Richard II., Duke of Normandy, who lived some forty years before the conquest of Great Britain by William, was without an heir to his dukedom. He prayed wearily for an heir—but never a child had he. At last he made a vow, in the presence of his courtiers, that if the demon’s power could grant him a son, he would dedicate that son to the demon himself—sell him and his soul to the fallen angel!

The courtiers were breathless with astonishment.

Soon they remarked a change in the king, of which he himself was not aware. His face altered—his brow grew dark and heavy—his step slow, firm, and yet light. All color left his cheeks, and his lips grew pale and thin. The veins of his forehead could be traced—a deep blue color wandering beneath the skin; and his eyes grew mournful in their light. His hair fell about his head in deep waving folds—and he seemed the victim of utter despair. Yet he was known by all as the duke—the same as ever, and yet wholly changed. Nobody who had known him before this change came on but bowed to him as the duke; yet all who had so known him whispered that he was changed as never man changed who was not possessed of a devil.

Then great wonders began to be marked in Normandy. Storms would rise without warning and sweep over the land as though heaven was wrath. And while the storms lasted, moans were heard in the air—low, wailing, gentle moans—like the sighs of angels. Then, too, from the deep caverns came loud clattering laughs—peal on peal—like mocking thunder.

Soon it became known that an heir would be born to the duke. Then might be seen stretching across the heavens a great flaming sword of fire, its edge ever trembling and surrounded by vaporous clouds.

At last, in a louder strain than any of that year—in the midst of shrieking winds such as had never before been heard by all who lived—the heir was born. Duke Richard was no longer childless!

Very beautiful was the child. But those who saw him, noticed that his features were like his father’s, that his skin was colorless, and that his eyes lacked the sparkling brightness of infancy.

The attention of the courtiers being fully roused, they began to observe that the father regained his old looks and ways. His color came back; his eyes again flashed brightly, the sound of his foot was again heard, and once more he laughed. And they said among themselves that the change they had marked was caused by anxiety, and that now his son was born to him, he was himself again.

Yet a few years, and there was more strange court news. The child was as no other child; he would tear birds to pieces, screaming with joy the while; and waking in the night,—he would creep from his bed, open the shutters of his windows to the wind, and remain there with these same winds tearing about his head till the day came—when he would slink away to his bed. He did not love the light, and when night time came, then only was it that his eyes sparkled.

Yet a little—and then it was known that he only was gentle when both his mother, and his foster-sister, Alice, were with him. Then he was as child-like as any other child, and would lisp his prayers quite readily. But Alice away, and his mother distant, again he became the strange weird creature he was whispered to be.

Then came the rumor a few years later, of an old white-haired man being found dead, a child’s jewelled dagger remaining in his breast.

Yet a few more years, and the whispers running through the court trickled out amongst the people, that the duke’s son was a demon!

Sad grew the father, sadder and sadder. But it was remarked that though his face grew grave and thoughtful, it was quite unlike the face he wore in that awful year before his son was born. And then it was whispered that if that time were referred to, the duke seemed lost, confused, and that then, and only then, something of that terrible look could be seen upon his countenance.

At last the heir was really grown a man; as handsome as any other in Normandy, as brave as any knight at court. But it was observed by many, that, handsome as he was, there was still a threat of the features which his father wore the year before he, Robert, was born.

Soon the people grew to detest the heir to the throne; for he swept through the land like a destroying angel. They abhorred him, and then it was they called him Robert the Devil!

Then, broken-hearted, utterly cast down, but never wearing the old terrible look, the father, greyhaired and weary of the world, exiled his only son from Normandy, forbade him the land of his birth, and drove him from it.

Henceforth, till the old duke died, the people never felt the hand of “Robert the Devil.” They heard of him, brave, fearless, terrible—ever conquering, never conquered, never even wounded. They heard of him, a monster—firing, destroying, waking up war wherever he placed his foot; and they trembled as they thought of the time when he should come to reign over them.

