In the ebony cabinet in the Vatican sat Michael II; an expression of utter anguish marked his face.

On the gold table were spread books and parchments; the sullen light of a stormy midday filtered through the painted curtains and showed the rich splendours of the chamber, the glittering, closed wings of the shrine, the carved gold arms of the Pope’s chair, the threads of silver tissue in his crimson robe.

He sat very still, his elbow resting on the table, his cheek propped on his palm, now and then he looked at the little sand clock.

Presently Paolo Orsini entered; the Pope glanced at him without moving.

“No news?” he asked.

“None of the Lord Theirry, your Holiness.” Michael II moistened his lips.

“They have searched — everywhere?”

“Throughout Rome, your Holiness, but —”

“Well?”

“Only this, my lord, a man might easily disappear — there is no law in the city.”

“He was armed, they said, when he left the palace; have you sent to the convent I told you of —— St. Angela, beyond the Appian Gate?”

“Yea, your Holiness,” answered Orsini, “and they found nought but a dead woman.” The Pope averted his eyes.

“What did they with her?” Orsini lifted his brows.

“Cast her into the plague pit, Holiness — that quarter is a charnel-house.”

The Pope drew a deep breath.

“Well, he is gone — I do not think him dead,”— he flung back his head — “but the game is over, is it not, Orsini? We fling down our pieces and say — good-night!”

His nostrils dilated, his eyes flashed, he brought his open hand softly on to the table. “What does your Holiness mean?” asked Orsini.

“We mean that this puppet Emperor of ours has forsaken us, and that our position becomes perilous,” answered the Pope. “Cardinal Narbonne, hurling defiance at us from Viterbo, grows stronger, and the mob — do not seek to deceive me, Orsini, the mob clamours against us?”

“It is true, my lord.”

The Pope gave a terrible smile, and his beautiful eyes widened.

“And the soldiers mutiny, the Saxons at Trastevere have joined Balthasar and the Veronese have left me — we have not enough men to hold Rome an hour; well, Orsini, you shall take a summons to the Cardinals and we will hold a conclave, there to decide how we may meet our fortune.”

He rose and turned towards the window.

“Hark, do you hear how the factions howl below? — begone, Orsini.”

The secretary departed in silence.

Mutterings, murmurings, howlings rose from the accursed city to the Pontiff’s chamber; lightning darted from the black heavens, and thunder rolled round the hills of Rome. Michael II walked to and fro in his gorgeous cabinet.

In the three days since Theirry had fled the city, his power had crumbled like a handful of sand; Rome had turned against him, and every hour men fell away from his cause.

The devils, too, had forsaken him; he could not raise the spirits, the magic fires would not burn...all was blank darkness and silence.

Up and down he paced, listening to the mob surging in the Piazza of St. Peter.

The day wore on and the storm grew in violence.

Paolo Orsini came again to him, his face pale.

“Half the Cardinals are fled to Viterbo and those remaining refuse to acknowledge your Holiness.”

The Pope smiled.

“I had expected it.”

“News comes from a Greek runner that Theirry of Dendermonde is with Balthasar’s host —” “Also I expected that,” said Michael II wildly.

“And they proclaim you,” continued Orsini in an agitated manner, “an impostor, one given to evil practices, and by these means incite the people against you; Cardinal Orvieto has led a thousand men across the marshes to the Emperor’s army —”

“And Theirry of Dendermonde has denounced me!” said the Pope.

As he spoke one beat for admission on the gilt door. The secretary opened and there entered an Eastern chamberlain.

“Holiness,” he cried fearfully, “the people have set fire to your palace on the Palatine Hill, and Cardinal Colonna, with his brother Octavian, have seized Castel San Angelo for the Emperor, and hold it in defiance of your Grace.”

As he finished the lightning darted info the now darkening chamber, and the thunder mingled with the howling of the mob that surged beneath the Vatican walls.

“The captain of my guard and those faithful to me,” answered the Pope, “will know how to do what may be done — apprise me of the approach of Balthasar’s host, and now go.”

They left him; he stood for a while listening to those ominous sounds that filled the murky air, then he pressed a spring in one of the mother-of-pearl panels and stepped into the secret chamber that was revealed.

Cautiously he closed the panel by which he had entered, and looked furtively about him.

The small windowless space was lit only by one blood-red lamp, locked cupboards lined the walls, and a huge globe of faint gold, painted with curious and mystic signs, hung from the ceiling.

The Pope’s stiff garments made a soft rustling sound as he moved; his quick desperate breathing disturbed the heavy confined air.

In his pallid face his eyes rolled and gleamed.

“Sathanas, Sathanas,” he muttered, “is this the end?”

A throbbing shook the red-lit gloom, his last words were echoed mournfully —

“The end.”

He clutched his hands into the jewelled embroidery on his breast.

“Now you mock me — by my old allegiance, is this the end?”

Again the echo from the dark walls —

“The end.”

The Pope glared in front of him.

“Must I die, Sathanas — must I swiftly die?”

A little confused laughter came before the echo “swiftly die.”

He paced up and down the narrow space.

“I staked my fortunes on that man’s faith and he has forsaken me, and I have lost, lost!” “Lost! lost!”

The Pope laughed frantically.

“At least she died, Sathanas, her yellow hair rots in the plague pit now; I had some skill left...but what was all my skill if I could not keep him faithful to me —”

He clasped his jewelled hand over his eyes; utter silence followed his words now; the globe of pallid gold trembled in the darkness of the domed ceiling, and the mystic characters on it began to writhe and move.

“Long had I lived with the earth beneath my feet had I not met that fair sweet fool, and I go to ruin for his sake who has denounced me —”

The red lamp became dull as a dying coal.

“Ye warned me,” breathed the Pope, “that this man would be my bane — you promised on his truth to you and me to halve the world between us; he was false, and you have utterly forsaken me?”

The echo answered —

“Utterly forsaken...”

The lamp went out.

The pale luminous globe expanded to a monstrous size, the circle of dark little fiends round it danced and whirled madly..

Then it burst and fell in a thousand fragments at the Pope’s feet.

Out of the darkness came a wail as of some thing hurt or dying, then long sighing shook the close air...

The Pope felt along the wall, touched the spring and stepped into the ebony cabinet. He looked quite old and small and bowed.

Night had fallen; the chamber was lit by perfumed candles in curious carved sticks of soapstone; faint veils of incense floated in the air.

Without the thunder rolled and threatened, and the factions of Rome fought in the streets.

The Pope sank into a chair and folded his hands in his lap; his head fell forward on his breast; his lips quivered and two tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Angelus bells rang out over the city, there were not many to ring now; as they quivered away a clock struck, quite near.

The Pope did not move.

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