Chapter THE TENTH: The Mysteries of the Chronicle

TO BE READ BY ALL WHO WOULD LOOK BEHIND THE CURTAIN OF FATE, AND
GAZE UPON THE SECRET SPRINGS THAT MOVE MEN TO DEEDS OF WOE AND WAR
AND DEATH.

“Florence is free!”

“Florence is free!” echoed the Monks of the Holy Steel, and the shout resounded through the circular room of the tower, repeated by the Neophytes of the Order, with one wild acclaim, “Florence the fair and beautiful is free!”

Slowly the High Priest of the Order arose.

From the dome of the tower the light fell dimly over the scene.

The Monks of the Holy Steel were seated around the square table, their faces veiled, their forms muffled in sable robes.

The figures of the Neophytes, (or Initiates) were grouped around the Superiors of the Order. They stood shoulder to shoulder, along the walls of the Tower-Room, every one with a dagger in his right hand, a torch in his left.

The torches were extinguished, for the work of the Order was accomplished.

Stately and erect, in the midst of this scene, towered the tall figure of the High Priest, veiled and muffled like the others, his hands extended over the heads of the brethren in a gesture of benediction.

And at the other end of the table sate the veiled Doomsman, his rough hand appearing from the folds of the black robe, laid upon the handle of the axe, whose steel was crusted with the rust of blood.

“Three years ago,” thus spoke the High Priest, “the cry of blood, day and night, unceasingly and forever, went up to the throne of God calling for vengeance.

“From the walls of the fair city it shrieked, from the plain it echoed, from the mountain side that low moaning voice rose up to the blue sky, pleading for the doom of the assassin, the death of the tyrant.

“Then it was in times of blood-shed and slaughter, in the day of foul misrule and galling wrong, when the grim bravo whetted his knife on the stones of the altar, and the corses of the murdered crowded the sanctuary of God, then it was, that a few brave and determined men, evoked from the shadows of the past, a POWER, mighty yet secret, blasting as the thunder-stroke, yet invisible as the grave!

“The POWER of the STEEL--winged by the hands of those twin-sisters of vengeance, SECRECY and MYSTERY.

“Three years past, and on the lips of men, there grew a mighty word--the Steel, the Holy Steel!

“The bravo still smote his victim in the silence of the night, but ere the morrow’s sun, the corse of the assassin lay prostrate beside the murdered.

“The wronger still pursued his work of violence, but it was by stealth and in secrecy; the tyrant still filled the air with shrieks of death and cries of despair, but the trembling tones of his own guilty voice mingled with the last words of the slain.

“The secret band were abroad--the invisible struck their keen dagger suddenly and without mercy, from the cloud that enclosed their existence, and more terrible on the lips of men grew that sound of fear--_The vengeance of the Holy Steel._

“Not many days agone, the work which the Order had sworn to fulfill, was hastened by a new crime of the tyrant. The last baron of the race of Albarone, whom the brethren of the steel had resolved to raise to the Ducal throne, awaited within the walls of a dungeon the coming of the morrow, which was to bring to his head the woe and the doom, the axe, the wheel, the scaffold, and the stake. Doomed on a false accusation, doomed on the testimony of forsworn tools of power, Adrian of Albarone had laid him down to die, when the Messenger of the Steel appeared, the rescue was planned, and the morrow morn beheld the prisoner free.

“The march of fate strode swiftly on. All men named our brother--may God receive his soul--as the tool and minion of the Duke, while--it gives me joy to say it--he walked abroad the messenger of the steel.”

“All hail the spirit of Albertine!” arose the solemn exclamation of the brethren--“all hail the incarnate spirit of our order!”

The last scene came hastening on. And the hand of fate pointed to this lonely Convent of the Mountain Lake, as the place where the wrongs of years should be avenged, where the Tyrant should meet his secret and fearful doom.

“For long years these halls had been peopled by a monkish band, who wore their sacred robes as a cloak for blasphemies too horrible to name; while the Dukes, the Tyrant-Dukes of Florence, startled these ancient walls with the noonday debauch, and midnight orgie, the sunshine murder, or the torch-light massacre!

“Here not many days agone, came Albertine the Monk. Still in the confidence of the Duke--for a specious tale blinded the eyes of the Tyrant with regard to the part our brother bore in the escape of the Doomed--still in the confidence of the Duke, the convent doors flew open at his word. Lord Adrian found a home within these walls, and day by day, secretly and surely, Albertine made converts of the Abbott and the Brethren of this Monastery of crime.

“A few days past, the tools and minions of the Duke, they now became the sworn Neophytes of the Order of the Holy Steel. It was the purpose of Albertine, to lure the Duke to the lonely Convent, and while the sound of his midnight wassail, awoke the echoes of the old walls, the Avenger would strike the dagger to his heart. The treachery of a peasant of the lonely valley hastened his schemes to their completion.

“The last night came. The Duke, flushed with pride, and made reckless by revenge, rode through the convent gates, companioned by his bravoes, who held their knives on high, shouting for the blood of Adrian, the Traitor.

“And while they prepared the doom of Lord Adrian, in the lonely valley, the INVISIBLE bestrode the mighty storm of vengeance that darkened over the night in Florence. The morning dawned on Florence the Free!

“The morning dawned over the lonely valley, and the blood-stained Convent. Along the halls, and through the vaults of the ancient fabric were heaped the corses of the bravoes, while the Brethren of our Order, ran from hall to hall, from vault to vault, lifting the red steel on high, as they sought for new victims, while the shout of vengeance rang pealing from roof to floor, until the air seemed animate with the cry of death.

“The Monks of the Steel came hurrying to the convent, two hours after midnight, but they came too late.

“The Duke, Albertine and Lord Adrian, all had disappeared.

“The morning dawned on Florence, unshackled and free, but the Duke, chosen of God, was gone.

“Brethren, ye have all heard the fearful story of that night of terror--the farewell of Albertine, uttered in the hillside cot, his sudden re-appearance before the eyes of Adrian, when awaiting his doom in the earth-hidden vault--ye have heard how the bowl of death was given to the Duke-elect by the monk--the singular disappearance of Albertine and the Duke when they entered the Chamber of St. Areline--all has reached your ears, and all is wrapt in mystery--”

“The dark story of the bowl of death, hath been darkening o’er my soul since that night of terror and joy,” exclaimed a veiled Monk of the Order through the folds of his robe as he slowly rose from his seat. “A light breaks over the chaos of doubt and mystery--a sad and fearful light. Albertine crazed by revenge, maddened by his thirst for the blood of the Tyrant Duke, beheld the midnight hour approach, while the Brothers of the Invisible still delayed their coming. The Duke bade him perform this work of doom. Albertine must either refuse, or excite the suspicion of the tyrant. ’Twas a terrible thing--oh, most terrible to poison the young Lord at the bidding of this changeling Duke, but Albertine had no alternative. The plans of revenge were not yet altogether ripe, an hour would warm them into life. He was forced to slay Adrian to retain the confidence of the Tyrant--sooner would Albertine make the Fair City itself a desert of whitened bones, than the Duke, against whom his very soul had sworn vengeance, should live. He slew Lord Adrian, though his heart wept blood-drops in the act--and then came his strange and mysterious vengeance on the Tyrant.”

A low deep murmur ran round the walls of the Tower-room.

