Part 9

Aldarin started. The sneer upon his lip had fled. In a moment he lay prostrate upon the platform of stone, and a score of swords flashed over him.

“I confess--I confess!” shouted he, in hurried tones; “I ask but one moment to prepare me for death. Grant me this boon, and ye are Christians.”

“Dog!” shouted one of the pall-bearers, “thy victim died without shrift--”

“So shalt thou die!” cried another.

“Lo! my knife is whetted for thy blood!”

“Hold!” exclaimed the strange knight, “let him have his request!”

Aldarin arose and drew from his vest a small missal, with clasps of gold, and covers that blazed with jewels.

“I would pray,” he exclaimed meekly, as pressing the clasps of the missal, it flew open, discovering not the leaves of a book of prayer, but a hollow casket. Taking a small phial of silver from the bottom of this casket, he held it hurriedly to the flame of a torch, and then with as much haste, he applied the mouth of the phial to a bright stone that was fixed under the lid of the casket.

The stone emitted quick flashing sparks of fire, and a light misty smoke emerging from the mouth of the phial, spread like a cloud around Aldarin, and rolled through the vault in waving columns.

It was accompanied by a pungent odor, which, far sweeter than perfume of frankincense and myrrh, stole over the senses of the astonished spectators, gradually benumbing their limbs, and depriving them both of motion and consciousness.

The figure in azure armor rushed forward to seize the murderer, but his limbs refused their office, and he fell upon the platform of stone, his armor ringing as he fell. At the same moment, while the smoke grew thicker and the odor more pungent, the men-at-arms--both those who stood upon the platform and those who thronged the steps of stone--fell to the earth as one man. The ancient Esquires drew their daggers and advanced.

The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.

“Dogs!” shouted he, “ye knew not of my last resort! I hold a power above your grasp--receive the reward of your insolence. Down, ye slaves!”

Flashes of fire played like lightning in the wreaths of smoke. The Esquires tottered and fell prostrate among their fellows.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

THE BLOW FOR THE WINGED LEOPARD.

The light of the lamps, burning along the tomb, fell over the steps of stone, and cast its crimson glow over the dread face of the Demon-Form, while the sands of the fourth part of an hour, sank in the glass of time. The knight in armor of azure steel, was the first to rise from the strange slumber which the chemical spell of the Scholar had flung around the senses of the avengers. He arose, he looked wildly over the steps of stone and along the cavern.--_Aldarin was gone._

The azure knight gazed around the gloom and darkness of the vault of death, for some moments, while the utter silence of the place impressed his heart with a strange awe.

A sound struck his ear. It was the sound of men marching in order of battle. It grew louder, and was mingled with the clanking of armor and the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a few moments, the knight of the azure armor at last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long lines of torches shining upon a brilliant array of upraised swords, armor of gold, mingled with shining spears and waving pennons.

They advanced in regular order, being formed in two distinct columns, between which, at the head of the party, walked one distinguished from the others by the richness of his armor, while his voice of command showed him to be the leader of the company.

While they poured across the floor of the cavern, the knight of the azure armor scanned them with great attention, as he exclaimed, with a shout of joy.

“They come--the shallow-pated Duke and his minions. One blow--one good straight-forward blow, and I am Lord of the halls of my ancestors.”

With his right hand he seized his sword, and with his left he waved the banner of the WINGED LEOPARD.

“Up--up!--Ye men Albarone. Up with your swords, and strike for the Winged Leopard, for your Lord and his rights!”

The men-at-arms awoke, like men awaking from troubled sleep and hideous dreams. They groped hastily for their swords over the steps of stone and along the platform, and in a few moments they stood erect and prepared for fight.

“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either side of the tomb, in the darkness. Ye number fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times our force. Behold!--they continue to pour into the cavern. But hist!--The watchword is--‘_Ha! for the Winged Leopard_.’”

The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were now within one hundred yards of the mound.

“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this is certainly a very dreary looking place. Really one could imagine this cavern to be a very fit habitation for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary things. Where be these caitiff knaves, of which my Lord the Count Aldarin told us of? Advance, my brave men; find these villains. They have stolen the Ladye Annabel away--despatch them, and then we will have time to share the banquet of our lordly host!”

The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red, having a lion rampant emblazoned on its folds, was now unfurled, and the company advanced in the same careless order, in which they had proceeded over the floor of the cavern.

“By the tomb of my ancestors, will I flesh my maiden sword. By the corse of my father, will I fight for my right.”

The knight of the azure armor grasped his sword more firmly. In another moment the torches of the Duke’s followers would flash upon the armor of his ambushed men, in another moment he would stand disclosed before the eyes of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured the clear level space that lay between the mound and the advancing men-at-arms.

A whisper to his men--a firmer grasp of his sword, and a firmer grasp of the banner staff, and the knight in three good leaps, sprang down the twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang--“Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”

At his back, with swords drawn, and springing with all the litheness of youth, came the four ancient Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise drawn, and with the war-cry pealing to the cavern’s roof, came the two bodies of men-at-arms, numbering twenty-five in each company.

Another leap and another spring, and the azure knight stands within striking distance of the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his sword with both hands, he whirled it once round his head, and throwing all his strength in the blow, he brought it down full upon the golden crest of the tyrant, who was driven to the very earth by the vigor of the stroke.

In an instant the foot of the azure knight was upon the breast of the prostrate prince, and while the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the esquires at his back, were carrying on the strife right merrily, he prepared for another stroke. He shortened his grasp of the sword, and gazing sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into his fallen enemy’s uncovered face, with all the strength of his stalwart arm, he essayed to send his weapon into his very throat.

The blow descended whizzing through the air, but its aim was foiled. One of the ancient esquires, with a stout stroke of his sword, sent a vassal reeling before the person of the Duke, and thus drove aside the blow of the azure knight, which sank deep into the lifeless corse thrown so suddenly before him.

And now the followers of the Duke gathered around the champions of the Winged Leopard, in vast numbers, hurrying forward without order, and dropping their torches in their haste.

The azure knight was driven back, and as he receded, the blood of the oldest of the gallant esquires stained his armor.

“On, my brave men!” shouted he. “A blow for Albarone!” At every exclamation a foe took the measure of his grave upon the cavern floor.

“Ha! for the Winged Leopard!” he shouted, as perceiving the head of the Duke among the throng, he essayed to greet him with one gallant blow. At the same moment, his men-at-arms sunk on one knee, and thus received the disorderly charge of their foes. It was in vain. On all sides thronged the followers of the Duke, and one after the other the brave champions of the Winged Leopard fell bleeding and dead upon the pavement of stone.

Onward and onward pressed the azure knight, gallantly breasting the flood before him, throwing his foes to the right and left, until he again fronted the Duke.

And at the very instant, with soft and noiseless footsteps, there glided along the steps of the mound of stone, a fair and lovely form, clad in a strange robe, of white and gold, soiled by the cavern earth, and floating abroad in the night air, in waving folds like spirit-wings. She gained the platform of the mound, and fixed one half-conscious glance upon the corse of the dead, while her large blue eyes warmed with a glance of holy affection.

“He sleeps, my uncle”--she murmured--“anon, I will give him the potion--and then--ah, then he will arise and smile upon me!”

She turned her wild glance to the scene passing in the cavern floor far below, she heard the distant shouts, she caught a vision of one well-known form, which her half-crazed brain deemed a visitant from the spirit world.

It was a picture of loveliness, rising amid gloom and death, the beautiful maiden raised to her full stature, one fair hand resting upon the dark mound, while with the other thrown wildly across her brow, she essayed to pierce the gloom of the cavern beyond. Her robes floated lightly round her form, revealing the delicate symmetry of that maiden shape, a glimpse of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the light, the outlines of the neck, while the blooming loveliness of her countenance, half-shaded by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden and changing, yet dream-like expressions.

“I see his form”--she murmured--“and yet ’tis a dream--they seize him, they--O, heaven help me, they raise their swords above his head--”

“Maiden, fling thy robe!--fling the death-pall over the funeral lamps!”--a solemn voice broke on the air directly overhead.

She looked above, she shrieked with horror, for the cold strange eyes of the Demon-Figure met her gaze.

Meanwhile, breasting his way through the opposing crowd of foemen, the azure knight neared the person of the Duke, he stood before the tyrant face to face.

“Die, tyrant!” he shouted, as springing back to give effect to his blow, he threw his sword on high. It descended full upon the shoulder of the Duke, and severing his armor, snapped suddenly short, and the azure knight was left defenceless in the hands of his enemies.

“Up with the caitiff’s vizor,” shouted the Duke. “Let us see the bravo’s face. Up with his vizor.”

The captive knight cast a glance around, and beheld his followers--the dying and the dead--strewn over the floor of the cavern. The brave old Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still grasping their broken swords, and their gray hair dabbled in blood.

“Sir Duke,” exclaimed the captive, “behold the bravo!” He raised his vizor, and the features of Adrian Di Albarone, pale and sunken, were revealed. “Behold the bravo!”

“Now, by the body of God!” shouted the Duke, boiling with passion, “thou shalt not escape me this time.--Dog----”

“These hands itch for thy blood”--shrieked a shrill and ringing voice, and Adrian beheld the distorted form and mis-shapen features of the Doomsman, pressing forward from the throng of men-at-arms, with his talon-like fingers grasping the air, while his face wore the expression of a demon in human guise,--“These hands itch for thy blood! Ha!--ha! Once escaped--the second time, the hot iron, the melted lead and the wheel of torture, wait not for thee in vain! Ha, ha,--hark how the cavern roof joins in my laugh. Great Duke, the Doomsman claims his victim!”

“Duke--tyrant, I am in thy power!” shouted Adrian, gazing upon the circle of men-at-arms who surrounded him. “These thongs, they are for my wrists! Yon chains--they soon will fasten this body to the dungeon floor! Thou art sure of thy victim--Lo! I defy thee!”

And as he spoke, there came gliding from the darkness of the cavern, two forms, clad in robes of sable velvet, who advanced hastily along the floor, and stood between the victim and the Duke.

“Lo! I defy thee! Tremble for thine own head, tyrant and coward! Tremble and turn pale, for lo! even now, the axe glimmers high above thy head, whetted for the Wronger’s blood--in a moment it descends--beware the blow!”

And as he spoke, while the Duke recoiled with a sudden start, and even the Doomsman trembled as he beheld the sable figures standing before his victim, silent and motionless, yet with the long curved dagger in their girdles, and the parchment scroll in their hands, all suddenly became dim and indistinct, and the cavern was wrapped in darkness.

The lights burning on the mound, were extinguished by an unknown hand, while every eye beheld a waving robe of white, fluttering in the air, the moment ere darkness came down upon the scene.

“Torches there!” shouted the Duke--“Look to the prisoner, vassals! Torches there, I say!”

Torches were presently seen hurrying from the farther end of the cavern, borne in the firm grasp of men-at-arms, and in a few moments a ruddy light was thrown around the spot where stood the Duke.

“Dog!” exclaimed the Duke, gazing hurriedly around--“Thou shalt bitterly rue this foul treason.”

He looked around in vain. His prisoner was gone, and with him had disappeared the banner of the Winged Leopard.

The light of torches again gleamed around the Mound of the Dead. The figure of a maiden lay extended along the steps of stone, her white robes waving round her insensible form--it was the Ladye Annabel.

“Mighty Duke, behold the scroll!” shrieked the Doomsman, as he held aloft the parchment, which he had taken from the cavern floor--“Behold the scroll, it bears an inscription--read, read.”

* * * * *

“_Tyrant thrice--warned, yet unrelenting, the Invisible for the last time bids thee prepare for the steel! Lo! Thy Death now walks abroad seeking thee with the upraised axe,--beware his path!_”

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

THE PAGE AND THE DAMSEL.

In a richly furnished ante-room, adjoining the bower of the Ladye Annabel, on a couch of the most inviting softness, lay Guiseppo, well-known to all the castle as the favorite page of his grace of Florence.

A lamp of the most elaborate moulding, suspended from the ceiling, threw a brilliant light over the rose-colored tapestry that adorned the walls and relieved the eye, gaily embroidered with the history of the temptations of the blessed St. Anthony. Here forms of terror appalled, and there shapes of beauty cheered the venerable saint, who was distinguished by a nose of a very blooming hue, marking a face redolent with the kiss of the wine-god.

The floor of the apartment was carefully strewn with rushes, and here and there were placed couches rivalling, in downy softness, the one on which Guiseppo lay, while everything wore the appearance of ease and luxury.

The small, yet well-proportioned figure of the youth was arrayed in a doublet of fine blue velvet, embroidered with gold, and brilliant with jewelled chains, that hung depending from his neck. His well formed legs were shown to the best advantage by hose of doe-skin, fitting close to the person, and he wore boots of the same material, ornamented with spurs of gold. His doublet was gathered about his waist by a belt that shone with gold and jewels, and at his left side he wore a rare dagger, with handle of ivory and sheath of gold.

The features of Guiseppo were not formed after the regular line of manly beauty, yet every lineament was redolent of light-hearted mirth and gleesome mischief. His forehead was rather low, his eyebrows arching, and his hazel eyes somewhat protruding; his nose was a thought too large, his lips curving with a merry smile, his cheeks full and glowing, and his rich brown hair fell in clustering locks down upon his collar of rarest lace.

He laid upon the couch in an easy position, his hazel eyes sparkling yet more brightly, and his lip curving yet more merrily, as he gazed upon a billet which he held in his right hand over his head.

“To the fair Ladye Annabel,” thus he murmured to himself: “to be delivered as soon as she recovers from her swoon--hum!”

Here the page sprang suddenly up into a sitting posture. It seemed as if some new thought had taken possession of his fancy. His eyes sparkled, his lip curved, his cheek rounded, and his whole frame shook with suppressed laughter.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as the tears came into his eyes; “Oh! ’twas exquisite!” He gave his right leg an emphatic slap. “‘Twas exquisite--exquisite--exquisite!” And laughing louder than ever, the page walked up and down the apartment, well nigh bursting with repeated fits of merriment.

“Oh! St. Guiseppo!” he cried, “an’ I live to be an old man, I shall never recover it! Ha--ha--ha!”

Mayhap it was very fortunate for Guiseppo that the door leading into Ladye Annabel’s apartment was opened, just at the moment when he seemed about dissolving in his merriment.

A lovely maiden, with dark eyes and jet black hair, entered the chamber, with an angry look, as if to reprove the author of this boisterous laughter; but no sooner did she behold Guiseppo than she rushed into his arms, pronouncing his name at the same time, to which he very quietly responded--“Rosalind!” accompanying the expression with a kiss.

Having seated themselves upon a couch, Rosalind began to recall the times of old, naming many a familiar scene, many a well-known spot, where they had rambled together, ere Guiseppo left the castle--within whose walls he had been reared--to be a page to his grace of Florence.

As Rosalind rattled on, Guiseppo sat in mute admiration, much wondering to behold the lively little child, whom he had left some two years since, grown up into a handsome and budding damsel. He gazed with peculiar admiration upon the boddice of green velvet, which fitted so nicely, revealing the shape of one of the finest busts in the world--so Guiseppo thought, at least. He also had some indefinite idea of the prettiness of the cross of ebony, which, strung around her arching neck by a chain of gold, rose and fell with the heavings of the maiden’s bosom.

The dimple of the chin--thought Guiseppo--is very pretty; those lips are very tempting, but those beautiful, dancing, beaming black eyes--Guiseppo rounded the sentence with a sigh.

“I’faith, Guiseppo,” continued Rosalind, “your merriment, but a moment ago, startled me with affright. You might have awaked my cousin, the Ladye Annabel. She is sleeping after her fright in that dreadful vault. Tell me, Guiseppo, what made you so merry?”

The mirthful idea--whatever it was--again danced before the fancy of the page, and he fell into a fit of laughter, interspersed with numerous exclamations of delight.

At last Rosalind wrung from him the cause of his mirth, which he told somewhat after the following fashion.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

THE STORY OF GUISEPPO.

“On the day my young Lord--so I must still call him--was doomed to die by the Duke and Lords of Florence, I felt very dull, and the brightest piece of gold in the wide world would not have hired me to smile. And as for laughing--St. Guiseppo, that came not with my thoughts!

(Rosalind very quietly asked if nothing could have made him smile? He pressed his lips to hers and did not dispute the matter any further.)

“Being in this melancholy mood, I requested permission of my gracious master the Duke, to visit Lord Adrian that night. My request was granted.

“It was but half an hour after midnight, that I stood at the door of the Doomed Cell, where I learned, to my great regret, that the Duke had just departed, leaving his commands that no one should see the prisoner until morrow. There was an order of state affixed to the door to that effect, having the private seal of the Duke impressed upon it.

“No sooner had I perused this paper of state--thou knowest, Rosalind, that I can both read and write--thanks to Count Aldarin, who taught me, with much care and not a little pains--no sooner had I perused this paper of state, then unslinging my cloak of blue velvet and silver embroidery, I assumed all the pertness of a page at court, as I cried--Stand aside, Sir Beetle-brow, and make room for my couch--and you, gallant sir, of the squinting orb, be pleased to shift your lazy carcass an inch or so, an’ it suits you.

“The beetle-browed sentinel Balvardo, and his companion Hugo of the sinister eye, looked upon me with the most unfeigned astonishment, as throwing my cloak upon the stone pavement, I proceeded to lay my person upon its bedizened folds.”

“Well, Sir Malapert,” cried Balvardo, “thou art surely moonstruck. In the fiend’s name what mean you by thus sprawling out upon the pavement, like a cat near the end of her ninth life, eh, Sir Page?”

Here Hugo chimed in with his say, consisting of a “by’r Lady!” expressed in tones of the most interesting wonder, which he finished with a “w-h-e-w!” given with twisted lips and great musical effect.

“Why, noble Sir, of the bull-head,” I answered, “and right worthy Sir of the Squinting Orb, I intend to watch the coming forth of my Lord Adrian, an’ it please your lordships--and, as I wish to sleep, I will thank thee Balvardo to turn thy ugly visage another way, for, an’ I shut my eyes after looking at thee I’ll be certain to dream of half-a-dozen devils or so. Hugo _do_ try and look straight ahead for only an instant, or the warriors in my dreams will all be cross-eyed--by St. Guiseppo!”

“‘Hist! thou magpie,’ exclaimed Hugo, ‘hear’st thou not a noise, Balvardo?’”

“The sound that rivetted Hugo’s ear, proceeded from the Doomed Cell, and was certainly the most curious of all sounds. It was not exactly like the mewing of a cat, neither did it altogether resemble the howling of a cur and it certainly did not sound like the bellowing of a bull, or the chattering of a magpie, yet in good sooth, it seemed as if all these noises had been caught and put in a sack, and having been shaken well together, produced the most infernal discord that ever saluted mortal ear.

“‘The Saints preserve us!’ shrieked Balvardo. ‘Surely the devil has taken possession of the murderer--hark _how_ he howls!’

“‘_He_ indeed!’ cried Hugo, ‘it’s not only _he_; by’r Lady, there’s a score of them. There it goes again. Beshrew thee but, ’tis like the howl of a whipped cur--’

“‘Nay Hugo, nay Hugo, ’tis like the spitting and mewing of an hundred cats.’

“‘Or the chattering of a score of magpies.’

“‘Now it bellows like a bull.’

“‘St. Peter be good to us!’ exclaimed Balvardo, as the howling grew louder and louder. ‘It is the yelling of devils, and naught else. Hark! Didst ever hear such a horrible noise, Sir Page?’

“I answered his question by repeated bursts of laughter; for although my heart was full heavy at the fate of Adrian Di Albarone, yet for my soul I could not hear such whimsical sounds without giving full rein to my laughing humor.

“Suddenly the noise ceased. In an instant a voice shouted from the inside of the Cell--‘Ho! guards, without there! guards!’

“I was thunderstruck at the tones of this voice, which I at once knew could not belong to the Doomed Adrian.

“‘Well!’ exclaimed Balvardo, ‘if the devil hasn’t stolen the voice of our gracious Lord the Duke!’”

Hugo pursed up his lips and gave his musical “whew!” which intended to express astonishment itself astonished.

“‘W-h-e-w!--By’r Lady, but the devil _does_ speak in the voice of our Lord the Duke.’

“‘_I am the Duke of Florence!_’--shouted the voice from the cell. ‘Open the door, ye slaves!’