CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE SIGNET RING OF ALBARONE.
HIGH NOON AMID THE OLD CASTLE WALLS.

From the clear azure of the summer sky, the mid-day sun shone over the lofty battlements and massive towers of an ancient castle, which, rising amid the heights of a precipitous rock, lay basking in the warm atmosphere; while along the spacious court-yard, and among the nooks and crevices of the dark gray walls, the mellow beams fell lazily, gilding each point they touched, and turning the blackened rocks to brightened gold, with the voluptuous light of a summer noon.

The massive cliff, from whose stern foundations the castle arose, sank suddenly, with a precipitous descent, into the bed of the valley, while around, venerable with the grandeur of ages, swept the magnificent forest, with its mass of verdure mellowing in the sunlight; and, winding on its way of silver, a broad and rapid stream, gleaming from the deep green foliage, now gave each wave and ripple to the kiss of day, and now, sweeping in its shadowy nooks, sheltered its beauty from the dazzling light.

Far along the view, forest towered over forest, and sloping meadows, dotted with cottages, succeeded shelving fields, golden with wheat, or gay with vines; while many a pleasant hill-side arose from amid the embowering woods, with the peaceful summit sleeping in the sun-light, and the straight shadows of the still noon resting along the depths of the valley, from which it greenly ascended.

Along the edge of the horizon, amid the tall peaks of the far-off mountains, summer clouds, vast and gorgeous, lay basking in the sunlight, with their fantastic forms, of every hue and shape—now dark, now bright, now golden, now gray, and again white as the new-fallen snow—all clearly and delicately relieved by the back-ground of azure, transparent and glassy as the sky of some voluptuous dream.

The hour was still and solemn, with the peculiar silence and solemnity of the high noon; the broad banner floated heavily from the loftiest tower of the castle, unruffled by a whisper of the wind; and along the court-yard, and throughout the castle, a death-like silence reigned, which betokened any thing save the presence of numerous bodies of armed men within the castle walls.

The sentinels who waited at the castle gate, rested indolently upon their pikes, and glancing over the spacious court-yard, marked, with a look of discontent, the absence of all signs of animation from those walls which had so often rung with sounds of gay carousal and shouts of merriment. All was still and solemn where, in days by-gone, not a sound had awoke the echoes of the time-darkened walls save the loud laugh of the careless reveller, the merry carol of the minstrel, or the glee-song of the banquet hall.

A footstep—a mailed and booted footstep—broke the silence of the air, and presently, appearing from the shadow of the lofty hall door of the castle, a stout and strong-limbed soldier emerged into the light of the sun. As he descended the steps of stone, he paused for a moment, and glanced around the court-yard. Stout, without being bulky in figure, the person of the yeoman was marked by broad shoulders, a chest massive and prominent, arms that were all bone and muscle, and legs that discovered the bold and rugged outline of strong physical power, hardened by fatigue and toil.

He raised his cap of buff, surmounted by a dark plume, and plated with steel, from his brow, and the sunbeams fell upon a rugged countenance, darkened by the sun, and seamed by innumerable wrinkles, with a low, yet massive forehead, a nose short, straight, yet prominent, a wide mouth, with thin lips, and cheek-bones high and bold in outline, while his clear blue eyes, with their quick and varying glance, afforded a strange contrast to his toil-hardened and sunburnt features. Around his throat, and over his prominent chin, grew a thick and rugged beard, dark as his eyebrows in hue, while his hair, slightly touched by age, and worn short and close, gave a marked outline to his head, that completed the expression of dogged courage and blunt frankness visible in every lineament of his countenance.

Attired in doublet and hose of buff, defended by a plate of massive steel on the breast, with smaller plates on each arm and leg, the yeoman wore boots of slouching buckskin, while a broad belt of darkened leather, thrown over his manly chest, supported the short, straight sword, which depended from his left side.

Having glanced along the court-yard, and marked the sentinels waiting lazily beside the castle gate, the yeoman’s eye wandered to the banner which clung heavily around the towering staff, and then depositing his cap on his head with an air of discontent, as he again surveyed the castle yard—

“St. Withold!” he cried, in a voice as rugged as his face—“St. Withold! but some foul spell of the fiend’s own making has fallen upon these old walls! All dull—all dead—all leaden! Even yon flag, which kissed the breeze of the Holy Land, not three months agone, looks dull and drowsy. ‘Slife! a man might as well be dead as live in this manner. No feasting—no songs—no carousing! Ugh! A pest take it all, I say! No jousts—no tournaments—no mellays! The foul fiend take it, I say; and Sathanas wither the heathen hand that winged the poisoned javelin at my knightly Lord—Julian, Count of this gallant castle Di Albarone! The foul fiend wither the hand of the paynim dog, I say!”

“Ha, ha, ha! my good Robin,” laughed a clear and youthful voice, “by my troth, thou’rt sadly out of temper! What has ruffled thee, my buff-and-buckskin? Holy Mary—what a face!”

Robin turned, and beheld the slender form of a daintily appareled youth, whose full cheeks were wrinkled with laughter, while his merry hazel eyes seemed dancing in the light of their own glee.

“Out of temper!” exclaimed rough Robin, as he glanced at the laughing youth; “out of temper! By St. Withold! there’s good reason for’t, too. Look ye, my bird of a page, never since I left the service of mine own native prince, the brave Richard, of the Lion Heart—never since the day when the gallant Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword drew his sword in the wars of Palestine, under the banner of Count Julian Di Albarone, have I felt so sick, so wearied in heart, as I do this day—mark ye, my page! ‘Out of temper,’ forsooth! Answer me, then, popinjay—does not our gallant Lord Julian lie wasting away in yon sick-chamber, with the poison of an incurable wound eating his very heart? Answer me that, Guiseppo.”

“Ay, marry does he, my good Robin,” the page answered, as he played with a jeweled chain that hung from his neck; “but then thou knowest he will recover. He will again mount his war-horse! Ay, my good Lord Julian will again lead armies to battle in the wilds of Palestine! He will, by my troth, Rough Robin!”

“I fear me, never, never,” the yeoman replied, in a subdued tone. “Look ye, Guiseppo, what dost think of this thin-faced half-brother of the Count, the scholar Aldarin? There’s a mystery about the man—I like him not. Thy master, the Duke of Florence, hath now been three days at this good castle of Albarone—why is he so much in the company of this keen-eyed Aldarin? By St. Withold! I like it not. Marry, boy, but the devil’s a-brewing a pretty pot of yeast for somebody’s bread! Guiseppo, canst tell me naught concerning the object of the visit of thy master, the Duke, to this castle—hey, boy?”

“Why, Robin,” replied the page, as, placing one small hand on either side of his slender waist, he glanced at the yeoman with a sidelong look; “why, Robin, didst ever hear of—of—the fair Ladye Annabel? Eh, Robin?”

“The fair Ladye Annabel! Tut! boy, thou triflest with me. The fair Ladye Annabel—she is the lovely daughter of this crusty old scholar. Her mother was an Eastern woman; and the fair girl first saw the light in the wilds of Palestine, when the scholar Aldarin accompanied his brother thither. Marry, ’tis more than sixteen—seventeen years since. ’Tis long ago—very long. By St. Withold! those were merry days. But come, sir page, why name the Ladye Annabel and the Duke in the same breath?”

The restless Guiseppo sprang aside with a nimble movement, and then folding his arms, stood at the distance of a few paces, regarding the stout yeoman with a look of mock gravity and solemn humor.

“What wouldst give to know, Robin?” he exclaimed, with a peculiar contortion of his mirthful face. “Hark ye, my stout yeoman, ‘My Lord Duke of Florence and the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.’ Dost like the sound? What says my rough soldier, now?”

“I see a light,” slowly responded Robin; “I see a light!” and he slowly drew his sword half-way from the scabbard. “But as yet ’tis but a pestilent Jack o’ lanthorn light, dancing about a tangled marsh of pits and bogs, with plenty o’hidden traps to catch honest men by the heels, i’ faith. Annabel and the Duke! Ho—ho! Then the game’s up with the son o’ th’ Count—my Lord Adrian?”

“Wag that clumsy tongue o’ thine with a spice o’ caution, Robin,” whispered the merry page. “See, the sharp-faced steward o’ th’ castle draws nigh, and with him a group of sworn grumblers. The four old esquires who followed our lord to battle in the wilds o’ Palestine—a soldier, with a carbuncled visage, and a lounging servitor, the huntsman o’ th’ castle. Hark! didst ever hear such eloquent growling?”

And as Robin turned to listen, he beheld the strangely contrasted party lounging slowly along the castle yard, with the indolent gait of men having little to do save to eat, to drink, to sleep, and to gossip, while around them the lazy hours of the silent castle-walls dragged onward with wings of lead.

“Talk not to me of thrift, sir steward,” cried the bluff-faced and thick-headed huntsman. “When my Lord, Count Julian, was well—not a day passed but a lusty buck was steaming on the castle hearth—”

“Wine flowed like water,” chimed in the soldier with the fiery nose. “Your true soldier swore by his beaker alone—”

“Now!” interrupted the sharp-faced steward, waving his thin hands, and with an expressive shrug of the shoulders; “now, my lord the Count is sick. The scholar Aldarin hath the rule. Tell me, sir huntsman, and you, sir, of the fiery nose, is there any waste o’ flesh or liquor in the castle? Is not the signer careful of the beeves of my lord. No longer are we quiet folks disturbed by your carousings: no silly dances, no rude catches o’ vile camp-follower songs! By the Virgin, no!”

“By the true wood o’ th’ cross, sir steward, thou’rt a rare one!” growled a white-haired esquire, as his scarred and sunburnt visage was turned angrily toward the sharp-faced steward. “Dost think men o’ mettle are made o’ such broomstick bones and mud-puddle blood as thou? Body o’ Bacchus, no! ‘No carousing!’ I’d e’en like to see thee on a jolly carouse!”

“Say rather, sir esquire,” Robin the Rough exclaimed, as the party reached his side, “say rather, you’d e’en wish to see a death’s-head making mirth at a feast, or a funeral procession strike up a jolly fandango! Sir steward at a feast!—the owl at a gathering o’ nightingales!”

The sharped-faced steward was about to make an angry reply, when a sudden thrill ran through the party. Each tongue was stilled, and each man stood motionless in the full glare of the noon-day sun.

“Hist! The Signor Aldarin approaches,” whispered the page Guiseppo. “He comes from the castle gate along to the castle hall.”

And as each head was stealthily turned over the shoulder toward the castle gate, there came gliding along, with cat-like steps and downcast look, a man of severe aspect, whose gray eye—cold, flashing, and clear, in its unchangeable glance—seemed as though it could read the very heart.

A tunic of dark velvet, disclosing the spare outlines of his slim figure, reached to his ankles, and over this garment, depending from his right shoulder, he wore a robe of similar color, passed under his left arm, joined in front by a chain of gold, and then falling in sweeping folds to his sandaled feet.

A cap of dark fur, bright with a single gem of strange lustre, gave a striking relief to his high, pale forehead, seamed by a single deep wrinkle, shooting upward from between the eyebrows, while his gray hair fell in slight masses down along the hollow cheeks and over his neck and shoulders.

“This is the—scholar!” growled one of the white-haired esquires. “His days have been passed in the laboratory, while his brother’s sword hath flashed at the head of armies.”

“The saints preserve me from the wizard-tribe, say I!” muttered Robin the Rough; and as he spoke, with an involuntary movement of fear, the party separated on either side of the castle hall, leaving room for the passage of the Signor Aldarin.

He came slowly onward, with his head downcast, neither looking to the one side nor to the other. He ascended the steps of stone, and in a moment was lost to the view of the loiterers in the castle yard.

The hall of the castle passed, a passage traversed, and another stairway ascended, the stooping scholar stood in a small ante-chamber, with the light of the noon-day sun subdued to a twilight obscurity by the absence of windows from the place, while an evening gloom hung around the narrow walls, the arching ceiling of darkened stone, and the floor of tesselated marble. A single casement, long and narrow, reaching from floor to arch, gave entrance to a straggling beam of daylight, disclosing the stout and muscular form of a man-at-arms, with armor and helmet of steel, who, pike in hand, waited beside a massive door, opening into one of the principal apartments of the castle.

With a soft, gliding footstep, the Signor Aldarin glided along the tesselated floor, and stood beside the man-at-arms, ere he was aware of his approach.

“Ha! Balvardo, thou keepest strict watch beside the sick chamber of my lord.” The words broke from the Signor Aldarin. “Hast obeyed my behest?”

“E’en so, my lord,” the sentinel began, in a rough, surly tone.

“How, vassal! Dost name me with the title of my brother? Have a care, good Balvardo, have a care!”

“He chides me in a rough voice,” murmured the sentinel, as though speaking to his own ear; “and yet a wild light flashes over his features at the word. Signor, I but mistook the word—a slip o’ th’ tongue,” he exclaimed aloud. “Thy behests have been obeyed. No one has been suffered to pass into the chamber of my Lord Di Albarone since morning dawn, save the fair Ladye Annabel, who waits beside the couch of the wounded knight.”

“Come hither, Balvardo. Look from this narrow window: mark you well the dial-plate in the castle yard. In a few moments the shadow will sweep across the path of high noon. When high noon and the shadow meet, thy charge is over. The soothing potion which I gave my brother at daybreak, will have taken its proper effect. Until that moment, keep strict watch: let not a soul enter the Red Chamber on the peril of thy life!”

And with the command, the Signor swept from the ante-chamber, gliding along a corridor opposite the one from which he had just emerged, and his low footsteps in a moment had ceased to echo along the dark old arches.

“He is gone,” the sentinel murmured, slowly pacing the tesselated floor. “He comes like a cat—he glides hence like a ghost. Hark! footsteps from opposite corridors meeting in this ante-chamber. By’r Lady! here comes Adrian, the son of this sick lord, and from the opposite gallery emerges the monk Albertine, the tool and counsellor of my Lord of Florence. ’Tis a moody monk and a shrewd boy. I’faith, there’s a pair o’ ’em.”

And as he spoke, sweeping from the shadows of the northern gallery came a dark-robed monk, walking with hastened step, his arms folded on his breast, and his head drooped low, as if in thought, while the outlines of his face were enveloped in the folds of his priestly cowl. And as he swept onward toward the centre of the ante-chamber, from the southern gallery, with slow and solemn steps, advanced a youth of some twenty summers, attired in the gay dress of a cavalier, with a frank, open visage, marked by the lines of premature thought, and relieved by rich and luxuriant locks of golden hair sweeping along each cheek down to the shoulders.

“Whither speed ye, Lord Adrian?” exclaimed the deep, sonorous voice of the monk, as the twain met breast to breast in the centre of the rich mosaic floor. “Whither speed ye, heir of Albarone, at this hour?”

“Whither do I speed?” cried the cavalier, starting with sudden surprise. “Sir monk, I wend to the sick-chamber of my father.”

The monk grasped the cavalier suddenly by the right hand, and raised it as suddenly in the light of the sunbeams streaming through the solitary window.

“An hour since, this hand was graced by a signet ring: the signet ring which has been an heirloom in thy house for centuries. Dost remember the prophecy spoken of that strange ring? Dost remember the rude lines of the vandal seer:

“Sir monk, the lines are rude; yet I mind me well the words of the prophecy, are an household sound to an heir of Albarone. Yet why this sudden grasp of my hand? Why thus urgent? The fire in thine eye seems not of earth.”

“Lord Adrian, by the Virgin tell me how long since parted this finger from the ruby signet ring of thy house? Never parted that ring from the hand of heir of Albarone, without sudden evil, fearful doom, or unheard of death, gathering thick and dark around thy house!”

“I missed not the signet ring till this moment. An instant ago, I was in my chamber. Thy air is strange and solemn for the confessor of this jovial Duke, yet I will turn me, and seek the signet without delay. Thy warning may be well-timed.”

“Boy, a word in thine ear. My life has been strange and dark. I have loved the shadow rather than the light. I have courted the glare of corruption in the midnight charnel-house, rather than the blaze of the noon-day sun. I have made me a home amid strange mysteries, and from the tomes of darksome lore I have wrung the secrets of the hidden world.”

“To what tends all this, sir monk? By’r Ladye, thou’rt strangely moved!”

“And from my hidden lore have I learned this mystery of mysteries. When the stillness of midnight hangs like lead over the noon-day hour—when, at mid-noon, a strange, solemn, and voiceless silence pervades the air, spreads through the universe, and impresses the heart of each living thing with a feeling of unutterable AWE, then wicked men are doing, in the sight of heaven, with the laughter of fiends in their ears, some deed of horror, that the fiends tremble ’mid their laughter to behold. Some deed of nameless horror, which thrills the universe with AWE, making the hour of noon more terrible than midnight in the charnel-house. Look abroad, Adrian—’tis high noon. Dost hear a sound, a whisper of the wind? All silent as death—all still as the grave! The silence of this nameless AWE is upon the noon-day hour. Adrian, to thy chamber, to thy chamber, and rest not till the signet ring again encircles thy finger! There is a doom upon this hour!”

And with these words, uttered in a low, yet deep and piercing tone, the monk glided from the ante-chamber; and the cavalier, without a word, as hastily retraced his steps, and in an instant had disappeared in the shadow of the southern gallery.

“Whispered words!” muttered the bull-headed man-at-arms. “A ring! What about a ring? Ha—ha! The Monk and the Springald commune together—well! I could not make out their secret, but—but, the ring!”

And raising his sturdy form to its full height, with a grim smile on his bearded face, Balvardo glanced around the ante-chamber, and then, with a low chuckle, he let his pike fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET OF GOLD.

In a lofty apartment of the castle, hung with rich folds of crimson tapestry, and designated from time past memory as the Red Chamber, on a couch of gorgeous hangings, lay the once muscular, but now disease-stricken, Julian, Count of Albarone, shorn of his warrior strength, divested of the glory of his manhood’s prime.

The warm sunlight which filled the place, fell with a golden glow over the outlines of his lofty brow, indented with wrinkles, the long gray hair parted on either side, the eyebrows, snow-white, overarching the clear, bold eyes, that sent forth their glance with all the fire and intensity of youth, rendered more vivid and flame-like by the contrast of sunken eyelid and hollow cheek.

And by the bedside of the warrior, bending like an angel of good, as she ministered to his slightest wants, the form of a fair and lovely maiden was disclosed in the noon-day light, while her flaxen curls fell lightly, and with a waving motion, over the rich bloom of her cheek, glowing with the warmth of fifteen summers, and her full, large eyes of liquid blue, gleamed with the expression of a soul, whose fruits were pure and happy thoughts, the buds and blossoms of innocence and youth.

“Annabel,”—said the warrior, in a voice faint with disease—“Methinks I feel the strength of youth again returning; the sleeping potion of my good brother, Aldarin, has done me wondrous service. Assist me to the casement, child of mine heart, that I may gaze once more upon the broad lands and green woods of my own domain of Albarone.”——

As he spoke, the Count rose on his feet, with a tottering movement, and had fallen to the floor, but for the fair arm of the maiden wound around his waist, while his muscular hand rested upon her shoulder.

“Lean upon my arm, my uncle,—tread with a careful footstep. In a moment we will reach the casement.”

They stood within the recess of the emblazoned window, the warrior and the maiden, while around them floated and shimmered the golden sunshine, falling over the tesselated stone of the pavement, throwing a glaring light around the hangings of the bed, and streaming in flashes of brightness among the distant corners and nooks of the Red Chamber.

’Tis a fair land, niece of mine,—a fair and lovely land.—”

“A land of dreams, a land of magnificent visions, overshadowed by yon blue mountains of romance. Look, my uncle, how the noon-day sun is showering his light over the deep woods that encircle the rock of Albarone—yonder, beyond the verdure of the trees, winds the silvery Arno; yonder are hills and rugged steeps, and far away tower the blue heights of the Apennines!”

“And here, niece of mine, in my youthful prime I stood, when my aged father’s hand had dubbed me—knight. ’Twas such a quiet noon-day hour, on a calm and dream-like day as this, that, from the recess of this window, I gazed upon yon gorgeous land. How the blood swelled in my youthful veins; how dreams of ambition fired my boyish fancy, as the words broke from my lips,—‘Here they ruled, my fathers, in days by-gone, with the iron sword of the Goth; here they reigned as sovereign princes—as Dukes of Florence.’”

“Since that noon-day hour thy sword has flashed in the van of a thousand battles!”

“It has—it has! And yet what am I now? Old before my time, swept away from the path of glory, as I neared the goal! A warrior should never utter a word of complaint—and yet—by the Sacrament of Heaven, I had much rather died with sword in hand, at the head of my hosts, than to wither away with this festering wound on yonder couch. I like not to count the pulsations of my dying heart.”

“Nay, my uncle,—chide not so bitterly. Thou wilt recover—thy sword will again flash at the head of armies!”

“My sword, Annabel, my sword,”—cried the warrior, as his eyes lit up with a strange brilliancy, and his wan features were crimsoned by a ruddy flush.

In a moment, the fair hands of the maiden bore the sword from its resting-place, in a nook of the Red Chamber, with a slow and weary movement, as though the massive piece of iron which she trailed along the marble floor, exceeded her maidenly strength to lift on high.

“It is my sword, it is my sword”—shrieked the warrior, as he flung the robes of purple back from his muscular, though attenuated shoulder, and raised his proud form to its full height—“Look, Annabel, how it gleams in the light! So it gleamed on the walls of Jerusalem, so it shone aloft over the desert-sands of the Syrian wilderness! It will gleam over the battle-field again! Ay, again will the snow-white plume of Julian Di Albarone wave over the ranks of the fray, while ten thousand warriors hail that plume as their beacon-light!”

He swung the sword aloft in the air; his whole form was moved by excitement; every vein filled and every pulse throbbed; his eye flashed like a thing of flame, and his whitened lip trembled with the glorious expression of battle-scorn.

Thrice he waved the sword around his head; but when the impulse of this sudden excitement died away, his eyes lost their flashing brightness, his limbs their vigor, and Julian of Albarone tottered as he stood upon the marble floor, and stepping hurriedly backward, fell heavily upon the couch of the Red Chamber.

“The goblet, fair niece—the goblet on the beaufet. Haste thee—I am faint.”

As the words broke gaspingly from the sick man’s lips, the Ladye Annabel turned hastily to bring the goblet, and as she turned, she beheld the head of Lord Julian resting uneasily on his pillow, while his left arm hung heavily over the side of the couch.

She turned again with trembling footsteps, and hastened to arrange the pillow of the sick warrior. Her fair hands smoothed the pillow of down, and she gently raised his head from the couch.

At the very instant, the tapestry in a dark corner of the Red Chamber rustled quickly to and fro, as a figure, muffled in a sweeping cloak of crimson, emerged into view, and treading across the tesselated pavement, with a footstep like a spirit of the unreal air, it approached the beaufet of ebony, and a white hand, glittering with a single ring, was extended for a moment over the goblet of gold.

The Ladye Annabel placed the head of Lord Julian gently upon the pillow of down.

The glittering ring shone in the sun, as it fell in the goblet of gold, and the hand of the figure, white as alabaster, was again concealed in the thick folds of the crimson robe.

The Ladye Annabel, with her delicate hands, parted the gray hairs from the sick man’s face, and swept them back from his brow.

The figure in robes of crimson, strode with a noiseless footstep across the apartment, and sought the shelter of the hangings of tapestry, with as strange a silence as it had emerged from their folds.

Without taking notice of the white dust that covered the bottom of the empty goblet, Annabel filled it with generous wine, and approached the bedside of her uncle. The Count raised himself from the pillow, and lifted the goblet to his lips. As his wan face was reflected in the ruddy wavelets of the wine, he fixed his full large eyes upon the lovely face of Annabel, with a look of affection, mingled with an expression so strange, so solemn and dread, that it dwelt in the soul of the maiden for years.

He drank, and drained the goblet to the dregs.

“Thank thee—fair niece—thank thee.”

He paused suddenly, his arms he flung wildly from him, a thin, glassy film gathered over his eyes, a gurgling noise sounded in his throat, and he fell heavily upon the couch.

His features were knit in a fearful expression of pain and suffering, his mouth opened with a ghastly grimace, leaving the teeth visible, the lips were agitated by a convulsive pang, and his eyes, sternly fixed, glared wildly from beneath the eyebrows woven in a frown.

“My uncle—my father,”—shrieked the Ladye Annabel, rushing to the bedside—“Look not so wildly, gaze not so sternly upon me. Speak, my uncle, oh, speak!”

Her utterance failed, and an indistinct murmur broke from her lips. Her hands ran hurriedly over the brow of the warrior—it was cold with beaded drops of moisture. She bent hastily over the form of Lord Julian, she imprinted a kiss on his parted lips. She kissed the lips of the dead!

Then the tapestry, the hangings of the Red Chamber, the couch, with its ghastly corse, all swam round her in a fearful dance, and the Ladye Annabel fell insensible on the floor.

The great bell of the Castle of Albarone tolled forth the hour of noon. The shadow of death had been flung across the dial-plate in the castle-yard.

While the thunder-like tones of the bell went swinging and quivering, and echoing among the old castle halls, a footstep was heard without the Red Chamber, and the door was flung suddenly open.

A young Cavalier, with a face marked by frank, open features, locks of rich gold, and an eye of blue, while his handsome form was clad in a gay dress of velvet, entered the apartment, and strode with hurried steps to the couch.

He cast one look at the face of the corse, marked by the ghastly grimace of death; he cast one quick and hasty glance at the form of the Ladye Annabel, thrown insensible along the floor of stone, and then he covered his face with his trembling hands, and his manly form was convulsed by a shuddering tremor, that shook the folds of his blue doublet, as though every sinew writhed in agony beneath the gay apparel.

The heavy sob, which unutterable anguish alone can bring from the heart of a proud man, broke on the deep silence of the room, and the big heavy tear-drops of man’s despair came trickling between the clasped fingers, pressed over his countenance.

“He is dead—my father—he is dead!”

He mastered the first terrible impulse of grief, and raised the swooning maiden from the floor.

“He is dead—my father”—again sounded the husky voice of the Cavalier. “Thou, Annabel, art all that is left to me—I am—”

“A murderer—a parricide!” cried a sharp and piercing voice, that thrilled to the very heart of the cavalier.

He turned hurriedly as he grasped the maiden with his good right arm, he turned and beheld—the Scholar Aldarin.

His glance was fixed and stern, while, with one hand half-upraised, with his thick eyebrows darkening in a frown, he stood regarding the Cavalier with a look that was meant to rend his inmost heart.

“What means this outcry in the presence of the dead?” exclaimed Adrian in a determined tone—“Let our past disputes be forgotten, old man, in this terrible hour. See you not, my father lies stark and dead?”

“Murdered by thee, vile parricide!”—rang out the voice of the Signior Aldarin, as, with a determined step, he advanced to the bedside—“Ho! Guards, I say”—he shouted, raising his voice—“Vassals of Albarone, to the rescue!”

The eye of the young Cavalier brightened, his brow was knit, and his form erected to its full height as he spoke, in a quiet, determined tone.

“Look ye, old man, thou mayst taunt and gibe with thy magpie tongue, as long as the humor pleases thee. My father’s brother need fear no wrong from me—this maiden’s father can fear no harm from Adrian Di Albarone. Heap taunt on taunt, good Signior, but see that this spirit of insult is not carried into action. I am lord in the castle of my fathers!”

“Father, what mean those wild words, these looks of anger?” shrieked the Ladye Annabel, as she awoke from her swoon of terror, and, supported by the arm of Adrian, glanced round the scene—“Surely, my father, you speak not aught against Lord Adrian?”

And as she spoke, the chamber was filled with men-at-arms, in their glittering armor, and servitors of Albarone, all attired in the livery of the house, who came thronging into the apartment, and circled round the scene, while their mouths were agape, and their eyes protruding with astonishment.

Aldarin glanced around the throng, he marked each stalwart man-at-arms, each strong-limbed yeoman of the guard, and then his chest heaved and his eye flashed as he shouted—

“Seize him, men of Albarone, seize the murderer of your lord!”

He pointed to Adrian Di Albarone as he spoke. There was one wild thrill of terror and amazement, spreading through the group, a confused murmur, bursting involuntarily from every lip, and then all was still as death.

Not a man stirred, not a servitor moved, but all remained like statues, clustering round the group in their centre, where Aldarin stood with his slender form raised to its full stature, his arm outstretched and his eye flashing like a flame-coal, while Adrian gathered the Ladye Annabel in his good right arm, and gazed upon the Signor with a look of concentrated scorn.

“Seize him, guards”—again shouted Aldarin—“seize the Parricide!”

There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and the form of the stout yeoman emerged from the group.

“Not quite so fast—marry, my good Signor, not quite so fast”—he cried as he advanced. “By St. Withold, I have followed my old lord to many a hard-fought fight, I have served him by night and by day, with hand and heart, for a score of long years. Shall I stand by, and see his brave son suffer wrong?”

“What means this wild uproar?” exclaimed a calm yet half-indignant voice, as the stately dame of the Lord Di Albarone, yet unaware of her bereavement, crossed the threshold with a lofty step and an extended arm, advancing, with the port of a queen, to the centre of the group. “Vassals—what means this wild uproar? Know ye not that your lord lies deadly sick? Brother Aldarin, I take it ill of you to suffer the clamor! What can our liege of Florence think of ye, vassals, when he beholds ye thus assail the sick-chamber of your lord with noise and outcry!”

The stately dame pointed to a richly attired cavalier, who had followed her into the apartment. He was a well-formed man, with a face marked by no definite expression. His dark hair gathered, in short, stiff curls around a low and unmeaning forehead; his small dark eyes, protruding from his head, seemed to be trying their utmost to outstrip his faintly delineated eyebrows; the nose, neither aquiline, classic, or Judaic, seemed composed of all the varieties of nasal organ; his upper lip was garnished with a portion of the wiry beard that flourished on his prominent chin; his lips were thick and sensual, while his entire face was as inexpressive as might be. The throng bowed low, as they became aware of the presence of the guest of their late lord. They bowed to the Duke of Florence.

“Adrian, my son,” cried the Lady of Albarone, turning to her son in utter amazement, “what means this scene of confusion and alarm?”

Adrian took his mother by the hand, and led her to the couch. He spoke not a word, but waved his hand toward the couch. Her form was concealed for a moment amid the hangings of the bed, and then a shriek of wild emphasis startled the ears of the bystanders.

“He is dead,” exclaimed the Lady of Albarone, in a voice of unnatural calmness, as she again appeared from amid the hangings of the bed, with a face ghastly and livid as the face of death. “Vassals of Albarone, your lord is dead!”

There was a cry of horror echoing through the chamber, and the Lady of Albarone sank, leaning for support upon the arm of her son, while Annabel, in the intervals of her own sobs and sighs, whispered hurried words of consolation in her ear.

Aldarin stood regarding the group with a glance of deep and searching meaning. He gazed upon the vacant features of the Duke, distended by surprise, the countenance of Adrian, marked by a settled frown of indignation, the visage of the Countess, livid as death; and then the fair face of his daughter Annabel, her eyes swimming in tears, the parted lips and the cheek pale and flushed by turns, met the glance of Aldarin, and a strange expression trembled on his compressed lip, and darkened over his high forehead.

“Lady of Albarone,” exclaimed the Scholar, advancing,—“Lady of Albarone, my brother died not through the course of nature, he died not by the hand of disease—he was murdered!”

“Murdered!” repeated the Countess with a hollow echo.

And the Duke took up the word, echoing, with a trembling voice, that word of fear, “murdered,” while the Servitors of Albarone sent the cry shrieking around the nooks and corners of the Red Chamber.

Adrian of Albarone looked around the scene and smiled as if in scorn, but said not a word.

Aldarin made one stride to the couch of death.

“Behold the corse,” he shrieked; “behold the blackened face, the sunken eyelids and the livid lips; behold the ghastly remains of the Lord of Albarone!”

Another stride, and he reached the beaufet. He seized the goblet of gold, and held it aloft.

“Behold,” he cried, “behold the instrument of his murder!”

“God save me now,” shrieked the Countess.—“There has been foul work here—Adrian—oh, Adrian, thy sire hath been poisoned!”

“This is some new mysterie, Sir Scholar,” exclaimed Adrian, with a look of scorn.

The Lady fell insensible, and the goblet rung with a clanging sound upon the marble floor, while from its depths there rolled a small compact substance, encrusted in some chemical compound, white as snow in hue.

The Duke of Florence stooped hurriedly to the very floor, and seized both the goblet and the encrusted substance, with an eager grasp.

“Ha! There is a white sediment deposited at the bottom of this goblet. Albertine, advance; thou art skilled in such mysteries. Tell me, Sir Monk, the nature of this white powder.”

The Monk Albertine, whose dark eyes had for a moment been gleaming over the shoulders of the bystanders, now advanced with a slow and measured footstep, and confronted the Signor Aldarin, with a look full of meaning and thought. Aldarin returned the look, with a keen and searching glance, and their eyes then mingled in one long and ardent gaze, as though each man wished to read the heart of his fellow.

With a look of calmness and perfect self-possession, Albertine turned to the Duke and took the goblet from his hand.

He gazed at its depths for a moment; he was about to speak, when the heart of every man in the Red Chamber was thrilled by a wild and terrific howl, more fearful even than the yell of the dying, which proceeded from among the curtains of the death-couch, and echoed around the apartment.

“That sound,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a nervous start—“That sound is from the couch of death! It means, it means—”

A ruddy glow passed over his pale countenance, and, suddenly pausing, he gazed round the group in silence.

“It is the poor hound of our good Lord;” muttered Robin the Rough, advancing. “The hound, with skin black as death, which Lord Julian brought from Palestine—he is howling over the dead corse of his master. So have I heard him howl for three days past, as the castle-bell tolled the hour of high noon, beside the panels of yonder door. Come hither, brute; come hither, Saladin.”

The hound, black as night, with an eye like fire, came leaping through the throng, and crouched, whining, at the feet of the stout yeoman.

It was, in sooth, a noble hound, with full chest, slender limbs, long neck, and tapering body, marked by all that delicacy of proportion, that beauty of shape, and grace of motion, which tradition ascribes to the bloodhounds of the Eastern lands. The head was like the head of a snake, while the eye seemed almost instinct with a human soul.

“Sir Monk,” cried the Duke, in an imperious tone, “were it not better for thee to tell us at once whether the white powder in the goblet is poison? or shall we wait thy pleasure while thou dost weary thine eyes with gazing at yonder hound?”

The monk Albertine made a solemn inclination of his head, and kneeling on the marble floor in the centre of the group, he struck the edge of the goblet upon the tesselated stone with a quick and sudden motion of his hand.

The diamond-shaped stone of black marble was strewn with the white sediment deposited in the bottom of the goblet.

The hound sprang forward, and while his wild eyes flashed and blazed, his nostrils dilated, and the sable animal snuffed the atmosphere of the Red Chamber, as he leaped quickly around the group.

“He snuffs the smell of human blood!” muttered the stout yeoman.

And while all was intense interest and suspense, while a mingled feeling of surprise and terror and nameless fear ran around the group, while every eye was fixed upon the kneeling form of Albertine, with the goblet upraised in his hand, the hound Saladin passed from man to man, scenting the garments of the bystanders, and glancing wildly from face to face, from eye to eye.

He paused for a moment in front of the Signor Aldarin, and uttered a low whining sound as he gazed in the scholar’s face.

“How long is this mummery to last?” exclaimed Aldarin, advancing with a sudden step—“Tell me, Sir Monk, is thy study over?”

The hound Saladin sprang suddenly aside from the robes of the Signor, and eagerly snuffing the marble floor, approached the monk Albertine, and with a moaning sound licked the white substance from the diamond-shaped stone.

“Is it poison?” asked the Duke, and the interest of the group clustered around became absorbing and intense.

“Some new mysterie of thine, learned scholar!” exclaimed Adrian Di Albarone, with a smile of incredulity. “The man does not live, so false in heart as to place a death-bowl to the lips of a warrior like Julian of Albarone!”

“Is it poison!” exclaimed Albertine, gazing round upon the group—“Behold!”

And as he spoke, the hound Saladin fell stiffened and dead, upon the marble pavement, with a single fearful struggle, a single terrible howl.—His limbs were fearfully distorted, and his eyes were starting from their sockets, while a thin white foam hung round his serpent-like jaw.

A confused cry of horror thundered around the apartment, and then you might have heard the footsteps of the Invisible Death, all was so fearfully silent and still.

“As God lives, my father has been murdered!” shouted Adrian Di Albarone, as the expression of incredulity lately visible in his manly face changed to a look of pallid horror—“Now, by the Sacrament of God, he shall be avenged as never was murdered man avenged before! Who,” he shrieked in a husky voice, turning to the throng—“Who hath done this murder?”

“Sir Duke,” exclaimed Aldarin, as though he had not heard Adrian, “the encrusted substance which fell from the death-bowl may be poisonous—”

The small white ball, which the Duke had absently clenched in his fingers, fell to the floor, and every ear heard a ringing sound as it fell, and every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it touched the floor. The whole substance had vanished, and along the floor there rolled a massive signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.

The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again grasped the ring; he held it aloft, and shouted, in a tone of amazement and horror—

“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident into the death-bowl! It bears a crest and an inscription—look, Signor Aldarin—canst make out crest or inscription?”

Aldarin replied with a look of horror—

“The crest, ’tis a Winged Leopard—the motto—‘Grasp boldly, and bravely strike!’ Both crest and motto are those of Albarone”—his voice sank to a death-like whisper—“Lord Adrian—behold—it is, it is the signet-ring of Albarone!”

Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis—

“Thy question has its answer—let the signet-ring tell the tale. Adrian, oh, Adrian,” he continued, as his voice changed with mingled compassion and anguish—“what moved thee to this fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak old man, should live to see my brother’s son accused of that brother’s murder!”

“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded Adrian, though his chest heaved and swelled with the tempest aroused in his soul—“Tell me, Signor Aldarin, what were the contents of the ‘soothing’ potion administered by thee to the late Lord Julian at daybreak?”

“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its composition, and thou canst witness when I gave it to my murdered brother.”

“I aided in its composition—it was harmless—I saw thee minister the potion to Lord Julian.”

“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone hast had access to this chamber since daybreak”—spoke Adrian, with his calm eye fixed full on the Signor’s visage—“Now tell me who it was that drugged yon bowl with death?”

“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door from daybreak until high noon—did a soul enter the Red Chamber from the first moment to the last second of thy watch?”

“Not a living man”—muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo from the crowd—“not a soul save the Ladye Annabel.”

“Search the apartment!” shouted the Duke; “the assassin may be yet lurking in some dark nook or corner!”

The doors were closed, the search commenced. Every nook was ransacked, every corner thrown open to the light, not even the bed of death, with its pillows of down and its hangings of purple, was spared.

While the search was in progress, the Countess of Albarone awoke from her swoon, and striding from the recess of an emblazoned window, where the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant look over the strange scene progressing in the Red Chamber, she was soon made aware of the fearful crime charged upon her son, the signet-ring and the terrible mystery.

“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud voice, “there is mystery, but—no dishonor!—Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so accursed an act!”

“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout yeoman.

“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors; and the cry went round the apartment,—

“Nor I”—“Nor I”—“He is guiltless.”

A shrill and prolonged shriek, echoing from a nook of the Red Chamber near the death-couch, sent a sudden thrill through the group assembled in this terrible mystery.

Every form wheeled suddenly round, every eye was fixed in the direction from whence issued the shriek, and the aged Steward of the Castle was seen, upholding with one trembling hand the folds of the gorgeous crimson tapestry, while his aged face grew livid as death, as he pointed with the other hand to a dark recess.

“A secret passage—the door cut into the solid wall is flung wide open—a robe laid across the threshold—a robe of crimson faced with gold.”

And as he spoke he flung the hangings yet farther aside, and the bright sunshine gleamed over the panel of the secret door, flung wide open; the crimson robe was thrown over the threshold, but no beam lighted up the gloom of the passage beyond.

The Lady of Albarone rushed hurriedly forward, she seized the robe, she held it aloft in the sunbeams, and—every eye beheld the robe of Adrian Di Albarone!

“Adrian!” shrieked the Countess, “Adrian of Albarone—yonder secret passage leads to thy sleeping chamber—thy departed sire, myself and thou, alone were aware of its existence. It has ever been a secret of our house. Tell me, by yon murdered corse, I implore thee, tell me who flung this door open, who laid thy robe across the threshold?”

Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead, and with a cry of horror fell insensible upon the floor.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE EMBRACE OF A BROTHER.

The sun was setting, calmly and solemnly setting, behind a gorgeous pile of rainbow-hued clouds, magnificent with airy castle and pinnacle, while the full warmth of his beams shone through the arching window of the Red Chamber, its casement panels thrown wide open, filling that place of death with light and splendor.

In the recess of the lofty casement, with the sunshine falling all around, and the shadow of her slender figure thrown like a belt of gloom over the mosaic floor, stood the Ladye Annabel, silent and motionless; her rounded arms half raised, with the slender hands crossed over her bosom, her robe of pale blue velvet, with the inner vest of undimmed white made radiant by the sunbeams; while, swept aside from her features, the golden hair fell with a floating motion down over her shoulders, and along the breast of snow.

And as she stood thus still and immovable, gazing with one unvarying glance along the courtyard, the sunshine revealed her face of beauty, every lineament and feature disclosed in the golden light, seeming more like the face of a dream-spirit, than the countenance of a mortal maiden. The soul shone from her face. The eyes full, large, and lustrous with their undimmed blue, dilating and enlarging with one wild glance; the cheek white as alabaster, yet tinted by the bloom, and swelled with the fullness of the budding rose; the lips small, and curvingly shaped, slightly parted, revealing a glimpse of the ivory teeth; the chin, with its dimple; the brow, with its clear surface, marked by the parted hair, waving aside like clustered sunbeams—such was the face of the Ladye Annabel, all vision, all loveliness, and soul.

“He is bound; yes, bound with the cord and thong! They gather around him with looks of insult; they place him on the steed; they move—oh, mother of Heaven!—they move toward the castle gate! And shall I never see him again—never, never? It is a dream; it is no reality. It is a dream! Was it a dream, yesterday, when he stood in this recess, his hand clasped in mine, his eyes calm and eloquent, gazing in mine, while his voice spoke of the sunset glories of the summer sky?”

One long, wild glance at the scene in the courtyard, and then veiling her eyes from the sight, she started wildly from the window.

“It is a dream,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as she hurriedly glided from the room, and the echoes returned her whisper. “It is, it is a dream!”

Her footsteps had scarce ceased to echo along the ante-chamber, when another footstep was heard, and ere a moment passed, Aldarin stood in the recess of the lofty window of the Red Chamber. His face was agitated by strange and varying expressions, as with a keen and anxious eye he glanced over the spears and pennons of along line of men-at-arms, passing under the raised portcullis of the castle gate.

The portcullis was lowered with a thundering clang, the spears and pennons, the gallant steeds and their stalwart riders, were lost to sight, but presently came bursting into view again, beyond the castle gate, where the highway to Florence, appearing from amid surrounding woods, led up a steep and precipitous hill. And there, flashing with gold and glowing with embroidery, the broad banner of the Duke of Florence was borne in the van of the cavalcade. Then came four men-at-arms, in armor of blazing gold; and then, distinguished by his rich array, rode the Duke, mounted upon a snow-white charger, and behind him, environed by guards, his arms lashed behind his back, came Lord Adrian Di Albarone, accused of the most foul and atrocious murder of his sire. Beside her son, her face closely veiled, and her form bowed low, the Countess rode; and in the rear, their steeds gaily prancing, their spears flashing, and their pennons glancing in the sun, came the men-at-arms in long and gallant array.

With parted lips and strained eyes did Signior Aldarin watch the movements of this company.

As the steed of the last man-at-arms was lost in the shades of the forest, Aldarin smiled grimly, and, extended his shrivelled hand, shouted in tones of exultation:

“One hour ago, I was the stooping scholar,—The Signior Aldarin. Now!” full boldly did he swell that little word; “Now, I am the Count Aldarin Di Albarone, lord of the wide domains of Albarone!”

He laughed the short, husky laugh which was peculiar to him.

“Adrian swept from my path—and is he not already swept from my path?—that brainless idiot, my liege of Florence, swallowed the charge against that forward boy as greedily as the fish swallows the tempting bait; the signet and the robe will bring the changeling to the block, and thus, my only obstacle swept away, I, as next heir, succeed to the titles and estates of Albarone! And Annabel, my fair daughter! thy brow shall be decked with a coronet; thou shall reign Duchess of Florence! Ha—ha!”

And here, as the wide prospect of ambition opened to his mind’s eye, he became silent, and, hurriedly pacing the floor, resigned his soul to the dreams of his excited fancy.

Suddenly his visions were interrupted by a deep sigh, that seemed to proceed from the corse upon the couch.

Aldarin started, and for a moment stood still as a statue, his ear inclined toward the couch, as if intently listening; his lips apart, and his quivering hands stretched forth as though he would defend himself from some unreal foe.

At last, gaining courage, he approached the bed. There, without the slightest signs of animation, lay the faded form of the gallant warrior; the eyes closed, the stern expression of the features vanished, and the whole attitude that of unconscious repose.

Turning away, Aldarin was chiding himself for his childish terror, when a deep, sonorous groan met his ear. With a swelling heart he once more turned, and beheld a sight that caused the cold sweat of intense terror to ooze from his person, and every nerve to quake with alarm.

The eyes of the Count were wide open; a slight flush pervaded his cheeks, and his entire attitude was changed. A voice came from his pallid lips:

“Annabel, dearest Annabel! a fearful dream but now possessed my fancy! Methought I lay dead—dead, Annabel, dead; and that I died ere thy nuptials were solemnized—thy nuptials, Annabel, and thine Adrian!”

A fearful expression came over the scholar Aldarin’s features, as though he was stringing his mind to one great effort. In an instant his countenance became calm again, and approaching the bedside, he enquired, in a soft voice, if his dear brother wanted anything?

The Count answered hurriedly, as if a sudden light burst upon him:

“Ah! the Virgin save us! good Aldarin, art thou here? Surely, I saw Adrian and Annabel but a moment since? Surely—”

“Nay, my brother;” answered Aldarin, “’twas but mere phantasy. Annabel is not with us, nor is my Lord Adrian here; but I, dear brother, I am by your side.”

Speaking these words in a voice tremulous with affection, Signior Aldarin passed his left arm around the body of the Count, while the other enclosed his neck. He clasped him in an ardent embrace, as he continued:

“I am with you, dear brother; I will minister to your slightest wish; I, Aldarin, your own devoted friend.”

Here he inserted his right hand beneath the long gray locks of the Count, and clasping his neck, pressed him yet closer to his bosom.

“Kind Aldarin,” the Count began, but the sentence was cut short by a piercing cry, and the right hand of Aldarin clutched tighter and tighter around his brother’s throat.

“Nay, brother, thou shalt have rest, an’ thou wishest it,” cried Signor Aldarin. “There, sleep softly, and pleasant dreams attend you!”

The Count fell heavily upon the bed; his blood-shot eyes protruded from his blackened face, a livid circle was around his throat, and a thin line of blood trickled from his mouth. A sigh, heavy, deep, and prolonged came from his chest, and the murdered man ceased to live.

“The fiend be thanked!—it is done!”

Having thus spoken, in a voice that came through his clenched teeth, the murderer looked up and saw—the dogged, rough, yet honest visage of the stout yeoman peeping from among the curtains on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes steadily fixed on the corse, and a curious look of inquiry visible in every feature of his face.

The Signior drew back, trembling in every limb, and pale as death. It was a moment ere he recovered his speech, when, assuming a haughty air, he exclaimed:

“Slave, what do you here? Is it thus you intrude upon my privacy? Speak, sir—your excuse!”

The stout yeoman replied in his usual manners speaking in the Italian, but with a sharp English accent:

“Why, most worshipful Signior, you will please to bear in mind that for twenty long years have I followed my lord, he who now lies cold and senseless, to the wars. That withered arm have I seen bearing down upon the foe in the thickest of the fight; that sunken eye have I beheld glance with the stern look of command. By his side have I fought and bled; for him did I leave my own native land—merrie, merrie England,—and I will say, a more generous, true-hearted, and valiant knight, never wore spurs, or broke a lance, than my lord, the noble Count Julian Di Albarone.”

The yeoman passed the sleeve of his blue doublet across his eyes.

“Well sirrah,” cried the Signior, “to what tends all this?”

“Marry, to this does it tend: that wishing to behold that noble face yet once more, I stole silently to this chamber, thinking to be a little while alone with my brave lord. I did not discover your presence, till I looked through the curtains and saw—”

The stout Englishman suddenly stopped; there was a curious twitch in his left eye, and a grim smile upon his lip.

“Saw what, sirrah?” hurriedly asked the scholar Aldarin.

“Marry, I saw thee, worshipful Signior, in the act of embracing the Count; and such a warm, kind, brotherly embrace as it was! By St. Withold! it did me more good than a hundred of Father Antonio’s homilies—by my faith, it did!”

The thin visage of Aldarin became white as snow and red as crimson by turns. Making an effort to conceal his agitation, he replied:

“Well, well, Robin, thou art a good fellow after all, though, to be sure, thy manners are somewhat rough. I tell thee, brave yeoman, I have long had it in my mind to advance thy condition. Follow me to the Round Room, good Robin, where I will speak further to thee of this matter.”

“The Round Room!” murmured Robin, as he followed the scholar Aldarin from the Red Chamber. “Ha! ’tis the secret chamber o’ th’ scholar; many, many have been seen entering its confines—never a single man has been seen emerging from its narrow door, save the scholar Aldarin! I’ll beware the serpent’s pangs! I’ll drink no goblets o’ wine, touch no food or dainty viands while in this Round Room; or else, by St. Withold, Rough Robin’s place may be vacant in the hall, forever and a day!”

With these thoughts traversing his mind, the yeoman followed the scholar over the floor of the ante-chamber, and as they entered the confines of a gloomy corridor, a spectacle was visible, which, to say the least, was marked by curious and singular features.

Imagine the solemn scholar striding slowly along the corridor with measured and gliding footsteps, while behind him walks Robin the Rough, describing various eccentric figures in the air with his clenched hands; now brandishing them above the Signior’s head, now exhibiting a remarkable display of muscular vigor at the very back of Aldarin; and again, making a pass with all his strength apparently at the body of the alchymist, but in reality at the intangible atmosphere. These demonstrations did not appear to give the stout yeoman much pain, for his cheeks were very much agitated, and from his eyes were rolling thick, large tears of laughter.

The corridor terminated in a long, dark gallery hung with pictures colored by age, and framed in massive oak. Traversing this gallery, they ascended a staircase of stone, and passing along another corridor, terminated by a winding staircase. This, the scholar and the yeoman descended, and then came another gallery, another ascending stairway, and then various labyrinthine passages traversed, Rough Robin at last found himself standing side by side with Aldarin, in front of the dark panels of the narrow door leading into the Round Room.

This room was scarce ever visited by any living being in the castle save Aldarin, and strange legends concerning its mysterious secrets were current among the servitors of Albarone.

Many had been seen entering its confines with the Signior, but never was any one, save Aldarin, seen to emerge from its gloomy door.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE DEATH-TRAP.
ROBIN THE ROUGH IS ADVANCED TO HONOR, WHILE THE SKELETON-GOD LAUGHS OVER HIS SHOULDER.

The door flew suddenly open, and Robin, gazing around, found himself standing in a small room, circular in form, with an arched ceiling, and floor of stone. The walls were lined with shelves, piled with massive books, clasped by fastenings of silver and of gold, thrown among scrolls of parchment, richly illuminated, and emblazoned with strange figures, relieving pictures of dark and hidden meaning.

The apartment having no casement, light was supplied by a small lamp of curious workmanship, depending from the arched ceiling, and diffusing its intense and radiant beams all around the place, making the lonely room as bright as though the noonday sun shone over its shelves and walls.

Around the chamber were scattered strange instruments pertaining to the science of astrology or mysteries of alchemy; here richly emblazoned parchments, inscribed with curious characters, glittered in the light; and yonder, the ghastly skull, with its hideous grin of mockery, was strown along the floor, mingled with the bones of the human skeleton, the last fragments of the tenement of the living soul.

While Robin’s eyes distended in wonder, as he hastily glanced around the room, he stumbled and fell against an object reared in the centre of the floor.

“The foul fiend take thee, slave!” shouted Aldarin, as, with his extended arms, he stayed the soldier in his fall. “Wouldst thou destroy the labor of thrice seven long years? Wouldst thou destroy a Mighty Thought? Stand aside from the altar, and come not near it again, or by the body of * * *, I will brain thee with this dagger! Thou slave!” he shrieked, in tones of wild indignation, as his blazing eye was fixed upon the face of the yeoman, who stood confused and silent, “for what dost thou suppose I have watched yon beechen flame, by day and night, for twenty-one long years? For what have I wasted the youth and the vigor of my days before yon altar? Was it to have my labor, the mighty thought, for which I have dared what mortal never dared before, destroyed by thy clumsy carcass? Dost think so, slave?”

Rough Robin murmured an excuse for his awkwardness, and, while the Signior’s features subsided into their usual deep and solemn expression, he again gazed around the room.

From the centre of the oaken floor arose a small altar, built of snow-white marble, with a light blue flame arising from a vessel of gold on its surface: the fire sweeping along the sides of an alembic, suspended over the altar by four chains, attached to as many rods of gold placed at each corner of the structure.

There was something so strange and solemn in the entire aspect of the place—the light blue flame arising in tongues of fire from the vessel of gold on the snow-white altar, burning for ever beneath the hanging alembic, the chains and rods of gold, the pure and undimmed white of the marble, varied by no sculpturing or ornament, combined with the utter stillness and solitude of the room—that Robin felt awed, he scarce knew why; and dark forebodings crept like shadows over his brain.

The scholar seated himself upon a small stool placed near the other, and pointing to another, in a mild voice, desired Robin to follow his example. The yeoman hesitated.

“It is not meet for a poor yeoman o’ th’ Guard to rest himself in the presence of so great a scholar.”

“Nay, nay, good Robin, rest thyself. I was angered with thee a moment hence, but now it is all past. Seat thyself, brave yeoman.”

The soldier complied, and rested his stout person upon a stool of oak, placed some six feet from the spot where sat the Signior Aldarin. Robin had but time to note a singular circumstance, ere the scholar spoke. The stool upon which the stout yeoman sat, was firmly jointed in a large slab of red stone, which, spreading before him for the space of some six feet, was curiously fixed in the planks of the oaken floor.

With a mild and smiling look, the scholar spoke:—

“Robin, thou hast been a true and faithful vassal to my late brother. Thou didst right carefully attend Lord Julian, when forced by the incurable wound of a poisoned arrow, some three months since, he returned from Palestine, leaving Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, at the head of his men-at-arms. Robin, I have long designed to testify the good opinion in which I hold thee by some substantial gift—thou shall be Seneschal of this mighty castle of Albarone!”

“Marry, good Signior—”

“How, sir!—dost thou address me as Signior? Vassal, I am the Lord of Albarone!”

“But Adrian—”

“What sayest thou of Adrian? A murderer—a parricide—his death is certain. The Duke of Florence hath sworn it.”

“Well, my Lord Count, then, an’ it pleases you better, I was about to say that if I had my choice I would sooner be made an esquire.”

“This thou shalt be:—first promise to serve me faithfully in all that I shall command.”

“Well, as far as an honest man may, so far do I promise.”

The scholar Aldarin mused a moment and then said carelessly—“Was it not an exceeding wicked deed, this murder of my good brother?”

“Aye, marry was it,” replied Robin, looking fixedly at Aldarin—“and the fiend of hell, himself, could not have done a more damned, or a more accursed thing.”

“True good Robin,—’twas a horrid murder. What could have prompted Adrian to raise his hand against his father, eh? good Robin?”

The Yeoman did not reply. He cast his eyes to the floor and confusedly fingered his cap.

The Count Aldarin—so must I style him—reached a folded parchment from a writing desk and then asked—

“Why dost thou not speak, good Robin? What art thinking of?”

“Why, heaven save your lordship,” said Robin, speaking in a whisper, and gazing full in Aldarin’s face, “I was just wondering whether the murderer embraced the Count ere he strangled him?”

Aldarin started aside—his features were writhen into a fearful contortion, and his whole frame shook like a leaf of the aspen tree. Again he turned his visage, it was calm, as the face of innocence, and a smile was on his pinched lip.

“Receive thy warrant as Seneschal of the Castle of Albarone,” said Aldarin, as he held forth the parchment—“nay, kneel not, good Robin; keep thy seat.”

Robin held forth his hand to reach the parchment—his fingers touched it, when Aldarin stamped his foot upon the floor, and the slab of red stone fell quick as lightning beneath the yeoman. A deep and dark well was discovered. In an instant the stool affixed to the stone was empty, and far below, in the depths of the pit the echo of the falling slab, sunk with a sound like the rushing of the winter wind through the corridors of a deserted mansion.

A face, with eyes rolling ghastly, with the lower jaw sunken and the tongue protruding from the mouth, appeared above the side of the cavity, at the very feet of Aldarin, and a muscular hand convulsively clutched the oaken plank, while the body of the stout Yeoman, was seen through the darkness of the pit, as he clung with the grasp of despair, to the floor of the room.

“Devil—” shouted the desperate soldier, as he made a convulsive effort to lighten the grasp of his hand on the smooth plank. “I’ll foil thee yet. ’Tis not the fate of an honest man to die thus! My doom—”

“Is DEATH!” shrieked the scholar, and drawing the glittering dagger from his robe, he smote the fingers of the Yeoman, with its unerring steel. The joints of the hand were severed.

The grasp of the soldier failed, he gave one dying look, and then far, far down in the pit, a whizzing noise like the sound of a falling body was heard, and as it grew fainter and fainter did Aldarin stand in attitude of listening, gazing down into the shadow void, his arms outstretched, his eyes wildly glaring, his lips apart, and every lineament of his face expressive of triumph, mingled with hate and scorn.

A wild, maniac laugh came from the murder’s lips:

“Ha—ha—ha! caitiff and slave! Thou hast met thy fate. The scholar hath enemies, but—ha—ha!—they all disappear!”

Again he cast his eyes into the well. All was still as death. A single look into the dark cavity, and, with his bitter smile, Aldarin pictured the mangled corse of the yeoman, lying in bloody fragments, strewn over the vaults of the castle, amid the corses of the unburied dead.

He stamped his foot on the floor, and the red slab, bearing the empty stool, slowly arose on its hinges, and was again fixed in the oaken planks.

“Silent forever, prying fool! My secret is safe. Thou shalt no more prate of a certain warm embrace. Nay, nay; now for my schemes. I must send on to Florence fresh proofs of Adrian’s guilt: witnesses, and so on, and so on. That matter arranged, then comes the marriage of Annabel and the Duke. Ha—ha! Let me think.”

Here he fell into a musing fit, and having newly fed the beechen flame upon the altar of marble, he approached a point of the Round Room, where a small knob of iron projected from the oaken floor.

Stamping upon the knob, a division of the shelving receded, and a portion of the wall, leaving an open space, while a passage was disclosed into a secret chamber, beyond the Round Room.

A door of dark and solid wood, painted in imitation of the walls of the Round Room, had been made in an aperture of the wall, with shelving placed on its panels, and every sign or mark of the existence of such a door, carefully and effectually erased. It bore a complete resemblance to the other parts of the walls, and no one, save Aldarin, could have dreamed of its existence. The small knob in the oaken floor, communicated with a spring, and the secret door rolled into the adjoining room on grooves fixed in the floor.

Aldarin stepped through the secret passage, the door rolled back, and the Round Room was left to the silent flame and the grinning skull.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERIES.

A chamber with a low, dark ceiling, supported by massive rafters of oak; floor and wall of dark stone, unrelieved by wainscot or plaster—bare, rugged and destitute—in form, an oblong square, narrow in width, and extensive in length, with the impression of a coffin-like gloom and confinement, resting upon each dark stone and rugged rafter, while the air was insupportable with the scent of decaying mortality.

In the centre arose a rough table of massive oak, with a smoking light, burning in a vessel of iron, placed at each corner, flinging a dreary radiance through the darkness of the chamber.

The light threw its red and murky beams over the fearful burden of the table. It was piled with the unsightly forms of the dead. There were lifeless trunks, all hewn and hacked; there were discolored faces, green with decay; with the eyes scooped from the sockets, the livid skin dropping from the forehead, the jaw torn from its socket, and the brain, once the resting place of the mighty soul, protruding in all its discoloration and corruption over the bared brow; there were arms and limbs torn from the body, some yet wearing the hue of life, others rendered hideous and disgusting by the revel of the worm; there, in that lone room were piled up all these ghastly remains of humanity, these fearful mockeries of life, there rotting relics of what had once enthroned the GIANT SOUL.

The form of a muscular man, with chest of iron, and arms of brass, lay on the centre of the table, side by side with the figure of a fragile woman. The scanty locks of gray hair surmounted the half peeled forehead of the warrior, while the copious tresses of the woman drooped over the white cheek, the alabaster neck, and fell twining over the bosom, yet untainted by decay.

“Here,” cried Aldarin, with dilating eye—“Here, for twenty-one long years have I toiled. The sun shone over the beauty of spring, the luxury of summer, and yet I beheld him not. Autumn came with its decay, and winter with its cold, and yet Aldarin went not forth. Toil, toil, toil, while youth died in my veins, and age came wrinkling over my brow; toil, toil, toil, unceasing and eternal toil.

“Julian went to war, his plume waved over the ranks of battle. Aldarin toiled on, over the carcasses of the dead. Others have made friends among the living, and won honor from the great—it was mine to build a home amid the corses of the unburied dead, and to wring knowledge, wild and terrible, it is true, yet mighty knowledge, from the grasp of death. Toil, toil, toil, but not forever. It will come at last—the glorious secret.

“A few more weary days, a few more dreary nights, and the corse will speak, the alembic will give fort was! h the secret. The future speaks two words that fill my heart with fire—unbounded wealth—Immortal life!”

He looked around with a blazing eye and extended arm—“They rise before me, the host of victims—ghastly with the dead hue, gory with blood they rise, they raise their hands, and shriek my name? And yet, it was to be, it was to be, and it was! And he, the last, the most dread and fearful sacrifice—oh, Fiend, wring not my heart with throes of intolerable torture nor point to yon wan and pallid form! I tell thee when the last secret shall have been wrung from the lips of Death, then, then, he, aye, he may, may——”

He paused, he drooped his head low on his breast, a scarcely audible murmur broke from his lips. Two phrases of doubtful purport might alone be heard——

“Live again—” and then the murmur—“mighty secret——from his body—”

Aldarin turned from his dread and mystic reveries, he seized the scalpel, he commenced the work of knowledge, among the carcasses of the dead. Long he labored, and eagerly he toiled, but at last, as the solemn hours of the night wore on, he slept and dreamed a dream. Prostrate among the bodies of the dead, his arms flung carelessly on either side over the torn and mangled faces, Aldarin slept and dreamed.

And this was the Dream OF Aldarin the Fratricide.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE DREAM OF THE DAMNED.

He stood upon a lonely isle. His feet were tortured by the sensation of burning, he looked beneath in wonder, and discovered that he stood upon a rock of fire.

He looked around—he beheld an ocean of fire; as far as eye could see, nothing met his vision but the waves of crimson flame, undulating to and fro, with a gentle, yet solemn motion.

Had the waves arisen around him, in giant billows, or swept above in mountains of liquid flame, the dreamer would have rejoiced, his spirit would have joined in the tumult, his soul become the incarnation of the storm.

But that strange calmness of the waves, that quiet undulation, awed him, chilled him to the heart. He looked again over the shoreless sea, and saw with straining eyes a sight of woe—unutterable woe.

From the surface of every wave, from the waves breaking in spiral flames at his feet—afar and near, on every side—from the surface of every wave was thrust a discolored face, with burning eyes, that gleamed with a strange life, while the lips were colorless, the cheeks livid, and the brow green with decay. As the Dreamer looked, low, faint murmurs, unutterable sighs and sobs, broke on the air, and a hollow whisper, more like the echo of a thought than a sound, came to his ear—THESE ARE THE FACES OF THE DAMNED—every face you see, is the face of a Lost-soul—THESE ARE THE FACES OF THE DAMNED.

Aldarin turned from side to side with a horror he had never felt before. All around seemed turning to fire, fire in every shape and form, fire intangible and fire incarnate. Above, no sky with Sun of Glory gave light to that ocean of flame, with the faces of the damned, thrust from every billow. A roof of brass, vast and awful, and magnificent, arched over the waves of fire; it was heated to a burning heat, and the eye of Aldarin seemed turning to flame, as he looked upon the brazen sky.

The horizon of this fearful sky, was concealed by great clouds, rolling slowly on, and on, and on, over the waves of fire, far, far, from the isle where stood Aldarin.

And while the hollow murmur broke over the scene, and the whispering of subdued voices, and the sobs of soft voiced women, shrieking that unutterable wail, Aldarin felt the very air burn into his flesh hotter, and more torturing than the air of the simoon, he felt the rock beneath him turning molted fire, his feet were crumbling into fragments, while agony and intense pain, quivered along his veins, and the flame lapped up his blood. He burned, and yet—he burned not.

The air penetrated into his flesh, entered the pores, burning along his veins; he felt the fire at his very heart; he drank in the flame with every breath, and yet—he burned not.

No sooner did his feet crumble with the agonizing influence of the fire, than another portion of his frame, seemed renewing its life, his heart became young, and his brain flowed with healthy blood.

Again his feet renewed their flesh, and then, with a hollow voice, he shrieked, mingling in that unutterable wail of the damned, “I burn, I burn, my heart is on fire, my brain is turned to flame, and yet I am not consumed.”

A sudden change in the shape of the islet on which he stood, attracted his attention. At first wide and extensive in form, it was now narrow and contracted. Every moment it grew smaller, and yet smaller, and the waves of fire came rolling wave after wave over its surface. Aldarin started with a new and strange horror. Terrible it was to stand on the rock of fire, his feet consuming, his brain on fire, his heart a flame; air, sky and ocean, all burning into his very soul, terrible, most terrible, but those hollow murmurs, those fearful whispers of the damned came breaking on his ear, speaking of mysteries, yet more terrible, in the Vast Beyond.

The wretched man clung to the rock. Oh! God, how fearful was the first touch of the waves of molten flame; how the liquid fire ate into his flesh and corrupted his blood, as the spiral flames cresting, each wave came hissing and curling round his limbs!

The waves rose higher and higher; the bodies of the lost, offensive with decay, the loathsome, and worm-eaten came floating around Aldarin. He raised his hands, he pushed the ghastly carcasses aside, but still they came floating on, and on, throwing their crumbling arms around his neck and fixing their livid lips upon his burning cheek, in the kiss of the damned.

They hailed him—brother—with a hollow welcome, and as innumerable voices whispered forth the sound of awful welcome, Aldarin missed his footing on the rock, he felt his form changing with decay, he raised his hands in the effort to keep on the surface of the waves, and saw his fingers with the flesh dropping from the bones; he floated on the surface of the boundless sea, he became one of the damned.

Forever and forever lost.

They were floating on and on, the boundless legion of the lost, and with them floated Aldarin.

A strange distant sound burst on the ear, he heard it grow louder and louder, now it was like the roaring of a mighty ocean, now it was like the hissing of a thousand furnaces.

Floating on the waves of fire, crowded by legion of the lost, Aldarin turned with a feeling of intense awe, and murmured the question—“What means yon sound of terror—yon murmur of fear?”

“We are floating on and on, toward the Cataract of Hell—” was the hoarse murmur of the living corse floating by his side, and a million tongues, speaking from livid lips returned the echo—“On and on toward the Cataract of Hell!”

Aldarin was carried on without the power of resistance, with no object to stay his career, on and on, every moment nearing the fearful Cataract, whose omnipresent thunder now deafened his ears, and fell upon his very brain, like the awful echo of an unrelenting Judgment.

Then came a pause of strange unconsciousness, from which Aldarin presently awoke; and opening his eyes, gazed around.

He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that burned his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh as he hung. The rock flung its projecting form over a gulf, to which the cataracts of earth might compare, as the rivulet to the vast ocean.

It seemed to Aldarin as though the universe, with all the boundless fields of space, was comprised in the sweep of that awful cataract with its rocks of bitumen and red-hot ore extending for miles and miles innumerable, on either side, with the waves of fire—each wave bearing its awful burden of a damned soul—surging and foaming over the edge of the precipice, while a hissing and crackling sound, like the noise of ten thousand forests, ravaged by flame, startled the very air of hell, and mingled with the shrieks of the ******.

Aldarin looked below.

God of Heaven, what a sight! A gulf, like the space occupied by a thousand worlds—deep, vast, immense, and yet perceptible to the eye—sunk beneath him, with its surface of fiery waves, all convulsed and foaming with innumerable whirlpools, all crimsoned by bubbles of flame, each whirlpool swallowing the millions of the lost, each bubble bearing on its surface the face of a soul, damned and damned forever. Forever and forever.

And as the lost were borne on by the waves and swallowed by the whirlpools, they raised their hands and cast their burning eyes to the brazen sky, and shrieked, with low and muttering voices, the eternal death-wail of the lost.

Over the cataract, shrieking and wailing, were precipitated the millions and ten thousand millions of living-dead; each one swelling that unutterable murmur as he fell, each soul yelling with a more intense horror as it sank into night and all around, innumerable echoes bursting from the rocks or bitumen and melting ore breaking from the very air gave back the shriek, the wail and murmur of the lost. Forever and forever lost.

And over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure of ebony darkness; his blackened brow concealed in the clouds, his extended arms grasping the infinitude of the cataract, while his feet rested upon islands of bitumen far in the gulf below.

The eyes of the figure were fixed upon Aldarin, as he clung with the nervous grasp of despair, to the rock of melting bitumen, and their gaze curdled his heated blood.

Every moment he was losing his grasp, sliding and sliding from the rock, now his feet were loosened and hung dangling over the gulf.

There was no hope for him, he must fall—fall, and fall forever.

At this moment, when his burning hands clung to the rock, when his feet were dangling in the air, when his blood-shot eyes, protruding from their sockets, glared ghastily above, a new wonder attracted the gaze of Aldarin.

A stairway, built of white marble, wide, roomy, and secure, seemed to spring from the very rock to which he clung, and winding up from the cataract, encircled by white and rainbow-hued clouds, was lost in the distance, far, far above.

Aldarin beheld two figures slowly descending the stairway from the distance—the figure of a warrior and the form of a dark-eyed woman.

As they drew near and nearer, he felt a strange feeling of awe gathering round his heart.

He knew the figures, he knew them well.

Her face of beauty wore a smile, her dark eyes were brilliant as ever, brilliant as when first he wooed and won her in the wilds of Palestine. Yet there was blood upon her vestments near the heart; and his lip was spotted with one drop of thick red blood.

It was most fearful to see them thus calmly approach; it was most terrible to recognize every line of their features, every part of their vestments.

“This,” muttered Aldarin, “this indeed, is Hell.—And yet he must call for aid, and call to the warrior and the woman. How the thought writhed like a serpent round his very heart!”

He was sliding from the rock, slowly, yet certainly sliding. Another moment and he would plunge below. There was but one hope. He might, by a desperate effort, drag his carcass along the pointed rock: by a single extension of his arm, his hand would grasp the lowest step of the stairway.

He prepared himself for the effort, his feet hung dangling below, it is true, and his body was gradually slipping, but he gathered all the strength of his living corse for that single effort.

Slowly he passed his hand along the rock of bitumen, clutching the red-hot masses of ore in the action, and with his heart all aflame, he supported his trembling carcass with the other hand, and passed the extended hand yet farther along the rock.

It wanted but a single inch, a little inch, and his hand would grasp the marble of the stairway. And, yet that inch he could not compass with the hand so nervously outstretched, all his strength had been expended in the effort, and there he hung trembling on the verge of the abyss, when had he but the additional vigor of a mere child, he might grasp the stairway—he might be saved.

Another and a desperate effort! His fingers touched the carved marble-work of the stair-way, but his strength was gone—he could not hold it in his grasp.

With an eye of horrible intensity he looked above him, ere he made the last effort. The figures stood before him on the second step of the stairway. The woman, beautiful and bright-eyed, smiled, and the stern warrior shared her smile.

“Thou, thou wilt save me Ilmerine—my wife, my love, thou wilt—drag—drag—my hand to thee, and I can reach the staircase.”

She stooped, the beautiful woman, she reached forth a fair and lily hand, she grasped the blackened fingers of Aldarin.

“Thanks, beautiful Ilmerine. I have wronged thee, but—the SECRET—a little nearer—drag—drag my hand—a moment—and I will grasp the staircase—I will be saved.”

She placed his fingers round a projecting ornament of the staircase, his grasp was tight and desperate.

“Ascend!” she cried in a sweet and soft-toned voice.

“Julian—oh, Julian—grasp this hand—aid me, oh Julian my brother!”

The figure of the Warrior slowly stooped and seized the other hand, and drawing it towards the staircase, wound the fingers round another piece of the carved work of the staircase.

“Ascend, Aldarin, brother of mine, ascend!” cried his deep toned and awful voice.

“Ascend, brother of mine, I would, but my strength fails—seize me, by the body, and drag me from this rock of terror—oh, seize me.”

The Warrior seized Aldarin by the shoulder, and dragged him slowly along the rock, but the flesh he clenched, crumbled in his grasp. Aldarin again trembled over the verge of the abyss—the blow of a single straw, might suffice to hurl him into the world below.

“Julian my brother. Ilmerine my wife, save me—oh, save me!”

The woman, dark-haired and beautiful, stooped, she slowly unwound the fingers of Aldarin from the ornament of the staircase. And as she unwound finger after finger, she looked upon his horror-stricken face and smiled, and pointed to the red-wound near her heart. He returned her smile with a ghastly grimace, he looked to the Warrior, and tightened the grasp of his other hand.

“Thou Julian, wilt save me—thou wilt not unwind my fingers, thou wilt hurl this beautiful demon aside.”

“Aldarin my brother!” said the Figure in a voice of awe, as kneeling on the lowest step of the staircase, he cast the glance of his full and burning eyes upon the livid visage of Aldarin, while for a moment he wound the folds of his robe yet closer around his warrior-form.—“Aldarin, my brother, I will save thee.”

He smiled—Aldarin returned his smile.

“Reach me thy hand, Julian, thy hand, or I perish.”

The Warrior slowly reached forth his hand, from beneath the folds of his cloak, he held it before the face of Aldarin, and the eyes of the doomed man saw that the fingers clenched a Goblet of Gold, that shone and glimmered thro’ the air, like a beacon-fire of hell.

“Oh—Fiend—the Death-bowl!”

As these words shrieked from Aldarin’s livid lips, he drew back from the maddening sight, with horror, he missed his hold, he slid from the rock—HE FELL.

A thousand fires burned before his eyes, ten thousand horrid sounds fell on his very brain, serpents loathsome and noxious crawled thro’ his hair, all around, above and beneath was fire, waves of flame eating into his soul, sky of brass, burning his eyes from their sockets, all was fire and horror and death, and—still he fell.

And a hoarse hollow voice, rising above the murmurs of the damned, spoke forth the words—“Forever and Forever—” and all hell gave back the echo—“Ever, Ever, Ever!”

Still he fell! The whirlpool sucked him within its circles of flame, around and around he dashed, with the bodies of the living dead floating over him, with ghastly faces, upturned to his vision, with foul arms, clenching him in a loathsome embrace, around and around he dashed, joining in the low, deep murmur of the damned, and his heart gave back the murmur. This, This, is hell!

Suddenly all was dark. Aldarin heard no sound, no murmur of the lost. All was dark, all was still. He touched his brow, and was amazed to find it untortured by flame. Yet big beaded drops of sweat stood from his forehead, his frame was chilled, a feeling of unutterable AWE was upon him, he feared to stir. He had been dreaming. His dream was past, his consciousness gradually returned, he found himself reclining among the foul remnants of decay, amid the carcasses of the dead.

He drooped his head low on his bosom, his face rested on his knees, his arms were folded across his eyes, and there in that lone chamber, while the silent hours of the night wore on, with his own weird soul, communed Aldarin the Fratricide.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE CELL OF THE DOOMED.
THE DOOMSMAN.

“He dies at daybreak—ha, ha, ha—he dies by the wheel.”

And as he laughed, the man-at-arms, Hugo, let fall the end of his pike upon the dark pavement, and the sound echoed along the gloom of the gallery, like thunder, every arch repeating the echo, and every nook and corner of the obscure passage taking up the sound, until, an indistinct murmur swelled from all sides, and the voices of the Invisible seemed whispering from the old and blood-stained walls.

“He dies at daybreak! Right, Hugo—the Goblet and the Ring, sent him to the doomsman!”

“And I—I—the Doomsman will have his blood! How looked he, good Balvardo, when the sentence of the Duke rang thro’ the hall—“Death, Death to the Parricide?” Quailed he or begged for mercy!”

“Quail? ‘Slife I’ve seen the eye of the dying war-horse, when the poisoned arrow was in his heart, and the death-cry of his master in his ears, but the mad glare of his eye never thrilled me, like the deep glance of this—murderer! Blood of the Turk, his eye burned like a coal!”

“Tell me, tell me, how was the murder fixed upon him? Who laid it to his hands?”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Must thou know everything. Then go ask the gossips, at the corners of the streets, and hear them tell in frightened murmurs, how the Poisoned Bowl was found on the beaufet, how the Signet-Ring was found in the bowl, how the Robe was thrown over the secret threshold, and—ha, ha, how one Balvardo swore to certain words uttered by the—Parricide, wishes for the old lord’s death, hopes of hot-brained youth, and mysterious whispers about that Ring, and—”

“How one Hugo—ha, ha,—swore to his guilt in like manner. Faith did I—how I met the young Lord, in the southern corridor about high noon, how he turned pale when I told him, with every mark of respect, be sure, that he had forgotten his crimson robe, and—”

“So ye gave him to the Doomsman?” shrieked the executioner, as his thick-set hump-backed figure was disclosed in the solitary light, hanging from the ceiling of the gallery—“So ye gave him—Lord Adrian—to me, to the pincers and the knife, to the hot lead, and the wheel of torture! You are brave fellows—ha, ha, he dies at daybreak—and the Doomsman thanks ye!”

The two sentinels watching in the Gaol of Florence, besides the gloomy door of the Doomed Cell, started with a sudden thrill of fear, as they looked upon the distorted form, and hideous face, of the wretch who stood laughing and chattering before their eyes.

Balvardo drew his stout form to its full height, and bent the darkness of his beetle-brows, upon the deformed Doomsman, and Hugo, clad in armor of shining steel, like his comrade, started nervously aside, as his squinting eyes were fixed upon the distorted face, the wide mouth, opening with a hideous grin, the retreating brow and the large, vacant, yet flashing eyes, that marked the visage of the Executioner of Florence. A dress made of coarsest serge, hung rather than fitted around his deformed figure, while a long-bladed knife, with handle of unshapen bone, glittered in the belt of dark leather that girdled his body.

“Sir Doomsman, thou art merry—” growled Balvardo—“Choose other scenes for thy merry humor—this dark corridor, with shadows of gloom in the distance, and the flickering light of yon smoking cresset, making the old walls yet more gloomy, around us, is no place for thy magpie laugh. No more such sounds of grave-yard merriment or—we quarrel, mark ye.”

“We quarrel, mark ye!” echoed the sinister-eyed Hugo, gravely dropping the end of his pike on the pavement.

“St. Judas! My brave men of mettle are wondrous fiery, this quiet night! Ha—ha—pardon Sir Balvardo, I meant not to anger ye! Yet dost thou know that it makes my veins fill with new blood! and my heart warm with a strange fire.”

“Thy veins fill with new blood! Ha—ha—ha!—Did’st ever hear of a withered vine, blackened by flame, bearing ripe grapes, or was ever a dead toad perfumed by the south wind? Hugo, his heart warms with a strange fire? Odor o’ pitch and brimstone, what a fancy! Ha—ha—”

“Nay, nay, Balvardo. There is some life in the Doomsman’s veins. Don’t doubt it? Just fancy those talons, which he calls fingers, clutched round thy throat—W-h-e-w!”

“I say it makes my veins fill with new blood, my heart warm with a strange fire—this matchless picture! A gallant Lord, with the warm flush of youth on his cheek, strength in his limbs and fire in his heart, stretched out upon the wheel—here a hand is corded to the wheel, and there another, here a foot is bound to the spokes and there another. He looks like the cross of Saint Andrew—by St. Judas. A merry fancy—eh! Balvardo? Stretched out upon the wheel, he looks with his bloodshot eyes to the heavens. See’s he any hope there? Laid on his back, he casts his last long glance aside over the multitude—the vile mob. See’s he a face of pity there! Hears he a voice of mercy? None—none! Earth curses, heaven forsakes, hell yawns! And he is of noble blood, and on his brow there sits the frown of a lofty line. While the mob hoot, the victim holds his breath, and I—I the Doomsman approach!”

“God’s death—he makes my blood chill!” muttered Hugo, glancing askance at his comrade, who stood silent biting his compressed lip.

“He writhes, for the hissing of the cauldron of hot lead falls on his ear, he feels his flesh creep, for the red hot glare of the blazing iron with its jagged point blinds his eyes as he gazes! He utters no moan—but he hears the beating of his own heart.

“He hears a step—a low and cat-like step—’tis mine, the Doomsman’s step. The red-hot iron in one hand, the ladle filled with melted lead, hot and seething lead in the other, nay, start not, nor wince, good Balvardo—’tis no fancy picture.”

“The Fiend take thy words—they burn my heart! Hold or by thy master, the devil, I’ll strike ye to the floor!

“Hark—hear you that hissing sound? His muscular chest is bared to the light, these talon-hands guide the red-hot iron over the warm flesh, with the blood blackening as it oozes from the veins. He writhes—but utters no groan. Now lay down the iron and the lead; seize the knotted club, aloft it whirls, it descends! D’ye see the broken arm bone, protruding from the flesh? Hurl it aloft again, nor heed the sudden struggle and the quick convulsive agony, never heed them—all writhe and struggle so. It grows exciting, Balvardo, it warms me, Hugo.”

Hugo muttered a half-forced syllable, but his parted lips and absent manner, attested his unwilling interest in the words of the Doomsman, while Balvardo, clutching his pike, strode hurriedly to and fro along the floor of stone.

“Again the Doomsman sweeps the club aloft! Crash—crash—crash, and then a sound, not a groan, not a groan, but a howl, a howl of agony!

“Look, Balvardo, look Hugo, you can count the bones as they stick out from each leg, from each arm, from the wrist and from the shoulder, from the ancle and the thigh, never mind the blood—it streams in a torrent from each limb, be sure, but the hot iron dries it up. Your melted lead is good for cautery—it heals—ha, ha, ha, let me laugh—it heals the wound, each blow the club had made. The picture grows—it deepens.”

“Now, by the Heaven above, I see it all—” muttered Balvardo with a dilating eye, as his manner suddenly changed, and he leaned forward with unwilling yet absorbing interest. “This is no man, but a devil’s body with a devil’s soul!”

“His face is yet unscarred—unmoved save by the wrinkling contortions of pain. The mob hoot, and hiss, and yell—the play must deepen. Hand me the iron—red-hot—and hissing—give me the bowl of melted lead, dipped from the boiling cauldron. The Doomsman’s step again!

“The victim’s body creeps, and writhes in every sinew, his veins seem crawling thro’ his carcass, his nerves, turned to things of incarnate pain, are drawn and stretched to the utmost.”

“Look well upon the blue heavens, Parricide, for the red-hot iron is pointed, and—ha, ha, how he howls—it nears your eyes, it glares before them in their last glance. It must be done, why howl you so? Does it burn your eyes, tho’ it touches them not? Ha, ha—I meant it thus.”

“Balvardo, strike him down. He is not human—see his flashing eyes, his arms thrown wildly aside, with the talon-fingers, grasping the air!”

“H-i-s-s—it touches the eyeball, the eye is dark forever! H-i-s-s it licks up the blood, it turns round and round in the socket. Now fill the hollow socket with the lead, the hissing lead—and, ha, ha, now bring me another iron pointed like this, and heated to a white heat. Quick, quick, the victim groans, howls, writhes, and yells! Quick! Ah, ha, let the iron touch the skin of the eyeball, it shrivels like a burnt leaf, deeper sink the hissing point, turn it round and round, let it lap up the gushing blood. Now the lead, the thick and boiling lead, pour it from the ladle, fill the socket, it hardens, it grows cold—ha, ha, ha, behold the eyes of lead.”

“I see them!” faltered Hugo, trembling in his iron armor.

“And I,” echoed Balvardo—“I see them, oh, horrible, and ghastly, I—I—see the eyes of lead!”

“Quick, quick—why lag ye, man? Quick—quick, I say! The knife, the glittering knife. The Parricide howls not nor groans, but his soul is trampling on the fragments of clay. Quick, while his carcass is all palpitation, all alive with torture, all throe, all agony and pulsation, hand me the knife. I would cut his beating heart from the body.”

“There, there—the flesh, severed to the bone, parts on either side—the ribs are bared—a blow with the jagged club, and they are broken. This hand is thrust within the aperture, I feel the hot blood, I feel his heart. It beats, it throbs, it writhes in my grasp, like a dying bird beneath the hunter’s hand.”

“Quick—the knife again—I hold the heart, cut it from the carcass, sever each nerve, snap each artery. A deep, low, trembling heave of the chest; a rattle in the throat.

“I raise the heart,—still quivering on high, it gleams in the light of day, and its warm blood-drops fall pattering on the face of the felon.”

“The mob shout their curses and hoot their oaths of scorn.”

“Quick, the pincers, the red-hot pincers—but hold—that shaking of the chest, that last heave of the trunk, that quivering in every splintered limb, with that quick tremor of the lip, ha, ha, that blanching of the cheek, with the blood oozing from every pore, that thick gurgling sound in the throat, he dies, the Felon dies, the Doomsman laughs, and from the shattered clod, creeps the Spirit of the Parricide!”

Hugo turned his face to the wall, and covered his eyes with his upraised hands. Balvardo stood still as death, gazing on the vacant air with a wild glance, as though he saw the Spirit of the dead. Neither moved nor said a word. The maniac wildness of the Doomsman awed and chilled them to the heart.

“This is the fate, to which ye have given him; this proud Lord now sleeping in the Chamber of the Doomed—to me, the Doomsman, to the wheel, to the knotted club, to the knife, the hot iron, and the melted lead, to the dishonor ye have given him! Ha—ha—ha—these hands itch for his blood. To-morrow’s rising sun will gleam on the scene, this merry scene—The Doom of the Poisoner.”

The Sentinels heard a hurried footstep, followed by a closing door, the Doomsman had disappeared. They turned with looks of horror, of remorse, mingled with all the fear and torture that the human soul can feel, stamped in their faces, while from one to the other broke the whisper—

“He sleeps within yon cell—the Doomsman’s cell, till the first glimpse of the morrow morn shall rouse him to this work—this work of horror and of—Doom.”[1]

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
ADRIAN THE DOOMED.

The wierd and mystic spirit that rules this chronicle, throws open to your view the cell of the Doomed.

It is a sad and gloomy place, where every dark stone has its tale of blood, every name, rudely scratched on the damp wall, its legend of despair.

All is silent; not a whisper, not a sob, not a sound. The silence is so breathless that you fear the spirits of the condemned, who passed from this chamber to the Wheel and the Block, may start into life—at the echo of a footstep from the dark corners of the room, and appal your eye with their shapes of horror.

The cresset of iron fixed to the rough wall, threw a dim light over the form of the Doomed, as seated upon a rough bench, with his head drooped between his clenched hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his golden hair faded to a dingy brown, falling over his shoulders and hiding his countenance, he mused with the secrets of his heart, and called up before his soul the mighty panorama of despair—the wheel, the block, the doomsman, and the multitude.

Adrian the Doomed raised his form from the oaken bench, and paced the dungeon floor. He was not shackled by manacles or clogged by chains.

It was the last night of his existence; escape came not within his thoughts, the walls were built of rock; hundreds of armed sentinels paced the long galleries of the prison, and a guard of two men-at-arms watched without the triple-locked and triple-bolted door of the Doomed chamber.

Suffering and endurance, anxiety of mind and torture of soul, had wrought fearful changes in the well knit and muscular form of the Lord of Albarone.

His countenance was pale and thin; his lips whitened, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken, while his faded locks of gold fell in tangled masses over his face and shoulders. His blue eye was sunken, yet it gleamed brighter than ever, and there was meaning in its quick, fiery glance.

“To die on the gibbet, with the taunt and the sneer of the idiot crowd ringing in my ears, my last look met with the vulgar grimaces and unmeaning laughter of ten thousand clownish faces—to die on the rack, each bone splintered by the instruments of ignominious torture, my scarred and mangled carcass mocking the face of day,—oh, God—is this the fate of Adrian, heir to the fame, the glory, and the fortunes of the house of Albarone?”

Pausing in his hurried walk, he stood for a moment silent and motionless as the sculptured marble, and then eagerly stretching forth his hands, cried—

“Father—father! noble father! I believe thy holy shade is now hovering unseen over the form of thy doomed son—by all the hopes men hold of bliss in an unknown state of being; by the faith which teaches the belief of a future world, I implore thee, appear and speak to me. Tell me of that eternity which I am about to face! Tell me of that awful world which is beyond the present! Father, I implore thee, speak!”

His imagination, almost excited to phrenzy by long and solitary thought, with glaring eyes, arms outstretched, and trembling hands, the agitated boy gazed at a dark corner of the cell, every instant expecting to behold the dim and ghostly form of his murdered sire slowly arise and become visible through the misty darkness. No answer came—no form arose. Adrian drew a dagger from his vest.

“Father, by the mysterious tie that binds the parent to the son, which neither time nor space can sever—death or eternity annihilate—I implore thee—appear!”

The tone in which he spoke was dread and solemn. Again he waited for a response to his adjuration, but no response came.

“This, then,” cried Adrian, raising the dagger; “this, then, is the only resource left to me. Thus do I cheat the mob of their show; thus do I rescue the name of Albarone from foul dishonor!”

Tighter he clutched the dagger; his arms was thrown back and his breast was bared; and, as he thus nerved himself for the final blow, all the scenes of his life—the hopes of his boyhood—the dreams of his love, rose up before him like a picture.

And like a vast unbounded ocean, overhung with mists, and dark with clouds, was the idea of the Dread Unknown to his mind.

Amid all the memories of the past; the agonies of the present, or the anticipations of the future, did the face of the Ladye Annabel come like a dream to his soul, and the smile upon her lip was like the smile of a guardian spirit, beaming with hope and love.

“Oh, God—receive my soul!—Annabel, fare thee-well!”

The dagger descended, driven home with all the strength of his arm.

“Adrian!” exclaimed a hollow voice, and a strange hand thrown before the breast of the doomed felon struck his wrist, the instant the dagger’s point had touched the flesh.

The weapon flew from the hand of Adrian and fell on the other side of the cell.

He turned and beheld the muffled form of a monk, who had entered through the massive door, which had been unbolted without Adrian’s heeding the noise of locks and chains, so deep was his abstraction. The ruddy glare of torches streamed into the cell, and the sentinels who held them, in their endeavors to shake off their late terror and remorse, gave utterance to unfeeling and ribald jests.

“I say, Balvardo,” cried the sinister-eyed soldier, “does not the springald bear himself right boldly? And yet at break of day he dies!”

“Marry, Hugo,” returned the other, “he had better thought of making all these fine speeches ere he gave the—ha—ha—ha!—the physic to the old man.”

Reproving the sentinels for their insolence, the muffled monk closed the door, and approaching Adrian, exclaimed—

“My son, prepare thee for thy fate! The shades of night behold thee erect in the pride of manhood; the light of morn shall see thee prostrate, bleeding, dead. Thy soul shall stand before the bar of eternity. Art thou prepared for death, my son?”

“Father,” Adrian answered; “I have been ever a faithful son of the Holy Church, but its offices will avail me naught at this hour. Once, for all, I tell thee I will die without human prayers or human consolation. On the solemn thought of Him who gave me being, I alone rely for support in the hour of a fearful death. Thy errand is a vain one, Sir Priest, if thou dost hope to gain shrift or confession from me. I would be alone!”

“Thou art but young to die,” said the monk, in a quiet tone.

Adrian made no reply.

“Tell me, young sir,” cried the monk, seizing Adrian by the wrist, “wouldst thou accept life, though it were passed within the walls of a convent?”

“The cowl of the monk was never worn by a descendant of Albarone. I would pass my days as my fathers have done before me—at the head of armies and in the din of battle!”

The monk threw back his cowl and discovered a striking and impressive face; bearing marks of premature age, induced by blighted hopes and fearful wrongs. His hair, as black as jet, gathered in short curls around a high and pallid forehead; his eyebrows arched over dark, sparkling eyes; his nose was short and Grecian; his lips thin and expressive, and his chin well rounded and prominent. And as the cowl fell back, Adrian with a start beheld the monk of the ante-chamber.

“Count Adrian Di Albarone, this morning thou wert tried before the Duke of Florence, and his peers, for the murder of thy sire. Thou, a descendant of Albarone, connected with the royal blood of Florence, wert condemned on the testimony of two of thy father’s vassals, for this most accursed act. I ask thee, canst thou tell who it is that hath spirited up these perjured witnesses; and why it is that the Duke of Florence countenances the accusations!”

“In the name of God, kind priest, I thank thee for thy belief in my innocence. The author of this foul wrong, is, I shame to say it, my uncle, Aldarin, the Scholar. The reason why it is countenanced by the duke, is—” Adrian paused as if the words stuck in his throat; “is because he would wed my own fair cousin, the Ladye Annabel.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the monk, “my suspicions were not false. Let Aldarin look to his fate; and, as for the duke—” thrusting his hand into his bosom, he drew from his gown a miniature—it was the miniature of a beautiful maiden.

“Behold!” cried the monk, “Adrian Di Albarone, behold this countenance, where youth, and health, and love, beaming from every feature, mingle with the deep expression of a mind rich in the treasure of thoughts, pure and virginal in their beauty. Mark well the forehead, calm and thoughtful; the ruby lips, parting with a smile; the full cheek blooming with the rose buds of youth—mark the tracery of the arching neck; the half-revealed beauty of the virgin bosom. Adrian, this was the maiden of my heart, the one beloved of my very soul. I was the private secretary of the duke, he won my confidence—he betrayed it. Guilietta was the victim; and I sought peace and oblivion within the walls of a convent. I am now in his favor—he loads me with honors; I accept his gifts—aye, aye, Albertine, the Monk, takes the gold of the proud duke, that he may effect the great object of his existence—”

“And that—” cried Adrian—“that is—”

The monk spoke not; a smile wreathed his compressed lips, and a glance sparkled in his eye. Adrian was answered.

In the breast of the man to whom God has given a soul, there also dwells at all times a demon; and that demon arises into fearful action from the ruins of betrayed confidence. The monk whispered something in the ear of the condemned noble, and then, waving his hand, retired.

In a few minutes the door again opened, and the stately form of the Countess of Albarone entered the traitor’s cell.

Why need I tell of the warm embrace with which she enclosed her son? Why tell of her tears that came from her very soul—her deep expressions of detestation when the name of Aldarin, the scholar, was mentioned? Need I say that she was firmly assured of her son’s innocence; that she saw through the mummery of his trial, and the trickery of his foes? Leaving all this to the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass on with my history.

The kind discourse of mother and son was broken off by the clanging of chains and the drawing of locks. The light of many torches streamed through the opened door into the cell, and the gaily-bedizened form of the Duke was discovered.

With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone retired; the door was closed, and Adrian was left alone with the Duke.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed he; “I have condescended to visit you. Albertine, my confessor, told me it was due to a branch of the royal blood of Florence. It were best that you make a short story of what you have to say. My train wait without, and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried to assume a look of dignity.

Adrian bowed down to the earth.

“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your condescension.”

“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak, ignoble son of an honored sire—inglorious descendant of a noble line. Speak! What would you say?”

“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs; without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which hell itself would shudder.”

The Duke sneered, as he spoke:

“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to poison his sire.”

“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.

Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak, and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.

Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the neck of his grace.

You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.

And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing cloak of the Duke, which descending to his knees, sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin, ornamented with spurs of gold. On his head is placed the slouching hat of the prince, surmounted by a group of nodding plumes, and beneath the folds of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of his sword.

Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile—that smile which arises from the recklessness of desperation—and then, without heeding the malignant glances of the Duke, he fixed him against the rough bench upon his knees, with his face to the wall, in an attitude of prayer and devotion—He threw his own sombre cloak over the back of his captive; and then, having slouched the hat over his face, after the manner of the Duke, he gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin, and stood ready to depart.

He opened the door of the traitor’s cell with a quickened pulse, and in an instant, found himself standing in the gallery where the muffled priest waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to the wearer of the scarlet cloak, and the word was passed along the galleries—

“Make way for the Duke—make way for his grace of Florence.”

The monk now advanced, and locking the door of the doomed cell, he affixed to its panel a parchment signed by the Duke of Florence, and sealed with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner, Adrian Di Albarone, was to be seen by no one until the morrow, when he was to suffer the doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.

This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of Albarone, who paced along the gallery, saluted at the door of every cell by the lowered spears of the sentinels.

The gallery terminated in a staircase. This Adrian and the monk ascended, and at the top they found a company of gay cavaliers, who waited for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the scarlet cloak and slouching hat was greeted with a low bow. Adrian then traversed another gallery, and yet another; being all the while followed by the band of gallant courtiers.

“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to another, “methinks our lord is wondrous silent to-night.”

“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it may be that he is weeping for this young springald, Adrian. Marry, ’tis enough to make an older man than I am weep.”

“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would have you observe strict silence.”

They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the galleries which he had just traversed.

“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.

“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”

They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle, Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.

Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to Adrian:

“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace gate.”

Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence, they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.

Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the supposed Duke with every mark of respect.

And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace, traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of recognition or sign of respect.

At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors upon the panels.

“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered the monk to Adrian, who immediately obeyed his directions.

The monk then turned to the gallant throng of courtiers, and said:

“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense with your further attendance.” The monk retired.

Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations of wonder as then burst from the lips of the cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly be woad; another that he must have been repulsed in some illicit amour; and a third seriously gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other had taken possession of the Duke of Florence. However, being well aware of the high regard in which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it to the guards of the palace, who watched within its confines, as was their wont.

CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE CHAMBER OF THE DULSE.

In a lofty chamber, hung with tapestry of purple, embroidered with rare and pleasant designs, and lighted by lamps of gold, depending from the ceiling, Adrian and the Monk rested themselves after their arduous exploit.

In one corner of the apartment stood a gorgeous bed, with a canopy of silver and gold hangings, surmounted by a Ducal coronet. Around were strewn couches of the most inviting softness, and every thing in the chamber wore an appearance of luxury and ease.

Adrian reposed on a couch of velvet, and by his side was seated the monk. Before them was placed a small table, on which stood several flasks of rich wine, together with more substantial refreshments.

“Truly, sir monk,” said Adrian, filling a goblet of wine, “I have heard of many unmannerly acts, but this deed of mine does seem to me to be the most unmannerly of all. I not only tied the brave duke, lashed him in the Cell of the Doomed, used his gallant steed, and worshipful name, but, forsooth! I must also repose me upon his couches, and refresh me with his wine!”

And Adrian laughed.

“Thou art merry, young sir. But an hour since—”

The monk was interrupted by a gentle knocking under the tapestry.

Adrian started up, and drew his sword, taking the precaution, however, to resume the scarlet cloak, and slouching hat.

The knocking grew louder. The monk removed the tapestry in the part from whence the sound proceeded, and having pressed a spring, a secret door in the wainscotting flew open, and a woman of beautiful countenance, and rich attire was discovered.

“Thou here, stern priest!” said the damsel, in a sweet voice, “I would speak with my lord.”

“Mariamne, thou canst not see him to-night; he hath no time to trifle with such as thee. His thoughts are given to prayer.”

The monk closed the door, and, turning to Adrian, said,

“Another of this miscreant’s victims, Adrian. It was fortunate she did not see thee closely, for her eye would have detected where hundreds might look without suspicion. And now let us away; every moment increases thy danger; the duke may even now have freed himself, and set his minions in chase.”

“To fly, I am willing, sir monk; but whither?”

“Follow me,” said the monk, as he lighted a small lamp of silver. He then removed the tapestry, and discovered a secret door opposite the one afore-mentioned. This the monk entered, followed by Adrian, and a stairway of stone, some two feet in width, was revealed; it was cut into the wall and over-arched, and the distance between the steps and the arch not more than four feet.

With great care the monk led the way down the steps of stone, until they numbered thirty, when they terminated in a narrow platform, which, indeed, was nothing more than a step somewhat longer than the others. Here our adventurers descended another stairway, likewise ending in a platform, and then yet another stairway was terminated by another platform; and thus they descended stairway after stairway, and crossed platform after platform, until the increasing coldness and dampness of the atmosphere, warned them that they had penetrated far below the surface of the earth.

Suddenly the stairway ended in a large and gloomy vault, with walls and floor of the unhewn rock.

On the side nearest the stairway, a gate of iron was erected between the points of two large and irregular rocks.

Through a large crevice which time had worn into this gate, the monk and Adrian passed into a vault like the former, except that the dim light of the taper discovered the rough floor strewn with grinning skulls, and whitened bones.

Along this dreary place strode the monk, lighting the way, while, at his back followed Adrian Di Albarone. In about a quarter of an hour the vault narrowed into a confined passage, along which they crawled on hands and knees. This terminated in another vault, sloping upwards with a gradual ascent, which having traversed, our adventurers found themselves again between two narrowing walls, and finally, all further progress was stopped by a large stone thrown directly across the path. Adrian spoke for the first time in half an hour—

“And are we to be baulked after all the adventures of this night?”

The monk answered by pointing to the stone, to which he and his companion presently laid their shoulders, but their united strength was insufficient to remove it.

Again they tried, and again were they unsuccessful; they made a third attempt, and the stone was precipitated before them.

Seizing the light, Adrian threw himself into the breach, and discovered an extensive vault, hedged in by walls built of hewn stone, while the floor was covered by rows of coffins, with here and there a monument of marble. Throwing themselves into this place, they picked their way through the dreary line of coffins, when they came to a wide staircase which they ascended, until they found it suddenly terminated by the archway above.

The monk raised his hand, and drawing a bolt which Adrian had not perceived, he pushed with all his strength against the archway, and a trap-door rose above the heads of our adventurers.—Through this passage the monk ascended, followed by Adrian, who looked around with a gaze of wonder, and found himself standing in the aisle of the Grand Cathedral of Florence.

The moonbeams streaming through the lofty arched windows of stained glass, threw a dim light upon the high altar with its cross of gold, and faintly revealed the line of towering pillars which arose to the dome of the cathedral, as vast and magnificent it extended far above.

“My son,” cried the monk, “give thanks to God for thy deliverance.”

And there, in that lone aisle, as the deep toned bell of the cathedral tolled the third hour of the morning, did Adrian and the monk fall lowly on the marble pavement, and, prostrating themselves before the sublime symbol of our most holy faith, give thanks to God, the Virgin, and the Saints, for their most wonderful escape.