CHAPTER THE THIRD. THE VALLEY OF THE BOWL. THE SCENE CHANGES TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE, WHERE THE TRAGEDY OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE WILL AT LAST COME TO AN END. (continued 2)

“Ibrahim gives peace and joy to Aldarin!”

“Peace and joy to Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim!”

As thus they saluted each other, in the Arabian tongue the native language of the one, and the familiar study of the other, Aldarin advanced and gazed upon the stranger.

His face was most impressive.

Regular in feature, dark and tawny in hue, the countenance of the stranger was marked by a high forehead, thick and bushy eye-brows white as snow, giving a strange effect to the glance of the full dark eyes, that looked forth from beneath their shadow: a compressed lip, half hidden by the venerable beard, that well-nigh covered his rounded chin and dark brown cheeks, and descended to his breast in waving locks, frosted by age and toil. A cap of sable fur surmounting his forehead, imparted a striking relief to the visage of the Arabian.

His attire was simple and majestic. A mantle or robe of black cloth, gathered around the throat, by a chain of gold, with a collar of snow-white fur, fell in long folds to his knees, bordered by lace of gold. As the robe waved suddenly aside from his commanding frame, it might be seen that the tunic which gathered around his form, was fashioned of the finest velvet glistening white in color, with a border of strange and mystic characters, his legs were encased in dark hose, and slouching boots of doe-skin, glittering with the knightly spur of gold.

“Thou art changed, Ibrahim!”

“And thou Aldarin!”

There was a long pause, while the Scholar and the Arab Prince perused each others features. When they again spoke it was in the rich Arabian tongue, each word a word of fire, each sentence a thought of wild enthusiasm.

“Twenty-one years, this very night, on the battle-plain amid the Syrian wilds, an Arab prince owed his life to the intercession of Aldarin the Scholar. He offered the Scholar gold for his ransom—the scholar refused the proffered dust. Speak I the truth, Aldarin?”

“Thou dost!”

“Struck by the noble nature of the thoughtful Italian, the Arab prince gave him a gift priceless in value, not to be bought with gold, or purchased with gems of price! A Book—a mighty book had descended to him, through a long line of gallant ancestors. The founder of the race of Ibrahim was a man of dark thoughts, and mysterious studies. Swept from the path of life in the midst of his mystic researches, he left THE BOOK to his children, with the last and most terrible Mystery, the final Charm, which gave importance to the whole volume, confided to their trust, in unwritten words—”

“These words thou wouldst speak to mine own ear and heart?”

“Even so, brother Aldarin! When I gave thee the Book, fraught with strange mysteries, a fearful oath, sworn by every son of the race of Ben-Malakim, bound me to keep the last words, which make the book complete, secret from thine ear, until I was assured thou hadst won the merit of the confidence.”

“Thou didst swear by the Eternal Flame, that thou wouldst meet me this very night, in the soul or in the body, living or dead.”

“I am here! The far-east rings with the fame of Aldarin the Scholar—the last secret is thine!”

“This night, at the hour of midnight, over the Altar of Marble, where the Heart of the Dead mingles its crimson-drops with the White Waters of the Alembic,—there,—will I crave the last Secret at thy hands!”

“There is one condition first.”

“Name it!”

“Lo! it is written in the Scroll which contains the Priceless Secret. The Prince of Ben-Malakim must be a spectator in the lone chamber where the SECRET is carried into action; he must command in the Halls of the Scholar, who may receive the mystery, while the solemn ceremonies named by the Book, are in progress.”

“The condition is strange—yet”—

“So read the words of THE BOOK!”

“Its behests shall be obeyed.”

“Then Scholar, and friend, let the twelve warriors who follow in my train, take the place of the sentinels at the castle-gate; let them command in the castle-hall, and be obeyed as thyself until the morrow morn!”

“It shall be done. And now, my brother, draw near to the casement; let the warm glow of the setting sun fall over thy features I would look upon thy face, as was my wont in the ancient time. By my soul, thou art sadly changed—fearful wrinkles traverse thy countenance, thy hair and beard are gray; thine eyebrows white. A sad and fearful change!”

“The touch of time falls heaviest on the man of thought, good Aldarin. Thou too, art sadly, fearfully changed.”

“And yet this night shall crown the toil of twenty-one years, with a boon almost beyond mortal hope. Yes—yes,” he continued in a deep whisper, as the full glow of the setting sun fell over his face—“The sun sinks down in glory; his beams fall over the form of the mortal Scholar—Lo! his beams gild the sky on the morrow morn and—how my nerves fire, my heart is full to bursting—Aldarin lives forever.”

CHAPTER THE TENTH. THE SCHOLAR ALDARIN AND THE LORD GUISEPPO THE LAST INTERVIEW BEFORE THE GRAND SCENE, FOR WHICH ALDARIN HAS TOILED, STRUGGLED AND ENDURED, FOR THRICE SEVEN YEARS.

“Come hither Guiseppo, son of mine, let me look upon thy face. Ah! I remember well—her countenance lives again in thine. Boy, walk by my side, along this solitary chamber; I would converse with thee. Hast thou not oftentimes thought me a dark and stern old man?”

“My Lord, I have. The story of the soldier,—Rough Robin——”

“Name not the slave! Name him not. Have I not scattered his fable of lies, to the winds? Art not satisfied with the guilt of this—Adrian? Speak Guiseppo—have I not told thee a fair and truthful story?”

“I fear me—oh! Saints of Heaven—I fear me—that thy story is true!”

“Thou fearest that my story is true! Is this well Guiseppo? Wouldst rather thy father had been guilty!”

“My Lord—”

“‘My father’ would sound as well.”

“My father, then; an’ I may speak the name; I thank God from my very heart that I know thee guiltless. Yet I had much rather—the Saints witness my truth—I had much rather, this spot of blood were washed from the garments of all who bear the name of Albarone.”

“And do I not join in the wish! oh Guiseppo—Guiseppo Di Albarone, for I will call thee by thine own true name—look upon me, mark my face, gaze in mine eye! Thou hast known me for years, a man prematurely old, bent with age ere the sands of my manhood’s prime had fallen in the glass. Thus hast thou known me Guiseppo.”

“I have my Lord,—my father, and wondered at the cause.”

“Yet hast thou ever noted the change, the fearful change, that has passed over this face within a few brief days? Dost mark the pallor of this cheek, the blaze of this eye? Dost see this forehead seamed by a single wrinkle between the brows; dost note these wan and wasted features?”

“Yes, yes my father, I do. What hath wrought this fearful change?”

“Canst thou ask? A mighty grief has been swelling the channels of my soul—grief for the crime of Adrian, grief that his hands, the hands of the son, should be red—dripping with his own father’s blood.”

He paused—covered his face—there was a moment of voiceless agony “and yet, even in this hour of agony, the resemblance, the sad resemblance, which has haunted me for years, comes back to my soul—”

“The resemblance, my father?”

“Boy, I tell thee, thy face is like the face of—Even now I see it!”

“Father?—”

“The face of thy mother!”

“I tremble my father; mine eyes are wet with burning tears. Tell me—oh, tell me of her—my mother.”

“Twenty years ago, a nameless Scholar, who disdaining the din and battle of war, gave his soul to higher and purer thoughts, won the love of a proud and peerless Ladye. They might not wed, for she was the scion of a Royal line. It was evening, boy, calm and gorgeous evening—well do I remember the scene—when the proud Ladye gazed from the portico of a kingly palace, over the temples and the towers of Jerusalem. The glow of sunset was streaming over her face, and her full dark eyes, kindled with the grandeur of the scene, when, when—listen Guiseppo,—her boy, her bright eyed boy, lay prattling on her knee. The Scholar stood by her side—he was silent, for his heart was full—oh, God! methinks I see myself as I was then, even through the long lapse of years—”

“Thyself! The boy, who was’t—the boy?”

“Listen; hear the sequel of this dark story. There, there, concealed by a column of that lofty portico, listening to the words of love that broke murmuringly from the lips of the Ladye, gazing upon the face of her bright-eyed boy, all smiles and laughter, there, unknown and unsuspected, stood the Fiend and the Destroyer. Guiseppo—pass thy hand over my brow—see, see, even after the lapse of twenty years, the cold, beaded drops, like death-sweat, stand out from my forehead at the memory.”

“I am breathless, my father—the Destroyer who stood listening—he was—”

“Guiseppo, Guiseppo, let me whisper a world of horror to thine ear in a single word. The light of the setting sun, fell over thy—thy mother’s face, proud, peerless and beautiful—her child prattling on her knee, her lover by her side—the first beams of the morrow’s sun beheld her form, her form of grace and loveliness, flung prostrate over the marble floor of her chamber—outraged, bleeding, dead.”

“Oh, God! my brain whirls! And the Destroyer?”

“Was a knight, a leader among the Princes of the Christian Host who won Jerusalem from the Paynim legions. He had been scorned, rejected, despised by the Ladye—thy mother—and behold,—oh fiend of hell—behold his vengeance!”

“His name? Who—who—swept this devil from the earth?”

“He lives!”

“Lives? and thou couldst wield a dagger!”

“Boy, wouldst thou wreak full and terrible vengeance on the ravisher of thy mother?”

“Sate he upon the throne, slept he within the bridal chamber, knelt he at the altar, I would sacrifice the wretch, to the Ghost of the betrayed—”

“To thy knees, to thy knees, and take the oath of vengeance.”

“I kneel, father, I kneel. The oath, the oath!”

“What manner of oath dost thou hold most sacred? Wilt swear by the Cross, by the Holy Trinity, by the Death of the Incarnate, or by the awful existence of God?”

“By my mother’s name.”

“Place the cross to thy lips, raise thy hands to heaven. Swear—by the Holy Cross, by the Awful Trinity, by the Incarnate God—by thy Mother’s Name—that when thy eye first beholds the wronger and the ravisher, thy dagger shall seek his heart.”

“I swear—I swear!”

“Though he sate on the throne, though he slept within the bridal chamber, though he knelt beside the altar!”

“I swear—I swear!”

And the hollow echoes of the Red-Chamber gave back the echo—“Swear—swear!”

It was in sooth, a strange and impressive scene.

The dim light afforded by the lamp of silver, pendent from the ceiling, glimmering over the hangings of the fatal bed, along the folds of the tapestry and around the massive furniture of the room—the figures of the scene, the aged man and the kneeling boy; Aldarin with his face agitated by contending passions, with his eye gathering a brightness that seemed supernatural, while Guiseppo half prostrate at his feet, raised his hands to Heaven and with every feature of his countenance darkened by revenge, looked above with flashing eyes as he uttered the response—“I swear—I swear!”

It was a strange and impressive scene—and the flitting shadows that fell over the hangings of the bed and along the floor, seemed to start into life at the deep earnest tones of the Avenger.

“The name of the Destroyer—my father—his name—his name!—”

The Count Aldarin stooped low, applied his lips to the ear of Guiseppo and whispered in a quick and hissing tone, the name of the Destroyer.

The kneeling Lord turned pale as death, as with a trembling voice he repeated the well known name.

He bowed his head on his breast, and clasped his hands in very agony.

“My fate,” he shrieked, “is dark—oh Father of Heaven, most dark!—--”

“Rise Guiseppo, my son,” said the Count Aldarin in a commanding tone. “Rise Guiseppo, Lord of Albarone!”

“My father—your look is serious, and yet you utter but a merry jest. Methinks it ill becomes the hour.”

“Guiseppo, Aldarin never deals in the jester’s wares. No—no my son, I do not jest. Listen Guiseppo, and hear the solemn determination of my soul. The events of these few brief days; the fearful death of my brother, the knowledge that THE SON was the MURDERER; the flight of my—my daughter; all have conspired to confirm that determination. I have resolved to retire and retire forever from the world. Not within the gloom of the monastery, not within the shadow of the cloister, does Aldarin seek refuge from the sorrows of the world. No—no.

“Within the shadows of the most secret chamber of the Castle, (dead to the world, unseen by living man, save thee Guiseppo, and yet companioned by those Holy Men who this very night, arrived at Albarone, from the far eastern lands,) in penitence and in prayer will Aldarin seek to win favor from heaven for this—this—wretch, this father-murderer. Guiseppo—I charge thee—let men believe me dead, and when thy right to the Lordship of Albarone is questioned, speak boldly of the favor of his Grace of Florence. He will defend the castle from wrong and shelter thee from outrage.”

“My Lord—my father, this is a strange determination! I beseech thee do not burden me with the rule of the Castle.”

“It must be so Guiseppo! From this night henceforth, Aldarin is dead to the world. Whene’er thou wouldst say aught with me, a sealed parchment, placed within a secret drawer arranged in the side of the beaufet, will reach my hands.—And mark ye—let not a single day pass over thy head, without looking into the secret drawer of the beaufet.”

“This is most wonderful! I ever thought thee a bold, ambitious man, and now I behold Aldarin whom all men name with fear, retire from the world, without a sigh.”

“One word more, Guiseppo. When thou hast stricken the blow—when the Destroyer of thy mother’s honor, lies low in death, then, then, hasten to the Round Room—thou hast heard of the chamber?—and within the solitudes of its silent walls, read this pacquet—it contains the fearful story of thy mother’s wrongs.”

“Forgive me, forgive me, my father—” shrieked Guiseppo, as if struck by some sudden thought—“Swayed by some alternate affection for thee as—my father—and regard for Adrian as—my friend, I have locked within the silence of my bosom an important secret—Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword has returned from Palestine.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the very feet of Aldarin, he could not have started more suddenly backward, or thrown his arms aloft with a wilder gesture.

“Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, returned from Palestine!” he shouted—“where is he now? How far from the Castle? How many soldiers ride in his train? Was the murderer Adrian with him?”

“Father—it was his band I left, when disguised as a Palmer, I hastened toward the Castle. He lurks within the recesses of the mountains, some score of miles away—three hundred men ride in his train—Adrian, whom I believed guiltless, is with him.”

“Did he speak aught of attacking the Castle Di Albarone?”

“After a lapse of seven days, it was resolved to attempt the surprisal of the Castle. From the vague hints I gathered, it seems that their plans were not well matured. Three days of the seven are now passed, and—”

“The attack will be made four days from this! By my Soul! it pleases me! Ha—ha—ha—Guiseppo, remember thy oath, the steel and the pacquet.”

And as he spoke, the Count Aldarin strode toward the door, his face flushed by a wild glow of exultation, as he communed with himself in a low, murmured tone.

“Four days—ha—ha—ha! Four days glide by—and Aldarin is immortal.”

Guiseppo was alone.

He gazed vacantly through the gloom of the Red Chamber and passed his hands over his eyes, as if in the effort to awake from some fearful dream.

All was solemn and silent around him, and he resigned his soul to dark memories, while the weary moments of that fearful night glided slowly on.

At last he sank down on the cold floor and slept.

A vision of his mother, his own beautiful and dark-eyed mother, rose smiling above the waves of sleep, and then the boy thought she stood beside him, holding a dagger in her fair white hand, while she beckoned him on to the work of vengeance.

He awoke.

His form was pinioned in the embrace of a woman’s arms, and a woman’s face hung over him, its large and lustrous eyes, mingling their light, with his own.

“Rosalind!” he shrieked as he sprang to his feet with surprise—“Rosalind here, in this lone chamber!”

“I am here—” she exclaimed as she fell weeping on his bosom—“’Tis a strange story Guiseppo, but—my heart feels chilled when I think of the fearful scene, which made this Red Chamber a place of death. An hour ago, I slept within the bower of the Ladye Annabel, which the Count allotted for my prison, when a strange figure, clad in robes of sable, strode into the chamber, and bade me enjoy my freedom, as he pointed to the open door! I hastened along the corridor, I descended the stairway, and sought refuge in this chamber, from two dark figures who seemed pursuing me, when I found thee, Guiseppo, flung prostrate along the cold floor, and—”

“Thou didst watch over me, when sleeping, love of mine? Thy prison hath not stolen the bloom from thy cheek or the fire from thine eye.”

As he spoke the door of the Red Chamber was flung suddenly open, and the aged Steward of the Castle rushed to the side of Guiseppo, with hasty steps and a disordered manner, shouting as his gray hairs waved in the night wind—

“A message, Lord Guiseppo—a message of life and death! The Count Aldarin sends thee this—read, and read without delay—for I tell thee ’tis a scroll of life and death.”

Guiseppo perused the scroll, and——

The spirit of the Chronicle beckons us on to the most dark and fearful scene of the Historie.[5]

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. THE WHITE WATERS OF THE ALEMBIC. ALDARIN AND IBRAHIM, GATHERED WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE ROUND ROOM, HOLD THEIR SOLEMN WATCH, WHILE THE LAST SECONDS OF THE MYSTIC AGE ARE PASSING TO ETERNITY.

“Tread lightly and with a softened footstep, Ibrahim, for the place in which you stand has been the home of the deathless Thought for twenty-one long years! Look—how the azure flame ascends in tongues of flame around the sides of the hanging alembic—it is the last night of its existence! On and on, through calm and cloud, through sunshine and shadow, for twenty-one long years has it silently burned—a little while, and the sands in yon glass will be spent—the Thought springs into birth, and the azure flame will be quenched forever.”

With his slender form elevated to its full height, his arm extended, and his robe thrown back from his shoulder, Aldarin the Scholar glanced around the room, while his gray eye flashed and brightened as though his very soul looked forth in its glance.

His brow was calm, clear and unclouded; his compressed lip wore an expression of fixed determination; and a slight flush pervaded his pale countenance.

The light of the pendant lamp fell over the form of the venerable stranger, his dark-hued face, with the thick eyebrows, the waving hair, and the flowing beard, all snow white in hue, standing out boldly in the ruddy beams, while his dress of sable, relieved by the border of glittering gold, gave solemnity and dignity to his appearance.

He stood calm and erect, gazing with his eyes of midnight darkness, upon the strange altar, with its ever-burning flame of azure, or fixing his glance upon the wild and speaking features of Aldarin the Scholar.

“Advance, Ibrahim—advance to the altar of marble”—exclaimed the Scholar, with all the proud consciousness of the possession of a POWER beyond the reach of the mass of mankind—“Gaze within the alembic—what see’st thou?”

“I see a liquid clear as crystal, calm, motionless, and unruffled. The most gorgeous mirror might fail to rival its shadowless brightness. The alembic is heated to a white heat, yet the liquid bubbles not, nor seethes, nor wears any appearance of the effect of heat. It is beautiful—most beautiful.”

“Every drop is worth a life. Within the recesses of this altar another flame, fanned by a subterranean current, burns beneath the Crucible, which at last will give forth the Secret of Gold.—Gaze upon yon hour glass, Ibrahim—the glass standing upon the corner of the altar—”

“The sands have fallen to within an half-hour of midnight—”

“When the last grain of sand falls in the glass, then will be complete the mystic age of toil. The waters of life will then be pure, the secret of gold will then be perfect. Twenty-one years will then have past since first, I set me down to watch yon never-ceasing flame. Twenty-one years—earth never beheld such years—each day an age, each year an eternity!”

“Thy toil hath been most difficult!” exclaimed Ibrahim, in his deep-toned voice—“the end draws nigh!”

“It was in that home of magnificent thoughts and mighty memories—the city of Jerusalem, that the Glorious Thought dawned upon my soul!—

“‘To live forever,’ I cried as I gazed upon the wide city, with its palaces and towers basking in the sunlight—‘to pass beyond the years of mortal men, to exist while whole nations sink down to the slumber of the grave, while kings succeed kings and millions of the mass of men glide away on their inevitable march to the grave! To live forever—to feel life throbbing in my veins, health flooding my very heart, and youth, eternal youth crowning my brow, when Old Earth shall have been stamped with the footsteps of ten thousand years—oh glorious boon, oh guerdon worthy an age of toil!’

“I sought the boon when first I trod the Syrian soil, but my search was wild and vague—yon massive volume was placed in my hands—”

“And then, the search became clear and distinct?”

“Yes—yes! Truth after truth dawned upon me, ingredient after ingredient was added to the contents of the alembic,[6] and mad man that I was——but stay a moment, Ibrahim. Gaze again upon the liquid of the alembic, and tell me what thou see’st?”

“The same clear and undimmed liquid, resting calm and motionless within the depths of the vessel.”

“Behold yon circular glass, resting beside the parchment scroll, on the corner of the altar. It will magnify an insect until it swells to the dimensions of the huge animal that haunts the forests of the far deserts of India—the elephant, methinks ’tis called. Apply the glass to thine eye, and gaze within the depths of the vessel.”

“A strange and magnificent spectacle! The clear liquid spreads out into a magnificent lake, calm, unshadowed and rippleless. Yet stay—’tis shadowed by a small island floating in the centre, an island composed of some unknown substance, black as jet, yet scarcely perceptible even through the wondrous medium of this glass!”

“When that speck of jet shall have vanished, then will the charm be perfect!—I have said that I was rash and indiscreet—let my story witness. I disregarded the words of the Book, I thought twenty-one years too long and weary a time for me to sit in solemn silence while I watched the progress of the Secret. A few words in the volume hinted darkly and vaguely at a consummation of the Thought, attainable by one bold grasp—that grasp I made—yes, yes, though my very soul was shaken to the centre, and my brain reeled in the effort—I—I—killed her!”

“Killed her? Great God, what dark confession is this!”

“Yes—yes—I killed her, killed her as she slept in my arms and smiled in my face. I drove the steel to her heart—I dabbled her long dark locks in the warm blood that gushed from her bosom! Nay, start not man, nor turn aside with such sudden horror—hast not perused yon volume—know’st thou not the mystic words—“The pure blood, warm from the heart of her thou lovest, more than aught in earth or heaven, poured into the liquid floating within the mystic vessel, will do the work of years in a single hour—”

“And she—she was thy”—

“My wife, my wife! My own, my dark-eyed Ilmeriner. Her blood, the pure current of her very heart, purpled the White Waters of the Alembic—and—and, fool that I was, I would not even wait the hour of trial, I drank the liquid, greedily, and with loud exclamations of joy I drank, and paid the price of my rashness. I neglected to use the microscopic glass; the black speck had not vanished from the surface of the liquid. I lay for days insensible; when I awoke to reason I found this frame grown prematurely old. Had I but waited the little hour, the draught would have infused immortal life into my veins. I was rash—hasty—wild with the madness of my joy, and the draught proved poison.”

“All thy efforts then were foiled.”

“I was foiled, but I did not despair. Again I built the fire on the altar, again I added ingredient to ingredient; the corses of the dead I searched for the last and most powerful Charm; years passed, and the consummation of the Idea of my life approached, when—Fiend of Hell—I discovered that the price of my rashness was not yet paid! As I pored over the leaves of the mystic volume, a fearful thought, expressed in dim and shadowy words, sunk in my very soul”—

“Methinks I see some new horror, lowering over the cloud of guilt and blood that darkens the sky of thy life.”

“Blood, there was, yes, yes, but no guilt. By the Awful Influence that has ruled my life, there was none! The Martyr of the Christian, strides to the stake, that is to cut short the brief thread of his puny life, with a few moments of pain, suffers, dies and is glorified. Is there no glory for Aldarin! Have I not also been a martyr? There there, ever before me, was the One Great Idea, leading me on, and on, filling me with high hopes and grand thoughts, that all pointed to the final good of mankind—”

“Thou didst at first dream the Secret would benefit the mass of men? Ha—ha—thou wouldst have made the Mob, immortal!”

“It is past, the dream is past. Yes, yes, Ibrahim I join in thy laugh. I would have made the Mob immortal! Ha—ha! The multitude, what are they? Now the autumn leaf, blown to and fro by the wind; now the hurricane that a breath may raise; to-day all sunshine, to-morrow all storm and cloud! The Mob! To-day, they strew palm-branches in the path of the Nazarene, and send their hozannas echoing to the sky,—‘Hail, hail king of the Jews!’ To-morrow, the Nazarene stands bound and pinioned in the halls of Pilate and their cry,—the cry of the Mob—comes shrieking through the casement ‘crucify, crucify him!’”

“This in truth is the many-headed mob.”

“Have I not been a Martyr! Others have offered up their blood at the shrine of their Faith. I, I, have given the very blood of my soul! I have made a sacrifice of love; love such as man of thought alone can feel; I have rushed beyond the boundaries of thought, that confine the opinions of common men; I have dared the vengeance of the Faith beside whose altars I was reared; the arm of the God, whose existence was imprinted on my brain from infancy; I, I have dared the most terrible doom of all—the remorse of my own soul!”

“The words of the Scroll—what were they?”

“Hast thou ne’er perused yon volume of Fate?”

“A fear of the terrible mysteries inscribed on its pages, ever deterred the Princes of Ben-Malakim, from the perusal of the Mystic volume.”

“A dark passage on the Scroll, vaguely hinted that in case the Seeker failed, in the first bold experiment, in case the life drops of her dearest to his heart, were spilt in vain, then, another sacrifice was to be offered, ere the Crystal Waters would be undimmed by the speck of jet—and, and—Ibrahim, behold yon funeral urn.”

“It stands upon the shelf, amid a heap of massive volumes, and time-eaten parchments. What means this funeral urn?”

“I cannot, cannot tell thee now. But Ibrahim listen—after long care and thought, care and thought such as never wrinkled the brow of mortal man before, I have arrived at certain, fixed principles of belief. These principles relate to the consummation of the Secret—the last Charm which will make it complete—the manner in which the Water of Life is to be tested, ere it is imbibed by mortal man. The Last Roll of the Mystic Volume, which thou hast borne from the far east, may confirm these principles or declare them false, but can teach Aldarin nothing. Look, Ibrahim, the sands have fallen to within the fourth part of an hour of midnight! Give me the last Scroll, I would read.”

Ibrahim drew the scroll from his breast.

It was a massive roll of parchment, sealed at either end with an intricate seal of dark wax, stamped with strange characters.

Aldarin eagerly extended his hand, he seized the scroll, he tore the seals from either end, and unrolled the time-worn parchment.

And there, while with trembling hands and a flashing eye, the Scholar glanced over the strange Arabic characters, there noting his every glance, his every gesture, stood the solemn stranger, his eye dark as midnight, gazing with one fixed look upon the face of Aldarin, as though he would peruse the contents of the scroll, from the changing expression of the reader’s countenance.

It was strange to note the contrasted gestures of the Scholar and the stranger, as the few last minutes of the mystic age wore slowly on.

While the Scholar eagerly perused the ancient manuscript, his eye gradually acquired a radiance and intensity of expression that seemed supernatural; his lip trembled; his quivering hands rattled the timeworn parchment; until the Round Room echoed with the sound. The Prince Ibrahim-Ben-Malakim started aside, and raised his hands to his brow with a sudden gesture as tho’ he wished to stifle some bitter memory, or nerve his soul for the accomplishment of some fell purpose.

“Awful Soul of the Universe!” shrieked Aldarin as he shook the parchment aloft, in the wildness of his joy—“I thank thee! I thank thee! All—all is written here—the principles of my belief are—true! Yes—yes! The last charm—the method of the trial of the Secret—the raising of the mighty dead—all, all are here! Ibrahim—Ibrahim, give me joy! Lo! I unveil to thy gaze the secret of the funeral urn!”

And with wild steps, and hasty manner, Aldarin strode across the oaken floor, he uncovered the funeral urn, he placed his trembling hands within its depths.

“Behold”—he shrieked—“Ibrahim behold the sacrifice!”

Ibrahim looked, he beheld the upraised hand of Aldarin, but he dared not look again.

Thrilled with horror at the sight, he, veiled his face in his hands, while Aldarin strode hurriedly toward the altar.

All was still as death in the Round Room.

“Listen, Ibrahim, listen!” exclaimed Aldarin—“Hark! how the red drops fall pattering into the white waters!”

Ibrahim listened in horror, but dared not look. In a moment, the funeral urn, again enclosed the object of horror, and the voice of Aldarin broke whispering on the air.

“Ibrahim, brother of mine, haste thee to the altar—seize the microscopic glass and gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! I dare not—I dare not gaze upon the working of the charm!”

And as Ibrahim raised the glass to his eye, Aldarin stood with his back to the altar and his face to the wall, his wild eye glaring on vacancy while he counted the last seconds of the mystic age by the motion of his trembling fingers.

“The sands of the glass have fallen to within ten minutes of midnight,” exclaimed Ibrahim. “I gaze upon the white waters of the alembic! They spread before mine eyes in a calm and silver lake. The surface is crimsoned by waves of blood—the island of jet enlarges and widens!”

“Waves of blood—the island of jet widens!” shrieked Aldarin. “Two minutes of the ten are past! Oh, fiend of doom! can the charm prove false at last?”

“The waves of blood are dying away; the black substance diminishes in size!”

“Art sure, good Ibrahim? Gaze again upon the waters: do not, do not deceive me!”

“The waters are colored with a purple dye.”

“It hastens—it hastens! Ha—ha! So read the words of the book! Why dost pause, Ibrahim? Four minutes of the ten are past!”

“The object of black still diminishes; and now the purple hue of the waters is fading away!”

“My heart—my heart is bursting; I cannot, cannot breathe! Ibrahim, Ibrahim, tell, oh! tell me, what hue do the waters assume? Thou art silent! I dare not turn and gaze with mine own eyes; do not mock me thus, Ibrahim!”

“A calm lake, cloudless, waveless, and beautiful opens to my gaze. The waters are clear as crystal. No shadow dims their unfathomable brilliancy, no object of blackness floats upon the surface. The sands have fallen in the glass—”

“Speak, speak, Ibrahim, or I will fall to the floor! Is there no shadow resting upon the surface of the white waters?”

“None, by my soul, none!”

“Then—then—Aldarin—is—immortal.”

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. THE TRIAL OF THE WATERS OF LIFE. “AS THE SANDS OF THE THIRD HOUR SINK IN THE GLASS—THE DEAD SHALL ARISE.”

Arising in tongues of flame from the floor of stone, a fire of crackling wood, cast its ruddy glare around the Cavern of the Dead; flinging glimpses of blood-red light along the earth-hidden roof, and imparting a strange appearance of warmth and life, to the hideous figures, scattered along the pavement of the vault.

Turned to burning red by the full glare of the flame, the gigantic Figure of Stone, which gloomed above the Mound of Death, seemed starting into life, as with arms thrown wildly aloft, and downcast eyes, it surveyed the strange spectacle extended beneath its stony gaze.

Ascending from the cavern floor, a square tent, for by that name alone it may be designated, formed of curtains of jet-black leather, gave three of its sides to the glare of the flame, while the fourth was wrapt in shadow.

The hangings of black leather were inscribed with strange and contrasted characters, fashioned in shapes of glittering gold, while from the aperture at the top, where the roof of the tent should have been placed, there arose, lurid folds, columns of smoke, winding upward to the far off ceiling of the cavern.

Near the tent of embroidered leather, arose a small, square and compact structure of ebony, in shape resembling a table, designed to serve the purposes of an altar.

On the top of the altar of ebony was laid an hour glass; a funeral urn, and a phial of glittering silver; a massive volume of time-eaten parchments; with an unbound scroll, falling to the very floor of the cavern.

Within the compass of a fathom’s length from the tent of leather, was erected the fire of oaken wood which threw its ruddy glare around the spot, and flung vivid though flickering glimpses of light into the distant recesses of the cavern.

And there in the lone cavern, beneath the frown of the Demon-Form, with the blaze of the oaken fire, disclosing their faces and figures in bold and strong relief, there, while the hours of that fearful night, dragged heavily on, watched and waited Aldarin and Ibrahim the Son of the Kings[7].

Ibrahim, calm, solemn and erect, stood beside the Altar of Ebony, his sable attire, his dark hued face, with the gray hair, the white eye-brows and the flowing beard disclosed in the light, while he gazed in wonder and awe upon the immensity of that cavern, where the last and most terrible scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, was to add another legend of horror to the teeming Archives of Albarone.

With slow and measured steps, Aldarin paced the pavement of the cavern, in front of the sable tent. The light of the flame revealed his face, pale and colorless, stamped with an expression, calm and immovable it is true, yet fraught with strange and mysterious meaning.

“It is a dark and gloomy place—dost not think so Ibrahim?” exclaimed the Scholar advancing to the side of the Arab-Prince. “Look around! Behold the flashes of flame-light falling along the floor of the dread cavern, giving a lurid glare to the ceiling as it arises above our heads, like an earth-hidden sky, or casting their ruddy glare over the face and form of yon dark figure of giant rock. Is’t not a dark and gloomy place, Ibrahim?”

“Here, along this gloomy cavern, might the warrior of a thousand battles walk and tremble as he walked, without the blush of shame for his coward fear. As I gaze around upon the dark mysteries of this funereal vault, methinks I behold the demons of the unreal world, clustering around me, laughing in my face, or mocking my very soul with their gestures of scorn!”

“Here will the last scene in the Mortal Life of Aldarin, startle the very gaze of yon dark dread face of stone. Tell me Ibrahim, how long hast thou waited in this solemn vault.”

“Twice have I turned your hour glass since first we entered the cavern—it wanes toward the third hour after midnight.”

“Thou hast not asked me any question concerning these dark hangings of embroidered leather. Thou hast not asked me why yon dark and lurid smoke winds upward from the confines of this sable tent. Nor hast thou spoken a word in relation to the secrets of this Tabernacle of Life—so the Book calls the sable tent.”

“Ibrahim has waited the pleasure of Aldarin.”

“Then listen, dark Arabian, when I tell thee—the dead, the mighty dead shall live again!”

“These words are mysteries to me!”

“Read yon mystic scroll, Ibrahim, and all shall be as the light of day to thee—read those words of fearful knowledge.”

And with a faint and trembling voice, the Arabian gave to the air of the Cavern, the dim and mysterious words of the scroll:

“Lo! The Waters of Life are free from stain or pollution of earth. Wouldst thou prove them pure? Within the hollow of the coffin-like vessel of iron, place the remains of the Sacrificed and pile the fire of beechen wood around. When the iron pales from red to white, then warm the Heart of the Sacrificed with the white waters of the Alembic—when the heart throbs, then let it mingle with the Corse of the Coffin, and Lo! As the sands of the third hour sink in the glass—the dead shall arise!”

“There—there—within the Tabernacle of Life,” shouted Aldarin, with an upraised arm and kindling eye—“There rests the Corse of the Sacrificed, there ascends the fire of beechen wood heating the coffin of iron to a white heat—within the confines of yon funeral urn, rests the Heart, and the phial of silver by its side, contains the priceless Waters of Life. Behold the sands of the third hour are falling in the glass—a little while and——how the thought stirs my very soul—the dead will live again!”

“The dead?” echoed Ibrahim with a gaze of wonder—“How meanest thou, Aldarin?”

“Must I then, unclose the darkest place in this seared bosom to thy gaze? Man, I tell thee—his form—the form of my brother shall live again!”

“Thy brother—Awful God!” whispered the Arabian in a tone, whose horror may not be described—“Thy brother then was thy last victim?”

“Pity me, Ibrahim, pity me!” shrieked Aldarin. “Swayed by two mingling and opposing motives—the one, ambition for the welfare of my child—the other, the all-absorbing desire for the Immortal Life on earth; but a few short days ago, I beheld approach the last moment of the Mystic Age of Toil. Then—then, I first learned the necessity of the fearful sacrifice, and—I drugged the bowl of death.”

“This is too horrible for belief!” muttered Ibrahim; “Now—now my soul is firm for the work of the night!”

“Was I to falter when the hour of fear and doom drew nigh?” shrieked Aldarin, as his slender form rose proudly erect, and his impassioned face shone in the full light of the flame. “Was I, I, who had strode on to the guerdon of all my toil, unfearing and undismayed, though the dead body of my wife lay in my path, though the hopes of my heart fell withered and dead around me, while the spirit of my love for her, plead and plead in vain for pity; was I, Aldarin, to spare the blow, when that blow would crown my earthly ambition, and complete my immortal toil? Ha—ha! The thought is vain!”

“Hadst thou no mercy?”

“In such a cause, I answer none. I tell thee man, had my brother pleaded for his life, and sprinkled my feet with his tears,—had he pleaded for his life in the calm, soft tones of childhood, the tones that brought back the memory of those days when our arms and hearts were interlocked—had he sprinkled my feet with such tears as wet this seared face, when I rescued him from the waters of the river that rolls without these walls, some thirty years ago—then even then, I could not have spared him! No, no, no! It was to be, and it was!”

“He shall rise from the dead, thou sayst? In what form shall he appear?”

“Fair, and young, and beautiful; youth shrined in his heart and power throned on his brow! His mind will be fresh with new-born vigor, yet Memory of the Past, shall never darken his bosom! The babe is not more unconscious of its pre-existence in another and a far-off world, than will be Julian my brother of the Past, with all its darkness and doom.”

“How dost thou know, that he will arise in this form?”

“Spoke the Nazarine truth, when he said, ‘Faith can remove mountains?’ The Will of the Soul, armed with the consciousness of its immortal powers and infinite sympathies, can do more! The Will, determined and inflexible, can bend the invisible mysteries of the universe to its bidding, call up the fearful influences, ever at work within the bosom of Nature, and chain them, slaves of its power; bind the wild elements of man’s heart in subjection, and awe the souls of the multitude, when aroused by passion, or maddened by revenge. The Will can sway the heart of man, to the windings of a path, dark as the way I have trodden, leading the Soul onward through mystery, and doom, and blood; teaching it to trample on Fear, laugh at the ghastly face of Remorse, and scorn the uplifted arm of God! ‘Faith can remove mountains!’ I cannot, may not, at this fearful hour, trace the operations of the Invisible Might. Suffice it to say—Aldarin wills that the Re-created shall walk forth in a form of youth and power, and it shall be so.”

“Lo! The sands of the hour glass are well nigh spent. One-half of the last hour alone remains!”

“I will gaze within the Tabernacle of Life!”

Aldarin advanced, swept the sable hangings aside, and in a moment was lost to view.

Ibrahim also advanced to the front of the Tabernacle—as the mystic jargon of the Scholar named the tent—and listened with hushed breath and absorbing interest.

He could hear the subdued hissing of the flames within the Tabernacle; he could hear a low, scarce perceptible sound, like the seething of boiling lead; and a penetrating perfume of mingled frankincense and myrrh, saluted his senses, mingled with the odor of decaying mortality.

A single moment passed while Ibrahim listened, and then he advanced to the verge of the vast fire, burning on the cavern floor, and stood for a moment wrapt in stern and solitary thought.

Clasping his hands across his chest, he drooped his head low upon his bosom, while the trembling lip and dilated eye attested the violence of the struggle at work within his inmost soul.

He raised his head and looked round.

Tall and erect—the ruddy glow of the fire, streaming over his majestic face, disclosing every outline of his imposing costume—the Arabian gazed around, and beheld the stern sublimity of the cavern of the dead.

Save the hissing of the flame, all was silent.

Not a word, not a whisper. Silence dwelt supreme, the Spirit and the Divinity of the place.

Far, far, above, the cavern roof, extending like a sky, received on each rugged projection, the ruddy glow of the flame. Long belts of flickering light were thrown along the pavement of stone, for a moment revealing the strange and fantastic forms scattered around the dim walls of the vault, in strong and startling relief; and then again the fire would suddenly subside, leaving everything, save the floor in its immediate vicinity, wrapt in thick darkness.

“A strange fancy,” murmured Ibrahim, “Me-thought I saw yonder statues moving to and fro,—a wild delirium of my fancy.”

“It throbs—it throbs—it palpitates.”—a deep-toned, yet wild and thrilling voice broke the silence of the cavern—“Look, Ibrahim, how the Waters of Life, hasten the completion of the Mighty Labour!”

Ibrahim hurriedly turned and beheld Aldarin, standing beside the Altar of Ebony, grasping the phial of silver in one hand, while with the other he raised on high the Secret of the Funeral Urn, that may not be named by man, or written down on this page, lest incredulity should smile in ignorant scorn, and shallow unbelief, make a mock of the Dark Fanaticism of the Past.

“It throbs—it throbs—it warms with life!” again shrieked Aldarin, as he rushed within the confines of the hangings of sable—“Lo! The coffin of iron is heated to a white heat; the charm hastens to perfection!”

“Mine eyes are cheated by vain delusions!” muttered Ibrahim, “But a moment agone, and methought the arabesque figures were flitting to and fro, and now—as I live, there ’tis again—I behold dim shadows gliding round yon funeral pile?”

As he spoke the fire waned, and a sudden darkness, only relieved by faint flashes of light came down like midnight upon the cavern.

Ibrahim looked around and beheld Aldarin standing near his side, holding an open missal in his hand, which disclosed a hollow casket—instead of the emblazoned leaves of a book of devotion,—glittering with a gem that shone through the gathering darkness like a star.

And as the Arabian looked he beheld Aldarin apply the mouth of a small silver phial which he held in his hand, to the surface of the gem, while a meaning smile stole over his face.

The fire blazing on the cavern floor, lighted up with sudden vigor, and white columns of smoke, rolling from the silver phial, gathered in waving folds above the head of Aldarin, and swept far away, like the wings of a mighty bird, until they encircled the giant outline of the Demon Form, towering far, far overhead.

“Ibrahim, my brother,” cried the voice of Aldarin, “I would welcome the Arisen-Dead with sweet perfumes and fragrant incense. ’Tis thus the Book commands!”

He looked forth from the cloud of smoke that enveloped his form, and started in surprise as he beheld the erect form of the Arabian.

The chemical spell, from whose influence the Scholar had defended himself, took no effect on the form of the Arabian Prince.

“The all-penetrating essence of the dead pervading the cavern and imbuing the atmosphere, renders the spell powerless!” he murmured with a frown of impatience. “And yet Aldarin and his new-risen brother must have no witness of their mighty mysteries! Though he had a thousand lives, still must he carry my secret where ’twill be safe—to—ha, ha, to the grave!”

“The sands of the glass are falling,” cried Ibrahim advancing, “one-fourth of the last hour alone remains!”

“And while that fragment of time is gathered to eternity, the Water of Life is darting like lightning through the body of the dead—and—and—yet hold a moment, good Ibrahim! Dost thou not envy my immortal career? Dost desire to drink the Water of Life? Lo, the flagon is at thy command—drink, Ibrahim, and become immortal!”

“Drink I will!” exclaimed Ibrahim with a meaning smile, as he took the flagon in his grasp which the Scholar had substituted for the phial containing the Water of Life—“Drink I will, but first I will give thee a proof of my power!”

“Thy power? I am all amazement—”

“Learn, mighty Scholar, that the children of the race of Ben-Malakim, hold the power of calling up from the silence of the grave the spirits of the dead or, summoning from the uttermost parts of the earth the spectres of the living.”

“These are idle words. Ibrahim, thou triflest with me!”

“Aldarin gaze around thee—all is dark and indistinct, the fire has burned to its embers, and the cavern beyond is wrapt in shadow. Aldarin, cast thy memory backward over the scenes of thy life, and tell me—which of thine enemies wouldst thou summon before thee in this scene of gloom?”

“He will drink the flagon at last,” muttered Aldarin; “I’ll even humor his whim. I would behold the forms of two slaves, whom I hate as darkly as my soul can hate. I would behold”—he whispered the names between his clenched teeth—“summon the slaves before me, if thou can’st!”

“Lo! it is done,”—shouted the Arabian—“Spirits of Ben-Malakim, appear—in the name of God, appear!”

“I hear a hushed sound like the tread of armies,” murmured Aldarin—“Yet all is dark around me.”

Scarce had the words passed from his lips when a dim yet lurid light, issuing from an invisible source, streamed around the cavern, and the face of Aldarin, tinted by the ghastly radiance, was stamped with an expression of wonder and awe.

Around, on every side, gathered along the rude pavement, shoulder to shoulder, a shadowy multitude stood dimly revealed in the lurid light, with dusky and immovable faces looking from beneath the shadow of sable helmets, ponderous with waving plumes.

And as Aldarin looked, the cavern was for a single moment wrapt in the darkness of midnight.

The gloom was again succeeded by the lurid light, and before the very eyes of the Scholar, gazing him sternly and fixedly in the face, stood two warrior forms, motionless as statues.

One was a stern old knight, clad in glittering armor, with long waving locks of snow-white hue falling far beneath his helmet, along his venerable countenance and over his iron-robed chest.

The other wore the appearance of a bluff soldier, next in rank to an Esquire, for he was clad in attire of substantial buff, with the rugged outline of his unplumed cap, surmounting a massive forehead, seamed by wrinkles and hardened by battle-toil.

There was something intensely horrible in the wild glow of triumph with which Aldarin regarded the spectres.

“Ha—ha! The vulgar hind, whom this hand consigned to darkness, arises to swell the triumph of the Scholar! But the other form—’tis the form of my mortal foe! He comes in spirit to look upon the glory of Aldarin! A few brief days and over his heart and brain will blacken the vengeance of the Scholar—vengeance such as never shadowed earth or darkened hell. Away with these phantoms, Ibrahim—my brain is ’wildered with too much joy—away!”

Through the gloom, he advanced toward the figures, he reached forth his hand, expecting to grasp the intangible air, when it rattled against the rugged plates of iron defending the breast of the venerable warrior.

The echo of the rattling armor was returned by a clanking sound that rang to the very cavern’s roof, a sound like the clashing of a thousand swords. There was a brief yet fearful pause. Aldarin held his breath and his hands clutched convulsively at his throat.

“Behold,” shouted the voice of Ibrahim, “behold the spectres by the light of a thousand torches!”

And at the magic word, the Cavern of Albarone was all alive with light, the light of a thousand torches, grasped by the mailed hands of warriors, while the stalwart forms of the men-at-arms, gathered in one dense and sombre multitude along the pavement of stone, rose clear and distinctly in the ruddy beams, and their sable plumes waved like a forest in the air.

Aldarin looked from side to side—he passed his hand wildly over his forehead, he strove to arouse his soul from this fearful dream.

It was no dream, Great God of Truth and Vengeance! it was no dream.

On every side the gleam of arms broke on the eye of Aldarin; on every side the frown of warlike visages met his gaze; and his glance was returned by the ominous glare of a thousand eyes.

The spell broke—the reality sank down upon the soul of Aldarin.

His face was stamped with an expression that brought to the minds of the gazers the horror of a soul plunged into eternal torment from the very battlements of heaven. He extended his right arm with a wild gesture, and clenched the hand until the sinews seemed bursting from the skin: his lips parted; his jaw sank to his very breast, while his full gray eye glared like the eye of the tiger at bay, rolling its glance from side to side, dilating every moment, and flashing like a meteor.

“Ibrahim—Ibrahim—I am betrayed!” he shrieked, turning to the Arabian. “Albarone to the rescue!”

He turned to the Arabian, he beheld him standing calm and erect beside the altar of ebony. He advanced to his side, and as he raised his hand to grasp the robe of the stranger, he started backward with a howl of despair whose emphasis of horror may not be described in words.

The snow-white beard, the gray hair, the white eye-brows, fell from the tawny face of Ben-Malakim, and Aldarin beheld the visage of—Albertine, the Monk.

Then it was that the soul of the old man sank within him, then it was that he raised his trembling hands aloft, shaking them madly in the air, while a wild yell of execration burst from the Phantom Band.

“Men of Albarone!” arose the shout of the gray-haired knight; “Behold the murderer of your Lord!”

“Behold the brother-murderer!” shrieked the stout yeoman, standing at the side of Sir Geoffrey. “These eyes beheld him hug his brother in the foul embrace of murder!”

And as he spoke the band of men-at-arms came pressing slowly and solemnly on, glittering swords flashed in the light, and low muttered cries of vengeance broke on the air. Closer and more close they gathered, while Albertine stood silent and motionless regarding the scene.

“The sands have fallen to within five minutes of the time!” madly shrieked Aldarin. “The charm may yet be complete!”

He wildly turned from the advancing knights and yeoman, he turned towards the Tabernacle, he heeded not the cries of execration that arose on every side, he trembled not at the frown of the Demon-Form towering far, far above.

He turned towards the Tabernacle, he was about to rush within the folds of the sable hangings, when he started back to the very breast of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Long-sword, with a wild exclamation of joy.

There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable tent, stood a youthful form, clad in a dress of glittering white, his arms folded on his breast, while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed fixedly at the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed the night-wind played with the floating locks of his golden hair.

“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted Aldarin, with a wild laugh of joy, “your lord hath arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he stands, calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and power on his brow! Ha—ha—ha! I did—I did slay him! But I have raised him from the sleep of death! Behold—ha, ha, ha!—behold!”

A breathless stillness followed his words.

“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he advanced, “thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di Albarone.”

“The avenger of his father’s blood!” shouted the form, advancing to the light. “Murderer, behold thy doomsman.”

Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and veiled his eyes in his hands, while a sound like the death groan rattled in his throat. His was no common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His bosom trembled not with the throes of grief for the wife stolen by death, or the child torn from his embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept were not visible tears, pouring from his eyes along the furrowed cheek. No, no.

His soul wept within him, tears such as giant souls alone can weep, when a mighty Thought is slain, when the IDEA of a life is crushed.

“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shrieked Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; “advance, and seize the murderer!”

Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul.

Three minutes of the last hour yet remained. The sands of the glass had not yet fallen. That little shred of time gained, he might yet complete the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be rewarded by the immortal boon.

He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; yes, yes, the proud and unrelenting Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees of the knight.

“Give me, give me but three minutes of life—three minutes alone, and then ye may lead me to the death.”

The knight trembled: he had been prepared for scorn and defiance, but not for tears.

For a moment he hesitated.

“Away with his magical pranks, away with his works of hell!” arose the shout of the stout yeoman, as, with one rude grasp, he tore the tented hanging of the Tabernacle from the poles which supported their folds. “St. Withold! what infernal cookery have we here? Thus, thus I scatter the magical fire—thus I overturn this coffin of iron! Gather around, ye men of Albarone: scatter the works of this demon along the floor of the cavern!”

It was the work of an instant.

While Sir Geoffrey trembled: while the monk Albertine stood beside the altar of ebony, veiling his face in his hands; while even Adrian, the son of the murdered, hesitated and paused, ere the request of Aldarin was refused, the men-at-arms, led on by Rough Robin, overturned the coffin of iron, heated as it was to a white heat, and scattered the embers of the fire over the floor. The nameless secret of the coffin he concluded beneath the dark hangings of the Tabernacle.

