Then Hezilo briefly outlined his plans for the night.
Eckhardt's destruction had been decreed by the Chamberlain and nothing short of a miracle could save him. The utmost caution and secrecy were required. Benilo, whose attention would be divided between Theodora and Eckhardt, was to be dealt with by himself. The blood of his child cried for vengeance. Thus Eckhardt would be free to settle last accounts with the woman.
Burying his head in his hands the strong man wept like a disconsolate child, his whole frame shaken by convulsive sobs, and it was some time, ere he regained sufficient composure to face Hezilo.
"It will require all your courage," said the harper, rising to depart. "Steel your heart against hope or mercy! I will await you at sunset at the Church of the Hermits."
And without waiting the Margrave's reply, Hezilo was gone.
Eckhardt felt like one waking from a terrible dream, the oppression of which remains after its phantoms have vanished. The suspense of waiting till dusk seemed almost unendurable. Now that the hour seemed so nigh, the dread hour of final reckoning, there was a tightening agony at Eckhardt's heart, an agony that made him long to cry out, to weep, to fling himself on his knees and pray, pray for deliverance, for oblivion, for absolute annihilation. Walking up and down the vineshaded loggia, he paused now and then to steal a look at the flaming disk of the sun, that seemed to stand still in the heavens, while at other times he stared absently into the gnarled stems, in whose hollow shelter the birds slept and the butterflies drowsed.
Even as the parted spirit of the dead might ruthfully hover over the grave of its perished mortal clay, so Eckhardt reviewed his own forlorn estate, torturing his brain with all manner of vain solutions.
This night, then,—the night which quenched the light of this agonizing day, must for ever quench his doubts and fears. He drew a long breath. A great weariness weighed down his spirit. An irresistible desire for rest came over him. The late rebellion, brief but fierce, the constant watch at the palace on the Aventine, the alarming state of the young King, who was dying of a broken heart, the futility of all counsel to prevail upon him to leave this accursed city, the lack of a friend, to whom he might confide his own misgivings without fear of betrayal,—all these had broken down his physical strength, which no amount of bodily exertion would have been able to accomplish.
After a time he resumed his seat, burying his head in his hands.
The air of the late summer day was heavy and fragrant with the peculiar odour of decaying leaves, and the splashing of the fountain, which sent its crystal stream down towards Santa Maria del Monte, seemed like a lullaby to Eckhardt's overwrought senses. Night after night he had not slept at all; he had not dared to abandon the watch on Aventine for even a moment. Now nature asserted her rights.