Chapter THE SEVENTH: The Blow for the Winged Leopard

The light of the lamps, burning along the tomb, fell over the steps of stone, and cast its crimson glow over the dread face of the Demon-Form, while the sands of the fourth part of an hour, sank in the glass of time. The knight in armor of azure steel, was the first to rise from the strange slumber which the chemical spell of the Scholar had flung around the senses of the avengers. He arose, he looked wildly over the steps of stone and along the cavern.--_Aldarin was gone._

The azure knight gazed around the gloom and darkness of the vault of death, for some moments, while the utter silence of the place impressed his heart with a strange awe.

A sound struck his ear. It was the sound of men marching in order of battle. It grew louder, and was mingled with the clanking of armor and the clashing of swords. Listening intently for a few moments, the knight of the azure armor at last beheld a body of men-at-arms emerge from the narrow passage that led into the cavern, with long lines of torches shining upon a brilliant array of upraised swords, armor of gold, mingled with shining spears and waving pennons.

They advanced in regular order, being formed in two distinct columns, between which, at the head of the party, walked one distinguished from the others by the richness of his armor, while his voice of command showed him to be the leader of the company.

While they poured across the floor of the cavern, the knight of the azure armor scanned them with great attention, as he exclaimed, with a shout of joy.

“They come--the shallow-pated Duke and his minions. One blow--one good straight-forward blow, and I am Lord of the halls of my ancestors.”

With his right hand he seized his sword, and with his left he waved the banner of the WINGED LEOPARD.

“Up--up!--Ye men Albarone. Up with your swords, and strike for the Winged Leopard, for your Lord and his rights!”

The men-at-arms awoke, like men awaking from troubled sleep and hideous dreams. They groped hastily for their swords over the steps of stone and along the platform, and in a few moments they stood erect and prepared for fight.

“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either side of the tomb, in the darkness. Ye number fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times our force. Behold!--they continue to pour into the cavern. But hist!--The watchword is--‘_Ha! for the Winged Leopard_.’”

The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were now within one hundred yards of the mound.

“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this is certainly a very dreary looking place. Really one could imagine this cavern to be a very fit habitation for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary things. Where be these caitiff knaves, of which my Lord the Count Aldarin told us of? Advance, my brave men; find these villains. They have stolen the Ladye Annabel away--despatch them, and then we will have time to share the banquet of our lordly host!”

The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red, having a lion rampant emblazoned on its folds, was now unfurled, and the company advanced in the same careless order, in which they had proceeded over the floor of the cavern.

“By the tomb of my ancestors, will I flesh my maiden sword. By the corse of my father, will I fight for my right.”

The knight of the azure armor grasped his sword more firmly. In another moment the torches of the Duke’s followers would flash upon the armor of his ambushed men, in another moment he would stand disclosed before the eyes of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured the clear level space that lay between the mound and the advancing men-at-arms.

A whisper to his men--a firmer grasp of his sword, and a firmer grasp of the banner staff, and the knight in three good leaps, sprang down the twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang--“Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”

At his back, with swords drawn, and springing with all the litheness of youth, came the four ancient Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise drawn, and with the war-cry pealing to the cavern’s roof, came the two bodies of men-at-arms, numbering twenty-five in each company.

Another leap and another spring, and the azure knight stands within striking distance of the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his sword with both hands, he whirled it once round his head, and throwing all his strength in the blow, he brought it down full upon the golden crest of the tyrant, who was driven to the very earth by the vigor of the stroke.

In an instant the foot of the azure knight was upon the breast of the prostrate prince, and while the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the esquires at his back, were carrying on the strife right merrily, he prepared for another stroke. He shortened his grasp of the sword, and gazing sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into his fallen enemy’s uncovered face, with all the strength of his stalwart arm, he essayed to send his weapon into his very throat.

The blow descended whizzing through the air, but its aim was foiled. One of the ancient esquires, with a stout stroke of his sword, sent a vassal reeling before the person of the Duke, and thus drove aside the blow of the azure knight, which sank deep into the lifeless corse thrown so suddenly before him.

And now the followers of the Duke gathered around the champions of the Winged Leopard, in vast numbers, hurrying forward without order, and dropping their torches in their haste.

The azure knight was driven back, and as he receded, the blood of the oldest of the gallant esquires stained his armor.

“On, my brave men!” shouted he. “A blow for Albarone!” At every exclamation a foe took the measure of his grave upon the cavern floor.

“Ha! for the Winged Leopard!” he shouted, as perceiving the head of the Duke among the throng, he essayed to greet him with one gallant blow. At the same moment, his men-at-arms sunk on one knee, and thus received the disorderly charge of their foes. It was in vain. On all sides thronged the followers of the Duke, and one after the other the brave champions of the Winged Leopard fell bleeding and dead upon the pavement of stone.

Onward and onward pressed the azure knight, gallantly breasting the flood before him, throwing his foes to the right and left, until he again fronted the Duke.

And at the very instant, with soft and noiseless footsteps, there glided along the steps of the mound of stone, a fair and lovely form, clad in a strange robe, of white and gold, soiled by the cavern earth, and floating abroad in the night air, in waving folds like spirit-wings. She gained the platform of the mound, and fixed one half-conscious glance upon the corse of the dead, while her large blue eyes warmed with a glance of holy affection.

“He sleeps, my uncle”--she murmured--“anon, I will give him the potion--and then--ah, then he will arise and smile upon me!”

She turned her wild glance to the scene passing in the cavern floor far below, she heard the distant shouts, she caught a vision of one well-known form, which her half-crazed brain deemed a visitant from the spirit world.

It was a picture of loveliness, rising amid gloom and death, the beautiful maiden raised to her full stature, one fair hand resting upon the dark mound, while with the other thrown wildly across her brow, she essayed to pierce the gloom of the cavern beyond. Her robes floated lightly round her form, revealing the delicate symmetry of that maiden shape, a glimpse of the snow-white bosom as it heaved in the light, the outlines of the neck, while the blooming loveliness of her countenance, half-shaded by the upraised hand, was varied by sudden and changing, yet dream-like expressions.

“I see his form”--she murmured--“and yet ’tis a dream--they seize him, they--O, heaven help me, they raise their swords above his head--”

“Maiden, fling thy robe!--fling the death-pall over the funeral lamps!”--a solemn voice broke on the air directly overhead.

She looked above, she shrieked with horror, for the cold strange eyes of the Demon-Figure met her gaze.

Meanwhile, breasting his way through the opposing crowd of foemen, the azure knight neared the person of the Duke, he stood before the tyrant face to face.

“Die, tyrant!” he shouted, as springing back to give effect to his blow, he threw his sword on high. It descended full upon the shoulder of the Duke, and severing his armor, snapped suddenly short, and the azure knight was left defenceless in the hands of his enemies.

“Up with the caitiff’s vizor,” shouted the Duke. “Let us see the bravo’s face. Up with his vizor.”

The captive knight cast a glance around, and beheld his followers--the dying and the dead--strewn over the floor of the cavern. The brave old Esquires lay side by side, their sinewy hands still grasping their broken swords, and their gray hair dabbled in blood.

“Sir Duke,” exclaimed the captive, “behold the bravo!” He raised his vizor, and the features of Adrian Di Albarone, pale and sunken, were revealed. “Behold the bravo!”

“Now, by the body of God!” shouted the Duke, boiling with passion, “thou shalt not escape me this time.--Dog----”

“These hands itch for thy blood”--shrieked a shrill and ringing voice, and Adrian beheld the distorted form and mis-shapen features of the Doomsman, pressing forward from the throng of men-at-arms, with his talon-like fingers grasping the air, while his face wore the expression of a demon in human guise,--“These hands itch for thy blood! Ha!--ha! Once escaped--the second time, the hot iron, the melted lead and the wheel of torture, wait not for thee in vain! Ha, ha,--hark how the cavern roof joins in my laugh. Great Duke, the Doomsman claims his victim!”

“Duke--tyrant, I am in thy power!” shouted Adrian, gazing upon the circle of men-at-arms who surrounded him. “These thongs, they are for my wrists! Yon chains--they soon will fasten this body to the dungeon floor! Thou art sure of thy victim--Lo! I defy thee!”

And as he spoke, there came gliding from the darkness of the cavern, two forms, clad in robes of sable velvet, who advanced hastily along the floor, and stood between the victim and the Duke.

“Lo! I defy thee! Tremble for thine own head, tyrant and coward! Tremble and turn pale, for lo! even now, the axe glimmers high above thy head, whetted for the Wronger’s blood--in a moment it descends--beware the blow!”

And as he spoke, while the Duke recoiled with a sudden start, and even the Doomsman trembled as he beheld the sable figures standing before his victim, silent and motionless, yet with the long curved dagger in their girdles, and the parchment scroll in their hands, all suddenly became dim and indistinct, and the cavern was wrapped in darkness.

The lights burning on the mound, were extinguished by an unknown hand, while every eye beheld a waving robe of white, fluttering in the air, the moment ere darkness came down upon the scene.

“Torches there!” shouted the Duke--“Look to the prisoner, vassals! Torches there, I say!”

Torches were presently seen hurrying from the farther end of the cavern, borne in the firm grasp of men-at-arms, and in a few moments a ruddy light was thrown around the spot where stood the Duke.

“Dog!” exclaimed the Duke, gazing hurriedly around--“Thou shalt bitterly rue this foul treason.”

He looked around in vain. His prisoner was gone, and with him had disappeared the banner of the Winged Leopard.

The light of torches again gleamed around the Mound of the Dead. The figure of a maiden lay extended along the steps of stone, her white robes waving round her insensible form--it was the Ladye Annabel.

“Mighty Duke, behold the scroll!” shrieked the Doomsman, as he held aloft the parchment, which he had taken from the cavern floor--“Behold the scroll, it bears an inscription--read, read.”

* * * * *

“_Tyrant thrice--warned, yet unrelenting, the Invisible for the last time bids thee prepare for the steel! Lo! Thy Death now walks abroad seeking thee with the upraised axe,--beware his path!_”