CHAPTER XXX.
How much accident sometimes serves us--nay, how often our own folliesand indiscretions lead us to better results than our wisdom andprudence could have attained!
"Conduct is fate," "Knowledge is power," are the favourite doctrinesof those who believe they have conduct, or presume they haveknowledge. Carried to the infinite, both axioms are true, but in everydegree below the infinite they are false; and oh, how false with man!Every abstract, indeed, is often found to be a practical falsehood.The wisest and the best of men, from Socrates to Galileo, have, by thepurest conduct, won the worst of fates; and power, either to do goodor evil, slipped from the hands of Bacon just when he reached the acmeof his knowledge. It seems as if God himself were pleased to rebukecontinually the axioms of human vanity, and to show man that noconduct can overrule his will--no knowledge approach even to the stepsof power.
It was unfortunate for Lorenzo that he had imprudently left all hismen but Antonio below. There were two old monks sitting on the rocksjust before the great gates of the monastery, and talking with eachother earnestly. Both started and rose when they heard the sound ofhorses' feet; but as the place where they stood commanded a full viewdown the road, they could see at once that the party which approachedwas not formidable in point of numbers.
In troublous times men built their houses for defence as well asshelter, and the monks had found it necessary to use even as muchprecaution as their more mundane brethren. The monastery was wellwalled, and the rocks on which it stood were fortifications inthemselves; but all the skill of the builder had been expended uponthe great gates, which were assailable from the road leading directlyto them. Two massy towers, however, one on either side, a portculliswith its herse ready to fall on the heads of any enemies whoapproached too near, a deep arch behind that, with loop-holes in thedark, shadowy sides, and machicolations above, and then two heavyiron-plated doors, gave sufficient defence against anything butcannon, which were not likely to be dragged up those heights.
One of the monks, as soon as he had satisfied himself of the number ofthe approaching party, seated himself again on the rock; the otherretreated a few steps as if to re-enter the building, but stopped justunder the portcullis.
"What seek you, my son?" said the first, as Lorenzo rode up and drewin his rein by his side. "We are in great trouble this morning, andthe prior, though unwilling to stint our vowed hospitality, hascommanded that no one be admitted."
"I came to seek intelligence regarding those most dear to me, father,"replied Lorenzo; "there has been a terrible act committed at the VillaMorelli down below."
"Alas! alas!" said the old man, "a terrible act indeed."
The monk at the gate had by this time drawn nearer, and was lookingsteadfastly at Antonio. "Why, surely," he said, "I saw you at thevilla some weeks ago with the ladies Francesca and Leonora."
"Assuredly," replied Antonio; "you came down seeking Brother Benevole,and stayed for an hour to hear of what was doing at Naples. It isthose two ladies we are seeking. My young lord set out last night fromPisa, and we have travelled all night, for the purpose of visiting theSignora Leonora and Madonna Francesca, and when we arrive we findnothing but ruin and destruction."
"Alas! alas!" said the old monk who was seated on the rock, fixing avery keen, and Lorenzo thought a very meaning, look upon the otherfriar; "alas! alas! it is very terrible."
"But can you give me any information respecting these ladies, goodfathers?" asked the young lord, somewhat impetuously. "If you knew howclosely I am connected with them, you would comprehend what I wouldgive for even the slightest information regarding them."
"Alas! we can give you none, my son," answered the old man; "can we,Brother Thomas? In the grey of the morning we were disturbed by thecoming of that fiend in the shape of a man, and some of us ran outwhen they heard the cries and saw the flames, but the prior recalledus all by the bell, and made us shut the gates and keep quite closewithin till the man and his company was gone."
"Of whom are you speaking, father?" asked Lorenzo, abruptly. "Whom doyou call 'the man' and 'that fiend'?"
"Do you not know?" exclaimed the monk. "I mean that demon, enemy ofGod and man, calling himself C?sar, Cardinal of Borgia."
"He shall answer me for this, if it be in the Vatican!" said Lorenzo,setting his teeth hard. "Come, Antonio, I must follow these men, andmay chance to bring those upon them who will take a bloody vengeance."
"Stay a moment, my lord," whispered Antonio; "there is more to be gothere--there is some news, and it may be good news, lying hidsomewhere. If they saw nothing but what the good monk says, how doeshe know it was Don C?sar? Let me deal with him. Good FatherSylvester," he continued aloud----
"That is not my name, my son," said the monk upon the rock. "I amcalled Fra Nicolo, though sometimes men call me Fra Discreto."
"Well, good Father Nicolo, then," said Antonio, "my young lord here,Signor Lorenzo Visconti, Knight, proposes to pursue yonder company ofwicked men and bring upon them the whole power of the King of France,whose cousin he is."
"He will do a good deed," said the old monk, drily.
"But, good father, he cannot do so," said Antonio, "without food forhis horses and men, and drink also. Now I will crave Fra Tomaso hereto go into the prior, and tell him of our case. Ask him to speak withmy young lord in person, for he has a dozen or two of men below, andas many horses, but he did not choose to approach your peaceful gateswith such a force."
"Brother Thomas can do as he pleases," said the old monk, "but I don'tthink the prior can feed so many, especially the horses; so there isnot much use of his going."
Fra Tomaso, however, thought differently, for he immediately turned togo into the convent; and Antonio, who had dismounted a moment or twobefore, went with him as far as the inner gate, whispering eagerly inhis ear all the time. Lorenzo did not perceive that the friar answeredanything, but Antonio's face was much more cheerful when he returnedthan it had been after witnessing the ruin of the Villa Morelli.
The old monk who remained did not appear to have any great benevolencein his nature, or it was not excited by Lorenzo and his servant. "Itis useless," he said--"all useless. There is the prior's mule: that isall we have."
"Oh, we and our horses are soon satisfied," said Antonio, in his usualtone. "We only want a little hay and water for ourselves and a littlewhite bread and wine for our horses."
"I think you are mocking me, my son," said the monk, with a verycloudy brow. "I do not bear mocking well."
"And yet your Heavenly Master was both mocked and scourged," saidAntonio, "and he uttered not a word."
How far the dispute might have gone between Antonio and FraDiscreto or Nicolo, had it remained uninterrupted much longer, it isdifficult to say, for the worthy monk was evidently waxing irate; butat that moment came, almost running forth from the gates, a portly,jovial-looking friar of some fifty-five or sixty years of age, whotook Antonio in his arms, and gave him a mighty hug. "Welcome!welcome, my son!" cried Fra Benevole, for he it was; "thrice welcomeat this moment, when we need better comfort than wine can giveus--though, Heaven bless the Pulciano, it was the only thing that didme good at first. Now this is your young lord, I warrant, of whom youtold me so much, and whom the signorina loves so well."
The very reference to Leonora's name brought down upon the jovial monka whole host of questions, but he gave a suspicious look to the oldman, who still continued to oppress the rock, and he likewiseprofessed inability to answer. But there was something in his mannerwhich renewed hope in the bosom of Lorenzo, though it did not removeapprehension. He had spoken of Leonora in the present tense too, notin the past, and that was something.
"But come to my cell," he cried; "come and rest, and have some lightrefreshment; for though I must touch nothing myself, for these threehours, I can always cater for my friends."
His face was turned toward Lorenzo as he spoke, as if the invitationwas principally directed toward him, and the young nobleman answered,"I am afraid, good
father, I must await the return of Fra Tomaso, whohas gone to bear a message to the prior."
"Oh, Brother Thomas will know where to find you," replied Benevole."It was he who told me of your arrival and sent me to you. He will besure to seek you first in my cell."
But the monk's hospitable intentions were frustrated by the appearanceof Tomaso himself, followed by no less dignified a person than theprior himself, a nobleman by birth and a churchman of fair reputation.Lorenzo dismounted to meet him, and their greetings were courteous, ifnot warm.
"I will beg you, my lord," the prior said, "to repose in my apartmentsfor a time, while your horses and men are cared for by the monastery.All attention shall be paid to their wants and comfort, and if youwill explain to Brother Benevole where they are exactly, he will havethem brought up to the strangers' lodging."
"They are down by the ruins of the villa," said Lorenzo, "and one manmust remain there to watch that brutal band, for, God willing, theyshall not escape punishment. But I beseech you, reverend father, givemy mind some ease as to the fate----"
The prior bowed his head with graceful dignity, saying, "Of thatpresently, my son; let us always trust in God. As to your sentinel,neither he nor any need remain. We have a watchman in the campanile ofthe church. He can see farther than any one below, and will markeverything at least as well. I lead the way."
Lorenzo followed, leaving Antonio with his friend Benevole and thehorses, and the prior conducted him through a wide court, past thechurch, and through the cloister-court to a suite of apartments whichspoke more the habits of a somewhat luxurious literary man than asevere ecclesiastic.
"These are, by right," said the prior, "the apartments of the abbot;but an election, as it is called, has not been held for some years,and may not, perhaps, till a new pope blesses the Church. Pray beseated, my lord. I see you are impatient," he added, closing the door,and looking round to assure himself that what he said could not beoverheard. "Set your mind at rest. She for whom I know you feel thedeepest interest has not been injured."
"But is she free? Have not those men carried her off, as they didothers?" exclaimed Lorenzo, in as much impatience as ever.
"She is safe--she is in no danger," replied the prior; "let thatsuffice you for the present. If you proposed to follow those daring,wicked men to rescue her from their hands, the attempt would have beenmadness and without object, for she is not with them."
"Let me be sure that we speak of the same person," said Lorenzo, stillunsatisfied.
"Of the Signorina Leonora d'Orco," replied the monk.
"Thank God! oh, thank God!" exclaimed Lorenzo, with a deep sigh. "AndMona Francesca?" he asked, after a pause; "you have said nothing ofher fate, reverend father."
"Alas! my son," replied the prior, "her fate has been perhaps lesshappy, perhaps more so than that of her younger and fairer companion.It will be as God's grace is granted to her. Let us speak no more ofthis. Have you anything else to ask?"
"Simply this," replied Lorenzo; "you are doubtless aware, father, asyou seem to have full knowledge of my relations with the Signorad'Orco, that she is my promised wife, with the full consent of herfather and the blessing of the good Cardinal Julian de Rovera. It isabsolutely necessary that I should see her, and see her speedily, as Iam obliged to rejoin his Majesty of France at an early hourto-morrow."
"I fear, my son, that is not possible," said the prior; but the dooropened to admit some of the _servitory_ of the monastery bearing morethan one kind of food and wine, and the good monk stopped suddenly inhis reply. As soon as the refreshments had been spread on a smallstone table, and the room was again clear, he pressed Lorenzo to takesome meat and wine, saying, "I can speak to you while you eat, myson."
Lorenzo seated himself at the table, and, before he ate anything,filled the large silver goblet with wine, and drank it off. The mindwas more depressed by anxiety than the body by fatigue. The monkwatched him; for, removed as he was from much active participation inthe world's affairs, he had long been a spectator of the great tragedyof human life, and comprehended at once, by slight indications, whatwas passing in the shadow of the bosoms around him.
"I fear it is impossible, my son," he said, "that you should see thelady so speedily as you wish. I can communicate with her, it is true,and can procure for you, under her own hand, assurance which youcannot doubt, that she is, as I have told you, safe and well; but moreI cannot promise."
"Father, I do not doubt you," said Lorenzo, ceasing from his mealbefore more than one mouthful had been tasted. "You would not deceiveme, I am sure; but you cannot tell what I feel--you cannot comprehendwhat I endure, and shall endure till I see her again--till I can claspher to my heart, and, after she has escaped such a peril, thank God,with her, for her preservation. In your blessed exemption from thepassions as well as the cares of secular life, you cannot even imaginethe eager, the burning desire I feel to see her, to touch her hand, toassure myself by every sense that she is safe--that she is mine. Couldyou conceive it, you would find or force a way to bring me to herpresence ere I depart for France."
"My son, you are mistaken," said the prior, in a tone of solemn, evenmelancholy earnestness. "I can conceive the whole. God help us, poorsinful mortals that we are. When we renounce the world we renounce itsindulgences; but can we, do we, renounce its passions? How many aheart beneath the cowl--ay, beneath the mitre--thrills with all thewarmest impulses of man's nature! How many--how terrible are thestruggles, not to subdue the unsubduable passions, but to curb andregulate them; to bring them into subjection to an ever-present senseof duty; to chasten, not to kill the most fiery portion of ourimmortal essence! My son, you are mistaken; I can conceive yourfeelings--nay, I can feel with you and for you. God forbid that, assome do, I should say these impulses, these sentiments, thesesensations are unconquerable, and therefore must be indulged. Onsuch principles let the Borgias act. But I say that we--even wechurchmen--must tolerate their existence in our hearts while werefrain from their indulgence, and that thereby we retain thatsympathy with our fellow-mortals which best enables us to counsel themaright under all temptations. I will do my best for you, and, if it bepossible, you shall see your Leonora for a time. When must you gohence?"
"I should set out by sun-down, father," replied Lorenzo; "the King ofFrance must make a hasty march. Would to Heaven indeed it had beenhastier, for the news we have is bad."
"Can you not remain behind?" said the monk; "you are an Italian, andnot his subject, and it might serve many an excellent purpose if youcould tarry here even for a few days."
"It cannot be, father," answered the young man; "were I to follow myown will, I would remain for ever by Leonora's side, but I am bound toKing Charles by every tie of gratitude and honour. Those, indeed, Ifear me, I might break in any common circumstance, and trust the kingwould pardon me upon the excuse of love; but, father, this is a momentwhen I dare not, for my honour, be absent from his force. There aredangers before and all around him. A battle must be fought ere we cancut our way to France. His army is small enough, and even one weakhand may turn the chance for or against him. I had hoped indeed, and Iwill own it frankly, that my beloved girl, with her father's fullsanction to our union, which she has, would have consented to be mineby a hasty marriage, and go with me to France; but, alas! I fear----"
"My son, my son," exclaimed the monk, in a reproachful tone, "youwould not surely dream of taking her into such scenes of danger as youspeak of: nay, that is selfish."
"Is she not in greater danger here in Tuscany?" asked Lorenzo.
"She is in none, I trust," replied the prior. "It was imprudent,beyond doubt, to come in such times as these to a defenceless villa;but in Florence she will be safe as any one can be where wrong andrapine rage as here in Italy. But what you wish is quite impossible.If you have duties that must take you hence, she has duties also thatmust bind her here. I will keep my promise with you; but you must giveup vain wishes and purposes that cannot be executed. She herself willtell you that it is impossible. Stay a
moment; I must ask somequestions."
The prior rose and left the room. He did not close the door behindhim, and Lorenzo heard him give orders to some one without to go up tothe belfry and ascertain if anything could still be seen of the partywho had burned the villa. That done, he rejoined his young guest, butdid not renew the conversation, merely pressing him to eat. In a fewmoments, a good fat monk rolled into the room, and announced that theparty of the Borgias were still in sight.
"They have halted, and seem regaling themselves in the gardens of theVilla Morone," he said; "but I see--at least I think I see, and sodoes Brother Luigi--that there are movements taking place about thegates of the city, and if they stay much longer the Signoria will mostlikely send out troops to drive them hence."
"Let them be watched well, good father, I beseech you," exclaimedLorenzo; "for if the Florentine troops come forth to attack them, Iwill go down to help."
"What an appetite have some men for fighting!" said the prior, makingthe monk a sign to depart; "but, my son, you will be better here.Though our gates and walls may set them at defiance, I do believe, yetto know that we have some men whose trade is war within might save usfrom attack. Now, my son, will you sit here and read, or go with me toour church and hear high mass? The latter I would counsel, if yourmind be in a fitting state; if not, I never wish any one to attend theoffices of religion with wandering thoughts and inattentive ears."
"I will go with you, father," said the young knight. "I have much tobe thankful for although some hopes may be disappointed; and mythoughts, I trust, will not wander from my God when I have most causeto praise Him for sparing to me still the most valuable of all theblessings he has given me. But is it really the hour for high mass?How the time flies from us!"
"It wants but a few minutes," said the prior. "Time does fly quicklyto all and every one; but it is only towards the close of life wereally feel how quickly it has flown. Then--then, my son, we know thevalue of the treasures we have cast away neglected. Come, I will showyou the way. At the church door I must leave you, and perhaps may notsee you again for several hours; but you can find your way back hereand read or think, if the curiosity of our good brethren be too greatfor your patience."
"But you promised," said Lorenzo, eagerly, "that I should see theSignora Leonora for a time."
"If it be possible," replied the monk; "such was the tenor of mypromise, and it shall not be forgotten. I think it will be possible,"he added, seeing a shade of disappointment, or, rather, of anxiety,upon Lorenzo's brow; "but the continued presence of those bad men inthe valley scares away from us those we most need at the presentmoment."
He explained himself no further, but led the way onward to the church.
It cannot perhaps be said that the attention of the young nobleman wasnot sometimes diverted from the office in which he came to take part;but there was a soothing influence in the music, and a still morecomforting balm in the very act of prayer. They who reject religionlittle know the strength and the consolation, the vigour and theassurance which is derived even from the acknowledgment of ourdependence upon a Being whom we know to be all-powerful andall-good--how we can dare all, and endure all, and feel comfort in allwhen we raise our hearts in faith to him who can do all for us. Howoften in the course of each man's life has he to say--and oh! withwhat different feelings and in what different circumstances is itsaid--"Help, Lord, I sink!" Nor is it ever said without someconsolation; nor is it ever asked but it is granted--ay, some help isgranted, either in strength, or in resolution, or in patience, or indeliverance. The fearful exclamation might show some want of faith inhim who had been eye-witness to a thousand miracles, but with us itshows some faith also. We call upon whom we know to be able to help,and in the hour of adversity or the moment of peril we remember theLord our God, and put our last, best trust in Him.
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