Part 11
On toward the light advanced the figure in white.
In a moment it stood beside the prostrate forms of the father and child, and having gazed at them for an instant, it threw back the robe from its head, and the beams of the lamp flashed over the wan and ghastly face of the strange figure.
“Ha--ha--ha!” he laughed, in tones sepulchral with famine, “methinks I’ve frightened the old caitiff enow! O, St. Withold! but I do feel this fiend, Hunger, gnawing with its serpent teeth at my very heart! Nothing to eat for three days and as many nights! And this hand--half-severed at the finger joints--throbbing with pain all the while! Thanks to the hard lessons of a soldier’s life, that taught me to wrap this rough bandage round the wound! Had it been my good right hand--St. Withold!--Robin had been a dead man three days ago! True, I did make out to crawl toward one of the dead soldiers in the cavern. How sweetly the wine in his flask gurgled down my parched throat! I am faint with lack of food. By a soldier’s faith, I could eat a whole ox! St. Withold, an’ I do not get some nourishment in the shortest time possible, I may as well wrap me up in this pall, so as to be ready for burial! Ugh! the priest shall not say his prayers over thee yet, my friend Robin; courage.”
Having first divested himself of the funeral pall of the late lord, the famished soldier strode across the apartment, and opening the door that led into the ante chamber, he discovered Guiseppo and Rosalind seated upon one of the couches, apparently in the most amiable humor with each other.
“Look ye, sir page,” exclaimed Robin, as he showed his wan and wasted features through the opened door, “an’ ye stir not yourself right quickly, your master will be dead; and, fair damsel, the same may be said of your mistress, the Ladye Annabel.”
Rosalind shrieked with affright at the hollow voice and shrunken figure of the bold yeoman, and Guiseppo sprang with one bound from the couch half way across the apartment.
“Fear not, Rosalind,” he cried, drawing his dagger. “If it be a devil, I defy it in God’s name; and if it be a man why I will try what this good steel can do.”
“Tut, tut,” exclaimed Robin, “put up your cheese-knife boy. Come hither. Know you me not?”
“No more than I do the devil.”
“Mayhap then, fair Sir, you have heard of a _certain youth_, who on the night before he departed from the castle--the castle where his infancy had been passed--to be a page at court, took occasion to pour a sleeping potion into the wine of a _certain yeoman_; and then shaving one side of the yeoman’s face; concluded by tying a dead cat around his neck, thus making an honest soldier a mock of laughter for all the castle. Did’st ever hear of such a page? Eh? Guiseppo?”
“Why the Virgin bless me,” exclaimed Rosalind, “It’s Rough Robin!”
“Eh?” cried the page with a stare of astonishment.
“If you value your life, Guiseppo,” continued the yeoman; “Hie away, and bring me a dozen flasks of wine or so, and a round of beef. Speak not a word, but haste away. I am nigh starved to death, and the devil may tempt me to cut a slice from the trim figure of a certain page; away!”
As Guiseppo left the apartment, Rosalind asked the bold yeoman where he had been for the last three days, and wherefore he looked so much like a ghost risen from the dead merely for its own amusement.
“_My lord the Count Aldarin_,” replied Robin with a grim smile, “_despatched me--upon a long journey, to arrange matters of business entirely relating to himself._”
Having thus spoken, he again entered the bower of the Ladye Annabel, and laying hold of the senseless body of Aldarin, he dragged him into the ante-chamber, and then returned to assist the damsel Rosalind in the recovery of her mistress.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE LADY AND THE YEOMAN.
When the Ladye Annabel opened her fair blue eyes, she gazed hurriedly around the apartment until her glance was met by that of the bold yeoman. She gave a faint scream, and her form trembled with affright.
“St. Withold!” exclaimed the yeoman--“but I do seem to frighten every one that looks at me, into fits. Fear me not, Ladye Annabel--’Tis I--Rough Robin--I would speak a few words to thee. The import of what I have to say is of a fearful nature.”
“Ah!” said Annabel, “of what would you speak?”
Robin whispered a word in her ear.
The maiden gave a convulsive start. She clasped her hands and looked wildly in the yeoman’s face, as she exclaimed--
“How was’t done!--The doer of this deed--who was’t?”
“Pardon me, Lady. For three long days and nights have I been without sustenance--I am faint--my brain burns, and mine hands tremble.”
The Ladye Annabel made a sign to Rosalind, who was leaving the room, when she was met at the door by Guiseppo, bearing a wine flask in one hand, while the other supported a dish containing the fragments of a venison pasty.
“Bold Robin,” said Guiseppo, “I contrived to abstract these from the wine cellar and the kitchen, without being noticed. I thought your business might require secrecy.”
“Thanks, Sir Page, thanks--and now,” continued the yeoman--“an’ thou lovest thy Lord Adrian, wait in the ante-chamber, and see that no one enters. Fair Rosalind, I am waiting to close the door.”
As he said this he gently pushed the damsel through the doorway, and carefully drawing the bolt he seated himself opposite Annabel. He then placed the pasty on his knee, and with a trembling hand filled a silver goblet to the very brim with wine. With all the nervous eagerness of famine, he lifted the capacious vessel to his lips, when he beheld a pale, cadaverous, spectre-like face dancing in the ruddy glow of the wine.
“St. Withold! ’Tis no wonder I have scared every body with my dried up visage!” He drained the goblet to the last drop. “S’ death I’m frightened at that death’s head myself.”
He then plunged one hand into the pasty, and raising a piece of the rich crust, he devoured it in an instant; then lifting the flask to his mouth, he poured the luscious liquid down his throat, and his sinews and veins began to rise and swell, a ruddy glow ran over his ashy face, while the supernatural brightness of his eyes, gave place to a healthy, twinkling glance.
There was a pause of some ten minutes.
“St. Withold! but I thank thee!” cried the yeoman, as his eyes filled with a liquid which bore a strange resemblance to tears of joy--“Holy Mary, Holy Peter, and Holy Paul, ye shall have a wax candle apiece; instead of one to all of ye!”
The Ladye Annabel who had watched his movements with the greatest impatience, now exclaimed--
“For heaven’s sake, good Robin, speak. What dost thou know of the fearful deed”--she looked hurriedly around the room--“_Of the murder?_”
“Ladye” replied the yeoman, “I’m a rough, blunt soldier--I know little of courtly manners, but so help me St. Withold, I would peril--I would sacrifice my life, to serve thee and--Lord Adrian--”
“Adrian? What knowest thou of Adrian? For heaven’s sake speak.” Her very soul glanced from her eyes as she continued.--“Oh, God! thou surely wilt not say that he--Adrian--is--is--THE MURDERER?”
“St. Withold!” muttered Robin, “but I have got myself into a nice predicament. Ladye I would say no such falsehood.”
“It is a falsehood then?--Thanks--Holy Mary, from my soul, unfeigned thanks?”
“It is not Adrian: but Ladye--heaven help thee to bear it--the murderer is one who is mayhap as beloved of thee, as is Lord Adrian.”
“_One as beloved?_” murmured Annabel--“surely there is no one as beloved as Adrian, no one save my father. Thou triflest with me, Robin.”
“Nay Ladye I trifle not--again I say it is _the_ one who is as dear to thee as Lord Adrian.”
One word came from the maiden’s lips.
“MY FATHER--” she shrieked, as if some awful thought had riven her brain.
She said never a word more, but her bosom which a moment past rose and fell convulsively, now became stilled; the excited flush of her cheeks died away into an ashy paleness, her lip lost its eager expression, her eyelids closed stiffly, and she fell heavily as a corse from her seat.
Robin sprang forward and extended his arms in time to prevent her from falling to the floor.
“I am a very fool,” he said, bitterly reproaching himself--“a dolt, an idiot--a mere wearer of the motley doublet--a jingler of the belled cap would have known better. St. Withold, but _I am_ an ass!”
Having his own reasons for not calling assistance from the ante-room, he used all kinds of expedients to restore the Ladye Annabel to consciousness. He chafed the fair and delicate hands, he deluged the brow as white as snow, with perfumed liquids contained in silver flagons standing upon the table; and after a lapse of a quarter of an hour he had the gratification of seeing her eyes unclose, and feeling her heart beat as he held her form in his arms.
The Ladye Annabel faintly spoke--“I have had a fearful--fearful dream. The Virgin save me from the dark spirits that inspire such fancies. I thought of _thee_--of _thee_, my father!”
She paused suddenly as she caught a view of the yeoman’s face.
“_Thou_ here!” she exclaimed in surprise, “wherefore is this?”
“St. Withold!” muttered the confused Robin, fearful of again referring to the late subject of horror. “Why Ladye, in truth I am here--because I am--not here--that is to say--s’death Ladye, I came here to serve ye.”
“To serve _me_?” said Annabel wonderingly, “how wouldst thou serve _me_?”
“Ladye,” cried the yeoman in utter despair of his ability to convey his ideas in a circuitous manner. “Ladye would you wed this Duke of Florence?”
“Sooner would I die!”
“How will you avoid the bridal?”
“God only knows,” said Annabel, as she stood erect, “to his care do I confide myself. I have read legends of dames and damsels who have raised the dagger against their own lives when terrors such as threaten me, rose before their eyes,--but I cannot--cannot do it! All I can do”--and her head sunk low upon her bosom, and her arms drooped by her side--“all I can do is, to pray, earnestly pray; upon my bended knees _beseech_ the Virgin that I may _die_!”
“Cheer thee up, fair ladye--cheer thee up,” thus Robin spoke, “by the troth of an honest soldier, I swear that I will be near thee when the hour of thy peril draws nigh. I swear that my life shall be sacrificed to save thee!--And now I must be gone. This castle can no longer be Rough Robin’s home. God be with ye!”
The Ladye Annabel placed a purse of gold in Robin’s hand, and with many blessings on his head, she beheld him disappear into the ante-room.
Rosalind entered the room--Annabel exclaimed--
“Retire for a little while, fair coz: I would be alone.”
As the black-eyed maiden retired, the Ladye Annabel sank down into a seat, and gave herself up to the wild and agitating thoughts that flashed through her brain.
The first beams of the coming morn shot through the tapestry that well nigh concealed the casement of the maiden’s bower.
Annabel had fallen into a welcome slumber, and the soft beams of the lamp fell upon her calm and innocent face, revealing each feature in the mildest light, and softest shade.
A figure emerged from the tapestry, and advanced to the light, Adrian stood beside the sleeping maiden. His face was exceedingly pale and covered with blood, as also was the helmet, and the plates of the armor of azure steel. In one hand he grasped the furled banner of the Winged Leopard.
He turned and sought his place of concealment with a heavy heart; but ere he turned, he cast one deep, one agonizing look upon the lovely maiden.
“She is happy!--my wrongs shall not disturb her innocent soul--Farewell--my own loved--Annabel--farewell.”
A kiss that told of heart-felt affection he impressed upon her ruby lips, and as he took a last fond, ardent gaze, a burning tear fell upon the unstained cheek of the Ladye Annabel.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL.
THE SCENE CHANGES TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE, WHERE THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE WILL AT LAST COME TO AN END.
Far away among the mountains, the sunlight loves to linger, and the moonbeam is wont to dwell among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley, over-shadowed by rugged steeps, that frown above and darken around a calm and silvery lake, embosomed amid the solitudes of the wild forest hills.
Around on every side, arise the hills, magnificent with the shade of the sombre pine, leafy with the branching oak, or verdant with the luxuriance of the green chestnut tree, while chasms yawn in the sunlight, ravines darken and fearful rocks, bear and rugged in their outline, tower far above the forest trees, away into the clear azure of the summer sky.
The hills sweep round the valley in a circular form, describing the outlines of the sides of a drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid waters of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal vessel, giving a clue to the strange name of this place of solitude--THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL.
This quiet vale is situated some few miles from Florence, amid the same wild range of mountains that encircle the haunt of the members of the Holy Steel.
The light of the summer morning sun, was streaming gaily over the roofs of a mountain hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake, flinging its golden beams over the outline of each rugged hut, with tottering walls, or rustic tenement, with its ancient stones overgrown with leafy vines; when a group of peasants were gathered along the road-side, at some small distance from the village, in earnest and energetic conversation.
A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad in the garish apparel of a Postillion[2] of the olden times, stood in the centre of the group, while around him were clustered a circle of the buxom mountain damsels, with their heads inclined towards each other, their arms and hands moving in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke on the air, from the glib prattling of their busy tongues.
“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing--that’s all.”
Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.
“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other--”
“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”
“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a footstep!--”
“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of glowing red.
“Our Lady!--but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.
“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough soldier; and _he_ was followed by _such_ a handsome cavalier, dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all--he wore _such_ a fine, dancing feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening twilight!”
“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.
“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.
“I suppose you will say next, that he had a _manly_ figure? eh?” and the youth pulled his slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then halting on one leg, he threw the other forward, while with his arms placed akimbo, he seemed waiting for somebody or other to take his portrait.
“To be sure he had a _manly_ figure,” returned Dolabella, glancing contemptuously at the bow-legged youth; “he was none of your whipper-snapping, strutting, and boasting postillions; he was none of your conceited--”
“_Dolabella!_” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic tone.
“Well, Signor Francisco?”
“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict yonder?”
He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of the monastery, it stood among the forest-trees on the western side of the lake, upon the summit of a precipitous cliff, which towered in rugged grandeur from the bosom of the mountain waters.
The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the dark towers of the monastery over the surrounding forest-trees, and along the recesses of the gardens, that varied the appearance of the wild wood beyond the ancient walls, and the white cliff gave its broad surface to the light of day, yet there was an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the dark towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens; while the reflection of the scene in the deep and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so calm, so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it looked more like the creation of an artist’s pencil, than a landscape of the living world.
As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark walls of the monastery, an involuntary thrill ran around the group of peasant damsels, and there was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.
“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured Dolabella, “Francisco, fear you not to make yon strange house the subject of your jest, even in broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant of these mountains grows pale at the mention of yon gloomy fabric!”
“Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held strange festivals within those dark gray walls in the olden time.”
“Even now, no one knows anything concerning the monks of this monastery. They give to the mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal blessing--yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are abroad, and muttered whispers speak of midnight orgies that it would shame an honest maiden to name, held within yon darksome house!”
“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest not. I am in earnest--by the True Cross, am I. Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself from the rock, down into the ravine--and--and--mark me--if on some very bright and agreeable morning I should be found laying at the foot of the awful steep, scattered into a thousand fragments--then think of the victim of your perfidy, Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, think of the miserable fate of Francisco--your victim--with remorse--with bitter remorse!”
Having thus given the damsels to understand that among them all, his heart was certainly broken, the little postillion strutted away with folded arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense strides he took with his inverted legs, it did really seem that he had been hired to measure the greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest possible number of steps.
The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by a burst of laughter.
“I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella. “This little whipper-snapper has been making love to all three of us, for nearly two years. Let us pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange cavalier at the cottage.”
“O yes--yes!” cried Theresa.
“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.
“That will bring Signor Postillion to terms,” continued the tall damsel, “and besides girls, we’ll learn all about this strange old woman.”
“This strange priest!” said Loretta.
“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.
And presently they separated; each determining to out-wit the other; both in regard to the strangers in the cottage on the hill, and to the securing of the gallant vagabond Francisco, who to do him justice, had those two important qualities necessary to winning the heart of a vain woman--saith the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.--a glib tongue and a rare knack of making presents of all sorts of gairish finery.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE BRIDAL EVE.
THE HEBREW AND THE ARAB-MUTE ENTER THE COURT YARD OF ALBARONE, WHILE THE LADYE ANNABEL IS PASSING TO THE CHAPEL OF SAINT GEORGE.
The azure sky was glowing with the mild warmth of the summer twilight, the zenith was mellowed with the light of the declining day, the western horizon was varied by alternate flashes of gold and crimson, when the ancient Castle of Albarone, thro’ every hall and corridor, rang with the shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of festival revelry.
From the various towers of the castle, pennons of strange colors and curious emblazonry, waved in the evening air, each flag, the trophy of some hard fought battle, while high over all, floating from the loftiest tower, the broad banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto in letters of gold, and the Winged Leopard, to the ruddy glare of the western sky.
The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis, gave admittance to numerous bands of peasantry, wending from the various tenements that dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in their holiday costume, while the air echoed with their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or the gay carol, rang from side to side.
All along the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro’ the luxuriant wood circling round its base, hurried the peasant bands, their attire of picturesque beauty, giving variety and contrast to the scene, while now loitering in groups, now hastening one by one toward the castle, they peopled the highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into the court yard of the castle.
Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and unaccompanied save by a solitary attendant, there strode wearily forward a personage who to all appearance ranked among a far-scattered people, at once the scorn and fear of Christendom.
Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied by numerous patches, with a piked staff in his hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape, strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching hat which defended the head of the JEW, revealed a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in expression, marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance seemed skilled in reading the hearts of men; a bold prominent nose, while the lower part of his cheeks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by a stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his girdle, mingling with the long and curling locks of sable hue, that gave their impressive relief to the outline of the Hebrew’s countenance.
By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant, to all appearance a youth of some twenty winters, yet his tawny face, marked by bold and regular features, half-concealed by masses of jet black hair, falling aside from his forehead, in elf-like curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle between the brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild and wandering eye, that glanced from side to side with a restless and nervous glance, that seemed to peruse the face of every man who came within its gaze, and read the characters and motives of all who journeyed onward to the castle.
Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest serge, the Servitor of the Hebrew, bore on his shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to oppress its bearer with an unusual weight, for he well-nigh tottered under the load.
Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which assailed him from every side, the Hebrew crossed the drawbridge, and passing under the portcullis he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard, where unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich and gaudy stores to the eyes of the wondering multitude. His servitor also displayed his pack to their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable, his arms folded, and his wild eyes glaring strangely over the faces of the crowd.
“Who’ll buy--who’ll buy?” cried the Hebrew, in the suppliant voice of trade, as casting his eyes around the court-yard, he surveyed the brilliant scene at a glance.