University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MYSTERIES OF THE CHRONICLE.

TO BE READ BY ALL WHO WOULD LOOK
BEHIND THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND
GAZE UPON THE SECRET SPRINGS
THAT MOVE MEN TO DEEDS OF WOE
AND WAR AND DEATH.

“Florence is free!”

“Florence is free!” echoed the Monks of the
Holy Steel, and the shout resounded through the
circular room of the tower, repeated by the Neophytes
of the Order, with one wild acclaim. “Florence
the fair and beautiful is free!”

Slowly the High Priest of the Order arose. The
light fell dimly and obscured from the dome of the
tower-room some twenty feet overhead, over the
forms of Monks seated around the square table,
all robed and muffled in sweeping garments of
sable, over the figures of the Neophytes grouped
around the Superiors of the order, clustered along
the circular wall of the twilight chamber standing
shoulder to shoulder, each right hand raising
aloft the keen and glittering dagger, as the left
held the torch on high, with the light extinguished,
the fire quenched, while stately and erect, in
the midst of the scene towered the tall figure of the
High Priest, his form robed and muffled, and his
face concealed from the day-beams, his hands
extended over the heads of the secret brethren in
the gesture of benediction.

And at the other end of the table sate the veiled
Doomsman, his rough hand appearing from
the folds of the black robe, laid along the handle
of the axe, whose steel was crusted with the rust
of blood.

“Three years ago,” thus spoke the high priest,
“the cry of blood, day and night, unceasingly and
forever, went shriecking up to the throne of God
for vengeance. From the walls of the fair city
it shrieked, from the plain it echoed, from the
mountain side that low moaning voice rose up to
the blue sky, pleading for the doom of the assassin,
the death of the tyrant. Then it was in times of
blood-shed and slaughter, in the days of foul misrule
and galling wrong, when the grim bravo
whetted his knife on the stones of the altar,
and the corses of the murdered crowded the sanctuary
of God, then it was, that a few brave and
determined men, evoked from the shadows of the
past, a Power, mighty yet secret, blasting as the
thunder-stroke, yet invisible as the grave!

“The Power of the Steel—winged by the
hands of those twin-sisters of vengeance, Secrecy
and Mystery.

“Three years past, and on the lips of men, there
grew a mighty word—the Steel, the Holy Steel!
The bravo still smote his victim in the silence of
the night, but ere the morrow's sun, the corse of
the assassin lay prostrate beside the murdered;
the wronger still pursued his work of violence, but
it was by stealth and in secrecy; the tyrant still
filled the air with shrieks of death and cries of
despair, but the trembling tones of his own guilty
voice mingled with the last words of the slain; the
secret band, were abroad—the invisible struck
their keen dagger suddenly and without mercy

from the shelter of the cloud that enclosed their
existence, and more terrible on the lips of men
grew that sound of fear—The vengeance of the
Holy Steel.

“Not many days agone, the work which the
Order had sworn to fulfil, was hastened by a
new crime of the tyrant. The last baron of the race
of Albarone, whom the brethren of the steel had
resolved to invest with the royal robes of the Ducal
throne, awaited within the walls of a dungeon
the coming of the morrow, which was to bring to
his head the woe and the doom, the axe, the wheel,
the scaffold, and the stake. Doomed on a false
accusation, doomed on the testimony of forsworn
tools of power, Adrian of Albarone had laid him
down to die, when the Messenger of the Steel
appeared, the rescue was planned, and the morrow
morn beheld the prisoner free.

“The march of fate trode swiftly on. All men
named our brother—may God receive his soul—as
the tool and minion of the Duke, while—it gives
me joy to say it—he walked abroad the messenger
of the steel.”

“All hail the spirit of Albertine!” arose the
solemn exclamation of the brethren—“all hail
the incarnate spirit of our order!”

“The last scene came hastening on. And the
hand of fate pointed to this lonely Convent of the
Mountain Lake, as the place where the wrongs of
years should be avenged, where the Tyrant should
meet his secret and fearful doom. For long years
these halls had been peopled by a monkish band,
who wore their sacred robes as a cleak for blasphemies
too horrible to name; while the Dukes,
the Tyrant-Dukes of Florence, startled these ancient
walls with the noonday debauch, the mid-night
orgie, the sunshine murder, or the torchlight
massacre!

“Here not many days agone, came Albertine
the Monk. Still in the confidence of the Duke—
for a specious tale blinded the eyes of the Tyrant
with regard to the part our brother bore in the
escape of the Doomed—still in the confidence of
the Duke, the convent doors flew open at his word,
Lord Adrian found a home within these walls,
and day by day, secretly and surely, Albertine
made converts of the Abbot and the Brethren of
this Monastery of crime. A few days past, the
tools and minions of the Duke, they now became
the sworn Neophytes of the Order of the Holy
Steel: It was the purpose of Albertine, to lure
the Duke to the lonely Convent, and while the
sound of his midnight wassail, awoke the echoes
of the old walls, the Avenger would strike the
dagger to his heart. The treachery of a peasant
of the lonely valley hastened his schemes to their
completion.

“The last night came. The Duke, flushed with
pride, and made reckless by revenge, rode through
the convent gates, companioned by his bravoes, who
held their knives on high, shouting for the blood
of Adrian, the Traitor. And while they prepared
the doom of Lord Adrian, in the lonely valley,
the Invisible bestrode the mighty storm of vengeance
that darkened over the night in Florence.
The morning dawned on Florence the Free!

“The morning dawned over the lonely valley,
and the blood-stained Convent. Along the halls,
and through the vaults of the ancient fabric were
heaped the corses of the bravoes, while the Brethren
of our Order, ran from hall to hall, from vault
to vault, lifting the red steel on high, as they
sought for new victims, while the shout of vengeance
rang pealing from roof to floor, until the
air seemed animate with the cry of death.

“The Monks of the Steel came hurrying to the
convent, two hours after midnight, but they came
too late. The Duke, Albertine and Lord Adrian,
all had disappeared. The morning dawned on
Florence, unshackled and free, but the Duke, chosen
of God, was gone. Brethren, ye have all heard
the fearful story of that night of terror—the farewell
of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his
sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian,
when awaiting his doom in the earth-hidden vault
—ye have heard how the bowl of death was given
to the Duke-elect by the monk—the singular disappearance
of Albertine and the Duke when they
entered the Chamber of St. Areline—all has reached
your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery—”

“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath
been darkening o'er my soul since that night of
terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the
Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly
rose from his seat. “A light breaks over the chaos
of doubt and mystery—a sad and fearful light.
Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his
thirst for the blood of the Tyrant-Duke, beheld the
midnight hour approach, while the Brothers of
the Invisible still delayed their coming. The
Duke bade him perform this work of doom. Albertine
must either refuse, or excite the suspicion
of the tyrant. 'Twas a terrible thing—oh, most
terrible to poison the young Lord at the bidding
of this changeling Duke, but Albertine had no

alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet
altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into
life. He was forced to slay Adrian to retain the
confidence of the Tyrant—sooner would Albertine
make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened
bones, than the Duke, against whom his very soul
had sworn vengeance, should live. He slow Lord
Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the
act—and then came his strange and mysterious
vengeance on the Tyrant.”

A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the
Tower-room. Every heart was impressed with
the terrible truth shadowed in the words of the
Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence,
each heart solemnly mused on the dark
story of Albertine, his last crime, and his last revenge.

“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,”
again spoke the High-Priest. “Brothers of the
Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk,
joined in the work of vengeance on the Wronger,
death to the slayer, ye who won for the Fair City,
peace and freedom, ye who rule her destines,
guide her fate, your High-Priest asks you the solemn
question—Who shall wear the Ducal Coronet
of Florence?”

The bold words were yet ringing on his lips
when a shout from the stairway leading to the
tower, rung through the circular room—

“Ha—ha—ha! I bear the brand—the flaming
brand! See—how it whirls on high—look how
it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long,
but ye could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”

The small door of the tower-room was flung
suddenly open, and rushing through the aperture,
the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac
stood disclosed before the vision of the secret
brothers; the blazing torch he grasped in his right
hand flinging a blood-red light over the veiled
figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of
the room were illumined with fitful glimpses
of the ruddy beams.

“Ha—ha—ha! The brand, the flaming brand!
Ye sought well and ye sought long—but ye might
not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his
brothers! Merry was the fire they built—merry,
oh, merry! Cheerily the flame arose—oh cheerily!
And now—ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor
burns, all is fire—and ha, ha, I bear the brand,
the flaming brand!”

And as the maniac swung the burning brand,
whirling and hissing round his head, there came
hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily
attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a
young and lovely woman in his arms, followed by
a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was stamped
with an expression of alarm most strange to see
on his determined features, while he aided the
youth and maiden onward in their flight from
the fire and flame below.

