 | CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET
OF GOLD. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
THE ACCUSATION.
“He is dead—my father”—again sounded the
husky voice of the Cavalier. “Thou, Annabel,
art all that is left to me—I am—”
“A murderer—a parricide!” cried a sharp and
piercing voice, that thrilled to the very heart of
the cavalier.
He turned hurriedly as he grasped the maiden
with his good right arm, he turned and beheld,—
the Scholar Aldarin.
His glance was fixed and stern, while with one
hand half-upraised, with his thick eyebrows woven
in a frown, he stood regarding the Cavalier
with a look that was meant to rend his very heart
of hearts.
“What means this outcry in the presence of the
dead!” exclaimed Adrian in a determined tone—
“Let our past disputes be forgotten, old man, in
this terrible hour. See you not, my father lies
stark and dead?”
“Murdered by thee, vile parricide!”—rang out
the voice of the Signior Aldarin, as with a determined
step he advanced to the bedside—“Ho!
Guards, I say”—he shouted, raising his voice—
“Vassals of Albarone, to the rescue!”
The eye of the young Cavalier flashed, his brow
was knit, and his form crected to its full height
as he spoke in a quiet, determined tone.
“Look ye, old man, thou mayst taunt and gibe
with thy magpie tongue, as long as the humor
pleases thee. My father's brother need fear no
wrong from me—this maiden's father can fear no
harm from Adrian Di Albarone. Heap taunt on
taunt, good Signior, but see that this spirit of insuit
is not carried into action. I am lord in the
Castle of my fathers!”
“Father, what mean those wild words, these
looks of anger?” shrieked the Ladye Annabel, as
she awoke from her swoon of terror, and supported
by the arm of Adrian, glanced round the scene—
“Surely my father, you speak not aught against
Lord Adrian?”
And as she spoke, the chamber was filled with
men-at-arms, in their glittering armour, and servitors
of Albarone, all attired in the livery of the
house, who came thronging into the apartment,
and circled round the scene, while their mouths
were agape, and their eyes protruding with astonishment.
Aldarin glanced around the throng, he
marked each stalwart man-at-arms, each strong-limbed
yeoman of the guard, and then his chest
heaved and his eye flashed as he shouted—
“Seize him, men of Albarone, seize the murderer
of your lord!”
He pointed to Adrian Di Albarone as he spoke.
There was one wild thrill of terror and amazement,
spreading thro' the group, a confused
murmur, bursting involuntarily from every lip,
and then all was still as death.
Not a man stirred, not a servitor moved, but
all remained like statues, clustering round the
group in their centre, where Aldarin stood with
his slender form raised to its full stature, his arm
outstretched and his eye flashing like a flame-coal,
while Adrian gathered the Ladye Annabel
in his good right arm, and gazed upon the Signor
with a look of concentrated scorn.
“Seize him guards”—again shouted Aldarin—
“see the Parricide!”
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and
the form of the stout yeoman emerged from the
group.
“Not quite so fast—marry, my good Signior,
not quite so fast”—he cried as he advanced. “By
St. Withold, I have followed my old lord to many
a hard fought fight, I have served him by night
and by day, with hand and heart, for a score of
long years. Shall I stand by, and see his brave
son suffer wrong?”
“What means this wild uproar?” exclaimed a
calm yet half-indignant voice, as the stately dame
of the Lord Di Albarone, yet unaware of her bereavement,
crossed the threshold with a lofty
step and an extended arm, advancing with the
port of a queen, to the centre of the group. “Vassals—what
means this wild uproar? Know ye
not that your lord lies deadly sick? Brother Aldarin,
I take it ill of you to suffer the clamor!
What can our liege of Florence think of ye, vassals,
when he beholds ye thus assail the sick
chamber of your lord with noise and outcry!”
The stately dame, pointed to a richly attired
cavalier, who had followed her into the apartment.
He was a well formed nan with a face marked
by no definite expression. His dark hair, gathered
in short, stiff curls around a low and unmeaning
forehead, his small dark eyes protruding from
his faintly delineated eyebrows, the nose
neither aquiline, classic, or Judaic, seemed composed
of all the varieties of nasal organ, his upper
lip was garnished with a portion of the wiry
beard that flourished on his prominent chin, his
lips were thick, and sensual, while his entire
face was as inexpressive as might be. The
throng bowed low, as they became aware of the
presence of the guest of their late lord. They
bowed to the Duke of Florence.
“Adrian, my son,” cred the Lady of Albarone
turning to her son in utter amazement, “what
means this scene of confusion and alarm!”
Adrian took his mother by the hand, and led
her to the couch. He spoke not a word, but waved
his hand toward the couch. Her form was concealed
for a moment amid the hangings of the
bed, and then a shrick of wild emphasis startled
the ears of the bystanders.
“He is dead,” exclaimed the Lady of Albarone,
in a voice of unatural calmness, as she again appeared
from amid the hangings of the bed, with a
face ghastly and livid as the face of death, “Vassals
of Albarone, your lord is dead!”
There was one wild thrill of horror ran around
the group, and the Lady of Albarone, sank leaning
for support upon the arm of her son, while
Annabel in the intervals of her own sobs and
sighs, whispered hurried words of consolation in
her car.
Aldarin stood regarding the group with a glance
of deep and searching meaning. He gazed upon
the vacant features of the Duke distended by surprise,
the countenance of Adrian marked by a settled
frown of indignation, the visage of the Countess
livid as death, and then the fair face of his
daughter Annabel, her eyes swimming in tears,
the parted lips and the cheek pale and flushed by
turns, met the glance of Aldarin, and a strange
expression trembled on his compressed lip, and
darkened over his high forehcad.
“Lady of Albarone,” exclaimed the Scholar, advancing.
“Lady of Albarone, my brother died not
thro' the course of nature, he died not by the hand
of disease, he was murdered!”
“Murdered!” repeated the Countess with a hollow
echo.
And the Duke took up the word, echoing with
a trembling voice, that word of fear, “murdered,”
while the Servitors of Albarone sent the cry shrieking
around the nooks and corners of the Red-Chamber.
Adrian of Albarone looked around the scene
and smiled as if in scorn, but said not a word.
Aldarin made one stride to the couch of death.
“Behold the corse,” he shrieked, “behold the
blackened face, the sunken eyelid and the livid lips,
behold the ghastly remains of the Lord of Albarone!”
Another stride and he reached the beaufet. He
seized the goblet of gold, and held it aloft.
“Behold,” he cried, “behold the instrument of
his murder!”
“God save me now,” shrieked the Countess.—
“There has been foul work here—Adrian—oh,
Adrian, thy sire hath been poisoned!”
“This is some new mysterie, Sir Scholar,” exclaimed
Adrian with a look of scorn.
The Lady fell insensible, and the goblet rung
with a clanging sound upon the marble floor,
while from its depths there rolled a small compact
substance, encrusted in some chemical compound
white as snow in hue.
The Duke of Florence stooped hurriedly to the
very floor and seized both the goblet and the encrusted
substance, with an eager grasp.
“Ha! There is a white sediment deposited at
the bottom of this goblet. Albertine advance;
thou art skilled in such mysteries. Tell me, Sir
Monk, the nature of this white powder.”
| CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET
OF GOLD. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |