the light of a thousand torches, grasped by the mailed hands of
warriors, while the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms, gathered in one
dense and sombre multitude along the pavement of stone, rose clear and
distinctly in the ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a
forest in the air.
Aldarin looked from side to side--he passed his hand wildly over his
forehead, he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful dream.
It was no dream, Great God of Truth and Vengeance! it was no dream.
On every side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin; on every
side the frown of warlike visages met his gaze; and his glance was
returned by the ominous glare of a thousand eyes.
The spell broke--the reality sank down upon the soul of Aldarin.
His face was stamped with an expression that brought to the minds of the
gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal torment from the very
battlements of heaven. He extended his right arm with a wild gesture,
and clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting from the skin:
his lips parted; his jaw sank to his very breast, while his full gray
eye glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its glance from
side to side, dilating every moment, and flashing like a meteor.
“Ibrahim--Ibrahim--I am betrayed!” he shrieked, turning to the Arabian.
“Albarone to the rescue!”
He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing calm and erect beside
the altar of ebony. He advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand
to grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward with a howl of
despair whose emphasis of horror may not be described in words.
The snow-white beard, the gray hair, the white eye-brows, fell from the
tawny face of Ben-Malakim, and Aldarin beheld the visage of--_Albertine,
the Monk_.
Then it was that the soul of the old man sank within him, then it was
that he raised his trembling hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air,
while a wild yell of execration burst from the Phantom Band.
“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the gray-haired knight; “Behold
the murderer of your Lord!”
“Behold the brother-murderer!” shrieked the stout yeoman, standing at
the side of Sir Geoffrey. “These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the
foul embrace of murder!”
And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came pressing slowly and
solemnly on, glittering swords flashed in the light, and low muttered
cries of vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more close they
gathered, while Albertine stood silent and motionless regarding the
scene.
“The sands have fallen to within five minutes of the time!” madly
shrieked Aldarin. “The charm may yet be complete!”
He wildly turned from the advancing knights and yeoman, he turned
towards the Tabernacle, he heeded not the cries of execration that arose
on every side, he trembled not at the frown of the Demon-Form towering
far, far above.
He turned towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush within the folds
of the sable hangings, when he started back to the very breast of Sir
Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.
There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable tent, stood a
youthful form, clad in a dress of glittering white, his arms folded on
his breast, while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed fixedly at
the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed the night-wind played with the
floating locks of his golden hair.
“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted Aldarin, with a wild laugh of
joy, “your lord hath arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he stands,
calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and power on his brow! Ha--ha--ha!
I did--I did slay him! But I have raised him from the sleep of death!
Behold--ha, ha, ha!--behold!”
A breathless stillness followed his words.
“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’
Longsword, as he advanced, “thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di
Albarone.”
“The avenger of his father’s blood!” shouted the form, advancing to the
light. “Murderer, behold thy doomsman.”
Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and veiled his eyes in his
hands, while a sound like the death groan rattled in his throat. His was
no common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His bosom trembled not with
the throes of grief for the wife stolen by death, or the child torn from
his embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept were not visible tears,
pouring from his eyes along the furrowed cheek. No, no.
His soul wept within him, tears such as giant souls alone can weep, when
a mighty THOUGHT is slain, when the IDEA of a life is crushed.
“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shrieked Sir Geoffrey o’ th’
Longsword; “advance, and seize the murderer!”
Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul.
Three minutes of the last hour yet remained. The sands of the glass had
not yet fallen. That little shred of time gained, he might yet complete
the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be rewarded by the immortal
boon.
He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; yes, yes,
the proud and unrelenting Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern
floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees of the knight.
“Give me, give me but three minutes of life--three minutes alone, and
then ye may lead me to the death.”
The knight trembled: he had been prepared for scorn and defiance, but
not for tears.
For a moment he hesitated.
“Away with his magical pranks, away with his works of hell!” arose the
shout of the stout yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the tented
hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles which supported their folds.
“St. Withold! what infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I scatter
the magical fire--thus I overturn this coffin of iron! Gather around, ye
men of Albarone: scatter the works of this demon along the floor of the
cavern!”
It was the work of an instant.
While Sir Geoffrey trembled: while the monk Albertine stood beside the
altar of ebony, veiling his face in his hands; while even Adrian, the
son of the murdered, hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin
was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by Rough Robin, overturned the
coffin of iron, heated as it was to a white heat, and scattered the
embers of the fire over the floor. The nameless secret of the coffin he
concluded beneath the dark hangings of the Tabernacle.
Aldarin slowly arose to his feet. All emotion had vanished from his
face. Stern, calm, and fearless, he gazed around. He looked over the
vast expanse of the cavern roof, he marked the dread face of the DEMON
FORM towering far above, he gazed upon the hurrying forms and agitated
faces of the men-at-arms.
“Lead me, lead me to my death--” spoke the fierce tones of Aldarin the
scholar. “I scorn and defy ye all.”
Albertine, the monk, still clad in the dark robe and majestic attire of
Ibrahim Ben Malakim, strode suddenly to the side of the scholar, and
thrust a parchment roll in his hands.
“Man, I betrayed thee,” he whispered, in tones that attested his agony;
“Man, I betrayed thee, though my heart smote me in the act. Yet I will
not scorn thee in this thy final hour. The parchment, the
parchment--grasp it with a grasp like death; the phial, the phial!”
He turned, and continued in a loud voice, audible to the avengers:
“Sinner, receive this book of prayer; it may comfort thy final hour.”
Aldarin took the parchment, and calmly folded it to his bosom.
“I scorn ye all,” he shrieked. “I defy your vengeance, I dare the doom
ye would inflict. Aldarin fears not death.”
“To the gibbet with the murderer,” shouted Sir Geoffrey o’ th’
Longsword. “Aye, upon the same gibbet where blacken the forms of the
brave soldiers of Lord Julian, there let the miscreant expiate his
crimes.”
And the men-at-arms echoed the shout, until the vast cavern roof
resounded with the words of doom: “To the gibbet--to the gibbet with the
fratricide.”
In a moment the cavern was left to silence and eternal night.
Never since that fearful hour has human foot trode the funeral vaults of
Albarone.
Along dark passages, through subterranean corridors, and up tortuous
stairways, poured the flood of men-at-arms, bearing with them the
scholar and fratricide.
At last winding through the same passages traversed three hours agone by
Aldarin and Ibrahim, passing through the chemical laboratory, which has
never been disclosed to the eye of the reader, the crowd of avengers
reached the Round Room.
The altar was overturned, the books and parchments torn from the
shelves, yet the scholar quailed not, nor uttered word of lamentation.
Gloomy corridors were then traversed, massive stairways ascended, the
hall of the castle passed, and at last Aldarin emerged from the castle
door, and stood upon the slab of stone surmounting the flight of steps.
He gazed around, while the avengers came thronging at his back; and as
he gazed, the court-yard of the castle became the scene of a strange
spectacle.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
THE OATH.
THE VENGEANCE OF ALDARIN, THE SCHOLAR.
“It is a fair day, and the sun shines brightly. Ha--ha! The sky above is
clear, and the earth seems laughing with joy in the very face of day!”
Aldarin smiled as he spoke, and gazed above. It was the hour of early
dawn. The first beams of the sun shone over the eastern battlements of
the castle, mellowing the azure sky with their radiance, while the fresh
and balmy air of the summer morn fanned the burning forehead of the
Scholar. It was the last time he would behold the beams of the dawning
day; it was the last time his burning brow should be freshened by the
kiss of the morning breeze, and yet he smiled. Aldarin gazed around.
A yell of horror broke upon the summer air, and far along the court-yard
extended the living sea of men-at-arms, arrayed in their sable armor,
mingling with the vast crowds of the peasant vassals, all fired by the
same instinct of bloodshed. The beams of the rising sun shone over a
thousand maddened faces, as every voice swelled the shout of vengeance,
and every hand shook in the light some weapon of death and vengeance.
Look where he might, on every side, the gleam of flashing eyes met the
gaze of Aldarin; all along the court-yard the blackened mass swayed to
and fro, like the waves of the ocean in a storm; and again heaven gave
back to earth the combined yells of innumerable voices, mingling
together in that fearful sound--the shout of a vast body of men,
maddened and crazed by the impulse of carnage. “To the gibbet!” arose
that shout of doom. “To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!”
With one glance Aldarin surveyed the scene around him.
There, grouped along the steps of stone, stood the stout yeoman, his
brow wearing a steady frown, as, with his sword half drawn from the
scabbard, he gazed upon the face of Aldarin; there stood two figures
veiled in robes of sweeping sable, while--near his side--the erect form
and venerable face of the knight o’ th’ Longsword confronted the
Scholar.
“Sir knight,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a smile wreathing his pinched lip
“though ye are somewhat hurried in your work of doom, I would make one
brief request, ere I am borne hence. Is there no one in all this crowd
who will bear a message from me to my son, the Lord Guiseppo?”
“That will I,” exclaimed the sharp-featured steward of the castle,
advancing from the crowd. “Guilty thou mayst be, and thy hands stained
with a brother’s blood, yet the request of a dying man may not be
refused.”
“Give me the scroll.”
Aldarin bared the withered flesh of his left arm: he drew a poignard,
small and delicate in shape, from his girdle, and while the crowd looked
on in wonder and in fear, he stained the point of the stilletto with his
blood. Another moment passed, and with the dagger’s point, hurriedly
traced certain characters on a small slip of parchment which he also
drew from his girdle.
“Bear this away,” he shouted, “bear this away to the Lord Guiseppo, and
tell him that his father is on his way to the gibbet.”
“Man of blood and crime,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he
advanced to the side of Aldarin, “thy life has been full of dark and
fearful mystery; hast thou no dying words of repentance to speak, ere
the cord tightens round thy neck? It is not well to dare the presence of
God, with so much blood upon thy soul.”
Aldarin bowed his head low on his breast, and the bystanders whispered
one to the other that the dreaded old man was wrapt in thought.
“A confession I have to make--dying words of repentance I have to
speak,” exclaimed Aldarin, as he gazed upon the crowded castle yard.
“Thou dost remember, Sir Geoffrey, that twenty years ago we saw each
others faces in the wilds of Palestine?”
“I do, I do!” exclaimed the knight, as a mingled expression of bitter
memory and deep feeling passed over his wrinkled visage. “Twenty years
agone, we saw each other’s faces within the walls of Jerusalem.”
The sound of a hurried and uneven footstep broke upon the air, then a
wild shout echoed from the castle hall, and in an instant, the Lord
Guiseppo rushed from the hall door and confronted the Scholar Aldarin,
his face pale as death, his eyes rolling madly to and fro, while his
trembling right hand shook the parchment scroll above his head.
“This scroll, my father: what means its words of omen? Yon blackning
crowd--their looks of vengeance--what means it all, my father?”
Aldarin advanced, and flung his arms around the form of his son,
gathering him to his heart in the embrace of a father.
And as he gathered him to his heart, he whispered a few brief words in
the ear of the Lord Guiseppo, those words thrilled the youth to the very
soul; for his eye flashed brighter than ever, and his cheek grew more
deathly pale.
“Thy oath--thy oath!” hissed the hollow whisper of Aldarin.
Guiseppo turned suddenly round, he flung himself at the feet of Sir
Geoffrey, and looked up into his face with a voice of anguish, as he
shrieked.
“Spare my father--spare, oh! spare the weak old man!”
“Though the angels of God plead for his life, still must he die!”
“Then die, wronger and betrayer! Then die, midnight assassin and
ravisher! The spirit of my mother nerves my arm and points the steel!”
And as the words fell from his lips, ere an arm could be raised, or a
word of horror spoken, Guiseppo sprang to the very throat of the knight,
grasping his long gray hair with one hand, while with the other he
inserted the glittering dagger between the armor plates of his victim,
and drove the steel down from the left shoulder to the very heart.
It was the work of a moment; the lightning flash might not be swifter,
nor the thunderbolt more sudden.
One instant the spectators beheld the kneeling youth, and the warrior
waving his hand with stern determination, as he turned from the prayer
of mercy; the next moment their eyes were startled by the upraised
dagger, and the blow of vengeance.
The knight tottered heavily to and fro, looked vacantly around, and then
sank into the arms of Robin the Rough, with the haft of the dagger
protruding from the armor plates of his left shoulder.
“Father!” shrieked Guiseppo, shaking wildly above his head, the right
hand, the hand that winged the dagger. “Father, my mother is avenged;
behold the doom of the ravisher!”
“Thou hast done well!” spoke Aldarin, in a quiet, yet trembling tone,
while his lips wore an even smile. “Boy, thou hast done well! Now,
Guiseppo, read, read the pacquet--the pacquet in thy bosom.”
And while the horror-stricken spectators--Robin the Rough, the figures
in sable robes, the peasant-vassals, and the men-at-arms--remained awed
into a fearful silence by the scene,--the silence that ever precedes the
march of death,--Guiseppo thrust his hand within his bosom, drew the
pacquet from its resting place, and with his trembling fingers broke the
seal.
“Man of guilt and bloodshed,” exclaimed the dying knight, as he
convulsively placed his hands on the wound near his heart. “I am
dying--my heart grows cold, and mine eyes are dim--thy vengeance is
gratified; now, now, tell me--”
“Hadst thou ever a child, Sir Geoffrey,” interrupted Aldarin, advancing
to the side of the knight: “a fair-haired and soft-voiced boy, whose
smile was thy joy, whose presence was thy sunshine?”
“Speak, speak--what knowest thou of my boy?” gasped the dying knight, as
a look of agony passed over his face. “‘Tis sixteen years since I beheld
his face in the land of his birth, the city of Jerusalem. He was torn
from my embrace by an unknown hand.”
Aldarin looked around over the sea of faces, and smiled as he beheld a
peasant whetting his knife on the very stone on which he stood.
That smile of incarnate scorn seemed to break the spell of horror that
bound the multitude.
“To the gibbet, to the gibbet with the fratricide!” again rose the
fierce yell of vengeance, and the men-at-arms came crowding up the
steps, while a score of upraised daggers were about to drink the blood
of the doomed murderer, when Robin the Rough threw himself before the
object of their vengeance.
“Stain not your steel,” he shouted; “stain not your steel with traitor’s
blood; away to the castle gate with him! Let the dog die a dog’s death!”
And at the word, the Esquires Halbert and his gallant brother Damian
advanced from the crowd, and seizing Aldarin by the arms, they dragged
him down the steps of stone, while the multitude gave way on either
side, shrinking from the touch of a murderer, as one would shrink from
the garments of the plague-smitten.
“There is fire in my heart, there is hell in my brain!” arose a
tremulous voice, that was heard far along the castle yard, thrilling the
bystanders to the very soul. “God of mercy, it is, it is not true! The
parchment is a lie--a falsehood written by the very fiend of hell! I did
not--no, no, I did not--wing the _blow_ to _his_ heart! God of heaven
witness me, I raised not the steel for _his_ blood!”
And as the multitude, bearing Aldarin to his doom, heard that shrieking
voice, they looked back, and beheld the Lord Guiseppo standing over the
prostrate form of his victim, his face pale and colorless, his lip livid
as with the touch of death, while his eyes rolled their ghastly glance
over the faces of the crowd, and his arms hung palsied by his side, with
the fatal parchment quivering in the grasp of his trembling hand.
“FATHER, FATHER!” his shriek again arose on the air, as he knelt by the
side of his victim; “FATHER, THE MURDERER IS THY SON.”
The old man raised himself on one hand, grasped the hand of the maddened
boy, as he gazed silently into his face, while his very soul seemed
absorbed into some unreal dream of horror.
“My son,” he whispered with a mournful smile, “_and the dagger in my
heart_--”
“Thy son!--ha, ha?--I could laugh till the very heavens echoed my
voice!” and as he spoke, Aldarin, the Scholar, looked backward toward
the castle steps, where the boy knelt beside the dying knight. “Thy
son--ha, ha, ha!--and the dagger in thy heart! Yes, yes, it thy son? Sir
Geoffrey, a parting word: dost thou remember a blow--aye, a blow from
the mailed hand of a warrior, a blow which struck the Scholar to the
floor while the princess of Christendom stood laughing round the scene?
Dost thou remember the insult, the contumely, the scorn. Then look upon
the face of thy boy, whom I stole and reared to be thy murderer, look
upon his youthful face, peruse each feature, and--a smile stole over his
face--_think of the vengeance of Aldarin, the Scholar_.”
With cries of execration, with yells of vengeance, the men-at-arms
gathered around the fratricide, and as their brandished swords shone in
the light, they bore him towards the castle gate, leaving the slab of
stone before the pillars of the castle door to the solitary
companionship of the father and son.
It was true--darkly and fearfully true--Guiseppo was the son of Sir
Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword.
Guiseppo was kneeling upon the stone; his arms were gathered around the
form of his father, and his eyes were fixed in one long gaze upon the
face of the dying man.
He marked the hue of that venerable countenance as it grew paler every
moment: the lip white and colorless, the eyes wild and wavering in their
glance, the livid circles gathering like the taint of corruption beneath
each eye; he beheld the signs and heralds of coming death; he heard the
quick gasping struggle for breath, and yet he spoke no word, he uttered
no sound of agony.
“I see her face in thine,” murmured the old man, as he gazed upwards
upon the countenance of his son. “It is no dream,--and--and--thy dagger
is resting in my heart!”
Guiseppo was silent.
“Boy, look not upon me with such fearful agony--thou art forgiven!”
gasped the old man. “Raise the hilt of my sword to my lips; I would kiss
the cross ere I die. And now thy hand is firm, seize the haft of the
dagger, and draw the blade from my heart.”
Guiseppo gazed upon the face of his father with a vacant look, yet still
he uttered no word.
“Draw the dagger from my heart!” gasped the dying man.
Guiseppo seized the haft of the dagger, and slowly drew the blade from
the heart of the murdered man.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE.
THE ELEMENTS ARISE IN BATTLE, DARKENING THE EARTH WITH THEIR STRIFE, AS
THE WIND SHRIEKS THE DEATH-WAIL OF ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.
Onward toward the castle gate, walking to his death, and _yet receding
from the grave at every step_, with the fierce faces of the avengers
frowning around him, with cries of execration and deep muttered oaths of
vengeance deafening his ear, onward toward the castle gate, with an even
step and an erect form, strode the Scholar Aldarin an icy smile on his
lip, and a sombre light in his eye.
He knew not why they bore him onward--fearless of death, come in what
form it might, he cared not.
The castle gate was reached. A dark-robed monk rushed from the shadow of
the massive pillars, and while his white hairs waved in the morning
breeze, he raised a cross of iron aloft in the sunbeams--
“Sinner--there is mercy above--even for thee! Behold the symbol of that
mercy!”
“Ha--ha--curses on thee and thy symbol of--mercy! thou shaveling! Were
not my hands stayed by these cowards I would strike ye down in my very
path! I curse ye all!” he shrieked, gazing around the crowd--“I
blaspheme your religion, I mock your * * *! Will ye not strike? Aldarin
laughs at your steel! Are ye afraid of a weak and trembling old man?
Fear ye the Scholar, even in his last hour? Lo! my breast is bare--I
defy the blow!”
“Thou wilt have striking enough presently,” cried Robin the
Rough--“Throw open the castle gate there. Let the portcullis be raised
and the drawbridge lowered.”
The gate was passed, and the drawbridge crossed. Aldarin stood upon the
platform of turf surmounting the summit of the hill; beneath him
descended the road into the valley; on either side yawned chasms dark
and deep; while the rocks upon whose massive piles the castle was
founded, threw their fantastic forms from amid clumps of brushwood, and
here and there colossal stones rose brightly into the sunshine from the
depths of the gloomy void.
Aldarin looked around, and beheld the face of nature clad in the smile
of sunshine; waves of foliage rising in the light; the bosom of the Arno
calm and beautiful as a silver mirror, seen through the intervals of
undulating hills; the Apenines frowning in the far distance, and the
calm blue sky, glowing with the first kiss of morn, arching above.
Aldarin looked around upon the face of nature, but another spectacle
fixed his attention and excited his wonder.
Not far from where he stood, four dark steeds were rearing and springing
on the sod, while their grooms, four swarthy Moors, whose distorted
faces scarce resembled the visages of humanity, were forced to exert all
their giant-strength in the effort to hold the wild horses of the
desert.
Wildly with their hoofs the barbs tore the sod, scattering the loosened
earth in the very face of Aldarin; their eyes flashed like coals of
flame, their sinews seemed to creep under the smooth and glossy skin,
black as midnight; their crests proudly arching, gave their manes, long
and dark, to the breeze; while with quivering nostrils and a shrill
piercing neigh they seemed panting to break loose from all restraint and
dart like lightning down the steep.
“What would ye with me now?” exclaimed Aldarin, as a strange wonder and
a darker fear gathered around his heart. “Cowards that ye are, ye still
delay your work of murder. I would this merry mysterie were finished--”