gleaming on high, there darkened the smoke and lightened the blaze of
the burning convent, there the calm lake extending ripples along its
mountain-shores, gave its still bosom to the crimson glare of the flame,
and there standing erect upon the brow of the gray rock, his slender
form boldly and clearly relieved by the background of the convent walls,
the light of the flame, the beams of the setting sun; Adrian Di
Albarone, crazed by famine, and maddened with new-born joy, shook wildly
aloft the Goblet of Gold, while his maniac laugh broke echoing on the
evening air.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
THE CATHEDRAL OF FLORENCE.
THE TASK OF THE WEIRD SPIRIT IS DONE--THE CURTAIN OF FATE FALLS
OVER THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE.
Joy to Florence now, oh joy to the fair city in her streets and through
her lordly halls, joy to the prince of the palace and the peasant of
the cot, joy to the mountain and the dell, joy to the hill and the
valley, joy to the silvery river, joy to the homes of men, joy to the
shrines of God, joy, joy, forever joy!
The Duke, the people’s Duke is come to reign! Baptized by trial, chosen
by the People, crowned by the Invisible, anointed by God, he comes to
reign!
--So, after many pages of varied and peculiar interest writes the
Chronicle of the Ancient MSS. in his extravagant way.
There are light voices filling the air, there are soft steps tripping
through the lordly halls, there are costly draperies sweeping over
marble floors, there are strains of music awaking the echoes of ancient
domes, there are processions thronging the streets in all the pomp of
crucifix and banner, gallant knights ride to and fro, shaking the
glitter of their snowy plumes aloft, the poor creep from their dens of
want, the mighty pour from their homes of pride, the sordid miser
forgets his money bags, the merchant his wares of cost, the scholar his
musty book, the bravo his knife, the children of misery their care, and
all, aye all, come thronging to the high Cathedral of Florence, when the
solemn priest will, ere an hour, amid the glad shouts of thousands,
anoint Adrian Di Albarone, Lord Duke of Florence, and crown his fair
bride, the Ladye Annabel, with the coronet for which Aldarin gave his
soul.
It is morning, glad and joyous morning, the calm azure arches over the
fair city, gorgeous with temple-dome and palace tower, while the gay
people hasten to the grand Cathedral, anxious to behold the Duke and his
fair bride.
THE POSTILLION AND THE BUXOM DAMSELS.
And there tripping merrily along were three peasant damsels, arrayed in
their holiday attire, and with them a bow-legged youth attired as a
postillion, strutted on his way with extended stride and lofty air,
which seemed to say, that all this parade and show, was made for his
sole benefit and especial amusement.
“Sancta Maria! How he trips it along!” thus spoke the tallest of the
damsels “beshrew, but Sir Francisco is wondrous proud, since he was
knighted by the Duke!”
“How! knighted?” cried the damsel of the merry black eye.
“What mean you?” cried the red-haired maiden, and the bow-legged
postillion looked over his shoulder with a vacant stare.
“Was he not honored with the collar, the hempen collar?” cried the tall
maiden. “Did not that rough soldier of the Count Di Albarone that was,
the Duke of Florence that is now, did not Rough Robin knight Sir
Francisco with his own hands? How dull you are!”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the postillion shrugging his shoulders. “What
unpleasant things you do remember! And yet the Duke said something very
flattering, when he directed the rope to be taken from my neck. He said,
says he, he said, I tell you--that I--
“Was a little impertinent, insignificant, busy-body,” exclaimed Theresa,
laughing. “But Francisco what mean you to do with the reward, you
received from the Duke that was murdered, eh? Francisco?”
“Yes, yes, what are you going to do with all that gold?” cried
Dollabella, and the three gathered around the youth with evident
interest, expressed in each face in the glittering eyes and the parted
lips.
“Why Theresa, Dollabella, and Loretta,” answered the postillion, looking
slowly round, with an expression of the deepest solemnity, “I mean
to--that is, I intend--by’r Ladye the Cathedral bell is ringing. Come
along, girls!”
“Ha, ha, ha! ’Tis a fair day and a bright,” laughed a shrill voice at
the elbow of Francisco, “Florence is full of joy and e’en I, I am glad.”
A tremor of fear ran round the group as they beheld the form of the
speaker, the distorted face, the wide mouth, the large rolling eyes, and
the deformed figure with the unsightly hump on the shoulders, giving a
half-brutal appearance to the stranger, while from lip to lip, ran the
whisper--
“The Doomsman, the Doomsman!”
“Aye, aye, the Doomsman! And why not pray? Dare not the Doomsman laugh?
Ha, ha, ha! What a fine neck thou hast for the axe, good youth; or now
that I think o’t it would stretch a rope passing well. ’Tis a fine day,
good folk, and I’m hastening to the Cathedral, to behold the crowning of
one of my children, that is Children of the Axe.”
“Thy children?” echoed Francisco, aghast with fear. “Can a shadow like
thee, have children?”
“Children o’ th’ axe, boy. I’ faith if all the world had their own, I’d
have thy neck--a merry jest, nothing more boy, ho, ho, ho! Do’st see
these fingers.”
“Vulture’s talons rather!”
“These, these were round his royal throat, while the lead, the seething
lead waited for his princely body, and the wheel of torture was arrayed
for his lordly repose. Ha, ha, ha! I would see him crowned, by the fiend
would I! But come boy, thou knowest somewhat of city gossip, tell me,
does this Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword, stabbed by his own son, a good
boy, he, he, he, does he yet live?”
“Have not prayers been offered in all the Cathedrals for the miracle?”
“The miracle? Enlighten me, good youth!”
“Hast thou not heard, how the force of the blow was swayed aside, by a
piece of the true wood o’ th’ cross, which the old soldier had worn over
his heart for years? A miracle, old shadow, a miracle!”
“Nay, nay, call me not shadow, I’ll never darken thy way to the gallows.
But tell me, fair sir, did not the dagger pierce the old man’s heart?”
“It grazed the heart, but did not pierce it. Any city gossip might tell
thee this, old thunder cloud!”
“And so the old man lives?”
“He doth! Thou art wondrous sorry that he still breathes the air, I
warrant me?”
“Nay, nay, good youth. I bear Sir Geoffrey no harm, but dost see--the
wheel, the axe and the boiling lead, all were ready for the boy
Guiseppo, and, and, but ’tis the will of heaven! I can bear
disappointment, he, he, he, in all matters, save in one. Thy neck boy,
ha, ha, ha, the Doomsman’s fingers itch for thy neck!”
And while the peasant-group, the three buxom damsels, and the
light-brained postillion, shrunk back from the touch of the distorted
being with disgust, and stood thrilled with the fear of his words of
omen, the Doomsman glided away, mingling with the vast crowd who
thronged the streets of the wide city.
Standing upon the throne of gold, attired in the purple robes of a
prince, Adrian Di Albarone, glanced with a brightening eye, and a
swelling heart, upon the gorgeous scene around him, and then his glance
was fixed upon the fair and lovely maiden by his side, whose eyes of
dreamy beauty were downward cast, while a soft flush deepened the hue of
her cheek, as she seemed to shrink from the gaze of the vast multitude,
extending over the pavement, and along the aisles of the cathedral.
Adrian cast his eyes upon the throng around the throne.
There stood bold Robin, the stout Yeoman, attired in a garish
appareling, which he seemed to like not half so well as his plain suit
of buff, defended by armor plates of steel; and there his locks of gray,
falling on his knightly surcoat, emblazoned on the breast with the red
cross of the crusaders, stood the brave Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’ Longsword,
attended on either side by the gallant esquires Damian and Halbert, each
with a grim smile on his scarred face, as he surveyed the pomp and show
glittering along the cathedral aisles.
Standing at the back of his father, his eye downcast, and his thoughts,
Guiseppo seemed musing on the fearful blow, which had well nigh burdened
his soul with the nameless crime. He said nothing, nor spoke of the pomp
around him, but with folded arms stood silent and apart.
Standing beside her queenly cousin, with a group of bower maidens
clustering around, the damosel Rosalind glanced from side to side with a
merry twinkle of her eye, and look of maidenly wonder, as the glare and
the glitter, the pomp and the show of the scene broke on her vision, and
came thundering on her ear.
Amid the throng of noble dames, towered the stately form of the Lady Di
Albarone, with a proud smile on her lip, and a haughty glance in her
eye, as she looked with all a mother’s pride upon her son’s advancement
to his right of birth and honor.
And higher grew the sound of pipe and cymbal, mingling with the roll of
drum, and the peal of trumpet, and deeply booming along the arches of
the cathedral, came the voice of the swelling organ, seeming as though
some spirit of light had trained the mountain thunder to the strains of
harmony, now soft and gentle, now awful, now sublime, and ever filling
the soul with high and glowing thoughts.
And now the bright sunbeams came flaunting through the arched windows of
the cathedral, and every eye was fixed upon the throne, and every voice
was hushed in expectation, as the moment of the approaching ceremony
drew nigh.
A murmur ran along the aisles of the cathedral, and it deepened into a
cry--
“He comes, the holy abbot of St. Peter’s of Florence!”
And every sound was hushed, as the venerable man of heaven raised the
golden coronet, set with rarest jewels, and the sceptre of ivory from
the altar of the cathedral, and ascending the steps of the throne he was
received by Adrian Di Albarone with lowered head, and bended knee.
“Sound heralds, sound!”
And then the heralds, standing one on either side of the throne, gave a
blast loud and long to the air, and proclaiming to the lineage, the
title, and the birth of Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone, they flung each
man, his glove upon the marble floor, challenging all the world to say
aught against the right of descent claimed by the duke elect. There came
no answer to the challenge.
“Lord Adrian Count Di Albarone,” thus spoke the abbot; “in the name of
God, in the name of Christ and St. Peter, and by the blessing of the
Holy Vicar of Christ upon earth, I proclaim thee Sovereign Lord of
Florence, the city and the field, the mountain and the stream! I bestow
upon thee the golden coronet--wear it with glory and honor. I place this
sceptre of ivory in thy grasp--wield it with justice and truth. Arise
Adrian, LORD DUKE OF FLORENCE!”
As thus he spoke, with his mind glowing with the memory of the day when
he had mingled in the battle fray, side by side, with the sire of the
gallant youth who knelt at his feet, the tones of the abbot’s voice rose
high and clear, and with eyes upraised to heaven, and outspread hands,
he seemed to implore a benizen upon the bridal pair.
One shout, long and deep, ascended from the multitude. Adrian arose upon
his feet, and lifted the gorgeous coronet from his brow. He took the
fair Ladye Annabel by the hand, and as the blushes grew deeper on her
cheek, he impressed upon her brow a kiss that told at once of the love
of the youth for his mistress, and the admiration of the knight for his
fair ladye.
He extended his hand, and in an instant the coronet rested upon the brow
of the lovely bride.
The vast cathedral roof echoed with the thunder shout of the myriad
voices, the strains of the swelling music filled the air, at each pause
of the deafening cries of joy; the warriors flung their swords in the
air, the fair dames and damosels waved their snow-white hands on high,
and one universal gush of joy hailed the fair Ladye Annabel Duchess of
Florence!
“My own fair bride,” Adrian whispered, “the night has passed, and our
morning cometh.”
While her heart yet throbbed with indefinable emotion, Adrian led his
gentle bride to the ducal chair, and side by side, they awaited the
homage of the noble throng of lords and ladies, knights and damosels.
Many a noble lord, and many a haughty dame, advancing to the throne,
bowed low at the feet of the Duke Adrian, and kissed the fair hand of
the Duchess Annabel.
At last a man of lofty stature, and commanding port, with locks of gray
hair falling back from a stern, determined face, paled by disease, and
wan with thought, and ascending the steps of the throne, sank on one
knee before the duke.
“Rise, brave knight,” exclaimed Adrian; “rise brave Sir Geoffrey O’ Th’
Longsword; rise lord keeper of our castle Di Albarone. Thy youth has
been wasted fighting for the cause of the late venerated lord; thy age
shall be rendered calm and peaceful within the walls of the castle, with
whose brave soldiers thou hast so often gone forth to the ranks of
battle.”
And placing the baton of command within the hand of the brave knight, he
raised him from his kneeling position. Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword
replied not to the Duke with words of flattery.--One glance of the eye,
and one grasp of the hand, was all the answer that greeted the Duke
Adrian.
Then came Robin the Rough, ascending the throne with a half-solemn air,
as though he were afraid of soiling the steps of gold. With a true
soldier’s salute he dropped on one knee, awaiting the command of the
Duke to rise.
“Arise, bold Robin,” said Adrian, unsheathing the sword that hung at his
side--“Arise--no longer Robin the stout yeoman, but Sir Roberto Di
Capello, Lord of the Lands of Capello!”
No sooner did bold Robin feel the sword of the Duke slightly pressed
upon his shoulder conferring knighthood, than he sprang upon his feet,
and looked around with surprise and wonder expressed in his distended
eyes and parted lips.
“Hast any boon to ask, Sir Roberto?” exclaimed the Duke.
“Why, an’ it please thee, my Lord Duke,” answered Robin, recovering from
his surprise--“Why an’ it please thee, I have a boon to ask. I had much
rather follow thee to battle in my old attire, in my coat of buff and my
armor of steel. I like not this dainty trim.”
With a smile the Duke granted his characteristic request, and as the
bold soldier retired, Adrian waved his hand to one who stood in the
throng around the throne. From the ancient chronicle we gather these
words concerning
“THE ROMANCER.”
A man attired in a tunic of dark velvet reaching to his knee, and with
long locks of dark brown hair falling beneath the velvet cap of the
scholar, now came forward and ascended the throne. In stature he was of
the middle height, slim and well formed, with a face marked by irregular
features, full cheeks, a mouth with large lips, while his hazel eyes,
looking from beneath dark eyebrows, warmed with the inward soul.
“Most famed Romancer”--thus spoke the Duke to the person who knelt
before him. “Most famed Romancer of the North, wear this signet for my
sake. Men shall long keep in memory the wondrous Histories which thy
pen, full of fancy, hath pictured. Add now to the number the Historie of
the House Di Albarone. Take this ring as an earnest of future bounty.
Thou shalt away with me to the Holy Land, thou shall chronicle the wars
of the Christian and the Paynim. ERICCI IL NORMANI arise!”
Thus spoke the flattery of the Duke to the humble Romancer, thus he bade
me indite my poor Historie, which, should it ever outlive this century,
will serve at least to give some small glimpses of the crimes, the glory
and the fame of the House Di Albarone.
And now, with his beaming eye no longer glowing with gaiety, but dark
and thoughtful, came the Page Guiseppo; and side by side with the damsel
Rosalind he knelt and did homage to his Lord. But why tell of Guiseppo
and Rosalind--Is not the story of their fortunes found in the Historie
of the Page and the Damsel?
The Duke turned to the vast multitude. He raised his sword on high.
“Witness, ye gallant knights, witness, ye fair dames, I now swear upon
the hilt of my sword, that the morrow’s sun shall behold me and my
followers bound for Palestine, there to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.
And so help me God and St. George!”
And there stood Adrian, with his ducal robe of purple thrown back from
his shoulders, his right hand pressing his sword hilt to his lip, his
left arm raised to the heavens, while his eyes flashed with all the
enthusiasm of his soul.
The cry ran like a lightning flash through the temple, every voice was
for Palestine, every tongue shouted--“on--on to the rescue--God for the
Holy Sepulchre!”
Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword raised his sword on high, the Ladye
Annabel, fired by the holy feeling of the moment, lifted the cross of
ebony depending from her neck to her lips, as a thunder-shout arose from
the multitude, and while all was exultation and joy, bold Robin the
stout yeoman flung the broad banner of the Duke to the air, and the
bright sunbeams shining upon the azure folds gilded with dazzling light
the blazonry of gold, and every eye beheld the armorial bearings of the
Lord of Florence, with the words in letters of gold--
“GRASP BOLDLY, AND BRAVELY STRIKE!”
“It is past, the dark and fearful night,” again repeated Adrian, as he
gazed over this scene of wild enthusiasm; “Lo! the morning cometh!”
* * * * *
As he spoke the cathedral was suddenly darkened, a thick mist filled the
Church, and one man could scarce distinguish the form of another by his
side.
A wild, hollow laugh sounded to the very roof of the cathedral, it rung
upon the senses of the vast multitude, and was echoed from every aisle
of the solemn temple.
“What means the darkness?” Adrian shouted, drawing his sword; “Hist! I
hear a footstep. It passes over the throne. It passes between me and
thee Annabel; yet I see no form, I hear no voice.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” The wild laugh again rose upon the dark and twilight air.
“He stands by my side!” shrieked the Ladye Annabel; “It is _he_--it is
my father!”
And she trembled with affright, and leaned shrinking upon the arm of the
Duke, while her fair blue eyes dilated with a strange expression, and
her glance was fixed in one wild dread look upon the darkened air.
“It is done!” exclaimed a voice breaking from the vacancy of the air;
“_It is done! Fair daughter of mine, thou art Duchess of Florence--the
coronet is on thy brow--all is fulfilled!_”
“Holy Mary, save me!” shrieked Annabel in a low whispered tone; “an icy
hand is pressed upon my brow. It is like the hand of death.”
And as there she stood upon the throne of gold, her form upraised to its
full height, her eye fixed on vacancy, and her fair white hands
trembling with an unreal fear, a feeling of terrible and overwhelming
AWE over-shadowed each heart, and paled each face, while the solemn
tones of the spirit voice broke on the ear of the lovely bride.
“In life thou wert my ambition, and in the solemn walks of death, amid
the fear that may not be named, and the gloom that may be dared, thy
father, maiden, is still the evil angel of all who wish thee harm, or do
thee wrong.”
A low moaning sound broke on the air, and again the words of the spirit
voice came to the Lady Annabel--
“The last behest of thy father--the parchment scroll, and the phial of
silver confided to thy hands--hast thou obeyed the dying words of
Aldarin?”
The cheek of the Lady Annabel became pale as death, and her eye grew
bright with supernatural lustre. The hurried words of the scroll,
written in the blood of the doomed man, the fearful request, the dark
hints at the re-vivification of his mortal body, by the action of the
water of life, all to be accomplished by the devotion of his
daughter----flashed over her brain at the moment, when the gloom of the
presence of the dead, darkened the joy of the living, and the Ladye
turned to Adrian, and murmured with a whisper of hollow emphasis--
“The corse, Adrian, the corse of my father--where doth it rest?”
“It hath no place of repose on earth,” was the solemn answer. “Given to
the invisible air, the mortal frame finds nor home, nor resting place in
sacred chapel, or in wild wood glade; but mingled with the unseen winds,
floating in the atmosphere of heaven; on, and on forever wanders the
earthly dust of the Scholar, denied repose on earth, refused judgment by
heaven, condemned to the eternal solitudes of the disembodied spirit;
on, and on it wanders seeking companionship with the mighty soul of
Aldarin!”
And a low and solemn voice, speaking from the invisible air, murmured
the words--“It is finished,
IT IS FINISHED!”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] There have been one or two persons, who have made themselves merry
with this passage. These persons, however, belong to that large class
of literary pretenders who are always in the market, as the phrase
goes, willing to edit anything, publish anything, take one side to day,
another to morrow, for a little notoriety and a little bread. Their
criticisms, do not demand an answer. You can have their good opinion
for a dollar, and be adored by the whole tribe, for the gift of a
dinner.
But, a word is due to the candid reader, in regard to the Doomsman’s
description of Capital Punishment in the olden time. _The author is not
responsible for a single line, word, or comma._ He has left a wretch,
embrated, nay, demonized by spectacles of carnage, to describe the slow
agonies of a horrible death, in his own way.
In the same manner, in another work, the author has introduced the
Moloch of modern law,--the Hangman,--who but the cowardly instrument of
a cowardly vengeance, puts a rope about his defenceless victim’s neck,
and in a dark jail yard, chokes him slowly to death, while Ministers
of Religion stand by, and approve the murder, with copious texts and
learned references.
The author is no more responsible for the ravings of the Hangman, than
he is for the ravings of the hireling critic.
[2] The word which we have written “Postillion,” in the ancient MSS.
indicates a Courier, a Messenger; “one who carries letters from place
to place.” This personage, whom we here designated, “Francisco the
Courier,” is not unfrequently styled “Cisco the vagabond,” in the
original manuscripts.
[3] With his own peculiar abruptness, (to which the reader is by this
time accustomed) the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS. changes the scene
to the Valley of the Bowl, noticed in Chap. 3. Book. 3.
[4] The story changes to Albarone again.
[5] It will be seen that the Chronicler of the ancient MSS. goes on to
picture the events of the previous night, in the succeeding chapter.
[6] It is observable that the chronicler of the ancient MSS. applies
the word Alembic to an open vessel resembling a crucible in shape.
[7] Ibrahim Ben-Malakim (Arabic) “the Son of the Kings.”
[8] This song is taken from an old Monkish Chaunt, and makes no
pretensions to poetic beauty.
[9] The Chronicler of the Ancient MSS uses the phrase as a general and
comprehensive term, to designate the ‘_man of the feudal times_.’
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Florence, by George Lippard