The Knight of Malta

“Go, go, my girl, and hurry. I must confer with the captain about a little cruise he can undertake even to-day with his polacre. We must warn the consuls to arm some fishing-boats immediately, with sure and determined men. We must give the alarm all along the shore, arm the entrance into the gulf, which is defended only by the cannon of Maison-Forte, and be prepared for any surprise, for these brigands rush on the coast like a hurricane. So Luquin must come on the instant Do you hear, Stephanette? The safety of the city depends on it.”

“Be easy, Master Peyrou, although it breaks my heart to know that my poor Luquin is going to run such danger. I love him too much to advise him to be a coward.”

During this rapid conversation between the watchman and her servant, Reine, lost in deep reverie, had descended a few steps of the path which conducted to the platform upon which stood the sentry-box.

This path, which was very steep, wound around the outside of the promontory, and formed at this spot a sort of comice, whose projection reached considerably over the base of this immense wall of rocks, more than three hundred feet above the level of the sea.

A young girl less habituated to walks and to mountain climbing would have feared to venture on this narrow passage. From the side of the sea, its only parapet was a few asperities of rock, more or less pronounced. Reine, accustomed to brave these perils from her infancy, thought nothing of danger. The emotion that agitated her since her interview with the watchman absorbed her entirely.

Her gait, sometimes slow, sometimes hurried, seemed to share the nature of her tumultuous emotions.

Stephanette soon joined her. Surprised at the pallor of her mistress, she was about to ask the cause of it, when Reine said to her, in an altered voice, with a gesture which did not admit of a reply, “Walk in front of me, Stephanette, do not concern yourself whether I follow you or not.”

Stephanette preceded her mistress at once, directing her steps in all haste toward Maison-Forte.

The agitation of Reine des Anbiez was extreme. The relations which seemed to exist between the Bohemian and the unknown were too evident for her not to have the most painful suspicions of this young man whom the vagabond called the emir.

Many circumstances, which had not impressed her at the time, now made Reine believe that the Bohemian was an emissary of the unknown. No doubt it was the vagabond who had placed in her chamber the various objects which had caused her so much surprise. Adopting this hypothesis, there was, however, one objection which presented itself to her mind, – she had found the crystal vase and the miniature on vellum before the arrival of the vagabond.

Suddenly a ray of light entered her mind; she remembered that one day, in order to display his agility to Stephanette, the Bohemian had descended to the terrace by the balcony, upon which opened the window of her oratory, and that he had remounted by the same way. Another time he had slid down from the terrace on the rocks, which lined the shore, and had remounted from the rocks to the terrace, by the aid of the asperities of the wall and the plants which had taken root there.

Although he arrived for the first time at the castle with the recorder, might not this vagabond, before that day, have been hidden in the environage of La Ciotat? Could he not have entered Maison-Forte twice during the night, then, to avoid suspicion, returned in the recorder’s train, as if he had met it by chance?

These thoughts, reinforced by recent observations, soon assumed incontrovertible certainty in the mind of Reine. The stranger and his two companions were, without doubt, pirates, who, with false names and false credentials, had given out that they were Muscovites, and had thus imposed upon the credulity of the Marshal of Vitry.

The first idea of Reine, then, – an idea absolute and imperious, – was to forget for ever the man upon whom rested such terrible suspicion.

Religion, duty, and the will of her father were so many insurmountable and sacred obstacles which the young girl could not think of braving.

Up to that time, her youthful and lively imagination had found inexhaustible nourishment in the strange adventure of the rocks of Ollioules.

All the chaste dreams of her young girlhood were, so to speak, concentrated and realised in the person of Erebus, that unknown one, brave and timid at the same time, audacious and charming, who had saved the life of her father.

She could not help being touched by the delicate and mysterious persistence with which Erebus had always tried to recall himself to her memory. Doubtless she had never heard the voice of this stranger; doubtless she was ignorant of his mind and character, whether or not they responded to the graces of his person. But in these long reveries in which a young girl thinks of him who has fascinated her, does she not invest him with the most excellent qualities? does she not make him say all that she desires to hear?

Thus had Reine thought of Erebus. First she wished to banish him from her thought, but, unfortunately, to yield to a sentiment against which we have struggled is only to render it all the more powerful and irresistible.

Reine then loved Erebus, perhaps unconsciously, when the watchman’s fatal revelation showed the object of her love in such unattractive colours.

The grandeur of the sacrifice that she was required to make enlightened her as to the power of the affection with which she had, so to speak, played until the fatal moment arrived.

For the first time this sudden revelation taught her the depth of her love.

Impenetrable mysteries of the human heart! During the first phases of this mysterious love she had regarded her marriage with Honorât as possible.

From the moment in which she knew who the unknown one was, from that moment she felt that, notwithstanding the voice of duty ordered her to forget him, the memory of Erebus would henceforth dominate her whole existence, and she could never marry the chevalier.

She recognised the truth with terror, that, notwithstanding her efforts to master her feelings, her heart belonged to her no longer, and she was incapable of deceiving Honorât.

She wished to make a last sacrifice, to give up the rosary and portrait which she possessed, imposing this resolution upon herself as a sort of expiation of her reserve and reticence toward her father.

The young girl suffered much before she was able to fulfil this resolution.

In this mental struggle, Reine was walking on the edge of the comice formed by the rocks above the beach on which the waves of the sea were breaking.

She wore over her dress a sort of brown mantle with a hood turned up on the shoulders. This hood allowed her bare head to be seen, as well as her long brown curls that floated in the wind. Her countenance had an expression of sweet and resigned melancholy; sometimes, however, her blue eyes shone with a new brightness, and she lifted up her noble, beautiful head with an expression of wounded pride.

She loved passionately, but without hope, and she was going to throw to the winds the feeble tokens of this impossible love.

At her feet, far, far below her, broke the raging waves of the sea.

She drew the rosary from her bosom, looked at it a moment with bitterness, pressed it to her heart, then, extending her white and delicate hand above the abyss, she held it motionless a moment, and the rosary fell into the waves below.

She tried to follow it with her eyes, but the edge of the cornice was too sharp to allow her a view.

She sighed profoundly, took the portrait of the unknown, and contemplated it a long time in sad admiration. Nothing could be purer or more enchanting than the features of Erebus; his large brown eyes, soft and proud at the same time, reminded her of the look, full of purity and dignity, which he cast upon Raimond V. after having saved his life. The smile of this portrait, full of serenity, had nothing of that satirical smile and bold expression which had so startled her on the eventful day.

For a few moments she struggled with her resolution, then reason asserted her empire; blushing, she pressed her lips to the medallion, then on the brow of the portrait, and then – threw it suddenly into space.

This painful sacrifice accomplished, Reine felt less oppressed; she believed that she would have committed a wrong in preserving these memorials of a foolish love.

Then she felt free to abandon herself to the thoughts locked in the depths of her heart.

She walked a long time on the beach, absorbed in these thoughts.

On returning to Maison-Forte she learned that Raimond V. had not yet returned from the chase.

Night was fast falling, and Reine, followed by Stephanette, entered her apartment What was her amazement, her terror —

She found on the table the portrait and rosary that two hours before she had thrown into the depths of the sea.

CHAPTER XXI. OUR LADY OF SEVEN SORROWS

We will abandon for awhile Maison-Forte of the Baron des Anbiez, and the little city of La Ciotat, in order to conduct the reader on board the galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez.

The tempest had forced this vessel to take refuge in the little port of Tolari, situated on the east of Cape Corsica, a northerly point of the island of the same name.

The bell of the galley had just sounded six o’clock in the morning.

The weather was gloomy and the sky veiled with black and threatening clouds; frequent and violent squalls of wind were raising a strong swell within the port.

On whichever side one might turn, nothing could be seen but the barren, solemn mountains of Cape Corsica, at the feet of which the steep road wound its way.