Aldarin slowly arose to his feet. All emotion had vanished from his face. Stern, calm, and fearless, he gazed around. He looked over the vast expanse of the cavern roof, he marked the dread face of the DEMON FORM towering far above, he gazed upon the hurrying forms and agitated faces of the men-at-arms.

“Lead me, lead me to my death—” spoke the fierce tones of Aldarin the scholar. “I scorn and defy ye all.”

Albertine, the monk, still clad in the dark robe and majestic attire of Ibrahim Ben Malakim, strode suddenly to the side of the scholar, and thrust a parchment roll in his hands.

“Man, I betrayed thee,” he whispered, in tones that attested his agony; “Man, I betrayed thee, though my heart smote me in the act. Yet I will not scorn thee in this thy final hour. The parchment, the parchment—grasp it with a grasp like death; the phial, the phial!”

He turned, and continued in a loud voice, audible to the avengers: “Sinner, receive this book of prayer; it may comfort thy final hour.”

Aldarin took the parchment, and calmly folded it to his bosom.

“I scorn ye all,” he shrieked. “I defy your vengeance, I dare the doom ye would inflict. Aldarin fears not death.”

“To the gibbet with the murderer,” shouted Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword. “Aye, upon the same gibbet where blacken the forms of the brave soldiers of Lord Julian, there let the miscreant expiate his crimes.”

And the men-at-arms echoed the shout, until the vast cavern roof resounded with the words of doom: “To the gibbet—to the gibbet with the fratricide.”

In a moment the cavern was left to silence and eternal night.

Never since that fearful hour has human foot trode the funeral vaults of Albarone.

Along dark passages, through subterranean corridors, and up tortuous stairways, poured the flood of men-at-arms, bearing with them the scholar and fratricide.

At last winding through the same passages traversed three hours agone by Aldarin and Ibrahim, passing through the chemical laboratory, which has never been disclosed to the eye of the reader, the crowd of avengers reached the Round Room.

The altar was overturned, the books and parchments torn from the shelves, yet the scholar quailed not, nor uttered word of lamentation.

Gloomy corridors were then traversed, massive stairways ascended, the hall of the castle passed, and at last Aldarin emerged from the castle door, and stood upon the slab of stone surmounting the flight of steps.

He gazed around, while the avengers came thronging at his back; and as he gazed, the court-yard of the castle became the scene of a strange spectacle.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. THE OATH. THE VENGEANCE OF ALDARIN, THE SCHOLAR.

“It is a fair day, and the sun shines brightly. Ha—ha! The sky above is clear, and the earth seems laughing with joy in the very face of day!”

Aldarin smiled as he spoke, and gazed above. It was the hour of early dawn. The first beams of the sun shone over the eastern battlements of the castle, mellowing the azure sky with their radiance, while the fresh and balmy air of the summer morn fanned the burning forehead of the Scholar. It was the last time he would behold the beams of the dawning day; it was the last time his burning brow should be freshened by the kiss of the morning breeze, and yet he smiled. Aldarin gazed around.

A yell of horror broke upon the summer air, and far along the court-yard extended the living sea of men-at-arms, arrayed in their sable armor, mingling with the vast crowds of the peasant vassals, all fired by the same instinct of bloodshed. The beams of the rising sun shone over a thousand maddened faces, as every voice swelled the shout of vengeance, and every hand shook in the light some weapon of death and vengeance.

Look where he might, on every side, the gleam of flashing eyes met the gaze of Aldarin; all along the court-yard the blackened mass swayed to and fro, like the waves of the ocean in a storm; and again heaven gave back to earth the combined yells of innumerable voices, mingling together in that fearful sound—the shout of a vast body of men, maddened and crazed by the impulse of carnage. “To the gibbet!” arose that shout of doom. “To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!”

With one glance Aldarin surveyed the scene around him.

There, grouped along the steps of stone, stood the stout yeoman, his brow wearing a steady frown, as, with his sword half drawn from the scabbard, he gazed upon the face of Aldarin; there stood two figures veiled in robes of sweeping sable, while—near his side—the erect form and venerable face of the knight o’ th’ Longsword confronted the Scholar.

“Sir knight,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a smile wreathing his pinched lip “though ye are somewhat hurried in your work of doom, I would make one brief request, ere I am borne hence. Is there no one in all this crowd who will bear a message from me to my son, the Lord Guiseppo?”

“That will I,” exclaimed the sharp-featured steward of the castle, advancing from the crowd. “Guilty thou mayst be, and thy hands stained with a brother’s blood, yet the request of a dying man may not be refused.”

“Give me the scroll.”

Aldarin bared the withered flesh of his left arm: he drew a poignard, small and delicate in shape, from his girdle, and while the crowd looked on in wonder and in fear, he stained the point of the stilletto with his blood. Another moment passed, and with the dagger’s point, hurriedly traced certain characters on a small slip of parchment which he also drew from his girdle.

“Bear this away,” he shouted, “bear this away to the Lord Guiseppo, and tell him that his father is on his way to the gibbet.”

“Man of blood and crime,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he advanced to the side of Aldarin, “thy life has been full of dark and fearful mystery; hast thou no dying words of repentance to speak, ere the cord tightens round thy neck? It is not well to dare the presence of God, with so much blood upon thy soul.”

Aldarin bowed his head low on his breast, and the bystanders whispered one to the other that the dreaded old man was wrapt in thought.

“A confession I have to make—dying words of repentance I have to speak,” exclaimed Aldarin, as he gazed upon the crowded castle yard.

“Thou dost remember, Sir Geoffrey, that twenty years ago we saw each others faces in the wilds of Palestine?”

“I do, I do!” exclaimed the knight, as a mingled expression of bitter memory and deep feeling passed over his wrinkled visage. “Twenty years agone, we saw each other’s faces within the walls of Jerusalem.”

The sound of a hurried and uneven footstep broke upon the air, then a wild shout echoed from the castle hall, and in an instant, the Lord Guiseppo rushed from the hall door and confronted the Scholar Aldarin, his face pale as death, his eyes rolling madly to and fro, while his trembling right hand shook the parchment scroll above his head.

“This scroll, my father: what means its words of omen? Yon blackning crowd—their looks of vengeance—what means it all, my father?”

Aldarin advanced, and flung his arms around the form of his son, gathering him to his heart in the embrace of a father.

And as he gathered him to his heart, he whispered a few brief words in the ear of the Lord Guiseppo, those words thrilled the youth to the very soul; for his eye flashed brighter than ever, and his cheek grew more deathly pale.

“Thy oath—thy oath!” hissed the hollow whisper of Aldarin.

Guiseppo turned suddenly round, he flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey, and looked up into his face with a voice of anguish, as he shrieked.

“Spare my father—spare, oh! spare the weak old man!”

“Though the angels of God plead for his life, still must he die!”

“Then die, wronger and betrayer! Then die, midnight assassin and ravisher! The spirit of my mother nerves my arm and points the steel!”

And as the words fell from his lips, ere an arm could be raised, or a word of horror spoken, Guiseppo sprang to the very throat of the knight, grasping his long gray hair with one hand, while with the other he inserted the glittering dagger between the armor plates of his victim, and drove the steel down from the left shoulder to the very heart.

It was the work of a moment; the lightning flash might not be swifter, nor the thunderbolt more sudden.

One instant the spectators beheld the kneeling youth, and the warrior waving his hand with stern determination, as he turned from the prayer of mercy; the next moment their eyes were startled by the upraised dagger, and the blow of vengeance.

The knight tottered heavily to and fro, looked vacantly around, and then sank into the arms of Robin the Rough, with the haft of the dagger protruding from the armor plates of his left shoulder.

“Father!” shrieked Guiseppo, shaking wildly above his head, the right hand, the hand that winged the dagger. “Father, my mother is avenged; behold the doom of the ravisher!”

“Thou hast done well!” spoke Aldarin, in a quiet, yet trembling tone, while his lips wore an even smile. “Boy, thou hast done well! Now, Guiseppo, read, read the pacquet—the pacquet in thy bosom.”

And while the horror-stricken spectators—Robin the Rough, the figures in sable robes, the peasant-vassals, and the men-at-arms—remained awed into a fearful silence by the scene,—the silence that ever precedes the march of death,—Guiseppo thrust his hand within his bosom, drew the pacquet from its resting place, and with his trembling fingers broke the seal.

“Man of guilt and bloodshed,” exclaimed the dying knight, as he convulsively placed his hands on the wound near his heart. “I am dying—my heart grows cold, and mine eyes are dim—thy vengeance is gratified; now, now, tell me—”

“Hadst thou ever a child, Sir Geoffrey,” interrupted Aldarin, advancing to the side of the knight: “a fair-haired and soft-voiced boy, whose smile was thy joy, whose presence was thy sunshine?”

“Speak, speak—what knowest thou of my boy?” gasped the dying knight, as a look of agony passed over his face. “’Tis sixteen years since I beheld his face in the land of his birth, the city of Jerusalem. He was torn from my embrace by an unknown hand.”

Aldarin looked around over the sea of faces, and smiled as he beheld a peasant whetting his knife on the very stone on which he stood.

That smile of incarnate scorn seemed to break the spell of horror that bound the multitude.

“To the gibbet, to the gibbet with the fratricide!” again rose the fierce yell of vengeance, and the men-at-arms came crowding up the steps, while a score of upraised daggers were about to drink the blood of the doomed murderer, when Robin the Rough threw himself before the object of their vengeance.

“Stain not your steel,” he shouted; “stain not your steel with traitor’s blood; away to the castle gate with him! Let the dog die a dog’s death!”

And at the word, the Esquires Halbert and his gallant brother Damian advanced from the crowd, and seizing Aldarin by the arms, they dragged him down the steps of stone, while the multitude gave way on either side, shrinking from the touch of a murderer, as one would shrink from the garments of the plague-smitten.

“There is fire in my heart, there is hell in my brain!” arose a tremulous voice, that was heard far along the castle yard, thrilling the bystanders to the very soul. “God of mercy, it is, it is not true! The parchment is a lie—a falsehood written by the very fiend of hell! I did not—no, no, I did not—wing the blow to his heart! God of heaven witness me, I raised not the steel for his blood!”

