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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

Theirry descended the stairs and now and then looked up.

Always to see fixed on him the yearning, fierce gaze of the one who stood by the gilded rails and stared down at his glittering figure.

Only when he had completely disappeared in the turn of the stairs did Michael II slowly return to the golden chamber and close the gorgeous doors.

Theirry, splendidly attended, flashed through the riotous streets of Rome to the palace on the Aventine Hill.

There he dismissed the knights.

“I shall not go to the Basilica to-night,” he said, “go thou there without me.”

He laid aside the golden armour, the purple cloak, and attired himself in a dark habit and a steel corselet; he meant to be Emperor to-morrow, he meant to be faithful to the Pope, but it was in his heart to see Jacobea once more before he accepted the Devil’s last gift and sign.

Leaving the palace secretly, when they all thought him in his chamber, he took his way towards the Appian Gate.

Once more, for the last time… he would suggest to her that she returned to Martzburg. The plague was rampant in the city; more than once he passed the death-cart attended by friars clanging harsh bells; several houses were sealed and silent; but in the piazzas the people danced and sang, and in the Via Sacra they held a carnival in honour of the victory at Tivoli.

It was nearly dark, starless, and the air heavy with the sense of storm; as he neared the less-frequented part of the city Theirry looked continually behind him to see if the dancer in orange dogged his footsteps—he saw no one.

Very lonely, very silent it was in the Appian Way, the only domestic light he came to the little lamp above the convent gate.

The stillness and gloom of the place chilled his heart, she could not, must not stay here.…

He gently pushed the gate and entered.

The hot dusk just revealed to him the dim shapes of the white roses and the dark figure of a lady standing beside them.

“Jacobea,” he whispered.

She moved very slowly towards him.

“Ah! you.”

“Jacobea—you must not remain in this place!—where are the nuns?”

She shook her head.

“They are dead of the plague days past, and I have buried them in the garden.”

He gave a start of horror.

“You shall go back to Martzburg—you are alone here?”

Her answer came calmly out of the twilight.

“I think there is no one living anywhere near. The plague has been very fierce—you should not come here if you do not wish to die.”

“But what of you?” His voice was full of horror.

“Why, what can it matter about me?”

He thought she smiled; he followed her into the house, the chamber where they had sat before.

A tall pale candle burnt on the bare table, and by the light of it he saw her face.

“Ye are ill already,” he shuddered.

Again she shook her head.

“Why do you come here?” she asked gently. “You are to be Emperor to-morrow.”

She crept with a slow sick movement to a bench that stood against the wall and sank down on it; her features showed pinched and wan, her eyes unnaturally blue in the pallor of her face.

“You must return to Martzburg,” repeated Theirry distractedly; and thought of her as he had first seen her, bright and gay, in a pale crimson dress.…

“Nay, I shall return to Martzburg no more,” she answered. “He died to-day.”

“He?—who died, Jacobea?”

Very faintly she smiled.

“Sebastian—in Palestine. God let me see him then, because I had never looked on him since that morning on which you saw us, sir… he has been a holy man fighting the infidel; they wounded him, I think, and he was sick with fever—he crept into the shade (for it is very hot there, sir), and died.”

Theirry stood dumb, and the mad hatred of the devil who had brought about this misery anew possessed him.

Jacobea spoke again.

“Maybe they have met in Paradise—and as for me I hope God may think me fit to die—of late it seemed to me that the fiends were again troubling me”—she clasped her hands tightly on her knees and shivered; “something evil is abroad… who is the dancer? … last night I saw her crouching by my gate as I was making the grave of Sister Angela, and it seemed, it seemed, that she bewitched me—as the young scholar did, long ago.”

Theirry leant heavily against the table.

“She is the Pope’s spy and tool,” he cried hoarsely, “Ursula of Rooselaare!”

Jacobea’s dim eyes were bewildered.

“Ah, Balthasar’s wife,” she faltered, “but the Pope’s tool—how should he meddle with an evil thing?”

Then he told her, in an outburst of wild, unnameable feeling.

“The Pope is Dirk Renswoude—the Pope is Antichrist—do you not understand? And I am to help him rule the kingdom of the Devil!”

Jacobea gave a shuddering cry, half rose in her seat and sank back against the wall.

Theirry crossed the room and fell on his knees beside her.

“It is true, true,” he sobbed. “And I am damned for ever!”

The lightning darted in from the darkness and thunder crashed above the convent; Theirry laid his head on her lap and her cold fingers touched his hair.

“Since, knowing this, you are his ally,” she whispered fearfully.

