Seated motionless on his coal-black charger, like some dark spirit of revenge, plainly visible from the ramparts of Castel San Angelo, Eckhardt directed the assault of his army at this point, or that, according as the situation required. Many an arrow and stone struck the ground close by his side, but he seemed to bear a charmed existence and never stirred an inch from his chosen vantage ground. Already had a breach been made in one or two places in the base of the walls, yet had he not given the order to break into the city, but seemed to watch for some weak spot in the defences. It was verging towards evening. The besiegers could hear the cries and the rage of those within the walls, who dared not remain in the streets during the terrific rain of iron and stones hurled by the German machines. Despite their strenuous efforts, Castel San Angelo hurled defiance into the teeth of the Margrave, who demanded its surrender, and the task of capturing the stronghold, otherwise than by starving the garrison, seemed to hold out smaller promise with every moment, as the sun hurried on his western course. The sky became overcast and the night bade fair to be stormy.
During the assaults of the day, Eckhardt had many times strained his gaze towards the road leading to Tivoli, as if he expected some succour from that direction, when, as the sun was sinking in a crimson haze, a cloud of dust met the general's gaze and at the same moment a thunderous shout rose from the imperial hosts. Drawn by twelve oxen, there appeared at the edge of the plain a new engine of assault, which Eckhardt had ordered constructed, anticipating an emergency, such as the present. It had remained with the host in Tivoli, and despite the comparatively short distance, it had required almost twenty-four hours to draw it over the sloping ground to Rome. It was a tower of three stages, constructed of massive beams, protected by frames and hides and crowned with a stout roof. It was now being rolled forward on broad heavy wheels to afford means of scaling the walls. As it slowly approached the ramparts of Castel San Angelo, the assault of the Germans, renewed on the whole line of the walls with redoubled fury, presented a terrific sight. The catapults and balistae were pouring stones, bolts and arrows on the defenders; the whizzing of the missiles, the shouts of the assailants, answered by furious yells from the walls, the roar of the flames, as here and there a house near the city walls caught fire from burning pitch, made a truly infernal din.
"The turret is within twenty feet of the walls,—on a level with the ramparts,—fifteen,—ten feet,—-down with the scaling bridge!" shouted Haco, who was standing by the side of Eckhardt. Crashing, the gang-way went from the front of the pent house. But as he spoke, the soft earth, whereon the turret stood, gave way. The gang-way fell short, the turret toppled and split. The besieged hurled on it bolts, rocks, boiling pitch and fire balls, and presently it collapsed with a sudden crash and fell in a heap, mangling and burying the men inside it and beneath it, and at once it blazed up, a mass of burning timber.
"It is, as I feared," said Eckhardt. "No turret lofty enough to overtop these walls can be brought up to work on ground like this. We must resort to the catapults! Let all be brought into action at once!"
The destruction of the great, movable turret, on the success of which such hopes and fears had been placed, caused the ranks of assailants and defenders to pause for a space, while both were watching the spectacle of the blazing pile. A lull ensued in the storm of battle, during which Eckhardt, while he seemed to direct his men towards a certain point near the walls, never released his gaze from Castel San Angelo. Then he gave a whispered order to Haco, who set off at once on its execution. An appalling crash rent the sky, as the German machines began their simultaneous attack on the walls of Rome, while a storming-column, forming under their protection, rushed forth towards the gates of the city. The strain on the mind of Eckhardt, who alone knew the intense crisis of that moment, was almost unbearable. He must succeed this very night; for on the morrow the peremptory order of the Electors would recall his forces beyond the Alps. There would be no respite; there could be no resistance. His only salvation lay in their undaunted courage and their ignorance of the impending decree.
The evening grew more and more sultry.
At intervals a gust came flying, raising the white dust and rustling in the dying leaves. It passed by, leaving the stillness on the Aventine more still than before. Nothing was to be heard, save the dull, seemingly subterranean growls of thunder, and against this low threatening and sullen roar the pounding of Eckhardt's catapults against the walls. At times a flash broke across the clouds; then all stood out sharp and clear against the increasing darkness. Only the watchfires of Castel San Angelo were reflected in the sluggish tide of the Tiber, from which rose noisome odours of backwater, rotting fern leaves and decaying wood.
The Piazza of St. Peter meanwhile presented a singular spectacle, congested as it was with a multitude, which, in the glare of the lightning, resembled one waving mass of heads,—a cornfield before it has been swept by a tornado. It was an infuriated mob, which listened to the harangue of Benilo, interrupting the same ever and ever with the hysterical shout: "Death to the Saxon! Death to the Emperor!"
"Blood of St. John!" exclaimed an individual in the coarse brown garb of a smith, "Why do we bellow here? Let us to the Aventine—to the Aventine!"
His eye met that of Il Gobbo the grave-digger. He pounced upon him like an eagle on his prey, shaking him by the shoulder.