his new title? ‘My Lord Guiseppo, Baron of Masserio’--nephew of the
Count Aldarin. Masserio is the name of one of the smaller baronies
annexed by my lord of Florence, to the domains of Albarone. ’Tis said
’twas confiscated to the state, because its master meddled with the
strange Order of the Steel, whose fame has been in our ear for these
four months past.”
“Sir sentinel, canst tell me what means this peal of trumpet, this
clamor at the gates of Albarone?”
As Guiseppo advanced and spoke, every one in the group was impressed to
the very heart with the change that had so lately passed over the
appearance and manner of the page. A score of years could not have added
more solemnity to his visage, or given a more deep-toned sternness to
his voice.
In a moment the Lord Guiseppo--such is now his title--was possessed of
the cause of the clamor at the castle-gate, and was about to speak, when
the trumpet peal ceased, and the clear bold voice of the herald, broke
upon the air.
“Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone! My master salutes the gallant
knight and craves entrance into the shelter of his goodly castle! Peace
to the Lord Julian of Albarone!”
“Be thy master, the Paynim Mahound himself, or the Devil his father--”
rang out the hoarse tones of Balvardo, from the tower above--“He is a
few days behind old Death in his salutation. Lord Julian of Albarone
sleeps in the Charnel-House.”
“Then Sir Warder of the castle-gate, by thy soldierly courtesy, I pray
thee inform me--doth his brother, the Scholar Aldarin yet live?”
“The _Count Aldarin_ reigns _Lord of Albarone_.”
“Then I pray thee, bear the salutations of my master to the Count
Aldarin, and with his greeting bear this scroll!”
“S’ life--here’s a net for a man to tangle his feet with!” the group
below heard the growling words break from Balvardo--“My Lord
Guiseppo”--he exclaimed aloud, looking from the window of the
tower--“What answer shall I make to this Wizard Herald of yon Paynim
band!”
A sudden contortion passed over the features of Guiseppo, he raised his
hand wildly to his brow, and trembled as he stood beside the
castle-gate. The spasm-like expression that passed over his face, was
scarce human in its meaning, and the spectators started back with a
sudden fear. There are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre by
the fierce war of contending emotions, when the heart struggles with the
brain, while the reason totters, and the intellect reels on its throne.
A contest wild as this; seemed warring between the heart and brain of
Guiseppo, the new created Lord of Masserio.
“One moment, good Balvardo--Hugo, I am faint--some wine, I prithee!”
Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo, and in a moment the Lord
of Masserio, found himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within the
confines of the lower chamber of the Warder’s Tower, while Hugo stood
motionless before him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.
“Thanks, good Hugo--retire a moment, and I will be my own man again--let
me think,” he muttered in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired--“Its
like a dream--and yet the reality presses on my brain like a weight of
lead. I feel no joy in my lordship. Three little days--Saints of
Heaven--behold the change! Three days ago, a poor Page, journeyed with a
band of gallant soldiers! He disappeared, no one save himself knew
whither. He came to this castle in his Palmer’s rags and perilled his
life to rescue his Ladye-love. He was discovered--he already beheld the
object of omen, held above his head--he expected the axe--and Sancta
Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet. _His_ son--_his_ son!
Great God how dark the mystery! My brain whirls--the wine, ha, ha--the
wine.”
“Sir Sentinel”--arose the voice of the Herald without--“Wilt thou bear
this scroll to the Lord Aldarin?”
“And _she_ is yet imprisoned! _He_ my father! As God lives I’m bound to
stand by him to the death! Robin’s story--is it, is it true? The dark
hints of the men-at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffrey--might not this
trumpet peal serve to unravel their meaning? The wine gives me nerve--my
brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel--must I desert their cause?
Methinks I feel my heart strings crack, at the very word! And _he_ is my
father; _he_ loads me with favors, burdens me with kindness--” the half
crazed Guiseppo looked around the confined chamber with a fixed and
steady eye--“_I will stand by my father Aldarin to the death_”.
“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous--For the last time, wilt
thou bear the scroll?”
“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle gate--“spoke the
determined voice of Lord Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering
manner he issued from the lower chamber of the Warden’s Tower--“Call the
men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of the
castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently yet hastily hither! Away
Hugo--and thou Sir Huntsman! Let it be done without delay.
Balvardo--mark ye, when I give the word let the drawbridge be lowered
and the portcullis raised. We shall see what manner of men are these
strangers--the Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their scroll!”
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE.
“IBRAHIM BEN MALAKIM SALUTES HIS BROTHER ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.”
The beams of the declining day, glanced gaily thro’ the arched windows
of the Red-chamber, and the Count Aldarin paced with a hurried step
across the marble floor, and his chest rose and fell, and his cheek
flushed and paled, and now his voice was choked by rage, and again it
was clear and deep-toned with hate.
“Baffled! and by whom? my own child. I have laid schemes--I have
planned, I have plotted, and all for Annabel--my daughter. And she
returns me--contempt and scorn. If, within the bowels of the earth,
there is a place of torture, a boundless, illimitable and ever burning
hell--if within the fire of the stars, there is written a Doom for the
Damned, then to the very hell of hell, then to the very Doom of the
Damned, have I sold myself, and all for thee, my daughter! What! a
tear?--Shall I play the woman?--No--I will brace me up!--I will show the
world the power of one who hates the whole accursed race. There was a
time when I could weep, aye and talk of feeling and prate of the
tenderness and humanity with any of them!--They gave me scorn, they
heaped insult upon me!”
He looked around as tho’ he would compass the whole human race with his
glance, and an expression of demoniac hate came over his features while
he whispered between his clenched teeth.
“_Have I paid the debt?_ Ha! ha! Let those who wronged me answer. _Have
I paid the debt?_ The man never lived who struck the meek Scholar and
saw another sun. Not one! not one!--Nay there was one. He scorned me
before the Princes of Christendom--it was at Jerusalem--I gave him scorn
for scorn--with his mailed hand he struck me to the floor! I swore
revenge--the steel was false, the dagger failed, but on his life and
heart have I wreaked vengeance, such as man never wreaked before! The
revenge of Aldarin must not be fed with the blood of his foe? No--by the
fiend--no! But with the very life drops of his soul! My victim fights
for the glory of Albarone. Little does he dream who now doth rule the
ancient house.--Miserable fool, he toils and wars far in Palestine--he
toils--he wars for _me_! _Me!_ his ancient, his sworn and unrelenting
foe! _Ha! whence is that noise? Ha! ha! Surely it is not a groan from
yon couch?_”
Pausing for a moment, he eagerly listened, and again he spoke.
“Let me gather my thoughts. Let me nerve my soul for the trial of this
night. The stake I hold in my hand is a fearful one--the hand that would
grasp the very secrets of the grave, the weird mysteries of Old Death,
should never tremble.”
He paced the floor yet more hurriedly, and was silent for a few moments.
“_It is the very night!_” he exclaimed, after a pause of intense
thought. “_The grand problem upon which I have bestowed my youth--my
mind--my soul--my all--will soon be solved. This very night completes
the thrice seven years. For thrice seven years has the beechen flame
burned beneath the alembic, in my laboratory; in war, in difficulty, in
danger, and in death, has the azure flame still burned on with undying
lustre. Unbounded wealth is mine!_ IMMORTAL LIFE.
“In after-time, when long, long, centuries have passed away, men will
speak of the glory, the mystery--and perchance the crime--that encircled
the life of Aldarin the Scholar! And as the cheek of the listener grows
pale, I--I--will be there, also a listener and to the story of my own
fate! Aldarin will be there, but oh, how changed! Aldarin, no longer
weak, trembling, bent with age--but Aldarin, young and glorious, with
the signet of eternal youth and power stamped upon his unfading brow!
“Gold, gold, the talisman that rules the soul of man, gold that buys
wisdom from the sage, Heaven from the priest, life from the leech, honor
from the mighty, and virtue from woman, GOLD will be mine.”
Turning aside, Aldarin drew forth from a recess in the walls, a
parchment scroll richly illuminated, and covered with characters in the
Arabic tongue. He drew near the casement, and unclosed this scroll to
the light of the declining day, gazing upon the dark characters while a
singular agitation pervaded the lineaments of his face.
It was the Book of his Belief--in which he had long ago written his
ideas of God and Man. Shall we look into these wierd pages, even for a
moment, and learn the nature of the Theology which gave shape and
purpose to the life of Aldarin? We will glance at a single page of
THE BIBLE OF ALDARIN.
I. Who shall describe the incomprehensible Power, which gives life
and motion to the Universe?
