| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: The Mysteries of Florence
Author: Lippard, George
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mysteries of Florence" ***
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
THE
MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE.
BY
GEORGE LIPPARD.
AUTHOR OF “THE EMPIRE CITY, OR NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY,” “THE MEMOIRS OF
A PREACHER,” “WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN,” “THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN
REVOLUTION, OR, WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS,” “THE QUAKER CITY; OR, THE
MONKS OF MONK HALL,” “PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON,”
“LEGENDS OF MEXICO,” “THE NAZARENE,” “BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE,”
“THE ENTRANCED,” “THE BANK DIRECTOR’S SON,” ETC., ETC.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
CONTENTS.
BOOK THE FIRST.
THE RED CHAMBER.
CHAPTER FIRST.
PAGE
The Signet Ring of Albarone 13
CHAPTER SECOND.
The White Dust in the Goblet of Gold 20
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Embrace of a Brother 31
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Death Trap 36
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Chamber of Mysteries 40
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The Dream of the Damned 42
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Cell of the Doomed 48
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
Adrian the Doomed 53
CHAPTER NINTH.
The Felon and the Duke 57
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Chamber of the Duke 60
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
The Pit of Darkness 65
CHAPTER SECOND.
Robin alone in the Earth-hidden Cavern 67
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Chapel of the Rocks 68
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Chapel of St. George of Albarone 73
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Cavern of Albarone 77
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The Ordeal 82
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Blow for the Winged Leopard 88
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Page and the Damsel 93
CHAPTER NINTH.
The Story of Guiseppo 95
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Memory of Guilt 98
BOOK THE THIRD.
LAST NIGHT OF THRICE SEVEN YEARS.
CHAPTER FIRST.
The Maiden in her Bower 105
CHAPTER SECOND.
The Lady and the Yeoman 111
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Valley of the Bowl 114
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Bridal Eve 117
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Bridal Morn 125
CHAPTER SIXTH.
Sir Geoffrey O’ TH’ Longsword 131
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Student and the Fair Stranger 135
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Castle Gate 138
CHAPTER NINTH.
Aldarin and his Future 143
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Scholar Aldarin and the Lord Guiseppo 151
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
The White Waters of the Alembic 157
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
The Trial of the Waters of Life 163
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
The Oath 173
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
The Fate of the Fratricide 178
BOOK THE FOURTH.
THE QUEEN OF FLORENCE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
A Silvery Moon and a Cloudless Sky 189
CHAPTER SECOND.
The Cloud Gathers and the Sky Darkens 192
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Death Bowl 195
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Cell of St. Areline 205
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Wonders of St. Areline 208
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The Watch beside the Dead 211
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Coffin and the Corse 213
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Fate of the Betrayer 218
CHAPTER NINTH.
Three Days Elapse 221
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Mysteries of the Chronicle 224
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
The Buried Alive 230
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
The Real more terrible than the Unreal 239
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
The Cathedral of Florence 250
The Scene of the Romance.
The moon arose!
Reposing on the porch of an ancient mansion,--which, deserted and
falling to ruins, was pitched on the brow of a dizzy steep;--a
traveller, who had journeyed far and long, looked forth upon the night,
through an opening in the trees crowning the verge of the cliff, and,
with a soul filled with silent awe, beheld this scene of the grandeur of
nature, combined with the glories of art, and the stern memories of a
long past age.
A lovely valley lay sleeping in the moonbeams: ancient towers, Gothic
temples, domes of religion, palaces of pleasure, rose clearly in the
air, from amid gardens gay with flowers, or forests heavy with foliage,
while around the scene of slumbering grandeur, swept the mighty
Apennines, lifting their blue peaks into the universe of azure that
arched above, silvered and tinted and mellowed by the midnight moon.
A stream of tremulous silver wandered brightly through the valley, like
a banner waving along the blackness of night. The domes of an ancient
city, baptized by the strains of the Minstrel, and consecrated by the
words of the Romancer, were seen looming over the forest trees, from the
dim distance of the vale.
The moon arose!
There was softness, and beauty, and power, written on the wide sweep of
that boundless sky, with its horizon of blue mountains; there was solemn
silence resting on the night, and the angels of God might look down upon
the scene, and weep to think that a land so like heaven in its
gorgeousness of beauty, should be stamped with the footsteps of crimes
too mighty for belief, wrongs too dark for the page of history, woes
steeped in the very bitterness of death.
It was the valley of the Arno, and the traveler gazed from the height
upon the distant City of Florence, surnamed the “Fair.”
Arising in the calm moonbeams from the very centre of the valley, the
gray towers of a ruined castle broke abruptly into the dark azure of
night, looming from the distance like stern monuments of a past age,
lifting to heaven their testimony of the glory and the gloom of the
Gothic Era.
It was the Castle of Albarone, the home of a mighty race who flourished
in long past centuries. Within the walls of the lonely castle,--lonely
because in ruins,--rising from the bosom of the Arno, and along the
shores of a mountain lake, not many leagues away, the tragedy of the
race of Albarone found its theatre of action, with vast multitudes of
men looking on, spectators or actors in its scene of varied and
contrasted horror.
And as the traveller, wearied with his day’s journey, athirst from
fatigue and toil, uprose from his resting-place, and looked yet once
more upon the night, ere he hastened on his path to the Fair City of
Florence, his eye was again met by the stern vision of the castle
towering in ruins, and over his soul came a feeling of awe and horror,
as he mused upon the crimes and mysteries of the House of Albarone,
while the night around him grew more still, and the sky above more
shadowy in its beauty.
And as he mused, a dark cloud covered the face of the moon, hovering
like a vast bird, with wings of night, and form of omen, right above the
ruined towers of Albarone. A moment passed, the sky was again all glory
and light, while still--
The moon arose!
BOOK THE FIRST.
THE RED CHAMBER
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE SIGNET RING OF ALBARONE.
HIGH NOON AMID THE OLD CASTLE WALLS.
From the clear azure of the summer sky, the mid-day sun shone over the
lofty battlements and massive towers of an ancient castle, which, rising
amid the heights of a precipitous rock, lay basking in the warm
atmosphere; while along the spacious court-yard, and among the nooks and
crevices of the dark gray walls, the mellow beams fell lazily, gilding
each point they touched, and turning the blackened rocks to brightened
gold, with the voluptuous light of a summer noon.
The massive cliff, from whose stern foundations the castle arose, sank
suddenly, with a precipitous descent, into the bed of the valley, while
around, venerable with the grandeur of ages, swept the magnificent
forest, with its mass of verdure mellowing in the sunlight; and, winding
on its way of silver, a broad and rapid stream, gleaming from the deep
green foliage, now gave each wave and ripple to the kiss of day, and
now, sweeping in its shadowy nooks, sheltered its beauty from the
dazzling light.
Far along the view, forest towered over forest, and sloping meadows,
dotted with cottages, succeeded shelving fields, golden with wheat, or
gay with vines; while many a pleasant hill-side arose from amid the
embowering woods, with the peaceful summit sleeping in the sun-light,
and the straight shadows of the still noon resting along the depths of
the valley, from which it greenly ascended.
Along the edge of the horizon, amid the tall peaks of the far-off
mountains, summer clouds, vast and gorgeous, lay basking in the
sunlight, with their fantastic forms, of every hue and shape--now dark,
now bright, now golden, now gray, and again white as the new-fallen
snow--all clearly and delicately relieved by the back-ground of azure,
transparent and glassy as the sky of some voluptuous dream.
The hour was still and solemn, with the peculiar silence and solemnity
of the high noon; the broad banner floated heavily from the loftiest
tower of the castle, unruffled by a whisper of the wind; and along the
court-yard, and throughout the castle, a death-like silence reigned,
which betokened any thing save the presence of numerous bodies of armed
men within the castle walls.
The sentinels who waited at the castle gate, rested indolently upon
their pikes, and glancing over the spacious court-yard, marked, with a
look of discontent, the absence of all signs of animation from those
walls which had so often rung with sounds of gay carousal and shouts of
merriment. All was still and solemn where, in days by-gone, not a sound
had awoke the echoes of the time-darkened walls save the loud laugh of
the careless reveller, the merry carol of the minstrel, or the glee-song
of the banquet hall.
A footstep--a mailed and booted footstep--broke the silence of the air,
and presently, appearing from the shadow of the lofty hall door of the
castle, a stout and strong-limbed soldier emerged into the light of the
sun. As he descended the steps of stone, he paused for a moment, and
glanced around the court-yard. Stout, without being bulky in figure, the
person of the yeoman was marked by broad shoulders, a chest massive and
prominent, arms that were all bone and muscle, and legs that discovered
the bold and rugged outline of strong physical power, hardened by
fatigue and toil.
He raised his cap of buff, surmounted by a dark plume, and plated with
steel, from his brow, and the sunbeams fell upon a rugged countenance,
darkened by the sun, and seamed by innumerable wrinkles, with a low, yet
massive forehead, a nose short, straight, yet prominent, a wide mouth,
with thin lips, and cheek-bones high and bold in outline, while his
clear blue eyes, with their quick and varying glance, afforded a strange
contrast to his toil-hardened and sunburnt features. Around his throat,
and over his prominent chin, grew a thick and rugged beard, dark as his
eyebrows in hue, while his hair, slightly touched by age, and worn short
and close, gave a marked outline to his head, that completed the
expression of dogged courage and blunt frankness visible in every
lineament of his countenance.
Attired in doublet and hose of buff, defended by a plate of massive
steel on the breast, with smaller plates on each arm and leg, the yeoman
wore boots of slouching buckskin, while a broad belt of darkened
leather, thrown over his manly chest, supported the short, straight
sword, which depended from his left side.
Having glanced along the court-yard, and marked the sentinels waiting
lazily beside the castle gate, the yeoman’s eye wandered to the banner
which clung heavily around the towering staff, and then depositing his
cap on his head with an air of discontent, as he again surveyed the
castle yard--
“St. Withold!” he cried, in a voice as rugged as his face--“St. Withold!
but some foul spell of the fiend’s own making has fallen upon these old
walls! All dull--all dead--all leaden! Even yon flag, which kissed the
breeze of the Holy Land, not three months agone, looks dull and drowsy.
‘Slife! a man might as well be dead as live in this manner. No
feasting--no songs--no carousing! Ugh! A pest take it all, I say! No
jousts--no tournaments--no mellays! The foul fiend take it, I say; and
Sathanas wither the heathen hand that winged the poisoned javelin at my
knightly Lord--Julian, Count of this gallant castle Di Albarone! The
foul fiend wither the hand of the paynim dog, I say!”
“Ha, ha, ha! my good Robin,” laughed a clear and youthful voice, “by my
troth, thou’rt sadly out of temper! What has ruffled thee, my
buff-and-buckskin? Holy Mary--_what_ a face!”
Robin turned, and beheld the slender form of a daintily appareled youth,
whose full cheeks were wrinkled with laughter, while his merry hazel
eyes seemed dancing in the light of their own glee.
“Out of temper!” exclaimed rough Robin, as he glanced at the laughing
youth; “out of temper! By St. Withold! there’s good reason for’t, too.
Look ye, my bird of a page, never since I left the service of mine own
native prince, the brave Richard, of the Lion Heart--never since the day
when the gallant Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword drew his sword in the wars of
Palestine, under the banner of Count Julian Di Albarone, have I felt so
sick, so wearied in heart, as I do this day--mark ye, my page! ‘Out of
temper,’ forsooth! Answer me, then, popinjay--does not our gallant Lord
Julian lie wasting away in yon sick-chamber, with the poison of an
incurable wound eating his very heart? Answer me that, Guiseppo.”
“Ay, marry does he, my good Robin,” the page answered, as he played with
a jeweled chain that hung from his neck; “but then thou knowest he will
recover. He will again mount his war-horse! Ay, my good Lord Julian will
again lead armies to battle in the wilds of Palestine! He will, by my
troth, Rough Robin!”
“I fear me, never, never,” the yeoman replied, in a subdued tone. “Look
ye, Guiseppo, what dost think of this thin-faced half-brother of the
Count, the scholar Aldarin? There’s a mystery about the man--I like him
not. Thy master, the Duke of Florence, hath now been three days at this
good castle of Albarone--why is he so much in the company of this
keen-eyed Aldarin? By St. Withold! I like it not. Marry, boy, but the
devil’s a-brewing a pretty pot of yeast for somebody’s bread! Guiseppo,
canst tell me naught concerning the object of the visit of thy master,
the Duke, to this castle--hey, boy?”
“Why, Robin,” replied the page, as, placing one small hand on either
side of his slender waist, he glanced at the yeoman with a sidelong
look; “why, Robin, didst ever hear of--of--the fair Ladye Annabel? Eh,
Robin?”
“The fair Ladye Annabel! Tut! boy, thou triflest with me. The fair Ladye
Annabel--she is the lovely daughter of this crusty old scholar. Her
mother was an Eastern woman; and the fair girl first saw the light in
the wilds of Palestine, when the scholar Aldarin accompanied his brother
thither. Marry, ’tis more than sixteen--seventeen years since. ’Tis long
ago--very long. By St. Withold! those were merry days. But come, sir
page, why name the Ladye Annabel and the Duke in the same breath?”
The restless Guiseppo sprang aside with a nimble movement, and then
folding his arms, stood at the distance of a few paces, regarding the
stout yeoman with a look of mock gravity and solemn humor.
“What wouldst give to know, Robin?” he exclaimed, with a peculiar
contortion of his mirthful face. “Hark ye, my stout yeoman, ‘My Lord Duke
of Florence and the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.’ Dost like the
sound? What says my rough soldier, now?”
“I see a light,” slowly responded Robin; “I see a light!” and he slowly
drew his sword half-way from the scabbard. “But as yet ’tis but a
pestilent Jack o’ lanthorn light, dancing about a tangled marsh of pits
and bogs, with plenty o’hidden traps to catch honest men by the heels,
i’ faith. Annabel and the Duke! Ho--ho! Then the game’s up with the son
o’ th’ Count--my Lord Adrian?”
“Wag that clumsy tongue o’ thine with a spice o’ caution, Robin,”
whispered the merry page. “See, the sharp-faced steward o’ th’ castle
draws nigh, and with him a group of sworn grumblers. The four old
esquires who followed our lord to battle in the wilds o’ Palestine--a
soldier, with a carbuncled visage, and a lounging servitor, the huntsman
o’ th’ castle. Hark! didst ever hear such eloquent growling?”
And as Robin turned to listen, he beheld the strangely contrasted party
lounging slowly along the castle yard, with the indolent gait of men
having little to do save to eat, to drink, to sleep, and to gossip,
while around them the lazy hours of the silent castle-walls dragged
onward with wings of lead.
“Talk not to me of thrift, sir steward,” cried the bluff-faced and
thick-headed huntsman. “When my Lord, Count Julian, was well--not a day
passed but a lusty buck was steaming on the castle hearth--”
“Wine flowed like water,” chimed in the soldier with the fiery nose.
“Your true soldier swore by his beaker alone--”
“_Now!_” interrupted the sharp-faced steward, waving his thin hands, and
with an expressive shrug of the shoulders; “_now_, my lord the Count is
_sick_. The scholar Aldarin hath the rule. Tell me, sir huntsman, and
you, sir, of the fiery nose, is there any waste o’ flesh or liquor in
the castle? Is not the signer careful of the beeves of my lord. No
longer are we quiet folks disturbed by your carousings: no silly dances,
no rude catches o’ vile camp-follower songs! By the Virgin, no!”
“By the true wood o’ th’ cross, sir steward, thou’rt a rare one!”
growled a white-haired esquire, as his scarred and sunburnt visage was
turned angrily toward the sharp-faced steward. “Dost think men o’ mettle
are made o’ such broomstick bones and mud-puddle blood as thou? Body o’
Bacchus, no! ‘No carousing!’ I’d e’en like to see thee on a jolly
carouse!”
“Say rather, sir esquire,” Robin the Rough exclaimed, as the party
reached his side, “say rather, you’d e’en wish to see a death’s-head
making mirth at a feast, or a funeral procession strike up a jolly
fandango! Sir steward at a feast!--the owl at a gathering o’
nightingales!”
The sharped-faced steward was about to make an angry reply, when a
sudden thrill ran through the party. Each tongue was stilled, and each
man stood motionless in the full glare of the noon-day sun.
* * * * *
“Hist! The Signor Aldarin approaches,” whispered the page Guiseppo. “He
comes from the castle gate along to the castle hall.”
And as each head was stealthily turned over the shoulder toward the
castle gate, there came gliding along, with cat-like steps and downcast
look, a man of severe aspect, whose gray eye--cold, flashing, and clear,
in its unchangeable glance--seemed as though it could read the very
heart.
A tunic of dark velvet, disclosing the spare outlines of his slim
figure, reached to his ankles, and over this garment, depending from his
right shoulder, he wore a robe of similar color, passed under his left
arm, joined in front by a chain of gold, and then falling in sweeping
folds to his sandaled feet.
A cap of dark fur, bright with a single gem of strange lustre, gave a
striking relief to his high, pale forehead, seamed by a single deep
wrinkle, shooting upward from between the eyebrows, while his gray hair
fell in slight masses down along the hollow cheeks and over his neck and
shoulders.
“This is the--scholar!” growled one of the white-haired esquires. “His
days have been passed in the laboratory, while his brother’s sword hath
flashed at the head of armies.”
“The saints preserve me from the wizard-tribe, say I!” muttered Robin
the Rough; and as he spoke, with an involuntary movement of fear, the
party separated on either side of the castle hall, leaving room for the
passage of the Signor Aldarin.
He came slowly onward, with his head downcast, neither looking to the
one side nor to the other. He ascended the steps of stone, and in a
moment was lost to the view of the loiterers in the castle yard.
The hall of the castle passed, a passage traversed, and another stairway
ascended, the stooping scholar stood in a small ante-chamber, with the
light of the noon-day sun subdued to a twilight obscurity by the absence
of windows from the place, while an evening gloom hung around the narrow
walls, the arching ceiling of darkened stone, and the floor of
tesselated marble. A single casement, long and narrow, reaching from
floor to arch, gave entrance to a straggling beam of daylight,
disclosing the stout and muscular form of a man-at-arms, with armor and
helmet of steel, who, pike in hand, waited beside a massive door,
opening into one of the principal apartments of the castle.
With a soft, gliding footstep, the Signor Aldarin glided along the
tesselated floor, and stood beside the man-at-arms, ere he was aware of
his approach.
“Ha! Balvardo, thou keepest strict watch beside the sick chamber of my
lord.” The words broke from the Signor Aldarin. “Hast obeyed my behest?”
“E’en so, my lord,” the sentinel began, in a rough, surly tone.
“How, vassal! Dost name me with the title of my brother? Have a care,
good Balvardo, have a care!”
“He chides me in a rough voice,” murmured the sentinel, as though
speaking to his own ear; “and yet a wild light flashes over his features
at the word. Signor, I but mistook the word--a slip o’ th’ tongue,” he
exclaimed aloud. “Thy behests have been obeyed. No one has been suffered
to pass into the chamber of my Lord Di Albarone since morning dawn, save
the fair Ladye Annabel, who waits beside the couch of the wounded
knight.”
“Come hither, Balvardo. Look from this narrow window: mark you well the
dial-plate in the castle yard. In a few moments the shadow will sweep
across the path of high noon. When high noon and the shadow meet, thy
charge is over. The soothing potion which I gave my brother at daybreak,
will have taken its proper effect. Until that moment, keep strict watch:
let not a soul enter the Red Chamber on the peril of thy life!”
And with the command, the Signor swept from the ante-chamber, gliding
along a corridor opposite the one from which he had just emerged, and
his low footsteps in a moment had ceased to echo along the dark old
arches.
“He is gone,” the sentinel murmured, slowly pacing the tesselated floor.
“He comes like a cat--he glides hence like a ghost. Hark! footsteps from
opposite corridors meeting in this ante-chamber. By’r Lady! here comes
Adrian, the son of this sick lord, and from the opposite gallery emerges
the monk Albertine, the tool and counsellor of my Lord of Florence. ’Tis
a moody monk and a shrewd boy. I’faith, there’s a pair o’ ’em.”
And as he spoke, sweeping from the shadows of the northern gallery came
a dark-robed monk, walking with hastened step, his arms folded on his
breast, and his head drooped low, as if in thought, while the outlines
of his face were enveloped in the folds of his priestly cowl. And as he
swept onward toward the centre of the ante-chamber, from the southern
gallery, with slow and solemn steps, advanced a youth of some twenty
summers, attired in the gay dress of a cavalier, with a frank, open
visage, marked by the lines of premature thought, and relieved by rich
and luxuriant locks of golden hair sweeping along each cheek down to the
shoulders.
“Whither speed ye, Lord Adrian?” exclaimed the deep, sonorous voice of
the monk, as the twain met breast to breast in the centre of the rich
mosaic floor. “Whither speed ye, heir of Albarone, at this hour?”
“Whither do I speed?” cried the cavalier, starting with sudden surprise.
“Sir monk, I wend to the sick-chamber of my father.”
The monk grasped the cavalier suddenly by the right hand, and raised it
as suddenly in the light of the sunbeams streaming through the solitary
window.
“An hour since, this hand was graced by a signet ring: the signet ring
which has been an heirloom in thy house for centuries. Dost remember the
prophecy spoken of that strange ring? Dost remember the rude lines of
the vandal seer:
‘While treasured and holily worn,
An omen of glory and good:
When from the hand the ruby is torn,
An omen of doom and of blood.’”
“Sir monk, the lines are rude; yet I mind me well the words of the
prophecy, are an household sound to an heir of Albarone. Yet why this
sudden grasp of my hand? Why thus urgent? The fire in thine eye seems
not of earth.”
“Lord Adrian, by the Virgin tell me how long since parted this finger
from the ruby signet ring of thy house? Never parted that ring from the
hand of heir of Albarone, without sudden evil, fearful doom, or unheard
of death, gathering thick and dark around thy house!”
“I missed not the signet ring till this moment. An instant ago, I was in
my chamber. Thy air is strange and solemn for the confessor of this
jovial Duke, yet I will turn me, and seek the signet without delay. Thy
warning may be well-timed.”
“Boy, a word in thine ear. My life has been strange and dark. I have
loved the shadow rather than the light. I have courted the glare of
corruption in the midnight charnel-house, rather than the blaze of the
noon-day sun. I have made me a home amid strange mysteries, and from the
tomes of darksome lore I have wrung the secrets of the hidden world.”
“To what tends all this, sir monk? By’r Ladye, thou’rt strangely
moved!”
“And from my hidden lore have I learned this mystery of mysteries. When
the stillness of midnight hangs like lead over the noon-day hour--when,
at mid-noon, a strange, solemn, and voiceless silence pervades the air,
spreads through the universe, and impresses the heart of each living
thing with a feeling of unutterable AWE, then wicked men are doing, in
the sight of heaven, with the laughter of fiends in their ears, some
deed of horror, that the fiends tremble ’mid their laughter to behold.
Some deed of nameless horror, which thrills the universe with AWE,
making the hour of noon more terrible than midnight in the
charnel-house. Look abroad, Adrian--’tis high noon. Dost hear a sound, a
whisper of the wind? All silent as death--all still as the grave! The
silence of this nameless AWE is upon the noon-day hour. Adrian, to thy
chamber, to thy chamber, and rest not till the signet ring again
encircles thy finger! There is a doom upon this hour!”
And with these words, uttered in a low, yet deep and piercing tone, the
monk glided from the ante-chamber; and the cavalier, without a word, as
hastily retraced his steps, and in an instant had disappeared in the
shadow of the southern gallery.
“Whispered words!” muttered the bull-headed man-at-arms. “A ring! What
about a ring? Ha--ha! The Monk and the Springald commune together--well!
I could not make out their secret, but--but, the ring!”
And raising his sturdy form to its full height, with a grim smile on his
bearded face, Balvardo glanced around the ante-chamber, and then, with a
low chuckle, he let his pike fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET OF GOLD.
In a lofty apartment of the castle, hung with rich folds of crimson
tapestry, and designated from time past memory as the Red Chamber, on a
couch of gorgeous hangings, lay the once muscular, but now
disease-stricken, Julian, Count of Albarone, shorn of his warrior
strength, divested of the glory of his manhood’s prime.
The warm sunlight which filled the place, fell with a golden glow over
the outlines of his lofty brow, indented with wrinkles, the long gray
hair parted on either side, the eyebrows, snow-white, overarching the
clear, bold eyes, that sent forth their glance with all the fire and
intensity of youth, rendered more vivid and flame-like by the contrast
of sunken eyelid and hollow cheek.
And by the bedside of the warrior, bending like an angel of good, as she
ministered to his slightest wants, the form of a fair and lovely maiden
was disclosed in the noon-day light, while her flaxen curls fell
lightly, and with a waving motion, over the rich bloom of her cheek,
glowing with the warmth of fifteen summers, and her full, large eyes of
liquid blue, gleamed with the expression of a soul, whose fruits were
pure and happy thoughts, the buds and blossoms of innocence and youth.
“Annabel,”--said the warrior, in a voice faint with disease--“Methinks I
feel the strength of youth again returning; the sleeping potion of my
good brother, Aldarin, has done me wondrous service. Assist me to the
casement, child of mine heart, that I may gaze once more upon the broad
lands and green woods of my own domain of Albarone.”----
As he spoke, the Count rose on his feet, with a tottering movement, and
had fallen to the floor, but for the fair arm of the maiden wound around
his waist, while his muscular hand rested upon her shoulder.
“Lean upon my arm, my uncle,--tread with a careful footstep. In a moment
we will reach the casement.”
They stood within the recess of the emblazoned window, the warrior and
the maiden, while around them floated and shimmered the golden sunshine,
falling over the tesselated stone of the pavement, throwing a glaring
light around the hangings of the bed, and streaming in flashes of
brightness among the distant corners and nooks of the Red Chamber.
’Tis a fair land, niece of mine,--a fair and lovely land.--”
“A land of dreams, a land of magnificent visions, overshadowed by yon
blue mountains of romance. Look, my uncle, how the noon-day sun is
showering his light over the deep woods that encircle the rock of
Albarone--yonder, beyond the verdure of the trees, winds the silvery
Arno; yonder are hills and rugged steeps, and far away tower the blue
heights of the Apennines!”
“And here, niece of mine, in my youthful prime I stood, when my aged
father’s hand had dubbed me--knight. ’Twas such a quiet noon-day hour,
on a calm and dream-like day as this, that, from the recess of this
window, I gazed upon yon gorgeous land. How the blood swelled in my
youthful veins; how dreams of ambition fired my boyish fancy, as the
words broke from my lips,--‘Here they ruled, my fathers, in days
by-gone, with the iron sword of the Goth; here they reigned as sovereign
princes--as Dukes of Florence.’”
“Since that noon-day hour thy sword has flashed in the van of a thousand
battles!”
“It has--it has! And yet what am I now? Old before my time, swept away
from the path of glory, as I neared the goal! A warrior should never
utter a word of complaint--and yet--by the Sacrament of Heaven, I had
much rather died with sword in hand, at the head of my hosts, than to
wither away with this festering wound on yonder couch. I like not to
count the pulsations of my dying heart.”
“Nay, my uncle,--chide not so bitterly. Thou wilt recover--thy sword
will again flash at the head of armies!”
“My sword, Annabel, my sword,”--cried the warrior, as his eyes lit up
with a strange brilliancy, and his wan features were crimsoned by a
ruddy flush.
In a moment, the fair hands of the maiden bore the sword from its
resting-place, in a nook of the Red Chamber, with a slow and weary
movement, as though the massive piece of iron which she trailed along
the marble floor, exceeded her maidenly strength to lift on high.
“It is my sword, it is my sword”--shrieked the warrior, as he flung the
robes of purple back from his muscular, though attenuated shoulder, and
raised his proud form to its full height--“Look, Annabel, how it gleams
in the light! So it gleamed on the walls of Jerusalem, so it shone aloft
over the desert-sands of the Syrian wilderness! It will gleam over the
battle-field again! Ay, again will the snow-white plume of Julian Di
Albarone wave over the ranks of the fray, while ten thousand warriors
hail that plume as their beacon-light!”
He swung the sword aloft in the air; his whole form was moved by
excitement; every vein filled and every pulse throbbed; his eye flashed
like a thing of flame, and his whitened lip trembled with the glorious
expression of battle-scorn.
Thrice he waved the sword around his head; but when the impulse of this
sudden excitement died away, his eyes lost their flashing brightness,
his limbs their vigor, and Julian of Albarone tottered as he stood upon
the marble floor, and stepping hurriedly backward, fell heavily upon the
couch of the Red Chamber.
“The goblet, fair niece--the goblet on the beaufet. Haste thee--I am
faint.”
As the words broke gaspingly from the sick man’s lips, the Ladye Annabel
turned hastily to bring the goblet, and as she turned, she beheld the
head of Lord Julian resting uneasily on his pillow, while his left arm
hung heavily over the side of the couch.
She turned again with trembling footsteps, and hastened to arrange the
pillow of the sick warrior. Her fair hands smoothed the pillow of down,
and she gently raised his head from the couch.
At the very instant, the tapestry in a dark corner of the Red Chamber
rustled quickly to and fro, as a figure, muffled in a sweeping cloak of
crimson, emerged into view, and treading across the tesselated pavement,
with a footstep like a spirit of the unreal air, it approached the
beaufet of ebony, and a white hand, glittering with a single ring, was
extended for a moment over the goblet of gold.
The Ladye Annabel placed the head of Lord Julian gently upon the pillow
of down.
_The glittering ring shone in the sun, as it fell in the goblet of gold,
and the hand of the figure, white as alabaster, was again concealed in
the thick folds of the crimson robe._
The Ladye Annabel, with her delicate hands, parted the gray hairs from
the sick man’s face, and swept them back from his brow.
_The figure in robes of crimson, strode with a noiseless footstep across
the apartment, and sought the shelter of the hangings of tapestry, with
as strange a silence as it had emerged from their folds._
Without taking notice of the white dust that covered the bottom of the
empty goblet, Annabel filled it with generous wine, and approached the
bedside of her uncle. The Count raised himself from the pillow, and
lifted the goblet to his lips. As his wan face was reflected in the
ruddy wavelets of the wine, he fixed his full large eyes upon the lovely
face of Annabel, with a look of affection, mingled with an expression so
strange, so solemn and dread, that it dwelt in the soul of the maiden
for years.
He drank, and drained the goblet to the dregs.
“Thank thee--fair niece--thank thee.”
He paused suddenly, his arms he flung wildly from him, a thin, glassy
film gathered over his eyes, a gurgling noise sounded in his throat, and
he fell heavily upon the couch.
His features were knit in a fearful expression of pain and suffering,
his mouth opened with a ghastly grimace, leaving the teeth visible, the
lips were agitated by a convulsive pang, and his eyes, sternly fixed,
glared wildly from beneath the eyebrows woven in a frown.
“My uncle--my father,”--shrieked the Ladye Annabel, rushing to the
bedside--“Look not so wildly, gaze not so sternly upon me. Speak, my
uncle, oh, speak!”
Her utterance failed, and an indistinct murmur broke from her lips. Her
hands ran hurriedly over the brow of the warrior--it was cold with
beaded drops of moisture. She bent hastily over the form of Lord Julian,
she imprinted a kiss on his parted lips. She kissed the lips of the
dead!
Then the tapestry, the hangings of the Red Chamber, the couch, with its
ghastly corse, all swam round her in a fearful dance, and the Ladye
Annabel fell insensible on the floor.
_The great bell of the Castle of Albarone tolled forth the hour of noon.
The shadow of death had been flung across the dial-plate in the
castle-yard._
While the thunder-like tones of the bell went swinging and quivering,
and echoing among the old castle halls, a footstep was heard without the
Red Chamber, and the door was flung suddenly open.
A young Cavalier, with a face marked by frank, open features, locks of
rich gold, and an eye of blue, while his handsome form was clad in a gay
dress of velvet, entered the apartment, and strode with hurried steps to
the couch.
He cast one look at the face of the corse, marked by the ghastly grimace
of death; he cast one quick and hasty glance at the form of the Ladye
Annabel, thrown insensible along the floor of stone, and then he covered
his face with his trembling hands, and his manly form was convulsed by a
shuddering tremor, that shook the folds of his blue doublet, as though
every sinew writhed in agony beneath the gay apparel.
The heavy sob, which unutterable anguish alone can bring from the heart
of a proud man, broke on the deep silence of the room, and the big heavy
tear-drops of man’s despair came trickling between the clasped fingers,
pressed over his countenance.
“He is dead--my father--he is dead!”
He mastered the first terrible impulse of grief, and raised the swooning
maiden from the floor.
“He is dead--my father”--again sounded the husky voice of the Cavalier.
“Thou, Annabel, art all that is left to me--I am--”
“_A murderer_--_a parricide!_” cried a sharp and piercing voice, that
thrilled to the very heart of the cavalier.
He turned hurriedly as he grasped the maiden with his good right arm, he
turned and beheld--_the Scholar Aldarin_.
His glance was fixed and stern, while, with one hand half-upraised, with
his thick eyebrows darkening in a frown, he stood regarding the Cavalier
with a look that was meant to rend his inmost heart.
“What means this outcry in the presence of the dead?” exclaimed Adrian
in a determined tone--“Let our past disputes be forgotten, old man, in
this terrible hour. See you not, my father lies stark and dead?”
“Murdered by _thee_, vile parricide!”--rang out the voice of the Signior
Aldarin, as, with a determined step, he advanced to the bedside--“Ho!
Guards, I say”--he shouted, raising his voice--“Vassals of Albarone, to
the rescue!”
The eye of the young Cavalier brightened, his brow was knit, and his
form erected to its full height as he spoke, in a quiet, determined
tone.
“Look ye, old man, thou mayst taunt and gibe with thy magpie tongue, as
long as the humor pleases thee. My father’s brother need fear no wrong
from me--this maiden’s father can fear no harm from Adrian Di Albarone.
Heap taunt on taunt, good Signior, but see that this spirit of insult is
not carried into action. I am lord in the castle of my fathers!”
“Father, what mean those wild words, these looks of anger?” shrieked the
Ladye Annabel, as she awoke from her swoon of terror, and, supported by
the arm of Adrian, glanced round the scene--“Surely, my father, you
speak not aught against Lord Adrian?”
And as she spoke, the chamber was filled with men-at-arms, in their
glittering armor, and servitors of Albarone, all attired in the livery
of the house, who came thronging into the apartment, and circled round
the scene, while their mouths were agape, and their eyes protruding with
astonishment.
Aldarin glanced around the throng, he marked each stalwart man-at-arms,
each strong-limbed yeoman of the guard, and then his chest heaved and
his eye flashed as he shouted--
“Seize him, men of Albarone, _seize the murderer of your lord_!”
He pointed to Adrian Di Albarone as he spoke. There was one wild thrill
of terror and amazement, spreading through the group, a confused murmur,
bursting involuntarily from every lip, and then all was still as death.
Not a man stirred, not a servitor moved, but all remained like statues,
clustering round the group in their centre, where Aldarin stood with his
slender form raised to its full stature, his arm outstretched and his
eye flashing like a flame-coal, while Adrian gathered the Ladye Annabel
in his good right arm, and gazed upon the Signor with a look of
concentrated scorn.
“Seize him, guards”--again shouted Aldarin--“seize the Parricide!”
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and the form of the stout
yeoman emerged from the group.
“Not quite so fast--marry, my good Signor, not quite so fast”--he cried
as he advanced. “By St. Withold, I have followed my old lord to many a
hard-fought fight, I have served him by night and by day, with hand and
heart, for a score of long years. Shall I stand by, and see his brave
son suffer wrong?”
“What means this wild uproar?” exclaimed a calm yet half-indignant
voice, as the stately dame of the Lord Di Albarone, yet unaware of her
bereavement, crossed the threshold with a lofty step and an extended
arm, advancing, with the port of a queen, to the centre of the group.
“Vassals--what means this wild uproar? Know ye not that your lord lies
deadly sick? Brother Aldarin, I take it ill of you to suffer the clamor!
What can our liege of Florence think of ye, vassals, when he beholds ye
thus assail the sick-chamber of your lord with noise and outcry!”
The stately dame pointed to a richly attired cavalier, who had followed
her into the apartment. He was a well-formed man, with a face marked by
no definite expression. His dark hair gathered, in short, stiff curls
around a low and unmeaning forehead; his small dark eyes, protruding
from his head, seemed to be trying their utmost to outstrip his faintly
delineated eyebrows; the nose, neither aquiline, classic, or Judaic,
seemed composed of all the varieties of nasal organ; his upper lip was
garnished with a portion of the wiry beard that flourished on his
prominent chin; his lips were thick and sensual, while his entire face
was as inexpressive as might be. The throng bowed low, as they became
aware of the presence of the guest of their late lord. They bowed to the
Duke of Florence.
“Adrian, my son,” cried the Lady of Albarone, turning to her son in
utter amazement, “what means this scene of confusion and alarm?”
Adrian took his mother by the hand, and led her to the couch. He spoke
not a word, but waved his hand toward the couch. Her form was concealed
for a moment amid the hangings of the bed, and then a shriek of wild
emphasis startled the ears of the bystanders.
“He is dead,” exclaimed the Lady of Albarone, in a voice of unnatural
calmness, as she again appeared from amid the hangings of the bed, with
a face ghastly and livid as the face of death. “Vassals of Albarone,
your lord is dead!”
There was a cry of horror echoing through the chamber, and the Lady of
Albarone sank, leaning for support upon the arm of her son, while
Annabel, in the intervals of her own sobs and sighs, whispered hurried
words of consolation in her ear.
Aldarin stood regarding the group with a glance of deep and searching
meaning. He gazed upon the vacant features of the Duke, distended by
surprise, the countenance of Adrian, marked by a settled frown of
indignation, the visage of the Countess, livid as death; and then the
fair face of his daughter Annabel, her eyes swimming in tears, the
parted lips and the cheek pale and flushed by turns, met the glance of
Aldarin, and a strange expression trembled on his compressed lip, and
darkened over his high forehead.
“Lady of Albarone,” exclaimed the Scholar, advancing,--“Lady of
Albarone, my brother died not through the course of nature, he died not
by the hand of disease--he was murdered!”
“Murdered!” repeated the Countess with a hollow echo.
And the Duke took up the word, echoing, with a trembling voice, that
word of fear, “murdered,” while the Servitors of Albarone sent the cry
shrieking around the nooks and corners of the Red Chamber.
Adrian of Albarone looked around the scene and smiled as if in scorn,
but said not a word.
Aldarin made one stride to the couch of death.
“Behold the corse,” he shrieked; “behold the blackened face, the sunken
eyelids and the livid lips; behold the ghastly remains of the Lord of
Albarone!”
Another stride, and he reached the beaufet. He seized the goblet of
gold, and held it aloft.
“Behold,” he cried, “behold the instrument of his murder!”
“God save me now,” shrieked the Countess.--“There has been foul work
here--Adrian--oh, Adrian, thy sire hath been poisoned!”
“This is some new mysterie, Sir Scholar,” exclaimed Adrian, with a look
of scorn.
The Lady fell insensible, and the goblet rung with a clanging sound upon
the marble floor, while from its depths there rolled a small compact
substance, encrusted in some chemical compound, white as snow in hue.
The Duke of Florence stooped hurriedly to the very floor, and seized
both the goblet and the encrusted substance, with an eager grasp.
“Ha! There is a white sediment deposited at the bottom of this goblet.
Albertine, advance; thou art skilled in such mysteries. Tell me, Sir
Monk, the nature of this white powder.”
The Monk Albertine, whose dark eyes had for a moment been gleaming over
the shoulders of the bystanders, now advanced with a slow and measured
footstep, and confronted the Signor Aldarin, with a look full of meaning
and thought. Aldarin returned the look, with a keen and searching
glance, and their eyes then mingled in one long and ardent gaze, as
though each man wished to read the heart of his fellow.
With a look of calmness and perfect self-possession, Albertine turned to
the Duke and took the goblet from his hand.
He gazed at its depths for a moment; he was about to speak, when the
heart of every man in the Red Chamber was thrilled by a wild and
terrific howl, more fearful even than the yell of the dying, which
proceeded from among the curtains of the death-couch, and echoed around
the apartment.
“That sound,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a nervous start--“That sound is
from the couch of death! It means, it means--”
A ruddy glow passed over his pale countenance, and, suddenly pausing, he
gazed round the group in silence.
“It is the poor hound of our good Lord;” muttered Robin the Rough,
advancing. “The hound, with skin black as death, which Lord Julian
brought from Palestine--he is howling over the dead corse of his master.
So have I heard him howl for three days past, as the castle-bell tolled
the hour of high noon, beside the panels of yonder door. Come hither,
brute; come hither, Saladin.”
The hound, black as night, with an eye like fire, came leaping through
the throng, and crouched, whining, at the feet of the stout yeoman.
It was, in sooth, a noble hound, with full chest, slender limbs, long
neck, and tapering body, marked by all that delicacy of proportion, that
beauty of shape, and grace of motion, which tradition ascribes to the
bloodhounds of the Eastern lands. The head was like the head of a snake,
while the eye seemed almost instinct with a human soul.
“Sir Monk,” cried the Duke, in an imperious tone, “were it not better
for thee to tell us at once whether the white powder in the goblet is
poison? or shall we wait thy pleasure while thou dost weary thine eyes
with gazing at yonder hound?”
The monk Albertine made a solemn inclination of his head, and kneeling
on the marble floor in the centre of the group, he struck the edge of
the goblet upon the tesselated stone with a quick and sudden motion of
his hand.
The diamond-shaped stone of black marble was strewn with the white
sediment deposited in the bottom of the goblet.
The hound sprang forward, and while his wild eyes flashed and blazed,
his nostrils dilated, and the sable animal snuffed the atmosphere of the
Red Chamber, as he leaped quickly around the group.
“He snuffs the smell of human blood!” muttered the stout yeoman.
And while all was intense interest and suspense, while a mingled feeling
of surprise and terror and nameless fear ran around the group, while
every eye was fixed upon the kneeling form of Albertine, with the goblet
upraised in his hand, the hound Saladin passed from man to man, scenting
the garments of the bystanders, and glancing wildly from face to face,
from eye to eye.
He paused for a moment in front of the Signor Aldarin, and uttered a low
whining sound as he gazed in the scholar’s face.
“How long is this mummery to last?” exclaimed Aldarin, advancing with a
sudden step--“Tell me, Sir Monk, is thy study over?”
The hound Saladin sprang suddenly aside from the robes of the Signor,
and eagerly snuffing the marble floor, approached the monk Albertine,
and with a moaning sound licked the white substance from the
diamond-shaped stone.
“Is it poison?” asked the Duke, and the interest of the group clustered
around became absorbing and intense.
“Some new mysterie of thine, learned scholar!” exclaimed Adrian Di
Albarone, with a smile of incredulity. “The man does not live, so false
in heart as to place a death-bowl to the lips of a warrior like Julian
of Albarone!”
“Is it poison!” exclaimed Albertine, gazing round upon the
group--“Behold!”
And as he spoke, the hound Saladin fell stiffened and dead, upon the
marble pavement, with a single fearful struggle, a single terrible
howl.--His limbs were fearfully distorted, and his eyes were starting
from their sockets, while a thin white foam hung round his serpent-like
jaw.
A confused cry of horror thundered around the apartment, and then you
might have heard the footsteps of the Invisible Death, all was so
fearfully silent and still.
“As God lives, my father has been murdered!” shouted Adrian Di Albarone,
as the expression of incredulity lately visible in his manly face
changed to a look of pallid horror--“Now, by the Sacrament of God, he
shall be avenged as never was murdered man avenged before! Who,” he
shrieked in a husky voice, turning to the throng--“Who hath done this
murder?”
“Sir Duke,” exclaimed Aldarin, as though he had not heard Adrian, “the
encrusted substance which fell from the death-bowl may be poisonous--”
The small white ball, which the Duke had absently clenched in his
fingers, fell to the floor, and every ear heard a ringing sound as it
fell, and every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it touched the
floor. The whole substance had vanished, and along the floor there
rolled a massive signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.
The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again grasped the ring; he held
it aloft, and shouted, in a tone of amazement and horror--
“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident into the
death-bowl! It bears a crest and an inscription--look, Signor
Aldarin--canst make out crest or inscription?”
Aldarin replied with a look of horror--
“The crest, ’tis a Winged Leopard--the motto--‘_Grasp boldly, and
bravely strike_!’ Both crest and motto are those of Albarone”--his voice
sank to a death-like whisper--“Lord Adrian--behold--_it is, it is the
signet-ring of Albarone_!”
Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis--
“Thy question has its answer--let the signet-ring tell the tale. Adrian,
oh, Adrian,” he continued, as his voice changed with mingled compassion
and anguish--“what moved thee to this fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak
old man, should live to see my brother’s son accused of that brother’s
murder!”
“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded Adrian, though his chest
heaved and swelled with the tempest aroused in his soul--“Tell me,
Signor Aldarin, what were the contents of the ‘soothing’ potion
administered by thee to the late Lord Julian at daybreak?”
“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its composition, and thou
canst witness when I gave it to my murdered brother.”
“I aided in its composition--it was harmless--I saw thee minister the
potion to Lord Julian.”
“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone hast had access to this chamber since
daybreak”--spoke Adrian, with his calm eye fixed full on the Signor’s
visage--“Now tell me who it was that drugged yon bowl with death?”
“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door from daybreak until
high noon--did a soul enter the Red Chamber from the first moment to the
last second of thy watch?”
“Not a living man”--muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo from the
crowd--“not a soul save the Ladye Annabel.”
“Search the apartment!” shouted the Duke; “the assassin may be yet
lurking in some dark nook or corner!”
The doors were closed, the search commenced. Every nook was ransacked,
every corner thrown open to the light, not even the bed of death, with
its pillows of down and its hangings of purple, was spared.
While the search was in progress, the Countess of Albarone awoke from
her swoon, and striding from the recess of an emblazoned window, where
the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant look over the strange
scene progressing in the Red Chamber, she was soon made aware of the
fearful crime charged upon her son, the signet-ring and the terrible
mystery.
“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud voice, “there is mystery,
but--no dishonor!--Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so
accursed an act!”
“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout yeoman.
“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors; and the cry went round the
apartment,--
“Nor I”--“Nor I”--“He is guiltless.”
A shrill and prolonged shriek, echoing from a nook of the Red Chamber
near the death-couch, sent a sudden thrill through the group assembled
in this terrible mystery.
Every form wheeled suddenly round, every eye was fixed in the direction
from whence issued the shriek, and the aged Steward of the Castle was
seen, upholding with one trembling hand the folds of the gorgeous
crimson tapestry, while his aged face grew livid as death, as he pointed
with the other hand to a dark recess.
“A secret passage--the door cut into the solid wall is flung wide
open--a robe laid across the threshold--a robe of crimson faced with
gold.”
And as he spoke he flung the hangings yet farther aside, and the bright
sunshine gleamed over the panel of the secret door, flung wide open; the
crimson robe was thrown over the threshold, but no beam lighted up the
gloom of the passage beyond.
The Lady of Albarone rushed hurriedly forward, she seized the robe, she
held it aloft in the sunbeams, and--_every eye beheld the robe of Adrian
Di Albarone_!
“Adrian!” shrieked the Countess, “Adrian of Albarone--yonder secret
passage leads to thy sleeping chamber--thy departed sire, myself and
thou, alone were aware of its existence. It has ever been a secret of
our house. Tell me, by yon murdered corse, I implore thee, tell me who
flung this door open, who laid thy robe across the threshold?”
Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead, and with a cry of
horror fell insensible upon the floor.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE EMBRACE OF A BROTHER.
The sun was setting, calmly and solemnly setting, behind a gorgeous pile
of rainbow-hued clouds, magnificent with airy castle and pinnacle, while
the full warmth of his beams shone through the arching window of the Red
Chamber, its casement panels thrown wide open, filling that place of
death with light and splendor.
In the recess of the lofty casement, with the sunshine falling all
around, and the shadow of her slender figure thrown like a belt of gloom
over the mosaic floor, stood the Ladye Annabel, silent and motionless;
her rounded arms half raised, with the slender hands crossed over her
bosom, her robe of pale blue velvet, with the inner vest of undimmed
white made radiant by the sunbeams; while, swept aside from her
features, the golden hair fell with a floating motion down over her
shoulders, and along the breast of snow.
And as she stood thus still and immovable, gazing with one unvarying
glance along the courtyard, the sunshine revealed her face of beauty,
every lineament and feature disclosed in the golden light, seeming more
like the face of a dream-spirit, than the countenance of a mortal
maiden. The soul shone from her face. The eyes full, large, and lustrous
with their undimmed blue, dilating and enlarging with one wild glance;
the cheek white as alabaster, yet tinted by the bloom, and swelled with
the fullness of the budding rose; the lips small, and curvingly shaped,
slightly parted, revealing a glimpse of the ivory teeth; the chin, with
its dimple; the brow, with its clear surface, marked by the parted hair,
waving aside like clustered sunbeams--such was the face of the Ladye
Annabel, all vision, all loveliness, and soul.
“He is bound; yes, bound with the cord and thong! They gather around him
with looks of insult; they place him on the steed; they move--oh, mother
of Heaven!--they move toward the castle gate! And shall I never see him
again--never, never? It is a dream; it is no reality. It is a dream! Was
it a dream, yesterday, when he stood in this recess, his hand clasped in
mine, his eyes calm and eloquent, gazing in mine, while his voice spoke
of the sunset glories of the summer sky?”
One long, wild glance at the scene in the courtyard, and then veiling
her eyes from the sight, she started wildly from the window.
“It is a dream,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as she hurriedly glided
from the room, and the echoes returned her whisper. “It is, it is a
dream!”
Her footsteps had scarce ceased to echo along the ante-chamber, when
another footstep was heard, and ere a moment passed, Aldarin stood in
the recess of the lofty window of the Red Chamber. His face was agitated
by strange and varying expressions, as with a keen and anxious eye he
glanced over the spears and pennons of along line of men-at-arms,
passing under the raised portcullis of the castle gate.
The portcullis was lowered with a thundering clang, the spears and
pennons, the gallant steeds and their stalwart riders, were lost to
sight, but presently came bursting into view again, beyond the castle
gate, where the highway to Florence, appearing from amid surrounding
woods, led up a steep and precipitous hill. And there, flashing with
gold and glowing with embroidery, the broad banner of the Duke of
Florence was borne in the van of the cavalcade. Then came four
men-at-arms, in armor of blazing gold; and then, distinguished by his
rich array, rode the Duke, mounted upon a snow-white charger, and behind
him, environed by guards, his arms lashed behind his back, came Lord
Adrian Di Albarone, accused of the most foul and atrocious murder of his
sire. Beside her son, her face closely veiled, and her form bowed low,
the Countess rode; and in the rear, their steeds gaily prancing, their
spears flashing, and their pennons glancing in the sun, came the
men-at-arms in long and gallant array.
With parted lips and strained eyes did Signior Aldarin watch the
movements of this company.
As the steed of the last man-at-arms was lost in the shades of the
forest, Aldarin smiled grimly, and, extended his shrivelled hand,
shouted in tones of exultation:
“One hour ago, I was the stooping scholar,--The _Signior_ Aldarin.
_Now!_” full boldly did he swell that little word; “Now, I am the _Count
Aldarin Di Albarone_, lord of the wide domains of Albarone!”
He laughed the short, husky laugh which was peculiar to him.
“Adrian swept from my path--and is he not already swept from my
path?--that brainless idiot, _my liege_ of Florence, swallowed the
charge against that forward boy as greedily as the fish swallows the
tempting bait; the signet and the robe will bring the changeling to the
block, and thus, my only obstacle swept away, I, as next heir, succeed
to the titles and estates of Albarone! And Annabel, my fair daughter!
thy brow shall be decked with a coronet; thou shall reign Duchess of
Florence! Ha--ha!”
And here, as the wide prospect of ambition opened to his mind’s eye, he
became silent, and, hurriedly pacing the floor, resigned his soul to the
dreams of his excited fancy.
_Suddenly his visions were interrupted by a deep sigh, that seemed to
proceed from the corse upon the couch._
Aldarin started, and for a moment stood still as a statue, his ear
inclined toward the couch, as if intently listening; his lips apart,
and his quivering hands stretched forth as though he would defend
himself from some unreal foe.
At last, gaining courage, he approached the bed. There, without the
slightest signs of animation, lay the faded form of the gallant warrior;
the eyes closed, the stern expression of the features vanished, and the
whole attitude that of unconscious repose.
Turning away, Aldarin was chiding himself for his childish terror, when
a deep, sonorous groan met his ear. With a swelling heart he once more
turned, and beheld a sight that caused the cold sweat of intense terror
to ooze from his person, and every nerve to quake with alarm.
The eyes of the Count were wide open; a slight flush pervaded his
cheeks, and his entire attitude was changed. A voice came from his
pallid lips:
“Annabel, dearest Annabel! a fearful dream but now possessed my fancy!
Methought I lay dead--dead, Annabel, dead; and that I died ere thy
nuptials were solemnized--thy nuptials, Annabel, and thine Adrian!”
A fearful expression came over the scholar Aldarin’s features, as though
he was stringing his mind to one great effort. In an instant his
countenance became calm again, and approaching the bedside, he enquired,
in a soft voice, if his dear brother wanted anything?
The Count answered hurriedly, as if a sudden light burst upon him:
“Ah! the Virgin save us! good Aldarin, art thou here? Surely, I saw
Adrian and Annabel but a moment since? Surely--”
“Nay, my brother;” answered Aldarin, “‘twas but mere phantasy. Annabel
is not with us, nor is my Lord Adrian here; but I, dear brother, I am by
your side.”
Speaking these words in a voice tremulous with affection, Signior
Aldarin passed his left arm around the body of the Count, while the
other enclosed his neck. He clasped him in an ardent embrace, as he
continued:
“I am with you, dear brother; I will minister to your slightest wish; I,
Aldarin, your own devoted friend.”
Here he inserted his right hand beneath the long gray locks of the
Count, and clasping his neck, pressed him yet closer to his bosom.
“Kind Aldarin,” the Count began, but the sentence was cut short by a
piercing cry, and the right hand of Aldarin clutched tighter and tighter
around his brother’s throat.
“Nay, brother, thou shalt have rest, an’ thou wishest it,” cried Signor
Aldarin. “There, sleep softly, and pleasant dreams attend you!”
The Count fell heavily upon the bed; his blood-shot eyes protruded from
his blackened face, a livid circle was around his throat, and a thin
line of blood trickled from his mouth. A sigh, heavy, deep, and
prolonged came from his chest, and the murdered man ceased to live.
“The fiend be thanked!--it is _done_!”
Having thus spoken, in a voice that came through his clenched teeth, the
murderer looked up and saw--the dogged, rough, yet honest visage of the
stout yeoman peeping from among the curtains on the opposite side of the
bed, his eyes steadily fixed on the corse, and a curious look of inquiry
visible in every feature of his face.
The Signior drew back, trembling in every limb, and pale as death. It
was a moment ere he recovered his speech, when, assuming a haughty air,
he exclaimed:
“Slave, what do you here? Is it thus you intrude upon my privacy? Speak,
sir--your excuse!”
The stout yeoman replied in his usual manners speaking in the Italian,
but with a sharp English accent:
“Why, most worshipful Signior, you will please to bear in mind that for
twenty long years have I followed my lord, he who now lies cold and
senseless, to the wars. That withered arm have I seen bearing down upon
the foe in the thickest of the fight; that sunken eye have I beheld
glance with the stern look of command. By his side have I fought and
bled; for him did I leave my own native land--merrie, merrie
England,--and I will say, a more generous, true-hearted, and valiant
knight, never wore spurs, or broke a lance, than my lord, the noble
Count Julian Di Albarone.”
The yeoman passed the sleeve of his blue doublet across his eyes.
“Well sirrah,” cried the Signior, “to what tends all this?”
“Marry, to this does it tend: that wishing to behold that noble face yet
once more, I stole silently to this chamber, thinking to be a little
while alone with my brave lord. I did not discover your presence, till I
looked through the curtains and saw--”
The stout Englishman suddenly stopped; there was a curious twitch in his
left eye, and a grim smile upon his lip.
“Saw what, sirrah?” hurriedly asked the scholar Aldarin.
“Marry, I saw thee, worshipful Signior, in the act of embracing the
Count; and such a warm, kind, brotherly embrace as it was! By St.
Withold! it did me more good than a hundred of Father Antonio’s
homilies--by my faith, it did!”
The thin visage of Aldarin became white as snow and red as crimson by
turns. Making an effort to conceal his agitation, he replied:
“Well, well, Robin, thou art a good fellow after all, though, to be
sure, thy manners are somewhat rough. I tell thee, brave yeoman, I have
long had it in my mind to advance thy condition. Follow me to the Round
Room, good Robin, where I will speak further to thee of this matter.”
“_The Round Room!_” murmured Robin, as he followed the scholar Aldarin
from the Red Chamber. “Ha! ’tis the secret chamber o’ th’ scholar; many,
many have been seen entering its confines--never a single man has been
seen emerging from its narrow door, save the scholar Aldarin! I’ll
beware the serpent’s pangs! I’ll drink no goblets o’ wine, touch no food
or dainty viands while in this Round Room; or else, by St. Withold,
Rough Robin’s place may be vacant in the hall, forever and a day!”
With these thoughts traversing his mind, the yeoman followed the scholar
over the floor of the ante-chamber, and as they entered the confines of
a gloomy corridor, a spectacle was visible, which, to say the least, was
marked by curious and singular features.
Imagine the solemn scholar striding slowly along the corridor with
measured and gliding footsteps, while behind him walks Robin the Rough,
describing various eccentric figures in the air with his clenched hands;
now brandishing them above the Signior’s head, now exhibiting a
remarkable display of muscular vigor at the very back of Aldarin; and
again, making a pass with all his strength apparently at the body of the
alchymist, but in reality at the intangible atmosphere. These
demonstrations did not appear to give the stout yeoman much pain, for
his cheeks were very much agitated, and from his eyes were rolling
thick, large tears of laughter.
The corridor terminated in a long, dark gallery hung with pictures
colored by age, and framed in massive oak. Traversing this gallery, they
ascended a staircase of stone, and passing along another corridor,
terminated by a winding staircase. This, the scholar and the yeoman
descended, and then came another gallery, another ascending stairway,
and then various labyrinthine passages traversed, Rough Robin at last
found himself standing side by side with Aldarin, in front of the dark
panels of the narrow door leading into the Round Room.
This room was scarce ever visited by any living being in the castle save
Aldarin, and strange legends concerning its mysterious secrets were
current among the servitors of Albarone.
Many had been seen entering its confines with the Signior, but never was
any one, save Aldarin, seen to emerge from its gloomy door.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE DEATH-TRAP.
ROBIN THE ROUGH IS ADVANCED TO HONOR, WHILE THE SKELETON-GOD LAUGHS OVER
HIS SHOULDER.
The door flew suddenly open, and Robin, gazing around, found himself
standing in a small room, circular in form, with an arched ceiling, and
floor of stone. The walls were lined with shelves, piled with massive
books, clasped by fastenings of silver and of gold, thrown among scrolls
of parchment, richly illuminated, and emblazoned with strange figures,
relieving pictures of dark and hidden meaning.
The apartment having no casement, light was supplied by a small lamp of
curious workmanship, depending from the arched ceiling, and diffusing
its intense and radiant beams all around the place, making the lonely
room as bright as though the noonday sun shone over its shelves and
walls.
Around the chamber were scattered strange instruments pertaining to the
science of astrology or mysteries of alchemy; here richly emblazoned
parchments, inscribed with curious characters, glittered in the light;
and yonder, the ghastly skull, with its hideous grin of mockery, was
strown along the floor, mingled with the bones of the human skeleton,
the last fragments of the tenement of the living soul.
While Robin’s eyes distended in wonder, as he hastily glanced around the
room, he stumbled and fell against an object reared in the centre of the
floor.
“The foul fiend take thee, slave!” shouted Aldarin, as, with his
extended arms, he stayed the soldier in his fall. “Wouldst thou destroy
the labor of thrice seven long years? Wouldst thou destroy a Mighty
Thought? Stand aside from the altar, and come not near it again, or by
the body of * * *, I will brain thee with this dagger! Thou slave!” he
shrieked, in tones of wild indignation, as his blazing eye was fixed
upon the face of the yeoman, who stood confused and silent, “for what
dost thou suppose I have watched yon beechen flame, by day and night,
for twenty-one long years? For what have I wasted the youth and the
vigor of my days before yon altar? Was it to have my labor, the mighty
thought, for which I have dared what mortal never dared before,
destroyed by thy clumsy carcass? Dost think so, slave?”
Rough Robin murmured an excuse for his awkwardness, and, while the
Signior’s features subsided into their usual deep and solemn expression,
he again gazed around the room.
From the centre of the oaken floor arose a small altar, built of
snow-white marble, with a light blue flame arising from a vessel of gold
on its surface: the fire sweeping along the sides of an alembic,
suspended over the altar by four chains, attached to as many rods of
gold placed at each corner of the structure.
There was something so strange and solemn in the entire aspect of the
place--the light blue flame arising in tongues of fire from the vessel
of gold on the snow-white altar, burning for ever beneath the hanging
alembic, the chains and rods of gold, the pure and undimmed white of the
marble, varied by no sculpturing or ornament, combined with the utter
stillness and solitude of the room--that Robin felt awed, he scarce knew
why; and dark forebodings crept like shadows over his brain.
The scholar seated himself upon a small stool placed near the other, and
pointing to another, in a mild voice, desired Robin to follow his
example. The yeoman hesitated.
“It is not meet for a poor yeoman o’ th’ Guard to rest himself in the
presence of so great a scholar.”
“Nay, nay, good Robin, rest thyself. I was angered with thee a moment
hence, but now it is all past. Seat thyself, brave yeoman.”
The soldier complied, and rested his stout person upon a stool of oak,
placed some six feet from the spot where sat the Signior Aldarin. Robin
had but time to note a singular circumstance, ere the scholar spoke.
_The stool upon which the stout yeoman sat, was firmly jointed in a
large slab of red stone, which, spreading before him for the space of
some six feet, was curiously fixed in the planks of the oaken floor._
With a mild and smiling look, the scholar spoke:--
“Robin, thou hast been a true and faithful vassal to my late brother.
Thou didst right carefully attend Lord Julian, when forced by the
incurable wound of a poisoned arrow, some three months since, he
returned from Palestine, leaving Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, at the
head of his men-at-arms. Robin, I have long designed to testify the good
opinion in which I hold thee by some substantial gift--thou shall be
Seneschal of this mighty castle of Albarone!”
“Marry, good Signior--”
“How, sir!--dost thou address _me_ as Signior? Vassal, I am the Lord of
Albarone!”
“But Adrian--”
“What sayest thou of Adrian? A murderer--a parricide--his death is
certain. The Duke of Florence hath sworn it.”
“Well, my Lord Count, then, an’ it pleases you better, I was about to
say that if I had my choice I would sooner be made an esquire.”
“This thou shalt be:--first promise to serve me faithfully in all that I
shall command.”
“Well, as far as an honest man may, so far do I promise.”
The scholar Aldarin mused a moment and then said carelessly--“Was it not
an exceeding wicked deed, this murder of my good brother?”
“Aye, marry was it,” replied Robin, looking fixedly at Aldarin--“and the
fiend of hell, himself, could not have done a more damned, or a more
accursed thing.”
“True good Robin,--’twas a horrid murder. What could have prompted
Adrian to raise his hand against his father, eh? good Robin?”
The Yeoman did not reply. He cast his eyes to the floor and confusedly
fingered his cap.
The Count Aldarin--so must I style him--reached a folded parchment from
a writing desk and then asked--
“Why dost thou not speak, good Robin? What art thinking of?”
“Why, heaven save your _lordship_,” said Robin, speaking in a whisper,
and gazing full in Aldarin’s face, “_I was just wondering whether the
murderer embraced the Count ere he strangled him?_”
Aldarin started aside--his features were writhen into a fearful
contortion, and his whole frame shook like a leaf of the aspen tree.
Again he turned his visage, it was calm, as the face of innocence, and a
smile was on his pinched lip.
“Receive thy warrant as Seneschal of the Castle of Albarone,” said
Aldarin, as he held forth the parchment--“nay, kneel not, good Robin;
keep thy seat.”
Robin held forth his hand to reach the parchment--his fingers touched
it, when Aldarin stamped his foot upon the floor, and the slab of red
stone fell quick as lightning beneath the yeoman. A deep and dark well
was discovered. In an instant the stool affixed to the stone was empty,
and far below, in the depths of the pit the echo of the falling slab,
sunk with a sound like the rushing of the winter wind through the
corridors of a deserted mansion.
A face, with eyes rolling ghastly, with the lower jaw sunken and the
tongue protruding from the mouth, appeared above the side of the cavity,
at the very feet of Aldarin, and a muscular hand convulsively clutched
the oaken plank, while the body of the stout Yeoman, was seen through
the darkness of the pit, as he clung with the grasp of despair, to the
floor of the room.
“Devil--” shouted the desperate soldier, as he made a convulsive effort
to lighten the grasp of his hand on the smooth plank. “I’ll foil thee
yet. ’Tis not the fate of an honest man to die thus! My doom--”
“Is DEATH!” shrieked the scholar, and drawing the glittering dagger from
his robe, he smote the fingers of the Yeoman, with its unerring steel.
The joints of the hand were severed.
The grasp of the soldier failed, he gave one dying look, and then far,
far down in the pit, a whizzing noise like the sound of a falling body
was heard, and as it grew fainter and fainter did Aldarin stand in
attitude of listening, gazing down into the shadow void, his arms
outstretched, his eyes wildly glaring, his lips apart, and every
lineament of his face expressive of triumph, mingled with hate and
scorn.
A wild, maniac laugh came from the murder’s lips:
“Ha--ha--ha! caitiff and slave! Thou hast met thy fate. The scholar hath
enemies, but--ha--ha!--they all _disappear_!”
Again he cast his eyes into the well. All was still as death. A single
look into the dark cavity, and, with his bitter smile, Aldarin pictured
the mangled corse of the yeoman, lying in bloody fragments, strewn over
the vaults of the castle, amid the corses of the unburied dead.
He stamped his foot on the floor, and the red slab, bearing the empty
stool, slowly arose on its hinges, and was again fixed in the oaken
planks.
“Silent forever, prying fool! My secret is safe. Thou shalt no more
prate of a certain _warm_ embrace. Nay, nay; now for my schemes. I must
send on to Florence fresh proofs of Adrian’s guilt: witnesses, and so
on, and so on. That matter arranged, then comes the marriage of Annabel
and the Duke. Ha--ha! Let me think.”
Here he fell into a musing fit, and having newly fed the beechen flame
upon the altar of marble, he approached a point of the Round Room, where
a small knob of iron projected from the oaken floor.
Stamping upon the knob, a division of the shelving receded, and a
portion of the wall, leaving an open space, while a passage was
disclosed into a secret chamber, beyond the Round Room.
A door of dark and solid wood, painted in imitation of the walls of the
Round Room, had been made in an aperture of the wall, with shelving
placed on its panels, and every sign or mark of the existence of such a
door, carefully and effectually erased. It bore a complete resemblance
to the other parts of the walls, and no one, save Aldarin, could have
dreamed of its existence. The small knob in the oaken floor,
communicated with a spring, and the secret door rolled into the
adjoining room on grooves fixed in the floor.
Aldarin stepped through the secret passage, the door rolled back, and
the Round Room was left to the silent flame and the grinning skull.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERIES.
FEAR * * * AND GIVE GLORY TO HIM, FOR THE HOUR OF HIS JUDGMENT IS
COME--THE SMOKE OF THEIR TORMENT ASCENDETH UP FOR EVER AND
EVER.--_The Book._
A chamber with a low, dark ceiling, supported by massive rafters of oak;
floor and wall of dark stone, unrelieved by wainscot or plaster--bare,
rugged and destitute--in form, an oblong square, narrow in width, and
extensive in length, with the impression of a coffin-like gloom and
confinement, resting upon each dark stone and rugged rafter, while the
air was insupportable with the scent of decaying mortality.
In the centre arose a rough table of massive oak, with a smoking light,
burning in a vessel of iron, placed at each corner, flinging a dreary
radiance through the darkness of the chamber.
The light threw its red and murky beams over the fearful burden of the
table. It was piled with the unsightly forms of the dead. There were
lifeless trunks, all hewn and hacked; there were discolored faces, green
with decay; with the eyes scooped from the sockets, the livid skin
dropping from the forehead, the jaw torn from its socket, and the brain,
once the resting place of the mighty soul, protruding in all its
discoloration and corruption over the bared brow; there were arms and
limbs torn from the body, some yet wearing the hue of life, others
rendered hideous and disgusting by the revel of the worm; there, in that
lone room were piled up all these ghastly remains of humanity, these
fearful mockeries of life, there rotting relics of what had once
enthroned the GIANT SOUL.
The form of a muscular man, with chest of iron, and arms of brass, lay
on the centre of the table, side by side with the figure of a fragile
woman. The scanty locks of gray hair surmounted the half peeled forehead
of the warrior, while the copious tresses of the woman drooped over the
white cheek, the alabaster neck, and fell twining over the bosom, yet
untainted by decay.
“Here,” cried Aldarin, with dilating eye--“Here, for twenty-one long
years have I toiled. The sun shone over the beauty of spring, the luxury
of summer, and yet I beheld him not. Autumn came with its decay, and
winter with its cold, and yet Aldarin went not forth. Toil, toil, toil,
while youth died in my veins, and age came wrinkling over my brow; toil,
toil, toil, unceasing and eternal toil.
“Julian went to war, his plume waved over the ranks of battle. Aldarin
toiled on, over the carcasses of the dead. Others have made friends
among the living, and won honor from the great--it was mine to build a
home amid the corses of the unburied dead, and to wring knowledge, wild
and terrible, it is true, yet mighty knowledge, from the grasp of death.
Toil, toil, toil, but not forever. It will come at last--the glorious
secret.
“A few more weary days, a few more dreary nights, and the corse will
speak, the alembic will give fort was! h the secret. The future speaks
two words that fill my heart with fire--_unbounded wealth_--IMMORTAL
LIFE!”
He looked around with a blazing eye and extended arm--“They rise before
me, the host of victims--ghastly with the dead hue, gory with blood they
rise, they raise their hands, and shriek my name? And yet, it was to be,
it was to be, and _it was_! And _he_, the last, the most dread and
fearful sacrifice--oh, FIEND, wring not my heart with throes of
intolerable torture nor point to yon wan and pallid form! I tell thee
when the last secret shall have been wrung from the lips of Death, then,
then, _he_, aye, _he_ may, may----”
He paused, he drooped his head low on his breast, a scarcely audible
murmur broke from his lips. Two phrases of doubtful purport might alone
be heard----
“Live again--” and then the murmur--“mighty secret----from _his_
body--”
Aldarin turned from his dread and mystic reveries, he seized the
scalpel, he commenced the work of knowledge, among the carcasses of the
dead. Long he labored, and eagerly he toiled, but at last, as the solemn
hours of the night wore on, he slept and dreamed a dream. Prostrate
among the bodies of the dead, his arms flung carelessly on either side
over the torn and mangled faces, Aldarin slept and dreamed.
And this was the DREAM OF ALDARIN THE FRATRICIDE.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE DREAM OF THE DAMNED.
He stood upon a lonely isle. His feet were tortured by the sensation of
burning, he looked beneath in wonder, and discovered that he stood upon
a rock of fire.
He looked around--he beheld an ocean of fire; as far as eye could see,
nothing met his vision but the waves of crimson flame, undulating to and
fro, with a gentle, yet solemn motion.
Had the waves arisen around him, in giant billows, or swept above in
mountains of liquid flame, the dreamer would have rejoiced, his spirit
would have joined in the tumult, his soul become the incarnation of the
storm.
But that strange calmness of the waves, that quiet undulation, awed him,
chilled him to the heart. He looked again over the shoreless sea, and
saw with straining eyes a sight of woe--unutterable woe.
From the surface of every wave, from the waves breaking in spiral flames
at his feet--afar and near, on every side--from the surface of every
wave was thrust a discolored face, with burning eyes, that gleamed with
a strange life, while the lips were colorless, the cheeks livid, and the
brow green with decay. As the Dreamer looked, low, faint murmurs,
unutterable sighs and sobs, broke on the air, and a hollow whisper, more
like the echo of a thought than a sound, came to his ear--THESE ARE THE
FACES OF THE DAMNED--every face you see, is the face of a
_Lost-soul_--THESE ARE THE FACES OF THE DAMNED.
Aldarin turned from side to side with a horror he had never felt before.
All around seemed turning to fire, fire in every shape and form, fire
intangible and fire incarnate. Above, no sky with Sun of Glory gave
light to that ocean of flame, with the faces of the damned, thrust from
every billow. A roof of brass, vast and awful, and magnificent, arched
over the waves of fire; it was heated to a burning heat, and the eye of
Aldarin seemed turning to flame, as he looked upon the brazen sky.
The horizon of this fearful sky, was concealed by great clouds, rolling
slowly on, and on, and on, over the waves of fire, far, far, from the
isle where stood Aldarin.
And while the hollow murmur broke over the scene, and the whispering of
subdued voices, and the sobs of soft voiced women, shrieking that
unutterable wail, Aldarin felt the very air burn into his flesh hotter,
and more torturing than the air of the simoon, he felt the rock beneath
him turning molted fire, his feet were crumbling into fragments, while
agony and intense pain, quivered along his veins, and the flame lapped
up his blood. He burned, and yet--he burned not.
The air penetrated into his flesh, entered the pores, burning along his
veins; he felt the fire at his very heart; he drank in the flame with
every breath, and yet--he burned not.
No sooner did his feet crumble with the agonizing influence of the fire,
than another portion of his frame, seemed renewing its life, his heart
became young, and his brain flowed with healthy blood.
Again his feet renewed their flesh, and then, with a hollow voice, he
shrieked, mingling in that unutterable wail of the damned, “I burn, I
burn, my heart is on fire, my brain is turned to flame, and yet I am not
consumed.”
A sudden change in the shape of the islet on which he stood, attracted
his attention. At first wide and extensive in form, it was now narrow
and contracted. Every moment it grew smaller, and yet smaller, and the
waves of fire came rolling wave after wave over its surface. Aldarin
started with a new and strange horror. Terrible it was to stand on the
rock of fire, his feet consuming, his brain on fire, his heart a flame;
air, sky and ocean, all burning into his very soul, terrible, most
terrible, but those hollow murmurs, those fearful whispers of the damned
came breaking on his ear, speaking of mysteries, yet more terrible, in
the VAST BEYOND.
The wretched man clung to the rock. Oh! God, how fearful was the first
touch of the waves of molten flame; how the liquid fire ate into his
flesh and corrupted his blood, as the spiral flames cresting, each wave
came hissing and curling round his limbs!
The waves rose higher and higher; the bodies of the lost, offensive with
decay, the loathsome, and worm-eaten came floating around Aldarin. He
raised his hands, he pushed the ghastly carcasses aside, but still they
came floating on, and on, throwing their crumbling arms around his neck
and fixing their livid lips upon his burning cheek, in the kiss of the
damned.
They hailed him--brother--with a hollow welcome, and as innumerable
voices whispered forth the sound of awful welcome, Aldarin missed his
footing on the rock, he felt his form changing with decay, he raised his
hands in the effort to keep on the surface of the waves, and saw his
fingers with the flesh dropping from the bones; he floated on the
surface of the boundless sea, he became one of the damned.
Forever and forever lost.
They were floating on and on, the boundless legion of the lost, and with
them floated Aldarin.
A strange distant sound burst on the ear, he heard it grow louder and
louder, now it was like the roaring of a mighty ocean, now it was like
the hissing of a thousand furnaces.
Floating on the waves of fire, crowded by legion of the lost, Aldarin
turned with a feeling of intense awe, and murmured the question--“What
means yon sound of terror--yon murmur of fear?”
“We are floating on and on, toward the Cataract of Hell--” was the
hoarse murmur of the living corse floating by his side, and a million
tongues, speaking from livid lips returned the echo--“On and on toward
the Cataract of Hell!”
Aldarin was carried on without the power of resistance, with no object
to stay his career, on and on, every moment nearing the fearful
Cataract, whose omnipresent thunder now deafened his ears, and fell upon
his very brain, like the awful echo of an unrelenting Judgment.
Then came a pause of strange unconsciousness, from which Aldarin
presently awoke; and opening his eyes, gazed around.
He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that burned
his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh as he hung. The rock
flung its projecting form over a gulf, to which the cataracts of earth
might compare, as the rivulet to the vast ocean.
It seemed to Aldarin as though the universe, with all the boundless
fields of space, was comprised in the sweep of that awful cataract with
its rocks of bitumen and red-hot ore extending for miles and miles
innumerable, on either side, with the waves of fire--each wave bearing
its awful burden of a damned soul--surging and foaming over the edge of
the precipice, while a hissing and crackling sound, like the noise of
ten thousand forests, ravaged by flame, startled the very air of hell,
and mingled with the shrieks of the ******.
Aldarin looked below.
God of Heaven, what a sight! A gulf, like the space occupied by a
thousand worlds--deep, vast, immense, and yet perceptible to the
eye--sunk beneath him, with its surface of fiery waves, all convulsed
and foaming with innumerable whirlpools, all crimsoned by bubbles of
flame, each whirlpool swallowing the millions of the lost, each bubble
bearing on its surface the face of a soul, damned and damned forever.
Forever and forever.
And as the lost were borne on by the waves and swallowed by the
whirlpools, they raised their hands and cast their burning eyes to the
brazen sky, and shrieked, with low and muttering voices, the eternal
death-wail of the lost.
Over the cataract, shrieking and wailing, were precipitated the millions
and ten thousand millions of living-dead; each one swelling that
unutterable murmur as he fell, each soul yelling with a more intense
horror as it sank into night and all around, innumerable echoes bursting
from the rocks or bitumen and melting ore breaking from the very air
gave back the shriek, the wail and murmur of the lost. Forever and
forever lost.
And over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure of ebony
darkness; his blackened brow concealed in the clouds, his extended arms
grasping the infinitude of the cataract, while his feet rested upon
islands of bitumen far in the gulf below.
The eyes of the figure were fixed upon Aldarin, as he clung with the
nervous grasp of despair, to the rock of melting bitumen, and their gaze
curdled his heated blood.
Every moment he was losing his grasp, sliding and sliding from the rock,
now his feet were loosened and hung dangling over the gulf.
There was no hope for him, he must fall--fall, and fall forever.
At this moment, when his burning hands clung to the rock, when his feet
were dangling in the air, when his blood-shot eyes, protruding from
their sockets, glared ghastily above, a new wonder attracted the gaze of
Aldarin.
A stairway, built of white marble, wide, roomy, and secure, seemed to
spring from the very rock to which he clung, and winding up from the
cataract, encircled by white and rainbow-hued clouds, was lost in the
distance, far, far above.
Aldarin beheld two figures slowly descending the stairway from the
distance--the figure of a warrior and the form of a dark-eyed woman.
As they drew near and nearer, he felt a strange feeling of awe gathering
round his heart.
He knew the figures, he knew them well.
Her face of beauty wore a smile, her dark eyes were brilliant as ever,
brilliant as when first he wooed and won her in the wilds of Palestine.
Yet there was blood upon her vestments near the heart; and _his_ lip was
spotted with one drop of thick red blood.
It was most fearful to see them thus calmly approach; it was most
terrible to recognize every line of their features, every part of their
vestments.
“This,” muttered Aldarin, “this indeed, is Hell.--And yet he must call
for aid, and call to the warrior and the woman. How the thought writhed
like a serpent round his very heart!”
He was sliding from the rock, slowly, yet certainly sliding. Another
moment and he would plunge below. There was but one hope. He might, by a
desperate effort, drag his carcass along the pointed rock: by a single
extension of his arm, his hand would grasp the lowest step of the
stairway.
He prepared himself for the effort, his feet hung dangling below, it is
true, and his body was gradually slipping, but he gathered all the
strength of his living corse for that single effort.
Slowly he passed his hand along the rock of bitumen, clutching the
red-hot masses of ore in the action, and with his heart all aflame, he
supported his trembling carcass with the other hand, and passed the
extended hand yet farther along the rock.
It wanted but a single inch, a little inch, and his hand would grasp the
marble of the stairway. And, yet that inch he could not compass with the
hand so nervously outstretched, all his strength had been expended in
the effort, and there he hung trembling on the verge of the abyss, when
had he but the additional vigor of a mere child, he might grasp the
stairway--he might be saved.
Another and a desperate effort! His fingers touched the carved
marble-work of the stair-way, but his strength was gone--he could not
hold it in his grasp.
With an eye of horrible intensity he looked above him, ere he made the
last effort. The figures stood before him on the second step of the
stairway. The woman, beautiful and bright-eyed, smiled, and the stern
warrior shared her smile.
“Thou, thou wilt save me Ilmerine--my wife, my love, thou
wilt--drag--drag--my hand to thee, and I can reach the staircase.”
She stooped, the beautiful woman, she reached forth a fair and lily
hand, she grasped the blackened fingers of Aldarin.
“Thanks, beautiful Ilmerine. I have wronged thee, but--the SECRET--a
little nearer--drag--drag my hand--a moment--and I will grasp the
staircase--I will be saved.”
She placed his fingers round a projecting ornament of the staircase, his
grasp was tight and desperate.
“Ascend!” she cried in a sweet and soft-toned voice.
“Julian--oh, Julian--grasp this hand--aid me, oh Julian my brother!”
The figure of the Warrior slowly stooped and seized the other hand, and
drawing it towards the staircase, wound the fingers round another piece
of the carved work of the staircase.
“Ascend, Aldarin, brother of mine, ascend!” cried his deep toned and
awful voice.
“Ascend, brother of mine, I would, but my strength fails--seize me, by
the body, and drag me from this rock of terror--oh, seize me.”
The Warrior seized Aldarin by the shoulder, and dragged him slowly along
the rock, but the flesh he clenched, crumbled in his grasp. Aldarin
again trembled over the verge of the abyss--the blow of a single straw,
might suffice to hurl him into the world below.
“Julian my brother. Ilmerine my wife, save me--oh, save me!”
The woman, dark-haired and beautiful, stooped, she slowly unwound the
fingers of Aldarin from the ornament of the staircase. And as she
unwound finger after finger, she looked upon his horror-stricken face
and smiled, and pointed to the red-wound near her heart. He returned her
smile with a ghastly grimace, he looked to the Warrior, and tightened
the grasp of his other hand.
“Thou Julian, wilt save me--thou wilt not unwind my fingers, thou wilt
hurl this beautiful demon aside.”
“Aldarin my brother!” said the Figure in a voice of awe, as kneeling on
the lowest step of the staircase, he cast the glance of his full and
burning eyes upon the livid visage of Aldarin, while for a
moment he wound the folds of his robe yet closer around his
warrior-form.--“Aldarin, my brother, I will save thee.”
He smiled--Aldarin returned his smile.
“Reach me thy hand, Julian, thy hand, or I perish.”
The Warrior slowly reached forth his hand, from beneath the folds of his
cloak, he held it before the face of Aldarin, and the eyes of the doomed
man saw that the fingers clenched a Goblet of Gold, that shone and
glimmered thro’ the air, like a beacon-fire of hell.
“Oh--FIEND--THE DEATH-BOWL!”
As these words shrieked from Aldarin’s livid lips, he drew back from the
maddening sight, with horror, he missed his hold, he slid from the
rock--HE FELL.
* * * * *
A thousand fires burned before his eyes, ten thousand horrid sounds fell
on his very brain, serpents loathsome and noxious crawled thro’ his
hair, all around, above and beneath was fire, waves of flame eating into
his soul, sky of brass, burning his eyes from their sockets, all was
fire and horror and death, and--still he fell.
And a hoarse hollow voice, rising above the murmurs of the damned, spoke
forth the words--“_Forever and Forever_--” and all hell gave back the
echo--“EVER, EVER, EVER!”
Still he fell! The whirlpool sucked him within its circles of flame,
around and around he dashed, with the bodies of the living dead floating
over him, with ghastly faces, upturned to his vision, with foul arms,
clenching him in a loathsome embrace, around and around he dashed,
joining in the low, deep murmur of the damned, and his heart gave back
the murmur. This, This, is hell!
* * * * *
Suddenly all was dark. Aldarin heard no sound, no murmur of the lost.
All was dark, all was still. He touched his brow, and was amazed to find
it untortured by flame. Yet big beaded drops of sweat stood from his
forehead, his frame was chilled, a feeling of unutterable AWE was upon
him, he feared to stir. He had been dreaming. His dream was past, his
consciousness gradually returned, he found himself reclining among the
foul remnants of decay, amid the carcasses of the dead.
He drooped his head low on his bosom, his face rested on his knees, his
arms were folded across his eyes, and there in that lone chamber, while
the silent hours of the night wore on, with his own weird soul, communed
ALDARIN THE FRATRICIDE.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE CELL OF THE DOOMED.
THE DOOMSMAN.
“He dies at daybreak--ha, ha, ha--he dies by the wheel.”
And as he laughed, the man-at-arms, Hugo, let fall the end of his pike
upon the dark pavement, and the sound echoed along the gloom of the
gallery, like thunder, every arch repeating the echo, and every nook and
corner of the obscure passage taking up the sound, until, an indistinct
murmur swelled from all sides, and the voices of the Invisible seemed
whispering from the old and blood-stained walls.
“He dies at daybreak! Right, Hugo--the Goblet and the Ring, sent him to
the doomsman!”
“And I--I--the Doomsman will have his blood! How looked he, good
Balvardo, when the sentence of the Duke rang thro’ the hall--“Death,
Death to the Parricide?” Quailed he or begged for mercy!”
“Quail? ‘Slife I’ve seen the eye of the dying war-horse, when the
poisoned arrow was in his heart, and the death-cry of his master in his
ears, but the mad glare of his eye never thrilled me, like the deep
glance of this--murderer! Blood of the Turk, his eye burned like a
coal!”
“Tell me, tell me, how was the murder fixed upon him? Who laid it to his
hands?”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Must thou know everything. Then go ask the gossips,
at the corners of the streets, and hear them tell in frightened murmurs,
how the Poisoned Bowl was found on the beaufet, how the Signet-Ring was
found in the bowl, how the Robe was thrown over the secret threshold,
and--ha, ha, how one Balvardo swore to certain words uttered by
the--Parricide, wishes for the old lord’s death, hopes of hot-brained
youth, and mysterious whispers about that Ring, and--”
“How one Hugo--ha, ha,--swore to his guilt in like manner. Faith did
I--how I met the young Lord, in the southern corridor about high noon,
how he turned pale when I told him, with every mark of respect, be sure,
that he had forgotten his crimson robe, and--”
“So ye gave him to the DOOMSMAN?” shrieked the executioner, as his
thick-set hump-backed figure was disclosed in the solitary light,
hanging from the ceiling of the gallery--“So ye gave him--Lord
Adrian--to me, to the pincers and the knife, to the hot lead, and the
wheel of torture! You are brave fellows--ha, ha, he dies at
daybreak--and the Doomsman thanks ye!”
The two sentinels watching in the Gaol of Florence, besides the gloomy
door of the Doomed Cell, started with a sudden thrill of fear, as they
looked upon the distorted form, and hideous face, of the wretch who
stood laughing and chattering before their eyes.
Balvardo drew his stout form to its full height, and bent the darkness
of his beetle-brows, upon the deformed Doomsman, and Hugo, clad in armor
of shining steel, like his comrade, started nervously aside, as his
squinting eyes were fixed upon the distorted face, the wide mouth,
opening with a hideous grin, the retreating brow and the large, vacant,
yet flashing eyes, that marked the visage of the Executioner of
Florence. A dress made of coarsest serge, hung rather than fitted around
his deformed figure, while a long-bladed knife, with handle of unshapen
bone, glittered in the belt of dark leather that girdled his body.
“Sir Doomsman, thou art merry--” growled Balvardo--“Choose other scenes
for thy merry humor--this dark corridor, with shadows of gloom in the
distance, and the flickering light of yon smoking cresset, making the
old walls yet more gloomy, around us, is no place for thy magpie laugh.
No more such sounds of grave-yard merriment or--we quarrel, mark ye.”
“We quarrel, mark ye!” echoed the sinister-eyed Hugo, gravely dropping
the end of his pike on the pavement.
“St. Judas! My brave men of mettle are wondrous fiery, this quiet night!
Ha--ha--pardon Sir Balvardo, I meant not to anger ye! Yet dost thou know
that _it_ makes my veins fill with new blood! and my heart warm with a
strange fire.”
“Thy veins fill with new blood! Ha--ha--ha!--Did’st ever hear of a
withered vine, blackened by flame, bearing ripe grapes, or was ever a
dead toad perfumed by the south wind? Hugo, his heart warms with a
strange fire? Odor o’ pitch and brimstone, what a fancy! Ha--ha--”
“Nay, nay, Balvardo. There is some life in the Doomsman’s veins. Don’t
doubt it? Just fancy those talons, which he calls fingers, clutched
round thy throat--W-h-e-w!”
“I say it makes my veins fill with new blood, my heart warm with a
strange fire--this matchless picture! A gallant Lord, with the warm
flush of youth on his cheek, strength in his limbs and fire in his
heart, stretched out upon the wheel--here a hand is corded to the wheel,
and there another, here a foot is bound to the spokes and there another.
He looks like the cross of Saint Andrew--by St. Judas. A merry
fancy--eh! Balvardo? Stretched out upon the wheel, he looks with his
bloodshot eyes to the heavens. See’s he any hope there? Laid on his
back, he casts his last long glance aside over the multitude--the vile
mob. See’s he a face of pity there! Hears he a voice of mercy?
None--none! Earth curses, heaven forsakes, hell yawns! And he is of
noble blood, and on his brow there sits the frown of a lofty line. While
the mob hoot, the victim holds his breath, and I--I the Doomsman
approach!”
“God’s death--he makes my blood chill!” muttered Hugo, glancing askance
at his comrade, who stood silent biting his compressed lip.
“He writhes, for the hissing of the cauldron of hot lead falls on his
ear, he feels his flesh creep, for the red hot glare of the blazing iron
with its jagged point blinds his eyes as he gazes! He utters no
moan--but he hears the beating of his own heart.
“He hears a step--a low and cat-like step--’tis mine, the Doomsman’s
step. The red-hot iron in one hand, the ladle filled with melted lead,
hot and seething lead in the other, nay, start not, nor wince, good
Balvardo--’tis no fancy picture.”
“The Fiend take thy words--they burn my heart! Hold or by thy master,
the devil, I’ll strike ye to the floor!
“Hark--hear you that hissing sound? His muscular chest is bared to the
light, these talon-hands guide the red-hot iron over the warm flesh,
with the blood blackening as it oozes from the veins. He writhes--but
utters no groan. Now lay down the iron and the lead; seize the knotted
club, aloft it whirls, it descends! D’ye see the broken arm bone,
protruding from the flesh? Hurl it aloft again, nor heed the sudden
struggle and the quick convulsive agony, never heed them--all writhe and
struggle so. It grows exciting, Balvardo, it warms me, Hugo.”
Hugo muttered a half-forced syllable, but his parted lips and absent
manner, attested his unwilling interest in the words of the Doomsman,
while Balvardo, clutching his pike, strode hurriedly to and fro along
the floor of stone.
“Again the Doomsman sweeps the club aloft! Crash--crash--crash, and then
a sound, not a groan, not a groan, but a howl, a howl of agony!
“Look, Balvardo, look Hugo, you can count the bones as they stick out
from each leg, from each arm, from the wrist and from the shoulder, from
the ancle and the thigh, never mind the blood--it streams in a torrent
from each limb, be sure, but the hot iron dries it up. Your melted lead
is good for cautery--it heals--ha, ha, ha, let me laugh--it heals the
wound, each blow the club had made. The picture grows--it deepens.”
“Now, by the Heaven above, I see it all--” muttered Balvardo with a
dilating eye, as his manner suddenly changed, and he leaned forward with
unwilling yet absorbing interest. “This is no man, but a devil’s body
with a devil’s soul!”
“His face is yet unscarred--unmoved save by the wrinkling contortions of
pain. The mob hoot, and hiss, and yell--the play must deepen. Hand me
the iron--red-hot--and hissing--give me the bowl of melted lead, dipped
from the boiling cauldron. The Doomsman’s step again!
“The victim’s body creeps, and writhes in every sinew, his veins seem
crawling thro’ his carcass, his nerves, turned to things of incarnate
pain, are drawn and stretched to the utmost.”
“Look well upon the blue heavens, Parricide, for the red-hot iron is
pointed, and--ha, ha, how he howls--it nears your eyes, it glares before
them in their last glance. It must be done, why howl you so? Does it
burn your eyes, tho’ it touches them not? Ha, ha--I meant it thus.”
“Balvardo, strike him down. He is not human--see his flashing eyes, his
arms thrown wildly aside, with the talon-fingers, grasping the air!”
“H-i-s-s--it touches the eyeball, the eye is dark forever! H-i-s-s it
licks up the blood, it turns round and round in the socket. Now fill the
hollow socket with the lead, the hissing lead--and, ha, ha, now bring me
another iron pointed like this, and heated to a white heat. Quick,
quick, the victim groans, howls, writhes, and yells! Quick! Ah, ha, let
the iron touch the skin of the eyeball, it shrivels like a burnt leaf,
deeper sink the hissing point, turn it round and round, let it lap up
the gushing blood. Now the lead, the thick and boiling lead, pour it
from the ladle, fill the socket, it hardens, it grows cold--ha, ha, ha,
behold the eyes of lead.”
“I see them!” faltered Hugo, trembling in his iron armor.
“And I,” echoed Balvardo--“I see them, oh, horrible, and ghastly,
I--I--see the eyes of lead!”
“Quick, quick--why lag ye, man? Quick--quick, I say! The knife, the
glittering knife. The Parricide howls not nor groans, but his soul is
trampling on the fragments of clay. Quick, while his carcass is all
palpitation, all alive with torture, all throe, all agony and pulsation,
hand me the knife. I would cut his beating heart from the body.”
“There, there--the flesh, severed to the bone, parts on either side--the
ribs are bared--a blow with the jagged club, and they are broken. This
hand is thrust within the aperture, I feel the hot blood, I feel his
heart. It beats, it throbs, it writhes in my grasp, like a dying bird
beneath the hunter’s hand.”
“Quick--the knife again--I hold the heart, cut it from the carcass,
sever each nerve, snap each artery. A deep, low, trembling heave of the
chest; a rattle in the throat.
“I raise the heart,--still quivering on high, it gleams in the light of
day, and its warm blood-drops fall pattering on the face of the felon.”
“The mob shout their curses and hoot their oaths of scorn.”
“Quick, the pincers, the red-hot pincers--but hold--that shaking of the
chest, that last heave of the trunk, that quivering in every splintered
limb, with that quick tremor of the lip, ha, ha, that blanching of the
cheek, with the blood oozing from every pore, that thick gurgling sound
in the throat, he dies, the Felon dies, the Doomsman laughs, and from
the shattered clod, creeps the Spirit of the Parricide!”
Hugo turned his face to the wall, and covered his eyes with his
upraised hands. Balvardo stood still as death, gazing on the vacant air
with a wild glance, as though he saw the Spirit of the dead. Neither
moved nor said a word. The maniac wildness of the Doomsman awed and
chilled them to the heart.
“This is the fate, to which ye have given him; this proud Lord now
sleeping in the Chamber of the Doomed--to me, the Doomsman, to the
wheel, to the knotted club, to the knife, the hot iron, and the melted
lead, to the dishonor ye have given him! Ha--ha--ha--these hands itch
for his blood. To-morrow’s rising sun will gleam on the scene, this
merry scene--THE DOOM OF THE POISONER.”
The Sentinels heard a hurried footstep, followed by a closing door, the
Doomsman had disappeared. They turned with looks of horror, of remorse,
mingled with all the fear and torture that the human soul can feel,
stamped in their faces, while from one to the other broke the whisper--
“He sleeps within yon cell--the Doomsman’s cell, till the first glimpse
of the morrow morn shall rouse him to this work--this work of horror and
of--Doom.”[1]
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
ADRIAN THE DOOMED.
The wierd and mystic spirit that rules this chronicle, throws open to
your view the cell of the Doomed.
It is a sad and gloomy place, where every dark stone has its tale of
blood, every name, rudely scratched on the damp wall, its legend of
despair.
All is silent; not a whisper, not a sob, not a sound. The silence is so
breathless that you fear the spirits of the condemned, who passed from
this chamber to the Wheel and the Block, may start into life--at the
echo of a footstep from the dark corners of the room, and appal your eye
with their shapes of horror.
The cresset of iron fixed to the rough wall, threw a dim light over the
form of the Doomed, as seated upon a rough bench, with his head drooped
between his clenched hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his golden
hair faded to a dingy brown, falling over his shoulders and hiding his
countenance, he mused with the secrets of his heart, and called up
before his soul the mighty panorama of despair--the wheel, the block,
the doomsman, and the multitude.
Adrian the Doomed raised his form from the oaken bench, and paced the
dungeon floor. He was not shackled by manacles or clogged by chains.
It was the last night of his existence; escape came not within his
thoughts, the walls were built of rock; hundreds of armed sentinels
paced the long galleries of the prison, and a guard of two men-at-arms
watched without the triple-locked and triple-bolted door of the Doomed
chamber.
Suffering and endurance, anxiety of mind and torture of soul, had
wrought fearful changes in the well knit and muscular form of the Lord
of Albarone.
His countenance was pale and thin; his lips whitened, his cheeks hollow
and his eyes sunken, while his faded locks of gold fell in tangled
masses over his face and shoulders. His blue eye was sunken, yet it
gleamed brighter than ever, and there was meaning in its quick, fiery
glance.
“To die on the gibbet, with the taunt _and_ the sneer of the idiot crowd
ringing in my ears, my last look met with the vulgar grimaces and
unmeaning laughter of ten thousand clownish faces--to die on the rack,
each bone splintered by the instruments of ignominious torture, my
scarred and mangled carcass mocking the face of day,--oh, God--is this
the fate of Adrian, heir to the fame, the glory, and the fortunes of
the house of Albarone?”
Pausing in his hurried walk, he stood for a moment silent and motionless
as the sculptured marble, and then eagerly stretching forth his hands,
cried--
“Father--father! noble father! I believe thy holy shade is now hovering
unseen over the form of thy doomed son--by all the hopes men hold of
bliss in an unknown state of being; by the faith which teaches the
belief of a future world, I implore thee, appear and speak to me. Tell
me of that eternity which I am about to face! Tell me of that awful
world which is beyond the present! Father, I implore thee, speak!”
His imagination, almost excited to phrenzy by long and solitary thought,
with glaring eyes, arms outstretched, and trembling hands, the agitated
boy gazed at a dark corner of the cell, every instant expecting to
behold the dim and ghostly form of his murdered sire slowly arise and
become visible through the misty darkness. No answer came--no form
arose. Adrian drew a dagger from his vest.
“Father, by the mysterious tie that binds the parent to the son, which
neither time nor space can sever--death or eternity annihilate--I
implore thee--_appear_!”
The tone in which he spoke was dread and solemn. Again he waited for a
response to his adjuration, but no response came.
“This, then,” cried Adrian, raising the dagger; “this, then, is the only
resource left to me. Thus do I cheat the mob of their show; thus do I
rescue the name of Albarone from foul dishonor!”
Tighter he clutched the dagger; his arms was thrown back and his breast
was bared; and, as he thus nerved himself for the final blow, all the
scenes of his life--the hopes of his boyhood--the dreams of his love,
rose up before him like a picture.
_And like a vast unbounded ocean, overhung with mists, and dark with
clouds, was the idea of the_ DREAD UNKNOWN _to his mind_.
Amid all the memories of the past; the agonies of the present, or the
anticipations of the future, did the face of the Ladye Annabel come like
a dream to his soul, and the smile upon her lip was like the smile of a
guardian spirit, beaming with hope and love.
“Oh, God--receive my soul!--Annabel, fare thee-well!”
The dagger descended, driven home with all the strength of his arm.
“_Adrian!_” exclaimed a hollow voice, and a strange hand thrown before
the breast of the doomed felon struck his wrist, the instant the
dagger’s point had touched the flesh.
The weapon flew from the hand of Adrian and fell on the other side of
the cell.
He turned and beheld the muffled form of a monk, who had entered through
the massive door, which had been unbolted without Adrian’s heeding the
noise of locks and chains, so deep was his abstraction. The ruddy glare
of torches streamed into the cell, and the sentinels who held them, in
their endeavors to shake off their late terror and remorse, gave
utterance to unfeeling and ribald jests.
“I say, Balvardo,” cried the sinister-eyed soldier, “does not the
springald bear himself right boldly? And yet at break of day he dies!”
“Marry, Hugo,” returned the other, “he had better thought of making all
these fine speeches ere he gave the--ha--ha--ha!--the physic to the old
man.”
Reproving the sentinels for their insolence, the muffled monk closed the
door, and approaching Adrian, exclaimed--
“My son, prepare thee for thy fate! The shades of night behold thee
erect in the pride of manhood; the light of morn shall see thee
prostrate, bleeding, dead. Thy soul shall stand before the bar of
eternity. Art thou prepared for death, my son?”
“Father,” Adrian answered; “I have been ever a faithful son of the Holy
Church, but its offices will avail me naught at this hour. Once, for
all, I tell thee I will die without human prayers or human consolation.
On the solemn thought of HIM who gave me being, I alone rely for support
in the hour of a fearful death. Thy errand is a vain one, Sir Priest, if
thou dost hope to gain shrift or confession from me. I would be alone!”
“Thou art but young to die,” said the monk, in a quiet tone.
Adrian made no reply.
“Tell me, young sir,” cried the monk, seizing Adrian by the wrist,
“wouldst thou accept life, though it were passed within the walls of a
convent?”
“The cowl of the monk was never worn by a descendant of Albarone. I
would pass my days as my fathers have done before me--at the head of
armies and in the din of battle!”
The monk threw back his cowl and discovered a striking and impressive
face; bearing marks of premature age, induced by blighted hopes and
fearful wrongs. His hair, as black as jet, gathered in short curls
around a high and pallid forehead; his eyebrows arched over dark,
sparkling eyes; his nose was short and Grecian; his lips thin and
expressive, and his chin well rounded and prominent. And as the cowl
fell back, Adrian with a start beheld the _monk of the ante-chamber_.
“Count Adrian Di Albarone, this morning thou wert tried before the Duke
of Florence, and his peers, for the murder of thy sire. Thou, a
descendant of Albarone, connected with the royal blood of Florence, wert
condemned on the testimony of two of thy father’s vassals, for this most
accursed act. I ask thee, canst thou tell who it is that hath spirited
up these perjured witnesses; and why it is that the Duke of Florence
countenances the accusations!”
“In the name of God, kind priest, I thank thee for thy belief in my
innocence. The author of this foul wrong, is, I shame to say it, my
uncle, Aldarin, the Scholar. The reason why it is countenanced by the
duke, is--” Adrian paused as if the words stuck in his throat; “is
because he would wed my own fair cousin, the Ladye Annabel.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the monk, “my suspicions were not false. Let Aldarin
look to his fate; and, as for the duke--” thrusting his hand into his
bosom, he drew from his gown a miniature--it was the miniature of a
beautiful maiden.
“Behold!” cried the monk, “Adrian Di Albarone, behold this countenance,
where youth, and health, and love, beaming from every feature, mingle
with the deep expression of a mind rich in the treasure of thoughts,
pure and virginal in their beauty. Mark well the forehead, calm and
thoughtful; the ruby lips, parting with a smile; the full cheek blooming
with the rose buds of youth--mark the tracery of the arching neck; the
half-revealed beauty of the virgin bosom. Adrian, this was the maiden of
my heart, the _one_ beloved of my very soul. I was the private secretary
of the duke, he won my confidence--he betrayed it. Guilietta was the
victim; and I sought peace and oblivion within the walls of a convent. I
am now in his favor--he loads me with honors; I accept his gifts--aye,
aye, Albertine, the Monk, takes the gold of the proud duke, that he may
effect the great object of his existence--”
“And that--” cried Adrian--“that is--”
The monk spoke not; a smile wreathed his compressed lips, and a glance
sparkled in his eye. _Adrian was answered._
In the breast of the man to whom God has given a soul, there also dwells
at all times a demon; and that demon arises into fearful action from the
ruins of betrayed confidence. The monk whispered something in the ear of
the condemned noble, and then, waving his hand, retired.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE FELON AND THE DUKE.
In a few minutes the door again opened, and the stately form of the
Countess of Albarone entered the traitor’s cell.
Why need I tell of the warm embrace with which she enclosed her son? Why
tell of her tears that came from her very soul--her deep expressions of
detestation when the name of Aldarin, the scholar, was mentioned? Need I
say that she was firmly assured of her son’s innocence; that she saw
through the mummery of his trial, and the trickery of his foes? Leaving
all this to the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass on with my
history.
The kind discourse of mother and son was broken off by the clanging of
chains and the drawing of locks. The light of many torches streamed
through the opened door into the cell, and the gaily-bedizened form of
the Duke was discovered.
With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone retired; the door was
closed, and Adrian was left alone with the Duke.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed he; “I have condescended to visit you. Albertine,
my confessor, told me it was due to a branch of the royal blood of
Florence. It were best that you make a short story of what you have to
say. My train wait without, and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened
his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried to assume a look of
dignity.
Adrian bowed down to the earth.
“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your
condescension.”
“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak,
ignoble son of an honored sire--inglorious descendant of a noble line.
Speak! What would you say?”
“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly
into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been
doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was
noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs;
without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which
hell itself would shudder.”
The Duke sneered, as he spoke:
“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to
poison his sire.”
“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he
grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of
scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.
Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to
breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or
motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee
upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak,
and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he
gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.
Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the
neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly
as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he
used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the
neck of his grace.
You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke
writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the
knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.
And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing cloak of the Duke, which
descending to his knees, sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin,
ornamented with spurs of gold. On his head is placed the slouching hat
of the prince, surmounted by a group of nodding plumes, and beneath the
folds of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of his sword.
Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile--that smile which arises from
the recklessness of desperation--and then, without heeding the malignant
glances of the Duke, he fixed him against the rough bench upon his
knees, with his face to the wall, in an attitude of prayer and
devotion--He threw his own sombre cloak over the back of his captive;
and then, having slouched the hat over his face, after the manner of the
Duke, he gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin, and stood
ready to depart.
He opened the door of the traitor’s cell with a quickened pulse, and in
an instant, found himself standing in the gallery where the muffled
priest waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to the wearer of the
scarlet cloak, and the word was passed along the galleries--
“_Make way for the Duke--make way for his grace of Florence._”
The monk now advanced, and locking the door of the doomed cell, he
affixed to its panel a parchment signed by the Duke of Florence, and
sealed with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner, Adrian Di
Albarone, was to be seen by no one until the morrow, when he was to
suffer the doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.
This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of Albarone, who paced along
the gallery, saluted at the door of every cell by the lowered spears of
the sentinels.
The gallery terminated in a staircase. This Adrian and the monk
ascended, and at the top they found a company of gay cavaliers, who
waited for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the scarlet cloak and
slouching hat was greeted with a low bow. Adrian then traversed another
gallery, and yet another; being all the while followed by the band of
gallant courtiers.
“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to another, “methinks our lord
is wondrous silent to-night.”
“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it may be that he is weeping
for this young springald, Adrian. Marry, ’tis enough to make an older
man than I am weep.”
“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would have you observe strict
silence.”
They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into
the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the
galleries which he had just traversed.
“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.
“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”
They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held
a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle,
Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his
side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.
Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to
Adrian:
“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace
gate.”
Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence,
they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.
Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the
supposed Duke with every mark of respect.
And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace,
traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by
lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who
much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of
recognition or sign of respect.
At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite
carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors
upon the panels.
“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered the monk to Adrian,
who immediately obeyed his directions.
The monk then turned to the gallant throng of courtiers, and said:
“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense with your further
attendance.” The monk retired.
Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations of wonder as then burst
from the lips of the cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly
be woad; another that he must have been repulsed in some illicit amour;
and a third seriously gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other
had taken possession of the Duke of Florence. However, being well aware
of the high regard in which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all
slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it to the guards of the
palace, who watched within its confines, as was their wont.
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE CHAMBER OF THE DULSE.
In a lofty chamber, hung with tapestry of purple, embroidered with rare
and pleasant designs, and lighted by lamps of gold, depending from the
ceiling, Adrian and the Monk rested themselves after their arduous
exploit.
In one corner of the apartment stood a gorgeous bed, with a canopy of
silver and gold hangings, surmounted by a Ducal coronet. Around were
strewn couches of the most inviting softness, and every thing in the
chamber wore an appearance of luxury and ease.
Adrian reposed on a couch of velvet, and by his side was seated the
monk. Before them was placed a small table, on which stood several
flasks of rich wine, together with more substantial refreshments.
“Truly, sir monk,” said Adrian, filling a goblet of wine, “I have heard
of many unmannerly acts, but this deed of mine does seem to me to be the
most unmannerly of all. I not only tied the brave duke, lashed him in
the Cell of the Doomed, used his gallant steed, and worshipful name,
but, forsooth! I must also repose me upon his couches, and refresh me
with his wine!”
And Adrian laughed.
“Thou art merry, young sir. But an hour since--”
The monk was interrupted by a gentle knocking under the tapestry.
Adrian started up, and drew his sword, taking the precaution, however,
to resume the scarlet cloak, and slouching hat.
The knocking grew louder. The monk removed the tapestry in the part from
whence the sound proceeded, and having pressed a spring, a secret door
in the wainscotting flew open, and a woman of beautiful countenance, and
rich attire was discovered.
“Thou here, stern priest!” said the damsel, in a sweet voice, “I would
speak with my lord.”
“Mariamne, thou canst not see him to-night; he hath no time to trifle
with such as thee. His thoughts are given to prayer.”
The monk closed the door, and, turning to Adrian, said,
“Another of this miscreant’s victims, Adrian. It was fortunate she did
not see thee closely, for her eye would have detected where hundreds
might look without suspicion. And now let us away; every moment
increases thy danger; the duke may even now have freed himself, and set
his minions in chase.”
“To fly, I am willing, sir monk; but whither?”
“_Follow me_,” said the monk, as he lighted a small lamp of silver. He
then removed the tapestry, and discovered a secret door opposite the one
afore-mentioned. This the monk entered, followed by Adrian, and a
stairway of stone, some two feet in width, was revealed; it was cut into
the wall and over-arched, and the distance between the steps and the
arch not more than four feet.
With great care the monk led the way down the steps of stone, until they
numbered thirty, when they terminated in a narrow platform, which,
indeed, was nothing more than a step somewhat longer than the others.
Here our adventurers descended another stairway, likewise ending in a
platform, and then yet another stairway was terminated by another
platform; and thus they descended stairway after stairway, and crossed
platform after platform, until the increasing coldness and dampness of
the atmosphere, warned them that they had penetrated far below the
surface of the earth.
Suddenly the stairway ended in a large and gloomy vault, with walls and
floor of the unhewn rock.
On the side nearest the stairway, a gate of iron was erected between the
points of two large and irregular rocks.
Through a large crevice which time had worn into this gate, the monk and
Adrian passed into a vault like the former, except that the dim light of
the taper discovered the rough floor strewn with grinning skulls, and
whitened bones.
Along this dreary place strode the monk, lighting the way, while, at his
back followed Adrian Di Albarone. In about a quarter of an hour the
vault narrowed into a confined passage, along which they crawled on
hands and knees. This terminated in another vault, sloping upwards with
a gradual ascent, which having traversed, our adventurers found
themselves again between two narrowing walls, and finally, all further
progress was stopped by a large stone thrown directly across the path.
Adrian spoke for the first time in half an hour--
“And are we to be baulked after all the adventures of this night?”
The monk answered by pointing to the stone, to which he and his
companion presently laid their shoulders, but their united strength was
insufficient to remove it.
Again they tried, and again were they unsuccessful; they made a third
attempt, and the stone was precipitated before them.
Seizing the light, Adrian threw himself into the breach, and discovered
an extensive vault, hedged in by walls built of hewn stone, while the
floor was covered by rows of coffins, with here and there a monument of
marble. Throwing themselves into this place, they picked their way
through the dreary line of coffins, when they came to a wide staircase
which they ascended, until they found it suddenly terminated by the
archway above.
The monk raised his hand, and drawing a bolt which Adrian had not
perceived, he pushed with all his strength against the archway, and a
trap-door rose above the heads of our adventurers.--Through this passage
the monk ascended, followed by Adrian, who looked around with a gaze of
wonder, and found himself standing in the aisle of the Grand Cathedral
of Florence.
The moonbeams streaming through the lofty arched windows of stained
glass, threw a dim light upon the high altar with its cross of gold, and
faintly revealed the line of towering pillars which arose to the dome of
the cathedral, as vast and magnificent it extended far above.
“My son,” cried the monk, “give thanks to God for thy deliverance.”
And there, in that lone aisle, as the deep toned bell of the cathedral
tolled the third hour of the morning, did Adrian and the monk fall lowly
on the marble pavement, and, prostrating themselves before the sublime
symbol of our most holy faith, give thanks to God, the Virgin, and the
Saints, for their most wonderful escape.
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE PIT OF DARKNESS.
One moment in light, and the next in darkness--down through the gloom of
the pit, plumb as a hurled rock, and swift as an arrow, the betrayed
soldier fell, precipitated by the treachery of the scholar Aldarin.
The swiftness of his descent took from him all thought or sensation. His
flight was suddenly terminated by a subterranean pool of water, into the
depths of which he sunk for a moment, and then arose to the surface.
The coldness of the flood, together with an unconquerable stench that
assailed his nostrils on all sides, restored the stout yeoman to
sensation and feeling.
Spreading his arms instinctively outward, in an attitude of swimming,
Rough Robin could neither guess where he was now, or with whom he had
been conversing a moment since. His thoughts were wandering and
confused, as are the thoughts of a man who dreams when half asleep and
half awake.
Still swimming onward through the stagnant waters, Robin cast his eyes
overhead, and discerned far, far above, a faintly twinkling light,
somewhat of the size of a dim and distant star. He looked again, and it
was gone. Around, above, and beneath was darkness: darkness which no eye
could pierce, where all was shadow and vacuum--darkness that was almost
tangible with its density. The cheek of the brave soldier was chilled by
air that, heavy with dampness and mist, seemed as dead and stagnant as
the waters in which he swam.
The light glimmering for an instant far above, brought dimly to his mind
the person of Aldarin, and the incidents of a moment hence.
And then Robin thought that his fall of terror was only a dream, and,
splashing and plunging in the dark waters, he sought to shake off the
fearful night-mare that stiffened his sinews and froze his blood.
His extended hand touched a cold and slimy substance, and a small,
bright speck shone like a coal of fire through the darkness. Robin
grasped the slimy substance: it moved, and a noisome reptile wriggled in
his hand.
Now it was that he became aware that the subterranean waters were filled
by crawling serpents, who writhed around his legs, twined around his
body, and struck his arms and hands at every movement. Their bright eyes
sparkled in the waters, and their hissing broke upon the air, as they
were thus disturbed by the presence of a strange visitor.
Robin was no coward, neither was he much given to strange fancies; but
a feeling of intense terror chilled the very blood around his heart, as
the thought came over him that he lay in that fearful place, of which so
many legends were told by the vassals of Albarone. The peasantry had
many stories of a vast, unearthly pit sunk far in the depths of the
castle, where the fiends of darkness were wont to hold their revel and
shake the bosom of the earth with the sounds of hellish wassail. Into
this dark pit--so ran the legend--had many a shivering wretch been
precipitated by the lords of Albarone; and here, unpitied and unknown,
had the carcasses of the murdered lain rotting and festering in darkness
and oblivion.
As the memory of these strange legends crept over the confused mind of
Robin the Rough, he gave utterance to a faint shriek.
It was returned back to him in a thousand echoes, swelling one after the
other; now like the sound of repeated claps of thunder, and again dying
away fainter and yet fainter, as though many voices were engaged in a
hushed and whispering conversation.
“Avaunt thee, fiend! avaunt thee!” cried the stout yeoman, as he still
strove to keep himself upon the surface of the water. “Holy Mary, holy
Paul, holy Peter!” continued he, between his struggles, “an’ ye save me
from these pestilent devils, I will--”
Here the yeoman plunged under the waters, and the sentence was
unfinished.
“I will, by St. Withold, I will!” cried he, as he rose to the surface,
“place at the altar of the first chapel at which I may arrive after my
deliverance, a wax taper, in honor of all three of you.”
The yeoman struck his arms boldly through the flood, as he continued:
“And, an’ ye work out my deliverance, I’ll never ask a boon of ye
again.”
Here he gave another bold push.
“I’ll never ask a boon of ye more, but stick like a good christian to my
own native saint--even the good St. Withold!”
Here, satisfied that his duty to heaven was done, the yeoman strove to
gain some rock, or other object, upon which he might rest his body, much
disjointed as it was by his fall of terror.
“It pains me--this wounded hand!” he cried--“But Aldarin my friend will
reward me for the pain, some day or other.”
A murmuring sound now met his ears; it was the sound of running waters.
Onward and onward the bold yeoman dashed, and louder and yet louder grew
the sweet sound of waters in motion.
In a moment he felt a sudden change, from the dull leaden stillness of a
stagnated pool, to the quick flow and wild careering of waves in motion.
And now he was carried onward with arrowy fleetness, while high above,
the roaring of the subterranean stream was returned in a thousand
echoes. Now tossed against the sharp, rough points of rocks; now plunged
in whirling gullies; now borne on the crests of swelling waves, in
darkness and in terror, bold Robin swept on in his career.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
ROBIN ALONE IN THE EARTH-HIDDEN CAVERN.
Thus was he carried onward for the space of a quarter of an hour, when,
bruised, shattered and bleeding, he was thrown by the swell of a wave,
high out of the water upon a mass of rocks.
Here he lay for a long while, without sense or feeling. When he
recovered from this swoon, it was with difficulty that he made the
attempt to collect his thoughts; all was vague, indistinct, and like a
dream.
“St. Withold!” at last he whispered, as if communing with himself; “St.
Withold! but this Aldarin is, in good sooth, a most pestilent knave!”
He paused a moment, and then, as if to redouble his private assurance of
Aldarin’s villany, he resumed:
“Aye--a pestilent knave--ugh!”
This last interjection was a suppressed growl, which he forced through
his fixed teeth, as, extending his arms, with the hands clenched, he
made every demonstration of being engaged in shaking some imaginary
Aldarin, with great danger to his victim’s comfort and life.
“Ugh! Well, here am I, in this pit--this back-staircase to the devil’s
dining room--alone, wet, hungry, and in darkness. St. Withold save me
from all fiends, and I’ll take care of aught beside. Let me see. Mayhap
I shall find some passage from this place. I am on solid rock that’s
well. Now for’t.”
Cautiously creeping along in the darkness, he followed the winding of
the subterranean flood by its roaring, until he was suddenly stopped by
an upright stone, which, to his astonishment, he found to be square in
shape, and, feeling it carefully, he doubted not that it had been shapen
by the chisel of the mason.
Over this stone Robin clambered, and alighted upon a large chisseled
stone laid in a horizontal position, and over this was placed another
stone of like form; and thus proceeding in his discoveries our stout
yeoman found that a stairway arose in front of him.
With a shout of joy, bold Robin rushed up the steps of stone, which,
wide and roomy, afforded his feet firm and substantial footing. Some
forty steps, or more, now lay below him, when raising his foot to ascend
yet higher, the yeoman found it fall beneath him, and in a moment he
stood upon a floor, which to all likelihood was laid with slabs of
chisseled stone.
Through this place he wandered, now stumbling against regularly-built
walls, now falling over hidden objects, now passing through doorway
after doorway, and again returning to the head of the stairway from
which he started.
Hours passed. Sometimes Rough Robin would hear a faint booming sound far
above, which he supposed was the bell of the castle, tolling for the
death of the noble Count Di Albarone, known throughout Christendom, in a
thousand lays, as the bravest of crusaders, and the gentlest of knights.
The sound of this bell swung upon the breeze for miles around, whenever
it was struck--so Robin remembered well; yet now, far down in the depths
of the earth, a low moaning noise was all that reached the ears of the
stout yeoman.
With every sinew stiffened, and with every vein chilled by the damp of
subterranean vaults, scarce able to breathe in the putrid air which had
never known light of sunbeam, his whole frame weakened by hunger, and
his brain confused by his dream-like adventures, Robin, the stout
yeoman, at last sank down upon a block of rough stone, where he remained
for hours in a state of half unconsciousness, which finally deepened
into a sound and wholesome slumber.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE CHAPEL OF THE ROCKS.
THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF THE HOLY STEEL HOLD SOLEMN COUNCIL IN THE WILD
WOOD.
The scene was a wild and solitary dell, buried in the depths of the
forests, far away among the mountains; the time was high noon, and the
characters of the scene were the members of a dark and mysterious Order,
whose history is involved in shadow; whose names, embracing the highest
titles and the wealthiest nobles in the Dukedom of Florence, are wrapt
in mystery; whose deeds, performed in secret, and executed with the most
appalling severity, are to this day known and celebrated as household
words, in the legends of the valley of the Arno.
A level piece of sward, some twenty yards in length, and as many in
width, extended greenly within the depths of the forest; its bounds
described, and its verdure shadowed, by huge masses of perpendicular
rock, which sprang upward from the very sod, towering in wild and rugged
grandeur, amid the deep, rich foliage of forest oaks and with the clear
summer sky seen far, far above, as from the depths of a well, forming
the roof of this hidden temple of nature.
The rugged masses of perpendicular rock, piled upon each other in rude
magnificence, surrounded the glade in the form of a square.
Viewed from the forest side, these rocks looked like one vast mound of
massive stone, placed in the wild-wood valley by some freak of nature. A
narrow, though deep and rapid stream, its waters shadowed to ebony
blackness, laved one side of the steps of granite. It swept beneath an
arching crevice, some three feet high, and as many thick, washed the sod
of the hidden glade and rolled along its edge, foaming against the
rugged walls; the waves plashing on high in showery drops, until it
suddenly disappeared under the opposite wall, and was lost in the
subterranean recesses of the earth.
The mid-day sun, shining over the rich foliage of the surrounding
forests, where silence, vast and immense, seemed to live and feel; over
the rough walls of the Temple of Rocks, scarce ever visited by human
feet,--for strange legends scared the peasantry from the place, flung
his beams down from the very zenith along the quiet of the level sward,
with its encircling rocks, now animated by a scene of wild and peculiar
interest.
Around a square table which arose from the centre of the sward, draped
with folds of solemn black, sat a band of twenty-four men, each figure
veiled in the thick folds of a monkish robe and cowl, each face
concealed and each arm buried within the fold of the sable garment.
These were the priests of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.
At the head of the table, on a chair of rough and knotted oak, placed on
a solitary rock, sate a tall and imposing figure, clad as the others, in
the robe and cowl of velvet, with his face veiled from sight and
sunbeam. His extended hand grasped a slender rod of iron, with a
sculpturing of clearest ivory, fashioned into a strange shape fixed on
the end--the solemn and revered Abacus of the Order.
This was the High Priest of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.
At the other end of the table was seated a figure, veiled and robed like
the rest, yet with a taller and more muscular form, while his hand laid
upon the velvet coverings of the table, grasped an axe of glittering
steel.
He was the Doomsman of the Order.
His voice denounced, his voice consigned to death, his voice was like an
echo from the grave, for it never spoke other words than the sentence of
Judgment.
Grouped around the table, a circle of solemn figures, robed and veiled
like the others, stood shoulder to shoulder, each form holding a torch
on high with the left hand, while the right hand grasped a keen and
slender-bladed dagger.
Silent and motionless they stood, the blue flame of the torch, held by
the upraised arm, burning over each head; every right hand steadily
grasping the dagger; while their robes scarce stirred into motion by the
heaving of the breast, looked like the drapery of some monkish effigy,
rather than the attire of living men. These were the Initiates, or
Neophytes of the Order.
Their dagger it was that protruded from the breast of the victim, found
by the affrighted peasantry in the lonely woods, or seen by the careless
crowd thrown down, in all the ghastliness of murder, along the very
streets of Florence; on the steps of her palaces, in the halls of her
castles--even in the cloisters of her cathedral.
Whom the Order condemned, or the Doomsman doomed, they the neophytes of
the Order, gave to the sudden death of the invisible steel.
Never had the sun looked down upon a scene as solemn and dread as this.
The chronicles of the olden time are rife with legends of secret orders,
linked together in some foul work of crime, or joined in the holy task
of vengeance on the wronger, or doom to the slayer; but these bands of
men were wont to assemble in dark caverns, lighted by the glare of
smoking torches, speaking their words of terror to the air of midnight,
and celebrating their solemn ceremonies amid the corses of the dead.
The band assembled in the Chapel of Rocks were unlike all these, unlike
any band that ever assembled on the face of the earth.
They met at noonday, raising their torches in the light of the sun,
whispering their words of doom in the wild solitudes of the woods, with
their faces and forms veiled from view, preserving the solemn unity of
the Order, by a uniformity of costume, while the rugged rocks, golden
with the mid-day beams, gave back, in sullen murmurs, the voice of the
accuser, or the sentence of the doomsman, coupled with the low-muttered
name of the doomed.
From their solemn noonday meeting in the Chapel of Rocks, they issued
forth on their errands of death, leaving the reeking dagger in the heart
of the tyrant, as he slept in the recesses of his castle; flinging their
victims along the roadside of the mountain, or the streets of the city,
while the faint murmurs of the multitude, gazing at the work of the
_Invisible_, gave forth their name and mission: “Behold, behold the
vengeance of the Monks of the Steel!”
As the sun towered in the very zenith, the high priest spoke, waving his
solemn abacus from his oaken throne. His words were few and concise.
“Hail, brothers; met once again in the Chapel of Rocks. Hail, brothers,
from the convent, from the castle, and the cottage, hail! Prince and
peasant, lord and monk, met together in these solemn wilds, joined in
the work of vengeance on the wronger, death to the slayer, I bid ye
welcome. Herald arise; proclaim to the rising of the sun the meeting of
our solemn Order.”
And the veiled figure seated on the right of the high priest arose, and
extending his hands on high looked to the east, chaunting with a low,
deep-toned voice:
“Lo, people! lo, kings! lo, angels of heaven, and men of earth! The
solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, hold high council in the Chapel
of the Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun. Vengeance on the
wronger, death to the slayer!”
And rising with hands outspread and, solemn voices, three heralds
successively made proclamation to the north, to the south, and to the
setting sun, that the solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, held high
council in the Chapel of Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun,
while thrice arose the wild denunciation--“_Vengeance to the wronger,
death to the slayer_!”
“Priests of our solemn Order, ye have been abroad on your errands of
secrecy. Speak; what have ye seen, whom do ye accuse, whom do ye give to
the steel?”
“I come from the people,” said a veiled figure, as he arose and spoke
from the folds of his robe, “Yesternight, like a shadow, I glided along
the streets of Florence, listening to the low-whispered murmurs of the
scattered groups of people. Every tongue had some foul wrong to tell;
every voice spoke of midnight murder, done at the bidding of a tyrant;
every voice whispered a story of woman’s innocence outraged, the gray
hairs of age dabbled in blood, the poor robbed, the weak crushed; while
the mighty raised their red hands to heaven, laughing with scorn, as if
they would shake the blood-drops in the very face of God. Ask ye the
name of the tyrant? Find it in the whispers of the people; the wronger
and the slayer was the Duke--the Duke of Florence!”
“I come from the palace!” cried another robed priest, rising solemnly,
and speaking from the folds of his robe. “Mingling with the nobles of
Florence and the courtiers of the Duke, I heard low whispers of
discontent, murmurs of rebellion, and dark threats of assassination. The
Duke--the tyrant Duke--was on every lip, on every tongue. Florence is
slumbering over the depths of a mighty volcano--a moment, and lo! the
scathing fires ascend to the sky, the dark smoke blackens the face of
day!”
“_I come from the scaffold!_” cried another dark robed figure, as he
arose and spoke through his muffled garment. “Last night, a mighty crowd
gathered around the gaol of Florence; every voice was fraught with a
tale of horror, every cheek was pale, and every eye fixed upon a dark
object, that rose in the centre of the multitude. Breasting my way
through the throng, I rushed forward, I gained the place of execution, I
beheld a dark scaffold rising like a thing of evil omen on the air. I
beheld the wheel of torture, the cauldron, and the axe! ‘For whom are
these?’ I cried. ‘For a lord of the royal blood of Florence,’ shrieked a
bystander: ‘for Adrian Di Albarone. To-morrow, at day-break, he dies;
condemned by the Duke and his minions, on the foul accusation of the
murder of his father!’ I know the accusation to be false. At this hour,
brothers of the Holy Steel, the ghost of the murdered shrieks for
vengeance, before the throne of God!”
“Accusers of the Duke of Florence, do ye invoke upon your own souls the
punishment accorded to the tyrant, should your words prove false?”
“We do!”
“Priests of the solemn Order of the Holy Steel what shall be the doom of
the tyrant, the betrayer, the assassin?”
“Death!”
“Initiates of the Order, do ye accord this judgment?”
“Death, death, death!”
“Doomsman, arise and proclaim the judgment of the Order of the Monks of
the Holy Steel?”
“Hear, oh heaven,--oh earth,--oh hell,” arose the harsh tones of the
doomsman, “Urbano, Duke of Florence, tyrant, assassin, and betrayer, is
doomed! I give his body to the gibbet, to the axe, to the steel! Though
he sleeps within the bridal chamber, there will the vengeance of the
Order grasp him; though he wields the sceptre on his ducal throne, there
will the death blow strike the sceptre from his hand, his carcass from
the throne, though he kneels at the altar, there will the dagger seek
his heart. Doomed, doomed, doomed!”
And then, in a voice of fierce denunciation, he gave forth to the
noon-day air, the dark and fearful curse of the Order, whose sentences
of woe may not be written down on this page; a curse so dark, so dread,
and terrible, that the very priests of the Order drooped their heads
down low on each bosom, as the sounds of the doomsman startled their
ears.
“Let his name be written down in the book of judgment, as the Doomed!”
“Lo, it is written!”
And as the doomsman spoke, a level slab of gray stone, which varied the
appearance of the green sward, some yards behind the chair of the High
Priest, slowly arose from the sod, and, unperceived by the monks of the
Order, two figures, robed in the cowl and monkish gown of the secret
band, emerged silently from the bosom of the earth, and took their
stations at the very backs of the torch bearers.
“Who will be the minister of this doom? Who will receive the consecrated
steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”
There was a low, deep murmur, a pause of hesitation, and then the
priests communed with each other in muttered whispers.
“Who will minister this doom?” again echoed the High Priest, while the
sound of footsteps startled the silence of the place. “Who will receive
the consecrated steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”
“Behold the minister!” cried a deep-toned voice as the strange figures
strode toward the table. “_Give me the steel!_”
“It is Albertine!” echoed the members of the Order, and the wan face and
flashing eyes of the monk were disclosed by the falling cowl.
“Behold the minister of this doom!” he shouted, advancing to the
doomsman. “Death to the tyrant! Give me the steel!”
And as he spoke, the cowl fell from the face of the figure who stood
beside the monk, and the torch bearers, the monks, and the High Priest,
looked from their muffled robes in wonder and in awe, and beheld the
face of--_Adrian Di Albarone_.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE CHAPEL OF ST. GEORGE OF ALBARONE.
THE SOLEMN FUNERAL RITES OF THE MIGHTY DEAD, CONVEYED TO THE TOMB,
NOT AS THE VICTIM, BUT THE CONQUEROR.
The beams of the midnight moon, streaming through the emblazoned panes
of the lofty arching windows, mingled with the blaze of long lines of
funeral torches, making the chapel of St. George of Albarone as light as
day, when illumined by the glare of the thunder storm, and revealing a
strange and solemn scene--the last rites of religion celebrated over the
corse of the mighty dead.
The mingled light of moonbeam and glaring torch, revealed the roof of
the chapel arching above, all intricately carved and fettered, the lines
of towering columns, arabesque in outline and effect, the high altar of
the church, with its cross of gold and diamonds, won by the lords of
Albarone from the lands of Heathenesse, its rare painting of the dying
God, its rich sculpturings and quaint ornaments; while along the mosaic
floor, among the pillars, and around the altar, grouped the funeral
crowd, marking their numbers by the upraised torch and spear.
An aged abbot, attired in the gorgeous robes of his holy office, with
long locks of snow-white hair falling over his shoulders, stood at the
foot of the altar, celebrating the midnight mass for the dead; while
around the venerable man were grouped the brothers of his convent, their
mingled robes of white and black giving a strange solemnity to the
scene.
