University of Virginia Library

3. THE THIRD PICTURE.

“Sir monk, methinks thy harp is wondrously out
of tune! By my fay, thy fingers tremble like leaves
of the aspen tree—thy visage is the semblance of
gravity itself. Ah! me—how grave thou art! Nay
—nay, doff that solemn look, and, with thy priestly
face wreathed in smiles, sing me a merry song of
love, of chivalry, or war, as it shall please thee.
Mother Mary, but thy harp is wondrously out of
tune!”

“Blame not the harp fair Ladye—my thoughts
were far away, and—”

“Beshrew me, that was a peach-like blush, sir
monk! Ha—ha—ha!”

And as the light-hearted laugh of the maiden
rang through the bower-hall, the student, attired in
robes of priestly black, kneeling beside the harp,
along whose chords his fingers ran tremblingly,
raised his head from his task, and looking over his
shoulder, glanced at the face and form of Rose, the
Flower of Ellarini.

Seated upon a sofa of costly velvet, in an attitude
of careless ease, the Ladye Rose turned her face of
laughing beauty toward the Neophyte. There were
the full, dark eyes, beaming with liquid light, the
locks of raven blackness, falling along one dimpling
check, with the relief of a snow-white lily gleaming
from its shadow, while from the other check, warming
with life, the midnight tresses were swept back
and gathered within the confines of a circlet of gold,
mingling with drops of pearl, that encircled her
head, shining like stars from the midnight of her
hair. The folds of a loosened robe, gemmed with
carelessly-strung jewels, floated around the outline
of her young form, sweeping gracefully over the
fullness of the youthful bosom, and drooping in
slight folds along the slender waist, while down to
her delicate feet the garment fell in many a circle
of grace and fold of beauty, giving witchery and
fascination to the slightest movement or faintest
gesture of the proud and peerless Ladye Rose.

A round the maiden were images of luxury and
splendor.

The warm light of the declining day, streaming
between the fantastic pillars which separated the
bower from the open portico without, fell mild and
golden around the Mosaic pavement, and flung its
mellow beams amid the shadows of the fragrant
vine, creeping along each arabesque column, and
hanging from the carved and painted ceiling in
many a gay wreath and light festoon.

The breath of roses and the perfume of lilies
were upon the air, and the hushed breeze lay sleeping
in the tendrils of the vine, or the cup of the
flower, while afar, gleaming beyond the open balcony,
was the gorgeous landscape, with its woods
and its streams, its mountains and its vallies, all
glowing warm and golden in the flush of the setting
sun.

Adrian looked up and gazed upon the face of
nature, with her thousand beauties, her flowers of
graceful shape and rainbow hues, her shadowy
woods, her streams of silver, her golden sunlight,
and her azure sky.

“These all,” he murmured, “are mine, the
wild delight of forest and flower, sky and stream,
all are mine!”

Adrian glanced upon the maiden. “She breathes
to mine eye,” he murmured, “a fair combination
of the beautiful in nature, a magnificent reality of
the dream of thought. The sunlight's smile is on
her ruby lip, the morning's glow on her check of
youth, the grandeur of the star of night flashes from
her eye. Beautiful she is, fair and graceful, a thin;

of light and love. But she never can be mine!”

“Sir stndent, you are absent,” exclaimed the
light-ringing voice of the Countess Rose. “By my
troth, 'tis well thy life is destined for the solitude of
the convent walls. A gallant thou wert never
made. What! still silent? Thrice have I craved
a song of thee, sir monk—”

“Pardon me, fair lady,” exclaimed Adrian, passing
his fingers along the harp-chords. “The humble
student hath not at all times the entire control
of his thoughts. The will of the Lady Rose is the
pleasure of the monk Adrian. I will sing you a
song of free-hearted joy and careless mirth.”

And seating himself beside the harp, the Neophyte
passed his fingers lightly along the chords,
and a strain of gay and bounding melody floated
around the vine-clad pillars of the bower hall.

His face glowed with an expression of careless
glee, as, in a voice full of manly music, he gave the
words of an ancient melody to the air.

The words were plain and simple, but the full
and manly voice of the Neophyte floating along
the hall, commingling with the strains of the harp,
gave them force and volume; and the Lady Rose
leaned forward with interest, while an expression
of quiet attention and delight came over her beautiful
countenance.

“Thy song is a merry one, sir student,” whispered
the maiden; “and the melody is one of gladsome
music.”

The Neophyte lowered his head for a moment,
and when he raised it again the light of the sun
fell warmly on the face of the enthusiast, and his
dark grey eyes brightened and glowed with a
strange and shadowy expression, as the wild strains
of his harp gave life and animation to the words
of a monkish chaunt, which the student had gleaned
from some ancient missal of the monastery of
St. Benedict.

THE DEATH-CHAUNT OF THE SOUL.

“Sir monk, thy chaunt is a strange and dark one.
My blood runs cold, as I listen to thy harp strains,
floating wildly and sadly along the silence of this
hall. Beshrew me, but thou art passing melancholy
in thy taste, this summer even.”

“Fair lady, in good troth, my chaunt was somewhat
solemn and wild, but solemnity and thought
are ever wedded to the calmness of the twilight
hour.”

A shade of thought came over the features of the
fair girl, and she regarded the bronzed face and
dark grey eyes of the Neophyte with a look of
strange and mysterious interest.

“And thou art doomed to pass thy days, which
should be given to youth and hope, within the shadows
of the convent walls?”

“Doomed! fair lady?” Adrian repeated, echoing
her words. “Doomed, indeed!” he murmured to
himself, in a tone of thrilling emphasis.

“And canst thou, young sir, resign the pleasures
of youth, of hope, without a sigh?”

“Without a sigh?” murmured Adrian, turning
his face from the glow of the sun, and drooping his
head low on his breast to conceal the agitation that
worked like a spasm along his countenance.

“Sir monk, thou art moved?” exclaimed the
Ladye Rose, with a winning smile, that gave faint
glimpses of her ivory teeth. “Would that I knew
his thoughts!” she whispered to herself. “Can the
passions or the feelings of youth find a lurking-place
under that solemn countenance? Can another
glance than that of devotion flash from the
clear grey eye? I will try him!”

And as the thought flashed over her mind, she
arose from the couch of velvet, with a graceful
motion, and with one light tripping footstep attained
the side of the Neophyte.

“Sir monk, thou art moved with some strange
emotion?” she said, in a kind and winning voice.
The student trembled with a feeling of strange and
new delight, but still raised not his head.

“Thou art my spiritual father, in troth,” she
continued with a light-hearted laugh; “yet thy
face is not a shade older than mine. 'Twere but a
merry jest to call thee father, therefore I will address
thee by thine own name. Nay, good sir, turn
not thy head away. Adrian, Rose of Ellarini asks
what is't that moves thee?”

And with her fair, white hand, she parted the
brown locks over the student's brow.

“She speaks mine own name!” he murmured.
“Her hand is on my brow—her large black eyes
are fixed on mine! O, God!—I shall fall to the
earth. Have mercy, Heaven, or the dream will
drive me mad!”

“Adrian, you answer me with silence!”

“Nay, lady—'twas but a memory of some far-gone
dream of my early youth that awoke this
sudden feeling within me.”

“Adrian, 'tis now the last week of the carnival.
Thou hast been a wondrous faithful teacher, though
I, mayhap, have not been as dutiful a pupil. Many
songs of melody have I learned of thee, and thine
art of waking sweet sounds from the harp chords,
has in some measure become mine. 'Tis not of
this I would speak to ye now. Ye monks, cut off
as ye are from the pleasures of the world, are wont
to revive them in the pages of the illuminated romance.
Hast thou amused thyself thus, Adrian?
In the book-room of St. Benedict, is there no parchment-leaved
volume, gandy with rare emblazoning
that owes its creation to thy fancy?”

“Lady, thou hast judged aright.”

“Adrian, I would thou hadst some merry tale of
love and war with thee now. The sun is dipping
behind the mountains, and a story of the olden
time would well become the twilight hour.”

“Lady, 'tis true I have no pictured volume with
me, but there is an old legend which now rests
upon my memory, which it might pleasure thee to
hear.”

“Well said, my monkish romancer!” laughed
the Countess, as she yet stood in front of the Neophyte.
“This night shall be a night of joy with
me—the Lord Urban Di Capello holds high festival
on the waters of the Arno, by moonlight. This
thou knowest, is our bridal eve. Thy merry story,
be it of love, of chivalry, or war, will fit my mind
for the gaiety of the carnival night. Adrian, draw
thy seat near this couch, and I will listen to thy
legend.”

“I dream!” whispered Adrian, as he drew his
seat near the velvet couch, on which half seated and
half reclined the Countess. “'Tis a mockery of
fancy which some wanton fiend has conjured up,
to cheat my soul with a vision of bliss that may
never know reality.”

There was a pause of a moment, and then mastering
the strange tumult that was gathering round
his heart and brain, the Neophyte began his legend.

THE STORY OF THE NEOPHYTE.

“Ladye Rose, 'twas on a night soft and balmy
as the night we now behold, that the rising moon,
gleaming over the mountains and the streams of a
landscape fair and lovely as the view that opens before
our vision, shone light and silvery through the
columns of a palace hall, where sat a youth and a
maiden, awed by the silence of the twilight hour.

“'Twas a lovely place, that palace bower—with
its curiously carved columns, its pictured ceiling,
its flowers of balm hanging in festoons along the
balcony on which it opened; it was a lovely place,
and the silent air, and the rising moon, made it a
scene for thought, a home for melancholy musing.

“The maiden was fair, and young, and beautiful.
O, how beautiful! A thing of joy, with a full,
dark eye, that flashed with the eloquent thoughts
that hope and youth alone can speak—a voice
whose whisper was music, whose laugh was harmony—a
smile that came thrilling to the heart, like
the smile of an angel face seen in a midsummer
dream.

“Oh! she was beautiful! with her form of maidenly
proportions clad in the vestments of rank and
power, her neck swan-like in form, with its alabaster
whiteness flushed by the warm blood of youth,
and around her face of beauty hung drooping tresses
of midnight hair, through which the moonbeams
played, while her countenance was half averted in
dreaming thought, and her bosom throbbing with
the pulsations of a strange emotion.

“And there she sat, gazing silently upon the
moonlit landscape, while he who sat by her side
had but one look, one voice, one soul—and all were
hers!”

The voice of the Neophyte was warm and impassioned.
The Lady Rose leaned forward with interest
and attention. For a moment the distinction
between the proud ladye and the nameless student
seemed cast aside, if not forgotten.

“And he who sat beside the maiden,” whispered
the Lady Rose, “who was he, and how looked he?
Was he young, gallant, and handsome?”

“Young he was, fair Ladye Rose, but neither
gallant nor handsome. There was a ban upon his
soul, and a curse upon his fate. The joys of others
were not his joys—their fears not his fears—their
hopes were unknown to him. His way of life
had lain along a desert strown with ashes, the embers
of his blasted hopes, and the sky above him was
dark, and the earth beneath him lay dead, yielding
nor flower of joy, nor leaf of consolation, nor fruit
of gallant purpose or high-wrought ambition.

“And as he sat in that silent hall, his soul was
possessed by one thought, and for that thought he

had denied his God, bartered his soul, and taken to
his heart an agony that gnawed like the eternal fire
—and that thought he dared not breathe to the
maiden's ear. That thought was—his love for
her!”

“Fool that he was!” absently murmured the Ladye
Rose, as she gazed on the bronzed face and the
flashing eyes of the Neophyte. “Dared not tell
her of his love? Coward in heart—knew he not
that 'tis the bold heart ever wins the fair face? Why
seized he not her hand? Why knelt he not at her
feet? Why to her own ear did he not speak the
words of his love?”

The legend of the Neophyte had aroused the better
feelings of the maiden's heart, her bosom throbbed,
and her eye flashed, her voice was deep-toned
with sympathy; and, with glowing cheek and parted
lip, she awaited the answer of the student.

“Ladye Rose—in one word thou hast my answer.
He was poor and nameless—she rich and
proud! Life opened to her eye a path winding in
sunlight. He was cut off from his kind by an irrevocable
ban. Life to him was—despair. Death
alone was hope!”

“Poor—nameless? An irrevocable ban? Thou
speakest mysteries! Was he poor? What knoweth
Love of poverty or wealth? A ban upon his
fate? Dark must be the curse, dark the ban, that
Love may not break and dispel. How name ye
this lover and his love? Said'st thou he was a
warrior?”

“Ladye!” shrieked the Neophyte, starting to his
feet, “he was no warrior! He was—a monk!
His name was Adrian, and,” he sank kneeling at
her feet, “and he loved Rose, the Flower of Ellarini!”

He seized her hand—he pressed it to his lips!
His eyes gleamed passion, and his breath came fast
and hurried in convulsive gasps.

There was a death-like pause of a single instant
—a pause of speechless astonishment on the part
the Ladye Rose—of speechless passion on the part
of the monk Adrian.

“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed the maiden, starting
to her feet, “ha—ha—ha—ha! This is a passing
merry jest! 'Twill do to tell to my Lord Urban
Di Capello, at the festival to night! `How the
monk loved the maiden!' Ha—ha—ha! What!
ave I aroused a passion in the bosom of young
anctity? Ha—ha—ha! By my fay, a passing
merry jest! I'd even tell it to my lord, were't not
for the thought that thy priestly robes would prove
a sorry defence against the thrust of his sword!
`How the monk loved the maiden!' Ha—ha—ha!”

Adrian arose slowly upon his feet. He leaned
against a vine-garlanded column. He covered his
face in the folds of his dark robe.

The maiden sprang between the columns of the
bower-hall, along to the balcony, and her voice,
with its musical laughter, again broke upon the
air.

“By my fay, a gallant sight! See—see! the
carnival procession winds around the brow of yon
hill on the farther side of the silvery Arno! A
gallant sight!—there are maskers and mimes quaintly
attired—strains of festival music come floating
along the silent air, and all Florence is alive for
the river-feast to-night! How gallantly the warriors
guide their prancing steeds along the hill!
Plumes gleam in the moonlight, and banners wave!
A gallant sight! And there is my Lord Urban Di
Capello—young and bold—on his dark black steed!
His robes glitter with jewels—the plume is on his
brow, and the sword is by his side! I hear his
manly laugh and his bold voice! A gallant cavalier
as ever rode to battle, or danced with fair ladye!
Ha—ha—ha! I must e'en tell him the
merry legend, `How the monk loved the maiden!'
Ha—ha—ha!”

And leaning over the balcony, her robes flung
back, and her dark hair swept aside from her brow,
the fair Ladye Rose, the Flower of Ellarini, clapped
her delicate hands with joy and delight.

Adrian, the Neophyte, threw back the folds of
his robe, and the moonbeams fell upon a face from
which all color of life had fled.

“Would I might weep!” he murmured. “Would
I could weep! There is fire in my brain, and
mine eye-balls are turned to things of living flame!
The fiend hath frozen the blood around my heart!
Oh, that I might weep a single tear! Ah—ha! I
see it all! I am in the regions of the lost—tears
are unknown here—tears are foes to despair—
'twere not well for the Lost to weep, else might
they regain their native heaven!

“And I am lost, then! Once I had a dream of
love and beauty—and ere that, a dream of a God
and a heaven crossed my soul! But all are gone,
now! Shapes of terror are around me, and forms
of death gibber and laugh in my face! They think
to fright me! They wot not that I love them now,
for—for,” his voice sank to a whisper, like the
voice of a skeleton, could it speak, “for I am an
evil spirit, now—and I love these forms of horror
—I woo them! Ha—ha—ha! I am a demon,
now!”

No hollow laugh of supernatural omen broke
the silence of the air, but a low moaning sound
was heard directly over the head of the Neophyte.
It was the spirit that ruled the destiny of Adrian,
the Neophyte, groaning as he looked upon the ruin
he had wrought.

Despair had bidden farewell to Hope—and the
end drew nigh.