“It is the face of the dead”—muttered Albertine, gliding hurriedly toward his place of concealment while the Duke was absorbed by the awe-stricken visage of Aldarin, whose very soul seemed starting from his eyes as he gazed upon the apparition—“It is the face of the dead—The time of the Betrayer hath not yet come!”
And as he spoke he disappeared, without being observed by either the Duke or Aldarin, while the Scholar, beheld the curtains on the opposite side of the couch rustling to and fro—he looked and the Spectre was gone.
“This is some vile trick!” cried Aldarin, grasping the sword of the Duke from the couch as he spoke. “Let the mummers, whoe’er they are, beware the vengeance of the Scholar!”
He rushed to the other side of the couch, he lifted the hangings, but discovered no one. With a hurried step, he turned to the tapestry that adorned the walls, and thrust aside the embroidered, folds. The secret door was closed, and he beheld neither sign nor mark, that might tell of aught concealed within its pannels.
And as Aldarin continued his hurried search, the Duke leaning back on the couch, felt some hard substance pressing against his side. Thrusting his hand along the couch, he felt the handle of a dagger, thrust from its resting place, and with a trembling arm, held the steel aloft in the light.
“It bears an inscription—Saints of Heaven, let me read—
And at the same moment, the Count Aldarin, leaned trembling against a pillar for support, and quaking in every nerve, one fearful thought possessed his soul as he murmured in a hollow whisper.
“Haunted, forever haunted—by thy gloomy shade, my murdered brother!”
A lamp of alabaster, placed upon a small table of ebony, beside which was seated the Ladye Annabel, threw its softened beams around the apartment, and leaving the hangings, the stately bed, and the luxurious couches, wrapt in twilight shadow, cast a lovelier tint upon a vase of flowers standing upon the table, and revealed the fair maiden’s countenance and figure in soft and rosy light.
Her flaxen tresses, unrestrained by band or cincture, fell in a golden shower over her delicate neck and finely-turned shoulders; and streaming along the full and swelling bosom, but half concealed by the bodice of white, bordered by finest lace, they flowed soft and waving down to her very feet.
The figure of the Ladye Annabel realized an old saying, that nature shows all her art, and lavishes the richest of her beauties, upon her smallest creations.
In form slight and delicate, in stature somewhat below the usual size, the proportions of Annabel were of the most exquisite tracery of outline. Her arms, full and softly rounded, were terminated by hands small and white, with tapering fingers; her feet, thin and slender, and marked by an high instep, supported ancles as finely turned, as the movements of the maiden were light and graceful; the well-proportioned waist arose in lovely gradation into the bosom of rich and budding promise; the neck, gently arching, and graceful in every attitude, blended sweetly into the small and half dimpling chin, that harmonized with the face of loveliness and soul.
“Right beauteous shone those eyes of blue,” says the chronicler of the ancient MS., “glancing pure thoughts and light-hearted fancies; and right lovely were those glowing cheeks, in which the snow-white of the fair countenance bloomed into a roseate hue; and lovely was the small mouth of parting lips, delicious in their maiden ripeness; and sweet, surpassing sweet, was the expression of that face, where love and innocence beaming from every feature, seemed like the golden fruit of fairy land, only waiting to be gathered.”
Her face was a poem, written by the finger of God, in characters of youth and bloom.
A poem whose theme was ever beauty and love, speaking its meaning through the deep glance of a shadowy eye, sending forth its messages of sweetness from the smile of the wreathing lip, or preaching its lessons of thought and purity by the calm glory of the unclouded brow.
A face lovely as a dream, when dreams are loveliest, with an outline of youth and bloom, a brow clear, calm, and cloudless, over-arching the eyes of azure, whose brightness seemed unfathomable; with full and swelling cheeks, varying the snow-white of the maiden’s countenance by the damask of the budding rose; a small mouth, with curving lips; a chin all roundness and dimple, receding with a waving outline into the neck, all lightness and grace; while all around, the luxuriance of her golden hair, unbound and uncinctured, fell sweeping and waving, with a soft, airy motion, through the sunbeams shimmered round the fairy countenance of the maiden.
Alone in her bower sate the Ladye Annabel, her lip curving with scorn while she glanced at the letter of his grace of Florence, as it was flung along the floor, unopened and unheeded.
Her soul was agitated by the fearful memory of the last three days of mystery and blood, and then came confused and wandering thoughts of the scenes she had witnessed but an hour since, in the cavern of the dead.
Her mind was lost in a maze of never-ending doubts, when she contemplated the fearful death of the late Count.
She had never for an instant believed that Adrian could be guilty of the accursed act, neither had she dreamed that it was her father’s hand that dealt the blow.
The thought would have driven her mad.
Suddenly her thoughts were agitated by a fearful picture.
She saw Adrian stretched bleeding and dead upon the wheel—his limbs severed and torn, and his brow scarred by the instruments of torture, while the doomsman’s laugh rang in her ears. As the picture grew upon her mind in all its horrible details:—the glazed eye and the writhen lip, the chest heaving with the convulsive sobs of death, and the throat straining with the death rattle,—the maiden covered her face with her hands, and shrieked:
“Save me, holy Mary, save me from these fearful fancies!”
And as she spoke, the maiden burst into a flood of tears.
“Annabel!” whispered a voice at once deep-toned and full of affection.
She looked up, and her father, the Count Aldarin, stood before her.
“My daughter,” he continued, drawing a seat beside her, “how dost thou like these?”
He opened a casket which he held in his hand, and the light of the alabaster lamp flashed upon ornaments of gold and silver, such as might not shame a queen to wear.
There were bracelets for the wrists, there were chains for the arching neck, gems for the brow, pearls to be woven in the flowing hair; and as their bright and star-like blaze met the eye of the Ladye Annabel, she gave utterance to a cry of delight.
“I thank thee, father, I thank thee!” she exclaimed, as, clasping a bracelet of gold, bordered by pearls, around her fair and well-rounded wrist, she received it with a glance of admiration. “See, father, see! How beauteous are those pearls, how bright that gold, and the shape—how exquisite! O! father, this is kind of thee! ’Tis indeed a rich gift!”
“It is a bridal gift!” exclaimed the Count, in a low and quiet tone, and with his eyes fixed upon his daughter’s countenance, as if to note each varying expression of the fair and lovely features.
Annabel started as if an adder had stung her.
“A bridal gift? Said you not so? A bridal gift? From whom is it, my father?”
“His grace, the Duke of Florence, sends thee this rare and costly present. He sends it with his ardent wishes for thy health. He sends these jewels with the hope that ere three days have run their sands, he may behold them shining on the brow of his fair bride—the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.”
As in a calm and determined tone he spoke these words, a deadly paleness came over the damsel’s face; her lips dropped apart, and her fair blue eyes distended with a vacant look, the slender fingers of each hand slowly straightened, unclasping their grasp of the casket, which fell heavily to the floor, as her arms dropped listlessly by her side.
The old man surveyed his child for an instant with a look which told of his deep, his yearning affection, combined with the strange fancies ruling his destiny through life. In an instant he again spoke, and his voice, as it came from the depths of his chest, sounded wild and thrilling to the maiden’s ear.
“My daughter!” said he, taking her by the hand, “thou shall wed this man!”
Annabel replied not.
“Thou shalt, I say, wed the Lord of Florence. It must be so; therefore it were well that thou dost prepare thee for the bridal. I say it shall be so, my daughter. The word of Aldarin is passed!”
“Father,” replied the Ladye Annabel, in tremulous tones; “father, O! look not so sternly at me, your eyes chill my very heart. I would do your bidding—the Virgin and all the saints witness me, I would—but, father—”
“Annabel,” said the Count, in his deep tones of enthusiasm, “I have said it, and it shall be so. Wed the Duke of Florence, and behold thyself a—queen! All that heart can wish, or the wildest fancy desires, shalt thou possess, and claim as thine own. Wealth shall lavish its stores around thee, and honor shall bring the fairest and the noblest to bow low at the feet of the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.
“Lo! thou art in the ducal hall of Florence: behold thyself encircled by the gay and glittering throng; a thousand eyes are fixed upon thee in admiration, a thousand tongues speak their words of eloquence but to syllable that admiration, and a thousand swords, flashing in the light, are slaves to the slightest word of Ladye Annabel—the queen.
“The robes of a queen shall gird this lovely form, the stars of a coronet shall flash from that beauteous brow, and this fair hand, so beautiful in its alabaster whiteness, shall wave the sceptre over the heads of kneeling myriads! With a queenly port and a flashing eye, thou shalt look around thee, and behold the princely halls illumined by lamps, diffusing at once both light, soft as moonbeams, and fragrance sweeter than the breath of spring flowers. The lofty windows, with their rare carvings, shall give to view gardens rich with golden fruit, won from the far lands of the East, fragrant with shrubbery and gay with flowers, while ancient trees, in leafy magnificence, sweep their arching bows overhead. Fountains fling their columns of liquid diamonds up from the arbored paths, lulling waterfalls soothe the ear, distant music wakes delightful visions in the soul, solemn palaces, in all their grandeur of outline, break through the air of night! Palaces, gardens, unbounded wealth, rank, pride, place, honor—all, all shall be thine own!”
“All, my father, all—all—but love.”
As Annabel spoke, her eyes filled with tears, and her voice was choked with the sobs that convulsed her bosom.
To say that the picture of the Count had no effect upon the maiden, would be uttering an absurd and unnatural fiction. In bright and glowing colors arose the gorgeous pageantry before the mind of Annabel: it was all saith the Chronicler of the ancient MSS.—it was all that a woman could wish, the fruition of a woman’s most ardent aspiration. With Adrian, the companion of her childhood, the princely palace would have been like an abode of fairy land; with the Duke, it would have been a tomb—a golden sepulchre for the living-dead.
The answer of Aldarin was contemptuous and bitter.
“Love!—a dream—a phantom—a bubble!—Love, forsooth! the vision of warm-blooded youth, which all have felt, and none but fools obey, Girl,” continued he, “I have said that thou shouldst wed the Duke, and—by my soul!—thou shalt wed him! My word—the word of Aldarin—is passed. Think not to deceive me. I know thy motive in thus setting the bidding of a father at defiance. It is because thou dost affect the murderer of my only brother,—of thy kind uncle,—the PARRICIDE, Adrian—”
“O! father, he cannot—cannot be the doer of so dread a crime.”
“Who, then,” exclaimed the Count, bitterly, “who then was the doer of so dread a crime? Speak, my fair daughter, who was’t?”
“It was thou! Thou! Aldarin the Scholar!” exclaimed a voice that sounded strange and hollow through the lonely apartment.
“Holy Mary, preserve us!” shrieked Annabel. “Father, whence came that fearful voice?”
The Count Aldarin replied not. The convulsive motion that heaved his breast, and strained the lineaments of his countenance, showed that he was making a desperate attempt to command his soul.
“’Tis naught, my daughter,” he began; “’tis fancy—’tis—”
He finished the sentence by a howl of horror, that might have been uttered by a lost soul. Annabel beheld him gazing fixedly at some object behind her. She turned her head and saw a vision that drove the life current back from her heart.
A figure arrayed in the snow-white attire of the grave, looked with a pale and ghastly countenance, and hollow eyes, from among the folds of the crimson tapestry on the opposite side of the apartment.
With freezing blood, Annabel beheld the figure advance with a slow and measured step towards her. Her consciousness failed, and she fell insensible on the floor, at the same instant that Aldarin sank down with a yell of despair, while his mouth frothed, and his eyes glared like those of a maniac.
On toward the light advanced the figure in white.
In a moment it stood beside the prostrate forms of the father and child, and having gazed at them for an instant, it threw back the robe from its head, and the beams of the lamp flashed over the wan and ghastly face of the strange figure.
“Ha—ha—ha!” he laughed, in tones sepulchral with famine, “methinks I’ve frightened the old caitiff enow! O, St. Withold! but I do feel this fiend, Hunger, gnawing with its serpent teeth at my very heart! Nothing to eat for three days and as many nights! And this hand—half-severed at the finger joints—throbbing with pain all the while! Thanks to the hard lessons of a soldier’s life, that taught me to wrap this rough bandage round the wound! Had it been my good right hand—St. Withold!—Robin had been a dead man three days ago! True, I did make out to crawl toward one of the dead soldiers in the cavern. How sweetly the wine in his flask gurgled down my parched throat! I am faint with lack of food. By a soldier’s faith, I could eat a whole ox! St. Withold, an’ I do not get some nourishment in the shortest time possible, I may as well wrap me up in this pall, so as to be ready for burial! Ugh! the priest shall not say his prayers over thee yet, my friend Robin; courage.”
Having first divested himself of the funeral pall of the late lord, the famished soldier strode across the apartment, and opening the door that led into the ante chamber, he discovered Guiseppo and Rosalind seated upon one of the couches, apparently in the most amiable humor with each other.
“Look ye, sir page,” exclaimed Robin, as he showed his wan and wasted features through the opened door, “an’ ye stir not yourself right quickly, your master will be dead; and, fair damsel, the same may be said of your mistress, the Ladye Annabel.”
Rosalind shrieked with affright at the hollow voice and shrunken figure of the bold yeoman, and Guiseppo sprang with one bound from the couch half way across the apartment.
“Fear not, Rosalind,” he cried, drawing his dagger. “If it be a devil, I defy it in God’s name; and if it be a man why I will try what this good steel can do.”
“Tut, tut,” exclaimed Robin, “put up your cheese-knife boy. Come hither. Know you me not?”
“No more than I do the devil.”
“Mayhap then, fair Sir, you have heard of a certain youth, who on the night before he departed from the castle—the castle where his infancy had been passed—to be a page at court, took occasion to pour a sleeping potion into the wine of a certain yeoman; and then shaving one side of the yeoman’s face; concluded by tying a dead cat around his neck, thus making an honest soldier a mock of laughter for all the castle. Did’st ever hear of such a page? Eh? Guiseppo?”
“Why the Virgin bless me,” exclaimed Rosalind, “It’s Rough Robin!”
“Eh?” cried the page with a stare of astonishment.
“If you value your life, Guiseppo,” continued the yeoman; “Hie away, and bring me a dozen flasks of wine or so, and a round of beef. Speak not a word, but haste away. I am nigh starved to death, and the devil may tempt me to cut a slice from the trim figure of a certain page; away!”
As Guiseppo left the apartment, Rosalind asked the bold yeoman where he had been for the last three days, and wherefore he looked so much like a ghost risen from the dead merely for its own amusement.
“My lord the Count Aldarin,” replied Robin with a grim smile, “despatched me—upon a long journey, to arrange matters of business entirely relating to himself.”
Having thus spoken, he again entered the bower of the Ladye Annabel, and laying hold of the senseless body of Aldarin, he dragged him into the ante-chamber, and then returned to assist the damsel Rosalind in the recovery of her mistress.
When the Ladye Annabel opened her fair blue eyes, she gazed hurriedly around the apartment until her glance was met by that of the bold yeoman. She gave a faint scream, and her form trembled with affright.
“St. Withold!” exclaimed the yeoman—“but I do seem to frighten every one that looks at me, into fits. Fear me not, Ladye Annabel—’Tis I—Rough Robin—I would speak a few words to thee. The import of what I have to say is of a fearful nature.”
“Ah!” said Annabel, “of what would you speak?”
Robin whispered a word in her ear.
The maiden gave a convulsive start. She clasped her hands and looked wildly in the yeoman’s face, as she exclaimed—
“How was’t done!—The doer of this deed—who was’t?”
“Pardon me, Lady. For three long days and nights have I been without sustenance—I am faint—my brain burns, and mine hands tremble.”
The Ladye Annabel made a sign to Rosalind, who was leaving the room, when she was met at the door by Guiseppo, bearing a wine flask in one hand, while the other supported a dish containing the fragments of a venison pasty.
“Bold Robin,” said Guiseppo, “I contrived to abstract these from the wine cellar and the kitchen, without being noticed. I thought your business might require secrecy.”
“Thanks, Sir Page, thanks—and now,” continued the yeoman—“an’ thou lovest thy Lord Adrian, wait in the ante-chamber, and see that no one enters. Fair Rosalind, I am waiting to close the door.”
As he said this he gently pushed the damsel through the doorway, and carefully drawing the bolt he seated himself opposite Annabel. He then placed the pasty on his knee, and with a trembling hand filled a silver goblet to the very brim with wine. With all the nervous eagerness of famine, he lifted the capacious vessel to his lips, when he beheld a pale, cadaverous, spectre-like face dancing in the ruddy glow of the wine.
“St. Withold! ’Tis no wonder I have scared every body with my dried up visage!” He drained the goblet to the last drop. “S’ death I’m frightened at that death’s head myself.”
He then plunged one hand into the pasty, and raising a piece of the rich crust, he devoured it in an instant; then lifting the flask to his mouth, he poured the luscious liquid down his throat, and his sinews and veins began to rise and swell, a ruddy glow ran over his ashy face, while the supernatural brightness of his eyes, gave place to a healthy, twinkling glance.
There was a pause of some ten minutes.
“St. Withold! but I thank thee!” cried the yeoman, as his eyes filled with a liquid which bore a strange resemblance to tears of joy—“Holy Mary, Holy Peter, and Holy Paul, ye shall have a wax candle apiece; instead of one to all of ye!”
The Ladye Annabel who had watched his movements with the greatest impatience, now exclaimed—
“For heaven’s sake, good Robin, speak. What dost thou know of the fearful deed”—she looked hurriedly around the room—“Of the murder?”
“Ladye” replied the yeoman, “I’m a rough, blunt soldier—I know little of courtly manners, but so help me St. Withold, I would peril—I would sacrifice my life, to serve thee and—Lord Adrian—”
“Adrian? What knowest thou of Adrian? For heaven’s sake speak.” Her very soul glanced from her eyes as she continued.—“Oh, God! thou surely wilt not say that he—Adrian—is—is—The Murderer?”
“St. Withold!” muttered Robin, “but I have got myself into a nice predicament. Ladye I would say no such falsehood.”
“It is a falsehood then?—Thanks—Holy Mary, from my soul, unfeigned thanks?”
“It is not Adrian: but Ladye—heaven help thee to bear it—the murderer is one who is mayhap as beloved of thee, as is Lord Adrian.”
“One as beloved?” murmured Annabel—“surely there is no one as beloved as Adrian, no one save my father. Thou triflest with me, Robin.”
“Nay Ladye I trifle not—again I say it is the one who is as dear to thee as Lord Adrian.”
One word came from the maiden’s lips.
“My Father—” she shrieked, as if some awful thought had riven her brain.
She said never a word more, but her bosom which a moment past rose and fell convulsively, now became stilled; the excited flush of her cheeks died away into an ashy paleness, her lip lost its eager expression, her eyelids closed stiffly, and she fell heavily as a corse from her seat.
Robin sprang forward and extended his arms in time to prevent her from falling to the floor.
“I am a very fool,” he said, bitterly reproaching himself—“a dolt, an idiot—a mere wearer of the motley doublet—a jingler of the belled cap would have known better. St. Withold, but I am an ass!”
Having his own reasons for not calling assistance from the ante-room, he used all kinds of expedients to restore the Ladye Annabel to consciousness. He chafed the fair and delicate hands, he deluged the brow as white as snow, with perfumed liquids contained in silver flagons standing upon the table; and after a lapse of a quarter of an hour he had the gratification of seeing her eyes unclose, and feeling her heart beat as he held her form in his arms.
The Ladye Annabel faintly spoke—“I have had a fearful—fearful dream. The Virgin save me from the dark spirits that inspire such fancies. I thought of thee—of thee, my father!”
She paused suddenly as she caught a view of the yeoman’s face.
“Thou here!” she exclaimed in surprise, “wherefore is this?”
“St. Withold!” muttered the confused Robin, fearful of again referring to the late subject of horror. “Why Ladye, in truth I am here—because I am—not here—that is to say—s’death Ladye, I came here to serve ye.”
“To serve me?” said Annabel wonderingly, “how wouldst thou serve me?”
“Ladye,” cried the yeoman in utter despair of his ability to convey his ideas in a circuitous manner. “Ladye would you wed this Duke of Florence?”
“Sooner would I die!”
“How will you avoid the bridal?”
“God only knows,” said Annabel, as she stood erect, “to his care do I confide myself. I have read legends of dames and damsels who have raised the dagger against their own lives when terrors such as threaten me, rose before their eyes,—but I cannot—cannot do it! All I can do”—and her head sunk low upon her bosom, and her arms drooped by her side—“all I can do is, to pray, earnestly pray; upon my bended knees beseech the Virgin that I may die!”
“Cheer thee up, fair ladye—cheer thee up,” thus Robin spoke, “by the troth of an honest soldier, I swear that I will be near thee when the hour of thy peril draws nigh. I swear that my life shall be sacrificed to save thee!—And now I must be gone. This castle can no longer be Rough Robin’s home. God be with ye!”
The Ladye Annabel placed a purse of gold in Robin’s hand, and with many blessings on his head, she beheld him disappear into the ante-room.
Rosalind entered the room—Annabel exclaimed—
“Retire for a little while, fair coz: I would be alone.”
As the black-eyed maiden retired, the Ladye Annabel sank down into a seat, and gave herself up to the wild and agitating thoughts that flashed through her brain.
The first beams of the coming morn shot through the tapestry that well nigh concealed the casement of the maiden’s bower.
Annabel had fallen into a welcome slumber, and the soft beams of the lamp fell upon her calm and innocent face, revealing each feature in the mildest light, and softest shade.
A figure emerged from the tapestry, and advanced to the light, Adrian stood beside the sleeping maiden. His face was exceedingly pale and covered with blood, as also was the helmet, and the plates of the armor of azure steel. In one hand he grasped the furled banner of the Winged Leopard.
He turned and sought his place of concealment with a heavy heart; but ere he turned, he cast one deep, one agonizing look upon the lovely maiden.
“She is happy!—my wrongs shall not disturb her innocent soul—Farewell—my own loved—Annabel—farewell.”
A kiss that told of heart-felt affection he impressed upon her ruby lips, and as he took a last fond, ardent gaze, a burning tear fell upon the unstained cheek of the Ladye Annabel.
Far away among the mountains, the sunlight loves to linger, and the moonbeam is wont to dwell among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley, over-shadowed by rugged steeps, that frown above and darken around a calm and silvery lake, embosomed amid the solitudes of the wild forest hills.
Around on every side, arise the hills, magnificent with the shade of the sombre pine, leafy with the branching oak, or verdant with the luxuriance of the green chestnut tree, while chasms yawn in the sunlight, ravines darken and fearful rocks, bear and rugged in their outline, tower far above the forest trees, away into the clear azure of the summer sky.
The hills sweep round the valley in a circular form, describing the outlines of the sides of a drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid waters of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal vessel, giving a clue to the strange name of this place of solitude—The Valley of the bowl.
This quiet vale is situated some few miles from Florence, amid the same wild range of mountains that encircle the haunt of the members of the Holy Steel.
The light of the summer morning sun, was streaming gaily over the roofs of a mountain hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake, flinging its golden beams over the outline of each rugged hut, with tottering walls, or rustic tenement, with its ancient stones overgrown with leafy vines; when a group of peasants were gathered along the road-side, at some small distance from the village, in earnest and energetic conversation.
A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad in the garish apparel of a Postillion[2] of the olden times, stood in the centre of the group, while around him were clustered a circle of the buxom mountain damsels, with their heads inclined towards each other, their arms and hands moving in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke on the air, from the glib prattling of their busy tongues.
“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing—that’s all.”
Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.
“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other—”
“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”
“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a footstep!—”
“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of glowing red.
“Our Lady!—but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.
“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough soldier; and he was followed by such a handsome cavalier, dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all—he wore such a fine, dancing feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening twilight!”
“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.
“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.
“I suppose you will say next, that he had a manly figure? eh?” and the youth pulled his slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then halting on one leg, he threw the other forward, while with his arms placed akimbo, he seemed waiting for somebody or other to take his portrait.
“To be sure he had a manly figure,” returned Dolabella, glancing contemptuously at the bow-legged youth; “he was none of your whipper-snapping, strutting, and boasting postillions; he was none of your conceited—”
“Dolabella!” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic tone.
“Well, Signor Francisco?”
“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict yonder?”
He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of the monastery, it stood among the forest-trees on the western side of the lake, upon the summit of a precipitous cliff, which towered in rugged grandeur from the bosom of the mountain waters.
The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the dark towers of the monastery over the surrounding forest-trees, and along the recesses of the gardens, that varied the appearance of the wild wood beyond the ancient walls, and the white cliff gave its broad surface to the light of day, yet there was an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the dark towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens; while the reflection of the scene in the deep and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so calm, so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it looked more like the creation of an artist’s pencil, than a landscape of the living world.
As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark walls of the monastery, an involuntary thrill ran around the group of peasant damsels, and there was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.
“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured Dolabella, “Francisco, fear you not to make yon strange house the subject of your jest, even in broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant of these mountains grows pale at the mention of yon gloomy fabric!”
“Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held strange festivals within those dark gray walls in the olden time.”
“Even now, no one knows anything concerning the monks of this monastery. They give to the mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal blessing—yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are abroad, and muttered whispers speak of midnight orgies that it would shame an honest maiden to name, held within yon darksome house!”
“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest not. I am in earnest—by the True Cross, am I. Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself from the rock, down into the ravine—and—and—mark me—if on some very bright and agreeable morning I should be found laying at the foot of the awful steep, scattered into a thousand fragments—then think of the victim of your perfidy, Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, think of the miserable fate of Francisco—your victim—with remorse—with bitter remorse!”
Having thus given the damsels to understand that among them all, his heart was certainly broken, the little postillion strutted away with folded arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense strides he took with his inverted legs, it did really seem that he had been hired to measure the greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest possible number of steps.
The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by a burst of laughter.
“I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella. “This little whipper-snapper has been making love to all three of us, for nearly two years. Let us pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange cavalier at the cottage.”
“O yes—yes!” cried Theresa.
“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.
“That will bring Signor Postillion to terms,” continued the tall damsel, “and besides girls, we’ll learn all about this strange old woman.”
“This strange priest!” said Loretta.
“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.
And presently they separated; each determining to out-wit the other; both in regard to the strangers in the cottage on the hill, and to the securing of the gallant vagabond Francisco, who to do him justice, had those two important qualities necessary to winning the heart of a vain woman—saith the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.—a glib tongue and a rare knack of making presents of all sorts of gairish finery.
The azure sky was glowing with the mild warmth of the summer twilight, the zenith was mellowed with the light of the declining day, the western horizon was varied by alternate flashes of gold and crimson, when the ancient Castle of Albarone, thro’ every hall and corridor, rang with the shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of festival revelry.
From the various towers of the castle, pennons of strange colors and curious emblazonry, waved in the evening air, each flag, the trophy of some hard fought battle, while high over all, floating from the loftiest tower, the broad banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto in letters of gold, and the Winged Leopard, to the ruddy glare of the western sky.
The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis, gave admittance to numerous bands of peasantry, wending from the various tenements that dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in their holiday costume, while the air echoed with their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or the gay carol, rang from side to side.
All along the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro’ the luxuriant wood circling round its base, hurried the peasant bands, their attire of picturesque beauty, giving variety and contrast to the scene, while now loitering in groups, now hastening one by one toward the castle, they peopled the highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into the court yard of the castle.
Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and unaccompanied save by a solitary attendant, there strode wearily forward a personage who to all appearance ranked among a far-scattered people, at once the scorn and fear of Christendom.
Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied by numerous patches, with a piked staff in his hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape, strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching hat which defended the head of the JEW, revealed a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in expression, marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance seemed skilled in reading the hearts of men; a bold prominent nose, while the lower part of his cheeks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by a stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his girdle, mingling with the long and curling locks of sable hue, that gave their impressive relief to the outline of the Hebrew’s countenance.
By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant, to all appearance a youth of some twenty winters, yet his tawny face, marked by bold and regular features, half-concealed by masses of jet black hair, falling aside from his forehead, in elf-like curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle between the brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild and wandering eye, that glanced from side to side with a restless and nervous glance, that seemed to peruse the face of every man who came within its gaze, and read the characters and motives of all who journeyed onward to the castle.
Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest serge, the Servitor of the Hebrew, bore on his shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to oppress its bearer with an unusual weight, for he well-nigh tottered under the load.
Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which assailed him from every side, the Hebrew crossed the drawbridge, and passing under the portcullis he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard, where unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich and gaudy stores to the eyes of the wondering multitude. His servitor also displayed his pack to their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable, his arms folded, and his wild eyes glaring strangely over the faces of the crowd.
“Who’ll buy—who’ll buy?” cried the Hebrew, in the suppliant voice of trade, as casting his eyes around the court-yard, he surveyed the brilliant scene at a glance.
Around, all dark and time-worn, the walls of the castle—each casement blazing with torches—looked down upon various groups of the peasantry and servitors of Albarone, some engaged in light and gleesome gossip, while others were hurrying hither and thither, on errands pertaining to the feast which was to grace the castle hall on the morrow.
In front of the arching roof of the kitchen door stood the gray haired sharp featured, and sharp voiced Steward of the castle, engaged in superintending the operations of a number of hinds, who were severing the limbs of various fat bucks, and cutting up certain lusty beeves, and preparing various kinds of game, for the vast fire that blazed on the kitchen hearth.
Farther on, a minstrel was entertaining a circle of peasants, with the song of love, or the tale of knightly valor; at a short distance, the privileged fool, with his cap and bells, and fantastic dress, was uttering his merry quips and far-fetched jests, which ever and anon he varied by a nimble summersault, while the gaping crowd held their sides as their boisterous laughter broke upon the ear, with all its jovial discord and dissonance.
“Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!” shouted the Jew, “here’s broaches for ye damsels fair—broaches and gauds, rings for your fingers, and crosses of ebony for your bosoms. Look ye how this heart of gold would sink and swell on a maiden’s snow white breast! Here’s plumes for the warriors’ helmet; daggers for his belt, and trappings for his steed. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!—Here’s ornaments of gold and silver for the doublet of the page, essences for his flowing hair, and chains for his neck.—Who’ll buy—who’ll buy.—Broaches, gauds, rings, gems, plumes, belts, trappings, perfumes, chains, laces of gold! Who’ll buy! Who’ll buy! Gentles, list ye all! Chains, laces of gold, perfumes, trappings, belts, plumes, gems, rings, gauds, broaches. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!”
“The Virgin save us all!” exclaimed Guiseppo who stood among the crowd that gathered round the Israelite, “the Virgin save us all, but there’s a tongue for you, my good folks.”
This was said with an attitude of mock astonishment, and corresponding grimace of the features.
“An’ my tongue suits ye so well, gentle sir, may-hap you’ll try some of my wares?”
“What have you, Sir Gripe-fist, that it would become me to buy?”
“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything. Except three wares with which the great merchant—Nature—must provide him, or else he’ll make but a sorry page.”
“And those wares—how do you style them?” asked the page.
“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure look, “the first ware is somewhat dull and heavy, it is labelled—Impudence—may it please thee fair Page.”
“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo, half amused and half angered. “How name you the second ware? Eh! Leatherface?”
“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly, “the second ware is light and feathery. It bears the name—Self-conceit. As for the third—”
“Aye the third,” interrupted the page. “Go on my black bearded friend—go on—I’ll borrow a good oaken towel to rub you down, when you have done.”
“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two others are made. It is heavier and duller than Impudence, and lighter and more feathery than Self-conceit, they style it Ignorance. And these three wares are the sole contents of the cob-web-hung storehouse of Sir Page’s brain. An’ it likes thee, fair sir?”
The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.
“Ha—ha—ha! fairly hit! Ho—ho—ho! The Jew turns Scholar, and preaches like a monk.—He—he—he! The trim Page is hit—fairly hit.” Such were the exclamations that went around the laughing crowd.