Meanwhile the old duke and the sorrowing lady prayed, hourly for their lost son; and joined in their prayers the lost son’s foster-sister, Alice.

THE LEGEND.

Part I.—The Tempter.

A world of tents—to the right, to the left—before or behind—a world of tents. And not dismal little canvas tents—but brave erections in cloths of gold and silver, and gay colors.

Truth to tell, all this was evidence of a tournament, given by the Duke of Messina.

Many knights intended to compete in this tournament. Hence, that sea-shore near Palermo was gay as a garden with colored tents, bright gold, shining armor, and brave knights, sumptuously attired.

But no braver knight, more bravely attended, nor surrounded with more magnificence, was there than the unknown, whose arrival had created such a stir in the gorgeous camp.

This unknown knight, as he came from the tent erected for him in the centre of his people’s brilliant little encampment, was the observed of all observers.

“Dost know who he is?”

“Wherefore comes he?”

“I have heard that he will take part in the tournament.”

Calmly the unknown knight came amongst the host of gentlemen, bowing and smiling gravely. They made way for him—nay, some drew forward stools, and soon the whole body of knights were seated about tables, more or less magnificent, as the owner knight was rich and brave, or brave only.

But he who drew on him as much attention as the unknown knight himself, was his companion, a tall, solemn-looking man. His brow was heavy and dark, his step slow, firm, and yet light; no color was in his face, his lips were pale and thin, and the veins of his forehead could be traced—a deep blue color wandering beneath his skin. His eyes were mournful, his hair fell about his head in deep, waving folds, and a kind of settled despair seemed to hang upon him, and weigh him down.

This companion of the unknown knight was dressed in garments of sombre hue, which hung in beautiful sweeping folds about his person. His hands were delicate and white, and had in them a trembling motion, which was at great variance with the close, firm mouth—little, small, delicate hands, beautiful to look upon, and yet, somehow, they looked like claws, the fingers seemed to turn so naturally to the palms.

The knights commenced drinking and dicing at the various tables. Still the stranger knight and his companion sat by themselves at their table of bright metal, inlaid with a winding pattern of jet.

Suddenly the companion whispered the knight, who thereupon, with a smiling face, turned to the body of gentlemen and saluted them, raising his goblet to them, and emptying it at a draught.

The knights readily responded to the appeal, and the next moment began conversing gaily with the two strangers.

The conversation, however, was soon interrupted by the arrival of two men, the one a squire of the stranger knight, the other a simple-looking country fellow, carrying his cap in his hand, and looking about him bashfully.

“Sire,” said the squire, softly, “this pilgrim is a songster, and he cometh from Normandy.”

“Normandy—dear, dear Normandy,” said the young knight, and as he spoke the words he looked handsomer than before.

“Dear Normandy,” said the grave, noiseless companion, as the hand lying on the table twitched. “Dear Normandy—I thought she had driven thee from her soil.”

The young knight frowned the truth of these few words; and then turning to the pilgrim troubadour, gave him some money, and asked him what he could sing.

“Ho—ho!” said the minstrel, laughing and yet trembling in the presence of the splendid company. “Ho—ho! I can sing all songs; but, my faith, the best is the history of our young duke, whom they call Robert the Devil. He hath the evil eye on him, my masters.”

Here he turned to the crowd of warriors who were drawing near, and did not mark the young knight place his right hand quickly upon his dagger.

“Sing of Robert, minstrel; sing of Robert the Devil.”

Again the companion spoke. “’Tis but a poor minstrel.”

The knight, obediently, it seemed, moved his hand from the weapon, and said, “True!” Then loudly he called to the minstrel, “Begin, thou.”

As the gallants laughed at the ballad, and the earnestness with which it was sung, the minstrel stood with his back to the young knight. The next moment, the poor wanderer felt himself thrown to the ground; and, looking up, he saw a bright dagger high in the air above him. But restraining the holder of it, was a small white hand, the fingers of which seemed clawed about the other’s wrist.

“’Tis but a poor minstrel!” he also heard a voice say.

