with a good natured smile. “With a heavy heart I wended along the
highway, on the eve of the bridal, thinking of the fair Ladye Annabel,
when who should I behold trudging before me, but this good son of Moses.
I laid him upon the earth in a wink--gagged him, and concealed him in
the cottage of a peasant, whose ears I filled with a terrible tale of
the Jew’s roguery; how he had stolen the plate of the castle, and so on.
I then disguised myself in the Hebrew’s attire; with what success you
are already aware.--After I had effected the deliverance of the Ladye
Annabel, I released the Jew who ran beardless and affrighted, as fast as
his legs could carry him, out of the demesnes of Albarone!”
“Where didst leave the Ladye Annabel, Robin? Who was the Arab Mute?
Where is he now?”
“I left her _in safety_, most sagacious Guiseppo. And as for the
Mute--I’ll tell thee anon. How didst feel when I came to release thee
from the dungeon? eh?”
‘O! St. Peter! By my troth it would make a picture. There I sat, upon
the bench of stone; the taper flinging its beams around the dreary
walls, my elbows resting upon my knees, and my face supported by my
clenched hands; my mind full of dark and gloomy thoughts, and my fancy
forming various pleasant pictures of the gibbet, which was to bear my
figure on the morrow. Imagine this delicate form swinging on a
gibbet--ugh! Thus was I employed, when I heard a noise like the drawing
of bolts. I started, expecting to behold the Count Aldarin; he had
_visited_ the cell an hour or so past, and informed that I had the honor
of being--mark ye, my soldier--_his son_. I started and beheld--thy
welcome visage, my good Robin.”
“Marry, it was well for thee that the secret passage was known to me.
How sayst thou? Did the murderer aver that he was thy father?”
“Even so. The Count Aldarin, has ever been kind to me, yet I never
thought I was connected with him by any ties of blood. I have always
been known throughout the castle as _the foundling_. Pleasant name--eh,
Robin? The tale runs that a peasant returning home, on an autumn night,
discovered a child some three years old, crying in the forest. That
child the Scholar Aldarin adopted, and called Guiseppo; which title was
occasionally varied by the servitors of Albarone, to that of _Guiseppo
Stray-Devil_, _Lost-Elf_, and others of like pleasing character. But
whither are we wandering now, good Robin? This is the second day of our
flight; whither are we bound?”
“Thou wilt know ere long. Didst ever hear of Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’
Longsword?”
“What, the stout Englisher! The brave knight who now commands the
soldiers of our late Lord, in Palestine? He that is noted for the
strength of his arms, and the daring of his spirit? Why all Christendom
rings with his feats.”
“Well, my bird of a page, I have lately heard by a wandering palmer,
that a truce has been made, between that son of Mahound, Saladin, and
the princes of Christendom. Further it is said, that a body of the
crusaders have sailed from Cyprus, and are bound to Italy. Dost see
aught in this, my popinjay?”
“The Saints help thy senses! Surely you do not mean to say that the
soldiers of Albarone are returning home?”
“Marry but I do. I mean to wend towards the nearest seaport; I mean
to--”
“By our Lady,” interrupted Guiseppo, “I spy the dawning of our Lord
Adrian’s day. I do by heaven!”
And thus conversing they pursued their way along the forest path.
* * * * *
Higher and higher rose the sun in the Heavens, and its beams shone upon
the armor of a gallant company which journeyed in brilliant array along
a bye-road leading thro’ a wide and shadowy forest.
Near the head of the company, on a stout black steed, rode a tall,
stalwart man, full six feet high, broad shouldered, in form, with a
stern, weather beaten countenance. His long white hair, escaping from
beneath his helmet, the vizor of which was raised, fell upon his
mail-clad shoulders, and his beard, frosted by time and battle toil,
swept over the iron plate that defended his muscular chest.
On either side rode his Esquires, mounted on horses dark and stout, as
that of their knight commander. They were brothers, and side by side had
fought in a thousand battles.
Both tall, muscular, and dark featured; both having dark eyes, dark
shaggy brows, stiff hair and beard of the same dark hue, they were known
among the ranks of the crusaders as the twin brothers--the brave Esquire
Damian, and the gallant Esquire Halbert.
Hard matter it were to tell one from the other, so much they looked
alike, had it not been that the visage of Damian, was marked by a sword
wound, which extending from the right eyebrow, passed over his swarthy
forehead and terminated near the left temple; while a deep gash cut into
the right cheek of Halbert, served to distinguish him from his brother.