“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!” exclaimed Guiseppo, brandishing an oaken staff; “here’s at thee!”
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed one of the spectators, “thou art fairly hit, sir Guiseppo.”
“Aye, aye, fairly hit,” cried another; and “The Jew has paid thee in thine own coin,” a third shouted, throwing himself in the path of the page.
“Nay, nay, let him come!” cried the Jew, with a sneer. “Let him come. I’ll tame his pageship.”
“Dost thou mock me, thou dog!” As he spoke, the page raised his oaken staff, and whirling it around his head, he aimed with all his strength at the sconce of the Jew, who coolly turned aside the blow with his upraised arm, and in an instant he had Guiseppo by the throat.
He whispered a word in the ear of the page, and then, unloosing his hold, he began to gather up his wares.
The eyebrows of the page elevated with astonishment, and his lips parted. The bystanders gathered around Guiseppo with various expressions of their surprise at the sudden change that had passed over him.
“Why stare you so?” exclaimed a peasant maid.
“Art mad?” asked one of the yeoman of the guard.
“Perhaps moon-struck?” suggested another.
Guiseppo made no reply, but walked slowly away, while the Jew remained standing in the centre of the group, with his servitor waiting silently by his side.
“Look ye, son of Moses,” cried one of the yeomen, advancing toward the Jew, “why stands this man of thine so silent and still? He moves not, nor does he speak; but his wild eye is glancing hither and thither like a fire-coal. Why does he stand thus mute and speechless?”
A grim smile passed over the bearded features of the Jew.
“Ask a post why it does not speak, or ask a war-horse to troll ye a merry song! You are a keen yeoman and a shrewd, yet did it ne’er strike ye that my servitor might be incapable of speech? A poor Arab boy, gentle sirs and damsels, whose dying father gave him to my care, when perishing on the field of battle, in the wilds of Palestine, some twenty years agone.”
“A son of the paynim Mahound,” muttered the yeoman, with a look of scorn.
“Nay he is of the faith of Christ,” interrupted the Jew. “Behold, he wears the cross of Rome!”
“A sweet youth, and gentle-faced, though somewhat sad in look,” murmured a peasant matron, gazing with a look of pity upon the tawny face of the Arab mute.
And while the group of peasant men and women clustered around the Jew and his Arab boy, a cry ran through the castle yard, echoed from lip to lip, and repeated by the crowd thronging the place, until the air seemed alive with the shout: “She comes, she comes! The fair Ladye Annabel is passing to the chapel of St. George! Make way for the betrothed! Make way for the Ladye Annabel! Make way for the Duchess of Florence!”
In a moment the court-yard was occupied by two files of men-at-arms, who extended from the great steps, ascending to the massive door of the castle hall, along the level space, making a lane for the passage of the Ladye Annabel and her train. The crowd came thronging to the backs of the warriors, gathering around the staircase, and blackening on every side, eager to behold the betrothed of his grace the Duke of Florence.
Foremost among the throng at the bottom of the stairway, his pack lashed to his back, and a small casket in his hands, the black-bearded Jew appeared to take great interest in the scene progressing before his eyes.
The Arab mute stood at his back, half concealed from view, and unseen or unnoticed by the survitors and vassals of Albarone.
In after times, some of the vassals remembered well that they observed the wild eyes of the Arabian glaring fiercely over the shoulder of the Jew, while his right hand was thrust within the folds of his coarse gaberdine, and his entire appearance denoted a mind agitated by some fierce resolve.
A low, solemn peal of music broke on the air, and a ruddy blaze of light was thrown from the recesses of the massive hall doors. In a moment a band of cavaliers, attired in all the glitter of spangled cloak and waving plume, came from the hall, and took their position on either side of the staircase, each gay cavalier holding a torch on high, while the gleaming light revealed each handsome face, wearing the polished smile, and the costumes varied with strange fancies of embroidery, and fashioned after every manner of device, were disclosed in all their luxuriance and splendor.
A murmur ran through the crowd, and the gaily-attired form of his grace of Florence issued from the hall door, followed by the slight figure of the Count Aldarin.
As they took their positions on either side of the hall door, the crowd below had time to notice the strange contrast between the Lord of Albarone and the Duke of Florence.
Aldarin, pale in face, slender in form, attired in his robes of solemn black, the cap of dark fur on his forehead, with the blaze of a single gem relieving its midnight darkness, standing silent and motionless on one side of the hall door, his keen gray eyes half hidden by his brows, as though he was absent with thoughts of more than mortal interest.
The Duke, the gallant Duke, all show, and glitter, and costume, a doublet of white satin encircling his well-proportioned form, a cloak of the most delicate crimson depending from his left shoulder, the hilt of his jeweled sword glittering in the light; while his dainty cap of pink velvet, with the snow-white plume thrown aside from its front, surmounted his vacant face, marked by the neatly circled hair, the carefully trimmed moustache and beard. His eyes glared vacantly to and fro, and it might easily be seen that his grace of Florence was on a mental excursion after his looking glass.
This flashing of torches, this gallant array, heralded the approach of the Ladye Annabel, who presently emerged from the hall door, followed by a long line of the bower maidens, arrayed, like their mistress, in flowing robes, white as the mountain snow untouched by the summer sun.
The face of the Ladye Annabel was pale as the attire that enveloped her slender form, and she leaned for support on the arm of her black-eyed cousin, the damsel Rosalind.
Pale and beautiful, the victim of the sacrifice of the morrow, neither returned the deep inclination of the head with which the Duke of Florence greeted her appearance, nor glanced upon the countenance of her father; but slowly moved down the steps of stone, her eyes downcast, and her face calm as the sculptured marble.
“She is pale,” murmured Aldarin, “pale as death! She walks with the measured step of the victim walking to the living tomb!”
“I’ faith, she is beautiful!” muttered the Duke. “My bride will hang like a pleasant costume on this royal arm!”
The black-bearded Hebrew gazed upon the Ladye Annabel with a keen and searching eye, while the Arab mute, standing at his back, bowed his head low on his breast, and veiled his face with one hand, as the other was thrust within the folds of his coarse doublet.
Slowly the procession ascended the steps of stone, one foot of the betrothed was upon the pavement of the castle yard, when a rushing sound was heard, a hurried footstep, and the Jew rushed through the men-at-arms—flinging himself at the maiden’s feet, he threw open the casket which he held in his hand.
