University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE FELON AND THE DUKE.

In a few minutes the door again opened, and
the stately form of the Countess of Albarone entered
the traitor's cell.

Why need I tell of the warm embrace with
which she enclosed her son? Why tell of her
tears that came from her very soul—her deep expressions
of detestation when the name of Aldarin,
the scholar, was mentioned? Need I say

that she was firmly assured of her son's innocence;
that she saw through the mummery of his trial,
and the trickery of his foes? Leaving all this to
the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass
on with my history.

The kind discourse of mother and son was broken
off by the clanging of chains and the drawing
of locks. The light of many torches streamed
through the opened door into the cell, and the
gaily-bedizened form of the Duke was discovered.

With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone
retired; the door was closed, and Adrian was left
alone with the Duke.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed he, “I have condescended
to visit you. Albertine, my confessor, told me
it was due to a branch of the royal blood of Florence.
It were best that you make a short story
of what you have to say. My train wait without,
and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened
his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried
to assume a look of dignity.

Adrian bowed down to the earth.

“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he,
“feels highly honoured by your condescension.”

“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed
the Duke. “Speak, ignoble son of an
honored sire—inglorious descendant of a noble
line. Speak! What would you say?”

“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered
Adrian, as he gazed sternly into the very eyes of
the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been
doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a
manner that never was noble doomed before.
Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs;
without defence, have I been condemned for a
crime, at the name of which hell itself would
shudder!”

The Duke sneered, as he spoke:

“Surely, I cannot help it, an' a brainless boy
takes it into his head to poison his sire.”

“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as
by a sudden movement he grasped him by the
throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of
scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping
mouth. Closer and yet more close he would his
grasp, and, scarce able to breathe, much less to
speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power
or motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels,
and then placing his knee upon his breast by a
dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet
cloak, and then cautiously placing one hand over
the mouth of the prince, he gathered some straw
with the other, and forced it down his throat.
Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin,
he wound it around the neck and over the mouth
of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly as
might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his
back; the cord he used being nothing less than
the chain of knighthood suspended from the neck
of his grace.

You may be sure this was not accomplished
without a struggle. The Duke writhed and shifted,
but to no purpose. He could not speak, and
the knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him
silent and motionless.

And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing
cloak of the Duke, which descending to his knees,
sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin, ornamented
with spurs of gold. On his head is placed
the slouching hat of the prince, surmounted by a
group of nodding plumes, and beneath the folds
of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of
his sword.

Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile—that
smile which arises from the recklessness of desperation—and
then, without heeding the malignant
glances of the Duke, he fixed him against
the rough bench upon his knees, with his face to
the wall, in an attitude of prayer and devotion.—
He threw his own sombre cloak over the back
of his captive; and then, having slouched the hat
over his face, after the manner of the Duke, he
gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin,
and stood ready to depart.

He opened the door of the traitor's cell with a
beating heart, and in an instant, found himself
standing in the gallery where the muffled priest
waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to
the wearer of the scarlet cloak, and the word was
passed along the galleries—“make way for the
Duke—make way for his grace of Florence.”

The monk now advanced, and locking the door
of the doomed cell, he affixed to its panel a parchment
signed by the Duke of Florence, and sealed
with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner,
Adrian Di Albarone, was to be seen by no
one until the morrow, when he was to suffer the
doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.

This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of
Albarone, who paced along the gallery, saluted at
the door of every cell by the lowered spears of the
sentinels.

The gallery terminated in a staircase. This
Adrian and the monk ascended, and at the top

they found a company of gay cavaliers, who waited
for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the
scarlet cloak and slouching hat was greeted with
a low bow. Adrian then traversed another gallery,
and yet another; being all the while followed
by the band of gallant courtiers.

“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to
another, “methinks our lord is wondrous silent
to-night.”

“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it
may be that he is weeping for this young springald,
Adrian. Marry, 'tis enough to make an older
man than I am weep.”

“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would
have you observe strict silence.”

They had arrived at the lofty arching door of
the castle leading into the court-yard, when Adrian
was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the galleries
which he had just traversed.

“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand
caught the hilt of his sword.

“Fear not,” whispered the monk, but push
boldly onward.

They now descended into the court-yard, where
a richly-attired page held a steed ready for his
grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle,
Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with
the monk riding at his side, and the bridle reins
of the courtiers ringing in the rear.

Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from
his saddle, and whispered to Adrian:

“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself
for the trial at the palace gate.”

Traversing one of the most spacious streets of
the city of Florence, they soon arrived before the
lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.

Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor
of gold, saluted the supposed Duke with every
mark of respect.

And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold
Adrian enter the palace, traverse innumerable
chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted
by lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with
nobles and courtiers, who much wondered to behold
their lord pass them by, without one mark of
recognition or sign of respect.

At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented
with exquisite carving, and having the
arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colours
upon the panels.

“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered
the monk to Adrian, who immediately
obeyed his directions.

The monk then turned to the gallant throng of
courtiers, and said:

“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense
with your further attendance.” The monk
retired.

Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations
of wonder as then burst from the lips of the
cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly
be woad; another that he must have been repulsed
in some illicit amour; and a third seriously
gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other
had taken possession of the Duke of Florence.
However, being well aware of the high regard in
which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all
slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it
to the guards of the palace, who watched within
its confines, as was their wont.