The chamber in the Vatican was so dimly, richly lit with jewelled and deep-coloured lamps that at first Theirry thought himself alone.

He looked round and saw silver walls hung with tapestries of violet and gold; pillars with columns of sea-green marble and capitals of shining mosaic supported a roof encrusted with jasper and jade; the floor, of Numidian marble, was spread with Indian silk carpets; here and there stood crystal bowls of roses, white and crimson, fainting in the close, sweet air.

At the far end of the room was a dais hung with brocade in which flowers and animals shone in gold and silver on a purple ground; gilt steps, carved and painted, led up to a throne on the dais, and Theirry, as his eyes became used to the wine-coloured gloom, saw that some one sat there; some one so splendidly robed and so still that it seemed more like one of the images Theirry had seen worshipped in Constantinople than a human being.

He shivered.

Presently he could discern intense eyes looking at him out of a dazzle of dark gold and shimmering shadowed colours.

Michael II moved in his seat.

“Again do you not know me?” he asked in a low tone.

“You sent for me,” said Theirry; to himself his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural. “At last —”

“At last?”

“I have been waiting — you have been Pope thirty days, and never have you given me a sign.” “Is thirty days so long?”

Theirry came nearer the enthroned being.

“You have done nothing for me — you spoke of favours.”

Silver, gold and purple shook together as Michael II turned in his gorgeous chair.

“Favours!” he echoed. “You are the only man in Christendom who would stand in my presence; the Emperor kneels to kiss my foot.”

“The Emperor does not know,” shuddered Theirry; “but I do — and knowing, I cannot kneel to you...Ah, God! — how can you dare it?”

The Pope’s soft voice came from the shadows. “Your moods change — first this, then that; what humour are you in now, Theirry of Dendermonde; would you still be Emperor?”

Theirry put his hand to his brow.

“Yea, you know it — why do you torture me with suspense, with waiting? If Evil is to be my master, let me serve him...and be rewarded.”

Michael II answered swiftly.

“I was not the one to be faithless to our friendship, nor shall I now shrink from serving you, at any cost — be you but true.”

“In what way can I be false?” asked Theirry bitterly. “I, a thing at your mercy?”

The Pope held back the blossom-strewn brocade so that he could see the other’s face. “I ask of you to let Jacobea of Martzburg be.”

Theirry flushed.

“How ye have always hated her!...since I came to Rome I have seen her the once.”

The Pope’s smooth pale face showed a stain of red from the dim beams of one of the splendid lamps; Theirry observed it as he leant forward.

“She did not marry her steward,” he said.

The Pope’s eyes narrowed.

“Ye have been at the pains to discover that?”

Theirry laughed mournfully.

“You have won! you, sitting where you sit now, can afford to mock at me; at my love, at my hope — both of which I placed once at stake on — her — and lost!...and lost! Ten years ago — but having again seen her, sometimes I must think of her, and that she was not vile after all, but only trapped by you, as I have been...Sebastian went to Palestine, and she has gone unwed.”

The Pope gave a quick sigh and bit his lip.

“I will make you Emperor,” he said. “But that woman shall not be your Empress.” Again Theirry laughed.

“Did I love her even, which I do not — I would put her gladly aside to sit on the Imperial throne! — Come, I have dallied long enough on the brink of devilry — let me sin grandly now, and be grandly paid!”

Michael II gave so quick a breath the jewels on his breast scattered coloured light.

“Come nearer to me,” he commanded, “and take my hand — as you used to, in Frankfort...I am always Dirk to you — you who never cared for me, hated me, I think — oh, the traitors our hearts are, neither God nor devil is so fierce to fight!”

Theirry approached the gold steps; the Pope leant down and gave him his cool white hand, heavy with gemmed rings, and looked intently into his eyes.

“When they announced your election — how the storm smote the city,” whispered Theirry fearfully; “were you not daunted?”

The Pope withdrew his hand.

“I was not in the Conclave,” he said in a strange tone. “I lay sick in my villa — as for the storm —”

“It has not lifted since,” breathed Theirry; “day and night have the clouds hung over Rome — is not there, after all, a God?”

“Silence!” cried the Pope in a troubled voice.

“You would be Emperor of the West, would you not? — let us speak of that.”

Theirry leant against the arm of the throne and stared with an awful fascination into the other’s face.

“Ay, let us speak of that,” he answered wildly; “can all your devilries accomplish it? It is common talk in Rome that you secured your election by Frankish influence because you vowed to league with Balthasar — they say you are his ally —”

The dark intense eyes of Michael II glittered and glowed.

“Nevertheless I will cast him down and set you in his place — he comes today to ask my aid against Lombardy and Bohemia; and therefore have I sent for you that you may overhear this audience, and see how I mate and checkmate an Emperor for your sake.”

As he spoke, he pointed to the other end of the room where hung a sombre and rich curtain. “Conceal yourself — behind that tapestry — and listen carefully to what I say, and you will understand how I may humble Balthasar and shake him from his throne.”

Theirry, not joyous nor triumphant, but agitated and trembling with a horrible excitement, crept across the room and passed silently behind the arras.

As the long folds shook into place again the Pope touched a bell.

Paolo Orsini entered.

“Admit the Emperor.”

The secretary withdrew; there was a soft sound in the ante-chamber, the voices of priests.

Michael II put his hand to his heart and fetched two or three quick panting breaths; his full lips curved to a strange smile, and a stranger thought was behind it; a thought that, if expressed, would not have been understood even by Theirry of Dendermonde, who of all men knew most of his Holiness.

This it was —

“Did ever lady meet her lord like this before, or like this use him to advance her love!”

A heavy tread sounded without, and the Emperor advanced into the splendid glooms of the audience-chamber.

He was bare-headed, and at sight of the awe-inspiring figure, went on his knees at the foot of the dais.

Michael II looked at him in silence; the silver door was closed, and they were alone, save for the unseen listener behind the arras.

At last the Pope said slowly —

“Arise, my son.”

The Emperor stood erect, showing his magnificent height and bearing; he wore bronze-hued armour, scaled like a dragon’s breast, the high gold Imperial buskins, and an immense scarlet mantle that flowed behind him; his thick yellow hair hung in heavy curls on to his shoulders, and his enormous sword made a clatter against his armour as he moved.

Theirry, cautiously drawing aside the curtain to observe, dug his nails into his palms with bitter envy.

Behold the man who had once been his companion — little more than his equal, and now — an Emperor!

“You desired an audience of us,” said the Pope. “And some tedium may be spared, for we can well guess what you have to say.”

A look of relief came into Balthasar’s great blue eyes; he was no politician; the Empress, whose wits alone had kept him ten years on a throne, had trembled for this audience.

“Your Holiness knows that it is my humble desire to form a firm alliance between Rome and Germany. I have ruled both long enough to prove myself neither weak nor false, I have ever been a faithful servant of Holy Church —”

The Pope interrupted.

“And now you would ask her help against your rebellious subjects?”

“Yea, your Holiness.”

Michael II smiled.

“On what right does your Grace presume when you ask us to aid you in steadying a trembling throne?”

Balthasar flushed, and came clumsily to the point.

“I was assured, Holy Father, of your friendliness before the election — the Empress —” Again the Pope cut him short.

“Cardinal Caprarola was not the Vicegerent of Christ, the High Priest of Christendom, as we are now — and those whom Louis of Dendermonde knew, become as nothing before the Pope of Rome, in whose estimate all men are the same.”

Balthasar’s spirit rose at this haughty speech; his face turned crimson, and he savagely caught at one of his yellow curls.

“Your Holiness can have no object in refusing my alliance,” he answered. “Sylvester crowned me with his own hands, and I always lived in friendship with him — he aided me with troops when the Lombards rebelled against their suzerain, and Suabia he placed under an interdict —”

............