University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER FORTY.
THE MANUSCRIPT OF THE SEALED CHAMBER.

“To night—so ran the quaint history of Monk Eustace—we will look
upon the double-crime, whose unnatural gilt, forever clouded the House
of Mount Sepulchre.[3]

It is a spacious chamber, with a ceiling like a dome, and a floor paved
with alternate slabs of black and white marble. Four pillars adorned
with fantastic curvings support this dome, and in front of each pillar
stands the figure of a Crusader, in the armor of Richard the Lion heart,
with a red cross painted upon his breast

The walls are hung with purple tapestry, on which are emblazoned the
deeds of Richard the Lion Heart and his knights; here a picture of the
shores of Jordan; there, a fray with Saladin; a little farther on, King
Richard standing with hands clasped on his sword, while he gazes on the
Holy Sepulchre. Therefore, this chamber, illuminated by lamps of perfumed
oil, is called the Hall of Palestine.

In the centre of the place, around a board groaning under the weight
of viands and beakers, behold Lord Harry and his brave Twenty-Four.

He looks right noble in his attire of blue velvet, set off with diamond
stars and chains of gold. His head is proudly placed upon his broad
shoulders, and his long golden hair and brown beard slightly tinged with
red, gave a noble appearance to his bold features and florid complexion.

One hand upon the hilt of his sword, the other lifted a well-filled goblet,

as he glances round the table—now, looking upon the wreck of beef,
ham, capon, and all imaginable pastries, defended by a solemn array of
bottles and goblets, now, gazing into the faces of his gallant Twenty-Four.

Vain were the power of language to picture the contrasted expressions
of their various faces—the costumes of every fashion and device—the
conversation now echoing in discordant chorus, now broken by peals of
laughter.

Lord Harry glanced upon his company, and arranged himself more
comfortably in his gilded chair, as he surveyed all these indications of pomp
and state, and murmured as the cup pressed his lips,

“It is a right good thing to be Lord of Mount Sepulchre!”

It cannot be denied, that it was a scene of luxurious display, worthy of
an Eastern Sultan.

Around the board were ranged a band of attendant servitors, clad in
silks and laces, their eyes anticipating the commands of Lord Harry and
his Twenty-Four.

The curtains drawn aside toward the north, revealed a glimpse of a
garden, full of rare plants and flowers, whose perfume imbued the atmosphere,
while many fountains glittered in the light of the setting sun through
the thickly clustered foliage.

“A health to our King!” cried Lord Harry, extending his goblet to the
Servitor by his side—“A health to the brave Harry of England and
France, the Eighth of his name!”

Goblets were raised and drained with many a loyal shout.

“To the King, and confusion to Luther!” cried a fair faced Knight,
whose youthful lip was scarce burdened by a shadow of manhood's down.

“To the Spanish woman—confusion!” shouted a grim old Knight,
whose cheeks bore traces of the civil wars.

“To the Devil with the Pope and all enemies of our King!” ejaculated
a courtly Lord, whose eyes were affected with an inordinate habit of
winking.

Baron Henry, like a true knight and sworn Courtier as he was, emptied
his goblet, and exclaimed in a joyous tone—

“Vassals! More wine! We'll have a merry bout of it together, and
hark ye, let our steeds be saddled for a merry ride by torchlight after our
feast is over!”

At this moment there was a heavy foot-tramp by the side of the noble
Lord, and a hoarse voice exclaimed, with an accent of rude courtesy—

“Noble Sir—the Italian craves a word with your Lordship—”

“Hah! Iron Dickon is't thou?”

Turning suddenly he beheld Iron Dickon standing by his side. Iron
Dickon was a stalwart retainer, who stood some six feet seven inches in
his boots, and could fell an ox with a blow of his fist. He looked, indeed,

like Samson of old, encased in a costume of deer's hide, defended by
plates of iron armor, with a dagger in his girdle, and a sword by his side.
His features were coarse, his head somewhat large even for his large body,
and there was a sort of settled vacancy in his large gray eyes, almost hidden
by his thick eyebrows.

He was a rude fellow, and his appearance in this scene of wine and
laughter was almost as welcome as a death's head at a marriage festival.

In what capacity the stout Dickon served the young Lord, few persons
could guess; he could not have been attached to him merely as a common
soldier, for they were too familiar, too often closeted together for that.
And yet, he was no knight; he was called simply Iron Dickon, and ever
since his sudden appearance, some years before,—ere the old Baron was
stricken blind—he was regarded by the other servitors of the castle with
a feeling akin to fear.

A murmur of surprise, mingled with something like anger or loathing
was echoed by the brave Twenty-Four, as they beheld the gloomy retainer
standing beside the young Lord.

“Noble Sir—the Italian craves a word with your Lordship—” repeated
Iron Dickon, scowling gloomily at the festival array.

“The Italian? Let him wait our pleasure—”

Iron Dickon drew nearer to his master's side, and whispered—

“But he will not wait. `Tell thy master I must see him this moment,
or I depart from the Castle without further words.' This was the
message noble sir, which he gave me—”

“Is it so? He shall see me by the Rood—” cried the Baron, starting
from his chair, and flinging his goblet on the table—“Woe to the knave
if he but thinks to cross my humor. Gentles—” he added, turning to the
Twenty-Four—“It is but a matter of a moment's absence. I will be
with you ere a goblet is drained.”

He turned to the door of the Hall, assuming his cap, which was
crowned with white plumes, bound together by a single jewel which
glittered like a coal.

“Dickon, I say—where is this knave?” whispered the young Lord, as he
drew near the door.

“In the Tower of Saladin, your Lordship,” whispered Dickon.

Was it only a fancy, or did the Baron of Mount Sepulchre change color?

“The tower of Saladin?” he echoed—“Knave! How came he there?
Are there no other rooms in Mount Sepulchre, but you must put this
stranger in the tower of Saladin?'

“There are many rooms in the tower of Saladin,” bluntly replied the
vassal, “on the first floor there is a large hall, which has served us for
a guard room ere now. Down among the foundations there is a dungeon.
On the second floor where there are two chambers, one opening into the
other, I have placed this Italian and his page—”

“His page!” cried Baron Harry, as his foot touched the threshold.

“And on the third floor,—” continued Iron Dickon, without heeding his
master—“On the third floor, I say, there is a chamber which overlooks
the country for a score of miles, and there—”

“Be silent!” whispered the Baron, as he laid his hand upon the wrist
of his servitor—“There are other ears listening beside mine.”

The servitors stood ranged beside the lofty door, as their Lord crossed
the threshold, followed by Iron Dickon.

Curious it was to see the amazement pictured on the faces of the redoubted
Twenty-Four. They whispered one with the other, while the
wine-cup stood untasted; they cast anxious glances toward the door; and
soon a breathless stillness pervaded that hall, so lately echoing with the
shouts and laughter. They spoke of various matters with the manner
and look of men who talk of things forbidden. Of the Italian, with his
bronzed visage and eye of flame—was he indeed a Magician? Had he
in truth sold his immortal soul to the enemy of mankind? Of the elder
brother, Ranulph, who had died abroad, they also spoke; and one, bolder
than the rest, whispered somewhat of the old man—the Father. At the
word, there rose an universal murmur, for Lord Harry had forbidden the
mention of his father's name or existence, by any tongue within the castle-walls.
Strange it was, to see the fear which had descended upon the
brave Twenty-Four. Was this strange stillness, this sudden fear, an
Omen of the Calamity which that night befel the house of Mount
Sepulchre?”

An hour passed and the Baron had not returned.

Suddenly the door was opened; every face was turned to look upon
the Baron, and from the manner of his countenance, gather some indications
of the nature of his secret counsels with the Italian.

It was not the Baron who appeared.

A man of tall form, clad like a monk, and with a cowl dropped over
his face, crossed the threshold, and with hurried steps passed through the
gaily-lighted hall. Not once did he turn and look upon the guests; no
eye caught one glimpse of his face—he appeared—he crossed the hall—
and was gone through an opposite door while the joyous Twenty-Four
gazed in each others eyes, in blank amazement.

“The Italian!” the murmur burst from every lip.

It seemed, in truth, as if that tall form, clad in monkish robes, and crossing
the marble floor with a soundless step, had imbued the air with a
spell, and left a mortal fear in every heart. It is even said, that the fragrance
of the perfumed lights was lost in the odor of brimstone; but of
this I am not assured.

“The Italian!” murmured the stout Twenty-Four, and set their half-drained
goblets down.

Another hour was gone. Some of the joyous Knights were sleeping in

their chairs, others were conversing in low whispers; the Servitors stood
idle in the shadows of the lofty pillars, when the silence was broken by a
footstep. There was no dismay, no fear this time. It was the bold step
of Baron Harry, Lord of Mount Sepulchre.

He crossed the threshold with a flushed cheek and sparkling eye, while
Iron Dickon walked scowling and sullen at his heels.

“Gentle sirs, I cry your mercy for this discourtesy,” he exclaimed, as
he stood at the head of the well-filled board, the light shining upon his
noble form, and revealing his animated face, which seemed framed in his
red beard and golden hair—“Matters of some importance claimed my
ear. This Italian tells me, that he can restore the poor old man, my
father, to strength and health again—”

Much wonder looked from the eyes of the Twenty-Four, as they heard
the young Lord pronounce that name of all names the most forbidden—
“My Father!”

“And while he was closeted with the old man, in the third floor of the
Tower, I—ha! ha! 'Tis a merry thought! I was engaged in exploring
the mysteries of this Italian's den on the second floor. I 'faith 'twas a
rare hour I had there alone. Alone, did I say? Yet hold, I must tell
you the history in the proper way. Why sit ye, staring like monks, between
the hour of prayers and dinner? Fill goblets, all, and I will tell
you the merry history of my adventures.”

The Twenty-Four filled their goblets, but even as they drained each
cup, their eyes were fixed upon Lord Harry's comely face

Behind his Lord, his scowling visage half seen above the young Baron's
head, stood Iron Dickon, fixed and immovable as one of the effigies which
encircled the board.

“Ha, ha! 'Tis a story that will burn your ears, my joyous Knights,
brothers of this Companionship, which finds its only prayer in woman's
eyes, its only altar in a well-filled board, its only worship in a brimming
cup. But listen. There are two rooms on the second floor of the Tower
of Saladin, two rooms, separated by a narrow door. Dickon, my gay
Death's head, didst thou not force the door,—ha, ha! In the first room I
found alembics, crucibles, skulls, and parchments, and all other indications
of this Italian's wizard-craft. But in the second room, when Dickon
faced the door,—the Wizard all the while was in the room above, with
the old man, my father, you must remember,—I found a—page! Not a
page from some black-lettered prayer book, my good Knights, but a living,
breathing page, bound in a close-fitting dress of black velvet, with eyes
like stars, hair like a cloud, and a bosom young and warm as—as—is
your blood, after the first cup of rich old wine!”

Wondrous it was to see the curiosity which stamped every face of the
Twenty-Four.

“A woman!” the word burst from every lip.

“A woman!” echoed the hoarse voice of Iron Dickon

“The page was sleeping on his,—or her—couch. A light, very dim
and flickering shone over her face, as I drew near the bed. She lay with
one cheek resting on her bent arm, and her dark hair, half-hidden under
a velvet cap, half-straying over her cheek and neck, only made her complexion
seem more white and beautiful. Although truth to tell it was rather
brown than white,—a ripe brown, with red bloom on the lip, and a rose-bud
on each cheek. And she was sleeping as I drew near the bed, her
limbs clad in black velvet resting upon the white coverlet—a right pleasing
sight, by my knightly word. Do you know, gentle Sirs, what thought
stirred in my brain, as I beheld the sight?

“`Ho, ho, you carry it bravely, Sir Sorcerer,' I muttered—`You come to
Mount Sepulchre, your purpose, the restoring of my good father to health,
and sight. Days pass, and my father is still palsied and blind. But you,
Sir Magician, console your hours with the caresses of your Italian leman;
yes, Sybarite that you are, you turn this chamber of Saladin's tower, in
a bower for your lady-love.' Is't not enough to mad a saint? The insolence
of this swarthy caitiff?”

“'Tis incredible!” chorussed the Twenty-Four, “'Tis hideous! The
conjuring knave!”

“But the page?” cried a grey-bearded Knight, and Twenty-three others
echoed the question.

Baron Harry seized the cup, and did not take it from his lips until he
had drained the last drop. He passed his hand through the curls of his
golden hair, smoothed his red beard, and his eyes grew brighter, his cheek
became more flushed and glowing.

“Thoughts like these stirred in my brain,—while Iron Dickon held
the door. I resolved to punish the insolence of the knave, even as he sat
with the old man in the room above. Therefore I gently touched the
sleeper's cheek, and at the same moment crushed the light beneath my
cap. She awoke in darkness, she took my hand, and whispered `Raphael
is it thee,' I answered her with a kiss—without a doubt she mistook
me for the Italian.

Then the brave Lord burst into a fit of boisterous laughter, accompanied
by sundry twitchings of the face and workings of the eye, which seemed
to be well understood by the Twenty-Four, for they laughed and shouted
until the Hall of Palestine rung with the deafening uproar.

“Meanwhile, gentles, Iron Dickon held the door,” continued the Lord
of Mount Sepulchre, “And the Italian, having brought to an end, his interview
with the old man, descended from the upper room, but did not attempt
to enter the love-bower in which I was conversing with his page.
May be he did not see Iron Dickon in the darkness—”

“He passed by me,” said Iron Dickon; “I could have touched him
with my arm. Well for him that he did not attempt to enter that room!”

He raised his brawny arm above the head of his Lord, and growled an
oath.

“We saw the Italian pass through the hall,” cried a youthful Knight
“But as to this page—”

“I left him only a moment ago. This is my purpose good Knight, and
joyous companions! We are very much like monks, here in our good
castle of Mount Sepulchre. We pass our hours in earnest worship, but
woman's smile, never cheers our prayers,—woman's eyes never shine
upon our solemn festivals. What say ye to a beautiful woman, who shall
preside at our board, direct our worship, become, in a word, the Lady
Abbess of our mysterious rites?”

The Twenty-four had simply laughed and shouted before; now they
started from their seats and flung their wine-cups in the air, and filled the
room with one thunder cry.—

“The Lady Abbess! The Lady Abbess of Mount Sepulchre!”

“Dickon hie thee to the castle gate. Give orders there, that this Italian
never enter our castle again, or if he does, let him come in chains, as our
prisoner, and let him be conveyed in secresy, to the deepest cell, beneath
the Tower of Saladin. Dost hear?”

Iron Dickon growled assent, and without a word departed on his errand.
He departed through the Western door which led towards the castle gate:
the Eastern door be it remembered led to the Tower of Saladin.

“It is well,—” cried Baron Harry, his eyes flashing with all the joy of his
young blood, “Thus are we free from the intrusion of the Sorcerer. He
has gone to the ruins of the Monastery in yonder woods; at midnight he
will return, but Iron Dickon will take care of his prisoner. As for the
Lady Abbess she shall never behold him again; we can coin some brave
story of his treachery and flight. Is it not a brave plot my good companions?”

Amid the shouts and laughter Baron Harry took his seat, and filled his
cup and drank to the Lady Abbess of Mount Sepulchre. And the lamps
which hung from the dome of the Hall, shed their mild light over the
scene, revealing those faces convulsed with laughter and drunken with
wine, with the comely face of Lord Harry seen at the head of the board,
encircled by its golden hair. And the massive pillars glowed in the light,
until their fantastic carvings seemed to live and move, like the uncouth
shapes of a dream. And the figures of the Crusaders, clad in the armor
of the time of Richard the Lion Heart, and standing beside the lofty columns,
with the Holy Cross upon their breasts, gazed upon the scene of
uproar, and seemed to smile, as if in sympathy with the boundless revel.
The purple tapestry, too, which hung from the dome to the marble floor,
quivering its heavy folds to and fro with a gentle motion, caught the rays
upon its painted forms, until they also seemed to live and stir. The figure
of Richard the Lion Heart alone, with its hands clasped on the massive

sword, gazed upon the Holy Sepulchre, and seemed to turn its eyes away
in looking from the banquet scene.

Merry were the songs they sung, joyous the tales they told, without
limit or number the goblets they emptied—the right noble Twenty-Four.
The old knight told many a marvellous legend of their bravery in the
wars; the young spoke of the dread King Henry, and his last Queen,
the winsome Anne Boleyn, and of the merry time which brave lords and
fair dames, kept at his court, where the days of King Solomon lived
again, and Love and Religion went hand in hand. Tis true the Love was
somewhat of the basest, and the Religion seemed but another name for
Lust and Murder, but still King Harry was a dread Monarch, and his
court was a joyous place.

And amid all the uproar, Lord Harry never ceased to lift his cup, and
pledge the health of “the Lady Abbess of Mount Sepulchre!”

“My Lord the Italian has not returned,—” said a sullen voice—“But
I have obeyed your behests. When he comes, he will be conveyed in
secresy to the cell, under Saladin's Tower.”

Iron Dickon, that rude Samson, stood at the shoulder of his Lord,
scowling gloomily over the festival board.

“Hah! You have done well; the knave shall trouble us no more.
What say you gentles?” he cried as he started from his chair—“Shall I
lead the Lady Abbess, into this Hall, to receive the homage of her humble
devotees? While the Italian rests quietly in the darkness of the cell,
shall we confess our sins, to the beautiful Saint, nay the High Priestess
of our Temple?”

“But will she come?” cried one.

“Dare you lead her hither?” exclaimed another.

“The Abbess! The Abbess! Let us behold her!” yelled the others
of the Twenty-Four.

“Dare I lead her hither? Whose voice spoke there! Ha, ha! You
will soon behold her, in all her loveliness, at the head of our board. A
very Venus, by my faith! In a moment, Sirs, I will return!”

He turned toward the Eastern door, but paused a moment to call Iron
Dickon to his side.

“Away, Dickon. Watch by the castle gate. Do not appear again,
until the Italian returns.”

And as the gloomy Servitor departed by the Western door, his Lord,
attired in garments of price, sprinkled with stars and jewels, glided through
the Eastern door, his white plume waving over his laughing face.

The Twenty-Four were alone with their cups again, but their eyes were
incessantly turned toward the Eastern door, over whose threshold the
beautiful Abbess was soon to glide, with the step of a Queen, and a face
worthy of Lady Venus, the Saint of Love.

Ten minutes passed away, but the brave Baron did not appear.

“What detains our Lord? Does the dame prove reluctant?” said one.

“Ah, ha!” laughed another, “It may be that she recognizes her `Raphael'
in person of Lord Harry. 'Twas a brave trick by the rood!”

At this instant a dagger, dripping with blood, fell upon the table, and
clanged against the golden platters, as its blood-drops were sprinkled over
the board.

Vain were the attempt to picture the surprise, the dismay of the Twenty-Four.
Their eyes were fixed upon the dagger, a long blade with a hilt
of gold, and then they gazed pale and wondering into each others faces.

“That dagger was flung there by no human hand!” faltered the old
Knight.

At this moment, the Twenty-Four, gazing toward the head of the table,
behold—Baron Harry with the beautiful woman leaning on his arm? I trow
not. But a tall figure, robed in something like a monkish garb, with the
arms folded, and the cowl drooped over the face.

“The Italian!” the cry burst from every lip—“His hand hath flung this
dagger on our board. Seize him,—seize him, in the name of our Lord!”

They started with one impulse from their chairs, but not a hand was
extended to grasp the sombre figure, which without voice or motion, stood
like a dumb image of wood or stone, at the head of the board.

The face was lost in the shadow of the cowl; they could not trace a
single feature.

The contrast between this solitary form, robed in funeral black and
those gay figures attired as if for a marriage feast, was striking and wonderful.

And yet they did not stir; not an arm was lifted to strike him to the
floor; it seemed as though the strange awe, which fell upon the Twenty-Four,
was his protection; as though his very presence chilled every heart
into ice.

“Seize him,” cried the old Knight—” Remember the words of the
Baron; seize the Sorcerer!”

A voice come from beneath the shadow of that gloomy cowl. It was
not loud,—far from boisterous—and yet it pierced every nook of that spacious
hall.

“That dagger is stained with your Baron's blood. Go! and minister
to him in his dying hour. You have shared his pleasures; now behold
his agonies. He lies on the threshold of the second chamber of Saladin,
even, upon the spot where I struck him down.”

The hall rang with shouts of vengeance, and the light disclosed faces
distorted by rage, but not a hand was raised against the Italian's breast.

“Our Lord murdered! The gallant Harry slain by this Sorcerer!”

“Go!” cried the Italian, still speaking from the shadow of his cowl—
“Bring hither the body of the dying man. In his presence, I will submit
to your judgment.”

The aged Knight spoke to three others—“Come,” he whispered “we
will do as this wretch advises. But look ye—” he cried aloud turning to
the rest of the band—“Look ye, one and all, that the Assassin does not
escape!”

With these words, the aged Knight and the three others left the hall by
the Eastern door, while the remaining Twenty, folding their arms, stood
in dead silence around the board, their eyes fixed as if by some unearthly
spell, upon the veiled form of the Murderer.

Not once did he raise the cowl; not once did he remove his folded
arms from his breast. Silent, erect, immovable, he seemed to fix his
eyes,—from the shadow of the cowl—upon the dagger, which lay amid
the platters and goblets of gold, its blade glittering with blood.

“Wherefore didst thou do this thing?” asked one of the Knights, after
a pause of breathless stillness.

“Was it for the sake of thy leman?” added another.

“By the body of your dying Lord, I will confess,” answered the Italian
in a low voice.

The tramp of footsteps was heard from the Eastern door, and soon the
four Knights appeared, bearing a body, which was covered by a dark
cloth, resting upon face and breast like a pall.

“He is dead,” said the aged Knight, and they laid the veiled corse at
the feet of the Murderer. “Now sir conjuror, look first upon the face of
the dead, and then upon thy death.”

He drew his sword, and the others followed his example, and formed a
circle around the Italian and the body of the dead. And the Servitors,
pale and shuddering, looked over the shoulders of the Knights, and awaited
in dumb suspense the issue of the scene. Iron Dickon alone was absent.

A breathless awe such as comes upon the souls of men, when a deed
of Murder has been done, and when the very air seems to be hushed by
the presence of Death, fell upon the lips and hearts of the spectators of
this scene.

“Beneath that robe lies a dead body, still warm still bleeding; and
only a moment ago that foul thing of clay, was my Lord Harry Baron of
Mount Sepulchre!”

It was this thought that sealed every lip, and roused even the drunken
knights, into the consciousness that Death was there—grim and brooding in
the luxurious Hall of Palestine.

“Tell us, sir conjuror,” said the old knight, even Ralph of Grey-wolf
between his set teeth—“What urged thee to this deed?”

A murmur swelled through the hall, and then again that brooding
stillness.

The Italian did not lift his cowl. No man might trace the emotions of
his face. But he trembled; the hands which were crossed upon his breast
shook as with a spasm.

“Gentle sirs,”—he began in a sad and humbled tone—“Ye have read
in the Holy Book of a poor man who had a lamb, only one, and even
that the Rich Man coveted and tore from its shelter near the poor man's
heart—”

“Read us no monkish lesson,” growled Ralph of Gray-wolf—“There
lies the corse! answer for that deed, and pray; for the time grows short
with thee!”

“There was a Maiden, gentle sirs, whom the poor Scholar had gathered
to his heart, not as a wife or mistress, but as a sister, a holy thing, too
pure for one taint of earth-born love. She had been as a blessing from
God, to him in his weary march through the world—she shone in his
dark cell, like a good Spirit sent by Heaven, to cheer the brain when it
was sick, to nerve the heart when it was faint, to thrill some life into the
soul, when it grew cold within its corpse-like shell. Through many a
land, that true maiden disguised in the apparel of a Page, walked with the
forlorn Scholar,—his good Angel in every dark hour. And when his destiny
led him from the court of your King to this Castle of Mount Sepulchre,
she was with him still, the only thing for which he lived. Your
Lord wished the Scholar to create Gold for him, and spoke something of a
sick old man, blind and palsied, whom the Scholar might restore to sight
and health. And while the Scholar bent down amid his wierd studies in
one chamber of the Tower, this angel in the shape of woman, this pure
maiden whose lip had never throbbed to one unholy kiss—even from his
lips, who had worshipped her—would come gently over the threshold,
and lay her hands upon his fevered brow, and press that brow against her
virgin breast.”

The knights began to gaze upon this strange man with involuntary
interest. So humble and mild his tone, that even Ralph of Grey-wolf was
moved despite himself. He dashed a tear away with a curse, and bado
the Scholar—“Go on, Sirrah! and make brief your words, for the moment
of your death is near!”

“To night I summoned your Lord from the hall. Gold, I assured him,
I would create at his command, but he must give me sight of the old man,
whom I came to Mount Sepulchre to cure. He denied me; I turned to
leave the castle, when at last he bade me seek the old man in the upper
chamber of the tower. Ascending a stairway built in the thickness of the
wall, I came into the room, in the summit of the tower, and by the light
of my lamp, struggling with the moonbeams, that shone through the solitary
window, I beheld a scene that might have moved a Devil into shame
and tears. The old man was there, his white beard waving over his
breast, but his wrists and ankles, were chained to the floor, as though he
had been a savage beast. He was blind, he was palsied, but his own
child had blinded him, his own child had stricken his veins with palsy.
Aye, three years ago, from the bed of fever, the old man was hurled

into a dark and loathsome cell; his sight was gone, his brain was dead,
when his Son brought him into light again, and chained him to the tower
floor. Your young Lord wished the Lordship of Mount Sepulchre ere
his father was dead.”

“It is false! Knave the lie blisters on thy tongue!” shouted Ralph
of Grey-wolf, but the rest of the Twenty-Four was silent. Murmurs such
as the belated wayfarer, hears from the Ghosts that haunt accursed burial
places, began to creep from lip to lip.

“And I struck off his chains. And I raised him from the loathsome
floor of that foul den. And I, the Italian, the Sorcerer, spoke to him the
first word of kindness he had heard in the long night of blindness, yes,—
yes—his dead brain throbbed into something like life at the sound of my
words. Meanwhile your young Lord, crept into the chamber, sacred
with the presence of a pure woman, and in the darkness, aye, like a
coward who does a coward's murder in the dark, he went to his infernal
treachery. He, pressed that lip which I had never touched, even with a
brother's kiss, he dishonored that form, which I had never looked upon,
but from afar and with the reverence of a holy worship.”

“She was thy leman,” said old Ralph bluntly—“This castle is no place
for the loves of a wandering beggar and his mistress.”

But the Twenty-Four did not chorus his words. Something like sympathy
subdued the ferocious resolve, which had impressed their faces;
whispering one with the other, they said with a shudder that it was an
infernal deed, and that my Lord Harry of Mount Sepulchre, had deserved
his death, not so much on account of the Italian woman, as for the blindness
and palsy of the old man, his father.

“Still thou must answer for the deed—” said the youngest of them all,
and an ominous murmur echoed his words, as sword in hand he advanced
from the group—“Answer for it now, and with thy life!”

“First uncover the corse!” said the Italian, clutching his dark robe
with trembling hands.

Old Ralph with his dagger between his teeth, and his sword under his
arm bent down, and touched the dark robe, which veiled the dead,—

“Hold!” cried the young knight—“Let him answer first how the deed
was done. We all beheld thee cross this pall, an hour and more ago, on
thy way to the castle gate. Thou didst not return this way. How didst
gain entrance to the castle? Answer me?”

The Italian simply replied, in his low sad voice—

“Uncover the corse, and I will tell you all!”

Old Ralph grasped the dark cloth, and the interest of the group, was
manifested in their straining eyes, when their circle was increased by a
new spectator, a man with haggard face and blood-shot eyes, who stole
unobserved behind the grim knight, and looked upon the motionless Italian
with a vague and horror-stricken gaze. As every eye was fixed upon the

bony hands of old Ralph, grasping the robe which covered the dead, this
new spectator of the scene passed unobserved, until the Italian raising his
glance, beheld that haggard face, with its eyeballs discolored with injected
blood.

At the sight the Italian started back, wavered to and fro like a man
drunken with wine, and then his lips gave utterance to an ejaculation
which pierced every soul:

“The Lord of Mount Sepulchre come back to life!” and dropping his
face, covered by the cowl, upon his breast, he stretched forth his white
hands toward the haggard form.

They raised their eyes, and a cry such as never was heard before within
those walls, pealed echoing to the dome:

“The Lord of Mount Sepulchre come back to life!”

It was even so. The haggard form, with dress disordered and golden
hair matted upon the brow—damp with beaded sweat—and blood-shot
eyes rolling in a livid face, was none other than Lord Harry of Mount
Sepulchre.

He gazed into their affrighted faces without a word; his eyes rolled
with an idiotic glare.

“If thou art the Lord of Mount Sepulchre—” the Italian whispered, his
white hands extended and his head drooped on his breast,—“Then who
was it, that fell beneath my steel in yonder chamber?”

Old Ralph stripped the dark cloth from the breast and face of the dead.

And every knight moved one step backward, even old Ralph shrank
shudderingly away; the haggard Lord and the Italian confronted each
other beside the corse.

It was an aged man, whose gaunt form was clad in rags, but whose
white beard, flowing to the breast, was dabbled in blood. The eyes wide
open, fixed in death; the jaw fallen, the hands cramped and distorted,
stretched stiffly beside the lifeless frame—a sadder sight the eye of
man never saw.

It was the old Lord, Hubert of Mount Sepulchre.

And around this hideous image of Sudden Death, thronged the affrighted
spectators,—knights and servitors—every face blank, every lip sealed.

The Italian knelt beside the corse, and stretched forth his hands over
its face, muttering to himself in a low voice.

Lord Harry, like a man ridden by a night-mare, looked vacantly into
the face of the dead, and then into the eyes of the spectators, as if to ask
the meaning of the scene.

The dead awe which rested upon the hall of Palestine, was disturbed
by a low and gentle step, and there came a woman's form, half hidden in
the raven hair which flowed to her knees, stealing through the throng, and
taking her place, in silence, between Lord Harry and the prostrate Italian.

Through the meshes of her hair, her white arms were seen folded over

her breast, and her eyes, unnaturally large, dazzled the spectators with
their brightness, as they vacantly turned their glance from face to face.

“The Italian's leman!”

“So pale and yet so beautiful she stood there, attired as much in the
waves of her black tresses as in her loosened robe, that the spectators
thought they beheld no living woman, but a spirit from the other world.

“Raphael!” she whispered, bending down beside the Italian,—“I am
innocent!”

The words were simple, but the sound of her voice seemed at once to
break the spell which chained the Sorcerer to the corse, and bound the
spectators in breathless awe. At once the Italian started up, and dashed
her from him, yes, dashed her beautiful form upon the breast of the dead;
at once the knights rushed forward, brandishing their swords, at once Lord
Harry, recovering from his idiotic apathy, raised his voice, and called for
vengeance upon the Assassin of his Father.

Amid the infuriated throng, the Italian stood erect, hemmed in by a
circle of interwoven swords, that glittered in the light like fiery serpents
shut out on every side from hope and life, by brawny arms and faces reddening
with the lust of blood.

But at this moment occurred a scene, which, witnessed as it was, by
thirty living men, seems so strange, so utterly incredible, that I, humble
Eustace Brynne, the writer of this chronicle, tremble as I record it upon
my page.

Even as the Knights rushed forward to sheathe their swords in the blood
of the Italian, the lights were obscured and the wide hall darkened by a
cloud of vapor, which rolled from the dome to the floor in vast and undulating
columns. This vapor blinded every eye; no one could distinguish
the face of his neighbor; they tossed to and fro like men bewitched, and
grappled with each other in the gloom. And from that rose-colored cloud,
their shouts and curses swelled into the dome, like the confused cries of
drowning men from the vortex of a whirlpool.

When the vapor cleared away, and the lights shone brightly once more
throughout the hall, and the knights beheld each others' faces, they found
themselves standing sword in hand, around the corse of the old man; Lord
Harry the most infuriate of the throng, rending the stillness with curses
as he shook his dagger over his head.

But the Italian and the Woman had disappeared.

In vain they searched the wide hall; in vain they thrust their swords
behind the hangings; in vain their angry questioning of the frightened
servitors. There was no trace of the Italian and his mistress. No one
had seen them fly; no door had been opened to give them egress from
the Hall.

But they were gone; their place beside the body of the dead was vacant.
They had vanished like forms of cloud before the morning breeze.

When this consciousness was impressed upon the hearts of the Knights,
they gathered again around the body of the old man, resting the points of
their swords upon the marble floor, as they looked with fixed eyes upon
the dead. Lord Harry was in their midst, his arms drawn tightly over
his breast; his eyes sunken beneath the downdrawn brows, were rivetted
upon his Father's face.

No one dared question him concerning his knowledge of this terrible
deed, but that which no one asked, he told himself in broken tones.

“It is the work of Sathanas!” he muttered, as though speaking with
himself—“My hand was on the door of her chamber, when I heard voices
within—his voice and hers—mingling in low and hurried tones. I listened;
she was telling him that he had been there, but an hour before, and that
he had pressed his kiss upon her lip, and—he denied in cold and
angry tones, and my name trembled from his lips, followed by the sound
of a footstep, approaching the door by which I was listening. I drew
back deeper into the shadows; the door was opened, and by the blaze of
light which rushed into the cell, I saw his arm lifted, and saw my father
fall bleeding beneath the blow. He, too, had been concealed within the
cell; he had started up as the light flashed in his face, and received the
blow intended for me. For, as the caitiff struck, he shrieked, `this for
thee, my Lord Harry of Mount Sepulchre!' Then, without turning to
look upon the corse, he fled. How came my father there? True, the
stairway of his cell opens into the Wizard's room, but who unloosed the
old man's chains? It is the work of Sathanas!” he turned with a flushed
cheek and rolling eye, to his brave Twenty-Four, “Yes, the Enemy of
Mankind hath been among us!”

There was no answer for the young Lord of Mount Sepulchre. The
Knights, young and old, looked upon his face and upon the cold face of
the dead, and kept their peace.

“What do I see? Do you shrink from my touch, gentle sirs? Is there
poison in my look? Come—the good old man is dead—Sathanas has
been here—let us forget it all in a brimming cup! God's death, my good
companions, your pale visages are enough to make a man afraid!”

The brave Knight seemed to have forgotten the wine-cup and the board,
in the dumb horror of the dead man's face. Old Ralph alone gave answer
to the Lord of Mount Sepulchre—

“Cover his face, my good Lord, and let us to our beds. As for me, by
to-morrow's light, I am bound for France or for some other land, where
there is Priest and Shrine, to wash out the stain of sin, from my Soul.
This night's work my good Lord, hath made me think strangely of the
wild life, we have led together.”

The young Lord answered him with a curse, when Iron Dickon's huge
form appeared in the Western door, his hand extended in the act of beckoning
to his Master. The Baron crossed the marble floor, and conversed for a

moment with his vassal, and after a little while, returned once more to the
group, as Iron Dickon disappeared.

“He knows nothing yet of this,” said the young Lord, pointing to the
corse, “And as for me, I had neither heart nor time to tell him now. By
my faith, he waited tenderly upon the old man while he lived! He tells
me now, gentle sirs, that an hour ago he secured the Italian, and conveyed
him by a secret passage to the cell beneath Saladin's tower. You may
make of that what you please, but for the present, Iron Dickon brings
strange intelligence to us all. What say you, my good Knight? A messenger
from our King waits at the Castle gate. He demands instant audience
with me. Let the body of the dead be removed; hide it behind
the hangings. I will await the coming of this Messenger, where I stand.”

They raised the corse, and wrapped it in the sombre robe, and hurriedly
concealed it, behind the drapery of the Hall. Lord Harry, with one hand
laid upon the banquet table, and the other resting upon the hilt of his
sword, stood in an attitude of calm dignity, awaiting in silence, the coming
of King Henry's Messenger. His cheek was bloodless, his lips without
color, his eyes blood-shotten, and yet he was calm. Behind him,
ranged in a half circle were grouped the renowned Twenty-Four, their
faces, one and all, wearing a look of blank awe, while their gaze was fixed
upon the Western door of the Hall. They awaited the appearance of the
Messenger with a vague curiosity and suspense.

“He will leave his men-at arms without the castle gate, and enter the
Hall alone,” exclaimed Lord Harry: “'Tis a privilege of Our Race, thus
to receive the Messenger of the King. I' faith he does not seem in a
hurry to fulfil his message. Shall we wait for him, till morning dawns?”

The words had not passed his lips, when the Western door was opened,
by Iron Dickon, and unannounced—either by trumpet peal or the voice of
Herald—the Messenger of the King entered the Hall of Palestine. As
he crossed the marble floor, advancing toward Lord Harry, every eye took
the measure of his form, and a murmur swelled through the Hall, as the
light shone on his face.

He was in good sooth, a man of remarkable bearing.

His form, tall and majestic, was clad in a close-fitting garment of purple
velvet, which set off every grace of his figure, and gave new dignity
to the kingly composure of his carriage. The velvet, which looked black
by the rays of the lamp, was only relieved by a single diamond, which
shone upon his left breast, and dazzled every eye. On his right arm, he
carried a mantle of dark velvet, which hung in easy folds, as he advanced;
and his left hand, grasped his cap, shaded by a cluster of jetly plumes.
His brow was uncovered and every eye beheld his face.

It was a noble countenance, every feature looking like the work of the
Sculptor's chissel, firm, regular, and cold as marble. Around the great
forehead, unseamed by a wrinkle, but pale as death, clustered his hair, in

profuse masses, which seemed even blacker than the mantle hanging on
his arm. His eyes, somewhat sunken beneath the brows, shone with inexpressible
lustre; they were black, and yet more bright and dazzling
than the star which glittered on his breast.

In a word if the form, would have attracted your gaze among a crowd
of a thousand, the face would have won your eye, and chained it too,
among ten thousand faces. While the form indicated the warrior, the
face brought to mind, the countenance of a Monk; not a joyous Monk
red with the juice of the grape, and swollen with good cheer; but a
Monk buried in the awful silence and breathless solitudes of his earth-hidden
cell.

“Your pardon, gentle sirs, for this unwelcome intrusion,” said the
Stranger, as he surveyed the knightly throng, “But I seek the Lord of
Mount Sepulchre, on business of the King. Will it please ye, to inform
him that the Count Capello, craves an interview on behalf of his dread
Majesty Henry the Eighth?”

These words pronounced in a measured voice, and with an air of great
dignity, produced an impression as sudden as it was various. Not a few
of the knights, murmurred such words as, “Foreigner! One of the out-landish
favorites of the King!” others gazed in silence upon the commanding
face of the Stranger, while Ralph of Grey-wolf exclaimed with
a deep sigh—“A true Catholic by the Rood! Mayhap a Cardinal in disguise.
I will confess to him!”

As for Lord Harry, he felt the blood rush to his face, as the quiet tones
of the Count Capello penetrated his ears:

“I am the Lord of Mount Sepulchre, Sir Count,” he said, and drew
himself up with a haughty air.

“Thou!” cried the Count with a start. “I cry your mercy noble Sir,
but I was told that Lord Hubert was an aged man. I pray you, lead me
to him, or at least, give me audience with Lord Ranulph his elder Son.”

“I am Lord Harry, Baron of Mount Sepulchre,” cried the young Lord
in a burst of indignation, for the gaze and look of the foreign Count,
roused his blood—“As for Lord Hubert, he is blind and old, and never
again will give audience to any one, not even to the King himself, were
he to honor my poor mansion with his presence. And Ranulph—he died
abroad years ago. Sir Count, I await the message of the King!”

Beautiful it is to see, the native dignity of a high-born English Lord!
There was Baron Harry, as gallant a Knight as ever rode to battle, raising
himself to his full stature, his proud lip curling, and his blue eyes full of
icy scorn, while the Foreign Count, abashed by his commanding presence
drew back a step, bowed his head and held his jetty plumes before his
face.

“There is the message of the King, gracious Sir,” he said, and without

raising his face, extended a folded parchment, which was burdened
with a heavy seal.

“The Seal of his Majesty!” murmurred Lord Harry, as he opened the
parchment, “Hah! What is this I behold! `Thy Brother Lord Ranulph
lives—' ” with a flashing eye, he drank in the briaf words of that Royal
missive.

The hand which grasped the parchment dropped by his side. He
turned his face—now bloodless and ashy—toward the Foreign Count,
who still preserved his attitude of mute respect, and held his plumed cap,
before his face.

“The King writes me that my Brother, Lord Ranulph lives, aye, and
by the Mass! that he will be here in a few days. What say ye,
my good Knights? Has not our dread Lord, been deceived by some perfidious
follower of the Pope!”

There was wonder and consternation painted upon the faces of the
Knights, beyond the power of my poor pen to describe. Murmurs pervaded
the air, and old Ralph swore somewhat blasphemously, that he was
bewitched, and given over to Stahanas on account of his sins.

“Sir Count, perchance you will make plain this mystery,” said Lord
Harry, in a tone by no means bold or deep, while his pallid cheek and
quivering lips, contrasted somewhat strangely with his golden curls
and red-brown beard. “You have seen my brother, or is this but a merry
jest of the good King?”

The stranger Count raised his head, and the light fell upon his pale visage,
as it was agitated by a smile of singular sweetness.

“Brother, dost thou not know me, even yet?” he whispered—“My
features I know are changed, but methinks some pulse of our father's
blood, throbbing about thy heart might have told thee ere this, that it was
I, Ranulph thy Brother!”

The gallant Harry staggered back—reeled wildly like one bereft of reason—and
would have fallen to the floor had it not been for the extended
arms of old Ralph.

“Thou!” he cried with chattering teeth and corpse-like visage, as he
struggled in the arms of the old knight: “Thou my brother! Thou,
Ranulph! Nay—nay—Ranulph is dead, Ranulph has been grave-yard
dust long, long ago. It is all a cheat—a mockery!”

Then it was that the Stranger, rising to his full height, surveyed the
silent throng, with a calm gaze and a sad sweet smile. Every one
confessed the majesty of his presence and the noble lineage written on his
brow.

“He does not know me!” he sadly said, “Alas! the woeful hour! I
come back to the castle of my fathers and mine own brother does not
know me!”

He raised the plumed cap as if to hide his tears.

“Lead me,” he muttered, in a voice broken and hurried, “Lead me to
the old man, my father. Let me feel his hands upon my brow again,—
he at least, will know his long lost son!'

Silence reigned throughout the hall, silence dead and leaden as a Wizard's
spell. The Knights fixed their affrighted eyes upon the stranger,
and with curdling blood, confessed within their inmost souls, that he was
indeed Lord Ranulph, or his Ghost. Meanwhile, Harry struggling from
the arms of the old Knight, tottered forward and extended his hand:

“Brother—forgive—” he gasped—“I was but a child, when I saw thee
last. Forgive and take my hand!”

Lord Ranulph—for it was the elder son of Baron Hubert, in good sooth
—lifted his pale face once more, and his dark eyes shone with tears, as
that peculiar smile, at once sad and sweet, hung on his lips.

“Thy hand my brother. Hah! It makes the heart swell, to touch the
palm of a Mount Sepulchre once more. Wine, my gallant Sirs, wine!
For I would pledge my brother in a brimming cup, and my fair dame,
shall press it with her lips, ere he drinks, in token of her sisterly love!”

“Thy dame?” exclaimed Baron Harry, and his surprise was echoed
by the Knight.

“Behold her! The Lady Eola, wife of Ranulph of Mount Sepulchre!'
and from the shadows, came a woman of beautiful shape, clad in a garl
of rich velvet, with a dark veil drooping over her face. She had glided
unperceived over the threshold, and now stood by her husband's side, her
white hand, laid gently upon his mantle. The dark habit which she
wore, disclosed the outlines of a form, at once slender and voluptuous,
while the thick folds of her veil could not altogether hide the dazzling
brightness of her eyes.

Beshrew my heart, but it was right wonderful, to behold the thunder-stricken
faces of the gallant knights!

“He brings his good dame with him, from other lands,” cried one,
“'Tis Venus herself in funoral garb, with a black veil over her face!”

“A form like Anne Boleyn!” exclaimed another.

“And all the dignity and presence of our late Queen!” added a third.

Lord Ranulph took a golden cup, brimming with old wine, from the
hand of Sir Ralph, and spake to the beautiful lady, in an unknown tongue.
She answered in a voice, low and sweet, but the wondering knights, could
by no means comprehend her words.

“The Lady Eola cannot master the rude syllables of our English
tongue,” said Ranulph, turning to his brother, “But she greets you as a
Brother, my true Harry, and consents to press her lips to the cup, ere it
passes to yours, in token of her sisterly love!”

True it was, that the brave Harry, pallid and amazed, looked not unlike
a man enchanted. He saw the white hand of the beautiful dame lift the
cup; he bent forward eager to gain a glimpse of her face, as she parted

the folds of her veil; but the sight of her lips, warm and red, pressing the
golden rim of the goblet, was all that rewarded his gaze.

And in a moment, that white hand held the cup towards him, and as
he took it, their fingers slightly touched each other. 'Twas a circumstance
of no moment; but that touch, slight as it was, filled his blood with fire.

“Drink, my brother, drink to the return of Ranulph, Lord of Mount
Sepulchre! Drink to the Lady Eola, his own fair dame, and henceforth
thy loving Sister, Harry!”

As he spoke, the Lord Ranulph contemplated his brother with an earnest
look, while his great forehead, grew radiant, as with a joy too deep
for utterance.

Harry of Mount Sepulchre,—no longer Lord, but simply, `the Lord's
younger Brother,—' slowly raised the cup, turning his gaze from the
veiled Eola to the Lord Ranulph, as the golden rim touched his lip.

The golden rim touched his lip—

From that instant the place of the brave Harry, in the Castle of his
Race, was vacant forever.

Even as his lip touched the golden rim of the cup, he fell dead at his
Brother's feet, his face pressed against the marble floor, and his hands
resting by his side, without one convulsive tremor. No groan came from
his lips, as he fell, nor did his eyes roll and glare, as if struggling with
the night of death. He touched the cup—he fell. That was all. Every
eye beheld it. When old Ralph came to him, thinking that he had fallen
into a swoon, and tried to raise him from the floor, the body slipt from
his grasp like a pulseless thing of wood or stone. The gray-haired knight
turned him to the light, and his face was seen by every eye. There was
no blackness on it, but a rosy blush pervaded the cheeks, and the eyes,
fixed but not glassy, lay dull and leaden, under the half-shut lids. He
was dead. The golden cup lay near him, and a strong odour,—like the
perfume of old wine, mingled with the scent of laurel blossoms—pervaded
the Hall of Palestine.

Never in all the world was there such a Night as this, whose every
hour was marked by a Death or a Crime. The nameless wrong committed
by Harry upon the Italian woman—the murder of the old man, by the
Italian Sorcerer—the sudden death of Harry, before his brother's eyes—
these deeds all took place on the night, which marked the return of Lord
Randulph, to the Castle of his ancestors.

The hearts of the spectators were too full for speech; clad in their festival
attire, the gay Knights, gay no longer, looked in the dead face of the
brave Harry, in dumb apathy.

The veiled lady clasped her hands, and murmured a prayer, in an unknown
tongue while a shudder, agitated her beautiful shape, from head to
foot.

Lord Ranulph stood for a moment, horror-stricken and spell-bound like

the rest, his gaze fixed upon the face of his dead brother, while his broad
high forehead was darkened by a single vein, swelling upward, from between
the eyebrows. At last a smile broke over his face; a smile
sad as a star-beam twinkling through the gloom of a charnel:

“He is dead! My Brother?” he said in a subdued tone: “He has
died of a strange disease of which I have heard in foreign lands. A disease
that turns the avenues of the heart to bone, while the cheek is full
of life. [4] Slowly, silently, through the course of long years, this disease
builds up the channels of the heart, until at last, when some sudden emotion,
makes the blood bound like a torrent, `the work is done,' the heart
throbs no longer, and life passes away, without a sigh. My poor brother
died of joy; the emotion was too strong for him! A terrible disease!”

He knelt beside his dead brother, while old Ralph of Grey-Wolf muttered
with an idiotic stare:

“A terrible disease, by the Mass, and—a right strong smell of laurel
leaves, or laurel blossoms, by my soul!”

And these are the deeds which took place on the night, when Lord Ranulph
came home to the Castle of his fathers. And I, Eustace Brynne,
who have written this history, which is intended to be deposited in the
archives of Mount Sepulchre, do hereby avow, on mine own knowledge,
that these are the deeds which were done, and these the words which were
spoken, on that fatal night.

And all other histories of that night, and all rumors which conflict with
this chronicle are lies, born of the Devil and the Pope, and uttered by
their minions, in order to taint the good fame of the House of Mount Sepulchre.
So that their lies may be known, and branded forever, with
their proper infamy, I will here, add certain of the rumors, which have
been raised by the Pope and the Devil aforesaid, against the House of
Mount Sepulchre.

I. That the Italian magician, and my Lord Ranulph were the same
person. In support of this rumor it is stated, that my Lord Ranulph
studied the black art in outlandish parts, and came to the Court of King
Harry, disguised in his Sorcerer's robes, and was there encountered by
Lord Harry, who besought him ardently to come to Mount Sepulchre, and
turn him some lead into gold straightway. Ranulph wishing to see with
his own eyes, how the young Lord bore himself, to his Father and to the
vassals of the Barony, accepted the proposal of Baron Harry, and came
to the Castle, with his outlandish wife, disguised as a page, having at the
same time, the letter of the King about his person. This is a most atrocious

falsehood. Were it to be believed, only for a moment, we should
be forced to regard Lord Harry, as the wronger of his brother's wife or
mistress, and Lord Ranulph as the Murderer of his Father. 'Tis a fiendish
calumny.

II. That the death of Lady Eola, which took place on the Twelfth of
November, 1539, (something more than a year after the events recorded,
as aforesaid,) was the work of her true Lord and Husband, Ranulph of
Mount Sepulchre, because he was poisoned with the thought, that the child
sleeping upon her bosom was not * * * * * * *. This is indeed a lie
worthy of Satan or the Pope. In order that future generations may know
the truth of this matter, I, Eustace Brynne, sometime Prior of the Monastery,
but now a true believer in our gracious King, have written this
Chronicle, at the command of the noble Lord Ranulph of Mount Sepulchre.

Thus ended the Manuscript, written by the Monk of the Sixteenth
Century. It was connected with other Manuscripts, written by various
hands, and narrating the history of the House of Mount Sepulchre from
age to age, until the middle of the Eighteenth Century.

But the beautiful reader had not courage to proceed. The mass of
Manuscripts fell from her stiffening fingers, and as they fluttered to the
floor, the harsh sound disturbed the breathless stillness of the place.