The Hill of Venus. Gallizier Nathan

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СКАЧАТЬ the elder Villani's intimate friends ever knew. But the fact remained, that he emerged from the private audience with the cobbler's son a changed man, resolved to leave no stone unturned to make Francesco pliable to his designs.

      But ere he reached the port of Bari, whence he was to embark for the Holy Land, he fell prey to a malignant fever, which compelled him to forego his journey and to place himself under the care of the monks of San Cataldo.

      Feeling his life ebbing slowly away, he had caused Francesco to be summoned to his bedside.

      He could not die in peace with the blot upon his conscience, the blot from the womb of a woman, – the blot called Francesco. Ever since he had again set eyes on the youth, carefree and happy among his companions, the memory of his own sin had been present with him. The fear of punishment in the life to come increased with every day; the dread of damnation everlasting chased the slumber from his eyes, and the man who had defied the combined forces of the Caliph, trembled at the thought of his own last hour on earth. Vainly he had racked his brain for some method of atonement which would dispel the ever present fear of being barred from his seat in the Heaven of the Blessed, which would assure him immunity from the lake of everlasting fire. At last, like a revelation, it dawned upon him: clearly he saw his course. There was the one way, – there was no choice. A sacrifice must be made to save his soul, a sacrifice by one near and dear, – yet Gregorio Villani had no life claims upon any one, save his son. His son! And, – as according to the Scriptures the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children even unto the third generation and the fourth, – why, according to divine permission, might not the son be requested to take and bear the consequences of his father's sin?

      Francesco stood by his father's side, glad that the decisive moment had come at last, trusting that his gloomy forebodings might be dispelled. Gregorio Villani was looking at him in silence, with fearful eyes and slightly parted, expectant lips. Finally, lifting his hand, the old man pointed to a wooden settle. Francesco understood, and, placing it near the bed, seated himself thereon, fixing his eyes on his father's face.

      The elder Villani found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremor in his tone, but with desperate intensity, he said:

      "Francesco – do you remember our converse at Avellino?"

      The youth nodded. He seemed to have anticipated a similar preliminary.

      "You were not born in wedlock," the old man continued.

      "So you told me," came the whispered reply.

      "It was a grievous sin!" —

      Francesco bowed his head.

      There was a brief pause, then the elder Villani continued:

      "You are my child, Francesco, the single evidence of my swerving from the narrow path of righteousness. For years have I tried to atone for my guilt. Yet, neither priest nor pontiff would grant me absolution!" —

      He paused and looked searchingly into Francesco's eyes.

      The youth's face showed no expression, save that of earnest attention. Taking breath again, the old man continued:

      "My hours are numbered. As I have bedded myself, so I lie. In another world I shall be judged! Judged! Francesco! Have you ever thought of death?"

      "I have not," was the answer given in absent tones.

      "Nor had I, when I was at your age," returned the elder Villani, reverting to the ill-fated theme. "But I think of it now, – for I needs must. When one stands on the threshold of eternity, face to face with his Creator, then indeed does man begin to bethink himself. Even though a priest might have absolved me of my transgression, my own conscience could not! The vows of the Church are sacred. And now, from the height of time, I look down through the gallery of years. My prayers of anguish and repentance have brought no peace to my heart. Ever and ever remorse returns. Purgatory opens before my inner gaze and Hell yawns to receive my soul!"

      Again the Grand Master paused, his strength failing rapidly.

      With a strong, final effort, however, he concentrated a glance of powerful intensity upon Francesco's thoughtful face. The latter returned the look with one of earnest questioning.

      "And was the sin so great?" he queried. "Others have committed worse, yet despaired not of Heaven!"

      The old man sighed. He had made his decision, passed these arguments from him long ago. Now no word from any one might mitigate his judgment of himself. The thought that his own flesh and blood was taking so lenient a view of the matter, irritated and annoyed him.

      "I am not Arnold of Brescia, to soothe my conscience with idle quibbles," he said after a pause. "I am your father, face to face with the Hereafter, filled with fear for the repose of my soul. The tenets of indulgence are not for me! One may be a saint on earth and knock in vain at the gates of Heaven. What are others to me? It is I that am dying!"

      Like a tidal-wave breaking on the shore it came to Francesco in a sudden flood of understanding. His father had no thought save for himself. It was not the happiness of others he strove for, his own welfare his first and final goal. The ties of flesh and blood meant nothing to him, save for what he might demand of them for himself. In his earlier years he might have allayed suffering and fears with words. What were words to him now?

      "What would you have me do?" queried Francesco. His voice was low and fraught with a great pity for the dying man.

      A gleam passed over the latter's face. At last he had to put the question. All hung upon that moment, all; – his eternal happiness and damnation. Should he reveal his request at once, with nothing to allay its harshness?

      A sudden rush of pain decided the matter.

      "You ask me what you should do?" he replied slowly. "There is but one thing to do, – there is but one choice. It is for you to live the life in which I have failed. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live apart from men, alone with tomes and prayers and God, – removed from the temptation which caused my fall!"

      The sick man drew a short and painful breath, scarcely lower in sound than three words spoken close by his side, spoken as with the voice of a phantom.

      "Become a monk!" —

      The elder Villani did not stir. He reclined in the cushions, his eyes fixed upon his son with a pitiful look of pleading, which might do far more than words, to prepare the youth's mind for such a thought.

      Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francesco moved away from the bed. His gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused to concentrate themselves upon anything. It was too monstrous to conceive! It was past belief, past understanding, – an ill-timed jest perhaps – but yet a jest!

      And he burst out with a laugh in which there was no thought of mirth.

      "A monk!"

      The old man regarded him anxiously.

      "I did not jest!"

      The laugh died to silence, then rose again in his throat, but Francesco's eyes were terrible.

      "Am I fitted for a monk?" he spoke at last. "You know what my life has been. Have not you placed me in the sphere of the court, even ere I had attained the power to think? How can I become a monk? What do I know of the way of monks? What do I know of their lives? I must have time to think!"

      "There is no time," insisted the elder Villani, despair in his eyes.

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