The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is a sad and gloomy place, where every dark
stone has its tale of blood, every name, rudely
scratched on the damp wall, its legend of despair.
All is silent, not a whisper, not a sob, not a sound.
The silence is so utter that you fear the spirits of
the condemned, who passed from this chamber to
the Wheel and the Block, might start into life—
at the sound of a whisper—from the dark corners
of the room, and appal your eye with their shapes
of horror.

The cresset of iron fixed to the rough wall threw
a dim light over the form of the Doomed, as seated
upon a rough bench, with his head drooped
between his clenched hands, his elbows resting on
his knees, his golden hair faded to a dingy brown,
falling over his shoulders and hiding his countenance,
he mused with the secrets of his heart, and
called up before his soul the mighty panorama of
despair—the wheel, the block, the doomsman, and
the multitude.

Adrian the Doomed raised his form from the
oaken bench, and paced the dungeon floor. He
was not shackled by manacles or clogged by chains

It was the last night of his existence; escape came
not within his thoughts, the walls were built of
rack, hundreds of armed sentinels paced the long
galleries of the prison, and a guard of two men-at-arms
watched without the triple-locked and triple-bolted
door of the Doomed chamber.

Suffering and pain, anxiety of mind and torture
of soul, had wrought fearful changes in the late
well knit and muscular form of the Lord of Albarone.
His countenance was pale and thin; his
lips whitened, his cheeks hollow and his eyes
sunken, while his faded locks of gold fell in
tangled masses over his face and shoulders. His
blue eye was sunken, yet it gleamed brighter than
ever, and there was meaning in its quick, fiery
glance.

“To die on the gibbet, with the taunt and the
sneer of the idiot crowd ringing in my ears, my
last look met with the vulgar grimaces and unmeaning
laughter of ten thousand clownish faces;
to die on the rack, each bone splintered by the instruments
of ignominious torture, my scarred and
mangled carcase mocking the face of day,—oh,
God—is this the fate of Adrian, heir to the fame,
the glory, and the fortunes of the house of Albarone?

Pausing in his hurried walk, he stood for a moment
still and motionless as the sculptured marble,
and then eagerly stretching forth his hands,
cried—

“Father—father! noble father! I believe thy
holy shade is now hovering unseen over the form
of thy doomed son—by all the hopes men hold of
bliss in an unknown state of being; by the faith
which teaches the belief of a future world, I implore
thee, appear and speak to me. Tell me of
that eternity which I am about to face! Tell me
of that awful world which is beyond the present!
Father, I implore thee, speak!”

His imagination, almost excited to phrenzy by
long and solitary thought, with glaring eyes, arms
outstretched, and trembling hands, the agitated
boy gazed at a dark corner of the cell, every instant
expecting to behold the dim and ghostly
form of his murdered sire slowly arise and become
visible through the misty darkness. No answer
came—no form arose. Adrian drew a dagger
from his vest.

“Father, by the mysterious tie that binds the
parent to the son, which neither time nor space
can sever—death or eternity annihilate—I implore
thee—appear!”

The tone in which he spoke was dread and
solemn. Again he waited for a response to his
adjuration, but no response came.

“This, then,” cried Adrian, raising the dagger;
“this, then, is the only resource left to me. Thus
do I cheat the mob of their show; thus do I rescue
the name of Albarone from foul dishonor!”

Tighter he clutched the dagger; his arm was
thrown back and his breast was bared; and, as he
thus nerved himself for the final blow, all the
scenes of his life—the hopes of his boyhood—the
dreams of his love, rose up before him like a picture.
And, like a vast unbounded ocean, overhung
with mists, and dark with clouds, was the
idea of the Dread Unknown to his mind.—
Amid all the memories of the past; the agonies of
the present, or the anticipations of the future, did
the calm, lovely face of the Ladye Annabel appear,
and the smile upon her lip was like the smile of
a guardian spirit, beaming with hope and love.

“Oh, God—receive my soul!—Annabel, fare-thee-well!”

The dagger descended, driven home with all
the strength of his arm.

“Hold!” exclaimed a hollow voice, and a strange
hand thrown before the breast of the doomed felon
struck his wrist, the instant the dagger's point had
touched the flesh. The weapon flew from the
hand of Adrian and fell on the other side of the
cell.

