Hieronymus advanced to the kneeling figure. “My son,” he said, gently.

Robert leaped to his feet at the sound of the familiar voice, and moved to meet Hieronymus.

“Father, when we came to you a month ago and begged for shelter, I told you how I lied to save the girl, pretending to be plague-stricken.”

Hieronymus inclined his head. “And I absolved you.”

Robert spoke in a lower voice, almost a whisper. “I told you, too, that I was Sicily, Robert himself, lapped in this hideous shape.”

Hieronymus raised a warning hand. “Does that delusion still vex you?” he asked, sadly.

Robert bowed his head. “My spirit is free from many delusions,” he whispered; “but I did not tell you that I, unlovely as I am, I love Perpetua. Her hand has led me, her voice has inspired me. If ever I be saved she will have saved me.”

The grave face of Hieronymus looked kindly pity upon the fool in the friar’s gown.

“God chooses the time and the way. An earthly love may win the grace of Heaven.”

Robert sighed. “My hopeless love is happy service. Daily my spirit creeps a little nearer to the light.”

Hieronymus beat his breast.

“Daily the tyrant of Sicily grows more wicked, reeling like a madman from crime to crime. The island groans beneath him more piteously than the imprisoned Titan groans beneath Mount Etna.”

Robert turned away from Hieronymus with a bitter sigh. “God forgive me,” he said to himself, “for he does the deeds I meant to do!”

Hieronymus did not heed the agitation of his companion; he stood as if listening to some distant sound. “Son, do you hear...?” he questioned.

Robert came swiftly to his side, listened, heard, and answered: “The measured tread of many feet. They seem to walk mournfully over my heart.”

“Look out, my son,” Hieronymus commanded, “and tell me what you see.”

Robert opened the door that gave upon the sea, looked out, and answered, sadly: “A company of men and women, all in black. They seem weighed down with sorrow.”

“These,” said Hieronymus, grimly, “are the noblest folk in Sicily, flying into exile from the tyrant’s lust and greed.”

Robert stood motionless, frozen with sorrow.

“These,” he said, in his heart, “are the just and righteous whom I meant to vex and banish.”

As in a dream he heard the voice of Hieronymus calling to him: “My son, give me that iron cross, the cross of the founder of our church. They shall salute it for the last time.”

Robert, going to the wall where the relic stood, tried vainly to lift the cross. Its weight mocked his efforts, and he turned, gasping and trembling, to Hieronymus. “Father, I cannot. The sinews of the fool are too feeble to lift it.”

Hieronymus gave a cry of compassion.

“Forgive me. It is heavy, and taxes my strength to move.”

In his turn he moved to the cross, lifted it with an effort from its place, and carried it with difficulty to the altar, where he rested it for the new-comers to see.

The ache in Robert’s heart was crueler than the ache in Robert’s arms.

“I was once so proud of my strength,” he murmured.

He moved towards the altar, and seated himself on the lowest step, huddled in grief, while Hieronymus, mounting to the altar, turned to face the new-comers. Through the sea-door came a company of men and women, all dressed in black, who ranged themselves, kneeling, in front of the altar.

Hieronymus addressed the kneeling mourners. “My brethren, are ye going forth into exile?”

An old man rose and spoke.

“From the land where I was born, from the soil where my father’s fathers sprang, I now must go a wanderer, houseless, penniless. Woe to the wicked King!”

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, “I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned.”

Next a young woman rose and spoke.

“I and these other women with me, we must fly from the land of our life and of our love. For the honor of no woman is safe in the reign of Robert the Bad, and the feet of good women go not in his halls. Woe to the wicked King!”

She knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, “I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned.”

A young man rose and spoke.

“No youth with a clean spirit can live in peace in Sicily. Only the man who will sell his wife, the brother who will betray his sister, the lover who will surrender his sweetheart, may find favor with the tyrant. Woe to the wicked King!”

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, “I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned.”

Robert’s face was very pale, his body shook with anguish, and he crouched more and more upon the steps of the altar.

A soldier rose and spoke.

“I am not squeamish; I have seen cities sacked, but I will not serve this man-beast. I will carry my sword over-seas. I will follow the flag of some gallant captain, and die remembering Sicily. Woe to the wicked King!”

He knelt again.

Robert, where he crouched, muttered to himself, “I have sinned, I have sinned, I have grievously sinned.”

He heard Hieronymus give his benediction—“Benedicto vos in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” A thought came to Robert, he crept to Hieronymus, plucking at his sleeve:

“Father,” he whispered, “may I, who am so sore afflicted, speak to these unhappy?”

Hieronymus rested his hand gently on Robert’s shoulder as he again addressed the kneeling figures.

“Brethren,” he said, “lo, here is one of the tyrant’s victims. Speak, my son.”

He moved aside a little to give Robert more space, resting his hand upon the iron cross. Robert, his face hidden in his hood, addressed the mourners.

“Brethren,” he wailed, “I am the most unhappy soul in Sicily, for God has cursed me with a fearful curse. At night I dream I am this wicked King, and all day long the evil of his deeds grinds down my heart. But in my misery I have heard words more sweet than honey, more fragrant than myrrh, which if you will guard them in your hearts will be to you as wells in the waste places, as orchards in the sand, as shade of palm and strength of manna in the weary, hungry land. ‘He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.’”

He would have fallen if Hieronymus’s strong arms had not sustained him. With one voice all the wanderers echoed his words.

“‘He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.’”

The wanderers rose very slowly from their knees and went very slowly out at the sea-door, followed by Hieronymus, who almost carried Robert in his arms to the outer air.

For some minutes the little church was empty and dark and silent. Then a side door opened and a woman and a man entered, coming from a quiet street. The woman was Lycabetta; the man was Hildebrand. Hildebrand looked curiously around him.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asked.

“Answer me first,” Lycabetta replied. “How is the King?”

Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders. “Bloody of purpose, and yet bloodless. Lustful of purpose, and yet loveless. In his prisons many wait for death, but none perish; for the King has sworn that none shall die before the fool Diogenes, and we cannot find the fool. The loveliest women of Sicily have been torn from their homes to his palace, but they have not seen the King, for he will love no woman until he has found the girl Perpetua. And the girl cannot be found.”

Lycabetta whispered in his ear:

“Listen; this morning in the flower-market my Lysidice noted a hooded friar who bought white roses. A wind stirred his cowl and she saw the face of Diogenes.”

Hildebrand started.

“Was she sure?”

“’Tis no face to forget,” Lycabetta answered; “though she swears it less frightful than of old. She made no sign, but she bribed a child to follow the false friar, and the brat ran him to earth here.”

Hildebrand grinned savagely.

“If they be here, no fable of the plague shall save them this time.”

Lycabetta caught him eagerly by the arm and drew him behind a concealing pillar. She had seen the sea-door open and had seen a figure in a friar’s gown.

“Who is this?” she whispered triumphantly to Hildebrand.

Robert came through the sea-door. Inside the church he threw back his hood and his face was plainly visible to the watchers, themselves invisible, screened by the pillars and the gloom. Hildebrand pressed Lycabetta’s hand significantly. He had seen all he wanted to see. The pair slipped quietly out by the door through which they had entered. Robert advanced slowly to the altar and flung himself on the steps.

“Dear God,” he prayed, “let not the guiltless suffer for my guilt. Punish me to the top of my sin, but pity Sicily.”