 | CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE BRIDAL EVE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
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
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
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.
| CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE BRIDAL EVE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |