BOOK THE FIRST. THE RED CHAMBER (continued 2)

The two sentinels watching in the Gaol of Florence, besides the gloomy door of the Doomed Cell, started with a sudden thrill of fear, as they looked upon the distorted form, and hideous face, of the wretch who stood laughing and chattering before their eyes.

Balvardo drew his stout form to its full height, and bent the darkness of his beetle-brows, upon the deformed Doomsman, and Hugo, clad in armor of shining steel, like his comrade, started nervously aside, as his squinting eyes were fixed upon the distorted face, the wide mouth, opening with a hideous grin, the retreating brow and the large, vacant, yet flashing eyes, that marked the visage of the Executioner of Florence. A dress made of coarsest serge, hung rather than fitted around his deformed figure, while a long-bladed knife, with handle of unshapen bone, glittered in the belt of dark leather that girdled his body.

“Sir Doomsman, thou art merry—” growled Balvardo—“Choose other scenes for thy merry humor—this dark corridor, with shadows of gloom in the distance, and the flickering light of yon smoking cresset, making the old walls yet more gloomy, around us, is no place for thy magpie laugh. No more such sounds of grave-yard merriment or—we quarrel, mark ye.”

“We quarrel, mark ye!” echoed the sinister-eyed Hugo, gravely dropping the end of his pike on the pavement.

“St. Judas! My brave men of mettle are wondrous fiery, this quiet night! Ha—ha—pardon Sir Balvardo, I meant not to anger ye! Yet dost thou know that it makes my veins fill with new blood! and my heart warm with a strange fire.”

“Thy veins fill with new blood! Ha—ha—ha!—Did’st ever hear of a withered vine, blackened by flame, bearing ripe grapes, or was ever a dead toad perfumed by the south wind? Hugo, his heart warms with a strange fire? Odor o’ pitch and brimstone, what a fancy! Ha—ha—”

“Nay, nay, Balvardo. There is some life in the Doomsman’s veins. Don’t doubt it? Just fancy those talons, which he calls fingers, clutched round thy throat—W-h-e-w!”

“I say it makes my veins fill with new blood, my heart warm with a strange fire—this matchless picture! A gallant Lord, with the warm flush of youth on his cheek, strength in his limbs and fire in his heart, stretched out upon the wheel—here a hand is corded to the wheel, and there another, here a foot is bound to the spokes and there another. He looks like the cross of Saint Andrew—by St. Judas. A merry fancy—eh! Balvardo? Stretched out upon the wheel, he looks with his bloodshot eyes to the heavens. See’s he any hope there? Laid on his back, he casts his last long glance aside over the multitude—the vile mob. See’s he a face of pity there! Hears he a voice of mercy? None—none! Earth curses, heaven forsakes, hell yawns! And he is of noble blood, and on his brow there sits the frown of a lofty line. While the mob hoot, the victim holds his breath, and I—I the Doomsman approach!”

“God’s death—he makes my blood chill!” muttered Hugo, glancing askance at his comrade, who stood silent biting his compressed lip.

“He writhes, for the hissing of the cauldron of hot lead falls on his ear, he feels his flesh creep, for the red hot glare of the blazing iron with its jagged point blinds his eyes as he gazes! He utters no moan—but he hears the beating of his own heart.

“He hears a step—a low and cat-like step—’tis mine, the Doomsman’s step. The red-hot iron in one hand, the ladle filled with melted lead, hot and seething lead in the other, nay, start not, nor wince, good Balvardo—’tis no fancy picture.”

“The Fiend take thy words—they burn my heart! Hold or by thy master, the devil, I’ll strike ye to the floor!

“Hark—hear you that hissing sound? His muscular chest is bared to the light, these talon-hands guide the red-hot iron over the warm flesh, with the blood blackening as it oozes from the veins. He writhes—but utters no groan. Now lay down the iron and the lead; seize the knotted club, aloft it whirls, it descends! D’ye see the broken arm bone, protruding from the flesh? Hurl it aloft again, nor heed the sudden struggle and the quick convulsive agony, never heed them—all writhe and struggle so. It grows exciting, Balvardo, it warms me, Hugo.”

Hugo muttered a half-forced syllable, but his parted lips and absent manner, attested his unwilling interest in the words of the Doomsman, while Balvardo, clutching his pike, strode hurriedly to and fro along the floor of stone.

“Again the Doomsman sweeps the club aloft! Crash—crash—crash, and then a sound, not a groan, not a groan, but a howl, a howl of agony!

“Look, Balvardo, look Hugo, you can count the bones as they stick out from each leg, from each arm, from the wrist and from the shoulder, from the ancle and the thigh, never mind the blood—it streams in a torrent from each limb, be sure, but the hot iron dries it up. Your melted lead is good for cautery—it heals—ha, ha, ha, let me laugh—it heals the wound, each blow the club had made. The picture grows—it deepens.”

“Now, by the Heaven above, I see it all—” muttered Balvardo with a dilating eye, as his manner suddenly changed, and he leaned forward with unwilling yet absorbing interest. “This is no man, but a devil’s body with a devil’s soul!”

“His face is yet unscarred—unmoved save by the wrinkling contortions of pain. The mob hoot, and hiss, and yell—the play must deepen. Hand me the iron—red-hot—and hissing—give me the bowl of melted lead, dipped from the boiling cauldron. The Doomsman’s step again!

“The victim’s body creeps, and writhes in every sinew, his veins seem crawling thro’ his carcass, his nerves, turned to things of incarnate pain, are drawn and stretched to the utmost.”

“Look well upon the blue heavens, Parricide, for the red-hot iron is pointed, and—ha, ha, how he howls—it nears your eyes, it glares before them in their last glance. It must be done, why howl you so? Does it burn your eyes, tho’ it touches them not? Ha, ha—I meant it thus.”

“Balvardo, strike him down. He is not human—see his flashing eyes, his arms thrown wildly aside, with the talon-fingers, grasping the air!”

“H-i-s-s—it touches the eyeball, the eye is dark forever! H-i-s-s it licks up the blood, it turns round and round in the socket. Now fill the hollow socket with the lead, the hissing lead—and, ha, ha, now bring me another iron pointed like this, and heated to a white heat. Quick, quick, the victim groans, howls, writhes, and yells! Quick! Ah, ha, let the iron touch the skin of the eyeball, it shrivels like a burnt leaf, deeper sink the hissing point, turn it round and round, let it lap up the gushing blood. Now the lead, the thick and boiling lead, pour it from the ladle, fill the socket, it hardens, it grows cold—ha, ha, ha, behold the eyes of lead.”

“I see them!” faltered Hugo, trembling in his iron armor.

“And I,” echoed Balvardo—“I see them, oh, horrible, and ghastly, I—I—see the eyes of lead!”

“Quick, quick—why lag ye, man? Quick—quick, I say! The knife, the glittering knife. The Parricide howls not nor groans, but his soul is trampling on the fragments of clay. Quick, while his carcass is all palpitation, all alive with torture, all throe, all agony and pulsation, hand me the knife. I would cut his beating heart from the body.”

“There, there—the flesh, severed to the bone, parts on either side—the ribs are bared—a blow with the jagged club, and they are broken. This hand is thrust within the aperture, I feel the hot blood, I feel his heart. It beats, it throbs, it writhes in my grasp, like a dying bird beneath the hunter’s hand.”

“Quick—the knife again—I hold the heart, cut it from the carcass, sever each nerve, snap each artery. A deep, low, trembling heave of the chest; a rattle in the throat.

“I raise the heart,—still quivering on high, it gleams in the light of day, and its warm blood-drops fall pattering on the face of the felon.”

“The mob shout their curses and hoot their oaths of scorn.”

“Quick, the pincers, the red-hot pincers—but hold—that shaking of the chest, that last heave of the trunk, that quivering in every splintered limb, with that quick tremor of the lip, ha, ha, that blanching of the cheek, with the blood oozing from every pore, that thick gurgling sound in the throat, he dies, the Felon dies, the Doomsman laughs, and from the shattered clod, creeps the Spirit of the Parricide!”

Hugo turned his face to the wall, and covered his eyes with his upraised hands. Balvardo stood still as death, gazing on the vacant air with a wild glance, as though he saw the Spirit of the dead. Neither moved nor said a word. The maniac wildness of the Doomsman awed and chilled them to the heart.

“This is the fate, to which ye have given him; this proud Lord now sleeping in the Chamber of the Doomed—to me, the Doomsman, to the wheel, to the knotted club, to the knife, the hot iron, and the melted lead, to the dishonor ye have given him! Ha—ha—ha—these hands itch for his blood. To-morrow’s rising sun will gleam on the scene, this merry scene—The Doom of the Poisoner.”

The Sentinels heard a hurried footstep, followed by a closing door, the Doomsman had disappeared. They turned with looks of horror, of remorse, mingled with all the fear and torture that the human soul can feel, stamped in their faces, while from one to the other broke the whisper—

“He sleeps within yon cell—the Doomsman’s cell, till the first glimpse of the morrow morn shall rouse him to this work—this work of horror and of—Doom.”[1]

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. ADRIAN THE DOOMED.

The wierd and mystic spirit that rules this chronicle, throws open to your view the cell of the Doomed.

It is a sad and gloomy place, where every dark stone has its tale of blood, every name, rudely scratched on the damp wall, its legend of despair.

All is silent; not a whisper, not a sob, not a sound. The silence is so breathless that you fear the spirits of the condemned, who passed from this chamber to the Wheel and the Block, may start into life—at the echo of a footstep from the dark corners of the room, and appal your eye with their shapes of horror.

The cresset of iron fixed to the rough wall, threw a dim light over the form of the Doomed, as seated upon a rough bench, with his head drooped between his clenched hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his golden hair faded to a dingy brown, falling over his shoulders and hiding his countenance, he mused with the secrets of his heart, and called up before his soul the mighty panorama of despair—the wheel, the block, the doomsman, and the multitude.

Adrian the Doomed raised his form from the oaken bench, and paced the dungeon floor. He was not shackled by manacles or clogged by chains.

It was the last night of his existence; escape came not within his thoughts, the walls were built of rock; hundreds of armed sentinels paced the long galleries of the prison, and a guard of two men-at-arms watched without the triple-locked and triple-bolted door of the Doomed chamber.

Suffering and endurance, anxiety of mind and torture of soul, had wrought fearful changes in the well knit and muscular form of the Lord of Albarone.

His countenance was pale and thin; his lips whitened, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken, while his faded locks of gold fell in tangled masses over his face and shoulders. His blue eye was sunken, yet it gleamed brighter than ever, and there was meaning in its quick, fiery glance.

“To die on the gibbet, with the taunt and the sneer of the idiot crowd ringing in my ears, my last look met with the vulgar grimaces and unmeaning laughter of ten thousand clownish faces—to die on the rack, each bone splintered by the instruments of ignominious torture, my scarred and mangled carcass mocking the face of day,—oh, God—is this the fate of Adrian, heir to the fame, the glory, and the fortunes of the house of Albarone?”

Pausing in his hurried walk, he stood for a moment silent and motionless as the sculptured marble, and then eagerly stretching forth his hands, cried—

“Father—father! noble father! I believe thy holy shade is now hovering unseen over the form of thy doomed son—by all the hopes men hold of bliss in an unknown state of being; by the faith which teaches the belief of a future world, I implore thee, appear and speak to me. Tell me of that eternity which I am about to face! Tell me of that awful world which is beyond the present! Father, I implore thee, speak!”

His imagination, almost excited to phrenzy by long and solitary thought, with glaring eyes, arms outstretched, and trembling hands, the agitated boy gazed at a dark corner of the cell, every instant expecting to behold the dim and ghostly form of his murdered sire slowly arise and become visible through the misty darkness. No answer came—no form arose. Adrian drew a dagger from his vest.

“Father, by the mysterious tie that binds the parent to the son, which neither time nor space can sever—death or eternity annihilate—I implore thee—appear!”

The tone in which he spoke was dread and solemn. Again he waited for a response to his adjuration, but no response came.

“This, then,” cried Adrian, raising the dagger; “this, then, is the only resource left to me. Thus do I cheat the mob of their show; thus do I rescue the name of Albarone from foul dishonor!”

Tighter he clutched the dagger; his arms was thrown back and his breast was bared; and, as he thus nerved himself for the final blow, all the scenes of his life—the hopes of his boyhood—the dreams of his love, rose up before him like a picture.

And like a vast unbounded ocean, overhung with mists, and dark with clouds, was the idea of the Dread Unknown to his mind.

Amid all the memories of the past; the agonies of the present, or the anticipations of the future, did the face of the Ladye Annabel come like a dream to his soul, and the smile upon her lip was like the smile of a guardian spirit, beaming with hope and love.

“Oh, God—receive my soul!—Annabel, fare thee-well!”

The dagger descended, driven home with all the strength of his arm.

“Adrian!” exclaimed a hollow voice, and a strange hand thrown before the breast of the doomed felon struck his wrist, the instant the dagger’s point had touched the flesh.

The weapon flew from the hand of Adrian and fell on the other side of the cell.

He turned and beheld the muffled form of a monk, who had entered through the massive door, which had been unbolted without Adrian’s heeding the noise of locks and chains, so deep was his abstraction. The ruddy glare of torches streamed into the cell, and the sentinels who held them, in their endeavors to shake off their late terror and remorse, gave utterance to unfeeling and ribald jests.

“I say, Balvardo,” cried the sinister-eyed soldier, “does not the springald bear himself right boldly? And yet at break of day he dies!”

“Marry, Hugo,” returned the other, “he had better thought of making all these fine speeches ere he gave the—ha—ha—ha!—the physic to the old man.”

Reproving the sentinels for their insolence, the muffled monk closed the door, and approaching Adrian, exclaimed—

“My son, prepare thee for thy fate! The shades of night behold thee erect in the pride of manhood; the light of morn shall see thee prostrate, bleeding, dead. Thy soul shall stand before the bar of eternity. Art thou prepared for death, my son?”

“Father,” Adrian answered; “I have been ever a faithful son of the Holy Church, but its offices will avail me naught at this hour. Once, for all, I tell thee I will die without human prayers or human consolation. On the solemn thought of Him who gave me being, I alone rely for support in the hour of a fearful death. Thy errand is a vain one, Sir Priest, if thou dost hope to gain shrift or confession from me. I would be alone!”

“Thou art but young to die,” said the monk, in a quiet tone.

Adrian made no reply.

“Tell me, young sir,” cried the monk, seizing Adrian by the wrist, “wouldst thou accept life, though it were passed within the walls of a convent?”

“The cowl of the monk was never worn by a descendant of Albarone. I would pass my days as my fathers have done before me—at the head of armies and in the din of battle!”

The monk threw back his cowl and discovered a striking and impressive face; bearing marks of premature age, induced by blighted hopes and fearful wrongs. His hair, as black as jet, gathered in short curls around a high and pallid forehead; his eyebrows arched over dark, sparkling eyes; his nose was short and Grecian; his lips thin and expressive, and his chin well rounded and prominent. And as the cowl fell back, Adrian with a start beheld the monk of the ante-chamber.

“Count Adrian Di Albarone, this morning thou wert tried before the Duke of Florence, and his peers, for the murder of thy sire. Thou, a descendant of Albarone, connected with the royal blood of Florence, wert condemned on the testimony of two of thy father’s vassals, for this most accursed act. I ask thee, canst thou tell who it is that hath spirited up these perjured witnesses; and why it is that the Duke of Florence countenances the accusations!”

“In the name of God, kind priest, I thank thee for thy belief in my innocence. The author of this foul wrong, is, I shame to say it, my uncle, Aldarin, the Scholar. The reason why it is countenanced by the duke, is—” Adrian paused as if the words stuck in his throat; “is because he would wed my own fair cousin, the Ladye Annabel.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the monk, “my suspicions were not false. Let Aldarin look to his fate; and, as for the duke—” thrusting his hand into his bosom, he drew from his gown a miniature—it was the miniature of a beautiful maiden.

“Behold!” cried the monk, “Adrian Di Albarone, behold this countenance, where youth, and health, and love, beaming from every feature, mingle with the deep expression of a mind rich in the treasure of thoughts, pure and virginal in their beauty. Mark well the forehead, calm and thoughtful; the ruby lips, parting with a smile; the full cheek blooming with the rose buds of youth—mark the tracery of the arching neck; the half-revealed beauty of the virgin bosom. Adrian, this was the maiden of my heart, the one beloved of my very soul. I was the private secretary of the duke, he won my confidence—he betrayed it. Guilietta was the victim; and I sought peace and oblivion within the walls of a convent. I am now in his favor—he loads me with honors; I accept his gifts—aye, aye, Albertine, the Monk, takes the gold of the proud duke, that he may effect the great object of his existence—”

“And that—” cried Adrian—“that is—”

The monk spoke not; a smile wreathed his compressed lips, and a glance sparkled in his eye. Adrian was answered.

In the breast of the man to whom God has given a soul, there also dwells at all times a demon; and that demon arises into fearful action from the ruins of betrayed confidence. The monk whispered something in the ear of the condemned noble, and then, waving his hand, retired.

CHAPTER THE NINTH. THE FELON AND THE DUKE.

In a few minutes the door again opened, and the stately form of the Countess of Albarone entered the traitor’s cell.

Why need I tell of the warm embrace with which she enclosed her son? Why tell of her tears that came from her very soul—her deep expressions of detestation when the name of Aldarin, the scholar, was mentioned? Need I say that she was firmly assured of her son’s innocence; that she saw through the mummery of his trial, and the trickery of his foes? Leaving all this to the fancy of the reader of this chronicle, I pass on with my history.

The kind discourse of mother and son was broken off by the clanging of chains and the drawing of locks. The light of many torches streamed through the opened door into the cell, and the gaily-bedizened form of the Duke was discovered.

With a last farewell, the Countess of Albarone retired; the door was closed, and Adrian was left alone with the Duke.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed he; “I have condescended to visit you. Albertine, my confessor, told me it was due to a branch of the royal blood of Florence. It were best that you make a short story of what you have to say. My train wait without, and I am somewhat hurried.” Here he opened his sleepy eyes, and, curling his bearded lip, tried to assume a look of dignity.

Adrian bowed down to the earth.

“The son of Count Di Albarone,” said he, “feels highly honored by your condescension.”

“Well, now, sir, what have you to say?” exclaimed the Duke. “Speak, ignoble son of an honored sire—inglorious descendant of a noble line. Speak! What would you say?”

“Merely this, most gracious Duke,” answered Adrian, as he gazed sternly into the very eyes of the haughty prince, “merely this, that I have been doomed to death by thee and thy minions, in a manner that never was noble doomed before. Without form; on the proof of perjured caitiffs; without defence, have I been condemned for a crime, at the name of which hell itself would shudder.”

The Duke sneered, as he spoke:

“Surely, I cannot help it, and a brainless boy takes it into his head to poison his sire.”

“Pardon me, gracious Duke,” said Adrian, as by a sudden movement he grasped him by the throat, and at the same time seizing his cloak of scarlet and gold, he thrust it into his gaping mouth.

Closer and yet more close he wound his grasp, and, scarce able to breathe, much less to speak, the Duke of Florence stood without power or motion. Adrian coolly tripped up his heels, and then placing his knee upon his breast by a dexterous movement, he tore away the scarlet cloak, and then cautiously placing one hand over the mouth of the prince, he gathered some straw with the other, and forced it down his throat.

Then unbuckling his own belt of rough doe skin, he wound it around the neck and over the mouth of the Duke, and having fastened it as tightly as might be, he proceeded to tie his hands behind his back; the cord he used being nothing less than the chain of knighthood suspended from the neck of his grace.

You may be sure this was not accomplished without a struggle. The Duke writhed and wrestled, but to no purpose. He could not speak, and the knee of Adrian placed on his breast, laid him silent and motionless.

And now behold Adrian, arrayed in the blazing cloak of the Duke, which descending to his knees, sweeps the tops of the fine boots of doe-skin, ornamented with spurs of gold. On his head is placed the slouching hat of the prince, surmounted by a group of nodding plumes, and beneath the folds of the cloak shines the richly embossed sheath of his sword.

Adrian surveyed his figure with a smile—that smile which arises from the recklessness of desperation—and then, without heeding the malignant glances of the Duke, he fixed him against the rough bench upon his knees, with his face to the wall, in an attitude of prayer and devotion—He threw his own sombre cloak over the back of his captive; and then, having slouched the hat over his face, after the manner of the Duke, he gathered up the cloak of crimson along his chin, and stood ready to depart.

He opened the door of the traitor’s cell with a quickened pulse, and in an instant, found himself standing in the gallery where the muffled priest waited for the Duke. The soldiers bowed low to the wearer of the scarlet cloak, and the word was passed along the galleries—

“Make way for the Duke—make way for his grace of Florence.”

The monk now advanced, and locking the door of the doomed cell, he affixed to its panel a parchment signed by the Duke of Florence, and sealed with the seal of state. It declared that the prisoner, Adrian Di Albarone, was to be seen by no one until the morrow, when he was to suffer the doom of the law, by the terrors of the wheel.

This done, the monk fell meekly in the rear of Albarone, who paced along the gallery, saluted at the door of every cell by the lowered spears of the sentinels.

The gallery terminated in a staircase. This Adrian and the monk ascended, and at the top they found a company of gay cavaliers, who waited for his grace of Florence. The wearer of the scarlet cloak and slouching hat was greeted with a low bow. Adrian then traversed another gallery, and yet another; being all the while followed by the band of gallant courtiers.

“Urban,” whispered one of these gallants to another, “methinks our lord is wondrous silent to-night.”

“Why, Cesarini,” replied his companion, “it may be that he is weeping for this young springald, Adrian. Marry, ’tis enough to make an older man than I am weep.”

“Hist!” whispered the monk, “our lord would have you observe strict silence.”

They had arrived at the lofty arching door of the castle leading into the court-yard, when Adrian was alarmed by a noise and shouting in the galleries which he had just traversed.

“All is lost!” thought Adrian, as his hand caught the hilt of his sword.

“Fear not,” whispered the monk, “but push boldly onward.”

They now descended into the court-yard, where a richly-attired page held a steed ready for his grace. Springing with one bound into the saddle, Aldarin passed under the raised portcullis, with the monk riding at his side, and the bridle reins of the courtiers ringing in the rear.

Thus far all was well. The monk leaned from his saddle, and whispered to Adrian:

“One effort more, brave boy. Nerve thyself for the trial at the palace gate.”

Traversing one of the most spacious streets of the city of Florence, they soon arrived before the lofty gate of the palace of the Duke.

Here a crowd of men-at-arms, blazing in armor of gold, saluted the supposed Duke with every mark of respect.

And finally, innumerable dangers past, behold Adrian enter the palace, traverse innumerable chambers, hung with gorgeous tapestry, lighted by lamps of silver and of gold, and thronged with nobles and courtiers, who much wondered to behold their lord pass them by, without one mark of recognition or sign of respect.

At last Adrian arrived before folding doors ornamented with exquisite carving, and having the arms of the Duke emblazoned in glowing colors upon the panels.

“Push open the doors, and boldly enter,” whispered the monk to Adrian, who immediately obeyed his directions.

The monk then turned to the gallant throng of courtiers, and said:

“My lords, his grace is unwell. He would dispense with your further attendance.” The monk retired.

Never arose such a mingled crowd of exclamations of wonder as then burst from the lips of the cavaliers. One whispered their lord must certainly be woad; another that he must have been repulsed in some illicit amour; and a third seriously gave it as his opinion, that some devil or other had taken possession of the Duke of Florence. However, being well aware of the high regard in which the Duke held the monk Albertine, they all slowly trooped out of the ante-chamber, leaving it to the guards of the palace, who watched within its confines, as was their wont.

CHAPTER THE TENTH. THE CHAMBER OF THE DULSE.

In a lofty chamber, hung with tapestry of purple, embroidered with rare and pleasant designs, and lighted by lamps of gold, depending from the ceiling, Adrian and the Monk rested themselves after their arduous exploit.

In one corner of the apartment stood a gorgeous bed, with a canopy of silver and gold hangings, surmounted by a Ducal coronet. Around were strewn couches of the most inviting softness, and every thing in the chamber wore an appearance of luxury and ease.

Adrian reposed on a couch of velvet, and by his side was seated the monk. Before them was placed a small table, on which stood several flasks of rich wine, together with more substantial refreshments.

“Truly, sir monk,” said Adrian, filling a goblet of wine, “I have heard of many unmannerly acts, but this deed of mine does seem to me to be the most unmannerly of all. I not only tied the brave duke, lashed him in the Cell of the Doomed, used his gallant steed, and worshipful name, but, forsooth! I must also repose me upon his couches, and refresh me with his wine!”

And Adrian laughed.

“Thou art merry, young sir. But an hour since—”

The monk was interrupted by a gentle knocking under the tapestry.

Adrian started up, and drew his sword, taking the precaution, however, to resume the scarlet cloak, and slouching hat.

The knocking grew louder. The monk removed the tapestry in the part from whence the sound proceeded, and having pressed a spring, a secret door in the wainscotting flew open, and a woman of beautiful countenance, and rich attire was discovered.

“Thou here, stern priest!” said the damsel, in a sweet voice, “I would speak with my lord.”

“Mariamne, thou canst not see him to-night; he hath no time to trifle with such as thee. His thoughts are given to prayer.”

The monk closed the door, and, turning to Adrian, said,

“Another of this miscreant’s victims, Adrian. It was fortunate she did not see thee closely, for her eye would have detected where hundreds might look without suspicion. And now let us away; every moment increases thy danger; the duke may even now have freed himself, and set his minions in chase.”

“To fly, I am willing, sir monk; but whither?”

“Follow me,” said the monk, as he lighted a small lamp of silver. He then removed the tapestry, and discovered a secret door opposite the one afore-mentioned. This the monk entered, followed by Adrian, and a stairway of stone, some two feet in width, was revealed; it was cut into the wall and over-arched, and the distance between the steps and the arch not more than four feet.

With great care the monk led the way down the steps of stone, until they numbered thirty, when they terminated in a narrow platform, which, indeed, was nothing more than a step somewhat longer than the others. Here our adventurers descended another stairway, likewise ending in a platform, and then yet another stairway was terminated by another platform; and thus they descended stairway after stairway, and crossed platform after platform, until the increasing coldness and dampness of the atmosphere, warned them that they had penetrated far below the surface of the earth.

Suddenly the stairway ended in a large and gloomy vault, with walls and floor of the unhewn rock.

On the side nearest the stairway, a gate of iron was erected between the points of two large and irregular rocks.

Through a large crevice which time had worn into this gate, the monk and Adrian passed into a vault like the former, except that the dim light of the taper discovered the rough floor strewn with grinning skulls, and whitened bones.

Along this dreary place strode the monk, lighting the way, while, at his back followed Adrian Di Albarone. In about a quarter of an hour the vault narrowed into a confined passage, along which they crawled on hands and knees. This terminated in another vault, sloping upwards with a gradual ascent, which having traversed, our adventurers found themselves again between two narrowing walls, and finally, all further progress was stopped by a large stone thrown directly across the path. Adrian spoke for the first time in half an hour—

“And are we to be baulked after all the adventures of this night?”

The monk answered by pointing to the stone, to which he and his companion presently laid their shoulders, but their united strength was insufficient to remove it.

Again they tried, and again were they unsuccessful; they made a third attempt, and the stone was precipitated before them.

Seizing the light, Adrian threw himself into the breach, and discovered an extensive vault, hedged in by walls built of hewn stone, while the floor was covered by rows of coffins, with here and there a monument of marble. Throwing themselves into this place, they picked their way through the dreary line of coffins, when they came to a wide staircase which they ascended, until they found it suddenly terminated by the archway above.

The monk raised his hand, and drawing a bolt which Adrian had not perceived, he pushed with all his strength against the archway, and a trap-door rose above the heads of our adventurers.—Through this passage the monk ascended, followed by Adrian, who looked around with a gaze of wonder, and found himself standing in the aisle of the Grand Cathedral of Florence.

The moonbeams streaming through the lofty arched windows of stained glass, threw a dim light upon the high altar with its cross of gold, and faintly revealed the line of towering pillars which arose to the dome of the cathedral, as vast and magnificent it extended far above.

“My son,” cried the monk, “give thanks to God for thy deliverance.”

And there, in that lone aisle, as the deep toned bell of the cathedral tolled the third hour of the morning, did Adrian and the monk fall lowly on the marble pavement, and, prostrating themselves before the sublime symbol of our most holy faith, give thanks to God, the Virgin, and the Saints, for their most wonderful escape.