Part 8

THE FUNERAL TRAIN, BEARING THE CORSE ALONG THROUGH THE GROUPS OF SPECTRAL-FORMS, ARE AWE STRICKEN BY THE APPEARANCE OF A STRANGE KNIGHT.

Above, the cavern roof spread vast and magnificent, like an earth-hidden sky.

Around, on every side, in rugged grandeur, extended the rocky walls; and far in the distance, the solid pavement seemed to grow larger and wider, as the gazer looked upon its surface of substantial stone.

The light of the funeral torches flashing over the abrupt rocks, revealed the level floor, and gave a faint glimpse of the vast arch extending far above. The ruddy beams flashing on every side, disclosed a strange and bewildering spectacle.

Around the walls of the cavern, and over the floor, were scattered figures of gigantic stone, rising from the pavement, at irregular intervals, in various and strangely contrasted attitudes, bearing the most singular resemblance to the gestures of living men, yet with every face stamped with an expression that chilled the heart of the gazer, as though he beheld a spirit of the unreal world.

A wild legend was written in the archieves of Albarone, concerning these strange figures.

In the olden time, when eternal midnight brooded through these cavern halls, a demon band shook the rugged arches with their sounds of hellish wassail, startling the gloom of night and the brightness of noonday above, with the echo of their shrieks and yells; while their foul blasphemies of the AWFUL UNKNOWN infected the very air with a curse, and sent disease and death abroad from the cavern over the land, until every lip grew pale, and every heart was chilled, at the mention of the demon vault of Albarone.

It was when the impious revel swelled loudest; when the infernal goblet was raised to every lip; when the glances of glaring eyes, burning with the curse of Lucifer, were exchanged between the supernatural revellers; when the sounds of mockery and yells of blasphemy, echoing and thundering around the vault, realized a hell on earth, that the words of the Invisible broke over the scene, and the figures of the demon band were suddenly transformed to lifeless stone.

This wild tradition gained credence from the positions and attitudes of these strange statues.

The smallest of the figures was three times as large as the tallest and most robust of men; there were others whose heads of dark rock well nigh touched the cavern’s roof, while their outstretched arms and writhing attitude filled the gazer with indefinable dread.

Some were springing in the festal dance, the smile, grim and ghost-like wreathing their lips of stone; some were circling in groups of wild revelry, their faces agitated by laughter; while others, with upturned countenances, bearing the impress of every dark and hellish passion, and arms thrown wildly aloft, seemed daring the vengeance of heaven, and mocking the power of God.

Among all these various and contrasted figures, there was not one form of beauty, not one shape of grace; but all were expressive of low, bestial revelry, servile terror, or else of sublime hatred and defiance.

Some were formed of the darkest, and some of the lightest stone. Here arose a form of dark rock, side by side with a shape of snow-white stone; yonder towered a figure of dusky red, and farther on, a form of dark blue, veined by streaks of crimson and purple, broke through the darkened air.

The ancient esquires who bore the corse, had faced the brunt of a hundred battles, and fought in the van of a thousand frays, yet it was not without a shiver of terror that they looked around upon this wild and unearthly scene, thronged with those dark and fiend-like figures.

As they advanced, a new wonder attracted the attention of the funeral train.

Far in the cavern, to all appearance near the centre, a vast mound, of a square form, arising from the level pavement, was hung with burning lamps, and overlooked by a figure of stone, which seemed to those of the funeral train to exceed all the others, both in the magnitude of its height, and the wildness of its attitude. The lamps burning above this mound, threw a strong light over the dark figure, and along the pavement, for some few yards around; while the space between the mound and the procession was lost in entire darkness.

The bearers of the corse, advancing towards the mound, led on the funeral train, who all, save the Count Aldarin, seemed seized with a sudden and indefinable dread. The battle song was still continued, the swords were still brandished, and the torches were still waved on high; but there was a tremor in the notes of the song, the swords were grasped with the nervous sensation that men ever feel when expecting to meet antagonists of the unknown world, and the waving of the torches was accompanied by the muttered exorcisms of the monks.

As for the Ladye Annabel, she leaned half swooning upon the arm of the venerable abbot, who, in good sooth, was as much frightened as the maiden.

The esquires who bore the remains of their gallant lord, had now gained near half the way over the pavement of stone, toward the mound; the last of the servitors had emerged from the narrow passage into the cavern and the whole train extending in one unbroken line, marked by the long array of torches flashing over the armor of the warriors, and the white robes of the monks, presented a striking and imposing spectacle.

Aldarin turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, with a wild gesture:

“How now, vassals? Why this tremor?--Whence this alarm? Do I not lead you? Raise the battle song of our race yet higher, and advance yet more boldly! The banner of the Winged Leopard waves above ye! Shout the war cry, and let your noble lord be borne to his rest as were his fathers before him. Shout the war cry--shout--”

Wheeling suddenly around in the warmth of his excitement, he turned from the men-at-arms, to the corse-bearers, and at the very instant, started a step backward with involuntary horror. The corse sate erect in the death-couch, the white pall falling back from the iron-clad shoulders while the light of the torches fell vividly upon its unclosed eyes as their cold, stony glare rested upon the face of Aldarin.

Aldarin felt his very heart leaping within his bosom, while big beaded drops of moisture, clammy as the death-sweat, stood out from his forehead.

“The Corse hath arisen in the death-couch”--he hurriedly whispered--“The eyes of the dead are unclosed, they are gazing around the vault of death.”

“It is the custom of Albarone,” exclaimed a white-haired Esquire,--“We have raised the corse erect, we have unclosed its eyes. The mighty dead of Albarone enter the vault of death, proudly and erect, with their unclosed eyes gazing fearlessly on the tomb--such is the custom of Albarone!”

“Thanks--brave Esquire--Thanks”--slowly and gaspingly exclaimed Aldarin, as he recovered his powers of mind. “Men of Albarone,” he exclaimed in a loud and commanding tone, “Gaze ye upon the face of the unconquered Dead, gaze upon the erect form, the unclosed eyes, daring the terror of the tomb--and as ye gaze, let the battle-song of our race peal to the very cavern’s roof! Shout the war-cry, shout--”

A figure clad from head to foot in azure armor of shining steel, leaped from behind a form of stone, arising from the cavern floor, at the head of the bier, and seizing the banner-staff from the hands of Aldarin, finished his sentence--

“Shout”--exclaimed the figure armed in azure steel--“Shout Albarone to the rescue! Death to the Murderer!”

The thunder-tones of that voice were known, along the line of men-at-arms, through the columns of the Monks. One wild shout arose from the warriors--

“Ha! For Albarone! Adrian, our Lord, comes from the dead to lead us! On--on! Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!”

Strange it was that the very men, who a moment before had trembled with undefined terror, now hailed with joy the presence of one whom they supposed to have risen from the dead.

In an instant all was confusion and uproar. The Esquires set down the corse, and together with the men-at-arms, clustered around the figure in azure armor, shouting and making the very cavern’s roof re-echo with their exclamations of joy.

The tumult and out-cry, coupled with the name of Adrian, reached the ears of the fair Ladye Annabel, who already half swooning with terror, now felt her brain whirling in wild confusion, as she fell fainting in the arms of the Abbot of St. Peters.

“Brethren,”--cried the Abbot, addressing the monks--“Haste ye away to the upper air for aid, while I stay here with the maiden, and exorcise yon devil, if devil it may be, with solemn prayers and ceremonies. Away--away, the fair Ladye may die, ere ye can return with aid.”

It needed no second word from the Abbot; the Monks gazed in each other’s faces with affrighted looks, and then trooping hurriedly together, hastened across the floor of the cavern, followed by the Servitors, who but a moment past formed part of the procession. It was but an instant ere the white robes of the monks, and the gay livery of the servitors, were lost to view within the confines of the narrow passage.

The Abbot holding the fainting maiden in his arms, her white attire mingling with his sacerdotal robes, gazed around the cavern, and found to his astonishment that all around him was wrapt in darkness, while far ahead, he could discern the lights of the death mound, breaking through the gloom, with the glare of torches, held aloft by the men-at-arms, creating a brilliant space between his position and the mound of the dead.

“All is dark”--murmured the Abbot--“All is dark around me--yet far ahead, I behold the men-at-arms clustering round the Strange Figure--their swords rise aloft, and their distant shouts break on my ear! She lays in my arms, cold, cold and senseless. Save me, mother of Heaven, but I cannot feel the beating of her heart--I hear no sound of aid, no voice of assistance! The cavern is damp, and she may die ere they come with succor,--I will away and seek for aid myself. Lay there, gentle Ladye, at the foot of this strange Statue--thus I enfold thee in my robes of white--thus I defend thee from the cold and damp--in a moment I will be with thee again! God aid my steps!”

At the foot of a figure of stone, wrapping her form in his glittering robe of white and gold, which he doffed from his own trembling frame, the Abbot rested the Ladye Annabel, all cold and insensible, and then hastened from the Cavern in search of aid.

There was a long, long pause around the spot where lay the maiden, while fearful mysteries were enacting far beyond, on the summit of the Death-Mound.

When the Abbot again returned he was companioned by armed men, with glittering attire and flashing swords. He sought the resting-place of the maiden; he beheld nothing but the rough floor of the cavern. The Ladye Annabel had disappeared, and the grotesque figure rising from the pavement seemed to grin in mockery as the horror-stricken Abbot gazed upon the vacant stone, where he had laid the maiden down to rest, her form of beauty, sheltered by his sacred robes.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

THE ORDEAL.

Without much physical bravery, the Count Aldarin possessed a soul worthy of the noblest efforts of moral courage, yet now while the men-at-arms gathered with shouts and exclamations of joy, around the Azure Figure, he stood trembling like a reed shaken by the winter wind, his face at all times destitute of color, became lividly pale, and with quivering lips and chattering teeth, he remained for a moment silent and motionless.

Superstitious terror, he was wont to contemn, fear of the supernatural, he was known to despise, yet now when the voice of the dead rang in his ears, and the form which had been extended on the Wheel of the Doomsman, moved before his eyes, he thought the voice and form had sprung from the unknown recesses of the grave.

It was after the lapse of a few moments, that he summoned courage to advance through the crowd of men-at-arms, and fixing his keen eye on the form of the unknown knight, he spoke--

“Who Sir, art thou? What is thine errand in this lonely vault of the dead? Why disturb the funeral rites of the Lord Di Albarone?”

“I come to avenge his murder!”

“Ha!” shouted Aldarin--“His murderer is already doomed--even now he festers upon the wheel!”

“His murderer lives”--shouted the Figure, through the bars of his closed helmet,--“His murderer breathes, while the Corse asks in the speechless tongue of death--asks and prays to God, to man for vengeance! The Murderer walks the earth, walks in the calm sunshine, while the Murdered rots and crumbles in gloom and darkness. His murderer is here--aye among the brave soldiers, who followed Julian of Albarone to battle, stands the foul miscreant.--THOU ART THE MURDERER!”

A wild thrill of surprise and horror ran through the group. From heart to heart, like lightning leaping from cloud to cloud, darted the wild words of the accuser; from eye to eye flew the quick glance of vengeance, and from lip to lip swelled the shout of the avengers.

“Hew him down!” cried one--“For days have we all thought him guilty. Our suspicions are now confirmed--the corse pleads for his blood!”

“Down with the brother-murderer!”

“Lo! I whet my knife for his blood!”

“Our Lord”--exclaimed a tall and stalwart man-at-arms--“Our Lord Adrian doth rise from the dead to convict thee of the murder of thy brother! Miscreant, canst thou deny it?”

The four ancient Esquires said not a word, but each of them raised his dagger, they seized the Scholar Aldarin, with one firm grasp, their eyes were fixed upon his visage in one stern glare, their instruments of vengeance gleamed over his head, and with silent determination, they awaited the command to strike and kill.

The Azure Knight stayed their hands.

“Onward, brave soldiers”--he cried--“onward to the tomb of the race of Albarone. There will we administer the Ordeal to the old man, there, beneath the shadow of the Demon of our Race, shall he swear that he is guiltless. Onward--bearers of the corse--in the name of the Winged Leopard, onward!”

Raising the bier upon their shoulders, with the corse still sitting grimly erect, the ancient Esquires advanced toward the Mound, led onward by the Unknown Knight, while in the rear, surrounded by men-at-arms, walked the Scholar Aldarin, his head drooped low, and his arms folded across his breast.

He said no word, he uttered no sound of entreaty, but his keen gray eyes, half-buried by his contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the intensity of his thoughts.

The Mound, with all its ponderous outline, lighted by the lamps burning on the summit, now began to appear more clearly through the gloom.

At first it seemed like some vast pile of rocks, heaped on high by a giant-hand, and then, as the men-at-arms drew near and nearer, it gradually assumed a definite form, rising like a pyramid, its three sides fashioned into steps of living rock, while from the fourth, arose the dark figure of stone, towering far, far above, its arms wildly outspread, its face looking down upon the tomb, as its vacant eyes seemed fixing their weird and terrible glance upon the faces of the dead.

The strange procession reached the mound, they ascended twenty steps of stone, and the bearers of the corse found themselves standing upon the summit, from the centre of which arose a solid block of stone, some thirty feet in length and seven in width, while it was but four feet in height.

On the top of this rock, within the hollow of a cavity, hewn out of the living stone, lay the remains of the Lords of Albarone, placed there from age to age, from generation to generation, through the long lapse of six hundred years.

It was a strange scene.

The lamps of iron, curious in fashion and ponderous in size placed at intervals around the rock, cast their glaring light over the crumbling remains, each grisly skeleton attired in the warlike costume of the age that beheld his glory and owned his rule.

Here the thin and blackened arm-bones of a Gothic warrior were crossed upon his breast-plate of gold, which long years ago had covered the plain tunic, worn by these iron-men, who swept like an avalanche from the Alps of the North, over the fair plains of Italy.

The lamp-beams glimmering over the skeleton, revealed the bones below the breast-plate, mouldering into dust, while the fragments of the feet were encircled in the simple yet warlike sandals of iron once worn by the warriors from the land of the Goth.

Side by side with this relic, the bones of another skeleton gleamed grimly through the bars and armor-plates of a later age, wrapping the remains of the mighty dead, from the helmeted skull to the iron-booted feet.

And thus extending along the cavity in the surface of the rock, skull after skull and skeleton succeeding skeleton, reposed the Lords of the House of Albarone, types of contrasted ages, clad in strange and various costumes, or enwrapped in the stern iron armour, which had defended their living forms in the terror of battle.

The boast of the proud House--that the earth of the grave-yard should never soil a Lord of the race of Albarone--was fulfilled.

Over this singular tomb towered the dark figure of gigantic rock, its rude arms thrown wildly aloft, while its downcast eyes of stone were fixed upon the corses of the dead.

Many a legend, whispered beside the hearths of the peasantry, or told by the minstrel in the hall of the castle, inspiring its hearers with terror and awe, spoke in words of fear of the demon-form arising in the cavernous recesses of Albarone, its mighty power, and the strange sympathy it possessed for the race of the Winged Leopard.

Some traditions, dim and indistinct, yet fraught with wild mysteries, named the figure as the representation of the Northern-God ODIN, stating that in ages long gone by, it had been worshipped with infant sacrifice and midnight bloodshed, while the Lords of Albarone flung themselves in awe beneath its gloomy shadow.

Other legends named the rude creation of rocks as the Demon of the race of Albarone, brooding silently over the tomb of the Lords, while its heart of stone was sentient with a strange soul, its broad chest impassioned a conscious spirit, its giant limbs were instinct with a fearful life, and its eyes looked forth with an expression that froze the blood of the gazer to behold.

Such were the legends, differing in their style and incident, yet all uniting in throwing the veil of mystery and shadow over the dark, dread form of stone.

It was seen but once in the life time of a Lord of Albarone, when he celebrated the funeral rites of his predecessor, and the demon-form once seen, the cavern of the dead was never traversed by his living form again.

Thrice the funeral train passed round the tomb, the esquires bearing the upright corse, thrice they raised the wild chaunt of the battle-song of Albarone, while far and wide the depths of the cavern gave back the sound, swelling in a thousand echoes, like successive claps of August thunder.

The death-couch was then rested upon the platform of stone.

The ancient Esquires slowly raised the corse, again the battle-cry swelled through the cavern, the men-at-arms wildly clashed their swords together, while the banner streamed proudly in the torch-light.

“Men of Albarone!” spoke the solemn tones of the Azure-Knight; “The Count Julian of Albarone is laid beside his fathers!”

Louder clashed the swords, more proudly waved the banner, and higher and yet higher swelled the song as the mailed corse was placed in the cavity, side by side with its ancestors.

The figure in azure armor glanced round upon the group of men-at-arms, and exclaimed in a deep-toned voice, that thrilled to every heart--

“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin, brother of the late Lord, advance!”

Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale countenance.

“Ha--ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think to frighten me with their senseless mummery--their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with superstition--Aldarin, who believes not in their God! Ha--ha! I am here,” he continued aloud--“What would ye with me?”

“Old man!” exclaimed the Stranger-knight, “look upon the corse of thy murdered brother.--Behold the features pale with death; the clammy brow, the sunken cheek, the livid lip--look upon that corse, and say you did not do the murder!”

The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest, their forms clad in iron armor, were crowded together, and every eye was fixed upon the Scholar.

The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as he replied--“_I did not do the murder!_”

“Give me thy hand--place thy fingers upon the livid lips of the corse.”

Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand, and touch the compressed mouth of the mailed corse.

The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of blood emerged from the mouth, and trickled over the lower lip and down the chin, staining the gray beard of the deceased warrior with its dark red hue.

The men-at-arms shrunk back with sudden horror, and each soldier could hear the gasping of his comrade’s breath.

A tremor passed over the frame of Aldarin, and his face became pale as that of the corse beside which he stood.

“Wilt thou now say thou art innocent?” exclaimed the stranger-knight. “The corse--the lifeless form of thy murdered brother, shrinks at thy accursed touch.”

“_I am innocent!_” cried Aldarin, recovering his determined tone of voice. “_By the God of heaven and earth, I swear it!_”

“What say ye, vassals of Albarone? Is this man innocent?”

Then arose one firm, determined cry from the men-at-arms--

“He is guilty--heaven and earth proclaim it! The dead witness it!”

And the depths of the cavern returned the hollow echo--“Guilty--guilty!”

They all advanced a step toward the accused. Each eye fired with one expression; the sinews of each hand were strained to bursting, as they grasped their well-tried swords.

“One trial more,” exclaimed the figure in armor of azure steel. “Aldarin of Albarone, look upon that awful form which towers above us. Behold the arms outstretched, as if to hurl the red lightning bolt down upon thy guilty head. Mark well those eyes of stone--the fearful look of that dark countenance--the eyes are fixed upon thee; and the brow lowers at thee. Look, Aldarin of Albarone, look upon the Demon of our race. Call to mind the fearful legends of that demon’s vengeance upon all who ever wronged the House of Albarone. Think of the time when those lips of stone have sent forth a voice to convict the guilty; when those arms of rock have been filled with life to crush the wretch whom the voice convicted. Old man, art thou ready for the ordeal?”

Aldarin cast one glance around. A dead silence reigned throughout the cavern. The torches cast a strong light upon the long line of robed skeletons, and upon the stern visage of the murdered Lord. The faces of the men-at-arms glared fiercely upon the accused: their eyes sparkled from under their woven brows, their lips were compressed, and their half-raised swords glowed in the ruddy light.

Aldarin looked above. The massive brow, the stone eye-balls, the sneering lip, of that dread dark face of stone, were all turned to glaring red by the strong light of many torches. Each sinew of the muscular arms; the clenched hands; the bold prominence of the gigantic chest; the strong outline of the towering figure, were all shown in bold and sublime relief.

Aldarin raised his hands on high.

“Dark form--Demon of our race--Before thee I swear--I am guiltless.”

“_Murderer!_” a hollow voice exclaimed. The sound rung thro’ the arches of the cavern like the voice of the dead.

“Ha!” shouted the men-at-arms, “behold--behold the Demon speaks; the lips of stone move; the eyes fire--behold!”

The voice again rung thro’ the cavern--“_Murderer!_”