Chapter THE NINTH: The Felon and the Duke

In a few minutes the door again opened, and the stately form of the Countess of Albarone entered the traitor’s cell.

Why need I tell of the warm embrace with which she enclosed her son? Why tell of her tears that came from her very soul--her deep expressions of detestation when the name of Aldarin, the scholar, was mentioned? Need I say that she was firmly assured of her son’s innocence; that she saw through the mummery of his trial, and the trickery of his foes? Leaving all this to the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass on with my history.

The kind discourse of mother and son was broken off by the clanging of chains and the drawing of locks. The light of many torches streamed through the opened door into the cell, and the gaily-bedizened form of the Duke was discovered.

With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone retired; the door was closed, and Adrian was left alone with the Duke.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed he; “I have condescended to visit you. Albertine, my confessor, told me it was due to a branch of the royal blood of Florence. It were best that you make a short story of what you have to say. My train wait without, and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried to assume a look of dignity.

Adrian bowed down to the earth.

“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your condescension.”

“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak, ignoble son of an honored sire--inglorious descendant of a noble line. Speak! What would you say?”

“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs; without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which hell itself would shudder.”

The Duke sneered, as he spoke:

“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to poison his sire.”

“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.

Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak, and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.

Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the neck of his grace.

You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.

And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing cloak of the Duke, which descending to his knees, sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin, ornamented with spurs of gold. On his head is placed the slouching hat of the prince, surmounted by a group of nodding plumes, and beneath the folds of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of his sword.

Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile--that smile which arises from the recklessness of desperation--and then, without heeding the malignant glances of the Duke, he fixed him against the rough bench upon his knees, with his face to the wall, in an attitude of prayer and devotion--He threw his own sombre cloak over the back of his captive; and then, having slouched the hat over his face, after the manner of the Duke, he gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin, and stood ready to depart.

He opened the door of the traitor’s cell with a quickened pulse, and in an instant, found himself standing in the gallery where the muffled priest waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to the wearer of the scarlet cloak, and the word was passed along the galleries--

“_Make way for the Duke--make way for his grace of Florence._”

The monk now advanced, and locking the door of the doomed cell, he affixed to its panel a parchment signed by the Duke of Florence, and sealed with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner, Adrian Di Albarone, was to be seen by no one until the morrow, when he was to suffer the doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.

This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of Albarone, who paced along the gallery, saluted at the door of every cell by the lowered spears of the sentinels.

The gallery terminated in a staircase. This Adrian and the monk ascended, and at the top they found a company of gay cavaliers, who waited for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the scarlet cloak and slouching hat was greeted with a low bow. Adrian then traversed another gallery, and yet another; being all the while followed by the band of gallant courtiers.

“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to another, “methinks our lord is wondrous silent to-night.”

“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it may be that he is weeping for this young springald, Adrian. Marry, ’tis enough to make an older man than I am weep.”

“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would have you observe strict silence.”

They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the galleries which he had just traversed.

“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.

“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”

They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle, Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.

Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to Adrian:

“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace gate.”

Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence, they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.

Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the supposed Duke with every mark of respect.

And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace, traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of recognition or sign of respect.

At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors upon the panels.

“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered the monk to Adrian, who immediately obeyed his directions.

The monk then turned to the gallant throng of courtiers, and said:

“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense with your further attendance.” The monk retired.

Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations of wonder as then burst from the lips of the cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly be woad; another that he must have been repulsed in some illicit amour; and a third seriously gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other had taken possession of the Duke of Florence. However, being well aware of the high regard in which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it to the guards of the palace, who watched within its confines, as was their wont.