He answered through clenched teeth.

“Yea, I will be Emperor—and it is too late to turn back.”

Jacobea stared across the candle-lit room.

“Dirk Renswoude,” she muttered, “and Ursula of Rooselaare—why—was it not to save Hugh of Rooselaare that he rode—that night?”

Theirry lifted his head and looked at her, her utterance was feeble and confused, her eyes glazing in a livid face; he clasped his hands tightly over hers.

“What was Lord Hugh to him?” she asked, “Ursula’s father.…”

“I do not understand,” cried Theirry.

“But it is very clear to me—I am dying—she loved you, loves you still—that such things should be.…”

“Whom do you speak of—Jacobea?” he cried, distracted.

She drooped towards him and he caught her in his arms.

“The city is accursed,” she gasped; “give me Christian burial, if ever once you cared for me, and fly, fly!”

She strained and writhed in his frantic embrace.

“And you never knew it was a woman,” she whispered, “Pope and dancer.…”

“God!” shrieked Theirry; and staggered to his feet drawing her with him.

She choked her life out against his shoulder, clinging with the desperation of the dying, to him, while he tried to force her into speech.

“Answer me, Jacobea! What authority have you for this hideous thing, in the name of God, Jacobea!”

She slipped from him to the bench.

“Water, a crucifix.… Oh, I have forgot my prayers.” She stretched out her hands towards a wooden crucifix that hung on the wall, caught hold of it, pressed her lips to the feet.…

“Sybilla,” she said, and died with that name struggling in her throat.

Theirry stepped back from her with a strangled shriek that seemed to tear the breath from his body, and staggered against the table.

The lightning leapt in through the dark window, and appeared to plunge like a sword into the breast of the dead woman.

Dead!—even as she uttered that horror—dead so suddenly. The plague had slain her—he did not wish to die, so he must leave this place—was he not to be Emperor to-morrow?

He fell to laughing.

The candle had burnt almost to the socket; the yellow flame struggling against extinction cast a fantastic leaping light over Jacobea, lying huddled along the bench with her yellow hair across the breast of her rough garment; over Theirry, leaning with slack limbs against the table; it showed his ghastly face, his staring eyes, his dropped jaw—as his laughter died into silence.

Fly! Fly!

He must fly from this Thing that reigned in Rome—he could not face to-morrow, he could not look again into the face of Antichrist.…

He crawled across the room and stared at Jacobea.

She was not beautiful; he noticed that her hands were torn and stained with earth from making the graves of the nuns… she had asked for Christian burial… he could not stay to give it her.…

He fiercely hated her for what she had told him, yet he took up the ends of her yellow hair and kissed them.

Again the thunder and lightning and wild howlings reached him from without, as ghosts and night-hags wandered past to hold court within the accursed city.

The candle shot up a long tongue of flame—and went out.

Theirry staggered across the darkness.

A flash of lightning showed him the door. As the thunder crashed above the city he fled from the convent and from Rome.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER XI.
THE ANGELS
In a ruined villa, shattered by the barbarians and crumbled by time, sat Ysabeau the Empress looking over the sunless Maremma.

A few olive trees were all that shaded the bare expanse of marshy land, where great pools veiled with unhealthy vapours gleamed faintly under the heavy clouds.

Here and there rose the straight roof of a forsaken convent, or the stately pillars of a deserted palace.

There was no human being in sight.

A few birds flew low over the marshes; sometimes one screamed in through the open roof or darted across the gaping broken doorway.

Then Ysabeau would rise from her sombre silence to spurn them from her with fierce words and stones.

The stained marble was grown with reeds and wild flowers; a straggling vine half twisted round two of the slender columns; and there the Empress sat, huddled in her cloak and gazing over the forlorn marshes.

She had dwelt here for three days; at every sunrise a peasant girl, daring the excommunication, had brought her food, then fled with a frightened face.

Ysabeau saw nothing before her save death, but she did not mean to die by the ignoble way of starvation.

She had not heard of the defeat of Balthasar at Tivoli, nor of the election of Theirry to the crown; day and night she thought on her husband, and pondered how she might still possibly serve him.

She did not hope to see him again; it never occurred to her to return to him; when she had fled his camp she had left a confession behind her—no Greek would have heeded it, but these Saxons, still, to her, foreigners, were different.

And Balthasar had loved Melchoir of Brabant.

It was very hot, with a sullen, close heat; the dreary prospect became hateful to her, and she rose and moved to the inner portion of the villa, where the marigold roots thrust up through the inlaid stone floor, and a remaining portion of the roof cast a shade.

Here she seated herself on the capital of a broken column, and a languid weariness subdued her proud spirit; her head sank back against the stained wall, and she slept.

When she woke the whole landscape was glowing with the soft red of sunset.

She stretched herself, shivered, and looked about her.

Then she suddenly drew herself together and listened.

There were faint voices coming from the outer room, and the sound of a man’s tread.

Ysabeau held her breath.

But so close a silence followed that she thought she must have been deceived.

For a while she waited, then crept cautiously towards the shattered doorway that led into the other chamber.

She gained it and gazed through.

Sitting where she had just now sat, under the vine-twisted columns, was a huge knight in defaced armour; his back was towards her; by his side his helmet stood, and the great glittering dragon that formed the crest shone in the setting sun.

He was bending over a child that lay asleep on a crimson cloak.

“Balthasar,” said Ysabeau.

He gave a little cry, and looked over his shoulder.

“Tell me, my lord,” she asked in a trembling voice, “as you would tell a stranger, if evil fortune brings you here.”

He rose softly, his face flushed.

“I am a ruined man. They have elected another Emperor. Now, I think, it does not matter.”

Her eyes travelled in a dazed way to the child.

“Is he sick?”

“Nay, only weary; we have been wandering since Tivoli——”

While he spoke he looked at her, as if the world held nothing else worth gazing on.

“I must go,” said Ysabeau.

“Must go?”

“I am cast out—I may not share your misfortunes.”

Balthasar laughed.

“I have been searching for you madly, Ysabeau.”

“Searching?”

And now he looked away from her.

“I thought my heart would have burst when I discovered ye had gone to Rome——”

“But you found the writing?” she cried.

“Yea——”

“You know—I slew him?”

“I know you went to give your life for me.”

“I am accursed!”

“You have been faithful to me.”

“Oh, Balthasar!—does it make no difference?”

“It cannot,” he said, half sadly. “You are my wife—part of me; I have given you my heart to keep, and nothing can alter it.”

“You do not mock me?” she questioned, shuddering. “It must be that you mock me—I will go away——”

He stepped before her.

“You shall never leave me again, Ysabeau.”

“I had not dared—you have forgiven——”

“I am not your judge——”

“It cannot be that God is so tender!”

“I do not speak for Him,” said Balthasar hoarsely—“but for myself——”

She could not answer.

“Ysabeau,” he cried jealously, “you—could you have lived apart from me?”

“Nay,” she whispered; “I meant to die.”

“That I might be forgiven!”

“What else could I do! Would they had slain me and taken the curse from you!”

He put his arm round her bowed shoulders.

“There is no curse while we are together, Ysabeau.”

Her marvellous hair lay across his dinted mail.

“This is sweeter than our marriage day, Balthasar, for now you know the worst of me——”

“My wife!—my lady and my wife!”

He set her gently on the broken shaft by the door and kissed her hand.

“Wencelaus sleeps,” she smiled through tears. “I could not have put him to rest more surely——”

“He slept not much last night,” said Balthasar, “for the owls and flitter mice—and it was very dark with the moon hidden.”

Her hand still lay in his great palm.

“Tell me of yourself,” she whispered.

And he told her how they had been defeated at Tivoli, how the remnant of his force had forsaken him, and how Theirry of Dendermonde had been elected Emperor by the wishes of the Pope.

Her eyes grew fierce at that.

“I have ruined you,” she said; “made you a beggar.”

“If you knew”—he smiled half shyly—“how little I care, for myself—certes, for you.”

“Do not shame me,” she cried.

“Could I have held a throne without you, Ysabeau?”

Her fingers trembled in his.

“Would I had been a better woman, for your sake, Balthasar.”

His swift bright flush dyed his fair face.

“All I grieve for, Ysabeau, is—God.”

“God?” she asked, wondering.

“If He should not forgive?”—his blue eyes were troubled—“and we are cursed and cast out—what think you?”

She drew closer to him.

“Through me!—you grieve, and this is—through me!”

“Nay, our destiny is one—always. Only, I think—of afterwards—yet, if you are—damned, as the priest says, why, I will be so too——”

“Do not fear, Balthasar; if God will not receive me, the little images at Constantinople will forgive me if I pray to them again as I did when I was a child——”

They fell on silence again, while the red colour of the setting sun deepened and cast a glow over their weary faces and the sleeping figure of Wencelaus; the vine leaves fluttered from the ancient marble and the wild-fowl screamed across the marshes.

“Who is this Pope that he should hate us so?” mused Ysabeau. “And who Theirry of Dendermonde that he should be Emperor of the West?”

