encrusted substance which fell from the death-bowl may be poisonous--”
The small white ball, which the Duke had absently clenched in his
fingers, fell to the floor, and every ear heard a ringing sound as it
fell, and every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it touched the
floor. The whole substance had vanished, and along the floor there
rolled a massive signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.
The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again grasped the ring; he held
it aloft, and shouted, in a tone of amazement and horror--
“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident into the
death-bowl! It bears a crest and an inscription--look, Signor
Aldarin--canst make out crest or inscription?”
Aldarin replied with a look of horror--
“The crest, ’tis a Winged Leopard--the motto--‘_Grasp boldly, and
bravely strike_!’ Both crest and motto are those of Albarone”--his voice
sank to a death-like whisper--“Lord Adrian--behold--_it is, it is the
signet-ring of Albarone_!”
Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis--
“Thy question has its answer--let the signet-ring tell the tale. Adrian,
oh, Adrian,” he continued, as his voice changed with mingled compassion
and anguish--“what moved thee to this fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak
old man, should live to see my brother’s son accused of that brother’s
murder!”
“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded Adrian, though his chest
heaved and swelled with the tempest aroused in his soul--“Tell me,
Signor Aldarin, what were the contents of the ‘soothing’ potion
administered by thee to the late Lord Julian at daybreak?”
“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its composition, and thou
canst witness when I gave it to my murdered brother.”
“I aided in its composition--it was harmless--I saw thee minister the
potion to Lord Julian.”
“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone hast had access to this chamber since
daybreak”--spoke Adrian, with his calm eye fixed full on the Signor’s
visage--“Now tell me who it was that drugged yon bowl with death?”
“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door from daybreak until
high noon--did a soul enter the Red Chamber from the first moment to the
last second of thy watch?”
“Not a living man”--muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo from the
crowd--“not a soul save the Ladye Annabel.”
“Search the apartment!” shouted the Duke; “the assassin may be yet
lurking in some dark nook or corner!”
The doors were closed, the search commenced. Every nook was ransacked,
every corner thrown open to the light, not even the bed of death, with
its pillows of down and its hangings of purple, was spared.
While the search was in progress, the Countess of Albarone awoke from
her swoon, and striding from the recess of an emblazoned window, where
the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant look over the strange
scene progressing in the Red Chamber, she was soon made aware of the
fearful crime charged upon her son, the signet-ring and the terrible
mystery.
“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud voice, “there is mystery,
but--no dishonor!--Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so
accursed an act!”
“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout yeoman.
“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors; and the cry went round the
apartment,--
“Nor I”--“Nor I”--“He is guiltless.”
A shrill and prolonged shriek, echoing from a nook of the Red Chamber
near the death-couch, sent a sudden thrill through the group assembled
in this terrible mystery.
Every form wheeled suddenly round, every eye was fixed in the direction
from whence issued the shriek, and the aged Steward of the Castle was
seen, upholding with one trembling hand the folds of the gorgeous
crimson tapestry, while his aged face grew livid as death, as he pointed
with the other hand to a dark recess.
“A secret passage--the door cut into the solid wall is flung wide
open--a robe laid across the threshold--a robe of crimson faced with
gold.”
And as he spoke he flung the hangings yet farther aside, and the bright
sunshine gleamed over the panel of the secret door, flung wide open; the
crimson robe was thrown over the threshold, but no beam lighted up the
gloom of the passage beyond.
The Lady of Albarone rushed hurriedly forward, she seized the robe, she
held it aloft in the sunbeams, and--_every eye beheld the robe of Adrian
Di Albarone_!
“Adrian!” shrieked the Countess, “Adrian of Albarone--yonder secret
passage leads to thy sleeping chamber--thy departed sire, myself and
thou, alone were aware of its existence. It has ever been a secret of
our house. Tell me, by yon murdered corse, I implore thee, tell me who
flung this door open, who laid thy robe across the threshold?”
Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead, and with a cry of
horror fell insensible upon the floor.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE EMBRACE OF A BROTHER.
The sun was setting, calmly and solemnly setting, behind a gorgeous pile
of rainbow-hued clouds, magnificent with airy castle and pinnacle, while
the full warmth of his beams shone through the arching window of the Red
Chamber, its casement panels thrown wide open, filling that place of
death with light and splendor.
In the recess of the lofty casement, with the sunshine falling all
around, and the shadow of her slender figure thrown like a belt of gloom
over the mosaic floor, stood the Ladye Annabel, silent and motionless;
her rounded arms half raised, with the slender hands crossed over her
bosom, her robe of pale blue velvet, with the inner vest of undimmed
white made radiant by the sunbeams; while, swept aside from her
features, the golden hair fell with a floating motion down over her
shoulders, and along the breast of snow.
And as she stood thus still and immovable, gazing with one unvarying
glance along the courtyard, the sunshine revealed her face of beauty,
every lineament and feature disclosed in the golden light, seeming more
like the face of a dream-spirit, than the countenance of a mortal
maiden. The soul shone from her face. The eyes full, large, and lustrous
with their undimmed blue, dilating and enlarging with one wild glance;
the cheek white as alabaster, yet tinted by the bloom, and swelled with
the fullness of the budding rose; the lips small, and curvingly shaped,
slightly parted, revealing a glimpse of the ivory teeth; the chin, with
its dimple; the brow, with its clear surface, marked by the parted hair,
waving aside like clustered sunbeams--such was the face of the Ladye
Annabel, all vision, all loveliness, and soul.
“He is bound; yes, bound with the cord and thong! They gather around him
with looks of insult; they place him on the steed; they move--oh, mother
of Heaven!--they move toward the castle gate! And shall I never see him
again--never, never? It is a dream; it is no reality. It is a dream! Was
it a dream, yesterday, when he stood in this recess, his hand clasped in
mine, his eyes calm and eloquent, gazing in mine, while his voice spoke
of the sunset glories of the summer sky?”
One long, wild glance at the scene in the courtyard, and then veiling
her eyes from the sight, she started wildly from the window.
“It is a dream,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as she hurriedly glided
from the room, and the echoes returned her whisper. “It is, it is a
dream!”
Her footsteps had scarce ceased to echo along the ante-chamber, when
another footstep was heard, and ere a moment passed, Aldarin stood in
the recess of the lofty window of the Red Chamber. His face was agitated
by strange and varying expressions, as with a keen and anxious eye he
glanced over the spears and pennons of along line of men-at-arms,
passing under the raised portcullis of the castle gate.
The portcullis was lowered with a thundering clang, the spears and
pennons, the gallant steeds and their stalwart riders, were lost to
sight, but presently came bursting into view again, beyond the castle
gate, where the highway to Florence, appearing from amid surrounding
woods, led up a steep and precipitous hill. And there, flashing with
gold and glowing with embroidery, the broad banner of the Duke of
Florence was borne in the van of the cavalcade. Then came four
men-at-arms, in armor of blazing gold; and then, distinguished by his
rich array, rode the Duke, mounted upon a snow-white charger, and behind
him, environed by guards, his arms lashed behind his back, came Lord
Adrian Di Albarone, accused of the most foul and atrocious murder of his
sire. Beside her son, her face closely veiled, and her form bowed low,
the Countess rode; and in the rear, their steeds gaily prancing, their
spears flashing, and their pennons glancing in the sun, came the
men-at-arms in long and gallant array.
With parted lips and strained eyes did Signior Aldarin watch the
movements of this company.
As the steed of the last man-at-arms was lost in the shades of the
forest, Aldarin smiled grimly, and, extended his shrivelled hand,
shouted in tones of exultation:
“One hour ago, I was the stooping scholar,--The _Signior_ Aldarin.
_Now!_” full boldly did he swell that little word; “Now, I am the _Count
Aldarin Di Albarone_, lord of the wide domains of Albarone!”
He laughed the short, husky laugh which was peculiar to him.
“Adrian swept from my path--and is he not already swept from my
path?--that brainless idiot, _my liege_ of Florence, swallowed the
charge against that forward boy as greedily as the fish swallows the
tempting bait; the signet and the robe will bring the changeling to the
block, and thus, my only obstacle swept away, I, as next heir, succeed
to the titles and estates of Albarone! And Annabel, my fair daughter!
thy brow shall be decked with a coronet; thou shall reign Duchess of
Florence! Ha--ha!”
And here, as the wide prospect of ambition opened to his mind’s eye, he
became silent, and, hurriedly pacing the floor, resigned his soul to the
dreams of his excited fancy.
_Suddenly his visions were interrupted by a deep sigh, that seemed to
proceed from the corse upon the couch._
Aldarin started, and for a moment stood still as a statue, his ear
inclined toward the couch, as if intently listening; his lips apart,
and his quivering hands stretched forth as though he would defend
himself from some unreal foe.
At last, gaining courage, he approached the bed. There, without the
slightest signs of animation, lay the faded form of the gallant warrior;
the eyes closed, the stern expression of the features vanished, and the
whole attitude that of unconscious repose.
Turning away, Aldarin was chiding himself for his childish terror, when
a deep, sonorous groan met his ear. With a swelling heart he once more
turned, and beheld a sight that caused the cold sweat of intense terror
to ooze from his person, and every nerve to quake with alarm.
The eyes of the Count were wide open; a slight flush pervaded his
cheeks, and his entire attitude was changed. A voice came from his
pallid lips:
“Annabel, dearest Annabel! a fearful dream but now possessed my fancy!
Methought I lay dead--dead, Annabel, dead; and that I died ere thy
nuptials were solemnized--thy nuptials, Annabel, and thine Adrian!”
A fearful expression came over the scholar Aldarin’s features, as though
he was stringing his mind to one great effort. In an instant his
countenance became calm again, and approaching the bedside, he enquired,
in a soft voice, if his dear brother wanted anything?
The Count answered hurriedly, as if a sudden light burst upon him:
“Ah! the Virgin save us! good Aldarin, art thou here? Surely, I saw
Adrian and Annabel but a moment since? Surely--”
“Nay, my brother;” answered Aldarin, “‘twas but mere phantasy. Annabel
is not with us, nor is my Lord Adrian here; but I, dear brother, I am by
your side.”
Speaking these words in a voice tremulous with affection, Signior
Aldarin passed his left arm around the body of the Count, while the
other enclosed his neck. He clasped him in an ardent embrace, as he
continued:
“I am with you, dear brother; I will minister to your slightest wish; I,
Aldarin, your own devoted friend.”
Here he inserted his right hand beneath the long gray locks of the
Count, and clasping his neck, pressed him yet closer to his bosom.
“Kind Aldarin,” the Count began, but the sentence was cut short by a
piercing cry, and the right hand of Aldarin clutched tighter and tighter
around his brother’s throat.
“Nay, brother, thou shalt have rest, an’ thou wishest it,” cried Signor
Aldarin. “There, sleep softly, and pleasant dreams attend you!”
The Count fell heavily upon the bed; his blood-shot eyes protruded from
his blackened face, a livid circle was around his throat, and a thin
line of blood trickled from his mouth. A sigh, heavy, deep, and
prolonged came from his chest, and the murdered man ceased to live.
“The fiend be thanked!--it is _done_!”
Having thus spoken, in a voice that came through his clenched teeth, the
murderer looked up and saw--the dogged, rough, yet honest visage of the
stout yeoman peeping from among the curtains on the opposite side of the
bed, his eyes steadily fixed on the corse, and a curious look of inquiry
visible in every feature of his face.
The Signior drew back, trembling in every limb, and pale as death. It
was a moment ere he recovered his speech, when, assuming a haughty air,
he exclaimed:
“Slave, what do you here? Is it thus you intrude upon my privacy? Speak,
sir--your excuse!”
The stout yeoman replied in his usual manners speaking in the Italian,
but with a sharp English accent:
“Why, most worshipful Signior, you will please to bear in mind that for
twenty long years have I followed my lord, he who now lies cold and
senseless, to the wars. That withered arm have I seen bearing down upon
the foe in the thickest of the fight; that sunken eye have I beheld
glance with the stern look of command. By his side have I fought and
bled; for him did I leave my own native land--merrie, merrie
England,--and I will say, a more generous, true-hearted, and valiant
knight, never wore spurs, or broke a lance, than my lord, the noble
Count Julian Di Albarone.”
The yeoman passed the sleeve of his blue doublet across his eyes.
“Well sirrah,” cried the Signior, “to what tends all this?”
“Marry, to this does it tend: that wishing to behold that noble face yet
once more, I stole silently to this chamber, thinking to be a little
while alone with my brave lord. I did not discover your presence, till I
looked through the curtains and saw--”
The stout Englishman suddenly stopped; there was a curious twitch in his
left eye, and a grim smile upon his lip.
“Saw what, sirrah?” hurriedly asked the scholar Aldarin.
“Marry, I saw thee, worshipful Signior, in the act of embracing the
Count; and such a warm, kind, brotherly embrace as it was! By St.
Withold! it did me more good than a hundred of Father Antonio’s
homilies--by my faith, it did!”
The thin visage of Aldarin became white as snow and red as crimson by
turns. Making an effort to conceal his agitation, he replied:
“Well, well, Robin, thou art a good fellow after all, though, to be
sure, thy manners are somewhat rough. I tell thee, brave yeoman, I have
long had it in my mind to advance thy condition. Follow me to the Round
Room, good Robin, where I will speak further to thee of this matter.”
“_The Round Room!_” murmured Robin, as he followed the scholar Aldarin
from the Red Chamber. “Ha! ’tis the secret chamber o’ th’ scholar; many,
many have been seen entering its confines--never a single man has been
seen emerging from its narrow door, save the scholar Aldarin! I’ll
beware the serpent’s pangs! I’ll drink no goblets o’ wine, touch no food
or dainty viands while in this Round Room; or else, by St. Withold,
Rough Robin’s place may be vacant in the hall, forever and a day!”
With these thoughts traversing his mind, the yeoman followed the scholar
over the floor of the ante-chamber, and as they entered the confines of
a gloomy corridor, a spectacle was visible, which, to say the least, was
marked by curious and singular features.
Imagine the solemn scholar striding slowly along the corridor with
measured and gliding footsteps, while behind him walks Robin the Rough,
describing various eccentric figures in the air with his clenched hands;
now brandishing them above the Signior’s head, now exhibiting a
remarkable display of muscular vigor at the very back of Aldarin; and
again, making a pass with all his strength apparently at the body of the
alchymist, but in reality at the intangible atmosphere. These
demonstrations did not appear to give the stout yeoman much pain, for
his cheeks were very much agitated, and from his eyes were rolling
thick, large tears of laughter.
The corridor terminated in a long, dark gallery hung with pictures
colored by age, and framed in massive oak. Traversing this gallery, they
ascended a staircase of stone, and passing along another corridor,
terminated by a winding staircase. This, the scholar and the yeoman
descended, and then came another gallery, another ascending stairway,
and then various labyrinthine passages traversed, Rough Robin at last
found himself standing side by side with Aldarin, in front of the dark
panels of the narrow door leading into the Round Room.
This room was scarce ever visited by any living being in the castle save
Aldarin, and strange legends concerning its mysterious secrets were
current among the servitors of Albarone.
Many had been seen entering its confines with the Signior, but never was
any one, save Aldarin, seen to emerge from its gloomy door.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE DEATH-TRAP.
ROBIN THE ROUGH IS ADVANCED TO HONOR, WHILE THE SKELETON-GOD LAUGHS OVER
HIS SHOULDER.
The door flew suddenly open, and Robin, gazing around, found himself
standing in a small room, circular in form, with an arched ceiling, and
floor of stone. The walls were lined with shelves, piled with massive
books, clasped by fastenings of silver and of gold, thrown among scrolls
of parchment, richly illuminated, and emblazoned with strange figures,
relieving pictures of dark and hidden meaning.
The apartment having no casement, light was supplied by a small lamp of
curious workmanship, depending from the arched ceiling, and diffusing
its intense and radiant beams all around the place, making the lonely
room as bright as though the noonday sun shone over its shelves and
walls.
Around the chamber were scattered strange instruments pertaining to the
science of astrology or mysteries of alchemy; here richly emblazoned
parchments, inscribed with curious characters, glittered in the light;
and yonder, the ghastly skull, with its hideous grin of mockery, was
strown along the floor, mingled with the bones of the human skeleton,
the last fragments of the tenement of the living soul.
While Robin’s eyes distended in wonder, as he hastily glanced around the
room, he stumbled and fell against an object reared in the centre of the
floor.
“The foul fiend take thee, slave!” shouted Aldarin, as, with his
extended arms, he stayed the soldier in his fall. “Wouldst thou destroy
the labor of thrice seven long years? Wouldst thou destroy a Mighty
Thought? Stand aside from the altar, and come not near it again, or by
the body of * * *, I will brain thee with this dagger! Thou slave!” he
shrieked, in tones of wild indignation, as his blazing eye was fixed
upon the face of the yeoman, who stood confused and silent, “for what
dost thou suppose I have watched yon beechen flame, by day and night,
for twenty-one long years? For what have I wasted the youth and the
vigor of my days before yon altar? Was it to have my labor, the mighty
thought, for which I have dared what mortal never dared before,
destroyed by thy clumsy carcass? Dost think so, slave?”
Rough Robin murmured an excuse for his awkwardness, and, while the
Signior’s features subsided into their usual deep and solemn expression,
he again gazed around the room.
From the centre of the oaken floor arose a small altar, built of
snow-white marble, with a light blue flame arising from a vessel of gold
on its surface: the fire sweeping along the sides of an alembic,
suspended over the altar by four chains, attached to as many rods of
gold placed at each corner of the structure.
There was something so strange and solemn in the entire aspect of the
place--the light blue flame arising in tongues of fire from the vessel
of gold on the snow-white altar, burning for ever beneath the hanging
alembic, the chains and rods of gold, the pure and undimmed white of the
marble, varied by no sculpturing or ornament, combined with the utter
stillness and solitude of the room--that Robin felt awed, he scarce knew
why; and dark forebodings crept like shadows over his brain.
The scholar seated himself upon a small stool placed near the other, and
pointing to another, in a mild voice, desired Robin to follow his
example. The yeoman hesitated.
“It is not meet for a poor yeoman o’ th’ Guard to rest himself in the
presence of so great a scholar.”
“Nay, nay, good Robin, rest thyself. I was angered with thee a moment
hence, but now it is all past. Seat thyself, brave yeoman.”
The soldier complied, and rested his stout person upon a stool of oak,
placed some six feet from the spot where sat the Signior Aldarin. Robin
had but time to note a singular circumstance, ere the scholar spoke.
_The stool upon which the stout yeoman sat, was firmly jointed in a
large slab of red stone, which, spreading before him for the space of
some six feet, was curiously fixed in the planks of the oaken floor._
With a mild and smiling look, the scholar spoke:--
“Robin, thou hast been a true and faithful vassal to my late brother.
Thou didst right carefully attend Lord Julian, when forced by the
incurable wound of a poisoned arrow, some three months since, he
returned from Palestine, leaving Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, at the
head of his men-at-arms. Robin, I have long designed to testify the good
opinion in which I hold thee by some substantial gift--thou shall be
Seneschal of this mighty castle of Albarone!”
“Marry, good Signior--”
“How, sir!--dost thou address _me_ as Signior? Vassal, I am the Lord of
Albarone!”
“But Adrian--”
“What sayest thou of Adrian? A murderer--a parricide--his death is
certain. The Duke of Florence hath sworn it.”
“Well, my Lord Count, then, an’ it pleases you better, I was about to
say that if I had my choice I would sooner be made an esquire.”
“This thou shalt be:--first promise to serve me faithfully in all that I
shall command.”
“Well, as far as an honest man may, so far do I promise.”
The scholar Aldarin mused a moment and then said carelessly--“Was it not
an exceeding wicked deed, this murder of my good brother?”
“Aye, marry was it,” replied Robin, looking fixedly at Aldarin--“and the
fiend of hell, himself, could not have done a more damned, or a more
accursed thing.”
“True good Robin,--’twas a horrid murder. What could have prompted
Adrian to raise his hand against his father, eh? good Robin?”
The Yeoman did not reply. He cast his eyes to the floor and confusedly
fingered his cap.
The Count Aldarin--so must I style him--reached a folded parchment from
a writing desk and then asked--
“Why dost thou not speak, good Robin? What art thinking of?”
“Why, heaven save your _lordship_,” said Robin, speaking in a whisper,
and gazing full in Aldarin’s face, “_I was just wondering whether the
murderer embraced the Count ere he strangled him?_”
Aldarin started aside--his features were writhen into a fearful
contortion, and his whole frame shook like a leaf of the aspen tree.
Again he turned his visage, it was calm, as the face of innocence, and a
smile was on his pinched lip.
“Receive thy warrant as Seneschal of the Castle of Albarone,” said
Aldarin, as he held forth the parchment--“nay, kneel not, good Robin;
keep thy seat.”
Robin held forth his hand to reach the parchment--his fingers touched
it, when Aldarin stamped his foot upon the floor, and the slab of red
stone fell quick as lightning beneath the yeoman. A deep and dark well
was discovered. In an instant the stool affixed to the stone was empty,
and far below, in the depths of the pit the echo of the falling slab,
sunk with a sound like the rushing of the winter wind through the
corridors of a deserted mansion.