*CHAPTER I*
*PATERNO*
The sun was nigh the horizon, and the whole west glowed with exquisitecolour, reflected in the watery moors of the Campagna, as a troop ofhorsemen approached the high tableland skirting the Cimminian foothills.Not a human being was visible for many miles around; only a few wildfowl fluttered over the pools and reedy islets of the marshes and thelake of Bolsena gleamed crimson in the haze of the sunset.
The boundless, undulant plain spread before them, its farms, villas andaqueducts no less eloquent of death than the tombs they had passed onthe silent Via Appia. The still air and the deep hush seemed to speakto man's soul as with the voice of eternity. On the left of thehorsemen yawned a deep ravine, from which arose towering cliffs, crownedwith monasteries and convents. On their right lay the mountain chainsof the Abruzzi, resembling dark and troubled sea-waves, and to southwardthe view was bounded by the billowy lines of the Sabine hills, rollinginfinitely away. Beyond they saw the villages scattered through thegray Campagna and in the farthest distance the mountain shadows began todarken over the roofs of ancient Tusculum and that second Alba whichrises in desolate neglect above the vanished palaces of Pompey andDomitian.
It was the day on which is observed the poetic Festa dell' Ottobrata, afestival of pagan significance, with the archaic dance and garlandedprocessions of harvest and vintage, when the townsfolk go out into thecountry, to look upon the mellow tints of autumn, to walk in thevineyards, to taste the purple grapes, and to breathe the fragrance,filling the air with odours finer than the flavour of wine. The fieldswere mellowed to yellow stubble and the creepers touched by the firstchill of autumn hung in crimson garlands along the russet hedges. Hereand there, among the stately poplars loomed up farmhouses with thatchedroofs, which from afar resembled pointed haystacks on the horizon. Atintervals among the crimson and russet leafage rose a spectral cypress,like a sombre shadow. In the haze of the distance crooked olive-treesraised their branches in tints of silver-gray. The air was still, butfor an occasional hum of insect life. The faint, white outlines of theApennines shone brilliant and glistening in the evening glow. Thetravellers passed Camaldoli with its convents reared upon high, almostinaccessible cliffs; the cloisters of Monte Cassino had vanished behindthem in silvery haze. They approached Paterno by a road skirted withvillas and gardens, with ancient statues and shady alleys. Theproximity of the mountains made the air chill; here and there a ray ofsunlight filtered through the branches of the plane-trees.
High Paterno towered above, among its rocks and steeps.
Ever since their flight from Rome, Otto had been in the throes of abenumbing lethargy, which had deprived him of interest in everything,even life itself. Vain had been his companions' effort to rouse himfrom his brooding state, vainly had they pointed out to him the beautiesof the landscape. Was it the ghost of Johannes Crescentius, the Senatorof Rome, that was haunting the son of Theophano?
After having crossed a swinging bridge, which swayed to and fro underthe weight of their iron mail, they arrived at a narrow causeway, abovewhich, like some contemplative spirit above the conflicting problems oflife, rose the cloisters, environing the ancient Castel of Paterno.Eckhardt knocked at the barred gate with the hilt of his sword,whereupon a monk appeared at the window of a tower above the portcullis,and after reconnoitring, set some machinery in motion, by which theportcullis was raised. They then found themselves in a long, narrowcauseway cut in the rock. The monk who had admitted them disappeared;another ushered them into the great hall of the cloister. The air wasfull of the lingering haze of License, and traces of devotionalpaintings on the weather-beaten walls appeared like fragments of prayersin a world-worn mind.
The hall had been made from a natural cavern and was of an exceedinglygloomy aspect, being of great extent, with deep windows only on oneside, hewn in the solid granite. It was at intervals crossed by arches,marking the termination of several galleries leading to remoter parts ofthe monastery. In the centre was a long stone table, hewn from the rock;a pulpit, supported on a pillar was similarly sculptured in the wall.Five or six pine-wood torches, stuck at far intervals in the granite,shed a dismal illumination through the gloom, enhanced rather thandiminished by the glow of red embers on a vast hearth at the farthestextremity of the hall.
Eckhardt was about to prefer his request to the monk, who had conductedthem hither, when he was interrupted by the entrance of the abbot and along train of monks from their devotions. The monks advanced in solemnsilence, their heads sunk humbly on their breasts; their superior soworn with vigils and fasts, that his gaunt and powerful frame resembleda huge skeleton. He was the only one of the group who uttered a word ofwelcome to his guests.
After having ordered Haco to attend to the wants of his lord, Eckhardtsought a conference with the abbot on matters which lay close to hisheart. For his sovereign was ill--and his illness seemed to defy humanskill. The abbot listened to Eckhardt's recital of the past events, buthis diagnosis was far from quieting the latter's fears.
"You learn to speak and think very dismally among these great, sprawlingpine forests," Eckhardt said moodily, at the conclusion of theconference.
"We learn to die!" replied the monk with melancholy austerity.
Consideration for his sovereign's safety, however, prompted Eckhardt,who had been informed that straggling bands of their pursuers hadfollowed them to the base of the hill, to continue that same night underguidance of a monk, the ascent to the almost impregnable heighths ofCastel Paterno. Here Otto and his small band were welcomed by CountTammus, the commander, who placed himself and his men-at-arms at thedisposal of the German King.