A Monk of Cruta

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

He moved a step forward, but the old man remained there in the way, motionless, and around the door were gathered a solid phalanx of monks. Paul halted, conscious at once of his danger. The white faces of the monks were all bent upon him, full of savage, animal ferocity, and a gleam of something still worse lit up the dark eyes of that old man. Their very silence was unnatural and oppressive. Paul bore it, looking round amongst them with questioning eyes, until he could bear it no longer.

"Am I a prisoner?" he cried. "What do you want with me? Speak! some of you! Count of Cruta, answer me!"

A dull, hollow laugh echoed through the chamber. Paul turned away, sick with horror. It was like being in the power of a hoard of madmen. The air of the place, too, seemed suddenly to have become stifling. The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead in great beads. It was a relief when the Count spoke.

"You have done well, Paul de Vaux, to find your way here—here into the very presence of a dying woman, and force from her lips a confession that has made you glad. You think that you will go back now to your country, and cheat me of my well-planned vengeance. You will hold up your head once more; you will mock at the Church's rights. You will go your way through the world rich and honoured; you will call yourself by an old name. You will pluck all the roses of life. Worthy son of a worthy father! Look at me! Who was it who blasted my life, my happiness, my honour, my name? A name grander and older than his, as the oak is older and grander than the currant bush. When he took my daughter into his arms, he wrote the funeral of his race! I played with him, as a tiger plays with a miserable Hindoo! When life was sweetest to him, I struck. He came here for mercy; I laughed, and I was merciful. I stabbed him to the heart. The knife hangs side by side with the arms of the Crusaders of Cruta. You are his son! You are the next to die! You will not leave these walls alive! These monks know you! It is you who hold the lands of De Vaux, which by right belong to their Holy Church. You would go back to resist their just claims! The good of the Church demands that you should not go back! You shall not go back! The Count of Cruta demands that you shall not go back. You shall not go back! You shall be slain, even where your father was slain, but you shall not creep back to your hole to die! Your bones shall whiten and shrivel upon the rocks. Your blood shall be an honoured stain upon my floor. Monks of Cruta! there he stands! He who alone can resist your just possession of the broad lands and abbey of De Vaux. The despoiled Church cries to you to strike. The end is great! Haul him away!"

They were around him like a pack of wolves, their lean faces hungry and fierce, and their long, skinny fingers clutching at his throat and at his clothing. One silently drew a knife and brandished it over him. Paul wrenched himself free with a tremendous effort, but they were upon him again. They forced him slowly backwards, backwards even across the bed where that dead woman lay with her eyes as yet unclosed. The great heat, as much as their numbers, was overpowering him. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a choking in his throat. Again the long knife was lifted; other hands held him motionless, ready for the blow. He was too weak to struggle now. He saw the blue steel quivering in the air. Then he closed his eyes.

What was that? There was a shrill cry from one of the monks, and Paul, finding their grasp relaxed, started up. They were cowering down like a flock of frightened animals. The room seemed full of red fire. The glass in the windows cracked; it flew into pieces, and a column of smoke curled in. The door was thrown open; Guiseppe stood for a moment on the threshold.

"Fly!" he cried. "Fly! The castle is on fire. The flames are near!"

They rushed for the door like panic-stricken cattle before a great prairie fire, biting and trampling upon one another in their haste. Paul followed, but the old Count stood in his way, trembling, not with fear, but with anger.

"Cowards! beasts!" he cried after the flying monks. "But you shall not escape me!"