II. An Almighty Intellect, dwelling in the solitudes of infinite
space, and yet pervading all Nature, guiding by his silent and
overshadowing will, the courses of the stars, the fate of empires,
and the destinies of men, living for ever, the commencement of his
being, dated by a past eternity, the duration of his existence,
bounded by a future eternity, He is the SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE.
III. Men have blasphemed this Universal Soul, with their vain
titles. They have mocked Him with vainer creeds. They have
enshrouded this simple Idea with a multitude of cumbrous
falsehoods. They have buried it in the Charnel house of festering
superstitions. Yet the Idea has survived, and lived, despite all
these systems of error. It can never die. It is written on the
heart of the new-born child, and cannot be erased, until you
destroy the body and kill the Soul of that child. Whether adored in
the shape of an obscene reptile--as in ancient Egypt--or in the
form of a marble image--as in Greece and Rome--the Soul of the
World is still worshipped, as the fountain of all life and motion;
his Thoughts the deeds of the Universe.
IV. The Soul, from time to time, and at long intervals, has
enshrined his Being in flesh, and walked the earth in the form of
living man, and appeared among men,--the Incarnate Universe.
V. As the sun gives forth light, and is not deprived of a single
ray, so the Universal Soul, sends abroad, beams of his existence,
which are at once, portions of his glory and eternity. These beams
of the Soul, are clad in forms of flesh, they walk the earth, they
share in the temptations and disquietudes of mankind. Or, they are
Spirits, invisible to the gross senses of clay, and yet dwelling on
the earth and sharing in the destinies of its people. Are they clad
in humanity? Then their knowledge of their Eternal Source is dim,
undefined, and only felt by broken gleams. Sometimes that Knowledge
comes upon them in all its power; they feel they know, that they
are of the Almighty Intellect, beams of his brightness and
pulsations of his heart. When this Consciousness bursts upon them,
they are men no longer, but Leaders of the human race, and are
known among men, as Prophets, Apostles and Redeemers.
VI. Even in their worst state, when most beclouded by the appetites
and misfortunes of flesh, these Souls, born of the Universal Soul,
retain a consciousness, however dim, of their origin, a glimpse,
vague as it may be, of their destiny, and a portion, of the might
of their Creator and Father.
VII. All men are not of the Almighty Soul, nor does every bosom
throb with a pulsation of the Universal Heart.
VIII. Look abroad over the multitudes of mankind. Survey the Camp,
the Court, the Cloister. Traverse the world of humanity from the
kennel to the palace. What do you behold?
IX. Yonder, by a river shore, an army marches, its ten thousand
spears flashing in the sunlight. Without a Leader, whose Soul is
the Soul of these ten thousand men, this army is powerless; it is
but ten thousand isolated links of a broken Chain. That Leader is a
Ray from the Soul of the Universe; a Ray beclouded by the gory mist
of carnage, yet still a Beam of the Eternal Sun.
X. Go to the Palace. There is a King there, who sits upon a golden
throne, and drinks in the idolatry of cringing Courtiers, and
arrays his form, in a garment, whose very tinsel has been purchased
with the life blood of at least, a thousand men. This King rules an
empire, levies taxes, makes war and peace, holds life and death in
the hollow of his hand. He is only a Mock King after all; for as
you gaze more attentively upon the source and machinery of his
power, you will behold, far back in the shadows of his throne, some
Monk with a tonsured forehead, or some Scholar with a withered
face, and in the Monk or the Scholar, you in truth, recognize the
Real King. For the Monk, and the Scholar are beams of the Almighty
Intellect, darkened by sophistries or ferocious with superstition
yet still Pulsations of the Universal Heart.
XI. One third of the world bows at the foot of the Cross. Another
third worships a Crescent. The last third gives its adoration to
images and creeds, as various as the faces of men.
XII. Dive into your heart and seek the Cause of all this. Do you
find it in the magnificent temples; the armies of hired priests,
the volumes of Cumbrous rituals? This is the manifestation of the
Cause, or the corruption of the Cause, but not the Cause itself.
Seek deeper. You will find that this Cross is adored, because ten
Centuries and more ago, a Carpenter’s Son, felt the full
consciousness of his origin, even as he toiled in the workshop,
beside his peasant father. The Soul of that Carpenter’s Son, born
of the Almighty Intellect, lives even yet, although its purity may
be darkened by the Corruptions of earth-born Souls, and its power,
manacled by ten thousand arms and appetites of flesh and blood. And
thus, the Crescent is a symbol of the faith of millions, because
some centuries ago, an Arabian camel-driver, even amid the sand and
stars of a trackless desert, felt that he was a part of Eternity.
