idiot--a mere wearer of the motley doublet--a jingler of the belled cap
would have known better. St. Withold, but _I am_ an ass!”
Having his own reasons for not calling assistance from the ante-room, he
used all kinds of expedients to restore the Ladye Annabel to
consciousness. He chafed the fair and delicate hands, he deluged the
brow as white as snow, with perfumed liquids contained in silver flagons
standing upon the table; and after a lapse of a quarter of an hour he
had the gratification of seeing her eyes unclose, and feeling her heart
beat as he held her form in his arms.
The Ladye Annabel faintly spoke--“I have had a fearful--fearful dream.
The Virgin save me from the dark spirits that inspire such fancies. I
thought of _thee_--of _thee_, my father!”
She paused suddenly as she caught a view of the yeoman’s face.
“_Thou_ here!” she exclaimed in surprise, “wherefore is this?”
“St. Withold!” muttered the confused Robin, fearful of again referring
to the late subject of horror. “Why Ladye, in truth I am here--because I
am--not here--that is to say--s’death Ladye, I came here to serve ye.”
“To serve _me_?” said Annabel wonderingly, “how wouldst thou serve
_me_?”
“Ladye,” cried the yeoman in utter despair of his ability to convey his
ideas in a circuitous manner. “Ladye would you wed this Duke of
Florence?”
“Sooner would I die!”
“How will you avoid the bridal?”
“God only knows,” said Annabel, as she stood erect, “to his care do I
confide myself. I have read legends of dames and damsels who have raised
the dagger against their own lives when terrors such as threaten me,
rose before their eyes,--but I cannot--cannot do it! All I can do”--and
her head sunk low upon her bosom, and her arms drooped by her side--“all
I can do is, to pray, earnestly pray; upon my bended knees _beseech_ the
Virgin that I may _die_!”
“Cheer thee up, fair ladye--cheer thee up,” thus Robin spoke, “by the
troth of an honest soldier, I swear that I will be near thee when the
hour of thy peril draws nigh. I swear that my life shall be sacrificed
to save thee!--And now I must be gone. This castle can no longer be
Rough Robin’s home. God be with ye!”
The Ladye Annabel placed a purse of gold in Robin’s hand, and with many
blessings on his head, she beheld him disappear into the ante-room.
Rosalind entered the room--Annabel exclaimed--
“Retire for a little while, fair coz: I would be alone.”
As the black-eyed maiden retired, the Ladye Annabel sank down into a
seat, and gave herself up to the wild and agitating thoughts that
flashed through her brain.
The first beams of the coming morn shot through the tapestry that well
nigh concealed the casement of the maiden’s bower.
Annabel had fallen into a welcome slumber, and the soft beams of the
lamp fell upon her calm and innocent face, revealing each feature in the
mildest light, and softest shade.
A figure emerged from the tapestry, and advanced to the light, Adrian
stood beside the sleeping maiden. His face was exceedingly pale and
covered with blood, as also was the helmet, and the plates of the armor
of azure steel. In one hand he grasped the furled banner of the Winged
Leopard.
He turned and sought his place of concealment with a heavy heart; but
ere he turned, he cast one deep, one agonizing look upon the lovely
maiden.
“She is happy!--my wrongs shall not disturb her innocent
soul--Farewell--my own loved--Annabel--farewell.”
A kiss that told of heart-felt affection he impressed upon her ruby
lips, and as he took a last fond, ardent gaze, a burning tear fell upon
the unstained cheek of the Ladye Annabel.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL.
THE SCENE CHANGES TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE, WHERE THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE
OF ALBARONE WILL AT LAST COME TO AN END.
Far away among the mountains, the sunlight loves to linger, and the
moonbeam is wont to dwell among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley,
over-shadowed by rugged steeps, that frown above and darken around a
calm and silvery lake, embosomed amid the solitudes of the wild forest
hills.
Around on every side, arise the hills, magnificent with the shade of the
sombre pine, leafy with the branching oak, or verdant with the
luxuriance of the green chestnut tree, while chasms yawn in the
sunlight, ravines darken and fearful rocks, bear and rugged in their
outline, tower far above the forest trees, away into the clear azure of
the summer sky.
The hills sweep round the valley in a circular form, describing the
outlines of the sides of a drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid
waters of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal vessel,
giving a clue to the strange name of this place of solitude--THE VALLEY
OF THE BOWL.
This quiet vale is situated some few miles from Florence, amid the same
wild range of mountains that encircle the haunt of the members of the
Holy Steel.
The light of the summer morning sun, was streaming gaily over the roofs
of a mountain hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake, flinging
its golden beams over the outline of each rugged hut, with tottering
walls, or rustic tenement, with its ancient stones overgrown with leafy
vines; when a group of peasants were gathered along the road-side, at
some small distance from the village, in earnest and energetic
conversation.
A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad in the garish apparel of a
Postillion[2] of the olden times, stood in the centre of the group,
while around him were clustered a circle of the buxom mountain damsels,
with their heads inclined towards each other, their arms and hands
moving in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke on the air,
from the glib prattling of their busy tongues.
“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired
damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to
make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing--that’s all.”
Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his
chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he
pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as
if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.
“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus
answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not
a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta,
that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on
the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other--”
“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage
which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”
“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a
footstep!--”
“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of
glowing red.
“Our Lady!--but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.
“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark
looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough
soldier; and _he_ was followed by _such_ a handsome cavalier, dressed in
such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all--he wore _such_ a fine, dancing
feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening
twilight!”
“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.
“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.
“I suppose you will say next, that he had a _manly_ figure? eh?” and
the youth pulled his slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then
halting on one leg, he threw the other forward, while with his arms
placed akimbo, he seemed waiting for somebody or other to take his
portrait.
“To be sure he had a _manly_ figure,” returned Dolabella, glancing
contemptuously at the bow-legged youth; “he was none of your
whipper-snapping, strutting, and boasting postillions; he was none of
your conceited--”
“_Dolabella!_” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic tone.
“Well, Signor Francisco?”
“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict yonder?”
He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of the monastery, it stood
among the forest-trees on the western side of the lake, upon the summit
of a precipitous cliff, which towered in rugged grandeur from the bosom
of the mountain waters.
The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the dark towers of the monastery
over the surrounding forest-trees, and along the recesses of the
gardens, that varied the appearance of the wild wood beyond the ancient
walls, and the white cliff gave its broad surface to the light of day,
yet there was an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the dark
towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens; while the reflection
of the scene in the deep and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so
calm, so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it looked more
like the creation of an artist’s pencil, than a landscape of the living
world.
As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark walls of the monastery, an
involuntary thrill ran around the group of peasant damsels, and there
was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.
“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured Dolabella, “Francisco, fear
you not to make yon strange house the subject of your jest, even in
broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant of these mountains
grows pale at the mention of yon gloomy fabric!”
“Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held strange festivals within
those dark gray walls in the olden time.”
“Even now, no one knows anything concerning the monks of this monastery.
They give to the mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal
blessing--yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are abroad, and muttered
whispers speak of midnight orgies that it would shame an honest maiden
to name, held within yon darksome house!”
“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest not. I am in earnest--by
the True Cross, am I. Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened
precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself from the rock, down into
the ravine--and--and--mark me--if on some very bright and agreeable
morning I should be found laying at the foot of the awful steep,
scattered into a thousand fragments--then think of the victim of your
perfidy, Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, think of the
miserable fate of Francisco--your victim--with remorse--with bitter
remorse!”
Having thus given the damsels to understand that among them all, his
heart was certainly broken, the little postillion strutted away with
folded arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense strides he took
with his inverted legs, it did really seem that he had been hired to
measure the greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest
possible number of steps.
The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by a burst of laughter.
“I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella. “This little
whipper-snapper has been making love to all three of us, for nearly two
years. Let us pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange
cavalier at the cottage.”
“O yes--yes!” cried Theresa.
“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.
“That will bring Signor Postillion to terms,” continued the tall damsel,
“and besides girls, we’ll learn all about this strange old woman.”
“This strange priest!” said Loretta.
“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.
And presently they separated; each determining to out-wit the other;
both in regard to the strangers in the cottage on the hill, and to the
securing of the gallant vagabond Francisco, who to do him justice, had
those two important qualities necessary to winning the heart of a vain
woman--saith the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.--a glib tongue and a
rare knack of making presents of all sorts of gairish finery.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE BRIDAL EVE.
THE HEBREW AND THE ARAB-MUTE ENTER THE COURT YARD OF ALBARONE, WHILE THE
LADYE ANNABEL IS PASSING TO THE CHAPEL OF SAINT GEORGE.
The azure sky was glowing with the mild warmth of the summer twilight,
the zenith was mellowed with the light of the declining day, the western
horizon was varied by alternate flashes of gold and crimson, when the
ancient Castle of Albarone, thro’ every hall and corridor, rang with the
shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of festival revelry.
From the various towers of the castle, pennons of strange colors and
curious emblazonry, waved in the evening air, each flag, the trophy of
some hard fought battle, while high over all, floating from the loftiest
tower, the broad banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous
folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto in letters of gold, and the
Winged Leopard, to the ruddy glare of the western sky.
The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis, gave admittance to
numerous bands of peasantry, wending from the various tenements that
dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in their holiday costume, while
the air echoed with their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or
the gay carol, rang from side to side.
