Sir John Constantine by Prosper Paleologus Constantine

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"All this day? Then--pardon, Princess--but why should I hear you
now, at this moment?"

"The daylight is past," she said. "You can listen now and not see my
face."

On the hedge of the ditch beside the high-road lay a rough fragment
of granite, a stone cracked and discarded, once the base of an
olive-mill. She found a seat upon it and motioned to me to come
close, and I stood close, staring down on her while she stared down
at her feet, grey with dust almost as the road itself.

"We were children, Camillo and I," she said at length, "in keep of an
ill woman we called Maman Trebuchet, and in a house near the entrance
of a court leading off the Rue de la Madeleine and close beside the
Market. How we had come there we never inquired. . . . I suppose all
children take such things as they find them. The house was of five
storys, all let out in tenements, and we inhabited two rooms on the
fourth floor to the left as you went up the staircase. . . . Some of
the men quarrelled with their wives and beat them. There was always
a noise of quarrelling in the house: but outside, before the front
door, the men who were not beating their women would sit for hours
together and smoke and spit and tell one another stories against the
Church and against women. The pavement where they sat and the street
before it were strewn always with rotting odds and ends of
vegetables, for almost every one in that quarter earned his living by
the Market, and Maman Trebuchet among the rest. She divided her time
between walking the streets with a basket and drinking the profits
away in the cabarets, and in the intervals she cursed and beat us.
We lived for the most part on the refuse she brought home at night--
on so much of her stock as had found no purchaser--and we played
about the gutters and alleys of the Market. So far as I remember we
were neither very happy nor yet very miserable. We knew that we were
brother and sister, and that Maman Trebuchet was not our real mother.
Beyond this we were not inquisitive, but took life as we found it.

"Nevertheless, I know now that we were not altogether lost, but that
eyes in Brussels were watching us; though how far they were friendly
I cannot tell you. I think sometimes that the agents of the Genoese,
who had hidden us there, must have been playing their own game as
well as their masters'. There was, for example, a dark man who often
visited the Market: he called himself a lay-brother, and seemed to
be busy with religious work among the poor of the quarter. We knew
him as Maitre Antoine at first, and so he was generally called: but
he told us that his real name was Antonio--or Antoniu, as he spoke
it--and that he came from Italy. He took a great fancy to us and
obtained leave of Maman Trebuchet to teach us the Scriptures: but
what he really taught us was to speak with him in Italian. We did
not know at the time that, though he called it Tuscan, he was all the
while teaching us our own Corsican. Nor, I believe, did our guardian
know this; but one day, finding out by chance that we knew Italian
(for we had begun to talk it together, that she might not understand
what we said) and discovering how we had picked it up, she flew into
a dreadful rage, lay in wait next day to catch Maitre Antoine as he
came up the stairs, and fell upon him with such fury that the poor
man fled out of the house and we never saw him again.

"After this--I believe about a year later--there came a day when she
bought a new cap and shawl for herself and new clothes for us, and,
having seen that we were thoroughly washed, took us up the hill to a
fine street near the palace, and to a hotel which was almost the
grandest house in the street. We entered, and were led into the
presence of a very noble-looking gentleman in a long yellow
dressing-gown, who blessed us and gave us a kiss apiece, and some
gold money, and afterwards poured out wine for Maman Trebuchet and
thanked her for taking such good care of us."

"That was your father, Princess."

"I have often thought so. But I remember nothing of his face except
that he had tears in his eyes when we said good-bye to him; at which
I wondered a great deal, for I had never seen a man crying. When we
were outside again in the street Maman Trebuchet took the gold away
from us. I think she too must have received money: for from that
day she neglected her marketing and drank more heavily than before.
About a month later she was dead.

"On the day of the funeral there came to our house a man dressed like
a gentleman--yet I believe rather that he must have been some kind of
courier or valet. He spoke to us very kindly, and said that we had
friends, who had sent him to us; that when we grew up we should not
want for money; but that just now it was most important we should be
put to school and made fit for our proper position in life. We must
make up our minds to be separated, he said--and at this we both
wept--but we should see one another often. For Camillo he had found
lodgings with an excellent tutor, in whose care, after a year's
study, he was to travel abroad and see the world: while for me he had
chosen a home with some discreet ladies who would attend to my
schooling."

