspondence between the prisoners, and soon Casanova--who had not lived on his wits for nothing--was ableto form a shrewd estimate of Balbi's character. The monk's lettersrevealed it as compounded of sensuality, stupidity, ingratitude, andindiscretion. 

"In the world, " says Casanova, "I should have had no commerce with afellow of his nature. But in the Piombi I was obliged to make capitalout of everything that came under my hands. "

The capital he desired to make in this instance was to ascertain whetherBalbi would be disposed to do for him what he could not do for himself. He wrote inquiring, and proposing flight. 

Balbi replied that he and his companion would do anything possible tomake their escape from that abominable prison, but his lack of resourcemade him add that he was convinced that nothing was possible. 

"All that you have to do, " wrote Casanova in answer, "is to breakthrough the ceiling of my cell and get me out of this, then trust to meto get you out of the Piombi. If you are disposed to make the attempt, Iwill supply you with the means, and show you the way. "

It was a characteristically bold reply, revealing to us the uttergamester that he was in all things. 

He knew that Balbi's cell was situated immediately under the leads, andhe hoped that once in it he should be able readily to find a way throughthe roof. That cell of Balbi's communicated with a narrow corridor, no more than a shaft for light and air, which was immediately aboveCasanova's prison. And no sooner had Balbi written, consenting, thanCasanova explained what was to do. Balbi must break through the wallof his cell into the little corridor, and there cut a round hole in thefloor precisely as Casanova had done in his former cell--until nothingbut a shell of ceiling remained--a shell that could be broken down byhalf a dozen blows when the moment to escape should have arrived. 

To begin with, he ordered Balbi to purchase himself two or three dozenpictures of saints, with which to paper his walls, using as many asmight be necessary for a screen to hide the hole he would be cutting. 

When Balbi wrote that his walls were hung with pictures of saints, itbecame a question of conveying the spontoon to him. This was difficult, and the monk's fatuous suggestions merely served further to reveal hisstupidity. Finally Casanova's wits found the way. He bade Lorenzo buyhim an in-folio edition of the Bible which had just been published, andit was into the spine of this enormous tome that he packed the preciousspontoon, and thus conveyed it to Balbi, who immediately got to work. 

This was at the commencement of October. On the 8th of that month Balbiwrote to Casanova that a whole night devoted to labour had resultedmerely in the displacing of a single brick, which so discouraged thefaint-hearted monk that he was for abandoning an attempt whoseonly result must be to increase in the future the rigour of theirconfinement. 

Without hesitation, Casanova replied that he was assured ofsuccess--although he was far from having any grounds for any suchassurance. He enjoined the monk to believe him, and to persevere, confident that as he advanced he would find progress easier. Thisproved, indeed, to be the case, for soon Balbi found the brickworkyielding so rapidly to his efforts that one morning, a week later, Casanova heard three light taps above his head--the preconcerted signalby which they were to assure themselves that their notions of thetopography of the prison were correct. 

All that day he heard Balbi at work immediately above him, and again onthe morrow, when Balbi wrote that as the floor was of the thickness ofonly two boards, he counted upon completing the job on the next day, without piercing the ceiling. 

But it would seem as if Fortune were intent upon making a mock ofCasanova, luring him to heights of hope, merely to cast him down againinto the depths of despair. Just as upon the eve of breaking out of hisformer cell mischance had thwarted him, so now, when again he deemedhimself upon the very threshold of liberty, came mischance again tothwart him. 

Early in the afternoon the sound of bolts being drawn outside froze hisvery blood and checked his breathing. Yet he had the presence of mind togive the double knock that was the agreed alarm signal, whereupon Balbiinstantly desisted from his labours overhead. 

Came Lorenzo with two archers, leading an ugly, lean little man ofbetween forty and fifty years of age, shabbily dressed and wearing around black wig, whom the tribunal had ordered should share Casanova'sprison for the present. With apologies for leaving such a scoundrel inCasanova's company, Lorenzo departed, and the newcomer went down uponhis knees, drew forth a chaplet, and began to tell his beads. 

Casanova surveyed this intruder at once with disgust and despair. Presently his disgust was increased when the fellow, whose name wasSoradici, frankly avowed himself a spy in the service of the Councilof Ten, a calling which he warmly defended from the contemptuniversally--but unjustly, according to himself--meted out to it. He hadbeen imprisoned for having failed in his duty on one occasion throughsuccumbing to a bribe. 

Conceive Casanova's frame of mind--his uncertainty as to how long thismonster, as he calls him, might be left in his company, his curbedimpatience to regain his liberty, and his consciousness of the horriblerisk of discovery which delay entailed! He wrote to Balbi thatnight while the spy slept, and for the present their operations weresuspended. But not for very long. Soon Casanova's wits resolved how toturn to account the weakness which he discovered in Soradici. 

The spy was devout to the point of bigoted, credulous superstition. Hespent long hours in prayer, and he talked freely of his special devotionto the Blessed Virgin, and his ardent faith in miracles. 

Casanova--the arch-humbug who had worked magic to delude thecredulous--determined there and then to work a miracle for Soradici. Assuming an inspired air, he solemnly informed the spy one morning thatit had been revealed to him in a dream that Soradici's devotion tothe Rosary was about to be rewarded; that an angel was to be sent fromheaven to deliver him from prison, and that Casanova himself wouldaccompany him in his flight. 

If Soradici doubted, conviction was soon to follow. For Casanovaforetold the very hour at which the angel would come to break into theprison, and at that hour precisely--Casanova having warned Balbi--thenoise made by the angel overhead flung Soradici into an ecstasy ofterror. 

But when, at the end of four hours, the angel desisted from his labours, Soradici was beset by doubts. Casanova explained to him that sinceangels invariably put on the garb of human flesh when descending uponearth, they labour under human difficulties. He added the prophecy thatthe angel would return on the last day of the month, the eve of AllSaints'--two days later--and that he would then conduct them out ofcaptivity. 

By this means Casanova ensured that no betrayal should be feared fromthe thoroughly duped Soradici, who now spent the time in praying, weeping, and talking of his sins and of the inexhaustibility of divinegrace. To make doubly sure, Casanova added the most terrible oath thatif, by a word to the gaoler, Soradici should presume to frustrate thedivine intentions, he would immediately strangle him with his own hands. 

On October 31st Lorenzo paid his usual daily visit early in the morning. After his departure they waited some hours, Soradici in expectantterror, Casanova in sheer impatience to be at work. Promptly at noonfell heavy blows overhead, and then, in a cloud of plaster and brokenlaths, the heavenly messenger descended clumsily into Casanova's arms. 

Soradici found this tall, gaunt, bearded figure, clad in a dirty shirtand a pair of leather breeches, of a singularly unangelic appearance;indeed, he looked far more like a devil. 

When he produced a pair of scissors, so that the spy might cutCasanova's beard, which, like the angel's, had grown in captivity, Soradici ceased to have any illusions on the score of Balbi's celestialnature. Although still intrigued--since he could not guess at the secretcorrespondence that had passed between Casanova and Balbi--he perceivedquite clearly that he had been fooled. 

Leaving Soradici in the monk's care, Casanova hoisted himself throughthe broken ceiling and gained Balbi's cell, where the sight of CountAsquino dismayed him. He found a middle-aged man of a corpulence whichmust render it impossible for him to face the athletic difficulties thatlay before them; of this the Count himself seemed already persuaded. 

"If you think, " was his greeting, as he shook Casanova's hand, "to breakthrough the roof and find a way down from the leads, I don't see how youare to succeed without wings. I have not the courage to accompany you, "he added, "I shall remain and pray for you. "

Attempting no persuasions where they must have been idle, Casanovapassed out of the cell again, and approaching as nearly as possible tothe edge of the attic, he sat down where he could touch the roof asit sloped immediately above his head. With his spontoon he tested thetimbers, and found them so decayed that they almost crumbled at thetouch. Assured thereby that the cutting of a hole would be an easymatter, he at once returned to his cell, and there he spent the ensuingfour hours in preparing ropes. He cut up sheets, blankets, coverlets, and the very cover of his mattress, knotting the strips together withthe utmost care. In the end he found himself equipped with some twohundred yards of rope, which should be ample for any purpose. 

Having made a bundle of the fine taffeta suit in which he had beenarrested, his gay cloak of floss silk, some stockings, shirts, andhandkerchiefs, he and Balbi passed up to the other cell, compellingSoradici to go with them. Leaving the monk to make a parcel of hisbelongings, Casanova went to tackle the roof. By dusk he had made a holetwice as large as was necessary, and had laid bare the lead sheetingwith which the roof was covered. Unable, single-handed, to raise one ofthe sheets, he called Balbi to his aid, and between them, assisted bythe spontoon, which Casanova inserted between the edge of the sheet andthe gutter, they at last succeeded in tearing away the rivets. Then byputting their shoulders to the lead they bent it upwards until there wasroom to emerge, and a view of the sky flooded by the vivid light of thecrescent moon. 

Not daring in that light to venture upon the roof, where they would beseen, they must wait with what patience they could until midnight, whenthe moon would have set. So they returned to the cell where they hadleft Soradici with Count Asquino. 

From Balbi, Casanova had learnt that Asquino, though well supplied withmoney, was of an avaricious nature. Nevertheless, since money would benecessary, Casanova asked the Count for the loan of thirty gold sequins. Asquino answered him gently that, in the first place, they would notneed money to escape; that, in the second, he had a numerous family;that, in the third, if Casanova perished the money would be lost; andthat, in the fourth, he had no money. 

"My reply, " writes Casanova, "lasted half an hour. "

"Let me remind you, " he said in concluding his exhortation, "of yourpromise to pray for us, and let me ask you what sense there can bein praying for the success of an enterprise to which you refuse tocontribute the most necessary means. "

The old man was so far conquered by Casanova's eloquence that he offeredhim two sequins, which Casanova accepted, since he was not in case torefuse anything. 

Thereafter, as they sat waiting for the moon to set, Casanova found hisearlier estimate of the monk's character confirmed. Balbi now broke intoabusive reproaches. He found that Casanova had acted in bad faithby assuring him that he had formed a complete plan of escape. Had hesuspected that this was a mere gambler's throw on Casanova's part, hewould never have laboured to get him out of his cell. The Count addedhis advice that they should abandon an attempt foredoomed to failure, and, being concerned for the two sequins with which he had soreluctantly parted, he argued the case at great length. Stifling hisdisgust, Casanova assured them that, although it was impossible for himto afford them details of how he intended to proceed, he was perfectlyconfident of success. 

At half-past ten he sent Soradici--who had remained silentthroughout--to report upon the night. The spy brought word that inanother hour or so the moon would have set, but that a thick mist wasrising, which must render the leads very dangerous. 

"So long as the mist isn't made of oil, I am content, " said Casanova. "Come, make a bundle of your cloak. It is time we were moving. "

But at this Soradici fell on his knees in the dark, seized Casanova'shands, and begged to be left behind to pray for their safety, since hewould be sure to meet his death if he attempted to go with them. 

Casanova assented readily, delighted to be rid of the fellow. Then inthe dark he wrote as best he could a quite characteristic letter to theInquisitors of State, in which he took his leave of them, telling themthat since he had been fetched into the prison without his wishesbeing consulted, they could not complain that he should depart withoutconsulting theirs. 

The bundle containing Balbi's clothes, and another made up of half therope, he slung from the monk's neck, thereafter doing the same in hisown case. Then, in their shirt-sleeves, their hats on their heads, thepair of them started on their perilous journey, leaving Count Asquinoand Soradici to pray for them. 

Casanova went first, on all fours, and thrusting the point of hisspontoon between the joints of the lead sheeting so as to obtain a hold, he crawled slowly upwards. To follow, Balbi took a grip of Casanova'sbelt with his right hand, so that, in addition to making his own way, Casanova was compelled to drag the weight of his companion after him, and this up the sharp gradient of a roof rendered slippery by the mist. 

Midway in that laborious ascent, the monk called to him to stop. He haddropped the bundle containing the clothes, and he hoped that it had notrolled beyond the gutter, though he did not mention which of them shouldretrieve it. After the unreasonableness already endured from this man, Casanova's exasperation was such in that moment that, he confesses, hewas tempted to kick him after this bundle. Controlling himself, however, he answered patiently that the matter could not now be helped, and keptsteadily amain. 

At last the apex of the roof was reached, and they got astride of itto breathe and to take a survey of their surroundings. They faced theseveral cupolas of the Church of Saint Mark, which is connected withthe ducal palace, being, in fact, no more than the private chapel of theDoge. 

They set down their bundles, and, of course, in the act of doing sothe wretched Balbi must lose his hat, and send it rolling down the roofafter the bundle he had already lost. He cried out that it was an evilomen. 

"On the contrary, " Casanova assured him patiently, "it is a sign ofdivine protection; for if your bundle or your hat had happened toroll to the left instead of the right it would have fallen into thecourtyard, where it would be seen by the guards, who must conclude thatsome one is moving on the roof, and so, no doubt, would have discoveredus. As it is your hat has followed your bundle into the canal, where itcan do no harm. "

Thereupon, bidding the monk await his return, Casanova set off alone ona voyage of discovery, keeping for the present astride of the roof inhis progress. He spent a full hour wandering along the vast roof, goingto right and to left in his quest, but failing completely to make anyhelpful discovery, or to find anything to which he could attach a rope. In the end it began to look as if, after all, he must choose betweenreturning to prison and flinging himself from the roof into the canal. He was almost in despair, when in his wanderings his attention wascaught by a dormer window on the canal side, about two-thirds of the waydown the slope of the roof. With infinite precaution he lowered himselfdown the steep, slippery incline until he was astride of the littledormer roof. Leaning well forward, he discovered that a slender gratingbarred the leaded panes of the window itself, and for a moment thisgrating gave him pause. 

Midnight boomed just then from the Church of Saint Mark, like a reminderthat but seven hours remained in which to conquer this and furtherdifficulties that might confront him, and in which to win clear ofthat place, or else submit to a resumption of his imprisonment underconditions, no doubt, a hundredfold more rigorous. 

