Chapter THE SIXTH: The Ordeal

Without much physical bravery, the Count Aldarin possessed a soul worthy of the noblest efforts of moral courage, yet now while the men-at-arms gathered with shouts and exclamations of joy, around the Azure Figure, he stood trembling like a reed shaken by the winter wind, his face at all times destitute of color, became lividly pale, and with quivering lips and chattering teeth, he remained for a moment silent and motionless.

Superstitious terror, he was wont to contemn, fear of the supernatural, he was known to despise, yet now when the voice of the dead rang in his ears, and the form which had been extended on the Wheel of the Doomsman, moved before his eyes, he thought the voice and form had sprung from the unknown recesses of the grave.

It was after the lapse of a few moments, that he summoned courage to advance through the crowd of men-at-arms, and fixing his keen eye on the form of the unknown knight, he spoke--

“Who Sir, art thou? What is thine errand in this lonely vault of the dead? Why disturb the funeral rites of the Lord Di Albarone?”

“I come to avenge his murder!”

“Ha!” shouted Aldarin--“His murderer is already doomed--even now he festers upon the wheel!”

“His murderer lives”--shouted the Figure, through the bars of his closed helmet,--“His murderer breathes, while the Corse asks in the speechless tongue of death--asks and prays to God, to man for vengeance! The Murderer walks the earth, walks in the calm sunshine, while the Murdered rots and crumbles in gloom and darkness. His murderer is here--aye among the brave soldiers, who followed Julian of Albarone to battle, stands the foul miscreant.--THOU ART THE MURDERER!”

A wild thrill of surprise and horror ran through the group. From heart to heart, like lightning leaping from cloud to cloud, darted the wild words of the accuser; from eye to eye flew the quick glance of vengeance, and from lip to lip swelled the shout of the avengers.

“Hew him down!” cried one--“For days have we all thought him guilty. Our suspicions are now confirmed--the corse pleads for his blood!”

“Down with the brother-murderer!”

“Lo! I whet my knife for his blood!”

“Our Lord”--exclaimed a tall and stalwart man-at-arms--“Our Lord Adrian doth rise from the dead to convict thee of the murder of thy brother! Miscreant, canst thou deny it?”

The four ancient Esquires said not a word, but each of them raised his dagger, they seized the Scholar Aldarin, with one firm grasp, their eyes were fixed upon his visage in one stern glare, their instruments of vengeance gleamed over his head, and with silent determination, they awaited the command to strike and kill.

The Azure Knight stayed their hands.

“Onward, brave soldiers”--he cried--“onward to the tomb of the race of Albarone. There will we administer the Ordeal to the old man, there, beneath the shadow of the Demon of our Race, shall he swear that he is guiltless. Onward--bearers of the corse--in the name of the Winged Leopard, onward!”

Raising the bier upon their shoulders, with the corse still sitting grimly erect, the ancient Esquires advanced toward the Mound, led onward by the Unknown Knight, while in the rear, surrounded by men-at-arms, walked the Scholar Aldarin, his head drooped low, and his arms folded across his breast.

He said no word, he uttered no sound of entreaty, but his keen gray eyes, half-buried by his contracting brows, seemed all aflame with the intensity of his thoughts.

The Mound, with all its ponderous outline, lighted by the lamps burning on the summit, now began to appear more clearly through the gloom.

At first it seemed like some vast pile of rocks, heaped on high by a giant-hand, and then, as the men-at-arms drew near and nearer, it gradually assumed a definite form, rising like a pyramid, its three sides fashioned into steps of living rock, while from the fourth, arose the dark figure of stone, towering far, far above, its arms wildly outspread, its face looking down upon the tomb, as its vacant eyes seemed fixing their weird and terrible glance upon the faces of the dead.

The strange procession reached the mound, they ascended twenty steps of stone, and the bearers of the corse found themselves standing upon the summit, from the centre of which arose a solid block of stone, some thirty feet in length and seven in width, while it was but four feet in height.

On the top of this rock, within the hollow of a cavity, hewn out of the living stone, lay the remains of the Lords of Albarone, placed there from age to age, from generation to generation, through the long lapse of six hundred years.

It was a strange scene.

The lamps of iron, curious in fashion and ponderous in size placed at intervals around the rock, cast their glaring light over the crumbling remains, each grisly skeleton attired in the warlike costume of the age that beheld his glory and owned his rule.

Here the thin and blackened arm-bones of a Gothic warrior were crossed upon his breast-plate of gold, which long years ago had covered the plain tunic, worn by these iron-men, who swept like an avalanche from the Alps of the North, over the fair plains of Italy.

The lamp-beams glimmering over the skeleton, revealed the bones below the breast-plate, mouldering into dust, while the fragments of the feet were encircled in the simple yet warlike sandals of iron once worn by the warriors from the land of the Goth.

Side by side with this relic, the bones of another skeleton gleamed grimly through the bars and armor-plates of a later age, wrapping the remains of the mighty dead, from the helmeted skull to the iron-booted feet.

And thus extending along the cavity in the surface of the rock, skull after skull and skeleton succeeding skeleton, reposed the Lords of the House of Albarone, types of contrasted ages, clad in strange and various costumes, or enwrapped in the stern iron armour, which had defended their living forms in the terror of battle.

The boast of the proud House--that the earth of the grave-yard should never soil a Lord of the race of Albarone--was fulfilled.

Over this singular tomb towered the dark figure of gigantic rock, its rude arms thrown wildly aloft, while its downcast eyes of stone were fixed upon the corses of the dead.

Many a legend, whispered beside the hearths of the peasantry, or told by the minstrel in the hall of the castle, inspiring its hearers with terror and awe, spoke in words of fear of the demon-form arising in the cavernous recesses of Albarone, its mighty power, and the strange sympathy it possessed for the race of the Winged Leopard.