Track the other religions, to their sources, and you will find that
Beams of the Universal Soul, have appeared in forms of flesh, and
passed away, leaving no record but their system or their creed.
XIII. Wherefore is there evil in the World? Wherefore does Good
always entwine itself with evil? Wherefore does the Simple religion
of the Carpenter’s Son, which said, hundred of years ago, that all
of truth was written in the words, Do unto others as you would have
others do unto you, now hide and bury itself, under the feet of
Popes, priests and monks, who say by their deeds, We do unto others
as we would not have them do unto us?
XIV. It is a terrible question. Search your heart again. Question
the Seers of immemorial time. Descend into the Charnel. Ask an
answer from Death itself. Gather your soul within itself until the
Spirits of the Other World speak to you.
XV. There is an answer to your question. Let us behold it. While
the Universal Soul dwells Supreme, there lives another Power in the
Universe. This Power is not eternal, and yet his existence appears
like an Eternity when compared with the years of earth. He is not
Omnipotent, and yet when compared with a mortal arm, HIS arm seems
to be invested with Almighty Power. He lived before earth was born;
he will live when earth and its creations are dead. He is at once
the FOE and the INFERIOR of the SUPREME SOUL. He has been ever, at
war with his Master he has defied his power, confounded his
Almighty Good with Evil, and marred the beauty of his works. This
inferior has been known by various names but a simple title,
expresses at once, his name and his nature.
XVI. He is the SOUL OF EVIL.
XVII. Behold a wonderous truth.
When the UNIVERSAL SOUL, first imparted a portion of his being to
living forms, or, forms of flesh and blood, the SOUL OF EVIL,
marred his work, by creating other forms, unto whom he gave a part
of his own malignant life, impulse and destiny.
XVIII. Do not hesitate. There is yet a more wonderous truth. These
forms, in which the SOUL OF EVIL, embodied a portion of his being,
resembled the forms, in which the UNIVERSAL SOUL, diffused beams of
his light and eternity.
XIX. Through countless ages, the beings, born of Almighty
Intellect, warred with the beings, created by the Soul of evil.
XX. At last, the children of eternity, clothed in flesh and blood,
mingled their lives and lives, with the offspring of the evil
Soul,--doomed to annihilation,--who were also clothed in flesh and
blood.
XXI. The earth, on which we live was peopled by the generations of
this mingled race; a race composed of Good and Evil, of Eternity
and Death.
XXII. In these words, given above, all the mysteries of life, are
explained.
XXIII. Wonder no longer at the perpetual paradox, presented in all
ages by the human race. It is true that Good and Evil, fight an
eternal battle, in the heart of man. It is true, that the basest
have some consciousness of their Divine Origin; and that the best,
have some throbbings, to remind them of an infernal paternity.
Could it be otherwise? Man is made up, of two elements; he is the
Child of two distinct races. One is the race of Light and Eternity;
the other of Dark and Death.
XXIV. There have been men, whose entire nature, has been formed
from the race of the Evil Soul. They have been called, Monsters, by
their fellow men, and their name, has passed into a Curse.
XXV. There has also been men, whose entire nature, has been formed
from the race of the UNIVERSAL SOUL. They are called, Angels,
Demi-gods, by their fellow men, and their name is a Blessing.
XXVI. Search into your own heart. Ponder--reflect--look deeper.
Digest these few plain truths, examine their proportions, as you
would measure the exactness of a pyramid.
XXVII. Do you not discover the source of all the creeds, which have
divided mankind?
XXVIII. Do you not discover the Key to the great mystery of the
Universe?
And beneath all this was written----
“_The Spirit of Jehovah is upon me to preach good tidings to the
poor, sight to the blind, peace to them that are bruised----and to
all men_ THE ACCEPTABLE YEAR OF THE LORD.”
The last sentence, written not in Arabic but in Hebrew, and written by
another hand then his own, filled Aldarin with inexplicable emotion.
“If these words spoken by the Nazarene are true, then is my whole life a
lie,” he said, and retired into the shadows of the Red-Chamber.
When he came toward the declining light once more, his brow was
strangely troubled.
