University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE EMBRACE OF A BROTHER.

The sun was setting, calmly and solemnly setting,
behind a gorgeous pile of rainbow-hued
clouds, magnificent with airy castle and pinnacle,
while the full warmth of his beams shone through
the arching window of the Red Chamber, its

casement panels thrown wide open, filling that
place of death with light and splendor.

In the recess of the lofty casement, with the
sunshine falling all around, and the shadow of her
slender figure thrown like a belt of gloom over the
mosaic floor, stood the Ladye Annabel, silent and
motionless; her rounded arms half raised, with
the slonder hands crossed over her bosom, her
robe of pale blue velvet, with the inner vest of undimmed
white made radiant by the sunbeams;
while, swept aside from her features, the golden
hair fell with a floating motion down over her
shoulders, and along the breast of snow.

And as she stood thus still and immovable, gazing
with one unvarying glance along the court-yard,
the sunshine revealed her face of beauty,
every lineament and feature disclosed in the golden
light, seeming more like the face of a dream-spirit,
than the countenance of a mortal maiden.
The soul shone from her face. The eyes full,
large, and lustrous with their undimmed blue, dilating
and enlarging with one wild glance; the
cheek white as alabaster, yet tinted by the bloom,
and swelled with the fullness of the budding rose;
the lips small, and curvingly shaped, slightly parted,
revealing a glimpse of the ivory teeth; the
chin, with its dimple; the brow, with its clear
surface, marked by the parted hair, waving aside
like clustered sunbeams—such was the face of the
Ladye Annabel, all vision, all loveliness, and soul.

“He is bound; yes, bound with the cord and
thong! They gather around him, with looks of
insult; they place him on the steed; they move—
oh, mother of Heaven!—they move toward the
castle gate! And shall I never see him again—
never, never? It is a dream; it is no reality.
It is a dream! Was it a dream, yesterday, when
he stood in this recess, his hand clasped in mine,
his eyes calm and eloquent, gazing in mine, while
his voice spoke of the sunset glories of the summer
sky?”

One long, wild glance at the scene in the court-yard,
and then veiling her eyes from the sight,
she started wildly from the window.

“It is a dream,” murmured the Ladye Annabel,
as she hurriedly glided from the room, and
the echoes returned her whisper. “It is, it is a
dream!”

Her footsteps had scarce ceased to echo along
the ante-chamber, when another footstep was
heard, and ere a moment passed, Aldarin stood
in the recess of the lofty window of the Red Chamber.
His face was agitated by strange and va
rying expressions, as with a keen and anxious
eye he glanced over the spears and pennons of a
long line of men-at-arms, passing under the raised
portcullis of the castle gate.

The portcullis was lowered with a thundering
clang, the spears and pennons, the gallant steeds
and their stalwart riders, were lost to sight, but
presently came bursting into view again, beyond
the castle gate, where the highway to Florence,
appearing from amid surrounding woods, led up
a steep and precipitous hill. And there, flashing
with gold and glowing with embroidery, the broad
banner of the Duke of Florence was borne in the
van of the calvacade. Then came four men-at-arms,
in armor of blazing gold; and then, distinguished
by his rich array, rode the Duke, mounted
upon a snow-white charger, and behind him,
environed by guards, his arms lashed behind his
back, came Lord Adrian Di Albarone, accused of
the most foul and atrocious murder of his sire.
Beside her son, her face closely veiled, and her
form bowed low, the Countess rode; and in the
rear, their steeds gaily prancing, their spears
flashing, and their pennons glancing in the sun,
came the men-at-arms in long and gallant array.

With parted lips and strained eyes did Signior
Aldarin watch the movements of this company.

As the steed of the last man-at-arms was lost
in the shades of the forest, Aldarin smiled grimly,
and, extending his shrivelled hand, shouted in
tones of exultation:

“One hour ago I was the stooping scholar,—
The Signior Aldarin. Now!” full boldly did he
swell that little word; “Now, I am the Count Aldarin
Di Albarone, lord of the wide domains of
Albarone!”

He laughed the short, husky laugh which was
peculiar to him.

“Adrian swept from my path—and is he not
already swept from my path?—that brainless
idiot, my liege of Florence, swallowed the charge
against that forward boy as greedily as the fish
swallows the tempting bait; the signet and the
robe will bring the changeling to the block, and
thus, my only obstacle swept away, I, as next
heir, succeed to the titles and estates of Albarone!
And Annabel, my fair daughter! thy brow shall
be decked with a coronet; thou shall reign Duchess
of Florence! Ha—ha!”

And here, as the wide prospect of ambition
opened to his mind's eye, he became silent, and,
hurriedly pacing the floor, resigned his soul to
the dreams of his excited fancy.

Suddenly his visions were interrupted by a
deep sigh, that seemed to proceed from the corse
upon the couch.

Aldarin started, and for a moment stood still
as a statue, his ear inclined toward the couch, as
if intently listening; his lips apart, and his quivering
hands stretched forth as though he would
defend himself from some unreal foe.

At last, gaining courage, he approached the bed.
There, without the slightest signs of animation,
lay the faded form of the gallant warrior; the
eyes closed, the stern expression of the features
vanished, and the whole attitude that of unconscious
repose.

Turning away, Aldarin was chiding himself for
his childish terror, when a deep, sonorous groan
met his ear. With a beating heart he once more
turned, and beheld a sight that caused the cold
sweat of intense terror to ooze from his person,
and every nerve to quake with alarm.

The eyes of the Count were wide open; a slight
flush pervaded his cheeks, and his entire attitude
was changed. A voice came from his pallid lips:

“Annabel, dearest Annabel! a fearful dream
but now possessed my fancy! Methought I lay
dead—dead, Annabel, dead; and that I died ere
thy nuptials were solemnized—thy nuptials, Annabel,
and thine Adrian!”

A fearful expression came over the scholar Aldarin's
features, as though he was stringing his
mind to one great effort. In an instant his countenance
became calm again, and approaching the
bedside, he enquired, in a soft voice, if his dear
brother wanted anything?

The Count answered hurriedly, as if a sudden
light burst upon him:

“Ah! the Virgin save us! good Aldarin, art
thou here? Surely, I saw Adrian and Annabel
but a moment since? Surely—”

“Nay, my brother;” answered Aldarin, “'twas
but mere phantasy. Annabel is not with us, nor
is my Lord Adrian here; but I, dear brother, I
am by your side.”

Speaking these words in a voice tremulous with
affection, Signior Aldarin passed his left arm
around the body of the Count, while the other enclosed
his neck. He clasped him in an ardent
embrace, as he continued:

“I am with you, dear brother; I will minister
to your slightest wish; I, Aldarin, your own devoted
friend.”

Here he inserted his right hand beneath the
long gray locks of the Count, and clasping his
neck, pressed him yet closer to his bosom.

“Kind Aldarin,” the Count began, but the sentence
was cut short by a piercing cry, and the
right hand of Aldarin clutched tighter and tighter
around his brother's throat.

“Nay, brother, thou shalt have rest, an' thou
wishest it,” cried Signor Aldarin. “There, sleep
softly, and pleasant dreams attend you!”

The Count fell heavily upon the bed; his bloodshot
eyes protruded from his blackened face, a
livid circle was around his throat, and a thin
line of blood trickled from his mouth. A heavy,
deep, prolonged sigh came from his chest, and
the murdered man ceased to live.

“The fiend be thanked!—it is done!”

Having thus spoken, in a voice that came from
his clenched teeth, the murderer looked up and
saw—the dogged, rough, yet honest visage of the
stout yeoman peeping from among the curtains,
on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes steadily
fixed on the corse, and a curious look of inquiry
visible in every feature of his face.

ALDARIN, THE SCHOLAR, AND ROBIN, THE
SOLDIER.

The Signior drew back, trembling in every
limb, and pale as death. It was a moment ere he
recovered his speech, when, assuming a haughty
air, he exclaimed:

“Slave, what do you here? Is it thus you intrude
upon my privacy? Speak, sir—your excuse!”

The stout yeoman replied in his usual manner,
speaking in the Italian, but with a sharp English
accent:

“Why, most worshipful Signior, you will please
to bear in mind that for twenty long years have I
followed my lord, he who now lies cold and senseless,
to the wars. That withered arm have I
seen bearing down upon the foe in the thickest of
the fight; that sunken eye have I beheld glance
with the stern look of command. By his side
have I fought and bled; for him did I leave my
own native land—merrie, merrie England,—and
I will say, a more generous, true-hearted, and valiant
knight, never wore spurs, or broke a lance,
than my lord, the noble Count Julian Di Albarone.”

The yeoman passed the sleeve of his blue doublet
across his eyes.

“Well, sirrah,” cried the Signior, “to what
tends all this?”

“Marry, to this does it tend: that wishing to
behold that noble face yet once more, I stole silently
to this chamber, thinking to be a little
while alone with my brave lord. I did not discover
your presence, till I looked through the curtains
and saw—”

The stout Englishman suddenly stopped; there
was a curious twitch in his left eye, and a grim
smile upon his lip.

“Saw what, sirrah?” hurriedly asked the scholar
Aldarin.

“Marry, I saw thee, worshipful Signior, in the
act of embracing the Count; and such a warm,
kind, brotherly embrace as it was! By St. Withold!
it did me more good than a hundred of Father
Antonio's homilies—by my faith, it did!”

The thin visage of Aldarin became white as
snow and red as crimson by turns. Making an
effort to conceal his agitation, he replied;

“Well, well, Robin, thou art a good fellow, after
all, though, to be sure, thy manners are somewhat
rough. I tell thee, brave yeoman, I have
long had it in my mind to advance thy condition.
Follow me to the Round Room, good Robin, where
I will speak further to thee of this matter.”

“The Round Room!” murmured Robin, as he
followed the scholar Aldarin from the Red Chamber.
“Ha! 'tis the secret chamber o' th' scholar;
many, many have been seen entering its confines
—never a single man has been seen emerging
from its narrow door, save the scholar Aldarin!
I'll beware the serpent's pangs! I'll drink no
goblets o' wine, touch no food or dainty viands
while in this Round Room; or else, by St. Withold,
Rough Robin's place may be vacant in the
hall, forever and a day!”

With these thoughts traversing his mind, the
yeoman followed the scholar over the floor of the
ante-chamber, and as they entered the confines of
a gloomy corridor, a spectacle was visible, which,
to say the least, was marked by curious and singular
features.

Imagine the solemn scholar striding slowly
along the corridor with measured and gliding foot-steps,
while behind him walks Robin the Rough,
describing various eccentric figures in the air
with his clenched hands; now brandishing them
above the Signior's head, now exhibiting a remarkable
display of muscular vigor at the very
back of Aldarin; and again, making a pass with
all his strength apparently at the body of the alchymist,
but in reality at the intangible atmosphere.
These demonstrations did not appear to
give the stout yeoman much pain, for his cheeks
were very much agitated, and from his eyes were
rolling thick, large tears of laughter.

The corridor terminated in a long, dark gallery
hung with pictures colored by age, and framed in
massive oak. Traversing this gallery, they ascended
a staircase of stone, and passed along another
corridor, terminated by a winding staircase. This
the scholar and the yeoman descended, and then
came another gallery, another ascending stairway,
and then various labyrinthine passages traversed,
Rough Robin at last found himself standing side
by side with Aldarin, in front of the dark panels
of the narrow door leading into the Round Room.

This room was scarce ever visited by any living
being in the castle save Aldarin, and strange legends
concerning its mysterious secrets were current
among the servitors of Albarone.

Many had been seen entering its confines with
the Signior, but never was any one, save Aldarin,
seen to emerge from its gloomy door.