Part 6

“Behold!” cried the monk, “Adrian Di Albarone, behold this countenance, where youth, and health, and love, beaming from every feature, mingle with the deep expression of a mind rich in the treasure of thoughts, pure and virginal in their beauty. Mark well the forehead, calm and thoughtful; the ruby lips, parting with a smile; the full cheek blooming with the rose buds of youth--mark the tracery of the arching neck; the half-revealed beauty of the virgin bosom. Adrian, this was the maiden of my heart, the _one_ beloved of my very soul. I was the private secretary of the duke, he won my confidence--he betrayed it. Guilietta was the victim; and I sought peace and oblivion within the walls of a convent. I am now in his favor--he loads me with honors; I accept his gifts--aye, aye, Albertine, the Monk, takes the gold of the proud duke, that he may effect the great object of his existence--”

“And that--” cried Adrian--“that is--”

The monk spoke not; a smile wreathed his compressed lips, and a glance sparkled in his eye. _Adrian was answered._

In the breast of the man to whom God has given a soul, there also dwells at all times a demon; and that demon arises into fearful action from the ruins of betrayed confidence. The monk whispered something in the ear of the condemned noble, and then, waving his hand, retired.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

THE FELON AND THE DUKE.

In a few minutes the door again opened, and the stately form of the Countess of Albarone entered the traitor’s cell.

Why need I tell of the warm embrace with which she enclosed her son? Why tell of her tears that came from her very soul--her deep expressions of detestation when the name of Aldarin, the scholar, was mentioned? Need I say that she was firmly assured of her son’s innocence; that she saw through the mummery of his trial, and the trickery of his foes? Leaving all this to the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass on with my history.

The kind discourse of mother and son was broken off by the clanging of chains and the drawing of locks. The light of many torches streamed through the opened door into the cell, and the gaily-bedizened form of the Duke was discovered.

With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone retired; the door was closed, and Adrian was left alone with the Duke.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed he; “I have condescended to visit you. Albertine, my confessor, told me it was due to a branch of the royal blood of Florence. It were best that you make a short story of what you have to say. My train wait without, and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried to assume a look of dignity.

Adrian bowed down to the earth.

“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your condescension.”

“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak, ignoble son of an honored sire--inglorious descendant of a noble line. Speak! What would you say?”

“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs; without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which hell itself would shudder.”

The Duke sneered, as he spoke:

“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to poison his sire.”

“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.

Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak, and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.

Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the neck of his grace.

You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.

And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing cloak of the Duke, which descending to his knees, sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin, ornamented with spurs of gold. On his head is placed the slouching hat of the prince, surmounted by a group of nodding plumes, and beneath the folds of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of his sword.

Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile--that smile which arises from the recklessness of desperation--and then, without heeding the malignant glances of the Duke, he fixed him against the rough bench upon his knees, with his face to the wall, in an attitude of prayer and devotion--He threw his own sombre cloak over the back of his captive; and then, having slouched the hat over his face, after the manner of the Duke, he gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin, and stood ready to depart.

He opened the door of the traitor’s cell with a quickened pulse, and in an instant, found himself standing in the gallery where the muffled priest waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to the wearer of the scarlet cloak, and the word was passed along the galleries--

“_Make way for the Duke--make way for his grace of Florence._”

The monk now advanced, and locking the door of the doomed cell, he affixed to its panel a parchment signed by the Duke of Florence, and sealed with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner, Adrian Di Albarone, was to be seen by no one until the morrow, when he was to suffer the doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.

This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of Albarone, who paced along the gallery, saluted at the door of every cell by the lowered spears of the sentinels.

The gallery terminated in a staircase. This Adrian and the monk ascended, and at the top they found a company of gay cavaliers, who waited for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the scarlet cloak and slouching hat was greeted with a low bow. Adrian then traversed another gallery, and yet another; being all the while followed by the band of gallant courtiers.

“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to another, “methinks our lord is wondrous silent to-night.”

“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it may be that he is weeping for this young springald, Adrian. Marry, ’tis enough to make an older man than I am weep.”

“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would have you observe strict silence.”

They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the galleries which he had just traversed.

“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.

“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”

They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle, Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.

Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to Adrian:

“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace gate.”

Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence, they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.

Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the supposed Duke with every mark of respect.

And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace, traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of recognition or sign of respect.

At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors upon the panels.

“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered the monk to Adrian, who immediately obeyed his directions.

The monk then turned to the gallant throng of courtiers, and said:

“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense with your further attendance.” The monk retired.

Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations of wonder as then burst from the lips of the cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly be woad; another that he must have been repulsed in some illicit amour; and a third seriously gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other had taken possession of the Duke of Florence. However, being well aware of the high regard in which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it to the guards of the palace, who watched within its confines, as was their wont.

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

THE CHAMBER OF THE DULSE.

In a lofty chamber, hung with tapestry of purple, embroidered with rare and pleasant designs, and lighted by lamps of gold, depending from the ceiling, Adrian and the Monk rested themselves after their arduous exploit.

In one corner of the apartment stood a gorgeous bed, with a canopy of silver and gold hangings, surmounted by a Ducal coronet. Around were strewn couches of the most inviting softness, and every thing in the chamber wore an appearance of luxury and ease.

Adrian reposed on a couch of velvet, and by his side was seated the monk. Before them was placed a small table, on which stood several flasks of rich wine, together with more substantial refreshments.

“Truly, sir monk,” said Adrian, filling a goblet of wine, “I have heard of many unmannerly acts, but this deed of mine does seem to me to be the most unmannerly of all. I not only tied the brave duke, lashed him in the Cell of the Doomed, used his gallant steed, and worshipful name, but, forsooth! I must also repose me upon his couches, and refresh me with his wine!”

And Adrian laughed.

“Thou art merry, young sir. But an hour since--”

The monk was interrupted by a gentle knocking under the tapestry.

Adrian started up, and drew his sword, taking the precaution, however, to resume the scarlet cloak, and slouching hat.

The knocking grew louder. The monk removed the tapestry in the part from whence the sound proceeded, and having pressed a spring, a secret door in the wainscotting flew open, and a woman of beautiful countenance, and rich attire was discovered.

“Thou here, stern priest!” said the damsel, in a sweet voice, “I would speak with my lord.”

“Mariamne, thou canst not see him to-night; he hath no time to trifle with such as thee. His thoughts are given to prayer.”

The monk closed the door, and, turning to Adrian, said,

“Another of this miscreant’s victims, Adrian. It was fortunate she did not see thee closely, for her eye would have detected where hundreds might look without suspicion. And now let us away; every moment increases thy danger; the duke may even now have freed himself, and set his minions in chase.”

“To fly, I am willing, sir monk; but whither?”

“_Follow me_,” said the monk, as he lighted a small lamp of silver. He then removed the tapestry, and discovered a secret door opposite the one afore-mentioned. This the monk entered, followed by Adrian, and a stairway of stone, some two feet in width, was revealed; it was cut into the wall and over-arched, and the distance between the steps and the arch not more than four feet.

With great care the monk led the way down the steps of stone, until they numbered thirty, when they terminated in a narrow platform, which, indeed, was nothing more than a step somewhat longer than the others. Here our adventurers descended another stairway, likewise ending in a platform, and then yet another stairway was terminated by another platform; and thus they descended stairway after stairway, and crossed platform after platform, until the increasing coldness and dampness of the atmosphere, warned them that they had penetrated far below the surface of the earth.

Suddenly the stairway ended in a large and gloomy vault, with walls and floor of the unhewn rock.

On the side nearest the stairway, a gate of iron was erected between the points of two large and irregular rocks.

Through a large crevice which time had worn into this gate, the monk and Adrian passed into a vault like the former, except that the dim light of the taper discovered the rough floor strewn with grinning skulls, and whitened bones.

Along this dreary place strode the monk, lighting the way, while, at his back followed Adrian Di Albarone. In about a quarter of an hour the vault narrowed into a confined passage, along which they crawled on hands and knees. This terminated in another vault, sloping upwards with a gradual ascent, which having traversed, our adventurers found themselves again between two narrowing walls, and finally, all further progress was stopped by a large stone thrown directly across the path. Adrian spoke for the first time in half an hour--

“And are we to be baulked after all the adventures of this night?”

The monk answered by pointing to the stone, to which he and his companion presently laid their shoulders, but their united strength was insufficient to remove it.

Again they tried, and again were they unsuccessful; they made a third attempt, and the stone was precipitated before them.

Seizing the light, Adrian threw himself into the breach, and discovered an extensive vault, hedged in by walls built of hewn stone, while the floor was covered by rows of coffins, with here and there a monument of marble. Throwing themselves into this place, they picked their way through the dreary line of coffins, when they came to a wide staircase which they ascended, until they found it suddenly terminated by the archway above.

The monk raised his hand, and drawing a bolt which Adrian had not perceived, he pushed with all his strength against the archway, and a trap-door rose above the heads of our adventurers.--Through this passage the monk ascended, followed by Adrian, who looked around with a gaze of wonder, and found himself standing in the aisle of the Grand Cathedral of Florence.

The moonbeams streaming through the lofty arched windows of stained glass, threw a dim light upon the high altar with its cross of gold, and faintly revealed the line of towering pillars which arose to the dome of the cathedral, as vast and magnificent it extended far above.

“My son,” cried the monk, “give thanks to God for thy deliverance.”

And there, in that lone aisle, as the deep toned bell of the cathedral tolled the third hour of the morning, did Adrian and the monk fall lowly on the marble pavement, and, prostrating themselves before the sublime symbol of our most holy faith, give thanks to God, the Virgin, and the Saints, for their most wonderful escape.

BOOK THE SECOND.

THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

THE PIT OF DARKNESS.

One moment in light, and the next in darkness--down through the gloom of the pit, plumb as a hurled rock, and swift as an arrow, the betrayed soldier fell, precipitated by the treachery of the scholar Aldarin.

The swiftness of his descent took from him all thought or sensation. His flight was suddenly terminated by a subterranean pool of water, into the depths of which he sunk for a moment, and then arose to the surface.

The coldness of the flood, together with an unconquerable stench that assailed his nostrils on all sides, restored the stout yeoman to sensation and feeling.

Spreading his arms instinctively outward, in an attitude of swimming, Rough Robin could neither guess where he was now, or with whom he had been conversing a moment since. His thoughts were wandering and confused, as are the thoughts of a man who dreams when half asleep and half awake.

Still swimming onward through the stagnant waters, Robin cast his eyes overhead, and discerned far, far above, a faintly twinkling light, somewhat of the size of a dim and distant star. He looked again, and it was gone. Around, above, and beneath was darkness: darkness which no eye could pierce, where all was shadow and vacuum--darkness that was almost tangible with its density. The cheek of the brave soldier was chilled by air that, heavy with dampness and mist, seemed as dead and stagnant as the waters in which he swam.

The light glimmering for an instant far above, brought dimly to his mind the person of Aldarin, and the incidents of a moment hence.

And then Robin thought that his fall of terror was only a dream, and, splashing and plunging in the dark waters, he sought to shake off the fearful night-mare that stiffened his sinews and froze his blood.

His extended hand touched a cold and slimy substance, and a small, bright speck shone like a coal of fire through the darkness. Robin grasped the slimy substance: it moved, and a noisome reptile wriggled in his hand.

Now it was that he became aware that the subterranean waters were filled by crawling serpents, who writhed around his legs, twined around his body, and struck his arms and hands at every movement. Their bright eyes sparkled in the waters, and their hissing broke upon the air, as they were thus disturbed by the presence of a strange visitor.

Robin was no coward, neither was he much given to strange fancies; but a feeling of intense terror chilled the very blood around his heart, as the thought came over him that he lay in that fearful place, of which so many legends were told by the vassals of Albarone. The peasantry had many stories of a vast, unearthly pit sunk far in the depths of the castle, where the fiends of darkness were wont to hold their revel and shake the bosom of the earth with the sounds of hellish wassail. Into this dark pit--so ran the legend--had many a shivering wretch been precipitated by the lords of Albarone; and here, unpitied and unknown, had the carcasses of the murdered lain rotting and festering in darkness and oblivion.

As the memory of these strange legends crept over the confused mind of Robin the Rough, he gave utterance to a faint shriek.

It was returned back to him in a thousand echoes, swelling one after the other; now like the sound of repeated claps of thunder, and again dying away fainter and yet fainter, as though many voices were engaged in a hushed and whispering conversation.

“Avaunt thee, fiend! avaunt thee!” cried the stout yeoman, as he still strove to keep himself upon the surface of the water. “Holy Mary, holy Paul, holy Peter!” continued he, between his struggles, “an’ ye save me from these pestilent devils, I will--”

Here the yeoman plunged under the waters, and the sentence was unfinished.

“I will, by St. Withold, I will!” cried he, as he rose to the surface, “place at the altar of the first chapel at which I may arrive after my deliverance, a wax taper, in honor of all three of you.”

The yeoman struck his arms boldly through the flood, as he continued:

“And, an’ ye work out my deliverance, I’ll never ask a boon of ye again.”

Here he gave another bold push.

“I’ll never ask a boon of ye more, but stick like a good christian to my own native saint--even the good St. Withold!”

Here, satisfied that his duty to heaven was done, the yeoman strove to gain some rock, or other object, upon which he might rest his body, much disjointed as it was by his fall of terror.

“It pains me--this wounded hand!” he cried--“But Aldarin my friend will reward me for the pain, some day or other.”

A murmuring sound now met his ears; it was the sound of running waters. Onward and onward the bold yeoman dashed, and louder and yet louder grew the sweet sound of waters in motion.

In a moment he felt a sudden change, from the dull leaden stillness of a stagnated pool, to the quick flow and wild careering of waves in motion. And now he was carried onward with arrowy fleetness, while high above, the roaring of the subterranean stream was returned in a thousand echoes. Now tossed against the sharp, rough points of rocks; now plunged in whirling gullies; now borne on the crests of swelling waves, in darkness and in terror, bold Robin swept on in his career.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

ROBIN ALONE IN THE EARTH-HIDDEN CAVERN.

Thus was he carried onward for the space of a quarter of an hour, when, bruised, shattered and bleeding, he was thrown by the swell of a wave, high out of the water upon a mass of rocks.

Here he lay for a long while, without sense or feeling. When he recovered from this swoon, it was with difficulty that he made the attempt to collect his thoughts; all was vague, indistinct, and like a dream.

“St. Withold!” at last he whispered, as if communing with himself; “St. Withold! but this Aldarin is, in good sooth, a most pestilent knave!”

He paused a moment, and then, as if to redouble his private assurance of Aldarin’s villany, he resumed:

“Aye--a pestilent knave--ugh!”

This last interjection was a suppressed growl, which he forced through his fixed teeth, as, extending his arms, with the hands clenched, he made every demonstration of being engaged in shaking some imaginary Aldarin, with great danger to his victim’s comfort and life.

“Ugh! Well, here am I, in this pit--this back-staircase to the devil’s dining room--alone, wet, hungry, and in darkness. St. Withold save me from all fiends, and I’ll take care of aught beside. Let me see. Mayhap I shall find some passage from this place. I am on solid rock that’s well. Now for’t.”

Cautiously creeping along in the darkness, he followed the winding of the subterranean flood by its roaring, until he was suddenly stopped by an upright stone, which, to his astonishment, he found to be square in shape, and, feeling it carefully, he doubted not that it had been shapen by the chisel of the mason.

Over this stone Robin clambered, and alighted upon a large chisseled stone laid in a horizontal position, and over this was placed another stone of like form; and thus proceeding in his discoveries our stout yeoman found that a stairway arose in front of him.

With a shout of joy, bold Robin rushed up the steps of stone, which, wide and roomy, afforded his feet firm and substantial footing. Some forty steps, or more, now lay below him, when raising his foot to ascend yet higher, the yeoman found it fall beneath him, and in a moment he stood upon a floor, which to all likelihood was laid with slabs of chisseled stone.

Through this place he wandered, now stumbling against regularly-built walls, now falling over hidden objects, now passing through doorway after doorway, and again returning to the head of the stairway from which he started.

Hours passed. Sometimes Rough Robin would hear a faint booming sound far above, which he supposed was the bell of the castle, tolling for the death of the noble Count Di Albarone, known throughout Christendom, in a thousand lays, as the bravest of crusaders, and the gentlest of knights. The sound of this bell swung upon the breeze for miles around, whenever it was struck--so Robin remembered well; yet now, far down in the depths of the earth, a low moaning noise was all that reached the ears of the stout yeoman.