Part 21

A lamp of iron, all rusted and time-eaten, suspended from the arched ceiling of a small apartment of the convent of St. Benedict, reserved in especial for strangers, threw a dim light over the figure of his grace of Florence, reposing on a velvet couch, and upon the blazing armor of the attending men-at-arms, who waited beside their lord.

A smile, full of self-satisfaction, rested upon the lip of the Duke, and a glance full of agreeable fancies lit up his eye, as he contemplated the fulfillment of all his schemes.

“The forward boy punished for his insolence,”--thus ran his musings--“done to death for the treasonable act of lifting his hand against his liege lord--this accomplished, the fair Annabel is mine, and with her I acquire the rich domains of Albarone. A servitor but a moment since bears me intelligence that she has recovered from her madness. By’r Ladye, my exhausted coffers shall be replenished to the brim! Ha--ha ha! Then I shall war and conquer. Why not _I_ as well as others of my rank and power? I shall war--I shall conquer--I shall--”

“My Lord Duke,” exclaimed a sentinel, thrusting his head from between the folds of a sable curtain that hung across the apartment, dividing it from an adjoining chamber, within whose walls were the followers of his grace. “My Lord Duke, a monk of the convent craves audience with your grace--shall I admit him?”

“Aye, let him enter.”

And in a moment, there stood before the Duke a monk attired in the dark robe of his order: his hood was drawn over his face, and, with depressed head and folded arms, he seemed to wait the commands of his grace of Florence.

“Thy errand, sir monk?”

“I come by the bidding of the Father Abbot, to lead thee to the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”

“Ah! I remember me. As I dismounted at the gate of the Monastery, the reverend abbot told me that it had been a custom, from time past memory, for all strangers visiting the holy house of St. Benedict, to pass an hour in the cell of this saint--St. Areline, methinks she is styled. Further, he told me the saint has the power of revealing future events. Is’t so, holy father?”

“Even so, my Lord Duke. When besought, on bended knee, in the silence of midnight, the form of the blessed saint appears fired with supernatural life: her eyes flash and her lips move, and the doom of the suppliant--whether for good or for evil--is revealed.”

“At midnight, say’st thou? ’Tis a lone hour. By’r our Ladye, but the evil one may have something to do with the matter.”

“That may not be, my Lord Duke. The holy Areline died in the odor of sanctity. The scorner and the outcast of heaven alone doubt her holiness and power. For three centuries hath the fame of St. Areline been sounded abroad, and now it were sin unpardonable to say aught against her sacred name.”

“Lead on, holy father; in God’s name, lead on: I’ll follow thee. Hugo! I say, Hugo!”

The face of the ill-looking sentinel with the squinting eye, appeared among the folds of the sable curtain.

“Hugo, where is Balvardo, thy comrade--eh? Speak quickly--where is Balvardo?”

The sinister eye of the sentinel squinted yet more fearfully; he looked confusedly round, and stammered forth:

“My Lord Duke, he is--he is--”

He paused suddenly, and finished the sentence by pointing downward with the forefinger of the right hand, with a sort of diving motion.

“Ah! I had forgotten _that_, good Hugo! Thou wilt attend me, vassals; and ye, sirs, shall also accompany me to this midnight ceremony.”

While he thus spoke, the monk threw open a door at the end of the apartment opposite the sable curtain, and, followed by the Duke, attended by Hugo and the two men-at-arms, with torches in their hands, he presently was traversing a long gallery, with his head still depressed and his arms still folded on his breast.

“By’r our Lady, but thou art wondrous chary of thy good looks!--eh, sir monk?”

“It becomes not a sinner like me to be otherwise than humble. It becomes not a poor brother of St. Benedict to assume an erect port and a bold countenance before--_his grace of Florence_!”

“Well said, by my troth! Whither art leading me, holy father? Ha! a stairway; it extends above us as though it had no end. Ugh! how those torches glare--how gloomy these arches seem! Lead on, sir monk!”

Ascending the stairway, they found themselves in a winding gallery, with floor of stone, low arching roof, and narrow walls. Through the mazes of this passage they swiftly wound, and presently they stood at the foot of another stairway.

“By St. Peter!” exclaimed the Duke, “but these passages are like the windings of a witch’s den. How runs the night, holy father?”

“When I left the halls of the convent, the sands of the hour glass had fallen to within an half hour of midnight.”

“Ah! we shall be just in time for the trial of St. Areline’s power. Another gallery! By’r Ladye, but this is wondrous! In the name of thy patron, St. Benedict, I adjure thee, monk, tell me are we not near our journey’s end?”

“See’st thou yon oaken door that terminates the gallery? The oaken door with large panels, and topped by arches of dark stone? There an’ it please thee, my Lord Duke, must thou leave thy attendants, and alone, and in the dark, we will enter the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”

“How? Leave my attendants? ‘Alone,’ sayst thou? ‘In the dark’? Beshrew me, sir monk, but this saint of thine is somewhat difficult of audience!”

“The reward she offereth is beyond price. A knowledge of the future--the dim and shadowy future! Thou shall behold thy coming deeds written in characters of light; thy future conquests shall spread themselves before thee like the varying beauties of a lovely landscape. Thou shall--”

“‘Slife! thou talkest well! Enough: we stand before the oaken door. Enter--I’ll follow thee!”

The monk passed his hand over one of the panels of the huge door, and pressing a secret spring, a narrow passage was opened, through which the brother of St. Benedict disappeared, followed by his grace of Florence.

“There they go,” Hugo exclaimed as the panel closed. “There they go upon their madcap adventure. The saints save me from all such folly!”

“And me, comrade,” cried the tallest of the men-at-arms, letting the sheath of his sword fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.

“I say amen to your prayers,” exclaimed the other, looking very wise in the torchlight.

“Ha! what noise is that?” cried Hugo, as he gave a sudden start.

“’Tis down in the court-yard,” exclaimed the tall man-at-arms. “Hark! ’tis the clashing of swords--the rattling of spears--the clashing of armor.”

“Shouts, too!” cried the other soldier, “Ha! war cries! ‘Slife! it sounds as if they were battering down the gates! Hark! again! and again!”

And thus, while the sounds waxed louder, and the cries grew fiercer in the court-yard below, the men-at-arms, and their companion, Hugo, waited, with the utmost impatience the coming of their lord.

An hour passed.

The Duke had not appeared. The tall man-at arms fixed his eyes upon the massive door, and struck the secret panel with his spear, urged by all the vigor of his stalwart arm. Another and another blow. The wood yielded, and the open space gave passage to the man-at-arms, who forced his way through, followed by his comrade and Hugo of the sinister eye.

Their torches flashed upon the walls of a square apartment, with floor and roof of stone. No living creature was there. A small, narrow door gave entrance to another apartment. Three pillars of time-worn stone supported the arched roof, and divided the place into three sides, with floor of variegated stone. One side of the apartment, was concealed by a curtain of sable velvet.

This Hugo hurriedly drew, and in an instant his ungainly figure was reflected in a vast mirror of dazzling steel, which, reaching to the arched ceiling above, twice the height of a man, extended on either side as wide as it was high. Around the apartment was no sign of passage way or secret door; all was bare and rugged stone, and the place was without bench, stool, couch, or furniture of any kind.

“By’r Ladye!” shouted Hugo, “that monk was the--devil, and he has run away with our lord! W-h-e-w!”

And the three fairly shook with mingled surprise and terror, which was presently increased to alarm and horror by the clashing of arms in the outer apartment.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

THE WONDERS OF ST. ARELINE.

No sooner had the oaken panel closed behind him, than the Duke found himself cautiously groping his way in utter darkness, being guided by the sound of the footsteps of the Monk.

Presently the Monk laid hand upon the Duke’s shoulder.

“Kneel, mortal, kneel,” he exclaimed in a voice which the Duke thought wondrously changed of a sudden, “kneel and behold the wonders of St. Areline! Speak not upon the peril of thy immortal soul!”

Upon the pavement of stone the Duke sank down, and the Monk began to murmur certain mysterious words, in a low, yet deep tone, and thus he continued for the space of the fourth part of an hour, when a light was seen dimly gleaming at one end of the place, and presently another and another, and gradually increasing in radiance they soon appeared to the wondering eyes of the Duke, dancing within the surface of a vast mirror of dazzling steel.

Strange it was that although the meteors,--for such they seemed--grew more brilliant every moment, and shed a more intense brightness along the surface of the mirror in which they shone, yet not a ray of light escaped to illumine the apartment, and the figures of the Duke and the Monk were wrapt in mid-night shadow.

And now soft clouds of feathery mist began to roll within the surface of the mirror, and the meteors gradually faded away into an universal brightness, which like the mellow beams that herald the coming day, poured a flood of rosy light over the tumultuous chaos within the dazzling steel.

“Behold!” cried the Monk, “behold the blessed St. Areline!”

A dim and ghastly form arose from amid the rolling clouds, far in the distance; nearer it drew and nearer, and presently the outlines of a nun, attired in the solemn hood, and sweeping robes of white, became clear and perceptible.

Advancing to the front of the mirror with a gliding motion, the hands of the spectre were folded upon its breast, and the hood of white, hung drooping over its face.

The Duke trembled with terror, and his brow was wet with large drops of moisture that oozed from his shivering skin.

“_Mortal!_” exclaimed a voice, soft as the tones of a spirit of light,--“_mortal, what wouldst thou know?_” The voice came from the shrouded face of the spectre.

With tremulous voice, and as if urged by some invisible power, the Duke shrieked forth--

“I would know my doom--I would know my fate!”

The hood fell back from the head of the Spectre, and its arms slowly extended!

“O Jesu!” shrieked the Duke,--“Look, look! the skeleton hands, the fleshless skull, the hollow eyes! One hand grasps a cross, and one a grinning skull.--Look, look!”

“Speak not!” whispered the Monk, “speak not upon pain of eternal doom!”

The voice again sounded through the cell.

“Dost thou seek in the name of the Holy One? Dost thou ask trusting in his Saints?”

“I do!”

“Thou art answered!” and the bare and hideous bones of the spectre head were covered, quick as a flash of light, with ruddy and healthy flesh, the hollow sockets gleamed with dark and brilliant orbs, and the skeleton hands glowed with life, as a skin of rosy loveliness shrouded the disjointed bones.

“Thou art answered!” and as the spectre whispered the words, a skeleton form came gliding along the mirror, holding an hour-glass in its fleshless hand.

“_Behold!_” exclaimed the vision pointing to the things of graves, “_behold thy doom?_”

A shriek of horror came from the lips of the Duke.

“O, horror of horrors!” he shouted, “It is the form of Death!--Look! look! Behold! He turns, he turns with a ghastly smile--he points to the hour glass!” The tyrant, assassin and betrayer started forward with every nerve quivering with the intensity of his terror. “O God of Heaven! _The Sands of the glass are run!_”

“Ha!” shrieked the Monk, with a wild yell, that sounded like the howl of a dying war-horse. “Heaven wills it, thy sands are run, thy doom is fixed!”

A stream of light poured around the cell, brighter than the blaze of the noon-day sun, and a clap of thunder shook the pillars to their very centre.

With his eyes rolling with affright, the Duke glanced upward, and beheld the Monk standing erect, his arms outstretched, and his hood cast backward from his face.

“O God! _Thou_ here! Albertine--thou here!”

“Ha! It is _I_!--Thy fate--thy curse--thy doom!”

The Duke felt himself seized in a grasp of iron, and hurriedly dragged along the pavement of stone.

In a moment he heard the sharp spring of a door closing behind him, and brushing his hand over his eyes, to restore his fading vision, he looked around.

A spur of the whitened steep on which the convent was founded, arising some twenty feet above the body of the mass of rock, was imbedded in the darkened wall of the tower, with its summit extending in a platform some three feet square, toppling over the dark abyss below.

Level as the sun-dial and smooth as polished steel, the summit of the rock, projecting from the tower, might scarce afford a resting place for footstep of human thing. In silence and in awe the Duke gazed around.

Above was the moonlit sky, below far, far below, a hundred fathoms down sunk the dark and shadowy abyss, separated from the waters of the lake by a ridge of rocks, that arose along the shores of the mountain tarn, overlooking the sullen blackness of the impenetrable void, on one side, while on the other towered and frowned above the walls of the gloomy convent.

Gazing hurriedly around, the Duke beheld the walls of the Monastery, extending on either side of the tower, in whose stones the platform-rock was imbedded, all smooth, even and moss-grown; at his back leading into the cell of St. Areline, was the secret door, fashioned in complete resemblance to the wall around, fast closed and secured, while high overhead arose the dark and frowning fabric of the tower, its rugged outline, rising like a thing of omen into the dim blue of the midnight sky.

This platform of rock was never looked upon by the peasantry of the valley, save with wonder and with awe--a thousand dark traditions, named the tower as the scene of many a deed of murder, and a thousand legends dyed the platform stone with the crimson drops of innocent blood.

“Where am I,” shrieked the Duke with a low, murmured whisper. “It is a dream, a dream of horror!”

“Thou art in the temple of my vengeance!” the response came hissing between the clenched teeth of the monk. “Behold its roof, yon sky, the walls, the boundless horizon, the floor, the wide earth; and the place of sacrifice, yon bottomless abyss!”

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

THE WATCH BESIDE THE DEAD.

“All--all is dark!” the voice broke wild and whisperingly through the midnight gloom of the place--“I have been dreaming--ah, me--a sad and darksome dream! Methought Adrian lay cold and dead in my arms, while my hand was entwined in the locks of his clustering hair, as they fell over his lifeless face. It was a dream, a fearful dream--yet--mother of heaven--do I still dream, or is this darkness real?”

She extended her hands, she passed them hurriedly along the floor, where her form lay prostrate, and as she thus wildly sought to grasp the form so lately reposing in her arms, she exclaimed with a murmured shriek--

“It flashes on me! All is real--The coffin and the corse, the assassin and the bowl of death--all is dark and terrible reality!”

Passing her cold and stiffened hands, slowly along her forehead, the Ladye Annabel endeavored to recall the tragedy of that fearful night, in all its details of horror, and as scene after scene, action after action, word succeeding word, came back to her memory, another fearful mystery passed like a shadow over her brain.

“The corse reposed in these arms--where is it now? Who hath stolen the body of the dead from my embrace? And the coffin--it is gone! They have borne him to the grave!”

And as the low whispers broke from her lips, this fair and gentle creature, whose nature was soft and yielding, as is ever the nature of a _true woman_, in moments of calm and sunshine, yet susceptible of deeds of the highest courage and noblest determination, in the hour of storm and cloud arose from the floor, her frame all chilled and stiffened by the hard repose of that fearful watch, and extending her hands she wandered slowly around the chamber, seeking with hushed breath, for the coffin and the corse.

All was darkness, thick and intense darkness.

Slowly and with cautious steps she paced around the room, passing her hands along the folds of the tapestry, or extending her small and delicate foot in the effort to touch the coffin, but her search was all in vain. She wandered around the chamber, until her recollection of the particular features of the room became vague and indistinct, and at last with trembling hands and a bewildered brain, she stood erect and motionless.

“All--all is vain!” she cried--“corse and coffin are all gone. They have borne him to the grave!”

While the weary moments dragged heavily on, she stood silent and unmovable, endeavoring to catch the faintest echo of a sound, or hear the slightest whisper of a voice, but all was silent as death.

At last a distant and moaning murmur reached her ears.

Gradually though slowly it deepened into a booming sound, and at last the subterranean arches of the old convent seemed alive with gathering echoes, and the long corridors gave back the tramp of footsteps and the hum of human voices.

“They come--they come”--whispered the Ladye Annabel--“They come to bear me to the bridal!”

The bell of the convent, deep-toned and booming, rang out the hour of--one--the fatal hour after midnight.

“Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!” the shout came echoing along the corridors.

“Strike for Albarone and Florence!” the mingling war-cry reached the ears of the maiden. And in a moment, the tapestry, concealing the entrance to the room from which Adrian had issued ere he drank the bowl, was hurriedly thrust aside, and amid the blaze of torches, the Ladye Annabel, beheld the glare of armor and the flash of upraised swords, while the stern visage of the warrior-band were gazing upon her pale countenance and trembling form.

“Saved, by St. Withold!” shouted a soldier, springing from the crowd--“Ladye tell us, in God’s name, where is the Lord Adrian?”

“They have borne him to the grave!” was the whispered and ghastly response.

The bluff soldier turned aside, and it might be noted that his blue eyes were wet with tears. In a moment he again faced the crowd of warriors.

“Behold the Queen!” he shouted, and the men-at-arms sank kneeling to the floor--“all hail the fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

And the solitary chamber rung with the echo of the thunder shout--

“All hail the Fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

THE COFFIN AND THE CORSE.

THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE, AND THE SWORDER SEALS HIS FATE BY A TOUCH OF THE FATAL SPRING.

Far beneath the Convent, down in the very bosom of the earth, far beneath the chamber of the death-bowl, alone and in darkness, rested the coffin and the corse for the space of an hour, awaiting the spade and the Sexton, the priest with his prayers, and the grave with its silence.

The sound of trampling feet, broke along the silence of the earth hidden passage, and presently, through the crevices of the dungeon door, thin rays of light streamed along the cell.

Then there was drawing of bolts, and rattling of chains, and in an instant the ruddy glare of torches, revealed the ill-looking form of Balvardo, standing in the doorway, and beside him stood a short, thin old man, with slight locks of gray hair, falling upon his coarse doublet.

There was a vacant and wandering expression in his eye, while his parched lips, hanging apart, gave an idiotic appearance to his countenance. The long, talon-like fingers of his withered right hand, grasped a spade covered with rust, and eaten by time.

“Ha--ha!” laughed Balvardo. “The potion which I gave _her_, some hours ago, wrapt her in a sleep, like the slumber of old death. Blood o’ the Turk, how her hands clutched the body o’ the dead, when I first tried to tear it from her arms--even in her sleep she clutched it! I have him at last--sound and sure! He escaped me in the cell of the Doomed, escaped this sword in the Cavern of the Dead, and--and--now, by the fiend I have him at last!”

The Sworder advanced to the Coffin, he gazed upon the pale face of the dead, with a long and anxious look.

“He, he, he,” chuckled the old man. “Why did thou hate him, noble Captain?”

“I know not,” muttered Balvardo, with an absent air, “yet I always had a sneaking suspicion that one day or other, this man, now a corse, would work my death! A queer feeling always haunted me, that made me feel like the felon walking to his doom, so long as this--father-murderer remained alive! Now he is dead, but I fear him yet, and will fear him till he is safely buried i’ the earth!”

“Thou wouldst cover his face with this rich, yellow earth?” sneered the ancient man,--“He, he, he! The grave hides all secrets!”

“To thy duty, Old Gibber-jabber,” exclaimed Balvardo, “Here’s thy man. Lay hold of him, and help me to drag the coffin to the other side of the dungeon. Pull him along--there--there!”

Throwing the coffin upon the damp earth, the old man placed a smoking lamp near the prostrate head of the corse, and then intently watched the motions of Balvardo, who was drawing the point of his sword along the surface of the earth.

“Let me do’t, let me do’t, most noble captain,” exclaimed the old man, pushing Balvardo aside,--“for years, and years, and years, man and boy, have I wielded this good spade, here in these nice, cozy, comfortable chambers! He--he--he! To think a fellow like thee, with that miserable tool, that is unworthy to be called a--spade--to think that a stranger like thee, should think to excel me--Old Glow-worm--in laying out a grave!--He--he--he!”

“Old Glow-worm!--Ha, ha, ha!--a choice name by my soul!”

“A very good name; _they_ call me so--they who bring me food every day--they poke it through the big door through which thou didst pass, most noble captain. A merry time we’ve had of it here--a merry time!”

“_We!_--who dost thou mean?”

“Well! Thou art a fool, beshrew me!--_we_, I and my comrades, who always receive our food at the big iron door. Here, long, long, very long, we have lived in these nice cozy chambers.--Sometimes _they_ fight and kill one another--then I dig their graves! See! how nicely the rich earth turns up! This is a spade!”

Prattling after this fashion, the poor old idiot turned up the earth till he stood in a square hole about a foot in depth, when a glance at the pale visage of Adrian arrested his attention.

“He, he, he! _They always look so!_--Queer,--eh, noble captain!”

“What! hast ever had any other business of this sort?”

“Why, bless ye, most noble captain, I’ve put scores and scores of them under the rich, yellow earth. _They_ bring ’em to me--_they_ at the big iron door. This is earth for ye! Look! how the spade sinks into the mould!--He, he, he!”

“What an old devil!” muttered Balvardo to himself. “How canst thou be merry in these gloomy pits! eh, Old One!”

“Merry?--He, he, he! _Merry_ didst say, why bless ye, when I and my comrades gather round our food, I am as merry as is the sound of this spade, driving into the earth! Merry! why I sing, most noble captain, I sing!”

“_Thou_ sing! Ha, ha, ha! Thou, indeed!”

“Why not I, eh? Beshrew me but thou art a fool! I can sing such a right mirthful song--but they never like it--they my comrades!”