Part 14

“Mother,” said he, “I must away to the convent. Methinks it were better for gentle Florian to rest him here awhile. I will return anon, and accompany my fellow scholar along the shores of the lake to the monastery.”

He kissed the cheek of the fair boy, and departed. Looking up into the rosy face, and catching the glance of the bright blue eye of the modest youth, the dame exclaimed, as she finished the dressing of the wound:

“Fair sir, if it please thee to grace our humble tenement with thy presence for the night, thou canst share the bed of my son. Methinks it were best for thee not to stir hence until the morrow.”

“I thank thee, kind lady,” the youth began, in a voice as sweet as infancy.

“_Lady_, say’st thou? I am but a peasant woman.”

Florian blushed.

“Nay, pardon me--I meant no offence. Indeed, it seemed--”

The youth paused, while the blush deepened on his cheek.

“Never heed it, fair sir. This way is Leone’s room. Mayhap thou wouldst like to repose thee awhile.”

Florian followed her into a small apartment, with a window toward the east, a neat bed in one corner, a crucifix upon the wall, and a table, on which lay a missal of devotion.

The dame retired.

Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and drew the bolt. Then seating himself upon the bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears stole between the fair fingers, fast and bright, like drops of sunlit rain.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

THE CASTLE GATE.

THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE GATE ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL OF A STRANGE TRUMPET.[4]

“Well-a-day! It’s a sad thing to dwell in this lonely place, now that all of the ancient house are dead and gone!”

“‘_Dead and gone_,’ sir huntsman! Where didst learn to shape thy words? The Count Aldarin lives!”

“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a right quiet time we peaceful folks have had for a day or so past. Here, have we no boisterous merriment; no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret awakes the silence of these walls; no runlets of wine flow in the beaders of the banquet hall. All is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for’t!”

“Such quiet and such stillness, i’ faith! Why, man, you cannot walk along the solitary corridors of the castle, without trembling at your own starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by the plague--all its living folk carried to the grave-yard, leaving old Death to take care of deserted chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard of Albarone, and ask your heart--if heart you have--whether a plague has not swept this place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul to look upon these lonesome walls!”

“And I--look ye, gossips--I, Griseldea, tire-woman of my Ladye Annabel, have never damosel or dame, for two score long years--I am two score and six years, come next Mass o’ Christ, not an hour more, i’ faith--I have never, for two score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do now! In my Ladye’s bower lie her garments of price; the tunic of blue and gold which she wore in her happy days; the white plume that once drooped over her fair brow, the snow-white bridal dress--all, all are there! But where is my Ladye Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful days!”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Tell me, good folk, are ye paid to howl in chorus? Hugo, didst ever hear such growling?”

“Faith, they do growl, somewhat like a herd of untamed bears! Yet, Balvardo, bethink thee--there’s reason for’t. W-h-e-w! When I think of the queer things that have chanced within these few days, I might wonder, I might growl; yes, Balvardo, I might growl, I might wonder!”

“Here, for three long days, since my lord of Florence left the castle, have we seen no sight of the Count Aldarin,” exclaimed the huntsman.--“Mayhap he has buried himself alive--mayhap he has gone up to heaven, or more likely he has gone to--’s life, what a stitch in my side!”

“Softly, softly, sir huntsman, softly! Wise folk speak not lightly of the Count Aldarin. The rope on yonder gibbet swings loosely in the summer wind--thy neck may be the first to stretch its fibres!”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk, yet it does seem queer when one comes to think of it! Not three days ago, it was nothing but ‘_saddle me your horses, scour every road, bring back the traitor Guiseppo, and hew off his caitiff head!_ _Now_--blood o’ th’ Turk, it puzzles me!’”

“_Now_, sir Balvardo, the word is: ‘_Pay all respect to Guiseppo; honor the youth as myself--he is dear to me in blood, dear to me in heart, honor Guiseppo, he rules the castle in my absence_.’”

“Sancta Maria!” cried the ancient tire-woman. “Tell me, gossip, tell me, sir huntsman, how came this about?”