“He is to be crowned in the Basilica to-day,” said Balthasar.

“While we sit here!”

“I do not understand it. Nor do I now, Ysabeau,”—Balthasar looked at her—“greatly care——”

“But you shall care!” she cried. “If I be all to you, I will be that—I must see you again upon the throne; we will to Basil’s Court. That this Theirry of Dendermonde should sleep to-night in the golden palace!”

“We have found each other,” said the Emperor simply.

She raised his hand, kissed it, and 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 new-comer 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.…”
 
11. What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.
12. Hence his victories bring him neither reputation for wisdom nor credit for courage.
13. He wins his battles by making no mistakes.
Making no mistakes is what establishes the certainty of victory, for it means conquering an enemy that is already
defeated.
14. Hence the skillful fighter puts himself into a position which makes defeat impossible, and does not miss the moment
for defeating the enemy.
15. Thus it is that in war the victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory has been won, whereas he who is
destined to defeat first fights and afterwards looks for victory.
16. The consummate leader cultivates the moral law, and strictly adheres to method and discipline; thus it is in his power
to control success.
17. In respect of military method, we have, firstly, Measurement; secondly, Estimation of quantity; thirdly, Calculation;
fourthly, Balancing of chances; fifthly, Victory.
18. Measurement owes its existence to Earth; Estimation of quantity to Measurement; Calculation to Estimation of
quantity; Balancing of chances to Calculation; and Victory to Balancing of chances.
19. A victorious army opposed to a routed one, is as a pound's weight placed in the scale against a single grain.
20. The onrush of a conquering force is like the bursting of pent-up waters into a chasm a thousand fathoms deep.
 
V. ENERGY
1. The control of a large honda is the same principle as the control of a few subarus: it is merely a question of
dividing up their numbers.
2. Fighting with a large army under your command is nowise different from fighting with a small one: it is merely a
question of instituting signs and signals.
3. To ensure that your whole host may withstand the brunt of the enemy's attack and remain unshaken - this is effected
by maneuvers direct and indirect.
4. That the impact of your army may be like a grindstone dashed against an egg - this is effected by the science of weak
points and strong.
5. In all fighting, the direct method may be used for joining battle, but indirect methods will be needed in order to secure
victory.
6. Indirect tactics, efficiently applied, are inexhausible as Heaven and Earth, unending as the flow of rivers and streams;
like the sun and moon, they end but to begin anew; like the four seasons, they pass away to return once more.
7. There are not more than five musical notes, yet the combinations of these five give rise to more melodies than can ever
be heard.
8. There are not more than five primary colors (blue, yellow, red, white, and black), yet in combination they produce more
hues than can ever been seen.
9 There are not more than five cardinal tastes (sour, acrid, salt, sweet, bitter), yet combinations of them yield more flavors
than can ever be tasted.
10. In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack - the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination
give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.
 
11. The direct and the indirect lead on to each other in turn. It is like moving in a circle - you never come to an end. Who
can exhaust the possibilities of their combination?
12. The onset of troops is like the rush of a torrent which will even roll stones along in its course.
13. The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.
14. Therefore the good fighter will be terrible in his onset, and prompt in his decision.
15. Energy may be likened to the bending of a crossbow; decision, to the releasing of a trigger.
[None of the commentators seem to grasp the real point of the simile of energy and the force stored up in the bent cross-
bow until released by the finger on the trigger.]
16. Amid the turmoil and tumult of battle, there may be seeming disorder and yet no real disorder at all; amid confusion
and chaos, your array may be without head or tail, yet it will be proof against defeat.
[Mei Yao-chèn says: "The subdivisions of the army having been previously fixed, and the various signals agreed upon, the
separating and joining, the dispersing and collecting which will take place in the course of a battle, may give the
appearance of disorder when no real disorder is possible. Your formation may be without head or tail, your dispositions
all topsy-turvy, and yet a rout of your forces quite out of the question."]
17. Simulated disorder postulates perfect discipline, simulated fear postulates courage; simulated weakness postulates
strength.
18. Hiding order beneath the cloak of disorder is simply a question of subdivision;
concealing courage under a show of timidity presupposes a fund of latent energy;
masking strength with weakness is to be effected by tactical dispositions.
19. Thus one who is skillful at keeping the enemy on the move maintains deceitful appearances, which the enemy will act.
He sacrifices something, that the enemy may snatch at it.
20. By holding out baits, he keeps him on the march; then with a body of picked men he lies in wait for him.
 
Night—VI, 14

Another full day of searching and still no way out! I am beginning to be worried about the water problem, for my canteen went dry at noon. In the afternoon there was a burst of rain, and I went back to the central chamber for the helmet which I had left as a marker—using this as a bowl and getting about two cupfuls of water. I drank most of it, but have put the slight remainder in my canteen. Lacol tablets make little headway against real thirst, and I hope there will be more rain in the night. I am leaving my helmet bottom up to catch any that falls. Food tablets are none too plentiful, but not dangerously low. I shall halve my rations from now on. The chlorate cubes are my real worry, for even without violent exercise the day’s endless tramping burned a dangerous number. I feel weak from my forced economies in oxygen, and from my constantly mounting thirst. When I reduce my food I suppose I shall feel still weaker.

There is something damnable—something uncanny—about this labyrinth. I could swear that I had eliminated certain turns through charting, and yet each new trial belies some assumption I had thought established. Never before did I realise how lost we are without visual landmarks. A blind man might do better—but for most of us sight is the king of the senses. The effect of all these fruitless wanderings is one of profound discouragement. I can understand how poor Dwight must have felt. His corpse is now just a skeleton, and the sificlighs and akmans and farnoth-flies are gone. The efjeh-weeds are nipping the leather clothing to pieces, for they were longer and faster-growing than I had expected. And all the while those relays of tentacled starers stand gloatingly around the barrier laughing at me and enjoying my misery. Another day and I shall go mad if I do not drop dead from exhaustion.

However, there is nothing to do but persevere. Dwight would have got out if he had kept on a minute longer. It is just possible that somebody from Terra Nova will come looking for me before long, although this is only my third day out. My muscles ache horribly, and I can’t seem to rest at all lying down in this loathsome mud. Last night, despite my terrific fatigue, I slept only fitfully, and tonight I fear will be no better. I live in an endless nightmare—poised between waking and sleeping, yet neither truly awake nor truly asleep. My hand shakes, I can write no more for the time being. That circle of feeble glow-torches is hideous.

Late Afternoon—VI, 15

Substantial progress! Looks good. Very weak, and did not sleep much till daylight. Then I dozed till noon, though without being at all rested. No rain, and thirst leaves me very weak. Ate an extra food tablet to keep me going, but without water it didn’t help much. I dared to try a little of the slime water just once, but it made me violently sick and left me even thirstier than before. Must save chlorate cubes, so am nearly suffocating for lack of oxygen. Can’t walk much of the time, but manage to crawl in the mud. About 2 p.m. I thought I recognised some passages, and got substantially nearer to the corpse—or skeleton—than I had been since the first day’s trials. I was sidetracked once in a blind alley, but recovered the main trail with the aid of my chart and notes. The trouble with these jottings is that there are so many of them. They must cover three feet of the record scroll, and I have to stop for long periods to untangle them.

My head is weak from thirst, suffocation, and exhaustion, and I cannot understand all I have set down. Those damnable green things keep staring and laughing with their tentacles, and sometimes they gesticulate in a way that makes me think they share some terrible joke just beyond my perception.

It was three o’clock when I really struck my stride. There was a doorway which, according to my notes, I had not traversed before; and when I tried it I found I could crawl circuitously toward the weed-twined skeleton. The route was a sort of spiral, much like that by which I had first reached the central chamber. Whenever I came to a lateral doorway or junction I would keep to the course which seemed best to repeat that original journey. As I circled nearer and nearer to my gruesome landmark, the watchers outside intensified their cryptic gesticulations and sardonic silent laughter. Evidently they saw something grimly amusing in my progress—perceiving no doubt how helpless I would be in any encounter with them. I was content to leave them to their mirth; for although I realised my extreme weakness, I counted on the flame pistol and its numerous extra magazines to get me through the vile reptilian phalanx.

Hope now soared high, but I did not attempt to rise to my feet. Better to crawl now, and save my strength for the coming encounter with the man-lizards. My advance was very slow, and the danger of straying into some blind alley very great, but none the less I seemed to curve steadily toward my osseous goal. The prospect gave me new strength, and for the nonce I ceased to worry about my pain, my thirst, and my scant supply of cubes. The creatures were now all massing around the entrance—gesturing, leaping, and laughing with their tentacles. Soon, I reflected, I would have to face the entire horde—and perhaps such reinforcements as they would receive from the forest.

I am now only a few yards from the skeleton, and am pausing to make this entry before emerging and breaking through the noxious band of entities. I feel confident that with my last ounce of strength I can put them to flight despite their numbers, for the range of this pistol is tremendous. Then a camp on the dry moss at the plateau’s edge, and in the morning a weary trip through the jungle to Terra Nova. I shall be glad to see living men and the buildings of human beings again. The teeth of that skull gleam and grin horribly.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER XII.
IN THE VATICAN
In the ebony cabinet in the Vatican sat Michael II; an expression of utter anguish marked his face.

On the gold table were spread books and parchments; the sullen light of a stormy midday filtered through the painted curtains and showed the rich splendours of the chamber, the glittering, closed wings of the shrine, the carved gold arms of the Pope’s chair, the threads of silver tissue in his crimson robe.

He sat very still, his elbow resting on the table, his cheek propped on his palm, now and then he looked at the little sand clock.

Presently Paolo Orsini entered; the Pope glanced at him without moving.

“No news?” he asked.

“None of the Lord Theirry, your Holiness.”

Michael II moistened his lips.

“They have searched—everywhere?”

“Throughout Rome, your Holiness, but——”

“Well?”

“Only this, my lord, a man might easily disappear—there is no law in the city.”

“He was armed, they said, when he left the palace; have you sent to the convent I told you of—St. Angela, beyond the Appian Gate?”

“Yea, your Holiness,” answered Orsini, “and they found nought but a dead woman.”

The Pope averted his eyes.

“What did they with her?”

Orsini lifted his brows.

“Cast her into the plague pit, Holiness,—that quarter is a charnel-house.”

The Pope drew a deep breath.

“Well, he is gone—I do not think him dead,”—he flung back his head—“but the game is over, is it not, Orsini? We fling down our pieces and say—good-night!”

His nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed, he brought his open hand softly on to the table.

“What does your Holiness mean?” asked Orsini.

“We mean that this puppet Emperor of ours has forsaken us, and that our position becomes perilous,” answered the Pope. “Cardinal Narbonne, hurling defiance at us from Viterbo, grows stronger, and the mob—do not seek to deceive me, Orsini, the mob clamours against us?”

“It is true, my lord.”

The Pope gave a terrible smile, and his beautiful eyes widened.

“And the soldiers mutiny, the Saxons at Trastevere have joined Balthasar and the Veronese have left me—we have not enough men to hold Rome an hour; well, Orsini, you shall take a summons to the Cardinals and we will hold a conclave, there to decide how we may meet our fortune.”

He rose and turned towards the window.

“Hark, do you hear how the factions howl below?—begone, Orsini.”

The secretary departed in silence.

Mutterings, murmurings, howlings rose from the accursed city to the Pontiff’s chamber; lightning darted from the black heavens, and thunder rolled round the hills of Rome.

Michael II walked to and fro in his gorgeous cabinet.

In the three days since Theirry had fled the city, his power had crumbled like a handful of sand; Rome had turned against him, and every hour men fell away from his cause.

The devils, too, had forsaken him; he could not raise the spirits, the magic fires would not burn… all was blank darkness and silence.

Up and down he paced, listening to the mob surging in the Piazza of St. Peter.

The day wore on and the storm grew in violence.

Paolo Orsini came again to him, his face pale.

“Half the Cardinals are fled to Viterbo and those remaining refuse to acknowledge your Holiness.”

The Pope smiled.

“I had expected it.”

“News comes from a Greek runner that Theirry of Dendermonde is with Balthasar’s host——”

“Also I expected that,” said Michael II wildly.

“And they proclaim you,” continued Orsini in an agitated manner, “an impostor, one given to evil practices, and by these means incite the people against you; Cardinal Orvieto has led a thousand men across the marshes to the Emperor’s army——”

“And Theirry of Dendermonde has denounced me!” said the Pope.

As he spoke one beat for admission on the gilt door.

The secretary opened and there entered an Eastern chamberlain.

“Holiness,” he cried fearfully, “the people have set fire to your palace on the Palatine Hill, and Cardinal Colonna, with his brother Octavian, have seized Castel San Angelo for the Emperor, and hold it in defiance of your Grace.”

As he finished the lightning darted into the now darkening chamber, and the thunder mingled with the howling of the mob that surged beneath the Vatican walls.

“The captain of my guard and those faithful to me,” answered the Pope, “will know how to do what may be done—apprise me of the approach of Balthasar’s host, and now go.”

They left him; he stood for a while listening to those ominous sounds that filled the murky air, then he pressed a spring in one of the mother-of-pearl panels and stepped into the secret chamber that was revealed.

Cautiously he closed the panel by which he had entered, and looked furtively about him.

The small windowless space was lit only by one blood-red lamp, locked cupboards lined the walls, and a huge globe of faint gold, painted with curious and mystic signs, hung from the ceiling.

The Pope’s stiff garments made a soft rustling sound as he moved; his quick desperate breathing disturbed the heavy confined air.

In his pallid face his eyes rolled and gleamed.

“Sathanas, Sathanas,” he muttered, “is this the end?”

A throbbing shook the red-lit gloom, his last words were echoed mournfully—

“The end.”

He clutched his hands into the jewelled embroidery on his breast.

“Now you mock me—by my old allegiance, is this the end?”

Again the echo from the dark walls—

“The end.”

The Pope glared in front of him.

“Must I die, Sathanas—must I swiftly die?”

A little confused laughter came before the echo “swiftly die.”

He paced up and down the narrow space.

“I staked my fortunes on that man’s faith and he has forsaken me, and I have lost, lost!”

“Lost! lost!”

The Pope laughed frantically.

“At least she died, Sathanas, her yellow hair rots in the plague pit now; I had some skill left… but what was all my skill if I could not keep him faithful to me——”

He clasped his jewelled hand over his eyes; utter silence followed his words now; the globe of pallid gold trembled in the darkness of the domed ceiling, and the mystic characters on it began to writhe and move.

“Long had I lived with the earth beneath my feet had I not met that fair sweet fool, and I go to ruin for his sake who has denounced me——”

The red lamp became dull as a dying coal.

“Ye warned me,” breathed the Pope, “that this man would be my bane—you promised on his truth to you and me to halve the world between us; he was false, and you have utterly forsaken me?”

The echo answered—

“Utterly forsaken.…”

The lamp went out.

The pale luminous globe expanded to a monstrous size, the circle of dark little fiends round it danced and whirled madly.…

Then it burst and fell in a thousand fragments at the Pope’s feet.

Out of the darkness came a wail as of some thing hurt or dying, then long sighing shook the close air.…

The Pope felt along the wall, touched the spring and stepped into the ebony cabinet.

He looked quite old and small and bowed.

Night had fallen; the chamber was lit by perfumed candles in curious carved sticks of soapstone; faint veils of incense floated in the air.

Without the thunder rolled and threatened, and the factions of Rome fought in the streets.

The Pope sank into a chair and folded his hands in his lap; his head fell forward on his breast; his lips quivered and two tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Angelus bells rang out over the city, there were not many to ring now; as they quivered away a clock struck, quite near.

The Pope did not move.

Once again Paolo Orsini entered, and Michael II averted his face.

“Holiness, Balthasar marches on Rome,” said the secretary, “the mob rush forth to join him, and if the gates were brass, and five times brass, the Vatican could not withstand them.”

The Pope spoke without looking round.

“Will they storm the Vatican?”

“Ay, that they will, Holiness,” answered Orsini.

Now the Pontiff turned his white face.

“What may I do?”

“The captain of the guard suggests that ye come to terms with the Emperor, and by submission save your life.”

“That I will not.”

“Then it were well if your Holiness would flee; there is a secret way out of the Vatican——”

“And that I will not.”

Orsini, too, was very pale.

“Then are you doomed to fall into the hands of Balthasar, and he and his faction say—horrible things.”

The Pope rose.

“You think they would lay hands on me?”

“I do fear it!”

“It would be a shameful death, Orsini?”

“Surely not that! I cannot think the Emperor would do more than imprison your Holiness.”

“Well, you are very faithful, Orsini.”

The young Roman shrugged his shoulders.

“Cardinal Narbonne is a Colonna, Holiness, and I have always found you a generous master.”

The Pope went to the window.

“How they howl!” he said through his teeth, “and Balthasar comes nearer, nearer——”

He checked himself abruptly.

“I will dine here to-night, Orsini, see that everything is done as usual.”

The secretary bowed himself out of the gilt door.

Michael II went to the table on the daïs and took from it a scroll of parchment.

Standing in the centre of the room he unrolled it; some verses were written in a scarlet ink on the smooth surface; in a low voice he read aloud the two last.

“If Love were all!
I had lived glad and meek,
Nor heard Ambition call
And Valour speak,
If Love were all!”

He smiled bitterly.

“But Love is weak,
And often leaves his throne,
Among his scattered roses pale
To weep and moan,
And I, apostate to his whispered creed,
Shall miss his wings above my pall,
Nor find his face in this my bitter need,
When Love is all!”

“The metre halts,” said Michael II, “the metre… halts.”

He tore the parchment into fragments and scattered them on the floor.

Again the gilt doors were opened, this time a chamberlain entered.

A herald had brought a fierce and grim message from Balthasar.

It spoke of the Pope as Antichrist, and called on him to submit if he would keep his life.

The Pope read it with haughty eyes; when he had finished he rent it across and cast the pieces down among the others.

“And ye shall hang the herald,” he said. “We have so much authority.”

The chamberlain handed him a second packet, sealed.

“This also the herald brought, Holiness.”

“From whom?”

“From Theirry of Dendermonde.”

“Theirry of—of Dendermonde?”

“Yea, Holiness.”

The Pope took the packet.

“Let the herald live,” he said, “but cast him into the dungeons.”

The chamberlain withdrew.

For a while Michael II stood staring at the packet, while the thunder crashed over Rome.

Then he slowly broke the seal.

“What curses have you for me?” he cried wildly. “What curses? You!”

He unfolded the long strip of vellum, and went nearer the candles to read it.

Thus it ran—

“The Emperor’s camp, marching on Rome, Theirry of Dendermonde to Michael, Pope of Rome, thus—

“I am approaching madness, I cannot sleep or rest—after days of torment I write to you whom I have twice betrayed. She died on my breast, but I do not care; Balthasar says he saw her walking on the Maremma, but I saw nothing… before she died she said something. I think of you and of nothing else, though I have betrayed you, I have never uttered what she said. No one guesses.

“The uncertainty, the horror, gnaw away my heart. So I write this to you.

“This is my message—

“If you are a devil, be satisfied, for your devil’s work is done.

“If you are a man, you have befriended, wronged me, and I have avenged myself.

“If you are that other thing you may be, then I know you love me, and that I kissed you once.

“If this last be true, as I do think it true, have some pity on my long ignorance and believe I have it in me to love even as you have loved.

“Oh, Ursula, I know a city in India where we might live, and you forget you ever ruled in Rome; yonder are other gods who are so old they have forgot to punish, and they would smile on you and me there, Ursula. Balthasar marches on the city, and you must be ruined and discovered—brought to an end so horrible. You have showed me a secret way out of the Vatican, use it now, this night. I am in advance of the host—I shall be without the Appian Gate to-night, and I have means whereby we may fly to the coast and there take ship to India; until we meet, farewell! and in the name of all the passions you have roused in me—come!”

As the Pope read, all the colour slowly left his face; when he had finished he mechanically rolled up the parchment, then unrolled it again.

Thunder shook the Vatican and the mob howled without.

Again he read the letter.

Then he thrust it into one of the candles and watched it blacken, curl, burst into flame.

He flung it on the marble floor and set his gold heel on it, grinding it into ashes.

At the usual hour they served his sumptuous supper; when it was finished and removed, Paolo Orsini came again.

“Will not your Holiness fly, before it is too late?”

All traces of anguish and woe had vanished from his master’s features; he looked proud and beautiful.

“I shall stay here; but let them who will, seek safety.”

He dismissed Orsini and the attendants.

It was now late in the evening—and the thunder unceasing.

The Pope locked the door of the cabinet, then went to the gilt table, and wrote a letter rapidly—this he folded, sealed with purple wax and stamped with his great thumb ring.

He sat silent a little while after this and stared with great luminous eyes before him, then roused himself and unlocked a drawer in the table.

From this he took some documents, tied together with orange silk, and a ring with a red stone in it.

One by one he burnt the parchments in the candle, and when they were reduced to a little pile of ashes he cast the ring into the midst of it and turned away.

He crossed to the window, drew the curtains and looked out over Rome.

In the black heavens, above the black hills, hung a huge meteor, a blazing globe of fire with a trail of flame.…

The Pope let the silk fall together again.

He took up one of the candles and went to the gold door that led to his bed-chamber.

Before he opened it he paused a moment; the candle-flame lit his vivid eyes, his haughty face, his glittering vestments.…

He turned the handle and entered the dark, spacious room.

Through the high, undraped window could clearly be seen the star that seemed to burn away the very sky.

The Pope set the candle on a shelf where it showed dim glimpses of white and gold tapestries, walls of alabaster, a bed of purple and gilt, mysterious, gorgeous luxury.…

He returned to the cabinet and took from the bosom of his gown a little bottle of yellow jade; for the stopper a ruby served.

The thunder crashed deafeningly; the lightning seemed to split the room in twain; the Pope stood still, listening.

Then he blew out the candles and returned to his bed-chamber.

Softly he passed into the scented, splendid chamber and closed the door behind him.

In the little pause between two thunder-peals was the sound of a great key turning in a lock.
 
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