Out of the darkest shadows a woman crept towards the altar. She bent over Perpetua where she knelt, and said, mockingly:

“You would do better to pray to forget the fool’s face, for the fool has led you into folly.”

Perpetua sprang to her feet and saw Lycabetta. Making the sign of the cross she confronted her. “Why are you here? This place is holy.”

Lycabetta laughed. “I loved you so well that I could not part from you. You have no plague mark on your beauty. That was a rare trick, and your fool hid you cunningly—but we have found you, bird, at last.”

“I am in sanctuary,” Perpetua said, steadily.

Lycabetta sneered, “Our king-hawk will not be scared by a sacred name.”

“Sicily still stands in Christendom,” Perpetua answered; “and this ground is as holy as the old Jerusalem or the new.”

Lycabetta looked at her with languid wonder.

“Why are you so perverse? It is a smiling fortune to be the darling of a king.”

“It is a fairer fortune to be the darling of the Lord,” Perpetua answered, proudly. “Why do you plague me so vainly? There is no fear nor favor in the world that can move me.”

Lycabetta watched her with half-closed lids. “Are you so sure?” she said, cruelly. Then she went to the side door and opened it, calling out, “My lord!” and instant to her summons Hildebrand entered the church.

“Your chaste angel will play no game with us.”

Hildebrand gave Perpetua a courtly salutation. “I am glad to find you, lady.”

Perpetua had drawn close to King Robert’s pillar and caught the rope in her hands.

“If you come near me,” she cried, “I will ring this bell and Syracuse will guard me.”

“You mistake me,” Hildebrand said, calmly. “I am your friend, and by your leave I would save you from the King. Do not believe that sanctuary will serve you. His lust of hate would pluck you from between the horns of the altar.”

“This shrine is sacred, even to him,” Perpetua asserted, wearing a greater confidence than she felt.

Lycabetta laughed stealthily. Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders.

“You talk briskly, but you cannot make and mend the world at your maid’s pleasure. I alone can save you from the King.”

“How can you save me?” Perpetua asked him. She was undaunted, but she thought to gain time.

“Very simply,” Hildebrand answered; “I desire your favors more than the King’s favor, and if you will give me yourself I will take care of what is mine own.”

“You are a faithful servant,” Perpetua said, in scorn.

Hildebrand waved her scorn away dispassionately with his delicate white hands.

“I wear no fetters. If the King irks me I will drive my dagger between his ribs, and make myself king in Sicily. I think a change in the dynasty would not be unpopular in the island. Why, I will do this to-night to please you, and make you my queen if you will.”

“You are baser than your master.” Perpetua flung the words at him.

Hildebrand heard them unmoved. “I am what I am. Will you come to me?”

Perpetua answered him, steadfast in scorn, “You are as foolish as you are cruel, and you weary me.”

Hildebrand turned to Lycabetta. “Daughter of Venus,” he said, “a few paces hence you will find the northern soldier whose kisses you relish. Bring him here with his company.”

Lycabetta went a little way nearer to Perpetua and stared at her. “You must be a witch,” she said, “for you make men mad for you. I cannot see your marvel.” Then she went out of the church.

“I will appeal to Syracuse,” Perpetua cried to Hildebrand. She seized the rope of the great bell and tugged at it. The deep note of the bell was heard booming out over the city, to be answered almost immediately by the hum of voices and the hurry of feet.

“Now you are doomed indeed,” Hildebrand commented, ironically.

Perpetua still tugged at the bell.

“Syracuse will defend me,” she asserted, brave against danger.

“Syracuse will do nothing,” Hildebrand said, confidently.

Even as he spoke the sea-door was flung open and a mob of people flooded the church, bearing Hieronymus in their midst. At the same moment through the side door Sigurd entered with his soldiers, followed by Lycabetta.

“Who rings the bell?” Hieronymus asked, sternly, gazing in amazement at Perpetua and the strange display of armed force.

“I do, father,” Perpetua answered. Then eagerly she appealed to the murmuring crowd: “People of Syracuse, protect me. That bell appeals to you with the voice of the dead good King, to defend me against the living evil King.”

Men and women, the crowd clustered together, murmurous, menacing sound—the men had weapons in their hands and looked as if they were ready to use them in defence of their ancient rights.