Every heart was impressed with the terrible truth shadowed in the words of the Brother of the Steel, and in a pause of intense silence, each heart solemnly mused on the dark story of Albertine, his last crime, and his last revenge.

“Adrian sleeps with his murdered father,” again spoke the High Priest. “Brothers of the Holy Steel, prince and peasant, lord and monk, joined in the work of vengeance on the Wronger, death to the slayer, ye who won for the Fair City, peace and freedom, ye who rule her destinies, guide her fate, your High Priest asks you the solemn question--Who shall wear the Ducal Coronet of Florence?”

The bold words were yet ringing on his lips when a shout from the stairway leading to the tower, rang through the circular room--

“Ha--ha--ha! I bear the brand--the flaming brand! See--how it whirls on high--look how it blazes! Ye sought well and ye sought long, but ye could not find old Glow-worm and his comrades!”

The small door of the tower-room was flung suddenly open, and rushing through the aperture, the slender form of the weak and trembling maniac stood disclosed before the vision of the secret brothers; the blazing torch he grasped in his right hand flinging a blood-red light over the veiled figures of monk and neophyte, while the walls of the room were illumined with fitful glimpses of the ruddy beams.

“Ha--ha--ha! The brand, the flaming brand! Ye sought well and ye sought long--but ye might not find the nest of old Glow-worm and his brothers! Merry was the fire they built--merry, oh, merry! Cheerily the flame arose--oh cheerily! And now--ha, ha, stone burns, roof burns, floor burns, all is fire--and ha, ha, I bear the brand, the flaming brand!”

And as the maniac swung the burning brand, whirling and hissing round his head, there came hastening through the narrow doorway a gaily attired cavalier, bearing the trembling form of a young and lovely woman in his arms, followed by a stout and bluff soldier, whose face was stamped with an expression of alarm most strange to see on his determined features, while he aided the youth and maiden onward in their flight from the smoke and flame below.

“Health to the Holy Steel!” cried the cavalier rushing forward; “I bear a message from the Lords and People of Florence!”

“Ye will have to be wondrous hasty with your messages, I tell ye!” exclaimed the bluff soldier. “For d’ye see--all below us is flame and death--the convent is on fire, by St. Withold!”

“Brethren of the Holy Steel,” exclaimed the High Priest, as opening the pacquet he gazed calmly round over the erect forms of the uprisen monks and neophytes of the order--“who shall wear the ducal crown of Florence?”

“The Ladye Annabel!” echoed the Brethren of the Holy Steel, with one unanimous shout. “Live the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence!”

A moment passes--behold the spectacle!

A fair and lovely form, clad in robes of fluttering white, stands trembling in the midst of the group of black-robed men who cluster round, kneeling on the pavement, as they raise their hands in one hurried movement, and shout with wild acclaim--

“Live the Queen--live the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence!”

And as the Secret Brethren sank kneeling round, priest and neophyte, all with heads bent low, before the form of the Ladye Annabel, who gazed around with a vague and wandering look, there standing erect with a flushed cheek and a rolling eye, the ancient man of the vault flinging the brand aloft, whirling the flame round and round again, as he shouted--

“‘Tis merry, ’tis merry, ha, ha! ’Tis merry, ’tis merry--hurrah! Old Glow-worm is a demon--these all are demons! Ha, ha! Fire above, and fire below--old Glow-worm is king! On--on--brothers--on--light up the cozy nooks with the red flame--fire the timbers, heat the old rocks, scare old Death with the light! Ha--ha--ha! The stone rolled back, and he--_was buried alive_!”

“Up, up--an’ ye bear the hearts of men--up and save yourselves and save the Queen!” shouted Robin the Rough. “The fire has chased us through the long galleries of the convent, from chamber to chamber, from room to room, has it followed roaring at our heels! Up, and save the Queen! Her attendants have escaped or fallen in the flames. Yonder by the window of the stairway is our only hope! A staircase of massive stone, built outside the walls of this tower, leads downward to the southern wing of the convent, yet untouched by flame! Up, and save the Queen!”

“Listen, Brothers of the Invisible, listen to the last words ye shall ever hear from your High Priest. Our oath is fulfilled, the Tyrant is dead, Florence is free! And here in this lofty tower, environed by flame, with the roaring of the fire in our ears, and the lurid smoke rolling up to the heavens, with flame and death all round, here in this dark and blood-stained House of St. Benedict, do I, your High Priest and Sire, dissolve the Order of the Monks of the Holy Steel!”

“When Wrong arises, then shall ye again spring into life, when Murder walks abroad in the sunshine, laughing in the face of God, then shall His ministers again raise the Invisible steel! Till then I dissolve your band, give back your oath.”

“Prince and peasant, lord and monk--off with your sacred garments, off with the vestments in which ye have been robed as the avengers of God, off with hood and cowl--stand forth as ye are and raise the shout--Live the Ladye Annabel. Live the Queen!”

“Live the Ladye Annabel--” the shout rang pealing to the tower-roof--“Live the Queen!”

It was like magic!

Down fell hood and cowl, down fell sable vestments and midnight robes, and there disclosed in the light of the flaming brand, stood the prince in his jewelled robes, the knight in the surcoat of glittering velvet, the lord in his gay doublet, the merchant in his silken tunic, the peasant in coat of serge, the priest arrayed in sacerdotal white, glittering with the sacred insignia of gold, the scholar in his flowing gown of sable, all stood there, rising stately erect in the light, proud representatives of their various classes, types of the GOTHIC MAN,[9] however named, or styled, all joined in the holiest cause on earth, the freedom of their native land, lifting up their hands and voices in one wild burst of enthusiasm, as they hailed the Ladye Annabel, Queen of Florence, chosen by the people, chosen by the lords, chosen by the priests, chosen by God!

A strange smile of delight stole over the lovely face of the Ladye Annabel, as standing calm and erect, her blue eyes was fixed on the vacant air, with the gaze of one entranced by some vision of far-off bliss.

“We shall meet again,--” she said and smiled--“Oh joy, we shall meet again!”

“Buried alive--ho, ho!” shrieked the ancient man, in a low chaunting voice--“Ha--ha! The stone rolls back--I have the brand, and then--ho, ho, hurrah! _Buried alive!_”

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

THE BURIED ALIVE.

THE SPIRIT OF THE CHRONICLE, LEADING THE WAY THROUGH THE CHAMBERS
OF SLEEP, AND TRANCE, AND DEATH, SOLVES THE MYSTERIE OF THE LIFE OF
ADRIAN DI ALBARONE.

Afar through the gloom and twilight that hangs between the visible and the unreal world, we behold the Spirit of the Chronicle, leading us onward to a dim and shadowy land peopled by Dreams and thronged with Thoughts, robed in forms of light or clad in shapes of doom.

It is the land of Death--the land of the Grave.

The awful region, where the soul, parted from its house of clay, looks over the wide expanse of shadow, and beholds every thought that ever visited its mortal form, spring up into tangible being and life, now gladdening its eternal vision with images of loveliness and beauty, and again affrighting the pale Spirit with shapes of ghastliness and woe.

Thus, as his dread Record draws near its close, thus speaks the Chronicler of the Ancient MSS.----

DEATH--mighty and irresistible, look down upon the cold corse, and tell us, when does thy hand first unveil the Eternal to the eye of the Soul.--

LIFE--thou mockery and blasphemy, gaze upon the form of the Mortal Thing, and give us to know, when does thy power cease, when does thy victim pass from thy grasp?

