George Lippard

CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE PIT OF DARKNESS.

One moment in light, and the next in darkness—down through the gloom of the pit, plumb as a hurled rock, and swift as an arrow, the betrayed soldier fell, precipitated by the treachery of the scholar Aldarin.

The swiftness of his descent took from him all thought or sensation. His flight was suddenly terminated by a subterranean pool of water, into the depths of which he sunk for a moment, and then arose to the surface.

The coldness of the flood, together with an unconquerable stench that assailed his nostrils on all sides, restored the stout yeoman to sensation and feeling.

Spreading his arms instinctively outward, in an attitude of swimming, Rough Robin could neither guess where he was now, or with whom he had been conversing a moment since. His thoughts were wandering and confused, as are the thoughts of a man who dreams when half asleep and half awake.

Still swimming onward through the stagnant waters, Robin cast his eyes overhead, and discerned far, far above, a faintly twinkling light, somewhat of the size of a dim and distant star. He looked again, and it was gone. Around, above, and beneath was darkness: darkness which no eye could pierce, where all was shadow and vacuum—darkness that was almost tangible with its density. The cheek of the brave soldier was chilled by air that, heavy with dampness and mist, seemed as dead and stagnant as the waters in which he swam.

The light glimmering for an instant far above, brought dimly to his mind the person of Aldarin, and the incidents of a moment hence.

And then Robin thought that his fall of terror was only a dream, and, splashing and plunging in the dark waters, he sought to shake off the fearful night-mare that stiffened his sinews and froze his blood.

His extended hand touched a cold and slimy substance, and a small, bright speck shone like a coal of fire through the darkness. Robin grasped the slimy substance: it moved, and a noisome reptile wriggled in his hand.

Now it was that he became aware that the subterranean waters were filled by crawling serpents, who writhed around his legs, twined around his body, and struck his arms and hands at every movement. Their bright eyes sparkled in the waters, and their hissing broke upon the air, as they were thus disturbed by the presence of a strange visitor.

Robin was no coward, neither was he much given to strange fancies; but a feeling of intense terror chilled the very blood around his heart, as the thought came over him that he lay in that fearful place, of which so many legends were told by the vassals of Albarone. The peasantry had many stories of a vast, unearthly pit sunk far in the depths of the castle, where the fiends of darkness were wont to hold their revel and shake the bosom of the earth with the sounds of hellish wassail. Into this dark pit—so ran the legend—had many a shivering wretch been precipitated by the lords of Albarone; and here, unpitied and unknown, had the carcasses of the murdered lain rotting and festering in darkness and oblivion.

As the memory of these strange legends crept over the confused mind of Robin the Rough, he gave utterance to a faint shriek.

It was returned back to him in a thousand echoes, swelling one after the other; now like the sound of repeated claps of thunder, and again dying away fainter and yet fainter, as though many voices were engaged in a hushed and whispering conversation.

“Avaunt thee, fiend! avaunt thee!” cried the stout yeoman, as he still strove to keep himself upon the surface of the water. “Holy Mary, holy Paul, holy Peter!” continued he, between his struggles, “an’ ye save me from these pestilent devils, I will—”

Here the yeoman plunged under the waters, and the sentence was unfinished.

“I will, by St. Withold, I will!” cried he, as he rose to the surface, “place at the altar of the first chapel at which I may arrive after my deliverance, a wax taper, in honor of all three of you.”

The yeoman struck his arms boldly through the flood, as he continued:

“And, an’ ye work out my deliverance, I’ll never ask a boon of ye again.”

Here he gave another bold push.

“I’ll never ask a boon of ye more, but stick like a good christian to my own native saint—even the good St. Withold!”

Here, satisfied that his duty to heaven was done, the yeoman strove to gain some rock, or other object, upon which he might rest his body, much disjointed as it was by his fall of terror.

“It pains me—this wounded hand!” he cried—“But Aldarin my friend will reward me for the pain, some day or other.”

A murmuring sound now met his ears; it was the sound of running waters. Onward and onward the bold yeoman dashed, and louder and yet louder grew the sweet sound of waters in motion.

In a moment he felt a sudden change, from the dull leaden stillness of a stagnated pool, to the quick flow and wild careering of waves in motion. And now he was carried onward with arrowy fleetness, while high above, the roaring of the subterranean stream was returned in a thousand echoes. Now tossed against the sharp, rough points of rocks; now plunged in whirling gullies; now borne on the crests of swelling waves, in darkness and in terror, bold Robin swept on in his career.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.
ROBIN ALONE IN THE EARTH-HIDDEN CAVERN.

Thus was he carried onward for the space of a quarter of an hour, when, bruised, shattered and bleeding, he was thrown by the swell of a wave, high out of the water upon a mass of rocks.

Here he lay for a long while, without sense or feeling. When he recovered from this swoon, it was with difficulty that he made the attempt to collect his thoughts; all was vague, indistinct, and like a dream.

“St. Withold!” at last he whispered, as if communing with himself; “St. Withold! but this Aldarin is, in good sooth, a most pestilent knave!”

He paused a moment, and then, as if to redouble his private assurance of Aldarin’s villany, he resumed:

“Aye—a pestilent knave—ugh!”

This last interjection was a suppressed growl, which he forced through his fixed teeth, as, extending his arms, with the hands clenched, he made every demonstration of being engaged in shaking some imaginary Aldarin, with great danger to his victim’s comfort and life.

“Ugh! Well, here am I, in this pit—this back-staircase to the devil’s dining room—alone, wet, hungry, and in darkness. St. Withold save me from all fiends, and I’ll take care of aught beside. Let me see. Mayhap I shall find some passage from this place. I am on solid rock that’s well. Now for’t.”

Cautiously creeping along in the darkness, he followed the winding of the subterranean flood by its roaring, until he was suddenly stopped by an upright stone, which, to his astonishment, he found to be square in shape, and, feeling it carefully, he doubted not that it had been shapen by the chisel of the mason.

Over this stone Robin clambered, and alighted upon a large chisseled stone laid in a horizontal position, and over this was placed another stone of like form; and thus proceeding in his discoveries our stout yeoman found that a stairway arose in front of him.

With a shout of joy, bold Robin rushed up the steps of stone, which, wide and roomy, afforded his feet firm and substantial footing. Some forty steps, or more, now lay below him, when raising his foot to ascend yet higher, the yeoman found it fall beneath him, and in a moment he stood upon a floor, which to all likelihood was laid with slabs of chisseled stone.

Through this place he wandered, now stumbling against regularly-built walls, now falling over hidden objects, now passing through doorway after doorway, and again returning to the head of the stairway from which he started.

Hours passed. Sometimes Rough Robin would hear a faint booming sound far above, which he supposed was the bell of the castle, tolling for the death of the noble Count Di Albarone, known throughout Christendom, in a thousand lays, as the bravest of crusaders, and the gentlest of knights. The sound of this bell swung upon the breeze for miles around, whenever it was struck—so Robin remembered well; yet now, far down in the depths of the earth, a low moaning noise was all that reached the ears of the stout yeoman.

With every sinew stiffened, and with every vein chilled by the damp of subterranean vaults, scarce able to breathe in the putrid air which had never known light of sunbeam, his whole frame weakened by hunger, and his brain confused by his dream-like adventures, Robin, the stout yeoman, at last sank down upon a block of rough stone, where he remained for hours in a state of half unconsciousness, which finally deepened into a sound and wholesome slumber.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE CHAPEL OF THE ROCKS.
THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF THE HOLY STEEL HOLD SOLEMN COUNCIL IN THE WILD WOOD.

The scene was a wild and solitary dell, buried in the depths of the forests, far away among the mountains; the time was high noon, and the characters of the scene were the members of a dark and mysterious Order, whose history is involved in shadow; whose names, embracing the highest titles and the wealthiest nobles in the Dukedom of Florence, are wrapt in mystery; whose deeds, performed in secret, and executed with the most appalling severity, are to this day known and celebrated as household words, in the legends of the valley of the Arno.

A level piece of sward, some twenty yards in length, and as many in width, extended greenly within the depths of the forest; its bounds described, and its verdure shadowed, by huge masses of perpendicular rock, which sprang upward from the very sod, towering in wild and rugged grandeur, amid the deep, rich foliage of forest oaks and with the clear summer sky seen far, far above, as from the depths of a well, forming the roof of this hidden temple of nature.

The rugged masses of perpendicular rock, piled upon each other in rude magnificence, surrounded the glade in the form of a square.

Viewed from the forest side, these rocks looked like one vast mound of massive stone, placed in the wild-wood valley by some freak of nature. A narrow, though deep and rapid stream, its waters shadowed to ebony blackness, laved one side of the steps of granite. It swept beneath an arching crevice, some three feet high, and as many thick, washed the sod of the hidden glade and rolled along its edge, foaming against the rugged walls; the waves plashing on high in showery drops, until it suddenly disappeared under the opposite wall, and was lost in the subterranean recesses of the earth.

The mid-day sun, shining over the rich foliage of the surrounding forests, where silence, vast and immense, seemed to live and feel; over the rough walls of the Temple of Rocks, scarce ever visited by human feet,—for strange legends scared the peasantry from the place, flung his beams down from the very zenith along the quiet of the level sward, with its encircling rocks, now animated by a scene of wild and peculiar interest.

Around a square table which arose from the centre of the sward, draped with folds of solemn black, sat a band of twenty-four men, each figure veiled in the thick folds of a monkish robe and cowl, each face concealed and each arm buried within the fold of the sable garment.

These were the priests of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.

At the head of the table, on a chair of rough and knotted oak, placed on a solitary rock, sate a tall and imposing figure, clad as the others, in the robe and cowl of velvet, with his face veiled from sight and sunbeam. His extended hand grasped a slender rod of iron, with a sculpturing of clearest ivory, fashioned into a strange shape fixed on the end—the solemn and revered Abacus of the Order.