“Fair ladye,” he cried, in a deep-toned voice, “It is the lace—the lace of price, which two days since I promised to procure thee. ’Tis worth its weight in gold—aye, an hundred times over! Look, ladye—’tis the best that gold or favor might procure.”
The Ladye Annabel started at the uncouth appearance and bearded face of the Jew, while the bystanders seemed struck dumb with his audacity.
In an instant cries of execration arose on all sides. The Count Aldarin advanced hastily to his daughter’s side, while the Duke of Florence muttered an involuntary oath, as two of the men-at-arms raised their swords to hew the Israelite to the earth.
It was a fearful moment, and the Jew seemed to feel that his fate was wavering like the sunbeam on the point of a brightened dagger.
He made a quick gesture to the Arab mute, he seized the wrist of the fair Rosalind, and looking her earnestly in the face, whispered a hurried word in the maiden’s ear, deep and piercing in its import, yet inaudible to the group clustered around.
Rosalind turned pale, started quickly aside, but in a moment seemed chiding herself for this folly, as with a smile on her lip she spoke to the Ladye Annabel in a low and murmured tone. Annabel started, with the quick convulsive start that follows an overwhelming surprise.
She started, but in a moment recovering herself, she exclaimed with a firm voice, and extended arms—
“Touch him not—do the Jew no harm! It is by my command that he is here. Sir Merchant,” she continued, with a smile of kindly meaning, “you will wait for me, in the hall of the castle—there will I look at your wares when the evening mass is done.”
“This is wondrous strange,” murmured Aldarin. “Some changing woman’s fancy, I trow—”
“Certes, the lace must be rare in texture, and quaint in device!” half muttered the Duke. “Yet I never knew that there was magic in the mere mention of such costly gear, before this moment!”
The men-at-arms released the Jew, and the procession passed on towards the more distant precincts of the castle, where the light of many torches presently streamed from the arching windows of the chapel of St. George of Albarone, showing in full and beautiful relief the snow-white forms of the maidens, passing through the sacred door of the church followed by the Count Aldarin and the Duke, environed by a glittering throng of cavaliers.
Meanwhile, alone and in the darkness, deserted by the crowd, near the hall door, stood the Hebrew and his Mute Servitor, gazing ardently upon the receding procession, until the last cavalier disappeared within the walls of the chapel.
Then it was that a grim smile passed over the bearded face of the Jew, while the Arab boy started wildly aside clenching his hands with sudden agitation, as the strains of the Holy Mass, floating from the chapel, broke upon his ear.
An hour passed. The holy ceremonies of religion had ceased to echo through the walls of the chapel. The Ladye Annabel attended by her maidens had again passed into the castle hall. Beside one of the pillars of the lofty door, stood the gallant Guiseppo, his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the heavens above.
Guiseppo was enrapt in the mysteries of a sombre study.
He was just wondering what the stars could be made of, whether they were veritable balls of fire, unstable meteors, or angel’s eyes—how it chanced that they were lighted up so regularly every night, stormy ones of course excepted—where they went in day-time—and then he fell to thinking of angels, fairies, and other beings made all out of air—and from angels it was quite natural that his thoughts should pass to woman; and with the thought of woman came dim, floating visions of ancles well turned, black eyes beaming like living things, ruby lips wreathing in a smile, while they wooed the kiss of love. There is no knowing how far his musings might have gone, had he not been disturbed by the sound of a footstep breaking the silence of the castle yard. He looked in the direction from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld a strange figure, clad in solemn black, approaching from the gloom of the court-yard. It drew nearer and nearer, and Guiseppo beheld the form of the Scholar Aldarin.
He came slowly onward, toward the light burning over the hall door, and the Page remembered in after life that his face was most ghastly to behold, most fearful to look upon.
His head drooped upon his breast over his folded arms, his eyes dilated to their utmost, glaring vacantly on the earth, while his lips moved in broken murmurs, the Scholar ascended the steps of stone, as the Page observed him from the shadow of a massive pillar.
“It hastens, it hastens to perfection—THE MIGHTY SPELL! The marriage—ha, ha, Duchess of Florence!—HE shall live again—ha, ha! the world shall not say Aldarin toiled in vain! The secret—a few more days—Aldarin lives forever!”
And as the murmurs broke wildly from his lips, the Scholar disappeared within the shadow of the hall door, leaving the careless Guiseppo to the memory of that fearful face. It was an appalling memory. Guiseppo’s cheek grew pale, and his whole frame trembled with an indefinable fear.
How long he remained in this state he knew not, but after a long lapse of dreamy reverie, he was startled by a slight tap on his shoulder.
Looking around, he beheld the beaming eyes of the fair Rosalind fixed upon him with a glance which for the moment banished the face of Aldarin from his mind, and made his heart knock sadly against his breast.
“What wouldst have, Rosalind?” The maiden whispered in his ear.
It was curious to see the change that came over the countenance of the page; the pallor vanished from his visage, which swelled out on either side as though he had an orange in each cheek, his lips were curiously pursed, while his eyes rolled about in his head after a strange fashion.
“Eh? Rosalind?” he cried, as if he had not understood her aright.
Again did the maiden whisper in his ear.
“By our Lady!” exclaimed Guiseppo, “but this does exceed everything that I ever did hear. Art not crazed, sweetheart?”
“Say, Guiseppo, wilt do it for my sake!”
The bewitching smile with which this was said, appeared to complete the conquest of the page.
“I’ll obey thee,” he cried, “but surely ’tis a strange request.”
“Strange? nonsense! Never call the whim of woman—strange! Hie thee away and do ’t immediately. I will tell thee more concerning this matter in the evening. Away! away!”
And as the lovely damsel tripped lightly down the steps and wended her way toward the castle gate, on an errand whose import may possibly be revealed in future pages of this history, the page Guiseppo entered the hall of the castle, while his frame shook with a pleasant fit of inward laughter.
The first flash of the morn that was to gild the fair brow of the Ladye Annabel with a ducal coronet, glowed faintly in the eastern sky, and the black-bearded Jew stood in the court-yard, casting his eyes earnestly about him, as if waiting the approach of one with whom he had made an appointment.
Not long did he wait, for presently emerging from a small door inserted in a wing of the castle, near the chapel of St. George, the page Guiseppo approached, with his form muffled up in his cloak of blue velvet and gold embroidery; while his slouching hat, drooping over his face, concealed his features entirely from the view.
By his side, at a respectful distance, walked the Arab mute, his head bowed low, and his face half concealed by his jet-black locks, while he tottered under the weight of his heavy burden.
As Guiseppo gained the side of the Jew, a sentinel was passing.
