at the corners of the streets, and hear them tell in frightened murmurs,
how the Poisoned Bowl was found on the beaufet, how the Signet-Ring was
found in the bowl, how the Robe was thrown over the secret threshold,
and--ha, ha, how one Balvardo swore to certain words uttered by
the--Parricide, wishes for the old lord’s death, hopes of hot-brained
youth, and mysterious whispers about that Ring, and--”
“How one Hugo--ha, ha,--swore to his guilt in like manner. Faith did
I--how I met the young Lord, in the southern corridor about high noon,
how he turned pale when I told him, with every mark of respect, be sure,
that he had forgotten his crimson robe, and--”
“So ye gave him to the DOOMSMAN?” shrieked the executioner, as his
thick-set hump-backed figure was disclosed in the solitary light,
hanging from the ceiling of the gallery--“So ye gave him--Lord
Adrian--to me, to the pincers and the knife, to the hot lead, and the
wheel of torture! You are brave fellows--ha, ha, he dies at
daybreak--and the Doomsman thanks ye!”
The two sentinels watching in the Gaol of Florence, besides the gloomy
door of the Doomed Cell, started with a sudden thrill of fear, as they
looked upon the distorted form, and hideous face, of the wretch who
stood laughing and chattering before their eyes.
Balvardo drew his stout form to its full height, and bent the darkness
of his beetle-brows, upon the deformed Doomsman, and Hugo, clad in armor
of shining steel, like his comrade, started nervously aside, as his
squinting eyes were fixed upon the distorted face, the wide mouth,
opening with a hideous grin, the retreating brow and the large, vacant,
yet flashing eyes, that marked the visage of the Executioner of
Florence. A dress made of coarsest serge, hung rather than fitted around
his deformed figure, while a long-bladed knife, with handle of unshapen
bone, glittered in the belt of dark leather that girdled his body.
“Sir Doomsman, thou art merry--” growled Balvardo--“Choose other scenes
for thy merry humor--this dark corridor, with shadows of gloom in the
distance, and the flickering light of yon smoking cresset, making the
old walls yet more gloomy, around us, is no place for thy magpie laugh.
No more such sounds of grave-yard merriment or--we quarrel, mark ye.”
“We quarrel, mark ye!” echoed the sinister-eyed Hugo, gravely dropping
the end of his pike on the pavement.
“St. Judas! My brave men of mettle are wondrous fiery, this quiet night!
Ha--ha--pardon Sir Balvardo, I meant not to anger ye! Yet dost thou know
that _it_ makes my veins fill with new blood! and my heart warm with a
strange fire.”
“Thy veins fill with new blood! Ha--ha--ha!--Did’st ever hear of a
withered vine, blackened by flame, bearing ripe grapes, or was ever a
dead toad perfumed by the south wind? Hugo, his heart warms with a
strange fire? Odor o’ pitch and brimstone, what a fancy! Ha--ha--”
“Nay, nay, Balvardo. There is some life in the Doomsman’s veins. Don’t
doubt it? Just fancy those talons, which he calls fingers, clutched
round thy throat--W-h-e-w!”
“I say it makes my veins fill with new blood, my heart warm with a
strange fire--this matchless picture! A gallant Lord, with the warm
flush of youth on his cheek, strength in his limbs and fire in his
heart, stretched out upon the wheel--here a hand is corded to the wheel,
and there another, here a foot is bound to the spokes and there another.
He looks like the cross of Saint Andrew--by St. Judas. A merry
fancy--eh! Balvardo? Stretched out upon the wheel, he looks with his
bloodshot eyes to the heavens. See’s he any hope there? Laid on his
back, he casts his last long glance aside over the multitude--the vile
mob. See’s he a face of pity there! Hears he a voice of mercy?
None--none! Earth curses, heaven forsakes, hell yawns! And he is of
noble blood, and on his brow there sits the frown of a lofty line. While
the mob hoot, the victim holds his breath, and I--I the Doomsman
approach!”
“God’s death--he makes my blood chill!” muttered Hugo, glancing askance
at his comrade, who stood silent biting his compressed lip.
“He writhes, for the hissing of the cauldron of hot lead falls on his
ear, he feels his flesh creep, for the red hot glare of the blazing iron
with its jagged point blinds his eyes as he gazes! He utters no
moan--but he hears the beating of his own heart.
“He hears a step--a low and cat-like step--’tis mine, the Doomsman’s
step. The red-hot iron in one hand, the ladle filled with melted lead,
hot and seething lead in the other, nay, start not, nor wince, good
Balvardo--’tis no fancy picture.”
“The Fiend take thy words--they burn my heart! Hold or by thy master,
the devil, I’ll strike ye to the floor!
“Hark--hear you that hissing sound? His muscular chest is bared to the
light, these talon-hands guide the red-hot iron over the warm flesh,
with the blood blackening as it oozes from the veins. He writhes--but
utters no groan. Now lay down the iron and the lead; seize the knotted
club, aloft it whirls, it descends! D’ye see the broken arm bone,
protruding from the flesh? Hurl it aloft again, nor heed the sudden
struggle and the quick convulsive agony, never heed them--all writhe and
struggle so. It grows exciting, Balvardo, it warms me, Hugo.”
Hugo muttered a half-forced syllable, but his parted lips and absent
manner, attested his unwilling interest in the words of the Doomsman,
while Balvardo, clutching his pike, strode hurriedly to and fro along
the floor of stone.
“Again the Doomsman sweeps the club aloft! Crash--crash--crash, and then
a sound, not a groan, not a groan, but a howl, a howl of agony!
“Look, Balvardo, look Hugo, you can count the bones as they stick out
from each leg, from each arm, from the wrist and from the shoulder, from
the ancle and the thigh, never mind the blood--it streams in a torrent
from each limb, be sure, but the hot iron dries it up. Your melted lead
is good for cautery--it heals--ha, ha, ha, let me laugh--it heals the
wound, each blow the club had made. The picture grows--it deepens.”
“Now, by the Heaven above, I see it all--” muttered Balvardo with a
dilating eye, as his manner suddenly changed, and he leaned forward with
unwilling yet absorbing interest. “This is no man, but a devil’s body
with a devil’s soul!”
“His face is yet unscarred--unmoved save by the wrinkling contortions of
pain. The mob hoot, and hiss, and yell--the play must deepen. Hand me
the iron--red-hot--and hissing--give me the bowl of melted lead, dipped
from the boiling cauldron. The Doomsman’s step again!
“The victim’s body creeps, and writhes in every sinew, his veins seem
crawling thro’ his carcass, his nerves, turned to things of incarnate
pain, are drawn and stretched to the utmost.”
“Look well upon the blue heavens, Parricide, for the red-hot iron is
pointed, and--ha, ha, how he howls--it nears your eyes, it glares before
them in their last glance. It must be done, why howl you so? Does it
burn your eyes, tho’ it touches them not? Ha, ha--I meant it thus.”
“Balvardo, strike him down. He is not human--see his flashing eyes, his
arms thrown wildly aside, with the talon-fingers, grasping the air!”
“H-i-s-s--it touches the eyeball, the eye is dark forever! H-i-s-s it
licks up the blood, it turns round and round in the socket. Now fill the
hollow socket with the lead, the hissing lead--and, ha, ha, now bring me
another iron pointed like this, and heated to a white heat. Quick,
quick, the victim groans, howls, writhes, and yells! Quick! Ah, ha, let
the iron touch the skin of the eyeball, it shrivels like a burnt leaf,
deeper sink the hissing point, turn it round and round, let it lap up
the gushing blood. Now the lead, the thick and boiling lead, pour it
from the ladle, fill the socket, it hardens, it grows cold--ha, ha, ha,
behold the eyes of lead.”
“I see them!” faltered Hugo, trembling in his iron armor.
“And I,” echoed Balvardo--“I see them, oh, horrible, and ghastly,
I--I--see the eyes of lead!”
“Quick, quick--why lag ye, man? Quick--quick, I say! The knife, the
glittering knife. The Parricide howls not nor groans, but his soul is
trampling on the fragments of clay. Quick, while his carcass is all
palpitation, all alive with torture, all throe, all agony and pulsation,
hand me the knife. I would cut his beating heart from the body.”
“There, there--the flesh, severed to the bone, parts on either side--the
ribs are bared--a blow with the jagged club, and they are broken. This
hand is thrust within the aperture, I feel the hot blood, I feel his
heart. It beats, it throbs, it writhes in my grasp, like a dying bird
beneath the hunter’s hand.”
“Quick--the knife again--I hold the heart, cut it from the carcass,
sever each nerve, snap each artery. A deep, low, trembling heave of the
chest; a rattle in the throat.
“I raise the heart,--still quivering on high, it gleams in the light of
day, and its warm blood-drops fall pattering on the face of the felon.”
“The mob shout their curses and hoot their oaths of scorn.”
“Quick, the pincers, the red-hot pincers--but hold--that shaking of the
chest, that last heave of the trunk, that quivering in every splintered
limb, with that quick tremor of the lip, ha, ha, that blanching of the
cheek, with the blood oozing from every pore, that thick gurgling sound
in the throat, he dies, the Felon dies, the Doomsman laughs, and from
the shattered clod, creeps the Spirit of the Parricide!”
Hugo turned his face to the wall, and covered his eyes with his
upraised hands. Balvardo stood still as death, gazing on the vacant air
with a wild glance, as though he saw the Spirit of the dead. Neither
moved nor said a word. The maniac wildness of the Doomsman awed and
chilled them to the heart.
“This is the fate, to which ye have given him; this proud Lord now
sleeping in the Chamber of the Doomed--to me, the Doomsman, to the
wheel, to the knotted club, to the knife, the hot iron, and the melted
lead, to the dishonor ye have given him! Ha--ha--ha--these hands itch
for his blood. To-morrow’s rising sun will gleam on the scene, this
merry scene--THE DOOM OF THE POISONER.”
The Sentinels heard a hurried footstep, followed by a closing door, the
Doomsman had disappeared. They turned with looks of horror, of remorse,
mingled with all the fear and torture that the human soul can feel,
stamped in their faces, while from one to the other broke the whisper--
“He sleeps within yon cell--the Doomsman’s cell, till the first glimpse
of the morrow morn shall rouse him to this work--this work of horror and
of--Doom.”[1]
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
ADRIAN THE DOOMED.
The wierd and mystic spirit that rules this chronicle, throws open to
your view the cell of the Doomed.
It is a sad and gloomy place, where every dark stone has its tale of
blood, every name, rudely scratched on the damp wall, its legend of
despair.
All is silent; not a whisper, not a sob, not a sound. The silence is so
breathless that you fear the spirits of the condemned, who passed from
this chamber to the Wheel and the Block, may start into life--at the
echo of a footstep from the dark corners of the room, and appal your eye
with their shapes of horror.
The cresset of iron fixed to the rough wall, threw a dim light over the
form of the Doomed, as seated upon a rough bench, with his head drooped
between his clenched hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his golden
hair faded to a dingy brown, falling over his shoulders and hiding his
countenance, he mused with the secrets of his heart, and called up
before his soul the mighty panorama of despair--the wheel, the block,
the doomsman, and the multitude.
Adrian the Doomed raised his form from the oaken bench, and paced the
dungeon floor. He was not shackled by manacles or clogged by chains.
It was the last night of his existence; escape came not within his
thoughts, the walls were built of rock; hundreds of armed sentinels
paced the long galleries of the prison, and a guard of two men-at-arms
watched without the triple-locked and triple-bolted door of the Doomed
chamber.
Suffering and endurance, anxiety of mind and torture of soul, had
wrought fearful changes in the well knit and muscular form of the Lord
of Albarone.
His countenance was pale and thin; his lips whitened, his cheeks hollow
and his eyes sunken, while his faded locks of gold fell in tangled
masses over his face and shoulders. His blue eye was sunken, yet it
gleamed brighter than ever, and there was meaning in its quick, fiery
glance.
“To die on the gibbet, with the taunt _and_ the sneer of the idiot crowd
ringing in my ears, my last look met with the vulgar grimaces and
unmeaning laughter of ten thousand clownish faces--to die on the rack,
each bone splintered by the instruments of ignominious torture, my
scarred and mangled carcass mocking the face of day,--oh, God--is this
the fate of Adrian, heir to the fame, the glory, and the fortunes of
the house of Albarone?”
Pausing in his hurried walk, he stood for a moment silent and motionless
as the sculptured marble, and then eagerly stretching forth his hands,
cried--
“Father--father! noble father! I believe thy holy shade is now hovering
unseen over the form of thy doomed son--by all the hopes men hold of
bliss in an unknown state of being; by the faith which teaches the
belief of a future world, I implore thee, appear and speak to me. Tell
me of that eternity which I am about to face! Tell me of that awful
world which is beyond the present! Father, I implore thee, speak!”
His imagination, almost excited to phrenzy by long and solitary thought,
with glaring eyes, arms outstretched, and trembling hands, the agitated
boy gazed at a dark corner of the cell, every instant expecting to
behold the dim and ghostly form of his murdered sire slowly arise and
become visible through the misty darkness. No answer came--no form
arose. Adrian drew a dagger from his vest.
“Father, by the mysterious tie that binds the parent to the son, which
neither time nor space can sever--death or eternity annihilate--I
implore thee--_appear_!”
The tone in which he spoke was dread and solemn. Again he waited for a
response to his adjuration, but no response came.
“This, then,” cried Adrian, raising the dagger; “this, then, is the only
resource left to me. Thus do I cheat the mob of their show; thus do I
rescue the name of Albarone from foul dishonor!”
Tighter he clutched the dagger; his arms was thrown back and his breast
was bared; and, as he thus nerved himself for the final blow, all the
scenes of his life--the hopes of his boyhood--the dreams of his love,
rose up before him like a picture.
_And like a vast unbounded ocean, overhung with mists, and dark with
clouds, was the idea of the_ DREAD UNKNOWN _to his mind_.
Amid all the memories of the past; the agonies of the present, or the
anticipations of the future, did the face of the Ladye Annabel come like
a dream to his soul, and the smile upon her lip was like the smile of a
guardian spirit, beaming with hope and love.
“Oh, God--receive my soul!--Annabel, fare thee-well!”
The dagger descended, driven home with all the strength of his arm.
“_Adrian!_” exclaimed a hollow voice, and a strange hand thrown before
the breast of the doomed felon struck his wrist, the instant the
dagger’s point had touched the flesh.
The weapon flew from the hand of Adrian and fell on the other side of
the cell.
He turned and beheld the muffled form of a monk, who had entered through
the massive door, which had been unbolted without Adrian’s heeding the
noise of locks and chains, so deep was his abstraction. The ruddy glare
of torches streamed into the cell, and the sentinels who held them, in
their endeavors to shake off their late terror and remorse, gave
utterance to unfeeling and ribald jests.
“I say, Balvardo,” cried the sinister-eyed soldier, “does not the
springald bear himself right boldly? And yet at break of day he dies!”
“Marry, Hugo,” returned the other, “he had better thought of making all
these fine speeches ere he gave the--ha--ha--ha!--the physic to the old
man.”
Reproving the sentinels for their insolence, the muffled monk closed the
door, and approaching Adrian, exclaimed--
“My son, prepare thee for thy fate! The shades of night behold thee
erect in the pride of manhood; the light of morn shall see thee
prostrate, bleeding, dead. Thy soul shall stand before the bar of
eternity. Art thou prepared for death, my son?”
“Father,” Adrian answered; “I have been ever a faithful son of the Holy
Church, but its offices will avail me naught at this hour. Once, for
all, I tell thee I will die without human prayers or human consolation.
On the solemn thought of HIM who gave me being, I alone rely for support
in the hour of a fearful death. Thy errand is a vain one, Sir Priest, if
thou dost hope to gain shrift or confession from me. I would be alone!”
“Thou art but young to die,” said the monk, in a quiet tone.
Adrian made no reply.
“Tell me, young sir,” cried the monk, seizing Adrian by the wrist,
“wouldst thou accept life, though it were passed within the walls of a
convent?”
“The cowl of the monk was never worn by a descendant of Albarone. I
would pass my days as my fathers have done before me--at the head of
armies and in the din of battle!”
The monk threw back his cowl and discovered a striking and impressive
face; bearing marks of premature age, induced by blighted hopes and
fearful wrongs. His hair, as black as jet, gathered in short curls
around a high and pallid forehead; his eyebrows arched over dark,
sparkling eyes; his nose was short and Grecian; his lips thin and
expressive, and his chin well rounded and prominent. And as the cowl
fell back, Adrian with a start beheld the _monk of the ante-chamber_.
“Count Adrian Di Albarone, this morning thou wert tried before the Duke
of Florence, and his peers, for the murder of thy sire. Thou, a
descendant of Albarone, connected with the royal blood of Florence, wert
condemned on the testimony of two of thy father’s vassals, for this most
accursed act. I ask thee, canst thou tell who it is that hath spirited
up these perjured witnesses; and why it is that the Duke of Florence
countenances the accusations!”
“In the name of God, kind priest, I thank thee for thy belief in my
innocence. The author of this foul wrong, is, I shame to say it, my
uncle, Aldarin, the Scholar. The reason why it is countenanced by the
duke, is--” Adrian paused as if the words stuck in his throat; “is
because he would wed my own fair cousin, the Ladye Annabel.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the monk, “my suspicions were not false. Let Aldarin
look to his fate; and, as for the duke--” thrusting his hand into his
bosom, he drew from his gown a miniature--it was the miniature of a
beautiful maiden.
“Behold!” cried the monk, “Adrian Di Albarone, behold this countenance,
where youth, and health, and love, beaming from every feature, mingle
with the deep expression of a mind rich in the treasure of thoughts,
pure and virginal in their beauty. Mark well the forehead, calm and
thoughtful; the ruby lips, parting with a smile; the full cheek blooming
with the rose buds of youth--mark the tracery of the arching neck; the
half-revealed beauty of the virgin bosom. Adrian, this was the maiden of
my heart, the _one_ beloved of my very soul. I was the private secretary
of the duke, he won my confidence--he betrayed it. Guilietta was the
victim; and I sought peace and oblivion within the walls of a convent. I
am now in his favor--he loads me with honors; I accept his gifts--aye,
aye, Albertine, the Monk, takes the gold of the proud duke, that he may
effect the great object of his existence--”
“And that--” cried Adrian--“that is--”
The monk spoke not; a smile wreathed his compressed lips, and a glance
sparkled in his eye. _Adrian was answered._
In the breast of the man to whom God has given a soul, there also dwells
at all times a demon; and that demon arises into fearful action from the
ruins of betrayed confidence. The monk whispered something in the ear of
the condemned noble, and then, waving his hand, retired.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE FELON AND THE DUKE.
In a few minutes the door again opened, and the stately form of the
Countess of Albarone entered the traitor’s cell.
Why need I tell of the warm embrace with which she enclosed her son? Why
tell of her tears that came from her very soul--her deep expressions of
detestation when the name of Aldarin, the scholar, was mentioned? Need I
say that she was firmly assured of her son’s innocence; that she saw
through the mummery of his trial, and the trickery of his foes? Leaving
all this to the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass on with my
history.
The kind discourse of mother and son was broken off by the clanging of
chains and the drawing of locks. The light of many torches streamed
through the opened door into the cell, and the gaily-bedizened form of
the Duke was discovered.
With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone retired; the door was
closed, and Adrian was left alone with the Duke.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed he; “I have condescended to visit you. Albertine,
my confessor, told me it was due to a branch of the royal blood of
Florence. It were best that you make a short story of what you have to
say. My train wait without, and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened
his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried to assume a look of
dignity.
Adrian bowed down to the earth.
“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your
condescension.”
“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak,
ignoble son of an honored sire--inglorious descendant of a noble line.
Speak! What would you say?”
“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly
into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been
doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was
noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs;
without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which
hell itself would shudder.”
The Duke sneered, as he spoke:
“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to
poison his sire.”
“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he
grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of
scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.
Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to
breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or
motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee
upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak,
and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he
gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.
Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the
neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly
as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he
used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the
neck of his grace.
You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke
writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the
knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.
And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing cloak of the Duke, which
descending to his knees, sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin,
ornamented with spurs of gold. On his head is placed the slouching hat
of the prince, surmounted by a group of nodding plumes, and beneath the
folds of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of his sword.
Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile--that smile which arises from
the recklessness of desperation--and then, without heeding the malignant
glances of the Duke, he fixed him against the rough bench upon his
knees, with his face to the wall, in an attitude of prayer and
devotion--He threw his own sombre cloak over the back of his captive;
and then, having slouched the hat over his face, after the manner of the
Duke, he gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin, and stood
ready to depart.
He opened the door of the traitor’s cell with a quickened pulse, and in
an instant, found himself standing in the gallery where the muffled
priest waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to the wearer of the
scarlet cloak, and the word was passed along the galleries--
“_Make way for the Duke--make way for his grace of Florence._”