The Sorceress of Rome

by Nathan Gallizier

t last the evening had come, when Eckhardt was for ever to retire from the world, to spend the remainder of his days in prayers and penances, within the dismal walls of the cloister. The pontiff himself was to officiate at the high ceremony, which was to close the last chapter in the great general's life. Daylight was fading fast, and the faint light, which still glimmered through the western windows of St. Peter's Basilica had long since lost its sunset ruddiness and was little more than a pale shadow. The candles, their mighty rival departed, blazed higher now in merry fitfulness, delighting to play in grotesque imagery over the monkish faces, which haunted the gloom.

One end of the Basilica was now luminous with the pale glow of innumerable slender tapers of every length, ranged in gradated order round the altar. Their mellow radiance drove the gloom a quarter of the way down the cathedral. The massive bronze doors at the farther end were still shut and locked. The only way of entering the church was through the sacristy, by way of the north transepts, to which only the monks had access. No sound that should ring out within these mighty walls to-night could reach the ears of those who might be in the streets without.

Meanwhile the quiescent echoes of the vast Basilica were disturbed by fitful murmurs from the Sacristy. Far in the distance, from the north transept, might be distinguished light footfalls. Slowly a double file of monks entered the church, walking to the rhythm of a subdued processional chant, which rose through the sombre shadows of the aisles. At the same time the great portals of the Basilica were thrown open to the countless throngs, which had been waiting without and which now, like waters released from the impediment of a dam, rushed into the immense area, waiting to receive them.

The rumour of Eckhardt's impending consecration had added no little to the desire of the Romans to be present at a spectacle such as had not within the memory of man fallen to their lot to behold, and it seemed as if all Rome had flocked to the ancient Basilica to witness the great and touching ordeal at which the youthful Pontiff himself was to officiate. Seemingly interminable processions of monks, bearing huge waxen tapers, of choristers, acolytes and incense-bearers, with a long array of crosses and other holy emblems continued to pour into the Basilica. The priests were in their bright robes of high-ceremony. The choristers chanted a psalm as they passed on and the incense bearers swung their silver censers.

The Pontiff's face was a rarely lovely one to look upon; it was that of a mere youth. His chin was smooth as any woman's and the altar cloth was not as white as his delicate hands. The halo of golden hair, which encircled his tonsure, gave him the appearance of a saint. Marvellously, indeed, did stole, mitre and staff become the delicate face and figure of Bruno of Carinthia, and if there was some incongruity between the spun gold of his fair hair and the severity of the mitre, which surrounded it, there was none in all that assembly to note it.

At the door, awaiting the pontifical train, stood the venerable Gerbert of Aurillac, impressive in his white and gold dalmatica against the red robes of the chapter. Preceded by two cardinals the Pontiff mounted the steps, entering through the great bronze portals of the Basilica, which poured a wave of music and incense out upon the hushed piazza. Then they closed again, engulfing the brilliant procession.

The chant ceased and the monks silently ranged themselves in a close semi-circle about the high-altar. There was a brief and impressive silence, while the deep, melodious voice of the Archbishop of Rheims was raised in prayer. The monks chanted the Agnus Dei, then a deep hush of expectation fell upon the multitudes.

The faint echoes of approaching footsteps now broke the intense silence which pervaded the immense area of the Basilica. Accompanied by two monks, Eckhardt slowly strode down the aisle, which the reverential tread of millions had already worn to unevenness. In an obscured niche he had waited their signal, racked by doubts and fears, and less convinced than ever that the final step he was about to take would lead to the desired goal. From his station he could distinguish faint silhouettes of the glittering spars in the vaulting, and the sculptured chancel, twisted and beaten into fantastic shapes and the line of ivory white Apostles. As he approached the monks gathered closely round the chancel, where, under the pontifical canopy, stood the golden chair of the Vicar of Christ.

Eckhardt did not raise his eyes. Once only, as in mute questioning, did his gaze meet that of Gregory, then he knelt before the altar. His ardent desire was about to be fulfilled. As this momentous time approached, Eckhardt's hesitation in taking the irrevocable step seemed to diminish—and gradually to vanish. He was even full of impatient joy. Never did bridegroom half so eagerly count the hours to his wedding, as did the German leader the moments which were for ever to relieve him of that gnawing pain that consumed his soul. In the broken fitful slumber of the preceding night he had seen himself chanting the mass. To be a monk seemed to him now the last and noblest refuge from the torments which gnawed the strings of his heart. At this moment he would have disdained the estate of an emperor or king. There was no choice left now. The bridge leading into the past was destroyed and Eckhardt awaited his anointment more calmly.