 | CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
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
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
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
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.
| CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |