Part 7

With every sinew stiffened, and with every vein chilled by the damp of subterranean vaults, scarce able to breathe in the putrid air which had never known light of sunbeam, his whole frame weakened by hunger, and his brain confused by his dream-like adventures, Robin, the stout yeoman, at last sank down upon a block of rough stone, where he remained for hours in a state of half unconsciousness, which finally deepened into a sound and wholesome slumber.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

THE CHAPEL OF THE ROCKS.

THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF THE HOLY STEEL HOLD SOLEMN COUNCIL IN THE WILD WOOD.

The scene was a wild and solitary dell, buried in the depths of the forests, far away among the mountains; the time was high noon, and the characters of the scene were the members of a dark and mysterious Order, whose history is involved in shadow; whose names, embracing the highest titles and the wealthiest nobles in the Dukedom of Florence, are wrapt in mystery; whose deeds, performed in secret, and executed with the most appalling severity, are to this day known and celebrated as household words, in the legends of the valley of the Arno.

A level piece of sward, some twenty yards in length, and as many in width, extended greenly within the depths of the forest; its bounds described, and its verdure shadowed, by huge masses of perpendicular rock, which sprang upward from the very sod, towering in wild and rugged grandeur, amid the deep, rich foliage of forest oaks and with the clear summer sky seen far, far above, as from the depths of a well, forming the roof of this hidden temple of nature.

The rugged masses of perpendicular rock, piled upon each other in rude magnificence, surrounded the glade in the form of a square.

Viewed from the forest side, these rocks looked like one vast mound of massive stone, placed in the wild-wood valley by some freak of nature. A narrow, though deep and rapid stream, its waters shadowed to ebony blackness, laved one side of the steps of granite. It swept beneath an arching crevice, some three feet high, and as many thick, washed the sod of the hidden glade and rolled along its edge, foaming against the rugged walls; the waves plashing on high in showery drops, until it suddenly disappeared under the opposite wall, and was lost in the subterranean recesses of the earth.

The mid-day sun, shining over the rich foliage of the surrounding forests, where silence, vast and immense, seemed to live and feel; over the rough walls of the Temple of Rocks, scarce ever visited by human feet,--for strange legends scared the peasantry from the place, flung his beams down from the very zenith along the quiet of the level sward, with its encircling rocks, now animated by a scene of wild and peculiar interest.

Around a square table which arose from the centre of the sward, draped with folds of solemn black, sat a band of twenty-four men, each figure veiled in the thick folds of a monkish robe and cowl, each face concealed and each arm buried within the fold of the sable garment.

These were the priests of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.

At the head of the table, on a chair of rough and knotted oak, placed on a solitary rock, sate a tall and imposing figure, clad as the others, in the robe and cowl of velvet, with his face veiled from sight and sunbeam. His extended hand grasped a slender rod of iron, with a sculpturing of clearest ivory, fashioned into a strange shape fixed on the end--the solemn and revered Abacus of the Order.

This was the High Priest of the Order of the Monks of the Steel.

At the other end of the table was seated a figure, veiled and robed like the rest, yet with a taller and more muscular form, while his hand laid upon the velvet coverings of the table, grasped an axe of glittering steel.

He was the Doomsman of the Order.

His voice denounced, his voice consigned to death, his voice was like an echo from the grave, for it never spoke other words than the sentence of Judgment.

Grouped around the table, a circle of solemn figures, robed and veiled like the others, stood shoulder to shoulder, each form holding a torch on high with the left hand, while the right hand grasped a keen and slender-bladed dagger.

Silent and motionless they stood, the blue flame of the torch, held by the upraised arm, burning over each head; every right hand steadily grasping the dagger; while their robes scarce stirred into motion by the heaving of the breast, looked like the drapery of some monkish effigy, rather than the attire of living men. These were the Initiates, or Neophytes of the Order.

Their dagger it was that protruded from the breast of the victim, found by the affrighted peasantry in the lonely woods, or seen by the careless crowd thrown down, in all the ghastliness of murder, along the very streets of Florence; on the steps of her palaces, in the halls of her castles--even in the cloisters of her cathedral.

Whom the Order condemned, or the Doomsman doomed, they the neophytes of the Order, gave to the sudden death of the invisible steel.

Never had the sun looked down upon a scene as solemn and dread as this.

The chronicles of the olden time are rife with legends of secret orders, linked together in some foul work of crime, or joined in the holy task of vengeance on the wronger, or doom to the slayer; but these bands of men were wont to assemble in dark caverns, lighted by the glare of smoking torches, speaking their words of terror to the air of midnight, and celebrating their solemn ceremonies amid the corses of the dead.

The band assembled in the Chapel of Rocks were unlike all these, unlike any band that ever assembled on the face of the earth.

They met at noonday, raising their torches in the light of the sun, whispering their words of doom in the wild solitudes of the woods, with their faces and forms veiled from view, preserving the solemn unity of the Order, by a uniformity of costume, while the rugged rocks, golden with the mid-day beams, gave back, in sullen murmurs, the voice of the accuser, or the sentence of the doomsman, coupled with the low-muttered name of the doomed.

From their solemn noonday meeting in the Chapel of Rocks, they issued forth on their errands of death, leaving the reeking dagger in the heart of the tyrant, as he slept in the recesses of his castle; flinging their victims along the roadside of the mountain, or the streets of the city, while the faint murmurs of the multitude, gazing at the work of the _Invisible_, gave forth their name and mission: “Behold, behold the vengeance of the Monks of the Steel!”

As the sun towered in the very zenith, the high priest spoke, waving his solemn abacus from his oaken throne. His words were few and concise.

“Hail, brothers; met once again in the Chapel of Rocks. Hail, brothers, from the convent, from the castle, and the cottage, hail! Prince and peasant, lord and monk, met together in these solemn wilds, joined in the work of vengeance on the wronger, death to the slayer, I bid ye welcome. Herald arise; proclaim to the rising of the sun the meeting of our solemn Order.”

And the veiled figure seated on the right of the high priest arose, and extending his hands on high looked to the east, chaunting with a low, deep-toned voice:

“Lo, people! lo, kings! lo, angels of heaven, and men of earth! The solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, hold high council in the Chapel of the Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun. Vengeance on the wronger, death to the slayer!”

And rising with hands outspread and, solemn voices, three heralds successively made proclamation to the north, to the south, and to the setting sun, that the solemn Order of the Monks of the Steel, held high council in the Chapel of Rocks, beneath the light of the noonday sun, while thrice arose the wild denunciation--“_Vengeance to the wronger, death to the slayer_!”

“Priests of our solemn Order, ye have been abroad on your errands of secrecy. Speak; what have ye seen, whom do ye accuse, whom do ye give to the steel?”

“I come from the people,” said a veiled figure, as he arose and spoke from the folds of his robe, “Yesternight, like a shadow, I glided along the streets of Florence, listening to the low-whispered murmurs of the scattered groups of people. Every tongue had some foul wrong to tell; every voice spoke of midnight murder, done at the bidding of a tyrant; every voice whispered a story of woman’s innocence outraged, the gray hairs of age dabbled in blood, the poor robbed, the weak crushed; while the mighty raised their red hands to heaven, laughing with scorn, as if they would shake the blood-drops in the very face of God. Ask ye the name of the tyrant? Find it in the whispers of the people; the wronger and the slayer was the Duke--the Duke of Florence!”

“I come from the palace!” cried another robed priest, rising solemnly, and speaking from the folds of his robe. “Mingling with the nobles of Florence and the courtiers of the Duke, I heard low whispers of discontent, murmurs of rebellion, and dark threats of assassination. The Duke--the tyrant Duke--was on every lip, on every tongue. Florence is slumbering over the depths of a mighty volcano--a moment, and lo! the scathing fires ascend to the sky, the dark smoke blackens the face of day!”

“_I come from the scaffold!_” cried another dark robed figure, as he arose and spoke through his muffled garment. “Last night, a mighty crowd gathered around the gaol of Florence; every voice was fraught with a tale of horror, every cheek was pale, and every eye fixed upon a dark object, that rose in the centre of the multitude. Breasting my way through the throng, I rushed forward, I gained the place of execution, I beheld a dark scaffold rising like a thing of evil omen on the air. I beheld the wheel of torture, the cauldron, and the axe! ‘For whom are these?’ I cried. ‘For a lord of the royal blood of Florence,’ shrieked a bystander: ‘for Adrian Di Albarone. To-morrow, at day-break, he dies; condemned by the Duke and his minions, on the foul accusation of the murder of his father!’ I know the accusation to be false. At this hour, brothers of the Holy Steel, the ghost of the murdered shrieks for vengeance, before the throne of God!”

“Accusers of the Duke of Florence, do ye invoke upon your own souls the punishment accorded to the tyrant, should your words prove false?”

“We do!”

“Priests of the solemn Order of the Holy Steel what shall be the doom of the tyrant, the betrayer, the assassin?”

“Death!”

“Initiates of the Order, do ye accord this judgment?”

“Death, death, death!”

“Doomsman, arise and proclaim the judgment of the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel?”

“Hear, oh heaven,--oh earth,--oh hell,” arose the harsh tones of the doomsman, “Urbano, Duke of Florence, tyrant, assassin, and betrayer, is doomed! I give his body to the gibbet, to the axe, to the steel! Though he sleeps within the bridal chamber, there will the vengeance of the Order grasp him; though he wields the sceptre on his ducal throne, there will the death blow strike the sceptre from his hand, his carcass from the throne, though he kneels at the altar, there will the dagger seek his heart. Doomed, doomed, doomed!”

And then, in a voice of fierce denunciation, he gave forth to the noon-day air, the dark and fearful curse of the Order, whose sentences of woe may not be written down on this page; a curse so dark, so dread, and terrible, that the very priests of the Order drooped their heads down low on each bosom, as the sounds of the doomsman startled their ears.

“Let his name be written down in the book of judgment, as the Doomed!”

“Lo, it is written!”

And as the doomsman spoke, a level slab of gray stone, which varied the appearance of the green sward, some yards behind the chair of the High Priest, slowly arose from the sod, and, unperceived by the monks of the Order, two figures, robed in the cowl and monkish gown of the secret band, emerged silently from the bosom of the earth, and took their stations at the very backs of the torch bearers.

“Who will be the minister of this doom? Who will receive the consecrated steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”

There was a low, deep murmur, a pause of hesitation, and then the priests communed with each other in muttered whispers.

“Who will minister this doom?” again echoed the High Priest, while the sound of footsteps startled the silence of the place. “Who will receive the consecrated steel, and strike it to the tyrant’s heart?”

“Behold the minister!” cried a deep-toned voice as the strange figures strode toward the table. “_Give me the steel!_”

“It is Albertine!” echoed the members of the Order, and the wan face and flashing eyes of the monk were disclosed by the falling cowl.

“Behold the minister of this doom!” he shouted, advancing to the doomsman. “Death to the tyrant! Give me the steel!”

And as he spoke, the cowl fell from the face of the figure who stood beside the monk, and the torch bearers, the monks, and the High Priest, looked from their muffled robes in wonder and in awe, and beheld the face of--_Adrian Di Albarone_.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

THE CHAPEL OF ST. GEORGE OF ALBARONE.

THE SOLEMN FUNERAL RITES OF THE MIGHTY DEAD, CONVEYED TO THE TOMB, NOT AS THE VICTIM, BUT THE CONQUEROR.

The beams of the midnight moon, streaming through the emblazoned panes of the lofty arching windows, mingled with the blaze of long lines of funeral torches, making the chapel of St. George of Albarone as light as day, when illumined by the glare of the thunder storm, and revealing a strange and solemn scene--the last rites of religion celebrated over the corse of the mighty dead.

The mingled light of moonbeam and glaring torch, revealed the roof of the chapel arching above, all intricately carved and fettered, the lines of towering columns, arabesque in outline and effect, the high altar of the church, with its cross of gold and diamonds, won by the lords of Albarone from the lands of Heathenesse, its rare painting of the dying God, its rich sculpturings and quaint ornaments; while along the mosaic floor, among the pillars, and around the altar, grouped the funeral crowd, marking their numbers by the upraised torch and spear.

An aged abbot, attired in the gorgeous robes of his holy office, with long locks of snow-white hair falling over his shoulders, stood at the foot of the altar, celebrating the midnight mass for the dead; while around the venerable man were grouped the brothers of his convent, their mingled robes of white and black giving a strange solemnity to the scene.

Beside the foot of the altar--resting in the ruddy glare of the funeral torches, robed in full armor, partly concealed by a pall of snow-white velvet, on a bier of green beechen wood, covered by skins of the wild leopard, in simple majesty,--lay the corse of the gallant lord of Albarone.

The raised vizor revealed his stern features set grimly in death, while his mail-clad arms were crossed on his muscular chest, robed in battle armor.

No coffin panels held his manly form; no death-shroud enveloped those sinewy limbs; neither did things of glitter and show glisten along his couch, heaping mockery on the dumb solemnity of the grave.

It was the custom of Albarone, that the knight who once reigned lord of its wide domains, should even in death meet the stern enemy of man, not as victim, but as conqueror.

Borne to the vaults of death, not with voices of wail and woe, but compassed by men-at-arms; environed by upraised swords, the silent corse seemed to smile in the face of the skeleton-god, and enter even the domains of the grave in triumph, while the battle shout of Albarone rose pealing above, and over the visage of the dead waved the broad banner of the warlike race.

Near the head of the corse, while along the aisles of the chapel gathered the men-at-arms and servitors of Albarone, were grouped two figures--an aged man and a youthful maiden.

With his head depressed, his arms folded meekly over his breast, his slender form clad in solemn folds of sable velvet, faced with costly furs, and relieved by ornaments of scattered gold, the Count Aldarin Di Albarone seemed absorbed in listening to the chaunt of the holy mass, when, in sooth, his keen eye flashed with impatience, and his lip curved with scorn, as he was forced to witness the ceremonies of a religion whose mandates he defied, whose awful God his very soul blasphemed.

The maiden, fair, and young, and gentle, her robes of white flowing loosely around her form of grace, her hands half clasped and half upraised, stood near the couch of the dead, her calm blue eyes fixed upon the visage of the corse, while the memory of the fearful scene in the Red Chamber swept over her soul, mingling with the thoughts of the felon now festering on the wheel of Florence.

The bosom of the Ladye Annabel rose and fell with a wild pulsation, and her rounded cheeks grew like the face of death, as thus waiting beside the dead, the thoughts of the past awoke such terrible memories in her soul.

Around, circling along the pavement, with stern visages and iron-clad forms gleaming in the light, were grouped the men-at-arms of Albarone, extending along the chapel aisles, in one rugged array of battle, while each warrior held aloft a blazing torch with his left arm, as his good right hand grasped the battle sword.

Here and there were scattered servitors of Albarone, clad in the rich livery of the ancient house, darkened by folds of crape, mingled with the humble peasant vassals, whose faces, stamped with sorrow, mingled with the general grief.

Every voice was hushed, and every foot-tramp stilled, as the last strains of the holy chaunt of the mass floated solemnly along the chapel aisles, while high overhead, above armed warrior and white-robed monk, floated the broad banner of Albarone, waving to and fro with the motion of the night air, its gorgeous folds bearing the emblazoning of the winged leopard, with the motto, in letters of gold.

GRASP BOLDLY, AND BRAVELY STRIKE.

As the last echoes of the holy ceremony of the mass died away along the chapel aisles, Count Aldarin glanced over the group of white-robed monks, with the venerable abbot of St. Peters of Florence in their midst, and along the files of the iron-robed soldiers, for a single moment, and then gazing upon the broad banner waving overhead, he spoke in a bold and deep-toned voice:

“Let the corse of Lord Julian Di Albarone be raised upon the shoulders of the ancient men who served as esquires of his body.”

Four men-at-arms, whose heads were whitened by the frosts of seventy winters, advanced; and, raising the death-couch upon their shoulders, with the right leg thrown forward, stood ready to march.

At the same moment, the united strength of ten of the servitors threw open the huge oaken panels of a trap-door, which, cut into the floor of the middle aisle of the chapel, revealed a wide and spacious stairway, descending into the bosom of the earth.

The Count Aldarin seized the staff which bore the broad banner of Albarone, he flung the azure folds to the night wind, and his voice rung echoing along the chapel walls:

“Vassals of Albarone, form around the corse of your lord. Draw your swords, and raise the shout: ‘Albarone, to the rescue! Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!’”

With the battle cry pealing, their swords flashing in the light, and their torches waving on high, the men-at-arms formed in files of four behind the bier, which now began to move slowly toward the subterranean stairway.

In the rear of the men-at-arms came the Ladye Annabel, followed by the venerable abbot, bearing aloft a crucifix of gold; while on either side walked rosy-cheeked children, clad in robes of white, and holding censers in their hands, which ever and anon they swung to and fro, filling the air with perfume of frankincense and myrrh.

Then came the monks, in their mingled robes of white and black, walking with slow and solemn tread, and holding in one hand a torch, while the other grasped a cross.

As the ancient esquires who bore the bier of beechen wood, arrived at the trap-door which discovered the subterranean stairway, the funeral train halted for an instant.

The sight was full of grandeur.

The light of a thousand torches threw a ruddy glow upon the folds of the broad banner--upon the glistening armor and bright swords of the men-at-arms--over the snow-white attire of the long array of monks, and along the cold face of the dead. The carvings that decorated the walls of the church--the altar, rich with a thousand offerings--the cross of gold, and the rare paintings--the arched and fretted roof, and the lofty pillars, were all shown in bold and strong relief.

“Ye ancient men who bear the corse of the Lord Di Albarone, ye who served your lord with a faithful service while living, prepare to descend into the vault of the dead, there to lay your sacred burden beside his fathers. Vassals of Albarone, grasp your swords yet tighter, and join, every man, in the battle song of our race. The house of Albarone enter the tomb, not with wail and lamentation, but with song and joy, as though they went to battle; with swords flashing, with armor clanking, and with the broad banner of the Winged Leopard waving above their heads.”

Right full and loud sounded the voice of Count Aldarin, while his bent form straightened proudly erect, as though he were suddenly fired with the warlike spirit of his ancestors. His dark eye flashed as he shouted, waving the banner over the bier:

“Men of Albarone, to the rescue!”

“Strike for the Winged Leopard!--strike for Albarone!” responded, with one deep-toned voice the aged bearers of the bier, as they began to descend the stairway.

“Ha! an Albarone! an Albarone! Strike for the Winged Leopard! strike for Albarone!” shouted the men-at-arms, as, waving their torches on high, and brandishing their swords, they advanced with a hurried, yet measured tread, after the manner they were wont to advance to the storming of a besieged fortress.

The aged abbot of St. Peters suddenly forgot his sacred character, and stirred by the memory of the days when he had mingled in the din of battle, side by side with the noble Lord Julian, he caught up the war cry: “Albarone to the rescue!--a blow for the Winged Leopard!” and along the line of white-robed monks ran the shout: “An Albarone! Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Strike for Albarone!” and thus spreading from the men-at-arms to the abbot, from the abbot to the monks, the cry of battle resounded along the aisles of the chapel, and was echoed again and again from the fretted roof.

As the corse disappeared down the stairway, followed by the funeral train, the war song of Albarone was raised by the men-at-arms--wild and thrilling arose the notes of the chaunt, that had swelled in the van of a thousand battles.

The subterranean stairway seemed to be without end. At last, when some five score steps had been passed, the bearers of the corse found themselves in a long and narrow passage, which having slowly traversed, they stood at the head of a winding stairway.

This they descended, while louder, and yet more loud arose the chaunt of the battle song, mingling with the clash of swords and the clank of armor.

At the foot of this stairway lay another passage, narrower than the last, from which it differed in that it was hewn out of the solid rock, while the walls of the other were built of chisseled stone.

Along this passage the procession slowly proceeded, the walls approaching closer together at every step, until at last there was barely room for the bier to pass; when suddenly, as if by the wand of a magician, the scene was changed, and the funeral train found themselves in the vault of the dead.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

THE CAVERN OF ALBARONE.