 | CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE.
THE TASK OF THE WIERD SPIRIT IS DONE
—THE CURTAIN OF FATE FALLS
OVER THE TRAGEDY OF THE
HOUSE OF ALBARONE.
Joy to Florence now, oh joy to the fair city in
her streets and thro' her lordly halls, joy to the
prince of the palace and the peasant of the cot,
joy to the mountain and the dell, joy to the hill
and the valley, joy to the silvery river, joy to the
homes of men, joy to the shrines of God, joy, joy,
forever joy!
The Duke, the people's Duke is come to reign!
Baptized by trial, chosen by the People, crowned
by the Invisible, anointed by God, he comes to
reign!
There are light voices filling the air, there are
soft steps tripping thro' the lordly halls, there are
costly draperies sweeping over marble floors, there
are strains of music awaking the echoes of ancient
domes, there are processions thronging the streets
in all the pomp of crucifix and banner, gallant
knights ride to and fro, shaking the glitter of their
snowy plumes aloft, the poor creep from their dens
of want, the mighty pour from their homes of pride,
the sordid miser forgets his money bags, the merchant
his wares of cost, the scholar his musty
book, the bravo his knife, the children of misery
their care, and all, aye all, come thronging to the
high Cathedral of Florence, where the solemn
priest wili, ere an hour, amid the glad shouts of
thousands, anoint Adrian Di Albarone, Lord Duke
of Florence, and crown his fair bride, the Ladye
Annabel, with the coronet for which Aldarin gave
his soul.
It is morning, glad and joyous morning, the
calm azure arches over the fair city, gorgeous with
temple-dome and palace tower while the gay parties
hasten to the grand Cathedral, anxious to behold
the Duke and his fair bride.
THE POSTILLION AND THE BUXOM DAMSELS.
And there tripping gayly along were three peasant
damsels, arrayed in their holiday attire, and with
them a bow-legged youth attired as a postillion,
strutted on his way with extended stride and lofty
air, which seemed to say, that all this parade and
show, was made for his sole benefit and especial
amusement.
“Sancta Maria! How he trips it along!” thus
spoke the tallest of the damsels “beshrew, but Sir
Francisco is wondrous proud, since he was knighted
by the Duke!”
“How! knighted!” cried the damsel of the merry
black eye.
“What mean you?” cried the red-haired maiden,
and the bow-legged postillion looked over his shoulder
with a vacant stare.
“Was he not honored with the collar, the hempen
collar?” cried the tall-maiden. “Did not that
rough soldier of the Count Di Albarone that was,
the Duke of Florence that is now, did not Rough
Robin knight Sir Francisco with his own hands?
How dull you are!”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the postillion shrugging his
shoulders. “What unpleasant things you do remember!
And yet the Duke said something very
flattering, when he directed the rope to be taken
from my neck. He said, says he, he said, I tell
you—that I—
“Was a little, impertinent, insignificant, busy-body,”
exclaimed Theresa, laughing. “But Francisco
what mean you to do with the reward, you
received from the Duke that was murdered, eh?
Francisco?”
“Yes, yes, what are you going to do with all
that gold?” cried Dollabella, and the three gathered
around the youth with evident interest, expressed
in each face in the glittering eyes and the parted
lips.
“Why Theresa, Dollabella, and Loretta,” answered
the postillion, looking slowly round, with
an expression of the deepest solemnity, “I mean
to—that is, I intend—by'r Ladye the Cathedral
bell is ringing. Come along, girls!”
“Ha, ha, ha! 'Tis a fair day and a bright,”
laughed a shrill voice at the elbow of Francisco,
“Florence is full of joy and e'en I, I am glad.”
A tremor of fear ran round the group as they
the wide mouth, the large rolling eyes, and
the deformed figure with the unsightly hump on
the shoulders, giving a half-brutal appearance
to the stranger, while from lip to lip, ran the whisper—
“The Doomsman, the Doomsman!”
“Aye, aye, the Doomsman! And why not pray?
Dare not the Doomsman laugh? Ha, ha, ha!
What a fine neck thou hast for the axe, good youth;
or now that I think o't it would stretch a rope
passing well. 'Tis a fine day, good folk, and I'm
hastening to the Cathedral, to behold the crowning
of one of my children, that is Children of the
Axe.”
“Thy children?” echoed Francisco, aghast with
fear. “Can a shadow like thee, have children?”
“Children o' th' axe, boy. I' faith if all the world
had their own, I'd have thy neck—a merry jest, nothing
more boy, ho, ho, ho! Do'st see these fingers.”
“Vulture's talons rather!”
“These, these were round his royal throat, while
the lead, the melted lead waited for his princely
body, and the wheel of torture was arrayed for his
lordly repose. Ha, ha, ha! I would see him
crowned, by the fiend would I! But come boy,
thou knowest somewhat of city gossip, tell me, does
this Sir Geoffrey O' Th' Longsword, stabbed by
his own son, a good boy, he, he, he, does he yet
live?”
“Have not prayers been offered in all the Cathedrals
for the miracle?”
“The miracle? Enlighten me, good youth!”
“Hast thou not heard, how the force of the blow
was swayed aside, by a piece of the true wood o'
th' cross, which the old soldier had worn over his
heart for years? A miracle, old shadow, a miracle!”
“Nay, nay, call me not shadow, I'll never darken
thy way to the gallows. But tell me, fair sir
did not the dagger pierce the old man's heart?”
“It grazed the heart, but did not pierce it. Any
city goosip might tell thee this, old thunder
cloud!”
“And so the old man lives?”
“He doth! Thou art wondrous sorry that he
still breathes the air, I warrant me?”
“Nay, nay, good youth. I bear Sir Geoffrey
no harm, but dost see—the wheel, the axe and the
boiling lead, all were ready for the boy Guiseppo,
and, and, but 'tis the will of heaven! I can bear
disappointment, he, he, he, in all matters, save in
one. Thy neck boy, ha, ha, ha, the Doomsman's
fingers itch for thy neck!”
And while the peasant-group, the three buxom
damsels, and the light-brained postillion, shrunk
back from the touch of the distorted being with
disgust, and stood thrilled with the fear of his words
of omen, the Doomsman glided away, mingling
with the vast crowd who thronged the streets of the
wide city.
THE CORONATION.
Standing upon the throne of gold, attired in the
purple robes of a prince, Adrian Di Albarone, glanced
with a brightening eye, and a swelling heart,
upon the gorgeous scene around him, and then his
glance was fixed upon the fair and lovely maiden
by his side, whose eyes of dreamy beauty were
downward cast, while a soft flush deepened the
hue of her cheek, as she seemed to shrink from the
gaze of the vast multitude, extending over the pavement,
and along the aisles of the cathedral.
Adrian cast his eyes upon the throng around the
throne, and there stood bold Robin, the stout Yeoman,
attired in a garish appareling, which he
seemed to like not half so well as his plain suit of
buff, defended by armour plates of steel; and there
his locks of grey, falling on his knightly surcoat,
emblazoned on the breast with the red cross of the
crusaders, stood the brave Sir Geoffrey O' Th'
Longsword, pale and worn with the traces of
his late wound, attended on either side by the gallant
esquires Damian and Halbert, each with a
grim smile on his scarred face, as they grimly surveyed
the pomp and show glittering along the
cathedral aisles.
Standing at the back of his father, his eye downcast,
and his cheek pale with deep and bitter
thoughts, Guiseppo seemed musing on the fearful
blow, which had well nigh burdened his soul with
the nameless crime. He said nothing, nor spoke
of the pomp around him, but with folded arms
stood silent and apart.
Standing beside her queenly cousin, with a
group of bower maidens clustering around, the
damosel Rosalind glanced from side to side with a
merry twinkle of her eye, and look of maidenly
wonder, as the glare and the glitter, the pomp and
the show of the scene broke on her vision, and
came thundering on her ear.
Amid the throng of noble dames, towered the
stately form of the Lady Di Albarone, with a proud
smile on her lip, and a haughty glance in her eye,
son's advancement to his right of birth and honor.
And higher grew the sound of pipe and cymbal,
mingling with the roll of drum, and the peal of
trumpet, and deeply booming along the arches of
the cathedral, came the voice of the swelling organ
seeming as though some spirit of light had trained
the mountain thunder to the strains of harmony,
now soft and gentle, now awful, now sublime, and
ever filling the soul with high and glowing
thoughts.
And now the bright sunbeams came flaunting
through the arched windows of the cathedral, and
every eye was fixed upon the throne, and every
voice was hushed in expectation, as the moment of
the approaching ceremony drew uigh.
A murmur ran along the aisles of the cathedral,
and it deepened into a cry—
“He comes, the holy abbot of St. Peter's of
Florence!”
And every sound was hushed, as the venerable
man of heaven raised the golden coronet, set with
rarest jewels, and the sceptre of ivory from the
altar of the cathedral, and ascending the steps of
the throne he was received by Adrian Di Albarone
with lowered head, and bended knee.
“Sound heralds, sound!”
And then the heralds, standing one on either
side of the throne, gave a blast loud and long to the
air, and proclaiming the lineage, the title, and the
birth of Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone, they
flung, each man, his glove upon the marble floor,
challenging all the world to say aught against the
right of descent claimed by the duke elect. There
came no answer to the challenge.
“Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone,” thus spoke
the abbot; “in the name of God, in the name of
Christ and St. Peter, and by the rule of the Holy
Vicar of Christ upon earth, I proclaim thee Sover
eign Lord of Florence, the city and the field, the
mountain and the stream! I bestow upon thee
the golden coronet—wear it with glory and honor.
I place this sceptre of ivory in thy grasp—wield it
with justice and truth. Adrian, Lord Duke
of Florence!”
As thus he spoke, with his mind glowing with
the memory of the day when he had mingled in
the battle fray, side by side, with the sire of the
gallant youth who knelt at his feet, the tones of
the abbot's voice rose high and clear, and with eyes
upraised to heaven, and outspread hands, he seemed
to implore a benizen upon the bridal pair.
One shout, long and deep, ascended from the
multitude. Adrian arose upon his feet, and lifted
the gorgeous coronet from his brow. He took the
fair lady Annabel by the hand, and as the blushes
grew deeper on her cheek, he impressed upon her
brow a kiss that told at once of the love of the
youth for his mistress, and the admiration of the
knight for his fair ladye.
He extended his hand, and in an instant the
coronet rested upon the brow of the lovely bride.
The vast cathedral roof echoed with the thunder
shout of myriad voices, the strains of the swelling
music filled the air, at each pause of the loud and
deafening cries of joy; the warriors flung their
swords in the air, the fair dames and damozels
awved their snow white hands on high, and one
universal gush of joy hailed the fair Annabel Ladye
Duchess of Florence!
“My own fair bride,” Adrian whispered, “the
night has passed, and our morning cometh.”
THE HOMAGE.
While her heart yet throbbed with indefinable
emotion, Adrian led his gentle bride to the ducal
chair, and side by side, they awaited the homage
of the noble throng of lords and ladies, knights and
damozels.
Many a noble lord, and many a haughty dame,
advancing to the throne, bowed low at the feet of
the Duke Adrian, and kissed the fair hand of the
Duchess Annabel.
At last a man of lofty stature, and commanding
port, with locks of grey hair falling back from a
stern, determined face, paled by disease, and wan
with thought, and ascending the steps of the throne,
sank on one knee before the duke.
“Rise, brave knight,” exclaimed Adrian; “rise
brave Sir Geoffry O' Th' Longsword; rise lord
keeper of our castle Di Albarone. Thy youth has
been wasted fighting for the cause of the late venerated
lord; thy age shall be rendered calm and
peaceful within the walls of the castle, with whose
brave soldiers thou hast so often gone forth to the
ranks of battle.”
And placing the baton of command within the
hand of the brave knight, he raised him from his
kneeling position. Sir Geoffrey o' th' Longsword
replied not to the Duke with words of flattery.—
One glance of the eye, and one grasp of the hand,
was all the answer that greeted the Duke Adrian.
Then came Robin the Rough, ascending the
throne with a half-solemn air, as though he were
afraid of soiling the steps of gold. With a true
soldier's salute he drooped on one knee, awaiting
the command of the Duke to rise.
“Arise, bold Robin,” said Adrian, unsheathing
the sword that hung at his side—“Arise—no longer
Robin the stout yeoman, but Sir Roberto Di
Capello, Lord of the Lands of Capello!”
No sooner did bold Robin feel the sword of the
Duke slightly pressed upon his shoulder conferring
knighthood, than he sprang upon his feet, and
looked around with surprise and wonder expressed
in his distended eyes and parted lips.
“Hast any boon to ask, Sir Roberto?” exclaimed
the Duke.
“Why, an' it please thee, my Lord Duke,” answered
Robin, recovering from his surprise—
“Why an' it please thee, I have a boon to ask.
I had much rather follow thee to battle in my old
attire, in my coat of buff and my armour of steel.
I like not this dainty trim.”
With a smile the Duke granted his characteristic
request, and as the bold soldier retired, Adrian
waved his hand to one who stood in the throng
around the throne. From the ancient chronicle
we gather these words concerning.
“THE ROMANCER.
A man attired in a tunic of dark velvet reaching
to his knee, and with long locks of dark brown
hair falling beneath the velvet cap of the scholar,
now came forward and ascended the throne. In
stature he was of the middle height, slim and well
formed, with a face marked by irregular features,
full cheeks, a mouth with large lips, while his
hazel eyes, looking from beneath dark eyebrows,
warmed with the inward soul.
“Most famed Romancer”—thus spoke the Duke
to the person who knelt before him. “Most
famed Romancer of the North, wear this signet
for my sake. Men shall long keep in memory
the wondrous Histories which thy pen, full of
fancy, hath pictured. Add now to the number
the Historie of the House Di Albarone. Take
this ring as an earnest of future bounty. Thou
shalt away with me to the Holy Land, thou shalt
chronicle the wars of the Christian and the Paynim.
Ericci Il Normani arise!”
Thus spoke the flattery of the Duke to the
humble Romancer, thus he bade me indite my
poor Historie, which, should it ever outlive this
century, will serve at least to give some small
glimpses of the crimes, the glory and the fame of
the House Di Albarone.”
And now, with his beaming eye no longer
glowing with gaiety, but dark and thoughtful,
came the Page Guiseppo; and side by side with
the damsel Rosalind he knelt and did homage to
his Lord. But why tell of Guiseppo and Rosalind—Is
not the story of their fortunes found in
the Historic of the Page and the Damsel?
THE SPECTRE FATHER.
The Duke turned to the vast multitude. He
raised his sword on high. “Witness ye gallant
knights, witness ye fair dames, I now swear upon
the hilt of my sword, that the morrow's sun shall
behold me and my followers bound for Palestine,
there to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. And so
help me God and St. George!”
And there stood Adrian, with his ducal robe of
purple thrown back from his shoulders, his right
hand pressing his sword hilt to his lip, his left
arm raised to the heavens, while his eyes flashed
with all the enthusiasm of his soul.
The cry ran like a lightning flash through the
temple, every voice was for Palestine, every tongue
shouted—“on—on to the rescue—God for the
Holy Sepulchre!” Sir Geoffrey o' th' Long-sword
raised his sword on high, the Ladye Annabel,
fired by the holy feeling of the moment, lifted
the cross of ebony depending from her neck to
her lips, as a thunder-shout arose from the multitude,
and while all was exultation and joy, bold
Robin the stout yeoman flung the broad banner of
the Duke to the air, and the bright sunbeams
shining upon the azure folds gilded with dazzling
light the blazonry of gold, and every eye beheld
the armorial bearings of the Lord of Florence,
with the words in letters of gold—
“Grasp boldly and bravely Strike!”
“It is past, the dark and fearful night,” again repeated
Adrian, as he gazed over this scene of wild
enthusiasm; “Lo! the morning cometh!”
As he spoke the cathedral was suddenly darkened,
a thick mist filled the Church, and one man
could scarce distinguish the form of another by his
side.
A wild, wild laugh sounded to the very roof of
the cathedral, it rung upon the senses of the vast
multitude, and was echoed from every aisle of the
solemn temple.
“What means this darkness?” Adrian shouted,
drawing his sword; “Hist! I hear a footstep. It
passes over the throne. It passes between me and
thee Annabel; yet I see no form, I hear no voice.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” The wild laugh again arose upon
the dark and twilight air.
“He stands by my side!” shrieked the lady Annabel;
“It is he—it is my father!”
And she trembled with affright, and leaned
shrinking upon the arm of the duke, while her fair
blue eyes dilated with a strange expression, and
her glance was fixed in one wild dread look upon
the darkened air.
“It is done!” exclaimed a voice breaking from
the vacancy of the air; “It is done! Fair daughter
of mine, thou art Duchess of Florence—the
coronet is on thy brow—all is fulfilled!”
“Holy Mary save me!” shrieked Annabel in a
low whispered tone; “an icy hand is pressed upon
my brow. It is like the hand of death.”
And as there she stood upon the throne of gold,
her form upraised to its full height, her eye fixed
on vacancy, and her fair white hands trembling
with an unreal fear, a feeling of terrible and overwhelming
AWE overshadowed each heart, and
paled each face, while the solemn tones of the spirit
voice broke on the ear of the lovely bride.
“In life thou wert my ambition, and in the solemn
walks of death, amid the fear that may not be
named, and the gloom that may be dared, thy father,
maiden, is still the evil angel of all who wish thee
harm, or do thee wrong.”
A low moaning sound broke on the air, and
again the words of the spirit voice came to the
Lady Annabel—
“The last behest of thy father—the parchment
scroll, and the phial of silver confided to thy hands
—hast thou obeyed the dying words of Aldarin?”
The cheek of the Lady Annabel became pale as
death, and her eye grew bright with supernatural
lustre. The hurried words of the scroll, written in
the blood of the doomed man, the fearful request,
the dark hints at the re-vivification of his mortal
body, by the action of the water of life, all to be
accomplished by the devotion of his daughter—
flashed over her brain at the moment, when the
gloom of the presence of the dead, darkened the joy
of the living, and the Ladye turned to Adrian, and
murmured with a whisper of hollow emphasis—
“The corse, Adrian, the corse of my father—
where doth it rest?”
“It hath no place of repose on earth,” was the
solemn answer. “Given to the invisible air, the
mortal frame finds nor home, nor resting place in
sacred chapel, or in wild wood glade; but mingled
with the unseen winds, floating in the atmosphere
of heaven; on, and on forever wanders the earthly
dust of the Scholar, denied repose on earth, refused
judgment by heaven, condemned to the eternal
solitudes of the disembodied spirit; on, and on it
wanders seeking companionship with the mighty
soul of Aldarin!”
And a low and solemn voice, speaking from the
invisible air, murmured the words—“It is finished,
| CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |