Colonel Ferrari had turned round to glance severely at the two younger
officers. After the solemn event of yesterday morning he was in a devout and
serious frame of mind, and inclined to reproach them with a want of proper
feeling about what he regarded as "a painful necessity of state."
The masters of the ceremonies began to assemble and place in order
those who were to take part in the procession. Colonel Ferrari rose from his
place and moved up to the chancel-rail, beckoning to the other officers to
accompany him. When the Mass was finished, and the Host had been placed
behind the crystal shield in the processional sun, the celebrant and his
ministers retired to the sacristy to change their vestments, and a little
buzz of whispered conversation broke out through the church. Montanelli
remained seated on his throne, looking straight before him, immovably. All
the sea of human life and motion seemed to surge around and below him, and
to die away into stillness about his feet. A censer was brought to him; and
he raised his hand with the action of an automaton, and put the incense into
the vessel, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
The clergy had come back from the sacristy, and were waiting in the
chancel for him to descend; but he remained utterly motionless. The deacon
of honour, bending forward to take off the mitre, whispered again,
hesitatingly:
"Your Eminence!" The Cardinal looked round.
"What did you say?"
"Are you quite sure the procession will not be too much for you? The
sun is very hot."
"What does the sun matter?"
Montanelli spoke in a cold, measured voice, and the priest again
fancied that he must have given offence.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence. I thought you seemed unwell."
Montanelli rose without answering. He paused a moment on the upper step
of the throne, and asked in the same measured way:
"What is that?"
The long train of his mantle swept down over the steps and lay spread
out on the chancel-floor, and he was pointing to a fiery stain on the white
satin.
"It's only the sunlight shining through a coloured window, Your
Eminence."
"The sunlight? Is it so red?"
He descended the steps, and knelt before the altar, swinging the censer
slowly to and fro. As he handed it back, the chequered sunlight fell on his
bared head and wide, uplifted eyes, and cast a crimson glow across the white
veil that his ministers were folding round him.
He took from the deacon the sacred golden sun; and stood up, as choir
and organ burst into a peal of triumphal melody.
"Pange, lingua, g]oriosi Corporis mysterium, Sanguinisque pretiosi Quem
in mundi pretium, Fructus ventris generosi Rex effudit gentium."
The bearers came slowly forward, and raised the silken canopy over his
head, while the deacons of honour stepped to their places at his right and
left and drew back the long folds of the mantle. As the acolytes stooped to
lift his robe from the chancel-floor, the lay fraternities heading the
procession started to pace down the nave in stately double file, with
lighted candles held to left and right.
He stood above them, by the altar, motionless under the white canopy,
holding the Eucharist aloft with steady hands, and watched them as they
passed. Two by two, with candles and banners and torches, with crosses and
images and flags, they swept slowly down the chancel steps, along the broad
nave between the garlanded pillars, and out under the lifted scarlet
curtains into the blazing sunlight of the street; and the sound of their
chanting died into a rolling murmur, drowned in the pealing of new and newer
voices, as the unending stream flowed on, and yet new footsteps echoed down
the nave.
The companies of the parishes passed, with their white shrouds and
veiled faces; then the brothers of the Misericordia, black from head to
foot, their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in their masks. Next
came the monks in solemn row: the mendicant friars, with their dusky cowls
and bare, brown feet; the white-robed, grave Dominicans. Then followed the
lay officials of the district; dragoons and carabineers and the local
police-officials; the Governor in gala uniform, with his brother officers
beside him. A deacon followed, holding up a great cross between two acolytes
with gleaming candles; and as the curtains were lifted high to let them pass
out at the doorway, Montanelli caught a momentary glimpse, from where he
stood under the canopy, of the sunlit blaze of carpeted street and flag-hung
walls and white-robed children scattering roses. Ah, the roses; how red they
were!
On and on the procession paced in order; form succeeding to form and
colour to colour. Long white surplices, grave and seemly, gave place to
gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials. Now passed a tall and slender
golden cross, borne high above the lighted candles; now the cathedral
canons, stately in their dead white mantles. A chaplain paced down the
chancel, with the crozier between two flaring torches; then the acolytes
moved forward in step, their censers swinging to the rhythm of the music;
the bearers raised the canopy higher, counting their steps: "One, two; one,
two!" and Montanelli started upon the Way of the Cross.
Down the chancel steps and all along the nave he passed; under the
gallery where the organ pealed and thundered; under the lifted curtains that
were so red--so fearfully red; and out into the glaring street, where the
blood-red roses lay and withered, crushed into the red carpet by the passing
of many feet. A moment's pause at the door, while the lay officials came
forward to replace the canopy-bearers; then the procession moved on again,
and he with it, his hands clasping the Eucharistic sun, and the voices of
the choristers swelling and dying around him, with the rhythmical swaying of
censers and the rolling tramp of feet.
"Verbum caro, panem verum, Verbo carnem efficit; Sitque sanguis Christi
merum----"
Always blood and always blood! The carpet stretched before him like a
red river; the roses lay like blood splashed on the stones---- Oh, God! Is
all Thine earth grown red, and all Thy heaven? Ah, what is it to Thee, Thou
mighty God---- Thou, whose very lips are smeared with blood!
"Tantum ergo Sacramentum, Veneremur cernui."He looked through the
crystal shield at the Eucharist. What was that oozing from the wafer--
dripping down between the points of the golden sun--down on to his white
robe? What had he seen dripping down--dripping from a lifted hand?
The grass in the courtyard was trampled and red,--all red,--there was
so much blood. It was trickling down the cheek, and dripping from the
pierced right hand, and gushing in a hot red torrent from the wounded side.
Even a lock of the hair was dabbled in it,--the hair that lay all wet and
matted on the forehead--ah, that was the death-sweat; it came from the
horrible pain.
The voices of the choristers rose higher, triumphantly:
"Genitori, genitoque, Laus et jubilatio, Salus, honor, virtus quoque,
Sit et benedictio."
Oh, that is more than any patience can endure! God, Who sittest on the
brazen heavens enthroned, and smilest with bloody lips, looking down upon
agony and death, is it not enough? Is it not enough, without this mockery of
praise and blessing? Body of Christ, Thou that wast broken for the salvation
of men; blood of Christ, Thou that wast shed for the remission of sins; is
it not enough?
"Ah, call Him louder; perchance He sleepeth!
Dost Thou sleep indeed, dear love; and wilt Thou never wake again? Is
the grave so jealous of its victory; and will the black pit under the tree
not loose Thee even for a little, heart's delight?
Then the Thing behind the crystal shield made answer, and the blood
dripped down as It spoke:
"Hast thou chosen, and wilt repent of thy choice? Is thy desire not
fulfilled? Look upon these men that walk in the light and are clad in silk
and in gold: for their sake was I laid in the black pit. Look upon the
children scattering roses, and hearken to their singing if it be sweet: for
their sake is my mouth filled with dust, and the roses are red from the
well-springs of my heart. See where the people kneel to drink the blood that
drips from thy garment-hem: for their sake was it shed, to quench their
ravening thirst. For it is written: 'Greater love hath no man than this, if
a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
"Oh, Arthur, Arthur; there is greater love than this! If a man lay down
the life of his best beloved, is not that greater?"
And It answered again:
"Who is thy best beloved? In sooth, not I."
And when he would have spoken the words froze on his tongue, for the
singing of the choristers passed over them, as the north wind over icy
pools, and hushed them into silence:
"Dedit fragilibus corporis ferculum, Dedit et tristibus sanguinis
poculum, Dicens: Accipite, quod trado vasculum Omnes ex eo bibite."
Drink of it, Christians; drink of it, all of you! Is it not yours? For
you the red stream stains the grass; for you the living flesh is seared and
torn. Eat of it, cannibals; eat of it, all of you! This is your feast and
your orgy; this is the day of your joy! Haste you and come to the festival;
join the procession and march with us; women and children, young men and old
men--come to the sharing of flesh! Come to the pouring of blood-wine and
drink of it while it is red; take and eat of the Body----
Ah, God; the fortress! Sullen and brown, with crumbling battlements and
towers dark among the barren hills, it scowled on the procession sweeping
past in the dusty road below. The iron teeth of the portcullis were drawn
down over the mouth of the gate; and as a beast crouched on the
mountain-side, the fortress guarded its prey. Yet, be the teeth clenched
never so fast, they shall be broken and riven asunder; and the grave in the
courtyard within shall yield up her dead. For the Christian hosts are
marching, marching in mighty procession to their sacramental feast of blood,
as marches an army of famished rats to the gleaning; and their cry is:
"Give! Give!" and they say not: "It is enough."
"Wilt thou not be satisfied? For these men was I sacrificed; thou hast
destroyed me that they might live; and behold, they march everyone on his
ways, and they shall not break their ranks.
"This is the army of Christians, the followers of thy God; a great
people and a strong. A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a flame
burneth; the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a
desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them."
"Oh, yet come back, come back to me, beloved; for I repent me of my
choice! Come back, and we will creep away together, to some dark and silent
grave where the devouring army shall not find us; and we will lay us down
there, locked in one another's arms, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. And
the hungry Christians shall pass by in the merciless daylight above our
heads; and when they howl for blood to drink and for flesh to eat, their cry
shall be faint in our ears; and they shall pass on their ways and leave us
to our rest."
And It answered yet again:
"Where shall I hide me? Is it not written: 'They shall run to and fro
in the city; they shall run upon the wall; they shall climb up upon the
houses; they shall enter in at the windows like a thief?' If I build me a
tomb on the mountain-top, shall they not break it open? If I dig me a grave
in the river-bed, shall they not tear it up? Verily, they are keen as
blood-hounds to seek out their prey; and for them are my wounds red, that
they may drink. Canst thou not hear them, what they sing?"
And they sang, as they went in between the scarlet curtains of the
Cathedral door; for the procession was over, and all the roses were strewn:
"Ave, verum Corpus, natum De Maria Virgine: Vere passum, immolatum In
cruce pro homine! Cujus latus perforatum Undam fluxit cum sanguinae; Esto
nobis praegustatum Mortis in examinae."
And when they had left off singing, he entered at the doorway, and
passed between the silent rows of monks and priests, where they knelt, each
man in his place, with the lighted candles uplifted. And he saw their hungry
eyes fixed on the sacred Body that he bore; and he knew why they bowed their
heads as he passed. For the dark stream ran down the folds of his white
vestments; and on the stones of the Cathedral floor his footsteps left a
deep, red stain.
So he passed up the nave to the chancel rails; and there the bearers
paused, and he went out from under the canopy and up to the altar steps. To
left and right the white-robed acolytes knelt with their censers and the
chaplains with their torches; and their eyes shone greedily in the flaring
light as they watched the Body of the Victim.
And as he stood before the altar, holding aloft with blood-stained
hands the torn and mangled body of his murdered love, the voices of the
guests bidden to the Eucharistic feast rang out in another peal of song:
"Oh salutaris Hostia, Quae coeli pandis ostium; Bella praemunt
hostilia, Da robur, fer, auxilium!"
Ah, and now they come to take the Body---- Go then, dear heart, to thy
bitter doom, and open the gates of heaven for these ravening wolves that
will not be denied. The gates that are opened for me are the gates of the
nethermost hell.
And as the deacon of honour placed the sacred vessel on the altar,
Montanelli sank down where he had stood, and knelt upon the step; and from
the white altar above him the blood flowed down and dripped upon his head.
And the voices of the singers rang on, pealing under the arches and echoing
along the vaulted roof:
"Uni trinoque Domino Sit sempiterna gloria: Qui vitam sine termino
Nobis donet in patria."
"Sine termino--sine termino!" Oh, happy Jesus, Who could sink beneath
His cross! Oh, happy Jesus, Who could say: "It is finished!" This doom is
never ended; it is eternal as the stars in their courses. This is the worm
that dieth not and the fire that is not quenched. "Sine termino, sine
termino!"
Wearily, patiently, he went through his part in the remaining
ceremonies, fulfilling mechanically, from old habit, the rites that had no
longer any meaning for him. Then, after the benediction, he knelt down again
before the altar and covered his face; and the voice of the priest reading
aloud the list of indulgences swelled and sank like a far-off murmur from a
world to which he belonged no more.
The voice broke off, and he stood up and stretched out his hand for
silence. Some of the congregation were moving towards the doors; and they
turned back with a hurried rustle and murmur, as a whisper went through the
Cathedral:
"His Eminence is going to speak."
His ministers, startled and wondering, drew closer to him and one of
them whispered hastily: "Your Eminence, do you intend to speak to the people
now?"
Montanelli silently waved him aside. The priests drew back, whispering
together; the thing was unusual, even irregular; but it was within the
Cardinal's prerogative if he chose to do it. No doubt, he had some statement
of exceptional importance to make; some new reform from Rome to announce or
a special communication from the Holy Father.
Montanelli looked down from the altar-steps upon the sea of upturned
faces. Full of eager expectancy they looked up at him as he stood above
them, spectral and still and white.
"Sh-sh! Silence!" the leaders of the procession called softly; and the
murmuring of the congregation died into stillness, as a gust of wind dies
among whispering tree-tops. All the crowd gazed up, in breathless silence,
at the white figure on the altar-steps. Slowly and steadily he began to
speak:
"It is written in the Gospel according to St. John: 'God so loved the
world, that He gave His only begotten Son that the world through Him might
be saved.'
"This is the festival of the Body and Blood of the Victim who was slain
for your salvation; the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the
world; the Son of God, Who died for your transgressions. And you are
assembled here in solemn festival array, to eat of the sacrifice that was
given for you, and to render thanks for this great mercy. And I know that
this morning, when you came to share in the banquet, to eat of the Body of
the Victim, your hearts were filled with joy, as you remembered the Passion
of God the Son, Who died, that you might be saved.
"But tell me, which among you has thought of that other Passion--of the
Passion of God the Father, Who gave His Son to be crucified? Which of you
has remembered the agony of God the Father, when He bent from His throne in
the heavens above, and looked down upon Calvary?
"I have watched you to-day, my people, as you walked in your ranks in
solemn procession; and I have seen that your hearts are glad within you for
the remission of your sins, and that you rejoice in your salvation. Yet I
pray you that you consider at what price that salvation was bought. Surely
it is very precious, and the price of it is above rubies; it is the price of
blood."
A faint, long shudder passed through the listening crowd. In the
chancel the priests bent forward and whispered to one another; but the
preacher went on speaking, and they held their peace.
"Therefore it is that I speak with you this day: I AM THAT I AM. For I
looked upon your weakness and your sorrow, and upon the little children
about your feet; and my heart was moved to compassion for their sake, that
they must die. Then I looked into my dear son's eyes; and I knew that the
Atonement of Blood was there. And I went my way, and left him to his doom.
"This is the remission of sins. He died for you, and the darkness has
swallowed him up; he is dead, and there is no resurrection; he is dead, and
I have no son. Oh, my boy, my boy!"
The Cardinal's voice broke in a long, wailing cry; and the voices of
the terrified people answered it like an echo. All the clergy had risen from
their places, and the deacons of honour started forward to lay their hands
on the preacher's arm. But he wrenched it away, and faced them suddenly,
with the eyes of an angry wild beast.
"What is this? Is there not blood enough? Wait your turn, jackals; you
shall all be fed!"
They shrank away and huddled shivering together, their panting breath
thick and loud, their faces white with the whiteness of chalk. Montanelli
turned again to the people, and they swayed and shook before him, as a field
of corn before a hurricane.
"You have killed him! You have killed him! And I suffered it, because I
would not let you die. And now, when you come about me with your lying
praises and your unclean prayers, I repent me--I repent me that I have done
this thing! It were better that you all should rot in your vices, in the
bottomless filth of damnation, and that he should live. What is the worth of
your plague-spotted souls, that such a price should be paid for them? But it
is too late--too late! I cry aloud, but he does not hear me; I beat at the
door of the grave, but he will not wake; I stand alone, in desert space, and
look around me, from the blood-stained earth where the heart of my heart
lies buried, to the void and awful heaven that is left unto me, desolate. I
have given him up; oh, generation of vipers, I have given him up for you!
"Take your salvation, since it is yours! I fling it to you as a bone is
flung to a pack of snarling curs! The price of your banquet is paid for you;
come, then, and gorge yourselves, cannibals, bloodsuckers--carrion beasts
that feed on the dead! See where the blood streams down from the altar,
foaming and hot from my darling's heart--the blood that was shed for you!
Wallow and lap it and smear yourselves red with it! Snatch and fight for the
flesh and devour it--and trouble me no more! This is the body that was given
for you--look at it, torn and bleeding, throbbing still with the tortured
life, quivering from the bitter death-agony; take it, Christians, and eat!"
He had caught up the sun with the Host and lifted it above his head;
and now flung it crashing down upon the floor. At the ring of the metal on
stone the clergy rushed forward together, and twenty hands seized the
madman.
Then, and only then, the silence of the people broke in a wild,
hysterical scream; and, overturning chairs and benches, beating at the
doorways, trampling one upon another, tearing down curtains and garlands in
their haste, the surging, sobbing human flood poured out upon the street.
"GEMMA, there's a man downstairs who wants to see you." Martini spoke
in the subdued tone which they had both unconsciously adopted during these
last ten days. That, and a certain slow evenness of speech and movement,
were the sole expression which either of them gave to their grief.
Gemma, with bare arms and an apron over her dress, was standing at a
table, putting up little packages of cartridges for distribution. She had
stood over the work since early morning; and now, in the glaring afternoon,
her face looked haggard with fatigue.
"A man, Cesare? What does he want?"
"I don't know, dear. He wouldn't tell me. He said he must speak to you
alone."
"Very well." She took off her apron and pulled down the sleeves of her
dress. "I must go to him, I suppose; but very likely it's only a spy."
"In any case, I shall be in the next room, within call. As soon as you
get rid of him you had better go and lie down a bit. You have been standing
too long to-day."
"Oh, no! I would rather go on working."
She went slowly down the stairs, Martini following in silence. She had
grown to look ten years older in these few days, and the gray streak across
her hair had widened into a broad band. She mostly kept her eyes lowered
now; but when, by chance, she raised them, he shivered at the horror in
their shadows.
In the little parlour she found a clumsy-looking man standing with his
heels together in the middle of the floor. His whole figure and the
half-frightened way he looked up when she came in, suggested to her that he
must be one of the Swiss guards. He wore a countryman's blouse, which
evidently did not belong to him, and kept glancing round as though afraid of
detection.
"Can you speak German?" he asked in the heavy Zurich patois.
"A little. I hear you want to see me."
"You are Signora Bolla? I've brought you a letter."
"A--letter?" She was beginning to tremble, and rested one hand on the
table to steady herself.
"I'm one of the guard over there." He pointed out of the window to the
fortress on the hill. "It's from--the man that was shot last week. He wrote
it the night before. I promised him I'd give it into your own hand myself."
She bent her head down. So he had written after all.
"That's why I've been so long bringing it," the soldier went on. "He
said I was not to give it to anyone but you, and I couldn't get off before--
they watched me so. I had to borrow these things to come in."
He was fumbling in the breast of his blouse. The weather was hot, and
the sheet of folded paper that he pulled out was not only dirty and
crumpled, but damp. He stood for a moment shuffling his feet uneasily; then
put up one hand and scratched the back of his head.
"You won't say anything," he began again timidly, with a distrustful
glance at her. "It's as much as my life's worth to have come here."
"Of course I shall not say anything. No, wait a minute----"
As he turned to go, she stopped him, feeling for her purse; but he drew
back, offended.
"I don't want your money," he said roughly. "I did it for him--because
he asked me to. I'd have done more than that for him. He'd been good to
me--God help me!"
The little catch in his voice made her look up. He was slowly rubbing a
grimy sleeve across his eyes.
"We had to shoot," he went on under his breath; "my mates and I. A man
must obey orders. We bungled it, and had to fire again-- and he laughed at
us--he called us the awkward squad--and he'd been good to me----"
There was silence in the room. A moment later he straightened himself
up, made a clumsy military salute, and went away.
She stood still for a little while with the paper in her hand; then sat
down by the open window to read. The letter was closely written in pencil,
and in some parts hardly legible. But the first two words stood out quite
clear upon the page; and they were in English:
"Dear Jim."
The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty. And she had lost him
again--had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish nickname
all the hopelessness of her bereavement came over her afresh, and she put
out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods
that lay above him were pressing on her heart.
Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading:
"I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my
promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all, there is
not much need of explanations between you and me. We always understood each
other without many words, even when we were little things.
"And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over
that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had
plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,--even to
pay back a few of them,--and here I am still, like the mackerel in our
nursery-book (I forget its name), 'Alive and kicking, oh!' This is my last
kick, though; and then, to-morrow morning, and--'Finita la Commedia!' You
and I will translate that: 'The variety show is over'; and will give thanks
to the gods that they have had, at least, so much mercy on us. It is not
much, but it is something; and for this and all other blessings may we be
truly thankful!
"About that same to-morrow morning, I want both you and Martini to
understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no
better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a
good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear, I
know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and
themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so soon,
and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily and hit hard,
you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into the courtyard with
as light a heart as any child starting home for the holidays. I have done my
share of the work, and this death-sentence is the proof that I have done it
thoroughly. They kill me because they are afraid of me; and what more can
any man's heart desire?
"It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has
a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have
always been such a sulky brute to you, and so slow to forget old scores. Of
course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the pleasure of
writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly little girl in
a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in a pig-tail down
your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that day when I kissed your
hand, and when you so piteously begged me 'never to do that again'? It was a
scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you must forgive that; and now I kiss
the paper where I have written your name. So I have kissed you twice, and
both times without your consent.
"That is all. Good-bye, my dear."
There was no signature, but a verse which they had learned together as
children was written under the letter:
"Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die."
. . . . .
Half an hour later Martini entered the room, and, startled out of the
silence of half a life-time, threw down the placard he was carrying and
flung his arms about her.
"Gemma! What is it, for God's sake? Don't sob like that--you that never
cry! Gemma! Gemma, my darling!"
"Nothing, Cesare; I will tell you afterwards--I --can't talk about it
just now."
She hurriedly slipped the tear-stained letter into her pocket; and,
rising, leaned out of the window to hide her face. Martini held his tongue
and bit his moustache. After all these years he had betrayed himself like a
schoolboy--and she had not even noticed it!
"The Cathedral bell is tolling," she said after a little while, looking
round with recovered self-command. "Someone must be dead."
"That is what I came to show you," Martini answered in his everyday
voice. He picked up the placard from the floor and handed it to her. Hastily
printed in large type was a black-bordered announcement that: "Our dearly
beloved Bishop, His Eminence the Cardinal, Monsignor Lorenzo Montanelli,"
had died suddenly at Ravenna, "from the rupture of an aneurism of the
heart."
She glanced up quickly from the paper, and Martini answered the
unspoken suggestion in her eyes with a shrug of his shoulders.
"What would you have, Madonna? Aneurism is as good a word as any
other."
officers. After the solemn event of yesterday morning he was in a devout and
serious frame of mind, and inclined to reproach them with a want of proper
feeling about what he regarded as "a painful necessity of state."
The masters of the ceremonies began to assemble and place in order
those who were to take part in the procession. Colonel Ferrari rose from his
place and moved up to the chancel-rail, beckoning to the other officers to
accompany him. When the Mass was finished, and the Host had been placed
behind the crystal shield in the processional sun, the celebrant and his
ministers retired to the sacristy to change their vestments, and a little
buzz of whispered conversation broke out through the church. Montanelli
remained seated on his throne, looking straight before him, immovably. All
the sea of human life and motion seemed to surge around and below him, and
to die away into stillness about his feet. A censer was brought to him; and
he raised his hand with the action of an automaton, and put the incense into
the vessel, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
The clergy had come back from the sacristy, and were waiting in the
chancel for him to descend; but he remained utterly motionless. The deacon
of honour, bending forward to take off the mitre, whispered again,
hesitatingly:
"Your Eminence!" The Cardinal looked round.
"What did you say?"
"Are you quite sure the procession will not be too much for you? The
sun is very hot."
"What does the sun matter?"
Montanelli spoke in a cold, measured voice, and the priest again
fancied that he must have given offence.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence. I thought you seemed unwell."
Montanelli rose without answering. He paused a moment on the upper step
of the throne, and asked in the same measured way:
"What is that?"
The long train of his mantle swept down over the steps and lay spread
out on the chancel-floor, and he was pointing to a fiery stain on the white
satin.
"It's only the sunlight shining through a coloured window, Your
Eminence."
"The sunlight? Is it so red?"
He descended the steps, and knelt before the altar, swinging the censer
slowly to and fro. As he handed it back, the chequered sunlight fell on his
bared head and wide, uplifted eyes, and cast a crimson glow across the white
veil that his ministers were folding round him.
He took from the deacon the sacred golden sun; and stood up, as choir
and organ burst into a peal of triumphal melody.
"Pange, lingua, g]oriosi Corporis mysterium, Sanguinisque pretiosi Quem
in mundi pretium, Fructus ventris generosi Rex effudit gentium."
The bearers came slowly forward, and raised the silken canopy over his
head, while the deacons of honour stepped to their places at his right and
left and drew back the long folds of the mantle. As the acolytes stooped to
lift his robe from the chancel-floor, the lay fraternities heading the
procession started to pace down the nave in stately double file, with
lighted candles held to left and right.
He stood above them, by the altar, motionless under the white canopy,
holding the Eucharist aloft with steady hands, and watched them as they
passed. Two by two, with candles and banners and torches, with crosses and
images and flags, they swept slowly down the chancel steps, along the broad
nave between the garlanded pillars, and out under the lifted scarlet
curtains into the blazing sunlight of the street; and the sound of their
chanting died into a rolling murmur, drowned in the pealing of new and newer
voices, as the unending stream flowed on, and yet new footsteps echoed down
the nave.
The companies of the parishes passed, with their white shrouds and
veiled faces; then the brothers of the Misericordia, black from head to
foot, their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in their masks. Next
came the monks in solemn row: the mendicant friars, with their dusky cowls
and bare, brown feet; the white-robed, grave Dominicans. Then followed the
lay officials of the district; dragoons and carabineers and the local
police-officials; the Governor in gala uniform, with his brother officers
beside him. A deacon followed, holding up a great cross between two acolytes
with gleaming candles; and as the curtains were lifted high to let them pass
out at the doorway, Montanelli caught a momentary glimpse, from where he
stood under the canopy, of the sunlit blaze of carpeted street and flag-hung
walls and white-robed children scattering roses. Ah, the roses; how red they
were!
On and on the procession paced in order; form succeeding to form and
colour to colour. Long white surplices, grave and seemly, gave place to
gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials. Now passed a tall and slender
golden cross, borne high above the lighted candles; now the cathedral
canons, stately in their dead white mantles. A chaplain paced down the
chancel, with the crozier between two flaring torches; then the acolytes
moved forward in step, their censers swinging to the rhythm of the music;
the bearers raised the canopy higher, counting their steps: "One, two; one,
two!" and Montanelli started upon the Way of the Cross.
Down the chancel steps and all along the nave he passed; under the
gallery where the organ pealed and thundered; under the lifted curtains that
were so red--so fearfully red; and out into the glaring street, where the
blood-red roses lay and withered, crushed into the red carpet by the passing
of many feet. A moment's pause at the door, while the lay officials came
forward to replace the canopy-bearers; then the procession moved on again,
and he with it, his hands clasping the Eucharistic sun, and the voices of
the choristers swelling and dying around him, with the rhythmical swaying of
censers and the rolling tramp of feet.
"Verbum caro, panem verum, Verbo carnem efficit; Sitque sanguis Christi
merum----"
Always blood and always blood! The carpet stretched before him like a
red river; the roses lay like blood splashed on the stones---- Oh, God! Is
all Thine earth grown red, and all Thy heaven? Ah, what is it to Thee, Thou
mighty God---- Thou, whose very lips are smeared with blood!
"Tantum ergo Sacramentum, Veneremur cernui."He looked through the
crystal shield at the Eucharist. What was that oozing from the wafer--
dripping down between the points of the golden sun--down on to his white
robe? What had he seen dripping down--dripping from a lifted hand?
The grass in the courtyard was trampled and red,--all red,--there was
so much blood. It was trickling down the cheek, and dripping from the
pierced right hand, and gushing in a hot red torrent from the wounded side.
Even a lock of the hair was dabbled in it,--the hair that lay all wet and
matted on the forehead--ah, that was the death-sweat; it came from the
horrible pain.
The voices of the choristers rose higher, triumphantly:
"Genitori, genitoque, Laus et jubilatio, Salus, honor, virtus quoque,
Sit et benedictio."
Oh, that is more than any patience can endure! God, Who sittest on the
brazen heavens enthroned, and smilest with bloody lips, looking down upon
agony and death, is it not enough? Is it not enough, without this mockery of
praise and blessing? Body of Christ, Thou that wast broken for the salvation
of men; blood of Christ, Thou that wast shed for the remission of sins; is
it not enough?
"Ah, call Him louder; perchance He sleepeth!
Dost Thou sleep indeed, dear love; and wilt Thou never wake again? Is
the grave so jealous of its victory; and will the black pit under the tree
not loose Thee even for a little, heart's delight?
Then the Thing behind the crystal shield made answer, and the blood
dripped down as It spoke:
"Hast thou chosen, and wilt repent of thy choice? Is thy desire not
fulfilled? Look upon these men that walk in the light and are clad in silk
and in gold: for their sake was I laid in the black pit. Look upon the
children scattering roses, and hearken to their singing if it be sweet: for
their sake is my mouth filled with dust, and the roses are red from the
well-springs of my heart. See where the people kneel to drink the blood that
drips from thy garment-hem: for their sake was it shed, to quench their
ravening thirst. For it is written: 'Greater love hath no man than this, if
a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
"Oh, Arthur, Arthur; there is greater love than this! If a man lay down
the life of his best beloved, is not that greater?"
And It answered again:
"Who is thy best beloved? In sooth, not I."
And when he would have spoken the words froze on his tongue, for the
singing of the choristers passed over them, as the north wind over icy
pools, and hushed them into silence:
"Dedit fragilibus corporis ferculum, Dedit et tristibus sanguinis
poculum, Dicens: Accipite, quod trado vasculum Omnes ex eo bibite."
Drink of it, Christians; drink of it, all of you! Is it not yours? For
you the red stream stains the grass; for you the living flesh is seared and
torn. Eat of it, cannibals; eat of it, all of you! This is your feast and
your orgy; this is the day of your joy! Haste you and come to the festival;
join the procession and march with us; women and children, young men and old
men--come to the sharing of flesh! Come to the pouring of blood-wine and
drink of it while it is red; take and eat of the Body----
Ah, God; the fortress! Sullen and brown, with crumbling battlements and
towers dark among the barren hills, it scowled on the procession sweeping
past in the dusty road below. The iron teeth of the portcullis were drawn
down over the mouth of the gate; and as a beast crouched on the
mountain-side, the fortress guarded its prey. Yet, be the teeth clenched
never so fast, they shall be broken and riven asunder; and the grave in the
courtyard within shall yield up her dead. For the Christian hosts are
marching, marching in mighty procession to their sacramental feast of blood,
as marches an army of famished rats to the gleaning; and their cry is:
"Give! Give!" and they say not: "It is enough."
"Wilt thou not be satisfied? For these men was I sacrificed; thou hast
destroyed me that they might live; and behold, they march everyone on his
ways, and they shall not break their ranks.
"This is the army of Christians, the followers of thy God; a great
people and a strong. A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a flame
burneth; the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a
desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them."
"Oh, yet come back, come back to me, beloved; for I repent me of my
choice! Come back, and we will creep away together, to some dark and silent
grave where the devouring army shall not find us; and we will lay us down
there, locked in one another's arms, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. And
the hungry Christians shall pass by in the merciless daylight above our
heads; and when they howl for blood to drink and for flesh to eat, their cry
shall be faint in our ears; and they shall pass on their ways and leave us
to our rest."
And It answered yet again:
"Where shall I hide me? Is it not written: 'They shall run to and fro
in the city; they shall run upon the wall; they shall climb up upon the
houses; they shall enter in at the windows like a thief?' If I build me a
tomb on the mountain-top, shall they not break it open? If I dig me a grave
in the river-bed, shall they not tear it up? Verily, they are keen as
blood-hounds to seek out their prey; and for them are my wounds red, that
they may drink. Canst thou not hear them, what they sing?"
And they sang, as they went in between the scarlet curtains of the
Cathedral door; for the procession was over, and all the roses were strewn:
"Ave, verum Corpus, natum De Maria Virgine: Vere passum, immolatum In
cruce pro homine! Cujus latus perforatum Undam fluxit cum sanguinae; Esto
nobis praegustatum Mortis in examinae."
And when they had left off singing, he entered at the doorway, and
passed between the silent rows of monks and priests, where they knelt, each
man in his place, with the lighted candles uplifted. And he saw their hungry
eyes fixed on the sacred Body that he bore; and he knew why they bowed their
heads as he passed. For the dark stream ran down the folds of his white
vestments; and on the stones of the Cathedral floor his footsteps left a
deep, red stain.
So he passed up the nave to the chancel rails; and there the bearers
paused, and he went out from under the canopy and up to the altar steps. To
left and right the white-robed acolytes knelt with their censers and the
chaplains with their torches; and their eyes shone greedily in the flaring
light as they watched the Body of the Victim.
And as he stood before the altar, holding aloft with blood-stained
hands the torn and mangled body of his murdered love, the voices of the
guests bidden to the Eucharistic feast rang out in another peal of song:
"Oh salutaris Hostia, Quae coeli pandis ostium; Bella praemunt
hostilia, Da robur, fer, auxilium!"
Ah, and now they come to take the Body---- Go then, dear heart, to thy
bitter doom, and open the gates of heaven for these ravening wolves that
will not be denied. The gates that are opened for me are the gates of the
nethermost hell.
And as the deacon of honour placed the sacred vessel on the altar,
Montanelli sank down where he had stood, and knelt upon the step; and from
the white altar above him the blood flowed down and dripped upon his head.
And the voices of the singers rang on, pealing under the arches and echoing
along the vaulted roof:
"Uni trinoque Domino Sit sempiterna gloria: Qui vitam sine termino
Nobis donet in patria."
"Sine termino--sine termino!" Oh, happy Jesus, Who could sink beneath
His cross! Oh, happy Jesus, Who could say: "It is finished!" This doom is
never ended; it is eternal as the stars in their courses. This is the worm
that dieth not and the fire that is not quenched. "Sine termino, sine
termino!"
Wearily, patiently, he went through his part in the remaining
ceremonies, fulfilling mechanically, from old habit, the rites that had no
longer any meaning for him. Then, after the benediction, he knelt down again
before the altar and covered his face; and the voice of the priest reading
aloud the list of indulgences swelled and sank like a far-off murmur from a
world to which he belonged no more.
The voice broke off, and he stood up and stretched out his hand for
silence. Some of the congregation were moving towards the doors; and they
turned back with a hurried rustle and murmur, as a whisper went through the
Cathedral:
"His Eminence is going to speak."
His ministers, startled and wondering, drew closer to him and one of
them whispered hastily: "Your Eminence, do you intend to speak to the people
now?"
Montanelli silently waved him aside. The priests drew back, whispering
together; the thing was unusual, even irregular; but it was within the
Cardinal's prerogative if he chose to do it. No doubt, he had some statement
of exceptional importance to make; some new reform from Rome to announce or
a special communication from the Holy Father.
Montanelli looked down from the altar-steps upon the sea of upturned
faces. Full of eager expectancy they looked up at him as he stood above
them, spectral and still and white.
"Sh-sh! Silence!" the leaders of the procession called softly; and the
murmuring of the congregation died into stillness, as a gust of wind dies
among whispering tree-tops. All the crowd gazed up, in breathless silence,
at the white figure on the altar-steps. Slowly and steadily he began to
speak:
"It is written in the Gospel according to St. John: 'God so loved the
world, that He gave His only begotten Son that the world through Him might
be saved.'
"This is the festival of the Body and Blood of the Victim who was slain
for your salvation; the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the
world; the Son of God, Who died for your transgressions. And you are
assembled here in solemn festival array, to eat of the sacrifice that was
given for you, and to render thanks for this great mercy. And I know that
this morning, when you came to share in the banquet, to eat of the Body of
the Victim, your hearts were filled with joy, as you remembered the Passion
of God the Son, Who died, that you might be saved.
"But tell me, which among you has thought of that other Passion--of the
Passion of God the Father, Who gave His Son to be crucified? Which of you
has remembered the agony of God the Father, when He bent from His throne in
the heavens above, and looked down upon Calvary?
"I have watched you to-day, my people, as you walked in your ranks in
solemn procession; and I have seen that your hearts are glad within you for
the remission of your sins, and that you rejoice in your salvation. Yet I
pray you that you consider at what price that salvation was bought. Surely
it is very precious, and the price of it is above rubies; it is the price of
blood."
A faint, long shudder passed through the listening crowd. In the
chancel the priests bent forward and whispered to one another; but the
preacher went on speaking, and they held their peace.
"Therefore it is that I speak with you this day: I AM THAT I AM. For I
looked upon your weakness and your sorrow, and upon the little children
about your feet; and my heart was moved to compassion for their sake, that
they must die. Then I looked into my dear son's eyes; and I knew that the
Atonement of Blood was there. And I went my way, and left him to his doom.
"This is the remission of sins. He died for you, and the darkness has
swallowed him up; he is dead, and there is no resurrection; he is dead, and
I have no son. Oh, my boy, my boy!"
The Cardinal's voice broke in a long, wailing cry; and the voices of
the terrified people answered it like an echo. All the clergy had risen from
their places, and the deacons of honour started forward to lay their hands
on the preacher's arm. But he wrenched it away, and faced them suddenly,
with the eyes of an angry wild beast.
"What is this? Is there not blood enough? Wait your turn, jackals; you
shall all be fed!"
They shrank away and huddled shivering together, their panting breath
thick and loud, their faces white with the whiteness of chalk. Montanelli
turned again to the people, and they swayed and shook before him, as a field
of corn before a hurricane.
"You have killed him! You have killed him! And I suffered it, because I
would not let you die. And now, when you come about me with your lying
praises and your unclean prayers, I repent me--I repent me that I have done
this thing! It were better that you all should rot in your vices, in the
bottomless filth of damnation, and that he should live. What is the worth of
your plague-spotted souls, that such a price should be paid for them? But it
is too late--too late! I cry aloud, but he does not hear me; I beat at the
door of the grave, but he will not wake; I stand alone, in desert space, and
look around me, from the blood-stained earth where the heart of my heart
lies buried, to the void and awful heaven that is left unto me, desolate. I
have given him up; oh, generation of vipers, I have given him up for you!
"Take your salvation, since it is yours! I fling it to you as a bone is
flung to a pack of snarling curs! The price of your banquet is paid for you;
come, then, and gorge yourselves, cannibals, bloodsuckers--carrion beasts
that feed on the dead! See where the blood streams down from the altar,
foaming and hot from my darling's heart--the blood that was shed for you!
Wallow and lap it and smear yourselves red with it! Snatch and fight for the
flesh and devour it--and trouble me no more! This is the body that was given
for you--look at it, torn and bleeding, throbbing still with the tortured
life, quivering from the bitter death-agony; take it, Christians, and eat!"
He had caught up the sun with the Host and lifted it above his head;
and now flung it crashing down upon the floor. At the ring of the metal on
stone the clergy rushed forward together, and twenty hands seized the
madman.
Then, and only then, the silence of the people broke in a wild,
hysterical scream; and, overturning chairs and benches, beating at the
doorways, trampling one upon another, tearing down curtains and garlands in
their haste, the surging, sobbing human flood poured out upon the street.
"GEMMA, there's a man downstairs who wants to see you." Martini spoke
in the subdued tone which they had both unconsciously adopted during these
last ten days. That, and a certain slow evenness of speech and movement,
were the sole expression which either of them gave to their grief.
Gemma, with bare arms and an apron over her dress, was standing at a
table, putting up little packages of cartridges for distribution. She had
stood over the work since early morning; and now, in the glaring afternoon,
her face looked haggard with fatigue.
"A man, Cesare? What does he want?"
"I don't know, dear. He wouldn't tell me. He said he must speak to you
alone."
"Very well." She took off her apron and pulled down the sleeves of her
dress. "I must go to him, I suppose; but very likely it's only a spy."
"In any case, I shall be in the next room, within call. As soon as you
get rid of him you had better go and lie down a bit. You have been standing
too long to-day."
"Oh, no! I would rather go on working."
She went slowly down the stairs, Martini following in silence. She had
grown to look ten years older in these few days, and the gray streak across
her hair had widened into a broad band. She mostly kept her eyes lowered
now; but when, by chance, she raised them, he shivered at the horror in
their shadows.
In the little parlour she found a clumsy-looking man standing with his
heels together in the middle of the floor. His whole figure and the
half-frightened way he looked up when she came in, suggested to her that he
must be one of the Swiss guards. He wore a countryman's blouse, which
evidently did not belong to him, and kept glancing round as though afraid of
detection.
"Can you speak German?" he asked in the heavy Zurich patois.
"A little. I hear you want to see me."
"You are Signora Bolla? I've brought you a letter."
"A--letter?" She was beginning to tremble, and rested one hand on the
table to steady herself.
"I'm one of the guard over there." He pointed out of the window to the
fortress on the hill. "It's from--the man that was shot last week. He wrote
it the night before. I promised him I'd give it into your own hand myself."
She bent her head down. So he had written after all.
"That's why I've been so long bringing it," the soldier went on. "He
said I was not to give it to anyone but you, and I couldn't get off before--
they watched me so. I had to borrow these things to come in."
He was fumbling in the breast of his blouse. The weather was hot, and
the sheet of folded paper that he pulled out was not only dirty and
crumpled, but damp. He stood for a moment shuffling his feet uneasily; then
put up one hand and scratched the back of his head.
"You won't say anything," he began again timidly, with a distrustful
glance at her. "It's as much as my life's worth to have come here."
"Of course I shall not say anything. No, wait a minute----"
As he turned to go, she stopped him, feeling for her purse; but he drew
back, offended.
"I don't want your money," he said roughly. "I did it for him--because
he asked me to. I'd have done more than that for him. He'd been good to
me--God help me!"
The little catch in his voice made her look up. He was slowly rubbing a
grimy sleeve across his eyes.
"We had to shoot," he went on under his breath; "my mates and I. A man
must obey orders. We bungled it, and had to fire again-- and he laughed at
us--he called us the awkward squad--and he'd been good to me----"
There was silence in the room. A moment later he straightened himself
up, made a clumsy military salute, and went away.
She stood still for a little while with the paper in her hand; then sat
down by the open window to read. The letter was closely written in pencil,
and in some parts hardly legible. But the first two words stood out quite
clear upon the page; and they were in English:
"Dear Jim."
The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty. And she had lost him
again--had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish nickname
all the hopelessness of her bereavement came over her afresh, and she put
out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods
that lay above him were pressing on her heart.
Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading:
"I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my
promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all, there is
not much need of explanations between you and me. We always understood each
other without many words, even when we were little things.
"And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over
that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had
plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,--even to
pay back a few of them,--and here I am still, like the mackerel in our
nursery-book (I forget its name), 'Alive and kicking, oh!' This is my last
kick, though; and then, to-morrow morning, and--'Finita la Commedia!' You
and I will translate that: 'The variety show is over'; and will give thanks
to the gods that they have had, at least, so much mercy on us. It is not
much, but it is something; and for this and all other blessings may we be
truly thankful!
"About that same to-morrow morning, I want both you and Martini to
understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no
better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a
good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear, I
know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and
themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so soon,
and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily and hit hard,
you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into the courtyard with
as light a heart as any child starting home for the holidays. I have done my
share of the work, and this death-sentence is the proof that I have done it
thoroughly. They kill me because they are afraid of me; and what more can
any man's heart desire?
"It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has
a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have
always been such a sulky brute to you, and so slow to forget old scores. Of
course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the pleasure of
writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly little girl in
a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in a pig-tail down
your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that day when I kissed your
hand, and when you so piteously begged me 'never to do that again'? It was a
scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you must forgive that; and now I kiss
the paper where I have written your name. So I have kissed you twice, and
both times without your consent.
"That is all. Good-bye, my dear."
There was no signature, but a verse which they had learned together as
children was written under the letter:
"Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die."
. . . . .
Half an hour later Martini entered the room, and, startled out of the
silence of half a life-time, threw down the placard he was carrying and
flung his arms about her.
"Gemma! What is it, for God's sake? Don't sob like that--you that never
cry! Gemma! Gemma, my darling!"
"Nothing, Cesare; I will tell you afterwards--I --can't talk about it
just now."
She hurriedly slipped the tear-stained letter into her pocket; and,
rising, leaned out of the window to hide her face. Martini held his tongue
and bit his moustache. After all these years he had betrayed himself like a
schoolboy--and she had not even noticed it!
"The Cathedral bell is tolling," she said after a little while, looking
round with recovered self-command. "Someone must be dead."
"That is what I came to show you," Martini answered in his everyday
voice. He picked up the placard from the floor and handed it to her. Hastily
printed in large type was a black-bordered announcement that: "Our dearly
beloved Bishop, His Eminence the Cardinal, Monsignor Lorenzo Montanelli,"
had died suddenly at Ravenna, "from the rupture of an aneurism of the
heart."
She glanced up quickly from the paper, and Martini answered the
unspoken suggestion in her eyes with a shrug of his shoulders.
"What would you have, Madonna? Aneurism is as good a word as any
other."