University of Virginia Library

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.