of the ancient esquires, with a stout stroke of his sword, sent a vassal
reeling before the person of the Duke, and thus drove aside the blow of
the azure knight, which sank deep into the lifeless corse thrown so
suddenly before him.
And now the followers of the Duke gathered around the champions of the
Winged Leopard, in vast numbers, hurrying forward without order, and
dropping their torches in their haste.
The azure knight was driven back, and as he receded, the blood of the
oldest of the gallant esquires stained his armor.
“On, my brave men!” shouted he. “A blow for Albarone!” At every
exclamation a foe took the measure of his grave upon the cavern floor.
“Ha! for the Winged Leopard!” he shouted, as perceiving the head of the
Duke among the throng, he essayed to greet him with one gallant blow. At
the same moment, his men-at-arms sunk on one knee, and thus received the
disorderly charge of their foes. It was in vain. On all sides thronged
the followers of the Duke, and one after the other the brave champions
of the Winged Leopard fell bleeding and dead upon the pavement of stone.
Onward and onward pressed the azure knight, gallantly breasting the
flood before him, throwing his foes to the right and left, until he
again fronted the Duke.
And at the very instant, with soft and noiseless footsteps, there glided
along the steps of the mound of stone, a fair and lovely form, clad in a
strange robe, of white and gold, soiled by the cavern earth, and
floating abroad in the night air, in waving folds like spirit-wings. She
gained the platform of the mound, and fixed one half-conscious glance
upon the corse of the dead, while her large blue eyes warmed with a
glance of holy affection.
“He sleeps, my uncle”--she murmured--“anon, I will give him the
potion--and then--ah, then he will arise and smile upon me!”
She turned her wild glance to the scene passing in the cavern floor far
below, she heard the distant shouts, she caught a vision of one
well-known form, which her half-crazed brain deemed a visitant from the
spirit world.
It was a picture of loveliness, rising amid gloom and death, the
beautiful maiden raised to her full stature, one fair hand resting upon
the dark mound, while with the other thrown wildly across her brow, she
essayed to pierce the gloom of the cavern beyond. Her robes floated
lightly round her form, revealing the delicate symmetry of that maiden
shape, a glimpse of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the light, the
outlines of the neck, while the blooming loveliness of her countenance,
half-shaded by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden and changing,
yet dream-like expressions.
“I see his form”--she murmured--“and yet ’tis a dream--they seize him,
they--O, heaven help me, they raise their swords above his head--”
“Maiden, fling thy robe!--fling the death-pall over the funeral
lamps!”--a solemn voice broke on the air directly overhead.
She looked above, she shrieked with horror, for the cold strange eyes of
the Demon-Figure met her gaze.
Meanwhile, breasting his way through the opposing crowd of foemen, the
azure knight neared the person of the Duke, he stood before the tyrant
face to face.
“Die, tyrant!” he shouted, as springing back to give effect to his blow,
he threw his sword on high. It descended full upon the shoulder of the
Duke, and severing his armor, snapped suddenly short, and the azure
knight was left defenceless in the hands of his enemies.
“Up with the caitiff’s vizor,” shouted the Duke. “Let us see the bravo’s
face. Up with his vizor.”
The captive knight cast a glance around, and beheld his followers--the
dying and the dead--strewn over the floor of the cavern. The brave old
Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still grasping their
broken swords, and their gray hair dabbled in blood.
“Sir Duke,” exclaimed the captive, “behold the bravo!” He raised his
vizor, and the features of Adrian Di Albarone, pale and sunken, were
revealed. “Behold the bravo!”
“Now, by the body of God!” shouted the Duke, boiling with passion, “thou
shalt not escape me this time.--Dog----”
“These hands itch for thy blood”--shrieked a shrill and ringing voice,
and Adrian beheld the distorted form and mis-shapen features of the
Doomsman, pressing forward from the throng of men-at-arms, with his
talon-like fingers grasping the air, while his face wore the expression
of a demon in human guise,--“These hands itch for thy blood! Ha!--ha!
Once escaped--the second time, the hot iron, the melted lead and the
wheel of torture, wait not for thee in vain! Ha, ha,--hark how the
cavern roof joins in my laugh. Great Duke, the Doomsman claims his
victim!”
“Duke--tyrant, I am in thy power!” shouted Adrian, gazing upon the
circle of men-at-arms who surrounded him. “These thongs, they are for my
wrists! Yon chains--they soon will fasten this body to the dungeon
floor! Thou art sure of thy victim--Lo! I defy thee!”
And as he spoke, there came gliding from the darkness of the cavern, two
forms, clad in robes of sable velvet, who advanced hastily along the
floor, and stood between the victim and the Duke.
“Lo! I defy thee! Tremble for thine own head, tyrant and coward! Tremble
and turn pale, for lo! even now, the axe glimmers high above thy head,
whetted for the Wronger’s blood--in a moment it descends--beware the
blow!”
And as he spoke, while the Duke recoiled with a sudden start, and even
the Doomsman trembled as he beheld the sable figures standing before his
victim, silent and motionless, yet with the long curved dagger in their
girdles, and the parchment scroll in their hands, all suddenly became
dim and indistinct, and the cavern was wrapped in darkness.
The lights burning on the mound, were extinguished by an unknown hand,
while every eye beheld a waving robe of white, fluttering in the air,
the moment ere darkness came down upon the scene.
“Torches there!” shouted the Duke--“Look to the prisoner, vassals!
Torches there, I say!”
Torches were presently seen hurrying from the farther end of the cavern,
borne in the firm grasp of men-at-arms, and in a few moments a ruddy
light was thrown around the spot where stood the Duke.
“Dog!” exclaimed the Duke, gazing hurriedly around--“Thou shalt bitterly
rue this foul treason.”
He looked around in vain. His prisoner was gone, and with him had
disappeared the banner of the Winged Leopard.
The light of torches again gleamed around the Mound of the Dead. The
figure of a maiden lay extended along the steps of stone, her white
robes waving round her insensible form--it was the Ladye Annabel.
“Mighty Duke, behold the scroll!” shrieked the Doomsman, as he held
aloft the parchment, which he had taken from the cavern floor--“Behold
the scroll, it bears an inscription--read, read.”
* * * * *
“_Tyrant thrice--warned, yet unrelenting, the Invisible for the last
time bids thee prepare for the steel! Lo! Thy Death now walks abroad
seeking thee with the upraised axe,--beware his path!_”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE PAGE AND THE DAMSEL.
In a richly furnished ante-room, adjoining the bower of the Ladye
Annabel, on a couch of the most inviting softness, lay Guiseppo,
well-known to all the castle as the favorite page of his grace of
Florence.
A lamp of the most elaborate moulding, suspended from the ceiling, threw
a brilliant light over the rose-colored tapestry that adorned the walls
and relieved the eye, gaily embroidered with the history of the
temptations of the blessed St. Anthony. Here forms of terror appalled,
and there shapes of beauty cheered the venerable saint, who was
distinguished by a nose of a very blooming hue, marking a face redolent
with the kiss of the wine-god.
The floor of the apartment was carefully strewn with rushes, and here
and there were placed couches rivalling, in downy softness, the one on
which Guiseppo lay, while everything wore the appearance of ease and
luxury.
The small, yet well-proportioned figure of the youth was arrayed in a
doublet of fine blue velvet, embroidered with gold, and brilliant with
jewelled chains, that hung depending from his neck. His well formed legs
were shown to the best advantage by hose of doe-skin, fitting close to
the person, and he wore boots of the same material, ornamented with
spurs of gold. His doublet was gathered about his waist by a belt that
shone with gold and jewels, and at his left side he wore a rare dagger,
with handle of ivory and sheath of gold.
The features of Guiseppo were not formed after the regular line of manly
beauty, yet every lineament was redolent of light-hearted mirth and
gleesome mischief. His forehead was rather low, his eyebrows arching,
and his hazel eyes somewhat protruding; his nose was a thought too
large, his lips curving with a merry smile, his cheeks full and glowing,
and his rich brown hair fell in clustering locks down upon his collar of
rarest lace.
He laid upon the couch in an easy position, his hazel eyes sparkling yet
more brightly, and his lip curving yet more merrily, as he gazed upon a
billet which he held in his right hand over his head.
“To the fair Ladye Annabel,” thus he murmured to himself: “to be
delivered as soon as she recovers from her swoon--hum!”
Here the page sprang suddenly up into a sitting posture. It seemed as if
some new thought had taken possession of his fancy. His eyes sparkled,
his lip curved, his cheek rounded, and his whole frame shook with
suppressed laughter.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, as the tears came into his eyes; “Oh! ’twas
exquisite!” He gave his right leg an emphatic slap. “‘Twas
exquisite--exquisite--exquisite!” And laughing louder than ever, the
page walked up and down the apartment, well nigh bursting with repeated
fits of merriment.
“Oh! St. Guiseppo!” he cried, “an’ I live to be an old man, I shall
never recover it! Ha--ha--ha!”
Mayhap it was very fortunate for Guiseppo that the door leading into
Ladye Annabel’s apartment was opened, just at the moment when he seemed
about dissolving in his merriment.
A lovely maiden, with dark eyes and jet black hair, entered the chamber,
with an angry look, as if to reprove the author of this boisterous
laughter; but no sooner did she behold Guiseppo than she rushed into his
arms, pronouncing his name at the same time, to which he very quietly
responded--“Rosalind!” accompanying the expression with a kiss.
Having seated themselves upon a couch, Rosalind began to recall the
times of old, naming many a familiar scene, many a well-known spot,
where they had rambled together, ere Guiseppo left the castle--within
whose walls he had been reared--to be a page to his grace of Florence.
As Rosalind rattled on, Guiseppo sat in mute admiration, much wondering
to behold the lively little child, whom he had left some two years
since, grown up into a handsome and budding damsel. He gazed with
peculiar admiration upon the boddice of green velvet, which fitted so
nicely, revealing the shape of one of the finest busts in the world--so
Guiseppo thought, at least. He also had some indefinite idea of the
prettiness of the cross of ebony, which, strung around her arching neck
by a chain of gold, rose and fell with the heavings of the maiden’s
bosom.
The dimple of the chin--thought Guiseppo--is very pretty; those lips are
very tempting, but those beautiful, dancing, beaming black
eyes--Guiseppo rounded the sentence with a sigh.
“I’faith, Guiseppo,” continued Rosalind, “your merriment, but a moment
ago, startled me with affright. You might have awaked my cousin, the
Ladye Annabel. She is sleeping after her fright in that dreadful vault.
Tell me, Guiseppo, what made you so merry?”
The mirthful idea--whatever it was--again danced before the fancy of the
page, and he fell into a fit of laughter, interspersed with numerous
exclamations of delight.
At last Rosalind wrung from him the cause of his mirth, which he told
somewhat after the following fashion.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE STORY OF GUISEPPO.
“On the day my young Lord--so I must still call him--was doomed to die
by the Duke and Lords of Florence, I felt very dull, and the brightest
piece of gold in the wide world would not have hired me to smile. And as
for laughing--St. Guiseppo, that came not with my thoughts!
(Rosalind very quietly asked if nothing could have made him smile? He
pressed his lips to hers and did not dispute the matter any further.)
“Being in this melancholy mood, I requested permission of my gracious
master the Duke, to visit Lord Adrian that night. My request was
granted.
“It was but half an hour after midnight, that I stood at the door of the
Doomed Cell, where I learned, to my great regret, that the Duke had just
departed, leaving his commands that no one should see the prisoner until
morrow. There was an order of state affixed to the door to that effect,
having the private seal of the Duke impressed upon it.
“No sooner had I perused this paper of state--thou knowest, Rosalind,
that I can both read and write--thanks to Count Aldarin, who taught me,
with much care and not a little pains--no sooner had I perused this
paper of state, then unslinging my cloak of blue velvet and silver
embroidery, I assumed all the pertness of a page at court, as I
cried--Stand aside, Sir Beetle-brow, and make room for my couch--and
you, gallant sir, of the squinting orb, be pleased to shift your lazy
carcass an inch or so, an’ it suits you.
“The beetle-browed sentinel Balvardo, and his companion Hugo of the
sinister eye, looked upon me with the most unfeigned astonishment, as
throwing my cloak upon the stone pavement, I proceeded to lay my person
upon its bedizened folds.”
“Well, Sir Malapert,” cried Balvardo, “thou art surely moonstruck. In
the fiend’s name what mean you by thus sprawling out upon the pavement,
like a cat near the end of her ninth life, eh, Sir Page?”
Here Hugo chimed in with his say, consisting of a “by’r Lady!” expressed
in tones of the most interesting wonder, which he finished with a
“w-h-e-w!” given with twisted lips and great musical effect.
“Why, noble Sir, of the bull-head,” I answered, “and right worthy Sir of
the Squinting Orb, I intend to watch the coming forth of my Lord Adrian,
an’ it please your lordships--and, as I wish to sleep, I will thank thee
Balvardo to turn thy ugly visage another way, for, an’ I shut my eyes
after looking at thee I’ll be certain to dream of half-a-dozen devils or
so. Hugo _do_ try and look straight ahead for only an instant, or the
warriors in my dreams will all be cross-eyed--by St. Guiseppo!”
“‘Hist! thou magpie,’ exclaimed Hugo, ‘hear’st thou not a noise,
Balvardo?’”
“The sound that rivetted Hugo’s ear, proceeded from the Doomed Cell, and
was certainly the most curious of all sounds. It was not exactly like
the mewing of a cat, neither did it altogether resemble the howling of a
cur and it certainly did not sound like the bellowing of a bull, or the
chattering of a magpie, yet in good sooth, it seemed as if all these
noises had been caught and put in a sack, and having been shaken well
together, produced the most infernal discord that ever saluted mortal
ear.
“‘The Saints preserve us!’ shrieked Balvardo. ‘Surely the devil has
taken possession of the murderer--hark _how_ he howls!’
“‘_He_ indeed!’ cried Hugo, ‘it’s not only _he_; by’r Lady, there’s a
score of them. There it goes again. Beshrew thee but, ’tis like the howl
of a whipped cur--’
“‘Nay Hugo, nay Hugo, ’tis like the spitting and mewing of an hundred
cats.’
“‘Or the chattering of a score of magpies.’
“‘Now it bellows like a bull.’
“‘St. Peter be good to us!’ exclaimed Balvardo, as the howling grew
louder and louder. ‘It is the yelling of devils, and naught else. Hark!
Didst ever hear such a horrible noise, Sir Page?’
“I answered his question by repeated bursts of laughter; for although my
heart was full heavy at the fate of Adrian Di Albarone, yet for my soul
I could not hear such whimsical sounds without giving full rein to my
laughing humor.
“Suddenly the noise ceased. In an instant a voice shouted from the
inside of the Cell--‘Ho! guards, without there! guards!’
“I was thunderstruck at the tones of this voice, which I at once knew
could not belong to the Doomed Adrian.
“‘Well!’ exclaimed Balvardo, ‘if the devil hasn’t stolen the voice of
our gracious Lord the Duke!’”
Hugo pursed up his lips and gave his musical “whew!” which intended to
express astonishment itself astonished.
“‘W-h-e-w!--By’r Lady, but the devil _does_ speak in the voice of our
Lord the Duke.’
“‘_I am the Duke of Florence!_’--shouted the voice from the cell. ‘Open
the door, ye slaves!’
“‘Avoid the Sathanas!’ quoth Balvardo.
“‘Be quiet, fiend!’ cried Hugo.
“Exquisite sport--exquisite!” muttered I to myself, as a curious idea
flitted through my brain, “Ho--ho--ho! The Duke of Florence locked up in
one of his own prisons! Ha--ha--ha!”
“Louder rose the voice within the cell, and louder and fiercer swelled
the exclamations of the sentinels; until having strained every bone in
my body, with excessive laughter, I fell asleep thro’ mere weariness.
“When I awoke, the first beams of morning were streaming along the
prison galleries, and engaged in earnest converse with Hugo and Balvardo
stood the ill-looking, wry-mouthed, and hump backed Doomsman of
Florence.
“‘The irons are hot, and the wheel is ready,’ said the deformed caitiff,
bring your prisoner forth. The cauldron of lead is hissing and seething
while it awaits his coming. ’Tis long since I’ve tried my hand upon one
of noble blood. Bring forth this noble boy, and let me see what mettle
his flesh is made of. Thanks, Balvardo--thanks, Hugo, for ’twas ye that
gave him to the Doomsman!’
“Here the villain performed several very graceful actions, such as tying
an imaginary knot around his neck, with a ‘chick’, and then rehearsing
in dumb show the whole process of punishment upon the wheel; concluding
with an animated waving, pushing and thrusting of his hands, descriptive
of the entire manner of disemboweling.
“And this, this was to be the fate of Adrian Lord of Albarone!
“Meanwhile Hugo had unlocked the door of the Doomed Cell, and, called
the name of the prisoner without receiving an answer.
“‘I’ll wake him,’ quoth the Doomsman, entering the cell; ‘see! he lays
flat upon his face. Get up, Sir Parricide; get up. There--there,’ he
concluded, bestowing a few kicks upon the prostrate occupant of the
cell.
“The prisoner replied with a groan.
“‘Ho! ho!--You will not stir, will you?’ continued the Doomsman, as he
dragged the prisoner from the cell into the gallery:--‘See, Hugo, how
the caitiff’s hat is slouched over his face, and his hands are bound
with his own belt. By St. Judas, this is a rare sight!’
“‘His hands bound!’ exclaimed Balvardo. ‘This is not my work!’
“‘Nor mine!’ responded Hugo.
“‘Remove his slouched hat, one of ye,’ exclaimed the Doomsman, ‘see ye
not that both of my hands are employed in holding his carcass.’
“Hugo reached forth his hand and removed his slouched hat--‘O! an’ I
live till fourscore, I’ll never forget the scene that followed.’
“There, his arms ignominiously bound, resting in the embrace of the
Doomsman, lay the Duke of Florence, his face pale with ire, his mouth
frothing like a madman’s, and his eyes bloodshot; and there stood the
Doomsman, his gray eyes protruding with astonishment, until they seemed
about to drop from their sockets, his mouth agape and his tongue lolling
out upon his bearded chin; and there, likewise, stood Hugo and Balvardo,
looking first at one another, then at the Duke, and then clasping their
hands, they fall upon their knees and screaming for mercy--and there in
the back-ground, his cloak muffled over his face, and his frame shaking
with laughter while his eyes run over with tears of mirth, stands his
grace’s page, the trim Guiseppo. Was’t not a rich scene, Rosalind?”
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MEMORY OF GUILT.
On the stately couch in the Red-Chamber, with the Count Aldarin bending
over him, lay his Grace the Duke of Florence, attired in his boots and
hose, with his under shirt thrown back, revealing the left shoulder of
the Prince laid open in a deep gash.
As the Count Aldarin, holding a light in one hand peered earnestly at
the wound, the Duke exclaimed--
“A horrid gash, Count? eh! Damnation! to be foiled by the villain
twice--bound in my own dungeon like a criminal--struck down in that
cursed cavern like a dog--damnation seize the--ah! Count, some wine; for
the Saint’s sake, some wine, I pray thee.”
The Count turned hurriedly to the beaufet, and filling a goblet with
wine that sparkled in the light with a ruddy glow, he hastened to give
it to the wounded Duke, who raised it until it nearly touched his lips,
when, as if struck by a strange fancy, he suddenly held it out at arm’s
length exclaiming as he gazed at Aldarin with a lack-lustre eye--
“I say Count, suppose there should be some _white dust_ at the bottom of
this goblet?--and--and--_a ring_? eh? Count?--Ugh!--Take it away--ugh!”
He flung the goblet from him, scattering the wine over the couch, while
the vessel rolled clanging over the marble floor.
“How SIR?” cried the Count, speaking in a deep-toned voice that thrilled
to the very heart of the Duke, “_what mean’st thou_?” The dark gray eyes
of the Scholar flashed like living coals of fire, as he spoke.
“O, nothing,” responded the Duke, “nothing--only I thought the murderer
Adrian might--dost understand? A truce to all this. My Lord Count, what
didst thou with those men-at-arms who raised their swords in the cause
of the murderer?”
Right glad was the Count Aldarin to recover his usual calm demeanour as
he answered this inquiry.
“Of the fifty treacherous caitiffs who raised their swords against the
person of your grace, forty lie bleeding and dead upon the cavern floor.
“As for the others--” he finished the sentence by pointing to the arched
window of the Red-Chamber.
The Duke looked over his shoulder and beheld through the opened window
the black and gloomy timbers of a gibbet towering like an evil omen high
over the walls of the castle, and backed by the soft azure of a
cloudless summer night.
The beams of the moon fell upon ten ghastly and death-writhen faces and
ten figures swung to and fro, while the groaning cords as they grated
against the creaking timbers over their heads, seemed shaking their
death wail.
“Curse the traitors--they have their deserts!” The Duke exclaimed with a
meaning smile.
The Count said nothing, but bending over the form of the Prince
proceeded to dress his wounded shoulder, after the manner prescribed by
his scholarly studies.
And as the Scholar bent over the form of the Duke, the hangings of the
couch, sweeping beside the Prince, waved to and fro, with a slight
motion, as though the summer breeze disturbed their folds, and a dark
form, robed in garments of sable, with a monkish cowl dropping over its
face, glided noiselessly along the floor, and in a moment stood at the
back of his Grace of Florence, holding aloft, above his very head, a
slender-bladed and glittering dagger.
The Figure stood silent and immoveable, its face shrouded and its form
robed from view, the dagger glittering above the head of the Duke,
brilliant as a spiral flame, while the light of the lamp held by
Aldarin, shone on the upraised hand, revealing the sinews, stretched to
their utmost tension, while the clutched fingers prepared to strike the
blow of death.
And at the very instant, as the Figure of Sable emerged from the
hangings of the couch, at the back of the Prince, there silently strode
from the folds of the tapestry on the other side of the bed, a veiled
form, clad from head to foot, in a robe of ghostly white.
While the Figure in garments of sable, raised the dagger above the head
of the Duke, the strange Form, arrayed in the sweeping robe of white,
disappeared behind the hangings of the couch, on the side opposite the
Scholar Aldarin.
“Curse the traitors--they have their deserts!” again exclaimed the Duke.
“Count, how succeeds my suit with the Ladye Annabel? Dost think she
affects me? Eh, Count?”
“Marry, does, my Lord Duke--this slight wound in thy shoulder will
detain thee at the castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every
opportunity to urge thy suit, and, and--the day of your nuptials shall
be named whenever thou dost wish!”