Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (romantic novels in english .TXT) 📖

no more was said, while the mists

gathered and thickened over the Maremma and the rich hues faded from

the sky.

 

“Who is that?” cried Ysabeau, and pointed across the marsh-land.

 

A figure, dark against the mists, was running aimlessly, wildly to and

fro, winding his way in and out the pools, now and then flinging his

arms up in a frantic gesture towards the evening sky.

 

“A madman,” said Balthasar; “see, he runs with no object, round and

round, yet always as if pursued—”

 

Ysabeau drew close to her husband, as they both watched, with a

curious fascination, the man being driven hither and thither as by an

invisible enemy.

 

“Is it a ghost?” whispered Ysabeau; “strangely chilled and horror-stricken do I feel—” The Emperor made the sign of the Cross.

 

“Part of the curse, maybe,” he muttered.

 

Suddenly, as if exhausted, the man stopped and stood still with

hanging head and arms; the sun burning to the horizon made a vivid

background to his tall dark figure till the heavy noisome vapours rose

to the level of the sunset, and the solitary, motionless stranger was

blotted from the view of the two watching in the ruined villa.

 

“Why should we wonder?” said Balthasar. “There must be many men

abroad, both Saxon and Roman—”

 

“Yet, he ran strangely,” she murmured; “and I have been here three

days and seen no one.” “We must get away,” said Balthasar resolutely.

“This is a vile spot.”

 

“At dawn a girl comes here with food, enough at least for Wencelaus.

 

“I have food with me, Ysabeau, given by one who did not know that we

were excommunicate.”

 

The Empress looked about her fearfully.

 

“I heard a step.”

 

Balthasar peered through the mist.

 

“The man,” whispered Ysabeau.

 

Out of the dreary vapours, the forlorn and foul mists of the marshes,

he appeared, stumbling over the stones in his way…

 

He caught hold of the slender pillar by the entrance and stared at the

three with distraught eyes. His clothes were dark, wet and soiled, his

hair hung lank round a face hollow and pale but of obvious beauty.

 

“Theirry of Dendermonde!” exclaimed Balthasar. Ysabeau gave a cry that

woke the child and sent him frightened into her arms.

 

“The Emperor,” said the newcomer in a feeble voice.

 

Balthasar answered fiercely–“Am I still Emperor to you?—you who to-day were to receive my crown in St. Peter’s church?”

 

Ysabeau clasped Wencelaus tightly to her breast, and her eyes shone

with a wrathful triumph. “They have cast him out; Rome rose against

such a king!”

 

Theirry shivered and crouched like one very cold.

 

“Of my own will I fled from Rome, that city of the Devil!”

 

Balthasar stared at him.

 

“Is this the man who broke our ranks at Tivoli?”

 

“Is this he who would be Emperor of the West?” cried Ysabeau.

 

“You are the Emperor,” said Theirry faintly, “and I pretend no longer

to these wrongful honours, nor serve I any longer Antichrist—”

 

“He is mad!” cried Balthasar.

 

“Nay,” Ysabeau spoke eagerly—“listen to him.”

 

Theirry moaned.

 

“I have nothing to say—give me a place to rest in.”

 

“Through you we have no place ourselves to rest in,” answered

Balthasar grimly. “No shelter save these broken walls you see; but

since you have returned to your allegiance, we command that you tell

us of this Antichrist—”

 

Theirry straightened himself.

 

“He who reigns in Rome is Antichrist, Michael, who was Dirk

Renswoude–”

 

“He perished,” said the Emperor, very pale; “and the Pope was Blaise

of Dendermonde.”

 

“That was the Devil’s work, black magic!” cried Theirry wildly; “the

youth Blaise died ten years ago, and Dirk Renswoude took his place.”

 

“It is true!” cried the Empress; “by what he said to me I know it

true—now do I see it very clearly.”

 

But Balthasar stared at Theirry in a confused manner.

 

“I do not understand.”

 

The lightning darted through the broken wall, and a solitary winged

thing flapped over the roofless villa.

 

Theirry began to speak.

 

He told them, in a thick, expressionless voice, all he knew of Dirk

Renswoude.

 

He did not mention Ursula of Rooselaare. As his tale went on, the

storm gathered till all light had vanished from the sky, the lightning

rent a starless gloom, and the continual roar of the thunder quivered

in the stifling air.

 

In the pauses between the lightning they could not see each other;

Wencelaus sobbed on his mother’s breast, and the owls hooted in the

crevices of the marble.

 

Theirry’s voice suddenly strengthened.

 

“Now, turn against Rome, for all men will join you—a force of

Lombards marches up from Trastevere, and the Saxons gather without the

walls of the accursed city.”

 

A blue flash showed them his face…they heard him fall…

 

After a while Balthasar made his way to him through the dark.

 

“He has fainted,” he said fearfully; “is he, belike, mad?”

 

“He speaks the hideous truth,” whispered Ysabeau.

 

Suddenly, at its very height the storm ceased, the air became cool and

fragrant, and a bright moon floated from the clouds.

 

The silver radiance of it, extraordinarily bright and vivid,

illuminated the Maremma, the pools, the tall reeds, the deserted

buildings, the ruins that sheltered them; the clouds rolled swiftly

from the sky, leaving it clear and blazing with stars.

 

The first moon and the first stars that had shone since Michael II’s

reign in the Vatican. Theirry’s dark dress and hair, and deathlike

face pressed against the marble pavement showed now plainly.

 

Balthasar looked at his wife; neither dared to speak, but Wencelaus

gave a panting sigh of relief at the lifting of the darkness.

 

“My lord,” he said, striving out of his mother’s arms, “a goodly

company comes across the marsh—”

 

A great awe and fear held them silent, and the wonderful silver shine

of the moon lay over them like a spell.

 

They saw, slowly approaching them, two knights and two ladies, who

seemed to advance without motion across the marsh-land.

 

The knights wore armour that shone like glass, and long mantles of

white samite; the dames were clad in silver tissue, and around their

brows were close-pressed wreaths of roses mingled red and white.

 

Very bright and fair they seemed; the knights came to the fore,

carrying silver trumpets; the ladies held each other’s hands lovingly,

and their gleaming tresses of red and gold wove together as they

walked.

 

They reached the portals of the villa, and the air blew cold and pure.

 

The lady with the yellow hair who held white violets in her hand,

spoke to the other, and her voice was like the echo of the sea in a

wide-lipped shell.

 

They paused; Balthasar drew back before the great light they brought

with them, and Ysabeau hid her face, for some of them she knew.

 

On earth their names had been Melchoir, Sebastian, Jacobea and

Sybilla.

 

“Balthasar,” said the foremost Knight, “we are come from the courts of

Paradise to bid you march against Rome. In that city reigns Evil,

permitted to punish a sinful people, but now her time is come. Go you

to Viterbo, there you will find the Cardinal of Narbonne, whom God has

ordained Pope, and with him an army; at the head of it storm Rome, and

all the people shall join you in destroying Antichrist.”

 

Balthasar fell on his knees.

 

“And the curse!” he cried.

 

“‘Tis not the curse of God upon you, therefore be comforted, Balthasar

of Courtrai, and at the dawn haste to Viterbo.”

 

With that they moved away, and were absorbed into the silver light

that transfigured the Maremma.

 

Balthasar sprang to his feet, shouting—

 

“I am not excommunicate! I shall be Emperor again. The curse is

lifted!”

 

The moonlight faded, again the clouds rolled up…

 

Balthasar caught Theirry by the shoulder.

 

“Did you see the vision?—the angels?”

 

Theirry came shuddering from his swoon.

 

“I saw nothing—Ursula…Ursula…”