Part 17

“Pity me, Ibrahim, pity me!” shrieked Aldarin. “Swayed by two mingling and opposing motives--the one, ambition for the welfare of my child--the other, the all-absorbing desire for the Immortal Life on earth; but a few short days ago, I beheld approach the last moment of the Mystic Age of Toil. Then--then, I first learned the necessity of the fearful sacrifice, and--I drugged the bowl of death.”

“This is too horrible for belief!” muttered Ibrahim; “Now--now my soul is firm for the work of the night!”

“Was I to falter when the hour of fear and doom drew nigh?” shrieked Aldarin, as his slender form rose proudly erect, and his impassioned face shone in the full light of the flame. “Was I, I, who had strode on to the guerdon of all my toil, unfearing and undismayed, though the dead body of my wife lay in my path, though the hopes of my heart fell withered and dead around me, while the spirit of my love for _her_, plead and plead in vain for pity; was I, ALDARIN, to spare the blow, when that blow would crown my earthly ambition, and complete my immortal toil? Ha--ha! The thought is vain!”

“Hadst thou no mercy?”

“In such a cause, I answer _none_. I tell thee man, had my brother pleaded for his life, and sprinkled my feet with his tears,--had he pleaded for his life in the calm, soft tones of childhood, the tones that brought back the memory of those days when our arms and hearts were interlocked--had he sprinkled my feet with such tears as wet this seared face, when I rescued him from the waters of the river that rolls without these walls, some thirty years ago--then even then, I could not have spared him! No, no, no! It was to be, and it was!”

“He shall rise from the dead, thou sayst? In what form shall he appear?”

“Fair, and young, and beautiful; youth shrined in his heart and power throned on his brow! His mind will be fresh with new-born vigor, yet Memory of the Past, shall never darken his bosom! The babe is not more unconscious of its pre-existence in another and a far-off world, than will be Julian my brother of the Past, with all its darkness and doom.”

“How dost thou know, that he will arise in this form?”

“Spoke the Nazarine truth, when he said, ‘Faith can remove mountains?’ The Will of the Soul, armed with the consciousness of its immortal powers and infinite sympathies, can do more! THE WILL, determined and inflexible, can bend the invisible mysteries of the universe to its bidding, call up the fearful influences, ever at work within the bosom of Nature, and chain them, slaves of its power; bind the wild elements of man’s heart in subjection, and awe the souls of the multitude, when aroused by passion, or maddened by revenge. THE WILL can sway the heart of man, to the windings of a path, dark as the way I have trodden, leading the Soul onward through mystery, and doom, and blood; teaching it to trample on Fear, laugh at the ghastly face of Remorse, and scorn the uplifted arm of God! ‘Faith can remove mountains!’ I cannot, may not, at this fearful hour, trace the operations of the Invisible Might. Suffice it to say--Aldarin wills that the Re-created shall walk forth in a form of youth and power, and it shall be so.”

“Lo! The sands of the hour glass are well nigh spent. One-half of the last hour alone remains!”

“I will gaze within the Tabernacle of Life!”

Aldarin advanced, swept the sable hangings aside, and in a moment was lost to view.

Ibrahim also advanced to the front of the Tabernacle--as the mystic jargon of the Scholar named the tent--and listened with hushed breath and absorbing interest.

He could hear the subdued hissing of the flames within the Tabernacle; he could hear a low, scarce perceptible sound, like the seething of boiling lead; and a penetrating perfume of mingled frankincense and myrrh, saluted his senses, mingled with the odor of decaying mortality.

A single moment passed while Ibrahim listened, and then he advanced to the verge of the vast fire, burning on the cavern floor, and stood for a moment wrapt in stern and solitary thought.

Clasping his hands across his chest, he drooped his head low upon his bosom, while the trembling lip and dilated eye attested the violence of the struggle at work within his inmost soul.

He raised his head and looked round.

Tall and erect--the ruddy glow of the fire, streaming over his majestic face, disclosing every outline of his imposing costume--the Arabian gazed around, and beheld the stern sublimity of the cavern of the dead.

Save the hissing of the flame, all was silent.

Not a word, not a whisper. Silence dwelt supreme, the Spirit and the Divinity of the place.

Far, far, above, the cavern roof, extending like a sky, received on each rugged projection, the ruddy glow of the flame. Long belts of flickering light were thrown along the pavement of stone, for a moment revealing the strange and fantastic forms scattered around the dim walls of the vault, in strong and startling relief; and then again the fire would suddenly subside, leaving everything, save the floor in its immediate vicinity, wrapt in thick darkness.

“A strange fancy,” murmured Ibrahim, “Me-thought I saw yonder statues moving to and fro,--a wild delirium of my fancy.”

“It throbs--it throbs--it palpitates.”--a deep-toned, yet wild and thrilling voice broke the silence of the cavern--“Look, Ibrahim, how the Waters of Life, hasten the completion of the Mighty Labour!”

Ibrahim hurriedly turned and beheld Aldarin, standing beside the Altar of Ebony, grasping the phial of silver in one hand, while with the other he raised on high the Secret of the Funeral Urn, that may not be named by man, or written down on this page, lest incredulity should smile in ignorant scorn, and shallow unbelief, make a mock of the Dark Fanaticism of the Past.

“It throbs--it throbs--it warms with life!” again shrieked Aldarin, as he rushed within the confines of the hangings of sable--“Lo! The coffin of iron is heated to a white heat; the charm hastens to perfection!”

“Mine eyes are cheated by vain delusions!” muttered Ibrahim, “But a moment agone, and methought the arabesque figures were flitting to and fro, and now--as I live, there ’tis again--I behold dim shadows gliding round yon funeral pile?”

As he spoke the fire waned, and a sudden darkness, only relieved by faint flashes of light came down like midnight upon the cavern.

Ibrahim looked around and beheld Aldarin standing near his side, holding an open missal in his hand, which disclosed a hollow casket--instead of the emblazoned leaves of a book of devotion,--glittering with a gem that shone through the gathering darkness like a star.

And as the Arabian looked he beheld Aldarin apply the mouth of a small silver phial which he held in his hand, to the surface of the gem, while a meaning smile stole over his face.

The fire blazing on the cavern floor, lighted up with sudden vigor, and white columns of smoke, rolling from the silver phial, gathered in waving folds above the head of Aldarin, and swept far away, like the wings of a mighty bird, until they encircled the giant outline of the Demon Form, towering far, far overhead.

“Ibrahim, my brother,” cried the voice of Aldarin, “I would welcome the Arisen-Dead with sweet perfumes and fragrant incense. ’Tis thus the Book commands!”

He looked forth from the cloud of smoke that enveloped his form, and started in surprise as he beheld the erect form of the Arabian.

The chemical spell, from whose influence the Scholar had defended himself, took no effect on the form of the Arabian Prince.

“The all-penetrating essence of the dead pervading the cavern and imbuing the atmosphere, renders the spell powerless!” he murmured with a frown of impatience. “And yet Aldarin and his new-risen brother must have no witness of their mighty mysteries! Though he had a thousand lives, still must he carry my secret where ’twill be safe--to--ha, ha, to the grave!”

“The sands of the glass are falling,” cried Ibrahim advancing, “one-fourth of the last hour alone remains!”

“And while that fragment of time is gathered to eternity, the Water of Life is darting like lightning through the body of the dead--and--and--yet hold a moment, good Ibrahim! Dost thou not envy my immortal career? Dost desire to drink the Water of Life? Lo, the flagon is at thy command--drink, Ibrahim, and become immortal!”

“Drink I will!” exclaimed Ibrahim with a meaning smile, as he took the flagon in his grasp which the Scholar had substituted for the phial containing the Water of Life--“Drink I will, but first I will give thee a proof of my power!”

“Thy power? I am all amazement--”

“Learn, mighty Scholar, that the children of the race of Ben-Malakim, hold the power of calling up from the silence of the grave the spirits of the dead or, summoning from the uttermost parts of the earth the spectres of the living.”

“These are idle words. Ibrahim, thou triflest with me!”

“Aldarin gaze around thee--all is dark and indistinct, the fire has burned to its embers, and the cavern beyond is wrapt in shadow. Aldarin, cast thy memory backward over the scenes of thy life, and tell me--which of thine enemies wouldst thou summon before thee in this scene of gloom?”

“He will drink the flagon at last,” muttered Aldarin; “I’ll even humor his whim. I would behold the forms of two slaves, whom I hate as darkly as my soul can hate. I would behold”--he whispered the names between his clenched teeth--“summon the slaves before me, if thou can’st!”

“Lo! it is done,”--shouted the Arabian--“Spirits of Ben-Malakim, appear--in the name of God, appear!”

“I hear a hushed sound like the tread of armies,” murmured Aldarin--“Yet all is dark around me.”

Scarce had the words passed from his lips when a dim yet lurid light, issuing from an invisible source, streamed around the cavern, and the face of Aldarin, tinted by the ghastly radiance, was stamped with an expression of wonder and awe.

Around, on every side, gathered along the rude pavement, shoulder to shoulder, a shadowy multitude stood dimly revealed in the lurid light, with dusky and immovable faces looking from beneath the shadow of sable helmets, ponderous with waving plumes.

And as Aldarin looked, the cavern was for a single moment wrapt in the darkness of midnight.

The gloom was again succeeded by the lurid light, and before the very eyes of the Scholar, gazing him sternly and fixedly in the face, stood two warrior forms, motionless as statues.

One was a stern old knight, clad in glittering armor, with long waving locks of snow-white hue falling far beneath his helmet, along his venerable countenance and over his iron-robed chest.

The other wore the appearance of a bluff soldier, next in rank to an Esquire, for he was clad in attire of substantial buff, with the rugged outline of his unplumed cap, surmounting a massive forehead, seamed by wrinkles and hardened by battle-toil.

There was something intensely horrible in the wild glow of triumph with which Aldarin regarded the spectres.

“Ha--ha! The vulgar hind, whom this hand consigned to darkness, arises to swell the triumph of the Scholar! But the other form--’tis the form of my mortal foe! He comes in spirit to look upon the glory of Aldarin! A few brief days and over his heart and brain will blacken the vengeance of the Scholar--vengeance such as never shadowed earth or darkened hell. Away with these phantoms, Ibrahim--my brain is ’wildered with too much joy--away!”

Through the gloom, he advanced toward the figures, he reached forth his hand, expecting to grasp the intangible air, when it rattled against the rugged plates of iron defending the breast of the venerable warrior.

The echo of the rattling armor was returned by a clanking sound that rang to the very cavern’s roof, a sound like the clashing of a thousand swords. There was a brief yet fearful pause. Aldarin held his breath and his hands clutched convulsively at his throat.

“Behold,” shouted the voice of Ibrahim, “behold the spectres by the light of a thousand torches!”

And at the magic word, the Cavern of Albarone was all alive with light, the light of a thousand torches, grasped by the mailed hands of warriors, while the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms, gathered in one dense and sombre multitude along the pavement of stone, rose clear and distinctly in the ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a forest in the air.

Aldarin looked from side to side--he passed his hand wildly over his forehead, he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful dream.

It was no dream, Great God of Truth and Vengeance! it was no dream.

On every side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin; on every side the frown of warlike visages met his gaze; and his glance was returned by the ominous glare of a thousand eyes.

The spell broke--the reality sank down upon the soul of Aldarin.

His face was stamped with an expression that brought to the minds of the gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal torment from the very battlements of heaven. He extended his right arm with a wild gesture, and clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting from the skin: his lips parted; his jaw sank to his very breast, while his full gray eye glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its glance from side to side, dilating every moment, and flashing like a meteor.

“Ibrahim--Ibrahim--I am betrayed!” he shrieked, turning to the Arabian. “Albarone to the rescue!”

He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing calm and erect beside the altar of ebony. He advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand to grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward with a howl of despair whose emphasis of horror may not be described in words.

The snow-white beard, the gray hair, the white eye-brows, fell from the tawny face of Ben-Malakim, and Aldarin beheld the visage of--_Albertine, the Monk_.

Then it was that the soul of the old man sank within him, then it was that he raised his trembling hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air, while a wild yell of execration burst from the Phantom Band.

“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the gray-haired knight; “Behold the murderer of your Lord!”

“Behold the brother-murderer!” shrieked the stout yeoman, standing at the side of Sir Geoffrey. “These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the foul embrace of murder!”

And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came pressing slowly and solemnly on, glittering swords flashed in the light, and low muttered cries of vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more close they gathered, while Albertine stood silent and motionless regarding the scene.

“The sands have fallen to within five minutes of the time!” madly shrieked Aldarin. “The charm may yet be complete!”

He wildly turned from the advancing knights and yeoman, he turned towards the Tabernacle, he heeded not the cries of execration that arose on every side, he trembled not at the frown of the Demon-Form towering far, far above.

He turned towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush within the folds of the sable hangings, when he started back to the very breast of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.

There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable tent, stood a youthful form, clad in a dress of glittering white, his arms folded on his breast, while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed fixedly at the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed the night-wind played with the floating locks of his golden hair.

“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted Aldarin, with a wild laugh of joy, “your lord hath arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he stands, calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and power on his brow! Ha--ha--ha! I did--I did slay him! But I have raised him from the sleep of death! Behold--ha, ha, ha!--behold!”

A breathless stillness followed his words.

“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he advanced, “thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di Albarone.”

“The avenger of his father’s blood!” shouted the form, advancing to the light. “Murderer, behold thy doomsman.”

Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and veiled his eyes in his hands, while a sound like the death groan rattled in his throat. His was no common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His bosom trembled not with the throes of grief for the wife stolen by death, or the child torn from his embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept were not visible tears, pouring from his eyes along the furrowed cheek. No, no.

His soul wept within him, tears such as giant souls alone can weep, when a mighty THOUGHT is slain, when the IDEA of a life is crushed.

“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shrieked Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; “advance, and seize the murderer!”

Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul.

Three minutes of the last hour yet remained. The sands of the glass had not yet fallen. That little shred of time gained, he might yet complete the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be rewarded by the immortal boon.

He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; yes, yes, the proud and unrelenting Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees of the knight.

“Give me, give me but three minutes of life--three minutes alone, and then ye may lead me to the death.”

The knight trembled: he had been prepared for scorn and defiance, but not for tears.

For a moment he hesitated.

“Away with his magical pranks, away with his works of hell!” arose the shout of the stout yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the tented hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles which supported their folds. “St. Withold! what infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I scatter the magical fire--thus I overturn this coffin of iron! Gather around, ye men of Albarone: scatter the works of this demon along the floor of the cavern!”

It was the work of an instant.

While Sir Geoffrey trembled: while the monk Albertine stood beside the altar of ebony, veiling his face in his hands; while even Adrian, the son of the murdered, hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by Rough Robin, overturned the coffin of iron, heated as it was to a white heat, and scattered the embers of the fire over the floor. The nameless secret of the coffin he concluded beneath the dark hangings of the Tabernacle.

Aldarin slowly arose to his feet. All emotion had vanished from his face. Stern, calm, and fearless, he gazed around. He looked over the vast expanse of the cavern roof, he marked the dread face of the DEMON FORM towering far above, he gazed upon the hurrying forms and agitated faces of the men-at-arms.

“Lead me, lead me to my death--” spoke the fierce tones of Aldarin the scholar. “I scorn and defy ye all.”

Albertine, the monk, still clad in the dark robe and majestic attire of Ibrahim Ben Malakim, strode suddenly to the side of the scholar, and thrust a parchment roll in his hands.

“Man, I betrayed thee,” he whispered, in tones that attested his agony; “Man, I betrayed thee, though my heart smote me in the act. Yet I will not scorn thee in this thy final hour. The parchment, the parchment--grasp it with a grasp like death; the phial, the phial!”

He turned, and continued in a loud voice, audible to the avengers: “Sinner, receive this book of prayer; it may comfort thy final hour.”

Aldarin took the parchment, and calmly folded it to his bosom.

“I scorn ye all,” he shrieked. “I defy your vengeance, I dare the doom ye would inflict. Aldarin fears not death.”

“To the gibbet with the murderer,” shouted Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword. “Aye, upon the same gibbet where blacken the forms of the brave soldiers of Lord Julian, there let the miscreant expiate his crimes.”

And the men-at-arms echoed the shout, until the vast cavern roof resounded with the words of doom: “To the gibbet--to the gibbet with the fratricide.”

In a moment the cavern was left to silence and eternal night.

Never since that fearful hour has human foot trode the funeral vaults of Albarone.

Along dark passages, through subterranean corridors, and up tortuous stairways, poured the flood of men-at-arms, bearing with them the scholar and fratricide.

At last winding through the same passages traversed three hours agone by Aldarin and Ibrahim, passing through the chemical laboratory, which has never been disclosed to the eye of the reader, the crowd of avengers reached the Round Room.

The altar was overturned, the books and parchments torn from the shelves, yet the scholar quailed not, nor uttered word of lamentation.

Gloomy corridors were then traversed, massive stairways ascended, the hall of the castle passed, and at last Aldarin emerged from the castle door, and stood upon the slab of stone surmounting the flight of steps.

He gazed around, while the avengers came thronging at his back; and as he gazed, the court-yard of the castle became the scene of a strange spectacle.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

THE OATH.

THE VENGEANCE OF ALDARIN, THE SCHOLAR.

“It is a fair day, and the sun shines brightly. Ha--ha! The sky above is clear, and the earth seems laughing with joy in the very face of day!”

Aldarin smiled as he spoke, and gazed above. It was the hour of early dawn. The first beams of the sun shone over the eastern battlements of the castle, mellowing the azure sky with their radiance, while the fresh and balmy air of the summer morn fanned the burning forehead of the Scholar. It was the last time he would behold the beams of the dawning day; it was the last time his burning brow should be freshened by the kiss of the morning breeze, and yet he smiled. Aldarin gazed around.

A yell of horror broke upon the summer air, and far along the court-yard extended the living sea of men-at-arms, arrayed in their sable armor, mingling with the vast crowds of the peasant vassals, all fired by the same instinct of bloodshed. The beams of the rising sun shone over a thousand maddened faces, as every voice swelled the shout of vengeance, and every hand shook in the light some weapon of death and vengeance.

Look where he might, on every side, the gleam of flashing eyes met the gaze of Aldarin; all along the court-yard the blackened mass swayed to and fro, like the waves of the ocean in a storm; and again heaven gave back to earth the combined yells of innumerable voices, mingling together in that fearful sound--the shout of a vast body of men, maddened and crazed by the impulse of carnage. “To the gibbet!” arose that shout of doom. “To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!”

With one glance Aldarin surveyed the scene around him.

There, grouped along the steps of stone, stood the stout yeoman, his brow wearing a steady frown, as, with his sword half drawn from the scabbard, he gazed upon the face of Aldarin; there stood two figures veiled in robes of sweeping sable, while--near his side--the erect form and venerable face of the knight o’ th’ Longsword confronted the Scholar.

“Sir knight,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a smile wreathing his pinched lip “though ye are somewhat hurried in your work of doom, I would make one brief request, ere I am borne hence. Is there no one in all this crowd who will bear a message from me to my son, the Lord Guiseppo?”

“That will I,” exclaimed the sharp-featured steward of the castle, advancing from the crowd. “Guilty thou mayst be, and thy hands stained with a brother’s blood, yet the request of a dying man may not be refused.”

“Give me the scroll.”

Aldarin bared the withered flesh of his left arm: he drew a poignard, small and delicate in shape, from his girdle, and while the crowd looked on in wonder and in fear, he stained the point of the stilletto with his blood. Another moment passed, and with the dagger’s point, hurriedly traced certain characters on a small slip of parchment which he also drew from his girdle.