University of Virginia Library

THE WARRIOR AND THE MAIDEN.

In a lofty apartment of the castle, hung with
rich folds of crimson tapestry, and designated from
time past memory as the Red-Chamber, on a
couch of gorgeous hangings, lay the once muscular,
but now disease-stricken, Julian, Count of
Albarone, shorn of his warrior strength, divested
of the glory of his manhood's prime.

The warm sunlight which filled the place, fell
with a golden glow, over the outlines of his lofty
brow indented with wrinkles, the long grey hair
parted on either side, the eye brows, snow-white,
over-arching the clear, bold eyes, that sent
forth their glance with all the fire and intensity
of youth, rendered more vivid and flame-like by
the contrast of sunken eyelid and hollow cheek.

And by the bedside of the warrior, bending like
an angel of good, as she ministered to his slightest
wants, the form of a fair and lovely maiden, was

disclosed in the noonday-light, while her flaxen
curls, fell lightly, and with a waving motion, over
the rich bloom of her cheek, glowing with the
warmth of fifteen summers, and her full, large
eyes of liquid blue, gleamed with the expression
of a soul, whose fruits were pure and happy
thoughts, the blossoms and the buds of youth and
innocence.

“Annabel,”—said the warrior, in a voice faint
with disease—“Methinks I feel the strength of
youth again returning, the sleeping potion of my
good brother, Aldarin, has done me wondrous service.
Assist me to the casement, niece of mine
heart, that I may gaze once more upon the broad
lands and green woods of my own native domain
of Albarone —.”

As he spoke, the Count rose on his feet, with
a tottering movement, and had fallen to the floor,
but for the fair arm of the maiden wound around
his waist, while his muscular hand rested upon
her shoulder.

“Lean upon my arm, my uncle,—tread with a
careful footstep. In a moment we will reach the
casement.”

They stood, within the recess of the emblazoned
window, the warrior and the maiden, while
around them floated and shimmered the golden
sunshine, falling over the tesselated stone of the
pavement, throwing a glaring light around the
hangings of the bed, and streaming in flashes of
brightness along the distant corners and nooks
of the Red-Chamber.

“'Tis a fair land, niece of mine,—a fair and
lovely land”—

“A land of dreams, a land of magnificent visions,
overshadowed by yon blue mountains of
romance. Look, my uncle, how the noonday sun
is showering his light over the deep woods that
encircle the rock of Albarone—yonder, beyond the
verdure of the trees, winds the silvery Arno, yonder
are hills and rugged steeps, and far away tower
the blue heights of the Appenines!”

“And here, niece of mine, in my youthful
prime I stood, when my aged father's hand had
dubbed me—knight. 'Twas such a quiet noonday
hour, on a calm and dreamlike day, as this, that
from the recess of this window, I gazed upon yon
gorgeous land. How the blood swelled in my
youthful veins, how dreams of ambition fired my
boyish fancy, as the words broke from my lips,—
Here they ruled, my fathers, in days bygone
with the iron-sword of the Goth, here they reigned
as sovereign princes—as Dukes of Florence.'
”

“Since that noonday hour thy sword has
flashed in the van of a thousand battles!”

“It has—it has! And yet what am I now?
Old before my time, swept away from the path
of glory, as I neared the goal! A warrior should
never utter a word of complaint—and yet—by
the Sacrament of Heaven, I had much rather
died with sword in hand, at the head of my hosts,
than to wither away with this festering wound on
yonder couch! I like not to count the pulsations
of my dying heart.”

“Nay, my uncle,—chide not so bitterly. Thou
wilt recover—thy sword will again flash at the
head of armies!”

“My sword, Annabel, my sword,”—cried the
warrior, as his eye lit up with a strange brilliancy,
and his wan features were crimsoned by a
ruddy flush.

In a moment, the fair hands of the maiden bore
the sword from its resting place, in a nook of the
Red-Chamber, with a slow and weary movement,
as though the massive piece of iron she trailed
along the marble floor, exceeded her maidenly
strength to lift on high.

“It is my sword, it is my sword”—shrieked the
warrior, as he flung the robes of purple back
from his muscular, though attenuated shoulder
and raised his proud form to its full height—
“Look, Annabel, how it gleams in the light! So
it gleamed on the walls of Jerusalem, so it shone
aloft over the desert-sands of the Syrian wilderness!
It will gleam over the battle field again!
Age, again will the snow-white plume of Julian
Di Albarone, wave over the ranks of the fray,
while ten thousand warriors, hail that plume as
their beacon-light!”

He swung the sword aloft in the air, his whole
form was moved by excitement, every vein filled
and every pulse throbbed, his eye flashed like a
thing of flame, and his whitened lip trembled
with the glorious expression of battle-scorn.

Thrice he waved the sword around his head,
when the wild impulse of his sudden excitement
died away, his eyes lost their flashing brightness,
his limbs their vigor, and Julian of Alberone, tottered
as he stood upon the marble-floor, and stepping

hurriedly backward, fell heavily upon the
couch of the Red-Chamber.

“The goblet, fair niece—the goblet on the
beaufet.—Haste thee—I am faint.”

As the words broke gaspingly from the sick
man's lips, the Ladye Annabel turned hastily to
bring the goblet, and as she turned, she beheld
the head of Lord Julian resting uneasily on his pillow,
while his left arm hung heavily over the side
of the couch.

She turned again with trembling footsteps, and
hastened to arrange the pillow of the sick warrior.
Her fair hands smoothed the pillow of down, and
she gently raised his head from the couch.

At the very instant, the tapestry in a dark corner
of the Red-Chamber rustled quickly to and
fro, as a figure muffled in a sweeping cloak of
crimson, emerged into view, and treading across
the tesselated pavement, with a footstep like a
spirit of the unreal air, it approached the beaufet of
ebony, and a white hand, glittering with a single
ring was extended for a moment over the goblet
of gold.

The Ladye Annabel placed the head of Lord
Julian, gently upon the pillow of down.

The glittering ring shone in the sun, as it fell
in the goblet of gold, and the hand of the figure,
white as alabaster, was again concealed in the
thick folds of the crimson robe.

The Ladye Annabel, with her delicate hands,
parted the grey hairs from the sick man's face,
and swept them back from his brow.

The figure in robes of crimson, strode with a
noiseless footstep across the apartment, and
sought the shelter of the hangings of tapestry,
with as strange a silence as it had emerged from
their folds.

Without taking notice of the white dust that
covered the bottom of the empty goblet, Annabel
filled it with generous wine, and approached the
bedside of her uncle. The Count raised himself
from the pillow, and lifted the goblet to his lips.
As his wan face was reflected in the ruddy wavelets
of the wine, he fixed his full large eyes upon
the lovely face of Annabel, with a look of affection,
mingled with an expression, so strange, so
solemn and dread, that it dwelt in the soul of the
maiden for years.

He drank, and drained the goblet to the dregs.

“Thank thee—fair niece—thank thee.”

He paused suddenly, his arms he flung wildly
from him, a thin, glassy film gathered over his
eyes, a gurgling noise sounded in his throat, and
he fell heavily upon the couch.

His features were knit in a fearful expression of
pain and suffering, his mouth opened with a ghastly
grimace, leaving the teeth visible, the lips
were writhen with a quick convulsive pang, and
his eyes sternly fixed, glanced wildly from beneath
the eyebrows woven in a frown.

“My uncle—my father,”—shrieked the Ladye
Annabel, rushing to the bedside—“Look not so
wildly, gaze not so sternly upon me. Speak my
uncle, oh, speak!”

Her utterance failed, and an indistinct murmur
broke from her lips. Her hands ran hurriedly over
the brow of the warrior—it was cold with beaded
drops of moisture. She bent hastily over the form
of Lord Julian, she imprinted a kiss on his parted
lips. She kissed the lips of the dead!

Then the tapestry, the hangings of the Red-Chamber,
the couch, with its ghastly corse, all
swam round her in a fearful dance, and the Ladye
Annabel fell insensible on the floor.

The great bell of the Castle of Albarone tolled
forth the hour of noon. The shadow of death
had been flung across the dial-plate in the castle-yard.

While the thunder-like tones of the bell, went
swinging, and quivering, and echoing among the
old castle halls, a footstep was heard without the
Red-Chamber, and the door was flung suddenly
open.

A young Cavalier, with a face marked by frank
open features, locks of rich gold, and an eye of
blue, while his handsome form was clad in a gay
dress of velvet, entered the apartment, and strode
with hurried steps to the couch.

He cast one look at the face of the corse, marked
by the ghastly grimace of death, he cast one
quick and hasty glance at the form of the Ladye
Annabel, thrown insensible along the floor of
stone, and then he covered his face with his trembling
hands, and his manly form was convulsed by
a shuddering tremor, that shook the folds of his
blue doublet, as though every sinew writhed in
agony beneath the gay apparel.

The heavy sob, which unutterable anguish
alone can bring from the heart of a proud man,
broke on the deep silence of the room, and the

big, heavy tear-drops of man's despair, came
trickling between the clasped fingers, pressed over
his countenance.

“He is dead—my father—he is dead!”

He mastered the first terrible impulse of grief,
and raised the swooning maiden from the floor.