All along the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro’ the luxuriant
wood circling round its base, hurried the peasant bands, their attire of
picturesque beauty, giving variety and contrast to the scene, while now
loitering in groups, now hastening one by one toward the castle, they
peopled the highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into the court
yard of the castle.
Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and unaccompanied save by a
solitary attendant, there strode wearily forward a personage who to all
appearance ranked among a far-scattered people, at once the scorn and
fear of Christendom.
Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied by numerous patches,
with a piked staff in his hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape,
strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching hat which defended the
head of the JEW, revealed a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in
expression, marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance seemed
skilled in reading the hearts of men; a bold prominent nose, while the
lower part of his cheeks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by a
stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his girdle, mingling with
the long and curling locks of sable hue, that gave their impressive
relief to the outline of the Hebrew’s countenance.
By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant, to all appearance a
youth of some twenty winters, yet his tawny face, marked by bold and
regular features, half-concealed by masses of jet black hair, falling
aside from his forehead, in elf-like curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle
between the brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild and
wandering eye, that glanced from side to side with a restless and
nervous glance, that seemed to peruse the face of every man who came
within its gaze, and read the characters and motives of all who
journeyed onward to the castle.
Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest serge, the Servitor
of the Hebrew, bore on his shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to
oppress its bearer with an unusual weight, for he well-nigh tottered
under the load.
Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which assailed him from every
side, the Hebrew crossed the drawbridge, and passing under the
portcullis he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard, where
unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich and gaudy stores to the eyes
of the wondering multitude. His servitor also displayed his pack to
their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable, his arms folded, and his
wild eyes glaring strangely over the faces of the crowd.
“Who’ll buy--who’ll buy?” cried the Hebrew, in the suppliant voice of
trade, as casting his eyes around the court-yard, he surveyed the
brilliant scene at a glance.
Around, all dark and time-worn, the walls of the castle--each casement
blazing with torches--looked down upon various groups of the peasantry
and servitors of Albarone, some engaged in light and gleesome gossip,
while others were hurrying hither and thither, on errands pertaining to
the feast which was to grace the castle hall on the morrow.
In front of the arching roof of the kitchen door stood the gray haired
sharp featured, and sharp voiced Steward of the castle, engaged in
superintending the operations of a number of hinds, who were severing
the limbs of various fat bucks, and cutting up certain lusty beeves, and
preparing various kinds of game, for the vast fire that blazed on the
kitchen hearth.
Farther on, a minstrel was entertaining a circle of peasants, with the
song of love, or the tale of knightly valor; at a short distance, the
privileged fool, with his cap and bells, and fantastic dress, was
uttering his merry quips and far-fetched jests, which ever and anon he
varied by a nimble summersault, while the gaping crowd held their sides
as their boisterous laughter broke upon the ear, with all its jovial
discord and dissonance.
“Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!” shouted the Jew, “here’s broaches for ye
damsels fair--broaches and gauds, rings for your fingers, and crosses of
ebony for your bosoms. Look ye how this heart of gold would sink and
swell on a maiden’s snow white breast! Here’s plumes for the warriors’
helmet; daggers for his belt, and trappings for his steed. Who’ll buy!
who’ll buy!--Here’s ornaments of gold and silver for the doublet of the
page, essences for his flowing hair, and chains for his neck.--Who’ll
buy--who’ll buy.--Broaches, gauds, rings, gems, plumes, belts,
trappings, perfumes, chains, laces of gold! Who’ll buy! Who’ll buy!
Gentles, list ye all! Chains, laces of gold, perfumes, trappings, belts,
plumes, gems, rings, gauds, broaches. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!”
“The Virgin save us all!” exclaimed Guiseppo who stood among the crowd
that gathered round the Israelite, “the Virgin save us all, but
_there’s_ a tongue for you, my good folks.”
This was said with an attitude of mock astonishment, and corresponding
grimace of the features.
“An’ my tongue suits ye so well, gentle sir, may-hap you’ll try some of
my wares?”
“What have you, Sir Gripe-fist, that it would become _me_ to buy?”
“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything. Except three wares with
which the great merchant--_Nature_--must provide him, or else he’ll make
but a sorry page.”
“And those wares--how do you style them?” asked the page.
“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure look, “the first ware is
somewhat dull and heavy, it is labelled--_Impudence_--may it please thee
fair Page.”
“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo, half amused and half
angered. “How name you the second ware? Eh! Leatherface?”
“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly, “the second ware is light and
feathery. It bears the name--_Self-conceit_. As for the third--”
“Aye the third,” interrupted the page. “Go on my black bearded
friend--go on--I’ll borrow a good oaken towel to rub you down, when you
have done.”
“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two others are made. It
is heavier and duller than _Impudence_, and lighter and more feathery
than _Self-conceit_, they style it _Ignorance_. And these three wares
are the sole contents of the cob-web-hung storehouse of Sir Page’s
brain. An’ it likes thee, fair sir?”
The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.
“Ha--ha--ha! fairly hit! Ho--ho--ho! The Jew turns Scholar, and preaches
like a monk.--He--he--he! The trim Page is hit--fairly hit.” Such were
the exclamations that went around the laughing crowd.
“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!” exclaimed Guiseppo,
brandishing an oaken staff; “here’s at thee!”
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed one of the spectators, “thou art fairly hit, sir
Guiseppo.”
“Aye, aye, fairly hit,” cried another; and “The Jew has paid thee in
thine own coin,” a third shouted, throwing himself in the path of the
page.
“Nay, nay, let him come!” cried the Jew, with a sneer. “Let him come.
I’ll tame his pageship.”
“Dost thou mock me, thou dog!” As he spoke, the page raised his oaken
staff, and whirling it around his head, he aimed with all his strength
at the sconce of the Jew, who coolly turned aside the blow with his
upraised arm, and in an instant he had Guiseppo by the throat.
He whispered a word in the ear of the page, and then, unloosing his
hold, he began to gather up his wares.
The eyebrows of the page elevated with astonishment, and his lips
parted. The bystanders gathered around Guiseppo with various expressions
of their surprise at the sudden change that had passed over him.
“Why stare you so?” exclaimed a peasant maid.
“Art mad?” asked one of the yeoman of the guard.
“Perhaps moon-struck?” suggested another.
Guiseppo made no reply, but walked slowly away, while the Jew remained
standing in the centre of the group, with his servitor waiting silently
by his side.
“Look ye, son of Moses,” cried one of the yeomen, advancing toward the
Jew, “why stands this man of thine so silent and still? He moves not,
nor does he speak; but his wild eye is glancing hither and thither like
a fire-coal. Why does he stand thus mute and speechless?”
A grim smile passed over the bearded features of the Jew.
“Ask a post why it does not speak, or ask a war-horse to troll ye a
merry song! You are a keen yeoman and a shrewd, yet did it ne’er strike
ye that my servitor might be incapable of speech? A poor Arab boy,
gentle sirs and damsels, whose dying father gave him to my care, when
perishing on the field of battle, in the wilds of Palestine, some twenty
years agone.”
“A son of the paynim Mahound,” muttered the yeoman, with a look of
scorn.
“Nay he is of the faith of Christ,” interrupted the Jew. “Behold, he
wears the cross of Rome!”
“A sweet youth, and gentle-faced, though somewhat sad in look,” murmured
a peasant matron, gazing with a look of pity upon the tawny face of the
Arab mute.
And while the group of peasant men and women clustered around the Jew
and his Arab boy, a cry ran through the castle yard, echoed from lip to
lip, and repeated by the crowd thronging the place, until the air seemed
alive with the shout: “She comes, she comes! The fair Ladye Annabel is
passing to the chapel of St. George! Make way for the betrothed! Make
way for the Ladye Annabel! _Make way for the Duchess of Florence!_”
In a moment the court-yard was occupied by two files of men-at-arms, who
extended from the great steps, ascending to the massive door of the
castle hall, along the level space, making a lane for the passage of the
Ladye Annabel and her train. The crowd came thronging to the backs of
the warriors, gathering around the staircase, and blackening on every
side, eager to behold the betrothed of his grace the Duke of Florence.
Foremost among the throng at the bottom of the stairway, his pack lashed
to his back, and a small casket in his hands, the black-bearded Jew
appeared to take great interest in the scene progressing before his
eyes.
The Arab mute stood at his back, half concealed from view, and unseen or
unnoticed by the survitors and vassals of Albarone.
In after times, some of the vassals remembered well that they observed
the wild eyes of the Arabian glaring fiercely over the shoulder of the
Jew, while his right hand was thrust within the folds of his coarse
gaberdine, and his entire appearance denoted a mind agitated by some
fierce resolve.
A low, solemn peal of music broke on the air, and a ruddy blaze of
light was thrown from the recesses of the massive hall doors. In a
moment a band of cavaliers, attired in all the glitter of spangled cloak
and waving plume, came from the hall, and took their position on either
side of the staircase, each gay cavalier holding a torch on high, while
the gleaming light revealed each handsome face, wearing the polished
smile, and the costumes varied with strange fancies of embroidery, and
fashioned after every manner of device, were disclosed in all their
luxuriance and splendor.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and the gaily-attired form of his grace
of Florence issued from the hall door, followed by the slight figure of
the Count Aldarin.
As they took their positions on either side of the hall door, the crowd
below had time to notice the strange contrast between the Lord of
Albarone and the Duke of Florence.