Unmoved by their attitude, Hildebrand said to Sigurd: “Make that woman your prisoner. She is the King’s enemy.”

Sigurd and his soldiers advanced towards Perpetua. As they did so the uneasy crowd about the door parted, and Robert rushed in through the human lane, wild-eyed; he looked from Perpetua to Hildebrand, from the soldiers to the people.

“Perpetua! Perpetua!” he cried. “You dare not touch her. She is in sanctuary.”

Instantly the people about the door took up the cry and thundered it: “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

Hildebrand greeted Robert with an evil smile. “Fool, fool, I thought we should lure you.”

“Sanctuary!” Robert cried again. He tried to reach Perpetua, but the soldiers were between him and her, a wall of weapons.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” the people raved, swaying at Robert’s heels.

Hildebrand lifted his hand; there was a lull, and he spoke. “Silence, slaves! There is no sanctuary against sorcery.”

Perpetua, clinging to the pillar, echoed his word in horror. “Sorcery!”

“Ay,” repeated Hildebrand. “Sorcery. The King swears you have cast spells upon him, delivering him madness in a draught of well-water, that you are a damnable sorceress.”

Through the confused clamor that followed this charge, Perpetua’s voice rang out.

“This is the wickedest story ever told.”

“People of Syracuse,” Robert called, “do not believe this man. She is the victim of a wicked King. As you have wives, daughters, sweethearts, stand by me and save her.”

He appealed eagerly to the crowd, rushing to man after man among them, but each shook his head and hung back, daunted by the terrible charge of witchcraft.

“Sorcery’s a vile thing,” said one.

“I’ll not meddle with sorcery,” said another.

Perpetua’s hopes drooped as she saw how popular feeling fell from her.

“I am no sorceress, men of Syracuse,” she said, sadly.

Robert pointed to the pale, beautiful girl standing by the pillar and surrounded by the armed men.

“Can you look upon her and believe one evil thought? Save her, in God’s name!”

Again the crowd swayed a little towards the soldiers, urged by Robert, urged by Hieronymus. Again it fell back when Hildebrand raised his hand.

“Friends, this fellow is a madman. If you ask him he will tell you that he is the King.”

The crowd that was wellnigh stirred to mutiny by Robert’s appeals drew back from him suspiciously.

Hildebrand saw his advantage and pressed it. “Is it not so, fellow? Are you not the King?”

Robert’s hands raised in appeal, raised in menace, dropped inertly to his side, and his head drooped on his breast.

“I was the King,” he said, in a voice that was but a whisper.

Hildebrand caught at the admission exultantly.

“You hear him? Secure him!”

All his supporters, save Hieronymus, ebbed away from Robert. Two of Sigurd’s soldiers seized him. Whatever chance there might have been of rescuing Perpetua was lost.

Hildebrand went on, triumphantly:

“Against witchcraft no sanctuary prevails. Let no man hinder the King’s justice on pain of death.”

Lycabetta, who had crept near to Perpetua, whispered in her ear:

“My lord Flame is a fierce lover. He clings close and he kisses quick and he will not spare your modesty. You will burn like a bright torch.”

Then Lycabetta went out of the church as she had come in, with a smile on her face.

Perpetua called to Hieronymus. “Is there no help?”

“There is no help,” Hieronymus answered, despairingly.

“Then I will go to death holding my head high,” the girl said, valiantly.

“Take her away,” Hildebrand ordered; and at his order Perpetua was borne away in the midst of a guard of soldiers and followed by Hieronymus. “Clear the church.”

The remaining soldiers drove the crowd into the streets.

“Fling the fool on the altar steps. I think he will have a praying fit on him.”

His captors cast Robert roughly on the altar steps, where he lay like one dying.

“Now leave me.”

The two soldiers went out, the sea-door closed, and Hildebrand and Robert were left alone.

Hildebrand went slowly over to where Robert lay and talked mockingly to him.

“How mulish a woman may be! Here is a great country girl, who has never lain soft nor known cheer, never worn silk and never sported a jewel, and yet when great men scuffle for her, she will rather die than serve them and herself. Yes, friend Diogenes, your sweetheart will be burned as a witch.”

Robert lifted his head. “Pray Heaven you lie!” he moaned.

“I am more truthful than an oracle,” Hildebrand retorted. “When the wood-wench flouted him, our good King vowed that she should burn for her virtue.”

Robert shuddered at the memory of his own words, of his own purpose.

“Oh, God, have mercy on my wicked soul!” he prayed.

Hildebrand mocked him with a false compassion. “Yet all is not lost, friend Diogenes. If your wit saved her before, your valor may save her now.”

Robert turned to him again.

“If your heart holds any pity, speak,” he entreated, hoping against hope for some leaven of charity in the heart of Hildebrand.

“She can appeal to the ordeal of battle,” Hildebrand said, calmly. “And if she finds a champion valiant enough to overthrow the King’s man, who shall accuse her, then she is free.”

Robert hid his face. “Heaven have pity!” he murmured.

Hildebrand went on unmoved.

“The King has picked me for his champion, and, as you know, I am skilled in arms. But you are a stalwart fellow. Prove yourself the better man and save your paramour.”

A crazy thought came into Robert’s brain. He had a dagger at his belt; if he could but take Hildebrand unawares and slay him, one danger would be out of Perpetua’s path. His hand felt for the handle, held it fast. He poised his crippled body for a spring, turned swiftly on the altar stairs, and leaped with lifted blade at Hildebrand. But Hildebrand had watched his gesture, divined his thoughts; he caught him as he sprang, by the throat and wrist, and while with the one hand he squeezed so hard that he wellnigh forced the breath from Robert’s body, with the other he twisted Robert’s wrist so that the knife fell clattering on the flags of the church. Then he tossed Robert, limp and gasping, to the ground.

“Keep your fury for the day of fight,” Hildebrand sneered. “See now how easily you could overcome me. Yet you are a trouble to me now, and I think I will kill you, Master Fool!”

Robert did not heed, did not hear his threat. While Hildebrand put his hand to the hilt of his sword and loosened it in its sheath, Robert crawled to the steps of the altar, cowering, with clasped hands.

“God give me back my strength,” he prayed. “There is no punishment too heavy for my sin, but for this woman’s sake breathe back my manhood into this withered body that I may fight for her. Then cast me unprotesting into hell. Ah!”

Even as he prayed he seemed to feel the breath of a great spirit fill his body with new life, his sinews with new strength, his pulses with new fire. A voice seemed to be calling in his ear, telling him what to do, and he obeyed it as a child obeys its sire. He rose and faced Hildebrand.

“You shall not do this thing,” Robert said, and the sound of his voice thrilled him with unspeakable hope.

Hildebrand laughed mockingly.

“Shall I not, rascal? Is it still the King who commands me?” he asked, and his fingers closed tighter upon his sword-hilt.

The voice seemed ever to speak in Robert’s ear, and ever Robert obeyed its prompting.

“No,” he cried. “It is not the King who commands you, but the humblest, the meanest, the unworthiest of mortal men. There is no creature living in the world lowlier than I, yet I command you in the name of that symbol which casts down the mighty, and before which the King and the beggar are alike but a little quickened dust.”

Spurred by inspiration he rushed to the altar and clasped his hands around the iron cross. Scarcely to his surprise he found that he could lift the massive symbol like a reed. Poising the cross on high he turned upon Hildebrand.

“Will you set your cross against my sword?” Hildebrand cried. “You shall carry it to hell.”

Robert answered with the voice of a strong man.

“The cross against the sword, in the name of God!”

He advanced against Hildebrand with the iron cross raised. Hildebrand drew his great sword and made to strike, but before he could deal a stroke Robert, swinging the cross, with one blow beat him to the ground, and stood over him with the cross raised.

“The cross against the sword,” Robert thundered.

Hildebrand, grovelling on the ground like a crushed snake, rolled on one side, felt at the cold stones with his hands futilely for a moment, and then with infinite difficulty propped himself up a little and looked up at Robert.

“You have killed me,” he gasped. Fear and wonder questioned in his dying eyes, forced a question from his dying lips. “Who are you?” Even as he asked, an awful look came over his face, he saw and knew. “The King!” he cried, horribly. His hands slipped on the stones, his head struck the floor, he was dead.

Robert dropped on his knees beside the dead man, and spoke softly.

“He hath uplifted the humble.”