Chapter THE FOURTH: The Cell of St. Areline

A lamp of iron, all rusted and time-eaten, suspended from the arched ceiling of a small apartment of the convent of St. Benedict, reserved in especial for strangers, threw a dim light over the figure of his grace of Florence, reposing on a velvet couch, and upon the blazing armor of the attending men-at-arms, who waited beside their lord.

A smile, full of self-satisfaction, rested upon the lip of the Duke, and a glance full of agreeable fancies lit up his eye, as he contemplated the fulfillment of all his schemes.

“The forward boy punished for his insolence,”--thus ran his musings--“done to death for the treasonable act of lifting his hand against his liege lord--this accomplished, the fair Annabel is mine, and with her I acquire the rich domains of Albarone. A servitor but a moment since bears me intelligence that she has recovered from her madness. By’r Ladye, my exhausted coffers shall be replenished to the brim! Ha--ha ha! Then I shall war and conquer. Why not _I_ as well as others of my rank and power? I shall war--I shall conquer--I shall--”

“My Lord Duke,” exclaimed a sentinel, thrusting his head from between the folds of a sable curtain that hung across the apartment, dividing it from an adjoining chamber, within whose walls were the followers of his grace. “My Lord Duke, a monk of the convent craves audience with your grace--shall I admit him?”

“Aye, let him enter.”

And in a moment, there stood before the Duke a monk attired in the dark robe of his order: his hood was drawn over his face, and, with depressed head and folded arms, he seemed to wait the commands of his grace of Florence.

“Thy errand, sir monk?”

“I come by the bidding of the Father Abbot, to lead thee to the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”

“Ah! I remember me. As I dismounted at the gate of the Monastery, the reverend abbot told me that it had been a custom, from time past memory, for all strangers visiting the holy house of St. Benedict, to pass an hour in the cell of this saint--St. Areline, methinks she is styled. Further, he told me the saint has the power of revealing future events. Is’t so, holy father?”

“Even so, my Lord Duke. When besought, on bended knee, in the silence of midnight, the form of the blessed saint appears fired with supernatural life: her eyes flash and her lips move, and the doom of the suppliant--whether for good or for evil--is revealed.”

“At midnight, say’st thou? ’Tis a lone hour. By’r our Ladye, but the evil one may have something to do with the matter.”

“That may not be, my Lord Duke. The holy Areline died in the odor of sanctity. The scorner and the outcast of heaven alone doubt her holiness and power. For three centuries hath the fame of St. Areline been sounded abroad, and now it were sin unpardonable to say aught against her sacred name.”

“Lead on, holy father; in God’s name, lead on: I’ll follow thee. Hugo! I say, Hugo!”

The face of the ill-looking sentinel with the squinting eye, appeared among the folds of the sable curtain.

“Hugo, where is Balvardo, thy comrade--eh? Speak quickly--where is Balvardo?”

The sinister eye of the sentinel squinted yet more fearfully; he looked confusedly round, and stammered forth:

“My Lord Duke, he is--he is--”

He paused suddenly, and finished the sentence by pointing downward with the forefinger of the right hand, with a sort of diving motion.

“Ah! I had forgotten _that_, good Hugo! Thou wilt attend me, vassals; and ye, sirs, shall also accompany me to this midnight ceremony.”

While he thus spoke, the monk threw open a door at the end of the apartment opposite the sable curtain, and, followed by the Duke, attended by Hugo and the two men-at-arms, with torches in their hands, he presently was traversing a long gallery, with his head still depressed and his arms still folded on his breast.

“By’r our Lady, but thou art wondrous chary of thy good looks!--eh, sir monk?”

“It becomes not a sinner like me to be otherwise than humble. It becomes not a poor brother of St. Benedict to assume an erect port and a bold countenance before--_his grace of Florence_!”

“Well said, by my troth! Whither art leading me, holy father? Ha! a stairway; it extends above us as though it had no end. Ugh! how those torches glare--how gloomy these arches seem! Lead on, sir monk!”

Ascending the stairway, they found themselves in a winding gallery, with floor of stone, low arching roof, and narrow walls. Through the mazes of this passage they swiftly wound, and presently they stood at the foot of another stairway.

“By St. Peter!” exclaimed the Duke, “but these passages are like the windings of a witch’s den. How runs the night, holy father?”

“When I left the halls of the convent, the sands of the hour glass had fallen to within an half hour of midnight.”

“Ah! we shall be just in time for the trial of St. Areline’s power. Another gallery! By’r Ladye, but this is wondrous! In the name of thy patron, St. Benedict, I adjure thee, monk, tell me are we not near our journey’s end?”

“See’st thou yon oaken door that terminates the gallery? The oaken door with large panels, and topped by arches of dark stone? There an’ it please thee, my Lord Duke, must thou leave thy attendants, and alone, and in the dark, we will enter the cell of the blessed St. Areline.”

“How? Leave my attendants? ‘Alone,’ sayst thou? ‘In the dark’? Beshrew me, sir monk, but this saint of thine is somewhat difficult of audience!”

“The reward she offereth is beyond price. A knowledge of the future--the dim and shadowy future! Thou shall behold thy coming deeds written in characters of light; thy future conquests shall spread themselves before thee like the varying beauties of a lovely landscape. Thou shall--”

“‘Slife! thou talkest well! Enough: we stand before the oaken door. Enter--I’ll follow thee!”

The monk passed his hand over one of the panels of the huge door, and pressing a secret spring, a narrow passage was opened, through which the brother of St. Benedict disappeared, followed by his grace of Florence.

“There they go,” Hugo exclaimed as the panel closed. “There they go upon their madcap adventure. The saints save me from all such folly!”

“And me, comrade,” cried the tallest of the men-at-arms, letting the sheath of his sword fall heavily upon the pavement of stone.

“I say amen to your prayers,” exclaimed the other, looking very wise in the torchlight.

“Ha! what noise is that?” cried Hugo, as he gave a sudden start.

“’Tis down in the court-yard,” exclaimed the tall man-at-arms. “Hark! ’tis the clashing of swords--the rattling of spears--the clashing of armor.”

“Shouts, too!” cried the other soldier, “Ha! war cries! ‘Slife! it sounds as if they were battering down the gates! Hark! again! and again!”

And thus, while the sounds waxed louder, and the cries grew fiercer in the court-yard below, the men-at-arms, and their companion, Hugo, waited, with the utmost impatience the coming of their lord.

An hour passed.

The Duke had not appeared. The tall man-at arms fixed his eyes upon the massive door, and struck the secret panel with his spear, urged by all the vigor of his stalwart arm. Another and another blow. The wood yielded, and the open space gave passage to the man-at-arms, who forced his way through, followed by his comrade and Hugo of the sinister eye.

Their torches flashed upon the walls of a square apartment, with floor and roof of stone. No living creature was there. A small, narrow door gave entrance to another apartment. Three pillars of time-worn stone supported the arched roof, and divided the place into three sides, with floor of variegated stone. One side of the apartment, was concealed by a curtain of sable velvet.

This Hugo hurriedly drew, and in an instant his ungainly figure was reflected in a vast mirror of dazzling steel, which, reaching to the arched ceiling above, twice the height of a man, extended on either side as wide as it was high. Around the apartment was no sign of passage way or secret door; all was bare and rugged stone, and the place was without bench, stool, couch, or furniture of any kind.

“By’r Ladye!” shouted Hugo, “that monk was the--devil, and he has run away with our lord! W-h-e-w!”

And the three fairly shook with mingled surprise and terror, which was presently increased to alarm and horror by the clashing of arms in the outer apartment.