Lying flat on his stomach, and hanging far over, so as to see what hewas doing, he worked one point of his spontoon into the sash of thegrating, and, levering outwards, he strained until at last it came awaycompletely in his hands. After that it was an easy matter to shatter thelittle latticed window. 

Having accomplished so much, he turned, and, using his spontoon asbefore, he crawled back to the summit of the roof, and made his wayrapidly along this to the spot where he had left Balbi. The monk, reduced by now to a state of blending despair, terror, and rage, greetedCasanova in terms of the grossest abuse for having left him there solong. 

"I was waiting only for daylight, " he concluded, "to return to prison. "

"What did you think had become of me?" asked Casanova. 

"I imagined that you had tumbled off the roof. "

"And is this abuse the expression of your joy at finding yourselfmistaken?"

"Where have you been all this time?" the monk counter-questionedsullenly. 

"Come with me and you shall see. "

And taking up his bundle again, Casanova led his companion forward untilthey were in line with the dormer. There Casanova showed him what hehad done, and consulted him as to the means to be adopted to enter theattic. It would be too risky for them to allow themselves to drop fromthe sill, since the height of the window from the floor was unknown tothem, and might be considerable. It would be easy for one of them tolower the other by means of the rope. But it was not apparent how, hereafter, the other was to follow. Thus reasoned Casanova. 

"You had better lower me, anyhow, " said Balbi, without hesitation; forno doubt he was very tired of that slippery roof, on which a singlefalse step might have sent him to his account. "Once I am inside you canconsider ways of following me. "

That cold-blooded expression of the fellow's egoism put Casanova ina rage for the second time since they had left their prison. But, asbefore, he conquered it, and without uttering a word he proceeded tounfasten the coil of rope. Making one end of it secure under Balbi'sarms, he bade the monk lie prone upon the roof, his feet pointingdownwards, and then, paying out rope, he lowered him to the dormer. Hethen bade him get through the window as far as the level of his waist, and wait thus, hanging over and supporting himself upon the sill. Whenhe had obeyed, Casanova followed, sliding carefully down to the roof ofthe dormer. Planting himself firmly, and taking the rope once more, hebade Balbi to let himself go without fear, and so lowered him to thefloor--a height from the window, as it proved, of some fifty feet. Thisextinguished all Casanova's hopes of being able to follow by allowinghimself to drop from the sill. He was dismayed. But the monk, happy tofind himself at last off that accursed roof, and out of all danger ofbreaking his neck, called foolishly to Casanova to throw him the rope sothat he might take care of it. 

"As may be imagined, " says Casanova, "I was careful not to take thisidiotic advice. "

Not knowing now what was to become of him unless he could discover someother means than those at his command, he climbed back again to thesummit of the roof, and started off desperately upon another voyage ofdiscovery. This time he succeeded better than before. He found about acupola a terrace which he had not earlier noticed, and on this terracea hod of plaster, a trowel, and a ladder some seventy feet long. Hesaw his difficulties solved. He passed an end of rope about one of therungs, laid the ladder flat along the slope of the roof, and then, stillastride of the apex, he worked his way back, dragging the ladder withhim, until he was once more on a level with the dormer. 

But now the difficulty was how to get the ladder through the window, and he had cause to repent having so hastily deprived himself of hiscompanion's assistance. He had got the ladder into position, and loweredit until one of its ends rested upon the dormer, whilst the otherprojected some twenty feet beyond the edge of the roof. He slid downto the dormer, and placing the ladder beside him, drew it up so that hecould reach the eighth rung. To this rung he made fast his rope, thenlowered the ladder again until the upper end of it was in line withthe window through which he sought to introduce it. But he found itimpossible to do so beyond the fifth rung, for at this point the end ofthe ladder came in contact with the roof inside, and could be pushed nofarther until it was inclined downward. Now, the only possible way toaccomplish this was by raising the other end. 

It occurred to him that he might, by so attaching the rope as to bringthe ladder across the window frame, lower himself hand over hand to thefloor of the attic. But in so doing he must have left the ladder thereto show their pursuers in the morning, not merely the way they had gone, but for all he knew at this stage, the place where they might then bestill in hiding. Having come so far, at so much risk and labour, he wasdetermined to leave nothing to chance. To accomplish his object then, hemade his way down to the very edge of the roof, sliding carefully onhis stomach until his feet found support against the marble gutter, theladder meanwhile remaining hooked by one of its rungs to the sill of thedormer. 

In that perilous position he lifted his end of the ladder a few inches, and so contrived to thrust it another foot or so through the window, whereby its weight was considerably diminished. If he could but get itanother couple of feet farther in he was sure that by returning to thedormer he would have been able to complete the job. In his anxiety to dothis and to obtain the necessary elevation, he raised himself upon hisknees. 

But in the very act of making the thrust he slipped, and, clutchingwildly as he went, he shot over the edge of the roof. He found himselfhanging there, suspended above that terrific abyss by his hands and hiselbows, which had convulsively hooked themselves on to the edge of thegutter, so that he had it on a level with his breast. 

It was a moment of dread the like of which he was never likely toendure again in a life that was to know many perils and many hairbreadthescapes. He could not write of it nearly half a century later withoutshuddering and growing sick with horror. 

A moment he hung there gasping, then almost mechanically, guided bythe sheer instinct of self-preservation, he not merely attempted, butactually succeeded in raising himself so as to bring his side againstthe gutter. Then continuing gradually to raise himself until his waistwas on a level with the edge, he threw the weight of his trunk forwardupon the roof, and slowly brought his right leg up until he had obtainedwith his knee a further grip of the gutter. The rest was easy, andyou may conceive him as he lay there on the roof's edge, panting andshuddering for a moment to regain his breath and nerve. 

Meanwhile, the ladder, driven forward by the thrust that had so nearlycost him his life, had penetrated another three feet through the window, and hung there immovable. Recovered, he took up his spontoon, which hehad placed in the gutter, and, assisted by it, he climbed back tothe dormer. Almost without further difficulty, he succeeded now inintroducing the ladder until, of its own weight, it swung down intoposition. 

A moment later he had joined Balbi in the attic, and together theygroped about in it the dark, until finding presently a door, theypassed into another chamber, where they discovered furniture by hurtlingagainst it. Guided by a faint glimmer of light, Casanova made his way toone of the windows and opened it. He looked out upon a black abyss, and, having no knowledge of the locality, and no inclination to adventurehimself into unknown regions, he immediately abandoned all idea ofattempting to climb down. He closed the window again, and going back tothe other room, he lay down on the floor, with the bundle of ropes for apillow, to wait for dawn. 

And so exhausted was he, not only by the efforts of the past hours, andthe terrible experience in which they had culminated, but also becausein the last two days he had scarcely eaten or slept, that straightway, and greatly to Balbi's indignation and disgust, he fell into a profoundsleep. 

He was aroused three and a half hours later by the clamours and shakingsof the exasperated monk. Protesting that such a sleep at such a time wasa thing inconceivable, Balbi informed him that it had just struck five. 

It was still dark, but already there was a dim grey glimmer of dawnby which objects could be faintly discerned. Searching, Casanovafound another door opposite that of the chamber which they had enteredearlier. It was locked, but the lock was a poor one that yielded to halfa dozen blows of the spontoon, and they passed into a little roombeyond which by an open door they came into a long gallery lined withpigeon-holes stuffed with parchments, which they conceived to be thearchives. At the end of this gallery they found a short flight ofstairs, and below that yet another, which brought them to a glass door. Opening this, they entered a room which Casanova immediately identifiedas the ducal chancellery. Descent from one of its windows would havebeen easy, but they would have found themselves in the labyrinth ofcourts and alleys behind Saint Mark's, which would not have suited themat all. 

On a table Casanova found a stout bodkin with a long wooden handle, theimplement used by the secretaries for piercing parchments that were tobe joined by a cord bearing the leaden seals of the Republic. He openeda desk, and rummaging in it, found a letter addressed to the Proveditorof Corfu, advising a remittance of three thousand sequins for therepair of the fortress. He rummaged further, seeking the three thousandsequins, which he would have appropriated without the least scruple. Unfortunately they were not there. 

Quitting the desk, he crossed to the door, not merely to find it locked, but to discover that it was not the kind of lock that would yield toblows. There was no way out but by battering away one of the panels, andto this he addressed himself without hesitation, assisted by Balbi, whohad armed himself with the bodkin, but who trembled fearfully at thenoise of Casanova's blows. There was danger in this, but the danger mustbe braved, for time was slipping away. In half an hour they had brokendown all the panel it was possible to remove without the help of a saw. The opening they had made was at a height of five feet from the ground, and the splintered woodwork armed it with a fearful array of jaggedteeth. 

They dragged a couple of stools to the door, and getting on to these, Casanova bade Balbi go first. The long, lean monk folded his arms, andthrust head and shoulders through the hole; then Casanova lifted him, first by the waist, then by the legs, and so helped him through into theroom beyond. Casanova threw their bundles after him, and then placing athird stool on top of the other two, climbed on to it, and, being almoston a level with the opening, was able to get through as far as hiswaist, when Balbi took him in his arms and proceeded to drag him out. But it was done at the cost of torn breeches and lacerated legs, andwhen he stood up in the room beyond he was bleeding freely from thewounds which the jagged edges of the wood had dealt him. 

After that they went down two staircases, and came out at last in thegallery leading to the great doors at the head of that magnificentflight of steps known as the Giant's Staircase. But these doors--themain entrance of the palace--were locked, and, at a glance, Casanova sawthat nothing short of a hatchet would serve to open them. There was nomore to be done. 

With a resignation that seemed to Balbi entirely cynical, Casanova satdown on the floor. 

"My task is ended, " he announced. "It is now for Heaven or Chance to dothe rest. I don't know whether the palace cleaners will come here to-dayas it is All Saints', or to-morrow, which will be All Souls'. Should anyone come, I shall run for it the moment the door is opened, and you hadbest follow me. If no one comes, I shall not move from here, and if Idie of hunger, so much the worse. "

It was a speech that flung the monk into a passion. In burning terms hereviled Casanova, calling him a madman, a seducer, a deceiver, a liar. Casanova let him rave. It was just striking six. Precisely an hour hadelapsed since they had left the attic. 

Balbi, in his red flannel waistcoat and his puce-coloured leatherbreeches, might have passed for a peasant; but Casanova, in torngarments that were soaked in blood, presented an appearance that wasterrifying and suspicious. This he proceeded to repair. Tearing ahandkerchief, he made shift to bandage his wounds, and then from hisbundle he took his fine taffeta summer suit, which on a winter's daymust render him ridiculous. 

He dressed his thick, dark brown hair as best he could, drew on a pairof white stockings, and donned three lace shirts one over another. Hisfine cloak of floss silk he gave to Balbi, who looked for all the worldas if he had stolen it. 

Thus dressed, his fine hat laced with point of Spain on his head, Casanova opened a window and looked out. At once he was seen by someidlers in the courtyard, who, amazed at his appearance there, andconceiving that he must have been locked in by mistake on the previousday, went off at once to advise the porter. Meanwhile, Casanova, vexedat having shown himself where he had not expected any one, and littleguessing how excellently this was to serve his ends, left the windowand went to sit beside the angry friar, who greeted him with freshrevilings. 

A sound of steps and a rattle of keys stemmed Balbi's reproaches in fullflow. The lock groaned. 

"Not a word, " said Casanova to the monk, "but follow me. "

Holding his spontoon ready, but concealed under his coat, he stepped tothe side of the door. It opened, and the porter, who had come aloneand bareheaded, stared in stupefaction at the strange apparition ofCasanova. 

Casanova took advantage of that paralyzing amazement. Without uttering aword, he stepped quickly across the threshold, and with Balbi close uponhis heels, he went down the Giant's Staircase in a flash, crossed thelittle square, reached the canal, bundled Balbi into the first gondolahe found there, and jumped in after him. 

"I want to go to Fusine, and quickly, " he announced. "Call anotheroarsman. "

All was ready, and in a moment the gondola was skimming the canal. Dressed in his unseasonable suit, and accompanied by the still moreridiculous figure of Balbi in his gaudy cloak and without a hat, heimagined he would be taken for a charlatan or an astrologer. 

The gondola slipped past the custom-house, and took the canal of theGiudecca. Halfway down this, Casanova put his head out of the littlecabin to address the gondolier in the poop. 

"Do you think we shall reach Mestre in an hour?"

"Mestre?" quoth the gondolier. "But you said Fusine. "

"No, no, I said Mestre--at least, I intended to say Mestre. "

And so the gondola was headed for Mestre by a gondolier who professedhimself ready to convey his excellency to England if he desired it. 

The sun was rising, and the water assumed an opalescent hue. It was adelicious morning, Casanova tells us, and I suspect that never had anymorning seemed to that audacious, amiable rascal as delicious as thisupon which he regained his liberty, which no man ever valued morehighly. 

In spirit he was already safely over the frontiers of the Most SereneRepublic, impatient to transfer his body thither, as he shortly did, through vicissitudes that are a narrative in themselves, and no part ofthis story of his escape from the Piombi and the Venetian Inquisitors ofState. 

XIII. THE NIGHT OF MASQUERADE--The Assassination Of Gustavus III Of Sweden

Baron Bjelke sprang from his carriage almost before it had come to astandstill and without waiting for the footman to let down the steps. With a haste entirely foreign to a person of his station and importance, he swept into the great vestibule of the palace, and in a quiveringvoice flung a question at the first lackey he encountered:

"Has His Majesty started yet?"

"Not yet, my lord. "

The answer lessened his haste, but not his agitation. He cast off theheavy wolfskin pelisse in which he had been wrapped, and, leaving it inthe hands of the servant, went briskly up the grand staircase, a tall, youthful figure, very graceful in the suit of black he wore. 

As he passed through a succession of ante-rooms on his way to theprivate apartments of the King, those present observed the pallor of hisclean-cut face under the auburn tie-wig he affected, and the feverishglow of eyes that took account of no one. They could not guess thatBaron Bjelke, the King's secretary and favourite, carried in his handsthe life of his royal master, or its equivalent in the shape of thesecret of the plot to assassinate him. 

