University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE WATCH BESIDE THE DEAD.

“All—all is dark!” the voice broke wild and
whisperingly thro' the midnight gloom of the
place—“I have been dreaming—ah me—a sad and
darksome dream! Methought Adrian lay cold and
dead in my arms, while my hand was entwined in
the locks of his clustering hair, as they fell over
his lifeless face. It was a dream, a fearful dream
—yet—mother of heaven—do I still dream, or is
this darkness real?”

She extended her hands, she passed them hurriedly
along the floor, where her form lay prostrate,
and as she thus wildly sought to grasp the form
so lately reposing in her arms, she exclaimed with
a murmured shriek—

“It flashes on me! All is real—The coffin and
the corse, the assassin and the bowl of death—all
is dark and terrible reality!”

Passing her cold and stiffened hands, slowly
along her forehead, the Ladye Annabel endeavored
to recall the tragedy of that fearful night, in
all its details of horror, and as scene after scene,
action after action, word succeeding word, came
back to her memory, another fearful mystery
passed like a shadow over her brain.

“The corse reposed in these arms—where is it
now? Who hath stolen the body of the dead
from my embrace? And the coffin—it is gone!
They have borne him to the grave!”

And as the low whispers broke from her lips,
this fair and gentle creature, whose nature was
soft and yielding, as is ever the nature of a true
woman, in moments of calm and sunshine, yet
susceptible of deeds of the highest courage and noblest
determination, in the hour of storm and cloud
now arose from the floor, her frame all chilled
and stiffened by the hard repose of that fearful
watch, and extending her hands she wandered
slowly around the chamber, seeking with hushed
breath, for the coffin and the corse.

All was darkness, thick and intense darkness.
Slowly and with cautious steps she paced around
the room, passing her hands along the folds of the
tapestry, or extending her small and delicate foot
in the effort to touch the coffin, but her search
was all in vain. She wandered around the chamber,
until her recollection of the particular features
of the room became vague and indistinct, and at
last with trembling hands and a bewildered brain,
she stood erect and motionless.

“All—all is vain!” she cried—“corse and coffin
all are gone. They have borne him to the
grave!”

While the weary moments dragged heavily on,
she stood silent and unmoveable, endeavoring to
catch the faintest echo of a sound, or hear the
slightest whisper of a voice, but all was silent as
death. At last a distant and moaning murmur
reached her ears. Gradually tho' slowly it deepened
into a booming sound, and at last the subterranean
arches of the old convent, seemed alive
with gathering echoes, and the long corridors
gave back the tramp of footsteps and the hum of
human voices.

“They come—they come”—whispered the
Ladye Annabel—“They come to bear me to the
bridal!”

The bell of the convent, deep-toned and booming,
rang out the hour of—one—the fatal hour after
midnight.

“Strike for the Winged Leopard—strike for
Albarone!” the shout came echoing along the corridors.

“Strike for Albarone and Florence!” the mingling
war-cry reached the ears of the maiden.
And in a moment, the tapestry, concealing the
entrance to the room from which Adrian had issued
ere he drank the bowl, was hurriedly thrust
aside, and amid the blaze of torches, the Ladye
Annabel, beheld the glare of armour and the flash
of upraised swords, while the stern visage of the
warrior-band were gazing upon her pale countenance
and trembling form.

“Saved, by St. Withold!” shouted a soldier,
springing from the crowd—“Ladye tell us, in
God's name, where is the Lord Adrian?”

“They have borne him to the grave!” was the
whispered and ghastly response.

The bluff soldier turned aside, and it might
be noted that his blue eyes were wet with tears.
In a moment he again faced the crowd of warriors.

“Behold the Queen!” he shouted and the men-at-arms,
sank kneeling to the floor—“all hail the
fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

And the solitary chamber rung with the echo of
the thunder shout—

“All hail the Fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of
Florence!”