“How strange has been the course of my life! Let me gaze backward over
the dark path I have trodden. This night thrice seven long years
ago--amid the gloom of the Syrian battle plain, a dark-eyed Arabian gave
me in ransom for his life, the book of his race, which he dared not
read. And there, in that lone hour, as midnight gathered over the corses
of the dead, did he sware by the Eternal Flame of the Fire-worshipper,
that in body or in soul, he would be with my heart, and by my side this
very night. THE BOOK spoke in words of fire of the secret, and--and--by
my soul I have heard no message from the Arab Prince for three long
years. He can not, will not fail me now!”
The door of the Red-Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the Lord
Guiseppo hastily advanced, with an expression of deep gloom stamped on
his brow. He held a scroll of parchment in his extended hand.
“Ha! My Lord Guiseppo, son of mine. I greet thee! Hast thou any message
for me?”
“A strange man clad in Paynim costume, attended by a train of twelve,
attired strangely as himself, wait at the castle gate. He sends his
greeting and this simple scroll.”
“A strange man clad in Paynim costume”--murmured Aldarin in a
whispering tone--“A scroll! Give it me, Guiseppo--Ha! What words are
these--_Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim salutes his brother, Aldarin the Scholar!_”
A warm flush like a sudden glow of sunshine passed over the face of
Aldarin, his eye gleamed and brightened until it seemed burning its
socket, and the Scholar stood for a moment agitated and motionless.
“Guiseppo!” he shouted in a voice of thunder as he turned towards the
youthful Lord--“Away, away, to the castle gate and answer the giver of
this scroll with the words--Aldarin greets his brother Ibrahim!”
“And then my Lord Aldarin”--
“Lead the stranger to my presence!”
And while Guiseppo turned to obey the behest of the Scholar, the Count
Aldarin, strode with a hurried step along the floor of the Red Chamber,
with his arms folded and his head drooped low upon his breast.
There was a long pause of absorbing thought.
“He comes--he comes, with the last scroll of THE BOOK! He comes with the
Charm, which in the hands of Aldarin shall wake the dead! When the last
scroll is read, when the last charm is spoken, then, then, Aldarin lives
forever! And Ibrahim--ha, ha, ’twere but fair that the blood of the
Priest, who first awoke this Idea within my bosom, should mingle with
the blood of the victims, slain at the shrine of the awful Thought.”
A dark and meaning smile passed over the lip of Aldarin, and again he
communed with his own thoughts.
A footstep sounded through the ante-chamber; in a moment the stranger,
tall and majestic, stood before the Scholar.
“Ibrahim gives peace and joy to Aldarin!”
“Peace and joy to Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim!”
As thus they saluted each other, in the Arabian tongue the native
language of the one, and the familiar study of the other, Aldarin
advanced and gazed upon the stranger.
His face was most impressive.
Regular in feature, dark and tawny in hue, the countenance of the
stranger was marked by a high forehead, thick and bushy eye-brows white
as snow, giving a strange effect to the glance of the full dark eyes,
that looked forth from beneath their shadow: a compressed lip, half
hidden by the venerable beard, that well-nigh covered his rounded chin
and dark brown cheeks, and descended to his breast in waving locks,
frosted by age and toil. A cap of sable fur surmounting his forehead,
imparted a striking relief to the visage of the Arabian.
His attire was simple and majestic. A mantle or robe of black cloth,
gathered around the throat, by a chain of gold, with a collar of
snow-white fur, fell in long folds to his knees, bordered by lace of
gold. As the robe waved suddenly aside from his commanding frame, it
might be seen that the tunic which gathered around his form, was
fashioned of the finest velvet glistening white in color, with a border
of strange and mystic characters, his legs were encased in dark hose,
and slouching boots of doe-skin, glittering with the knightly spur of
gold.
“Thou art changed, Ibrahim!”
“And _thou_ Aldarin!”
There was a long pause, while the Scholar and the Arab Prince perused
each others features. When they again spoke it was in the rich Arabian
tongue, each word a word of fire, each sentence a thought of wild
enthusiasm.
“Twenty-one years, this very night, on the battle-plain amid the Syrian
wilds, an Arab prince owed his life to the intercession of Aldarin the
Scholar. He offered the Scholar gold for his ransom--the scholar refused
the proffered dust. Speak I the truth, Aldarin?”
“Thou dost!”