In front of the knight, the standard-bearer, mounted on a cream colored
steed, bore aloft a broad banner of azure. A winged leopard was pictured
on its folds, and the inscription read thus--_Grasp boldly and bravely
strike!_
In the rear of the gray haired warrior, a stout Englishman, riding on a
dappled gray, held on high a crimson banner, bordered by white, on which
was pictured a two-edged sword, having a long blade, and massy hilt. It
bore the motto--
_Hilt for Friend--Point for Foe._
Then, riding at their ease, came the men-at-arms arrayed from head to
foot in their armor of Milan steel; their lances were in their hands;
each shield hung at the saddle-bow, and each sword depended from the
belt of buff.
The gallant band might number an hundred thrice told.
Behind these soldiers come the varlets of the train, riding beside the
baggage wains, conveying the sick and wounded, who had endured the
burning sun of Palestine, the toil and dangers of the seas, and were now
returning to the land of their birth.
And there, riding before the baggage wains, four dark-skinned Moors,
mounted on prancing nags, led each man of them, a steed black as night,
at his bridle rein.
Untamed they were and wild; their eyes gave forth a gleam like the light
of the fire-coal; their necks were proudly arched; their manes flung
waving to the breeze. With a disdainful toss of their quivering
nostrils and a light and springing step, the barbs trod the earth as
gallantly as though they still swept over the desert plains of Araby.
_Linked with the chain of this wierd chronicle, by a strange decree of
Fate, these barbs, in the course of a few brief days, became the
Instruments of the fearful vengeance of Heaven._
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, as glancing over the long line of
men-at-arms, he gazed upon the Arab steeds,--“How the eye of Lord Julian
will glisten when he gazes upon yonder mettled barbs! I’ faith it makes
an old warrior’s heart beat, to look upon their arching crests, their
eyes of fire, and their skins, black as death.”
“A Paynim warrior gave these steeds in ransom for his freedom? Is that
the story Sir Geoffrey?” asked Halbert, “Infidel though he was, he gave
a most princely ransom.”
“Hast ever heard the strange legend which the Arabs tell, concerning
this race of steeds? They prize them, highly as their weight in gold,
red gold. It is said that in the olden time, when Arimanes was hurled
from his throne of Evil, by Ormaz, the Great Being of Good, the spirits
of his followers, accursed and doomed, sought refuge in the bodies of a
race of ebon-colored barbs, that scoured the plains of Araby with the
fleetness of the wind, herding together in the vast solitudes of the
desert, and untameable by man. At last, after a long lapse of centuries,
the most daring of the Arab-chiefs, secured and subjugated to the
control of man, two of these wild horses, from which sprung the race of
the Barbs of Arimanes, or Demon-Steeds. Yonder horses, prancing and
rearing in the grasp of the tawny Moors, are of this race. By my soul,
their flashing eyes give them some title to the name they bear--the
Barbs of Arimanes!”
“It joys a warrior’s heart to look upon their sinewy forms,” exclaimed
the Esquire Halbert, with a flashing eye.
“They are slender and graceful as the wild gazelle,” said Damian, “and
yet your stout war-horse of the north bears not fatigue or toil with a
better grace.”
“Damian,” said the stalwart knight, “Damian, art thou not sorrowed at
the thought of leaving the Holy Land--the glorious scene of so many
hard-fought frays? I trow we will all wish to be again in the midst of
the gallant mellay; shall we not pine for the rugged encounter with the
Paynim host--What sayst thou, Halbert?”
“He that leaves so brave a battle plain as is the land of the Holy
Sepulchre, without a sigh of regret, is unworthy of the lay of minstrel,
or love of ladye. For my part, I would all these truces were at the
devil!”
“I say amen to thy prayer, good brother.”
“Well, well, we shall soon reach the castle Di Albarone; we shall behold
our brave leader, the gallant Count Julian. By the body of God, it stirs
one’s blood to think of his charge, that ever mowed down the Paynim
ranks as though a thunderbolt had smote them! St. George! but I have
seen glorious days.”
“By’r Lady, but I have a sneaking fear that the wound of the Count may
prove fatal.”
“Fatal?” shouted Sir Geoffrey, in a voice of thunder. “Fatal? Say it not
again, Halbert! Fatal, indeed! By my troth, Lord Julian Di Albarone,
shall again lead _armies_ to battle.”
“I wonder,” said Damian, “I wonder if that skulking half brother of the
Count, still lives? I mean, he who accompanied the Lord Julian to the
Holy Land, some score of years since. How was he styled? eh, Halbert?”
“ALDARIN, I think they called him. Sir Geoffrey, hadst not a quarrel
with the bookworm? Didst not strike him before the Count at Jerusalem,
in the presence of all the princes of Christendom?”
“Tush, a mere trifle! I mind it no more than I would the spurning of a
peevish cur. But see! What have we here? Two wayfarers. Ha! one seems
like a disbanded soldier! Spur forward, my merry men! They may tell us
of our whereabouts: they may give us some news of Albarone. Spur
forward!”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE STUDENT AND THE FAIR STRANGER.[3]
The bell of the convent of St. Benedict struck the hour of noon, when a
young man, attired after the manner of a student, or Neophyte of the
monastic order, was slowly wending his way along the path that led to
the cottage on the hill, while on his arm, there hung a youth of a
slender yet graceful figure and with calm, mild features, shaded by
locks of golden hair.
Tall, sinewy, and well-proportioned in form, the face of the Student was
marked by features bold and decisive in their expression; his blue eye
was full of thought, and his forehead, high and massive, shaded by the
cap of velvet, gave the idea of a mind powerful, energetic, and formed
to rule.
His hair fell in clustering locks of gold over his neck and shoulders;
his plain tunic of dark velvet descended to his knees, revealing a
doublet of like material and color, worn underneath, fitting closely to
his manly form; while his throat was enveloped by a simple collar of
snow-white lace.
His companion wore a neat doublet of light blue, fitting close around
the neck, scarce allowing the pretty ruffle that circled the fair throat
to be seen, and reaching half way down the leg, it was gathered around
the slender waist by a girdle of plain doe skin. His light hair was
covered by a hat, with the rim drawn up to the crown on one side, and
slouching upon the other, while it was topped by delicate white plumes,
fastened by a diamond broach.
Winding amid the fragrant shrubbery that enclosed the path, the student
and his companion attained the top of the hill, and passing through the
small garden, they presently stood before the neat cottage, which,
shadowed by a spreading beech on one side, meeting the foliage of a
leafy chesnut on the other, was overrun in front by a fragrant vine,
that clomb over the timbers of the doorway, and twined round the
solitary casement; the broad green leaves quivering in the beams of the
sun, and the trumpet-shaped flowers swinging to and fro in the wooing
air.
The student tapped at the door. It was opened by a woman somewhat
advanced in life, attired in the dress of a peasant, yet with a cross of
ebony strung from her neck. Her look was somewhat severe and stern, her
demeanor was commanding, and her figure still retained some remains of
youthful beauty.
She started as she opened the door, and an unfinished word burst from
her lips.
“Ah! Adr--tush! Leone, I mean--thou art early home to-day, my son.”
“Mother,” said the student, “this is my fellow scholar Florian, son to
the Baron Diarmo of Florence. In yonder convent we pursue our studies in
one apartment side by side. An hour since, as we strolled through the
gardens adjoining the convent, my friend missed his footing, and
severely bruised his ancle. Our home being nearer than the convent, I
thought I could not do better then bring him hither. I need not commend
him to thy care.”
“Thou art welcome fair sir,” the dame replied, with a kindly smile.
“Enter our abode; ’tis humble, yet ’tis sacred, for the bounty of the
convent bestows it upon my son and me, while he is preparing for the
priesthood. Come in, gentle Florian.”
They entered the cottage, and the door was closed.
No sooner had they disappeared than something rustled in the bushes and
the bow-legged vagabond, Francisco, emerged into the light.
“Oh--ho!” he cried, “here’s a mystery. The convent allow old Mistress
Vinegar-face to reside on their land, in their cottage, while her son is
preparing for the priesthood! A likely story, by’r lady! I see it
all--’tis as I suppose--these two striplings, are those, for whom such
an immense reward has been offered in the neighboring towns and
villages. Will not gold line my pouch as well as any other wight’s--eh?
Via! Francisco! Vagabond no longer, but henceforth Signor Francisco!
Via!”
Thus saying, he walked away with folded arms and a gigantic stride; and
as he stalked away, the tall Dollabella, the red-haired Theresa, and
black-eyed Loretta appeared from the bushes on the other side of the
cot, and, bursting into a loud laugh, they tripped after the swelling
“vagabond.”
Meanwhile, within the cot, resting on a cushioned seat, the gentle
Florian submitted his foot to the hands of the dame, who drew off the
shoe and stocking, and applied ointment to the bruise; remarking, at the
same time, that the foot was one of the smallest, and the ancle one of
the prettiest in the wide world.
The student glanced at Florian, and smiled.
“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent. Methinks it were better
for gentle Florian to rest him here awhile. I will return anon, and
accompany my fellow scholar along the shores of the lake to the
monastery.”
He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed. Looking up into the
rosy face, and catching the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest
youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the dressing of the wound:
“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble tenement with thy
presence for the night, thou canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it
were best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”
“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in a voice as sweet as
infancy.
“_Lady_, say’st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”
Florian blushed.
“Nay, pardon me--I meant no offence. Indeed, it seemed--”
The youth paused, while the blush deepened on his cheek.
“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leone’s room. Mayhap thou wouldst
like to repose thee awhile.”
Florian followed her into a small apartment, with a window toward the
east, a neat bed in one corner, a crucifix upon the wall, and a table,
on which lay a missal of devotion.
The dame retired.
Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and drew the bolt. Then seating
himself upon the bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears
stole between the fair fingers, fast and bright, like drops of sunlit
rain.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE.
THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE GATE ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL OF A
STRANGE TRUMPET.[4]
“Well-a-day! It’s a sad thing to dwell in this lonely place, now that
all of the ancient house are dead and gone!”
“‘_Dead and gone_,’ sir huntsman! Where didst learn to shape thy words?
The Count Aldarin lives!”
“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a right quiet time we peaceful
folks have had for a day or so past. Here, have we no boisterous
merriment; no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret awakes the silence
of these walls; no runlets of wine flow in the beaders of the banquet
hall. All is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for’t!”
“Such quiet and such stillness, i’ faith! Why, man, you cannot walk
along the solitary corridors of the castle, without trembling at your
own starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by the plague--all its
living folk carried to the grave-yard, leaving old Death to take care of
deserted chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard of
Albarone, and ask your heart--if heart you have--whether a plague has
not swept this place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul to look
upon these lonesome walls!”
“And I--look ye, gossips--I, Griseldea, tire-woman of my Ladye Annabel,
have never damosel or dame, for two score long years--I am two score and
six years, come next Mass o’ Christ, not an hour more, i’ faith--I have
never, for two score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do now! In
my Ladye’s bower lie her garments of price; the tunic of blue and gold
which she wore in her happy days; the white plume that once drooped over
her fair brow, the snow-white bridal dress--all, all are there! But
where is my Ladye Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful days!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Tell me, good folk, are ye paid to howl in chorus?
Hugo, didst ever hear such growling?”
“Faith, they do growl, somewhat like a herd of untamed bears! Yet,
Balvardo, bethink thee--there’s reason for’t. W-h-e-w! When I think of
the queer things that have chanced within these few days, I might
wonder, I might growl; yes, Balvardo, I might growl, I might wonder!”
“Here, for three long days, since my lord of Florence left the castle,
have we seen no sight of the Count Aldarin,” exclaimed the
huntsman.--“Mayhap he has buried himself alive--mayhap he has gone up to
heaven, or more likely he has gone to--’s life, what a stitch in my
side!”
“Softly, softly, sir huntsman, softly! Wise folk speak not lightly of
the Count Aldarin. The rope on yonder gibbet swings loosely in the
summer wind--thy neck may be the first to stretch its fibres!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk, yet it does seem queer when one comes to think of
it! Not three days ago, it was nothing but ‘_saddle me your horses,
scour every road, bring back the traitor Guiseppo, and hew off his
caitiff head!_ _Now_--blood o’ th’ Turk, it puzzles me!’”
“_Now_, sir Balvardo, the word is: ‘_Pay all respect to Guiseppo; honor
the youth as myself--he is dear to me in blood, dear to me in heart,
honor Guiseppo, he rules the castle in my absence_.’”
“Sancta Maria!” cried the ancient tire-woman. “Tell me, gossip, tell me,
sir huntsman, how came this about?”
“Not two nights agone, there enters the castle gate, a wandering palmer,
clad in rags. Not satisfied with asking alms at the hall door, he must
wander along the corridors of the castle, and prowl around the door of
the cell where the damsel Rosalind is imprisoned. My Count Aldarin’s
suspicions are roused: he flings the beggar’s robes from the palmer’s
face, and we all behold the--trim page Guiseppo!”
“Wonder of all wonders! Now, I’ll never be astonished again in all my
life!”
“Not even if any one should chance to believe the story of thy age,
which thou art wont to tell! Hugo, look at gossip tire-woman, how her
eyes are dropping from their sockets!”
“There stood the page Guiseppo--there stood the Count Aldarin! Nice
group--eh! Axes and gibbets were the mildest things in our thoughts,
when my lord takes the page by the hand, smiles kindly, and leads him
away. An hour passes: the supper is spread in the banquet hall: my Lord
Aldarin appears, and with him comes Guiseppo, clad in garments of
cost--”
“And then comes the word: ‘_Pay Sir Guiseppo all respect--honor him as
myself_.’ Is’t not so good gossip?”
“By my huntsman’s word, it is even so! Now tell me, sir sentinels,
waiting at the castle gate, while the Count Aldarin is buried in the
depths of the earth, sir Hugo and Balvardo, sir steward and dame
Griseldea, all of ye servitors of Albarone, is not this matter enough
for a nine day’s wonder? By’r Lady, I never heard the like!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk, ’tis wonderful!”
“W-h-e-w! ’Tis passing strange!”
“Hist--Hugo! What sound is that? ’Tis like the tramp of war steeds!”
“Hark! The peal of a trumpet! This is wondrous.”
And for a single moment the strangely contrasted group gathered at the
castle gate, in the mild evening hour, stood motionless as statutes,
with the light of the setting sun falling over each face and figure.
There was Hugo, with his vacant face and sinister eye, clad like his
comrade, Balvardo of the beetle brow, in glittering armor of Milan
steel, each standing breast to breast, as, with pikes half raised, they
listened to the trumpet peal swelling from the distance. There was the
bluff huntsman of the castle, his rugged visage affording a striking
contrast to the sharp features of the ancient steward, and the thin,
withered countenance of the tire-woman, standing near him, while all
around were clustered the servitors of Albarone, their gay liveries
flashing in the light of the setting sun.
“Hark, Balvardo! The trumpet peal swells louder. I hear the trampling of
an hundred steeds. Up, up to the tower of the castle gate, and tell us
what is to be seen!”
Balvardo hastily disappeared, and while the group clustered round the
lofty pillar awaited the result of his observations with the utmost
suspense, ascended to the tower by a staircase built in the massive
wall.
“What dost see, comrade?” shouted Hugo; “The trumpet peal grows louder,
and I hear the tramp of war steeds pattering along the road to the
castle gate. What dost see, Balvardo?”
“I see a strange sight, i’faith! Horsemen issue from the shadow of the
wood toward Florence--horsemen arrayed in strange robes, black as night.
I count one, two, three,--by my life, there’s thirteen o’ them, all
mounted on cream-colored steeds!”
“Are they men-at-arms? Bear they a pennon at their head?”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk, I see no men-at-arms! They are clad in long robes,
that fall sweeping almost to the very ground. Their robes are black as
the death-pall, yet are they faced with a goodly border of glittering
gold. Now the wind sweeps the robe of the foremost horseman aside. By my
sword, he is clad in the attire of a paynim dog! Loose, flowing
garments, with a belt of curious embroidery, while a dark turban
surmounts his swarthy form.”
“Ride they towards the castle?”
“They ride forward two abreast; the tall figure rides at their head.
Tramp, tramp--God send they be not wizards in disguise! A new wonder,
comrade; one of the party spurs his horse to the front--he is speeding
toward the castle gate! Blood o’ th’ Turk, he holds a trumpet in his
grasp.”
“A trumpet, Balvardo? This should be the herald of the companie.”
“He rides up the hill, he reins his steed on the very edge of the moat.
Hark, how his trumpet peals!”
And while the shrill and piercing sound of the trumpet broke on the air,
the group listening beside the castle gate were startled by the sound of
a measured footstep.
With one start they turned in the direction of the sound, and beheld the
person of the new comer.
He was a young cavalier, with a smooth face, unvisited by beard, yet
stamped with the marks of premature and sudden experience, while his
slender form, clad in a jewelled doublet, was half hidden by the folds
of a sweeping robe of purple, that fell from his shoulders, varied by a
border of snow-white ermine.
“It is _him_--the page Guiseppo,” murmured the huntsman. “Mark ye, how
changed he looks! His arms folded, and his merry face clad in a frown.
Well-a-day! The world is all bewitched, or I’m no sinful man!”