THE
MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE.
BY
GEORGE LIPPARD.
AUTHOR OF “THE EMPIRE CITY, OR NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY,” “THE MEMOIRS OF
A PREACHER,” “WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN,” “THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN
REVOLUTION, OR, WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS,” “THE QUAKER CITY; OR, THE
MONKS OF MONK HALL,” “PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON,”
“LEGENDS OF MEXICO,” “THE NAZARENE,” “BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE,”
“THE ENTRANCED,” “THE BANK DIRECTOR’S SON,” ETC., ETC.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
CONTENTS.
BOOK THE FIRST.
THE RED CHAMBER.
CHAPTER FIRST.
PAGE
The Signet Ring of Albarone 13
CHAPTER SECOND.
The White Dust in the Goblet of Gold 20
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Embrace of a Brother 31
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Death Trap 36
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Chamber of Mysteries 40
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The Dream of the Damned 42
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Cell of the Doomed 48
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
Adrian the Doomed 53
CHAPTER NINTH.
The Felon and the Duke 57
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Chamber of the Duke 60
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
The Pit of Darkness 65
CHAPTER SECOND.
Robin alone in the Earth-hidden Cavern 67
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Chapel of the Rocks 68
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Chapel of St. George of Albarone 73
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Cavern of Albarone 77
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The Ordeal 82
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Blow for the Winged Leopard 88
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Page and the Damsel 93
CHAPTER NINTH.
The Story of Guiseppo 95
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Memory of Guilt 98
BOOK THE THIRD.
LAST NIGHT OF THRICE SEVEN YEARS.
CHAPTER FIRST.
The Maiden in her Bower 105
CHAPTER SECOND.
The Lady and the Yeoman 111
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Valley of the Bowl 114
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Bridal Eve 117
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Bridal Morn 125
CHAPTER SIXTH.
Sir Geoffrey O’ TH’ Longsword 131
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Student and the Fair Stranger 135
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Castle Gate 138
CHAPTER NINTH.
Aldarin and his Future 143
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Scholar Aldarin and the Lord Guiseppo 151
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
The White Waters of the Alembic 157
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
The Trial of the Waters of Life 163
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
The Oath 173
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
The Fate of the Fratricide 178
BOOK THE FOURTH.
THE QUEEN OF FLORENCE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
A Silvery Moon and a Cloudless Sky 189
CHAPTER SECOND.
The Cloud Gathers and the Sky Darkens 192
CHAPTER THIRD.
The Death Bowl 195
CHAPTER FOURTH.
The Cell of St. Areline 205
CHAPTER FIFTH.
The Wonders of St. Areline 208
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The Watch beside the Dead 211
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
The Coffin and the Corse 213
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
The Fate of the Betrayer 218
CHAPTER NINTH.
Three Days Elapse 221
CHAPTER TENTH.
The Mysteries of the Chronicle 224
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
The Buried Alive 230
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
The Real more terrible than the Unreal 239
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
The Cathedral of Florence 250
The Scene of the Romance.
The moon arose!
Reposing on the porch of an ancient mansion,--which, deserted and
falling to ruins, was pitched on the brow of a dizzy steep;--a
traveller, who had journeyed far and long, looked forth upon the night,
through an opening in the trees crowning the verge of the cliff, and,
with a soul filled with silent awe, beheld this scene of the grandeur of
nature, combined with the glories of art, and the stern memories of a
long past age.
A lovely valley lay sleeping in the moonbeams: ancient towers, Gothic
temples, domes of religion, palaces of pleasure, rose clearly in the
air, from amid gardens gay with flowers, or forests heavy with foliage,
while around the scene of slumbering grandeur, swept the mighty
Apennines, lifting their blue peaks into the universe of azure that
arched above, silvered and tinted and mellowed by the midnight moon.
A stream of tremulous silver wandered brightly through the valley, like
a banner waving along the blackness of night. The domes of an ancient
city, baptized by the strains of the Minstrel, and consecrated by the
words of the Romancer, were seen looming over the forest trees, from the
dim distance of the vale.
The moon arose!
There was softness, and beauty, and power, written on the wide sweep of
that boundless sky, with its horizon of blue mountains; there was solemn
silence resting on the night, and the angels of God might look down upon
the scene, and weep to think that a land so like heaven in its
gorgeousness of beauty, should be stamped with the footsteps of crimes
too mighty for belief, wrongs too dark for the page of history, woes
steeped in the very bitterness of death.
It was the valley of the Arno, and the traveler gazed from the height
upon the distant City of Florence, surnamed the “Fair.”
Arising in the calm moonbeams from the very centre of the valley, the
gray towers of a ruined castle broke abruptly into the dark azure of
night, looming from the distance like stern monuments of a past age,
lifting to heaven their testimony of the glory and the gloom of the
Gothic Era.
It was the Castle of Albarone, the home of a mighty race who flourished
in long past centuries. Within the walls of the lonely castle,--lonely
because in ruins,--rising from the bosom of the Arno, and along the
shores of a mountain lake, not many leagues away, the tragedy of the
race of Albarone found its theatre of action, with vast multitudes of
men looking on, spectators or actors in its scene of varied and
contrasted horror.
And as the traveller, wearied with his day’s journey, athirst from
fatigue and toil, uprose from his resting-place, and looked yet once
more upon the night, ere he hastened on his path to the Fair City of
Florence, his eye was again met by the stern vision of the castle
towering in ruins, and over his soul came a feeling of awe and horror,
as he mused upon the crimes and mysteries of the House of Albarone,
while the night around him grew more still, and the sky above more
shadowy in its beauty.
And as he mused, a dark cloud covered the face of the moon, hovering
like a vast bird, with wings of night, and form of omen, right above the
ruined towers of Albarone. A moment passed, the sky was again all glory
and light, while still--
The moon arose!
BOOK THE FIRST.
THE RED CHAMBER
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE SIGNET RING OF ALBARONE.
HIGH NOON AMID THE OLD CASTLE WALLS.
From the clear azure of the summer sky, the mid-day sun shone over the
lofty battlements and massive towers of an ancient castle, which, rising
amid the heights of a precipitous rock, lay basking in the warm
atmosphere; while along the spacious court-yard, and among the nooks and
crevices of the dark gray walls, the mellow beams fell lazily, gilding
each point they touched, and turning the blackened rocks to brightened
gold, with the voluptuous light of a summer noon.
The massive cliff, from whose stern foundations the castle arose, sank
suddenly, with a precipitous descent, into the bed of the valley, while
around, venerable with the grandeur of ages, swept the magnificent
forest, with its mass of verdure mellowing in the sunlight; and, winding
on its way of silver, a broad and rapid stream, gleaming from the deep
green foliage, now gave each wave and ripple to the kiss of day, and
now, sweeping in its shadowy nooks, sheltered its beauty from the
dazzling light.
Far along the view, forest towered over forest, and sloping meadows,
dotted with cottages, succeeded shelving fields, golden with wheat, or
gay with vines; while many a pleasant hill-side arose from amid the
embowering woods, with the peaceful summit sleeping in the sun-light,
and the straight shadows of the still noon resting along the depths of
the valley, from which it greenly ascended.
Along the edge of the horizon, amid the tall peaks of the far-off
mountains, summer clouds, vast and gorgeous, lay basking in the
sunlight, with their fantastic forms, of every hue and shape--now dark,
now bright, now golden, now gray, and again white as the new-fallen
snow--all clearly and delicately relieved by the back-ground of azure,
transparent and glassy as the sky of some voluptuous dream.
The hour was still and solemn, with the peculiar silence and solemnity
of the high noon; the broad banner floated heavily from the loftiest
tower of the castle, unruffled by a whisper of the wind; and along the
court-yard, and throughout the castle, a death-like silence reigned,
which betokened any thing save the presence of numerous bodies of armed
men within the castle walls.
The sentinels who waited at the castle gate, rested indolently upon
their pikes, and glancing over the spacious court-yard, marked, with a
look of discontent, the absence of all signs of animation from those
walls which had so often rung with sounds of gay carousal and shouts of
merriment. All was still and solemn where, in days by-gone, not a sound
had awoke the echoes of the time-darkened walls save the loud laugh of
the careless reveller, the merry carol of the minstrel, or the glee-song
of the banquet hall.
A footstep--a mailed and booted footstep--broke the silence of the air,
and presently, appearing from the shadow of the lofty hall door of the
castle, a stout and strong-limbed soldier emerged into the light of the
sun. As he descended the steps of stone, he paused for a moment, and
glanced around the court-yard. Stout, without being bulky in figure, the
person of the yeoman was marked by broad shoulders, a chest massive and
prominent, arms that were all bone and muscle, and legs that discovered
the bold and rugged outline of strong physical power, hardened by
fatigue and toil.
He raised his cap of buff, surmounted by a dark plume, and plated with
steel, from his brow, and the sunbeams fell upon a rugged countenance,
darkened by the sun, and seamed by innumerable wrinkles, with a low, yet
massive forehead, a nose short, straight, yet prominent, a wide mouth,
with thin lips, and cheek-bones high and bold in outline, while his
clear blue eyes, with their quick and varying glance, afforded a strange
contrast to his toil-hardened and sunburnt features. Around his throat,
and over his prominent chin, grew a thick and rugged beard, dark as his
eyebrows in hue, while his hair, slightly touched by age, and worn short
and close, gave a marked outline to his head, that completed the
expression of dogged courage and blunt frankness visible in every
lineament of his countenance.
Attired in doublet and hose of buff, defended by a plate of massive
steel on the breast, with smaller plates on each arm and leg, the yeoman
wore boots of slouching buckskin, while a broad belt of darkened
leather, thrown over his manly chest, supported the short, straight
sword, which depended from his left side.
Having glanced along the court-yard, and marked the sentinels waiting
lazily beside the castle gate, the yeoman’s eye wandered to the banner
which clung heavily around the towering staff, and then depositing his
cap on his head with an air of discontent, as he again surveyed the
castle yard--
“St. Withold!” he cried, in a voice as rugged as his face--“St. Withold!
but some foul spell of the fiend’s own making has fallen upon these old
walls! All dull--all dead--all leaden! Even yon flag, which kissed the
breeze of the Holy Land, not three months agone, looks dull and drowsy.
‘Slife! a man might as well be dead as live in this manner. No
feasting--no songs--no carousing! Ugh! A pest take it all, I say! No
jousts--no tournaments--no mellays! The foul fiend take it, I say; and
Sathanas wither the heathen hand that winged the poisoned javelin at my
knightly Lord--Julian, Count of this gallant castle Di Albarone! The
foul fiend wither the hand of the paynim dog, I say!”
“Ha, ha, ha! my good Robin,” laughed a clear and youthful voice, “by my
troth, thou’rt sadly out of temper! What has ruffled thee, my
buff-and-buckskin? Holy Mary--_what_ a face!”
Robin turned, and beheld the slender form of a daintily appareled youth,
whose full cheeks were wrinkled with laughter, while his merry hazel
eyes seemed dancing in the light of their own glee.
“Out of temper!” exclaimed rough Robin, as he glanced at the laughing
youth; “out of temper! By St. Withold! there’s good reason for’t, too.