In many ways Bjelke was no better than the other profligate minions ofthe profligate Gustavus of Sweden. But he had this advantage over them, that his intellect was above their average. He had detected the firstsigns of the approach of that storm which the King himself had soheedlessly provoked. He knew, as much by reason as by intuition, that, in these days when the neighbouring State of France writhed in thethroes of a terrific revolution against monarchic and aristocratictyranny, it was not safe for a king to persist in the abuse of hisparasitic power. New ideas of socialism were in the air. They werespreading through Europe, and it was not only in France that menaccounted it an infamous anachronism that the great mass of a communityshould toil and sweat and suffer for the benefit of an insolentminority. 

Already had there been trouble with the peasantry in Sweden, and Bjelkehad endangered his position as a royal favourite by presuming to warnhis master. Gustavus III desired amusement, not wisdom, from thoseabout him. He could not be brought to realize the responsibilities whichkingship imposes upon a man. It has been pretended that he was endowedwith great gifts of mind. He may have been, though the thing has beenpretended of so many princes that one may be sceptical where evidenceis lacking. If he possessed those gifts, he succeeded wonderfully inconcealing them under a nature that was frivolously gay, dissolute, andextravagant. 

His extravagance forced him into monstrous extortions when only amadman would have wasted in profligacy the wealth so cruelly wrung fromlong-suffering subjects. From extortion he was driven by his desperateneed of money into flagrant dishonesty. At a stroke of the pen he hadreduced the value of the paper currency by one-third--a reduction soviolent and sudden that, whilst it impoverished many, it involvedsome in absolute ruin--and this that he might gratify his appetitefor magnificence and enrich the rapacious favourites who shared hisprofligacy. 

The unrest in the kingdom spread. It was no longer a question of theresentment of a more or less docile peasantry whose first stirrings ofrevolt were easily quelled. The lesser nobility of Sweden were angeredby a measure--following upon so many others--that bore peculiarlyheavily upon themselves; and out of that anger, fanned by one man--JohnJacob Ankarstrom--who had felt the vindictive spirit of royal injustice, flamed in secret the conspiracy against the King's life which Bjelke haddiscovered. 

He had discovered it by the perilous course of joining the conspirators. He had won their confidence, and they recognized that his collaborationwas rendered invaluable by the position he held so near the King. Andin his subtle wisdom, at considerable danger to himself, Bjelke had kepthis counsel. He had waited until now, until the moment when the blow wasabout to fall, before making the disclosure which should not only saveGustavus, but enable him to cast a net in which all the plotters must becaught. And he hoped that when Gustavus perceived the narrowness of hisescape, and the reality of the dangers amid which he walked, he wouldconsider the wisdom of taking another course in future. 

He had reached the door of the last ante-chamber, when a detaininghand was laid upon his arm. He found himself accosted by a page--theoffspring of one of the noblest families in Sweden, and the son of oneof Bjelke's closest friends, a fair-haired, impudent boy to whom thesecretary permitted a certain familiarity. 

"Are you on your way to the King, Baron?" the lad inquired. 

"I am, Carl. What is it?"

"A letter for His Majesty--a note fragrant as a midsummer rose--which aservant has just delivered to me. Will you take it?"

"Give it to me, impudence, " said Bjelke, the ghost of a smile lightingfor a moment his white face. 

He took the letter and passed on into the last antechamber, which wasempty of all but a single chamberlain-in-waiting. This chamberlain bowedrespectfully to the Baron. 

"His Majesty?" said Bjelke. 

"He is dressing. Shall I announce Your Excellency?"

"Pray do. "

The chamberlain vanished, and Bjelke was left alone. Waiting, he stoodthere, idly fingering the scented note he had received from the page. As he turned it in his fingers the superscription came uppermost, andhe turned it no more. His eyes lost their absorbed look, their glancequickened into attention, a frown shaped itself between them like ascar; his breathing, suspended a moment, was renewed with a gasp. Hestepped aside to a table bearing a score of candles clustered in amassive silver branch, and held the note so that the light fell fullupon the writing. 

Standing thus, he passed a hand over his eyes and stared again, twohectic spots burning now in his white cheeks. Abruptly, disregardingthe superscription, his trembling fingers snapped the blank seal andunfolded the letter addressed to his royal master. He was still readingwhen the chamberlain returned to announce that the King was pleased tosee the Baron at once. He did not seem to hear the announcement. Hisattention was all upon the letter, his lips drawn back from his teeth ina grin, and beads of perspiration glistening upon his brow. 

"His Majesty--" the chamberlain was beginning to repeat, when he brokeoff suddenly. "Your Excellency is ill?"

"Ill?"

Bjelke stared at him with glassy eyes. He crumpled the letter in hishand and stuffed one and the other into the pocket of his black satincoat. He attempted to laugh to reassure the startled chamberlain, andachieved a ghastly grimace. 

"I must not keep His Majesty waiting, " he said thickly, and stumbledon, leaving in the chamberlain's mind a suspicion that His Majesty'ssecretary was not quite sober. 

But Bjelke so far conquered his emotion that he was almost his usualimperturbable self when he reached the royal dressing-room; indeed, heno longer displayed even the agitation that had possessed him when firsthe entered the palace. 

Gustavus, a slight, handsome man of a good height, was standing beforea cheval-glass when Bjelke came in. Francois, the priceless valetHis Majesty had brought back from his last pleasure-seeking visitto pre-revolutionary Paris some five years ago, was standing backjudicially to consider the domino he had just placed upon the royalshoulders. Baron Armfelt whom the conspirators accused of wielding themost sinister of all the sinister influences that perverted the King'smind--dressed from head to foot in shimmering white satin, lounged on adivan with all the easy familiarity permitted to this most intimate ofcourtiers, the associate of all royal follies. 

Gustavus looked over his shoulder as he entered. 

"Why, Bjelke, " he exclaimed, "I thought you had gone into the country!"

"I am at a loss, " replied Bjelke, "to imagine what should have givenYour Majesty so mistaken an impression. " And he might have smiledinwardly to observe how his words seemed to put Gustavus out ofcountenance. 

The King laughed, nevertheless, with an affectation of ease. 

"I inferred it from your absence from Court on such a night. What hasbeen keeping you?" But, without waiting for an answer, he fired anotherquestion. "What do you say to my domino, Bjelke?"

It was a garment embroidered upon a black satin ground with tongues offlame so cunningly wrought in mingling threads of scarlet and gold thatas he turned about now they flashed in the candlelight, and seemed toleap like tongues of living fire. 

"Your Majesty will have a great success, " said Bjelke, and to himselfrelished the full grimness of his joke. For a terrible joke it was, seeing that he no longer intended to discharge the errand which hadbrought him in such haste to the palace. 

"Faith, I deserve it!" was the flippant answer, and he turned again tothe mirror to adjust a patch on the left side of his chin. "There isgenius in this domino, and it is not the genius of Francois, for thescheme of flames is my very own, the fruit of a deal of thought andstudy. "

There Gustavus uttered his whole character. As a master of the revels, or an opera impresario, this royal rake would have been a completesuccess in life. The pity of it was that the accident of birth shouldhave robed him in the royal purple. Like many another prince who hascome to a violent end, he was born to the wrong metier. 

"I derived the notion, " he continued, "from a sanbenito in a Goyapicture. "

"An ominous garb, " said Bjelke, smiling curiously. "The garment of thesinner on his way to penitential doom. "

Armfelt cried out in a protest of mock horror, but Gustavus laughedcynically. 

"Oh, I confess that it would be most apt. I had not thought of it. "

His fingers sought a pomatum box, and in doing so displaced atoilet-case of red morocco. An oblong paper package fell from the top ofthis and arrested the King's attention. 

"Why, what is this?" He took it up--a letter bearing the superscription:

 To His MAJESTY THE KING SECRET AND IMPORTANT

"What is this, Francois?" The royal voice was suddenly sharp. 

The valet glided forward, whilst Armfelt rose from the divan and, likeBjelke, attracted by the sudden change in the King's tone and manner, drew near his master. 

"How comes this letter here?"

The valet's face expressed complete amazement. It must have been placedthere in his absence an hour ago, after he had made all preparations forthe royal toilette. It was certainly not there at the time, or he musthave seen it. 

With impatient fingers Gustavus snapped the seal and unfolded theletter. Awhile he stood reading, very still, his brows knit. 

Then, with a contemptuous "Poof!" he handed it to his secretary. 

At a glance Bjelke recognized the hand for that of Colonel Lillehorn, one of the conspirators, whose courage had evidently failed him in theeleventh hour. He read:

SIRE, --Deign to heed the warning of one who, not being in your service, nor solicitous of your favours, flatters not your crimes, and yetdesires to avert the danger threatening you. There is a plot toassassinate you which would by now have been executed but for thecountermanding of the ball at the opera last week. What was not donethen will certainly be done to-night if you afford the opportunity. Remain at home and avoid balls and public gatherings for the rest of theyear; thus the fanaticism which aims at your life will evaporate. 

"Do you know the writing?" Gustavus asked. 

Bjelke shrugged. "The hand will be disguised, no doubt, " he evaded. 

"But you will heed the warning, Sire?" exclaimed, Armfelt, who had readover the secretary's shoulder, and whose face had paled in reading. 

Gustavus laughed contemptuously. "Faith, if I were to heed everyscaremonger, I should get but little amusement out of life. "

Yet he was angry, as his shifting colour showed. The disrespectful toneof the anonymous communication moved him more deeply than its actualmessage. He toyed a moment with a hair-ribbon, his nether lip thrust outin thought. At last he rapped out an oath of vexation, and proffered theribbon to his valet. 

"My hair, Francois, " said he, "and then we will be going. "

"Going!"

It was an ejaculation of horror from Armfelt, whose face was now aswhite as the ivory-coloured suit he wore. 

"What else? Am I to be intimidated out of my pleasures?" Yet that hisheart was less stout than his words his very next question showed. "Apropos, Bjelke, what was the reason why you countermanded the balllast week?"

"The councillors from Gefle claimed Your Majesty's immediate attention, "Bjelke reminded him. 

"So you said at the time. But the business seemed none so urgent when wecame to it. There was no other reason in your mind--no suspicion?"

His keen, dark blue eyes were fixed upon the pale masklike face of thesecretary. 

That grave, almost stern countenance relaxed into a smile. 

"I suspected no more than I suspect now, " was his easy equivocation. "And all that I suspect now is that some petty enemy is attempting toscare Your Majesty. "

"To scare me?" Gustavus flushed to the temples. "Am I a man to bescared?"

"Ah, but consider, Sire, and you, Bjelke, " Armfelt was bleating. "Thismay be a friendly warning. In all humility, Sire, let me suggest thatyou incur no risk; that you countermand the masquerade. "

"And permit the insolent writer to boast that he frightened the King?"sneered Bjelke. 

"Faith, Baron, you are right. The thing is written with intent to make amock of me. "

"But if it were not so, Sire?" persisted the distressed Armfelt. Andvolubly he argued now to impose caution, reminding the King of hisenemies, who might, indeed, be tempted to go the lengths of which theanonymous writer spoke. Gustavus listened, and was impressed. 

"If I took heed of every admonition, " he said, "I might as well becomea monk at once. And yet--" He took his chin in his hand, and stoodthoughtful, obviously hesitating, his head bowed, his straight, gracefulfigure motionless. 

Thus until Bjelke, who now desired above all else the very thing he hadcome hot-foot to avert, broke the silence to undo what Armfelt had done. 

"Sire, " he said, "you may avoid both mockery and danger, and yet attendthe masquerade. Be sure, if there is indeed a plot, the assassins willbe informed of the disguise you are to wear. Give me your flame-studdeddomino, and take a plain black one for yourself. "

Armfelt gasped at the audacity of the proposal, but Gustavus gave nosign that he had heard. He continued standing in that tense attitude, his eyes vague and dreamy. And as if to show along what roads ofthought his mind was travelling, he uttered a single word a name--in aquestioning voice scarce louder than a whisper. 

Ankarstrom?

Later again he was to think of Ankarstrom, to make inquiries concerninghim, which justifies us here in attempting to follow those thoughts ofhis. They took the road down which his conscience pointed. Above allSwedes he had cause to fear John Jacobi Ankarstrom, for, foully as hehad wronged many men in his time, he had wronged none more deeply thanthat proud, high-minded nobleman. He hated Ankarstrom as we must alwayshate those whom we have wronged, and he hated him the more because heknew himself despised by Ankarstrom with a cold and deadly contempt thatat every turn proclaimed itself. 

That hatred was more than twenty years old. It dated back to the timewhen Gustavus had been a vicious youth, and Ankarstrom himself a boy. They were much of an age. Gustavus had put upon his young companion aninfamous insult, which had been answered by a blow. His youth andthe admitted provocation alone had saved Ankarstrom from the dreadconsequence of striking a Prince of the Royal Blood. But they had notsaved him from the vindictiveness of Gustavus. He had kept his lust ofvengeance warm, and very patiently had he watched and waited for hisopportunity to destroy the man, who had struck him. 

That chance had come four years ago--in 1788--during the war withRussia. Ankarstrom commanded the forces defending the island ofGothland. These forces were inadequate for the task, nor was theisland in a proper state of defence, being destitute of forts. To havepersevered in resistance might have been heroic, but it would have beenworse than futile, for not only would it have entailed the massacre ofthe garrison, but it must have further subjected the inhabitants to allthe horrors of sack and pillage. 

In the circumstances, Ankarstrom had conceived it his duty to surrenderto the superior force of Russia, thereby securing immunity for thepersons and property of the inhabitants. In this the King perceived hischance to indulge his hatred. He caused Ankarstrom to be arrestedand accused of high treason, it being alleged against him that he hadadvised the people of Gothland not to take up arms against the Russians. The royal agents found witnesses to bear false evidence againstAnkarstrom, with the result that he was sentenced to twenty years'imprisonment in a fortress. But the sentence was never carried out. Gustavus had gone too far, as he was soon made aware. The feelingsagainst him which hitherto had smouldered flamed out at this crowningact of injustice, and to repair his error Gustavus made haste, not, indeed, to exonerate Ankarstrom from the charges brought against him, but to pardon him for his alleged offences. 

When the Swedish nobleman was brought to Court to receive this pardon, he used it as a weapon against the King whom he despised. 

"My unjust judges, " he announced in a ringing voice, the echoes of whichwere carried to the ends of Sweden, "have never doubted in their heartsmy innocence of the charges brought against me, and established by meansof false witnesses. The judgment pronounced against me was unrighteous. This exemption from it is my proper due. Yet I would rather perishthrough the enmity of the King than live dishonoured by his clemency. "

Gustavus had set his teeth in rage when those fierce words were reportedto him, and his rage had been increased when he was informed of thecordial reception which everywhere awaited Ankarstrom on his release. He perceived how far he had overshot his mark, and how, in seekingtreacherously to hurt Ankarstrom, he had succeeded only in hurtinghimself. Nor had he appeased the general indignation by his pardon. True, the flame of revolt had been quelled. But he had no lack ofevidence that the fire continued to burn steadily in secret, and to eatits way further and further into the ranks of noble and simple alike. 

It is little wonder, then, that in this moment, with that warning lyingthere before him, the name of Ankarstrom should be on his lips, thethought of Ankarstrom, the fear of Ankarstrom, looming big in his mind. It was big enough to make him heed the warning. He dropped into a chair. 

"I will not go, " he said, and Bjelke saw that his face was white, hishands shaking. 

But when the secretary had repeated the proposal which had earlier goneunheard, Gustavus caught at it with sudden avidity, and with but littleconcern for the danger that Bjelke might be running. He sprang up, applauding it. If a conspiracy there was, the conspirators would thus betrapped; if there were no conspiracy, then this attempt to frighten himshould come to nothing; thus he would be as safe from the mockery of hisenemies as from their knives. Nor did Armfelt protest or make furtherattempts to dissuade him from going. In the circumstances proposed byBjelke, the risk would be Bjelke's, a matter which troubled Armfeltnot at all; indeed, he had no cause to love Bjelke, in whom he beheld aformidable rival, and it would be to him no cause for tears if the knifeintended for the royal vitals should find its way into Bjelke's instead. 

So Baron Bjelke, arrayed in the domino copied from the penitential sack, departed for the Opera House, leaving Gustavus to follow. Yet, despitethe measure of precaution, no sooner had the masked King himself enteredthe crowded theatre, leaning upon the arm of the Count of Essen, than heconceived that he beheld confirmation of the warning, and regretted thathe had not heeded it to the extent of remaining absent. For one of thefirst faces he beheld, one of the few unmasked faces in that brilliantlylit salon, was the face of Ankarstrom, and Ankarstrom appeared to bewatching the entrance. 

Gustavus checked in his stride, a tremor ran through him, and hestiffened in his sudden apprehension, for the sight of the tall figureand haughty, resolute face of the nobleman he had wronged was of moresignificance than at first might seem. Ever since his infamous trialAnkarstrom had been at pains to seize every occasion of marking hiscontempt for his Prince. Never did he fail upon the King's appearancein any gathering of which he was a member to withdraw immediately; andnever once had he been known deliberately to attend any function whichwas to be graced by the presence of Gustavus. How, then, came he hereto this ball given by the King's own command unless he came for the fellpurpose of which the letter had given warning?

The King's impulse was to withdraw immediately. He was taken by acurious, an almost unreasoning, fear that was quite foreign to him, who, for all his faults, had never yet lacked courage. But, even ashe hesitated, a figure swept past him in a domino flecked with flames, surrounded by revellers of both sexes, and he remembered that ifAnkarstrom were bent on evil his attention would be held by that figurebefore which the crowd fell back, and opened out respectfully, believingit to be the King's. Yet none the less it was Gustavus himself thatAnkarstrom continued to regard in such a ay that the King had a feelingthat his mask was made of glass. 

And then quite suddenly, even as he was on the point of turning, anotherwave of revellers swept frantically up, and in a moment Gustavus and theCount of Essen were surrounded. Another moment and the buffeting crowdhad separated him from his grand equerry. He found himself alone in thecentre of this knot of wild fellows who, seeming to mistake him for oneof themselves, forced him onward with them in their career. For a momenthe attempted to resist. But as well might he have resisted a torrent. Their rush was not to be stemmed. It almost swept him from his feet, andto save himself he must perforce abandon himself to the impetus. Thushe was swirled away across the floor of the amphitheatre, helpless asa swimmer in strong waters, and with the fear of the drowning clutchingnow at his heart. 

He had an impulse to unmask, proclaim himself, and compel the respectthat was his due. But to do so might be to expose himself to the verydanger of whose presence he was now convinced. His only hope must liein allowing himself to be borne passively along until a chance openingallowed him to escape from these madmen. 

The stage had been connected with the floor of the theatre by a broadflight of wooden steps. Up this flight he was carried by that humanwave. But on the stage itself he found an anchorage at last against oneof the wings. Breathing hard, he set his back to it, waiting for thewave to sweep on and leave him. Instead, it paused and came to rest withhim, and in that moment some one touched him on the shoulder. He turnedhis head, and looked into the set face of Ankarstrom, who was closebehind him. Then a burning, rending pain took him in his side, and hegrew sick and dizzy. The uproar of voices became muffled; the lightswere merged into a luminous billow that swelled and shrank and then wentout altogether. 

The report of the pistol had been lost in the general din to all butthose who stood near the spot where it had been fired. And these foundthemselves suddenly borne backwards by the little crowd of maskers thatfell away from the figure lying prone and bleeding on the stage. 

Voices were raised, shouting "Fire! Fire!" Thus the conspirators soughtto create confusion, that they might disperse and lose themselves in thegeneral crowd. That confusion, however, was very brief. It was stemmedalmost immediately by the Count of Essen, who leapt up the steps to thestage with a premonition of what had happened. He stooped to rip awaythe mask from the face of the victim, and, beholding, as he had feared, the livid countenance of his King, he stood up, himself almost as pale. 

"Murder has been done!" he roared. "Let the doors be closed and guarded, and let no one leave the theatre. " Instantly was his bidding done by theofficers of the guard. 

Those of the King's household who were in attendance came forward nowto raise Gustavus, and help to bear him to a couch. There presently herecovered consciousness, whilst a physician was seeing to his hurt, andas soon as he realized his condition his manner became so calm that, himself, he took command of the situation. He issued orders that thegates of the city should be closed against everybody, whilst himselfapologizing to the Prussian minister who was near him for issuing thatinconvenient but necessary order. 

"The gates shall remain closed for three days, sir, " he announced. "During that time you will not be able to correspond with your Court;but your intelligence, when it goes, will be more certain, since by thattime it should be known whether I can survive or not. "

His next order, delivered in a voice that was broken by his intensesuffering, was to the chamberlain Benzelstjerna, commanding that allpresent should unmask and sign their names in a book before beingsuffered to depart. That done, he bade them bear him home on the couchon which he had been placed that he might be spared the agony of moremovement than was necessary. 

Thus his grenadiers bore him on their shoulders, lighted by torches, through the streets that were now thronged, for the rumour had now goneforth that the King was dead, and troops had been called out to keeporder. Beside him walked Armfelt in his suit of shimmering white satin, weeping at once for his King and for himself, for he knew that he was ofthose who must fall with Gustavus. And, knowing this, there was bitterrage in his heart against the men who had wrought this havoc, a ragethat sharpened his wits to an unusual acuteness. 

At last the King was once more in his apartments awaiting the physicianswho were to pronounce his fate, and Armfelt kept him company amongothers, revolving in his mind the terrible suspicion he had formed. 

Presently came Duke Charles, the King's brother, and Benzelstjerna withthe list of those who had been present at the ball. 

"Tell me, " he asked, before the list was read to him, "is the name ofAnkarstrom included in it?"

"He was the last to sign, Sire, " replied the chamberlain. 

The King smiled grimly. "Tell Lillesparre to have him arrested andquestioned. "

Armfelt flung forward. "There is another who should be arrested, too!"he cried fiercely. And added, "Bjelke!"

"Bjelke?"

The King echoed the name almost in anger at the imputation. Armfeltspoke torrentially. "It was he persuaded you to go against your ownjudgment when you had the warning, and at last induced you to it byoffering to assume your own domino. If the assassins sought the King, how came they to pass over one who wore the King's domino, and topenetrate your own disguise that was like a dozen others? Because theywere informed of the change. But by whom--by whom? Who was it knew?"

"My God!" groaned the unfortunate King, who had in his time broken faithwith so many, and was now to suffer the knowledge of this broken faithin one whom he had trusted above all others. 

Baron Bjelke was arrested an hour later, arrested in the very act ofentering his own home. The men of Lillesparre's police had preceded himthither to await his return. He was quite calm when they surged suddenlyabout him, laid hands upon him, and formally pronounced him theirprisoner. 

"I suppose, " he said, "it was to have been inferred. Allow me to take myleave of the Baroness, and I shall be at your disposal. "

"My orders, Baron, are explicit, " he was answered by the officer incharge. "I am not to suffer you out of my sight. "

"How? Am I to be denied so ordinary a boon?" His voice quivered withsudden anger and something else. 

"Such are my orders, Baron. "

Bjelke pleaded for five minutes' grace for that leavetaking. But theofficer had his orders. He was no more than a machine. The Baron raisedhis clenched hands in mute protest to the heavens, then let them fallheavily. 

"Very well, " he said, and suffered them to thrust him back into hiscarriage and carry him away to the waiting Lillesparre. 

He found Armfelt in the office of the chief of the police, haranguingAnkarstrom, who was already there under arrest. The favourite broke offas Bjelke was brought in. 

"You were privy to this infamy, Bjelke, " he cried. "If the King does notrecover--"

"He will not recover. " It was the cold, passionless voice of Ankarstromthat spoke. "My pistol was loaded with rusty nails. I intended to makequite sure of ridding my country of that perjured tyrant. "

Armfelt stared at the prisoner a moment with furious, bloodshot eyes. Then he broke into imprecations, stemmed only when Lillesparre orderedAnkarstrom to be removed. When he was gone, the chief of police turnedto Bjelke. 

"It grieves me, Baron, that we should meet thus, and it is withdifficulty that I can believe what is alleged against you. Baron Armfeltis perhaps rendered hasty by his grief and righteous anger. But I hopethat you will be able to explain--at least to deny your concern in thishorrible deed. "

Very tense and white stood Bjelke. 

"I have an explanation that should satisfy you as a man of honour, " hesaid quietly, "but not as chief of the police. I joined this conspiracythat I might master its scope and learn the intentions of the plotters. It was a desperate thing I did out of love and loyalty to the King, andI succeeded. I came to-night to the palace with information which shouldnot only have saved the King's life, but would have enabled him tosmother the conspiracy for all time. On the threshold of his room thisletter for the King was delivered into my hands. Read it, Lillesparre, that you may know precisely what manner of master you serve, that youmay understand how Gustavus of Sweden recompenses love and loyalty. Readit, and tell me how you would have acted in my place!"

And he flung the letter on to the writing-table at which satLillesparre. 

The chief of police took it up, began to read, turned back to thesuperscription, then resumed his reading, a dull flush overspreading hisface. Over his shoulder Armfelt, too, was reading. But Bjelke carednot. Let all the world behold that advertisement of royal infamy, that incriminating love-letter from Bjelke's wife to the King who haddishonoured him. 

Lillesparre was stricken dumb. He dared not raise his eyes to meet theglance of the prisoner. But the shameless Armfelt sucked in a breath ofunderstanding. 

"You admit your guilt, then?" he snarled. 

"That I sent the monster to the masquerade, knowing that there theblessed hand of Ankarstrom would give him his passport out of a world hehad befouled--yes. "

"The rack shall make you yield the name of every one of theconspirators. "

"The rack!" Bjelke smiled disdainfully, and shrugged. "Your men, Lillesparre, were very prompt and very obdurate. They would not allow meto take leave of the Baroness, so that she has escaped me. But I am notsure that it is not a fitter vengeance to let her live and remember. That letter may now be delivered to the King, for whom it is intended. Its fond messages may lighten the misery of his remaining hours. "

His face was contorted, with rage, thought Armfelt, who watched him, butin reality with pain caused by the poison that was corroding his vitals. He had drained a little phial just before stepping into the presenceof Lillesparre, as they discovered upon inquiries made after he hadcollapsed dead at their feet. 

This caused them to bring back Ankarstrom, that he might be searched, lest he, too, should take some similar way of escaping them. When hesearch was done, having discovered nothing, Lillesparre commanded thathe should not have knife or fork or metal comb, or anything with whichhe might take his life. 

"You need not fear that I shall seek to evade the sacrifice, " he assuredthem, his demeanour haughty, his eyes aglow with fanatic zeal. "It isthe price I pay for having rid Nature of a monster and my country of afalse, perjured tyrant, and I pay it gladly. " As he ceased he smiled, and drew from the gold lace of his sleeve a surgeon's lancet. "This wassupplied me against my need to open a vein. But the laws of God and manmay require my death upon the scaffold. "

And, smiling, he placed the lancet on Lillesparre's table. 

Upon his conviction execution followed, and it lasted three days--fromApril 19th to 21 st--being attended by all the horrible and gradualtorturings reserved for regicides. Yet possibly he did not suffer morethan his victim, whose agony had lasted for thirteen days, and whoperished miserably in the consciousness that he deserved his fate, whilst Ankarstrom was uplifted and fortified by his fanaticism. 

The scaffold was erected on the Stora Torget, facing the Opera Houseof Stockholm, where the assassination had taken place. Thence thedismembered remains of Ankarstrom were conveyed to the ordinary gallowsin the suburb of Sodermalm to be exhibited, the right hand being nailedbelow the head. Under this hand on the morrow was found a tablet bearingthe legend:

 Blessed the hand That saved the Fatherland.