University of Virginia Library

BOOK THE THIRD.
The Drial.
The Cloud is Dark with Doom and Fate.

1. CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE MAIDEN IN HER BOWER.

ALDARIN PICTURES TO THE LADYE ANNABEL
THE GLORIES OF A LIVING-TOMB.

A lamp of alabaster, placed upon a small table
of ebony, beside which was seated the Ladye Annabel,
threw its softened beams around the apartment,
and leaving the hangings, the stately bed,
and the luxurious couches, wrapt in twilight
shadow, cast a lovelier tint upon a vase of flowers
standing upon the table, and revealed the fair
maiden's countenance and figure in soft and rosy
light.

Her flaxen tresses, unrestrained by band or
cincture, fell in a golden shower over her delicate
neck and finely-turned shoulders; and streaming
along the full and swelling bosom, but half concealed
by the boddice of white, bordered by finest
lace they flowed soft and waving down to her
very feet.

The figure of the Ladye Annabel realized an
old saying, that nature shows all her art, and lavishes
the richest of her beauties, upon her smallest
creations.

In form slight and delicate, in stature somewhat
below the usual size, the proportions of Annabel
were of the most exquisite tracery of outline; her
arms, full and softly rounded, were terminated by
hands small and white, with tapering fingers; her
feet, thin and slender, and marked by an high instep,
supported ancles as finely turned, as the
movements of the maiden were light and graceful;
the well-proportioned waist arose in lovely gradation
into the bosom of rich and budding promise;
the neck, gently arching, and graceful in every
attitude, blended sweetly into the small and half
dimpling chin, that harmonized with the face of
loveliness and soul. “Right beauteous shone those
eyes of blue,” says the chronicler of the ancient
MS., “glancing pure thoughts and light-hearted
fancies; and right lovely were those glowing
cheeks, in which the snow-white of the fair countenance
bloomed into a roseate hue; and lovely
was the small mouth of parting lips, delicious in
their maiden ripeness; and sweet, surpassing
sweet, was the expression of that face, where love
and innocence beaming from every feature, seemed
like the golden fruit of fairy land, only waiting
to be gathered.”

Her face was a poem, written by the finger of
God, in characters of youth and bloom; a poem
whose theme was ever beauty and love, speaking
its meaning through the deep glance of a shadowy
eye, sending forth its messages of sweetness from
the smile of the wreathing lip, or preaching its
lessons of thought and purity by the calm glory
of the unclouded brow.

A face lovely as a dream, when dreams are
loveliest, with an outline of youth and bloom; a
brow clear, calm, and cloudless, over-arching the
eyes of azure, whose brightness seemed unfathomable;
with full and swelling cheeks, varying the
snow-white of the maiden's countenance by the
damask of the budding rose; a small mouth, with
curving lips; a chin all roundness and dimple, receding,
with a waving outline, into the neck, all
lightness and grace; while all around, the luxuriance
of her golden hair, unbound and uncinctured,
fell sweeping and waving, with a soft, airy
motion, as though the sunbeams shimmered round
the fairy countenance of the maiden.

Alone in her bower sate the Ladye Annabel,
her lip curving with scorn while she glanced at the
letter of his grace of Florence, as it was flung
along the floor, unopened and unheeded.

Her soul was agitated by the fearful memory of
the last three days of mystery and blood, and then
came confused and wandering thoughts of the
scenes she had witnessed but an hour since, in
the cavern of the dead. Her mind was lost in a
maze of never-ending doubts, when she contemplated
the fearful death of the late Count. She
had never for an instant believed that Adrian
could be guilty of the accursed act, neither had
she dreamed that it was her father's hand that
dealt the blow. The thought would have driven
her mad.

Suddenly her thoughts were agitated by a fearful
picture. She saw Adrian stretched bleeding
and dead upon the wheel—his limbs severed and
torn, and his brow scarred by the instruments of
torture, while the doomsman's laugh rang in her
ears! As the picture grew upon her mind in all
its horrible details: the glazed eye and the writhen
lip, the chest heaving with the convulsive sobs
of death, and the throat straining with the death
rattle, the maiden covered her face with her hands,
and shrieked:

“Save me, holy Mary, save me from these fearful
fancies!”

And as she spoke, the maiden burst into a
flood of tears.

“Annabel!” whispered a voice at once deeptened
and full of affection.

She looked up, and her father, the Count Aldarin,
stood before her.

“My daughter,” he continued, drawing a seat
beside her, “how dost thou like these?”

He opened a casket which he held in his hand,
and the light of the alabaster lamp flashed upon
ornaments of gold and silver, such as might not
shame a queen to wear. There were bracelets
for the wrists, there were chains for the arching
neck, gems for the brow, pearls to be woven in
the flowing hair; and as their bright and star-like
blaze met the eye of the Ladye Annabel, she gave
utterance to a cry of delight.

“I thank thee, father, I thank thee!” she exclaimed,
as, clasping a bracelet of gold, bordered
by pearls, around her fair and well-rounded wrist,
she received it with a glance of admiration. “See,
father, see! How beauteous are those pearls,
how bright that gold, and the shape—how exquisite!
O! father, this is kind of thee! 'Tis indeed
a rich gift!”

“It is a bridal gift!” exclaimed the Count, in
a low and quiet tone, and with his eyes fixed upon
his daughter's countenance, as if to note each varying
expression of the fair and lovely features.

Annabel started as if an adder had stung her.

“A bridal gift? Said you not so? A bridal
gift? From whom is it, my father?”

“His grace, the Duke of Florence, sends thee
this rare and costly present. He sends it with
his ardent wishes for thy health. He sends these
jewels with the hope that ere three days have run
their sands, he may behold them shining on the
brow of his fair bride—the Ladye Annabel, Duchess
of Florence.”

As in a calm and determined tone he spoke
these words, a deadly paleness came over the damsel's
face; her lips dropped apart, and her fair
blue eyes distended with a vacant look, the slender
fingers of each hand slowly straightened, unclasping
their grasp of the casket, which fell
heavily to the floor, as her arms dropped listlessly
by her side.

The old man surveyed his child for an instant
with a look which told of his deep, his yearning
affection, combined with the strange fancies ruling
his destiny through life. In an instant he again
spoke, and his voice, as it came from the depths
of his chest, sounded wild and thrilling to the
maiden's ear.

“My daughter!” said he, taking her by the
hand, “thou shalt wed this man!”

Annabel replied not.

“Thou shalt, I say, wed the Lord of Florence.
It must be so; therefore it were well that thou
dost prepare thee for the bridal. I say it shall be
so, my daughter. The word of Aldarin is passed!”

“Father,” replied the Ladye Annabel, in tremulous
tones; “father, O! look not so sternly at
me, your eyes chill my very heart. I would do
your bidding—the Virgin and all the saints witness
me, I would—but, father—”

“Annabel,” said the Count, in his deep tones
of enthusiasm, “I have said, it, and it shall be soWed
the Duke of Florence, and behold thyself a—
queen! All that heart can wish, or the wildest
fancy desire, shalt thou possess, and claim as thine
own. Wealth shall lavish its stores around thee,
and honour shall bring the fairest and the noblest
to bow low at the feet of the Ladye Annabel,
Duchess of Florence! Lo! thou art in the ducal
hall of Florence: behold thyself encircled by the
gay and glittering throng; a thousand eyes are
fixed upon thee in admiration, a thousand tongues
speak their words of eloquence but to syllable that
admiration, and a thousand swords, flashing in
the light, are slaves to the slightest word of Ladye
Annabel—the queen. The robes of a queen shall
gird this lovely form, the stars of a coronet shall
flash from that beauteous brow, and this fair hand,
so beautiful in its alabuster whiteness, shall wave
the sceptre over the heads of kneeling myriads!
With a queenly port and a flashing eye, thou
shalt look around thee, and behold the princely
halls illumined by lamps, diffusing at once both
light, soft as moonbeams, and fragrance sweeter
than the breath of spring flowers. The lofty windows,
with their rare carvings, shall give to view
gardens rich with golden fruit, won from the fair

lands of the East, fragrant with shrubbery and
gay with flowers, while ancient trees, in leafy
magnificence, sweep their arching bows overhead.
Fountains fling their columns of liquid diamonds
up from the arbored paths, lulling waterfalls soothe
the ear, distant music wakes delightful visions in
the soul, solemn palaces, in all their grandeur of
outline, break through the air of night! Palaces,
gardens, unbounded wealth, rank, pride, place,
honor—all, all shall be thine own!”

“All, my father, all—all—but love.”

As Annabel spoke, her eyes filled with tears,
and her voice was choked with the sobs that convulsed
her bosom. To say that the picture of the
Count had no effect upon the maiden, would be
uttering an absurd and unnatural fiction. In
bright and glowing colors arose the gorgeous pageantry
before the mind of Annabel: it was all
that a woman could wish, the fruition of a woman's
most ardent aspiration. With Adrian, the companion
of her childhood, the princely palace would
have been like an abode of fairy land; with the
Duke, it would have been a living-tomb—a golden
sepulchre for the living-dead.

The answer of Aldarin was contemptous and
bitter.

“Love!—a dream—a phantom—a bubble!—
Love, forsooth! the vision of warm-blooded youth,
which all have felt, and none but fools obey. Girl,”
continued he, “I have said thou shouldst wed the
Duke, and—by my soul!—thou shalt wed him!
My word—the word of Aldarin—is passed. Think
not to deceive me. I know thy motive in thus
setting the bidding of a father at defiance. It is
because thou dost affect the murderer of my only
brother,—of thy kind uncle,—the PARRICIDE,
Adrian—”

O! father, he cannot—cannot be the doer of so
dread a crime.”

“Who, then,” exclaimed the Count, bitterly,
“who then was the doer of so dread a crime?
Speak; my fair daughter, who was't?”

“It was thou!” exclaimed a voice that sounded
strange and hollow through the lonely apartment.

“Holy Mary, preserve us!” shrieked Annabel.
“Father, whence came that fearful voice?”

The Count Aldarin replied not. The convulsive
motion that heaved his breast, and strained
the lineaments of his countenance, showed that
he was making a desperate attempt to command
his soul.

“'Tis naught, my daughter,” he began; “'tis
fancy—'tis—”

He finished the sentence by a howl of horror,
that might have been uttered by a lost soul. Annabel
beheld him gazing fixedly at some object
behind her. She turned her head and saw a vision
that drove the life current back from her
heart.

A figure arrayed in the snow-white attire of
the grave, looked with a pale and ghastly countenance,
and hollow eyes, from among the folds of
the crimson tapestry on the opposite side of the
apartment.

With freezing blood, Annabel beheld the figure
advance with a slow and measured step towards
her. Her consciousness failed, and she fell insensible
on the floor, at the same instant that Aldarin
sank down with a yell of despair, while his mouth
frothed, and his eyes glared like those of a maniac.

On toward the light advanced the figure in
white. In a moment it stood beside the prostrate
forms of the father and child, and having gazed at
them for an instant, it threw back the robe from
its head, and the beams of the lamp flashed over
the wan and ghastly face of the strange figure.

“Ha—ha—ha!” he laughed, in tones sepulchral
with famine, “methinks I've frightened the
old caitiff enow! O, St. Withold! but I do feel
this fiend, Hunger, gnawing with its serpent teeth
at my very heart! Nothing to eat for three days
and as many nights! And this hand—half severed
at the finger joints—throbbing with pain all
the while! Thanks to the hard lessons of a soldier's
life, that taught me to wrap this rough bandage
round the wound! Had it been my good right
hand—St. Withold!—Robin had been a dead man
three days ago! True, I did make out to
crawl toward one of the dead soldiers in the cavern.
How sweetly the wine in his flask gurgled
down my parched throat! I am faint with lack
of food. By a soldier's faith, I could eat a whole
ox! St. Withold, an' I do not get some nourishment
in the shortest time possible, I may as well
wrap me up in this pall, so as to be ready for burial!
Ugh! the priest shall not say his prayers
over thee yet, my friend Robin; courage.”

Having first divested himself of the funeral pall
of the late lord, the famished soldier strode across
the apartment, and opening the door that led into
the ante chamber, he discovered Guiseppo and
Rosalind seated upon one of the couches, apparently
in the most amiable humor with each other.

“Look ye, sir page,” exclaimed Robin, as he
showed his wan and wasted features through the
opened door, “an' ye stir not yourself right quickly,
your master will be dead; and, fair damsel,

the same may be said of your mistress, the Ladye
Annabel.”

Rosalind shrieked with affright at the hollow
voice and shrunken figure of the bold yeoman,
and Guiseppo sprang with one bound from the
couch half way across the apartment.

“Fear not, Rosalind,” he cried drawing his
dagger. “If it be a devil, I defy it in God's name;
and if it be a man why I will try what this good
steel can do.”

“Tut, tut,” exclaimed Robin, “put up your
cheese-knife boy. Come hither. Know you me
not?”

“No more than I do the devil.”

“Mayhap then, fair Sir, you have heard of a
certain youth, who on the night before he departed
from the castle—the castle where his infancy had
been passed—to be a page at court, took occasion
to pour a sleeping potion into the wine of a certain
yeoman; and then shaving one side of the yeoman's
face; concluded by tying a dead cat around
his neck, thus making an honest soldier a mock of
laughter for all the castle. Did'st ever hear of
such a page? Eh? Guiseppo?”

“Why the Virgin bless me,” exclaimed Rosalind,
“It's Rough Robin!”

“Eh?” cried the page with a stare of astonishment.

“If you value your life, Guiseppo,” continued
the yeoman; “Hie away, and bring me a dozen
flasks of wine or so, and a round of beef. Speak
not a word, but haste away. I am nigh starved to
death, and the devil may tempt me to cut a slice
from the trim figure of a certain page; away!”

As Guiseppo, left the apartment, Rosalind asked
the bold yeoman, where he had been for the
past three days, and wherefore he looked so much
like a ghost risen from the dead merely for its own
amusement.

“My Lord the Count Aldarin,” replied Robin
with a grim smile, “despatched me—upon a long
journey, to arrange matters of business entirely
relating to himself.”

Having thus spoken, he again entered the bower
of the Ladye Annabel, and laying hold of the
senseless body of Aldarin, he dragged him into the
ante-chamber, and then returned to assist the
damsel Rosalind in the recovery of her mistress.

2. CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE LADY AND THE YEOMAN.

When the Ladye Annabel opened her fair blue
eyes, she gazed hurriedly around the apartment
until her glance was met by that of the bold yeoman.
She gave a faint scream, and her form trembled
with affright.

`St. Withold!” exclaimed the yeoman—“but I
do seem to frighten every one that looks at me,
into fits. Fear me not, Ladye Annabel—'Tis I—
Rough Robin—I would speak a few words to thee.
The import of what I have to say is of a fearful
nature.”

“Ah!” said Annabel, “of what would you
speak?”

Robin whispered a word in her ear.

The maiden gave a convulsive start. She clasped
her hands and looked wildly in the yeoman's
face, as she exclaimed—

“How was't done?—The doer of this deed—who
was't?”

“Pardon me, Lady. For three long days and
nights have I been without sustenance—I am faint
—my brain burns, and mine hands tremble.”

The Ladye Annabel made a sign to Rosalind,
who was leaving the room, when she was met at
the door by Guiseppo, bearing a wine flask in one
hand, while the other supported a dish containing
the fragments of a venison pasty.

“Bold Robin,” said Guiseppo, “I contrived to
abstract these from the wine cellar and the kitchen,
without being noticed. I thought your business
might require secrecy.”

“Thanks, Sir Page, thanks—and now,” continued
the yeoman—“an thou lovest thy Lord Adrian,
wait in the ante-chamber, and see that no one enters.
Fair Rosalind, I am waiting to close the
door.”

As he said this he gently pushed the damsel
thro' the doorway, and carefully drawing the bolt
he seated himself opposite Annabel. He then
placed the pasty on his knee, and with a trembling
hand filled a silver goblet to the very brim with
wine. With all the nervous eagerness of famine,
he lifted the capacious vessel to his lips, when he
beheld a pale, cadaverous, spectre-like face dancing
in the ruddy glow of the wine.

“St. Withold! 'Tis no wonder I have scared
every body with my dried up visage!” He drained
the goblet to the last drop. “S'death I'm frightened
at that deaths-head myself.”

He then plunged one hand into the pasty, and
raising a piece of the rich crust, he devoured it in
an instant; then lifting the flask to his mouth, he
poured the luscious liquid down his throat, and
his sinews and veins began to rise and well, a
ruddy glow ran over his ashy face, while the supernatural

brightness of his eyes, gave place to a
healthy, twinkling glance.

There was a pause of some ten minutes.

“St. Withold! but I thank thee!” cried the yeoman,
as his eyes filled with a liquid which bore a
strange resemblance to tears of joy—“Holy Mary,
Holy Peter, and Holy Paul, ye shall have a wax
candle apiece; instead of one to all of ye!”

The Ladye Annabel who had watched his movements
with the greatest impatience, now exclaimed—

“For heaven's sake, good Robin, speak. What
dost thou know of the fearful deed”—she looked
hurriedly around the room—“Of the murder?”

“Ladye” replied the yeoman, “I'm a rough,
blunt soldier—I know little of courtly manners,
but so help me St. Withold, I would peril—I
would sacrifice my life, to serve thee and—Lord
Adrian—”

“Adrian? What knowest thou of Adrian? For
heaven's sake speak.” Her very soul glanced
from her eyes as she continued.—“Oh, God! thou
surely wilt not say that he—Adrian—is—is—The
Murderer?”

“St. Withold!” muttered Robin, “but I have got
myself into a nice predicament. Ladye I would
say no such falsehood.”

“It is a falsehood then?—Thanks—Holy Mary,
from my soul, unfeigned thanks!”

“It is not Adrian: but Ladye—heaven help thee
to bear it—the murderer is one who is mayhap as
beloved of thee, as is Lord Adrian.”

“One as beloved?” murmured Annabel—“surely
there is no one as beloved as Adrian, no
one save my father. Thou triflest with me, Robin.”

“Nay Ladye I trifle not—again I say it is the
one who is as dear to thee as Lord Adrian.”

One word came from the maiden's lips.

“O! God!” she shrieked, as if some awful thought
had riven her brain. She said never a word more,
but her bosom which a moment past rose and fell
convulsively, now became stilled; the excited flush
of her cheeks died away into an ashy paleness,
her lip lost its eager expression, her eyelids closed
stiffly, and she fell heavily as a corse from her
seat.

Robin sprang forward and extended his arms in
time to prevent her from falling to the floor.

“I am a very fool,” he said, bitterly reproaching
himself—“a dolt, an idiot—a mere wearer of the
motley doublet—a jingler of the belled cap would
have known better. St. Withold, but I am an
ass!”

Having his own reasons for not calling assistance
from the ante-room, he used all kinds of expedients
to restore the Ladye Annabel to consciousness.
He chafed the fair and delicate hands,
he deluged the brow as white as snow, with perfumed
liquids contained in silver bottles standing
upon the table; and after a lapse of a quarter of an
hour he had the gratification of seeing her eyes
unclose, and feeling her heart beat as he held her
form in his arms.

The Ladye Annabel faintly spoke—“I have had
a fearful—fearful dream. The Virgin save me
from the dark spirits that inspire such fancies. I
thought of thee—of thee, my father!” She paused
suddenly as she caught a view of the yeoman's
face. “Thou here!” she exclaimed in surprise,
“wherefore is this?”

“St. Withold!” muttered the confused Robin,
fearful of again referring to the late subject of horror.
“Why Ladye, in truth I am here—because
I am—not here—that is to say—s'death Ladye, I
came here to serve ye.”

“To serve me?” said Annabel wonderingly,
“how wouldst thou serve me?”

“Ladye,” cried the yeoman in utter despair of
his ability to convey his ideas in a circuitous manner.
“Ladye would you wed this Duke of Florence?”

“Sooner would I die!”

“How will you avoid the bridal?”

“God only knows,” said Annabel, as she stood
erect, “to his care do I confide myself. I have
read legends of dames and damsels who have
raised the dagger against their own lives when
terrors such as threaten me, rose before their eyes,
—but I cannot—cannot do it! All I can do”—and
her head sunk low upon her bosom, and her arms
drooped by her side—“all I can do is, to pray,
earnestly pray; upon my bended knees beseech
the Virgin that I may die!”

“Cheer thee up, fair ladye—cheer thee up,”
thus Robin spoke, “by the troth of an honest
soldier, I swear that I will be near thee when the
hour of thy peril draws nigh. I swear that my
life shall be sacrificed to save thee!—And now I
must be gone. This castle can no longer be Rough
Robin's home. God be with ye!”

The Ladye Annabel placed a purse of gold in
Robin's hand, and with many blessing on his

head, she beheld him disappear into the anteroom.

Rosalind entered the room—Annabel exclaimed—

“Retire for a little while, fair coz: I would be
alone.”

As the black-eyed maiden retired, the Ladye
Annabel sank down into a seat, and gave herself
up to the wild and agitating thoughts that flashed
through her brain.

The first beams of the coming morn shot
through the tapestry that well nigh concealed the
casement of the maiden's bower.

Annabel had fallen into a welcome slumber,
and the soft beams of the lamp fell upon her calm
and innocent face, revealing each feature in the
mildest light, and softest shade.

A figure emerged from the tapestry, and advanced
to the light. Adrian stood beside the
sleeping maiden. His face was exceedingly pale
and covered with blood, as also was the helmet,
and the plates of the armour of azure steel. In
one hand he grasped the furled banner of the
Winged Leopard.

He turned and sought his place of concealment
with a heavy heart; but ere he turned, he
cast one deep, one agonizing look upon the lovely
maiden.

“She is happy!—my wrongs shall not disturb
her innocent soul—Farewell—my own loved—
Annabel—farewell.”

A kiss that told of heart-felt affection he impressed
upon her ruby lips, and as he took a last
fond, ardent gaze, a burning tear fell upon the
unstained cheek of the Ladye Annabel.

3. CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL.

THE SCENE CHANGES TO THE MOUNTAIN
LAKE, WHERE THE TRAGEDY OF THE
HOUSE OF ALBARONE WILL AT
LAST COME TO AN END.

Far away among the mountains, the sunlight
loves to linger, and the moonbeam is wont to dwell
among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley overshadowed
by rugged steeps, that frown above and
darken around a calm and silvery lake, embosomed
amid the solitudes of the wild forest hills.

Around on every side, arise the hills, magnifi
cent with the shade of the sombre pine, leafy
with the branching oak, or verdant with the luxuriance
of the green chesnut tree, while chasms
yawn in the sunlight, ravines darken, and fearful
rocks, bare and rugged in their outline, tower
far above the forest trees, away into the clear
azure of the summer sky.

The hills sweep round the valley in a circular
form, describing the outlines of the sides of a
drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid waters
of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal
vessel, giving a clue to the strange name of
this place of solitude—The Valley of the
Bowl.

This quiet vale is situated some few miles from
Florence, amid the same wild range of mountains
that encircle the haunt of the members of the
Holy Steel.

The light of the summer morning sun, was
streaming gaily over the roofs of a wild mountain
hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake,
flinging its golden beams over the outline of each
rugged hut, with tottering walls, or rustic tenement,
with its ancient stones overgrown with
leafy vines, when a group of peasants were gathered
along the roadside, at some small distance
from the village, in earnest and energetic conversation.

A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad
in the garish apparel of a Postillion of the olden
times, stood in the centre of the group, while
around him were clustered a circle of the buxom
mountain damsels, with their heads inclined towards
each other, their arms and hands moving
in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke
on the air, from the glib prattling of their busy
tongues.

“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a
tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very
swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it's in vain you
try to make a fool of me. I don't believe any such
thing—that's all.”

Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with
his finger along his chin, and at last discovered
a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with
great gravity, at the same time looking intently
upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening
star in broad day-light.

“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good
Signior Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom

Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes
not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you,
Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just
about dark, as I was walking near you cottage
on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a
chestnut on the other—”

“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta,
“mean you the cottage which the tall, strange
old woman hired but yesterday?”

“The very same. Well, just as I was walking
there, all alone, I heard a footstep!—”

“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished
by hair of glowing red.

“Our Lady!—but you do not say so?” exclaimed
the other.

“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the
bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage,
and he was followed by a big, rough soldier;
and he was followed by such a handsome cavalier,
dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all
—he wore such a fine, dancing feather in his cap!
Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the
evening twilight!”

“What colour were his eyes?” asked Loretta.

“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.

“I suppose you will say next, that he had a
manly figure? eh?” and the youth pulled his
slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then
halting on one leg, he threw the other forward,
while with his arms placed akimbo, he seemed
waiting for somebody or other to take his portrait.

“To be sure he had a manly figure,” returned
Dolabella, glancing contemptuously at the bow-legged
youth; “he was none of your whipper-snapping,
strutting, and boasting postillions; he
was none of your conceited—”

“Dolabella!” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic
tone.

“Well, Signior Francisco?”

“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict
yonder?”

He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of
the monastery, which rising among the forest-trees
on the western side of the lake, was crected
on the height of a precipitous cliff, that arose in
rugged grandeur from the bosom of the mountain
waters.

The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the
dark towers of the monastery, over the surrounding
forest-trees, and along the recesses of the gardens,
that varied the appearance of the wild-wood
beyond the ancient walls, and the white cliff gave
its broad surface to the light of day, yet there was
an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the
dark towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens,
while the reflection of the scene in the deep
and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so calm,
so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it
looked more like the creation of an artist's pencil,
than a landscape of the living world.

As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark
walls of the monastery, an involuntary thrill ran
around the group of peasant damsels, and there
was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.

“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured
Dolabella, “Francisco, fear you not to make you
strange house the subject of your jests, even in
broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant
of these mountains grows pale at the mention of
yon gloomy fabric!”

“'Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held
strange festivals within those dark grey walls in
the olden time.”

“Even now, no one knows anything concerning
the monks of this monastery. They give to the
mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal
blessing—yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are
abroad, and muttered whispers speak of midnight
orgies that it would shame an honest maiden to
name, held within yon darksome house!”

“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest
not. I am in earnest—by the True Cross, am I.
Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened
precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself
from the rock, down into the ravine—and—and—
mark me—if on some very bright and agreeable
morning I should be found laying at the foot of
the awful steep, scattered into a thousand fragments—then
think of the victim of your perfidy,
Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta,
think of the miserable fate of Francisco—your
victim—with remorse—with bitter remorse!”

Having thus given the damsels to understand
that among them all, his heart was certainly broken,
the little postillion strutted away with folded
arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense
strides he took with his inverted legs, it did
really seem that he had been hired to measure the
greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest
possible number of steps.

The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by
a burst of laughter.

“I'll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella.
“This little whipper-snapper has been making love

to all three of us, for nearly two years. Let us
pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange
cavalier at the cottage.”

“O yes—yes!” cried Theresa.

“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.

“That will bring Signior Postillion to terms,”
continued the tall damsel, “and besides, girls, we'll
learn all about this strange old woman.”

“This strange priest!” said Loretta.

“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.

And presently they separated; each determining
to out-wit the other; both in regard to the strangers
in the cottage on the hill, and to the securing of
the gallant postillion Francisco, who to do him
justice, had those two important qualities necessary
to winning the heart of a vain woman—a
glib tongue and a rare knack of making presents
of all sorts of garish finery.

4. CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE BRIDAL EVE.

THE HEBREW AND THE ARAB-MUTE ENTER
THE COURT YARD OF ALBARONE, WHILE
THE LADYE ANNABEL IS PASSING
TO THE CHAPEL OF SAINT
GEORGE.

The azure sky was glowing with the mild
warmth of the summer twilight, the zenith was
all mellowed with the light of the declining day,
the western horizon was varied by alternate flashes
of gold and crimson, when the ancient Castle of
Albarone, thro' every hall and corridor, rang with
the shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of
festival revelry.

Streaming from the various towers of the castle,
pennons of strange colors and curious emblazonry,
waved fluttering in the evening air, each flag,
the trophy of some hard fought battle, while high
over all, waving from the loftiest tower, the broad
banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous
folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto
in letters of gold, and the Winged Leopard, to the
ruddy glare of the western sky.

The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis,
gave admittance to numerous bands of
peasantry, wending from the various tenements,
that dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in
their holiday costume, while the air echoed with
their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or
the gay carol, rang from side to side. All along
the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro' the
luxuriant wood, circling round its base, hurried
the peasant bands, their attire of picturesque
beauty, giving variety and contrast to the
scene, while now loitering in groups, now hastening
one by one toward the castle, they peopled the
highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into
the court yard of the castle.

Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and
unaccompanied save by a solitary attendant there
strode wearily forward a personage who to all appearance
ranked among a far-scattered people, at
once the scorn and fear of Christendom.

Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied
by numerous patches, with a piked staff in his
hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape,
strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching
hat which defended the head of the Jew, revealed
a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in expression,
marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance
seemed skilled in reading the hearts of men, a
bold prominent nose, while the lower part of his
checks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by
a stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his
girdle, mingling with the long and curling locks
of sable hue, that gave their impressive relief to
the outline of the Hebrew's countenance.

By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant,
to all appearance a youth of some twenty winters,
yet his tawny face, marked by bold and regular
features, half-concealed by masses of jet black
hair, falling aside from his forehead, in elf-like
curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle between the
brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild
and wandering eye, that glanced from side to side
with a restless and nervous glance, that seemed
to peruse the face of every man who came within
its gaze, and read the characters and motives of
all who journeyed onward to the castle.

Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest
serge, the Servitor of the Hebrew, bore on his
shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to
oppress its bearer with an unusal weight, for he
well-nigh tottered under the load.

Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which
assailed him from every side, the Hebrew crossed
the drawbridge, and passing under the portcullis
he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard
where unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich
and gaudy stores to the eyes of the wondering
multitude, while his servitor also displayed his
pack to their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable,
his arms folded, and his wild eyes glaring
strangely over the faces of the crowd.

“Who'll buy—who'll buy?” cried the Hebrew,
in the suppliant voice of trade, as casting his eyes
around the court-yard, he surveyed the brilliant
scene at a glance.

Around, all dark and time-worn, the walls of
the castle—each casement blazing with torches—
looked down upon various groups of the peasantry
and servitors of Albarone, some engaged in light
and gleesome gossip, while others were hurrying
hither and thither, on errands pertaining to the
feast which was to grace the castle hall on the
morrow.

In front of the high arching roof of the kitchen
stood the grey haired, sharp featured, and sharp
voiced Steward of the castle, engaged in superintending
the operations of a number of hinds, who
were severing the limbs of various fat bucks, and
cutting up certain lusty beeves, and preparing various
kinds of game, for the vast fire that blazed on
the kitchen hearth.

Farther on, a minstrel was entertaining a circle
of peasants, with the song of love, or the tale of
knightly valor; at a short distance, the privileged
fool, with his cap and bells, and fantastic dress,
was uttering his merry quips and far-fetched jests,
which ever and anon he varied by a nimble summersault,
while the gaping crowd held their sides
as their boisterous laughter broke upon the ear,
with all its jovial discord and dissonance.

“Who'll buy! who'll buy!” shouted the Jew,
“here's broaches for ye damsels fair—broaches and
gauds, rings for your fingers, and crosses of ebony
for your bosoms. Look ye how this heart of gold
would sink and swell on a maiden's snow white
breast! Here's plumes for the warriors' helmet;
daggers for his belt, and trappings for his steed.
Who'll buy! who'll buy!—Here's ornaments of
gold and silver for the doublet of the page, essences
for his flowing hair, and chains for his neck.—
Who'll buy—who'll buy.—Broaches, gauds, rings,
gems, plumes, belts, trappings, perfumes, chains,
lace of gold! Who'll buy! Who'll buy! Gentles,
list ye all! Chains, laces of gold, perfumes, trappings,
belts, plumes, gems, rings, gauds, broaches.
Who'll buy! who'll buy!”

“The Virgin save us all!” exclaimed Guiseppo
who stood among the crowd that gathered round
the Israelite, “the Virgin save us all, but there's
a tongue for you, my good folks.”

This was said with an attitude of mock astonishment,
and corresponding grimace of the features.

“An' my tongue suits ye so well, gentle sir, mayhap
you'll try some of my wares?”

“What have you, Sir Gripe-fist, that it would become
me to buy?”

“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything.
Except three wares with which the great merchant
—Nature—must provide him, or else he'll make
but a sorry page.”

“And those wares—how do you style them?”
asked the page.

“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure
look, “the first ware is somewhat dull and heavy,
it is labelled—Impudence—may it please thee
fair Page.”

“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo,
half amused and half angered. “How name
you the second ware? Eh? Leatherface?”

“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly
“the second ware is light and feathery. It bears
the name—Self-conceit. As for the third—”

“Aye the third, interrupted the page. “Go on
my black bearded friend—go on—I'll borrow a
good oaken towel to rub you down, when you
have done.”

“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two
others are made. It is heavier and duller than
Impudence, and lighter and more feathery than
Self conceit, they style it Ignorance. And these
three wares are the sole contents of the cob-webhung
storehouse of Sir Page's brain. An' it likes
thee, fair sir?”

The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.

“Ha—ha—ha! fairly hit! Ho—ho—ho! The
Jew turns Scholar, and preaches like a monk.—
He—he—he! The trim Page is hit—fairly hit.”
Such were the exclamations that went around the
laughing crowd.

“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!”
exclaimed Guiseppo, brandishing an oaken staff;
“here's at thee!”

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed one of the spectators,
“thou art fairly hit, sir Guiseppo.”

“Aye, aye, fairly hit,” cried another; and
“The Jew has paid thee in thine own coin,” a
third shouted, throwing himself in the path of the
page.

“Nay, nay, let him come!” cried the Jew, with
a sneer. “Let him come. I'll tame his page-ship.”

“Dost thou mock me, thou dog!” As he spoke,
the page raised his oaken staff, and whirling it
around his head, he aimed with all his strength at
the sconce of the Jew, who coolly turned aside

the blow with his upraised arm, and in an instant
he had Guiseppo by the throat. He whispered a
word in the ear of the page, and then, unloosing
his hold, he began to gather up his wares.

The eyebrows of the page elevated with astonishment,
and his lips parted. The bystanders
gathered around Guiseppo with various expressions
of their surprise at the sudden change that
had passed over him.

“Why stare you so?” exclaimed a peasant
maid.

“Art mad?” asked one of the yeomen of the
guard.

“Perhaps moon-struck?” suggested another.

Guiseppo made no reply, but walked slowly
away, while the Jew remained standing in the
centre of the group, with his servitor waiting silently
by his side.

“Look ye, son of Moses,” cried one of the yeomen,
advancing toward the Jew, “why stands this
man of thine so silent and still? He moves not,
nor does he speak; but his wild eye is glancing
hither and thither like a fire-coal. Why does he
stand thus mute and speechless?”

A grim smile passed over the bearded features of
the Jew.

“Ask a post why it does not speak, or ask a
war-horse to troll ye a merry song! You are a
keen yeoman and a shrewd, yet did it ne'er strike
ye that my servitor might be incapable of speech?
A poor Arab boy, gentle sirs and damsels, whose
dying father gave him to my care, when perishing
on the field of battle, in the wilds of Palestine,
some twenty years agone.”

“A son of the paynim Mahound,” muttered
the yeoman, with a look of scorn.

“Nay, he is of the faith of Christ,” interrupted
the Jew. “Behold, he wears the cross of Rome!”

“A sweet youth, and gentle-faced, though somewhat
sad in look,” murmured a pleasant matron,
gazing with a look of pity upon the tawny face of
the Arab mute.

And while the group of peasant men and women
clustered around the Jew and his Arab boy,
a cry ran through the castle yard, echoed from
lip to lip, and repeated by the crowd thronging
the place, until the air seemed alive with the shout:

She comes, she comes! The fair Ladye Annabel
is passing to the chapel of St. George! Make
way for the betrothed! Make way for the Ladye
Annabel! Make way for the Duchess of Florence!”

In a moment the court-yard was occupied by
two files of men-at-arms, who extended from the
great steps, ascending to the massive door of the
castle hall, along the level space, making a lane
for the passage of the Ladye Annabel and her
train, while the crowd came thronging to the
backs of the warriors, gathering around the staircase,
and blackening on every side, eager to behold
the betrothed of his grace the Duke of Florence.

Foremost among the throng at the bottom of
the stairway, his pack lashed to his back, and a
small casket in his hands, the black-bearded Jew
appeared to take great interest in the scene progressing
before his eyes. The Arab mute stood
at his back, half concealed from view, and unseen
or unnoticed by well nigh all the servitors and
vassals of Albarone, In after times, some of the
vassals remembered well that they observed the
wild eyes of the Arabian glaring fiercely over the
shoulder of the Jew, while his right hand was
thrust within the folds of his coarse gaberdine,
and his entire appearance denoted a mind agitated
by some fierce resolve or determined purpose.

A low, solemn peal of music broke on the air,
and a ruddy blaze of light was thrown from the
recesses of the massive hall doors. In a moment
a band of cavaliers, attired in all the glitter of
spangled cloak and waving plume, came issuing
from the hall, and took their position along either
side of the staircase, each gay cavalier holding a
torch on high, while the gleaming light revealed
each handsome face, wearing the polished smile,
and the costumes varied with strange fancies of
embroidery, and fashioned after every manner of
device, were disclosed in all their luxuriance and
splendor.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the
gaily-attired form of his grace of Florence issued
from the hall door, followed by the slight figure of
the Count Aldarin. As they took their positions
on either side of the hall door, the crowd below
had time to notice the strange contrast between
the Lord of Albarone and the Duke of Florence.
Aldarin, pale in face, slender in form, attired in
his robes of solemn black, the cap of costly fur on
his forehead, with the blaze of a single gem relieving
its midnight darkness, standing silent and
motionless on one side of the hall door, his keen
grey eyes half hidden by his brows, as though he
was absent with thoughts of more than mortal interest.
The Duke, the gallant Duke, all show,
and glitter, and costume, a doublet of white satin

encircling his well-proportioned form, a cloak of
the most delicate crimson depending from his left
shoulder, the hilt of his jewelled sword glittering
in the light; while his dainty cap of pink velvet,
with the snow-white plume thrown aside from its
front, surmounted his vacant face, marked by the
neatly circled hair, the carefully trimmed moustache
and beard. His eyes glared vacantly to and
fro, and it might easily be seen tkat his grace of
Florence was on a mental excursion after his looking
glass.

The flashing of torches heralded the approach
of the Ladye Annabel, who presently emerged
from the hall door, followed by a long line of the
bower maidens, arrayed, like their mistress, in
flowing robes, white as the mountain snow untouched
by the summer sun. The face of the Ladye
Annabel was pale as the attire that enveloped
her slender form, and she leaned for support on
the arm of her black-eyed cousin, the damsel Rosalind.

Pale and beautiful, the victim of the sacrifice of
the morrow neither returned the deep inclination
of the head with which the Duke of Florence
greeted her appearance nor glanced upon the countenance
of her father; but slowly moved down
the steps of stone, her eyes downcast, and her face
calm as the sculptured marble.

“She is pale,” murmured Aldarin, “pale as
death! She walks with the measured step of the
victim walking to the living tomb!”

“I'faith, she is beautiful!” muttered the Duke.
“My bride will hang like a pleasant costume on
this royal arm!”

The black-bearded Hebrew gazed upon the Ladye
Annabel with a keen and searching eye, while
the Arab mute, standing at his back, bowed his
head low on his breast, and veiled his face with
one hand, as the other was thrust within the
folds of his coarse doublet.

Slowly the procession ascended the steps of
stone, one foot of the betrothed was upon the pavement
of the castle yard, when a rushing sound
was heard, a hurried footstep, and the Jew rushed
through the men-at-arms—flinging himself at the
maiden's feet, he threw open the casket which he
held in his hand.

“Fair ladye,” he cried, in a deep-toned voice,
“It is the lace—the lace of price, which two days
since I promised to procure thee. 'Tis worth its
weight in gold—aye, an hundred times over!
Look, ladye—'tis the best that gold or favor might
procure.”

The Ladye Annabel started at the uncouth appearance
and bearded face of the Jew, while the
bystanders seemed struck dumb with his audacity.

In an instant cries of execration arose on all
sides. The Count Aldarin advanced hastily to his
daughter's side, while the Duke of Florence muttured
an involuntary oath, as two of the men-at-arms
raised their swords to hew the Israelite to
the very earth. It was a fearful moment, and the
Jew seemed to feel that his fate was wavering
like the sunbeam on the point of a brightened
dagger. He made a quick gesture to the Arab
mute, he seized the wrist of the fair Rosalind, and
looking her earnestly in the face, whispered a
hurried word in the maiden's ear, deep and piercing
in its import, yet inaudible to the group clustered
around.

Rosalind turned pale, started quickly aside, but
in a moment seemed chiding herself for this folly,
as with a smile on her lip she spoke to the Ladye
Annabel in a low and murmured tone. Annabel
started, with the quick convulsive start that follows
an overwhelming surprise.

She started, but in a moment recovering herself,
she exclaimed with a firm voice, and extended
arms—

“Touch him not—do the Jew no harm! It is
by my command that he is here. Sir Merchant,”
she continued, with a smile of kindly meaning,
“you will wait for me, in the hall of the castle—
there will I look at your wares when the evening
mass is done.”

“This is wondrous strange,” murmured Aldarin.
“Some changing woman's fancy, I trow—”

“Certes, the lace must be rare in texture, and
quaint in device!” half muttered the Duke. “Yet
I never knew that there was magic in the mere
mention of such costly gear, before this moment!”

The men-at-arms released the Jew, and the
procession passed on towards the more distant
precincts of the castle, where the light of many
torches presently streamed from the arching windows
of the chapel of St. George of Albarone, showing
in full and beautiful relief the snow-white
forms of the maidens, passing through the sacred
door of the church, followed by the Count Aldarin
and the Duke, environed by the glittering throng
of cavaliers.

Meanwhile, alone and in the darkness, deserted
by the crowd, near the halt door, stood the Hebrew
and his Mute Servitor, gazing ardently upon the
receding procession, until the last cavalier disappeared
within the walls of the chapel. Then it
was that a grim smile passed over the bearded face
of the Jew, while the Arab boy started wildly
aside clenching his hands with sudden agitation,
as the strains of the Holy Mass, floating from the
chapel, broke upon his ear.

An hour passed. The holy ceremonies of religion
had ceased to echo through the walls of the
chapel, the Ladye Annabel attended by her maidens
had again passed into the castle hall; and beside
one of the pillars of the lofty door, stood the
gallant Guiseppo, his arms folded and his eyes
fixed upon the heavens above. Guiseppo was enrapt
in the mysteries of a sombre study. He was
just wondering what the stars could be made of,
whether they were veritable balls of fire, unstable
meteors, or angel's eyes—how it chanced that
they were lighted up so regularly every night,
stormy ones of course excepted—where they went
in day-time—and then he fell to thinking of angels,
fairies, and other beings made all out of air—
and from angels it was quite natural that his
thoughts should pass to woman; and with the
thought of woman came dim, floating visions of
ancles well turned, black eyes beaming like living
things, ruby lips wreathing in a smile, while they
wooed the kiss of love. There is no knowing how
far his musings might have gone, had he not been
disturbed by the sound of a footstep breaking the
silence of the castle yard. He looked in the direction
from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld
a strange figure, clad in solemn black, approaching
from the gloom of the court-yard. It
drew nearer and nearer, and Guiseppo beheld the
form of the Scholar Aldarin. He came slowly onward,
toward the light burning over the hail door'
and the Page remembered in after life that his
face was most ghastly to behold, most fearful to
look upon.

His head drooped upon his breast over his folded
arms, his eyes dilated to their utmost, glaring
vacantly on the earth, while his lips moved in
broken murmurs, the Scholar ascended the steps
of stone, as the Page observed him from the shadow
of a massive pillar.

“It hastens, it hastens to perfection—THE MIGHTY
SPELL! The marriage—ha, ha, Duchess of Florence!—
He shall live again—ha, ha! the world
shall not say Aldarin toiled in vain! The secret
—a few more days—Aldarin lives forever!”

And as the murmurs broke wildly from his
lips the Scholar disappeared within the shadow of
the hall door, leaving the careless Guiseppo to the
memory of that fearful face, while his cheek grew
pale, and his whole frame trembled with an indefinable
fear. How long he remained in this state
he knew not, but after a long lapse of dreamy
reverie, he was startled by a slight tap on his
shoulder.

Looking around, he beheld the beaming eyes of
the fair Rosalind fixed upon him with a glance
which for the moment banished the face of Aldarin
from his mind, and made his heart knock sadly
against his breast.

“What wouldst have, Rosalind?”

The maiden whispered in his ear.

It was curious to see the change that came over
the countenance of the page; the pallor vanished
from his visage, which swelled out on either side
as though he had an orange in each cheek, his lips
were curiously pursed, while his eyes rolled about
in his head after a strange fashion.

“Eh? Rosalind?” he cried, as if he had not understood
her aright.

Again did the maiden whisper in his ear.

“By our Lady!” exclaimed Guiseppo, “but this
does exceed everything that I ever did hear. Art
not crazed, sweetheart?”

“Say, Guiseppo, wilt do it for my sake?”

The bewitching smile with which this was said,
appeared to complete the conquest of the page.

“I'll obey thee,” he cried, “but surely 'tis a
strange request.”

“Strange? nonsense! Never call the whim of
woman—strange! Hie thee away and do't immediately.
I will tell thee more concerning this
matter in the evening. Away! away!”

And as the lovely damsel tripped lightly down
the steps and wended her way toward the castle
gate, on an errand whose import may possibly be
revealed in future pages of this history, the Page
Guiseppo entered the hall of the castle, while his
frame shook with a pleasant fit of inward laughter.

5. CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE BRIDAL MORN.

THE WEDDING GUESTS CIRCLE ROUND THE
HOLY ALTAR, WHILE THE SCHOLAR
ALDARIN STRIKES HIS DAGGER
AT THE INTANGIBLE
AIR.

The first flash of the morn that was to gild the
fair brow of the Ladye Annabel with a ducal coronet,
glowed faintly in the eastern sky, and the
black-beared Jew stood iu the court-yard, casting
his eyes earnestly about him, as if waiting the
approach of one with whom he had made an appointment.

Not long did he wait, for presently emerging
from a small door inserted in a wing of the castle,
near the chapel of St. George, the page Guiseppo
approached, with his form muffled up in his cloak
of blue velvet and gold embroidery; while his
slouching hat, drooping over his face, concealed
his features entirely form the view. By his side,
at a respectful distance, walked the Arab mute,
his head bowed low, and his face half concealed
by his jet-black locks, while he tottered under the
weight of his heavy burden. As Guiseppo gained
the side of the Jew, a sentinel was passing.

“Ho, sir page!” exclaimed the Hebrew, “thou
seem'st fearful of the morning breeze. Hurry
along—hurry along—or beshrew me, thou wilt
not get the rare lace for the Ladye Annabel—the
rare lace worth its weight in gold a hundred
times told. Haste thee—haste thee!”

They crossed the court-yard, and presently
stood before the vast pillars of the castle gate,
which was guarded by four sentinels, attired in
the livery of his grace of Florence.

“Fair sir,” exclaimed the Jew, addressing one
of the men-at-arms, “I would pass through the
castle gate. I am bound for the village hard by
the castle. Albarone, I think you call it?”

“Wherefore abroad so early?” asked the sentinel;
“and why goes Guiseppo with you?”

“Yesternight, when I journeyed toward the
castle, some of my most precious wares I left be
hind me at the hostel of the village below. The
Ladye Annabel wishes to purchase some rare and
costly laces. My business calls me and this poor
dumb youth away to the north, and therefore is
the page sent with me; he is sent to receive the
wares purchased by the Ladye Annabel. Hast
any thing further to ask, sir sentinel?”

And as he asked the question, the page Guisep
po and the Arabian drew nearer to the Jew,
awaiting the answer with evident interest. It was
observable that the right hand of the mute was
thrust within the folds of his doublet, while his
blue eye, so strangely contrasting with his dark
brows and darker hair, glared fiercely over the
faces of the sentinels.

“I have nothing more to ask of thee, now,” exclaimed
another sentinel, advancing. “But had
not the Duke sent me this pass for thee, thy servitor,
and the page Guiseppo, the foul fiend take
me, but I would have seen thy heathen carcase at
the devil, ere a bolt should be drawn for thee to
pass forth at this unseasonable hour. Thy way
lies before thee, Jew!”

As he spoke, he applied a key to a small door
which was cut into the massive timbers of the
castle gate. The door flew open, and through
the opened space the drawbridge was seen descending.
One foot of the Jew was passed through
the narrow entrance, when the sentinel who held
the pass of the Duke, exclaimed:

“Why, Guiseppo, what aileth thee? Wherefore
art muffled up in this fashion? Where are
thy merry jests? Where is that magpie tongue
of thine? Hast forgotten all thy mischievous
pranks—eh, sir page?”

A low, moaning noise came from the mouth of
the mute, as he seemed impatient of the delay.

“I have no time to trifle in idle converse,” exclaimed
the Jew. “Come on, fair sir, the morning
breaks, and I must be on my way.”

He took the page by the shoulder, and gently
pulled him through the doorway, leaving the sentinels
to their surprise at the strange silence of
the mirthful Guiseppo, while the unfortunate mute
slowly followed in the footsteps of the Jew, his
right hand trembling with a scarce perceptible
motion, as he buried it within the folds of his
doublet.

With a hurried step, the Jew and his companion
passed over the drawbridge, and in a moment
standing upon the summit of the hill upon whose
stern foundations the castle was founded, they
viewed the winding road beneath.

The page turned his head—still concealed by
his slouched hat—he turned his head for a moment
toward the castle, and a slight tremor pervaded
his frame. Then his hand was extended, grasping
the hand of the Arab mute, who returned the
grasp with a firm pressure upon the white fingers
of the dainty page.

“Let us onward! Let us onward!” whispered
the Jew. “A long journey have we before us.
Onward, I pray ye!”

They hurriedly wended down the hill, and ere
an hundred could be told, their forms were lost to
sight in the shades of the forest.

All bright and glorious came on the rising day,
lighting up the cloudless azure with its kindly
beams, shimmering over the waves of the broad,
deep river, filling the wild-wood glade with glimpses
of golden light; while the far-off mountains
towered into the heavens, the white clouds crowning
their rugged peaks, radiant with the changing
hues of the morning sun.

And while the day wore slowly on, the paths
leading through the valley toward the castle, the
winding ways that passed through the recesses of
the wild wood, and the great highway sweeping
on toward Florence the Fair, were all alive with
crowds of peasants, in their holiday attire, wrinkled
age and red-lipped youth, mature manhood
and careless boyhood, all hastening onward toward
the castle of Albarone, anxious to behold the marriage
of the Duke and the Ladye Annahel.

The day wore on, and the court-yard was
thronged by strange and contrasted bands; the
peasant in his gay costume, the vassal in his
rich livery, side by side with the man-at-arms clad
in glittering mail, while the servitors of the house
ran hurriedly to and fro, passing with hasty steps
from hall to hall, from gallery to corridor, as the
confused sounds of preparation for the bridal feast
awoke the echoes of the arching corridor or pillared
hall.

The first quarter of the day had passed, and the
shadow of the dial plate in the castle yard, was
gliding over the path of high noon. As gay a
bridal party as ever the sun shone upon, waited
within the walls of the chapel of St. George. They
waited for the coming of the bridegroom and
bride. There were queenly ladies and beauteous
damsels, gallant lords and gay cavaliers, blazing
in gorgeous attire; there, mingling with the men-at-arms
of Albarone, throughed the retainers of the
Duke, robed in the royal livery of his house; and
beside the altar stood the priest and the father,
the venerable abbot of St. Peters, arrayed in his
sacred robes, and the sage and thoughtful Aldarin,
Count Di Albarone, attired, as was his wont, in
the plain tunic of sable velvet, relieved by the
sweeping robe of black, with his pale forehead
surmounted by the cap of fur, glittering with a
single gem.

Long will it be, by my troth, very long—thus
runs the words of the ancient MS.—ere the light
of day will look down upon a scene so full of
gaiety and grandeur. The tall and swelling forms
of the noble dames, arrayed in all the richest
silks that the East might furnish, covered with
gold and brilliant with jewels; the noble figures
of the cavaliers, their gay doublets hung with the
symbols of the various orders of chivalry, their
belts of every variety of ornament, and of every
fancy of embroidery, their diamond-hilted swords,
their jewelled caps, surmounted by nodding plumes
and their cloaks of the finest velvet depending
carelessly from their right shoulder, and falling in
graceful folds over the arm, combined with the
glare of Milan steel worn by the men-at-arms,
and the glitter of the rich liveries of the retainers
of the Duke, formed a scene of vivid and contrasting
interest.

The gallant party began to express their wonder
at the long delayed approach of the Duke and
his fair bride, and even the venerable abbot betrayed
marks of impatience. It was worthy of
note, that for the space of ten minutes or more,
the Count Aldarin had stood beside the priest, silent
and motionless, with his eyebrows knit, and
his lips compressed, while he gazed steadily at the
slabs of the mosaic pavement in front of the altar,
which, for the space of some half score paces or
more, was left bare and unoccupied by the crowd.

At last, placing his lips to the ear of the abbot,
and hurriedly glancing around, as if fearful of being
observed, the Count whispered—

“What doth HE here?” he said, pointing to the
pavement in front of the altar.

“To whom dost thou refer, my Lord Count?”
inquired the Priest.

“S'life!” exclaimed the Count in a voice that
trembled from some unknown cause; “S'life! I
mean the stranger—he in the dark armour, with
the raised vizor and that ghastly face. Dost not
see him?”

“My Lord, there is no one before the altar attired
in armour. Around us are the throng of Lords
and Ladies—but all are arrayed in robes of peace.
Mayhap you speak of one of the men-at-arms
who stand yonder, near the door of the chapel?”

“Shaveling! I mean the stranger who stands in
front of the altar. He with the plume as dark as
death falling over that pale and lofty forehead. He
who gazes so fixedly with those glassy eyes—gazes
and looks, yet speaks no word. By Heavens, he

means to mock me. I will strike him down even
where he stands!”

He advanced hurriedly to the front of the altar,
and in an instant the bystanders beheld him
striking his dagger in the air, while his pale features
were convulsed by a strange expression.

“Thou shalt not escape me!” he shouted.—
“Elude me not—I'll have thee, coward! This to
thy very heart! What, art thou dagger proof?
Guards, I say, seize this traitor! Albarone to the
rescue!”

It was with a feeling of indefinable awe, that
the bridal throng beheld the Count Aldarin standing
with his eyes strained from their very sockets,
his brows woven together, and his whole face
stamped with an expression which was neither
terror nor hate, but seemed a mingling of terror,
hate, and despair.

Two courtiers sprang at the same time from
the group, crying as they drew their swords—

“My Lord, where is the traitor? Who is't?”

“Shall I be slain upon my own ground? Where
is the traitor? Before your eyes he stands. He!
I mean. Look—look! Behold! he leans upon
the altar! He smiles in scorn—he mocks me!”

Aldarin stamped his foot with rage, and shrieked—

“By the Eternal God! but this is brave! Will
ye see me murdered before your eyes! Seize—
I say—seize the traitor!”

“Benedicite!” muttered the venerable abbot,
gazing upon the wild face of Aldarin; “the fiend
is among us!”

As he spoke, the Duke of Florence all daintily
appareled in his wedding dress, with surprise and
vexation pictured in every lineament of his countenance,
broke through the throng, exclaiming—

“My Lord Count, thy daughter is no where to
be found. The Ladye Annabel hath gone: no one
knoweth whither!”

“My Lord Duke,” said Aldarin in a whisper,
“can'st thou tell me who is the stranger?”

“Eh?” exclaimed the astonished Duke, gazing
upon Aldarin with a vacant stare.

“He I mean who standeth by the altar. He in
the sable armour—with the pale brow and the
eyes of fire—with the dark plume overshadowing
his helmet! By heavens, I behold under his
plume, the crest of the Winged Leopard!”

“By our Lady, but thou describest the late
Count Di Albarone. Mayhap he comes from the
grave to witness against his son, the vile parricide,
he who hath fled with thy daughter. May the
fiend curse him for't!”

“Fled with my daughter? my daughter fled?”
shouted Aldarin, as he suddenly seemed to break
the spell that bound him.

“Pardon me, my friends. Anxiety for my child
—grief for my brother—have driven me mad.—
My brain is fevered—I am ill. My daughter fled,
say'st thou? How?—when? What meanest
thou?”

The Duke hurriedly turned to Guiseppo, who
stood among the throng of bower maidens, who
had followed his Grace into the chapel.

“Guiseppo, advance. What said the Ladye Annabel
when thou didst return this morning from
thy errand beyond the castle walls in company
with the Jewish merchant. Eh? Guiseppo?”

“My Lord Duke,” replied the page, “I went not
forth this morning from the castle walls—”

“Saving this presence,” cried a man-at-arms
pressing forward, “saving this presence, Sir Page,
but there thou liest. Did I not see thee go forth
this morning at daybreak?—the Jew with thee,
and thy face muffled up as if thou wert ashamed
of thy errand?”

“How say you?” cried Aldarin, whose native
perception had returned. “His face muffled?
Come hither, girl,” he continued, addressing Rosalind,
who stood among the throng of bower maidens.
“Girl, when didst see thy mistress last?”

“My Lord Count,” said the maiden, “I left the
Ladye Annabel last night at twelve: I slept within
the ante-chamber adjoining her bower. This
morning on knocking at her door I found it fastened.
I did not like to disturb her, so I waited”
—here Rosalind seemed confused, while the blush
deepened over her cheek. “I waited, my Lord
Count, hour after hour, until my Lord the Duke
came to lead the bride to church. Then—then—”

“By the body of God, but I see it all!” thus exclaimed
the Count Aldarin. “I have been fooled
—duped, and by thee, girl! Thou art my own
sister's child, but think not to escape the vengeance
of Aldarin! I see all—my daughter—the wanton!—has
fled in the attire of this page, he too is
a plotter, he who oweth life—fortune—everything
—to me! Guards, seize the miscreant! Tremble
—well thou may'st! Thou hast invoked the axe
—beware its fall! To the lowest dungeon of the
castle with him! away! To horse—to horse!”
continued Aldarin, glancing round upon the astonished
assemblage. “To horse—to horse!—

mount every man! Scour every road, every path
in the domains of Albarone! Sweep the highway
to Florence! A thousand pieces of gold to him
who brings the haggard back!”

6. CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
SIR GEOFFREY O' TH' LONGSWORD.

THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE THROWS
BACK THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND GIVES
TO VIEW SOME GLIMPSES OF THE LAST
SCENE, IN WHICH THE BARBS OF ARIMANES
BECOME THE AVENGERS OF HEAVEN.

Along a mossy, winding path, that led
through the sunlit glades and shady recesses of
a green and bowery forest, two travellers, one a
stripling, and the other a man of some forty winters,
were wending their way, while the dew was
yet upon the turf, and while the morning carol of
innumerable birds arose from the bosom of the
rich foliage.

The cheeks of the youth were strangely puffed
out, his lips were gathered like the mouth of a
purse, while he whistled with an earnestness that
was certainly wonderful. Presently he spoke—

“By'r Ladye, but that was the most exquisite
thing of all. Eh? Good Robin? The idea of thy
carcase being perched upon the back of the Demon
Statue in that pestilent cavern. And frightening
the old Count into fits, too! Ha! ha! ha!
'Twas rich! By the Saints it was! Oh, Robin,
thou art certainly the very devil for mischief!
That prank of gagging the old Israelite, and stealing
his beard, coat, pack and all, was cruel, by my
troth it was! where didst thou leave the old gripe-fist?”

“As I told thee before, thou rattlebrained popinjay!”
the other replied with a good natured smile
“With a full heavy heart I wended along the highway,
on the eve of the bridal, thinking of the fair
Ladye Annabel, when who should I behold trudging
before me, but this good son of Moses. I laid
him upon the earth in a wink—gagged him, and
concealed him in the cottage of a peasant, whose
ears I filled with a terrible tale of the Jew's roguery;
how he had stolen the plate of the castle, and
so on. I then disguised myself in the Hebrew's
attire; with what success you are already aware.
After I had effected the deliverance of the Ladye
Annabel, I released the Jew who ran beardless
and affrighted, as fast as his legs could carry him,
out of the demesnes of Albarone!

“Where didst leave the Ladye Annabel, Robin?
Who was the Arab Mute? Where is he now?'

“I left her in safety, most sagacious Guiseppo.
And as for the Mute—I'll tell thee anon. How
didst feel when I came to assist thee in escaping
from the dungeon; oh?”

“O! St. Peter! By my troth it would make
a picture. There I sat upon the bench of stone;
the dim taper flinging its beams around the rough
walls of the damp cell; my elbows resting upon
my knees, and my face supported by my clenched
hands; my mind full of dark and gloomy thoughts,
and my fancy forming various pleasant pictures
of the gibbet, which was to bear my dainty figure
on the morrow. Imagine this delicate form swinging
on a gibbet—ugh! Thus was I employed;
when I heard a noise like the drawing of bolts.
I started, expecting to behold the Count Aldarin;
he had visited the cell an hour or so past, and
informed that I had the honor of being—mark ye,
my soldier—his son. I started and beheld—thy
welcome visage, my good Robin.”

“Marry it was well for thee that the secret passage
was known to me. How sayest thou? Did
the murderer aver that he was thy father?”

“Even so. The Count Aldarin, has ever been
kind to me, yet I never thought I was connected
to him by any ties of blood. I have always been
known throughout the castle as the foundling:
Pleasant name—eh, Robin? The tale runs that
a peasant returning home, on an autumn night,
discovered a child some three years old, crying,
in the forest. That child the Scholar Aldarin
adopted, and called Guiseppo; which title was occasionally
varied by the servitors of Albarone, to
that of Guiseppo Stray-Devil, Lost-Elf, and others
of like pleasing character. But whither are we
wandering now, good Robin? This is the second
day of our flight; whither are we bound?”

“Thou wilt know ere long. Didst ever hear of
Sir Geoffrey O' Th' Longsword?”

“What, the stout Englisher! The brave knight
who now commands the soldiers of our late Lord,
in Palestine? He that is noted for the strength of
his arm, and the daring of his spirit? Why
all Christendom rings with his feats.”

“Well, my bird of a page, I have lately heard
by a wandering palmer, that a truce has been
made, between that son of Mahound, Saladin, and
the princes of Christendom. Further it is said,
that a body of the crusaders have sailed from Cyprus,
and are bound to Italy. Dost see aught in
this, my popinjay?”

“The Saints help thy senses! Surely you do
not mean to say that the soldiers of Albarone are
returning home?”

“Marry but I do. I mean to wend towards the
nearest seaport; I mean to—”

“By our Lady,” interrupted Guiseppo, “I spy
the dawning of our Lord Adrian's day. I do by
heaven!”

And thus conversing they pursued their way
along the forest path.

Higher and higher rose the sun in the Heavens,
and its beams shone upon the armour of a gallant
company that journeyed in brilliant array along
a bye-road leading thro' a wide and extensive
forest.

Near the head of the company, on a stout black
steed, rode a tall, stalwart man, full six feet high,
broad shouldered, in form, with a stern, weather,
beaten countenance. His long white hair, escaping
from beneath his helmet, the vizor of which was
raised, fell upon his mail-clad shoulders, and his
beard, frosted by time and battle toil, swept over
the iron plate that detended his muscular chest.

On either side rode his Esquires, mounted
on horses dark and stout, as that of their knight
commander. They were brothers, and side by
side had fought in a thousand battles.

Both tall, muscular, and dark featured; both
having dark eyes, dark shaggy brows, stiff hair
and beard of the like hue, they were known among
the ranks of the crusaders as the twin brothers—
the brave Esquire Damian, and the gallant Esquire
Halbert. Hard matter it were to tell one
from the other, so much they looked alike, had it
not been that the visage of Damian, was marked
by a sword wound, which extending from the
right eyebrow, passed over his swarthy forehead
and terminated near the left temple; while a deep
gash cut into the right cheek of Halbert, served
to distinguish him from his brother.

In front of the knight, the standard-bearer,
mounted on a cream coloured steed, bore aloft a
broad banner of azure. A winged leopard was
pictured on its folds, and the inscription read thus
—Grasp boldly and bravely strike!

In the rear of the grey haired warrior, a stout
Englishman, riding on a dappled grey, held on
high a crimson banner, bordered by white, on
which was pictured a two-edged sword, having a
long, stout blade, and wide hilt. It bore the
motto—

Hilt for Friend—Point for Foe.

Then, riding at their ease, came the men-at-arms
arrayed from head to foot in their armour of
Milan steel; their lances were in their hands, each
shield hung at the saddle bow, and each sword
depended from the belt of buff. The gallant band
might number an hundred thrice told.

Behind these soldiers came the varlets of the
train, riding beside the baggage wains, conveying
the sick and wounded, who had endured the burning
sun of Palestine, the toil and dangers of the
seas, and were now returning to the land of their
birth.

And there, riding before the baggage wains,
four dark-skinned Moors, mounted on prancing
nags, led each man of them, a steed black as
night at his bridle rein. Untamed they were
and wild, their eyes gave forth a gleam like the
light of the fire-coal, their necks were proudly
arched, their manes flung waving to the breeze,
while with a disdainful toss of their quivering
nostrils, and a light and springing step, the barbs
trode the earth as gallantly as though they still
swept over the desert plains of Araby.

Linked with the chain of this wierd chronicle,
by a strange decree of Fate, these barbs, in
the course of a few brief days, became the Instruments
of the fearful vengeance of Heaven.

“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, as glancing
over the long line of men-at-arms, he gazed
upon the Arab steeds,—“How the eye of Lord
Julian will glisten when he gazes upon yonder
rearing barbs! I' faith it makes an old warrior's
heart beat, to look upon their arching crests, their
eyes of fire, and their skins, black as death!”

