2) ***




Produced by Al Haines.




                             JOHN INGLESANT

                               A Romance


                                   by

                         John Henry Shorthouse



              [Greek: Agapetoí, nûn tékna Theoû esmen, kaì
                     oúpo ephanerothe tí esómetha.]



                                VOL. II.



                                 London
                           MACMILLAN AND CO.
                                  1881




                _Printed by_ R & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.




                           *JOHN INGLESANT.*



                              *CHAPTER I.*


Inglesant travelled to Marseilles, and by packet boat to Genoa.  The
beauty of the approach by sea to this city, and the lovely gardens and
the country around gave him the greatest delight.  The magnificent
streets of palaces, mostly of marble, and the thronged public places,
the galleries of paintings, and the museums, filled his mind with
astonishment; and the entrance into Italy, wonderful as he had expected
it to be, surpassed his anticipation.  He stayed some time in Genoa, to
one or more of the Jesuit fathers in which city he had letters.  Under
the guidance of these cultivated men he commenced an education in art,
such as in these days can be scarcely understood.  From his coming into
Italy a new life had dawned upon him in the music of that country.
Fascinated as he had always been with the Church music at London and
Oxford, for several years he had been cut off from all such enjoyment,
and, at its best, it was but the prelude to what he heard now.  For
whole hours he would remain on his knees at mass, lost and wandering in
that strange world of infinite variety, the mass music—so various in its
phases, yet with a monotone of pathos through it all.  The musical
parties were also a great pleasure.  He played the violin a little in
England, and rapidly improved by the excellent tuition he met with here.
He became, however, a proficient in what the Italians called the viola
d’amore, a treble viol, strung with wire, which attracted him by its
soft and sweet tone.  Amid a concord of sweet sounds, within hearing of
the splash of fountains, and surrounded by the rich colours of an
Italian interior, the young Englishman found himself in a new world of
delight. As the very soul of music, at one moment merry and the next mad
with passion and delightful pain, uttered itself in the long-continued
tremor of the violins, it took possession in all its power of
Inglesant’s spirit.  The whole of life is recited upon the plaintive
strings, and by their mysterious effect upon the brain fibres, men are
brought into sympathy with life in all its forms, from the gay promise
of its morning sunrise to the silence of its gloomy night.

From Genoa he went to Sienna, where he stayed some time—the dialect here
being held to be very pure, and fit for foreigners to accustom
themselves to.  He spoke Italian before with sufficient ease, and
associating with several of the religious in this city he soon acquired
the language perfectly. There can be nothing more delightful than the
first few days of life in Italy in the company of polished and congenial
men. Inglesant enjoyed life at Sienna very much; the beautiful clean
town, all marble and polished brick, the shining walls and pavement
softened and shaded by gardens and creeping vines, the piazza and
fountains, the cool retired walks with distant prospects, the Duomo,
within and without of polished marble inexpressibly beautiful, with its
exceeding sweet music and well-tuned organs, the libraries full of
objects of the greatest interest, the statues and antiquities everywhere
interspersed.

The summer and winter passed over, and he was still in Sienna, and
seemed loth to leave.  He associated mostly with the ecclesiastics to
whom he had brought letters of introduction, for he was more anxious at
first to become acquainted with the country and its treasures of art and
literature than to make many acquaintances.  He kept himself so close
and studious that he met with no adventures such as most travellers,
especially those who abandon themselves to the dissolute courses of the
country, meet with,—courses which were said at that time to be able to
make a devil out of a saint.  He saw nothing of the religious system but
what was excellent and delightful, seeing everything through the medium
of his friends. He read all the Italian literature that was considered
necessary for a gentleman to be acquainted with; and though the learning
of the Fathers was not what it had been a century ago, he still found
several to whom he could talk of his favourite Lucretius and of the
divine lessons of Plato.

When he had spent some time in this way in Italy, and considered himself
fitted to associate with the inhabitants generally, the Benedictines
took Inglesant to visit the family of Cardinal Chigi, who was afterwards
Pope, and who was a native of Sienna.  The cardinal himself was in Rome,
but his brother, Don Mario, received Inglesant politely, and introduced
him to his son, Don Flavio, and to two of his nephews. With one of
these, Don Agostino di Chigi, Inglesant became very intimate, and spent
much of his time at his house.  In this family he learnt much of the
state of parties in Rome, and was advised in what way to comport himself
when he should come there.  The Cardinal Panzirollo, who with the
Cardinal-Patron (Pamphilio), had lately been in great esteem, had just
died, having weakened his health by his continued application to
business, and the Pope had appointed Cardinal Chigi his successor as
first Secretary of State.  The Pope’s sister-in-law, Donna Olympia
Maldachini, was supposed to be banished, but many thought this was only
a political retreat, and that she still directed the affairs of the
Papacy.  At any rate she soon returned to Rome and to power.  This
extraordinary woman, whose loves and intrigues were enacted on the stage
in Protestant countries, was the sister-in-law of the Pope, and was said
to live with him in criminal correspondence, and to have charmed him by
some secret incantation—the incantation of a strong woman over a weak
and criminal man.  For a long time she had abused her authority in the
most scandalous manner, and exerted her unbounded ascendency over the
Pope to gratify her avarice and ambition, which were as unbounded as her
power.  She disposed of all benefices, which she kept vacant till she
was fully informed of their value; she exacted a third of the entire
value of all offices, receiving twelve years’ value for an office for
life.  She gave audience upon public affairs, enacted new laws,
abrogated those of former Popes, and sat in council with the Pope with
bundles of memorials in her hands.  Severe satires were daily pasted on
the statue of Pasquin at Rome; yet it seemed so incredible that Cardinal
Panzirollo, backed though he was by the Cardinal-Nephew, should be able
to overthrow the power of this woman by a representation he was said to
have made to the Pope, that when Innocent at length, with great
reluctance banished Olympia, most persons supposed it was only a
temporary piece of policy.

The Chigi were at this time living in Sienna, in great simplicity, at
their house in the Strada Romana, and in one or two small villas in the
neighbourhood; but they were of an ancient and noble family of this
place, and were held in great esteem, and were all of them men of
refinement and carefully educated.  They had made considerable figure in
Rome during the Pontificate of Julius II.; but afterwards meeting with
misfortunes, were obliged to return to Sienna, where they had continued
to reside ever since.  At this time there was no idea that the Cardinal
of this house would be the next Pope, and though well acquainted with
the politics of Rome, the family occupied themselves mostly with other
and more innocent amusements—in the arrangement of their gardens and
estates, in the duties of hospitality, and in artistic, literary, and
antiquarian pursuits.  The University and College of Sienna had produced
many excellent scholars and several Popes, and the city itself was full
of remains of antique art, and was adorned with many modern works of
great beauty—the productions of that school which takes its name from
the town.  Among such scenes as these, and with such companions,
Inglesant’s time passed so pleasantly that he was in no hurry to go on
to Rome.

The country about the city was celebrated for hunting, and the wild boar
and the stag afforded excellent and exciting, if sometimes dangerous
sport.  Amid the beautiful valleys, rich with vineyards, and overlooked
by rocky hills and castled summits, were scenes fitted both for pleasure
and sport; and the hunting gave place, often and in a moment, to _al
fresco_ banquets, and conversations and pleasant dalliance with the
ladies, by the cool shade near some fountain, or under some over-arching
rock.  Under the influence of these occupations, so various and so
attractive both to the mind and body, and thanks to so many novel
objects and continual change of scene, Inglesant’s health rapidly
improved, and his mind recovered much of the calm and cheerfulness which
were natural to it.  He thought little of the Italian, and the terrible
thoughts with which he had connected him were for the time almost
forgotten, though, from time to time, when any accident recalled the
circumstances to his recollection, they returned upon his spirits with a
melancholy effect.

The first time that these gloomy thoughts overpowered him since his
arrival at Sienna was on the following occasion.  He had been hunting
with a party of friends in the valley of Montalcino one day in early
autumn.  The weather previously had been wet, and the rising sun had
drawn upward masses of white vapour, which wreathed the green foliage
and the vine slopes, where the vintage was going on, and concealed from
sight the hills on every side.  A pale golden light pervaded every
place, and gave mystery and beauty to the meanest cottages and
farm-sheds.  The party, having missed the stag, stopped at a small
osteria at the foot of a sloping hill, and Inglesant and another
gentleman wandered up into the vineyard that sloped upwards behind the
house.  As they went up, the vines became gradually visible out of the
silvery mist, and figures of peasant men and women moved about—vague and
half-hidden until they were close to them; pigeons and doves flew in and
out.  Inglesant’s friend stopped to speak to some of the peasant girls;
but Inglesant himself, tempted by the pleasing mystery that the mountain
slope—apparently full of hidden and beautiful life—presented, wandered
on, gradually climbing higher and higher, till he had left the vintage
far below him, and heard no sound but that of the grasshoppers among the
grass and the olive trees, and the distant laugh of the villagers, or
now and then the music of a hunting horn, which one of the party below
was blowing for his own amusement.  The mist was now so thick that he
could see nothing, and it was by chance that he even kept the ascending
path. The hill was rocky here and there, but for the most part was
covered with short grass, cropped by the goats which Inglesant startled
as he came unexpectedly upon them in the mist. Suddenly, after some
quarter of an hour’s climbing, he came out of the mist in a moment, and
stood under a perfectly clear sky upon the summit of the hill.  The blue
vault stretched above him without a cloud, all alight with the morning
sun; at his feet the grassy hill-top sparkling in dew, not yet dried up,
and vocal with grasshoppers, not yet silenced by the heat. Nothing could
be seen but wreaths of cloud.  The hill-top rose like an island out of a
sea of vapour, seething and rolling round in misty waves, and lighted
with prismatic colours of every hue.  Out of this sea, here and there,
other hill-tops, on which goats were browsing, lay beneath the serene
heaven; and rocky points and summits, far higher than these, reflected
back the sun.  He would have seemed to stand above all human
conversation and walks of men, if every now and then some break in the
mist had not taken place, opening glimpses of landscapes and villages
far below; and also the sound of bells, and the music of the horn, came
up fitfully through the mist.  Why, he did not know, but as he gazed on
this, the most wonderful and beautiful sight he had ever seen, the
recollection of Serenus de Cressy returned upon his mind with intense
vividness; and the contrast between the life he was leading in Italy,
amid every delight of mind and sense, and the life the Benedictine had
offered him in vain, smote upon his conscience with terrible force.
Upon the lonely mountain top, beneath the serene silence, he threw
himself upon the turf, and, overwhelmed with a sudden passion, repented
that he had been born.  Amid the extraordinary loveliness, the most
gloomy thoughts took possession of him, and the fiend seemed to stand
upon the smiling mount and claim him for himself.  So palpably did the
consciousness of his choice, worldly as he thought it, cause the
presence of evil to appear, that in that heavenly solitude he looked
round for the murderer of his brother.  The moment appeared to him, for
the instant, to be the one appointed for the consummation of his guilt.
The horn below sounding the recall drew his mind out of this terrible
reverie, and he came down the hill (from which the mist was gradually
clearing) as in a dream. He rejoined his company, who remarked the wild
expression of his face.

His old disease, in fact, never entirely left him; he walked often as in
a dream, and when the fit was upon him could never discern the real and
the unreal.  He knew that terrible feeling when the world and all its
objects are slipping away, when the brain reels, and seems only to be
kept fixed and steady by a violent exertion of the will; and the mind is
confused and perplexed with thoughts which it cannot grasp, and is full
of fancies of vague duties and acts which it cannot perform, though it
is convinced that they are all important to be done.

The Chigi family knew of Inglesant’s past life, and of his acquaintance
with the Archbishop of Fermo, the Pope’s Nuncio, and they advised him to
make the acquaintance of his brother, the Cardinal Rinuccini, before
going to Rome.

"If you go to Rome in his train, or have him for a patron on your
arrival, you will start in a much better position than if you enter the
city an entire stranger,—and the present is not a very favourable time
for going to Rome.  The Pope is not expected to live very long.  Donna
Olympia and the Pamphili, or pretended Pamphili (for the Cardinal-Nephew
is not a Pamphili at all), are securing what they can, using every
moment to enrich themselves while they have the power. The moment the
Pope dies they fall, and with them all who have been connected with
them.  It is therefore useless to go to Rome at present, except as a
private person to see the city, and this you can do better in the suite
of the Cardinal than in any other way.  You may wonder that we do not
offer to introduce you to our uncle the Cardinal Chigi; but we had
rather that you should come to Rome at first under the patronage of
another.  You will understand more of our reasons before long;
meanwhile, we will write to our uncle respecting you, and you may be
sure that he will promote your interests as much as is in his power."

The Cardinal Rinuccini was at that time believed to be at his own villa,
situated in a village some distance from Florence to the north, and Don
Agostino offered to accompany Inglesant so far on his journey.

This ride, though a short one, was very pleasant, and endeared the two
men to each other more than ever.  They travelled simply, with a very
small train, and did not hurry themselves on the route.  Indeed, they
travelled so leisurely that they were very nearly being too late for
their purpose. On their arrival at the last stage before reaching
Florence, they stopped for the night at a small osteria, and had no
sooner taken up their quarters than a large train arrived at the inn,
and on their inquiry they were informed it was the Cardinal Rinuccini
himself on his way to Rome.  They immediately sent their names to his
Eminence, saying they had been coming to pay their respects to him, and
offering to resign their apartment, which was the best in the house.
The Cardinal, who travelled in great state, with his four-post bed and
furniture of all kinds with him, returned a message that he could not
disturb them in their room; that he remembered Mr. Inglesant’s name in
some letters from his brother; and that he should be honoured by their
company to supper.

The best that the village could afford was placed on the Cardinal’s
table, and their host entertained the two young men with great courtesy.

He was descended from a noble family in Florence, which boasted among
its members Octavio Rinuccini the poet, who came to Paris in the suite
of Marie de Medicis, and is said by some to have been the inventor of
the Opera.  Besides the Pope’s Legate another brother of the Cardinal’s,
Thomas Battista Rinuccini, was Great Chamberlain to the Grand Duke of
Tuscany.  All the brothers had been carefully educated, and were men of
literary tastes; but while the Archbishop had devoted himself mostly to
politics, the Cardinal had confined himself almost entirely to literary
pursuits.  He owed his Cardinal’s hat to the Grand Duke, who was
extremely partial to him, and promoted his interests in every way.  He
was a man of profound learning, and an enthusiastic admirer of
antiquity, but was also an acute logician and theologian, and perfectly
well-read in Church history, and in the controversy of the century, both
in theology and philosophy.  Before the end of supper Inglesant found
that he was acquainted with the writings of Hobbes, whom he had met in
Italy, and of whom he inquired with interest, as soon as he found
Inglesant had been acquainted with him.

The following morning the Cardinal expressed his sorrow that the
business which took him to Rome was of so important a nature that it
obliged him to proceed without delay.  He approved of the advice that
Inglesant had already received, and recommended him to proceed to
Florence with Don Agostino, as he was so near; so that he might not have
his journey for nothing, and might see the city under very favourable
circumstances.  Inglesant was the more ready to agree to this as he
wished to see as much of Italy as he could, unshackled by the company of
the great, which, in the uncertain state of health both of his body and
mind, was inexpressibly burdensome to him.  He had already seen in this
last journey a great deal of the distress and bad government which
prevailed everywhere; and he wished to make himself acquainted, in some
measure, with the causes of this distress before going to Rome.  As he
rode through the beautiful plains he had been astonished at the few
inhabitants, and at the wretchedness of the few.  Italy had suffered
greatly in her commerce by the introduction of Indian silks into Europe.
Some of her most flourishing cities had been depopulated, their nobles
ruined; and long streets of neglected palaces, deserted and left in
magnificent decay, presented a melancholy though romantic spectacle.
But bad government, and the oppression and waste caused by the
accumulated wealth and idleness of the innumerable religious orders, had
more to do in ruining the prosperity of the country than any commercial
changes; and proofs of this fact met the traveller’s eye on every hand.

It seemed to Inglesant that it was very necessary that he should satisfy
himself upon some of these points before becoming involved in any
political action in the country; and he shrank from entering Rome at
present, and from attaching himself to any great man or any party.  In a
country where the least false step is fatal, and may plunge a man in
irretrievable ruin, or consign him to the dungeons of the Holy Office,
it is certainly prudent in a stranger to be wary of his first steps.
Having communicated these resolutions to his friend, the two young men,
on their arrival at Florence, took lodgings privately in the Piazza del
Spirito Santo; and occupied their time for some days in viewing the
city, and visiting the churches and museums, as though they had been
simply travellers from curiosity.

Inglesant believed the Italian to be in Rome, which was a further reason
for delaying his journey there.  He believed that he was going to engage
in some terrible conflict, and he wished to prepare himself by an
acquaintance with every form of life in this strange country.  The
singular scenes that strike a stranger in Italy—the religious
processions, the character and habits of the poorer classes, their ideas
of moral obligation, their ecclesiastical and legal government—all
appeared to him of importance to his future fate.

As he was perfectly unacquainted with the person of his enemy, there was
a sort of vague expectation—not to say dread—always present to his mind;
for, though he fancied that it would be in Rome that he should find the
Italian, yet it was not at all impossible that at any moment—it might be
in Florence, or in the open country—he might be the object of a
murderous attack.  His person was doubtless known to the murderer of his
brother, and he thus walked everywhere in the full light, while his
enemy was hidden in the dark.

These ideas were seldom absent from his mind, and the image of the
murderer was almost constantly before his eyes. Often, as some marked
figure crossed his path, he started and watched the retreating form,
wondering whether the object of his morbid dread was before him.  Often,
as the uncovered corpse was borne along the streets, the thought struck
him that perhaps his fear and his search were alike needless, and that
before him on the bier, harmless and strewn with flowers, lay his
terrible foe.  These thoughts naturally prevented his engaging
unrestrainedly in the pursuits of his age and rank, and he often let Don
Agostino go alone into the gay society which was open to them in
Florence.

In pursuit of his intention Inglesant took every opportunity, without
incurring remark, of associating with the lower orders, and learning
their habits, traditions, and tone of thought.  He chose streets which
led through the poorer parts of the town in passing from one part to
another, and in this way, and in the course of his visits to different
churches and religious houses, he was able to converse with the common
people without attracting attention.  In excursions into the country,
whether on parties of pleasure or for sport, he was also able to throw
himself in the same way among the peasantry. Under the pretence of
shooting quails he passed several days in more than one country village,
and had become acquainted with several of the curés, from whom he gained
much information respecting the habits of the people, and of their ideas
of crime and of lawful revenge.

One of these curés—a man of penetration and intellect—strongly advised
him to see Venice before he went to Rome.

"Venice," he said to him, "is the sink of all wickedness, and as such it
is desirable that you should see the people there, and mix with them;
besides, as such, it is not at all unlikely that the man you seek may be
found there."

"What is the cause of this wickedness?" asked Inglesant.

"There are several causes," replied the priest.  "One is that the Holy
Office there is under the control of the State, and is therefore almost
powerless.  Wickedness and license of all kinds are therefore
unrestrained."

Inglesant mentioned this advice to Don Agostino, and his desire to
proceed to Venice; but as the other was unwilling to leave Florence till
the termination of the Carnival, which was now approaching, he was
obliged to postpone his intention for some weeks.

On one of the opening days of the Carnival, Inglesant had accompanied
Don Agostino to a magnificent supper given by the Grand Duke at his
villa and gardens at the Poggia Imperiale, some distance outside the
Romana gate.

Inglesant had succeeded in throwing off for a time his gloomy thoughts,
and had taken his share in the gaiety of the festival; but the effort
and the excitement had produced a reaction, and towards morning he had
succeeded in detaching himself from the company, many of whom—the
banquet being over—were strolling in the lovely gardens in the cool air
which preceded the dawn, and he returned alone to the city. As this was
his frequent custom, his absence did not surprise Don Agostino, who
scarcely noticed his friend’s eccentricities.

When Inglesant reached Florence, the sun had scarcely risen, and in the
miraculously clear and solemn light the countless pinnacles and marble
fronts of the wonderful city rose with sharp colour and outline into the
sky.  It lay with the country round it studded with the lines of cypress
and encompassed by the massy hills—silent as the grave, and lovely as
paradise; and ever and anon, as it lay in the morning light, a breeze
from the mountains passed over it, rustling against the marble façades
and through the belfries of its towers, like the whisper of a God.  Now
and again, clear and sharp in the liquid air, the musical bells of the
Campanili rang out the time.  The cool expanse of the gardens, the
country walk, the pure air, and the silent city, seemed to him to chide
and reprove the license and gaiety of the night. Excited by the events
of the Carnival, his mind and imagination were in that state in which,
from the inward fancy, phantoms are projected upon the real stage of
life, and, playing their fantastic parts, react upon the excited sense,
producing conduct which in turn is real in its result.

As Inglesant entered the city and turned into one of the narrow streets
leading up from the Arno, the market people were already entering by the
gates, and thronging up with their wares to the Piazze and the markets.
Carpenters were already at work on the scaffolds and other preparations
for the concluding festivals of the Carnival; but all these people, and
all their actions, and even the sounds that they produced, wore that
unreal and unsubstantial aspect which the very early morning light casts
upon everything.

As Inglesant ascended the narrow street, between the white stone houses
which set off the brilliant blue above, several porters and
countrywomen, carrying huge baskets and heaps of country produce,
ascended with him, or passed him as he loitered along, and other more
idle and equivocal persons, who were just awake, looked out upon him
from doorways and corners as he passed.  He had on a gala dress of silk,
somewhat disordered by the night and by his walk, and must have appeared
a suitable object for the lawless attempts of the ladroni of a great
city; but his appearance was probably not sufficiently helpless to
encourage attack.

Half-way up the street, at the corner of a house, stood an image of the
Virgin, round which the villagers stopped for a moment, as much to rest
as to pay their devotions.  As Inglesant stopped also, he noticed an old
man of a wretched and abject demeanour, leaning against the wall of the
house as though scarcely able to stand, and looking eagerly at some of
the provisions which were carried past him.  True to his custom,
Inglesant—when he had given him some small coin as an alms—began to
speak to him.

"You have carried many such loads as these, father, I doubt not, in your
time, though it must be a light one now."

"I am past carrying even myself," said the other, in a weak and whining
voice; "but I have not carried loads all my life.  I have kept a shop on
the Goldsmith’s Bridge, and have lived at my ease.  Now I have nothing
left me but the sun—the sun and the cool shade."

"Yours is a hard fate."

"It is a hard and miserable world, and yet I love it.  It has done me
nothing but evil, and yet I watch it and seek out what it does, and
listen to what goes on, just as if I thought to hear of any good fortune
likely to come to me. Foolish old man that I am!  What is it to me what
people say or do, or who dies, or who is married? and why should I come
out here to see the market people pass, and climb this street to hear of
the murder that was done here last night, and look at the body that lies
in the room above?"

"What murder?" said Inglesant.  "Who was murdered, and by whom?"

"He is a foreigner; they say an Inglese—a traveller here merely.  Who
murdered him I know not, though they do say that too."

"Where is the body?" said Inglesant.  "Let us go up."  And he gave the
old man another small coin.

The old man looked at him for a moment with a peculiar expression.

"Better not, Signore," he said; "better go home."

"Do not fear for me," said Inglesant; "I bear a charmed life; no steel
can touch me, nor any bullet hurt me, till my hour comes; and my hour is
not yet."

The old man led the way to an open door, carved with tracery and
foliaged work, and they ascended a flight of stairs. It was one of those
houses, so common in Italian towns, whose plain and massive exterior,
pierced with few and narrow windows, gives no idea of the size and
splendour of the rooms within.  When they reached the top of the stairs,
Inglesant saw that the house had once, and probably not long before,
been the residence of some person of wealth.  They passed through
several rooms with carved chimney-pieces and cornices, and here and
there even some massive piece of furniture still remained.  From the
windows that opened on the inner side Inglesant could see the tall
cypresses of a garden, and hear the splash of fountains.  But the house
had fallen from its high estate, and was now evidently used for the
vilest purposes.  After passing two or three rooms, they reached an
upper hall or dining-room of considerable length, and painted in fresco
apparently of some merit.  A row of windows on the left opened on the
garden, from which the sound of voices and laughter came up.

The room was bare of furniture, except towards the upper end, where was
a small and shattered table, upon which the body of the murdered man was
laid.  Inglesant went up and stood by its side.

There was no doubt whose countryman he had been.  The fair English boy,
scarcely bordering upon manhood—the heir, probably, of bright
hopes—travelling with a careless or incompetent tutor, lay upon the
small table, his long hair glistening in the sunlight, his face peaceful
and smiling as in sleep.  The fatal rapier thrust, marked by the stain
upon the clothes, was the sole sign that his mother—waking up probably
at that moment in distant England, with his image in her heart—was
bereaved for ever of her boy.  Inglesant stood silent a few moments,
looking sadly down; that other terrible figure, upon the white
hearthstone, was so constantly in his mind, that this one, so like it,
scarcely could be said to recall the image of his murdered brother; but
the whole scene certainly strengthened his morbid fancy, and it seemed
to him that he was on the footsteps of the murderer, and that his fate
was drawing near.

"His steps are still in blood," he said aloud; "and it is warm; he
cannot be far off."

He turned, as he spoke, to look for the old man, but he was gone, and in
his place a ghastly figure met Inglesant’s glance.

Standing about three feet from the table, a little behind Inglesant, and
also looking fixedly at the murdered boy, was the figure of a corpse.
The face was thin and fearfully white, and the whole figure was wrapped
and swathed in grave-clothes, somewhat disordered and loosened, so as to
give play to the limbs.  This form took no notice of the other’s
presence, but continued to gaze at the body with its pallid ghastly
face.

Inglesant scarcely started.  Nothing could seem more strange and unreal
to him than what was passing on every side.  That the dead should return
and stand by him seemed to him not more fearful and unreal than all the
rest.

Suddenly the corpse turned its eyes upon Inglesant, and regarded him
with a fixed and piercing glance.

"You spoke of the author of this deed as though you knew him," it said.

"I am on the track of a murderer, and my fate is urging me on.  It seems
to me that I see his bloody steps."

"This was no murder," said the corpse, in an irritated and impatient
voice.  "It was a chance melée, and an unfortunate and unhappy thrust;
we do not even know the name of the man who lies there.  Are you the
avenger of blood, that you see murder at every step?"

"I am in truth the avenger of blood," said Inglesant in a low and
melancholy voice; "would I were not."

The corpse continued to look at Inglesant fixedly, and would have
spoken, but the voices which had been heard in the garden now seemed to
come nearer, and hurried steps approached the room.  The laughter that
Inglesant had heard was stilled, and deep and solemn voices strove
together, and one above the rest said, "Bring up the murderer."

The corpse turned round impatiently, and the next moment from a small
door, which opened on a covered balcony and outside staircase to the
garden, there came hurriedly in a troop of the most strange and
fantastic figures that the eye could rest upon.  Angels and demons, and
savage men in lions’ skins, and men with the heads of beasts and birds,
swarmed tumultuously in, dragging with them an unfortunate being in his
night-clothes, and apparently just out of bed, whom they urged on with
blows.  This man, who was only half-awake, was evidently in the
extremity of terror, and looked upon himself as already in the place of
eternal torment.  He addressed now one and now another of his
tormentors, as well as he could find breath, in the most abject terms,
endeavouring, in the most ludicrous manner, to choose the titles and
epithets to address them most in accordance with the individual
appearance that the spectre he entreated wore to his dazzled
eyes—whether a demon or an angel, a savage or a man-beast.  When he saw
the murdered man, and the terrible figure that stood by Inglesant, he
nearly fainted with terror; but, on many voices demanding loudly that he
should be brought in contact with the body of his victim, he recovered a
little, and recognizing in Inglesant, at least, a being of an earthly
sphere, and by his dress a man of rank, he burst from his tormentors,
and throwing himself at his feet, he entreated his protection, assuring
him that he had been guilty of no murder, having just been dragged from
a sound sleep, and being even ignorant that a murder had been committed.

Inglesant took little notice of him, but the corpse interposed between
the man and the fantastic crew.  It was still apparently in a very bad
humour, especially with Inglesant, and said imperiously,—"We have enough
and too much of this foolery.  Have not some of you done enough mischief
for one night?  This gentleman says he is on the track of a murderer,
and will have it that he sees his traces in this unfortunate affair."

At these words the masquers crowded round Inglesant with wild and
threatening gestures, apparently half earnest and half the result of
wine, and as many of them were armed with great clubs, the consequences
might have seemed doubtful to one whose feelings were less excited than
Inglesant’s were.

He, however, as though the proceeding were a matter of course, merely
took off his hat, and addressed the others in explanation.

"I am indeed in pursuit of a murderer, the murderer of my brother—a
gallant and noble gentleman who was slain foully in cold blood.  The
murderer was an Italian, his name Malvolti.  Do any of you, signori,
happen to have heard of such a man?"

There was a pause after this singular address, but the next moment a
demon of terrific aspect forced his way to the front, saying in a tone
of drunken consequence,—

"I knew him formerly at Lucca; he was well born and my friend."

"He was, and is, a scelerat and a coward," said Inglesant fiercely.  "It
would be well to be more careful of your company, sir."

"Have I not said he was my friend, sir?" cried the demon, furious with
passion.  "Who will lend me a rapier?"

A silent and melancholy person, with the head of an owl, who had several
under his arm, immediately tendered him one with a low bow, and the
masquers fell back in a circle, while the demon, drawing his weapon,
threw himself into an attitude and attacked Inglesant, who, after
looking at him for a moment, also drew his rapier and stood upon his
guard.  It soon appeared that the demon was a very moderate fencer; in
less than a minute his guard was entered by Inglesant’s irresistible
tierce, and he would have been infallibly run through the body had he
not saved himself by rolling ignominiously on the ground.

This incident appeared to restore the corpse to good humour; it laughed,
and turning to the masquers said,—

"Gentlemen, let me beg of you to disperse as quickly as possible before
the day is any farther advanced.  You know of the rendezvous at one
o’clock.  I will see the authorities as to this unhappy affair.  Sir,"
he continued, turning to Inglesant, "you are, I believe, the friend of
Don Agostino di Chigi, whom he has been introducing into Florentine
society; if it will amuse you to see a frolic of the Carnival carried
out, of which this is only the somewhat unfortunate rehearsal, and will
meet me this afternoon at two o’clock, at the Great Church in the Via
Larga, I shall be happy to do my best to entertain you; a simple domino
will suffice.  I am the Count Capece."

Inglesant gave his name in return.  He apologized for not accepting the
Count’s courtesy, on the plea of ill-health, but assured him he would
take advantage of his offer to cultivate his acquaintance.  They left
the house together, the Count covering himself with a cloak, and
Inglesant accompanied him to the office of police, from whence he went
to his lodging and to his bed.

He arose early in the afternoon, and remembering the invitation he had
received, he went out into the Via Larga. The streets formed a strange
contrast to the stillness and calm of the cool morning.  The afternoon
was hot, and the city crowded with people of every class and rank.  The
balconies and windows of the principal streets were full of ladies and
children; trophies and embroideries hung from the houses and crossed the
street.  Strings of carriages and country carts, dressed with flowers
and branches of trees, paraded the streets. Every variety of fantastic
and grotesque costume, and every shade of colour, filled and confused
the eye.  Music, laughter, and loud talking filled the ear.  Inglesant,
from his simple costume and grave demeanour, became the butt of several
noisy parties; but used as he was to great crowds, and to the confused
revelries of Courts, he was able to disentangle himself with mutual
good-humour.  He recognized his friends of the morning, who were
performing a kind of comedy on a country cart, arched with boughs, in
imitation of the oldest form of the itinerant theatre.  He was
recognized by them also, for, in a pause of the performance, as he was
moving down a bye-street, he was accosted by one of the company,
enveloped in a large cloak.  He had no difficulty in recognizing beneath
this concealment his antagonist of the morning, who still supported his
character of demon.

"I offer you my apologies for the occurrences of this morning, signore,"
he said, "having been informed by my friends more closely concerning
them than I can myself recollect.  I am also deeply interested in the
person of whom you spoke, who formerly was a friend of mine; and I must
also have been acquainted with the signore, your brother, of which I am
the more certain as your appearance every moment recalls him more and
more to my mind.  I should esteem it a great favour to be allowed to
speak at large with you on these matters.  If you will allow me to pay
my respects at your lodgings, I will conduct you to my father’s house,
il Conte Pericon di Visalvo, where I can show you many things which may
be of interest to you respecting the man whom I understand you seek."

Inglesant replied that he should gladly avail himself of his society,
and offered to come to the Count’s house early the next day.

He found the house, a sombre plain one, in a quiet street, with a tall
front pierced with few windows.  At the low door hung a wine-flask, as a
sign that wine was sold within; for the sale of wine by retail was
confined to the gentry, the common people being only allowed to sell
wholesale.  The Count was the fortunate possessor of a very fine
vineyard, which made his wine much in request, and Inglesant found the
whole ground-floor of his house devoted to this retail traffic.  Having
inquired for the Count, he was led up the staircase into a vestibule,
and from thence into the Count’s own room.  This was a large apartment
with windows looking on to the court, with a suite of rooms opening
beyond it.  It was handsomely furnished, with several cages full of
singing birds in the windows. Outside, the walls of the houses forming
the courtyard were covered with vines and creeping jessamine and other
plants, and a fountain splashed in the centre of the court, which was
covered with a coloured awning.

The old Count received Inglesant politely.  He was a tall, spare old
man, with a reserved and dignified manner, more like that of a Spaniard
than of an Italian.  Rather to Inglesant’s surprise he introduced him to
his daughter, on whom, as she sat near one of the windows, Inglesant’s
eyes had been fixed from the moment he had entered the room.  The
Italians were so careful of the ladies of their families, and it was so
unusual to allow strangers to see them, that his surprise was not
unnatural, especially as the young lady before him was remarkably
beautiful.  She was apparently very young, tall and dark-eyed, with a
haughty and indifferent manner, which concentrated itself entirely upon
her father.

The Count noticed Inglesant’s surprise at the cordiality of his
reception, and seemed to speak as if in explanation.

"You are no stranger to us, signore," he said; "my son has not only
commended you to me, but your intimacy with Count Agostino has endeared
you already to us who admire and love him."

As Agostino had told him the evening before that he knew little of these
people, though he believed the old Count to be respectable, this rather
increased Inglesant’s surprise; but he merely said that he was fortunate
in possessing a friend whose favour procured him such advantages.

"My son’s affairs," continued the old man, "unavoidably took him abroad
this morning, but I wait his return every moment."

Inglesant suspected that the Cavaliere, who appeared to him to be a
complete debauchée, had not been at home at all that night; but if that
were the case, when he entered the room a few moments afterwards, his
manner was completely self-possessed and quiet, and showed no signs of a
night of revelry.

As soon as they were seated the Cavaliere began to explain to Inglesant
that both his father and himself were anxious to see him, to confer
respecting the unfortunate circumstances which, as they imagined, had
brought him to Italy upon a mission which they assured him was madly
imprudent.

"Our nation, signore," said the Cavaliere, "is notorious for two
passions—jealousy and revenge.  Both of these, combined with
self-interest, induced Malvolti to commit the foul deed which he
perpetrated upon your brother.  While in Italy your brother crossed him
in some of his amours, and also resented some indiscretions, which the
manners of our nation regard with tolerance, but which your discreeter
countrymen resent with unappeasable disgust.  Our people never forgive
injuries; nay, they entail them on their posterity.  We ourselves left
our native city, Lucca, on account of one of these feuds, which made it
unsafe for us to remain; and I could show you a gentleman’s house in
Lucca whose master has never set foot out of doors for nine years, nay,
scarcely looked out of window, for fear of being shot by an antagonist
who has several times planted ambushes to take away his life.  It is
considered a disgrace to a family that one of its members has forgiven
an injury; and a mother will keep the bloody clothes of her murdered
husband, to incite her young sons to acts of vengeance. You will see,
signore, the evil which such ideas as these winds about our lives; and
how unwise it must be in a stranger to involve himself needlessly in
such an intrigue, in a foreign country, unknown and comparatively
without friends.  Italy swarms with bravos hired to do the work of
vengeance; merchants are assaulted in their warehouses in open day; in
the public streets the highest personages in the land are not safe. What
will be the fate then of a stranger whose death is necessary to the
safety of an Italian?"

"I understand you, signore," said Inglesant, "and I thank you for your
good-will, but you are somewhat mistaken.  I am not seeking the man of
whom we speak, though, I confess, I came to Italy partly with the
expectation of meeting him, when it is the will of God, or the will of
the Devil whom He permits to influence the affairs of men, that this man
and I should meet.  I shall not attempt to avoid the interview; it would
be useless if I did.  The result of that meeting who can tell!  But as I
said yesterday to the Count Capece, till my hour comes I bear a charmed
life that cannot be taken, and any result I regard with supreme
indifference, if so be I may, by any means, escape in the end the snares
of the Devil, who seeks to take me captive at his will."

The two gentlemen regarded Inglesant with profound astonishment as he
uttered these words; and the young lady in the window raised her eyes
towards him as he was speaking (he spoke very pure Italian) with some
appearance of interest.

After a pause Inglesant went on, "I also venture to think, signore," he
said, "that you are unaware of the position of this man, and of the
condition to which his crimes have brought him.  I am well informed from
sure sources that he is without friends, and that his crimes have raised
him more enemies in this country even than elsewhere; so that he is
afraid to appear openly, lest he fall a victim to his own countrymen.
He is also in abject poverty, and is therefore to a great extent
powerless to do evil."

The Cavaliere smiled.  "You do not altogether know this country,
signore," he said; "there are always so many different factions and
interests at work that a daring useful man is never without patrons, who
will support and further his private interests in return for the service
he may render them; and (though you may not be fully aware of it) it is
because it is notorious that you are yourself supported and protected by
a most powerful and widely spread faction, that your position in this
country is as assured and safe as it is."

His words certainly struck Inglesant.  The idea that he was already a
known and marked man in this wonderful country, and playing an
acknowledged part in its fantastic drama, was new to him, and he
remained silent.

"From all ordinary antagonists," continued the Cavaliere, "this
knowledge is sufficient to secure you; no man would wish, unless ruined
and desperate, to draw on his head the swift and certain punishment
which a hand raised against your life would be sure to invoke.  But a
reckless despairing man stops at nothing; and should you, by your
presence even, endanger this man’s standing in the favour of some
new-found patron, or impede the success of some freshly planned
scheme—perhaps the last hope of his ruined life—I would not buy your
safety at an hour’s rate."

While the Cavaliere was speaking it was evident that his sister was
listening with great attention.  The interest that she manifested, and
the singular attraction that Inglesant felt towards her, so occupied his
thoughts that he could scarcely attend to what the other was saying,
though he continued speaking for some time.  It is possible that the
Cavaliere noticed this, for Inglesant was suddenly conscious that he was
regarding him fixedly and with a peculiar expression.  He apologized for
his inattention on the ground of ill-health, and soon after took his
leave, having invited the Cavaliere to visit him at his lodgings.

As Inglesant walked back through the streets of the city, he was
perplexed at his own sensations, which appeared so different from any he
had previously known.  The attraction he experienced towards the lady he
had just seen was quite different from the affection he had felt for
Mary Collet.  That was a sentiment which commended itself to his reason
and his highest feelings.  In her company he felt himself soothed,
elevated above himself, safe from danger and from temptation. In this
latter attraction he was conscious of a half-formed fear, of a sense of
glamour and peril, and of an alluring force independent of his own
free-will.  The opinion he had formed of her brother’s character may
have had something to do with these feelings, and the sense of perpetual
danger and insecurity with which he walked this land of mystery and
intrigue no doubt increased it.  He half resolved not to visit the old
nobleman again; but even while forming the resolution he knew that he
should break it.

The circumstances in which he was placed, indeed, almost precluded such
a course.  The very remarkable beauty of the young lady, and the
extraordinary unreserve with which he had been introduced to
her—unreserve so unusual in Italy—while it might increase the misgiving
he felt, made it very difficult for him to decline the acquaintance.
The girl’s beauty was of a kind unusual in Italy, though not unknown
there, her hair being of a light brown, contrasting with her magnificent
eyes, which were of the true Italian splendour and brilliancy.  She had
doubtless been kept in the strictest seclusion, and Inglesant could only
wonder what could have induced the old Count to depart from his usual
caution.

The next day, being Ash Wednesday, Inglesant was present at the Duomo at
the ceremony of the day, when the vast congregation received the
emblematic ashes upon their foreheads. The Cavaliere was also present
with his sister, whose name Inglesant discovered to be Lauretta.  Don
Agostino, to whom Inglesant had related the adventure, and the
acquaintance to which it had led, was inclined to suspect these people
of some evil purpose, and made what inquiries he could concerning them;
but he could discover nothing to their discredit, further than that the
Cavaliere was a well-known debauchée, and that he had been involved in
some intrigue, in connection with some of the present Papal family,
which had not proved successful.  He was in consequence then in disgrace
with Donna Olympia and her faction,—a disappointment which it was said
had rendered his fortunes very desperate, as he was very deeply involved
in debts of all kinds.  Don Agostino, the Carnival being over, was
desirous of returning to Sienna, unless Inglesant made up his mind to go
at once to Venice, in which case he offered to accompany him.  His
friend, however, did not appear at all desirous of quitting Florence, at
any rate hastily, and Don Agostino left him and returned home, the two
friends agreeing to meet again before proceeding to Venice.

His companion gone, Inglesant employed himself in frequenting all those
churches to which Lauretta was in the habit of resorting during the Holy
Season; and as every facility appeared to be given him by her friends,
he became very intimate with her, and she on her part testified no
disinclination to his society.  It will probably occur to the reader
that this conduct was not consistent with the cautious demeanour which
Inglesant had resolved upon; but such resolutions have before now proved
ineffectual under similar circumstances, and doubtless the like will
occur again.  Lauretta looked round as a matter of course, as she came
out of the particular church she had that day chosen, for the handsome
cavalier who was certain to be ready to offer the drop of holy water;
and more than one rival whom the beautiful devotee had attracted to the
service, noticed with envy the kindly look of the masked eyes which
acknowledged the courtesy; and, indeed, it is not often that ladies’
eyes have rested upon a lover more attractive to a girl of a refined
nature than did Lauretta’s, when, in the dawn of the March mornings, she
saw John Inglesant waiting for her on the marble steps.  It is true that
she thought the Cavaliere Inglese somewhat melancholy and sad, but her
own disposition was reserved and pensive; and in her presence
Inglesant’s melancholy was so far charmed away that it became only an
added grace of sweetness of manner, and of tender deference and
protection.  The servant of the polished King of England, the companion
of Falkland and of Caernarvon, the French Princess’s favourite page,
trained in every art that makes life attractive, that makes life itself
the finest art, with a memory and intellect stored with the poetry and
learning of the antique world,—it would have been strange if, where once
his fancy was touched, Inglesant had not made a finished and attractive
lover.

The familiar streets of Florence, the bridges, or the walks by the Arno,
assumed a new charm to the young girl, when she saw them in company with
her pleasant and courteous friend; and whether in the early morning it
was a few spring flowers that he brought her, or a brilliant jewel that
he placed upon her finger as he parted in the soft Italian night, it was
the giver, and the grace with which the gift was made, that won the
romantic fancy of the daughter of the south.  Their talk was not of the
kind that lovers often use.  He would indeed begin with relating stories
of the English Court, in the bright fleeting days before the war, of the
courtly refined revels, of the stately dances and plays, and of the
boating parties on the wooded Thames; but most often the narrative
changed its tone instinctively, and went on to speak of sadder and
higher things; of self-denial and devotion of ladies and children, who
suffered for their King without complaint; of the Ferrars and their holy
life; of the martyred Archbishop and of the King’s death; and sometimes
perhaps of some sight of battle and suffering the narrator himself had
seen, as when the evening sun was shining upon the glassy slope of
Newbury, and he knelt beside the dying Caernarvon, unmindful of the
bullets that fell around.

"You have deserved well of the King," he whispered: "have you no request
that I may make to him, nothing for your children, or your wife?"

And with his eyes fixed upon the western horizon the Earl replied,—

"No, I will go hence with no request upon my lips but to the King of
kings."

How all this pleasant dalliance would have terminated, had it continued,
we have no means of knowing, for a sudden and unexpected end was put to
it, at any rate for a time.

Easter was over, and the Cavaliere had invited Inglesant to join in a
small party to spend a day or two at his vineyard and country house
among the Apennines, assuring him that at that time of the year the
valleys and hill-slopes were very delightful.

The evening before the day on which the little company was to start,
Inglesant had an engagement at one of the theatres in Florence, where a
comedy or pantomime was being performed.  The comedies in Italy at this
time were paltry in character in everything except the music, which was
very good.  Inglesant accompanied a Signore Gabriotto, a violin player,
who was engaged at the theatre, and of whom Inglesant had taken lessons,
and with whom he had become intimate. This man was not only an admirable
performer on the violin, but was a man of cultivation and taste.  He had
given much study to the music of the ancients, and especially to their
musical instruments, as they are to be seen in the hands of the Apollos,
muses, fauns, satyrs, bacchanals, and shepherds of the classic
sculptors.  As they walked through the streets in the evening sunlight,
he favoured his companion, whom he greatly admired as an excellent
listener, with a long discourse on this subject, showing how useful such
an inquiry was, not only to obtain a right notion of the ancient music,
but also to help us to obtain pleasanter instruments if possible than
those at present in use.

"Not, signore," he said, "that I think we have much to learn from the
ancients; for if we are to judge their instruments by the appearance
they make in marble, there is not one that is comparable to our violins;
for they seem, as far as I can make out, all to have been played on
either by the bare fingers or the plectrum, so that they could not add
length to their notes, nor could they vary them by that insensible
swelling and dying away of sound upon the same string which gives so
wonderful a sweetness to our modern music.  And as far as I can see,
their stringed instruments must have had very low and feeble voices from
the small proportion of wood used (though it is difficult to judge of
this, seeing that all our examples are represented in marble), which
would prevent the instruments containing sufficient air to render the
strokes full or sonorous.  Now my violin," continued the Italian with
enthusiasm, "does not speak only with the strings, it speaks all over,
as though it were a living creature that was all voice, or, as is really
the case, as though it were full of sound."

"You have a wonderful advantage," said Inglesant, "you Italians, that
is, in the cultivation of the art of life; for you have the unbroken
tradition, and habit and tone of mind, from the old world of pleasure
and art—a world that took the pleasures of life boldly, and had no
conscience to prevent its cultivating and enjoying them to the full.
But I must say that you have not, to my mind, improved during the lapse
of centuries, nor is the comedy we shall see to-night what might be
expected of a people who are the descendants of the old Italians who
applauded Terence."

"The comedy to-night," said the Italian, "would be nothing without the
music, the acting is a mere pretence."

"The comedy itself," said Inglesant, "would be intolerable but for the
buffoons, and the people show their sense in demanding that place shall
be found in every piece for these worthies.  The play itself is stilted
and unreal, but there is always something of irony and wit in these
characters, which men have found full of satire and humour for four
thousand years: Harlequin the reckless fantastic youth, Pantaleone the
poor old worn-out ’Senex,’ and Corviello the rogue.  In their absurd
impertinences, in their impossible combinations, in their mistakes and
tumbles, in their falling over queens and running up against monarchs,
men have always seemed to see some careless, light-hearted,
half-indifferent sarcasm and satire upon their own existence."

When they reached the theatre, the slant rays of the setting sun were
shining between the lofty houses, and many people were standing about
the doors.  Inglesant accompanied the violinist to the door of the
playhouse, and took his place near the orchestra, at either end of which
were steps leading up on to the stage.  The evening sunlight penetrated
into the house through Venetian blinds, lighting up the fittings and the
audience with a sort of mystic haze.  The sides of the stage were
crowded with gentlemen, some standing, others sitting on small stools.
Many of the audience were standing, the rest seated on benches.  The
part occupied in modern theatres by the boxes was furnished with raised
seats, on which ladies and people of distinction were accommodated.
There was no gallery.

As the first bars of the overture struck upon Inglesant’s ear, with a
long-drawn tremor of the bass viols and a shrill plaintive note of the
treble violins, an irresistible sense of loneliness and desolation and a
strange awe crept over him and weighed down his spirits.  As the
fantastic music continued, in which gaiety and sadness were mysteriously
mingled, the reverberation seemed to excite each moment a clearer
perception of those paths of intrigue and of danger in which he seemed
to walk.  The uneasy sentiment which accompanied, he knew not why, his
attachment to Lauretta, and the insidious friendship of the Cavaliere,
the sense of insecurity which followed his footsteps in this land of
dark and sinful deeds, passed before his mind.  It seemed to his excited
fancy at that moment that the end was drawing very near, and amid the
fascination of the lovely music he seemed to await the note of the
huntsman’s horn which would announce that the toils were set, and that
the chase was up.  From the kind of trance in which he stood he was
aroused by hearing a voice, distinct to his ear and perfectly audible,
though apparently at some considerable distance, say—

"Who is that man by the curtain, in black satin, with the Point de
Venice lace?"

And another voice, equally clear, answered, "His name is Inglesant, an
agent of the Society of the Gesu."

Inglesant turned; but, amid the crowd of faces behind him, he could
discern nothing that indicated the speakers, nor did any one else seem
to have noticed anything unusual.  The next moment the music ceased, and
with a scream of laughter Harlequin bounded on the stage, followed by
Pantaleone in an eager and tottering step, and after them a wild rout of
figures, of all orders and classes, who flitted across the stage amid
the applause of the people, and suddenly disappeared; while Harlequin
and Pantaleone as suddenly reappearing, began a lively dialogue,
accompanied by a quick movement of the violins. As Inglesant took his
eyes off the stage for a moment, they fell on the figure of a man
standing on the flight of steps at the farther end of the orchestra, who
regarded him with a fixed and scrutinizing gaze.  It was a tall and dark
man, whose expression would have been concealed from Inglesant but for
the fiery brilliancy of his eyes.  Inglesant’s glance met his as in a
dream, and remained fixed as though fascinated, at which the gaze of the
other became, if possible, more intense, as though he too were
spell-bound and unable to turn away.  At this moment the dialogue on the
stage ceased, and a girl advanced to the footlights with a song,
accompanied by the band in an air adapted from the overture, and
containing a repetition of the opening bars.  The association of sound
broke the spell, and Inglesant turned his eyes upon the singer; when he
looked again his strange examiner was gone.

The girl who was singing was a Roman, reputed the best treble singer
then in Italy.  The sun by this time was set, and the short twilight
over.  The theatre was sparsely lighted by candles, nearly the whole of
the available light being concentrated upon the stage.  This arrangement
produced striking effects of light and shade, more pleasing than are the
brilliantly lighted theatres of modern days.  The figures on the stage
came forward into full and clear view, and faded again into obscurity in
a mysterious way very favourable to romantic illusion, and the
theatrical arrangements were not seen too clearly.  The house itself was
shadowy, and the audience unreal and unsubstantial; the whole scene wore
an aspect of glamour and romance wanting at the present day.

When the girl’s song was over there was a movement among the gentlemen
on the stage, several coming down into the house.  Inglesant took
advantage of this, and went up on the stage, from which he might hope to
see something of the stranger who had been watching him so closely, if
he were still in the theatre.

Several of the actors who were waiting for their turn mingled with the
gentlemen, talking to their acquaintance.  The strange light thrown on
the centre of the stage in which two or three figures were standing, the
multitude of dark forms in the surrounding shadow, the dim recesses of
the theatre itself full of figures, the exquisite music, now soft and
plaintive, anon gay and dance-like, then solemn and melancholy, formed a
singular and attractive whole.  Lauretta had declined to come that
night, but Inglesant thought it was not improbable that the Cavaliere
would be there, and he was curious to see whether he could detect him in
company with the mysterious stranger. From the moment that he had heard
the distant voice inquiring his name, the familiar idea had again
occurred to his mind that this could be none other than the murderer of
his brother, of whom he was in search; but this thought had occurred so
often, and in connection with so many persons, that had it not been for
the fixed and peculiar glance with which the stranger had regarded him,
he would have thought little of it.  He was, however, unable to
distinguish either of the persons of whom he was in search from the
crowd that filled the theatre; and his attention was so much diverted by
the constantly changing scene before him that he soon ceased to attempt
to do so. At that moment the opening movement of the overture was again
repeated by the band, and was made the theme of an elaborate variation,
in which the melancholy idea of the music was rendered in every variety
of shade by the plaintive violins. Every phase of sorrow, every form and
semblance of grief that Inglesant had ever known, seemed to float
through his mind, in sympathy with the sounds which, inarticulate to the
ear, possessed a power stronger than that of language to the mental
sense.  The anticipation of coming evil naturally connected itself with
the person of Lauretta, and he seemed to see her lying dead before him
upon the lighted stage, or standing in an attitude of grief, looking at
him with wistful eyes.  This last image was so strongly presented to his
imagination that it partook almost of the character of an apparition;
and before it the crowded theatre, the gaily dressed forms upon the
stage, the fantastic actors, seemed to fade, and alone on the deserted
boards the figure of Lauretta, as he had last seen it, slight and
girl-like, yet of noble bearing, stood gazing at him with wild and
apprehensive eyes.  Curiously too, as his fancy dwelt upon this figure,
it saw in her hand a sealed letter fastened with a peculiarly twisted
cord.

The burden of sorrow and of anticipated evil became at last too heavy to
be borne, and Inglesant left the theatre and returned to his lodgings.
But here he could not rest.  Though he had no reason to visit the Count
that night, and though it was scarcely seemly, indeed, that he should do
so, yet, impelled by a restless discomfort which he sought to quiet, he
wandered again into the streets, and found himself not unnaturally
before the old nobleman’s dwelling.  Once here, the impulse was too
strong to be denied, and he knocked at the low sunken door.  The house
seemed strangely quiet and deserted, and it was some time before an old
servant who belonged to the lower part of the establishment, devoted to
the sale of the wine, appeared at the wicket, and, on being assured whom
it was who knocked at that unseasonable hour, opened the door.

The house was empty, he averred.  The family had suddenly departed,
whither he knew not.  If the signore was pleased to go upstairs, he
believed he would find some letters for him left by the Cavaliere.

Inglesant followed the old man, who carried a common brass lamp, which
cast an uncertain and flickering glare, the sense of evil growing
stronger at every step he took.  His guide led him into the room in
which he had first seen Lauretta, which appeared bare and deserted, but
showed no sign of hasty departure.  Upon a marble table inlaid with
coloured stones were two letters, both directed to Inglesant. The one
was from the Cavaliere, excusing their departure on the ground of sudden
business of the highest political importance, the other from Lauretta,
written in a hasty trembling hand.  It contained but a few lines—"that
she was obliged to follow her father;" but Inglesant hesitated a moment
before he broke the seal, for it was tied round with a curiously twisted
cord of blue and yellow silk, as he had seen in the vision his fancy had
created.




                             *CHAPTER II.*


Lauretta’s letter had informed Inglesant that she would endeavour to let
him know where she was; and with that hope he was obliged to be content,
as by no effort he could make could he discover any trace of the
fugitive’s route.  Florence, however, became distasteful to him, and he
would have left it sooner but for an attack of fever which prostrated
him for some time.  Few foreigners were long in Italy, in those days,
without suffering from the climate and the miasmas and unhealthy
vapours, which, especially at night, were so hurtful even to those
accustomed to the country.  In his illness Inglesant was carefully
nursed by some of the Jesuit fathers, and those whom they recommended;
and it is possible that they took care that he should not be left too
much to the care of the physicians, whose attentions, at that period at
any rate, were so often fatal to their patients.  In the course of a few
weeks he was sufficiently recovered to think of leaving Florence, and he
despatched a messenger to Don Agostino, begging him to meet him at
Lucca, where they might decide either to visit Venice or go on straight
to Rome.  It was not without some lingering hope that he might find
Lauretta in the town of her birth, that he set out for Lucca, but
misfortune followed his path.  It was reported that the plague had
broken out in Florence, and travellers who were known to have come from
thence were regarded with great suspicion.  Inglesant’s appearance,
recently recovered from sickness, was not in his favour; and at
Fucecchio, a small town on the road to Lucca, he was arrested by the
authorities, and confined by them in the pest-house for forty days.  It
was a building which had formerly been a gentleman’s house, and
possessed a small garden surrounded by a high wall.  In this dreary
abode Inglesant passed many solitary days, the other inmates being three
or four unfortunates like himself,—travellers on business through the
country,—who, their affairs being injured by their detention, were
melancholy and despondent.  He was short of money, and for some time was
unable to communicate with any of his friends either in Florence or
Sienna.  With nothing but his own misfortunes to brood upon, and with
the apprehension of the future, which almost amounted to religious
melancholy, frequently before his mind, it is surprising that he kept
his reason.  To add to his misfortunes, when the greater portion of the
time fixed for his detention was expired, one of the inmates of the
pest-house suddenly died; and although the physicians pronounced his
disease not to be the plague, yet the authorities decreed that all
should remain another forty days within its dreary walls.  The death of
this person greatly affected Inglesant, as he was the only one of the
inmates with whom he had contracted any intimacy.

During the first part of his sojourn here, there was brought to the
house, as an inmate, a wandering minstrel, who, the first evening of his
stay, attracted the whole of the gloomy society around him by his
playing.  He played upon a small and curiously shaped instrument called
a vielle, somewhat like a child’s toy, with four strings, and a kind of
small wheel instead of a bow.  It was commonly used by blind men and
beggars in the streets, and was considered a contemptible instrument,
though some of these itinerant performers attained to such skill upon it
that they could make their hearers laugh and dance, and it was said even
weep, as they stood around them in the crowded streets.  Inglesant soon
perceived that the man was no contemptible musician, and after his
performance was over he entered into conversation with him, asking him
why he, who could play so well, was content with so poor an instrument.
The man, who appeared to have a great deal of intelligence and humour,
said that he was addicted to a wandering and unsettled life, among the
poorer and disorderly classes in the low quarters of cities, in mountain
villages, and in remote hostelries and forest inns; that the possession
of a valuable viol, or other instrument, even if he should practice
sufficient self-denial to enable him to save money to purchase such a
one, would be a constant anxiety to him, and a source of danger among
the wild companions with whom he often associated.  "Besides, signore,"
he said, "I am attached to this poor little friend of mine, who will
speak to me though to none else.  I have learnt the secrets of its
heart, and by what means it may be made to discourse eloquently of human
life.  You may despise my instrument, but I can assure you it is far
superior to the guitar, though that is so high bred and genteel a
gentleman, found in all romances and ladies’ bowers. For any music that
depends upon the touch of a string, and is limited in the duration of
the distinct sounds, is far inferior to this little fellow’s voice."

"You seemed trained to the profession of music," said Inglesant.

"I was serving-lad to an old musician in Rome, who not only played on
several instruments, but gave a great deal of time to the study of the
science of harmony, and of the mysteries of music.  He was fond of me,
and taught me the viol, as I was apt to learn."

"I have heard of musicians," said Inglesant, "who have written on the
philosophy of sound.  He was doubtless one of them."

"There are things concerning musical instruments," said the man, "very
wonderful; such as the laws concerning the octaves of flutes, which,
make them how you will, you can never alter, and which show how the
principles of harmony prevail in the dead things of the world, which we
think so blockish and stupid; and what is more wonderful still, the
passions of men’s souls, which are so wild and untamable, are all ruled
and kept in a strict measure and mean, for they are all concerned in and
wrought upon by music.  And what can be more wonderful than that a
maestro in the art can take delight in sound, though he does not hear
it; and when he looks at some black marks upon paper, he hears
intellectually, and by the power of the soul alone?"

"You speak so well of these things," said Inglesant, "that I wonder you
are content to wander about the world at village fairs and country
weddings, and do not rather establish yourself in some great town, where
you might follow your genius and earn a competence and fame."

"I have already told you," replied the man, "that I am wedded to this
kind of life; and if you could accompany me for some months, with your
viol d’amore, across the mountains, and through the deep valleys, and
into the old towns where no travellers ever come, and where all stands
still from century to century, you would never leave it, any more than I
shall. I could tell you of many strange sights I have witnessed, and if
we stay long in this place, perhaps you will be glad to hear some tales
to while away the time."

"You spoke but now," said Inglesant, "of the power that music has over
the passions of men.  I should like to hear somewhat more of this."

"I will tell you a curious tale of that also," said the man.


                       THE VIELLE-PLAYER’S STORY.

"Some twenty-five years ago there lived in Rome two friends, who were
both musicians, and greatly attached to each other.  The elder, whose
name was Giacomo Andria, was maestro di capella of one of the churches,
the other was an accomplished lutinist and singer.  The elder was a
cavaliere and a man of rank; the younger of respectable parentage, of
the name of Vanneo.  The style of music in which each was engaged was
sufficiently different to allow of much friendly contention; and many
lively debates took place as to the respective merits of ’Sonate da
Chiesa’ and ’Sonate da Camera.’  Their respective instruments also
afforded ground for friendly dispute.  Vanneo was very desirous that his
friend should introduce viols and other instruments into the service, in
concert with the voices, in the Church in which Vanneo himself sang in
the choir; but the Cavaliere, who considered this a practice derived
from the theatre, refused to avail himself of any instrument save the
organ.  Vanneo was more successful in inducing his friend to practice
upon his favourite instrument the lute, though Andria pretended at first
to despise it as a ladies’ toy, and liable to injure the shape of the
performer.  His friend, however, though devoted to secular music,
brought to the performance and composition of it so much taste and
correct feeling, that Andria was ravished in spite of himself, and of
his preference to the solemn music of the Church.  Vanneo excelled in
contrasting melancholy and pensive music with bright and lively cords,
mingling weeping and laughter in some of the sweetest melodies that
imagination ever suggested.  He accompanied his own voice on the lute,
or he composed pieces for a single voice with accompaniment for violins.
In a word, he won his friend over to this grave chamber music, in some
respects more pathetic and serious than the more monotonous masses and
sonatas of the Church composers.  Vanneo composed expressly for this
purpose fantasies on the chamber organ, interposed, now and then, with
stately and sweet dance music, such as Pavins (so named from the walk of
a peacock) Allemaines, and other delightful airs, upon the violins and
lute.  In these fancies he blended, as it were, pathetic stories, gay
festivities, and sublime and subtle ideas, all appealing to the secret
and intellectual faculties, so that the music became not only an
exponent of life but a divine influence.  After these delightful
meetings had continued for several years, circumstances obliged Vanneo
to accompany a patron to France, and from thence he went over into
England, to the great King of that nation, as one of his private
musicians; for the Queen of England was a French Princess, and was fond
of the lute.  His departure was a great grief to the Cavaliere, who
devoted himself more than ever to Church music and to the offices of
religion.  He was a man of very devout temper, and was distinguished for
his benevolent disposition, and especially for his compassion for the
poor, whom he daily relieved in crowds at his own door, and in the
prisons of Rome, which he daily visited.  From time to time he heard
from his friend, to whom he continued strongly attached."

"I was brought up at the English Court," said Inglesant, "and have been
trying to recall such a man, but cannot recollect the name you mention,
though I remember several lutinists and Italians."

"I tell the story as I heard it," replied the other.  "The man may have
changed his name in a foreign country.  One day the Cavaliere had
received a letter from his friend, brought to him by some English
gentleman travelling to Rome.  Having read it, and spent some time with
the recollections that its perusal suggested to his mind, he set himself
to the work in which he was engaged—the composition of a motet for some
approaching festival of the Church; but although he attempted to fix his
mind upon his occupation, and was very anxious to finish his work, he
found himself unable to do so.  The remembrance of his friend took
complete possession of his mind; and his imagination, instead of
dwelling on the solemn music of the motet, wandered perversely into the
alluring world of phantasied melody which Vanneo had composed.  Those
sad and pensive adagios, passing imperceptibly into the light gaiety of
a festival, never seemed so delightful as at that moment. He rose from
time to time, and walked to and fro in his chamber, and as he did so he
involuntarily took up a lute which Vanneo had left with him as a parting
gift, and which always lay within reach.  As he carelessly touched the
strings, something of his friend’s spirit seemed to have inspired him,
and the lute breathed again with something of the old familiar charm.
Each time that he took it up, the notes formed themselves again under
his hand into the same melody, and at last he took up a sheet of paper,
intended for the motet, and scored down the air he had involuntarily
composed.  His fancy being pleased with the occurrence, he elaborated it
into a lesson, and showed it to several of his associates.  He gave it
the name of ’gli amici,’ and it became very popular among the masters in
Rome as a lesson for their pupils on the lute. Among those who thus
learnt it was a youth who afterwards became page to a Florentine
gentleman, one Bernard Guasconi, who went into England and took service
under the King of that country, who, as you doubtless know better than I
do, was at war with his people."

"I know the Cavaliere Guasconi," said Inglesant, "and saw him lately in
Florence, where he is training running horses for the Grand Duke."

"This war," continued the man, "appears to have been the ruin of Vanneo;
for the English people, besides hating their King, took to hating all
kinds of music, and all churches and choristers.  Vanneo lost his place
as one of the King’s musicians, and not being able to earn his living by
teaching music where so few cared to learn, he was forced to enlist as a
soldier in one of the King’s armies, and was several times near losing
his life.  He escaped these dangers, however; but the army in which he
served being defeated and dispersed, he wandered about the country,
wounded, and suffering from sickness and want of food.  He supported
himself miserably, partly by charity, especially among the Loyalist
families, and partly by giving singing lessons to such as desired them.
He was without friends, or any means of procuring money to enable him to
return to Italy.  As he was walking in this manner one day in the
streets of London, without any hope, and with scarcely any life, he
heard the sound of music.  It was long since the melody of a lute, once
so familiar, had fallen on his ear; and as he stopped to listen, the
notes came to him through the thick moist air like an angelic and divine
murmur from another world.  The music seemed to come from a small room
on the ground-floor of a poor inn, and Vanneo opened the door and went
in.  He found a young man, plainly dressed, playing on a double-necked
theorbo-lute, which, from the number of its strings, enables, as you
know, the skilful lutinist to play part music, with all the varieties of
fugues and other graces and ornaments of the Italian manner.  The piece
which the young man was playing consisted of an allegro and yet sweet
movement on the tenor strings, with a sustained harmony in thorough
bass.  The melody, being carefully distributed through the parts, spoke
to Vanneo of gaiety and cheerfulness, as of his old Italian life,
strangely combined at the same time with a soothing and pathetic
melancholy, like a corpse carried through the streets of a gay city,
strewn with flowers and accompanied with tapers and singing of boys.
The whole piece finished with a pastorale, or strain of low and sweet
notes.  As Vanneo listened he was transported out of himself.  It was
not alone the beauty of the music which ravished him, but he was
conscious that a mysterious presence, as of his friend the Cavaliere,
was with him, and that at last the perfect sympathy which he had sought
so long was established; and that in the music he had heard a common
existence and sphere of life was at last created, in which they both
lived, not any longer separate from each other, but enjoying as it were
one common being of melody and ecstatic life of sound.  When the music
ceased Vanneo accosted the lutinist, and inquired the name of the
composer; but this the young man could not tell him.  He only knew it
was a favourite lesson for skilful pupils among the music-masters in
Rome, and as such he had learnt it.  Vanneo was confident the piece had
been written by Andria, and by none other, and told the young man so.
By this time they had discovered that they were fellow-countrymen, and
the lutinist sent for refreshments, of which Vanneo stood very much in
need. He also told him that his name was Scacchi, and that he was page
to the Signore Bernard Guasconi, who was then in arms for the King, and
was besieged in some town of which I have forgotten the English name."

"It was Colchester," said Inglesant; "I was in prison at the time of the
siege; but I know the history of it and its sad ending."

"Becoming very familiar with Vanneo, he advised him to accompany him to
Colchester.  His master, he said, would doubtless be set at liberty
immediately as a foreigner and a friend of the Grand Duke’s, and he
could accompany him home to Italy as a domestic.  As no better prospect
was open to Vanneo of returning to his native country, he gladly
accepted the page’s offer, and agreed to accompany him next day.  The
besiegers of the town which you call Colchester were engaging persons
from all parts of the country to work their trenches, and the town not
being far from London, many persons went from that place to earn the
wages offered.  Many of the Loyalists also took advantage of this
pretext, intending to join the besieged if a favourable opportunity
offered.  To one of these parties Vanneo and the page joined themselves.
You may wonder that I know so much of these matters, but I have heard
the story several times repeated by the page himself. The weather was
very cold and wet, and the companions underwent much hardship on their
march.  They travelled through a flat and marshy country, full of woods
and groves of trees, and crossed with dykes and streams.  Vanneo,
however, who had endured so much privation and suffering, began to sink
under his fatigues.  After travelling for more than two days they
arrived at the leaguer.  They were told that the besieged were expected
every day to surrender at discretion; but they were sent into the
trenches with several other volunteers to relieve those already there,
many of whom were exhausted with the work, and were deserting.  As they
arrived at the extreme limit of the lines the besiegers had planted four
great pieces of battering cannon against the town, and fired great shot
all the forenoon, without, however, doing much damage.  The Royalists
mustered all their troops upon the line, intending, as it afterwards
appeared, to break out at night and force their way through the leaguer.
The lines were so close that the soldiers could throw stones at each
other as they lay in the trenches; and Vanneo and the page could see the
King’s officers plainly upon the city walls.  The Royalists did not
fire, being short of ammunition, and in the night a mutiny took place
among some of the foot-soldiers, which prevented the project of cutting
their way out from taking effect.  The soldiers of both armies were now
already mixed on many places upon the line, and no fire was given on
either side, as though the Royalists were already prisoners.  The page
left Vanneo, who was worn-out and ill, and easily made his way into the
town, where he found his master.  When he returned to the trenches he
found Vanneo very ill, and a physician with him, a doctor of the town,
named Gibson, as I remember, who told the page that he thought his
companion was dying.  Vanneo, in fact, appeared to be insensible, his
eyes were closed, and he was perfectly pale.  He lay in a small house,
just within the lines, which had been deserted by its inhabitants, who
were weavers.  The gentlemen were under arrest in the town, and it was
reported that several were to be immediately shot, of whom it was
whispered the Signore Guasconi was to be one.  About two in the
afternoon the general of the besieging army entered the town, and a
great rabble of the soldiers with him.  The latter broke into many
houses to search for plunder, and among them into that in which Vanneo
was lying.  As they came into the room and saw the dying man, they
stopped and began to question the page as to who he was.  Before he
could reply Vanneo opened his eyes with a smile, raised himself suddenly
from the straw on which he lay, and, stretching out his hand eagerly as
one who welcomes a friend, exclaimed in Italian, ’Cavaliere, the
consonance is complete;’ and having said this he fell back upon the
straw again, and, the smile still upon his face, he died."

The musician stopped a moment, and then glancing at Inglesant with a
curious look said, "It is confidently said that about that very moment
the Cavaliere Andria died at Rome; at any rate when the page returned to
Italy and inquired for him at Rome, he was dead.  He caught a fever in
one of his visits to the prisons, and died in a few days."

"Did the page tell you of the two gentlemen who were shot at
Colchester?" said Inglesant.

"Yes, he told me that Guasconi stood by with his doublet off expecting
his turn; but when the others were shot he was taken back to his prison.
They only found out he was an Italian by his asking leave to write to
the Grand Duke."

"I have been told," he continued, "that this poor King was a great lover
of music, and played the bass viol himself."

"He was a great admirer of Church music," said Inglesant; "I have often
seen him appoint the service and anthems himself."

As the conversation of this man was a great entertainment to Inglesant,
so his sudden and unexpected death was a great shock to him.  The
physician could give no clear explanation of his decease, and the
general opinion was that he died of the plague, though it was, of
course, the interest of every one in the pest-house that this should not
be acknowledged.

A few days after the burial two of the Jesuit Fathers arrived from
Florence, accompanied by Don Agostino, who, having in vain waited for
his friend at Lucca, had sought him at Florence, and finally traced him
to his dreary prison.  By their influence Inglesant was allowed to
depart; and actuated still by his desire to see Venice, set out,
accompanied by Don Agostino, in the hope of reaching that city.  They
crossed the Apennines, and journeyed by Modena, Mantua, Verona, and
Padua. These places, which at other times would have excited in
Inglesant the liveliest interest, were passed by him now as in a dream.
The listless indifference which grew day by day, developed at Padua into
absolute illness; and Agostino took lodgings for his friend in one of
the deserted palaces of which the city was full.  A few days’ rest from
travel, and from the excitement produced by novel scenes and by the
scorching plains, had a soothing and beneficent effect; but Venice being
reported to be at that time peculiarly unhealthy, and Inglesant becoming
sensible that he was physically unable to prosecute any inquiries there,
the friends resolved to abandon their journey in that direction, and to
return towards Rome.  At this juncture Don Agostino received letters
which compelled him to return hastily to Sienna, and after spending a
few days with his friend, he left, promising to return shortly and
accompany Inglesant to Rome, when he was sufficiently recruited by a few
weeks’ repose.

The failure of the silk trade, owing to the importation of silk from
India into Europe, had destroyed the prosperity of many parts of Italy;
and in Padua long streets of deserted mansions attested by their beauty
the wealth and taste of the nobility, whom the loss of the rents of
their mulberry groves had reduced to ruin.  Many houses being empty,
rents were exceedingly cheap, and the country being very plentiful in
produce, and the air very good, a little money went a long way in Padua.
There was something about the quiet gloomy town, with its silent narrow
streets and its long and dim arcades,—by which you might go from one end
of the city to the other under a shady covert,—that soothed Inglesant’s
weary senses and excited brain.

His was that sad condition in which the body and the mind, being
equally, like the several strings of an ill-kept lute, out of tune,
jarred upon each other, the pains of the body causing phantasms and
delusions of the mind.  His disappointment and illness at Florence, his
long confinement in the pest-house, and the sudden death of his friend
the poor musician, preyed upon his spirits and followed him even in his
dreams; and his body being weakened by suffering, and his mind depressed
by these gloomy events and images, the old spiritual terrors returned
with augmented force.  Nature herself, in times of health and happiness
so alluring and kind, turns against the wretch thus deprived of other
comfort.  The common sights and events of life, at one time so full of
interest, became hateful to him; and amid the solemn twilights and
gorgeous sunsets of Italy, his imagination was oppressed by an
intolerable presentiment of coming evil.  Finally, he despaired of
himself, his past life became hateful to him, and nothing in the future
promised a hope of greater success.  He saw himself the mere tool of a
political faction, and to his disordered fancy as little better than a
hireling bravo and mercenary.  The rustling of leaves, the falling of
water, the summer breeze, uttered a pensive and melancholy voice, which
was not soothing, but was like the distant moaning of sad spirits
foreboding disaster and disgrace.  On his first arrival in Padua Don
Agostino had introduced him to two or three ecclesiastics, whose
character and conversation he thought would please his friend; but
Inglesant made little effort to cultivate their acquaintance.  His
principal associate was the Prior of the Benedictine monastery, a mile
or two beyond the Ferrara Gate, who, becoming at last distressed at his
condition, advised him to consult a famous physician named Signore
Jovanni Zecca.

This man had the reputation of a wit, maintained chiefly by a constant
study of Boccalini’s "Parnassus," with quotations from which work he
constantly adorned his discourse.  He found Inglesant prostrate on a
couch in his apartment, with the Prior by his side.  The room had been
the state reception room of the former possessor, and the windows, which
were open, looked upon the wide space within one of the gates.  It was
the most busy part of the city, and for that reason the rooms had been
chosen by Don Agostino, as commanding the most agreeable and lively
prospect.

The Prior having explained to the physician the nature of Inglesant’s
malady, as far as he was acquainted with it, inquired whether the
situation of the rooms seemed suitable to the doctor, or whether it
would be well to remove to some country house.  The scene from the
windows indeed was very lively, and might be considered too distracting
for an invalid.  The prospect commanded the greater part of the Piazza,
or Place d’Armes, the gate and drawbridges and the glacis outside, with
a stretch of country road beyond, lined with poplars. This extensive
stage was occupied by ever-varying groups,—soldiers on guard in stiff
and picturesque uniform, men carrying burdens, pack-horses, oxen, now
and then a carriage with a string of horses and with running footmen,
peasant women, priests, children, and beggars, with sometimes a
puppet-show, or a conjuror with apes, and side by side with these last,
in strange incongruity, the procession of the Host.

"From what I know of this gentleman’s malady and disposition," said the
physician, "I should suppose that these sights and sounds, though
perhaps hurtful to his physical nature, are so dear to his moral nature
that to speak against them were useless.  These sounds, though
physically unpleasant, contain to the philosophic mind such moral beauty
as to be attractive in the highest degree, and to such a nature as this
my patient possesses offer a fascination which it would be unwise to
contend against."

"If," said the Prior to Inglesant with a smile, "your case requires
philosophic treatment, you are fortunate in having secured the advice of
Signore Zecca, who has the reputation of a philosopher and wit, as well
as that of a most skilful physician."

"With respect to my calling as a physician, I may make some claim
certainly," said the doctor, "if descent has any title to confer
excellence, for my great-grandfather was that celebrated Jovanni Zecca,
after whom I am named, the Physician of Bologna, whom you will find
mentioned in the most witty ’Ragguagli’ of Messere Tragano Boccalini;
therefore, if I fail in my profession, it is not for want of generations
of experience and precept; but as regards my proficiency as a
philosopher, I have no one to depend upon but myself, and my proficiency
is indeed but small."

"You are pleased to say so, Signore Fisico," said Inglesant languidly,
"with the modesty usual with great minds; nevertheless the remark which
you have just made shows you to be familiar with the deepest of all
philosophy, that of human life. It is my misfortune that I am too deeply
impressed already with the importance of this philosophy, and it is my
inadequate following of its teaching which is killing me."

"It is a subject of curious study," said the physician, "for perplexity
perhaps, certainly for much satire, but scarcely, I should think, for
martyrdom.  The noblest things in life are mixed with the most ignoble,
great pretence with infinite substance, vain-glory with solidness.  The
fool of one moment, the martyr of the next: as in the case of that
Spaniard mentioned by Messere Boccalini, whose work doubtless you know,
signore, but if not, I should recommend its perusal as certain to do
much to work your cure.  This man—the Spaniard, I mean—dying most
gallantly upon the field of honour, entreated his friend to see him
buried without unclothing him; and with these words died.  His body,
being afterwards examined, it was found that he who was so sprucely
dressed, and who had a ruff about his neck so curiously wrought as to be
of great value, had never a shirt on his back.  This discovery caused
great laughter among the vulgar sort of mankind; but by order of Apollo,
the great ruler of learning and philosophy, this Spaniard was given a
public and splendid funeral, equal to a Roman triumph; and an oration
was pronounced over him, who was so happy that, in his great calamity,
he was careful of his reputation before his life.  His noble funeral
seems to me rather to proclaim the fact that our worst meannesses cannot
deprive us of the dignity of that pity which is due to human nature
standing by the brink of an open grave.  A man has mistaken the secret
of human life who does not look for greatness in the midst of folly, for
sparks of nobility in the midst of meanness; and the well-poised mind
distributes with impartiality the praise and the blame."

"It is my misfortune," replied Inglesant, "that my mind is incapable of
this well-poised impartiality, but is worn out by the unworthy conflict
which the spirit within us wages with the meannesses of life.  As the
Psalmist says, ’The very abjects make mouths at me, and cease not.’

"You are like those people, signore," said the physician, "mentioned by
Messere Boccalini, whom the greatest physicians failed to cure, but who
were immediately restored to active health by the simple and common
remedies of a quack.  You seek for remedies among the stars and the
eternal verities of creation, whereas your ailment of mind arises
doubtless from some physical derangement, which perchance a learner in
healing might overcome."

"The fatal confusion of human life," said Inglesant, "is surely too
obvious a fact to be accounted for by the delusions of physical
disease."

The physician looked at Inglesant for a moment and said,—

"Some time, signore, I will tell you a story, not out of Boccalini,
which perchance will convince you that, strange as it may seem, the
realities of life and the delusions of disease are not so dissimilar as
you think."

"If it be so," said Inglesant, "your prescription is more terrible than
my complaint."

"I do not see that," replied the other.  "I have said nothing but what
should show you how unwise you will be, if you overlook the bodily
ailment in searching into the diseases of the soul."

"I am well aware," replied Inglesant, "that my ailment is one of the
body as well as of the mind; but were my body made perfectly whole and
sound, my cure could scarcely be said to be begun."

"I hold that most of the sorrows and perplexities of the mind are to be
traced to a diseased body," replied the physician, not paying much
attention to what his patient said; "the passion of the heart, heavy and
dull spirits, vain imaginations, the vision of spectres and phantoms,
grief and sorrow without manifest cause,—all these things may be cured
by purging away melancholy humours from the body, especially as I
conceive from the meseraic veins; and the heart will then be comforted,
in the taking away the material cause of sorrow, which is not to be
looked for in the world of spirits, nor in any providential government
of God, nor even in outward circumstances and perplexities, but in the
mechanism of the body itself."

"What cures do you propound that may be hoped to work such happy
results?" said the Prior, for Inglesant did not speak.

"We have many such cures in physics—physics studied by the light of the
heavenly science," said the physician; "such as the Saturica Sancti
Juliani, which grows plentifully on the rough cliffs of the Tyrrhenian
Sea, as the old Greek chronographers called it, called St. Julian’s
Rock; the Epithymum, or thyme, which is under Saturn, and therefore very
fitted for melancholy men; the Febrifuga, or, in our Italian tongue,
Artemisia Tenuifolia, good for such as be melancholy, sad, pensive, and
without power of speech; the distilled water of the Fraga, or
Strawberry, drunk with white wine reviveth the spirits, and as the holy
Psalmist says, ’Lætificat cor hominis;’ and the herb Panax, which grows
on the top of the Apennine, and is cherished in all the gardens of Italy
for its wonderful healing qualities; but the liquor of it, which you may
buy in Venice, is not distilled in Italy, but is brought from
Alexandria, a city of Egypt."

"You do not speak of the chemical medicines," said Inglesant, "which
were much thought of in England when I was in Oxford; and many wonderful
cures were worked by them, though I remember hearing that the young
doctor who first introduced them, and wrought some great cures, died
himself soon after."

"I have indeed no faith in the new doctrine of chemical compositions and
receipts," said the physician, "which from mere empirics must needs be
very dangerous, but from a man that is well grounded in the old way may
do strange things. The works of God are freely given to man.  His
medicines are common and cheap; it is the medicines of the new
physicians that are so dear and scarce to find."

Signore Zecca soon after took his leave, promising to send Inglesant a
cordial, the ingredients of which he said were gathered on "a Friday in
the hour of Jupiter," and which would be sufficient to give sleep,
pleasant dreams, and quiet rest to the most melancholy man in the world.
For, as he sensibly observed, "waking is a symptom which much tortures
melancholy men, and must therefore be speedily helped, and sleep by all
means procured.  To such as you especially, who have what I call the
temperament of sensibility, are fearful of pain, covet music and sleep,
and delight in poetry and romance, sleep alone is often a sufficient
remedy."

The doctor frequently visited Inglesant, who found his humour and
curious learning entertaining; and on one occasion, when they were alone
together, he reminded him of his promise to relate a story which would
prove his assertion that the ills of the soul were occasioned by those
of the body.

                     *      *      *      *      *

                   NOTE.—The MSS. are here imperfect.




                             *CHAPTER III.*


In spite, however, of the reasonings and prescriptions of the physician,
the oppression upon Inglesant’s brain became more intolerable.  Every
new object seemed burnt into it by the sultry outward heat, and by his
own fiery thoughts.  The livid scorched plains, with the dark foliage,
the hot piazzas and highways, seemed to him thronged with ghastly
phantoms, all occupied more or less in some evil or fruitless work.  As
to his physical sense all objects seemed distorted and awry, so to his
mental perception the most ordinary events bore in them the germs,
however slight, of that terrible act of murderous terror that had marred
and ruined his own life.  In some form or other, in the passionate look,
in the gambler’s gesture, in the lover’s glance, in the juggler’s
grimace, in the passion of the little child, he saw the stealthy trail
of the Italian murderer, before whose cowardly blow his brother fell.
The cool neglected courts of Padua afforded no relief to his racked
brain, no solace to his fevered fancy.  He frequented the shadowed
churches and the solemn masses daily without comfort; for his conscience
was once more weighted with the remembrance of Serenus de Cressy, and of
his own rejection of the narrow path of the Holy Cross.  A sense of
oppression and confusion rested upon him mentally and physically, so
that he could see no objects steadily and clearly; but without was a
phantasmagoria of terrible bright colours, and within a mental chaos and
disorder without a clue.  A constant longing filled his mind to accept
De Cressy’s offer, and he would have returned to France but for the
utter impossibility of making the journey in his condition of health.
He withdrew himself more and more from society, and at last, without
informing his friends of his intention, he retired to a small monastery
without the city, about a mile from the Traviso Gate, and requested to
be admitted as a novice.  The result of this step at the outset was
beneficial; for the perfect seclusion, and the dim light of the cells
and shaded garden, relieved the brain, and restored the disordered sense
of vision.

It was some time before Don Agostino received intelligence, through the
Prior, of this step of his friend’s.  He immediately came to Padua, and
had several interviews with Inglesant, but apparently failed to produce
any impression upon him.  He then returned to Florence, and induced the
Cardinal Rinuccini, from whose influence upon Inglesant he hoped much,
to accompany him to Padua.

The Cardinal was a striking-looking and singularly handsome man, his
countenance resembling the reputed portraits of Molière, whose bust
might be taken for that of a pagan god. There was the same open free
expression, as of a man who confined his actions by no bounds, who
tasted freely of that tree of good and evil, which, it is reported,
transforms a man into a god, and of that other tree which, since the
flaming sword of the cherubim kept the way to the true, has passed in
the world for the tree of life; who had no prejudices nor partialities,
but included all mankind, and all the opinions of men, within the wide
range of perfect tolerance and lofty indifference.  He found Inglesant
in his novice’s dress, walking in the small walled-in garden of the
monastery, beneath the mulberry trees, his breviary in his hand.  After
the first greeting the Cardinal inquired touching his health.

"You are familiar with English, Eminence," replied Inglesant, "and
remember Hamlet; and you will therefore understand the state of a man
for whom the world is too strong."

"It is only the weak," replied the Cardinal, "for whom the world is too
strong.  You know what Terence says, ’Ita vita est hominum quasi cum
ludas tesseris,’ or, as we should rather say, ’Life is like a game of
cards;’ you cannot control the cards, but of such as turn up you must
make the most."

"Illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas."

"The freewill, the reason, and the power of self-command, struggle
perpetually with an array of chance incidents, of mechanical forces, of
material causes, beyond foresight or control, but not beyond skilful
management.  This gives a delicate zest and point to life, which it
would surely want if we had the power to frame it as we would.  We did
not make the world, and are not responsible for its state; but we can
make life a fine art, and, taking things as we find them, like wise men,
mould them as may best serve our own ends."

"We are not all wise, your Eminence, and the ends that some of us make
our aim are far beyond our reach."

"I was ever moderate in my desires," said the Cardinal with a smile; "I
shoot at none of these high-flying game.  I am content to live from day
to day, and leave the future to the gods; in the meantime sweetening
life as I can with some pleasing toys, here and there, to relish it."

"You have read Don Quixote, Eminence," said Inglesant; "and no doubt
hold him to have been mad."

"He was mad, doubtless," replied the Cardinal smiling.

"I am mad, like him," replied the other.

"I understand you," said the Cardinal; "it is a noble madness, from
which we inferior natures are free; nevertheless, it may be advisable
for a time to consult some worldly physician, that by his help this
nobleness may be preserved a little longer upon earth and among men."

"No worldly physician knows the disease, much less the cure," said
Inglesant.  "Don Quixote died in his bed at last, talked down by petty
common-place, acknowledging his madness, and calling his noble life a
mistake; how much more shall I, whose life has been the more ignoble for
some transient gleams of splendour which have crossed its path in vain!
The world is too strong for me, and heaven and its solution of life’s
enigma too far off."

"There is no solution, believe me," said the Cardinal, "no solution of
life’s enigma worth the reading.  But suppose there be, you are more
likely to find it at Rome than here.  Put off that monk’s dress, and
come with me to Rome.  What solution can you hope to find, brooding on
your own heart, on this narrow plot of grass, shut in by lofty walls?
You, and natures like yours, make this great error; you are moralizing
and speculating upon what life ought to be, instead of taking it as it
is; and in the meantime it slips by you, and you are nothing, and life
is gone.  I have heard, and you doubtless, in a fine concert of viols,
extemporary descant upon a thorough bass in the Italian manner, when
each performer in turn plays such variety of descant, in concordance to
the bass, as his skill and present invention may suggest to him.  In
this manner of play the consonances invariably fall true upon a given
note, and every succeeding note of the ground is met, now in the unison
or octave, now in the concords, preserving the melody throughout by the
laws of motion and sound.  I have thought that this is life.  To a
solemn bass of mystery and of the unseen, each man plays his own descant
as his taste or fate suggests; but this manner of play is so governed
and controlled by what seems a fatal necessity, that all melts into a
species of harmony; and even the very discords and dissonances, the wild
passions and deeds of men, are so attempered and adjusted that without
them the entire piece would be incomplete.  In this way I look upon life
as a spectacle, ’in theatro ludus.’  Have you sat so long that you are
tired already of the play?"

"I have read in some book,"[#] said Inglesant, "that it is not the
play—only the rehearsal.  The play itself is not given till the next
life.  But for the rest your Eminence is but too right. There is no
solution within my own heart, and no help within these walls."

[#] What this book is I do not know.  The remark was made by Jean Paul,
in Hesperus, some hundred years after Inglesant’s day.

There can be little doubt that had Inglesant remained much longer in the
monastery, he would have sunk into a settled melancholy.  The quiet and
calm, while it soothed his brain, and relieved it of the phantoms that
distracted it, allowed the mind to dwell exclusively upon those
depressing thoughts and ideas which were exhausting his spirit and
reducing him well-nigh to despair.  However undesirable at other times
the Cardinal’s philosophic paganism might be, no doubt, at this moment,
his society was highly beneficial to Inglesant, to whom, indeed, his
conversation possessed a peculiar charm.  It could, indeed, scarcely
fail to attract one who himself sympathized with that philosophy of
tolerance of, and attraction to, the multiform aspects of life which
Paganism and the Cardinal equally followed.  On the other hand,
Rinuccini had from the first been personally strongly attracted towards
Inglesant, and, as a matter of policy, attached just importance to
securing his services, both on account of what he had learnt from his
brother, and from the report of the Jesuits.

After some further conversation the Cardinal returned to Padua in
triumph, bringing Inglesant with him, whom he loaded with kindness and
attention.  A suite of apartments was placed at his disposal, certain of
the Cardinal’s servants were ordered to attend him, and the finest
horses were devoted to his use on the approaching journey.  After
waiting in Padua some days, to make preparations which were necessary in
the neglected state of Inglesant’s affairs, they set out for Rome.  Don
Agostino was still in Florence, the politics of his family not suffering
him to visit the papal city at present.

Their first day’s journey took them, through the fertile and
well-cultivated Venetian States, to Rovigo, where they crossed the Po,
dividing the territory of the Republic from the Ferrarese, which State
had lately been acquired by the Pope.

This country, which, while it possessed princes of its own, had been one
of the happiest and most beautiful parts of Italy, was now abandoned and
uncultivated to such an extent that the grass was left unmown on the
meadows.  At Ferrara, a vast city which appeared to Inglesant like a
city of the dead as he walked through streets of stately houses without
an inhabitant, the chief concourse of people was the crowd of beggars
who thronged round the Cardinal’s coach.  After dinner Inglesant left
his companion, who liked to linger over his wine, and walked out into
the quiet streets.  The long, deserted vistas of this vast city,
sleeping in the light and shadow of the afternoon sun, disturbed now and
then only by a solitary footstep, pleased his singular fancies as Padua
had done.  He entered several of the Churches, which were mean and
poorly adorned, and spoke to several of the priests and loiterers.
Everywhere he heard complaints of the poverty of the place, of the
misery of the people, of the bad unwholesome air, caused by the dearth
of inhabitants to cultivate the land.  When he came to inquire into the
causes of this, most held their peace; but one or two idlers, bolder or
more reckless than the rest, seeing that he was a foreigner, and
ignorant that he was riding in the train of a Cardinal, whispered to him
something of the severity of the Papal government, and of the heavy
taxes and frequent confiscations by which the nephews of several Popes
had enriched themselves, and devoured many of the principal families of
the city, and driven away many more.  "They talk of the bad air," said
one of these men to Inglesant; "the air was the same a century ago, when
this city was flourishing under its own princes—princes of so eminent a
virtue, and of so heroical a nobleness, that they were really the
Fathers of their country. Nothing," he continued with a mute gesture of
the hands, "can be imagined more changed than this is now."

"But Bologna is under the Pope, also," said Inglesant, "and is
flourishing enough."

"Bologna," he answered, "delivered itself up to the Popedom upon a
capitulation, by which there are many privileges reserved to it.  Crimes
there are only punished in the persons of those who commit them.  There
are no confiscations of estates; and the good result of these privileges
is evident, for, though Bologna is neither on a navigable river nor the
centre of a sovereignty where a Court is kept, yet its happiness and
wealth amaze a stranger; while we, once equally fortunate, are like a
city in a dream."

Inglesant returned to the inn to the Cardinal, and related what he had
heard; to all which dismal stories the Prelate only replied by
significant gesture.

The next morning, however, as he was entering his carriage followed by
his friend, he seemed to take particular notice of the crowd of beggars
that surrounded the inn.  In Inglesant’s eyes they only formed part
(together with the strange, quiet streets, the shaded gardens, and the
ever-changing scenes of their journey) in that shifting phantasm of form
and colour, meaningless to him, except as it might suddenly, and in some
unexpected way, become a part and scene of the fatal drama that had
seized upon and crippled his life.  But to the Cardinal, who had the
training of a politician, though he subordinated politics to enjoyment,
these swarms of beggars and these decaying states had at times a deeper
interest.

"These people," he said, as the carriage moved on, "certainly seem very
miserable, as you told me last night.  To those whose tastes lay that
way it would not be a useless business to inquire into these matters,
and to try to set them right. Some day, probably far distant, some of
us, or those like us who clothe in scarlet and fine linen, will have to
pay a reckoning for these things."

"They are less unhappy than I am," said Inglesant.  "As to the luxurious
persons of whom you speak, it has been my fate to be of their party all
my life, and to serve them for very poor reward; and I doubt not that,
when their damnation, of which your Eminence speaks, arrives, I shall
share it with them. But it might seem to one who knows little of such
things that some such attempt might be looked for from a sworn soldier
and prince of the Church."

The Cardinal smiled.  The freedom with which Inglesant’s sarcastic
humour showed itself at times, when the melancholy fit was upon him, was
one of the sources of attraction which attached the young Englishman to
his person.

"Life is short," he said, "and the future very uncertain; martyrs have
died, nay, still harder fate, have lived long lives of such devotion as
that which you wish me to attempt, and we see very little result.
Christianity is not of much use apparently to many of the nations of the
earth.  Now, on my side, as I pass my life, I certainly enjoy this
world, and I as certainly have cultivated my mind to sustain, as far as
I can foresee the probable, the demand and strain that will be put upon
it, both in the exit from this life, and in the entrance upon another.
Why then should I renounce these two positive goods, and embrace a life
of restless annoyance and discomfort, of antagonism to existing systems
and order, of certain failure, disappointment, and the peevish
protestation of a prophet to whom the world will not listen?"

"There is no reason why, certainly," said Inglesant, "for a sane man
like your Eminence.  I see clearly it must only have been madmen who in
all ages have been driven into the fire and upon the sword’s point in
pursuit of an idea which they fancied was worth the pain, but which, as
they never realized it, they could never put to the test."

"I perceive your irony," said the Cardinal, "and I recognize your wit.
What astonishes me is the interest you take in these old myths and
dreary services.  The charm of novelty must have worn itself out by this
time."

"Christ is real to many men," said Inglesant, "and the world seems to
manifest within itself a remedial power such as may be supposed to be
His."

"I do not dispute such a power," replied the Cardinal; "I only wonder at
the attachment to these old myths which profess to expound it."

"The world has now been satisfied with them for some centuries," said
Inglesant; "and for my own part, even in the blaze of a purer Mythos, I
cannot help thinking that some of us will look back with longing to ’one
of the days of the Son of man.’  I do not perceive either that your
Eminence attempts to improve matters."

"I can afford to wait," replied the Cardinal, with lofty indifference;
"the myths of the world are slow to change."

"This one certainly," replied Inglesant, with a smile, "has been slow to
change, perhaps because men found in it something that reminded them of
their daily life.  It speaks of suffering and of sin.  The cross of
Christ is composed of many other crosses—is the centre, the type, the
essence of all crosses. We must _suffer_ with Christ whether we
_believe_ in Him or not. We must suffer for the sin of others as for our
own; and in this suffering we find a healing and purifying power and
element. That is what gives to Christianity, in its simplest and most
unlettered form, its force and life.  Sin and suffering for sin: a
sacrifice, itself mysterious, offered mysteriously to the Divine Nemesis
or Law of Sin,—dread, undefined, unknown, yet sure and irresistible,
with the iron necessity of law.  This the intellectual Christ, the
Platonic-Socrates, did not offer: hence his failure, and the success of
the Nazarene.  Vicisti Galilæe."




                             *CHAPTER IV.*


Among the letters of introduction to persons in Rome which Inglesant
carried with him, was one from Father St. Clare to the Rector of the
English College, a Jesuit.  The Cardinal had invited him to remain an
inmate of his family, but there were several reasons which induced
Inglesant to decline the offer.  He was desirous of observing the
situation and habits of the great city in a more unfettered way than he
would probably be able to do if attached to the household of a great
man.  This reason alone would probably have decided him, but it was not
the only one.  In proportion as his mind recovered its natural tone, and
was able to throw off the depression which had so long troubled him,
another source of perplexity had taken its place.  Most men, in those
days, with the exception of very determined Puritans, approached Rome
with feelings of veneration and awe.  Inglesant’s training and
temperament inclined him to entertain these feelings as strongly perhaps
as any man of the day; but since he had been in Italy, his eyes and ears
had not been closed, and it had been impossible for him to resist a
growing impression, scarcely perhaps amounting to conviction, that the
nearer he approached the Papal capital the more wretched and worse
governed did the country appear on every side.  In the muttered
complaints which reached his ear these evils were charged partly upon
the abuses of the Papal chair itself, but principally upon the tyranny
and oppression of the society of the Jesuits.  Inglesant made these
observations mostly in the taverns or cafés in the evenings when those
who were present, perceiving him to be a foreigner, were more disposed
to be communicative than they otherwise would have been.  But the
Cardinal was known to associate rather with the Fathers of the Oratory
than with the Jesuits; and men did not hesitate therefore to speak
somewhat freely on these matters to his familiar companion.  These
accusations did not destroy Inglesant’s faith in the Society, but they
made him anxious to hear the other side, and to see, if possible from
within, the working of this great and powerful organization, and to
understand the motives which prompted those actions which were so much
blamed, and which were apparently productive of such questionable
fruits.  If this were to be done, it must be done at once.  He came to
Rome recommended to the Jesuits’ College, almost an accredited agent. He
would be received without suspicion, and would probably be enabled to
obtain an insight into much of their policy.  But if at the outset he
associated himself with persons and interests hostile, or at least
indifferent, to those of the party to which he belonged, and which he
wished to understand, this opportunity would doubtless soon be lost to
him.  Acting upon these considerations, he parted from the Cardinal, to
whom he confided his motives, and made his way to the English College or
house, which was situated in the street leading to St. Peter’s and the
Vatican, and not far from the Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo.

The College was a large and fair house, standing in several courts and
gardens.  Inglesant was received with courtesy by the rector, who said
that he remembered seeing him in London, and that he had also been at
his father’s house in Wiltshire. He named to him several Priests who had
also been there; but so many Papists had been constantly coming and
going at Westacre, during the time that Father St. Clare had resided
there, that Inglesant could not recall them to mind.  The rector,
however, mentioned one whom he remembered, the gentleman who had given
him St. Theresa’s Life.  He advised Inglesant to remain some days at the
College, as the usual and natural resort of all Englishmen connected in
any way with the Court and Church of Rome, promising him pleasant rooms.
He showed him his apartment, a small but handsome guest-chamber, looking
upon a garden, with a sort of oratory or closet adjoining, with an altar
and crucifix.  The bell rang for supper, but the rector had that meal
laid for himself and his guest in his private room.  The students, and
those who took their meals at the common table, had but one good meal in
the day, that being a most excellent one.  Their supper consisted of a
glass of wine and a manchet of bread.

The rector and Inglesant had much talk together, and after the latter
had satisfied his host, as best he could, upon all those points—and they
were many—connected with the state of affairs in England upon which he
desired information, the rector began in his turn to give his guest a
description of affairs in Rome, and of those things which he should see,
and how best to see them.

"I will not trouble you now," he said, "with any policy or State
affairs.  You will no doubt wish to spend the next few days in seeing
the wonderful sights of this place, and in becoming familiar with its
situation, so that you may study them more closely afterwards.  A man
must indeed be ill-endowed by nature who does not find in Rome delight
in every branch of learning and of art.  The libraries are open, and the
students have access to the rarest books; in the Churches the most
exquisite voices are daily heard, the palaces are crowded with pictures
and with statues, ancient and modern. You have, besides, the stately
streets and noble buildings of every age, the presence of strangers from
every part of the world, villas covered with ’bassi relievi,’ and the
enjoyment of nature in enchanting gardens.  To a man who loves the
practices of devotion I need not mention the life-long employment among
the Churches, relics, and processions.  It is this last that gives the
unique completeness of the Roman life within itself.  To the abundance
of its earthly wealth, to the delights of its intellectual
gratifications, is added a feeling of unequalled security and
satisfaction, kept alive, in a pious mind, by the incessant
contemplation of the objects of its reverence.  I do not know if you are
by taste more of a scholar than of a religious, but both tastes are
worthy of cultivation, nor is all spiritual learning necessarily
confined to the last.  There is much that is very instructive in the
lessons which the silent stones and shattered monuments of the fallen
cities over which we walk teach us.  It has been well observed that
everything that has been dug out of the ruins of ancient Rome has been
found mutilated, either by the barbarians, fanaticism, or time; and one
of our poets, Janus Vitalis, seeing all the massive buildings mouldered
or mouldering away, and the ever-changing Tiber only remaining the same,
composed this ingenious and pleasing verse—

    ’Disce hinc quid possit fortuna; immota labascunt;
    Et quæ perpetuo sunt fluitura, manent.’

You will find that the Italian humour delights much in such thoughts as
these, which make the French and other nations accuse us of melancholy.
The Italian has a strong fancy, yet a strong judgment, and this makes
him delight in such things as please the fancy, while at the same time
they are in accordance with judgment and with reason.  He delights in
music, medals, statues, and pictures, as things which either divert his
melancholy or humour it; and even the common people, such as shoemakers,
have formed curious collections of medals of gold, silver, and brass,
such as would have become the cabinet of a prince.  Do you wish to begin
with the Churches or with the antiquities?"

Inglesant said he wished to see the Churches first of all.

"You will, no doubt," said the rector, "find a great satisfaction in
such a choice.  You will be overcome with the beauty and solemnity of
these sacred places, and the sweetness of the organs and of the singing
will melt your heart.  At the same time, I should wish to point out to
you, to whom I wish to speak without the least reserve, that you will no
doubt see some things which will surprise you, nay, which may even
appear to you to be, to say the least, of questionable advantage. You
must understand once for all, and constantly bear in mind, that this
city is like none other, and that many things are natural and proper
here which would be strange and ill-fitted elsewhere.  Rome is the
visible symbol and representation of the Christian truth, and we live
here in a perpetual masque or holy interlude of the life of the Saviour.
As in other countries and cities, outward representations are placed
before the people of the awful facts and incidents on which their
salvation rests, so here this is carried still farther, as indeed was
natural and almost inevitable.  It was a very small step from the
representation of the flagellation of Christ to the very pillar on which
He leant.  Indeed, where these representations were enacted, the simple
country people readily and naturally conceived them to have taken place.
Hence, when you are shown the three doors of Pilate’s house in which
Jesus passed and repassed to and from judgment, the steps up which He
walked, the rock on which He promised to build His Church, the stone on
which the cock stood and crowed when Peter denied Him, part of His coat
and of His blood, and several of the nails of His cross,—more possibly
than were originally used, over which the heretics have not failed to
make themselves very merry;—when you see all these things, I say, and if
you feel, as I do not say you will feel—but if you feel any hesitancy or
even some repulsion, as though these miraculous things were to you
matters more of doubt than worship, you will not fail at once to see the
true nature and bearing of these things, nor to apply to them the
solution which your philosophy has doubtless given already to many
difficult questions of this life.  These things are true to each of us
according as we see them; they are, in fact, but shadows and likenesses
of the absolute truth that reveals itself to men in different ways, but
always imperfectly and as in a glass.  To the simple-hearted peasant
that pavement upon which in his mind’s eye he sees Jesus walking, is
verily and indeed pressed by the Divine feet; to him this pillar, the
sight of which makes the stinging whips creep along his flesh, is the
pillar to which the Lord was tied.  Our people, both peasant and noble,
are of the nature of children—children who are naughty one moment and
sincerely penitent the next.  They are now wildly dissolute, the next
day prostrate before the cross; and as such, much that is true and
beautiful in their lives seems otherwise to the cold and world-taught
heart.  But our Lord honoured the childlike heart, and will not send
away our poor peasants when they come to Him with their little
offerings, even though they lay them at the feet of a Bambino doll."

"But do you not find," said Inglesant, "that this devotion, which is so
ephemeral, is rather given to the sensible object than to the unseen
Christ?"

"It may be so," said the rector; "there is no good but what has its
alloy; but it is a real devotion, and it reaches after Christ.  Granted
that it is dark, no doubt in the darkness it finds Him, though it cannot
see His form."

"Doubtless," said Inglesant, who saw that the rector did not wish to
dwell on this part of the subject, "as we say in our service in England,
we are the sheep of His pasture, and we are all branded with the mark
which He puts upon His sheep—the innate knowledge of God in the soul.  I
remember hearing of a man who believed that he had a guardian spirit who
awoke him every morning with the audible words, ’Who gets up first to
pray?’  If this man was deluded, it could not have been by Satan."

In the morning, when Inglesant awoke, he saw from his window, over the
city wall, the Monte Mario, with its pine woods, and the windows of its
scattered houses, lighted by the rising sun.  The air was soft and
balmy, and he remained at the open window, letting his mind grow certain
of the fact that he was in Rome.  In the clear atmosphere of the Papal
city there was a strange shimmer of light upon the distant hills, and on
the green tufts and hillocks of the waste ground beyond the walls.  The
warm air fanned his temples, and in the stillness of the early morning a
delicious sense of a wonderful and unknown land, into the mysteries of
which he was about to enter, filled his mind.

It was indeed a strange world which lay before him, and resembled
nothing so much as that to which the rector had aptly compared it the
night before, a sacred interlude full of wild and fantastic sights;
Churches more sublime than the dreams of fancy painted, across whose
marble pavements saints and angels moved familiarly with men; pagan
sepulchres and banqueting chambers, where the phantoms flickered as in
Tartarus itself; vaults and Christian catacombs, where the cry of
martyrs mingled with the chanting of masses sung beneath the sod, and
where the torch-light flashed on passing forms of horror, quelled
everywhere by the figure of the Crucified, that at every turn kept the
place; midnight processions and singing, startling the darkness and
scaring the doers of darkness, mortal and immortal, that lurked among
the secret places, where the crimes of centuries stood like ghastly
corpses at every step; and above all and through all the life of Jesus,
enacted and re-enacted year after year and day by day continually, not
in dumb show or memorial only, but in deed and fact before the eyes of
men, as if, in that haunt of demons and possessed, in that sink of past
and present crime, nothing but the eternal presence and power of Jesus
could keep the fiends in check.

The rector took Inglesant over the College, and showed him the life and
condition of the inmates under its most pleasing aspect.  As he then saw
it it reminded him of a poem he had heard Mr. Crashaw read at Little
Gidding, describing a religious house and condition of life, and he
quoted part of it to the rector:—

    "No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep
    Crowned woes awake, as things too wise for sleep:
    But reverend discipline, and religious fear,
    And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
    Silence and sacred rest, peace and pure joys."


When they had seen the College the rector said,—

"We will go this morning to St. Peter’s.  It is better that you should
see it at once, though the first sight is nothing. Then at three o’clock
we will attend vespers at the Capello del Coro, where there is fine
music every day in the presence of a cardinal; afterwards, as Rome is
very full, there will be a great confluence of carriages in the Piazza
of the Farnese Palace, which is a favourite resort.  There I can show
you many of the great ones, whom it is well you should know by sight,
and hear something of, before you are presented to them."

As they passed out into the street of the city the rector began a
disquisition on the discovery of antiquities in Rome. He advised
Inglesant to study the cabinets of medals which he would meet with in
the museums and palaces, as they would throw great light upon the
statues and other curiosities.

"A man takes a great deal more pleasure," he said, "in surveying the
ancient statues, who compares them with medals, than it is possible for
him to do without some such knowledge, for the two arts illustrate each
other.  The coins throw a great light upon many points of ancient
history, and enable us to distinguish the kings and consuls, emperors
and empresses, the deities and virtues, with their ensigns and trophies,
and a thousand other attributes and images not to be learnt or
understood in any other way.  I have a few coins myself, which I shall
be glad to show you, and a few gems, among which is an Antinous cut in a
carnelian which I value very highly.  It represents him in the habit of
a Mercury, and is the finest Intaglio I ever saw.  I obtained it by
accident from a peasant, who found it while digging in his vineyard."

Inglesant was too much occupied watching the passers-by in the thronged
streets to pay much attention to what he said. The crowded pavements of
Rome offered to his eyes a spectacle such as he had never seen, and to
his imagination a fanciful pageant such as he had never pictured even in
his dreams. The splendid equipages with their metal work of massive
silver, the strange variety of the clerical costumes, the fantastic
dresses of the attendants and papal soldiers, the peasants and pilgrims
from all countries, even the most remote, crossed his vision in an
entangled maze.

As they crossed the bridge of St. Angelo, the rector informed him of the
invaluable treasures of antique art which were supposed to lie beneath
the muddy waters of the river. They passed beneath the castle, and a few
moments more brought them to the piazza in front of the Church.

The colonnade was not finished, one side of it being then in course of
completion; but in all its brilliant freshness, with the innumerable
statues, white from the sculptor’s hand, it had an imposing and stately
effect.  The great obelisk, or Guglia, as the Italians called it, had
been raised to its position some seventy years before, but only one of
the great fountains was complete.  Crossing the square, which was full
of carriages, and of priests and laymen on foot, the rector and
Inglesant ascended the marble stairs which had formed part of the old
Basilica, and up which Charlemagne was said to have mounted on his
knees, and passing through the gigantic porch, with its enormous pillars
and gilt roof, the rector pushed back the canvas-lined curtain that
closed the doorway, and they entered the Church.

The masons were at work completing the marble covering of the massive
square pillars of the nave; but though the work was unfinished, it was
sufficient to produce an effect of inexpressible richness and splendour.
The vast extent of the pavement, prepared as for the heavenly host with
inlaying of colours of polished stone, agate, serpentine, porphyry, and
chalcedon; the shining walls, veined with the richest marbles, and
studded with gems; the roof of the nave, carved with foliage and roses
overlaid with gold; the distant walls and chambers of imagery, dim with
incense, through which shone out, scarcely veiled, the statues and
tombs, the paintings and crucifixes and altars, with their glimmering
lights;—all settled down, so to speak, upon Inglesant’s soul with a
perception of subdued splendour, which hushed the spirit into a silent
feeling which was partly rest and partly awe.

But when, having traversed the length of the nave without uttering a
word, he passed from under the gilded roofs, and the spacious dome,
lofty as a firmament, expanded itself above him in the sky, covered with
tracery of the celestial glories and brilliant with mosaic and stars of
gold; when, opening on all sides to the wide transepts, the limitless
pavement stretched away beyond the reach of sense; when, beneath this
vast work and finished effort of man’s devotion, he saw the high altar,
brilliant with lights, surmounted and enthroned by its panoply of
clustering columns and towering cross; when, all around him, he was
conscious of the hush and calmness of worship, and felt in his inmost
being the sense of vastness, of splendour, and of awe;—he may be
pardoned if, kneeling upon the polished floor, he conceived for the
moment that this was the house of God, and that the gate of heaven was
here.

                     *      *      *      *      *




                              *CHAPTER V.*


"It is almost impossible for a man to form in his imagination," said the
rector to Inglesant, as they left the Church, "such beautiful and
glorious scenes as are to be met with in the Roman Churches and Chapels.
The profusion of the ancient marble found within the city itself, and
the many fine quarries in the neighbourhood, have made this result
possible; and notwithstanding the incredible sums of money which have
been already laid out in this way, the same work is still going forward
in other parts of Rome; the last effort still endeavouring to outshine
those that went before it."

Inglesant found this assertion to be true.  As he entered Church after
Church, during the first few days of his sojourn in Rome, he found the
same marble walls, the same inlaid tombs, the same coloured pavements.
In the sombre autumn afternoons this splendour was toned down and
veiled, till it produced an effect which was inexpressibly noble,—a dim
brilliance, a subdued and restrained glory, which accorded well with the
enervating perfume and the strains of romantic music that stole along
the aisles.  In these Churches, and in the monasteries adjoining,
Inglesant was introduced to many priests and ecclesiastics, among whom
he might study most of the varieties of devout feeling, and of religious
life in all its forms.  To many of these he was not drawn by any feeling
of sympathy; many were only priests and monks in outward form, being in
reality men of the world, men of pleasure, or antiquarians and artists.
But, introduced to the society of Rome in the first place as a "devoto,"
he became acquainted naturally with many who aspired to, and who were
considered to possess, exceptional piety.  Among these he was greatly
attracted by report towards a man who was then beginning to attract
attention in Rome, and to exert that influence over the highest and most
religious natures, which, during a period of twenty years, became so
overpowering as at one time to threaten to work a complete revolution in
the system and policy of Rome.  This was Michael de Molinos, a Spanish
monk, who, coming to Rome some years before, began to inculcate a method
of mystical devotion which he had no doubt gathered from the followers
of St. Theresa, who were regarded with great veneration in Spain, where
the contemplative devotion which they taught was held in high esteem.
On his first coming to Rome Molinos refused all ecclesiastical
advancement, and declined to practise those austerities which were so
much admired.  He associated with men of the most powerful minds and of
the most elevated thoughts, and being acknowledged at once to be a man
of learning and of good sense, his influence soon became perceptible.
To all who came to him for spiritual comfort and advice he insisted on
the importance of mental devotion, of daily communion, and of an inward
application of the soul to Jesus Christ and to His death.  So attractive
were his personal qualities, and so alluring his doctrine to minds which
had grown weary of the more formal ceremonies and acts of bodily penance
and devotion, that thousands thronged his apartments, and "the method of
Molinos" became not only a divine message to many, but even the
fashionable religion of Rome.

It spoke to men of an act of devotion, which it called the contemplative
state, in which the will is so united to God and overcome by that union
that it adores and loves and resigns itself up to Him, and, not exposed
to the wavering of the mere fancy, nor wearied by a succession of formal
acts of a dry religion, it enters into the life of God, into the
heavenly places of Jesus Christ, with an indescribable and secret joy.
It taught that this rapture and acquiescence in the Divine Will, while
it is the highest state and privilege of devotion, is within the reach
of every man, being the fruit of nothing more than the silent and humble
adoration of God that arises out of a pure and quiet mind; and it
offered to every man the prospect of this communion—a prospect to which
the very novelty and vagueness gave a hitherto unknown delight—in
exchange for the common methods of devotion which long use and constant
repetition had caused to appear to many but as dead and lifeless forms.
Those who followed this method generally laid aside the use of the
rosary, the daily repeating of the breviary, together with the common
devotion of the saints, and applied themselves to preserve their minds
in an inward calm and quiet, that they might in silence perform simple
acts of faith, and feel those inward motions and directions which they
believed would follow upon such acts.

To such a doctrine as this, taught by such a man, it is not surprising
that Inglesant was soon attracted, and he visited Molinos’s rooms
several times.  On one of these occasions he met in the anteroom a
gentleman he had seen more than once before, but had never spoken to.
He was therefore somewhat surprised when he accosted him, and seemed
desirous of some private conference.  Inglesant knew that he was the
Count Vespiriani, and had heard him described as of a noble and refined
nature, and a hearty follower of Molinos.  They left the house together,
and driving to the gardens of the Borghese Palace, they walked for some
time.

The Count began by expressing his pleasure that at so early a period of
his residence in Rome Inglesant had formed the acquaintance of Molinos.

"You are perhaps," he said, "not aware of the importance of the
movement, nor of the extent to which some of us are not without hope
that it may ultimately reach.  Few persons are aware of the numbers
already devoted to it, including men of every rank in the Church and
among the nobility, and of every variety of opinion and of principle.
It cannot be supposed that all these persons act thus under the
influence of any extraordinary elevation of piety or devotion.  To what
then can their conduct be ascribed?  It cannot have escaped your notice,
since you have been in Italy, that there is much that is rotten in the
state of government, and to be deplored in the condition of the people.
I do not know in what way you may have accounted for this lamentable
condition of affairs in your own mind; but among ourselves (those among
us at any rate who are men of intelligence and of experience of the life
of other countries, and especially Protestant ones) there is but one
solution—the share that priests have in the government, not only in the
Pope’s territory, but in all the other courts of Italy where they have
the rule.  This does not so much arise from any individual errors or
misdoing as from the necessary unfitness of ecclesiastics to interfere
in civil affairs.  They have not souls large enough nor tender enough
for government; they are trained in an inflexible code of morals and of
conduct from which they cannot swerve.  To this code all human needs
must bow.  They are cut off from sympathy with their fellows on most
points; and their natural inclinations, which cannot be wholly
suppressed, are driven into unworthy and mean channels; and they acquire
a narrowness of spirit and a sourness of mind, together with a bias to
one side only of life, which does not agree with the principles of human
society.  All kinds of incidental evils arise from these sources, in
stating which I do not wish to accuse those ecclesiastics of unusual
moral turpitude.  Among them is the fact that, having individually so
short and uncertain a time for governing, they think only of the
present, and of serving their own ends, or satisfying their own
conceptions, regardless of the ultimate happiness or misery which must
be the consequence of what they do.  Whatever advances the present
interests of the Church or of themselves, for no man is free altogether
from selfish motives—whatever enriches the Church or their own families,
for no man can help interesting himself in those of his own house,—is
preferred to all wise, great, or generous counsels.  You will perhaps
wonder what the mystic spiritual religion of Molinos has to do with all
this, but a moment’s explanation will, I think, make it very clear to
you.  The hold which the priests have upon the civil government is
maintained solely by the tyranny which they exercise over the spiritual
life of men.  It is the opinion of Molinos that this function is
misdirected, and that in the place of a tyrant there should appear a
guide.  He is about to publish a book called ’Il Guida Spirituale,’
which will appear with several approbations before it,—one by the
general of the Franciscans, who is a Qualificator of the Inquisition,
and another by a member of the society to which you are attached, Father
Martin de Esparsa, also one of the Qualificators.  This book, so
authorized and recommended, cannot fail not only to escape censure, but
to exert a powerful influence, and will doubtless be highly esteemed.
Now the importance of Molinos’s doctrine lies in this, that he presses
the point of frequent communion, and asserts that freedom from mortal
sin is the only necessary qualification.  At the same time he guards
himself from the charge of innovation by the very title and the whole
scope of his book, which is to insist upon the necessity of a spiritual
director and guide.  You will see at once what an important step is here
gained; for the doctrine being once admitted that mortal sin only is a
disqualification for receiving the sacrament, and the necessity of
confession before communion being not expressed, the obligation of
coming always to the priest, as the minister of the sacrament of
penance, before every communion, cannot long be insisted upon.  Indeed,
it will become a rule by which all spiritual persons who adhere to
Molinos’s method will conduct their penitents, that they may come to the
sacrament when they find themselves out of the state of mortal sin,
without going at every time to confession; and it is beginning to be
observed already in Rome that those who, under the influence of this
method, are becoming more strict in their lives, more retired and
serious in their mental devotions, are become less zealous in their
whole deportment as to the exterior parts of religion.  They are not so
assiduous at mass, nor in procuring masses for their friends, nor are
they so frequent at confession or processions. I cannot tell you what a
blessing I anticipate for mankind should this method be once allowed;
what a freedom, what a force, what a reality religion would obtain!  The
time is ripe for it, and the world is prepared.  The best men are giving
their adherence; I entreat you to lend your aid.  The Jesuits are
wavering; they have not yet decided whether the new method will prevail
or not.  The least matter will turn the scale.  You may think that it is
of little importance which side you take, but if so, you are mistaken.
You are not perhaps aware of the high estimation in which the reports
and letters which have preceded you have caused you to be held at the
Jesuits’ College.  You are supposed to have great influence with the
English Catholics and Protestant Episcopalians, and the idea of
promoting Catholic progress in England is the dearest to the mind of the
Roman Ecclesiastic."

Inglesant listened to the Count attentively, and did not immediately
reply.  At last he said,—

"What you have told me is of the greatest interest, and commends itself
to my conscience more than you know.  As to the present state and
government of Italy I am not competent to speak.  One of the things
which I hoped to learn in Rome was the answer to some complaints which I
have heard in other parts of Italy.  I fear also that you may be too
sanguine as to the result of such freedom as you desire.  This age is
witness of the state to which too much freedom has brought England, my
own country, a land which a few years ago was the happiest and
wealthiest of all countries, now utterly ruined and laid waste.  The
freedom which you desire, and the position of the clergy which you
approve, is somewhat the same as that which existed in the Protestant
Episcopal Church of England; but the influence they possessed was not
sufficient to resist the innovations and wild excesses of the Sectaries.
The freedom which I desire for myself I am willing to renounce when I
see the evil which the possession of it works among others and in the
State.  What you attempt, however, is an experiment in which I am not
unwilling to be interested; and I shall be very curious to observe the
result.  The main point of your method, the freedom of the blessed
sacrament, is a taking piece of doctrine, for the holding of which I
have always been attracted to the Episcopal Church of England.  It is,
as you say, a point of immense importance, upon which in fact the whole
system of the Church depends.  I have been long seeking for some
solution of the mysterious difficulties of the religious life.  It may
be that I shall find it in your society, which I perceive already to
consist of men of the highest and most select natures, with whom, come
what may, it is an honour to be allied.  You may count on my adherence;
and though I may seem a half-hearted follower, I shall not be found
wanting when the time of action comes.  I should wish to see more of
Molinos."

"I am not at all surprised," said the Count, "that you do not at once
perceive the full force of what I have said.  It requires to be an
Italian, and to have grown to manhood in Italy, to estimate justly the
pernicious influence of the clergy upon all ranks of society.  I have
travelled abroad, and when I have seen such a country as Holland, a land
divided between land and sea, upon which the sun rarely shines, with a
cold and stagnant air, and liable to be destroyed by inundations; when I
see this country rich and flourishing, full of people, happy and
contented, with every mark of plenty, and none at all of want; when I
see all this, and then think of my own beautiful land, its long and
happy summers, its rich and fruitful soil, and see it ruined and
depopulated, its few inhabitants miserable and in rags, the scorn and
contempt instead of the envy of the world; when I think of what she was
an age or two ago, and reflect upon the means by which such a fall, such
a dispeopling, and such a poverty, has befallen a nation and a climate
like this;—I dare not trust myself to speak the words which arise to my
lips.  Those with whom you associate will doubtless endeavour to prevent
these melancholy truths from being perceived by you, but they are too
evident to be concealed.  Before long you will have painful experience
of their existence."

"You say," said Inglesant, "that one or two ages ago Italy was much more
prosperous than at present; were not the priests as powerful then as
now?"

"I do not deny," replied the Count, "that there have been other causes
which have tended to impoverish the country, but under a different
government many of these might have been averted or at any rate
mitigated.  When the commerce of the country was flourishing the power
of the wealthy merchants and the trading princes was equal or superior
to that of the priests, especially in the leading States.  As their
influence and wealth declined, the authority of the clergy increased. A
wiser policy might have discovered other sources of wealth and of
occupation for the people; they only thought of establishing the
authority of the Church, of adorning the altars, of filling the Papal
coffers."

Inglesant may have thought that he perceived a weak point in this
explanation, but he made no reply, and the Count supposed he was
satisfied.

A few days afterwards he had the opportunity of a long and private
conversation with Molinos.

The Spaniard was a man of tall and graceful exterior, with a smile and
manner which were indescribably alluring and sweet.  Inglesant confided
to him something of his past history, and much of his mental troubles
and perplexities.  He spoke of De Cressy and of the remorse which had
followed his rejection of the life of self-denial which the Benedictine
had offered him.  Molinos’s counsel was gentle and kindly.

"It was said to me long ago," said Inglesant, "that ’there are some men
born into the world with such happy dispositions that the cross for a
long time seems very light, if not altogether unfelt.  The strait path
runs side by side with the broad and pleasant way of man’s desires; so
close are they that the two cannot be discerned apart.  So the man goes
on, the favourite seemingly both of God and his fellows; but let him not
think that he shall always escape the common doom.  God is preparing
some great test for him, some great temptation, all the more terrible
for being so long delayed.  Let him beware lest his spiritual nature be
enervated by so much sunshine, so that when the trial comes, he may be
unable to meet it.  His conscience is easier than other men’s; what are
sins to them are not so to him.  But the trial that is prepared for him
will be no common one; it will be so fitted to his condition that he
cannot palter with it nor pass it by; he must either deny his God or
himself.’  This was said to me by one who knew me not; but it was said
with something of a prophetic instinct, and I see in these words some
traces of my own fate.  For a long time it seemed to me that I could
serve both the world and God, that I could be a courtier in kings’
houses and in the house of God, that I could follow the earthly learning
and at the same time the learning that is from above.  But suddenly the
chasm opened beneath my feet; two ways lay before me, and I chose the
broad and easy path; the cross was offered to me, and I drew back my
hand; the winnowing fan passed over the floor, and I was swept away with
the chaff."

"I should prefer to say," replied the Spaniard,—and as he spoke, his
expression was wonderfully compassionate and urbane,—"I should prefer to
say that there are some men whom God is determined to win by love.
Terrors and chastisements are fit for others, but these are the select
natures, or, as you have yourself termed them, the courtiers of the
household of God.  Believe me, God does not lay traps for any, nor is He
mistaken in His estimate.  If He lavishes favour upon any man, it is
because he knows that that man’s nature will respond to love.  It is the
habit of kings to assemble in their houses such men as will delight them
by their conversation and companionship, ’amor ac deliciæ generis
humani,’ whose memory is fresh and sweet ages after, when they be dead.
Something like this it seems to me God is wont to do, that He may win
these natures for the good of mankind and for His own delight.  It is
true that such privilege calls for a return; but what will ensure a
return sooner than the consideration of such favour as this?  You say
you have been unworthy of such favour, and have forfeited it for ever.
You cannot have forfeited it, for it was never deserved.  It is the
kingly grace of God, bestowed on whom He will.  If I am not mistaken in
your case, God will win you, and He will win you by determined and
uninterrupted acts of love.  It may be that in some other place God
would have found for you other work; you have failed in attaining to
that place; serve Him where you are.  If you fall still lower, or
imagine that you fall lower, still serve Him in the lowest room of all.
Wherever you may find yourself, in Courts or pleasure-houses or gardens
of delight, still serve Him, and you will bid defiance to imaginations
and powers of evil, that strive to work upon a sensitive and excited
nature, and to urge it to despair.  Many of these thoughts which we look
upon as temptations of God are but the accidents of our bodily
temperaments.  How can you, nursed in Courts, delicately reared and
bred, trained in pleasure, your ear and eye and sense habituated to
music and soft sounds, to colour and to beauty of form, your brain
developed by intellectual effort and made sensitive to the slightest
touch—how can religious questions bear the same aspect to you as to a
man brought up in want of the necessaries of life, hardened by toil and
exposure, unenlightened by learning and the arts, unconscious of the
existence even of what is agony or delight to you?  Yet God is equally
with both of these; in His different ways He will lead both of them,
would they but follow, through that maze of accident and casualty in
which they are involved, and out of the tumult of which coil they
complain to the Deity of what is truly the result of their own
temperaments, ancestry, and the besetments of life.  I tell you this
because I have no fear that it will exalt you, but to keep you from
unduly depreciating yourself, and from that terrible blasphemy that
represents God as laying snares for men in the guise of pretended
kindness.  God is with all, with the coarse and dull as with the refined
and pure, but He draws them by different means,—those by terror, these
by love."

Inglesant said little in answer to these words, but they made a deep
impression upon him.  They lifted a weight from his spirits, and enabled
him henceforward to take some of the old pleasure in the light of heaven
and the occurrences of life.  He saw much of Molinos, and had long
conferences with him upon the solution of the greatest of all problems,
that of granting religious freedom, and at the same time maintaining
religious truth.  Molinos thought that his system solved this problem,
and although Inglesant was not altogether convinced of this, yet he
associated himself heartily, if not wholly, with the Quietists, as
Molinos’s followers were called, in so much that he received some
friendly cautions from the Jesuit College not to commit himself too far.

                     *      *      *      *      *

It must not be supposed, however, that he was altogether absorbed in
such thoughts or such pursuits.  To him, as to all the other inhabitants
of Rome, each in his own degree and station, the twofold aspect of
existence in the strange Papal city claimed his alternate regard, and
divided his life and his intellect.  The society of Rome, at one moment
devout, the next philosophic, the next antiquarian, artistic,
pleasure-seeking, imparted to all its members some tincture of its
Protean character.  The existence of all was coloured by the many-sided
prism through which the light of every day’s experience was seen.
Inglesant’s acquaintance with the Cardinal introduced him at once to all
the different coteries, and procured him the advantage of a companion
who exerted a strong and cultivated mind to exhibit each subject in its
completest and most fascinating aspect.  Accompanied by the Cardinal,
and with one or other of the literati of Rome, each in his turn a master
of the peculiar study to which the day was devoted, Inglesant wandered
day after day through all the wonderful city, through the palaces,
ruins, museums, and galleries.  He stood among the throng of statues,
that strange maze of antique life, which some enchanter’s wand seems
suddenly to have frozen into marble in the midst of its intricate dance,
yet so frozen as to retain, by some mysterious art, the warm and
breathing life. He saw the men of the old buried centuries, of the magic
and romantic existence when the world was young.  The beautiful gods
with their white wands; the grave senators and stately kings; the fauns
and satyrs that dwelt in the untrodden woods; the pastoral flute
players, whose airs yet linger within the peasant’s reeds; the slaves
and craftsmen of old Rome, with all their postures, dress, and bearing,
as they walked those inlaid pavements, buried deep beneath the soil,
whose mosaic figures every now and then are opened to the faded life of
to-day.  Nor less entrancing were those quaint fancies upon the classic
tombs, which showed in what manner the old pagan looked out into the
spacious ether and confronted death,—a child playing with a comic
masque, bacchanals, and wreaths of flowers, hunting parties and battles,
images of life, of feasting and desire; and finally, the inverted torch,
the fleeting seasons ended, and the actor’s part laid down.

Still existing as a background to this phantom life was the stage on
which it had walked; the ruined splendour of Rome, in its setting of
blue sky and green foliage, of ivy and creeping plants, of laurels and
ilex, enfolded in a soft ethereal radiance that created everywhere a
garden of romance.

"Nothing delights and entertains me so much in this country," said
Inglesant one day to a gentleman with whom he was walking, "as the
contrasts which present themselves on every hand, the peasant’s hut
built in the ruins of a palace, the most exquisite carving supporting
its tottering roof, cattle drinking out of an Emperor’s tomb, a theatre
built in a mausoleum, and pantomime airs and the "plaudite" heard amid
the awful silence of the grave; here a Christ, ghastly, naked, on a
cross; there a charming god, a tender harmony of form and life;
triumphal arches sunk in the ruins not of their own only, but of
successive ages, monuments far more of decay and death than of glory or
fame; Corinthian columns canopied with briars, ivy, and wild vine, the
delicate acanthus wreaths stained by noisome weeds.  The thoughts that
arise from the sight of these contrasts are pleasing though melancholy,
such ideas, sentiments, and feelings as arise in the mind and in the
heart at the foot of antique columns, before triumphal arches, in the
depths of ruined tombs, and on mossy banks of fountains; but there are
other contrasts which bring no such soothing thoughts with them, nothing
but what may almost be called despair; profusion of magnificence and
wealth side by side with the utmost wretchedness; Christ’s altar blazing
with jewels and marble, misery indescribable around; luxury, and
enjoyment, and fine clothes almost hustled by rags, and sores, and
filth.  Amid the lesson of past ages, written on every ruined column and
shattered wall, what a distance still exists between the poor and the
rich!  Should the poor man wish to overpass it, he is driven back at
once into his original wretchedness, or condemned more mercifully to
death, while every ruined column and obelisk cries aloud, ’Let
everything that creeps console itself, for everything that is elevated
falls.’"

"We Romans," said the gentleman, "preserve our ruins as beggars keep
open their sores.  They are preserved not always from taste; nor from a
respect of antiquity, but sometimes from mere avarice, for they attract
from every corner of the world that crowd of strangers whose curiosity
has long furnished a maintenance to three-fourths of Italy.  But you
were speaking of the charming gods of the ancients.  We are not inferior
to them.  Have you seen the Apollo of Bermini pursuing Daphne, in the
Borghese Palace?  His hair waves in the wind, you hear the entreaties of
the god."

"Yes, I have seen it," said Inglesant; "it is another of those wonderful
contrasts with which Rome abounds.  We are Catholic and Pagan at the
same time."

"It is true," said the other; "nevertheless, in the centre of the
blood-stained Colisseo stands a crucifix.  The Galilean has triumphed."

Inglesant stopped.  They were standing before the Apollo in the
Belvedere gardens.  Inglesant took from beneath his vest a crucifix in
ivory, exquisitely carved, and held it beside the statue of the god.
The one the noblest product of buoyant life, the proudest perfection of
harmonious form, purified from all the dross of humanity, the head
worthy of the god of day and of the lyre, of healing and of help, who
bore in his day the self-same name that the other bore, "the great
physician;" the other, worn and emaciated, helpless, dying, apparently
without power, forgotten by the world.  "Has the Galilean triumphed?  Do
you prefer the Christ?" he said.

The gentleman smiled.  "The benign god," he said, "has doubtless many
votaries, even now."

It is probable that the life of Rome was working its effect upon
Inglesant himself.  Under its influence, and that of the Cardinal, his
tone of thought became considerably modified. In a strange and
unexpected way, in the midst of so much religion, his attention was
diverted from the religious side of life, and his views of what was
philosophically important underwent considerable change.  He read
Lucretius less, and Terence and Aristophanes more.  Human life, as he
saw it existing around him, became more interesting to him than theories
and opinions.  Life in all its forms, the Cardinal assured him, was the
only study worthy of man; and though Inglesant saw that such a general
assertion only encouraged the study of human thought, yet it seemed to
him that it directed him to a truth which he had hitherto perhaps
overlooked, and taught him to despise and condemn nothing in the common
path of men in which he walked.  If this were true, the more carefully
he studied this common life, and the more narrowly he watched it, the
more worthy it would appear of regard; the dull and narrow streets, the
crowded dwellings, the base and vulgar life, the poverty and distress of
the poorer classes, would assume an interest unknown to him before.

"This life and interest," the Cardinal would say, "finds its best
exponent in the old pantomime and burlesque music of Italy. The real,
every-day, commonplace, human life, which originates absolutely among
the people themselves, speaks in their own music and street airs; but
when these are touched by a master’s hand, it becomes revealed to us in
its essence, refined and idealized, with all its human features, which,
from their very familiarity, escape our recognition as we walk the
streets.  In the peculiarity of this music, its graceful delicacy and
lively frolic and grotesqueness, I think I find the most perfect
presentment, to the ear and heart, of human life, especially as the
slightest variation of time or setting reveals in the most lively of
these airs depths of pathos and melodious sorrow, completing thus the
analogy of life, beneath the gayest phases of which lie unnoticed the
saddest realities."

"I have often felt," said Inglesant, "that old dance-music has an
inexpressible pathos; as I listen to it I seem to be present at long
past festivities, whose very haunts are swept away and forgotten; at
evenings in the distant past, looked forward to as all-important, upon
whose short and fleeting hours the hopes and enjoyments of a lifetime
were staked, now lost in an undistinguished oblivion and dust of death.
The young and the beautiful who danced to these quaint measures, in a
year or two had passed away, and other forms equally graceful took their
place.  Fancies and figures that live in sound, and pass before the eyes
only when evoked by such melodies, float down the shadowy way and pass
into the future, where other gay and brilliant hours await the young, to
be followed as heretofore by pale and disappointed hopes and sad
realities, and the grave."

"What do you mean," said the Cardinal, "by figures that live in sound?"

"It seems to me," said Inglesant, "that the explanation of the power of
music upon the mind is, that many things are elements which are not
reckoned so, and that sound is one of them.  As the air and fire are
said to be peopled by fairy inhabitants, as the spiritual man lives in
the element of faith, so I believe that there are creatures which live
in sound.  Every lovely fancy, every moment of delight, every thought
and thrill of pleasure which music calls forth, or which, already
existing, is beautified and hallowed by music, does not die.  Such as
these become fairy existences, spiritual creatures, shadowy but real,
and of an inexpressibly delicate grace and beauty, which live in melody,
and float and throng before the sense whenever the harmony that gave and
maintains their life exists again in sound.  They are children of the
earth, and yet above it; they recall the human needs and hopes from
which they sprang. They have shadowy sex and rank, and diversity of
bearing, as of the different actors’ parts that fill the stage of life.
Poverty and want are there, but, as in an allegory or morality, purified
and released from suffering.  The pleasures and delights of past ages
thus live again in sound, the sorrows and disappointments of other days
and of other men mingle with our own, and soften and subdue our hearts.
Apollo and Orpheus tamed the savage beasts; music will soften our rugged
nature, and kindle in us a love of our kind and a tolerance of the petty
failings and the shortcomings of men."

It was not only music that fostered and encouraged in Rome an easy
tolerant philosophy.  No society could be more adapted than that of the
Papal city to such an end.  A people whose physical wants were few and
easily supplied (a single meal in such a climate, and that easily
procured, sufficing for the day); a city full of strangers, festivals
and shows; a conscience absolutely at rest; a community entirely set
apart from politics, absolutely at one with its government by habit, by
interest, and by religion;—constituted a unique state and mental
atmosphere, in which such philosophy naturally flourished. The early
hours of the day were spent in such business as was necessary for all
classes to engage in, and were followed by the dinner of fruit,
vegetables, fish, and a little meat.  From dinner all went to sleep,
which lasted till six o’clock in the evening. Then came an hour’s
trifling over the toilette, all business was at an end, and all the
shops were shut.  Till three o’clock in the morning the hours were
devoted to enjoyment.  Men, women, and children repaired to the public
walks, to the corso and squares, to conversation in coteries, to
assemblies in arcaded and lighted gardens, to collations in taverns.
Even the gravest and most serious gave themselves up to relaxation and
amusement till the next day.  Every evening was a festival; every
variety of character and conversation enlivened these delicious hours,
these soft and starry nights.

Nothing pleased Inglesant’s fancy so much, or soothed his senses so
completely, as this second dawn of the day and rising to pleasure in the
cool evening.  Soothed and calmed by sleep, the irritated nerves were
lulled into that delicious sense for which we have no name, but which we
compare to flowing water, and to the moistening of a parched and dusty
drought. All thoughts of trouble and of business were banished by the
intervening hours of forgetfulness, from which the mind, half-aroused
and fresh from dreamland, awoke to find itself in a world as strange and
fantastic as the land of sleep which it had left; a land bathed in
sunset light, overarched by rainbows, saluted by cool zephyrs, soothed
by soft strains of music, delighted and amused by gay festivals, peopled
by varied crowds of happy people, many-coloured in dress, in green walks
sparkling with fairy lamps, and seated at al fresco suppers, before cosy
taverns famous for delicious wines, where the gossip of Europe, upon
which Rome looked out as from a Belvedere, intrigue, and the promotions
of the morning, were discussed.

Inglesant had taken lodgings in an antique villa on the Aventine,
surrounded by an uncultivated garden and by vineyards.  The house was
partly deserted and partly occupied by a family of priests, and he slept
here when he was not at the Cardinal’s palace, or with other of his
friends.  The place was quiet and remote from the throng and noise of
Rome; in the gardens were fountains in the cool shade; frescos and
paintings had been left on the walls and in the rooms by the owner of
the villa; the tinkling of convent bells sounded from the slopes of the
hills through the laurels and ilex and across the vines; every now and
then the chanting of the priests might be heard from a small Chapel at
the back of the house.

Inglesant awoke from his mid-day sleep one evening to the splash of the
fountain, and the scent of the fresh-turned earth in the vineyard, and
found his servant arranging his room for his toilette.  He was to sup
that evening at the Cardinal’s with some of the Fathers of the Oratory,
and he dressed, as was usual with him even in his most distracted moods,
with scrupulous care.  A sedan was waiting for him, and he set out for
the Cardinal’s palace.

It was a brilliant evening; upon the hill-sides the dark trees stood out
against the golden sky, the domes and pinnacles of the Churches shone in
the evening light.  In the quiet lanes, in the neighbourhood of the
Aventine, the perfume of odoriferous trees was wafted over lofty garden
walls; quiet figures flitted to and fro, a distant hum of noisy streets
scarcely reached the ear, mingled with the never-ceasing bells.  That
morning, before he went to sleep, Inglesant had been reading "The Birds"
of Aristophanes, with a voluminous commentary by some old scholar, who
had brought together a mass of various learning upon the subject of
grotesque apologue, fable, and the fanciful representation of the facts
and follies of human life under the characters of animals and of
inanimate objects. A vast number of examples of curious pantomime and
other stage characters were given, and the idea preserved throughout
that, by such impersonations, the voices of man’s existence were able to
speak with clearness and pathos, and were more sure of being listened to
than when they assumed the guise of a teacher or divine.  Beneath a
grotesque and unexpected form they conceal a gravity more sober than
seriousness itself, as irony is more sincere than the solemnity which it
parodies. Truth drops her stilted gait, and becomes natural and real, in
the midst of ludicrous and familiar events.  The broad types of life’s
players into which the race is divided, especially the meanest,—thieves,
beggars, outcasts,—with whom life is a reality stripped of outward show,
will carry a moral and a teaching more aptly than the privileged and
affected classes.  Mixed with these are animals and familiar objects of
household life, to which everyday use has given a character of their
own. These, not in the literal repulsiveness or dulness of their
monotonous existence, but abstracted, as the types or emblems of the
ideas associated with each one—not a literal beggar, in his dirt and
loathsomeness, but poverty, freedom, helplessness, and amusing knavery,
personified in the part of a beggar—not a mere article of household use
in its inanimate stupidity, but every idea and association connected
with the use of such articles by generations of men and women;—these and
such as these, enlivened by the sparkle of genius, set forth in gay and
exquisite music, and by brilliant repartee and witty dialogue, certainly
cannot be far behind the very foremost delineation of human life.

Educated in the Court of King Charles to admire Shakespeare and the
Elizabethan stage, Inglesant was better able to understand these things
than the Italians were, suggestive as the Italian life itself was of
such reflections.  The taste for music and scenery had driven dialogue
and character from the stage.  Magnificent operas, performed by
exquisite singers, and accompanied by mechanical effects of stupendous
extent, were almost the only scenic performances fashionable in Italy;
but this was of less consequence where every street was a stage, and
every festival an elaborate play.  The Italians were pantomimic and
dramatic in the highest degree without perceiving it themselves.  The
man who delights in regarding this life as a stage cannot attach an
overwhelming importance to any incident; he observes life as a
spectator, and does not engage in it as an actor; but the Italian was
too impetuous to do this—he took too violent an interest in the events
themselves.

The narrow streets through which Inglesant’s chair passed terminated at
last in a wide square.  It was full of confused figures, presenting to
the eye a dazzling movement of form and colour, of which last, owing to
the evening light, the prevailing tint was blue.  A brilliant belt of
sunset radiance, like molten gold along the distant horizon, threw up
the white houses into strong relief.  Dark cypress trees rose against
the glare of the yellow sky, tinged with blue from the fathomless azure
above. The white spray of fountains flashed high over the heads of the
people in the four corners of the square, and long lance-like gleams of
light shot from behind the cypresses and the white houses, refracting a
thousand colours in the flashing water.  A murmur of gay talk filled the
air, and a constant change of varied form perplexed the eye.

Inglesant alighted from his chair, and, directing his servants to
proceed at once to the Cardinal’s, crossed the square on foot.
Following so closely on his previous dreamy thoughts, he was intensely
interested and touched by this living pantomime.  Human life had never
before seemed to him so worthy of regard, whether looked at as a whole,
inspiring noble and serious reflections, or viewed in detail when each
separate atom appears pitiful and often ludicrous.  The infinite
distance between these two poles, between the aspirations and the
exhortations of conscience, which have to do with humanity as a whole,
and the actual circumstances and capacities of the individual, with
which satirists and humourists have ever made free to jest,—this
contrast, running through every individual life as well as through the
mass of existence, seemed to him to be the true field of humour, and the
real science of those "Humanities" which the schools pedantically
professed to teach.

Nothing moved in the motley crowd before him but what illustrated this
science,—the monk, the lover, the soldier, the improvisatore, the
matron, the young girl; here the childish hand brandishing its toy,
there the artisan, and the shop girl, and the maid-servant, seeking such
enjoyment as their confined life afforded; the young boyish companions
with interlaced arms, the benignant priest, every now and then the
stately carriage slowly passing by to its place on the corso, or to the
palace or garden to which its inmates were bound.

Wandering amid this brilliant fantasia of life, Inglesant’s heart smote
him for the luxurious sense of pleasure which he found himself taking in
the present movement and aspect of things.  Doubtless this human
philosophy, if we may so call it, into which he was drifting, has a
tendency, at least, very different from much of the teaching which is
the same in every school of religious thought.  Love of mankind is
inculcated as a sense of duty by every such school; but by this is
certainly not intended love of and acquiescence in mankind as it is.
This study of human life, however, this love of human existence, is
unconnected with any desire for the improvement either of the individual
or of the race.  It is man as he is, not man as he might be, or as he
should be, which is a delightful subject of contemplation to this
tolerant philosophy which human frailty finds so attractive.  Man’s
failings, his self-inflicted miseries, his humours, the effect of his
very crimes and vices, if not even those vices themselves, form a chief
part in the changing drama upon which the student’s eyes are so eagerly
set, and without these it would lose its interest and attraction.  A
world of perfect beings would be to such a man of all things the most
stale and unprofitable.  Humour and pathos, the grotesque contrast
between a man’s aspirations and his actual condition, his dreams and his
mean realities, would be altogether wanting in such a world.
Indignation, sorrow, satire, doubt, and restlessness, allegory, the very
soul and vital salt of life, would be wanting in such a world.  But if a
man does not desire a perfect world, what part can he have in the
Christian warfare?  It is true that an intimate study of a world of sin
and of misfortune throws up the sinless character of the Saviour into
strong relief; but the student accepts this Saviour’s character and
mission as part of the phenomena of existence, not as an irreconcilable
crusade and battle-cry against the powers of the world on every hand.
The study of life is indeed equally possible to both schools; but the
pleased acquiescence in life as it is, with all its follies and
fantastic pleasures, is surely incompatible with following the footsteps
of the Divine Ascetic who trod the wine-press of the wrath of God.  With
all their errors, they who rejected the world and all its allurements,
and taught the narrow life of painful self-denial, must be more nearly
right than this.

Nevertheless, even before this last thought was completely formed in his
mind, the sight of the moving people, and of the streets of the
wonderful city opening out on every side, full of palaces and glittering
shops and stalls, and crowded with life and gaiety, turned his halting
choice back again in the opposite direction, and he thought something
like this:—

"How useless and even pitiful is the continued complaint of moralists
and divines, to whom none lend an ear, whilst they endeavour, age after
age, to check youth and pleasure, and turn the current of life and
nature backward on its course. For how many ages in this old Rome, as in
every other city, since Terence gossipped of the city life, has this
frail faulty humanity for a few hours sunned itself on warm afternoons
in sheltered walks and streets, and comforted itself into life and
pleasure, amid all its cares and toils and sins.  Out of this shifting
phantasmagoria comes the sound of music, always pathetic and sometimes
gay; amid the roofs and belfries peer the foliage of the public walks,
the stage upon which, in every city, life may be studied and taken to
heart; not far from these walks is, in every city, the mimic stage, the
glass in which, in every age and climate, human life has seen itself
reflected, and has delighted, beyond all other pleasures, in pitying its
own sorrows, in learning its own story, in watching its own fantastic
developments, in foreshadowing its own fate, in smiling sadly for an
hour over the still more fleeting representation of its own fleeting
joys.  For ever, without any change, the stream flows on, spite of
moralist and divine, the same as when Phaedria and Thais loved each
other in old Rome.  We look back on these countless ages of city life,
cooped in narrow streets and alleys and paved walks, breathing itself in
fountained courts and shaded arcades, where youth and manhood and old
age have sought their daily sustenance not only of bread but of
happiness, and have with difficulty and toil enough found the one and
caught fleeting glimpses of the other, between the dark thunder clouds,
and under the weird, wintry sky of many a life.  Within such a little
space how much life is crowded, what high hopes, how much pain!  From
those high windows behind the flower-pots young girls have looked out
upon life, which their instincts told them was made for pleasure, but
which year after year convinced them was, somehow or other, given over
to pain. How can we read this endless story of humanity with any thought
of blame?  How can we watch this restless quivering human life, this
ceaseless effort of a finite creature to attain to those things which
are agreeable to its created nature, alike in all countries, under all
climates and skies, and whatever change of garb or semblance the long
course of years may bring, with any other thought than that of tolerance
and pity—tolerance of every sort of city existence, pity for every kind
of toil and evil, year after year repeated, in every one of earth’s
cities, full of human life and handicraft, and thought and love and
pleasure, as in the streets of that old Jerusalem over which the Saviour
wept."

                     *      *      *      *      *

The conversation that evening at the Cardinal’s villa turned upon the
antiquities of Rome.  The chief delight of the Fathers of the Oratory
was in music, but the Cardinal preferred conversation, especially upon
Pagan literature and art. He was an enthusiast upon every subject
connected with the Greeks,—art, poetry, philosophy, religion; upon all
these he founded theories and deductions which showed not only an
intimate acquaintance with Greek literature, but also a deep familiarity
with the human heart.  A lively imagination and eloquent and polished
utterance enabled him to extract from the baldest and most obscure myths
and fragments of antiquity much that was fascinating, and, being founded
on a true insight into human nature, convincing also.

Inglesant especially sympathized with and understood the tone of thought
and the line of reasoning with which the Cardinal regarded Pagan
antiquity; and this appreciation pleased the Cardinal, and caused him to
address much of his conversation directly to him.

The villa was full of objects by which thought and conversation were
attracted to such channels.  The garden was entered by a portico or
door-case adorned with ancient statues, the volto or roof of which was
painted with classic subjects, and the lofty doors themselves were
covered with similar ones in relief.  The walls of the house, towards
the garden, were cased with bas-reliefs,—"antique incrustations of
history" the Cardinal called them,—representing the Rape of Europa, of
Leda, and other similar scenes.  These antique stones and carvings were
fitted into the walls between the rich pilasters and cornicing which
adorned the front of the villa, and the whole was crossed with tendrils
of citron and other flowering shrubs, trained with the utmost art and
nicety, so as to soften and ornament without concealing the sculpture.
The gardens were traversed by high hedges of myrtle, lemon, orange, and
juniper, interspersed with mulberry trees and oleanders, and were
planted with wide beds of brilliant flowers, according to the season,
now full of anemones, ranunculuses, and crocuses. The whole was formed
upon terraces, fringed with balustrades of marble, over which creeping
plants were trained with the utmost skill, only leaving sufficient
stone-work visible to relieve the foliage.  The walks were full of
statues and pieces of carving in relief.  The rooms were ornamented in
the same taste, and the chimney of the one in which the supper was laid
was enriched with sculpture of wonderful grace and delicacy.

One of the Fathers of the Oratory asked Inglesant whether he had seen
the Venus of the Medicean palace, and what he thought of it compared
with the Venus of the Farnese; and when he had replied, the other turned
to the Cardinal and inquired whether, in his opinion, the Greeks had any
higher meaning or thought in these beautiful delineations of human form
than mere admiration and pleasure.

"The higher minds among them assuredly," said the Cardinal; "but in
another and more important sense every one of them, even the most
unlettered peasant who gazed upon the work, and the most worldly artist
buried in the mere outward conceptions of his art, were consciously or
unconsciously following, and even worshipping, a divinity and a truth
than which nothing can be higher or more universal. For the truth was
too powerful for them, and so universal that they could not escape.
Human life, in all the phases of its beauty and its deformity, is so
instinct with the divine nature, that, in merely following its variety,
you are learning the highest lessons, and teaching them to others."

"What may you understand by being instinct with the divine nature?" said
the Priest, not unnaturally.

"I mean that general consensus and aggregate of truth in which human
nature and all that is related to it is contained. That divine idea,
indeed, in which all the facts of human life and experience are drawn
together, and exalted to their utmost perfection and refinement, and are
seen and felt to form a whole of surpassing beauty and nobleness, in
which the divine image and plastic power in man is clearly discerned and
intellectually received and appropriated."

The Priest did not seem altogether to understand this, and remained
silent.

"But," said Inglesant, "much of this pursuit of the beautiful must have
been associated, in the ideas of the majority of the people, with
thoughts and actions the most unlovely and undesirable according to the
intellectual reason, however delightful to the senses."

"Even in these orgies," replied the Cardinal, "in the most profligate
and wild excesses of license, I see traces of this all-pervading truth;
for the renouncing of all bound and limit is in itself a truth, when any
particular good, though only sensual, is freed and perfected.  This is,
no doubt, what the higher natures saw, and it was this that reconciled
them to the license of the people and of the unilluminated.  In all
these aberrations they saw ever fresh varieties and forms of that truth
which, when it was intellectually conceived, it was their greatest
enjoyment to contemplate, and which, no doubt, formed the material of
the instructions which the initiated into the mysteries received.  It is
impossible that this could be otherwise, for there can be no philosophy
if there be no human life from which to derive it.  The intellectual
existence and discourses of Socrates cannot be understood, except when
viewed in connection with the sensual and common existence and carnal
wisdom of Aristophanes, any more than the death of the one can be
understood without we also understand the popular thought and feeling
delineated to us by the other.  And why should we be so ungrateful as to
turn round on this ’beast within the man,’ if you so choose to call
it,—the human body and human delight to which we owe not only our own
existence and all that makes life desirable, but also that very
loftiness and refinement of soul, that elevated and sublime philosophy,
which could not exist but for the contrast and antithesis which popular
life presents?  Surely it is more philosophical to take in the whole of
life, in every possible form, than to shut yourself up in one doctrine,
which, while you fondly dream you have created it, and that it is
capable of self-existence, is dependent for its very being on that human
life from which you have fled, and which you despise.  This is the whole
secret of the pagan doctrine, and the key to those profound views of
life which were evolved in their religion.  This is the worship of
Priapus, of human life, in which nothing comes amiss or is to be
staggered at, however voluptuous or sensual, for all things are but
varied manifestations of life; of life, ruddy, delicious, full of
fruits, basking in sunshine and plenty, dyed with the juice of grapes;
of life in valleys cooled by snowy peaks, amid vineyards and shady
fountains, among which however, ’Sæpe Faunorum voces exauditæ, sæpe visæ
formæ Deorum.’"

"This, Signore Inglesant," said the Priest, passing the wine across the
table, with a smile, "is somewhat even beyond the teaching of your
friends of the society of the Gesu; and would make their doctrine even,
excellently as it already suits that purpose, still more propitious
towards the frailty of men."

Inglesant filled his glass, and drank it off before he replied. The wine
was of the finest growth of the delicious Alban vineyards; and as the
nectar coursed through his veins, a luxurious sense of acquiescence
stole over him.  The warm air, laden with perfume from the shaded
windows, lulled his sense; a stray sunbeam lighted the piles of fruit
and the deeply embossed gold of the service on the table before him, and
the mellow paintings and decorated ceiling of the room. As he slowly
drank his wine the memory of Serenus de Cressy, and of his doctrine of
human life, rose before his mind, and his eyes were fixed upon the
deep-coloured wine before him, as though he saw there, as in a magic
goblet, the opposing powers that divide the world.  It seemed to him
that he had renounced his right to join in the conflict, and that he
must remain as ever a mere spectator of the result; nevertheless he
said,—

"Your doctrine is delightful to the philosopher and to the man of
culture, who has his nature under the curb, and his glance firmly fixed
upon the goal; but to the vulgar it is death; and indeed it was death
until the voice of another God was heard, and the form of another God
was seen, not in vineyards and rosy bowers, but in deserts and stony
places, in dens and caves of the earth, and in prisons and on crosses of
wood."

"It is treason to the idea of cultured life," said the Cardinal, "to
evoke such gloomy images.  My theory is at least free from such faults
of taste."

"Do not fear me," said Inglesant; "I have no right to preach such a
lofty religion.  An asceticism I never practised it would ill-become me
to advocate."

"You spoke of the death of Socrates," said the Priest; "does this event
fall within the all-embracing tolerance of your theory?"

"The death of Socrates," said the Cardinal, "appears to have been
necessary to preserve the framework of ordinary every-day society from
falling to pieces.  At any rate men of good judgment in that day thought
so, and they must have known best. You must remember that it was
Socrates that was put to death, not Plato, and we must not judge by what
the latter has left us of what the former taught.  The doctrine of
Socrates was purely negative, and undermined the principle of belief not
only in the Gods but in everything else.  His dialectic was excellent
and noble, his purpose pure and exalted, the clearing of men’s mind’s of
false impressions; but to the common fabric of society his method was
destruction.  So he was put to death, unjustly of course, and contrary
to the highest law, but according to the lower law of expediency,
justly; for society must preserve itself even at the expense of its
noblest thinkers.  But," added the Cardinal with a smile, "we have only
to look a little way for a parallel.  It is not, however, a perfect one;
for while the Athenians condemned Socrates to a death painless and
dignified, the moderns have burnt Servetus, whose doctrine contained
nothing dangerous to society, but turned on a mere point of the schools,
at the stake."

"Why do they not burn you, Cardinal?" said one of the Oratorians, who
had not yet spoken, a very intimate friend of the master of the house.

"They do not know whom to begin with in Rome," he replied; "if they once
commenced to burn, the holocaust would be enormous before the sacrifice
was complete."

"I would they would burn Donna Olympia," said the same Priest; "is it
true that she has returned?"

"Have patience," said the Cardinal; "from what I hear you will not have
long to wait."

"I am glad you believe in purgatory," said the Priest who had spoken
first.  "I did not know that your Eminence was so orthodox."

"You mistake.  I do not look so far.  I am satisfied with the purgatory
of this life.  I merely meant that I fear we shall not long have his
Holiness among us."

"The moderns have burnt others besides Servetus," said one of the
guests—"Vaninus, for instance."

"I did not instance Vaninus," said the Cardinal, "because his punishment
was more justifiable, and nearer to that of Socrates.  Vaninus taught
atheism, which is dangerous to society, and he courted his death.  I
suppose, Mr. Inglesant, that your bishops would burn Mr. Hobbes if they
dared."

"I know little of the Anglican bishops, Eminence," replied Inglesant;
"but from that little I should imagine that it is not impossible."

"What does Mr. Hobbes teach?" said one of the party.

The Cardinal looked at Inglesant, who shook his head.

"What he teaches would require more skill than I possess to explain.
What they would say that they burnt him for would be for teaching
atheism and the universality of matter.  I fancy that it is at least
doubtful whether even Vaninus meant to deny the existence of God.  I
have been told that he was merely an enthusiastic naturalist, who could
see nothing but nature, which was his god.  But as for Mr. Hobbes’s
opinions, he seems to me to have proclaimed a third authority in
addition to the two which already claimed the allegiance of the world.
We had first the authority of a Church, then of a book, now Mr. Hobbes
asserts the authority of reason; and the supporters of the book, even
more fiercely than those of the Church, raise a clamour against him.
His doctrines are very insidiously and cautiously expressed, and it
proves the acuteness of the Anglican divines that they have detected,
under the plausible reasoning of Mr. Hobbes, the basis of a logical
argument which would, if unconfuted, destroy the authority of Holy
Scripture."

The Cardinal looked at Inglesant curiously, as though uncertain whether
he was speaking in good faith or not, but the subject did not seem to
possess great interest to the company at table, and the conversation
took another turn.




                             *CHAPTER VI.*


Some few days after the conversation at the Cardinal’s villa, Inglesant
received his first commission as an agent of the Society of the Gesu.
He was invited to sup with the Superior of the English Jesuits, Father
Stafford, at the college called St. Thomasso degli Inglesi.  After the
meal, over which nothing was spared to render it delicious, and during
the course of which the Superior exerted himself to please, the latter
said,—

"I am instructed to offer you a commission, which, if I mistake not,
will both prove very interesting to you, and will also be of advantage
to your interests.  You are probably acquainted with the story of the
old Duke of Umbria.  You have heard that, wearied with age, and tired of
the world, he resigned the dukedom to his son, his only child, the
object of all his hopes and the fruit of careful training and
instruction. This son, far from realizing the brilliant hopes of his
father, indulged in every kind of riot and debauchery, and finally died
young, worn out before his time.  The old Duke, broken-hearted by this
blow, has virtually made over the succession to the Holy Father, and
lives now, alone and silent in his magnificent palace, caring for no
worldly thing, and devoting all his thoughts to religion and to his
approaching end.  He is unhappy in the prospect of his dissolution, and
the only persons who are admitted to his presence are those who promise
him any comfort in the anticipation, or any clearness in the vision, of
the future life.  Quacks and impostors of every kind, priests and monks
and fanatics, are admitted freely, and trouble this miserable old man,
and drive him into intolerable despair.  To give to this old man, whose
life of probity, of honour, of devotion to his people, of conscientious
rectitude, is thus miserably rewarded—to give some comfort to this
miserable victim of a jealousy which the superstitious miscall that of
heaven, is a mission which the ethereal chivalry of the soul will
eagerly embrace.  It is one, I may say without flattery, for which I
hold you singularly fitted.  A passionate religious fervour, such as
yours, combined in the most singular manner with the freest speculative
opinions, and commended by a courteous grace, will at once soothe and
strengthen this old man’s shattered intellect, distracted and tormented
and rapidly sinking into imbecility and dotage."

Father Stafford paused and filled his glass; then passing the wine to
Inglesant, he continued, half carelessly,—

"I said that the Duke had virtually made over the succession of his
State to the Papal See; but this has not been formally ratified, and
there has arisen some hesitation and difficulty respecting it.  Some of
the unsuitable advisers to whom the Duke in his mental weakness has
unfortunately lent an ear, have endeavoured to persuade him that the
interests of his people will be imperilled by their country being placed
under the mild and beneficent rule of the Holy Father.  We hear
something of a Lutheran, who, by some unexplained means, has obtained
considerable influence with this unhappy old man; and we are informed
that there is great danger of the Duke’s hesitating so long before he
completes the act of succession, that his death may occur before it is
complete.  You will of course exert the influence which I hope and
expect that you will soon gain at the ducal Court, to hasten this
consummation, so desirable for the interests of the people, of the
Papacy, and of the Duke himself."

Inglesant had listened to this communication with great interest.  The
prospect which the earlier part of it had opened before him was in many
respects an attractive one, and the flattering words of the Superior
were uttered in a tone of sincerity which made them very pleasant to
hear.  The description of the Duke’s condition offered to him
opportunities of mental study of absorbing interest, and the characters
of those by whom he was surrounded would no doubt present combinations
and varieties of singular and unusual curiosity.  It must not be denied,
moreover, that there entered into his estimate of the proposal made to
him somewhat of the prospect of luxurious and courtly life—of that soft
clothing, both of body and spirit, which they who live in kings’ houses
wear.  It is difficult indeed for one who has been long accustomed to
refined and dainty living, where every sense is trained and strengthened
by the fruition it enjoys, to regard the future altogether with
indifference in respect to these things.  The palace of the Duke was
notorious throughout all Italy for the treasures of art which it
contained, though its master in his old age was become indifferent to
such delights.  But though these thoughts passed through his mind as the
Superior was speaking, Inglesant was too well versed in the ways of
Courts and Ecclesiastics not to know that there was something more to
come, and to attend carefully for its development.  The latter part of
the Superior’s speech produced something even of a pleasurable
amusement, as the skilfully executed tactics of an opponent are pleasing
to a good player either at cards or chess.  The part which he was now
expected to play, the side which he was about to espouse, taken in
connection with the difficulties and impressions which had perplexed him
since he had arrived in Italy, and which had not been removed by what he
had seen in Rome itself, corresponded so exactly with the scheme which,
to his excited imagination, was being spiritually developed for his
destruction—a morbid idea, possibly, which the lofty beneficence of
Molinos’s doctrine had only partially removed—that its appearance and
recognition actually provoked a smile.  But the smile, which the
Superior noticed and entirely misunderstood, was succeeded by uneasiness
and depression.  There was, however, little hesitation and no apparent
delay in Inglesant’s manner of acceptance.  The old habit of implicit
obedience was far from obliterated or even weakened, and though Father
St. Clare was not present the supreme motive of his influence was not
unfelt.  He had chosen his part when in Paris he had turned his back
upon De Cressy, and accepted the Jesuit’s offer of the mission to Rome.
He had lived in Rome, had been received and countenanced and entertained
as one who had accepted the service of those who had so courteously and
hospitably treated him, and it was far too late now, when the first
return was expected of him, to draw back or to refuse.  To obey was not
only a recognized duty, it was an instinct which not only long training
but experience even served to strengthen. He assured the Superior that
he was perfectly ready to set out. He assured himself indeed that it was
not necessary to come to a decision at that moment, and that he should
be much better able to decide upon his course of conduct when he had
seen the Duke himself, and received more full instructions from Rome.

The Superior informed Inglesant that he would be expected to visit
Umbria as a gentleman of station, and offered to provide the necessary
means.  Inglesant contented himself with declining this offer for the
present.  Since his arrival at Rome he had received considerable sums of
money from England, the result of Lady Cardiff’s bounty, and the
Cardinal’s purse was open to him in several indirect ways.  He provided
himself with the necessary number of servants, horses, and other
conveniences, and some time, as would appear, after Easter, he arrived
at Umbria.

On his journey, as he rode along in the wonderful clear morning light,
in his "osteria" in the middle of the day, and when he resumed his
journey in the cool of the evening, his thoughts had been very busy.  He
remembered his conversation with the Count Vespiriani, and was unable to
reconcile his present mission with the pledge he had given to the Count.
He was more than once inclined to turn back and refuse to undertake the
duty demanded of him.  Thoughts of Lauretta, and of the strange fate
that had separated him from her, also occupied his mind; and with these
conflicting emotions still unreconciled, he saw at last the white façade
of the palace towering above the orange groves, and the houses and
pinnacles of the city.

The ducal palace at Umbria is a magnificent example of the Renaissance
style.  It is impossible to dwell in or near this wonderful house
without the life becoming affected, and even diverted from its previous
course, by its imperious influence. The cold and mysterious power of the
classic architecture is wedded to the rich and libertine fancy of the
Renaissance, treading unrestrained and unabashed the maze of nature and
of phantasy, and covering the classic purity of outline with its
exquisite tracery of fairy life.  Over door and window and pilaster
throng and cling the arabesque carvings of foliage and fruit, of
graceful figures in fantastic forms and positions,—all of infinite
variety; all full of originality, of life, of motion, and of character;
all of exquisite beauty both of design and workmanship.  The effect of
the whole is lightness and joy, while the eye is charmed and the sense
filled with a luxurious satisfaction at the abounding wealth of beauty
and lavish imagination.  But together with this delight to eye and sense
there is present to the mind a feeling, not altogether painless, of
oppressive luxury, and of the mating of incongruous forms, arousing as
it were an uneasy conscience, and affecting the soul somewhat as the
overpowering perfume of tropical vegetation affects the senses.  To
dwell in this palace was to breathe an enchanted air; and as the
wandering prince of story loses his valour and strength in the magic
castles into which he strays, so here the indweller, whose intellect was
mastered by the genius of the architecture, found his simplicity
impaired, his taste becoming more sensuous and less severely chaste, and
his senses lulled and charmed by the insidious and enervating spirit
that pervaded the place.

At his first presentation Inglesant found the Duke seated in a small
room fitted as an oratory or closet, and opening by a private door into
the ducal pew in the Chapel.  His person was bowed and withered by age
and grief, but his eye was clear and piercing, and his intellect
apparently unimpaired. He regarded his visitor with an intense and
scrutinizing gaze, which lasted for several minutes, and seemed to
indicate some suspicion.  There was, however, about Inglesant’s
appearance and manner something so winning and attractive, that the old
man’s eyes gradually softened, and the expression of distrust that made
his look almost that of a wild and hunted creature, changed to one of
comparative satisfaction and repose.  It is true that he regarded with
pleasure and hope every new-comer, from whom he expected to derive
consolation and advice.

Inglesant expected that he would inquire of the news of Rome, of the
Pope’s health, and such-like matters; but he seemed to have no curiosity
concerning such things.  After waiting for some time in silence he
said,—

"Anthony Guevera tells us that we ought to address men who are under
thirty with ’You are welcome,’ or ’You come in a good hour,’ because at
that time of life they seem to be coming into the world; from thirty to
fifty we ought to greet them with ’God keep you,’ or ’Stand in a good
hour;’ and from fifty onwards, with ’God speed you,’ or ’Go in a good
hour,’ for from thence they go taking their leave of the world. The
first is easy to say, and the wish not unlikely to be fulfilled, but the
last who shall ensure?  You come in a good hour, graceful as an Apollo,
to comfort a miserable old man; can you assure me that, when I pass out
of this world, I shall depart likewise at a propitious time?  I am an
old man, and that unseen world which should be so familiar and near to
me seems so far off and yet so terrible.  A young man steps into life as
into a dance, confident of his welcome, pleased himself and pleasing
others; the stage to which he comes is bright with flowers, soft music
sounds on every side.  So ought the old man to enter into the new life,
confident of his welcome, pleasing to his Maker and his God, the
heavenly minstrelsy in his ears.  But it is far otherwise with me.  I
may lay me down in the ’Angelica Vestis,’ the monkish garment that
ensures the prayers of holy men for the departing soul; but who will
secure me the wedding garment that ensures admission to the banquet
above?"

"Do you find no comfort in the Blessed Sacrament, Altezza?" said
Inglesant.

"Sometimes I may fancy so; but I cannot see the figure of the Christ for
the hell that lies between."

"Ah!  Altezza," said Inglesant, his eyes full of pity, not only for the
old Duke, but for himself and all mankind, "it is always thus.
Something stands between us and the heavenly life.  My temptation is
other than yours.  Communion after communion I find Christ, and He is
gracious to me—gracious as the love of God Himself; but month after
month and year after year I find not how to follow Him, and when the
road is opened to me I am deaf, and refuse to answer to the heavenly
call.  You, Altezza, are in more hopeful case than I; for it seems to me
that your Highness has but to throw off that blasphemous superstition
which is found in all Christian creeds alike, which has not feared to
blacken even the shining gates of heaven with the smoke of hell."

"All creeds are alike," said the Duke with a shudder, "but mostly your
northern religions, harsh and bitter as your skies. I have heard from a
Lutheran a system of religion that made my blood run cold, the more as
it commends itself to my calmer reason."

"And that is, Altezza?" said Inglesant.

"This, that so far from the Sacrament of Absolution upon earth, or at
the hour of death, availing anything, God Himself has no power to change
the state of those who die without being entirely purified from every
trace of earthly and sensual passion; to such as these, though otherwise
sincere Christians, nothing awaits but a long course of suffering in the
desolate regions of Hades, as the Lutheran calls it, until, if so may
be, the earthly idea is annihilated and totally obliterated from the
heart."

"This seems little different from the doctrine of the Church," said
Inglesant.

"It is different in this most important part," replied the Duke, "that
Holy Church purifies and pardons her penitent, though he feels the
passions of earth strong within him till the last; but by this system
you must eradicate these yourself. You must purify your heart, you must
feel every carnal lust, every vindictive thought, every lofty and
contemptuous notion, utterly dead within you before you can enjoy a
moment’s expectation of future peace.  He that goes out of this world
with an uncharitable thought against his neighbour does so with the
chances against him that he is lost for ever, for his face is turned
from the light, and he enters at once upon the devious and downward
walks of the future life; and what ground has he to expect that he who
could not keep his steps in this life will find any to turn him back, or
will have power to turn himself back, from every growing evil in the
world to come?"

As the Duke spoke it seemed to Inglesant that these words were addressed
to him alone, and that he saw before him the snare of the Devil, bated
with the murderer of his brother, stretched before his heedless feet for
his eternal destruction.

The Duke took up a book that lay by him, and read,—

"The soul that cherishes the slightest animosity, and takes this feeling
into eternity, cannot be happy, though in other respects pious and
faithful.  Bitterness is completely opposed to the nature and
constitution of heaven.  The blood of Christ, who on the cross, in the
midst of the most excruciating torments, exercised love instead of
bitterness, cleanses from this sin also, when it flows in our veins."

"I see nothing in this, Altezza," said Inglesant eagerly, "but what is
in accordance with the doctrines of the Church.  This is that idea of
sacramental purification, that Christ’s Body being assimilated to ours
purifies and sanctifies.  His Body, being exalted at that supreme moment
and effort (the moment of His suffering death), to the highest purity of
temper and of sweetness by the perfect love and holiness which pervaded
His spirit, has been able ever since, in all ages, through the mystery
of the Blessed Sacrament, to convert all its worthy recipients in some
degree to the same pure and holy state.  Many things which men consider
misfortunes and painful experiences are in fact but the force of this
divine influence, assimilating their hearts to His, and attempering
their bodies to the lofty purity of His own.  This is the master work of
the Devil, that he should lure us into states of mind, as the book says,
of bitterness and of violence, by which this divine sweetness is
tainted, and this peace broken by suspicion, by hatred, and heat of
blood."

"The book says somewhere," said the Duke, turning over the leaves,
"that, as the penitent thief rose from the cross to Paradise, so we, if
we long after Christ with all the powers of our souls, shall, at the
hour of death, rapidly soar aloft from our mortal remains, and then all
fear of returning to earth and earthly desires will be at an end."

"It must surely," said Inglesant after a pause, speaking more to himself
than to the Duke, "be among the things most surprising to an angelic
nature that observes mankind, that, shadows ourselves, standing upon the
confines even of this shadowy land, and not knowing what, if aught,
awaits us elsewhere, hatred or revenge or unkindness should be among the
last passions that are overcome.  When the veil is lifted, and we see
things as they really are, nothing will so much amaze us as the
blindness and perversity that marked our life among our fellow-men.
Surely the lofty life is hard, as it seems hard to your Grace; but the
very effort itself is gain."

Inglesant left the presence of the Duke after his first interview
impressed and softened, but troubled in his mind more than ever at the
nature of the mission on which he was sent. Now that he had seen the
Duke, and had been touched by his eager questions, and by the earnest
searching look in the worn face, his conscience smote him at the thought
of abusing his confidence, and of persuading him to adopt a course which
Inglesant’s own heart warned him might not in the end be conducive
either to his own peace or to the welfare of his people, whose happiness
he sincerely sought.  He found that, in the antechambers and reception
rooms of the palace, and even at the Duke’s own table, the principal
subject of conversation was the expected cession of the dukedom to the
Papal See; and that emissaries from Rome had preceded him, and had
evidently received instructions announcing his arrival, and were
prepared to welcome him as an important ally.  On the other hand, there
were not wanting those who openly or covertly opposed the cession, some
of whom were said to be agents of the Grand Duke of Florence, who was
heir to the Duchy of Umbria through his wife.  These latter, whose
opposition was more secret than open, sought every opportunity of
winning Inglesant to their party, employing the usual arguments with
which, since his coming into Italy, he had been so familiar.  Many days
passed in this manner, and Inglesant had repeated conferences with the
Duke, during which he made great progress in his favour, and was himself
won by his lofty, kindly, and trustful character.

He had resided at Umbria a little less than a month, when he received
instructions by a courier from Rome, by which he was informed that at
the approaching festival of the Ascension a determined effort was to be
made by the agents and friends of the Pope to bring the business to a
conclusion.  The Duke had promised to keep this festival, which is
celebrated at Venice and in other parts of Italy with great solemnity,
with unusual magnificence; and it was hoped that while his feelings were
influenced and his religious instincts excited by the solemn and tender
thoughts and imaginations which gather round the figure of the ascending
Son of man, he might be induced to sign the deed of cession.  Hitherto
the Duke had not mentioned the subject to Inglesant, having found his
conversation upon questions of the spiritual life and practice
sufficient to occupy the time; but it was not probable that this silence
would continue much longer, and on the first day in Ascension week
Inglesant was attending Vespers at one of the Churches in the town in
considerable anxiety and trouble of mind.

The sun had hardly set, and the fête in the garden was not yet begun,
when, Vespers being over, he came out upon the river-side lined with
stately houses which fronted the palace gardens towering in terraced
walks and trellises of green hedges on the opposite bank.  The sun,
setting behind the wooded slopes, flooded this green hill-side with soft
and dream-like light, and bathed the carved marble façade of the palace,
rising above it with a rosy glimmer, in which the statues on its roof,
and the fretted work of its balustrades, rested against the darkening
blue of the evening sky.  A reflex light, ethereal and wonderful, coming
from the sky behind him, and the marble buildings and towers on which
the sun’s rays rested more fully than they did upon the palace, brooded
over the river and the bridge with its rows of angelic forms, and,
climbing the leafy slopes, as if to contrast its softer splendour with
the light above, transfigured with colour the wreaths of vapour which
rose from the river and hung about its wharves.

The people were already crowding out of the city, and forcing their way
across the bridge towards the palace, where the illuminations and the
curious waterworks, upon which the young Duke had, during his short
reign, expended much money, were to be exhibited as soon as the evening
was sufficiently dark.  The people were noisy and jostling, but as usual
good-tempered and easily pleased.  Few masques or masquerade dresses had
appeared as yet, but almost every one was armed with a small trumpet, a
drum, or a Samarcand cane, from which to shoot peas or comfits.  At the
corner of the main street that opened on to the quay, however, some
disturbing cause was evidently at work.  The crowd was perplexed by two
contending currents, the one consisting of those who were attempting to
turn into the street from the wharf, in order to learn the cause of the
confusion, the other, of those who were apparently being driven forcibly
out of the street, towards the wharves and the bridge, by pressure from
behind.  Discordant cries and exclamations of anger and contempt rose
above the struggling mass.  Taking advantage of the current that swept
him onward, Inglesant reached the steps of the Church of St. Felix,
which stood at the corner of the two streets, immediately opposite the
bridge and the ducal lions which flanked the approach.  On reaching this
commanding situation the cause of the tumult presented itself in the
form of a small group of men, who were apparently dragging a prisoner
with them, and had at this moment reached the corner of the wharf, not
far from the steps of the Church, surrounded and urged on by a leaping,
shouting, and excited crowd.  Seen from the top of the broad marble
bases that flanked the steps, the whole of the wide space, formed by the
confluence of the streets, and over which the shadows were rapidly
darkening, presented nothing but a sea of agitated and tossing heads,
while, from the windows, the bridge, and even the distant marble
terraced steps that led up to the palace, the crowd appeared curious,
and conscious that something unusual was in progress.

From the cries and aspect of the crowd, and of the men who dragged their
prisoner along, it was evident that it was the intention of the people
to throw the wretched man over the parapets of the bridge into the river
below, and that to frustrate this intention not a moment was to be lost.
The pressure of the crowd, greater from the opposite direction than from
the one in which Inglesant had come, fortunately swept the group almost
to the foot of the steps.  Near to Inglesant, and clinging to the carved
bases of the half-columns that supported the façade of the Church, were
two or three priests who had come out of the interior, attracted by the
tumult.  Availing himself of their support, Inglesant shouted to the
captors of the unhappy man, in the name of the Church and of the Duke,
to bring their prisoner up the steps.  They probably would not have
obeyed him, though they hesitated for a moment; but the surrounding
crowd, attracted towards the Church by Inglesant’s gestures, began to
press upon it from all sides, as he had indeed foreseen would be the
case, and finally, by their unconscious and involuntary motion, swept
the prisoner and his captors up the steps to the side of the priests and
of Inglesant.  It was a singular scene.  The rapidly advancing night had
changed the golden haze of sunset to a sombre gloom, but lights began to
appear in the houses all around, and paper lanterns showed themselves
among the crowd.

The cause of all this confusion was dragged by his persecutors up the
steps, and placed upon the last of the flight, confronting the priests.
His hair was disordered, his clothes nearly torn from his limbs, and his
face and dress streaked with blood.  Past the curtain across the
entrance of the Church, which was partly drawn back by those inside, a
flash of light shot across the marble platform, and shone upon the faces
of the foremost of the crowd.  This light shone full upon Inglesant, who
stood, in striking contrast to the dishevelled figure that confronted
him, dressed in a suit of black satin and silver, with a deep collar of
Point-de-Venice lace.  The priests stood a little behind, apparently
desirous to learn the nature of the prisoner’s offence before they
interfered; and the accusers therefore addressed themselves to
Inglesant, who, indeed, was recognized by many as a friend of the Duke,
and whom the priests especially had received instructions from Rome to
support.  The confusion in the crowd meanwhile increased rather than
diminished; there seemed to be causes at work other than the slight one
of the seizure by the mob of an unpopular man. The town was very full of
strangers, and it struck Inglesant that the arrest of the man before him
was merely an excuse, and was being used by some who had an object to
gain by stirring up the people.  He saw, at any rate, however this might
be, a means of engaging the priests to assist him, should their aid be
necessary in saving the man’s life.

That there was a passionate attachment among the people to a separate
and independent government of their city and state, an affection towards
the family of their hereditary dukes, and a dread and jealous dislike of
the Pope’s government and of the priests, he had reason to believe.  It
seemed to him that the people were about to break forth into some
demonstration of this antipathy, which, if allowed to take place, and if
taken advantage of, as it would be, by the neighbouring princes, would
be most displeasing to the policy of Rome, if not entirely subversive of
it.  With these thoughts in his mind, as he stood for a moment silent on
the marble platform, and saw before him, what is perhaps the most
impressive of all sights, a vast assemblage of people in a state of
violent and excited opposition, and reflected on the causes which he
imagined agitated them,—causes which in his heart he, though enlisted on
the opposite side, had difficulty in persuading himself were not
justifiable,—it came into his mind more powerfully than ever, that the
moment foretold to him by Serenus de Cressy was at last indeed come.
Surely it behoved him to look well to his steps, lest he should be found
at last absolutely and unequivocally fighting against his conscience and
his God; if, indeed, this looking well to their steps on such occasions,
and not boldly choosing their side, had not been for many years the
prevailing vice of his family, and to some extent the cause of his own
spiritual failure.

The two men who held the apparent cause of all this uproar were two
mechanics of jovial aspect, who appeared to look upon the affair more in
the light of a brutal practical joke (no worse in their eyes for its
brutality), than as a very serious matter.  To Inglesant’s question what
the man had done they answered that he had refused to kneel to the
Blessed Sacrament, as it was being carried through the streets to some
poor, dying soul, and upon being remonstrated with, had reviled not only
the Sacrament itself, but the Virgin, the Holy Father, and the Italians
generally, as Papistical asses, with no more sense than the Pantaleoni
of their own comedies.  The men gave this evidence in an insolent
half-jesting manner, as though not sorry to utter such words safely in
the presence of the priests.

Inglesant, who kept his eyes fixed upon the prisoner, and noticed that
he was rapidly recovering from the breathless and exhausted condition
the ill-treatment he had met with had reduced him to, and was assuming a
determined and somewhat noble aspect, abstained from questioning him,
lest he should make his own case only the more desperate; but, turning
to the priests, he rapidly explained his fears to them, and urged that
the man should be immediately secured from the people, that he might be
examined by the Duke, and the result forwarded to Rome.  The priests
hesitated.  Apart from the difficulty, they said, of taking the man out
of the hands of his captors, such a course would be sure to exasperate
the people still further, and bring on the very evil that he was
desirous of averting.  It would be better to let the mob work their will
upon the man; it would at least occupy some time, and every moment was
precious.  In less than an hour the fireworks at the palace would begin,
might indeed be hastened by a special messenger; and the fête once
begun, they hoped all danger would be over.  To this Inglesant answered
that the man’s arrest was evidently only an excuse for riot, and had
probably already answered its purpose; that to confine the people’s
attention to it would be unfavourable to the intentions of those who
were promoting a political tumult; and that the avowed cause of the
man’s seizure, and of the excitement of the mob, being disrespectful
language towards the Holy Father, the tumult, if properly managed, might
be made of service to the cause of Rome rather than the reverse.

Without waiting for the effect of this somewhat obscure argument on the
priests, Inglesant directed the men who held their prisoner to bring him
into the Church.  They were unwilling to do so, but the crowd below was
so confused and tumultuous, one shouting one thing and one another, that
it seemed impossible that, if they descended into it again, they would
be allowed to retain their prey, and would not rather be overwhelmed in
a common destruction with him.  On the other hand, by obeying Inglesant,
they at least kept possession of their prisoner, and could therefore
scarcely fail of receiving some reward from the authorities.  They
therefore consented, and by a sudden movement they entered the Church,
the doors of which were immediately closed, after some few of the
populace had managed to squeeze themselves in.  A messenger was at once
despatched to the palace to hasten the fireworks, and to request that a
detachment of the Duke’s guard should be sent into the Church by a back
way.

The darkness had by this time so much increased that few of the people
were aware of what had taken place, and the ignorance of the crowd as to
the cause of the tumult was so general that little disturbance took
place among those who were shut out of the Church.  They remained
howling and hooting, it is true, for some time, and some went so far as
to beat against the closed doors; but a rumour being spread among the
crowd that the fireworks were immediately to begin, they grew tired of
this unproductive occupation, and flocked almost to a man out of the
square and wharves, and crowded across the bridge into the gardens.

When the guard arrived, Inglesant claimed the man as the Duke’s
prisoner, to be examined before him in the morning. The curiosity of the
Duke in all religious matters being well known, this seemed very
reasonable to the officer of the guard, and the priests did not like to
dispute it after the instructions they had received with regard to
Inglesant’s mission.  The two artisans were propitiated by a
considerable reward, and the prisoner was then transported by
unfrequented ways to the palace, and shut up in a solitary apartment,
whilst the rest of the world delighted itself at the palace fêtes.

The garden festivities passed away amid general rejoicing and applause.
The finest effect was produced at the conclusion, when the whole mass of
water at the command of the engines, being thrown into the air in thin
fan-like jets, was illuminated by various coloured lights, producing the
appearance of innumerable rainbows, through which the palace itself, the
orangeries, the gardens, and terraces, and the crowds of delighted
people, were seen illuminated and refracted in varied and ever-changing
tints.  Amid these sparkling colours strange birds passed to and fro,
and angelic forms descended by unseen machinery and walked on the higher
terraces, and as it were upon the flashing rainbows themselves.
Delicious music from unseen instruments ravished the sense, and when the
scene appeared complete and nothing further was expected, an orange
grove in the centre of the whole apparently burst open, and displayed
the stage of a theatre, upon which antic characters performed a
pantomime, and one of the finest voices in Italy sang an ode in honour
of the day, of the Duke, and of the Pope.




                             *CHAPTER VII.*


The Duke had engaged the next morning to be present at a theatrical
representation of a religious character, somewhat of the nature of a
miracle play, to be given in the courtyard of the "Hospital of Death,"
which adjoined to the Campo Santo of the city.

Before accompanying his Highness, Inglesant had given orders to have the
man, who had been the cause of so much excitement the evening before,
brought into his apartment, that he might see whether or no his
eccentricity made him sufficiently interesting to be presented to the
Duke.

When the stranger was brought to the palace early in the morning, and
having been found to be quite harmless, was entrusted by the guard to
two servants to be brought into Inglesant’s presence, he thought himself
in a new world. Hitherto his acquaintance with Italian life had been
that of a stranger and from the outside; he was now to see somewhat of
the interior life of a people among whom the glories of the Renaissance
still lingered, and to see it in one of the most wonderful of the
Renaissance works, the ducal palace of Umbria.  Born in the dull
twilight of the north, and having spent most of his mature years amongst
the green mezzotints of Germany, he was now transplanted into a land of
light and colour, dazzling to a stranger so brought up.  Reared in the
sternest discipline, he found himself among a people to whom life was a
fine art, and the cultivation of the present and its enjoyments the end
of existence.  From room to room, as he followed his guide, who pointed
out from time to time such of the beauties of the place as he considered
most worthy of notice, the stranger saw around what certainly might have
intoxicated a less composed and determined brain.

The highest efforts of the genius of the Renaissance had been expended
upon this magnificent house.  The birth of a new instinct, differing in
some respects from any instincts of art which had preceded it, produced
in this and other similar efforts original and wonderful results.  The
old Greek art entered with unsurpassable intensity into sympathy with
human life; but it was of necessity original and creative, looking
always forward and not back, and lacked the pathos and depth of feeling
that accompanied that new birth of art which sought much of its
inspiration among the tombs and ruined grottoes, and most of its
sympathetic power among the old well-springs of human feeling, read in
the torn and faded memorials of past suffering and destruction.  This
new instinct of art abandoned itself without reserve to the pursuit of
everything which mankind had ever beheld of the beautiful, or had felt
of the pathetic or the sad, or had dreamed of the noble or the ideal.
The genius of the Renaissance set itself to reproduce this enchanted
world of form and colour, traversed by thoughts and spiritual existences
mysterious and beautiful, and the home of beings who had found this form
and colour and these mysterious thoughts blend into a human life
delicious in its very sorrows, grotesque and incongruous in its beauty,
alluring and attractive amid all its griefs and hardships; so much so
indeed that, in the language of the old fables, the Gods themselves
could not be restrained from throwing off their divine garments, and
wandering up and down among the paths and the adventures of men.  By
grotesque and humorous delineation, by fanciful representation of human
passion under strange and unexpected form, by the dumb ass speaking and
grasshoppers playing upon flutes, was this world of intelligent life
reproduced in the rooms and on the walls of the house through which the
stranger walked for the first time.

He probably thought that he saw little of it, yet the bizarre effect was
burning itself into his brain.  From the overhanging chimney-pieces
antique masques and figures such as he had never seen, even in dreams,
leered out upon him from arabesque carvings of foliage, or skulked
behind trophies of war, of music, or of the arts of peace.  The door and
window frames seemed bowers of fruit and flowers, and forests of carved
leaves wreathed the pilasters and walls.  But this was not all; with a
perfection of design and an extraordinary power of fancy, this world of
sylvan imagery was peopled by figures and stories of exquisite grace and
sweetness, representing the most touching incidents of human life and
history.  Men and women; lovers and warriors in conflicts and dances and
festivals, in sacrifices and games; children sporting among flowers;
bereavement and death, husbandry and handicraft, hunters and beasts of
chase.  Again, among briony and jasmin and roses, or perched upon ears
of corn and sheaves of maize, birds of every plumage confronted—so the
grotesque genius willed—fish and sea monsters and shells and marine
wonders of every kind.

Upon the walls, relieved by panelling of wood, were paintings of
landscapes and the ruined buildings of antiquity overgrown with moss, or
of modern active life in markets and theatres, of churches and cities in
the course of erection with the architects and scaffold poles, of the
processions and marriages of princes, of the ruin of emperors and of
kings. Below and beside these were credenzas and cabinets upon which
luxury and art had lavished every costly device and material which the
world conceived or yielded.  Inlaid with precious woods, and glittering
with costly jewels and marbles, they reproduced in these differing
materials all those infinite designs which the carved walls had already
wearied themselves to express.  Plaques and vases from Castel Durante or
Faience,—some of a strange pale colour, others brilliant with a
grotesque combination of blue and yellow,—crowded the shelves.

Passing through this long succession of rooms, the stranger reached at
last a library, a noble apartment of great size, furnished with books in
brilliant antique binding of gold and white vellum, and otherwise
ornamented with as much richness as the rest of the palace.  Upon
reading desks were open manuscripts and printed books richly
illuminated.  Connected with this apartment by open arches, was an
anteroom or corridor, which again opened on a loggia, beyond the shady
arches of which lay the palace gardens, long vistas of green walks, and
reaches of blue sky, flecked and crossed by the spray of fountains.  The
decorations of the anteroom and loggia were more profuse and extravagant
than any that the stranger had yet seen.  There was a tradition that
this portion of the palace had been finished last, and that when the
workmen arrived at it the time for the completion of the whole was very
nearly run out.  The attention of all the great artists, hitherto
engaged upon different parts of the entire palace, was concentrated upon
this unfinished portion, and all their workmen and assistants were
called to labour upon it alone.  The work went on by night and day, not
ceasing even to allow of sleep. Unlimited supplies of Greek wine were
furnished to the workmen; and stimulated by excitement and the love of
art, emulating each other, and half-intoxicated by the delicious wine,
the work exceeded all previous productions.  For wild boldness and
luxuriance of fancy these rooms were probably unequalled in the world.

In the anteroom facing the loggia the stranger found Inglesant
conversing with an Italian who held rather a singular post in the ducal
Court.  He was standing before a cabinet of black oak, inlaid with
representations of lutes and fifes, over which were strewn roses
confined by coloured ribbons, and supporting vases of blue and yellow
majolica, thrown into strong relief by the black wood.  Above this
cabinet was a painting representing some battle in which a former Duke
had won great honour; while on a grassy knoll in the foreground the
huntsmen of Ganymede were standing with their eyes turned upward towards
the bird of Zeus, who is carrying the youth away to the skies,
emblematical of the alleged apotheosis of the ducal hero.  Richly
dressed in a fantastic suit of striped silk, and leaning against the
cabinet in an attitude of listless repose, Inglesant was contemplating
an object which he held in his hand, and which both he and his companion
appeared to regard with intense interest.  This was an antique statuette
of a faun, holding its tail in its left hand, and turning its head and
body to look at it,—an occupation of which, if we may trust the
monuments of antiquity, this singular creature appears to have been
fond.  The Italian was of a striking figure, and was dressed somewhat
more gaily than was customary with his countrymen; and the whole group
was fully in unison with the spirit of the place and with the wealth of
beauty and luxury of human life that pervaded the whole.

The man who was standing by Inglesant’s side, and who had the air of a
connoisseur or virtuoso, was an Italian of some fifty years of age.  His
appearance, as has been said, was striking at first sight, but on longer
acquaintance became very much more so.  He was tall and had been dark,
but his hair and beard were plentifully streaked with gray.  His
features were large and aquiline, and his face deeply furrowed and
lined.  His appearance would have been painfully worn, almost to
ghastliness, but for a mocking and humorous expression which laughed
from his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils, and every line and feature of
his face.  Whenever this expression subsided, and his countenance sank
into repose, a look of wan sadness and even terror took its place, and
the large black eyes became fixed and intense in their gaze, as though
some appalling object attracted their regard.

This man had been born of a good but poor family, and had been educated
by his relations with the expectation of his becoming an ecclesiastic,
and he had even passed some time as a novice of some religious order.
The tendency of his mind not leading him to the further pursuit of a
religious life, he left his monastery, and addressed himself to live by
his wits, among the families and households of princes.  He had made
himself very useful in arranging comedies and pageantries, and he had at
one time belonged to one of those dramatic companies called "Zanni," who
went about the country reciting and acting comedies.  Combined with this
talent he discovered great aptitude in the management of serious
affairs, and was more than once, while apparently engaged entirely on
theatrical performances, employed in secret State negotiations which
could not so well be entrusted to an acknowledged and conspicuous agent.
In this manner of life he might have continued; but having become
involved in one of the contests which disturbed Italy, he received a
dangerous wound in the head, and on rising from his sick bed in the
Albergo in which he had been nursed, he was merely removed to another as
a singular if not dangerous lunatic.  The symptoms of his disease first
manifested themselves in a very unpleasant familiarity with the secrets
of those around him, and it was probably this feature of his complaint
which led to his detention.  As he improved in health, however, he
ceased to indulge in any conversation which might give offence, but,
assuming a sedate and agreeable manner, he conversed with all who came
to him, calling them, although strangers and such as he had never before
seen, by their proper names, and talking to them pleasantly concerning
their parents, relations, the coats-of-arms of their families, and such
other harmless and agreeable matters.

What brought him prominently into notice was the strangely prophetic
spirit he manifested before, or at the moment of the occurrence of, more
than one public event.  He was taken from the hospital and examined by
the Pope, and afterwards at several of the sovereign Courts of Italy.
Thus, not long before the time when Inglesant met him in the ducal
palace at Umbria, he was at Chambery assisting at the preparation of
some festivals which the young Duke of Savoy was engaged in celebrating.
One day, as he was seated at dinner with several of the Duke’s servants,
he suddenly started up from his seat, exclaiming that he saw the Duke de
Nemours fall dead from his horse, killed by a pistol shot.  The Duke,
who was uncle to the young monarch of Savoy, was then in France, where
he was one of the leaders of the party of the Fronde.  Before many days
were passed, however, the news reached Chambery of the fatal duel
between this nobleman and the Duke of Beaufort, which occurred at the
moment the Italian had thus announced it.

These and other similar circumstances caused the man to be much talked
of and sought after among the courts of Italy, where a belief in
manifestations of the supernatural was scarcely less universal than in
the previous age, when, according to an eye-witness, "the Pope would
decide no question, would take no journey, hold no sitting of the
Consistory, without first consulting the stars; nay, very few cardinals
would transact an affair of any kind, were it but to buy a load of wood,
except after consultation duly held with some astrologer or wizard."
The credit which the man gained, and the benefits he derived from this
reputation, raised him many enemies, who did not scruple to assert that
he was simply a clever knave, who was not even his own dupe.  Setting on
one side, however, the revelations of the distant and the unknown made
by him, which seemed inexplicable except by supposing him possessed of
some unusual spiritual faculty, there was in the man an amount of
knowledge of the world and of men of all classes and ranks, combined
with much learning and a humorous wit, which made his company well worth
having for his conversation alone.  It was not then surprising that he
should be found at this juncture at the court of Umbria, where the
peculiar idiosyncrasies of the aged Duke, and the interest attached to
the intrigue for the session of the dukedom, had assembled a strange and
heterogeneous company, and towards which at the moment all men’s eyes in
Italy were turned.

"Yes, doubtless, it is an antique," the Italian was saying, "though in
the last age many artists produced masques and figures so admirable as
to be mistaken for antiques; witness that masque which Messire Georgio
Vassari says he put in a chimney-piece of his house at Arezzo, which
every one took to be an antique.  I have seen such myself.  This little
fellow, however, I saw found in a vineyard near the Miserecordia—a place
which I take to have been at some time or other the scene of some
terrible event, such as a conflict or struggle or massacre; for though
now it is quiet and serene enough, with the sunlight and the rustling
leaves, and the splash of a fountain about which there is some good
carving, I think of Fra Giovanni Agnolo,—for all this, I never walk
there but I feel the presence of fatal events, and a sense of dim
figures engaged in conflict, and of faint and distant cries and groans."

As he spoke these last words his eye rested upon the strange figure of
the man so hardly rescued from death the night before, and he stopped.
His manner changed, and his eyes assumed that expression of intense
expectation of which we have spoken before.  The appearance of the
stranger, and the contrast it presented to the objects around, was
indeed such as to make him almost seem an inhabitant of another world,
and one of those phantasms of past conflict of which the Italian had
just spoken.  His clothes, which had originally been of the plainest
texture, and most uncourtly make, were worn and ragged, and stained with
damp and dirt.  His form and features were gaunt and uncouth, and his
gesture stiff and awkward; but, with all this, there was a certain
steadiness and dignity about his manner, which threw an appearance of
nobility over this rugged and unpleasing form.  Contrasted with the
dress and manner of the other men, he looked like some enthusiastic
prophet, standing in the house of mirth and luxury, and predicting ruin
and woe.

At this moment a servant entered the room, bringing a sottocoppa of
silver, upon which were two or three stiff necked glasses, called
caraffas, containing different sorts of wine, and also water, and one or
two more empty drinking-glasses, so that the visitor could please
himself as to the strength and nature of his beverage.  Inglesant
offered this refreshment to the Italian, who filled himself a glass and
drank, pledging Inglesant as he did so.  The latter did not drink, but
offered wine and cakes to the stranger, who refused or rather took no
heed of these offers of politeness; he remained silent, keeping his eyes
fixed upon the face of the man who, but a few hours before, had saved
him from a violent death.

"I have had some feelings of this kind myself, in certain places," said
Inglesant, in answer to the Italian’s speech, "and very frequently in
all places the sense of something vanishing, which in another moment I
should have seen; it has seemed to me that, could I once see this thing,
matters would be very different with me.  Whether I ever shall or not I
do not know."

"Who can say?" replied the other.  "We live and move amid a crowd of
flitting objects unknown or dimly seen.  The beings and powers of the
unseen world throng around us. We call ourselves lords of our own
actions and fate, but we are in reality the slaves of every atom of
matter of which the world is made and we ourselves created.  Among this
phantasm of struggling forms and influences (like a man forcing his way
through a crowd of masques who mock at him and retard his steps) we
fight our way towards the light. Many of us are born with the seeds
within us of that which makes such a fight hopeless from the first—the
seeds of disease, of ignorance, of adverse circumstance, of stupidity;
for even a dullard has had once or twice in his life glimpses of the
light.  So we go on.  I was at Chambery once when a man came before the
Duke in the palace garden to ask an alms. He was a worker in gold, a
good artist, not unworthy of Cellini himself.  His sight had failed him,
and he could no longer work for bread to give to his children.  He stood
before the Prince and those who stood with him, among whom were a
Cardinal and two or three nobles, with their pages and grooms, trying
with his dim eyes to make out one from the other, which was noble and
which was groom, and to see whether his suit was rejected or allowed.
Behind him, beyond the garden shade, the dazzling glitter stretched up
to the white Alps.  We are all the creatures of a day, and the puny
afflictions of any man’s life are not worth a serious thought; yet this
man seemed to me so true an image of his kind, helpless and half-blind,
yet struggling to work out some good for himself, that I felt a strange
emotion of pity.  They gave him alms—some more, some less.  I was a
fool, yet even now I think the man was no bad emblem of the life of each
of us.  We do not understand this enough.  Will the time ever come when
these things will be better known?"

As the Italian spoke the stranger took his eyes off Inglesant and fixed
them on the speaker with a startled expression, as though the tone of
his discourse was unexpected to him.  He scarcely waited for the other
to finish before he broke in upon the conversation, speaking slowly and
with intense earnestness, as though above all things desirous of being
understood.  He spoke a strange and uncouth Italian, full of rough
northern idioms, yet the earnestness and dignity of his manner ensured
him an audience, especially with two such men as those who stood before
him.

"Standing in a new world," he said, "and speaking as I speak, to men of
another language, and of thoughts and habits distinct from mine, I see
beneath the tinsel of earthly rank and splendour, and a luxury of life
and of beauty, the very meaning of which is unknown to me, something of
a common feeling, which assures me that the voice I utter will not be
entirely strange, coming as it does from the common Father. I see around
me a land given over to idolatry and sensual crime, as if the old Pagans
were returned again to earth; and here around me I see the symbols of
the Pagan worship and of the Pagan sin, and I hear no other talk than
that which would have befitted the Pagan revels and the Pagan darkness
which overhung the world to come.  Standing on the brink of a violent
death, and able to utter few words that can be understood, I call, in
these short moments which are given me, and in these few words which I
have at command—I call upon all who will listen to me, that they leave
those things which are behind, with all the filthy recollections of ages
steeped in sin, and that they press forward towards the light,—the light
of God in Jesus Christ."

He stopped, probably for want of words to clothe his thoughts, and
Inglesant replied,—

"You may be assured from the events of last night, signore, that you are
in no danger of violent death in this house, and that every means will
be taken to protect you, until you have been found guilty of some crime.
You must, however, know that no country can allow its customs and its
religion to be outraged by strangers and aliens, and you cannot be
surprised if such conduct is resented both by the governors of the
country and by the ignorant populace, though these act from different
motives.  As to what you have said respecting the ornaments and symbols
of this house, and of the converse in which you have found us engaged,
it would seem that to a wise man these things might serve as an
allegory, or at least as an image and representation of human life, and
be, therefore, not without their uses."

"I desire no representation nor image of a past world of iniquity," said
the stranger, "I would I could say of a dead life, but the whole world
lieth in wickedness until this day. This is why I travel through all
lands, crying to all men that they repent and escape the most righteous
judgment of God, if haply there be yet time.  These are those latter
days in which our Saviour and Redeemer Jesus Christ, the Son of God,
predicted that iniquity ’should be increased;’ wherein, instead of
serving God, all serve their own humours and affections, being rocked to
sleep with the false and deceitful lullaby of effeminate pleasures and
delights of the flesh, and know not that an horrible mischief and
overthrow is awaiting them, that the pit of Hell yawns beneath them, and
that for them is reserved the inevitable rigour of the eternal fire.  Is
it a time for chambering and wantonness, for soft raiment and dainty
living, for reading of old play-books such as the one I see on the
table, for building houses of cedar, painted with vermilion, and decked
with all the loose and fantastic devices which a disordered and
debauched intellect could itself conceive, or could borrow from Pagan
tombs and haunts of devils, full of uncleanness and dead sins?"

"You speak too harshly of these things," said Inglesant. "I see nothing
in them but the instinct of humanity, differing in its outward aspect in
different ages, but alike in its meaning and audible voice.  This house
is in itself a representation of the world of fancy and reality
combined, of the material life of the animal mingled with those
half-seen and fitful glimpses of the unknown life upon the verge of
which we stand.  This little fellow which I hold in my hand, speaks to
me, in an indistinct and yet forcible voice, of that common
sympathy—magical and hidden though it may be—by which the whole creation
is linked together, and in which, as is taught in many an allegory and
quaint device upon these walls, the Creator of us all has a kindly
feeling for the basest and most inanimate. My imagination follows
humanity through all the paths by which it has reached the present
moment, and the more memorials I can gather of its devious footsteps the
more enlarged my view becomes of what its trials, its struggles, and its
virtues were.  All things that ever delighted it were in themselves the
good blessings of God—the painter’s and the player’s art—action,
apparel, agility, music.  Without these life would be a desert; and as
it seems to me, these things softened manners so as to allow Religion to
be heard, who otherwise would not have been listened to in a savage
world, and among a brutal people destitute of civility.  As I trace
these things backward for centuries, I live far beyond my natural term,
and my mind is delighted with the pleasures of nations who were dust
ages before I was born."

"I am not concerned to dispute the vain pleasures of the children of
this world," exclaimed the stranger with more warmth than he had
hitherto shown.  "Do you suppose that I myself am without the lusts and
desires of life?  Have I no eyes like other men, that I cannot take a
carnal pleasure in that which is cunningly formed by the enemy to please
the eye?  Am not I warmed like other men?  And is not soft clothing and
dainty fare pleasing to me as to them?  But I call on all men to rise
above these things, which are transitory and visionary as a dream, and
which you yourself have spoken of as magical and hidden, of which only
fitful glimpses are obtained. You are pleasing yourself with fond and
idle imaginations, the product of delicate living and unrestrained
fancies; but in this the net of the devil is about your feet, and before
you are aware you will find yourself ensnared for ever.  These things
are slowly but surely poisoning your spiritual life.  I call upon you to
leave these delusions, and come out into the clear atmosphere of God’s
truth; to tread the life of painful self-denial, leaving that of the
powerful and great of this world, and following a despised Saviour, who
knew none of these things, and spent His time not in kings’ houses
gorgeously tricked out, but knew not where to lay His head.  You speak
to me of pleasures of the mind, of music, of the painter’s art; do you
think that last night, when beaten, crushed, and almost breathless, in
the midst of a blood-thirsty and howling crowd, I was dimly conscious of
help, and looking up I saw you in the glare of the lanterns, in your
courtier’s dress of lace and silver, calm, beneficent, powerful for
good, you did not seem to my weak human nature, and my low needs and
instincts, beautiful as an angel of light?  Truly you did; yet I tell
you, speaking by a nature and in a voice that is more unerring than
mine, that, to the divine vision, of us two at that moment you were the
one to be pitied,—you were the outcast, the tortured of demons, the
bound hand and foot, whose portion is in this life, who, if this
fleeting hour is left unheeded, will be tormented in the life to come."

The Italian turned away his head to conceal a smile, and even to
Inglesant, who was much better able to understand the man’s meaning,
this result of his interference to save his life appeared somewhat
ludicrous.  The Italian, however, probably thinking that Inglesant would
be glad to be relieved from his strange visitor, seemed desirous of
terminating the interview.

"His Grace expects me," he said to Inglesant, "at the Casa di Morte this
morning, and it is near the time for him to be there.  I will therefore
take my leave."

"Ah! the Casa di Morte; yes, he will expect me there also," said
Inglesant, with some slight appearance of reluctance. "I will follow you
anon."

He moved from the indolent attitude he had kept till this moment before
the sideboard, and exchanged with the Italian those formal gestures of
leave-taking and politeness in which his nation were precise.  When the
Italian was gone Inglesant summoned a servant, and directed him to
provide the stranger with an apartment, and to see that he wanted for
nothing.  He then turned to the fanatic, and requested him as a favour
not to attempt to leave the palace until he had returned from the Duke.
The stranger hesitated, but finally consented.

"I owe you my life," he said,—"a life I value not at a straw’s weight,
but for which my Master may perchance have some use even yet.  I am
therefore in your debt, and I will give my word to remain quiet until
you return; but this promise only extends to nightfall; should you be
prevented by any chance from returning this day, I am free from my
parole."

Inglesant bowed.

"I would," continued the man, looking upon his companion with a softened
and even compassionate regard, "I would I could say more.  I hear a
secret voice, which tells me that you are even now walking in slippery
places, and that your heart is not at ease."

He stopped, and seemed to seek earnestly for some phrases or arguments
which he might suppose likely to influence a courtier placed as he
imagined Inglesant to be; but before he resumed, the latter excused
himself on the ground of his attendance on the Duke, and, promising to
see him again on his return, left the room.

Inglesant found a carriage waiting to convey him to the "Hospital of
Death," as the monastic house adjoining the public Campo Santo was
called.  The religious performance had already begun.  Passing through
several sombre corridors and across a courtyard, he was ushered into the
Duke’s presence, who sat, surrounded by his Court and by the principal
ecclesiastics of the city, in an open balcony or loggia.  As Inglesant
entered by a small door in the back of the gallery a most extraordinary
sight met his eyes.  Beyond the loggia was a small yard or
burial-ground, and beyond this the Campo Santo stretching out into the
far country.  The whole of the yard immediately before the spectators
was thronged by a multitude of persons, of all ages and ranks,
apparently just risen from the tomb.  Many were utterly without
clothing, others were attired as kings, bishops, and even popes.  Their
attitudes and conduct corresponded with the characters in which they
appeared, the ecclesiastics collecting in calm and sedate attitudes,
while many of the rest, among whom kings and great men were not wanting,
appeared in an extremity of anguish and fear.  Beyond the sheltering
walls which enclosed the court the dazzling heat brooded over the Campo
Santo to the distant hills, and the funereal trees stood, black and
sombre, against the glare of the yellow sky.  At the moment of
Inglesant’s entrance it appeared that something had taken place of the
nature of an excommunication, and the ecclesiastics in the gallery were,
according to custom, casting candles and flaming torches, which the
crowd of nude figures below were struggling and fighting to obtain.  A
wild yet solemn strain of music, that came apparently from the open
graves, ascended through the fitful and half-stifled cries.

The first sight that struck upon Inglesant’s sense, as he entered the
gallery from the dark corridors, was the lurid yellow light beyond.  The
second was the wild confused crowd of leaping and struggling figures, in
a strange and ghastly disarray, naked or decked as in mockery with the
torn and disordered symbols of rank and wealth, rising as from the tomb,
distracted and terror-stricken as at the last great assize.  The third
was the figure of the Duke turning to him, and the eyes of the priests
and clergy fixed upon his face.  The words that the fanatic had uttered
had fallen upon a mind prepared to receive them, and upon a conscience
already awakened to acknowledge their truth.  A mysterious conviction
laid hold upon his imagination that the moment had arrived in which he
was bound to declare himself, and by every tie which the past had
knotted round him to influence the Duke to pursue a line of conduct from
which his conscience and his better judgment revolted.  On the one hand,
a half-aroused and uncertain conscience, on the other, circumstance,
habit, interest, inclination, perplexed his thoughts.  The conflict was
uneven, the result hardly doubtful.  The eyes of friends and enemies, of
agents of the Holy See, of courtiers and priests, were upon him; the
inquiring glance of the aged Duke seemed to penetrate into his soul.  He
advanced to the ducal chair, the solemn music that streamed up as from
the grave, wavered and faltered as if consciousness and idea were nearly
lost. Something of the old confusion overpowered his senses, the figures
that surrounded him became shadowy and unreal, and the power of decision
seemed no longer his own.

Out of the haze of confused imagery and distracting thought which
surrounded him, he heard with unspeakable amazement the Duke’s words,—

"I have waited your coming, Mr. Inglesant, impatiently, for I have a
commission to entrust you with, or rather my daughter, the Grand
Duchess, has written urgently to me from Florence to request me to send
you to her without a moment’s delay.  Family matters relating to some in
whom she takes the greatest interest, and who are well known, she says,
to yourself, are the causes which lead to this request."

Inglesant was too bewildered to speak.  He had believed himself quite
unknown to the Grand Duchess, whom he had never seen, but as he had
passed before her in the ducal receptions at Florence.  Who could these
be in whom she took so great an interest, and who were known to him?

But the Duke went on, speaking with a certain melancholy in his tone.

"I have wished, Mr. Inglesant," he said, "to mark in some way the regard
I have conceived for you, and the obligation under which I conceive
myself to remain.  It may be that, in the course that events are taking,
it will no longer in a few weeks be in my power to bestow favours upon
any man.  I desire, therefore, to do what I have purposed before you
leave the presence.  I have caused the necessary deeds to be prepared
which bestow upon you a small fief in the Apennines, consisting of some
farms and of the Villa-Castle of San Georgio, where I myself in former
days have passed many happy hours."  He stopped, and in a moment or two
resumed abruptly, without finishing the sentence.

"The revenue of the fief is not large, but its possession gives the
title of Cavaliere to its owner, and its situation and the character of
its neighbourhood make it a desirable and delightful abode.  The letters
of naturalization which are necessary to enable you to hold this
property have been made out, and nothing is wanting but your acceptance
of the gift. I offer it you with no conditions and no request save that,
as far as in you lies, you will be a faithful servant to the Grand
Duchess when I am gone."

The Duke paused for a moment, and then, turning slightly to his
chaplain, he said, "The reverend fathers will tell you that this affair
has not been decided upon without their knowledge, and that it has their
full approval."

These last words convinced Inglesant of the fact that had occurred.
Although the Duke had said nothing on the subject, he felt certain that
the deed of cession had been signed, and that for some reason or other
he himself was considered by the clerical party to have been
instrumental in obtaining this result, and to be deserving of reward
accordingly.  He had never, as we have seen, spoken to the Duke
concerning the succession, and his position at the moment was certainly
a peculiar one.  Nothing was expected of him but that he should express
his grateful thanks for the Duke’s favour, and leave the presence.
Surely, at that moment, no law of heaven or earth could require him to
break through the observances of civility and usage, to enter upon a
subject upon which he was not addressed, and to refuse acts of favour
offered to him with every grace and delicacy of manner.  Whatever might
be the case with other men, he certainly was not one to whom such a
course was possible.  He expressed his gratitude with all the grace of
manner of which he was capable, he assured the Duke of his readiness to
start immediately for Florence, and he left the ducal presence before
many minutes had passed away.

He found before long that all his conjectures were correct. The Duke had
signed the deed of cession, and the report which was sent to Rome by the
Papal agents stated that, in the opinion of the most competent judges,
this result was due to Inglesant’s influence.  Before his arrival the
Duke had leaned strongly towards the secular and anti-Papal interest,
and had even encouraged heretical and Protestant emissaries.  "Avoiding
with great skill all positive allusion to the subject," the report went
on to state, "Il Cavaliere Inglesant had thrown all his influence into
the Catholic and religious scale, and had by the loftiness of his
sentiment and the attraction of his manner entirely won over the
vacillating nature of the Duke."  Too much satisfaction, the Cardinal of
Umbria and the heads of the Church in that city assured the Papal Court,
could not be expressed at the manner in which the agent of the Society
had fulfilled his mission.

Inglesant’s departure from Umbria was so sudden that he had no
opportunity of again seeing the stranger whom he had left in the palace,
and he was afterwards at some trouble in obtaining any information
respecting him.  As far as could be ascertained he waited in the palace,
according to his promise, until the evening, when, finding that
Inglesant did not return, he walked quietly forth, no man hindering him.
What his subsequent fate was is involved in some obscurity; but it would
appear that, having publicly insulted the Host in some cathedral in the
south of Italy, he was arrested by the Holy Office, and thrown into
prison, from which there is reason to believe he never emerged.




                            *CHAPTER VIII.*


Not very long after Inglesant had left for Umbria, his friend, Don
Agostino di Chigi, suddenly came to Rome.  The Pope’s health was rapidly
failing, and the excitement concerning his successor was becoming
intense.  The choice was generally considered to lie between the
Cardinals Barbarini and di Chigi, though Cardinal Sacchetti was spoken
of by some, probably however merely as a substitute, should both the
other parties fail in electing their candidate.

It was the policy of the Chigi family to conduct their matters with
great caution; none of the family, with the exception of the Cardinal,
were openly in Rome; and when Don Agostino arrived he resided in one of
the deserted villas hidden among vineyards and the gardens of solitary
convents, which covered the Palatine and the Aventine in the southern
portion of Rome within the walls.  He remained within or with the
Cardinal during the day, but at night he ventured out into the streets,
and visited the adherents of his family and those who were working to
secure his uncle’s elevation.

One night the fathers of the Oratory gave a concert at which one of the
best voices in Rome was to sing.  It happened that Don Agostino passed
the gate as the company were assembling, and as he did so the street was
blocked by the train of some great personage who arrived in a sedan of
blue velvet embroidered with silver, accompanied by several gentlemen
and servants.  Among the former, Agostino recognized the Cavaliere di
Guardino, the brother of Lauretta, of whose acquaintance with Inglesant
at Florence it may be remembered he was aware, and with him another man
whose appearance seemed to recall some distant reminiscence to his mind.
He could, however, see him but imperfectly in the flickering torchlight.

Apart from his desire to remain unrecognized in Rome, Agostino had no
desire to associate with the Cavaliere, of whose character he had a very
bad opinion.  To his annoyance, therefore, as the sedan entered the
courtyard, the two persons he had noticed, instead of following their
patron, turned round, and in leaving the doorway met Agostino face to
face. The Cavaliere recognized him immediately, and appeared to grasp
eagerly the opportunity to accost him.  He began by complimenting him on
the near prospect of his uncle’s elevation to the Papacy, professing to
consider the chances of his election very good indeed, and added that he
presumed business connected with these matters had brought him to Rome.
To this Agostino replied that, so far as he knew, his uncle had no
expectation of such an honour being at all likely to be offered him, and
that private affairs of his own, of a very delicate nature,—of a kind
indeed which a gentleman of the Cavaliere’s known gallantry could well
understand,—had brought him to Rome, as indeed he might see from the
secrecy he maintained, and by his not being present at any of the
entertainments which were going forward.  He then inquired in his turn
why the Cavaliere had not entered the college.  The other made some
evasive answer, but it appeared to Agostino that both the Cavaliere and
his companion were not on the most familiar terms with the nobleman they
had accompanied, although it might suit their purpose to appear in his
train. Guardino indeed changed the subject hastily, and spoke of
Inglesant, praising him highly.  He inquired whether the Cardinal di
Chigi was acquainted with him, and whether it was likely that either as
an attendant upon him or upon Cardinal Rinuccini, Inglesant would be
admitted into the conclave.

Don Agostino replied vaguely that Inglesant was then at Umbria, and that
he could offer no opinion as to the probability of the latter part of
his inquiry.

He thought that he could see from the expression on the other’s face
that the Cavaliere thought that he was deceiving him, and that he jumped
at once to the conclusion that, as the attendant of one or other of the
Cardinals, Inglesant would be present at the conclave.

Guardino went on to speak of Inglesant’s character, regretting the craze
of mind, as he called it, which his ill health had produced, and which
rendered him, as he said, unfit for business or for taking his part in
the affairs of life.  He went on to speak with unconcealed contempt of
Inglesant’s religious ideas and scruples, and of his association with
Molinos; intimating, however, his opinion that it would not be
impossible to overcome these scruples, could a suitable temptation be
found. These fancies once removed, he continued, Inglesant’s value as a
trusted and secret agent would be greatly increased.

He seemed to be talking abstractedly, and as a perfectly disinterested
person, who was discussing an interesting topic of morals or mental
peculiarity.

Agostino could not understand his drift.  He answered him that the
Jesuits did not need unscrupulous bravoes.  If they did, they could be
found in every street corner by the score.  He added that he imagined
that the services which Inglesant had already performed, and might
perform again, were of a special and delicate character, for which his
temperament and habit of mind, which were chiefly the result of the
Society’s training, especially fitted him.

They had by this time reached the Corso, and Agostino took the
opportunity of parting with his companions, excusing himself on the
ground of his pretended assignation.

He was no sooner gone than the Cavaliere, according to the narrative
which was afterwards related by Malvolti, began to explain more clearly
than he had hitherto done what his expectations and intentions were.  He
was forced to confide in Malvolti more than he otherwise would have
done, to prevent his ridding himself of Inglesant’s presence by violent
means.

When the Italian first saw Inglesant, whom he had never met in England,
in the theatre in Florence, he was startled and terrified by his close
resemblance to his murdered brother; and his first thought was that his
victim had returned to earth, and, invisible to others, was permitted to
avenge himself upon his murderer by haunting and terrifying his paths.
When he discovered, however, that the Cavaliere not only saw the
appearance which had so alarmed him, but could tell him who Inglesant
was, and to a certain extent what the motives were which had brought him
to Italy, his superstitious fears gave place to more material
apprehensions and expedients.  He at once resolved to assassinate
Inglesant on leaving the theatre, in the first street through which he
might pass—a purpose which he might easily have accomplished during
Inglesant’s careless and unguarded wanderings round the house of
Lauretta’s father that night.  From this intention he was with
difficulty diverted by the reasoning of the Cavaliere, who represented
to him the rashness of such an action, protected as Inglesant was by the
most powerful of Societies, which would not fail to punish any act which
deprived it of a useful agent; the unnecessary character of the attempt,
Inglesant being at present in complete ignorance that his enemy was near
him; and above all, the folly of destroying a person who might otherwise
be made the medium of great personal profit and advantage. He explained
to Malvolti Inglesant’s connection with the Chigi family, and the
position of influence he would occupy should the Cardinal be elected to
the Popedom; finally, he went so far as to hint at the possibility of an
alliance between Malvolti and his sister, should Inglesant remain
uninjured.

Malvolti had only arrived in Florence on the previous day, and the
Cavaliere met him accidentally in the theatre; but Guardino’s plans with
relation to Inglesant and his sister were already so far matured, that
he had arranged for the abrupt departure of his father and Lauretta from
Florence. His object was to keep in his own hands a powerful magnet of
attraction, which would bind, as he supposed, Inglesant to his
interests; but he was by no means desirous that he should marry his
sister immediately, if at all.  The election for the Papacy was of very
uncertain issue, and if the di Chigi faction failed, Inglesant’s
alliance would be of little value.  He had two strings to his bow.
Malvolti, between whom and the Cavaliere association in vice and even
crime had riveted many a bond of interest and dependence, was closely
connected with the Barbarini faction, as an unscrupulous and useful
tool. Should the Cardinal Barbarini be elected Pope, or should Cardinal
Sacchetti, who was in his interest, be chosen, his own connection with
Malvolti might be of great value to the Cavaliere, and the greater
service the latter could render to the Barbarini faction in the
approaching crisis the better. The weak point of his position on this
side was the character of Malvolti, and the subordinate position he
occupied among the adherents of the Barbarini.  On the other hand, if
Cardinal Chigi were the future Pontiff, the prospects of any one
connected with Inglesant would be most brilliant, as the latter, from
his connection with the Jesuits, and as the favourite of the Pope’s
nephew, would at once become one of the most powerful men in Italy.  The
weak point on this side was that his hold on Inglesant was very slight,
and that, even supposing it to be strengthened by marriage with
Lauretta, Inglesant’s character and temper were such as would probably
make him useless and impracticable in the attempt to secure the
glittering and often illicit advantages which would be within his reach.
Between this perplexing choice the only wise course appeared to be to
temporize with both parties, and to attempt, in the meantime, to secure
an influence with either.  The fortunes both of the Cavaliere and of
Malvolti were at this moment pretty nearly desperate, and their means of
influencing any one very small; indeed, having wasted what had once been
considerable wealth and talent, there remained nothing to the Cavaliere
but his sister, and of that last possession he was prepared to make
unscrupulous use.  It would be of small advantage to him to give his
sister’s hand to Inglesant unless he could first, by her means, corrupt
and debase his conscience and that lofty standard of conduct which he
appeared, to the Cavaliere at least, unswervingly to follow; and the
Italian devil at his side suggested a means to this end as wild in
conception as the result proved it impotent and badly planned.

This Italian devil was not Malvolti, though that person was one of his
most successful followers and imitators.  When the inspired writer has
described the princes and angels which rule the different nations of the
earth, he does not go on to enumerate the distinct powers of evil which,
in different countries, pursue their divers malific courses; yet it
would seem that those existences are no less real than the others. That
the character of the inhabitants of any country has much to do in
forming a distinct devil for that country no man can doubt; or that in
consequence the temptations which beset mankind in certain countries are
of a distinct and peculiar kind.  This fact is sometimes of considerable
advantage to the object of the tempter’s art, for if, acting upon his
knowledge of the character of any people, this merely local devil lays
snares in the path of a stranger, it is not impossible that the bait may
fail.  This was very much what happened to John Inglesant.  Of the sins
which were really his temptations the Cavaliere knew nothing; but he
could conceive of certain acts which he concluded Inglesant would
consider to be sins. These acts were of a gross and sensual nature; for
the Italian devil, born of the fleshly lusts of the people, was unable
to form temptations for the higher natures, and of course his pupils
were equally impotent.  The result was singular. Acting upon the design
of ruining Inglesant’s moral sense, of debasing the ideal of conduct at
which he aimed, and of shattering and defiling what the Cavaliere
considered the fantastic purity of his conscience, he formed a scheme
which had the effect of removing Inglesant from a place where he was
under the strongest temptation and in the greatest danger of violating
his conscience, and of placing him in circumstances of trial which,
though dangerous, he was still, from the peculiarity of his character,
much better able to resist.

A marriage connection with Inglesant would at this juncture be of little
avail; but a wild and illicit passion, which would involve him in a
course of licentious and confused action, in which the barriers of
morality and the scruples of conscience would be alike annihilated, and
the whole previous nature of the victim of lawless desire altered,
would, if any agent could produce so great a change, transform Inglesant
into the worldly-minded and unscrupulous accomplice that the Cavaliere
wished him to become.  How great the fall would be he could of course in
no way estimate; but he had sufficient insight to perceive that the
shock of it would probably be sufficient (acting upon a consciousness so
refined and delicate as that of Inglesant) to render recovery, if ever
attained, very difficult and remote.

Upon this wild scheme he acted.  He had removed his sister when he had
thought that Inglesant had been sufficiently ensnared to make his after
course certain and precipitate. Inglesant’s character, which was so very
imperfectly known to the Cavaliere, and circumstances, such as his
confinement in the pest-house, had delayed the consummation of the plot.
But the Cavaliere conceived that the time had now arrived for its
completion.  He brought his sister back to Florence, and placed her with
the Grand Duchess, in some subordinate situation which his family and
his sister’s character enabled him to obtain.  Having had some previous
knowledge of her, the Duchess soon became attached to Lauretta, and
obtained her confidence.  From her she learnt Inglesant’s story and
character, and wished to see him at the Court.  While the two ladies
were planning schemes for future pleasure, the Cavaliere suddenly
appeared at Florence, and informed his sister that he had concluded,
with the approbation of his father, a marriage contract between herself
and Malvolti.

Terrified by this threatened connection with a man whose person she
loathed and whose character she detested, Lauretta flew to the Duchess,
and entreated her to send at once for Inglesant, who, they were both
aware, was at that moment with the Duke of Umbria, the Grand Duchess’s
aged father.  With the result we are acquainted.




                             *CHAPTER IX.*


On his arrival at Florence Inglesant found himself at once fêted and
caressed, though the nature of his mission to Umbria, antagonistic as
his supposed influence had been to the interests of the ducal party,
might naturally have procured for him a far different reception.
Trained as he had been in courts, the caprices of princes’ favour did
not seem strange to him, and were taken at their true worth.
Unsuspicious, therefore, of any special danger, relieved from the
intolerable strain which the position at Umbria had exerted upon his
conscience, delighted with the society of his recovered mistress, and
flattered by the attentions of the Duchess and of the whole Court, he
gave himself up freely to the enjoyments of the hour. Plentifully
supplied with money from his own resources, from the kindness of the
aged Duke, and from the subsidies of his patrons at Rome, he engaged
freely in the parties formed for the performance of masques and
interludes, in which the Court delighted, and became conspicuous for the
excellence of his acting and invention.

But it was not the purpose of the demon that followed on his footsteps
to give him longer repose than might lull his senses, and weaken his
powers of resisting evil.  Day after day devoted to pleasure paved the
way for the final catastrophe, until the night arrived when the plot was
fully ripe.  Supper was over, and the Court sat down again to play.
Inglesant remembered afterwards, though at the time it did not attract
his attention, that several gentlemen, all of them friends of Guardino,
paid him particular attention, and insisted on drinking with him,
calling for different kinds of wine, and recommending them to his
notice.  The saloons were crowded and very hot, and when Inglesant left
the supper room and came into the brilliant marble hall lighted with
great lustres, where the Court was at play, he was more excited than was
his wont. The Court was gathered at different tables,—a very large one
in the centre of the hall, and other smaller ones around.  The brilliant
dresses, the jewels, the beautiful women, the reflections in the
numberless mirrors, made a dazzling and mystifying impression on his
brain.  The play was very high, and at the table to which Inglesant sat
down especially so.  He lost heavily, and this did not tend to calm his
nerves; he doubled his stake, with all the money he had with him, and
lost again. As he rose from the table a page touched his elbow and
handed him a small note carefully sealed and delicately perfumed.  It
was addressed to him by his new title, "Il Cavaliere di San Georgio,"
and scarcely knowing what he did, he opened it. It was from Lauretta.


"Cavaliere,

Will you come to me in the Duchess’s lodgings before the Court rises
from play?  I need your help.  L."


Inglesant turned to look for the boy, who, he expected, was waiting for
him.  He was not far off, and Inglesant followed him without a word.
They passed through many corridors and rooms richly furnished until they
reached the lodgings of the Grand Duchess.  The night was sultry, and
through the open windows above the gardens the strange odours that are
born of darkness and of night entered the palace.  In the dark arcades
the nightingales were singing, preferring gloom and mystery to the light
in which all other creatures rejoice; and in the stillness the murmur of
brooks and the splash of the fountains oppressed the ear with an
unearthly and unaccustomed sound.  Around the casements festoons of
harmless and familiar flowers and leaves assumed wild and repulsive
shapes, as if transformed into malicious demons who made men their
sport.  Inglesant thought involuntarily of those plants that are at
enmity with man, which are used for enchantments and for poisoning, and
whose very scent is death; such saturnine and fatal flowers seemed more
at home in the lovely Italian night than the innocent plants which
witness to lovers’ vows, and upon which divines moralize and preach.
The rooms of the Duchess were full of perfume of the kind that enervates
and lulls the sense.  It seemed to Inglesant as though he were treading
the intricate pathways of a dream, careless as to what befell him, yet
with a passionate longing which urged him forward, heedless of a
restraining voice which he was even then half-conscious that at other
times he should have heard.  The part of the palace where he was seemed
deserted, and the page led him through more than one anteroom without
meeting any one, until they reached a curtained door, which the boy
opened, and directed Inglesant to enter. He did so, and found himself at
once in the presence of Lauretta, who was lying upon a low seat at the
open window. The room was lighted by several small lamps in different
positions, giving an ample, yet at the same time a soft and dreamy
light.  Lauretta was carelessly dressed, yet, in the soft light, and in
her negligent attitude, there was something that made her beauty the
more attractive, and her manner to Inglesant was unrestrained and
clinging.  Her growing affection, the urgency of her need, and the
circumstances of the hour, caused her innocently to speak and act in a
way the most fitted to promote her brother’s atrocious purposes.

"Cavaliere," she said, "I have sent for you because I have no friend but
you.  I have sent for you to help me against my own family—my own
brother—my father even, whom I love—whom I loved—more than all the world
beside.  They are determined to marry me to a man whom I hate; to the
man whom you hate; to that Signor Malvolti, who, though they deny it,
is, I am fully persuaded, the murderer of your brother; to that wretch
whom Italy even refuses to receive; who, but for his useful crimes,
would be condemned to a death of torment. My brother tells me that he
will be here to-morrow to see me and demand my consent.  He brings an
authorization from my father, and insists upon the contract being made
without delay.  I would die rather than submit to such a fate, but it is
not necessary to die.  I must, however, leave the Court and escape from
my brother’s wardship.  If I can reach some place of safety, where I can
gain time to see my father, I am certain that I shall be able to move
him.  It cannot be that he will condemn me to such a fate,—me! the pride
and pleasure of his life.  He must be deceived and misled by some of
these wicked intrigues and manoeuvres which ruin the happiness and peace
of men."

"I am wholly yours," said Inglesant; "whatever you desire shall be done.
Have you spoken to the Duchess?"

"The Duchess advises me to fly," replied Lauretta; "she says the Duke
will not interfere between a father and his child; especially now, when
all Italy hangs in suspense concerning the Papacy, and men are careful
whom they offend.  She advises me to go to the convent of St. Catherine
of Pistoia, where I lodged not many years ago while my father was in
France. The Abbess is a cousin of my father’s; she is a kind woman, and
I can persuade her to keep me for a short time at least. I wish to go
to-night.  Will you take me?"

She had never looked so lovely in Inglesant’s eyes as she did while she
spoke.  The pleading look of her dark eyes, and the excitement of her
manner, usually so reserved and calm, added charms to her person of
which he had previously been unconscious.  In that country of formal
restraint and suspicion, of hurried, furtive interviews, a zest was
given to accidental freedom of intercourse such as the more unrestricted
life of France and England knew little of.  In spite of a suspicion of
treachery, which in that country was never absent, Inglesant felt his
frame aglow with devotion to this lovely creature, who thus threw
herself unreservedly into his keeping.  He threw himself upon a cushion
at Lauretta’s feet, and encircled her with his arms.  She spoke of youth
and life and pleasure,—of youth that was passing away so rapidly; of
life that had been to her dreary and dull enough; of her
jealously-guarded Italian home, of her convent cell, of her weak and
helpless father, of her tyrannous brother; of pleasure, of which she had
dreamed as a girl, but which seemed to fly before her as she advanced;
finally of himself, whom, from the first day she had seen him in her
father’s room, she had loved, whom absence had only endeared, her first
and only friend.

He spoke of love, of protection, of help and succour for the rest of
life; of happy days to come at San Georgio, when all these troubles
should have passed away, when at last he should escape from intrigue and
State policy, and they could make their home as joyous and free from
care as that house of a Cardinal, on a little hilly bank near Veletri,
whence you can see the sea, and which is called Monte Joiosa.  He spoke
of an Idyllic dream which could not long have satisfied either of
them,—himself especially, but which pleased them at that moment, with an
innocent and delicate fancy which calmed and purified their excited
thoughts.  Then, as the hour passed by, he rose from her embrace,
promising to provide horses, and when the palace was quiet, to meet her
at the end of one of the long avenues that crossed the park; for the
Court was not at the Pitti Palace, but at the Poggia Imperiale without
the walls of Florence.

The soft night air played upon Inglesant’s forehead as he led his horses
to the end of a long avenue, and waited for the lady to join him.  He
did not wait long; she came gliding past the fountains, by the long rows
of orange and cypress hedges, and across the streaks of moonlight among
the trees that closed the gardens and the park.  As he lifted her into
the saddle, her glance was partly scared and partly trustful; he felt as
though he were moving in a delicious dream.

As they rode out of the park she told him that she had received a
message from the Duchess, recommending her to stop at a pavilion on the
borders of the great chase, beyond the Achaiano Palace, half-way to
Pistoia, which the Duchess used sometimes when the Duke was diverting
himself in the chase.  She had sent a messenger to prepare the people
who kept the pavilion for their coming.  There was something strange in
this message, Lauretta said, which was brought, not by one of the
Duchess’s usual pages, but by a boy who had not been long at the palace,
and who scarcely waited to give his message, so great was his hurry.  It
seemed of little moment to Inglesant who brought the message, or whether
any treachery were at work or no; he was only conscious of a delicious
sense of coming pleasure which made him reckless of all beside.  Along
the first few miles of their road they passed nothing but the long lines
of elms, planted between ridges of corn, upon which the vines were
climbing in already luxuriant wreaths.  Presently, however, after they
had passed the Achaiano Palace, the country changed, and they came
within the confines of the Duke’s chase, thirty miles in compass,
planted with cork trees and ilex, with underwood of myrtle thickets.
Through these shades, lovely indeed by day, but weird and unhealthy by
night, they rode silently, startled every now and then by strange sounds
that issued from the forest depths.  The ground was fenny and uneven,
and moist exhalations rose out of the soil and floated across the path.

"The Duchess never sleeps at the pavilion," said Lauretta at last
suddenly; "it is dangerous to sleep in the forest."

"It will be as well to stop an hour or so, however," said Inglesant,
"else we shall be at Pistoia before they open the gates."

Presently, in the brilliant moonlight, they saw the pointed roofs of the
pavilion on a little rising-ground, with the forest trees coming up
closely to the walls.  The moon was now high in the heavens, and it was
as light as day.  The upper windows of the pavilion were open, and
within it lights were burning.  The door was opened to them before they
knocked, and the keeper of the pavilion came to meet them, accompanied
by a boy who took the horses.  The man showed no surprise at their
coming, only saying some servants of the Duchess had been there a few
hours previously, and had prepared a repast in the dining-room,
forewarning him that he should expect visitors.  He accompanied them
upstairs, for they saw nothing of the other inmates of the place.  The
rooms were arranged with a sort of rustic luxury, and were evidently
intended for repose during the heat of the day.  A plentiful and
delicate collation was spread on one of the tables, with abundance of
fruit and wine.  The place looked like the magic creation of an
enchanter’s wand, raised for purposes of evil from the unhealthy marsh,
and ready to sink again, when that malific purpose was fulfilled, into
the weird depths from which it rose.

The old man showed them the other rooms of the apartment and left them.
At the door he turned back and said,—

"I should not advise the lady to sleep here; the miasma from the forest
is very fatal to such as are not used to it."

Inglesant looked at him, but could not perceive that he intended his
word to have any deeper meaning than the obvious one.  He said,—

"We shall stay only an hour or two; let the horses be ready to go on."

The man left them, and they sat down at the table.

The repast was served in Faience ware of a strange delicate blue, and
consisted of most of the delicacies of the season with a profusion of
wine.

"This was not ordered by the Duchess," said Lauretta.

"We are safe from poison, Mignone," said Inglesant; "to destroy you as
well as me would defeat all purposes.  Not that I believe the Cavaliere
would wish me dead.  He rather hopes that I may be of use to him.  Let
us drink to him."

And he filled a glass for Lauretta of the Monte-pulciano, the "King of
Wines," and drank himself.

Lauretta was evidently frightened, yet she followed his example and
drank.  The night air was heavy and close, not a breath of wind stirred
the lights, though every window was thrown open, and the shutters that
closed the loggia outside were drawn back.  In the brilliant moonlight
every leaf of the great forest shone with an unnatural distinctness,
which, set in a perfect silence, became terrible to see.  The sylvan
arcades seemed like a painted scene-piece upon a Satanic stage,
supernaturally alight to further deeds of sin, and silent and unpeopled,
lest the wrong should be interrupted or checked.  To Inglesant’s excited
fancy evil beings thronged its shadowy paths, present to the spiritual
sense, though concealed of set purpose from the feeble human sight.  The
two found their eyes drawn with a kind of fascination to this strange
sight, and Inglesant arose and closed the shutters before the nearest
casement.

They felt more at ease when the mysterious forest was shut out.  But
Lauretta was silent and troubled, and Inglesant’s efforts to cheer and
enliven her were not successful. The delicious wines to which he
resorted to remove his own uneasiness and to cure his companion’s
melancholy, failed of their effect.  At last she refused to drink, and
rising up suddenly, she exclaimed,—

"Oh, it is terribly hot.  I cannot bear it.  I wish we had not come!"

She wandered from the room in which they sat, through the curtained
doorway into the next, which was furnished with couches, and sank down
on one of them.  Inglesant followed her, and, as if the heat felt
stifling also to him, went out upon the open verandah, and looked upon
the forest once more.

Excited by the revels of the past few days, heated with wine, with the
night ride, and with the overpowering closeness of the air, the
temptation came upon him with a force which he had neither power nor
desire to resist.  He listened, but no sound met his ear, no breath
stirred, no living being moved, no disturbance need be dreaded from any
side.  From the people in the pavilion he looked for no interference,
from the object of his desires he had probably no need to anticipate any
disinclination but what might easily be soothed away.  The universal
custom of the country in which he was now almost naturalized sanctioned
such acts.  The hour was admirably chosen, the place perfectly adapted
in every way, as if the result not of happy chance but deeply concerted
plan.

Why then did he hesitate?  Did he still partly hope that some miracle
would happen? or some equally miraculous change take place in his mind
and will to save him from himself?  It is true the place and the
temptation were not of his own seeking, so far he was free from blame;
but he had not come wholly unharmed out of the fiery trial at Umbria,
and, by a careless walk since he came to Florence, he had prepared the
way for the tempter, and this night even he had disregarded the warning
voice and drifted recklessly onward.  We walk of our own free will,
heated and inflamed by wine, down the flowery path which we have
ourselves decorated with garlands, and we murmur because we reach the
fatal goal.

He gazed another moment over the illumined forest, which seemed
transfigured in the moonlight and the stillness into an unreal landscape
of the dead.  The poisonous mists crept over the tops of the cork trees,
and flitted across the long vistas in spectral forms, cowled and
shrouded for the grave.  Beneath the gloom indistinct figures seemed to
glide,—the personation of the miasma that made the place so fatal to
human life.

He turned to enter the room, but even as he turned a sudden change came
over the scene.  The deadly glamour of the moonlight faded suddenly, a
calm pale solemn light settled over the forest, the distant line of
hills shone out distinct and clear, the evil mystery of the place
departed whence it came, a fresh and cooling breeze sprang up and passed
through the rustling wood, breathing pureness and life.  The dayspring
was at hand in the eastern sky.

The rustling breeze was like a whisper from heaven that reminded him of
his better self.  It would seem that hell overdid it; the very stillness
for miles around, the almost concerted plan, sent flashing through his
brain the remembrance of another house, equally guarded for a like
purpose—a house at Newnham near Oxford, into which years ago he had
himself forced his way to render help in such a case as this.  Here was
the same thing happening over again with the actors changed; was it
possible that such a change had been wrought in him?  The long past life
of those days rushed into his mind; the sacramental Sundays, the
repeated vows, the light of heaven in the soul, the kneeling forms in
Little Gidding Chapel, the face of Mary Collet, the loveliness that
blessed the earth where she walked, her deathbed, and her dying words.
What so rarely happens happened here.  The revulsion of feeling, the
rush of recollection and association, was too powerful for the flesh.
The reason and the affections rallied together, and, trained into
efficiency by past discipline, regained the mastery by a supreme effort,
even at the very moment of unsatisfied desire.  But the struggle was
fierce; he was torn like the demon-haunted child in the gospel story;
but, as in that story, the demon was expelled.

He came back into the room.  Lauretta lay upon a couch with rich drapery
and cushions, her face buried in her hands. The cloak and hood in which
she had ridden were removed, and the graceful outline of her figure was
rendered more alluring by the attitude in which she lay.  As he entered
she raised her head from her hands, and looked at him with a strange,
apprehensive, expectant gaze.  He remained for a moment silent, his face
very pale; then he said, slowly and uncertainly, like a man speaking in
a dream,—

"The fatal miasma is rising from the plain.  Lauretta, this place is
safe for neither of us, we had better go on."

                     *      *      *      *      *

The morning was cloudy and chill.  They had not ridden far before a
splash of thunder-rain fell, and the trees dripped dismally.  A sense of
discomfort and disappointment took possession of Inglesant, and so far
from deriving consolation from his conquest, he seemed torn by the demon
of discontent. He was half-conscious that his companion was regretting
the evil and luxurious house they had left.  The ride to Pistoia was
silent and depressed.  As they passed through the streets, early as it
was, they were watched by two figures half concealed by projecting
walls.  One of them was the Cavaliere, the other was tall and dark.
Whether it was the devil in the person of Malvolti, or Malvolti himself,
is not of much consequence, nor would the difference be great.  In
either case the issue was the same,—the devil’s plot had failed.  It is
not so easy to ruin him with whom the pressure of Christ’s hand yet
lingers in the palm.

When Inglesant presented himself again at the Convent grate, after a few
hours’ sleepless unrest at an inn, he was refused admittance; nor did
repeated applications during that day and the next meet with a more
favourable response.  He became the prey of mortification and disgust
that, having had the prize in his hand, he had of his own free will
passed it into the keeping of another.  On the evening of the third day,
however, he received a note from Lauretta informing him that her brother
had consented to postpone her betrothal to Malvolti indefinitely, and
that she, on her part, had promised not to see Inglesant again until the
Papal election had been decided.  She entreated her lover not to attempt
to disturb this compromise, as by so doing he would only injure her whom
he had promised to help.  She promised to be true, and did not doubt but
that, having obtained the delay she sought, she should be able to gain
her father’s consent to their marriage, especially if the Papal election
took the course they hoped it would.

There was something cold and formal about the wording of this note,
which, however, might be explained by its contents having been dictated
to the writer; but, unsatisfactory as it was, Inglesant was compelled to
acquiesce in the request it contained.  He was angry and disappointed,
and it must be admitted that he had some cause.  His mistress and his
pleasant life at the ducal Court had vanished in the morning mist and
rain, like the delusive pleasures of a dream, and the regret which a
temptation yielded to would leave behind is not always counterbalanced
by a corresponding elation when the trial is overcome.  He departed for
Rome, having sent orders to Florence for his servants and baggage to
meet him on the road, and the same night on which he entered the city
Pope Innocent the Tenth expired.




                              *CHAPTER X.*


The portion of the Vatican Palace set apart for the election of the
Pope, and called the Conclave, consisted of five halls or large marble
rooms, two chapels, and a gallery seventy feet long.  Each of these
halls was divided temporarily into small apartments, running up both
sides, with a broad alley between them, formed of wood, and covered with
green or violet cloth.  One of these apartments was assigned to each
Cardinal with his attendants.  The entrance to the whole of these rooms,
halls, chapels, and gallery was by a single door fastened by four locks
and as many keys.  As soon as the Cardinals had entered the Conclave
this door was made fast, and the four keys were given to the four
different orders of the city,—one to the Bishop of Rome, one to the
Cardinals themselves, a third to the Roman Nobility, and the fourth to
the Officer, a great noble, who kept the door.  A wicket in the door, of
which this Officer also kept the key, permitted the daily meals and
other necessaries to be handed to the Cardinals’ servants, every dish
being carefully examined before it was allowed to pass in.  Within the
Conclave light and air were only obtained by sky-lights or windows
opening upon interior courts, precluding communication from without.
The gloom of the interior was so great, that candles were burnt
throughout the Conclave at noon-day.

From the moment the Conclave was closed a silence of expectation and
anxiety fell upon all Rome.  The daily life of the city was hushed.  The
principal thoroughfares and fortresses were kept by strong detachments
of armed troops, and the approaches to the mysterious door were
jealously watched.  Men spoke everywhere in whispers, and nothing but
vague rumours of the proceedings within were listened to in the places
of public resort, and in the coteries and gatherings of all ranks and
conditions of the people.

In the interior of the Conclave, for those who were confined within its
singular seclusion, the day passed with a wearisome monotony marked only
by intrigue not less wearisome. Early in the morning a tolled bell
called the whole of its inmates to mass in one of the small Chapels
darkened with stained glass, and lighted dimly by the tapers of the
altar, and by a few wax candles fixed in brass sockets suspended from
the roof.  The Cardinals sat in stalls down either side of the Chapel,
and at the lower end was a bar, kept by the master of the ceremonies and
his assistants, behind which the attendants and servants were allowed to
stand.  Mass being over, a table was placed in front of the altar, upon
which was a chalice and a silver bell.  Upon six stools near the table
are seated two Cardinal-Bishops, two Cardinal-Priests, and two
Cardinal-Deacons. Every Cardinal in his turn, upon the ringing of the
bell, leaves his seat, and having knelt before the altar in silent
prayer for the guidance of heaven in his choice, goes round to the front
of the table and drops a paper, upon which he has written the name of a
Cardinal, into the chalice, and returns in silence to his stall.

A solemn and awful stillness pervades the scene, broken only by the
tinkling of the silver bell.  The Cardinals, one by one, some of them
stalwart and haughty men with a firm step and imperious glance, others
old and decrepit, scarcely able to totter from their places to the
altar, or to rise from their knees without help, advance to their
mysterious choice.  To the eye alone it was in truth a solemn and
impressive scene, and by a heart instructed by the sense of sight only,
the awful presence of God the Paraclete might, in accordance with the
popular belief, be felt to hover above the Sacred Host; but in the
entire assembly to whom alone the sight was given there was probably not
one single heart to which such an idea was present.  The assembly was
divided into different parties, each day by day intriguing and
manoeuvring, by every art of policy and every inducement of worldly
interest, to add to the number of its adherents.  "If perchance," says
one well qualified to speak, "there entered into this Conclave any old
Cardinal, worn by conflict with the Church’s enemies ’in partibus
infidelium,’ amid constant danger of prison or of death, or perchance
coming from amongst harmless peasants in country places, and by long
absence from the centre of the Church’s polity, ignorant of the manner
in which her Princes trod the footsteps of the Apostles of old, and by
the memory of such conflict and of such innocence, and because of such
ignorance, was led to entertain dreams of Divine guidance, two or three
days’ experience caused such an one to renounce all such delusion, and
to return to his distant battlefield, and so to see Rome no more."

When every Cardinal has deposited his paper, the Cardinal-Bishop takes
them out of the chalice one by one, and hands them to the
Cardinal-Deacon, who reads out the name of the elected, but not of the
Cardinal who had placed the paper in the chalice (which is written on
part of the paper so folded that even the reader does not see it); and
as he reads the name, every Cardinal makes a mark upon the scroll of
names he has before him.  When all the names have been read, the
Cardinal-Priest, from a paper which he has prepared, reads the name of
him who has had the most voices and the number of the votes.  If the
number be more than two-thirds of the whole, the Cardinal who has
received the votes is thereby elected Pope; but if not, the
Cardinal-Priest rings the silver bell once more, and at the signal the
master of the ceremonies, Monsignor Fabei, advances up the Chapel,
followed by a groom carrying a brazier of lighted coals, into which, in
the face of the whole assembly, the papers are dropped one by one till
all are consumed.

At the beginning of the Conclave the Cardinals were always divided into
two, if not more parties, of such relative strength as to make the
attainment of such a majority by either of them impossible for many
days.  It was not until the persistent intrigues of a fortnight had
increased the majority of any one Cardinal so much as to give a
probability of his being ultimately elected, that the waverers of all
sides, not willing to be known as the opponents of a new Pope, recorded
their voices in his favour, and thus raised the majority to its
necessary proportion.  For this very delicate matter occurred at this
period of the election, that, should the requisite majority of voices be
obtained, the master of the ceremonies and his brazier were no longer
called for, but the whole of the papers were opened to their full
extent, and the names of the voters given to the world, whereby, as one
conversant in these matters observes, "Many mysteries and infidelities
are brought to light."  It is evident, therefore, that, as the majority
of any one Cardinal increased or showed signs of increasing, morning and
evening, as the suffrages were taken, the voting became a very exciting
and delicate matter.  No one could be certain but that at the next
voting the majority from the cause mentioned would suddenly swell to the
necessary size, and every man’s name be made clear and plain on whose
side he had been.

Upon entering the Conclave the friends of Cardinal Chigi adopted a quiet
policy, and waited for the progress of events to work for them.  The
abuses of the late Pontificate, and the excitement and indignation of
popular opinion, had made it clear to all parties that it was necessary
to elect a Pope whose character and reputation would restore confidence.
In these respects no one seemed more qualified than Cardinal Chigi, who
was supposed to possess all the qualifications necessary to ensure the
Romans from the apprehension of a revival of the past disorders, and to
inspire the whole Christian world with the hopes of witnessing a worthy
successor of St. Peter displaying the Christian virtues from the Papal
Chair. The great reputation he had gained at Münster, the determination
he was said to have manifested to reform all abuses, the authority and
influence he derived from his post of Secretary of State, his attractive
and gracious manner, the recommendation of the late Pope upon his
death-bed,—all tended to bring his name prominently forward.  He was
supported by the Spanish Cardinals, chiefly on account of the enmity of
the French Court and of his professed opposition to Cardinal Mazarin.

But, in spite of these advantages, the enmity of the French Court, and
the opposition of the Barbarini family, the relations and supporters of
the late Pope, made it necessary for his friends to observe extreme
caution.  The French Cardinals were ordered to vote for Sachetti, and
Cardinal Barbarini for the present supported him, also, with all his
party, chiefly because he had not yet made terms with the Spanish Court,
which opposed Sachetti; but also, as was supposed, because he himself
had aspirations towards the Papal Chair, should he find the electors
favourable to such a scheme.

Upon the entrance into the Conclave, therefore, Cardinal Sachetti
immediately obtained thirty-two or thirty-three votes. These were not
quite so many as the Barbarini expected, and indeed had a right to count
upon, after the professions which the Cardinals of the party had made.
This was owing to the defection of some members of what was called the
Flying Squadron, composed chiefly of young Cardinals, who were supposed
to be devoted to the Barbarini, but of whom several were secretly
favourable to Cardinal Chigi.

The Spanish faction, which was numerous enough to have secured the
election of any Cardinal had it been united, but the members of which
were agreed upon nothing but their determined opposition to Sachetti,
contented itself with voting negatively at every scrutiny, making use of
the form "accedo nemini."  This course was pursued for two entire
months, during which time the scrutinies were taken regularly morning
and evening, always with a slightly varying but indecisive result.

It would be difficult to realize the wearisomeness which reigned in the
Conclave during so protracted a period.  The crowding together of so
large a number of persons in a few apartments, the closeness of the air,
and the unbroken monotony of the hours that passed so slowly, made the
confinement almost intolerable.  One Cardinal was taken ill, and was
obliged to be removed.  The great gallery was generally used by the
Cardinals themselves, for exercise and conversation, while their
attendants were compelled to content themselves with their masters’
apartments, or the corridors and passages.  Those which opened on the
interior courts, and thereby afforded some fresh air, were especially
resorted to. Communication from without, though in theory absolutely
prevented, was really frequent, all the chief among the Cardinals
receiving advices from foreign Courts, and conveying intelligence
thither themselves.

At intervals the whole of the inmates were assembled to listen to Father
Quaechi, preacher to the Conclave, a Jesuit, and secretly in favour of
Cardinal Chigi, as was the Society in general.  The sermon was so
contrived as to influence its hearers considerably by its evident
application to the manners and conduct of the Cardinal.

The famous De Retz, then an exile from France and a supporter of Chigi,
by whom he always sat in the Chapel, was the principal intriguer in his
favour.  He was in communication with the nominal supporters of
Barbarini, who sent him intelligence by Monsignor Fabei when to vote for
Sachetti, on occasions when it would be of no real service to him, and
when to refrain.  On one of these latter occasions Fabei entrusted his
message to Inglesant, with whom he was intimate, and it afterwards
appeared that Sachetti, on that scrutiny, wanted but very few votes to
have secured his election.  This circumstance made a deep impression on
De Retz, and he never recognized Inglesant afterwards without alluding
to it.

The day after this scrutiny Cardinal Barbarini appears to have thought
that the time was come for his friends to make a demonstration in his
behalf, and to the astonishment of the Conclave thirty-one votes
appeared in his favour in the next scrutiny.  This caused the friends of
Cardinal Chigi to pay more attention to his conduct, and to the
discourses of his Conclavists and other partizans, who neglected no
opportunity of exalting his good qualities.

The exhaustion of the Conclave became extreme.  Cardinal Caraffa, who,
next to Sachetti and Chigi, stood the greatest chance of election,
became ill and died.  Twelve other Cardinals were balloted for, one
after another, without result.  Cardinal San Clemente was then brought
forward, and, but for the hostility of the Jesuits, might have been
elected; but the Spanish Cardinals who supported him did not dare openly
to offend the Society, and the election failed.

The Barbarini began to despair of electing their candidate, and having
received favourable advices from the Court of Spain, were willing,
either with or without the concurrence of their leader, to negotiate
with the friends of Cardinal Chigi.  Sachetti, finding his own chances
hopeless, was not averse to be treated with.  There remained only the
Court of France.

                     *      *      *      *      *

                      The MSS. are here defective.


Be this as it may, Cardinal Sachetti’s letter had the desired effect
upon Mazarin, who immediately sent the necessary letters to the French
Cardinals, withdrawing the veto upon Chigi.  Nothing remained now but to
gain the concurrence of Cardinal Barbarini.  For a long time he refused
to accede, but, the members of his party who had from the first secretly
supported Chigi having now openly declared in his favour, Barbarini at
last consented to hold a conference.  It took place immediately after
the morning scrutiny, and lasted but a short time.  But it sat long
enough to arrange that the next morning Cardinal Chigi should be elected
Pope.

This determination was so suddenly arrived at, and was concealed so
carefully, that nothing certainly was known during the rest of the day,
outside the number of those who had taken part in the conference.  There
were vague rumours, and many discontents, but the time was so short that
many who would have declared in favour of Sachetti, had longer time been
given them, were not able to recover from their surprise.

Inglesant was of course informed by Cardinal Chigi of what had occurred
immediately after the conference, and about mid-day he received a
message from De Retz warning him to be upon his guard.  During the
afternoon, however, some further intelligence of the feeling within the
Conclave came to the knowledge of that astute intriguer, and he sent
Monsignor Fabei to Inglesant about five o’clock.

This man was a favourable specimen of the Italian servant of an
Ecclesiastical Court.  Belonging to a family which had been trained for
generations in the service of the Curia, he was a man to whom the
difficulties which perplexed others, and the anomalies which appeared to
some men to exist between Christian polity as it might be conceived to
be and Christian polity as it was practised in Rome, did not exist;—a
man to whom the Divine, so far as it was manifested to him at all, took
the form, without doubt or scruple, of that gorgeous though unwieldy,
and, as it seemed to some, slightly questionable, economy of which he
was the faithful servant. He was honest, yet he appeared—such was the
peculiarity of his training and circumstances—to have solved the, on
good authority, insoluble problem of serving two masters at the same
time; for two opposing Cardinals, or two factions of Cardinals, alike
commanded his reverence and service at the same moment.  Much of this
service was no doubt unthinking and unconscious, else the memoirs of
such a man, composed by himself without reserve, would be perhaps as
interesting a book as could be written.

"Something is going on within the Conclave, Cavaliere," he said, "of
which I am not entirely cognizant.  Of course I am aware of the
communications which have been made from outside during this most
protracted Conclave.  The Princes of the Church must have every
opportunity given them of arriving at a just conclusion in this most
important matter, and I have never been backward in affording every
assistance to their Eminences; but what we have to deal with to-night is
of a very different kind.  You have nothing to dread from the chiefs of
the opposite party; they have accepted the situation, and will loyally
carry out their engagements.  But they have altered their policy without
consulting or remembering their supporters, and among these, especially
the inferior ones outside the Conclave, the disappointment is severe.
They have not time, nor are they in a position to make terms with the
successful party, and their expectations of advancement are annihilated.
They are, many of them, absolutely unscrupulous, and would hazard
everything to gain time.  They have some means of communication between
the outside world of Rome and their partizans within the Conclave, which
they have not used till now, and with which, therefore, I am
unacquainted.  They are employing it now.  What the exact effort will be
I do not know, but should your Padrone, Cardinal Chigi, fall ill before
to-morrow’s scrutiny, it would delay his election, and delay is all they
want.  There are sufficient malcontents to prevent his election if they
had only time; two or three days would give them all they want.  I
should advise you not to sleep to-night, but to watch with a wakefulness
which starts at every sound."

The apartment assigned to Cardinal Chigi was subdivided into three
smaller ones, the largest of which was appropriated to the bedchamber of
the Cardinal, the two others to his attendants.  These apartments
communicated with each other, and only one opened upon the centre
corridor running down the Hall.  The Cardinal retired early to his own
chamber, and most of the other Cardinals did the same.  A profound
silence reigned in the Conclave; if any of the attendants still stirred
they were velvet-shod, and the floors and walls, lined with velvet,
prevented the least sound from being heard.

Inglesant remained alone in the outermost of the three apartments, and
determined to keep his faculties on the alert.  For some reason,
however, either the fatigue of the long confinement, or the deathlike
stillness of the night, a profound drowsiness overpowered him, and he
continually sank into a doze.  He tried to read, but the page floated
before his eyes, and it was only by continually rising and pacing the
small chamber that he kept himself from sinking into a deep sleep.

A profound peace and repose seemed to reign in a place where so many
scheming and excited brains, versed in every art of policy, were really
at work.

Inglesant had sat down again, and had fallen once more into a slight
doze, when suddenly, from no apparent cause, his drowsiness left him,
and he became intensely and almost painfully awake.  The silence around
him was the same as before, but a violent agitation and excitement
disturbed his mind, and an overpowering apprehension of some approaching
existence, inimical to himself, aroused his faculties to an acute
perception, and braced his nerves to a supreme effort. In another
moment, this apprehension, at first merely mental, became perceptible to
the sense, and he could hear a sound. It was, as it were, the echo of a
low faint creeping movement, the very ghost of a sound.  Whence it came
Inglesant could not determine, but it was from without the apartment in
which he sat.  No longer able to remain passive, he rose, drew back the
velvet curtain that screened the entrance from the corridor, opened the
door silently, and went out.

The corridor was lighted here and there along its great length by oil
lamps suspended before every third door of the Cardinals’ rooms; but the
dark and massive hangings, the loftiness of the hall overhead, and the
dimness of the lamps themselves, caused the light to be misty and
uncertain, as in a confused and troubled dream.  One of these lamps was
suspended immediately above the door at which Inglesant had appeared,
and he stood in its full light, being himself much more distinctly seen
than he was himself able to see anything.  He was richly dressed in dark
velvet, after the French fashion, and in the uncertain light his
resemblance to his murdered brother was, in this dress, very great.  He
held a slight and jewelled dagger in his hand.

As he paused under the suspended lamp the sound he had before heard
developed itself into low stealthy footsteps approaching down the
corridor, apparently on the opposite side, and the next moment a figure,
more like a phantom thrown on the opposite wall than a substantial
being, glided into sight.  It was shrouded in dark and flowing drapery,
and kept so close to the heavy hangings that it seemed almost the waving
of their folds stirred by some unknown breeze. Though it passed down the
opposite side, it kept its attention turned in Inglesant’s direction,
and almost at the same moment at which he appeared through the opening
door it saw him and instantly stopped.  It lost its stealthy motion and
assumed an attitude of intense and speechless terror, such as Inglesant
had never seen depicted in a human being, and by this attitude revealed
itself more completely to his gaze. The hood which shaded its face fell
partly back, and displayed features pale as death, and lustrous eyes
dilated with horror, and Inglesant could see that it held some nameless
weapon in its hand.  As it stood, arrested in its purpose, breathless
and uncertain, it seemed to Inglesant a phantom murderer, or rather the
phantom of murder itself, as though nothing short of the murderous
principle sufficed any longer to dog his steps.

This strange figure confronted Inglesant for some seconds, during which
neither stirred, each with his eyes riveted upon the other, each with
his weapon in his hand.  Then the phantom murmured in an articulate and
broken voice, that faltered upon the air as though tremulous with
horror, "It is himself!  He has taken the dagger from his bleeding
wound."

Then, as it had come, it glided backwards along the heavy drapery,
becoming more and more lost in its folds, till, at first apparently but
the shadow of a shade, it faded more and more into the hanging darkness,
and vanished out of sight.

The next morning, at the scrutiny after early mass, Fabitis Chigi,
Cardinal and Secretary of State, was, by more than two-thirds of the
whole Conclave, elected Pope.




                             *CHAPTER XI.*


There is, perhaps, no comparison so apposite, though it be a homely one,
to the condition of affairs in Italy at this time—upon the election of a
new Pope—as that of a change of trumps at a game of cards.  All persons
and matters remain the same as they were before, yet their values and
relationships are all changed; the aspect of the entire scene is
altered; those who before were in little esteem are exalted, and those
who were in great power and estimation are abased. All the persons with
whom Inglesant had been connected were more or less affected by it,
except Cardinal Rinuccini, to whom it made little difference.  To the
Cavaliere and to Malvolti it was ruin.  The former was so deeply
involved in debt, in private feuds, and entanglements with the
authorities, his character was so utterly lost with all parties, and his
means of usefulness to any so small, that it is probable that even the
elevation to power of the Barbarini faction would not have been of much
use to him.  But, whatever might have been his prospects had the
election resulted otherwise, his only chance now of safety from prison
and even death was in Inglesant’s connection with his sister, and in the
protection he might hope to experience upon that account; his only hope
depended upon the force of Inglesant’s affection.  The fear of private
assassination kept him almost confined to his chamber. Malvolti’s
circumstances were still more hopeless; notorious for every species of
vice and crime, and hateful even to the very bravoes and dregs of the
Italian populace, he had now lost all hope of alliance or even
assistance from his friend the Cavaliere, who discarded him the moment
that he was of no further use. Maddened by this treatment and by
despair, no way seemed open to him except that of desperate revenge.
Towards Inglesant his hatred was peculiarly intense, being mixed with a
certain kind of superstitious dread.  He regarded him almost as the
shade of his murdered brother, returned from the grave to dog his steps.
It was his presence which had thwarted his last desperate attempt within
the Conclave, his last hope of earning protection and rewards.  He
expected nothing but punishment and severe retribution at Inglesant’s
hands. Surrounded as he was by perils and enemies on every side, this
peril and this dreaded enemy stood most prominently in his path; a blow
struck here would be not only a measure of self-defence, but a sweet
gratification of revenge, and a relief from an appalling supernatural
terror.  This terrible semblance of his murdered victim once out of his
path, he might hope that the vision of a bloody hearthstone in England
might not be so constantly before his eyes.

To Inglesant himself the bright prospects which seemed opening before
him gave little satisfaction.  He was exhausted in body by his long
detention within the Conclave, and the tone of his spirit was impaired
by the intrigue and hypocrisy of which he had been a witness and a
partaker.  It is impossible to kneel morning after morning before the
Sacrament, in a spirit of worldliness and chicane, without being soiled
and polluted in the secret places of the soul.  The circumstances of his
visit to Umbria and to Florence, howbeit in both he had been preserved
almost by a miracle from actual sin, had left an evil mark upon his
conscience.  He felt little of the sweet calm and peace he had enjoyed
for a season in the company of Molinos, during his first visit to Rome.
Something of his old misery returned upon him, and he felt himself again
the sport of the fiend, who was working out his destruction by some
terrible crime, of which he was the agent, and the Italian murderer the
cause.

"This man is at large in Rome," said Don Agostino to him one day; "I
should advise you to have him assassinated.  It is time the earth was
rid of such a villain, and the Roman law is useless in such a case.  All
protection is withdrawn from him, and every man, high and low, within
the city will rejoice at his death."

Inglesant shook his head.

"I do not value my life, God knows, at a straw’s worth," he said.
"Because he murdered my brother, foully and treacherously, he and I
shall too surely meet some day; but the time is not yet come.  Surely if
the devil can afford to wait, much more can I."

He spoke more to himself than to the other, and there is reason to
suppose that Don Agostino made arrangements to have Malvolti
assassinated on his own responsibility; but the Italian avoided his
bravoes for a time.

Some short time after the Pope’s election, in the height of the
Carnival,[#] a masked ball was given in the Palace Doria, at which Don
Agostino had arranged a set composed entirely of his own friends.  It
was composed in imitation of the old comedies of the Atellanas, upon
which the Punchinello and Harlequinade of all nations has been formed,
and which, being domestic dramas performed in masques by the Roman youth
with an old-fashioned elegance and simplicity, were peculiarly fitted
for performance at a modern masquerade.  A primitive and rude form of
pantomime, founded on caricature and burlesque, with a few characters
boldly drawn, has none of the charm of the later comedy, which is a
picture of real life with its variety of character and incident, and
possesses that excellent art of showing men as they are, while
representing them as they seem to be.  But, though it fell short of this
higher perfection, the broad farce and few characters of the older form
of comedy are not wanting in much lively and yet serious painting of
human life, which is all the more serious and pathetic from its broad
and unconscious farce.  The jester, the knave, the old man, the girl,
the lover,—these types that are eternal and yet never old,—with the
endless complication in which, both on the stage and real life, they are
perpetually involved, are susceptible of infinite application and
interest to the imagination.  As the rehearsal progressed Inglesant was
struck and interested with these ideas, and as the night came on there
seemed to him to be in the world nothing but play within play, scene
within scene.  Between the most incidental acts of an excited and
boisterous crowd and the most solemn realities of life and death it
seemed to him impossible to distinguish otherwise than in degree; all
appeared part of that strange interlude which, between the Dramas of
Eternity, is performed continually upon the stage of life.


[#] It is generally stated by historians that the election of Cardinal
Chigi took place on April 7th, 1655, and as Easter that year fell on
April 15th, there appears some discrepancy in this part of the
narrative.  The reader must decide between these contending authorities.


The set was a large one, consisting of the ordinary pantomime types,
supplemented by duplicates, peasants, priests, sbirri (always a
favourite subject of satire and practical jokes), country girls, and
others.  Don Agostino, whose wit was ready and brilliant, took the part
of clown or jester, and Inglesant that of the stage lover, a _rôle_
requiring no great effort to sustain.  The part of Columbine was
sustained by a young girl, a mistress of Don Agostino, of considerable
beauty and wit, and as yet unspoiled by the wicked life of Rome.  She
was dressed as a Contadina, or peasant girl, in holiday costume.
Harlequin was played by a young Count, a boy of weak intellect, involved
in every species of dissipation, and consigned to ruin by designing
foes, of whom some were of his own family.

As the ball progressed the party attracted great notice by the clever
interludes and acts they performed between the dances.  In these the
usual tricks and practical jokes were introduced sparingly, relieved by
a higher style of wit, and by allusions to the topics of the day and to
the foibles of the society of Rome.  The parts were all well sustained,
and Don Agostino exerted himself successfully to give brilliancy and
life to the whole party.  The young Harlequin-Count, who had at first
seemed only to excel in lofty capers and somersaults, was the first who
showed tokens of fatigue.  He became gradually listless and careless, so
that he changed his part, and became the butt of the rest, instead of
their tormentor.

A dance in sets had just begun, and Inglesant could not help being
struck with his disconsolate manner, which showed itself plainly, even
through his masque and disguise.  It seemed that others noticed it as
well, for as Inglesant met the Contadina in one of the combinations of
the figure, she said in the pause of the dance,—

"Do you see the Count, Cavaliere?  He is on the brink of ruin, body and
soul.  His cousin, and one or two more who are in the set, are engaged
with him in some desperate complication, and are working upon his feeble
mind and his terror.  Cannot you help him at all?"

When the dance ceased Inglesant went over to the Count, intending to
speak to him, but his cousin and others of the set were talking
earnestly to him, and Inglesant stepped back. He saw that the longer his
treacherous friends spoke to him the more broken down and crushed in
spirit did the poor Harlequin-Count become; and it was evident to
Inglesant that here a play was being enacted within the play, and that,
as often is the case, one of the deep tragedies of life was appearing in
the fantastic dress of farce.  As he stood dreamily watching what
occurred, Don Agostino called him off to commence another comic act, and
when at the first pause he turned to look for the Count, he could no
longer see him.  His cousin and the others were present, however, and
soon after the set was again formed for another dance.

The stifling air of the crowded rooms, and the fatigue of the part he
had to perform, wrought upon Inglesant’s brain; the confused figures of
the dance dazzled his sight, and the music sounded strange and
grotesque.  As the partners crossed each other, and he came again to the
Contadina in his turn, she grasped his hand in hers, and said,
hurriedly,—

"Do you see who is standing in the Count’s place?"

Inglesant looked, and certainly, in the place of the dance which should
have been occupied by the Count, was a tall figure in the dress of a
white friar, over which was carelessly thrown a black domino, which
allowed the dark fiery eyes of the wearer to be seen.

"The Count has gone," whispered the girl, trembling all over as she
spoke, "no one knows whither; no one knows who this man is who has come
in his place.  He is gone to drown himself in the river; this is the
devil who supports his part."

In spite of the girl’s visible agitation and his own excitement,
Inglesant laughed, and, taking her words as a jest, turned again to look
at the strange masque, intending to make some ludicrous comment to
reassure his friend.  To his astonishment the words died upon his lips,
and an icy chill seemed to strike through his blood and cause his heart
to beat violently. A sensation of dread overpowered him, the dance-music
sounded wild and despairing in his ears, and the ever-varying throng of
figures, waving with a thousand colours, swam before his eyes. In the
appearance of the stranger, which was simply that of a tall man, there
was nothing to account for this; and except that he kept his piercing
eyes steadily fixed upon Inglesant, there was nothing in his manner to
attract attention.  Inglesant went through the rest of the dance
mechanically, and suddenly, as it seemed to him, the music stopped.

The dance being over, most of Don Agostino’s party, tired with their
exertions, withdrew to the buffet of an adjoining apartment for
refreshment.  Inglesant had taken off his masque, and standing by the
buffet, a little apart from the rest, was fanning himself with it, and
cooling his parched throat with iced wine, when he was aware that the
strange figure had followed him.  It was standing before him with a
glass in its hand, which it seemed to fill from a bottle of peculiar
shape, which Inglesant recognized as one only used to contain a rare
Italian wine.

"Cavaliere," the strange masque said in a soft and polite voice, "this
wine will do you more good than that which you are drinking; it cools
and rests the brain.  Will you drink with me?"

As he spoke he offered Inglesant the glass he held, and filled another,
and at the same instant, the Contadina came up to Inglesant and hung
upon his arm.

Inglesant, who was unmasked, stood with the glass in his hand, waiting
for the other to remove his domino before he bowed and drank; but the
stranger did not do so.

After a moment’s pause, amid the breathless silence of the whole group,
who were looking on, the stranger said, speaking with a courteous speech
and gesture, which if acted were perfectly well assumed,—

"Pardon me that I do not remove my masque; it is my misfortune that I am
not able to do so."

Impressed by the other’s manner, it struck Inglesant in a moment that
this must be some great noble, perhaps a Prince of the Church, for whom
it would be injudicious to appear unmasked, and bowing courteously, he
raised the glass to his lips.

As he did so the black eyes of the disguised friar were fixed steadily
upon him, and the Contadina said in his ear, in an eager, frightened
whisper,—

"Do not drink."

The tremor of her voice, and of her figure on his arm, brought back in a
moment the terror and distrust which the bearing and manner of the other
had dispelled, and raising the cup, he let his lip rest for a moment in
the liquor, but did not drink.  Then replacing the glass upon the
buffet, he said coolly,—

"It is a good wine, but my English habit has spoiled my taste.  I do not
like the Italian Volcanic wines."

"I regret it," said the other, turning away; "they are a quietus for the
fever of life."

The party breathed more freely as he left the room, and the Contadina,
taking the glass which Inglesant had put down, emptied its contents upon
the floor.

They followed the domino into the ball-room, where they saw him speaking
to the Count’s cousin, and to two or three others of the group, who had
remained there or sought refreshment elsewhere.

As the last dance began, in the early daybreak which made the lamps burn
faintly, and cast a pale and melancholy light over the gay dresses and
the moving figures, over the gilding and marble, and the dim lovely
paintings on the walls, Inglesant was conscious of a strange and
death-like feeling that benumbed his frame.  He was bitterly cold, and
his sight became dim and uncertain.  The music seemed to grow wilder and
more fantastic, and the crowded dancers, grotesque and goblin-like to
any eyes, became unreal as a dream to his.

Suddenly, as before, the music ceased, and not knowing what he did,
Inglesant became separated from his friends, and was borne by the throng
to the doors and down the staircase into the courtyard and the street.

The Piazza and the Corso beyond were crowded with carriages, and with
servants carrying dim torches, and the morning air was rent with
confused noise.

Nearly unconscious, Inglesant allowed himself to be carried onward by
the crowd of persons leaving the palace on foot—a motley throng in every
variety of costume, and he was soon borne out of the square into the
Corso and down the street.

Suddenly he heard a voice behind, clear and distinct to his ears, at
least, amid the confused noise,—

"There he is—now strike!"

Turning round quickly, he saw the masque within two yards of him, with
something in the folds of his gown which shone in the light.  In another
moment he would have been close to him, when they were swept apart by a
sudden movement of the crowd, and Don Agostino’s carriage, surrounded by
servants, passed close by the spot to which Inglesant had drifted.  He
was recognized, and Agostino welcomed him eagerly, saying,—

"I have been looking for you everywhere."

They proceeded along the Corso, Inglesant still like a man in a dream,
and turned down towards the bridge of St. Angelo.  At the corner of a
street leading to the river, another pause occurred.  The carriage of a
great French noble and Prince of the Church—which had followed the Corso
farther on—was passing when they turned into the street, and according
to the formal etiquette of the day, even at that hour and in the crowded
street, Don Agostino’s coachman stopped his horses before the carriage
of his master’s superior, and the servants opened the door that one of
the gentlemen at least might alight.  At the same moment, there seemed
to be some confusion in the crowd at the top of the short street leading
to the river; and Inglesant, still hardly knowing what he did, alighted,
with the double purpose of seeing what was the matter, and of saluting
his patron.  As he did so, one of the servants said to him,—

"They are bringing up a dead body, sir."

It was true.  A body had just been drawn out of the river, and, placed
on nets and benches of a boat, was being carried on the shoulders of
fishermen up the street.  As it passed, Inglesant could see the face,
which hung drooping towards him over the edge of the nets.  It was the
face of the Harlequin-Count.

It had scarcely passed, when Inglesant heard—as a man hears over and
over again repeated in a ghastly dream—the same voice that spoke before,
saying,—

"There he is again.  If you let him get back to the coach you will lose
him.  Go round by the horses’ heads."

The restlessness of the impatient horses had made a little space clear
of the crowd, and the same had happened in front of the horses of the
Cardinal-Duke, so that the street between them was comparatively clear.
Strangely frightened and distressed, Inglesant struggled back to
Agostino’s carriage, and had just reached the door when the masque,
passing round the horses’ heads, sprang upon him, and struck a violent
blow with the glancing steel.  The state of his victim’s brain saved
him. The moment he reached the door he reeled against it, and the weapon
glanced off his person, the hilt striking him a violent blow on the
chest.  He fell backwards into the coach, and Agostino caught a second
blow in his sleeve.  The startled servants threw themselves upon the
murderer, but he slipped through their hands and escaped.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Two days after the ball, when the morning of Ash Wednesday broke with
the lovely Italian dawn, a strange and sudden transformation had passed
over Rome.  Instead of a people wild with pleasure, laughing, screaming,
joking like children, feasting, dancing, running about, from mere
lightness of heart; in the place of fairs, theatres, and booths in the
open streets, instead of the public gardens and walks crowded with
parti-coloured masquers, full of sportive pranks, and decked out with
every vagary and grotesque freak of costume, you saw a city quiet and
silent as the grave, yet full of human forms; you heard nothing but the
tolling of bells and the faint echo of solemn chants.  The houses and
churches were hung with black; the gay tapestries and silks, the
theatres, the play-actors, and the gay dresses, had all vanished, and in
their place the streets were full of cowled and silent penitents.  They
walked with downcast and pallid faces; if you spoke to them they did not
answer, but gazed upon you with wondering eyes. Men and women alike wore
the black gown and hood of penance, and from the proudest noble to the
poorest peasant, thronged into the Churches and received alike the
emblem of their common fate—the ashes and dust from whence they came,
and to which they would return.

Before the masked ball, exhausted in health by the long confinement in
the Conclave, and tormented in mind by disappointed desire and by
accusing conscience, Inglesant had been sinking into almost as great
misery as that which he had endured before he came to Rome.  The perils
and terror that had entered unbidden among the guests during that night
of revelry had worked a marvellous change upon him, and he awoke from a
species of trance, which had lasted two days, with his spirits cleared
and strengthened.  He was, in fact, like a man whom a violent fever has
just left, languid in body, but with a mind at rest and in peace, with
the wild dreams and visions of delirium gone.  The earth seems, at least
to him, calm and peaceful, full of voices of prayer and strains of
penitential song.  He looks out upon life languidly, it is true, but
with a friendly, pleased countenance, as upon a well-known landscape
recalling happy days.  So it was with Inglesant, that the wild riot of
the Carnival being over, the peace of Lent began within his soul.  The
blow that had been struck at his life restored him to life, and took
away the superstitious dread that was gradually consuming his reason.
He had met his brother’s murderer, not alone in some solitary place and
picked time, planned before with diabolic purpose by the enemy of
mankind, but in a crowd, and as it seemed by chance.  He had himself
been passive, and urged by no demoniac prompting to some terrible act of
vengeance; still more, his enemy had failed, miraculously, as it seemed
to him. Surely, then, his fears had been in vain; he was not delivered
over to Satan, nay, probably the Lord Himself still regarded him with
compassion, still watched over and defended his life. Some work was
doubtless reserved for him to do; for him, living always on the verge of
delirium, whom a little extra pressure upon the brain-nerve might at any
moment estrange altogether from reason, and deprive of intellect and of
intercourse with men.  For such as he, nevertheless, under such
protection, what might not yet be possible?  The dews of the Divine
Grace cool the fevered brain more surely than any cordial, and soften
and water the parched and thirsty heart. The pleasant Italian March day
was soft and balmy as the loveliest day of June in England.  The scent
of jasmin and Daphne flowers filled the air; soft showers fell at
intervals over the garden slopes of that part of Rome; the breath of
Zephyr swept sweetness into the weary sense.  Let him join the hooded
throng of penitents; let him, dust and ashes, snatched it may be "_è
flamma_" from the very flames, yet still by the grace of God in his
right mind, take his ashes with a grateful heart.