This was the High Priest of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.

At the other end of the table was seated a figure, veiled and robed like the rest, yet with a taller and more muscular form, while his hand laid upon the velvet coverings of the table, grasped an axe of glittering steel.

He was the Doomsman of the Order.

His voice denounced, his voice consigned to death, his voice was like an echo from the grave, for it never spoke other words than the sentence of Judgment.

Grouped around the table, a circle of solemn figures, robed and veiled like the others, stood shoulder to shoulder, each form holding a torch on high with the left hand, while the right hand grasped a keen and slender-bladed dagger.

Silent and motionless they stood, the blue flame of the torch, held by the upraised arm, burning over each head; every right hand steadily grasping the dagger; while their robes scarce stirred into motion by the heaving of the breast, looked like the drapery of some monkish effigy, rather than the attire of living men. These were the Initiates, or Neophytes of the Order.

Their dagger it was that protruded from the breast of the victim, found by the affrighted peasantry in the lonely woods, or seen by the careless crowd thrown down, in all the ghastliness of murder, along the very streets of Florence; on the steps of her palaces, in the halls of her castles—even in the cloisters of her cathedral.

Whom the Order condemned, or the Doomsman doomed, they the neophytes of the Order, gave to the sudden death of the invisible steel.

Never had the sun looked down upon a scene as solemn and dread as this.

The chronicles of the olden time are rife with legends of secret orders, linked together in some foul work of crime, or joined in the holy task of vengeance on the wronger, or doom to the slayer; but these bands of men were wont to assemble in dark caverns, lighted by the glare of smoking torches, speaking their words of terror to the air of midnight, and celebrating their solemn ceremonies amid the corses of the dead.

The band assembled in the Chapel of Rocks were unlike all these, unlike any band that ever assembled on the face of the earth.

They met at noonday, raising their torches in the light of the sun, whispering their words of doom in the wild solitudes of the woods, with their faces and forms veiled from view, preserving the solemn unity of the Order, by a uniformity of costume, while the rugged rocks, golden with the mid-day beams, gave back, in sullen murmurs, the voice of the accuser, or the sentence of the doomsman, coupled with the low-muttered name of the doomed.

From their solemn noonday meeting in the Chapel of Rocks, they issued forth on their errands of death, leaving the reeking dagger in the heart of the tyrant, as he slept in the recesses of his castle; flinging their victims along the roadside of the mountain, or the streets of the city, while the faint murmurs of the multitude, gazing at the work of the Invisible, gave forth their name and mission: “Behold, behold the vengeance of the Monks of the Steel!”

As the sun towered in the very zenith, the high priest spoke, waving his solemn abacus from his oaken throne. His words were few and concise.

“Hail, brothers; met once again in the Chapel of Rocks. Hail, brothers, from the convent, from the castle, and the cottage, hail! Prince and peasant, lord and monk, met together in these solemn wilds, joined in the work of vengeance on the wronger, death to the slayer, I bid ye welcome. Herald arise; proclaim to the rising of the sun the meeting of our solemn Order.”

And the veiled figure seated on the right of the high priest arose, and extending his hands on high looked to the east, chaunting with a low, deep-toned voice:

“Lo, people! lo, kings! lo, angels of heaven, and men of earth! The solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, hold high council in the Chapel of the Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun. Vengeance on the wronger, death to the slayer!”

And rising with hands outspread and, solemn voices, three heralds successively made proclamation to the north, to the south, and to the setting sun, that the solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, held high council in the Chapel of Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun, while thrice arose the wild denunciation—“Vengeance to the wronger, death to the slayer!”

“Priests of our solemn Order, ye have been abroad on your errands of secrecy. Speak; what have ye seen, whom do ye accuse, whom do ye give to the steel?”

“I come from the people,” said a veiled figure, as he arose and spoke from the folds of his robe, “Yesternight, like a shadow, I glided along the streets of Florence, listening to the low-whispered murmurs of the scattered groups of people. Every tongue had some foul wrong to tell; every voice spoke of midnight murder, done at the bidding of a tyrant; every voice whispered a story of woman’s innocence outraged, the gray hairs of age dabbled in blood, the poor robbed, the weak crushed; while the mighty raised their red hands to heaven, laughing with scorn, as if they would shake the blood-drops in the very face of God. Ask ye the name of the tyrant? Find it in the whispers of the people; the wronger and the slayer was the Duke—the Duke of Florence!”

“I come from the palace!” cried another robed priest, rising solemnly, and speaking from the folds of his robe. “Mingling with the nobles of Florence and the courtiers of the Duke, I heard low whispers of discontent, murmurs of rebellion, and dark threats of assassination. The Duke—the tyrant Duke—was on every lip, on every tongue. Florence is slumbering over the depths of a mighty volcano—a moment, and lo! the scathing fires ascend to the sky, the dark smoke blackens the face of day!”

“I come from the scaffold!” cried another dark robed figure, as he arose and spoke through his muffled garment. “Last night, a mighty crowd gathered around the gaol of Florence; every voice was fraught with a tale of horror, every cheek was pale, and every eye fixed upon a dark object, that rose in the centre of the multitude. Breasting my way through the throng, I rushed forward, I gained the place of execution, I beheld a dark scaffold rising like a thing of evil omen on the air. I beheld the wheel of torture, the cauldron, and the axe! ‘For whom are these?’ I cried. ‘For a lord of the royal blood of Florence,’ shrieked a bystander: ‘for Adrian Di Albarone. To-morrow, at day-break, he dies; condemned by the Duke and his minions, on the foul accusation of the murder of his father!’ I know the accusation to be false. At this hour, brothers of the Holy Steel, the ghost of the murdered shrieks for vengeance, before the throne of God!”

“Accusers of the Duke of Florence, do ye invoke upon your own souls the punishment accorded to the tyrant, should your words prove false?”

“We do!”

“Priests of the solemn Order of the Holy Steel what shall be the doom of the tyrant, the betrayer, the assassin?”

“Death!”

“Initiates of the Order, do ye accord this judgment?”

“Death, death, death!”

“Doomsman, arise and proclaim the judgment of the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel?”

“Hear, oh heaven,—oh earth,—oh hell,” arose the harsh tones of the doomsman, “Urbano, Duke of Florence, tyrant, assassin, and betrayer, is doomed! I give his body to the gibbet, to the axe, to the steel! Though he sleeps within the bridal chamber, there will the vengeance of the Order grasp him; though he wields the sceptre on his ducal throne, there will the death blow strike the sceptre from his hand, his carcass from the throne, though he kneels at the altar, there will the dagger seek his heart. Doomed, doomed, doomed!”

And then, in a voice of fierce denunciation, he gave forth to the noon-day air, the dark and fearful curse of the Order, whose sentences of woe may not be written down on this page; a curse so dark, so dread, and terrible, that the very priests of the Order drooped their heads down low on each bosom, as the sounds of the doomsman startled their ears.

“Let his name be written down in the book of judgment, as the Doomed!”

“Lo, it is written!”

And as the doomsman spoke, a level slab of gray stone, which varied the appearance of the green sward, some yards behind the chair of the High Priest, slowly arose from the sod, and, unperceived by the monks of the Order, two figures, robed in the cowl and monkish gown of the secret band, emerged silently from the bosom of the earth, and took their stations at the very backs of the torch bearers.

“Who will be the minister of this doom? Who will receive the consecrated steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”

There was a low, deep murmur, a pause of hesitation, and then the priests communed with each other in muttered whispers.

“Who will minister this doom?” again echoed the High Priest, while the sound of footsteps startled the silence of the place. “Who will receive the consecrated steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”

“Behold the minister!” cried a deep-toned voice as the strange figures strode toward the table. “Give me the steel!”

“It is Albertine!” echoed the members of the Order, and the wan face and flashing eyes of the monk were disclosed by the falling cowl.

“Behold the minister of this doom!” he shouted, advancing to the doomsman. “Death to the tyrant! Give me the steel!”

And as he spoke, the cowl fell from the face of the figure who stood beside the monk, and the torch bearers, the monks, and the High Priest, looked from their muffled robes in wonder and in awe, and beheld the face of—Adrian Di Albarone.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE CHAPEL OF ST. GEORGE OF ALBARONE.

THE SOLEMN FUNERAL RITES OF THE MIGHTY DEAD, CONVEYED TO THE TOMB, NOT AS THE VICTIM, BUT THE CONQUEROR.

The beams of the midnight moon, streaming through the emblazoned panes of the lofty arching windows, mingled with the blaze of long lines of funeral torches, making the chapel of St. George of Albarone as light as day, when illumined by the glare of the thunder storm, and revealing a strange and solemn scene—the last rites of religion celebrated over the corse of the mighty dead.

The mingled light of moonbeam and glaring torch, revealed the roof of the chapel arching above, all intricately carved and fettered, the lines of towering columns, arabesque in outline and effect, the high altar of the church, with its cross of gold and diamonds, won by the lords of Albarone from the lands of Heathenesse, its rare painting of the dying God, its rich sculpturings and quaint ornaments; while along the mosaic floor, among the pillars, and around the altar, grouped the funeral crowd, marking their numbers by the upraised torch and spear.

An aged abbot, attired in the gorgeous robes of his holy office, with long locks of snow-white hair falling over his shoulders, stood at the foot of the altar, celebrating the midnight mass for the dead; while around the venerable man were grouped the brothers of his convent, their mingled robes of white and black giving a strange solemnity to the scene.

Beside the foot of the altar—resting in the ruddy glare of the funeral torches, robed in full armor, partly concealed by a pall of snow-white velvet, on a bier of green beechen wood, covered by skins of the wild leopard, in simple majesty,—lay the corse of the gallant lord of Albarone.

The raised vizor revealed his stern features set grimly in death, while his mail-clad arms were crossed on his muscular chest, robed in battle armor.

No coffin panels held his manly form; no death-shroud enveloped those sinewy limbs; neither did things of glitter and show glisten along his couch, heaping mockery on the dumb solemnity of the grave.

It was the custom of Albarone, that the knight who once reigned lord of its wide domains, should even in death meet the stern enemy of man, not as victim, but as conqueror.

Borne to the vaults of death, not with voices of wail and woe, but compassed by men-at-arms; environed by upraised swords, the silent corse seemed to smile in the face of the skeleton-god, and enter even the domains of the grave in triumph, while the battle shout of Albarone rose pealing above, and over the visage of the dead waved the broad banner of the warlike race.

Near the head of the corse, while along the aisles of the chapel gathered the men-at-arms and servitors of Albarone, were grouped two figures—an aged man and a youthful maiden.

With his head depressed, his arms folded meekly over his breast, his slender form clad in solemn folds of sable velvet, faced with costly furs, and relieved by ornaments of scattered gold, the Count Aldarin Di Albarone seemed absorbed in listening to the chaunt of the holy mass, when, in sooth, his keen eye flashed with impatience, and his lip curved with scorn, as he was forced to witness the ceremonies of a religion whose mandates he defied, whose awful God his very soul blasphemed.

The maiden, fair, and young, and gentle, her robes of white flowing loosely around her form of grace, her hands half clasped and half upraised, stood near the couch of the dead, her calm blue eyes fixed upon the visage of the corse, while the memory of the fearful scene in the Red Chamber swept over her soul, mingling with the thoughts of the felon now festering on the wheel of Florence.

The bosom of the Ladye Annabel rose and fell with a wild pulsation, and her rounded cheeks grew like the face of death, as thus waiting beside the dead, the thoughts of the past awoke such terrible memories in her soul.

Around, circling along the pavement, with stern visages and iron-clad forms gleaming in the light, were grouped the men-at-arms of Albarone, extending along the chapel aisles, in one rugged array of battle, while each warrior held aloft a blazing torch with his left arm, as his good right hand grasped the battle sword.

Here and there were scattered servitors of Albarone, clad in the rich livery of the ancient house, darkened by folds of crape, mingled with the humble peasant vassals, whose faces, stamped with sorrow, mingled with the general grief.

Every voice was hushed, and every foot-tramp stilled, as the last strains of the holy chaunt of the mass floated solemnly along the chapel aisles, while high overhead, above armed warrior and white-robed monk, floated the broad banner of Albarone, waving to and fro with the motion of the night air, its gorgeous folds bearing the emblazoning of the winged leopard, with the motto, in letters of gold.

Grasp boldly, and bravely strike.

As the last echoes of the holy ceremony of the mass died away along the chapel aisles, Count Aldarin glanced over the group of white-robed monks, with the venerable abbot of St. Peters of Florence in their midst, and along the files of the iron-robed soldiers, for a single moment, and then gazing upon the broad banner waving overhead, he spoke in a bold and deep-toned voice:

“Let the corse of Lord Julian Di Albarone be raised upon the shoulders of the ancient men who served as esquires of his body.”

Four men-at-arms, whose heads were whitened by the frosts of seventy winters, advanced; and, raising the death-couch upon their shoulders, with the right leg thrown forward, stood ready to march.

At the same moment, the united strength of ten of the servitors threw open the huge oaken panels of a trap-door, which, cut into the floor of the middle aisle of the chapel, revealed a wide and spacious stairway, descending into the bosom of the earth.

The Count Aldarin seized the staff which bore the broad banner of Albarone, he flung the azure folds to the night wind, and his voice rung echoing along the chapel walls:

“Vassals of Albarone, form around the corse of your lord. Draw your swords, and raise the shout: ‘Albarone, to the rescue! Strike for the Winged Leopard—strike for Albarone!’”

With the battle cry pealing, their swords flashing in the light, and their torches waving on high, the men-at-arms formed in files of four behind the bier, which now began to move slowly toward the subterranean stairway.

In the rear of the men-at-arms came the Ladye Annabel, followed by the venerable abbot, bearing aloft a crucifix of gold; while on either side walked rosy-cheeked children, clad in robes of white, and holding censers in their hands, which ever and anon they swung to and fro, filling the air with perfume of frankincense and myrrh.

Then came the monks, in their mingled robes of white and black, walking with slow and solemn tread, and holding in one hand a torch, while the other grasped a cross.

As the ancient esquires who bore the bier of beechen wood, arrived at the trap-door which discovered the subterranean stairway, the funeral train halted for an instant.

The sight was full of grandeur.

The light of a thousand torches threw a ruddy glow upon the folds of the broad banner—upon the glistening armor and bright swords of the men-at-arms—over the snow-white attire of the long array of monks, and along the cold face of the dead. The carvings that decorated the walls of the church—the altar, rich with a thousand offerings—the cross of gold, and the rare paintings—the arched and fretted roof, and the lofty pillars, were all shown in bold and strong relief.

“Ye ancient men who bear the corse of the Lord Di Albarone, ye who served your lord with a faithful service while living, prepare to descend into the vault of the dead, there to lay your sacred burden beside his fathers. Vassals of Albarone, grasp your swords yet tighter, and join, every man, in the battle song of our race. The house of Albarone enter the tomb, not with wail and lamentation, but with song and joy, as though they went to battle; with swords flashing, with armor clanking, and with the broad banner of the Winged Leopard waving above their heads.”

Right full and loud sounded the voice of Count Aldarin, while his bent form straightened proudly erect, as though he were suddenly fired with the warlike spirit of his ancestors. His dark eye flashed as he shouted, waving the banner over the bier:

“Men of Albarone, to the rescue!”

“Strike for the Winged Leopard!—strike for Albarone!” responded, with one deep-toned voice the aged bearers of the bier, as they began to descend the stairway.

“Ha! an Albarone! an Albarone! Strike for the Winged Leopard! strike for Albarone!” shouted the men-at-arms, as, waving their torches on high, and brandishing their swords, they advanced with a hurried, yet measured tread, after the manner they were wont to advance to the storming of a besieged fortress.

The aged abbot of St. Peters suddenly forgot his sacred character, and stirred by the memory of the days when he had mingled in the din of battle, side by side with the noble Lord Julian, he caught up the war cry: “Albarone to the rescue!—a blow for the Winged Leopard!” and along the line of white-robed monks ran the shout: “An Albarone! Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Strike for Albarone!” and thus spreading from the men-at-arms to the abbot, from the abbot to the monks, the cry of battle resounded along the aisles of the chapel, and was echoed again and again from the fretted roof.

As the corse disappeared down the stairway, followed by the funeral train, the war song of Albarone was raised by the men-at-arms—wild and thrilling arose the notes of the chaunt, that had swelled in the van of a thousand battles.

The subterranean stairway seemed to be without end. At last, when some five score steps had been passed, the bearers of the corse found themselves in a long and narrow passage, which having slowly traversed, they stood at the head of a winding stairway.

This they descended, while louder, and yet more loud arose the chaunt of the battle song, mingling with the clash of swords and the clank of armor.

At the foot of this stairway lay another passage, narrower than the last, from which it differed in that it was hewn out of the solid rock, while the walls of the other were built of chisseled stone.

Along this passage the procession slowly proceeded, the walls approaching closer together at every step, until at last there was barely room for the bier to pass; when suddenly, as if by the wand of a magician, the scene was changed, and the funeral train found themselves in the vault of the dead.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.

THE FUNERAL TRAIN, BEARING THE CORSE ALONG THROUGH THE GROUPS OF SPECTRAL-FORMS, ARE AWE STRICKEN BY THE APPEARANCE OF A STRANGE KNIGHT.

Above, the cavern roof spread vast and magnificent, like an earth-hidden sky.

Around, on every side, in rugged grandeur, extended the rocky walls; and far in the distance, the solid pavement seemed to grow larger and wider, as the gazer looked upon its surface of substantial stone.

The light of the funeral torches flashing over the abrupt rocks, revealed the level floor, and gave a faint glimpse of the vast arch extending far above. The ruddy beams flashing on every side, disclosed a strange and bewildering spectacle.

Around the walls of the cavern, and over the floor, were scattered figures of gigantic stone, rising from the pavement, at irregular intervals, in various and strangely contrasted attitudes, bearing the most singular resemblance to the gestures of living men, yet with every face stamped with an expression that chilled the heart of the gazer, as though he beheld a spirit of the unreal world.

A wild legend was written in the archieves of Albarone, concerning these strange figures.

In the olden time, when eternal midnight brooded through these cavern halls, a demon band shook the rugged arches with their sounds of hellish wassail, startling the gloom of night and the brightness of noonday above, with the echo of their shrieks and yells; while their foul blasphemies of the AWFUL UNKNOWN infected the very air with a curse, and sent disease and death abroad from the cavern over the land, until every lip grew pale, and every heart was chilled, at the mention of the demon vault of Albarone.

It was when the impious revel swelled loudest; when the infernal goblet was raised to every lip; when the glances of glaring eyes, burning with the curse of Lucifer, were exchanged between the supernatural revellers; when the sounds of mockery and yells of blasphemy, echoing and thundering around the vault, realized a hell on earth, that the words of the Invisible broke over the scene, and the figures of the demon band were suddenly transformed to lifeless stone.

This wild tradition gained credence from the positions and attitudes of these strange statues.

The smallest of the figures was three times as large as the tallest and most robust of men; there were others whose heads of dark rock well nigh touched the cavern’s roof, while their outstretched arms and writhing attitude filled the gazer with indefinable dread.

Some were springing in the festal dance, the smile, grim and ghost-like wreathing their lips of stone; some were circling in groups of wild revelry, their faces agitated by laughter; while others, with upturned countenances, bearing the impress of every dark and hellish passion, and arms thrown wildly aloft, seemed daring the vengeance of heaven, and mocking the power of God.

Among all these various and contrasted figures, there was not one form of beauty, not one shape of grace; but all were expressive of low, bestial revelry, servile terror, or else of sublime hatred and defiance.

Some were formed of the darkest, and some of the lightest stone. Here arose a form of dark rock, side by side with a shape of snow-white stone; yonder towered a figure of dusky red, and farther on, a form of dark blue, veined by streaks of crimson and purple, broke through the darkened air.

The ancient esquires who bore the corse, had faced the brunt of a hundred battles, and fought in the van of a thousand frays, yet it was not without a shiver of terror that they looked around upon this wild and unearthly scene, thronged with those dark and fiend-like figures.

As they advanced, a new wonder attracted the attention of the funeral train.

Far in the cavern, to all appearance near the centre, a vast mound, of a square form, arising from the level pavement, was hung with burning lamps, and overlooked by a figure of stone, which seemed to those of the funeral train to exceed all the others, both in the magnitude of its height, and the wildness of its attitude. The lamps burning above this mound, threw a strong light over the dark figure, and along the pavement, for some few yards around; while the space between the mound and the procession was lost in entire darkness.

The bearers of the corse, advancing towards the mound, led on the funeral train, who all, save the Count Aldarin, seemed seized with a sudden and indefinable dread. The battle song was still continued, the swords were still brandished, and the torches were still waved on high; but there was a tremor in the notes of the song, the swords were grasped with the nervous sensation that men ever feel when expecting to meet antagonists of the unknown world, and the waving of the torches was accompanied by the muttered exorcisms of the monks.

As for the Ladye Annabel, she leaned half swooning upon the arm of the venerable abbot, who, in good sooth, was as much frightened as the maiden.

The esquires who bore the remains of their gallant lord, had now gained near half the way over the pavement of stone, toward the mound; the last of the servitors had emerged from the narrow passage into the cavern and the whole train extending in one unbroken line, marked by the long array of torches flashing over the armor of the warriors, and the white robes of the monks, presented a striking and imposing spectacle.

Aldarin turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, with a wild gesture:

“How now, vassals? Why this tremor?—Whence this alarm? Do I not lead you? Raise the battle song of our race yet higher, and advance yet more boldly! The banner of the Winged Leopard waves above ye! Shout the war cry, and let your noble lord be borne to his rest as were his fathers before him. Shout the war cry—shout—”

Wheeling suddenly around in the warmth of his excitement, he turned from the men-at-arms, to the corse-bearers, and at the very instant, started a step backward with involuntary horror. The corse sate erect in the death-couch, the white pall falling back from the iron-clad shoulders while the light of the torches fell vividly upon its unclosed eyes as their cold, stony glare rested upon the face of Aldarin.

Aldarin felt his very heart leaping within his bosom, while big beaded drops of moisture, clammy as the death-sweat, stood out from his forehead.

“The Corse hath arisen in the death-couch”—he hurriedly whispered—“The eyes of the dead are unclosed, they are gazing around the vault of death.”

“It is the custom of Albarone,” exclaimed a white-haired Esquire,—“We have raised the corse erect, we have unclosed its eyes. The mighty dead of Albarone enter the vault of death, proudly and erect, with their unclosed eyes gazing fearlessly on the tomb—such is the custom of Albarone!”

“Thanks—brave Esquire—Thanks”—slowly and gaspingly exclaimed Aldarin, as he recovered his powers of mind. “Men of Albarone,” he exclaimed in a loud and commanding tone, “Gaze ye upon the face of the unconquered Dead, gaze upon the erect form, the unclosed eyes, daring the terror of the tomb—and as ye gaze, let the battle-song of our race peal to the very cavern’s roof! Shout the war-cry, shout—”

A figure clad from head to foot in azure armor of shining steel, leaped from behind a form of stone, arising from the cavern floor, at the head of the bier, and seizing the banner-staff from the hands of Aldarin, finished his sentence—

“Shout”—exclaimed the figure armed in azure steel—“Shout Albarone to the rescue! Death to the Murderer!”

The thunder-tones of that voice were known, along the line of men-at-arms, through the columns of the Monks. One wild shout arose from the warriors—

“Ha! For Albarone! Adrian, our Lord, comes from the dead to lead us! On—on! Strike for the Winged Leopard—strike for Albarone!”

Strange it was that the very men, who a moment before had trembled with undefined terror, now hailed with joy the presence of one whom they supposed to have risen from the dead.

In an instant all was confusion and uproar. The Esquires set down the corse, and together with the men-at-arms, clustered around the figure in azure armor, shouting and making the very cavern’s roof re-echo with their exclamations of joy.

The tumult and out-cry, coupled with the name of Adrian, reached the ears of the fair Ladye Annabel, who already half swooning with terror, now felt her brain whirling in wild confusion, as she fell fainting in the arms of the Abbot of St. Peters.

“Brethren,”—cried the Abbot, addressing the monks—“Haste ye away to the upper air for aid, while I stay here with the maiden, and exorcise yon devil, if devil it may be, with solemn prayers and ceremonies. Away—away, the fair Ladye may die, ere ye can return with aid.”

It needed no second word from the Abbot; the Monks gazed in each other’s faces with affrighted looks, and then trooping hurriedly together, hastened across the floor of the cavern, followed by the Servitors, who but a moment past formed part of the procession. It was but an instant ere the white robes of the monks, and the gay livery of the servitors, were lost to view within the confines of the narrow passage.

The Abbot holding the fainting maiden in his arms, her white attire mingling with his sacerdotal robes, gazed around the cavern, and found to his astonishment that all around him was wrapt in darkness, while far ahead, he could discern the lights of the death mound, breaking through the gloom, with the glare of torches, held aloft by the men-at-arms, creating a brilliant space between his position and the mound of the dead.

“All is dark”—murmured the Abbot—“All is dark around me—yet far ahead, I behold the men-at-arms clustering round the Strange Figure—their swords rise aloft, and their distant shouts break on my ear! She lays in my arms, cold, cold and senseless. Save me, mother of Heaven, but I cannot feel the beating of her heart—I hear no sound of aid, no voice of assistance! The cavern is damp, and she may die ere they come with succor,—I will away and seek for aid myself. Lay there, gentle Ladye, at the foot of this strange Statue—thus I enfold thee in my robes of white—thus I defend thee from the cold and damp—in a moment I will be with thee again! God aid my steps!”

At the foot of a figure of stone, wrapping her form in his glittering robe of white and gold, which he doffed from his own trembling frame, the Abbot rested the Ladye Annabel, all cold and insensible, and then hastened from the Cavern in search of aid.

There was a long, long pause around the spot where lay the maiden, while fearful mysteries were enacting far beyond, on the summit of the Death-Mound.

When the Abbot again returned he was companioned by armed men, with glittering attire and flashing swords. He sought the resting-place of the maiden; he beheld nothing but the rough floor of the cavern. The Ladye Annabel had disappeared, and the grotesque figure rising from the pavement seemed to grin in mockery as the horror-stricken Abbot gazed upon the vacant stone, where he had laid the maiden down to rest, her form of beauty, sheltered by his sacred robes.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL.

Without much physical bravery, the Count Aldarin possessed a soul worthy of the noblest efforts of moral courage, yet now while the men-at-arms gathered with shouts and exclamations of joy, around the Azure Figure, he stood trembling like a reed shaken by the winter wind, his face at all times destitute of color, became lividly pale, and with quivering lips and chattering teeth, he remained for a moment silent and motionless.

Superstitious terror, he was wont to contemn, fear of the supernatural, he was known to despise, yet now when the voice of the dead rang in his ears, and the form which had been extended on the Wheel of the Doomsman, moved before his eyes, he thought the voice and form had sprung from the unknown recesses of the grave.

It was after the lapse of a few moments, that he summoned courage to advance through the crowd of men-at-arms, and fixing his keen eye on the form of the unknown knight, he spoke—

“Who Sir, art thou? What is thine errand in this lonely vault of the dead? Why disturb the funeral rites of the Lord Di Albarone?”

“I come to avenge his murder!”

“Ha!” shouted Aldarin—“His murderer is already doomed—even now he festers upon the wheel!”

“His murderer lives”—shouted the Figure, through the bars of his closed helmet,—“His murderer breathes, while the Corse asks in the speechless tongue of death—asks and prays to God, to man for vengeance! The Murderer walks the earth, walks in the calm sunshine, while the Murdered rots and crumbles in gloom and darkness. His murderer is here—aye among the brave soldiers, who followed Julian of Albarone to battle, stands the foul miscreant.—Thou art the murderer!”

A wild thrill of surprise and horror ran through the group. From heart to heart, like lightning leaping from cloud to cloud, darted the wild words of the accuser; from eye to eye flew the quick glance of vengeance, and from lip to lip swelled the shout of the avengers.

“Hew him down!” cried one—“For days have we all thought him guilty. Our suspicions are now confirmed—the corse pleads for his blood!”

“Down with the brother-murderer!”

“Lo! I whet my knife for his blood!”

“Our Lord”—exclaimed a tall and stalwart man-at-arms—“Our Lord Adrian doth rise from the dead to convict thee of the murder of thy brother! Miscreant, canst thou deny it?”

The four ancient Esquires said not a word, but each of them raised his dagger, they seized the Scholar Aldarin, with one firm grasp, their eyes were fixed upon his visage in one stern glare, their instruments of vengeance gleamed over his head, and with silent determination, they awaited the command to strike and kill.

The Azure Knight stayed their hands.

“Onward, brave soldiers”—he cried—“onward to the tomb of the race of Albarone. There will we administer the Ordeal to the old man, there, beneath the shadow of the Demon of our Race, shall he swear that he is guiltless. Onward—bearers of the corse—in the name of the Winged Leopard, onward!”

Raising the bier upon their shoulders, with the corse still sitting grimly erect, the ancient Esquires advanced toward the Mound, led onward by the Unknown Knight, while in the rear, surrounded by men-at-arms, walked the Scholar Aldarin, his head drooped low, and his arms folded across his breast.

He said no word, he uttered no sound of entreaty, but his keen gray eyes, half-buried by his contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the intensity of his thoughts.

The Mound, with all its ponderous outline, lighted by the lamps burning on the summit, now began to appear more clearly through the gloom.

At first it seemed like some vast pile of rocks, heaped on high by a giant-hand, and then, as the men-at-arms drew near and nearer, it gradually assumed a definite form, rising like a pyramid, its three sides fashioned into steps of living rock, while from the fourth, arose the dark figure of stone, towering far, far above, its arms wildly outspread, its face looking down upon the tomb, as its vacant eyes seemed fixing their weird and terrible glance upon the faces of the dead.

The strange procession reached the mound, they ascended twenty steps of stone, and the bearers of the corse found themselves standing upon the summit, from the centre of which arose a solid block of stone, some thirty feet in length and seven in width, while it was but four feet in height.

On the top of this rock, within the hollow of a cavity, hewn out of the living stone, lay the remains of the Lords of Albarone, placed there from age to age, from generation to generation, through the long lapse of six hundred years.

It was a strange scene.

The lamps of iron, curious in fashion and ponderous in size placed at intervals around the rock, cast their glaring light over the crumbling remains, each grisly skeleton attired in the warlike costume of the age that beheld his glory and owned his rule.

Here the thin and blackened arm-bones of a Gothic warrior were crossed upon his breast-plate of gold, which long years ago had covered the plain tunic, worn by these iron-men, who swept like an avalanche from the Alps of the North, over the fair plains of Italy.

The lamp-beams glimmering over the skeleton, revealed the bones below the breast-plate, mouldering into dust, while the fragments of the feet were encircled in the simple yet warlike sandals of iron once worn by the warriors from the land of the Goth.

Side by side with this relic, the bones of another skeleton gleamed grimly through the bars and armor-plates of a later age, wrapping the remains of the mighty dead, from the helmeted skull to the iron-booted feet.

And thus extending along the cavity in the surface of the rock, skull after skull and skeleton succeeding skeleton, reposed the Lords of the House of Albarone, types of contrasted ages, clad in strange and various costumes, or enwrapped in the stern iron armour, which had defended their living forms in the terror of battle.

The boast of the proud House—that the earth of the grave-yard should never soil a Lord of the race of Albarone—was fulfilled.

Over this singular tomb towered the dark figure of gigantic rock, its rude arms thrown wildly aloft, while its downcast eyes of stone were fixed upon the corses of the dead.

Many a legend, whispered beside the hearths of the peasantry, or told by the minstrel in the hall of the castle, inspiring its hearers with terror and awe, spoke in words of fear of the demon-form arising in the cavernous recesses of Albarone, its mighty power, and the strange sympathy it possessed for the race of the Winged Leopard.

Some traditions, dim and indistinct, yet fraught with wild mysteries, named the figure as the representation of the Northern-God Odin, stating that in ages long gone by, it had been worshipped with infant sacrifice and midnight bloodshed, while the Lords of Albarone flung themselves in awe beneath its gloomy shadow.

Other legends named the rude creation of rocks as the Demon of the race of Albarone, brooding silently over the tomb of the Lords, while its heart of stone was sentient with a strange soul, its broad chest impassioned a conscious spirit, its giant limbs were instinct with a fearful life, and its eyes looked forth with an expression that froze the blood of the gazer to behold.

Such were the legends, differing in their style and incident, yet all uniting in throwing the veil of mystery and shadow over the dark, dread form of stone.

It was seen but once in the life time of a Lord of Albarone, when he celebrated the funeral rites of his predecessor, and the demon-form once seen, the cavern of the dead was never traversed by his living form again.

Thrice the funeral train passed round the tomb, the esquires bearing the upright corse, thrice they raised the wild chaunt of the battle-song of Albarone, while far and wide the depths of the cavern gave back the sound, swelling in a thousand echoes, like successive claps of August thunder.

The death-couch was then rested upon the platform of stone.

The ancient Esquires slowly raised the corse, again the battle-cry swelled through the cavern, the men-at-arms wildly clashed their swords together, while the banner streamed proudly in the torch-light.

“Men of Albarone!” spoke the solemn tones of the Azure-Knight; “The Count Julian of Albarone is laid beside his fathers!”

Louder clashed the swords, more proudly waved the banner, and higher and yet higher swelled the song as the mailed corse was placed in the cavity, side by side with its ancestors.

The figure in azure armor glanced round upon the group of men-at-arms, and exclaimed in a deep-toned voice, that thrilled to every heart—

“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin, brother of the late Lord, advance!”

Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale countenance.

“Ha—ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think to frighten me with their senseless mummery—their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with superstition—Aldarin, who believes not in their God! Ha—ha! I am here,” he continued aloud—“What would ye with me?”

“Old man!” exclaimed the Stranger-knight, “look upon the corse of thy murdered brother.—Behold the features pale with death; the clammy brow, the sunken cheek, the livid lip—look upon that corse, and say you did not do the murder!”

The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest, their forms clad in iron armor, were crowded together, and every eye was fixed upon the Scholar.

The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as he replied—“I did not do the murder!”

“Give me thy hand—place thy fingers upon the livid lips of the corse.”

Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand, and touch the compressed mouth of the mailed corse.

The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of blood emerged from the mouth, and trickled over the lower lip and down the chin, staining the gray beard of the deceased warrior with its dark red hue.

The men-at-arms shrunk back with sudden horror, and each soldier could hear the gasping of his comrade’s breath.

A tremor passed over the frame of Aldarin, and his face became pale as that of the corse beside which he stood.

“Wilt thou now say thou art innocent?” exclaimed the stranger-knight. “The corse—the lifeless form of thy murdered brother, shrinks at thy accursed touch.”

“I am innocent!” cried Aldarin, recovering his determined tone of voice. “By the God of heaven and earth, I swear it!”

“What say ye, vassals of Albarone? Is this man innocent?”

Then arose one firm, determined cry from the men-at-arms—

“He is guilty—heaven and earth proclaim it! The dead witness it!”

And the depths of the cavern returned the hollow echo—“Guilty—guilty!”

They all advanced a step toward the accused. Each eye fired with one expression; the sinews of each hand were strained to bursting, as they grasped their well-tried swords.

“One trial more,” exclaimed the figure in armor of azure steel. “Aldarin of Albarone, look upon that awful form which towers above us. Behold the arms outstretched, as if to hurl the red lightning bolt down upon thy guilty head. Mark well those eyes of stone—the fearful look of that dark countenance—the eyes are fixed upon thee; and the brow lowers at thee. Look, Aldarin of Albarone, look upon the Demon of our race. Call to mind the fearful legends of that demon’s vengeance upon all who ever wronged the House of Albarone. Think of the time when those lips of stone have sent forth a voice to convict the guilty; when those arms of rock have been filled with life to crush the wretch whom the voice convicted. Old man, art thou ready for the ordeal?”

Aldarin cast one glance around. A dead silence reigned throughout the cavern. The torches cast a strong light upon the long line of robed skeletons, and upon the stern visage of the murdered Lord. The faces of the men-at-arms glared fiercely upon the accused: their eyes sparkled from under their woven brows, their lips were compressed, and their half-raised swords glowed in the ruddy light.

Aldarin looked above. The massive brow, the stone eye-balls, the sneering lip, of that dread dark face of stone, were all turned to glaring red by the strong light of many torches. Each sinew of the muscular arms; the clenched hands; the bold prominence of the gigantic chest; the strong outline of the towering figure, were all shown in bold and sublime relief.

Aldarin raised his hands on high.

“Dark form—Demon of our race—Before thee I swear—I am guiltless.”

“Murderer!” a hollow voice exclaimed. The sound rung thro’ the arches of the cavern like the voice of the dead.

“Ha!” shouted the men-at-arms, “behold—behold the Demon speaks; the lips of stone move; the eyes fire—behold!”

The voice again rung thro’ the cavern—“Murderer!”

Aldarin started. The sneer upon his lip had fled. In a moment he lay prostrate upon the platform of stone, and a score of swords flashed over him.

“I confess—I confess!” shouted he, in hurried tones; “I ask but one moment to prepare me for death. Grant me this boon, and ye are Christians.”

“Dog!” shouted one of the pall-bearers, “thy victim died without shrift—”

“So shalt thou die!” cried another.

“Lo! my knife is whetted for thy blood!”

“Hold!” exclaimed the strange knight, “let him have his request!”

Aldarin arose and drew from his vest a small missal, with clasps of gold, and covers that blazed with jewels.

“I would pray,” he exclaimed meekly, as pressing the clasps of the missal, it flew open, discovering not the leaves of a book of prayer, but a hollow casket. Taking a small phial of silver from the bottom of this casket, he held it hurriedly to the flame of a torch, and then with as much haste, he applied the mouth of the phial to a bright stone that was fixed under the lid of the casket.

The stone emitted quick flashing sparks of fire, and a light misty smoke emerging from the mouth of the phial, spread like a cloud around Aldarin, and rolled through the vault in waving columns.

It was accompanied by a pungent odor, which, far sweeter than perfume of frankincense and myrrh, stole over the senses of the astonished spectators, gradually benumbing their limbs, and depriving them both of motion and consciousness.

The figure in azure armor rushed forward to seize the murderer, but his limbs refused their office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his armor ringing as he fell. At the same moment, while the smoke grew thicker and the odor more pungent, the men-at-arms—both those who stood upon the platform and those who thronged the steps of stone—fell to the earth as one man. The ancient Esquires drew their daggers and advanced.

The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.

“Dogs!” shouted he, “ye knew not of my last resort! I hold a power above your grasp—receive the reward of your insolence. Down, ye slaves!”

Flashes of fire played like lightning in the wreaths of smoke. The Esquires tottered and fell prostrate among their fellows.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE BLOW FOR THE WINGED LEOPARD.

The light of the lamps, burning along the tomb, fell over the steps of stone, and cast its crimson glow over the dread face of the Demon-Form, while the sands of the fourth part of an hour, sank in the glass of time. The knight in armor of azure steel, was the first to rise from the strange slumber which the chemical spell of the Scholar had flung around the senses of the avengers. He arose, he looked wildly over the steps of stone and along the cavern.—Aldarin was gone.

The azure knight gazed around the gloom and darkness of the vault of death, for some moments, while the utter silence of the place impressed his heart with a strange awe.

A sound struck his ear. It was the sound of men marching in order of battle. It grew louder, and was mingled with the clanking of armor and the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a few moments, the knight of the azure armor at last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long lines of torches shining upon a brilliant array of upraised swords, armor of gold, mingled with shining spears and waving pennons.

They advanced in regular order, being formed in two distinct columns, between which, at the head of the party, walked one distinguished from the others by the richness of his armor, while his voice of command showed him to be the leader of the company.

While they poured across the floor of the cavern, the knight of the azure armor scanned them with great attention, as he exclaimed, with a shout of joy.

“They come—the shallow-pated Duke and his minions. One blow—one good straight-forward blow, and I am Lord of the halls of my ancestors.”

With his right hand he seized his sword, and with his left he waved the banner of the Winged Leopard.

“Up—up!—Ye men Albarone. Up with your swords, and strike for the Winged Leopard, for your Lord and his rights!”

The men-at-arms awoke, like men awaking from troubled sleep and hideous dreams. They groped hastily for their swords over the steps of stone and along the platform, and in a few moments they stood erect and prepared for fight.

“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either side of the tomb, in the darkness. Ye number fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times our force. Behold!—they continue to pour into the cavern. But hist!—The watchword is—‘Ha! for the Winged Leopard.’”

The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were now within one hundred yards of the mound.

“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this is certainly a very dreary looking place. Really one could imagine this cavern to be a very fit habitation for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary things. Where be these caitiff knaves, of which my Lord the Count Aldarin told us of? Advance, my brave men; find these villains. They have stolen the Ladye Annabel away—despatch them, and then we will have time to share the banquet of our lordly host!”

The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red, having a lion rampant emblazoned on its folds, was now unfurled, and the company advanced in the same careless order, in which they had proceeded over the floor of the cavern.

“By the tomb of my ancestors, will I flesh my maiden sword. By the corse of my father, will I fight for my right.”

The knight of the azure armor grasped his sword more firmly. In another moment the torches of the Duke’s followers would flash upon the armor of his ambushed men, in another moment he would stand disclosed before the eyes of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured the clear level space that lay between the mound and the advancing men-at-arms.

A whisper to his men—a firmer grasp of his sword, and a firmer grasp of the banner staff, and the knight in three good leaps, sprang down the twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang—“Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”

At his back, with swords drawn, and springing with all the litheness of youth, came the four ancient Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise drawn, and with the war-cry pealing to the cavern’s roof, came the two bodies of men-at-arms, numbering twenty-five in each company.

Another leap and another spring, and the azure knight stands within striking distance of the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his sword with both hands, he whirled it once round his head, and throwing all his strength in the blow, he brought it down full upon the golden crest of the tyrant, who was driven to the very earth by the vigor of the stroke.

In an instant the foot of the azure knight was upon the breast of the prostrate prince, and while the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the esquires at his back, were carrying on the strife right merrily, he prepared for another stroke. He shortened his grasp of the sword, and gazing sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into his fallen enemy’s uncovered face, with all the strength of his stalwart arm, he essayed to send his weapon into his very throat.

The blow descended whizzing through the air, but its aim was foiled. One of the ancient esquires, with a stout stroke of his sword, sent a vassal reeling before the person of the Duke, and thus drove aside the blow of the azure knight, which sank deep into the lifeless corse thrown so suddenly before him.

And now the followers of the Duke gathered around the champions of the Winged Leopard, in vast numbers, hurrying forward without order, and dropping their torches in their haste.

The azure knight was driven back, and as he receded, the blood of the oldest of the gallant esquires stained his armor.

“On, my brave men!” shouted he. “A blow for Albarone!” At every exclamation a foe took the measure of his grave upon the cavern floor.

“Ha! for the Winged Leopard!” he shouted, as perceiving the head of the Duke among the throng, he essayed to greet him with one gallant blow. At the same moment, his men-at-arms sunk on one knee, and thus received the disorderly charge of their foes. It was in vain. On all sides thronged the followers of the Duke, and one after the other the brave champions of the Winged Leopard fell bleeding and dead upon the pavement of stone.

Onward and onward pressed the azure knight, gallantly breasting the flood before him, throwing his foes to the right and left, until he again fronted the Duke.

And at the very instant, with soft and noiseless footsteps, there glided along the steps of the mound of stone, a fair and lovely form, clad in a strange robe, of white and gold, soiled by the cavern earth, and floating abroad in the night air, in waving folds like spirit-wings. She gained the platform of the mound, and fixed one half-conscious glance upon the corse of the dead, while her large blue eyes warmed with a glance of holy affection.

“He sleeps, my uncle”—she murmured—“anon, I will give him the potion—and then—ah, then he will arise and smile upon me!”

She turned her wild glance to the scene passing in the cavern floor far below, she heard the distant shouts, she caught a vision of one well-known form, which her half-crazed brain deemed a visitant from the spirit world.

It was a picture of loveliness, rising amid gloom and death, the beautiful maiden raised to her full stature, one fair hand resting upon the dark mound, while with the other thrown wildly across her brow, she essayed to pierce the gloom of the cavern beyond. Her robes floated lightly round her form, revealing the delicate symmetry of that maiden shape, a glimpse of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the light, the outlines of the neck, while the blooming loveliness of her countenance, half-shaded by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden and changing, yet dream-like expressions.

“I see his form”—she murmured—“and yet ’tis a dream—they seize him, they—O, heaven help me, they raise their swords above his head—”

“Maiden, fling thy robe!—fling the death-pall over the funeral lamps!”—a solemn voice broke on the air directly overhead.

She looked above, she shrieked with horror, for the cold strange eyes of the Demon-Figure met her gaze.

Meanwhile, breasting his way through the opposing crowd of foemen, the azure knight neared the person of the Duke, he stood before the tyrant face to face.

“Die, tyrant!” he shouted, as springing back to give effect to his blow, he threw his sword on high. It descended full upon the shoulder of the Duke, and severing his armor, snapped suddenly short, and the azure knight was left defenceless in the hands of his enemies.

“Up with the caitiff’s vizor,” shouted the Duke. “Let us see the bravo’s face. Up with his vizor.”

The captive knight cast a glance around, and beheld his followers—the dying and the dead—strewn over the floor of the cavern. The brave old Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still grasping their broken swords, and their gray hair dabbled in blood.

“Sir Duke,” exclaimed the captive, “behold the bravo!” He raised his vizor, and the features of Adrian Di Albarone, pale and sunken, were revealed. “Behold the bravo!”

“Now, by the body of God!” shouted the Duke, boiling with passion, “thou shalt not escape me this time.—Dog——”

“These hands itch for thy blood”—shrieked a shrill and ringing voice, and Adrian beheld the distorted form and mis-shapen features of the Doomsman, pressing forward from the throng of men-at-arms, with his talon-like fingers grasping the air, while his face wore the expression of a demon in human guise,—“These hands itch for thy blood! Ha!—ha! Once escaped—the second time, the hot iron, the melted lead and the wheel of torture, wait not for thee in vain! Ha, ha,—hark how the cavern roof joins in my laugh. Great Duke, the Doomsman claims his victim!”

“Duke—tyrant, I am in thy power!” shouted Adrian, gazing upon the circle of men-at-arms who surrounded him. “These thongs, they are for my wrists! Yon chains—they soon will fasten this body to the dungeon floor! Thou art sure of thy victim—Lo! I defy thee!”

And as he spoke, there came gliding from the darkness of the cavern, two forms, clad in robes of sable velvet, who advanced hastily along the floor, and stood between the victim and the Duke.

“Lo! I defy thee! Tremble for thine own head, tyrant and coward! Tremble and turn pale, for lo! even now, the axe glimmers high above thy head, whetted for the Wronger’s blood—in a moment it descends—beware the blow!”

And as he spoke, while the Duke recoiled with a sudden start, and even the Doomsman trembled as he beheld the sable figures standing before his victim, silent and motionless, yet with the long curved dagger in their girdles, and the parchment scroll in their hands, all suddenly became dim and indistinct, and the cavern was wrapped in darkness.

The lights burning on the mound, were extinguished by an unknown hand, while every eye beheld a waving robe of white, fluttering in the air, the moment ere darkness came down upon the scene.

“Torches there!” shouted the Duke—“Look to the prisoner, vassals! Torches there, I say!”

Torches were presently seen hurrying from the farther end of the cavern, borne in the firm grasp of men-at-arms, and in a few moments a ruddy light was thrown around the spot where stood the Duke.

“Dog!” exclaimed the Duke, gazing hurriedly around—“Thou shalt bitterly rue this foul treason.”

He looked around in vain. His prisoner was gone, and with him had disappeared the banner of the Winged Leopard.

The light of torches again gleamed around the Mound of the Dead. The figure of a maiden lay extended along the steps of stone, her white robes waving round her insensible form—it was the Ladye Annabel.

“Mighty Duke, behold the scroll!” shrieked the Doomsman, as he held aloft the parchment, which he had taken from the cavern floor—“Behold the scroll, it bears an inscription—read, read.”

“Tyrant thrice—warned, yet unrelenting, the Invisible for the last time bids thee prepare for the steel! Lo! Thy Death now walks abroad seeking thee with the upraised axe,—beware his path!”

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE PAGE AND THE DAMSEL.

In a richly furnished ante-room, adjoining the bower of the Ladye Annabel, on a couch of the most inviting softness, lay Guiseppo, well-known to all the castle as the favorite page of his grace of Florence.

A lamp of the most elaborate moulding, suspended from the ceiling, threw a brilliant light over the rose-colored tapestry that adorned the walls and relieved the eye, gaily embroidered with the history of the temptations of the blessed St. Anthony. Here forms of terror appalled, and there shapes of beauty cheered the venerable saint, who was distinguished by a nose of a very blooming hue, marking a face redolent with the kiss of the wine-god.

The floor of the apartment was carefully strewn with rushes, and here and there were placed couches rivalling, in downy softness, the one on which Guiseppo lay, while everything wore the appearance of ease and luxury.

The small, yet well-proportioned figure of the youth was arrayed in a doublet of fine blue velvet, embroidered with gold, and brilliant with jewelled chains, that hung depending from his neck. His well formed legs were shown to the best advantage by hose of doe-skin, fitting close to the person, and he wore boots of the same material, ornamented with spurs of gold. His doublet was gathered about his waist by a belt that shone with gold and jewels, and at his left side he wore a rare dagger, with handle of ivory and sheath of gold.

The features of Guiseppo were not formed after the regular line of manly beauty, yet every lineament was redolent of light-hearted mirth and gleesome mischief. His forehead was rather low, his eyebrows arching, and his hazel eyes somewhat protruding; his nose was a thought too large, his lips curving with a merry smile, his cheeks full and glowing, and his rich brown hair fell in clustering locks down upon his collar of rarest lace.

He laid upon the couch in an easy position, his hazel eyes sparkling yet more brightly, and his lip curving yet more merrily, as he gazed upon a billet which he held in his right hand over his head.

“To the fair Ladye Annabel,” thus he murmured to himself: “to be delivered as soon as she recovers from her swoon—hum!”

Here the page sprang suddenly up into a sitting posture. It seemed as if some new thought had taken possession of his fancy. His eyes sparkled, his lip curved, his cheek rounded, and his whole frame shook with suppressed laughter.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as the tears came into his eyes; “Oh! ’twas exquisite!” He gave his right leg an emphatic slap. “’Twas exquisite—exquisite—exquisite!” And laughing louder than ever, the page walked up and down the apartment, well nigh bursting with repeated fits of merriment.

“Oh! St. Guiseppo!” he cried, “an’ I live to be an old man, I shall never recover it! Ha—ha—ha!”

Mayhap it was very fortunate for Guiseppo that the door leading into Ladye Annabel’s apartment was opened, just at the moment when he seemed about dissolving in his merriment.

A lovely maiden, with dark eyes and jet black hair, entered the chamber, with an angry look, as if to reprove the author of this boisterous laughter; but no sooner did she behold Guiseppo than she rushed into his arms, pronouncing his name at the same time, to which he very quietly responded—“Rosalind!” accompanying the expression with a kiss.

Having seated themselves upon a couch, Rosalind began to recall the times of old, naming many a familiar scene, many a well-known spot, where they had rambled together, ere Guiseppo left the castle—within whose walls he had been reared—to be a page to his grace of Florence.

As Rosalind rattled on, Guiseppo sat in mute admiration, much wondering to behold the lively little child, whom he had left some two years since, grown up into a handsome and budding damsel. He gazed with peculiar admiration upon the boddice of green velvet, which fitted so nicely, revealing the shape of one of the finest busts in the world—so Guiseppo thought, at least. He also had some indefinite idea of the prettiness of the cross of ebony, which, strung around her arching neck by a chain of gold, rose and fell with the heavings of the maiden’s bosom.

The dimple of the chin—thought Guiseppo—is very pretty; those lips are very tempting, but those beautiful, dancing, beaming black eyes—Guiseppo rounded the sentence with a sigh.

“I’faith, Guiseppo,” continued Rosalind, “your merriment, but a moment ago, startled me with affright. You might have awaked my cousin, the Ladye Annabel. She is sleeping after her fright in that dreadful vault. Tell me, Guiseppo, what made you so merry?”

The mirthful idea—whatever it was—again danced before the fancy of the page, and he fell into a fit of laughter, interspersed with numerous exclamations of delight.

At last Rosalind wrung from him the cause of his mirth, which he told somewhat after the following fashion.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE STORY OF GUISEPPO.

“On the day my young Lord—so I must still call him—was doomed to die by the Duke and Lords of Florence, I felt very dull, and the brightest piece of gold in the wide world would not have hired me to smile. And as for laughing—St. Guiseppo, that came not with my thoughts!

(Rosalind very quietly asked if nothing could have made him smile? He pressed his lips to hers and did not dispute the matter any further.)

“Being in this melancholy mood, I requested permission of my gracious master the Duke, to visit Lord Adrian that night. My request was granted.

“It was but half an hour after midnight, that I stood at the door of the Doomed Cell, where I learned, to my great regret, that the Duke had just departed, leaving his commands that no one should see the prisoner until morrow. There was an order of state affixed to the door to that effect, having the private seal of the Duke impressed upon it.

“No sooner had I perused this paper of state—thou knowest, Rosalind, that I can both read and write—thanks to Count Aldarin, who taught me, with much care and not a little pains—no sooner had I perused this paper of state, then unslinging my cloak of blue velvet and silver embroidery, I assumed all the pertness of a page at court, as I cried—Stand aside, Sir Beetle-brow, and make room for my couch—and you, gallant sir, of the squinting orb, be pleased to shift your lazy carcass an inch or so, an’ it suits you.

“The beetle-browed sentinel Balvardo, and his companion Hugo of the sinister eye, looked upon me with the most unfeigned astonishment, as throwing my cloak upon the stone pavement, I proceeded to lay my person upon its bedizened folds.”

“Well, Sir Malapert,” cried Balvardo, “thou art surely moonstruck. In the fiend’s name what mean you by thus sprawling out upon the pavement, like a cat near the end of her ninth life, eh, Sir Page?”

Here Hugo chimed in with his say, consisting of a “by’r Lady!” expressed in tones of the most interesting wonder, which he finished with a “w-h-e-w!” given with twisted lips and great musical effect.

“Why, noble Sir, of the bull-head,” I answered, “and right worthy Sir of the Squinting Orb, I intend to watch the coming forth of my Lord Adrian, an’ it please your lordships—and, as I wish to sleep, I will thank thee Balvardo to turn thy ugly visage another way, for, an’ I shut my eyes after looking at thee I’ll be certain to dream of half-a-dozen devils or so. Hugo do try and look straight ahead for only an instant, or the warriors in my dreams will all be cross-eyed—by St. Guiseppo!”

“‘Hist! thou magpie,’ exclaimed Hugo, ‘hear’st thou not a noise, Balvardo?’”

“The sound that rivetted Hugo’s ear, proceeded from the Doomed Cell, and was certainly the most curious of all sounds. It was not exactly like the mewing of a cat, neither did it altogether resemble the howling of a cur and it certainly did not sound like the bellowing of a bull, or the chattering of a magpie, yet in good sooth, it seemed as if all these noises had been caught and put in a sack, and having been shaken well together, produced the most infernal discord that ever saluted mortal ear.

“‘The Saints preserve us!’ shrieked Balvardo. ‘Surely the devil has taken possession of the murderer—hark how he howls!’

“‘He indeed!’ cried Hugo, ‘it’s not only he; by’r Lady, there’s a score of them. There it goes again. Beshrew thee but, ’tis like the howl of a whipped cur—’

“‘Nay Hugo, nay Hugo, ’tis like the spitting and mewing of an hundred cats.’

“‘Or the chattering of a score of magpies.’

“‘Now it bellows like a bull.’

“‘St. Peter be good to us!’ exclaimed Balvardo, as the howling grew louder and louder. ‘It is the yelling of devils, and naught else. Hark! Didst ever hear such a horrible noise, Sir Page?’

“I answered his question by repeated bursts of laughter; for although my heart was full heavy at the fate of Adrian Di Albarone, yet for my soul I could not hear such whimsical sounds without giving full rein to my laughing humor.

“Suddenly the noise ceased. In an instant a voice shouted from the inside of the Cell—‘Ho! guards, without there! guards!’

“I was thunderstruck at the tones of this voice, which I at once knew could not belong to the Doomed Adrian.

“‘Well!’ exclaimed Balvardo, ‘if the devil hasn’t stolen the voice of our gracious Lord the Duke!’”

Hugo pursed up his lips and gave his musical “whew!” which intended to express astonishment itself astonished.

“‘W-h-e-w!—By’r Lady, but the devil does speak in the voice of our Lord the Duke.’

“‘I am the Duke of Florence!’—shouted the voice from the cell. ‘Open the door, ye slaves!’

“‘Avoid the Sathanas!’ quoth Balvardo.

“‘Be quiet, fiend!’ cried Hugo.

“Exquisite sport—exquisite!” muttered I to myself, as a curious idea flitted through my brain, “Ho—ho—ho! The Duke of Florence locked up in one of his own prisons! Ha—ha—ha!”

“Louder rose the voice within the cell, and louder and fiercer swelled the exclamations of the sentinels; until having strained every bone in my body, with excessive laughter, I fell asleep thro’ mere weariness.

“When I awoke, the first beams of morning were streaming along the prison galleries, and engaged in earnest converse with Hugo and Balvardo stood the ill-looking, wry-mouthed, and hump backed Doomsman of Florence.

“‘The irons are hot, and the wheel is ready,’ said the deformed caitiff, bring your prisoner forth. The cauldron of lead is hissing and seething while it awaits his coming. ’Tis long since I’ve tried my hand upon one of noble blood. Bring forth this noble boy, and let me see what mettle his flesh is made of. Thanks, Balvardo—thanks, Hugo, for ’twas ye that gave him to the Doomsman!’

“Here the villain performed several very graceful actions, such as tying an imaginary knot around his neck, with a ‘chick’, and then rehearsing in dumb show the whole process of punishment upon the wheel; concluding with an animated waving, pushing and thrusting of his hands, descriptive of the entire manner of disemboweling.

“And this, this was to be the fate of Adrian Lord of Albarone!

“Meanwhile Hugo had unlocked the door of the Doomed Cell, and, called the name of the prisoner without receiving an answer.

“‘I’ll wake him,’ quoth the Doomsman, entering the cell; ‘see! he lays flat upon his face. Get up, Sir Parricide; get up. There—there,’ he concluded, bestowing a few kicks upon the prostrate occupant of the cell.

“The prisoner replied with a groan.

“‘Ho! ho!—You will not stir, will you?’ continued the Doomsman, as he dragged the prisoner from the cell into the gallery:—‘See, Hugo, how the caitiff’s hat is slouched over his face, and his hands are bound with his own belt. By St. Judas, this is a rare sight!’

“‘His hands bound!’ exclaimed Balvardo. ‘This is not my work!’

“‘Nor mine!’ responded Hugo.

“‘Remove his slouched hat, one of ye,’ exclaimed the Doomsman, ‘see ye not that both of my hands are employed in holding his carcass.’

“Hugo reached forth his hand and removed his slouched hat—‘O! an’ I live till fourscore, I’ll never forget the scene that followed.’

“There, his arms ignominiously bound, resting in the embrace of the Doomsman, lay the Duke of Florence, his face pale with ire, his mouth frothing like a madman’s, and his eyes bloodshot; and there stood the Doomsman, his gray eyes protruding with astonishment, until they seemed about to drop from their sockets, his mouth agape and his tongue lolling out upon his bearded chin; and there, likewise, stood Hugo and Balvardo, looking first at one another, then at the Duke, and then clasping their hands, they fall upon their knees and screaming for mercy—and there in the back-ground, his cloak muffled over his face, and his frame shaking with laughter while his eyes run over with tears of mirth, stands his grace’s page, the trim Guiseppo. Was’t not a rich scene, Rosalind?”

CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MEMORY OF GUILT.

On the stately couch in the Red-Chamber, with the Count Aldarin bending over him, lay his Grace the Duke of Florence, attired in his boots and hose, with his under shirt thrown back, revealing the left shoulder of the Prince laid open in a deep gash.

As the Count Aldarin, holding a light in one hand peered earnestly at the wound, the Duke exclaimed—

“A horrid gash, Count? eh! Damnation! to be foiled by the villain twice—bound in my own dungeon like a criminal—struck down in that cursed cavern like a dog—damnation seize the—ah! Count, some wine; for the Saint’s sake, some wine, I pray thee.”

The Count turned hurriedly to the beaufet, and filling a goblet with wine that sparkled in the light with a ruddy glow, he hastened to give it to the wounded Duke, who raised it until it nearly touched his lips, when, as if struck by a strange fancy, he suddenly held it out at arm’s length exclaiming as he gazed at Aldarin with a lack-lustre eye—

“I say Count, suppose there should be some white dust at the bottom of this goblet?—and—and—a ring? eh? Count?—Ugh!—Take it away—ugh!”

He flung the goblet from him, scattering the wine over the couch, while the vessel rolled clanging over the marble floor.

“How Sir?” cried the Count, speaking in a deep-toned voice that thrilled to the very heart of the Duke, “what mean’st thou?” The dark gray eyes of the Scholar flashed like living coals of fire, as he spoke.

“O, nothing,” responded the Duke, “nothing—only I thought the murderer Adrian might—dost understand? A truce to all this. My Lord Count, what didst thou with those men-at-arms who raised their swords in the cause of the murderer?”

Right glad was the Count Aldarin to recover his usual calm demeanour as he answered this inquiry.

“Of the fifty treacherous caitiffs who raised their swords against the person of your grace, forty lie bleeding and dead upon the cavern floor.

“As for the others—” he finished the sentence by pointing to the arched window of the Red-Chamber.

The Duke looked over his shoulder and beheld through the opened window the black and gloomy timbers of a gibbet towering like an evil omen high over the walls of the castle, and backed by the soft azure of a cloudless summer night.

The beams of the moon fell upon ten ghastly and death-writhen faces and ten figures swung to and fro, while the groaning cords as they grated against the creaking timbers over their heads, seemed shaking their death wail.

“Curse the traitors—they have their deserts!” The Duke exclaimed with a meaning smile.

The Count said nothing, but bending over the form of the Prince proceeded to dress his wounded shoulder, after the manner prescribed by his scholarly studies.

And as the Scholar bent over the form of the Duke, the hangings of the couch, sweeping beside the Prince, waved to and fro, with a slight motion, as though the summer breeze disturbed their folds, and a dark form, robed in garments of sable, with a monkish cowl dropping over its face, glided noiselessly along the floor, and in a moment stood at the back of his Grace of Florence, holding aloft, above his very head, a slender-bladed and glittering dagger.

The Figure stood silent and immoveable, its face shrouded and its form robed from view, the dagger glittering above the head of the Duke, brilliant as a spiral flame, while the light of the lamp held by Aldarin, shone on the upraised hand, revealing the sinews, stretched to their utmost tension, while the clutched fingers prepared to strike the blow of death.

And at the very instant, as the Figure of Sable emerged from the hangings of the couch, at the back of the Prince, there silently strode from the folds of the tapestry on the other side of the bed, a veiled form, clad from head to foot, in a robe of ghostly white.

While the Figure in garments of sable, raised the dagger above the head of the Duke, the strange Form, arrayed in the sweeping robe of white, disappeared behind the hangings of the couch, on the side opposite the Scholar Aldarin.

“Curse the traitors—they have their deserts!” again exclaimed the Duke. “Count, how succeeds my suit with the Ladye Annabel? Dost think she affects me? Eh, Count?”

“Marry, does, my Lord Duke—this slight wound in thy shoulder will detain thee at the castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every opportunity to urge thy suit, and, and—the day of your nuptials shall be named whenever thou dost wish!”

And as Aldarin spoke, the knife rose glittering in the hands of the Sable Figure, and a pale face, marked by the glare of a wild and flashing eye, was thrust from the folds of the robe of black. It was the face of Albertine.

“Now, by St. Antonia, but that is pleasant to think of,” exclaimed the Duke, as, complacently surveying his figure, he passed his hand over his bearded chin and whiskered lip—“as thou wishest me to name the day, my Lord Count, be assured, I shall not return to Florence without being accompanied by my fair bride—Ladye Annabel Duchess of Florence. It sounds well—eh, Count?”

A smile passed over the compressed lips of the Count, and a glance of wild joy lit up his piercing eyes, as he thought of the fulfillment of the dream of ambition that had haunted his soul for years.

“It does indeed sound well, my Lord Duke,” he calmly replied, as he proceeded in his employment of dressing the wound. There was a pause for a moment, a strange, dread pause, while the hands of the Sable Figure trembled, as though Albertine, was nerving his soul for the work of death.

“My Lord Count, how curious it seems? eh? Count?” exclaimed the Duke in a tone of vacant wonder.

“To what does your Grace refer?” answered the Count.

“Why, Count, but three short days ago, upon this very couch lay your gallant brother; here he folded to his arms his Adrian. Now that very son is a—murderer—a parricide. I rest upon the very couch that supported the murdered remains of the late Count, and thou, Aldarin, his brother—”

“His murderer!” exclaimed a voice that thrilled to the very heart of Aldarin, and made the Duke start with terror.

And as he started the knife came hissing through the air, it grazed the robe of the Duke, it sank to the very hilt in the death couch.

The start of the Duke saved him from the steel.

“Eh! Count, what’s that? Who spoke? eh?” The eyes of the Count distended, and his lips parted with affright as he spoke.

The Count looked up and beheld a sight that froze his very blood.

On the opposite side of the bed, among the crimson hangings, stood a figure robed in white, and there, two eyes, blazing like fire-coals, from beneath the deathly pallor of a half-veiled brow, looked steadily upon the trembling Aldarin.

The cheeks of that pale countenance were dug into fearful hollows, and the eyes were surrounded by circles of livid blue.

The Count gazed with intense horror at this apparition and the Sable Figure, who had hurriedly stooped, in the effort to wrench the dagger from the couch, with a noiseless grasp, looked up and started hastily backward as his eye rested upon the ghastly face, appearing amid the hangings in the opposite side of the bed.

“It is the face of the dead”—muttered Albertine, gliding hurriedly toward his place of concealment while the Duke was absorbed by the awe-stricken visage of Aldarin, whose very soul seemed starting from his eyes as he gazed upon the apparition—“It is the face of the dead—The time of the Betrayer hath not yet come!”

And as he spoke he disappeared, without being observed by either the Duke or Aldarin, while the Scholar, beheld the curtains on the opposite side of the couch rustling to and fro—he looked and the Spectre was gone.

“This is some vile trick!” cried Aldarin, grasping the sword of the Duke from the couch as he spoke. “Let the mummers, whoe’er they are, beware the vengeance of the Scholar!”

He rushed to the other side of the couch, he lifted the hangings, but discovered no one. With a hurried step, he turned to the tapestry that adorned the walls, and thrust aside the embroidered, folds. The secret door was closed, and he beheld neither sign nor mark, that might tell of aught concealed within its pannels.

And as Aldarin continued his hurried search, the Duke leaning back on the couch, felt some hard substance pressing against his side. Thrusting his hand along the couch, he felt the handle of a dagger, thrust from its resting place, and with a trembling arm, held the steel aloft in the light.

“It bears an inscription—Saints of Heaven, let me read—

And at the same moment, the Count Aldarin, leaned trembling against a pillar for support, and quaking in every nerve, one fearful thought possessed his soul as he murmured in a hollow whisper.

“Haunted, forever haunted—by thy gloomy shade, my murdered brother!”