Suddenly the weird figures seemed to shudder, as with evil eyes they marked the warrior’s fearful coming. Hiding behind pillars and broken stones they watched him. He hesitated—then came forward. Then again he stopped. At last he stood near the cypress, which waved above the tomb of the abbess. But as he stretched his hand to pluck the fatal branch, he looked upon the statue of that abbess, and the face seemed as the face of his mother, wrathful and angry. He fell back stunned and speechless.
Then out trooped the living-dead—their features no longer ghastly, but full of wicked, sensuous life. They surrounded him; they tempted him; in a circling band they drew him to the fatal cypress. Yet he hesitated. Then they held to him a golden cup, brimming with delicious wine. Drinking it, again the evil look was in their faces. But when he returned the cup, they smiled again.
At last he plucked the branch, and held it in his hand.
Then the faces turned again to hopeless death. The figures screamed in their joy about him—loudly and more loud.
While he—his heart now failing him—shrank down upon the ground and hid his eyes with his hands—one of which still clasped the terrible cypress branch.
Part IV.—The Cypress Branch.
While this horrible scene was being enacted—away in her father’s palace was the lady whom Robert loved—the lady who also loved him—the princess.
The Princess Isabelle of Sicily sat watching the magnificence about her. It seemed to mock her sorrows. The King had decided upon marrying her to the Duke of Grenada, a Spanish noble.
Her solitude was broken by the entrance of a few young maidens, who, after the custom of the time, took advantage of the intended marriage to present petitions to the bride.
Among the girls who thus entered was one superior to the rest. She had a pure-looking, almost holy face—not more beautiful than any there, perhaps, but glowing in its purity and high resolve.