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of you will stand by me,” he cried, speaking aloud to the

throng, “I will by myself enter, and by myself take the consequences!”

 

Some one answered—

 

“II think it is but folly, lord.”

 

“Shall a woman hold us all at bay?” he cried. “What title has she to

rule in Frankfort?”

 

He advanced to the door with his sword drawn and ready, and the crowd

drew back neither supporting nor preventing; the slaves closed

together, and made a gesture warning him to retire. He seized one by

his gilt collar and swung him violently against the wall, then, while

the other crouched in fear, he opened the door and strode into the

Emperor’s bedchamber.

 

It was a low room, hung with gold and brown tapestry; the windows were

shut and the air faint; the bed stood against the wall, and the heavy,

dark curtains, looped back, revealed Melchoir of Brabant, lying in his

clothes on the coverlet with his throat bare and his eyes staring

across the room.

 

A silver lamp stood on a table by the window, and its faint radiance

was the only light.

 

On the steps of the bed stood Ysabeau; over her white dress she had

flung a long scarlet cloak, and her pale, bright hair had fallen on to

her shoulders.

 

At the sight of Hugh she caught hold of the bed-hangings and gazed at

him fiercely. He sheathed his sword as he came across the room.

 

“Princess, I must see the Emperor,” he said sternly.

 

“He will see no man—he knows none nor can he speak,” she answered,

her bearing prouder and more assured than he had ever known it. “Get

you gone, sir; I know not how ye forced an entry.”

 

“You have no power to keep the nobles from their lord,” he replied.

“Nor will I take your bidding.”

 

She held herself in front of her husband so that her shadow obscured

his face.

 

“I will have you put without the doors if you so disturb the dying.”

 

But Hugh of Rooselaare advanced to the bed. “Let me see him,” he

demanded, “he speaks to me!”

 

Indeed, he thought that he heard from the depths of the great bed a

voice saying faintly–“Hugh, Hugh!”

 

The Empress drew the curtain, further concealing the dying man.

 

“He speaks to none. Begone!”

 

The Lord of Rooselaare came still nearer.

 

“Why is there no priest here?”

 

“Insolent! the bishop comes.”

 

“Meanwhile he dies, and there are monks enow without.”

 

As he spoke Hugh sprang lightly and suddenly on to the steps, pushed

aside the slight figure of the Empress and caught back the curtains.

 

“Melchoir!” he cried, and snatched up the Emperor by the shoulders.

 

“He is dead,” breathed the Empress.

 

But Hugh continued to gaze into the distorted, hollow face, while with

eager fingers he pushed back the long, damp hair.

 

“He is dead,” repeated Ysabeau, fearing nothing now.

 

With a slow step she went to the table and seated herself before the

silver lamp, while she uttered sigh on sigh and clasped her hands over

her eyes.

 

Then the hot stillness began to quiver with the distant sound of

numerous bells; they were holding services for the dying in every

church in Frankfort.

 

The Emperor stirred in Hugh’s arms; without opening his eyes he

spoke—

 

“Pray for me…Balthasar. They did not slay me honourably—”

 

He raised his hands to his heart, to his lips, moaned and sank from

Hugh’s arm on to the pillow.

 

“Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum,” he murmured.

 

“Eum redemptio,” finished Hugh.

 

“Amen,” moaned Melchoir of Brabant, and so died. For a moment the

chamber was silent save for the insistent bells, then Hugh turned his

white face from the dead, and Ysabeau shivered to her feet.

 

“Call in the others,” murmured the Empress, “since he is dead.”

 

The Lord of Rooselaare descended from the bed. “Ay, I will call in the

others, thou Eastern witch, and show them the man thou hast murdered.”

 

She stared at him a moment, her face like a mask of ivory set in the

glittering hair. “Murdered?” she said at last.

 

“Murdered!” He fingered his sword fiercely. “And it shall be my duty

to see you brought to the stake for this night’s work.”

 

She gave a shriek and ran towards the door. Before she reached it, it

was flung open, and Balthasar of Courtrai sprang into the room.

 

“You called?” he panted, his eyes blazing on Hugh of Rooselaare.

 

“Yes; he is dead—Melchoir is dead, and this lord says I slew him—

Balthasar, answer for me!” “Certes!” cried Hugh. “A fitting one to

speak for you—your accomplice!”

 

With a short sound of rage the Margrave dragged out his sword and

struck the speaker a blow across the breast with the flat of it.

 

“So ho!” he shouted, “it pleases you to lie!” He yelled to his men

without, and the death-chamber was filled with a clatter of arms that

drowned the mournful pealing of the bells. “Take away this lord, on my

authority.”

 

Hugh drew his sword, only to have it wrenched away. The soldiers

closed round him and swept their prisoner from the chamber, while

Balthasar, flushed and furious, watched him dragged off. “I always

hated him,” he said.

 

Ysabeau fell on her knees and kissed his mailed feet.

 

“Melchoir is dead, and I have no champion save you.”

 

The Margrave stooped and raised her, his face burning with blushes

till it was like a great rose. “Ysabeau, Ysabeau!” he stammered.

 

She struggled out of his arms.

 

“Nay, not now,” she whispered in a stifled voice, “not now can I speak

to you, but afterwards—my lord! my lord!”

 

She went to the bed and flung herself across the steps, her face

hidden in her hands. Balthasar took off his helmet, crossed himself

and humbly bent his great head.

 

Melchoir IV lay stiffly on the lily-sewn coverlet, and without the

great bells tolled and the monks’ chant rose.

 

“De Profundis…”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PURSUIT OF JACOBEA

 

The chatelaine of Martzburg sat in the best guest-chamber of a wayside

hostel that lay a few hours’ journeying from her home. Outside the

rain dripped in the trees and a cold mountain wind shook the

signboard. Jacobea trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, and began

walking up and down the room; the inner silence broken only by the

sound of her footfall and an occasional sharp patter as the rain fell

on to the bare hearth.

 

So swiftly had she fled from Frankfort that its last scenes were still

before her eyes like a gorgeous and disjointed pageant; the Emperor

stricken down at the feast, the brief, flashing turmoil, Ysabeau’s

peerless face, that her own horrid thoughts coloured with a sinister

expression, Balthasar of Courtrai bringing the city to his feet—Hugh

of Rooselaare snatched away to a dungeon—and over it all the leaping

red light of a hundred flambeaux.

 

She herself was free here of everything save the sound of the rain,

yet she must needs think of and brood on the tumult she had left.

 

The quiet about her now, the distance she had put between herself and

Frankfort, gave her no sense of peace or safety; she strove, indeed,

with a feeling of horror, as if they from whom she had fled were about

her still, menacing her in this lonely room.

 

Presently she passed into the little bedchamber and took up a mirror

into which she gazed long and earnestly.

 

“Is it a wicked face?”

 

She answered herself—

 

“No, no.”

 

“Is it a weak face?”

 

“Alas!”

 

The wind rose higher, fluttered the lamp-flame and stirred the arras

on the wall; and laying the mirror down she returned to the outer

chamber. Her long hair that hung down her back was the only bright

thing in the gloomy apartment where the tapestry was old and dusty,

the furniture worn and faded; she wore a dark dress of embroidered

purple, contrasting with her colourless face; only her yellow locks

glittered as the lamplight fell on them.

 

The wind rose yet higher, struggled at the casement, seized and shook

the curtains and whistled in the chimney.

 

Up and down walked Jacobea of Martzburg, clasping and unclasping her

soft young hands, her grey eyes turning from right to left.

 

It was very cold, blowing straight from the great mountains the dark

hid; she wished she had asked for a fire and that she had kept one of

the women to sleep with her—it was so lonely, and the sound of the

rain reminded her of that night at Martzburg when the two scholars had

been given shelter. She wanted to go to the door and call some one,

but a curious heaviness in her limbs began to make movement irksome;

she could no longer drag her steps, and with a sigh she sank into the

frayed velvet chair by the fireplace.

 

She tried to tell herself that she was free, that she was on her way

to escape, but could not form the words on her lips, hardly the

thought; her head throbbed, and a Cold sensation gripped her heart;

she moved in the chair, only to feel as if held down in it; she

struggled in vain to rise. “Barbara!” she whispered, and thought she

was calling aloud.

 

A gathering duskiness seemed to overspread the chamber, and the

tongue-shaped flame of the lamp showed through it distinct yet very

far away; the noise of the wind and rain made one long insistent

murmur and moaning.

 

Jacobea laughed drearily, and lifted her hands to her bosom to try to

find the crucifix that hung there, but her fingers were like lead, and

fell uselessly into her lap again.

 

Her brain whirled with memories, with anticipations and vague

expectations, tinged with fear like the sensations of a dream; she

felt that she was sinking into soft infolding darkness; the lamp-flame

changed into a fire-pointed star that rested on a knight’s helm, the

sound of wind and rain became faint human cries.

 

She whispered, as the dying Emperor had done–“I am bewitched.”

 

Then the Knight, with the star glittering above his brow, came towards

her and offered her a goblet.

 

“Sebastian!” she cried, and sat up with a face of horror; the chamber

was spinning about her; she saw the Knight’s long painted shield and

his bare hand holding out the wine; his visor was down.

 

She shrieked and laughed together, and put the goblet aside.

 

Some one spoke out of the mystery.

 

“The Empress found happiness—why not you?—may not a woman die as

easily as a man?”

 

She tried to remember her prayers, to find her crucifix; but the cold

edge of the gold touched her lips, and she drank.

 

The hot wine scorched her throat and filled her with strength; as she

sprang up the Knight’s star quivered back into the lamp-flame, the

vapours cleared from the room; she found herself staring at Dirk

Renswoude, who stood in the centre of the room and smiled at her.

 

“Oh!” she cried in a bewildered way, and put her hands to her

forehead.

 

“Well,” said Dirk; he held a rich gold goblet, empty, and his was the

voice she had already heard. “Why did you leave Frankfort?”

 

Jacobea shuddered.

 

“I do not know;” her eyes were blank and dull. “I think I was afraid

 

“Lest you might do as Ysabeau did?” asked Dirk.

 

“What has happened to me?” was

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