absently muttered, as his right hand grasped the hilt of his good
sword.--“Here’s a new wonder, a fresh mystery! Three--three days
agone--we were all fighting and slashing, leading murderers to death,
and pulling Dukes from their thrones, daring death in as many shapes as
swords are fashioned, and all for my Lord Adrian, and lo! we bend all
things to our will, dethrone the tyrant, and fill the people’s throats
with an outcry for the new duke, and what comes next? Answer my good
Robin--answer my old friend--where is the new duke? God knows, and the
Saints might tell, an’ we knew how to ask them, but not a whit does
Rough Robin know about the matter. The old priest was wont to tell me
that the ways of HIM above--off with thy cap, Robin--were full of
mysterie. I never knew what he meant till now--”
The small door of the cell slowly grated on its hinges, and as the
yeoman turned to discover the cause, he beheld standing before him a
cavalier whose form was attired in glossy purple and bright gold, yet
all soiled and tarnished with dust, while his young face, pale and
careworn, bore traces of the fearful struggle that had shaken his soul
within the past few days.
“Ah--Guiseppo! Pale and careworn--thine attire covered with dust--thy
broken plume sweeping o’er thy brow----whence came ye boy, in such
attire and in such a ghastly trim?”
“I greet thee, good Robin. Yesternight I left the Castle of
Albarone--this morn I journeyed from the walls of Florence!”
“Thou dost bear a message?”
“I come from the nobles and the people of Florence! Three nights agone
the old walls of the fair city rang with the clash of arms and the peal
of trumpet, while the tramp of contending foemen shook the floor of the
ducal palace, and the glimmer of their swords was reflected in the very
mirrors of the Tyrant-Duke. The morning dawned at last, and dawned on
Florence, no longer oppressed by the tyrant, or awed by the vassals of
his power. Then it was that the nobles of Florence named their new Duke,
then it was that the people confirmed their choice, while the solemn
HIGH PRIEST OF THE INVISIBLE, by a parchment scroll affixed to a pillar
of the grand cathedral, pronounced his blessing on the fortune of
Adrian, Count of Albarone and Duke of Florence--”
“Thus far all was well. Then ye learned the mysterious disappearance of
Lord Adrian? Speak I the truth, Guiseppo? The dark scenes which three
nights agone gave new legends of horror to the walls of this convent of
darkness? The death-bowl administered by the hands of Albertine--the
watch of the Ladye Annabel beside the corse--the disappearance of the
body, and what troubles me but little, the disappearance of the
tyrant-duke? A thousand such dukes might disappear, and we could tell,
without a doubt, what became of them all, ‘the devil takes care of his
own’ saith the adage--”
“Hast thou no word of the Lord Adrian?”
“Ask the tombs in the aisles of the convent chapel, which yesternoon we
ransacked in search of his body, and let their yawning mouths tell the
story of our fruitless labor. St. Withold! scarce a foot of earth in the
convent garden that we did not turn to the sun in our search--not a cell
in the earth-hidden recesses of this foul den, that we failed to
illumine with the glare of our torches, not a wizard nook or a
blood-stained corner in this devil’s hall, but was laid open to the
light, in our strange chase after the body of the dead! And it was all
in vain, Guiseppo, all in vain!”
“The Ladye Annabel--hast thou no word of her, Rough Robin?”
“St. Withold, I see her now! Traversed we the dark walls in search of
the corse? She went with us, though her feet sunk ankle-deep in the dust
of the dead, at every step. She led us on to the fatal room, where the
corse had been stolen from her grasp, while bewitched by the drugged
potion; she pointed the way to the dark cavern beneath the convent, and
when every heart failed, awed with supernatural fear, she, even the fair
and gentle Ladye Annabel, still cried on, and on! An’ the saints shower
not their blessings on her head, I’ll turn Paynim-hound, and kiss the
crescent!”
“Dwelleth the Ladye still within the Convent walls?”
“Since the hour of our search yesternight, she hath shrouded herself
within the recesses of the apartments furnished for her use by the
vassals of Albarone, when they hastened hither, two days agone. Hast
thou a message for the Ladye?”
“I bear a message for the Ladye, and a parchment scroll for the
INVISIBLE! Robin come hither--a word in thy ear!”
With the mystic sign of a Neophyte of the Holy Steel, he asked the way
to the solemn place, where the order assembled holding their secret yet
mighty councils.
“Even now they hold their solemn council, within these convent walls,”
answered Robin the Rough.--“In a moment I’ll lead thee to the secret
chamber. Yet stay a single moment, Guiseppo. Thou knowest I left the
castle on that fearful day, when, when, od’s death I cannot name the
deed--”
“That blow, Saints of Heaven! will the _memory_ never pass from my
brain! Thou wouldst speak of--of my father?”
“Does the old man live?”
“When thou didst leave the castle, I stood watching silently beside the
door of the chamber where lay my father, my own father, stricken down by
the hand--the hand of his own son.”
“You watched beside the door, while the leech who had been hurried from
the City of Florence disrobed your father, and probed the dagger wound?”
“And I--I, stood trembling beside the door waiting the appearance of the
leech, every moment expecting to hear the words--‘Thy father is dead!
_Dead_--murdered by his _son_!’ I stood beside the chamber door, all
alive with horror, my fancy picturing the dagger, which but a few hours
agone, I had drawn from his heart, the point crimsoned with one fearful
stain of blood, there I stood, fire in my brain, and hell in my heart,
when--”
“Ha, ha, ha--Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand, the flaming brand,” a wild
and maddened voice awoke the echoes of the corridor leading to the cell,
with its tones of maniac yell. “Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand, the
flaming brand! Look ye how it flashes on high, ’tis a serpent, a merry
serpent with tongue of fire! Ha, ha, for the brand, the flaming brand!”
The small door of the cell grated on its hinges, and in the very centre
of the pavement, brandishing a fire-brand over his head, there stood, a
weak and trembling old man, his thin face, with the vacant eye and
hanging lip, flushed with madness, while his voice half shriek and half
yell, rang echoing round the room.
The brand, ha, ha, the flaming brand! Ha, ha, ye brought the old man no
food! Ho, ho, ho, Old Glow-worm and his comrades starve, yet there is a
merry blaze in the vault below, I trow! Rafters are all aflame, massy
bolts are red with fire, and my comrades go shouting merrily through the
long vaults, waving their brands on high, and singing a joyous song as
they go--
“Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave--
Here’s to Death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home, the grave!”
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
THE MYSTERIES OF THE CHRONICLE.
TO BE READ BY ALL WHO WOULD LOOK BEHIND THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND
GAZE UPON THE SECRET SPRINGS THAT MOVE MEN TO DEEDS OF WOE AND WAR
AND DEATH.
“Florence is free!”
“Florence is free!” echoed the Monks of the Holy Steel, and the shout
resounded through the circular room of the tower, repeated by the
Neophytes of the Order, with one wild acclaim, “Florence the fair and
beautiful is free!”
Slowly the High Priest of the Order arose.
From the dome of the tower the light fell dimly over the scene.
The Monks of the Holy Steel were seated around the square table, their
faces veiled, their forms muffled in sable robes.
The figures of the Neophytes, (or Initiates) were grouped around the
Superiors of the Order. They stood shoulder to shoulder, along the walls
of the Tower-Room, every one with a dagger in his right hand, a torch in
his left.
The torches were extinguished, for the work of the Order was
accomplished.
Stately and erect, in the midst of this scene, towered the tall figure
of the High Priest, veiled and muffled like the others, his hands
extended over the heads of the brethren in a gesture of benediction.
And at the other end of the table sate the veiled Doomsman, his rough
hand appearing from the folds of the black robe, laid upon the handle of
the axe, whose steel was crusted with the rust of blood.
“Three years ago,” thus spoke the High Priest, “the cry of blood, day
and night, unceasingly and forever, went up to the throne of God calling
for vengeance.
“From the walls of the fair city it shrieked, from the plain it echoed,
from the mountain side that low moaning voice rose up to the blue sky,
pleading for the doom of the assassin, the death of the tyrant.
“Then it was in times of blood-shed and slaughter, in the day of foul
misrule and galling wrong, when the grim bravo whetted his knife on the
stones of the altar, and the corses of the murdered crowded the
sanctuary of God, then it was, that a few brave and determined men,
evoked from the shadows of the past, a POWER, mighty yet secret,
blasting as the thunder-stroke, yet invisible as the grave!
“The POWER of the STEEL--winged by the hands of those twin-sisters of
vengeance, SECRECY and MYSTERY.
“Three years past, and on the lips of men, there grew a mighty word--the
Steel, the Holy Steel!
“The bravo still smote his victim in the silence of the night, but ere
the morrow’s sun, the corse of the assassin lay prostrate beside the
murdered.
“The wronger still pursued his work of violence, but it was by stealth
and in secrecy; the tyrant still filled the air with shrieks of death
and cries of despair, but the trembling tones of his own guilty voice
mingled with the last words of the slain.
“The secret band were abroad--the invisible struck their keen dagger
suddenly and without mercy, from the cloud that enclosed their
existence, and more terrible on the lips of men grew that sound of
fear--_The vengeance of the Holy Steel._
“Not many days agone, the work which the Order had sworn to fulfill,
was hastened by a new crime of the tyrant. The last baron of the race of
Albarone, whom the brethren of the steel had resolved to raise to the
Ducal throne, awaited within the walls of a dungeon the coming of the
morrow, which was to bring to his head the woe and the doom, the axe,
the wheel, the scaffold, and the stake. Doomed on a false accusation,
doomed on the testimony of forsworn tools of power, Adrian of Albarone
had laid him down to die, when the Messenger of the Steel appeared, the
rescue was planned, and the morrow morn beheld the prisoner free.
“The march of fate strode swiftly on. All men named our brother--may God
receive his soul--as the tool and minion of the Duke, while--it gives me
joy to say it--he walked abroad the messenger of the steel.”
“All hail the spirit of Albertine!” arose the solemn exclamation of the
brethren--“all hail the incarnate spirit of our order!”
The last scene came hastening on. And the hand of fate pointed to this
lonely Convent of the Mountain Lake, as the place where the wrongs of
years should be avenged, where the Tyrant should meet his secret and
fearful doom.
“For long years these halls had been peopled by a monkish band, who wore
their sacred robes as a cloak for blasphemies too horrible to name;
while the Dukes, the Tyrant-Dukes of Florence, startled these ancient
walls with the noonday debauch, and midnight orgie, the sunshine murder,
or the torch-light massacre!
“Here not many days agone, came Albertine the Monk. Still in the
confidence of the Duke--for a specious tale blinded the eyes of the
Tyrant with regard to the part our brother bore in the escape of the
Doomed--still in the confidence of the Duke, the convent doors flew open
at his word. Lord Adrian found a home within these walls, and day by
day, secretly and surely, Albertine made converts of the Abbott and the
Brethren of this Monastery of crime.
“A few days past, the tools and minions of the Duke, they now became the
sworn Neophytes of the Order of the Holy Steel. It was the purpose of
Albertine, to lure the Duke to the lonely Convent, and while the sound
of his midnight wassail, awoke the echoes of the old walls, the Avenger
would strike the dagger to his heart. The treachery of a peasant of the
lonely valley hastened his schemes to their completion.
“The last night came. The Duke, flushed with pride, and made reckless by
revenge, rode through the convent gates, companioned by his bravoes, who
held their knives on high, shouting for the blood of Adrian, the
Traitor.
“And while they prepared the doom of Lord Adrian, in the lonely valley,
the INVISIBLE bestrode the mighty storm of vengeance that darkened over
the night in Florence. The morning dawned on Florence the Free!
“The morning dawned over the lonely valley, and the blood-stained
Convent. Along the halls, and through the vaults of the ancient fabric
were heaped the corses of the bravoes, while the Brethren of our Order,
ran from hall to hall, from vault to vault, lifting the red steel on
high, as they sought for new victims, while the shout of vengeance rang
pealing from roof to floor, until the air seemed animate with the cry of
death.
“The Monks of the Steel came hurrying to the convent, two hours after
midnight, but they came too late.
“The Duke, Albertine and Lord Adrian, all had disappeared.
“The morning dawned on Florence, unshackled and free, but the Duke,
chosen of God, was gone.
“Brethren, ye have all heard the fearful story of that night of
terror--the farewell of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his
sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian, when awaiting his doom
in the earth-hidden vault--ye have heard how the bowl of death was given
to the Duke-elect by the monk--the singular disappearance of Albertine
and the Duke when they entered the Chamber of St. Areline--all has
reached your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery--”
“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath been darkening o’er my soul
since that night of terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the
Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly rose from his seat. “A
light breaks over the chaos of doubt and mystery--a sad and fearful
light. Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his thirst for the blood
of the Tyrant Duke, beheld the midnight hour approach, while the
Brothers of the Invisible still delayed their coming. The Duke bade him
perform this work of doom. Albertine must either refuse, or excite the
suspicion of the tyrant. ’Twas a terrible thing--oh, most terrible to
poison the young Lord at the bidding of this changeling Duke, but
Albertine had no alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet
altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into life. He was forced to
slay Adrian to retain the confidence of the Tyrant--sooner would
Albertine make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened bones, than the
Duke, against whom his very soul had sworn vengeance, should live. He
slew Lord Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the act--and then
came his strange and mysterious vengeance on the Tyrant.”
A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the Tower-room.
Every heart was impressed with the terrible truth shadowed in the words
of the Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence, each
heart solemnly mused on the dark story of Albertine, his last crime, and
his last revenge.
“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,” again spoke the High Priest.
“Brothers of the Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk, joined
in the work of vengeance on the Wronger, death to the slayer, ye who won
for the Fair City, peace and freedom, ye who rule her destinies, guide
her fate, your High Priest asks you the solemn question--Who shall wear
the Ducal Coronet of Florence?”
The bold words were yet ringing on his lips when a shout from the
stairway leading to the tower, rang through the circular room--
“Ha--ha--ha! I bear the brand--the flaming brand! See--how it whirls on
high--look how it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long, but ye
could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”
The small door of the tower-room was flung suddenly open, and rushing
through the aperture, the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac
stood disclosed before the vision of the secret brothers; the blazing
torch he grasped in his right hand flinging a blood-red light over the
veiled figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of the room were
illumined with fitful glimpses of the ruddy beams.
“Ha--ha--ha! The brand, the flaming brand! Ye sought well and ye sought
long--but ye might not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his brothers!
Merry was the fire they built--merry, oh, merry! Cheerily the flame
arose--oh cheerily! And now--ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor
burns, all is fire--and ha, ha, I bear the brand, the flaming brand!”
And as the maniac swung the burning brand, whirling and hissing round
his head, there came hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily
attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a young and lovely woman
in his arms, followed by a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was
stamped with an expression of alarm most strange to see on his
determined features, while he aided the youth and maiden onward in their
flight from the smoke and flame below.
“Health to the Holy Steel!” cried the cavalier rushing forward; “I bear
a message from the Lords and People of Florence!”
“Ye will have to be wondrous hasty with your messages, I tell ye!”
exclaimed the bluff soldier. “For d’ye see--all below us is flame and
death--the convent is on fire, by St. Withold!”
“Brethren of the Holy Steel,” exclaimed the High Priest, as opening the
pacquet he gazed calmly round over the erect forms of the uprisen monks
and neophytes of the order--“who shall wear the ducal crown of
Florence?”
“The Ladye Annabel!” echoed the Brethren of the Holy Steel, with one
unanimous shout. “Live the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence!”
A moment passes--behold the spectacle!
A fair and lovely form, clad in robes of fluttering white, stands
trembling in the midst of the group of black-robed men who cluster
round, kneeling on the pavement, as they raise their hands in one
hurried movement, and shout with wild acclaim--
“Live the Queen--live the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”
And as the Secret Brethren sank kneeling round, priest and neophyte, all
with heads bent low, before the form of the Ladye Annabel, who gazed
around with a vague and wandering look, there standing erect with a
flushed cheek and a rolling eye, the ancient man of the vault flinging
the brand aloft, whirling the flame round and round again, as he
shouted--
“‘Tis merry, ’tis merry, ha, ha! ’Tis merry, ’tis merry--hurrah! Old
Glow-worm is a demon--these all are demons! Ha, ha! Fire above, and fire
below--old Glow-worm is king! On--on--brothers--on--light up the cozy
nooks with the red flame--fire the timbers, heat the old rocks, scare
old Death with the light! Ha--ha--ha! The stone rolled back, and
he--_was buried alive_!”
“Up, up--an’ ye bear the hearts of men--up and save yourselves and save
the Queen!” shouted Robin the Rough. “The fire has chased us through the
long galleries of the convent, from chamber to chamber, from room to
room, has it followed roaring at our heels! Up, and save the Queen! Her
attendants have escaped or fallen in the flames. Yonder by the window of
the stairway is our only hope! A staircase of massive stone, built
outside the walls of this tower, leads downward to the southern wing of
the convent, yet untouched by flame! Up, and save the Queen!”
“Listen, Brothers of the Invisible, listen to the last words ye shall
ever hear from your High Priest. Our oath is fulfilled, the Tyrant is
dead, Florence is free! And here in this lofty tower, environed by
flame, with the roaring of the fire in our ears, and the lurid smoke
rolling up to the heavens, with flame and death all round, here in this
dark and blood-stained House of St. Benedict, do I, your High Priest and
Sire, dissolve the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel!”
“When Wrong arises, then shall ye again spring into life, when Murder
walks abroad in the sunshine, laughing in the face of God, then shall
His ministers again raise the Invisible steel! Till then I dissolve your
band, give back your oath.”
“Prince and peasant, lord and monk--off with your sacred garments, off
with the vestments in which ye have been robed as the avengers of God,
off with hood and cowl--stand forth as ye are and raise the shout--Live
the Ladye Annabel. Live the Queen!”
“Live the Ladye Annabel--” the shout rang pealing to the
tower-roof--“Live the Queen!”
It was like magic!
Down fell hood and cowl, down fell sable vestments and midnight robes,
and there disclosed in the light of the flaming brand, stood the prince
in his jewelled robes, the knight in the surcoat of glittering velvet,
the lord in his gay doublet, the merchant in his silken tunic, the
peasant in coat of serge, the priest arrayed in sacerdotal white,
glittering with the sacred insignia of gold, the scholar in his flowing
gown of sable, all stood there, rising stately erect in the light, proud
representatives of their various classes, types of the GOTHIC MAN,[9]
however named, or styled, all joined in the holiest cause on earth, the
freedom of their native land, lifting up their hands and voices in one
wild burst of enthusiasm, as they hailed the Ladye Annabel, Queen of
Florence, chosen by the people, chosen by the lords, chosen by the
priests, chosen by God!
A strange smile of delight stole over the lovely face of the Ladye
Annabel, as standing calm and erect, her blue eyes was fixed on the
vacant air, with the gaze of one entranced by some vision of far-off
bliss.
“We shall meet again,--” she said and smiled--“Oh joy, we shall meet
again!”
“Buried alive--ho, ho!” shrieked the ancient man, in a low chaunting
voice--“Ha--ha! The stone rolls back--I have the brand, and then--ho,
ho, hurrah! _Buried alive!_”
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
THE BURIED ALIVE.
THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE, LEADING THE WAY THROUGH THE CHAMBERS
OF SLEEP, AND TRANCE, AND DEATH, SOLVES THE MYSTERIE OF THE LIFE OF
ADRIAN DI ALBARONE.
Afar through the gloom and twilight that hangs between the visible and
the unreal world, we behold the Spirit of the Chronicle, leading us
onward to a dim and shadowy land peopled by Dreams and thronged with
Thoughts, robed in forms of light or clad in shapes of doom.
It is the land of Death--the land of the Grave.
The awful region, where the soul, parted from its house of clay, looks
over the wide expanse of shadow, and beholds every thought that ever
visited its mortal form, spring up into tangible being and life, now
gladdening its eternal vision with images of loveliness and beauty, and
again affrighting the pale Spirit with shapes of ghastliness and woe.
Thus, as his dread Record draws near its close, thus speaks the
Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.----
DEATH--mighty and irresistible, look down upon the cold corse, and tell
us, when does thy hand first unveil the Eternal to the eye of the
Soul.--
LIFE--thou mockery and blasphemy, gaze upon the form of the Mortal
Thing, and give us to know, when does thy power cease, when does thy
victim pass from thy grasp?
Ye each dispute the possession of the Soul, upon a shadowy battle-field,
and now the victory sways to the skeleton, and now to the thing of
Flesh. Men know this battle-field by various names, they call it SLEEP,
they call it TRANCE, they call it DEATH.
First the body sleeps, then it is entranced, then it dies. First the
Soul gazes with a dim eye upon the Eternal World, then its vision is
enwrapt and absorbed, and at last, as the clay dies, it is all Spirit,
and Thought, and Dream.
Come with us, reader, with hushed breath and a solemn footstep come with
us, while we tread the halls of Old Death, tracing the Soul through the
chambers of Sleep and Trance, into the full light of the AWFUL UNKNOWN!
* * * * *
Adrian Di Albarone drank the Bowl, and drained it to the dregs, and as
he drank, the lovely face of Annabel swam round him in wild confusion,
mingling with the dark countenance of Albertine, and the bronzed visage
of the Sworder, while his heart seemed turning to fire, and his brain to
molten lead.
He drained the bowl to the dregs, and then fell prostrate over the
coffin, and then came a cold and unconscious pause, when his heart, and
his brain, were wrapt in forgetfulness, covering his soul like a thick
mist, or the deep darkness of midnight.