solemn abacus from his oaken throne. His words were few and concise.
“Hail, brothers; met once again in the Chapel of Rocks. Hail, brothers,
from the convent, from the castle, and the cottage, hail! Prince and
peasant, lord and monk, met together in these solemn wilds, joined in
the work of vengeance on the wronger, death to the slayer, I bid ye
welcome. Herald arise; proclaim to the rising of the sun the meeting of
our solemn Order.”
And the veiled figure seated on the right of the high priest arose, and
extending his hands on high looked to the east, chaunting with a low,
deep-toned voice:
“Lo, people! lo, kings! lo, angels of heaven, and men of earth! The
solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, hold high council in the Chapel
of the Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun. Vengeance on the
wronger, death to the slayer!”
And rising with hands outspread and, solemn voices, three heralds
successively made proclamation to the north, to the south, and to the
setting sun, that the solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, held high
council in the Chapel of Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun,
while thrice arose the wild denunciation--“_Vengeance to the wronger,
death to the slayer_!”
“Priests of our solemn Order, ye have been abroad on your errands of
secrecy. Speak; what have ye seen, whom do ye accuse, whom do ye give to
the steel?”
“I come from the people,” said a veiled figure, as he arose and spoke
from the folds of his robe, “Yesternight, like a shadow, I glided along
the streets of Florence, listening to the low-whispered murmurs of the
scattered groups of people. Every tongue had some foul wrong to tell;
every voice spoke of midnight murder, done at the bidding of a tyrant;
every voice whispered a story of woman’s innocence outraged, the gray
hairs of age dabbled in blood, the poor robbed, the weak crushed; while
the mighty raised their red hands to heaven, laughing with scorn, as if
they would shake the blood-drops in the very face of God. Ask ye the
name of the tyrant? Find it in the whispers of the people; the wronger
and the slayer was the Duke--the Duke of Florence!”
“I come from the palace!” cried another robed priest, rising solemnly,
and speaking from the folds of his robe. “Mingling with the nobles of
Florence and the courtiers of the Duke, I heard low whispers of
discontent, murmurs of rebellion, and dark threats of assassination. The
Duke--the tyrant Duke--was on every lip, on every tongue. Florence is
slumbering over the depths of a mighty volcano--a moment, and lo! the
scathing fires ascend to the sky, the dark smoke blackens the face of
day!”
“_I come from the scaffold!_” cried another dark robed figure, as he
arose and spoke through his muffled garment. “Last night, a mighty crowd
gathered around the gaol of Florence; every voice was fraught with a
tale of horror, every cheek was pale, and every eye fixed upon a dark
object, that rose in the centre of the multitude. Breasting my way
through the throng, I rushed forward, I gained the place of execution, I
beheld a dark scaffold rising like a thing of evil omen on the air. I
beheld the wheel of torture, the cauldron, and the axe! ‘For whom are
these?’ I cried. ‘For a lord of the royal blood of Florence,’ shrieked a
bystander: ‘for Adrian Di Albarone. To-morrow, at day-break, he dies;
condemned by the Duke and his minions, on the foul accusation of the
murder of his father!’ I know the accusation to be false. At this hour,
brothers of the Holy Steel, the ghost of the murdered shrieks for
vengeance, before the throne of God!”
“Accusers of the Duke of Florence, do ye invoke upon your own souls the
punishment accorded to the tyrant, should your words prove false?”
“We do!”
“Priests of the solemn Order of the Holy Steel what shall be the doom of
the tyrant, the betrayer, the assassin?”
“Death!”
“Initiates of the Order, do ye accord this judgment?”
“Death, death, death!”
“Doomsman, arise and proclaim the judgment of the Order of the Monks of
the Holy Steel?”
“Hear, oh heaven,--oh earth,--oh hell,” arose the harsh tones of the
doomsman, “Urbano, Duke of Florence, tyrant, assassin, and betrayer, is
doomed! I give his body to the gibbet, to the axe, to the steel! Though
he sleeps within the bridal chamber, there will the vengeance of the
Order grasp him; though he wields the sceptre on his ducal throne, there
will the death blow strike the sceptre from his hand, his carcass from
the throne, though he kneels at the altar, there will the dagger seek
his heart. Doomed, doomed, doomed!”
And then, in a voice of fierce denunciation, he gave forth to the
noon-day air, the dark and fearful curse of the Order, whose sentences
of woe may not be written down on this page; a curse so dark, so dread,
and terrible, that the very priests of the Order drooped their heads
down low on each bosom, as the sounds of the doomsman startled their
ears.
“Let his name be written down in the book of judgment, as the Doomed!”
“Lo, it is written!”
And as the doomsman spoke, a level slab of gray stone, which varied the
appearance of the green sward, some yards behind the chair of the High
Priest, slowly arose from the sod, and, unperceived by the monks of the
Order, two figures, robed in the cowl and monkish gown of the secret
band, emerged silently from the bosom of the earth, and took their
stations at the very backs of the torch bearers.
“Who will be the minister of this doom? Who will receive the consecrated
steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”
There was a low, deep murmur, a pause of hesitation, and then the
priests communed with each other in muttered whispers.
“Who will minister this doom?” again echoed the High Priest, while the
sound of footsteps startled the silence of the place. “Who will receive
the consecrated steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”
“Behold the minister!” cried a deep-toned voice as the strange figures
strode toward the table. “_Give me the steel!_”
“It is Albertine!” echoed the members of the Order, and the wan face and
flashing eyes of the monk were disclosed by the falling cowl.
“Behold the minister of this doom!” he shouted, advancing to the
doomsman. “Death to the tyrant! Give me the steel!”
And as he spoke, the cowl fell from the face of the figure who stood
beside the monk, and the torch bearers, the monks, and the High Priest,
looked from their muffled robes in wonder and in awe, and beheld the
face of--_Adrian Di Albarone_.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE CHAPEL OF ST. GEORGE OF ALBARONE.
THE SOLEMN FUNERAL RITES OF THE MIGHTY DEAD, CONVEYED TO THE TOMB,
NOT AS THE VICTIM, BUT THE CONQUEROR.
The beams of the midnight moon, streaming through the emblazoned panes
of the lofty arching windows, mingled with the blaze of long lines of
funeral torches, making the chapel of St. George of Albarone as light as
day, when illumined by the glare of the thunder storm, and revealing a
strange and solemn scene--the last rites of religion celebrated over the
corse of the mighty dead.
The mingled light of moonbeam and glaring torch, revealed the roof of
the chapel arching above, all intricately carved and fettered, the lines
of towering columns, arabesque in outline and effect, the high altar of
the church, with its cross of gold and diamonds, won by the lords of
Albarone from the lands of Heathenesse, its rare painting of the dying
God, its rich sculpturings and quaint ornaments; while along the mosaic
floor, among the pillars, and around the altar, grouped the funeral
crowd, marking their numbers by the upraised torch and spear.
An aged abbot, attired in the gorgeous robes of his holy office, with
long locks of snow-white hair falling over his shoulders, stood at the
foot of the altar, celebrating the midnight mass for the dead; while
around the venerable man were grouped the brothers of his convent, their
mingled robes of white and black giving a strange solemnity to the
scene.
Beside the foot of the altar--resting in the ruddy glare of the funeral
torches, robed in full armor, partly concealed by a pall of snow-white
velvet, on a bier of green beechen wood, covered by skins of the wild
leopard, in simple majesty,--lay the corse of the gallant lord of
Albarone.
The raised vizor revealed his stern features set grimly in death, while
his mail-clad arms were crossed on his muscular chest, robed in battle
armor.
No coffin panels held his manly form; no death-shroud enveloped those
sinewy limbs; neither did things of glitter and show glisten along his
couch, heaping mockery on the dumb solemnity of the grave.
It was the custom of Albarone, that the knight who once reigned lord of
its wide domains, should even in death meet the stern enemy of man, not
as victim, but as conqueror.
Borne to the vaults of death, not with voices of wail and woe, but
compassed by men-at-arms; environed by upraised swords, the silent corse
seemed to smile in the face of the skeleton-god, and enter even the
domains of the grave in triumph, while the battle shout of Albarone rose
pealing above, and over the visage of the dead waved the broad banner of
the warlike race.
Near the head of the corse, while along the aisles of the chapel
gathered the men-at-arms and servitors of Albarone, were grouped two
figures--an aged man and a youthful maiden.
With his head depressed, his arms folded meekly over his breast, his
slender form clad in solemn folds of sable velvet, faced with costly
furs, and relieved by ornaments of scattered gold, the Count Aldarin Di
Albarone seemed absorbed in listening to the chaunt of the holy mass,
when, in sooth, his keen eye flashed with impatience, and his lip curved
with scorn, as he was forced to witness the ceremonies of a religion
whose mandates he defied, whose awful God his very soul blasphemed.
The maiden, fair, and young, and gentle, her robes of white flowing
loosely around her form of grace, her hands half clasped and half
upraised, stood near the couch of the dead, her calm blue eyes fixed
upon the visage of the corse, while the memory of the fearful scene in
the Red Chamber swept over her soul, mingling with the thoughts of the
felon now festering on the wheel of Florence.
The bosom of the Ladye Annabel rose and fell with a wild pulsation, and
her rounded cheeks grew like the face of death, as thus waiting beside
the dead, the thoughts of the past awoke such terrible memories in her
soul.
Around, circling along the pavement, with stern visages and iron-clad
forms gleaming in the light, were grouped the men-at-arms of Albarone,
extending along the chapel aisles, in one rugged array of battle, while
each warrior held aloft a blazing torch with his left arm, as his good
right hand grasped the battle sword.
Here and there were scattered servitors of Albarone, clad in the rich
livery of the ancient house, darkened by folds of crape, mingled with
the humble peasant vassals, whose faces, stamped with sorrow, mingled
with the general grief.
Every voice was hushed, and every foot-tramp stilled, as the last
strains of the holy chaunt of the mass floated solemnly along the chapel
aisles, while high overhead, above armed warrior and white-robed monk,
floated the broad banner of Albarone, waving to and fro with the motion
of the night air, its gorgeous folds bearing the emblazoning of the
winged leopard, with the motto, in letters of gold.
GRASP BOLDLY, AND BRAVELY STRIKE.
As the last echoes of the holy ceremony of the mass died away along the
chapel aisles, Count Aldarin glanced over the group of white-robed
monks, with the venerable abbot of St. Peters of Florence in their
midst, and along the files of the iron-robed soldiers, for a single
moment, and then gazing upon the broad banner waving overhead, he spoke
in a bold and deep-toned voice:
“Let the corse of Lord Julian Di Albarone be raised upon the shoulders
of the ancient men who served as esquires of his body.”
Four men-at-arms, whose heads were whitened by the frosts of seventy
winters, advanced; and, raising the death-couch upon their shoulders,
with the right leg thrown forward, stood ready to march.
At the same moment, the united strength of ten of the servitors threw
open the huge oaken panels of a trap-door, which, cut into the floor of
the middle aisle of the chapel, revealed a wide and spacious stairway,
descending into the bosom of the earth.
The Count Aldarin seized the staff which bore the broad banner of
Albarone, he flung the azure folds to the night wind, and his voice rung
echoing along the chapel walls:
“Vassals of Albarone, form around the corse of your lord. Draw your
swords, and raise the shout: ‘Albarone, to the rescue! Strike for the
Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!’”
With the battle cry pealing, their swords flashing in the light, and
their torches waving on high, the men-at-arms formed in files of four
behind the bier, which now began to move slowly toward the subterranean
stairway.
In the rear of the men-at-arms came the Ladye Annabel, followed by the
venerable abbot, bearing aloft a crucifix of gold; while on either side
walked rosy-cheeked children, clad in robes of white, and holding
censers in their hands, which ever and anon they swung to and fro,
filling the air with perfume of frankincense and myrrh.
Then came the monks, in their mingled robes of white and black, walking
with slow and solemn tread, and holding in one hand a torch, while the
other grasped a cross.
As the ancient esquires who bore the bier of beechen wood, arrived at
the trap-door which discovered the subterranean stairway, the funeral
train halted for an instant.
The sight was full of grandeur.
The light of a thousand torches threw a ruddy glow upon the folds of the
broad banner--upon the glistening armor and bright swords of the
men-at-arms--over the snow-white attire of the long array of monks, and
along the cold face of the dead. The carvings that decorated the walls
of the church--the altar, rich with a thousand offerings--the cross of
gold, and the rare paintings--the arched and fretted roof, and the lofty
pillars, were all shown in bold and strong relief.
“Ye ancient men who bear the corse of the Lord Di Albarone, ye who
served your lord with a faithful service while living, prepare to
descend into the vault of the dead, there to lay your sacred burden
beside his fathers. Vassals of Albarone, grasp your swords yet tighter,
and join, every man, in the battle song of our race. The house of
Albarone enter the tomb, not with wail and lamentation, but with song
and joy, as though they went to battle; with swords flashing, with armor
clanking, and with the broad banner of the Winged Leopard waving above
their heads.”
Right full and loud sounded the voice of Count Aldarin, while his bent
form straightened proudly erect, as though he were suddenly fired with
the warlike spirit of his ancestors. His dark eye flashed as he shouted,
waving the banner over the bier:
“Men of Albarone, to the rescue!”
“Strike for the Winged Leopard!--strike for Albarone!” responded, with
one deep-toned voice the aged bearers of the bier, as they began to
descend the stairway.
“Ha! an Albarone! an Albarone! Strike for the Winged Leopard! strike for
Albarone!” shouted the men-at-arms, as, waving their torches on high,
and brandishing their swords, they advanced with a hurried, yet measured
tread, after the manner they were wont to advance to the storming of a
besieged fortress.
The aged abbot of St. Peters suddenly forgot his sacred character, and
stirred by the memory of the days when he had mingled in the din of
battle, side by side with the noble Lord Julian, he caught up the war
cry: “Albarone to the rescue!--a blow for the Winged Leopard!” and along
the line of white-robed monks ran the shout: “An Albarone! Ha! for the
Winged Leopard! Strike for Albarone!” and thus spreading from the
men-at-arms to the abbot, from the abbot to the monks, the cry of battle
resounded along the aisles of the chapel, and was echoed again and again
from the fretted roof.
As the corse disappeared down the stairway, followed by the funeral
train, the war song of Albarone was raised by the men-at-arms--wild and
thrilling arose the notes of the chaunt, that had swelled in the van of
a thousand battles.
The subterranean stairway seemed to be without end. At last, when some
five score steps had been passed, the bearers of the corse found
themselves in a long and narrow passage, which having slowly traversed,
they stood at the head of a winding stairway.
This they descended, while louder, and yet more loud arose the chaunt of
the battle song, mingling with the clash of swords and the clank of
armor.
At the foot of this stairway lay another passage, narrower than the
last, from which it differed in that it was hewn out of the solid rock,
while the walls of the other were built of chisseled stone.
Along this passage the procession slowly proceeded, the walls
approaching closer together at every step, until at last there was
barely room for the bier to pass; when suddenly, as if by the wand of a
magician, the scene was changed, and the funeral train found themselves
in the vault of the dead.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.
THE FUNERAL TRAIN, BEARING THE CORSE ALONG THROUGH THE GROUPS OF
SPECTRAL-FORMS, ARE AWE STRICKEN BY THE APPEARANCE OF A STRANGE
KNIGHT.
Above, the cavern roof spread vast and magnificent, like an earth-hidden
sky.
Around, on every side, in rugged grandeur, extended the rocky walls; and
far in the distance, the solid pavement seemed to grow larger and wider,
as the gazer looked upon its surface of substantial stone.
The light of the funeral torches flashing over the abrupt rocks,
revealed the level floor, and gave a faint glimpse of the vast arch
extending far above. The ruddy beams flashing on every side, disclosed a
strange and bewildering spectacle.
Around the walls of the cavern, and over the floor, were scattered
figures of gigantic stone, rising from the pavement, at irregular
intervals, in various and strangely contrasted attitudes, bearing the
most singular resemblance to the gestures of living men, yet with every
face stamped with an expression that chilled the heart of the gazer, as
though he beheld a spirit of the unreal world.
A wild legend was written in the archieves of Albarone, concerning these
strange figures.
In the olden time, when eternal midnight brooded through these cavern
halls, a demon band shook the rugged arches with their sounds of hellish
wassail, startling the gloom of night and the brightness of noonday
above, with the echo of their shrieks and yells; while their foul
blasphemies of the AWFUL UNKNOWN infected the very air with a curse, and
sent disease and death abroad from the cavern over the land, until every
lip grew pale, and every heart was chilled, at the mention of the demon
vault of Albarone.