“Health to the Holy Steel!” cried the cavalier
rushing forward; “I bear a message from the Lords
and People of Florence!”

“Ye will have to be wondrous hasty with your
messages, I tell ye!” exclaimed the bluff soldier.
“For d'ye see—all below us is flame and death—
the convent is on fire, by St. Withold!”

“Brethren of the Holy Steel,” exclaimed the
High Priest, as opening the pacquet he gazed
calmly round over the erect forms of the uprisen
monks and neophytes of the order—“who shall
wear the ducal crown of Florence?”

“The Ladye Annabel!” echoed the Brethren of
the Holy Steel with one unanimous shout. “Live
the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence!”

A moment passes—behold the spectacle!

A fair andlovely form, clad in robes of fluttering
white, stands trembling in the midst of the group
of black-robed men who cluster round, kneeling on
the pavement, as they raise their hands in one
hurried movement and shout with wild acclaim—

“Live the Queen—live the Ladye Annabel,
Duchess of Florence!”

And as the Secret Brethren sank kneeling round,
priest and neophyte, all with heads bent low, before
the form of the Ladye Annabel, who gazed
around with a wild and wondering look, there
standing erect with a flushed cheek and a rolling
eye, the ancient man of the vault flung the brand
aloft, whirling the flame round and round again,
as he shouted—

“'Tis merry, 'tis merry, ha, ha! 'Tis merry,
'tis merry—hurrah! Old Glow-worm is a demon
—these all are demons! Ha, ha! Fire above,
and fire below—old Glow-worm is king! On—
on—brothers—on—light up the cozy nooks with
the red flame—fire the timbers, heat the old rocks,
scare old Death with the light! Ha—ha—ha!
The stone rolled back, and he—was buried alive!'

“Up, up—an' ye bear the hearts of men—up
and save yourselves and save the Queen!” shouted
Robin the Rough. “The fire has chased us through
the long galleries of the convent, from chamber to
chamber, from room to room, has it followed

roaring at our heels! Up, and save the Queen!
Her attendants have escaped or fallen in the flames.
Yonder by the window of the stairway is our only
hope! A staircase of massive stone, built outside
the walls of this tower, leads downward to the
southern wing of the convent, yet untouched by
flame! Up, and save the Queen!”

“Listen, Brothers of the Invisible, listen to the
last words ye shall ever hear from your High
Priest. Our oath is fulfilled, the Tyrant is dead,
Florence is free! And here in this lofty tower,
environed by flame, with the hissing of the fire
filling our ears, and the lurid smoke rolling up to
the heavens, with flame and death all around, here
in this dark and blood-stained House of St. Benedict,
do I, your High Priest and Sire, dissolve the
Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel! When
Wrong arises, then shall ye again spring into life,
when Murder walks abroad in the sunshine,
aughing in the face of God, then shall His ministers
again raise the Invisible steel! Till then I
dissolve your band, give back your oath.

“Prince and peasant, lord and monk—off with
your sacred garments, off with the vestments in
which ye have been robed as the avengers of God,
off with hood and cowl—stand forth as ye are and
raise the shout—Live the Ladye Annabel. Live
the Queen!”

“Live the Ladye Annabel”—the shout rang
pealing to the tower-roof—“Live the Queen!”

It was like magic!

Down fell hood and cowl, down fell sable vestments
and midnight robes, and there disclosed
in the light of the flaming brand, stood the prince
in his jewelled robes, the knight in surcoat of
glittering velvet, the lord in his gay doublet, the
merchant in his silken tunic, the peasant in coat
of serge, the priest arrayed in sacerdotal white,
glittering with the sacred insignia of gold, the
scholar in his flowing gown of sable, all stood
there, rising stately erect in the light, proud representatives
of their various classes, types of the
Gothic Man[2] , however named, or styled, all joined
in the holiest cause on earth, the freedom of their
native land, lifting up their hands and voices in
one wild burst of enthusiasm, as they hailed the
Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence, chosen by the
people, chosen by the lords, chosen by the priests,
chosen by God!

A strange smile of delight stole over the lovely
face of the Ladye Annabel, as standing calm and
erect, her blue eyes was fixed on the vacant air,
with the gaze of one entranced by some vision of
far-off bliss.

“We shall meet again”—she said and smiled—
“Oh joy, we shall meet again!”

“Buried alive—ho, ho!” shrieked the ancient
man, in a low chaunting voice—“Ha—ha! The
stone rolls back—I have the brand, and then—ho,
ho, hurrah! Buried alive!”