“Brethren,” he said, “lo, here is one of the tyrant’s victims. Speak, my son.”
He moved aside a little to give Robert more space, resting his hand upon the iron cross. Robert, his face hidden in his hood, addressed the mourners.
“Brethren,” he wailed, “I am the most unhappy soul in Sicily, for God has cursed me with a fearful curse. At night I dream I am this wicked King, and all day long the evil of his deeds grinds down my heart. But in my misery I have heard words more sweet than honey, more fragrant than myrrh, which if you will guard them in your hearts will be to you as wells in the waste places, as orchards in the sand, as shade of palm and strength of manna in the weary, hungry land. ‘He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.’”
He would have fallen if Hieronymus’s strong arms had not sustained him. With one voice all the wanderers echoed his words.
“‘He hath put down the mighty from their seats and exalted them of low degree.’”
The wanderers rose very slowly from their knees and went very slowly out at the sea-door, followed by Hieronymus, who almost carried Robert in his arms to the outer air.
For some minutes the little church was empty and dark and silent. Then a side door opened and a woman and a man entered, coming from a quiet street. The woman was Lycabetta; the man was Hildebrand. Hildebrand looked curiously around him.
“Why have you brought me here?” he asked.
“Answer me first,” Lycabetta replied. “How is the King?”
Hildebrand shrugged his shoulders. “Bloody of purpose, and yet bloodless. Lustful of purpose, and yet loveless. In his prisons many wait for death, but none perish; for the King has sworn that none shall die before the fool Diogenes, and we cannot find the fool. The loveliest women of Sicily have been torn from their homes to his palace, but they have not seen the King, for he will love no woman until he has found the girl Perpetua. And the girl cannot be found.”