Part 23

“Then it was in times of blood-shed and slaughter, in the day of foul misrule and galling wrong, when the grim bravo whetted his knife on the stones of the altar, and the corses of the murdered crowded the sanctuary of God, then it was, that a few brave and determined men, evoked from the shadows of the past, a POWER, mighty yet secret, blasting as the thunder-stroke, yet invisible as the grave!

“The POWER of the STEEL--winged by the hands of those twin-sisters of vengeance, SECRECY and MYSTERY.

“Three years past, and on the lips of men, there grew a mighty word--the Steel, the Holy Steel!

“The bravo still smote his victim in the silence of the night, but ere the morrow’s sun, the corse of the assassin lay prostrate beside the murdered.

“The wronger still pursued his work of violence, but it was by stealth and in secrecy; the tyrant still filled the air with shrieks of death and cries of despair, but the trembling tones of his own guilty voice mingled with the last words of the slain.

“The secret band were abroad--the invisible struck their keen dagger suddenly and without mercy, from the cloud that enclosed their existence, and more terrible on the lips of men grew that sound of fear--_The vengeance of the Holy Steel._

“Not many days agone, the work which the Order had sworn to fulfill, was hastened by a new crime of the tyrant. The last baron of the race of Albarone, whom the brethren of the steel had resolved to raise to the Ducal throne, awaited within the walls of a dungeon the coming of the morrow, which was to bring to his head the woe and the doom, the axe, the wheel, the scaffold, and the stake. Doomed on a false accusation, doomed on the testimony of forsworn tools of power, Adrian of Albarone had laid him down to die, when the Messenger of the Steel appeared, the rescue was planned, and the morrow morn beheld the prisoner free.

“The march of fate strode swiftly on. All men named our brother--may God receive his soul--as the tool and minion of the Duke, while--it gives me joy to say it--he walked abroad the messenger of the steel.”

“All hail the spirit of Albertine!” arose the solemn exclamation of the brethren--“all hail the incarnate spirit of our order!”

The last scene came hastening on. And the hand of fate pointed to this lonely Convent of the Mountain Lake, as the place where the wrongs of years should be avenged, where the Tyrant should meet his secret and fearful doom.

“For long years these halls had been peopled by a monkish band, who wore their sacred robes as a cloak for blasphemies too horrible to name; while the Dukes, the Tyrant-Dukes of Florence, startled these ancient walls with the noonday debauch, and midnight orgie, the sunshine murder, or the torch-light massacre!

“Here not many days agone, came Albertine the Monk. Still in the confidence of the Duke--for a specious tale blinded the eyes of the Tyrant with regard to the part our brother bore in the escape of the Doomed--still in the confidence of the Duke, the convent doors flew open at his word. Lord Adrian found a home within these walls, and day by day, secretly and surely, Albertine made converts of the Abbott and the Brethren of this Monastery of crime.

“A few days past, the tools and minions of the Duke, they now became the sworn Neophytes of the Order of the Holy Steel. It was the purpose of Albertine, to lure the Duke to the lonely Convent, and while the sound of his midnight wassail, awoke the echoes of the old walls, the Avenger would strike the dagger to his heart. The treachery of a peasant of the lonely valley hastened his schemes to their completion.

“The last night came. The Duke, flushed with pride, and made reckless by revenge, rode through the convent gates, companioned by his bravoes, who held their knives on high, shouting for the blood of Adrian, the Traitor.

“And while they prepared the doom of Lord Adrian, in the lonely valley, the INVISIBLE bestrode the mighty storm of vengeance that darkened over the night in Florence. The morning dawned on Florence the Free!

“The morning dawned over the lonely valley, and the blood-stained Convent. Along the halls, and through the vaults of the ancient fabric were heaped the corses of the bravoes, while the Brethren of our Order, ran from hall to hall, from vault to vault, lifting the red steel on high, as they sought for new victims, while the shout of vengeance rang pealing from roof to floor, until the air seemed animate with the cry of death.

“The Monks of the Steel came hurrying to the convent, two hours after midnight, but they came too late.

“The Duke, Albertine and Lord Adrian, all had disappeared.

“The morning dawned on Florence, unshackled and free, but the Duke, chosen of God, was gone.

“Brethren, ye have all heard the fearful story of that night of terror--the farewell of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian, when awaiting his doom in the earth-hidden vault--ye have heard how the bowl of death was given to the Duke-elect by the monk--the singular disappearance of Albertine and the Duke when they entered the Chamber of St. Areline--all has reached your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery--”

“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath been darkening o’er my soul since that night of terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly rose from his seat. “A light breaks over the chaos of doubt and mystery--a sad and fearful light. Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his thirst for the blood of the Tyrant Duke, beheld the midnight hour approach, while the Brothers of the Invisible still delayed their coming. The Duke bade him perform this work of doom. Albertine must either refuse, or excite the suspicion of the tyrant. ’Twas a terrible thing--oh, most terrible to poison the young Lord at the bidding of this changeling Duke, but Albertine had no alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into life. He was forced to slay Adrian to retain the confidence of the Tyrant--sooner would Albertine make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened bones, than the Duke, against whom his very soul had sworn vengeance, should live. He slew Lord Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the act--and then came his strange and mysterious vengeance on the Tyrant.”

A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the Tower-room.

Every heart was impressed with the terrible truth shadowed in the words of the Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence, each heart solemnly mused on the dark story of Albertine, his last crime, and his last revenge.

“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,” again spoke the High Priest. “Brothers of the Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk, joined in the work of vengeance on the Wronger, death to the slayer, ye who won for the Fair City, peace and freedom, ye who rule her destinies, guide her fate, your High Priest asks you the solemn question--Who shall wear the Ducal Coronet of Florence?”

The bold words were yet ringing on his lips when a shout from the stairway leading to the tower, rang through the circular room--

“Ha--ha--ha! I bear the brand--the flaming brand! See--how it whirls on high--look how it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long, but ye could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”

The small door of the tower-room was flung suddenly open, and rushing through the aperture, the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac stood disclosed before the vision of the secret brothers; the blazing torch he grasped in his right hand flinging a blood-red light over the veiled figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of the room were illumined with fitful glimpses of the ruddy beams.

“Ha--ha--ha! The brand, the flaming brand! Ye sought well and ye sought long--but ye might not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his brothers! Merry was the fire they built--merry, oh, merry! Cheerily the flame arose--oh cheerily! And now--ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor burns, all is fire--and ha, ha, I bear the brand, the flaming brand!”

And as the maniac swung the burning brand, whirling and hissing round his head, there came hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a young and lovely woman in his arms, followed by a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was stamped with an expression of alarm most strange to see on his determined features, while he aided the youth and maiden onward in their flight from the smoke and flame below.

“Health to the Holy Steel!” cried the cavalier rushing forward; “I bear a message from the Lords and People of Florence!”

“Ye will have to be wondrous hasty with your messages, I tell ye!” exclaimed the bluff soldier. “For d’ye see--all below us is flame and death--the convent is on fire, by St. Withold!”

“Brethren of the Holy Steel,” exclaimed the High Priest, as opening the pacquet he gazed calmly round over the erect forms of the uprisen monks and neophytes of the order--“who shall wear the ducal crown of Florence?”

“The Ladye Annabel!” echoed the Brethren of the Holy Steel, with one unanimous shout. “Live the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence!”

A moment passes--behold the spectacle!

A fair and lovely form, clad in robes of fluttering white, stands trembling in the midst of the group of black-robed men who cluster round, kneeling on the pavement, as they raise their hands in one hurried movement, and shout with wild acclaim--

“Live the Queen--live the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

And as the Secret Brethren sank kneeling round, priest and neophyte, all with heads bent low, before the form of the Ladye Annabel, who gazed around with a vague and wandering look, there standing erect with a flushed cheek and a rolling eye, the ancient man of the vault flinging the brand aloft, whirling the flame round and round again, as he shouted--

“‘Tis merry, ’tis merry, ha, ha! ’Tis merry, ’tis merry--hurrah! Old Glow-worm is a demon--these all are demons! Ha, ha! Fire above, and fire below--old Glow-worm is king! On--on--brothers--on--light up the cozy nooks with the red flame--fire the timbers, heat the old rocks, scare old Death with the light! Ha--ha--ha! The stone rolled back, and he--_was buried alive_!”

“Up, up--an’ ye bear the hearts of men--up and save yourselves and save the Queen!” shouted Robin the Rough. “The fire has chased us through the long galleries of the convent, from chamber to chamber, from room to room, has it followed roaring at our heels! Up, and save the Queen! Her attendants have escaped or fallen in the flames. Yonder by the window of the stairway is our only hope! A staircase of massive stone, built outside the walls of this tower, leads downward to the southern wing of the convent, yet untouched by flame! Up, and save the Queen!”

“Listen, Brothers of the Invisible, listen to the last words ye shall ever hear from your High Priest. Our oath is fulfilled, the Tyrant is dead, Florence is free! And here in this lofty tower, environed by flame, with the roaring of the fire in our ears, and the lurid smoke rolling up to the heavens, with flame and death all round, here in this dark and blood-stained House of St. Benedict, do I, your High Priest and Sire, dissolve the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel!”

“When Wrong arises, then shall ye again spring into life, when Murder walks abroad in the sunshine, laughing in the face of God, then shall His ministers again raise the Invisible steel! Till then I dissolve your band, give back your oath.”

“Prince and peasant, lord and monk--off with your sacred garments, off with the vestments in which ye have been robed as the avengers of God, off with hood and cowl--stand forth as ye are and raise the shout--Live the Ladye Annabel. Live the Queen!”

“Live the Ladye Annabel--” the shout rang pealing to the tower-roof--“Live the Queen!”

It was like magic!

Down fell hood and cowl, down fell sable vestments and midnight robes, and there disclosed in the light of the flaming brand, stood the prince in his jewelled robes, the knight in the surcoat of glittering velvet, the lord in his gay doublet, the merchant in his silken tunic, the peasant in coat of serge, the priest arrayed in sacerdotal white, glittering with the sacred insignia of gold, the scholar in his flowing gown of sable, all stood there, rising stately erect in the light, proud representatives of their various classes, types of the GOTHIC MAN,[9] however named, or styled, all joined in the holiest cause on earth, the freedom of their native land, lifting up their hands and voices in one wild burst of enthusiasm, as they hailed the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence, chosen by the people, chosen by the lords, chosen by the priests, chosen by God!

A strange smile of delight stole over the lovely face of the Ladye Annabel, as standing calm and erect, her blue eyes was fixed on the vacant air, with the gaze of one entranced by some vision of far-off bliss.

“We shall meet again,--” she said and smiled--“Oh joy, we shall meet again!”

“Buried alive--ho, ho!” shrieked the ancient man, in a low chaunting voice--“Ha--ha! The stone rolls back--I have the brand, and then--ho, ho, hurrah! _Buried alive!_”

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

THE BURIED ALIVE.

THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE, LEADING THE WAY THROUGH THE CHAMBERS OF SLEEP, AND TRANCE, AND DEATH, SOLVES THE MYSTERIE OF THE LIFE OF ADRIAN DI ALBARONE.

Afar through the gloom and twilight that hangs between the visible and the unreal world, we behold the Spirit of the Chronicle, leading us onward to a dim and shadowy land peopled by Dreams and thronged with Thoughts, robed in forms of light or clad in shapes of doom.

It is the land of Death--the land of the Grave.

The awful region, where the soul, parted from its house of clay, looks over the wide expanse of shadow, and beholds every thought that ever visited its mortal form, spring up into tangible being and life, now gladdening its eternal vision with images of loveliness and beauty, and again affrighting the pale Spirit with shapes of ghastliness and woe.

Thus, as his dread Record draws near its close, thus speaks the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.----

DEATH--mighty and irresistible, look down upon the cold corse, and tell us, when does thy hand first unveil the Eternal to the eye of the Soul.--

LIFE--thou mockery and blasphemy, gaze upon the form of the Mortal Thing, and give us to know, when does thy power cease, when does thy victim pass from thy grasp?

Ye each dispute the possession of the Soul, upon a shadowy battle-field, and now the victory sways to the skeleton, and now to the thing of Flesh. Men know this battle-field by various names, they call it SLEEP, they call it TRANCE, they call it DEATH.

First the body sleeps, then it is entranced, then it dies. First the Soul gazes with a dim eye upon the Eternal World, then its vision is enwrapt and absorbed, and at last, as the clay dies, it is all Spirit, and Thought, and Dream.

Come with us, reader, with hushed breath and a solemn footstep come with us, while we tread the halls of Old Death, tracing the Soul through the chambers of Sleep and Trance, into the full light of the AWFUL UNKNOWN!

* * * * *

Adrian Di Albarone drank the Bowl, and drained it to the dregs, and as he drank, the lovely face of Annabel swam round him in wild confusion, mingling with the dark countenance of Albertine, and the bronzed visage of the Sworder, while his heart seemed turning to fire, and his brain to molten lead.

He drained the bowl to the dregs, and then fell prostrate over the coffin, and then came a cold and unconscious pause, when his heart, and his brain, were wrapt in forgetfulness, covering his soul like a thick mist, or the deep darkness of midnight.

Awaking slowly from this oblivion of soul, he beheld looking him calmly, yet fixedly in the face, the countenance of his father, Lord Julian of Albarone, pale as death, and livid with the hues of corruption yet lighted by the deep glance of those shadowy eyes, that seemed to burn in their very sockets, like meteors seen through the dimness of the day-break mist.

As this face so wild, so lofty and so ghastly in its supernatural expression, faded slowly away from the vision of Adrian, his soul became the prisoner of mighty Dreams, the Spirits of the Grave, who called up before his eye, this dark and startling Mysterie.

THE MYSTERIE OF LIFE.

He stood in the court-yard of an ancient castle, with the frown of the old walls glooming over his head, while the blaze of the festal lights thrown from the lofty windows gave a ruddy light to the scene.

Gladsome strains of music, the light-hearted laugh of the reveller, the gay carol of the minstrel came echoing to his ear.

He looked around the courtyard, and beheld ranged under the shadow of the ancient wall the chariots of the great and proud, extending in long and brilliant array, as far as eye could see, each chariot with its panels blazing with heraldic emblazonings boasting its gallant attendance of four noble steeds, decorated with gay housings and waving plumes, red, azure and snow-white in hue, while numerous servitors, attired in liveries of every color and gaudy device, ran to and fro, their shouts of boisterous merriment, mingling with the voices of their Lords, joining in the glee song of the banquet hall.

Ascending a massive stairway, with snow-white marble steps, and rare paintings adorning the wall, Adrian made his way through the crowds of feasters, passing to and fro, through the stream of servitors bearing dainty viands to the revellers above, and in a single moment stood within the glare and glitter of the Festival Hall.

It was in sooth, a grand and magnificent scene.

The pillars of a lofty hall swept away from the spot where he stood, in grand perspective, each lofty column bearing its burden of wild flowers, quaintly wreathed around sculptured frieze and capital, hanging in long festoons to the floor, or borne to and fro by the summer breeze.

The glare of ten thousand lamps, arranged amid the intricate ornaments of the ceiling, hung along the towering columns or pendant in the night air, gave a dazzling light to the scene.

The dancers went merrily over the bounding floor, each eye gleaming with revelry, each cheek glowing with the merriment of the hour, and the Spirit of the Dance giving life to every step, animation to every motion of the revellers.

Placed on the balcony above his head, the band of minstrels filled the air with music; pillar and column, ceiling-arch and obscure nook, gave the strains with redoubled echoes, until the air seemed animated with melody, and instinct with the life of joy.

Floating on the waves of sound, the forms of dame and damsel, lord and cavalier, seemed swimming in the atmosphere, their eyes flashing light, their hands gaily upraised, their voices mingling in a festal song, as they undulated to and fro, now circling here, now grouping there, now clustering in a crowd, and again darting away over the floor, like a flock of frightened birds scared by the swoop of the falcon.

Adrian gazed over the scene, until his eye grew sick with loveliness, his ears deafened by the sound of mirth, revelry and music, he gazed around and marked the forms of beauty swaying in the dance, here the blooming form of mature womanhood, bounding amid the dancers, there the blushing cheek of girlhood, receiving the warm blaze of the festal lights o’er the velvet skin, here soft lips and azure eyes, mingling their messages of love, there delicate hands pressed thrillingly together, on every side the form of a queenly dame revealed in the light, or the soft bosom of a princely damsel, heaving from the folds of her vestment--on all sides beauty and grace, music and motion, commingling their fascinations, while the heart filled with melody, and the pulse throbbed with joy.

And as Adrian looked, with a wild thrill of delight, he beheld one lovely form, standing apart from the dancers, while her face of dreamy beauty was gazing sadly over the scene, the deep blue eye gleaming with thought, and the swelling cheek paled by melancholy, as the strains of festival music came to her ear.

It was the Ladye Annabel!

With a wild cry of delight, Adrian sprang forward, and as he sprang, his bride turned, beheld his face, and came swimming into his arms.

Another moment and they joined the throng of dancers speeding gayly over the floor, their hands interlocked while their glances mingled, and the soft whispers of each voice, spoke of the dear memories of the olden time.

It was when the dance swelled gayest, when the minstrels gave forth their most joyous notes, when all around was life and music and the waters of joy came bubbling to the brim of every heart, that a strange voice, deep, and whispering in its tones, broke over the very heart of Adrian.

“_Man, thou art full of joy, and around thee every cheek glows with health, every eye sparkles with life. Behold, I show thee the Mysterie of Life and Death! Thou art doomed to return to this Festal Hall, one hundred years from this night, when thou shalt behold the Festal Scene, which death will open to thy gaze!_”

And at the very word, Adrian lost his bride in the throng of dancers, and all grew dark as midnight.

The music and the dancers, the forms and beauty and the pillared hall, all, all were gone, and a strange consciousness was impressed upon the brain of Adrian, that one hundred years from the festal night had passed away, and that he had been wrapt in slumber for a long and dreary century of time.

THE MYSTERIE OF DEATH.

He stood in the court-yard of the ancient castle yet again.

A broad blaze of light poured from the windows of the festal hall, while the peals of strange and unknown music broke murmuringly on the air.

Adrian gazed around the court-yard, with a feeling of awe, gathering heavy and dark around his heart.

There was the castle yard, the same as in the olden time, yet not altogether the same.

Gleams of moonlight stole through the chinks in the tottering walls of the court-yard, wild vines threw their long branches from among the age-worn stones, and the owl, like a thing of evil omen disturbed the air with its sullen murmur.

Gazing along the court-yard, Adrian beheld a strange and ghastly spectacle.

Beneath the shadow of the dark gray walls, along the very space occupied by the array of chariots, one hundred years before, there extended a long line of death-cars, hearse succeeding hearse, all draped in folds of black, with four dark steeds, heavy with hangings of dark velvet, attached to each chariot of the grave, while the coachman’s seat was tenanted by a grisly skeleton, attired in the gay livery of the noble lord whom he served in life.

With maddened steps, Adrian hastened along the whole line of hearses, he beheld each death-car, with its four black steeds, their heads decorated with sable plumes, their bodies concealed by folds of black velvet, he beheld the skeleton driver seated on every hearse.

He saw the paraphernalia of death and the grave, and as the horror grew darker at his heart, he shouted aloud, asking in tones of wild amazement, the cause of this fearful panorama of woe and gloom.

There came no answer to his shout.

All was silent, save the murmur of the owl and the peals of strange music floating from the windows of the Festal Hall.

“What means this fearful scene?” whispered Adrian, as he seized the skeleton servitor of a gloomy hearse by the arm--“What means the long array of death cars?”

The skeleton extended his fleshless jaws, in a hideous grin, and with his skeleton hand, brushed the dust of the grave from his gay doublet of blue and silver, and arranged the tasteful knot of his silken sash.

Still no voice came from his bared teeth, no answer came from his fleshless visage.