"Listen; this morning in the flower-market my Lysidice noted a hooded friar who bought white roses. A wind stirred his cowl and she saw the face of Diogenes."

Hildebrand started.

"Was she sure?"

"'Tis no face to forget," Lycabetta answered; "though she swears it less frightful than of old. She made no sign, but she bribed a child to follow the false friar, and the brat ran him to earth here."

Hildebrand grinned savagely.

"If they be here, no fable of the plague shall save them this time."

Lycabetta caught him eagerly by the arm and drew him behind a concealing pillar. She had seen the sea-door open and had seen a figure in a friar's gown.

"Who is this?" she whispered triumphantly to Hildebrand.

Robert came through the sea-door. Inside the church he threw back his hood and his face was plainly visible to the watchers, themselves invisible, screened by the pillars and the gloom. Hildebrand pressed Lycabetta's hand significantly. He had seen all he wanted to see. The pair slipped quietly out by the door through which they had entered.

Robert advanced slowly to the altar and flung himself on the steps.

"Dear God," he prayed, "let not the guiltless suffer for my guilt.

Punish me to the top of my sin, but pity Sicily."

XV

THE HUNTER'S VOICE

Out of the shadow-land at the back of the altar emerged a white figure, with a fair face and hair the color of flame. She moved unheard across the pavement of the place of sanctuary; unheard she pushed open the little golden wicket in the golden railing; unheard she noted the white rose where it lay upon the ground, and, picking it up, lifted it to her lips before she placed it in her girdle; unheard she moved to where Robert lay in his agony before the altar.

"Friend," she whispered, softly.

Robert's consciousness awoke from its dark dreams. He rose and faced the girl, naming her name with joy.

"Perpetua!"

Perpetua came close to him.

"You have been abroad. Have you any news of my father?"

Robert shook his head.

"He is still kept close in the palace; his sword is still idle. The King has doomed many to death, but it seems that none shall die until the fool dies--and they cannot find the fool," he added, with a grim laugh.

Perpetua looked at him with sad affection and said, earnestly, "I wish you would fly from Sicily."

Robert answered her as earnestly, "I wish you would fly from Sicily."

"I will not leave my father."

"I will not leave you in danger."

Perpetua, smiling, gently chided. "All men live in danger through each second of each minute. I do not know the color of fear."

Robert drew a little nearer to her and spoke with a warning voice.

"I fear for you. This morning I saw in the market-place one of the women of Lycabetta. She did not see me, but to see her renewed my fear. If danger should come here ring at this bell," and he pointed to the great rope on the column by the altar. "It was set here by King Robert the Good, that any man having cause of complaint against the King might ring it and rouse all Syracuse to sit in judgment between sovereign and subject. In all his reign no hand ever tugged at that cord."

Perpetua looked at it sadly. "Every hand in Syracuse might itch to clasp it in the reign of Robert the Bad."

There were tears in Robert's eyes as he echoed her.

"Robert the Bad. You might have loved him," he said, after a short silence.

Perpetua turned away, for now there were tears in her eyes. "Oh, I know nothing of love," she said.

Robert saw her sadness and combated his own to cheer her. "Is it not strange," he asked, "your loveliness knows nothing of love while my unloveliness is cunning in love-wisdom? Year in and year out I have watched the world a-wooing--shepherd and shepherdess under the hawthorn hedge, knight and dame in the rose-bower, king and queen on the marble terrace."

She turned to him again and there were now no tears in her eyes; grief should not conquer her and she spoke brightly, entering into the spirit of his speech.

"A prodigal preface. But what is the sum of all your wisdom?"

The wild fancy which had come into Robert's brain when he spoke of love-wisdom grew with the moment into a wild resolve. The lips of the fool should interpret the heart of the King. He motioned to her to sit on the lowest of the steps that led to the altar place, and when she had done so he seated himself thereon. The sunlight fell between them and lay, a pool of many colors at their feet. Neither of them knew that the little side door, which led from the quiet street, opened a little, allowing a woman to slip into the church and vanish behind the shadow of a pillar.

Robert spoke in a slow voice. "Love is the soul of the world. I am no better than a mouthing fool, but I believe the perfect lover to be next of kin to the angels."

Perpetua gave a little sigh. "What is the perfect lover?" she asked, softly. She felt as if she were back in her mountain hut, sitting by her father's side, and asking him questions of the youth of the world.

Robert's voice came back to her like a solemn chant.

"Such a one as the many dull would meanly scorn and the few wise nobly envy. For him love comes like a mighty wind of fire and burns his heart clean. He may have been stained and spotted in the slough of life, but when the woman comes she saves him."

There was a nobleness in his voice which she had not noted before; it charmed and lulled her.

"Can human love do so much?" she asked, more of herself than of him.

Robert's voice rose in triumphant assertion. "The heart's woman is the soul's star. She lifts her lover from the common whirl of things. He is thrilled with the elemental wonder, fulfilled with the immortal truth.

He shelters imperishable passion in the perishable flesh. To a gray world such love brings glory, and he that is so graced walks in the wilderness as in a rose garden--gentle in reverence, loyal in honor, simple in faith. His eyes have glimpses of the flight of angels; his ears hear snatches of the music of the spheres, and even the very dust he treads upon becomes the golden dust of stars. This is the love that is mightier than death, this is the mystery of mysteries, the rose of changeless youth."

Perpetua put her hand to her heart.

"Is there such love?" she breathed, and instantly Robert answered her and his answer came like music to her ears.

"There is such love. It is no dream, but a glorious reality transfiguring the world, exalting men, immortalizing women. If I could woo you with a hunter's voice, I would cry to you through the parted leaves: Perpetua, I love you with this mighty love, have loved you since that happy forest day, shall love you so, Perpetua, till I die, and bear as my one claim to opened heaven the changeless cry, I love Perpetua."

While Robert was speaking his face seemed to grow comelier, and the pale face of Perpetua showed the influence of his words. Her eyes shone with his enthusiasm, her lips quivered with his emotion, her cheek flushed with his inspiration; she was entirely under the spell of his speech and the associations it evoked. As he came to an end she rose as if entranced, and moved slowly towards him. He, too, rose, as if himself bewitched by the magic of his tongue, and stood with parted arms as if to clasp and welcome her. Each had forgotten time and place, both were again in the green wood with their hearts on fire.

"Hunter, my hunter," Perpetua cried; "your voice comes through the leaves and conquers me!"