as he recovered his powers of mind. “Men of Albarone,” he exclaimed in a
loud and commanding tone, “Gaze ye upon the face of the unconquered
Dead, gaze upon the erect form, the unclosed eyes, daring the terror of
the tomb--and as ye gaze, let the battle-song of our race peal to the
very cavern’s roof! Shout the war-cry, shout--”
A figure clad from head to foot in azure armor of shining steel, leaped
from behind a form of stone, arising from the cavern floor, at the head
of the bier, and seizing the banner-staff from the hands of Aldarin,
finished his sentence--
“Shout”--exclaimed the figure armed in azure steel--“Shout Albarone to
the rescue! Death to the Murderer!”
The thunder-tones of that voice were known, along the line of
men-at-arms, through the columns of the Monks. One wild shout arose from
the warriors--
“Ha! For Albarone! Adrian, our Lord, comes from the dead to lead us!
On--on! Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!”
Strange it was that the very men, who a moment before had trembled with
undefined terror, now hailed with joy the presence of one whom they
supposed to have risen from the dead.
In an instant all was confusion and uproar. The Esquires set down the
corse, and together with the men-at-arms, clustered around the figure in
azure armor, shouting and making the very cavern’s roof re-echo with
their exclamations of joy.
The tumult and out-cry, coupled with the name of Adrian, reached the
ears of the fair Ladye Annabel, who already half swooning with terror,
now felt her brain whirling in wild confusion, as she fell fainting in
the arms of the Abbot of St. Peters.
“Brethren,”--cried the Abbot, addressing the monks--“Haste ye away to
the upper air for aid, while I stay here with the maiden, and exorcise
yon devil, if devil it may be, with solemn prayers and ceremonies.
Away--away, the fair Ladye may die, ere ye can return with aid.”
It needed no second word from the Abbot; the Monks gazed in each other’s
faces with affrighted looks, and then trooping hurriedly together,
hastened across the floor of the cavern, followed by the Servitors, who
but a moment past formed part of the procession. It was but an instant
ere the white robes of the monks, and the gay livery of the servitors,
were lost to view within the confines of the narrow passage.
The Abbot holding the fainting maiden in his arms, her white attire
mingling with his sacerdotal robes, gazed around the cavern, and found
to his astonishment that all around him was wrapt in darkness, while far
ahead, he could discern the lights of the death mound, breaking through
the gloom, with the glare of torches, held aloft by the men-at-arms,
creating a brilliant space between his position and the mound of the
dead.
“All is dark”--murmured the Abbot--“All is dark around me--yet far
ahead, I behold the men-at-arms clustering round the Strange
Figure--their swords rise aloft, and their distant shouts break on my
ear! She lays in my arms, cold, cold and senseless. Save me, mother of
Heaven, but I cannot feel the beating of her heart--I hear no sound of
aid, no voice of assistance! The cavern is damp, and she may die ere
they come with succor,--I will away and seek for aid myself. Lay there,
gentle Ladye, at the foot of this strange Statue--thus I enfold thee in
my robes of white--thus I defend thee from the cold and damp--in a
moment I will be with thee again! God aid my steps!”
At the foot of a figure of stone, wrapping her form in his glittering
robe of white and gold, which he doffed from his own trembling frame,
the Abbot rested the Ladye Annabel, all cold and insensible, and then
hastened from the Cavern in search of aid.
There was a long, long pause around the spot where lay the maiden, while
fearful mysteries were enacting far beyond, on the summit of the
Death-Mound.
When the Abbot again returned he was companioned by armed men, with
glittering attire and flashing swords. He sought the resting-place of
the maiden; he beheld nothing but the rough floor of the cavern. The
Ladye Annabel had disappeared, and the grotesque figure rising from the
pavement seemed to grin in mockery as the horror-stricken Abbot gazed
upon the vacant stone, where he had laid the maiden down to rest, her
form of beauty, sheltered by his sacred robes.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE ORDEAL.
Without much physical bravery, the Count Aldarin possessed a soul worthy
of the noblest efforts of moral courage, yet now while the men-at-arms
gathered with shouts and exclamations of joy, around the Azure Figure,
he stood trembling like a reed shaken by the winter wind, his face at
all times destitute of color, became lividly pale, and with quivering
lips and chattering teeth, he remained for a moment silent and
motionless.
Superstitious terror, he was wont to contemn, fear of the supernatural,
he was known to despise, yet now when the voice of the dead rang in his
ears, and the form which had been extended on the Wheel of the Doomsman,
moved before his eyes, he thought the voice and form had sprung from the
unknown recesses of the grave.
It was after the lapse of a few moments, that he summoned courage to
advance through the crowd of men-at-arms, and fixing his keen eye on the
form of the unknown knight, he spoke--
“Who Sir, art thou? What is thine errand in this lonely vault of the
dead? Why disturb the funeral rites of the Lord Di Albarone?”
“I come to avenge his murder!”
“Ha!” shouted Aldarin--“His murderer is already doomed--even now he
festers upon the wheel!”
“His murderer lives”--shouted the Figure, through the bars of his closed
helmet,--“His murderer breathes, while the Corse asks in the speechless
tongue of death--asks and prays to God, to man for vengeance! The
Murderer walks the earth, walks in the calm sunshine, while the Murdered
rots and crumbles in gloom and darkness. His murderer is here--aye among
the brave soldiers, who followed Julian of Albarone to battle, stands
the foul miscreant.--THOU ART THE MURDERER!”
A wild thrill of surprise and horror ran through the group. From heart
to heart, like lightning leaping from cloud to cloud, darted the wild
words of the accuser; from eye to eye flew the quick glance of
vengeance, and from lip to lip swelled the shout of the avengers.
“Hew him down!” cried one--“For days have we all thought him guilty. Our
suspicions are now confirmed--the corse pleads for his blood!”
“Down with the brother-murderer!”
“Lo! I whet my knife for his blood!”
“Our Lord”--exclaimed a tall and stalwart man-at-arms--“Our Lord Adrian
doth rise from the dead to convict thee of the murder of thy brother!
Miscreant, canst thou deny it?”
The four ancient Esquires said not a word, but each of them raised his
dagger, they seized the Scholar Aldarin, with one firm grasp, their eyes
were fixed upon his visage in one stern glare, their instruments of
vengeance gleamed over his head, and with silent determination, they
awaited the command to strike and kill.
The Azure Knight stayed their hands.
“Onward, brave soldiers”--he cried--“onward to the tomb of the race of
Albarone. There will we administer the Ordeal to the old man, there,
beneath the shadow of the Demon of our Race, shall he swear that he is
guiltless. Onward--bearers of the corse--in the name of the Winged
Leopard, onward!”
Raising the bier upon their shoulders, with the corse still sitting
grimly erect, the ancient Esquires advanced toward the Mound, led onward
by the Unknown Knight, while in the rear, surrounded by men-at-arms,
walked the Scholar Aldarin, his head drooped low, and his arms folded
across his breast.
He said no word, he uttered no sound of entreaty, but his keen gray
eyes, half-buried by his contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the
intensity of his thoughts.
The Mound, with all its ponderous outline, lighted by the lamps burning
on the summit, now began to appear more clearly through the gloom.
At first it seemed like some vast pile of rocks, heaped on high by a
giant-hand, and then, as the men-at-arms drew near and nearer, it
gradually assumed a definite form, rising like a pyramid, its three
sides fashioned into steps of living rock, while from the fourth, arose
the dark figure of stone, towering far, far above, its arms wildly
outspread, its face looking down upon the tomb, as its vacant eyes
seemed fixing their weird and terrible glance upon the faces of the
dead.
The strange procession reached the mound, they ascended twenty steps of
stone, and the bearers of the corse found themselves standing upon the
summit, from the centre of which arose a solid block of stone, some
thirty feet in length and seven in width, while it was but four feet in
height.
On the top of this rock, within the hollow of a cavity, hewn out of the
living stone, lay the remains of the Lords of Albarone, placed there
from age to age, from generation to generation, through the long lapse
of six hundred years.
It was a strange scene.
The lamps of iron, curious in fashion and ponderous in size placed at
intervals around the rock, cast their glaring light over the crumbling
remains, each grisly skeleton attired in the warlike costume of the age
that beheld his glory and owned his rule.
Here the thin and blackened arm-bones of a Gothic warrior were crossed
upon his breast-plate of gold, which long years ago had covered the
plain tunic, worn by these iron-men, who swept like an avalanche from
the Alps of the North, over the fair plains of Italy.
The lamp-beams glimmering over the skeleton, revealed the bones below
the breast-plate, mouldering into dust, while the fragments of the feet
were encircled in the simple yet warlike sandals of iron once worn by
the warriors from the land of the Goth.
Side by side with this relic, the bones of another skeleton gleamed
grimly through the bars and armor-plates of a later age, wrapping the
remains of the mighty dead, from the helmeted skull to the iron-booted
feet.
And thus extending along the cavity in the surface of the rock, skull
after skull and skeleton succeeding skeleton, reposed the Lords of the
House of Albarone, types of contrasted ages, clad in strange and various
costumes, or enwrapped in the stern iron armour, which had defended
their living forms in the terror of battle.
The boast of the proud House--that the earth of the grave-yard should
never soil a Lord of the race of Albarone--was fulfilled.
Over this singular tomb towered the dark figure of gigantic rock, its
rude arms thrown wildly aloft, while its downcast eyes of stone were
fixed upon the corses of the dead.
Many a legend, whispered beside the hearths of the peasantry, or told by
the minstrel in the hall of the castle, inspiring its hearers with
terror and awe, spoke in words of fear of the demon-form arising in the
cavernous recesses of Albarone, its mighty power, and the strange
sympathy it possessed for the race of the Winged Leopard.
Some traditions, dim and indistinct, yet fraught with wild mysteries,
named the figure as the representation of the Northern-God ODIN, stating
that in ages long gone by, it had been worshipped with infant sacrifice
and midnight bloodshed, while the Lords of Albarone flung themselves in
awe beneath its gloomy shadow.
Other legends named the rude creation of rocks as the Demon of the race
of Albarone, brooding silently over the tomb of the Lords, while its
heart of stone was sentient with a strange soul, its broad chest
impassioned a conscious spirit, its giant limbs were instinct with a
fearful life, and its eyes looked forth with an expression that froze
the blood of the gazer to behold.
Such were the legends, differing in their style and incident, yet all
uniting in throwing the veil of mystery and shadow over the dark, dread
form of stone.
It was seen but once in the life time of a Lord of Albarone, when he
celebrated the funeral rites of his predecessor, and the demon-form once
seen, the cavern of the dead was never traversed by his living form
again.
Thrice the funeral train passed round the tomb, the esquires bearing the
upright corse, thrice they raised the wild chaunt of the battle-song of
Albarone, while far and wide the depths of the cavern gave back the
sound, swelling in a thousand echoes, like successive claps of August
thunder.
The death-couch was then rested upon the platform of stone.
The ancient Esquires slowly raised the corse, again the battle-cry
swelled through the cavern, the men-at-arms wildly clashed their swords
together, while the banner streamed proudly in the torch-light.
“Men of Albarone!” spoke the solemn tones of the Azure-Knight; “The
Count Julian of Albarone is laid beside his fathers!”
Louder clashed the swords, more proudly waved the banner, and higher and
yet higher swelled the song as the mailed corse was placed in the
cavity, side by side with its ancestors.
The figure in azure armor glanced round upon the group of men-at-arms,
and exclaimed in a deep-toned voice, that thrilled to every heart--
“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin, brother of the late Lord,
advance!”
Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale countenance.
“Ha--ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think to frighten me with their
senseless mummery--their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with
superstition--Aldarin, who believes not in their God! Ha--ha! I am
here,” he continued aloud--“What would ye with me?”
“Old man!” exclaimed the Stranger-knight, “look upon the corse of thy
murdered brother.--Behold the features pale with death; the clammy brow,
the sunken cheek, the livid lip--look upon that corse, and say you did
not do the murder!”
The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest, their forms clad in
iron armor, were crowded together, and every eye was fixed upon the
Scholar.
The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as he replied--“_I did not do
the murder!_”
“Give me thy hand--place thy fingers upon the livid lips of the corse.”
Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand, and touch the compressed mouth
of the mailed corse.
The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of blood emerged from the
mouth, and trickled over the lower lip and down the chin, staining the
gray beard of the deceased warrior with its dark red hue.
The men-at-arms shrunk back with sudden horror, and each soldier could
hear the gasping of his comrade’s breath.
A tremor passed over the frame of Aldarin, and his face became pale as
that of the corse beside which he stood.
“Wilt thou now say thou art innocent?” exclaimed the stranger-knight.
“The corse--the lifeless form of thy murdered brother, shrinks at thy
accursed touch.”
“_I am innocent!_” cried Aldarin, recovering his determined tone of
voice. “_By the God of heaven and earth, I swear it!_”
“What say ye, vassals of Albarone? Is this man innocent?”
Then arose one firm, determined cry from the men-at-arms--
“He is guilty--heaven and earth proclaim it! The dead witness it!”
And the depths of the cavern returned the hollow echo--“Guilty--guilty!”
They all advanced a step toward the accused. Each eye fired with one
expression; the sinews of each hand were strained to bursting, as they
grasped their well-tried swords.
“One trial more,” exclaimed the figure in armor of azure steel. “Aldarin
of Albarone, look upon that awful form which towers above us. Behold the
arms outstretched, as if to hurl the red lightning bolt down upon thy
guilty head. Mark well those eyes of stone--the fearful look of that
dark countenance--the eyes are fixed upon thee; and the brow lowers at
thee. Look, Aldarin of Albarone, look upon the Demon of our race. Call
to mind the fearful legends of that demon’s vengeance upon all who ever
wronged the House of Albarone. Think of the time when those lips of
stone have sent forth a voice to convict the guilty; when those arms of
rock have been filled with life to crush the wretch whom the voice
convicted. Old man, art thou ready for the ordeal?”
Aldarin cast one glance around. A dead silence reigned throughout the
cavern. The torches cast a strong light upon the long line of robed
skeletons, and upon the stern visage of the murdered Lord. The faces of
the men-at-arms glared fiercely upon the accused: their eyes sparkled
from under their woven brows, their lips were compressed, and their
half-raised swords glowed in the ruddy light.
Aldarin looked above. The massive brow, the stone eye-balls, the
sneering lip, of that dread dark face of stone, were all turned to
glaring red by the strong light of many torches. Each sinew of the
muscular arms; the clenched hands; the bold prominence of the gigantic
chest; the strong outline of the towering figure, were all shown in bold
and sublime relief.
Aldarin raised his hands on high.
“Dark form--Demon of our race--Before thee I swear--I am guiltless.”
“_Murderer!_” a hollow voice exclaimed. The sound rung thro’ the arches
of the cavern like the voice of the dead.
“Ha!” shouted the men-at-arms, “behold--behold the Demon speaks; the
lips of stone move; the eyes fire--behold!”
The voice again rung thro’ the cavern--“_Murderer!_”
Aldarin started. The sneer upon his lip had fled. In a moment he lay
prostrate upon the platform of stone, and a score of swords flashed over
him.
“I confess--I confess!” shouted he, in hurried tones; “I ask but one
moment to prepare me for death. Grant me this boon, and ye are
Christians.”
“Dog!” shouted one of the pall-bearers, “thy victim died without
shrift--”
“So shalt thou die!” cried another.
“Lo! my knife is whetted for thy blood!”
“Hold!” exclaimed the strange knight, “let him have his request!”
Aldarin arose and drew from his vest a small missal, with clasps of
gold, and covers that blazed with jewels.
“I would pray,” he exclaimed meekly, as pressing the clasps of the
missal, it flew open, discovering not the leaves of a book of prayer,
but a hollow casket. Taking a small phial of silver from the bottom of
this casket, he held it hurriedly to the flame of a torch, and then with
as much haste, he applied the mouth of the phial to a bright stone that
was fixed under the lid of the casket.
The stone emitted quick flashing sparks of fire, and a light misty smoke
emerging from the mouth of the phial, spread like a cloud around
Aldarin, and rolled through the vault in waving columns.
It was accompanied by a pungent odor, which, far sweeter than perfume of
frankincense and myrrh, stole over the senses of the astonished
spectators, gradually benumbing their limbs, and depriving them both of
motion and consciousness.
The figure in azure armor rushed forward to seize the murderer, but his
limbs refused their office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his
armor ringing as he fell. At the same moment, while the smoke grew
thicker and the odor more pungent, the men-at-arms--both those who stood
upon the platform and those who thronged the steps of stone--fell to the
earth as one man. The ancient Esquires drew their daggers and advanced.
The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.
“Dogs!” shouted he, “ye knew not of my last resort! I hold a power above
your grasp--receive the reward of your insolence. Down, ye slaves!”
Flashes of fire played like lightning in the wreaths of smoke. The
Esquires tottered and fell prostrate among their fellows.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE BLOW FOR THE WINGED LEOPARD.
The light of the lamps, burning along the tomb, fell over the steps of
stone, and cast its crimson glow over the dread face of the Demon-Form,
while the sands of the fourth part of an hour, sank in the glass of
time. The knight in armor of azure steel, was the first to rise from the
strange slumber which the chemical spell of the Scholar had flung around
the senses of the avengers. He arose, he looked wildly over the steps of
stone and along the cavern.--_Aldarin was gone._
The azure knight gazed around the gloom and darkness of the vault of
death, for some moments, while the utter silence of the place impressed
his heart with a strange awe.
A sound struck his ear. It was the sound of men marching in order of
battle. It grew louder, and was mingled with the clanking of armor and
the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a few moments, the knight
of the azure armor at last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the
narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long lines of torches
shining upon a brilliant array of upraised swords, armor of gold,
mingled with shining spears and waving pennons.
They advanced in regular order, being formed in two distinct columns,
between which, at the head of the party, walked one distinguished from
the others by the richness of his armor, while his voice of command
showed him to be the leader of the company.
While they poured across the floor of the cavern, the knight of the
azure armor scanned them with great attention, as he exclaimed, with a
shout of joy.
“They come--the shallow-pated Duke and his minions. One blow--one good
straight-forward blow, and I am Lord of the halls of my ancestors.”
With his right hand he seized his sword, and with his left he waved the
banner of the WINGED LEOPARD.
“Up--up!--Ye men Albarone. Up with your swords, and strike for the
Winged Leopard, for your Lord and his rights!”
The men-at-arms awoke, like men awaking from troubled sleep and hideous
dreams. They groped hastily for their swords over the steps of stone and
along the platform, and in a few moments they stood erect and prepared
for fight.
“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either side of the tomb, in the
darkness. Ye number fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times
our force. Behold!--they continue to pour into the cavern. But
hist!--The watchword is--‘_Ha! for the Winged Leopard_.’”
The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were now within one hundred
yards of the mound.
“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this is certainly a very
dreary looking place. Really one could imagine this cavern to be a very
fit habitation for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary things.
Where be these caitiff knaves, of which my Lord the Count Aldarin told
us of? Advance, my brave men; find these villains. They have stolen the
Ladye Annabel away--despatch them, and then we will have time to share
the banquet of our lordly host!”
The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red, having a lion rampant
emblazoned on its folds, was now unfurled, and the company advanced in
the same careless order, in which they had proceeded over the floor of
the cavern.
“By the tomb of my ancestors, will I flesh my maiden sword. By the corse
of my father, will I fight for my right.”
The knight of the azure armor grasped his sword more firmly. In another
moment the torches of the Duke’s followers would flash upon the armor of
his ambushed men, in another moment he would stand disclosed before the
eyes of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured the clear level space
that lay between the mound and the advancing men-at-arms.
A whisper to his men--a firmer grasp of his sword, and a firmer grasp of
the banner staff, and the knight in three good leaps, sprang down the
twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang--“Ha! for the Winged
Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”
At his back, with swords drawn, and springing with all the litheness of
youth, came the four ancient Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the
opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise drawn, and with the
war-cry pealing to the cavern’s roof, came the two bodies of
men-at-arms, numbering twenty-five in each company.
Another leap and another spring, and the azure knight stands within
striking distance of the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted
his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his sword with both hands,
he whirled it once round his head, and throwing all his strength in the
blow, he brought it down full upon the golden crest of the tyrant, who
was driven to the very earth by the vigor of the stroke.
In an instant the foot of the azure knight was upon the breast of the
prostrate prince, and while the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the
esquires at his back, were carrying on the strife right merrily, he
prepared for another stroke. He shortened his grasp of the sword, and
gazing sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into his fallen
enemy’s uncovered face, with all the strength of his stalwart arm, he
essayed to send his weapon into his very throat.