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 rival to him!”

“But have you not come here to save me?” cried Marie in a voice of anguish.  “Joan, my sister, did she not command you to take me to her?”

“Your sister is no longer in the position to give orders,” replied Renaud, with a disdainful smile.  “She had nothing for me but thanks because I saved her life, and her husband’s too, when he fled like a coward before the man whom he had dared to challenge to a duel.”

Marie looked fixedly at the admiral to assure herself that it was really he who thus arrogantly talked about his masters.  But she was terrified at his imperturbable expression, and said gently—­

“As I owe my life and my children’s lives solely to your generosity, I am grateful to you beyond all measure.  But we must hurry, my lord:  every moment I fancy I hear cries of vengeance, and you would not leave me now a prey to my brutal enemy?”

“God forbid, madam; I will save you at the risk of my life; but I have said already, I impose a condition.”

“What is it?” said Marie, with forced calm.

“That you marry my son on the instant, in the presence of our reverend chaplain.”