Part 3

It was, in sooth, a noble hound, with full chest, slender limbs, long neck, and tapering body, marked by all that delicacy of proportion, that beauty of shape, and grace of motion, which tradition ascribes to the bloodhounds of the Eastern lands. The head was like the head of a snake, while the eye seemed almost instinct with a human soul.

“Sir Monk,” cried the Duke, in an imperious tone, “were it not better for thee to tell us at once whether the white powder in the goblet is poison? or shall we wait thy pleasure while thou dost weary thine eyes with gazing at yonder hound?”

The monk Albertine made a solemn inclination of his head, and kneeling on the marble floor in the centre of the group, he struck the edge of the goblet upon the tesselated stone with a quick and sudden motion of his hand.

The diamond-shaped stone of black marble was strewn with the white sediment deposited in the bottom of the goblet.

The hound sprang forward, and while his wild eyes flashed and blazed, his nostrils dilated, and the sable animal snuffed the atmosphere of the Red Chamber, as he leaped quickly around the group.

“He snuffs the smell of human blood!” muttered the stout yeoman.

And while all was intense interest and suspense, while a mingled feeling of surprise and terror and nameless fear ran around the group, while every eye was fixed upon the kneeling form of Albertine, with the goblet upraised in his hand, the hound Saladin passed from man to man, scenting the garments of the bystanders, and glancing wildly from face to face, from eye to eye.

He paused for a moment in front of the Signor Aldarin, and uttered a low whining sound as he gazed in the scholar’s face.

“How long is this mummery to last?” exclaimed Aldarin, advancing with a sudden step--“Tell me, Sir Monk, is thy study over?”

The hound Saladin sprang suddenly aside from the robes of the Signor, and eagerly snuffing the marble floor, approached the monk Albertine, and with a moaning sound licked the white substance from the diamond-shaped stone.

“Is it poison?” asked the Duke, and the interest of the group clustered around became absorbing and intense.

“Some new mysterie of thine, learned scholar!” exclaimed Adrian Di Albarone, with a smile of incredulity. “The man does not live, so false in heart as to place a death-bowl to the lips of a warrior like Julian of Albarone!”

“Is it poison!” exclaimed Albertine, gazing round upon the group--“Behold!”

And as he spoke, the hound Saladin fell stiffened and dead, upon the marble pavement, with a single fearful struggle, a single terrible howl.--His limbs were fearfully distorted, and his eyes were starting from their sockets, while a thin white foam hung round his serpent-like jaw.

A confused cry of horror thundered around the apartment, and then you might have heard the footsteps of the Invisible Death, all was so fearfully silent and still.

“As God lives, my father has been murdered!” shouted Adrian Di Albarone, as the expression of incredulity lately visible in his manly face changed to a look of pallid horror--“Now, by the Sacrament of God, he shall be avenged as never was murdered man avenged before! Who,” he shrieked in a husky voice, turning to the throng--“Who hath done this murder?”

“Sir Duke,” exclaimed Aldarin, as though he had not heard Adrian, “the encrusted substance which fell from the death-bowl may be poisonous--”

The small white ball, which the Duke had absently clenched in his fingers, fell to the floor, and every ear heard a ringing sound as it fell, and every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it touched the floor. The whole substance had vanished, and along the floor there rolled a massive signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.

The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again grasped the ring; he held it aloft, and shouted, in a tone of amazement and horror--

“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident into the death-bowl! It bears a crest and an inscription--look, Signor Aldarin--canst make out crest or inscription?”

Aldarin replied with a look of horror--

“The crest, ’tis a Winged Leopard--the motto--‘_Grasp boldly, and bravely strike_!’ Both crest and motto are those of Albarone”--his voice sank to a death-like whisper--“Lord Adrian--behold--_it is, it is the signet-ring of Albarone_!”

Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis--

“Thy question has its answer--let the signet-ring tell the tale. Adrian, oh, Adrian,” he continued, as his voice changed with mingled compassion and anguish--“what moved thee to this fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak old man, should live to see my brother’s son accused of that brother’s murder!”

“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded Adrian, though his chest heaved and swelled with the tempest aroused in his soul--“Tell me, Signor Aldarin, what were the contents of the ‘soothing’ potion administered by thee to the late Lord Julian at daybreak?”

“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its composition, and thou canst witness when I gave it to my murdered brother.”

“I aided in its composition--it was harmless--I saw thee minister the potion to Lord Julian.”

“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone hast had access to this chamber since daybreak”--spoke Adrian, with his calm eye fixed full on the Signor’s visage--“Now tell me who it was that drugged yon bowl with death?”

“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door from daybreak until high noon--did a soul enter the Red Chamber from the first moment to the last second of thy watch?”

“Not a living man”--muttered the hoarse voice of Balvardo from the crowd--“not a soul save the Ladye Annabel.”

“Search the apartment!” shouted the Duke; “the assassin may be yet lurking in some dark nook or corner!”

The doors were closed, the search commenced. Every nook was ransacked, every corner thrown open to the light, not even the bed of death, with its pillows of down and its hangings of purple, was spared.

While the search was in progress, the Countess of Albarone awoke from her swoon, and striding from the recess of an emblazoned window, where the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant look over the strange scene progressing in the Red Chamber, she was soon made aware of the fearful crime charged upon her son, the signet-ring and the terrible mystery.

“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud voice, “there is mystery, but--no dishonor!--Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so accursed an act!”

“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout yeoman.

“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors; and the cry went round the apartment,--

“Nor I”--“Nor I”--“He is guiltless.”

A shrill and prolonged shriek, echoing from a nook of the Red Chamber near the death-couch, sent a sudden thrill through the group assembled in this terrible mystery.

Every form wheeled suddenly round, every eye was fixed in the direction from whence issued the shriek, and the aged Steward of the Castle was seen, upholding with one trembling hand the folds of the gorgeous crimson tapestry, while his aged face grew livid as death, as he pointed with the other hand to a dark recess.

“A secret passage--the door cut into the solid wall is flung wide open--a robe laid across the threshold--a robe of crimson faced with gold.”

And as he spoke he flung the hangings yet farther aside, and the bright sunshine gleamed over the panel of the secret door, flung wide open; the crimson robe was thrown over the threshold, but no beam lighted up the gloom of the passage beyond.

The Lady of Albarone rushed hurriedly forward, she seized the robe, she held it aloft in the sunbeams, and--_every eye beheld the robe of Adrian Di Albarone_!

“Adrian!” shrieked the Countess, “Adrian of Albarone--yonder secret passage leads to thy sleeping chamber--thy departed sire, myself and thou, alone were aware of its existence. It has ever been a secret of our house. Tell me, by yon murdered corse, I implore thee, tell me who flung this door open, who laid thy robe across the threshold?”

Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead, and with a cry of horror fell insensible upon the floor.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

THE EMBRACE OF A BROTHER.

The sun was setting, calmly and solemnly setting, behind a gorgeous pile of rainbow-hued clouds, magnificent with airy castle and pinnacle, while the full warmth of his beams shone through the arching window of the Red Chamber, its casement panels thrown wide open, filling that place of death with light and splendor.

In the recess of the lofty casement, with the sunshine falling all around, and the shadow of her slender figure thrown like a belt of gloom over the mosaic floor, stood the Ladye Annabel, silent and motionless; her rounded arms half raised, with the slender hands crossed over her bosom, her robe of pale blue velvet, with the inner vest of undimmed white made radiant by the sunbeams; while, swept aside from her features, the golden hair fell with a floating motion down over her shoulders, and along the breast of snow.

And as she stood thus still and immovable, gazing with one unvarying glance along the courtyard, the sunshine revealed her face of beauty, every lineament and feature disclosed in the golden light, seeming more like the face of a dream-spirit, than the countenance of a mortal maiden. The soul shone from her face. The eyes full, large, and lustrous with their undimmed blue, dilating and enlarging with one wild glance; the cheek white as alabaster, yet tinted by the bloom, and swelled with the fullness of the budding rose; the lips small, and curvingly shaped, slightly parted, revealing a glimpse of the ivory teeth; the chin, with its dimple; the brow, with its clear surface, marked by the parted hair, waving aside like clustered sunbeams--such was the face of the Ladye Annabel, all vision, all loveliness, and soul.

“He is bound; yes, bound with the cord and thong! They gather around him with looks of insult; they place him on the steed; they move--oh, mother of Heaven!--they move toward the castle gate! And shall I never see him again--never, never? It is a dream; it is no reality. It is a dream! Was it a dream, yesterday, when he stood in this recess, his hand clasped in mine, his eyes calm and eloquent, gazing in mine, while his voice spoke of the sunset glories of the summer sky?”

One long, wild glance at the scene in the courtyard, and then veiling her eyes from the sight, she started wildly from the window.

“It is a dream,” murmured the Ladye Annabel, as she hurriedly glided from the room, and the echoes returned her whisper. “It is, it is a dream!”

Her footsteps had scarce ceased to echo along the ante-chamber, when another footstep was heard, and ere a moment passed, Aldarin stood in the recess of the lofty window of the Red Chamber. His face was agitated by strange and varying expressions, as with a keen and anxious eye he glanced over the spears and pennons of along line of men-at-arms, passing under the raised portcullis of the castle gate.

The portcullis was lowered with a thundering clang, the spears and pennons, the gallant steeds and their stalwart riders, were lost to sight, but presently came bursting into view again, beyond the castle gate, where the highway to Florence, appearing from amid surrounding woods, led up a steep and precipitous hill. And there, flashing with gold and glowing with embroidery, the broad banner of the Duke of Florence was borne in the van of the cavalcade. Then came four men-at-arms, in armor of blazing gold; and then, distinguished by his rich array, rode the Duke, mounted upon a snow-white charger, and behind him, environed by guards, his arms lashed behind his back, came Lord Adrian Di Albarone, accused of the most foul and atrocious murder of his sire. Beside her son, her face closely veiled, and her form bowed low, the Countess rode; and in the rear, their steeds gaily prancing, their spears flashing, and their pennons glancing in the sun, came the men-at-arms in long and gallant array.

With parted lips and strained eyes did Signior Aldarin watch the movements of this company.

As the steed of the last man-at-arms was lost in the shades of the forest, Aldarin smiled grimly, and, extended his shrivelled hand, shouted in tones of exultation:

“One hour ago, I was the stooping scholar,--The _Signior_ Aldarin. _Now!_” full boldly did he swell that little word; “Now, I am the _Count Aldarin Di Albarone_, lord of the wide domains of Albarone!”

He laughed the short, husky laugh which was peculiar to him.

“Adrian swept from my path--and is he not already swept from my path?--that brainless idiot, _my liege_ of Florence, swallowed the charge against that forward boy as greedily as the fish swallows the tempting bait; the signet and the robe will bring the changeling to the block, and thus, my only obstacle swept away, I, as next heir, succeed to the titles and estates of Albarone! And Annabel, my fair daughter! thy brow shall be decked with a coronet; thou shall reign Duchess of Florence! Ha--ha!”

And here, as the wide prospect of ambition opened to his mind’s eye, he became silent, and, hurriedly pacing the floor, resigned his soul to the dreams of his excited fancy.

_Suddenly his visions were interrupted by a deep sigh, that seemed to proceed from the corse upon the couch._

Aldarin started, and for a moment stood still as a statue, his ear inclined toward the couch, as if intently listening; his lips apart, and his quivering hands stretched forth as though he would defend himself from some unreal foe.

At last, gaining courage, he approached the bed. There, without the slightest signs of animation, lay the faded form of the gallant warrior; the eyes closed, the stern expression of the features vanished, and the whole attitude that of unconscious repose.

Turning away, Aldarin was chiding himself for his childish terror, when a deep, sonorous groan met his ear. With a swelling heart he once more turned, and beheld a sight that caused the cold sweat of intense terror to ooze from his person, and every nerve to quake with alarm.

The eyes of the Count were wide open; a slight flush pervaded his cheeks, and his entire attitude was changed. A voice came from his pallid lips:

“Annabel, dearest Annabel! a fearful dream but now possessed my fancy! Methought I lay dead--dead, Annabel, dead; and that I died ere thy nuptials were solemnized--thy nuptials, Annabel, and thine Adrian!”

A fearful expression came over the scholar Aldarin’s features, as though he was stringing his mind to one great effort. In an instant his countenance became calm again, and approaching the bedside, he enquired, in a soft voice, if his dear brother wanted anything?

The Count answered hurriedly, as if a sudden light burst upon him:

“Ah! the Virgin save us! good Aldarin, art thou here? Surely, I saw Adrian and Annabel but a moment since? Surely--”

“Nay, my brother;” answered Aldarin, “‘twas but mere phantasy. Annabel is not with us, nor is my Lord Adrian here; but I, dear brother, I am by your side.”

Speaking these words in a voice tremulous with affection, Signior Aldarin passed his left arm around the body of the Count, while the other enclosed his neck. He clasped him in an ardent embrace, as he continued:

“I am with you, dear brother; I will minister to your slightest wish; I, Aldarin, your own devoted friend.”

Here he inserted his right hand beneath the long gray locks of the Count, and clasping his neck, pressed him yet closer to his bosom.

“Kind Aldarin,” the Count began, but the sentence was cut short by a piercing cry, and the right hand of Aldarin clutched tighter and tighter around his brother’s throat.

“Nay, brother, thou shalt have rest, an’ thou wishest it,” cried Signor Aldarin. “There, sleep softly, and pleasant dreams attend you!”

The Count fell heavily upon the bed; his blood-shot eyes protruded from his blackened face, a livid circle was around his throat, and a thin line of blood trickled from his mouth. A sigh, heavy, deep, and prolonged came from his chest, and the murdered man ceased to live.

“The fiend be thanked!--it is _done_!”

Having thus spoken, in a voice that came through his clenched teeth, the murderer looked up and saw--the dogged, rough, yet honest visage of the stout yeoman peeping from among the curtains on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes steadily fixed on the corse, and a curious look of inquiry visible in every feature of his face.

The Signior drew back, trembling in every limb, and pale as death. It was a moment ere he recovered his speech, when, assuming a haughty air, he exclaimed:

“Slave, what do you here? Is it thus you intrude upon my privacy? Speak, sir--your excuse!”

The stout yeoman replied in his usual manners speaking in the Italian, but with a sharp English accent:

“Why, most worshipful Signior, you will please to bear in mind that for twenty long years have I followed my lord, he who now lies cold and senseless, to the wars. That withered arm have I seen bearing down upon the foe in the thickest of the fight; that sunken eye have I beheld glance with the stern look of command. By his side have I fought and bled; for him did I leave my own native land--merrie, merrie England,--and I will say, a more generous, true-hearted, and valiant knight, never wore spurs, or broke a lance, than my lord, the noble Count Julian Di Albarone.”

The yeoman passed the sleeve of his blue doublet across his eyes.

“Well sirrah,” cried the Signior, “to what tends all this?”

“Marry, to this does it tend: that wishing to behold that noble face yet once more, I stole silently to this chamber, thinking to be a little while alone with my brave lord. I did not discover your presence, till I looked through the curtains and saw--”

The stout Englishman suddenly stopped; there was a curious twitch in his left eye, and a grim smile upon his lip.

“Saw what, sirrah?” hurriedly asked the scholar Aldarin.

“Marry, I saw thee, worshipful Signior, in the act of embracing the Count; and such a warm, kind, brotherly embrace as it was! By St. Withold! it did me more good than a hundred of Father Antonio’s homilies--by my faith, it did!”

The thin visage of Aldarin became white as snow and red as crimson by turns. Making an effort to conceal his agitation, he replied:

“Well, well, Robin, thou art a good fellow after all, though, to be sure, thy manners are somewhat rough. I tell thee, brave yeoman, I have long had it in my mind to advance thy condition. Follow me to the Round Room, good Robin, where I will speak further to thee of this matter.”

“_The Round Room!_” murmured Robin, as he followed the scholar Aldarin from the Red Chamber. “Ha! ’tis the secret chamber o’ th’ scholar; many, many have been seen entering its confines--never a single man has been seen emerging from its narrow door, save the scholar Aldarin! I’ll beware the serpent’s pangs! I’ll drink no goblets o’ wine, touch no food or dainty viands while in this Round Room; or else, by St. Withold, Rough Robin’s place may be vacant in the hall, forever and a day!”

With these thoughts traversing his mind, the yeoman followed the scholar over the floor of the ante-chamber, and as they entered the confines of a gloomy corridor, a spectacle was visible, which, to say the least, was marked by curious and singular features.

Imagine the solemn scholar striding slowly along the corridor with measured and gliding footsteps, while behind him walks Robin the Rough, describing various eccentric figures in the air with his clenched hands; now brandishing them above the Signior’s head, now exhibiting a remarkable display of muscular vigor at the very back of Aldarin; and again, making a pass with all his strength apparently at the body of the alchymist, but in reality at the intangible atmosphere. These demonstrations did not appear to give the stout yeoman much pain, for his cheeks were very much agitated, and from his eyes were rolling thick, large tears of laughter.

The corridor terminated in a long, dark gallery hung with pictures colored by age, and framed in massive oak. Traversing this gallery, they ascended a staircase of stone, and passing along another corridor, terminated by a winding staircase. This, the scholar and the yeoman descended, and then came another gallery, another ascending stairway, and then various labyrinthine passages traversed, Rough Robin at last found himself standing side by side with Aldarin, in front of the dark panels of the narrow door leading into the Round Room.

This room was scarce ever visited by any living being in the castle save Aldarin, and strange legends concerning its mysterious secrets were current among the servitors of Albarone.

Many had been seen entering its confines with the Signior, but never was any one, save Aldarin, seen to emerge from its gloomy door.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

THE DEATH-TRAP.

ROBIN THE ROUGH IS ADVANCED TO HONOR, WHILE THE SKELETON-GOD LAUGHS OVER HIS SHOULDER.

The door flew suddenly open, and Robin, gazing around, found himself standing in a small room, circular in form, with an arched ceiling, and floor of stone. The walls were lined with shelves, piled with massive books, clasped by fastenings of silver and of gold, thrown among scrolls of parchment, richly illuminated, and emblazoned with strange figures, relieving pictures of dark and hidden meaning.

The apartment having no casement, light was supplied by a small lamp of curious workmanship, depending from the arched ceiling, and diffusing its intense and radiant beams all around the place, making the lonely room as bright as though the noonday sun shone over its shelves and walls.

Around the chamber were scattered strange instruments pertaining to the science of astrology or mysteries of alchemy; here richly emblazoned parchments, inscribed with curious characters, glittered in the light; and yonder, the ghastly skull, with its hideous grin of mockery, was strown along the floor, mingled with the bones of the human skeleton, the last fragments of the tenement of the living soul.

While Robin’s eyes distended in wonder, as he hastily glanced around the room, he stumbled and fell against an object reared in the centre of the floor.

“The foul fiend take thee, slave!” shouted Aldarin, as, with his extended arms, he stayed the soldier in his fall. “Wouldst thou destroy the labor of thrice seven long years? Wouldst thou destroy a Mighty Thought? Stand aside from the altar, and come not near it again, or by the body of * * *, I will brain thee with this dagger! Thou slave!” he shrieked, in tones of wild indignation, as his blazing eye was fixed upon the face of the yeoman, who stood confused and silent, “for what dost thou suppose I have watched yon beechen flame, by day and night, for twenty-one long years? For what have I wasted the youth and the vigor of my days before yon altar? Was it to have my labor, the mighty thought, for which I have dared what mortal never dared before, destroyed by thy clumsy carcass? Dost think so, slave?”

Rough Robin murmured an excuse for his awkwardness, and, while the Signior’s features subsided into their usual deep and solemn expression, he again gazed around the room.

From the centre of the oaken floor arose a small altar, built of snow-white marble, with a light blue flame arising from a vessel of gold on its surface: the fire sweeping along the sides of an alembic, suspended over the altar by four chains, attached to as many rods of gold placed at each corner of the structure.