For the appearance, amid the chaos of his life, of a guiding Divine
Hand, delightful as it is to any man, must be unspeakably so to him who,
to the difficulties, sufficiently great, which ordinarily beset a man in
his path through life, adds this overwhelming one—the imminent chance at
any moment of losing consciousness altogether, with the power of thought
and choice of seeing objects rightly, and of self-control and
self-command. How eagerly one to whom life is complicated in such sort
as this must welcome a Divine guidance may easily be seen—one who
otherwise is wandering among a phantasmagoria of objects, among which he
must, so far as his wavering consciousness allows him, and for the
moment that consciousness may remain his own, shape his course so as to
avoid ruin.

In the fresh morning air, full of delicious warmth and sweetness, and
with this angelic messenger leading his soul, Inglesant went out.  He
had no sufficient motive to take him to any particular Church; but
chance or some nobler power directed that he should turn his steps to
the right in passing into the Via di S. Giovanni, and following the
crowd of penitents, should arrive at the portico of the Church of the
Lateran.

The space in front of the magnificent façade was crowded with draped
forms, and the wail of the rare organ music reached the outer perfumed
air.  The marble pavement of the interior, precious beyond calculation,
was thronged with the dark crowd, and the costly marble of the walls and
tombs was streaked and veiled by the wreaths of incense which lingered
in the building. The low chanting and the monotonous accompaniment of
the organs filled the Church, and high over the altar, brilliant with a
thousand lights, flashed the countless gems of the wonderful tabernacle,
and the Cœna of plate of inestimable cost.  On either side the gilded
brass of the four columns of the Emperor Titus, brought from Jerusalem
itself, reflected back the altar lights; and beset with precious stones
where the body of the Lord once had hung, was evident to all beholders
the very wood of the Holy Cross.

As Inglesant entered, the ashes had been sprinkled three times with holy
water, and the clouds of incense gradually rose over the kneeling crowd,
as the people began to receive the ashes upon their foreheads, thronging
up in silence and order. At the same time the choir began to sing the
Antiphons, accompanied by the heavenly music of the matchless organs,
and penetrating by their distinct articulation the remotest corners of
the Church.

"Immutemur habitu," they began, "let us change our garments; in ashes
and sackcloth let us fast and lament before the Lord.  Because," and the
pealing anthem rose in ecstatic triumph to the emblazoned roof,
"plenteous in mercy to forgive our sins is this God of ours."

"Ah! yes," thought Inglesant, "let us change our garments; these dark
robes that seem ashes and sackcloth, may they not be the chosen garment
of the marriage supper of the King?  Clothed and in one’s right mind, by
the heavenly mercy we already walk the celestial pavement, and hear the
pealing anthems of the angelic choir."

"Emendemus in melius," the anthem went on, "let us amend for the better
in that in which we have ignorantly sinned—ne subito præoccupati die
mortis, quæramus spatium poenitentiæ, et invenire non possimus."

The mighty voice, as of God Himself, seemed to single out and speak to
Inglesant alone, "Lest suddenly overtaken by the day of death."  Ah! who
so well as he knew what that meant, who so lately as he had stood face
to face with the destroyer?

He covered his face with his hands.

As the chanting of the Antiphon continued; he reached the steps of the
high altar, and in his turn knelt to receive the ashes upon his brow.

In a pause of the anthem the chanting ceased, and the organs played a
slow movement in the interval.  Nothing was heard but the monotonous
undertone of the priests.

As Inglesant knelt upon the marble an overpowering sense of helplessness
filled his soul, so worthless and fragile he seemed to himself before
the eternal existence, that the idea of punishment and penitence was
lost in the sense of utter nothingness.

"Ah!  Lord God," he thought, "shattered in mind and brain I throw myself
on Thee; without Thee I am lost in the vortex of the Universe; my
intellect is lost except it steadies itself upon the idea of Thee.
Without Thee it has no existence.  How canst Thou be angry with that
which is not?"

He bowed his head in utter prostration of spirit to receive the ashes.

"Memento, homo," the priest began—ah! surely it must be easy to remember
that, "quia pulvis es——"

Inglesant heard no more.  A sudden thrill of earth, like the familiar
scent of flowers to a dying man, passed through him, and he lifted up
his eyes.  Opposite to him across the corner of the altar steps knelt
Lauretta, her lustrous eyes full of tears fixed upon him with an
inexpressible tenderness and interest.  His eyes met hers for an
instant, then he dropped his head again before the priest; but the
thought and presence of heaven was gone from him, and nothing but the
roses and loves of earth remained.

He rose from his knees.  The throng of penitents surrounded him, and he
suffered himself to be swept onward, down the long nave, till he reached
the door through which the crowd was pouring out.  There, however, he
stopped.




                             *CHAPTER XII.*


The old Duke of Umbria was dying.  He lay clothed, as he had once said
to Inglesant, in the "Angelica Vestis," the sacred wafer in his mouth.
Below in the Palace Chapel, in the great Duomo, in Rome itself, masses
were being said day by day, and the ineffable Host raised to heaven, in
intercessory prayer for this man’s soul.  If any deserved an unruffled
passage over the dark river, he did.  He had sought long and earnestly
to find a more excellent way, and had shrunk from no effort nor painful
mortification if he might at last walk in it when found.  He had
resigned himself and all that he possessed in implicit obedience to the
doctrine and the See of Rome.  He had crowned a blameless and beneficent
life by acts of unparalleled devotion and piety; nevertheless, an
unruffled passage he did not have.  The future was dark and full of
dread, and he suffered all the terrors of the grave with a troubled
mind.  Lying thus in dull misery of body, and in mental apprehension and
unrest, he bethought himself of Inglesant.  Having surrendered himself,
soul and body, into the hands of those who stood about his bed, he knew
that it was useless to let his mind wander after any of those
unauthorized teachers from whom in past days he had sought instruction;
but in Inglesant he had, for the first time, met a man who, walking to
all appearance in the straitest paths of the Catholic Church, seemed to
possess a freedom of spirit greater than the Sectaries themselves could
boast.  Even when suffering the rebukes of an accusing conscience, and
the bewilderment of a disordered brain, there was in Inglesant an
unfettered possession of the things of this life, and even of the life
to come, which had astonished the old man, who, unaccused by his own
conscience, was yet so confined and hampered in this world, and in such
continual dread of that other which was shortly to be revealed to him.

He expressed to his director a wish that Inglesant might be sent for.
It was impossible to deny him this request, even had it been thought
desirable.  Inglesant was a trusted confidant of the dominant Society of
Rome, a favourite of the new Pope, and had, besides, been influential,
as was believed, in obtaining that crowning triumph—the cession of the
Duchy to the Papal See.  A messenger was therefore despatched to Rome
requesting his immediate presence.  The summons found him with Lauretta
and her father, engaged in preparations for his speedy marriage.

This connection was regarded with great favour by Don Agostino and most
of his friends; but was looked upon, as far as they condescended to
notice it at all, with suspicion by the heads of the Jesuit Society.

They were beginning to dread the influence of Molinos, and Inglesant had
already incurred some suspicion by his intimacy with the Spaniard.  The
Pope was supposed to be not altogether opposed to the new doctrine, and
the Jesuits were unwilling to lose an obedient servant, who might be
useful to them.  There was, however, no sufficient reason in this why he
should be forbidden to visit the old Duke, who was certainly dying, and
therefore beyond the reach of dangerous influence; and Inglesant,
remembering the interest he had felt in the Duke, and the favours which
he had lavished upon him, hastened to set out.

When he arrived in Umbria he found the Duke had rallied a little, and he
received him with the warmest expressions of delight.  He was never
content save when he was in the room, and his very presence seemed to
restore strength and life to the exhausted old man.  Those who watched
about his bed in the interests of Rome, if they had felt any
apprehensions of the result of Inglesant’s visit, were speedily
reassured, for the Duke did not seem desirous of conversing upon
religious matters with him, and, indeed, rather avoided them.  He seemed
to cling to Inglesant as to the only remaining link to that world which
he was so soon to leave, and to take a strange pleasure in furnishing
him with those appliances of earthly enjoyment which had until now long
ceased to be of interest to himself.  Among other gifts he insisted on
his accepting a suit of superb armour which had been made expressly for
his idolized son.  In this suit, in which he caused Inglesant to be
arrayed, he declared that he well represented the patron saint of his
nation, St. George of England, and pleased himself with the reflection
that the fief with which he had endowed Inglesant bore the name of the
same saint.

"You are il Cavaliere di San Georgio," he said to his favourite, as he
stood by his couch, sheathed in the superb but useless and fantastic
armour of the seventeenth century, with cuirass, greaves, and cuisses of
polished and jewelled metal, worn over the ordinary dress, and combined
with the lace and velvet which ornamented the whole.  It is true that
the steel plates were covered with silver and gold chasing of arabesques
not of the most Christian type, and the perfect sword-blade was engraved
with hieroglyphics not of the most saintly kind; nevertheless Inglesant,
as he stood, did certainly resemble somewhat closely a splendid
renaissance St. George.

"You are il Cavaliere di San Georgio," said the Duke, "and you must wear
that armour when you go to meet your bride.  I have arranged a train
worthy of so illustrious a bridegroom."

Inglesant’s marriage had taken a great hold in the imagination of the
dying man, and his mind, to the surprise of those who had known him
longest, seemed to dwell entirely upon nuptials and festivals.  The
strain and terror which his spirit had suffered for so long had probably
done their work, and, like as on a harpsichord with a snapped string,
the set purpose and composure was lost, and nothing but fragments of
fantasias could be played.  That magic influence of the wonderful ducal
palace which Inglesant had been conscious of at his first visit, and of
which the Duke had seemed hitherto altogether regardless, at the last
moments of his life appeared to assert its power and force; and what to
others seemed mere dotage appeared to Inglesant like a wintry gleam of
mysterious light that might be the earnest of a happier time,—a return
from the dark regions of superstitious fear to the simple delights of
common human life.  The sway of this strange house was as powerful over
Inglesant himself as it had been before; but he now stood upon higher
ground than he had done formerly.  The events which had occurred in the
meantime had not been entirely without effect.  His triumph over the
temptation of the flesh in the forest pavilion had secured to him a
higher place in the spiritual walk, and the escape from the assassin’s
dagger had sobered his spirit and indescribably touched his heart.  The
"Kings’ Courts," of which this house was but a type,—the Italian world
in which he had lived so long,—had, therefore, now less power than ever
to crush Inglesant’s religious instinct; but it gave it a certain
colour, a sort of renaissance Christianity, which bore a likeness to the
character of the art-world in which it had grown up,—a Christianity of
florid ornament and of somewhat fantastic issues.

As the Duke gradually became weaker, and seemed every day to be on the
point of death, he became the more anxious that Inglesant’s marriage
should be completed, and at last insisted upon his delaying his return
to Rome no longer. Inglesant, who expected almost hour by hour the
Duke’s decease, would have been content to wait; but the dying man would
take no denial.  He pleased himself with giving orders for Inglesant’s
train, and ordered his favourite page, an Austrian boy, to accompany
him, and to return immediately when the marriage was celebrated, that he
might receive the fullest description of the particulars of the event.

It was long before sunrise that Inglesant set out, accompanied by his
train, hoping to cross the mountains before the heat began.  His company
consisted of several men-at-arms, with their grooms and horse boys, and
the Austrian page. They ascended the mountains in the earlier part of
the night, and towards dawn they reached a flat plain.  The night had
been too dark to allow them to see the steep and narrow defiles, full of
oaks and beech; and as they passed over the dreary plain in the white
mist, their figures seemed vast and indistinct in the dim light; but
now, as the streaks of the dawn grew brighter in the east behind them,
they could see the fir trees clothing the distant slopes, and here and
there one of the higher summits still covered with white snow.  The
scene was cold and dead and dreary as the grave.  A heavy mist hung over
the mountain plain, and an icy lake lay black and cold beneath the
morning sky.  As they reached the crest of the hill the mist rose,
stirred by a little breeze at sunrise, and the gorges of the descent lay
clear before them.  The sun arose behind them, gilding the mountain
tops, and tracing streaks and shades of colour on the rising mist
sparkling with glittering dew-drops; while dark and solemn beneath them
lay the pine-clothed ravines and sloping valleys, with here and there a
rocky peak; and farther down still the woods and hills gave place at
last to the plain of the Tiber, at present dark and indistinguishable in
the night.

As the sun arose behind them one by one the pine ravines became lighted,
and the snowy summits, soft and pink with radiant light, stood out
against the sky, which became every instant of a deeper blue.  The
sunlight, stealing down the defiles and calling forth into distinct
shape and vision tree and rock and flashing stream, spread itself over
the oak woods in the valleys, and shone at last upon the plain, embossed
and radiant with wood and green meadow, and marble towers and glistering
water—the waters of the Tiber running onwards towards Rome.  Mysterious
forms and waves of light, the creatures of the morning and of the mist,
floated before the sight, and from the dark fir trees murmurs and
mutterings of ethereal life fell upon the ear.  Sudden and passionate
flushes of colour tinted the pine woods and were gone, and beneath the
branches and across the paths fairy lights played for a moment and
passed away.

The party halted more than once, but it was necessary to make the long
descent before the heat began, and they commenced carefully to pick
their way down the stony mountain road, which wound down the ravines in
wild unequal paths. The track now precipitous, now almost level, took
them round corners and masses of rock sometimes hanging above their
heads, revealing continually new reaches of valley, and new defiles
clothed with fir and oak.  Mountain flowers and trailing ivy and
creeping plants hung in festoons on every side, lizards ran across the
path, birds fluttered above them or darted into the dark recesses where
the mountain brooks were heard; everything sang the morning psalm of
life, with which, from field and mountain solitudes, the free children
of nature salute the day.

The Austrian boy felt the beauty of the scene, and broke out into
singing.

"When the northern gods," he said to Inglesant, "rode on their
chevisance they went down into the deep valleys singing magic songs.
Let us into this dark valley, singing magic songs, also go down; who
knows what strange and hidden deity, since the old pagan times lost and
forgotten, we may find among the dark fir dingles and the laurel
shades?"

And he began to sing some love ditty.

Inglesant did not hear him.  The beauty of the scene, ethereal and
unreal in its loveliness, following upon the long dark mountain ride,
his sleepless nights and strange familiarity with approaching death by
the couch of the old Duke, confused his senses, and a presentiment of
impending fate filled his mind.  The recollection of his brother rose
again in his remembrance, distinct and present as in life; and more than
once he fancied that he heard his voice, as the cry of some mountain
beast or sound of moaning trees came up the pass. No other foreshadowing
than this very imperfect one warned him of the approaching crisis of his
life.

The sun was fully up, and the light already brilliant and intense, when
they approached a projecting point where the slope of wood ended in a
tower of rock jutting upon the road. The path by which they approached
it was narrow and ragged, but beyond the rock the ground spread itself
out, and the path was carried inward towards the right, having the
sloping hillside on the one hand, covered with scattered oaks, while, on
the other, a slip of ground separated it from the ravine.  At the
turning of the road, where the opening valley lay before them as they
reached the corner, face to face with Inglesant as he checked his horse,
was the Italian, the inquisitive stranger of the theatre at Florence,
the intruder into the Conclave, the masque of the Carnival ball, the
assassin of the Corso—that Malvolti who had treacherously murdered his
brother and sought his own life.  Alone and weary, his clothes worn and
threadbare, he came toiling up the pass.  Inglesant reined in his horse
suddenly, a strange and fierce light in his eyes and face.  The Italian
started back like some wild creature of the forest brought suddenly to
bay, a terrified cry broke from him, and he looked wildly round as if
intending flight.  The nature of the ground caught him as in a trap; on
the one hand the sloping hillside steep and open, on the other tangled
rugged ground, slightly rising between the road and the precipice, cut
off all hope of sudden flight.  He looked wildly round for a moment,
then, when the horsemen came round the rocky wall and halted behind
their leader, his eyes came back to Inglesant’s face, and he marked the
smile upon his lips and in his eyes, and saw his hand steal downwards to
the hunting piece he carried at the saddle; then with a terrible cry, he
threw himself on his knees before the horse’s head, and begged for
pity,—pity and life.

Inglesant took his hand from his weapon, and turning slightly to the
page and to the others behind him, he said,—

"This man, messeri, is a murderer and a villain, steeped in every crime;
a cruel secret midnight cut-throat and assassin; a lurker in secret
corners to murder the innocent.  He took my brother, a noble gentleman
whom I was proud to follow, treacherously at an advantage, and slew him.
I see him now before me lying in his blood.  He tried to take my
life,—I, who scarcely even knew him,—in the streets of Rome.  Now he
begs for mercy, what say you, gentleman? what is his due?"

"Shoot the dog through the head.  Hang him on the nearest tree.  Carry
him into Rome and torture him to death."

The Italian still continued on his knees, his hands clasped before him,
his face working with terror and agony that could not be disguised.

"Mercy, monsignore," he cried.  "Mercy.  I cannot, I dare not, I am not
fit to die.  For the blessed Host, monsignore, have mercy—for the love
of Jesu—for the sake of Jesu."

As he said these last words Inglesant’s attitude altered, and the cruel
light faded out of his eyes.  His hand ceased to finger the carabine at
his saddle, and he sat still upon his horse, looking down upon the
abject wretch before him, while a man might count fifty.  The Italian
saw, or thought he saw, that his judge was inclining to mercy, and he
renewed his appeals for pity.

"For the love of the crucifix, monsignore; for the blessed Virgin’s
sake."

But Inglesant did not seem to hear him.  He turned to the horsemen
behind him, and said,—

"Take him up, one of you, on the crupper.  Search him first for arms.
Another keep his eye on him, and if he moves or attempts to escape,
shoot him dead.  You had better come quietly;" he continued, "it is your
only chance for life."

Two of the men-at-arms dismounted and searched the prisoner, but found
no arms upon him.  He seemed indeed to be in the greatest distress from
hunger and want, and his clothes were ragged and thin.  He was mounted
behind one of the soldiers and closely watched, but he made no attempt
to escape, and indeed appeared to have no strength or energy for such an
effort.

They went on down the pass for about an Italian league. The country
became more thickly wooded, and here and there on the hillsides patches
of corn appeared, and once or twice in a sheltered spot a few vines.  At
length, on the broad shoulder of the hill round which the path wound,
they saw before them a few cottages, and above them, on the hillside, in
a position that commanded the distant pass till it opened on the plain,
was a Chapel, the bell of which had just ceased ringing for mass.

Inglesant turned his horse’s head up the narrow stony path, and when the
gate was reached, he dismounted and entered the Chapel, followed by his
train.  The Capella had apparently been built of the remains of some
temple or old Roman house, for many of the stones of the front were
carved in bold relief.  It was a small narrow building, and possessed no
furniture save the altar and a rude pulpit built of stones; but behind
the altar, painted on the plaster of the wall, was the rood or crucifix,
the size of life.  Who the artist had been cannot now be told; it might
have been the pupil of some great master, who had caught something of
the master’s skill, or, perhaps, in the old time, some artist had come
up the pass from Borgo san Sepolcro, and had painted it for the love of
his art and of the Blessed Virgin; but, whoever had done it, it was well
done, and it gave a sanctity to the little Chapel, and possessed an
influence of which the villagers were not unconscious, and of which they
were even proud.

The mass had commenced some short time as the train entered, and such
few women and peasants as were present turned in surprise.

Inglesant knelt upon the steps before the altar, and the men-at-arms
upon the floor of the Chapel, the two who guarded the prisoner keeping
close behind their leader.

The priest, who was an old and simple-looking countryman, continued his
office without stopping; but when he had received the sacred elements
himself, he turned, and, influenced probably by his appearance and by
his position at the altar, he offered Inglesant the Sacrament.  He took
it, and the priest, turning again to the altar, finished the mass.

Then Inglesant rose, and when the priest turned again he was standing
before the altar with his drawn sword held lengthwise across his hands.

"My Father," he said, "I am the Cavaliere di San Georgio, and as I came
across the mountains this morning on my way to Rome, I met my mortal
foe, the murderer of my brother, a wretch whose life is forfeit by every
law, either of earth or heaven, a guilty monster steeped in every crime.
Him, as soon as I had met him,—sent by this lonely and untrodden way as
it seems to me by the Lord’s hand,—I thought to crush at once, as I
would a venomous beast, though he is worse than any beast.  But, my
Father, he has appealed from me to the adorable Name of Jesus, and I
cannot touch him. But he will not escape.  I give him over to the Lord.
I give up my sword into the Lord’s hands, that He may work my vengeance
upon him as it seems to Him good.  Henceforth he is safe from earthly
retribution, but the Divine Powers are just.  Take this sword, reverend
Father, and let it lie upon the altar beneath the Christ Himself; and I
will make an offering for daily masses for my brother’s soul."

The priest took the sword, and kneeling before the altar, placed it
thereon like a man acting in a dream.

He was one of those child-like peasant-priests to whom the great world
was unknown, and to whom his mountain solitudes were peopled as much by
the saints and angels of his breviary as by the peasants who shared with
him the solitudes and the legends that gave to these mountain fastnesses
a mysterious awe.  To such a man as this it seemed nothing strange that
the blessed St. George himself, in jewelled armour, should stand before
the altar in the mystic morning light, his shining sword in his hand.

He turned again to Inglesant, who had knelt down once more.

"It is well done, monsignore," he said, "as all that thou doest
doubtless is most well.  The sword shall remain here as thou sayest, and
the Lord doubtless will work His blessed will.  But I entreat,
monsignore, thy intercession for me, a poor sinful man; and when thou
returnest to thy place, and seest again the Lord Jesus, that thou wilt
remind Him of His unworthy priest.  Amen."

Inglesant scarcely heard what he said, and certainly did not understand
it.  His sense was confused by what had happened, and by the sudden
overmastering impulse upon which he had acted.  He moved as in a dream;
nothing seemed to come strange to him, nothing startled him, and he took
slight heed of what passed.  He placed his embroidered purse, heavy with
gold, in the priest’s hand, and in his excitement totally forgot to name
his brother, for whose repose masses were to be said.

He signed to his men to release the prisoner, and, his trumpets sounding
to horse before the Chapel gate, he mounted and rode on down the pass.

But his visit was not forgotten, and long afterwards, perhaps even to
the present day, popular tradition took the story up, and related that
once, when the priest of the mountain Chapel was a very holy man, the
blessed St. George himself, in shining armour, came across the mountains
one morning very early, and himself partook of the Sacrament and all his
train; and appealed triumphantly to the magic sword—set with gold and
precious stones—that lay upon the altar from that morning, by virtue of
which no harm can befall the village, no storm strike it, and, above
all, no pillage of armed men or any violence can occur.

The Austrian boy returned to Umbria with his story of the marriage; but
the old Duke never heard it.  No sooner had Inglesant left him than his
depression and despair returned; he loathed the sight of the day, and of
the costly palace in which he lived; the gay arts and the devised
fancies by which men have sought to lure happiness became intolerable to
him; and, ill as he was, he caused himself to be removed to the Castel
Durante, amid the lonely mountain ravines, to abide his end.  As
Inglesant bowed beneath the care-cloth—the fine linen cloth laid over
the newly-married in the Church,—kneeling till mass was ended, with his
heart full of love and brightness and peace, the last of the house of
Revere—"worn out," says the chronicler, with a burst of unusual candour,
"by priestly torments"—breathed his last, and went to another world,
where, it may be hoped, sacrifice and devotion are better rewarded than
they are here, and superstitious terrors are unknown.




                            *CHAPTER XIII.*


The Castello di San Georgio, or, as it might more properly have been
called, the "Casa" or Villa di San Georgio, was built upon the summit of
a small conical hill, amid the sloping bases of the Apennines, at a part
of their long range where the summits were low and green.  In that
delightful region, the cultivation and richness of the plain is united
to the wildness and beauty of the hills.  The heat is tempered in the
shady valleys and under the thick woods.  A delicious moisture and soft
haze hangs about these dewy, grassy places, which the sun has power to
warm and gladden, but not to parch.  Flowers of every hue cover the
ground beneath the oaks and elms.  Nightingales sing in the thickets of
wild rose and clematis, and the groves of laurel and of the long-leaved
olives are crowded with small creatures in the full enjoyment of life
and warmth.  Little brooks and rippling streams, half hidden by the
tangled thickets, and turned from their courses by the mossy rocks, flow
down from the hill ravines, as joyful and clear as in that old time when
each was the care of some protecting nymph or rural god.  In the waters
of the placid lake are reflected the shadows of the hills and the
tremulous shimmer of waving woods.

In this favoured region, the Villa di San Georgio stood upon its leafy
hill-top, set in the background of the mountains. The steep slope was
terraced here and there in patches of ground planted with fruit-trees,
and at the foot, towards the south, a large lake slept beneath the blue
sky, its shores lined with brushwood, interspersed here and there with
grassy slopes, where the orchis and hyacinth and narcissus sprang up
from the green rich turf.

Through this pastoral land, at all seasons of the year, wandering
shepherds with their flocks, peasants with their cattle and dogs, ladies
and cavaliers from the neighbouring villas, woodmen, vine-dressers,
fishermen from the lake, traversed the leafy stage, and diversified the
scene; but when the grape was fully ripe, and the long year was crowned
at last with the fatness of the vintage, a joyous age of rural wealth
and jollity seemed for a time to fill the mellow, golden-tinted land.
Then, indeed, wandering amid the woods and rocks interspersed with
vineyards and patches of yellow wheat, as you met the loaded wain, or
came upon the wine-press, trodden by laughing girls and boys, you seemed
to understand the stories of the rural wanderings of the gods, for you
met with many a scene to which it might well be fancied that they might
still be allured, as to that garden at the foot of Mount Bermion where
the roses grew.  The gracious gods of plenty still filled the luscious
vats; rustling Zephyr still whispered love among the flowers, still came
laden with the ripening odours of the fruit.  The little cherub Loves
peeped out from behind oak stems and ruined plinth and sculptured
frieze, half hidden among roots and leaves.

The Castello was a modern building, although there were ruins in one of
the courtyards of a very antique date.  It consisted of three or four
lofty blocks of buildings, at right angles to each other, covered with
low, red-tiled roofs.  The principal windows were in the upper stories,
and gave light to large and handsome rooms, from which on all sides the
most enchanting landscapes satisfied the eye.

The weeks that succeeded Inglesant’s marriage grew into months, and the
months into years, in this delightful scene. The old Count spent some
months in peaceful satisfaction with his daughter and her husband,
delighted with the company of his one grandchild, a little boy.  In the
spacious dining-saloon, with its cool polished floor, it was a pretty
sight to see the old, courteous nobleman tempting the child with the
ripest fruit.  The shaded light fell upon the plate and yellow ware on
the table, and upon the old cabinets of Italian marqueterie against the
walls; whilst by the carved mantel-piece sat the pleased parents, of
whom it is recorded that in Rome they passed for the handsomest pair in
Italy.  In this way, the days of some three sunny summers passed away,
while the winters were spent in the Papal city.

But this Arcadian life was not lasting.  The old Count was not long
content if absent from city life, and the time at the Castello hung
somewhat heavily upon the spirits of both Inglesant and his wife.  They
were neither of them fitted by previous habits and education for a
retired country life; but the circumstance which outwardly appeared to
weigh upon Lauretta’s mind was uncertainty concerning her brother’s
fate. From the time of the marriage the Cavaliere had disappeared, and
from that day no word of tidings had been received respecting him.  It
was known that his circumstances were desperate, and the danger he lay
under from secret enemies imminent.  The account which her husband had
given her of the condition in which he had seen Malvolti dwelt in her
imagination, and she brooded over the idea of her brother in a similar
state of destitution and misery.  It seemed probable that, had he been
assassinated, tidings of the event would have reached his family; and if
alive, it was strange that he had made no application for assistance to
those who were so well able and so willing to render it.  This suspense
and mystery were more insupportable than certainty of evil would have
been.

The characters of Inglesant and his wife were of such a nature as most
effectively to produce and aggravate this sleepless uneasiness.  Upon
Lauretta’s lenient and gracious, if somewhat pleasure-loving
disposition, the impression of the unkindness she had experienced from
her brother faded without leaving a trace, and she thought only of some
pleasant, long-past incidents, when she had been a pretty, engaging
child; whilst the life of romance and excitement, combined with a
certain spiritual Quixotism, which Inglesant had so long followed, had
rendered any other uncongenial to him, and it required little persuasion
to induce him to re-enter upon it.

But there were other causes at work which led to the same result.  For
many weeks a sultry wind had, without variation, passed over the south
of Italy, laden with putrid exhalations from the earth, and by its
sullen steadiness causing stagnation in the air.  It would be difficult
to describe the terrible effect upon the mind and system of the long
continuance of such a state of the atmosphere.  A restless fear and
depression of spirits prepared the body for the seeds of disease, and
the contagion, which was not perhaps generated in the atmosphere, was
carried by it with fearful rapidity.  The plague struck down its victims
at once in city and in country, and spared no rank nor condition of
life.  Then all bond of fellowship and of society was loosened, strange
crimes and suspicions,—strange even to that land of crime and
treachery,—influenced the lives and thoughts of all men.  Innocent
persons were hunted to death, as poisoners and spreaders of infection;
the terrors of the grave broke through the forms of artificial life, and
the depravity of the heart was exposed in ghastly nakedness, as the
bodies of the dead lay unburied by the waysides.

The Castello di San Georgio, standing on the summit of a breezy hill, in
a thinly-peopled district, was as safe a refuge as could perhaps be
found, and, if uneasiness of mind could have been banished, might have
been a happy one.  Three hundred years before, in the child-like
unconsciousness of spiritual conflict which the unquestioned rule of
Rome for so long produced, it had been possible, in the days of
Boccacio, for cultivated and refined society to shut itself up in some
earthly paradise, and, surrounded by horrors and by death, to spend its
days in light wit and anecdote, undisturbed in mind, and kept in bodily
health by cheerful enjoyment; but the time for such possibilities as
these had long gone by.  A mental trouble and uneasiness, which pervaded
the whole of human life at the most quiet times, gave place, at such
periods of dread and fear, to an intolerable restlessness, which
altogether precluded the placid enjoyment of the present, however
guarded and apparently secure.

The apprehension which most weighed upon Lauretta’s mind, was that her
brother, flying from some city where the pestilence raged, might be
refused succour and assistance, and might even be murdered in the
village to which he might flee. Such incidents were of daily occurrence,
nor can it be wondered at that human precaution and terror became cruel
and merciless, when it is an authenticated fact that the very birds
themselves forsook the country places, and disappeared from their native
groves at the approach of the plague.  Nor were inanimate things, even,
indifferent to the scourge; patches and blotches of infection broke out
upon the walls and houses, and when scraped off would reappear until the
house itself was burnt down.

It was in the midst of this ghastly existence, this life in death, that
a wandering mendicant, driven from Rome by the pestilence and craving
alms at the Castello, asserted that he knew the Cavaliere di Guardino,
and that he was ill in Rome, doubtless by this time dead.  The man
probably lied, or, if it were true that he had known the Cavaliere, as
he had passed him on the steps of the Trinita, the latter part of his
story was certainly imaginary.  It caused Lauretta, however, so much
distress, that her husband, to comfort her, proposed to ride to Rome,
and endeavour to discover the truth.  The plague was not so virulent in
Rome as it was in the south of Italy, and especially in Naples, and to a
man using proper precautions the danger might not be very great.
Lauretta was distracted. The restless anxiety, which gave her no peace
until her brother’s fate was known, urged her to let her husband go.
How, then, should she be more at ease when, in addition to one vision of
dread and apprehension, she would be haunted by another?  The new
anxiety seemed a relief from the old; anyhow the old was
intolerable,—any change offered hope.

Upon his arrival at Rome Inglesant went hither and thither, from place
to place, as one false report and another led him. Every beggar in the
city seemed to have known the Cavaliere. The contagion was sufficiently
virulent to stop all amusements, and to drive every one from the city
who was not compelled to remain.  The streets were almost deserted, and
those who passed along them walked apart, avoiding each other, and
seldom spoke.  The most frequented places were the churches, and even
there, the services were short and hurried, and divested of everything
that could attract the eye.  In the unusual silence the incessant
tolling of the bells was more marked than ever.  White processions
carrying the Host glided over the hushed pavements.

Once Inglesant thought he had discovered the man of whom he was in
search.  The Cavaliere, the story now ran, had arrived in Rome a few
days ago from Naples, where the plague had the mastery, so that the
living could not bury the dead.  He had come, flying towards the healthy
north before the pestilence, which had overtaken him as he entered the
Giovanni gate, and had taken refuge in a pest-house, which had been
established in the courtyard of a little church, "S. Salvatoris in
Laterano ad scalas sanctas."  Thither Inglesant repaired, in the full
glare of an afternoon in the late summer. In a sort of cloister, round a
little courtyard, the beds were laid out side by side, on which lay the
dying and the dead. Between the worn stones of the courtyard, sprinkled
with water, bright flowers were springing up.  The monks were flitting
about; two or three of these also were dead already. Inglesant inquired
for the stranger who had arrived from Naples.  He was dead, the monks
told him, but not yet taken away for burial; he lay there still upon his
couch.  They took Inglesant to a corner of the courtyard, where, looking
down upon the dead body, he saw at once it was not that of the
Cavaliere.  It was the body of a man in the very prime of life, of a
singularly noble and lofty look.  He lay with his hand clasped over a
little bit of crossed wood the monks had made, his eyes closed,
something like a smile upon his lips.

"The Cavaliere will not look like that," thought Inglesant to himself.

Who was he?  In some part of Italy, doubtless, there were at that moment
those who waited for him, and wondered, just as he and Lauretta were
doing.  Perhaps in some distant lazaretto some one might be standing
over the body of the Cavaliere, at just such a loss for a name and clue.
It did not seem strange to Inglesant; he had wandered through these
cross ways and tangled paths of life from a child.

He went out into the hot sunshine and down the long straight street, by
the great church of the Sancta Maria, into the Via Felix, scarcely
knowing where he went.  Across the whole breadth of Rome the few persons
he met regarded him with suspicion, and crossed over to the other side.
He himself carried a pomander of silver in the shape of an apple,
stuffed with spices, which sent out a curious faint perfume through
small holes.  He wandered down the steps of the Trinita, where even the
beggars were few and quiet, and seeking unconsciously the cooler air of
the river, passed the desolate Corso, and came down to the Ripetta, to
the steps.

The sun was sinking now, and the western sky was all ablaze with a
strange light.  All through the streets the image of the dead man had
haunted Inglesant, and the silent city seemed full of such pale and
mystic forms.  The great dome of St. Peter’s stood out dark and clear
against the yellow light, which shone through the casements below the
dome till the whole seemed faint and ethereal as the air itself.  In the
foreground, across the river, were low meadows, and the bare branches of
trees the leaves of which had already withered and fallen.  In the
distance the pollard firs upon the ramparts stood out distinctly in
fantastic forms; to the left the spires and domes of the city shone in
the light; in front flowed the dark river, still and slow.  The large
steps by the water’s edge, usually so crowded and heaped with market
produce, were bare and deserted; a wild superstitious terror took
possession of Inglesant’s mind.

In this solitude and loneliness, amid the busiest haunts of life, with
the image of death on every hand, he felt as though the unseen world
might at any moment manifest itself; the lurid sky seemed ready to part
asunder, and amid the silent courts and pavements the dead would
scarcely seem strangers were they to appear.  He stood waiting, as
though expecting a message from beyond the grave.

And indeed it seemed to come.  As he stood upon the steps a gray form
came along the pathway on the further side beneath the leafless trees
and down the sloping bank.  It entered the small boat that lay moored
beneath the alders and guided itself across the stream.  It stood erect
and motionless, propelling the skiff doubtless by an oar at the stern,
but from the place where Inglesant stood the boat seemed to move of its
own accord, like the magic bark in some romance of chivalry.  In its
left hand the figure held something which shone in the light; the yellow
glamour of the sunset, dazzling to Inglesant’s eyes, fluttered upon its
vestment of whitish grey, and clothed in transparent radiance this
shadowy revenant from the tomb.  It made no stay at the landing-place,
but, as though on an errand of life and death, it came straight up the
wide curved steps, holding forward in its left hand a crucifix of brass.
It passed within a step of Inglesant, who was standing, wonderstruck, at
the summit of the steps, his silver pomander in his hand.  As it passed
him he could see the face, pale and steadfast, with a bright lustre in
the eyes, and looking full upon him without pausing, the friar, if it
were a friar, said,—

"He is in Naples.  In that city, or near it, you will find the man you
seek.  Ay! and far more than you seek.  Let there be no delay on your
part."

Then, still holding the crucifix forward at arm’s length, as though to
cleave the poisoned air before him as he went, the figure passed up the
street, turning neither to the right nor to the left, and, taking no
notice of any of the few loiterers in his way, passed quickly out of
sight.

Inglesant turned to two fishermen who were coming slowly down towards
the ferry.

"Did you see that Servite friar?" he said.

The men gazed at him uneasily.  "He is light-headed," one of them
muttered; "he has the plague upon him, and does not know what he says."

Though he said this, they might have seen the friar all the same, for
Inglesant’s manner was excited, and those were perilous times in which
to speak to strangers in the streets. The two men got into the boat, and
passed over hastily to the other side.

Naples!  It was walking straight into the jaws of death. The dead were
lying in the streets in heaps, sprinkled hastily with lime; and lavish
gifts of freedom and of gold could scarcely keep the galley slaves from
breaking out of the city, though they knew that poverty and probably
destruction awaited them elsewhere.  But this strange message from
another world, which bore such an impress of a higher knowledge, how
could he disobey it?  "Far more than he sought."  These words haunted
him.  He made inquiries at the monastery of the Jesuits in the Corso,
but could hear nothing of such a man.  Most of those to whom he spoke
were of opinion that he had seen a vision.  He himself sometimes thought
it an illusion of the brain, conjured up by the story of the man who
came from Naples, by the afternoon heat, and by the sight of the dead;
but in all this the divine wisdom might be working; by these strange
means the divine hand might guide. "Let there be no delay on your part."
These words sounded like a far-off echo of Father St. Clare’s voice;
once again the old habit of obedience stirred within him.  Wife and
child and home stood in the path, but the training which first love had
been powerless to oppose was not likely to fail now. Once again his
station seemed to be given him.  Before—upon the scaffold, at the
traitor’s dock, in prison,—he had been found at the appointed post;
would it be worth while now, when life was so much farther run out, to
falter and turn back?  The higher walks of the holy life had indeed
proved too difficult and steep, but to this running-footman’s sort of
business he had before proved himself equal;—should he now be found
untrustworthy even in this?

He resolved to go.  If he returned at all, he would be back at the
Castello before any increased apprehension would be felt; if it were the
will of God that he should never return, the Jesuit fathers would
undertake the care of Lauretta and his child.

He confessed and received the Sacrament at the Church of the Gesu, in
the Chapel of St. Ignatio, in the clear morning light, kneeling upon the
cold brilliant marble floor.  It was the last day of July, very early,
and the Church was swept and garnished for the great festival of the
Saint.  Inglesant did not wait for the saddened festival, but left Rome
immediately that the early mass was done.




                             *CHAPTER XIV.*


When Inglesant had passed the Pontine Marshes, and had come into the
flowery and wooded country about Mola, where the traveller begins to
rejoice and to delight his eyes, he found this beautiful land little
less oppressive than the dreary marshes he had left.  The vineyards
covered the slopes, and hung their festoons on every side.  The citron
and jasmin and orange bloomed around him; and in the cooler and more
shady walks flowers yet covered the ground, in spite of the heat.  The
sober tints of the oaks and beeches contrasted with the brilliant orange
groves and vineyards, and, with the palms and aloes, offered that
variety which usually charms the traveller; and the distant sea, calm
and blue, with the long headlands covered with battlements and gay
villas, with plantations and terraces, carried the eye onward into the
dim unknown distance, with what is usually a sense of delightful desire.

But as Inglesant rode along, an overpowering sense of oppression and
heaviness hung over this beautiful land.  The heat was intense; no rain
nor dew had fallen for many weeks. The ground in most places was scored
and hard, and the leaves were withered.  The brooks were nearly dry, and
the plantations near the roads were white with dust.  An overpowering
perfume, sickly and penetrating, filled the air, and seemed to choke the
breath; a deadly stillness pervaded the land; and scarcely a human form,
either of wayfarer or peasant, was to be seen.

At the small towns near to Naples every form of life was silent and
inert.  Inglesant was received without difficulty, as he was going
towards Naples; but he was regarded with wonder, and remonstrated with
as courting certain death.  He halted at Aversa, and waited till the
mid-day heat was passed. Here, at last, there seemed some little
activity and life.  A sort of market even appeared to be held, and
Inglesant asked the host what it meant.

"When the plague first began in Naples, signore," he said, "a market was
established here to supply the city with bread, fresh meat, and other
provisions.  Officers appointed by the city came out hither, and
conveyed it back.  But, as the plague became more deadly, most of those
thus sent out never returned to the city, in spite of the penalties to
which such conduct exposed them.  Since the plague spread into the
country places, the peasants have mostly ceased to bring their produce;
but what little is brought you see here, and one of the magistrates is
generally obliged to come out from Naples to receive it."

"Is the city suffering from famine, then?" asked Inglesant.

"The city is like hell itself, Signore il Cavaliere," replied the host.
"They tell me that he who looks upon it will never be able to sleep
peacefully again.  They lie heaped together in the streets, the dying
and the dead.  The hospitals are choked with dead bodies, so that none
dare go in.  They are blowing up masses of houses, so as to bury the
bodies under the ruins with lime and water and earth.  Twenty thousand
persons have died in a single day.  Those who have been induced to touch
the dead to cart them away never live more than two days."

"The religious, and the physicians, and the magistrates, then, remain at
their posts?" said Inglesant.

The host shrugged his shoulders.

"There is not more to be said of one class than another," he said;
"there are cowards in all.  Many of the physicians fled; but, on the
other hand, two strange physicians came forward of their own accord, and
offered to be shut up in the Sancta Casa Hospital.  They never came out
alive.  Many of the religious fled; but the Capuchins and the Jesuits,
they say, are all dead.  Most of the Franciscan Friars are dead, and all
the great Carmelites.  They run to all houses that are most infected,
and to those streets that are the most thronged with putrefied bodies,
and into those hospitals where the plague is hottest; and confess the
sick and attend them to their last gasp; and receive their poisonous
breath as though it were the scent of a rose."

"But is no attempt made to bury the dead?"

"They are letting out the galley slaves by a hundred at a time," replied
the host; "they offer freedom and a pension for life to the survivors,
but none do survive.  Fathers and mothers desert their own children;
children their parents; nay, they throw them out into the streets to
die.  What would you have?"

The host paused, and looked at Inglesant curiously, as he sat drinking
some wine.

"Have you a lady-love in Naples, signore?" he said at last; "or are you
heir to a rich man, and wish to save his gold?"

"I am leaving wife and child," replied Inglesant, bitterly, "to seek a
man whom I hate, whom I shall never find under the heaps of dead.  You
had better say at once that I am mad.  That is nearest to the truth."

The host looked at him compassionately, and left the room.

In the cool of the evening Inglesant rode through the deserted
vineyards, and approached the barriers.  On the way he met some few
foot-passengers, pale and emaciated, trudging doggedly onwards.  They
were leaving death behind them, but they saw nothing but misery and
death elsewhere. They took no notice of Inglesant as they passed.  Many
of them, exhausted and smitten with the disease, sank down and died by
the wayside.  When he arrived at the barriers, he found them deserted,
and no guard whatever kept.  He left his horse at a little osteria
without the gate, which also seemed deserted.  There was hay in the
stable, and the animal might shift for himself if so inclined.
Inglesant left him loose.  As he entered the city, and passed through
the Largo into the Strada Toledo, the sight that met his eyes was one
never to be forgotten.

The streets were full of people,—more so, indeed, than is usual even in
Naples; for business was at a stand, the houses were full of infection,
and a terrible restlessness drove every one here and there.  The stately
rows of houses and palaces, and the lofty churches, looked down on a
changing, fleeting, restless crowd,—unoccupied, speaking little, walking
hither and thither with no aim, every few minutes turning back and
retracing their steps.  Every quarter of an hour or thereabouts a
confused procession of priests and laymen, singing doleful and
despairing misereres, and bearing the sacred Host with canopy and
crosses, came from one of the side streets, or out of one of the
churches, and proceeded along the Strada.  As these processions passed,
every one prostrated themselves, with an excess and desperate
earnestness of devotion, and many followed the host; but in a moment or
two those who knelt or those who followed rose or turned away with
gestures of despair or distraction, as though incapable of sustained
action, or of confidence in any remedy.  And at this there could be no
wonder, since this crowd of people were picking their way amid a mass of
dead corruption on every side of them under their feet.  On the stone
pavement of the stately Strada, on the palace stairs, on the steps
before the churches, lay corpses in every variety of contortion at which
death can arrive.  Sick people upon beds and heaps of linen—some
delicate and costly, some filthy and decayed—lay mingled with the dead;
they had been turned out of the houses, or had deserted them to avoid
being left to die alone; and every now and then some one of those who
walked apparently in health would lie down, stricken by the heat or by
the plague, and join this prostrate throng, for whom there was no longer
in this world any hope of revival.

This sight, which would have been terrible anywhere, was unutterably
distressing and ghastly in Naples, the city of thoughtless pleasure and
of reckless mirth,—a city lying under a blue and cloudless sky, by an
azure sea, glowing in the unsurpassable brilliancy and splendour of the
sun.  As this dazzling blue and gold, before which all colours pale,
made the scene the most ghastly that could have been chosen as the
theatre for such an appalling spectacle, so, among a people child-like
and grotesque, seducing the stranger into sympathy with its delight—a
people crowned with flowers, and clothed in colours of every shade, full
of high and gay spirits, and possessed of a conscience that gives no
pain—this masque and dance of death assumed an aspect of intolerable
horror.  Naples was given over to pantomime and festival, leading dances
and processions with Thyrsis and garlands, and trailing branches of
fruit.  The old Fabulag and farce lingered yet beneath the delicious sky
and in the lovely spots of earth that lured the Pagan to dream that
earth was heaven.  The poles and scaffolds and dead flowers of the last
festival still lingered in the streets.

In this city, turned at once into a charnel-house,—nay, into a hell and
place of torment,—the mighty, unseen hand suddenly struck down its prey,
and without warning seized upon the wretched conscience, all unprepared
for such a blow.  The cast of a pantomime is a strange sight beneath the
glare and light of mid-day; but here were quacks and nobles, jugglers
and soldiers, comic actors and "filosofi," pleasure seekers and monks,
gentry and beggars, all surprised as it were, suddenly, by the light and
glare of the death angel’s torch, and crowded upon one level stage of
misery and despair.

Sick and dizzy with horror, and choked with the deadly smell and
malaria, Inglesant turned into several osteria, but could find no host
in any.  In several he saw sights which chilled his blood.  At last he
gave up the search, and, weary as he was, sought the hospitals.  The
approaches to some of these were so blocked up by the dead and the dying
who had vainly sought admission, that entrance was impossible.  In
others the galley slaves were at work.  In every open spot of ground
where the earth could be disturbed without cutting off the water pipes
which ran through the city, trenches had been dug, and the bodies which
were collected from the streets and hospitals were thrown hastily into
them, and covered with lime and earth.  Inglesant strayed into the
"Monte della Misericordia," which had recently been cleared of the dead.
A few sick persons lay in the beds; but the house seemed wonderfully
clean and sweet, and the rooms cool and fresh.  The floors were soaked
with vinegar, and the place was full of the scent of juniper, bay
berries, and rosemary, which were burning in every room.  It seemed to
Inglesant like a little heaven and he sank exhausted upon one of the
beds.  They brought him some wine, and presently the Signore di Mauro,
one of the physicians appointed by the city, who still remained bravely
at his post, came and spoke to him.

"I perceive that you are a stranger in Naples, and untouched by the
disease," he said.  "I am at a loss to account for your presence here.
This house is indeed cleared for a moment, but it is the last time that
we can expect help.  The supply of galley slaves is failing, and when it
stops entirely, which it must in a few days, I see nothing in the future
but the general extirpation of all the inhabitants of this fated city,
and that its vast circumference, filled with putrefaction and venom,
will afterwards be uninhabitable to the rest of mankind."

This doleful foreboding made little impression upon Inglesant, who was,
indeed, too much exhausted both in mind and body to pay much attention
to anything.

"I am come to Naples," he said faintly, "in search of another; will you
let me stay in this house to-night?  I can find no one in the inns."

"I will do better for you than that," said the good physician; "you
shall come to my own house, which is free from infection.  I have but
one inmate, an old servant, who, I think, is too dry and withered a
morsel even for the plague. I am going at once."

Something in Inglesant’s manner probably attracted him, otherwise it is
difficult to account for his kindness to a stranger under such
circumstances.

They went out together.  Inglesant by chance seemed to be about to turn
into another and smaller street—the physician pulled him back hurriedly
with a shudder.

"Whatever you do," he said in a whisper, "keep to the principal
thoroughfares.  I dare not recollect—the most heated imagination would
shrink from conceiving—the unutterable horrors of the bye-streets."

Picking their way among the dead bodies, which the slaves, with
handkerchiefs steeped in vinegar over their faces, were piling into
carts, the two proceeded down the Strada.

Inglesant asked the physician how the plague first began in Naples.

"It is the terrible enemy of mankind," replied the other—he was rather a
pompous man, with all his kindness and devotion, and used long
words—"that walks stained with slaughter by night.  We know not whence
it comes.  Before it are beautiful gardens, crowded habitations, and
populous cities; behind it unfruitful emptiness and howling desolation.
Before it the guards and armies of mighty princes are as dead men, and
physicians are no protection either to the sick or to themselves.  Some
imagine that it comes from the cities of the East; some that it arises
from poverty and famine, and from the tainted and perishing flesh, and
unripe fruits and hurtful herbs, which, in times of scarcity and dearth,
the starving people greedily devour to satisfy their craving hunger.
Others contend that it is inflicted immediately by the hand of God.
These are mostly the priests.  When we have puzzled our reason, and are
at our wit’s end through ignorance, we come to that.  I have read
something in a play, written by one of your countrymen—for I perceive
you are an Englishman—where all mistakes are laid upon the King."

They were arrived by this time at the physician’s house, and were
received by an old woman whose appearance fully justified her master’s
description.  She provided for Inglesant’s wants, and prepared a bed for
him, and he sank into an uneasy and restless sleep.  The night was
stiflingly hot, suppressed cries and groans broke the stillness, and the
distant chanting of monks was heard at intervals.  Soon after midnight
the churches were again crowded; mass was said, and thousands received
the Sacrament with despairing faith.  The physician came into
Inglesant’s room early in the morning.

"I am going out," he said; "keep as much as possible out of the
churches; they spread the contagion.  The magistrates wished to close
them, but the superstitious people would not hear of it.  I will make
inquiries, and if any of the religious, or any one else, has heard your
friend’s name, I will send you word.  I may not return."

Shortly after he was gone, the crowd thronging in one direction before
Inglesant’s window caused him to rise and follow.  He came to one of the
slopes of the hill of Santo Martino, above the city.  Here a crowd,
composed of every class from a noble down to the lowest lazzaroni, were
engaged, in the clear morning light, in building a small house.  Some
were making bricks, some drawing along stones, some carrying timber.  A
nun had dreamed that were a hermitage erected for her order the plague
would cease, and the people set to work, with desperate earnestness, to
finish the building.  By the wayside up the ascent were set empty
barrels, into which the wealthier citizens dropped gold and jewels to
assist the work.  As Inglesant was standing by, watching the work, he
was accosted by a dignified, highly bred old gentleman, in a velvet coat
and Venice lace, who seemed less absorbed in the general panic than the
rest.

"This is a strange sight," he said; "what the tyranny of the Spaniards
was not able to do, the plague has done.  When the Spaniard was storming
the gates the gentlemen of the Borgo Santa Maria and the lazzaroni
fought each other in the streets, and the gentlemen avowed that they
preferred any degree of foreign tyranny to acknowledging or associating
with the common people.  With this deadly enemy not only at the gates
but in the very midst of us, gentlemen and lazzaroni toil together
without a thought of suspicion or contempt.  The plague has made us all
equal.  I perceive that you are a stranger.  May I ask what has brought
you into this ill-fated city at such a time?"

"I am in search of my relation, il Cavaliere di Guardino," replied
Inglesant; "do you know such a name?"

"It seems familiar to me," replied the old gentleman. "Have you reason
to suppose that he is in Naples?"

Inglesant said that he had.

"The persons most likely to give you information would be the Signori,
the officers of the galleys.  They would doubtless be acquainted with
the Cavaliere before the plague became so violent, and would know, at
any rate, whether it was his intention to leave Naples or not.  The
galleys lie, as you know, moored together there in the bay, and many
other ships lie near them, upon which persons have taken refuge who
believe that the plague cannot touch them on the water—an expectation in
which, I believe, many have been fatally deceived."

Inglesant thanked the gentleman, and inquired how it was that he
remained so calm and unconcerned amidst the general consternation.

"I am too old for the plague," he replied; "nothing can touch me but
death itself.  I am also," he continued with a peculiar smile, "the
fortunate possessor of a true piece of the holy Cross; so that you see I
am doubly safe."

Inglesant went at once to the harbour, musing on the way on these last
words, and wondering whether they were spoken in good faith or irony.

The scenes in the streets seemed more terrible even than on the
preceding day.  The slaves were engaged here and there in removing the
bodies, but the task was far beyond their strength.  Cries of pain and
terror were heard on all sides, and every now and then a maddened wretch
would throw himself from a window, or would rush, naked perhaps, from a
house, and, stumbling and leaping over the corpses and the dying, like
the demoniac among the tombs, would fling himself in desperation into
the water of the harbour, or over the walls into the moats.  One of
these maniacs, passing close to Inglesant, attempted to embrace a
passer-by, who coolly ran him through the body with his sword, the
bystanders applauding the act.

In the harbour corpses were floating, which a few slaves in boats were
feebly attempting to drag together with hooks. They escaped their
efforts, and rose and sank with a ghastly resemblance to life.  Upon the
quay Inglesant fortunately found the physician, Signore Mauro, who was
himself going on board the galleys to endeavour to procure the loan of
more slaves.  He offered to take Inglesant with him.

As they went the physician told him he had not discovered any trace of
the Cavaliere; but what was very curious, he said, many other persons
appeared to be engaged in the same search. It might be that all these
people were in fact but one, multiplied by the forgetfulness, and by the
excited imaginations, of those from whom Signore Mauro had obtained his
information; but, if these persons were to be believed, monks, friars,
physicians, soldiers, and even ladies, were engaged in this singular
search in a city where all ties of friendship were forgotten, for a man
whom no one knew.

As they shot over the silent water, and by the shadowy hulks of ships
lying idle and untended, with the cry of the city of the dead behind
them and the floating corpses around, Inglesant listened to the
physician as a man listens in a dream. Long shadows stretched across the
harbour, which sparkled beneath the rays of the newly-risen sun; a
sudden swoon stole over Inglesant’s spirits, through which the voice of
the physician sounded distant and faint.  He gave himself up for lost,
yet he felt a kind of dim expectation that something was about to happen
which these unknown inquirers foretold.

The galleys lay moored near together, with several other ships of large
size in company.  Signore Mauro climbed to the quarter-deck of the
largest galley, on which the commodore was, and Inglesant followed him,
still hardly knowing what he did.  The oars were shipped, but the slaves
were chained to their benches, as though the galleys were at sea. They
were singing and playing at cards.  Upon the quarterdeck, pointing to
the long files of slaves, were two loaded howitzers, behind each of
which stood a gunner with a lighted match.  Soldiers, heavily armed and
with long whips, paraded the raised gangway or passage, which ran the
whole length of the ship between the rows of benches upon which the
slaves were placed.  The officers were mostly on the quarter-deck; they
looked pale and excited, though it was singular that few or no cases of
the plague had occurred among the slaves who remained on board.  The
decks were washed with vinegar, and the galleys and slaves were much
cleaner than usual.