Again the angry hand gave way, and fell to the young knight’s side; but he bade some of his people seize the unlucky singer.

“I am Robert,” he cried haughtily, and looking with defiance at the knights.

“The fiend!” cried the minstrel, falling on his knees.

“An hour for thy prayers, and the hour following thy purgatory! The next tree shall bear thee as its fruit.”

“Good, my prince; verily we have come all the way to see thee, bearing a holy message.”

“Message—we—who is your companion?”

“She who shall be my wife, if thou wilt let me live, master.”

“A Normandienne, Bertram; a Normandienne. Are there any women, think’st thou, their equals? Well, minstrel, thy wife’s eyes have gained for thee a pardon. Send her hither.”

“Good master.”

“Thou art courageous!”

Some well-meaning man-at-arms here gruffly pulled the young minstrel away; and the last he saw of Robert was that he turned inquiringly to the knights, and that they all seemed eager to please him and be near him.

Yet quickly he turned from the knights, as he heard the footsteps of several men approaching, and with them the patter of a pair of light feet.

Then came in the midst of those rough, shaggy men-at-arms, a young, pure-looking girl. She had one of those faces not eminently beautiful, and yet at which you gaze with a kind of awe; holiness too proud to ask the aid of mere beauty! Men seemed to grow better as they looked upon this holy young face.

“Alice, dear Alice—my sister Alice!”

“My prince—my prince!” and the young creature flung herself upon the ground near Robert.

“’Tis my sister, gentlemen—our breath mingled on the same breast.” And stooping he lifted Alice from the ground.

Strange—his face seemed much lighter than it was, and his very voice happier and freer.

As for his companion, whom he called Bertram, he rose from the table, kept his eyes from the girl, and moved away—farther away—farther away—till he was lost to sight in the midst of the tents.

The knights and gentlemen about seemed to know that she would speak to him privately, for they withdrew, and soon left a wide space between themselves and the girl Alice.

“Prince, Alice. Call me not prince. For I am to thee ever brother. So, thou hast come to see the exile? I have striven to die since last I saw dear Normandy; but I bear a charmed life, methinks. And now here, Alice, love itself is my enemy. But thou dost not say why thou hast come.”

“My duty hath brought me hither.”

“Thou wast ever dutiful.”

“The duty I owe to a dear mistress bringeth me to thee.”

“Thou dost speak of my dear mother whom heaven bless.”

“Then is she blessed in heaven.”

“She—my mother!”

“And when thou shalt next see her, thou shalt be in heaven too.”

“Dead—dead—my mother dead!”

As he spoke Bertram glided from behind one of the tents, but the next moment was lost again. He turned his face angrily away as tears fell from the young knight’s eyes.

“‘Go,’ thy mother said, ‘go, my Alice, to him, and say that, though he has made my heart bleed all his life, I love him heartily; that my last thoughts are for him; that I will pray for him and watch him through his dark hours of temptation. Tell him a terrible power enwraps him, but thou—thou,’ and she laid her hands upon my head, O brother—‘thou shalt be his guardian spirit. I know that I may will it so. The hour must come when between me and the evil I have named my son must make his choice. Be thou near him then, O Alice, be thou near him, that he may pass surely on the narrow way to me!’ Then she lay down, whispering that she would her son were by to close her eyes—and so thy mother died.”

He hung his head and wept for pity and for love of that dear mother.

“You weep, my brother. I have yet more to tell thee. Before she spoke these last sad words, she placed a paper in my hands—her will—and she said, ‘Bid him read it when he thinks he is worthy to read it.’”

“That is not now, Alice. Keep this will; something tells me ’tis best in thy hands. Read my mother’s will now! now that I am borne down with sorrow, against which I do rebel with all my strength. And, sister Alice—I love a lady who, I fear, doth dread me.”

“Dread thee?”

“She is the princess of Sicily. Her father looked on me with but a troubled eye—and so I strove to steal her. But they fought bravely for their princess, and they saved her. I was down—down upon the ground, and I feared never more to see my own dear land—when a noble knight came to my rescue and delivered me. They fell before his arm as the blades of corn before the reaper. He saved me and he is my dear friend, my dear loving friend!”

As he spoke, Bertram was standing not far off; his face wearing a grave, almost a gracious smile, and his white right hand high above him playing with the folds of a flame-red tent.

“And the princess, brother—does she love thee?”

“Alas, sister—how should I know?”

“Nay—write to her.”

“And who shall be my herald?”

“Who—I will be thy herald!”

He called quickly, and from his tent came a page. To this child he gave a rapid order, and the next minute he was writing a letter to the lady whom he would have stolen. When he had finished, he pressed the hilt of his dagger on the seal, as was the custom of the day.

“Go—sister of mine—fortune be with you!”

As she turned, she saw the knight, Bertram.

She was not afraid of him, but she seemed to know he was her enemy.

“Brother—who is that man?”

“Ah—Bertram! This is the noble friend I told thee of—wherefore dost thou regard him so strangely?”

“At home, in our village church, there is a picture which tells how the Archangel conquered Satan; and methinks I see in this man a resemblance to—”

“The Archangel?”

“No, verily, the other.”

“Ha!—go, sister.”

She obeyed him with a kind of fearless fear—a courage mixed with a desire to avoid this man.

“Thou art on good terms with thy conquest.”

“Gratitude, Bertram.”

“A good word—a good word.”

“Were I bluntly candid, Bertram, I should say that near thee I never feel so honest as when thou art distant; but now as I stood by Alice, I marvelled much how I seemed to enjoy all things about me, and how much I felt inclined to good.”

“I love thee, Robert, as a father would his son—his only son.”

“Aye—but truly the advice of a father is ever godly.”

“Is it likely I am the fiend? Tush!—drown your cares; rejoin the knights and cavaliers—do as they do—thou art no worse than they!”

“Verily!”

“And thou art rich!”

Diligently the white knight, as the knights began to call the pallid Bertram—diligently the white knight arranged the gaming tables, and when his friend took the dice-box into his hand, he came and stood near him, slightly smiling.

“Thou shouldst double the stakes, Robert,” said the white knight, after the youth had lost freely. “Fortune hates the niggard hand. Double, friend, double.” And here the white hand gathered up the dice.

“Well, double the stakes!”

“Nay—if thou treblest, then thy chance is almost a surety.”

“Treble the stakes!”

Thrown, and lost.

“Fortune hates the niggard hand; hesitate not—play!”

Again the rattle of the dice was heard, again the knight lost.

Again, and yet again, he played and lost! Then he even wagered the jewels from his robe; then his horses, and his armor. Yet with fell purpose fortune turned her back upon him.

“Fortune doth try thee, Robert. Still tempt her: she loveth the brave.”

Again he plays—again he loses.

“Gold is only a bauble—fling it, fling it, fling it away.”

At last he had played away all—all! There was yet the sword at his side, and the dagger with which he had threatened the poor minstrel. Another moment and they were lost too. He, Robert of Normandy, had disarmed and beggared himself.

But in a moment his natural rage swept over him and he was frantic. With a threatening look at the knights about him, he wrested a battle-axe from a soldier near at hand, and was flying madly at the victorious group. Then indeed, Bertram showed himself a loving friend. He held the youth back, he entreated the gentlemen to pardon his ungracious anger. He shielded him. And all the while he trembled like a woman.

Part II. The Decree.

Not far from the camp stood the poor minstrel, waiting for his sweetheart Alice. While he was waiting, the knight Robert’s catastrophe was achieved, and he was lying in the white knight’s camp; lying with his face upon the ground, and the will to evil strong within him.

Raimbault the minstrel waited for some little time, and was beginning to think Alice would never come; when he heard a footstep, a light footstep, like but yet unlike the step of Alice. He turned, and before him stood the knight Bertram, his face more pallid than ever in the moonlight.

“Thou art Raimbault.”

“Verily; whom the knight Robert would have hanged.”

“He hath a strong will. Wherfore art thou here?”

“To meet Alice, my good wife, so please thee.”

“She is very poor.”

“She hath a rich heart, and is no poorer than I.”

“See, now, thou art richer than she is now.”

“Verily, he hath given me gold; real, real gold!”

And the minstrel did not read contempt in the pale face; contempt that gold should make men happy.

“Thou art noble, and I will obey thee.”

(Oh! man, man, how weak art thou.) “So thou art to be married?”

“Yes, now that the young prince has been discovered.”

“Folly!”

“Folly, nay, Alice is a good girl!”

“Good! Were I thee, I would wait, and be joyful. Thou art rich; with gold man can do all things; and I have given thee gold.”

“Verily.”

“Be happy—feast—sin! Thou art young, there is time to repent—time to repent! (He smileth; his eyes brighten; he is lost.) Go, good Raimbault, Alice will follow thee; she may be thy slave. Go, go!”

The minstrel, weak and maimed with evil thoughts, went away stumbling in the darkness.

Then the smile passed away from Bertram’s face—there was only to be read in it terrible despair battling with small hope! As a faint, warning, unearthly sound swept through the air, he trembled; and then he muttered that he had gained another soul! That he should have mercy shown him—mercy to him, the ambassador! Again the wild cry swept through the air, and Bertram’s head fell. Clasping his hands together, he moved slowly into a deep lightless cavern, and was lost in the darkness.

Treading lightly through the moonlight then came Alice, to meet Raimbault, who was surely waiting for her—surely.

“Raimbault—Raimbault!”

No answer.

The wild, wailing cry swept past her very lips as she ended her little ditty. As she heard it she trembled, and felt sure the very ground below her shook.

She began to run away, afraid, but a single word detained her—a single word, streaming through all the air—“Robert!”

“Robert!” She knew her duty was to watch over him till he had read his mother’s will, so she stood still, trembling no longer. Then she thought the sound came from a dark corner near, and lightly walking to it, she peered in, and then drew back with mighty fear. She sped quickly to a rustic cross by the roadside; she fell at its feet, and lay senseless.

Forth from the cavern came the white knight. The doom, then, was irrevocable; unless Robert freely gave himself up—and before the morrow—they would be parted. Parted from Robert, whom he loved so much. “By his own will—by his own will, he must be won.”

Suddenly he turned, as he heard a weak womanly cry, and he saw Alice lying at the foot of the cross.

“Thou here, Alice? What ailest thee? Thou dost draw away. Nearer—come nearer; nearer, I say. Dost fear me?”

Still she clung to the cross, the closer and more firmly as he approached.

“What didst thou hear?”

“Nothing.”

“What didst thou see?”

“Nothing—nothing.”

“Come near me.”

With a loud cry, she crossed herself.

“Ah! thou knowest me!”

“I do not fear.”

“Thou shalt surely perish, utterly—thou and thine! What hast thou seen? What hast thou heard?”

“Nothing—nothing.”

“By a lie thou fallest.”

As she flinched from him she saw Robert approaching, his head drooping, and his hands clasped.

“Speak not—fall away from the cross thou hast shadowed. Fall away, I say.”

By the power of the untruth she had spoken, she was for a while conquered. Yet as Robert came near them, she felt her strength renewed. She ran to him to warn him. But yet again she was weak. The white knight raised high his glistening right hand, and she fled.

“What aileth her?”

“She is jealous of thee. Ah well—wilt thou not look upon thy best friend?”

“Best friend—thou art my only friend on earth!”

“Earth—what is earth? But thy fortune—Robert—thy fortune! I tell thee ’twas wrested from thee by unholy arts. Regain it by them. Where others have ventured fear not to venture thou!”

“What—can the demon have power on earth?”

“Power! Power! There is but one power equal, or superior to his own. Power! Hast thou courage—is thy heart firm?”

“Lay thy hand upon it ... ah, thou seemst to burn me with thy touch—take thy hand away.”

“Thy heart is firm;—e’en now firmer than before. Thou hast heard of the ruined abbey, whose inhabitants with itself were delivered to the powers of hell.”

“I have heard, but not believed.”

“Believe. In the midst stands the tomb of Bertha—why dost thou tremble?”

“’Twas my mother’s name—’twas my mother’s name.”

“Think of thy fortune, Robert! Those who go to this tomb—speak not to the mysterious beings they see. But—over the marble effigy waves a branch of cypress. Who holdeth it holdeth power—Power! wouldst thou be powerful?”

“Feel my heart again—I fear not thy hand now!”

Part III.—The Fall.

A wild spot: the accursed cloisters, where once lived sinning nuns. A wild spot, lighted now and then by the moon, when its light could flit down between the jagged, angry clouds which rushed floating by. The light showed a sombre square of burial-ground, covered with marble tombs, whereon lay effigies of the dead; solemn white figures, still, still as death.

But something now moves in this accursed spot. Treading lightly through the moonlight comes a solemn-looking man, with small, white, claw-like hands. Arrived in the midst, he lifts these terrible hands above his head, and then he speaks—“O, ye impious women who sleep beneath these stones, shake from you your troubled slumber, and awake. ’Tis I condemned as you, who speak. But for an hour take life; move, breathe, and then sink to your weeping sleep again!”

See—the white, sleeping figures move. The ground breaks in long, ugly cracks. Stones are up-heaved, and trembling green lights flicker where once sacred altars stood. Slowly, forms, something like human, stand here and there, uncertain of themselves and each other, as with ghastly eyes they doubtingly peer into the darkness. Then, with noiseless steps, they approach and touch each other, stepping from side to side, as again and again a figure rises from the ground. At last, there are hundreds of these grim phantoms. Gradually, life seems to grow brighter in their faces. At last, they even smile; and then, behold, they are as human-looking as the pale, unyielding moon will let them look.

“Ye hopeless—hear me! A warrior whom I love shall come to pluck the weeping cypress; if he trembles, seduce his better soul from him, and with all your earthly charms, strive to destroy him. Rejoice—rejoice—for thou knowest whither I would lead him.”

Again with his light, solemn step he passed away—his hands now clasped within each other.

Suddenly the weird figures seemed to shudder, as with evil eyes they marked the warrior’s fearful coming. Hiding behind pillars and broken stones they watched him. He hesitated—then came forward. Then again he stopped. At last he stood near the cypress, which waved above the tomb of the abbess. But as he stretched his hand to pluck the fatal branch, he looked upon the statue of that abbess, and the face seemed as the face of his mother, wrathful and angry. He fell back stunned and speechless.

Then out trooped the living-dead—their features no longer ghastly, but full of wicked, sensuous life. They surrounded him; they tempted him; in a circling band they drew him to the fatal cypress. Yet he hesitated. Then they held to him a golden cup, brimming with delicious wine. Drinking it, again the evil look was in their faces. But when he returned the cup, they smiled again.

At last he plucked the branch, and held it in his hand.

Then the faces turned again to hopeless death. The figures screamed in their joy about him—loudly and more loud.

While he—his heart now failing him—shrank down upon the ground and hid his eyes with his hands—one of which still clasped the terrible cypress branch.

Part IV.—The Cypress Branch.

While this horrible scene was being enacted—away in her father’s palace was the lady whom Robert loved—the lady who also loved him—the princess.

The Princess Isabelle of Sicily sat watching the magnificence about her. It seemed to mock her sorrows. The King had decided upon marrying her to the Duke of Grenada, a Spanish noble.

Her solitude was broken by the entrance of a few young maidens, who, after the custom of the time, took advantage of the intended marriage to present petitions to the bride.

Among the girls who thus entered was one superior to the rest. She had a pure-looking, almost holy face—not more beautiful than any there, perhaps, but glowing in its purity and high resolve.

