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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

“Nathalie!” called Dirk in a half hope.

But the blackness rippled into fire, swift flames sprang up, a column of gold and scarlet enveloped house and garden in a curling embrace.

Dirk ran out into the road, where the glare of the fire lit the swirling snow for a trembling circle, and shading his eyes he stared at the flames that consumed all his books, his magic herbs and potions, the strange things, rich and beautiful, that Nathalie had gathered in her long evil life; then he turned and ran down the street as the crowd surged in at the other end, to fall back upon one another aghast before the mighty flames that gave them mocking welcome.

Their dismayed and angry shouts came to Dirk’s ears as he ran through the snow; he fled the faster, towards the eastern gate.

It was not yet shut; light of foot and swift he darted through before they could challenge him, perhaps even before the careless guards saw him.

He was a fine runner, not easily fatigued, but he had already strained his endurance to the utmost, and, after he had well cleared the city gates, his limbs failed him and he fell to a walk.

The intense darkness produced a feeling of bewilderment, almost of light-headedness; he kept looking back over his shoulder, at the distant lights of Frankfort, to assure himself that he was not unwittingly stumbling back to the gates.

Finally he stood still and listened; he must be near the river; and after a while he could distinguish the sound of its sullen flow coming faintly out of the silent dark.

Well, of what use was the river to him, or aught else; he was cold, weary, pursued and betrayed; all he had with him were some few pieces of white money and a little phial of swift and keen poison that he never failed to carry in his breast; if his master failed him he would not go alive into the flames.

But, hopeless as his case might seem, he was far from resorting to this last refuge; he remembered the Blackamoor’s words, and dragged his numbed and aching limbs along.

After a while he saw, glimmering ahead of him, a light.

It was neither in a house nor carried in the hand, for it shone low on the ground, lower, it seemed to Dirk, than his own feet.

He paused, listened, and proceeded cautiously for fear of the river, that must lie, he thought, very close to his left.

As he neared the light he saw it to be a lantern, that cast long rays across the clearing snowstorm; a glittering, trembling reflection beneath it told him it belonged to a boat roped to the bank.

Dirk crept towards it, went on his knees in the snow and mud, and beheld a small, empty craft, the lantern hanging at the prow.

He paused; the waters, rushing by steadily and angrily, must be flowing towards the Rhine and the town of Cologne.…

He stepped into the boat that rocked while the water splashed beneath him; but with cold hands he undid the knotted rope.

The boat trembled a moment, then sped on with the current as if glad to be freed.

An oar lay in the bottom, with which for a while Dirk helped himself along, fearful lest the owners of the boat should pursue, then he let himself float down stream as he might. The water lapped about him, and the snow fell on his unprotected and already soaked figure; he stretched himself along the bottom of the boat and hid his face in the cushioned seat.

“Hugh of Rooselaare is dead and Theirry has betrayed me,” he whispered into the darkness.

Then he began sobbing, very bitterly.

His anguished tears, the cruel cold, the steady sound of the unseen water exhausted and numbed him till he fell into a sleep that was half a swoon, while the boat drifted towards the town.

When he awoke he was still in the open country. The snow had ceased, but lay on the ground thick and untouched to the horizon.

Dirk dragged his cramped limbs to a sitting posture and stared about him; the river was narrow, the banks flat; the boat had been caught by a clump of stiff withered reeds and the prow driven into the snowy earth.

On either side the prospect was wintry and dreary; a grey sky brooded over a white land, a pine forest showed sadly in dark mournfulness, while near by a few bare isolated trees bent under their weight of snow; the very stillness was horribly ominous.

Dirk found it ill to move, for his limbs were frozen, his clothes wet and clinging to his wincing flesh, while his eyes smarted with his late weeping, and his head was racked with giddy pains.

For a while he sat, remembering yesterday till his face hardened and darkened, and he set his pale lips and crawled painfully out of the boat.

Before him was a sweep of snow leading to the forest, and as he gazed at this with dimmed, hopeless eyes, a figure in a white monk’s habit emerged from the trees.

He carried a rude wooden spade in his hand, and walked with a slow step; he was coming towards the river, and Dirk waited.

As the stranger neared he lifted his eyes, that had hitherto been cast on the ground, and Dirk recognised Saint Ambrose of Menthon.

Nevertheless Dirk did not despair; before the saint had recognised him his part was resolved upon.…

Ambrose of Menthon gazed with pity and horror at the forlorn little figure shivering by the reeds. It was not strange that he did not at once know him; Dirk’s face was of a ghastly hue, his eyes shadowed underneath, red and swollen, his lank hair clinging close to his small head, his clothes muddy, wet and soiled, his figure bent.

“Sir,” he said, and his voice was weak and sweet, “have pity on an evil thing.”

He fell on his knees and clasped his hands on his breast.

“Rise up,” answered the saint. “What God has given me is yours; poor soul, ye are very miserable.”

“More miserable than ye wot of,” said Dirk, through chattering teeth, still on his knees. “Do you not know me?”

Ambrose of Menthon looked at him closely.

“Alas!” he murmured slowly, “I know you.”

Dirk beat his breast.

“Mea culpa!” he moaned. “Mea culpa!”

“Rise. Come with me,” said the saint. “I will attend your wants.”

The youth did not move.

“Will you solace my soul, sir?” he cried. “God must have sent you here to save my soul—for long days I have sought you.”

Saint Ambrose’s face glowed.

“Have ye, then, repented?”

Dirk rose slowly to his feet and stood with bent head.

“May one repent of such offences?”

“God is very merciful,” breathed the saint tenderly.

“Remorse and sorrow fill my heart,” murmured Dirk. “I have cast off my evil comrades, renounced my vile gains and journeyed into the loneliness to find God His pardon… and it seemed He would not hear me.…”

“He hears all who come in grief and penitence,” said the saint joyously. “And He has heard you, for has He not sent me to find you, even in this most desolate place?”

“You feed me with hope,” answered Dirk in a quivering voice, “and revive me with glad tidings… may I dare, I, poor lost wretch, to be uplifted and exalted?”

“Poor youth,” was the tender murmur. “Come with me.”

He led the way across the thick snow, Dirk following with downcast eyes and white cheeks.

They skirted the forest and came upon a little hut, set back and sheltered among the scattered trees.

Saint Ambrose opened the rude door.

“I am alone now,” he said softly, as he entered. “I had with me a frail holy youth, who was travelling to Paris; last night he died, I have just laid his body in the earth, his soul rests on the bosom of the Lord.”

Dirk stepped into the hut and stood meekly on the threshold, and Saint Ambrose glanced at him wistfully.

“Maybe God has sent me this soul to tend and succour in place of that He has called home.”

Dirk whispered humbly—

“If I might think so.”

The saint opened an inner door.

“Your garments are wet and soiled.”

A sudden colour stained Dirk’s face.

“I have no others.”

Ambrose of Menthon pointed to the inner chamber.

“There Blaise died yester-eve; there are his clothes, enter and put them on.”

“It will be the habit of a novice?” asked Dirk softly.

“Yea.”

Dirk bent and kissed the saint’s fingers with ice-cold lips.

“I have dared,” he whispered, “to hope that I might die wearing the garb of God His servants, and now I dare even to hope that He shall grant my prayer.”

He stepped into the inner chamber and closed the door.
 
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The Un-Clit said:
Now it's just her SSN and the symbol in her pfp which she thinks is some kind of magic symbol that does things.
Click to expand...
Hello there! Long time no see! I kinda dipped out the counting thread (it was the reason I got banned from reporting for a while).

It's the White Bear symbol from Black Mirror. It's one of the symbols that show up in various episodes of the show. (That reminds me to catch up on the latest season, thank you!)

See crazy conspiracy shit about Black Mirror I can get behind; Too spazzy for the main conspiracy thread, not spazzy enough for the conspiracy thread that for image poster made because everyone complained about him in the serious conspiracy thread.

I've got pizza, some wine and about to be snowed in. Going to start from the beginning and catch myself up. Expect sticker spam!

Hello everyone!
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER XXII.
BLAISE
Ambrose of Menthon and his meek and humble follower rested at Châlons, on their way to Paris.

For many weeks they had begged from door to door, sleeping in some hermit’s cell or by the roadside when the severity of the bitter nights permitted, occasionally finding shelter in a wayside convent.

So patient, so courageous before hardship, so truly sad and remorseful, so grateful for the distant chance of ultimate pardon was Dirk, that the saint grew to love the penitent vagabond.

No one eager to look for it could have found any fault with his behaviour; he was gentle as a girl, obedient as a servant, rigid in his prayers (and he had a strangely complete knowledge of the offices and penances of the Church), silent and sorrowful often, taking no pleasure in anything save the saint’s talk of Paradise and holy things.

Particularly he loved to hear of the dead youth Blaise, of his saintly life, of his desire to join the stern Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart, in Paris, of his fame as one beloved of God, of the convent’s wish to receive him, of his great learning, of his beautiful death in the snowy evening.

To all this Dirk listened with still attention, and from Saint Ambrose’s rapt and loving recital he gathered little earthly details of the subject of their speech.

Such as that he was from Flanders, of a noble family, that his immediate relatives were dead, that his years were no more than twenty, and that he was dark and pale.

For himself Dirk had little to say; he described simply his shame and remorse after he had stolen the holy gold, his gradual sickening of his companions, the long torture of his awakening soul, his attempts to find the saint, and how, finally, after he had resolved to flee his evil life and enter a convent, he had run out of Frankfort, found a boat waiting—and so drifted to Saint Ambrose’s feet.

The saint, rejoicing in his penitence, suggested that he should enter the convent whither they journeyed with the tidings of the holy youth’s death, and Dirk consented with humble gratitude.

And so they passed through Châlons, and rested in a deserted hut overlooking the waters of the Marne.

Having finished their scanty meal they were seated together under the rough shelter; the luxury of a fire was denied their austerity; a cold wind blew in and out of the ill-built doors, and a colourless light filled the mean bare place. Dirk sat on a broken stool, reading aloud the writings of Saint Jerome.

He wore a coarse brown robe, very different from his usual attire, fastened round the waist with a rope into which was twisted a wooden rosary; his feet were encased in rude leather boots, his hands reddened with the cold, his face hollow and of a bluish pallor in which his eyes shone feverishly large and dark.

His smooth hair hung on to his shoulders; he stooped, in contrast with his usual erect carriage.

Pausing on his low and gentle reading he looked across at the saint.

Ambrose of Menthon sat on a rough-hewn bench against the rougher wall; weariness, exposure, and sheer weakness of body had done their work at last; Dirk knew that for three nights he had not slept… he was asleep now or had swooned; his fair head fell forward on his breast, his hands hung by his side.

As Dirk became assured that his companion was unconscious, he slowly rose and set down the holy volume. He was himself half starved, cold to the heart and shuddering; he looked round the plaster walls and the meek expression of his face changed to one of scorn, derision and wicked disdain; he darted a bitter glance at the wan man, and crept towards the door.

Opening it softly, he gazed out; the scene was fair and lonely—the distant tourelles of Châlons rose clear and pointed against the winter clouds; near by the grey river flowed between its high banks, where the bare willows grew and the snow-wreaths still lay.

Dirk took shivering steps into the open and turned towards the Marne; the keen wind penetrated his poor garments and lifted the heavy hair from his thin cheeks; he beat his breast, chafed his hands and walked rapidly.

Reaching the bank he looked up and down the river; there was no one in sight, neither boat nor animal nor house to break the monotony of land, sky and water, only those distant towers of the town.

Dirk walked among the twisted willows, then came to a pause.

A little ahead of him were a black man and a black dog, both seated on the bank and gazing towards Châlons.

The youth came a little nearer.

“Good even,” he said. “It is very cold.”

The Blackamoor looked round.

“Are you pleased with the way you travel?” he asked, nodding his head. “And your companion?”

Dirk’s face lowered.

“How much longer am I to endure it?”

“You must have patience,” said the black man, “and endurance.”

“I have both,” answered Dirk. “Look at my hands—they are no longer soft, but red and hard; my feet are galled and wounded in rough boots—I must walk till I am sick, then pray instead of sleeping; I see no fire, and scarcely do I touch food.”

The hell-hound stirred and whined among the osiers, the jewels in the Blackamoor’s collar flashed richly, though there was no light to strike them.

“You will be rewarded,” he said, “and revenged too—o—ho—o! it is very cold, as you say, very cold.”

“What must I do?” asked Dirk.

The black man rubbed his hands together.

“You know—you know.”

Dirk’s pinched wan face grew intent, and eager.

“Am I to use… this?” He touched the breast of his rough habit.

“Yea.”

“Then shall I be left defenceless.” Dirk’s voice shook a little. “If anything should happen—I would not, I could not—oh, Sathanas!—I could not be revealed!”

The Blackamoor rose from among the willows.

“Do you trust yourself and me?” he asked.

Dirk put his thin hand over his eyes.

“Yea, master.”

“Then you know what to do. You will not see me for many years—when you have triumphed I shall come.”

He turned swiftly and ran down the bank, the hound at his heels; one after another they leaped into the waters of the Marne and disappeared with an inner sound.

Dirk straightened himself and set his lips. He reentered the hut to find Ambrose of Menthon still against the wall, now indeed wearily asleep; Dirk came softly forward; slowly and cautiously he put his hand into his bosom and drew out a small green-coloured phial.

With his eyes keenly on the saint he broke the seal, then crept close.

By Saint Ambrose’s side hung his rosary, every bead smooth with the constant pressure of his lips; Dirk raised the heavy crucifix attached, and poured on to it the precious drop contained in the phial.

Saint Ambrose did not wake nor move; Dirk drew away and crouched against the wall, cursing the bitter wind with fierce eyes.…

When the saint awoke, Dirk was on the broken stool reading aloud the writings of Saint Jerome.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

“Is it still light?” asked Ambrose of Menthon amazedly.

“It is the dawn,” answered Dirk.

“And I have slept the night through.” The saint dragged his stiff limbs from the seat and fell on his knees in a misery of prayer.

Dirk closed the book and watched him; watched his long fingers twining in the beads of his rosary, watched him kiss the crucifix, again and again; then he, too, knelt, his face hidden in his hands.

He was the first to rise.

“Master, shall we press on to Paris?” he asked humbly.

The saint lifted dazed eyes from his devotions.

“Yea,” he said. “Yea.”

Dirk began putting together in a bundle their few books, and the wooden platter in which they collected their broken food; this being their all.

“I dreamt last night of Paradise,” said Saint Ambrose faintly, “the floor was so thick-strewn with close little flowers, red, white, and purple… and it was warm as Italy in May.…”

Dirk swung the bundle on to his shoulder and opened the door of the hut.

“There is no sun to-day,” he remarked.

“How long it is since we have seen the sun!” said Saint Ambrose wistfully.

They passed out into the dreary landscape and took their slow way along the banks of the Marne.

Until midday they did not pause, scarcely spoke; then they passed through a little village, and the charitable gave them food.

That night they slept in the open, under shelter of a hedge, and Ambrose of Menthon complained of weakness; Dirk, waking in the dark, heard him praying… heard, too, the rattle of the wooden rosary.

When the light came and they once more recommenced their journey the saint was so feeble he was fain to lean on Dirk’s shoulder.

“I think I am dying,” he said; his face was flushed, his eyes burning, he smiled continuously.

“Let me reach Paris,” he added, “that I may tell the Brethren of Blaise.…”

The youth supporting him wept bitterly.

Towards noon they met a woodman’s cart that helped them on their way; that night they spent in the stable of an inn; the next day they descended into the valley of the Seine, and by the evening reached the gates of Paris.

As the bells over all the beautiful city were ringing to vespers they arrived at their destination, an old and magnificent convent surrounded with great gardens set near the river bank.

The winter sky had broken at last, and wreathed and motionless clouds curled back from a clear expanse of gold and scarlet, against which the houses, churches and palaces rose from out the blue mist of evening.

The straight roof of the convent, the little tower with its slow-moving bell, the bare bent fruit trees, the beds of herbs, sweet-smelling even now, the red lamp glowing in the dark doorway, showed themselves to Dirk as he entered the gate,—he looked at them all intently, and bitter distant memories darkened his hollow face.

The monks were singing the Magnificat; their thin voices came clearly on the frosty air.

“Fecit potentiam in brachio suo:
dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.”

Ambrose of Menthon took his feeble hand from Dirk’s arm and sank on his knees.

“Deposuit potentes de sede,
et exaltavit humiles.”

But Dirk’s pale lips curled, and as he gazed at the sunset flaming beyond the convent walls, there was a haughty challenge in his brooding eyes.

“Esurientes implevit bonis,
et divites dimisit inanes.
Suscepit Israel puerum suum,
recordatus misercordiae suae.”

The saint murmured the chanted words and clasped his hands on his breast, while the sky brightened vividly above the wide waters of the Seine.

“Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros
Abraham et semini ejus in saecula.”

The chant faded away on the still evening, but the saint remained kneeling.

“Master,” whispered Dirk, “shall we not go in to them?”

Ambrose of Menthon raised his fair face.

“I am dying,” he smiled. “A keen flame licks up my blood and burns my heart to ashes—‘Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus.’ ” His voice failed, he sank forward and his head fell against the grey beds of rue and fennel.

“Alas! alas!” cried Dirk; he made no attempt to bring assistance nor called aloud, but stood still, gazing with intent eyes at the unconscious man.

But when the monks came out of the chapel and turned two by two towards the convent, Dirk pulled off his worn cap.

“Divinum auxilium maneat semper
nobiscum.”

“Amen,” said Dirk, then he ran lightly forward and flung himself before the procession.

“My father!” he cried, with a sob in his voice.

The priests stopped, the “amens” still trembling on their lips.

“Ambrose of Menthon lies within your gates a dying man,” said Dirk meekly and sadly.

With little exclamations of awe and grief the grey-clad figures followed him to where the saint lay.

“Ah me!” murmured Dirk. “The way has been so long, so rough, so cold.”

Reverently they raised Saint Ambrose.

“He has done with his body,” said an old monk, holding up the dying man.

The flushed sky faded behind them; the saint stirred and half opened his eyes.

“Blaise,” he whispered. “Blaise”—he tried to point to Dirk who knelt at his feet—“he will tell you.” His eyes closed again, he strove to pray; the “De profundis” trembled on his lips, he made a sudden upward gesture with his hands, smiled and died.

For a while there was silence among them, broken only by a short sob from Dirk, then the monks turned to the ragged, emaciated youth who crouched at the dead feet.

“Blaise, he said,” one murmured, “it is the holy youth.”

Dirk roused himself as from a silent prayer, made the sign of the cross and rose.

“Who art thou?” they asked reverently.

Dirk raised a tear-stained, weary face.

“The youth Blaise, my fathers,” he answered humbly.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

PART II.
THE POPE
CHAPTER I.
CARDINAL LUIGI CAPRAROLA
The evening service in the Basilica of St. Peter was over; pilgrims, peasants and monks had departed; the last chant of the officiating Cardinal’s train still trembled on the incense-filled air and the slim novices were putting out the lights, when a man, richly and fantastically dressed, entered the bronze doors and advanced a little way down the centre aisle.

He bent his head to the altar, then paused and looked about him with the air of a stranger. He was well used to magnificence, but this first sight of the chapel of the Vatican caused him to catch his breath.

Surrounding him were near a hundred pillars, each of a different marble and carving; they supported a roof that glittered with the manifold colours of mosaic; the rich walls were broken by numerous chapels, from which issued soft gleams of purple and violet light; mysterious shrines of porphyry and cipolin, jasper and silver showed here and there behind red lamps. A steady glow of candles shone on a mosaic and silver arch, beyond which the high altar sparkled like one great jewel; the gold lamps on it were still alight, and it was heaped with white lilies, whose strong perfume was noticeable even through the incense.

To one side of the high altar stood a purple chair, and a purple footstool, the seat of the Cardinal, sometimes of the Pontiff.

This splendid and holy beauty abashed, yet inspired the stranger; he leant against one of the smooth columns and gazed at the altar.

The five aisles were crossed by various shafts of delicate trembling light that only half dispersed the lovely gloom; some of the columns were slender, some massive—the spoils from ancient palaces and temples, no two of them were alike; those in the distance took on a sea-green hue, luminous and exquisite; one or two were of deep rose red, others black or dark green, others again pure ghostly white, and all alike enveloped in soft shadows and quivering lights, violet, blue and red.

The novices were putting out the candles and preparing to close the church; their swift feet made no sound; silently the little stars about the high altar disappeared and deeper shadows fell over the aisles.

The stranger watched the white figures moving to and fro until no light remained, save the purple and scarlet lamps that cast rich rays over the gold and stained the pure lilies into colour, then he left his place and went slowly towards the door.

Already the bronze gates had been closed; only the entrance to the Vatican and one leading into a side street remained open.

Several monks issued from the chapels and left by this last; the stranger still lingered.

Down from the altar came the two novices, prostrated themselves, then proceeded along the body of the church.

They extinguished the candles in the candelabra set down the aisles, and a bejewelled darkness fell on the Basilica.

The stranger stood under a malachite and platinum shrine that blinded with the glimmer and sparkle of golden mosaic; before it burnt graduated tapers; one of the novices came towards it, and the man waiting there moved towards him.

“Sir,” he said in a low voice, “may I speak to you?”

He spoke in Latin, with the accent of a scholar, and his tone was deep and pleasant.

The novice paused and looked at him, gazed intently and beheld a very splendid person, a man in the prime of life, tall above the ordinary, and, above the ordinary, gorgeous to the eyes; his face was sunburnt to a hue nearly as dark as his light bronze hair, and his Western eyes showed clearly bright and pale in contrast; in his ears hung long pearl and gold ornaments that touched his shoulders; his dress was half Eastern, of fine violet silk and embroidered leather; he carried in his belt a curved scimitar inset with turkis, by his side a short gold sword, and against his hip he held a purple cap ornamented with a plume of peacocks’ feathers, and wore long gloves fretted in the palm with the use of rein and sword.

But more than these details did the stranger’s face strike the novice; a face almost as perfect as the masks of the gods found in the temples; the rounded and curved features were over-full for a man, and the expression was too indifferent, troubled, almost weak, to be attractive, but taken in itself the face was noticeably beautiful.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

Noting the novice’s intent gaze, a flush crept into the man’s dark cheek.

“I am a stranger,” he said. “I want to ask you of Cardinal Caprarola. He officiated here to-day?”

“Yea,” answered the novice. “What can I tell you of him? He is the greatest man in Rome—now his Holiness is dying,” he added.

“Why, I have heard of him—even in Constantinople. I think I saw him—many years ago, before I went to the East.”

The novice began to extinguish the candles round the shrine.

“It may be, sir,” he said. “His Eminence was a poor youth as I might be; he came from Flanders.”

“It was in Courtrai I thought I saw him.”

“I know not if he was ever there; he became a disciple of Saint Ambrose of Menthon when very young, and after the saint’s death he joined the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris—you have heard that, sir?”

The stranger lowered his magnificent eyes.

“I have heard nothing—I have been away—many years; this man, Cardinal Caprarola—he is a saint also—is he not? … tell me more of him.”

The youth paused in his task, leaving half the candles alight to cast a trembling glow over the man’s gold and purple splendour; he smiled.

“Born of Dendermonde he was, sir, Louis his name, in our tongue Luigi, Blaise the name he took in the convent—he came to Rome, seven, nay, it must be eight years ago. His Holiness created him Bishop of Ostia, then of Caprarola, which last name he retains now he is Cardinal—he is the greatest man in Rome,” repeated the novice.

“And a saint?” asked the other with a wistful eagerness.

“Certes, when he was a youth he was famous for his holy austere life, now he lives in magnificence as befits a prince of the Church… he is very holy.”

The novice put out the remaining candles, leaving only the flickering red lamp.

“There was a great service here to-day?” the stranger asked.

“Yea, very many pilgrims were here.”

“I grieve that I was too late—think you Cardinal Caprarola would see one unknown to him?”

“If the errand warranted it, sir.”

From the rich shadows came a sigh.

“I seek peace—if it be anywhere it is in the hands of this servant of God—my soul is sick, will he help me heal it?”

“Yea, I do think so.”

The youth turned, as he spoke, towards the little side door.

“I must close the Basilica, sir,” he added.

The stranger seemed to rouse himself from depths of unhappy thoughts, and followed through the quivering gloom.

“Where should I find the Cardinal?” he asked.

“His palace lies in the Via di San Giovanni in Laterano, any will tell you the way, sir.” The novice opened the door. “God be with you.”

“And with you;” the stranger stepped into the open and the church door was locked behind him.

The purple after-glow still lingered over Rome; it was May and sweetly warm; as the stranger crossed the Piazza of St. Peter the breeze was like the touch of silk on his face; he walked slowly and presently hesitated, looking round the ruined temples, broken palaces and walls; there were people about, not many, mostly monks; the man glanced back at the Vatican, where the lights had begun to sparkle in the windows, then made his way, as rapidly as his scant knowledge served, across the superb and despoiled city.

He reached the Via Sacra; it was filled with a gay and splendid crowd, in chariots, on foot, and on horse, that mingled unheeding with the long processions of penitents winding in and out the throng, both here and in the Appian Way. He turned towards the Arch of Titus; the ladies laughed and stared as he passed; one took a flower from her hair and threw it after him, at which he frowned, blushed, and hastened on; he had never been equal to the admiration he roused in women, though he disliked neither them nor their admiration; he carried still on his wrist the mark of a knife left there by a Byzantine Princess who had found his face fair and his wooing cold; the laughter of the Roman ladies gave him the same feeling of hot inadequacy as when he felt that angry stab.

Passing the fountain of Meta Sudans and the remains of the Flavian Amphitheatre, he gained the Via di San Giovanni in Laterano leading to the Cælimontana Gate.

Here he drew a little apart from the crowd and looked about him; in the distance the Vatican and Castel San Angelo showed faintly against the remote Apennines; he could distinguish the banner of the Emperor hanging slackly in the warm air, the little lights in St. Peter’s.

Behind him rose the Janiculum Hill set with magnificent palaces and immense gardens, beneath the city lay dark in the twilight, and the trees rising from the silent temples made a fair murmur as they shook in their upper branches.

The stranger sighed and stepped again into the crowd, composed now of all ranks and all nationalities; he touched a young German on the shoulder.

“Which is Cardinal Caprarola’s palace?”

“Sir, the first.” He pointed to a gorgeous building on the slope of the hill.

The stranger caught a glimpse of marble porticoes half obscured by soft foliage.

With a “Thank you” he turned in the direction of the Palatine.

A few moments brought him to the magnificent gates of the Villa Caprarola; they stood open upon a garden of flowers just gleamingly visible in the dusk; the stranger hesitated in the entrance, fixing his gaze on the luminous white walls of the palace that showed between the boughs of citron and cypress.

This Cardinal, this Prince, who was the greatest man in Rome, which was to say in Christendom, had strangely captured his imagination; he liked to think of him as an obscure and saintly youth devoting his life to the service of God, rising by no arts or intrigues but by the pure will of his Master solely until he dominated the great Empire of the West; the stranger now at his beautiful gates had been searching for peace for many years, in many lands, and always in vain.

In Constantinople he had heard of the holy Frankish priest who was already a greater power than the old and slowly dying Pope, and it had comforted his tired heart to think that there was one man in a high place set there by God alone—one, too, of a pure life and a noble soul; if any could give him promise of salvation, if any could help him to redeem his wasted, weak life, it would be he—this Cardinal who could not know evil save as a name.

With this object he came to Rome; he wished to lay his sins and penitence at the feet of him who had been a meek and poor novice, and now by his virtues was Luigi Caprarola as mighty as the Emperor and as innocent as the angels.

Shame and awe for a while held him irresolute, how could he dare relate his miserable and horrible story to this saint? … but God had bidden him, and the holy were always the merciful.

He walked slowly between the dim flowers and bushes to the stately columned portico; with a thickly beating heart and a humble carriage he mounted the low wide steps and stood at the Cardinal’s door, which stood open on a marble vestibule dimly lit with a soft roseate violet colour; the sound of a fountain came to his ears, and pungent aromas mingled with the perfume of the blossoms.

Two huge negroes, wearing silver collars and tiger-skins, were on guard at each column of the door, and as the new-comer set foot within the portals one of them struck the silver bell attached to his wrist.

Instantly appeared a slim and gorgeous youth, habited in black, a purple flower fastened at his throat.

The stranger took off his cap.

“This is the residence of his Eminence, Cardinal Caprarola?” he asked, and the hint of hesitation always in his manner was accentuated.

“Yea,” the youth bowed gracefully; “I am his Eminence’s secretary, Messer Paolo Orsini.”

“I do desire to see the Cardinal.”

The young Roman’s dark eyes flashed over the person of the speaker.

“What is your purpose, sir?”

“One neither political nor worldly;” he paused, flushed, then added, “I would confess to his Eminence; I have come from Constantinople for that—for that alone.”

Paolo Orsini answered courteously.

“The Cardinal hears confession in the Basilica.”

“Certes, I know, yet I would crave to see him privately, I have matters relating to my soul to put before him, surely he will not refuse me.” The stranger’s voice was unequal, his bearing troubled, as the secretary curiously observed; penitents anxious for their souls did not often trouble the Cardinal, but Orsini’s aristocratic manner showed no surprise.

“His Eminence,” he said, “is ever loath to refuse himself to the faithful; I will ask him if he will give you audience; what, sir, is your quality and your name?”

“I am unknown here,” answered the other humbly; “lately have I come from Constantinople, where I held an office at the court of Basil, but by birth I am a Frank, of the Cardinal’s own country.”

“Sir, your name?” repeated the elegant secretary.

The stranger’s beautiful face clouded.

“I have been known by many… but let his Eminence have the truth—I am Theirry, born of Dendermonde.”

Paolo Orsini bowed again.

“I will acquaint the Cardinal,” he said. “Will you await me here?”

He was gone as swiftly and silently as he had come; Theirry put his hand to a hot brow and gazed about him.

The vestibule was composed of Numidian marble toned by time to a deep orange hue; the capitals of the Byzantine columns were encrusted with gold and supported a ceiling that glittered with violet glass mosaic; gilt lamps, screened with purple or crimson silk, cast a coloured glow down the sloping walls; a double staircase sprang from the serpentine and malachite floor, and where the gold hand-rails ended a silver lion stood on a cipolin pillar, holding between his paws a dish on which burnt aromatic incense; in the space between the staircases was an alabaster fountain—the basin, raised on the backs of other silver lions, and filled with iridescent sea shells, over which the water splashed and fell, changed by the lamplight to a glimmering rose purple.

Either side the fountain were placed great bronze bowls of roses, pink and white, and their petals were scattered over the marble pavement. Against the walls ran low seats, cushioned with dark rich tapestries, and above them, at intervals, marvellous antique statues showed white in deep niches.

Theirry had seen nothing more lavishly splendid in the East; Cardinal Caprarola was no ascetic whatever the youth Blaise may have been, and for a moment Theirry was bewildered and disappointed—could a saint live thus?

Then he reflected; good it was to consider that God, and not the Devil, who so often used beauty and wealth for his lures, had given a man this.

He walked up and down, none to watch him but the four silent and motionless negroes; the exquisite lights, the melody of the fountain, the sweet odours that rose from the slow-curling blue vapours, the gorgeous surroundings, lulled and soothed; he felt that at last, after his changeful wanderings, his restless unhappiness, he had found his goal and his haven.

In this man’s hands was redemption, this man was housed as befitted an Ambassador of the Lord of Heaven.

Paolo Orsini, in person as rare and splendid as the palace, returned.

“The Cardinal will receive you, sir,” he said; if the message astonished him he did not show it; he bowed before Theirry, and preceded him up the magnificent stairs.

The first landing was entirely hung with scarlet embroidery worked with peacocks’ feathers, and lit by pendent crystal lamps; at either end a silver archway led into a chamber.

The secretary, slim and black against the vivid colours, turned to the left; Theirry followed him into a long hall illuminated by bronze statues placed at intervals and holding scented flambeaux; between them were set huge porphyry bowls containing orange trees and oleanders; the walls and ceiling were of rose-hued marble inlaid with basalt, the floor of a rich mosaic.

Theirry caught his breath; the Cardinal must possess the fabled wealth of India.…

Paolo Orsini opened a gilt door and held it wide while Theirry entered, then he bowed himself away, saying—

“His Eminence will be with you presently.”

Theirry found himself in a fair-sized chamber, walls, floor and ceiling composed of ebony and mother-of-pearl.

Door and window were curtained by hangings of pale colours, on which were stitched in glittering silks stories from Ovid.

In the centre of the floor was a Persian carpet of a faint hue of mauve and pink; three jasper and silver lamps hung by silken cords from the ceiling and gave the pale glow of moonlight; an ivory chair and table raised on an ebony step stood in one corner; on the table was a sand clock, a blood-red glass filled with lilies and a gold book with lumps of turkis set in the covers; on the chair was a purple velvet cushion.

Opposite this hung a crucifix, a scarlet light burning beneath it; to this, the first holy thing Theirry had seen in the palace, he bent the knee.

Incense burnt in a gold brazier, the rich scent of it growing almost insupportable in the close confined space.

A silver footstool and a low ebony chair completed the furniture; against the wall facing the door was a gilt and painted shrine, of which the glittering wings were closed, but Theirry, turning from the crucifix, bent his head to that.

A great excitement crept into his blood, he could not feel that he was in a holy or sacred place, awaiting the coming of the saint who was to ease the burden of his sin, yet what but this feeling of relief, of righteous joy should be heating his blood now.…

The dim blue light, the strong perfumes were confusing to the senses; his pulses throbbed, his heart leapt; it did not seem as if he could speak to the Cardinal… then it seemed as if he could tell him everything and leave—absolved.

Yet—and yet—what was there in the place reviving memories that had been thrust deep into his heart for years… a certain room in an old house in Antwerp with the August sunlight over the figure of a young man gilding a devil… a chamber in the college at Basle and two youths bending over a witch’s fire… a dark wet night, and the sound of a weak voice coming to him… Frankfort and a garden blazing with crimson roses, other scenes, crowded, horrible… why did he think of them here… in this remote land, among strangers… here where he had come to purge his soul?

He began to murmur a prayer; giddiness touched him, and the blue light seemed to ripple and dim before his eyes.

He walked up and down the soft carpet clasping his hands.

All at once he paused and turned.

There was a shiver of silks, and the Cardinal stepped into the chamber.

Theirry sank on his knees and bowed his throbbing head.

The Cardinal slowly closed the door; a low rumble of thunder sounded; a great storm was gathering over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER II.
THE CONFESSION
“ ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ I give you greeting,” said the Cardinal in a low grave voice; he crossed to the ivory chair and seated himself.

Theirry lifted his head and looked eagerly at the man who he hoped would be his saviour.

The Cardinal was young, of the middle height, of a full but elegant person and conveying an impression of slightness and delicacy, though he was in reality neither small nor fragile. His face was pale, by this light only dimly to be seen; he wore a robe of vivid pink and violet silk that spread about the step on which his chair was placed; his hands were very beautiful, and ornamented with a variety of costly rings; on his head was a black skull-cap, and outside it his hair showed, thick, curling and of a chestnut-red colour; his foot, very small and well shaped, encased in a gold slipper, showed beneath his gown.

He caught hold of the ivory arms of his seat and looked straight at Theirry with intense, dark eyes.

“On what matters did you wish to speak with me?” he asked.

Theirry could not find words, a choking sense of horror, of something dreadful and blasphemous beyond all words clutched at his heart… he stared at the young Cardinal… he must be going mad.…

“The air—the incense makes me giddy, holy father,” he murmured.

The Cardinal touched a bell that stood by the sand clock, and motioned to Theirry to rise.

A beautiful boy in a white tunic answered the summons.

“Extinguish the incense,” said the Cardinal, “and open the window, Gian… it is very hot, a storm gathers, does it not?”

The youth drew apart the painted curtains and unlatched the window; as the cooler air was wafted into the close chamber Theirry breathed more freely.

“The stars are all hidden, your Eminence,” said Gian, looking at the night. “Certainly, it is a storm.”

He raised the brazier, shook out the incense, leaving it smouldering greyly, went on one knee to the Cardinal, then withdrew backwards.

As the door closed behind him Luigi Caprarola turned to the man standing humbly before him.

“Now can you speak?” he said gravely.

Theirry flushed.

“Scarcely have I the heart… your Eminence abashes me, I have a sickening tale to relate… hearing of you I thought, this holy man can give me peace, and I came half across the world to lay my troubles at your feet; but now, sir, now—I fear to speak, indeed, am scarce able, unreal and hideous it seems in this place.”

“In brief, sir,” said the Cardinal, “ye have changed your mind—I think ye were ever of a changeful disposition, Theirry of Dendermonde.”

“How does your Eminence know that of me?—it is, alas! true.”

“I see it in your face,” answered the Cardinal, “and something else I see—you are, and long have been, unhappy.”

“It is my great unhappiness that has brought me before your Eminence.”

Luigi Caprarola rested his elbow on the ivory chair arm and his cheek on his palm; the pale, dim light was full on his face; because of something powerful and intense that shone in his eyes Theirry did not care to look at him.

“Weary of sin and afraid of Heaven ye have come to seek absolution of me,” said the Cardinal.

“Yea, if it might be granted me, if by any penitence I might obtain pardon.”

Then Theirry, whose gaze was fixed on the ground as he spoke, had an extraordinary vivid impression that the Cardinal was laughing; he looked up quickly, only to behold Luigi Caprarola calm and grave.

A peal of thunder sounded, and the echoes hovered in the chamber.

“The confession must come before the absolution,” said the Cardinal. “Tell me, my son, what troubles you.”

Theirry shuddered.

“It involves others than myself.…”

“The seal of the confession is sacred, and I will ask for no names. Theirry of Dendermonde, kneel here and confess.”

He pointed to the ivory footstool close to his raised seat; Theirry came and humbly knelt.

The curtains fluttered in the hot wind, a flash of lightning darted in between them and mingled with the luminous colour cast by the faint lamps.

The Cardinal took up the gold book and laid it on his knee, his pink silk sleeve almost touched Theirry’s lips… his garments gave out a strange and beautiful perfume.

“Tell me of these sins of thine,” he said, half under his breath.

“I must go far back,” answered the penitent in a trembling voice, “for your Eminence to understand my sins—they had small beginnings.”

He paused and fixed his gaze on the Cardinal’s long fair fingers resting across the gold cover of the breviary.

“I was born in Dendermonde,” he said at length. “My father was a clerk who taught me his learning. When he died I came to Courtrai. I was eighteen, ambitious and clever beyond other scholars of my age. I wished above everything to go to one of the colleges.…”

He gave a hot sigh, as if he could still recall the passionate throb of that early desire.

“To gain a living I taught the arts I was acquainted with, among others I gave lessons in music to the daughter of a great lord in Courtrai… in this manner I came to know her brother, who was a young knight of lusty desires.”

The Cardinal was listening intently; his breathing seemed hardly to stir his robe; the hand on the gilt and turkis cover was very still.

Theirry wiped his damp forehead, and continued—

“He was, as I, restless and impatient with Courtrai… but, unlike me, he was innocent, for I,”—he moistened his lips—“I about this time began to practise—black magic.”

The thunder rolled sombrely yet triumphantly round the seven hills, and the first rain dashed against the window.

“Black magic,” repeated the Cardinal, “go on.”

“I read forbidden books that I found in an old library in the house of a Jew whose son I taught—I tried to work spells, to raise spirits; I was very desperate to better myself, I wished to become as Alcuin, as Saint Jerome—nay, as Zerdusht himself, but I was not skilful enough. I could do little or nothing.…”

The Cardinal moved slightly; Theirry, in an agony of old bitter memories, torn between horror and ease at uttering these things at last, continued in a low desperate voice—

“The young knight I have spoken of was in love with a mighty lady who came through Courtrai, he wished to follow her to Frankfort, she had given him hopes that she would find him service there—he asked me to bear him company, and I was glad to go… on the journey he told me of his marriage to the daughter of a neighbouring lord—and—though that is no matter here—he knew not if she were alive or dead, but he knew of the place where she had last been known of, and we went thither—it was in the old, half-deserted town of Antwerp.…”

“And the young knight hoped to find she was dead,” interrupted the Cardinal. “Was she, I wonder?”

“All the world thought so. It is a strange story, not for my telling; we found the house, and there we met a youth, who told us of the maid’s death and showed us her grave.…”

The thunder, coming nearer, shook the palace, and Theirry hid his face in his hands.

“What of this youth?” asked the Cardinal softly, “tell me of him.”

“He ruined me—by night he came to me and told me of his studies—black magic! black magic! … he cast spells and raised a devil… in a mirror he showed me visions, I swore with him faithful friendship… he ruined my soul—he sold some of the goods in the house, and we went together to Basle College.”

“Ye make him out your evil angel,” said the Cardinal. “Who was he?”

“I know not; he was high-born, I think, dainty in his ways and pleasant to look upon; my faltering soul was caught by his wiles, for he spoke of great rewards; I know not who he was, man or demon.… I think he loved me.”

There was a little silence in the chamber, then the Cardinal spoke.

“Loved you?—what makes you think he loved you?”

“Certes, he said so, and acted so… we went to Basle College—then, I also thought I loved him… he was the only thing in the world I had ever spoken to of my hopes, my desires… we continued our experiments… our researches were blasphemous, horrible, he was ever more skilful than I… then one day I met a lady, and then I knew myself hideous, but that very night I was drawn into the toils again… we cast a spell over another student—we were discovered and fled the college.”

A flash of lightning pierced the blue gloom like a sword rending silk; Theirry winced and shuddered as the thunder crashed overhead.

“Does your tale end here?” demanded the Cardinal.

“Alas! alas! no; I fell from worse sin to worse sin—we were poor, we met a monk, robbed him of God His moneys, and left him for dead… we came to Frankfort and lived in the house of an Egyptian hag, and I began to loathe the youth because the lady was ever in my thoughts, and he hated the lady bitterly because of this; he tempted me to do murder for gain, and I refused for her sake.” Theirry’s voice became hot and passionate. “Then I found that he was tempting her—my saint! but I had no fear that she would fall, and while she spurned him I thought I could also, ay, and I did… but she proved no stronger—she loved her steward, and bid him slay his wife: ‘You staked on her virtue,’ the Devil cried to me, ‘and you’ve lost! lost!’ ”

The sobs thickened his voice, and the bitter tears gathered in his beautiful eyes.

“I was the youth’s prey again, but now I hated him for his victory… we came back to Frankfort, and he was sweet and soft to me, while I was thinking how I might injure him as he had injured me… I dwelt on that picture of—her—dishonoured and undone, and I hated him, so waited my chance, and the night we reached the city I betrayed him for what he was, betrayed him to whom I had sworn friendship… well, half the town came howling through the snow to seize him, but we were too late, we found a flaming house… it burnt to ashes, he with it… I had had my revenge, but it brought me no peace. I left the West and went to the East, to India, Persia, to Greece, I avoided both God and the Devil, I dreaded Hell and dared not hope for Heaven, I tried to forget but could not, I tried to repent but could not. Good and evil strove for me, until the Lord had pity… I heard of you, and I have come to Rome to cast myself at your feet, to ask your aid to help throw myself on God His mercy.”

He rose with his hands clasped on his breast and his wild eyes fixed on the white face of Luigi Caprarola; thunder and lightning together were rending the hot air; Theirry’s gorgeous dress glimmered in gold and purple, his face was flushed and exalted.

“God wins, I think, this time,” he said in an unsteady voice. “I have confessed my sins, I will do penance for them, and die at least in peace—God and the angels win!”
 
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