THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE, LEADING
THE WAY THROUGH THE CHAMBERS OF
SLEEP, AND TRANCE, AND DEATH,
SOLVES THE MYSTERIE OF THE LIFE OF
ADRIAN DI ALBARONE.
Afar through the gloom and twilight that hangs
between the visible and the unreal world, we behold
the Spirit of the Chronicle, leading us onward
to a dim and shadowy land peopled by
Dreams and thronged with Thoughts, robed in
forms of light or clad in shapes of doom. It is the
land of Death—the land of the Grave. The awful
region, where the soul, parted from its house of
clay, looks over the wide expanse of shadow, and
beholds every thought that ever visited its mortal
form, spring up into tangible being and life, now
gladdening its eternal vision with images of loveliness
and beauty, and again affrighting the pale
Spirit with shapes of ghastliness and woe.
Death—mighty and irresistible, look down
upon the cold corse, and tell us, when does thy
hand first unveil the Eternal to the eye of the
Soul—Life, thou mockery and blasphemy, gaze
thou upon the form of the Mortal Thing, and give
us to know, when does thy power cease, when
does thy victim pass from thy grasp? Ye each
dispute the possession of the Soul, upon a shadowy
battle-field, and now the victory sways
to the skeleton, and now to the thing of Flesh.
Men know this battle-field by various names, they
call it Sleep, they call it Trance, they call it
Death. First the body sleeps, then it is entranced,
then it dies. First the Soul gazes with a dim
eye upon the Eternal World, then its vision is enwrapt
and absorbed, and at last, as the clay dies, it
is all Spirit, and Thought, and Dream.
Come with us, reader, with hushed breath and
a solemn footstep come with us, while we tread
the halls of Old Death, tracing the Soul through
the chambers of Sleep and Trance, into the full
light of the AWFUL UNKNOWN!
Adrian Di Albarone drank the Bowl, and drained
it to the dregs, and as he drank the lovely face
of Annabel swam round him in wild confusion,
mingling with the dark countenance of Albertine,
and the bronzed visage of the Sworder, while
his heart seemed turning to fire, and his brain to
molten lead.
He drained the bowl to the dregs, and then
fell prostrate over the coffin, and then came a cold
and unconscious pause, when his heart, his brain,
were wrapt in forgetfulness, covering his soul
like a thick mist, or the deep darkness of midnight.
Awaking slowly from this oblivion of soul, he beheld
looking him calmly, yet fixedly in the face,
the countenance of his father, Lord Julian of
Albarone, pale as death, and livid with the hues
of corruption yet lighted by the deep glance of
those shadowy eyes, that seemed to burn in their
very sockets, like meteors seen through the dimness
of the daybreak mist. As this face so wild,
so lofty and so ghastly in its supernatural expression,
faded slowly away from the vision of Adrian,
his soul became the prisoner of mighty Dreams,
the Spirits of the Grave, who called up before his
eye, this dark and startling Mysterie.
