Do what she would to forget him, to conjure up some other object in her soul, there stood the son of Theophano, towering like a demi-god over the mean, effeminate throng of her countrymen. Her whole being had changed in the brief space of time, since first they had met face to face. Then the woman's heart, filled with implacable hatred of that imperial phantom, which had twice wrested the dominion of Rome from the Senator's iron grasp, filled with hatred of the unwelcome intruder, had given one great bound for joy at the certainty that he was hers,—hers to deal with according to her desire,—that he had not withstood the vertigo of her fateful beauty. With the first kiss she had imprinted on his lips, she had dedicated him to the Erynnies,—it was not enough to vanquish, she must break his heart. Thus only would her victory be complete.
What a terrible change had come over her now! All she possessed, all she called her own, she would gladly have given to undo what she had done. For the first time, as with the lightning's glare, the terrible chasm was revealed to her, at the brink of which she stood. Strange irony of fate! Slowly but surely she had felt the hatred of Otto vanish from her heart. He had bared his own before her, she had penetrated the remotest depths of his soul. She had read him as an open book. And as she revolved in her own mind the sordid aspirations of those she called her countrymen, the promptings of tyrants and oppressors,—thrown in the scales against the pure and lofty ideals of the King,—a flush of shame drove the pallor from her cheeks and caused hot tears of remorse to well up from the depths of her eyes.
For the first time the whole enormity of what she had done, of the scheme to which she had lent herself, flashed upon her, and with it a wave of hot resentment rushed through her heart. Her own blind hate and the ever-present consciousness of the low estate to which the one-time powerful house of Crescentius had fallen, had prompted her to accept the trust, to commit the deed for which she despised herself. Would the youth, whom she was to lead the sure way to perdition, have chosen such means to attain his ends? And what would he say to her at that fatal moment, when all his illusions would be shattered to atoms, his dreams destroyed and his heart broken? Would he not curse her for ever having crossed his path? Would he not tear the memory of the woman from his heart, who had trifled with its most sacred heavings? He would die, but she! She must live—live beside the man for whom she had sinned, for whose personal ends she had spun this gigantic web of deception. Otto would die:—he would not survive the shock of the revelation. His sensitive, finely-strung temperament was not proof against such unprecedented treachery. What the Senator's shafts and catapults had failed to achieve,—the Senator's wife would have accomplished! But the glory of the deed? "Gloria Victis," he had said to her when she pointed the chances of defeat. "Gloria Victis"—and she must live!
Otto loved her;—with a love so passionate and enduring that even death would mock at separation.—They would belong to each other ever after. It was not theirs to choose. It seemed to her as if they had been destined for each other from the begin of time, as if their souls had been one, even before their birth. And all the trust reposed in her, all the love given to her—how was she about to requite them? Were her countrymen worthy the terrible sacrifice? Was Crescentius, her husband? Had his rule ennobled him? Had his rule ennobled the Romans? Were the motives not purely personal?
She knew she had gone too far to recede. And even if she would, nothing could now save the German King. The avalanche which had been started could not be stopped. The forces arrayed against Teutonic rule now defied the control of him who had evoked them. How could she save the King?
Salvation for him lay only in immediate flight from Rome! The very thought was madness. He would never consent. Not all his love for her could prompt a deed of cowardice. He would remain and perish,—and his blood would be charged to her account in the book of final judgment.
How long were these dreadful hours! They seemed never ending like eternity. A moan broke from Stephania's lips. She hid her burning face in her white arms. Oh, the misery of this fatal love! There was no resisting it, there was no renouncing it;—ever present in her soul, omnipotent in her heart, it would not even cease with death; yea, perhaps this was but the beginning.—Would she survive the terrible hour of the final trial, when, a second Delilah, she called the Philistines down upon her trusting foe? She moaned and tossed as in the agues of a fever and only towards the gray dawn of morning she fell into a fitful slumber.
The preparations for his last rebellion against German rule had kept the Senator of Rome within the walls of the formidable keep, which since the days of Vitiges, the Goth, had defied every assault, no matter who the assailant. Crescentius had succeeded in repairing the breaches in the walls and in strengthening the defences in a manner, which would cause every attempt to carry the mausoleum by storm to appear an undertaking as mad as it was hopeless. He had augmented his Roman garrison, swelled by the men-at-arms of the Roman barons pledged to his support, by Greek auxiliaries, drawn from Torre del Grecco, and under his own personal supervision the final preparations were being pushed to a close. His activity was so strenuous that he appeared to be in the vaults and the upper galleries of Castel San Angelo at the same time. He had been seized with a restlessness which did not permit him to remain long on any one spot. But the terrible misgivings which filled his heart with drear forebodings, which, now it was too late to recede, caused him to tremble before the final issue, drove the Senator of Rome like a madman through the corridors of the huge mausoleum. Had he in truth lost the love of his wife? Then indeed was the victory of the son of Theophano complete. He had robbed him of all, but life—a life whose last spark should ignite the funeral torches for the King and,—if it must be—for Rome.
The day was fading fast, when Crescentius mounted the stairs which led to Stephania's apartments. His heart was heavy with fear. This hour must set matters right between them;—in this hour he must know the worst,—-and from her own lips. She would not fail him at the final issue, of that, as he knew her proud spirit, he was convinced. But what availed that final issue, if he had lost the one jewel in his crown, without which the crown itself was idle mockery?
Stephania's apartments were deserted. Where was his wife? She never used to leave the Castello without informing him of the goal of her journey. Times were uncertain and the precaution well justified. With loud voice the Senator of Rome called for Stephania's tirewoman. Receiving no immediate reply, a terrible thought rushed through his head. Perhaps she was even now with him,—with Otto! In its undiminished vividness the scene at the Neptune temple arose before him. What availed it to rave and to moan and to shriek? Was it not his own doing,—rather the counsel of one who perhaps rejoiced in his discomfiture? Crescentius' hand went to his head. Was such black treachery conceivable? Could Benilo,—-but no! Not even the fiend incarnate would hatch out such a plot, tossing on a burning pillow of anguish in sleepless midnight.