The physician stated his request to the commander, who ordered ten
slaves from every galley to be sent on shore. Some were wanted to act as
bakers, some as butchers, most of the artizans in the city having fled
or perished.  A boatswain was ordered to make the selection.  He chose
one or two, and then called upon the rest to volunteer.  Inglesant was
standing by him on the gangway, looking down the files of slaves.  There
were men of every age, of every rank, and almost of every country.  As
the boatswain gave the word, every hand was held up; to all these men
death was welcome at the end of two or three days’ change of life,
abundance of food, and comparative freedom.  The boatswain selected ten
by chance.

Signore Mauro inquired among the officers concerning the Cavaliere, but
could obtain no positive information.  Most had heard the name, some
professed to have known him intimately; all united in saying he had left
Naples.  Inglesant and the physician visited two or three other galleys,
but with no greater success.  They returned on shore as the heat was
becoming intense; the churches were crowded, and the Holy Sacrament was
exhibited every few moments.  The physician refused to enter any of
them.

Then Inglesant determined to try the hospitals again.  He went to the
"Santa Casa degli Incurabile," which the day before he had not been able
to approach for the dying and the dead.  The slaves had worked hard all
night, and hundreds of corpses had been removed and buried in a vast
trench without the wall of the hospital.  Inglesant passed through many
of the rooms, and spoke to several of the religious persons who were
tending the sick, but could learn nothing of the object of his search.
At last one of the monks conducted him into the strange room called the
"Anticamera di Morte," to which, in more orderly times, the patients
whose cases were hopeless were removed.

There, at the last extremity of life, before they were hurried into the
great pit outside the walls, lay the plague-stricken. Some unconscious,
yet with fearful throes and gasps awaiting their release; some in an
agony of pain and death, crying upon God and the Saints.  Kneeling by
the bedsides were several monks; but at the farther end of the room,
bending over a sick man, was a figure in a friar’s gown that made
Inglesant stop suddenly, and his heart beat quicker as he caught his
companion’s arm.

"Who is that friar, Father?" he said, "the one at the end, bending over
the bed?"

"Ah! that," said the priest, "that is Father Grazia of the Capuchins; a
very holy man, and devoted to mortification and good works.  He is
blind, though he moves about so cleverly.  He says that, to within the
last few years, his life was passed in every species of sin; and he
relates that he was solemnly given over to the vengeance of the blessed
Gesu by his mortal enemy, the minion of a Cardinal, and that the Lord
has afflicted him with untold sorrows and sufferings to bring him to
Himself, and to a life of holy mortification and charity, which he leads
unceasingly—night and day.  He is but now come in hither, knowing that
the sick man by whose bed he is, is dying of the plague in its most
fearful form,—a man whom none willingly will approach.  Mostly he is in
the vilest dens of the city, reeking with pestilence, where to go, to
all save him, is certain death.  His holiness and the Lord’s will keep
him, so that the plague cannot touch him.  Ah! he is coming this way."

It was true.  The friar had suddenly started from his recumbent
position, conscious that the man before him was no more.  At the same
moment, his mind, released from the attention which had riveted it
before, seemed to become aware of a presence in the chamber of death
which was of the intensest interest.  He came down the passage in the
centre of the room with an eager unfaltering step, as though able to
see, and coming to within a few feet of the two men, he stopped, and
looked towards them with an excited glance, as though he saw their
faces.  Inglesant was embarrassed, and hesitated whether to recognize
him or not.  At last, pitying the look in the blind man’s face, he
said,—

"This holy Father is not unknown to me, though I know not that he would
desire to meet me again.  I am ’the minion of a Cardinal’ of whom you
spoke."

The friar stretched out his hands before him, with an eager, delighted
gesture.

"I knew it," he said; "I felt your presence long before you spoke.  It
signifies little whether I am glad to find you or no.  It is part of the
Lord’s purpose that we should meet."

"This is a strange and sanctified meeting," said the priest, "in the
room of death, and by the beds of the dead.  Doubtless you have much to
say that can only be said to yourselves alone."

"I cannot stay," said the friar, wildly.  "I came in here but for a
moment; for this wretched man who is gone to his account needed one as
wretched and as wicked as himself. But they are dying now in the streets
and alleys, calling upon the God whom they know not; they need the
vilest sinner to whom the Lord has been gracious to kneel by their side;
they need the vilest sinner; therefore I must go."

He stopped for a moment, then he said more calmly,—"Meet me in the Santa
Chiara, behind the altar, by the tomb of the wise King, this evening at
sunset.  By that time, though the need will be as pressing, yet the
frail body will need a little rest, and I will speak with you for an
hour.  Fail not to come.  You will learn how your sword was the sword,
and your breath was the breath of the Lord."

"I will surely be there," said Inglesant.

The friar departed, leaving the priest and Inglesant alone. They went
out into the garden of the hospital, a plot of ground planted with
fruit-trees, and with vines trailing over the high stone walls.  Walking
up and down in the shade, with the intense blue of the sky overhead, one
might for a time forget the carnival of death that was crowding every
street and lane around.  Inglesant inquired of his companion more
particularly concerning the friar.

"He is a very holy man," said the priest, with a significant gesture;
"but he is not right in his head.  His sufferings have touched his
brain.  He believes that he has seen the Lord in a vision, and not only
so, but that all Rome was likewise a witness of the miracle.  It is a
wonderful story, which doubtless he wishes to relate to you this
evening."




                             *CHAPTER XV.*


In the vast Church of the Santa Chiara, with its open nave which spread
itself on every side like a magic hall of romance, the wide floor and
the altars of the side Chapels had been crowded all day by prostrate
worshippers; but when Inglesant entered it about sunset, it was
comparatively empty. A strange unearthly perfume filled the Church, and
clouds of incense yet hovered beneath the painted ceiling, and obscured
the figure of the Saint chasing his enemies.  Streaks of light,
transfigured through the coloured prism of the prophets and martyrs that
stood in the painted glass, lighted up the wreaths of smoke, and
coloured the marbles and frescoes of the walls and altars.  The mystic
glimmer of the sacred tapers in the shaded chapels, and the concluding
strains of the chanting before the side altars, which had followed the
vesper service and benediction, filled the Church with half light and
half shadow, half silence and half sound, very pleasing and soothing to
the sense.

Inglesant passed up the Church towards the high altar, before which he
knelt; and as he did so, a procession, carrying the Sacrament, entered
by another door, and advanced to the altar, upon which it was again
deposited.  The low, melancholy miserere—half entreating, half
desponding—spoke to the heart of man a language like its own; and as the
theme was taken up by one of the organs, the builder’s art and the
musician’s melted into one—in tier after tier of carved imagery, wave
after wave of mystic sound.  All conscious thought and striving seemed
to fade from the heart, and before the altar and amid the swell of sound
the soul lost itself, and lay silent and passive on the Eternal Love.

Behind the high altar Inglesant found the friar by the grave of the wise
King.  Upon the slabs of the Gothic tomb, covered with carving and
bas-relief, the King is seated and dressed in royal robes; but upon the
sarcophagus he lies in death bereft of all his state, and clothed in no
garment but a Franciscan’s gown.  Beside him lies his son in his royal
robes, covered with fleurs-de-lis; and other tombs of the kingly race of
Anjou surround him, all emblazoned with coat armour and device of rank.

Between the tombs of the two kings stood the friar, his head bowed upon
his hands.  The light grew every moment less and less bright, and the
shadows stretched ever longer and longer across the marble floor.  The
lamps before the shrines, and the altar tapers in the funeral chapels,
shone out clearer and more distinct.  The organs had ceased, but the
dolorous chanting of the miserere from beyond the high altar still came
to them with a remote and wailing tone.

Inglesant advanced towards the friar, who appeared to be aware of his
presence by instinct, and raised his head as he drew near.  He returned
no answer to Inglesant’s greeting, but seated himself upon a bench near
one of the tombs, and began at once, like a man who has little time to
spend.

"I am desirous," he said, "of telling you at once of what has occurred
to me.  Who can tell what may happen at any moment to hinder unless I
do?  It is a strange and wonderful story, in which you and I and all men
would be but puppets in the Divine Hand were not the Divine Love such
that we are rather children led onward by their Father’s hand—welcomed
home by their Mother’s smile."

It was indeed a strange story that the friar told Inglesant in the
darkening Church.  In places it was incoherent and obscure.  The first
part of his narrative, as it relates to others besides himself, is told
here in a different form, so that, if possible, what really happened
might be known.  The latter part, being untranslatable into any other
language and inexplicable upon any basis of fact, must be told in his
own words.

"When you left me at the mountain chapel," said the friar, "I thought of
nothing but that I had escaped with life. I thought I had met with a
Fantastic, whose brain was turned with monkish fancies, and I blessed my
fortunate stars that such had been the case.  I thought little of the
Divine vengeance that dogged my steps."

When Inglesant met Malvolti upon the mountain pass (as he gathered from
the friar’s narrative) the latter, utterly penniless and undone, having
exhausted every shift and art of policy, and being so well-known in all
the cities of Italy that he was safe in none of them, had bethought
himself of his native place. It was, indeed, almost the only place where
his character was unknown, and his person comparatively safe.  But it
had other attractions for the hunted and desperate man.  Malvolti’s
father had died when his son was a boy, and his mother in a year or two
married again.  His step-father was harsh and unkind to the fatherless
child, and the seeds of evil were sown in the boy’s heart by the
treatment he received; but a year after this marriage a little girl was
born, who won her way at once into the heart of the forlorn and unhappy
lad.  He was her constant playmate, protector, and instructor.  For
several years the only happy moments of his life were passed when he
could steal away with her to the woods and hills, wandering for hours
together alone or with the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners; and when,
after a few years, the unkindness of his parents and his own restless
and passionate nature sent him out into the world in which he played so
evil a part, the image of the innocent child followed him into scenes of
vice, and was never obliterated from his memory.  The murmur of the
leaves above the fowling-floor where they lay together during the
mid-day heat, the splash of the fountains where they watched the flocks
of sheep drinking, followed him into strange places and foreign
countries, and arose to his recollection in moments of danger, and even
of passion and crime.

The home of Malvolti’s parents had been in the suburb, of a small town
of the Bolognese.  Here, at some little height above the town on the
slope of the wooded hills, a monastery and chapel had been erected, and
in course of time some few houses had grouped themselves around, among
which that of Malvolti’s father had been the most considerable.  The sun
was setting behind the hills when Malvolti, weary, dispirited, and dying
of hunger, came along the winding road from the south, which skirted the
projecting spurs of the mountains. The slanting rays penetrated the
woods, and shone between the openings of the hills, lighting up the
grass-grown buildings of the monastery, and the belfry of the little
Chapel, where the bell was ringing for vespers.  Below, the plain
stretched itself peacefully; a murmur of running water blended with the
tolling of the bell.  A waft of peace and calm, like a breeze from
paradise, fell upon Malvolti’s heart, and he seemed to hear soft voices
welcoming him home.  He pictured to himself his mother’s kind greeting,
his sister’s delight; even his stern step-father’s figure was softened
in the universal evening glow.  It was a fairy vision, in which the
passing years had found no place, where the avenging footsteps that
follow sin did not come, and which had no reality in actual existence.
He turned the angle of the wood, and stood before his home. It lay in
ruins and desolate.

The sun sank below the hills, the bell went on tolling monotonously
through the deepening gloom.  Dazed and faint, Malvolti followed its
tones into the Chapel, where the vesper service began.  When it was
ended the miserable man spoke to one of the monks, and craved some food.
Deprived of his last hope, his senses faint and dull with weariness and
hunger, and lulled by the soft strains of devout sound—his life
confessed at last to have been completely a failure, and the wages of
sin to have turned to withered leaves in his hand—his heart was more
disposed than perhaps it had ever been to listen to the soft accents of
penitence, and to hear the whispering murmur that haunts the shadowy
walks of mortified repentance.  Comforted by food, the kindly words of
pity and exhortation stole upon his senses, and he almost fancied that
he might find a home and peace without further wandering and punishment.
He was much deceived.

He inquired concerning the fate of those whom, debased and selfish as he
was, he still loved, especially now, when the sight of long-forgotten
but still familiar places recalled the past, and seemed to obliterate
the intervening years.  The monks told him a story of sorrow and of sin,
such as he himself often had participated in, and would have heard at
another time with a smile of indifference.  His step-father was dead,
killed in a feud which his own insolent temper had provoked. His mother
and sister had continued for some time to live in the same house, and
there perhaps he might have found them, had not a gentleman, whose
convenience had led him to claim the hospitality of the monastery for a
night’s rest, chanced to see his sister in the morning as he mounted his
horse.  The sight of a face, whose beauty combined a haughty clearness
of outline with a certain coy softness of expression, and a figure of
perfect form, detained him from his intended journey, and he obtained
admittance into the widow’s house.  What wizard arts he practised the
monks did not know, but when he departed he left anxiety and remorse
where he had found content and a certain peace.  In due time the two
women, despairing of his return, had followed him, and the younger, the
monks had heard (and they believed the report)—ill-treated and
spurned—was now living in Florence a life of sin.  The softened
expression of rest and penitence which had begun to show itself in
Malvolti’s face left it, and the more habitual one of cruel and hungry
sin returned as he inquired,—

"Did the Reverend Fathers remember the name of this man?"

The good monks hesitated as they saw the look in the inquirer’s face;
but it was not their duty to conceal the truth from one who undoubtedly
had a right to be informed of it.

"It is our duty to practise forgiveness, even of the greatest injuries,
my son," one of them replied; "our blessed Lord has enjoined it, and
left us this as an example, that He has forgiven us.  The man was called
il Cavaliere di Guardino."

The monks were relieved when they saw that their guest showed no emotion
upon hearing this name; only he said that he must go to Florence and
endeavour to find his sister.

But in truth there was in the man’s mind, under a calm exterior, a
crisis of feeling not easy to describe.  That the Cavaliere, his
familiar accomplice, in whose company and by whose aid he had himself so
often committed ravages upon the innocent, should, in the chance medley
of life, be selected to inflict this blow, affected him in a strange and
unaccustomed way, with the sense of a hitherto unrecognized justice at
work among the affairs of men.  He was so utterly at the end of all his
hopes, life was so completely closed to him, and his soul was so sorely
stricken, in return for all his sins, in the only holy and sacred spot
that remained in his fallen nature,—his love and remembrance of his
sister,—that it seemed as if a revulsion of feeling might take place,
and that, in this depth and slough, there might appear, though dimly,
the possibility of an entrance into a higher life.  He was better known
in Florence than in any city of Italy, except Rome; and if he went there
his violent death was almost certain, yet he determined to go.  He
assured Inglesant afterwards, in relating the story, that his object was
not revenge, but that his desire was to seek out and rescue his sister.
Revenge doubtless brooded in his mind; but it was not the motive which
urged him onward.

He told Inglesant a strange story of his weary journey to Florence,
subsisting on charity from convent to convent; of his wandering up and
down in the beautiful city, worn out with hunger and fatigue, unknown,
and hiding himself from recognition. Amid the grim forms of vice that
haunted the shadowy recesses of the older parts of the city, in the
vaulted halls of deserted palaces and the massive fastnesses of
patrician strife, he flitted like a ghost, pale and despairing, urged on
by a restless desire that knew no respite.  In these dens of a reckless
life, which had thrown off all restraint and decorum, he recognized many
whom he had known in other days, and in far different places.  In these
gloomy halls, which had once been bright with youth and gaiety, but were
now hideous with poverty and crime,—in which the windows were darkened,
and the coloured ceilings and frescoed walls were blurred with smoke and
damp, and which were surrounded by narrow alleys which shut out the
light, and cut them off from all connection with the outer world,—he at
last heard of the Cavaliere.  He was told that, flying from Rome after
his sister’s marriage, he had been arrested for some offence in the
south of Italy, and those into whose hands he fell being old enemies,
and bearing him some grudge, he was thrown into prison, and even
condemned to the galleys; for, since the Papal election, he was no
longer able to claim even a shadow of protection from any of the great
families who had once been his patrons.  After a short imprisonment he
was deputed, among others, to perform some such office as Inglesant had
seen undertaken by the slaves in Naples; for the plague had raged for
some summers past, with more or less intensity, in southern Italy.
While engaged in this work he had managed to make his escape, and had
not long since arrived in Florence, where he had kept himself closely
concealed.  Malvolti was told the secret lurking-place where he might
probably be found.

"It was a brilliantly hot afternoon," continued Malvolti, speaking very
slowly; "you will wonder that I tell you this; but it was the last time
that I ever saw the sun.  I remember the bright and burning pavements
even in the narrow alleys out of which I turned into the long and dark
entries and vaulted rooms.  I followed some persons who entered before
me, and some voices which led me onward, into a long and lofty room in
the upper stories, at the farther end of which, before a high window
partially boarded up, some men were at play.  As I came up the room, all
the other parts of which lay in deep shadow, the light fell strongly
upon a corner of the table, and upon the man who was casting the dice.
He had just thrown his chance, and he turned his head as I came up.  He
appeared to be naked except his slippers and a cloak or blanket of white
cloth, with pale yellow stripes.  His hair was closely cropped; his
face, which was pale and aquiline, was scarred and seamed with deep
lines of guilt and misery, especially around the eyes, from which
flashed a lurid light, and his lips were parted with a mocking and
Satanic laugh.  His dark and massive throat and chest and his long and
sinewy arms forced their way out of the cloth with which he was wrapped,
and the lean fingers of both hands, which crossed each other
convulsively, were pointed exultantly to the deuce of ace which he had
thrown.  The last sight I ever saw, the last sight my eyes will ever
behold until they open before the throne of God, was this demon-like
figure, standing out clear and distinct against the shadowy gloom in
which dim figures seemed to move, and the dice upon the table by his
side.

"He burst out into a wild and mocking laugh.  ’Ah, Malvolti,’ he said,
’you were ever unlucky at the dice.  Come and take your chances in the
next main.’

"I know not what fury possessed me, nor why, at that moment especially,
this man’s mocking villany inspired me with such headlong rage.  I
remembered nothing but the crimes and wrongs which he had perpetrated.
I drew the dagger I carried beneath my clothes, and sprang upon him with
a cry as wild as his own.  What happened I cannot tell.  I seemed to
hear the laughter of fiends, and to feel the tortures of hell on every
side.  Then all was darkness and the grave."

Overpowered as it seemed by the recollection of his sufferings, the
friar paused and sank upon his knees upon the pavement.  The miserere
had died away, and a profound gloom, broken only by the flicker of
tapers, filled the Church. Inglesant was deeply moved,—less, however, by
sympathy with the man’s story than by the consciousness of the emotions
which he himself experienced.  It was scarcely possible to believe that
he was the same man who, some short years before, had longed for this
meeting with a bloodthirsty desire that he might take some terrible
vengeance upon his brother’s murderer.  Now he stood before the same
murderer, who not so long before had attempted to take his life also
with perhaps the very dagger of which he now spoke; and as he looked
down upon him, no feeling but that of pity was in his heart.  In the
presence of the awful visitant who at that moment was filling the city
which lay around them with death and corruption, and before whose
eternal power the strife and enmity of man shrank away appalled and
silenced, it was not wonderful that inordinate hate should cease; but,
as he gazed upon the prostrate man before him, an awe-inspiring feeling
took possession of Inglesant’s mind, which still more effectually
crushed every sentiment of anger or revenge.  The significance of his
own half-conceived action was revealed to him, and he recognized, with
something approaching to terror, that the cause was no longer his, that
another hand had interposed to strike, and that his sword had spared the
murderer of his brother only that he might become the victim of that
divine vengeance which has said, "I will repay."

The friar rose from his knees.  "I found myself in the monastery of the
Cappucines on the bank of the river, blind, and holding life by the
faintest thread.  That I lived was a miracle.  I had been struck with
some twenty wounds, and in mere wantonness my eyes had been pierced as I
lay apparently dead.  I was thrown into the river which flowed by gloomy
vaults beneath the houses, and had been carried down by the stream to
the garden of a monastery where I was found.  As I recovered strength
the monks thought that my reason would not survive.  For days and nights
I lay bound, a raving madman.  At last, when my pains subsided, and my
mind was a little calmed and subdued, I was sent out into the world and
begged my way from village to village, not caring where I went, my mind
an utter blank, filled only now and then with horrible sights and
dreams.  I had no sense of God or Christ; no feeling but a blind
senseless despair and confusion.  Thus I wandered on.  I got at last a
boy to lead me and buy me food.  I know not why I did not rather lie
down and die. Sometimes I did fling myself down, resolving not to move
again; but some love of life or some divine prompting caused me to rise
and wander on in my miserable path.  At last, towards the end of the
year, I came to Rome, and wandered about the city seeking alms.  The boy
who led me, and who had attached himself to me, God knows why, told me
all he saw and all that passed; and I, who knew every phase and incident
of Roman life, explained to him such things in a languid and indifferent
way; for I found no pleasure nor relief in anything.  I grew more and
more miserable; our life was hard, and we were ill-fed, and the terrors
of my memory haunted my spirits, weakened and depressed for want of
food.  The forms of those whom I had wronged, nay, murdered, lay before
me.  They rose and looked upon me from every side.  My misery was
greater than I could bear.  I desired death, and tried to accomplish it,
but my hand always failed.  I bought poison, but my boy watched me and
changed the drink.  I did not know this, and expected death.  It did not
come. Then suddenly, as I lay in a kind of trance, that morning in the
mountain pass came into my remembrance, and it flashed suddenly into my
mind that I was not my own; that no poison could hurt me, no sword slay
me; that the sword of vengeance was in the Lord’s hand, and would work
His will alone.  What greater punishment could be in store for me I knew
not, but stunned by this idea I ceased to strive and cry any more.  I
waited in silence for the final blow; it came.  The year had come nearly
to an end, and it was Christmas Eve.  All day long, in the Churches in
Rome, had the services, the processions, the religious shows, gone on.
My boy and I had followed them one by one, and he had, in his boyish
way, told me all that he saw.  The new Pope went in procession to St.
John di Laterano, with all the Cardinals, Patriarchs, Archbishops, and
Bishops, all the nobility and courtiers, and an interminable length of
attendants, Switzers, soldiers, led horses, servants, pages, rich
coaches, litters, and people of every class, under triumphal arches,
with all excess of joy and triumph. As midnight drew on the streets were
as light as day.  Every pageant became more gorgeous, every service more
sweet and ravishing, every sermon more passionate.  I saw it all in my
mind’s eye,—all, and much beside.  I saw in every Church, lighted by
sacred tapers before the crucifix, the pageants and ceremonies that, in
every form and to every sense, present the story of the mystic birth, of
that divine fact that alone can stay the longing which, since men walked
the earth, they have uttered in every tongue, that the Deity would come
down and dwell with man.  We had wandered through all the Churches, and
at last, wearied out, we reached the Capitol, and sank down beneath the
balusters at the top of the marble stairs. Close by, in the Ara Cœli,
the simple country people and the faithful whose hearts were as those of
little children, kneeling as the shepherds knelt upon the plains of
Bethlehem, saw the Christ-Child lying in a manger, marked out from
common childhood by a mystic light which shone from His face and form;
while the organ harmonies which filled the Church resigned their wonted
splendours, and bent for once to pastoral melodies, which, born amid the
rustling of sedges by the river brink, have wandered down through the
reed-music and festivals of the country people, till they grew to be the
most fitting tones of a religion which takes its aptest similes from the
vineyard and the flock.  All over Rome the flicker of the bonfires
mingled with the starlight.  I was blind, yet I saw much that would have
been hidden from me had I been able to see.  I saw across the roofs
before me, the dome of the Pantheon and St. Peter’s, and the long line
of the Vatican, and the round outline of St. Angelo in the light of the
waning moon. This I should have seen had I had my sight; but I saw
behind me now what otherwise I should not have seen—the Forum, and the
lines of arches and ruins, and beyond these the walks of the Aventine
and of the Cœlian, with their vineyards and white convents, and tall
poplar and cypress trees.  I saw beyond them the great Churches of the
Lateran and Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, standing out from the green
country, pale and spectral in the light.  To the left I saw Santa Maria
Maggiore, stately and gorgeous, facing the long streets of palaces and
courts, and the gardens and terraces of the Quirinale, all distinct and
clear in the mystic light.  The white light covered the earth like a
shroud, and over the vault of the sky were traced, by the pale stars,
strange and obscure forms, as over the dome of St. Peter’s at evening
when the Church is dim.  A confused sound filled my ears, a sound of
chanting and of praise for that advent that brought peace to men, a
sound of innumerable passing feet, and in all the Churches and basilicas
I saw the dead Christs over the altars and the kneeling crowds around.
Suddenly it seemed to me that I was conscious of a general movement and
rush of feet, and that a strange and wild excitement prevailed in every
region of Rome.  The Churches became emptied, the people pouring out
into the streets; the dead Christs above the altars faded from their
crosses, and the sacred tapers went out of their own accord; for it
spread through Rome, as in a moment, that a miracle had happened at the
Ara Cœli, and that the living Christ was come.  From where I stood I
could see the throngs of people pouring through every street and lane,
and thronging up to the’ Campadoglio and the stairs; and from the
distance and the pale Campagna, and San Paolo without the walls, and
from subterranean Rome, where the martyrs and confessors lie, I could
see strange and mystic shapes come sweeping in through the brilliant
light.

"He came down the steps of the Ara Cœli, and the sky was full of
starlike forms, wonderful and gracious; and all the steps of the Capitol
were full of people down to the square of the Ara Cœli, and up to the
statue of Aurelius on horseback above; and the summit of the Capitol
among the statues, and the leads of the palace Caffarelli, were full of
eager forms; for the starlight was so clear that all might see; and the
dead gods, and the fauns, and the satyrs, and the old pagans, that
lurked in the secret hiding-places of the ruins of the Cæsars, crowded
up the steps out of the Forum, and came round the outskirts of the
crowd, and stood on the fallen pillars that they might see.  And Castor
and Pollux, that stood by their unsaddled horses at the top of the
stairs, left them unheeded and came to see; and the Marsyas who stood
bound broke his bonds and came to see; and spectral forms swept in from
the distance in the light, and the air was full of Powers and
Existences, and the earth rocked as at the Judgment Day.

"He came down the steps into the Campadoglio, and He came to me.  He was
not at all like the pictures of the saints; for He was pale, and worn,
and thin, as though the fight was not yet half over—ah no!—but through
this pale and worn look shone infinite power, and undying love, and
unquenchable resolve.  The crowd fell back on every side, but when He
came to me He stopped.  ’Ah!’ He said, ’is it thou? What doest thou
here?  Knowest thou not that thou art mine?  Thrice mine—mine centuries
ago when I hung upon the cross on Calvary for such as thou—mine years
ago, when thou camest a little child to the font—mine once again, when,
forfeit by every law, thou wast given over to me by one who is a servant
and friend of mine.  Surely, I will repay.’  As He spoke, a shudder and
a trembling ran through the crowd, as if stirred by the breath of His
voice.  Nature seemed to rally and to grow beneath Him, and heaven to
bend down to touch the earth.  A healing sense of help and comfort, like
the gentle dew, visited the weary heart.  A great cry and shout rose
from the crowd, and He passed on; but among ten thousand times ten
thousand I should know Him, and amid the tumult of a universe I should
hear the faintest whisper of His voice."

The friar stopped and looked at Inglesant with his darkened eyeballs, as
though he could read his looks.  Inglesant gazed at him in silence.
That the man was crazed he had no doubt; but that his madness should
have taken this particular form appeared to his listener scarcely less
miraculous than if every word of his wonderful story had been true.

"Heard you nothing else?" he said at last.

An expression of something like trouble passed over the other’s face.

"No," he said in a quieter voice; "by this time it was morning.  The
artillery of St. Angelo went off.  His Holiness sang mass, and all day
long was exposed the cradle of the Lord."

There was another pause which Inglesant scarcely knew how to break.
Then he said,—

"And have you heard nothing since of the Cavaliere?"

"He is in this neighbourhood," said Malvolti, "but I have not found him.
I wondered and was impatient, ignorant and foolish as I am; now I know
the reason.  The Lord waited till you came.  How could he be found
except by us both? We must lose no time, or it will be too late.  How
did you know that he was here?"

Inglesant told him.

"It was the Lord’s doing," said the friar, a light breaking over his
darkened face.  "It was Capace.  You remember, at Florence, the leader
of that extravagant frolic of the Carnival, who was dressed as a
corpse?"

"I remember," said Inglesant, "and the poor English lad who was killed."

"He is one of the Lord’s servants," continued the friar, "whom He called
very late.  I do not know that he was guilty of any particular sins, but
he was the heir of a poor family, and lived for many years in luxury and
excess.  He was brought under the influence of Molinos’s party, and
shortly after I had seen the Lord, he came to me to know whether he
should become a religious.  I told him I thought there was a time of
trial and of sifting for the Lord’s people at hand, and that I thought
the strongholds were the safest spots.  He joined the order de Servi.
Not three weeks ago I was with him at Frescati, at the house of the
Cappucines, when I heard that the Cavaliere was here.  You must have
seen him three or four days afterwards."




                             *CHAPTER XVI.*


The night after Inglesant had met the friar in Naples there was "the
sound of abundance of rain," and the "plague was stayed."  As constantly
happened in the cities desolated by this mysterious pestilence, no
adequate reason could be perceived for its cessation.  Some change in
the state of the atmosphere took place, and the sick did not die, at
least in the same proportion as formerly.  This was the only indication
that the most acute observer could detect; but the change was
marvellously rapid.  The moment that contact with the dead bodies became
less fatally infectious, help offered on all sides, tempted by the large
rewards.  The dead rapidly disappeared from sight, and the city began to
resume something of its ordinary appearance.  The terrors of the grave
vanished into air, and gloomy resolutions faded from the mind.  The few
survivors of the devoted men who, throughout the heat of the conflict,
had remained at their posts were, many of them at least, forgotten and
overlooked; for their presence was an unpleasing reminder to those whose
conduct had been of a far more prudent and selfish sort.  Those who had
fled returned into the city to look after their deserted homes, and to
re-open their shops.  The streets and markets were once more gay with
wares.  The friar was now as eager to leave Naples as he had before been
determined to remain. His sole object was to find the Cavaliere, and he
constantly insisted that no time was to be lost if they wished to see
him alive.  They left Naples together; the friar mounted upon a mule
which Inglesant purchased for him.

Notwithstanding the friar’s eagerness, their journey was slow, for he
was not able to resist the impulse to turn aside to help when any
appearance of distress or poverty called upon them for aid.  Inglesant
was not impatient at this delay, nor at the erratic and apparently
meaningless course of their singular journey.  The country was
delightful after the heavy rains, and seemed to rejoice, together with
its inhabitants, at the abatement of the plague.  People who had
remained shut up in their houses in fear now appeared freely in the once
deserted roads.  Doors were thrown open, and the voice of the lute and
of singing was heard again in the land.  As for those who had passed
away, it was wonderful how soon their name was forgotten, as of "a dead
man out of mind;" and those who had come into comfortable inheritance of
fruit-closes, and olive-grounds and vineyards, and of houses of pleasure
in the fields, which, but for the pestilence, had never been theirs,
soon found it possible to reconcile themselves to the absence of the
dead.

For some time after leaving Naples the road lay through a richly
cultivated land, with long straight ditches on either side. Rows of
forest trees crossed the country, and shaded the small closes of
fruit-trees and vines.  Here and there a wine tavern, or a few cottages,
or a village church, stopped them.  At all of these the friar alighted
from his mule, and made inquiries for any who were ill or in distress.
In this way they came across a number of people of the peasant class,
and heard the story of their lives; and now and then a religious, or a
country signore, riding by on his mule or palfrey, stopped to speak with
them.

They had proceeded for many days through this cultivated country, and
had at last, after many turnings, reached that part of the road which
approaches the slopes of the Apennines about Frosinone.  The path wound
among the hills, the slopes covered with chestnut trees, and the crags
crowned with the remains of Gothic castles.  Fields of maize filled the
valleys, and lines of lofty poplars crossed the yellow corn.  As the
road ascended, distant reaches of forest and campagna lay in bright
sunlight between the craggy rocks, and down the wooded glens cascades
fell into rapid streams spanned here and there by a half-ruined bridge.
At last they entered a deep ravine of volcanic tufa, much of which
cropped out from the surface, cold and bare.  Between these sterile
rocks laurels forced their way, and spread out their broad and brilliant
leaves. Creeping plants hung in long and waving festoons, and pines and
forest trees of great size crowned the summits.  Here and there
sepulchral excavations were cut in the rock, and more than one
sarcophagus, carved with figures in relief, stood by the wayside.

The air in these ravines was close and hot, and sulphurous streams
emitted an unpleasant odour as they rode along. Inglesant felt oppressed
and ill.  The valley of the Shadow of Death, out of which he had come
into the cool pastures and olive-yards, had left upon the mind an
exaltation of feeling rather than terror; and in the history of the
friar, through the course of which traces of a devised plan penetrated
the confusion of a disordered brain, the gracious prediction of Molinos
seemed to promise fulfilment.  The supreme effort of Divine mercy surely
is that which shapes the faltering and unconscious actions of man into a
beneficent and everlasting work.

But the very clearness and calm of this transcendental air produced a
wavering of the spiritual sense; and the companionship of a blind
enthusiast, who, from the lowest depth of reckless sin, had suddenly
attained a height of religious fervour, did not tend to reduce the fever
of his thoughts. The scenes and forms of death with which he had been
familiar in Naples returned again and again before his eyes, and his old
disease again tormented him; so that once more he saw strange figures
and shapes walking by the wayside. These images of a disordered fancy
jostled and confused his spiritual perceptions.  He felt wearied by
those thoughts and desires which had formerly been dear to him, and the
ceaseless reiteration of the friar’s enthusiastic conceptions jarred and
irritated him more than he liked to confess.  The brain of the blind
man, unoccupied by the sights of this world, was full of visions of a
mystic existence, blended and confused with such incidents and stories
of earth as he had heard along the way.  With such phantasmal
imaginations, he filled Inglesant’s ears.

Proceeding in this manner, they came to a place where the ravine,
opening out a little, exposed a distant view of the Campagna, with its
aqueducts and ruined tombs.  At the opening of the valley stood one of
those isolated rocks so strange to English eyes, yet so frequently seen
in the paintings of the old masters, crowned with the ruins of a Temple,
and fringed with trees of delicate foliage, poplars and pines.  At the
foot of the rock an arch of ruined brickwork, covered with waving grass
and creepers, spanned the road with a wide sweep, and on the opposite
side a black sulphurous pool exhaled a constant vapour.  Masses of
strange, nameless masonry, of an antiquity dateless and undefined,
bedded themselves in the rocks, or overhung the clefts of the hills; and
out of a great tomb by the wayside, near the arch, a forest of laurel
forced its way, amid delicate and graceful frieze-work, moss-covered and
stained with age.

In this strangely desolate and ruinous spot, where the fantastic shapes
of nature seem to mourn in weird fellowship with the shattered strength
and beauty of the old Pagan art-life, there appeared unexpectedly signs
of modern dwelling.  The base of the precipitous rock for some distance
above the road, was concealed by a steep bank of earth, the crumbling
ruin and dust of man and of his work.  At the top of this bank was one
of those squalid erections, so common in Italy, where, upon a massive
wall of old brickwork, embedded in the soil, a roof of straw affords
some kind of miserable shelter. Some attempt had been made to wall in
the space covered by this roof, and a small cross, reared from the
gable, and a bell beneath a penthouse of wood, seemed to show that the
shed had been used for some ecclesiastical purpose.  At the bottom of
the slope upon which this structure was placed, and on the other side of
the ruined arch and of the road, there stood, near to the tomb, a very
small hut, also thatched, and declared to be a tavern by its wine-bush.
At the door of this hut, as Inglesant and the friar rode up, stood a man
in a peasant’s dress, in an attitude of perplexity and nervous dread.  A
long streak of light from the western sun penetrated the ruined arch,
and shone upon the winding road, and against the blaze of light, rock
and arch and hanging woods stood out dark and lowering in the delicate
air.

The dazzling light, the close atmosphere of the valley, and the fumes of
the sulphurous lake, affected Inglesant’s brain so much that he could
scarcely see; but they did not appear to disturb the friar.  He
addressed the man as they came up, and understanding more from his own
instinct than from the few words that Inglesant spoke that the man was
in trouble, he said,—

"You seem in some perplexity, my son.  Confide in me, that I may help
you."

As the man hesitated to reply, Inglesant said, "What is that building on
the hill?"

"It is a house for lepers," said the peasant.

"Are you the master of this tavern?" said Inglesant.

"No, Santa Madre," replied the man.  "The mistress of the inn has fled.
This is the case, Padre," he continued, turning to the friar.  "I was
hired a week or so ago at Ariano to bring a diseased man here, who was a
leper; but I did not know that he was a leper who was stricken with the
plague.  I brought him in my cart, and a terrible journey I had with
him.  When I had brought him here, and the plague manifestly appeared
upon him, all the lepers fled, and forsook the place.  The Padrona, who
kept this tavern upon such custom as the peasants who brought food to
sell to the lepers brought her, also fled.  I stayed a day or two to
help the wretched man—they told me that he was a gentleman—till I could
stay no longer, such was his condition, and I fled. But, my Father, I
have a tender heart, and I came back to-day, thinking that the holy
Virgin would never help me if I left a wretched man to die alone—I, who
only know where and in what state he is.  I spoke to one or two friars
to come and help me, but they excused themselves.  I came alone. But
when I arrived here my courage failed me, and I dared not go up.  I know
the state he was in two days ago; he must be much more terrible to look
at now.  Signore," concluded the man, turning to Inglesant with an
imploring gesture, "I dare not go up."

"Do you know this man’s name?" said Inglesant.

"Yes; they told me his name."

"What is it?"

"Il Cavaliere di Guardino."

At the name of his wife’s brother, Inglesant started, and would have
dismounted, but checked himself in the stirrup, struck by the action of
the friar.  He had thrown his arms above his head with a gesture of
violent excitement, his sightless eyeballs extended, his face lighted
with an expression of rapturous astonishment and delight.

"Who?" he exclaimed.  "Who sayest thou?  Guardino a leper, and stricken
with the plague!  Deserted and helpless, is he? too terribly disfigured
to be looked upon?  The lepers flee him, sayest thou?  Holy and blessed
Lord Jesus, this is Thy work!  He is my mortal foe—the ravisher of my
sister—the destroyer of my own sight!  Let me go to him!  I will
minister to him—I will tend him!  Let me go!"

He dismounted from his mule, and, with the wonderful instinct he seemed
to possess, turned towards the rock, and began to scramble up the hill,
blindly and with difficulty, it is true, but still with sufficient
correctness to have reached the ruin without help.  There was, to
Inglesant, something inexpressibly touching and pitiful in his hurried
and excited action, and his struggling determination to accomplish the
ascent.

The peasant would have overtaken him to prevent his going up, probably
misdoubting his intention.  Inglesant checked him.

"Do not stop him," he said.  "He is a holy man, and will do what he
says.  I will go with him.  Stay here with my horse."

"You do not know to what you are going, signore," said the peasant,
looking at Inglesant with a shudder; "let him go alone.  _He cannot
see_."

Inglesant shook his head, and, his brain still slightly dizzy and
confused, hastened after the friar, and assisted him to climb the rocky
bank.  When they had reached the entrance to the hut the friar went
hastily in, Inglesant following him to the doorway.

It was a miserable place, and nearly empty, the lepers having carried
off most of their possessions with them.  On a bed of straw on the
farther side, beneath the rock, lay what Inglesant _felt_ to be the man
of whom he was in search.  What he saw it is impossible to describe
here.  The leprosy and the plague combined had produced a spectacle of
inexpressible loathing and horror, such as nothing but absolute duty
would justify the description of.  The corruption of disease made it
scarcely possible to recognize even the human form.  The poisoned air of
the shed was such that a man could scarcely breathe it and live.

The wretched man was rolling on his couch, crying out at intervals,
groaning and uttering oaths and curses.  Without the slightest faltering
the friar crossed the room (it is true he could not see), and kneeling
by the bedside, which he found at once, he began, in low and hurried
accents, to pour into the ear of the dying man the consoling sound of
that Name, which alone, uttered under heaven, has power to reach the
departing soul, distracted to all beside.  Startled by the sound of a
voice close to his ear, for his sight also was gone, the sick man ceased
his outcries and lay still.

Never ceasing for a moment, the friar continued, in a rapid and fervent
whisper, to pour into his ear the tenderness of Jesus to the vilest
sinner, the eternal love that will reign hereafter, the sweetness and
peace of the heavenly life.  The wretched man lay perfectly still,
probably not knowing whether this wonderful voice was of earth or
heaven; and Inglesant, his senses confused by the horrors of the room,
knelt in prayer in the entrance of the hut.

The fatal atmosphere of the room became more and more dense.  The voice
of the friar died slowly away; his form, bending lower over the bed,
faded out of sight; and there passed across Inglesant’s bewildered brain
the vision of Another who stood beside the dying man.  The halo round
His head lighted all the hovel, so that the seamless coat He wore, and
the marks upon His hands and feet, were plainly seen, and the pale
alluring face was turned not so much upon the bed and upon the monk as
upon Inglesant himself, and the unspeakable glance of the Divine eyes
met his.

A thrill of ecstasy, terrible to the weakened system as the sharpest
pain, together with the fatal miasma of the place, made a final rush and
grasp upon his already reeling faculties, and he lost all consciousness,
and fell senseless within the threshold of the room.

When he came to himself he had been dragged out of the hut by the
peasant, who had ventured at last to ascend the hill.  The place was
silent; the Cavaliere was dead, and the friar lay across the body in a
sort of trance.  They brought him out and laid him on the grass,
thinking for some time that he was dead also.  By and by he opened his
sightless eyes, and asked where he was; but he still moved as in a
trance. He seemed to have forgotten what had happened; and, with the
death of the Cavaliere, the great motive which had influenced him, and
which, while it lasted, seemed to have kept his reason from utterly
losing its balance, appeared to be taken away.  He had lived only to
meet and bless his enemy, and this having been accomplished, all reason
for living was gone.

Inglesant and the peasant dug a grave with some implements they found in
the tavern, and hastily buried the body, the friar pronouncing a
benediction.  The latter performed this office mechanically, and seemed
almost unconscious as to what was passing.  His very figure and shape
appeared changed, and presented but the shadow of his former self; his
speech was broken and unintelligible.  Inglesant gave the peasant money,
which seemed to him to be wealth, and they mounted and rode silently
away.

At Venafro, where they found a monastery of the Cappucines, they stayed
some days, Inglesant expecting that his companion would recover
something of his former state of health. But it soon became apparent
that this would not be the case; the friar sank rapidly into a condition
of mental unconsciousness, and the physicians told Inglesant that,
although he might linger for weeks, they believed that a disease of the
brain was hastening him towards the grave.  Inglesant was impatient to
return to the Castello; and, leaving the friar to the care of the
brothers of his own order, he resumed his journey.

Was it a strange coincidence, or the omniscient rule and will of God,
that, at the moment Inglesant lay insensible before the hut, the plague
had done its work in the home that he had left?  The old Count died
first, then some half of the servants, finally, in the deserted house, a
little child lay dead upon its couch, and beside it, on the marble
floor, lay Lauretta—dead—uncared for.

It was the opinion of Martin Luther that visions of the Saviour, which
he himself had seen, were delusions of Satan for the bewildering of the
Papists; and there is a story of a monk who left the Beatific Vision
that he might take his service in the choir.

Malvolti died at Venafro a short time after Inglesant had left him.




                            *CHAPTER XVII.*


After the narration of the events just detailed the papers from which
the life of Mr. Inglesant has hitherto been compiled become much less
minute and personal in character; and when the narrative is resumed, a
considerable period of time has evidently elapsed.  It is stated that
some time after the death of his wife Mr. Inglesant returned to Rome,
and assumed a novice’s gown in some religious order, but to which of the
religious bodies he attached himself is doubtful.  It might be thought
that he would naturally become a member of the Society of Jesus; but
there is reason to conclude that the rule which he intended to embrace
was either that of the Benedictines or the Carmelites.  As will soon
appear, he proceeded no farther than the noviciate, and this uncertainty
therefore is of little consequence.

It must be supposed that the distress caused by the death of his wife
and child, and by his absence from them at the last, was one motive
which caused Inglesant to seek in Rome spiritual comfort and
companionship from the Spanish priest Molinos, in whose society he had
before found so much support and relief.  It was thought, indeed, by
many beside Inglesant, amid the excitement which the spread of the
method of devotion taught by this man had caused, that a dawn of purer
light was breaking over spiritual Rome.  God seemed to have revealed
Himself to thousands in such a fashion as to make their past lives and
worship seem profitless and unfruitful before the brightness and peace
that was revealed; and the lords of His heritage seemed for a time to be
willing that this light should shine.  It appeared for a moment as if
Christendom were about to throw off its shackles, its infant swaddling
clothes, in which it had been so long wrapped, and, acknowledging that
the childhood of the Church was past, stand forth before God with her
children around her, no longer distrusted and enslaved, but each
individually complete, fellow-citizens with their mother of the
household of God. The unsatisfactory rotation of formal penitence and
sinful lapse, of wearisome devotion and stale pleasures, had given place
to an enthusiasm which believed that, instead of ceremonies and bowing
in outer courts, the soul was introduced into heavenly places, and saw
God face to face.  A wonderful experience, in exchange for lifeless
formality and rule, of communion with the Lord, with nothing before the
believer, as he knelt at the altar, save the Lord Himself, day by day,
unshackled by penance and confession as heretofore.  Thousands of the
best natures in Rome attached themselves to this method; it was approved
by a Jesuit Father, the Pope was known to countenance it, and his
nephews were among its followers.  The bishops were mostly in favour of
it, and in the nunneries of Rome the directors and confessors were
preaching it; and the nuns, instead of passing their time over their
beads and "Hours," were much alone, engaged in the exercise of mental
prayer.

It would indeed be difficult to estimate the change that would have
passed over Europe if this one rule of necessary confession before every
communion had been relaxed; and in the hope that some increased freedom
of religious thought would be secured, many adopted the new method who
had no great attachment to the doctrine, nor to the undoubted
extravagances which the Quietists, in common with other mystics, were
occasionally guilty of, both in word and deed.  It cannot be denied, and
it is the plea that will be urged in defence of the action of the
Jesuits, that freedom of thought as well as of devotion was the motive
of numbers who followed the teaching of Molinos.  That free speculation
and individual growth could be combined with loyalty to acts and
ceremonies, hallowed by centuries of recollection and of past devotion,
was a prospect sufficiently attractive to many select natures.  Some, no
doubt, entered into this cause from less exalted motives—a love of fame
and a desire to form a party, and to be at the head of a number of
followers; but even among those whose intentions were not so lofty and
spiritual as those of Molinos probably were, by far the greater number
were actuated by a desire to promote freedom of thought and of worship
among Churchmen.

But it was only for a moment that this bright prospect opened to the
Church.

The Jesuits and Benedictines began to be alarmed. Molinos had
endeavoured to allay the suspicion attached to his teaching, and
diminish the aversion that the Jesuits felt towards him, by calling his
book "The Spiritual Guide," and by constantly enjoining the necessity of
being in all things under the direction of a religious person; but this
was felt to point more at the submission to general council than to
coming always to the priest, as to the minister of the sacrament of
penance, before every communion; especially as Molinos taught that the
only necessary qualification for receiving was the being free from
mortal sin.

Suddenly, when the reputation of this new society appeared to be at its
height, Molinos was arrested, and Father Esparsa, the Jesuit whose
approbation had appeared before "The Spiritual Guide," disappeared.
What became of the latter was not known, but it was generally supposed
that he was "shut up between four walls;" and at any rate he appeared no
more in Rome.  In the midst of the excitement consequent on these events
seventy more persons, all of the highest rank,—Count Vespiniani and his
lady, the Confessor of Prince Borghese, Father Appiani of the Jesuits,
and others equally well-known,—were arrested in one day, and before the
month was over more than two hundred persons crowded the prisons of the
Inquisition.

The consternation was excessive, when a method of devotion which had
been extolled throughout Italy for the highest sanctity to which mortals
could aspire was suddenly found to be heretical, and the chief promoters
of it hurried from their homes and from their friends, shut up in
prison, and in peril of perpetual confinement, if not death.  The arrest
of Father Appiani was the most surprising.  He was accounted the most
learned priest in the Roman College, and was arrested on a Sunday in
April as he came from preaching. After this no one could guess on whom
the blow would fall next.  The Pope himself, it was reported, had been
examined by the Jesuits.  The imminence of the peril brought strength
with it.  The prisoners, it was whispered, were steady and resolute, and
showed more learning than their examiners. Their friends who were still
at large, recovering from their first panic, assumed a bold front.  Many
letters were written to the Inquisitors, advising them to consider well
what they did to their prisoners, and assuring them that their interests
would be maintained even at the cost of life.  Nor did these protests
end here.  As soon as possible after the arrests a meeting was held at
Don Agostino’s palace in the Piazza Colonna, to which ladies were
summoned as well as men.  There, in a magnificent saloon, amid gilding
and painting and tapestry, whose splendour was subdued by softened
colour and shaded light, were met the elite of Rome.  There were ladies
in rich attire, yet in whose countenances was seen that refinement of
beauty which only religion and a holy life can give—ladies, who, while
appearing in public in the rank which belonged to them, were capable in
private of every self-denial, trained in the practice of devotion and
acts of mercy.  There were nuns of the Conception and of the Palestrina,
distressed and mortified at being compelled to return to their beads and
to their other abandoned forms.  There were present Cereri,
Cardinal-Bishop of Como; Cardinals Carpegna and Cigolini, and Cardinal
Howard of England (the noblest and most spiritually-minded of the Sacred
College), Absolini and Coloredi, Cardinals and Fathers of the Oratory,
and Cardinal D’Estrées. Petrucci himself, the most prominent advocate of
the Quietist doctrine, was in the room, though incognito, it not being
generally known that he was in Rome.  There were present many Fathers of
the Oratory, men of intellect, refinement, and blameless lives; Don
Livio, Duke di Ceri, the Pope’s nephew was there, and the Prince
Savelli, many of the highest nobility, and above a hundred gentlemen,
all of whom, by their presence, might be supposed to prove their
attachment to the teaching of Molinos, their superiority to the sordid
motives of worldly prudence and pleasure, and their devotion to
spiritual instincts and desires.  It would be difficult to imagine
scenes more unlike each other; yet, strange as it may appear, it was
nevertheless true that this brilliant company, attired in the height of
the existing mode, sparkling with jewels and enriched with chastened
colour, might not unfitly be considered the successor of those hidden
meetings of a few slaves in Nero’s household, who first, in that
wonderful city, believed in the crucified Nazarene.

The addresses were commenced by the Duke di Ceri, who spoke of the grief
caused by the arrest of their friends, and of the exertions that had
been made on their behalf.  He was followed by other of the great nobles
and cardinals, who all spoke in the same strain.  All these speeches
were delivered in somewhat vague and guarded terms, and as one after
another of the speakers sat down, a sense of incompleteness and
dissatisfaction seemed to steal over the assembly, as though it were
disappointed of something it most longed to hear.  The meeting was
assured, over and over again, that extreme measures would not be taken
against those in prison; that their high rank and powerful connections
would save them; the Duke di Ceri had expressly said that he believed
his relation and servant, Count Vespiniani, and his lady would soon be
released.  The fact was, though the Duke did not choose, to state it
publicly, that they had been proscribed solely from information gained
at the confessional; and this having been much talked of, the Jesuits
had resolved, rather than bring any further odium on the sacrament of
confession, to discharge both the lady and her husband at once.  But,
though all this might be true, there was something that remained
unsaid—something that was filling all hearts.

What was to be the spiritual future of those assembled? Was this gate of
Paradise and the Divine Life to be for ever closed, and was earth and
all its littleness once more to be pressed upon them without denial, and
hypocrisy and the petty details of a formal service once more to be the
only spiritual food of their souls?  Must they, if they resolved to
escape this spiritual death, quit this land and this glorious Church,
and seek, in cold and distant lands, and alien Churches, the freedom
denied by the tyranny of the leaders of their own?  These thoughts
filled all minds, and yet none had given them utterance, nor was it
surprising that it should be so.  Select and splendid as that assembly
was, no one knew for certain that his neighbour was not a spy.  As was
known soon after, Cardinal D’Estrées, who sat there so calm and
lofty-looking, furnished the principal evidence against Molinos,
swearing that, being his intimate friend, he knew that the real meaning
of his friend’s printed words was that heretical one of which, in fact,
Molinos had never dreamt. It was no wonder that the speeches were
cautious and vague.

At last Don Agostino rose, and in a quiet and unaffected tone, requested
a hearing for his very dear friend, the Cavaliere di San Georgio, one
well known to most of them, whose character was known to all.

A murmur of satisfaction ran through the room, and the audience settled
itself down to listen, as though they knew that the real business of the
day was about to begin. Inglesant rose in his seat immediately behind
his host.  He was evidently dressed carefully, with a view to the effect
to be produced upon a fastidious and ultra-refined assembly.  He wore a
cassock of silk, and the gown of a Benedictine made of the finest cloth.
His head was tonsured, and his hair cut short.  He had round his neck a
band of fine cambric, and at his wrists ruffles of rich lace; and he
wore on his hand a diamond of great value.  He had, indeed, to one who
saw his dress and not his face, entirely the look of a petit-mâitre, and
even—what is more contemptible still—of a petit-mâitre priest; yet, as
he rose in his seat, there was not a man in all that assembly who would
have given a silver scudo for the chances of his life.

His romantic and melancholy story, the death of his wife and child, his
assumption of the religious life, and, above all, his friendship with
Molinos, were known to all; it seemed to many a fitting close to a life
of such vicissitude, that at this crisis he should sacrifice himself in
the spiritual cause that was dear to all.

He had his speech written before him, every word carefully considered
and arranged by himself and some of the first masters of style then in
Rome.  He began deliberately and distinctly, so that every word was
heard, though he spoke in a low voice.

After deprecating the judgment of the assembly upon the artless and
unpolished words he was about to address to it, and excusing his
rashness in consenting to speak in such an assembly at all, he said,—

"The words of the noble and august personages who have already spoken
have left me little to say.  Nothing is necessary to be added to their
wise and reverend advice.  All that remains for us to do is to attempt
to carry out in action what they have so well counselled.  Our first
object, our first duty, is the safety of our friends.  But, when this is
happily accomplished—as, under such leaders and protected by such names,
how can we doubt that it will be?—there are many among us who, with
sinking hearts and hushed voices, are inquiring, ’What will come next?’"

He paused, and looked up for a moment, and a murmur of encouragement ran
through the room.

"I am not mistaken when I say that in this room, and also in Rome, are
many hearts which, within the last few years, and by the teaching of him
for whom night and day the prayers of the Church ascend to heaven, have
found a peace and a blessedness before unknown; many who have breathed
celestial air, and walked the streets of God.  Nor am I mistaken—my
heart and your presence tell me I am not mistaken—when I say that many
are asking themselves, ’How can they renounce this heavenly birthright?
How can they live without this Divine intercourse, which they have found
so sweet—which the purest saints have hallowed with their approval?  How
can they live without God who have seen Him face to face?’  And many are
asking themselves, ’Must we leave the walks of men, and the Churches
where the saints repose, and wander into the wilderness—into byways
among the wild places of heresy, since the Church seems to close the
gates upon this way which is their life?’  I risk the deserved censure
of this august assembly when I venture to advise—yet even this I am
willing to do, if I may serve any—and I venture to advise, No.  I myself
was born in another country, amid contending forms of faith.  I believe
that, in the sacrificial worship of our most Holy Church, room is amply
given for the perfection of the Contemplative State; and that such lofty
devotion can find no fitter scene than the altar of the Lord.  As we may
hope that, at some future time, the whole Church may come to this holy
state, and be raised above many things which, though now perhaps
necessary, may in a higher condition fall away; so, if by our continuing
in this posture we may hasten such a happy time, this doubtless will be
the path Heaven wishes us to walk in.  But"—he paused, and the whole
assembly listened with breathless attention—"if such is to be our
course, it is evident that an understanding is necessary of adjustment
between ourselves and the Fathers of the Holy Office and of the Society
of Jesus—an adjustment by which a silence must be allowed our Faith—a
silence which, for the sake of those amongst us whose consciences are
the most refined and heaven-taught, must be understood to imply dissent
to much that has lately been acted and taught.  We must understand that
this exertion of authority is aimed only at the open teaching of
doctrines in which we still believe, and which are still dear to us; and
that liberty is allowed our faith so long as we observe a discreet
silence—a liberty which shall extend as far as to admission to the
Sacrament without previous confession.  On this point surely it is
necessary that we have a clearer understanding."

Inglesant stopped, and applause, sufficiently loud and unmistakably
sincere, showed that a large proportion of the assembly approved of what
had been said.