And as the multitude, bearing Aldarin to his doom, heard that shrieking voice, they looked back, and beheld the Lord Guiseppo standing over the prostrate form of his victim, his face pale and colorless, his lip livid as with the touch of death, while his eyes rolled their ghastly glance over the faces of the crowd, and his arms hung palsied by his side, with the fatal parchment quivering in the grasp of his trembling hand.

“Father, father!” his shriek again arose on the air, as he knelt by the side of his victim; “FATHER, THE MURDERER IS THY SON.”

The old man raised himself on one hand, grasped the hand of the maddened boy, as he gazed silently into his face, while his very soul seemed absorbed into some unreal dream of horror.

“My son,” he whispered with a mournful smile, “and the dagger in my heart—”

“Thy son!—ha, ha?—I could laugh till the very heavens echoed my voice!” and as he spoke, Aldarin, the Scholar, looked backward toward the castle steps, where the boy knelt beside the dying knight. “Thy son—ha, ha, ha!—and the dagger in thy heart! Yes, yes, it thy son? Sir Geoffrey, a parting word: dost thou remember a blow—aye, a blow from the mailed hand of a warrior, a blow which struck the Scholar to the floor while the princess of Christendom stood laughing round the scene? Dost thou remember the insult, the contumely, the scorn. Then look upon the face of thy boy, whom I stole and reared to be thy murderer, look upon his youthful face, peruse each feature, and—a smile stole over his face—think of the vengeance of Aldarin, the Scholar.”

With cries of execration, with yells of vengeance, the men-at-arms gathered around the fratricide, and as their brandished swords shone in the light, they bore him towards the castle gate, leaving the slab of stone before the pillars of the castle door to the solitary companionship of the father and son.

It was true—darkly and fearfully true—Guiseppo was the son of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword.

Guiseppo was kneeling upon the stone; his arms were gathered around the form of his father, and his eyes were fixed in one long gaze upon the face of the dying man.

He marked the hue of that venerable countenance as it grew paler every moment: the lip white and colorless, the eyes wild and wavering in their glance, the livid circles gathering like the taint of corruption beneath each eye; he beheld the signs and heralds of coming death; he heard the quick gasping struggle for breath, and yet he spoke no word, he uttered no sound of agony.

“I see her face in thine,” murmured the old man, as he gazed upwards upon the countenance of his son. “It is no dream,—and—and—thy dagger is resting in my heart!”

Guiseppo was silent.

“Boy, look not upon me with such fearful agony—thou art forgiven!” gasped the old man. “Raise the hilt of my sword to my lips; I would kiss the cross ere I die. And now thy hand is firm, seize the haft of the dagger, and draw the blade from my heart.”

Guiseppo gazed upon the face of his father with a vacant look, yet still he uttered no word.

“Draw the dagger from my heart!” gasped the dying man.

Guiseppo seized the haft of the dagger, and slowly drew the blade from the heart of the murdered man.

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. THE FATE OF THE FRATRICIDE. THE ELEMENTS ARISE IN BATTLE, DARKENING THE EARTH WITH THEIR STRIFE, AS THE WIND SHRIEKS THE DEATH-WAIL OF ALDARIN THE SCHOLAR.

Onward toward the castle gate, walking to his death, and yet receding from the grave at every step, with the fierce faces of the avengers frowning around him, with cries of execration and deep muttered oaths of vengeance deafening his ear, onward toward the castle gate, with an even step and an erect form, strode the Scholar Aldarin an icy smile on his lip, and a sombre light in his eye.

He knew not why they bore him onward—fearless of death, come in what form it might, he cared not.

The castle gate was reached. A dark-robed monk rushed from the shadow of the massive pillars, and while his white hairs waved in the morning breeze, he raised a cross of iron aloft in the sunbeams—

“Sinner—there is mercy above—even for thee! Behold the symbol of that mercy!”

“Ha—ha—curses on thee and thy symbol of—mercy! thou shaveling! Were not my hands stayed by these cowards I would strike ye down in my very path! I curse ye all!” he shrieked, gazing around the crowd—“I blaspheme your religion, I mock your * * *! Will ye not strike? Aldarin laughs at your steel! Are ye afraid of a weak and trembling old man? Fear ye the Scholar, even in his last hour? Lo! my breast is bare—I defy the blow!”

“Thou wilt have striking enough presently,” cried Robin the Rough—“Throw open the castle gate there. Let the portcullis be raised and the drawbridge lowered.”

The gate was passed, and the drawbridge crossed. Aldarin stood upon the platform of turf surmounting the summit of the hill; beneath him descended the road into the valley; on either side yawned chasms dark and deep; while the rocks upon whose massive piles the castle was founded, threw their fantastic forms from amid clumps of brushwood, and here and there colossal stones rose brightly into the sunshine from the depths of the gloomy void.

Aldarin looked around, and beheld the face of nature clad in the smile of sunshine; waves of foliage rising in the light; the bosom of the Arno calm and beautiful as a silver mirror, seen through the intervals of undulating hills; the Apenines frowning in the far distance, and the calm blue sky, glowing with the first kiss of morn, arching above.

Aldarin looked around upon the face of nature, but another spectacle fixed his attention and excited his wonder.

Not far from where he stood, four dark steeds were rearing and springing on the sod, while their grooms, four swarthy Moors, whose distorted faces scarce resembled the visages of humanity, were forced to exert all their giant-strength in the effort to hold the wild horses of the desert.

Wildly with their hoofs the barbs tore the sod, scattering the loosened earth in the very face of Aldarin; their eyes flashed like coals of flame, their sinews seemed to creep under the smooth and glossy skin, black as midnight; their crests proudly arching, gave their manes, long and dark, to the breeze; while with quivering nostrils and a shrill piercing neigh they seemed panting to break loose from all restraint and dart like lightning down the steep.

“What would ye with me now?” exclaimed Aldarin, as a strange wonder and a darker fear gathered around his heart. “Cowards that ye are, ye still delay your work of murder. I would this merry mysterie were finished—”

“To the gibbet with the brother-murderer!” arose the thunder shout of the multitude. “To the gibbet with the wizard and sorcerer!”

“To the Doom, to the Doom!” shouted the stout yeoman. “To the Doom, but not to the gibbet!”

Robin the Rough smiled and waved his hand to the Moors who led the barbs of Arimanes down the steep, while Damian and Halbert followed at their heels, bearing the Fratricide to his doom.—

Meanwhile the multitude thronging from the castle-gate, in one dense crowd, began to darken over the rocks that hedged in the moat, as the men-at-arms followed Aldarin down the hilly road, their upraised swords glittering in the first beams of the morning sun.

At the foot of the hill there lay a piece of level earth, some hundred paces square, sloping toward the east into a green meadow, backed by a wood; on the west it was hedged in by the forest trees, on the north arose the road leading to the castle, while towards the south the highway to Florence wound upwards along the brow of a precipitous hill.

Arrived at this level space—the theatre of the last and most fearful scene in his life—Aldarin beheld the stout yeoman ranging the men-at-arms along the foot of the hill, shoulder to shoulder, presenting one firm compact front, their upraised swords glittering over their sable plumes, their armor of steel shining in the morning sun. At his very side, in the centre of the level space, the wild horses of the desert were rearing and plunging in the hold of their grooms, as their shrill and piercing neigh broke on the air.

Aldarin cast his gaze above.

There crowding along the rocks, that confined the moat, form after form face after face, thronged the vassals of Albarone, gazing with silence and awe, upon the strange scenes passing in the valley below. For the moment every voice was stilled, every cry was silenced; with hushed breath and fixed brows, the men of Albarone, awaited the last scene of this tragedy.

And as Aldarin gazed around, he beheld two soldiers advance, holding thongs in their hands twisted out of the hide of the wild bull, while the tawny Moors, at a sign from Robin the Rough, placed their steeds haunch to haunch, the heads of two of the barbs looking towards the east, while the others were turned towards the west.

Robin the Rough advanced.

He gazed for a moment around the scene, and then approaching the side of Aldarin, spoke in a calm and even tone, as though the dignity of his solemn office, the avenger of the dead, imbued and elevated his soul.

“Thou hast invoked the blow, thou hast defied the steel, blasphemed our religion, and mocked our God.”

“Traitor and Fratricide—turn thee and behold the vengeance of that God.”

“Behold the manner of thy death—Murderer, look at these barbs of the desert; see how they paw the earth, how their quivering nostrils snuff the air—mark those forms of strength, those sinews of iron!”

“Ere an hundred can be told, lashed to the limbs of these horses, thine accursed carcass shall be scattered to the winds of heaven, while thy blood-stained soul, goes trembling to its last account! Thou art a brave man—we would listen to thee, while thou makest a merry mock of death, and of such a death as this!”

Aldarin turned, he looked at the wild horses, placed haunch to haunch; a deformed Moor holding each steed; he marked their forms of strength, their sinews of iron; and a slight tremor, scarce perceptible, passed over his frame.

“I am ready—” he slowly and distinctly spoke, with a calm smile—“I am ready even for this death. Cowards and slaves I defy ye!”

“Thou art a wise man—” again spoke Robin the Rough in his mocking tone—“and yet mere fools have deceived and duped thee! Yesternight, within the confines of the Red-Chamber, thou didst wait the coming of a Brother-wizard who was to journey from the far wilds of the east. Thy brother-wizard twenty-four hours agone, rode from the very walls of Florence, secured by the favor of this tyrant-duke—Ha! dost thou tremble?”

“This—this—is false!” gasped Aldarin—“Ibrahim journeyed not from the wilds of the east.”

“He came from the east attended by a train of twelve Arab knights and a band of Christian warriors, whom the courtesy of the Crusades, gave to the service of the friend of Saladin. He arrived at Florence, he beheld the tyrant duke, and at high noon yesterday rode from the walls of the city, bound for the Castle of Albarone. He was a venerable man and a mighty, this Ibrahim—for his long beard—ha,—ha—trailed down to his very breast! Who was it that made captives of his companie, and confined his own royal person in bonds, while the men of Sir Geoffrey wended to the castle clad in the garments of the Arabian retinue? Old man breathe the question in a murmured voice for it was the work of—THE INVISIBLE.”

Aldarin veiled his face in his hands, and pressed his lips between his teeth, until the blood trickled down to his very chin.

“Off with the murderer’s attire!” shrieked Robin the Rough—“Off with tunic and hose, belt and boots! Strip him to the very skin! Demon, thy magical pranks shall not avail thee, now! We will lead thee to thy death, unarmed with magic casket or wizard phial! Advance comrades and disrobe the murderer!”

Aldarin raised his head as the soldiers with the thongs advanced, while the men-at-arms noted that his face was ghastly white in hue, yet calm as the Summer Morn then dawning in the eastern sky.

“Is there not one man in all this crowd, who will bear a message from a father to his daughter!” he slowly exclaimed—“The Ladye Annabel, she is my child, and—by the fiend ye dare not refuse a father’s request!”

There was a pause, while two figures clad and veiled in sweeping robes of sable, stole silently thro’ the throng of the men-at-arms, and stood beside Robin the Rough.

“Will no man hear the last words of a—father to his child?”

“I—I—will bear the message—” exclaimed one of the sable figures, speaking from the folds of his robe—“I will bear thy dying words to the Ladye Annabel!”

Aldarin trembled. He knew the voice; and strange memories came crowding around him, as he fancied the tones of his murdered brother living again in that husky sound.

“Bear the parchment scroll to the Ladye Annabel. Tell her—tell her—it came from the hands of one who loved her thro’ life, and gave his lost thoughts to her, in the hour of a fearful death. And look ye man—” he continued in quick and gasping tones—“ye need not tell her, how her father died—ye need not speak of his doom—say to her, that Aldarin died in his bed.”

“I will—I will—as God lives I will!”

“Tell her that Aldarin with his last words, blessed her with the blessing of the God in whom she believes!”

“It shall be done!” exclaimed the voice, and the hand of the veiled Figure grasped the parchment scroll—“It shall be done!”

Robin turned from the scene, and gazed above. “How say ye men of Albarone—” he shouted pointing to the Barbs of Arimanes—“shall the Wild Horses, rend the body of the murderer into atoms? Is our sentence just?”

There arose from rock, from hill, from valley one shout—“It is the judgment of Heaven—the judgment of Heaven!”

Slowly and silently the soldiers disrobed the Scholar, and at last he stood disclosed in the light, with the folds of his under tunic floating around his slender form.

“Lead him to his doom?” shouted Robin the Rough.

“Ye shall not lead the old man to this fearful death!” arose the shriek of the Figure who had received the parchment from the hands of the Scholar—“I forbid this work of doom!”

The robe fell from the form of the stranger, and Adrian Di Albarone confronted the stout yeoman, his hands upraised, and his blue eye gleaming with a wild light, as he shrieked forth the words, “I forbid this work of doom!”

“Adrian Di Albarone,” exclaimed the deep-toned voice of Robin the Rough, as he seemed inspired with an awful feeling of the duty which he owed the dead; “to-morrow, these gallant men, the vassals clustering round yon heights, and thy poor servitor, who stands before thee, will joy to call thee—Lord!—This day is sacred to another master, to another Lord—this day is sacred to the God of vengeance. This day we own no earthly rule, we stand apart from all human things; we have sworn not to eat, nor drink, nor sleep until we have fulfilled the work of doom!”

“Thou will not scorn my prayer for mercy;—Adrian Di Albarone asks the old man’s life of thee! He is stained with my father’s blood, but I would not have him die this fearful death—spare the old man’s life!”

“I am the avenger of Lord Julian of Albarone! Ask the God above to spare the fratricide—for I cannot, cannot stay HIS judgment!”

Adrian turned away, for the stern faces of the men-at-arms told him that his pleadings were all in vain. And as he glided from the place of death, the robes were thrust aside from the face of the other figure, and every eye beheld the visage of Albertine the monk.

“Old man,” exclaimed the voice of Albertine, from the shrouded folds of his robe, “hast thou no prayer to offer, no words of penitence to speak ere thou art led to thy doom?”

“I am ready for my death;” exclaimed Aldarin, extending his arms—

“I scorn your whining prayers, and as for words of penitence—look ye—is there aught of repentance written on this cheek or brow?”

“To whom dost thou resign thy soul!”

“To the Awful Soul of the Universe!”

Thus exclaimed the fated man, as his slender form rose proudly erect while his extended hands were raised in the act of solemn appeal.

“Ye may tear this body into fragments, ye may rend this carcass into atoms, doom me to the death of fire, or consign this form to the decay of the charnel-house, yet ye cannot destroy Aldarin! His soul will live and live forever! It may float on the unseen winds, it may glare in the lightning’s flash, or strike in the thunderbolt; it may come back to the earth, in the storm, the horror and the doom: or it may wander far, far in the solitudes of the Vast Unknown, where eternal fires lash the shores of desolated worlds—still will it live and live forever! A beam of the awful soul can never die!”

Albertine gazed upon the erect form and flashing eye of the Scholar and saw that his labour was in vain. With a look which mingled bitter and contrasted feelings, he turned away from the scene, gathering the folds of his robe over his face as he disappeared.

“Lead me to the death,” cried Aldarin in a tone of bitter scorn. “Or are ye afraid of a weak and withered old man? Ha—ha! ye are brave men!”

“Lead him to his death!” echoed Robin the Rough.

Attired in his under tunic, Aldarin was led forward. Damian seized him by the shoulders and Halbert his feet. They raised him upon the haunches of the steeds, with his head to the east.

Robin the Rough advanced, and grasping a thong, twisted out of the wild bull’s hide, from the hands of one of the men-at-arms, slowly wound the cord around the body of one of the wild horses, and looping it in a firm knot, secured the right arm of Aldarin to the back of the restless steed; while Damian bound the left to the other steed, Halbert, assisted by the men-at-arms, bound his legs to the backs of the opposite horses, winding the thongs again and again, around the bodies of the impatient Arabs, until his blood spouted from the withered flesh of the fratricide.

“Wind your thongs yet tighter friends of mine!” the sneer broke gaspingly from the lips of the doomed. “I defy your malice and laugh at your doom!”

The interest now was most absorbing and intense.

Along the whole extent of blackened rocks, frowning above the level space, gathered the multitude gazing on the scene with gasping breath and woven brows; while the men-at-arms, circling along the base of the hill, stood silent and motionless, their upraised swords still glittering in the first beams of the morning sun.

And there, in the centre of the space of highway earth, placed haunch to haunch, stood the barbs of Arimanes, their eyes flashing as though a demon-soul lived and moved within each sinewy form; there were gathered the deformed Moors, each sable groom holding an ebon steed by the nostrils, for the bridles were now cast aside; there, standing at the side of each wild horse, the avengers of the dead, with the right leg advanced and dagger drawn, awaited the word of vengeance; and there, with his face turned upward to heaven, helpless and motionless, intense pain shooting through every vein, and quivering along every sinew, filling his brain with fire, his heart with ice, Aldarin the fratricide smiled in scorn, as the moment of his doom came hurrying on.

“Avengers of your Lord,” shouted Robin the Rough, “raise your daggers, and as the word falls from my lips, bury them to the hilt in the flank of each steed!”

“A word—a single word,” whispered Aldarin, in a subdued voice. “Draw near—I would say my last farewell—”

“What would’st thou have?” exclaimed one of the men-at-arms, advancing.

“When I am dying, ere the heart is cold, or the brow chill, approach and gaze upon my countenance, and as you gaze, take to your very soul.”

“Speak—man of blood—thy moments are well nigh spent.”

“Take to your very soul,” whispered the fratricide, as he slowly, and with difficulty, brought his head round to his right shoulder—“The Curse of Aldarin!”

“Avengers of your Lord,” exclaimed the stout yeoman—“strike deep, every man into the flanks of his steed!”

“The curse,” shrieked a hollow voice, “The Curse of Aldarin!”

“Strike,—I say—strike!”

The daggers sunk into the flanks of the horses, buried to the hilts; the Moors leaped back; the maddened steeds sprang forward, with one wild bound, straining every sinew in the effort to free themselves from their accursed burden.

It was in vain.

They sank back, with a maddening howl, each steed upon his haunches, the accursed fratricide uttered a yell of intense and overwhelming agony—it died on his lips!

With eyes of fire with streaming manes, their nostrils extended, and all their vigour gathered for the effort, the steeds again leaped forward, springing madly from each other, and darting into the air, with one terrible impulse—

The scene swam for an instant before the vision of the spectators.

They looked again. A limbless trunk lay in the dust of the highway, spouting streams of blood—along the green meadow careered two black steeds—through the dense forest thundered the others.

One of the men-at-arms, approaching the carcass, gazed for a moment at the dread face. His eye glanced over expressions of the features, convulsed by the throes of the parting soul; the eye yet fired with hate, the lip curved with scorn; the sunken jaw oozing blood from every pore; the quivering flesh and changing hues of the visage. All the ghastliness and fear of this countenance, met his vision at a glance; he uttered a howl of horror, and fell stiffened upon the earth, as the last spark of life fled from the remains of the fratricide. When the soldier awoke, his eye was vacant, and his reason gone. He was a maniac! He had received the last words of the Doomed, and the Curse was on him forever.

Another moment passed, and the crowd came rushing from the rocky steeps, filling the air with fierce shouts, and wild yells of execration, while the men-at-arms, circled round the bleeding trunk, gazing upon the wild and unearthly countenance of the Scholar, in wonder and in awe, each man whispering to his comrade, a word of fear, as he marked the expression of blasphemous and fiend-like scorn, stamped upon the visage of the FRATRICIDE.

And while they circled round, struck dumb with a nameless awe, two Figures, arrayed in robes of sable, rushed through the throng and confronted Robin the Rough, as he stood stern, silent and awe-stricken, they gazed upon the Dead.

“It is—” exclaimed the solemn voice of Adrian Di Albarone—“It is the judgment of Heaven!”

From rock, from hill, from valley, from forest and from castle-wall, arose the stern echo,—

“The Judgment of Heaven—the Judgment of Heaven!”

On, on, like lightning, darted the ebon steeds, bearing the torn and shattered limbs, reeking with the life blood, yet warm and smoking. On, on as tho’ the spirit of the lost, had entered their maddened forms. On, on, they flew!