University of Virginia Library

BOOK THE SECOND.
The Demon Form.
The Cloud Gathers and Blackens.

1. CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE PIT OF DARKNESS.

One moment in light, and the next in darkness
—down thro' 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 his body splashing into 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, 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 awful
and 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 honour of all three o'
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.

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.

2. 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 Al
darin 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 lighted
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 or 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.

3. 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
along within the depths of the forest; its bounds
described, and its verdure shadowed, by huge
masses of perpendicular rock, which seemed to
spring upward from the very sod, towering in wild
and rugged grandeur above, thrice the height of a
man; with the deep, rich foliage of forest oaks
arising beyond, and 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; while a narrow,
though deep and rapid stream, its waters shadowed
to ebony blackness, laved one side of the steeps
of granite, and sweeping beneath an arching crevice,
some three feet high, and as many thick, the
rivulet 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 full and
glaring beams down from the very zenith along the
quiet of the level sward, with its encircling rocks,
now alive with a scene of wild and peculiar interest.

Around a square table, draped with folds of solemn
black, arising from the centre of the sward,
sat a band of twenty-four mysterious men, each
figure robed in the thick folds of a monkish robe
and cowl, each face veiled, and each arm folded
within the circles of the sable garment. These
were the priests of the Order of the Monks of the
Steel.

At the head of the table, seated on a chair of
rough and knotted oak, placed on an uprising
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, while an 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 extended hand,
flung over the velvet covering 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 the echo of the
grave, for it never spoke other words than the
sentence of doom.

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 the robes of each figure, scarce
stirred into motion by the heaving of the breast,
looked like the drapery of some monkish effigy,
rather than the attire of moving and acting 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, or
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
broad 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 sloemn 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, waving
his solemn abacus, the high priest spoke 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, at the bidding of a
tyrant; every voice whispered a story of woman's
innocence outraged, the grey 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 they shook 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 check
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,' shricked a
bystander: `for Adrian Di Albarone. To-morrow,
at daybreak, 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 carcase 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 noonday 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
grey 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 stceel, 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.

4. 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 fretted, 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 armour. No coffin
panels held his manly form; no death-shroud, with
ghastly folds of white, enveloped those sinewy
limbs; neither did things of glitter and show glisten
along his couch, heaping mockery on the still
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
songs 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 of 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 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 small 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, aud 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 wary 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.

5. CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CAVERN OF THE DEAD.

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 flasning on every side, disclosed
a strange and ghastly 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 archives of
Albarone, concerning these strange figures. In
the olden time, while 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 blasphomy,
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 ghastly, 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 an 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 s 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 left 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
halt 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 while 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 armour
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 armour, shouting and making the very
cavern's roof re-echo with their exclamations of
joy.

The tumult and outcry, 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 when
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 spo
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.

6. CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL.

With a mind of might and a brain of power,
the Count Aldarin possessed a soul, vigorous with
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 he believed lay 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 slalwart
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 grey eyes, half-buried by his
contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the intensity
of his thoughts.

The Mound, with all its ponderous outline,
ighted by the lamps burning on the summit, now
begun 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 out-spread,
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 weight, 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 breastplate, 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 armour-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, clad in strange and various
costumes, types of contrasted ages, 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, 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 story, 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
torchlight.

“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 armour 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, that 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 armour 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 grey
beard of the deccased warrior with its dark red
hue.

The men-at-arms shrunk back aghast, 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 armour
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
levin 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—be
hold 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 an' 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 thro' the vault in waving columns.

It was accompanied by a pungent odour, 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 armour rushed forward to
seize the murderer, but his limbs refused their
office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his
armour 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 misty smoke. The Esquires tottered
and fell prostrate among their fellows.

7. 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—silent and solitary time.
The kinght in armor of azure steel, was the first
to rise from the strange slumber which the chymical
spell of the Scholar had flung around the
sensos 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 armour and
the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a
few moments the knight of the azure armour at
last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the
narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long
ines of torches shining upon a brilliant array of
upraised swords, armour 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 armour, 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 armour 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. On with your
swords, and strike for the Winged Leopard, for
our 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? Advance
my brave men; find these villians. They
have stolen the Ladye Annabel away—despatch
them, and then we will all 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 armour grasped his
sword more firmly. In another moment the
torches of the Duke's followers would flash upon
the armour 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 thro' 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 armour.

“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
foosteps, 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 hung floating round her form,
revealing the delicate symmetry of her shape, the
rising of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the
light, the arching bend of the neck, while the
blooming loveliness of her countenance, half-shaded
by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden
and changing, yet dreamlike expressions.

“I see his form”—she murmed—“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 thro' 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 decended full upon the shoulder of the
Duke, and severing his armour, 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 ever the floor of the cavern. The brave old
Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still
grasping their broken swords, and their grey 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 mishapen 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 lend 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 Doom man 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
o! 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 wrapt 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—“Be—hold the scroll, it bears an inscription—read,
read.”

8. 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 cheeks 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
he 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 black-eyed, dark-haired maiden 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 round 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 gone, 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.

9. 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 brighest 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 the 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 persued 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, than 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 carcase
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!”

“Ho 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 humour.

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 was 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 thee Sathanas!” quoth Balvardo.

“Be quiet, fiend!” cried Hugo.

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

Louder rose the shout of 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 disembowelling.
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 carcase?”

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 Floerence, his face
pale with ire, his mouth frothing like a madman's,
and his eyes bloodshot; and there stood the Doomsman,
his grey 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 background, 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?”

10. 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 hasted 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 grey
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
shrieking 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 behind
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
ghastly 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 she, my Lord Duke—this slight
wound in thy shoulder will detain thee at the
castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every op
portunity 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
Dutchess 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 fulfilment 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
coals of red-hot flame, from beneath a half veiled
brow, as pale as death, looked steadily upon the
trembling Aldarin. The checks 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 in one fixed look at
the awe-stricken visage of Aldarin, whose very
soul seemed starting from his eyes as he gazed
upon the aparition—“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 hurrled 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,