George Frederick Pardon

When Satan fell, some of the essence of the god-head pityingly clung about him—hence those of men whose faces turn towards the darkness have ever something of the god within them, which raises them above the poor animals who eat and die.—Montaigne.

The Venice of nearly four hundred years ago was a great, splendid, gay, and powerful city. Gold was every day showered into the coffers of its merchants from all parts of the earth, and every night there was feasting, laughing, and dancing in Venice, the richest and the gayest city in the world.

On the night when our story opens was being held at the Palazzo Barberigo a masqued ball. All Venice, masqued, was there. The lamps hanging in the trees, laughed at the water as it threw back the gay colored rays of light which kissed it, in tremulous softness and beauty.

And there below on the still canal, the Giudecca, glided the silent black gondolas, bearing gaily dressed cavaliers and dames to and from the fÊte.

So silently the gondolas passed, that not a soul upon the shore knew a boat had gone by, a boat, perhaps, from which peered out a jealous eye.

The gardens of the palace were large, and ever when the music ceased, there were seen in all parts of it gay masquers, courting, talking, singing, flirting, or watching.

Among the guests was Gennaro, young and beautiful as the nights of Italy. With him was one of the great Orsini, even younger than himself, and far gayer. Nay, he was but a boy. These two were ever together, in peace or on the battle-field, at fÊtes, or quietly at home.

So now amidst the group wherever walked Orsini, Gennaro had a place. These two as they sauntered along with their friends, all either carrying their masks in their hands, or else tied to their belts, these two were deploring, and being pitied, for they were to leave Venice on the morrow.

“Alas!” said one, “You will never like Ferrara, as you like the poorest street in Venice.”

“But, still,” cried another, “’tis something to form part of an ambassador’s suite.”

“Faith,” cried a third, “I would sooner be as I am and in Venice.”

“Let me tell you Signors,” said a fourth, who was called Gubetta, a Spaniard, and not in good repute, “let me tell you the court of Alfonzo is superb, and as for Lucrezia Borgia”—

“What!” cried one, “name her, here, at a fÊte?”

“Pray ye be silent,” cried another.

“The Borgia,” said a third, “I abhor her very name.”

“In faith,” added another, “’twould not be saying much for thee to say that thou lovdst her.”

“As for us,” said the Orsini, whom they called Maffio, “we should dread her more than any of you, if the sorcerer spoke truly.”

“Again a tale, Maffio,” said Gennaro. “Leave the Borgia alone, who cares to hear of her.”

“No, no, Gennaro, let us hear the tale. Go on Maffio.”

“Then I’ll fain go to sleep,” said Gennaro. “Faith I could fall asleep standing, when Orsini begins his long tales.”

“Signors, ’tis a good tale, though my friend has heard it before. See, now, he has flung himself down on that seat. Well,—well, ’tis but two ears the less. In the fatal battle of Rimini I was wounded; and while lying on the ground, and dying as I thought, Gennaro found me, helped me to horse, and bore me in safety from the field. In the shelter of a wood he was dressing my wounds, and we had both sworn to live and die together, when an aged man, clad in a dress falling to his feet, stood before us. ‘Youths,’ said he, ‘shun the Borgia, go not near Lucrezia, she is death.’ Then he was gone, gone. And the wind thrice whispered the hated name. There—what think you of my tale? See you, Gennaro would not listen to it, because he loveth not to be praised.

“A good tale but it does not prove thou shouldst shun the Borgia.”

“Whereof in proof, we go to Ferrara to-morrow. Bah! what Venetian need fear the Borgia, while the dreaded lion of Venice can roar? Yet still, sometimes, Signors, I fancy there may be some truth in the prophecy.”

“Let us wake Gennaro, let us ask him if he believes in the solemn warning.”

“Oh, let him sleep. If he would rather dream than hear my tales, let him dream.”

Here the swelling dance music reaching their ears, they gaily sauntered to the palace, and soon the only person in the garden was Gennaro, peacefully sleeping on a marble bench, his head resting on his arm, and his face as tranquil as a little child’s.

There is a ripple o’er the dark canal—the reflexions of the colored lamps are all broken up and scattered. ’Tis a gondola, silent and sombre, which, in a little seething of water, stops just below the terrace stairs.

Then from it steps a woman all clothed in heavy black; a black mask on her face, a black fan in her hand. Nay, the very cross upon her neck is jet.