“Not two nights agone, there enters the castle gate, a wandering palmer, clad in rags. Not satisfied with asking alms at the hall door, he must wander along the corridors of the castle, and prowl around the door of the cell where the damsel Rosalind is imprisoned. My Count Aldarin’s suspicions are roused: he flings the beggar’s robes from the palmer’s face, and we all behold the--trim page Guiseppo!”

“Wonder of all wonders! Now, I’ll never be astonished again in all my life!”

“Not even if any one should chance to believe the story of thy age, which thou art wont to tell! Hugo, look at gossip tire-woman, how her eyes are dropping from their sockets!”

“There stood the page Guiseppo--there stood the Count Aldarin! Nice group--eh! Axes and gibbets were the mildest things in our thoughts, when my lord takes the page by the hand, smiles kindly, and leads him away. An hour passes: the supper is spread in the banquet hall: my Lord Aldarin appears, and with him comes Guiseppo, clad in garments of cost--”

“And then comes the word: ‘_Pay Sir Guiseppo all respect--honor him as myself_.’ Is’t not so good gossip?”

“By my huntsman’s word, it is even so! Now tell me, sir sentinels, waiting at the castle gate, while the Count Aldarin is buried in the depths of the earth, sir Hugo and Balvardo, sir steward and dame Griseldea, all of ye servitors of Albarone, is not this matter enough for a nine day’s wonder? By’r Lady, I never heard the like!”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk, ’tis wonderful!”

“W-h-e-w! ’Tis passing strange!”

“Hist--Hugo! What sound is that? ’Tis like the tramp of war steeds!”

“Hark! The peal of a trumpet! This is wondrous.”

And for a single moment the strangely contrasted group gathered at the castle gate, in the mild evening hour, stood motionless as statutes, with the light of the setting sun falling over each face and figure.

There was Hugo, with his vacant face and sinister eye, clad like his comrade, Balvardo of the beetle brow, in glittering armor of Milan steel, each standing breast to breast, as, with pikes half raised, they listened to the trumpet peal swelling from the distance. There was the bluff huntsman of the castle, his rugged visage affording a striking contrast to the sharp features of the ancient steward, and the thin, withered countenance of the tire-woman, standing near him, while all around were clustered the servitors of Albarone, their gay liveries flashing in the light of the setting sun.

“Hark, Balvardo! The trumpet peal swells louder. I hear the trampling of an hundred steeds. Up, up to the tower of the castle gate, and tell us what is to be seen!”

Balvardo hastily disappeared, and while the group clustered round the lofty pillar awaited the result of his observations with the utmost suspense, ascended to the tower by a staircase built in the massive wall.

“What dost see, comrade?” shouted Hugo; “The trumpet peal grows louder, and I hear the tramp of war steeds pattering along the road to the castle gate. What dost see, Balvardo?”

“I see a strange sight, i’faith! Horsemen issue from the shadow of the wood toward Florence--horsemen arrayed in strange robes, black as night. I count one, two, three,--by my life, there’s thirteen o’ them, all mounted on cream-colored steeds!”

“Are they men-at-arms? Bear they a pennon at their head?”

“Blood o’ th’ Turk, I see no men-at-arms! They are clad in long robes, that fall sweeping almost to the very ground. Their robes are black as the death-pall, yet are they faced with a goodly border of glittering gold. Now the wind sweeps the robe of the foremost horseman aside. By my sword, he is clad in the attire of a paynim dog! Loose, flowing garments, with a belt of curious embroidery, while a dark turban surmounts his swarthy form.”

“Ride they towards the castle?”

“They ride forward two abreast; the tall figure rides at their head. Tramp, tramp--God send they be not wizards in disguise! A new wonder, comrade; one of the party spurs his horse to the front--he is speeding toward the castle gate! Blood o’ th’ Turk, he holds a trumpet in his grasp.”

“A trumpet, Balvardo? This should be the herald of the companie.”

“He rides up the hill, he reins his steed on the very edge of the moat. Hark, how his trumpet peals!”

And while the shrill and piercing sound of the trumpet broke on the air, the group listening beside the castle gate were startled by the sound of a measured footstep.

With one start they turned in the direction of the sound, and beheld the person of the new comer.

He was a young cavalier, with a smooth face, unvisited by beard, yet stamped with the marks of premature and sudden experience, while his slender form, clad in a jewelled doublet, was half hidden by the folds of a sweeping robe of purple, that fell from his shoulders, varied by a border of snow-white ermine.

“It is _him_--the page Guiseppo,” murmured the huntsman. “Mark ye, how changed he looks! His arms folded, and his merry face clad in a frown. Well-a-day! The world is all bewitched, or I’m no sinful man!”

“The page Guiseppo,” whispered the shrill-voiced steward. “Know ye not his new title? ‘My Lord Guiseppo, Baron of Masserio’--nephew of the Count Aldarin. Masserio is the name of one of the smaller baronies annexed by my lord of Florence, to the domains of Albarone. ’Tis said ’twas confiscated to the state, because its master meddled with the strange Order of the Steel, whose fame has been in our ear for these four months past.”

“Sir sentinel, canst tell me what means this peal of trumpet, this clamor at the gates of Albarone?”

As Guiseppo advanced and spoke, every one in the group was impressed to the very heart with the change that had so lately passed over the appearance and manner of the page. A score of years could not have added more solemnity to his visage, or given a more deep-toned sternness to his voice.

In a moment the Lord Guiseppo--such is now his title--was possessed of the cause of the clamor at the castle-gate, and was about to speak, when the trumpet peal ceased, and the clear bold voice of the herald, broke upon the air.

“Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone! My master salutes the gallant knight and craves entrance into the shelter of his goodly castle! Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone!”

“Be thy master, the Paynim Mahound himself, or the Devil his father--” rang out the hoarse tones of Balvardo, from the tower above--“He is a few days behind old Death in his salutation. Lord Julian of Albarone sleeps in the Charnel-House.”

“Then Sir Warder of the castle-gate, by thy soldierly courtesy, I pray thee inform me--doth his brother, the Scholar Aldarin yet live?”

“The _Count Aldarin_ reigns _Lord of Albarone_.”

“Then I pray thee, bear the salutations of my master to the Count Aldarin, and with his greeting bear this scroll!”

“S’ life--here’s a net for a man to tangle his feet with!” the group below heard the growling words break from Balvardo--“My Lord Guiseppo”--he exclaimed aloud, looking from the window of the tower--“What answer shall I make to this Wizard Herald of yon Paynim band!”

A sudden contortion passed over the features of Guiseppo, he raised his hand wildly to his brow, and trembled as he stood beside the castle-gate. The spasm-like expression that passed over his face, was scarce human in its meaning, and the spectators started back with a sudden fear. There are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre by the fierce war of contending emotions, when the heart struggles with the brain, while the reason totters, and the intellect reels on its throne. A contest wild as this; seemed warring between the heart and brain of Guiseppo, the new created Lord of Masserio.

“One moment, good Balvardo--Hugo, I am faint--some wine, I prithee!”

Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo, and in a moment the Lord of Masserio, found himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within the confines of the lower chamber of the Warder’s Tower, while Hugo stood motionless before him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.

“Thanks, good Hugo--retire a moment, and I will be my own man again--let me think,” he muttered in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired--“Its like a dream--and yet the reality presses on my brain like a weight of lead. I feel no joy in my lordship. Three little days--Saints of Heaven--behold the change! Three days ago, a poor Page, journeyed with a band of gallant soldiers! He disappeared, no one save himself knew whither. He came to this castle in his Palmer’s rags and perilled his life to rescue his Ladye-love. He was discovered--he already beheld the object of omen, held above his head--he expected the axe--and Sancta Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet. _His_ son--_his_ son! Great God how dark the mystery! My brain whirls--the wine, ha, ha--the wine.”

“Sir Sentinel”--arose the voice of the Herald without--“Wilt thou bear this scroll to the Lord Aldarin?”

“And _she_ is yet imprisoned! _He_ my father! As God lives I’m bound to stand by him to the death! Robin’s story--is it, is it true? The dark hints of the men-at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffrey--might not this trumpet peal serve to unravel their meaning? The wine gives me nerve--my brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel--must I desert their cause? Methinks I feel my heart strings crack, at the very word! And _he_ is my father; _he_ loads me with favors, burdens me with kindness--” the half crazed Guiseppo looked around the confined chamber with a fixed and steady eye--“_I will stand by my father Aldarin to the death_”.

