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

windows, mingled with the blaze of long lines of
funeral torches, making the chapel of St. George
of Albarone as light as day, when illumined by
the glare of the thunder storm, and revealing a
strange and solemn scene—the last rites of religion
celebrated over the corse of the mighty dead.

The mingled light of moonbeam and glaring
torch, revealed the roof of the chapel arching
above, all intricately carved and fretted, the lines
of towering columns, arabesque in outline and effect,
the high altar of the church, with its cross of
gold and diamonds, won by the lords of Albarone
from the lands of Heathenesse, its rare painting of
the dying God, its rich sculpturings and quaint
ornaments; while along the mosaic floor, among
the pillars, and around the altar, grouped the funeral
crowd, marking their numbers by the upraised
torch and spear.

An aged abbot, attired in the gorgeous robes of
his holy office, with long locks of snow-white hair
falling over his shoulders, stood at the foot of the
altar, celebrating the midnight mass for the dead;
while around the venerable man were grouped
the brothers of his convent, their mingled robes of
white and black giving a strange solemnity to the
scene.

Beside the foot of the altar, resting in the ruddy
glare of the funeral torches, robed in full armor,
partly concealed by a pall of snow-white velvet,
on a bier of green beechen wood, covered by skins
of the wild leopard, in simple majesty, lay the
corse of the gallant lord of Albarone. The raised
vizor revealed his stern features set grimly in
death, while his mail-clad arms were crossed on his
muscular chest, robed in battle armour. No coffin
panels held his manly form; no death-shroud, with
ghastly folds of white, enveloped those sinewy
limbs; neither did things of glitter and show glisten
along his couch, heaping mockery on the still
solemnity of the grave. It was the custom of Albarone,
that the knight who once reigned lord of
its wide domains, should even in death meet the
stern enemy of man, not as victim, but as conqueror.
Borne to the vaults of death, not with
songs of wail and woe, but compassed by men-at-arms;
environed by upraised swords, the silent
corse seemed to smile in the face of the skeleton-god,
and enter even the domains of the grave in
triumph, while the battle shout of Albarone rose
pealing above, and over the visage of the dead
waved the broad banner of the warlike race.

Near the head of the corse, while along the
aisles of the chapel gathered the men-at-arms and
servitors of Albarone, were grouped two figures—
an aged man and a youthful maiden.

With his head depressed, his arms folded meekly
over his breast, his slender form clad in solemn
folds of sable velvet, faced with costly furs, and
relieved by ornaments of scattered gold, the Count
Aldarin Di Albarone seemed absorbed in listening
to the chaunt of the holy mass, when, in sooth, his
keen eye flashed with impatience, and his lip
curved with scorn, as he was forced to witness the
ceremonies of a religion whose mandates he defied,
whose awful God his very soul blasphemed.

The maiden, fair, and young, and gentle, her
robes of white flowing loosely around her form of
grace, her hands half clasped and half upraised,
stood near the couch of the dead, her calm blue
eyes fixed upon the visage of the corse, while the
memory of the fearful scene in the Red Chamber
swept over her soul, mingling with the thoughts
of the felon now festering on the wheel of Florence.
The bosom of the Ladye Annabel rose and fell
with a wild pulsation, and her rounded cheeks
grew like the face of death, as thus waiting beside
the dead, the thoughts of the past awoke such terrible
memories in her soul.

Around, circling along the pavement, with stern
visages and iron-clad forms gleaming in the light,
were grouped the men-at-arms of Albarone, extending
along the chapel aisles, in one rugged array
of battle, while each warrior held aloft a blazing
torch with his left arm, as his good
right hand grasped the battle sword. Here and
there were scattered servitors of Albarone, clad
in the rich livery of the ancient house, darkened
by folds of crape, mingled with the humble peasant
vassals, whose faces of sorrow mingled with
the general grief. Every voice was hushed, and
every foot-tramp stilled, as the last strains of the
holy chaunt of the mass floated solemnly along
the chapel aisles, while high overhead, above armed
warrior and white-robed monk, floated the
broad banner of Albarone, waving to and fro with
the motion of the night air, its gorgeous folds
bearing the emblazoning of the winged leopard,
with the motto, in letters of gold:

Grasp boldly, and bravely strike.

As the last echoes of the holy ceremony of the
mass died away along the chapel aisles, Count
Aldarin glanced over the group of white-robed
monks, with the venerable abbot of St. Peters of
Florence in their midst, and along the files of the
iron-robed soldiers, for a single moment, and then

gazing upon the broad banner waving overhead,
he spoke in a bold and deep-toned voice:

“Let the corse of Lord Julian Di Albarone be
raised upon the shoulders of the ancient men who
served as esquires of his body.”

Four men-at-arms, whose heads were whitened
by the frosts of seventy winters, advanced; and,
raising the death-couch upon their shoulders,
with the right leg thrown forward, stood ready
to march.

At the same moment, the united strength of
ten of the servitors threw open the huge oaken
panels of a trap-door, which, cut into the floor of
the middle aisle of the chapel, revealed a wide and
spacious stairway, descending into the bosom of
the earth.

The Count Aldarin seized the staff which bore
the broad banner of Albarone, he flung the azure
folds to the night wind, and his voice rung echoing
along the chapel walls:

“Vassals of Albarone, form around the corse of
your lord. Draw your swords, and raise the
shout: `Albarone, to the rescue! Strike for the
Winged Leopard—strike for Albarone!”'

With the battle cry pealing, their swords
flashing in the light, and their torches waving on
high, the men-at-arms formed in files of four behind
the bier, which now began to move slowly
toward the subterranean stairway.

In the rear of the men-at-arms came the Ladye
Annabel, followed by the venerable abbot, bearing
aloft a crucifix of gold; while on either side walked
rosy-cheeked children, clad in robes of white,
and holding censers in their hands, which ever
and anon they swung to and fro, filling the air
with perfume of frankincense and myrrh. Then
came the monks, in their mingled robes of white
and black, walking with slow and solemn tread,
and holding in one hand a torch, while the other
grasped a cross.

As the ancient esquires who bore the bier of
beechen wood, arrived at the trap-door which discovered
the subterranean stairway, the funeral
train halted for an instant. The sight was full of
grandeur. The light of a thousand torches threw
a ruddy glow upon the folds of the broad banner
—upon the glistening armor and bright swords of
the men-at-arms—over the snow-white attire of
the long array of monks, and along the cold face
of the dead. The carvings that decorated the
walls of the church—the altar, rich a thousand
offerings—the cross of gold, and the rare
paintings—the arched and fretted roof, and the
lofty pillars, were all shown in bold and strong
relief.

“Ye ancient men who bear the corse of the
Lord Di Albarone, ye who served your lord with
a faithful service while living, prepare to descend
into the vault of the dead, there to lay your sacred
burden beside his fathers. Vassals of Albarone,
grasp your swords yet tighter, and join, every
man, in the battle song of our race. The house
of Albarone enter the tomb, not with wail and
lamentation, but with song and joy, as though
they went to battle; with swords flashing, with
armor clanking, and with the broad banner of the
Winged Leopard waving above their heads.”

Right full and loud sounded the voice of Count
Aldarin, while his bent form straightened proudly
erect, as though he were suddenly fired with the
warlike spirit of his ancestors. His small dark
eye flashed as he shouted, waving the banner over
the bier:

“Men of Albarone, to the rescue!”

“Strike for the Winged Leopard!—strike for
Albarone!” responded, with one deep-toned voice
the aged bearers of the bier, as they began to descend
the stairway.

“Ha! an Albarone! an Albarone! Strike for
the Winged Leopard: strike for Albarone!” shouted
the men-at-arms, as, waving their torches on
high, and brandishing their swords, they advanced
with a hurried, yet measured tread, after the manner
they were wont to advance to the storming of
a besieged fortress.

The aged abbot of St. Peters suddenly forgot
his sacred character, aud stirred by the memory
of the days when he had mingled in the din of
battle, side by side with the noble Lord Julian, he
caught up the wary cry: “Albarone, to the rescue!—a
blow for the Winged Leopard!” and along
the line of white-robed monks ran the shout: “An
Albarone! Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Strike
for Albarone!” and thus spreading from the men-at-arms
to the abbot, from the abbot to the monks,
the cry of battle resounded along the aisles of the
chapel, and was echoed again and again from the
fretted roof.

As the corse disappeared down the stairway,
followed by the funeral train, the war song of Albarone
was raised by the men-at-arms—wild and
thrilling arose the notes of the chaunt, that had
swelled in the van of a thousand battles.

The subterranean stairway seemed to be without
end. At last, when some five score steps had

been passed, the bearers of the corse found themselves
in a long and narrow passage, which having
slowly traversed, they stood at the head of a
winding stairway. This they descended, while
louder and yet more loud arose the chaunt of the
battle song, mingling with the clash of swords and
the clank of armor. At the foot of this stairway
lay another passage, narrower than the last, from
which it differed in that it was hewn out of the
solid rock, while the walls of the other were built
of chisseled stone. Along this passage the procession
slowly proceeded, the walls approaching
closer together at every step, until at last there
was barely room for the bier to pass; when suddenly,
as if by the wand of a magician, the scene
was changed, and the funeral train found themselves
in the vault of the dead.