He spoke a word to Don Agostino, and then went on,—

"I am willing to confess, and this august assembly will be willing to
confess, that to the rulers of Christ’s ark—those who have to answer for
the guidance of the peoples of the world, and who know far better than
we can the difficulties and dangers which environ such a task—this
allowance to the lower masses of the people, so prone to run to extremes
and to err in excess, would seem unwise; and I am not unwilling also to
admit that we may have erred in making this way too public, before the
world was sufficiently prepared for it.  Both for this, and for any
other fault, we are willing to suffer penance, and to submit to the Holy
Church in silence; but, this acknowledged and performed, we must be
allowed, within certain limits, to retain the freedom we have enjoyed,
and some manifest token must be given us that such will be the case."

A singular murmur again filled the room—a murmur compounded of intense
sympathy and of admiration at the boldness of the speaker.

Inglesant went on.

"But you will ask me, how is this to be obtained?  I am allowed to say
that I have not undertaken the mission save at the request of others
whom it well becomes to direct my service in all things.  They consider
that for some reason I am fitted for the task.  I am—and I speak with
all gratitude—a pupil of the reverend and holy Society of Jesus, and
whatever I possess I owe to its nursing care.  I am besides, though I
have never acted in such capacity, still an accredited agent of the
Queen Mother of England, that most faithful daughter—I had almost said
Martyr—of the Church.  I will see the General of the Order, and if this
assembly will allow me to speak in its name, I will offer to him our
dutiful submission if he, on his part, will give us some public sign
that we are allowed our private interpretation upon the late events, and
our liberty upon the point which I have named."

When Inglesant sat down Cardinal Howard spoke.  He was followed by
several others, all of whom complimented the Cavaliere upon his devotion
to so good a cause; but abstained from expressing any decided opinion on
the expediency of his proposal.  But when two or three speeches had been
made, the mixed character of the assembly began to show itself.  It is
true that it had been carefully selected, yet, in order to give it
importance and influence, it had been necessary to include in the
invitations as many as possible, and the result was soon apparent.
There were many present who had joined the ranks of the Quietists more
from a weariness of the existing order than from sincere devotion.
There were many present who had joined them sincerely, but who, from
timidity and caution, were desirous to escape the anger of the
Inquisition by submission and silence, and who deprecated any risk of
exciting a still more harsh exertion of authority.  Both these parties,
increased by waverers from the more devoted portion of the company,
united in advising that no action should be taken, farther than that
which had been already used, and which, it might be hoped, had secured
the principal object of their wishes, the release of their friends.

They argued that confession before each communion could not be
burdensome to those who were in a state of grace, and therefore had
nothing to confess; and even if it were, as the Fathers of the Church
judged it necessary for the suppression of error, and for the good of
the ignorant and unenlightened, it ought to be submitted to most
willingly by those farthest advanced in the spiritual life.  These
speakers also argued that many things which were held by the Quietists
harmlessly to themselves were liable to be misunderstood, and that
anything which tended to draw off the mind from the mystery of the
Sacrifice of the Mass, or from the examples of the saints, tended to
divert the vulgar from devotion to the Saviour, and savoured of Deism.

They argued that although perhaps many things were unnecessary to those
whose religious life was far advanced, such as the breviary, beads,
images, many prayers, etc., yet it was not so to others, and that no
doubt, where it was suitable, relaxation would be easily obtained from
one’s director.  No one had insisted more upon the necessity of a
spiritual guide than had Molinos, and it was now the time to prove the
reality of our obedience to the voice of the Church.

It was argued that many things in Molinos’s writings seemed to tend
towards Calvinism, and the doctrine of Efficacious Grace, which no one
present—no true child of the Church—could defend,—a doctrine which
limited the Grace of God, and turned the free and wide pastures of
Catholicism into the narrow bounds of a restricted sect; and it was
finally hinted that there was some reason to believe that the promoters
of the meeting were acting with a farther intention than at first
appeared, and that they desired to introduce changes into the Catholic
faith and discipline, under cover of this discussion.

This last insinuation was a home thrust, and was so felt by the meeting.
The subject of Efficacious Grace had also been introduced very skilfully
by a young priest, a pupil of the Jesuits himself.

After a brief consultation with his party Inglesant replied that a great
deal of what had been advanced was unanswerable; that he himself, a
pupil of the Jesuits, was as much opposed to the doctrine of Efficacious
Grace as any one could be; that it was the intention of no one present
to urge any course of action unless the meeting unanimously approved of
it; and that, as it appeared that the majority of those present were
prepared to submit to the Holy Office, and did not desire any
negotiation, nothing farther would be attempted.

There weighed, in truth, upon the hearts of all, and had probably
oppressed Inglesant as he spoke, a sense of hopelessness and of
contention with an irresistible power.  In spite of this feeling,
however, the decision of the chiefs drew forth expressions of impatience
and regret from the more enthusiastic partisans; but as these were
mostly women, who could not address the assembly, or such as were not
prepared to make themselves prominent in face of almost certain arrest,
the discussion became desultory and ineffectual, and the meeting finally
broke up without any decision having been arrived at.

The Piazza was full of carriages and servants, and the Duke di Ceri had
an enormous train of equipages following his carriage to escort him
beyond the gate, on the way to his villa near Civita Vecchia, whither he
returned immediately, not choosing to stay in Rome.

The meeting being over, Don Agostino urged Inglesant to leave Rome;
indeed, the Duke had already pressed him to accompany him to Civita
Vecchia, but Inglesant declined.

The motives which influenced him were of a mixed nature. He was prompted
by the most sincere desire to find out a way, both for himself and for
others, in which the highest spiritual walk, and the purest condition of
spiritual worship, might be possible within the Church of Rome.  There
was probably nothing in this world which he desired more than this, for
in this was included that still more important freedom, the liberty of
the reason; for if it were possible for the spirit to be free, while
fulfilling the outward observances, and participating in the outward
ordinances of the Church, so also it must be possible for the reason to
be free too.

It had been this very desire, singular as it may seem, which had
attached him to the Society of the Jesuits.  Not only were their
tenets—notably that of sufficient grace given to all men—of wider and
more catholic nature than the Augustinian doctrines held by most bodies
both of Churchmen and Protestants, but the Society had always, in all
its dealings with men, shown a notable leaning to tolerance, even, so
its enemies asserted, of sin and vice.

But besides these motives which had something of a refined and noble
character, Inglesant had others.  A life of intrigue and policy had,
from training and severe practice, become a passion and necessity of his
life.  To leave the field where such a fight was going on, to remain in
Rome, even, an inactive spectator, allowed to pursue his own path merely
from the ignoble fact that he was not worth arrest,—both these courses
of action were intolerable to him.  He had promised Molinos that he
would not be wanting in the hour of trial, and he would keep his word.
He was utterly powerless, as the events of the last few moments would
have shown him had he not known it before.  The most powerful, the
noblest confederacy fell away impotently before an invisible yet
well-understood power, and a sense of vague irresistible force oppressed
him, and showed him the uselessness of resistance.

Nevertheless he requested the loan of Don Agostino’s carriage that he
might go at once to the General of the Society.  He was shown at once
into a small cabinet, where he was kept waiting a few moments, the
General in fact being engaged at that moment in listening to a detailed
account of the meeting, and of the speeches delivered at it.  He however
entered the room in a few minutes, and the two men saluted each other
with the appearance of cordial friendship. Inglesant had not changed his
dress, and the General ran his eyes over it with somewhat of an amused
expression, doubtless comparing the account he had just received with
the appearance of his visitor, the purpose of which he was fully alive
to.

Inglesant began the conversation.

"Your reverence is probably acquainted already with the meeting in the
Piazza Colonna, and with its objects and results. I, however, have come
to relate what passed as far as you may be disposed to listen, and to
give any information, in a perfectly open and sincere manner, which you
may wish to receive. In return for this I wish to ask your reverence two
or three questions which I hope will not be unpleasant, and which you
will of course answer or not as it pleases you."

"As I understand the meeting, Signore Cavaliere," said the General with
a slight smile, "it rejected your mediation, in spite of the elaborate
care with which the proposal was brought before it, a care extending to
the minutest particulars, and the chastened eloquence and perfect style
in which it was offered."

This sarcasm fell comparatively harmlessly upon Inglesant, preoccupied
as his thoughts were.  He therefore bowed, saying,—

"The meeting rejected my mediation, or rather it thought that no
mediation was necessary, and trusted itself implicitly to the fatherly
care of the Society of Jesus."

"What does the meeting representing this new heresy demand?"

"It demands nothing but the deliverance of its friends now in prison."

"And nothing else?"

"Nothing else from the meeting.  I am here to demand something else."

"On your own behalf alone?"

"On my own responsibility solely; but if my request is granted, many
will be benefited by my work."

"Have you no abettors?  You came here in Don Agostino’s coach."

"I am Don Agostino’s dear and intimate friend, and it is not much that
he should lend me his coach.  I have many friends in Rome."

"I know it," said the Jesuit cordially, "and among them the Order of
Jesus is not the least sincere."

Inglesant bowed, and there was a slight pause.  Then the General said,—

"What do you demand?"

"I demand spiritual freedom—the freedom of silence."

"Freedom will be abused."

"Not by me nor by my friends.  We pledge ourselves to unbroken silence.
All we demand is freedom to worship God in private as He Himself shall
lead us.  We ask for no change in public doctrine.  We seek no
proselytes.  In fact, we confine ourselves to one desire, the sacrament
without confession."

The Jesuit made no reply, but continued to look fixedly into Inglesant’s
face.

"It seems to me, Father," Inglesant went on, with a touch of bitterness
in his tone, "that the Society is changing its policy, or rather that it
has a different policy for different classes of men.  So far as I have
known it, it has pursued a course of compromise with all men, and
especially with the weak and frail.  It has always appeared to me a
trait much to be admired, that in which it is likest to the divine
charity itself; but the world has been very severe upon it.  And when
the world says, ’You have pandered to vice in every form; you have
rendered the confessional easy of approach, and the path of penitence
smooth to the impenitent; you have been lenient, nay more than lenient,
to the loose liver, to the adulterers and menslayers,—surely you might
be mild to the devout; surely you might extend a little of this infinite
pity to the submissive and obedient, to the pure in life and soul who
seek after God; ’Difficile est satiram non scribere.  Nam quis iniquae
tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se.’  If the world says this,
what am I to answer?’  For, if it be so necessary to confine the soul to
narrow dogmas lest she go astray, it must be also necessary to deal
freely and sharply with these sins of the flesh, lest they bring men to
sensuality and to hell.  By thus acting, as it seems to me, and not by
making the righteous sad, you would follow the teaching of those
beautiful words of one of your Fathers, who says, ’that the main design
of our Society is to endeavour the establishment of virtue, to carry on
the war against vice, and to cultivate an infinite number of souls.’"

"You are a bold man, Signore Cavaliere.  For far less words than you
have spoken men have grown old in the dungeons of Saint Angelo, where
the light of day never comes."

Inglesant, who rather wished to be imprisoned, and flattered himself
that he should soon be released, was not alarmed at this menace, and
remained silent.

A pause ensued, during which something like this ran through the
Jesuit’s mind:—

"Shall I have this man arrested at once, or wait?  He came to us well
recommended—the favourite pupil of an important member of the Society,
who assured us that he was an instrument perfectly trained, ready at all
points for use, and of a temper and spirit far above the average, not to
be lost to the Order on any account.  He has proved all that was said of
him, and much more.  The Papal throne itself is under obligation to him.
But do we want such a man so much?  I have scores of agents, of
instruments ready to my hand, with whom I need use no caution—no
finesse; why waste any on one, however highly finished and trained?
But, on the other hand, I speak this in Rome, where everything is our
own, and where the sense of power may have unfitted me from properly
understanding this man’s value.  In the rough regions _in partibus_ such
a tool as this, fine and true as steel, tried in the fire as steel,
doubtless is not lightly to be thrown away; at all events, nothing is to
be done hastily.  So long as he is in Rome he is safe, and may be
clapped up at any moment.  I almost wish he would leave, and go back to
his teacher."

All this occupied but a few seconds, and, as the Jesuit made no answer,
Inglesant, who scarcely expected any definite reply, took his leave.  To
his surprise, however, the General insisted on accompanying him to his
coach.  They crossed the courtyard to where the equipage of Don Agostino
stood in the street.  In the excited imagination of Rome at that moment,
the sight of Don Agostino’s carriage before the Jesuits’ College had
attracted a crowd.  When Inglesant appeared, accompanied by the General,
the excitement became intense.  As they reached the carriage door,
Inglesant knelt upon the pavement, and requested the Jesuit’s blessing;
the foremost of the crowd, impressed by this action, knelt too.
Inglesant rose, entered the carriage, and was driven off; and two
different rumours spread through Rome—one, that the Society had come to
terms with the Quietists through the mediation of the Cavaliere; the
other, that the Cavaliere di San Georgio had betrayed the Quietists, and
made his peace with the Order; and this last report received the
greatest amount of credit.




                            *CHAPTER XVIII.*


The Inquisitors and the Jesuits continued to adopt a policy of great
leniency to those who were in prison. The majority, after one
examination, were released, merely going through the form of abjuring
heresies and errors of which they had never dreamed.  Owing to this
politic course of action, assisted by the dislike and contempt which the
people felt towards the then Pope, who was supposed to be a favourer of
Molinos, and of whose dull reign the Romans were weary, a great change
took place in the opinions of the populace.  The credit of the Jesuits
rose exceedingly, and they became celebrated for their excessive
mildness, who before had been blamed for their rigour.  To such an
extent did they gain in popular estimation, that the chiefs of the
defeated party were unable to keep back great numbers of the followers
of Molinos from coming in to the Inquisitors every day, to accuse
themselves of heresy, and to offer themselves to penance.  These being
very gently treated, and dismissed in peace, testified everywhere to the
clemency of the Holy Office and of the Jesuits.  The excitement, which
before had set in one direction, was now turned with equal impetuosity
in another; and many who had before, doubtless in perfect sincerity,
found—or fancied they found—spiritual satisfaction in the "method of
contemplation," now discovered an equal benefit in an excessive
orthodoxy.  The Quietist party was utterly crushed, and put to
ignominious silence; and Molinos himself became an object of hatred and
contempt; while, all the time, with extraordinary inconsistency, it was
publicly reported that the reason of this surprising clemency was the
great support which his doctrine received from the mystical Divinity,
which had been authorized by so many canonizations, and approved by so
many Councils and Fathers of the Church. The leaders of the defeated
party lived as in a desert. Their saloons, which only a few days before
had been crowded, were now empty, and Cardinal Petrucci himself was
visited by no one; while the Jesuits were everywhere received with
enthusiasm, so true to the character that the Satirist gave a thousand
years before did the Roman populace remain—

      "Sequitur fortunam, ut semper, et odit
    "Damnatos."


Some slight portion of this popular applause fell to Inglesant’s lot,
whichever report was believed—whether, as the agent of the Society he
had betrayed his friends, or had used his influence to procure this
unexpected policy of mercy—either supposition procured him notoriety and
even approbation. It now only remained to watch the fate of Molinos, and
the inmates of Don Agostino’s palace waited in silence the policy of
their triumphant opponents.  The Jesuits began by circulating reports of
his hypocrisy and lewd course of life—facts of which they said they had
convincing evidence.  They said that these scandals had been proved
before the Pope, who then, and not till then, had renounced his cause.
The Romans replied to this story that they believed it, for the Pope was
a good judge of such matters, but none at all of the questions of
theology on which the quarrel had previously turned.  There was not at
the time, and there never has been since, the slightest evidence offered
publicly that these stories had the least foundation; but they amply
served their turn, insomuch that when Molinos was brought out to the
Minerva on the day of his condemnation, he was saluted by the people
with cries of "Fire!  Fire!" and, but that his coach was resolutely
defended by the Sbirri and guards, he would have been massacred by the
furious mob.

When the morning rose upon the day on which his condemnation was to take
place, the tribunal of the Minerva, and all the avenues and corridors
leading to it, were thronged with an excited crowd.  For days before,
all the efforts both of money and favour had been exerted to procure
good places in the court itself, and those who were unable to gain these
coveted seats lined the corridors and staircases, while the populace
outside thronged the streets leading from the prison of the Inquisition.
The windows and house tops were crowded; scarcely an inhabitant of Rome
but was to be found somewhere on the line of route; the rest of the city
was a desert.

The vine-clad wastes of the Aventine, the green expanse of the Campo
Vacchino, and the leafy walls of the Colosseum and of the arches, were
lying under the morning sunlight, calm and quiet as in the midst of a
happy and peaceful world.  As Inglesant came across from the lonely
convent where he still occasionally lodged, and turned out of the square
of the Ara Cœli, the silent tenantless houses and palaces looked down
with dim eyes like a city of the dead; and as he came into the Via del
Gesu the distant hum and murmur of the crowd first broke upon his ear.
Here and there a belated spectator like himself turned out of some
bye-street or doorway, and hastened towards the Piazza della Minerva.

Inglesant turned off by a side street, and, following the narrow winding
lanes with which he was well acquainted, came out into the Via di
Coronari at some midway distance between the prison of the Inquisition
and the Minerva.  He was just in time.  As he stationed himself against
the wall of the Church of St. Maria de Anima and the German Hospital, he
knew, by the excitement and frantic cries of the crowd, that Molinos was
not far off.  He was brought along the street in a large coach with
glass windows, a Dominican friar seated at his side.  On each side of
the carriage and at the horses’ heads the Sbirri and Swiss guards
exerted themselves manfully to keep back the people and to clear the
way.  A deafening shout and cry rose unceasingly, and every few moments
the crowd, pressing upon the carriage and the guards, caused them to
come to a dead stop.  Clinging to the horses’ heads, to the carriage
itself, to the halberds of the Swiss, climbing on the steps and on the
back of the coach, had the crowd desired a rescue, Inglesant thought one
bold and decided leader might have accomplished it in a few desperate
moments.  But the mob desired nothing less.  This man—who but a few
weeks ago had been followed by admiring crowds, who had been idolized in
courtly saloons, whose steps and walks had been watched with the tender
and holy devotion with which a people watches the man whose life it
takes to be hid in God; whom loving modest women had pointed out to
their children as the holy monk whom they must love and remember all
their lives; whom passionate women, on whose souls the light of God had
broken, had followed trembling, that they might throw themselves at his
feet, and clinging to his gown, hear the words of gospel from his lips;
to whom desperate men had listened whom no other voice had ever
moved;—this man was now the execration of the mob of Rome.  Amidst the
roar and din around no word was distinguishable but that terrible one of
"Fire!" that pointed to a heretic’s death at the stake; and, but for the
determined resistance of the guards, Molinos would have been dragged
from the coach and butchered in the streets.

When the carriage arrived opposite the spot upon which Inglesant had
posted himself, he could see Molinos’s face as he sat in the coach.  He
was carefully dressed in his priestly habit, and looked about him with a
cheerful serene countenance. "He looks well," said a man, not far from
Inglesant, who had been very bitter against the prisoner; "the secret of
his success is not far to seek, for his face possesses all the charms
that are able to captivate, especially the fair sex."

When the coach was close to Inglesant the crowd made another and most
determined attack, and the horses came to a stand.  The cries of "Fire!
Fire!" rose louder and more fiercely, and the guards were for a moment
beaten from one of the doors.  It seemed that nothing could prevent the
people from dragging their victim into the street; Inglesant felt his
blood turn cold, fully expecting to see the massacre performed before
his eyes; but before the people could open the door, which seemed
fastened on the inside, the guard rallied, and by the free use of their
halberds and short swords recovered the coach, and drove back the mob.

Through all this scene Molinos had preserved his perfectly unconcerned
expression, and his eyes, wandering calmly over the people, at last
rested upon the spot where Inglesant stood. Whether he recognized him or
not Inglesant did not know, for he involuntarily drew back and shrank
from his eye.  He learnt afterwards that Molinos did recognize him, and
also noticed his recoil.  "He fears I should compromise him with the
furious crowd," he thought; "he need not fear."

Inglesant’s movement was caused, however, by a thought very different
from this one, which indeed never occurred to him.  He was ashamed to
meet Molinos’s eye.  In the daylight and sunshine they had walked
together, but when the trial came, the one was taken, and all the rest
escaped.  It was impossible but that some at least of the fortunate many
should feel some pangs of uneasiness and doubt.  Inglesant especially,
the agent and confidant of the Jesuits, was open to such thoughts, and
before the single-hearted uncompromising priest and confessor could not
but feel in some sort condemned.  The carriage passed on amid the
unabated fury of the people, and, turning aside down a narrow winding
lane, he entered the Dominicans’ Church, to the reserved part of which
he had a ticket of admission, to be ready for the final scene.

Molinos was taken to one of the corridors of the Minerva, where he stood
for some time looking about him very calmly, and returning all the
salutes which were made him by those who had formerly been of his
acquaintance.  To all inquiries he returned but one answer; that they
saw a man who was defamed, but who was penitent (infamato ma penitente).
After he had stood here some time he was conducted into a small
apartment, where a sumptuous repast was spread before him, and he was
invited to partake as of his last luxurious indulgence before being shut
up in a little cell for life.  A strange banquet! and a strange taste
such delicacies must have to a man at such a time.

After dinner he was carried into the Church, as in a triumph, in an open
chair upon the shoulders of the Sbirri. The tapers upon the altar
shrines showed more clearly than did the dim and sober daylight that
penetrated beneath the darkened roofs the three mystic aisles of the
strange Church, which were filled with a brilliant company of cardinals,
nobles, innumerable ladies, gentlemen of every rank, ecclesiastics
without end.  The dark marble walls, the sumptuous crowd, the rich
colours of the stained glass, gave a kind of lurid splendour to the
scene; while on every side the sculptured forms upon the monuments, with
stolid changeless features, stood out pale amidst the surrounding gloom;
and here and there, where free space was kept, the polished marble floor
reflected the sombre brilliancy of the whole.

As Molinos was brought up to his place he made a low and devout
reverence to the Cardinals, and his manner was perfectly possessed and
without a show of fear or shame.  He was made to stand up before the
altar, a chain was bound round him and fastened to his wrists, and a wax
taper was placed in his hands.  Then with a loud voice a friar read his
Process, so as to be heard by all in the Church: and as some of the
articles were read, there were loud cries from the reverend and polite
assembly of "Fire!  Fire!"

In a few moments the sight was over, and Molinos was led back to the
street, to be placed this time in a close carriage, and taken back to
the prison, where his cell was prepared. As Inglesant stepped back into
the aisle of the Church he felt some one pull him by his Benedictine
gown, and turning round, he saw a lady in a velvet masque.  She appeared
excited, and, as far as he could see, was weeping, and her voice, which
he thought he recognized, was broken and indistinct.

"Cavaliere," she said, "he will stop a moment in the vestibule before
they put him in the coach.  I want him to have this—he must have it—it
will be a relief and consolation to him unspeakable.  They will stop all
of us, and will let no one come to him; but they will let you.  You are
a Jesuit, and their friend.  For the love of Gesu, Cavaliere, do him and
me, and all of us, this favour.  He will bless you and pray for you.  He
will intercede for you.  For the love of God, Cavaliere!"

She was pleading with such eager tearfulness and such hurried speech and
gesture, that he could not doubt her truth, yet he paused a moment.

"Surely I know your voice?" he said.

"Ah! you know me," replied the masque, "but that is of no consequence.
Another moment, and it will be too late. Cavaliere! for the love of
Gesu!"

Inglesant took the small paper packet, which seemed to contain a casket,
and went down the fast emptying Church. As he reached the entrance he
turned and looked back for the velvet masque, but she was nowhere to be
seen.  His mind was full of suspicion, yet he was not unwilling to
fulfil his mission.  He should, at any rate, speak to Molinos, and
perhaps grasp his hand.

In the vestibule Molinos stood alone, a circle being kept at some
distance round him by the guard.  His manner was unchanged and calm.
The select crowd stood around gazing at him with eager curiosity;
outside might be heard again the shouting of the mob, and the cry of
"Fire!"  Inglesant advanced towards the Captain of the Sbirri; but, to
his surprise, before he could speak, the latter made a sign, and the
guards fell back to let him pass.  A murmur ran through the crowd, and
every one pressed forward with intense eagerness. Molinos looked up, and
an expression of grateful pleasure lighted up his face as he extended
his hand.  Inglesant grasped it with emotion, and looking him in the
face, said,—

"Adieu, Father, you are more to be envied than we.  You are clothed in
the heavenly garment and sit down at the supper of the King; we wander
in the outer darkness, with an aching conscience that cannot rest."

The expression of the other’s face was compassionate and beautiful, and
he said,—

"Adieu, Cavaliere, we shall meet again one day, when the veil shall be
taken from the face of God, and we shall see Him as He is."

As Inglesant grasped his hand he slipped the casket into it, and as he
did so dropped on one knee.  The hand of the monk rested on his head for
a moment, and in the next he had risen and stepped back, and the guards
closed in for the last time round Molinos, and the crowd pressed after,
following them to the coach.

When the carriage had driven off, and the crowd somewhat dispersed,
Inglesant came down the steps, and was turning to the right into the
Corso when he was surprised to see that the Captain of the Sbirri had
not followed his prisoner, but was standing on the causeway with two or
three of his men, near a plain carriage which was waiting.  As Inglesant
came up he turned to him, and said politely,—

"Pardon, Signore Cavaliere, I must ask you to come with me.  You have
conveyed a packet to a condemned prisoner—a grave offence—a packet which
contains poison.  You will come quietly, no doubt."

"I will come quietly, certainly," said Inglesant.  "Where are we going?
to the Inquisition?"

"No, no," said the other, as he followed the new prisoner into the
coach, "yours is a civil offence; we are going to the St. Angelo."

"The General must have a taste for theatricals," thought Inglesant as
the coach rolled off, "or he never could have planned such a melodrama."

On their arrival at the castle he was conducted into a good room, not in
the tower, which commanded an extensive view of St. Peter’s.  Great
liberty was allowed him, everything he liked to pay for was procured for
him, and at certain hours he was allowed to walk on the glacis and
fortifications.

The second day of his confinement was drawing to a close when he was
visited by the Dominican who had attended Molinos.  This monk, who
seemed a superior person, had evidently been impressed by the
conversation and character of his prisoner.  After the first greeting he
said,—

"That unhappy man requested me to bring you a message. It was to the
effect that he had done you wrong.  He saw you among the crowd as he was
being brought to the Minerva, and noticed that you shrank back.  He
accused you in his mind of fearing to be compromised; he knows now that,
on the contrary, you were watching for an opportunity to do him a
service.  It was but the thought of a moment, but he could not rest
until he had acknowledged it, and begged your forgiveness. He bade me
also to tell you that ’the bruised reed is not broken, nor the smoking
flax quenched.’"

"Where did you leave him?" said Inglesant.

"At the door of his cell, which he calls his cabinet."

"’The smoking flax is not quenched,’" said Inglesant; "I hear that one
of his followers, a day or two ago, before the tribunal told the
examiners to their faces that they ’were a company of unjust, cruel, and
heretical men, and that the measure which they dealt to others was the
same that Christ Himself had received from His persecutors.’"

"It is true," said the Dominican, "and it is true also that he is
released; such, on the contrary, is the clemency of the Church."

After an imprisonment of about a fortnight, as Inglesant was one day
taking his usual walk upon the fortifications, he was informed that the
General of the Order was in his room, and desired to see him.  He went
to him immediately, and was received with great appearance of
friendliness.

"You will pardon my little plot, Cavaliere," said the General,
"especially as I gave orders that you should be made very comfortable
here.  I wished to see in what manner and how far you were our servant,
and I have succeeded admirably. I find, as I imagined, that you are
invaluable; but it must be on your own terms, and at your own time.  You
are faithful and unflinching when you have undertaken anything, but each
mission must be entered upon or renounced at your own pleasure.  I hope
you have not been nourishing bitter thoughts of me during your
incarceration here."

"Far from it," replied Inglesant; "I have nothing to complain of.  I
have all I want, and the view from these windows is, as you see,
unrivalled in Rome.  If it consists with your policy I should take it as
a great favour were you to inform me whether the velvet masque was a
mere tool or not.  I could have sworn that her accent and manner were
those of a person speaking the truth; still, when the Captain of the
Sbirri made way for me I thought I was in the toils."

"Your penetration did not err.  The lady was the Countess of ——.  She
conceived the idea of communicating with Molinos herself, and confided
it to her director—not in confession, observe.  He consulted me, and we
advised what took place; and what may console you still farther, we did
the lady no wrong.  We have reason to know that, besides the poison,
some writing was conveyed to Molinos together with the casket, by which
he obtained information which he was very desirous of receiving.  You
will forgive me now, since your ’amour propre’ is not touched, and your
friend’s purpose is served."

There was a pause, after which the General said,—

"You have deserved well of the Order—few better; and whatever their
enemies may say, the Companions of Jesus are not unmindful of their
children, nor ungrateful, unless the highest necessities of the general
good require it.  You look upon the prosecution of Molinos as an act of
intolerable tyranny, and you are yourself eager to enter upon a crusade
on behalf of religious freedom and of the rights of private devotion and
judgment.  You are ready to engage almost single-handed against the
whole strength of the Society of Jesus, of the Curia, and of the
existing powers.  I say nothing of the Quixotic nature of the
enterprise; that would not deter you. Nor of its utter hopelessness; how
hopeless you may judge from the sudden collapse of the party of
Molinos—a party so favoured in high places, so fashionable, patronized,
as has been said, even by the Pope himself.  You may also judge of this
from the fact, of which you are probably aware, that every detail of
your late meeting was communicated to us by the President of that
meeting, and by many of those who attended it.  But in speaking of these
matters to you, whose welfare I sincerely seek, I address myself to
another argument which I imagine will have more weight.  You have only
considered this coveted spiritual freedom as the right of the favoured
few, of the educated and refined.  You have no desire and no intention
that it should be extended to the populace.  But you do not consider, as
those who have the guidance of the Church polity are bound to consider,
that to grant it to the one and deny it to the other is impossible; that
these principles are sure to spread; that in England and in other
countries where they have spread they have been the occasion of
incalculable mischiefs.  You are standing, at this moment, thanks
chiefly to the nurture and clemency of the much-abused Society of Jesus,
at a point where you may choose one of two roads, which, joining here,
will never meet again.  The question is between individual license and
obedience to authority; and upon the choice, though you may not think
it, depends the very existence of Christianity in the world.  Between
unquestioning obedience to authority and absolute unbelief there is not
a single permanent resting-place, though many temporary halts may be
made.  You will scarcely dispute this when you remember that every
heretical sect admits it.  They only differ as to what the authority is
to which obedience is due. We, in Rome at least, cannot be expected to
allow any authority save that of the Catholic Church, and indeed what
other can you place instead of it—a Book?  Do you think that those who
have entered upon the path of inquiry will long submit to be fettered by
the pages of dead languages? You know more of this probably than I do
from your acquaintance with the sceptics of other lands."

He paused as if waiting for a reply, but Inglesant did not speak;
perhaps the logic of the Jesuit seemed to him unanswerable—especially in
the St. Angelo at Rome.

After a few seconds the latter went on,—

"Ah!  I fear you still bear me some malice.  If so, I regret it very
much.  As I said before, you have no truer friend in Rome than the Order
and its unworthy General.  I am convinced, both by my own experience and
by the reports of others, that you are an invaluable friend and agent of
the Society in countries where men like you, gentlemen of honour, bold,
unflinching, and of spotless name, are wanted at every turn,—men who
have the confidence of both parties, of enemies as well as friends.  But
long ere this you will have seen that here in Rome we do things
differently; here we strike openly and at once, and we require agents of
a far lower type, not so much agents, indeed, as hammers ready to our
hand.  Your refined nature is altogether out of place.  As a friend I
recommend your return to England.  Father St. Clare is there, and no
doubt requires you, and I am very certain that the climate of Rome will
not suit your health.  You have passed some years very pleasantly in
Italy, as I believe, in spite of your share in those great sorrows to
which we all are heir; and though I am grieved to separate you from your
friends, the noblest in Rome, yet it is better that you should be parted
in this manner than by sharper and more sudden means.  Every facility
shall be given you for transferring your property to England, and I hope
you will take with you no unpleasant recollections of this city, and of
the poor Fathers of Jesus, who wish you well."

He pronounced these last words with so much feeling that Inglesant could
only reply,—

"I have nothing to say of the Society but what is good. It has ever been
most tender and parental to me.  I shall go away with nothing but
sadness and affection in my heart; with nothing but gratitude towards
you, Father, with nothing but reverence towards this city—the Mother of
the World."




                             *CHAPTER XIX.*


For a long time nothing was found among the papers from which these
memoirs have been compiled relative to Mr. Inglesant’s life subsequent
to his return to England; but at last the following imperfect letter was
found, which is here given as containing all the information on the
subject which at present is known to exist.

The date, with the first part of the letter, is torn off.  The first
perfect line is given.  The spelling has been modernized throughout.
The superscription is as follows:—

Mr. Anthony Paschall,
       Physician,
              London,

from his friend,
       Mr. Valentine Lee,
              Chirurgeon,
                     Of Reading.


From a certain tone in parts of the letter it would seem that the writer
was one of those who gave cause for the accusation of scepticism brought
in those days against the medical profession generally.


* * * * * that vine, laden with grapes worked in gold and precious
stones, after the manner of Phrygian work, which, according to Josephus,
Tacitus, and other writers, adorned the Temple at Jerusalem, and was
seen of many when that Temple was destroyed; a manifest continuance of
the old Eastern worship of Bacchus, so dear to the human fraility. As
says the poet Anacreon, "Make me, good Vulcan, a deep bowl and carve on
it neither Charles’s wain, nor the sad Orion, but carve me out a vine
with its swelling grapes, and Cupid, Bacchus, and Bathillus pressing
them together."  For it is a gallant philosophy, and the deepest wisdom,
which, under the shadow of talismans and austere emblems, wears the
colours of enjoyment and of life.

Methinks if the Puritans of the last age had known that the same word in
Latin means both worship and the culture of polite life, they would not
have condemned both themselves and us to so many years of shadowy gloom
and of a morose antipathy to all delight.  And though they will
perchance retort upon me that the same word in the Greek meaneth both
worship and bondage, yet I shall reply that it was a service of love and
pleasure—a service in which all the beauties of earth were called upon
to aid, and in which the Deity was best pleased by the happiness of His
creatures, whose every faculty of delight had been fully husbanded and
trained.  In these last happy days, since his gracious Majesty’s return,
we have seen a restoration of a cheerful gaiety, and adorning of men’s
lives, when painting and poetry, and, beyond all, music, have smoothed
the rough ways and softened the hard manners of men.

I came to Oxford, travelling in the Flying Coach with a Quaker who
inveighed greatly against the iniquity of the age. At Oxford I saw more
than I have space to tell you of; amongst others, Francis Tatton, who,
you will recollect, left his religion since the King’s return, and
sheltered himself amongst the Jesuits.  He was but lately come to
Oxford, and lodged at Francis Alder’s against the Fleur-de-lis.  I dined
with him there along with some others, and it being a Friday, they had a
good fish dinner with white wine.  Among the guests was one Father
Lovel, a Jesuit.  He has lived in Oxford many years to supply service
for the Catholics, so bold and free are the Papists now.

I conversed with another of the guests, a physician, who after dinner
took me to his house in Bear Lane, and showed me his study, in a
pleasant room to the south, overlooking some of Christ Church gardens.
Here he began to complain of the Royal Society, and the Virtuosi, and I
soon saw that he was a follower of Dr. Gideon Harvey and Mr. Stubbes.
"The country owes much," he said, "to such men as Burleigh, Walsingham,
Jewel, Abbot, Usher, Casaubon; but if this new-fangled philosophy and
mechanical education is to bear the bell, I foresee that we shall look
in vain in England for such men again.  In these deep and subtle
inquiries into natural philosophy and the intricate mechanisms by which
this world is said to be governed, neither physic will be unconcerned
nor will religion remain unshaken amidst the writings of these Virtuosi.
That art of reasoning by which the prudent are discriminated from fools,
which methodizes and facilitates our discourse, which informs us of the
validity of consequences and the probability of arguments—that art which
gives life to solid eloquence, and which renders statesmen, divines,
physicians, and lawyers accomplished—how is this cried down and vilified
by the ignoramuses of these days!"

I pleased myself with inspecting this man’s books, with which his study
was well stored, and with the view from his window; but I let his tongue
run on uncontradicted, seeing that he was of the old Protestant and
scholastic learning, which is never open to let in new light.  He
entertained me, besides, with a long discourse to prove that Geber the
chemist was not an Indian King, and informed me with great glee that the
Royal Society, among other new-fangled propositions, had conceived the
idea of working silk into hats, which project, though the hatters
laughed at it, yet to satisfy them trial was made, and for twenty
shillings they had a hat made, but it proved so bad that any one might
have bought a better one for eighteenpence.

He was entering upon a long argument against Descartes, to refute whom
he was obliged to contradict much that he had said before, but at this
time I excused myself and left him.

When I came out from this man’s house the college bells were going for
Chapel, as they used to do in the old time; methought it was the
prettiest music I had heard for many a day.  I went to see an old man I
remembered in Jesus Lane. I found him in the same little house, dressed
in his gown tied round the middle, the sleeves pinned behind, and his
dudgeon with a knife and bodkin; it was the fashion for grave people to
wear such gowns in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s days.  He says he
is 104.  When I was a boy at Oxon I used to be always inquiring of him
of the old time, the rood lofts, the ceremonies in the College Chapels;
and his talk is still of Queen Bess her days, and of the old people who
remembered the host and the wafer bread and the roods in the Churches.
In my time, at Oxford, crucifixes were common in the glass in the study
windows, and in the chamber windows pictures of saints.  This was
"before the wars."  What a different world it was before the wars!  What
strange old-world customs and thoughts and stories vanished like
phantoms when the war trumpets sounded, and great houses and proud
names, and dominions and manors, and stately woods, crumbled into dust,
and every man did as seemed good to himself, and thought as he liked.

On the Sunday I went to St. Mary’s, and heard a preacher and herbalist,
who spoke of the virtues of plants and of the Christian life in one
breath.  He told us that Homer writ sublimely and called them [Greek:
cheires theon], the hands of the Gods, and that we ought to reach to
them religiously with praise and thanksgiving.  "God Almighty," he said,
"hath furnished us with plants to cure us within a few miles of our own
abodes, and we know it not."

The next day I came to Worcester by the post, to the house of my old
friend Nathaniel Tomkins, who is now one of the Prebends and Receptor.
He lives in the close, or college green, as they call it here.  He comes
of a family of musicians.  His grandfather was chanter of the choir of
Gloucester; his father organist to this same Cathedral of Worcester, and
one of his uncles organist of St. Paul’s and gentleman of the Chapel
Royal, and another, of whom more anon, gentleman of the Privy Chamber to
His Majesty Charles the First, and well skilled in the practical part of
music, and was happily translated to the celestial choir of angels
before the troubles.

I was pleased to see the faithful city recovered from the ashes in which
she sat when I was here last, and the daily service of song again
restored to the Cathedral Church, though the latter is much out of
repair and dimmed as to its splendour.  I like that religion the best
which gives us sweet anthems and solemn organ music and lively parts of
melody.

I had not been here long when my friend the Receptor told me that if I
should stay two or three days longer, I should hear as good a concert of
violins as any in England, and also hear a gentleman lately come from
Italy, whose skill as a lutinist and player on the violin had preceded
him.  When I asked for the name of this gentleman, he told me it was
that Mr. John Inglesant who was servant to the late King, and of whom so
much was spoken in the time of the Irish Rebellion. When I heard this I
resolved to stay, as you may suppose, considering that we have more than
once spoken together of this person and desired to see him, especially
since it had been reported that he was returned to England.

I therefore willingly promised to remain, and spent my time in
practising on the violin, and in the city and cathedral.  I walked upon
the river bank, and up and down the fine broad streets leading from the
bridge to the cathedral.  From the gates of the chancel down the stone
steps the strange light streamed on to the paved floor of the nave,
chill and silent as the grave until the strains of the organs awoke.
Mr. Tomkins told me that the loyal gentry of the surrounding counties
had, during the usurpation, made it a point of honour to purchase and
trade in Worcester, for the relief and encouragement of the citizens,
who were reduced to so low an ebb by the battle and taking of the city.

Thursday was the day appointed for the music meeting, and on that day I
accompanied Mr. Tomkins to the house of Mr. Barnabas Oley, another of
the Prebends, who, you may remember, wrote a preface, a year or two ago,
to Mr. Herbert’s "Country Parson."  He also lives in the College Green,
and we found the company assembling in an oak parlour, which looked upon
an orchard where the trees were in full blossom. There were present
several of the clergy, and two or three physicians and other gentlemen,
who practised upon the violin.

As we entered the room, Mr. Oley was speaking of Mr. Inglesant, who was
expected to come presently with the Dean. "I remember him well," he was
saying, "when I was in poverty and sequestration in the late troubles.
He was supposed to be in all the King’s secrets, and was constantly
employed in private messages and errands.  Some said that he was a
concealed Papist, but I have known him to attend the Church service very
devoutly.  I recollect when I was in the garrison at Pontefract Castle,
and used to preach there as long as it held out for His Majesty, that
this Mr. Inglesant suddenly appeared amongst us, though the leaguer was
very close, and I know he attended service there once or twice.  I was
often at that time in want of bread, during my hidings and wanderings,
and obliged to change my habit, and did constantly appear in a cloak and
grey clothes.  On one of these occasions, when I was in great distress
and was diligently and particularly sought for by the rebels, who would
willingly have gratified those that would have discovered me, I fell in
with this Mr. Inglesant at an inn in Buckinghamshire.  He was then in
company with one whom I knew to be a Popish priest, but they both
exerted themselves very kindly in my behalf, and conducted me to the
house of a Catholic gentleman in those parts by whom I was entertained
several days.  Before this, I now recollect, at the beginning of the
wars, I met Mr. Inglesant at Oxford.  I was in the shop of a bookseller
named Forrest, against All Soul’s College.  I remember that I took up
Plato’s select dialogues ’De rebus divinis,’ in Greek and Latin, and
excepted against some things as superfluous and cabalistical, and that
Mr. Inglesant, who was then a very young man, defended the author in a
way that showed his scholarship.  It was summer weather and very warm,
and the enemy’s cannon were playing upon the city as we could hear as we
talked in the shop."

While Mr. Oley was thus recollecting his past troubles, Mr. Dean was
announced, and entered the room accompanied by Mr. Inglesant and by a
servant who carried their violins. You are, I know, acquainted with the
Dean, who is also Bishop of St. David’s, and who, they say, will be
Bishop of Worcester also before long, so I need not describe him.  The
first sight of Mr. Inglesant pleased me very much.  He wore his own hair
long, after the fashion of the last age, but in other respects he was
dressed in the mode, in a French suit of black satin, with cravat and
ruffles of Mechlin lace.  His expression was lofty and abstracted, his
features pale and somewhat thin, and his carriage gave me the idea of a
man who had seen the world, and in whom few things were capable of
exciting any extreme interest or attention.  His eyes were light blue,
of that peculiar shade which gives a dreamy and indifferent expression
to the face.  His manner was courteous and polite, almost to excess, yet
he seemed to me to be a man who was habitually superior to his company,
and I felt in his presence almost as I should do in that of a prince.
Something of this doubtless was due to the sense I had of the part he
had played in the great events of the late troubles, and of the nearness
of intercourse and of the confidence he had enjoyed with his late
Majesty of blessed memory.  It was impossible not to look with interest
upon a man who had been so familiar with the secret history of those
times, and who had been taken into the confidence both of Papists and
Churchmen.

When he had been introduced to the company, Mr. Oley reminded him of the
incidents he had been relating before his arrival.  When he mentioned
the meeting in the inn in Buckinghamshire, Mr. Inglesant seemed
affected.

"I remember it well," he said.  "I was with Father St. Clare, whose
deathbed I attended not two months after my return to England.  Do you
remember, Mr. Oley," he went on to say, "the sermons at St. Martin’s in
Oxford, where Mr. Giles Widdowes preached?  I remember seeing you there,
sir, and indeed his high and loyal sermons were much frequented by the
royal party and soldiers of the garrison; and I have heard that he was
most benevolent to many of the most needy in their distress.  I remember
that poor Whitford played the organs there often, before he was killed
in the trenches."

"Ah," said Mr. Oley, "we have heard strange music in our day.  I was in
York when it was besieged by three very notable and great armies—the
Scotch, the Northern under Lord Fairfax, and the Southern under the Earl
of Manchester and Oliver.  At that time the service at the Cathedral
every Sunday morning was attended by more than a thousand ladies,
knights, and gentlemen, besides soldiers and citizens; when the booming
of cannon broke in upon the singing of the psalms, and more than once a
cannon bullet burst into the Minster amongst the people, like a furious
fiend or evil spirit, yet no one hurt."

After some talk of this nature we settled ourselves to our music and to
tune our instruments.  Mr. Inglesant’s violin was inscribed "Jacobus
Stainer in Absam propé Œnipontem 1647;" Œnipons is the Latin name of
Inspruck in Germany, the chief city of the Tyrol, where this maker
lived.  As soon as Mr. Inglesant drew his bow across the strings I was
astonished at the full and piercing tone, which seemed to me to exceed
even that of the Cremonas.

We played a concert or two, with a double bass part for the violone,
which had a noble effect; and Mr. Inglesant being pressed to oblige the
company, played a descant upon a ground bass in the Italian manner.  I
should fail were I to attempt to describe to you what I felt during the
performance of this piece.  It seemed to me as though thoughts, which I
had long sought and seemed ever and anon on the point of realizing, were
at last given me, as I listened to chords of plaintive sweetness broken
now and again by cruel and bitter discords—a theme into which were
wrought street and tavern music and people’s songs, which lively airs
and catches, upon the mere pressure of the string, trembled into
pathetic and melancholy cadences.  In these dying falls and closes all
the several parts were gathered up and brought together, yet so that
what before was joy was now translated into sorrow, and the sorrowful
transfigured to peace, as indeed the many shifting scenes of life vary
upon the stage of men’s affairs.

The concert being over, Mr. Dean informed us that it was his intention
to attend the afternoon service in the Cathedral, and Mr. Inglesant
accompanying him, the physicians departed to visit their patients, and
my host and some of the clergy and myself went to the Cathedral also,
entering rather late.

After the service, in which was sung an anthem by Dr. Nathaniel Giles,
Mr. Dean retired to the vestry, and Mr. Inglesant coming down the
Church, I found myself close to him at the west door.  We stopped
opposite to the monument of Bishop Gauden, who is depicted in his effigy
holding a book, presumably the "_Icôn Basilikè_" in his hand.  I
inquired of Mr. Inglesant what his opinions were concerning the
authorship of that work, and finding that he was disposed to converse,
we went down to the river side, the evening being remarkably fine, and,
crossing by the ferry, walked for some time in the chapter meadows upon
the farther bank.  The evening sun was setting towards the range of the
Malvern Hills, and the towers and spires of the city were shining in its
glow, and were reflected in the water at our feet.

I said to Mr. Inglesant that I was greatly interested in the events of
the last age, in which he had been so trusted and prominent an actor,
and that I hoped to learn from him many interesting particulars, but he
informed me that he knew but little except what the world was already
possessed of.  He said that he very deeply regretted that, during the
last two years of the life of the late King, he himself was a close
prisoner in the Tower; and was therefore prevented from assisting in any
way, or being useful to His Majesty.  He said that there was something
peculiarly affecting in the position of the King in those days, as he
was isolated from his friends, and entirely dependant upon three or four
faithful and subordinate servants.  He said that, since his return to
England, he had made it his business to seek out several of these, and
had received much interesting information from them, which, as he hoped
it would soon be made public, he was not at present at liberty to
communicate.  Mr. Inglesant, however, told me one incident relating to
the last days of the King of so affecting a character that, as it is too
long to be repeated here, I shall hope to inform you of when we meet
together. He said, moreover, that the fatal mistake the King made was
consenting to the death of Lord Strafford; that on many occasions he had
yielded when he should have been firm; but that most of his misfortunes,
such as reverses and indecisions in the field, were caused by
circumstances entirely beyond his control.  There is nothing new in
these opinions, but I give them just as Mr. Inglesant stated them, lest
you should think I had not taken advantage of the opportunity presented
to me. It appeared to me that he was not very willing to discourse upon
these bygone matters of State intrigue.

Seeing this I changed the topic, and said that as Mr. Inglesant had had
much experience in the working of the Romish system, I should be glad to
know his opinion of it, and whether he preferred it to that of the
English Church.  Here I found I was on different ground.  I saw at once
beneath the veil of polite manner, which was this man’s second nature,
that his whole life and being was in this question.

"This is the supreme quarrel of all," he said.  "This is not a dispute
between sects and kingdoms; it is a conflict within a man’s own
nature—nay, between the noblest parts of man’s nature arrayed against
each other.  On the one side obedience and faith, on the other, freedom
and the reason. What can come of such a conflict as this but throes and
agony?  I was not brought up by the Papists in England, nor, indeed, did
I receive my book learning from them.  I was trained for a special
purpose by one of the Jesuits, but the course he took with me was
different from that which he would have taken with other pupils whom he
did not design for such work.  I derived my training from various
sources, and especially, instead of Aristotle, and the school-men, I was
fed upon Plato.  The difference is immense.  I was trained to obedience
and devotion; but the reason in my mind for this conduct was that
obedience and devotion and gratitude were ideal virtues, not that they
benefited the order to which I belonged, nor the world in which I lived.
This I take to be the difference between the Papists and myself.  The
Jesuits do not like Plato, as lately they do not like Lord Bacon.
Aristotle, as interpreted by the school-men, is more to their mind.
According to their reading of Aristotle, all his Ethics are subordinated
to an end, and in such a system they see a weapon which they can turn to
their own purpose of maintaining dogma, no matter at what sacrifice of
the individual conscience or reason.  This is what the Church of Rome
has ever done.  She has traded upon the highest instincts of humanity,
upon its faith and love, its passionate remorse, its self-abnegation and
denial, its imagination and yearning after the unseen. It has based its
system upon the profoundest truths, and upon this platform it has raised
a power which has, whether foreseen by its authors or not, played the
part of human tyranny, greed, and cruelty.  To support this system it
has habitually set itself to suppress knowledge and freedom of thought,
before thought had taught itself to grapple with religious subjects,
because it foresaw that this would follow.  It has, therefore, for the
sake of preserving intact its dogma, risked the growth and welfare of
humanity, and has, in the eyes of all except those who value this dogma
above all other things, constituted itself the enemy of the human race.
I have perhaps occupied a position which enables me to judge somewhat
advantageously between the Churches, and my earnest advice is this.  You
will do wrong—mankind will do wrong—if it allows to drop out of
existence, merely because the position on which it stands seems to be
illogical, an agency by which the devotional instincts of human nature
are enabled to exist side by side with the rational.  The English
Church, as established by the law of England, offers the supernatural to
all who choose to come.  It is like the Divine Being Himself, whose sun
shines alike on the evil and on the good.  Upon the altars of the Church
the divine presence hovers as surely, to those who believe it, as it
does upon the splendid altars of Rome. Thanks to circumstances which the
founders of our Church did not contemplate, the way is open; it is
barred by no confession, no human priest.  Shall we throw this aside?
It has been won for us by the death and torture of men like ourselves in
bodily frame, infinitely superior to some of us in self-denial and
endurance.  God knows—those who know my life know too well—that I am not
worthy to be named with such men; nevertheless, though we cannot endure
as they did, at least do not let us needlessly throw away what they have
won.  It is not even a question of religious freedom only; it is a
question of learning and culture in every form.  I am not blind to the
peculiar dangers that beset the English Church.  I fear that its
position, standing, as it does, a mean between two extremes, will
engender indifference and sloth; and that its freedom will prevent its
preserving a discipline and organizing power, without which any
community will suffer grievous damage; nevertheless, as a Church it is
unique: if suffered to drop out of existence, nothing like it can ever
take its place."

"The Church of England," I said, seeing that Mr. Inglesant paused, "is
no doubt a compromise, and is powerless to exert its discipline, as the
events of the late troubles have shown.  It speaks with bated assurance,
while the Church of Rome never falters in its utterance, and I confess
seems to me to have a logical position.  If there be absolute truth
revealed, there must be an inspired exponent of it, else from age to age
it could not get itself revealed to mankind."

"This is the Papist argument," said Mr. Inglesant; "there is only one
answer to it—Absolute truth is not revealed.  There were certain dangers
which Christianity could not, as it would seem, escape.  As it brought
down the sublimest teaching of Platonism to the humblest understanding,
so it was compelled, by this very action, to reduce spiritual and
abstract truth to hard and inadequate dogma.  As it inculcated a sublime
indifference to the things of this life, and a steadfast gaze upon the
future; so, by this very means, it encouraged the growth of a wild
unreasoning superstition.  It is easy to draw pictures of martyrs
suffering the torture unmoved in the face of a glorious hereafter; but
we must acknowledge, unless we choose to call these men absolute fiends,
that it was these selfsame ideas of the future, and its relation to this
life, that actuated their tormentors.  If these things are true,—if the
future of mankind is parcelled out between happiness and eternal
torture,—then, to ensure the safety of mankind at large, the death and
torment for a few moments of comparatively few need excite but little
regret.  From the instant that the founder of Christianity left the
earth, perhaps even before, this ghastly spectre of superstition ranged
itself side by side with the advancing faith.  It is confined to no
Church or sect; it exists in all.  Faith in the noble, the unseen, the
unselfish, by its very nature encourages this fatal growth; and it is
nourished even by those who have sufficient strength to live above it;
because, forsooth, its removal may be dangerous to the well-being of
society at large, as though anything could be more fatal than falsehood
against the Divine Truth."

"But if absolute truth is not revealed," I said, "how can we know the
truth at all?"

"We cannot say how we know it," replied Mr. Inglesant, "but this very
ignorance proves that we can know.  We are the creatures of this
ignorance against which we rebel.  From the earliest dawn of existence
we have known nothing.  How then could we question for a moment?  What
thought should we have other than this ignorance which we had imbibed
from our growth, but for the existence of some divine principle, ’Fons
veri lucidus’ within us?  The Founder of Christianity said, ’The kingdom
of God is within you.’  We may not only know the truth, but we may live
even in this life in the very household and court of God.  We are the
creatures of birth, of ancestry, of circumstance; we are surrounded by
law, physical and psychical, and the physical very often dominates and
rules the soul.  As the chemist, the navigator, the naturalist, attain
their ends by means of law, which is beyond their power to alter, which
they cannot change, but with which they can work in harmony, and by so
doing produce definite results, so may we. We find ourselves immersed in
physical and psychical laws, in accordance with which we act, or from
which we diverge. Whether we are free to act or not we can at least
fancy that we resolve.  Let us cheat ourselves, if it be a cheat, with
this fancy, for we shall find that by so doing we actually attain the
end we seek.  Virtue, truth, love, are not mere names; they stand for
actual qualities which are well known and recognized among men.  These
qualities are the elements of an ideal life, of that absolute and
perfect life of which our highest culture can catch but a glimpse.  As
Mr. Hobbes has traced the individual man up to the perfect state, or
Civitas, let us work still lower, and trace the individual man from
small origins to the position he at present fills.  We shall find that
he has attained any position of vantage he may occupy by following the
laws which our instinct and conscience tell us are Divine.  Terror and
superstition are the invariable enemies of culture and progress.  They
are used as rods and bogies to frighten the ignorant and the base, but
they depress all mankind to the same level of abject slavery.  The ways
are dark and foul, and the grey years bring a mysterious future which we
cannot see. We are like children, or men in a tennis court, and before
our conquest is half won the dim twilight comes and stops the game;
nevertheless, let us keep our places, and above all things hold fast by
the law of life we feel within.  This was the method which Christ
followed, and He won the world by placing Himself in harmony with that
law of gradual development which the Divine Wisdom has planned.  Let us
follow in His steps and we shall attain to the ideal life; and, without
waiting for our ’mortal passage,’ tread the free and spacious streets of
that Jerusalem which is above."

He spoke more to himself than to me.  The sun, which was just setting
behind the distant hills, shone with dazzling splendour for a moment
upon the towers and spires of the city across the placid water.  Behind
this fair vision were dark rain clouds, before which gloomy background
it stood in fairy radiance and light.  For a moment it seemed a glorious
city, bathed in life and hope, full of happy people who thronged its
streets and bridge, and the margin of its gentle stream.  But it was
"breve gaudium."  Then the sunset faded, and the ethereal vision
vanished, and the landscape lay dark and chill.

"The sun is set," Mr. Inglesant said cheerfully, "but it will rise
again.  Let us go home."

I have writ much more largely in this letter than I intended, but I have
been led onward by the interest which I deny not I feel in this man.
When we meet I will tell you more.


Your ever true friend,
       VALENTINE LEE.



                                THE END.




                _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.