CHAPTER IV
THE CALL
During the months that followed, it had become Francesco's habit tospend most of his leisure time in loneliness on the spot whence he hadbeheld the passing of Conradino's iron-serried hosts and where he hadreceived Ilaria's message. The monks rarely visited the place, andFrancesco's solitude was undisturbed. He never prayed, nor even held areligious thought while there; but the place was well chosen formeditation. Situated upon the very summit of the hill, whose slopeswere bathed in purest air and sunlight, his gaze could easily traversethe intervening space and follow the shining course of the river downto the blue waters of the lake of Nemi, many miles away. Following thesame direction still, till vision was repulsed by the barrier ofshadowy hills, one knew that just beyond lay the sunny Apulian land,the spot to which Francesco's eyes ever turned; towards which once ina passion of rebellion, he had strained his arms, then let them dropagain, helpless at his sides, acknowledging his defeat.
Autumn and winter had come and gone. Again spring was in the land, andwith it at last an evening came; it was Saturday, a night of devotionsand special Aves at the cloisters. The holy office was still inprogress, and Francesco, kneeling in the last row of full-vowedbrethren, was striving to turn his thoughts from useless unhappiness,watching the play of the candlelight over the high-altar. Thus hefailed to hear the opening of the outer door, and the rapid steps thatpassed and returned by the corridor. It was but a lay brother, and nota monk turned his head. But when a murmured message was delivered inthe Vestibulum, when the jingle of chain-armor and the heavy tread ofnailed feet came echoing towards them, there was a general lifting ofeyes, a craning of necks and a perceptible increase in the speed ofthe responses.
The services ended, the monks betook themselves to theirconfessionals. A small number still lingered about the door, waitingthe possible arrival of Romuald, the Prior, of whom they mightincidentally learn the title and quality of the stranger. Francescohad retired into a dim corner, seemingly indifferent to the advent ofthe visitor. This appearance was not so much affectation, as a greatstruggle to crush back the hope that would sometimes slumber, butnever die, within his breast.
Presently, however, there was a stir in the arch of the corridor,caused by the advent of one of the Prior's attendants, who stoppedstill to look about the chapel. Finally, discovering what he sought,he approached Francesco, beckoning to him to follow him.
Francesco rose and came forward, his knees shaking, with wildlybeating heart. He followed his guide without looking to right or left,walking very slowly, that he might regain something of hisself-possession. Had the summons come at last? Concerning its importhe did not speculate, so it sent him into a sphere of action, awayfrom this self-centred life at the cloisters, the very calm of whichoffered no haven for the storm-tossed soul.
When he entered the Prior's presence, his manner was impassivelyexpectant. Romuald rose slowly from his place, an overpowering, almostconscience-stricken pity in his heart, which refused to come to hislips, as on the face of the young monk there was unveiled at last allthe majesty of the bitter loneliness which he had suffered so long andso silently.
When the Prior turned to Francesco, his words dropped monotonouslyfrom his lips.
"A messenger has arrived from His Holiness, Pope Clement, summoningyou to Rome! You will depart on the morrow!"
Francesco bowed his head in silence and withdrew. As one in a trancehe went out into the empty corridor. At last the call had come: ToRome,--to Rome! He would leave the dreary solitude of thesemountain-heights, leave their purity and sanctity and peace for thestrife and turmoil of a fevered world. To Rome,--to Rome! His pulsesbeat faster at the thought. Thither had those preceded him, among whomhe had spent the golden days of his youth; thither she had gone whoseimage filled the dark and desolate chambers of his heart; now lost tohim for aye and evermore! And thither Conradino was marching with hisiron hosts to claim the dominion of the Southlands, his inheritance,his very own! To Rome,--to Rome! Once it had been the dearest wish ofhis soul. Now an unspeakable dread seized him with the summons. He wasthe bondsman of the Church,--her shackles were pitiless. Every feelingmust be stifled, the voice of the heart hushed in her grim service.--
Francesco entered his cell; a moment later the cell was in darkness.But could Francesco's open eyes have served the purpose of a lantern,a dozen monks might have read by their light, unceasingly, tillmatins.
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