The gondola from which she has stepped glides silently away, and leaves her standing hesitatingly in the garden. Then she starts as she sees the sleeping face turned towards the moonlight.

She moves towards the sleeper, darkly, noiselessly, her shoulders drawn together; she is so desirous she may not be heard, that she might be about to murder him as he sleeps. At last, close to him, she bends over his sleeping face. Her hand is on his forehead. Lower and lower bends her head. Awake, awake! But there is no fear. She has but kissed him. A soft, noiseless kiss.

As she moves a few steps from him, her eyes still on his face, her arm is touched.

“Signora!”

“Thou, Gubetta!”

“I fear for thee. Venice may guard thy life, but she cannot save thee from insult.”

What does this mysterious woman think as her head droops? Truly she should be insulted, all breathing men and women, and small children even, abhor her name. Yet she was not born to such a fate. But the past, the past, who shall recall the past. And then the vision of an aged man, clad in a robe falling to the ground in heavy folds, comes before her, and she trembles. As she looks on the sleeper, she asks herself how long was it since she had slept so peacefully?

“Thou gazest upon the youth, Signora. Vainly have I sought to learn the reason of thy secret journey from Ferrara here to Venice—perhaps this youth.”

“Thou seek to read my acts—thou! Leave me.”

The man—a fair-looking man enough—bowed, and with quiet, measured steps withdrew.

Then she came back to the sleeping man.

“How beautiful he is,” she thought. Never in her dreams had she imagined him so beautiful. She almost cried with rapture as she looked on him. Was this love? Yes. Guilty love? Nay; wait and read. Should she wake him? No.

She removed her mask to wipe away her tears (fallen to good purpose—as nearly all tears fall), and in those few moments her face was seen—not by the youth upon the marble seat, but by the scowling eyes of a tall, haughty-looking man, glaring from a treacherous gondola, which had quietly stolen up, under cover of the night, and there lay still below the terrace. Beside him stood a mean-looking creature whom he called Rustighello. “It is she!”

“Truly, Signor.”

“And the youth, who is he?”

“A poor adventurer, without parents or country; people say he is brave.”

“What will not people say, good Rustighello? Try every art to lure him to Ferrara, and to me—”

“There is no need for art. By chance, he will set out with Gruirani for Ferrara.”

Slowly the gondola stole away with its watching secret.

“Sleep, sleep, poor youth, and good dreams wait on you. For me are naught but sleepless nights and bitter watching.” She stooped again to kiss him. He woke.

“Heavens! whom do I see?”

“I pray thee let me go!”

“Nay, nay, fair lady. On my faith—”

“Again I do implore thee, let me pass.”

“Nay, but a moment to admire thee, for I feel thou’rt beautiful. Oh! be not afraid, I will not harm thee.”

“Surely not, Gennaro.”

“What! thou knowest me?”

“And thou couldst love me!”

“Who could not love the owner of so sweet a voice?”

“And thou couldst love me, Gennaro?”

“Surely, but not so dearly as I love one other I could name.”

“And she—and she?”

“Is my mother.”

“Thy mother! Oh my Gennaro, thou dost love her?” And she trembles greatly, this unknown woman.

“I love her as I love my life.”

“And thinkst thou she loves thee?”

“Alas! I never saw her.”

“And yet thou lovest her?”

“It is a wretched tale which I do hide from all; but ah! to thee it seems that I must tell it; for in thy face I read thou hast a noble soul.”

“A noble soul!”

“I thought myself the son of a poor fisherman, with whom I spent my early years. But one day came a noble stranger; he gave me money, a splendid steed, bright arms, and, best of all, a paper. It was my mother—it was my mother who had written it. The victim of a mighty man, she feared for both our lives, and so would hide herself from me. She bade me never seek her name; and to this hour never have I sought to learn it.”

“And this paper!”

“See here!” and he took it from the bosom of his dress; “it never leaveth me.”

“Perchance, Gennaro, she wept when she wrote it!”

“And have not I wept, too, my mother—O my mother! But methinks I see tears on thy face, lady.”

“Ah! yes, I weep for thee—for her.”

“For me! for her! Indeed, I think already that I love thee dearly.”

“Oh! ever love thy mother, youth; cling to her with all thy soul. Never think ill of her when thou dost doubt most strongly; think ever how she loves thee, and pity her, and hope that she may one day press thee to her heart.”

“Ah! lady, no need hast thou to teach me this! I see her near me always—gentle, loving, pure; she is my guardian angel. When I would do ill, she comes upon me in my dreams, and smiles a welcome to me.”

“I hear footsteps, I must leave thee.”

“Why shouldst thou tremble?”

’Twas Orsini and the friends coming to seek for Gennaro. The youth Maffio, seeing a lady near his friend, ran gaily forward to them; but within a few paces, and just as the lady was rising her mask to her face, he saw her—saw her, to start and turn pale, brave as he was; saw her, to call on Heaven, and ask himself her name.

He ran back to his companions, uttered but two words, and each man was amazed. One laid his hand upon the spot where his dagger would have been, but that at fÊtes all arms were rendered at the door. Another placed his hand upon his mouth and gazed in horror.

“Gennaro,” whispered the unknown lady, “I must leave thee.”

“Yet deign to tell who thou art?”

“One whose life is loving thee.”

“Thy name!”

“I will reveal it,” cried Orsini, coming forward, and speaking savagely, unmercifully.

As the woman heard these words, and recognized the voice, she flinched, and strove to run from the place.

But they stopped her; each way she made a step, on each side stood a stern, unyielding man. They stood about her, yet not near her.

“Gennaro, Gennaro; help!”

“Signors!” cried the youth, “what wouldst thou? This lady I protect; he that insults her is my friend no longer.”

“We would wish to tell the lady who we are, and tell thee who she is,” cried they earnestly, and yet with something of mockery in their tones, “then she may go; we shall have no wish to keep her with us.”

“I, for one, am that Maffio Orsini, whose brother you murdered as he slept.”

“And I, I am that man whose aged uncle you destroyed on his threshold.”

“While I, fair lady, am the nephew of one who died quaffing your wine.”

“I, Petruci, O lady, am cousin to him whose dominions you stole.”

“And I was the friend of the man, who sleeps, by your will, beneath the Tiber.”

Hopeless all her appeals, hopeless that she falls on her knees before them. Each strikes the air with his arm as he addresses her; not one feels pity.

“Who, then, is this woman?” said Gennaro; “dare I hear?”

“Gennaro, do not believe them; they mistake me.”

“Oh! no mistake, lady,” cried out Orsini; “remove thy mask. She is the woman who hath shamed all women; she is the woman whom all ages shall abhor; whose breath is poison, whose look is death, whom Heaven pities too much to destroy.”

“Spare me! spare me!”

“As thou hast spared.”

“Be merciful; there is yet time. Gennaro, see, I cling to thee; forbid them. Be merciful, signors! spare me!”

“As thou hast spared.”

Then the Orsini tore the mask from her face.

“Behold her—Lucrezia Borgia.”

What! is this the gentle face that wept over the sleeping youth? Look on it! like a demon’s as she springs from her knees—defiant, fearless, no longer suppliant; degraded, but not shamed. “Beware!” she cries, as the gentlemen shun her, turning away from her—as Gennaro turns from her. “Beware, you who have shown no mercy! beware!”

CHAPTER II.

In Ferrara. No longer in the city of waters, and palaces, and gay feastings. In Ferrara, where the Borgias reign. Where the cruel Duke Alfonzo reigns, where also his cruel wife is Duchess, the terrible Lucrezia Borgia.

See, in this grand square, there is the palace of the duke. Mark his arms carved over the gateway, the awful name Borgia swelling from the stone beneath.

The new Venetian ambassador with his suite had arrived.

It is night-time, and plot and murder are awake.

Look! is not this the figure of the tall, proud-looking man who watched the Borgia from a gondola in Venice. And the man with him, ’tis he who told of Gennaro.

They are walking slowly across the square.

“So, then, he has arrived in the ambassador’s suite.”

“Surely; I have been his shadow. That house is his abode.”

“Ah, she would fain have him near the palace.”

“And in it, Signor, if Gubetta speaks the truth.”

“It shall be his tomb.”

“The Signor hears that music, ’tis from his house. The youth makes merry with his friends. ’Tis just the same each night, they only sleep at dawn.”

“Let him take a long farewell of them, ’tis the last time they shall carouse with him.”

With angry strides he went up to the ducal house. No need to knock. Too secret-loving was this man for that. Slowly a small door opened, and he and his companion entered.