He turned and beheld the muffled form of a
monk, who had entered through the massive door,
which had been unbolted without Adrian's heeding
the noise of locks and chains, so deep was his
abstraction. The ruddy glare of torches streamed
into the cell, and the sentinels who held them,
in their endeavours to shake off their late terror
and remorse, gave utterance to unfeeling and ribald
jests.

“I say, Balvardo,” cried the sinister-eyed soldier,
“does not the springald bear himself right
boldly? And yet at break o' day he dies!”

“Marry, Hugo,” returned the other, “he had
better thought of making all these fine speeches
ere he gave the—ha—ha—ha!—the physic to the
old man.”

Reproving the sentinels for their insolence, the

muffled monk closed the door, and approaching
Adrian, exclaimed—

“My son, prepare thee for thy fate! The shades
of night behold thee erect in the pride of manhood;
the light of morn shall see thee prostrate,
bleeding, dead! Thy soul shall stand before the
bar of eternity. Art thou prepared for death, my
son?”

“Father,” Adrian answered; “I have been ever
a faithful son of the Holy Church, but its offices
will avail me naught at this hour. Once, for all,
I tell thee I will die without human prayers or
human consolation. On the solemn thought of
Him who gave me being, I alone rely for support
in the hour of a fearful death. Thy errand is a
vain one, Sir Priest, if thou dost hope to gain
shrift or confession from me. I would be alone!”

“Thou art but young to die,” said the monk, in
a quiet tone.

Adrian made no reply.

“Tell me, young sir,” cried the monk, seizing
Adrian by the wrist, “wouldst thou accept life,
though it were passed within the walls of a convent?”

“The cowl of the monk was never worn by a
descendant of Albarone. I would pass my days
as my fathers have done before me—at the head
of armies and in the din of battle!”

The monk threw back his cowl and discovered
a striking and impressive face; bearing marks of
premature age, induced by blighted hopes and
fearful wrongs. His hair, as black as jet, gathered
in short curls around a high and pallid forehead;
his eyebrows arched over dark, sparkling
eyes; his nose was short and Grecian; his lips
thin and expressive, and his chin well rounded
and prominent. And as the cowl fell back, Adrian
with a start beheld the monk of the ante-chamber!

“Count Adrian Di Albarone, this morning thou
wert tried before the Duke of Florence, and his
peers, for the murder of thy sire. Thou, a descendant
of Albarone, connected with the royal blood of
Florence, wert condemned on the testimony of two
of thy father's vassals, for this most accursed act.
I ask thee, canst thou tell who it is that hath spirited
up these perjured witnesses; and why it is that
the Duke of Florence countenances the accusations?”

“In the name of God, kind priest, I thank thee
for thy belief in my innocence. The stirrer up of
this foul wrong, is, I shame to say it, my uncle,
Aldaren, the Scholar. The reason why it is countenanced
by the duke, is —” Adrian paused as if
the words stuck in his throat; “is because he would
wed my own fair cousin, the Ladye Annabel.”

“Ha!” shouted the monk, “my suspicions were
not false. Let Aldarin look to his fate; and, as for
the duke—” thrusting his hand into his bosom, he
drew from his gown a miniature—it was the miniature
of a fair and lovely maiden.

“Behold!” cried the monk, “Adrian Di Albarone,
behold this fair and lovely countenance, where
youth, and health, and love, beaming from every
feature, mingle with the deep expression of a mind
rich in the treasure of thoughts, pure and virginal
in their beauty. Mark well the forehead, calm and
thoughtful; the ruby lips, parting with a smile; the
full cheek blooming with the rose-buds of youth—
mark the tracery of the arching neck; the half-revealed
beauty of the virgin bosom. Adrian, this
was the maiden of my heart, the one beloved of my
very soul. I was the private secretary of the duke,
he won my confidence—he betrayed it. Guilietta
was the victim, and I sought peace and oblivion
within the walls of a convent. I am now in his
favor—he loads me with honors; I accept his gifts—
aye, aye, Albertine, the Monk, takes the gold of the
proud duke, that he may effect the great object of
his existence—”

“And that—” cried Adrian—“that is—”

The monk spoke not; a smile wreathed his compressed
lips, and a glance sparkled in his eye.
Adrian was answered.

In the breast of the man to whom God has given
a soul, there also dwells at times a demon; and
that demon arises from the ruins of betrayed confidence.
The monk whispered something in the
ear of the condemned noble, and then, waving his
hand, retired.