Ye each dispute the possession of the Soul, upon a shadowy battle-field, and now the victory sways to the skeleton, and now to the thing of Flesh. Men know this battle-field by various names, they call it SLEEP, they call it TRANCE, they call it DEATH.

First the body sleeps, then it is entranced, then it dies. First the Soul gazes with a dim eye upon the Eternal World, then its vision is enwrapt and absorbed, and at last, as the clay dies, it is all Spirit, and Thought, and Dream.

Come with us, reader, with hushed breath and a solemn footstep come with us, while we tread the halls of Old Death, tracing the Soul through the chambers of Sleep and Trance, into the full light of the AWFUL UNKNOWN!

* * * * *

Adrian Di Albarone drank the Bowl, and drained it to the dregs, and as he drank, the lovely face of Annabel swam round him in wild confusion, mingling with the dark countenance of Albertine, and the bronzed visage of the Sworder, while his heart seemed turning to fire, and his brain to molten lead.

He drained the bowl to the dregs, and then fell prostrate over the coffin, and then came a cold and unconscious pause, when his heart, and his brain, were wrapt in forgetfulness, covering his soul like a thick mist, or the deep darkness of midnight.

Awaking slowly from this oblivion of soul, he beheld looking him calmly, yet fixedly in the face, the countenance of his father, Lord Julian of Albarone, pale as death, and livid with the hues of corruption yet lighted by the deep glance of those shadowy eyes, that seemed to burn in their very sockets, like meteors seen through the dimness of the day-break mist.

As this face so wild, so lofty and so ghastly in its supernatural expression, faded slowly away from the vision of Adrian, his soul became the prisoner of mighty Dreams, the Spirits of the Grave, who called up before his eye, this dark and startling Mysterie.

THE MYSTERIE OF LIFE.

He stood in the court-yard of an ancient castle, with the frown of the old walls glooming over his head, while the blaze of the festal lights thrown from the lofty windows gave a ruddy light to the scene.

Gladsome strains of music, the light-hearted laugh of the reveller, the gay carol of the minstrel came echoing to his ear.

He looked around the courtyard, and beheld ranged under the shadow of the ancient wall the chariots of the great and proud, extending in long and brilliant array, as far as eye could see, each chariot with its panels blazing with heraldic emblazonings boasting its gallant attendance of four noble steeds, decorated with gay housings and waving plumes, red, azure and snow-white in hue, while numerous servitors, attired in liveries of every color and gaudy device, ran to and fro, their shouts of boisterous merriment, mingling with the voices of their Lords, joining in the glee song of the banquet hall.

Ascending a massive stairway, with snow-white marble steps, and rare paintings adorning the wall, Adrian made his way through the crowds of feasters, passing to and fro, through the stream of servitors bearing dainty viands to the revellers above, and in a single moment stood within the glare and glitter of the Festival Hall.

It was in sooth, a grand and magnificent scene.

The pillars of a lofty hall swept away from the spot where he stood, in grand perspective, each lofty column bearing its burden of wild flowers, quaintly wreathed around sculptured frieze and capital, hanging in long festoons to the floor, or borne to and fro by the summer breeze.

The glare of ten thousand lamps, arranged amid the intricate ornaments of the ceiling, hung along the towering columns or pendant in the night air, gave a dazzling light to the scene.

The dancers went merrily over the bounding floor, each eye gleaming with revelry, each cheek glowing with the merriment of the hour, and the Spirit of the Dance giving life to every step, animation to every motion of the revellers.

Placed on the balcony above his head, the band of minstrels filled the air with music; pillar and column, ceiling-arch and obscure nook, gave the strains with redoubled echoes, until the air seemed animated with melody, and instinct with the life of joy.

Floating on the waves of sound, the forms of dame and damsel, lord and cavalier, seemed swimming in the atmosphere, their eyes flashing light, their hands gaily upraised, their voices mingling in a festal song, as they undulated to and fro, now circling here, now grouping there, now clustering in a crowd, and again darting away over the floor, like a flock of frightened birds scared by the swoop of the falcon.

Adrian gazed over the scene, until his eye grew sick with loveliness, his ears deafened by the sound of mirth, revelry and music, he gazed around and marked the forms of beauty swaying in the dance, here the blooming form of mature womanhood, bounding amid the dancers, there the blushing cheek of girlhood, receiving the warm blaze of the festal lights o’er the velvet skin, here soft lips and azure eyes, mingling their messages of love, there delicate hands pressed thrillingly together, on every side the form of a queenly dame revealed in the light, or the soft bosom of a princely damsel, heaving from the folds of her vestment--on all sides beauty and grace, music and motion, commingling their fascinations, while the heart filled with melody, and the pulse throbbed with joy.

And as Adrian looked, with a wild thrill of delight, he beheld one lovely form, standing apart from the dancers, while her face of dreamy beauty was gazing sadly over the scene, the deep blue eye gleaming with thought, and the swelling cheek paled by melancholy, as the strains of festival music came to her ear.

It was the Ladye Annabel!

With a wild cry of delight, Adrian sprang forward, and as he sprang, his bride turned, beheld his face, and came swimming into his arms.

Another moment and they joined the throng of dancers speeding gayly over the floor, their hands interlocked while their glances mingled, and the soft whispers of each voice, spoke of the dear memories of the olden time.

It was when the dance swelled gayest, when the minstrels gave forth their most joyous notes, when all around was life and music and the waters of joy came bubbling to the brim of every heart, that a strange voice, deep, and whispering in its tones, broke over the very heart of Adrian.

“_Man, thou art full of joy, and around thee every cheek glows with health, every eye sparkles with life. Behold, I show thee the Mysterie of Life and Death! Thou art doomed to return to this Festal Hall, one hundred years from this night, when thou shalt behold the Festal Scene, which death will open to thy gaze!_”

And at the very word, Adrian lost his bride in the throng of dancers, and all grew dark as midnight.

The music and the dancers, the forms and beauty and the pillared hall, all, all were gone, and a strange consciousness was impressed upon the brain of Adrian, that one hundred years from the festal night had passed away, and that he had been wrapt in slumber for a long and dreary century of time.

THE MYSTERIE OF DEATH.

He stood in the court-yard of the ancient castle yet again.

A broad blaze of light poured from the windows of the festal hall, while the peals of strange and unknown music broke murmuringly on the air.

Adrian gazed around the court-yard, with a feeling of awe, gathering heavy and dark around his heart.

There was the castle yard, the same as in the olden time, yet not altogether the same.

Gleams of moonlight stole through the chinks in the tottering walls of the court-yard, wild vines threw their long branches from among the age-worn stones, and the owl, like a thing of evil omen disturbed the air with its sullen murmur.

Gazing along the court-yard, Adrian beheld a strange and ghastly spectacle.

Beneath the shadow of the dark gray walls, along the very space occupied by the array of chariots, one hundred years before, there extended a long line of death-cars, hearse succeeding hearse, all draped in folds of black, with four dark steeds, heavy with hangings of dark velvet, attached to each chariot of the grave, while the coachman’s seat was tenanted by a grisly skeleton, attired in the gay livery of the noble lord whom he served in life.

With maddened steps, Adrian hastened along the whole line of hearses, he beheld each death-car, with its four black steeds, their heads decorated with sable plumes, their bodies concealed by folds of black velvet, he beheld the skeleton driver seated on every hearse.