Far different from these two gloomy men were the half dozen laughing youths who now came trooping away from Gennaro’s wine cups. He came from the house with them, willing as host to show he did not love to part with them.

“Good bye, good bye, dear friends.”

“Good bye Gennaro,” cried the others; and Orsini added, “Thou hast the gravest face amongst us, thou art ever sad.”

“No, no.” But, truth to tell, his thoughts were ever with his unknown mother.

“Now I tell thee that this night thou shalt be gay. The Princess Negroni gives a ball to-night, where a thousand beauties shall be found, and thou must come, Gennaro. And if any one of you be not invited, let him speak. He will speak well, for on my word, I keep the ball-room door.”

Said they, one after the other.—“I am bidden, and I, and I.”

“And I also, Signors,” said a fresh voice.

“What, Signor Bevarana!”

“Or Gubetta,” said Orsini.

“That man seems every where; indeed, I do begin to doubt him,” said Gennaro, softly to Orsini.

“Oh, fear not,” said the other, carelessly. “He is a man of pleasure, like ourselves, and fain not be alone if he can find him company. Thou art still sad, Gennaro.”

“Oh,” cried one laughingly. “Perchance the Borgia has enchanted him.”

“That woman’s name again. I swear, Signors, I hate the sound of it.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed another. “How darst thou speak thus so near her palace?”

“Her palace. I would I could brand her forehead, as I can and will the wall that bears her name.”

As they wondered what he meant, he unbuckled his sword, took hold of it as it was sheathed by the point, and running to the palace door, clambered from boss to boss of the carved stone work till he got near the name “Borgia,” jutting from the face of the doorway. Then he raised the sword, beat its hilt down upon the “B” commencing the name, and in a few moments the letter, splintered to fragments, lay upon the ground.

So those who stood below read on the proud door, and beneath the proud arms of the Borgias, the meaning word “Orgia.”

“Great heaven, Gennaro!” Even the brave Orsini was frightened, and the others looked at each other in terrible inquiry, as they read the terrible truth—“Orgia.”

Said Gubetta, whom they had insolently called Beverana, “In faith, that jest may cost thee dear.”

“In faith, I can pay my debts, Signor.”

“See, Gennaro, there are eyes watching us,” said Orsini; not meaning Gubetta, but two men, dressed in the flowing black cloaks of the time, like shrouds for sin, who met some little distance off in the square, and seemed to defy each other.

The youth Gennaro made no reply to the warning, but gaily saying “good bye, good bye;” turned to his house, and entered it, while the roysterers dispersed in different directions.

The men of the cloaks still seemed to defy each other furtively; still remained; not standing quiet, and yet not walking with a purpose. The sounds of the tripping footsteps dying away, these two men approached each other, each with his arms wrapped in his cloak, and, perhaps, each with his right hand on his sword.

“Why does the Signor wait here?”

“The Signor is waiting for thy going. And Signor himself?”—

“Is waiting to see thee leave this square.”

“Prythee, why art thou here?”

“Perhaps the young Venetian who lives here, and for whom thou art waiting!”

“I?”

“Yes, where goest thou with him?”

“Stand back, in the name of the duchess.”

“Stand back thyself, in the name of the DUKE.”

“The duchess is powerful!”

“The duke is death.”

“Now who shall conquer?”

“We will see.”

A sharp, yet low whistle, from the lips of this last speaker, who stood beside the duke, when he watched his duchess away there in Venice, and watched her from a gondola. Barely had the whistle whispered through the air, than a score of soft-footed men, each like each, enveloped in a shroud-like cloak, surrounded him who had spoken by the duchess.

“Beware—the duchess.”

“Be silent, and depart. This youth hath offended the duke. Be silent, and fear not.”

They carried him away with them, and in the wide square only stood the duke’s servant, watching Gennaro’s house.

CHAPTER III.

Go we now to the grand palace, where the husband and wife watched each other ceaselessly, each ever fearing death at the hands of the other. A happy palace, truly.

See, standing there, in that splendid royal room, are the duke and Rustighello, who had stood watching Gennaro’s house.

“Well?”

“All is done, sire. The prisoner is now within the palace.”

Keeping his eyes fixed upon the other’s face, the duke drew from his waist a small golden key. “’Tis to unlock the hidden door of a hidden staircase, to be crept up, till a little chamber is reached. Then there are two vases, one of gold, and one of silver, each filled with wine, to be brought down, carried to the next room, and there be ready. Let not the golden vase tempt him, for it holds the wine of the Borgias. Then, if he be called, let him bring the vases; but if there be no call, then, good Rustighello, thy sword.”

Then this mighty duke starts as a servant at the door announces “the Duchess.”

Forward she comes, sparkling with rage and diamonds; no longer dressed in heavy black, but in rich rustling brocade, a sweeping coronet of jewels round her head.

“The duchess seems unquiet.”

“Enraged. I come here to call for justice. A shameful crime hath been committed, the name of thy duchess has been degraded.”

“Softly, duchess, I know it.”

“And thou dost not punish the offender; doth he still live?”

“Live? Yes. That thou mayest destroy him, duchess. Nay, he will be before thee in another minute.”

“Let him be whom he may, I demand his life, and in my presence, duke. Thou wilt give me thy word for this, my lord?”

“I do, most heartily, dear duchess. I give thee my sacred word.”

Then, to a page, who has entered after the duchess:

“Let the prisoner be brought forward.”

“Duchess, thou tremblest, thou dost know this man.”

This man is Gennaro, brought in before the angry duke and duchess, and standing fearlessly.

“I—I do not know him.”

“Pray, may I ask the duke why I am here—why I have been torn from my house? May I dare to ask the meaning of such rigor?”

“Good captain—draw near. Some coward wretch has dared to touch the noble name of Borgia written on this palace door, nay, to destroy the name. The duchess, even as I speak, trembles with anger at the act. We seek the guilty one; perhaps thou knowest him?”

“It was not he—my lord—it was not he,” cried Lucrezia.

“Ah! duchess—duchess—how shouldst thou know?”

“He! he was elsewhere when it was done. ’Twas some of his companions dared——”

“No—no—that is not true.”

“Thou hearest, duchess. Now tell me, captain, and sincerely—art thou not he who dared to do this act.”

“I’m not much used to hesitate, therefore I say I am the man.”

Slowly he turned to the miserable duchess. “Thou dost mark his words” (how lowly the duke spoke!) “Thou dost mark his words, and I gave thee my sacred promise.”

“Alfonzo, Alfonzo, I would speak with thee alone.”

“Oh! surely. A moment, captain, but a moment. Well! duchess mine, we are alone. What wouldst thou ask?”

“The life of this poor youth.”

“Do I hear rightly? And but now such anger as thou didst show!”

“I pity him. ’Twas but a passing anger. I acted but in jest; he is too young to think of consequences. Again, to what good his death? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”

“No, no, dear lady mine, my word is pledged. I never break my word.”

“Nay, dear duke, but I insist. And why, thou seemest to ask? ’Twere ungenerous to refuse thy consort a poor favor such as this. What is the youth to me? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”

“No, no. What! pardon him who hath insulted thee! No, thou didst ask his death. And if I could pardon him,—nor could I—for thy dear sake I would not.”

“Let us both pardon, and be clement, duke, for clemency is glorious in us all, and most of all in kings.”

“No king am I, but a poor duke. I cannot spare him, duchess.”

“Why shouldst thou be so angry with this same Gennaro?”

“Dost thou not know?”

“I?”

“Dost thou not LOVE him? Ah! thou dost start, Lucrezia. Even now I read in that face of thine thy crime.”

“Don Alfonzo!”

“Nay, do not speak—”

“If I swear?”

“It were useless. What! shall I never be revenged on thee? If I may not strike thee openly, shall I let pass this hope of wounding thee?”

“Pardon, Don Alfonzo.”

“Pardon!”

“For pity’s sake.”

“What, canst thou speak of pity—thou, Lucrezia?”

“Don Alfonzo, dear husband.” On her knees to him, clinging to him, her eyes dilated, her lips dry and white.

But he stands immovable. Looks down on her unyieldingly. Why, her very humiliation enrages him. For does not this poor unknown wretch, this Venetian, beat down her pride as he, duke and powerful, hath never, never beaten it down yet!

“Thou dost not answer. Beware!”

Once more she is the terrible duchess, and if the duke wear opal, let it warn him.

“I know thee, duchess. I have known thee long, Lucrezia. But forget not I am duke, and in Ferrara. Thou art in my power. Ah! well, I’m not unreasonable. I grant thee somewhat. Thou shalt choose the manner of his death. Or poison, or sword. Pray now choose!”

“I—I cannot.”

“Let him then be—stabbed.”

“No, no.”

“Stabbed—stabbed.”

“No, not blood, not blood.”

“The poison. Thou dost choose his death. Pray be seated.—Enter captain, enter. The duchess is all-powerful with me. Why, I cannot tell, but she pardons thy crime, and bids thee go in peace. Italy would grieve to lose so handsome a son.”

“The duke pardons me. Ah! well, now that I can speak without the look of cowardice and hope of mercy, I may tell the duke that his clemency has fallen on a man who doth deserve it. For thy father, surrounded by the enemy, would have died but for the arm of a poor adventurer.”

“The adventurer, good captain, was—”

“My very self.”

“Duke, duke,” lowly, and pulling his dress, “he saved thy father’s life—spare him.”

“The duchess speaks to me, but so lowly that I scarce can hear her. So thou didst save my father’s life—wilt follow his son’s standard?”

“Pardon me, I’m bound by oath to Venice, and oaths are binding.”

“Surely. Oaths are binding—is it not so, duchess? Well, well, good captain, take a golden present.”

“No, I am not rich, yet rich enough.”

“Thou art hard to please, fair captain. At least a draught of wine thou’lt drink with me. At last thou dost agree. The duchess, here, for once, will e’en turn cup-bearer. Nay, nay, nay, duchess, do not leave us; generous-minded thou hast been to him, and now be more so. Rustighello, bring us wine.” He almost towered higher than his actual stature, as he looked upon the suffering woman. “Place the cups there—for me the silver one—the golden to the captain. Now, duchess, pour, pour. Nay, nay, duchess, the golden vase and golden cup do go together, and silver to the silver. Now, mark, good captain, the duchess will bear the cup to thee herself.”

Slowly she takes the cup, slowly she carries it to the captain. And thus he holds it, wondering at the kindness of these people, whom he has always thought so harsh and full of hate.

“Lady, I did not dream of pardon, and, methinks, my mother, whom I know doth pray for me, hath by her dearest prayers inclined thee and the duke to gracious mercy. I drink to the duke and duchess.”

Courteously the duke relieves the captain of the emptied goblet, lightly places it upon the table, then slowly creeping, like a reptile, he goes up to the duchess and says, softly, “Thou hast perchance somewhat to say to him. Permit me to retire.”

Why does a hopeful flush rush over her face? Why does she touch her bosom with a trembling hand? Why again does her countenance express so much emotion?

The young captain sees her accompany the duke to the doors. The duke bows to him profoundly, and then his back is turned. What next? She stands listening for a moment or so, then rushes madly towards the youth, who looks alarmedly about the room in which are present only their two selves.

As she runs to him she takes her hand from her breast. “Gennaro, thou art poisoned; do not move; quickly take this phial, and begone. A single drop will save thee.”

She stands a little away from him, and draws her dress on one side as she gives him the phial, so that it may hide her hand. When he has it, she presses his hand round it, so that it cannot be seen, and then she stands away from him.

What does he think as he stands there, now full of terror? Death faced on the battle field or on the scaffold may be met calmly; but to die poisoned, treacherously destroyed by a lie, it would make a god tremble. Fool, that for a moment he had trusted the court of Ferrara; and this antidote, perchance ’twas death; perchance the wine had not been poisoned! He had insulted her more deeply than he had the duke. Distrustful and terror-stricken, he stands hesitatingly.

“Drink, drink, he deemed thee his rival.”

As he looks on her face his heart turns towards her—he knows not why, but he believes her—he seems to think she wills that he shall believe her, he sees in the proud face nothing but love for him, not a guilty love. No, she looks, this terrible woman, as his mother might look upon him.

“Drink, save thyself—for—for thy mother’s sake.”

Ah! it has decided him, he raises the little bottle to his lips, and he is saved.

She knows now he will obey her.

She runs quickly to a secret door—for such a palace must have secret doors—and slides it open; by a gesture she bids him enter, presses his long hanging sleeve to her breast as he passes her—and he is gone. Then, as she closes the door, she is a lioness guarding her young. She folds her arms and stands there waiting. The gentleness of face which bade the soldier drink the antidote is gone. She stands there—awful, terrible, alone. No one now—no one now beyond the known and hated Lucrezia Borgia.

CHAPTER IV.

The night was come, and the Princess Negroni’s palace was a blaze of light. The grand ball spoken of by Orsini, was taking place, and all Ferrara was there. At one table, drinking and singing, were Orsini, Gennaro, and most of the young lords who were present at the unmasking of the Borgia at Venice. They were chiefly in the suite of the Venetian ambassador, and now, as on the night at Venice, they were all together, as friends should be.

“Would you believe it, Signors,” said the Orsini, gaily, “you see Captain Gennaro here by the merest chance. He was furiously preparing to fly us, when I came upon him. To Venice; would you believe it, he was departing for Venice. ‘What,’ said I, ‘did we not swear to live and die together? and now dost thou leave me?’ ’True,’ said he, ‘yet—’ But, Signoras, I would not let him go. ‘No, no,’ said I, ‘come thou to the fÊte with us, and I promise I will start with thee at dawn.’ So, behold, we are both here.”

Applause, followed by discussion of wines. One was for Madeira, another for Rhenish; but all were of one opinion, that every kind of wine was good.

The hours crept on, the guests departed, yet was the table of the Venetians occupied by the Venetians themselves, and by many ladies, amongst them the Princess.

Gubetta was there, and kept his watchful eye upon them all.

“I am tired already, and will go.”

“’Tis he again,” cried Orsini; “’tis Gennaro who spoke. Gennaro, hear my new ballad.”

“Ah, ah.”

“Who dareth to laugh at me?”

“I, Gubetta, and the rest of us. Thou art an eminent poet, truly.”

“An insult, Signors.”

“If laughing is insulting thee, I do; ah, ah.”

“Castilian renegade!”

“Roman bully!”

In a moment the place was in confusion. The women fled, the seats were overturned, and the Orsini and his enemy had armed themselves with knives from the table, for it was the wise custom to deliver arms at the door where feasts and rejoicings were held.

“Respect the Princess,” said one, holding back the Orsini.

“The guard will break open the doors,” said a second, restraining the Spaniard.

“To-morrow, Signors, to-morrow.”

“When you may fight with swords.”

“And not with knives like highwaymen.”

“Signors,” said the spy, Gubetta, now that his ruse for removing the women had succeeded. “Signors, I was wrong.”

“Truly; and to prove it, Orsini shall sing us his song.”

“Orsini will.”

“Wine, wine.”

“Truly, Signors, wine.” Thus Gubetta. “There, cup-bearer. My faith, Signors, this is Siracusa, the noblest drink. Let me pour for you.” And he took the tankard, no one wondering where the bearer of it sprung from. Nay, they took each a cup, and crowded round the Spanish spy, each calling laughingly for a share of the Siracusa.

“Nay, nay, Signors—there is enough for all.”

“Thou hast poured all out, Gubetta. Thou hast none—now drink with me, Orsini, from the same cup. ’Twill drown our quarrel.”

“Nay, Signor Orsini, as a punishment on me, drink thou the whole draught thyself.”

“Obedience is good-will. Behold—the cup is empty.”

“Orsini! Orsini! the song.”

“Here ’tis.”

Hark—as the last note dies away, there is a slow chanting without.

“The joy of the profane is a passing smoke.”

As the solemn sound reaches them, the very light seems to pass away. For it is late, and the lights are dying out.

“What voices are these?”

“’Tis a jest.”

“Bah—another verse.”

“Oh—’tis ready.”

“The joy of the profane is but a passing smoke.”

“Again those sounds!”

“See—see, how the lights are going out.”

“Gennaro, I can barely see thee.”

“Orsini, Orsini, here.”

“Methinks this is no jest,” cried another.

And the six came close together. Amongst them was no Gubetta.

A moment or two of bated breath, still the lights are fading. Another moment, and the room is almost dark as midnight.

“Let us fly.”

They drew to the great door, sped rapidly up the steps, and then the whole six stood motionless, their hands pressing against the unyielding doors.

They came down from the steps, but the next moment the doors swung open, and as they turned towards them, thinking, perhaps, for a moment, that it was a jest—behold there stood Lucrezia Borgia, looking down on them, proud, triumphant—a demon. Behind her were men-at-arms, ready to do her utmost will.

“Lost!—lost!—lost!”

“Yes, Signors. Lost. You gave me a ball at Venice. In return I give you a supper here in Ferrara. For you, my guests, I have prepared five shrouds, which shall enwrap you when the poison now coursing through your blood, hath diligently done its duty.”

“Five did’st thou say? But here are six of us!”

“Oh heavens, Gennaro!”

Then rapidly she turned to the guard behind her; almost by a gesture she bade them remove the destroyed gentlemen, and coming down the steps, called to Gennaro to remain.

Helpless—lost—they showed no spirit. Hope had utterly left them. They embraced their friend Gennaro one after the other, and went mournfully from the hall. Gennaro alone remaining, she ran swiftly to the doors, bidding one close them, and ordering that whatever happened, no one should enter the room.

“Thou wert here, Gennaro, thou wert here.”

“Near my friends, lady.”

“Again thou art poisoned.”

“And my friends, lady?”

Suddenly her face lit up. “The antidote, the antidote I gave thee.”

Love of life is strong—so he felt for the little bottle, and he held it before her.

“Drink it.”

“No—with my friends I either live or die.”

She took the little bottle, looked at it agonizingly, and then said, “There is barely enough for thee. Holy virgin, he has cast it to the ground.”

“But if I must die, thou demon—if I, my friend, my dear Orsini, if we all die, shalt thou live—thou? Ah! thou also hast reached death; none will come to help thee; hast thou not closed the door thyself. Prepare thee, thou shalt die!”

See how the knife glitters in the pale moonlight as it sweeps high up into the air.

“Gennaro! Gennaro! wouldst thou kill me?”

“On thy knees. I grant thee that mercy, die on thy knees.”

“I forbid thee!”

“Thou forbid me, thou who hast destroyed me. To thy knees! To thy knees!”

He forces her to her knees. Again the avenging steel is high in the air. Another moment and he shall thrust it downwards through the air—down, down, into her wicked heart. But she speaks five words—and see! The steel has fallen from his hand, and is lying harmless on the floor, his hands are clasped upon his head, and she may kill him without fear and so save herself. What is it then she has said? The words were:—

“Hold—thou art a Borgia.”

Hark to what he whispers. “I—I a Borgia?”

“Thy ancestors were mine. Thou durst not shed the blood of thy people.”

“I—I a Borgia?”

“What have I said? have I forbidden thee to kill me? Rather I should bid thee kill me, for each day I die a thousand deaths. And thou, oh live, live, Gennaro. If thou canst save thyself, and if thou wilt not, thou dost destroy thyself. See, see, the phial is not broken. Thou canst yet be saved. Ah! thou takest it from my hand. Drink! drink!”

“I—I a Borgia?”

“Drink. No, do not hear that sound, ’tis nothing—’tis but the wind.”

“Oh Maffio, ’tis thy voice, the poison kills thy youth the first. Good bye, good bye.”

“They shall live, if thou wilt save thyself. For thy mother’s sake.”

“How darest thou name my mother?”

“And who may name her, if not I?”

“Perchance, thou didst destroy her also.”

“Ah, no! she lives.”

“She lives, she lives, and I shall never see her.”

Here the quick poison struck him so that he reeled against a high Gothic pillar to save himself from falling, and as his hands lay on his breast, he leaned his head slowly backward, and still he cried “Mother, mother, that I could die in her arms. Back, back, woman, do not touch me. Oh, mother! mother!”

“A woman, guilty, yet penitent, quailing and kneeling at the feet of him whom she has slain, who lowers her head as I do mine, and fearingly doth shut out sight by covering her eyes with both her hands, as I do, Gennaro. This woman is thy mother.”

As she spoke, he was sustaining himself against the Gothic pillar, like a brave man as he was, willing to meet death standing—rocking round the pillar from right to left, and clinging to it with weak hands.

But the last words stay him. Rigid he stands for a moment, then as she flinches away from him, yet stretching out her arms, he falls down, and to her breast.

“In my mother’s arms. At last in my mother’s arms, I die.”—And as her arms crept round him he was dead.

As he lay there, she looking on him, the doors were opened, notwithstanding her orders, and there at the head of the steps stood the duke and many ladies. No fear now had she of him, her Gennaro was dead. He might come and scorn, upbraid, insult her now. No matter, she did not care.

Hark! she speaks.

“He was my son, my hope, my comfort. He would have saved me. Where now is hope? All lost. All lost. Heaven hath turned from me.”

Her head fell and her cheek lay against her child’s.

They went to lift her. And then they learnt that she was dead.

So, destroyed by the only godlike evidence she ever had, the love she bore her child, lay Lucrezia Borgia, cold upon the palace floor.