Part 66 (1/2)
”My lord Cardinal,” he said without further preface, ”you must leave Rome to-night!”
The Cardinal raised his gentle blue eyes in wondering protest.
”By whose order?”
”Surely by your own Master's will,” said Aubrey with deep earnestness.
”For he would not have you be a victim to treachery!”
”Treachery!” And the Cardinal smiled. ”My son, traitors harm themselves more than those they would betray. Treachery cannot touch me!”
Aubrey came a step nearer.
”Monsignor, if you do not care for yourself you will care for the boy,”
he said in a lower tone, with a glance at Manuel, who had withdrawn, and was now standing at one of the windows, the light of the sunset appearing to brighten itself in his fair hair. ”He will be separated from you!”
At this the Cardinal rose up, his whole form instinct with resolution and dignity.
”They cannot separate us against the boy's will or mine,” he said.
”Manuel!”
Manuel came to his call, and the Cardinal placed one hand on his shoulder.
”Child,” he said softly, ”they threaten to part me from you, if we stay longer here. Therefore we must leave Rome!”
Manuel looked up with a bright flas.h.i.+ng glance of tenderness.
”Yes, dear friend, we must leave Rome!” he said. ”Rome is no place for you--or for me!”
There was a moment's silence. Something in the att.i.tude of the old man and the young boy standing side by side, moved Aubrey deeply; a sense of awe as well as love overwhelmed him at the sight of these two beings, so pure in mind, so gentle of heart, and so widely removed in years and in life,--the one a priest of the Church, the other a waif of the streets, yet drawn together as it seemed, by the simple spirit of Christ's teaching, in an almost supernatural bond of union. Recovering himself presently he said,
”To-night then, Monsignor?”
The Cardinal looked at Manuel, who answered for him.
”Yes, to-night! We will be ready! For the days are close upon the time when the birth of Christ was announced to a world that does not yet believe in Him! It will be well to leave Rome before then! For the riches of the Pope's palace have nothing to do with the poor babe born in a manger,--and the curse of the Vatican would be a discord in the angels' singing--'Glory to G.o.d in the highest, and on earth PEACE, GOODWILL TOWARDS MEN'!”
His young voice rang out, silver clear and sweet, and Aubrey gazed at him in wondering silence.
”To-night!” repeated Manuel, smiling and stretching out his hand with a gentle authoritative gesture. ”To-night the Cardinal will leave Rome, and _I_ will leave it too--perchance for ever!”
x.x.xV.
During these various changes in the lives of those with whom he had been more or less connected, Florian Varillo lay between life and death in the shelter of a Trappist monastery on the Campagna. When he had been seized by the delirium and fever which had flung him, first convulsed and quivering, and then totally insensible, at the foot of the grim, world-forgotten men who pa.s.sed the midnight hours in digging their own graves, he had been judged by them as dying or dead, and had been carried into a sort of mortuary chapel, cold and bare, and lit only by the silver moonbeams and the flicker of a torch one of the monks carried. Waking in this ghastly place, too weak to struggle, he fell a-moaning like a tortured child, and was, on showing this sign of life, straight-way removed to one of the cells. Here, after hours of horrible suffering, of visions more hideous than Dante's h.e.l.l, of stupors and struggles, of fits of strong shrieking, followed by weak tears, he woke one afternoon calm and coherent,--to find himself lying on a straight pallet bed in a narrow stone chamber, dimly lighted by a small slit of window, through which a beam of the sun fell aslant, illumining the blood-stained features of a ghastly Christ stretched on a black crucifix directly opposite him. He shuddered as he saw this, and half-closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
”Tired--tired!” said a thin clear voice beside him. ”Always tired! It is only G.o.d who is never weary!”
Varillo opened his eyes again languidly, and turned them on a monk sitting beside him,--a monk whose face was neither old nor young, but which presented a singular combination of both qualities. His high forehead, white as marble, had no furrows to mar its smoothness, and from under deep brows a pair of wondering wistful brown eyes peered like the eyes of a lost and starving child. The cheeks were gaunt and livid, the flesh hanging in loose hollows from the high and prominent bones, yet the mouth was that of a youth, firm, well-outlined and sweet in expression, and when he smiled as he did now, he showed an even row of small pearly teeth which might have been envied by many a fair woman.