“A Paynim warrior gave these steeds in ransom
for his freedom? Is that the story Sir Geoffrey?”
asked Halbert, “Infidel though he was,
he gave a most princely ransom.”

“Hast ever heard the strange legend which
the Arabs tell, concerning this race of steeds?
They prize them, highly as their weight in good,
red gold. It is said that in the olden time, when
Arimanes was hurled from his throne of Evil, by
the Great Being of Good, the spirits of his followers,
accursed and doomed, sought refuge in the
bodies of a race of ebon-colored barbs, that scoured
the plains of Araby with the fleetness of the
wind, herding together in the vast solitudes of the
desert, and untameable by man. At last, after a
long lapse of centuries, the most daring of the

Arab-chiefs, secured and subjugated to the control
of man, two of these wild horses, from which
sprung the mighty race of the Barbs of Arimanes,
or Demon-Steeds. Yonder steeds, prancing and
rearing in the grasp of the tawny Moors, are of
this race. By my soul, their flashing eyes, give
them some title to the name they bear—the Barbs
of Arimanes!”

“It joys a warrior's heart to look upon their
sinewy forms,” exclaimed the Esquire Halbert,
with a flashing eye.

“They are slender and graceful as the wild
gazelle,” said Damian, “and yet your stout warhorse
of the north, bears not fatigue or toil, with
a better grace!”

“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, “Damian,
art thou not sorrowed at the thought of leaving the
Holy Land—the glorious scene of so many hard
fought frays? I trow, we will all wish to be
again in the midst of the gallant mellay; shall we
not pine for the rugged encounter with the Paynim
host!—What sayst thou, Halbert?”

“He that leaves so brave a battle plain, as is
the Land of the Holy Sepulchre, without a sigh
of regret, is unworthy of the lay of minstrel, or
love of lady. For my part I would all these
truces were at the devil!”

“I say amen to thy prayer, good brother.”

“Well, well, we shall soon reach the castle Di
Albarone, we shall behold our brave leader the
gallant Count Julian. By the body of God, it
stirs one's blood to think of his charge, that ever
mowed down the Paynim ranks as though a thunderbolt
had smote them! St. George! but I have
seen glorious days.”

“By 'r Lady, but I have a sneaking fear that
the wound of the Count may prove fatal.”

“Fatal?” shouted Sir Geoffrey, in a voice of
thunder. “Fatal? Say it not again, Halbert!
Fatal, indeed! By my troth, Lord Julian Di Albarone,
shall again lead armies to battle.”

“I wonder,” said Damian, “I wonder if that
skulking half brother of the Count, still lives? I
mean, he who accompanied the Lord Julian to the
Holy Lond, some score of years since. How was
he styled? eh, Halbert?”

“Aldarin, I think they called him. Sir Geoffrey,
hadst not a quarrel with the bookworm? Didst
not strike him before the Count at Jerusalem, in
the presence of all the princes of Christendom?”

“Tush, a mere trifle! I mind it no more than
I would the spurning of a peevish cur. But see!
What have we here? Two wayfarers. Ha! one
seems like a disbanded soldier! Spur forward,
my merry men! They may tell us of our whereabouts:
they may give us some news of Albarone
Spur forward!”

7. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE STUDENT AND THE FAIR
STRANGER.

The bell of the convent of St. Benedict struck
the hour of noon, when a young man, attired after
the manner of a student, or Neophyte of the monastic
order, was slowly wending his way along
the path that led to the cottage on the hill, while
on his arm there hung a youth of calm, mild features,
shaded by light locks of golden hair, and of
a slender, yet graceful figure.

Tall, sinewy, and well-proportioned in form, the
face of the student was marked by features bold
and decisive in their expression; his blue eye was
full of thought, and his forehead, high and massive,
shaded by the cap of velvet, gave the idea of
a mind powerful, energetic, and formed to rule
His hair fell in clustering locks of gold down over
his neck and shoulders; his plain tunic of dark
velvet descended to his knees, revealing a doublet
of like material and color worn underneath, fitting
closely to his manly form; while his throat was
enveloped by a simple collar of snow-white lace.

His companion wore a neat doublet of light
blue, fitting close around the neck, scarce allowing
the pretty ruffle that circled the fair throat to
be seen, and reaching half way down the leg, it
was gathered around the slender waist by a girdle
of plain doe skin. His light hair was covered by
a hat, with the rim drawn up to the crown on one
side, and slouching upon the other, while it was
topped by delicate white plumes, fastened by a
diamond broach.

Winding amid the fragrant shrubbery that enclosed
the path, the student and his companion attained
the top of the hill, and passing through the
small garden, they presently stood before the neat
cottage, which, shadowed by a spreading beach on
one side, meeting the foliage of a leafy chesnut
on the other, was overrun in front by a spicy vine,
that clomb over the timbers of the doorway, and
twined round the solitary casement, the broad
green leaves quivering in the beams of the sun,
and the trumpet-shaped flowers swinging to and
fro in the wooing air.

The student tapped at the door. It was opened
by a woman somewhat advanced in life, attired in
the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of chony
strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat
severe and stern, her demeanour was commanding,
and her figure still retained some remains of
youthful beauty.

She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished
word burst from her lips.

“Ah! Adr—tush! Leone, I mean—thou art
early home to-day, my son.”

“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow
scholar Florian, son to the Baron Diarmo of Florence.
In yonder convent we pursue our studies
side by side, in one apartment. An hour since,
as we strolled through the gardens adjoining the
convent, my friend missed his footing, and severely
bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer
than the convent, I thought I could not do better
than bring him hither. I need not commend him
to thy care.”

“Thou art welcome, fair sir,” the dame replied,
with a kindly smile. “Enter our abode; 'tis
humble, yet 'tis sacred, for the bounty of the convent
bestows it upon my son and me, while he is
preparing for the priesthood. Come in, gentle
Florian.”

They entered the cottage, and the door was
closed.

No sooner had they disappeared than something
rustled in the bushes, and the bow-legged
postillion, Francisco, emerged into the light.

“Oh—ho!” he cried, “here's a mystery. The
convent allow old Mistress Vinegar-face to reside
on their land, in their cottage, while her son is
preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by'r
our lady! I see it all—'tis as I suppose—these
two striplings are those for whom such an immense
reward has been offered in the neighboring towns
and villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well
as any other wight's—eh? Via! Francisco!
Postillion no longer, but henceforth Signior Francisco!
Via!”

Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms
and a gigantic stride; and as he stalked away,
the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and
black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on
the other side of the cot, and, bursting into a loud
laugh, they tripped after the swelling postillion.

Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned
seat, the gentle Florian submitted his foot
to the hands of the dame, who drew off the shoe
and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise;
remarking, at the same time, that the foot was
one of the smallest, and the ancle one of the prettiest
in the wide world.

The student glanced at Florian, and smiled.
“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent.
Methinks it were better for gentle Florian to rest
him here awhile. I will return anon, and accompany
my fellow scholar along the shores of the
lake to the monastery.”

He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed.
Looking up into the rosy face, and catching
the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest
youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the
dressing of the wound:

“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble
tenement with thy presence for the night, thou
canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it were
best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”

“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in
a voice sweet as infancy.

“Lady, say'st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”

Florian blushed.

“Nay, pardon me—I meant no offence. Indeed,
it seemed—”

The youth paused, while the blush deepened on
his cheek.

“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leon's
room. Mayhap thou wouldst like to repose thee
awhile.”

Florian followed her into a small apartment,
with a window toward the east, a neat bed in one
corner, a crucifix on the mantle, and a table, on
which lay a missal of devotion. The dame retired.
Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and
drew the bolt. Then seating himself upon the
bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the
tears stole between the fair fingers fast and bright,
like drops of sunlit rain.

8. CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE.

THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE-GATE
ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL
OF A STRANGE TRUMPET.

“Well-a-day! It's a sad thing to dwell in this
lonely place, now that all of the ancient house are
dead and gone!”

“`Dead and gone,' sir huntsman! Where
didst learn to shape thy words? The Count Aldarin
lives!”

“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a

right quiet time we peaceful folks have had for a
day or so past. Here have we no boisterous merriment,
no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret
awakes the silence of these walls, no runlets of
wine flow in the beakers of the banquet hall. All
is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for't!”

“Such quiet and such stillness, i'faith! Why,
man, you cannot walk along the solitary corridors
of the castle, without trembling at your own
starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by
the plague—all its living folk carried to the grave-yard,
leaving old Death to take care of deserted
chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard
of Albarone, and ask your heart—if heart
you have—whether a plague has not swept this
place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul
to look upon these lonesome walls!”

“And I—look ye, gossips—I, Griselden, tire-woman
of my Ladye Annabel, have never, damosel
or dame, for two score long years—I am two
score and six years, come next Mass o' Christ,
not an hour more, i'faith—I have never, for two
score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do
now! In my Ladye's bower lie her garments of
price: the tunic of blue and gold which she wore
in her happy days, the white plume that once
drooped over her fair brow, the snow-white bridal
dress—all, all are there! But where is my Ladye
Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful
days!”

“Blood o' th' Turk! Tell me, good folk, are
ye paid to howl in chorus? Hugo, didst ever
hear such growling?”

“Faith, they do growl somewhat like a herd of
untamed bears! Yet, Balvardo, bethink thee—
there's reason for't. W-h-e-w! When I think
of the queer things that have chanced within these
few days, I might wonder, I might growl; yes,
Balvardo, I might growl, I might wonder!”

“Here, for three long days, since my lord of
Florence left the castle, have we seen no sight of
the Count Aldarin,” exclaimed the huntsman.—
“Mayhap he has buried himself alive—mayhap
he has gone up to heaven, or more likely he has
gone to—'s life, what a stitch in my side!”

“Softly, softly, sir huntsman, softly! Wise
folk speak not lightly of the Count Aldarin. The
rope on yonder gibbet swings loosely in the summer
wind—thy neck may be the first to stretch
its fibres!”

“Blood o' th' Turk, yet it does seem queer when
one comes to think of it! Not three days ago, it
was nothing but `saddle me your horses, scour
every road, bring back the traitor Guiseppo, and
hew off his caitiff head! Now—blood o' th'
Turk, it puzzles me!”

“Now, sir Balvardo, the word is: `Pay all respect
to Guiseppo; honor the youth as myself—
he is dear to me in blood, dear to me in heart,
honor Guiseppo, he rules the castle in my absence.”

“Sancta Maria!” cried the ancient tire-woman.
“Tell me, gossip, tell me, sir huntsman, how
came this about?”

“Not two nights agone, there enters the castle
gate a wandering palmer, clad in rags. Not satisfied
with asking alms at the hall door, he must
wander along the corridors of the castle, and prowl
around the door of the cell where the damsel Rosalind
is imprisoned. My Count Aldarin's suspicions
are roused: he flings the beggar's robes from
the palmer's face, and we all behold the—trim
page Guiseppo!”

“Wonder of all wonders! Now, I'll never be
astonished again in all my life!”

“Not even if any one should chance to believe
the story of thy age, which thou art wont to tell!
Hugo, look at gossip tire-woman, how her eyes
are dropping from their sockets!”

“There stood the page Guiseppo—there stood
the Count Aldarin! Nice group—eh? Axes
and gibbets were the mildest things in our
thoughts, when my lord takes the page by the
hand, smiles kindly, and leads him away. An
hour passes: the supper is spread in the banquet
hall: my Lord Aldarin appears, and with him
comes Guiseppo, clad in garments of cost—”

“And then comes the word: `Pay Sir Guiseppo
all respect—honor him as myself.' Is't not so
good gossip?”

“By my huntsman's word, it is even so! Now
tell me, sir sentinels, waiting at the castle gate,
while the Count Aldarin is buried in the depths of
the earth, sir Hugo and Balvardo, sir steward and
dame Griseldea, all of ye servitors of Albarone, is
not this matter enough for a nine day's wonder?
By'r our Lady, I never heard the like!”

“Blood o' th' Turk, 'tis wonderful!”

“W-h-e-w! 'Tis passing strange!”

“Hist—Hugo! What sound is that? 'Tis
like the tramp of war steeds!”

“Hark! The peal of a trumpet! This is
wondrous!”

And for a single moment the strangely contrasted
group gathered at the castle gate, in the mild
evening hour, stood motionless as statues, with the

right of the setting sun falling over each face and
figure. There was Hugo, with his vacant face
and sinister eye, clad like his comrade, Balvardo
of the beetle brow, in glittering armor of Milan
steel, each standing breast to breast, as, with pikes
half raised, they listened to the trumpet peal swelling
from the distance; there was the bluff huntsman
of the castle, his rugged visage affording a
striking contrast to the sharp features of the ancient
steward, and the thin, withered countenance
of the tire-woman, standing on either side, while
all around were clustered the servitors of Albarone,
their gay liveries flashing in the light of the setting
sun.

“Hark, Balvardo! The trumpet peal swells
louder. I hear the trampling of an hundred
steeds. Up, up to the tower of the castle gate,
and tell us what is to be seen!”

Balvardo hastily disappeared, and while the
group clustered round the lofty pillar awaited the
result of his observations with the utmost suspense,
ascended to the tower by a staircase built in the
massive wall.

“What dost see, comrade?” shouted Hugo
“The trumpet peal grows louder, and I hear the
tramp of war steeds pattering along the road to
the castle gate. What dost see, Balvardo?”

“I see a strange sight, i'faith! Horsemen issue
from the shadow of the wood toward Florence
—horsemen arrayed in strange robes, black as
night. I count one, two, three,—by my life,
there's thirteen o' them, all mounted on cream-colored
steeds!”

“Are they men-at-arms? Bear they a pennon
at their head?”

“Blood o' th' Turk, I see no men-at-arms!
They are clad in long robes, that fall sweeping almost
to the very ground. Their robes are black
as the death-pall, yet are they faced with a goodly
border of glittering gold. Now the wind sweeps
the robe of the foremost horseman aside. By my
sword, he is clad in the attire of a paynim dog!
Loose, flowing garments, with a belt of curious
embroidery, while a dark turban surmounts his
swarthy form.”

“Ride they toward the castle?”

“They ride forward two abreast; the tall figure
rides at their head. Tramp, tramp—God send
they be not wizards in disguise! A new wonder,
comrade, one of the party spurs his cream-colored
barb to the front—he is speeding toward the
astle gate! Blood o' th' Turk, he holds a trumpet
in his grasp!”

“A trumpet, Balvardo? This should be the
herald of the companie.”

“He rides up the hill, he reins his steed on the
very edge of the moat. Hark, how his trumpet
peals!”

And while the shrill and piercing sound of the
trumpet broke on the air, the group listening beside
the castle gate were startled by the sound of
a measured footstep. With one start they turned
in the direction of the sound, and beheld the person
of the new comer. He was a young cavalier,
with a smooth face, unvisited by beard, yet stamped
with the marks of premature and sudden experience,
while his slender form, clad in a jewelled
doublet, was half hidden by the folds of a sweeping
robe of purple, that fell from his shoulders, varied
by a border of snow-white ermine.

“It is him—the page Guiseppo,” murmured the
huntsman. “Mark ye, how changed he looks!
His arms folded, and his merry face clad in a
frown. Well-a-day! The world is all bewitched,
or I'm no sinful man!”

“The page Guiseppo,” whispered the shrillvoiced
steward. “Know ye not his new title?
`My Lord Guiseppo, Baron of Masserio'—nephew
of the Count Aldarin. Masserio is the name of
one of the smaller baronies annexed by my lord of
Florence to the domains of Albarone. 'Tis said
'twas confiscated to the state, because its master
meddled with the strange Order of the Steel, whose
fame has been in our ear for these four months
past.”

“Sir sentinel, canst tell me what means this
peal of trumpet, this clamor at the gates of Albarone?”

As Guiseppo advanced and spoke, every one in
the group was impressed to the very heart with
the change that had so lately passed over the appearance
and manner of the page. A score of
years could not have added more solemnity to his
visage, or given a more deep-toned sternness to
his voice.

In a moment the Lord Guiseppo—such is now
his title—was possessed of the cause of the clamor
at the castle-gate, and was about to speak, when
the trumpet peal ceased, and the clear bold voice
of the herald, broke upon the air.

“Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone! My
master salutes the gallant knight and craves entrance
into the shelter of his lordly castle! Peace
to the Lord Julian of Albarone!”

“Be thy master, the Paynim, Mahound himself,
or the Devil his father”—rang out the hoarse tones

of Balvardo, from the tower above—“He is a few
days behind old Death in his salutation. Lord
Julian of Albarone sleeps in the Charnel-House!”

“Then Sir Warder of the castle-gate, by thy
soldierly courtesy, I pray thee inform me—doth
his brother, the Scholar Aldarin yet live?”

“The Count Aldarin reigns Lord of Albarone!'

“Then I pray thee, bear the salutation of my
master to the Count Aldarin, and with his greeting
bear this scroll!”

“'S life—here's a net for a man to tangle his
feet with!” the group below heard the growling
words break from Balvardo—“My Lord Guiseppo”—he
exclaimed aloud, looking from the window
of the tower—“What answer shall I make to this
Wizard Herald of yon Paynim band!”

A sudden contortion passed over the features of
Guiseppo, he raised his hand wildly to his brow,
and trembled as he stood beside the castle-gate.
The spasm-like expression that passed over his
face, was scarce human in its meaning, and the
spectators started back with a sudden fear. There
are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre
by the fierce war of contending emotions, when
the heart struggles with the brain, while the reason
totters, and the intellect reels on its throne. A
contest wild as this, seemed warring between the
heart and brain of Guiseppo, the new created Lord
of Masserio.

“One moment, good Balvardo—Hugo, I am faint
—some wine, I prithee!”

Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo,
and in a moment the Lord of Masserio, found
himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within
the confines of the lower chamber of the Warder's
Tower, while Hugo stood motionless before
him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.

“Thanks, good Hugo—retire a moment, and I
will be my own man again—let me think,” he muttered
in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired—
“Its like a dream—and yet the reality presses on
my brain like—lead! I feel no joy in my lordship.
Three little days—Saints of Heaven—behold
the change! Three days ago, a poor Page,
journeyed with a band of gallant soldiers! He
disappeared, no one save himself knew whither.
He came to this castle in his Palmer's rags and
perilled his life to rescue his Ladye love. He was
discovered—he already beheld the object of omen,
held above his head—he expected the axe—and
Sincta Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet.
His son—his son! Great God how dark the mystery!
My brain whirls—the wine, ha, ha—the
wine.”

“Sir Sentinel”—arose the voice of the Herald
without—“Wilt thou bear this scroll to the Lord
Aldarin?”

“And she is yet imprisoned! He my father!
As God lives I'm bound to stand by him to the
death! Robin's story—is it, is it true? The dark
hints of the men at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffry—might
not this trumpet peal serve to unvarel
their meaning? The wine gives me nerve—my
brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel
—must I desert their cause? Methinks I feel my
heart strings crack, at the very word! And he is
my father; he loads me with favors, burdens me with
kindness—the half crazed Guiseppo looked around
the confined chamber with a fixed and steady eye
—“I will stand by my father Aldarin to the
death!”

“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous
—For the last time, wilt thou bear the scroll!”

“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle
gate—“spoke the determined voice of Lord
Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering
manner he issued from the lower chamber of the
Warden's Tower—“Call the men-at-arms of his
Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of
the castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently
yet hastily hither! Away Hugo—and thou Sir
Huntsman! Let it be done without delay. Balvardo—mark
ye, when I give the word let the
drawbridge be lowered and the portcullis raised.
We shall see what manner of men are these strangers—the
Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their
scroll!”

9. CHAPTER THE NINTH.
ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE.

The beams of the declining day, glanced gaily
thro' the arched windows of the Red-chamber,
and the Count Aldarin paced with a hurried step
across the marble floor, and his chest rose and fell,
and his cheek flushed and paled, and now his
voice was choked by rage, and again it was clear
and deep-toned with hate.

“Baffled! and by whom? my own child. I have
laid schemes—I have planned, I have plotted, and
all for Annabel—my daughter. And she returns
me—contempt and scorn. If, within the bowels
of the earth, there is a place of torture, a
boundless, illimitable and ever burning hell
—if within the fire of the stars, there is written
a Doom for the Damned, then to the very hell of
hell, then to the very Doom of the Damned, have

I sold myself, and all for thee, my daughter!
What! a tear?—Shall I play the woman?—No—
I will brace me up!—I will show the world the
power of one who hates the whole accursed
race!—There was a time when I could weep, aye
and talk of feeling and prate of the tenderness of
humanity with any of them!—They gave me
scorn, they heaped insult upon me!”

He looked around as tho' he would compass the
whole human race with his glance, and an expression
of demoniac hate came over his features
while he whispered between his clenched teeth.

“Have I paid the debt? Ha! ha! Let those who
wronged me answer. Have I paid the debt? The
man never lived who struck the meek Scholar and
saw another sun. Not one! not one!—Nay there
was one. He scorned me before the Princes of
Christendom—it was at Jerusalem—I gave him
scorn for scorn—with his mailed hand he
struck me to the floor! I swore revenge—the
steel was false, the dagger failed, but on his life
and heart have I wreaked vengeance, such as
man never wreaked before! The revenge of Aldarin
must not be fed with the blood of his foe? No
—by the fiend—no! But with the very life drops
of his soul! My victim fights for the glory of Albarone.
Little wot's he, who now doth rule the
ancient house.—Miserable fool, he toils and wars
far in Palestine—he toils—he wars for me! Me!
his ancient, his sworn and unrelenting foe! Ha!
whence is that noise? Ha! ha! Surely it is not
a groan from yon couch?”

Pausing for a moment, he eagerly listened, and
again he spoke.

“Let me gather my thoughts. Let me nerve
my soul for the trial of this night. The stake
I hold in my hand is a fearful one—the hand
that would grasp the very secrets of the grave, the
weird mysteries of Old Death, should never
tremble.”

He paced the floor yet more hurriedly, and was
silent for a few moments.

“It is the very night!” he exclaimed, after a
pause of intense thought. The grand problem upon
which I have bestowed my youth—my mind—my
soul—my all—will soon be solved. This very
night completes the thrice seven years. For
thrice seven years has the beechen flame burned beneath
the alembic, in my laboratory, in war,
in difficulty, in danger, and in death, has the
azure flame still burned on with undying lustre.
Unbounded wealth is mine! Immortal life.

“In after-time, when long, long centuries have
passed away, men will speak of the glory, the
mystery—and perchance the crime, that encircled
the life of Aldarin the Scholar! And as the cheek
of the listener grows pale, I—I—will be there, a
listener to the story of my own fate! Aldarin will
be there, but oh, how changed! Aldarin, no longer
weak, trembling, bent with age—but Aldarin,
young and mighty, with the signet of eternal youth
and might stamped upon his unfading brow!

“Gold, gold, the talisman that rules the sould of
man, gold that buys wisdom from the sage, hope
from the priest, life from the leech, honour from
the mighty, and virtue from woman, gold will be
mine!

“How strange has been the course of my life!
Let me gaze backward over the dark path I have
trodden—this night thrice seven long years—amid
the gloom of the Syrian battle plain, a dark eyed
Arabian gave me in ransom for his life, the mighty
book of his race, which he dared not read! And
there in that lone hour, as midnight gathered over
the corses of the dead, did he sware by the Eternal
Flame of the Fire-worshipper, that in body or
in soul, he would be with my heart, and by my
side this very night! The mighty book spoke in
words of fire of the secret—the glorious secret, and
—and—by my soul I have heard no message from
the Arab Prince for three long years! He cannot,
will not fail me now!”

The door of the Red-Chamber was flung suddenly
open, and the Lord Guiseppo hastily advanced,
with an expression of deep gloom stamped
on his brow. He held a scroll of parchment in his
extended hand.

“Ha! My Lord Guiseppo son of mine. I greet
thee! Hast thou any message for me?”

“A strange man clad in Paynim costume, attended
by a train of twelve, attired strangely as himself,
wait at the castle gate. He sends his greeting
and this simple scroll.”

“A strange man clad in Paynim costume”—
murmured Aldarin in a whispering tone—“A
scroll! Give it me, Guiseppo—Ha! What words
are these—Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim salutes his brother,
Aldarin the Scholar!”

A warm flush like the glow of sunshine passed
over the face of Aldarin, his eye gleamed and
brightened until it seemed burning its very socket,
and the Scholar stood for a moment silent and
motionless.

“Guiseppo!” he shouted in a voice of thunder

as he turned towards the youthful Lord—“Away,
away, to the castle gate and answer the giver of
this scroll with the words—Aldarin greets his
brother Ibrahim!”

“And then my Lord Aldarin”—

“Lead the stranger to my presence!”

And while Guiseppo turned to obey the behest
of the Scholar, the Count Aldarin, strode with a
hurried step along the floor of the Red Chamber,
with his arms folded and his head drooped low
upon his breast. There was a long pause of absorbing
thought.

“He comes—he comes, with the last scroll of
the Magic-Book! He comes with the Charm,
which in the hands of Aldarin shall wake the dead!
When the last scroll is read, when the last
charm is spoken, then, then, Aldarin lives forever!
And Ibrahim—ha, ha, 'twere but fair that the
blood of the Priest, who first awoke this mighty
thought within my bosom, should mingle with
the blood of the victims, slain at the shrine of the
Mighty Thought!”

A dark and meaning smile passed over the lip
of Aldarin, and again he communed with his own
thoughts. A foostep sounded thro' the ante-chamber;
in a moment the tall and majestic stranger
stood before the Scholar.

“Ibrahim gives peace and joy to Aldarin!”

“Peace and joy to Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim!,”
As thus they saluted each other, in the Arabian
tongue, the native language of the one, and the familiar
study of the other, Aldarin advanced and
gazed upon the stranger.

His face was most impressive. Regular in feature,
dark and tawny in hue, the countenance of
the stranger was marked by a high forehead,
thick and bushy eye-brows white as snow, giving
a strange effect to the glance of the full dark eyes,
that looked forth from beneath their shadow, a
compressed lip, half hidden by the venerable beard,
that well-nigh covered his rounded chin and
dark brown cheeks, descending to his breast
in waving locks, frosted by age and toil, while a
cap of sable fur surmounting his forehead, imparted
a striking relief to the visage of the Arabian.

His attire was simple and majestic. A mantle
or robe of black cloth, gathered around the throat,
by a chain of gold, with a collar of snow-white fur,
fell in long folds to his knees, bordered by lace
of gold. As the robe waved suddenly aside from
his commanding frame, it might be seen that the
tunic which gathered around his form, was
fashioned of the finest velvet, glistening white in
color, with a border of strange and mystic characters,
while his legs were encased in dark hose,
and slouching boots of costly doe-skin, glittering
with the knightly spur of gold.

“Thou art changed, Ibrahim!”

“And thou Aldarin!”

There was a long pause, while the Scholar and
the Arab Prince perused each others features.
When they again spoke it was in the rich Arabian
tongue, each word a word of fire, each sentence
a sentence of wild enthusiasm.

“Twenty-one years, this very night, on the battle-plain
amid the Syrian wilds, an Arab prince
owed his life to the intercession of Aldarin the
Scholar. He offered the Scholar gold for his ransom—the
scholar refused the proffered dust.
Speak I the truth, Aldarin?”

“Thou dost!”

“Struck by the noble nature of the thoughtful
Italian, the Arab prince gave him a gift priceless
in value, not to be bought with gold, or purchased
with gems of price! A Book a mighty book
had descended to him, thro' a long line of gallant
ancestors. The founder of the race of Ibrahim was a
man of dark thoughts, and mysterious studies.
Swept from the path of life in the midst of his mystic
researches, he left the mighty book to his children,
with the last and most terrible Mystery, the
final Charm, which gave importance to the whole
volume, confided to their trust, in oral words—”

“These words thou wouldst speak to mine own
ear and heart?”

“Even so, brother Aldarin! When I gave
thee the Mighty Book, fraught with strange mysteries,
an oath, a fearful oath, sworn by each heir
of the race of Ben-malakim, bound me to keep
the last words, which make the book complete
secret from thine ear, until I was assured thou
hadst won the merit of the confidence.”

“Thou didst swear by the Eternal Flame, thou
wouldst meet me this very night, in the soul or
in the body, living or dead!”

“I am here! The far-east rings with the fame
of Aldarin the Scholar—the last secret is thine!”

“This night, at the hour of midnight, over the
Altar of Marble, where the Heart of the Dead
mingles its crimson-drops with the White Waters
of the Alembic, there, there will I crave the last
Secret at thy hands!”

“There is one condition first.”

“Name it!”

“Lo! it is written in the Scroll which contains

the Mighty Secret. The Prince of Ben-Malakim
must be a spectator in the lone chamber where
the SECRET is carried into action, he must command
in the Halls of the Scholar, who may receive
the mystery, while the solemn ceremonies
named by the Book, are in progress.”

“The condition is strange—yet”—

“So read the words of the Book!”

“Its behests shall be obeyed.”

“Then mighty Scholar, let the twelve warriors
who follow in my train, take the place of the sentinels
at the castle-gate, let them command in the
castle-hall, and be obeyed as thyself until the morrow
morn!”

“It shall be done! And now, my brother,
draw near to the casement, let the warm glow of
the setting sun fall over thy features! I would
look upon thy face, as was my wont in the ancient
time. By my soul thou art sadly changed
—fearful wrinkles traverse thy countenance, thy
hair and beard are grey, thine eyebrows white! A
sad and fearful change!”

“The touch of time falls heaviest on the man
of thought, good Aldarin. Thou too, art sadly,
fearfully changed!”

“And yet this night shall crown the toil of
twenty-one years, with a boon almost beyond mortal
hope! Yes—yes,” he continued in a deep whisper,
as the full glow of the setting sun fell over
his face—“The sun sinks down in glory, his
beams fall over the form of the mortal Scholar—
Lo! his beams gild the sky on the morrow
morn and—how my nerves fire, my heart is full
to bursting—Aldarin lives forever!”

10. CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE SCHOLAR ALDARIN AND THE
LORD GUISEPPO.

THE LAST INTERVIEW BEFORE THE
GRAND SCENE, FOR WHICH ALDARIN
HAS TOILED, STRUGGLED AND
ENDURED FOR THRICE
SEVEN YEARS.

“Come hither Guiseppo, son of mine, let me
look upon thy face. Ah! I remember well—her
countenance lives again in thine Boy, walk by
my side, along this solitary chamber; I would converse
with thee. Hast thou not oftentimes
thought me a dark and stern old man?”

“My Lord, I have. The story of the soldier,
—Rough Robin—”

“Name not the slave! Name him not. Have
I not scattered his fable of lies to the winds? Art
not satisfied with the guilt of this—Adrian?
Speak Guiseppo—have I not told thee a fair and
open story?”

“I fear me—oh! Saints of Heaven—I fear me
—that thy story is true!”

“Thou fearest that my story is true! Is this
well Guiseppo? Wouldst rather thy father had
been guilty!”

“My Lord”—

“`My father' would sound as well.”

“My father, then; an' I may speak the name;
I thank God from my very heart that I know thee
guiltless. Yet I had much rather—the Saints
witness my truth—I had much rather this spot of
blood were washed from the garments of all who
bear the name of Albarone.”

“And do I not join in the wish! oh Guiseppo—
Guiseppo Di Albarone, for I will call thee by thine
own true name—look upon me, mark my face,
gaze in mine eye! Thou hast known me for
years, a man prematurely old, bent with age ere
the sands of my manhood's prime had fallen in
the glass. Thus hast thou known me Guiseppo.”

“I have my Lord,—my father, and wondered
at the cause.”

“Yet hast thou ever noted the change, the
fearful change, that has passed over this face
within a few brief days? Dost mark the pallor
of this cheek, the blaze of this eye? Dost see
this forehead seamed by a single wrinkle between
the brows, dost note these wan and wasted features?”

“Yes, yes my father, I do. What hath wrought
this fearful change?”

“Canst thou ask? A mighty grief has been
swelling the channels of my soul—grief for the
crime of Adrian, grief that his hands, the hands
of the son, should be red—red with his own father's
blood! and yet, even in this hour of agony,
the resemblance, the sad resemblance, that has
haunted me for years, comes back to my soul—”

“The resemblance, my father?”

“Boy, I tell thee, thy face is like—her face!
Even now I see it!”

“Her face?”

“The face of thy mother!”

“I tremble my father, mine eyes are wet with
burning tears. Tell me—oh, tell me of her—my
mother!”

“Twenty years ago, a nameless Scholar, who
disdaining the din and battle of war, gave his soul
to higher and purer thoughts, won the love of a
proud and peerless Ladye. They might not wed,
for she was the scion of a Royal line. It was evening,
boy, calm and gorgeous evening—well do I
remember the scene—when the proud Ladye gazed
from the portico of a kingly palace, over the
temples and the towers of Jerusalem. The glow of
sunset was streaming over her face of beauty, and
her full dark eyes, kindled with the grandeur of
the scene, when, when,—listen Guiseppo,—her
boy, her laughing boy, lay prattling on her knee.
The Scholar stood by her side—he was silent, for
his heart was full—oh, God! methinks I see myself
as I was then, even through the long lapse
of years—”

“Thyself? The boy, who was't—the boy?”

“Listen, hear the sequel of this dark story.
There, there, concealed by a column of that lofty
portico, listening to the words of love that broke
murmuringly from the lips of the Ladye, gazing
upon the face of her bright-eyed boy, all smiles
and laughter, there, unknown and unsuspected,
stood the Fiend and the Destroyer. Guiseppo—
pass thy hand over my brow—see, see, even after
the lapse of twenty years, the cold, beaded drops,
like death-sweat, stand out from my forehead at
the memory.”

“I am breathless, my father—the Destroyer
who stood listening—he was”—

“Guiseppo, Guiseppo, let me whisper a world
of horror to thine ear in a single word. The light
of the setting sun, fell over thy—thy mother's
face, proud, peerless and beautiful—her child prattling
on her knee, her lover by her side—the first
beams of the morrow's sun beheld her form, her
form of grace and loveliness, flung prostrate over
the marble floor of her chamber—outraged, bleeding,
dead.”

“Oh, God! my brain whirls! And the Destroyer?”

“Was a knight, a leader among the Princes
of the Christian Host who won Jerusalem from
the Paynim legions. He had been scorned, rejected,
despised by the Ladye—thy mother—and
behold,—oh fiends of hell—behold his vengence!”

“His name? Who—who—swept this devil
from the earth?”

“He lives!”

“Lives? and thou couldst wield a dagger!”

“Boy wouldst thou wreak full and terrible
vengeance on the ravisher of thy mother?”

“Sate he upon the throne, slept he within the
bridal chamber, knelt he at the altar, I would have
his blood!”

“To thy knees, to thy knees, and take the
oath of vengeance.”

“I kneel, father, I kneel. The oath, the oath!”

“What manner of oath dost thou hold most
sacred? Wilt swear by the Cross, by the Holy
Trinity, by the Death of the Incarnate, or by the
awful existence of God?”

“By my mother's name!”

“Place the cross to thy lips, raise thy hands to
heaven. Swear—by the Holy Cross, by the
Awful Trinity, by the Incarnate God—by thy
Mother's Name, that when thy eye first beholds
the wronger and the ravisher, then, then shall
thy dagger seek his heart.”

“I swear—I swear!”

“Though he sate on the throne, though he
slept within the bridal chamber, though he knelt
beside the altar!”

“I swear—I swear!”

And the hollow echoes of the Red-Chamber
gave back the echo—“Swear—swear!” It was
in sooth a strange and impressive scene. The
dim light afforded by the lamp of silver, pendent
from the ceiling, flung over the hangings of the
fated bed, along the folds of the tapestry and
around the massive furniture of the room—the
figures of the scene, the aged man and the kneeling
boy, Aldarin with his face agitated by contending
passions, with his eye gathering a brightness
that seemed supernatural, while Guiseppo half
prostrate at his feet, raised his hands to Heaven and
with every feature of his countenance darkened
by revenge, looked above with flashing eyes as he
uttered the response—“I swear—I swear!” It
was a strange and impressive scene—and the flitting
shadows that fell wavering over the hangings
of the bed and along the floor, seemed to
start into life at the deep earnest tones of the
Avenger.

“The name of the Destroyer—my father—his
name—his name!”

The Count Aldarin stooped low, and whispered
in a quick and hissing tone the name of the Destroyer,
to the ear of Guiseppo. The kneeling
Lord turned pale as death, as with a trembling
voice he repeated the well known name. He
bowed his head on his breast and clasped his hands
in very agony.

“My fate,” he shrieked, “is dark—oh God of
Heaven, most dark!”

“Rise Guiseppo, my son,” shouted the Count
Aldarin in a commanding tone. “Rise Guiseppo,
Lord of Albarone!”

“My father—your look is serious, and yet you
utter but a merry jest. Methinks it ill becomes
the hour.”

“Guiseppo, Aldarin never deals in that buffoon's
plaything—a jest. No—no my son, I jest not.
Listen Guiseppo, and hear the solemn determination
of my soul. The events of these few brief
days, the fearful death of my brother, the knowledge
that THE SON was the MURDERER, the flight
of my—my daughter, all have conspired to confirm
that determination. I have resolved to retire
and retire forever from the world. Not within
the gloom of the monastery, not within the shadow
of the cloister, does Aldarin seek refuge from
the sorrows of the world. No—no. Within the
recess of the most secret chamber of the Castle,
dead to the world, unseen by living man, save
thee Guiseppo, companioned by those Holy Men
who this very night, arrived at Albarone, from the
far eastern lands, in penitence and in prayer will
Aldarin seek to win favor from heaven for this—
this—wretch, this father-murderer. Guiseppo—I
charge thee—let men believe me dead, and when
thy right to the Lordship of Albarone is questioned,
speak boldly of the favor of his Grace of Florence.
He will defend the castle from wrong and
shelter thee from outrage.”

“My Lord—my father, this is a strange determination!
I beseech thee, do not burden me with
the rule of the Castle.”

“It must be so Guiseppo! From this night
henceforth, Aldarin is dead to the world. Whene'er
thou wouldst say aught with me, a sealed parchment,
placed within a secret drawer arranged in
the side of the beaufet, will reach my hands.—
And mark ye—let not a single noon pass over thy
head, without looking into the secret drawer of the
beaufet.”

“This is most wonderful! I ever thought
thee a bold, ambitious man, and now I behold
Aldarin whom all men name with fear, retire
from the world, without a sigh.”

“One word more, Guiseppo. When thou hast
stricken the blow—when the Destroyer of thy
mother's honor, lies low in death, then, then,
hasten to the Round Room—thou hast heard of
the chamber—and within the solitudes of its
silent walls, read this pacquet—it contains the
fearful story of thy mother's wrongs!”

“Forgive me, forgive me, my father”—shrieked
Guiseppo, as if struck by some sudden thought
—“Swayed by alternate affection for thee as—my
father—and regard for Adrian as—my friend, I
have locked within the silence of my bosom an
important secret—Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword
has returned from Palestine!”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the very feet of
Aldarin, he could not have started more suddenly
backward, or thrown his arms aloft with a wilder
gesture.

“Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword returned from
Palestine!” he shouted—“where is he now? How
far from the Castle? How many soldiers ride in
his train? Was the murderer Adrian with him?”

“Father—it was his band I left, when disguised
as a Palmer, I hastened toward the Castle. He
lurks within the recesses of the mountains, some
score of miles away—three hundred men ride in
his train—Adrian, whom I believed guiltless, is
with him.”

“Did he speak aught of attacking the Castle
Di Albarone?”

“After a lapse of seven days, it was resolved
to attempt the surprisal of the Castle. From the
vague hints I gathered, it seemed that their plans
were not well matured. Three days of the seven
are now passed, and —”

“The attack will be made four days from this!
By the body of God it pleases me! Ha—ha—ha
—Guiseppo, remember thy oath, the steel and the
pacquet!”

And as he spoke the Count Aldarin strode
toward the door, his face marked by a wild gleam
of exultation, as he communed with himself in a
low, murmured tone.

“Four days—ha—ha—ha! Four days glide
by—and Aldarin is immortal!”

Guiseppo was alone. He gazed wildly around
the gloom of the Red Chamber and passed his
hands over his eyes, as if in the effort to awake
from some fearful dream. All was still, solemn
and silent around him, and he resigned his soul
to dark memories and bitter thoughts, while the
weary moments of that fearful night glided slowly
on.

At last he sank down on the cold floor and slept.
A vision of his mother, his own beautiful and
dark-eyed mother, rose smiling above the waves of
sleep, and then the boy thought she stood beside
him, holding a dagger in her fair white hand,
while she backoned him on to the work of vengeance.
He awoke. His form was pinioned in
the embrace of two soft arms, and a beaming face
was gazing upon him with the glance of two fond
dark eyes, mingling with his own.

“Rosalind!” he shrieked as he sprang to his
feet with surprise—“Rosalind here, in this lone
chamber!”

“I am here”—she exclaimed as she fell weeping
on his bosom—“'Tis a strange story Guiseppo,
but—Sancta Maria, my heart feels chilled
when I think of the fearful scene that made this
Red Chamber a place of death. An hour ago, I
slept within the bower of the Ladye Annabel,
which the Count alloted for my prison, when a
strange figure, clad in robes of sable, strode into
the chamber, and bade me enjoy my freedom, as
he pointed to the open door! I hastened along
the corridor, I descended the stairway, and sought
refuge in this chamber, from two dark figures who
seemed pursuing me, when I found thee, Guiseppo,
flung prostrate along the cold floor, and—”

“Thou didst watch over me, when sleeping,
love of mine? Thy prison hath not stolen the
bloom from thy cheek or the fire from thine eye.”

As he spoke the door of the Red Chamber was
flung suddenly open, and the aged Steward of the
Castle rushed to the side of Guiseppo, with hasty
steps and a disordered manner, shouting as his
grey hairs waved in the night wind—

“A message, Lord Guiseppo—a message of
life and death! The Count Aldarin sends thee
this—read, and read without delay—for I tell
thee 'tis a scroll of life and death.”

Guiseppo perused the scroll, and,—

The spirit of the Chronicle beckens us on to
the most dark and fearful scene of the Historie.

11. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
THE WHITE WATERS OF THE
ALEMBIC.

ALDARIN AND IBRAHIM, GATHERED WITHIN
THE CONFINES OF THE ROUND ROOM, HOLD
THEIR SOLEMN WATCH, WHILE THE
LAST SECONDS OF THE MYSTIC AGE
ARE PASSING TO ETERNITY.

“Tread lightly and with a softened footstep,
Ibrahim, for the place in which you stand has
been the home of the Mighty-Thought for twenty-one
long years! Look—how the azure flame
ascends in tongues of flame around the sides of
the hanging alembic—it is the last night of its
existence! On and on, through calm and cloud,
through sunshine and shadow, for twenty-one long
years has it silently burned—a little while, and the
sands in yon glass will be spent—the Mighty
Thought springs into birth, and the azure flame
will be quenched forever!”

With his slender form elevated to its full height,
his arm extended, and his sweeping robe of black
thrown back from his shoulder, Aldar in the Scholar
glanced around the room, while his grey eye
flashed and brightened as though his very soul
looked forth in its glance. His brow was calm,
clear and unclouded, his compressed lip wore an
expression of fixed determination, and a slight
flush pervaded his pale countenance.

The light of the pendant lamp fell over the form
of the venerable stranger, his dark-hued face, with
the thick eyebrows, the waving hair, and the
flowing beard, all snow white in hue, standing out
boldly in the ruddy beams, while his dress of sable,
relieved by the border of glittering gold, gave
solemnity and dignity to his appearance. He
stood calm and erect, gazing with his eyes of
midnight darkness, upon the strange altar, with
its ever-burning flame of azure, or fixing his
glance upon the wild and speaking features of Aldarin
the Scholar.

“Advance, Ibrahim—advance to the altar of
marble”—exclaimed the Scholar, with all the
proud consciousness of the possession of a power
beyond the reach of the multitude—“Gaze within
the alembic—what see'st thou there?”

“I see a liquid clear as crystal, calm, motionless,
and unruffled. The most gorgeous mirror
might fail to rival its shadowy brightness. The
alembic is heated to a white heat, yet the liquid
bubbles not, nor seethes, nor wears any appear

ance of the effect of heat. It is beautiful—most
beautiful!”

“Every drop is worth a life. Within the recesses
of this altar another flame, fanned by subterranean
currents, burns beneath the Crucible,
which at last will give forth the Secret of Gold.—
Gaze upon yon hour-glass, Ibrahim—the glass
standing upon the corner of the altar—”

“The sands have fallen to within a half-hour of
midnight—”

“When the last grain of sand falls in the glass
then will be complete the mystic age of toil. The
waters of life will then be pure, the secret of gold
will then be perfect. Twenty-one years will then
be past since first I sat me down to watch yon
never-ceasing flame. Twenty-one years—earth
never beheld such years—each day an age, each
year an eternity!”

“Thy toil hath been most difficult!” exclaimed
Ibrahim, in his deep-toned voice—“the end draws
nigh!”

“It was in that home of magnificent thoughts
and mighty memories—the city of Jerusalem, that
the Glorious Thought dawned upon my soul!—
`To live forever,' I cried as I gazed upon the wide
city, with its palaces and towers basking in the
sunlight—“to pass beyond the years of mortal
men, to exist while whole nations sink down to the
slumber of the grave, while kings succeed kings
and millions of the mass of men glide away on
their solemn march to the grave! To live forever—to
feel life throbbing in my veins, health
flooding my very heart, youth, eternal youth
crowning my brow, when Old Earth shall have
been stamped with the footsteps of ten thousand
years—oh glorious boon, oh guerdon worthy an
age of toil to win!' I sought the boon when first
I trod the Syrian soil, but my search was wild
and vague—yon massive volume was placed in my
hands—”

“And then the search became clear and distinct?”

“Yes—yes! Truth after truth dawned upon
me, ingredient after ingredient was added to the
contents of the alembic,[1] and rash man that I was
—but stay a moment, Ibrahim. Gaze again
upon the liquid of the alembic, and tell me what
thou see'st.”

“The same clear and undimmed liquid, resting
calm and motionless within the depths of the
vessel.”

“Behold yon circular glass, resting beside the
parchment scroll, on the corner of the altar. It
will magnify an insect until it swells to the dimensions
of the strange animal that haunts the
forests of the far desert of India—the elephant,
methinks 'tis called. Apply the glass to thine
eye, and gaze within the depths of the vessel.”

“A strange and magnificent spectacle! The
clear liquid spreads out into a magnificent lake,
calm, unshadowed and rippleless. Yet stay—'tis
shadowed by a small island floating in the centre,
an island composed of some unknown substance,
black as jet, yet scarcely perceptible even through
the wonderous medium of this glass!”

“When that speck of jet shall have vanished,
then will the charm be perfect! I have said that
I was rash and indiscreet—let my story witness.
I disregarded the words of the Book, I thought
twenty-one years too long and weary a time for
me to sit in solemn silence while I watched the
progress of the Secret. A few words in the volume
hinted darkly and vaguely at a consummation
of the Thought, attainable by one bold grasp—that
grasp I made—yes, yes, though my very soul was
shaken to the centre, and my brain reeled in the
effort—I—I—slew her!”

“Slew her? Great God, what dark confession
is this!”

“Yes—yes—I slew her, slew her as she slept
in my arms and smiled in my face. I drove
the steel to her heart—I dabbled her long dark
locks in the warm blood that gushed from her
bosom! Nay, start not man, nor turn aside with
such sudden horror—hast not perused yon volume
—know'st thou not the mystic words—“The pure
blood, warm from the heart of her thou lovest more
than aught in earth or heaven, poured into the
liquid floating within the mystic vessel, will do
the work of years in a single hour—”

“And she—she was thy”—

“My wife, my wife! My own, my dark-eyed
Ilmerine. Her blood, the pure current of her very
heart, purpled the White Waters of the Alembic—and—and,
fool that I was, I would not even
wait the hour of trial, I drank the liquid, greedily,
and with loud exclamations of joy I drank, and
paid the price of my rashness. I neglected to
use the microscopic glass; the black speck had not
vanished from the surface of the liquid. I lay for
days insensible, when I awoke to reason I found
this frame grown prematurely old. Had I but waited

the little hour, the draught would have infused
immortal life into my veins. I was rash, hasty
wild with the madness of my joy, and the draught
proved poison.”

“All thy efforts were then foiled.”

“I was foiled, but I did not despair. Again I
built the fire on the altar, again I added ingredient
to ingredient, the corses of the dead I searched
for the last and most powerful Charm; years
passed, and the consummation of the Idea of my
life approached, when—Fiend of Hell—I discoved
that the price of my rashness was not yet paid!
As I pored over the leaves of the mystic volume,
a fearful thought, expressed in dim and shadowy
words, sunk in my very soul”—

“Methinks I see some new horror, lowering
over the black cloud of guilt and blood that darkens
the sky of thy life.”

“Blood, there was, yes, yes, but no guilt. By
the Awful Influence that has ruled my life, there
was none! The Martyr of the Christian, strides
to the stake, that is to cut short the brief thread
of his puny life, with a few moments of pain, suffers,
dies and is glorified. Is there no glory for
Aldarin! Have I not also been a martyr? There
there, ever before me, was the One Great Idea,
leading me on, and on, filling me with high hopes
and grand thoughts, that all pointed to the final
good of mankind—”

“Thou didst at first dream the Secret would
benefit the mass of men? Ha—ha—thou wouldst
have made the Mob, immortal!”

“It is past, the dream is past. Yes, yes, Ibrahim
I join in thy laugh. I would have made the
Mob immortal! Ha—ha! The multitude, what
are they? Now the autumn leaf, blown to and
fro by the wind; now the hurricane that a breath
may raise; to-day all sunshine, to-morrow all storm
and cloud! The Mob! To-day, they strew palmbranches
in the path of the Nazarene, and send
their hozannas echoing to the sky,—`Hail, hail
king of the Jews!' To-morrow, the Nazarene
stands bound and pinioned in the halls of Pilate
and their cry,—the cry of the Mob—comes shrieking
through the casement `crucify, crucify him!”'

“This, this is the many-headed mob.”

“Have I not been a Martyr? Others have
offered up their blood at the shrine of their Faith,
I, I have given the very blood of my soul! I have
made a sacrifice of love; love such as the man of
thought alone can feel; I have rushed beyond the
boundaries of thought, that confine the opinions of
common men; I have dared the vengeance of the
Faith beside whose altars I was reared, the arm
of the God, whose existence was imprinted on my
brain from infancy; I, I have dared the most terrible
doom of all—the remorse of my own soul!”

“The words of the Scroll—the dim and shadowy
words—what were they?”

“Hast thou ne'er perused you volume of Fate?”

“A fear of the dark and terrible mysteries inscribed
on its pages, ever deterred the Princes of
Ben-Malakim from the perusal of the Mystic volume.”

“A dark passage on the Scroll, vaguely hinted
that in case the Seeker failed in the first bold experiment,
in case the life drops of her dearest to
his heart, were spilt in vain, then, then another sacrifice
was to be offered, ere the Crystal Waters
would be undimmed by the speck of jet—and,
and—Ibrahim, behold yon funeral urn!”

“It stands upon the shelf, amid a heap of massive
volumes, and time-eaten parchments. What
means this funeral urn?”

“I cannot, cannot tell thee now. But Ibrahim
listen—after long care and thought, care and
thought such as never wrinkled the brow of mortal
man before, I have arrived at certain, fixed
principles of beliet. These principles relate to the
consummation of the Secret—the last Charm
which will make it complete—the manner in
which the Water of Life is to be tested, ere it is
imbibed by mortal man. The Last Roll of the
Mystic Volume, which thou hast borne from the
far east, may stamp these principles of belief
true, or declare them false, but it can teach Aldarin
nothing. Look, Ibrahim, the sands have
fallen to within the fourth part of an hour of mid-night!
Give me the last Scroll, I would read!”

Ibrahim drew the scroll from his breast. It
was a massive roll of parchment, sealed at
either end with an intricate seal of dark wax,
stamped with strange characters. Aldarin eagerly
extended his hand, he seized the scroll, he tore
the seals from either end, and unrolled the time-worn
parchment.

And there, while with trembling hands and a
flashing eye, the Scholar glanced over the strange
Arabic characters, there nothing his every glance,
his every gesture, stood the solemn stranger, his
eye dark as midnight gazing with one fixed look
upon the face of Aldarin, as tho' he would peruse
the contents of the scroll, from the changing expression
of the reader's countenance. It was

strange to note the contrasted gestures of the
Scholar and the stranger, as the few last minutes
of the mystic age wore slowly on. While the
Scholar eagerly perused the ancient manuscript,
his eye gradually acquired a brilliancy and intensity
of expression that seemed supernatural, his
lip trembled, his quivering hands rattled the time-worn
parchment, until the Round Room echoed
with the sound, and the Prince Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim
standing slightly aside, raised his hands to
his brow with a sudden gesture as tho' he wished
to stifle some bitter memory, or nerve his soul for
the accomplishment of some fell purpose.

“Awful Soul of the Universe!” shrieked
Aldarin as he shook the parchment aloft, in the
wildness of his joy—“I thank thee! I thank
thee! All—all is written here—the principles of
my belief are—true! Yes—yes! The last charm
—the method of the trial of the Secret—the raising
of the mighty dead—all, all are here! Ibrahim—Ibrahim,
give me joy! Lo! I unveil to
thy gaze the secret of the funeral urn!”

And with wild steps, and hasty manner, Aldarin
strode across the oaken floor, he uncovered the
funeral urn, he placed his trembling hands within
its depths.

“Behold”—he shrieked—“Ibrahim behold the
sacrifice!”

Ibrahim looked, he beheld the upraised hand of
Aldarin, but he dared not look again. Thrilled
with horror at the sight, he, veiled his face in his
hands, while Aldarin strode hurriedly toward the
altar. All was still as death in the Round Room.

“Listen, Ibrahim, listen!” exclaimed Aldarin—
“Hark! how the red drops fall pattering into the
white waters!”

Ibrahim listened in horror, but dared not look.
In a moment, the funeral urn, again enclosed the
object of horror, and the voice of Aldarin broke
whispering on the air.

“Ibrahim, brother of mine, haste thee to the
altar—seize the microscopic glass, and gaze upon
the white waters of the alembic! I dare not—I
dare not gaze upon the working of the charm!”

And as Ibrahim raised the glass to his eye, Aldarin
stood with his back to the altar and his face
to the wall, his wild eye glaring on vacancy, while
he counted the last seconds of the mystic age by
the motion of his trembling fingers.

“The sands of the glass have fallen to within
ten minutes of midnight,” exclaimed Ibrahim. “I
gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! They
spread before mine eyes in a calm and silver lake
The surface is crimsoned by waves of blood—the
island of jet enlarges and widens!”

“Waves of blood—the island of jet widens!”
shrieked Aldarin. “Two minutes of the ten are
past! Oh, fiend of doom! can the charm prove
false at last?”

“The waves of blood are dying away; the
black substance diminishes in size!”

“Art sure, good Ibrahim? Gaze again upon
the waters: do not, do not deceive me!”

“The waters are colored with a purple dye.”

“It hastens—it hastens! Ha—ha! So read
the words of the book! Why dost pause, Ibrahim?
Four minutes of the ten are past!”

“The object of black still diminishes; and now
the purple hue of the waters is fading away!”

“My heart, my heart is bursting; I cannot,
cannot breath! Ibrahim, Ibrahim, tell, oh! tell
me, what hue do the waters assume? Thou art
silent! I dare not turn and gaze with mine own
eyes; do not mock me thus, Ibrahim!”

“A calm lake, cloudless, waveless, and ripleless
opens to my gaze. The waters are clear as crystal.
No shadow dims their unfathomable brilliancy,
no object of blackness floats upon the surface.
The sands have fallen in the glass—”

“Speak, speak, Ibrahim, or I will fall to the
floor! Is there no shadow resting upon the surface
of the white waters?”

“None, by my soul, none!”

“Then—then—Aldarin—is—immortal!”

12. CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
THE TRIAL OF THE WATERS OF LIFE.

Arising in tongues of fire, from the floor of
stone, a flame of crackling wood, cast its ruddy
glare around the Cavern of the Dead, flinging
vivid glimpses of blood-red light along the earth-hidden
roof, and imparting a strange appearance
of warmth and life, to the circling figures, scattered
along the pavement of the vault.

Turned to burning red by the full glare of the
flame, the gigantic Figure of Stone, arising above
the Mound of Death, seemed starting into life, as
with arms thrown wildly aloft, and downcast eyes,
it gazed upon the strange spectacle, extended at
the foot of the mound. Ascending from the cavern
floor, a square tent, for by that name alone it

may be designated, formed of hanging curtains of
jet-black leather, gave three of its sides to the glare
of the flame, while the fourth was wrapt in shadow.
The hangings of black leather, were inscribed
with strange and contrasted characters,
fashioned in shapes of glittering gold, while from
the aperture at the top, where the roof of the tent
should have been placed, there arose, in dark and
murky folds, thick columns of lurid smoke, winding
upward to the far-off ceiling of the cavern.

Near the tent of embroidered leather, arose a
small, square and compact structure of ebony, in
shape resembling a small table, designed to serve
the purposes of an altar. On the top of the altar
of ebony was laid an hour glass, standing between
a funeral urn, and a phial of glittering silver,
placed beside a massive volume of time-eaten
parchments, with an unbound scroll, falling to the
very floor of the cavern.

Within the compass of a fathom's length from
the tent of leather, was erected the fire of massive
oaken wood which threw its ruddy glare around
the spot, and flung vivid though flickering glimpses
of light along the distant recesses of the cavern.

And there in that lone cavern, beneath the
frown of the Demon-Form, with the ruddy blaze
of the oaken fire, disclosing their faces and figures
in bold and strong relief, there, while the hours of
that fearful night, dragged heavily on, watched
and waited Aldarin and Ibrahim the [2] Son of the
Kings.

Ibrahim, calm, solemn and erect, stood beside
the Altar of Ebony, his sable attire, his dark hued
face, with the grey hair, the white eye-brows and
the flowing beard disclosed in the light, while he
gazed in wonder and awe around the immensity
of that cavern, where the last and most terrible
scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, was to add
another legend of horror to the teeming Archives
of Albarone. With slow and measured steps,
Aldarin paced the pavement of the cavern, extending
in front of the sable tent, while the light of
the flame revealed his face, pale and colorless,
stamped with an expression, calm and immovable
it is true, yet fraught with strange and mysterious
meaning.

“It is a dark and gloomy place—dost not think
so Ibrahim?” exclaimed the Scholar advancing
to the side of the Arab-Prince. “Look around!
Behold the flashes of flame-light falling along the
floor of the dread cavern, giving a lurid glare to
the ceiling as it arises above our heads, like an
earth-hidden sky, or casting their ruddy glare over
the face and form of yon dark figure of giant
rock. Is't not a dark and gloomy place, Ibrahim?”

“Here, along this gloomy cavern, might the
warrior of a thousand battles walk and tremble as
he walked, without the blush of shame for his
coward fear. As I gaze around upon the dark
mysteries of this funereal vault, methinks I behold
the demons of the unreal world, clustering around
me, laughing in my face, or mocking my very soul
with their gestures of scorn!”

“Here will the last scene in the Mortal Life of
Aldarin, startle the very gaze of yon dark dread
face of stone. Tell me Ibrahim, how long hast
waited in this solemn vault.”

“Twice have I turned your hour glass since
first we entered the cavern—it wanes toward the
third hour after midnight.”

“Thou hast not asked me any question concerning
these dark hangings of embroidered leather.
Thou hast not asked me why yon dark and
lurid smoke wends upward from the confines of
this sable tent. Nor hast thou spoken a word
in relation to the secrets of this Tabernacle of
Life—so the Book calls the sable tent.”

“Ibrahim has waited the pleasure of Aldarin.”

“Then listen, dark Arabian, when I tell thee—
the dead, the mighty dead shall live again!”

“These words are mysteries to me!”

“Read yon mystic scroll, Ibrahim, and all shall
be as the light of day to thee—read those words
of fearful knowledge.

And with a whispered and trembling voice, the
Arabian gave to the air of the Cavern, the dark
and mysterious words of the scroll:

“Lo! The Waters of Life are free from
stain or pollution of earth. Wouldst thou prove
them pure? Within the hollow of the coffin-like
vessel of iron, place the remains of the Sacrificed
and pile the fire of beechen wood around. When
the iron pales from red to white, then warm the
Heart of the Sacrificed with the white waters of
the Alembic—when the heart throbs, then let it
mingle with the Corse of the Coffin, and Lo! As
the sands of the third hour sink in the glass—
the dead shall arise!”

“There—there—within the Tabernacle of

Life,” shouted Aldarin, with an upraised arm and
kindling eye—“There rests the Corse of the Sacrificed,
there ascends the fire of beechen wood,
beating the coffin of iron to a white heat—within
the confines of yon funeral urn, rests the Heart,
and the phial of silver by its side, contains the
priceless Waters of Life! Behold the sands of
the third hour are falling in the glass—a little
while and — how the thought stirs my very
soul—the dead will live again!”

“The dead?” echoed Ibrahim with a gaze of
wonder—“How meanest thou, Aldarin?”

“Must I then, unclose the darkest place in this
seared bosom to thy gaze? Man, I tell thee—his
form—the form of my brother shall live again!”

“Thy brother—Awful God!” whispered the
Arabian in a tone, whose horror may not be described—“Thy
brother then was thy last victim?”

“Pity me, Ibrahim, pity me!” shrieked Aldarin.
“Swayed by two mingling and opposing
motives—the one, ambition for the welfare of my
child—the other, the all-absorbing desire for the
Immortal Life on earth; but a few short days
ago, I beheld approach the last moment of the
Mystic Age of Toil. Then—then, I first learned
the necessity of the fearful sacrifice, and then,
then I drugged the bowl of death!”

“This—this is too horrible for belief!” muttered
Ibrahim in a whispered voice; “Now—now
my soul is firm for the work of the night!”

“Was I to falter when the hour of fear and
doom drew nigh?” shrieked Aldarin, as his slender
form rose proudly erect, and his wild face
shone in the full light of the blazing flame. “Was
I, I who had strode on to the guerdon of all my
toil, unfearing and undismayed, though the dead
body of my wife lay in my path, though the hopes
of my heart fell withering and dead around me,
while the spirit of my love for her, plead and
plead in vain for pity; was I, Aldarin, to spare
the blow, when that blow would crown my earthly
ambition, and complete my immortal toil? Ha—
ha! The thought is vain!”

“Hadst thou no mercy?”

“In such a cause, I answer none! I tell thee
man, had my brother pleaded for his life, and
sprinkled my feet with his tears, had he pleaded
for his life in the calm, soft tones of childhood, the
tones that brought back the memory of those
days when our arms and hands were interlocked,
had he sprinkled my feet with such tears as wet
this seared face, when I rescued him from the waters
of the river that rolls without these walls,
some thirty years ago—then, even then I could
not have spared him! No, no, no! It was to be,
and it was!”

“He shall rise from the dead, thou sayst? In
what form shall he appear?”

“Fair, and young, and beautiful; youth shrined
in his heart and power throned on his brow! His
mind will be fresh with new-born vigor, yet Memory
of the Past, shall never darken his bosom!
The babe is not more unconscious of its pre-existence
in another and a far-off world, than will be
Julian my brother of the Past, with all its darkness
and doom.”

“How dost thou know, that he will arise in this
form?”

“Spoke the Nazarine truth, when he said, `Faith
can remove mountains?' The Will of the Soul,
mighty in the consciousness of its immortal powers
and infinite sympathies, can do more! The
Will, determined and inflexible, can bend the invisible
mysteries of the universe to its bidding, call
up the fearful influences, ever at work within the
bosom of Nature, and chain them, slaves of its power;
bind the wild elements of man's heart in subjection,
and awe the souls of the multitude, when
aroused by passion, or maddened by revenge
The Will can sway the heart of man, to the
windings of a path, dark as the way I have trodden,
leading the Soul onward through mystery,
and doom, and blood; teaching it to trample on
Fear, laugh at the ghastly face of Remorse, and
scorn the uplifted arm of God! `Faith can remove
mountains!' I cannot, may not, at this fearful
hour, trace the operations of the Invisible
Might! Suffice it to say—Aldarin wills that the
Re-created shall walk forth in a form of youth and
power, and it shall be so!”

“Lo! The sands of the hour glass are well
nigh spent. One-half of the last hour alone remains!”

“I will gaze within the Tabernacle of Life!”

Aldarin advanced, swept the sable hangings
aside, and in a moment was lost to view. Ibrahim
also advanced to the front of the Tabernacle
—as the mystic jargon of the Scholar named the
test—and listened with hushed breath and absorbing
interest. He could hear the subdued hissing
of the flames within the Tabernacle, he could hear
a low, scarce perceptible sound, like the seething
of boiling lend, and a penetrating perfume of
mingled frankincense and myrrh, saluted his

senses, mingled with the odor of decaying mortality.

A single moment passed while Ibrahim listened,
and then he advanced to the verge of the vast
fire, burning on the cavern floor, and stood for a
moment wrapt in stern and solitary thought.
Clasping his hands across his chest, he drooped
his head low upon his bosom, while the trembling
lip and dilated eye attested the violence of the
struggle at work within his inmost soul.

He raised his head and looked round. Tall and
erect, the ruddy glow of the fire, streaming over
his majestic face, disclosing every outline of his
imposing costume, the Arabian gazed around, and
beheld the stern sublimity of the cavern of the
dead. Save the hissing of the flame, all was still
and silent. Not a word, not a whisper. Silence
dwelt supreme, the Spirit and the Divinity of the
place.

Far, far above, the cavern roof, extending like a
sky, received on each rugged projection, the ruddy
glow of the flame, while long belts of flickering
light were thrown along the pavement of
stone, for a moment revealing the strange and
fantastic forms scattered around the dim walls of
the vault, in strong and startling relief; and then
again the fire would suddenly subside, leaving
everything, save the floor in its immediate vicinity,
wrapt in thick and sombre darkness.

“A strange fancy,” murmured Ibrahim, “Methought
I saw yonder statues moving to and fro,
—a wild delirium of my fancy!”

“It throbs—it throbs—it palpitates!” a deep-toned,
yet wild and thrilling voice broke the silence
of the cavern—“Look, Ibrahim, how the
Waters of Life, hasten the completion of the
Mighty Labour!”

Ibrahim hurriedly turned and beheld Aldarin,
standing beside the Altar of Ebony, grasping the
phial of silver in one hand, while with the other
he raised on high the Secret of the Funeral Urn,
that may not be named by man, or written down
on this page, lest incredulity should smile in ignorant
scorn, and shallow unbelief make a mock
of the Dark Fanaticism of the Past.

“It throbs—it throbs—it warms with life!”
again shricked Aldarin, as he rushed within the
confines of the hangings of sable—“Lo! The
coffin of iron is heated to a white heat; the charm
hastens to perfection!”

“Mine eyes are cheated by vain delusions!'
muttered Ibrahim, “But a moment agone, and
methought the arabesque figures were flitting to
and fro, and now—as I live, there 'tis again—I
behold dim shadows gliding round yon funeral
pile!”

As he spoke the fire waned, and a sudden darkness,
only relieved by the faint flashes of light
came down like midnight upon the cavern. Ibrahim
looked around and beheld Aldarin standing
near his side, holding an opened missal in his
hand, which disclosed a hollow casket—instead
of the emblazoned leaves of a book of devotion,—
glittering with a gem that shone through the
gathering darkness like a star. And as the Arabian
looked he beheld Aldarin apply the mouth
of a small silver phial which he held in his hand,
to the surface of the gem, while a meaning smile
stole over his face. The fire blazing on the cavern
floor, lighted up with sudden vigor, and white
columns of smoke, rolling from the silver phial,
gathered in waving folds above the head of Aldarin,
and swept far away, like the wings of a mighty
bird, until they encircled the giant outline of
the Demon Form, towering far, far overhead.

“Ibrahim, my brother,” cried the voice of Aldarin,
“I would welcome the Arisen-Dead with
sweet perfumes and fragrant incense. 'Tis thus
the Book commands!”

He looked forth from the cloud of smoke that
enveloped his form, and started in surprise as he
beheld the erect form of the Arabian. The chymical
spell, from whose influence the Scholar had
defended himself, took no effect on the form of
the Arabian Prince.

“The all-penetrating essence of the dead pervading
the air and imbucing the atmosphere,
renders the spell powerless!” he murmured with
a frown of impatience. “And yet Aldarin and his
new-risen brother must have no witness of their
mighty mysteries! Though he had a thousand
lives, still must he carry my secret where 'twill
be safe—to—ha, ha, to the grave!”

“The sands of the glass are falling,” cried Ibrahim
advancing, “one-fourth of the last hour alone
remains!”

“And while that fragment of time is gathered
to eternity, the Water of Life is darting like lightning
through the body of the dead—and—and—
yet hold a moment, good Ibrahim! Dost thou
not envy my immortal career? Dost desire to
drink the Water of Life? Lo, the flagon is a
thy command—drink, Ibrahim, and become immortal!”

“Drink I will!” exclaimed Ibrahim with a
meaning smile, as he took the flagon in his grasp

which the Scholar had substituted for the phial
containing the Water of Life—“Drink I will, but
first I will give thee a proof of my power!”

“Thy power? I am all amazement!”

“Learn, mighty Scholar, that the children of
the race of Ben-Malakim hold the power of calling
the spirits of the dead up from the silence of the
grave, or summoning the spectres of the living
from the uttermost parts of the earth!”

“These are idle words. Ibrahim, thou triflest
with me!”

“Aldarin gaze around thee—all is dark and indistinct,
the fire has burned to its embers, and the
cavern beyoud is wrapt in shadow. Aldarin, cast
thy memory backward over the scenes of thy life,
and tell me—which of thine enemies wouldst thou
summon before thee in this scene of gloom?”

“He will drink the flagon at last,” muttered
Aldarin; “I'll even humor his whim. I would
behold the forms of two slaves, whom I hate as
darkly as my soul can hate. I would behold”—
he whispered the names between his clenched
teeth—“summon the slaves before me, if thou
can'st!”

“Lo! it is done,”—shouted the Arabian—
“Spirits of Ben-Malakim, appear—in the name of
God, appear!”

“I hear a hushed sound like the tread of armies,”
murmured Aldarin—“Yet all is dark
around me!”

Scarce had the words passed from his lips when
a dim yet lurid light, issuing from an invisible
source, streamed around the cavern, and the face
of Aldarin, tinted by the ghastly radiance, was
stamped with an expression of wonder and awe.
Around, on every side, gathered along the rude
pavement, shoulder to shoulder, a shadowy multitude
stood dimly revealed in the lurid light, with
dark and immoveable faces looking from beneath
the shadow of sable helmets ponderous with waving
plumes. And as Aldarin looked, the cavern
was for a single moment wrapt in the darkness of
midnight. The gloom was again succeeded by
the lurid light, and before the very eyes of the
Scholar, gazing him sternly and fixedly in the
face, stood two warrior forms, silent and motionless
as statues. One was a stern old knight, clad in
glittering armour, with long waving locks of
snow-white hue falling far beneath his helmet,
along his venerable countenance and over his
iron-robed chest. The other, wore the appearance
of a bluff soldier, next in rank to an Esquire, for
he was clad in attire of substantial buff, with the
rugged outline of his unplumed cap surmounting
a massive forehead, seamed by wrinkles and hardened
by battle-toil.

There was something intensely horrible in the
wild glow of triumph with which Aldarin regarded
the spectres.

“Ha—ha! The vulgar hind, whom this hand
consigned to darkness, arises to swell the triumph
of the Scholar! But the other form—'tis the form
of my mortal foe! He comes in spirit to look
upon the glory of Aldarin! A few brief days and
over his heart and brain will blacken the vengeance
of the Scholar—vengeance such as never shadowed
earth or darkened hell! Away with these
phantoms, Ibrahim—my brain is 'wildered with
much joy—away!”

Through the gloom, he advanced toward the
figures, he reached forth his hand, expecting to
grasp the intangible air, when it rattled against
the rugged plates of iron defending the breast of
the venerable warrior. The echo of the rattling
armour was returned by a clanking sound that
rang to the very cavern's roof, like the clashing of
a thousand swords. There was a dark and fearful
pause. Aldarin held his breath and his hands
clutched convulsively at his throat.

“Behold,” shouted the voice of Ibrahim,” “behold
the spectres by the light of a thousand
torches!”

And at the magic word, the Cavern of Death
was all alive with light, the light of blazing torches,
grasped by the mailed hands of warriors, while
the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms gathered
in one dense and blackening multitude along the
pavement of stone, rose clear and distinctly in the
ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a
forest in the air. Aldarin looked from side to
side—he passed his hand wildly over his forehead,
he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful
dream. It was no dream, Great God of Truth
and Vengeance! it was no dream. On every
side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin,
on every side the frown of warlike visages
met his gaze, and his glance was returned by the
flashing glare of a thousand eyes.

The spell broke—the reality sank down upon
the soul of Aldarin. His face was stamped with
an expression that brought to the minds of the
gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal
torment from the very battlements of heaven; he
extended his right arm with a wild gesture, and
clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting
from the skin, his lips parted, his jaw sank

down to his very breast, while his full grey eye
glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its
glance from side to side, dilating every moment,
and flashing like a meteor.

“Ibrahim—Ibrahim—I am betrayed!” he shricked,
turning to the Arabian. “Albarone to the
rescue!”

He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing
calm and erect beside the altar of ebony. He
advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand to
grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward
with a howl of despair whose emphasis of
horror may not be described in words. The
snow-white beard, the grey hair, the white eye-brows,
fell from the tawny face of Ben-Malakim,
and Aldarin beheld the visage of —Albertine, the
Monk!

Then it was that the soul of the old man sank
within him, then it was that he raised his trembling
hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air,
while a wild yell of execration burst from the
Phantom Band.

“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the
grey-haired knight; “Behold the murderer of your
Lord!”

“Behold the brother-murderer!” shricked the
stout yeoman, standing at the side of Sir Geoffrey.
`These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the
foul embrace of murder!”

And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came
pressing slowly and solemnly on, glittering swords
flashed in the light, and low muttered cries of
vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more
close they gathered, while Albertine stood silent
and motionless regarding the scene.

“The sands have fallen to within five minutes
of the time!” madly shrieked Aldarin. “The
charm may yet be complete!”

He wildly turned from the advancing knights
and yeomen, he turned towards the Tabernacle,
he heeded not the cries of execration that arose on
every side, he trembled not at the frown of the
Demon Form towering far, far above. He turned
towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush
within the folds of the sable hangings, when he
started back to the very breast of Sir Geoffry o' th'
Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.

There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable
tent, stood a youthful form, clad in a dress of
glittering white, his arms folded on his breast,
while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed
fixedly at the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed
the night-wind played with the floating locks of
his golden hair.

“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted
Aldarin, with a wild laugh of joy, “your lord hath
arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he
stands, calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and
power on his brow! Ha—ha—ha! I did—I
did slay him! But I have raised him from the
sleep of death! Behold—ha, ha, ha!—behold!”

“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed
Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword, as he advanced,
“thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di Albarone!”

“The avenger of his father's blood!” shouted
the form, advancing to the light. “Murderer, behold
thy doomsman!”

Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and
veiled his eyes in his hands, while a sound like
the death groan rattled in his throat. His was no
common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His
bosom trembled not with the throes of grief for
the wife slain by death, or the child torn from his
embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept
were not visible tears, pouring from his eyes along
the furrowed cheek. No, no. His soul wept
within him tears such as giant souls alone can
weep, when a mighty thought is slain, when the
idea of a life is crushed.

“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shricked Sir
Geoffrey o' th' Longsword; “advance, and seize
the murderer!”

Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul
Three minutes of the last hour yet remained.
The sands of the glass had not yet fallen. That
little shed of time gained, he might yet complete
the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be
rewarded by the immortal boon.

He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o
th' Longsword; yes, yes, the proud and mighty
Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern
floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees
of the knight.

“Give me, give me but three minutes of life—
three minutes alone, and then ye may lead me to
the death.”

The knight trembled: he had been prepared
for scorn and defiance, but not for tears.

“Away with his magical pranks, away with
his works of hell!” arose the shout of the stout
yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the
tented hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles
that supported their folds. `St. Withold! what

infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I
scatter the magical fire—thus I overturn this coffin
of iron! Gather around, ye men of Albarone:
scatter the works of this demon along the floor of
the cavern!”

It was the work of an instant. While Sir Geoffrey
trembled; while the monk Albertine stood beside
the altar of ebony, veiling his face in his
hands; while even Adrian, the son of the murdered,
hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin
was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by
Rough Robin, overturned the coffin of iron, heated
as it was to a white heat, scattered the embers
of the fire along the surface of the floor, and concealed
the nameless secret of the coffin with the
dark hangings of leather, which they flung over
the disgorged contents of the receptacle of the
dead.

Aldarin slowly arose on his feet. All emotion
had vanished from his face. Stern, calm, and
fearless, he gazed around. He looked over the
vast expanse of the cavern roof, he marked the
dread face of the demon form towering far above,
he gazed upon the hurrying forms and wild faces
of the men-at-arms.

“Lead me, lead me to my death—” spoke the
fierce tones of Aldarin, the scholar. “I scorn and
defy ye all.”

Albertine, the monk, still clad in the dark robe
and majestic attire of Ibrahim Ben Malakim,
strode suddenly to the side of the scholar, and
thrust a parchment roll in his hands.

“Man, I betrayed thee,” he whispered, in tones
that attested his agony. “Man, I betrayed thee,
though my heart smote me in the act. Yet I will
not scorn thee in this thy final hour. The parchment,
the parchment—grasp it with a grasp like
death; the phial, the phial!” He turned, and
continued in a loud voice, audible to the avengers:
“Sinner, receive this book of prayer; it may comfort
thy final hour.”

Aldarin took the parchment, and calmly folded
it to his bosom.

“I scorn ye all,” he shrieked. “I defy your
vengeance, I dare the doom ye would inflict. Aldarin
fears not death.”

“To the gibbet with the murderer,” shouted
Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword. “Aye, upon the
same gibbet where blacken the forms of the brave
soldiers of Lord Julian; there, there let the miscreant
dangle.”

And the men-at-arms echoed the shout, until
the vast cavern roof resounded with the words of
doom: “To the gibbet—to the gibbet with the
fratricide!”

In a moment the cavern was left to silence and
eternal night. Never since that fearful hour has
human foot trode the funeral vaults of Albarone.
Along dark passages, through subterranean corridors,
and up tottering stairways, poured the flood
of men-at-arms, bearing with them the scholar
and fratricide. At last, winding through the
same passages traversed three hours agone by Aldarin
and Ibrahim, passing through the chymical
laboratory, which has never been disclosed to the
eye of the reader, the crowd of avengers reached
the Round Room. The altar was overturned, the
books and parchments torn from the shelves, yet
the scholar quailed not, nor uttered word of lamentation.
Gloomy corridors were then traversed,
massive stairways ascended, the hall of the castle
passed, and at last Aldarin emerged from the castle
door, and stood upon the slab of stone surmounting
the flight of steps. He gazed around,
while the avengers came thronging at his back;
and as he gazed, the court-yard of the castle became
the scene of a strange spectacle.

13. CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
THE OATH.

THE VENGEANCE OF ALDARIN, THE SCHOLAR.

“It is a fair day, and the sun shines brightly.
Ha—ha! The sky above is clear, and the earth
seems laughing with joy in the very face of day!”

Aldarin smiled as he spoke, and gazed above.
It was the hour of early dawn. The first beams
of the sun shone over the eastern battlements of
the castle, mellowing the azure sky with their radiance,
while the fresh and balmy air of the summer
morn fanned the burning forehead of the
scholar. It was the last time he would behold the
beams of the dawning day; it was the last time
his burning brow should be freshened by the kiss
of the morning breeze, and yet he smiled.

Aldarin gazed around. A yell of horror broke
upon the summer air, and far along the court-yard
extended the living sea of men-at-arms, arrayed in
their sable armor, mingling with the vast masses
of the peasant vassals, while the beams of the rising
sun shone over a thousand brandished swords,
as each man swelled the reiterated shout of vengeance,
and each man shook in the light such a
weapon as the frenzy of that fearful moment enabled
him to obtain.

Look where he might, on every side, the gleam
of flashing eyes met the gaze of Aldarin; all along
the court-yard the blackened mass swayed to and
fro, like the waves of the ocean in a storm; and
again heaven gave back to earth the combined
yells of innumerable voices mingling together in
that fearful sound—the shout of a vast body of
men, maddened and crazed by the impulses of a
moment of wild excitement.

“To the gibbet!” arose that shout of doom.
“To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!”

With one glance Aldarin surveyed the scene
around him. There, grouped along the steps of
stone, stood the stout yeoman, his brow wearing
one fixed and steady frown, as, with his sword
half drawn from the scabbard, he gazed upon the
face of Aldarin; there stood two figures veiled in
robes of sweeping sable, while the erect form and
venerable face of the knight o' th' Longsword
confronted the scholar, standing on the slab of
stone.

“Sir knight,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a smile
wreathing his pinched lip, “though ye are somewhat
hurried in your work of doom, I would
make one brief request, ere I am borne hence.
Is there no one in all this crowd that will bear a
message from me to my son, the Lord Guiseppo?”

“That will I,” exclaimed the sharp-featured
steward of the castle, advancing from the crowd.
`Guilty thou mayst be, and thy hands stained
with a brother's blood, yet the request of a dying
man may not be refused. Give me the scroll.”

Aldarin bared the withered flesh of his left arm:
he drew a poignard, small and delicate in shape,
from his girdle, and while the crowd looked on
in wonder and in fear, he stained the point of the
stilletto with his blood. Another moment passed,
and, with the dagger's point, he hurriedly wrote
on the surface of a small slip of parchment which
he also drew from his girdle.

“Bear this away,” he shouted, “bear this away
to the Lord Guiseppo, and tell him that his father
is on his way to the gibbet—ha, ha!”

“Man of blood and crime,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey
o' th' Longsword, as he advanced to the side
of Aldarin, “thy life has been full of dark and
fearful mystery; hast thou no dying words of repentance
to speak, ere the cord tightens round
thy neck? It is not well to dare the presence of
God, with so much blood upon thy soul.”

Aldarin bowed his head low on his breast, and
the bystanders whispered one to the other that the
dread old man was wrapt in thought.

“A confession I have to make—dying words of
repentance I have to speak,” exclaimed Aldarin,
as he gazed around upon the crowded castle yard.
“Thou dost remember, Sir Geoffrey, that twenty
years agone we saw each other's faces in the
wilds of Palestine?”

“I do, I do!” exclaimed the knight, as a mingled
expression of bitter memory and deep feeling
passed over his wrinkled visage. “Twenty years
agone, we saw each other's faces within the walls
of Jerusalem.”

The sound of a quick and trampling footstep
broke upon the air, then a wild shout came shrieking
from the castle hall, and in an instant the
Lord Guiseppo rushed from the massive hall door
and stood facing the scholar Aldarin, his face pale
as death, his eyes rolling madly to and fro, while
his trembling right hand shook the parchment
scroll above his head.

“This scroll, my father: what mean its words
of omen? Yon blackening crowd—their looks
of vengeance—what means it all, my father?”

Aldarin advanced, and flung his arms around
the form of his son, gathering him to his heart in
the embrace of a father. And as he gathered him
to his heart, he whispered a few brief words in the
ear of the Lord Guiseppo, that thrilled the youth
to the very soul; for his eye flashed brighter than
ever, and his cheek grew yet more pale.

“Thy oath—thy oath!” hissed the hollow
whisper of Aldarin.

Guiseppo turned suddenly round, he flung himself
at the feet of Sir Geoffrey, and looked up into
his face with a voice of anguish, as he shrieked:

“Spare my father—spare, oh! spare the weak
old man!”

“Though the angels of God plead for his life
still must he die!”

“Then die, wronger and betrayer! Then die,
midnight assassin and ravisher! The spirit of
my mother nerves my arm and points the steel!”

And as the words fell shrieking from his lips,
ere an arm could be raised, or a word of horror
spoken, Guiseppo sprang to the very throat of the
knight, grasping his long grey hair with one hand,
while with the other he inserted the glittering
dagger between the armour plates of his victim,
and drove the steel down from the left shoulder to
his very heart.

It was the work of a moment; the lightning
flash might not be swifter, nor the thunderbolt
more sudden. One instant the spectators beheld
the kneeling youth, and the warrior waving his

hand with stern determination, as he turned from
the prayer of mercy; the next moment their eyes
were startled by the upraised dagger, and the
blow of vengeance, while the knight tottered heavily
to and fro, looked wildly around, and then
sank in the arms of Robin the Rough, with the
haft of the dagger protruding from the armour
plates of his left shoulder.

“Father!” shrieked Guiseppo, shaking wildly
above his head the right hand that winged the
dagger. “Father, my mother is avenged: behold
the doom of the ravisher!”

“Thou hast done well!” spoke Aldarin, in a
quiet, yet trembling tone, while his lip wore an
even smile. “Boy, thou hast done well! Now,
Guiseppo, read, read the pacquet—the pacquet in
thy bosom!”

And while the horror-stricken spectators—Robin
the Rough, the figures in sable robes, the
peasant-vassals, and the men-at-arms—remained
awed into a fearful pause of silence by the scene,
—the silence that ever precedes the march of
death,—Guiseppo thrust his hand within his bosom,
drew the pacquet fram its resting place, and
with his trembling fingers broke the seal.

“Man of guilt and bloodshed,” exclaimed the
dying knight, as he convulsively placed his hands
on the wound near his heart, “I am dying—my
heart grows cold, and mine eyes are dim—thy
vengeance is gratified; now, now, tell me—”

“Hadst thon ever a child, Sir Geoffrey,” interrupted
Aldarin, advancing to the side of the knight:
“a fair-haired and soft-voiced boy, whose smile
was thy joy, whose presence was thy sunshine?”

“Speak, speak—what knowest thou of my boy?
gasped the dying knight, as a look of agony passed
over his face. “'Tis sixteen years since I beheld
his face in the land of his birth, the city of
Jerusalem. He was torn from my embrace by
an unknown hand.”

Aldarin looked around over the sea of faces,
and smiled as he beheld a peasant whetting his
knife on the very stone on which he stood.

That smile of incarnate scorn seemed to break
the spell of horror that bound the multitude.

“To the gibbet, to the gibbet with the fratricide!”
again arose the fierce yell of vengeance,
and the men-at-arms came crowding up the steps,
while a score of upraised daggers were about to
drink the blood of the doomed murderer, when
Robin the Rough threw himself before the object
of their vengeance.

“Stain not your steel,” he shouted; “stain not
your steel with the traitor's blood; away to the
castle gate with him! Let the dog die a dog's
death!”

And at the word, the Esquires Halbert and his
gallant brother Damian advanced from the crowd,
and seizing Aldarin by the arms, they dragged
him down the steps of stone, while the multitude
gave way on either side, shrinking from the touch
of the murderer, as one would shrink from the
garments of the plague-smitten.

“There is fire in my heart, there is hell in my
brain!” arose a shrieking voice, that was heard
far along the castle yard, thrilling the bystanders
to the very soul. “God of mercy, it is, it is not
true! The parchment is a lie—a falsehood written
by the very fiend of hell! I did not—no, no,
I did not—wing the blow to his heart! God of
heaven witness me, I raised not the steel for his
blood!”

And as the multitude, bearing Aldarin to his
doom, heard that shrieking voice, they looked
back, and beheld the Lord Guiseppo standing
over the prostrate form of his victim, his face pale
and colorless, his lip livid as with the touch of
death, while his eyes rolled their ghastly glance
over the faces of the crowd, and his arms hung
palsied by his side, with the fatal parchment
quivering in the grasp of the trembling hand.

“Father, father!” his fearful shriek again
arose on the air, as he knelt by the side of his
victim; “FATHER, THE MURDERER IS THY SON!”

The old man raised himself on one hand, and,
with a look of speechless meaning, grasped the
hand of the maddened boy, as he gazed silently
over his face, while his very soul seemed absorbed
in some unreal dream of horror.

“My son,” he whispered with a ghastly smile,
“and the dagger in my heart!”

“Thy son!—ha, ha!—I could laugh till the
very heavens echoed my voice!” and, as he spoke,
Aldarin, the Scholar, looked backward toward the
castle steps, where the boy knelt beside the dying
knight. “Thy son,—ha, ha, ha!—and the dagger
in thy heart! Yes, yes, it is thy son! Sir Geofrey,
a parting word: dost thou remember a blow
—aye, a blow from the mailed hand of a warrior
that felled the scholar to the floor, while the princes
of Christendom stood laughing round the scene?
Dost thou remember the insult, the contumely,
the scorn? Then look upon the face of thy boy,
whom I stole and reared to be thy murderer

look upon his youthful face, peruse each feature,
and—ha, ha, ha!—think of the vengeance of Aldarin,
the Scholar!”

With cries of execration and fierce yells of
vengeance the men-at-arms gathered around the
fratricide, and as their brandished swords shone
in the light, they bore him toward the castle gate,
leaving the slab of stone before the pillars of the
castle door to the solitary companionship of the
father and son.

It was true—darkly and fearfully true—Guiseppo
was the son of Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword.

Guiseppo was kneeling upon the stone; his
arms were gathered around the form of his father,
and his eyes were fixed in one long gaze of agony
upon the face of the dying man.

He marked the hue of that venerable countenance
as it grew paler every moment: the lip
white and colorless, the eyes wild and wavering
in their glance, the livid circles gathering like the
taint of corruption beneath each eye; he beheld
the signs and heralds of coming death; he heard
the quick gasping struggle for breath, and yet he
spoke no word, he uttered no sound of agony.

“I see her face in thine,” murmured the old
man, as he gazed upward upon the countenance
of his son. “It is no dream,—and—and—thy
dagger is resting in my heart!”

Guiseppo was silent.

“Boy, look not upon me with such fearful agony—thou
art forgiven!” gasped the old man.
“Raise the hilt of my sword to my lips: I would
kiss the cross ere I die. And now thy hand is
firm, seize the haft of the dagger, and draw the
blade from my heart.”

Guiseppo gazed upon the face of his father
with a vacant look, yet still he uttered no word.

“Draw the dagger from my heart!” gasped the
dying man.

Guiseppo seized the haft of the dagger, and
slowly drew the blade from the heart of the murdered
man.

14. CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE.

THE ELEMEMTS ARISE IN BATTLE, DARKENING
THE EARTH WITH THEIR
STRIFE, AS THE WIND SHRIEKS
THE DEATH-WAIL OF
ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.

Onward toward the castle gate, walking to his
death, and yet receding from the grave at every
step, with the fierce faces of the avengers frowning
around him, with cries of execration and deep
muttered oaths of vengeance deafening his ear, onward
toward the castle gate, with an even step and
an erect form, strode the Scholar Aldarin, the
smile of scorn on his lip and the glance of contempt
in his eye.

He knew not why they bore him onward—fearless
of death, come in what form it might, he
cared not.

The castle gate was reached. A dark-robed
monk rushed from the shadow of the massive pillars,
and while his white hairs waved in the morning
breeze, he raised a cross of iron aloft in the
sunbeams—

“Sinner—there is mercy above—mercy even
for thee! Behold the symbol of that mercy!”

“Ha—ha—curses on thee and thy symbol of—
mercy! thou shaveling! Were not my hands
stayed by these cowards I would strike ye down
in my very path! I curse ye all!” he shrieked
gazing around the crowd—“I blaspheme your religion,
I mock your ***! Will ye not strike?
Aldarin laughs at the steel! Are we afraid of a
weak and trembling old man? Fear ye the
Scholar, even in his last hour? Lo! my breast
is bare—I defy the blow!”

“Thou wilt have striking enough presently,”
cried Robin the Rough—“Throw open the castle
gate there. Let the portcullis be raised and the
drawbridge lowered.”

The gate was passed, and the drawbridge crossed.
Aldarin stood upon the platform of turf surmounting
the summit of the hill; beneath him
descended the road into the valley, on either side
yawned chasms dark and deep, while the rocks
upon whose massive piles the castle was founded,
threw their fantastic forms from amid clumps of
brushwood, and here and there the massive stones
rose brightly into the sunshine from the depths
of the gloomy void.

Aldarin looked around, and beheld the face of
nature clad in the smile of sunshine, the forests
of foliage rising in the light, the broad and mirror-like
bosom of the Arno seen through the intervals
of undulating hills, the mighty Appenines
frowning in the far distance, and the calm blue
sky, glowing with the first kiss of morn, arching
above.

Aldarin looked around upon the face of nature,
but another spectacle fixed his attention and excited

his wonder. Near his very side four dark steeds
were rearing and springing on the sod, while their
grooms, four sable-hued and swarthy Moors, whose
distorted faces looked more like the visages of
beasts of the forest than the countenances of human
things, were forced to exert all their giant-strength
in the effort to hold the wild horses of
the desert.

Wildly with their hoofs the barbs tore the sod,
scattering the loosened earth in the very face of
Aldarin, their eyes flashed like coals of flame,
their sinews seemed to creep under the smooth
and glossy skin, black as midnight, their crests
proudly arching gave their manes, long and dark,
to the breeze, while with quivering nostrils and a
shrill piercing neigh they seemed panting to break
loose from all restraint and dart like lightning
down the steep.

“What would ye with me now?” exclaimed
Aldarin, as a strange wonder and a darker fear
gathered around his heart. “Cowards that ye are'
ye still delay your work of murder. I would
this merry mysterie were finished—”

“To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!”
arose the thunder-shout of the multitude. “To
the gibbet with the wizard and sorcerer!”

“To the Doom, to the Doom!” shouted the
stout yeoman. “To the Doom, but not to the gibbet!”

Robin the Rough smiled and waved his hand to
the Moors who led the barbs of Arimanes down
the steep, while Damian and Halbert followed at
their heels, bearing the Fratricide to his doom.—
Meanwhile the multitude thronging from the
castle-gate, in one dense crowd, begun to darken
over the rocks that hedged in the moat, as the
men-at-arms followed Aldarin down the hilly road,
their upraised swords glittering in the first beams
of the morning sun.

At the foot of the hill there lay a piece of level
earth, some hundred paces square, sloping toward
the east into a green meadow, backed by a wood,
on the west it was hedged in by the forest trees,
on the north was the road leading to the castle,
while toward the south the highway to Florence
wound upward along the brow of a precipitous
hill.

Arrived at this level space—the theatre of the
last and most fearful scene in his life—Aldarin beheld
the stout yeoman ranging the men-at-arms
along the foot of the hill, shoulder to shoulder, presenting
one firm and compact front, their upraised
swords glittering above each sable plume, their
armour of steel shining in the morning light,
while at his very side, in the centre of the level
space, the wild horses of the desert were rearing
and plunging in the hold of their grooms, as their
shrill and piercing neigh broke on the air.

Aldarin cast his gaze above. There crowding
along the rocks, that confined the most, form after
form, face after face, thronged the vassals of Albarone,
gazing with silence and awe, upon the strange
scene passing in the valley below. For the moment
every voice was stilled, every cry was silenced,
and with hushed breath and fixed brows, the
men of Albarone, awaited the last scene of this
fearful tradgedy.

And as Aldarin gazed around he beheld two
soldiers advance, holding thongs in their hands
twisted out of the hide of the wild bull, while the
tawny Moors, at a sign from Rough Robin, placed
their steeds haunch to hauch, the heads of two of
the barbs looking toward the east, while the others
were turned toward the west.

Robin the Rongh advanced. He gazed for a
moment around the scene, and then approaching
the side of Aldarin, spoke in a calm and even tone,
as though the dignity of his solemn office, the
avenger of the dead, imbued his very soul.

“Thou hast invoked the blow, thou hast defied
the steel, blasphemed our religion, and mocked our
God! Traitor and Fratricide—turn thee and behold
the vengeance of that God! Behold the manner of
thy death—Murderer, look at these barbs of the desert,
see how they paw the earth, how their quiveing
nostrils snuff the air—mark those forms of
strength, those sinews of iron! Ere an hundred
can be told, lashed to the backs of these horses,
thine accursed carcase shall be scattered to the
winds of heaven, while thy blood-stained soul,
goes, trembling to its last account! Thou art a
brave man—we would listen to thee, while thou
makest a merry mock of death, and such a death
as this!”

Aldarin turned, he looked at the wild horses,
placed haunch to haunch, the deformed Moor holding
each steed, he marked their forms of strength,
their sinews of iron, and a slight tremor, scarce perceptible,
passed over his frame.

“I am ready”—he slowly and distinctly spoke,
with a calm smile of scorn—“I am ready even
for this death. Cowards and slaves I defy ye!”

“Thou art a wise man”—again spoke Robin the
Rough in his mocking tone—“and yet mere fools

have deceived and duped thee! Yesternight, within
the confines of the Red-Chamber, thou didst
wait the coming of a brother-wizard who was to
journey from the far wilds of the cast. Thy brother-wizard
twenty-four hours agone, rode from
the very walls of Florence, secured by the favor
of this tyrant-duke—Ha! dost thou tremble?”

“This—this—is false!” gasped Aldarin—“Ibrahim
journeyed not from the wilds of the east”.

“He came from the east attended by a train of
twelve Arab knights and a band of Christian warriors,
whom the courtesy of the Crusaders, gave to
the service of the friend of Saladin. He arrived
at Florence, he beheld the tyrant duke, and at
high noon yesterday rode from the walls of the
city, bound for the Castle of Albarone. He was
a venerable man and a mighty, this Ibrahim—for
his long beard—ha,—ha—trailed down to his very
breast! Who was it that made captives of his
companic, and confined his own royal person in
bonds, while the men of Sir Geoffrey wended to
the castle clad in the garments of the Arabians
retinue? Old man breathe the question in a murmured
voice for it was the work of—THE Invisible!”

Aldarin veilded his face in his hands, and pressed
his lips between his teeth, until the blood
trickled down to his very chin.

“Off with the murderer's attire!” shrieked Robin
the Rough—“off with tunic and hose, belt and
boots! Strip him to the very skin! Demon, thy
magical pranks shall not avail thee now! We
will lead thee to thy death, unarmed with magic
casket or wizard phial! Advance comrades and
disrobe the murderer!”

Aldarin raised his head, as the soldiers with the
thongs advanced, while the men-at-arms noted
that his face was ghastly white in hue, yet
calm as the Summer morn dawning in the eastern
sky.

“Is there not one man in all this crowd, who
will bear a message from a father to his daughter?”
he slowly exclaimed—“The Ladye Annabel,
she is my child, and—by the fiend ye dare not refuse
a father's request!”

There was a pause of silence, while two figures
clad and veiled in sweeping robes of sable, stole
silently thro' the throng of men-at-arms, and
stood beside Robin the Rough.

“Will no man bear the last words of a—father
to his child?”

“I—I—will bear the message”—exclaimed the
most upright of the Sable Figures, speaking from
the folds of his robe—“I will bear thy dying words
to the Ladye Annabel!”

Aldarin trembled. He knew the voice, and
strange memories came crowding round him, as
he fancied the tones of his murdered brother, living
again in that husky sound.

“Bear the parchment scroll to the Ladye Annabel.
Tell her—tell her—it came from the hands
of one who loved her thro' life, and gave his last
thoughts to her, in the hour of a fearful death.
And look ye man”—he continued in quick and
gasping tones—“ye need not tell her, how her father
died—ye need not speak of his doom—say to
her, that Aldarin died in his bed!”

“I will—I will—as God lives I will!”

“Tell her that Aldarin with his last word, blessed
her with the blessing of the God in whom she
believes!”

“It shall be done!” exclaimed the voice, and the
hand of the veiled Figure grasped the parchment
scroll—“It shall be done!”

Robin turned from this scene, and gazed above.
“How say ye men of Albarone”—he shouted
pointing to the Barbs of Arimanes—“shall the
Wild Horses, rend the body of the murderer into
atoms? Is our sentence just?”

There arose from rock, from hill, from valley
one shout—“It is the judgment of Heaven—the
judgment of Heaven!”

Slowly and silently the soldiers disrobed the
scholar, and at last he stood disclosed in the light
with the folds of his under tunic floating around his
slender form.

“Lead him to his doom!” shouted Robin the
Rough.

“Ye shall not lead the old man to this fearful
death!” arose the shriek of the Figure who had
received the parchment from the hands of the
scholar—“I forbid this work of doom!”

The robe fell from the form of the stranger, and
Adrian Di Albarone confronted the stout yeoman,
his hands upraised, and his blue eye gleaming
with a wild light, as he shrieked forth the words,
“I forbid this work of doom!”

“Adrian Di Albarone,” exclaimed the deep-toned
voice of Robin the Rough, as he seemed inspired
with an awful feeling of the duty he owed the dead,
“to morrow, these gallant men, the vassals clustering
round yon heights, and thy poor servitor, who
stands before thee, will joy to call thee—Lord!—
This day is sacred to another master, to another
Lord—this day is sacred to the God of vengeance.
This day we own no earthly rule, we stand apart

from all human things; we have sworn to eat, nor
drink, nor sleep until we have fulfilled the work
of doom!”

“Thou wilt not scorn my prayer for mercy?—
Adrian Di Albarone asks the old man's life of thee!
He is stained with my father's blood, but I would
not have him die this fearful death—spare the old
man's life!”

“I am the avenger of Lord Julian of Albarone!
Ask the God above to spare the fratricide—for I
cannot, cannot stay his doom!”

Adrian turned away, for the stern faces of the
men-at-arms told him that his pleadings were all
in vain. And as he glided from the place of death,
the robes were thrust aside from the face of the
other figure, and every eye beheld the visage of
Albertine the monk.

“Old man,” exclaimed the voice of Albertine,
from the shrouded folds of his robe, “hast thou no
prayer to offer, no words of penitence to speak, ere
thou art led to thy doom?”

“I am ready for my death;” exclaimed Aldarin,
extending his arms—“I seorn your whining prayers,
and as for your words of penitence—look ye
—is there aught of repentance written on this
cheek or brow?”

“To whom dost thou resign thy soul?”

“To the Awful Soul of the Universe!” exclaimed
the fated man, as his slender form rose
proudly erect, while his extended hands were raised
in the act of solemn appeal. “Ye may tear this
body into fragments, ye may rend this carcase
into atoms, doom me to the death of fire, or consign
this form to the decay of the charnel-house,
yet ye cannot destroy Aldarin! His soul will live
and live forever! It may float on the unseen
winds, it may glare in the lightning's flash, or
strike in the thunderbolt; it may come back to the
earth, in the storm, the horror and the doom: or it
may wander far, far into the solitudes of the Vast
Unknown, where eternal fires lash the shores of
desolated worlds—still will it live and live forever!
A beam of the awful soul can never die!”

Albertine gazed upon the erect form and flashing
eye of the scholar and saw that his labor was
in vain. With a look of mingled and contrasted
feelings, he turned away from the scene, gathering
the folds of his robe over his face as he disappeared.

“Lead me to the death!” cried Aldarin in a tone
of bitter scorn. “Or are ye afraid of a weak and
withered old man? Ha—ha! ye are brave men!”

“Lead him to his death!” echoed Robin the
Rough.

Attired in his under tunic, Aldarin was led forward.
Damian seized him by the shoulders and
Halbert grasped his feet. They raised him upon
the haunches of the steeds, with his head to the
east. Robin the Rough advanced, and grasping a
thong, twisted out of the wild bull's hide, from the
hands of one of the men-at arms, slowly wound
the cord around the body of one of the wild horses,
and looping it in a firm knot, secured the right
arm of Aldarin to the back of the restless steed;
while Damian bound the left to the other steed,
Halbert, assisted by the men-at-arms, bound his
legs to the backs of the opposite steeds, winding
the thongs again and again, around the bodies of
the impatient Arabs, until the blood spouted from
he withered flesh of the fratricide.

“Wind your thongs yet tighter friends of mine!”
the sneer broke gaspingly from the lips of the
doomed. “I defy your malice and laugh at your
doom!”

The interest now was most absorbing and intense.
Along the whole extent of blackened rocks,
frowning above the level space, gathered the multitude
gazing on the scene with gasping breath and
woven brows; while the men-at-arms, circling along
the base of the hill, stood silent and motionless,
their upraised swords glittering in the first beams
of the morning sun.

And there, in the centre of the space of highway
earth, placed haunch to haunch, stood the
bsrbs of Arimanes, their eyes flashing as though
the demon-soul lived and moved within their sinewy
forms; there were gathered the deformed
Moors, each sable groom holding an eager steed
by the nostrils, for the bridles were now cast aside;
there, standing at the side of each wild horse, the
avengers of the dead, with the right leg advanced
and daggers drawn, awaited the word of vengeance;
and there, with his face turned upward to heaven,
helpless and motionless, intense pain shooting
through every vein, and quivering along every
sinew, filling his brain with fire, his heart with
ice, Aldarin the fratricide smiled in scorn, as the
moment of his doom came hurrying on.

“Avengers of your Lord” shouted Robin the
Rough, “raise your daggers, and as the word
shrieks from my lips, bury them to the hilt in
the flank of each steed!”

“A word—a single word,” whispered Aldarin,
in a subdued voice. “Draw near—I would say
my last farewell—”

“What would'st thou have?” exclaimed one of
the men-at-arms, advancing.

“When I am dying, ere the heart is cold, or
the brow chill, approach and gaze upon my countenance,
and as you gaze, take to your very
soul,”—

“Speak—man of blood—thy moments are well-nigh
spent.”

“Take to your very soul,” whispered the Fratricide,
as he slowly, and with difficulty, brought
his head round to his right shoulder—“The Curse
of Aldarin!”

“Avengers of your Lord,” exclaimed the stout
yeoman—“strike deep every man into the flanks
of his steed!”

“The curse,” shricked a hollow voice, “The
Curse of Aldarin!”

“Strike, I say—strike!”

The daggers sunk hissing into the flanks of the
horses, buried to the hilts, the Moors leaped back,
the maddened steeds sprang forward, with one
wild bound, straining every sinew in the effort to
free themselves from their accursed burden. It
was in vain. They sank back, with a maddening
howl, each steed upon his haunches, the accursed
fratricide uttered a yell of intense and overwhelming
agony—it died on his lips! With eyes
of fire, with streaming manes, their nostrils extended,
and all their vigor gathered for the effort,
the steeds again leaped forward, springing madly
from each other, and darting into the air, with
one terrible impulse—the scene swam for an instant
before the vision of the spectators!

They looked again. A limbless trunk lay in
the dust of the highway, spouting streams of blood
—along the green meadow careered two black
steeds—through the dense forests thundered the
others.

One of the men-at-arms, approaching the carcase,
gazed for a momet at the dread face, and
while his eye glanced over the fearful expression of
the features, convulsed by the throes of the parting
soul, the eyes yet fired with hate, the lip still curved
with scorn, the sunken jaw, oozing blood from
every pore, the quivering flesh and the changing
hues of the ghastly visage, while all the ghastliness
and fear of the countenance, met his vision
at a glance, he uttered a howl of horror, and fell
stiffened upon the earth, as the last spark of life
fled from the remains of the fratricide. When the
soldier awoke, his eye was vacant, and his reason
gone. He was a maniac! He had received the
last words of the Doomed, and the Curse was on
him forever.

Another moment passed, and the crowd came
rushing from the rocky steeps, filling the air with
fierce shouts, and wild yells of execration, while
the men-at-arms, circle round the bleeding trunk,
gazing upon the wild and unearthly countenance
of the Scholar, in wonder and in awe, each man
whispering to his comrade, a sentence of fear, as
he marked the expression of blasphemous and
fiend-like scorn, stamped upon the visage of the
fratricide.

And while they circled round, struck dumb
with a nameless awe, two Figures, arrayed in
robes of sable, rushed through the throng and confronting
Robin the Rough, as he stood stern, silent
and awe-stricken, they gazed upon the face
of the Dead.

“It is”—exclaimed the solemn voice of Adrian
Di Albarone—“It is the judgment of Heaven!”

From rock, from hill, from valley, from forest
and from castle-wall, arose the stern echo,—

“The Judgment of Heaven—the Judgment of
Heaven!”

On, on, like lightning, darted the ebon steeds,
bearing the torn and shattered limbs, reeking with
the life blood, yet warm and smoking. On, on,
as tho' the spirit of the lost, had entered their
maddened forms. On, on, they flew!

Onward! and onward! sped the wild horses,
tracking their course with blood, and rushing
past the cottages of the affrighted peasantry, like
beings of the unreal world, fired with the soul
of Arimanes, cursed with the Spirit of the Evil
One! Onward and onward! One brave barb,
came plunging from the depths of a wood, and a
precipice mighty and steep, was before him, but
he heeded it not. Down an hundred fathoms into
the boiling waters he fell. Another black steed
sank in the calm waters of a placid river; another
reached the sea, and plunging in its depths, swam
far, far, into the wide expanse of waves and was
heard of no more. The last—swept like the wind,
by hamlet and tower and town. The live-long
day he urged on his career. The blood streaming
from his nostrils, his limbs weakened, and his sinews
unstrung, he entered the confines of a lone
valley, where a calm lake, gave its bosom to the
evening sun. His pace was unsteady and he
staggered to and fro, yet still did the bloody fragment
hang at his back. At last he fell and died,
and the scene of his death was before a pleasant
cottage on a green hill side. Much wondered the
solitary student of the cot, at the carcase of the
beauteous steed. Little did he wot from whence
he sped or the cause of his flight.

Meanwhile gathering around the shapeless
trunk, the men of Albarone built a pile of the
branches of oaks, tht had lain mouldering for
years in the forest, and soon a broad bright flame
arose, and it burned till the setting of the sun,
when a storm gathered in the west, and heralded
by thunder, and armed with lightning, it swept
over the earth, and the ashes of the fratricide,
mingling with the whirlwind, never more polluted
the green bosom of the earth.

Thus runs the legend of the Doom of the Poisoner,
thus runs the legend of the death that befel

Aldarin the Fratricide.