 | THE THIRD PICTURE. Adrian, the neophyte |  |
THE STORY OF THE NEOPHYTE.
“Ladye Rose, 'twas on a night soft and balmy
as the night we now behold, that the rising moon,
gleaming over the mountains and the streams of a
landscape fair and lovely as the view that opens before
our vision, shone light and silvery through the
columns of a palace hall, where sat a youth and a
maiden, awed by the silence of the twilight hour.
“'Twas a lovely place, that palace bower—with
its curiously carved columns, its pictured ceiling,
its flowers of balm hanging in festoons along the
balcony on which it opened; it was a lovely place,
and the silent air, and the rising moon, made it a
scene for thought, a home for melancholy musing.
“The maiden was fair, and young, and beautiful.
O, how beautiful! A thing of joy, with a full,
dark eye, that flashed with the eloquent thoughts
that hope and youth alone can speak—a voice
whose whisper was music, whose laugh was harmony—a
smile that came thrilling to the heart, like
the smile of an angel face seen in a midsummer
dream.
“Oh! she was beautiful! with her form of maidenly
proportions clad in the vestments of rank and
power, her neck swan-like in form, with its alabaster
whiteness flushed by the warm blood of youth,
and around her face of beauty hung drooping tresses
of midnight hair, through which the moonbeams
played, while her countenance was half averted in
dreaming thought, and her bosom throbbing with
the pulsations of a strange emotion.
“And there she sat, gazing silently upon the
moonlit landscape, while he who sat by her side
had but one look, one voice, one soul—and all were
hers!”
The voice of the Neophyte was warm and impassioned.
The Lady Rose leaned forward with interest
and attention. For a moment the distinction
between the proud ladye and the nameless student
seemed cast aside, if not forgotten.
“And he who sat beside the maiden,” whispered
the Lady Rose, “who was he, and how looked he?
Was he young, gallant, and handsome?”
“Young he was, fair Ladye Rose, but neither
gallant nor handsome. There was a ban upon his
soul, and a curse upon his fate. The joys of others
were not his joys—their fears not his fears—their
hopes were unknown to him. His way of life
had lain along a desert strown with ashes, the embers
of his blasted hopes, and the sky above him was
dark, and the earth beneath him lay dead, yielding
nor flower of joy, nor leaf of consolation, nor fruit
of gallant purpose or high-wrought ambition.
“And as he sat in that silent hall, his soul was
possessed by one thought, and for that thought he
his heart an agony that gnawed like the eternal fire
—and that thought he dared not breathe to the
maiden's ear. That thought was—his love for
her!”
“Fool that he was!” absently murmured the Ladye
Rose, as she gazed on the bronzed face and the
flashing eyes of the Neophyte. “Dared not tell
her of his love? Coward in heart—knew he not
that 'tis the bold heart ever wins the fair face? Why
seized he not her hand? Why knelt he not at her
feet? Why to her own ear did he not speak the
words of his love?”
The legend of the Neophyte had aroused the better
feelings of the maiden's heart, her bosom throbbed,
and her eye flashed, her voice was deep-toned
with sympathy; and, with glowing cheek and parted
lip, she awaited the answer of the student.
“Ladye Rose—in one word thou hast my answer.
He was poor and nameless—she rich and
proud! Life opened to her eye a path winding in
sunlight. He was cut off from his kind by an irrevocable
ban. Life to him was—despair. Death
alone was hope!”
“Poor—nameless? An irrevocable ban? Thou
speakest mysteries! Was he poor? What knoweth
Love of poverty or wealth? A ban upon his
fate? Dark must be the curse, dark the ban, that
Love may not break and dispel. How name ye
this lover and his love? Said'st thou he was a
warrior?”
“Ladye!” shrieked the Neophyte, starting to his
feet, “he was no warrior! He was—a monk!
His name was Adrian, and,” he sank kneeling at
her feet, “and he loved Rose, the Flower of Ellarini!”
He seized her hand—he pressed it to his lips!
His eyes gleamed passion, and his breath came fast
and hurried in convulsive gasps.
There was a death-like pause of a single instant
—a pause of speechless astonishment on the part
the Ladye Rose—of speechless passion on the part
of the monk Adrian.
“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed the maiden, starting
to her feet, “ha—ha—ha—ha! This is a passing
merry jest! 'Twill do to tell to my Lord Urban
Di Capello, at the festival to night! `How the
monk loved the maiden!' Ha—ha—ha! What!
ave I aroused a passion in the bosom of young
anctity? Ha—ha—ha! By my fay, a passing
merry jest! I'd even tell it to my lord, were't not
for the thought that thy priestly robes would prove
a sorry defence against the thrust of his sword!
`How the monk loved the maiden!' Ha—ha—ha!”
Adrian arose slowly upon his feet. He leaned
against a vine-garlanded column. He covered his
face in the folds of his dark robe.
The maiden sprang between the columns of the
bower-hall, along to the balcony, and her voice,
with its musical laughter, again broke upon the
air.
“By my fay, a gallant sight! See—see! the
carnival procession winds around the brow of yon
hill on the farther side of the silvery Arno! A
gallant sight!—there are maskers and mimes quaintly
attired—strains of festival music come floating
along the silent air, and all Florence is alive for
the river-feast to-night! How gallantly the warriors
guide their prancing steeds along the hill!
Plumes gleam in the moonlight, and banners wave!
A gallant sight! And there is my Lord Urban Di
Capello—young and bold—on his dark black steed!
His robes glitter with jewels—the plume is on his
brow, and the sword is by his side! I hear his
manly laugh and his bold voice! A gallant cavalier
as ever rode to battle, or danced with fair ladye!
Ha—ha—ha! I must e'en tell him the
merry legend, `How the monk loved the maiden!'
Ha—ha—ha!”
And leaning over the balcony, her robes flung
back, and her dark hair swept aside from her brow,
the fair Ladye Rose, the Flower of Ellarini, clapped
her delicate hands with joy and delight.
Adrian, the Neophyte, threw back the folds of
his robe, and the moonbeams fell upon a face from
which all color of life had fled.
“Would I might weep!” he murmured. “Would
I could weep! There is fire in my brain, and
mine eye-balls are turned to things of living flame!
The fiend hath frozen the blood around my heart!
Oh, that I might weep a single tear! Ah—ha! I
see it all! I am in the regions of the lost—tears
are unknown here—tears are foes to despair—
'twere not well for the Lost to weep, else might
they regain their native heaven!
“And I am lost, then! Once I had a dream of
love and beauty—and ere that, a dream of a God
and a heaven crossed my soul! But all are gone,
now! Shapes of terror are around me, and forms
of death gibber and laugh in my face! They think
to fright me! They wot not that I love them now,
for—for,” his voice sank to a whisper, like the
voice of a skeleton, could it speak, “for I am an
evil spirit, now—and I love these forms of horror
—I woo them! Ha—ha—ha! I am a demon,
now!”
No hollow laugh of supernatural omen broke
the silence of the air, but a low moaning sound
was heard directly over the head of the Neophyte.
It was the spirit that ruled the destiny of Adrian,
the Neophyte, groaning as he looked upon the ruin
he had wrought.
Despair had bidden farewell to Hope—and the
end drew nigh.
| THE THIRD PICTURE. Adrian, the neophyte | |