He saw the paraphernalia of death and the grave, and as the horror grew darker at his heart, he shouted aloud, asking in tones of wild amazement, the cause of this fearful panorama of woe and gloom.

There came no answer to his shout.

All was silent, save the murmur of the owl and the peals of strange music floating from the windows of the Festal Hall.

“What means this fearful scene?” whispered Adrian, as he seized the skeleton servitor of a gloomy hearse by the arm--“What means the long array of death cars?”

The skeleton extended his fleshless jaws, in a hideous grin, and with his skeleton hand, brushed the dust of the grave from his gay doublet of blue and silver, and arranged the tasteful knot of his silken sash.

Still no voice came from his bared teeth, no answer came from his fleshless visage.

“Fiend of hell,” shouted Adrian, “this sight will drive me mad.”

“Nay, nay, good youth,” exclaimed a soft and whispered voice at his very shoulder. “Be not alarmed, ’tis but a festal scene. One hundred years from this night we all thronged yonder dancing hall, ’tis our pleasure, or mayhap our doom to return to the scene of our former gaiety. I was master of ceremonies an hundred years ago, I am master of ceremonies, ha, ha, yet once again. Will it please ye to choose a partner?”

With a feeling of involuntary horror, Adrian turned and beheld a Figure, clad in a gay robe of purple, faced with snow-white ermine, holding the rod of office in his hand, while a group of rainbow-hued plumes, hung drooping over his brow.

Adrian dashed the plumes aside, he beheld, oh sight of mockery, the fleshless skull, the hollow eye sockets, the cavity of the nose, the grinning teeth, and the hanging jaw, while the hand grasping the wand of office, was a grisly skeleton hand.

He turned from the bowing skeleton, and was rushing away with horror, when a new wonder fixed his attention.

The master of ceremonies waved his wand, and each skeleton driver leaped from his hearse.

Another signal and the long line of skeletons, each attired in gay and contrasted livery, extended their skeleton hands, and lifting the pall on high disclosed the gloomy burden of each death car, the coffin draped in black, with the heraldic plate of gold, affixed to each coffin lid.

A third wave of the wand from the master of ceremonies, and the skeleton drivers, unscrewed each coffin lid, and Adrian beheld the occupant of every tenement of death, slowly rise from their last resting place, gazing beneath the shadow of the uplifted funeral pall, around upon the court-yard.

As they gazed, Adrian beheld each fleshless skull, wearing the horrible grimace of death, looking forth from beneath their gaudy head-gear, the plumed cap, or the jeweled coronet, while their skeleton hands, arranged the folds of their attire, brushing the coffin dust from the gay robe, or fixing the tarnished ruffle around the neck with a yet more dainty grace, while the skeleton drivers, slowly let down the steps of each hearse fashioned in its sable side. The last signal was given by the master of ceremonies.

And with a low bow, each skeleton servitor extended his hand, to receive his fair lord or ladye, his fair young mistress or his gallant young master, as arising from their coffin, they placed their feet on the steps of the hearse, and slowly descended into the court-yard of the ancient castle.

“Great God, they are thronging around me,” shouted Adrian, “skeleton after skeleton, clad in the gay costume of life, descend from the funeral hearse wending in one ghastly throng toward the hall door, on their way to the festal scene. Oh, ghastly mockery! here are the forms of those who died when young, and the trembling skeletons of those whom death summoned when bending with the weight of years. Here are the skeletons of warrior and courtier, knight and minstrel. All wear glittering costumes, all mimic the actions of life. Cavalier takes the hand of Damosel, and Lord supports the form of Ladye, while the fleshless jaws, extend and grimace but speak no word. They utter a low moaning sound like the deaf mute when he essays to speak. ’Tis horrible, most horrible, this ghastly array of mockery, and hark--strange peals of music, are floating from yon lofty windows of the banquet hall!”

And as he spoke, the spectral train disappeared within the shadow of the hall door, and he was left alone with the long line of hearses and the skeleton servitors.

“So please ye, gentle sir, wilt thou not trip a measure in the joyous dance?” spoke a voice at his shoulder, “Lo! the peals of merry music, lo! the hum of the dancers feet, moving merrily over the floor. Wilt please thee to take my arm?”

Adrian turned and beheld the bowing Skeleton-Master of Ceremonies.

“I’ll e’en secure thee a fair partner!” whispered the skeleton as he led Adrian through the hall door and along the massive stairway. “Look, good youth, the paintings are somewhat tarnished, very little tarnished since we beheld them last, and, ha, ha, well, well, such things will come to pass, the marble steps of the staircase are cracked by the footstep of time. This way, this way, my good youth. Lo! we are in the festal hall!”

With a gaze of horror, Adrian beheld the hall, whose floor he had trodden some hundred years agone. He beheld the lofty pillars, the magnificent arch, the balcony for the minstrels, all illumined by the glare of pendent lamps, all, all the same, yet still all sadly and fearfully changed.

The lofty columns were decorated with evergreens, but flowers gathered by the hand of beauty from the wild wood glade no more adorned capital and frieze.

The ivy, green companion of old time, clomb round the towering pillars, and swept its canopy of leaves along the arching ceiling, while the night-wind rustling through the worm-eaten tapestries agitated the long tendrils of the trailing vine with a gentle yet solemn motion.

“Lo! the dancers--ha, ha, the dancers!”

Circling and whirling, grouping and clustering, the skeleton-band went swaying over the floor, their gay dresses fluttering in the light, while the ruddy lamp-beams fell quivering over each bared brow, tinting the hollow sockets with a crimson glow, and giving a more ghastly grimace to the array of whitened teeth.

“Lo! the minstrels--a skeleton-band, whose fleshless skulls appear above the lattice-work of yon balcony. Merry music they make--clank, clank, clank! They beat the hollow skull with the cross-bone--clank, clank, clank! Each skeleton minstrel waves on high a human bone, striking it on the hollow skull--clank, clank. Clank, clank. Clank, clank, clank!”

And as the grinning skeleton, master of ceremonies, pointed above to the spectral minstrels, Adrian listened to the music that echoed round the hall.

A wild clanking sound assailed his ears, with a hollow mockery of music, while a deep, booming, rolling sound like the echo of a distant battle-drum broke on the air, maddening the skeleton-dancers with its weird melody.

The revel swelled fiercer, and the mirth grew louder, awaking the echoes of the ancient hall with one deafening murmur.

“Lo! the dancers divide--behold the spectacle! On yonder side extend the lords and cavaliers, on this the dames and damozels. They prepare for a merry dance--will it please thee chose a partner?”

And as the skeleton spoke, he pointed to the form of a maiden, clad in snow-white robes, who with her face turned from Adrian, seemed absorbed in watching the motions of the dancers. Adrian gazed upon this maidenly form with a beating heart, and advanced to her side.

“Behold thy partner!” cried the master of ceremonies.

The maiden turned her face to Adrian, and he stood spell-bound to the spot with sudden horror.

Looking from beneath a dropping plume, snow-white in hue, a skull stared him in the face, with the orbless sockets, the cavity of the nose, and the grinning teeth turned to glowing red by the light of the pendent lamps.

Adrian stood spell-bound but the form advanced, flinging her skeleton hands on high--

“Adrian, Adrian,” whispered a soft woman’s voice issuing from the fleshless skull; “Joy to me now, for I behold thee once again!”

“I know thee not” shrieked Adrian with a voice of fear--“I know thee not, thou thing of death! Wherefore whisper my name with the voice of her whom this heart loved a hundred years ago, and will love forever? Off--off--thou mockery, nor clutch thy skeleton arms around my neck, nor gather me in thy foul embrace!”

“And thou lovest me not!” spoke the sad and complaining voice of the skeleton--“Adrian, Adrian, gaze upon me, I am thine own, thine now and thine forever!”

“And this,” whispered Adrian, as the fearful consciousness gradually stole over his soul--“And this is my love--my Annabel! Death, oh ghastly and invisible Death, couldst thou not spare even--her!”

“Advance dames and damosels!” rung out the words of the master of ceremonies.

And at the word, the long line of skeleton-dames and damosels, arrayed in rarest silks, blazing with jewels and glittering with ornaments of gold, came swaying quickly forward, extending their skeleton hands to their partners, who half advanced from the opposite side of the hall, and then they all swept back to their places, with one sudden movement rattling their skeleton fingers with a gesture of boundless joy, as they stood beneath the glare of the dazzling lights.

“Advance lords and cavaliers!”

Quickly and with lightsome steps the skeletons arrayed in costly robe and glittering doublet advanced to the sound of the unearthly music, and gaining the centre of the hall, sprang nimbly in the air, performing the evolutions of the dance with the celerity of lightning, and having greeted their fair partners again retired to the opposite side of the hall, uttering a low and moaning sound of laughter as they regained their places.

“Minstrels strike up a merrier peal! Clank, clank. Clank, clank. Clank, clank--clank!--Merrier, merrier--louder, louder--let the old roof echo with your peals of melody! Now gentles advance, seize your fair partners and whirl them in the dance!”

With one wild bound the skeletons sprang forward from opposite sides of the hall, pairing off, two by two, lord and ladye, cavalier and damosel, and in a moment the whole array of revellers swept circling round the hall, moving forward to a merry measure, clanking their skeleton hands on high and uttering low peals of laughter as they whirled around the bounding floor.

Adrian gazed upon the scene in wild amazement, while the skeleton arms of _her he loved_, gathered closer round his neck, and as he gazed he became inspired with the wild excitement of the scene, he clapped his hands on high, he joined in the low muttered laughter, he mingled in the mad whirl of the spectral dance.

Faster and faster, whirling two by two, their fleshless skulls turned to glowing red by the glare of a thousand lights, their hands of bone clanking wildly above their heads, while the low moaning chorus of unreal laughter echoed around the hall, faster and faster circled the skeleton dancers, gay doublets glittering in the lamp-beams, robes of silk flung wavingly to the breeze.

On and on with the speed of wind they swept, these merry denizens of the grave, pacing their march of mockery, their dance of woe, with a ghastly mimicry of life, reality and joy.

And as Adrian flung his arms around the skeleton-form of his bride, gathering her to his bosom, while their voices joined in the moaning chaunt of unreal laughter, the voice which he had heard an hundred years before, again came whispering to his ear.

“Behold the Mysterie of Life and Death! To-day the children of men live and love, hate and destroy. Where are their lives, their loves, their hatreds, and their wars, in an hundred years? Behold--ha, ha, ha! _Behold the Mysterie of their life and their death!_”

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

THE REAL MORE TERRIBLE THAN THE UNREAL.

All was dark. Not a ray of light, not even the gleaming of a distant star, but deep and utter darkness.

Adrian awoke from his dream. Did he awake to another dream, or to a reality yet more terrible?

He lay prostrate, and he felt his limbs confined as though they were bound with cords. He extended his hand, and it touched a smooth panel of wood, extending along his right side. A strange horror, to which the horrors of his late dream were joy and peace, gathered like a deadening weight around his heart. He threw forth his left hand, and felt a like panel of smooth wood extending along his other side. Raising himself slowly from his prostrate position, with every nerve and fibre of his frame stiffened and cramped by his hard resting place, he passed his quivering hands along the panels of wood, and with that insupportable horror deadening over his heart, he felt and examined the shape of his--COFFIN.

Bowing his head between his hands, the wretched man essayed to weep, but the fountain of his tears was exhausted.

He could not weep.

And then, as with trembling hands he examined his emaciated face, with the cheek-bones pressing hard against the parched skin, he beheld rising before his soul, one ghastly idea, which would pale the cheek of the bravest man that ever went to battle, or chill with horror and despair, the heart of the holiest Priest that ever offered prayers to God, an idea to which all other horrors were as nothing, all terrors, all fears, all deaths trifling and insignificant.

And the nameless thought, his husky voice gave to the air in a hollow whisper.

“BURIED-ALIVE!”

And a hollow echo returned the word “_alive, alive!_”

“It comes back to my soul,” he slowly murmured, “the scene in the chamber of the convent--the Monk--oh, curses on the traitor--the potion, all, all come back to me! Buried Alive! Devil in human shape--he did not drug the bowl with death, but with--sleep! This, this is the revenge of the Duke, and, and Albertine was the tool of the triple murderer! Buried Alive!”

He tried to arise from the coffin, but for a long time his efforts were in vain.

His frame was stiffened in every sinew, and his limbs were benumbed by his long repose.

At last he stood erect upon the floor of stone, and extending his hands, grasped the massive walls.

“There is yet one hope,” he murmured, “there may be some outlet from the funeral vault!”

With slow and leaden footsteps he passed along the wall, measuring its length. It was five paces long. The stones were all solid, massive, and firm. His upraised hand touched the ceiling, as it extended some three inches higher than his head.

Clutching the massive stones, he paced along the other walls or sides of the room, with weary and difficult footsteps, and at last traversed the three sides, and leaning against the wall, he endeavored to impress his wandering mind with some definite idea of the shape and dimensions of the vault.

“I stand in a small room, with floor and walls of massive stone,” he slowly muttered, “it is square in shape, and each side of the cell is five paces in length, and somewhat more than the stature of a man in height. The stones are solid, and to all appearance are some three feet thick. There is no outlet, no passage from the vault. I am indeed--Buried, and buried alive!”

He passed with difficult steps along the fourth wall of the vault, determined to repose his shattered frame awhile, even though his resting place was his coffin. In a moment measuring three paces, he arrived at the spot where he supposed he had left the coffin. Extending his foot to and fro, in search of his late tenement, he was struck with a new horror:

“It is gone--the coffin is gone!”

Words cannot picture the utter horror with which this was spoken.

All the despair that an Angel of God might feel, when toppled from the battlements of Heaven into the infernal abyss, then visited the breast of Adrian Di Albarone.

“It is a mere phantasy,” he exclaimed, “I have chanced upon the wrong side of the room.”

Again the sides of the vault were paced, and yet the coffin was not within his reach.

It was gone from its position near the wall, and his physical strength did not suffice to advance toward the centre of the room.

What invisible hand was it, that removed the Coffin?

As the question was asked by the heart of the wretched man, it found its answer in one fearful doubt.

“And am I, in truth, within the bounds of that fearful place, which wild Poets have fancied, and dark-robed Monks have preached? Am I in sooth lost, and lost forever? Is death a dream? or an eternal succession of realities that seem but dreams--horrors too fearful for even the damned to believe? And this, this is--hell! I could bear the tortures of the eternal fire, the lash of the fiends I might defy, the lightnings of wrath would inspire with me with some portion of the Awful Spirit who winged their bolts of vengeance--but this narrow cell, this eternal confinement in a place visited only by Dreams, while hunger tortures and thirst burns, hope animates, and despair holds but half the human heart--this, this is too horrible. God of vengeance, give me, oh give, the punishment of the undying worm, the torture of the eternal frame, but spare, oh spare me--_this_!”

He fell on his knees, and kissed the cold floor as he bent his forehead against his clenched hands, making the narrow cell all alive with his shriek--

“Spare; oh spare me--_this_!”

As he bowed low on the floor, a singular sound--most singular in such a place--met his ear. It was but a low sound, yet it was a fearful one.

_He heard the deep breathing of a living creature._

It might be the echo of his own broken gasps, the thought flashed over the mind of Adrian, and for a moment he held his breath, and listened with all his soul absorbed in the result. Again the deep breathing of a human creature met his ear--

“Is it man or devil?” thus ran the thoughts of Adrian--“Mayhap he may give me water to quench my thirst, or mayhap he will--ha, ha,--take my accursed life. Could I but speak--for my voice does nought but murmur--I’d even ask him to plunge his poignard in my heart.”

A whizzing sound disturbed the air, and at the very instant the blow of a sword descended on the left arm of Adrian Di Albarone, while a heavy body fell to the floor, within two paces of the spot where he knelt.

“The blood flows from the wound,” the glad thought darted over the mind of the Buried-Alive, “Would I had strength to tear the doublet-sleeve from the arm, then I might drink my own blood. Yet hold--the blood oozes through the gash in the sleeve, and, and Great * * *! I may drink my own blood!”

He raised the wounded arm to his mouth and greedily drank the blood.

In a moment he felt the influence of the draught.

His veins seemed fired with new life, his brain became for the moment calm and clear, his heart regained its vigor, and gifted with temporary strength he arose on his feet, grasping the sword of the unknown in his good right hand.

Another moment passed, and with his right hand he wound a bandage of linen, torn from his bosom, around the wounded arm, securing it by a knot tied with the teeth and hand.

Meanwhile he heard the sound of panting breath, not two paces distant from the spot where he stood, and as he listened a deep-muttered groan broke on his ear.

Calling all his powers of mental and physical vigor to his aid he spoke in a faint yet determined voice--

“Who art thou?” he exclaimed.

“Thy murderer!” was the gasping response.

“How long hast thou been in this place of death?”

“Long--enough--to starve! Hell and devils! I burn--thirst--starve!”

“What wouldst thou have?”

“Bread, bread! Water--I’d sell my soul for water!”

“Wherefore didst thou strike me?”

“I thought ye a spirit--and--and--I wanted to test your quality. Kill me, an’ thou art a man of flesh and blood--kill me, kill me!”

“Thy voice is strange and hollow, yet methinks I remember your tones. Thy name is--Balvardo!”

“‘Twas I that swore thy life away, ’twas I that brought thee to these vaults to bury thy corse beneath the earth--kill me, kill me!”

“Is there no opening to this vault?”

“A secret door--a passage--the spring, that opens on the other side--the spring that shuts--on this side. I--ha, ha, may hell seize my soul, I buried myself alive--and kill me!”

Adrian shuddered--and grew cold. He could hear the gasping of the poor wretch as he struggled for breath, he could hear the groans of his unseen assassin; well he knew that long absence from nourishment from food alone could lay the sworder helpless as an infant along the floor.

And as his mind struggled with the mighty horrors that gathered round him, his attention was arrested by a singular circumstance.

While the hushed and whispered conversation had been in progress between Adrian and Balvardo, the room had been gradually growing warmer and warmer, and at last the walls became heated, the ceiling emitting a warmth almost insupportable, while the confined air of the cell grew like the atmosphere of a furnace.

“What new horror is this!” faltered Adrian. “Tell me, how hast thou existed thus long in this vault of death, without air?”

“A well,” gasped the wretch, “centre of the stone-room--current of air from under the earth.”

Impressed by these incoherent words, Adrian advanced slowly along the floor, avoiding the prostrate body, and in a moment stood near the centre of the room.

He extended his foot--it touched a substance that gave back a slight sound; it was his coffin.

Another extension of his foot, and a whizzing sound assailed his ears, ploughing the air far, far below his feet, then the rebound of wood splinttered to pieces on a pointed rock came welling up from earth-hidden depths and echoed around the room.

He listened with hushed breath for a long and weary moment.

The sound of a pebble falling in water, far, far below, came dimly and faintly to his ear, like the pattering of the water-drop upon the age-worn rock.

“Ha! A well, deep as the fathomless abyss, sinks down from the centre of the room. Let me measure its width--two good paces. The coffin has whirled down into its bottomless depths--I hear the splintered pieces falling in the water far, far below. A slight current of air issues from the well--and the heat of this vault of death grows fiercer every moment--”

“Kill me, and then thank God thou hast strength left to hurl thee down the dark abyss---- I burn, oh, fiend of hell, with thirst and flame I burn!”

Adrian sate him down on the edge of the well, with his feet dangling in the abyss, and gave his very soul to one long and painful effort of thought.

Death clutched him with a thousand arms, death was in the heated air, death came gibbering and laughing in the form of famine, and from the very depths of the abyss the doomed lord could fancy he beheld the form of the Skeleton-God, with arms outstretched to grasp his victim as he fell.

There was no hope.

He must die. He must die afar from the voice of friend, afar from the sight of earth, or the vision of the blue sky, he must die by the slow gnawings of famine, the gradual withering of fire, or by one sudden plunge into the abyss below.

He sate him down to die--his arms were folded, and yet with an eager gesture he held his face over the darkness of the abyss in the nervous effort to inhale each breath of air.

He strove to compose his mind to prayer, but the gasping of the wretch lying near his side diverted his attention from thoughts of God and the better world.

“Why didst thou hate me?” he slowly asked.

“I was afraid--thou--wouldst--live to do me wrong. Thou art revenged--I die by inches!”

The wretch groaned in very agony, and Adrian could hear his fingers clutching convulsively along the floor of stone.

“My God, my God,” cried the doomed lord, as his very soul was wrung by the woe of the forsaken wretch; “would I had one cup of water to cool his burning tongue--”

“Ha--ha--ha! He mocks me with the name of water! Tell me, thou fiend, is _he_ not revenged?”

“The heat grows fiercer--the air of this vault is turning to fire! He gasps for breath. Man give me thy hand. Let me drag thee near the well--the freshening air may cool the fire in thy heart and veins.”

And extending his hands through the darkness, with his body inclined to a level with the pavement, he sought the form of the famine stricken sworder.

He grasped the hands of the wretch; the fingers were thin and wasted, resembling the bones of a skeleton rather than the hands of a living man.

Slowly and with a careful motion Adrian dragged the dying man along the pavement, he laid his head on his knee, as he sat on the verge of the well, and passed his hand over the massive brow of his assassin.

He shuddered in the very act. Clear and distinct, the harsh outline of the withered brow, pressed against his hand, and he could feel the eye sunken far in its socket, and the cheeks hollowed by the touch of famine. It was more like a skull than the face of a living man.

“I feel the fresh air on my brow,” gasped Balvardo; “my feet are withering with heat, and mine hands burn! Oh fiend of hell--I see a fountain, a cool and showery fountain--the clear waters are streaming over pebbled stones, and the green moss is wet with the sparkling drops. Hist! I will crawl to the fountain side, I will bury my face in the waters--ha, ha, ha, I will drink, I will drink! Fiend, fiend--curses on thee, thou hast changed the waters to _blood_!”

He uttered a wild yell of horror, and the vault of the dead gave back the echo--“Blood, blood!” while Adrian passed his hands over the beetle-brow of the murderer, and parting the matted hair aside, held the famine-eaten face in the full current of the subterranean air.

All was dark as chaos ere the fiat of God spoke worlds into being, yet here was a spectacle that the angels of His throne, veiling their awful faces before the Presence, might gaze upon even through the darkness, and gaze with tears of joy. Here was the assassin, the sworder, the false-witness, and the sworn foe, resting in the arms of the man whose body his oath had given to the doomsman and the wheel; whose footsteps he had tracked like the bloodhound snuffing the footprints of his victim, fierce, unrelenting, and hungering after blood; here was the wretch who had borne him to this vault, placed his body in the house of death, consigned him to the famine and the fire, the nameless horror and the agony that the cheek grows livid to name; here was the man who had buried him alive, and yet he held him in his arms, fanned his withered face, and brought the fresh air to his parched lips and burning brow.

It was as the sworder had gaspingly uttered a fierce revenge, and yet such vengeance as the Man of the Cross, the God shrined in flesh, would have taken on his most blood-thirsty foe.

The end drew nigh.

The moments, those moments of horror, which seemed lengthened to years, dragged on with steps of lead, and the room grew like a furnace, the walls gave forth an intolerable heat. The ceiling rapidly became a canopy of invisible fire, as the air itself changed to unseen fire, began to burn into the flesh of Adrian, as the wretch in his arms writhed and writhed in helpless agony.

“Water--water--water!” gasped the Sworder.

A thought flashed over the mind of Adrian.

“There may be water in this well--a fountain may spring bubbling from its depths, while we perish on the brink! The way is deep and dark--a single misplaced grasp or foothold, and my body goes whirling to the abyss below; yet I am urged on by a power I cannot name--I will descend the well!”

A moment and the head of Balvardo lay on the pavement of the stone-room, while the body of Adrian hung swinging in the abyss, as, with his hands grasping the projecting stones, he began that fearful descent.

“I go to bring thee water!” he shouted in the ear of the famished wretch--“I go to bring thee water for thy burning tongue and brow.”

“Then, take this--_this_--” was the gasping response, and Adrian felt a substance of metal pressed against his brow by an extended hand; “‘twill hold the--the water, or, ha, ha,--the blood!”

Hanging over the abyss by the grasp of one trembling hand, Adrian seized the metal substance with the other.

It was a goblet, a goblet of gold, embossed with strangely shapen flowers, and heraldic insignia, and as Adrian placed the vessel within the confines of his doublet, a shudder of horror caused his frame to quiver over the unknown void.

It was the goblet of the Red Chamber.

First grasping a pointed stone with one hand, then inserting his foot in a crevice of the masonry, then clutching another stone with the other hand, while his remaining foot rested in another crevice, he slowly began the fearful descent of the well.

“This then is the foul den of torture, built by the tyrants of Florence, long, long ago!” The thought crossed his brain. “The well hath been fashioned by the tools of the mason, yet the damp has worn deep hollows between the rugged stones. Hark!” he uttered the involuntary exclamation, “a stone has fallen from my grasp--I hear no sound--none, none! The abyss may be without bottom or depth. Hist! a hollow murmur breaks the silence of the air, far, far, below--the stone has sounded the depth of the well!”

“Water, water--men or devils, give me water!” the shrieking tones of the wretch in the stone-room came faintly to his ear. “Ha, ha! Thanks, thanks--they hand me a cup, a cup of good, clear water, and I drink--oh, horror, horror,--it turns to blood!”

With every nerve quivering, his hand trembling as he grasped the stones, his foot shaking with a nervous tremor as it sought the crevice which might give it momentary support, Adrian continued his terrible descent, until some twenty yards of the subterranean well rose above his head, while the low moans, the piercing shrieks, and the hollow laughter of the Sworder came fainter, and yet more faint to his ear.

Extending his foot in search of a crevice, he was astonished to find it resting on a solid rock, that hung jutting over the abyss, at a point where the well, diverging from its perpendicular course, made a slight inclination to the opposite side.

Grasping the rugged stones with the eager clutch of his trembling hands, Adrian hung swinging over the abyss, as with extended feet, he examined the formation of the well at this particular point, and tested the extent of the jutting rock.

He looked over his shoulder, and a wild thrill of surprise ran over his frame.

“Mine eyes burn with famine,” he slowly murmured; “they deceive me! Great God they mock me with a wild dream--I fancy the well grows lighter and lighter--but ’tis a dream, a mocking dream!”

As he spoke, a cold substance pressed against the palm of his right hand as it grasped the stone--it moved and writhed, while a hissing sound broke on the ear. Two points of flame, like minute yet intensely brilliant fire coals, glared before the very eyes of Adrian, and as the hissing grew louder, he found that a vile serpent wriggled between the fingers of his right hand.

With a sensation of unutterable disgust, he suspended his body by the left hand, and dashed the monster down the abyss with one quick motion of his hand.

The impulse with which he flung the serpent from his grasp, caused his body to quiver and tremble over the abyss, while the sinews of the left hand seemed bursting from the skin, as with the nervous grasp of despair, the doomed lord strove to recover the stone lately clutched by the other hand.

With one wild sweep he regained his grasp, springing heavily on the jutting rock in the action, while a deep rumbling sound disturbed the silence of the well. Another moment passed. Well was it for Adrian that he had refrained from trusting to the rock for support. The massive stone slowly swung to and fro, trembling over the depths of the well, and then with a crash like thunder, went whizzing down the abyss.

Up, up, from the fathomless depths, thundering and shrieking, arose the deafening echoes, yelling like spirit-voices in the ear of the trembling man, as he swayed to and fro over the blackness of the void.

It was a moment ere Adrian might recall his wandering thoughts.

He looked over his shoulder, he gazed upon the opposite side of the well. God of Mercy, was it a dream, a phantasmal creation of fancy, a mocking delusion of his crazed brain? There, before his very eyes, gilding the opposite side of the wall, a golden space, large as the human hand, shone in his very face.

“It is the light of day!” muttered Adrian, as his heart rose to his very throat; “it is, it is the light of day!”

“Ha, ha, ha! water!” the shriek came yelling from the room far, far, far above--“water, water!”

Grasping the stones below, Adrian descended another yard, when a ray of light shone on his face from a crevice in the wall to which he hung, trembling with a new joy, quivering in every nerve with a new life.

He thrust his right hand into the hollow of the crevice, and as a large flat stone fell echoing before him, a gush of light streamed through the wide aperture into the darkness of the abyss.

“I stand within a rock-bound passage!” exclaimed Adrian, “‘tis narrow as the grave, narrow as a coffin, yet twenty yards beyond I see the light of day! Great God give me strength; do not, do not fail me now! Strength, a little strength, and I may yet be saved!”

Prostrate upon the floor of the narrow passage, which the falling stone had disclosed, he turned his body, and, thrusting his face into the gloom of the well, once more gazed far, far above.

“Murderer that he is, I will not desert him!” he cried; “he has been my comrade in the living tomb--he shall be my comrade in the light of God’s own day!”