Look ye, my bird of a page, never since I left the service of mine own
native prince, the brave Richard, of the Lion Heart--never since the day
when the gallant Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword drew his sword in the wars of
Palestine, under the banner of Count Julian Di Albarone, have I felt so
sick, so wearied in heart, as I do this day--mark ye, my page! ‘Out of
temper,’ forsooth! Answer me, then, popinjay--does not our gallant Lord
Julian lie wasting away in yon sick-chamber, with the poison of an
incurable wound eating his very heart? Answer me that, Guiseppo.”
“Ay, marry does he, my good Robin,” the page answered, as he played with
a jeweled chain that hung from his neck; “but then thou knowest he will
recover. He will again mount his war-horse! Ay, my good Lord Julian will
again lead armies to battle in the wilds of Palestine! He will, by my
troth, Rough Robin!”
“I fear me, never, never,” the yeoman replied, in a subdued tone. “Look
ye, Guiseppo, what dost think of this thin-faced half-brother of the
Count, the scholar Aldarin? There’s a mystery about the man--I like him
not. Thy master, the Duke of Florence, hath now been three days at this
good castle of Albarone--why is he so much in the company of this
keen-eyed Aldarin? By St. Withold! I like it not. Marry, boy, but the
devil’s a-brewing a pretty pot of yeast for somebody’s bread! Guiseppo,
canst tell me naught concerning the object of the visit of thy master,
the Duke, to this castle--hey, boy?”
“Why, Robin,” replied the page, as, placing one small hand on either
side of his slender waist, he glanced at the yeoman with a sidelong
look; “why, Robin, didst ever hear of--of--the fair Ladye Annabel? Eh,
Robin?”
“The fair Ladye Annabel! Tut! boy, thou triflest with me. The fair Ladye
Annabel--she is the lovely daughter of this crusty old scholar. Her
mother was an Eastern woman; and the fair girl first saw the light in
the wilds of Palestine, when the scholar Aldarin accompanied his brother
thither. Marry, ’tis more than sixteen--seventeen years since. ’Tis long
ago--very long. By St. Withold! those were merry days. But come, sir
page, why name the Ladye Annabel and the Duke in the same breath?”
The restless Guiseppo sprang aside with a nimble movement, and then
folding his arms, stood at the distance of a few paces, regarding the
stout yeoman with a look of mock gravity and solemn humor.
“What wouldst give to know, Robin?” he exclaimed, with a peculiar
contortion of his mirthful face. “Hark ye, my stout yeoman, ‘My Lord Duke
of Florence and the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.’ Dost like the
sound? What says my rough soldier, now?”
“I see a light,” slowly responded Robin; “I see a light!” and he slowly
drew his sword half-way from the scabbard. “But as yet ’tis but a
pestilent Jack o’ lanthorn light, dancing about a tangled marsh of pits
and bogs, with plenty o’hidden traps to catch honest men by the heels,
i’ faith. Annabel and the Duke! Ho--ho! Then the game’s up with the son
o’ th’ Count--my Lord Adrian?”
“Wag that clumsy tongue o’ thine with a spice o’ caution, Robin,”
whispered the merry page. “See, the sharp-faced steward o’ th’ castle
draws nigh, and with him a group of sworn grumblers. The four old
esquires who followed our lord to battle in the wilds o’ Palestine--a
soldier, with a carbuncled visage, and a lounging servitor, the huntsman
o’ th’ castle. Hark! didst ever hear such eloquent growling?”
And as Robin turned to listen, he beheld the strangely contrasted party
lounging slowly along the castle yard, with the indolent gait of men
having little to do save to eat, to drink, to sleep, and to gossip,
while around them the lazy hours of the silent castle-walls dragged
onward with wings of lead.
“Talk not to me of thrift, sir steward,” cried the bluff-faced and
thick-headed huntsman. “When my Lord, Count Julian, was well--not a day
passed but a lusty buck was steaming on the castle hearth--”
“Wine flowed like water,” chimed in the soldier with the fiery nose.
“Your true soldier swore by his beaker alone--”
“_Now!_” interrupted the sharp-faced steward, waving his thin hands, and
with an expressive shrug of the shoulders; “_now_, my lord the Count is
_sick_. The scholar Aldarin hath the rule. Tell me, sir huntsman, and
you, sir, of the fiery nose, is there any waste o’ flesh or liquor in
the castle? Is not the signer careful of the beeves of my lord. No
longer are we quiet folks disturbed by your carousings: no silly dances,
no rude catches o’ vile camp-follower songs! By the Virgin, no!”
“By the true wood o’ th’ cross, sir steward, thou’rt a rare one!”
growled a white-haired esquire, as his scarred and sunburnt visage was
turned angrily toward the sharp-faced steward. “Dost think men o’ mettle
are made o’ such broomstick bones and mud-puddle blood as thou? Body o’
Bacchus, no! ‘No carousing!’ I’d e’en like to see thee on a jolly
carouse!”
“Say rather, sir esquire,” Robin the Rough exclaimed, as the party
reached his side, “say rather, you’d e’en wish to see a death’s-head
making mirth at a feast, or a funeral procession strike up a jolly
fandango! Sir steward at a feast!--the owl at a gathering o’
nightingales!”
The sharped-faced steward was about to make an angry reply, when a
sudden thrill ran through the party. Each tongue was stilled, and each
man stood motionless in the full glare of the noon-day sun.
* * * * *
“Hist! The Signor Aldarin approaches,” whispered the page Guiseppo. “He
comes from the castle gate along to the castle hall.”
And as each head was stealthily turned over the shoulder toward the
castle gate, there came gliding along, with cat-like steps and downcast
look, a man of severe aspect, whose gray eye--cold, flashing, and clear,
in its unchangeable glance--seemed as though it could read the very
heart.
A tunic of dark velvet, disclosing the spare outlines of his slim
figure, reached to his ankles, and over this garment, depending from his
right shoulder, he wore a robe of similar color, passed under his left
arm, joined in front by a chain of gold, and then falling in sweeping
folds to his sandaled feet.
A cap of dark fur, bright with a single gem of strange lustre, gave a
striking relief to his high, pale forehead, seamed by a single deep
wrinkle, shooting upward from between the eyebrows, while his gray hair
fell in slight masses down along the hollow cheeks and over his neck and
shoulders.
“This is the--scholar!” growled one of the white-haired esquires. “His
days have been passed in the laboratory, while his brother’s sword hath
flashed at the head of armies.”
“The saints preserve me from the wizard-tribe, say I!” muttered Robin
the Rough; and as he spoke, with an involuntary movement of fear, the
party separated on either side of the castle hall, leaving room for the
passage of the Signor Aldarin.
He came slowly onward, with his head downcast, neither looking to the
one side nor to the other. He ascended the steps of stone, and in a
moment was lost to the view of the loiterers in the castle yard.
The hall of the castle passed, a passage traversed, and another stairway
ascended, the stooping scholar stood in a small ante-chamber, with the
light of the noon-day sun subdued to a twilight obscurity by the absence
of windows from the place, while an evening gloom hung around the narrow
walls, the arching ceiling of darkened stone, and the floor of
tesselated marble. A single casement, long and narrow, reaching from
floor to arch, gave entrance to a straggling beam of daylight,
disclosing the stout and muscular form of a man-at-arms, with armor and
helmet of steel, who, pike in hand, waited beside a massive door,
opening into one of the principal apartments of the castle.
With a soft, gliding footstep, the Signor Aldarin glided along the
tesselated floor, and stood beside the man-at-arms, ere he was aware of
his approach.
“Ha! Balvardo, thou keepest strict watch beside the sick chamber of my
lord.” The words broke from the Signor Aldarin. “Hast obeyed my behest?”
“E’en so, my lord,” the sentinel began, in a rough, surly tone.
“How, vassal! Dost name me with the title of my brother? Have a care,
good Balvardo, have a care!”
“He chides me in a rough voice,” murmured the sentinel, as though
speaking to his own ear; “and yet a wild light flashes over his features
at the word. Signor, I but mistook the word--a slip o’ th’ tongue,” he
exclaimed aloud. “Thy behests have been obeyed. No one has been suffered
to pass into the chamber of my Lord Di Albarone since morning dawn, save
the fair Ladye Annabel, who waits beside the couch of the wounded
knight.”
“Come hither, Balvardo. Look from this narrow window: mark you well the
dial-plate in the castle yard. In a few moments the shadow will sweep
across the path of high noon. When high noon and the shadow meet, thy
charge is over. The soothing potion which I gave my brother at daybreak,
will have taken its proper effect. Until that moment, keep strict watch:
let not a soul enter the Red Chamber on the peril of thy life!”
And with the command, the Signor swept from the ante-chamber, gliding
along a corridor opposite the one from which he had just emerged, and
his low footsteps in a moment had ceased to echo along the dark old
arches.
“He is gone,” the sentinel murmured, slowly pacing the tesselated floor.
“He comes like a cat--he glides hence like a ghost. Hark! footsteps from
opposite corridors meeting in this ante-chamber. By’r Lady! here comes
Adrian, the son of this sick lord, and from the opposite gallery emerges
the monk Albertine, the tool and counsellor of my Lord of Florence. ’Tis
a moody monk and a shrewd boy. I’faith, there’s a pair o’ ’em.”
And as he spoke, sweeping from the shadows of the northern gallery came
a dark-robed monk, walking with hastened step, his arms folded on his
breast, and his head drooped low, as if in thought, while the outlines
of his face were enveloped in the folds of his priestly cowl. And as he
swept onward toward the centre of the ante-chamber, from the southern
gallery, with slow and solemn steps, advanced a youth of some twenty
summers, attired in the gay dress of a cavalier, with a frank, open
visage, marked by the lines of premature thought, and relieved by rich
and luxuriant locks of golden hair sweeping along each cheek down to the
shoulders.
“Whither speed ye, Lord Adrian?” exclaimed the deep, sonorous voice of
the monk, as the twain met breast to breast in the centre of the rich
mosaic floor. “Whither speed ye, heir of Albarone, at this hour?”
“Whither do I speed?” cried the cavalier, starting with sudden surprise.
“Sir monk, I wend to the sick-chamber of my father.”
The monk grasped the cavalier suddenly by the right hand, and raised it
as suddenly in the light of the sunbeams streaming through the solitary
window.
“An hour since, this hand was graced by a signet ring: the signet ring
which has been an heirloom in thy house for centuries. Dost remember the
prophecy spoken of that strange ring? Dost remember the rude lines of
the vandal seer:
‘While treasured and holily worn,
An omen of glory and good:
When from the hand the ruby is torn,
An omen of doom and of blood.’”
“Sir monk, the lines are rude; yet I mind me well the words of the
prophecy, are an household sound to an heir of Albarone. Yet why this
sudden grasp of my hand? Why thus urgent? The fire in thine eye seems
not of earth.”
“Lord Adrian, by the Virgin tell me how long since parted this finger
from the ruby signet ring of thy house? Never parted that ring from the
hand of heir of Albarone, without sudden evil, fearful doom, or unheard
of death, gathering thick and dark around thy house!”
“I missed not the signet ring till this moment. An instant ago, I was in
my chamber. Thy air is strange and solemn for the confessor of this
jovial Duke, yet I will turn me, and seek the signet without delay. Thy
warning may be well-timed.”
“Boy, a word in thine ear. My life has been strange and dark. I have
loved the shadow rather than the light. I have courted the glare of
corruption in the midnight charnel-house, rather than the blaze of the
noon-day sun. I have made me a home amid strange mysteries, and from the
tomes of darksome lore I have wrung the secrets of the hidden world.”
“To what tends all this, sir monk? By’r Ladye, thou’rt strangely
moved!”
“And from my hidden lore have I learned this mystery of mysteries. When
the stillness of midnight hangs like lead over the noon-day hour--when,
at mid-noon, a strange, solemn, and voiceless silence pervades the air,
spreads through the universe, and impresses the heart of each living
thing with a feeling of unutterable AWE, then wicked men are doing, in
the sight of heaven, with the laughter of fiends in their ears, some
deed of horror, that the fiends tremble ’mid their laughter to behold.
Some deed of nameless horror, which thrills the universe with AWE,
making the hour of noon more terrible than midnight in the
charnel-house. Look abroad, Adrian--’tis high noon. Dost hear a sound, a
whisper of the wind? All silent as death--all still as the grave! The
silence of this nameless AWE is upon the noon-day hour. Adrian, to thy
chamber, to thy chamber, and rest not till the signet ring again
encircles thy finger! There is a doom upon this hour!”
And with these words, uttered in a low, yet deep and piercing tone, the
monk glided from the ante-chamber; and the cavalier, without a word, as
hastily retraced his steps, and in an instant had disappeared in the
shadow of the southern gallery.
“Whispered words!” muttered the bull-headed man-at-arms. “A ring! What
about a ring? Ha--ha! The Monk and the Springald commune together--well!
I could not make out their secret, but--but, the ring!”
And raising his sturdy form to its full height, with a grim smile on his
bearded face, Balvardo glanced around the ante-chamber, and then, with a
low chuckle, he let his pike fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET OF GOLD.
In a lofty apartment of the castle, hung with rich folds of crimson
tapestry, and designated from time past memory as the Red Chamber, on a
couch of gorgeous hangings, lay the once muscular, but now
disease-stricken, Julian, Count of Albarone, shorn of his warrior
strength, divested of the glory of his manhood’s prime.
The warm sunlight which filled the place, fell with a golden glow over
the outlines of his lofty brow, indented with wrinkles, the long gray
hair parted on either side, the eyebrows, snow-white, overarching the
clear, bold eyes, that sent forth their glance with all the fire and
intensity of youth, rendered more vivid and flame-like by the contrast
of sunken eyelid and hollow cheek.
And by the bedside of the warrior, bending like an angel of good, as she
ministered to his slightest wants, the form of a fair and lovely maiden
was disclosed in the noon-day light, while her flaxen curls fell
lightly, and with a waving motion, over the rich bloom of her cheek,
glowing with the warmth of fifteen summers, and her full, large eyes of
liquid blue, gleamed with the expression of a soul, whose fruits were
pure and happy thoughts, the buds and blossoms of innocence and youth.
“Annabel,”--said the warrior, in a voice faint with disease--“Methinks I
feel the strength of youth again returning; the sleeping potion of my
good brother, Aldarin, has done me wondrous service. Assist me to the
casement, child of mine heart, that I may gaze once more upon the broad
lands and green woods of my own domain of Albarone.”----
As he spoke, the Count rose on his feet, with a tottering movement, and
had fallen to the floor, but for the fair arm of the maiden wound around
his waist, while his muscular hand rested upon her shoulder.
“Lean upon my arm, my uncle,--tread with a careful footstep. In a moment
we will reach the casement.”
They stood within the recess of the emblazoned window, the warrior and
the maiden, while around them floated and shimmered the golden sunshine,
falling over the tesselated stone of the pavement, throwing a glaring
light around the hangings of the bed, and streaming in flashes of
brightness among the distant corners and nooks of the Red Chamber.
’Tis a fair land, niece of mine,--a fair and lovely land.--”
“A land of dreams, a land of magnificent visions, overshadowed by yon
blue mountains of romance. Look, my uncle, how the noon-day sun is
showering his light over the deep woods that encircle the rock of
Albarone--yonder, beyond the verdure of the trees, winds the silvery
Arno; yonder are hills and rugged steeps, and far away tower the blue
heights of the Apennines!”
“And here, niece of mine, in my youthful prime I stood, when my aged
father’s hand had dubbed me--knight. ’Twas such a quiet noon-day hour,
on a calm and dream-like day as this, that, from the recess of this
window, I gazed upon yon gorgeous land. How the blood swelled in my
youthful veins; how dreams of ambition fired my boyish fancy, as the
words broke from my lips,--‘Here they ruled, my fathers, in days
by-gone, with the iron sword of the Goth; here they reigned as sovereign
princes--as Dukes of Florence.’”
“Since that noon-day hour thy sword has flashed in the van of a thousand
battles!”
“It has--it has! And yet what am I now? Old before my time, swept away
from the path of glory, as I neared the goal! A warrior should never
utter a word of complaint--and yet--by the Sacrament of Heaven, I had
much rather died with sword in hand, at the head of my hosts, than to
wither away with this festering wound on yonder couch. I like not to
count the pulsations of my dying heart.”
“Nay, my uncle,--chide not so bitterly. Thou wilt recover--thy sword
will again flash at the head of armies!”
“My sword, Annabel, my sword,”--cried the warrior, as his eyes lit up
with a strange brilliancy, and his wan features were crimsoned by a
ruddy flush.
In a moment, the fair hands of the maiden bore the sword from its
resting-place, in a nook of the Red Chamber, with a slow and weary
movement, as though the massive piece of iron which she trailed along
the marble floor, exceeded her maidenly strength to lift on high.
“It is my sword, it is my sword”--shrieked the warrior, as he flung the
robes of purple back from his muscular, though attenuated shoulder, and
raised his proud form to its full height--“Look, Annabel, how it gleams
in the light! So it gleamed on the walls of Jerusalem, so it shone aloft
over the desert-sands of the Syrian wilderness! It will gleam over the
battle-field again! Ay, again will the snow-white plume of Julian Di
Albarone wave over the ranks of the fray, while ten thousand warriors
hail that plume as their beacon-light!”
He swung the sword aloft in the air; his whole form was moved by
excitement; every vein filled and every pulse throbbed; his eye flashed
like a thing of flame, and his whitened lip trembled with the glorious
expression of battle-scorn.
Thrice he waved the sword around his head; but when the impulse of this
sudden excitement died away, his eyes lost their flashing brightness,
his limbs their vigor, and Julian of Albarone tottered as he stood upon
the marble floor, and stepping hurriedly backward, fell heavily upon the
couch of the Red Chamber.
“The goblet, fair niece--the goblet on the beaufet. Haste thee--I am
faint.”
As the words broke gaspingly from the sick man’s lips, the Ladye Annabel
turned hastily to bring the goblet, and as she turned, she beheld the
head of Lord Julian resting uneasily on his pillow, while his left arm
hung heavily over the side of the couch.
She turned again with trembling footsteps, and hastened to arrange the
pillow of the sick warrior. Her fair hands smoothed the pillow of down,
and she gently raised his head from the couch.
At the very instant, the tapestry in a dark corner of the Red Chamber
rustled quickly to and fro, as a figure, muffled in a sweeping cloak of
crimson, emerged into view, and treading across the tesselated pavement,
with a footstep like a spirit of the unreal air, it approached the
beaufet of ebony, and a white hand, glittering with a single ring, was
extended for a moment over the goblet of gold.
The Ladye Annabel placed the head of Lord Julian gently upon the pillow
of down.
_The glittering ring shone in the sun, as it fell in the goblet of gold,
and the hand of the figure, white as alabaster, was again concealed in
the thick folds of the crimson robe._
The Ladye Annabel, with her delicate hands, parted the gray hairs from
the sick man’s face, and swept them back from his brow.
_The figure in robes of crimson, strode with a noiseless footstep across
the apartment, and sought the shelter of the hangings of tapestry, with
as strange a silence as it had emerged from their folds._
Without taking notice of the white dust that covered the bottom of the
empty goblet, Annabel filled it with generous wine, and approached the
bedside of her uncle. The Count raised himself from the pillow, and
lifted the goblet to his lips. As his wan face was reflected in the
ruddy wavelets of the wine, he fixed his full large eyes upon the lovely
face of Annabel, with a look of affection, mingled with an expression so
strange, so solemn and dread, that it dwelt in the soul of the maiden
for years.
He drank, and drained the goblet to the dregs.
“Thank thee--fair niece--thank thee.”
He paused suddenly, his arms he flung wildly from him, a thin, glassy
film gathered over his eyes, a gurgling noise sounded in his throat, and
he fell heavily upon the couch.
His features were knit in a fearful expression of pain and suffering,
his mouth opened with a ghastly grimace, leaving the teeth visible, the
lips were agitated by a convulsive pang, and his eyes, sternly fixed,
glared wildly from beneath the eyebrows woven in a frown.
“My uncle--my father,”--shrieked the Ladye Annabel, rushing to the
bedside--“Look not so wildly, gaze not so sternly upon me. Speak, my
uncle, oh, speak!”
Her utterance failed, and an indistinct murmur broke from her lips. Her
hands ran hurriedly over the brow of the warrior--it was cold with
beaded drops of moisture. She bent hastily over the form of Lord Julian,
she imprinted a kiss on his parted lips. She kissed the lips of the
dead!
Then the tapestry, the hangings of the Red Chamber, the couch, with its
ghastly corse, all swam round her in a fearful dance, and the Ladye
Annabel fell insensible on the floor.
_The great bell of the Castle of Albarone tolled forth the hour of noon.
The shadow of death had been flung across the dial-plate in the
castle-yard._
While the thunder-like tones of the bell went swinging and quivering,
and echoing among the old castle halls, a footstep was heard without the
Red Chamber, and the door was flung suddenly open.
A young Cavalier, with a face marked by frank, open features, locks of
rich gold, and an eye of blue, while his handsome form was clad in a gay
dress of velvet, entered the apartment, and strode with hurried steps to
the couch.
He cast one look at the face of the corse, marked by the ghastly grimace
of death; he cast one quick and hasty glance at the form of the Ladye
Annabel, thrown insensible along the floor of stone, and then he covered
his face with his trembling hands, and his manly form was convulsed by a
shuddering tremor, that shook the folds of his blue doublet, as though
every sinew writhed in agony beneath the gay apparel.
The heavy sob, which unutterable anguish alone can bring from the heart
of a proud man, broke on the deep silence of the room, and the big heavy
tear-drops of man’s despair came trickling between the clasped fingers,
pressed over his countenance.
“He is dead--my father--he is dead!”
He mastered the first terrible impulse of grief, and raised the swooning
maiden from the floor.
“He is dead--my father”--again sounded the husky voice of the Cavalier.
“Thou, Annabel, art all that is left to me--I am--”
“_A murderer_--_a parricide!_” cried a sharp and piercing voice, that
thrilled to the very heart of the cavalier.
He turned hurriedly as he grasped the maiden with his good right arm, he
turned and beheld--_the Scholar Aldarin_.
His glance was fixed and stern, while, with one hand half-upraised, with
his thick eyebrows darkening in a frown, he stood regarding the Cavalier
with a look that was meant to rend his inmost heart.
“What means this outcry in the presence of the dead?” exclaimed Adrian
in a determined tone--“Let our past disputes be forgotten, old man, in
this terrible hour. See you not, my father lies stark and dead?”
“Murdered by _thee_, vile parricide!”--rang out the voice of the Signior
Aldarin, as, with a determined step, he advanced to the bedside--“Ho!
Guards, I say”--he shouted, raising his voice--“Vassals of Albarone, to
the rescue!”
The eye of the young Cavalier brightened, his brow was knit, and his
form erected to its full height as he spoke, in a quiet, determined
tone.
“Look ye, old man, thou mayst taunt and gibe with thy magpie tongue, as
long as the humor pleases thee. My father’s brother need fear no wrong
from me--this maiden’s father can fear no harm from Adrian Di Albarone.
Heap taunt on taunt, good Signior, but see that this spirit of insult is
not carried into action. I am lord in the castle of my fathers!”
“Father, what mean those wild words, these looks of anger?” shrieked the
Ladye Annabel, as she awoke from her swoon of terror, and, supported by
the arm of Adrian, glanced round the scene--“Surely, my father, you
speak not aught against Lord Adrian?”
And as she spoke, the chamber was filled with men-at-arms, in their
glittering armor, and servitors of Albarone, all attired in the livery
of the house, who came thronging into the apartment, and circled round
the scene, while their mouths were agape, and their eyes protruding with
astonishment.
Aldarin glanced around the throng, he marked each stalwart man-at-arms,
each strong-limbed yeoman of the guard, and then his chest heaved and
his eye flashed as he shouted--
“Seize him, men of Albarone, _seize the murderer of your lord_!”
He pointed to Adrian Di Albarone as he spoke. There was one wild thrill
of terror and amazement, spreading through the group, a confused murmur,
bursting involuntarily from every lip, and then all was still as death.
Not a man stirred, not a servitor moved, but all remained like statues,
clustering round the group in their centre, where Aldarin stood with his
slender form raised to its full stature, his arm outstretched and his
eye flashing like a flame-coal, while Adrian gathered the Ladye Annabel
in his good right arm, and gazed upon the Signor with a look of
concentrated scorn.
“Seize him, guards”--again shouted Aldarin--“seize the Parricide!”
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and the form of the stout
yeoman emerged from the group.
“Not quite so fast--marry, my good Signor, not quite so fast”--he cried
as he advanced. “By St. Withold, I have followed my old lord to many a
hard-fought fight, I have served him by night and by day, with hand and
heart, for a score of long years. Shall I stand by, and see his brave
son suffer wrong?”
“What means this wild uproar?” exclaimed a calm yet half-indignant
voice, as the stately dame of the Lord Di Albarone, yet unaware of her
bereavement, crossed the threshold with a lofty step and an extended
arm, advancing, with the port of a queen, to the centre of the group.
“Vassals--what means this wild uproar? Know ye not that your lord lies
deadly sick? Brother Aldarin, I take it ill of you to suffer the clamor!
What can our liege of Florence think of ye, vassals, when he beholds ye
thus assail the sick-chamber of your lord with noise and outcry!”
The stately dame pointed to a richly attired cavalier, who had followed
her into the apartment. He was a well-formed man, with a face marked by
no definite expression. His dark hair gathered, in short, stiff curls
around a low and unmeaning forehead; his small dark eyes, protruding
from his head, seemed to be trying their utmost to outstrip his faintly
delineated eyebrows; the nose, neither aquiline, classic, or Judaic,
seemed composed of all the varieties of nasal organ; his upper lip was
garnished with a portion of the wiry beard that flourished on his
prominent chin; his lips were thick and sensual, while his entire face
was as inexpressive as might be. The throng bowed low, as they became
aware of the presence of the guest of their late lord. They bowed to the
Duke of Florence.
“Adrian, my son,” cried the Lady of Albarone, turning to her son in
utter amazement, “what means this scene of confusion and alarm?”
Adrian took his mother by the hand, and led her to the couch. He spoke
not a word, but waved his hand toward the couch. Her form was concealed
for a moment amid the hangings of the bed, and then a shriek of wild
emphasis startled the ears of the bystanders.
“He is dead,” exclaimed the Lady of Albarone, in a voice of unnatural
calmness, as she again appeared from amid the hangings of the bed, with
a face ghastly and livid as the face of death. “Vassals of Albarone,
your lord is dead!”
There was a cry of horror echoing through the chamber, and the Lady of
Albarone sank, leaning for support upon the arm of her son, while
Annabel, in the intervals of her own sobs and sighs, whispered hurried
words of consolation in her ear.
Aldarin stood regarding the group with a glance of deep and searching
meaning. He gazed upon the vacant features of the Duke, distended by
surprise, the countenance of Adrian, marked by a settled frown of
indignation, the visage of the Countess, livid as death; and then the
fair face of his daughter Annabel, her eyes swimming in tears, the
parted lips and the cheek pale and flushed by turns, met the glance of
Aldarin, and a strange expression trembled on his compressed lip, and
darkened over his high forehead.
“Lady of Albarone,” exclaimed the Scholar, advancing,--“Lady of
Albarone, my brother died not through the course of nature, he died not
by the hand of disease--he was murdered!”
“Murdered!” repeated the Countess with a hollow echo.
And the Duke took up the word, echoing, with a trembling voice, that
word of fear, “murdered,” while the Servitors of Albarone sent the cry
shrieking around the nooks and corners of the Red Chamber.
Adrian of Albarone looked around the scene and smiled as if in scorn,
but said not a word.
Aldarin made one stride to the couch of death.
“Behold the corse,” he shrieked; “behold the blackened face, the sunken
eyelids and the livid lips; behold the ghastly remains of the Lord of
Albarone!”
Another stride, and he reached the beaufet. He seized the goblet of
gold, and held it aloft.
“Behold,” he cried, “behold the instrument of his murder!”
“God save me now,” shrieked the Countess.--“There has been foul work
here--Adrian--oh, Adrian, thy sire hath been poisoned!”
“This is some new mysterie, Sir Scholar,” exclaimed Adrian, with a look
of scorn.
The Lady fell insensible, and the goblet rung with a clanging sound upon
the marble floor, while from its depths there rolled a small compact
substance, encrusted in some chemical compound, white as snow in hue.
The Duke of Florence stooped hurriedly to the very floor, and seized
both the goblet and the encrusted substance, with an eager grasp.
“Ha! There is a white sediment deposited at the bottom of this goblet.
Albertine, advance; thou art skilled in such mysteries. Tell me, Sir
Monk, the nature of this white powder.”
The Monk Albertine, whose dark eyes had for a moment been gleaming over
the shoulders of the bystanders, now advanced with a slow and measured
footstep, and confronted the Signor Aldarin, with a look full of meaning
and thought. Aldarin returned the look, with a keen and searching
glance, and their eyes then mingled in one long and ardent gaze, as
though each man wished to read the heart of his fellow.
With a look of calmness and perfect self-possession, Albertine turned to
the Duke and took the goblet from his hand.
He gazed at its depths for a moment; he was about to speak, when the
heart of every man in the Red Chamber was thrilled by a wild and
terrific howl, more fearful even than the yell of the dying, which
proceeded from among the curtains of the death-couch, and echoed around
the apartment.
“That sound,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a nervous start--“That sound is
from the couch of death! It means, it means--”
A ruddy glow passed over his pale countenance, and, suddenly pausing, he
gazed round the group in silence.
“It is the poor hound of our good Lord;” muttered Robin the Rough,
advancing. “The hound, with skin black as death, which Lord Julian
brought from Palestine--he is howling over the dead corse of his master.
So have I heard him howl for three days past, as the castle-bell tolled
the hour of high noon, beside the panels of yonder door. Come hither,
brute; come hither, Saladin.”
The hound, black as night, with an eye like fire, came leaping through
the throng, and crouched, whining, at the feet of the stout yeoman.
It was, in sooth, a noble hound, with full chest, slender limbs, long
neck, and tapering body, marked by all that delicacy of proportion, that
beauty of shape, and grace of motion, which tradition ascribes to the
bloodhounds of the Eastern lands. The head was like the head of a snake,
while the eye seemed almost instinct with a human soul.
“Sir Monk,” cried the Duke, in an imperious tone, “were it not better
for thee to tell us at once whether the white powder in the goblet is
poison? or shall we wait thy pleasure while thou dost weary thine eyes
with gazing at yonder hound?”
The monk Albertine made a solemn inclination of his head, and kneeling
on the marble floor in the centre of the group, he struck the edge of
the goblet upon the tesselated stone with a quick and sudden motion of
his hand.
The diamond-shaped stone of black marble was strewn with the white
sediment deposited in the bottom of the goblet.
The hound sprang forward, and while his wild eyes flashed and blazed,
his nostrils dilated, and the sable animal snuffed the atmosphere of the
Red Chamber, as he leaped quickly around the group.
“He snuffs the smell of human blood!” muttered the stout yeoman.
And while all was intense interest and suspense, while a mingled feeling
of surprise and terror and nameless fear ran around the group, while
every eye was fixed upon the kneeling form of Albertine, with the goblet
upraised in his hand, the hound Saladin passed from man to man, scenting
the garments of the bystanders, and glancing wildly from face to face,
from eye to eye.
He paused for a moment in front of the Signor Aldarin, and uttered a low
whining sound as he gazed in the scholar’s face.
“How long is this mummery to last?” exclaimed Aldarin, advancing with a
sudden step--“Tell me, Sir Monk, is thy study over?”
The hound Saladin sprang suddenly aside from the robes of the Signor,
and eagerly snuffing the marble floor, approached the monk Albertine,
and with a moaning sound licked the white substance from the
diamond-shaped stone.
“Is it poison?” asked the Duke, and the interest of the group clustered
around became absorbing and intense.
“Some new mysterie of thine, learned scholar!” exclaimed Adrian Di
Albarone, with a smile of incredulity. “The man does not live, so false
in heart as to place a death-bowl to the lips of a warrior like Julian
of Albarone!”
“Is it poison!” exclaimed Albertine, gazing round upon the
group--“Behold!”
And as he spoke, the hound Saladin fell stiffened and dead, upon the
marble pavement, with a single fearful struggle, a single terrible
howl.--His limbs were fearfully distorted, and his eyes were starting
from their sockets, while a thin white foam hung round his serpent-like
jaw.
A confused cry of horror thundered around the apartment, and then you
might have heard the footsteps of the Invisible Death, all was so
fearfully silent and still.
“As God lives, my father has been murdered!” shouted Adrian Di Albarone,
as the expression of incredulity lately visible in his manly face
changed to a look of pallid horror--“Now, by the Sacrament of God, he
shall be avenged as never was murdered man avenged before! Who,” he
shrieked in a husky voice, turning to the throng--“Who hath done this
murder?”