University of Virginia Library

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.