affixed to its panel a parchment signed by the Duke of Florence, and
sealed with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner, Adrian Di
Albarone, was to be seen by no one until the morrow, when he was to
suffer the doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.
This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of Albarone, who paced along
the gallery, saluted at the door of every cell by the lowered spears of
the sentinels.
The gallery terminated in a staircase. This Adrian and the monk
ascended, and at the top they found a company of gay cavaliers, who
waited for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the scarlet cloak and
slouching hat was greeted with a low bow. Adrian then traversed another
gallery, and yet another; being all the while followed by the band of
gallant courtiers.
“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to another, “methinks our lord
is wondrous silent to-night.”
“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it may be that he is weeping
for this young springald, Adrian. Marry, ’tis enough to make an older
man than I am weep.”
“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would have you observe strict
silence.”
They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into
the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the
galleries which he had just traversed.
“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.
“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”
They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held
a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle,
Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his
side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.
Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to
Adrian:
“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace
gate.”
Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence,
they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.
Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the
supposed Duke with every mark of respect.
And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace,
traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by
lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who
much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of
recognition or sign of respect.
At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite
carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors
upon the panels.
“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered the monk to Adrian,
who immediately obeyed his directions.
The monk then turned to the gallant throng of courtiers, and said:
“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense with your further
attendance.” The monk retired.
Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations of wonder as then burst
from the lips of the cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly
be woad; another that he must have been repulsed in some illicit amour;
and a third seriously gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other
had taken possession of the Duke of Florence. However, being well aware
of the high regard in which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all
slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it to the guards of the
palace, who watched within its confines, as was their wont.
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE CHAMBER OF THE DULSE.
In a lofty chamber, hung with tapestry of purple, embroidered with rare
and pleasant designs, and lighted by lamps of gold, depending from the
ceiling, Adrian and the Monk rested themselves after their arduous
exploit.
In one corner of the apartment stood a gorgeous bed, with a canopy of
silver and gold hangings, surmounted by a Ducal coronet. Around were
strewn couches of the most inviting softness, and every thing in the
chamber wore an appearance of luxury and ease.
Adrian reposed on a couch of velvet, and by his side was seated the
monk. Before them was placed a small table, on which stood several
flasks of rich wine, together with more substantial refreshments.
“Truly, sir monk,” said Adrian, filling a goblet of wine, “I have heard
of many unmannerly acts, but this deed of mine does seem to me to be the
most unmannerly of all. I not only tied the brave duke, lashed him in
the Cell of the Doomed, used his gallant steed, and worshipful name,
but, forsooth! I must also repose me upon his couches, and refresh me
with his wine!”
And Adrian laughed.
“Thou art merry, young sir. But an hour since--”
The monk was interrupted by a gentle knocking under the tapestry.
Adrian started up, and drew his sword, taking the precaution, however,
to resume the scarlet cloak, and slouching hat.
The knocking grew louder. The monk removed the tapestry in the part from
whence the sound proceeded, and having pressed a spring, a secret door
in the wainscotting flew open, and a woman of beautiful countenance, and
rich attire was discovered.
“Thou here, stern priest!” said the damsel, in a sweet voice, “I would
speak with my lord.”
“Mariamne, thou canst not see him to-night; he hath no time to trifle
with such as thee. His thoughts are given to prayer.”
The monk closed the door, and, turning to Adrian, said,
“Another of this miscreant’s victims, Adrian. It was fortunate she did
not see thee closely, for her eye would have detected where hundreds
might look without suspicion. And now let us away; every moment
increases thy danger; the duke may even now have freed himself, and set
his minions in chase.”
“To fly, I am willing, sir monk; but whither?”
“_Follow me_,” said the monk, as he lighted a small lamp of silver. He
then removed the tapestry, and discovered a secret door opposite the one
afore-mentioned. This the monk entered, followed by Adrian, and a
stairway of stone, some two feet in width, was revealed; it was cut into
the wall and over-arched, and the distance between the steps and the
arch not more than four feet.
With great care the monk led the way down the steps of stone, until they
numbered thirty, when they terminated in a narrow platform, which,
indeed, was nothing more than a step somewhat longer than the others.
Here our adventurers descended another stairway, likewise ending in a
platform, and then yet another stairway was terminated by another
platform; and thus they descended stairway after stairway, and crossed
platform after platform, until the increasing coldness and dampness of
the atmosphere, warned them that they had penetrated far below the
surface of the earth.
Suddenly the stairway ended in a large and gloomy vault, with walls and
floor of the unhewn rock.
On the side nearest the stairway, a gate of iron was erected between the
points of two large and irregular rocks.
Through a large crevice which time had worn into this gate, the monk and
Adrian passed into a vault like the former, except that the dim light of
the taper discovered the rough floor strewn with grinning skulls, and
whitened bones.
Along this dreary place strode the monk, lighting the way, while, at his
back followed Adrian Di Albarone. In about a quarter of an hour the
vault narrowed into a confined passage, along which they crawled on
hands and knees. This terminated in another vault, sloping upwards with
a gradual ascent, which having traversed, our adventurers found
themselves again between two narrowing walls, and finally, all further
progress was stopped by a large stone thrown directly across the path.
Adrian spoke for the first time in half an hour--
“And are we to be baulked after all the adventures of this night?”
The monk answered by pointing to the stone, to which he and his
companion presently laid their shoulders, but their united strength was
insufficient to remove it.
Again they tried, and again were they unsuccessful; they made a third
attempt, and the stone was precipitated before them.
Seizing the light, Adrian threw himself into the breach, and discovered
an extensive vault, hedged in by walls built of hewn stone, while the
floor was covered by rows of coffins, with here and there a monument of
marble. Throwing themselves into this place, they picked their way
through the dreary line of coffins, when they came to a wide staircase
which they ascended, until they found it suddenly terminated by the
archway above.
The monk raised his hand, and drawing a bolt which Adrian had not
perceived, he pushed with all his strength against the archway, and a
trap-door rose above the heads of our adventurers.--Through this passage
the monk ascended, followed by Adrian, who looked around with a gaze of
wonder, and found himself standing in the aisle of the Grand Cathedral
of Florence.
The moonbeams streaming through the lofty arched windows of stained
glass, threw a dim light upon the high altar with its cross of gold, and
faintly revealed the line of towering pillars which arose to the dome of
the cathedral, as vast and magnificent it extended far above.
“My son,” cried the monk, “give thanks to God for thy deliverance.”
And there, in that lone aisle, as the deep toned bell of the cathedral
tolled the third hour of the morning, did Adrian and the monk fall lowly
on the marble pavement, and, prostrating themselves before the sublime
symbol of our most holy faith, give thanks to God, the Virgin, and the
Saints, for their most wonderful escape.
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE PIT OF DARKNESS.
One moment in light, and the next in darkness--down through the gloom of
the pit, plumb as a hurled rock, and swift as an arrow, the betrayed
soldier fell, precipitated by the treachery of the scholar Aldarin.
The swiftness of his descent took from him all thought or sensation. His
flight was suddenly terminated by a subterranean pool of water, into the
depths of which he sunk for a moment, and then arose to the surface.
The coldness of the flood, together with an unconquerable stench that
assailed his nostrils on all sides, restored the stout yeoman to
sensation and feeling.
Spreading his arms instinctively outward, in an attitude of swimming,
Rough Robin could neither guess where he was now, or with whom he had
been conversing a moment since. His thoughts were wandering and
confused, as are the thoughts of a man who dreams when half asleep and
half awake.
Still swimming onward through the stagnant waters, Robin cast his eyes
overhead, and discerned far, far above, a faintly twinkling light,
somewhat of the size of a dim and distant star. He looked again, and it
was gone. Around, above, and beneath was darkness: darkness which no eye
could pierce, where all was shadow and vacuum--darkness that was almost
tangible with its density. The cheek of the brave soldier was chilled by
air that, heavy with dampness and mist, seemed as dead and stagnant as
the waters in which he swam.
The light glimmering for an instant far above, brought dimly to his mind
the person of Aldarin, and the incidents of a moment hence.
And then Robin thought that his fall of terror was only a dream, and,
splashing and plunging in the dark waters, he sought to shake off the
fearful night-mare that stiffened his sinews and froze his blood.
His extended hand touched a cold and slimy substance, and a small,
bright speck shone like a coal of fire through the darkness. Robin
grasped the slimy substance: it moved, and a noisome reptile wriggled in
his hand.
Now it was that he became aware that the subterranean waters were filled
by crawling serpents, who writhed around his legs, twined around his
body, and struck his arms and hands at every movement. Their bright eyes
sparkled in the waters, and their hissing broke upon the air, as they
were thus disturbed by the presence of a strange visitor.
Robin was no coward, neither was he much given to strange fancies; but
a feeling of intense terror chilled the very blood around his heart, as
the thought came over him that he lay in that fearful place, of which so
many legends were told by the vassals of Albarone. The peasantry had
many stories of a vast, unearthly pit sunk far in the depths of the
castle, where the fiends of darkness were wont to hold their revel and
shake the bosom of the earth with the sounds of hellish wassail. Into
this dark pit--so ran the legend--had many a shivering wretch been
precipitated by the lords of Albarone; and here, unpitied and unknown,
had the carcasses of the murdered lain rotting and festering in darkness
and oblivion.
As the memory of these strange legends crept over the confused mind of
Robin the Rough, he gave utterance to a faint shriek.
It was returned back to him in a thousand echoes, swelling one after the
other; now like the sound of repeated claps of thunder, and again dying
away fainter and yet fainter, as though many voices were engaged in a
hushed and whispering conversation.
“Avaunt thee, fiend! avaunt thee!” cried the stout yeoman, as he still
strove to keep himself upon the surface of the water. “Holy Mary, holy
Paul, holy Peter!” continued he, between his struggles, “an’ ye save me
from these pestilent devils, I will--”
Here the yeoman plunged under the waters, and the sentence was
unfinished.
“I will, by St. Withold, I will!” cried he, as he rose to the surface,
“place at the altar of the first chapel at which I may arrive after my
deliverance, a wax taper, in honor of all three of you.”
The yeoman struck his arms boldly through the flood, as he continued:
“And, an’ ye work out my deliverance, I’ll never ask a boon of ye
again.”
Here he gave another bold push.
“I’ll never ask a boon of ye more, but stick like a good christian to my
own native saint--even the good St. Withold!”
Here, satisfied that his duty to heaven was done, the yeoman strove to
gain some rock, or other object, upon which he might rest his body, much
disjointed as it was by his fall of terror.
“It pains me--this wounded hand!” he cried--“But Aldarin my friend will
reward me for the pain, some day or other.”
A murmuring sound now met his ears; it was the sound of running waters.
Onward and onward the bold yeoman dashed, and louder and yet louder grew
the sweet sound of waters in motion.
In a moment he felt a sudden change, from the dull leaden stillness of a
stagnated pool, to the quick flow and wild careering of waves in motion.
And now he was carried onward with arrowy fleetness, while high above,
the roaring of the subterranean stream was returned in a thousand
echoes. Now tossed against the sharp, rough points of rocks; now plunged
in whirling gullies; now borne on the crests of swelling waves, in
darkness and in terror, bold Robin swept on in his career.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
ROBIN ALONE IN THE EARTH-HIDDEN CAVERN.
Thus was he carried onward for the space of a quarter of an hour, when,
bruised, shattered and bleeding, he was thrown by the swell of a wave,
high out of the water upon a mass of rocks.
Here he lay for a long while, without sense or feeling. When he
recovered from this swoon, it was with difficulty that he made the
attempt to collect his thoughts; all was vague, indistinct, and like a
dream.
“St. Withold!” at last he whispered, as if communing with himself; “St.
Withold! but this Aldarin is, in good sooth, a most pestilent knave!”
He paused a moment, and then, as if to redouble his private assurance of
Aldarin’s villany, he resumed:
“Aye--a pestilent knave--ugh!”
This last interjection was a suppressed growl, which he forced through
his fixed teeth, as, extending his arms, with the hands clenched, he
made every demonstration of being engaged in shaking some imaginary
Aldarin, with great danger to his victim’s comfort and life.
“Ugh! Well, here am I, in this pit--this back-staircase to the devil’s
dining room--alone, wet, hungry, and in darkness. St. Withold save me
from all fiends, and I’ll take care of aught beside. Let me see. Mayhap
I shall find some passage from this place. I am on solid rock that’s
well. Now for’t.”
Cautiously creeping along in the darkness, he followed the winding of
the subterranean flood by its roaring, until he was suddenly stopped by
an upright stone, which, to his astonishment, he found to be square in
shape, and, feeling it carefully, he doubted not that it had been shapen
by the chisel of the mason.
Over this stone Robin clambered, and alighted upon a large chisseled
stone laid in a horizontal position, and over this was placed another
stone of like form; and thus proceeding in his discoveries our stout
yeoman found that a stairway arose in front of him.
With a shout of joy, bold Robin rushed up the steps of stone, which,
wide and roomy, afforded his feet firm and substantial footing. Some
forty steps, or more, now lay below him, when raising his foot to ascend
yet higher, the yeoman found it fall beneath him, and in a moment he
stood upon a floor, which to all likelihood was laid with slabs of
chisseled stone.
Through this place he wandered, now stumbling against regularly-built
walls, now falling over hidden objects, now passing through doorway
after doorway, and again returning to the head of the stairway from
which he started.
Hours passed. Sometimes Rough Robin would hear a faint booming sound far
above, which he supposed was the bell of the castle, tolling for the
death of the noble Count Di Albarone, known throughout Christendom, in a
thousand lays, as the bravest of crusaders, and the gentlest of knights.
The sound of this bell swung upon the breeze for miles around, whenever
it was struck--so Robin remembered well; yet now, far down in the depths
of the earth, a low moaning noise was all that reached the ears of the
stout yeoman.
With every sinew stiffened, and with every vein chilled by the damp of
subterranean vaults, scarce able to breathe in the putrid air which had
never known light of sunbeam, his whole frame weakened by hunger, and
his brain confused by his dream-like adventures, Robin, the stout
yeoman, at last sank down upon a block of rough stone, where he remained
for hours in a state of half unconsciousness, which finally deepened
into a sound and wholesome slumber.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE CHAPEL OF THE ROCKS.
THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF THE HOLY STEEL HOLD SOLEMN COUNCIL IN THE WILD
WOOD.
The scene was a wild and solitary dell, buried in the depths of the
forests, far away among the mountains; the time was high noon, and the
characters of the scene were the members of a dark and mysterious Order,
whose history is involved in shadow; whose names, embracing the highest
titles and the wealthiest nobles in the Dukedom of Florence, are wrapt
in mystery; whose deeds, performed in secret, and executed with the most
appalling severity, are to this day known and celebrated as household
words, in the legends of the valley of the Arno.
A level piece of sward, some twenty yards in length, and as many in
width, extended greenly within the depths of the forest; its bounds
described, and its verdure shadowed, by huge masses of perpendicular
rock, which sprang upward from the very sod, towering in wild and rugged
grandeur, amid the deep, rich foliage of forest oaks and with the clear
summer sky seen far, far above, as from the depths of a well, forming
the roof of this hidden temple of nature.
The rugged masses of perpendicular rock, piled upon each other in rude
magnificence, surrounded the glade in the form of a square.
Viewed from the forest side, these rocks looked like one vast mound of
massive stone, placed in the wild-wood valley by some freak of nature. A
narrow, though deep and rapid stream, its waters shadowed to ebony
blackness, laved one side of the steps of granite. It swept beneath an
arching crevice, some three feet high, and as many thick, washed the sod
of the hidden glade and rolled along its edge, foaming against the
rugged walls; the waves plashing on high in showery drops, until it
suddenly disappeared under the opposite wall, and was lost in the
subterranean recesses of the earth.
The mid-day sun, shining over the rich foliage of the surrounding
forests, where silence, vast and immense, seemed to live and feel; over
the rough walls of the Temple of Rocks, scarce ever visited by human
feet,--for strange legends scared the peasantry from the place, flung
his beams down from the very zenith along the quiet of the level sward,
with its encircling rocks, now animated by a scene of wild and peculiar
interest.
Around a square table which arose from the centre of the sward, draped
with folds of solemn black, sat a band of twenty-four men, each figure
veiled in the thick folds of a monkish robe and cowl, each face
concealed and each arm buried within the fold of the sable garment.
These were the priests of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.
At the head of the table, on a chair of rough and knotted oak, placed on
a solitary rock, sate a tall and imposing figure, clad as the others, in
the robe and cowl of velvet, with his face veiled from sight and
sunbeam. His extended hand grasped a slender rod of iron, with a
sculpturing of clearest ivory, fashioned into a strange shape fixed on
the end--the solemn and revered Abacus of the Order.
This was the High Priest of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.
At the other end of the table was seated a figure, veiled and robed like
the rest, yet with a taller and more muscular form, while his hand laid
upon the velvet coverings of the table, grasped an axe of glittering
steel.
He was the Doomsman of the Order.
His voice denounced, his voice consigned to death, his voice was like an
echo from the grave, for it never spoke other words than the sentence of
Judgment.
Grouped around the table, a circle of solemn figures, robed and veiled
like the others, stood shoulder to shoulder, each form holding a torch
on high with the left hand, while the right hand grasped a keen and
slender-bladed dagger.
Silent and motionless they stood, the blue flame of the torch, held by
the upraised arm, burning over each head; every right hand steadily
grasping the dagger; while their robes scarce stirred into motion by the
heaving of the breast, looked like the drapery of some monkish effigy,
rather than the attire of living men. These were the Initiates, or
Neophytes of the Order.
Their dagger it was that protruded from the breast of the victim, found
by the affrighted peasantry in the lonely woods, or seen by the careless
crowd thrown down, in all the ghastliness of murder, along the very
streets of Florence; on the steps of her palaces, in the halls of her
castles--even in the cloisters of her cathedral.
Whom the Order condemned, or the Doomsman doomed, they the neophytes of
the Order, gave to the sudden death of the invisible steel.
Never had the sun looked down upon a scene as solemn and dread as this.
The chronicles of the olden time are rife with legends of secret orders,
linked together in some foul work of crime, or joined in the holy task
of vengeance on the wronger, or doom to the slayer; but these bands of
men were wont to assemble in dark caverns, lighted by the glare of
smoking torches, speaking their words of terror to the air of midnight,
and celebrating their solemn ceremonies amid the corses of the dead.
The band assembled in the Chapel of Rocks were unlike all these, unlike
any band that ever assembled on the face of the earth.
They met at noonday, raising their torches in the light of the sun,
whispering their words of doom in the wild solitudes of the woods, with
their faces and forms veiled from view, preserving the solemn unity of
the Order, by a uniformity of costume, while the rugged rocks, golden
with the mid-day beams, gave back, in sullen murmurs, the voice of the
accuser, or the sentence of the doomsman, coupled with the low-muttered
name of the doomed.
From their solemn noonday meeting in the Chapel of Rocks, they issued
forth on their errands of death, leaving the reeking dagger in the heart
of the tyrant, as he slept in the recesses of his castle; flinging their
victims along the roadside of the mountain, or the streets of the city,
while the faint murmurs of the multitude, gazing at the work of the
_Invisible_, gave forth their name and mission: “Behold, behold the
vengeance of the Monks of the Steel!”