 | CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE BRIDAL MORN. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
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
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!—
in the domains of Albarone! Sweep the highway
to Florence! A thousand pieces of gold to him
who brings the haggard back!”
| CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE BRIDAL MORN. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |