 | CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
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.”
| CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |