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