CHAPTER XIV
THE PHANTOM OF THE LATERAN
It still lacked a few minutes of midnight when Tristan arrived at theLateran. The guard had been set in all the chapels, as on the nightwhen he had kept the watch before.
Without confiding his purpose to any one, he traversed the silentcorridors until he came to the chapel where he was to watch all night.
The men-at-arms were posted outside the door. A lamp was burning in thecorridor, and strict orders had been given that no person whatsoeverwas to pass into the chapel.
After assuring himself that all was secure, Tristan seated himself in achair which stood in the centre of the chapel.
The place was dim and ghostly. A red lamp burnt before the BlessedSacrament, and from the roof of the chapel hung another lamp of bronze.The light was turned low, but it threw a slight radiance upon portionsof the mosaic of the floor.
Tristan unbuckled his sword and placed it ready to hand. The whole ofthe Basilica was hushed in sleep. There was a heaviness and oppressionin the air, and no sound broke the stillness in the courts of thepalace.
Memory flared up and down like the light of a lamp, as Tristan ponderedover the changes and vicissitudes of his life, with all its miseriesand heart-aches, as he thought of the future and of Hellayne. Dangerencompassed them on every side. But there had been even greaterterrors when he had plucked her from the very grip of Death, from themidst of her foes.
And then he began to pray, pray for Hellayne's happiness and safety,and his whispering voice sounded as if a dry leaf was being blown overthe marble floor, and when it ceased the silence fell over him like acloak, enveloping him in its heavy, stifling folds.
He had been on guard in the Lateran before, but the silence had neverseemed so deep as it was now. His mind, heated and filled with theevents of the past days, would not be tranquil. And yet there was adeadly fascination in this profound silence, in which it seemed his ownmind and the riot of his thoughts were living and awake.
What, if even now some lurking danger were approaching through thethousand corridors and anterooms of the palace! For on this night theenemies of Christ were abroad, silently unfurling the sable banners ofHell.
The thought was almost unbearable. It was not fear which Tristan felt,rather a restlessness he was unable to control. Although the night wasno hotter than usual, perspiration began to break out upon his face,and he felt athirst. The fumes of incense that permeated the chapel,increased his drowsiness.
With something of an effort Tristan strode to the door and opened it.In the corridor two men-at-arms were on guard, one standing againstthe wall, the other walking slowly to and fro. The men reported thatall was well, and that no one had passed that way. Tristan closed thedoor and returned inside. He walked up the chapel's length and then,his drawn sword beside him on the marble, knelt in prayer before theBlessed Sacrament which he had come to guard.
There, for a little, his confused and restless mind found peace.
But not for long.
A drowsiness more heavy and insistent than any he had ever knownbegan to assail him. It billowed into his brain, wave after wave. Itassailed him with an irresistible, physical assault. He fought againstit despairingly and hopelessly, knowing that he would be vanquished.Once, twice, sword in hand, as though the long blade could help him inthe fight, he staggered up and down the chapel. Then, with a smotheredgroan, he sank into the chair, the sword slipping from his grasp. Hefelt as if deep waters were closing over him. There was a sound likedim and distant drums in his ears, a sensation of sinking, lower, everlower,--then utter oblivion.
And now silence reigned, silence more intense than his mind had everknown.
The red lamp burned before the Host. The lamp in the centre of thechapel threw a dim radiance upon the bowed form of Tristan, whose swordcrossed the mosaics of the floor.
Silence there was in the whole circuit of the Lateran.
Even the Blessed Father, prisoner in his own chamber, was asleep. Thedomestic prelates, the whole vast ecclesiastical court were wrapt indeep repose.
In the chapel of St. Luke the silence was broken by the deep breathingof Tristan. It was not the breathing of a man in healthy sleep. Itwas a long-drawn catching at the breath, then once more a difficultinhalation. The men-at-arms outside in the corridor heard nothing ofit. The sound was confined to the interior alone.
The ceiling of the chapel was painted, and the various panels weredivided by gilded oak beadings.
Almost in the centre, directly above where Tristan reposed in leadenslumber, was a panel some two feet square, which represented in faintand faded colors the martyrdom of St. Sebastian.
Suddenly, without a sound, the panel parted.
If the sleeper had been awake he would have seen almost at his feet aswaying ladder of silk rope, which for a moment or two hissed back andforth over the tesselated floor.
Now the dark square in the painted ceiling became faintly illumined.In its dim oblong a formless shape centred itself. The faint hiss fromthe end of the silken rope ladder recommenced and down the ladder fromthe roof of the chapel descended a formless spectre, with incredibleswiftness, with incredible silence.
The spider had dropped from the centre of its web. It had chosen thetime well. It was upon its business.
The trembling of the rope ladder ceased. Without a sound the blackfigure emerged into the pale light thrown by the central lamp. Thefigure was horrible. It was robed in deepest black, and as it made aquick bird-like movement of the head, the face, plucked as from somedeadly nightmare, was so awful that it seemed well that Tristan wasunconscious.
The High Priest of Satan stood in the chapel of the Lateran. His quick,dexterous fingers ran over Tristan's sleeping form. Then he noddedapprovingly.
There was a soft pattering of steps and now the black form passed outof the circle of light and emerged into the red light of the lamp,which burned before the altar.
Above, upon the embroidered frontal, were the curtains of white silkedged with gold--the gates of the tabernacle.
A long, lean arm, hardly more than a bone, drew apart the curtains.Mingling with the heavy breathing of the sleeping man there was a sharpsound, most startling in the intense silence.
It was a bestial snarl of satisfaction. It was followed by abominablechirpings of triumph, cold, inhuman, but real.
Tristan slept on. The men-at-arms kept their faithful watch. In thewhole of the Lateran Palace no one knew that the High Priest of Satanwas prowling through the precincts and had seized upon his awful prey.
He thrust the Holy Host into a silver box, and placed it next to hisbosom. Then he drew a wafer of the exact size and shape of the stolenHost from the pocket of his robe. Gliding over to Tristan he thrustthis unconsecrated wafer into his doublet.
Then the black bat-like thing mounted to the ceiling. The lemon-coloredlight reappeared for a moment. In its glare the dark phantom lookedterrific, like a fiend from Hell. The rope ladder moved silentlyupwards, and the painted panel with the arrow-pierced Sebastian droppedsoundlessly into its place.
The red lamp burnt in front of the tabernacle. But the chapel was emptynow.
At dawn the unexpected happened.
The guards, expecting to be relieved, found themselves face to facewith a special commission, come to visit the Lateran. It consistedof the Cardinal-Archbishop of Ravenna, the Cardinal of Orvieto, thePrefect of the Camera and Basil the Grand Chamberlain.
After having made the rounds they at last arrived before the chapel ofSt. Luke. They found the two men-at-arms stationed at the door, alertat their post. The men were exhausted; their faces appeared grey anddrawn in the morning light, but they reported that no one had passedinto the chapel, nor had they seen anything of Tristan since midnight,when he had questioned them.
The doors of the chapel were locked. Tristan held the keys. Repeatedknocks elicited no response.
The Archbishop of Ravenna looked anxiously at the Prefect of the Camera.
"I do not
like this, Messer Salviati," he said in a low voice. "I fearthere is something wrong here."
"Beat upon the door more loudly," the Prefect turned to one of thehalberdiers, and the man struck the solid oak with the staff of hisaxe, till the whole corridor, filled with the ghostly advance light ofdawn, rang and echoed with the noise.
The Prefect of the Camera turned to the Archbishop.
"It would seem the Capitano has fallen asleep. That is not a thing heought to have done--but as the chapel seems inviolate we need hardlyremain longer."
And he looked inquiringly at the Grand Chamberlain.
The latter shook his head dubiously.
"I fear the Capitano can hardly be asleep, since we have called him soloudly," he said, looking from the one to the other. "I would suggestthat the door of the chapel be forced."
They were some time about it. The door was of massive oak, the lockwell made and true. A man-at-arms had been despatched to another partof the Lateran to bring a locksmith who, for nearly half an hour,toiled at his task.
It was accomplished at last and the four entered the chapel.
It stretched before them, long, narrow, almost fantastic in the greylight of morning.
The painted ceiling above held no color now. The mosaics of thefloor were dead and lifeless. In the centre of the chapel, with faceunnaturally pale, sat Tristan, huddled up in the velvet chair. By hisside lay his naked sword.
The lamp which was suspended from the centre of the ceiling had almostexpired.
In front of the altar the wick, floating on the oil, in its bowl of redglass, gave almost the only note of color against the grey.
As they entered the chapel, the four genuflected to the altar. Andwhile the Prefect and Basil went over to where Tristan was sleeping inhis chair, and stood about with alarmed eyes, the Cardinal of Orvietoand the Archbishop of Ravenna approached the tabernacle with the properreverences, parted the curtains and staggered back, indescribablehorror in their faces.
The Holy Host had disappeared.
The priests stared at each other in terror. What did it mean? Again theBody of Our Lord had been taken from His resting-place. The captain ofthe guard was asleep in his chair. Verily the demons were at work oncemore and Hell was loosed again.
The Archbishop of Ravenna began to weep. He covered his face with hishands. As he knelt upon the altar steps, great tears trickled throughhis trembling fingers, while he sent up prayers to the Almighty thatthis sacrilege might be discovered and its perpetrators brought tojustice. On either side of him knelt the priests who had come into thechapel after them. Their hearts were filled with fear and sorrow.
The Cardinal of Ravenna rose at last.
His old, lean face shone with holy anger and sorrow.
"An expiatory service will be held in this chapel before noon," headdressed those present. "I shall myself say Mass here. Meanwhile thewhole of the palace must be aroused. Somewhere the emissaries of Satanhave in their possession the Blessed Sacrament. See that the secretJudas does not escape us!"
Almost upon his words there came a loud wail of anguish from the centreof the chapel where Tristan was still huddled in his chair.
Basil had opened the doublet at his neck, as if to give him air, andthe Prefect of the Camera, who was standing by, clapped his hands tohis temples, and groaned like a soul in torment.
The two ecclesiastics hurried down from the altar steps.
Upon the lining of Tristan's doublet there lay the large round wafer,which every one present believed to be the consecrated Host.
The Cardinal-Archbishop reverently took the wafer from Tristan and heldit up in two hands.
The men-at-arms sank to their knees with a rattle and ring ofaccoutrement.
Every one knelt.
Then in improvised procession, His Eminence restored the wafer to thetabernacle.
Tristan was dragged out of the chapel.
In the corridor horror-stricken men-at-arms buffeted him into somesort of consciousness. His bewildered ears caught the words: "To SanAngelo," as he staggered between the men-at-arms as one in the thrallof an evil dream, leaving behind him a nameless fear and horror amongthe monks, priests and attendants at the Lateran.
END OF BOOK THE THIRD
BOOK THE FOURTH
Under the Witches' Moon: A Romantic Tale of Mediaeval Rome Page 38