The Knight of Malta

“My brother! my brother!” exclaimed Elzear, throwing himself upon the commander. “My brother, it is I; may God be with you!”

Pierre des Anbiez stared at the good brother as if he did not recognise him; then, sinking down before his praying-desk, he let his head fall on his breast, and cried, in a hollow voice:

“The Lord is never with a murderer, and yet,” added he, raising his head half-way and looking at the portrait in terror, “and yet, to expiate my crime, I have placed the face of my victim always under my eyes! There, on my bed of ashes, where I seek a repose which flies from me, at every hour of the day, at every hour of the night, I behold the unrelenting face of him who says to me unceasingly, ‘Murderer! Murderer! You have shed my blood! Be accursed!’”

“My brother, oh, my brother, come back to your senses,” whispered the father. He feared the voice of the commander might be heard outside.

Without replying to his brother, the commander withdrew himself from his arms, rose to the full height of his tall stature, and approached the portrait.

“For twenty years there has not passed a day in which I have not wept my crime! For twenty years have I not tried to expiate this murder by the most cruel austerities? What more do you wish, infernal memory? What more do you ask? You, also, – you, my victim, have you not shed blood, – the blood of my accomplice? But alas! alas! this blood, you could shed it, you, – vengeance gave you the right, while I am the infamous assassin! Oh, yes, vengeance is just! Strike, strike, then, without pity! Soon the hand of God will strike me eternally!”

Overcome by emotion, the commander, almost deprived of consciousness, again fell on his knees, half recumbent upon the coffin which served him as bed.

Father Elzear had never discovered his brother’s secret. He knew him to be a prey to profound melancholy, but was ignorant of the cause, and now was frightened and distressed at the dreadful confidence betrayed in a moment of involuntary excitement.

That Pierre des Anbiez, a man of iron character, of invincible courage, should fall into such remorseful melancholy and weakness and despair, argued a cause that was terrible indeed!

The intrepidity of the commander was proverbial; in the midst of the most frightful perils, his cool daring had been the wonder of all who beheld it. His gloomy impassibility had never forsaken him before, even amid the awful combats a seaman is compelled to wage with the elements. His courage approached ferocity. Once engaged in battle, once in the thick of the fight, he never gave quarter to the pirates. But this fever of massacre ceased when the battle-cries of the combatants and the sight of the blood excited him no longer. Then he became calm and humane, although pitiless toward the least fault of discipline. He had sustained the most brilliant engagements with Barbary pirates. His black galley was tie terror as well as the constant aim of attack among the pirates, but, thanks to the superiority of equipment, Our Lady of Seven Sorrows had never been captured, and her defeats had cost the enemy dear.

Father Elzear, seated on the edge of the coffin, sustained the head of his brother on his knees. The commander, as pale as a ghost, lay unconscious, his brow wet with a cold sweat At last he regained his consciousness, and looked around him with a sad and astonished air; then, throwing a glance upon his arms and naked shoulders, scarcely covered by the haircloth, he asked the priest, abruptly:

“How came you here, Elzear?”

“Although there was crape on your door, Pierre, I thought I could enter. The matter which brought me to you is a very important one.”

An expression of keen dissatisfaction was depicted on the commander’s countenance, as he cried:

“And I have been talking, no doubt?”

“The Lord has been moved to pity by your words, but I have not understood them, my brother. Besides, your mind was distracted; you were under the domination of some fatal illusion.”

Pierre smiled bitterly. “Yes, it was an illusion, – a dream,” said he. “You know, I am sometimes overcome by dreadful imaginations, and become delirious, – that is why I wish to be alone in these periods of madness. Believe me, Elzear, then the presence of any human being is intolerable to me, for I fear even you.”

As he said these words, the commander entered a closet adjoining his chamber, and soon came out dressed in a long robe of black woollen cloth, on which was quartered the white cross of his order.

The figure of Pierre des Anbiez was tall, erect, and robust. His thin, nervous limbs showed, in spite of age, an uncommon vigour. His features were severe and warlike; thick, black eyebrows shaded his deep-set, hollow, burning eyes, which seemed always to glow with the sombre fire of a fever; a deep scar divided his brow, and furrowed his cheek until it was lost in his gray, short, and bushy beard.

Returning to his chamber, he walked back and forth, his hands crossed behind his back, without saying a word to his brother.

Finally he paused and extended to the priest his hand, which had been painfully torn by a gunshot, and said:

“The sign which I had attached to my door ought to have assured my solitude. From the first officer to the last soldier on my galley, no one dares enter here after seeing that sign. I thought myself alone, as much alone as in the depth of a cloister, or the most hidden cell of the great penitentiary of our order. So, my brother, although you have seen, although you have heard, permit me to ask you never to say a word on this subject. Let what has passed here be forgotten, – as sacred as a confession made by a dying man under the seal of the confessional.”

“It shall be as you desire, Pierre,” replied Father Elzear, sadly. “I think of it only with pain that I cannot help you in the sorrows which have burdened you so long.”

“Reassure yourself. It is not given to the power of man to console me,” replied the commander. Then, as if he feared to wound the affection of his brother, he added:

“Yet your fraternal friendship and that of Raimond Digiare very dear to me; but, alas, although the dews of May and the sweet rains of June may fall in the sea, they can never sweeten the bitterness of its deep waters. But what did you come to ask me?”

“Pardon for a poor Moor condemned this morning to the chase-gun.”

“That sentence has been executed, and it could not be, my brother, that I should ever grant you this pardon.” “Thank God, the sentence has not been executed; there is still some hope left me, Pierre.”

“The hour-glass stands at two. I gave order to the captain of the mast to tie the Moor to the chase-gun at one o’clock; the slave ought to be now in the hands of the surgeon and chaplain, – may God save the soul of this pagan, if his body has not been able to endure the punishment.”

“At my earnest request, the captain of the mast suspended the execution, my brother.”

“You cannot say what is not true, Elzear, but this moment you have made a fatal gift to the captain of the mast.”

“Pierre, remember that I alone am responsible. Pardon, I pray – ”

“Holy Cross!” cried the commander, impetuously, “for the first time since I have commanded this galley, shall I pardon, in the same day, two of the gravest faults that can be committed: the revolt of a slave against a subordinate officer, and the want of discipline in the subordinate officer toward his chief? No, no, that is impossible!” The commander took a whistle from his belt and blew a shrill note through the little silver tube.

A page clothed in black appeared at the door.

“The captain of the mast!” said the commander, abruptly. The page went out.

“Ah, my brother, will you be altogether without pity?” cried Elzear, in a tone of sad reproach.

“Without pity?” and the commander smiled bitterly, “yes, without pity for the faults of others, as for my own faults.”

The priest, remembering the terrible chastisement that his brother had just inflicted upon himself, realised that such a man must be inexorable in the observance of discipline, and bowed his head, renouncing all hope.

The captain of the mast entered.

“You will remain eight nights in irons on the rambade,” said the commander.

The sailor bowed respectfully, without uttering a word.

“Let the chaplain and surgeon be informed that the Moor is to be chastised on the chase-gun.”

The captain of the mast bowed more profoundly still and disappeared.

“I, at least, will not abandon this poor wretch!” cried Father Elzear, rising hurriedly in order to accompany him.

The good brother went out, and Pierre des Anbiez resumed his slow promenade in his chamber.

From time to time his eyes were attracted, in spite of himself, by the fatal portrait of the man for whose murder he suffered such remorse.

Then his steps became irregular and his face became sad and gloomy again.

For the first time perhaps in many years, he felt a thrill of pain at the thought of the cruel suffering the Moor was about to undergo.

This punishment was just and deserved, but he remembered that the unhappy captive had been, up to that time, gentle, submissive, and industrious. Yet such was the inflexibility of his character that he reproached himself for this involuntary pity, as a culpable weakness.

Finally the solemn flourishes of the trumpets of the galley announced that the execution was finished. He heard the slow and regular step of the soldiers and sailors, who were breaking ranks after having assisted at the punishment.

Soon Father Elzear entered, pale, dismayed, his eyes bathed in tears, and his cassock stained with blood.