“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous--For the last time, wilt thou bear the scroll?”

“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle gate--“spoke the determined voice of Lord Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering manner he issued from the lower chamber of the Warden’s Tower--“Call the men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of the castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently yet hastily hither! Away Hugo--and thou Sir Huntsman! Let it be done without delay. Balvardo--mark ye, when I give the word let the drawbridge be lowered and the portcullis raised. We shall see what manner of men are these strangers--the Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their scroll!”

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

ALDARIN AND HIS FUTURE.

“IBRAHIM BEN MALAKIM SALUTES HIS BROTHER ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.”

The beams of the declining day, glanced gaily thro’ the arched windows of the Red-chamber, and the Count Aldarin paced with a hurried step across the marble floor, and his chest rose and fell, and his cheek flushed and paled, and now his voice was choked by rage, and again it was clear and deep-toned with hate.

“Baffled! and by whom? my own child. I have laid schemes--I have planned, I have plotted, and all for Annabel--my daughter. And she returns me--contempt and scorn. If, within the bowels of the earth, there is a place of torture, a boundless, illimitable and ever burning hell--if within the fire of the stars, there is written a Doom for the Damned, then to the very hell of hell, then to the very Doom of the Damned, have I sold myself, and all for thee, my daughter! What! a tear?--Shall I play the woman?--No--I will brace me up!--I will show the world the power of one who hates the whole accursed race. There was a time when I could weep, aye and talk of feeling and prate of the tenderness and humanity with any of them!--They gave me scorn, they heaped insult upon me!”

He looked around as tho’ he would compass the whole human race with his glance, and an expression of demoniac hate came over his features while he whispered between his clenched teeth.

“_Have I paid the debt?_ Ha! ha! Let those who wronged me answer. _Have I paid the debt?_ The man never lived who struck the meek Scholar and saw another sun. Not one! not one!--Nay there was one. He scorned me before the Princes of Christendom--it was at Jerusalem--I gave him scorn for scorn--with his mailed hand he struck me to the floor! I swore revenge--the steel was false, the dagger failed, but on his life and heart have I wreaked vengeance, such as man never wreaked before! The revenge of Aldarin must not be fed with the blood of his foe? No--by the fiend--no! But with the very life drops of his soul! My victim fights for the glory of Albarone. Little does he dream who now doth rule the ancient house.--Miserable fool, he toils and wars far in Palestine--he toils--he wars for _me_! _Me!_ his ancient, his sworn and unrelenting foe! _Ha! whence is that noise? Ha! ha! Surely it is not a groan from yon couch?_”

Pausing for a moment, he eagerly listened, and again he spoke.

“Let me gather my thoughts. Let me nerve my soul for the trial of this night. The stake I hold in my hand is a fearful one--the hand that would grasp the very secrets of the grave, the weird mysteries of Old Death, should never tremble.”

He paced the floor yet more hurriedly, and was silent for a few moments.

“_It is the very night!_” he exclaimed, after a pause of intense thought. “_The grand problem upon which I have bestowed my youth--my mind--my soul--my all--will soon be solved. This very night completes the thrice seven years. For thrice seven years has the beechen flame burned beneath the alembic, in my laboratory; in war, in difficulty, in danger, and in death, has the azure flame still burned on with undying lustre. Unbounded wealth is mine!_ IMMORTAL LIFE.

“In after-time, when long, long, centuries have passed away, men will speak of the glory, the mystery--and perchance the crime--that encircled the life of Aldarin the Scholar! And as the cheek of the listener grows pale, I--I--will be there, also a listener and to the story of my own fate! Aldarin will be there, but oh, how changed! Aldarin, no longer weak, trembling, bent with age--but Aldarin, young and glorious, with the signet of eternal youth and power stamped upon his unfading brow!

“Gold, gold, the talisman that rules the soul of man, gold that buys wisdom from the sage, Heaven from the priest, life from the leech, honor from the mighty, and virtue from woman, GOLD will be mine.”

Turning aside, Aldarin drew forth from a recess in the walls, a parchment scroll richly illuminated, and covered with characters in the Arabic tongue. He drew near the casement, and unclosed this scroll to the light of the declining day, gazing upon the dark characters while a singular agitation pervaded the lineaments of his face.

It was the Book of his Belief--in which he had long ago written his ideas of God and Man. Shall we look into these wierd pages, even for a moment, and learn the nature of the Theology which gave shape and purpose to the life of Aldarin? We will glance at a single page of

THE BIBLE OF ALDARIN.

I. Who shall describe the incomprehensible Power, which gives life and motion to the Universe?

II. An Almighty Intellect, dwelling in the solitudes of infinite space, and yet pervading all Nature, guiding by his silent and overshadowing will, the courses of the stars, the fate of empires, and the destinies of men, living for ever, the commencement of his being, dated by a past eternity, the duration of his existence, bounded by a future eternity, He is the SOUL OF THE UNIVERSE.

III. Men have blasphemed this Universal Soul, with their vain titles. They have mocked Him with vainer creeds. They have enshrouded this simple Idea with a multitude of cumbrous falsehoods. They have buried it in the Charnel house of festering superstitions. Yet the Idea has survived, and lived, despite all these systems of error. It can never die. It is written on the heart of the new-born child, and cannot be erased, until you destroy the body and kill the Soul of that child. Whether adored in the shape of an obscene reptile--as in ancient Egypt--or in the form of a marble image--as in Greece and Rome--the Soul of the World is still worshipped, as the fountain of all life and motion; his Thoughts the deeds of the Universe.

IV. The Soul, from time to time, and at long intervals, has enshrined his Being in flesh, and walked the earth in the form of living man, and appeared among men,--the Incarnate Universe.

V. As the sun gives forth light, and is not deprived of a single ray, so the Universal Soul, sends abroad, beams of his existence, which are at once, portions of his glory and eternity. These beams of the Soul, are clad in forms of flesh, they walk the earth, they share in the temptations and disquietudes of mankind. Or, they are Spirits, invisible to the gross senses of clay, and yet dwelling on the earth and sharing in the destinies of its people. Are they clad in humanity? Then their knowledge of their Eternal Source is dim, undefined, and only felt by broken gleams. Sometimes that Knowledge comes upon them in all its power; they feel they know, that they are of the Almighty Intellect, beams of his brightness and pulsations of his heart. When this Consciousness bursts upon them, they are men no longer, but Leaders of the human race, and are known among men, as Prophets, Apostles and Redeemers.

VI. Even in their worst state, when most beclouded by the appetites and misfortunes of flesh, these Souls, born of the Universal Soul, retain a consciousness, however dim, of their origin, a glimpse, vague as it may be, of their destiny, and a portion, of the might of their Creator and Father.

VII. All men are not of the Almighty Soul, nor does every bosom throb with a pulsation of the Universal Heart.

VIII. Look abroad over the multitudes of mankind. Survey the Camp, the Court, the Cloister. Traverse the world of humanity from the kennel to the palace. What do you behold?

IX. Yonder, by a river shore, an army marches, its ten thousand spears flashing in the sunlight. Without a Leader, whose Soul is the Soul of these ten thousand men, this army is powerless; it is but ten thousand isolated links of a broken Chain. That Leader is a Ray from the Soul of the Universe; a Ray beclouded by the gory mist of carnage, yet still a Beam of the Eternal Sun.

X. Go to the Palace. There is a King there, who sits upon a golden throne, and drinks in the idolatry of cringing Courtiers, and arrays his form, in a garment, whose very tinsel has been purchased with the life blood of at least, a thousand men. This King rules an empire, levies taxes, makes war and peace, holds life and death in the hollow of his hand. He is only a Mock King after all; for as you gaze more attentively upon the source and machinery of his power, you will behold, far back in the shadows of his throne, some Monk with a tonsured forehead, or some Scholar with a withered face, and in the Monk or the Scholar, you in truth, recognize the Real King. For the Monk, and the Scholar are beams of the Almighty Intellect, darkened by sophistries or ferocious with superstition yet still Pulsations of the Universal Heart.

XI. One third of the world bows at the foot of the Cross. Another third worships a Crescent. The last third gives its adoration to images and creeds, as various as the faces of men.