"The house was in the Rue de Luxembourg--a corner house, where the
street is joined by a lane running from the Place du Parvis. He led
me to it that same evening, and Camillo came too, to make sure that I
was comfortable. It was a strange house and full of ladies, the most
of them young and all very handsomely dressed. But for their dresses
I could almost have fancied it some kind of convent. At all events,
they received me kindly, and many of them wept when they saw my
parting with Camillo."

Here the Princess paused, and sat silent for so long that I bent
forward in the dusk to read her face. She drew away, shivering, and
put up both hands as if to cover it.

"Well, Princess?"

"That house, Cavalier! . . . that horrible house! . . . Ah, remember
that I was a child, scarcely twelve years old--I had heard vile words
among the market folk, but they were words and meant nothing to me:
and now I saw things which I did not understand and--and I became
used to them before ever guessing that these were the things those
vile words had meant. The women were pretty, you see . . . and
merry, and kind to me at first. Before God I never dreamed that I
was looking on harm--not at first--but afterwards, when it was too
late. The people who had put me there ceased to send money, and
being a strong child and willing to work, at first I was put to make
the women their chocolate, and carry it up to them of a morning, and
so, little by little, I came to be their house-drudge. I had lost
all news of Camillo. For hours I have hunted through the streets of
Brussels, if by chance I might get sight of him . . . but he was
lost. And I--O Cavalier, have pity on me!"

"Wife," said I, standing before her, "why have you told me this?
Did I not say to you that I have seen your face and believe, and no
story shall shake my belief? . . . Nay, then, I am glad--yes, glad.
Dear enough, God knows, you would have been to me had I met you, a
child among these hills and ignorant of evil as a child.
How much dearer you, who have trodden the hot plough-shares and come
to me through the fires! . . . See now, I could kneel to you, O
queen, for shame at the little I have deserved."

But she put out a hand to check me. "O friend," she said sadly,
"will you never understand? For the great faith you pay me I shall
go thankfully all my days: but the faith that should answer it I
cannot give you. . . . Ah, there lies the cruelty! You are able to
trust, and I can never trust in return. You can believe, but I
cannot believe. I have seen all men so vile that the root of faith
is withered in me. . . . Sir, believe, that though everything that
makes me will to thank you must make me seem the more ungrateful, yet
I honour you too much to give you less than an equal faith.
I am your slave, if you command. But if you ask what only can honour
us two as man and wife, you lose all, and I am for ever degraded."

I stepped back a pace. "O Princess," I said slowly, "I shall never
claim your faith until you bring it to me. . . . And now, let all
this rest for a while. Take up your story again and tell me the
story to the end."

So in the darkness, seated there upon the millstone with her gun
across her knees, she told me all the story, very quietly:--How at
the last she had been found in the house in Brussels by Marc'antonio
and Stephanu and fetched home to the island; how she had found there
her brother Camillo in charge of Fra Domenico, his tutor and
confessor; with what kindness the priest had received her, how he had
confessed her and assured her that the book of those horrible years
was closed; and how, nevertheless, the story had crept out, poisoning
the people's loyalty and her brother's chances.

I heard her to the end, or almost to the end: for while she drew near
to conclude, and while I stood grinding my teeth upon the certainty
that the whole plot--from the kidnapping to the spreading of the
slanders--had been Master Domenico's work, and his only, the air
thudded with a distant dull concussion: whereat she broke off,
lifting her head to listen.

"It is the sound of guns," said I, listening too, while half a dozen
similar concussions followed. "Heavy artillery, too, and from the
southward."

"Nay; but what light is yonder, to the north?"

She pointed into the night behind me, and I turned to see a faint
glow spreading along the northern horizon, and mounting, and
reddening as it mounted, until the black hills between us and Cape
Corso stood up against it in sharp outline.

"O wife," said I, "since you must be weary, sleep for a while, and I
will keep watch: but wake soon, for yonder is something worth your
seeing."

"Whose work is it, think you?"

"The work," said I, "of a man who would set the whole world on fire,
and only for love."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FLAME AND THE ALTAR.

"And when he saw the statly towre
Shining baith clere and bricht,
Whilk stood abune the jawing wave,
Built on a rock of height,

"'Says, Row the boat, my mariners,
And bring me to the land,
For yonder I see my love's castle
Close by the saut sea strand."
_Rough Royal_.

"As 'twixt two equal armies Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls--which to advance our state
Were gone out--hung 'twixt her and me:

"And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day."
DONNE, _The Ecstasie_.

She rose from the stone, but swayed a little, finding her feet.
The dim light, as she turned her face to it, showed me that she was
weary almost to fainting. She had come to a pass where the more
haste would certainly make the worse speed.

"It is not spirit you lack, but sleep," said I; and she confessed
that it was so. An hour's rest would recover her, she said, and
obediently lay down where I found a couch for her on a bank of
sweet-smelling heath above the road. I too wanted rest, and settled
myself down with my back against a citron tree, some twenty paces
distant.

Chaucer says somewhere (and it is true), that women take less sleep
and take it more lightly than men. It seemed to me that I had
scarcely closed my eyes before I opened them again at a touch on my
shoulder. The night was yet dark around us, save for the glow to the
northward, and at first I would hardly believe when the Princess told
me that I had been sleeping near upon three hours. Then it occurred
to me that for a long while the sky overhead had been shaking and
repeating the boom of cannon.

"There is firing to the south of us," she said; "and heavier firing
than where the light is. It comes from Nonza or thereabouts."

"Then it is no affair of ours, even if we could reach it. But the
flame yonder will lead us to my father."

So we took the white glimmering high-road again and stepped out
briskly, refreshed by sleep and the cool night air that went with us,
blowing softly across the ridges on our right. We found a track that
skirted the village of Pino, leading us wide among orchards of citron
and olive, and had scarcely regained the road before the guns to the
south ceased firing. Also the red glow, though it still suffused the
north, began to fade as we neared it and climbed the last of steep
hills that run out to the extremity of the cape. There, upon the
summit, we came to a stand and caught our breath.

The sea lay at our feet, and down across its black floor to the base
of the cliff on which we stood there ran a broad ribbon of light.
It shone from a rock less than half a league distant: and on that
rock stood a castle which was a furnace--its walls black as the bars
of a grate, its windows aglow with contained fire. For the moment it
seemed that this fire filled the whole pile of masonry: but
presently, while we stood and stared, a sudden flame, shooting high
from the walls, lit up the front of a tall tower above them, with a
line of battlements at its base and on the battlements a range of
roofs yet intact. As though a slide had been opened and as rapidly
shut again, this vision of tower, roofs, battlements, gleamed for a
second and vanished as the flame sank and a cloud of smoke and sparks
rolled up in its place and drifted heavily to leeward.

With a light touch on the Princess's arm I bade her follow me, and
we raced together down the slope. At the foot of it we plunged into
a grove of olives and through it, as through a screen, into the
street of a little _marina_--two dozen fisher-huts, huddled close
above the foreshore, and tenantless; for their inhabitants were
gathered all on the beach and staring at the blaze.

I have said that the folk at Cape Corso are a race apart: and surely
there never was a stranger crowd than that in which, two minutes
later, we found ourselves mingling unchallenged. They accepted us,
may be, as a minor miracle of the night. They gazed at us curiously
there in the light of the conflagration, and from us away to the
burning island, and talked together in whispers, in a patois of which
I caught but one word in three. They asked us no questions.
Their voices filled the beach with a kind of subdued murmuring, all
alike gentle and patiently explanatory.

"It is the island of Giraglia," said one to me. "Yes, yes; this will
be the work of the patriots--a brave feat too, there's no denying."

I pointed to a line of fishing-boats moored in the shoal water a
short furlong off the shore.

"If you own one," said I, "give me leave to hire her from you, and
name your price."

"_Perche, perche?_"

"I wish to sail her to the island."

"_O galant'uomo_, but why should any one desire to sail to the island
to-night of all nights, seeing that to-night they have set it on
fire?"

I stared at his simplicity. "You are not patriots, it seems, at this
end of the Cape?"

He shook his head gravely. "The Genoese on the island are our
customers, and buy our fish. Why should men quarrel?"

"If it come to commerce, then, will you sell me your boat? The price
of her should be worth many a day's barter of fish."

He shook his head again, but called his neighbours to him, men and
women, and they began to discuss my offer, all muttering together,
their voices mingling confusedly as in a dream.

By-and-by the man turned to me. "The price is thirty-five livres,
signore, on deposit, for which you may choose any boat you will.
We are peaceable folk and care not to meddle; but the half shall be
refunded if you bring her back safe and sound."

"Fetch me a shore-boat, then," said I, while they counted my money,
having fetched a lantern for the purpose.

But it appeared that shore-boat there was none. I learned later that
my father and Captain Pomery, acting on his behalf, had hired all the
shore-boats at these _marinas_ (of which there are three hard by the
extremity of the Cape) for use in the night attack upon the island.

"Hold you my gun, then, Princess," said I, "while I swim out to the
nearest:" and wading out till the dark water reached to my breast, I
chose out my boat, swam to her--it was but a few strokes--clambered
on board, caught up a sweep, and worked her back to the beach.
The Princess, holding our two guns high, waded out to me, and I
lifted her on board.

We heard the voices of the villagers murmuring behind us while I
hoisted the little sail and drew the sheet home. The night-breeze,
fluking among the gullies, filled the sail at once, fell light again
and left it flapping, then drew a steady breath aft, and the voices
were lost in the hiss of water under the boat's stern.

But not until we had passed the extreme point of land did we find the
true breeze, which there headed us lightly, blowing (as nearly as I
can guess) from N.N.E., yet allowed us a fair course, so that by
hauling the sheet close I could point well to windward of the fiery
reflection on the water and fetch the island on a single tack.
It was here, as we ran out of the loom of the land, that the waning
moon lifted her rim over the hills astern; and it was here, as we
cleared the point, that her rays, traversing the misty sea between us
and Elba, touched the grey-white canvas of a vessel jeeling along (as
we say at the fishing in Cornwall) and holding herself to windward
for a straight run down upon the island--a vessel which at first
glance I recognized for the _Gauntlet_.

Plainly she was standing-by, waiting; plainly then her crew--or those
of them engaged for the assault--were detained yet upon the island;
whence (to make matters surer) there sounded, as our boat ran up to
it, a few loose dropping shots and a single cry--a cry that travelled
across to us down the lane of light directing us to the quay.
The blaze had died down; the upper keep, now overhanging us, stood
black and unlit against a sky almost as black; but on a stairway at
the base of it torches were moving and the flame of them shone on the
slippery steps of a quay to which I guided the boat. There, jamming
the helm down with a thrust of the foot, I ran forward and lowered
sail.

We carried more way than I had reckoned for, and--the Princess having
no science to help me--this brought us crashing in among a press of
boats huddled in the black shadow alongside the quay-steps with such
force as almost to stave in the upper timbers of a couple and sink
them where they lay. No voice challenged us. I wondered at this as
I gripped at the dark dew-drenched canvas to haul it inboard, and
while I wondered, a strong light shone down upon us from the quay's
edge.

A man stood there, holding a torch high over his head and shading his
eyes as he peered down at the boat--a tall man in a Trappist habit
girt high on his naked legs almost to the knees.

"My father?" I demanded. "Where is my father?"

He made no answer, but signed to us to make our landing, and waited
for us, still holding the torch high while I helped the Princess from
one boat to another and so to the slippery steps.

"My father?" I demanded again.

He turned and led us along the quay to a stairway cut in the living
rock. At the foot of it he lowered his torch for a moment that we
might see and step aside. Two bodies lay there--two of his brethren,
stretched side by side and disposedly, with arms crossed on their
breasts, ready for burial. High on the stairway, where it entered
the base of a battlemented wall under an arch of heavy stonework, a
solitary monk was drawing water from a well and sluicing the steps.
The water ran past our feet, and in the dawn (now paling about us) I
saw its colour. . . .

The burnt building--it had been the Genoese barracks--stood high on
the right of the stairway. Its roof had fallen in upon the flames
raging through its wooden floors, so that what had been but an hour
ago a blazing furnace was now a shell of masonry out of which a cloud
of smoke rolled lazily, to hang about the upper walls of the
fortress. Through its window-spaces, void and fire-smirched, as now
and again the reek lifted, I saw the pale upper-sky with half a dozen
charred ends of roof-timber sharply defined against it--a black and
broken grid; and while yet I stared upward another pair of monks
crossed the platform above the archway. They carried a body between
them--the body of a man in the Genoese uniform--and were bearing it
towards a bastion on the western side, that overhung the sea.
There the battlements hid them from me; but by-and-by I heard a
splash. . . .

By this time we were mounting the stairway. We passed under the
arch--where a door, shattered and wrenched from its upper hinge, lay
askew against the wall--and climbed to the platform. From this
another flight of steps (but these were of worked granite) led
straight as a ladder to a smaller platform at the foot of the keep;
and high upon these stood my uncle Gervase directing half a score of
monks to right an overturned cannon.

His back was toward me, but he turned as I hailed him by name--
turned, and I saw that he carried one arm in a sling. He came down
the steps to welcome me, but slowly and with a very grave face.

"My father--where is he?"

"He is alive, lad." My uncle took my hand and pressed it. "That is
to say, I left him alive. But come and see--" He paused--my uncle
was ever shy in the presence of women--and with his sound hand lifted
his hat to the Princess. "The signorina, if she will forgive a
stranger for suggesting it--she may be spared some pain if--"

"She seeks her mother, sir," said I, cutting him short; "and her
mother is the Queen Emilia."

"Your servant, signorina." My uncle bowed again and with a
reassuring smile. "And I am happy to tell you that, so far at least,
our expedition has succeeded. Your mother lives, signorina--or,
should I say, Princess? Yes, yes, Princess, to be sure--But come,
the both of you, and be prepared for gladness or sorrow, as may
betide."

He ran up the steps and we followed him, across the platform to a low
doorway in the base of the keep, through this, and up a winding
staircase of spirals, so steep and so many that the head swam.
Open lancet windows--one at each complete round of the stair--
admitted the morning breeze, and through them, as I clung to the
newel and climbed dizzily, I had glimpses of the sea twinkling far
below. I counted these windows up to ten or a dozen, but had lost my
reckoning for minutes before we emerged, at my uncle's heels, upon a
semi-circular landing, and in face of an iron-studded door, the hasp
of which he rattled gently. A voice answered from within bidding him
open, and very softly he thrust the door wide.

The room into which we looked was of fair size and circular in shape.
Three windows lit it, and between us and the nearest knelt Dom
Basilio, busy with a web of linen which he was tearing into bandages.
His was the voice that had commanded us to enter; and passing in, I
was aware that the room had two other occupants; for behind the door
stood a truckle bed, and along the bed lay my father, pale as death
and swathed in bandages; and by the foot of the bed, on a stool, with
a spinning-wheel beside her, sat a woman.

It needed no second look to tell me her name. Mean cell though it
was that held her, and mean her seat, the worn face could belong to
no one meaner than a Queen. A spool of thread had rolled from her
hand, across the floor; yet her hands upon her lap were shaped as
though they still held it. As she sat now, rigid, with her eyes on
the bed, she must have been sitting for minutes. So, while Dom
Basilio snipped and rent at his bandages, she gazed at my father on
the bed, and my father gazed back into her eyes, drinking the love in
them; and the faces of both seemed to shine with a solemn awe.

I think we must have been standing there on the threshold, we three,
for close upon a minute before my father turned his eyes towards me--
so far beyond this life was he travelling, and so far had the sound
of our entrance to follow and overtake his dying senses.

"Prosper! . . ."

"My father!"

He lifted a hand weakly toward the bandages wrapping his breast.
"These--these are of her spinning, lad. This is her bed they have
laid me on. . . . Who is it stands there behind your shoulder?"

"It is the Princess, father. You remember the Princess Camilla?
Yes, madam"--I turned to the Queen--"it is your daughter I bring--
your daughter, and, with your blessing, my wife."

The Queen, though her daughter knelt, did not offer to embrace her,
but lifted two feeble hands over the bowed head as though to bless,
while over her hands her gaze still rested on my father.

"We have had brave work, lad," he panted. "I am sorry you come late
for it--but you were bound on your own business, eh?" He turned with
a ghost of his old smile. "Nay, child, and you did right; I am not
blaming you--The young to the young, and let the dead bury the dead!
Kiss me, lad, if you can find room between these plaguey bandages.
Your pardon, Dom Basilio: you have done your best, and, if I seem
ungrateful, let me make amends and thank you for giving me this last,
best hour. . . . Indeed, Dom Basilio, I am a dead man, but your
bandages are tying my soul here for a while, where it would stay.
Gervase"--he reached out a hand to my uncle, who was past hiding his
tears--"Gervase--brother--there needs no talk, no thanks, between
you and me. . . ."

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