between the clenched teeth of the monk. “Behold its roof, yon sky, the
walls, the boundless horizon, the floor, the wide earth; and the place
of sacrifice, yon bottomless abyss!”
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE WATCH BESIDE THE DEAD.
“All--all is dark!” the voice broke wild and whisperingly through the
midnight gloom of the place--“I have been dreaming--ah, me--a sad and
darksome dream! Methought Adrian lay cold and dead in my arms, while my
hand was entwined in the locks of his clustering hair, as they fell over
his lifeless face. It was a dream, a fearful dream--yet--mother of
heaven--do I still dream, or is this darkness real?”
She extended her hands, she passed them hurriedly along the floor, where
her form lay prostrate, and as she thus wildly sought to grasp the form
so lately reposing in her arms, she exclaimed with a murmured shriek--
“It flashes on me! All is real--The coffin and the corse, the assassin
and the bowl of death--all is dark and terrible reality!”
Passing her cold and stiffened hands, slowly along her forehead, the
Ladye Annabel endeavored to recall the tragedy of that fearful night, in
all its details of horror, and as scene after scene, action after
action, word succeeding word, came back to her memory, another fearful
mystery passed like a shadow over her brain.
“The corse reposed in these arms--where is it now? Who hath stolen the
body of the dead from my embrace? And the coffin--it is gone! They have
borne him to the grave!”
And as the low whispers broke from her lips, this fair and gentle
creature, whose nature was soft and yielding, as is ever the nature of a
_true woman_, in moments of calm and sunshine, yet susceptible of deeds
of the highest courage and noblest determination, in the hour of storm
and cloud arose from the floor, her frame all chilled and stiffened by
the hard repose of that fearful watch, and extending her hands she
wandered slowly around the chamber, seeking with hushed breath, for the
coffin and the corse.
All was darkness, thick and intense darkness.
Slowly and with cautious steps she paced around the room, passing her
hands along the folds of the tapestry, or extending her small and
delicate foot in the effort to touch the coffin, but her search was all
in vain. She wandered around the chamber, until her recollection of the
particular features of the room became vague and indistinct, and at last
with trembling hands and a bewildered brain, she stood erect and
motionless.
“All--all is vain!” she cried--“corse and coffin are all gone. They have
borne him to the grave!”
While the weary moments dragged heavily on, she stood silent and
unmovable, endeavoring to catch the faintest echo of a sound, or hear
the slightest whisper of a voice, but all was silent as death.
At last a distant and moaning murmur reached her ears.
Gradually though slowly it deepened into a booming sound, and at last
the subterranean arches of the old convent seemed alive with gathering
echoes, and the long corridors gave back the tramp of footsteps and the
hum of human voices.
“They come--they come”--whispered the Ladye Annabel--“They come to bear
me to the bridal!”
The bell of the convent, deep-toned and booming, rang out the hour
of--one--the fatal hour after midnight.
“Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!” the shout came
echoing along the corridors.
“Strike for Albarone and Florence!” the mingling war-cry reached the
ears of the maiden. And in a moment, the tapestry, concealing the
entrance to the room from which Adrian had issued ere he drank the bowl,
was hurriedly thrust aside, and amid the blaze of torches, the Ladye
Annabel, beheld the glare of armor and the flash of upraised swords,
while the stern visage of the warrior-band were gazing upon her pale
countenance and trembling form.
“Saved, by St. Withold!” shouted a soldier, springing from the
crowd--“Ladye tell us, in God’s name, where is the Lord Adrian?”
“They have borne him to the grave!” was the whispered and ghastly
response.
The bluff soldier turned aside, and it might be noted that his blue eyes
were wet with tears. In a moment he again faced the crowd of warriors.
“Behold the Queen!” he shouted, and the men-at-arms sank kneeling to the
floor--“all hail the fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
And the solitary chamber rung with the echo of the thunder shout--
“All hail the Fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE COFFIN AND THE CORSE.
THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE, AND THE SWORDER SEALS HIS FATE BY A TOUCH OF THE
FATAL SPRING.
Far beneath the Convent, down in the very bosom of the earth, far
beneath the chamber of the death-bowl, alone and in darkness, rested the
coffin and the corse for the space of an hour, awaiting the spade and
the Sexton, the priest with his prayers, and the grave with its silence.
The sound of trampling feet, broke along the silence of the earth hidden
passage, and presently, through the crevices of the dungeon door, thin
rays of light streamed along the cell.
Then there was drawing of bolts, and rattling of chains, and in an
instant the ruddy glare of torches, revealed the ill-looking form of
Balvardo, standing in the doorway, and beside him stood a short, thin
old man, with slight locks of gray hair, falling upon his coarse
doublet.
There was a vacant and wandering expression in his eye, while his
parched lips, hanging apart, gave an idiotic appearance to his
countenance. The long, talon-like fingers of his withered right hand,
grasped a spade covered with rust, and eaten by time.
“Ha--ha!” laughed Balvardo. “The potion which I gave _her_, some hours
ago, wrapt her in a sleep, like the slumber of old death. Blood o’ the
Turk, how her hands clutched the body o’ the dead, when I first tried to
tear it from her arms--even in her sleep she clutched it! I have him at
last--sound and sure! He escaped me in the cell of the Doomed, escaped
this sword in the Cavern of the Dead, and--and--now, by the fiend I have
him at last!”
The Sworder advanced to the Coffin, he gazed upon the pale face of the
dead, with a long and anxious look.
“He, he, he,” chuckled the old man. “Why did thou hate him, noble
Captain?”
“I know not,” muttered Balvardo, with an absent air, “yet I always had a
sneaking suspicion that one day or other, this man, now a corse, would
work my death! A queer feeling always haunted me, that made me feel like
the felon walking to his doom, so long as this--father-murderer remained
alive! Now he is dead, but I fear him yet, and will fear him till he is
safely buried i’ the earth!”
“Thou wouldst cover his face with this rich, yellow earth?” sneered the
ancient man,--“He, he, he! The grave hides all secrets!”
“To thy duty, Old Gibber-jabber,” exclaimed Balvardo, “Here’s thy man.
Lay hold of him, and help me to drag the coffin to the other side of the
dungeon. Pull him along--there--there!”
Throwing the coffin upon the damp earth, the old man placed a smoking
lamp near the prostrate head of the corse, and then intently watched the
motions of Balvardo, who was drawing the point of his sword along the
surface of the earth.
“Let me do’t, let me do’t, most noble captain,” exclaimed the old man,
pushing Balvardo aside,--“for years, and years, and years, man and boy,
have I wielded this good spade, here in these nice, cozy, comfortable
chambers! He--he--he! To think a fellow like thee, with that miserable
tool, that is unworthy to be called a--spade--to think that a stranger
like thee, should think to excel me--Old Glow-worm--in laying out a
grave!--He--he--he!”
“Old Glow-worm!--Ha, ha, ha!--a choice name by my soul!”
“A very good name; _they_ call me so--they who bring me food every
day--they poke it through the big door through which thou didst pass,
most noble captain. A merry time we’ve had of it here--a merry time!”
“_We!_--who dost thou mean?”
“Well! Thou art a fool, beshrew me!--_we_, I and my comrades, who always
receive our food at the big iron door. Here, long, long, very long, we
have lived in these nice cozy chambers.--Sometimes _they_ fight and kill
one another--then I dig their graves! See! how nicely the rich earth
turns up! This is a spade!”
Prattling after this fashion, the poor old idiot turned up the earth
till he stood in a square hole about a foot in depth, when a glance at
the pale visage of Adrian arrested his attention.
“He, he, he! _They always look so!_--Queer,--eh, noble captain!”
“What! hast ever had any other business of this sort?”
“Why, bless ye, most noble captain, I’ve put scores and scores of them
under the rich, yellow earth. _They_ bring ’em to me--_they_ at the big
iron door. This is earth for ye! Look! how the spade sinks into the
mould!--He, he, he!”
“What an old devil!” muttered Balvardo to himself. “How canst thou be
merry in these gloomy pits! eh, Old One!”
“Merry?--He, he, he! _Merry_ didst say, why bless ye, when I and my
comrades gather round our food, I am as merry as is the sound of this
spade, driving into the earth! Merry! why I sing, most noble captain, I
sing!”
“_Thou_ sing! Ha, ha, ha! Thou, indeed!”
“Why not I, eh? Beshrew me but thou art a fool! I can sing such a right
mirthful song--but they never like it--they my comrades!”
“By Saint Peter, I’ll wager a stoup of wine, that thou didst never see
the light of day--eh, old rat?”
“_Day!_ what is that?--But for my song--here goes!”
And then busily plying the spade, in a cracked voice he sang the
following words, in a sort of wild chaunt, which he occasionally varied
by sounds that resembled the yell of a screech-owl.
THE SONG OF THE ANCIENT MAN.[8]
DIG THE GRAVE AND DIG IT DEEP.
Dig the grave and dig it deep--
Straight with the mattock dig each side,
Dig it low, and dig it steep--
Dig it long and dig it wide!
As he sang, the old man plunged the spade lustily into the earth, and
throwing aside the large lumps of clay, he continued with great glee--
Here while nations rise and fall,
Here while ages glide,
Here wrapt within its earthy pall,
Must the crumbling corse abide!
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home--the grave!
He wound this up with an unnatural noise, half shriek, and half yell,
and the hollow and dread dungeon arches gave back the strain.
“He, he, he!--I know a merrier catch than that! List ye, my noble
captain.”
He then made a motion with his hand, as if in the act of drinking, and
then a shout of wild laughter sounded through the cell.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!--Drink to the full,
Drink to the sound of the clanking bone;
Fill high with wine the fleshless skull,
And swell the toast without a moan--
Hurra! for Death with his bony hands,
Hurra! for Death with his skeleton form,
He holds the thunderbolt.--On high he stands,
He mows them down in calm or storm--
He swept his spade around with maniac glee, and then in a voice louder
and shriller, while his shrunken breast heaved with the wildness of his
emotion, he sang,
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to Death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home--the grave.
“A brave song! Ha, ha, ha! By my faith a brave song! Where didst pick it
up, Old Screech-Owl, eh?”
“Glow-worm is my name,” replied the other demurely,--“Glow-worm--ah! but
this is rich earth! Look! what big, lusty clumps. He, he, he! How cold
and pale he looks--he that I am to bury--See!”
“He doth look cold and pale!” muttered Balvardo. “Is the grave deep
enough, Devil-darkness? Let’s house him in’ th’ earth without delay.”
“The grave scarce reaches to my middle--deeper let us dig it, noble
captain--deeper!”
“I tell thee, Devil-darkness, I cannot look upon the cold and stony face
of the dead! Deeper thou mayest dig the grave--but the body must be
hidden from sight in the meanwhile. ‘Slife--I left my cloak in the
vaults above, and I have no robe to throw over the coffin!”
“He--he--he, thou’rt a brave man, yet poor old Glow-worm knows more than
thee! Look around the cell, most noble captain, and tell me what thou
see’st!”
“I see the rough walls of stone, the roof of rock, the floor of clay.
Not a whit more, by the Fiend!”
“Look again--pass thine eyes along the wall opposite yon oaken door.
What see’st thou now, most noble captain?”
“I see a bolt of iron, rusted and time-eaten, projecting from the
wall--”
“Wouldst know how to open a passage into the stone room, next to this
cell? Move the bolt quickly to and fro, and yon massy stone will roll
back into the stone-room! Thou canst lay the coffin within its walls,
until the grave is deep enow.”
“The bolt moves--ha! The stone, the massive stone glides from the
wall--another push at the bolt! There--blood o’ Mahound, I behold a
dark passage into this dismal room! ‘Slife! there is a current of air
rushing from this open space--what may it mean?”
“Dost wish to hide the corse? Eh--most noble captain? Lay hold of
t’other end o’ th’ coffin, and I will raise this end. We’ll bear it to
the stone-room!”
In a moment they raised the coffin, and bearing it toward the open
space, Balvardo retreated backwards, through the passage, and in another
instant was lost to view, while the foot of the coffin still projected
into the dungeon-cell.
“Bear it through the passage, Glow-worm!” cried Balvardo. “In a moment
we will have it laid along the floor of this dreary place!”
“It is heavy,” cried the old man; “my strength fails me. Thou wilt have
to bear the burden thyself, most noble captain! Glow-worm lifts no heavy
burden!”
“Be it so,” growled Balvardo. “Slife I like not to be alone with the
dead! Slowly, slowly, drag the coffin along the floor of stone,
there--it rests against the wall! Now for the grave.”
“What dreary sound is that, thundering far above? Oft have I heard it,
yet ne’er could tell what it might mean?”
“The Convent clock strikes--one!” muttered Balvardo. “A few moments and
my reward is sure!”
“Beware the secret spring!” shrieked the old man, as though his crazed
mind had been fixed by some sudden thought. “Beware the secret spring!
It sticks from the floor near the very wall, where thou hast laid the
coffin. An’ thy foot presses the spring the stone rolls back, and--he,
he, he--_thou art buried alive_!”
It was too late! Even as the old man spoke, Balvardo stumbled along the
floor of the stone-room, his foot pressed the point of iron projecting
from the floor, and the massive rock rolled back to its place, in the
masonry of the substantial wall.
“I fear, I fear,” murmured the old man, gazing around with an affrighted
look; “I fear _they_,” pointing above, “_they_ will lash me for this!
He, he, he! I bade him beware of the spring within the stone-room, and
he would not. I cannot turn this bolt, the old man is not strong enough.
Ha, ha, here is a torch; Glow-worm has not had a torch in his hand for
years! Ho, ho, ho, the noble captain came here to bury the dead, and,
ho, ho, ho, he _is buried alive_!”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE FATE OF THE BETRAYER.
SWEETER THAN THE LOVE OF WOMAN, DEARER THAN GLORY TO THE WARRIOR,
POWER TO THE PRINCE, OR HEAVEN TO THE DEVOTEE, IS THE CONSUMMATION
OF A LONG SOUGHT AND SILENTLY TREASURED REVENGE.
“Where am I?” shrieked the Duke, as he stood upon the platform of the
convent tower. “‘Tis a hideous dream, ’tis a fearful nightmare! Ha! my
brain reels. I’ll gaze no longer down the fearful abyss! Is there none
to awake me, none? Horror of horrors! This demon hand will strangle me,
closer and tighter it winds around my throat, ah!”
A wild laugh of intense joy came from the chest of the Monk. “I feast
upon thy misery,” he cried, “wretch, I banquet upon thy agony! Ha, ha,
ha! _The glory of this moment I would not barter for all the joys of
heaven!_ Dost thou shiver, dost thou tremble, well thou mayst! Look
down, far, far below! Dost see any hope there, what says the whitened
precipice? Hath the dark abyss no voice? Look above, canst glean naught
from the frown of the tower that is over thy doomed and devoted head? Or
mayhap the secret door may afford thee consolation? Speak--thou for
whose crime earth hath no word, hell no name, speak that I may feast
upon the music of thy quailing voice!”
Tighter he wound his grasp around the throat of the trembling wretch,
and with his dark eye flashing with all the frenzy of supernatural
revenge, he shook the form of the Duke over the awful abyss.
“Is’t thou, good Albertine? Hold, hold, or I shall fall. ’Tis a fearful
steep! Behold, a flock of snow-white sheep are grazing in yon distant
vale, they seem but as mice at this fearful height. Thou, thou wilt not
harm me, good Albertine?”
“Look, look!--Behold her pale form is floating in the moonlight, her
face is wan, and her look is that of despair! Ha! her glazing eyes are
fixed upon thee--_thee_--her BETRAYER! She beckons me over the steep!--I
come--I come!”
“Nay, good Albertine, grasp me not so tight!--Bring to mind the days
when we were sworn friends--”
“_Friends?_ Doomed man, the memory of former days shall but hurl
accumulated torture upon thy head!--FRIENDS?--Ah! like a dream it comes
over my mind! I was a peasant boy--thou didst raise me to rank and
power, and I have loved ye as brother loves brother. Could my life have
served thee, it would have been laid at thy feet. My life thou did’st
not take. No! no! But the treasured hope of years, the glowing fancies
of a musing boy, the anticipations of happiness that haunted my dreams
by night, and lived in my thoughts by day; these--at one fell
remorseless blow, thou did’st sweep away. It was upon _her_ grave; the
grave of thy victim, that one thought possessed my soul. For years and
years have I planned, have I schemed, nay wept, _prayed_ for the
fulfilment of that thought. And now it is fulfilled. I have thee in my
grasp! Think’st thou a thousand worlds would buy thy craven life? That
heaven or hell would tear thee from my hand?”
Again he gave utterance to the frenzied joy of his soul in a loud wild
laugh, that burst fearfully upon the midnight air.
“Albertine spare me, spare me! Take not my life.”
“Spare thee? and yon pale form waving me onward? spare thee? wretch, I
tell thee all nature is celebrating thy doom! The moon is sinking below
the horizon, and the stars gleam through the gathering pall of darkness
like funeral fires! _Spare thee!_”
“Ha! whence come those shouts! I may yet be saved!”
“Thou mayst be saved--ha--ha--ha! It gives me joy to drag thee o’er this
steep, craving and hoping for life, to thy latest grasp! Look around
Urbano, Duke of Florence, look around and behold the fair and beautiful
earth, scene of thy crimes--nay, nay THY CRIME--behold the earth for the
last time!”
It was a weird and awful scene.
The dizzy height of the platform rock, the vast azure with its boundless
horizon, all beaming with the grandeur of the stars, the massive hills
sweeping around the mountain-lake, darkening the clear waters with their
midnight shadow, the pile of rocks uprising beyond the darkness of the
unfathomable abyss, the silence and the awe that rested upon the hour,
broken by the sound of far-off shouts, while on the very verge of the
eastern sky, bloody and red, the full-orbed moon was sinking slowly
down, casting a dim and lurid light over mountain and stream, convent
and plain--all formed a scene of dark and fearful interest.
The Universe, awful and vast, seemed to hold a strange sympathy with the
Revenge of Albertine the Monk, the stars gave their solemn light to the
scene, and the blood-red moon lit up the funeral pile of the Doomed.
“I gaze around, ’tis an awful scene. And thou, thou wilt spare me, good
Albertine?”
“As thou didst spare thy victim, when her voice rung in thy ears of
stone, shrieking for pity!” The response came hissing through the
clenched teeth of Albertine! “Betrayer, I again tell thee all nature is
celebrating thy doom! The moon is sinking below the horizon, and the
stars gleam through the gathering pall of darkness like funeral fires!”
Thrilled with terror and appalled to the very soul, by the erect form
and flashing eye of the Monk, the Duke stood trembling and quivering
like a reed, on the verge of the platform rock.
“Choose the manner of thy death! Leap from the rock, or behold, I raise
before thy very eyes this dagger; the dagger of the Holy Steel!”
“Thou wilt not slay me thus, good Albertine,” shrieked the Duke.
“Mercy--for the sake of God--mercy!”
“Thine own _mercy_ I give back to thee! Leap from the rock, or this
dagger seeks thy heart. Ha! that pale form, that dim and shadowy face,
floating in the midnight air, with the eyes of speechless woe! She
beckons me onward. He comes, pale spirit--thy betrayer comes! An
instant, and lo! before the bar of eternity he shall tremble at the
frown of the Unknown!”
It was a scene of sickening horror, yet dignified and consecrated by the
mighty revenge of the monk.
His face pale as death, his lips livid with fear, his eyes rolling and
vacant in their glance, the Duke stepped tremblingly backward, while the
monk strode one step forward, raising the keen steel aloft, with a slow
movement, yet with a quick eye and a determined arm.
“Leap--leap--or the dagger seeks thy heart!”
The Duke looked wildly around, and, shaking his hands aloft, gnashed his
teeth in very despair.
Another moment!
The monk alone stood on the platform, while a rushing sound swept
through the air, far, far below, as though a weight of iron had been
toppled from the rock.
Albertine slowly advanced to the edge of the platform, and gazed into
the void below.
With a fixed and glaring eye, with the dagger raised aloft in his right
hand, he gazed below, and beheld the folds of a garment waving through
the darkened air, while a yell most fearful and maddening to hear, came
shrieking from the darkness of the void, resounding to the very heavens
above, until the air grew animate with the sound of despair--unutterable
despair.
Then came a crashing sound, as though a heavy body had fallen against
the projecting points of the rugged rocks, and then all became silent.
Silence gathered over the universe, like one vast brooding shadow of
omen and doom.
The wild flush of excitement vanished from the face of the monk.
With a calm brow, a compressed lip, a cheek pale as death, and a full
dark eye, that seemed blazing forth from the shadow of the brow, he
folded his arms silently on his breast, and looked up to the midnight
heavens.
“She beckons me over the steep, she beckons me; and, with her burning
eyes fixed upon my face, she waves her hands, and bids me--on, on! She
points to the scenes of the past: God of my soul, how real, how vivid,
how like the pictures of memory! The cottage in the vale; the sunshine
sleeping on the roof sheltered by vines; the lordly hall and the
friend--_the friend_--the outrage, the lifeless form, and then comes the
spirit of my desolation, laughing with scorn as he points to the shadow
blackening o’er the dial plate of destiny!
“Nay, nay, wave not thy hands with that slow and solemn motion--glide
not so ghastly to and fro--thine eyes burn in my very soul! I come, I
come! Albertine glides onward to his bride!”
With folded arms, with calm and immovable countenance, fixing his glance
upon the vacant air, without a fear, a sorrow, or a sigh, the avenger
stepped from the platform rock, and with the speed of an arrow driven
home by the strong arm of the archer, he sank into the darkness of the
abyss.
There was a low moaning exclamation of joy, and the setting moon looked
on the falling form no more.
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THREE DAYS ELAPSE.
JOY COMES AND POWER, BUT DEATH HAS GRASPED THE VICTIM.
The morning sunshine, streaming through the deep silled casement of the
convent cell, filled the lonely chamber with light.
The arching roof and the pavement of stone, the dark gray walls,
thronged with monkish effigies, and the distant corner of the room, all
glowed with warm glimpses of the daybeams, while a solitary soldier
strode slowly along the floor, his brow darkening with a frown, as, with
his clear blue eyes fixed on vacancy his mind was absorbed in painful
thought.