As he sang, the old man plunged the spade lustily into the earth, and throwing aside the large lumps of clay, he continued with great glee—

He wound this up with an unnatural noise, half shriek, and half yell, and the hollow and dread dungeon arches gave back the strain.

“He, he, he!—I know a merrier catch than that! List ye, my noble captain.”

He then made a motion with his hand, as if in the act of drinking, and then a shout of wild laughter sounded through the cell.

He swept his spade around with maniac glee, and then in a voice louder and shriller, while his shrunken breast heaved with the wildness of his emotion, he sang,

“A brave song! Ha, ha, ha! By my faith a brave song! Where didst pick it up, Old Screech-Owl, eh?”

“Glow-worm is my name,” replied the other demurely,—“Glow-worm—ah! but this is rich earth! Look! what big, lusty clumps. He, he, he! How cold and pale he looks—he that I am to bury—See!”

“He doth look cold and pale!” muttered Balvardo. “Is the grave deep enough, Devil-darkness? Let’s house him in’ th’ earth without delay.”

“The grave scarce reaches to my middle—deeper let us dig it, noble captain—deeper!”

“I tell thee, Devil-darkness, I cannot look upon the cold and stony face of the dead! Deeper thou mayest dig the grave—but the body must be hidden from sight in the meanwhile. ‘Slife—I left my cloak in the vaults above, and I have no robe to throw over the coffin!”

“He—he—he, thou’rt a brave man, yet poor old Glow-worm knows more than thee! Look around the cell, most noble captain, and tell me what thou see’st!”

“I see the rough walls of stone, the roof of rock, the floor of clay. Not a whit more, by the Fiend!”

“Look again—pass thine eyes along the wall opposite yon oaken door. What see’st thou now, most noble captain?”

“I see a bolt of iron, rusted and time-eaten, projecting from the wall—”

“Wouldst know how to open a passage into the stone room, next to this cell? Move the bolt quickly to and fro, and yon massy stone will roll back into the stone-room! Thou canst lay the coffin within its walls, until the grave is deep enow.”

“The bolt moves—ha! The stone, the massive stone glides from the wall—another push at the bolt! There—blood o’ Mahound, I behold a dark passage into this dismal room! ‘Slife! there is a current of air rushing from this open space—what may it mean?”

“Dost wish to hide the corse? Eh—most noble captain? Lay hold of t’other end o’ th’ coffin, and I will raise this end. We’ll bear it to the stone-room!”

In a moment they raised the coffin, and bearing it toward the open space, Balvardo retreated backwards, through the passage, and in another instant was lost to view, while the foot of the coffin still projected into the dungeon-cell.

“Bear it through the passage, Glow-worm!” cried Balvardo. “In a moment we will have it laid along the floor of this dreary place!”

“It is heavy,” cried the old man; “my strength fails me. Thou wilt have to bear the burden thyself, most noble captain! Glow-worm lifts no heavy burden!”

“Be it so,” growled Balvardo. “Slife I like not to be alone with the dead! Slowly, slowly, drag the coffin along the floor of stone, there—it rests against the wall! Now for the grave.”

“What dreary sound is that, thundering far above? Oft have I heard it, yet ne’er could tell what it might mean?”

“The Convent clock strikes—one!” muttered Balvardo. “A few moments and my reward is sure!”

“Beware the secret spring!” shrieked the old man, as though his crazed mind had been fixed by some sudden thought. “Beware the secret spring! It sticks from the floor near the very wall, where thou hast laid the coffin. An’ thy foot presses the spring the stone rolls back, and—he, he, he—thou art buried alive!”

It was too late! Even as the old man spoke, Balvardo stumbled along the floor of the stone-room, his foot pressed the point of iron projecting from the floor, and the massive rock rolled back to its place, in the masonry of the substantial wall.

“I fear, I fear,” murmured the old man, gazing around with an affrighted look; “I fear they,” pointing above, “they will lash me for this! He, he, he! I bade him beware of the spring within the stone-room, and he would not. I cannot turn this bolt, the old man is not strong enough. Ha, ha, here is a torch; Glow-worm has not had a torch in his hand for years! Ho, ho, ho, the noble captain came here to bury the dead, and, ho, ho, ho, he is buried alive!”

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

THE FATE OF THE BETRAYER.

“Where am I?” shrieked the Duke, as he stood upon the platform of the convent tower. “’Tis a hideous dream, ’tis a fearful nightmare! Ha! my brain reels. I’ll gaze no longer down the fearful abyss! Is there none to awake me, none? Horror of horrors! This demon hand will strangle me, closer and tighter it winds around my throat, ah!”

A wild laugh of intense joy came from the chest of the Monk. “I feast upon thy misery,” he cried, “wretch, I banquet upon thy agony! Ha, ha, ha! The glory of this moment I would not barter for all the joys of heaven! Dost thou shiver, dost thou tremble, well thou mayst! Look down, far, far below! Dost see any hope there, what says the whitened precipice? Hath the dark abyss no voice? Look above, canst glean naught from the frown of the tower that is over thy doomed and devoted head? Or mayhap the secret door may afford thee consolation? Speak—thou for whose crime earth hath no word, hell no name, speak that I may feast upon the music of thy quailing voice!”

Tighter he wound his grasp around the throat of the trembling wretch, and with his dark eye flashing with all the frenzy of supernatural revenge, he shook the form of the Duke over the awful abyss.

“Is’t thou, good Albertine? Hold, hold, or I shall fall. ’Tis a fearful steep! Behold, a flock of snow-white sheep are grazing in yon distant vale, they seem but as mice at this fearful height. Thou, thou wilt not harm me, good Albertine?”

“Look, look!—Behold her pale form is floating in the moonlight, her face is wan, and her look is that of despair! Ha! her glazing eyes are fixed upon thee—thee—her BETRAYER! She beckons me over the steep!—I come—I come!”

“Nay, good Albertine, grasp me not so tight!—Bring to mind the days when we were sworn friends—”

“Friends? Doomed man, the memory of former days shall but hurl accumulated torture upon thy head!—Friends?—Ah! like a dream it comes over my mind! I was a peasant boy—thou didst raise me to rank and power, and I have loved ye as brother loves brother. Could my life have served thee, it would have been laid at thy feet. My life thou did’st not take. No! no! But the treasured hope of years, the glowing fancies of a musing boy, the anticipations of happiness that haunted my dreams by night, and lived in my thoughts by day; these—at one fell remorseless blow, thou did’st sweep away. It was upon her grave; the grave of thy victim, that one thought possessed my soul. For years and years have I planned, have I schemed, nay wept, prayed for the fulfilment of that thought. And now it is fulfilled. I have thee in my grasp! Think’st thou a thousand worlds would buy thy craven life? That heaven or hell would tear thee from my hand?”

Again he gave utterance to the frenzied joy of his soul in a loud wild laugh, that burst fearfully upon the midnight air.

“Albertine spare me, spare me! Take not my life.”

“Spare thee? and yon pale form waving me onward? spare thee? wretch, I tell thee all nature is celebrating thy doom! The moon is sinking below the horizon, and the stars gleam through the gathering pall of darkness like funeral fires! Spare thee!”

“Ha! whence come those shouts! I may yet be saved!”

“Thou mayst be saved—ha—ha—ha! It gives me joy to drag thee o’er this steep, craving and hoping for life, to thy latest grasp! Look around Urbano, Duke of Florence, look around and behold the fair and beautiful earth, scene of thy crimes—nay, nay THY CRIME—behold the earth for the last time!”

It was a weird and awful scene.

The dizzy height of the platform rock, the vast azure with its boundless horizon, all beaming with the grandeur of the stars, the massive hills sweeping around the mountain-lake, darkening the clear waters with their midnight shadow, the pile of rocks uprising beyond the darkness of the unfathomable abyss, the silence and the awe that rested upon the hour, broken by the sound of far-off shouts, while on the very verge of the eastern sky, bloody and red, the full-orbed moon was sinking slowly down, casting a dim and lurid light over mountain and stream, convent and plain—all formed a scene of dark and fearful interest.

The Universe, awful and vast, seemed to hold a strange sympathy with the Revenge of Albertine the Monk, the stars gave their solemn light to the scene, and the blood-red moon lit up the funeral pile of the Doomed.

“I gaze around, ’tis an awful scene. And thou, thou wilt spare me, good Albertine?”

“As thou didst spare thy victim, when her voice rung in thy ears of stone, shrieking for pity!” The response came hissing through the clenched teeth of Albertine! “Betrayer, I again tell thee all nature is celebrating thy doom! The moon is sinking below the horizon, and the stars gleam through the gathering pall of darkness like funeral fires!”

Thrilled with terror and appalled to the very soul, by the erect form and flashing eye of the Monk, the Duke stood trembling and quivering like a reed, on the verge of the platform rock.

“Choose the manner of thy death! Leap from the rock, or behold, I raise before thy very eyes this dagger; the dagger of the Holy Steel!”

“Thou wilt not slay me thus, good Albertine,” shrieked the Duke. “Mercy—for the sake of God—mercy!”

“Thine own mercy I give back to thee! Leap from the rock, or this dagger seeks thy heart. Ha! that pale form, that dim and shadowy face, floating in the midnight air, with the eyes of speechless woe! She beckons me onward. He comes, pale spirit—thy betrayer comes! An instant, and lo! before the bar of eternity he shall tremble at the frown of the Unknown!”

It was a scene of sickening horror, yet dignified and consecrated by the mighty revenge of the monk.

His face pale as death, his lips livid with fear, his eyes rolling and vacant in their glance, the Duke stepped tremblingly backward, while the monk strode one step forward, raising the keen steel aloft, with a slow movement, yet with a quick eye and a determined arm.

“Leap—leap—or the dagger seeks thy heart!”

The Duke looked wildly around, and, shaking his hands aloft, gnashed his teeth in very despair.

Another moment!

The monk alone stood on the platform, while a rushing sound swept through the air, far, far below, as though a weight of iron had been toppled from the rock.

Albertine slowly advanced to the edge of the platform, and gazed into the void below.

With a fixed and glaring eye, with the dagger raised aloft in his right hand, he gazed below, and beheld the folds of a garment waving through the darkened air, while a yell most fearful and maddening to hear, came shrieking from the darkness of the void, resounding to the very heavens above, until the air grew animate with the sound of despair—unutterable despair.

Then came a crashing sound, as though a heavy body had fallen against the projecting points of the rugged rocks, and then all became silent.

Silence gathered over the universe, like one vast brooding shadow of omen and doom.

The wild flush of excitement vanished from the face of the monk.

With a calm brow, a compressed lip, a cheek pale as death, and a full dark eye, that seemed blazing forth from the shadow of the brow, he folded his arms silently on his breast, and looked up to the midnight heavens.

“She beckons me over the steep, she beckons me; and, with her burning eyes fixed upon my face, she waves her hands, and bids me—on, on! She points to the scenes of the past: God of my soul, how real, how vivid, how like the pictures of memory! The cottage in the vale; the sunshine sleeping on the roof sheltered by vines; the lordly hall and the friend—the friend—the outrage, the lifeless form, and then comes the spirit of my desolation, laughing with scorn as he points to the shadow blackening o’er the dial plate of destiny!

“Nay, nay, wave not thy hands with that slow and solemn motion—glide not so ghastly to and fro—thine eyes burn in my very soul! I come, I come! Albertine glides onward to his bride!”

With folded arms, with calm and immovable countenance, fixing his glance upon the vacant air, without a fear, a sorrow, or a sigh, the avenger stepped from the platform rock, and with the speed of an arrow driven home by the strong arm of the archer, he sank into the darkness of the abyss.

There was a low moaning exclamation of joy, and the setting moon looked on the falling form no more.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

THREE DAYS ELAPSE.

JOY COMES AND POWER, BUT DEATH HAS GRASPED THE VICTIM.

The morning sunshine, streaming through the deep silled casement of the convent cell, filled the lonely chamber with light.

The arching roof and the pavement of stone, the dark gray walls, thronged with monkish effigies, and the distant corner of the room, all glowed with warm glimpses of the daybeams, while a solitary soldier strode slowly along the floor, his brow darkening with a frown, as, with his clear blue eyes fixed on vacancy his mind was absorbed in painful thought.

