XII

IN SYRACUSE

Once in the moonlit darkness of the gardens, maid and man took hands and
ran as swiftly as they could through the scented night. They could not
go overfast, and it was the maid's hand that helped the man, not the
man's hand the maid. Perpetua was as fleet as a deer, but the degraded
King limped like the fool whose likeness had been flung upon him, and
Perpetua had to slacken her speed in order that he might keep pace with
her. But there were no signs of pursuit from the house of Lycabetta. The
terror of the plague was so great that Robert's mantle was an
unquestionable defence. The most licentious youth in Syracuse would not
go near the loveliest woman if he had the least reason to believe that
she had been but lightly touched by a plague-spotted garment. Limping
and running, their shadows streaming behind them on the white path that
threaded the cypresses, they reached the golden gates which opened
without demur to Robert's summons in the King's name, and in another
instant they were speeding on the level highway to the city. No word
passed between them; the dominant thought of each was to get as far as
might be, as soon as might be, from the place sacred to the strange
Venus.

Suddenly, as they reached the outskirts of the city, Robert tugged at
Perpetua's hand and stayed her flight. In an angle of a house at the
corner of a street there was a niche. In the niche was the image of a
saint, and at the feet of the image the little flame of a votive lamp
flickered in the soft air. Robert dropped on his knees and buried his
face in his hands. Perpetua immediately knelt by his side, and the two
fugitives prayed silently, earnestly for some moments. Perpetua's simple
prayer was first that Heaven might be pleased to deliver the fool from
his delusion, and next that she might be strengthened to face and accept
her threatened fate. Robert's prayers were incoherent, confused
supplications for pity, for pardon, whirling with ejaculations of
gratitude for having been permitted to rescue the maid from her enemies.

Perpetua rose first, and stood, observing with infinite pity how the
deformed body of the fool shook with the storm of emotions that seemed
to convulse him. Suddenly Robert sprang to his feet and faced her.

"Did you hear nothing?" he asked. Perpetua shook her head reassuringly,
for she thought that he meant the sound of pursuing feet, but Robert
persisted.

"Did you not hear a voice that sai