University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MEMORY OF GUILT.

On the stately couch in the Red-Chamber, with
the Count Aldarin bending over him, lay his Grace
the Duke of Florence, attired in his boots and hose,
with his under shirt thrown back, revealing the
left shoulder of the Prince laid open in a deep
gash.

As the Count Aldarin, holding a light in one
hand, peered earnestly at the wound, the Duke exclaimed—

“A horrid gash, Count? eh! Damnation! to
be foiled by the villain twice—bound in my own
dungeon like a criminal—struck down in that
cursed cavern like a dog—damnation seize the—
ah! Count some wine; for the Saint's sake some
wine, I pray thee.”

The Count turned hurriedly to the beaufet, and
filling a goblet with wine that sparkled in the
light with a ruddy glow, he hasted to give it to
the wounded Duke, who raised it until it nearly
touched his lips, when, as if struck by a strange
fancy, he suddenly held it out at arm's length
exclaiming as he gazed at Aldarin with a lack-lustre
eye—

“I say, Count, suppose there should be some
white dust at the bottom of this goblet?—and—
and—a ring? eh? Count?—Ugh!—Take it away
—ugh!”

He flung the goblet from him, scattering the
wine over the couch, while the vessel rolled
clanging over the marble floor.

“How Sir?” cried the Count, speaking in a
deep-toned voice that thrilled to the very heart of
the Duke, “what mean'st thou?” The dark grey
eyes of the Scholar flashed like living coals of fire,
as he spoke.

“O, nothing,” responded the Duke, “nothing—
only I thought the murderer Adrian might—dost
understand? A truce to all this. My Lord Count,
what didst thou with those men-at-arms who
raised their swords in the cause of the murderer?”

Right glad was the Count Aldarin to recover
his usual calm demeanour as he answered this
inquiry.

“Of the fifty treacherous caitiffs who raised
their swords against the person of your grace,
forty lie bleeding and dead upon the cavern floor.
As for the others—” he finished the sentence by
pointing to the arched window of the Red-Chamber.

The Duke looked over his shoulder and beheld
through the opened window the black and gloomy
timbers of a gibbet towering like an evil omen
high over the walls of the castle, and backed by
the soft azure of a cloudless summer night. The
beams of the moon fell upon ten ghastly and death
writhen faces, and ten figures swung to and fro,
while the groaning cords as they grated against
the creaking timbers over their heads, seemed
shrieking their death wail.

“Curse the traitors—they have their deserts!”
the Duke exclaimed with a meaning smile. The
Count said nothing, but bending over the form of
the Prince, proceeded to dress his wounded shoulder,
after the manner prescribed by his scholarly
studies.

And as the Scholar bent over the form of the
Duke, the hangings of the couch, sweeping behind
the Prince, waved to and fro, with a slight motion,
as though the summer breeze disturbed their
folds, and a dark form, robed in garments of sable,
with a monkish cowl dropping over its face, glided
noiselessly along the floor, and in a moment stood
at the back of his Grace of Florence, holding aloft,
above his very head, a slender-bladed and glittering
dagger. The Figure stood silent and immoveable,
its face shrouded and its form robed from
view, the dagger glittering above the head of the
Duke, brilliant as a spiral flame, while the light of
the lamp held by Aldarin, shone on the upraised
hand, revealing the sinews, stretched to their utmost
tension, while the clutched fingers prepared
to strike the blow of death.

And at the very instant, as the Figure of Sable
emerged from the hangings of the couch, at the
back of the Prince, there silently strode from the
folds of the tapestry on the other side of the bed,
a veiled form, clad from head to foot, in a robe of
ghastly white. While the Figure in garments of
sable, raised the dagger above the head of the
Duke, the strange Form, arrayed in the sweeping
robe of white, disappeared behind the hangings of
the couch, on the side opposite the Scholar Aldarin.

“Curse the traitors—they have their deserts!”
again exclaimed the Duke. “Count, how succeeds
my suit with the Ladye Annabel? Dost
think she affects me? Eh, Count?”

“Marry, does she, my Lord Duke—this slight
wound in thy shoulder will detain thee at the
castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every op
portunity to urge thy suit, and, and—the day of
your nuptials shall be named whenever thou dost
wish!”

And as Aldarin spoke, the knife rose glittering
in the hands of the Sable Figure, and a pale face,
marked by the glare of a wild and flashing eye,
was thrust from the folds of the robe of black. It
was the face of Albertine.

“Now, by St. Antonia, but that is pleasant to
think of,” exclaimed the Duke, as, complacently
surveying his figure, he passed his hand over his
bearded chin and whiskered lip—“as thou wishest
me to name the day, my Lord Count, be assured,
I shall not return to Florence without being accompanied
by my fair bride—Ladye Annabel
Dutchess of Florence. It sounds well—eh,
Count?”

A smile passed over the compressed lips of the
Count, and a glance of wild joy lit up his piercing
eyes, as he thought of the fulfilment of the dream
of ambition that had haunted his soul for years.

“It does indeed sound well, my Lord Duke,”
he calmly replied, as he proceeded in his employment
of dressing the wound. There was a pause
for a moment, a strange, dread pause, while the
hands of the Sable Figure trembled, as though
Albertine, was nerving his soul for the work of
death.

“My Lord Count, how curious it seems? eh?
Count?” exclaimed the Duke in a tone of vacant
wonder.

“To what does your Grace refer?” answered
the Count.

“Why, Count, but three short days ago, upon
this very couch lay your gallant brother; here he
folded to his arms his Adrian. Now that very
son is a—murderer—a parricide. I rest upon the
very couch that supported the murdered remains
of the late Count, and thou, Aldarin, his brother—

“His murderer!” exclaimed a voice that
thrilled to the very heart of Aldarin, and made
the Duke start with terror. And as he started the
knife came hissing through the air, it grazed the
robe of the Duke, it sank to the very hilt in the
death couch. The start of the Duke saved him
from the steel.

“Eh! Count, what's that? Who spoke? eh?”
The eyes of the Count distended, and his lips
parted with affright as he spoke.

The Count looked up and beheld a sight that
froze his very blood. On the opposite side of the
bed, among the crimson hangings, stood a figure
robed in white, and there, two eyes, blazing like
coals of red-hot flame, from beneath a half veiled
brow, as pale as death, looked steadily upon the
trembling Aldarin. The checks of that pale countenance
were dug into fearful hollows, and the
eyes were surrounded by circles of livid blue.

The Count gazed with intense horror at this
apparition and the Sable Figure, who had hurriedly
stooped, in the effort to wrench the dagger from
the couch, with a noiseless grasp, looked up and
started hastily backward, as his eye rested upon
the ghastly face, appearing amid the hangings in
the opposite side of the bed.

“It is the face of the dead”—muttered Albertine,
gliding hurriedly toward his place of concealment
while the Duke was absorbed in one fixed look at
the awe-stricken visage of Aldarin, whose very
soul seemed starting from his eyes as he gazed
upon the aparition—“It is the face of the dead—
The time of the Betrayer hath not yet come!”

And as he spoke he disappeared, without being
observed by either the Duke or Aldarin, while the
Scholar, beheld the curtains on the opposite side
of the couch rustling to and fro—he looked and
the Spectre was gone.

“This is some vile trick!” cried Aldarin, grasping
the sword of the Duke from the couch as he
spoke. “Let the mummers, whoe'er they are,
beware the vengeance of the Scholar!”

He rushed to the other side of the couch, he
lifted the hangings, but discovered no one. With
a hurried step, he turned to the tapestry that
adorned the walls, and thrust aside the embroidered
folds. The secret door was closed, and he beheld
neither sign nor mark, that might tell of
aught concealed within its pannels.

And as Aldarin continued his hurrled search,
the Duke leaning back on the couch, felt some
hard substance pressing against his side. Thrusting
his hand along the couch, he felt the handle
of a dagger, thrust from its resting place, and with
a trembling arm, held the steel aloft in the light.

“It bears an inscription—Saints of Heaven,
let me read—

And at the same moment, the Count Aldarin,
leaned trembling against a pillar for support, and
quaking in every nerve, one fearful thought possessed
his soul as he murmured in a hollow whisper,