*CHAPTER III*
*THE CONSUMMATION*
Some weeks had elapsed since Otto's arrival at Paterno. But the feverwhich consumed the son of Theophano had not yielded to the skill of themonkish mediciners, though a change for the better had been noticedafter the first night of the King's arrival. But it lasted only a shorttime and all the danger symptoms returned anew. The monks shook theirheads and the hooded disciples of Aesculapius conversed in hushedwhispers, regarding the strange ailment, which would not cede beforetheir antidotes. But they continued their unavailing efforts to savethe life of the last of the glorious Saxon dynasty, the grandson of thevanquisher of the Magyars, the son of the vanquisher of the Saracens.
It was a bleak December evening.
At sunset a mist rose from the fields and the clouds grew heavier withevery hour. The rain-drops hung on the branches of the plane-trees,until an occasional stir sent them pattering down.
Otto lay within, asleep.
In the door-way sat Eckhardt, muffled in a cloak. Near-by, halfrecumbent under a blanket, the cowl drawn over his face, sat the leech,his eyes fixed upon the log-fire on the hearth, as it sent showers ofsparks into the murky darkness. In their search for fire-wood the monkshad brought from the edge of a neighbouring mill-pond the debris of askiff, whose planks had for years been alternately soaked in water anddried in the sun. When tossed upon the blaze of forest branches, thesefragments emitted an odour sweet as oriental spices and their flamesbrightened with prismatic tints. But to the leech's brooding gaze theirlurid embers seemed touched with the spell of some unholy incantation.
Without the sick-chamber two sentries, chilled and drowsy, leanedagainst a column supporting the low vaulting, their halberds claspedbetween their folded arms.
After a pause of some duration, Eckhardt arose and entering Otto'schamber bent over the couch on which he lay. After having convincedhimself by the youth's regular breathing that he was resting and did notrequire his attendance, the Margrave strode from the sick-chamber. Thefever was intermittent; now it came, now it left the youth's body. Butthe pale wan face and the sunken eyes gave rise to the gravest fears.
Night came swiftly and with it the intense hush deepened. Only thepattering of rain-drops broke the stillness. In the sick-chambernothing was to be heard save the regular breathing of the sleeper.
Thus the hours wore on. After the monk and Eckhardt had departed forthe night, the secret panel opened noiselessly and Stephania entered theapartment with a strange expression of triumph and despair in her look.She glanced round, but her eyes passed unheedingly over theirsurroundings; she saw only that there was no one in the chamber, that noone had seen her enter. There was something utterly desperate in thatglance. Noiselessly she stepped to the narrow oval window gazing outinto the mist-veiled landscape.
But it seemed without consciousness.
A single thought seemed to have frozen her brain.
She stepped to Otto's couch and for a moment bent over him.
Then she retreated, as if seized with a secret terror.
For a few moments she stood behind him, with closed eyes, her facealmost stony with dread and the fear of something unknown.
Near the bed there stood a pitcher which the monks replenished everyevening with water cold from a mountain spring. Approaching it, shetook a powder from her bosom and shook it into it, every grain. Thenshe turned the pitcher round and round, to mix the fine powder, whichstood on the surface. Suddenly she started, and set it down, whilescalding tears slowly coursed down her pale cheeks. Desperate thoughtscrowded thickly on her brain, as her stony gaze was riveted on thewater, whose crystal clearness had not been clouded by the subtlepoison.
"Between us stands the shade of Crescentius," she muttered. "Still I cannot cease to love him,--each bound to each,--together, yet perpetuallydivided,--our love a flower that the hand of death will gather."
Again there was a long, intense hush. She crept to Otto's bed and kneltdown by his side, hiding her wet face on her bare arms.
"When he is dead," she continued speaking softly, so as not to wake him,"the unpardonable sin will be condoned.--Otto, Otto,--how I loveyou,--if I loved you less,--you might live--"
At these words he stirred in the cushions. A deep sigh came from hislips, as if the mountain of a heavy dream had been lifted from hisbreast.
She drew back terrified, but noting that he did not open his eyes, shespoke with a moan of weariness:
"How often thus in my dreams have I seen his dead face--"
Again she bent over the sleeper. Now she could not discern a breath. Astrange dread seized her, and her face became as wan and haggard as thatof the fever-stricken youth. Obeying a sudden impulse she removed thepitcher of water, placing it in a remote niche. Then she crept back toOtto's couch.
"Is he dead?" she whispered, as if seized by a strange delirium. "Is hedead? I know not,--yet none knows,--but I! None,--but I!"
She gave a start, as if she had discovered a listener, glanced wildlyabout the room, at each familiar object in the chamber, and met Otto'seyes.
She raised herself with a gasp of terror, as he grasped her hand.
"Who is dead?" he asked. "And who is it, that alone knows it?"
She stroked the soft fair hair from his clammy brow.
"You are delirious, my love," she whispered. "No one is dead;--you havebeen dreaming."
"I thought I heard you say so," he replied wearily.
The horror and bewilderment at his awakening at this moment of all, whenshe required all her strength for her purpose, left her dazed for amoment.
The clock struck the second hour after midnight. The sound cut the airsharply, like a stern summons. It seemed to demand: Who dares to watchat this hour of death?
Otto had again closed his eyes. Delirium had regained its sway. He waswhispering, while his fingers scratched on the cover of his couch, as ifhe were preparing his own grave.
Again he relapsed into a fitful slumber, filled with dreams and visionsof the past.
He stands at the banks of the Rhine. The night is still. The moon isin her zenith, her yellow radiance reflected in the calm majestic tideof the river. He hears the sighing, droning swish of the waters; thesinuous dream-like murmuring of the waves resolving into tinklingchimes, far-away and plaintive, that steal up to him in the moon mists,ravishing his soul. In cadenced, languorous rhythm the song of theRhine-daughters weeps and wooes through the night; their shimmeringbodies gleam from the waters in a silvery sphere of light; they seem tobeckon to him--to call to him--to lure him back--
"Home! Home!" he cries from the depths of his dream; then his voicebecomes inarticulate and sinks into silence.
New phantoms crowded each other, a shifting phantasmagoria of the verybeings who at that dreadful hour were most vividly fixed in his mind.And among them stood out the image of the woman, who was kneeling at hisside, the woman he loved above all women on earth. Again his lipsmoved. He called her by name, with passionate words of love.
"Let me not die thus, Stephania! Leave me not in this dreary abyss!Oh! Drive away those infernal spectres that stare in my face," and hiswords became wild and confused, as all these phantoms seemed to rush onhim together, forming lurid groups, flaming and tremulous, likeprolonged flashes of lightning, but growing fainter and fainter as theydied away, when every faculty of the young sufferer seemed utterlysuspended.
Dark clouds passed over the moon.
The wind blew in fierce gusts, howling like an imprisoned beast betweenthe chinks of the wall. Then the night relapsed once more into silence,and in intermittent pauses large drops of rain could be heard, splashingfrom the height of the roof upon the ringing flagstones. To Stephania'slistening ear it seemed like a dreadful pacing to and fro of spiritsmeditating on the past. She dragged herself to a seat in a recess ofthe wall, whence she could watch the sufferer and minister to his wants.
Another f
it of delirium seized Otto. Restlessly he tossed on hispillows. Again a dream murmured his own impending fate into his ears.
Again he is in Aix-la-Chapelle. Again he beholds Charlemagne seatederect in his chair as in that memorable night when he visited the deademperor in the crypts. He touches the imperial vestments; the crownglitters in the smoky flare of the torches. But through the heavyArabian perfumes of the emperor's fantastic shroud penetrates the odourof the corpse.
The night wore on.
Recovering consciousness, Otto knew by the dying candle, by the strokesof the clocks from adjacent cloisters, that hours had passed intoeternity, and that it was long past midnight. It was very still. Thetread of the sentries was no longer heard. Through the window were seenpale blue flashes of lightning in a remote cloudbank, as on thatmemorable night in the temple of Neptune at Rome. The dull rumbling ofdistant thunder seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.
His head ached, his mouth was parched, thirst tormented him. He dimlyremembered the pitcher of water. Who had removed it? Why had it beentaken away? He tried to rise, to drag himself to the wall, but hisstrength was not equal to the task. He fell back in the cushions wherefor a time he lay motionless. Then a moan broke from his lips, whichstartled the figure seated by the bed. Opening his eyes Otto gazed intothe pale face of Stephania. She started up with a low cry,--as from atrance. Waking and watching had benumbed her senses.
Now from her own suffering she lifted to Otto her face, wherein wasreflected the great love she bore him.
He looked at her with all the love of his soul in his eyes.
"I am dying," he spoke calmly, "I know it."
An outcry of mortal anguish broke from her lips.
"No, no, no!" she moaned, entwining him with her arms. "Otto, mylove--you will live,--live--live-- Can you fancy us parted," shesobbed, "one from the other for ever? Or can you go from me and leave meto the great loneliness of the world? To me all on earth, but you,seems a fleeting shadow; but in this hour, I think only of the greaterpang of my own fate, and pray that in another world I may be judged moremercifully,--even by you."
For some moments they remained locked in close embrace.
"Kiss me!" he whispered hungrily. "Kiss me, Stephania!"
She drew back.
"My kisses are cold, Otto, cold as those of a dead love."
"Kiss me, Stephania," he moaned, "kiss me, even if your kisses weredeath itself."
She breathed hard, as he held to her with all his might.
"A dead hand is drawing me downward, hold me up, Otto!" she gasped."Hold me up! Do not let me go! Do not let me go!"
And she kissed him, until he was almost delirious, drawing him close toher heart.
"Now you are mine--mine--mine!" she whispered, kissing him again andagain, while his fingers were buried in the soft, silken wealth of herhair.
"The hour is brief,--life is short and uncertain--oh, let the hour beours! Let us drain the glittering goblet to the dregs! Then we maycast it from us and say we have been happy! Death has no terror for us!I am thirsty, Stephania,--give me the pitcher."
She trembled in every limb.
"Do not let me go! Hold me, Otto,--do not let me go!" she almostshrieked, entwining him so tightly with her arms that he could scarcelybreathe.
"I feel the fever returning--the water--Stephania--"
"Do not let me go!" she begged with mortal dread.
"I am burning up."
He struggled in her arms to rise, gasping:
"Water--Water!"
And he pointed to the niche, where he had espied the pitcher.
She almost dropped him, as raising himself he pushed her from him. Herhead swam giddily and she felt a feebleness in all her limbs; shuddersof icy cold ran through her, followed by waves of heat, that sickenedand suffocated her. But she paid little heed to these sensations.Stephania felt death in her heart, she strove to sustain herself, butfailing in the effort, fell moaning across his couch.
Otto had fallen back on his pillows with eyes closed. He was spared thesight of the terrible agony of the woman he loved. At last she clutchedthe pitcher and staggering feebly forward, step by step, she pushed backher hair from her brows and softly called his name.
He opened his eyes, but did not speak.
Trembling in every limb she bent over him and placing one hand under hishead raised him to a sitting posture, glancing fear-struck round thechamber. She thought she had heard the tread of approaching steps.
Greedily Otto grasped the vessel, pressing his hot hands over thewoman's which held it to his lips. Greedily he drank the poisonedbeverage, while a heart-breaking moan came from Stephania's lips. Heheard it not. He sank back into the cushions, while she knelt down byhis side, weeping as if her heart would break.
The Senator of Rome was avenged.
Avenged? On whom? Whose tortures were the greater, if a spirit stillpossessed the power to suffer? Alas! It was not the death of her lordand husband she had avenged! She had sacrificed the love which filledher heart to the Infernals!
While these reflections were whirling through her maddened brain, thefatal poison was coursing serpent-like through Otto's veins, andcreeping to his head. For a time he lay still; then he began to moveuneasily in his pillows, his breathing became laboured, he beat thecovers with his hands. Then he moaned, as in the last agony, andStephania, to whom every sound of suffering from his lips was as athousand deaths, knelt by his side, unable to avert her gaze from theyouth, dying by the hand he loved and trusted.
Fixedly she stared at the inert form on the bed. Then only the fullrealization of her deed seemed to burst upon her brain. She clutcheddespairingly at the cover, beneath which lay his restless form, his faceaverted, the face she so loved, yet feared, to see.
"Otto!" she moaned, "Otto!"
Her voice broke. She suddenly withdrew her hands and looked at them inhorror, those white, beautiful hands, that had mixed the fatal draught.Then with a bewildered, vacant smile she beamed on her victim.
Otto had lost consciousness. Nothing stirred in the chamber. Profoundsilence reigned unbroken, save for the slow chime of a distant bell,tolling the hour.
Was he dead? Had the light of the eyes, she loved so well, gone out forever?
Her hand hovered fearfully above him, as if to drive away the grimspectre of death. At last, nerving herself with a supreme effort, shetouched with trembling hand the cover that hid him from view. Liftingit tearfully, she turned it back softly,--softly, murmuring his name allthe time.
Then she stooped down close, and closer yet. Her red lips touched thepurple ones; she stroked the damp and clammy brow, and thrust herfingers into his soft hair. A moan came from his lips. Then, fasteningher white robe more securely about her, and stepping heedfully ontip-toe, she passed out of the chamber. With uncertain step she glidedalong the corridor, a ghostly figure, with a white, spectral face andfevered eyes. At the foot of the spiral stairway she paused, gazingeagerly around.
Stepping to a low casement she peered into the night. Flickering lightsand shadows played without; the late moon had disappeared, leaving but asilvery trail upon the sky, to faintly mark her recent passage among thestars. Everything was still. Only the plaintive cry of an owl echoedfrom afar. Her sandalled feet sounded on the stone-paved floor, like thesoft pattering of falling leaves in autumn. Unsteadily she moved alongthe gray discoloured wall towards the secret panel, known but toherself. Soon her perplexed wandering gaze found what it sought, andStephania disappeared, as if the stones had receded to receive her.