Chapter THE SECOND: The Cloud Gathers and the Sky Darkens

The dame essayed to speak. Her voice died away in an unmeaning rattle of the throat. One hand she extended, and seizing Leone by the shoulder, with the other she tore the maiden from his embrace--

“Apostate!” she began in tones that trembled with rage, “is it thus thou honorest the race whose name thou bearest. Away!--I will never look upon thee more! Away!--and with thee take thy----, I will not speak the title of shame;--Away!”

As she spoke she raised her hand to strike the shrinking maiden, who, with head drooped on her bosom, and quick blushes coursing over her face, strove hurriedly to fasten the broach of her doublet.

“Strike her not, mother!” cried Leone, throwing himself before the damsel, “Assail her not with words of shame!”

He took the hand of the blushing maiden and continued--“Fear not, love, there is none to harm thee. Mother, behold my bride!”

“Annabel!--Thy bride? Wherefore this concealment? Why this unmaidenly disguise? How is’t, my son--how is’t?”

“As for the disguise it was assumed to aid her escape, and then,”--he whispered into his mother’s ear--“and then I thought thou wouldst not affect the niece of the--the--s’life, mother, I cannot speak the word of any one connected with Annabel!”

“My son, my son! what hast thou done? Answer me--befits such doings with thy profession? Art thou not intended for a minister of Heaven?”

While the dame spoke, the figure of a monk darkened the opened doorway, advancing to Leone he threw back his cowl, and discovered the dark brow, the wan face, the flashing eyes of Albertine, the monk.

“Lord Adrian,” whispered the Monk, “at the hour of sunset, when the dark storm arose, howling its requiem over the remains of the Fratricide, thou didst hasten from the castle of Albarone, bound for this lonely valley. Thou hadst not gone an hour’s journey from the castle walls, when I tracked thy footsteps, bearing news of fearful import. Thy haunt hath been betrayed to the tyrant, by a traitor from the lonely valley. Even now, the Duke spurs his steed toward the valley of the mountain lake, attended by a band of minions; even now the voices of his bravoes startle the air, shrieking for thy blood!”

“And the INVISIBLE?” whispered Adrian--“where is their dagger of vengeance, while the tyrant rides abroad on his errands of wrong?”

“Listen, Lord Adrian! This very night, while the Duke is absent from the walls of Florence, will Lord and Monk, Prince and Peasant, joined in the solemn oath of the holy steel, arise in the might of men who have sworn at the very Altar of God to be free, and ere the morrow’s sun, Florence the Fair and Beautiful, will own another Sovereign! The Invisible work in secret, as doth the earthquake--man alone beholds the bursting of the storm!”

“Hark! I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs, mingled with the clatter of arms!”

“God of Heaven! The Duke approaches!” shouted the Monk--“I must be gone--all thought of escape for thee and thy bride is vain! Adrian, Adrian, bear a firm heart through the perils of this night, and in the morrow’s dawn will blaze the star of thy Mighty Fortune! Hath the Duke any issue, or is he the last of his line?”

“He is the last of his race,” answered Adrian, “why dost thou ask?”

“Thou wilt learn anon!” exclaimed the Monk.

He turned and sought the door, but as if struck by a sudden thought, he again approached Adrian, and whispered in tones that seemed to come from his very soul--“Fare-thee-well, Adrian, fare-thee-well! I have loved thee much, very much. There was a time when my heart was as young as thine, my soul as pure. But now--Ha! _now_ I would have my revenge, although the chasm of hell yawned beneath me--nay, although between me and the object of my hate yawned the gulf of perdition, I would leap the abyss and drag him down, down to the eternal flames that now hunger for his accursed soul--Fare-thee-well, Adrian--I’ll never see thee more!”

The Monk was gone. The fearful look that fired his countenance, and the awful tones in which he spoke, haunted Adrian Di Albarone until his dying hour.

Scarcely had Albertine disappeared, when there was the sound of trampling feet in the outer apartment, and presently the figure of his Grace of Florence occupied the doorway, while the heads of his followers were seen looking over his shoulders.

He looked around the apartment with a curious eye, as if he sought the wanderers. At last his glance rested upon the form of the disguised Annabel, and advancing toward the damsel, he flung himself at her feet, exclaiming with all the grace of attitude and expression at his command.

“Fair Ladye, it is with joy beyond the power of words to tell, that I hail thee by the title of the--Fair Ladye Annabel, Countess Di Albarone!”

“How sayst thou?” exclaimed Annabel, forgetting her boyish disguise in her eagerness, “How sayst thou? Ladye of Albarone?”

“Aye, fair Ladye. Thou art _now_ the Countess Di Albarone, soon shalt thou be my own loved Annabel, Duchess of Florence.”

The Duke leaned earnestly forward, trying to look as much like a lover as might be--his face wore an expression of deep solemnity, his protruding eyes made an effort to sparkle, and his attempt to soften his voice, gave one the idea of a magpie trying to sing.

Annabel cast an agonized look at the Duke--

“Sayst thou nought of my father?” she exclaimed. “Is he sick?--is he ill?--Tell me that I may hurry to him!--For heaven’s sake tell me!--my father is--”

“DEAD!” cried the Duke.

“Dead!” echoed the dame, starting with surprise.

Annabel heard no more.

“Coward and tyrant,” shouted Lord Adrian, as he caught the sinking maiden in his arms, “away with thee from this humble tenement. Defile not my bride with the pollution of thy touch--By the honor of my race! I would give the brightest jewel in the coronet of Albarone, for one good blow at the carcass of this craven hound!”

“Ho! art thou here my gay springald?--_Thy bride_, indeed?--Guards advance, seize the miscreant!--I will teach him to raise his unholy hand against his liege Lord!--away with him to the lowest dungeon of yon convent. On the morrow he shall be carried to Florence, there to answer for his treason!”

Unarmed and weaponless Adrian beheld himself at the mercy of the tyrant. The soldiers advanced,--in vain was his defence--in an instant he found himself in the hands of his foes, and as the minions bound his hands behind his back, he heard the beetle-browed Balvardo--for he was among the throng--whisper in the ear of the Duke--

“At what hour my Lord?”

“‘Slife canst not do it without my bidding?--When all in the convent is still--at midnight let it be done!--See to’t!”

“Aye, aye, my Lord, at midnight it shall be done!”

“And the Bridal,” cried the Duke, turning to the Ladye Annabel, as she rested in the arms of the Countess. “The hour after midnight shall witness the joyous scene--the marriage of the Duke and his betrothed!”