The sea was heavy in the interior of the basin, but it seemed almost calm when compared to the surging waves which beat upon a girdle of rocks at the narrow entrance of the port.

These rocks, almost entirely submerged, were covered with a dazzling foam, which, whipped by the wind, vented itself in a soft white mist.

The sharp cries of sea-gulls and sea-mews scarcely rose above the thundering noise of the sea in its fury, as it rushed into the channel which it was necessary to cross in order to enter the road of Tolari.

A few wretched-looking fishermen’s huts, built on the beach where their dried boats were moored, completed the wild and solitary scene. Tossed by this heavy swell, Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, sometimes rising on the waves, would strain her cables almost to breaking, and sometimes seemed to sink into a bed between two billows.

Nothing could be severer or more funereal than the aspect of this galley painted like a cenotaph.

A hundred and sixty-six feet long, eighteen feet wide, narrow, slender, and scarcely rising above the level of the sea, she resembled an immense black serpent, sleeping in the midst of the waves. In front of the parallelogram which constituted the body of the galley, was scarfed a sharp and projecting beak-head, six feet in length.

At the rear of the same parallelogram was a rounded stern, the roof of which inclined toward the prow.

Under this shelter, called the stem carriage, lodged the commander, the patron, the prior, and the king of the chevaliers of Malta.

The masts of the galley, hauled down at its entrance into harbour, had been placed in the waist, a narrow passage which ran through the entire length of the galley.

On each side of this passage were ranged the benches of the galley-slaves. Below the stem carriage, attached to a black staff, floated the standard of religion, red, quartered with white, and below the standard a bronze beacon designated the grade of the commander.

It would be difficult, in our day, to comprehend how these slaves, composing the crew of a galley, could live, chained night and day to their benches, – at sea, lying on deck without shelter; at anchor, lying under a tent of coarse, woollen stuff, which scarcely protected them from the rain and the frost.

Let one picture to himself about one hundred and thirty Moorish, Turk, or Christian galley-slaves, dressed in red jackets and brown woollen hooded mantles, on this black galley, in cold, gloomy weather.

These miserable creatures shivered under the icy blast of the tempest and under the rain, which deluged them notwithstanding the awning.

To warm themselves a little they would press close to each other on the narrow benches, to which they were chained, five and five.

All of them preserved a morose silence, and often threw an uneasy and furtive glance on the convict-keepers and the overseers.

These contemptible officers, clothed in black, and armed with a cowhide, would go through the waist of the galley, on each side of which were the benches of the crew.

There were thirteen benches on the right, and twelve on the left.

The galley-slaves, constituting the palamente, or the armament of rowers, belonging to Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, had been, as was the custom, recruited from Christians, Turks, and Moors.

Each one of these types of slaves had his peculiar physiognomy.

The Turks, sluggish, dejected, and indolent, seemed to be a prey to a morbid and contemplative apathy.

The Moors, always excited, uneasy, and of ungovernable temper, appeared to be continually on the alert to break their chains and massacre their keepers.

The Christians, whether condemned or enrolled of their own will, were, in their way, more indifferent, and some of them were occupied in weaving straw, by which they hoped to reap a profit.

Finally, the negroes, captured from Barbary pirate vessels where they rowed as slaves, remained in a sort of torpor, a stupid immobility, with their elbows on their knees and their heads in their hands.

The greater part of these blacks died of grief, while the Mussulman and Christians grew accustomed to their fate.

Among these last, some were horribly mutilated, as they belonged to the class recaptured in their efforts to escape.

In order to punish them for attempting to escape, according to the law, their noses and ears had been cut off, and even more than this, their beards, heads, and eyebrows were completely shaven; nothing could be more hideous than the faces so disfigured.

In the fore part of the galley, and confined in a sort of covered guard-house, called rambade, could be seen a battery, – the five pieces of artillery belonging to the vessel.

This place was occupied by the soldiers and gunners.

These never formed a part of the crew, but composed, if such a thing may be said, the cargo of the vessel impelled by the oars of the galley-slaves.

About twenty sailors, free also, were charged with the management of the sails, with the anchorage, and other nautical manoeuvres.

The soldiers and gunners, considered as lay brothers and servants, wore coats of buff-skin, hoods, and black breeches.

Sheltered by the roof of the rambade, some, seated on their cannon, busied themselves in cleaning their arms; others, wrapped in their hoods, lay on the deck asleep, while others still – a rare thing even among the soldiers of religion – were occupied in pious reading, or in telling their rosaries.

With the exception of the galley-slaves, the men on board this galley, carefully chosen by the commander, had a grave and thoughtful countenance.

Almost all the soldiers and sailors were of mature age; some were approaching old age. By the numerous scars with which the greater number were marked, it was evident that they had served a long time.

More than two hundred men were assembled on this galley, and yet the silence of the cloister reigned through it.

If the crew remained silent through terror of the whip of the keepers and overseers, the soldiers and sailors obeyed the pious customs maintained by the commander Pierre des Anbiez.

For more than thirty years that he had commanded this galley of religion, he had tried always to preserve the same equipment, replacing only the men that he had lost.

The severity of discipline established on board Our Lady of Seven Sorrows was well known at Malta. The commander was perhaps the only one of the officers of the religion who exacted a strict observance of the rules of the order. His galley, on board of which he received only men who had been proven, became a sort of nomadic convent, – a voluntary rendezvous for all sailors who wished to assure their salvation by binding themselves scrupulously to the rigorous requirements of this hospitable and military confraternity.

It was the same with the officers and young caravan-iflits.

Those who preferred to lead a joyous and daring life – which was the immense majority – found the greater part of the captains of the religion disposed to welcome them, and to forget everything in their union against the infidels, as their mission of monk-soldiers was at the same time that of saint and warrior.

On the contrary, the very small number of young chevaliers who loved, for its own sake, this pious and austere life in the midst of great perils, sought with eagerness the opportunity to embark on the galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez.

There nothing offended, nothing prevented their religious customs. There they could give themselves up to their holy exercises without fear of being ridiculed, or of becoming perhaps weak enough to blush for their own zeal.

The master gunner, or captain of the mast of the galley, an old sunburnt soldier, wearing a black felt jacket with a white cross, was seated in the guard-house of the prow, or rambade, of which we have spoken.

He was talking with the captain of the sailors of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, whose name was Simon. The first speaker was Captain Hugues, who, with his companion, had always sailed with the Commander des Anbiez.

Captain Hugues was polishing with care a collar of steel net. Captain Simon from time to time was looking through the opening of the rambade, examining the sky and the sea, so as to prognosticate the end or the increase of the storm.

“Brother,” said Hugues to Simon, “the north wind blows strong; it will be several days before we arrive at La Ciotat. Christmas will be past, and our brother commander will be grieved.”

Captain Simon, before replying to his comrade, consulted the horizon again, and said, with a serious air:

“Although it is not proper for man to seek to divine the will of the Lord, I think we may hope to see the end of this tempest soon: the clouds seem not so low or so heavy. Perhaps to-morrow our ancient companion, the old watchman on Cape l’Aigle, will signal our arrival in the Gulf of La Ciotat.”

“And that will be a day of joy in Maison-Forte, and to Raimond V.,” said Captain Hugues.

“And also on board Our Lady of Seven Sorrows,” said Captain Simon, “although joy appears here as rarely as the sun during a westerly wind.”

“Look at this furbished collar,” said the gunner, regarding his work with an air of satisfaction. “It is strange, Brother Simon, how blood will stick to steel. I have rubbed in vain: you can always distinguish these blackish marks on the mesh!”

“Which proves that steel loves blood as the earth loves dew,” said the sailor, smiling sadly at his pleasantry.

“But do you know,” said Hugues, “that it will soon be ten years since the commander received this wound in his combat with Mourad-Reis, the corsair of Algiers?” “I remember it as well, brother, as that with one blow of the battle-axe I struck down the miscreant who had almost broken his kangiar on the breast of the commander, who was fortunately defended by that coat of mail. But for that, Pierre des Anbiez would be dead.”

“So he still keeps this collar, and I am going to carry it to him now.”

“Stop,” said the sailor, seizing the gunner by the arm, “you have chosen an unfortunate time, – the brother commander is in one of his bad days.”

“How?”

“The head cook told me this morning that Father Elzear wished to enter the commander’s chamber, but there was crape on the door.”

“I understand, I understand; that sign suffices to prevent the entrance of any person in the commander’s chamber before he gives the order to do so.”

“Yet to-day is neither Saturday nor the seventeenth day of the month,” said Captain Hugues with a thoughtful air.

“That is true, for it is only upon the return of these days that his fits of despondency seem to overwhelm him the most,” said Captain Simon.

Just at this moment a deep, hollow murmur was heard outside among the crew.

There was nothing ominous of evil in this noise; on the contrary, it was only an expression of satisfaction.

“What is that?” asked the gunner.

“Doubtless Reverend Father Elzear has just appeared on deck. At the very sight of him the slaves think their lot less miserable.”

CHAPTER XXII. THE BROTHER OF MERCY

Elzear des Anbiez, brother of the sacred order, royal and military, of Our Lady of Mercy, for the redemption of captives, had in fact just appeared on the deck of the galley.

The slaves welcomed his presence with a murmur of hope and satisfaction, for he always had some word of pity for these unhappy men.

The recognised discipline of the galley was so severe, so inflexible, and of such relentless justice, that Father Elzear, notwithstanding the tender attachment which bound him to his brother, the commander, would not have dared ask the pardon of an offender. But he never spared encouragement and consolation to those who were to undergo punishment.

Father Elzear advanced with a slow step into the middle of the narrow passage which separated the two rows of benches on the galley.

He wore the habit of his order: a long white cassock, with a mantle of the same material caught up on the shoulders. A rope girded his loins, and notwithstanding the cold, his bare feet had no other protection than leather sandals. In the middle of his breast showed the coat of arms belonging to his order, an escutcheon diapered with gold and gules, surmounted with a silver cross.

Father Elzear resembled Raimond V. His features were noble and majestic, but the fatigues and austerities of his holy, self-abnegating profession had stamped upon them an expression of constant suffering.

The top of his head was shaven, and a crown of white hair encircled his venerable brow.

His pale, emaciated face, his hollow cheeks, made his soft, serene black eyes appear larger still, and a sweet, sad smile gave an expression of adorable benevolence to his countenance.

He stooped a little in walking, as if he had contracted this habit by bending over the chained captives. His weak wrists were marked with deep and ineffaceable scars. Captured in one of the numerous voyages he made from France to Barbary for the ransom of slaves, he had been put in chains, and so cruelly treated that he bore all his life the marks of the barbarity practised by pirates.

Having been ransomed by his own family, he voluntarily went into slavery again in order to take the place in an Algerian prison of a poor inhabitant of La Ciotat, who could not pay his ransom, and whom a dying mother called to France.

In forty years he had ransomed more than three thousand slaves, either with the money of his own patrimony, or with the fruit of his collections from other Christians.

With the exception of a few months passed, every two or three years, in the house of his brother Raimond V., Father Elzear, noble, rich, learned, with an independent fortune, which he had devoted to the ransom of slaves, had been travelling continually, either on land for the purpose of collecting alms, or on sea, on his way to deliver captives.

Sacredly vowed to this hard and pious mission, he had always refused the positions and rank that his birth, his virtues, his courage, and his angelic piety would have conferred upon him in his order.

His self-abnegation, his simplicity, which possessed an antique grandeur, struck all minds with respect and admiration.

Endowed naturally with a noble and lofty spirit, he had directed all the powers of his soul toward one single aim, that of giving consolation, by imparting to his language that irresistible charm which won and comforted the afflicted.

And what a triumph it was for him, when his tender, sympathising words gave a little hope and courage to the poor slaves chained to their oars, when he saw their eyes, hard and dry from despair, turn to him moist with the sweet tears of gratitude.