His garments were besmeared with mud and dirt; they were torn, too, in many places; and here and there were stains of blood, still wet, upon them.
In fact, had he been dragged by a wild horse through a thicket of brambles, he could scarcely have appeared in a more wretched plight.
His countenance was ghastly pale; terror still flashed from his eyes, and despair sat on his lofty brow.
Stealing through the most concealed part of his garden, he was approaching his own mansion with the air of a man who returns home in the morning after having perpetrated some dreadful deed of turpitude under cover of the night.
But the watchful eyes of a woman have marked his coming from the lattice of her window; and in a few minutes Agnes, light as a fawn, came bounding toward him, exclaiming, “Oh! what a night of uneasiness have I passed, Fernand! But at length thou art restored to me—thou whom I have ever loved so fondly; although,” she added, mournfully, “I abandoned thee for so long a time!”
And she embraced him tenderly.
“Agnes!” cried Fernand, repulsing her with an impatience which she had never experienced at his hands before: “wherefore thus act the spy upon me? Believe me, that although we pass ourselves off as brother and sister, yet I do not renounce that authority which the real nature of those ties that bind us together——”
“Fernand! Fernand! this to me!” exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears. “Oh! how have I deserved such reproaches?”
“My dearest girl, pardon me, forgive me!” cried Wagner, in a tone of bitter anguish. “My God! I ought not to upbraid thee for that watchfulness during my absence, and that joy at my return, which prove that you love me! Again I say, pardon me, dearest Agnes.”
“You need not ask me, Fernand,” was the reply. “Only speak kindly to me——”
“I do, I will, Agnes,” interrupted Wagner. “But leave me now! Let me regain my own chamber alone; I have reasons, urgent reasons for so doing; and this afternoon, Agnes, I shall be composed—collected again. Do you proceed by that path; I will take this.”
And, hastily pressing her hand, Wagner broke abruptly away.
For a few moments Agnes stood looking after him in vacant astonishment at his extraordinary manner, and also at his alarming appearance, but concerning which latter she had not dared to question him.
When he had entered the mansion by a private door, Agnes turned and pursued her way along a circuitous path shaded on each side by dark evergreens, and which was the one he had directed her to take so as to regain the front gate of the dwelling.
But scarcely had she advanced a dozen paces, when a sudden rustling among the trees alarmed her; and in an instant a female form—tall, majestic, and with a dark veil thrown over her head, stood before her.
Agnes uttered a faint shriek: for, although the lady’s countenance was concealed by the veil, she had no difficulty in recognizing the stranger who had already terrified her on three previous occasions, and who seemed to haunt her.
And, as if to dispel all doubt as to the identity, the majestic lady suddenly tore aside her veil, and disclosed to the trembling, shrinking Agnes, features already too well known.
But, if the lightning of those brilliant, burning, black eyes had seemed terrible on former occasions, they were now absolutely blasting, and Agnes fell upon her knees, exclaiming, “Mercy! mercy! how have I offended you?”
For a few moments those basilisk-eyes darted forth shafts of fire and flame, and the red lips quivered violently, and the haughty brow contracted menacingly, and Agnes was stupefied, stunned, fascinated, terribly fascinated by that tremendous rage, the vengeance of which seemed ready to explode against her.
But only a few moments lasted that dreadful scene; for the lady, whose entire appearance was that of an avenging fiend in the guise of a beauteous woman, suddenly drew a sharp poniard from its sheath in her bodice, and plunged it into the bosom of the hapless Agnes.
The victim fell back; but not a shriek—not a sound escaped her lips. The blow was well aimed, the poniard was sharp and went deep, and death followed instantaneously.
For nearly a minute did the murderess stand gazing on the corpse—the corpse of one erst so beautiful; and her countenance, gradually relaxing from its stern, implacable expression, assumed an air of deep remorse—of bitter, bitter compunction.
But probably yielding to the sudden thought that she must provide for her own safety, the murderess drew forth the dagger from the white bosom in which it was buried: hastily wiped it upon a leaf; returned it to the sheath; and, replacing the veil over her countenance, hurried rapidly away from the scene of her fearful crime.
CHAPTER XV.
THE SBIRRI—THE ARREST.
Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since the unfortunate Agnes was thus suddenly cut off in the bloom of youth and beauty, when a lieutenant of police, with his guard of sbirri, passed along the road skirting Wagner’s garden.
They were evidently in search of some malefactor, for, stopping in their course, they began to deliberate on the business which they had in hand.
“Which way could he possibly have gone?” cried one, striking the butt-end of his pike heavily upon the ground.
“How could we possibly have missed him?” exclaimed another.
“Stephano is not so easily caught, my men,” observed the lieutenant. “He is the most astute and cunning of the band of which he is the captain. And yet, I wish we had pounced upon him, since we were so nicely upon his track.”
“And a thousand ducats offered by the state for his capture,” suggested one of the sbirri.
“Yes; ’tis annoying!” ejaculated the lieutenant, “but I could have sworn he passed this way.”
“And I could bear the same evidence, signor,” observed the first speaker. “Maybe he has taken refuge in those bushes.”
“Not unlikely. We are fools to grant him a moment’s vantage ground. Over the fence, my men, and beat amongst these gardens.”
Thus speaking, the lieutenant set the example, by leaping the railing, and entering the grounds belonging to Wagner’s abode.
The sbirri, who were six in number, including their officer, divided themselves into two parties, and proceeded to search the gardens.
Suddenly a loud cry of horror burst from one of the sections; and when the other hastened to the spot, the sbirri composing it found their comrades in the act of raising the corpse of Agnes.
“She is quite dead,” said the lieutenant, placing his hand upon her heart. “And yet the crime cannot have been committed many minutes, as the corpse is scarcely cold, and the blood still oozes forth.”
“What a lovely creature she must have been,” exclaimed one of the sbirri.
“Cease your profane remarks, my man,” cried the lieutenant. “This must be examined into directly. Does any one know who dwells in that mansion?”
“Signor Wagner, a wealthy German,” was the reply given by a sbirro.
“Then come with me, my man,” said the lieutenant; “and let us lose no time in searching his house. One of you must remain by the corpse—and the rest may continue the search after the bandit, Stephano.”
Having issued these orders, the lieutenant, followed by the sbirro whom he had chosen to accompany him, hastened to the mansion.
The gate was opened by an old porter, who stared in astonishment when he beheld the functionaries of justice visiting that peaceful dwelling. But the lieutenant ordered him to close and lock the gate; and having secured the key, the officer said, “We must search this house; a crime has been committed close at hand.”
“A crime!” ejaculated the porter; “then the culprit is not here—for there is not a soul beneath this roof who would perpetrate a misdeed.”
“Cease your prating, old man,” said the lieutenant, sternly. “We have a duty to perform—see that we be not molested in executing it.”
“But what is the crime, signor, of which——”
“Nay—that you shall know anon,” interrupted the lieu
tenant. “In the name of his serene highness, the duke, I command you in the first place to lead me and my followers to the presence of your master.”
The old man hastened to obey this mandate, and he conducted the sbirri into the chamber where Wagner, having thrown off his garments, was partaking of that rest which he so much needed.
At the sound of heavy feet and the clanking of martial weapons, Fernand started from the slumber into which he had fallen only a few minutes previously.
“What means this insolent intrusion?” he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing with anger at the presence of the police.
“Pardon us, signor,” said the lieutenant, in a respectful tone: “but a dreadful crime has been committed close by—indeed within the inclosure of your own grounds——”
“A dreadful crime!” ejaculated Wagner.
“Yes, signor; a crime——”
The officer was interrupted by an ejaculation of surprise which burst from the lips of his attendant sbirro; and, turning hastily round, he beheld his follower intently scrutinizing the attire which Fernand had ere now thrown off.
“Ah! blood-stains!” cried the lieutenant, whose attention was directed toward those marks by the finger of his man. “Then is the guilty one speedily discovered! Signor!” he added, turning once more toward Wagner, “are those your garments?”
An expression of indescribable horror convulsed the countenance of Fernand; for the question of the officer naturally reminded him of his dreadful fate—the fate of a Wehr-Wolf—although, we should observe, he never remembered, when restored to the form of a man, what he might have done during the long hours that he wore the shape of a ferocious monster.
Still, as he knew that his garments had been soiled, torn and blood-stained in the course of the preceding night, it was no wonder that he shuddered and became convulsed with mental agony when his terrible doom was so forcibly called to his mind.
His emotions were naturally considered to be corroborative evidence of guilt: and the lieutenant laying his hand upon Wagner’s shoulder, said in a stern, solemn manner, “In the name of his highness our prince, I arrest you for the crime of murder!”
“Murder!” repeated Fernand, dashing away the officer’s arm; “you dare not accuse me of such a deed!”
“I accuse you of murder, signor,” exclaimed the lieutenant. “Within a hundred paces of your dwelling a young lady——”
“A young lady!” cried Wagner, thinking of Agnes, whom he had left in the garden.
“Yes, signor, a young lady has been most barbarously murdered!” added the officer in an impressive tone.
“Agnes! Agnes!” almost screamed the unhappy man, as this dreadful announcement fell upon his ears. “Oh! is it possible that thou art no more, my poor Agnes!”
He covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly.
The lieutenant made a sign to his follower, who instantly quitted the room.
“There must be some mistake in this, signor,” said the old porter, approaching the lieutenant and speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion. “The master whom I serve, and whom you accuse, is incapable of the deed imputed to him.”
“Yes. God knows how truly you speak!” ejaculated Wagner, raising his head. “That girl—oh! sooner than have harmed one single hair of her head—— But how know you that it is Agnes who is murdered?” he cried abruptly, turning toward the lieutenant.
“It was you who said it, signor,” calmly replied the officer, as he fixed his dark eyes keenly upon Fernand.
“Oh! it was a surmise—a conjecture—because I parted with Agnes a short time ago in the garden,” exclaimed Wagner, speaking in hurried and broken sentences.
“Behold the victim!” said the lieutenant, who had approached the window, from which he was looking.
Wagner sprung from his couch, and glanced forth into the garden beneath.
The sbirri were advancing along the gravel pathway, bearing amongst them the corpse of Agnes upon whose pallid countenance the morning sunbeams were dancing, as if in mockery even at death.
“Holy Virgin! it is indeed Agnes!” cried Wagner, in a tone of the most profound heart-rending anguish, and he fell back senseless in the arms of the lieutenant.
An hour afterward, Fernand Wagner was the inmate of a dungeon beneath the palace inhabited by the Duke of Florence.
CHAPTER XVI.
NISIDA AND THE CARMELITE ABBESS.
Punctually at midday, the Lady Nisida of Riverola proceeded, alone and unattended, to the Convent of Carmelite Nuns, where she was immediately admitted into the presence of the abbess.
The superior of this monastic establishment, was a tall, thin, stern-looking woman, with a sallow complexion, an imperious compression of the lips, and small, grey eyes, that seemed to flicker with malignity rather than to beam with the pure light of Christian love.
She was noted for the austerity of her manners, the rigid discipline which she maintained in the convent, and the inexorable disposition which she showed toward those who, having committed a fault, came within her jurisdiction.
Rumor was often busy with the affairs of the Carmelite Convent; and the grandams and gossips of Florence would huddle together around their domestic hearths, on the cold winter’s evenings, and venture mysterious hints and whispers of strange deeds committed within the walls of that sacred institution; how from time to time some young and beautiful nun had suddenly disappeared, to the surprise and alarm of her companions; how piercing shrieks had been heard to issue from the interior of the building, by those who passed near it at night,—and how the inmates themselves were often aroused from their slumbers by strange noises resembling the rattling of chains, the working of ponderous machinery, and the revolution of huge wheels.
Such food for scandal as those mysterious whispers supplied, was not likely to pass without exaggeration; and that love of the marvelous which inspired the aforesaid gossips, led to the embellishment of the rumors just glanced at—so that one declared with a solemn shake of the head, how spirits were seen to glide around the convent walls at night—and another averred that a nun, with whom she was acquainted, had assured her that strange and unearthly forms were often encountered by those inmates of the establishment who were hardy enough to venture into the chapel, or to traverse the long corridors or gloomy cloisters after dusk.
These vague and uncertain reports did not, however, prevent some of the wealthiest families in Florence from placing their daughters in the Carmelite Convent. A nobleman or opulent citizen who had several daughters, would consider it a duty to devote one of them to the service of the church; and the votive girl was most probably compelled to perform her novitiate and take the veil in this renowned establishment. It was essentially the convent patronized by the aristocracy; and no female would be received within its walls save on the payment of a considerable sum of money.
There was another circumstance which added to the celebrity and augmented the wealth of the Carmelite Convent. Did a young unmarried lady deviate from the path of virtue, or did a husband detect the infidelity of his wife, the culprit was forthwith consigned to the care of the abbess, and forced to take up her abode in that monastic institution. Or, again—did some female openly neglect her religious duties, or imprudently express an opinion antagonistic to the Roman Catholic Church, the family to which she belonged would remove her to the spiritual care of the abbess.
The convent was therefore considered to be an institution recognized by the state as a means of punishing immorality, upholding the Catholic religion, persuading the skeptical,—confirming the wavering, and exercising a salutary terror over the ladies of the upper class, at that period renowned for their dissolute morals. The aristocracy of Florence patronized and protected the institution—because its existence afforded a ready means to get rid of a dishonored daughter, or an unfaithful wife; and it was even said that the abbess was invested with extraordinary powers by the rescript of the duke himself, powers which warranted her interference with the liberty
of young females who were denounced to her by their parents, guardians, or others who might have a semblance of a right to control or coerce them.
Luther had already begun to make a noise in Germany; and the thunders of his eloquence had reverberated across the Alps to the Italian states. The priesthood was alarmed; and the conduct of the reformer was an excuse for rendering the discipline of the monastic institutions more rigid than ever. Nor was the Abbess Maria a woman who hesitated to avail herself of this fact as an apology for strengthening her despotism and widening the circle of her influence.
The reader has now heard enough to make him fully aware that the Carmelite Convent was an establishment enjoying influence, exercising an authority, and wielding a power, which—if these were misdirected—constituted an enormous abuse in the midst of states bearing the name of a republic. But the career of the Medici was then hastening toward a close; and in proportion as the authority of the duke became more circumscribed, the encroachments of the ecclesiastical orders grew more extensive.
The Abbess Maria, who was far advanced in years, but was endowed with one of those vigorous intellects against which Time vainly directs his influence, received the Lady Nisida in a little parlor plainly furnished. The praying desk was of the most humble description; and above it rose a cross of wood so worm-eaten and decayed that it seemed as if the grasp of a strong hand would crush it into dust. But this emblem of the creed had been preserved in the Carmelite Convent since the period of the Second Crusade, and was reported to consist of a piece of the actual cross on which the Saviour suffered in Palestine.
Against the wall hung a scourge, with five knotted thongs, whereon the blood-stains denoted the severity of that penance which the abbess frequently inflicted upon herself. On a table stood a small loaf of coarse bread and a pitcher of water; for although a sumptuous banquet was every day served up in the refectory, the abbess was never known to partake of the delicious viands nor to place her lips in contact with wine.
When Nisida entered the presence of the abbess, she sank on her knees, and folded her arms meekly across her bosom. The holy mother gave her a blessing, and made a motion for her to rise. Nisida obeyed, and took a seat near the abbess at the table.
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