University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE CLOUD GATHERS AND THE SKY
DARKENS.

The dame essayed to speak. Her voice died
away in an unmeaning rattle of the throat. One
hand she extended, and seizing Leoné by the
shoulder, with the other she tore the maiden from
his embrace—

“Apostate!” she began in tones that trembled
with rage, “is it thus thou honorest the race whose
name thou bearest. Away!—I will never look
upon thee more! Away!—and with thee take
thy —, I will not speak the title of shame;—
Away!”

As she spoke she raised her hand to strike the
shrinking maiden, who, with head drooped on her
bosom, and quick blushes coursing over her face,
strove hurriedly to fasten the broach of her doublet.

“Strike her not, mother!” cried Leoné, throwing
himself before the damsel, “Assail her not
with words of shame!”

He took the hand of the blushing maiden and
continued—“Fear not, love, there is none to harm
thee. Mother, behold my bride!”

“Annabel!—Thy bride? Wherefore this concealment?
Why this unmaidenly disguise? How
is't, my son—how is't?”

“As for the disguise it was assumed to aid her
escape, and then,”—he whispered into his mother's
ear—“and then I thought thou wouldst not
affect the niece of the—the—s'life, mother, I cannot
speak the word of any one connected with
Annabel!”

“My son, my son! what hast thou done? Answer
me—befits such doings with thy profession?
Art thou not intended for a minister of Heaven?”

While the dame spoke, the figure of a monk
darkened the opened doorway, advancing to
Leoné he threw back his cowl, and discovered the
dark brow, the wan face, the flashing eyes of
Albertine, the monk.

“Lord Adrian,” whispered the Monk, “at
the hour of sunset, when the dark storm arose,
howling its requiem over the remains of the Fratricide,
thou didst hasten from the castle of Albarone,
bound for this lovely valley. Thou hadst
not gone an hour's journey from the castle walls,
when I tracked thy footsteps, bearing news of
fearful import. Thy haunt hath been betrayed to
the tyrant, by a traitor from the lonely vally.
Even now, the Duke spurs his steed toward the
valley of the mountain lake, attended by a band
of minions; even now the voices of his bravoes,
startle the air, shrieking for thy blood!”

“And the Invisible?” whispered Adrian—
“where is their dagger of vengeance, while the
tyrant rides abroad on his errands of wrong?”

“Listen, Lord Adrian! This very night, while
the Duke is absent from the walls of Florence
will Lord and Monk, Prince and Peasant, joined
in the solemn oath of the holy steel, arise in the
might of men who have sworn at the very Altar
of God to be free, and ere the morrow's sun,
Florence the Fair and Beautiful, will own another
Sovereign! The Invisible work in secret, as doth
the hidden earthquake—man alone beholds the
bursting of the storm!”

“Hark! I hear the sound of horses' hoofs, mingled
with the clatter of arms!”

“God of Heaven! The Duke approaches!”
shouted the Monk—“I must be gone—all thought
of escape for thee and thy bride is vain! Adrian,
Adrian, bear a firm heart through the perils of
this night, and in the morrow's dawn will blaze
the star of thy Mighty Fortune! Hath the Duke
any issue, or is he the last of his line?”

“He is the last of his race,” answered Adrian,
“why dost thou ask?”

“Thou wilt learn anon!” exclaimed the Monk.

He turned and sought the door, but as if struck
by a sudden thought, he again approached Adrian,
and whispered in tones that seemed to come from
his very soul —`Fare-thee-well, Adrian, fare-thee-well!
I have loved thee much, very much;
There was a time when my heart was as young
as thine, my soul as pure. But now—Ha! now
I would have my revenge, although the chasm of
hell yawned beneath me—nay, although between
me and the object of my hate yawned the gulf of
perdition, I would leap the abyss and drag him
down, down to the eternal flames that now hunger
for his accursed soul—Fare-thee-well, Adrian
—I'll never see thee more!”

The Monk was gone. The fearful look that
fired his countenance, and the awful tones in
which he spoke, haunted Adrian Di Albarone until
his dying hour.

Scarcely had Albertine disappeared, when there
was the sound of trampling feet in the outer

apartment, and presently the figure of his Grace
of Florence occupied the doorway, while the heads
of his followers were seen looking over his shoulders.

He looked around the apartment with a curious
eye, as if he sought the wanderers. At last his
glance rested upon the form of the disguised Annabel,
and advancing toward the damsel, he
flung himself at her feet, exclaiming with all the
grace of attitude and expression at his command,

“Fair Ladye, it is with joy beyond the power
of words to tell, that I hail thee by the title of the
—Fair Ladye Annabel, Countess Di Albarone!”

“How sayst thou?” exclaimed Annabel, forgetting
her boyish disguise in her eagerness, “how
sayst thou? Me Ladye of Albarone?”

“Aye, fair Ladye. Thou art now the Courtess
Di Albarone, soon shalt thou be my own
loved Annabel, Duchess of Florence.”

The Duke leaned earnestly forward, trying to
look as much like a lover as might be—his face
wore an expression of deep solemnity, his protruding
eyes made an effort to sparkle, and his
attempt to soften his voice, gave one the idea of
a magpie trying to sing.

Annabel cast an agonized look at the Duke—

“Sayst thou nought of my father?” she exclaimed.
“Is he sick?—is he ill?—Tell me that
I may hurry to him!—For heaven's sake tell me!
—my father is—”

“Dead!” cried the Duke.

“Dead!” echoed the dame, starting with surprise.

Annabel heard no more.

“Coward and tyrant,” shouted Lord Adrian,
as he caught the sinking maiden in his arms,
“away with thee from this humble tenement.
Defile not my bride with the pollution of thy touch
—God of Heaven I would give the brightest
jewel in the coronet of Albarone, for one good
blow at the carcase of this craven hound!”

“Ho! art thou here my gay springald?—Thy
bride, indeed?—Guards advance, seize the miscreant!—I
will teach him to raise his unholy
hand against his liege Lord!—away with him to
the lowest dungeon of yon convent. On the morrow
he shall be carried to Florence, there to answer
for his treason!”

Unarmed and weaponless Adrian beheld himself
at the mercy of the tyrant. The soldiers ad
vanced,—in vain was his defence—in an instant
he found himself in the hands of his foes, and as
the minions bound his hands behind his back, he
heard the beetle-browed Balvardo—for he was
among the throng—whisper in the ear of the
Duke—

“At what hour my Lord?”

“'Slife canst not do it without my bidding?—
When all in the convent is still—at midnight
let it be done!—See to't!”

“Aye, aye, my Lord, at midnight it shall be
done!”

“And the Bridal,” cried the Duke, turning to
the Ladye Annabel, as she rested in the arms of
the Countess. “The hour after midnight shall
witness the joyous scene—the marriage of the
Duke and his betrothed!”