Chapter THE THIRD: The Valley of the Bowl

THE SCENE CHANGES TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE, WHERE THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE WILL AT LAST COME TO AN END.

Far away among the mountains, the sunlight loves to linger, and the moonbeam is wont to dwell among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley, over-shadowed by rugged steeps, that frown above and darken around a calm and silvery lake, embosomed amid the solitudes of the wild forest hills.

Around on every side, arise the hills, magnificent with the shade of the sombre pine, leafy with the branching oak, or verdant with the luxuriance of the green chestnut tree, while chasms yawn in the sunlight, ravines darken and fearful rocks, bear and rugged in their outline, tower far above the forest trees, away into the clear azure of the summer sky.

The hills sweep round the valley in a circular form, describing the outlines of the sides of a drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid waters of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal vessel, giving a clue to the strange name of this place of solitude--THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL.

This quiet vale is situated some few miles from Florence, amid the same wild range of mountains that encircle the haunt of the members of the Holy Steel.

The light of the summer morning sun, was streaming gaily over the roofs of a mountain hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake, flinging its golden beams over the outline of each rugged hut, with tottering walls, or rustic tenement, with its ancient stones overgrown with leafy vines; when a group of peasants were gathered along the road-side, at some small distance from the village, in earnest and energetic conversation.

A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad in the garish apparel of a Postillion[2] of the olden times, stood in the centre of the group, while around him were clustered a circle of the buxom mountain damsels, with their heads inclined towards each other, their arms and hands moving in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke on the air, from the glib prattling of their busy tongues.

“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it’s in vain you try to make a fool of me. I don’t believe any such thing--that’s all.”

Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with his finger along his chin, and at last discovered a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with great gravity, at the same time looking intently upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening star in broad day-light.

“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good Signor Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just about dark, as I was walking near yon cottage on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a chestnut on the other--”

“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta, “mean you the cottage which the tall, strange old woman hired but yesterday?”

“The very same. Well, just as I was walking there, all alone, I heard a footstep!--”

“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished by her hair of glowing red.

“Our Lady!--but you do not say so?” exclaimed the other.

“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage, and he was followed by a big, rough soldier; and _he_ was followed by _such_ a handsome cavalier, dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all--he wore _such_ a fine, dancing feather in his cap! Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the evening twilight!”

“What color were his eyes?” asked Loretta.

“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.

“I suppose you will say next, that he had a _manly_ figure? eh?” and the youth pulled his slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then halting on one leg, he threw the other forward, while with his arms placed akimbo, he seemed waiting for somebody or other to take his portrait.

“To be sure he had a _manly_ figure,” returned Dolabella, glancing contemptuously at the bow-legged youth; “he was none of your whipper-snapping, strutting, and boasting postillions; he was none of your conceited--”

“_Dolabella!_” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic tone.

“Well, Signor Francisco?”

“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict yonder?”

He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of the monastery, it stood among the forest-trees on the western side of the lake, upon the summit of a precipitous cliff, which towered in rugged grandeur from the bosom of the mountain waters.

The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the dark towers of the monastery over the surrounding forest-trees, and along the recesses of the gardens, that varied the appearance of the wild wood beyond the ancient walls, and the white cliff gave its broad surface to the light of day, yet there was an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the dark towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens; while the reflection of the scene in the deep and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so calm, so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it looked more like the creation of an artist’s pencil, than a landscape of the living world.

As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark walls of the monastery, an involuntary thrill ran around the group of peasant damsels, and there was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.

“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured Dolabella, “Francisco, fear you not to make yon strange house the subject of your jest, even in broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant of these mountains grows pale at the mention of yon gloomy fabric!”

“Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held strange festivals within those dark gray walls in the olden time.”

“Even now, no one knows anything concerning the monks of this monastery. They give to the mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal blessing--yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are abroad, and muttered whispers speak of midnight orgies that it would shame an honest maiden to name, held within yon darksome house!”

“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest not. I am in earnest--by the True Cross, am I. Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself from the rock, down into the ravine--and--and--mark me--if on some very bright and agreeable morning I should be found laying at the foot of the awful steep, scattered into a thousand fragments--then think of the victim of your perfidy, Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta, think of the miserable fate of Francisco--your victim--with remorse--with bitter remorse!”

Having thus given the damsels to understand that among them all, his heart was certainly broken, the little postillion strutted away with folded arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense strides he took with his inverted legs, it did really seem that he had been hired to measure the greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest possible number of steps.

The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by a burst of laughter.

“I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella. “This little whipper-snapper has been making love to all three of us, for nearly two years. Let us pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange cavalier at the cottage.”

“O yes--yes!” cried Theresa.

“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.

“That will bring Signor Postillion to terms,” continued the tall damsel, “and besides girls, we’ll learn all about this strange old woman.”

“This strange priest!” said Loretta.

“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.

And presently they separated; each determining to out-wit the other; both in regard to the strangers in the cottage on the hill, and to the securing of the gallant vagabond Francisco, who to do him justice, had those two important qualities necessary to winning the heart of a vain woman--saith the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.--a glib tongue and a rare knack of making presents of all sorts of gairish finery.