“Ho, sir page!” exclaimed the Hebrew, “thou seem’st fearful of the morning breeze. Hurry along—hurry along—or beshrew me, thou wilt not get the rare lace for the Ladye Annabel—the rare lace worth its weight in gold a hundred times told. Haste thee—haste thee!”
They crossed the court-yard, and presently stood before the pillars of the castle gate, which was guarded by four sentinels, attired in the livery of his grace of Florence.
“Fair sir,” exclaimed the Jew, addressing one of the men-at-arms, “I would pass through the castle gate. I am bound for the village hard by the castle. Albarone, I think you call it?”
“Wherefore abroad so early?” asked the sentinel; “and why goes Guiseppo with you?”
“Yesternight, when I journeyed toward the castle, some of my most precious wares I left behind me at the hostel of the village below. The Ladye Annabel wishes to purchase some rare and costly laces. My business calls me and this poor dumb youth away to the north, and therefore is the page sent with me; he is sent to receive the wares purchased by the Ladye Annabel. Hast any thing further to ask, sir sentinel?”
And as he asked the question, the page Guiseppo and the Arabian drew nearer to the Jew, awaiting the answer with evident interest.
It was observable that the right hand of the mute was thrust within the folds of his doublet, while his blue eye, so strangely contrasting with his dark brows and darker hair, glared fiercely into the faces of the sentinels.
“I have nothing more to ask of thee, now,” exclaimed another sentinel, advancing. “But had not the Duke sent me this pass for thee, thy servitor, and the page Guiseppo, the foul fiend take me, but I would have seen thy heathen carcass at the devil, ere a bolt should be drawn for thee to pass forth at this unseasonable hour. Thy way lies before thee, Jew!”
As he spoke, he applied a key to a small door which was cut into the massive timbers of the castle gate. The door flew open, and through the opened space the drawbridge was seen descending. One foot of the Jew was passed through the narrow entrance, when the sentinel who held the pass of the Duke, exclaimed:
“Why, Guiseppo, what aileth thee? Wherefore art muffled up in this fashion? Where are thy merry jests? Where is that magpie tongue of thine? Hast forgotten all thy mischievous pranks—eh, sir page?”
A low, moaning noise came from the mouth of the mute, as he seemed impatient of the delay.
“I have no time to trifle in idle converse,” exclaimed the Jew. “Come on, fair sir, the morning breaks, and I must be on my way.”
He took the page by the shoulder, and gently pulled him through the doorway, leaving the sentinels to their surprise at the strange silence of the mirthful Guiseppo, while the unfortunate mute slowly followed in the footsteps of the Jew, his right hand trembling with a scarce perceptible motion, as he buried it within the folds of his doublet.
With a hurried step, the Jew and his companion passed over the drawbridge, and in a moment standing upon the summit of the hill upon whose rocks and caverns the castle was founded, they viewed the winding road beneath.
The page turned his head—still concealed by his slouched hat—he turned his head for a moment toward the castle, and a slight tremor pervaded his frame.
Then his hand was extended, grasping the hand of the Arab mute, who returned the grasp with a firm pressure upon the white fingers of the dainty page.
“Let us onward! Let us onward!” whispered the Jew. “A long journey have we before us. Onward, I pray ye!”
They hurriedly wended down the hill, and ere an hundred could be told, their forms were lost to sight in the shades of the forest.
All bright and glorious came on the rising day, lighting up the cloudless azure with its kindly beams, shimmering over the waves of the broad, deep river, filling the wild-wood glade with glimpses of golden light; while the far-off mountains towered into the heavens, the white clouds crowning their rugged peaks, radiant with the changing hues of the morning sun.
And while the day wore slowly on, the paths leading through the valley toward the castle, the winding ways that passed through the recesses of the wild wood, and the great highway sweeping on toward Florence the Fair, were all alive with crowds of peasants, in their holiday attire, wrinkled age and red-lipped youth, mature manhood and careless boyhood, all hastening onward toward the castle of Albarone, anxious to behold the marriage of the Duke and the Ladye Annabel.
The day wore on, and the court-yard was thronged by strange and contrasted bands; the peasant in his gay costume, the vassal in his rich livery, side by side with the man-at-arms clad in glittering mail, while the servitors of the house ran hurriedly to and fro, passing with hasty steps from hall to hall, from gallery to gallery, as the confused sounds of preparation for the bridal feast awoke the echoes of the arching corridor or pillared hall.
The first quarter of the day had passed, and the shadow of the dial plate in the castle yard, was gliding over the path of high noon.
As gay a bridal party as ever the sun shone upon, waited within the walls of the chapel of St. George. They waited for the coming of the bridegroom and bride.
There were queenly ladies and beauteous damsels, gallant lords and gay cavaliers, blazing in gorgeous attire; there, mingling with the men-at-arms of Albarone, thronged the retainers of the Duke, robed in the royal livery of his house; and beside the altar stood the priest and the father, the venerable abbot of St. Peters, arrayed in his sacred robes, and the sage and thoughtful Aldarin, Count Di Albarone, attired, as was his wont, in the plain tunic of sable velvet, relieved by the sweeping robe of black, with his pale forehead surmounted by the cap of fur, glittering with a single gem.
Long will it be, by my troth, very long—thus runs the words of the ancient MSS.—ere the light of day will look down upon a scene so full of gaiety and grandeur.
The tall and swelling forms of the noble dames, arrayed in all the richest silks that the East might furnish, covered with gold and brilliant with jewels;—the noble figures of the cavaliers, their gay doublets hung with the symbols of the various orders of chivalry, their belts of every variety of ornament, and of every fancy of embroidery, their diamond-hilted swords, their jeweled caps, surmounted by nodding plumes and their cloaks of the finest velvet depending carelessly from the right shoulder, and falling in graceful folds over the arm,—combined with the glare of Milan steel worn by the men-at-arms, and the glitter of the rich liveries of the retainers of the Duke, formed a scene of vivid and contrasting interest.
The gallant party began to express their wonder at the long delayed approach of the Duke and his fair bride, and even the venerable abbot betrayed marks of impatience.
It was worthy of note, that for the space of ten minutes or more, the Count Aldarin had stood beside the priest, silent and motionless, with his eyebrows knit, and his lips compressed, while he gazed steadily at the slabs of the mosaic pavement in front of the altar, which, for the space of some half score paces or more, was left bare and unoccupied by the crowd.
At last, placing his lips to the ear of the abbot, and hurriedly glancing around, as if fearful of being observed, the Count whispered—