“St. Withold! and all the Saints in heaven or earth save me now!” he absently muttered, as his right hand grasped the hilt of his good sword.—“Here’s a new wonder, a fresh mystery! Three—three days agone—we were all fighting and slashing, leading murderers to death, and pulling Dukes from their thrones, daring death in as many shapes as swords are fashioned, and all for my Lord Adrian, and lo! we bend all things to our will, dethrone the tyrant, and fill the people’s throats with an outcry for the new duke, and what comes next? Answer my good Robin—answer my old friend—where is the new duke? God knows, and the Saints might tell, an’ we knew how to ask them, but not a whit does Rough Robin know about the matter. The old priest was wont to tell me that the ways of Him above—off with thy cap, Robin—were full of mysterie. I never knew what he meant till now—”

The small door of the cell slowly grated on its hinges, and as the yeoman turned to discover the cause, he beheld standing before him a cavalier whose form was attired in glossy purple and bright gold, yet all soiled and tarnished with dust, while his young face, pale and careworn, bore traces of the fearful struggle that had shaken his soul within the past few days.

“Ah—Guiseppo! Pale and careworn—thine attire covered with dust—thy broken plume sweeping o’er thy brow——whence came ye boy, in such attire and in such a ghastly trim?”

“I greet thee, good Robin. Yesternight I left the Castle of Albarone—this morn I journeyed from the walls of Florence!”

“Thou dost bear a message?”

“I come from the nobles and the people of Florence! Three nights agone the old walls of the fair city rang with the clash of arms and the peal of trumpet, while the tramp of contending foemen shook the floor of the ducal palace, and the glimmer of their swords was reflected in the very mirrors of the Tyrant-Duke. The morning dawned at last, and dawned on Florence, no longer oppressed by the tyrant, or awed by the vassals of his power. Then it was that the nobles of Florence named their new Duke, then it was that the people confirmed their choice, while the solemn High Priest of the Invisible, by a parchment scroll affixed to a pillar of the grand cathedral, pronounced his blessing on the fortune of Adrian, Count of Albarone and Duke of Florence—”

“Thus far all was well. Then ye learned the mysterious disappearance of Lord Adrian? Speak I the truth, Guiseppo? The dark scenes which three nights agone gave new legends of horror to the walls of this convent of darkness? The death-bowl administered by the hands of Albertine—the watch of the Ladye Annabel beside the corse—the disappearance of the body, and what troubles me but little, the disappearance of the tyrant-duke? A thousand such dukes might disappear, and we could tell, without a doubt, what became of them all, ‘the devil takes care of his own’ saith the adage—”

“Hast thou no word of the Lord Adrian?”

“Ask the tombs in the aisles of the convent chapel, which yesternoon we ransacked in search of his body, and let their yawning mouths tell the story of our fruitless labor. St. Withold! scarce a foot of earth in the convent garden that we did not turn to the sun in our search—not a cell in the earth-hidden recesses of this foul den, that we failed to illumine with the glare of our torches, not a wizard nook or a blood-stained corner in this devil’s hall, but was laid open to the light, in our strange chase after the body of the dead! And it was all in vain, Guiseppo, all in vain!”

“The Ladye Annabel—hast thou no word of her, Rough Robin?”

“St. Withold, I see her now! Traversed we the dark walls in search of the corse? She went with us, though her feet sunk ankle-deep in the dust of the dead, at every step. She led us on to the fatal room, where the corse had been stolen from her grasp, while bewitched by the drugged potion; she pointed the way to the dark cavern beneath the convent, and when every heart failed, awed with supernatural fear, she, even the fair and gentle Ladye Annabel, still cried on, and on! An’ the saints shower not their blessings on her head, I’ll turn Paynim-hound, and kiss the crescent!”

“Dwelleth the Ladye still within the Convent walls?”

“Since the hour of our search yesternight, she hath shrouded herself within the recesses of the apartments furnished for her use by the vassals of Albarone, when they hastened hither, two days agone. Hast thou a message for the Ladye?”

“I bear a message for the Ladye, and a parchment scroll for the Invisible! Robin come hither—a word in thy ear!”

With the mystic sign of a Neophyte of the Holy Steel, he asked the way to the solemn place, where the order assembled holding their secret yet mighty councils.

“Even now they hold their solemn council, within these convent walls,” answered Robin the Rough.—“In a moment I’ll lead thee to the secret chamber. Yet stay a single moment, Guiseppo. Thou knowest I left the castle on that fearful day, when, when, od’s death I cannot name the deed—”

“That blow, Saints of Heaven! will the memory never pass from my brain! Thou wouldst speak of—of my father?”

“Does the old man live?”

“When thou didst leave the castle, I stood watching silently beside the door of the chamber where lay my father, my own father, stricken down by the hand—the hand of his own son.”

“You watched beside the door, while the leech who had been hurried from the City of Florence disrobed your father, and probed the dagger wound?”

“And I—I, stood trembling beside the door waiting the appearance of the leech, every moment expecting to hear the words—‘Thy father is dead! Dead—murdered by his son!’ I stood beside the chamber door, all alive with horror, my fancy picturing the dagger, which but a few hours agone, I had drawn from his heart, the point crimsoned with one fearful stain of blood, there I stood, fire in my brain, and hell in my heart, when—”

“Ha, ha, ha—Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand, the flaming brand,” a wild and maddened voice awoke the echoes of the corridor leading to the cell, with its tones of maniac yell. “Ho, ho, ho! I have the brand, the flaming brand! Look ye how it flashes on high, ’tis a serpent, a merry serpent with tongue of fire! Ha, ha, for the brand, the flaming brand!”

The small door of the cell grated on its hinges, and in the very centre of the pavement, brandishing a fire-brand over his head, there stood, a weak and trembling old man, his thin face, with the vacant eye and hanging lip, flushed with madness, while his voice half shriek and half yell, rang echoing round the room.

The brand, ha, ha, the flaming brand! Ha, ha, ye brought the old man no food! Ho, ho, ho, Old Glow-worm and his comrades starve, yet there is a merry blaze in the vault below, I trow! Rafters are all aflame, massy bolts are red with fire, and my comrades go shouting merrily through the long vaults, waving their brands on high, and singing a joyous song as they go—

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE CHRONICLE.

“Florence is free!”

“Florence is free!” echoed the Monks of the Holy Steel, and the shout resounded through the circular room of the tower, repeated by the Neophytes of the Order, with one wild acclaim, “Florence the fair and beautiful is free!”

Slowly the High Priest of the Order arose.

From the dome of the tower the light fell dimly over the scene.

The Monks of the Holy Steel were seated around the square table, their faces veiled, their forms muffled in sable robes.

The figures of the Neophytes, (or Initiates) were grouped around the Superiors of the Order. They stood shoulder to shoulder, along the walls of the Tower-Room, every one with a dagger in his right hand, a torch in his left.

The torches were extinguished, for the work of the Order was accomplished.

Stately and erect, in the midst of this scene, towered the tall figure of the High Priest, veiled and muffled like the others, his hands extended over the heads of the brethren in a gesture of benediction.

And at the other end of the table sate the veiled Doomsman, his rough hand appearing from the folds of the black robe, laid upon the handle of the axe, whose steel was crusted with the rust of blood.

“Three years ago,” thus spoke the High Priest, “the cry of blood, day and night, unceasingly and forever, went up to the throne of God calling for vengeance.

“From the walls of the fair city it shrieked, from the plain it echoed, from the mountain side that low moaning voice rose up to the blue sky, pleading for the doom of the assassin, the death of the tyrant.

“Then it was in times of blood-shed and slaughter, in the day of foul misrule and galling wrong, when the grim bravo whetted his knife on the stones of the altar, and the corses of the murdered crowded the sanctuary of God, then it was, that a few brave and determined men, evoked from the shadows of the past, a Power, mighty yet secret, blasting as the thunder-stroke, yet invisible as the grave!

“The Power of the Steel—winged by the hands of those twin-sisters of vengeance, Secrecy and Mystery.

“Three years past, and on the lips of men, there grew a mighty word—the Steel, the Holy Steel!

“The bravo still smote his victim in the silence of the night, but ere the morrow’s sun, the corse of the assassin lay prostrate beside the murdered.

“The wronger still pursued his work of violence, but it was by stealth and in secrecy; the tyrant still filled the air with shrieks of death and cries of despair, but the trembling tones of his own guilty voice mingled with the last words of the slain.

“The secret band were abroad—the invisible struck their keen dagger suddenly and without mercy, from the cloud that enclosed their existence, and more terrible on the lips of men grew that sound of fear—The vengeance of the Holy Steel.

“Not many days agone, the work which the Order had sworn to fulfill, was hastened by a new crime of the tyrant. The last baron of the race of Albarone, whom the brethren of the steel had resolved to raise to the Ducal throne, awaited within the walls of a dungeon the coming of the morrow, which was to bring to his head the woe and the doom, the axe, the wheel, the scaffold, and the stake. Doomed on a false accusation, doomed on the testimony of forsworn tools of power, Adrian of Albarone had laid him down to die, when the Messenger of the Steel appeared, the rescue was planned, and the morrow morn beheld the prisoner free.

“The march of fate strode swiftly on. All men named our brother—may God receive his soul—as the tool and minion of the Duke, while—it gives me joy to say it—he walked abroad the messenger of the steel.”

“All hail the spirit of Albertine!” arose the solemn exclamation of the brethren—“all hail the incarnate spirit of our order!”

The last scene came hastening on. And the hand of fate pointed to this lonely Convent of the Mountain Lake, as the place where the wrongs of years should be avenged, where the Tyrant should meet his secret and fearful doom.

“For long years these halls had been peopled by a monkish band, who wore their sacred robes as a cloak for blasphemies too horrible to name; while the Dukes, the Tyrant-Dukes of Florence, startled these ancient walls with the noonday debauch, and midnight orgie, the sunshine murder, or the torch-light massacre!

“Here not many days agone, came Albertine the Monk. Still in the confidence of the Duke—for a specious tale blinded the eyes of the Tyrant with regard to the part our brother bore in the escape of the Doomed—still in the confidence of the Duke, the convent doors flew open at his word. Lord Adrian found a home within these walls, and day by day, secretly and surely, Albertine made converts of the Abbott and the Brethren of this Monastery of crime.

“A few days past, the tools and minions of the Duke, they now became the sworn Neophytes of the Order of the Holy Steel. It was the purpose of Albertine, to lure the Duke to the lonely Convent, and while the sound of his midnight wassail, awoke the echoes of the old walls, the Avenger would strike the dagger to his heart. The treachery of a peasant of the lonely valley hastened his schemes to their completion.

“The last night came. The Duke, flushed with pride, and made reckless by revenge, rode through the convent gates, companioned by his bravoes, who held their knives on high, shouting for the blood of Adrian, the Traitor.

“And while they prepared the doom of Lord Adrian, in the lonely valley, the Invisible bestrode the mighty storm of vengeance that darkened over the night in Florence. The morning dawned on Florence the Free!

“The morning dawned over the lonely valley, and the blood-stained Convent. Along the halls, and through the vaults of the ancient fabric were heaped the corses of the bravoes, while the Brethren of our Order, ran from hall to hall, from vault to vault, lifting the red steel on high, as they sought for new victims, while the shout of vengeance rang pealing from roof to floor, until the air seemed animate with the cry of death.

“The Monks of the Steel came hurrying to the convent, two hours after midnight, but they came too late.

“The Duke, Albertine and Lord Adrian, all had disappeared.

“The morning dawned on Florence, unshackled and free, but the Duke, chosen of God, was gone.

“Brethren, ye have all heard the fearful story of that night of terror—the farewell of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian, when awaiting his doom in the earth-hidden vault—ye have heard how the bowl of death was given to the Duke-elect by the monk—the singular disappearance of Albertine and the Duke when they entered the Chamber of St. Areline—all has reached your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery—”

“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath been darkening o’er my soul since that night of terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly rose from his seat. “A light breaks over the chaos of doubt and mystery—a sad and fearful light. Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his thirst for the blood of the Tyrant Duke, beheld the midnight hour approach, while the Brothers of the Invisible still delayed their coming. The Duke bade him perform this work of doom. Albertine must either refuse, or excite the suspicion of the tyrant. ’Twas a terrible thing—oh, most terrible to poison the young Lord at the bidding of this changeling Duke, but Albertine had no alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into life. He was forced to slay Adrian to retain the confidence of the Tyrant—sooner would Albertine make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened bones, than the Duke, against whom his very soul had sworn vengeance, should live. He slew Lord Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the act—and then came his strange and mysterious vengeance on the Tyrant.”

A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the Tower-room.

Every heart was impressed with the terrible truth shadowed in the words of the Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence, each heart solemnly mused on the dark story of Albertine, his last crime, and his last revenge.

“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,” again spoke the High Priest. “Brothers of the Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk, joined in the work of vengeance on the Wronger, death to the slayer, ye who won for the Fair City, peace and freedom, ye who rule her destinies, guide her fate, your High Priest asks you the solemn question—Who shall wear the Ducal Coronet of Florence?”

The bold words were yet ringing on his lips when a shout from the stairway leading to the tower, rang through the circular room—

“Ha—ha—ha! I bear the brand—the flaming brand! See—how it whirls on high—look how it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long, but ye could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”

The small door of the tower-room was flung suddenly open, and rushing through the aperture, the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac stood disclosed before the vision of the secret brothers; the blazing torch he grasped in his right hand flinging a blood-red light over the veiled figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of the room were illumined with fitful glimpses of the ruddy beams.

“Ha—ha—ha! The brand, the flaming brand! Ye sought well and ye sought long—but ye might not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his brothers! Merry was the fire they built—merry, oh, merry! Cheerily the flame arose—oh cheerily! And now—ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor burns, all is fire—and ha, ha, I bear the brand, the flaming brand!”

And as the maniac swung the burning brand, whirling and hissing round his head, there came hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a young and lovely woman in his arms, followed by a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was stamped with an expression of alarm most strange to see on his determined features, while he aided the youth and maiden onward in their flight from the smoke and flame below.

“Health to the Holy Steel!” cried the cavalier rushing forward; “I bear a message from the Lords and People of Florence!”

“Ye will have to be wondrous hasty with your messages, I tell ye!” exclaimed the bluff soldier. “For d’ye see—all below us is flame and death—the convent is on fire, by St. Withold!”

“Brethren of the Holy Steel,” exclaimed the High Priest, as opening the pacquet he gazed calmly round over the erect forms of the uprisen monks and neophytes of the order—“who shall wear the ducal crown of Florence?”

“The Ladye Annabel!” echoed the Brethren of the Holy Steel, with one unanimous shout. “Live the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence!”

A moment passes—behold the spectacle!

A fair and lovely form, clad in robes of fluttering white, stands trembling in the midst of the group of black-robed men who cluster round, kneeling on the pavement, as they raise their hands in one hurried movement, and shout with wild acclaim—

“Live the Queen—live the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

And as the Secret Brethren sank kneeling round, priest and neophyte, all with heads bent low, before the form of the Ladye Annabel, who gazed around with a vague and wandering look, there standing erect with a flushed cheek and a rolling eye, the ancient man of the vault flinging the brand aloft, whirling the flame round and round again, as he shouted—

“’Tis merry, ’tis merry, ha, ha! ’Tis merry, ’tis merry—hurrah! Old Glow-worm is a demon—these all are demons! Ha, ha! Fire above, and fire below—old Glow-worm is king! On—on—brothers—on—light up the cozy nooks with the red flame—fire the timbers, heat the old rocks, scare old Death with the light! Ha—ha—ha! The stone rolled back, and he—was buried alive!”

“Up, up—an’ ye bear the hearts of men—up and save yourselves and save the Queen!” shouted Robin the Rough. “The fire has chased us through the long galleries of the convent, from chamber to chamber, from room to room, has it followed roaring at our heels! Up, and save the Queen! Her attendants have escaped or fallen in the flames. Yonder by the window of the stairway is our only hope! A staircase of massive stone, built outside the walls of this tower, leads downward to the southern wing of the convent, yet untouched by flame! Up, and save the Queen!”

“Listen, Brothers of the Invisible, listen to the last words ye shall ever hear from your High Priest. Our oath is fulfilled, the Tyrant is dead, Florence is free! And here in this lofty tower, environed by flame, with the roaring of the fire in our ears, and the lurid smoke rolling up to the heavens, with flame and death all round, here in this dark and blood-stained House of St. Benedict, do I, your High Priest and Sire, dissolve the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel!”

“When Wrong arises, then shall ye again spring into life, when Murder walks abroad in the sunshine, laughing in the face of God, then shall His ministers again raise the Invisible steel! Till then I dissolve your band, give back your oath.”

“Prince and peasant, lord and monk—off with your sacred garments, off with the vestments in which ye have been robed as the avengers of God, off with hood and cowl—stand forth as ye are and raise the shout—Live the Ladye Annabel. Live the Queen!”

“Live the Ladye Annabel—” the shout rang pealing to the tower-roof—“Live the Queen!”

It was like magic!

Down fell hood and cowl, down fell sable vestments and midnight robes, and there disclosed in the light of the flaming brand, stood the prince in his jewelled robes, the knight in the surcoat of glittering velvet, the lord in his gay doublet, the merchant in his silken tunic, the peasant in coat of serge, the priest arrayed in sacerdotal white, glittering with the sacred insignia of gold, the scholar in his flowing gown of sable, all stood there, rising stately erect in the light, proud representatives of their various classes, types of the Gothic Man,[9] however named, or styled, all joined in the holiest cause on earth, the freedom of their native land, lifting up their hands and voices in one wild burst of enthusiasm, as they hailed the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence, chosen by the people, chosen by the lords, chosen by the priests, chosen by God!

A strange smile of delight stole over the lovely face of the Ladye Annabel, as standing calm and erect, her blue eyes was fixed on the vacant air, with the gaze of one entranced by some vision of far-off bliss.

“We shall meet again,—” she said and smiled—“Oh joy, we shall meet again!”

“Buried alive—ho, ho!” shrieked the ancient man, in a low chaunting voice—“Ha—ha! The stone rolls back—I have the brand, and then—ho, ho, hurrah! Buried alive!”

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

THE BURIED ALIVE.

Afar through the gloom and twilight that hangs between the visible and the unreal world, we behold the Spirit of the Chronicle, leading us onward to a dim and shadowy land peopled by Dreams and thronged with Thoughts, robed in forms of light or clad in shapes of doom.

It is the land of Death—the land of the Grave.

The awful region, where the soul, parted from its house of clay, looks over the wide expanse of shadow, and beholds every thought that ever visited its mortal form, spring up into tangible being and life, now gladdening its eternal vision with images of loveliness and beauty, and again affrighting the pale Spirit with shapes of ghastliness and woe.

Thus, as his dread Record draws near its close, thus speaks the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.——

Death—mighty and irresistible, look down upon the cold corse, and tell us, when does thy hand first unveil the Eternal to the eye of the Soul.—

Life—thou mockery and blasphemy, gaze upon the form of the Mortal Thing, and give us to know, when does thy power cease, when does thy victim pass from thy grasp?

Ye each dispute the possession of the Soul, upon a shadowy battle-field, and now the victory sways to the skeleton, and now to the thing of Flesh. Men know this battle-field by various names, they call it Sleep, they call it Trance, they call it Death.

First the body sleeps, then it is entranced, then it dies. First the Soul gazes with a dim eye upon the Eternal World, then its vision is enwrapt and absorbed, and at last, as the clay dies, it is all Spirit, and Thought, and Dream.

Come with us, reader, with hushed breath and a solemn footstep come with us, while we tread the halls of Old Death, tracing the Soul through the chambers of Sleep and Trance, into the full light of the AWFUL UNKNOWN!

Adrian Di Albarone drank the Bowl, and drained it to the dregs, and as he drank, the lovely face of Annabel swam round him in wild confusion, mingling with the dark countenance of Albertine, and the bronzed visage of the Sworder, while his heart seemed turning to fire, and his brain to molten lead.

He drained the bowl to the dregs, and then fell prostrate over the coffin, and then came a cold and unconscious pause, when his heart, and his brain, were wrapt in forgetfulness, covering his soul like a thick mist, or the deep darkness of midnight.

Awaking slowly from this oblivion of soul, he beheld looking him calmly, yet fixedly in the face, the countenance of his father, Lord Julian of Albarone, pale as death, and livid with the hues of corruption yet lighted by the deep glance of those shadowy eyes, that seemed to burn in their very sockets, like meteors seen through the dimness of the day-break mist.

As this face so wild, so lofty and so ghastly in its supernatural expression, faded slowly away from the vision of Adrian, his soul became the prisoner of mighty Dreams, the Spirits of the Grave, who called up before his eye, this dark and startling Mysterie.