Chapter THE SIXTH: The Watch Beside the Dead

“All--all is dark!” the voice broke wild and whisperingly through the midnight gloom of the place--“I have been dreaming--ah, me--a sad and darksome dream! Methought Adrian lay cold and dead in my arms, while my hand was entwined in the locks of his clustering hair, as they fell over his lifeless face. It was a dream, a fearful dream--yet--mother of heaven--do I still dream, or is this darkness real?”

She extended her hands, she passed them hurriedly along the floor, where her form lay prostrate, and as she thus wildly sought to grasp the form so lately reposing in her arms, she exclaimed with a murmured shriek--

“It flashes on me! All is real--The coffin and the corse, the assassin and the bowl of death--all is dark and terrible reality!”

Passing her cold and stiffened hands, slowly along her forehead, the Ladye Annabel endeavored to recall the tragedy of that fearful night, in all its details of horror, and as scene after scene, action after action, word succeeding word, came back to her memory, another fearful mystery passed like a shadow over her brain.

“The corse reposed in these arms--where is it now? Who hath stolen the body of the dead from my embrace? And the coffin--it is gone! They have borne him to the grave!”

And as the low whispers broke from her lips, this fair and gentle creature, whose nature was soft and yielding, as is ever the nature of a _true woman_, in moments of calm and sunshine, yet susceptible of deeds of the highest courage and noblest determination, in the hour of storm and cloud arose from the floor, her frame all chilled and stiffened by the hard repose of that fearful watch, and extending her hands she wandered slowly around the chamber, seeking with hushed breath, for the coffin and the corse.

All was darkness, thick and intense darkness.

Slowly and with cautious steps she paced around the room, passing her hands along the folds of the tapestry, or extending her small and delicate foot in the effort to touch the coffin, but her search was all in vain. She wandered around the chamber, until her recollection of the particular features of the room became vague and indistinct, and at last with trembling hands and a bewildered brain, she stood erect and motionless.

“All--all is vain!” she cried--“corse and coffin are all gone. They have borne him to the grave!”

While the weary moments dragged heavily on, she stood silent and unmovable, endeavoring to catch the faintest echo of a sound, or hear the slightest whisper of a voice, but all was silent as death.

At last a distant and moaning murmur reached her ears.

Gradually though slowly it deepened into a booming sound, and at last the subterranean arches of the old convent seemed alive with gathering echoes, and the long corridors gave back the tramp of footsteps and the hum of human voices.

“They come--they come”--whispered the Ladye Annabel--“They come to bear me to the bridal!”

The bell of the convent, deep-toned and booming, rang out the hour of--one--the fatal hour after midnight.

“Strike for the Winged Leopard--strike for Albarone!” the shout came echoing along the corridors.

“Strike for Albarone and Florence!” the mingling war-cry reached the ears of the maiden. And in a moment, the tapestry, concealing the entrance to the room from which Adrian had issued ere he drank the bowl, was hurriedly thrust aside, and amid the blaze of torches, the Ladye Annabel, beheld the glare of armor and the flash of upraised swords, while the stern visage of the warrior-band were gazing upon her pale countenance and trembling form.

“Saved, by St. Withold!” shouted a soldier, springing from the crowd--“Ladye tell us, in God’s name, where is the Lord Adrian?”

“They have borne him to the grave!” was the whispered and ghastly response.

The bluff soldier turned aside, and it might be noted that his blue eyes were wet with tears. In a moment he again faced the crowd of warriors.

“Behold the Queen!” he shouted, and the men-at-arms sank kneeling to the floor--“all hail the fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

And the solitary chamber rung with the echo of the thunder shout--

“All hail the Fair Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”