No sooner did the words pass his lips, than a shriek of intense horror, came pealing down the abyss, a mass of red fire crowned the summit of the well, and hot cinders, and burning coals swept through the darkness of the void, hissing by the very face of Adrian, and marking their flight with long lines of streaming flame.

Adrian withdrew his head from the well and listened.

A low moan, a choking groan, and then a succession of yells, resounded through the void. Then the crackling of flames, then the falling of age-cemented masonry; then a wild shriek, and then a voice of horror--

“I burn, I burn! oh fiend of hell, I burn!”

The air was cloven by the rushing of a falling body, and thundering down the well, with arms outspread, with his face all crushed and blackened, stamped with a look of agony that might never be forgotten, Balvardo was for a moment disclosed by the light shining through the aperture, before the very eye of Adrian, and then there was a hissing noise, followed by a sullen rebound, and then all was still.

The soul of Balvardo, the Sworder, stood beside the soul of his master in the judgment halls of the Unknown.

“Away, away!” shouted Adrian, maddened by the memory of that despair-stricken face; “away from this earth-hidden hell! Strength, my God, oh give me strength, and I may yet be saved!”

Creeping on hands and knees, he advanced along the subterranean passage, the light growing brighter at every step, and at last the twenty paces were left behind, he crawled from the rock, he stood in the open air.

His voice failed him, he gazed around.

Far, far above him, ascended the gray steep on which the Convent was reared, far, far above him, he beheld the blue sky, tinted with the glow of the dying day, he beheld the platform rock and the frowning tower, wrapt in clouds of lurid smoke, while tongues of forked flame, swept up to the very azure, turning the glow of the setting sun to bloody red.

He stood on the side of a ravine, with the darkness of the abyss yawning beneath him, while the rugged ascent of rocks on the opposite side rose towering before his eye, veiling the mountain lake from his sight, and giving a faint glimpse of the eastern sky.

Dark and dreary, tangled with gnarled shrubs, rough with rifted rocks, a score of fathoms down, sunk the wild abyss, with the hills, or rather the overhanging cliff gathering around its blackness, like the sides of one vast death-bowl of ebony.

In truth it looked like the crater of an extinct volcano.

With a glance Adrian beheld the smoke and flame, the Convent and the blue sky above, the glimpse of the eastern horizon, the rocks ascending on the opposite side of the ravine, and the blackness of the abyss below, and then his soul was riveted to a spectacle of horror extended at his very feet.

There before his very eyes, a mangled carcass was thrown along the surface of a rugged rock, the trunk, the limbs, the arms, the garments and draperies of gold, all mingled in one foul mass of corruption, while the face was buried amid a cluster of stunted shrubs of laurel.

Adrian reached forth his hand, he raised the face, he beheld the blue tint of corruption, the eyes lolling from their sockets, the blackened tongue hanging from the mouth!--

“The Duke,” he shrieked, “the Duke of Florence!”

He turned from the sight with intolerable disgust, and as he turned, he beheld appearing from amid the shrubs, on the other side of the small platform of sand on which he stood, a bared arm laid along the earth grasping a keen and slender-bladed dagger, with a grasp that death and corruption could not unclose.

Adrian sprang forward, he unwound the dagger from the grasp of the hand, he beheld a parchment scroll secured around the haft of the glittering steel. He tore the scroll from the dagger, he flung it open to the light, and beheld these words written in a fair unwavering hand--

“Brothers of the Invisible! When this hand that writes these words is cold in death, the scroll of Albertine the Monk, will tell the story of his vengeance on the Tyrant-Duke.

“The midnight hour is now past--I go to plunge the dagger of the Holy Steel in the Heart of the Doomed. Ask ye for the Heir of Albarone! Three hours ago, ere the Duke arrived in the valley, I bade him farewell forever. Midnight came, and I learned that the Son of Lord Julian was about to meet his death in the vaults of the Convent.

“One way of rescue alone remained. Protected by my supposed love for the Duke, I blinded the eyes of the assassin, and offered to do his work of death. Then mingling a potion, which would minister sleep,--not death,--I gave it to Lord Adrian--even now his bride gathers his slumbering form to her embrace in the vaults of the Convent--even now the assassin waits to bear the body to the grave.

“One hour from this ye will arrive in the valley, and your eyes will behold the slumbering form of your Prince--the lifeless corse of the Tyrant! I go to finish--”

The scroll broke off abruptly, yet there was enough written to fill the heart of Adrian with an emotion of joy he had never felt before.

He sprang among the bushes, he dashed the laurel leaves aside, he turned the blackening face of the mangled corse to the light. He clasped his hands on high in silent prayer, while his burning tears fell streaming over the face of Albertine the Monk.

Meanwhile gathered along the green sward of a level meadow, extending from the Convent gates, to the south of the mountain lake, a band of gallant warriors, reined their war-steeds upon the turf, their upraised spears marking their numbers by long lines of glittering light.

A thousand banners waved in the sunset air, and the peal of bugle, and the stirring notes of the trumpet went echoing upward among the old convent walls wrapt in smoke, lighted by giant-pillars of blood red flame.

In front of the band of warriors, a group of noble lords and high-born dames, plumed cavaliers and gay-robed damsels,--all mounted on prancing steeds, swept circling around the figure of a fair and beautiful Ladye, whose jet-black barb, with its watchful groom, stood reined in their midst.

Every tongue was silent, and every eye was fixed upon the death-like paleness of the maiden’s countenance, contrasting strangely with the gorgeous robes of purple and gold that drooped round her young and lovely form.

Her head bowed slowly on the neck of her steed, and the tears of a never-dying grief came gushing between the fair and delicate fingers that strove to veil her face.

She wept, the fair Ladye Annabel, whose steed was about to spring forward in the triumphal procession, that would soon give Florence its lovely queen; the coronet was on her brow, the swords of a thousand warriors were at her beck, and yet she wept.

Suddenly a wild murmur ran through the warrior-throng.

Uprising in the light of the burning Convent--that dark haunt of blood and awe, now toppling to its foundation, a gray rock, its base concealed by stunted shrubs, while its brow was turned to the flame-beams, attracted the gaze of every eye, as a strange spectacle hushed the whispers of every voice.

A hand, white as marble, was thrust from behind the rock, lifting a goblet of gold in the light of the setting sun.

Deep muttered whispers broke along the warrior-throng, every voice spoke of some new omen crowning the horrors of the convent during the last hour of its existence, and the murmurs of the lords and ladies clustering at her side, attracted the attention of the Ladye Annabel.

She slowly turned, she gazed upon the uplifted hand with the goblet of gold rising above the verge of the gray rock--not more than twenty paces from her side--she gazed in wonder and in awe.

And as she gazed, a wan and haggard face appeared above the rock, and a wasted and trembling form, clad in garments of price all soiled and torn, stood on the verge of the massive stone, flinging the goblet wildly aloft, as a peal of maniac laughter came thrilling to the maiden’s ear.

It was a solemn and impressive scene!

There swept the knightly host along the green meadow, their spears gleaming on high, there darkened the smoke and lightened the blaze of the burning convent, there the calm lake extending ripples along its mountain-shores, gave its still bosom to the crimson glare of the flame, and there standing erect upon the brow of the gray rock, his slender form boldly and clearly relieved by the background of the convent walls, the light of the flame, the beams of the setting sun; Adrian Di Albarone, crazed by famine, and maddened with new-born joy, shook wildly aloft the Goblet of Gold, while his maniac laugh broke echoing on the evening air.