after a heroic
resistance, and it was known only too well that if the King of Hungary
could get so far as the walls of Naples, he would not have to endanger
his life in order to seize that city. Happily the Provencal galleys had
reached port at last. The king and the queen had only just time to
embark and take refuge at Gaeta. The Hungarian army arrived at Naples.
The town was on the point of yielding, and had sent messengers to the
king humbly demanding peace; but the speeches of the Hungarians showed
such insolence that the people, irritated past endurance, took up arms,
and resolved to defend their household gods with all the energy of
despair.

CHAPTER VIII

While the Neapolitans were holding out against their enemy at the Porta
Capuana, a strange scene was being enacted at the other side of the town,
a scene that shows us in lively colours the violence and treachery of
this barbarous age. The widow of Charles of Durazzo was shut up in the
castle of Ovo, and awaiting in feverish anxiety the arrival of the ship
that was to take her to the queen. The poor Princess Marie, pressing her
weeping children to her heart, pale, with dishevelled locks, fixed eyes,
and drawn lips, was listening for every sound, distracted between hope
and fear. Suddenly steps resounded along the corridor; a friendly voice
was heard; Marie fell upon her knees with a cry of joy: her liberator had
come.

Renaud des Baux, admiral of the Provencal squadron, respectfully
advanced, followed by his eldest son Robert and his chaplain.

"God, I thank Thee!" exclaimed Marie, rising to her feet; "we are saved."

"One moment, madam," said Renaud, stopping her: "you are indeed saved,
but upon one condition."

"A condition?" murmured the princess in surprise.

"Listen, madam. The King of Hungary, the avenger of Andre's murderers,
the slayer of your husband, is at the gates of Naples; the people and
soldiers will succumb, as soon as their last gallant effort is spent--the
army of the conqueror is about to spread desolation and death throughout
the city by fire and the sword. This time the Hungarian butcher will
spare no victims: he will kill the mother before her children's eyes, the
children in their mother's arms. The drawbridge of this castle is up and
there are none on guard; every man who can wield a sword is now at the
other end of the town. Woe to you, Marie of Durazzo, if the King of
Hungary shall remember that you preferred his