Chapter THE TENTH: The Memory of Guilt

On the stately couch in the Red-Chamber, with the Count Aldarin bending over him, lay his Grace the Duke of Florence, attired in his boots and hose, with his under shirt thrown back, revealing the left shoulder of the Prince laid open in a deep gash.

As the Count Aldarin, holding a light in one hand peered earnestly at the wound, the Duke exclaimed--

“A horrid gash, Count? eh! Damnation! to be foiled by the villain twice--bound in my own dungeon like a criminal--struck down in that cursed cavern like a dog--damnation seize the--ah! Count, some wine; for the Saint’s sake, some wine, I pray thee.”

The Count turned hurriedly to the beaufet, and filling a goblet with wine that sparkled in the light with a ruddy glow, he hastened to give it to the wounded Duke, who raised it until it nearly touched his lips, when, as if struck by a strange fancy, he suddenly held it out at arm’s length exclaiming as he gazed at Aldarin with a lack-lustre eye--

“I say Count, suppose there should be some _white dust_ at the bottom of this goblet?--and--and--_a ring_? eh? Count?--Ugh!--Take it away--ugh!”

He flung the goblet from him, scattering the wine over the couch, while the vessel rolled clanging over the marble floor.

“How SIR?” cried the Count, speaking in a deep-toned voice that thrilled to the very heart of the Duke, “_what mean’st thou_?” The dark gray eyes of the Scholar flashed like living coals of fire, as he spoke.

“O, nothing,” responded the Duke, “nothing--only I thought the murderer Adrian might--dost understand? A truce to all this. My Lord Count, what didst thou with those men-at-arms who raised their swords in the cause of the murderer?”

Right glad was the Count Aldarin to recover his usual calm demeanour as he answered this inquiry.

“Of the fifty treacherous caitiffs who raised their swords against the person of your grace, forty lie bleeding and dead upon the cavern floor.

“As for the others--” he finished the sentence by pointing to the arched window of the Red-Chamber.

The Duke looked over his shoulder and beheld through the opened window the black and gloomy timbers of a gibbet towering like an evil omen high over the walls of the castle, and backed by the soft azure of a cloudless summer night.

The beams of the moon fell upon ten ghastly and death-writhen faces and ten figures swung to and fro, while the groaning cords as they grated against the creaking timbers over their heads, seemed shaking their death wail.

“Curse the traitors--they have their deserts!” The Duke exclaimed with a meaning smile.

The Count said nothing, but bending over the form of the Prince proceeded to dress his wounded shoulder, after the manner prescribed by his scholarly studies.

And as the Scholar bent over the form of the Duke, the hangings of the couch, sweeping beside the Prince, waved to and fro, with a slight motion, as though the summer breeze disturbed their folds, and a dark form, robed in garments of sable, with a monkish cowl dropping over its face, glided noiselessly along the floor, and in a moment stood at the back of his Grace of Florence, holding aloft, above his very head, a slender-bladed and glittering dagger.

The Figure stood silent and immoveable, its face shrouded and its form robed from view, the dagger glittering above the head of the Duke, brilliant as a spiral flame, while the light of the lamp held by Aldarin, shone on the upraised hand, revealing the sinews, stretched to their utmost tension, while the clutched fingers prepared to strike the blow of death.

And at the very instant, as the Figure of Sable emerged from the hangings of the couch, at the back of the Prince, there silently strode from the folds of the tapestry on the other side of the bed, a veiled form, clad from head to foot, in a robe of ghostly white.

While the Figure in garments of sable, raised the dagger above the head of the Duke, the strange Form, arrayed in the sweeping robe of white, disappeared behind the hangings of the couch, on the side opposite the Scholar Aldarin.

“Curse the traitors--they have their deserts!” again exclaimed the Duke. “Count, how succeeds my suit with the Ladye Annabel? Dost think she affects me? Eh, Count?”

“Marry, does, my Lord Duke--this slight wound in thy shoulder will detain thee at the castle for a few days. Thou wilt have every opportunity to urge thy suit, and, and--the day of your nuptials shall be named whenever thou dost wish!”

And as Aldarin spoke, the knife rose glittering in the hands of the Sable Figure, and a pale face, marked by the glare of a wild and flashing eye, was thrust from the folds of the robe of black. It was the face of Albertine.

“Now, by St. Antonia, but that is pleasant to think of,” exclaimed the Duke, as, complacently surveying his figure, he passed his hand over his bearded chin and whiskered lip--“as thou wishest me to name the day, my Lord Count, be assured, I shall not return to Florence without being accompanied by my fair bride--_Ladye Annabel Duchess of Florence_. It sounds well--eh, Count?”

A smile passed over the compressed lips of the Count, and a glance of wild joy lit up his piercing eyes, as he thought of the fulfillment of the dream of ambition that had haunted his soul for years.

“It does indeed sound well, my Lord Duke,” he calmly replied, as he proceeded in his employment of dressing the wound. There was a pause for a moment, a strange, dread pause, while the hands of the Sable Figure trembled, as though Albertine, was nerving his soul for the work of death.

“My Lord Count, how curious it seems? eh? Count?” exclaimed the Duke in a tone of vacant wonder.

“To what does your Grace refer?” answered the Count.

“Why, Count, but three short days ago, upon this very couch lay your gallant brother; here he folded to his arms his Adrian. Now that very son is a--murderer--a parricide. I rest upon the very couch that supported the murdered remains of the late Count, and thou, Aldarin, his brother--”

“HIS MURDERER!” exclaimed a voice that thrilled to the very heart of Aldarin, and made the Duke start with terror.

And as he started the knife came hissing through the air, it grazed the robe of the Duke, it sank to the very hilt in the death couch.

The start of the Duke saved him from the steel.

“Eh! Count, what’s that? Who spoke? eh?” The eyes of the Count distended, and his lips parted with affright as he spoke.

The Count looked up and beheld a sight that froze his very blood.

On the opposite side of the bed, among the crimson hangings, stood a figure robed in white, and there, two eyes, blazing like fire-coals, from beneath the deathly pallor of a half-veiled brow, looked steadily upon the trembling Aldarin.

The cheeks of that pale countenance were dug into fearful hollows, and the eyes were surrounded by circles of livid blue.

The Count gazed with intense horror at this apparition and the Sable Figure, who had hurriedly stooped, in the effort to wrench the dagger from the couch, with a noiseless grasp, looked up and started hastily backward as his eye rested upon the ghastly face, appearing amid the hangings in the opposite side of the bed.

“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--

‘THE VENGEANCE OF THE MONKS OF THE HOLY STEEL.’”

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!_”