Some traditions, dim and indistinct, yet fraught with wild mysteries, named the figure as the representation of the Northern-God ODIN, stating that in ages long gone by, it had been worshipped with infant sacrifice and midnight bloodshed, while the Lords of Albarone flung themselves in awe beneath its gloomy shadow.

Other legends named the rude creation of rocks as the Demon of the race of Albarone, brooding silently over the tomb of the Lords, while its heart of stone was sentient with a strange soul, its broad chest impassioned a conscious spirit, its giant limbs were instinct with a fearful life, and its eyes looked forth with an expression that froze the blood of the gazer to behold.

Such were the legends, differing in their style and incident, yet all uniting in throwing the veil of mystery and shadow over the dark, dread form of stone.

It was seen but once in the life time of a Lord of Albarone, when he celebrated the funeral rites of his predecessor, and the demon-form once seen, the cavern of the dead was never traversed by his living form again.

Thrice the funeral train passed round the tomb, the esquires bearing the upright corse, thrice they raised the wild chaunt of the battle-song of Albarone, while far and wide the depths of the cavern gave back the sound, swelling in a thousand echoes, like successive claps of August thunder.

The death-couch was then rested upon the platform of stone.

The ancient Esquires slowly raised the corse, again the battle-cry swelled through the cavern, the men-at-arms wildly clashed their swords together, while the banner streamed proudly in the torch-light.

“Men of Albarone!” spoke the solemn tones of the Azure-Knight; “The Count Julian of Albarone is laid beside his fathers!”

Louder clashed the swords, more proudly waved the banner, and higher and yet higher swelled the song as the mailed corse was placed in the cavity, side by side with its ancestors.

The figure in azure armor glanced round upon the group of men-at-arms, and exclaimed in a deep-toned voice, that thrilled to every heart--

“Fall back, vassals of Albarone. Let Aldarin, brother of the late Lord, advance!”

Aldarin advanced with a sneer upon his pale countenance.

“Ha--ha!” he muttered to himself, “they think to frighten me with their senseless mummery--their childish mockery! Frighten Aldarin with superstition--Aldarin, who believes not in their God! Ha--ha! I am here,” he continued aloud--“What would ye with me?”

“Old man!” exclaimed the Stranger-knight, “look upon the corse of thy murdered brother.--Behold the features pale with death; the clammy brow, the sunken cheek, the livid lip--look upon that corse, and say you did not do the murder!”

The men-at-arms looked on with intense interest, their forms clad in iron armor, were crowded together, and every eye was fixed upon the Scholar.

The face of Aldarin was calm as innocence, as he replied--“_I did not do the murder!_”

“Give me thy hand--place thy fingers upon the livid lips of the corse.”

Boldly did Aldarin reach forth his hand, and touch the compressed mouth of the mailed corse.

The lips slowly parted, and a thin stream of blood emerged from the mouth, and trickled over the lower lip and down the chin, staining the gray beard of the deceased warrior with its dark red hue.

The men-at-arms shrunk back with sudden horror, and each soldier could hear the gasping of his comrade’s breath.

A tremor passed over the frame of Aldarin, and his face became pale as that of the corse beside which he stood.

“Wilt thou now say thou art innocent?” exclaimed the stranger-knight. “The corse--the lifeless form of thy murdered brother, shrinks at thy accursed touch.”

“_I am innocent!_” cried Aldarin, recovering his determined tone of voice. “_By the God of heaven and earth, I swear it!_”

“What say ye, vassals of Albarone? Is this man innocent?”

Then arose one firm, determined cry from the men-at-arms--

“He is guilty--heaven and earth proclaim it! The dead witness it!”

And the depths of the cavern returned the hollow echo--“Guilty--guilty!”

They all advanced a step toward the accused. Each eye fired with one expression; the sinews of each hand were strained to bursting, as they grasped their well-tried swords.

“One trial more,” exclaimed the figure in armor of azure steel. “Aldarin of Albarone, look upon that awful form which towers above us. Behold the arms outstretched, as if to hurl the red lightning bolt down upon thy guilty head. Mark well those eyes of stone--the fearful look of that dark countenance--the eyes are fixed upon thee; and the brow lowers at thee. Look, Aldarin of Albarone, look upon the Demon of our race. Call to mind the fearful legends of that demon’s vengeance upon all who ever wronged the House of Albarone. Think of the time when those lips of stone have sent forth a voice to convict the guilty; when those arms of rock have been filled with life to crush the wretch whom the voice convicted. Old man, art thou ready for the ordeal?”

Aldarin cast one glance around. A dead silence reigned throughout the cavern. The torches cast a strong light upon the long line of robed skeletons, and upon the stern visage of the murdered Lord. The faces of the men-at-arms glared fiercely upon the accused: their eyes sparkled from under their woven brows, their lips were compressed, and their half-raised swords glowed in the ruddy light.

Aldarin looked above. The massive brow, the stone eye-balls, the sneering lip, of that dread dark face of stone, were all turned to glaring red by the strong light of many torches. Each sinew of the muscular arms; the clenched hands; the bold prominence of the gigantic chest; the strong outline of the towering figure, were all shown in bold and sublime relief.

Aldarin raised his hands on high.

“Dark form--Demon of our race--Before thee I swear--I am guiltless.”

“_Murderer!_” a hollow voice exclaimed. The sound rung thro’ the arches of the cavern like the voice of the dead.

“Ha!” shouted the men-at-arms, “behold--behold the Demon speaks; the lips of stone move; the eyes fire--behold!”

The voice again rung thro’ the cavern--“_Murderer!_”

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

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

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

“So shalt thou die!” cried another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Count Aldarin gave a derisive laugh.

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

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