University of Virginia Library

“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.