The Mysteries of Florence

“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.

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.

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 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.