This young creature presented a letter to the princess. Isabelle took the paper languidly enough, but no sooner had she glanced at it than her face sparkled with joy.

’Twas the letter Robert had given Alice before the sun went down. ’Twas Alice who now gave the letter into the hands of the young princess.

Happily Isabelle read the letter; but her happiness was of short duration, for barely had she finished it than her tirewomen came forward to deck her for the bridal.

Then came grand lords and ladies of the court—a full procession—to accompany the bride to the palace chapel.

They stood without the great room and upon the wide staircase leading to the broad open doors. They were talking gaily and looking towards the princess, when suddenly the breath of death seemed to pass over and among them. Their words faltered on their lips—their hands fell listlessly to their sides; and though they could see and hear, they had no power to move. They saw no figure of a wild-looking, handsome man, waving on high a black, sweeping cypress branch. They saw the doors close of themselves, and remained motionless, like statues grouped about the marble stairs.

Slowly he came on, his face now almost the counterpart of Bertram’s. On and on, to the spot where the princess sat, immovable like the people on the stairs. She saw no one before her eyes; she sat wondering what the sudden silence meant, when suddenly before her stood Robert—surely, and yet not with Robert’s face.

He waved the branch over her fair head, and broke the spell.

“Robert! Robert!”

He looked upon her with a love so terrible that she cried—

“Save me—save me from him!”

“Thou art beautiful, and I love thee! Thinkest thou I would tamely leave thee to another? Look on me! Not the Robert thou didst once know. Look on me! Mark on my face the hellish joy I feel in seeing thee!” And he asked himself how he could look upon her fear and grief, and feel no pain?

“Robert, thy eyes are fire, and thou lookest on me as thou of all men least should look. What is thy power—and thy knightly oath—and thine honor? Hast thou forgotten them?”

“Hate knows no honor, Isabelle, and love is often hate.”

“’Tis not too late, Robert! But now I saw thy old self again upon your face. Robert, be thyself. Fly, or they will kill thee!”

“I here am master; tremble—bow before me. None can see me—none can move but at my will. Thou art lost—lost—lost!”

The Princess fell on her knees and clasped her hands.

For a moment he trembled, but then again his face was as Bertram’s face, and he cried, “Thou art lost!”

Then, as she knelt to him—“Robert, Robert, thou whom I so love—to whom I gave my troth, look on me; look on my terror! Mercy! For thyself, mercy! For me, also, mercy! Think of thy faith—thine honor! As you love me, mercy! See me, at thy feet. Robert, Robert, thou whom I so love, mercy—mercy!”

He doubts, he trembles, then his face changes to its old expression, as he stoops and lifts her from the ground. “Thou hast saved thyself.”

“And thee, too, Robert.”

“Nay, thou hast destroyed me.”

“I—destroyed thee!”

“I cannot live away from thee; let me then die.”

And, in a rage of agony and disappointment, he tore the branch to atoms.

As he did so the spell was broken. The lords and ladies on the stairs moved and spoke; and one of them, pushing open the great doors, saw the knight flinging from him the remains of the cypress, and saw, also, the princess stand apart, one hand trembling before her white lips.

A moment, and there was a violent and terrible noise of swords torn quickly from their scabbards.

The princess put out her hands beseechingly for him. But ’twas useless; fifty sword points were directed at his heart. Towards them he ran fearlessly, his warrior face—the old, good face—all-powerful now.

Suddenly, a knight was beside Robert, fighting for him. Steadily this new combatant beat a way for the beleaguered knight, and at last regained for him and for himself free air and liberty.

Part V.—The Redemption.

“Bertram, thou must come with me. See, here is the cathedral; wilt thou not enter? The sanctuary is sacred, and none will dare try to move me from it. Come.”

“So, thou brokest the mystic branch; thy heart failed thee.”

“Oh, it should not fail me again.”

“There is yet a means!”

“Yet a means? Name it; I care not what—I will obey.”

“Thou shalt sign a solemn pledge.”

“Surely, Bertram, surely.”

The white knight took a quivering paper, from his very bosom, as it seemed; dipped a reed in an ink horn at his side, and offered both to the young knight.

As he was about to take them his hand trembled—not from fear, but because of a soft hymn which welled forth from the cathedral—a hymn of praise, sung by reverend old monks and faithful nuns.

“What! dost thou again tremble?”

“’Tis the hymn my mother often sang to me in the days of my innocent childhood. Hark, again!”

Yet once more the sacred sounds swept through the air, “Holy, holy, holy.”

The white knight turned away and frowned; but as the sound died out he said, “Come, let us go. What, again thou tremblest?”

“How gentle does this music make me. As I hear it I have no fear—feel no hate. Again, dear sounds, again.”

Yet once more the hymn arose, “Holy, holy, holy!”

“He would be free! What, shall all my hope be destroyed? Never!”

“I am happy, I am happy!”

“Wherefore? That thy rival is blest; that they offer up prayers for him?”

“Again; again.”

“Go also; kneel humbly—humbly; and pray for his welfare too! Go, coward.”

The knight looked quickly at Bertram; gazed earnestly into his face; and, as the religious sounds again spread through the air, he cried out:—

“Bertram, thou art my great enemy!”

(“Is there no mercy for me? I his enemy!) I thy enemy, Robert? Do I not love thee? Who supported thee in battle, whose arm hath been thine, who would lay all the riches of the world at thy feet? I, who am—”

“Thou who art-“

“Dost thou remember the whisperings in thy home? Thy living father, who was changed, and thy mother’s woes? canst thou not guess my name?”

The youth looked on the white knight for a moment; then, with a flood of tears, he was on his knees before this strange being; his arms around the white knight’s waist, and Bertram’s small white hands resting on his head.

“Fear not; I will never leave thee!”

Then Robert saw the face above him change. He turned quickly, and found Alice standing there.

“Robert!”

The white knight stood before her toweringly; but, as she stepped forward, he, with all his power, was forced to give way.

“Robert, I bring thee a happy message. The duke of Grenada cannot pass the holy threshold of the cathedral.”

“Come, my son, leave this woman.”

“And the princess awaits thee.”

“Come, let us depart, Robert.”

“Thou darest not forget thy oath to her.”

“Hasten, Robert, the clock is near the hour, the last hour of my stay. We may not part, my son—my only son—we may not part.”

“My heart turns to thee—yet my vow!”

“But thy duty—thy duty!”

“Our duty,” cried Alice. “Our duty is to him whom thou fearest.” And without fear she stepped up to the white knight.

“My son—my only joy—thou wilt not hear her!”

“Let him hear me—I speak as I am bidden.”

“See, Robert; here is the parchment. Turn from her, fix thine eyes upon me, and let us go, to be for ever near each other.”

“And thy mother’s will—O Robert.” Quickly he turned from the tempter to the holy maiden, who held in her hand his mother’s will.

“My son, turn thy face from her, and look on me.”

“My mother’s writing—my own mother!”

As he perused the paper Bertram stretched forth his hands towards the youth, placed them pleadingly together, and even wept.

The knight read the paper, and then, looking up from it, the white knight knew that his power was gone, for Robert drew away from him, and taking the hand of Alice, placed it on his own head.

As he did so, the clanging of the church-bell told them that midnight was come.

Then despair, horrible despair, crept over the face of the white knight. He came one step forward, placed his trembling claw-like hands above the head of the saved knight and vanished. Vanished in the black night, as a wailing cry filled all the air.

Saved! the good spirit had saved him—the good spirit working through a poor country girl!

See him creeping to the church he spurned till now. Saved—saved!

“Holy, holy, holy!” Behold the sanctuary, and the sacred priests, ready with open arms to receive the sinning, but now repentant Robert!

And so was the spell his father’s wicked vow entwined about his life, for ever broken and destroyed. So was Robert the Devil transformed to Robert the Man, loving and beloved.