 | CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
6. CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL.
With a mind of might and a brain of power,
the Count Aldarin possessed a soul, vigorous with
the noblest efforts of moral courage, yet now while
the men-at-arms gathered with shouts and exclamations
of joy, around the Azure Figure, he stood
trembling like a reed shaken by the winter wind,
his face at all times destitute of color, became lividly
pale, and with quivering lips and chattering
teeth, he remained for a moment silent and motionless.
Superstitious terror, he was wont to contemn,
fear of the supernatural, he was known to despise,
yet now when the voice of the dead rang in his
ears, and the form, which he believed lay extended
on the Wheel of the Doomsman, moved before
his eyes, he thought the voice and form had sprung
from the unknown recesses of the grave.
It was after the lapse of a few moments, that he
summoned courage to advance through the crowd
of men-at-arms, and fixing his keen eye on the
form of the unknown knight, he spoke—
“Who, Sir, art thou? What is thine errand
in this lonely vault of the dead? Why disturb
the funeral rites of the Lord Di Albarone?”
“I come to avenge his murder!”
“Ha!” shouted Aldarin—“His murderer is already
doomed—even now he festers upon the
wheel!”
“His murderer lives”—shouted the Figure,
through the bars of his closed helmet,—“His murderer
breathes, while the Corse asks in the speechless
tongue of death—asks and prays to God, to
man for vengeance! The Murderer walks the earth,
rots and crumbles in gloom and darkness. His
murderer is here—aye among the brave soldiers,
who followed Julian of Albarone to battle, stands
the foul miscreant.—Thou ART THE MURDERER!”
A wild thrill of surprise and horror ran through
the group. From heart to heart, like lightning
leaping from cloud to cloud, darted the wild words
of the accuser; from eye to eye flew the quick
glance of vengeance, and from lip to lip, swelled
the shout of the avengers.
“Hew him down!” cried one—“For days have
we all thought him guilty. Our suspicions are
now confirmed—the corse pleads for his blood!”
“Down with the brother-murderer!”
“Lo! I whet my knife for his blood!”
“Our Lord”—exclaimed a tall and slalwart
man-at-arms—“Our Lord Adrian doth rise from
the dead to convict thee of the murder of thy
brother! Miscreant, canst thou deny it?”
The four ancient Esquires said not a word,
but each of them raised his dagger, they seized
the Scholar Aldarin, with one firm grasp, their
eyes were fixed upon his visage in one stern glare,
their instruments of vengeance gleamed over his
head, and with silent determination, they awaited
the command to strike and kill.
The Azure Knight stayed their hands.
“Onward, brave soldiers”—he cried—“onward
to the tomb of the race of Albarone. There will
we administer the Ordeal to the old man, there,
beneath the shadow of the Demon of our Race,
shall he swear that he is guiltless. Onward—bearers
of the corse—in the name of the Winged Leopard,
onward!”
Raising the bier upon their shoulders, with the
corse still sitting grimly erect, the ancient Esquires
advanced toward the Mound, led onward
by the Unknown Knight, while in the rear, surrounded
by men-at-arms, walked the Scholar Aldarin,
his head drooped low, and his arms folded
across his breast.
He said no word, he uttered no sound of entreaty,
but his keen grey eyes, half-buried by his
contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the intensity
of his thoughts.
The Mound, with all its ponderous outline,
ighted by the lamps burning on the summit, now
begun to appear more clearly through the gloom.
At first it seemed like some vast pile of rocks,
heaped on high by a giant-hand, and then, as the
men-at-arms drew near and nearer, it gradually
assumed a definite form, rising like a pyramid, its
three sides fashioned into steps of living rock,
while from the fourth, arose the dark figure of
stone, towering far, far above, its arms wildly out-spread,
its face looking down upon the tomb, as
its vacant eyes seemed fixing their weird and terrible
glance upon the faces of the dead.
The strange procession reached the mound, they
ascended twenty steps of stone, and the bearers of
the corse found themselves standing upon the summit,
from the centre of which arose a solid block
of stone, some thirty feet in length and seven in
width, while it was but four feet in height.
On the top of this rock, within the hollow of a
cavity, hewn out of the living stone, lay the remains
of the Lords of Albarone, placed there from
age to age, from generation to generation, through
the long lapse of six hundred years. It was a
strange scene. The lamps of iron, curious in
fashion and ponderous in weight, placed at intervals
around the rock, cast their glaring light over
the crumbling remains, each grisly skeleton attired
in the warlike costume of the age that beheld
his glory and owned his rule.
Here the thin and blackened arm-bones of a
Gothic warrior were crossed upon his breast-plate
of gold, which long years ago had covered the
plain tunic, worn by these iron-men, who swept
like an avalanche from the Alps of the North,
over the fair plains of Italy. The lamp-beams
glimmering over the skeleton, revealed the bones
below the breastplate, mouldering into dust, while
the fragments of the feet were encircled in the
simple yet warlike sandals of iron once worn by
the warriors from the land of the Goth. Side by
side with this relic, the bones of another skeleton
gleamed grimly through the bars and armour-plates
of a later age, wrapping the remains of the
mighty dead, from the helmeted skull to the iron-booted
feet.
And thus extending along the cavity in the surface
of the rock, skull after skull and skeleton
succeeding skeleton, reposed the Lords of the
House of Albarone, clad in strange and various
costumes, types of contrasted ages, or enwrapped
in the stern iron armour, which had defended their
living forms in the terror of battle. The boast of
the proud House—that the earth of the grave-yard
should never soil a Lord of the race of Albarone—
was fulfilled.
Over this singular tomb towered the dark figure
of gigantic rock, its rude arms thrown wildly
upon the corses of the dead. Many a legend,
whispered beside the hearths of the peasantry, or
told by the minstrel in the hall of the castle, inspiring
its hearers with terror and awe, spoke in
words of fear of the demon-form arising in the
cavernous recesses of Albarone, its mighty power,
and the strange sympathy it possessed for the race
of the Winged Leopard. Some traditions, dim
and indistinct, yet fraught with wild mysteries,
named the figure as the representation of the
Northern-God Odin, stating that in ages long
gone by, it had been worshipped with infant sacrifice
and midnight bloodshed, while the Lords of
Albarone flung themselves in awe beneath its
gloomy shadow.
Other legends named the rude creation of rocks
as the Demon of the race of Albarone, brooding
silently over the tomb of the Lords, while its
heart of stone was sentient with a strange soul, and
its eyes looked forth with an expression that froze
the blood of the gazer to behold.
Such were the legends, differing in their style
and story, yet all uniting in throwing the veil of
mystery and shadow over the dark dread form of
stone.
It was seen but once in the life-time of a Lord
of Albarone, when he celebrated the funeral rites
of his predecessor, and the demon-form once seen,
the cavern of the dead was never traversed by his
living form again.
Thrice the funeral train passed round the tomb,
the Esquires bearing the upright corse, thrice
they raised the wild chaunt of the battle-song of
Albarone, while far and wide the depths of the
cavern gave back the sound, swelling in a thousand
echoes, like successive claps of August thunder.
The death-couch was then rested upon the platform
of stone.
The ancient Esquires slowly raised the corse,
again the battle-cry swelled through the cavern,
the men-at-arms wildly clashed their swords together,
while the banner streamed proudly in the
torchlight.
“Men of Albarone!” spoke the solemn tones of
the Azure-Knight; “The Count Julian of Albarone
is laid beside his fathers!”
Louder clashed the swords, more proudly waved
the banner, and higher and yet higher swelled the
song as the mailed corse was placed in the cavity,
side by side with its ancestors.
The figure in azure armour glanced round upon
the group of men-at-arms, and exclaimed in a deep-toned
voice, that thrilled to every heart—
“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin
brother of the late Lord advance!”
Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale
countenance.
“Ha—ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think
to frighten me with their senseless mummery—
their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with
superstition, that believes not in their God! Ha
—ha! I am here,” he continued aloud—“what
would ye with me?”
“Old man!” exclaimed the stranger-knight,
“look upon the corse of thy murdered brother.—
Behold the features pale with death; the clammy
brow, the sunken cheek, the livid lip—look upon
that corse and say you did not do the murder!”
The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest,
their forms clad in iron armour were crowded
together, and every eye was fixed upon the
Scholar.
The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as
he replied—“I did not do the murder!”
“Give me thy hand—place thy fingers upon the
livid lips of the corse.”
Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand and
touch the compressed mouth of the mailed corse.
The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of
blood emerged from the mouth, and trickled over
the lower lip and down the chin, staining the grey
beard of the deccased warrior with its dark red
hue.
The men-at-arms shrunk back aghast, with sudden
horror, and each soldier could hear the gasping
of his comrade's breath. A tremor passed
over the frame of Aldarin, and his face became
pale as that of the corse beside which he stood.
“Wilt thou now say thou art innocent?” exclaimed
the stranger-knight. “The corse—the
lifeless form of thy murdered brother, shrinks at
thy accursed touch!”
“I am innocent!” cried Aldarin, recovering his
determined tone of voice. “By the God of heaven
and earth I swear it!”
“What say ye, vassals of Albarone? Is this
man innocent?”
Then arose one firm, determined cry from the
men-at-arms—
“He is guilty—heaven and earth proclaim it!
The dead witness it!”
And the depths of the cavern returned the hollow
echo—“Guilty—guilty!”
They all advanced a step toward the accused.
Each eye fired with one expression; the sinews of
each hand were strained to bursting, as they grasped
their well-tried swords.
“One trial more,” exclaimed the figure in armour
of azure steel. “Aldarin of Albarone, look
upon that awful form which towers above us. Behold
the arms outstretched, as if to hurl the red
levin bolt down upon thy guilty head. Mark well
those eyes of stone—the fearful look of that dark
countenance—the eyes are fixed upon thee; and
the brow lowers at thee. Look, Aldarin of Albarone,
look upon the Demon of our race. Call to
mind the fearful legends of that demon's vengeance
upon all who ever wronged the House of Albarone.
Think of the time when those lips of stone
have sent forth a voice to convict the guilty; when
those arms of rock have been filled with life to
crush the wretch whom the voice convicted. Old
man art thou ready for the ordeal?”
Aldarin cast one glance around. A dead silence
reigned throughout the cavern. The torches cast
a strong light upon the long line of robed skeletons,
and upon the stern visage of the murdered Lord.
The faces of the men-at-arms glared fiercely upon
the accused: their eyes sparkled from under their
woven brows, their lips were compressed, and
their half raised swords glowed in the ruddy light.
Aldarin looked above. The massive brow, the
stone eye-balls, the sneering lip, of that dread
dark face of stone, were all turned to glaring
red by the strong light of many torches. Each
sinew of the muscular arms; the clenched hands;
the bold prominence of the gigantic chest; the
strong outline of the towering figure, were all
shown in bold and sublime relief.
Aldarin raised his hands on high.
“Dark form—Demon of our race—Before thee I
swear—I am guiltless.”
“Murderer!” a hollow voice exclaimed. The
sound rung thro' the arches of the cavern like the
voice of the dead.”
“Ha!” shouted the men-at-arms, “behold—be
hold the Demon speaks; the lips of stone move;
the eyes fire—behold!”
The voice again rung thro' the cavern—“Murderer!”
Aldarin started. The sneer upon his lip had
fled. In a moment he lay prostrate upon the
platform of stone, and a score of swords flashed
over him.
“I confess—I confess!” shouted he in hurried
tones; “I ask but one moment to prepare me for
death. Grant me this boon an' ye are christians.”
“Dog!” shouted one of the pall-bearers, “thy
victim died without shrift—”
“So shalt thou die!” cried another.
“Lo! my knife is whetted for thy blood!”
“Hold!” exclaimed the strange knight, “let him
have his request.”
Aldarin arose and drew from his vest a small
missal, with clasps of gold, and covers that blazed
with jewels.
“I would pray,” he exclaimed meekly, as pressing
the clasps of the missal, it flew open, discovering
not the leaves of a book of prayer but a
hollow casket. Taking a small phial of silver
from the bottom of this casket, he held it hurriedly
to the flame of a torch, and then with as much
haste, he applied the mouth of the phial to a bright
stone that was fixed under the lid of the casket.
The stone emitted quick flashing sparks of fire,
and a light misty smoke emerging from the
mouth of the phial, spread like a cloud around Aldarin,
and rolled thro' the vault in waving columns.
It was accompanied by a pungent odour, which,
far sweeter than perfume of frankincense and
myrrh, stole over the senses of the astonished
spectators, gradually benumbing their limbs, and
depriving them both of motion and consciousness.
The figure in azure armour rushed forward to
seize the murderer, but his limbs refused their
office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his
armour ringing as he fell. At the same moment
while the smoke grew thicker and the odor more
pungent, the men-at-arms—both those who stood
upon the platform and those who thronged the
steps of stone—fell to the earth as one man. The
ancient Esquires drew their daggers and advanced.
The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.
“Dogs!” shouted he, “ye knew not of my last
resort! I hold a power above your grasp—“receive
the reward of your insolence. Down, ye
slaves!”
Flashes of fire played like lightning in the
wreaths of misty smoke. The Esquires tottered
and fell prostrate among their fellows.
| CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |