CHAPTER I

THE SUMMONS

It was the time of the summer solstice in the year 1266.

Evening was falling on the Basilicata, the shadowy, hazy twilight of
the fading midsummer day. The pale green leaves of the olive-branches
hung limply from their boughs, but the great willows which drooped
over the meandering tide of the Garigliano now and then stirred a
feathery twig in response to the delicate touch of the evening breeze.
The sun had entered the waters of ancient Liris for his evening bath,
leaving his robes of crimson and gold draped in the western sky.

Everything in this fabled land had grown enchanted in the sunset glow.
The plane-trees drooped their leaves, as if wrapped in silent dreams.
In the poppy-fields the shrill insect voices were hushed, wan presage
of the coming dusk. The Liris rolled his sunset crimson gold between
the broken scenery of the hills, and the dark forests of the Murgie
spread waving shadows over the sun-kissed Apulian plains.

To eastward the towering promontory of Monte Gargano, with the
shrines of St. Michael, patron of the Sea, rose sheer and precipitous
from the restless element which laved its base. The milk-white Apulian
towns of Foggia, Trani and Bitonto faded into the horizon to
southward, and the shadowy outlines of Castel del Monte, rising upon a
conical hill in the remote Basilicata, terminated the view to
westward.

Out of the green dusk of forest aisles in which lost sunbeams
quivered, there rode a horseman into the shadowy silence of the
deepening twilight.

Horse and rider alike seemed to feel the sway of the hour. Their
appearance did not so much as startle a bird, which from the boughs of
a carob-tree was languidly carolling a slumber song, that melted away
in the purple twilight without a single vibration. Rider and steed
drooped; the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant grass,
into which the tired hoofs sank at every step.

The solitary traveller seemed lost in contemplation of the scenery, as
he now and then paused in the shadow of the dwarfed plane and
carob-trees. Round their grotesquely gnarled trunks vines clung in
fantastic tapestries of living green, between which the path seemed to
wind towards strange twilight worlds. Slowly, as if under the weight
of some heavy spell, the horseman continued upon the deserted road,
when he was suddenly roused from his abstracted reveries by the sound
of the Angelus, cleaving the stillness with echoing chimes.

Reining in his steed with a convulsive start, which caused the
startled animal to rear and champ at the bit, he paused and looked
across the vale. He had reached a point at which the forest descended
into one of those deep ravines from which arise the rocks on which
most of the monasteries of Central Italy are built. On the brow of the
opposite hill, arising from a grove of cypresses and pines, the airy
shafts of the cloisters of San Cataldo pierced the translucent air.
The uplifted cross caught the last rays of the sun, whose misty,
crimson ball was slowly sinking below the world’s dark rim.

Slowly the horseman started on the winding descent into the valley
below, thence on the steep climb of the opposite heights, passing
numerous groups of peasants, in grotesque, gaily tinted garbs, who
stood or knelt round the wayside shrine of a saint, their bronzed
countenances aglow with fervor and religious zeal. Some pilgrims,
known by bearing the rosemary branch, were visible among the trees in
the background.–

Francesco Villani was tall and of slender stature. His face possessed
almost classic regularity of features. Hair of chestnut brown,
pointing to an extraction not purely Italian, clustered round the high
forehead. His eyes, gazing wistfully from the well-poised head, were
the brown eyes of a dreamer.

His age might have been reckoned at twenty-five. His appearance and
bearing were those of one bred in the sphere of a court. His garb
consisted of a russet-colored tunic, fastened with a belt of embossed
leather studded with gold, particolored hose, encased in leather
buskins, and a cap with a slanting plume, the ensemble denoting a page
of some princely household.

A shadowy wilderness encompassed the ascent to the cloisters, whose
white walls were sharply outlined against the greenish-blue of the
sky. The scene which on all sides met the youth’s gaze seemed almost
unreal. Laden with perfume was the air, of jessamine, of styrax, of
roses heavy in the breathless evening glow. Here and there, under
drooping branches, he passed a wooden cross, rudely carved, marking
the resting-place of some unknown pilgrim, or early martyr of the
faith. Wandering ivy wound its tendrils round the faded or
half-effaced inscriptions, and ilex foliage drooped thickly over the
Memento Mori on the roadside.

The hour added to the beauty of the scene.

A silver moon, hovering midway in the eastern sky, began to
scintillate with trembling lustre on the dreaming world below. An
intermittent breeze now and then swayed the tops of the stately
holm-oaks, wafting the fragrance of almond-trees and oleander along
alleys bordered by yew-trees. A nightingale poured forth its plaintive
song from the shelter of branch-shadowed thickets, and from the
high-domed chapel of the cloisters came the muffled chant of the
monks, borne along on the wings of the evening breeze.

At last the summit was reached.

Francesco stopped before the massive gates of San Cataldo.

With a quick tightening of the lips he dismounted. Then, without a
second’s pause, he seized upon the rope which sounded a gong in the
porter’s lodge.

“Who is it that would enter?” drawled a surly voice, quaverous with
age.

Francesco, with a twitch of the lips, grasped his horse’s mane and
pulled it, till the astonished creature gave forth a neigh of protest,
at the same time rearing violently.

Then, looking up, he shouted:

“One who would see the Prior without delay.”

Forthwith, the wicket was pulled back, and the weazened countenance of
Fra Lorenzo, the porter, appeared in the opening.

“You would see the Prior,” he gibbered, peering through the dusk upon
the belated caller, and adding with the loquaciousness of old age: “If
you are he the Prior expects, you have indeed need of haste.”

With this enigmatical speech the small window above was shut.

A moment or two later the heavy bronze gates of San Cataldo swung
slowly inward, admitting Francesco Villani and his steed. A
lay-brother, who appeared at the same time from an inner court, took
charge of the latter, while the youth followed his guide, till they
stood directly in front of the great stone church, which towered, like
a huge cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness. The chant of
the monks, which had fallen on Francesco’s ear as he climbed the
height, had ceased. Deep silence reigned in San Cataldo; only a dim
light, here and there, gave evidence of life within.

Passing the door of the church, they found themselves facing the
visitor’s entrance of the cloisters. Before entering, Francesco’s
guide knocked sturdily at the door.

In the shadows of the dimly lighted corridor there stood a monk, tall
of stature, who seemed to await them.

He regarded the youth with gloomy curiosity, while Fra Lorenzo, bent
almost double in self-abasement, slowly retreated.

“You are Francesco Villani?” spoke the Prior. Yet it sounded not like
a question. Nor did he extend his hands in greeting.

“How is my father?” came the anxious reply.

“Follow me!” said the Prior, leading the way, and as Francesco strode
behind the tall monk, of whose stern features he had caught but a
glimpse in the shadow of the corridor, he was seized with a sudden
unaccountable dread.

The expression in the face of the Prior was unreadable, but there was
little doubt he was reluctant to speak.

They passed in silence down the refectory, then up a stone stairway,
through a maze of corridors lighted dimly with stone lamps and
torches. At last he paused before the door of a chamber which they
entered, and as soon as they appeared, all those seated within arose
of one accord, while the Prior silently pointed to a bed, under a
silken canopy, whereon lay a white, still form. And as with quickened
pulse, with quickened step, looking neither to right nor left, the
youth strode to the bedside and bent over the passive form reclining
among the cushions, all those present withdrew, flitting noiselessly
as phantoms from the room, perchance more out of respect for the dying
man than regard for the son.

“My father!” Francesco whispered softly.

Gregorio Villani, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights
Hospitallers, who, in the midst of his journey from Rome to Bari, had
been stricken down with a deadly fever, opened his eyes. In those gray
orbs the old-time fire still lingered and when he spoke, weak though
was his voice, the wonted ring of command still dominated.

“Thanks, Francesco, for your quick obedience. It came sooner than I
expected.”

“It was my desire and duty,” came the response, spoken almost in a
whisper, as the youth was noting each passing change in his father’s
weakened face and frame.

There was a silence of some duration between them, as if neither dared
give utterance to his thoughts and fears.

Francesco had lifted the white, resistless hand to his lips and
tenderly replaced it on the coverlet.

“All is well now,” the elder Villani spoke at last. “Refreshments will
be brought you. After that we will speak of the business of the
hour,–the purpose of your presence here. As yet–I cannot!”

The last sentence came brokenly, and with a sort of shudder. The sight
of his son seemed to have unnerved the sick man. He closed his eyes as
if he had been taken with a sudden sinking spell.

One of the monks, who practised the art of medicine, hurried to the
bedside with a cordial, which he hastened to administer. Then
Francesco, seeing his father sink back into a torpor, left his side
and went to a table on which had been placed some barley bread,
venison and wine.

Of this he seemed in great need indeed, being thoroughly exhausted
from the long ride and the enervating emotions through which he had
passed since receiving the fatal summons.

Those who had been present in the chamber when he arrived, had now
re-entered. In a corner, whence they cast occasional glances at the
stricken man and at the youth who was devouring his repast with
nervous haste, two confessors and the monk who had administered the
cordial, sat whispering together in lugubrious consultation, while the
object of their concern lay upon the heavily canopied bed, unheedful
of their talk, pallid and motionless, his eyes closed, one hand
clenched tightly on the coarse coverlet.

His first hunger appeased, Francesco watched the scene as one in a
trance. In his mind there was no definite thought or feeling. All
about him there seemed to hang a haze of apprehension, vague and
elusive as the candle-light. Something was to happen, he felt,
something strange, dreadful, unguessed. This unaccountable dread waxed
greater until it became impossible for him to continue his repast. He
finished his wine, then sat quite still on his wooden settle, his head
bent, his fingers tightly interlaced.

The monks thought he was muttering a prayer.

In reality his thoughts had fled from the present hour to the memory
of the scenes he had left at the gay and pleasure-loving Court of
Avellino, scenes of a garden and balcony, where he had been wont to
whisper his hopes and thoughts into the ears of a proud girl, whose
favors, so manifestly bestowed upon himself, were vainly and eagerly
sought by youths of nobler birth and unquestioned parentage, when a
mysterious something recalled him to the reality of the moment.

He rose mechanically and crossed to the bed whereon the sick man lay.

The latter seemed to feel his presence and looked up.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a whisper.

Francesco bowed his head.

The elder Villani raised his thin white hands.

“I would be alone with my son,” he addressed the monk sitting nearest
his couch. Rising obediently, the latter imparted the sick man’s wish
to the others who slowly filed out of the room.

Wistfully his eyes followed their movements, till their steps had died
to silence in the long corridor. Then, without Francesco’s aid, the
elder Villani raised himself in the cushions. There seemed to be no
hint of weakness in the body, racked for weeks by the ravages of the
fever.

It was the last flickering of the indomitable spirit which had with
absolute assurance carried him to the goal of his ambition. From the
unknown monk he had risen step by step in the service of the Church
Militant, until his name resounded through the Christian and Moslem
world, more powerful than that of the Pontiff, whom only in matters
spiritual he acknowledged his superior.

The Knights Hospitallers had long assumed the defence of the Christian
world against the ever bolder encroaching hordes of Islam; they had
constituted themselves the guardians of the Holy Sepulchre, and
Gregorio Villani had not shirked the duties which the fulfillment of
his early ambition had imposed upon him. On his way to Rome, to rouse
the Pope to the proclamation of another crusade, he had stopped at
Avellino in obedience to the voice of his heart, which yearned for the
embrace of his own flesh and blood.

The boy Francesco had indeed fulfilled the promise of his childhood,
and the elder Villani could not but commend his own wisdom, which had
prompted him to place the youth at the Ghibelline court, disregarding
the violent protests of Urban IV, who had time and again
excommunicated the friends and adherents of Emperor Frederick II. But
the irate enemy of the Swabian dynasty could ill afford to estrange
from himself the good-will of the formidable order of St. John, and
for the time, at least, he had seemingly acquiesced.

And his time had come.

The reunion between father and son had been affectionate, but when
the father suddenly hinted at certain secret desires regarding his
son’s future, a cold hand seemed to come between them, which caused
the elder Villani to part with a pang from the offspring of an illicit
love. He could hardly have accounted to himself for the subtle change
which his mind had undergone. And to such an extent did it prey on his
thoughts, that he laid his heart open to the Pontiff. What transpired
at their conference, not even the elder Villani’s intimate friends
ever knew. But the fact remained, that he emerged from the private
audience with the cobbler’s son a changed man, resolved to leave no
stone unturned to make Francesco pliable to his designs.

But ere he reached the port of Bari, whence he was to embark for the
Holy Land, he fell prey to a malignant fever, which compelled him to
forego his journey and to place himself under the care of the monks of
San Cataldo.

Feeling his life ebbing slowly away, he had caused Francesco to be
summoned to his bedside.

He could not die in peace with the blot upon his conscience, the blot
from the womb of a woman,–the blot called Francesco. Ever since he
had again set eyes on the youth, carefree and happy among his
companions, the memory of his own sin had been present with him. The
fear of punishment in the life to come increased with every day; the
dread of damnation everlasting chased the slumber from his eyes, and
the man who had defied the combined forces of the Caliph, trembled at
the thought of his own last hour on earth. Vainly he had racked his
brain for some method of atonement which would dispel the ever present
fear of being barred from his seat in the Heaven of the Blessed, which
would assure him immunity from the lake of everlasting fire. At last,
like a revelation, it dawned upon him: clearly he saw his course.
There was the one way,–there was no choice. A sacrifice must be made
to save his soul, a sacrifice by one near and dear,–yet Gregorio
Villani had no life claims upon any one, save his son. His son!
And,–as according to the Scriptures the sins of the father shall be
visited upon the children even unto the third generation and the
fourth,–why, according to divine permission, might not the son be
requested to take and bear the consequences of his father’s sin?

Francesco stood by his father’s side, glad that the decisive moment
had come at last, trusting that his gloomy forebodings might be
dispelled. Gregorio Villani was looking at him in silence, with
fearful eyes and slightly parted, expectant lips. Finally, lifting his
hand, the old man pointed to a wooden settle. Francesco understood,
and, placing it near the bed, seated himself thereon, fixing his eyes
on his father’s face.

The elder Villani found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremor
in his tone, but with desperate intensity, he said:

“Francesco–do you remember our converse at Avellino?”

The youth nodded. He seemed to have anticipated a similar preliminary.

“You were not born in wedlock,” the old man continued.

“So you told me,” came the whispered reply.

“It was a grievous sin!”–

Francesco bowed his head.

There was a brief pause, then the elder Villani continued:

“You are my child, Francesco, the single evidence of my swerving from
the narrow path of righteousness. For years have I tried to atone for
my guilt. Yet, neither priest nor pontiff would grant me
absolution!”–

He paused and looked searchingly into Francesco’s eyes.

The youth’s face showed no expression, save that of earnest attention.
Taking breath again, the old man continued:

“My hours are numbered. As I have bedded myself, so I lie. In another
world I shall be judged! Judged! Francesco! Have you ever thought of
death?”

“I have not,” was the answer given in absent tones.

“Nor had I, when I was at your age,” returned the elder Villani,
reverting to the ill-fated theme. “But I think of it now,–for I needs
must. When one stands on the threshold of eternity, face to face with
his Creator, then indeed does man begin to bethink himself. Even
though a priest might have absolved me of my transgression, my own
conscience could not! The vows of the Church are sacred. And now, from
the height of time, I look down through the gallery of years. My
prayers of anguish and repentance have brought no peace to my heart.
Ever and ever remorse returns. Purgatory opens before my inner gaze
and Hell yawns to receive my soul!”

Again the Grand Master paused, his strength failing rapidly.

With a strong, final effort, however, he concentrated a glance of
powerful intensity upon Francesco’s thoughtful face. The latter
returned the look with one of earnest questioning.

“And was the sin so great?” he queried. “Others have committed worse,
yet despaired not of Heaven!”

The old man sighed. He had made his decision, passed these arguments
from him long ago. Now no word from any one might mitigate his
judgment of himself. The thought that his own flesh and blood was
taking so lenient a view of the matter, irritated and annoyed him.

“I am not Arnold of Brescia, to soothe my conscience with idle
quibbles,” he said after a pause. “I am your father, face to face with
the Hereafter, filled with fear for the repose of my soul. The tenets
of indulgence are not for me! One may be a saint on earth and knock in
vain at the gates of Heaven. What are others to me? It is I that am
dying!”

Like a tidal-wave breaking on the shore it came to Francesco in a
sudden flood of understanding. His father had no thought save for
himself. It was not the happiness of others he strove for, his own
welfare his first and final goal. The ties of flesh and blood meant
nothing to him, save for what he might demand of them for himself. In
his earlier years he might have allayed suffering and fears with
words. What were words to him now?

“What would you have me do?” queried Francesco. His voice was low and
fraught with a great pity for the dying man.

A gleam passed over the latter’s face. At last he had to put the
question. All hung upon that moment, all;–his eternal happiness and
damnation. Should he reveal his request at once, with nothing to allay
its harshness?

A sudden rush of pain decided the matter.

“You ask me what you should do?” he replied slowly. “There is but one
thing to do,–there is but one choice. It is for you to live the life
in which I have failed. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live
apart from men, alone with tomes and prayers and God,–removed from
the temptation which caused my fall!”

The sick man drew a short and painful breath, scarcely lower in sound
than three words spoken close by his side, spoken as with the voice of
a phantom.

“Become a monk!”–

The elder Villani did not stir. He reclined in the cushions, his eyes
fixed upon his son with a pitiful look of pleading, which might do far
more than words, to prepare the youth’s mind for such a thought.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francesco moved away from the bed. His
gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused to
concentrate themselves upon anything. It was too monstrous to
conceive! It was past belief, past understanding,–an ill-timed jest
perhaps–but yet a jest!

And he burst out with a laugh in which there was no thought of mirth.

“A monk!”

The old man regarded him anxiously.

“I did not jest!”

The laugh died to silence, then rose again in his throat, but
Francesco’s eyes were terrible.

“Am I fitted for a monk?” he spoke at last. “You know what my life has
been. Have not you placed me in the sphere of the court, even ere I
had attained the power to think? How can I become a monk? What do I
know of the way of monks? What do I know of their lives? I must have
time to think!”

“There is no time,” insisted the elder Villani, despair in his eyes.

“There is no time!” Francesco exclaimed aghast.

Then all the blood rushed to his heart.

“You mean that I am to decide, here and now?”

“Here and now!” came the low, inexorable voice.

The youth sprang from his seat.

“Then I say no,–no,–no!” he shouted, his eyes flashing fierce
determination from the pale face. “I am not fit to be a monk! I will
not be a monk! I am of the living,–I came for the sunlight, not the
shadow of the cloister! Never–never–never!”

A terrible, indefinable expression passed into the eyes of the sick
man. It passed out again, but the trace remained.

When he spoke again, his voice was weak, and there was a note in it of
despair.

“Deem you, that I have not thought of it, that I have not weighed in
the balance all your objections to the life of the cloister when I
asked this thing of you? You say you are of the court! You came for
the sunlight, not the shadow! What man does not! But you forget, there
is a force that shapes our ends,–you forget–your origin,–your
birth! I am your father and my sin is yours! We are both impure in the
sight of God! I have opened a means of salvation for both of us–the
Way of the Cross. A glorious way it is, for by it my soul shall belong
to you! In the sight of men you are as nothing! The blot of your birth
can never be effaced! But you are my son! Therefore, here on my
death-bed I command you to leave this world, that you may open the way
to another,–a better one,–to both of us,–to both of us,
Francesco,–to you and to me!”

There was a long silence between them, a silence of dread and
expectation for the one,–of fear and despair for the other.

At last Francesco raised his head.

“And she, whom I never knew,–she who was my mother,” he asked
bitterly–“have you saved her soul? Or is that too left for me to do?”

“If prayers and penances avail, and masses untold,–her soul is in
Heaven! Yet–how do I know if the sacrifice availed?”

Francesco again relapsed into silence.

Out of the mist before his eyes there rose his own life. He saw its
shimmering past,–all the allurement for happiness it held out,–and
the dreary future decreed for him, to atone for another’s sin.

“What is required to make a monk of me?” he queried with a dead voice.
“What cloister am I to enter?”

The sick man breathed quickly.

“All these matters have I arranged. From His Holiness himself have I
letters, sanctioning the matter. You will be given the right of
friar’s orders that shall free you at times from the weariness and
monotony of the cloister. In all difficulties or troubles you will
appeal directly to the Pontiff! These privileges are great!”

“The Pontiff!” Francesco uttered with a start. “Pope Clement IV is the
mortal enemy of those to whom I have pledged my troth, to whom I owe
allegiance. I am a Ghibelline!” he concluded, as if struck by a new
thought. “I can never become a monk!”

For a moment the elder Villani lay silent, as if dazed by this sudden
unforeseen resistance. He forced himself to answer calmly and not to
betray his own misgivings.

“Your reasons are mere sophistry!” he said, after a brief pause. “Has
the party of Conradino the power to pave your way to Heaven,–to save
my soul from perdition? To insure your mother’s eternal peace? Your
path lies henceforth with the Church, from which only my own
perverseness and blindness had severed you. For you henceforth there
are no commands save those of the Holy Father! What are Guelphs and
Ghibellines to you in this of all homes,–when I am lying at the door
of death?”

“They will look upon me as an ingrate, a renegade, a traitor,–and she
of all,–she–“

He covered his face with his hands.

“What say you?” asked his father drearily.

“Where am I to go?” came the monotonous response.

“You will repair to Monte Cassino, there to serve your novitiate. Your
time is to be shortened by special dispensation. At the end of that
period you will be called to Rome, to enter the Chapter House of the
Order of St. John. It holds out greater honor and privileges than any
in the world. You will take your orders directly from His Holiness.
The path to glory and to holiness lies open to you. Are you
satisfied?”

A moan came from Francesco’s lips.

“My strength is failing,–your word,–to God!”

Francesco stood beside his father’s death-bed, his arms hanging limply
by his side. His damp hair clung closely to his head. His eyes were
dull and unseeing.

Like a breath of the evening wind his youth had passed from him. His
gaze was not upon his father’s face, but turned inwardly upon the
great aching void where his happiness had been.

When he spoke his words were low, his tone and his face alike without
expression.

“In the sight of God, I promise to become a monk!”

The old man, straining to catch the words, drank them into his soul.

His face relaxed. A sigh passed his lips. His failing strength had
apparently returned to him.

“You may call Fra Anselmo,” he said gently. “But first, my son, kneel
to receive my blessing!”

Francesco stumbled blindly to the bedside and forced himself to kneel.
He shivered, as the sick man’s hot, dry hand lay upon his hair, and
only by main force he restrained himself from crying out aloud.

Then the whispered phrase of the benediction fell meaningless upon his
ear:

“Pax tecum nunc et per omnia saecula,–Amen!”–