Beside the foot of the altar--resting in the ruddy glare of the funeral
torches, robed in full armor, partly concealed by a pall of snow-white
velvet, on a bier of green beechen wood, covered by skins of the wild
leopard, in simple majesty,--lay the corse of the gallant lord of
Albarone.
The raised vizor revealed his stern features set grimly in death, while
his mail-clad arms were crossed on his muscular chest, robed in battle
armor.
No coffin panels held his manly form; no death-shroud enveloped those
sinewy limbs; neither did things of glitter and show glisten along his
couch, heaping mockery on the dumb solemnity of the grave.
It was the custom of Albarone, that the knight who once reigned lord of
its wide domains, should even in death meet the stern enemy of man, not
as victim, but as conqueror.
Borne to the vaults of death, not with voices of wail and woe, but
compassed by men-at-arms; environed by upraised swords, the silent corse
seemed to smile in the face of the skeleton-god, and enter even the
domains of the grave in triumph, while the battle shout of Albarone rose
pealing above, and over the visage of the dead waved the broad banner of
the warlike race.
Near the head of the corse, while along the aisles of the chapel
gathered the men-at-arms and servitors of Albarone, were grouped two
figures--an aged man and a youthful maiden.
With his head depressed, his arms folded meekly over his breast, his
slender form clad in solemn folds of sable velvet, faced with costly
furs, and relieved by ornaments of scattered gold, the Count Aldarin Di
Albarone seemed absorbed in listening to the chaunt of the holy mass,
when, in sooth, his keen eye flashed with impatience, and his lip curved
with scorn, as he was forced to witness the ceremonies of a religion
whose mandates he defied, whose awful God his very soul blasphemed.
The maiden, fair, and young, and gentle, her robes of white flowing
loosely around her form of grace, her hands half clasped and half
upraised, stood near the couch of the dead, her calm blue eyes fixed
upon the visage of the corse, while the memory of the fearful scene in
the Red Chamber swept over her soul, mingling with the thoughts of the
felon now festering on the wheel of Florence.
The bosom of the Ladye Annabel rose and fell with a wild pulsation, and
her rounded cheeks grew like the face of death, as thus waiting beside
the dead, the thoughts of the past awoke such terrible memories in her
soul.
Around, circling along the pavement, with stern visages and iron-clad
forms gleaming in the light, were grouped the men-at-arms of Albarone,
extending along the chapel aisles, in one rugged array of battle, while
each warrior held aloft a blazing torch with his left arm, as his good
right hand grasped the battle sword.
Here and there were scattered servitors of Albarone, clad in the rich
livery of the ancient house, darkened by folds of crape, mingled with
the humble peasant vassals, whose faces, stamped with sorrow, mingled
with the general grief.
Every voice was hushed, and every foot-tramp stilled, as the last
strains of the holy chaunt of the mass floated solemnly along the chapel
aisles, while high overhead, above armed warrior and white-robed monk,
floated the broad banner of Albarone, waving to and fro with the motion
of the night air, its gorgeous folds bearing the emblazoning of the
winged leopard, with the motto, in letters of gold.
GRASP BOLDLY, AND BRAVELY STRIKE.
As the last echoes of the holy ceremony of the mass died away along the
chapel aisles, Count Aldarin glanced over the group of white-robed
monks, with the venerable abbot of St. Peters of Florence in their
midst, and along the files of the iron-robed soldiers, for a single
moment, and then gazing upon the broad banner waving overhead, he spoke
in a bold and deep-toned voice:
“Let the corse of Lord Julian Di Albarone be raised upon the shoulders
of the ancient men who served as esquires of his body.”
Four men-at-arms, whose heads were whitened by the frosts of seventy
winters, advanced; and, raising the death-couch upon their shoulders,
with the right leg thrown forward, stood ready to march.
At the same moment, the united strength of ten of the servitors threw
open the huge oaken panels of a trap-door, which, cut into the floor of
the middle aisle of the chapel, revealed a wide and spacious stairway,
descending into the bosom of the earth.
The Count Aldarin seized the staff which bore the broad banner of
Albarone, he flung the azure folds to the night wind, and his voice rung
echoing along the chapel walls:
“Vassals of Albarone, form around the corse of your lord. Draw your
swords, and raise the shout: ‘Albarone, to the rescue! Strike for the
Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!’”
With the battle cry pealing, their swords flashing in the light, and
their torches waving on high, the men-at-arms formed in files of four
behind the bier, which now began to move slowly toward the subterranean
stairway.
In the rear of the men-at-arms came the Ladye Annabel, followed by the
venerable abbot, bearing aloft a crucifix of gold; while on either side
walked rosy-cheeked children, clad in robes of white, and holding
censers in their hands, which ever and anon they swung to and fro,
filling the air with perfume of frankincense and myrrh.
Then came the monks, in their mingled robes of white and black, walking
with slow and solemn tread, and holding in one hand a torch, while the
other grasped a cross.
As the ancient esquires who bore the bier of beechen wood, arrived at
the trap-door which discovered the subterranean stairway, the funeral
train halted for an instant.
The sight was full of grandeur.
The light of a thousand torches threw a ruddy glow upon the folds of the
broad banner--upon the glistening armor and bright swords of the
men-at-arms--over the snow-white attire of the long array of monks, and
along the cold face of the dead. The carvings that decorated the walls
of the church--the altar, rich with a thousand offerings--the cross of
gold, and the rare paintings--the arched and fretted roof, and the lofty
pillars, were all shown in bold and strong relief.
“Ye ancient men who bear the corse of the Lord Di Albarone, ye who
served your lord with a faithful service while living, prepare to
descend into the vault of the dead, there to lay your sacred burden
beside his fathers. Vassals of Albarone, grasp your swords yet tighter,
and join, every man, in the battle song of our race. The house of
Albarone enter the tomb, not with wail and lamentation, but with song
and joy, as though they went to battle; with swords flashing, with armor
clanking, and with the broad banner of the Winged Leopard waving above
their heads.”
Right full and loud sounded the voice of Count Aldarin, while his bent
form straightened proudly erect, as though he were suddenly fired with
the warlike spirit of his ancestors. His dark eye flashed as he shouted,
waving the banner over the bier:
“Men of Albarone, to the rescue!”
“Strike for the Winged Leopard!--strike for Albarone!” responded, with
one deep-toned voice the aged bearers of the bier, as they began to
descend the stairway.
“Ha! an Albarone! an Albarone! Strike for the Winged Leopard! strike for
Albarone!” shouted the men-at-arms, as, waving their torches on high,
and brandishing their swords, they advanced with a hurried, yet measured
tread, after the manner they were wont to advance to the storming of a
besieged fortress.
The aged abbot of St. Peters suddenly forgot his sacred character, and
stirred by the memory of the days when he had mingled in the din of
battle, side by side with the noble Lord Julian, he caught up the war
cry: “Albarone to the rescue!--a blow for the Winged Leopard!” and along
the line of white-robed monks ran the shout: “An Albarone! Ha! for the
Winged Leopard! Strike for Albarone!” and thus spreading from the
men-at-arms to the abbot, from the abbot to the monks, the cry of battle
resounded along the aisles of the chapel, and was echoed again and again
from the fretted roof.
As the corse disappeared down the stairway, followed by the funeral
train, the war song of Albarone was raised by the men-at-arms--wild and
thrilling arose the notes of the chaunt, that had swelled in the van of
a thousand battles.
The subterranean stairway seemed to be without end. At last, when some
five score steps had been passed, the bearers of the corse found
themselves in a long and narrow passage, which having slowly traversed,
they stood at the head of a winding stairway.
This they descended, while louder, and yet more loud arose the chaunt of
the battle song, mingling with the clash of swords and the clank of
armor.
At the foot of this stairway lay another passage, narrower than the
last, from which it differed in that it was hewn out of the solid rock,
while the walls of the other were built of chisseled stone.
Along this passage the procession slowly proceeded, the walls
approaching closer together at every step, until at last there was
barely room for the bier to pass; when suddenly, as if by the wand of a
magician, the scene was changed, and the funeral train found themselves
in the vault of the dead.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
THE FUNERAL TRAIN, BEARING THE CORSE ALONG THROUGH THE GROUPS OF
SPECTRAL-FORMS, ARE AWE STRICKEN BY THE APPEARANCE OF A STRANGE
KNIGHT.
Above, the cavern roof spread vast and magnificent, like an earth-hidden
sky.
Around, on every side, in rugged grandeur, extended the rocky walls; and
far in the distance, the solid pavement seemed to grow larger and wider,
as the gazer looked upon its surface of substantial stone.
The light of the funeral torches flashing over the abrupt rocks,
revealed the level floor, and gave a faint glimpse of the vast arch
extending far above. The ruddy beams flashing on every side, disclosed a
strange and bewildering spectacle.
Around the walls of the cavern, and over the floor, were scattered
figures of gigantic stone, rising from the pavement, at irregular
intervals, in various and strangely contrasted attitudes, bearing the
most singular resemblance to the gestures of living men, yet with every
face stamped with an expression that chilled the heart of the gazer, as
though he beheld a spirit of the unreal world.
A wild legend was written in the archieves of Albarone, concerning these
strange figures.
In the olden time, when eternal midnight brooded through these cavern
halls, a demon band shook the rugged arches with their sounds of hellish
wassail, startling the gloom of night and the brightness of noonday
above, with the echo of their shrieks and yells; while their foul
blasphemies of the AWFUL UNKNOWN infected the very air with a curse, and
sent disease and death abroad from the cavern over the land, until every
lip grew pale, and every heart was chilled, at the mention of the demon
vault of Albarone.
It was when the impious revel swelled loudest; when the infernal goblet
was raised to every lip; when the glances of glaring eyes, burning with
the curse of Lucifer, were exchanged between the supernatural revellers;
when the sounds of mockery and yells of blasphemy, echoing and
thundering around the vault, realized a hell on earth, that the words of
the Invisible broke over the scene, and the figures of the demon band
were suddenly transformed to lifeless stone.
This wild tradition gained credence from the positions and attitudes of
these strange statues.
The smallest of the figures was three times as large as the tallest and
most robust of men; there were others whose heads of dark rock well nigh
touched the cavern’s roof, while their outstretched arms and writhing
attitude filled the gazer with indefinable dread.
Some were springing in the festal dance, the smile, grim and ghost-like
wreathing their lips of stone; some were circling in groups of wild
revelry, their faces agitated by laughter; while others, with upturned
countenances, bearing the impress of every dark and hellish passion, and
arms thrown wildly aloft, seemed daring the vengeance of heaven, and
mocking the power of God.
Among all these various and contrasted figures, there was not one form
of beauty, not one shape of grace; but all were expressive of low,
bestial revelry, servile terror, or else of sublime hatred and defiance.
Some were formed of the darkest, and some of the lightest stone. Here
arose a form of dark rock, side by side with a shape of snow-white
stone; yonder towered a figure of dusky red, and farther on, a form of
dark blue, veined by streaks of crimson and purple, broke through the
darkened air.
The ancient esquires who bore the corse, had faced the brunt of a
hundred battles, and fought in the van of a thousand frays, yet it was
not without a shiver of terror that they looked around upon this wild
and unearthly scene, thronged with those dark and fiend-like figures.
As they advanced, a new wonder attracted the attention of the funeral
train.
Far in the cavern, to all appearance near the centre, a vast mound, of a
square form, arising from the level pavement, was hung with burning
lamps, and overlooked by a figure of stone, which seemed to those of the
funeral train to exceed all the others, both in the magnitude of its
height, and the wildness of its attitude. The lamps burning above this
mound, threw a strong light over the dark figure, and along the
pavement, for some few yards around; while the space between the mound
and the procession was lost in entire darkness.
The bearers of the corse, advancing towards the mound, led on the
funeral train, who all, save the Count Aldarin, seemed seized with a
sudden and indefinable dread. The battle song was still continued, the
swords were still brandished, and the torches were still waved on high;
but there was a tremor in the notes of the song, the swords were grasped
with the nervous sensation that men ever feel when expecting to meet
antagonists of the unknown world, and the waving of the torches was
accompanied by the muttered exorcisms of the monks.
As for the Ladye Annabel, she leaned half swooning upon the arm of the
venerable abbot, who, in good sooth, was as much frightened as the
maiden.
The esquires who bore the remains of their gallant lord, had now gained
near half the way over the pavement of stone, toward the mound; the last
of the servitors had emerged from the narrow passage into the cavern and
the whole train extending in one unbroken line, marked by the long array
of torches flashing over the armor of the warriors, and the white robes
of the monks, presented a striking and imposing spectacle.
Aldarin turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, with a wild gesture:
“How now, vassals? Why this tremor?--Whence this alarm? Do I not lead
you? Raise the battle song of our race yet higher, and advance yet more
boldly! The banner of the Winged Leopard waves above ye! Shout the war
cry, and let your noble lord be borne to his rest as were his fathers
before him. Shout the war cry--shout--”
Wheeling suddenly around in the warmth of his excitement, he turned from
the men-at-arms, to the corse-bearers, and at the very instant, started
a step backward with involuntary horror. The corse sate erect in the
death-couch, the white pall falling back from the iron-clad shoulders
while the light of the torches fell vividly upon its unclosed eyes as
their cold, stony glare rested upon the face of Aldarin.
Aldarin felt his very heart leaping within his bosom, while big beaded
drops of moisture, clammy as the death-sweat, stood out from his
forehead.
“The Corse hath arisen in the death-couch”--he hurriedly whispered--“The
eyes of the dead are unclosed, they are gazing around the vault of
death.”
“It is the custom of Albarone,” exclaimed a white-haired Esquire,--“We
have raised the corse erect, we have unclosed its eyes. The mighty dead
of Albarone enter the vault of death, proudly and erect, with their
unclosed eyes gazing fearlessly on the tomb--such is the custom of
Albarone!”
“Thanks--brave Esquire--Thanks”--slowly and gaspingly exclaimed Aldarin,
as he recovered his powers of mind. “Men of Albarone,” he exclaimed in a
loud and commanding tone, “Gaze ye upon the face of the unconquered
Dead, gaze upon the erect form, the unclosed eyes, daring the terror of
the tomb--and as ye gaze, let the battle-song of our race peal to the
very cavern’s roof! Shout the war-cry, shout--”
A figure clad from head to foot in azure armor of shining steel, leaped
from behind a form of stone, arising from the cavern floor, at the head
of the bier, and seizing the banner-staff from the hands of Aldarin,
finished his sentence--
“Shout”--exclaimed the figure armed in azure steel--“Shout Albarone to
the rescue! Death to the Murderer!”
The thunder-tones of that voice were known, along the line of
men-at-arms, through the columns of the Monks. One wild shout arose from
the warriors--
“Ha! For Albarone! Adrian, our Lord, comes from the dead to lead us!
On--on! Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!”
Strange it was that the very men, who a moment before had trembled with
undefined terror, now hailed with joy the presence of one whom they
supposed to have risen from the dead.
In an instant all was confusion and uproar. The Esquires set down the
corse, and together with the men-at-arms, clustered around the figure in
azure armor, shouting and making the very cavern’s roof re-echo with
their exclamations of joy.
The tumult and out-cry, coupled with the name of Adrian, reached the
ears of the fair Ladye Annabel, who already half swooning with terror,
now felt her brain whirling in wild confusion, as she fell fainting in
the arms of the Abbot of St. Peters.
“Brethren,”--cried the Abbot, addressing the monks--“Haste ye away to
the upper air for aid, while I stay here with the maiden, and exorcise
yon devil, if devil it may be, with solemn prayers and ceremonies.
Away--away, the fair Ladye may die, ere ye can return with aid.”
It needed no second word from the Abbot; the Monks gazed in each other’s
faces with affrighted looks, and then trooping hurriedly together,
hastened across the floor of the cavern, followed by the Servitors, who
but a moment past formed part of the procession. It was but an instant
ere the white robes of the monks, and the gay livery of the servitors,
were lost to view within the confines of the narrow passage.
The Abbot holding the fainting maiden in his arms, her white attire
mingling with his sacerdotal robes, gazed around the cavern, and found
to his astonishment that all around him was wrapt in darkness, while far
ahead, he could discern the lights of the death mound, breaking through
the gloom, with the glare of torches, held aloft by the men-at-arms,
creating a brilliant space between his position and the mound of the
dead.
“All is dark”--murmured the Abbot--“All is dark around me--yet far
ahead, I behold the men-at-arms clustering round the Strange
Figure--their swords rise aloft, and their distant shouts break on my
ear! She lays in my arms, cold, cold and senseless. Save me, mother of
Heaven, but I cannot feel the beating of her heart--I hear no sound of
aid, no voice of assistance! The cavern is damp, and she may die ere
they come with succor,--I will away and seek for aid myself. Lay there,
gentle Ladye, at the foot of this strange Statue--thus I enfold thee in
my robes of white--thus I defend thee from the cold and damp--in a
moment I will be with thee again! God aid my steps!”
At the foot of a figure of stone, wrapping her form in his glittering
robe of white and gold, which he doffed from his own trembling frame,
the Abbot rested the Ladye Annabel, all cold and insensible, and then
hastened from the Cavern in search of aid.
There was a long, long pause around the spot where lay the maiden, while
fearful mysteries were enacting far beyond, on the summit of the
Death-Mound.
When the Abbot again returned he was companioned by armed men, with
glittering attire and flashing swords. He sought the resting-place of
the maiden; he beheld nothing but the rough floor of the cavern. The
Ladye Annabel had disappeared, and the grotesque figure rising from the
pavement seemed to grin in mockery as the horror-stricken Abbot gazed
upon the vacant stone, where he had laid the maiden down to rest, her
form of beauty, sheltered by his sacred robes.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL.
Without much physical bravery, the Count Aldarin possessed a soul worthy
of the noblest efforts of moral courage, yet now while the men-at-arms
gathered with shouts and exclamations of joy, around the Azure Figure,
he stood trembling like a reed shaken by the winter wind, his face at
all times destitute of color, became lividly pale, and with quivering
lips and chattering teeth, he remained for a moment silent and
motionless.
Superstitious terror, he was wont to contemn, fear of the supernatural,
he was known to despise, yet now when the voice of the dead rang in his
ears, and the form which had been extended on the Wheel of the Doomsman,
moved before his eyes, he thought the voice and form had sprung from the
unknown recesses of the grave.
It was after the lapse of a few moments, that he summoned courage to
advance through the crowd of men-at-arms, and fixing his keen eye on the
form of the unknown knight, he spoke--
“Who Sir, art thou? What is thine errand in this lonely vault of the
dead? Why disturb the funeral rites of the Lord Di Albarone?”
“I come to avenge his murder!”
“Ha!” shouted Aldarin--“His murderer is already doomed--even now he
festers upon the wheel!”
“His murderer lives”--shouted the Figure, through the bars of his closed
helmet,--“His murderer breathes, while the Corse asks in the speechless
tongue of death--asks and prays to God, to man for vengeance! The
Murderer walks the earth, walks in the calm sunshine, while the Murdered
rots and crumbles in gloom and darkness. His murderer is here--aye among
the brave soldiers, who followed Julian of Albarone to battle, stands
the foul miscreant.--THOU ART THE MURDERER!”
A wild thrill of surprise and horror ran through the group. From heart
to heart, like lightning leaping from cloud to cloud, darted the wild
words of the accuser; from eye to eye flew the quick glance of
vengeance, and from lip to lip swelled the shout of the avengers.
“Hew him down!” cried one--“For days have we all thought him guilty. Our
suspicions are now confirmed--the corse pleads for his blood!”
“Down with the brother-murderer!”
“Lo! I whet my knife for his blood!”
“Our Lord”--exclaimed a tall and stalwart man-at-arms--“Our Lord Adrian
doth rise from the dead to convict thee of the murder of thy brother!
Miscreant, canst thou deny it?”
The four ancient Esquires said not a word, but each of them raised his
dagger, they seized the Scholar Aldarin, with one firm grasp, their eyes
were fixed upon his visage in one stern glare, their instruments of
vengeance gleamed over his head, and with silent determination, they
awaited the command to strike and kill.
The Azure Knight stayed their hands.
“Onward, brave soldiers”--he cried--“onward to the tomb of the race of
Albarone. There will we administer the Ordeal to the old man, there,
beneath the shadow of the Demon of our Race, shall he swear that he is
guiltless. Onward--bearers of the corse--in the name of the Winged
Leopard, onward!”
Raising the bier upon their shoulders, with the corse still sitting
grimly erect, the ancient Esquires advanced toward the Mound, led onward
by the Unknown Knight, while in the rear, surrounded by men-at-arms,
walked the Scholar Aldarin, his head drooped low, and his arms folded
across his breast.
He said no word, he uttered no sound of entreaty, but his keen gray
eyes, half-buried by his contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the
intensity of his thoughts.
The Mound, with all its ponderous outline, lighted by the lamps burning
on the summit, now began to appear more clearly through the gloom.
At first it seemed like some vast pile of rocks, heaped on high by a
giant-hand, and then, as the men-at-arms drew near and nearer, it
gradually assumed a definite form, rising like a pyramid, its three
sides fashioned into steps of living rock, while from the fourth, arose
the dark figure of stone, towering far, far above, its arms wildly
outspread, its face looking down upon the tomb, as its vacant eyes
seemed fixing their weird and terrible glance upon the faces of the
dead.
The strange procession reached the mound, they ascended twenty steps of
stone, and the bearers of the corse found themselves standing upon the
summit, from the centre of which arose a solid block of stone, some
thirty feet in length and seven in width, while it was but four feet in
height.
On the top of this rock, within the hollow of a cavity, hewn out of the
living stone, lay the remains of the Lords of Albarone, placed there
from age to age, from generation to generation, through the long lapse
of six hundred years.
It was a strange scene.
The lamps of iron, curious in fashion and ponderous in size placed at
intervals around the rock, cast their glaring light over the crumbling
remains, each grisly skeleton attired in the warlike costume of the age
that beheld his glory and owned his rule.
Here the thin and blackened arm-bones of a Gothic warrior were crossed
upon his breast-plate of gold, which long years ago had covered the
plain tunic, worn by these iron-men, who swept like an avalanche from
the Alps of the North, over the fair plains of Italy.
The lamp-beams glimmering over the skeleton, revealed the bones below
the breast-plate, mouldering into dust, while the fragments of the feet
were encircled in the simple yet warlike sandals of iron once worn by
the warriors from the land of the Goth.
Side by side with this relic, the bones of another skeleton gleamed
grimly through the bars and armor-plates of a later age, wrapping the
remains of the mighty dead, from the helmeted skull to the iron-booted
feet.
And thus extending along the cavity in the surface of the rock, skull
after skull and skeleton succeeding skeleton, reposed the Lords of the
House of Albarone, types of contrasted ages, clad in strange and various
costumes, or enwrapped in the stern iron armour, which had defended
their living forms in the terror of battle.
The boast of the proud House--that the earth of the grave-yard should
never soil a Lord of the race of Albarone--was fulfilled.
Over this singular tomb towered the dark figure of gigantic rock, its
rude arms thrown wildly aloft, while its downcast eyes of stone were
fixed upon the corses of the dead.
Many a legend, whispered beside the hearths of the peasantry, or told by
the minstrel in the hall of the castle, inspiring its hearers with
terror and awe, spoke in words of fear of the demon-form arising in the
cavernous recesses of Albarone, its mighty power, and the strange
sympathy it possessed for the race of the Winged Leopard.
Some traditions, dim and indistinct, yet fraught with wild mysteries,
named the figure as the representation of the Northern-God ODIN, stating
that in ages long gone by, it had been worshipped with infant sacrifice
and midnight bloodshed, while the Lords of Albarone flung themselves in
awe beneath its gloomy shadow.
Other legends named the rude creation of rocks as the Demon of the race
of Albarone, brooding silently over the tomb of the Lords, while its
heart of stone was sentient with a strange soul, its broad chest
impassioned a conscious spirit, its giant limbs were instinct with a
fearful life, and its eyes looked forth with an expression that froze
the blood of the gazer to behold.
Such were the legends, differing in their style and incident, yet all
uniting in throwing the veil of mystery and shadow over the dark, dread
form of stone.
It was seen but once in the life time of a Lord of Albarone, when he
celebrated the funeral rites of his predecessor, and the demon-form once
seen, the cavern of the dead was never traversed by his living form
again.
Thrice the funeral train passed round the tomb, the esquires bearing the
upright corse, thrice they raised the wild chaunt of the battle-song of
Albarone, while far and wide the depths of the cavern gave back the
sound, swelling in a thousand echoes, like successive claps of August
thunder.
The death-couch was then rested upon the platform of stone.
The ancient Esquires slowly raised the corse, again the battle-cry
swelled through the cavern, the men-at-arms wildly clashed their swords
together, while the banner streamed proudly in the torch-light.
“Men of Albarone!” spoke the solemn tones of the Azure-Knight; “The
Count Julian of Albarone is laid beside his fathers!”
Louder clashed the swords, more proudly waved the banner, and higher and
yet higher swelled the song as the mailed corse was placed in the
cavity, side by side with its ancestors.
The figure in azure armor glanced round upon the group of men-at-arms,
and exclaimed in a deep-toned voice, that thrilled to every heart--
“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin, brother of the late Lord,
advance!”
Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale countenance.
“Ha--ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think to frighten me with their
senseless mummery--their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with
superstition--Aldarin, who believes not in their God! Ha--ha! I am
here,” he continued aloud--“What would ye with me?”
“Old man!” exclaimed the Stranger-knight, “look upon the corse of thy
murdered brother.--Behold the features pale with death; the clammy brow,
the sunken cheek, the livid lip--look upon that corse, and say you did
not do the murder!”
The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest, their forms clad in
iron armor, were crowded together, and every eye was fixed upon the
Scholar.
The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as he replied--“_I did not do
the murder!_”
“Give me thy hand--place thy fingers upon the livid lips of the corse.”
Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand, and touch the compressed mouth
of the mailed corse.
The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of blood emerged from the
mouth, and trickled over the lower lip and down the chin, staining the
gray beard of the deceased warrior with its dark red hue.
The men-at-arms shrunk back with sudden horror, and each soldier could
hear the gasping of his comrade’s breath.
A tremor passed over the frame of Aldarin, and his face became pale as
that of the corse beside which he stood.
“Wilt thou now say thou art innocent?” exclaimed the stranger-knight.
“The corse--the lifeless form of thy murdered brother, shrinks at thy
accursed touch.”
“_I am innocent!_” cried Aldarin, recovering his determined tone of
voice. “_By the God of heaven and earth, I swear it!_”
“What say ye, vassals of Albarone? Is this man innocent?”
Then arose one firm, determined cry from the men-at-arms--
“He is guilty--heaven and earth proclaim it! The dead witness it!”
And the depths of the cavern returned the hollow echo--“Guilty--guilty!”
They all advanced a step toward the accused. Each eye fired with one
expression; the sinews of each hand were strained to bursting, as they
grasped their well-tried swords.
“One trial more,” exclaimed the figure in armor of azure steel. “Aldarin
of Albarone, look upon that awful form which towers above us. Behold the
arms outstretched, as if to hurl the red lightning bolt down upon thy
guilty head. Mark well those eyes of stone--the fearful look of that
dark countenance--the eyes are fixed upon thee; and the brow lowers at
thee. Look, Aldarin of Albarone, look upon the Demon of our race. Call
to mind the fearful legends of that demon’s vengeance upon all who ever
wronged the House of Albarone. Think of the time when those lips of
stone have sent forth a voice to convict the guilty; when those arms of
rock have been filled with life to crush the wretch whom the voice
convicted. Old man, art thou ready for the ordeal?”
Aldarin cast one glance around. A dead silence reigned throughout the
cavern. The torches cast a strong light upon the long line of robed
skeletons, and upon the stern visage of the murdered Lord. The faces of
the men-at-arms glared fiercely upon the accused: their eyes sparkled
from under their woven brows, their lips were compressed, and their
half-raised swords glowed in the ruddy light.
Aldarin looked above. The massive brow, the stone eye-balls, the
sneering lip, of that dread dark face of stone, were all turned to
glaring red by the strong light of many torches. Each sinew of the
muscular arms; the clenched hands; the bold prominence of the gigantic
chest; the strong outline of the towering figure, were all shown in bold
and sublime relief.
Aldarin raised his hands on high.
“Dark form--Demon of our race--Before thee I swear--I am guiltless.”
“_Murderer!_” a hollow voice exclaimed. The sound rung thro’ the arches
of the cavern like the voice of the dead.
“Ha!” shouted the men-at-arms, “behold--behold the Demon speaks; the
lips of stone move; the eyes fire--behold!”
The voice again rung thro’ the cavern--“_Murderer!_”
Aldarin started. The sneer upon his lip had fled. In a moment he lay
prostrate upon the platform of stone, and a score of swords flashed over
him.
“I confess--I confess!” shouted he, in hurried tones; “I ask but one
moment to prepare me for death. Grant me this boon, and ye are
Christians.”
“Dog!” shouted one of the pall-bearers, “thy victim died without
shrift--”
“So shalt thou die!” cried another.
“Lo! my knife is whetted for thy blood!”
“Hold!” exclaimed the strange knight, “let him have his request!”
Aldarin arose and drew from his vest a small missal, with clasps of
gold, and covers that blazed with jewels.
“I would pray,” he exclaimed meekly, as pressing the clasps of the
missal, it flew open, discovering not the leaves of a book of prayer,
but a hollow casket. Taking a small phial of silver from the bottom of
this casket, he held it hurriedly to the flame of a torch, and then with
as much haste, he applied the mouth of the phial to a bright stone that
was fixed under the lid of the casket.
The stone emitted quick flashing sparks of fire, and a light misty smoke
emerging from the mouth of the phial, spread like a cloud around
Aldarin, and rolled through the vault in waving columns.
It was accompanied by a pungent odor, which, far sweeter than perfume of
frankincense and myrrh, stole over the senses of the astonished
spectators, gradually benumbing their limbs, and depriving them both of
motion and consciousness.
The figure in azure armor rushed forward to seize the murderer, but his
limbs refused their office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his
armor ringing as he fell. At the same moment, while the smoke grew
thicker and the odor more pungent, the men-at-arms--both those who stood
upon the platform and those who thronged the steps of stone--fell to the
earth as one man. The ancient Esquires drew their daggers and advanced.
The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.
“Dogs!” shouted he, “ye knew not of my last resort! I hold a power above
your grasp--receive the reward of your insolence. Down, ye slaves!”
Flashes of fire played like lightning in the wreaths of smoke. The
Esquires tottered and fell prostrate among their fellows.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE BLOW FOR THE WINGED LEOPARD.
The light of the lamps, burning along the tomb, fell over the steps of
stone, and cast its crimson glow over the dread face of the Demon-Form,
while the sands of the fourth part of an hour, sank in the glass of
time. The knight in armor of azure steel, was the first to rise from the
strange slumber which the chemical spell of the Scholar had flung around
the senses of the avengers. He arose, he looked wildly over the steps of
stone and along the cavern.--_Aldarin was gone._
The azure knight gazed around the gloom and darkness of the vault of
death, for some moments, while the utter silence of the place impressed
his heart with a strange awe.
A sound struck his ear. It was the sound of men marching in order of
battle. It grew louder, and was mingled with the clanking of armor and
the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a few moments, the knight
of the azure armor at last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the
narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long lines of torches
shining upon a brilliant array of upraised swords, armor of gold,
mingled with shining spears and waving pennons.
They advanced in regular order, being formed in two distinct columns,
between which, at the head of the party, walked one distinguished from
the others by the richness of his armor, while his voice of command
showed him to be the leader of the company.
While they poured across the floor of the cavern, the knight of the
azure armor scanned them with great attention, as he exclaimed, with a
shout of joy.
“They come--the shallow-pated Duke and his minions. One blow--one good
straight-forward blow, and I am Lord of the halls of my ancestors.”
With his right hand he seized his sword, and with his left he waved the
banner of the WINGED LEOPARD.
“Up--up!--Ye men Albarone. Up with your swords, and strike for the
Winged Leopard, for your Lord and his rights!”
The men-at-arms awoke, like men awaking from troubled sleep and hideous
dreams. They groped hastily for their swords over the steps of stone and
along the platform, and in a few moments they stood erect and prepared
for fight.
“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either side of the tomb, in the
darkness. Ye number fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times
our force. Behold!--they continue to pour into the cavern. But
hist!--The watchword is--‘_Ha! for the Winged Leopard_.’”
The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were now within one hundred
yards of the mound.
“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this is certainly a very
dreary looking place. Really one could imagine this cavern to be a very
fit habitation for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary things.
Where be these caitiff knaves, of which my Lord the Count Aldarin told
us of? Advance, my brave men; find these villains. They have stolen the
Ladye Annabel away--despatch them, and then we will have time to share
the banquet of our lordly host!”
The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red, having a lion rampant
emblazoned on its folds, was now unfurled, and the company advanced in
the same careless order, in which they had proceeded over the floor of
the cavern.
“By the tomb of my ancestors, will I flesh my maiden sword. By the corse
of my father, will I fight for my right.”
The knight of the azure armor grasped his sword more firmly. In another
moment the torches of the Duke’s followers would flash upon the armor of
his ambushed men, in another moment he would stand disclosed before the
eyes of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured the clear level space
that lay between the mound and the advancing men-at-arms.
A whisper to his men--a firmer grasp of his sword, and a firmer grasp of
the banner staff, and the knight in three good leaps, sprang down the
twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang--“Ha! for the Winged
Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”
At his back, with swords drawn, and springing with all the litheness of
youth, came the four ancient Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the
opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise drawn, and with the
war-cry pealing to the cavern’s roof, came the two bodies of
men-at-arms, numbering twenty-five in each company.
Another leap and another spring, and the azure knight stands within
striking distance of the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted
his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his sword with both hands,
he whirled it once round his head, and throwing all his strength in the
blow, he brought it down full upon the golden crest of the tyrant, who
was driven to the very earth by the vigor of the stroke.
In an instant the foot of the azure knight was upon the breast of the
prostrate prince, and while the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the
esquires at his back, were carrying on the strife right merrily, he
prepared for another stroke. He shortened his grasp of the sword, and
gazing sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into his fallen
enemy’s uncovered face, with all the strength of his stalwart arm, he
essayed to send his weapon into his very throat.
The blow descended whizzing through the air, but its aim was foiled. One
of the ancient esquires, with a stout stroke of his sword, sent a vassal
reeling before the person of the Duke, and thus drove aside the blow of
the azure knight, which sank deep into the lifeless corse thrown so
suddenly before him.
And now the followers of the Duke gathered around the champions of the
Winged Leopard, in vast numbers, hurrying forward without order, and
dropping their torches in their haste.
The azure knight was driven back, and as he receded, the blood of the
oldest of the gallant esquires stained his armor.
“On, my brave men!” shouted he. “A blow for Albarone!” At every
exclamation a foe took the measure of his grave upon the cavern floor.
“Ha! for the Winged Leopard!” he shouted, as perceiving the head of the
Duke among the throng, he essayed to greet him with one gallant blow. At
the same moment, his men-at-arms sunk on one knee, and thus received the
disorderly charge of their foes. It was in vain. On all sides thronged
the followers of the Duke, and one after the other the brave champions
of the Winged Leopard fell bleeding and dead upon the pavement of stone.
Onward and onward pressed the azure knight, gallantly breasting the
flood before him, throwing his foes to the right and left, until he
again fronted the Duke.
And at the very instant, with soft and noiseless footsteps, there glided
along the steps of the mound of stone, a fair and lovely form, clad in a
strange robe, of white and gold, soiled by the cavern earth, and
floating abroad in the night air, in waving folds like spirit-wings. She
gained the platform of the mound, and fixed one half-conscious glance
upon the corse of the dead, while her large blue eyes warmed with a
glance of holy affection.
“He sleeps, my uncle”--she murmured--“anon, I will give him the
potion--and then--ah, then he will arise and smile upon me!”
She turned her wild glance to the scene passing in the cavern floor far
below, she heard the distant shouts, she caught a vision of one
well-known form, which her half-crazed brain deemed a visitant from the
spirit world.
It was a picture of loveliness, rising amid gloom and death, the
beautiful maiden raised to her full stature, one fair hand resting upon
the dark mound, while with the other thrown wildly across her brow, she
essayed to pierce the gloom of the cavern beyond. Her robes floated
lightly round her form, revealing the delicate symmetry of that maiden
shape, a glimpse of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the light, the
outlines of the neck, while the blooming loveliness of her countenance,
half-shaded by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden and changing,
yet dream-like expressions.
“I see his form”--she murmured--“and yet ’tis a dream--they seize him,
they--O, heaven help me, they raise their swords above his head--”
“Maiden, fling thy robe!--fling the death-pall over the funeral
lamps!”--a solemn voice broke on the air directly overhead.
She looked above, she shrieked with horror, for the cold strange eyes of
the Demon-Figure met her gaze.
Meanwhile, breasting his way through the opposing crowd of foemen, the
azure knight neared the person of the Duke, he stood before the tyrant
face to face.
“Die, tyrant!” he shouted, as springing back to give effect to his blow,
he threw his sword on high. It descended full upon the shoulder of the
Duke, and severing his armor, snapped suddenly short, and the azure
knight was left defenceless in the hands of his enemies.
“Up with the caitiff’s vizor,” shouted the Duke. “Let us see the bravo’s
face. Up with his vizor.”
The captive knight cast a glance around, and beheld his followers--the
dying and the dead--strewn over the floor of the cavern. The brave old
Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still grasping their
broken swords, and their gray hair dabbled in blood.
“Sir Duke,” exclaimed the captive, “behold the bravo!” He raised his
vizor, and the features of Adrian Di Albarone, pale and sunken, were
revealed. “Behold the bravo!”
“Now, by the body of God!” shouted the Duke, boiling with passion, “thou
shalt not escape me this time.--Dog----”
“These hands itch for thy blood”--shrieked a shrill and ringing voice,
and Adrian beheld the distorted form and mis-shapen features of the
Doomsman, pressing forward from the throng of men-at-arms, with his
talon-like fingers grasping the air, while his face wore the expression
of a demon in human guise,--“These hands itch for thy blood! Ha!--ha!
Once escaped--the second time, the hot iron, the melted lead and the
wheel of torture, wait not for thee in vain! Ha, ha,--hark how the
cavern roof joins in my laugh. Great Duke, the Doomsman claims his
victim!”
“Duke--tyrant, I am in thy power!” shouted Adrian, gazing upon the
circle of men-at-arms who surrounded him. “These thongs, they are for my
wrists! Yon chains--they soon will fasten this body to the dungeon
floor! Thou art sure of thy victim--Lo! I defy thee!”
And as he spoke, there came gliding from the darkness of the cavern, two
forms, clad in robes of sable velvet, who advanced hastily along the
floor, and stood between the victim and the Duke.
“Lo! I defy thee! Tremble for thine own head, tyrant and coward! Tremble
and turn pale, for lo! even now, the axe glimmers high above thy head,
whetted for the Wronger’s blood--in a moment it descends--beware the
blow!”
And as he spoke, while the Duke recoiled with a sudden start, and even
the Doomsman trembled as he beheld the sable figures standing before his
victim, silent and motionless, yet with the long curved dagger in their
girdles, and the parchment scroll in their hands, all suddenly became
dim and indistinct, and the cavern was wrapped in darkness.
The lights burning on the mound, were extinguished by an unknown hand,
while every eye beheld a waving robe of white, fluttering in the air,
the moment ere darkness came down upon the scene.
“Torches there!” shouted the Duke--“Look to the prisoner, vassals!
Torches there, I say!”
Torches were presently seen hurrying from the farther end of the cavern,
borne in the firm grasp of men-at-arms, and in a few moments a ruddy
light was thrown around the spot where stood the Duke.
“Dog!” exclaimed the Duke, gazing hurriedly around--“Thou shalt bitterly
rue this foul treason.”
He looked around in vain. His prisoner was gone, and with him had
disappeared the banner of the Winged Leopard.
The light of torches again gleamed around the Mound of the Dead. The
figure of a maiden lay extended along the steps of stone, her white
robes waving round her insensible form--it was the Ladye Annabel.
“Mighty Duke, behold the scroll!” shrieked the Doomsman, as he held
aloft the parchment, which he had taken from the cavern floor--“Behold
the scroll, it bears an inscription--read, read.”
* * * * *
“_Tyrant thrice--warned, yet unrelenting, the Invisible for the last
time bids thee prepare for the steel! Lo! Thy Death now walks abroad
seeking thee with the upraised axe,--beware his path!_”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE PAGE AND THE DAMSEL.
In a richly furnished ante-room, adjoining the bower of the Ladye
Annabel, on a couch of the most inviting softness, lay Guiseppo,
well-known to all the castle as the favorite page of his grace of
Florence.
A lamp of the most elaborate moulding, suspended from the ceiling, threw
a brilliant light over the rose-colored tapestry that adorned the walls
and relieved the eye, gaily embroidered with the history of the
temptations of the blessed St. Anthony. Here forms of terror appalled,
and there shapes of beauty cheered the venerable saint, who was
distinguished by a nose of a very blooming hue, marking a face redolent
with the kiss of the wine-god.
The floor of the apartment was carefully strewn with rushes, and here
and there were placed couches rivalling, in downy softness, the one on
which Guiseppo lay, while everything wore the appearance of ease and
luxury.
The small, yet well-proportioned figure of the youth was arrayed in a
doublet of fine blue velvet, embroidered with gold, and brilliant with
jewelled chains, that hung depending from his neck. His well formed legs
were shown to the best advantage by hose of doe-skin, fitting close to
the person, and he wore boots of the same material, ornamented with
spurs of gold. His doublet was gathered about his waist by a belt that
shone with gold and jewels, and at his left side he wore a rare dagger,
with handle of ivory and sheath of gold.
The features of Guiseppo were not formed after the regular line of manly
beauty, yet every lineament was redolent of light-hearted mirth and
gleesome mischief. His forehead was rather low, his eyebrows arching,
and his hazel eyes somewhat protruding; his nose was a thought too
large, his lips curving with a merry smile, his cheeks full and glowing,
and his rich brown hair fell in clustering locks down upon his collar of
rarest lace.
He laid upon the couch in an easy position, his hazel eyes sparkling yet
more brightly, and his lip curving yet more merrily, as he gazed upon a
billet which he held in his right hand over his head.
“To the fair Ladye Annabel,” thus he murmured to himself: “to be
delivered as soon as she recovers from her swoon--hum!”
Here the page sprang suddenly up into a sitting posture. It seemed as if
some new thought had taken possession of his fancy. His eyes sparkled,
his lip curved, his cheek rounded, and his whole frame shook with
suppressed laughter.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, as the tears came into his eyes; “Oh! ’twas
exquisite!” He gave his right leg an emphatic slap. “‘Twas
exquisite--exquisite--exquisite!” And laughing louder than ever, the
page walked up and down the apartment, well nigh bursting with repeated
fits of merriment.
“Oh! St. Guiseppo!” he cried, “an’ I live to be an old man, I shall
never recover it! Ha--ha--ha!”
Mayhap it was very fortunate for Guiseppo that the door leading into
Ladye Annabel’s apartment was opened, just at the moment when he seemed
about dissolving in his merriment.
A lovely maiden, with dark eyes and jet black hair, entered the chamber,
with an angry look, as if to reprove the author of this boisterous
laughter; but no sooner did she behold Guiseppo than she rushed into his
arms, pronouncing his name at the same time, to which he very quietly
responded--“Rosalind!” accompanying the expression with a kiss.
Having seated themselves upon a couch, Rosalind began to recall the
times of old, naming many a familiar scene, many a well-known spot,
where they had rambled together, ere Guiseppo left the castle--within
whose walls he had been reared--to be a page to his grace of Florence.
As Rosalind rattled on, Guiseppo sat in mute admiration, much wondering
to behold the lively little child, whom he had left some two years
since, grown up into a handsome and budding damsel. He gazed with
peculiar admiration upon the boddice of green velvet, which fitted so
nicely, revealing the shape of one of the finest busts in the world--so
Guiseppo thought, at least. He also had some indefinite idea of the
prettiness of the cross of ebony, which, strung around her arching neck
by a chain of gold, rose and fell with the heavings of the maiden’s
bosom.
The dimple of the chin--thought Guiseppo--is very pretty; those lips are
very tempting, but those beautiful, dancing, beaming black
eyes--Guiseppo rounded the sentence with a sigh.
“I’faith, Guiseppo,” continued Rosalind, “your merriment, but a moment
ago, startled me with affright. You might have awaked my cousin, the
Ladye Annabel. She is sleeping after her fright in that dreadful vault.
Tell me, Guiseppo, what made you so merry?”
The mirthful idea--whatever it was--again danced before the fancy of the
page, and he fell into a fit of laughter, interspersed with numerous
exclamations of delight.
At last Rosalind wrung from him the cause of his mirth, which he told
somewhat after the following fashion.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE STORY OF GUISEPPO.
“On the day my young Lord--so I must still call him--was doomed to die
by the Duke and Lords of Florence, I felt very dull, and the brightest
piece of gold in the wide world would not have hired me to smile. And as
for laughing--St. Guiseppo, that came not with my thoughts!
(Rosalind very quietly asked if nothing could have made him smile? He
pressed his lips to hers and did not dispute the matter any further.)
“Being in this melancholy mood, I requested permission of my gracious
master the Duke, to visit Lord Adrian that night. My request was
granted.
“It was but half an hour after midnight, that I stood at the door of the
Doomed Cell, where I learned, to my great regret, that the Duke had just
departed, leaving his commands that no one should see the prisoner until
morrow. There was an order of state affixed to the door to that effect,
having the private seal of the Duke impressed upon it.
“No sooner had I perused this paper of state--thou knowest, Rosalind,
that I can both read and write--thanks to Count Aldarin, who taught me,
with much care and not a little pains--no sooner had I perused this
paper of state, then unslinging my cloak of blue velvet and silver
embroidery, I assumed all the pertness of a page at court, as I
cried--Stand aside, Sir Beetle-brow, and make room for my couch--and
you, gallant sir, of the squinting orb, be pleased to shift your lazy
carcass an inch or so, an’ it suits you.
“The beetle-browed sentinel Balvardo, and his companion Hugo of the
sinister eye, looked upon me with the most unfeigned astonishment, as
throwing my cloak upon the stone pavement, I proceeded to lay my person
upon its bedizened folds.”
“Well, Sir Malapert,” cried Balvardo, “thou art surely moonstruck. In
the fiend’s name what mean you by thus sprawling out upon the pavement,
like a cat near the end of her ninth life, eh, Sir Page?”
Here Hugo chimed in with his say, consisting of a “by’r Lady!” expressed
in tones of the most interesting wonder, which he finished with a
“w-h-e-w!” given with twisted lips and great musical effect.
“Why, noble Sir, of the bull-head,” I answered, “and right worthy Sir of
the Squinting Orb, I intend to watch the coming forth of my Lord Adrian,
an’ it please your lordships--and, as I wish to sleep, I will thank thee
Balvardo to turn thy ugly visage another way, for, an’ I shut my eyes
after looking at thee I’ll be certain to dream of half-a-dozen devils or
so. Hugo _do_ try and look straight ahead for only an instant, or the
warriors in my dreams will all be cross-eyed--by St. Guiseppo!”
“‘Hist! thou magpie,’ exclaimed Hugo, ‘hear’st thou not a noise,
Balvardo?’”
“The sound that rivetted Hugo’s ear, proceeded from the Doomed Cell, and
was certainly the most curious of all sounds. It was not exactly like
the mewing of a cat, neither did it altogether resemble the howling of a
cur and it certainly did not sound like the bellowing of a bull, or the
chattering of a magpie, yet in good sooth, it seemed as if all these
noises had been caught and put in a sack, and having been shaken well
together, produced the most infernal discord that ever saluted mortal
ear.
“‘The Saints preserve us!’ shrieked Balvardo. ‘Surely the devil has
taken possession of the murderer--hark _how_ he howls!’
“‘_He_ indeed!’ cried Hugo, ‘it’s not only _he_; by’r Lady, there’s a
score of them. There it goes again. Beshrew thee but, ’tis like the howl
of a whipped cur--’
“‘Nay Hugo, nay Hugo, ’tis like the spitting and mewing of an hundred
cats.’
“‘Or the chattering of a score of magpies.’
“‘Now it bellows like a bull.’
“‘St. Peter be good to us!’ exclaimed Balvardo, as the howling grew
louder and louder. ‘It is the yelling of devils, and naught else. Hark!
Didst ever hear such a horrible noise, Sir Page?’
“I answered his question by repeated bursts of laughter; for although my
heart was full heavy at the fate of Adrian Di Albarone, yet for my soul
I could not hear such whimsical sounds without giving full rein to my
laughing humor.
“Suddenly the noise ceased. In an instant a voice shouted from the
inside of the Cell--‘Ho! guards, without there! guards!’
“I was thunderstruck at the tones of this voice, which I at once knew
could not belong to the Doomed Adrian.
“‘Well!’ exclaimed Balvardo, ‘if the devil hasn’t stolen the voice of
our gracious Lord the Duke!’”
Hugo pursed up his lips and gave his musical “whew!” which intended to
express astonishment itself astonished.
“‘W-h-e-w!--By’r Lady, but the devil _does_ speak in the voice of our
Lord the Duke.’
“‘_I am the Duke of Florence!_’--shouted the voice from the cell. ‘Open
the door, ye slaves!’
“‘Avoid the Sathanas!’ quoth Balvardo.
“‘Be quiet, fiend!’ cried Hugo.
“Exquisite sport--exquisite!” muttered I to myself, as a curious idea
flitted through my brain, “Ho--ho--ho! The Duke of Florence locked up in
one of his own prisons! Ha--ha--ha!”
“Louder rose the voice within the cell, and louder and fiercer swelled
the exclamations of the sentinels; until having strained every bone in
my body, with excessive laughter, I fell asleep thro’ mere weariness.
“When I awoke, the first beams of morning were streaming along the
prison galleries, and engaged in earnest converse with Hugo and Balvardo
stood the ill-looking, wry-mouthed, and hump backed Doomsman of
Florence.
“‘The irons are hot, and the wheel is ready,’ said the deformed caitiff,
bring your prisoner forth. The cauldron of lead is hissing and seething
while it awaits his coming. ’Tis long since I’ve tried my hand upon one
of noble blood. Bring forth this noble boy, and let me see what mettle
his flesh is made of. Thanks, Balvardo--thanks, Hugo, for ’twas ye that
gave him to the Doomsman!’
“Here the villain performed several very graceful actions, such as tying
an imaginary knot around his neck, with a ‘chick’, and then rehearsing
in dumb show the whole process of punishment upon the wheel; concluding
with an animated waving, pushing and thrusting of his hands, descriptive
of the entire manner of disemboweling.
“And this, this was to be the fate of Adrian Lord of Albarone!
“Meanwhile Hugo had unlocked the door of the Doomed Cell, and, called
the name of the prisoner without receiving an answer.
“‘I’ll wake him,’ quoth the Doomsman, entering the cell; ‘see! he lays
flat upon his face. Get up, Sir Parricide; get up. There--there,’ he
concluded, bestowing a few kicks upon the prostrate occupant of the
cell.
“The prisoner replied with a groan.
“‘Ho! ho!--You will not stir, will you?’ continued the Doomsman, as he
dragged the prisoner from the cell into the gallery:--‘See, Hugo, how
the caitiff’s hat is slouched over his face, and his hands are bound
with his own belt. By St. Judas, this is a rare sight!’
“‘His hands bound!’ exclaimed Balvardo. ‘This is not my work!’
“‘Nor mine!’ responded Hugo.
“‘Remove his slouched hat, one of ye,’ exclaimed the Doomsman, ‘see ye
not that both of my hands are employed in holding his carcass.’
“Hugo reached forth his hand and removed his slouched hat--‘O! an’ I
live till fourscore, I’ll never forget the scene that followed.’
“There, his arms ignominiously bound, resting in the embrace of the
Doomsman, lay the Duke of Florence, his face pale with ire, his mouth
frothing like a madman’s, and his eyes bloodshot; and there stood the
Doomsman, his gray eyes protruding with astonishment, until they seemed
about to drop from their sockets, his mouth agape and his tongue lolling
out upon his bearded chin; and there, likewise, stood Hugo and Balvardo,
looking first at one another, then at the Duke, and then clasping their
hands, they fall upon their knees and screaming for mercy--and there in
the back-ground, his cloak muffled over his face, and his frame shaking
with laughter while his eyes run over with tears of mirth, stands his
grace’s page, the trim Guiseppo. Was’t not a rich scene, Rosalind?”
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MEMORY OF GUILT.
On the stately couch in the Red-Chamber, with the Count Aldarin bending
over him, lay his Grace the Duke of Florence, attired in his boots and
hose, with his under shirt thrown back, revealing the left shoulder of
the Prince laid open in a deep gash.
As the Count Aldarin, holding a light in one hand peered earnestly at
the wound, the Duke exclaimed--
“A horrid gash, Count? eh! Damnation! to be foiled by the villain
twice--bound in my own dungeon like a criminal--struck down in that
cursed cavern like a dog--damnation seize the--ah! Count, some wine; for
the Saint’s sake, some wine, I pray thee.”
The Count turned hurriedly to the beaufet, and filling a goblet with
wine that sparkled in the light with a ruddy glow, he hastened to give
it to the wounded Duke, who raised it until it nearly touched his lips,
when, as if struck by a strange fancy, he suddenly held it out at arm’s
length exclaiming as he gazed at Aldarin with a lack-lustre eye--
“I say Count, suppose there should be some _white dust_ at the bottom of
this goblet?--and--and--_a ring_? eh? Count?--Ugh!--Take it away--ugh!”
He flung the goblet from him, scattering the wine over the couch, while
the vessel rolled clanging over the marble floor.
“How SIR?” cried the Count, speaking in a deep-toned voice that thrilled
to the very heart of the Duke, “_what mean’st thou_?” The dark gray eyes
of the Scholar flashed like living coals of fire, as he spoke.
“O, nothing,” responded the Duke, “nothing--only I thought the murderer
Adrian might--dost understand? A truce to all this. My Lord Count, what
didst thou with those men-at-arms who raised their swords in the cause
of the murderer?”
Right glad was the Count Aldarin to recover his usual calm demeanour as
he answered this inquiry.
“Of the fifty treacherous caitiffs who raised their swords against the
person of your grace, forty lie bleeding and dead upon the cavern floor.
“As for the others--” he finished the sentence by pointing to the arched
window of the Red-Chamber.
The Duke looked over his shoulder and beheld through the opened window
the black and gloomy timbers of a gibbet towering like an evil omen high
over the walls of the castle, and backed by the soft azure of a
cloudless summer night.
The beams of the moon fell upon ten ghastly and death-writhen faces and
ten figures swung to and fro, while the groaning cords as they grated
against the creaking timbers over their heads, seemed shaking their
death wail.
“Curse the traitors--they have their deserts!” The Duke exclaimed with a
meaning smile.
The Count said nothing, but bending over the form of the Prince
proceeded to dress his wounded shoulder, after the manner prescribed by
his scholarly studies.
And as the Scholar bent over the form of the Duke, the hangings of the
couch, sweeping beside the Prince, waved to and fro, with a slight
motion, as though the summer breeze disturbed their folds, and a dark
form, robed in garments of sable, with a monkish cowl dropping over its
face, glided noiselessly along the floor, and in a moment stood at the
back of his Grace of Florence, holding aloft, above his very head, a
slender-bladed and glittering dagger.
The Figure stood silent and immoveable, its face shrouded and its form
robed from view, the dagger glittering above the head of the Duke,
brilliant as a spiral flame, while the light of the lamp held by
Aldarin, shone on the upraised hand, revealing the sinews, stretched to
their utmost tension, while the clutched fingers prepared to strike the
blow of death.
And at the very instant, as the Figure of Sable emerged from the
hangings of the couch, at the back of the Prince, there silently strode
from the folds of the tapestry on the other side of the bed, a veiled
form, clad from head to foot, in a robe of ghostly white.
While the Figure in garments of sable, raised the dagger above the head
of the Duke, the strange Form, arrayed in the sweeping robe of white,
disappeared behind the hangings of the couch, on the side opposite the
Scholar Aldarin.
“Curse the traitors--they have their deserts!” again exclaimed the Duke.
“Count, how succeeds my suit with the Ladye Annabel? Dost think she
affects me? Eh, Count?”
“Marry, does, my Lord Duke--this slight wound in thy shoulder will
detain thee at the castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every
opportunity to urge thy suit, and, and--the day of your nuptials shall
be named whenever thou dost wish!”
And as Aldarin spoke, the knife rose glittering in the hands of the
Sable Figure, and a pale face, marked by the glare of a wild and
flashing eye, was thrust from the folds of the robe of black. It was the
face of Albertine.
“Now, by St. Antonia, but that is pleasant to think of,” exclaimed the
Duke, as, complacently surveying his figure, he passed his hand over his
bearded chin and whiskered lip--“as thou wishest me to name the day, my
Lord Count, be assured, I shall not return to Florence without being
accompanied by my fair bride--_Ladye Annabel Duchess of Florence_. It
sounds well--eh, Count?”
A smile passed over the compressed lips of the Count, and a glance of
wild joy lit up his piercing eyes, as he thought of the fulfillment of
the dream of ambition that had haunted his soul for years.
“It does indeed sound well, my Lord Duke,” he calmly replied, as he
proceeded in his employment of dressing the wound. There was a pause for
a moment, a strange, dread pause, while the hands of the Sable Figure
trembled, as though Albertine, was nerving his soul for the work of
death.
“My Lord Count, how curious it seems? eh? Count?” exclaimed the Duke in
a tone of vacant wonder.
“To what does your Grace refer?” answered the Count.
“Why, Count, but three short days ago, upon this very couch lay your
gallant brother; here he folded to his arms his Adrian. Now that very
son is a--murderer--a parricide. I rest upon the very couch that
supported the murdered remains of the late Count, and thou, Aldarin, his
brother--”
“HIS MURDERER!” exclaimed a voice that thrilled to the very heart of
Aldarin, and made the Duke start with terror.
And as he started the knife came hissing through the air, it grazed the
robe of the Duke, it sank to the very hilt in the death couch.
The start of the Duke saved him from the steel.
“Eh! Count, what’s that? Who spoke? eh?” The eyes of the Count
distended, and his lips parted with affright as he spoke.
The Count looked up and beheld a sight that froze his very blood.
On the opposite side of the bed, among the crimson hangings, stood a
figure robed in white, and there, two eyes, blazing like fire-coals,
from beneath the deathly pallor of a half-veiled brow, looked steadily
upon the trembling Aldarin.
The cheeks of that pale countenance were dug into fearful hollows, and
the eyes were surrounded by circles of livid blue.
The Count gazed with intense horror at this apparition and the Sable
Figure, who had hurriedly stooped, in the effort to wrench the dagger
from the couch, with a noiseless grasp, looked up and started hastily
backward as his eye rested upon the ghastly face, appearing amid the
hangings in the opposite side of the bed.
“It is the face of the dead”--muttered Albertine, gliding hurriedly
toward his place of concealment while the Duke was absorbed by the
awe-stricken visage of Aldarin, whose very soul seemed starting from his
eyes as he gazed upon the apparition--“It is the face of the dead--The
time of the Betrayer hath not yet come!”
And as he spoke he disappeared, without being observed by either the
Duke or Aldarin, while the Scholar, beheld the curtains on the opposite
side of the couch rustling to and fro--he looked and the Spectre was
gone.
“This is some vile trick!” cried Aldarin, grasping the sword of the Duke
from the couch as he spoke. “Let the mummers, whoe’er they are, beware
the vengeance of the Scholar!”
He rushed to the other side of the couch, he lifted the hangings, but
discovered no one. With a hurried step, he turned to the tapestry that
adorned the walls, and thrust aside the embroidered, folds. The secret
door was closed, and he beheld neither sign nor mark, that might tell of
aught concealed within its pannels.
And as Aldarin continued his hurried search, the Duke leaning back on
the couch, felt some hard substance pressing against his side. Thrusting
his hand along the couch, he felt the handle of a dagger, thrust from
its resting place, and with a trembling arm, held the steel aloft in the
light.
“It bears an inscription--Saints of Heaven, let me read--
‘THE VENGEANCE OF THE MONKS OF THE HOLY STEEL.’”
And at the same moment, the Count Aldarin, leaned trembling against a
pillar for support, and quaking in every nerve, one fearful thought
possessed his soul as he murmured in a hollow whisper.
“_Haunted, forever haunted--by thy gloomy shade, my murdered
brother!_”
BOOK THE THIRD.
THE LAST NIGHT OF THRICE SEVEN YEARS.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE MAIDEN IN HER BOWER.
ALDARIN PICTURES TO THE LADYE ANNABEL THE GLORIES OF A LIVING-TOMB.
A lamp of alabaster, placed upon a small table of ebony, beside which
was seated the Ladye Annabel, threw its softened beams around the
apartment, and leaving the hangings, the stately bed, and the luxurious
couches, wrapt in twilight shadow, cast a lovelier tint upon a vase of
flowers standing upon the table, and revealed the fair maiden’s
countenance and figure in soft and rosy light.
Her flaxen tresses, unrestrained by band or cincture, fell in a golden
shower over her delicate neck and finely-turned shoulders; and streaming
along the full and swelling bosom, but half concealed by the bodice of
white, bordered by finest lace, they flowed soft and waving down to her
very feet.
The figure of the Ladye Annabel realized an old saying, that nature
shows all her art, and lavishes the richest of her beauties, upon her
smallest creations.
In form slight and delicate, in stature somewhat below the usual size,
the proportions of Annabel were of the most exquisite tracery of
outline. Her arms, full and softly rounded, were terminated by hands
small and white, with tapering fingers; her feet, thin and slender, and
marked by an high instep, supported ancles as finely turned, as the
movements of the maiden were light and graceful; the well-proportioned
waist arose in lovely gradation into the bosom of rich and budding
promise; the neck, gently arching, and graceful in every attitude,
blended sweetly into the small and half dimpling chin, that harmonized
with the face of loveliness and soul.
“Right beauteous shone those eyes of blue,” says the chronicler of the
ancient MS., “glancing pure thoughts and light-hearted fancies; and
right lovely were those glowing cheeks, in which the snow-white of the
fair countenance bloomed into a roseate hue; and lovely was the small
mouth of parting lips, delicious in their maiden ripeness; and sweet,
surpassing sweet, was the expression of that face, where love and
innocence beaming from every feature, seemed like the golden fruit of
fairy land, only waiting to be gathered.”
Her face was a poem, written by the finger of God, in characters of
youth and bloom.
A poem whose theme was ever beauty and love, speaking its meaning
through the deep glance of a shadowy eye, sending forth its messages of
sweetness from the smile of the wreathing lip, or preaching its lessons
of thought and purity by the calm glory of the unclouded brow.
A face lovely as a dream, when dreams are loveliest, with an outline of
youth and bloom, a brow clear, calm, and cloudless, over-arching the
eyes of azure, whose brightness seemed unfathomable; with full and
swelling cheeks, varying the snow-white of the maiden’s countenance by
the damask of the budding rose; a small mouth, with curving lips; a chin
all roundness and dimple, receding with a waving outline into the neck,
all lightness and grace; while all around, the luxuriance of her golden
hair, unbound and uncinctured, fell sweeping and waving, with a soft,
airy motion, through the sunbeams shimmered round the fairy countenance
of the maiden.
Alone in her bower sate the Ladye Annabel, her lip curving with scorn
while she glanced at the letter of his grace of Florence, as it was
flung along the floor, unopened and unheeded.
Her soul was agitated by the fearful memory of the last three days of
mystery and blood, and then came confused and wandering thoughts of the
scenes she had witnessed but an hour since, in the cavern of the dead.
Her mind was lost in a maze of never-ending doubts, when she
contemplated the fearful death of the late Count.
She had never for an instant believed that Adrian could be guilty of the
accursed act, neither had she dreamed that it was her father’s hand that
dealt the blow.
The thought would have driven her mad.
Suddenly her thoughts were agitated by a fearful picture.
She saw Adrian stretched bleeding and dead upon the wheel--his limbs
severed and torn, and his brow scarred by the instruments of torture,
while the doomsman’s laugh rang in her ears. As the picture grew upon
her mind in all its horrible details:--the glazed eye and the writhen
lip, the chest heaving with the convulsive sobs of death, and the throat
straining with the death rattle,--the maiden covered her face with her
hands, and shrieked:
“Save me, holy Mary, save me from these fearful fancies!”
And as she spoke, the maiden burst into a flood of tears.
“_Annabel!_” whispered a voice at once deep-toned and full of affection.
She looked up, and her father, the Count Aldarin, stood before her.
“My daughter,” he continued, drawing a seat beside her, “how dost thou
like these?”
He opened a casket which he held in his hand, and the light of the
alabaster lamp flashed upon ornaments of gold and silver, such as might
not shame a queen to wear.
There were bracelets for the wrists, there were chains for the arching
neck, gems for the brow, pearls to be woven in the flowing hair; and as
their bright and star-like blaze met the eye of the Ladye Annabel, she
gave utterance to a cry of delight.
“I thank thee, father, I thank thee!” she exclaimed, as, clasping a
bracelet of gold, bordered by pearls, around her fair and well-rounded
wrist, she received it with a glance of admiration. “See, father, see!
How beauteous are those pearls, how bright that gold, and the shape--how
exquisite! O! father, this is kind of thee! ’Tis indeed a rich gift!”
“_It is a bridal gift!_” exclaimed the Count, in a low and quiet tone,
and with his eyes fixed upon his daughter’s countenance, as if to note
each varying expression of the fair and lovely features.
Annabel started as if an adder had stung her.
“A bridal gift? Said you not so? A bridal gift? From whom is it, my
father?”
“His grace, the Duke of Florence, sends thee this rare and costly
present. He sends it with his ardent wishes for thy health. He sends
these jewels with the hope that ere three days have run their sands, he
may behold them shining on the brow of his fair bride--the Ladye
Annabel, Duchess of Florence.”
As in a calm and determined tone he spoke these words, a deadly paleness
came over the damsel’s face; her lips dropped apart, and her fair blue
eyes distended with a vacant look, the slender fingers of each hand
slowly straightened, unclasping their grasp of the casket, which fell
heavily to the floor, as her arms dropped listlessly by her side.
The old man surveyed his child for an instant with a look which told of
his deep, his yearning affection, combined with the strange fancies
ruling his destiny through life. In an instant he again spoke, and his
voice, as it came from the depths of his chest, sounded wild and
thrilling to the maiden’s ear.
“_My daughter!_” said he, taking her by the hand, “_thou shall wed this
man!_”
Annabel replied not.
“Thou shalt, I say, wed the Lord of Florence. It must be so; therefore
it were well that thou dost prepare thee for the bridal. I say it shall
be so, my daughter. The word of Aldarin is passed!”
“Father,” replied the Ladye Annabel, in tremulous tones; “father, O!
look not so sternly at me, your eyes chill my very heart. I would do
your bidding--the Virgin and all the saints witness me, I would--but,
father--”
“Annabel,” said the Count, in his deep tones of enthusiasm, “I have said
it, and it shall be so. Wed the Duke of Florence, and behold thyself
a--queen! All that heart can wish, or the wildest fancy desires, shalt
thou possess, and claim as thine own. Wealth shall lavish its stores
around thee, and honor shall bring the fairest and the noblest to bow
low at the feet of the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.
“Lo! thou art in the ducal hall of Florence: behold thyself encircled by
the gay and glittering throng; a thousand eyes are fixed upon thee in
admiration, a thousand tongues speak their words of eloquence but to
syllable that admiration, and a thousand swords, flashing in the light,
are slaves to the slightest word of Ladye Annabel--the queen.
“The robes of a queen shall gird this lovely form, the stars of a
coronet shall flash from that beauteous brow, and this fair hand, so
beautiful in its alabaster whiteness, shall wave the sceptre over the
heads of kneeling myriads! With a queenly port and a flashing eye, thou
shalt look around thee, and behold the princely halls illumined by
lamps, diffusing at once both light, soft as moonbeams, and fragrance
sweeter than the breath of spring flowers. The lofty windows, with their
rare carvings, shall give to view gardens rich with golden fruit, won
from the far lands of the East, fragrant with shrubbery and gay with
flowers, while ancient trees, in leafy magnificence, sweep their arching
bows overhead. Fountains fling their columns of liquid diamonds up from
the arbored paths, lulling waterfalls soothe the ear, distant music
wakes delightful visions in the soul, solemn palaces, in all their
grandeur of outline, break through the air of night! Palaces, gardens,
unbounded wealth, rank, pride, place, honor--all, all shall be thine
own!”
“All, my father, all--all--but love.”
As Annabel spoke, her eyes filled with tears, and her voice was choked
with the sobs that convulsed her bosom.
To say that the picture of the Count had no effect upon the maiden,
would be uttering an absurd and unnatural fiction. In bright and glowing
colors arose the gorgeous pageantry before the mind of Annabel: it was
all saith the Chronicler of the ancient MSS.--it was all that a woman
could wish, the fruition of a woman’s most ardent aspiration. With
Adrian, the companion of her childhood, the princely palace would have
been like an abode of fairy land; with the Duke, it would have been a
tomb--a golden sepulchre for the living-dead.
The answer of Aldarin was contemptuous and bitter.
“_Love!_--a dream--a phantom--a bubble!--_Love_, forsooth! the vision of
warm-blooded youth, which all have felt, and none but fools obey, Girl,”
continued he, “I have said that thou shouldst wed the Duke, and--by my
soul!--_thou shalt wed him_! My word--the word of Aldarin--is passed.
Think not to deceive _me_. I know thy motive in thus setting the bidding
of a father at defiance. It is because thou dost affect the murderer of
my only brother,--of thy kind uncle,--the PARRICIDE, Adrian--”
“O! father, he cannot--cannot be the doer of so dread a crime.”
“Who, then,” exclaimed the Count, bitterly, “who then was the doer of so
dread a crime? Speak, my fair daughter, _who_ was’t?”
“IT WAS THOU! THOU! ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR!” exclaimed a voice that sounded
strange and hollow through the lonely apartment.
“Holy Mary, preserve us!” shrieked Annabel. “Father, whence came that
fearful voice?”
The Count Aldarin replied not. The convulsive motion that heaved his
breast, and strained the lineaments of his countenance, showed that he
was making a desperate attempt to command his soul.
“‘Tis naught, my daughter,” he began; “‘tis fancy--’tis--”
He finished the sentence by a howl of horror, that might have been
uttered by a lost soul. Annabel beheld him gazing fixedly at some object
behind her. She turned her head and saw a vision that drove the life
current back from her heart.
A figure arrayed in the snow-white attire of the grave, looked with a
pale and ghastly countenance, and hollow eyes, from among the folds of
the crimson tapestry on the opposite side of the apartment.
With freezing blood, Annabel beheld the figure advance with a slow and
measured step towards her. Her consciousness failed, and she fell
insensible on the floor, at the same instant that Aldarin sank down with
a yell of despair, while his mouth frothed, and his eyes glared like
those of a maniac.
On toward the light advanced the figure in white.
In a moment it stood beside the prostrate forms of the father and child,
and having gazed at them for an instant, it threw back the robe from its
head, and the beams of the lamp flashed over the wan and ghastly face of
the strange figure.
“Ha--ha--ha!” he laughed, in tones sepulchral with famine, “methinks
I’ve frightened the old caitiff enow! O, St. Withold! but I do feel this
fiend, Hunger, gnawing with its serpent teeth at my very heart! Nothing
to eat for three days and as many nights! And this hand--half-severed at
the finger joints--throbbing with pain all the while! Thanks to the hard
lessons of a soldier’s life, that taught me to wrap this rough bandage
round the wound! Had it been my good right hand--St. Withold!--Robin had
been a dead man three days ago! True, I did make out to crawl toward one
of the dead soldiers in the cavern. How sweetly the wine in his flask
gurgled down my parched throat! I am faint with lack of food. By a
soldier’s faith, I could eat a whole ox! St. Withold, an’ I do not get
some nourishment in the shortest time possible, I may as well wrap me up
in this pall, so as to be ready for burial! Ugh! the priest shall not
say his prayers over thee yet, my friend Robin; courage.”
Having first divested himself of the funeral pall of the late lord, the
famished soldier strode across the apartment, and opening the door that
led into the ante chamber, he discovered Guiseppo and Rosalind seated
upon one of the couches, apparently in the most amiable humor with each
other.
“Look ye, sir page,” exclaimed Robin, as he showed his wan and wasted
features through the opened door, “an’ ye stir not yourself right
quickly, your master will be dead; and, fair damsel, the same may be
said of your mistress, the Ladye Annabel.”
Rosalind shrieked with affright at the hollow voice and shrunken figure
of the bold yeoman, and Guiseppo sprang with one bound from the couch
half way across the apartment.
“Fear not, Rosalind,” he cried, drawing his dagger. “If it be a devil, I
defy it in God’s name; and if it be a man why I will try what this good
steel can do.”
“Tut, tut,” exclaimed Robin, “put up your cheese-knife boy. Come hither.
Know you me not?”
“No more than I do the devil.”
“Mayhap then, fair Sir, you have heard of a _certain youth_, who on the
night before he departed from the castle--the castle where his infancy
had been passed--to be a page at court, took occasion to pour a sleeping
potion into the wine of a _certain yeoman_; and then shaving one side of
the yeoman’s face; concluded by tying a dead cat around his neck, thus
making an honest soldier a mock of laughter for all the castle. Did’st
ever hear of such a page? Eh? Guiseppo?”
“Why the Virgin bless me,” exclaimed Rosalind, “It’s Rough Robin!”
“Eh?” cried the page with a stare of astonishment.
“If you value your life, Guiseppo,” continued the yeoman; “Hie away, and
bring me a dozen flasks of wine or so, and a round of beef. Speak not a
word, but haste away. I am nigh starved to death, and the devil may
tempt me to cut a slice from the trim figure of a certain page; away!”
As Guiseppo left the apartment, Rosalind asked the bold yeoman where he
had been for the last three days, and wherefore he looked so much like a
ghost risen from the dead merely for its own amusement.
“_My lord the Count Aldarin_,” replied Robin with a grim smile,
“_despatched me--upon a long journey, to arrange matters of business
entirely relating to himself._”
Having thus spoken, he again entered the bower of the Ladye Annabel, and
laying hold of the senseless body of Aldarin, he dragged him into the
ante-chamber, and then returned to assist the damsel Rosalind in the
recovery of her mistress.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE LADY AND THE YEOMAN.
When the Ladye Annabel opened her fair blue eyes, she gazed hurriedly
around the apartment until her glance was met by that of the bold
yeoman. She gave a faint scream, and her form trembled with affright.
“St. Withold!” exclaimed the yeoman--“but I do seem to frighten every
one that looks at me, into fits. Fear me not, Ladye Annabel--’Tis
I--Rough Robin--I would speak a few words to thee. The import of what I
have to say is of a fearful nature.”
“Ah!” said Annabel, “of what would you speak?”
Robin whispered a word in her ear.
The maiden gave a convulsive start. She clasped her hands and looked
wildly in the yeoman’s face, as she exclaimed--
“How was’t done!--The doer of this deed--who was’t?”
“Pardon me, Lady. For three long days and nights have I been without
sustenance--I am faint--my brain burns, and mine hands tremble.”
The Ladye Annabel made a sign to Rosalind, who was leaving the room,
when she was met at the door by Guiseppo, bearing a wine flask in one
hand, while the other supported a dish containing the fragments of a
venison pasty.
“Bold Robin,” said Guiseppo, “I contrived to abstract these from the
wine cellar and the kitchen, without being noticed. I thought your
business might require secrecy.”
“Thanks, Sir Page, thanks--and now,” continued the yeoman--“an’ thou
lovest thy Lord Adrian, wait in the ante-chamber, and see that no one
enters. Fair Rosalind, I am waiting to close the door.”
As he said this he gently pushed the damsel through the doorway, and
carefully drawing the bolt he seated himself opposite Annabel. He then
placed the pasty on his knee, and with a trembling hand filled a silver
goblet to the very brim with wine. With all the nervous eagerness of
famine, he lifted the capacious vessel to his lips, when he beheld a
pale, cadaverous, spectre-like face dancing in the ruddy glow of the
wine.
“St. Withold! ’Tis no wonder I have scared every body with my dried up
visage!” He drained the goblet to the last drop. “S’ death I’m
frightened at that death’s head myself.”
He then plunged one hand into the pasty, and raising a piece of the rich
crust, he devoured it in an instant; then lifting the flask to his
mouth, he poured the luscious liquid down his throat, and his sinews and
veins began to rise and swell, a ruddy glow ran over his ashy face,
while the supernatural brightness of his eyes, gave place to a healthy,
twinkling glance.
There was a pause of some ten minutes.
“St. Withold! but I thank thee!” cried the yeoman, as his eyes filled
with a liquid which bore a strange resemblance to tears of joy--“Holy
Mary, Holy Peter, and Holy Paul, ye shall have a wax candle apiece;
instead of one to all of ye!”
The Ladye Annabel who had watched his movements with the greatest
impatience, now exclaimed--
“For heaven’s sake, good Robin, speak. What dost thou know of the
fearful deed”--she looked hurriedly around the room--“_Of the murder?_”
“Ladye” replied the yeoman, “I’m a rough, blunt soldier--I know little
of courtly manners, but so help me St. Withold, I would peril--I would
sacrifice my life, to serve thee and--Lord Adrian--”
“Adrian? What knowest thou of Adrian? For heaven’s sake speak.” Her very
soul glanced from her eyes as she continued.--“Oh, God! thou surely wilt
not say that he--Adrian--is--is--THE MURDERER?”
“St. Withold!” muttered Robin, “but I have got myself into a nice
predicament. Ladye I would say no such falsehood.”
“It is a falsehood then?--Thanks--Holy Mary, from my soul, unfeigned
thanks?”
“It is not Adrian: but Ladye--heaven help thee to bear it--the murderer
is one who is mayhap as beloved of thee, as is Lord Adrian.”
“_One as beloved?_” murmured Annabel--“surely there is no one as beloved
as Adrian, no one save my father. Thou triflest with me, Robin.”
“Nay Ladye I trifle not--again I say it is _the_ one who is as dear to
thee as Lord Adrian.”
One word came from the maiden’s lips.
“MY FATHER--” she shrieked, as if some awful thought had riven her
brain.
She said never a word more, but her bosom which a moment past rose and
fell convulsively, now became stilled; the excited flush of her cheeks
died away into an ashy paleness, her lip lost its eager expression, her
eyelids closed stiffly, and she fell heavily as a corse from her seat.
Robin sprang forward and extended his arms in time to prevent her from
falling to the floor.
“I am a very fool,” he said, bitterly reproaching himself--“a dolt, an
idiot--a mere wearer of the motley doublet--a jingler of the belled cap
would have known better. St. Withold, but _I am_ an ass!”
Having his own reasons for not calling assistance from the ante-room, he
used all kinds of expedients to restore the Ladye Annabel to
consciousness. He chafed the fair and delicate hands, he deluged the
brow as white as snow, with perfumed liquids contained in silver flagons
standing upon the table; and after a lapse of a quarter of an hour he
had the gratification of seeing her eyes unclose, and feeling her heart
beat as he held her form in his arms.
The Ladye Annabel faintly spoke--“I have had a fearful--fearful dream.
The Virgin save me from the dark spirits that inspire such fancies. I
thought of _thee_--of _thee_, my father!”
She paused suddenly as she caught a view of the yeoman’s face.
“_Thou_ here!” she exclaimed in surprise, “wherefore is this?”
“St. Withold!” muttered the confused Robin, fearful of again referring
to the late subject of horror. “Why Ladye, in truth I am here--because I
am--not here--that is to say--s’death Ladye, I came here to serve ye.”
“To serve _me_?” said Annabel wonderingly, “how wouldst thou serve
_me_?”
“Ladye,” cried the yeoman in utter despair of his ability to convey his
ideas in a circuitous manner. “Ladye would you wed this Duke of
Florence?”
“Sooner would I die!”
“How will you avoid the bridal?”
“God only knows,” said Annabel, as she stood erect, “to his care do I
confide myself. I have read legends of dames and damsels who have raised
the dagger against their own lives when terrors such as threaten me,
rose before their eyes,--but I cannot--cannot do it! All I can do”--and
her head sunk low upon her bosom, and her arms drooped by her side--“all
I can do is, to pray, earnestly pray; upon my bended knees _beseech_ the
Virgin that I may _die_!”
“Cheer thee up, fair ladye--cheer thee up,” thus Robin spoke, “by the
troth of an honest soldier, I swear that I will be near thee when the
hour of thy peril draws nigh. I swear that my life shall be sacrificed
to save thee!--And now I must be gone. This castle can no longer be
Rough Robin’s home. God be with ye!”
The Ladye Annabel placed a purse of gold in Robin’s hand, and with many
blessings on his head, she beheld him disappear into the ante-room.
Rosalind entered the room--Annabel exclaimed--
“Retire for a little while, fair coz: I would be alone.”
As the black-eyed maiden retired, the Ladye Annabel sank down into a
seat, and gave herself up to the wild and agitating thoughts that
flashed through her brain.
The first beams of the coming morn shot through the tapestry that well
nigh concealed the casement of the maiden’s bower.
Annabel had fallen into a welcome slumber, and the soft beams of the
lamp fell upon her calm and innocent face, revealing each feature in the
mildest light, and softest shade.
A figure emerged from the tapestry, and advanced to the light, Adrian
stood beside the sleeping maiden. His face was exceedingly pale and
covered with blood, as also was the helmet, and the plates of the armor
of azure steel. In one hand he grasped the furled banner of the Winged
Leopard.
He turned and sought his place of concealment with a heavy heart; but
ere he turned, he cast one deep, one agonizing look upon the lovely
maiden.
“She is happy!--my wrongs shall not disturb her innocent
soul--Farewell--my own loved--Annabel--farewell.”
A kiss that told of heart-felt affection he impressed upon her ruby
lips, and as he took a last fond, ardent gaze, a burning tear fell upon
the unstained cheek of the Ladye Annabel.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL.
THE SCENE CHANGES TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE, WHERE THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE
OF ALBARONE WILL AT LAST COME TO AN END.
Far away among the mountains, the sunlight loves to linger, and the
moonbeam is wont to dwell among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley,
over-shadowed by rugged steeps, that frown above and darken around a
calm and silvery lake, embosomed amid the solitudes of the wild forest
hills.
Around on every side, arise the hills, magnificent with the shade of the
sombre pine, leafy with the branching oak, or verdant with the
luxuriance of the green chestnut tree, while chasms yawn in the
sunlight, ravines darken and fearful rocks, bear and rugged in their
outline, tower far above the forest trees, away into the clear azure of
the summer sky.
The hills sweep round the valley in a circular form, describing the
outlines of the sides of a drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid
waters of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal vessel,
giving a clue to the strange name of this place of solitude--THE VALLEY
OF THE BOWL.
This quiet vale is situated some few miles from Florence, amid the same
wild range of mountains that encircle the haunt of the members of the
Holy Steel.
The light of the summer morning sun, was streaming gaily over the roofs
of a mountain hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake, flinging
its golden beams over the outline of each rugged hut, with tottering
walls, or rustic tenement, with its ancient stones overgrown with leafy
vines; when a group of peasants were gathered along the road-side, at
some small distance from the village, in earnest and energetic
conversation.
A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad in the garish apparel of a
Postillion[2] of the olden times, stood in the centre of the group,
while around him were clustered a circle of the buxom mountain damsels,
with their heads inclined towards each other, their arms and hands
moving in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke on the air,
from the glib prattling of their busy tongues.
“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired
damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to
make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing--that’s all.”
Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his
chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he
pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as
if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.
“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus
answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not
a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta,
that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on
the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other--”
“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage
which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”
“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a
footstep!--”
“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of
glowing red.
“Our Lady!--but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.
“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark
looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough
soldier; and _he_ was followed by _such_ a handsome cavalier, dressed in
such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all--he wore _such_ a fine, dancing
feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening
twilight!”
“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.
“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.
“I suppose you will say next, that he had a _manly_ figure? eh?” and
the youth pulled his slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then
halting on one leg, he threw the other forward, while with his arms
placed akimbo, he seemed waiting for somebody or other to take his
portrait.
“To be sure he had a _manly_ figure,” returned Dolabella, glancing
contemptuously at the bow-legged youth; “he was none of your
whipper-snapping, strutting, and boasting postillions; he was none of
your conceited--”
“_Dolabella!_” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic tone.
“Well, Signor Francisco?”
“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict yonder?”
He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of the monastery, it stood
among the forest-trees on the western side of the lake, upon the summit
of a precipitous cliff, which towered in rugged grandeur from the bosom
of the mountain waters.
The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the dark towers of the monastery
over the surrounding forest-trees, and along the recesses of the
gardens, that varied the appearance of the wild wood beyond the ancient
walls, and the white cliff gave its broad surface to the light of day,
yet there was an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the dark
towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens; while the reflection
of the scene in the deep and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so
calm, so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it looked more
like the creation of an artist’s pencil, than a landscape of the living
world.
As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark walls of the monastery, an
involuntary thrill ran around the group of peasant damsels, and there
was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.
“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured Dolabella, “Francisco, fear
you not to make yon strange house the subject of your jest, even in
broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant of these mountains
grows pale at the mention of yon gloomy fabric!”
“Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held strange festivals within
those dark gray walls in the olden time.”
“Even now, no one knows anything concerning the monks of this monastery.
They give to the mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal
blessing--yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are abroad, and muttered
whispers speak of midnight orgies that it would shame an honest maiden
to name, held within yon darksome house!”
“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest not. I am in earnest--by
the True Cross, am I. Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened
precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself from the rock, down into
the ravine--and--and--mark me--if on some very bright and agreeable
morning I should be found laying at the foot of the awful steep,
scattered into a thousand fragments--then think of the victim of your
perfidy, Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, think of the
miserable fate of Francisco--your victim--with remorse--with bitter
remorse!”
Having thus given the damsels to understand that among them all, his
heart was certainly broken, the little postillion strutted away with
folded arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense strides he took
with his inverted legs, it did really seem that he had been hired to
measure the greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest
possible number of steps.
The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by a burst of laughter.
“I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella. “This little
whipper-snapper has been making love to all three of us, for nearly two
years. Let us pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange
cavalier at the cottage.”
“O yes--yes!” cried Theresa.
“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.
“That will bring Signor Postillion to terms,” continued the tall damsel,
“and besides girls, we’ll learn all about this strange old woman.”
“This strange priest!” said Loretta.
“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.
And presently they separated; each determining to out-wit the other;
both in regard to the strangers in the cottage on the hill, and to the
securing of the gallant vagabond Francisco, who to do him justice, had
those two important qualities necessary to winning the heart of a vain
woman--saith the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.--a glib tongue and a
rare knack of making presents of all sorts of gairish finery.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE BRIDAL EVE.
THE HEBREW AND THE ARAB-MUTE ENTER THE COURT YARD OF ALBARONE, WHILE THE
LADYE ANNABEL IS PASSING TO THE CHAPEL OF SAINT GEORGE.
The azure sky was glowing with the mild warmth of the summer twilight,
the zenith was mellowed with the light of the declining day, the western
horizon was varied by alternate flashes of gold and crimson, when the
ancient Castle of Albarone, thro’ every hall and corridor, rang with the
shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of festival revelry.
From the various towers of the castle, pennons of strange colors and
curious emblazonry, waved in the evening air, each flag, the trophy of
some hard fought battle, while high over all, floating from the loftiest
tower, the broad banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous
folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto in letters of gold, and the
Winged Leopard, to the ruddy glare of the western sky.
The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis, gave admittance to
numerous bands of peasantry, wending from the various tenements that
dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in their holiday costume, while
the air echoed with their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or
the gay carol, rang from side to side.
All along the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro’ the luxuriant
wood circling round its base, hurried the peasant bands, their attire of
picturesque beauty, giving variety and contrast to the scene, while now
loitering in groups, now hastening one by one toward the castle, they
peopled the highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into the court
yard of the castle.
Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and unaccompanied save by a
solitary attendant, there strode wearily forward a personage who to all
appearance ranked among a far-scattered people, at once the scorn and
fear of Christendom.
Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied by numerous patches,
with a piked staff in his hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape,
strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching hat which defended the
head of the JEW, revealed a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in
expression, marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance seemed
skilled in reading the hearts of men; a bold prominent nose, while the
lower part of his cheeks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by a
stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his girdle, mingling with
the long and curling locks of sable hue, that gave their impressive
relief to the outline of the Hebrew’s countenance.
By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant, to all appearance a
youth of some twenty winters, yet his tawny face, marked by bold and
regular features, half-concealed by masses of jet black hair, falling
aside from his forehead, in elf-like curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle
between the brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild and
wandering eye, that glanced from side to side with a restless and
nervous glance, that seemed to peruse the face of every man who came
within its gaze, and read the characters and motives of all who
journeyed onward to the castle.
Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest serge, the Servitor
of the Hebrew, bore on his shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to
oppress its bearer with an unusual weight, for he well-nigh tottered
under the load.
Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which assailed him from every
side, the Hebrew crossed the drawbridge, and passing under the
portcullis he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard, where
unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich and gaudy stores to the eyes
of the wondering multitude. His servitor also displayed his pack to
their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable, his arms folded, and his
wild eyes glaring strangely over the faces of the crowd.
“Who’ll buy--who’ll buy?” cried the Hebrew, in the suppliant voice of
trade, as casting his eyes around the court-yard, he surveyed the
brilliant scene at a glance.
Around, all dark and time-worn, the walls of the castle--each casement
blazing with torches--looked down upon various groups of the peasantry
and servitors of Albarone, some engaged in light and gleesome gossip,
while others were hurrying hither and thither, on errands pertaining to
the feast which was to grace the castle hall on the morrow.
In front of the arching roof of the kitchen door stood the gray haired
sharp featured, and sharp voiced Steward of the castle, engaged in
superintending the operations of a number of hinds, who were severing
the limbs of various fat bucks, and cutting up certain lusty beeves, and
preparing various kinds of game, for the vast fire that blazed on the
kitchen hearth.
Farther on, a minstrel was entertaining a circle of peasants, with the
song of love, or the tale of knightly valor; at a short distance, the
privileged fool, with his cap and bells, and fantastic dress, was
uttering his merry quips and far-fetched jests, which ever and anon he
varied by a nimble summersault, while the gaping crowd held their sides
as their boisterous laughter broke upon the ear, with all its jovial
discord and dissonance.
“Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!” shouted the Jew, “here’s broaches for ye
damsels fair--broaches and gauds, rings for your fingers, and crosses of
ebony for your bosoms. Look ye how this heart of gold would sink and
swell on a maiden’s snow white breast! Here’s plumes for the warriors’
helmet; daggers for his belt, and trappings for his steed. Who’ll buy!
who’ll buy!--Here’s ornaments of gold and silver for the doublet of the
page, essences for his flowing hair, and chains for his neck.--Who’ll
buy--who’ll buy.--Broaches, gauds, rings, gems, plumes, belts,
trappings, perfumes, chains, laces of gold! Who’ll buy! Who’ll buy!
Gentles, list ye all! Chains, laces of gold, perfumes, trappings, belts,
plumes, gems, rings, gauds, broaches. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!”
“The Virgin save us all!” exclaimed Guiseppo who stood among the crowd
that gathered round the Israelite, “the Virgin save us all, but
_there’s_ a tongue for you, my good folks.”
This was said with an attitude of mock astonishment, and corresponding
grimace of the features.
“An’ my tongue suits ye so well, gentle sir, may-hap you’ll try some of
my wares?”
“What have you, Sir Gripe-fist, that it would become _me_ to buy?”
“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything. Except three wares with
which the great merchant--_Nature_--must provide him, or else he’ll make
but a sorry page.”
“And those wares--how do you style them?” asked the page.
“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure look, “the first ware is
somewhat dull and heavy, it is labelled--_Impudence_--may it please thee
fair Page.”
“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo, half amused and half
angered. “How name you the second ware? Eh! Leatherface?”
“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly, “the second ware is light and
feathery. It bears the name--_Self-conceit_. As for the third--”
“Aye the third,” interrupted the page. “Go on my black bearded
friend--go on--I’ll borrow a good oaken towel to rub you down, when you
have done.”
“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two others are made. It
is heavier and duller than _Impudence_, and lighter and more feathery
than _Self-conceit_, they style it _Ignorance_. And these three wares
are the sole contents of the cob-web-hung storehouse of Sir Page’s
brain. An’ it likes thee, fair sir?”
The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.
“Ha--ha--ha! fairly hit! Ho--ho--ho! The Jew turns Scholar, and preaches
like a monk.--He--he--he! The trim Page is hit--fairly hit.” Such were
the exclamations that went around the laughing crowd.
“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!” exclaimed Guiseppo,
brandishing an oaken staff; “here’s at thee!”
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed one of the spectators, “thou art fairly hit, sir
Guiseppo.”
“Aye, aye, fairly hit,” cried another; and “The Jew has paid thee in
thine own coin,” a third shouted, throwing himself in the path of the
page.
“Nay, nay, let him come!” cried the Jew, with a sneer. “Let him come.
I’ll tame his pageship.”
“Dost thou mock me, thou dog!” As he spoke, the page raised his oaken
staff, and whirling it around his head, he aimed with all his strength
at the sconce of the Jew, who coolly turned aside the blow with his
upraised arm, and in an instant he had Guiseppo by the throat.
He whispered a word in the ear of the page, and then, unloosing his
hold, he began to gather up his wares.
The eyebrows of the page elevated with astonishment, and his lips
parted. The bystanders gathered around Guiseppo with various expressions
of their surprise at the sudden change that had passed over him.
“Why stare you so?” exclaimed a peasant maid.
“Art mad?” asked one of the yeoman of the guard.
“Perhaps moon-struck?” suggested another.
Guiseppo made no reply, but walked slowly away, while the Jew remained
standing in the centre of the group, with his servitor waiting silently
by his side.
“Look ye, son of Moses,” cried one of the yeomen, advancing toward the
Jew, “why stands this man of thine so silent and still? He moves not,
nor does he speak; but his wild eye is glancing hither and thither like
a fire-coal. Why does he stand thus mute and speechless?”
A grim smile passed over the bearded features of the Jew.
“Ask a post why it does not speak, or ask a war-horse to troll ye a
merry song! You are a keen yeoman and a shrewd, yet did it ne’er strike
ye that my servitor might be incapable of speech? A poor Arab boy,
gentle sirs and damsels, whose dying father gave him to my care, when
perishing on the field of battle, in the wilds of Palestine, some twenty
years agone.”
“A son of the paynim Mahound,” muttered the yeoman, with a look of
scorn.
“Nay he is of the faith of Christ,” interrupted the Jew. “Behold, he
wears the cross of Rome!”
“A sweet youth, and gentle-faced, though somewhat sad in look,” murmured
a peasant matron, gazing with a look of pity upon the tawny face of the
Arab mute.
And while the group of peasant men and women clustered around the Jew
and his Arab boy, a cry ran through the castle yard, echoed from lip to
lip, and repeated by the crowd thronging the place, until the air seemed
alive with the shout: “She comes, she comes! The fair Ladye Annabel is
passing to the chapel of St. George! Make way for the betrothed! Make
way for the Ladye Annabel! _Make way for the Duchess of Florence!_”
In a moment the court-yard was occupied by two files of men-at-arms, who
extended from the great steps, ascending to the massive door of the
castle hall, along the level space, making a lane for the passage of the
Ladye Annabel and her train. The crowd came thronging to the backs of
the warriors, gathering around the staircase, and blackening on every
side, eager to behold the betrothed of his grace the Duke of Florence.
Foremost among the throng at the bottom of the stairway, his pack lashed
to his back, and a small casket in his hands, the black-bearded Jew
appeared to take great interest in the scene progressing before his
eyes.
The Arab mute stood at his back, half concealed from view, and unseen or
unnoticed by the survitors and vassals of Albarone.
In after times, some of the vassals remembered well that they observed
the wild eyes of the Arabian glaring fiercely over the shoulder of the
Jew, while his right hand was thrust within the folds of his coarse
gaberdine, and his entire appearance denoted a mind agitated by some
fierce resolve.
A low, solemn peal of music broke on the air, and a ruddy blaze of
light was thrown from the recesses of the massive hall doors. In a
moment a band of cavaliers, attired in all the glitter of spangled cloak
and waving plume, came from the hall, and took their position on either
side of the staircase, each gay cavalier holding a torch on high, while
the gleaming light revealed each handsome face, wearing the polished
smile, and the costumes varied with strange fancies of embroidery, and
fashioned after every manner of device, were disclosed in all their
luxuriance and splendor.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and the gaily-attired form of his grace
of Florence issued from the hall door, followed by the slight figure of
the Count Aldarin.
As they took their positions on either side of the hall door, the crowd
below had time to notice the strange contrast between the Lord of
Albarone and the Duke of Florence.
Aldarin, pale in face, slender in form, attired in his robes of solemn
black, the cap of dark fur on his forehead, with the blaze of a single
gem relieving its midnight darkness, standing silent and motionless on
one side of the hall door, his keen gray eyes half hidden by his brows,
as though he was absent with thoughts of more than mortal interest.
The Duke, the gallant Duke, all show, and glitter, and costume, a
doublet of white satin encircling his well-proportioned form, a cloak of
the most delicate crimson depending from his left shoulder, the hilt of
his jeweled sword glittering in the light; while his dainty cap of pink
velvet, with the snow-white plume thrown aside from its front,
surmounted his vacant face, marked by the neatly circled hair, the
carefully trimmed moustache and beard. His eyes glared vacantly to and
fro, and it might easily be seen that his grace of Florence was on a
mental excursion after his looking glass.
This flashing of torches, this gallant array, heralded the approach of
the Ladye Annabel, who presently emerged from the hall door, followed by
a long line of the bower maidens, arrayed, like their mistress, in
flowing robes, white as the mountain snow untouched by the summer sun.
The face of the Ladye Annabel was pale as the attire that enveloped her
slender form, and she leaned for support on the arm of her black-eyed
cousin, the damsel Rosalind.
Pale and beautiful, the victim of the sacrifice of the morrow, neither
returned the deep inclination of the head with which the Duke of
Florence greeted her appearance, nor glanced upon the countenance of her
father; but slowly moved down the steps of stone, her eyes downcast, and
her face calm as the sculptured marble.
“She is pale,” murmured Aldarin, “pale as death! She walks with the
measured step of the victim walking to the living tomb!”
“I’ faith, she is beautiful!” muttered the Duke. “My bride will hang
like a pleasant costume on this royal arm!”
The black-bearded Hebrew gazed upon the Ladye Annabel with a keen and
searching eye, while the Arab mute, standing at his back, bowed his head
low on his breast, and veiled his face with one hand, as the other was
thrust within the folds of his coarse doublet.
Slowly the procession ascended the steps of stone, one foot of the
betrothed was upon the pavement of the castle yard, when a rushing sound
was heard, a hurried footstep, and the Jew rushed through the
men-at-arms--flinging himself at the maiden’s feet, he threw open the
casket which he held in his hand.
“Fair ladye,” he cried, in a deep-toned voice, “It is the lace--the lace
of price, which two days since I promised to procure thee. ’Tis worth
its weight in gold--aye, an hundred times over! Look, ladye--’tis the
best that gold or favor might procure.”
The Ladye Annabel started at the uncouth appearance and bearded face of
the Jew, while the bystanders seemed struck dumb with his audacity.
In an instant cries of execration arose on all sides. The Count Aldarin
advanced hastily to his daughter’s side, while the Duke of Florence
muttered an involuntary oath, as two of the men-at-arms raised their
swords to hew the Israelite to the earth.
It was a fearful moment, and the Jew seemed to feel that his fate was
wavering like the sunbeam on the point of a brightened dagger.
He made a quick gesture to the Arab mute, he seized the wrist of the
fair Rosalind, and looking her earnestly in the face, whispered a
hurried word in the maiden’s ear, deep and piercing in its import, yet
inaudible to the group clustered around.
Rosalind turned pale, started quickly aside, but in a moment seemed
chiding herself for this folly, as with a smile on her lip she spoke to
the Ladye Annabel in a low and murmured tone. Annabel started, with the
quick convulsive start that follows an overwhelming surprise.
She started, but in a moment recovering herself, she exclaimed with a
firm voice, and extended arms--
“Touch him not--do the Jew no harm! It is by my command that he is here.
Sir Merchant,” she continued, with a smile of kindly meaning, “you will
wait for me, in the hall of the castle--there will I look at your wares
when the evening mass is done.”
“This is wondrous strange,” murmured Aldarin. “Some changing woman’s
fancy, I trow--”
“Certes, the lace must be rare in texture, and quaint in device!” half
muttered the Duke. “Yet I never knew that there was magic in the mere
mention of such costly gear, before this moment!”
The men-at-arms released the Jew, and the procession passed on towards
the more distant precincts of the castle, where the light of many
torches presently streamed from the arching windows of the chapel of St.
George of Albarone, showing in full and beautiful relief the snow-white
forms of the maidens, passing through the sacred door of the church
followed by the Count Aldarin and the Duke, environed by a glittering
throng of cavaliers.
Meanwhile, alone and in the darkness, deserted by the crowd, near the
hall door, stood the Hebrew and his Mute Servitor, gazing ardently upon
the receding procession, until the last cavalier disappeared within the
walls of the chapel.
Then it was that a grim smile passed over the bearded face of the Jew,
while the Arab boy started wildly aside clenching his hands with sudden
agitation, as the strains of the Holy Mass, floating from the chapel,
broke upon his ear.
An hour passed. The holy ceremonies of religion had ceased to echo
through the walls of the chapel. The Ladye Annabel attended by her
maidens had again passed into the castle hall. Beside one of the pillars
of the lofty door, stood the gallant Guiseppo, his arms folded and his
eyes fixed upon the heavens above.
Guiseppo was enrapt in the mysteries of a sombre study.
He was just wondering what the stars could be made of, whether they were
veritable balls of fire, unstable meteors, or angel’s eyes--how it
chanced that they were lighted up so regularly every night, stormy ones
of course excepted--where they went in day-time--and then he fell to
thinking of angels, fairies, and other beings made all out of air--and
from angels it was quite natural that his thoughts should pass to woman;
and with the thought of woman came dim, floating visions of ancles well
turned, black eyes beaming like living things, ruby lips wreathing in a
smile, while they wooed the kiss of love. There is no knowing how far
his musings might have gone, had he not been disturbed by the sound of a
footstep breaking the silence of the castle yard. He looked in the
direction from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld a strange figure,
clad in solemn black, approaching from the gloom of the court-yard. It
drew nearer and nearer, and Guiseppo beheld the form of the Scholar
Aldarin.
He came slowly onward, toward the light burning over the hall door, and
the Page remembered in after life that his face was most ghastly to
behold, most fearful to look upon.
His head drooped upon his breast over his folded arms, his eyes dilated
to their utmost, glaring vacantly on the earth, while his lips moved in
broken murmurs, the Scholar ascended the steps of stone, as the Page
observed him from the shadow of a massive pillar.
“It hastens, it hastens to perfection--THE MIGHTY SPELL! The
marriage--ha, ha, Duchess of Florence!--HE shall live again--ha, ha! the
world shall not say Aldarin toiled in vain! The secret--a few more
days--ALDARIN LIVES FOREVER!”
And as the murmurs broke wildly from his lips, the Scholar disappeared
within the shadow of the hall door, leaving the careless Guiseppo to
the memory of that fearful face. It was an appalling memory. Guiseppo’s
cheek grew pale, and his whole frame trembled with an indefinable fear.
How long he remained in this state he knew not, but after a long lapse
of dreamy reverie, he was startled by a slight tap on his shoulder.
Looking around, he beheld the beaming eyes of the fair Rosalind fixed
upon him with a glance which for the moment banished the face of Aldarin
from his mind, and made his heart knock sadly against his breast.
“What wouldst have, Rosalind?” _The maiden whispered in his ear._
It was curious to see the change that came over the countenance of the
page; the pallor vanished from his visage, which swelled out on either
side as though he had an orange in each cheek, his lips were curiously
pursed, while his eyes rolled about in his head after a strange fashion.
“Eh? Rosalind?” he cried, as if he had not understood her aright.
Again did the maiden whisper in his ear.
“By our Lady!” exclaimed Guiseppo, “but this does exceed everything that
I ever did hear. Art not crazed, sweetheart?”
“Say, Guiseppo, wilt do it for my sake!”
The bewitching smile with which this was said, appeared to complete the
conquest of the page.
“I’ll obey thee,” he cried, “but surely ’tis a strange request.”
“_Strange?_ nonsense! Never call the whim of woman--_strange_! Hie thee
away and do ’t immediately. I will tell thee more concerning this matter
in the evening. Away! away!”
And as the lovely damsel tripped lightly down the steps and wended her
way toward the castle gate, on an errand whose import may possibly be
revealed in future pages of this history, the page Guiseppo entered the
hall of the castle, while his frame shook with a pleasant fit of inward
laughter.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE BRIDAL MORN.
THE WEDDING GUESTS CIRCLE ROUND THE HOLY ALTAR, WHILE THE SCHOLAR
ALDARIN STRIKES HIS DAGGER AT THE INTANGIBLE AIR.
The first flash of the morn that was to gild the fair brow of the Ladye
Annabel with a ducal coronet, glowed faintly in the eastern sky, and
the black-bearded Jew stood in the court-yard, casting his eyes
earnestly about him, as if waiting the approach of one with whom he had
made an appointment.
Not long did he wait, for presently emerging from a small door inserted
in a wing of the castle, near the chapel of St. George, the page
Guiseppo approached, with his form muffled up in his cloak of blue
velvet and gold embroidery; while his slouching hat, drooping over his
face, concealed his features entirely from the view.
By his side, at a respectful distance, walked the Arab mute, his head
bowed low, and his face half concealed by his jet-black locks, while he
tottered under the weight of his heavy burden.
As Guiseppo gained the side of the Jew, a sentinel was passing.
“Ho, sir page!” exclaimed the Hebrew, “thou seem’st fearful of the
morning breeze. Hurry along--hurry along--or beshrew me, thou wilt not
get the rare lace for the Ladye Annabel--the rare lace worth its weight
in gold a hundred times told. Haste thee--haste thee!”
They crossed the court-yard, and presently stood before the pillars of
the castle gate, which was guarded by four sentinels, attired in the
livery of his grace of Florence.
“Fair sir,” exclaimed the Jew, addressing one of the men-at-arms, “I
would pass through the castle gate. I am bound for the village hard by
the castle. Albarone, I think you call it?”
“Wherefore abroad so early?” asked the sentinel; “and why goes Guiseppo
with you?”
“Yesternight, when I journeyed toward the castle, some of my most
precious wares I left behind me at the hostel of the village below. The
Ladye Annabel wishes to purchase some rare and costly laces. My business
calls me and this poor dumb youth away to the north, and therefore is
the page sent with me; he is sent to receive the wares purchased by the
Ladye Annabel. Hast any thing further to ask, sir sentinel?”
And as he asked the question, the page Guiseppo and the Arabian drew
nearer to the Jew, awaiting the answer with evident interest.
It was observable that the right hand of the mute was thrust within the
folds of his doublet, while his blue eye, so strangely contrasting with
his dark brows and darker hair, glared fiercely into the faces of the
sentinels.
“I have nothing more to ask of thee, _now_,” exclaimed another sentinel,
advancing. “But had not the Duke sent me this pass for thee, thy
servitor, and the page Guiseppo, the foul fiend take me, but I would
have seen thy heathen carcass at the devil, ere a bolt should be drawn
for thee to pass forth at this unseasonable hour. Thy way lies before
thee, Jew!”
As he spoke, he applied a key to a small door which was cut into the
massive timbers of the castle gate. The door flew open, and through the
opened space the drawbridge was seen descending. One foot of the Jew
was passed through the narrow entrance, when the sentinel who held the
pass of the Duke, exclaimed:
“Why, Guiseppo, what aileth thee? Wherefore art muffled up in this
fashion? Where are thy merry jests? Where is that magpie tongue of
thine? Hast forgotten all thy mischievous pranks--eh, sir page?”
A low, moaning noise came from the mouth of the mute, as he seemed
impatient of the delay.
“I have no time to trifle in idle converse,” exclaimed the Jew. “Come
on, fair sir, the morning breaks, and I must be on my way.”
He took the page by the shoulder, and gently pulled him through the
doorway, leaving the sentinels to their surprise at the strange silence
of the mirthful Guiseppo, while the unfortunate mute slowly followed in
the footsteps of the Jew, his right hand trembling with a scarce
perceptible motion, as he buried it within the folds of his doublet.
With a hurried step, the Jew and his companion passed over the
drawbridge, and in a moment standing upon the summit of the hill upon
whose rocks and caverns the castle was founded, they viewed the winding
road beneath.
The page turned his head--still concealed by his slouched hat--he turned
his head for a moment toward the castle, and a slight tremor pervaded
his frame.
Then his hand was extended, grasping the hand of the Arab mute, who
returned the grasp with a firm pressure upon the white fingers of the
dainty page.
“Let us onward! Let us onward!” whispered the Jew. “A long journey have
we before us. Onward, I pray ye!”
They hurriedly wended down the hill, and ere an hundred could be told,
their forms were lost to sight in the shades of the forest.
All bright and glorious came on the rising day, lighting up the
cloudless azure with its kindly beams, shimmering over the waves of the
broad, deep river, filling the wild-wood glade with glimpses of golden
light; while the far-off mountains towered into the heavens, the white
clouds crowning their rugged peaks, radiant with the changing hues of
the morning sun.
And while the day wore slowly on, the paths leading through the valley
toward the castle, the winding ways that passed through the recesses of
the wild wood, and the great highway sweeping on toward Florence the
Fair, were all alive with crowds of peasants, in their holiday attire,
wrinkled age and red-lipped youth, mature manhood and careless boyhood,
all hastening onward toward the castle of Albarone, anxious to behold
the marriage of the Duke and the Ladye Annabel.
The day wore on, and the court-yard was thronged by strange and
contrasted bands; the peasant in his gay costume, the vassal in his rich
livery, side by side with the man-at-arms clad in glittering mail, while
the servitors of the house ran hurriedly to and fro, passing with hasty
steps from hall to hall, from gallery to gallery, as the confused sounds
of preparation for the bridal feast awoke the echoes of the arching
corridor or pillared hall.
The first quarter of the day had passed, and the shadow of the dial
plate in the castle yard, was gliding over the path of high noon.
As gay a bridal party as ever the sun shone upon, waited within the
walls of the chapel of St. George. They waited for the coming of the
bridegroom and bride.
There were queenly ladies and beauteous damsels, gallant lords and gay
cavaliers, blazing in gorgeous attire; there, mingling with the
men-at-arms of Albarone, thronged the retainers of the Duke, robed in
the royal livery of his house; and beside the altar stood the priest and
the father, the venerable abbot of St. Peters, arrayed in his sacred
robes, and the sage and thoughtful Aldarin, Count Di Albarone, attired,
as was his wont, in the plain tunic of sable velvet, relieved by the
sweeping robe of black, with his pale forehead surmounted by the cap of
fur, glittering with a single gem.
Long will it be, by my troth, very long--thus runs the words of the
ancient MSS.--ere the light of day will look down upon a scene so full
of gaiety and grandeur.
The tall and swelling forms of the noble dames, arrayed in all the
richest silks that the East might furnish, covered with gold and
brilliant with jewels;--the noble figures of the cavaliers, their gay
doublets hung with the symbols of the various orders of chivalry, their
belts of every variety of ornament, and of every fancy of embroidery,
their diamond-hilted swords, their jeweled caps, surmounted by nodding
plumes and their cloaks of the finest velvet depending carelessly from
the right shoulder, and falling in graceful folds over the
arm,--combined with the glare of Milan steel worn by the men-at-arms,
and the glitter of the rich liveries of the retainers of the Duke,
formed a scene of vivid and contrasting interest.
The gallant party began to express their wonder at the long delayed
approach of the Duke and his fair bride, and even the venerable abbot
betrayed marks of impatience.
It was worthy of note, that for the space of ten minutes or more, the
Count Aldarin had stood beside the priest, silent and motionless, with
his eyebrows knit, and his lips compressed, while he gazed steadily at
the slabs of the mosaic pavement in front of the altar, which, for the
space of some half score paces or more, was left bare and unoccupied by
the crowd.
At last, placing his lips to the ear of the abbot, and hurriedly
glancing around, as if fearful of being observed, the Count whispered--
“_What doth_ HE _here?_” he said, pointing to the pavement in front of
the altar.
“To whom dost thou refer, my Lord Count?” inquired the Priest.
“S’life!” exclaimed the Count in a voice that trembled from some unknown
cause; “S’life! I mean the _stranger_--he in the dark armor, with the
raised vizor and that ghastly face. Dost not see him?”
“My Lord, there is no one before the altar attired in armor. Around us
are the throng of Lords and Ladies--but all are arrayed in robes of
peace. Mayhap you speak of one of the men-at-arms who stand yonder, near
the door of the chapel?”
“Shaveling! I mean _the stranger_ who stands in front of the altar. He
with the plume as dark as death falling over that pale and lofty
forehead. He who gazes so fixedly with those glassy eyes--gazes and
looks, yet speaks no word. By Heavens, he means to mock me. I will
strike him down even where he stands!”
He advanced hurriedly to the front of the altar, and in an instant the
bystanders beheld him striking his dagger in the air, while his pale
features were convulsed by a strange expression.
“Thou shalt not escape me!” he shouted.--“Elude me not--I’ll have thee,
coward! This to thy very heart! What, art thou dagger proof? Guards, I
say, seize this traitor! Albarone to the rescue!”
It was with a feeling of indefinable awe, that the bridal throng beheld
the Count Aldarin standing with his eyes strained from their very
sockets, his brows woven together, and his whole face stamped with an
expression which was neither terror nor hate, but seemed a mingling of
terror, hate, and despair.
Two courtiers sprang at the same time from the group, crying as they
drew their swords--
“My Lord, where is the traitor? Who is’t?”
“Shall I be slain upon my own ground? Where is the traitor? Before your
eyes he stands. _He!_ I mean. Look--look! Behold! he leans upon the
altar! He smiles in scorn--he mocks me!”
Aldarin stamped his foot with rage, and shrieked--
“By the Eternal God! but this is brave! Will ye see me murdered before
your eyes! Seize--I say--seize the traitor!”
“Benedicite!” muttered the venerable abbot, gazing upon the wild face of
Aldarin; “the fiend is among us!”
As he spoke, the Duke of Florence all daintily apparelled in his wedding
dress, with surprise and vexation pictured in every lineament of his
countenance, broke through the throng, exclaiming--
“My Lord Count, thy daughter is no where to be found. The Ladye Annabel
hath gone: no one knoweth whither!”
“My Lord Duke,” said Aldarin in a whisper, “can’st thou tell me who is
the stranger?”
“Eh?” exclaimed the astonished Duke, gazing upon Aldarin with a vacant
stare.
“_He_ I mean who standeth by the altar. He in the sable armor--with the
pale brow and the eyes of fire--with the dark plume overshadowing his
helmet! By heavens, I behold under his plume the crest of the Winged
Leopard!”
“By our Lady, but thou describest the late Count Di Albarone. Mayhap he
comes from the grave to witness against his son, the vile parricide, he
who hath fled with thy daughter. May the fiend curse him for’t!”
“_Fled with my daughter? my daughter fled?_” shouted Aldarin, as he
suddenly seemed to break the spell that bound him.
“Pardon me, my friends. Anxiety for my child--grief for my brother--have
driven me mad.--My brain is fevered--I am ill. My daughter fled, say’st
thou? How?--when? What meanest thou?”
The Duke hurriedly turned to Guiseppo, who stood among the throng of
bower maidens, who had followed his Grace into the chapel.
“Guiseppo, advance. What said the Ladye Annabel when thou didst return
this morning from thy errand beyond the castle walls in company with the
Jewish merchant. Eh? Guiseppo?”
“My Lord Duke,” replied the page, “I went not forth this morning from
the castle walls--”
“Saving this presence,” cried a man-at-arms pressing forward, “saving
this presence, Sir Page, but there thou liest. Did I not see thee go
forth this morning at daybreak?--the Jew with thee, and thy face muffled
up as if thou wert ashamed of thy errand?”
“How say you?” cried Aldarin, whose native perception had returned, “His
face muffled? Come hither, girl,” he continued, addressing Rosalind, who
stood among the throng of bower maidens. “Girl, when didst see thy
mistress last?”
“My Lord Count,” said the maiden, “I left the Ladye Annabel last night
at twelve: I slept within the ante-chamber adjoining her bower. This
morning on knocking at her door I found it fastened. I did not like to
disturb her, so I waited--” here Rosalind seemed confused, while the
blush deepened over her cheek. “I waited, my Lord Count, hour after
hour, until my Lord the Duke came to lead the bride to church.
Then--then--”
“By the body of God, but I see it all!” thus exclaimed the Count
Aldarin. “I have been fooled--duped, and by thee, girl! Thou art my own
sister’s child, but think not to escape the vengeance of Aldarin! I see
all--my daughter--the wanton!--has fled in the attire of this page, he
too is a plotter, he who oweth life--fortune--everything--to me! Guards,
seize the miscreant! Tremble--well thou may’st! Thou hast invoked the
axe--beware its fall! To the lowest dungeon of the castle with him!
away! To horse--to horse!” continued Aldarin, glancing round upon the
astonished assemblage. “To horse--to horse!--mount every man! Scour
every road, every path in the domains of Albarone! Sweep the highway to
Florence! A thousand pieces of gold to him who brings the haggard
back!”
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
SIR GEOFFREY O’ TH’ LONGSWORD.
THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE THROWS BACK THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND GIVES
TO VIEW SOME GLIMPSES OF THE LAST SCENE, IN WHICH THE BARBS OF ARIMANES
BECOME THE AVENGERS OF HEAVEN.
Along a mossy, winding path, that led through the sunlit glades and
shady recesses of a green and bowery forest, two travellers, one a
stripling and the other a man of some forty winters, were wending their
way, while the dew was yet upon the turf, and while the morning carol of
innumerable birds arose from the bosom of the rich foliage.
--Thus in his own enthusiastic way speaks the Chronicler of the Ancient
MSS. His words, it is true are somewhat redundant, but yet there is
heart in them after all.--
The cheeks of the youth were strangely puffed out, his lips were
gathered like the mouth of a purse, while he whistled with an
earnestness that was certainly wonderful. Presently he spoke--
“By’r Ladye, but that was the most exquisite thing of all. Eh? Good
Robin? The idea of thy carcass being perched upon the back of the Demon
Statue in that pestilent cavern. And frightening the old Count into
fits, too! Ha! ha! ha! ’Twas rich! By the Saints it was! Oh, Robin, thou
art certainly the very devil for mischief! That prank of gagging the old
Israelite, and stealing his beard, coat, pack and all, was cruel, by my
troth it was! Where didst thou leave the old gripefist?”
“As I told thee before, thou rattlebrained popinjay!” the other replied
with a good natured smile. “With a heavy heart I wended along the
highway, on the eve of the bridal, thinking of the fair Ladye Annabel,
when who should I behold trudging before me, but this good son of Moses.
I laid him upon the earth in a wink--gagged him, and concealed him in
the cottage of a peasant, whose ears I filled with a terrible tale of
the Jew’s roguery; how he had stolen the plate of the castle, and so on.
I then disguised myself in the Hebrew’s attire; with what success you
are already aware.--After I had effected the deliverance of the Ladye
Annabel, I released the Jew who ran beardless and affrighted, as fast as
his legs could carry him, out of the demesnes of Albarone!”
“Where didst leave the Ladye Annabel, Robin? Who was the Arab Mute?
Where is he now?”
“I left her _in safety_, most sagacious Guiseppo. And as for the
Mute--I’ll tell thee anon. How didst feel when I came to release thee
from the dungeon? eh?”
‘O! St. Peter! By my troth it would make a picture. There I sat, upon
the bench of stone; the taper flinging its beams around the dreary
walls, my elbows resting upon my knees, and my face supported by my
clenched hands; my mind full of dark and gloomy thoughts, and my fancy
forming various pleasant pictures of the gibbet, which was to bear my
figure on the morrow. Imagine this delicate form swinging on a
gibbet--ugh! Thus was I employed, when I heard a noise like the drawing
of bolts. I started, expecting to behold the Count Aldarin; he had
_visited_ the cell an hour or so past, and informed that I had the honor
of being--mark ye, my soldier--_his son_. I started and beheld--thy
welcome visage, my good Robin.”
“Marry, it was well for thee that the secret passage was known to me.
How sayst thou? Did the murderer aver that he was thy father?”
“Even so. The Count Aldarin, has ever been kind to me, yet I never
thought I was connected with him by any ties of blood. I have always
been known throughout the castle as _the foundling_. Pleasant name--eh,
Robin? The tale runs that a peasant returning home, on an autumn night,
discovered a child some three years old, crying in the forest. That
child the Scholar Aldarin adopted, and called Guiseppo; which title was
occasionally varied by the servitors of Albarone, to that of _Guiseppo
Stray-Devil_, _Lost-Elf_, and others of like pleasing character. But
whither are we wandering now, good Robin? This is the second day of our
flight; whither are we bound?”
“Thou wilt know ere long. Didst ever hear of Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’
Longsword?”
“What, the stout Englisher! The brave knight who now commands the
soldiers of our late Lord, in Palestine? He that is noted for the
strength of his arms, and the daring of his spirit? Why all Christendom
rings with his feats.”
“Well, my bird of a page, I have lately heard by a wandering palmer,
that a truce has been made, between that son of Mahound, Saladin, and
the princes of Christendom. Further it is said, that a body of the
crusaders have sailed from Cyprus, and are bound to Italy. Dost see
aught in this, my popinjay?”
“The Saints help thy senses! Surely you do not mean to say that the
soldiers of Albarone are returning home?”
“Marry but I do. I mean to wend towards the nearest seaport; I mean
to--”
“By our Lady,” interrupted Guiseppo, “I spy the dawning of our Lord
Adrian’s day. I do by heaven!”
And thus conversing they pursued their way along the forest path.
* * * * *
Higher and higher rose the sun in the Heavens, and its beams shone upon
the armor of a gallant company which journeyed in brilliant array along
a bye-road leading thro’ a wide and shadowy forest.
Near the head of the company, on a stout black steed, rode a tall,
stalwart man, full six feet high, broad shouldered, in form, with a
stern, weather beaten countenance. His long white hair, escaping from
beneath his helmet, the vizor of which was raised, fell upon his
mail-clad shoulders, and his beard, frosted by time and battle toil,
swept over the iron plate that defended his muscular chest.
On either side rode his Esquires, mounted on horses dark and stout, as
that of their knight commander. They were brothers, and side by side had
fought in a thousand battles.
Both tall, muscular, and dark featured; both having dark eyes, dark
shaggy brows, stiff hair and beard of the same dark hue, they were known
among the ranks of the crusaders as the twin brothers--the brave Esquire
Damian, and the gallant Esquire Halbert.
Hard matter it were to tell one from the other, so much they looked
alike, had it not been that the visage of Damian, was marked by a sword
wound, which extending from the right eyebrow, passed over his swarthy
forehead and terminated near the left temple; while a deep gash cut into
the right cheek of Halbert, served to distinguish him from his brother.
In front of the knight, the standard-bearer, mounted on a cream colored
steed, bore aloft a broad banner of azure. A winged leopard was pictured
on its folds, and the inscription read thus--_Grasp boldly and bravely
strike!_
In the rear of the gray haired warrior, a stout Englishman, riding on a
dappled gray, held on high a crimson banner, bordered by white, on which
was pictured a two-edged sword, having a long blade, and massy hilt. It
bore the motto--
_Hilt for Friend--Point for Foe._
Then, riding at their ease, came the men-at-arms arrayed from head to
foot in their armor of Milan steel; their lances were in their hands;
each shield hung at the saddle-bow, and each sword depended from the
belt of buff.
The gallant band might number an hundred thrice told.
Behind these soldiers come the varlets of the train, riding beside the
baggage wains, conveying the sick and wounded, who had endured the
burning sun of Palestine, the toil and dangers of the seas, and were now
returning to the land of their birth.
And there, riding before the baggage wains, four dark-skinned Moors,
mounted on prancing nags, led each man of them, a steed black as night,
at his bridle rein.
Untamed they were and wild; their eyes gave forth a gleam like the light
of the fire-coal; their necks were proudly arched; their manes flung
waving to the breeze. With a disdainful toss of their quivering
nostrils and a light and springing step, the barbs trod the earth as
gallantly as though they still swept over the desert plains of Araby.
_Linked with the chain of this wierd chronicle, by a strange decree of
Fate, these barbs, in the course of a few brief days, became the
Instruments of the fearful vengeance of Heaven._
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, as glancing over the long line of
men-at-arms, he gazed upon the Arab steeds,--“How the eye of Lord Julian
will glisten when he gazes upon yonder mettled barbs! I’ faith it makes
an old warrior’s heart beat, to look upon their arching crests, their
eyes of fire, and their skins, black as death.”
“A Paynim warrior gave these steeds in ransom for his freedom? Is that
the story Sir Geoffrey?” asked Halbert, “Infidel though he was, he gave
a most princely ransom.”
“Hast ever heard the strange legend which the Arabs tell, concerning
this race of steeds? They prize them, highly as their weight in gold,
red gold. It is said that in the olden time, when Arimanes was hurled
from his throne of Evil, by Ormaz, the Great Being of Good, the spirits
of his followers, accursed and doomed, sought refuge in the bodies of a
race of ebon-colored barbs, that scoured the plains of Araby with the
fleetness of the wind, herding together in the vast solitudes of the
desert, and untameable by man. At last, after a long lapse of centuries,
the most daring of the Arab-chiefs, secured and subjugated to the
control of man, two of these wild horses, from which sprung the race of
the Barbs of Arimanes, or Demon-Steeds. Yonder horses, prancing and
rearing in the grasp of the tawny Moors, are of this race. By my soul,
their flashing eyes give them some title to the name they bear--the
Barbs of Arimanes!”
“It joys a warrior’s heart to look upon their sinewy forms,” exclaimed
the Esquire Halbert, with a flashing eye.
“They are slender and graceful as the wild gazelle,” said Damian, “and
yet your stout war-horse of the north bears not fatigue or toil with a
better grace.”
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, “Damian, art thou not sorrowed at
the thought of leaving the Holy Land--the glorious scene of so many
hard-fought frays? I trow we will all wish to be again in the midst of
the gallant mellay; shall we not pine for the rugged encounter with the
Paynim host--What sayst thou, Halbert?”
“He that leaves so brave a battle plain as is the land of the Holy
Sepulchre, without a sigh of regret, is unworthy of the lay of minstrel,
or love of ladye. For my part, I would all these truces were at the
devil!”
“I say amen to thy prayer, good brother.”
“Well, well, we shall soon reach the castle Di Albarone; we shall behold
our brave leader, the gallant Count Julian. By the body of God, it stirs
one’s blood to think of his charge, that ever mowed down the Paynim
ranks as though a thunderbolt had smote them! St. George! but I have
seen glorious days.”
“By’r Lady, but I have a sneaking fear that the wound of the Count may
prove fatal.”
“Fatal?” shouted Sir Geoffrey, in a voice of thunder. “Fatal? Say it not
again, Halbert! Fatal, indeed! By my troth, Lord Julian Di Albarone,
shall again lead _armies_ to battle.”
“I wonder,” said Damian, “I wonder if that skulking half brother of the
Count, still lives? I mean, he who accompanied the Lord Julian to the
Holy Land, some score of years since. How was he styled? eh, Halbert?”
“ALDARIN, I think they called him. Sir Geoffrey, hadst not a quarrel
with the bookworm? Didst not strike him before the Count at Jerusalem,
in the presence of all the princes of Christendom?”
“Tush, a mere trifle! I mind it no more than I would the spurning of a
peevish cur. But see! What have we here? Two wayfarers. Ha! one seems
like a disbanded soldier! Spur forward, my merry men! They may tell us
of our whereabouts: they may give us some news of Albarone. Spur
forward!”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE STUDENT AND THE FAIR STRANGER.[3]
The bell of the convent of St. Benedict struck the hour of noon, when a
young man, attired after the manner of a student, or Neophyte of the
monastic order, was slowly wending his way along the path that led to
the cottage on the hill, while on his arm, there hung a youth of a
slender yet graceful figure and with calm, mild features, shaded by
locks of golden hair.
Tall, sinewy, and well-proportioned in form, the face of the Student was
marked by features bold and decisive in their expression; his blue eye
was full of thought, and his forehead, high and massive, shaded by the
cap of velvet, gave the idea of a mind powerful, energetic, and formed
to rule.
His hair fell in clustering locks of gold over his neck and shoulders;
his plain tunic of dark velvet descended to his knees, revealing a
doublet of like material and color, worn underneath, fitting closely to
his manly form; while his throat was enveloped by a simple collar of
snow-white lace.
His companion wore a neat doublet of light blue, fitting close around
the neck, scarce allowing the pretty ruffle that circled the fair throat
to be seen, and reaching half way down the leg, it was gathered around
the slender waist by a girdle of plain doe skin. His light hair was
covered by a hat, with the rim drawn up to the crown on one side, and
slouching upon the other, while it was topped by delicate white plumes,
fastened by a diamond broach.
Winding amid the fragrant shrubbery that enclosed the path, the student
and his companion attained the top of the hill, and passing through the
small garden, they presently stood before the neat cottage, which,
shadowed by a spreading beech on one side, meeting the foliage of a
leafy chesnut on the other, was overrun in front by a fragrant vine,
that clomb over the timbers of the doorway, and twined round the
solitary casement; the broad green leaves quivering in the beams of the
sun, and the trumpet-shaped flowers swinging to and fro in the wooing
air.
The student tapped at the door. It was opened by a woman somewhat
advanced in life, attired in the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of
ebony strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat severe and stern, her
demeanor was commanding, and her figure still retained some remains of
youthful beauty.
She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished word burst from
her lips.
“Ah! Adr--tush! Leone, I mean--thou art early home to-day, my son.”
“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow scholar Florian, son to
the Baron Diarmo of Florence. In yonder convent we pursue our studies in
one apartment side by side. An hour since, as we strolled through the
gardens adjoining the convent, my friend missed his footing, and
severely bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer than the convent, I
thought I could not do better then bring him hither. I need not commend
him to thy care.”
“Thou art welcome fair sir,” the dame replied, with a kindly smile.
“Enter our abode; ’tis humble, yet ’tis sacred, for the bounty of the
convent bestows it upon my son and me, while he is preparing for the
priesthood. Come in, gentle Florian.”
They entered the cottage, and the door was closed.
No sooner had they disappeared than something rustled in the bushes and
the bow-legged vagabond, Francisco, emerged into the light.
“Oh--ho!” he cried, “here’s a mystery. The convent allow old Mistress
Vinegar-face to reside on their land, in their cottage, while her son is
preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by’r lady! I see it
all--’tis as I suppose--these two striplings, are those, for whom such
an immense reward has been offered in the neighboring towns and
villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well as any other wight’s--eh?
Via! Francisco! Vagabond no longer, but henceforth Signor Francisco!
Via!”
Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms and a gigantic stride; and
as he stalked away, the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and
black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on the other side of the
cot, and, bursting into a loud laugh, they tripped after the swelling
“vagabond.”
Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned seat, the gentle
Florian submitted his foot to the hands of the dame, who drew off the
shoe and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise; remarking, at the
same time, that the foot was one of the smallest, and the ancle one of
the prettiest in the wide world.
The student glanced at Florian, and smiled.
“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent. Methinks it were better
for gentle Florian to rest him here awhile. I will return anon, and
accompany my fellow scholar along the shores of the lake to the
monastery.”
He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed. Looking up into the
rosy face, and catching the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest
youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the dressing of the wound:
“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble tenement with thy
presence for the night, thou canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it
were best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”
“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in a voice as sweet as
infancy.
“_Lady_, say’st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”
Florian blushed.
“Nay, pardon me--I meant no offence. Indeed, it seemed--”
The youth paused, while the blush deepened on his cheek.
“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leone’s room. Mayhap thou wouldst
like to repose thee awhile.”
Florian followed her into a small apartment, with a window toward the
east, a neat bed in one corner, a crucifix upon the wall, and a table,
on which lay a missal of devotion.
The dame retired.
Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and drew the bolt. Then seating
himself upon the bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears
stole between the fair fingers, fast and bright, like drops of sunlit
rain.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE.
THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE GATE ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL OF A
STRANGE TRUMPET.[4]
“Well-a-day! It’s a sad thing to dwell in this lonely place, now that
all of the ancient house are dead and gone!”
“‘_Dead and gone_,’ sir huntsman! Where didst learn to shape thy words?
The Count Aldarin lives!”
“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a right quiet time we peaceful
folks have had for a day or so past. Here, have we no boisterous
merriment; no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret awakes the silence
of these walls; no runlets of wine flow in the beaders of the banquet
hall. All is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for’t!”
“Such quiet and such stillness, i’ faith! Why, man, you cannot walk
along the solitary corridors of the castle, without trembling at your
own starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by the plague--all its
living folk carried to the grave-yard, leaving old Death to take care of
deserted chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard of
Albarone, and ask your heart--if heart you have--whether a plague has
not swept this place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul to look
upon these lonesome walls!”
“And I--look ye, gossips--I, Griseldea, tire-woman of my Ladye Annabel,
have never damosel or dame, for two score long years--I am two score and
six years, come next Mass o’ Christ, not an hour more, i’ faith--I have
never, for two score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do now! In
my Ladye’s bower lie her garments of price; the tunic of blue and gold
which she wore in her happy days; the white plume that once drooped over
her fair brow, the snow-white bridal dress--all, all are there! But
where is my Ladye Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful days!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Tell me, good folk, are ye paid to howl in chorus?
Hugo, didst ever hear such growling?”
“Faith, they do growl, somewhat like a herd of untamed bears! Yet,
Balvardo, bethink thee--there’s reason for’t. W-h-e-w! When I think of
the queer things that have chanced within these few days, I might
wonder, I might growl; yes, Balvardo, I might growl, I might wonder!”
“Here, for three long days, since my lord of Florence left the castle,
have we seen no sight of the Count Aldarin,” exclaimed the
huntsman.--“Mayhap he has buried himself alive--mayhap he has gone up to
heaven, or more likely he has gone to--’s life, what a stitch in my
side!”
“Softly, softly, sir huntsman, softly! Wise folk speak not lightly of
the Count Aldarin. The rope on yonder gibbet swings loosely in the
summer wind--thy neck may be the first to stretch its fibres!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk, yet it does seem queer when one comes to think of
it! Not three days ago, it was nothing but ‘_saddle me your horses,
scour every road, bring back the traitor Guiseppo, and hew off his
caitiff head!_ _Now_--blood o’ th’ Turk, it puzzles me!’”
“_Now_, sir Balvardo, the word is: ‘_Pay all respect to Guiseppo; honor
the youth as myself--he is dear to me in blood, dear to me in heart,
honor Guiseppo, he rules the castle in my absence_.’”
“Sancta Maria!” cried the ancient tire-woman. “Tell me, gossip, tell me,
sir huntsman, how came this about?”
“Not two nights agone, there enters the castle gate, a wandering palmer,
clad in rags. Not satisfied with asking alms at the hall door, he must
wander along the corridors of the castle, and prowl around the door of
the cell where the damsel Rosalind is imprisoned. My Count Aldarin’s
suspicions are roused: he flings the beggar’s robes from the palmer’s
face, and we all behold the--trim page Guiseppo!”
“Wonder of all wonders! Now, I’ll never be astonished again in all my
life!”
“Not even if any one should chance to believe the story of thy age,
which thou art wont to tell! Hugo, look at gossip tire-woman, how her
eyes are dropping from their sockets!”
“There stood the page Guiseppo--there stood the Count Aldarin! Nice
group--eh! Axes and gibbets were the mildest things in our thoughts,
when my lord takes the page by the hand, smiles kindly, and leads him
away. An hour passes: the supper is spread in the banquet hall: my Lord
Aldarin appears, and with him comes Guiseppo, clad in garments of
cost--”
“And then comes the word: ‘_Pay Sir Guiseppo all respect--honor him as
myself_.’ Is’t not so good gossip?”
“By my huntsman’s word, it is even so! Now tell me, sir sentinels,
waiting at the castle gate, while the Count Aldarin is buried in the
depths of the earth, sir Hugo and Balvardo, sir steward and dame
Griseldea, all of ye servitors of Albarone, is not this matter enough
for a nine day’s wonder? By’r Lady, I never heard the like!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk, ’tis wonderful!”
“W-h-e-w! ’Tis passing strange!”
“Hist--Hugo! What sound is that? ’Tis like the tramp of war steeds!”
“Hark! The peal of a trumpet! This is wondrous.”
And for a single moment the strangely contrasted group gathered at the
castle gate, in the mild evening hour, stood motionless as statutes,
with the light of the setting sun falling over each face and figure.
There was Hugo, with his vacant face and sinister eye, clad like his
comrade, Balvardo of the beetle brow, in glittering armor of Milan
steel, each standing breast to breast, as, with pikes half raised, they
listened to the trumpet peal swelling from the distance. There was the
bluff huntsman of the castle, his rugged visage affording a striking
contrast to the sharp features of the ancient steward, and the thin,
withered countenance of the tire-woman, standing near him, while all
around were clustered the servitors of Albarone, their gay liveries
flashing in the light of the setting sun.
“Hark, Balvardo! The trumpet peal swells louder. I hear the trampling of
an hundred steeds. Up, up to the tower of the castle gate, and tell us
what is to be seen!”
Balvardo hastily disappeared, and while the group clustered round the
lofty pillar awaited the result of his observations with the utmost
suspense, ascended to the tower by a staircase built in the massive
wall.
“What dost see, comrade?” shouted Hugo; “The trumpet peal grows louder,
and I hear the tramp of war steeds pattering along the road to the
castle gate. What dost see, Balvardo?”
“I see a strange sight, i’faith! Horsemen issue from the shadow of the
wood toward Florence--horsemen arrayed in strange robes, black as night.
I count one, two, three,--by my life, there’s thirteen o’ them, all
mounted on cream-colored steeds!”
“Are they men-at-arms? Bear they a pennon at their head?”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk, I see no men-at-arms! They are clad in long robes,
that fall sweeping almost to the very ground. Their robes are black as
the death-pall, yet are they faced with a goodly border of glittering
gold. Now the wind sweeps the robe of the foremost horseman aside. By my
sword, he is clad in the attire of a paynim dog! Loose, flowing
garments, with a belt of curious embroidery, while a dark turban
surmounts his swarthy form.”
“Ride they towards the castle?”
“They ride forward two abreast; the tall figure rides at their head.
Tramp, tramp--God send they be not wizards in disguise! A new wonder,
comrade; one of the party spurs his horse to the front--he is speeding
toward the castle gate! Blood o’ th’ Turk, he holds a trumpet in his
grasp.”
“A trumpet, Balvardo? This should be the herald of the companie.”
“He rides up the hill, he reins his steed on the very edge of the moat.
Hark, how his trumpet peals!”
And while the shrill and piercing sound of the trumpet broke on the air,
the group listening beside the castle gate were startled by the sound of
a measured footstep.
With one start they turned in the direction of the sound, and beheld the
person of the new comer.
He was a young cavalier, with a smooth face, unvisited by beard, yet
stamped with the marks of premature and sudden experience, while his
slender form, clad in a jewelled doublet, was half hidden by the folds
of a sweeping robe of purple, that fell from his shoulders, varied by a
border of snow-white ermine.
“It is _him_--the page Guiseppo,” murmured the huntsman. “Mark ye, how
changed he looks! His arms folded, and his merry face clad in a frown.
Well-a-day! The world is all bewitched, or I’m no sinful man!”
“The page Guiseppo,” whispered the shrill-voiced steward. “Know ye not
his new title? ‘My Lord Guiseppo, Baron of Masserio’--nephew of the
Count Aldarin. Masserio is the name of one of the smaller baronies
annexed by my lord of Florence, to the domains of Albarone. ’Tis said
’twas confiscated to the state, because its master meddled with the
strange Order of the Steel, whose fame has been in our ear for these
four months past.”
“Sir sentinel, canst tell me what means this peal of trumpet, this
clamor at the gates of Albarone?”
As Guiseppo advanced and spoke, every one in the group was impressed to
the very heart with the change that had so lately passed over the
appearance and manner of the page. A score of years could not have added
more solemnity to his visage, or given a more deep-toned sternness to
his voice.
In a moment the Lord Guiseppo--such is now his title--was possessed of
the cause of the clamor at the castle-gate, and was about to speak, when
the trumpet peal ceased, and the clear bold voice of the herald, broke
upon the air.
“Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone! My master salutes the gallant
knight and craves entrance into the shelter of his goodly castle! Peace
to the Lord Julian of Albarone!”
“Be thy master, the Paynim Mahound himself, or the Devil his father--”
rang out the hoarse tones of Balvardo, from the tower above--“He is a
few days behind old Death in his salutation. Lord Julian of Albarone
sleeps in the Charnel-House.”
“Then Sir Warder of the castle-gate, by thy soldierly courtesy, I pray
thee inform me--doth his brother, the Scholar Aldarin yet live?”
“The _Count Aldarin_ reigns _Lord of Albarone_.”
“Then I pray thee, bear the salutations of my master to the Count
Aldarin, and with his greeting bear this scroll!”
“S’ life--here’s a net for a man to tangle his feet with!” the group
below heard the growling words break from Balvardo--“My Lord
Guiseppo”--he exclaimed aloud, looking from the window of the
tower--“What answer shall I make to this Wizard Herald of yon Paynim
band!”
A sudden contortion passed over the features of Guiseppo, he raised his
hand wildly to his brow, and trembled as he stood beside the
castle-gate. The spasm-like expression that passed over his face, was
scarce human in its meaning, and the spectators started back with a
sudden fear. There are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre by
the fierce war of contending emotions, when the heart struggles with the
brain, while the reason totters, and the intellect reels on its throne.
A contest wild as this; seemed warring between the heart and brain of
Guiseppo, the new created Lord of Masserio.
“One moment, good Balvardo--Hugo, I am faint--some wine, I prithee!”
Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo, and in a moment the Lord
of Masserio, found himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within the
confines of the lower chamber of the Warder’s Tower, while Hugo stood
motionless before him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.
“Thanks, good Hugo--retire a moment, and I will be my own man again--let
me think,” he muttered in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired--“Its
like a dream--and yet the reality presses on my brain like a weight of
lead. I feel no joy in my lordship. Three little days--Saints of
Heaven--behold the change! Three days ago, a poor Page, journeyed with a
band of gallant soldiers! He disappeared, no one save himself knew
whither. He came to this castle in his Palmer’s rags and perilled his
life to rescue his Ladye-love. He was discovered--he already beheld the
object of omen, held above his head--he expected the axe--and Sancta
Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet. _His_ son--_his_ son!
Great God how dark the mystery! My brain whirls--the wine, ha, ha--the
wine.”
“Sir Sentinel”--arose the voice of the Herald without--“Wilt thou bear
this scroll to the Lord Aldarin?”
“And _she_ is yet imprisoned! _He_ my father! As God lives I’m bound to
stand by him to the death! Robin’s story--is it, is it true? The dark
hints of the men-at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffrey--might not this
trumpet peal serve to unravel their meaning? The wine gives me nerve--my
brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel--must I desert their cause?
Methinks I feel my heart strings crack, at the very word! And _he_ is my
father; _he_ loads me with favors, burdens me with kindness--” the half
crazed Guiseppo looked around the confined chamber with a fixed and
steady eye--“_I will stand by my father Aldarin to the death_”.
“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous--For the last time, wilt
thou bear the scroll?”
“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle gate--“spoke the
determined voice of Lord Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering
manner he issued from the lower chamber of the Warden’s Tower--“Call the
men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of the
castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently yet hastily hither! Away
Hugo--and thou Sir Huntsman! Let it be done without delay.
Balvardo--mark ye, when I give the word let the drawbridge be lowered
and the portcullis raised. We shall see what manner of men are these
strangers--the Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their scroll!”
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE.
“IBRAHIM BEN MALAKIM SALUTES HIS BROTHER ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.”
The beams of the declining day, glanced gaily thro’ the arched windows
of the Red-chamber, and the Count Aldarin paced with a hurried step
across the marble floor, and his chest rose and fell, and his cheek
flushed and paled, and now his voice was choked by rage, and again it
was clear and deep-toned with hate.
“Baffled! and by whom? my own child. I have laid schemes--I have
planned, I have plotted, and all for Annabel--my daughter. And she
returns me--contempt and scorn. If, within the bowels of the earth,
there is a place of torture, a boundless, illimitable and ever burning
hell--if within the fire of the stars, there is written a Doom for the
Damned, then to the very hell of hell, then to the very Doom of the
Damned, have I sold myself, and all for thee, my daughter! What! a
tear?--Shall I play the woman?--No--I will brace me up!--I will show the
world the power of one who hates the whole accursed race. There was a
time when I could weep, aye and talk of feeling and prate of the
tenderness and humanity with any of them!--They gave me scorn, they
heaped insult upon me!”
He looked around as tho’ he would compass the whole human race with his
glance, and an expression of demoniac hate came over his features while
he whispered between his clenched teeth.
“_Have I paid the debt?_ Ha! ha! Let those who wronged me answer. _Have
I paid the debt?_ The man never lived who struck the meek Scholar and
saw another sun. Not one! not one!--Nay there was one. He scorned me
before the Princes of Christendom--it was at Jerusalem--I gave him scorn
for scorn--with his mailed hand he struck me to the floor! I swore
revenge--the steel was false, the dagger failed, but on his life and
heart have I wreaked vengeance, such as man never wreaked before! The
revenge of Aldarin must not be fed with the blood of his foe? No--by the
fiend--no! But with the very life drops of his soul! My victim fights
for the glory of Albarone. Little does he dream who now doth rule the
ancient house.--Miserable fool, he toils and wars far in Palestine--he
toils--he wars for _me_! _Me!_ his ancient, his sworn and unrelenting
foe! _Ha! whence is that noise? Ha! ha! Surely it is not a groan from
yon couch?_”
Pausing for a moment, he eagerly listened, and again he spoke.
“Let me gather my thoughts. Let me nerve my soul for the trial of this
night. The stake I hold in my hand is a fearful one--the hand that would
grasp the very secrets of the grave, the weird mysteries of Old Death,
should never tremble.”
He paced the floor yet more hurriedly, and was silent for a few moments.
“_It is the very night!_” he exclaimed, after a pause of intense
thought. “_The grand problem upon which I have bestowed my youth--my
mind--my soul--my all--will soon be solved. This very night completes
the thrice seven years. For thrice seven years has the beechen flame
burned beneath the alembic, in my laboratory; in war, in difficulty, in
danger, and in death, has the azure flame still burned on with undying
lustre. Unbounded wealth is mine!_ IMMORTAL LIFE.
“In after-time, when long, long, centuries have passed away, men will
speak of the glory, the mystery--and perchance the crime--that encircled
the life of Aldarin the Scholar! And as the cheek of the listener grows
pale, I--I--will be there, also a listener and to the story of my own
fate! Aldarin will be there, but oh, how changed! Aldarin, no longer
weak, trembling, bent with age--but Aldarin, young and glorious, with
the signet of eternal youth and power stamped upon his unfading brow!
“Gold, gold, the talisman that rules the soul of man, gold that buys
wisdom from the sage, Heaven from the priest, life from the leech, honor
from the mighty, and virtue from woman, GOLD will be mine.”
Turning aside, Aldarin drew forth from a recess in the walls, a
parchment scroll richly illuminated, and covered with characters in the
Arabic tongue. He drew near the casement, and unclosed this scroll to
the light of the declining day, gazing upon the dark characters while a
singular agitation pervaded the lineaments of his face.
It was the Book of his Belief--in which he had long ago written his
ideas of God and Man. Shall we look into these wierd pages, even for a
moment, and learn the nature of the Theology which gave shape and
purpose to the life of Aldarin? We will glance at a single page of
THE BIBLE OF ALDARIN.
I. Who shall describe the incomprehensible Power, which gives life
and motion to the Universe?
II. An Almighty Intellect, dwelling in the solitudes of infinite
space, and yet pervading all Nature, guiding by his silent and
overshadowing will, the courses of the stars, the fate of empires,
and the destinies of men, living for ever, the commencement of his
being, dated by a past eternity, the duration of his existence,
bounded by a future eternity, He is the SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE.
III. Men have blasphemed this Universal Soul, with their vain
titles. They have mocked Him with vainer creeds. They have
enshrouded this simple Idea with a multitude of cumbrous
falsehoods. They have buried it in the Charnel house of festering
superstitions. Yet the Idea has survived, and lived, despite all
these systems of error. It can never die. It is written on the
heart of the new-born child, and cannot be erased, until you
destroy the body and kill the Soul of that child. Whether adored in
the shape of an obscene reptile--as in ancient Egypt--or in the
form of a marble image--as in Greece and Rome--the Soul of the
World is still worshipped, as the fountain of all life and motion;
his Thoughts the deeds of the Universe.
IV. The Soul, from time to time, and at long intervals, has
enshrined his Being in flesh, and walked the earth in the form of
living man, and appeared among men,--the Incarnate Universe.
V. As the sun gives forth light, and is not deprived of a single
ray, so the Universal Soul, sends abroad, beams of his existence,
which are at once, portions of his glory and eternity. These beams
of the Soul, are clad in forms of flesh, they walk the earth, they
share in the temptations and disquietudes of mankind. Or, they are
Spirits, invisible to the gross senses of clay, and yet dwelling on
the earth and sharing in the destinies of its people. Are they clad
in humanity? Then their knowledge of their Eternal Source is dim,
undefined, and only felt by broken gleams. Sometimes that Knowledge
comes upon them in all its power; they feel they know, that they
are of the Almighty Intellect, beams of his brightness and
pulsations of his heart. When this Consciousness bursts upon them,
they are men no longer, but Leaders of the human race, and are
known among men, as Prophets, Apostles and Redeemers.
VI. Even in their worst state, when most beclouded by the appetites
and misfortunes of flesh, these Souls, born of the Universal Soul,
retain a consciousness, however dim, of their origin, a glimpse,
vague as it may be, of their destiny, and a portion, of the might
of their Creator and Father.
VII. All men are not of the Almighty Soul, nor does every bosom
throb with a pulsation of the Universal Heart.
VIII. Look abroad over the multitudes of mankind. Survey the Camp,
the Court, the Cloister. Traverse the world of humanity from the
kennel to the palace. What do you behold?
IX. Yonder, by a river shore, an army marches, its ten thousand
spears flashing in the sunlight. Without a Leader, whose Soul is
the Soul of these ten thousand men, this army is powerless; it is
but ten thousand isolated links of a broken Chain. That Leader is a
Ray from the Soul of the Universe; a Ray beclouded by the gory mist
of carnage, yet still a Beam of the Eternal Sun.
X. Go to the Palace. There is a King there, who sits upon a golden
throne, and drinks in the idolatry of cringing Courtiers, and
arrays his form, in a garment, whose very tinsel has been purchased
with the life blood of at least, a thousand men. This King rules an
empire, levies taxes, makes war and peace, holds life and death in
the hollow of his hand. He is only a Mock King after all; for as
you gaze more attentively upon the source and machinery of his
power, you will behold, far back in the shadows of his throne, some
Monk with a tonsured forehead, or some Scholar with a withered
face, and in the Monk or the Scholar, you in truth, recognize the
Real King. For the Monk, and the Scholar are beams of the Almighty
Intellect, darkened by sophistries or ferocious with superstition
yet still Pulsations of the Universal Heart.
XI. One third of the world bows at the foot of the Cross. Another
third worships a Crescent. The last third gives its adoration to
images and creeds, as various as the faces of men.
XII. Dive into your heart and seek the Cause of all this. Do you
find it in the magnificent temples; the armies of hired priests,
the volumes of Cumbrous rituals? This is the manifestation of the
Cause, or the corruption of the Cause, but not the Cause itself.
Seek deeper. You will find that this Cross is adored, because ten
Centuries and more ago, a Carpenter’s Son, felt the full
consciousness of his origin, even as he toiled in the workshop,
beside his peasant father. The Soul of that Carpenter’s Son, born
of the Almighty Intellect, lives even yet, although its purity may
be darkened by the Corruptions of earth-born Souls, and its power,
manacled by ten thousand arms and appetites of flesh and blood. And
thus, the Crescent is a symbol of the faith of millions, because
some centuries ago, an Arabian camel-driver, even amid the sand and
stars of a trackless desert, felt that he was a part of Eternity.
Track the other religions, to their sources, and you will find that
Beams of the Universal Soul, have appeared in forms of flesh, and
passed away, leaving no record but their system or their creed.
XIII. Wherefore is there evil in the World? Wherefore does Good
always entwine itself with evil? Wherefore does the Simple religion
of the Carpenter’s Son, which said, hundred of years ago, that all
of truth was written in the words, Do unto others as you would have
others do unto you, now hide and bury itself, under the feet of
Popes, priests and monks, who say by their deeds, We do unto others
as we would not have them do unto us?
XIV. It is a terrible question. Search your heart again. Question
the Seers of immemorial time. Descend into the Charnel. Ask an
answer from Death itself. Gather your soul within itself until the
Spirits of the Other World speak to you.
XV. There is an answer to your question. Let us behold it. While
the Universal Soul dwells Supreme, there lives another Power in the
Universe. This Power is not eternal, and yet his existence appears
like an Eternity when compared with the years of earth. He is not
Omnipotent, and yet when compared with a mortal arm, HIS arm seems
to be invested with Almighty Power. He lived before earth was born;
he will live when earth and its creations are dead. He is at once
the FOE and the INFERIOR of the SUPREME SOUL. He has been ever, at
war with his Master he has defied his power, confounded his
Almighty Good with Evil, and marred the beauty of his works. This
inferior has been known by various names but a simple title,
expresses at once, his name and his nature.
XVI. He is the SOUL OF EVIL.
XVII. Behold a wonderous truth.
When the UNIVERSAL SOUL, first imparted a portion of his being to
living forms, or, forms of flesh and blood, the SOUL OF EVIL,
marred his work, by creating other forms, unto whom he gave a part
of his own malignant life, impulse and destiny.
XVIII. Do not hesitate. There is yet a more wonderous truth. These
forms, in which the SOUL OF EVIL, embodied a portion of his being,
resembled the forms, in which the UNIVERSAL SOUL, diffused beams of
his light and eternity.
XIX. Through countless ages, the beings, born of Almighty
Intellect, warred with the beings, created by the Soul of evil.
XX. At last, the children of eternity, clothed in flesh and blood,
mingled their lives and lives, with the offspring of the evil
Soul,--doomed to annihilation,--who were also clothed in flesh and
blood.
XXI. The earth, on which we live was peopled by the generations of
this mingled race; a race composed of Good and Evil, of Eternity
and Death.
XXII. In these words, given above, all the mysteries of life, are
explained.
XXIII. Wonder no longer at the perpetual paradox, presented in all
ages by the human race. It is true that Good and Evil, fight an
eternal battle, in the heart of man. It is true, that the basest
have some consciousness of their Divine Origin; and that the best,
have some throbbings, to remind them of an infernal paternity.
Could it be otherwise? Man is made up, of two elements; he is the
Child of two distinct races. One is the race of Light and Eternity;
the other of Dark and Death.
XXIV. There have been men, whose entire nature, has been formed
from the race of the Evil Soul. They have been called, Monsters, by
their fellow men, and their name, has passed into a Curse.
XXV. There has also been men, whose entire nature, has been formed
from the race of the UNIVERSAL SOUL. They are called, Angels,
Demi-gods, by their fellow men, and their name is a Blessing.
XXVI. Search into your own heart. Ponder--reflect--look deeper.
Digest these few plain truths, examine their proportions, as you
would measure the exactness of a pyramid.
XXVII. Do you not discover the source of all the creeds, which have
divided mankind?
XXVIII. Do you not discover the Key to the great mystery of the
Universe?
And beneath all this was written----
“_The Spirit of Jehovah is upon me to preach good tidings to the
poor, sight to the blind, peace to them that are bruised----and to
all men_ THE ACCEPTABLE YEAR OF THE LORD.”
The last sentence, written not in Arabic but in Hebrew, and written by
another hand then his own, filled Aldarin with inexplicable emotion.
“If these words spoken by the Nazarene are true, then is my whole life a
lie,” he said, and retired into the shadows of the Red-Chamber.
When he came toward the declining light once more, his brow was
strangely troubled.
“How strange has been the course of my life! Let me gaze backward over
the dark path I have trodden. This night thrice seven long years
ago--amid the gloom of the Syrian battle plain, a dark-eyed Arabian gave
me in ransom for his life, the book of his race, which he dared not
read. And there, in that lone hour, as midnight gathered over the corses
of the dead, did he sware by the Eternal Flame of the Fire-worshipper,
that in body or in soul, he would be with my heart, and by my side this
very night. THE BOOK spoke in words of fire of the secret, and--and--by
my soul I have heard no message from the Arab Prince for three long
years. He can not, will not fail me now!”
The door of the Red-Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the Lord
Guiseppo hastily advanced, with an expression of deep gloom stamped on
his brow. He held a scroll of parchment in his extended hand.
“Ha! My Lord Guiseppo, son of mine. I greet thee! Hast thou any message
for me?”
“A strange man clad in Paynim costume, attended by a train of twelve,
attired strangely as himself, wait at the castle gate. He sends his
greeting and this simple scroll.”
“A strange man clad in Paynim costume”--murmured Aldarin in a
whispering tone--“A scroll! Give it me, Guiseppo--Ha! What words are
these--_Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim salutes his brother, Aldarin the Scholar!_”
A warm flush like a sudden glow of sunshine passed over the face of
Aldarin, his eye gleamed and brightened until it seemed burning its
socket, and the Scholar stood for a moment agitated and motionless.
“Guiseppo!” he shouted in a voice of thunder as he turned towards the
youthful Lord--“Away, away, to the castle gate and answer the giver of
this scroll with the words--Aldarin greets his brother Ibrahim!”
“And then my Lord Aldarin”--
“Lead the stranger to my presence!”
And while Guiseppo turned to obey the behest of the Scholar, the Count
Aldarin, strode with a hurried step along the floor of the Red Chamber,
with his arms folded and his head drooped low upon his breast.
There was a long pause of absorbing thought.
“He comes--he comes, with the last scroll of THE BOOK! He comes with the
Charm, which in the hands of Aldarin shall wake the dead! When the last
scroll is read, when the last charm is spoken, then, then, Aldarin lives
forever! And Ibrahim--ha, ha, ’twere but fair that the blood of the
Priest, who first awoke this Idea within my bosom, should mingle with
the blood of the victims, slain at the shrine of the awful Thought.”
A dark and meaning smile passed over the lip of Aldarin, and again he
communed with his own thoughts.
A footstep sounded through the ante-chamber; in a moment the stranger,
tall and majestic, stood before the Scholar.
“Ibrahim gives peace and joy to Aldarin!”
“Peace and joy to Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim!”
As thus they saluted each other, in the Arabian tongue the native
language of the one, and the familiar study of the other, Aldarin
advanced and gazed upon the stranger.
His face was most impressive.
Regular in feature, dark and tawny in hue, the countenance of the
stranger was marked by a high forehead, thick and bushy eye-brows white
as snow, giving a strange effect to the glance of the full dark eyes,
that looked forth from beneath their shadow: a compressed lip, half
hidden by the venerable beard, that well-nigh covered his rounded chin
and dark brown cheeks, and descended to his breast in waving locks,
frosted by age and toil. A cap of sable fur surmounting his forehead,
imparted a striking relief to the visage of the Arabian.
His attire was simple and majestic. A mantle or robe of black cloth,
gathered around the throat, by a chain of gold, with a collar of
snow-white fur, fell in long folds to his knees, bordered by lace of
gold. As the robe waved suddenly aside from his commanding frame, it
might be seen that the tunic which gathered around his form, was
fashioned of the finest velvet glistening white in color, with a border
of strange and mystic characters, his legs were encased in dark hose,
and slouching boots of doe-skin, glittering with the knightly spur of
gold.
“Thou art changed, Ibrahim!”
“And _thou_ Aldarin!”
There was a long pause, while the Scholar and the Arab Prince perused
each others features. When they again spoke it was in the rich Arabian
tongue, each word a word of fire, each sentence a thought of wild
enthusiasm.
“Twenty-one years, this very night, on the battle-plain amid the Syrian
wilds, an Arab prince owed his life to the intercession of Aldarin the
Scholar. He offered the Scholar gold for his ransom--the scholar refused
the proffered dust. Speak I the truth, Aldarin?”
“Thou dost!”
“Struck by the noble nature of the thoughtful Italian, the Arab prince
gave him a gift priceless in value, not to be bought with gold, or
purchased with gems of price! A Book--a mighty book had descended to
him, through a long line of gallant ancestors. The founder of the race
of Ibrahim was a man of dark thoughts, and mysterious studies. Swept
from the path of life in the midst of his mystic researches, he left THE
BOOK to his children, with the last and most terrible Mystery, the final
Charm, which gave importance to the whole volume, confided to their
trust, in unwritten words--”
“These words thou wouldst speak to mine own ear and heart?”
“Even so, brother Aldarin! When I gave thee the Book, fraught with
strange mysteries, a fearful oath, sworn by every son of the race of
Ben-Malakim, bound me to keep the last words, which make the book
complete, secret from thine ear, until I was assured thou hadst won the
merit of the confidence.”
“Thou didst swear by the Eternal Flame, that thou wouldst meet me this
very night, in the soul or in the body, living or dead.”
“I am here! The far-east rings with the fame of Aldarin the Scholar--the
last secret is thine!”
“This night, at the hour of midnight, over the Altar of Marble, where
the Heart of the Dead mingles its crimson-drops with the White Waters of
the Alembic,--there,--will I crave the last Secret at thy hands!”
“There is one condition first.”
“Name it!”
“Lo! it is written in the Scroll which contains the Priceless Secret.
The Prince of Ben-Malakim must be a spectator in the lone chamber where
the SECRET is carried into action; he must command in the Halls of the
Scholar, who may receive the mystery, while the solemn ceremonies named
by the Book, are in progress.”
“The condition is strange--yet”--
“So read the words of THE BOOK!”
“Its behests shall be obeyed.”
“Then Scholar, and friend, let the twelve warriors who follow in my
train, take the place of the sentinels at the castle-gate; let them
command in the castle-hall, and be obeyed as thyself until the morrow
morn!”
“It shall be done. And now, my brother, draw near to the casement; let
the warm glow of the setting sun fall over thy features I would look
upon thy face, as was my wont in the ancient time. By my soul, thou art
sadly changed--fearful wrinkles traverse thy countenance, thy hair and
beard are gray; thine eyebrows white. A sad and fearful change!”
“The touch of time falls heaviest on the man of thought, good Aldarin.
Thou too, art sadly, fearfully changed.”
“And yet this night shall crown the toil of twenty-one years, with a
boon almost beyond mortal hope. Yes--yes,” he continued in a deep
whisper, as the full glow of the setting sun fell over his face--“The
sun sinks down in glory; his beams fall over the form of the mortal
Scholar--Lo! his beams gild the sky on the morrow morn and--how my
nerves fire, my heart is full to bursting--ALDARIN LIVES FOREVER.”
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE SCHOLAR ALDARIN AND THE LORD GUISEPPO
THE LAST INTERVIEW BEFORE THE GRAND SCENE, FOR WHICH ALDARIN HAS TOILED,
STRUGGLED AND ENDURED, FOR THRICE SEVEN YEARS.
“Come hither Guiseppo, son of mine, let me look upon thy face. Ah! I
remember well--her countenance lives again in thine. Boy, walk by my
side, along this solitary chamber; I would converse with thee. Hast thou
not oftentimes thought me a dark and stern old man?”
“My Lord, I have. The story of the soldier,--Rough Robin----”
“Name not the slave! Name him not. Have I not scattered his fable of
lies, to the winds? Art not satisfied with the guilt of this--Adrian?
Speak Guiseppo--have I not told thee a fair and truthful story?”
“I fear me--oh! Saints of Heaven--I fear me--that thy story is true!”
“Thou _fearest_ that my story is true! Is this well Guiseppo? Wouldst
rather thy _father_ had been guilty!”
“_My Lord_--”
“‘_My father_’ would sound as well.”
“My father, then; an’ I may speak the name; I thank God from my very
heart that I know thee guiltless. Yet I had much rather--the Saints
witness my truth--I had much rather, this spot of blood were washed from
the garments of all who bear the name of Albarone.”
“And do I not join in the wish! oh Guiseppo--Guiseppo Di Albarone, for I
will call thee by thine own true name--look upon me, mark my face, gaze
in mine eye! Thou hast known me for years, a man prematurely old, bent
with age ere the sands of my manhood’s prime had fallen in the glass.
Thus hast thou known me Guiseppo.”
“I have my Lord,--my father, and wondered at the cause.”
“Yet hast thou ever noted the change, the fearful change, that has
passed over this face within a few brief days? Dost mark the pallor of
this cheek, the blaze of this eye? Dost see this forehead seamed by a
single wrinkle between the brows; dost note these wan and wasted
features?”
“Yes, yes my father, I do. What hath wrought this fearful change?”
“Canst thou ask? A mighty grief has been swelling the channels of my
soul--grief for the _crime of Adrian_, grief that _his_ hands, the hands
of the son, should be red--dripping with his own father’s blood.”
He paused--covered his face--there was a moment of voiceless agony “and
yet, even in this hour of agony, the resemblance, the sad resemblance,
which has haunted me for years, comes back to my soul--”
“The resemblance, my father?”
“Boy, I tell thee, thy face is like the face of--Even now I see it!”
“Father?--”
“The face of thy mother!”
“I tremble my father; mine eyes are wet with burning tears. Tell me--oh,
tell me of _her_--my mother.”
“Twenty years ago, a nameless Scholar, who disdaining the din and battle
of war, gave his soul to higher and purer thoughts, won the love of a
proud and peerless Ladye. They might not wed, for she was the scion of a
Royal line. It was evening, boy, calm and gorgeous evening--well do I
remember the scene--when the proud Ladye gazed from the portico of a
kingly palace, over the temples and the towers of Jerusalem. The glow of
sunset was streaming over her face, and her full dark eyes, kindled with
the grandeur of the scene, when, when--listen Guiseppo,--her boy, her
bright eyed boy, lay prattling on her knee. The Scholar stood by her
side--he was silent, for his heart was full--oh, God! methinks I see
myself as _I was then_, even through the long lapse of years--”
“Thyself! The boy, who was’t--the boy?”
“Listen; hear the sequel of this dark story. There, there, concealed by
a column of that lofty portico, listening to the words of love that
broke murmuringly from the lips of the Ladye, gazing upon the face of
her bright-eyed boy, all smiles and laughter, there, unknown and
unsuspected, stood the Fiend and the Destroyer. Guiseppo--pass thy hand
over my brow--see, see, even after the lapse of twenty years, the cold,
beaded drops, like death-sweat, stand out from my forehead at the
memory.”
“I am breathless, my father--the Destroyer who stood listening--he
was--”
“Guiseppo, Guiseppo, let me whisper a world of horror to thine ear in a
single word. The light of the setting sun, fell over thy--thy mother’s
face, proud, peerless and beautiful--her child prattling on her knee,
her lover by her side--the first beams of the morrow’s sun beheld her
form, her form of grace and loveliness, flung prostrate over the marble
floor of her chamber--_outraged, bleeding, dead_.”
“Oh, God! my brain whirls! And the Destroyer?”
“Was a knight, a leader among the Princes of the Christian Host who won
Jerusalem from the Paynim legions. He had been scorned, rejected,
despised by the Ladye--thy mother--and behold,--oh fiend of hell--behold
his vengeance!”
“His name? Who--who--swept this devil from the earth?”
“He lives!”
“_Lives?_ and thou couldst wield a dagger!”
“Boy, wouldst thou wreak full and terrible vengeance on the ravisher of
thy mother?”
“Sate he upon the throne, slept he within the bridal chamber, knelt he
at the altar, I would sacrifice the wretch, to the Ghost of the
betrayed--”
“To thy knees, to thy knees, and take the oath of vengeance.”
“I kneel, father, I kneel. The oath, the oath!”
“What manner of oath dost thou hold most sacred? Wilt swear by the
Cross, by the Holy Trinity, by the Death of the Incarnate, or by the
awful existence of God?”
“BY MY MOTHER’S NAME.”
“Place the cross to thy lips, raise thy hands to heaven. Swear--by the
Holy Cross, by the Awful Trinity, by the Incarnate God--by thy Mother’s
Name--that when thy eye first beholds the wronger and the ravisher, thy
dagger shall seek his heart.”
“I swear--I swear!”
“Though he sate on the throne, though he slept within the bridal
chamber, though he knelt beside the altar!”
“I swear--I swear!”
And the hollow echoes of the Red-Chamber gave back the
echo--“Swear--swear!”
It was in sooth, a strange and impressive scene.
The dim light afforded by the lamp of silver, pendent from the ceiling,
glimmering over the hangings of the fatal bed, along the folds of the
tapestry and around the massive furniture of the room--the figures of
the scene, the aged man and the kneeling boy; Aldarin with his face
agitated by contending passions, with his eye gathering a brightness
that seemed supernatural, while Guiseppo half prostrate at his feet,
raised his hands to Heaven and with every feature of his countenance
darkened by revenge, looked above with flashing eyes as he uttered the
response--“I swear--I swear!”
It was a strange and impressive scene--and the flitting shadows that
fell over the hangings of the bed and along the floor, seemed to start
into life at the deep earnest tones of the Avenger.
“The name of the Destroyer--my father--his name--his name!--”
The Count Aldarin stooped low, applied his lips to the ear of Guiseppo
and whispered in a quick and hissing tone, the name of the Destroyer.
The kneeling Lord turned pale as death, as with a trembling voice he
repeated the well known name.
He bowed his head on his breast, and clasped his hands in very agony.
“My fate,” he shrieked, “is dark--oh Father of Heaven, most dark!----”
“Rise Guiseppo, my son,” said the Count Aldarin in a commanding tone.
“Rise Guiseppo, Lord of Albarone!”
“My father--your look is serious, and yet you utter but a merry jest.
Methinks it ill becomes the hour.”
“Guiseppo, Aldarin never deals in the jester’s wares. No--no my son, I
do not jest. Listen Guiseppo, and hear the solemn determination of my
soul. The events of these few brief days; the fearful death of my
brother, the knowledge that THE SON was the MURDERER; the flight of
my--my daughter; all have conspired to confirm that determination. I
have resolved to retire and retire forever from the world. Not within
the gloom of the monastery, not within the shadow of the cloister, does
Aldarin seek refuge from the sorrows of the world. No--no.
“Within the shadows of the most secret chamber of the Castle, (dead to
the world, unseen by living man, save thee Guiseppo, and yet companioned
by those Holy Men who this very night, arrived at Albarone, from the far
eastern lands,) in penitence and in prayer will Aldarin seek to win
favor from heaven for this--this--wretch, this father-murderer.
Guiseppo--I charge thee--let men believe me dead, and when thy right to
the Lordship of Albarone is questioned, speak boldly of the favor of his
Grace of Florence. He will defend the castle from wrong and shelter thee
from outrage.”
“My Lord--my father, this is a strange determination! I beseech thee do
not burden me with the rule of the Castle.”
“It must be so Guiseppo! From this night henceforth, Aldarin is dead to
the world. Whene’er thou wouldst say aught with me, a sealed parchment,
placed within a secret drawer arranged in the side of the beaufet, will
reach my hands.--And mark ye--let not a single day pass over thy head,
without looking into the secret drawer of the beaufet.”
“This is most wonderful! I ever thought thee a bold, ambitious man, and
now I behold Aldarin whom all men name with fear, retire from the world,
without a sigh.”
“One word more, Guiseppo. When thou hast stricken the blow--when the
Destroyer of thy mother’s honor, lies low in death, then, then, hasten
to the Round Room--thou hast heard of the chamber?--and within the
solitudes of its silent walls, read this pacquet--it contains the
fearful story of thy mother’s wrongs.”
“Forgive me, forgive me, my father--” shrieked Guiseppo, as if struck by
some sudden thought--“Swayed by some alternate affection for thee as--my
father--and regard for Adrian as--my friend, I have locked within the
silence of my bosom an important secret--_Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword
has returned from Palestine_.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the very feet of Aldarin, he could not have
started more suddenly backward, or thrown his arms aloft with a wilder
gesture.
“Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, returned from Palestine!” he
shouted--“where is he now? How far from the Castle? How many soldiers
ride in his train? Was the murderer Adrian with him?”
“Father--it was his band I left, when disguised as a Palmer, I hastened
toward the Castle. He lurks within the recesses of the mountains, some
score of miles away--three hundred men ride in his train--Adrian, whom I
believed guiltless, is with him.”
“Did he speak aught of attacking the Castle Di Albarone?”
“After a lapse of seven days, it was resolved to attempt the surprisal
of the Castle. From the vague hints I gathered, it seems that their
plans were not well matured. Three days of the seven are now passed,
and--”
“The attack will be made four days from this! By my Soul! it pleases me!
Ha--ha--ha--Guiseppo, remember thy oath, the steel and the pacquet.”
And as he spoke, the Count Aldarin strode toward the door, his face
flushed by a wild glow of exultation, as he communed with himself in a
low, murmured tone.
“Four days--ha--ha--ha! Four days glide by--and ALDARIN IS IMMORTAL.”
Guiseppo was alone.
He gazed vacantly through the gloom of the Red Chamber and passed his
hands over his eyes, as if in the effort to awake from some fearful
dream.
All was solemn and silent around him, and he resigned his soul to dark
memories, while the weary moments of that fearful night glided slowly
on.
At last he sank down on the cold floor and slept.
A vision of his mother, his own beautiful and dark-eyed mother, rose
smiling above the waves of sleep, and then the boy thought she stood
beside him, holding a dagger in her fair white hand, while she beckoned
him on to the work of vengeance.
He awoke.
His form was pinioned in the embrace of a woman’s arms, and a woman’s
face hung over him, its large and lustrous eyes, mingling their light,
with his own.
“Rosalind!” he shrieked as he sprang to his feet with
surprise--“Rosalind here, in this lone chamber!”
“I am here--” she exclaimed as she fell weeping on his bosom--“’Tis a
strange story Guiseppo, but--my heart feels chilled when I think of the
fearful scene, which made this Red Chamber a place of death. An hour
ago, I slept within the bower of the Ladye Annabel, which the Count
allotted for my prison, when a strange figure, clad in robes of sable,
strode into the chamber, and bade me enjoy my freedom, as he pointed to
the open door! I hastened along the corridor, I descended the stairway,
and sought refuge in this chamber, from two dark figures who seemed
pursuing me, when I found thee, Guiseppo, flung prostrate along the cold
floor, and--”
“Thou didst watch over me, when sleeping, love of mine? Thy prison hath
not stolen the bloom from thy cheek or the fire from thine eye.”
As he spoke the door of the Red Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the
aged Steward of the Castle rushed to the side of Guiseppo, with hasty
steps and a disordered manner, shouting as his gray hairs waved in the
night wind--
“A message, Lord Guiseppo--a message of life and death! The Count
Aldarin sends thee this--read, and read without delay--for I tell thee
’tis a scroll of life and death.”
Guiseppo perused the scroll, and----
The spirit of the Chronicle beckons us on to the most dark and fearful
scene of the Historie.[5]
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
THE WHITE WATERS OF THE ALEMBIC.
ALDARIN AND IBRAHIM, GATHERED WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE ROUND ROOM,
HOLD THEIR SOLEMN WATCH, WHILE THE LAST SECONDS OF THE MYSTIC AGE ARE
PASSING TO ETERNITY.
“Tread lightly and with a softened footstep, Ibrahim, for the place in
which you stand has been the home of the deathless Thought for
twenty-one long years! Look--how the azure flame ascends in tongues of
flame around the sides of the hanging alembic--it is the last night of
its existence! On and on, through calm and cloud, through sunshine and
shadow, for twenty-one long years has it silently burned--a little
while, and the sands in yon glass will be spent--the Thought springs
into birth, and the azure flame will be quenched forever.”
With his slender form elevated to its full height, his arm extended, and
his robe thrown back from his shoulder, Aldarin the Scholar glanced
around the room, while his gray eye flashed and brightened as though his
very soul looked forth in its glance.
His brow was calm, clear and unclouded; his compressed lip wore an
expression of fixed determination; and a slight flush pervaded his pale
countenance.
The light of the pendant lamp fell over the form of the venerable
stranger, his dark-hued face, with the thick eyebrows, the waving hair,
and the flowing beard, all snow white in hue, standing out boldly in the
ruddy beams, while his dress of sable, relieved by the border of
glittering gold, gave solemnity and dignity to his appearance.
He stood calm and erect, gazing with his eyes of midnight darkness, upon
the strange altar, with its ever-burning flame of azure, or fixing his
glance upon the wild and speaking features of Aldarin the Scholar.
“Advance, Ibrahim--advance to the altar of marble”--exclaimed the
Scholar, with all the proud consciousness of the possession of a POWER
beyond the reach of the mass of mankind--“Gaze within the alembic--what
see’st thou?”
“I see a liquid clear as crystal, calm, motionless, and unruffled. The
most gorgeous mirror might fail to rival its shadowless brightness. The
alembic is heated to a white heat, yet the liquid bubbles not, nor
seethes, nor wears any appearance of the effect of heat. It is
beautiful--most beautiful.”
“Every drop is worth a life. Within the recesses of this altar another
flame, fanned by a subterranean current, burns beneath the Crucible,
which at last will give forth the Secret of Gold.--Gaze upon yon hour
glass, Ibrahim--the glass standing upon the corner of the altar--”
“The sands have fallen to within an half-hour of midnight--”
“When the last grain of sand falls in the glass, then will be complete
the mystic age of toil. The waters of life will then be pure, the secret
of gold will then be perfect. Twenty-one years will then have past since
first, I set me down to watch yon never-ceasing flame. Twenty-one
years--earth never beheld such years--each day an age, each year an
eternity!”
“Thy toil hath been most difficult!” exclaimed Ibrahim, in his
deep-toned voice--“the end draws nigh!”
“It was in that home of magnificent thoughts and mighty memories--the
city of Jerusalem, that the Glorious Thought dawned upon my soul!--
“‘To live forever,’ I cried as I gazed upon the wide city, with its
palaces and towers basking in the sunlight--‘to pass beyond the years of
mortal men, to exist while whole nations sink down to the slumber of the
grave, while kings succeed kings and millions of the mass of men glide
away on their inevitable march to the grave! To live forever--to feel
life throbbing in my veins, health flooding my very heart, and youth,
eternal youth crowning my brow, when Old Earth shall have been stamped
with the footsteps of ten thousand years--oh glorious boon, oh guerdon
worthy an age of toil!’
“I sought the boon when first I trod the Syrian soil, but my search was
wild and vague--yon massive volume was placed in my hands--”
“And then, the search became clear and distinct?”
“Yes--yes! Truth after truth dawned upon me, ingredient after ingredient
was added to the contents of the alembic,[6] and mad man that I was----but
stay a moment, Ibrahim. Gaze again upon the liquid of the alembic,
and tell me what thou see’st?”
“The same clear and undimmed liquid, resting calm and motionless within
the depths of the vessel.”
“Behold yon circular glass, resting beside the parchment scroll, on the
corner of the altar. It will magnify an insect until it swells to the
dimensions of the huge animal that haunts the forests of the far deserts
of India--the elephant, methinks ’tis called. Apply the glass to thine
eye, and gaze within the depths of the vessel.”
“A strange and magnificent spectacle! The clear liquid spreads out into
a magnificent lake, calm, unshadowed and rippleless. Yet stay--’tis
shadowed by a small island floating in the centre, an island composed
of some unknown substance, black as jet, yet scarcely perceptible even
through the wondrous medium of this glass!”
“When that speck of jet shall have vanished, then will the charm be
perfect!--I have said that I was rash and indiscreet--let my story
witness. I disregarded the words of the Book, I thought twenty-one years
too long and weary a time for me to sit in solemn silence while I
watched the progress of the Secret. A few words in the volume hinted
darkly and vaguely at a consummation of the Thought, attainable by one
bold grasp--that grasp I made--yes, yes, though my very soul was shaken
to the centre, and my brain reeled in the effort--I--I--_killed her_!”
“Killed her? Great God, what dark confession is this!”
“Yes--yes--I killed her, killed her as she slept in my arms and smiled
in my face. I drove the steel to her heart--I dabbled her long dark
locks in the warm blood that gushed from her bosom! Nay, start not man,
nor turn aside with such sudden horror--hast not perused yon
volume--know’st thou not the mystic words--“_The pure blood, warm from
the heart of her thou lovest, more than aught in earth or heaven, poured
into the liquid floating within the mystic vessel, will do the work of
years in a single hour_--”
“And she--she was thy”--
“My wife, my wife! My own, my dark-eyed Ilmeriner. Her blood, the pure
current of her very heart, purpled the White Waters of the
Alembic--and--and, fool that I was, I would not even wait the hour of
trial, I drank the liquid, greedily, and with loud exclamations of joy I
drank, and paid the price of my rashness. I neglected to use the
microscopic glass; the black speck had not vanished from the surface of
the liquid. I lay for days insensible; when I awoke to reason I found
this frame grown prematurely old. Had I but waited the little hour, the
draught would have infused immortal life into my veins. I was
rash--hasty--wild with the madness of my joy, and the draught proved
poison.”
“All thy efforts then were foiled.”
“I was foiled, but I did not despair. Again I built the fire on the
altar, again I added ingredient to ingredient; the corses of the dead I
searched for the last and most powerful Charm; years passed, and the
consummation of the Idea of my life approached, when--Fiend of Hell--I
discovered that the price of my rashness was not yet paid! As I pored
over the leaves of the mystic volume, a fearful thought, expressed in
dim and shadowy words, sunk in my very soul”--
“Methinks I see some new horror, lowering over the cloud of guilt and
blood that darkens the sky of thy life.”
“Blood, there was, yes, yes, but no guilt. By the Awful Influence that
has ruled my life, there was none! The Martyr of the Christian, strides
to the stake, that is to cut short the brief thread of his puny life,
with a few moments of pain, suffers, dies and is glorified. Is there no
glory for Aldarin! Have I not also been a martyr? There there, ever
before me, was the ONE GREAT IDEA, leading me on, and on, filling me
with high hopes and grand thoughts, that all pointed to the final good
of mankind--”
“Thou didst at first dream the Secret would benefit the mass of men?
Ha--ha--thou wouldst have made the MOB, immortal!”
“It is past, the dream is past. Yes, yes, Ibrahim I join in thy laugh. I
would have made the MOB immortal! Ha--ha! The multitude, what are they?
Now the autumn leaf, blown to and fro by the wind; now the hurricane
that a breath may raise; to-day all sunshine, to-morrow all storm and
cloud! THE MOB! To-day, they strew palm-branches in the path of the
Nazarene, and send their hozannas echoing to the sky,--‘Hail, hail king
of the Jews!’ To-morrow, the Nazarene stands bound and pinioned in the
halls of Pilate and their cry,--the cry of the Mob--comes shrieking
through the casement ‘_crucify, crucify him!_’”
“This in truth is the many-headed mob.”
“Have I not been a Martyr! Others have offered up their blood at the
shrine of their Faith. I, I, have given the very blood of my soul! I
have made a sacrifice of love; love such as man of thought alone can
feel; I have rushed beyond the boundaries of thought, that confine the
opinions of common men; I have dared the vengeance of the Faith beside
whose altars I was reared; the arm of the God, whose existence was
imprinted on my brain from infancy; I, I have dared the most terrible
doom of all--the remorse of my own soul!”
“The words of the Scroll--what were they?”
“Hast thou ne’er perused yon volume of Fate?”
“A fear of the terrible mysteries inscribed on its pages, ever deterred
the Princes of Ben-Malakim, from the perusal of the Mystic volume.”
“A dark passage on the Scroll, vaguely hinted that in _case the_ Seeker
failed, in the first bold experiment, in case the life _drops_ of _her_
dearest to his heart, were spilt in vain, then, another sacrifice was to
be offered, ere the Crystal Waters would be undimmed by the speck of
jet--and, and--_Ibrahim, behold yon funeral urn_.”
“It stands upon the shelf, amid a heap of massive volumes, and
time-eaten parchments. What means this funeral urn?”
“I cannot, cannot tell thee now. But Ibrahim listen--after long care and
thought, care and thought such as never wrinkled the brow of mortal man
before, I have arrived at certain, fixed principles of belief. These
principles relate to the consummation of the Secret--the last Charm
which will make it complete--the manner in which the Water of Life is to
be tested, ere it is imbibed by mortal man. The Last Roll of the Mystic
Volume, which thou hast borne from the far east, may confirm these
principles or declare them _false_, but can teach Aldarin nothing.
Look, Ibrahim, the sands have fallen to within the fourth part of an
hour of midnight! Give me the last Scroll, I would read.”
Ibrahim drew the scroll from his breast.
It was a massive roll of parchment, sealed at either end with an
intricate seal of dark wax, stamped with strange characters.
Aldarin eagerly extended his hand, he seized the scroll, he tore the
seals from either end, and unrolled the time-worn parchment.
And there, while with trembling hands and a flashing eye, the Scholar
glanced over the strange Arabic characters, there noting his every
glance, his every gesture, stood the solemn stranger, his eye dark as
midnight, gazing with one fixed look upon the face of Aldarin, as though
he would peruse the contents of the scroll, from the changing expression
of the reader’s countenance.
It was strange to note the contrasted gestures of the Scholar and the
stranger, as the few last minutes of the mystic age wore slowly on.
While the Scholar eagerly perused the ancient manuscript, his eye
gradually acquired a radiance and intensity of expression that seemed
supernatural; his lip trembled; his quivering hands rattled the timeworn
parchment; until the Round Room echoed with the sound. The Prince
Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim started aside, and raised his hands to his brow with
a sudden gesture as tho’ he wished to stifle some bitter memory, or
nerve his soul for the accomplishment of some fell purpose.
“AWFUL SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE!” shrieked Aldarin as he shook the parchment
aloft, in the wildness of his joy--“I thank thee! I thank thee! All--all
is written here--the principles of my belief are--true! Yes--yes! The
last charm--the method of the trial of the Secret--the raising of the
mighty dead--all, all are here! Ibrahim--Ibrahim, give me joy! Lo! I
unveil to thy gaze the secret of the funeral urn!”
And with wild steps, and hasty manner, Aldarin strode across the oaken
floor, he uncovered the funeral urn, he placed his trembling hands
within its depths.
“Behold”--he shrieked--“Ibrahim behold the sacrifice!”
Ibrahim looked, he beheld the upraised hand of Aldarin, but he dared not
look again.
Thrilled with horror at the sight, he, veiled his face in his hands,
while Aldarin strode hurriedly toward the altar.
All was still as death in the Round Room.
“Listen, Ibrahim, listen!” exclaimed Aldarin--“Hark! how the red drops
fall pattering into the white waters!”
Ibrahim listened in horror, but dared not look. In a moment, the funeral
urn, again enclosed the object of horror, and the voice of Aldarin broke
whispering on the air.
“Ibrahim, brother of mine, haste thee to the altar--seize the
microscopic glass and gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! I dare
not--I dare not gaze upon the working of the charm!”
And as Ibrahim raised the glass to his eye, Aldarin stood with his back
to the altar and his face to the wall, his wild eye glaring on vacancy
while he counted the last seconds of the mystic age by the motion of his
trembling fingers.
“The sands of the glass have fallen to within ten minutes of midnight,”
exclaimed Ibrahim. “I gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! They
spread before mine eyes in a calm and silver lake. The surface is
crimsoned by waves of blood--the island of jet enlarges and widens!”
“Waves of blood--the island of jet widens!” shrieked Aldarin. “Two
minutes of the ten are past! Oh, fiend of doom! can the charm prove
false at last?”
“The waves of blood are dying away; the black substance diminishes in
size!”
“Art sure, good Ibrahim? Gaze again upon the waters: do not, do not
deceive me!”
“The waters are colored with a purple dye.”
“It hastens--it hastens! Ha--ha! So read the words of the book! Why dost
pause, Ibrahim? Four minutes of the ten are past!”
“The object of black still diminishes; and now the purple hue of the
waters is fading away!”
“My heart--my heart is bursting; I cannot, cannot breathe! Ibrahim,
Ibrahim, tell, oh! tell me, what hue do the waters assume? Thou art
silent! I dare not turn and gaze with mine own eyes; do not mock me
thus, Ibrahim!”
“A calm lake, cloudless, waveless, and beautiful opens to my gaze. The
waters are clear as crystal. No shadow dims their unfathomable
brilliancy, no object of blackness floats upon the surface. The sands
have fallen in the glass--”
“Speak, speak, Ibrahim, or I will fall to the floor! Is there no shadow
resting upon the surface of the white waters?”
“None, by my soul, none!”
“Then--then--Aldarin--is--immortal.”
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
THE TRIAL OF THE WATERS OF LIFE.
“AS THE SANDS OF THE THIRD HOUR SINK IN THE GLASS--THE DEAD SHALL
ARISE.”
Arising in tongues of flame from the floor of stone, a fire of crackling
wood, cast its ruddy glare around the Cavern of the Dead; flinging
glimpses of blood-red light along the earth-hidden roof, and imparting a
strange appearance of warmth and life, to the hideous figures, scattered
along the pavement of the vault.
Turned to burning red by the full glare of the flame, the gigantic
Figure of Stone, which gloomed above the Mound of Death, seemed starting
into life, as with arms thrown wildly aloft, and downcast eyes, it
surveyed the strange spectacle extended beneath its stony gaze.
Ascending from the cavern floor, a square tent, for by that name alone
it may be designated, formed of curtains of jet-black leather, gave
three of its sides to the glare of the flame, while the fourth was wrapt
in shadow.
The hangings of black leather were inscribed with strange and contrasted
characters, fashioned in shapes of glittering gold, while from the
aperture at the top, where the roof of the tent should have been placed,
there arose, lurid folds, columns of smoke, winding upward to the far
off ceiling of the cavern.
Near the tent of embroidered leather, arose a small, square and compact
structure of ebony, in shape resembling a table, designed to serve the
purposes of an altar.
On the top of the altar of ebony was laid an hour glass; a funeral urn,
and a phial of glittering silver; a massive volume of time-eaten
parchments; with an unbound scroll, falling to the very floor of the
cavern.
Within the compass of a fathom’s length from the tent of leather, was
erected the fire of oaken wood which threw its ruddy glare around the
spot, and flung vivid though flickering glimpses of light into the
distant recesses of the cavern.
And there in the lone cavern, beneath the frown of the Demon-Form, with
the blaze of the oaken fire, disclosing their faces and figures in bold
and strong relief, there, while the hours of that fearful night, dragged
heavily on, watched and waited Aldarin and Ibrahim the Son of the
Kings[7].
Ibrahim, calm, solemn and erect, stood beside the Altar of Ebony, his
sable attire, his dark hued face, with the gray hair, the white
eye-brows and the flowing beard disclosed in the light, while he gazed
in wonder and awe upon the immensity of that cavern, where the last and
most terrible scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, was to add another
legend of horror to the teeming Archives of Albarone.
With slow and measured steps, Aldarin paced the pavement of the cavern,
in front of the sable tent. The light of the flame revealed his face,
pale and colorless, stamped with an expression, calm and immovable it is
true, yet fraught with strange and mysterious meaning.
“It is a dark and gloomy place--dost not think so Ibrahim?” exclaimed
the Scholar advancing to the side of the Arab-Prince. “Look around!
Behold the flashes of flame-light falling along the floor of the dread
cavern, giving a lurid glare to the ceiling as it arises above our
heads, like an earth-hidden sky, or casting their ruddy glare over the
face and form of yon dark figure of giant rock. Is’t not a dark and
gloomy place, Ibrahim?”
“Here, along this gloomy cavern, might the warrior of a thousand battles
walk and tremble as he walked, without the blush of shame for his coward
fear. As I gaze around upon the dark mysteries of this funereal vault,
methinks I behold the demons of the unreal world, clustering around me,
laughing in my face, or mocking my very soul with their gestures of
scorn!”
“Here will the last scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, startle the
very gaze of yon dark dread face of stone. Tell me Ibrahim, how long
hast thou waited in this solemn vault.”
“Twice have I turned your hour glass since first we entered the
cavern--it wanes toward the third hour after midnight.”
“Thou hast not asked me any question concerning these dark hangings of
embroidered leather. Thou hast not asked me why yon dark and lurid smoke
winds upward from the confines of this sable tent. Nor hast thou spoken
a word in relation to the secrets of this Tabernacle of Life--so the
Book calls the sable tent.”
“Ibrahim has waited the pleasure of Aldarin.”
“Then listen, dark Arabian, when I tell thee--the dead, the mighty dead
shall live again!”
“These words are mysteries to me!”
“Read yon mystic scroll, Ibrahim, and all shall be as the light of day
to thee--read those words of fearful knowledge.”
And with a faint and trembling voice, the Arabian gave to the air of the
Cavern, the dim and mysterious words of the scroll:
“_Lo! The Waters of Life are free from stain or pollution of earth.
Wouldst thou prove them pure? Within the hollow of the coffin-like
vessel of iron, place the remains of the Sacrificed and pile the fire of
beechen wood around. When the iron pales from red to white, then warm
the Heart of the Sacrificed with the white waters of the Alembic--when
the heart throbs, then let it mingle with the Corse of the Coffin, and
Lo! As the sands of the third hour sink in the glass--the dead shall
arise!_”
“There--there--within the Tabernacle of Life,” shouted Aldarin, with an
upraised arm and kindling eye--“There rests the Corse of the Sacrificed,
there ascends the fire of beechen wood heating the coffin of iron to a
white heat--within the confines of yon funeral urn, rests the Heart, and
the phial of silver by its side, contains the priceless Waters of Life.
Behold the sands of the third hour are falling in the glass--a little
while and----how the thought stirs my very soul--the dead will live
again!”
“The dead?” echoed Ibrahim with a gaze of wonder--“How meanest thou,
Aldarin?”
“Must I then, unclose the darkest place in this seared bosom to thy
gaze? Man, I tell thee--his form--the form of my brother shall live
again!”
“Thy brother--Awful God!” whispered the Arabian in a tone, whose horror
may not be described--“Thy brother then was thy last victim?”
“Pity me, Ibrahim, pity me!” shrieked Aldarin. “Swayed by two mingling
and opposing motives--the one, ambition for the welfare of my child--the
other, the all-absorbing desire for the Immortal Life on earth; but a
few short days ago, I beheld approach the last moment of the Mystic Age
of Toil. Then--then, I first learned the necessity of the fearful
sacrifice, and--I drugged the bowl of death.”
“This is too horrible for belief!” muttered Ibrahim; “Now--now my soul
is firm for the work of the night!”
“Was I to falter when the hour of fear and doom drew nigh?” shrieked
Aldarin, as his slender form rose proudly erect, and his impassioned
face shone in the full light of the flame. “Was I, I, who had strode on
to the guerdon of all my toil, unfearing and undismayed, though the dead
body of my wife lay in my path, though the hopes of my heart fell
withered and dead around me, while the spirit of my love for _her_,
plead and plead in vain for pity; was I, ALDARIN, to spare the blow,
when that blow would crown my earthly ambition, and complete my immortal
toil? Ha--ha! The thought is vain!”
“Hadst thou no mercy?”
“In such a cause, I answer _none_. I tell thee man, had my brother
pleaded for his life, and sprinkled my feet with his tears,--had he
pleaded for his life in the calm, soft tones of childhood, the tones
that brought back the memory of those days when our arms and hearts were
interlocked--had he sprinkled my feet with such tears as wet this seared
face, when I rescued him from the waters of the river that rolls without
these walls, some thirty years ago--then even then, I could not have
spared him! No, no, no! It was to be, and it was!”
“He shall rise from the dead, thou sayst? In what form shall he appear?”
“Fair, and young, and beautiful; youth shrined in his heart and power
throned on his brow! His mind will be fresh with new-born vigor, yet
Memory of the Past, shall never darken his bosom! The babe is not more
unconscious of its pre-existence in another and a far-off world, than
will be Julian my brother of the Past, with all its darkness and doom.”
“How dost thou know, that he will arise in this form?”
“Spoke the Nazarine truth, when he said, ‘Faith can remove mountains?’
The Will of the Soul, armed with the consciousness of its immortal
powers and infinite sympathies, can do more! THE WILL, determined and
inflexible, can bend the invisible mysteries of the universe to its
bidding, call up the fearful influences, ever at work within the bosom
of Nature, and chain them, slaves of its power; bind the wild elements
of man’s heart in subjection, and awe the souls of the multitude, when
aroused by passion, or maddened by revenge. THE WILL can sway the heart
of man, to the windings of a path, dark as the way I have trodden,
leading the Soul onward through mystery, and doom, and blood; teaching
it to trample on Fear, laugh at the ghastly face of Remorse, and scorn
the uplifted arm of God! ‘Faith can remove mountains!’ I cannot, may
not, at this fearful hour, trace the operations of the Invisible Might.
Suffice it to say--Aldarin wills that the Re-created shall walk forth in
a form of youth and power, and it shall be so.”
“Lo! The sands of the hour glass are well nigh spent. One-half of the
last hour alone remains!”
“I will gaze within the Tabernacle of Life!”
Aldarin advanced, swept the sable hangings aside, and in a moment was
lost to view.
Ibrahim also advanced to the front of the Tabernacle--as the mystic
jargon of the Scholar named the tent--and listened with hushed breath
and absorbing interest.
He could hear the subdued hissing of the flames within the Tabernacle;
he could hear a low, scarce perceptible sound, like the seething of
boiling lead; and a penetrating perfume of mingled frankincense and
myrrh, saluted his senses, mingled with the odor of decaying mortality.
A single moment passed while Ibrahim listened, and then he advanced to
the verge of the vast fire, burning on the cavern floor, and stood for a
moment wrapt in stern and solitary thought.
Clasping his hands across his chest, he drooped his head low upon his
bosom, while the trembling lip and dilated eye attested the violence of
the struggle at work within his inmost soul.
He raised his head and looked round.
Tall and erect--the ruddy glow of the fire, streaming over his majestic
face, disclosing every outline of his imposing costume--the Arabian
gazed around, and beheld the stern sublimity of the cavern of the dead.
Save the hissing of the flame, all was silent.
Not a word, not a whisper. Silence dwelt supreme, the Spirit and the
Divinity of the place.
Far, far, above, the cavern roof, extending like a sky, received on each
rugged projection, the ruddy glow of the flame. Long belts of flickering
light were thrown along the pavement of stone, for a moment revealing
the strange and fantastic forms scattered around the dim walls of the
vault, in strong and startling relief; and then again the fire would
suddenly subside, leaving everything, save the floor in its immediate
vicinity, wrapt in thick darkness.
“A strange fancy,” murmured Ibrahim, “Me-thought I saw yonder statues
moving to and fro,--a wild delirium of my fancy.”
“It throbs--it throbs--it palpitates.”--a deep-toned, yet wild and
thrilling voice broke the silence of the cavern--“Look, Ibrahim, how the
Waters of Life, hasten the completion of the Mighty Labour!”
Ibrahim hurriedly turned and beheld Aldarin, standing beside the Altar
of Ebony, grasping the phial of silver in one hand, while with the other
he raised on high the Secret of the Funeral Urn, that may not be named
by man, or written down on this page, lest incredulity should smile in
ignorant scorn, and shallow unbelief, make a mock of the Dark Fanaticism
of the Past.
“It throbs--it throbs--it warms with life!” again shrieked Aldarin, as
he rushed within the confines of the hangings of sable--“Lo! The coffin
of iron is heated to a white heat; the charm hastens to perfection!”
“Mine eyes are cheated by vain delusions!” muttered Ibrahim, “But a
moment agone, and methought the arabesque figures were flitting to and
fro, and now--as I live, there ’tis again--I behold dim shadows gliding
round yon funeral pile?”
As he spoke the fire waned, and a sudden darkness, only relieved by
faint flashes of light came down like midnight upon the cavern.
Ibrahim looked around and beheld Aldarin standing near his side, holding
an open missal in his hand, which disclosed a hollow casket--instead of
the emblazoned leaves of a book of devotion,--glittering with a gem that
shone through the gathering darkness like a star.
And as the Arabian looked he beheld Aldarin apply the mouth of a small
silver phial which he held in his hand, to the surface of the gem, while
a meaning smile stole over his face.
The fire blazing on the cavern floor, lighted up with sudden vigor, and
white columns of smoke, rolling from the silver phial, gathered in
waving folds above the head of Aldarin, and swept far away, like the
wings of a mighty bird, until they encircled the giant outline of the
Demon Form, towering far, far overhead.
“Ibrahim, my brother,” cried the voice of Aldarin, “I would welcome the
Arisen-Dead with sweet perfumes and fragrant incense. ’Tis thus the Book
commands!”
He looked forth from the cloud of smoke that enveloped his form, and
started in surprise as he beheld the erect form of the Arabian.
The chemical spell, from whose influence the Scholar had defended
himself, took no effect on the form of the Arabian Prince.
“The all-penetrating essence of the dead pervading the cavern and
imbuing the atmosphere, renders the spell powerless!” he murmured with a
frown of impatience. “And yet Aldarin and his new-risen brother must
have no witness of their mighty mysteries! Though he had a thousand
lives, still must he carry my secret where ’twill be safe--to--ha, ha,
to the grave!”
“The sands of the glass are falling,” cried Ibrahim advancing,
“one-fourth of the last hour alone remains!”
“And while that fragment of time is gathered to eternity, the
Water of Life is darting like lightning through the body of the
dead--and--and--yet hold a moment, good Ibrahim! Dost thou not envy my
immortal career? Dost desire to drink the Water of Life? Lo, the flagon
is at thy command--drink, Ibrahim, and become immortal!”
“Drink I will!” exclaimed Ibrahim with a meaning smile, as he took the
flagon in his grasp which the Scholar had substituted for the phial
containing the Water of Life--“Drink I will, but first I will give thee
a proof of my power!”
“Thy power? I am all amazement--”
“Learn, mighty Scholar, that the children of the race of Ben-Malakim,
hold the power of calling up from the silence of the grave the spirits
of the dead or, summoning from the uttermost parts of the earth the
spectres of the living.”
“These are idle words. Ibrahim, thou triflest with me!”
“Aldarin gaze around thee--all is dark and indistinct, the fire has
burned to its embers, and the cavern beyond is wrapt in shadow. Aldarin,
cast thy memory backward over the scenes of thy life, and tell me--which
of thine enemies wouldst thou summon before thee in this scene of
gloom?”
“He will drink the flagon at last,” muttered Aldarin; “I’ll even humor
his whim. I would behold the forms of two slaves, whom I hate as darkly
as my soul can hate. I would behold”--he whispered the names between his
clenched teeth--“summon the slaves before me, if thou can’st!”
“Lo! it is done,”--shouted the Arabian--“Spirits of Ben-Malakim,
appear--in the name of God, appear!”
“I hear a hushed sound like the tread of armies,” murmured Aldarin--“Yet
all is dark around me.”
Scarce had the words passed from his lips when a dim yet lurid light,
issuing from an invisible source, streamed around the cavern, and the
face of Aldarin, tinted by the ghastly radiance, was stamped with an
expression of wonder and awe.
Around, on every side, gathered along the rude pavement, shoulder to
shoulder, a shadowy multitude stood dimly revealed in the lurid light,
with dusky and immovable faces looking from beneath the shadow of sable
helmets, ponderous with waving plumes.
And as Aldarin looked, the cavern was for a single moment wrapt in the
darkness of midnight.
The gloom was again succeeded by the lurid light, and before the very
eyes of the Scholar, gazing him sternly and fixedly in the face, stood
two warrior forms, motionless as statues.
One was a stern old knight, clad in glittering armor, with long waving
locks of snow-white hue falling far beneath his helmet, along his
venerable countenance and over his iron-robed chest.
The other wore the appearance of a bluff soldier, next in rank to an
Esquire, for he was clad in attire of substantial buff, with the rugged
outline of his unplumed cap, surmounting a massive forehead, seamed by
wrinkles and hardened by battle-toil.
There was something intensely horrible in the wild glow of triumph with
which Aldarin regarded the spectres.
“Ha--ha! The vulgar hind, whom this hand consigned to darkness, arises
to swell the triumph of the Scholar! But the other form--’tis the form
of my mortal foe! He comes in spirit to look upon the glory of Aldarin!
A few brief days and over his heart and brain will blacken the vengeance
of the Scholar--vengeance such as never shadowed earth or darkened hell.
Away with these phantoms, Ibrahim--my brain is ’wildered with too much
joy--away!”
Through the gloom, he advanced toward the figures, he reached forth his
hand, expecting to grasp the intangible air, when it rattled against the
rugged plates of iron defending the breast of the venerable warrior.
The echo of the rattling armor was returned by a clanking sound that
rang to the very cavern’s roof, a sound like the clashing of a thousand
swords. There was a brief yet fearful pause. Aldarin held his breath and
his hands clutched convulsively at his throat.
“Behold,” shouted the voice of Ibrahim, “behold the spectres by the
light of a thousand torches!”
And at the magic word, the Cavern of Albarone was all alive with light,
the light of a thousand torches, grasped by the mailed hands of
warriors, while the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms, gathered in one
dense and sombre multitude along the pavement of stone, rose clear and
distinctly in the ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a
forest in the air.
Aldarin looked from side to side--he passed his hand wildly over his
forehead, he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful dream.
It was no dream, Great God of Truth and Vengeance! it was no dream.
On every side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin; on every
side the frown of warlike visages met his gaze; and his glance was
returned by the ominous glare of a thousand eyes.
The spell broke--the reality sank down upon the soul of Aldarin.
His face was stamped with an expression that brought to the minds of the
gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal torment from the very
battlements of heaven. He extended his right arm with a wild gesture,
and clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting from the skin:
his lips parted; his jaw sank to his very breast, while his full gray
eye glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its glance from
side to side, dilating every moment, and flashing like a meteor.
“Ibrahim--Ibrahim--I am betrayed!” he shrieked, turning to the Arabian.
“Albarone to the rescue!”
He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing calm and erect beside
the altar of ebony. He advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand
to grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward with a howl of
despair whose emphasis of horror may not be described in words.
The snow-white beard, the gray hair, the white eye-brows, fell from the
tawny face of Ben-Malakim, and Aldarin beheld the visage of--_Albertine,
the Monk_.
Then it was that the soul of the old man sank within him, then it was
that he raised his trembling hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air,
while a wild yell of execration burst from the Phantom Band.
“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the gray-haired knight; “Behold
the murderer of your Lord!”
“Behold the brother-murderer!” shrieked the stout yeoman, standing at
the side of Sir Geoffrey. “These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the
foul embrace of murder!”
And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came pressing slowly and
solemnly on, glittering swords flashed in the light, and low muttered
cries of vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more close they
gathered, while Albertine stood silent and motionless regarding the
scene.
“The sands have fallen to within five minutes of the time!” madly
shrieked Aldarin. “The charm may yet be complete!”
He wildly turned from the advancing knights and yeoman, he turned
towards the Tabernacle, he heeded not the cries of execration that arose
on every side, he trembled not at the frown of the Demon-Form towering
far, far above.
He turned towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush within the folds
of the sable hangings, when he started back to the very breast of Sir
Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.
There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable tent, stood a
youthful form, clad in a dress of glittering white, his arms folded on
his breast, while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed fixedly at
the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed the night-wind played with the
floating locks of his golden hair.
“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted Aldarin, with a wild laugh of
joy, “your lord hath arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he stands,
calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and power on his brow! Ha--ha--ha!
I did--I did slay him! But I have raised him from the sleep of death!
Behold--ha, ha, ha!--behold!”
A breathless stillness followed his words.
“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’
Longsword, as he advanced, “thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di
Albarone.”
“The avenger of his father’s blood!” shouted the form, advancing to the
light. “Murderer, behold thy doomsman.”
Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and veiled his eyes in his
hands, while a sound like the death groan rattled in his throat. His was
no common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His bosom trembled not with
the throes of grief for the wife stolen by death, or the child torn from
his embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept were not visible tears,
pouring from his eyes along the furrowed cheek. No, no.
His soul wept within him, tears such as giant souls alone can weep, when
a mighty THOUGHT is slain, when the IDEA of a life is crushed.
“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shrieked Sir Geoffrey o’ th’
Longsword; “advance, and seize the murderer!”
Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul.
Three minutes of the last hour yet remained. The sands of the glass had
not yet fallen. That little shred of time gained, he might yet complete
the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be rewarded by the immortal
boon.
He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; yes, yes,
the proud and unrelenting Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern
floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees of the knight.
“Give me, give me but three minutes of life--three minutes alone, and
then ye may lead me to the death.”
The knight trembled: he had been prepared for scorn and defiance, but
not for tears.
For a moment he hesitated.
“Away with his magical pranks, away with his works of hell!” arose the
shout of the stout yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the tented
hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles which supported their folds.
“St. Withold! what infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I scatter
the magical fire--thus I overturn this coffin of iron! Gather around, ye
men of Albarone: scatter the works of this demon along the floor of the
cavern!”
It was the work of an instant.
While Sir Geoffrey trembled: while the monk Albertine stood beside the
altar of ebony, veiling his face in his hands; while even Adrian, the
son of the murdered, hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin
was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by Rough Robin, overturned the
coffin of iron, heated as it was to a white heat, and scattered the
embers of the fire over the floor. The nameless secret of the coffin he
concluded beneath the dark hangings of the Tabernacle.
Aldarin slowly arose to his feet. All emotion had vanished from his
face. Stern, calm, and fearless, he gazed around. He looked over the
vast expanse of the cavern roof, he marked the dread face of the DEMON
FORM towering far above, he gazed upon the hurrying forms and agitated
faces of the men-at-arms.
“Lead me, lead me to my death--” spoke the fierce tones of Aldarin the
scholar. “I scorn and defy ye all.”
Albertine, the monk, still clad in the dark robe and majestic attire of
Ibrahim Ben Malakim, strode suddenly to the side of the scholar, and
thrust a parchment roll in his hands.
“Man, I betrayed thee,” he whispered, in tones that attested his agony;
“Man, I betrayed thee, though my heart smote me in the act. Yet I will
not scorn thee in this thy final hour. The parchment, the
parchment--grasp it with a grasp like death; the phial, the phial!”
He turned, and continued in a loud voice, audible to the avengers:
“Sinner, receive this book of prayer; it may comfort thy final hour.”
Aldarin took the parchment, and calmly folded it to his bosom.
“I scorn ye all,” he shrieked. “I defy your vengeance, I dare the doom
ye would inflict. Aldarin fears not death.”
“To the gibbet with the murderer,” shouted Sir Geoffrey o’ th’
Longsword. “Aye, upon the same gibbet where blacken the forms of the
brave soldiers of Lord Julian, there let the miscreant expiate his
crimes.”
And the men-at-arms echoed the shout, until the vast cavern roof
resounded with the words of doom: “To the gibbet--to the gibbet with the
fratricide.”
In a moment the cavern was left to silence and eternal night.
Never since that fearful hour has human foot trode the funeral vaults of
Albarone.
Along dark passages, through subterranean corridors, and up tortuous
stairways, poured the flood of men-at-arms, bearing with them the
scholar and fratricide.
At last winding through the same passages traversed three hours agone by
Aldarin and Ibrahim, passing through the chemical laboratory, which has
never been disclosed to the eye of the reader, the crowd of avengers
reached the Round Room.
The altar was overturned, the books and parchments torn from the
shelves, yet the scholar quailed not, nor uttered word of lamentation.
Gloomy corridors were then traversed, massive stairways ascended, the
hall of the castle passed, and at last Aldarin emerged from the castle
door, and stood upon the slab of stone surmounting the flight of steps.
He gazed around, while the avengers came thronging at his back; and as
he gazed, the court-yard of the castle became the scene of a strange
spectacle.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
THE OATH.
THE VENGEANCE OF ALDARIN, THE SCHOLAR.
“It is a fair day, and the sun shines brightly. Ha--ha! The sky above is
clear, and the earth seems laughing with joy in the very face of day!”
Aldarin smiled as he spoke, and gazed above. It was the hour of early
dawn. The first beams of the sun shone over the eastern battlements of
the castle, mellowing the azure sky with their radiance, while the fresh
and balmy air of the summer morn fanned the burning forehead of the
Scholar. It was the last time he would behold the beams of the dawning
day; it was the last time his burning brow should be freshened by the
kiss of the morning breeze, and yet he smiled. Aldarin gazed around.
A yell of horror broke upon the summer air, and far along the court-yard
extended the living sea of men-at-arms, arrayed in their sable armor,
mingling with the vast crowds of the peasant vassals, all fired by the
same instinct of bloodshed. The beams of the rising sun shone over a
thousand maddened faces, as every voice swelled the shout of vengeance,
and every hand shook in the light some weapon of death and vengeance.
Look where he might, on every side, the gleam of flashing eyes met the
gaze of Aldarin; all along the court-yard the blackened mass swayed to
and fro, like the waves of the ocean in a storm; and again heaven gave
back to earth the combined yells of innumerable voices, mingling
together in that fearful sound--the shout of a vast body of men,
maddened and crazed by the impulse of carnage. “To the gibbet!” arose
that shout of doom. “To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!”
With one glance Aldarin surveyed the scene around him.
There, grouped along the steps of stone, stood the stout yeoman, his
brow wearing a steady frown, as, with his sword half drawn from the
scabbard, he gazed upon the face of Aldarin; there stood two figures
veiled in robes of sweeping sable, while--near his side--the erect form
and venerable face of the knight o’ th’ Longsword confronted the
Scholar.
“Sir knight,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a smile wreathing his pinched lip
“though ye are somewhat hurried in your work of doom, I would make one
brief request, ere I am borne hence. Is there no one in all this crowd
who will bear a message from me to my son, the Lord Guiseppo?”
“That will I,” exclaimed the sharp-featured steward of the castle,
advancing from the crowd. “Guilty thou mayst be, and thy hands stained
with a brother’s blood, yet the request of a dying man may not be
refused.”
“Give me the scroll.”
Aldarin bared the withered flesh of his left arm: he drew a poignard,
small and delicate in shape, from his girdle, and while the crowd looked
on in wonder and in fear, he stained the point of the stilletto with his
blood. Another moment passed, and with the dagger’s point, hurriedly
traced certain characters on a small slip of parchment which he also
drew from his girdle.
“Bear this away,” he shouted, “bear this away to the Lord Guiseppo, and
tell him that his father is on his way to the gibbet.”
“Man of blood and crime,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he
advanced to the side of Aldarin, “thy life has been full of dark and
fearful mystery; hast thou no dying words of repentance to speak, ere
the cord tightens round thy neck? It is not well to dare the presence of
God, with so much blood upon thy soul.”
Aldarin bowed his head low on his breast, and the bystanders whispered
one to the other that the dreaded old man was wrapt in thought.
“A confession I have to make--dying words of repentance I have to
speak,” exclaimed Aldarin, as he gazed upon the crowded castle yard.
“Thou dost remember, Sir Geoffrey, that twenty years ago we saw each
others faces in the wilds of Palestine?”
“I do, I do!” exclaimed the knight, as a mingled expression of bitter
memory and deep feeling passed over his wrinkled visage. “Twenty years
agone, we saw each other’s faces within the walls of Jerusalem.”
The sound of a hurried and uneven footstep broke upon the air, then a
wild shout echoed from the castle hall, and in an instant, the Lord
Guiseppo rushed from the hall door and confronted the Scholar Aldarin,
his face pale as death, his eyes rolling madly to and fro, while his
trembling right hand shook the parchment scroll above his head.
“This scroll, my father: what means its words of omen? Yon blackning
crowd--their looks of vengeance--what means it all, my father?”
Aldarin advanced, and flung his arms around the form of his son,
gathering him to his heart in the embrace of a father.
And as he gathered him to his heart, he whispered a few brief words in
the ear of the Lord Guiseppo, those words thrilled the youth to the very
soul; for his eye flashed brighter than ever, and his cheek grew more
deathly pale.
“Thy oath--thy oath!” hissed the hollow whisper of Aldarin.
Guiseppo turned suddenly round, he flung himself at the feet of Sir
Geoffrey, and looked up into his face with a voice of anguish, as he
shrieked.
“Spare my father--spare, oh! spare the weak old man!”
“Though the angels of God plead for his life, still must he die!”
“Then die, wronger and betrayer! Then die, midnight assassin and
ravisher! The spirit of my mother nerves my arm and points the steel!”
And as the words fell from his lips, ere an arm could be raised, or a
word of horror spoken, Guiseppo sprang to the very throat of the knight,
grasping his long gray hair with one hand, while with the other he
inserted the glittering dagger between the armor plates of his victim,
and drove the steel down from the left shoulder to the very heart.
It was the work of a moment; the lightning flash might not be swifter,
nor the thunderbolt more sudden.
One instant the spectators beheld the kneeling youth, and the warrior
waving his hand with stern determination, as he turned from the prayer
of mercy; the next moment their eyes were startled by the upraised
dagger, and the blow of vengeance.
The knight tottered heavily to and fro, looked vacantly around, and then
sank into the arms of Robin the Rough, with the haft of the dagger
protruding from the armor plates of his left shoulder.
“Father!” shrieked Guiseppo, shaking wildly above his head, the right
hand, the hand that winged the dagger. “Father, my mother is avenged;
behold the doom of the ravisher!”
“Thou hast done well!” spoke Aldarin, in a quiet, yet trembling tone,
while his lips wore an even smile. “Boy, thou hast done well! Now,
Guiseppo, read, read the pacquet--the pacquet in thy bosom.”
And while the horror-stricken spectators--Robin the Rough, the figures
in sable robes, the peasant-vassals, and the men-at-arms--remained awed
into a fearful silence by the scene,--the silence that ever precedes the
march of death,--Guiseppo thrust his hand within his bosom, drew the
pacquet from its resting place, and with his trembling fingers broke the
seal.
“Man of guilt and bloodshed,” exclaimed the dying knight, as he
convulsively placed his hands on the wound near his heart. “I am
dying--my heart grows cold, and mine eyes are dim--thy vengeance is
gratified; now, now, tell me--”
“Hadst thou ever a child, Sir Geoffrey,” interrupted Aldarin, advancing
to the side of the knight: “a fair-haired and soft-voiced boy, whose
smile was thy joy, whose presence was thy sunshine?”
“Speak, speak--what knowest thou of my boy?” gasped the dying knight, as
a look of agony passed over his face. “‘Tis sixteen years since I beheld
his face in the land of his birth, the city of Jerusalem. He was torn
from my embrace by an unknown hand.”
Aldarin looked around over the sea of faces, and smiled as he beheld a
peasant whetting his knife on the very stone on which he stood.
That smile of incarnate scorn seemed to break the spell of horror that
bound the multitude.
“To the gibbet, to the gibbet with the fratricide!” again rose the
fierce yell of vengeance, and the men-at-arms came crowding up the
steps, while a score of upraised daggers were about to drink the blood
of the doomed murderer, when Robin the Rough threw himself before the
object of their vengeance.
“Stain not your steel,” he shouted; “stain not your steel with traitor’s
blood; away to the castle gate with him! Let the dog die a dog’s death!”
And at the word, the Esquires Halbert and his gallant brother Damian
advanced from the crowd, and seizing Aldarin by the arms, they dragged
him down the steps of stone, while the multitude gave way on either
side, shrinking from the touch of a murderer, as one would shrink from
the garments of the plague-smitten.
“There is fire in my heart, there is hell in my brain!” arose a
tremulous voice, that was heard far along the castle yard, thrilling the
bystanders to the very soul. “God of mercy, it is, it is not true! The
parchment is a lie--a falsehood written by the very fiend of hell! I did
not--no, no, I did not--wing the _blow_ to _his_ heart! God of heaven
witness me, I raised not the steel for _his_ blood!”
And as the multitude, bearing Aldarin to his doom, heard that shrieking
voice, they looked back, and beheld the Lord Guiseppo standing over the
prostrate form of his victim, his face pale and colorless, his lip livid
as with the touch of death, while his eyes rolled their ghastly glance
over the faces of the crowd, and his arms hung palsied by his side, with
the fatal parchment quivering in the grasp of his trembling hand.
“FATHER, FATHER!” his shriek again arose on the air, as he knelt by the
side of his victim; “FATHER, THE MURDERER IS THY SON.”
The old man raised himself on one hand, grasped the hand of the maddened
boy, as he gazed silently into his face, while his very soul seemed
absorbed into some unreal dream of horror.
“My son,” he whispered with a mournful smile, “_and the dagger in my
heart_--”
“Thy son!--ha, ha?--I could laugh till the very heavens echoed my
voice!” and as he spoke, Aldarin, the Scholar, looked backward toward
the castle steps, where the boy knelt beside the dying knight. “Thy
son--ha, ha, ha!--and the dagger in thy heart! Yes, yes, it thy son? Sir
Geoffrey, a parting word: dost thou remember a blow--aye, a blow from
the mailed hand of a warrior, a blow which struck the Scholar to the
floor while the princess of Christendom stood laughing round the scene?
Dost thou remember the insult, the contumely, the scorn. Then look upon
the face of thy boy, whom I stole and reared to be thy murderer, look
upon his youthful face, peruse each feature, and--a smile stole over his
face--_think of the vengeance of Aldarin, the Scholar_.”
With cries of execration, with yells of vengeance, the men-at-arms
gathered around the fratricide, and as their brandished swords shone in
the light, they bore him towards the castle gate, leaving the slab of
stone before the pillars of the castle door to the solitary
companionship of the father and son.
It was true--darkly and fearfully true--Guiseppo was the son of Sir
Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword.
Guiseppo was kneeling upon the stone; his arms were gathered around the
form of his father, and his eyes were fixed in one long gaze upon the
face of the dying man.
He marked the hue of that venerable countenance as it grew paler every
moment: the lip white and colorless, the eyes wild and wavering in their
glance, the livid circles gathering like the taint of corruption beneath
each eye; he beheld the signs and heralds of coming death; he heard the
quick gasping struggle for breath, and yet he spoke no word, he uttered
no sound of agony.
“I see her face in thine,” murmured the old man, as he gazed upwards
upon the countenance of his son. “It is no dream,--and--and--thy dagger
is resting in my heart!”
Guiseppo was silent.
“Boy, look not upon me with such fearful agony--thou art forgiven!”
gasped the old man. “Raise the hilt of my sword to my lips; I would kiss
the cross ere I die. And now thy hand is firm, seize the haft of the
dagger, and draw the blade from my heart.”
Guiseppo gazed upon the face of his father with a vacant look, yet still
he uttered no word.
“Draw the dagger from my heart!” gasped the dying man.
Guiseppo seized the haft of the dagger, and slowly drew the blade from
the heart of the murdered man.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE.
THE ELEMENTS ARISE IN BATTLE, DARKENING THE EARTH WITH THEIR STRIFE, AS
THE WIND SHRIEKS THE DEATH-WAIL OF ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.
Onward toward the castle gate, walking to his death, and _yet receding
from the grave at every step_, with the fierce faces of the avengers
frowning around him, with cries of execration and deep muttered oaths of
vengeance deafening his ear, onward toward the castle gate, with an even
step and an erect form, strode the Scholar Aldarin an icy smile on his
lip, and a sombre light in his eye.
He knew not why they bore him onward--fearless of death, come in what
form it might, he cared not.
The castle gate was reached. A dark-robed monk rushed from the shadow of
the massive pillars, and while his white hairs waved in the morning
breeze, he raised a cross of iron aloft in the sunbeams--
“Sinner--there is mercy above--even for thee! Behold the symbol of that
mercy!”
“Ha--ha--curses on thee and thy symbol of--mercy! thou shaveling! Were
not my hands stayed by these cowards I would strike ye down in my very
path! I curse ye all!” he shrieked, gazing around the crowd--“I
blaspheme your religion, I mock your * * *! Will ye not strike? Aldarin
laughs at your steel! Are ye afraid of a weak and trembling old man?
Fear ye the Scholar, even in his last hour? Lo! my breast is bare--I
defy the blow!”
“Thou wilt have striking enough presently,” cried Robin the
Rough--“Throw open the castle gate there. Let the portcullis be raised
and the drawbridge lowered.”
The gate was passed, and the drawbridge crossed. Aldarin stood upon the
platform of turf surmounting the summit of the hill; beneath him
descended the road into the valley; on either side yawned chasms dark
and deep; while the rocks upon whose massive piles the castle was
founded, threw their fantastic forms from amid clumps of brushwood, and
here and there colossal stones rose brightly into the sunshine from the
depths of the gloomy void.
Aldarin looked around, and beheld the face of nature clad in the smile
of sunshine; waves of foliage rising in the light; the bosom of the Arno
calm and beautiful as a silver mirror, seen through the intervals of
undulating hills; the Apenines frowning in the far distance, and the
calm blue sky, glowing with the first kiss of morn, arching above.
Aldarin looked around upon the face of nature, but another spectacle
fixed his attention and excited his wonder.
Not far from where he stood, four dark steeds were rearing and springing
on the sod, while their grooms, four swarthy Moors, whose distorted
faces scarce resembled the visages of humanity, were forced to exert all
their giant-strength in the effort to hold the wild horses of the
desert.
Wildly with their hoofs the barbs tore the sod, scattering the loosened
earth in the very face of Aldarin; their eyes flashed like coals of
flame, their sinews seemed to creep under the smooth and glossy skin,
black as midnight; their crests proudly arching, gave their manes, long
and dark, to the breeze; while with quivering nostrils and a shrill
piercing neigh they seemed panting to break loose from all restraint and
dart like lightning down the steep.
“What would ye with me now?” exclaimed Aldarin, as a strange wonder and
a darker fear gathered around his heart. “Cowards that ye are, ye still
delay your work of murder. I would this merry mysterie were finished--”
“To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!” arose the thunder shout of
the multitude. “To the gibbet with the wizard and sorcerer!”
“To the Doom, to the Doom!” shouted the stout yeoman. “_To the Doom_,
but not to the gibbet!”
Robin the Rough smiled and waved his hand to the Moors who led the barbs
of Arimanes down the steep, while Damian and Halbert followed at their
heels, bearing the Fratricide to his doom.--
Meanwhile the multitude thronging from the castle-gate, in one dense
crowd, began to darken over the rocks that hedged in the moat, as the
men-at-arms followed Aldarin down the hilly road, their upraised swords
glittering in the first beams of the morning sun.
At the foot of the hill there lay a piece of level earth, some hundred
paces square, sloping toward the east into a green meadow, backed by a
wood; on the west it was hedged in by the forest trees, on the north
arose the road leading to the castle, while towards the south the
highway to Florence wound upwards along the brow of a precipitous hill.
Arrived at this level space--the theatre of the last and most fearful
scene in his life--Aldarin beheld the stout yeoman ranging the
men-at-arms along the foot of the hill, shoulder to shoulder, presenting
one firm compact front, their upraised swords glittering over their
sable plumes, their armor of steel shining in the morning sun. At his
very side, in the centre of the level space, the wild horses of the
desert were rearing and plunging in the hold of their grooms, as their
shrill and piercing neigh broke on the air.
Aldarin cast his gaze above.
There crowding along the rocks, that confined the moat, form after form
face after face, thronged the vassals of Albarone, gazing with silence
and awe, upon the strange scenes passing in the valley below. For the
moment every voice was stilled, every cry was silenced; with hushed
breath and fixed brows, the men of Albarone, awaited the last scene of
this tragedy.
And as Aldarin gazed around, he beheld two soldiers advance, holding
thongs in their hands twisted out of the hide of the wild bull, while
the tawny Moors, at a sign from Robin the Rough, placed their steeds
haunch to haunch, the heads of two of the barbs looking towards the
east, while the others were turned towards the west.
Robin the Rough advanced.
He gazed for a moment around the scene, and then approaching the side of
Aldarin, spoke in a calm and even tone, as though the dignity of his
solemn office, the avenger of the dead, imbued and elevated his soul.
“Thou hast invoked the blow, thou hast defied the steel, blasphemed our
religion, and mocked our God.”
“Traitor and Fratricide--turn thee and behold the vengeance of that
God.”
“Behold the manner of thy death--Murderer, look at these barbs of the
desert; see how they paw the earth, how their quivering nostrils snuff
the air--mark those forms of strength, those sinews of iron!”
“Ere an hundred can be told, lashed to the limbs of these horses, thine
accursed carcass shall be scattered to the winds of heaven, while thy
blood-stained soul, goes trembling to its last account! Thou art a brave
man--we would listen to thee, while thou makest a merry mock of death,
and of such a death as this!”
Aldarin turned, he looked at the wild horses, placed haunch to haunch; a
deformed Moor holding each steed; he marked their forms of strength,
their sinews of iron; and a slight tremor, scarce perceptible, passed
over his frame.
“I am ready--” he slowly and distinctly spoke, with a calm smile--“I am
ready even for this death. Cowards and slaves I defy ye!”
“Thou art a wise man--” again spoke Robin the Rough in his mocking
tone--“and yet mere fools have deceived and duped thee! Yesternight,
within the confines of the Red-Chamber, thou didst wait the coming of a
Brother-wizard who was to journey from the far wilds of the east. Thy
brother-wizard twenty-four hours agone, rode from the very walls of
Florence, secured by the favor of this tyrant-duke--Ha! dost thou
tremble?”
“This--this--is false!” gasped Aldarin--“Ibrahim journeyed not from the
wilds of the east.”
“He came from the east attended by a train of twelve Arab knights and a
band of Christian warriors, whom the courtesy of the Crusades, gave to
the service of the friend of Saladin. He arrived at Florence, he beheld
the tyrant duke, and at high noon yesterday rode from the walls of the
city, bound for the Castle of Albarone. He was a venerable man and a
mighty, this Ibrahim--for his long beard--ha,--ha--trailed down to his
very breast! Who was it that made captives of his companie, and confined
his own royal person in bonds, while the men of Sir Geoffrey wended to
the castle clad in the garments of the Arabian retinue? Old man breathe
the question in a murmured voice for it was the work of--THE INVISIBLE.”
Aldarin veiled his face in his hands, and pressed his lips between his
teeth, until the blood trickled down to his very chin.
“Off with the murderer’s attire!” shrieked Robin the Rough--“Off with
tunic and hose, belt and boots! Strip him to the very skin! Demon, thy
magical pranks shall not avail thee, now! We will lead thee to thy
death, unarmed with magic casket or wizard phial! Advance comrades and
disrobe the murderer!”
Aldarin raised his head as the soldiers with the thongs advanced, while
the men-at-arms noted that his face was ghastly white in hue, yet calm
as the Summer Morn then dawning in the eastern sky.
“Is there not one man in all this crowd, who will bear a message from a
father to his daughter!” he slowly exclaimed--“The Ladye Annabel, she is
my child, and--by the fiend ye dare not refuse a father’s request!”
There was a pause, while two figures clad and veiled in sweeping robes
of sable, stole silently thro’ the throng of the men-at-arms, and stood
beside Robin the Rough.
“Will no man hear the last words of a--father to his child?”
“I--I--will bear the message--” exclaimed one of the sable figures,
speaking from the folds of his robe--“I will bear thy dying words to the
Ladye Annabel!”
Aldarin trembled. He knew the voice; and strange memories came crowding
around him, as he fancied the tones of his murdered brother living again
in that husky sound.
“Bear the parchment scroll to the Ladye Annabel. Tell her--tell her--it
came from the hands of _one_ who loved her thro’ life, and gave his lost
thoughts to _her_, in the hour of a fearful death. And look ye man--” he
continued in quick and gasping tones--“ye need not tell her, how her
father died--ye need not speak of his doom--say to her, that Aldarin
died in his bed.”
“I will--I will--as God lives I will!”
“Tell her that Aldarin with his last words, blessed her with the
blessing of the God in whom she believes!”
“It shall be done!” exclaimed the voice, and the hand of the veiled
Figure grasped the parchment scroll--“It shall be done!”
Robin turned from the scene, and gazed above. “How say ye men of
Albarone--” he shouted pointing to the Barbs of Arimanes--“shall the
Wild Horses, rend the body of the murderer into atoms? Is our sentence
just?”
There arose from rock, from hill, from valley one shout--“It is the
judgment of Heaven--the judgment of Heaven!”
Slowly and silently the soldiers disrobed the Scholar, and at last he
stood disclosed in the light, with the folds of his under tunic floating
around his slender form.
“Lead him to his doom?” shouted Robin the Rough.
“Ye shall not lead the old man to this fearful death!” arose the shriek
of the Figure who had received the parchment from the hands of the
Scholar--“I forbid this work of doom!”
The robe fell from the form of the stranger, and Adrian Di Albarone
confronted the stout yeoman, his hands upraised, and his blue eye
gleaming with a wild light, as he shrieked forth the words, “I forbid
this work of doom!”
“Adrian Di Albarone,” exclaimed the deep-toned voice of Robin the Rough,
as he seemed inspired with an awful feeling of the duty which he owed
the dead; “to-morrow, these gallant men, the vassals clustering round
yon heights, and thy poor servitor, who stands before thee, will joy to
call thee--Lord!--This day is sacred to another master, to another
Lord--this day is sacred to the God of vengeance. This day we own no
earthly rule, we stand apart from all human things; we have sworn not to
eat, nor drink, nor sleep until we have fulfilled the work of doom!”
“Thou will not scorn my prayer for mercy;--Adrian Di Albarone asks the
old man’s life of thee! He is stained with my father’s blood, but I
would not have him die this fearful death--spare the old man’s life!”
“I am the avenger of Lord Julian of Albarone! Ask the God above to spare
the fratricide--for I cannot, cannot stay HIS judgment!”
Adrian turned away, for the stern faces of the men-at-arms told him that
his pleadings were all in vain. And as he glided from the place of
death, the robes were thrust aside from the face of the other figure,
and every eye beheld the visage of Albertine the monk.
“Old man,” exclaimed the voice of Albertine, from the shrouded folds of
his robe, “hast thou no prayer to offer, no words of penitence to speak
ere thou art led to thy doom?”
“I am ready for my death;” exclaimed Aldarin, extending his arms--
“I scorn your whining prayers, and as for words of penitence--look
ye--is there aught of repentance written on this cheek or brow?”
“To whom dost thou resign thy soul!”
“To the AWFUL SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE!”
Thus exclaimed the fated man, as his slender form rose proudly erect
while his extended hands were raised in the act of solemn appeal.
“Ye may tear this body into fragments, ye may rend this carcass into
atoms, doom me to the death of fire, or consign this form to the decay
of the charnel-house, _yet ye cannot destroy Aldarin_! His soul will
live and live forever! It may float on the unseen winds, it may glare in
the lightning’s flash, or strike in the thunderbolt; it may come back to
the earth, in the storm, the horror and the doom: or it may wander far,
far in the solitudes of the VAST UNKNOWN, where eternal fires lash the
shores of desolated worlds--still will it live and live forever! A beam
of the AWFUL SOUL can never die!”
Albertine gazed upon the erect form and flashing eye of the Scholar and
saw that his labour was in vain. With a look which mingled bitter and
contrasted feelings, he turned away from the scene, gathering the folds
of his robe over his face as he disappeared.
“Lead me to the death,” cried Aldarin in a tone of bitter scorn. “Or are
ye afraid of a weak and withered old man? Ha--ha! ye are brave men!”
“Lead him to his death!” echoed Robin the Rough.
Attired in his under tunic, Aldarin was led forward. Damian seized him
by the shoulders and Halbert his feet. They raised him upon the haunches
of the steeds, with his head to the east.
Robin the Rough advanced, and grasping a thong, twisted out of the wild
bull’s hide, from the hands of one of the men-at-arms, slowly wound the
cord around the body of one of the wild horses, and looping it in a firm
knot, secured the right arm of Aldarin to the back of the restless
steed; while Damian bound the left to the other steed, Halbert, assisted
by the men-at-arms, bound his legs to the backs of the opposite horses,
winding the thongs again and again, around the bodies of the impatient
Arabs, until his blood spouted from the withered flesh of the
fratricide.
“Wind your thongs yet tighter friends of mine!” the sneer broke
gaspingly from the lips of the doomed. “I defy your malice and laugh at
your doom!”
The interest now was most absorbing and intense.
Along the whole extent of blackened rocks, frowning above the level
space, gathered the multitude gazing on the scene with gasping breath
and woven brows; while the men-at-arms, circling along the base of the
hill, stood silent and motionless, their upraised swords still
glittering in the first beams of the morning sun.
And there, in the centre of the space of highway earth, placed haunch to
haunch, stood the barbs of Arimanes, their eyes flashing as though a
demon-soul lived and moved within each sinewy form; there were gathered
the deformed Moors, each sable groom holding an ebon steed by the
nostrils, for the bridles were now cast aside; there, standing at the
side of each wild horse, the avengers of the dead, with the right leg
advanced and dagger drawn, awaited the word of vengeance; and there,
with his face turned upward to heaven, helpless and motionless, intense
pain shooting through every vein, and quivering along every sinew,
filling his brain with fire, his heart with ice, Aldarin the fratricide
smiled in scorn, as the moment of his doom came hurrying on.
“Avengers of your Lord,” shouted Robin the Rough, “raise your daggers,
and as the word falls from my lips, bury them to the hilt in the flank
of each steed!”
“A word--a single word,” whispered Aldarin, in a subdued voice. “Draw
near--I would say my last farewell--”
“What would’st thou have?” exclaimed one of the men-at-arms, advancing.
“When I am dying, ere the heart is cold, or the brow chill, approach and
gaze upon my countenance, and as you gaze, take to your very soul.”
“Speak--man of blood--thy moments are well nigh spent.”
“Take to your very soul,” whispered the fratricide, as he slowly, and
with difficulty, brought his head round to his right shoulder--“THE
CURSE OF ALDARIN!”
“Avengers of your Lord,” exclaimed the stout yeoman--“strike deep, every
man into the flanks of his steed!”
“_The curse_,” shrieked a hollow voice, “_The Curse of Aldarin!_”
“Strike,--I say--strike!”
The daggers sunk into the flanks of the horses, buried to the hilts; the
Moors leaped back; the maddened steeds sprang forward, with one wild
bound, straining every sinew in the effort to free themselves from their
accursed burden.
It was in vain.
They sank back, with a maddening howl, each steed upon his haunches, the
accursed fratricide uttered a yell of intense and overwhelming agony--it
died on his lips!
With eyes of fire with streaming manes, their nostrils extended, and all
their vigour gathered for the effort, the steeds again leaped forward,
springing madly from each other, and darting into the air, with one
terrible impulse--
The scene swam for an instant before the vision of the spectators.
They looked again. A limbless trunk lay in the dust of the highway,
spouting streams of blood--along the green meadow careered two black
steeds--through the dense forest thundered the others.
One of the men-at-arms, approaching the carcass, gazed for a moment at
the dread face. His eye glanced over expressions of the features,
convulsed by the throes of the parting soul; the eye yet fired with
hate, the lip curved with scorn; the sunken jaw oozing blood from every
pore; the quivering flesh and changing hues of the visage. All the
ghastliness and fear of this countenance, met his vision at a glance; he
uttered a howl of horror, and fell stiffened upon the earth, as the last
spark of life fled from the remains of the fratricide. When the soldier
awoke, his eye was vacant, and his reason gone. He was a maniac! He had
received the last words of the Doomed, and the Curse was on him forever.
Another moment passed, and the crowd came rushing from the rocky steeps,
filling the air with fierce shouts, and wild yells of execration, while
the men-at-arms, circled round the bleeding trunk, gazing upon the wild
and unearthly countenance of the Scholar, in wonder and in awe, each man
whispering to his comrade, a word of fear, as he marked the expression
of blasphemous and fiend-like scorn, stamped upon the visage of the
FRATRICIDE.
And while they circled round, struck dumb with a nameless awe, two
Figures, arrayed in robes of sable, rushed through the throng and
confronted Robin the Rough, as he stood stern, silent and awe-stricken,
they gazed upon the Dead.
“It is--” exclaimed the solemn voice of Adrian Di Albarone--“It is the
judgment of Heaven!”
From rock, from hill, from valley, from forest and from castle-wall,
arose the stern echo,--
“The Judgment of Heaven--the Judgment of Heaven!”
On, on, like lightning, darted the ebon steeds, bearing the torn and
shattered limbs, reeking with the life blood, yet warm and smoking. On,
on as tho’ the spirit of the lost, had entered their maddened forms. On,
on, they flew!
Onward! and onward! sped the wild horses, tracking their course with
blood, and rushing past the cottages of the affrighted peasantry, like
beings of the unreal world, fired with the soul of Arimanes, cursed with
the Spirit of the _Evil One_! Onward and Onward!
One brave barb, came plunging from the depths of a wood, and a precipice
mighty and steep, was before him, but he heeded it not. Down an hundred
fathoms into the boiling water he fell.
Another black steed sank into the calm waters of a placid river; another
reached the sea, and plunging in its depths, swam far, far, into the
wide expanse of the waters and was heard of no more.
The last--swept like the wind, by hamlet and tower and town. The
live-long day he urged on his career. The blood streaming from his
nostrils, his limbs weakened, and his sinews unstrung, he entered the
confines of a long valley, where a calm lake, gave its bosom to the
evening sun.
His pace was unsteady and he staggered to and fro, yet still the bloody
fragment hung at his back. At last he fell and died, and the scene of
his death was before a pleasant cottage on the green hill side. Much
wondered the solitary Student of the cot, as he surveyed the carcass of
the gallant steed. Little did he wot from whence he sped or the cause of
his flight.
Meanwhile gathering around the shapeless trunk, the men of Albarone
built a pile of the branches of oaks, that had lain mouldering for years
in the forest, and soon a broad bright flame arose, and it burned till
the setting of the sun, when a storm gathered in the west, and heralded
by thunder, and armed with lightning, it swept over the earth, and the
ashes of the _fratricide_, mingling with the whirlwind, never more
polluted the green bosom of the earth.
Thus runs the legend of the Doom of the Poisoner, thus runs the legend
of the death that befel.
ALDARIN THE FRATRICIDE.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
THE QUEEN OF FLORENCE.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
A SILVERY MOON AND A CLOUDLESS SKY.
THE AGED DAME OF THE COT ON THE HILLSIDE LEARNS THE MYSTERY OF AN
UNFASTENED DOUBLET.
“Night among the mountains--oh, glorious and beautiful!” arose the voice
of the Wanderer, as with one bold grasp he attained the topmost rock of
the hoary steep, rising far above forest and stream--“Night among the
mountains--the calm moonbeams sleeping on the lake--the boundless azure
arching above--the rolling sweep of forest and the rugged outline of
precipice and steep--the far-off convent, its towers looming through the
distance, like a cloud of evil omen--Night among the mountains, glorious
and grand and beautiful!
“Thank God for the breeze, the cool and freshening breeze! It sweeps
over my forehead, burning as with the ravages of hidden flame, it bears
the fever from my cheek, and the madness from my brain. And yet I must
on, and on--afar I behold the peaceful cot, appearing amid the
luxuriance of the hill-side vines--my steed lays bleeding and dead in
the vale below, still must I on, and on!
“God of Heaven, will that face never depart from my soul, the brow
darkened by superhuman hate, the eyes all aflame with the Curse of the
Fratricide, the white lips, and the sunken jaws; with the blood oozing
from every pore! Even now I behold the face! And to her ear--help me
Saints of Light--to _her_ ear must I bear the manner of his doom!
“The moon shines in the heavens, calm and beautiful--when the mild
radiance of her beams pales before the glory of the uprising sun--then,
then, will the angels of fate, write in the books of the Unknown, the
Doom of Adrian, the last of the race of Albarone!”
And as the words broke murmuring from his lips, he flung his form from
the summit of the steep, and grasping with eager hands the point of each
projecting rock, at last descended to the bed of the valley, and sped
onward on his errand of woe, while higher in the heavens up rose the
moon.
High in the heavens arose the full orbed moon, and calm and lovely was
the sight, as enthroned in the very zenith of the boundless azure, this
thing of beauty and of beams, shed a shower of silver radiance down on
the silent bosom of the quiet vale, mirroring her rounded glory in the
deep waters of the mountain lake, giving a ghastly lustre to the white
precipice, from whose foundations arose the walls of the lonely convent,
mossy with age and darkened by time.
In this wide world of ours--so runs the wild rhapsody of the Chronicler
of the ancient MSS.--in this wide world of ours, there are, I ween, many
things sublime and beautiful and grand, yet what sight may compare with
a cloudless heaven, a silvery moon and a lovely extent of woody hills
and grassy vales? Never minstrel struck harp--never romancer spoke the
fancies of his brain, that did not hymn thy praise, O! beauteous thing
of brilliance and of beams! For ages and for ages thou hast held thy way
of glory through the arching heavens--thou hast looked down upon
warriors marching in all their pomp, and thou hast beheld their withered
forms strewn over the battle plain;--lovers have poured forth their love
beneath thy light, and again thou hast looked down upon their quiet
graves;--nations have risen and fallen;--monuments that gave promise of
eternal duration, have crumbled in the dust;--cities have towered in
deserts, and deserts have won the place of gorgeous cities, yet still
kind nurturer of holy thoughts, inspirer of heavenly fancies, yet still
thou passest on in thy course of light, and thus, with brilliance
unpaling and unpaled, glorious as when God first bade thee roll through
the azure expanse, thou shalt urge thy way until the final trump of
doom.
Arising in the calm moonbeams, the roof of the lonely cottage gave its
wreathing vines, all gay with flowers, to the motion of the night air,
while the gleam of a taper, shooting from a crevice of the closed
lattice, varied the shadows which darkened over one side of the
tenement, by a single thread of light.
Meanwhile the beams of the taper gave light to the principal chamber of
the cottage, where the stately mother of Leone the student, sate wrapt
in deep meditation.
“Strange!”--thus she murmured--“Strange! Scarce seven days since we
first concealed ourselves in this lonely vale, and Adrian--ha! I may be
overheard--Leone has won the friendship of this noble youth of Florence.
Not that he acquires honor thereby--by my troth, no!--the youth is a
good youth, and a fair, but the friendship of Emperors cannot add glory
to the heir of Albarone--fool that I am!--ever repeating the name of our
race! Strange it is, very strange, that the gentle Florian should take
up his abode in our cot! He is ever with Leone!--They walk, they eat,
they drink together, and together they pursue their studies! The fair
stranger shall in time become the leader of armies--but my son--the last
of an honored race, shall become a--_monk_. The thought is maddening!”
The dame arose and hurriedly paced the room. As she strode to and fro
she perceived the door of Leone’s apartment slightly ajar, and impelled
by mere restlessness, she took a mother’s privilege, and softly entered
the room.
No sooner had she opened the door, than a sight met her gaze, that
caused her to start back to the very threshold with astonishment.
Seated beside the table, on which a taper cast its dim light, over the
opened volume, the chairs of the students were drawn close together,
their backs were turned to the dame, the arm of Leone was around the
slender waist of the gentle Florian, and with their heads laid one
against the other, the rich golden locks of Leone mingled with a shower
of flaxen tresses that fell over the shoulders and down the back of the
fair stranger.
Treading on tip-toe and much wondering at the unusual length of
Florian’s hair, the dame approached.
“Thou art weary, my love”--the whisper broke from Florian’s lips--“thy
dress is soiled with dust and torn by travel--thy face is wan and
haggard, and--the Virgin save me--thine eyes are bloodshot! Thou hast
been absent two long and weary days. Hast journeyed far to-day, Adrian?”
“A score of miles, since the sunset hour.”
“And thou didst see the old castle yet again?”
Adrian replied in a whisper, and then as they conversed in low murmurs,
the dame observed the form of her son agitated by a slight trembling
motion, while ever and anon he turned his head aside veiling his face in
his hands.
Nearer drew the dame, and looking over the heads of the students, a
tremor of surprise ran over her frame, her hands were involuntarily
raised, her thin lips parted, her gray eyes expanded, and her eyebrows
arose to the very roots of her hair. Silent she stood and motionless as
stone.
The evening being somewhat warm, the broach that fastened Florian’s
doublet at the neck, was unloosed, and the opening garment gave to view
a neck of the most surpassing whiteness, spreading into shoulders of
flowing outline, and budding into a bosom of virgin tracery of form, all
glowing with the warm blood of youth, and heaving with the pulsations of
passion.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE CLOUD GATHERS AND THE SKY DARKENS.
The dame essayed to speak. Her voice died away in an unmeaning rattle of
the throat. One hand she extended, and seizing Leone by the shoulder,
with the other she tore the maiden from his embrace--
“Apostate!” she began in tones that trembled with rage, “is it thus thou
honorest the race whose name thou bearest. Away!--I will never look upon
thee more! Away!--and with thee take thy----, I will not speak the title
of shame;--Away!”
As she spoke she raised her hand to strike the shrinking maiden, who,
with head drooped on her bosom, and quick blushes coursing over her
face, strove hurriedly to fasten the broach of her doublet.
“Strike her not, mother!” cried Leone, throwing himself before the
damsel, “Assail her not with words of shame!”
He took the hand of the blushing maiden and continued--“Fear not, love,
there is none to harm thee. Mother, behold my bride!”
“Annabel!--Thy bride? Wherefore this concealment? Why this unmaidenly
disguise? How is’t, my son--how is’t?”
“As for the disguise it was assumed to aid her escape, and then,”--he
whispered into his mother’s ear--“and then I thought thou wouldst not
affect the niece of the--the--s’life, mother, I cannot speak the word of
any one connected with Annabel!”
“My son, my son! what hast thou done? Answer me--befits such doings with
thy profession? Art thou not intended for a minister of Heaven?”
While the dame spoke, the figure of a monk darkened the opened doorway,
advancing to Leone he threw back his cowl, and discovered the dark brow,
the wan face, the flashing eyes of Albertine, the monk.
“Lord Adrian,” whispered the Monk, “at the hour of sunset, when the dark
storm arose, howling its requiem over the remains of the Fratricide,
thou didst hasten from the castle of Albarone, bound for this lonely
valley. Thou hadst not gone an hour’s journey from the castle walls,
when I tracked thy footsteps, bearing news of fearful import. Thy haunt
hath been betrayed to the tyrant, by a traitor from the lonely valley.
Even now, the Duke spurs his steed toward the valley of the mountain
lake, attended by a band of minions; even now the voices of his bravoes
startle the air, shrieking for thy blood!”
“And the INVISIBLE?” whispered Adrian--“where is their dagger of
vengeance, while the tyrant rides abroad on his errands of wrong?”
“Listen, Lord Adrian! This very night, while the Duke is absent from the
walls of Florence, will Lord and Monk, Prince and Peasant, joined in the
solemn oath of the holy steel, arise in the might of men who have sworn
at the very Altar of God to be free, and ere the morrow’s sun, Florence
the Fair and Beautiful, will own another Sovereign! The Invisible work
in secret, as doth the earthquake--man alone beholds the bursting of the
storm!”
“Hark! I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs, mingled with the clatter of
arms!”
“God of Heaven! The Duke approaches!” shouted the Monk--“I must be
gone--all thought of escape for thee and thy bride is vain! Adrian,
Adrian, bear a firm heart through the perils of this night, and in the
morrow’s dawn will blaze the star of thy Mighty Fortune! Hath the Duke
any issue, or is he the last of his line?”
“He is the last of his race,” answered Adrian, “why dost thou ask?”
“Thou wilt learn anon!” exclaimed the Monk.
He turned and sought the door, but as if struck by a sudden thought, he
again approached Adrian, and whispered in tones that seemed to come from
his very soul--“Fare-thee-well, Adrian, fare-thee-well! I have loved
thee much, very much. There was a time when my heart was as young as
thine, my soul as pure. But now--Ha! _now_ I would have my revenge,
although the chasm of hell yawned beneath me--nay, although between me
and the object of my hate yawned the gulf of perdition, I would leap the
abyss and drag him down, down to the eternal flames that now hunger for
his accursed soul--Fare-thee-well, Adrian--I’ll never see thee more!”
The Monk was gone. The fearful look that fired his countenance, and the
awful tones in which he spoke, haunted Adrian Di Albarone until his
dying hour.
Scarcely had Albertine disappeared, when there was the sound of
trampling feet in the outer apartment, and presently the figure of his
Grace of Florence occupied the doorway, while the heads of his followers
were seen looking over his shoulders.
He looked around the apartment with a curious eye, as if he sought the
wanderers. At last his glance rested upon the form of the disguised
Annabel, and advancing toward the damsel, he flung himself at her feet,
exclaiming with all the grace of attitude and expression at his command.
“Fair Ladye, it is with joy beyond the power of words to tell, that I
hail thee by the title of the--Fair Ladye Annabel, Countess Di
Albarone!”
“How sayst thou?” exclaimed Annabel, forgetting her boyish disguise in
her eagerness, “How sayst thou? Ladye of Albarone?”
“Aye, fair Ladye. Thou art _now_ the Countess Di Albarone, soon shalt
thou be my own loved Annabel, Duchess of Florence.”
The Duke leaned earnestly forward, trying to look as much like a lover
as might be--his face wore an expression of deep solemnity, his
protruding eyes made an effort to sparkle, and his attempt to soften his
voice, gave one the idea of a magpie trying to sing.
Annabel cast an agonized look at the Duke--
“Sayst thou nought of my father?” she exclaimed. “Is he sick?--is he
ill?--Tell me that I may hurry to him!--For heaven’s sake tell me!--my
father is--”
“DEAD!” cried the Duke.
“Dead!” echoed the dame, starting with surprise.
Annabel heard no more.
“Coward and tyrant,” shouted Lord Adrian, as he caught the sinking
maiden in his arms, “away with thee from this humble tenement. Defile
not my bride with the pollution of thy touch--By the honor of my race! I
would give the brightest jewel in the coronet of Albarone, for one good
blow at the carcass of this craven hound!”
“Ho! art thou here my gay springald?--_Thy bride_, indeed?--Guards
advance, seize the miscreant!--I will teach him to raise his unholy hand
against his liege Lord!--away with him to the lowest dungeon of yon
convent. On the morrow he shall be carried to Florence, there to answer
for his treason!”
Unarmed and weaponless Adrian beheld himself at the mercy of the tyrant.
The soldiers advanced,--in vain was his defence--in an instant he found
himself in the hands of his foes, and as the minions bound his hands
behind his back, he heard the beetle-browed Balvardo--for he was among
the throng--whisper in the ear of the Duke--
“At what hour my Lord?”
“‘Slife canst not do it without my bidding?--When all in the convent is
still--at midnight let it be done!--See to’t!”
“Aye, aye, my Lord, at midnight it shall be done!”
“And the Bridal,” cried the Duke, turning to the Ladye Annabel, as she
rested in the arms of the Countess. “The hour after midnight shall
witness the joyous scene--the marriage of the Duke and his betrothed!”
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE DEATH BOWL.
THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE RAVISHER STARTLE THE SILENCE OF THE MAIDEN’S CELL,
WHILE ADRIAN PREPARES FOR HIS DOOM IN THE VAULTS BELOW.
It was in a lone chamber, where the dark walls, unrelieved by tapestry
or wainscotting, were rendered yet more sad and gloomy by the fitful
flashes of a taper, placed upon a small table of blackened oak.
The sable hangings of the couch standing in one corner, the floor of
stone, wearing the same dead and leaden hue, the massive furniture of
the room, and the grotesque carvings ornamenting the heavy pillars, all
were in unison with the grave-like silence of the air, which seemed
heavy with doom and burdened with death.
In the centre of the apartment, her white robes loosely flowing around
her peerless form, her fair and rounded arms upraised, her head slightly
inclined to one side, her cheek, now warm with hope, now pale with fear,
stood the Ladye Annabel. Her hair of sunshine luxuriance was swept back
over her neck and shoulders, while her bosom rose in the light, and her
breath came thick and fast, the convulsive gasps, breaking the
death-like silence of the apartment, with an echo of strange emphasis.
Sleep had fled from her eyelids. She arose and watched, she knew not
why, but still she watched and trembled as she listened to the slightest
sound.
“I listen, I tremble, and my heart is chilled with a nameless fear,”
murmured the Ladye Annabel, pacing the dark floor of the apartment with
indecisive and hurried steps. “The hour wears slowly on, the fatal hour
after midnight, when this unrelenting Duke will claim my hand, this hand
already given to another, by the minister of Heaven! Holy Mary! behold
the bridal--a lonely cell, hidden in the depths of this fearful
monastery, the altar of black, the dark-robed monk, the tyrant-Duke and
the victim; the time, the hour after the bell has tolled midnight, no
hope, no aid, afar from human consolation, or the voice of human
friend--such will be the second bridal of Annabel, wife of Adrian Di
Albarone!”
She paused with an involuntary thrill of fear, as the vivid details of
the picture rose before her mental vision, and then came another
thought of horror--_the bride must be widowed ere she weds a second
time_.
While dark and fearful imaginings haunted her soul, and well nigh crazed
her brain, the fair and gentle Ladye Annabel felt a strange and
deadening sleep stealing over her frame, and with a half-muttered prayer
to the Virgin, she sank slumbering on the couch, the hangings of sable
closing over her form, and concealing her from the sight.
All is silent within the cell. Low, suppressed sounds break from distant
parts of the monastery, half-heard shrieks, and deep-muttered groans.
For a dreary half hour, the cell is left to silence and solitude; when a
distant footstep is heard, then a strange echo runs along the corridors
of the Convent, and the small door of the lonely room, grating on its
hinges slowly opens, and a Figure, buried in the folds of a sweeping
robe of black, and bearing a small lamp of iron in an extended hand,
stalks cautiously along the floor of stone.
The Figure paused with a trembling and indecisive movement in the centre
of the floor, and then a face flushed by wine, and ruddy with
excitement, was thrust from the folds of the robe of black.
“All silent and still,” exclaimed a voice, indistinct with wine. “An
half hour of midnight--the sleeping potion has taken effect! It has, by
St. Antonia!”
He approached the bedside, and with the trembling hand of a coward,
flung back the sable hangings of the couch. The light of his lamp, fell
vividly upon the form of the sleeping maiden, as she reclined on the
sable furs covering the couch, while her flowing robes, white as the
undriven snow, gave a strange contrast to the ebony darkness of the bed.
“I’ faith she is beautiful--_eh, Aldarin?_ Faugh! _I forgot--the man is
dead!_ That bloom upon her cheek--’tis like the opening rose. How soft
that heave of the bosom as it rises from the folds of the white
robe--_torn to pieces by wild horses_--that arm, with the dress falling
softly around its outlines, the small hand, the tapering fingers--_a
most accursed fate_--and the attitude, the cheek reclining on the arm,
the form laid so carelessly along the couch, the feet, small,
delicate--_torn into a thousand fragments, an arm here, a leg there,
and_--By the Saints I must e’en crave a kiss of this sleeping beauty--”
And stooping slowly over the bed, with the lamp extended in one hand,
the Duke glanced nervously around the room, and then with a rude grasp
of the flaxen tresses, he wound the other around the maiden’s neck, his
unholy hands touched her virgin bosom, with its globes of beauty heaving
and throbbing as his fingers pressed the snow-white skin, while his
sensual lips, steaming with wine, were pressed upon her unstained cheek,
his grasp growing closer, and his eyes gloating over the Ladye’s face
and form, as that kiss of pollution rested on her cheek.
“Ha--ha!--the sleeping potion,--she is mine--she is mine. The braggart
Adrian hugs his death in the vaults below--I gather his bride to my arm
in the cell above. Ha--ha--the sleeping potion!”
No thought of mercy, no whispering of pity, no silent pleading of right,
for a moment restrained the purpose of the ravisher.
He gathered her form closer to that breast which had never been the home
of one ennobling thought, he wound his hand around her neck; again was
her bosom and cheek polluted by the plague-spot of his touch.
“She is mine!” chuckled the ravisher. “Mine, and none other than mine!”
The Ladye Annabel murmured in that fatal sleep, she tossed her rounded
arms wildly to and fro; the potion was in her veins, and around her
heart, and the nightmare on her soul.
Another start, and she awoke.
She slowly unclosed her large blue eyes, she fixed their glance upon the
flushed countenance of the ravisher, with a look that went to his very
soul, and caused the arm that encircled her form to tremble like a leaf
tossed to and fro by the wind.
“Murderer!”
The solitary word broke from her lips, and her look of wild gaze was
again fixed upon his face. He trembled before her glance--he quailed
like a whipped hound--he unloosed his hold.
“I am not,” he muttered, springing backward from the couch. “It was not
me. He is not dead; he lives--”
“Murderer!” she again murmured, in that low, deep-toned voice, while her
face of calm and dreamy beauty was stamped with a weird expression that
awed the ravisher to the very soul.
“Even now thy evil angel writes thee liar, in the book of thy misdeeds.
Even now thy victim writhes in the throes of death within the vaults
below; ay, ay, beneath thy very feet he dies. Why stand ye over the
corse? Doth not the pale face and the cold brow fright ye? On whom is
fixed the glare of those stony eyes--on whom? On thee, murderer, on
thee; on thee they glare with the accusing glance of death!”
“She is crazed! Save me, all good saints--she is crazed! She sweeps
toward me with a measured stride! Great God! she walks not--she glides
slowly on; she moves like a spirit--a thing of air!”
He shrunk back, cringing before the glance of those eyes from which all
reason had fled; he shrunk back step by step as she advanced, awed by
the upraised arms, with the robes of white waving slowly to and fro;
awed by the supernatural look visible in every line of the face of the
Ladye Annabel, and in a moment found himself leaning for support against
a dark stone pillar of the cell.
“Murderer!” she murmured, looking him full in the face. “I hear thy
victim groan, I hear him writhe. Look ye, good angels, he denies it, and
look, look how the red blood drops from his trembling hands!”
With that look which filled him with involuntary horror, she glided
backward step by step, she reached the small door of the cell, and flung
it open with her outspread hands.
“He denies it, he denies it; and the blood--ha, ha, ha!--hark how it
patters on the floor!”
With that low, muttered laugh which chilled his very blood, for it was
the laugh of madness, the Ladye Annabel again awed the Duke of
Florence--the ravisher in heart--with her gaze, and then springing
through the cell door, her form, with its waving robes of snow, was lost
to his sight.
He saw her form no more, but a low muttered laugh came whispering along
the galleries of the monastery, and half-formed words broke on his ear.
“Where is now the ravisher, flushed with wine and maddened with lust;
where is now the proud Duke, haughtily attired in robes of price, with
dishonor on his heart, and the foul purpose on his soul?”
Crouching against the wall, trembling in every limb, his eyes vacant
with terror, his whiskered jaw half dropped upon his heart, his hand
still nervously grasping the iron lamp, he listens to the low, muttered
laugh creeping to his ear from the far distant corridors; he listens and
shakes with fear, but says no word.
Along the dark galleries she flees, filling the old arches with echoes
of that low muttered laugh; through the midnight passages she winds,
stairways she ascends, and her delicate feet descend the dampened steps
of stone; alone, in darkness, and in nameless fear, she glides on her
flight of terror.
The cool air sweeps over her fevered brow, the dampness of the
atmosphere chills her bosom, and by slow degrees the flight of madness,
caused by the drugged potion, passed from her soul, and the Ladye
Annabel is restored to reason and to thought.
Oh! fearful reason, oh! terrible thought, to which madness were joy,
insanity, in its wildest flight, happiness the most intense.
“The bride must be widowed, ere she weds a second time!”
She rushed on, never heeding the darkness; she rushed on, never heeding
the cold. She might save him yet; oh! even yet she might save him.
And through the dark passages of that deserted part of the monastery she
wound, until her hands, extended on either side, touched the opposite
walls, wet with moisture, and crawling with vermin; when the echo of the
arches, succeeded by a dead, deafening murmur, told Annabel that she
strode along a confined corridor, far under ground, growing narrow and
yet narrower at every step.
A moment passed, and her extended hands were met by waving folds of
tapestry, that swept across her path, and terminated the narrow
corridor. Thrusting her hands eagerly among the hangings, she turned
them suddenly aside, and started back with surprise, as a broad belt of
light was thrown along the gloomy passage. With hushed breath and a
throbbing heart, she gazed beyond the hangings of dark leather, and
while her blue eyes dilated with wonder and fear, she beheld a strange
and startling scene.
Two figures were kneeling upon the floor of an apartment, narrow and
confined, as regards dimensions, and square in shape, hung with gorgeous
folds of embroidered tapestry, dark-green in hue, with matting of
strange pattern and curious device, brought from the far Eastern lands,
strewn over the pavement of the room. The only object that broke the
uniformity of the place, was a dark robe flung over some massive body in
an obscure corner.
* * * * *
The light, clear and brilliant in its flame, placed on the matting
between the kneeling men, threw its vivid beams on each face and form,
over every line of their features, over every point of their apparel.
The Ladye Annabel stifled an expression of surprise which rose to her
lips at the vision of this luxuriously furnished cell, in the midst of
gloom and damp, and then with a writhing heart took in the details of
this strange picture.
One of the kneeling figures was a soldier, the other was a monk.
The soldier, with his muscular hand laid on his bent knee, grasped a
massive sword; his beetle brow surmounted by stiff and matted hair,
giving a darker expression to his small and ferret-like eyes; while his
companion, robed in the dark attire of a monk, with a pale, solemn face,
lighted by the glare of an eye that seemed to dilate and burn, looked
upon the man-at-arms with a glance meant to read more than the rugged
visage--meant to read his very soul.
The Ladye Annabel listened to their low and muttered conversation with
her very heart mounting to her throat.
“Thou wilt do it--eh, Albertine? Thou knowest my orders, sir monk?”
“The steel or the bowl?”
“The same, by the fiend! The hour--when the clock of the tower strikes
twelve. He said so--thou knowest whom I mean. Why that dark and bitter
smile? Blood o’ th’ Turk, monk, that smile shows thy white teeth--I like
it not!”
“Nay, good Balvardo, be not angered with me. I was but painting a quiet
picture to my fancy. Our victim, his eyes rolling in the death-struggle,
his blue lips whitened with foam, his arms outstretched with the last
convulsive spasm, and then--ha, ha!--the music of the death rattle! ’Tis
excellent, i’faith, the picture--ha, ha, ha!”
“Look ye, monk or devil, whate’er ye be, I’m your man, when a good deed
of cut-and-thrust is to be done, and the wretch is despatched with a
blow. But as for this merry-making over the dead, I like it not. Blood
o’ Mahound, not a whit of it! I can wet my sword in a man’s blood as
nicely as your next man, but it likes me not to wet my tusks with the
vile puddle, and grin while the red drops fall from my lips. No more o’
your death grins, monk, or--’s death!--we quarrel!”
“Ho--ho--ho! so the humor suits ye not, _honest_ Balvardo. Dost know the
depth of the sea, or the number of the millions slain by old Death? Then
know the hate I bear _my_ victim; then count the lives I would crush in
my revenge, had he as many as the millions trampled under the feet of
Death! Is’t not cause for merriment, _good_ Balvardo?”
“Look ye, sir monk, thou hast ever been known as the prime tool of his
grace,--’s life! I should mention no names,--and therefore do I resign
my part in this night’s work to thy hands. When ’tis done, thou
knowest--”
“Where shall I place the body?”
“Here!” cried the hoarse voice of the soldier, and the Ladye Annabel saw
him rise; she beheld him striding across the matted floor, toward an
obscure corner of the apartment; she beheld him as he placed his rough
hand upon the dark robe flung over the rising object.
“Here let him rest,” he cried, raising the robe, “and rest forever!”
The Ladye Annabel beheld a sight that gathered the big drops of sweat
thick as the death dew on her forehead. Her heart was swelled to
bursting, and she turned away from the sight for a single moment, with
the impulse of overpowering horror.
When she looked again, the black cloth was again resting on that object
of terror, while Balvardo was advancing toward the monk with his usual
heavy and measured stride.
“Hast aught to hold the wine, _good_ Balvardo?”
“In yonder closet thou wilt find the wine. Here is--curse this cloak,
how its folds tangle about my body!--here is the goblet.”
The Ladye Annabel felt the death-like feeling of ice creeping around her
heart; and as she looked, she thought she beheld the monk Albertine grow
pale with horror, while his compressed lip seemed to tell a story of
fearful yet hushed emotion.
_The goblet held forth in the hand of the Sworder, was the goblet of
gold with which the poisoner of the Red Chamber had administered death
to the lips of Julian, Lord of Albarone._
“Man!” exclaimed Albertine, with a blazing eye and livid lip, “how came
this goblet--this death-bowl--in thy possession?”
“‘Slife! Dost not know the story? One of the witnesses who gave
testimony against that--that--I mean _he_ who sleeps in yonder
chamber--received this goblet as a mark of the accuser’s gratitude. I
was that witness. Blood o’ th’ Turk, there goes the clock--one, two,
three. Sir monk, to thy duty.”
“Father of mercy, he is false at last!”
And as the words broke from the Ladye Annabel’s lips, she beheld the
monk take the goblet in his hands; she beheld him empty a paper filled
with white powder into its depths.
She could look no more; a cold, icy feeling seemed to freeze the very
blood around her heart; her limbs refused their support; she sank slowly
down upon the damp floor, and yet the words spoken in the adjoining room
came to her ear like the echo of far-off shouts.
“Four, five, six. Monk, wilt delay all night? To thy victim!”
The monk strode across the cell, holding the goblet under his robe; he
approached a spot where the tapestried hangings, slightly swept aside,
disclosed the entrance into another room.
“Adrian,” whispered the monk, “dost sleep?”
“Sleep!” echoed a hollow voice from the inner cell. “Sleep, when there
is fever in my brain, and fire in my heart! Dost jest, good Albertine?”
“Nay nay, Adrian, I jest not. I have a sleeping potion which will give
thee rest.”
“The rest of the grave, in the arms of the skeleton-god,” muttered
Balvardo, with a low chuckle.
“Would that thy potion could minister sleep eternal,” spoke the hollow
voice, and a hasty footstep was heard. “And yet I would not die yet--no,
no! She still lives. I would not die, save in her arms, and by her
side!”
And as the voice sounded strange and hollow through the cell, the
tapestry rustled, and Adrian Di Albarone stood before the monk.
Adrian Di Albarone it was, but the manly form was bent with chains, the
black velvet attire of the student was soiled and torn; while the faded
countenance, the sunken cheek, the lips compressed, the hollow
eye-sockets, and the quick and fiery eye, all told a tale of the agony
of years endured within the compass of a single hour.
He stood before the monk, and his chains clanked as he stood, while his
wild eye drank in each line of Albertine’s visage.
“You spoke of a soothing potion, good Albertine.”
“_Seven, eight, nine,” muttered Balvardo._
The monk spoke not a word; he strode to the closet--he seized the flask
of wine--he filled the goblet to the brim.
“Drink, Adrian,” he cried, “drink, and be refreshed!”
Adrian raised the goblet to his mouth with his chained right hand--he
wet his lips with the ruddy wine; and then, as if seized by some fearful
spell, he stood motionless as death, while his right arm straightened
slowly out from his body, with the hand convulsively clutching the bowl
of death.
“It is, it is!” he shrieked. “It is the goblet of the Red Chamber! God
of Heaven, what means this mystery? Speak, Albertine. Wouldst thou
betray me?”
“_Ten!” meanwhile continued Balvardo, in the background_.
“Adrian!” cried the monk, starting back with a solemn gesture, “I stand
upon the verge of the cliff of Time; beneath me roll the surges of that
shoreless ocean which men name ETERNITY! Ere the morrow’s dawn, I leap
from the cliff; the surges of that awful sea will bear me on--on to the
vast Unknown! Thinkest thou I would betray thee? Drink, and be
refreshed.”
_“Eleven, twelve! the time is up!” soliloquized the sworder._
“I drink,” cried Adrian, with a wild gesture, “I drink; for thy words
are truth, and thine eye bears no falsehood in its glance! I drink the
goblet of the Red Chamber to the dregs!”
A shriek that might never be forgotten rang through the corridor and
chamber, and a slight form, arrayed in robes of white came rushing from
the folds of the tapestry.
Adrian beheld the dreamy face of the Ladye Annabel, her cheek pale as
the robes she wore, while, with glaring eye and voice of horror, she
shrieked:
“Drink not--in God’s name do not drink--the bowl is drugged with death!”
He flung the bowl aside, but ere it left his hand it was received in the
quick grasp of the monk; he raised his chained hands on high, and ere
they were lowered, his Bride lay panting on his breast!
Oh, where is the magic of human words that may picture the deep and
fearful interest of that meeting, the gush of contending feelings, the
rapture sparkling in the eye and beaming from the lip, the heart all
pulsation, the blood all fire, the arms flung convulsively round each
other’s neck, the look of the Doomed, the long, last, lingering look
upon the face of the beloved, her upturned eyes, her cheek now crimson
and now snow, her tresses of gold waving over her robes of white, and
her form of beauty flung over his bosom, with every vein swelling with
delight, every nerve quivering with joy!
They meet as lovers meet, when, standing on the opposing rocks of Time
and Destiny, they fling their arms across the chasm, nor heed the vast
eternity that yawns below, ready to engulf and destroy.
“Drink not, oh, Adrian, drink not--the bowl is drugged with death!”
“The time is up,” muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo--“The guards are
within call, good monk, an’ he refuses the dose.”
“Adrian Di Albarone,” cried the monk, fixing his full and solemn eyes
upon the chained knight, “drink the bowl, I implore thee! By the memory
of the Cell of the Doomed, by the memory of the Chapel of the Rocks, by
the memory of the perils we have shared, the deaths we dared together,
in the name of thy father, whose ghost now looks down upon thee, in His
name, most solemn and most dread, I adjure thee--drain the goblet to the
dregs!”
“Dark and mysterious man,” cried Adrian, sharing the wild glance of
Albertine, “give me the bowl, I drink----”
“Adrian, for my sake touch it not--poison nestles like a snake within
its depths!”
“Hold me not, Annabel--grasp not my arm--”
“For the sake of God, oh, do not, do not drink!”
“I must, I must! It is not thy hand, Albertine, that gives the bowl--it
is the hand of Fate, thrust from yon blackening cloud, which all my life
has thrown its shadow over my path! Give me the bowl--though ten
thousand deaths were darting from each sparkle of the wine, still--I
drink, and drain the goblet to the dregs!”
In vain the upraised arm of the Ladye Annabel, in vain her look of fear,
her voice of horror!
As she clung to his chained arms, he raised the goblet to his lips, he
drained it to the dregs.
“He smiles,” muttered Balvardo, “the monk smiles as he gives the
death-bowl! I see not his cloven foot, nor do I see his horns--not a
whit o’ ’em. Else might I suspect the devil were lurking in yon monkish
robe.”
Adrian handed the goblet to the monk.
Albertine received it with a deep and meaning smile.
Scarce had the hand of Adrian been extended in the act, than his arm
fell like a weight of lead to his side, and Annabel felt her lover
leaning heavily upon her shoulder, while her fair arms might scarce stay
him in his fall to the floor.
“Monk,” cried Adrian, as, sinking upon one knee, he fixed his ghastly
eyes upon the face of Albertine; “monk I trusted thee, and thou art
false!”
“His brow is cold,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as, sinking on her knees
by his side, she supported Adrian’s head upon her virgin bosom. “See!
the big drops of the death-dew stands out from his forehead--and this,
monk, this is thy work!”
As the terrible look of the dying man met his eye, Albertine seemed
struggling with some terrible pang, but when the words of Annabel and
her look of intense agony came like a death-bolt to his heart, he
hurriedly advanced, he looked at the group, he spoke in a voice
tremulous with agitation, yet deep and solemn in its every accent--
“Ye scorn me now, fair Ladye, and raise your hands in a gesture of
reproach most terrible to bear; yet the day will come, when the voice
of scorn will be changed to the sound of pity, when those very hands
will strew fresh flowers over my grave!”
“Has ---- given up its model of devils!” muttered Balvardo, in the
background. “‘Slife, I can murder a man in hot blood or cold blood, but
as for this heaping taunt on taunt--I like it not--by the Blood o’ th’
Turk!”
“He is dead--cold and dead,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as she gazed
upon the pallid face of Adrian. “He does not breathe; Mother of Heaven,
I cannot feel the beating of his heart!”
Ere the words had passed her lips, the dying man sprang with one bound
to his feet; and while his bloodshot eyes rolled ghastlily from face to
face, he flung his arms aloft, and tottered across the chamber, laughing
wildly and with maniac glee, as he pointed to the dark object rising
from the floor, covered with the folds of the dark robe, that swept over
its surface like a pall of death.
“Monk, behold--behold the doom of Adrian of Albarone!” he shouted with a
wild and husky voice, as he stooped, with a sudden movement, and tore
the robe from the object which it concealed. “There, there stands the
assassin, here the victim, and--ha, ha, ha!--_behold the coffin!_”
He swayed heavily from side to side; he flung his arms hurriedly aloft
in the vain effort to preserve his balance, and then, with a fixed and
staring eye, he gazed upon the face of Albertine with a look that froze
his blood.
“Monk, I trusted thee, and thou art false!”
The sound of a falling body echoed around the room, and the lifeless
form of Adrian Di Albarone lay extended across the coffin, while the
out-spread hands clutched the dark panels with the convulsive grasp of
death.
“Wait one hour,” muttered the monk to Balvardo; “wait one hour, ere thou
bearest the corse to the grave. ’Tis now the midnight hour: an hour from
this time, the Duke--ha, ha!--will wed his bride; an hour from this
time, and thou mayst bear the corse to the grave!”
“Be it so,” growled Balvardo. “Then this pestilent Adrian will trouble
me no more! Blood o’ Mahound, the grave is a wondrous sure prison; it
needs nor bolt nor bar; old Death stands jailor at its door!”
“Ladye!” cried the monk, as he advanced to the side of the Ladye
Annabel, raising the maiden, whose senses seemed stupified with horror,
from the floor, “behold the corse of thy love! Advance, Ladye--rest thee
by its side--gather the head of the corse to thy bosom! Watch beside the
corse one hour--a single hour--and let nor man nor devil wrest the
lifeless body from thy grasp!”
The Ladye Annabel opened her large blue eyes with a stare of vacant
wander, and smiled as she gathered the head of the corpse to her bosom,
twining her fair and delicate lingers in the golden hair of the dead.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE CELL OF ST. ARELINE.
A lamp of iron, all rusted and time-eaten, suspended from the arched
ceiling of a small apartment of the convent of St. Benedict, reserved in
especial for strangers, threw a dim light over the figure of his grace
of Florence, reposing on a velvet couch, and upon the blazing armor of
the attending men-at-arms, who waited beside their lord.
A smile, full of self-satisfaction, rested upon the lip of the Duke, and
a glance full of agreeable fancies lit up his eye, as he contemplated
the fulfillment of all his schemes.
“The forward boy punished for his insolence,”--thus ran his
musings--“done to death for the treasonable act of lifting his hand
against his liege lord--this accomplished, the fair Annabel is mine, and
with her I acquire the rich domains of Albarone. A servitor but a moment
since bears me intelligence that she has recovered from her madness.
By’r Ladye, my exhausted coffers shall be replenished to the brim!
Ha--ha ha! Then I shall war and conquer. Why not _I_ as well as others
of my rank and power? I shall war--I shall conquer--I shall--”
“My Lord Duke,” exclaimed a sentinel, thrusting his head from between
the folds of a sable curtain that hung across the apartment, dividing it
from an adjoining chamber, within whose walls were the followers of his
grace. “My Lord Duke, a monk of the convent craves audience with your
grace--shall I admit him?”
“Aye, let him enter.”
And in a moment, there stood before the Duke a monk attired in the dark
robe of his order: his hood was drawn over his face, and, with depressed
head and folded arms, he seemed to wait the commands of his grace of
Florence.
“Thy errand, sir monk?”
“I come by the bidding of the Father Abbot, to lead thee to the cell of
the blessed St. Areline.”
“Ah! I remember me. As I dismounted at the gate of the Monastery, the
reverend abbot told me that it had been a custom, from time past memory,
for all strangers visiting the holy house of St. Benedict, to pass an
hour in the cell of this saint--St. Areline, methinks she is styled.
Further, he told me the saint has the power of revealing future events.
Is’t so, holy father?”
“Even so, my Lord Duke. When besought, on bended knee, in the silence of
midnight, the form of the blessed saint appears fired with supernatural
life: her eyes flash and her lips move, and the doom of the
suppliant--whether for good or for evil--is revealed.”
“At midnight, say’st thou? ’Tis a lone hour. By’r our Ladye, but the
evil one may have something to do with the matter.”
“That may not be, my Lord Duke. The holy Areline died in the odor of
sanctity. The scorner and the outcast of heaven alone doubt her holiness
and power. For three centuries hath the fame of St. Areline been sounded
abroad, and now it were sin unpardonable to say aught against her sacred
name.”
“Lead on, holy father; in God’s name, lead on: I’ll follow thee. Hugo! I
say, Hugo!”
The face of the ill-looking sentinel with the squinting eye, appeared
among the folds of the sable curtain.
“Hugo, where is Balvardo, thy comrade--eh? Speak quickly--where is
Balvardo?”
The sinister eye of the sentinel squinted yet more fearfully; he looked
confusedly round, and stammered forth:
“My Lord Duke, he is--he is--”
He paused suddenly, and finished the sentence by pointing downward with
the forefinger of the right hand, with a sort of diving motion.
“Ah! I had forgotten _that_, good Hugo! Thou wilt attend me, vassals;
and ye, sirs, shall also accompany me to this midnight ceremony.”
While he thus spoke, the monk threw open a door at the end of the
apartment opposite the sable curtain, and, followed by the Duke,
attended by Hugo and the two men-at-arms, with torches in their hands,
he presently was traversing a long gallery, with his head still
depressed and his arms still folded on his breast.
“By’r our Lady, but thou art wondrous chary of thy good looks!--eh, sir
monk?”
“It becomes not a sinner like me to be otherwise than humble. It becomes
not a poor brother of St. Benedict to assume an erect port and a bold
countenance before--_his grace of Florence_!”
“Well said, by my troth! Whither art leading me, holy father? Ha! a
stairway; it extends above us as though it had no end. Ugh! how those
torches glare--how gloomy these arches seem! Lead on, sir monk!”
Ascending the stairway, they found themselves in a winding gallery, with
floor of stone, low arching roof, and narrow walls. Through the mazes of
this passage they swiftly wound, and presently they stood at the foot of
another stairway.
“By St. Peter!” exclaimed the Duke, “but these passages are like the
windings of a witch’s den. How runs the night, holy father?”
“When I left the halls of the convent, the sands of the hour glass had
fallen to within an half hour of midnight.”
“Ah! we shall be just in time for the trial of St. Areline’s power.
Another gallery! By’r Ladye, but this is wondrous! In the name of thy
patron, St. Benedict, I adjure thee, monk, tell me are we not near our
journey’s end?”
“See’st thou yon oaken door that terminates the gallery? The oaken door
with large panels, and topped by arches of dark stone? There an’ it
please thee, my Lord Duke, must thou leave thy attendants, and alone,
and in the dark, we will enter the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”
“How? Leave my attendants? ‘Alone,’ sayst thou? ‘In the dark’? Beshrew
me, sir monk, but this saint of thine is somewhat difficult of
audience!”
“The reward she offereth is beyond price. A knowledge of the future--the
dim and shadowy future! Thou shall behold thy coming deeds written in
characters of light; thy future conquests shall spread themselves before
thee like the varying beauties of a lovely landscape. Thou shall--”
“‘Slife! thou talkest well! Enough: we stand before the oaken door.
Enter--I’ll follow thee!”
The monk passed his hand over one of the panels of the huge door, and
pressing a secret spring, a narrow passage was opened, through which the
brother of St. Benedict disappeared, followed by his grace of Florence.
“There they go,” Hugo exclaimed as the panel closed. “There they go upon
their madcap adventure. The saints save me from all such folly!”
“And me, comrade,” cried the tallest of the men-at-arms, letting the
sheath of his sword fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.
“I say amen to your prayers,” exclaimed the other, looking very wise in
the torchlight.
“Ha! what noise is that?” cried Hugo, as he gave a sudden start.
“’Tis down in the court-yard,” exclaimed the tall man-at-arms. “Hark!
’tis the clashing of swords--the rattling of spears--the clashing of
armor.”
“Shouts, too!” cried the other soldier, “Ha! war cries! ‘Slife! it
sounds as if they were battering down the gates! Hark! again! and
again!”
And thus, while the sounds waxed louder, and the cries grew fiercer in
the court-yard below, the men-at-arms, and their companion, Hugo,
waited, with the utmost impatience the coming of their lord.
An hour passed.
The Duke had not appeared. The tall man-at arms fixed his eyes upon the
massive door, and struck the secret panel with his spear, urged by all
the vigor of his stalwart arm. Another and another blow. The wood
yielded, and the open space gave passage to the man-at-arms, who forced
his way through, followed by his comrade and Hugo of the sinister eye.
Their torches flashed upon the walls of a square apartment, with floor
and roof of stone. No living creature was there. A small, narrow door
gave entrance to another apartment. Three pillars of time-worn stone
supported the arched roof, and divided the place into three sides, with
floor of variegated stone. One side of the apartment, was concealed by a
curtain of sable velvet.
This Hugo hurriedly drew, and in an instant his ungainly figure was
reflected in a vast mirror of dazzling steel, which, reaching to the
arched ceiling above, twice the height of a man, extended on either side
as wide as it was high. Around the apartment was no sign of passage way
or secret door; all was bare and rugged stone, and the place was without
bench, stool, couch, or furniture of any kind.
“By’r Ladye!” shouted Hugo, “that monk was the--devil, and he has run
away with our lord! W-h-e-w!”
And the three fairly shook with mingled surprise and terror, which was
presently increased to alarm and horror by the clashing of arms in the
outer apartment.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE WONDERS OF ST. ARELINE.
No sooner had the oaken panel closed behind him, than the Duke found
himself cautiously groping his way in utter darkness, being guided by
the sound of the footsteps of the Monk.
Presently the Monk laid hand upon the Duke’s shoulder.
“Kneel, mortal, kneel,” he exclaimed in a voice which the Duke thought
wondrously changed of a sudden, “kneel and behold the wonders of St.
Areline! Speak not upon the peril of thy immortal soul!”
Upon the pavement of stone the Duke sank down, and the Monk began to
murmur certain mysterious words, in a low, yet deep tone, and thus he
continued for the space of the fourth part of an hour, when a light was
seen dimly gleaming at one end of the place, and presently another and
another, and gradually increasing in radiance they soon appeared to the
wondering eyes of the Duke, dancing within the surface of a vast mirror
of dazzling steel.
Strange it was that although the meteors,--for such they seemed--grew
more brilliant every moment, and shed a more intense brightness along
the surface of the mirror in which they shone, yet not a ray of light
escaped to illumine the apartment, and the figures of the Duke and the
Monk were wrapt in mid-night shadow.
And now soft clouds of feathery mist began to roll within the surface of
the mirror, and the meteors gradually faded away into an universal
brightness, which like the mellow beams that herald the coming day,
poured a flood of rosy light over the tumultuous chaos within the
dazzling steel.
“Behold!” cried the Monk, “behold the blessed St. Areline!”
A dim and ghastly form arose from amid the rolling clouds, far in the
distance; nearer it drew and nearer, and presently the outlines of a
nun, attired in the solemn hood, and sweeping robes of white, became
clear and perceptible.
Advancing to the front of the mirror with a gliding motion, the hands of
the spectre were folded upon its breast, and the hood of white, hung
drooping over its face.
The Duke trembled with terror, and his brow was wet with large drops of
moisture that oozed from his shivering skin.
“_Mortal!_” exclaimed a voice, soft as the tones of a spirit of
light,--“_mortal, what wouldst thou know?_” The voice came from the
shrouded face of the spectre.
With tremulous voice, and as if urged by some invisible power, the Duke
shrieked forth--
“I would know my doom--I would know my fate!”
The hood fell back from the head of the Spectre, and its arms slowly
extended!
“O Jesu!” shrieked the Duke,--“Look, look! the skeleton hands, the
fleshless skull, the hollow eyes! One hand grasps a cross, and one a
grinning skull.--Look, look!”
“Speak not!” whispered the Monk, “speak not upon pain of eternal doom!”
The voice again sounded through the cell.
“Dost thou seek in the name of the Holy One? Dost thou ask trusting in
his Saints?”
“I do!”
“Thou art answered!” and the bare and hideous bones of the spectre head
were covered, quick as a flash of light, with ruddy and healthy flesh,
the hollow sockets gleamed with dark and brilliant orbs, and the
skeleton hands glowed with life, as a skin of rosy loveliness shrouded
the disjointed bones.
“Thou art answered!” and as the spectre whispered the words, a skeleton
form came gliding along the mirror, holding an hour-glass in its
fleshless hand.
“_Behold!_” exclaimed the vision pointing to the things of graves,
“_behold thy doom?_”
A shriek of horror came from the lips of the Duke.
“O, horror of horrors!” he shouted, “It is the form of Death!--Look!
look! Behold! He turns, he turns with a ghastly smile--he points to the
hour glass!” The tyrant, assassin and betrayer started forward with
every nerve quivering with the intensity of his terror. “O God of
Heaven! _The Sands of the glass are run!_”
“Ha!” shrieked the Monk, with a wild yell, that sounded like the howl of
a dying war-horse. “Heaven wills it, thy sands are run, thy doom is
fixed!”
A stream of light poured around the cell, brighter than the blaze of the
noon-day sun, and a clap of thunder shook the pillars to their very
centre.
With his eyes rolling with affright, the Duke glanced upward, and beheld
the Monk standing erect, his arms outstretched, and his hood cast
backward from his face.
“O God! _Thou_ here! Albertine--thou here!”
“Ha! It is _I_!--Thy fate--thy curse--thy doom!”
The Duke felt himself seized in a grasp of iron, and hurriedly dragged
along the pavement of stone.
In a moment he heard the sharp spring of a door closing behind him, and
brushing his hand over his eyes, to restore his fading vision, he looked
around.
A spur of the whitened steep on which the convent was founded, arising
some twenty feet above the body of the mass of rock, was imbedded in the
darkened wall of the tower, with its summit extending in a platform some
three feet square, toppling over the dark abyss below.
Level as the sun-dial and smooth as polished steel, the summit of the
rock, projecting from the tower, might scarce afford a resting place for
footstep of human thing. In silence and in awe the Duke gazed around.
Above was the moonlit sky, below far, far below, a hundred fathoms down
sunk the dark and shadowy abyss, separated from the waters of the lake
by a ridge of rocks, that arose along the shores of the mountain tarn,
overlooking the sullen blackness of the impenetrable void, on one side,
while on the other towered and frowned above the walls of the gloomy
convent.
Gazing hurriedly around, the Duke beheld the walls of the Monastery,
extending on either side of the tower, in whose stones the platform-rock
was imbedded, all smooth, even and moss-grown; at his back leading into
the cell of St. Areline, was the secret door, fashioned in complete
resemblance to the wall around, fast closed and secured, while high
overhead arose the dark and frowning fabric of the tower, its rugged
outline, rising like a thing of omen into the dim blue of the midnight
sky.
This platform of rock was never looked upon by the peasantry of the
valley, save with wonder and with awe--a thousand dark traditions, named
the tower as the scene of many a deed of murder, and a thousand legends
dyed the platform stone with the crimson drops of innocent blood.
“Where am I,” shrieked the Duke with a low, murmured whisper. “It is a
dream, a dream of horror!”
“Thou art in the temple of my vengeance!” the response came hissing
between the clenched teeth of the monk. “Behold its roof, yon sky, the
walls, the boundless horizon, the floor, the wide earth; and the place
of sacrifice, yon bottomless abyss!”
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE WATCH BESIDE THE DEAD.
“All--all is dark!” the voice broke wild and whisperingly through the
midnight gloom of the place--“I have been dreaming--ah, me--a sad and
darksome dream! Methought Adrian lay cold and dead in my arms, while my
hand was entwined in the locks of his clustering hair, as they fell over
his lifeless face. It was a dream, a fearful dream--yet--mother of
heaven--do I still dream, or is this darkness real?”
She extended her hands, she passed them hurriedly along the floor, where
her form lay prostrate, and as she thus wildly sought to grasp the form
so lately reposing in her arms, she exclaimed with a murmured shriek--
“It flashes on me! All is real--The coffin and the corse, the assassin
and the bowl of death--all is dark and terrible reality!”
Passing her cold and stiffened hands, slowly along her forehead, the
Ladye Annabel endeavored to recall the tragedy of that fearful night, in
all its details of horror, and as scene after scene, action after
action, word succeeding word, came back to her memory, another fearful
mystery passed like a shadow over her brain.
“The corse reposed in these arms--where is it now? Who hath stolen the
body of the dead from my embrace? And the coffin--it is gone! They have
borne him to the grave!”
And as the low whispers broke from her lips, this fair and gentle
creature, whose nature was soft and yielding, as is ever the nature of a
_true woman_, in moments of calm and sunshine, yet susceptible of deeds
of the highest courage and noblest determination, in the hour of storm
and cloud arose from the floor, her frame all chilled and stiffened by
the hard repose of that fearful watch, and extending her hands she
wandered slowly around the chamber, seeking with hushed breath, for the
coffin and the corse.
All was darkness, thick and intense darkness.
Slowly and with cautious steps she paced around the room, passing her
hands along the folds of the tapestry, or extending her small and
delicate foot in the effort to touch the coffin, but her search was all
in vain. She wandered around the chamber, until her recollection of the
particular features of the room became vague and indistinct, and at last
with trembling hands and a bewildered brain, she stood erect and
motionless.
“All--all is vain!” she cried--“corse and coffin are all gone. They have
borne him to the grave!”
While the weary moments dragged heavily on, she stood silent and
unmovable, endeavoring to catch the faintest echo of a sound, or hear
the slightest whisper of a voice, but all was silent as death.
At last a distant and moaning murmur reached her ears.
Gradually though slowly it deepened into a booming sound, and at last
the subterranean arches of the old convent seemed alive with gathering
echoes, and the long corridors gave back the tramp of footsteps and the
hum of human voices.
“They come--they come”--whispered the Ladye Annabel--“They come to bear
me to the bridal!”
The bell of the convent, deep-toned and booming, rang out the hour
of--one--the fatal hour after midnight.
“Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!” the shout came
echoing along the corridors.
“Strike for Albarone and Florence!” the mingling war-cry reached the
ears of the maiden. And in a moment, the tapestry, concealing the
entrance to the room from which Adrian had issued ere he drank the bowl,
was hurriedly thrust aside, and amid the blaze of torches, the Ladye
Annabel, beheld the glare of armor and the flash of upraised swords,
while the stern visage of the warrior-band were gazing upon her pale
countenance and trembling form.
“Saved, by St. Withold!” shouted a soldier, springing from the
crowd--“Ladye tell us, in God’s name, where is the Lord Adrian?”
“They have borne him to the grave!” was the whispered and ghastly
response.
The bluff soldier turned aside, and it might be noted that his blue eyes
were wet with tears. In a moment he again faced the crowd of warriors.
“Behold the Queen!” he shouted, and the men-at-arms sank kneeling to the
floor--“all hail the fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
And the solitary chamber rung with the echo of the thunder shout--
“All hail the Fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE COFFIN AND THE CORSE.
THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE, AND THE SWORDER SEALS HIS FATE BY A TOUCH OF THE
FATAL SPRING.
Far beneath the Convent, down in the very bosom of the earth, far
beneath the chamber of the death-bowl, alone and in darkness, rested the
coffin and the corse for the space of an hour, awaiting the spade and
the Sexton, the priest with his prayers, and the grave with its silence.
The sound of trampling feet, broke along the silence of the earth hidden
passage, and presently, through the crevices of the dungeon door, thin
rays of light streamed along the cell.
Then there was drawing of bolts, and rattling of chains, and in an
instant the ruddy glare of torches, revealed the ill-looking form of
Balvardo, standing in the doorway, and beside him stood a short, thin
old man, with slight locks of gray hair, falling upon his coarse
doublet.
There was a vacant and wandering expression in his eye, while his
parched lips, hanging apart, gave an idiotic appearance to his
countenance. The long, talon-like fingers of his withered right hand,
grasped a spade covered with rust, and eaten by time.
“Ha--ha!” laughed Balvardo. “The potion which I gave _her_, some hours
ago, wrapt her in a sleep, like the slumber of old death. Blood o’ the
Turk, how her hands clutched the body o’ the dead, when I first tried to
tear it from her arms--even in her sleep she clutched it! I have him at
last--sound and sure! He escaped me in the cell of the Doomed, escaped
this sword in the Cavern of the Dead, and--and--now, by the fiend I have
him at last!”
The Sworder advanced to the Coffin, he gazed upon the pale face of the
dead, with a long and anxious look.
“He, he, he,” chuckled the old man. “Why did thou hate him, noble
Captain?”
“I know not,” muttered Balvardo, with an absent air, “yet I always had a
sneaking suspicion that one day or other, this man, now a corse, would
work my death! A queer feeling always haunted me, that made me feel like
the felon walking to his doom, so long as this--father-murderer remained
alive! Now he is dead, but I fear him yet, and will fear him till he is
safely buried i’ the earth!”
“Thou wouldst cover his face with this rich, yellow earth?” sneered the
ancient man,--“He, he, he! The grave hides all secrets!”
“To thy duty, Old Gibber-jabber,” exclaimed Balvardo, “Here’s thy man.
Lay hold of him, and help me to drag the coffin to the other side of the
dungeon. Pull him along--there--there!”
Throwing the coffin upon the damp earth, the old man placed a smoking
lamp near the prostrate head of the corse, and then intently watched the
motions of Balvardo, who was drawing the point of his sword along the
surface of the earth.
“Let me do’t, let me do’t, most noble captain,” exclaimed the old man,
pushing Balvardo aside,--“for years, and years, and years, man and boy,
have I wielded this good spade, here in these nice, cozy, comfortable
chambers! He--he--he! To think a fellow like thee, with that miserable
tool, that is unworthy to be called a--spade--to think that a stranger
like thee, should think to excel me--Old Glow-worm--in laying out a
grave!--He--he--he!”
“Old Glow-worm!--Ha, ha, ha!--a choice name by my soul!”
“A very good name; _they_ call me so--they who bring me food every
day--they poke it through the big door through which thou didst pass,
most noble captain. A merry time we’ve had of it here--a merry time!”
“_We!_--who dost thou mean?”
“Well! Thou art a fool, beshrew me!--_we_, I and my comrades, who always
receive our food at the big iron door. Here, long, long, very long, we
have lived in these nice cozy chambers.--Sometimes _they_ fight and kill
one another--then I dig their graves! See! how nicely the rich earth
turns up! This is a spade!”
Prattling after this fashion, the poor old idiot turned up the earth
till he stood in a square hole about a foot in depth, when a glance at
the pale visage of Adrian arrested his attention.
“He, he, he! _They always look so!_--Queer,--eh, noble captain!”
“What! hast ever had any other business of this sort?”
“Why, bless ye, most noble captain, I’ve put scores and scores of them
under the rich, yellow earth. _They_ bring ’em to me--_they_ at the big
iron door. This is earth for ye! Look! how the spade sinks into the
mould!--He, he, he!”
“What an old devil!” muttered Balvardo to himself. “How canst thou be
merry in these gloomy pits! eh, Old One!”
“Merry?--He, he, he! _Merry_ didst say, why bless ye, when I and my
comrades gather round our food, I am as merry as is the sound of this
spade, driving into the earth! Merry! why I sing, most noble captain, I
sing!”
“_Thou_ sing! Ha, ha, ha! Thou, indeed!”
“Why not I, eh? Beshrew me but thou art a fool! I can sing such a right
mirthful song--but they never like it--they my comrades!”
“By Saint Peter, I’ll wager a stoup of wine, that thou didst never see
the light of day--eh, old rat?”
“_Day!_ what is that?--But for my song--here goes!”
And then busily plying the spade, in a cracked voice he sang the
following words, in a sort of wild chaunt, which he occasionally varied
by sounds that resembled the yell of a screech-owl.
THE SONG OF THE ANCIENT MAN.[8]
DIG THE GRAVE AND DIG IT DEEP.
Dig the grave and dig it deep--
Straight with the mattock dig each side,
Dig it low, and dig it steep--
Dig it long and dig it wide!
As he sang, the old man plunged the spade lustily into the earth, and
throwing aside the large lumps of clay, he continued with great glee--
Here while nations rise and fall,
Here while ages glide,
Here wrapt within its earthy pall,
Must the crumbling corse abide!
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home--the grave!
He wound this up with an unnatural noise, half shriek, and half yell,
and the hollow and dread dungeon arches gave back the strain.
“He, he, he!--I know a merrier catch than that! List ye, my noble
captain.”
He then made a motion with his hand, as if in the act of drinking, and
then a shout of wild laughter sounded through the cell.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!--Drink to the full,
Drink to the sound of the clanking bone;
Fill high with wine the fleshless skull,
And swell the toast without a moan--
Hurra! for Death with his bony hands,
Hurra! for Death with his skeleton form,
He holds the thunderbolt.--On high he stands,
He mows them down in calm or storm--
He swept his spade around with maniac glee, and then in a voice louder
and shriller, while his shrunken breast heaved with the wildness of his
emotion, he sang,
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to Death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home--the grave.
“A brave song! Ha, ha, ha! By my faith a brave song! Where didst pick it
up, Old Screech-Owl, eh?”
“Glow-worm is my name,” replied the other demurely,--“Glow-worm--ah! but
this is rich earth! Look! what big, lusty clumps. He, he, he! How cold
and pale he looks--he that I am to bury--See!”
“He doth look cold and pale!” muttered Balvardo. “Is the grave deep
enough, Devil-darkness? Let’s house him in’ th’ earth without delay.”
“The grave scarce reaches to my middle--deeper let us dig it, noble
captain--deeper!”
“I tell thee, Devil-darkness, I cannot look upon the cold and stony face
of the dead! Deeper thou mayest dig the grave--but the body must be
hidden from sight in the meanwhile. ‘Slife--I left my cloak in the
vaults above, and I have no robe to throw over the coffin!”
“He--he--he, thou’rt a brave man, yet poor old Glow-worm knows more than
thee! Look around the cell, most noble captain, and tell me what thou
see’st!”
“I see the rough walls of stone, the roof of rock, the floor of clay.
Not a whit more, by the Fiend!”
“Look again--pass thine eyes along the wall opposite yon oaken door.
What see’st thou now, most noble captain?”
“I see a bolt of iron, rusted and time-eaten, projecting from the
wall--”
“Wouldst know how to open a passage into the stone room, next to this
cell? Move the bolt quickly to and fro, and yon massy stone will roll
back into the stone-room! Thou canst lay the coffin within its walls,
until the grave is deep enow.”
“The bolt moves--ha! The stone, the massive stone glides from the
wall--another push at the bolt! There--blood o’ Mahound, I behold a
dark passage into this dismal room! ‘Slife! there is a current of air
rushing from this open space--what may it mean?”
“Dost wish to hide the corse? Eh--most noble captain? Lay hold of
t’other end o’ th’ coffin, and I will raise this end. We’ll bear it to
the stone-room!”
In a moment they raised the coffin, and bearing it toward the open
space, Balvardo retreated backwards, through the passage, and in another
instant was lost to view, while the foot of the coffin still projected
into the dungeon-cell.
“Bear it through the passage, Glow-worm!” cried Balvardo. “In a moment
we will have it laid along the floor of this dreary place!”
“It is heavy,” cried the old man; “my strength fails me. Thou wilt have
to bear the burden thyself, most noble captain! Glow-worm lifts no heavy
burden!”
“Be it so,” growled Balvardo. “Slife I like not to be alone with the
dead! Slowly, slowly, drag the coffin along the floor of stone,
there--it rests against the wall! Now for the grave.”
“What dreary sound is that, thundering far above? Oft have I heard it,
yet ne’er could tell what it might mean?”
“The Convent clock strikes--one!” muttered Balvardo. “A few moments and
my reward is sure!”
“Beware the secret spring!” shrieked the old man, as though his crazed
mind had been fixed by some sudden thought. “Beware the secret spring!
It sticks from the floor near the very wall, where thou hast laid the
coffin. An’ thy foot presses the spring the stone rolls back, and--he,
he, he--_thou art buried alive_!”
It was too late! Even as the old man spoke, Balvardo stumbled along the
floor of the stone-room, his foot pressed the point of iron projecting
from the floor, and the massive rock rolled back to its place, in the
masonry of the substantial wall.
“I fear, I fear,” murmured the old man, gazing around with an affrighted
look; “I fear _they_,” pointing above, “_they_ will lash me for this!
He, he, he! I bade him beware of the spring within the stone-room, and
he would not. I cannot turn this bolt, the old man is not strong enough.
Ha, ha, here is a torch; Glow-worm has not had a torch in his hand for
years! Ho, ho, ho, the noble captain came here to bury the dead, and,
ho, ho, ho, he _is buried alive_!”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE FATE OF THE BETRAYER.
SWEETER THAN THE LOVE OF WOMAN, DEARER THAN GLORY TO THE WARRIOR,
POWER TO THE PRINCE, OR HEAVEN TO THE DEVOTEE, IS THE CONSUMMATION
OF A LONG SOUGHT AND SILENTLY TREASURED REVENGE.
“Where am I?” shrieked the Duke, as he stood upon the platform of the
convent tower. “‘Tis a hideous dream, ’tis a fearful nightmare! Ha! my
brain reels. I’ll gaze no longer down the fearful abyss! Is there none
to awake me, none? Horror of horrors! This demon hand will strangle me,
closer and tighter it winds around my throat, ah!”
A wild laugh of intense joy came from the chest of the Monk. “I feast
upon thy misery,” he cried, “wretch, I banquet upon thy agony! Ha, ha,
ha! _The glory of this moment I would not barter for all the joys of
heaven!_ Dost thou shiver, dost thou tremble, well thou mayst! Look
down, far, far below! Dost see any hope there, what says the whitened
precipice? Hath the dark abyss no voice? Look above, canst glean naught
from the frown of the tower that is over thy doomed and devoted head? Or
mayhap the secret door may afford thee consolation? Speak--thou for
whose crime earth hath no word, hell no name, speak that I may feast
upon the music of thy quailing voice!”
Tighter he wound his grasp around the throat of the trembling wretch,
and with his dark eye flashing with all the frenzy of supernatural
revenge, he shook the form of the Duke over the awful abyss.
“Is’t thou, good Albertine? Hold, hold, or I shall fall. ’Tis a fearful
steep! Behold, a flock of snow-white sheep are grazing in yon distant
vale, they seem but as mice at this fearful height. Thou, thou wilt not
harm me, good Albertine?”
“Look, look!--Behold her pale form is floating in the moonlight, her
face is wan, and her look is that of despair! Ha! her glazing eyes are
fixed upon thee--_thee_--her BETRAYER! She beckons me over the steep!--I
come--I come!”
“Nay, good Albertine, grasp me not so tight!--Bring to mind the days
when we were sworn friends--”
“_Friends?_ Doomed man, the memory of former days shall but hurl
accumulated torture upon thy head!--FRIENDS?--Ah! like a dream it comes
over my mind! I was a peasant boy--thou didst raise me to rank and
power, and I have loved ye as brother loves brother. Could my life have
served thee, it would have been laid at thy feet. My life thou did’st
not take. No! no! But the treasured hope of years, the glowing fancies
of a musing boy, the anticipations of happiness that haunted my dreams
by night, and lived in my thoughts by day; these--at one fell
remorseless blow, thou did’st sweep away. It was upon _her_ grave; the
grave of thy victim, that one thought possessed my soul. For years and
years have I planned, have I schemed, nay wept, _prayed_ for the
fulfilment of that thought. And now it is fulfilled. I have thee in my
grasp! Think’st thou a thousand worlds would buy thy craven life? That
heaven or hell would tear thee from my hand?”
Again he gave utterance to the frenzied joy of his soul in a loud wild
laugh, that burst fearfully upon the midnight air.
“Albertine spare me, spare me! Take not my life.”
“Spare thee? and yon pale form waving me onward? spare thee? wretch, I
tell thee all nature is celebrating thy doom! The moon is sinking below
the horizon, and the stars gleam through the gathering pall of darkness
like funeral fires! _Spare thee!_”
“Ha! whence come those shouts! I may yet be saved!”
“Thou mayst be saved--ha--ha--ha! It gives me joy to drag thee o’er this
steep, craving and hoping for life, to thy latest grasp! Look around
Urbano, Duke of Florence, look around and behold the fair and beautiful
earth, scene of thy crimes--nay, nay THY CRIME--behold the earth for the
last time!”
It was a weird and awful scene.
The dizzy height of the platform rock, the vast azure with its boundless
horizon, all beaming with the grandeur of the stars, the massive hills
sweeping around the mountain-lake, darkening the clear waters with their
midnight shadow, the pile of rocks uprising beyond the darkness of the
unfathomable abyss, the silence and the awe that rested upon the hour,
broken by the sound of far-off shouts, while on the very verge of the
eastern sky, bloody and red, the full-orbed moon was sinking slowly
down, casting a dim and lurid light over mountain and stream, convent
and plain--all formed a scene of dark and fearful interest.
The Universe, awful and vast, seemed to hold a strange sympathy with the
Revenge of Albertine the Monk, the stars gave their solemn light to the
scene, and the blood-red moon lit up the funeral pile of the Doomed.
“I gaze around, ’tis an awful scene. And thou, thou wilt spare me, good
Albertine?”
“As thou didst spare thy victim, when her voice rung in thy ears of
stone, shrieking for pity!” The response came hissing through the
clenched teeth of Albertine! “Betrayer, I again tell thee all nature is
celebrating thy doom! The moon is sinking below the horizon, and the
stars gleam through the gathering pall of darkness like funeral fires!”
Thrilled with terror and appalled to the very soul, by the erect form
and flashing eye of the Monk, the Duke stood trembling and quivering
like a reed, on the verge of the platform rock.
“Choose the manner of thy death! Leap from the rock, or behold, I raise
before thy very eyes this dagger; the dagger of the Holy Steel!”
“Thou wilt not slay me thus, good Albertine,” shrieked the Duke.
“Mercy--for the sake of God--mercy!”
“Thine own _mercy_ I give back to thee! Leap from the rock, or this
dagger seeks thy heart. Ha! that pale form, that dim and shadowy face,
floating in the midnight air, with the eyes of speechless woe! She
beckons me onward. He comes, pale spirit--thy betrayer comes! An
instant, and lo! before the bar of eternity he shall tremble at the
frown of the Unknown!”
It was a scene of sickening horror, yet dignified and consecrated by the
mighty revenge of the monk.
His face pale as death, his lips livid with fear, his eyes rolling and
vacant in their glance, the Duke stepped tremblingly backward, while the
monk strode one step forward, raising the keen steel aloft, with a slow
movement, yet with a quick eye and a determined arm.
“Leap--leap--or the dagger seeks thy heart!”
The Duke looked wildly around, and, shaking his hands aloft, gnashed his
teeth in very despair.
Another moment!
The monk alone stood on the platform, while a rushing sound swept
through the air, far, far below, as though a weight of iron had been
toppled from the rock.
Albertine slowly advanced to the edge of the platform, and gazed into
the void below.
With a fixed and glaring eye, with the dagger raised aloft in his right
hand, he gazed below, and beheld the folds of a garment waving through
the darkened air, while a yell most fearful and maddening to hear, came
shrieking from the darkness of the void, resounding to the very heavens
above, until the air grew animate with the sound of despair--unutterable
despair.
Then came a crashing sound, as though a heavy body had fallen against
the projecting points of the rugged rocks, and then all became silent.
Silence gathered over the universe, like one vast brooding shadow of
omen and doom.
The wild flush of excitement vanished from the face of the monk.
With a calm brow, a compressed lip, a cheek pale as death, and a full
dark eye, that seemed blazing forth from the shadow of the brow, he
folded his arms silently on his breast, and looked up to the midnight
heavens.
“She beckons me over the steep, she beckons me; and, with her burning
eyes fixed upon my face, she waves her hands, and bids me--on, on! She
points to the scenes of the past: God of my soul, how real, how vivid,
how like the pictures of memory! The cottage in the vale; the sunshine
sleeping on the roof sheltered by vines; the lordly hall and the
friend--_the friend_--the outrage, the lifeless form, and then comes the
spirit of my desolation, laughing with scorn as he points to the shadow
blackening o’er the dial plate of destiny!
“Nay, nay, wave not thy hands with that slow and solemn motion--glide
not so ghastly to and fro--thine eyes burn in my very soul! I come, I
come! Albertine glides onward to his bride!”
With folded arms, with calm and immovable countenance, fixing his glance
upon the vacant air, without a fear, a sorrow, or a sigh, the avenger
stepped from the platform rock, and with the speed of an arrow driven
home by the strong arm of the archer, he sank into the darkness of the
abyss.
There was a low moaning exclamation of joy, and the setting moon looked
on the falling form no more.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THREE DAYS ELAPSE.
JOY COMES AND POWER, BUT DEATH HAS GRASPED THE VICTIM.
The morning sunshine, streaming through the deep silled casement of the
convent cell, filled the lonely chamber with light.
The arching roof and the pavement of stone, the dark gray walls,
thronged with monkish effigies, and the distant corner of the room, all
glowed with warm glimpses of the daybeams, while a solitary soldier
strode slowly along the floor, his brow darkening with a frown, as, with
his clear blue eyes fixed on vacancy his mind was absorbed in painful
thought.
“St. Withold! and all the Saints in heaven or earth save me now!” he
absently muttered, as his right hand grasped the hilt of his good
sword.--“Here’s a new wonder, a fresh mystery! Three--three days
agone--we were all fighting and slashing, leading murderers to death,
and pulling Dukes from their thrones, daring death in as many shapes as
swords are fashioned, and all for my Lord Adrian, and lo! we bend all
things to our will, dethrone the tyrant, and fill the people’s throats
with an outcry for the new duke, and what comes next? Answer my good
Robin--answer my old friend--where is the new duke? God knows, and the
Saints might tell, an’ we knew how to ask them, but not a whit does
Rough Robin know about the matter. The old priest was wont to tell me
that the ways of HIM above--off with thy cap, Robin--were full of
mysterie. I never knew what he meant till now--”
The small door of the cell slowly grated on its hinges, and as the
yeoman turned to discover the cause, he beheld standing before him a
cavalier whose form was attired in glossy purple and bright gold, yet
all soiled and tarnished with dust, while his young face, pale and
careworn, bore traces of the fearful struggle that had shaken his soul
within the past few days.
“Ah--Guiseppo! Pale and careworn--thine attire covered with dust--thy
broken plume sweeping o’er thy brow----whence came ye boy, in such
attire and in such a ghastly trim?”
“I greet thee, good Robin. Yesternight I left the Castle of
Albarone--this morn I journeyed from the walls of Florence!”
“Thou dost bear a message?”
“I come from the nobles and the people of Florence! Three nights agone
the old walls of the fair city rang with the clash of arms and the peal
of trumpet, while the tramp of contending foemen shook the floor of the
ducal palace, and the glimmer of their swords was reflected in the very
mirrors of the Tyrant-Duke. The morning dawned at last, and dawned on
Florence, no longer oppressed by the tyrant, or awed by the vassals of
his power. Then it was that the nobles of Florence named their new Duke,
then it was that the people confirmed their choice, while the solemn
HIGH PRIEST OF THE INVISIBLE, by a parchment scroll affixed to a pillar
of the grand cathedral, pronounced his blessing on the fortune of
Adrian, Count of Albarone and Duke of Florence--”
“Thus far all was well. Then ye learned the mysterious disappearance of
Lord Adrian? Speak I the truth, Guiseppo? The dark scenes which three
nights agone gave new legends of horror to the walls of this convent of
darkness? The death-bowl administered by the hands of Albertine--the
watch of the Ladye Annabel beside the corse--the disappearance of the
body, and what troubles me but little, the disappearance of the
tyrant-duke? A thousand such dukes might disappear, and we could tell,
without a doubt, what became of them all, ‘the devil takes care of his
own’ saith the adage--”
“Hast thou no word of the Lord Adrian?”
“Ask the tombs in the aisles of the convent chapel, which yesternoon we
ransacked in search of his body, and let their yawning mouths tell the
story of our fruitless labor. St. Withold! scarce a foot of earth in the
convent garden that we did not turn to the sun in our search--not a cell
in the earth-hidden recesses of this foul den, that we failed to
illumine with the glare of our torches, not a wizard nook or a
blood-stained corner in this devil’s hall, but was laid open to the
light, in our strange chase after the body of the dead! And it was all
in vain, Guiseppo, all in vain!”
“The Ladye Annabel--hast thou no word of her, Rough Robin?”
“St. Withold, I see her now! Traversed we the dark walls in search of
the corse? She went with us, though her feet sunk ankle-deep in the dust
of the dead, at every step. She led us on to the fatal room, where the
corse had been stolen from her grasp, while bewitched by the drugged
potion; she pointed the way to the dark cavern beneath the convent, and
when every heart failed, awed with supernatural fear, she, even the fair
and gentle Ladye Annabel, still cried on, and on! An’ the saints shower
not their blessings on her head, I’ll turn Paynim-hound, and kiss the
crescent!”
“Dwelleth the Ladye still within the Convent walls?”
“Since the hour of our search yesternight, she hath shrouded herself
within the recesses of the apartments furnished for her use by the
vassals of Albarone, when they hastened hither, two days agone. Hast
thou a message for the Ladye?”
“I bear a message for the Ladye, and a parchment scroll for the
INVISIBLE! Robin come hither--a word in thy ear!”
With the mystic sign of a Neophyte of the Holy Steel, he asked the way
to the solemn place, where the order assembled holding their secret yet
mighty councils.
“Even now they hold their solemn council, within these convent walls,”
answered Robin the Rough.--“In a moment I’ll lead thee to the secret
chamber. Yet stay a single moment, Guiseppo. Thou knowest I left the
castle on that fearful day, when, when, od’s death I cannot name the
deed--”
“That blow, Saints of Heaven! will the _memory_ never pass from my
brain! Thou wouldst speak of--of my father?”
“Does the old man live?”
“When thou didst leave the castle, I stood watching silently beside the
door of the chamber where lay my father, my own father, stricken down by
the hand--the hand of his own son.”
“You watched beside the door, while the leech who had been hurried from
the City of Florence disrobed your father, and probed the dagger wound?”
“And I--I, stood trembling beside the door waiting the appearance of the
leech, every moment expecting to hear the words--‘Thy father is dead!
_Dead_--murdered by his _son_!’ I stood beside the chamber door, all
alive with horror, my fancy picturing the dagger, which but a few hours
agone, I had drawn from his heart, the point crimsoned with one fearful
stain of blood, there I stood, fire in my brain, and hell in my heart,
when--”
“Ha, ha, ha--Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand, the flaming brand,” a wild
and maddened voice awoke the echoes of the corridor leading to the cell,
with its tones of maniac yell. “Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand, the
flaming brand! Look ye how it flashes on high, ’tis a serpent, a merry
serpent with tongue of fire! Ha, ha, for the brand, the flaming brand!”
The small door of the cell grated on its hinges, and in the very centre
of the pavement, brandishing a fire-brand over his head, there stood, a
weak and trembling old man, his thin face, with the vacant eye and
hanging lip, flushed with madness, while his voice half shriek and half
yell, rang echoing round the room.
The brand, ha, ha, the flaming brand! Ha, ha, ye brought the old man no
food! Ho, ho, ho, Old Glow-worm and his comrades starve, yet there is a
merry blaze in the vault below, I trow! Rafters are all aflame, massy
bolts are red with fire, and my comrades go shouting merrily through the
long vaults, waving their brands on high, and singing a joyous song as
they go--
“Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave--
Here’s to Death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home, the grave!”
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MYSTERIES OF THE CHRONICLE.
TO BE READ BY ALL WHO WOULD LOOK BEHIND THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND
GAZE UPON THE SECRET SPRINGS THAT MOVE MEN TO DEEDS OF WOE AND WAR
AND DEATH.
“Florence is free!”
“Florence is free!” echoed the Monks of the Holy Steel, and the shout
resounded through the circular room of the tower, repeated by the
Neophytes of the Order, with one wild acclaim, “Florence the fair and
beautiful is free!”
Slowly the High Priest of the Order arose.
From the dome of the tower the light fell dimly over the scene.
The Monks of the Holy Steel were seated around the square table, their
faces veiled, their forms muffled in sable robes.
The figures of the Neophytes, (or Initiates) were grouped around the
Superiors of the Order. They stood shoulder to shoulder, along the walls
of the Tower-Room, every one with a dagger in his right hand, a torch in
his left.
The torches were extinguished, for the work of the Order was
accomplished.
Stately and erect, in the midst of this scene, towered the tall figure
of the High Priest, veiled and muffled like the others, his hands
extended over the heads of the brethren in a gesture of benediction.
And at the other end of the table sate the veiled Doomsman, his rough
hand appearing from the folds of the black robe, laid upon the handle of
the axe, whose steel was crusted with the rust of blood.
“Three years ago,” thus spoke the High Priest, “the cry of blood, day
and night, unceasingly and forever, went up to the throne of God calling
for vengeance.
“From the walls of the fair city it shrieked, from the plain it echoed,
from the mountain side that low moaning voice rose up to the blue sky,
pleading for the doom of the assassin, the death of the tyrant.
“Then it was in times of blood-shed and slaughter, in the day of foul
misrule and galling wrong, when the grim bravo whetted his knife on the
stones of the altar, and the corses of the murdered crowded the
sanctuary of God, then it was, that a few brave and determined men,
evoked from the shadows of the past, a POWER, mighty yet secret,
blasting as the thunder-stroke, yet invisible as the grave!
“The POWER of the STEEL--winged by the hands of those twin-sisters of
vengeance, SECRECY and MYSTERY.
“Three years past, and on the lips of men, there grew a mighty word--the
Steel, the Holy Steel!
“The bravo still smote his victim in the silence of the night, but ere
the morrow’s sun, the corse of the assassin lay prostrate beside the
murdered.
“The wronger still pursued his work of violence, but it was by stealth
and in secrecy; the tyrant still filled the air with shrieks of death
and cries of despair, but the trembling tones of his own guilty voice
mingled with the last words of the slain.
“The secret band were abroad--the invisible struck their keen dagger
suddenly and without mercy, from the cloud that enclosed their
existence, and more terrible on the lips of men grew that sound of
fear--_The vengeance of the Holy Steel._
“Not many days agone, the work which the Order had sworn to fulfill,
was hastened by a new crime of the tyrant. The last baron of the race of
Albarone, whom the brethren of the steel had resolved to raise to the
Ducal throne, awaited within the walls of a dungeon the coming of the
morrow, which was to bring to his head the woe and the doom, the axe,
the wheel, the scaffold, and the stake. Doomed on a false accusation,
doomed on the testimony of forsworn tools of power, Adrian of Albarone
had laid him down to die, when the Messenger of the Steel appeared, the
rescue was planned, and the morrow morn beheld the prisoner free.
“The march of fate strode swiftly on. All men named our brother--may God
receive his soul--as the tool and minion of the Duke, while--it gives me
joy to say it--he walked abroad the messenger of the steel.”
“All hail the spirit of Albertine!” arose the solemn exclamation of the
brethren--“all hail the incarnate spirit of our order!”
The last scene came hastening on. And the hand of fate pointed to this
lonely Convent of the Mountain Lake, as the place where the wrongs of
years should be avenged, where the Tyrant should meet his secret and
fearful doom.
“For long years these halls had been peopled by a monkish band, who wore
their sacred robes as a cloak for blasphemies too horrible to name;
while the Dukes, the Tyrant-Dukes of Florence, startled these ancient
walls with the noonday debauch, and midnight orgie, the sunshine murder,
or the torch-light massacre!
“Here not many days agone, came Albertine the Monk. Still in the
confidence of the Duke--for a specious tale blinded the eyes of the
Tyrant with regard to the part our brother bore in the escape of the
Doomed--still in the confidence of the Duke, the convent doors flew open
at his word. Lord Adrian found a home within these walls, and day by
day, secretly and surely, Albertine made converts of the Abbott and the
Brethren of this Monastery of crime.
“A few days past, the tools and minions of the Duke, they now became the
sworn Neophytes of the Order of the Holy Steel. It was the purpose of
Albertine, to lure the Duke to the lonely Convent, and while the sound
of his midnight wassail, awoke the echoes of the old walls, the Avenger
would strike the dagger to his heart. The treachery of a peasant of the
lonely valley hastened his schemes to their completion.
“The last night came. The Duke, flushed with pride, and made reckless by
revenge, rode through the convent gates, companioned by his bravoes, who
held their knives on high, shouting for the blood of Adrian, the
Traitor.
“And while they prepared the doom of Lord Adrian, in the lonely valley,
the INVISIBLE bestrode the mighty storm of vengeance that darkened over
the night in Florence. The morning dawned on Florence the Free!
“The morning dawned over the lonely valley, and the blood-stained
Convent. Along the halls, and through the vaults of the ancient fabric
were heaped the corses of the bravoes, while the Brethren of our Order,
ran from hall to hall, from vault to vault, lifting the red steel on
high, as they sought for new victims, while the shout of vengeance rang
pealing from roof to floor, until the air seemed animate with the cry of
death.
“The Monks of the Steel came hurrying to the convent, two hours after
midnight, but they came too late.
“The Duke, Albertine and Lord Adrian, all had disappeared.
“The morning dawned on Florence, unshackled and free, but the Duke,
chosen of God, was gone.
“Brethren, ye have all heard the fearful story of that night of
terror--the farewell of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his
sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian, when awaiting his doom
in the earth-hidden vault--ye have heard how the bowl of death was given
to the Duke-elect by the monk--the singular disappearance of Albertine
and the Duke when they entered the Chamber of St. Areline--all has
reached your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery--”
“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath been darkening o’er my soul
since that night of terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the
Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly rose from his seat. “A
light breaks over the chaos of doubt and mystery--a sad and fearful
light. Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his thirst for the blood
of the Tyrant Duke, beheld the midnight hour approach, while the
Brothers of the Invisible still delayed their coming. The Duke bade him
perform this work of doom. Albertine must either refuse, or excite the
suspicion of the tyrant. ’Twas a terrible thing--oh, most terrible to
poison the young Lord at the bidding of this changeling Duke, but
Albertine had no alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet
altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into life. He was forced to
slay Adrian to retain the confidence of the Tyrant--sooner would
Albertine make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened bones, than the
Duke, against whom his very soul had sworn vengeance, should live. He
slew Lord Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the act--and then
came his strange and mysterious vengeance on the Tyrant.”
A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the Tower-room.
Every heart was impressed with the terrible truth shadowed in the words
of the Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence, each
heart solemnly mused on the dark story of Albertine, his last crime, and
his last revenge.
“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,” again spoke the High Priest.
“Brothers of the Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk, joined
in the work of vengeance on the Wronger, death to the slayer, ye who won
for the Fair City, peace and freedom, ye who rule her destinies, guide
her fate, your High Priest asks you the solemn question--Who shall wear
the Ducal Coronet of Florence?”
The bold words were yet ringing on his lips when a shout from the
stairway leading to the tower, rang through the circular room--
“Ha--ha--ha! I bear the brand--the flaming brand! See--how it whirls on
high--look how it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long, but ye
could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”
The small door of the tower-room was flung suddenly open, and rushing
through the aperture, the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac
stood disclosed before the vision of the secret brothers; the blazing
torch he grasped in his right hand flinging a blood-red light over the
veiled figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of the room were
illumined with fitful glimpses of the ruddy beams.
“Ha--ha--ha! The brand, the flaming brand! Ye sought well and ye sought
long--but ye might not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his brothers!
Merry was the fire they built--merry, oh, merry! Cheerily the flame
arose--oh cheerily! And now--ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor
burns, all is fire--and ha, ha, I bear the brand, the flaming brand!”
And as the maniac swung the burning brand, whirling and hissing round
his head, there came hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily
attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a young and lovely woman
in his arms, followed by a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was
stamped with an expression of alarm most strange to see on his
determined features, while he aided the youth and maiden onward in their
flight from the smoke and flame below.
“Health to the Holy Steel!” cried the cavalier rushing forward; “I bear
a message from the Lords and People of Florence!”
“Ye will have to be wondrous hasty with your messages, I tell ye!”
exclaimed the bluff soldier. “For d’ye see--all below us is flame and
death--the convent is on fire, by St. Withold!”
“Brethren of the Holy Steel,” exclaimed the High Priest, as opening the
pacquet he gazed calmly round over the erect forms of the uprisen monks
and neophytes of the order--“who shall wear the ducal crown of
Florence?”
“The Ladye Annabel!” echoed the Brethren of the Holy Steel, with one
unanimous shout. “Live the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence!”
A moment passes--behold the spectacle!
A fair and lovely form, clad in robes of fluttering white, stands
trembling in the midst of the group of black-robed men who cluster
round, kneeling on the pavement, as they raise their hands in one
hurried movement, and shout with wild acclaim--
“Live the Queen--live the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
And as the Secret Brethren sank kneeling round, priest and neophyte, all
with heads bent low, before the form of the Ladye Annabel, who gazed
around with a vague and wandering look, there standing erect with a
flushed cheek and a rolling eye, the ancient man of the vault flinging
the brand aloft, whirling the flame round and round again, as he
shouted--
“‘Tis merry, ’tis merry, ha, ha! ’Tis merry, ’tis merry--hurrah! Old
Glow-worm is a demon--these all are demons! Ha, ha! Fire above, and fire
below--old Glow-worm is king! On--on--brothers--on--light up the cozy
nooks with the red flame--fire the timbers, heat the old rocks, scare
old Death with the light! Ha--ha--ha! The stone rolled back, and
he--_was buried alive_!”
“Up, up--an’ ye bear the hearts of men--up and save yourselves and save
the Queen!” shouted Robin the Rough. “The fire has chased us through the
long galleries of the convent, from chamber to chamber, from room to
room, has it followed roaring at our heels! Up, and save the Queen! Her
attendants have escaped or fallen in the flames. Yonder by the window of
the stairway is our only hope! A staircase of massive stone, built
outside the walls of this tower, leads downward to the southern wing of
the convent, yet untouched by flame! Up, and save the Queen!”
“Listen, Brothers of the Invisible, listen to the last words ye shall
ever hear from your High Priest. Our oath is fulfilled, the Tyrant is
dead, Florence is free! And here in this lofty tower, environed by
flame, with the roaring of the fire in our ears, and the lurid smoke
rolling up to the heavens, with flame and death all round, here in this
dark and blood-stained House of St. Benedict, do I, your High Priest and
Sire, dissolve the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel!”
“When Wrong arises, then shall ye again spring into life, when Murder
walks abroad in the sunshine, laughing in the face of God, then shall
His ministers again raise the Invisible steel! Till then I dissolve your
band, give back your oath.”
“Prince and peasant, lord and monk--off with your sacred garments, off
with the vestments in which ye have been robed as the avengers of God,
off with hood and cowl--stand forth as ye are and raise the shout--Live
the Ladye Annabel. Live the Queen!”
“Live the Ladye Annabel--” the shout rang pealing to the
tower-roof--“Live the Queen!”
It was like magic!
Down fell hood and cowl, down fell sable vestments and midnight robes,
and there disclosed in the light of the flaming brand, stood the prince
in his jewelled robes, the knight in the surcoat of glittering velvet,
the lord in his gay doublet, the merchant in his silken tunic, the
peasant in coat of serge, the priest arrayed in sacerdotal white,
glittering with the sacred insignia of gold, the scholar in his flowing
gown of sable, all stood there, rising stately erect in the light, proud
representatives of their various classes, types of the GOTHIC MAN,[9]
however named, or styled, all joined in the holiest cause on earth, the
freedom of their native land, lifting up their hands and voices in one
wild burst of enthusiasm, as they hailed the Ladye Annabel, Queen of
Florence, chosen by the people, chosen by the lords, chosen by the
priests, chosen by God!
A strange smile of delight stole over the lovely face of the Ladye
Annabel, as standing calm and erect, her blue eyes was fixed on the
vacant air, with the gaze of one entranced by some vision of far-off
bliss.
“We shall meet again,--” she said and smiled--“Oh joy, we shall meet
again!”
“Buried alive--ho, ho!” shrieked the ancient man, in a low chaunting
voice--“Ha--ha! The stone rolls back--I have the brand, and then--ho,
ho, hurrah! _Buried alive!_”
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
THE BURIED ALIVE.
THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE, LEADING THE WAY THROUGH THE CHAMBERS
OF SLEEP, AND TRANCE, AND DEATH, SOLVES THE MYSTERIE OF THE LIFE OF
ADRIAN DI ALBARONE.
Afar through the gloom and twilight that hangs between the visible and
the unreal world, we behold the Spirit of the Chronicle, leading us
onward to a dim and shadowy land peopled by Dreams and thronged with
Thoughts, robed in forms of light or clad in shapes of doom.
It is the land of Death--the land of the Grave.
The awful region, where the soul, parted from its house of clay, looks
over the wide expanse of shadow, and beholds every thought that ever
visited its mortal form, spring up into tangible being and life, now
gladdening its eternal vision with images of loveliness and beauty, and
again affrighting the pale Spirit with shapes of ghastliness and woe.
Thus, as his dread Record draws near its close, thus speaks the
Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.----
DEATH--mighty and irresistible, look down upon the cold corse, and tell
us, when does thy hand first unveil the Eternal to the eye of the
Soul.--
LIFE--thou mockery and blasphemy, gaze upon the form of the Mortal
Thing, and give us to know, when does thy power cease, when does thy
victim pass from thy grasp?
Ye each dispute the possession of the Soul, upon a shadowy battle-field,
and now the victory sways to the skeleton, and now to the thing of
Flesh. Men know this battle-field by various names, they call it SLEEP,
they call it TRANCE, they call it DEATH.
First the body sleeps, then it is entranced, then it dies. First the
Soul gazes with a dim eye upon the Eternal World, then its vision is
enwrapt and absorbed, and at last, as the clay dies, it is all Spirit,
and Thought, and Dream.
Come with us, reader, with hushed breath and a solemn footstep come with
us, while we tread the halls of Old Death, tracing the Soul through the
chambers of Sleep and Trance, into the full light of the AWFUL UNKNOWN!
* * * * *
Adrian Di Albarone drank the Bowl, and drained it to the dregs, and as
he drank, the lovely face of Annabel swam round him in wild confusion,
mingling with the dark countenance of Albertine, and the bronzed visage
of the Sworder, while his heart seemed turning to fire, and his brain to
molten lead.
He drained the bowl to the dregs, and then fell prostrate over the
coffin, and then came a cold and unconscious pause, when his heart, and
his brain, were wrapt in forgetfulness, covering his soul like a thick
mist, or the deep darkness of midnight.
Awaking slowly from this oblivion of soul, he beheld looking him calmly,
yet fixedly in the face, the countenance of his father, Lord Julian of
Albarone, pale as death, and livid with the hues of corruption yet
lighted by the deep glance of those shadowy eyes, that seemed to burn in
their very sockets, like meteors seen through the dimness of the
day-break mist.
As this face so wild, so lofty and so ghastly in its supernatural
expression, faded slowly away from the vision of Adrian, his soul became
the prisoner of mighty Dreams, the Spirits of the Grave, who called up
before his eye, this dark and startling Mysterie.
THE MYSTERIE OF LIFE.
He stood in the court-yard of an ancient castle, with the frown of the
old walls glooming over his head, while the blaze of the festal lights
thrown from the lofty windows gave a ruddy light to the scene.
Gladsome strains of music, the light-hearted laugh of the reveller, the
gay carol of the minstrel came echoing to his ear.
He looked around the courtyard, and beheld ranged under the shadow of
the ancient wall the chariots of the great and proud, extending in long
and brilliant array, as far as eye could see, each chariot with its
panels blazing with heraldic emblazonings boasting its gallant
attendance of four noble steeds, decorated with gay housings and waving
plumes, red, azure and snow-white in hue, while numerous servitors,
attired in liveries of every color and gaudy device, ran to and fro,
their shouts of boisterous merriment, mingling with the voices of their
Lords, joining in the glee song of the banquet hall.
Ascending a massive stairway, with snow-white marble steps, and rare
paintings adorning the wall, Adrian made his way through the crowds of
feasters, passing to and fro, through the stream of servitors bearing
dainty viands to the revellers above, and in a single moment stood
within the glare and glitter of the Festival Hall.
It was in sooth, a grand and magnificent scene.
The pillars of a lofty hall swept away from the spot where he stood, in
grand perspective, each lofty column bearing its burden of wild flowers,
quaintly wreathed around sculptured frieze and capital, hanging in long
festoons to the floor, or borne to and fro by the summer breeze.
The glare of ten thousand lamps, arranged amid the intricate ornaments
of the ceiling, hung along the towering columns or pendant in the night
air, gave a dazzling light to the scene.
The dancers went merrily over the bounding floor, each eye gleaming with
revelry, each cheek glowing with the merriment of the hour, and the
Spirit of the Dance giving life to every step, animation to every motion
of the revellers.
Placed on the balcony above his head, the band of minstrels filled the
air with music; pillar and column, ceiling-arch and obscure nook, gave
the strains with redoubled echoes, until the air seemed animated with
melody, and instinct with the life of joy.
Floating on the waves of sound, the forms of dame and damsel, lord and
cavalier, seemed swimming in the atmosphere, their eyes flashing light,
their hands gaily upraised, their voices mingling in a festal song, as
they undulated to and fro, now circling here, now grouping there, now
clustering in a crowd, and again darting away over the floor, like a
flock of frightened birds scared by the swoop of the falcon.
Adrian gazed over the scene, until his eye grew sick with loveliness,
his ears deafened by the sound of mirth, revelry and music, he gazed
around and marked the forms of beauty swaying in the dance, here the
blooming form of mature womanhood, bounding amid the dancers, there the
blushing cheek of girlhood, receiving the warm blaze of the festal
lights o’er the velvet skin, here soft lips and azure eyes, mingling
their messages of love, there delicate hands pressed thrillingly
together, on every side the form of a queenly dame revealed in the
light, or the soft bosom of a princely damsel, heaving from the folds of
her vestment--on all sides beauty and grace, music and motion,
commingling their fascinations, while the heart filled with melody, and
the pulse throbbed with joy.
And as Adrian looked, with a wild thrill of delight, he beheld one
lovely form, standing apart from the dancers, while her face of dreamy
beauty was gazing sadly over the scene, the deep blue eye gleaming with
thought, and the swelling cheek paled by melancholy, as the strains of
festival music came to her ear.
It was the Ladye Annabel!
With a wild cry of delight, Adrian sprang forward, and as he sprang, his
bride turned, beheld his face, and came swimming into his arms.
Another moment and they joined the throng of dancers speeding gayly over
the floor, their hands interlocked while their glances mingled, and the
soft whispers of each voice, spoke of the dear memories of the olden
time.
It was when the dance swelled gayest, when the minstrels gave forth
their most joyous notes, when all around was life and music and the
waters of joy came bubbling to the brim of every heart, that a strange
voice, deep, and whispering in its tones, broke over the very heart of
Adrian.
“_Man, thou art full of joy, and around thee every cheek glows with
health, every eye sparkles with life. Behold, I show thee the Mysterie
of Life and Death! Thou art doomed to return to this Festal Hall, one
hundred years from this night, when thou shalt behold the Festal Scene,
which death will open to thy gaze!_”
And at the very word, Adrian lost his bride in the throng of dancers,
and all grew dark as midnight.
The music and the dancers, the forms and beauty and the pillared hall,
all, all were gone, and a strange consciousness was impressed upon the
brain of Adrian, that one hundred years from the festal night had passed
away, and that he had been wrapt in slumber for a long and dreary
century of time.
THE MYSTERIE OF DEATH.
He stood in the court-yard of the ancient castle yet again.
A broad blaze of light poured from the windows of the festal hall, while
the peals of strange and unknown music broke murmuringly on the air.
Adrian gazed around the court-yard, with a feeling of awe, gathering
heavy and dark around his heart.
There was the castle yard, the same as in the olden time, yet not
altogether the same.
Gleams of moonlight stole through the chinks in the tottering walls of
the court-yard, wild vines threw their long branches from among the
age-worn stones, and the owl, like a thing of evil omen disturbed the
air with its sullen murmur.
Gazing along the court-yard, Adrian beheld a strange and ghastly
spectacle.
Beneath the shadow of the dark gray walls, along the very space occupied
by the array of chariots, one hundred years before, there extended a
long line of death-cars, hearse succeeding hearse, all draped in folds
of black, with four dark steeds, heavy with hangings of dark velvet,
attached to each chariot of the grave, while the coachman’s seat was
tenanted by a grisly skeleton, attired in the gay livery of the noble
lord whom he served in life.
With maddened steps, Adrian hastened along the whole line of hearses, he
beheld each death-car, with its four black steeds, their heads decorated
with sable plumes, their bodies concealed by folds of black velvet, he
beheld the skeleton driver seated on every hearse.
He saw the paraphernalia of death and the grave, and as the horror grew
darker at his heart, he shouted aloud, asking in tones of wild
amazement, the cause of this fearful panorama of woe and gloom.
There came no answer to his shout.
All was silent, save the murmur of the owl and the peals of strange
music floating from the windows of the Festal Hall.
“What means this fearful scene?” whispered Adrian, as he seized the
skeleton servitor of a gloomy hearse by the arm--“What means the long
array of death cars?”
The skeleton extended his fleshless jaws, in a hideous grin, and with
his skeleton hand, brushed the dust of the grave from his gay doublet of
blue and silver, and arranged the tasteful knot of his silken sash.
Still no voice came from his bared teeth, no answer came from his
fleshless visage.
“Fiend of hell,” shouted Adrian, “this sight will drive me mad.”
“Nay, nay, good youth,” exclaimed a soft and whispered voice at his very
shoulder. “Be not alarmed, ’tis but a festal scene. One hundred years
from this night we all thronged yonder dancing hall, ’tis our pleasure,
or mayhap our doom to return to the scene of our former gaiety. I was
master of ceremonies an hundred years ago, I am master of ceremonies,
ha, ha, yet once again. Will it please ye to choose a partner?”
With a feeling of involuntary horror, Adrian turned and beheld a Figure,
clad in a gay robe of purple, faced with snow-white ermine, holding the
rod of office in his hand, while a group of rainbow-hued plumes, hung
drooping over his brow.
Adrian dashed the plumes aside, he beheld, oh sight of mockery, the
fleshless skull, the hollow eye sockets, the cavity of the nose, the
grinning teeth, and the hanging jaw, while the hand grasping the wand of
office, was a grisly skeleton hand.
He turned from the bowing skeleton, and was rushing away with horror,
when a new wonder fixed his attention.
The master of ceremonies waved his wand, and each skeleton driver leaped
from his hearse.
Another signal and the long line of skeletons, each attired in gay and
contrasted livery, extended their skeleton hands, and lifting the pall
on high disclosed the gloomy burden of each death car, the coffin draped
in black, with the heraldic plate of gold, affixed to each coffin lid.
A third wave of the wand from the master of ceremonies, and the skeleton
drivers, unscrewed each coffin lid, and Adrian beheld the occupant of
every tenement of death, slowly rise from their last resting place,
gazing beneath the shadow of the uplifted funeral pall, around upon the
court-yard.
As they gazed, Adrian beheld each fleshless skull, wearing the horrible
grimace of death, looking forth from beneath their gaudy head-gear, the
plumed cap, or the jeweled coronet, while their skeleton hands, arranged
the folds of their attire, brushing the coffin dust from the gay robe,
or fixing the tarnished ruffle around the neck with a yet more dainty
grace, while the skeleton drivers, slowly let down the steps of each
hearse fashioned in its sable side. The last signal was given by the
master of ceremonies.
And with a low bow, each skeleton servitor extended his hand, to receive
his fair lord or ladye, his fair young mistress or his gallant young
master, as arising from their coffin, they placed their feet on the
steps of the hearse, and slowly descended into the court-yard of the
ancient castle.
“Great God, they are thronging around me,” shouted Adrian, “skeleton
after skeleton, clad in the gay costume of life, descend from the
funeral hearse wending in one ghastly throng toward the hall door, on
their way to the festal scene. Oh, ghastly mockery! here are the forms
of those who died when young, and the trembling skeletons of those whom
death summoned when bending with the weight of years. Here are the
skeletons of warrior and courtier, knight and minstrel. All wear
glittering costumes, all mimic the actions of life. Cavalier takes the
hand of Damosel, and Lord supports the form of Ladye, while the
fleshless jaws, extend and grimace but speak no word. They utter a low
moaning sound like the deaf mute when he essays to speak. ’Tis horrible,
most horrible, this ghastly array of mockery, and hark--strange peals of
music, are floating from yon lofty windows of the banquet hall!”
And as he spoke, the spectral train disappeared within the shadow of
the hall door, and he was left alone with the long line of hearses and
the skeleton servitors.
“So please ye, gentle sir, wilt thou not trip a measure in the joyous
dance?” spoke a voice at his shoulder, “Lo! the peals of merry music,
lo! the hum of the dancers feet, moving merrily over the floor. Wilt
please thee to take my arm?”
Adrian turned and beheld the bowing Skeleton-Master of Ceremonies.
“I’ll e’en secure thee a fair partner!” whispered the skeleton as he led
Adrian through the hall door and along the massive stairway. “Look, good
youth, the paintings are somewhat tarnished, very little tarnished since
we beheld them last, and, ha, ha, well, well, such things will come to
pass, the marble steps of the staircase are cracked by the footstep of
time. This way, this way, my good youth. Lo! we are in the festal hall!”
With a gaze of horror, Adrian beheld the hall, whose floor he had
trodden some hundred years agone. He beheld the lofty pillars, the
magnificent arch, the balcony for the minstrels, all illumined by the
glare of pendent lamps, all, all the same, yet still all sadly and
fearfully changed.
The lofty columns were decorated with evergreens, but flowers gathered
by the hand of beauty from the wild wood glade no more adorned capital
and frieze.
The ivy, green companion of old time, clomb round the towering pillars,
and swept its canopy of leaves along the arching ceiling, while the
night-wind rustling through the worm-eaten tapestries agitated the long
tendrils of the trailing vine with a gentle yet solemn motion.
“Lo! the dancers--ha, ha, the dancers!”
Circling and whirling, grouping and clustering, the skeleton-band went
swaying over the floor, their gay dresses fluttering in the light, while
the ruddy lamp-beams fell quivering over each bared brow, tinting the
hollow sockets with a crimson glow, and giving a more ghastly grimace to
the array of whitened teeth.
“Lo! the minstrels--a skeleton-band, whose fleshless skulls appear above
the lattice-work of yon balcony. Merry music they make--clank, clank,
clank! They beat the hollow skull with the cross-bone--clank, clank,
clank! Each skeleton minstrel waves on high a human bone, striking it on
the hollow skull--clank, clank. Clank, clank. Clank, clank, clank!”
And as the grinning skeleton, master of ceremonies, pointed above to the
spectral minstrels, Adrian listened to the music that echoed round the
hall.
A wild clanking sound assailed his ears, with a hollow mockery of music,
while a deep, booming, rolling sound like the echo of a distant
battle-drum broke on the air, maddening the skeleton-dancers with its
weird melody.
The revel swelled fiercer, and the mirth grew louder, awaking the echoes
of the ancient hall with one deafening murmur.
“Lo! the dancers divide--behold the spectacle! On yonder side extend the
lords and cavaliers, on this the dames and damozels. They prepare for a
merry dance--will it please thee chose a partner?”
And as the skeleton spoke, he pointed to the form of a maiden, clad in
snow-white robes, who with her face turned from Adrian, seemed absorbed
in watching the motions of the dancers. Adrian gazed upon this maidenly
form with a beating heart, and advanced to her side.
“Behold thy partner!” cried the master of ceremonies.
The maiden turned her face to Adrian, and he stood spell-bound to the
spot with sudden horror.
Looking from beneath a dropping plume, snow-white in hue, a skull stared
him in the face, with the orbless sockets, the cavity of the nose, and
the grinning teeth turned to glowing red by the light of the pendent
lamps.
Adrian stood spell-bound but the form advanced, flinging her skeleton
hands on high--
“Adrian, Adrian,” whispered a soft woman’s voice issuing from the
fleshless skull; “Joy to me now, for I behold thee once again!”
“I know thee not” shrieked Adrian with a voice of fear--“I know thee
not, thou thing of death! Wherefore whisper my name with the voice of
her whom this heart loved a hundred years ago, and will love forever?
Off--off--thou mockery, nor clutch thy skeleton arms around my neck, nor
gather me in thy foul embrace!”
“And thou lovest me not!” spoke the sad and complaining voice of the
skeleton--“Adrian, Adrian, gaze upon me, I am thine own, thine now and
thine forever!”
“And this,” whispered Adrian, as the fearful consciousness gradually
stole over his soul--“And this is my love--my Annabel! Death, oh ghastly
and invisible Death, couldst thou not spare even--her!”
“Advance dames and damosels!” rung out the words of the master of
ceremonies.
And at the word, the long line of skeleton-dames and damosels, arrayed
in rarest silks, blazing with jewels and glittering with ornaments of
gold, came swaying quickly forward, extending their skeleton hands to
their partners, who half advanced from the opposite side of the hall,
and then they all swept back to their places, with one sudden movement
rattling their skeleton fingers with a gesture of boundless joy, as they
stood beneath the glare of the dazzling lights.
“Advance lords and cavaliers!”
Quickly and with lightsome steps the skeletons arrayed in costly robe
and glittering doublet advanced to the sound of the unearthly music, and
gaining the centre of the hall, sprang nimbly in the air, performing
the evolutions of the dance with the celerity of lightning, and having
greeted their fair partners again retired to the opposite side of the
hall, uttering a low and moaning sound of laughter as they regained
their places.
“Minstrels strike up a merrier peal! Clank, clank. Clank, clank. Clank,
clank--clank!--Merrier, merrier--louder, louder--let the old roof echo
with your peals of melody! Now gentles advance, seize your fair partners
and whirl them in the dance!”
With one wild bound the skeletons sprang forward from opposite sides of
the hall, pairing off, two by two, lord and ladye, cavalier and damosel,
and in a moment the whole array of revellers swept circling round the
hall, moving forward to a merry measure, clanking their skeleton hands
on high and uttering low peals of laughter as they whirled around the
bounding floor.
Adrian gazed upon the scene in wild amazement, while the skeleton arms
of _her he loved_, gathered closer round his neck, and as he gazed he
became inspired with the wild excitement of the scene, he clapped his
hands on high, he joined in the low muttered laughter, he mingled in the
mad whirl of the spectral dance.
Faster and faster, whirling two by two, their fleshless skulls turned to
glowing red by the glare of a thousand lights, their hands of bone
clanking wildly above their heads, while the low moaning chorus of
unreal laughter echoed around the hall, faster and faster circled the
skeleton dancers, gay doublets glittering in the lamp-beams, robes of
silk flung wavingly to the breeze.
On and on with the speed of wind they swept, these merry denizens of the
grave, pacing their march of mockery, their dance of woe, with a ghastly
mimicry of life, reality and joy.
And as Adrian flung his arms around the skeleton-form of his bride,
gathering her to his bosom, while their voices joined in the moaning
chaunt of unreal laughter, the voice which he had heard an hundred years
before, again came whispering to his ear.
“Behold the Mysterie of Life and Death! To-day the children of men live
and love, hate and destroy. Where are their lives, their loves, their
hatreds, and their wars, in an hundred years? Behold--ha, ha, ha!
_Behold the Mysterie of their life and their death!_”
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
THE REAL MORE TERRIBLE THAN THE UNREAL.
All was dark. Not a ray of light, not even the gleaming of a distant
star, but deep and utter darkness.
Adrian awoke from his dream. Did he awake to another dream, or to a
reality yet more terrible?
He lay prostrate, and he felt his limbs confined as though they were
bound with cords. He extended his hand, and it touched a smooth panel of
wood, extending along his right side. A strange horror, to which the
horrors of his late dream were joy and peace, gathered like a deadening
weight around his heart. He threw forth his left hand, and felt a like
panel of smooth wood extending along his other side. Raising himself
slowly from his prostrate position, with every nerve and fibre of his
frame stiffened and cramped by his hard resting place, he passed his
quivering hands along the panels of wood, and with that insupportable
horror deadening over his heart, he felt and examined the shape of
his--COFFIN.
Bowing his head between his hands, the wretched man essayed to weep, but
the fountain of his tears was exhausted.
He could not weep.
And then, as with trembling hands he examined his emaciated face, with
the cheek-bones pressing hard against the parched skin, he beheld rising
before his soul, one ghastly idea, which would pale the cheek of the
bravest man that ever went to battle, or chill with horror and despair,
the heart of the holiest Priest that ever offered prayers to God, an
idea to which all other horrors were as nothing, all terrors, all fears,
all deaths trifling and insignificant.
And the nameless thought, his husky voice gave to the air in a hollow
whisper.
“BURIED-ALIVE!”
And a hollow echo returned the word “_alive, alive!_”
“It comes back to my soul,” he slowly murmured, “the scene in the
chamber of the convent--the Monk--oh, curses on the traitor--the potion,
all, all come back to me! Buried Alive! Devil in human shape--he did not
drug the bowl with death, but with--sleep! This, this is the revenge of
the Duke, and, and Albertine was the tool of the triple murderer! Buried
Alive!”
He tried to arise from the coffin, but for a long time his efforts were
in vain.
His frame was stiffened in every sinew, and his limbs were benumbed by
his long repose.
At last he stood erect upon the floor of stone, and extending his hands,
grasped the massive walls.
“There is yet one hope,” he murmured, “there may be some outlet from the
funeral vault!”
With slow and leaden footsteps he passed along the wall, measuring its
length. It was five paces long. The stones were all solid, massive, and
firm. His upraised hand touched the ceiling, as it extended some three
inches higher than his head.
Clutching the massive stones, he paced along the other walls or sides of
the room, with weary and difficult footsteps, and at last traversed the
three sides, and leaning against the wall, he endeavored to impress his
wandering mind with some definite idea of the shape and dimensions of
the vault.
“I stand in a small room, with floor and walls of massive stone,” he
slowly muttered, “it is square in shape, and each side of the cell is
five paces in length, and somewhat more than the stature of a man in
height. The stones are solid, and to all appearance are some three feet
thick. There is no outlet, no passage from the vault. I am
indeed--Buried, and buried alive!”
He passed with difficult steps along the fourth wall of the vault,
determined to repose his shattered frame awhile, even though his resting
place was his coffin. In a moment measuring three paces, he arrived at
the spot where he supposed he had left the coffin. Extending his foot to
and fro, in search of his late tenement, he was struck with a new
horror:
“It is gone--the coffin is gone!”
Words cannot picture the utter horror with which this was spoken.
All the despair that an Angel of God might feel, when toppled from the
battlements of Heaven into the infernal abyss, then visited the breast
of Adrian Di Albarone.
“It is a mere phantasy,” he exclaimed, “I have chanced upon the wrong
side of the room.”
Again the sides of the vault were paced, and yet the coffin was not
within his reach.
It was gone from its position near the wall, and his physical strength
did not suffice to advance toward the centre of the room.
What invisible hand was it, that removed the Coffin?
As the question was asked by the heart of the wretched man, it found its
answer in one fearful doubt.
“And am I, in truth, within the bounds of that fearful place, which wild
Poets have fancied, and dark-robed Monks have preached? Am I in sooth
lost, and lost forever? Is death a dream? or an eternal succession of
realities that seem but dreams--horrors too fearful for even the damned
to believe? And this, this is--hell! I could bear the tortures of the
eternal fire, the lash of the fiends I might defy, the lightnings of
wrath would inspire with me with some portion of the Awful Spirit who
winged their bolts of vengeance--but this narrow cell, this eternal
confinement in a place visited only by Dreams, while hunger tortures and
thirst burns, hope animates, and despair holds but half the human
heart--this, this is too horrible. God of vengeance, give me, oh give,
the punishment of the undying worm, the torture of the eternal frame,
but spare, oh spare me--_this_!”
He fell on his knees, and kissed the cold floor as he bent his forehead
against his clenched hands, making the narrow cell all alive with his
shriek--
“Spare; oh spare me--_this_!”
As he bowed low on the floor, a singular sound--most singular in such a
place--met his ear. It was but a low sound, yet it was a fearful one.
_He heard the deep breathing of a living creature._
It might be the echo of his own broken gasps, the thought flashed over
the mind of Adrian, and for a moment he held his breath, and listened
with all his soul absorbed in the result. Again the deep breathing of a
human creature met his ear--
“Is it man or devil?” thus ran the thoughts of Adrian--“Mayhap he may
give me water to quench my thirst, or mayhap he will--ha, ha,--take my
accursed life. Could I but speak--for my voice does nought but
murmur--I’d even ask him to plunge his poignard in my heart.”
A whizzing sound disturbed the air, and at the very instant the blow of
a sword descended on the left arm of Adrian Di Albarone, while a heavy
body fell to the floor, within two paces of the spot where he knelt.
“The blood flows from the wound,” the glad thought darted over the mind
of the Buried-Alive, “Would I had strength to tear the doublet-sleeve
from the arm, then I might drink my own blood. Yet hold--the blood oozes
through the gash in the sleeve, and, and Great * * *! I may drink my own
blood!”
He raised the wounded arm to his mouth and greedily drank the blood.
In a moment he felt the influence of the draught.
His veins seemed fired with new life, his brain became for the moment
calm and clear, his heart regained its vigor, and gifted with temporary
strength he arose on his feet, grasping the sword of the unknown in his
good right hand.
Another moment passed, and with his right hand he wound a bandage of
linen, torn from his bosom, around the wounded arm, securing it by a
knot tied with the teeth and hand.
Meanwhile he heard the sound of panting breath, not two paces distant
from the spot where he stood, and as he listened a deep-muttered groan
broke on his ear.
Calling all his powers of mental and physical vigor to his aid he spoke
in a faint yet determined voice--
“Who art thou?” he exclaimed.
“Thy murderer!” was the gasping response.
“How long hast thou been in this place of death?”
“Long--enough--to starve! Hell and devils! I burn--thirst--starve!”
“What wouldst thou have?”
“Bread, bread! Water--I’d sell my soul for water!”
“Wherefore didst thou strike me?”
“I thought ye a spirit--and--and--I wanted to test your quality. Kill
me, an’ thou art a man of flesh and blood--kill me, kill me!”
“Thy voice is strange and hollow, yet methinks I remember your tones.
Thy name is--Balvardo!”
“‘Twas I that swore thy life away, ’twas I that brought thee to these
vaults to bury thy corse beneath the earth--kill me, kill me!”
“Is there no opening to this vault?”
“A secret door--a passage--the spring, that opens on the other side--the
spring that shuts--on this side. I--ha, ha, may hell seize my soul, I
buried myself alive--and kill me!”
Adrian shuddered--and grew cold. He could hear the gasping of the poor
wretch as he struggled for breath, he could hear the groans of his
unseen assassin; well he knew that long absence from nourishment from
food alone could lay the sworder helpless as an infant along the floor.
And as his mind struggled with the mighty horrors that gathered round
him, his attention was arrested by a singular circumstance.
While the hushed and whispered conversation had been in progress between
Adrian and Balvardo, the room had been gradually growing warmer and
warmer, and at last the walls became heated, the ceiling emitting a
warmth almost insupportable, while the confined air of the cell grew
like the atmosphere of a furnace.
“What new horror is this!” faltered Adrian. “Tell me, how hast thou
existed thus long in this vault of death, without air?”
“A well,” gasped the wretch, “centre of the stone-room--current of air
from under the earth.”
Impressed by these incoherent words, Adrian advanced slowly along the
floor, avoiding the prostrate body, and in a moment stood near the
centre of the room.
He extended his foot--it touched a substance that gave back a slight
sound; it was his coffin.
Another extension of his foot, and a whizzing sound assailed his ears,
ploughing the air far, far below his feet, then the rebound of wood
splinttered to pieces on a pointed rock came welling up from
earth-hidden depths and echoed around the room.
He listened with hushed breath for a long and weary moment.
The sound of a pebble falling in water, far, far below, came dimly and
faintly to his ear, like the pattering of the water-drop upon the
age-worn rock.
“Ha! A well, deep as the fathomless abyss, sinks down from the centre of
the room. Let me measure its width--two good paces. The coffin has
whirled down into its bottomless depths--I hear the splintered pieces
falling in the water far, far below. A slight current of air issues from
the well--and the heat of this vault of death grows fiercer every
moment--”
“Kill me, and then thank God thou hast strength left to hurl thee down
the dark abyss---- I burn, oh, fiend of hell, with thirst and flame I
burn!”
Adrian sate him down on the edge of the well, with his feet dangling in
the abyss, and gave his very soul to one long and painful effort of
thought.
Death clutched him with a thousand arms, death was in the heated air,
death came gibbering and laughing in the form of famine, and from the
very depths of the abyss the doomed lord could fancy he beheld the form
of the Skeleton-God, with arms outstretched to grasp his victim as he
fell.
There was no hope.
He must die. He must die afar from the voice of friend, afar from the
sight of earth, or the vision of the blue sky, he must die by the slow
gnawings of famine, the gradual withering of fire, or by one sudden
plunge into the abyss below.
He sate him down to die--his arms were folded, and yet with an eager
gesture he held his face over the darkness of the abyss in the nervous
effort to inhale each breath of air.
He strove to compose his mind to prayer, but the gasping of the wretch
lying near his side diverted his attention from thoughts of God and the
better world.
“Why didst thou hate me?” he slowly asked.
“I was afraid--thou--wouldst--live to do me wrong. Thou art revenged--I
die by inches!”
The wretch groaned in very agony, and Adrian could hear his fingers
clutching convulsively along the floor of stone.
“My God, my God,” cried the doomed lord, as his very soul was wrung by
the woe of the forsaken wretch; “would I had one cup of water to cool
his burning tongue--”
“Ha--ha--ha! He mocks me with the name of water! Tell me, thou fiend, is
_he_ not revenged?”
“The heat grows fiercer--the air of this vault is turning to fire! He
gasps for breath. Man give me thy hand. Let me drag thee near the
well--the freshening air may cool the fire in thy heart and veins.”
And extending his hands through the darkness, with his body inclined to
a level with the pavement, he sought the form of the famine stricken
sworder.
He grasped the hands of the wretch; the fingers were thin and wasted,
resembling the bones of a skeleton rather than the hands of a living
man.
Slowly and with a careful motion Adrian dragged the dying man along the
pavement, he laid his head on his knee, as he sat on the verge of the
well, and passed his hand over the massive brow of his assassin.
He shuddered in the very act. Clear and distinct, the harsh outline of
the withered brow, pressed against his hand, and he could feel the eye
sunken far in its socket, and the cheeks hollowed by the touch of
famine. It was more like a skull than the face of a living man.
“I feel the fresh air on my brow,” gasped Balvardo; “my feet are
withering with heat, and mine hands burn! Oh fiend of hell--I see a
fountain, a cool and showery fountain--the clear waters are streaming
over pebbled stones, and the green moss is wet with the sparkling drops.
Hist! I will crawl to the fountain side, I will bury my face in the
waters--ha, ha, ha, I will drink, I will drink! Fiend, fiend--curses on
thee, thou hast changed the waters to _blood_!”
He uttered a wild yell of horror, and the vault of the dead gave back
the echo--“Blood, blood!” while Adrian passed his hands over the
beetle-brow of the murderer, and parting the matted hair aside, held the
famine-eaten face in the full current of the subterranean air.
All was dark as chaos ere the fiat of God spoke worlds into being, yet
here was a spectacle that the angels of His throne, veiling their awful
faces before the Presence, might gaze upon even through the darkness,
and gaze with tears of joy. Here was the assassin, the sworder, the
false-witness, and the sworn foe, resting in the arms of the man whose
body his oath had given to the doomsman and the wheel; whose footsteps
he had tracked like the bloodhound snuffing the footprints of his
victim, fierce, unrelenting, and hungering after blood; here was the
wretch who had borne him to this vault, placed his body in the house of
death, consigned him to the famine and the fire, the nameless horror and
the agony that the cheek grows livid to name; here was the man who had
buried him alive, and yet he held him in his arms, fanned his withered
face, and brought the fresh air to his parched lips and burning brow.
It was as the sworder had gaspingly uttered a fierce revenge, and yet
such vengeance as the Man of the Cross, the God shrined in flesh, would
have taken on his most blood-thirsty foe.
The end drew nigh.
The moments, those moments of horror, which seemed lengthened to years,
dragged on with steps of lead, and the room grew like a furnace, the
walls gave forth an intolerable heat. The ceiling rapidly became a
canopy of invisible fire, as the air itself changed to unseen fire,
began to burn into the flesh of Adrian, as the wretch in his arms
writhed and writhed in helpless agony.
“Water--water--water!” gasped the Sworder.
A thought flashed over the mind of Adrian.
“There may be water in this well--a fountain may spring bubbling from
its depths, while we perish on the brink! The way is deep and dark--a
single misplaced grasp or foothold, and my body goes whirling to the
abyss below; yet I am urged on by a power I cannot name--I will descend
the well!”
A moment and the head of Balvardo lay on the pavement of the stone-room,
while the body of Adrian hung swinging in the abyss, as, with his hands
grasping the projecting stones, he began that fearful descent.
“I go to bring thee water!” he shouted in the ear of the famished
wretch--“I go to bring thee water for thy burning tongue and brow.”
“Then, take this--_this_--” was the gasping response, and Adrian felt a
substance of metal pressed against his brow by an extended hand; “‘twill
hold the--the water, or, ha, ha,--the blood!”
Hanging over the abyss by the grasp of one trembling hand, Adrian seized
the metal substance with the other.
It was a goblet, a goblet of gold, embossed with strangely shapen
flowers, and heraldic insignia, and as Adrian placed the vessel within
the confines of his doublet, a shudder of horror caused his frame to
quiver over the unknown void.
It was the goblet of the Red Chamber.
First grasping a pointed stone with one hand, then inserting his foot in
a crevice of the masonry, then clutching another stone with the other
hand, while his remaining foot rested in another crevice, he slowly
began the fearful descent of the well.
“This then is the foul den of torture, built by the tyrants of Florence,
long, long ago!” The thought crossed his brain. “The well hath been
fashioned by the tools of the mason, yet the damp has worn deep hollows
between the rugged stones. Hark!” he uttered the involuntary
exclamation, “a stone has fallen from my grasp--I hear no sound--none,
none! The abyss may be without bottom or depth. Hist! a hollow murmur
breaks the silence of the air, far, far, below--the stone has sounded
the depth of the well!”
“Water, water--men or devils, give me water!” the shrieking tones of the
wretch in the stone-room came faintly to his ear. “Ha, ha! Thanks,
thanks--they hand me a cup, a cup of good, clear water, and I drink--oh,
horror, horror,--it turns to blood!”
With every nerve quivering, his hand trembling as he grasped the
stones, his foot shaking with a nervous tremor as it sought the crevice
which might give it momentary support, Adrian continued his terrible
descent, until some twenty yards of the subterranean well rose above his
head, while the low moans, the piercing shrieks, and the hollow laughter
of the Sworder came fainter, and yet more faint to his ear.
Extending his foot in search of a crevice, he was astonished to find it
resting on a solid rock, that hung jutting over the abyss, at a point
where the well, diverging from its perpendicular course, made a slight
inclination to the opposite side.
Grasping the rugged stones with the eager clutch of his trembling hands,
Adrian hung swinging over the abyss, as with extended feet, he examined
the formation of the well at this particular point, and tested the
extent of the jutting rock.
He looked over his shoulder, and a wild thrill of surprise ran over his
frame.
“Mine eyes burn with famine,” he slowly murmured; “they deceive me!
Great God they mock me with a wild dream--I fancy the well grows lighter
and lighter--but ’tis a dream, a mocking dream!”
As he spoke, a cold substance pressed against the palm of his right hand
as it grasped the stone--it moved and writhed, while a hissing sound
broke on the ear. Two points of flame, like minute yet intensely
brilliant fire coals, glared before the very eyes of Adrian, and as the
hissing grew louder, he found that a vile serpent wriggled between the
fingers of his right hand.
With a sensation of unutterable disgust, he suspended his body by the
left hand, and dashed the monster down the abyss with one quick motion
of his hand.
The impulse with which he flung the serpent from his grasp, caused his
body to quiver and tremble over the abyss, while the sinews of the left
hand seemed bursting from the skin, as with the nervous grasp of
despair, the doomed lord strove to recover the stone lately clutched by
the other hand.
With one wild sweep he regained his grasp, springing heavily on the
jutting rock in the action, while a deep rumbling sound disturbed the
silence of the well. Another moment passed. Well was it for Adrian that
he had refrained from trusting to the rock for support. The massive
stone slowly swung to and fro, trembling over the depths of the well,
and then with a crash like thunder, went whizzing down the abyss.
Up, up, from the fathomless depths, thundering and shrieking, arose the
deafening echoes, yelling like spirit-voices in the ear of the trembling
man, as he swayed to and fro over the blackness of the void.
It was a moment ere Adrian might recall his wandering thoughts.
He looked over his shoulder, he gazed upon the opposite side of the
well. God of Mercy, was it a dream, a phantasmal creation of fancy, a
mocking delusion of his crazed brain? There, before his very eyes,
gilding the opposite side of the wall, a golden space, large as the
human hand, shone in his very face.
“It is the light of day!” muttered Adrian, as his heart rose to his very
throat; “it is, it is the light of day!”
“Ha, ha, ha! water!” the shriek came yelling from the room far, far, far
above--“water, water!”
Grasping the stones below, Adrian descended another yard, when a ray of
light shone on his face from a crevice in the wall to which he hung,
trembling with a new joy, quivering in every nerve with a new life.
He thrust his right hand into the hollow of the crevice, and as a large
flat stone fell echoing before him, a gush of light streamed through the
wide aperture into the darkness of the abyss.
“I stand within a rock-bound passage!” exclaimed Adrian, “‘tis narrow as
the grave, narrow as a coffin, yet twenty yards beyond I see the light
of day! Great God give me strength; do not, do not fail me now!
Strength, a little strength, and I may yet be saved!”
Prostrate upon the floor of the narrow passage, which the falling stone
had disclosed, he turned his body, and, thrusting his face into the
gloom of the well, once more gazed far, far above.
“Murderer that he is, I will not desert him!” he cried; “he has been my
comrade in the living tomb--he shall be my comrade in the light of God’s
own day!”
No sooner did the words pass his lips, than a shriek of intense horror,
came pealing down the abyss, a mass of red fire crowned the summit of
the well, and hot cinders, and burning coals swept through the darkness
of the void, hissing by the very face of Adrian, and marking their
flight with long lines of streaming flame.
Adrian withdrew his head from the well and listened.
A low moan, a choking groan, and then a succession of yells, resounded
through the void. Then the crackling of flames, then the falling of
age-cemented masonry; then a wild shriek, and then a voice of horror--
“I burn, I burn! oh fiend of hell, I burn!”
The air was cloven by the rushing of a falling body, and thundering down
the well, with arms outspread, with his face all crushed and blackened,
stamped with a look of agony that might never be forgotten, Balvardo was
for a moment disclosed by the light shining through the aperture, before
the very eye of Adrian, and then there was a hissing noise, followed by
a sullen rebound, and then all was still.
The soul of Balvardo, the Sworder, stood beside the soul of his master
in the judgment halls of the Unknown.
“Away, away!” shouted Adrian, maddened by the memory of that
despair-stricken face; “away from this earth-hidden hell! Strength, my
God, oh give me strength, and I may yet be saved!”
Creeping on hands and knees, he advanced along the subterranean passage,
the light growing brighter at every step, and at last the twenty paces
were left behind, he crawled from the rock, he stood in the open air.
His voice failed him, he gazed around.
Far, far above him, ascended the gray steep on which the Convent was
reared, far, far above him, he beheld the blue sky, tinted with the glow
of the dying day, he beheld the platform rock and the frowning tower,
wrapt in clouds of lurid smoke, while tongues of forked flame, swept up
to the very azure, turning the glow of the setting sun to bloody red.
He stood on the side of a ravine, with the darkness of the abyss yawning
beneath him, while the rugged ascent of rocks on the opposite side rose
towering before his eye, veiling the mountain lake from his sight, and
giving a faint glimpse of the eastern sky.
Dark and dreary, tangled with gnarled shrubs, rough with rifted rocks, a
score of fathoms down, sunk the wild abyss, with the hills, or rather
the overhanging cliff gathering around its blackness, like the sides of
one vast death-bowl of ebony.
In truth it looked like the crater of an extinct volcano.
With a glance Adrian beheld the smoke and flame, the Convent and the
blue sky above, the glimpse of the eastern horizon, the rocks ascending
on the opposite side of the ravine, and the blackness of the abyss
below, and then his soul was riveted to a spectacle of horror extended
at his very feet.
There before his very eyes, a mangled carcass was thrown along the
surface of a rugged rock, the trunk, the limbs, the arms, the garments
and draperies of gold, all mingled in one foul mass of corruption, while
the face was buried amid a cluster of stunted shrubs of laurel.
Adrian reached forth his hand, he raised the face, he beheld the blue
tint of corruption, the eyes lolling from their sockets, the blackened
tongue hanging from the mouth!--
“The Duke,” he shrieked, “the Duke of Florence!”
He turned from the sight with intolerable disgust, and as he turned, he
beheld appearing from amid the shrubs, on the other side of the small
platform of sand on which he stood, a bared arm laid along the earth
grasping a keen and slender-bladed dagger, with a grasp that death and
corruption could not unclose.
Adrian sprang forward, he unwound the dagger from the grasp of the hand,
he beheld a parchment scroll secured around the haft of the glittering
steel. He tore the scroll from the dagger, he flung it open to the
light, and beheld these words written in a fair unwavering hand--
“Brothers of the Invisible! When this hand that writes these words is
cold in death, the scroll of Albertine the Monk, will tell the story of
his vengeance on the Tyrant-Duke.
“The midnight hour is now past--I go to plunge the dagger of the Holy
Steel in the Heart of the Doomed. Ask ye for the Heir of Albarone! Three
hours ago, ere the Duke arrived in the valley, I bade him farewell
forever. Midnight came, and I learned that the Son of Lord Julian was
about to meet his death in the vaults of the Convent.
“One way of rescue alone remained. Protected by my supposed love for the
Duke, I blinded the eyes of the assassin, and offered to do his work of
death. Then mingling a potion, which would minister sleep,--not
death,--I gave it to Lord Adrian--even now his bride gathers his
slumbering form to her embrace in the vaults of the Convent--even now
the assassin waits to bear the body to the grave.
“One hour from this ye will arrive in the valley, and your eyes will
behold the slumbering form of your Prince--the lifeless corse of the
Tyrant! I go to finish--”
The scroll broke off abruptly, yet there was enough written to fill the
heart of Adrian with an emotion of joy he had never felt before.
He sprang among the bushes, he dashed the laurel leaves aside, he turned
the blackening face of the mangled corse to the light. He clasped his
hands on high in silent prayer, while his burning tears fell streaming
over the face of Albertine the Monk.
Meanwhile gathered along the green sward of a level meadow, extending
from the Convent gates, to the south of the mountain lake, a band of
gallant warriors, reined their war-steeds upon the turf, their upraised
spears marking their numbers by long lines of glittering light.
A thousand banners waved in the sunset air, and the peal of bugle, and
the stirring notes of the trumpet went echoing upward among the old
convent walls wrapt in smoke, lighted by giant-pillars of blood red
flame.
In front of the band of warriors, a group of noble lords and high-born
dames, plumed cavaliers and gay-robed damsels,--all mounted on prancing
steeds, swept circling around the figure of a fair and beautiful Ladye,
whose jet-black barb, with its watchful groom, stood reined in their
midst.
Every tongue was silent, and every eye was fixed upon the death-like
paleness of the maiden’s countenance, contrasting strangely with the
gorgeous robes of purple and gold that drooped round her young and
lovely form.
Her head bowed slowly on the neck of her steed, and the tears of a
never-dying grief came gushing between the fair and delicate fingers
that strove to veil her face.
She wept, the fair Ladye Annabel, whose steed was about to spring
forward in the triumphal procession, that would soon give Florence its
lovely queen; the coronet was on her brow, the swords of a thousand
warriors were at her beck, and yet she wept.
Suddenly a wild murmur ran through the warrior-throng.
Uprising in the light of the burning Convent--that dark haunt of blood
and awe, now toppling to its foundation, a gray rock, its base concealed
by stunted shrubs, while its brow was turned to the flame-beams,
attracted the gaze of every eye, as a strange spectacle hushed the
whispers of every voice.
A hand, white as marble, was thrust from behind the rock, lifting a
goblet of gold in the light of the setting sun.
Deep muttered whispers broke along the warrior-throng, every voice spoke
of some new omen crowning the horrors of the convent during the last
hour of its existence, and the murmurs of the lords and ladies
clustering at her side, attracted the attention of the Ladye Annabel.
She slowly turned, she gazed upon the uplifted hand with the goblet of
gold rising above the verge of the gray rock--not more than twenty paces
from her side--she gazed in wonder and in awe.
And as she gazed, a wan and haggard face appeared above the rock, and a
wasted and trembling form, clad in garments of price all soiled and
torn, stood on the verge of the massive stone, flinging the goblet
wildly aloft, as a peal of maniac laughter came thrilling to the
maiden’s ear.
It was a solemn and impressive scene!
There swept the knightly host along the green meadow, their spears
gleaming on high, there darkened the smoke and lightened the blaze of
the burning convent, there the calm lake extending ripples along its
mountain-shores, gave its still bosom to the crimson glare of the flame,
and there standing erect upon the brow of the gray rock, his slender
form boldly and clearly relieved by the background of the convent walls,
the light of the flame, the beams of the setting sun; Adrian Di
Albarone, crazed by famine, and maddened with new-born joy, shook wildly
aloft the Goblet of Gold, while his maniac laugh broke echoing on the
evening air.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE.
THE TASK OF THE WEIRD SPIRIT IS DONE--THE CURTAIN OF FATE FALLS
OVER THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE.
Joy to Florence now, oh joy to the fair city in her streets and through
her lordly halls, joy to the prince of the palace and the peasant of
the cot, joy to the mountain and the dell, joy to the hill and the
valley, joy to the silvery river, joy to the homes of men, joy to the
shrines of God, joy, joy, forever joy!
The Duke, the people’s Duke is come to reign! Baptized by trial, chosen
by the People, crowned by the Invisible, anointed by God, he comes to
reign!
--So, after many pages of varied and peculiar interest writes the
Chronicle of the Ancient MSS. in his extravagant way.
There are light voices filling the air, there are soft steps tripping
through the lordly halls, there are costly draperies sweeping over
marble floors, there are strains of music awaking the echoes of ancient
domes, there are processions thronging the streets in all the pomp of
crucifix and banner, gallant knights ride to and fro, shaking the
glitter of their snowy plumes aloft, the poor creep from their dens of
want, the mighty pour from their homes of pride, the sordid miser
forgets his money bags, the merchant his wares of cost, the scholar his
musty book, the bravo his knife, the children of misery their care, and
all, aye all, come thronging to the high Cathedral of Florence, when the
solemn priest will, ere an hour, amid the glad shouts of thousands,
anoint Adrian Di Albarone, Lord Duke of Florence, and crown his fair
bride, the Ladye Annabel, with the coronet for which Aldarin gave his
soul.
It is morning, glad and joyous morning, the calm azure arches over the
fair city, gorgeous with temple-dome and palace tower, while the gay
people hasten to the grand Cathedral, anxious to behold the Duke and his
fair bride.
THE POSTILLION AND THE BUXOM DAMSELS.
And there tripping merrily along were three peasant damsels, arrayed in
their holiday attire, and with them a bow-legged youth attired as a
postillion, strutted on his way with extended stride and lofty air,
which seemed to say, that all this parade and show, was made for his
sole benefit and especial amusement.
“Sancta Maria! How he trips it along!” thus spoke the tallest of the
damsels “beshrew, but Sir Francisco is wondrous proud, since he was
knighted by the Duke!”
“How! knighted?” cried the damsel of the merry black eye.
“What mean you?” cried the red-haired maiden, and the bow-legged
postillion looked over his shoulder with a vacant stare.
“Was he not honored with the collar, the hempen collar?” cried the tall
maiden. “Did not that rough soldier of the Count Di Albarone that was,
the Duke of Florence that is now, did not Rough Robin knight Sir
Francisco with his own hands? How dull you are!”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the postillion shrugging his shoulders. “What
unpleasant things you do remember! And yet the Duke said something very
flattering, when he directed the rope to be taken from my neck. He said,
says he, he said, I tell you--that I--
“Was a little impertinent, insignificant, busy-body,” exclaimed Theresa,
laughing. “But Francisco what mean you to do with the reward, you
received from the Duke that was murdered, eh? Francisco?”
“Yes, yes, what are you going to do with all that gold?” cried
Dollabella, and the three gathered around the youth with evident
interest, expressed in each face in the glittering eyes and the parted
lips.
“Why Theresa, Dollabella, and Loretta,” answered the postillion, looking
slowly round, with an expression of the deepest solemnity, “I mean
to--that is, I intend--by’r Ladye the Cathedral bell is ringing. Come
along, girls!”
“Ha, ha, ha! ’Tis a fair day and a bright,” laughed a shrill voice at
the elbow of Francisco, “Florence is full of joy and e’en I, I am glad.”
A tremor of fear ran round the group as they beheld the form of the
speaker, the distorted face, the wide mouth, the large rolling eyes, and
the deformed figure with the unsightly hump on the shoulders, giving a
half-brutal appearance to the stranger, while from lip to lip, ran the
whisper--
“The Doomsman, the Doomsman!”
“Aye, aye, the Doomsman! And why not pray? Dare not the Doomsman laugh?
Ha, ha, ha! What a fine neck thou hast for the axe, good youth; or now
that I think o’t it would stretch a rope passing well. ’Tis a fine day,
good folk, and I’m hastening to the Cathedral, to behold the crowning of
one of my children, that is Children of the Axe.”
“Thy children?” echoed Francisco, aghast with fear. “Can a shadow like
thee, have children?”
“Children o’ th’ axe, boy. I’ faith if all the world had their own, I’d
have thy neck--a merry jest, nothing more boy, ho, ho, ho! Do’st see
these fingers.”
“Vulture’s talons rather!”
“These, these were round his royal throat, while the lead, the seething
lead waited for his princely body, and the wheel of torture was arrayed
for his lordly repose. Ha, ha, ha! I would see him crowned, by the fiend
would I! But come boy, thou knowest somewhat of city gossip, tell me,
does this Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword, stabbed by his own son, a good
boy, he, he, he, does he yet live?”
“Have not prayers been offered in all the Cathedrals for the miracle?”
“The miracle? Enlighten me, good youth!”
“Hast thou not heard, how the force of the blow was swayed aside, by a
piece of the true wood o’ th’ cross, which the old soldier had worn over
his heart for years? A miracle, old shadow, a miracle!”
“Nay, nay, call me not shadow, I’ll never darken thy way to the gallows.
But tell me, fair sir, did not the dagger pierce the old man’s heart?”
“It grazed the heart, but did not pierce it. Any city gossip might tell
thee this, old thunder cloud!”
“And so the old man lives?”
“He doth! Thou art wondrous sorry that he still breathes the air, I
warrant me?”
“Nay, nay, good youth. I bear Sir Geoffrey no harm, but dost see--the
wheel, the axe and the boiling lead, all were ready for the boy
Guiseppo, and, and, but ’tis the will of heaven! I can bear
disappointment, he, he, he, in all matters, save in one. Thy neck boy,
ha, ha, ha, the Doomsman’s fingers itch for thy neck!”
And while the peasant-group, the three buxom damsels, and the
light-brained postillion, shrunk back from the touch of the distorted
being with disgust, and stood thrilled with the fear of his words of
omen, the Doomsman glided away, mingling with the vast crowd who
thronged the streets of the wide city.
Standing upon the throne of gold, attired in the purple robes of a
prince, Adrian Di Albarone, glanced with a brightening eye, and a
swelling heart, upon the gorgeous scene around him, and then his glance
was fixed upon the fair and lovely maiden by his side, whose eyes of
dreamy beauty were downward cast, while a soft flush deepened the hue of
her cheek, as she seemed to shrink from the gaze of the vast multitude,
extending over the pavement, and along the aisles of the cathedral.
Adrian cast his eyes upon the throng around the throne.
There stood bold Robin, the stout Yeoman, attired in a garish
appareling, which he seemed to like not half so well as his plain suit
of buff, defended by armor plates of steel; and there his locks of gray,
falling on his knightly surcoat, emblazoned on the breast with the red
cross of the crusaders, stood the brave Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword,
attended on either side by the gallant esquires Damian and Halbert, each
with a grim smile on his scarred face, as he surveyed the pomp and show
glittering along the cathedral aisles.
Standing at the back of his father, his eye downcast, and his thoughts,
Guiseppo seemed musing on the fearful blow, which had well nigh burdened
his soul with the nameless crime. He said nothing, nor spoke of the pomp
around him, but with folded arms stood silent and apart.
Standing beside her queenly cousin, with a group of bower maidens
clustering around, the damosel Rosalind glanced from side to side with a
merry twinkle of her eye, and look of maidenly wonder, as the glare and
the glitter, the pomp and the show of the scene broke on her vision, and
came thundering on her ear.
Amid the throng of noble dames, towered the stately form of the Lady Di
Albarone, with a proud smile on her lip, and a haughty glance in her
eye, as she looked with all a mother’s pride upon her son’s advancement
to his right of birth and honor.
And higher grew the sound of pipe and cymbal, mingling with the roll of
drum, and the peal of trumpet, and deeply booming along the arches of
the cathedral, came the voice of the swelling organ, seeming as though
some spirit of light had trained the mountain thunder to the strains of
harmony, now soft and gentle, now awful, now sublime, and ever filling
the soul with high and glowing thoughts.
And now the bright sunbeams came flaunting through the arched windows of
the cathedral, and every eye was fixed upon the throne, and every voice
was hushed in expectation, as the moment of the approaching ceremony
drew nigh.
A murmur ran along the aisles of the cathedral, and it deepened into a
cry--
“He comes, the holy abbot of St. Peter’s of Florence!”
And every sound was hushed, as the venerable man of heaven raised the
golden coronet, set with rarest jewels, and the sceptre of ivory from
the altar of the cathedral, and ascending the steps of the throne he was
received by Adrian Di Albarone with lowered head, and bended knee.
“Sound heralds, sound!”
And then the heralds, standing one on either side of the throne, gave a
blast loud and long to the air, and proclaiming to the lineage, the
title, and the birth of Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone, they flung each
man, his glove upon the marble floor, challenging all the world to say
aught against the right of descent claimed by the duke elect. There came
no answer to the challenge.
“Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone,” thus spoke the abbot; “in the name of
God, in the name of Christ and St. Peter, and by the blessing of the
Holy Vicar of Christ upon earth, I proclaim thee Sovereign Lord of
Florence, the city and the field, the mountain and the stream! I bestow
upon thee the golden coronet--wear it with glory and honor. I place this
sceptre of ivory in thy grasp--wield it with justice and truth. Arise
Adrian, LORD DUKE OF FLORENCE!”
As thus he spoke, with his mind glowing with the memory of the day when
he had mingled in the battle fray, side by side, with the sire of the
gallant youth who knelt at his feet, the tones of the abbot’s voice rose
high and clear, and with eyes upraised to heaven, and outspread hands,
he seemed to implore a benizen upon the bridal pair.
One shout, long and deep, ascended from the multitude. Adrian arose upon
his feet, and lifted the gorgeous coronet from his brow. He took the
fair Ladye Annabel by the hand, and as the blushes grew deeper on her
cheek, he impressed upon her brow a kiss that told at once of the love
of the youth for his mistress, and the admiration of the knight for his
fair ladye.
He extended his hand, and in an instant the coronet rested upon the brow
of the lovely bride.
The vast cathedral roof echoed with the thunder shout of the myriad
voices, the strains of the swelling music filled the air, at each pause
of the deafening cries of joy; the warriors flung their swords in the
air, the fair dames and damosels waved their snow-white hands on high,
and one universal gush of joy hailed the fair Ladye Annabel Duchess of
Florence!
“My own fair bride,” Adrian whispered, “the night has passed, and our
morning cometh.”
While her heart yet throbbed with indefinable emotion, Adrian led his
gentle bride to the ducal chair, and side by side, they awaited the
homage of the noble throng of lords and ladies, knights and damosels.
Many a noble lord, and many a haughty dame, advancing to the throne,
bowed low at the feet of the Duke Adrian, and kissed the fair hand of
the Duchess Annabel.
At last a man of lofty stature, and commanding port, with locks of gray
hair falling back from a stern, determined face, paled by disease, and
wan with thought, and ascending the steps of the throne, sank on one
knee before the duke.
“Rise, brave knight,” exclaimed Adrian; “rise brave Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’
Longsword; rise lord keeper of our castle Di Albarone. Thy youth has
been wasted fighting for the cause of the late venerated lord; thy age
shall be rendered calm and peaceful within the walls of the castle, with
whose brave soldiers thou hast so often gone forth to the ranks of
battle.”
And placing the baton of command within the hand of the brave knight, he
raised him from his kneeling position. Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword
replied not to the Duke with words of flattery.--One glance of the eye,
and one grasp of the hand, was all the answer that greeted the Duke
Adrian.
Then came Robin the Rough, ascending the throne with a half-solemn air,
as though he were afraid of soiling the steps of gold. With a true
soldier’s salute he dropped on one knee, awaiting the command of the
Duke to rise.
“Arise, bold Robin,” said Adrian, unsheathing the sword that hung at his
side--“Arise--no longer Robin the stout yeoman, but Sir Roberto Di
Capello, Lord of the Lands of Capello!”
No sooner did bold Robin feel the sword of the Duke slightly pressed
upon his shoulder conferring knighthood, than he sprang upon his feet,
and looked around with surprise and wonder expressed in his distended
eyes and parted lips.
“Hast any boon to ask, Sir Roberto?” exclaimed the Duke.
“Why, an’ it please thee, my Lord Duke,” answered Robin, recovering from
his surprise--“Why an’ it please thee, I have a boon to ask. I had much
rather follow thee to battle in my old attire, in my coat of buff and my
armor of steel. I like not this dainty trim.”
With a smile the Duke granted his characteristic request, and as the
bold soldier retired, Adrian waved his hand to one who stood in the
throng around the throne. From the ancient chronicle we gather these
words concerning
“THE ROMANCER.”
A man attired in a tunic of dark velvet reaching to his knee, and with
long locks of dark brown hair falling beneath the velvet cap of the
scholar, now came forward and ascended the throne. In stature he was of
the middle height, slim and well formed, with a face marked by irregular
features, full cheeks, a mouth with large lips, while his hazel eyes,
looking from beneath dark eyebrows, warmed with the inward soul.
“Most famed Romancer”--thus spoke the Duke to the person who knelt
before him. “Most famed Romancer of the North, wear this signet for my
sake. Men shall long keep in memory the wondrous Histories which thy
pen, full of fancy, hath pictured. Add now to the number the Historie of
the House Di Albarone. Take this ring as an earnest of future bounty.
Thou shalt away with me to the Holy Land, thou shall chronicle the wars
of the Christian and the Paynim. ERICCI IL NORMANI arise!”
Thus spoke the flattery of the Duke to the humble Romancer, thus he bade
me indite my poor Historie, which, should it ever outlive this century,
will serve at least to give some small glimpses of the crimes, the glory
and the fame of the House Di Albarone.
And now, with his beaming eye no longer glowing with gaiety, but dark
and thoughtful, came the Page Guiseppo; and side by side with the damsel
Rosalind he knelt and did homage to his Lord. But why tell of Guiseppo
and Rosalind--Is not the story of their fortunes found in the Historie
of the Page and the Damsel?
The Duke turned to the vast multitude. He raised his sword on high.
“Witness, ye gallant knights, witness, ye fair dames, I now swear upon
the hilt of my sword, that the morrow’s sun shall behold me and my
followers bound for Palestine, there to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.
And so help me God and St. George!”
And there stood Adrian, with his ducal robe of purple thrown back from
his shoulders, his right hand pressing his sword hilt to his lip, his
left arm raised to the heavens, while his eyes flashed with all the
enthusiasm of his soul.
The cry ran like a lightning flash through the temple, every voice was
for Palestine, every tongue shouted--“on--on to the rescue--God for the
Holy Sepulchre!”
Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword raised his sword on high, the Ladye
Annabel, fired by the holy feeling of the moment, lifted the cross of
ebony depending from her neck to her lips, as a thunder-shout arose from
the multitude, and while all was exultation and joy, bold Robin the
stout yeoman flung the broad banner of the Duke to the air, and the
bright sunbeams shining upon the azure folds gilded with dazzling light
the blazonry of gold, and every eye beheld the armorial bearings of the
Lord of Florence, with the words in letters of gold--
“GRASP BOLDLY, AND BRAVELY STRIKE!”
“It is past, the dark and fearful night,” again repeated Adrian, as he
gazed over this scene of wild enthusiasm; “Lo! the morning cometh!”
* * * * *
As he spoke the cathedral was suddenly darkened, a thick mist filled the
Church, and one man could scarce distinguish the form of another by his
side.
A wild, hollow laugh sounded to the very roof of the cathedral, it rung
upon the senses of the vast multitude, and was echoed from every aisle
of the solemn temple.
“What means the darkness?” Adrian shouted, drawing his sword; “Hist! I
hear a footstep. It passes over the throne. It passes between me and
thee Annabel; yet I see no form, I hear no voice.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” The wild laugh again rose upon the dark and twilight air.
“He stands by my side!” shrieked the Ladye Annabel; “It is _he_--it is
my father!”
And she trembled with affright, and leaned shrinking upon the arm of the
Duke, while her fair blue eyes dilated with a strange expression, and
her glance was fixed in one wild dread look upon the darkened air.
“It is done!” exclaimed a voice breaking from the vacancy of the air;
“_It is done! Fair daughter of mine, thou art Duchess of Florence--the
coronet is on thy brow--all is fulfilled!_”
“Holy Mary, save me!” shrieked Annabel in a low whispered tone; “an icy
hand is pressed upon my brow. It is like the hand of death.”
And as there she stood upon the throne of gold, her form upraised to its
full height, her eye fixed on vacancy, and her fair white hands
trembling with an unreal fear, a feeling of terrible and overwhelming
AWE over-shadowed each heart, and paled each face, while the solemn
tones of the spirit voice broke on the ear of the lovely bride.
“In life thou wert my ambition, and in the solemn walks of death, amid
the fear that may not be named, and the gloom that may be dared, thy
father, maiden, is still the evil angel of all who wish thee harm, or do
thee wrong.”
A low moaning sound broke on the air, and again the words of the spirit
voice came to the Lady Annabel--
“The last behest of thy father--the parchment scroll, and the phial of
silver confided to thy hands--hast thou obeyed the dying words of
Aldarin?”
The cheek of the Lady Annabel became pale as death, and her eye grew
bright with supernatural lustre. The hurried words of the scroll,
written in the blood of the doomed man, the fearful request, the dark
hints at the re-vivification of his mortal body, by the action of the
water of life, all to be accomplished by the devotion of his
daughter----flashed over her brain at the moment, when the gloom of the
presence of the dead, darkened the joy of the living, and the Ladye
turned to Adrian, and murmured with a whisper of hollow emphasis--
“The corse, Adrian, the corse of my father--where doth it rest?”
“It hath no place of repose on earth,” was the solemn answer. “Given to
the invisible air, the mortal frame finds nor home, nor resting place in
sacred chapel, or in wild wood glade; but mingled with the unseen winds,
floating in the atmosphere of heaven; on, and on forever wanders the
earthly dust of the Scholar, denied repose on earth, refused judgment by
heaven, condemned to the eternal solitudes of the disembodied spirit;
on, and on it wanders seeking companionship with the mighty soul of
Aldarin!”
And a low and solemn voice, speaking from the invisible air, murmured
the words--“It is finished,
IT IS FINISHED!”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] There have been one or two persons, who have made themselves merry
with this passage. These persons, however, belong to that large class
of literary pretenders who are always in the market, as the phrase
goes, willing to edit anything, publish anything, take one side to day,
another to morrow, for a little notoriety and a little bread. Their
criticisms, do not demand an answer. You can have their good opinion
for a dollar, and be adored by the whole tribe, for the gift of a
dinner.
But, a word is due to the candid reader, in regard to the Doomsman’s
description of Capital Punishment in the olden time. _The author is not
responsible for a single line, word, or comma._ He has left a wretch,
embrated, nay, demonized by spectacles of carnage, to describe the slow
agonies of a horrible death, in his own way.
In the same manner, in another work, the author has introduced the
Moloch of modern law,--the Hangman,--who but the cowardly instrument of
a cowardly vengeance, puts a rope about his defenceless victim’s neck,
and in a dark jail yard, chokes him slowly to death, while Ministers
of Religion stand by, and approve the murder, with copious texts and
learned references.
The author is no more responsible for the ravings of the Hangman, than
he is for the ravings of the hireling critic.
[2] The word which we have written “Postillion,” in the ancient MSS.
indicates a Courier, a Messenger; “one who carries letters from place
to place.” This personage, whom we here designated, “Francisco the
Courier,” is not unfrequently styled “Cisco the vagabond,” in the
original manuscripts.
[3] With his own peculiar abruptness, (to which the reader is by this
time accustomed) the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS. changes the scene
to the Valley of the Bowl, noticed in Chap. 3. Book. 3.
[4] The story changes to Albarone again.
[5] It will be seen that the Chronicler of the ancient MSS. goes on to
picture the events of the previous night, in the succeeding chapter.
[6] It is observable that the chronicler of the ancient MSS. applies
the word Alembic to an open vessel resembling a crucible in shape.
[7] Ibrahim Ben-Malakim (Arabic) “the Son of the Kings.”
[8] This song is taken from an old Monkish Chaunt, and makes no
pretensions to poetic beauty.
[9] The Chronicler of the Ancient MSS uses the phrase as a general and
comprehensive term, to designate the ‘_man of the feudal times_.’
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Mysteries of Florence" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.