Chapter THE FOURTH: The Bridal Eve

THE HEBREW AND THE ARAB-MUTE ENTER THE COURT YARD OF ALBARONE, WHILE THE LADYE ANNABEL IS PASSING TO THE CHAPEL OF SAINT GEORGE.

The azure sky was glowing with the mild warmth of the summer twilight, the zenith was mellowed with the light of the declining day, the western horizon was varied by alternate flashes of gold and crimson, when the ancient Castle of Albarone, thro’ every hall and corridor, rang with the shouts of merriment, and the gay sounds of festival revelry.

From the various towers of the castle, pennons of strange colors and curious emblazonry, waved in the evening air, each flag, the trophy of some hard fought battle, while high over all, floating from the loftiest tower, the broad banner of the House of Albarone, gave its gorgeous folds, its rich armorial bearings, the motto in letters of gold, and the Winged Leopard, to the ruddy glare of the western sky.

The lowered drawbridge, and the raised portcullis, gave admittance to numerous bands of peasantry, wending from the various tenements that dotted the domains of Albarone, all clad in their holiday costume, while the air echoed with their light-hearted laughter, as the merry jest, or the gay carol, rang from side to side.

All along the hill, leading to the castle gate, and thro’ the luxuriant wood circling round its base, hurried the peasant bands, their attire of picturesque beauty, giving variety and contrast to the scene, while now loitering in groups, now hastening one by one toward the castle, they peopled the highway, and thronged over the drawbridge into the court yard of the castle.

Walking amid these gay parties, yet alone and unaccompanied save by a solitary attendant, there strode wearily forward a personage who to all appearance ranked among a far-scattered people, at once the scorn and fear of Christendom.

Clad in a long coat of the coarsest serge, varied by numerous patches, with a piked staff in his hand, and a pack somewhat extensive in shape, strapped over his broad shoulders, the slouching hat which defended the head of the JEW, revealed a face, dark and tawny in hue, stern in expression, marked by a sharp and searching eye, whose glance seemed skilled in reading the hearts of men; a bold prominent nose, while the lower part of his cheeks, his chin and upper lip, were covered by a stout beard, which, black as jet, descended to his girdle, mingling with the long and curling locks of sable hue, that gave their impressive relief to the outline of the Hebrew’s countenance.

By his side walked his slender-shaped attendant, to all appearance a youth of some twenty winters, yet his tawny face, marked by bold and regular features, half-concealed by masses of jet black hair, falling aside from his forehead, in elf-like curls, was marked by a deep wrinkle between the brows, a stern compression of the lip, and a wild and wandering eye, that glanced from side to side with a restless and nervous glance, that seemed to peruse the face of every man who came within its gaze, and read the characters and motives of all who journeyed onward to the castle.

Attired like his master, in garments of the coarsest serge, the Servitor of the Hebrew, bore on his shoulder, a voluminous pack, which seemed to oppress its bearer with an unusual weight, for he well-nigh tottered under the load.

Without heeding the sneer, and the jest which assailed him from every side, the Hebrew crossed the drawbridge, and passing under the portcullis he presently stood in the midst of the castle yard, where unstrapping his pack, he displayed his rich and gaudy stores to the eyes of the wondering multitude. His servitor also displayed his pack to their gaze, but stood silent and unmoveable, his arms folded, and his wild eyes glaring strangely over the faces of the crowd.

“Who’ll buy--who’ll buy?” cried the Hebrew, in the suppliant voice of trade, as casting his eyes around the court-yard, he surveyed the brilliant scene at a glance.

Around, all dark and time-worn, the walls of the castle--each casement blazing with torches--looked down upon various groups of the peasantry and servitors of Albarone, some engaged in light and gleesome gossip, while others were hurrying hither and thither, on errands pertaining to the feast which was to grace the castle hall on the morrow.

In front of the arching roof of the kitchen door stood the gray haired sharp featured, and sharp voiced Steward of the castle, engaged in superintending the operations of a number of hinds, who were severing the limbs of various fat bucks, and cutting up certain lusty beeves, and preparing various kinds of game, for the vast fire that blazed on the kitchen hearth.

Farther on, a minstrel was entertaining a circle of peasants, with the song of love, or the tale of knightly valor; at a short distance, the privileged fool, with his cap and bells, and fantastic dress, was uttering his merry quips and far-fetched jests, which ever and anon he varied by a nimble summersault, while the gaping crowd held their sides as their boisterous laughter broke upon the ear, with all its jovial discord and dissonance.

“Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!” shouted the Jew, “here’s broaches for ye damsels fair--broaches and gauds, rings for your fingers, and crosses of ebony for your bosoms. Look ye how this heart of gold would sink and swell on a maiden’s snow white breast! Here’s plumes for the warriors’ helmet; daggers for his belt, and trappings for his steed. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!--Here’s ornaments of gold and silver for the doublet of the page, essences for his flowing hair, and chains for his neck.--Who’ll buy--who’ll buy.--Broaches, gauds, rings, gems, plumes, belts, trappings, perfumes, chains, laces of gold! Who’ll buy! Who’ll buy! Gentles, list ye all! Chains, laces of gold, perfumes, trappings, belts, plumes, gems, rings, gauds, broaches. Who’ll buy! who’ll buy!”

“The Virgin save us all!” exclaimed Guiseppo who stood among the crowd that gathered round the Israelite, “the Virgin save us all, but _there’s_ a tongue for you, my good folks.”

This was said with an attitude of mock astonishment, and corresponding grimace of the features.

“An’ my tongue suits ye so well, gentle sir, may-hap you’ll try some of my wares?”

“What have you, Sir Gripe-fist, that it would become _me_ to buy?”

“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything. Except three wares with which the great merchant--_Nature_--must provide him, or else he’ll make but a sorry page.”

“And those wares--how do you style them?” asked the page.

“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure look, “the first ware is somewhat dull and heavy, it is labelled--_Impudence_--may it please thee fair Page.”

“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo, half amused and half angered. “How name you the second ware? Eh! Leatherface?”

“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly, “the second ware is light and feathery. It bears the name--_Self-conceit_. As for the third--”

“Aye the third,” interrupted the page. “Go on my black bearded friend--go on--I’ll borrow a good oaken towel to rub you down, when you have done.”

“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two others are made. It is heavier and duller than _Impudence_, and lighter and more feathery than _Self-conceit_, they style it _Ignorance_. And these three wares are the sole contents of the cob-web-hung storehouse of Sir Page’s brain. An’ it likes thee, fair sir?”

The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.

“Ha--ha--ha! fairly hit! Ho--ho--ho! The Jew turns Scholar, and preaches like a monk.--He--he--he! The trim Page is hit--fairly hit.” Such were the exclamations that went around the laughing crowd.

“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!” exclaimed Guiseppo, brandishing an oaken staff; “here’s at thee!”

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed one of the spectators, “thou art fairly hit, sir Guiseppo.”

“Aye, aye, fairly hit,” cried another; and “The Jew has paid thee in thine own coin,” a third shouted, throwing himself in the path of the page.

“Nay, nay, let him come!” cried the Jew, with a sneer. “Let him come. I’ll tame his pageship.”

“Dost thou mock me, thou dog!” As he spoke, the page raised his oaken staff, and whirling it around his head, he aimed with all his strength at the sconce of the Jew, who coolly turned aside the blow with his upraised arm, and in an instant he had Guiseppo by the throat.

He whispered a word in the ear of the page, and then, unloosing his hold, he began to gather up his wares.

The eyebrows of the page elevated with astonishment, and his lips parted. The bystanders gathered around Guiseppo with various expressions of their surprise at the sudden change that had passed over him.

“Why stare you so?” exclaimed a peasant maid.

“Art mad?” asked one of the yeoman of the guard.

“Perhaps moon-struck?” suggested another.

Guiseppo made no reply, but walked slowly away, while the Jew remained standing in the centre of the group, with his servitor waiting silently by his side.

“Look ye, son of Moses,” cried one of the yeomen, advancing toward the Jew, “why stands this man of thine so silent and still? He moves not, nor does he speak; but his wild eye is glancing hither and thither like a fire-coal. Why does he stand thus mute and speechless?”

A grim smile passed over the bearded features of the Jew.

“Ask a post why it does not speak, or ask a war-horse to troll ye a merry song! You are a keen yeoman and a shrewd, yet did it ne’er strike ye that my servitor might be incapable of speech? A poor Arab boy, gentle sirs and damsels, whose dying father gave him to my care, when perishing on the field of battle, in the wilds of Palestine, some twenty years agone.”

“A son of the paynim Mahound,” muttered the yeoman, with a look of scorn.

“Nay he is of the faith of Christ,” interrupted the Jew. “Behold, he wears the cross of Rome!”

“A sweet youth, and gentle-faced, though somewhat sad in look,” murmured a peasant matron, gazing with a look of pity upon the tawny face of the Arab mute.

And while the group of peasant men and women clustered around the Jew and his Arab boy, a cry ran through the castle yard, echoed from lip to lip, and repeated by the crowd thronging the place, until the air seemed alive with the shout: “She comes, she comes! The fair Ladye Annabel is passing to the chapel of St. George! Make way for the betrothed! Make way for the Ladye Annabel! _Make way for the Duchess of Florence!_”

In a moment the court-yard was occupied by two files of men-at-arms, who extended from the great steps, ascending to the massive door of the castle hall, along the level space, making a lane for the passage of the Ladye Annabel and her train. The crowd came thronging to the backs of the warriors, gathering around the staircase, and blackening on every side, eager to behold the betrothed of his grace the Duke of Florence.

Foremost among the throng at the bottom of the stairway, his pack lashed to his back, and a small casket in his hands, the black-bearded Jew appeared to take great interest in the scene progressing before his eyes.

The Arab mute stood at his back, half concealed from view, and unseen or unnoticed by the survitors and vassals of Albarone.

In after times, some of the vassals remembered well that they observed the wild eyes of the Arabian glaring fiercely over the shoulder of the Jew, while his right hand was thrust within the folds of his coarse gaberdine, and his entire appearance denoted a mind agitated by some fierce resolve.

A low, solemn peal of music broke on the air, and a ruddy blaze of light was thrown from the recesses of the massive hall doors. In a moment a band of cavaliers, attired in all the glitter of spangled cloak and waving plume, came from the hall, and took their position on either side of the staircase, each gay cavalier holding a torch on high, while the gleaming light revealed each handsome face, wearing the polished smile, and the costumes varied with strange fancies of embroidery, and fashioned after every manner of device, were disclosed in all their luxuriance and splendor.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the gaily-attired form of his grace of Florence issued from the hall door, followed by the slight figure of the Count Aldarin.

As they took their positions on either side of the hall door, the crowd below had time to notice the strange contrast between the Lord of Albarone and the Duke of Florence.

Aldarin, pale in face, slender in form, attired in his robes of solemn black, the cap of dark fur on his forehead, with the blaze of a single gem relieving its midnight darkness, standing silent and motionless on one side of the hall door, his keen gray eyes half hidden by his brows, as though he was absent with thoughts of more than mortal interest.

The Duke, the gallant Duke, all show, and glitter, and costume, a doublet of white satin encircling his well-proportioned form, a cloak of the most delicate crimson depending from his left shoulder, the hilt of his jeweled sword glittering in the light; while his dainty cap of pink velvet, with the snow-white plume thrown aside from its front, surmounted his vacant face, marked by the neatly circled hair, the carefully trimmed moustache and beard. His eyes glared vacantly to and fro, and it might easily be seen that his grace of Florence was on a mental excursion after his looking glass.

This flashing of torches, this gallant array, heralded the approach of the Ladye Annabel, who presently emerged from the hall door, followed by a long line of the bower maidens, arrayed, like their mistress, in flowing robes, white as the mountain snow untouched by the summer sun.

The face of the Ladye Annabel was pale as the attire that enveloped her slender form, and she leaned for support on the arm of her black-eyed cousin, the damsel Rosalind.

Pale and beautiful, the victim of the sacrifice of the morrow, neither returned the deep inclination of the head with which the Duke of Florence greeted her appearance, nor glanced upon the countenance of her father; but slowly moved down the steps of stone, her eyes downcast, and her face calm as the sculptured marble.

“She is pale,” murmured Aldarin, “pale as death! She walks with the measured step of the victim walking to the living tomb!”

“I’ faith, she is beautiful!” muttered the Duke. “My bride will hang like a pleasant costume on this royal arm!”

The black-bearded Hebrew gazed upon the Ladye Annabel with a keen and searching eye, while the Arab mute, standing at his back, bowed his head low on his breast, and veiled his face with one hand, as the other was thrust within the folds of his coarse doublet.

Slowly the procession ascended the steps of stone, one foot of the betrothed was upon the pavement of the castle yard, when a rushing sound was heard, a hurried footstep, and the Jew rushed through the men-at-arms--flinging himself at the maiden’s feet, he threw open the casket which he held in his hand.

“Fair ladye,” he cried, in a deep-toned voice, “It is the lace--the lace of price, which two days since I promised to procure thee. ’Tis worth its weight in gold--aye, an hundred times over! Look, ladye--’tis the best that gold or favor might procure.”

The Ladye Annabel started at the uncouth appearance and bearded face of the Jew, while the bystanders seemed struck dumb with his audacity.

In an instant cries of execration arose on all sides. The Count Aldarin advanced hastily to his daughter’s side, while the Duke of Florence muttered an involuntary oath, as two of the men-at-arms raised their swords to hew the Israelite to the earth.

It was a fearful moment, and the Jew seemed to feel that his fate was wavering like the sunbeam on the point of a brightened dagger.

He made a quick gesture to the Arab mute, he seized the wrist of the fair Rosalind, and looking her earnestly in the face, whispered a hurried word in the maiden’s ear, deep and piercing in its import, yet inaudible to the group clustered around.

Rosalind turned pale, started quickly aside, but in a moment seemed chiding herself for this folly, as with a smile on her lip she spoke to the Ladye Annabel in a low and murmured tone. Annabel started, with the quick convulsive start that follows an overwhelming surprise.

She started, but in a moment recovering herself, she exclaimed with a firm voice, and extended arms--

“Touch him not--do the Jew no harm! It is by my command that he is here. Sir Merchant,” she continued, with a smile of kindly meaning, “you will wait for me, in the hall of the castle--there will I look at your wares when the evening mass is done.”

“This is wondrous strange,” murmured Aldarin. “Some changing woman’s fancy, I trow--”

“Certes, the lace must be rare in texture, and quaint in device!” half muttered the Duke. “Yet I never knew that there was magic in the mere mention of such costly gear, before this moment!”

The men-at-arms released the Jew, and the procession passed on towards the more distant precincts of the castle, where the light of many torches presently streamed from the arching windows of the chapel of St. George of Albarone, showing in full and beautiful relief the snow-white forms of the maidens, passing through the sacred door of the church followed by the Count Aldarin and the Duke, environed by a glittering throng of cavaliers.

Meanwhile, alone and in the darkness, deserted by the crowd, near the hall door, stood the Hebrew and his Mute Servitor, gazing ardently upon the receding procession, until the last cavalier disappeared within the walls of the chapel.

Then it was that a grim smile passed over the bearded face of the Jew, while the Arab boy started wildly aside clenching his hands with sudden agitation, as the strains of the Holy Mass, floating from the chapel, broke upon his ear.

An hour passed. The holy ceremonies of religion had ceased to echo through the walls of the chapel. The Ladye Annabel attended by her maidens had again passed into the castle hall. Beside one of the pillars of the lofty door, stood the gallant Guiseppo, his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the heavens above.

Guiseppo was enrapt in the mysteries of a sombre study.

He was just wondering what the stars could be made of, whether they were veritable balls of fire, unstable meteors, or angel’s eyes--how it chanced that they were lighted up so regularly every night, stormy ones of course excepted--where they went in day-time--and then he fell to thinking of angels, fairies, and other beings made all out of air--and from angels it was quite natural that his thoughts should pass to woman; and with the thought of woman came dim, floating visions of ancles well turned, black eyes beaming like living things, ruby lips wreathing in a smile, while they wooed the kiss of love. There is no knowing how far his musings might have gone, had he not been disturbed by the sound of a footstep breaking the silence of the castle yard. He looked in the direction from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld a strange figure, clad in solemn black, approaching from the gloom of the court-yard. It drew nearer and nearer, and Guiseppo beheld the form of the Scholar Aldarin.

He came slowly onward, toward the light burning over the hall door, and the Page remembered in after life that his face was most ghastly to behold, most fearful to look upon.

His head drooped upon his breast over his folded arms, his eyes dilated to their utmost, glaring vacantly on the earth, while his lips moved in broken murmurs, the Scholar ascended the steps of stone, as the Page observed him from the shadow of a massive pillar.

“It hastens, it hastens to perfection--THE MIGHTY SPELL! The marriage--ha, ha, Duchess of Florence!--HE shall live again--ha, ha! the world shall not say Aldarin toiled in vain! The secret--a few more days--ALDARIN LIVES FOREVER!”

And as the murmurs broke wildly from his lips, the Scholar disappeared within the shadow of the hall door, leaving the careless Guiseppo to the memory of that fearful face. It was an appalling memory. Guiseppo’s cheek grew pale, and his whole frame trembled with an indefinable fear.

How long he remained in this state he knew not, but after a long lapse of dreamy reverie, he was startled by a slight tap on his shoulder.

Looking around, he beheld the beaming eyes of the fair Rosalind fixed upon him with a glance which for the moment banished the face of Aldarin from his mind, and made his heart knock sadly against his breast.

“What wouldst have, Rosalind?” _The maiden whispered in his ear._

It was curious to see the change that came over the countenance of the page; the pallor vanished from his visage, which swelled out on either side as though he had an orange in each cheek, his lips were curiously pursed, while his eyes rolled about in his head after a strange fashion.

“Eh? Rosalind?” he cried, as if he had not understood her aright.

Again did the maiden whisper in his ear.

“By our Lady!” exclaimed Guiseppo, “but this does exceed everything that I ever did hear. Art not crazed, sweetheart?”

“Say, Guiseppo, wilt do it for my sake!”

The bewitching smile with which this was said, appeared to complete the conquest of the page.

“I’ll obey thee,” he cried, “but surely ’tis a strange request.”

“_Strange?_ nonsense! Never call the whim of woman--_strange_! Hie thee away and do ’t immediately. I will tell thee more concerning this matter in the evening. Away! away!”

And as the lovely damsel tripped lightly down the steps and wended her way toward the castle gate, on an errand whose import may possibly be revealed in future pages of this history, the page Guiseppo entered the hall of the castle, while his frame shook with a pleasant fit of inward laughter.