It was when the impious revel swelled loudest; when the infernal goblet
was raised to every lip; when the glances of glaring eyes, burning with
the curse of Lucifer, were exchanged between the supernatural revellers;
when the sounds of mockery and yells of blasphemy, echoing and
thundering around the vault, realized a hell on earth, that the words of
the Invisible broke over the scene, and the figures of the demon band
were suddenly transformed to lifeless stone.
This wild tradition gained credence from the positions and attitudes of
these strange statues.
The smallest of the figures was three times as large as the tallest and
most robust of men; there were others whose heads of dark rock well nigh
touched the cavern’s roof, while their outstretched arms and writhing
attitude filled the gazer with indefinable dread.
Some were springing in the festal dance, the smile, grim and ghost-like
wreathing their lips of stone; some were circling in groups of wild
revelry, their faces agitated by laughter; while others, with upturned
countenances, bearing the impress of every dark and hellish passion, and
arms thrown wildly aloft, seemed daring the vengeance of heaven, and
mocking the power of God.
Among all these various and contrasted figures, there was not one form
of beauty, not one shape of grace; but all were expressive of low,
bestial revelry, servile terror, or else of sublime hatred and defiance.
Some were formed of the darkest, and some of the lightest stone. Here
arose a form of dark rock, side by side with a shape of snow-white
stone; yonder towered a figure of dusky red, and farther on, a form of
dark blue, veined by streaks of crimson and purple, broke through the
darkened air.
The ancient esquires who bore the corse, had faced the brunt of a
hundred battles, and fought in the van of a thousand frays, yet it was
not without a shiver of terror that they looked around upon this wild
and unearthly scene, thronged with those dark and fiend-like figures.
As they advanced, a new wonder attracted the attention of the funeral
train.
Far in the cavern, to all appearance near the centre, a vast mound, of a
square form, arising from the level pavement, was hung with burning
lamps, and overlooked by a figure of stone, which seemed to those of the
funeral train to exceed all the others, both in the magnitude of its
height, and the wildness of its attitude. The lamps burning above this
mound, threw a strong light over the dark figure, and along the
pavement, for some few yards around; while the space between the mound
and the procession was lost in entire darkness.
The bearers of the corse, advancing towards the mound, led on the
funeral train, who all, save the Count Aldarin, seemed seized with a
sudden and indefinable dread. The battle song was still continued, the
swords were still brandished, and the torches were still waved on high;
but there was a tremor in the notes of the song, the swords were grasped
with the nervous sensation that men ever feel when expecting to meet
antagonists of the unknown world, and the waving of the torches was
accompanied by the muttered exorcisms of the monks.
As for the Ladye Annabel, she leaned half swooning upon the arm of the
venerable abbot, who, in good sooth, was as much frightened as the
maiden.
The esquires who bore the remains of their gallant lord, had now gained
near half the way over the pavement of stone, toward the mound; the last
of the servitors had emerged from the narrow passage into the cavern and
the whole train extending in one unbroken line, marked by the long array
of torches flashing over the armor of the warriors, and the white robes
of the monks, presented a striking and imposing spectacle.
Aldarin turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, with a wild gesture:
“How now, vassals? Why this tremor?--Whence this alarm? Do I not lead
you? Raise the battle song of our race yet higher, and advance yet more
boldly! The banner of the Winged Leopard waves above ye! Shout the war
cry, and let your noble lord be borne to his rest as were his fathers
before him. Shout the war cry--shout--”
Wheeling suddenly around in the warmth of his excitement, he turned from
the men-at-arms, to the corse-bearers, and at the very instant, started
a step backward with involuntary horror. The corse sate erect in the
death-couch, the white pall falling back from the iron-clad shoulders
while the light of the torches fell vividly upon its unclosed eyes as
their cold, stony glare rested upon the face of Aldarin.
Aldarin felt his very heart leaping within his bosom, while big beaded
drops of moisture, clammy as the death-sweat, stood out from his
forehead.
“The Corse hath arisen in the death-couch”--he hurriedly whispered--“The
eyes of the dead are unclosed, they are gazing around the vault of
death.”
“It is the custom of Albarone,” exclaimed a white-haired Esquire,--“We
have raised the corse erect, we have unclosed its eyes. The mighty dead
of Albarone enter the vault of death, proudly and erect, with their
unclosed eyes gazing fearlessly on the tomb--such is the custom of
Albarone!”