 | CHAPTER THE NINTH.
ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
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
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
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
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!”
| CHAPTER THE NINTH.
ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |